Our family finances took a Frances-sized battering from the crash and burn of a freelance project I unwisely accepted. Maximum hours, minimal results and, in the end, no payment of any consequence.
I took the job on. I couldn't make it work. I felt horrible. Our checkbook felt worse.
Thus, when a temporary Public Relations job appeared in the local newspaper, I saw it as the perfect opportunity to help us dig out of my hole while still working on my book. I called the local agency representing the job, faxed them my resume and set an appointment for interview.
Yes, I was overqualified and it paid less than 20 percent of the salary of my most recent PR job, but, under the circumstances, this should have been a winner for both sides.
I won't name the temporary agency involved, but think green.
After being held 15 minutes after my appointment time in a reception area without air conditioning (a problem for me in a suit, not the other "applicants" there in shorts), I was called in.
No interview would be possible, she said, until I took my skills test. She stationed me at computer on a long folding table.
I acquitted myself on the typing test at 55 w.p.m., got 100 percent on the spelling area and 85 on grammar (apparently you can't rewrite the things on the screen to make them read better, you're only supposed to fix the errors).
"So it's time for the interview?"
"Not until after the Word 97 and Word 2000 tests."
"But I am not applying for a secretarial position."
"The test is a requirement for consideration."
I have worked in Word since there was Word. I spend at least eight hours a day with it up on my computer screen. I can write a letter, format a manuscript, add tables and art, prepare proposals, present budgets, whip up a perfectly formatted press release in ten minutes -- this should have been a breeze.
The on-screen test disabled all help functions and off we went to the land of the clerically arcane. I quickly learned how much I can't do in advanced mail merges. I am a moron for obscure toolbar icons. Apparently, I am not the go-to girl for using the Paintbrush program in Word.
I proved to be a Word wimp.
Fear not, said the proctor, you can take our remedial course and test again.
"But mam, I've worked in p.r. and media for 20 years and have never been called on to use any of these functions."
"You may not realize this, but Word is essential in every job these days. You must be proficient to be employable. You are not employable."
(Memo to self at this point, check financial relationship between Bill Gates and this agency that rhymes with "jelly.")
"Mam, is this a professional or clerical position? If it is a professional position, I would like to show you my portfolio and give you my references. I promise I can exceed your client's expectations."
But apparently not without the remedial course. She added some further insult to my lack of understanding about what it takes to work in the real world and how people who live where I do aren't serious about working anyway.
I apologized for the misunderstanding, told her I was not interested in pursuing a clerical position and headed for the door fighting back the simultaneous urges to cry and kill the woman. (Knowing neither would well support the shreds of professionalism and pride remaining).
She called to me, asking me to come back and complete my profile information. I told her I was not pursuing any position with them. They needed it "for their records" she replied.
I stopped and asked how long it would take. When she said 20 minutes, I knew it was longer than the two of us could spend together at that point without her suffering grievous physical harm.
"I'm sorry; I'm late for a luncheon appointment."
I heard my own words echoed back with a mocking emphasis on the word "luncheon" as I walked out the door.
Nothing does the psyche proud like discovering you've been deluding employers and yourself for decades and are indeed "unemployable."
The scheduled lunch with Rita-the-cool-lawyer-with-the-best-office was an immediate reminder that I could at least pretend to function in polite society.
She suggested a yoga exercise of placing the entire experience in a balloon above my head, popping the balloon and letting the experience dissipate into the irretrievable cosmos.
Easy for her to say. She's employable.
I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up supplies for the wine group I hosted last night. I mentally raced through all the crummy jobs I'd worked to get through college and other transition times in my life. Did I magically become "unemployable" upon my 45th birthday last month? Shouldn't they warn you about these things?
I asked the clerk for a half pound of provolone and she said she could only give me numerous thin slices if I wanted a half pound. She held up the whole piece.
I drew without thought on the Christmas season I spent working at Hickory Farms when Jessica was a baby.
"Slice it about there with a knife and I'll take it," I said pointing to a design on the wrapper.
As she placed the piece on the scale, I was absolutely buoyant to see the digital readout pop up ".52 lbs."
So take that Ms. Rhymes with Belly.
I can still cut the cheese.


Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs