This evening a note from the condo association was shoved under my door informing me that the hot water pump in the radiator system has gone out -- again -- and there will be no heat tonight. I received a similar note in October and was told then that the pump had been replaced.
This is not the first issue I've had with the plumbing in this building and the condo association. Labor Day weekend I realized that I'd been hearing water running in one of the bathrooms in another unit for about two weeks. It's sort of a high-pitched hum through the pipes. In addition, the woman upstairs had her boyfriend do some repairs in her bathroom which ended up flooding mine, requiring a new paint job. I had several conversations with the management company about this running water over the course of several weeks and was given every explanation imaginable. I then contacted the condo president. He actually said that the water bill had been seven hundred dollars higher, and they wondered why, but had decided to wait to see if the next bill was as out of line. But since I'd called, they would look into it. Again, over the course of several weeks I was given every excuse in the book and every reassurance that the problem would be taken care of. The only reasonable thing I was told was that if there was water running, as in a broken pipe, water would be showing up somewhere, and since it wasn't they assumed the problem wasn't serious. The last I heard, the issue had indeed been isolated to the unit above mine and that repairs were scheduled for December 12th. Of course, I still hear the water running.
I don't do well with these types of situations. First, I don't understand the wait-and-see philosophy, expecially when that approach could lead to major expense. Secondly, when confronted with this attitude in situations that I think clearly call for decisive action, I get crazy and my ability to remain civil is challenged.
It might not be clear from this blog, but I can be quite outspoken. I come from a family who invented a myriad of exciting and subtle techniques of humiliation. Condescension drips from me like a spring rain when I feel like I'm dealing with a moron. I try to take a step back and recognize the growth opportunity for me and the other person in the situation; I try let the positive flow of the universe course through me like a pale golden warm reflection of God's love, but really I just want to spit on the idiot who clearly isn't doing his job properly.
So tomorrow I will call the condo president with three very specific questions:
1) Why wasn't the pump repaired properly the first time?
2) What specifically is being done about the running water in the upstairs unit?
3) What other management companies are we considering to replace the current one?
Now, hopefully, I'll get his voicemail because if I don't have an actual conersation I stand a better chance of having a sparkle in my voice. If I'm force fed another line of BS, I might just rip the phone out of the wall.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
Slobber, Slobber.
I am a drooling idiot. I spent this afternoon working on projects at Caribou Coffee. When my mind goes dry, I frequently stare out a window and daydream. I’m embarrassed to admit that I do this quite a bit. One of my favorite daydreams is about someone we’ll call Prototype. In my head I’ve composed the perfect boyfriend. I won’t bore you with all the characteristics. There’s nothing unusual about them. But, to make this daydream work, I have to assign a face to it. Over the years I’ve borrowed several faces, including Brendan Fraser’s and Ben Affleck’s. Understand, Prototype need not actually have any of the characteristics of the person whose face I’ve borrowed. But over the years, as Prototype has evolved, I’ve adopted different faces. The latest face is of someone I’ve met several times over the past ten years. We’ve had a number of mutual friends, but know each other only slightly -- enough to say hello. In the past year, however, I’ve had more exposure to him. We haven't really had anything like a conversation. Let’s just say I’m accutely aware of his existence. And whether its the truth or not, I’ve decided that he possesses a number of the charateristics of Prototype. So, going with the flow, I’ve adopted his face for my little daydreams.
So, to be clear, we have the imagined “Prototype,” and Real Prototype, (RP).
So, this afternoon, while daydreaming out the window about Prototype, his real-life counterpart walked in the door. For a second I was really confused about reality and fantasy. RP lives in a different part of town. He is logically the last person on Earth I’d expect to see on Monday afternoon at Caribou Coffee, but he swooped past my table, not noticing me. I’d say that he doesn’t know I’m alive, but that’s not true. One of Prototype’s characteristics is impeccible manners. This is just one of the parallels with Real Prototype, and so of course RP always says hello when he sees me.
We occupied the same room for nearly an hour while he chatted with a friend and I tried to concentrate on my paper. Just as I’d found a hook into the paper and begun typing, RP slides up to me with his friend and jokes for a minute. There was nothing behind it; he was simply being polite. I managed to control the drool, but I felt myself blush. I tried to include his friend in the conversation, but truthfully I couldn’t have been less interested in him. For the sixty seconds of the conversation there were just two people in the world: the perfect boyfriend and the blushing, drooling idiot.
So, to be clear, we have the imagined “Prototype,” and Real Prototype, (RP).
So, this afternoon, while daydreaming out the window about Prototype, his real-life counterpart walked in the door. For a second I was really confused about reality and fantasy. RP lives in a different part of town. He is logically the last person on Earth I’d expect to see on Monday afternoon at Caribou Coffee, but he swooped past my table, not noticing me. I’d say that he doesn’t know I’m alive, but that’s not true. One of Prototype’s characteristics is impeccible manners. This is just one of the parallels with Real Prototype, and so of course RP always says hello when he sees me.
We occupied the same room for nearly an hour while he chatted with a friend and I tried to concentrate on my paper. Just as I’d found a hook into the paper and begun typing, RP slides up to me with his friend and jokes for a minute. There was nothing behind it; he was simply being polite. I managed to control the drool, but I felt myself blush. I tried to include his friend in the conversation, but truthfully I couldn’t have been less interested in him. For the sixty seconds of the conversation there were just two people in the world: the perfect boyfriend and the blushing, drooling idiot.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Survival
We made it through today at the cafe. Again, the scheduled busboy did not show up, but reinforcements came in the form of Espie's* brother.
