There is Salt All Over the Floor.

Lately, things have been going really well for me. Almost too well. So well, in fact, that I've spent the last two weeks hiding out and staying very still. Nothing bad can happen to you if you stay very still.

Unless people mistake you for a chair. And sit on you.

On the other hand, I was probably due a bit of luck after those months of struggling, and the good luck came all at once. First it was the job interview that turned into a second interview. Then at the second interview I accepted and started my new job that same day. That meant money to buy actual furniture for my apartment, and then today I received an email saying I'm going to have a two-sentence story I wrote published on a postcard. I CAN DO NO WRONG.

Still, it just seems good sense to prepare for my luck's inevitable downturn. Not that I'm a pessimist or anything, but I do believe it's prudent to cram all of my ambitious endeavors into the small window of time before karma nudges me off this golden pedestal and sends me tumbling back to my normal, blundering state of mediocrity. So I'm knocking on wood and crossing my fingers and throwing salt over my shoulder, hoping for just a little more time - just one more moment in the sun.

I'll tell you about everything that's been happening as soon as I catch up on sleep. Who knew that normal working hours actually are really early. I tried to convince my boss to hire me for a night shift, but he was all like, Nobody calls to schedule meetings at three in the morning, and I told him people might if they knew he had a law firm open twenty-four hours a day, and that really, this was a niche that needed filling in the community. 

Aside from working, I've also been shopping for my apartment, which is small and a little scary, but cheap and cozy and mine. For me, though, shopping means I spend most of my time on the interwebs, stoically coming to terms with the fact that I will never be able to afford that antique, shabby-chic writing desk or the delicate little silver espresso cups that are ludicrously tiny for how expensive they are. Five dollars per cup would be fine if each cup could hold a piglet.

This particular teacup is half-off, since a pig actually has been living in it.

The rest of the time I spend looking at things like this: 

The matching pin says HUMANS CAN SUCK IT.

Images via Science, Sort Of; Books, Art & Sci Fi; and Etsy.

EMPLOYED

Aw, yeah.

Image via Dr. X.

Interview Schminterview

Yesterday morning I had another interview. I didn't mention it before because I didn't want to jinx it, but it happened. I went in for a marketing position, and I came out with a new friend.

Not really, but that would have been a really cute story.

In keeping with the whole Spooktober thing (I'll think of a better name soon), imagine that the interview took place in this creepy mansion:

But in reality, it was in a low, boxy building: the kind of place with four entrances, but only one way in. Of course, the door I needed only had a tiny parking lot outside, so I had to park in a far-off lot and dash along the rainy street, hoping that no cars drove by and splashed my neatly pressed pantsuit. Because Pennsylvania doesn't believe in sidewalks.

This was also the first place I've been to where I was required to wear one of those clip-on visitor passes with elastic so you can pull out the tag and snap it back derisively. It was very fancy. The receptionist looked just like Amy Poehler, which immediately put me at ease. She asked me to sign in, then left me alone in the waiting area to replay Parks and Rec episodes in my head until a young, friendly-looking lady came to fetch me.

We chatted and joked as she led me through a labyrinth of cubicles, and I was so delighted that this wouldn't be another interview with a middle-aged man I had no chance of connecting with . . . until she introduced me to David and left me there to flounder and die.

David was a thin, eccentric-looking man who kept intense eye contact - the sort of person who would tell you his name seven times in a row and then offer you a cherry soda before shouting, "You've got the job, you precious creature!"

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Instead, he made a comment about the rain and then immediately started explaining the position in remarkable detail. Without any chance to build up a rapport and make some uncomfortable jokes to relieve my nerves, I fixated on my body: the way my arms were hanging, how tightly my fists were clenched, whether my mouth was doing that twitchy half-smile, how wide my eyes were open, if I really were swaying from side to side in my chair.

I stumbled my way through his questions, as he demanded I prove my competence in Microsoft Office. How can we be sure you know what you're doing in Powerpoint? Your degree is in English and you look like a twelve-year-old!

