Hurricane I

It was a dark and stormy morning. The room was cold, but I have finally borrowed enough blankets to make my bed/futon-on-the-floor all warm and cozy. I should have stayed there. Instead, I got all dressed up to sell pizza door-to-door. But I didn't know that yet.

I finally roused myself, and went out into the pouring rain to fetch my newly dry-cleaned suit. I had put it in to be cleaned right before Thanksgiving, so that it would be all fresh for my second round interview at CRC Advertising today. I was really excited, rain be damned, because I thought I liked this job. The "interview" was supposed to take all day, and it would basically be a day-in-the-life-of kind of thing. If I did well, I'd end up with a job interview at the end of the day. Piece of cake, right? Especially with a newly dry-cleaned suit.

I get there, sign the piece of paper that says that even though I'll be working with them all day long, they aren't paying me. Duh. I get introduced to my interviewer, and oddly, I thought, we leave the building. But the building was small, so perhaps we were going to one of the many nearby buildings. As we are leaving the building, Heather (the interview, I think this is her name) asks if my shoes are comfortable. I think this is also odd, but whatever. She's wearing pointy toed heels, so I didn't read any extra importance into that question. We get into a car, which befuddles me further, and as we are getting on to the interstate heading south, the sense of unease begins to take over. We're already in southmost DC, top of Virginia. Why are we going AWAY from all the people?

After arriving in BFE, VA, Heather and I get out of the car in some residential neighborhood. She goes to the trunk and exhanges her pointy-toed shoes for sneakers, and pulls on a heavy sweater. Do you have comfortable shoes, she asks. What? I say, very much concerned. Didn't Jack/Jake/Dude-on-the-phone tell you to bring comfortable shoes? Didn't he tell you we'd be outdoors all day? Um, no. He didn't. She makes a "damn, sucks to be you" face and slams the trunk shut.

Dude-on-the-phone told me to be dressed professionally, as I would be spending the day watching what I would be doing at the job. It was also extremely important that I bring a notebook to take notes. There is nothing in those two sentences that would make me think we'd be going outdoors all day, or that I'd need to wear comfortable shoes. So I was wearing my interview uniform: black wool skirt suit, hose and black pumps of the functional but not comfortable variety. So, no, I was not wearing comfortable shoes, and I was not dressed to be outdoors. It was slightly cold, very windy, and I was wearing a skirt and heels. At least it was no longer raining.

So I put my cell phone and my wallet in my pocket. Heather instructs me to bring my notebook. Then we start going door to door. Selling pizza. Seriously. My second round interview was going door to door as Heather tried to convince all the stay-at-home people to buy her fabulous pizza deal. In between times, she'd ask me questions, as she was "evaluating" me, and she'd give a report back to her boss, which would then determine if I got a third round interview and a job. I want to give her the finger and walk away, but recall that we're in BFE Virginia. (Or maybe Guam, but I think of Guam as being hot) So I resolve to keep smiling, and hey, door-to-door skills might work out to my favor in a political career, right? And then maybe we'll do something different. Nope. After lunch, we'll be back on the streets, until about 8:30 or so, THEN we get to go to the office, if I'm a lucky little trouper. It's time to abort this mission, but how does one return sans car?

We go to lunch at a Subway in a posh little shopping center. Heather tells me to wait until after lunch to bail, because at lunch, I'll get to see her favorite part of the job. Apparently, it's her co-workers, which she sees for all of twenty minutes a day, because the rest of her time is spent wandering around outside selling shit. No dice. Send me home. But that's easier said that done in BFE, and they refused to drive me anywhere. So I get left in the posh shopping center. Fine. I'll find me to a bus, I'll ride all over creation to get back to the District.

Oh, but we forget how the bus hates me. Buses don't run in posh suburbs in Virginia. So after much wandering around the shopping plaza looking like a well dressed bum desiring public transit, I call a cab to drive me to the Metro. Thirty minutes and $50 later, I'm back on my beloved trains.

So, all told, I had a shitty day. I feel had, snookered, taken advantage of, led on, scammed, etc. Though these are feelings I've had before, they're not feelings I relish. It's like I should have clued in that something wasn't right, but I tend to assume that when people tell me something, they tell me all the relevant details. Apparently, some people, when they want you to do something that they know you would be less likely to do with all the relevant information, will leave out vastly important details. Like wearing comfortable shoes because you're going door-to-door selling pizza. (I'm boycotting Papa John's for at least 6 months.) And by the time I figured it out, it was too late to do anything about it. Except take a cab to the Metro and pout for a while afterwards.

I've spent close to $70 on these two interviews, all told. This irks me, as I specifically told the first first interviewer that I was not interested in anything sales related. Telemarketing, bad. Sales, bad. I've done them both (thank you, Girl Scout cookies and marching band Christmas trees) and I dislike them. No no, this isn't sales, he says, it's marketing. Fuckers, all of them.

I'd really like to send them a bill for my time and transportation costs. Or at least an irate letter. I'll sleep on that one and see if it's a good idea tomorrow. I'll probably write one (and post it), and then read it after a grace period to see if it's kosher. I've already called my mother and cried, but I don't think I'm done pouting about this yet. Had I wanted to go door-to-door, I'd have not gone to college. My favorite part of the interview was when she asked me a question that I responded to with Communication Theory, when she wanted a much less complicated answer. Oh.

Oh Job Karma, why doest thou torment me so? I completed my entire year at Rand. I did not quit the Calling Center job. I Brought It Hard to the Administrative Shit Job this summer. Yes, I bitched about all of them, but that did not stop me from doing a good job with the work I was given. I realize that I perhaps should have gotten the message after the Bus Trip That Did Not End that this was not the job for me, but I thought it was a test as to the strength of my character. Whatever other personality failings I might have, it is not strength of character. No more of these awful jobs, please, and no more tests. Southern California Edison was awesome, but we're long overdue for another awesome one.

My mother told me that someday soon this whole thing would be another good story to tell. It might be that I'm still pretty upset about the whole thing (and my feet still hurt), but I don't think so.

UPDATE: I forgot to metion that even though I faithfully carried around my little notebook, I did not take notes. Perhaps this was obvious, as selling pizza coupons door-to-door is not that complicated.