My own worst interview to date

You ever meet one of those people who is trying to make interviews "fun?"

As I was finishing law school and interviewing for jobs, I met one.  He seemed so grown up to me at the time, but in hindsight, he was probably about 30 and decided he'd try something different.  God, did he hate me. 

He became what I can only describe as apoplectic.  

Unfortunately, in reality, I gave only the first answer.  I'm normally a big fan or getting creative and silly, but you know how it is; you get your smart girl navy suit on, you practice faking that you understand the Uniform Commercial Code, and you walk into the interview in your sensible heels.  You aren't in the right mindset for some newly-adulted-grownup to try to get fun and spicy with his questions.  It's too bad really.  He'd have loved the magical corn dogs.

the almost sleepover

 

 

 

It was possible she received too much affirmation as a child.  

What else could explain the way the little bedwetter trotted off so confidently to sleepovers?  Was it because deep down she knew she'd never stay at that sleepover all night?

Whatever the reason, her family and the sleepover friend's family went through the ruse every time.

She - let's call her Lamb Panderson, she's no one you know - and Laura (the most common victim) would play for hours, eat dinner with the family, and watch the sun set as if all was well.  When it got late enough for bed, Lamb would wait as her friend's mother put a rubber sheet under the fitted sheet on the double bed.  Yes, it was a little awkward because obviously the sheet hadn't been there the night before for Laura, but it wasn't excruciating or anything.  Laura's mom was a sweet woman who made it seem casual as if she moved around the house nightly waterproofing various furniture.

For such a social kid, Lamb was definitely a homebody.  Kids came to her house more often than not.  Her parents welcomed and fed everyone, and tried to keep them happy.  That was the way she liked it.  The adventurous friends seemed fine with it, but sooner or later the sleepover invitation would come, and her mom would give her The Talk.  The Talk was brief and the message was simple:  "You have to take turns sometimes.  They want sleepovers at their houses too, Honey," and "I'll call ahead about the rubber sheet."  And that was how she'd end up at Laura's.

Sighing, the little bedwetter would pack her little bag with mostly good intentions, a healthy side of candy, and head to stay at the friend's house the entire night this time.

However, as her dad drove her to Laura's, he'd give her The Other Talk.  This message was simple and less brief:  "If you want to come home at any time, just call.  ANY TIME.  I'm only five minutes away and can come get you.  I mean, if at ANY TIME YOU HAPPEN TO THINK 'Hey, I'd rather sleep in my own bed,' you just tell Laura's mom - she won't mind waking up at ANY HOUR of the night - and I will zoom over here and rescue you from this place called Not Home."  Did I mention the dad also preferred everyone at home together?  The little apple fell not far from the 6'4" tree.  

Fortunately, Laura's mom never woke up in the middle of the night, not because Lamb stayed, but because the ruse usually ended by 10pm as soon as they were in bed and the lights were out.  Mysteriously, the dark usually triggered a stomachache, easily blamed on aforementioned candy.  That's why the packing of the bag was crucial.  In truth, little Lamb could hold her candy.  She had the constitution of a junk yard dog.  Her father knew this, but there was no reason for other families to know.  And by 10:15pm, Lamb was home and happy while Laura tried to sleep on that crinkly rubber sheet.

The next morning, Lamb would appear for breakfast, her mom would sigh and look at the dad and roll her eyes.  He'd say, "What?  She wanted to come home."  They'd all eat pancakes and pretend next time might the charm.

My Almost Real Memoir: 1983

1983

     Her sister had left for college two months ago.  Since then, Leslie's room had become  her favorite place to explore.  It's true what they say:  When the cat's away, the mice will steal your Harlequin romances.

     From her seat on the carpet she heard vacuuming.  A bit softer in the distance, she heard lawn mowing.  Both parents were busy.  She was free to be nosy.  She ran her finger along the spines of the high school yearbooks...1981, 1982, 1983.  She pulled the newest one and opened it to her sister's senior class.

     To Pam, the class of 1983 looked like glamorous grownups, like people who were old enough to be lifeguards or even waiters.  Having a sister almost six years older was fancy.  It was like living with a celebrity.  She sneaked into that bedroom so often she knew it better than her own.  She knew every page of the mostly empty diary.  She knew every signature in every yearbook.  She knew which girls were friends and which would steal a boyfriend.

   The first thing she did was look up each of her sister's ex-boyfriends.  First was Vans Boy.  He drove a TransAm and wore slip-on checkerboard skate shoes.  No one in Pam's sixth-grade had these, but Leslie said they would find out about them soon.

     Next was Sturdy Boy.  He lived in the neighborhood and was sturdy in size and dependability.  Sturdy Boy was the kind of guy who was nice to a little sister, but not exciting enough to be a boyfriend for every long.

