The Curse of the Graduate: Job Hunting


There is a particular necessary evil that people don’t talk about. It’s the big pink, overly glittered elephant everyone has encountered but never warns others about. No, it’s not swimsuit season or getting through puberty. It’s the inevitable process of looking for a job.

            It’s horribly uncomfortable this pinnacle of mind games and my current reality. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting because no one has ever talked to me about it. “Get a degree and you’ll get a job.” That’s been the mantra of my life and the frequent advice I’ve received from adults. After graduation, I thought I was set. How could I have known I had gotten it so wrong?

            It doesn’t help that I’ve been given advice from people that job hunted over two decades ago, when the economy was peachy. Thanks to today’s global situation and lack of employment, that big pink elephant is now a gargantuan brontosaurus that wears everything Liberace wore throughout his life. It’s intimidating to say the least.

            Another mistake was majoring in a subject that doesn’t have specific employment. It’s not like I studied medicine and subsequently would become a doctor. My career choice is quite unclear. Multiple paths could be taken with it –or none whatsoever- and companies despise that ambiguity. Be a Finance Major; Biology, Business, anything that is relevant to society. Don’t major in Arts or Humanities. They’ll regard you like you are some kind of dying breed.

            After months of going through numerous websites, newspapers classifieds, reading all kinds of articles about landing your dream job, interviewing and interviewing again, I have come to a solid conclusion. Companies don’t really want to hire you. They say they do, they print out ads, they spread the word, but it’s not so you get a chance to grow as a person and accomplish something. It’s so they can entertain themselves by stringing you along the same way they once were. They have a terrible sense of humor.

            I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m trying to compensate my bruised ego and shattered self esteem by insulting everyone who hasn’t given me a job. Yeah, that’s possible. But after spending the better part of the year adjusting to all the rules, scenarios and appropriate behavior that is required just to be considered as a candidate for a position, I have made it my mission to compose a thorough analysis and inform you accurately as to why job hunting is absolute bullshit.
           
            The first step towards your months of hell is Preparation. Case in point, an updated résumé- a piece of paper that’s supposed to summarize your entire professional life, or lack thereof, in a structure that makes no narrative sense.

I studied Literature so basically, I wrote my way through college. I wrote narrative, argumentative and research essays, thesis, biographies, and poems. I had to wade through the words of Frost, Borges, Foucault and find a concrete meaning behind their words. It was hardcore.

 It was surprising and soul demolishing to realize all those years of education and writing techniques had not prepared me to accomplish the simple task of writing a résumé. You have to list the number of jobs you have, the skills you have acquired, which never seem to be enough, and your related interests; all of this without really writing a single real sentence, just phrases. Now, for a Literature major, this is the definition of torture. I felt handicapped.

I have come to the conclusion that résumés were made just to make you feel constantly bad about yourself. All it does is make you look back on your life and all the crap experiences you’ve had working at supermarkets and retail stores that have amounted to no relevant wisdom whatsoever. Not to mention it takes no more than a small paragraph’s worth of space in the whole page. Now you need to fill out the rest of it with your sublime education and quite impressive GPA that no one is going to pay attention to because they are too flabbergasted by your absolute lack of experience.

But you have no choice. You have to push through it, describe your expertise and talent with the least amount of adjectives possible (adjectives are too much information) whilst cringing every time you pause to read it. When you are finished, you will be left with this immense sense of pride, the same you’d feel if you’d just survived a war because you completed this piece of paper that you will probably need to edit for the next job you apply for and relive the torture yet again.

But for now, you’re done! All you have to do is print them out and send as many copies as you can to whoever is hiring. Because let’s face it, at this point, you’re willing to take almost anything so you can pay your cell phone bill and support your addiction to Cosmopolitan Magazine (insert your particular addiction here.)

Now that the Preparation stage is done somewhat fairly, you can move on to the Search stage that is just as shattering to your self esteem as the Preparation stage, but it comes with an undertone of amusement that is quite refreshing. It’s the amusement that’s intertwined with humanity’s incoherence.

There are many ways to search for a job these days but they all result in the same feeling of desperation and inadequacy. I used to think that when the time came for me to job hunt, I would see several options that would solicit all my abilities – a great writer, creative, good at team work- and I’d say “That’s the job for me.” And because I was everything they’d ask for, I’d have the job.

