Tag Archives: Daily Post

Interviewing, or How I Told a Prospective Employer I’m a Slave.


There was a suggestion on the Daily Post today that actually intrigued me for once: interview another Post a Day participant. I thought it might be fun to exchange questions with another blogger, then video ourselves answering each other’s questions. It would be my first vlog, and probably pretty rough, but I really think it would be great fun.

Comment below if you’d like to trade questions. Since I don’t have many readers, I’ll do this with anyone who comments. And no question is off limits! That’s kind of what makes this a bit more intriguing. Oh, one last thing before we get into the meaty part of this post: you also must have a blog. I want to be able to see your response on your site.

So here’s the fun stuff: a humiliating story about my first job interview ever. I was 17 and looking for a job so I could get a car and start making my own way in the world. While scanning through the newspaper classified section (I’ve always been old school that way), I found an ad for a mass interview for Cold Stone Creamery.

This was the first job for which I applied, so I was really excited. I filled out an online application and soon heard from the manager. He asked me to come in for the interview, told me where to meet, and told me to bring a sheet with some references.

The day of the interview, I realized exactly how terrified I was. Not yet able to drive by myself, I had to have my sister take me to the community center where everyone was meeting. She seemed pretty compliant, and even came inside with me while I waited. The room wasn’t packed, but there were quite a few kids there looking to get jobs.

When it was my turn to talk with the managers, I turned to my sister and said, God as my witness, “I got this, bitch.”

I walked over like I owned the place, sat down, and proceeded to learn why some people remain unemployed by choice: they must hate the interview process as much as I do. There are just some people who should not interview others for jobs. Throughout my time in the wild world of work, I’ve had bad interviews where I control the whole thing, bad interviews where I try to decode what the employer is asking me, bad interviews where I seem to just sit there and smile and nod because I don’t understand a thing the employer is asking me … and this one, which was a combination of all three.

I wanted to work at Cold Stone because I like people, and I told them that when they asked me the very clichĂ©, “Why do you want to work for Cold Stone Creamery?” The next question was, “Do you think you’re qualified to work here?”

Now, this was after the two men explained to me what I would be doing at the store. As they explained it to me (and they could have just said “serving ice cream,” but that would be too easy), I have to admit I wasn’t listening. I first scanned over the two of them. The one on the left was short with no neck, blond hair, muscles, and a propensity for sweating. He sweat through the entire interview.

On the right we had a short, thin, dark haired man who spoke really fast but always seemed to be making a concerted effort to slow himself down. Instantly I was amused, and I couldn’t stop trying to think of nicknames as they talked.

I always go for really obvious nicknames first, so the one on the left was Sweaty MuscleFace McGinty, and the one on the right was Brownie Talks-a-lot. I remember laughing out loud as they explained the variety of flavors offered at Cold Stone Creamery. They exchanged a look between them and I knew it from years of public school: “What the hell does she think she’s laughing at?”

So when Sweaty MuscleFace McGinty asked me if I thought I was qualified to serve ice cream to his precious snowflake customers, I replied, “Of course. I get my dad ice cream all the time. He says, ‘Kristina, go get me some ice cream!’ And sometimes he wants sprinkles and hot fudge and junk, and I put that on there when he wants it. I’m basically his ice cream slave. … And if you hire me, I can be your ice cream slave, too!”

Hire me, losers.

I looked over to my sister for approval. She was just shaking her head. I smiled, because I knew from what everyone says that you want to stand out in an interview. Swearing seemed like the best way to do that. I had to figure out how to casually slip in a “damn” or “hell.” They’d better remember me, or I’d slash their damn tires on their hellish little pickup truck. Ugh. Men, am I right?

The next question: “Do you have your driver’s license?”

My response: “Not yet, but see that girl over there? The one who kind of looks like me but older and wiser, because she is older than me and has way more life experience? That’s my sister, and she’s my chauffeur. She drives me anywhere I need to go. So getting to work won’t be a damn problem.” (See how I slipped in that expletive? Hold your applause, please.)

Throughout the entire interview, I kept sneaking in swear words, then glancing over to my sister and giving her the thumbs up like I was champion of the world. She looked mortified, but I knew that meant I was being memorable like everyone suggested. If I thought flashing them would cement me in their memories even more, I would have done it. I wanted to serve ice cream for them, and dammit, I would do whatever it took.

At the end of the interview, I was told I would get a call if I got the job, and, lo and behold, I did. Who would have thought that the awkward, swearing girl in that interview would blossom into the lovely flower you see before you today?

Tomorrow, tips on interviewing. Seriously. I’m going to give you my top five interview tips. I went on a lot of interviews this past winter, and now that I had a great one with great people and I landed a great job, I want to pass along my knowledge to you.

Sneak peek: If there was a number six, it would be: “Always make sure you say something memorable. For example, in my successful interview, I told the interviewer that I look like Mick Jagger when I try to walk down a flight of stairs in heels. Now you give it a try!”

 

Fun in public bathrooms.


Yesterday, my boyfriend took me to the Rainforest CafĂ© for an early Valentine’s Day lunch. As usual, part of the day included a visit to a public ladies room.

The idea of public bathrooms confuses me. Whether or not you get a clean stall is basically a crap shoot (pun only slightly intended). Depending on how busy the bathroom is and how bad you have to go, you might get stuck going into a stall with a toilet seat covered in, oh, let’s say five different bodily fluids.

Even with that knowledge, I understand I’m there for a purpose. I lay down some toilet paper on the seat and get to work. Still, there’s something that happens in public bathrooms that absolutely makes my skin crawl, and it takes place while you’re sitting in the stall.

