Two weeks ago, I was thrilled to be invited to a job interview that was completely in my wheelhouse. Usually, job postings today ask that a person who calls herself primarily a "writer/editor" is also expected to have experience in social media and nuclear medicine, in addition to being able to speak four languages. But this job posting, more or less, matched my personal qualifications.
So I got up, showered, coiffed my hair and put on my best outfit, and arrived at the job site which is so close to my house, I could smack the roof with a tennis ball.
I was completely stoked, not nervous in the least, and settled down with the two interviewers, one in khakis and another, the HR lady, in a sensible suit and pumps.
The job interview lasted for an hour, and I felt that it went well. Then I was given a writing test which I believe was developed by a dentist.
I left the interview feeling pretty terrific, and told Scott I had a 50-50 chance of getting it. I'm a pessimist, so 50-50 is me being my most optimistic self.
Two weeks went by, and the email came. I didn't get it.
"There were many strong candidates," it began.
I can't remember the rest because my tears fried my Smartphone, and it is currently sitting in rice.
I'd be lying if I said I took it in stride.
At 63, I don't have a lot of time. As I told Scott, I no longer have a future; I have a window.
Besides, this job was pretty attractive for a person who has three dogs, and yearns for a nap every day. I could have worked from home!
I've spent a fortnight trying to figure out what went wrong.
People say you can call the employer and ask them what you did wrong.
This is not a good strategy for someone with the self-esteem of an amoeba.
I'm afraid they might say something like "we don't like your personality" or "you look like you might eat all the sandwiches in the fridge" or worse, "your smell like a cadaver".
So I'm left to speculate on why I didn't win.
After swallowing an entire bottle of antacids, I have come to a conclusion.
I suffer from OJS.
Old Journalist Syndrome.
My husband Scott coined the phrase after witnessing OJS in many of his father's friends.
Back in Warner Troyer's days, those afflicted with OJS wore cravats and medallions, and generally smelled of a combination of Old Spice, Captain Morgan and stale Camels. They could usually be found hanging around the Press Club bar, swapping stories about the time one of them went to Vietnam, or another one divided his time between his day job as reporter and writing speeches for Cabinet ministers.
My experience is not nearly as lofty, but I find myself drifting in and out of daydreams about the good old days padding around Parliament Hill. I realize now that, in interviews, I can come across as Truman Capote at a cocktail party, dropping names that not one millennial would recognize.
I've tried to hide my OJS by embracing new technologies, and mastering the art of a compelling tweet which was easy, considering I was once a kickass headline writer.
Unfortunately, the one thing I can't do is escape my age.
I am old as shit, as far as recruiters and employers are concerned.
Consider the fact that the degree program I took in the 70s, the Bachelor of Journalism, doesn't even exist anymore. I know this because recently I went back to my university to see if I could finish my degree. I had punted it, one credit short, because I got a much cherished job at a newspaper (which folded three years later, but that's another OJS story). I was basically told that my credits were as old as my eggs and I could not realize my dream of getting my first BJ (Bachelor of Journalism).
Fortunately, Carleton University agreed to give me a degree they now call Bachelor of Arts (Open Studies) which it created to stop former computer science students (who left for jobs when high tech was booming) and J students who never finished because they were idiots, from jumping over the falls at Hog's Back when both industries tanked.
This year, I will graduate from Carleton at the age of 63 as part of the Class of 2019. Luckily, much of me will be hidden by a grad gown the size of a moo moo.
I'm hoping being a new grad will help me in my job search. At the very least, I will be able to qualify for a new grad car loan!
It's amazing at my age that I will qualify for perks at both ends of the spectrum: a cheap car loan usually reserved for girls who still have viable eggs, and a free Wednesdays bus pass to visit my geriatric specialist.
In terms of my job search, so far, the new grad thing has been a boon. It's given me the opportunity to take 20 years off my resume which is how I got this job interview.
Too bad I couldn't have done the interview over the phone.
On the phone, I can pass for 40.
Anyway, this month, I decided to sign up for something called "Second Career" which will provide financial assistance for me to go back to school to get a trade or upgrade my skills.
A lot of my friends are weighing in on what I should choose, should I be accepted for the program.
Cousin John thinks I should be a chef. Friend Rose thinks I should be a dog walker, or groomer, something related to dogs, because I love dogs.
On the first, I like to eat, I don't like to cook or do dishes.
On the second, I want someone else to come and walk my damned dogs, and I have never groomed a dog in my life because I don't like to get wet.
I'd like to be Prime Minister, if it could be arranged.
I'm pretty much as qualified as the lot that's vying for the job.
