Sunday, September 26, 2010
EBONY AND IRONY
Is it natural to shit your pants when interviewing for a job? Not literally of course, that would just be awkward, but is it normal to feel like you might very well vomit on your own feet just as they call your name?
I only ask because of late, my husband has been applying for jobs due to a little downturn in the old plumbing game. And it appears he may well have to suit up and go in for an actual, sit down, have a conversation without saying the fuck word, interview. What kind of madness is this? What happened to the good old days when tradies just heard about some work, rocked up and, unless completely useless, kept turning up each day?
It’s got him a little flustered, actually, as I mentioned in my introduction, shitting his pants anxious to be exact. He’s most perplexed by the inclusion of the following in his CV:
His objectives in life – Um, get a job, get paid and repeat until around 65 years of age.
His listed activities/hobbies outside of work - fuck all if he doesn’t get a job.
And a summation of himself in one sentence – How about “I turn up on time, I do a speedy yet neat job and I don’t smoke crack” What more could a potential employer want?
I myself haven’t had an interview in over 11 years. I really don’t know what goes on out there in the recruitment world today.
My very first interview was the week after I finished year 12. Having had a very successful schoolies week in Byron Bay – successful in the way that I was continuously pissed, acted like a right little knob head and managed to spend every single cent that I had, reality set in. Shit. I need a proper job, and as much as I loved my Junior Burgers, flipping them for a living was only going to get me so far.
After scrounging through the wheelie bin and finding the Weekend paper, I handwrote a few applications, photocopied my very fresh Year 12 report and dropped them in the mailbox on my way to a hardcore day of tanning and trolling the shops.
One of those applications was for an Accounting Practice looking for a junior. Surprisingly enough, even though I didn’t study accounting and only completed quite a mediocre Maths level, I got an interview. Borza I thought. Sure, I’ll turn up, Mum would go mental otherwise, but I wouldn’t be foregoing my day at the beach entirely.
So I rocked up with my beach bag, wearing my togs under my amateur attempt at a corporate uniform and gave my best impression of being mature. The interview was forgettable. I can’t tell you what happened. All I remember thinking was “this is totally eating up my baking time” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Two days later, I got a call to say I had the job. Apparently, Nik, the boss’s assistant told me my beach bag totally sealed the deal.
Of course, my beach days were immediately over once I started workin 9-5 (Cue Dolly Parton). It also coincided with the last time I wore a size 8 skirt.
I’ve only had two more interviews since that day.
About 3 years after starting at the Accounting Firm, a position for junior newsreader/general shitkicker came up at the local ABC radio station. I was so excited. I applied and made it to the top 3 through application and audio. DREAM. COME. TRUE.
Then came the face to face interview. I was doing so well too. Right up until one of the funky looking panel members asked me to give them the definition of irony. I just had no idea. I mean I did, but I didn’t know how to articulate it. If only it had been a couple of years later, I would have known it was like finding ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife or like meeting the man of your dreams, and then meeting his beautiful wife. I joke, but I was gutted. I responded with some useless answer that made me look like a halfwit and was properly rejected in kind. I tell you what though; I can rattle off the definition of irony in my sleep now. Perhaps I should give Alanis a heads up.
The only other interview I attended was all kinds of wrong. An old boss of mine had been called for a reference for a bookkeeping job I had applied for. She rang to warn me to “Be careful, I worked for this guy fresh out of Uni and his idea of doing journals was to put his hand down my blouse”. That old guy? Really? Alarm bells should have rung when he was more interested in my boyfriend and plans for starting a family in the interview than my bookkeeping skillz. He didn’t try anything on me, no; I have the unique ability to make myself very unappealing to the opposite sex, so that was never an issue. Let’s just say it was the worst. Job. Ever. Best thing about those ones though, they make you truly appreciate the good ones.
I was lucky enough to be offered my next job. In fact, that worked out quite well. Been there nearly ten years. See Mum, look where that day at the beach got me after all.
Love to hear your Interview stories and or tips.