Espie is a wonder busboy. She's a woman, but the job title is busboy, so we just go with it. You turn Espie on and she just does not quit until the place is clean. There are drawbacks. She has a very clear idea of what her job is, and doesn't hide her resentment if she's asked to do anything she feels falls outside of that. But what she does think of as her job, she guards like a pitbull and is relentless. Her brother is nearly as good. The best thing about them is that they are virtually invisible. The work simply gets done. I love her.
And Roland, our summer waiter who agreed to pick up shifts with the new expansion, didn't show up. When I called, he said he was sick and would be in next week. We went through this same thing when I first hired him last summer. But he's a fair waiter and in the thick of things I don't have to worry about his station. I called the main restaurant to advise and get direction. I could devote a multitude of posts to the owner of the restaurant, Timmy, and there is just no shorthand description that works. Rapid controls freak is about the best that I can come up with. Anyway, there was no way we were going to delay the opening of the expansion, so he said he'd send Martin. Martin is the least effective server I've ever seen. He's very concerned that the food looks good on the plate, but could not care less if the plate ever made it to the table. Imagine my surprise when Roberto walked in the door. Roberto is my favorite waiter. I think he's the best waiter I've ever worked with. He's certainly better than I am. No matter what, he's cheerful, works until he drops and goes out his way to help his co-workers. Frankly, he puts me to shame.
So, we got slammed early and it was hard all day. My station was the station of choice, and I rang about half again as much as Roberto. Donna, the third server, closed. I don't know what she rang, but it should be close to mine.
All in all, it was a good day.
But I'm simply exhausted. After work I dragged myself to the gym. Not to work out, but to take a nap. I changed into my clothes and found a mat and slipped into a coma. On days like today, it's the only way I'm going to make through chorus rehearsal. When I wake up I stagger into the shower and ignore all the blatant cruising. I count tile squares while I shower and get out. The showers at the gym are another post.
I had a great time at rehearsal. The auditions are all done and I didn't suffer a single symptom of withdrawal for not going. I'm sad, but there will be other things in the future. And it will be fun to be buried in the back while someone else has to carry the show.
Tomorrow is red alert study day. I need to devote some serious time to my editing class and I also need to make major progress on my paper. I may have to park myself in the library and forgo my perch at Caribou Coffee.
*All names are fictitious.
Espie is a wonder busboy. She's a woman, but the job title is busboy, so we just go with it. You turn Espie on and she just does not quit until the place is clean. There are drawbacks. She has a very clear idea of what her job is, and doesn't hide her resentment if she's asked to do anything she feels falls outside of that. But what she does think of as her job, she guards like a pitbull and is relentless. Her brother is nearly as good. The best thing about them is that they are virtually invisible. The work simply gets done. I love her.
And Roland, our summer waiter who agreed to pick up shifts with the new expansion, didn't show up. When I called, he said he was sick and would be in next week. We went through this same thing when I first hired him last summer. But he's a fair waiter and in the thick of things I don't have to worry about his station. I called the main restaurant to advise and get direction. I could devote a multitude of posts to the owner of the restaurant, Timmy, and there is just no shorthand description that works. Rapid controls freak is about the best that I can come up with. Anyway, there was no way we were going to delay the opening of the expansion, so he said he'd send Martin. Martin is the least effective server I've ever seen. He's very concerned that the food looks good on the plate, but could not care less if the plate ever made it to the table. Imagine my surprise when Roberto walked in the door. Roberto is my favorite waiter. I think he's the best waiter I've ever worked with. He's certainly better than I am. No matter what, he's cheerful, works until he drops and goes out his way to help his co-workers. Frankly, he puts me to shame.
So, we got slammed early and it was hard all day. My station was the station of choice, and I rang about half again as much as Roberto. Donna, the third server, closed. I don't know what she rang, but it should be close to mine.
All in all, it was a good day.
But I'm simply exhausted. After work I dragged myself to the gym. Not to work out, but to take a nap. I changed into my clothes and found a mat and slipped into a coma. On days like today, it's the only way I'm going to make through chorus rehearsal. When I wake up I stagger into the shower and ignore all the blatant cruising. I count tile squares while I shower and get out. The showers at the gym are another post.
I had a great time at rehearsal. The auditions are all done and I didn't suffer a single symptom of withdrawal for not going. I'm sad, but there will be other things in the future. And it will be fun to be buried in the back while someone else has to carry the show.
Tomorrow is red alert study day. I need to devote some serious time to my editing class and I also need to make major progress on my paper. I may have to park myself in the library and forgo my perch at Caribou Coffee.
*All names are fictitious.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Mood Swings
This will be brief because today was a bear. We changed tables and chairs in the diner, the busboy didn't show up, and we got hit hard early and steady all day. Tomorrow the expansion opens up and I already know I'm going to be short-handed.* And I also decided today that the cashier had to be demoted to busboy.
The moods, they are a-swinging, let me tell you! It's all good, though. I'm using the moods as motivators to make changes. I've discovered a rather ugly little tendency of mine: I recognize the need for change long before I take action. I let the need for the change grow, and with it the frustration of maintaining the status quo. Then, when I can no longer take it, I have the brilliant ability to create a drama that makes change inevitable. I'm working on managing this process a little better, but I grew up in a family where crisis was the norm. I'm too tired for crisis any more.
Speaking of tired, that alarm goes off at 4 am tomorrow, and my clock seems to speed up between the hours of 10 pm and 4 am. Just a quick jot to let you know all is well.
* The editing class is making me evermore paranoid about punctuation. It is safe to assume that if you see a hypen anywhere in my writings, there has been some degree of panic and the consultation of at least one reference book.