As Clint Eastwood would say, “Keep dreaming, shit ball.”

First of all, there is no such thing as an ad that asks for a writer. They’ll call it editorial assistant or some other kind of euphemism. Writers are not wanted. Second, there are no ads for editorial assistants or some other kind of euphemism. We’re like the kids in high school you will not remember in the class reunion.

So where does that leave you? Searching for anything that’s related to the Communications field that will pay you minimum wage.  Now that the list has narrowed significantly, you can go through it carefully. You may get excited halfway through a job description, envisioning yourself in a hip environment with awesome people, doing something you’ll enjoy even if they don’t pay you too much. Your fingers are already twitching to click the “Apply for Job” button on the screen. Until you get to the Requirements, which I can only describe as the emotional equivalent of thinking you were about to get the girl before she sends you all sorts of mixed messages you know you’ll never be able to figure out.

            As you start reading the requirements, you see yourself being kicked off of the competition. Seriously, imagine a giant boot that kicks you into oblivion.

-         Background in Journalism, Communications
Does Literature count?
-         Must have work three years of experience in the field.
Your résumé is laughing at you now.
-         Must have been published in various Magazines/Newspapers.
Shit.

            Basically, you need to have extensive experience and well seasoned writing skills in order to get a job as -not an editor or columnist- as an unpaid intern. Have you lost all hope yet and are sitting in a corner diving head deep into a gallon of ice cream? I am.

            So by now, you’re considering any other job with no requirements whatsoever. Apparently, there are a lot of requests for a female masseuse with no experience necessary. That seems like a good career alternative, maybe.

            After extensive search through papers, websites (all except Craigslist), and temp agencies, you manage to send out ten out of the fifty copies of your résumé. The third step is the one that will make you lose your mind if you haven’t already: the Waiting step. Sending out a résumé is like throwing a message in a bottle to the ocean and waiting for it to reply. The months can pass by and nothing. You have emotionally moved on from the job you were hoping to hear from when suddenly you get a call. You’re confused at first and then you’re mildly excited. But then you wonder, “Why are you calling me now? I gave up on you a long time ago.” It’s the same tug-of-war feeling you get when a guy calls you after three months, expecting you’re still excited for him to ask you out again. It just doesn’t work. But since you have nothing else to fall back on, you become enthusiastic again. Now you have acceded to an Interview.

            Holy crap! Actual human contact will happen now! For sure you’ll do great. How hard can it be? In this glimpse of a moment you regain a smidgen of the self esteem you’ve lost through the whole process that you will undoubtedly lose yet again after the interview is done.

If you ever thought the first date is nerve wracking, you have not been to a job interview. It’s unnerving to have someone watch every move you make, your posture, the way you speak, what you are wearing. Of course, all of this is nothing compared to how they will judge you for the answers you give to their mind boggling questions. I’m telling you, the Sphinx trained these people. They’ll throw at you the most ambiguous, trick questions you will ever hear.
So, why did you apply for this job?
Umm... I need the money?

            What is it about our company that interests you?
                        Well, you were hiring so…

How much are you looking to get paid? (WARNING: Trick question)
Fuck it… I’ll never get this one right.

            Do you work well under pressure?
                        I’m already shaking in my boots. What does that tell you?

Would you be willing to work on Sundays?
If I say no, you won’t hire me.

            How would you define sexual harassment?
                        Are you about to teach me?

What is your biggest weakness? (TRICK QUESTION: they want you response with weakness/strength like “I’m a workaholic”. But you don’t know this)
            Kryptonite. No, no wait! I was kidding!         

If you see a colleague stealing, what would you do?
What kind of question is this?!

Why should I hire you?
            Have you forgotten you took ALL of my self esteem?

By this point, you most certainly don’t have the job. Even if you were optimistic and answered the best way you could, it’s not the answer they were looking for because even they don’t know what answer they want to hear. Keep in mind they resemble a woman who is a complete tease and has no idea what she wants until she sees it. And you are not it.

However, hanging on to your last shred of hope, you believe them when they tell you they will call soon enough to let you know their answer and we jump back to the Waiting step. It could be endless. Years can go by and you’re still going to be waiting for that call and every time you think about it, it chips off a tiny bit more of your self-respect. We hate this step.

