So I went to my job interview today. It was for an indeterminate position at a karate school: either receptionist or teacher, depending on who they decided on. They currently have a receptionist, but everyone floats there, and everyone must take lessons.
How cool is that?
Also they want someone able to get a CDL within the next few months. To drive their bus. It’s like every time I look for a job, I end up kicking myself for not agreeing to drive the bus for the blood center and letting them pay for my training and CDL ten years ago.
Also, it’s not a real karate teacher they need, more like a babysitter to do karate-themed stuff with the three to five year olds, so I’m apparently qualified enough for that, having been a Sunday school teacher once upon forever ago.
I interviewed with three instructors, and we got on really well, and it sounds like a lot of fun and a completely new experience, which is exactly what I’m looking for. Fingers crossed!
And next week I have two more interviews.
One at Torrid, and I’m perfectly cool working there, but that’s third on my list.
Then tonight I got a call from Johnny’s Pizza, just not the one I can practically hit with a rock from our back porch. It is, however, one in a part of town that I delivered in for years and years, with no new development since I worked there, so just a day or two and I’d be completely refreshed on the delivery area. Interview there Monday, and I’m sure I’ll be offered a job, maybe even a can you start now, depending on how shorthanded they are.
Buuut will I hear back from the karate school before I hear back from Johnny’s? Because with the karate schedule I wouldn’t be able to do both; it overlaps from lunch to dinner.
Oh, decisions, decisions. I think I’ll just put it out of my head, because there’s no sense counting my chickens before they hatch.
It’s just funny that I hear nothing for three weeks, and then I have three callbacks within two days at places I’ve only just put in applications.
This picture is completely unrelated, but I like it.
Tomorrow at a karate school about a mile from home. Wish me luck!
Today was a good day.
I’ve been having unpleasant and vivid dreams every night.
It all started three weeks ago when I went to the doctor for a followup appointment. He said my cholesterol is high normal, most likely due to genetics and not my diet (thanks for that boost, man), and started me on a low dose of Lipitor. Three days later, I was wondering if that was the cause of my crazy ass dreams and googled it–yup, that can sure happen.
I also learned that Lipitor can increase your risk of diabetes. Thanks, doc, like I don’t already have enough strikes against me. So I stopped taking it. But the dreams haven’t stopped. Last night was the worst one yet, involving burnt pieces of people, mostly children.
But it was just a dream, so I’m okay.
I had to wake up early to wake my husband up so he could take his dad to the doctor, but I went back to sleep, so there’s that.
I woke up half an hour later because my mother’s home health nurse showed up. My mother had a knee replacement done last week. That is a whole ‘nother story, my friends. But whatever, I went back to sleep for another little bit.
I finally got up and took a shower and figured out what to wear to my interview, and my husband still wasn’t home. Eventually he made it, bringing his brother for a haircut. He shaved his brother’s head, which was interesting, as I’ve always known him to have long hair.
Then he brought his brother home and dropped me off for my interview. He let me out at the employee entrance, and one of my friends from housekeeping was taking a load of trash out. He was happy to see me, and asked if I was working there again. I told him no, that I was just coming for an interview, and he wished me good luck. I stopped by and said hi to my old assistant manager, who wished me luck, and headed to my interview.
I went into the store and said hi, I’m here to interview with Mr Manager at 230. The girl at the counter raised her eyebrow and said no, you’re here for an interview with me. She seemed mighty offended that I assumed that since Mr Manager asked me to come for an interview with him at 230 that I would be interviewing with him. Jeez, I’m such an idiot.
She told me I would have to wait. Okay, no big deal. I moseyed around and looked at body jewelry for ten minutes while she sassed a customer, wandered to the office, wandered back out, rang up the customer that she’d sassed, rolled her eyes at a coworker’s question, kicked a backpack around behind the cash wrap, and flipped pages on a clipboard.
When she’d made me wait long enough for offending her, she simply walked toward the front of the store without saying a word to me. Her coworker told me she’s ready for you now. All three of us stood at the lease line, me quite awkwardly witnessing my interviewer berate her coworker for bringing some jewelry with her to ask another question.
We sat at a table behind the closed gelato stand to talk. First she handed me a copy of my application and asked me to make sure all of the information was correct. I looked it over and told her that the only change was that I was no longer employed, but since I’d already put that I could start immediately, that didn’t affect anything else on the application.
