So last week, I thought the new contractors would lead to my downfall. It seemed logical: bring in some temps, oust the old guy, eventually bring in a new guy. Although to my credit, if it requires more than one temp to do my single job—a job that, by and large, I do in about half of an ordinary work day (the other half is spent fucking around or disappearing from the workplace, which is why I figured I was on my way out). As it turns out, though, on Friday—the day after our monthly close—I was introduced to a new set of duties. I was—what the hell?—being promoted. Again.
But in the meantime, combining my assumption that I was getting fired and my hatred of the job in general, I had intensified my job search, sending out between 12-15 resumes a day for most of last week, mostly administrative or editing positions. I received—this won’t come as any great surprise if you’ve seen my employment history—one response, and I was frankly surprised to get it, but I pounced on the opportunity like some sort of malnourished jungle cat that has spotted a female mauling a zebra.
The employer sent an email asking to set up a phone interview, which told me she had read my résumé (or, at least, skimmed it enough to know that I am, in fact, working). And she still got in touch with me! This was either a very good sign or a very, very bad sign. So we bounced a few emails back and forth and settled on a day and time: today, at 11:30.
I know it’s only a phone interview, but I worried that this would lead to an immediate in-person interview, and at the moment I bear a sad resemblance to the bloated, disheveled late-’70s Brian Wilson, do this weekend I shaved my beard, and this morning I slipped out of work at around 9:15 to ensure I would have enough time to get a haircut, eat my lunch, and do this phone interview. As it turns out, I had about an hour to spare, so I went home and made careful use of my time, going over my largely fictional resume and looking at pornography (not simultaneously).
I quietly calmed myself. I was pretty nervous because this would actually be a really good job for me, and it’s local (many of the jobs I’ve been applying to are out-of-state, which might be why nobody calls me), and I didn’t want to blow it by being a total ass. It takes a lot of concentration and effort for me to not be a total ass, so I got myself into a vaguely Zen place and made the call at 11:29. The phone rang, and I felt the butterflies twirling around my abdomen. I betted them down with the promise of more pornography after the interview, and just then, the phone…clicked over to her VoiceMail.
What the hell? Did we not have a very specific time set up? What the shit is going on? I tell her when I’m available, she sends me the exact date and time, and then…nothing. I left a very polite message, reminding her of our scheduled interview, then hung up. I decided to wait 15 minutes, and if I got her VoiceMail again, I’d tell her I’ll wait around for another 15, and then I have to go to work. Even casual readers of this blog (and by that I mean search-engine robots, though I don’t think they’re reading for content) would laugh at this suggestion—of course I was bluffing and trying to create the illusion of a work ethic. I don’t think that’s a bad thing.
Fortunately, she called me back at 11:41, and we had our interview. She told me about the company, then asked me questions about myself. Typical interview stuff: what’s the deal with my shitty resume, how exaggerated are your qualifications, where do you see yourself in five years? I rambled, stammered, repeated myself—I thought it was going terribly, until she started going on and on with details about the job requirements. I’ve had enough job interviews to know, basically, I’m in. Maybe I don’t have the job yet, but I suspected an in-person interview was on the horizon—and I was right.
“I’d like to bring you in to meet the team,” she said. The team? All right, I know what this means: if I get along with “the team” and seem like I’ll be, ahem, a “team player,” I will get this motherfucking job. Which is nice. It pays well, it’s a writing job, and it sounds like there will be enough to do—or, at least, enough of a cooperative group environment—that I won’t be bored out of my mind all the time.
Yeah, I’m excited, and I’m also terrified that I won’t get this job. At all.
So, loyal readers (and disloyal enemies who enjoy feasting on my misery—you know who you are), keep your fingers crossed. I might, for the first time in my life, enjoy some sort of employment-based success.