     She flipped the pages to find Dramatic Boy.  Dramatic Boy.had a moustache and had a last name that sounded exotic, like he might be from Mexico or Tampa.   One night Dramatic Boy had broken up with Leslie in their back yard.  Her father had escorted him to his car quickly.  Dad didn't have a lot of patience with dramatic boys or Floridians.

     After the boyfriends, she went through her normal routine:  Page 27, the boy who had a moped before anyone else.  At first she'd thought it was because he was rich, but Leslie said he had some sort of young exotic arthritis.  "Hrumph," Pam thought, "Still sort of lucky," she grumbled.

  After Moped Boy cam the two sets of brothers.  One set lived across the street.  They were always playing guutars.  The other pair lived next door and were always playing basketball.  Pam noticed that Leslie's friends had crushes on the oldest brother in each set.  She didn't see any big difference between the four herself.  They all just seemed tall and noisy to her.

     Finally, she found Leslie's senior picture.  Leslie never had trouble posing for pictures like the rest of the family. Her smile was always ready and confident.  In Christmas pictures, the rest of them looked shocked as though the camera snapping their photo was the first they'd ever seen.  In some photos, they all seemed to have been struck with temporary bouts of palsy or had one eyelid glued down.  Not Leslie, however.  There she sat, staring proudly from the Yellow Jacket yearbook, as if to say, "Watch out, world!  The future belongs to me and my Pat Benatar haircut."

     "Pammy," her mom.called.  "Did you finish cleaning the bathroom?"  Of course not.  Quickly she slipped the yearbook back into the bookcase, and hustled back out of the room.  She always left the door open so it would feel like her sisterwasn't so far away.

My Almost Real Memoir 1989

1989

     She stepped into the wetsuit.  It had long sleeves and legs, covering her completely.  They could have been preparing for somewhere much colder than Lake Murray in April.  Struggling with the zipper, she finally got it closed from navel to neck.  She felt exotic like a sea lion or one of those hotdogs from The North with the casing.

    She'd never been to The North, but that's how she thought of it:  The North.   And she'd never have dared to eat one of those foreign hotdogs.  Her family had staunch opinions on how hotdogs should be.  They were in the business after all.

     "Do you want the green or the blue?" he asked pointing to the jetskis.  Their friends floated on rafts near the dock.  David held up his Miller Lite and yelled, "Green!  Always the green.  It's the fastest, and the blue one stalls.  He wants you to choose the blue one."

     "Asshole," he muttered towards David, but she could tell by his smile what David had said was true.  "Okay, you remember how to start?"

     "' Course." She slipped into the water near the green jetski.
 
     "Get it, Pam," Crystal called holding up her Big Gulp cup filled with Mountain Dew plus something alcoholic.  They were 18 and not picky.  There was clear alcohol or brown alcohol.  Period.

     You could always drink at the lake house.  His dad was divorced.  She didn't know many divorced people.  That was exotic too.  And his dad was at work today.  Her dad would've been watching from the window making sure everyone was safe, while her mom washed dishes and told him to relax.  But no one was at this window.  Too much "exotic" could feel unsettling.

   She pushed the jetski away from the dock and treaded water.  Then, lying on the black foot pad and reaching for the handlebars, she twisted the gas grip a little.  It eased forward, her legs trailing behind in the water.

     When she felt ready, she gave it more gas.  It reminded her of driving her old moped-- if her moped had been made for a sea lion or coney island hotdog.  Finally, she gunned it a little, pulled her knees up under her, then popped up to a stand.  She was doing it.  And she had gotten up as fast as him, and faster than David or the other guys.  She never said things like that aloud, but that didn't mean she didn't notice.

     She flew along bumping over boat wakes, bending her knees slightly to take the waves smoothly.  Cutting a circle back towards the group, she prepared.  They were cheering and waving.  As she got closer, their eyes widened.  She steered right towards them, but at the last minute, cut the other direction hard.  She pushed the tail of the jetski as deep as it would go.  The water sprayed a perfect rooster tail over the entire group, dock, towels and coolers.

   When she stopped they were dripping and whooping.  She smiled smugly.  Definitely the biggest spray of the day. 

     Just then, an odd whiny noise caught everyone's attention.  They looked towards the center of the lake.  A vehicle was passing in the distance.  It was sort of like a jetski, but also not at all like one.  The group grew silent.  What in the world was that bulky monstrosity?  Two passengers rode, one seated behind the other.  They steered it like a motorcycle.  No one stood.  Where was the sport in that?

     "What is THAT?" she asked.
      "They're new," he said somberly.  I guess they're for people who can't jetski.  They're called Waverunners."  The group watched quietly until it was out of sight.

     "Ew," she said.
      "Yeah...ew."
       Not exotic.