treefroggirl

posted by Thomas on Sep 7

I’ve had a couple of amusing job hunt moments the last few months which gives me great anecdotes for parties.

Scenario 1

The interviewer was South African. Not that there is anything wrong with that . . . However the accent made one of the questions he asked me even funnier in my head.

SOUTH AFRICAN INTERVIEWER: So, a lot of men work here. I’m trying to do something about that. But would have a problem? How would it be for you working with a lot of men?

I blink, control myself from arching my eyebrow and saying, “I’m sorry? What year is it?”

I smile. Tilt my head. Lean forward slightly.

NICOLE: I’ve always been a girl that enjoyed hanging out with the boys.

He liked that answer and we moved on to more appropriate territory and I ended up moving on to the 2^nd and then the 3^rd interview before I was rejected. It was in the 3^rd interview that the Sales Manager asked me an interesting question.

Scenario 2.0

SMILEY, GLOSSY BIG TEETH SALES MANAGER: So, Sales. We promise the world to our clients. You know how Sales is. (We all laugh. Yes, we all know how Sales is. The bastards.) The thing is, sometimes we can’t do what we promise. I need to know that you’ll be strong enough to push me back. To bring me in line. Can you do that?

Normally this question might not have stuck in my head so much because he’s right. Sales does promise the world to clients when sometimes you can only take them to Lands End. People like me are the ones that get to then deal with the customers ire and wrath while Sales gets to do the tequila shots. But given the earlier question from his South African colleague, it felt like he was also asking, “Are you going to be able to deal with the stress sweetie or are you going to be a big Girls Blouse.”

While I, yes, those that know me, know I can be a big crying girl, I also can pull out a very strong personality who does not suffer fools or assholes (see be a big bitch) when she is needed. I however did not say that. It didn’t seem to be a selling point at a place with so many men.

I smile. Tilt my head. Lean forward slightly.

NICOLE: I’ll be able to push you back.

They ended up going with a man that had worked at Google. Damn Blasted Google. Damn blasted man with his blasted penis that will be able to push Smiley, Glossy Big Teeth Sales Manager back. As it were.

Scenario Trois

Interview for the Department store where I start tomorrow.

I’m being interviewed by a twelve year old. When he asks me a question and it starts moving organically into a give and take conversation, he will catch himself, look startled and then will frantically refer back to his notes as a safety line.

YOUNG MAN: So, a lot of young people work here. Will that be a problem? Will that be a problem for you working with people that are so much younger than you?

I blinked, controlled myself from arching my eyebrow and saying, “Go fuck yourself.”

I smile. Tilt my head. Lean forward slightly and explain that in New Media there are a variety of ages that I had needed to collaborate with and that it certainly would not be an issue for me.

It goes without saying that all of these questions were utter rubbish, but they’re crap not for what you think they’re crap for.

Each of these questions was a closed question. Each could be answered with a simple yes or no. And while I answered truthfully, how do they know?

Little hint for people out there doing interviews . . . if I may steal something from my former employer. . . ask competency based questions. Questions that are composed around a specific competency that is key to the candidate succeeding in the position and that force the person being interviewed to demonstrate their success in that competency.

Example: Instead of: “Are you going to be strong enough to push me back? Ask: “Tell me about a time when you had to tell a colleague that they were giving the client unreasonable expectations of what you could actually deliver.”

I promise you it will be a much more interesting interview, you will be able to glean if the candidate is actually the right man. . . err person for the gig and avoid a HR violation while you’re at it.

posted by Thomas on Sep 6

It’s a funny thing when you are out of work. People ask you how the job search is going. They usually lean toward you, nod and look serious when they are doing this. They know that you don’t have a job because you did, you would have jazz-handed into the room, “HEY! I HAVE A JOB!” And yet they feel compelled to ask because it is the polite thing to do. They have lines that they need to play. You have lines as well.

FRIEND: How’s the job search going?” (FRIEND nods, and frown half smile grimaces in a, “sorry to hear you got fucked in the ass when you weren’t expecting it, but I’m sure once you get over the initial shock it must not be that bad” sort of way.)

ME: Yeah, you know. It goes. Just trying to get out there.

FRIEND: That’s all you can do.

ME: Yep. Yep, yep. Something will turn up.

FRIEND: Yes! (They say this with relief and a smile and hope the conversation will turn to something cheery like the Holocaust.) And you know, everything happens for a reason.

ME: Yes. Yes it does. Sometimes it’s a bad reason, but yes. It is a reason.

