Slump Day

Pack a lunch. This might be a little too TL;DR for even the heartiest among you.

After going bed too late (close to 3 a.m.), I woke around 8 this morning and quickly became cognizant of how cold it was in my apartment. I'd left the heat off for a couple days because I'm still paying off AC bills. I'm just not ready to start paying huge heating bills. But it was about 37 degrees outside and stupidly, ice cubingly cold in my apartment. I definitely didn't want to move away from my electric blanket.

I had to be up at 9 to start getting ready for my interview. I clicked on the heat and did all my prep, probably staying in the hot shower a smidge too long. Everything went smoothly. My outfit was waiting for me, I mostly eased into the bra I've gotten way too used to not wearing, my dress shoes squeaked onto my flip-flop feet. I tried to wear a winter coat I bought months ago on clearance, the same I had left in its package since it arrived, figuring it would fit. I found out the yoke is too short or I'm too wide or both because I sort of had gingerbread man arms when the coat was on. So it came off and I thought cloudy, poor-ass thoughts about the cost to ship it back, and switched to a different dress coat. I *really* wanted to wear my jeans jacket, but knew I couldn't swing that -- both because of the necessary dressy factor and because it was 40 damn degrees outside and eventually even *I* need to give in. My only other option was my too-casual stadium coat that has a big rip in the side. Hire me; I need money to buy new clothes. I dawdled online too long and messed around with my shower-dampish hair, trying to make it do something besides flop on my head in humid tendrils, and scooted out the door around 10:30.

I went out to the Hooptymobile, which had developed... well, it sounds like it has a bad cold. About a week ago, I started it and a great rumble erupted on the driver's side. If a car had a front muffler that no longer muffled, that's what it sounded like. The car had long had problems -- it felt like it might have been misfiring a bit, it smelled like burning if I drove even a short distance, the smell of the exhaust was overwhelming -- and El Grande Rumble was yet another thing (or worsening problem) that I was pretending wasn't really happening. The car is 22 years old and I know it's on its way to the Automobile Dealership in the Sky. I'm partially in denial -- my father picked me up from HIGH SCHOOL in that car; it must be immortal -- and fearful of the repair cost that may be the death knell of my beloved car. The car is so old that I've made out with BOYS in it. Come on.

I motored down the street and found the company where I was interviewing, but not the entrance I'd been told to look for. I drove around the block and ended up parking and heading to the front door before finally seeing the gate I was supposed to go through. I went back to move the car. It roared to life... and died. Even though I could tell the rumble had quickly been getting worse and had in fact worried I wouldn't make it to my interview, I still uttered a deep and surprised NOOOOOO. I tried to start it a couple more times and finally gave up. I had to get inside anyway. I was so glad I'd made it to my appointment even though I couldn't exactly leave when it was over. (Foreshadowing!)

After walking around the building and through the automated gate (inside which I'm so glad my car was not parked and dead), I collapsed briefly on a church pew (srsly) in the lobby to get my breath back. The past week or so has seen a spike in my productivity, which is wonderful, but my body still needs to get used to walking further than the living room-to-kitchen-and-back route in my apartment. In the lobby, I was looking around for the elevator that didn't exist and the CEO came out to greet me. I recognized him from the lengthy tour I'd taken around the website the evening before and had to suppress a tiny fangirl moment. I introduced myself and he shook my hand but just sort of looked at me blankly. It's okay. There will be time for hugs later. He directed me to the upstairs office. Groan.

Once upstairs, I was directed to go back downstairs. asdohfefuighweibmmprhgh

I ended up sitting outside a conference room for nearly 30 minutes, waiting for the interviewer, Suzy Q, to make an appearance. About halfway through, I asked a lady in a nearby office if the interviewer knew I was there (I asked nicely) and she checked. She then directed me to go back upstairs. (NO.) I politely protested and thankfully the CEO turtled his head out of the conference room and said I should stay downstairs. I sat down and continued to wait, wishing I could get on the company's wifi so I could check email.

Finally, Suzy materialized and I chatted in a conference room with her for about 20 minutes. It wasn't a stilted interview, per se, but I didn't get the feeling she was that great at interviewing. I had done my prep, though. I spent a couple hours on the company's website (finding typo after typo after typo...) and had also read tons of sample interview question answers in case I stumbled into one of those standard 'Tell me about a time when something difficult happened to you' interviews, the same where I tend to freeze up and start babbling. Suzy and I chatted amicably and discovered we had a mutual acquaintance -- someone who had worked for King V while I was also at the company -- and that was a fun, familiar moment. I don't know that it gave me an edge, but you can bet your bippy I texted that mofo when the interview was over and said I'd buy him beer if he contacted Suzy and talked me up.

Suzy stood and said, if I had time, she'd fetch Lila, the woman to whom I'd report if I got the job.

I have time.

Lila was a bit brusque at first. It was unnerving but we started chatting warmly and laughing after a few minutes. She shot some 'What do you like about PR?' kinds of questions at me and I gave her lots of examples from working for King V. I felt like things were going really well. I took notes, I learned about the company, I made it clear I'd done my homework. A few minutes before I got up to leave, Lila told me she thought I was overqualified for the coordinator position.

I... didn't realize "coordinator" was code for something. Lackey? Intern? Freshly graduated n00b?