The moods, they are a-swinging, let me tell you! It's all good, though. I'm using the moods as motivators to make changes. I've discovered a rather ugly little tendency of mine: I recognize the need for change long before I take action. I let the need for the change grow, and with it the frustration of maintaining the status quo. Then, when I can no longer take it, I have the brilliant ability to create a drama that makes change inevitable. I'm working on managing this process a little better, but I grew up in a family where crisis was the norm. I'm too tired for crisis any more.
Speaking of tired, that alarm goes off at 4 am tomorrow, and my clock seems to speed up between the hours of 10 pm and 4 am. Just a quick jot to let you know all is well.
* The editing class is making me evermore paranoid about punctuation. It is safe to assume that if you see a hypen anywhere in my writings, there has been some degree of panic and the consultation of at least one reference book.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Project Perfection
I'm almost obsessed with Project Runway and Dancing with the Stars. Although I have the grace and fashion sense of a drunken baboon, I find both shows riveting and inspirational. My strategy as an actor, a singer, an HR professional -- really just about anything I've ever done -- has been to rely on passion over precision. In college, I took three years of ballet just to be able to walk from point A to point B on stage. Every semester I was given an A, but it was truly an A for effort. Where precision is concerned, I require a lot of time for practice; and even then, when the precision is put to the test, I freeze up. It literally took me five years before I could take a typing test with any sort of confidence at all. In fact, typing was the only class I failed in high school. I froze during the tests.
But, precision is becoming very important to me. Last week I read an article in the New York Times about the small shops in Paris that make all of the detailed ornamentation, beading, shoes, hats, etc. for French haute couture. The amount of time that goes into learning how to make gold buttons or beaded lace, and then to become the best in the world is just breathtaking.
Last night I took my second editing test. It was all about punctuation and I wish I felt more confident about the results. I feel like, if I'm getting a masters degree in writing, I should have better command of these things. The only relief from the mental torture I can conceivably give myself is that I am still a student, and there is still time for perfecting this. I have to look at studying commas and hyphens as a musician practicing scales.
And, I think here is where my fascination with these two programs comes in. Dancing with the Stars, first of all, is just great fun. But the stars are working their butts off for basically nothing. With Project Runway, these designers are designing for their lives, and they're being eliminated for lack of precision. I find it all very exciting and relevant to what I'm doing as well.
And for the record, I'm rooting for Drew and Nick.
But, precision is becoming very important to me. Last week I read an article in the New York Times about the small shops in Paris that make all of the detailed ornamentation, beading, shoes, hats, etc. for French haute couture. The amount of time that goes into learning how to make gold buttons or beaded lace, and then to become the best in the world is just breathtaking.
Last night I took my second editing test. It was all about punctuation and I wish I felt more confident about the results. I feel like, if I'm getting a masters degree in writing, I should have better command of these things. The only relief from the mental torture I can conceivably give myself is that I am still a student, and there is still time for perfecting this. I have to look at studying commas and hyphens as a musician practicing scales.
And, I think here is where my fascination with these two programs comes in. Dancing with the Stars, first of all, is just great fun. But the stars are working their butts off for basically nothing. With Project Runway, these designers are designing for their lives, and they're being eliminated for lack of precision. I find it all very exciting and relevant to what I'm doing as well.
And for the record, I'm rooting for Drew and Nick.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Brokeback Mountain
Yes, I made the pilgrimmage to see it. It's good.
Visually, it's stunning. But the performances, frankly, are not all that. Jake Gyllenhall is very good; Heath Ledger is channelling Clint Eastwood; and the only woman who portrays any depth is Linda Cardolini.
I'm torn over the story. If there were more gay-themed films, I'd say that this is a great, tragic love story. However, no one seems to point out that the film contains two miserable fags and at the end one dies and the other is alone. Yes, they're rich, robust characters; but this formula is exactly the kind of story about homosexuality that Hollywood has been putting out forever. Wouldn't a happy ending have been more daring? And I don't want to hear about historical context. There is no reason for it to have been set in the '60's through the '80's, except to duck the responsibility of addressing AIDS.
And don't get me started on the unending media message that Heath and Jake are really heterosexual. For Christ's sake, Heath Ledger impregnated his co-star. They released Casanova at the same time. We get the message.
Still, I'm glad to see a gay-themed major Hollywood release. There probably won't be another for at least five years, and I don't expect to see a major, openly gay film star in my life time. So, we take our stories where we can get them.
Visually, it's stunning. But the performances, frankly, are not all that. Jake Gyllenhall is very good; Heath Ledger is channelling Clint Eastwood; and the only woman who portrays any depth is Linda Cardolini.
I'm torn over the story. If there were more gay-themed films, I'd say that this is a great, tragic love story. However, no one seems to point out that the film contains two miserable fags and at the end one dies and the other is alone. Yes, they're rich, robust characters; but this formula is exactly the kind of story about homosexuality that Hollywood has been putting out forever. Wouldn't a happy ending have been more daring? And I don't want to hear about historical context. There is no reason for it to have been set in the '60's through the '80's, except to duck the responsibility of addressing AIDS.
And don't get me started on the unending media message that Heath and Jake are really heterosexual. For Christ's sake, Heath Ledger impregnated his co-star. They released Casanova at the same time. We get the message.
Still, I'm glad to see a gay-themed major Hollywood release. There probably won't be another for at least five years, and I don't expect to see a major, openly gay film star in my life time. So, we take our stories where we can get them.
Connecting the Dots
I subscribe to the Republican National Committee's web broadcast; so I receive blasts from Ken Mehlmen begging me to support the latest Republican cause. Today I was urged to write about the president's surveillance program. Mr. Mehlmen states that it is matter of national security that the president have the authority to spy on American citizens.
Here is why he's wrong:
1) The president's power is limited only by the requirement of getting a secret warrant. In times of urgency he is allowed to convene the secret court within seventy-two hours after surveillance has begun. The concern here is that spys may learn of the surveillance if the established procedure is followed. My response to that is that if spys are that deeply embedded in our government, we have more serious problems than the president having to get a warrant.