FRIEND: Ah, you! Aren’t you funny! Ha! And you should be so happy you’re not at X because of Y. We all are jealous actually! We wish we were made redundant!

ME: Ah, you!

(We laugh with just the slightest edge of hysteria. Me because I am out of work and my friend because they are very serious when they say they wish they had been made redundant.)

What’s interesting about this is that they are right. I am happy to not be at X because of Y but it is so incredibly exhausting – the looking for a job thing. The not knowing how cold February will be.

Because I am a pragmatist, I have taken a part-time temporary gig at a big department store which will help my remaining savings stretch that much further. I start Tuesday. It’s a great company and I’m really pleased that I have gotten the gig as in the past my pragmatism has meant I do telemarketing.

I also have an interview Friday that I am incredibly excited about and I am hoping that my excitement does not jinx it. From what I can see thus far, if I were to be asked, “what is the sort of corporate job that would excite you?” This is it.

I’ve jinxed it haven’t I?

Job hunting. The job hunt. The hunting for a job. Perhaps I will get a big stick and start beating people.

That is a joke of course, if you are a prospective employer concerned about my mental health. . .

posted by Thomas on Dec 21

Sean, an old work mate of Stuart’s had an long lay over in London today so we thought we would take him for a walk along the South Bank so he could see a bit of London.

Sean has lived in Canada for over 20 years but before that his family was from Iran and he has dual nationality.

We took the tube to Vauxhall and walked toward the bridge. Stuart pointed at a modern, would be innocuous if not for the 50 million security cameras all over it building.

“That’s MI5.”

“Really?” Sean said.

“Yep.” Stuart said.

Sean pointed his SLR camera at MI5. “Can I take a picture of it?”

“Sure.” Stuart said.

“You sure?” Sean said.

“Yep.” Stuart said.

Sean took a picture and we continued on our way toward the Thames path.

A police car with lights on passed us, stopped and backed up several feet. It parked, lights still blinking.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if they were stopping us for taking a picture?” Sean said.

“Yeah, it would be.” I said.

Two policemen exited the car and walked briskly toward us. Cop the First was tall and blonde and had a non-descript English accent. Cop the Second was short and brunette and sounded like an extra on East Enders.

Each had handguns holstered to the top of their thigh.

“Do you know what that building is?” Cop the First asked.

We looked at each other like it was a trick question.

“MI5.” Stuart said.

“Why’ya tayken’ a-picture ov it’thn?” Cop the Second asked.

We looked at each other again like it was a trick question.

“Because it’s MI5.” Stuart said.

Cop the First and the Second reviewed the pictures on Sean’s camera and were satisfied that we were not intending to blow it up in the future even though Sean was carrying a rucksack and had a dark complexion.

“Are we not allowed to take a picture of it?” I asked.

“Oh, you’re allowed,” Cop the First said, “but we don’t encourage it.”

While we were allowed to take a picture of MI5 and we weren’t doing anything wrong, they did fill out a little citation detailing our tête-à-tête (for our records) although they kept saying over and over that this was as far as this would go and that our information would not be entered anywhere and we had nothing to worry about.

Nicole rolls her eyes inside her head, but smiles and nods at the Policeman.

When asked for his address, Sean gave them his Canadian details. He said later he considered giving his Iranian passport to see what they would do.

I must admit, both officers were very polite and friendly. If you are going to get randomly stopped for taking photos of buildings, they were the men for the job.

So if you get out the tube at Vauxhall and walk toward the river, on the right is an unmarked building.

You are allowed to take a photograph of it.

It is however, not encouraged.

posted by Thomas on Nov 28

I was incredibly grumpy yesterday. The night before hadn’t been a home run and the plan was that I was going to cook a mini Thanksgiving meal for Stuart and I. (Basically just a chicken and some potatoes.) I really wasn’t in the mood and was mentally planning on heating up a pizza.

Luckily Stuart without my asking made a booking at Bodean’s so while I didn’t have a traditional meal, it was close enough that I was happyish.

After, we played a few rounds of hangman on his iPhone at the pub. I left around 9:30 so I could call grand’rents and ‘rents.

Yesterday was my maternal grandparents 66th wedding anniversary, which is really an amazing thing. More amazing when you consider my Grandfather turned 93 a couple of weeks ago.

They live in a small little town in Nevada about an hour and half from Reno. They moved there when they retired in the 70’s.

Whenever I call I talk to Coco’s first, (I call them Coco’s and Papa) and we’ll make small talk then she’ll hand me to Papa. I have a window of 30 to 90 seconds with him, as he really doesn’t like the phone. I think it is partly his age and that he refuses to wear a hearing aid and also he just hates the phone. I think when he was 50 he might have been the same way.

