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.

Planely speaking

Hello and welcome to another installment of the blog that's sweeping the nation (of my friends and family), UOPTA. I wonder why Swiffer or some other similar product hasn't used "Sweeping the Nation" as their tagline yet. Wouldn't that make perfect sense for them? Swiffer folks, if you're reading this and planning on stealing my idea, you can send the thank you e-card to ptklein@gmail.com. So you know what today is? It's 10/4, good buddy. Man, I've been waiting all year to use that one.

I have great news: I figured out a way to extend my blogging. If I just fly somewhere every day, I'll have an unlimited supply of things about which I can write. Last time, it was Misty the model/travel agent who redefined some boundaries of ditziness. This time was different, but definitely something worth sharing with you all.

I flew on Southwest, and if you're unfamiliar with their boarding procedures, there are no assigned seats and people just get on in groups. We were flying into Burbank, and knowing that they deplane (deplane! deplane!) from the front and rear of the aircraft at that airport, I took a window seat near the very back. After a couple of minutes, a cool-looking guy came up and plopped down in the aisle seat. I nodded hello to him, and he immediately started taking magazines out of the center pouch and putting them on that seat. "I want to save this seat for a friend of mine; she should be coming soon," he said with a British accent. "Ok," I said in my American one, although I had kind of been hoping for an empty seat next to me for the short flight. He called out, "Yvonne!" a few times, but I couldn't see to whom he was shouting.

A flight attendant made an announcement: "Please don't put items on the center seats; we have a full flight, and we ask you not to save any seats for anyone." One second later, the dude stood up and said, "Watch these for a minute, ok?" Before I had a chance to remind him of the clearly-stipulated rules, he was on his way toward the front of the plane. Thankfully, he returned just a minute later with a pretty young lady wearing what looked like a black bra with a black mesh thingy over it and some fancy shmancy jeans. The guy put the magazines back in the pouch, but Yvonne quickly took one out and started flipping through it. "Oh geez," he said, "You're not going to show me more pictures of you, are you?" "No, stupid, I'm not in the Southwest magazine. I need alcohol. Where do they list the drinks?"

They chatted for a minute, and I surmised that she was a model and he was a photographer. That's because she was saying things like, "I'm really good at taking direction, especially during quick shoots where it's all like 'Stand here, stand there' and stuff," while he said that he once did an entire photo series called "Me as a Cloud" with some models. Mercifully, the flight attendant came around and asked about drinks. He got "a Finlandia and cranberry," and she got a Heineken. I looked up from my sudoku and asked for an apple juice. "I feel so boring," I confessed. "It's all good," Yvonne replied, but I could tell that she agreed with my assessment.

Once the drinks came, I chuckled to myself about how incredibly square I must've looked with my numbers and juice. It was mainly because of the stark contrast my situation had with their conversation. I had my iPod going but still heard every word, as did probably a third of the plane. They were those people. Normally that wouldn't be that big of a problem, but I'm pretty sure not everyone wanted to hear those specific conversations. For example, a good ten minutes were spent loudly outing fellow photographers and male models. "Oh yeah, I was at a shoot with him and he had all of these little Hispanic boy toys around," Yvonne proudly disclosed. The guy was talking about all of the men he'd been with, and I almost choked on my juice when he ended the discussion with, "But I try to keep those things private."

Then they had a fantastic parallel conversation, in which they took turns saying what turns them on looks-wise while never acknowledging the other's statements. She likes musicians; he likes dark skin; she doesn't normally like blonds, etc. Eventually their conversations synched up when a particular guy came up. "He looked like he'd be big," the guy said. With a little coy nod and then a guffaw, Yvonne said, "Yeah, he was, but it...well, I wasn't too impressed." A minute later, I heard her say, "Yeah, they're kinda small, but they're up here and nice and squishy." Yeah, she was talking about her boobs. Meanwhile by the window seat, Peter realized that an 8 and only an 8 could go in that box.

Naturally, their conversation turned to drugs. They talked about Ecstasy, GHB, and some things I probably have heard of by textbook names but not the ones they used. Apparently she has someone deliver pot to her at her place, and he was excited until he learned that that's all the guy had. She agreed that it kinda sucked. He started talking about some fashion show he put on after a few lines of coke and how all the queens were trying to steal the spotlight from him. And I wish I could remember the circumstances that led to this quote, but all I remember is cocaine was involved: "You know the parallel bars in the Olympics? Well normally it's fun and easy because you land on soft stuff, but this was on wood and I was in high heels." Like my Grandma Mu always told me when I was a kid, "Cocaine, wood floors, high heels, and parallel bars don't mix." I always thought it was a metaphor.

Just before landing, they turned off their overhead lights and then pretended to make out for a second before laughing hysterically. They looked over at me, and I fake whistled and twiddled my thumbs. "You want some? Hahahaha," Yvonne said. "From me or from you? Hahahaha," he chimed in. That led to a wonderful story about him and some guy getting caught joining the Mile High Club years ago, leading to him getting deported back to London. Honestly, I don't think I could make this shit up.

We finally landed, and I started to put away the pen and inconspicuously rip out the magazine page on which I'd jotted down key points of their conversation. Ya know, like "Deported for mile high club," for example. Hey, you can't spell "deported" without Peter! In fact, it's an anagram of "odd Peter" if I'm not mistaken. Cool. In any case, I had to jot down that he made some joke about dual entry which made her laugh and then proclaim that she needed a cigarette. I honestly don't know if that was an after sex joke or just a nicotine craving.

And so we parted ways. I called my lovely wife to tell her I was en route to the baggage claim and that I had a new blog post waiting. I assure you that I left stuff out, and this only a 50 minute flight. Good times, good times. Speaking of which, have a good time doing whatever you're doing tonight, and don't let any queens steal your spotlight. I'll see you tomorrow for another Follow Up Friday.