2) We are a free society, and as such we must pay a price for that freedom. The question becomes, then, was an event like September 11th to dear of a price? My response is that even with legal surveillance our government ignored the warnings about September 11th. How would trashing the Constitution have improved our intelligence? We had all the information necessary to prevent the attack and ignored it.
3) Mr. Mehlmen says that spying is not conducted on ordinary Americans planning little leagues practices and pot luck dinners. My response is how do we know? The secret warrants are supposed to the assurance, the protection, of the American public. How do we know the government isn't using its "war-time authority" to spy on its legitimate opponents? There has been so much misinformation come from this administration that the Constitutional safeguards cannot be ignored. If they slow our war on terrorists, then that is the price that the American public must be willing to pay to be the leader of the free world. As Americans we enjoy unprecedented privilege and wealth. With that comes the possibility of sacrifice, possibly the ultimate sacrifice. Can we reasonably ask our men and women in uniform to actively risk paying that price when we are not willing to risk that possiblity ourselves? The likelihood of another September 11th is very small and we have safeguards in place to protect us. A secret court granting a secret warrant is a tiny price to pay for the liberty we enjoy.
Here is why he's wrong:
1) The president's power is limited only by the requirement of getting a secret warrant. In times of urgency he is allowed to convene the secret court within seventy-two hours after surveillance has begun. The concern here is that spys may learn of the surveillance if the established procedure is followed. My response to that is that if spys are that deeply embedded in our government, we have more serious problems than the president having to get a warrant.
2) We are a free society, and as such we must pay a price for that freedom. The question becomes, then, was an event like September 11th to dear of a price? My response is that even with legal surveillance our government ignored the warnings about September 11th. How would trashing the Constitution have improved our intelligence? We had all the information necessary to prevent the attack and ignored it.
3) Mr. Mehlmen says that spying is not conducted on ordinary Americans planning little leagues practices and pot luck dinners. My response is how do we know? The secret warrants are supposed to the assurance, the protection, of the American public. How do we know the government isn't using its "war-time authority" to spy on its legitimate opponents? There has been so much misinformation come from this administration that the Constitutional safeguards cannot be ignored. If they slow our war on terrorists, then that is the price that the American public must be willing to pay to be the leader of the free world. As Americans we enjoy unprecedented privilege and wealth. With that comes the possibility of sacrifice, possibly the ultimate sacrifice. Can we reasonably ask our men and women in uniform to actively risk paying that price when we are not willing to risk that possiblity ourselves? The likelihood of another September 11th is very small and we have safeguards in place to protect us. A secret court granting a secret warrant is a tiny price to pay for the liberty we enjoy.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Job Search
For the past few months I've been littering the cyberhighway with my resume. Specifically, I'm looking for a position that puts me into some form of communication office, preferrably in a not-for-profit development office. I've interviewed up and down the spectrum, from interships to management positions, but the reality is that I'm a flawed candidate. From my resume, I appear to job hop. To some extent this is true. However, all of my job changes have been strategic, securing developmental opportunities; and I've been very successful at building a career in human resources from nothing more than a smile and punctuality.
Now, as I begin at the bottom of a new career pile, I'm convinced that a smile is about all that is necessary to be successful in human resources. I've interviewed with a number of recruiters and I have to say the mental strength expended by companies in searching for talent is feeble. It is, almost without exception, either a perky blonde supressing a giggle, or a bitter brunette at some stage of a divorce. Yes, sexist, I know. But I have only been interviewed by one male recruiter -- and truth to tell, he was the worst of the worst.
The last interview was one for the books. I learned years ago that agencies are really scams. The least competent professionals scavenge resumes and try to pedal them to employers who either are too lazy or disinterested to do the real grunt work themselves. I've done recruiting and success is determined in reading all the resumes. There is software out there that will scan resumes for keywords to minimize the volume, but nothing beats taking an hour and flipping the pages. The worst job I had to recruit for received over six hundred resumes. It took me three days to log and read them and when I was finished the hiring manager decided to sort through them himself. When he made the hire I went back through my files and discovered he chose my number two pick. With all modesty, I can honestly say I know how to recruit.
So, I know when its not done well.
At my last interview I actually argued with the recruiter. Now, as brazen as the might sound, its not the first time I've had an argument in an interview. The first time was with a consulting firm where I was put through nine meetings in one day. In the last one I'd had enough and the consultant was as condescending as I've ever seen. Little did he know I'd invented the attitude and held the patent. He asked me how I would get one hundred and fifty recruiting brochures to a campus job fair. I told him I'd find the address, put them in a box and send them overnight, scheduled to deliver after I'd arrived. He pressed on, wanting to know exactly how I'd do it. I told him that I would count the brochures, beginning with one and stopping when I'd reached one hundred and fifty. Then I'd find a box big enough to hold them all and seal it with yards and yards of packing tape. Then I'd fill out the airbill and deliver it, personally, to the mailroom.
I got the job.
Since then, I haven't been in an interview that has intimidated me. You either love me, or you don't. And if you don't, I don't want to work with you anyway. For a while I took to aggressively interviewing the prospective boss. I found that strategy didn't work too well as the boss likes to think he's in charge. Still, I go into every interview with the attitude that they have a job they need someone to do, and I can do it well. Do you have anything that I need -- beyond a paycheck? If not, we're probably not a match. Arrogant? Perhaps. But at this stage in my life I just don't have the energy to waste.
Back to my last interview...