Cocos used to be really chatty, talking with you for about 15 minutes to a half hour but the last few years she’ll get off the phone with me after a couple of minutes.

I wouldn’t know why if I didn’t speak to my mother, but I do know why. I just don’t push it. Yesterday was the first real indication of what she is trying to hide.

“Hi Coco’s! Happy Thanksgiving and Anniversary!”

“Oh hello! What a nice surprise. Guess who is in the room with me?”

“Papa?”

“Yes. Seen him all day.”

“I would hope so.”

We laugh.

She continues, “Yep, saw him at breakfast and at church.”

“Well that was nice of him.”

We laugh some more.

“Let me give you to him, she says.”

I hear the phone being handed to someone, and then a male voice says, “Hello?”

“Hi Papa! It’s Nicole! Happy Thanksgiving and anniversary!”

“What?”

Hi Papa!! It’s Nicole!! Happy Thanksgiving and anniversary!!”

“I’m sorry, I’m—“

I realise immediately I am not speaking to Papa.”

“–their neighbour. Your Grandmother thought you were my daughter. Let me give you to your Grandfather.”

In my 90 seconds with my 93 year old grandfather we wish each other a happy Thanksgiving and make jokes about some jail sentences being less than his 66 years of marriage, tell each other we love each other and he hands the phone back to Coco’s.

I can tell she’s embarrassed by her mistake. “You know I’m old. I can get confused.”

“I know Coco’s. Don’t worry.”

“Well, I love you and we love that husband of yours. It would be nice if you could get over to this country with him and come visit.”

“I wanted to ask you that actually. I’m coming to LA in April. My drivers licence has expired so I’ll have to figure out how to get to you from Reno, but could I come to visit for a couple of days?”

“Sure. Sure.”

“Great! We’ll talk more about it after the New Year and a bit closer to the time.”

“Sure. And we may not be alive.”

I feign annoyance at her saying such a thing. I tell her to knock on some wood and we laugh, but I have no idea if we are laughing at the same thing.

This summer when my Mom went to see them, Papa hugged her and whispered, “You may never see me again.”

I’m more than a little worried that I won’t.

posted by Thomas on Sep 24

“Thomas. You heard about the new Liam Neeson movie?”

“I saw the one sheet in the tube.”

“It looks good.”

“What’s it about?”

“You know I don’t read reviews.”

“You don’t have to read reviews to find out what it’s about.”

“That’s what one sheets are for.”

“So you just go see a movie if the one sheet is cool.”

“Yes. They say that it’s the best film since The Bourne Ultimatum.”

“Who says?”

“The poster. . .Why are you laughing?”

posted by Thomas on Sep 22

I’m crying. I’m doing the dishes and I’m crying. Stuart had been in a bit of a mood because I had hung my coat on a back of a chair when I came home from yoga and hadn’t managed to magically do the dishes before I consumed my dinner.

My crying instead of getting angry has been good for one thing because it has taken the wind out of his sails and what normally be an out and out row to the death has resulted in him trying to make me feel better.

“It’s like you’re looking for reasons to hate me,” I wailed.

“No I’m not. I’ve always had those reasons.”

I burst out laughing.

“What. Why are you laughing.”

I laugh harder.

“Are you having some sort of breakdown?”

posted by Thomas on Aug 18

After three years in London, I still don’t get Celsius. Much like French where I can order a glass of wine and say hello or goodbye, my understanding of it is rudimentary at best. If someone says it’s 35, I know that is damn hot (by UK standards- not growing up in Las Vegas standards) but I wouldn’t know what that number translates into Fahrenheit unless I use an online tool.

It’s been warm here in Charleston and the humidity packs an extra one, two. A couple of nights ago Gary thought it was cool enough to not have the air on and just open windows and run fans and Stuart and I nearly died. The folks told us if we need to adjust the air con to feel free to do it.

Last night, it started to be rather chilly. I pulled one of the blankets around me and snuggled my toes up to Stuart while we watched TV. I just figured they had cranked up the air con because of night before. But then it got even colder.

We saw Gary go to the thermostat and mumble to himself. Stu turned to me with a small look of horror.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“I turned the air on and I think I forgot it was in Fahrenheit.”

“Oh no. What did you turn it to?”

“19.”

I laughed.

“What is that for ours?”

“Something like zero.”*

“Oh God.” Stuart stood. “Errr. . . Gary?”

* It is actual C -7.2

posted by Thomas on Aug 16

Stuart takes a bottle of bud light out of the mini fridge in the TV room.

