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For Hire

While executing a 313-point turn to get back into our parking space – yay, garage construction! – I think about everything I did wrong during the interview:

  • Talked too much
  • Said “and the like” 500 times
  • Didn’t stand up to shake one interviewer’s hand

But then I remember what I did right:

  • Had three copies of my resume and cover letter on hand (I anticipated there’d be more than one interviewer, especially since it was a second-round)
  • Maintained eye contact, switching between interviewers appropriately
  • Referred back to the interviewer’s question at the end of my answer
  • Interjected humorous anecdotes where appropriate
  • Wore comfortable, professional clothes tailored to the organization
  • Kept the “umms” and “looks into space” to a minimum 
  • Wove the org’s key mission terms and phrases into my answers  
  • Answered completely and honestly

Back in the apartment, my mind whirls with all the interview’s conversational tidbits, and I reach for the half-eaten pint of Smokey Rocky Road ice cream that Andy and I got for our anniversary. And after scraping the bottom, spooning up the melty goodness, I decide I did pretty well on this interview. Whether that’ll actually translate into me getting the job remains to be seen, but for now, my part is complete.

I quickly rap out a thank-you email to my interviewers, send it, then collapse into a heap while Toby pulls apart a slew of Disney toys.

My assistant. He works for toys. And food.

But before I get too relaxed, I push myself to do something I’ve come to do whilst job hunting – apply for another job immediately after an interview, regardless of whether it’s a first- or second- round interview. This way, should I get the “thanks but no thanks” email in the next few days, I won’t be utterly crushed, wondering what in the world I’ll do.

My strategy is pretty simple: apply for one job every single day. Two if I’m feeling up to it. More if I’m super caffeinated and ready to fly. Persistence and perseverance are the two drivers for any job hunter. If you don’t apply, don’t expect a solution; if you devolve into sobs and squeals and halt all hunting whenever you get an automated rejection, nothing will change. This is all pretty straight-forward logic, but it’s taken me a while to fully get it.

Right after we both decided to quit our jobs, but before we moved to California, I envied Andy’s ability to apply for 10-20 jobs a day while I barely applied to 1. The trick was to have an absurdly strong cover letter and resume that, taken together, could easily be a ticket to any job within your subject area – with just slight alterations per role. After a complete, drastic overhaul of my resume and cover letter, I was ready – which really came in handy while we moved.

Since then, it’s been about me applying in a rapid-fire, consistent fashion so that my options don’t run dry. Because rejections suck (like the one I just got from the nonprofit located a block from our apartment!), and I know they’ll easily derail me if I don’t have other potential prospects floating around out there.

And when job apps translate into a first-round interview, I begin reacquainting myself with my best practices:

  • Print out my resume and tailored cover letter (whatever app materials I sent in), as well as the job announcement – and have them on hand
  • Clear my throat and do a few “1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3” exercises to loosen up the ol’ vocal chords to prevent my voice from cracking or squeaking during introductions
  • Do conscious breathing for the five minutes before the call
  • Have a bottle or glass of water nearby in case my throat gets scratchy from talking
  • (Per Andy) Use ear buds in lieu of holding the phone – this way I feel less encumbered and freer, which also allows me to talk with my hands (this always helps me think)
  • If I can’t do the interview at home – like this last time when our building’s fire alarm check was scheduled at the exact time of my phone interview – I drive to a park or somewhere quiet and shaded
  • ALWAYS have at least three questions for them – my most favorite being: “How would you define success for this role?” (credit: Andy), “What personality traits do you most value in your staff?” (credit: ME!), “What are the next steps in the process?” (credit: Andy)

And should a killer phone interview spur a second-round interview, I remind myself to do all the things I mentioned above – especially dressing comfortably (and appropriately) for the job.

Of course, there’re going to be foibles here and there with any interview. Like today, I completely forgot my phone, but thankfully I’d jotted down the address with directions (should technology fail me) – and I pulled a few other rookie moves (also see above).

Regardless of whether or not I get this job, I know that I did my best, had some laughs, and met some interesting people. And, I’ll kept my eyes on the horizon and my prospect plate full (apply, apply, apply!). Sooner or later, I’ll take the plunge back into the employment pool.

Until then, I’ll keep Toby company. (And will try to avoid the eye-less gaze of his victims.)

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Pleasantly Disengaged

It was sickeningly satisfying to hear that, from Andy’s HR perspective, I had reached the “Final Stage of Disengagement.”

I imagined it in all caps.

“What comes next?”

My eyes sparkled at the prospects: fame, fortune, a heretofore unknown 401k payout?

“Resignation.”

Buzzkill.

Disengaged

Flirting with resignation is slightly sordid. At least in my mind. Because “resignation” is personified as Jesse Bradford.

So I keep pushing the envelope. Because I want my supervisor to ask why I’m not performing to my usually high standards. Mostly so I can tell him that his hands-off approach and piecemeal “resolution tactics” are for shit.  

Sure, I could be the better person: pick up where others fail; shield my supervisor from my coworkers’ incompetence; carry more than my fair share.

Meh.

Been there, done that.

When things are allowed to get to this point, there’s little I can do. Other than sit back and watch the ruins crumble. Preferably with a soy mocha in one hand, a pumpkin scone in the other, and an “I told you this would happen” smile plastered across my face.

And I’m completely fine with it. Because, as one wise friend who got the hell out of here once told me, “The only way to show people what a fucking wreck this place has become is to let things fall apart.”  

Before working here, I never subscribed to that sort of thinking. But it makes complete sense. And it gives me a reason to cut myself a break or two—not beat myself up over work minutiae.

Instead, I redirect my energies to something much greater than work: living life.