The argument began innocently enough. Agencies sift through literally thousands of applicants a day. I'm sure it's exhausting. Still, I see no reason that a minium amount of decorum cannot be observed. My interview began with a summons from the waiting area by the recruiter yelling my name across the room. She began the interview before I was even seated; and when she sifted through the raft of paperwork I'd been required to complete, she began filling in the blank questions I'd not answered.
(For the record, I never answer the questions about salary on the application. I will be paid market price, based on my skills, and not based on the feeble salary of my last position. What I made at my last job is irrelevent to what I'll make in my next job. These questions are usually the lazy way of determining if you're at the right skill level for the position.)
Her first question was, "Why didn't you list when you graduated from high school?"
I am a college graduate, currently working on a masters degree and I think it is safe to assume I graduated high school. I responded, "I didn't answer that question because its an illegal question. You can't ask it." (Employers can assume you were seventeen or eighteen when you graduated high school, and from that can infer your age. Hiring, based on age, is illegal.)
She closed my folder and explained that she is paid, "thousands of dollars," to verify the information I provide. If she can't verify that I graduated from high school, she can't work with me.
I had a dilemma. This might be the pathway to future glory and happiness. Should I take a stand on principle, or should I just answer the stupid question?
When you reach a certain age, inevitably the interviewer is dying to know if you're married, and if not, why not. For women under forty there is the concern of children. For women over forty its the concern of a sexual predator. For men, they don't want no fags. At my last job, during the interview process, the senior manager spent twenty minutes dancing around the topic, knowing full well he couldn't ask. I evaded the question forever. I've had other managers look for wedding rings. I now wear one to every interview.
But back to my last interview.
I gritted my teeth and gave her my graduation date. She interrupted our interview three times to take phone calls. Then finally she asked why I was interested in an administrative assistant position in a marketing firm when clearly I had no experience, was more qualified for an HR management position, and had no demonstrable clerical skills.
I explained, as sweetly as I could, that I was making a career change and that I needed an entre into the world of communciation. I am not, I explained, looking for just any admin position, rather a very specific one partnering me with someone who is very successful in the communication field. This was the strategy I used to build my impressive HR career. Further, I explained, that my clerical skills were top notch, qualifying me for any job she chose.
That got her attention. I've interviewed enough administrative assistants to know that a competent one is worth his weight in Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. I've even moved one across a continent because the good ones are so rare. I happen to be a very good one.
Still, she wasn't completely convinced, so she dared me to take all of the Microsoft Office tests and a typing test immediately. Understand, I'd responded to a training coordinator position in a marketing firm. Clerical skills were not required, and I wasn't prepared to take any tests. Allegedly, each test takes thirty minutes. The longest I've ever taken was twenty minutes, and that was on software I'd never seen before. I also score well, and even sight unseen, I managed the unknown software competently. I'd had about enough of this bimbo, but I'd traveled an hour to get to the interview and I could spare the hour it was going to take to get through the tests. I accepted her challenge and smoked all four tests. She appeared impressed, but I left firmly believing I'd come across as an arrogant pig and would never hear from her again.
Since then, she's called with three jobs. Nothing has panned out yet, but I'm impressed that she'd even work with me. This either means I'm that good, or that good admins are that hard to find.
Keep posted for further job search details.
Now, as I begin at the bottom of a new career pile, I'm convinced that a smile is about all that is necessary to be successful in human resources. I've interviewed with a number of recruiters and I have to say the mental strength expended by companies in searching for talent is feeble. It is, almost without exception, either a perky blonde supressing a giggle, or a bitter brunette at some stage of a divorce. Yes, sexist, I know. But I have only been interviewed by one male recruiter -- and truth to tell, he was the worst of the worst.
The last interview was one for the books. I learned years ago that agencies are really scams. The least competent professionals scavenge resumes and try to pedal them to employers who either are too lazy or disinterested to do the real grunt work themselves. I've done recruiting and success is determined in reading all the resumes. There is software out there that will scan resumes for keywords to minimize the volume, but nothing beats taking an hour and flipping the pages. The worst job I had to recruit for received over six hundred resumes. It took me three days to log and read them and when I was finished the hiring manager decided to sort through them himself. When he made the hire I went back through my files and discovered he chose my number two pick. With all modesty, I can honestly say I know how to recruit.
So, I know when its not done well.
At my last interview I actually argued with the recruiter. Now, as brazen as the might sound, its not the first time I've had an argument in an interview. The first time was with a consulting firm where I was put through nine meetings in one day. In the last one I'd had enough and the consultant was as condescending as I've ever seen. Little did he know I'd invented the attitude and held the patent. He asked me how I would get one hundred and fifty recruiting brochures to a campus job fair. I told him I'd find the address, put them in a box and send them overnight, scheduled to deliver after I'd arrived. He pressed on, wanting to know exactly how I'd do it. I told him that I would count the brochures, beginning with one and stopping when I'd reached one hundred and fifty. Then I'd find a box big enough to hold them all and seal it with yards and yards of packing tape. Then I'd fill out the airbill and deliver it, personally, to the mailroom.
I got the job.
Since then, I haven't been in an interview that has intimidated me. You either love me, or you don't. And if you don't, I don't want to work with you anyway. For a while I took to aggressively interviewing the prospective boss. I found that strategy didn't work too well as the boss likes to think he's in charge. Still, I go into every interview with the attitude that they have a job they need someone to do, and I can do it well. Do you have anything that I need -- beyond a paycheck? If not, we're probably not a match. Arrogant? Perhaps. But at this stage in my life I just don't have the energy to waste.
Back to my last interview...
The argument began innocently enough. Agencies sift through literally thousands of applicants a day. I'm sure it's exhausting. Still, I see no reason that a minium amount of decorum cannot be observed. My interview began with a summons from the waiting area by the recruiter yelling my name across the room. She began the interview before I was even seated; and when she sifted through the raft of paperwork I'd been required to complete, she began filling in the blank questions I'd not answered.