Sorry, this isn’t about glory holes … and I probably shouldn’t have written that in this post. God knows I already get some weird people floating in from Google searches. (Remember the exploding possums?) Who knows. Maybe I’m going to reach an entirely new level of readership because of that.

Here’s where I’m going with this:

Probably the worst thing to happen to me when I’m sitting on the toilet in a public restroom is that I go to get some toilet paper and the roll goes crazy. Then it happens.

The toilet paper hits the floor.

No matter how big of an environmentalist you are, when you see that toilet paper touch the floor you immediately rip it off and throw it away. And then it gets worse, because sometimes you’re only leaving yourself with a few squares.

Honestly, who would use floor toilet paper? I don’t even like to think about the bottom of my pants leg touching the floor in a public restroom. There’s no way I’m going to use toilet paper that touches it.

Probably the worst part is that as it’s unrolling and you begin to realize the toilet paper is going to touch the filthy, germ-laden floor, you experience one of those horrific slow-motion NOOOOOOO moments.

What’s even worse is when you catch yourself yelling out loud, “Nooooooooooooooooooo!” Can you imagine what the person next to you is thinking? Actually, hold that … the person next to you probably isn’t thinking. They’re probably just focusing on trying not to let their toilet paper touch the floor.

Someone needs to figure out some kind of toilet paper allotment system that can help with this problem.

Let’s go over this once more: the floor in a public bathroom is extremely dirty. When people say, “That floor is so clean you could eat off it,” they are not talking about the floor in a public bathroom.

I once saw a woman letting her toddler walk around and put its hands all over the floor in a public bathroom, and had to stop to think if I was on one of those “What Would You Do?” segments on ABC. Should I tell her that her kid is probably contracting smallpox, or should I just walk away and let her learn a hard lesson in parenting?

The Daily Post suggestion for today inquires as to one thing I’ve learned recently. In response to that I would like to say,

Fool, I ain’t done no learnin’! I graduated in December! I’m finished with that crap (for now)!

Super intelligent! Super intelligent!


The suggestion over on the Daily Post today reads:

Would you rather be super intelligent or extremely good looking?

Originally when I read this, I didn’t think this was the kind of blog post I could tackle. I’m pretty sensitive about my appearance, especially lately since I’ve been working out so much and eating really healthy.

However, I believe we should divide this up into two situations: one where you choose super intelligent, and the other where you choose extremely good looking.

Let’s look at how your life will be different with each.

Extremely good looking

You wake up the morning after your choice, look in the mirror, and find that you are as close to the perfect human specimen as you could ever hope.

As you turn to look at your significant other, he rolls out of bed, his stomach hanging over the waistline of his hole-riddled boxer shorts. He stretches, belches, walks over to you and smacks you on the butt. “Good morning, good looking.”

You immediately think to yourself, I can do better.

So you dump him right there, and as tears roll down his Rosacea cheeks (adult acne; what the hell is up with that?!) you steel yourself for the day. You put on clothes that would normally look dowdy on you, but with your current physique they look amazing.

Now you’re making your way out of your house. People on the street stop and stare. Your neighbor drops his coffee mug on the sidewalk and stares at you with his mouth agape. You’ve never looked this good, and everyone sees the difference.

Your nosy neighbor, Suzanne, hobbles over with her walker. Her hair looks especially disheveled this morning; it’s stringy gray mess looks like it’s only contact has been with an egg beater. She starts to ask you about your new appearance, and you walk past her with a flip of your flowing hair.

It just so happens that you’re so entranced with your new-found attention that as you walk to your car, you don’t notice the pickup truck speeding through your parking lot. You walk right in front of the truck and hear HONK!! HONK!!! right before the entire world goes black.

When you wake up you’re in traction. You can’t move any of your limbs. Every breath brings you pain. As your eyes begin to focus and you take in your surroundings, you notice the abject dreariness of your hospital room.

A doctor walks in and explains the physical therapy program you’ll endure. It’s going to be lots of hard work, he says. He talks to you about bone grafts, skin grafts, and cosmetic reconstruction.

Wait, what?! Your mind is racing. Did he say “cosmetic reconstruction”? You try to ask him for a mirror, but your voice is too raspy. It’s only two days later, when you begin to move out of bed, that you catch a glimpse of your new face in the mirror.

Nice face.

Welcome to the world, Lon Chaney.

You’re hideous. Hooray. Nice choice.

Super intelligent

You wake up the morning after your choice and find that everything suddenly makes sense. Before getting out of bed, you roll over and kiss your significant other on the cheek. Could there be someone more perfect for you?

You walk over to the computer and begin to work. Within a half hour, you’ve made $15 million on the stock market. News agencies are already beginning to call you. You shrug off the cell phone, take a shower, and decide to head to the gym.

When you get there, you work out for a good solid hour before the press shows up. Someone must have tipped them off as to your whereabouts. You jump off the treadmill, take a few minutes to towel off, and try to run to your car.

As you move through the crowd of persistent reporters and begin to dart across the parking lot, you neglect to notice the minivan speeding towards you. You walk right in front of the minivan and hear HONK!! HONK!!! right before the entire world goes black.

When you wake up, you’re in traction. … blah blah blah, you know the rest. Except when you finally get to look in the mirror, do you know what you see looking back at you?

Hey there, good looking.

Your millions of dollars bought you the best plastic surgeon money could buy, and instead of getting some pro bono nut job who uses old horror movie posters as inspiration, you get some guy who is Michaelangelo with a scalpel and he makes you look like fricking Anna Torv. And that’s with swelling.

So now you’re not only super intelligent, but you’re also extremely good looking. I think you made the right choice.