Promotion / Phone Interview
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 resume (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.
Posted by Stan on January 30, 2006 6:02 PM | Permalink | “I’m a living joke!” - Horror Stories from the Workplace | Digg It
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