What not to say

Top of the morning to you on this lovely Wednesday. Wednesday? How about Rightnowsday! Damn, that sounded a lot better in my head (and honestly, that was iffy at best as well). That happens a lot; good thing I never invested in one of those fancy shmancy backspace keys. In any case, I'm here and ready to continue my hey-look-it's-a-theme of the week. So far, you've read all about certain application processes of which I've been a part. It's never fun, and my heart goes out to anyone who is interviewing anywhere for anything.

That said, I don't feel too bad making fun of people who have screwed up in an application process one way or another since I've been there myself. Today's post is about some of my favorites in that category, and I hope you enjoy.

When I was one of the two Student Coordinators for Orientation Staff back in the 90s, my "Co-Coord" Suzanne and I took turns pairing up with one of the directors to interview the 80 applicants (for interview #1 of 5 for those who went the distance). One afternoon after a string of three or four interviews, it was Suzanne's turn to take over. She went in the conference room to prepare and I sat out at the front desk. A young lady came in and said she was there for her interview. I asked her name, checked the list, and told her to take a seat and they'd be out in a minute for her. "If I might ask," she said, "who are you in this process?" I introduced myself and told her that the Coords were the direct supervisors of the staff members. "So you'd be my boss then?" she asked. "Yes, one of them, but yes," I said. "Well," she said, as she pulled her elbows back and thrust her chest out at me, "I really want this job." Keeping my composure, I replied, "Well, just um, be yourself, and I'm sure it'll go fine." I then excused myself and replayed the moment over again in my head from the back area of the office. And that's how I met my lovely wife!

No, not really. That would be an even better story though. Here's how this one ended: After the interview was over and the young lady had left, I told Suzanne what had transpired. Giving the applicant the benefit of the doubt, I said, "Maybe it was just a really bad time to do that particular stretch coupled with a really poor time to say what she did." "But right after you said you'd be her boss, she stuck her breasts out and said she really wanted the job?" "Uh, yeah. How'd the interview go?" "Not so well," Suzanne said, and that was great news. I didn't want to lose a good candidate just because she was overtaken by my masculinity and instinctually resorted to base, ritualistic attempts at mating. With great power comes great responsibility, after all.

In all honesty, I hope I misread her words and gesture. I'm not above accidentally making sexually harassing statements. Allow me to explain: In that same selection process, we were discussing a particular candidate who everyone thought was kicking ass through the process so far. Without hearing the sentences first in my head, I said aloud, "She seems like she'd be really good. I'd love to have her on my staff." That was followed by me turning beet red and stumbling through apologies and rephrasings for the next ten minutes.

Let's fast forward a few years, shall we? I was working in the academic advising office for a couple of years when my co-worker and good friend Twilight left her position to go to grad school. Since she was the person I spent 90% of my day with at the job, I wanted a say in who would be replacing her. Therefore, I let my preference be known and I was allowed to be on the selection committee for the new Twilight.

During one of the interviews, there was a man who seemed pretty friendly and capable. He was asked the following two-part question: "This position deals with a large number of rules and requirements. How are you at handling large amounts of information? And what methods do you use to help you in situations like this?" His response was as follows: "I do really, really well with large amounts of information. I have an excellent memory. In fact, my friends call me "The Professor" because I seem to retain everything. And...what was the second part of the question?" He was dead serious, and I almost exploded from holding in a very loud, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" He didn't end up getting the job, and it was for more reasons than just that hilariously contradictory response. That said, it was the highlight of the entire process for me.

There have been other great missteps in interviewing history that I've either been a part of or heard great accounts of after the fact. Maybe I'll include those sometime down the line. For now, I'm calling it a day and bidding you a fond Thanksgiving Eve. I'll be back tomorrow with a very special holiday edition of UOPTA. Until then, have a good one and try to avoid turkey at all cost today.

Applying myself

Good morning and welcome yet again to another Monday edition of UOPTA. This is a special Monday, I must admit, because today was my dating anniversary with my lovely wife back when she was just my lovely girlfriend. We had been dating for a long time when we got married, and it bothered me a little to have to start our counting over again. I'd always try to let people know that so they didn't assume we were just some inexperienced couple who married on a whim. "Well, technically we've only been married for..." Fortunately, our marriage number keeps getting higher so that won't be an issue for long at all. Disirregardless, Happy Old Anniversary, honey.

Let's get to a story, now shall we? This past Saturday, it was my good friend Suzanne's birthday. She currently holds the position at UC Santa Barbara that I did for three years before her (Assistant Director of Orientation Programs). It's a great job and I was thoroughly pleased to see someone I knew and trusted to take over for me when I left. That's not what today is about, but rather a loosely-related opening thought. Sorry if I misled any of you. To make it up, I shall attempt a transition sentence that makes t seem like I'd planned this all along: Suzanne's application and interview process started after I left UCSB, but I have a feeling it didn't go quite like mine.