It’s 10:30 AM. I just woke up but he has been up since 7AM and slept 13 hours.

“Wanna know what I had for breakfast?” He popped the top off of the beer.

“Hum?”

“Two bud lights–”

“Stuart. For breakfast?”

“I had other things. Besides it was noon at home. I’m legal.”

“It’s always 5 PM somewhere.”

“Two bowls of cornflakes–”

“With the beer?”

“Not WITH the beer. Two cans of diet coke, some cookies, that nice processed cheese–”

“That’s a two word stupid. Nice processed–”

“It is nice cheese! And a bowl of cookie dough ice cream.”

I raised my eyebrow. It isn’t often that Stuart does bulemia without the vomiting eating. That is usually my MO.

“Then I watched a documentary on Elvis. About his excesses before he died. . . ”

I snorted.

Stuart swigged his beer, “Why are you laughing?”

posted by Thomas on Aug 2

Yesterday was a re-reading day. I finished off Moon For The Misbegotten, which I must admit I had never read. O’Neill is interesting. At first he pisses me off, his novelistic character descriptions and stage directions. The way his people talk to each other, then he sucks me in and breaks my heart. I’ve actually never seen his plays performed which is a sin.

Over lunch I read re-read Betrayal which is my favourite Pinter play. I love it actually and it is the only Pinter play I can say that about. I realise that this is also a sin.

Around 5 or 6 PM I decided to re-read the last Harry Potter. I haven’t looked at it for a year and I was in the mood. Finished it around 3 AM. I do that sometimes. Read things straight through. I’ve never been good about holding off the pleasure of reading, making it last. I rush through to the end.

Some work people were going out last night in Soho, but I made the choice to not go. I want to be on the wagon for a few months. My loophole is that I can drink when I am out of the country visiting my mom in a couple of weeks and my next biz trip in September.

Stuart was going to the pub and wanted me to go with him, but in addition to my not drinking in the UK thing I have a ‘I do not want to be around him if at all possible when he is drinking’ thing.

It’s for the best.

He called me at 11:30 and he was lucid. He didn’t have that click in his voice when I know he’s been on the lash. I was impressed. He said he would be home in twenty minutes.

He left his phone at home so when I closed HP at 3 AM and he still wasn’t home, I couldn’t call him.

I started to turn out the lights and get ready for bed when the phone rang.

I heard Richard saying something.

Then Matt said, “Rapp! Rapp!”

And Stuart sang, “Three times a lady.”

I stared at the phone. “Hello?”

They hung up.

I waited a few moments debating if I should call Richard’s number or not to say something that ended in an exclamation point.

I called and Stuart answered.

“Did you like that?”

“What was it?”

“She didn’t get it! You didn’t get it. And we PRACTISED. Come on—“

I heard Richard saying something.

Then Matt said, “Rapp! Rapp!”

And Stuart sang, “Three times a lady.”

Pause.

“Did you get it?”

“Your singing?”

“Once, twice, three times a lady. “

“Why did you hang up?

“We thought you would be sleeping—“

“You thought I would be sleeping?”

“And you would pick up the phone and hear once, twice, three times a lady and then we’d hang up and that would make you happy.”

“I was awake.”

“You were awake?”

“You should be happy I was awake.”

“You don’t get it. She doesn’t get it.”

I tried to explain that I did get it, but that I didn’t think the execution was perhaps the best and I didn’t understand why they thought calling and hanging up on me at three in the morning was going to make me HAPPY but he ignored my speaking and they ran through the song again.

I decided to cut bait. “Ok, baby. Sounds like you’re having fun. I’ll let you go.”

”I was sad you weren’t here Thomas Cole. People kept asking and I had to make excuses.

”I’m sorry baby.”

“Know what we’re doing right now?”

“Something that will likely result in your being killed and or arrested?”

“We’re standing in front of a church yelling at people through a traffic cone.”

I could hear Matt and Richard background.

“That sounds great baby. Have fun.”

“I’ll be home soon.”

Pause.

“Okay.”

posted by Thomas on Jul 28

It’s been really warm here in London, which has been fantastic to get at least a few weeks of summer. It’s been like Los Angeles in June. Really warm, but not too painful. At night, it’s stuffy, but if you open a window you’re probably going to be comfortable enough. A fan would be best, but our fan is being used in the office.

As part of his plan for Global World Domination, Stuart bought a Drobo.

“Honey why do you have a fan running in the office at night when it’s 30 degrees? Can we use it in the bedroom?”

“Drobo needs it. It gets warm.”

“How silly of me.”