Finally, the last step is divided in two. Depending how the Interview goes, you move on to You-got-the-job step or Deal-with-it step. We already know the latter is more likely to take place.

By now, you are an unrecognizable version of what you used to be- insecure, desperate and bitter. Seriously, this is how depression starts.

There’s no silver lining to the five steps. They equally suck and are as inescapable as death, taxes and cellulite. There’s just no going around it.

The only and questionable bright side is that you will go on so many horrible, embarrassing job interviews that eventually, you’ll do well enough and land a job that doesn’t make you contemplate applying for the no experience masseuse position. It sounds too good to be true.

The Death of Unicorns



It would be an obvious observation, blatant even, that I have failed you all. Clearly, I didn’t post twice every week. It’s discernible that my words, once so full of hope and promise, quickly fizzled into an empty poetic oath. I apologize.

It would be a conclusive statement that you are questioning openly my integrity as a writer, the expertise that I pour into my pieces. You can even go as far as saying that it couldn’t be more transparent how full of crap I am. And you may be right. The lack of a single post in two months is self explanatory. I don’t deserve to be a blogger.

To add more pain into the festering injury, I involved the well being of unicorns into my oath. What have they ever done to me? Nothing! How could I so openly make them the target of punishment if I were ever to break my oath? Probably because I considered I cared a great deal for unicorns and if their safeness was at stake, I wouldn’t turn my back on them. Clearly, that wasn’t true.
           
            But amidst the cloud of self doubt, self sabotage and procrastination that has blinded me for two months, I found the last speck of common sense I have left and decided it was time to come back. Your disappointment is explicit and I hope my regrets are equally undeniable.
            I hope you give me another chance.
           
            Sincerely,
            M.

PS: Did I use way too many synonyms for the word “obvious” in that post? 

PPS: In all seriousness, I’ve been working on some updates to the layout of the blog and it has taken me a while –not that it should have- to get it together. I also have thousands of ideas that I hadn’t organized and it was making it very hard for me to sit down and write. So to all you eight readers out there, thanks for the patience.

The Solemn Oath

          I have become exceedingly brilliant at a particular routine over the past few weeks. This is how it usually goes. A magnificent idea is cooked up inside my brain. It’s beautiful; a soufflé of a story, perfect in its simplicity yet you can clearly see the genius behind it. I skip and hop towards my laptop, excitement beaming out of me because I have a new story for my blog and it’s going to be the funniest, most fantastic entry ever posted by any blogger so far.

            Then as the laptop starts up, and I stare into the blank page that is aching for my words to be laid on it, my mind freezes over the pressuring task of turning this amazing idea into a coherent narrative. Brain tilts and soufflé idea inevitably deflates until it looks like sad pudding.

            I try my best to stay positive, thinking the idea will come back to me in its perfect splendor like it did before, but every time I have a vague flashback of what the story could have been, I realize the original pizzazz is gone. All I will be left with is a cheap replica that is trying really hard to convince you it’s as great as the original you never got to read.

            This event repeats itself a few times a week with intervals of searching for inspiration from other blogs and forums. But the efforts have been futile.



           
           After more than enough weeks of staring at a blank page that is sick and tired of looking back at my confused face, I had an epiphany. I quickly understood the reason why stories keep seeping away like sand running through my fingers. I don’t have an obligation, a contract that obligates me to write frequently and therefore, ignore all the creative excuses I come up with at the moment of typing the first few letters.

            I really need to tidy up my room.  (Never end up doing it.)
            Whoa, who am I? (Shakespeare is not impressed, I’m sure.)
             I don’t have the right music on.
            Holy crap! The Fifth Element is on for the one hundred millionth time!

            There can’t be any more excuses or ruined soufflé ideas. So as of this moment on, I do solemnly swear to get  over my intense interest of repeatedly watching The Fifth Element and post at least two entries per week until my brain is as shriveled and empty of creativity as a raisin (raisins are pretty uncreative). After that, I’ll go back to watching the same movies over and over again until I can flawlessly repeat the dialogue.

            PS. You didn’t really care about this oath, did you? Yeah. Thought so.
           



            PS. You didn’t really care about this oath, did you? Yeah. Thought so.
           

The Family Gathering


Have you ever gone to a party and thought would anyone really miss me if I weren’t here? I personally never have but I had to learn the answer to this question the hard way just a few weeks ago.

            Remember my failed attempt to write about Mom so I would no longer get invited to family events and lower my chances of looking like a loser in front of everyone? I guess Mom thought the right punishment wasn’t shielding me from public view but exposing me as soon as possible, therefore making me go to a family party of Mom’s father’s side of the family. I detail this sectioning because Mom’s side of the family is almost an entire town, so segmenting is essential.

            I was actually quite chuffed about attending. It was in a nice piece of land of some distant cousin, with a barn and horses and plantation fields. But it wasn’t just my love for fresh air and rural surroundings that triggered my excitement. This side of the family, which we’ll call the Villas, is a group that rarely gets together, therefore I barely know them and more importantly, they barely know me. They haven’t seen me make a fool of myself or display accidentally inappropriate social behavior. They haven’t yet referred to me as shy, or a wallflower. They had no idea what I was like.

The reason I am known by the rest of my family as just that girl who rarely talks and is somewhat dry with everyone is because my sweet and charismatic nature pales in comparison to Big Brothers dashing smile, good looks, and utter adeptness to making people like him. So when time came for people to talk to me and ask me what was up in my life, writing and being a Literature major just wasn’t as cool as stories of windsurfing or month long trips to Australia.  I never stood a chance!

Not this time, though. I decided it was my time to correct some ill fitting portrayal of my personality that had been established too long ago. I was going to demonstrate my fun side, get along with everyone, be the first to strike up a conversation and not wait to be approached. I was going to behave like the social butterfly Big Brother has always been credited with being. It was MY turn.

            However, this goal was placed on the back burner when more pressing issues developed. The farm, naturally, was a good few miles away from civilization including paved roads. It took a while and a few wrong turns to figure it out, not to mention rocky trails that were slowly murdering my car tires. This all might seem like little bumps on the road to success, where I’d demonstrate how irresistibly adorable I am, but the truth is when you’re as hungry as I was because supposedly I was on my way to a great feast and had decided not to eat in advance, all the small things like getting lost or feeling like the road is raping your new car tires become all the more annoying.

             Later than sooner, we found our way through the plantation to a large gazebo propped on the top of a hill, next to a horse stable and a field of plantain trees. I felt a tiny ripple of uneasiness as I saw the group of people chatting casually and laughing. This was my chance to be called a delight, a bubbly and alluring young woman as opposed to that girl who’s sitting over there alone. 

            It started off great. The few people I recognized knew me and liked me. The others seemed very glad to meet me and spend time with me. But as I was making progress I couldn’t ignore the loud growl my stomach was making. 

            Stomach: Who… the hell… do you think you are? Do I need to scream any louder?! Feed me already!

            In my attempt to be liked I had completely forgotten about the starvation mode I was inflicting on myself. I made my way to the refreshments table while still engaging in conversation with a few people around. Hungry as I was, I didn’t want to get full on crackers and cheese because the smells of a very promising lunch were lingering in the air. I only had a few whole wheat crackers and grapes and told Stomach to deal with it in the meantime. I was too excited about the progress of my social skills to worry about eating.  I was even asked if I wanted to go get a drink at the bar.

            Stomach: But…

            Me: Save it! Stop being a whiny bitch!

            If my stomach could’ve sighed in defeat, it so would have at that moment. But let’s not get carried away and start attributing personal characteristics to organs. That would just be stupid.

            We walked towards a beautiful spot where a large tree was encircled by rustic wooden benches. My companions helped themselves to cold beers from a cooler that was placed next to a table with aligned liquor bottles on it. I felt like red wine and thankfully, or should I said tragically, there was an open bottle next to the Grey Goose convincing me to try it. 

We sat down with our drinks and the conversation flowed. We spoke about school, politics, family... I was so pleased with myself, participating in a conversation that lasted more than three minutes with family members. I wasn’t worrying about hitting a dead end in a subject. I would keep asking questions about their lives and be genuinely interested. I figured people never get tired of talking about themselves.

            My plan was working magnificently until I felt a dull but persistent pain, like the glowing hurt of the aftermath of a punch right in the gut. I tried  to ignore it, thinking it was probably the hunger growling once again and it would soon calm down because lunch was about to be ready. But it intensified like someone had reached inside me and was squeezing continually with malicious intent. 

            It was then I realized I had made the biggest foul you could ever make at a party. I had started drinking with only crackers and grapes in my system, which is basically a teaspoon of carbs and an ounce of water and sugar. What the hell was I thinking? I was surprised at the amount of pain I was feeling considering I had only had a glass of wine, if that. I would understand if I had been chugging beer or doing shots after shots, but a glass? Was I that much of a rookie that a glass of cheap red wine was going to take me down without even experiencing the pleasure of tipsiness?

            Stomach: You know I’m sensitive!

            Me: You’re a pussy is what you are!

             I gradually stepped out of the conversation to just nod and laugh at everyone else’s comments. I controlled my breathing hoping it would tone down the pain but then a wave of nausea took over me.

            Oh, God no. Please don’t let me throw up in front of all these people. If there was anything worse than being known as the shy, awkward girl it’s being known forever as the vomit girl. There’s no moving past that. 

            I tried the logical route through my problem. I grabbed a bottle of water and drank it sip by sip, hoping it would dilute the pathetic amount of alcohol and I’d feel better. All I achieved was feeling bloated and consequently forming a visible bump that made me look like I was three months pregnant. 

            “Lunch is ready!” Someone yelled and everyone pretended to ignore it, waiting for the first four people who would be considered gluttons to get up and help themselves before the rest would follow.

            Like any helpless grown person would do after trying every possible solution to their problem and failing, I went in search of my mother and her endless wisdom. 

            I tapped her on the shoulder like a two year old would. “I don’t feel well,” I said groggily.

            Her brows instantly frowned in worriment. “What’s the matter honey?”

            “My… tummy hurts.”  I felt like an idiot saying those words, like I couldn’t handle it on my own; like after graduating college and having gone through puberty and early adulthood, I still didn’t know how to manage a tummy ache. But this wasn’t any regular tummy ache. This was the there-might-be-a-hole-in-my-stomach-and-there’s-excessive-bleeding-and-the-gastric-juices-are-digesting-my-own-blood kind of pain. I saw some sort of reenactment of something like this on the Health Channel when I was little and the person didn’t really feel much pain. Just felt tired and fell asleep and died. Okay, maybe it wasn’t like this but that’s what my seven year old brain absorbed and it has always stuck with me.

            Mom’s logical mind, of course, didn’t go anywhere near this assessment of mine. “Aw, honey. Why don’t you eat something? You’ll feel better.”

            Strangely, this made sense. I was almost certain I needed to eat even though my body was contradicting its need with this overwhelming nausea. But I had to give it a try. 

            I stood in line for the buffet and the smells that were appetizing just a few moments ago were now unbearable. The entrée was a roasted pig. Yeah, the whole thing just sitting there with its pained face all charred, its mouth open. Normally, this is not a sight that’s unpleasant. It means suckling juicy meat and crunchy fatty skin. These are all good things. Even vegetarians would be tempted. However, this was the first time I was ready to haul ass away from food. 

            Come on, come on, you can do this. Just a little food will do you good. I decided to get a few pieces of lean meat and anything else that hadn’t been cooked in fat would do me wonders. I saw a huge pot of white rice and felt relieved. That was until I lifted the lid. The smell of pork belly was so concentrated, I gagged. The rice had been cook with rendered pork fat. Keep it together.

            I settled for yellow rice. The line came to a halt and I overheard an argument in front of me. Little Brother was being offered a pig’s ear by a slightly drunk and obnoxious family member. Apparently pigs’ ears were the most delicious part and you couldn’t possibly turn it down. But Little Brother was no fool. He laughed it off and said no but it didn’t end there. Obnoxious drunk family member turned to me and said, “You! You’re not going to turn me down, are ya’? Come on! This is delicious!”

            Then you eat it! He wiggled the wrinkled piece of “meat” a few inches away from my face, the shiny, greasy cartilage poking out of the bottom. My plastic plate shook dangerously in my hands and it took all I had to not puke on his shoes. 