When I found out that the Assistant Director position was opening up, I had the biggest "Oh my God that would be sooooo cool" moment of my life. I had worked for Orientation for two years as a staff member and a student supervisor, and I loved the program. The thought of being a part of it year-round, training and working with new student staffs, and helping thousands of parents and incoming students each year made me giddy with anticipation.

However, when the application process officially started, I found myself in a little bit of a tough spot. You see, having worked both there and in other positions on campus for years already, I was going to be interviewed almost exclusively by people I already knew (and knew well). Therefore, my standard cover letter and resume would have been very stuffy and much more formal than my existing relationships with these people warranted. Additionally, the position I held at that time was literally less than one hundred feet from the Orientation office, so I saw those people every day and exchanged casual pleasantries.

I sat down and hammered a few versions out, but nothing sounded like I wanted it to. I knew how it "should" be, but it just seemed so forced to be coming from me. And then, an idea popped into my head. "Uh, I don't know if I can do that," I immediately told myself. "Just try it out, see how it works, and go from there," I countered. The idea was as follows: I was to start with a little paragraph formally stating the position for which I was applying. I would then say something along the lines of, "Rather than simply reiterating the experience listed on my resume, I would like to use a format that will illustrate my ability to be creative within an established structure. Below, please find an Elizabethan sonnet that explains why I am the right choice for this position."

I then wrote a sonnet in very plain language stating the things that would've been in a standard cover letter. I acknowledged my previous experience with the program, the jobs I'd held since then, and the way those positions prepared me for this next step. I added a sentence at the end tying it together with the structure of the position requiring fresh and new ideas, and then something about how I looked forward to an interview and to please contact me with any questions. I read it over several times but still couldn't decide if the idea was great or horrible, so I showed it to my colleague and friend Regina for her opinion. After realizing what I had handed her, she looked up at me with her mouth agape before going back to the paper. I couldn't decide if that meant, "What a marvelous idea!" or "You arrogant bastard!" When she finished reading, she looked back up and said, "It's perfect, and no one else would dare to pull that off."

After a little more encouragement and several "Are you sure?" questions from my end, I turned in my application with that cover letter. After two weeks, a phone interview, and a three-part in person interview, I got the call from Human Resources offering me the job. After happily accepting and discussing the salary and starting date, I thanked her for the call. "You're very welcome," the woman replied. "And by the way, we all loved your cover letter."

I took a risk and it paid off. The thing is, it was a very low-risk/high-reward situation that afforded me the luxury of messing around a little. Knowing the interviewers like I did, I feel like it would've taken some off-color remarks about their family members or racial epithets to not be granted a first interview. Therefore, I made the most of my advantage to stand out while everyone else followed the unofficial rules.

Not every job application I've submitted has turned out that glorious. In fact, some have been downright disastrous and never materialized into first interviews. I think I'll write about some of those tomorrow as well as stories from other people's interviews that I know of. Sound good? And now, the pun I've been waiting all post to use: There must be fifty ways to weave your cover.

Have a great Monday, everyone, and remember to email ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything.

Fame-ish, Part 3

Ok, it's on like Donkey Kong. Time to complete what I started last Thursday. This should be Threesday instead of Tuesday for all the trilogy action going on. We should all be three-stepping with joy to be witnessing this piece of history. We should...yeah, that's all I got. A little help?

Here we go: The most famous I've ever been was at the height of my work at UC Santa Barbara. For a couple of years, I worked in a very busy advising office for the College of Letters and Science. During our most hectic times at the beginning and end of each quarter, I would be advising over 100 students a day. These students would range from freshmen looking to plan their schedules to seniors double-checking that they truly were graduating. That might not seem like a fame-producing situation to you, but I was a minor celebrity in the Goleta and Santa Barbara areas for a few years.

I remember going to get some food somewhere once, and the guy at the register looked up at me. "Hey, man, I know you from L&S, right?" he asked. I told him he did, and I actually remembered helping him a few weeks before then. He said he would be coming in again soon to make an appointment, and then he pushed some buttons on the register and said, "Ok, that's uh, 60 cents." I looked down at my food and knew that it should be closer to $8. "Are you sure?" I asked. "Yeah; thanks for all your help and I'll see you again soon."

The same thing happened when my lovely wife and I went to the Coffee Bean for an iced drink one hot weekend day. The young lady at the register remembered me and quickly punched all the holes in one of their frequent-drinker cards. She handed it to me with a smile and said, "For next time."

(Random side note: We once went to that same Coffee Bean, and the guy behind the counter had a sign saying that if we answered his trivia question correctly, we'd get a free drink. I was eager to see what he had. "Pick a category," he said. "Geography, History, Literature, Sports, or Military History." I was an English major, but I was scared off by how random that could be, so I took sports. "What NBA franchise has won the most championships?" he asked. "The Celtics," I said, immediately after he finished. "Wrong," he replied. "No I'm not," I said, a little ticked off. "Just kidding; you're right. Almost everyone guesses the Bulls," he said. I ordered a more expensive drink than I normally would have, partly because it was free but mainly because he pissed me off.)

Another time, we went to Something's Fishy (a Japanese restaurant) and got free food because the waiter remembered me helping him. Yet another time, we were handed a dessert menu with a wink and told it was on the house at a different restaurant. Please note: all I did for these students was answer their questions and help them fulfill their requirements. I never bent any rules or anything like that for them, but they all treated me like their guy inside the system.

This happened almost everywhere. I'd be walking through Costco and have someone stop me to ask a question about the Area E requirement. I'd go to Circuit City and have a guy say, "Can I help you find something - hey, you're the advisor guy, right? How many upper division units do I need again?" This might seem annoying to some of you, but I frickin' loved it. If my lovely wife and I were out to dinner and two people next to us were talking about classes, I'd have to really hold back from doing some off-site advising. If they were speaking incorrectly about something, I needed to be physically restrained from setting them right.

My fame actually grew a little more after leaving Letters and Science and joining Orientation Programs. To 8,000 people a summer, I was "the guy in the suit." While I didn't run into those people on a daily basis off campus, for six weeks a year I couldn't walk anywhere at UCSB without being stopped and asked multiple questions.

When fall quarter came around, I was as close to a rock star that an academic advisor can get. (That's not very close at all, for those of you scoring at home.) Many of the new freshmen recognized me, and not knowing a lot other people on campus yet, they would stop me ask directions, opinions, add/drop options, etc. Only once did I pull the whole "fake call on a cell phone" routine, and that was just because I really needed a burrito and nothing was going to stand in my way. With 20,000 students on campus potentially stopping me, I did what I had to in order to make it to the Chilitos cart unscathed.

With great power comes great responsibility though. As someone who represented UCSB to thousands of people, I had to remember that while out and about. I monitored my public alcohol consumption, because I never knew in whose eyes I could be losing all credibility. Basically, I was like Lindsay Lohan. A male, responsible, non-millionaire, fully-clothed Lindsay Lohan of legal drinking age and not hounded by paparazzi. Just like her.

The whole experience was great, and I truly felt famous for those years in Santa Barbara. Coming from the Los Angeles area, Santa Barbara will always feel like a small town to me, and that was epitomized by the frequency in which I was recognized. And to me, being stopped and recognized in public equals fame. Sure, it didn't have the groupies that came along with my Power Ranger experience, but I'm sure that gets boring after a while. Yeah right.

So there you go, gentle readers. Now you know all about my rises and falls from power (or Power, if you will). I thank you for letting me relive these moments. Who knows, maybe something will happen and I'll be forced to move UOPTA up to fifth on the list. Hey, do you have anything to say that I might be interested in hearing? ptklein@gmail.com is the place to go if that's the case; all the cool kids area doing it. Yes, Mom, I'm calling you one of the cool kids. Enjoy it.

Hanger Anger

My wife and I got our invitation to a black tie event next month that we attended last year as well. I had a string of formal events close together last year, and I knew I'd be having at least one a year for work, so I purchased a tuxedo at my boss's suggestion. I went into the closet to take a look at it and see if it needed drycleaning or not, and I stopped and looked at my suits for a minute. My wardrobe has grown quite a bit in the past couple of years, and it's still a little strange to me. There was a time that I owned one suit, and that suit was my only option for weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals, important meetings, and interviews. I still have that suit, a nice charcoal grey one, and it plays a large role in today's story.

After college graduation, I began working at the Writing Program on campus for a few months. That led to an academic advising position in the main college office, where I was for a couple of years. Then my dream job on campus opened up: Assistant Director of Orientation Programs. I had worked for Orientation for two years as a student, and they were formative and eye-opening years in terms of who I would eventually be as an adult. I wanted that job badly, and thought of it as something I could do for the next decade.

So I sent in my application, waited for the position to close, then set up an interview for about a week from then. The next day, I took my suit pants and my dark blue dress shirt to a drycleaners pretty nearby. They told me it would be ready on Thursday morning, and my interview was the following Monday morning.

Time passed, and I prepared for my interview. Actually, it was a set of three interviews in one day, so that increased the nervous factor a bit. Then Thursday after work, I went to the cleaners and handed them my ticket. The young woman looked in the computer, made a confused face, then went to the back. She returned and told me, "There was a little stain on it that you didn't tell us about, so it'll be ready tomorrow instead." I didn't know there was a stain, or I would've told them so they could try to get it out, but I decided to swallow that point. Instead, I said, "Ok, well it's very important that I get it tomorrow because I need it for an interview. What time will it be ready?" She told me to call around 11am, and I said I would.