And I’ve been doing plenty of that.

The types of laughter and meaningful conversations I had with Andy and my friend Amanda this past weekend are paramount to my sanity. Because who wouldn’t enjoy a weekend peppered with comments regarding sweater nipples and taxidermied animals?

Especially when I laughed so loud that I couldn’t hear the protracted beep of my flat-lined work ethic echoing in my head.

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My Work Ethic Doesn’t Fall Far from the Apathy Tree. Like I Care.

I’m a hard worker.

I’m detail-oriented.

I like structure.

I enjoy workplace camaraderie that facilitates completing objectives.

I think outside the box, carton, compost bin—whatever.

Usually. My appreciation

But not when I work my ass off for over two years and all I receive is mass-produced, business card-sized appreciation; when I have to deal with a volley of hostile interactions with bigoted coworkers; when my supervisor spends more time avoiding problems than acknowledging them; when aggressive, self-aggrandizing, incompetent coworkers do everything in their power to undermine my professional character; when my Grey Goose consumption increases to numb the pain of another work day and blunt the bitterness of returning tomorrow.

So, I swallow the horse pill of a job with as much grace as I can, and go on.

But then, right as I cajole myself to stay, a coworker sprinkles salt over the open, festering wound.

Every.

Single.

Time.

*** 
 
So I quit. Acquiesce. Walk out without a sound.
 
Celebrate.
 
***
 
But then I wake up.
 
And use a stale croissant to bludgeon the man holding up the Starbucks line. Then step over his crumpled body and sidle up to the counter to order.  

 

That’s when I snap out of my early morning dream. And clench my jaw, and brush the phantom bead of blood off my argyle sweater as the imbecile orders, then backtracks, then re-orders, then adds another muffin to his re-ordered order.

And then there’s a mental void between sipping my coffee and sitting in my office chair, boring holes into the clock until it’s time to leave. All the while wondering why I’m nearly 30, have two degrees, and am considered a “research participant” and not an “employee”; why the entity for which I “participate” doesn’t acknowledge or care about its participants or how they’re treated by their host facility; why I’m not afforded any benefits, and have to pay quarterly taxes; why I’m still barely making ends meet.

Usually, at this vulnerable point, some succubus drains the last bit of wherewithal I possess.  My temper flares. I morph into an uglier version of myself. And become an intolerable, horrible beast swaddled in sarcastic, cynical, macabre verbal vestments.

I stop caring. Bureaucracy wins. And I assume my cog-like position in a grand juggernaut.

I let my passions collect in an isolated, cold compartment within my heart—a scrap heap I accrue through apathy, until it’s easier to let it rust than salvage the leavings.

***
 
But then I return home, to open arms—to my refuge. And everything feels right.
 
Until  morning.
 
When the only thing that propels me forward is a heartfelt “Thank you” whispered in the dark.
 
***
 
I’m a visual person. I craft plans around a visual anchor and radiate out from there—not in spreadsheets or through dendritic diagrams. If I can’t “see” something manifest, I cut line and start over.
 
But for my lost generation, this is rarely an option.
 
Start over with what? With an idealistic notion wrapped in debt, wheeled along with a few “You can do it” cheers?
 
It’s hard to draw.
 
Much less visualize.
 
***
 
But maybe I just need to sharpen my mental pencil.
 
Or invest in better glasses.
 
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Frayed Nerves and Ugly Cries

Mornings are always fraught with emotional extremes. Especially if your phone alarm startles you to such a degree that you flail at it like a howler monkey and, in the process, smack your slightly sick boyfriend across the back of the head. The last thing anyone wants on their conscience at 4:00 a.m. is accidental battered boyfriend syndrome.

Not that I’d know anything about that.

And then there’s the work commute. As if cranking up the car at 4:45 a.m. isn’t depressing enough, you have to chant a little inspirational mantra to steel your nerves for the drive and day ahead.

Now, after building yourself up, all you need is “Eye of the Tiger” as your morning’s soundtrack. So, you turn on your iPod and hit “Shuffle.” Then, and only then, Snow Patrol’s “Chasing Cars” oozes through the speakers.

Game over. Next stop: Ugly Cry Central.

But not this morning. Around the time I decide against taking a tire iron to the back of the slow-moving Jeep ahead of me, I start getting a familiar, gut-wrenching pain. No, not gas.

Mostly fear and self-loathing, with a dollop of despair.

Now, the fear doesn’t stem from being genuinely afraid of my coworkers. Rather, it springs from a worry that I’ll forget to pack my professional filter and call one of them a horrendously rancid name. That it’ll just slip out.

“Pass me the toner.”

“You’re a withered cunt.”

Just like that. I know it’s going to happen.

And let me just say, I despise that word. It’s just plain horrible. But when someone crosses the threshold from insane to despicable, it’s warranted. And for a particularly crazed lunatic (a.k.a., McNutterpants) who moved herself into the vacant manager’s office like a delusional hermit crab—but who also goes batshitcrazy if you move anything in your personal office space—it’s the only moniker that’ll suffice.

But if I really think about it, pity dances along the periphery of the charged ripostes I mentally conjure. Because, honestly, I feel a little sorry for McNutterpants. Sure, my life isn’t perfect: I’ve got debt sprinkled here and there; I’m no magazine model; I’ll never be rich; I sometimes scare passersby with my Chia Pet-rat nest hair; and I have a weird penchant for carrying dental floss in my pocket. Still, with all that aside, I haven’t settled for one of life’s sad consolation prize packs like McNutterpants.

I don’t know if I’ll succeed in forging my own path through life’s deep, dark undergrowth. But I’ve got to try with my own tools. Even if their edges are worn by repeated blows, their hilts rusted by tears.