            I laughed nervously. “No, thank you.” 

            “Come on! You’re gonna love it!” he yelled in a somewhat menacing tone, probably wanting to say “If you don’t eat it now, I’ll stuff it down your throat!”

            Despite my nausea and pain, I still wanted to be liked by my newfound family members and make a good impression. I couldn’t refuse them or appear to be too girly or stuck up not to take a piece of dead ear. So I said, “Okay”, and ended up with a pig’s ear on my plate.

            I made it to a seat near some people. My plan was to eat incredibly slowly and follow it with a swig of water. Every bite was torturous. The movement of my jaw was mechanical as I chewed the piece of bland meat, feeling it roll on my tongue, chomping it from side to side in my mouth. After every monstrous swallow, I gasped for air and muted it with a drink of water. It was not a nice sight, I’m sure, for anyone. I went from being the pleasant girl to the possibly bulimic girl who was having trouble with a simple plate of food. 

            Last was the godforsaken ear, laying there disgustingly on my plate. For one split millisecond, I considered eating it in front of everyone. Maybe this would get me back in their good graces. Maybe they’d figure there was nothing wrong with me. Or maybe, I’d just be the girl who ate a pig’s ear for no good reason.

            Screw this. I was done with trying to eat and it wasn’t making me feel any better. I tossed the plate onto the trash, hoping nobody saw me not eat the pig’s ear and left the gazebo. I needed to lie down, collapse, throw up… anything but not in front of people. 

            I walked down a gravel path in the blistering heat, opened the door of my car and gently lied down on the back seat, the accumulated heat on the leather burning me for a moment. I left the door open so some breeze would come in and my legs could hang from the edge of the seat.
 
 Very soon everything went dark and my breathing was steady. I could only feel the strong breeze that would cool my perspiring skin every now and then and sound of crunching gravel as people passed by me. I wondered what they were thinking if they noticed me. I was lying there in a very unladylike manner with my legs dangling, my arms thrown back and my mouth opened. I must have either seemed like the most awesome party animal or just a pathetic drunk. Probably the latter one but I couldn’t care less. I was just blissful that the pain was slowly subsiding.

            I was waiting for the sound of footsteps to intensify in my direction and hear someone say “Are you all right? Do you need help?” But no such thing happened. I tried to excuse them by thinking they must’ve not seen me but it was quite hard to miss such a display. But the sound of steps faded and I was alone again.

            Slowly regaining full consciousness, I wondered how much time had passed. I limply lifted my left hand and saw from my watch that about forty five minutes had passed and no one had wondered where I was. I hadn’t heard my name being called or any alarming tone swarming the distant chatter at the gazebo. It didn’t bother me so much that other people didn’t care. They were probably relieved I wasn’t around. But Mom knew I wasn’t feeling well and had demonstrated genuine concern. Surely she would be looking for me, wondering where I was, and causing everyone to feel alarmed that her daughter was missing. 

            I laid there for ten more minutes, hoping that someone would come. Anyone. I didn’t care if it was the hyperactive ten year old that kept kicking a soccer ball and yelling ‘Gooooooooal’ with all his might or whining every time someone played better than he did. Someone had to miss me.

            There was no such luck.

            After those ten minutes, feeling much better apart from my bruised ego, I made my way back to the gazebo that seemed to be doing just fine without me. Did they not know I could’ve had a hole in my stomach and died in my car for hours while no one had bothered to find me? Some family!

            Amidst the small groups that had formed, I spotted Mom chatting incessantly with her cousins. I made my way to her and stood there like a creep until she took notice of me. And she had the nerve to look at me and smile.

            “Hey! Where have you been?”

            Her lack of concern was infuriating but at least she had wondered where I was. 

            “You were looking for me?”  I asked hopefully.

            “Oh, no!” Like that was the most charming, ridiculous idea she had heard all day.  “I just asked around for you but no one seemed to know where you were.”
            “That’s it? That’s all you did?

“Yup. Come and sit with us!” She said that like it was the most wonderful idea. But since I had destroyed any chance at making a real connection with anyone there, I sat next to my mother for the rest of the afternoon being awkward, shy and shadowed by Big Brother. As always.