I also explained that while I’d answered the question about how many jobs I’d had in the past two years with the number three, they were simultaneous jobs, and that I’d maintained steady employment with my most recent employer for the past four and a half years, the first three and a half with a second job. She reassured me that was fine, even thought there was no place on the application to explain that.
No small talk, just four pages of pre-supplied interview questions including when was the last time you shopped with us and what were you shopping for, tell me about a time when you received bad guest service, and who was the best manager you’ve ever had and what did you learn from them. She didn’t care about my answers, but at least she took notes.
When she was done she told me that she would speak with Mr Manager tomorrow and he would give me a call to let me know their decision. I think she was upset that I wasn’t solemn enough about the whole situation, which is funny because the company’s slogan is life’s a party, we’re making it fun.
But I’ll find something out tomorrow. Probably.
My husband picked me back up at the employee entrance. We dropped off his dad’s prescription and went to the hardware store for some supplies to use in our crystal-making endeavor that we had planned for this evening. That, my friends, is yet another story, which you may possibly read about tomorrow when I have the final results.
We went to Walk-On’s for dinner and then hit Target up for two whole hours of date night fun. I got three new books, and here is a picture of them, a la Stephanie at AoaB.
And I totes forgot to take a picture of my new chair for you. It does, however, look very similar to this one, with a little added bird poop:
Anyway, wish me luck for tomorrow!
Tomorrow will wrap up my first week of census interviews, and I’m already ten percent done with my caseload, which will be cut farther when the last new hire is trained up and ready for work.
I’m enjoying it for the most part, but I haven’t had anyone do anything more offensive than hang up on me so far.
We’ll see how next week goes.
Today’s Daily Prompt:
Interview someone — a friend, another blogger, your mother, the mailman — and write a post based on their responses.
A man in a red shirt has agreed to be interviewed; we’ll call him Ian.
I begin with some easy warmup questions, such as his favorite color: it depends on the day, but most of the time blue.
What else can I ask? Favorite number: 33, because I like saying it.
He’s curious as I take notes: what are you doing? I didn’t say that much.
I explain that I’ve been having some problems with autocorrect, and that it takes me twice as long as it should to type anything on my phone anymore.
I move on to another question. If you could do anything for the rest of the day what would you do: hike. Where? Red River Wildlife Refuge. There are still plenty of trails we haven’t seen.
Who’s your favorite celebrity: T Swift. Why? Because she don’t need no man.
I laugh and beg to differ; she needs plenty, in succession. Cause she’s so dreamy, and I like her music.
I ask if he’ll ever shave again: probably not. Why not? Lazy. But I will if you want me to.
I would never ask someone else to remove their hair; depilation is my Achilles heel. I unfortunately spend enough hours a week on it to be diagnosed with an obsessive disorder. But I keep this information to myself so as not to interrupt the interview.
He’s on to me, though: you’re just making these questions up as you go.
I admit the truth of that statement and move on.
What would you ask me? What’s your favorite position?
I apologize to him; I’m sorry I didn’t catch that. He repeats his query with slightly more vulgarity. I sidestep.
That’s a great question.
He is amused.
My next question seems to be a tad inflammatory; he becomes visibly agitated. What do you think of Donald Trump? Fuck Donald Trump. I’ve unfriended people on Facebook because they support him. I can’t really argue this answer, but then I notice something.
Did you just check out my boobs? Yes. Well, I looked at your necklace, and then worked my way down. I don’t remember that necklace. He bought it, so I remind him of that.
You bought it. Yard sale? Yup.
What’s your dream job? He puts some thought into this one before answering. Mechanic. Even though I know I can’t do it anymore.
He counters with a question of his own. What’s yours? I could be the queen of England.
I believe he enjoys this answer.
I’d love that. I’d pee off Big Ben every day; just open a window and go.
I’m not sure how my British readers will take that question and answer set. With a grain of salt, I hope.
I raise my phone to take a picture of him.
Did you take a picture? Yes. Why? To go with your interview.
He is not happy with the picture I took. I took another, later.
What would you name it? Randolph. Also no hesitation.
Where would he live? I’d potty train him and he’d live in the house.
Where would he sleep? Our bed. He says this very matter-of-factly.
You’re gonna pick up s hippo every night? No, I was gonna build him a ramp. I wonder to myself where a hippo ramp would go in our bedroom.
How big do they get? I don’t know; I’ll go look. He googles. Oh. Six hundred pounds. Never mind, I thought they were pot bellied pig size.
We laughed together, and watched a video about a pygmy hippo.