(For the record, I never answer the questions about salary on the application. I will be paid market price, based on my skills, and not based on the feeble salary of my last position. What I made at my last job is irrelevent to what I'll make in my next job. These questions are usually the lazy way of determining if you're at the right skill level for the position.)
Her first question was, "Why didn't you list when you graduated from high school?"
I am a college graduate, currently working on a masters degree and I think it is safe to assume I graduated high school. I responded, "I didn't answer that question because its an illegal question. You can't ask it." (Employers can assume you were seventeen or eighteen when you graduated high school, and from that can infer your age. Hiring, based on age, is illegal.)
She closed my folder and explained that she is paid, "thousands of dollars," to verify the information I provide. If she can't verify that I graduated from high school, she can't work with me.
I had a dilemma. This might be the pathway to future glory and happiness. Should I take a stand on principle, or should I just answer the stupid question?
When you reach a certain age, inevitably the interviewer is dying to know if you're married, and if not, why not. For women under forty there is the concern of children. For women over forty its the concern of a sexual predator. For men, they don't want no fags. At my last job, during the interview process, the senior manager spent twenty minutes dancing around the topic, knowing full well he couldn't ask. I evaded the question forever. I've had other managers look for wedding rings. I now wear one to every interview.
But back to my last interview.
I gritted my teeth and gave her my graduation date. She interrupted our interview three times to take phone calls. Then finally she asked why I was interested in an administrative assistant position in a marketing firm when clearly I had no experience, was more qualified for an HR management position, and had no demonstrable clerical skills.
I explained, as sweetly as I could, that I was making a career change and that I needed an entre into the world of communciation. I am not, I explained, looking for just any admin position, rather a very specific one partnering me with someone who is very successful in the communication field. This was the strategy I used to build my impressive HR career. Further, I explained, that my clerical skills were top notch, qualifying me for any job she chose.
That got her attention. I've interviewed enough administrative assistants to know that a competent one is worth his weight in Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. I've even moved one across a continent because the good ones are so rare. I happen to be a very good one.
Still, she wasn't completely convinced, so she dared me to take all of the Microsoft Office tests and a typing test immediately. Understand, I'd responded to a training coordinator position in a marketing firm. Clerical skills were not required, and I wasn't prepared to take any tests. Allegedly, each test takes thirty minutes. The longest I've ever taken was twenty minutes, and that was on software I'd never seen before. I also score well, and even sight unseen, I managed the unknown software competently. I'd had about enough of this bimbo, but I'd traveled an hour to get to the interview and I could spare the hour it was going to take to get through the tests. I accepted her challenge and smoked all four tests. She appeared impressed, but I left firmly believing I'd come across as an arrogant pig and would never hear from her again.
Since then, she's called with three jobs. Nothing has panned out yet, but I'm impressed that she'd even work with me. This either means I'm that good, or that good admins are that hard to find.
Keep posted for further job search details.
Academic Accuracy
This editing class will be the death of me. I'm at the point where I'm afraid to write anything more complex than a simple declarative sentence. I'm also afraid to read anything because I can't absorb any information. Instead, I'm obsessed with comma placement and remembering the rule that dictates that placement. The frustrating thing is that once again I seem to be the only one required to follow the rules.
The New York Times clearly has a different set of rules it follows, and apparently they are being kept secret. The Chicago Tribune, surprisingly, is the most clearly edited; and while I enjoy the Sun-Times more, it appears to have been edited by fourth graders. Finally, not only do I think Robert Novak should be brought up on conspiracy to commit treason charges, but I resent his editorial style to boot.
The New York Times clearly has a different set of rules it follows, and apparently they are being kept secret. The Chicago Tribune, surprisingly, is the most clearly edited; and while I enjoy the Sun-Times more, it appears to have been edited by fourth graders. Finally, not only do I think Robert Novak should be brought up on conspiracy to commit treason charges, but I resent his editorial style to boot.
I Had a Dream
Last night I dreamed I was singing "Proud Mary" with Leonardo DiCaprio.
I can't begin to think what that meant.
I can't begin to think what that meant.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Random Bile
I have three levels of study. Level One is the skimming phase, where I am either leafing through the material to gauge how difficult it is, or I'm reviewing it to see if I've retained anything. This can be done anywhere and usually is best done midday. It can also be done at home because it doesn't take too long. Studying at home is very difficult for me because there are just too many distractions. TV, Internet, e-mail, naps...The list goes on and on. If I'm at RED ALERT study mode, I can usually get things done at home as well, but I hate going to that level.
Level Three is where everything is on track, but I can only function with a minimum of distraction. For this, I head down to the campus and stake my claim to one of the study carrels near the bathroom. When I'm there, it's with a clear-cut agenda and I am clicking through a list, getting things done pretty efficiently. I'm usually there between work and class and if I'm not too close to a deadline, but still need quality time with the books.
However, most of my studying happens at Level Two. At this level I actually need a certain level of distraction, especially when the material is particularly boring. At this level I seem to do best at a coffee shop. The problem is there are no decent coffee shops in Rogers Park. The single one I can think of is Ennui on Sheridan, and as my friend Wellesley put it, it lives up to its name.
So, to get Level Two work done, I trek down to Caribou Coffee on Halsted. I've written some pretty decent first drafts there, done some strong initial reading, and generally organized my life there. I'm happiest when I can stake out some prime real estate next to the window, looking out at Halsted. It has to be a corner table so there is no one sitting behind me, and I have to be able to reach the outlet for my antique laptop. There are three of these tables and needless to say they come at a premium. There are three more tables looking out at Cornelia, but only straight people really sit there. They don't know any better.