After fifteen minutes of this, I was introduced to David's boss, a capable-looking woman who quizzed me on Excel charts and looked at me like I had set the feminist movement back sixty years. Little did she know that I had bought my navy pantsuit in the little boys' section of the department store. How's that for equality, Sharon!

Interviews are the worst, but somehow I tend to forget that in the days leading up to them. I'm always really confident on the drive over, listening to Beyonce and telling myself that this time, I will articulate my qualifications and answer their questions with intelligence and poise! This time, I'll charm the pants right off 'em, but only metaphorically because I'm not that kind of girl! This time, they won't have to offer me some water halfway through because I'm so dehydrated from all the nervous sweating!

And every time, I start off strong, but each interview seems to end the same.

"Are you alright?" they ask, leaning forward with a concerned look.

Right in the middle of my story about a time I overcame an obstacle in the workplace. Rude.

"Yes?" I say.

"Oh!" They put a hand to their chests and let out a relieved laugh. "I thought you were having a stroke. Well, thanks for coming in, Cara, we'll let you know in about a week."

So I trudged back to my car and drove home in the rain, almost hitting an Amish man with my car on the way out.

Image via Shadowmill Productions.

Prep Time

The most important part of an interview is preparation. Practice a firm handshake. Practice smiling-without-looking-like-a-serial-killer. Practice willing your sweat glands to shut off. All of these are vital skills in the interview process.

Since I have an interview tomorrow morning, I took some time off from today's original schedule, which consisted of watching 30 Rock and eating chips, to prepare so that all I have to worry about during the actual interview is the volume of my voice and whether that musty smell is me. I've also been practicing not laughing so much during everyday conversations. Apparently it comes off a little insane when people ask your name and you let out a long, piercing giggle before saying, "But seriously, Angie, I'm Carrie?"

So in an effort to make myself a little more presentable, I went to the mall this afternoon to buy a reasonably-priced blazer and some neutral heels that weren't stained with punch circa Winter Formal '07. My fancy pants are all hemmed, and I plan to iron AND lint roll them tonight. I also looked up the most common interview questions on a career website so I could think up some articulate responses in advance. For example:

• Why do you want to work at this company?
• Red Robin isn't hiring right now.
• My agency just tells me what to do and I do it. Shall I tell you about my strong leadership skills?
• I heard you don't give drug tests.
  
• What are your weaknesses?
• "Some people say I'm too nice?"
• Cheese - melted, grilled, string, block, wedge, wheel, ball, wrapped in puff pastry, or fried on a stick.
• A good-lookin' man in a suit. Or out of one, if y'know what I mean.
  
• Tell me about a time when you...completed a large project/overcame an obstacle/resolved a conflict at work.
• It was a dark and stormy night. (Wait expectantly for next question.)

Easy peasy. 

In which Carrie writes a letter.

But which letter to choose? L? P? Would a number be better?

Dear Internet,

Well, I admit that I have not exactly been a Portrait of the Artist as a Young Struggling Writer, what with having a job and regular meals and all that. But as of 3:41 this afternoon, I am officially unemployed.

Again.

On the bright side, I really think people will actually start to recognize me as a writer now. Somehow, the unmistakable stench of unwashed hair mixed with sad desperation and whiskey will be like a foghorn bellowing my plight to the world.

"HEY, YOU GUYS," the passers-by will say, "THAT SMELLY WOMAN IS A WRITER, I THINK."

"THE ONE WITH THE UNKEMPT HAIR WHO'S ONLY WEARING ONE SHOE?" other people will ask.

Then I will shush them irritably because some of us are trying to write, thank you, as I return to the growing pile of scribbled-on paper napkins stacked on the table next to me.

But really, I think this new unemployment situation will be a good thing. Plus, I won't have any more priests yelling at me or auto repair guys calling me "sweetie." At least, not over the phone, for $9 an hour.

My only regret is that I couldn't yank my phone out of the wall and hurl it across the room before storming out of that menial telemarketing job, shouting about the undignified conditions stifling my artistic sensibilities. Instead, I just got a call from my temp agency informing me that unfortunately, this has been my last day. I even said thank you before I hung up. Like some sort of sap.

Fond regards,
Carrie



Image via Stephanie Abbot.