The Miss Jobless Chronicles: The Man With the Googly Eye

Ed. note: "The Miss Jobless Chronicles" is a weekly series written by Caitlin O'Toole. Read the rest in the series here. Second editor's note: The alternative title for this post could be "MediaJobsDaily Costs Caitlin A Job." Crap. The summer's almost over and I'm glad. The job market should pick up a little bit in the fall, when everyone is back in the groove. Or so I hope. It only takes me a hot minute to get over the fiasco with my ex at the recording studio. I very quickly press on. I've been answering help wanted ads on craigslist for months to no avail. I remember the days when craigslist was a great place to find a job, now it's full of unpaid internships for mid-level people. A few weeks ago, though, I applied to a paid position at a very well-known, elite "country" club (located in the city -- name withheld) and got a call back. The position was for someone to lay out their uppity in-house magazine using Quark Express and InDesign, skills that I picked up at "Snapshot" magazine. I put on my Sunday best (black pants, button down, sweater vest -- I decide that a suit is not necessary) and head uptown for the interview. It's clear almost immediately that my outfit choice is far too hot for the 90-degree day. (Why do I always do that?) So by the time I get there, I'm sweating buckets -- but I duck into a Cosi for a half hour and dry off in the A.C. I get to the country club five minutes early. The interview is on the 9th floor and I want to give myself plenty of time to get up there in case of a crowded elevator or trouble with security. (I'm really anal retentive about being on time -- not just to interviews, but everywhere.) The club lobby is huge, dark and uninviting. There are Victorian-style white couches and chaise lounges cordoned off with violet-colored velvet ropes. Paintings of past club presidents executed in dark greens and grays adorn the walls. Massive marble columns from floor to ceiling punctuate the overly-air conditioned room. I realize pretty quickly that I am completely underdressed -- the vest-and-slacks combo that I felt so snazzy in when I left the house isn't going to cut it, I don't think. There are ancient-looking leathery gentlemen with canes coming into the building, watch chains twinkling on their three-piece suits. And I'm standing there in my J.Crew ensemble. There is a sign: "Ladies and gentlemen must be properly dressed before entering the club." Now, this could mean anything from "no bathing suits allowed" to "suits and ties only." I quickly gather that it's the latter. Oops. I press on anyway and tell the security guard who I am. He looks me up and down, asks my name (Miss Jobless, of course -- don't you know me?) and tells me to take a seat on one of those (uninviting)Victorian couches, which I do. Within seconds, I am beckoned back to the security desk and given a building pass. First stop: Human Resources. Which looks like a Lord & Taylor ladies lounge, if you've ever seen one -- it looks like no one's bothered to update or change anything for decades. And there's not a soul in sight -- it's like the Bates Country Club. A glass cabinet houses a sign with details about minimum wage and work discrimination. Finally, another person arrives: a young man in a three-piece grey flannel suit, who sits next to me and asks to borrow my pen. (Really? You came to an interview without a pen? Idiot.) A few minutes later I get called into a small office and forget to get my pen back -- so I am the idiot on the job interview without a pen. The woman who beckons me into her office fits in with the decor completely because she looks like she just stepped out of a Good Housekeeping magazine. I shake her cold, clammy hand and have a seat -- which is sort of hard to find since her office is overflowing with books, papers and strange artifacts. "Hi, I'm Elaine," she goes. "Tell me your name again, I can't seem to pull up your email on this computer." (Which looks as ancient as an Atari, by the way.) "Caitlin O'Toole." "Cat-land?" "Caitlin. C-A-I-T-L-I-N." "Oh! Caitlin," she smiles. "A friend of mine has a granddaughter named Caitlin, but she spells it with a K, I think. K-a-i-t-l-a-n-d." "Well, there are so many different ways to spell it," I go, half biting my tongue, half smiling to myself because I know that my spelling is the "real" spelling. "Okay, first I need you to fill out some paperwork -- it's just routine. Do you have a pen?" "No, I'm sorry -- I actually lent it to --" "Here," she goes. "Just fill that out and I'll be right back." The pen, which is probably as old as she is, seems to be out of ink. I grab another one off of her desk when I am certain she's gone and replace it with the defective pen. The "application" is standard -- and annoying. No matter how hard you work on your resume, they always ask you to write in your last three employers. I usually write "see attached resume", but more often than not, they want you to list the jobs anyway. So I do. "Sesame Workshop, Parade, Snapshot, Fox...." Reasons for leaving? Er... Supervisors? Er.... May we contact your previous employers? Please don't.... Have you ever been convicted of a crime? Does my DUI count? (So kidding.) So I fill out all of that and wait for 'Elaine' to come back. (We're on a first name basis.) "Are you done? Okay, good. Now why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself." "Would love to." I have this answer down pat -- God knows I've practiced it enough. "I'm a seasoned writer and editor with many years of print, TV and online experience. I'm freelancing at the moment -- I'm developing a TV series -- which means long hours working alone. But I'm a team player at heart and I would really like to be in an office environment and grow with the right company." "Very well," she goes, "now I'm going to take you in to the newsroom to see the editor of the magazine, Mr. Bond." She escorts me into the "newsroom" -- which is a dark, dingy room smaller than my studio apartment. In it: two desks and three chairs. A woman who I gather is the assistant or secretary, and ... oh dear God ... a man with a really pronounced wandering eye. He approaches me, and Elaine and I part ways. (I really want to beg her not to leave me alone with Mr. Googly Eye, but I don't.) "Hello," he says, reaching for my hand. "I'm Graham Bond." One of his eyes seems to be on his secretary, the other looks at me. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Bond." He invites me to sit on one of the three chairs in the room; he sits on one of the others. The secretary is busy typing away -- furiously. Is there breaking news at this club or something? Did its president finally take a crap after weeks of constipation? These little jokes I have with myself keep me smiling appropriately throughout the interview, which can't be over soon enough. "So, Caitlin...." YO, BUDDY, OVER HERE! "...tell me about yourself." I whip out my standard blurb. "Well, I'm a seasoned writer and editor with many years of print, TV and online experience. I'm freelancing at the moment -- I'm developing a TV series -- which means long hours working alone. But I'm a team player at heart and I would really like to be in an office environment and grow with the right company." "Very good," he says, looking down at my resume. Or at least I think he's looking down. "This is Margaret, my assistant," he says, and she stops typing and looks up. "Nice to meet you." "You as well." "Now," he goes, "I assume you have culinary experience and know a lot about the Olympics?" Huh? That wasn't in the ad. Culinary experience? Sure, um, I love to eat. Olympics? Wha? "Yes, but of course." I totally wing it. "I edited a food blog at Parade.com." The Olympics? I avoid that question and hope it doesn't come up again. "Have you seen our in-house magazine?" he says, reaching for an issue. "Sure, yes, of course, I'm an avid reader." "Well," he looks up -- or around -- or somewhere -- "it only comes out twice a year, but I guess one can be an avid reader of something two times a year." I want to say, "Well, I read it. Then I re-read it. I keep old issues around the house and read them. Frequently." "Yes, sir," I say instead, "well, I am a big fan." "So I assume you know Quark Express and InDesign?" "Of course. My skills are polished." "Very good. My assistant, Margaret, is going on maternity leave and I need someone to fill in for her while she's gone -- until about January, maybe longer. Are you available right away?" "Yes, right away, sir." And I get excited that he's about to hire me on the spot. "Part of your duties will also include interacting with and interviewing club members. Are you comfortable working with people?" Yes! Interaction is my middle name! Caitl-INTERACTION-O'Toole. "Of course, sir. I work very well with people." "Now you mentioned you are working on a TV show -- and a blog? What's your blog about?" "Well, it's about employment -- or lack thereof. It's actually about unemployment. It's on mediabistro." "Your blog is about unemployment?" "Well, it's a very tongue-in-cheek... well, almost a diary of what it's like to be unemployed in this challenging economic climate." "I see." (Not very well, I might add.) "Well, Catland, I will be in touch. Thank you for coming in." And he escorts me out the door and points me towards the elevator. It's one of those job interviews that leaves me completely in the dark about how I did. Could have nailed it, could have blown it. I decide not to analyze it too much, and head towards the 1 train. When I get home, I scour the help wanted job sites, as has become my daily routine. One job description stands out -- if only because the man who wrote it sounds completely full of shit. "Writer looking for brilliant asst," the heading says. "greetings. i am an exceedingly hard-working professional writer looking for a personal assistant... my books are ny times best sellers. the genre that i work in is epic true crime in all its varied forms. you must be able to do extensive, very thorough research, answer phones, make appointments, help me interview both people in law enforcement and people on the other side of the law-- never take no for an answer... i am wheelchair bound, these days i dictate my books, so herein lies the importance of a very fast typist-- minimum of 100 words per minute. my books are often made into films and so you must be able to readily deal with noted directors, actors and film producers. where i go, you go-- you must be able to come with me to South Beach from nov 1 to the end of april. then back to the big apple where we continue to work. you positively must be able to commit to this job for at least 2 years. ours will be a rather personal relationship and it is a difficult thing-- getting on the same page. good conscientious work is appreciated with raises and bonuses. you may make an appointment for an interview by calling 917 555 1212. Sounds great except the fact that I can't really type for shit. Also, what's suspicious is he's only offering $14 an hour, which seems like a pittance when you consider that he is a "ny times bestselling writer whose books are often turned into films." Would such a writer advertise on craigslist? I quickly determine this man must be full of shit, and I press on. Two weeks pass before I get a rejection letter from the man with the wandering eye. "Thank you for coming in. While your qualifications are impressive...." blah blah. I've gotten thousands of those "thanks but no thanks" letters in the past few months, I don't even read them after the first sentence. I bet the guy in the three-piece grey flannel suit who borrowed my pen got the job. Bastard. Caitlin O'Toole is a New York City-based writer and editor. A native of Washington, D.C., she began her illustrious journalism career as a Washington Post paper girl. She has since written and edited for Sesame Workshop Digital, Star Magazine, The National Enquirer, Glamour, People.com, Parade.com and Washington's City Paper. Her work has also been featured on Fox News, ABC, MTV and VH1. She lives in Chelsea with her two cats, Lucy and Ethel. She can be reached for work at her LinkedIn page, Tweets at @MsOToole, and blogs at Shits and Giggles.

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The Miss Jobless Chronicles: The Man With the Googly Eye

Rachel Kaufman

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