Today I was banished to the straight side of the coffee shop. I could have sat in one of the lounge chairs near the fire, but I tend to doze off there. I also had some writing to do and needed a table. It was a productive afternoon with enough pretty distractions so that the afternoon wasn't a complete dirge. They had my dark chocolate graham crackers, but dash it all they were out of Diet Coke and I had to settle for ice tea, and then later a genuine Coke.
I like Caribou Coffee because I actually get checked out there. I've had several torrid imaginary affairs and I'm certain I'll meet my future husband there while skimming the New York Times. I love my afternoons at Caribou Coffee.
Today, the only disappointment was the influx of white, middle-aged housewives ferrying their toddlers through on their way to the ice cream shop next door. What are these women thinking, bringing toddlers to Halsted? And why do they all look bleached and mummified in their plaid shirts and stretchy headbands? They need to be told that only their grandmothers think these screeching children are precocious. The rest of them think they're obnoxious. I travel all the way down to Lakeview to do my studying because I want to ogle attractive men and be left alone. I'm not interested in Hayley's vocabulary demonstration. This is my space, and frankly clueless straight women aren't welcome. (They are not to be confused with enlightened straight women who keep their children in dark closets like civilized people. Such women, properly coiffed are always welcome.) If they want to acknowledge they are intruders and quietly behave accordingly, I'll let them alone, but the air of entitlement that wafts behind them as they slurp their nondairy froths is like an extra-garlic pizza fart. I don't barge into Ralph Lauren to point and laugh, (although God knows there's plenty of reason to,) so they need to take their little day trips to a Starbucks on Clark Street where Little Colin was spawned in the first place. I'm not interested in being the local color that "enriches" their lives.
Level Three is where everything is on track, but I can only function with a minimum of distraction. For this, I head down to the campus and stake my claim to one of the study carrels near the bathroom. When I'm there, it's with a clear-cut agenda and I am clicking through a list, getting things done pretty efficiently. I'm usually there between work and class and if I'm not too close to a deadline, but still need quality time with the books.
However, most of my studying happens at Level Two. At this level I actually need a certain level of distraction, especially when the material is particularly boring. At this level I seem to do best at a coffee shop. The problem is there are no decent coffee shops in Rogers Park. The single one I can think of is Ennui on Sheridan, and as my friend Wellesley put it, it lives up to its name.
So, to get Level Two work done, I trek down to Caribou Coffee on Halsted. I've written some pretty decent first drafts there, done some strong initial reading, and generally organized my life there. I'm happiest when I can stake out some prime real estate next to the window, looking out at Halsted. It has to be a corner table so there is no one sitting behind me, and I have to be able to reach the outlet for my antique laptop. There are three of these tables and needless to say they come at a premium. There are three more tables looking out at Cornelia, but only straight people really sit there. They don't know any better.
Today I was banished to the straight side of the coffee shop. I could have sat in one of the lounge chairs near the fire, but I tend to doze off there. I also had some writing to do and needed a table. It was a productive afternoon with enough pretty distractions so that the afternoon wasn't a complete dirge. They had my dark chocolate graham crackers, but dash it all they were out of Diet Coke and I had to settle for ice tea, and then later a genuine Coke.
I like Caribou Coffee because I actually get checked out there. I've had several torrid imaginary affairs and I'm certain I'll meet my future husband there while skimming the New York Times. I love my afternoons at Caribou Coffee.
Today, the only disappointment was the influx of white, middle-aged housewives ferrying their toddlers through on their way to the ice cream shop next door. What are these women thinking, bringing toddlers to Halsted? And why do they all look bleached and mummified in their plaid shirts and stretchy headbands? They need to be told that only their grandmothers think these screeching children are precocious. The rest of them think they're obnoxious. I travel all the way down to Lakeview to do my studying because I want to ogle attractive men and be left alone. I'm not interested in Hayley's vocabulary demonstration. This is my space, and frankly clueless straight women aren't welcome. (They are not to be confused with enlightened straight women who keep their children in dark closets like civilized people. Such women, properly coiffed are always welcome.) If they want to acknowledge they are intruders and quietly behave accordingly, I'll let them alone, but the air of entitlement that wafts behind them as they slurp their nondairy froths is like an extra-garlic pizza fart. I don't barge into Ralph Lauren to point and laugh, (although God knows there's plenty of reason to,) so they need to take their little day trips to a Starbucks on Clark Street where Little Colin was spawned in the first place. I'm not interested in being the local color that "enriches" their lives.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Choices
I sing with the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus. It's a great bunch of guys and I it is the highlight of my week to go to rehearsal. While I'm not socially very active with the group, for three hours every week I get to be part of something larger than myself and try to blend in with a crowd.
We present three shows a year. In April, we are presenting an original muscial of The Ten Commandments. There are three major roles that I'd love to play; yet I'm not auditioning for them. It's been a very difficult decision, made easier by the fact that many of the extra rehearsals will conflict with my work schedule. Still, at another time I'd have sold my mother for a chance at such good roles.
I've realized that the time has come to put some perspective in my life. I'm in school, doing a class that is deadly dull and very difficult; yet, mastering it is critical to my future plans. Secondly, I'm a major presenter at a conference this spring and the paper is a shambles, requiring some major attention. Again, not as alluring as a spotlight, an audience of a thousand, and applause; but essential to my future plans. I simply cannot indulge.
So all three roles will go to three very capable, talented men; and I will be cheering them on from the chorus, trying not to upstage them.
We present three shows a year. In April, we are presenting an original muscial of The Ten Commandments. There are three major roles that I'd love to play; yet I'm not auditioning for them. It's been a very difficult decision, made easier by the fact that many of the extra rehearsals will conflict with my work schedule. Still, at another time I'd have sold my mother for a chance at such good roles.