At 10:58 the next morning, I called. "If you call back at 1pm, it should be ready then," I was told. "Ok, but please remember that I absolutely need it this afternoon," I said. I did more work, I ate lunch, and then I called back at 12:56. "Hi, this is Peter Klein, I was told to call back now to see if my shirt and pants are ready." "Hold please." I heard talking in the background, and then a woman came on who identified herself as the manager. "Hello sir, what color is your shirt?" That was not at all what I wanted to hear. "It's dark blue," I said. "And what size?" "Um, I think it's something like a 15 1/2 and a 32-33, but I might be off a little - what's going on?" "You don't know what size your shirt is? How do you expect us to find it if you don't know the size?" One word really stuck out there: find. "You can't find my shirt? An hour ago, and you seemed to know where it was then." "Call us back in one hour," she said, and then she hung up.

As I've said several times in this space, I'm a pretty mellow guy in person. Oh sure, I have a lot of anger in me toward things like "PIN number" and the pronunciation of "H," but I've never been the type to yell at anyone besides players in televised sporting events and horrible drivers who can't hear me. However, this was very important to me, I had higher stress levels involved, and I was totally screwed if they couldn't do their job correctly. In other words, I was this close to completely going off on this woman.

I called an hour later and identified myself. "Hello sir," she started. "What color is your shirt?" That's where I started to lose it a little. "What color is my shirt!? I told you, it's dark blue. You lost it?" She repeated her previous argument, repeating that it was my fault for not knowing the size. I said, "No, no, it's not my fault. It's your job to not lose people's clothes. Cleaning them is secondary to not losing them." She said something about how since there was a stain, they took it out of the normal routine and now they can't tell which one is mine because a tag fell off. My pants were all done though, if that was any consolation. "How many dark blue shirts without tags do you have there?" I asked, hoping it was a rhetorical question. "I don't know," she said, "we do the actual cleaning off site, so unless I drive over there, I can't tell you if we have it or not." Then I channeled a bit my dad and told her, "Here's what's going to happen. I'm coming there after work at 5:30, and you're going to have my shirt ready. If it's not, you're buying me a new one and pressing it for me so it's ready to wear for my interview." She started to argue, but I cut her off and told her that I was hanging up, and I did.

That was possibly the meanest I'd ever spoken to someone. I realize it might not sound all that mean, but it was for me, and I was agitated enough that I had trouble concentrating on work for the rest of the afternoon. None of my other dress shirts matched the suit at all, so if they truly lost this one, I needed a new one right away, and I'd be damned if they weren't paying for it. I could feel myself getting worked up as I drove over there, preparing myself to stick to my guns.

I walked in, calmly introduced myself, and said I was there to pick up my shirt and pants. The pants were already sitting out there, and the young woman asked me to hold on as she picked up the phone. She called the off-site cleaning place and asked for the manager lady, but she was already en route back to where I was. So I waited a few minutes. Then a car pulled up, and a woman came out with around seven or eight shirts on hangers in her hands.

Without a greeting, she approached me and asked, "What color is your shirt?" I bit my tongue, took a deep breath, and said, "I've told you a couple of times already when I shouldn't have needed to, it's dark blue." She rifled through the ones in her hand. "Is this your shirt?" she asked, holding up a light blue shirt with a white collar that could've fit two of me in it. "No," I said, getting exponentially more agitated by the second. "Why isn't that your shirt?" she demanded. That's when it happened: Peter left the building. "Wh-Wh-Why isn't that my shirt? Why? Um, let's see, I didn't buy it, it doesn't belong to me - what do you mean, 'Why isn't that my shirt?' It's not my shirt!" She looked at me like I was insane. "You said it was blue, right?"

I took another deep breath, and then very flatly said, "I'm going to Macy's down the street and coming back with a shirt and a receipt for you to reimburse me." She didn't like that plan, and argued, "Why should we have to pay for a new shirt when we might be able to find your old one?" I didn't even know where to begin with that, so I just told them that I'd be back soon. I turned toward the door, and just then a van skidded to a stop in front of the store. A man jumped out carrying my shirt. (I knew it was mine because it was the color and size of my shirt, and also because I had bought it.) I took it from him and thanked him, glaring back at the woman as I started to head out. She called after me, "Next time, you need to tell us the size and-" I cut her off and said with a slight laugh, "Oh, there won't be a next time, believe me."

There it is folks, one of the angriest moments of my lifetime to date. It's been over five years since that incident, and I still clearly recall the flood of emotions. Was it worth all that tension and spike in blood pressure? Well, I got the job, and I got complimented on my charcoal grey suit and my dark blue shirt during the interview, so absolutely. Happy Monday, gentle readers, and I hope none of you reach that level of anger this entire week.