I was disheartened, a bit, but said I thought the company had enough clients to keep things interesting. Lila said she wanted someone who was in it for the long haul, someone who wouldn't just take the job and bail a year later because s/he wasn't challenged. I wanted to launch into all kinds of arguments, like how long I'd stayed at my previous company while hating the work and wanting to run over several of my coworkers. When I told Queen S what Lila had said, we agreed that anyone -- "overqualified" employee, 22-year-old college grad, et al. -- could bail at any time. I'd even argue that a younger person might be inclined to bail more quickly. I wanted to exhale the fumes of unemployment all over Lila and convince her I was good to hang around for quite a while. The damn staff takes project ideas from Pinterest and sits around the office making them together. They have a 20-person staff. They've been around 22 years. They work for environmental organizations and nonprofits. They have a pro bono client who finds homes for homeless families. Their website is begging for snappier writing and an editor's gaze. COME ON.

I left the interview just a tad uneasy, but a little hopeful that I still have a chance. Lila wants to throw some freelance work my way, which is nice. It'll be some money anyway. I'm going to send out my thank you note tomorrow and hope they decide to hire me. It suuuure would be nice to work again. The work I've done for King V is nice but I need more than $20 for the occasional project, yanno?

I walked out to the Dead Hoopty and called AAA. It was 12:30 and I was told the truck would be there just before 2. At 1:30, I had to be beeped back into the office so I could tinkle. I had the gate code and probably could've skirted around the building, in the back door, and into the potty, but that just felt weird. Knowing my tendency towards the awkward, I would've run into the CEO on the way out and babble-flubbed my way out of the running for the job.

At 2:10, I called AAA to ask where the truck was. He's eight miles away.

At 2:15, I got an automated call that the driver was 15-20 minutes away.

At 2:40, I was still waiting. I'm going to have to pee again. I just know it.

During the next 20 or minutes, I talked to the dispatcher at least three times. Somehow they had taken the address I'd given them -- 1414 N. Elm, right off 15th Street -- into 1414 E. 15th Street, which meant the driver was still about 20 minutes from me. Not surprisingly, he couldn't find me or my car.

mmprhghghgaa

At 3:10, the driver, a doppelganger for the boss I had at Vox, finally pulled up. By 3:25, the car was at the service station, checked in, and I was at my parents' house and waiting for a ride home. I was too tired, too sore, and feeling too self-conscious/fat/whatever to try and cram myself into my mother's Neon with the manual transmission and let her jerk-and-lurch me back to my apartment. It turns out she wanted to wait for King V to get home anyway because she was sore again from her fall and just wanted to "wrap up in her blanket in the living room and moan."

She made herself a cup of tea, seemed offended when I declined a cup, and proceeded to slurp and "Ahh!" her way through each sip. I retreated to the bathroom. When I emerged, I quickly found out I, in the kitchen, could hear her ahhs in the living room.

God? Just kill me, okay? Splat. Over. Okay? Hello?

King V returned shortly after and we chatted about the interview. Every time I yawned (frequently), he commented about how tired I must be. I agreed, but kept downplaying the day. I guess I was in some kind of denial/shield mode in which I didn't want to admit how anxious I was feeling about the interview and the car and how I can't afford any repair that's more than, oh, free. I'd been watching the buses go by on Elm while waiting for AAA, thankful the street is a major thoroughfare in River City, thinking about bus passes, and how far the walk from my apartment to the bus stop would be. Turns out it's half a mile. All I need is some sassy Working Girl sneakers and I can make that happen. Of course I'll need to leave early at first so I can stop 15 times between my place and Elm, rest, and pray for death.

In adorable caretaker mode, King V packed up some spaghetti sauce I could have for dinner and sent me home with a bottle of three-buck Chuck. He spirited me home in the Prius and finally, at 6:30 pm, I was home from my interview. The fancy clothes got hung up, the unforgiving loafers were unceremoniously kicked off, and I ate the half-cup or so of spaghetti sauce with a plastic fork and decided to order pizza.

When the pizza arrived and I stood up to discover that (((TMI))) my period was sneak attacking me, a little something in me snapped and I decided it was time to open the wine. Except I couldn't get it open. I tugged and twisted and pulled and finally ended up chopping up the cork and digging it out with the weird little knife attachment on my odd Swiss-Army-knife-ish wine opener. I know I looked like a woman crazed but I wasn't about to be denied. All I want is a job that pays me decently that doesn't make me absolutely miserable and a car that doesn't belt out the fumes-only version of Britney Spears' "Toxic" when I drive down the street. Now gimme mah wine, you bitch.

Thankfully, I don't have to get up early later this morning. At some point during the day, I'll hear from the service station about the cost to fix the car. I hope its repair isn't prohibitive to me continuing to own a car. I'd miss the shit out of that Camry. When I was 19, I got to kiss a boy I was in love with in that car. I got pulled over during an impromptu road trip for GREATLY exceeding the speed limit in that car. My dad picked me up from high school, jamming to the Tori Amos tape I'd left in the deck, in that car. I've slept in that car prior to camping at Michfest. If I get hired at the marketing firm and the car is declared dead/too expensive to fix, it will be remembered for valiantly delivering me to the company's doorstep before chugging out its last breath. It seems silly to cry over an inanimate object, so I'll cry over all the car represents and hope for good news... and drink a little more wine.