I believe I may have mentioned at some point that in addition to being your humble correspondent and Wayward Domestic Goddess; I am indeed gainfully employed as a Slave for Wages in a large and bureaucratic nightmare. What I haven’t mentioned is that the aforementioned position is about as stimulating and challenging as a bowl of cottage cheese. Whilst I am not asking the eternal question of “Would you like fries with that?” I am sure that it is only a matter of time before the Powers that Be decree that the addition of a deep fryer behind reception can only be an improvement to the quality of service provided, and I can indeed add that phrase to my repertoire.
I may also have mentioned that I have a short attention span…Oh look, a tractor!
Now, where was I?
That’s right…Underwhelmed and under stimulated. In fact, to be perfectly frank, bored out of my tiny little mind. So what’s a girl to do? The last time I found myself in this position, I decided a spot of further education would be just the ticket. But I’ve been there and done that and got the pretty piece of paper hanging on my wall to prove it.
Pretty piece of paper…
Ahhh, I have an Arts Degree. What can one do with an Arts Degree? Hmm. One can deliver fries with a smile, wait on tables, clean toilets, make beds, fold laundry… Wait a second, that describes my life of Domestic Goddessery. No, there has to be more than that. Ooooh. Looking up stuff. I can do that. I am rather good at doing that and here’s a job that does just that…
What? Apply for another job? Are you insane? Find another job and leave the bosom of the large and bureaucratic nightmare? Where I am bored and frustrated and slowly going around a very twisty bend? What a splendid idea, chaps!
So I exhumed the resume – it’s a wonder how well parchment holds up over time; caught up with the last hundred years or so, whipped up a letter outlining my general fabulousness and sent it all off into the ether. Done. And dusted. And as a creative writing exercise, not a bad thing.
And then they called me…
Eek!
And no, that was not a mouse. THAT was the noise my faculties made when they left the building. My goodness gracious me, I felt like Sally Field at the Oscars – “They like me, they really like me”. But bloody hell, that means a job interview. And it had well and truly been a long long time between drinks. On the positive side, the last job I went for, I did actually get. On the negative side, that was so long ago that children who were born on that day can actually vote now! Things have changed, too. Back then it was all a bit of a chat and when can you start? Now, it’s all behavioural interviews and tell us about your strengths and weaknesses.
How does one make being a scatterbrained chatterbox with a really short attention span seem like an attractive proposition, anyway? And most importantly, what on earth do I wear!?! It’s the dead of winter, global warming appears to be on hold, or all the frozen air is being blown straight away from Antarctica or something and apparently it’s not the done thing to wear trousers to a job interview.
There was one thing to be done – pantyhose. I shall briefly mention here exactly how much I loathe pantyhose and the whole torturous contortionisms that are required to get ones slightly longer than average legs into a sheer nylon tube designed for legless midgets.
Anyway, pantyhose on, small children more than slightly freaked out (“what happened to your legs, mummy? They’ve gone all black” from the Big Kid, and “oooh take it off, take it off” from the Little Kid; which probably indicates how long it has been since I have worn pantyhose.) There were trains to be caught, and people to be impressed.
The auspices were not great – three hours sleep the night before, they had my name wrong at the door; and I had to wait for 15 minutes. Just long enough to get sweaty. Fabulous. The interview went well enough that I wasn’t upset with my performance. I made eye contact, I had some answers prepared. Not to the questions they asked, but since when has that been a problem? They seemed like lovely people, and the chances of me seeing any of them ever again?
Buckley’s and none.
I don’t think I am what they’re looking for… But I don’t feel like I have lost out. In fact, I feel like I have gained a lot from the experience. I have an up to date resume. I know I am attractive to a prospective employer on paper, at least. And I have successfully completed one job interview. Not only that, I have discovered that an Arts Degree could possibly be a passport out of Hell and even a ticket to a more exciting place. Most importantly, I have acknowledged that I don’t need to stay where I am forever. And failing getting out, I can always get some more education to stop me going postal…