And the country could use a seasoned soul who knows enough to keep her nose out of places it doesn't belong, and who understands, as Nora Ephron once said, that a hat is never a good idea.
So I got up, showered, coiffed my hair and put on my best outfit, and arrived at the job site which is so close to my house, I could smack the roof with a tennis ball.
I was completely stoked, not nervous in the least, and settled down with the two interviewers, one in khakis and another, the HR lady, in a sensible suit and pumps.
The job interview lasted for an hour, and I felt that it went well. Then I was given a writing test which I believe was developed by a dentist.
I left the interview feeling pretty terrific, and told Scott I had a 50-50 chance of getting it. I'm a pessimist, so 50-50 is me being my most optimistic self.
Two weeks went by, and the email came. I didn't get it.
"There were many strong candidates," it began.
I can't remember the rest because my tears fried my Smartphone, and it is currently sitting in rice.
I'd be lying if I said I took it in stride.
At 63, I don't have a lot of time. As I told Scott, I no longer have a future; I have a window.
Besides, this job was pretty attractive for a person who has three dogs, and yearns for a nap every day. I could have worked from home!
I've spent a fortnight trying to figure out what went wrong.
People say you can call the employer and ask them what you did wrong.
This is not a good strategy for someone with the self-esteem of an amoeba.
I'm afraid they might say something like "we don't like your personality" or "you look like you might eat all the sandwiches in the fridge" or worse, "your smell like a cadaver".
So I'm left to speculate on why I didn't win.
After swallowing an entire bottle of antacids, I have come to a conclusion.
I suffer from OJS.
Old Journalist Syndrome.
My husband Scott coined the phrase after witnessing OJS in many of his father's friends.
Back in Warner Troyer's days, those afflicted with OJS wore cravats and medallions, and generally smelled of a combination of Old Spice, Captain Morgan and stale Camels. They could usually be found hanging around the Press Club bar, swapping stories about the time one of them went to Vietnam, or another one divided his time between his day job as reporter and writing speeches for Cabinet ministers.
My experience is not nearly as lofty, but I find myself drifting in and out of daydreams about the good old days padding around Parliament Hill. I realize now that, in interviews, I can come across as Truman Capote at a cocktail party, dropping names that not one millennial would recognize.
I've tried to hide my OJS by embracing new technologies, and mastering the art of a compelling tweet which was easy, considering I was once a kickass headline writer.
Unfortunately, the one thing I can't do is escape my age.
I am old as shit, as far as recruiters and employers are concerned.
Consider the fact that the degree program I took in the 70s, the Bachelor of Journalism, doesn't even exist anymore. I know this because recently I went back to my university to see if I could finish my degree. I had punted it, one credit short, because I got a much cherished job at a newspaper (which folded three years later, but that's another OJS story). I was basically told that my credits were as old as my eggs and I could not realize my dream of getting my first BJ (Bachelor of Journalism).
Fortunately, Carleton University agreed to give me a degree they now call Bachelor of Arts (Open Studies) which it created to stop former computer science students (who left for jobs when high tech was booming) and J students who never finished because they were idiots, from jumping over the falls at Hog's Back when both industries tanked.
This year, I will graduate from Carleton at the age of 63 as part of the Class of 2019. Luckily, much of me will be hidden by a grad gown the size of a moo moo.
I'm hoping being a new grad will help me in my job search. At the very least, I will be able to qualify for a new grad car loan!
It's amazing at my age that I will qualify for perks at both ends of the spectrum: a cheap car loan usually reserved for girls who still have viable eggs, and a free Wednesdays bus pass to visit my geriatric specialist.
In terms of my job search, so far, the new grad thing has been a boon. It's given me the opportunity to take 20 years off my resume which is how I got this job interview.
Too bad I couldn't have done the interview over the phone.
On the phone, I can pass for 40.
Anyway, this month, I decided to sign up for something called "Second Career" which will provide financial assistance for me to go back to school to get a trade or upgrade my skills.
A lot of my friends are weighing in on what I should choose, should I be accepted for the program.
Cousin John thinks I should be a chef. Friend Rose thinks I should be a dog walker, or groomer, something related to dogs, because I love dogs.
On the first, I like to eat, I don't like to cook or do dishes.
On the second, I want someone else to come and walk my damned dogs, and I have never groomed a dog in my life because I don't like to get wet.
I'd like to be Prime Minister, if it could be arranged.
I'm pretty much as qualified as the lot that's vying for the job.
And the country could use a seasoned soul who knows enough to keep her nose out of places it doesn't belong, and who understands, as Nora Ephron once said, that a hat is never a good idea.
Wonderfully brilliant as usual!I'll be your Deputy PM but only if I can work from home!
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