The Interview... (Subtitled: Yet Another Reason to Consider Anti-depressants)
So I arrived at the interview unscathed, narrowly escaping an errant crossing of the George Washington Bridge at the hands of that merry prankster, my GPS. (I've come to believe Ashton Kutcher is on the other side of that app recording everything as I swear like a rapper and dig through my cavernous purse to find the double-digit toll money while careening toward the "Last Exit Before Toll" sign with Maps man screaming, "Rerouting!!")
I was greeted by an affable security guard who looked a bit like a weathered Conan O'Brien and before long I was delivered to the testing area - a lonely cubicle with reams of paper, three No. 2 pencils and a fat pink eraser. Uh-oh.
Going into this whole affair, I was a bit apprehensive. I had a vision of my prospective boss laughing as I left the building. "She could list all the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills but she couldn't name the chair of the Fed!" He'd slap his knee before placing the inevitable call, "We're sorry, but upon reviewing the results of your tests, we've determined that the editor-in-chief's Chihuahua is more suited to this position than you are. Best of luck in your job search."
Mercifully, there was no deadline for completing the editing of three stories that seemed to have been written by a non-English-speaking MBA student on an acid trip.
During the exam, which included a multi-page, multiple choice investment-knowledge test that would flummox Warren Buffet, I considered grabbing my giant handbag, fleeing past fake Conan and seeking refuge in the pseudo-safety of my tiny, 10-year-old station wagon, which may or may not need a new muffler. Once again, I could put Corporate America in my rearview.
But I didn't run. I stayed and finished the test, covered in erasures and the sweat that comes from using your brain for more than deciding what to make with 3lbs of ground beef.
After completing the 3-hour long challenge and panting with the relief of a post-warbling "American Idol" contestant, I was treated to lunch in a Jetson-like cafeteria. There I forced myself to use utensils, enjoying the smugness that comes with sitting up and eating an afternoon meal while not wearing pajamas.
Will I get the job? And if offered, will I accept something that, yes, could save us from telling the kids, "Daddy and I are selling your polo mallets; you won't need those where we're going," but could bring about the end to this new, freewheeling lifestyle? Stay tuned to find out...
I was greeted by an affable security guard who looked a bit like a weathered Conan O'Brien and before long I was delivered to the testing area - a lonely cubicle with reams of paper, three No. 2 pencils and a fat pink eraser. Uh-oh.
Going into this whole affair, I was a bit apprehensive. I had a vision of my prospective boss laughing as I left the building. "She could list all the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills but she couldn't name the chair of the Fed!" He'd slap his knee before placing the inevitable call, "We're sorry, but upon reviewing the results of your tests, we've determined that the editor-in-chief's Chihuahua is more suited to this position than you are. Best of luck in your job search."
Mercifully, there was no deadline for completing the editing of three stories that seemed to have been written by a non-English-speaking MBA student on an acid trip.
During the exam, which included a multi-page, multiple choice investment-knowledge test that would flummox Warren Buffet, I considered grabbing my giant handbag, fleeing past fake Conan and seeking refuge in the pseudo-safety of my tiny, 10-year-old station wagon, which may or may not need a new muffler. Once again, I could put Corporate America in my rearview.
But I didn't run. I stayed and finished the test, covered in erasures and the sweat that comes from using your brain for more than deciding what to make with 3lbs of ground beef.
After completing the 3-hour long challenge and panting with the relief of a post-warbling "American Idol" contestant, I was treated to lunch in a Jetson-like cafeteria. There I forced myself to use utensils, enjoying the smugness that comes with sitting up and eating an afternoon meal while not wearing pajamas.
Will I get the job? And if offered, will I accept something that, yes, could save us from telling the kids, "Daddy and I are selling your polo mallets; you won't need those where we're going," but could bring about the end to this new, freewheeling lifestyle? Stay tuned to find out...
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