I've realized that the time has come to put some perspective in my life. I'm in school, doing a class that is deadly dull and very difficult; yet, mastering it is critical to my future plans. Secondly, I'm a major presenter at a conference this spring and the paper is a shambles, requiring some major attention. Again, not as alluring as a spotlight, an audience of a thousand, and applause; but essential to my future plans. I simply cannot indulge.
So all three roles will go to three very capable, talented men; and I will be cheering them on from the chorus, trying not to upstage them.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Today, I had a Wiener.
I can usually feel a cold coming on for about two weeks before the first sniffle. I get lethargic and things start to fall apart. I can't manage to get the garbage out the back door and the laundry piles up around my bed. Well, the cold exploded with a big sneeze over the weekend. For the past couple of days I've been indulging in a little self-pity. When I'm sick, I just want someone to take my temperature and bring me apple juice while I was curled up on the sofa and watching toxic television. Nothing goes with a cold like Judge Judy.
Of course, my reality isn't reflected in that little fantasy. I live alone and there is rarely anything edible, let alone nourishing, in the house. I work in a restaurant and although I'm nowhere near undernourished, food is just not a priority for me. But, yesterday wallowing in the depths of my sniffling pity party I decided I was entitled, if not downright owed chocolate ice cream. So, I dragged myself to the little convenience store by the L and prayed they had chocolate ice cream. It was a big risk. Their ice cream selection it consists of strawberry and rum raisin. That's it. But I would not be deterred, and the Baby Jesus took pity on me. A whole quart of chocolate ice cream and a pint of chocolate sauce were waiting -- just for me -- and somehow I managed to get out of there without yopping. For some unknown reason, the clerk always insists on burning incense. This time it was raspberry-vanilla. That convenience store is another post.
I now believe that chocolate ice cream is the cure for the common cold. After eating half the carton, I was in heaven and felt revived. No doubt it was a combination of Baby Jesus' blessing, sugar and caffeine, but I was alive! This morning I decided to get things back on track and the first step was to go to the grocery store. Wandering up and down the aisles I was suddenly struck by cravings for foods I haven't had since childhood -- and I bought everything I wanted. Today's lunch was Oscar Meyer hotdogs. I haven't had a hotdog since at least puberty. I went all out too with onions and yellow mustard and chili and cheese. And then I was sick again. I don't expect to have another hotdog until sometime after Bush leaves office.
Now my refrigerator is stocked with things I never eat: like liver sausage and mayonnaise. My grandmother used to force liversausage into me on a daily basis, and I've never been able to stomach mayonnaise. Yet I was compelled by cravings for both of them on Wonder Bread. However, to my credit, I resisted the urge for pickled herring.
Of course, my reality isn't reflected in that little fantasy. I live alone and there is rarely anything edible, let alone nourishing, in the house. I work in a restaurant and although I'm nowhere near undernourished, food is just not a priority for me. But, yesterday wallowing in the depths of my sniffling pity party I decided I was entitled, if not downright owed chocolate ice cream. So, I dragged myself to the little convenience store by the L and prayed they had chocolate ice cream. It was a big risk. Their ice cream selection it consists of strawberry and rum raisin. That's it. But I would not be deterred, and the Baby Jesus took pity on me. A whole quart of chocolate ice cream and a pint of chocolate sauce were waiting -- just for me -- and somehow I managed to get out of there without yopping. For some unknown reason, the clerk always insists on burning incense. This time it was raspberry-vanilla. That convenience store is another post.
I now believe that chocolate ice cream is the cure for the common cold. After eating half the carton, I was in heaven and felt revived. No doubt it was a combination of Baby Jesus' blessing, sugar and caffeine, but I was alive! This morning I decided to get things back on track and the first step was to go to the grocery store. Wandering up and down the aisles I was suddenly struck by cravings for foods I haven't had since childhood -- and I bought everything I wanted. Today's lunch was Oscar Meyer hotdogs. I haven't had a hotdog since at least puberty. I went all out too with onions and yellow mustard and chili and cheese. And then I was sick again. I don't expect to have another hotdog until sometime after Bush leaves office.
Now my refrigerator is stocked with things I never eat: like liver sausage and mayonnaise. My grandmother used to force liversausage into me on a daily basis, and I've never been able to stomach mayonnaise. Yet I was compelled by cravings for both of them on Wonder Bread. However, to my credit, I resisted the urge for pickled herring.
Add Mayonnaise and Stir
From time to time I convince myself I'm a responsible adult and go to the grocery store to stock up on healthy foods. A month later I pull out bags of liquified spinach and cartons of calcified milk wondering where all the Little Debbies have gone.
My mind works pretty much the same way. I have books by Virginia Woolf and Carson McCullers and Doris Lessing, not to mention Edmund Burke and Malcolm X, all begging to be read. Still, there's an episode of Law & Order showing that I've only seen three times -- and that only takes an hour.
This blog is the mental equivalent of my kitchen counter on the day I sort out my refrigerator. Here is where I'll separate the garbage from the edibles. I promise not to leave out anything furry for public consumption -- only things that are digestible by those with a discerning palate. And every now and then I might include a sweet Little Debbie.
My mind works pretty much the same way. I have books by Virginia Woolf and Carson McCullers and Doris Lessing, not to mention Edmund Burke and Malcolm X, all begging to be read. Still, there's an episode of Law & Order showing that I've only seen three times -- and that only takes an hour.
This blog is the mental equivalent of my kitchen counter on the day I sort out my refrigerator. Here is where I'll separate the garbage from the edibles. I promise not to leave out anything furry for public consumption -- only things that are digestible by those with a discerning palate. And every now and then I might include a sweet Little Debbie.
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