The next cell phone I get will be a cameraphone, or I'm getting one of those $20.00 keychain digital cameras.
Because seriously people, I wish I could make this stuff up.
First, a little background.
Yesterday I got a call literally five minutes after I emailed my resume to a company called MatchMaker.
My first indication that something was amiss should have been that the email address ended in "aol.com." To me that smacks of unprofessional. However, I'm desperate and I'm trying not to be judgmental. You just never know.
On the phone with Mr. MatchMaker, he asks me some rudimentary questions.
He asks how much money I was looking for (How do you politely say "Any!" without sounding desperate?), and if I know how to use PowerPoint (which, if you read my resume, is listed under "Office Monkey Tools I Know How To Use" right under "Banana" and above "Stick to pull ants out of a log").
Then he tells me he needs to meet with me. It will only take 10 minutes.
Ok, great. He gives me directions to his office in Denville. Denville is a 30 minute drive away from where I live.
However you have to also consider it will take you an extra 30 minutes to get to Denville because it would appear that New Jersey drivers on I-280 like to drive really
slow looking out the window.
I now have Shakira's vacant stare burned into my brain from having to stare at an ad for a Latin radio station on the back of the NJ Transit 79 Xpress bus that was in front of me for 10 miles going 5 miles per hour. That's 93.1 on the radio dial for you northern New Jersey blog surfers.
Finally, after realizing that in fact her hips might
lie, I get off the highway and make my way into Denville to Mr. MatchMaker's office.
Wedged between a respectible brick building filled with law and dental offices and a mechanics garage is his "office."
His "office" is one of those old houses turned into offices.
Ok, no big deal. I used to make deliveries to many attorneys in the Lansing area working out of their old-houses-come-offices. Some of them were very nice.
Behind the "office" is his parking lot. The entrace to his office is also in the back. As I approach the building, I realize that Mr. MatchMaker shares his "office" with a place called Sensual Therapeutic Massage, Inc.
I enter the "office" and climb a set of stairs following his voice instructing me to meet him in the back.
I cautiously open a door to reveal the inner sanctum of Mr. MatchMaker.
It's a huge office with a desk in one corner that is covered
in stacks of resumes. Stacks! They literally line this man's desk wall to wall.
It was actually kind of unnerving because I could read them from where I sat. Maybe it's all those years in the legal field or having HIPAA rules smashed into my brain at the Health Science Center in San Antonio, but it felt wrong.
So yes, Bill Wallace, I know that you can type 65 wpm.
The hardest part about entering that office was trying to disguise the look of shock on my face when I finally saw Mr. MatchMaker.
He was a stocky man. He was dressed in a pair of jeans, and a black tank top with an opened button-down shirt over it.
Ok, that's the way Dr. Mad Scientist dresses on weekends when he doesn't want me to drag him anywhere outside the house because he knows I'll be embarrassed by his repulsive attempt to dress like a middle aged man on a cruise to the Bahamas.
Since I didn't have a camera (see my first sentence) I had to draw you a picture of Mr. MatchMaker.
Yes, his hair actually looked like that. Imagine that Bill Gates had a fatter, nerdier, and much less successful brother if you will.
The whole meeting lasted all of five minutes. He asked me the exact same questions he asked me on the phone: "How much do you want?" and "Do you know how to use PowerPoint?"
Then he called up this place I'm assuming he was working with to see if I could interview with them today as they were looking for "a professional looking woman to sit at the front desk and answer phones and such." His point of contact at the company had just gone into a meeting so he had to leave her a message.
So he tells me to go home and he'll call me on my cell when he hears from her.
I hightail as fast as I can out of there.
I can truly say I never fully appreciated the word "skeeved" until I met Mr. MatchMaker in his massage parlor sharing office.
As I'm driving home, I'm listen to WNYC's interview with Suze Orman (Did you know she was a lesbian? Huh. I never would have guessed.) with the volume cranked all the way up so I could easily ignore my phone if it rang.
Of course by the time it hit West Orange it rang.
But lalalalalalalalalalala Suze was telling me that rich lesbians can only leave each other two million dollars if they die as opposed to rich heteros that can leave their significant other billions lalalalalalalalalalala I couldn't hear the phone.
As I was walking into my front door something occured to me: Why did I have to drive 30 minutes to meet with this freak for five minutes?
My answer: I think he was checking me out.
I think he wanted to make sure I wasn't a complete uggo or weighed 600 pounds.
The whole experience freaked me the hell out.
I thought that maybe I should have called him back to go on the interview with the company looking for the "professional lady to sit at the front desk and answer phones," but I do I really want to be doing business with people that do business with this weirdly unprofessional guy?
He never even gave me a business card or his last name.
Ok, I'll cut the company he was allegedly working for some
slack. Hiring a person is a labor intensive job. You have to weed resumes, schedule interviews, and sometimes administer preemployment tests,. However, it's also something that comes with the territory of running your own business.
If I owned a business I'd realize that first impressions are everything (it goes both ways in an interview--they check you out, you check them out). I'd spend the extra money to go with a chain agency to do my hiring if I didn't want to do it myself or at the very least I would find someone that projected a professional demeanor.
This whole ordeal and 1/2 a tank of wasted gas did at least teach me that I will not
be responding to ads that end in "aol.com" and I will not
be going through employee-finders to find a job.
In the meantime it's back to square one. Back to sending my resume to everyone and their brother and hoping it doesn't end up on the desk of some disturbing creepaliscious headhunter.
If you see a crazy looking girl off of Exit 151 of the Garden State Parkway with a cardboard sign up that says "Will Knit For Food" you'll know it's me. Be sure to honk or throw a skein of Red Heart out the window at the very least to show some love.
Labels: Job Hunt