My next- ex-job

Well, my search is over… I’ve found a job… my next ex-job. I mean, who’s kidding who? I’m really not cut out to do anything other than take care of my little house, shop and look fabulous. I really would have been better served being a housewife in the 50’s but then again, shirt-waist dresses aren’t quite my style. So, after bombarding the free world with resumes, I got an interview.

“We’re on the 14th floor,” my perspective employer told me over the phone.

“Sure, I know right were you are!” I said, sounding all confident. “Right next to BART.” (For those of you non-Bay area residents, it’s the train.)

“Yes, Suite 1400. See you at 10:30 tomorrow,” he says.

“Yay!” I thought. The very next day, I put on my one and only “interview outfit” and go, leaving in PLENTY of time to get to the interview. The only thing is - I’m an idiot. Well, that’s not the only thing, but in this case it is. Somehow, even though I’ve been to the BART station a million times, what I failed to realize was the building I thought Mr. Possible Employer referred to is only 2 stories high. “Shit!” I thought. The street on which both the building I was headed and the BART station reside, snakes around and becomes one-way (and unfortunately for me, not MY way) at the exact point I needed to turn.

By some miracle, I brought the address and phone number with me. “I’m going to be late.” I told the kind woman who answered the phone, explaining my dilemma.

“No problem,” she laughed, “I’ll just tell him you’re looking for parking.”

“Thanks,” I said as I located the building. Pulling my giant truck into the parking garage, I realize, horrified that it’s a PAY garage, charging $1.00 for the first half hour. I took the little parking ticket offered at the gate, knowing full well I hadn’t: a) enough money in my wallet to pay for more than about 20 minutes; b) enough time to look for free parking; nor c) enough room to back my giant truck out of said parking garage even if I had both a) and b) covered. “Well, hopefully they validate or perhaps I look cute enough for the parking attendant to let me skate.”

Click, click, click, my high heels on the concrete walking on the garage floor. To the elevator and up, up, and away up to the 14th floor!

Mr. Possible Employer teases me for being late and says he may have to fine me, “Well,” I say, “I hope you will accept payment in cupcakes.” He laughs and we go into his office.

We go through the normal interview/interviewee routine as he looks over my (REAL) resume… my abbreviated resume. Had I listed EVERY job I’ve had since college, I’d have needed an industrial stapler to bind all the pages necessary to record such a number. “Have you held any other jobs not listed on your resume?” He asked. Oy! Not possessing a poker face, he must have seen the terror in my eyes as he gently coaxed, “Come on, no problem, it’s just confession time.”

“Well, yeah,” I squirmed, “I worked at Petsmart while we lived in Dublin but quit when we moved to Pleasant Hill. I mean, I wasn’t going to keep an $8.00 an hour job and have to drive all that way…” I said, trying to sound logical. (And contrary to what my husband or my friend Kim tell you, I did indeed quit, and did NOT get fired.)

“Of course!” He agreed.

“Then I worked briefly for an interior decorator, but I never really got paid so I don’t know if that even counts…” I’m on a roll with this baring my soul stuff.

“Anything else?” He asked.

“Oh, and I worked for XXXXX.” (name withheld in deference to not wanting a lawsuit on my hands, as the guy I worked for is a big enough prick to sue me.)

“What happened there?” He queried.

“I quit. My boss was REALLY mean! He yelled a lot!” So much for Rule #4 Don’t EVER Speak Badly of Former Employers, in the How Not to Screw Up a Job Interview.

“Any potential problems with a drug test or background check?” He asked, seemingly unphased by my tattling on my former boss.

“Oh no!” I declare. “Not now, anyway,” the cartoon ‘thought’ bubble reads above my head.

“Did you park in the garage downstairs?” He asked me.

“Yes, I did!” I say, hoping he can bestow upon me some parking validation or magic words to get out of the garage free.

“Do you have your ticket?”

“Yes, I do,” I replied pulling the ticket out of my interview slacks.

Stickers! Magic ½ hour free parking stickers! Two beautiful, yellow stickers insuring my safe and lawful exit form the bowels of the building. Yay!

Somehow, perhaps he took pity on me, I was hired. I know! It was a shock to me, too! Maybe he thought I was serious about those cupcakes… I dunno, but there ya go. The poor man clearly had no idea of what he’s in store for and I had no intention of cluing him in.
One caveat to employment on the 14th floor of the TALL building next to BART is a business casual dress code. Oooooooh! That’s gonna be a problem. In my last several jobs, the dress code consisted of: employees being dressed… in anything. Blue jeans were pretty much de rigueur. As a result, my closet consists of said blue jeans, the one interview outfit (which they’ve seen already) and a couple of bridesmaid dresses. Hmmmm, I didn’t notice anyone else in the office clad in chiffon and taffeta so I guess it’s shopping time for me. Off I went to purchase a few pairs of black slacks, some sweaters, one skirt and one dress, oh yeah, and a pair of kick-ass black boots. I’m all set… or so I thought.

Week one was spent engaged in the following:
learning how to properly answer the phone and transfer clients without disconnecting them;
getting in with the cool girls;
trying not to break a nail while filing copious amounts of manila folders, knowing full well nobody’s probably ever going to look at this shit again anyway;
typing letters AND emails from a Dictaphone (I’m not even making that up, my boss has me type his emails);
learning what the hell else I need to know to perform my job to the best of my ability for God and country… or something like that.

So here I am, day 9 of my new job and the boss is out of the office. Yay! He’s a nice guy but come on, in my one million, forty-seven thousand, nine hundred and thirty-eight jobs, it’s always more pleasant when the boss isn’t around… the one and only exception was my former employer Anna at the beauty shop… anyway, there on my desk is the now-expected little tape to pop into the Dictaphone. I took care of a couple of things first and after my break, inserted the little tape in the antiquated machine, rewound it, put my headphones on and got ready to type the next bit of really important correspondence. Imagine my angst when I heard the words, “Draft memo to all employees, RE: Office Attire,” coming through my headphones. Yikes!

It seems flip-flops are the cause of frequent office deaths and dismemberments… okay, he didn’t say THAT but said particular form of fun foot ware is not to be tolerated. Second on the list of wardrobe indiscretions was short skirts… hmmm, I wore a mid-thigh skirt earlier in the week… with hose… and boots… and 2 shirts. Apparently it was still too racy for more staid sensibilities. If he could see some of the skirts I opted NOT to wear, he’d understand why I don’t consider that one “short.” I guess the brand new skirt and dress I purchased a scant week ago – you remember, back when I was heady with the excitement of finding a job - will have to be worn elsewhere… like an audience with the Pope. Third on the list was, and again, I’m not even making this up: CLEAVAGE. That’s right, cleavage for chrissake! Who doesn’t like to see cleavage? I know, right? Besides, it’s not like we walk around with the girls just spilling out of our tops, nipples winking saucily. You know, I’d go back to the bridesmaid dresses, but they’re a little low in the bodice, too.