Fired before 'Hired'

Everyone has that first, dreaded job interview. The one that makes your stomach travel up to your throat and stay there until you know you are safely out of the interviewer's building. The interview that is put on the map as one of the worst conversations ever had with a human being. No? Not you? Maybe it's me, but interviews provide me with an upset stomach from the moment a date and time is confirmed with the interviewer. I might as well tell them to just forget it. I WILL screw it up. How are you supposed to have a 20 minute conversation with someone and allow them to judge you on that meeting for what could turn into the rest of your career? It's like my personality shoots out the window and I'm sitting there looking like I just went into an interview-induced coma. I black out. I'm pretty sure I blacked out for the first four months of living in California because every interview was a disaster and I seemed to have several disasters...


It had been close to four months, I had gone on about six interviews and I had yet to impress one person. Since my original goal when moving to Hollywood was to become an actress, head of Entertainment Marketing, a writer, or Publicist somewhere, I was surprised when the offers were not rolling in. This was going to be more difficult than I thought. I was lucky enough to receive my first interview for a Junior Agent with a Modeling Agency. I would have the power to choose who is pretty enough to model. This was my chance to save face for all the gingers out there. The next part of the phone call took a slight turn:

"One more thing, Claire; MTV will be taping the interviews for a new show called, Hired. You will need to meet with a career coach before the interview so he can give you a few tips for the interview. This will also be on tape. It's a real position, it just so happens the interviews will be taped. No big deal."


"Oh wow, OK, that's fine," I said. "as long as we are focusing on the job at hand."


"Of course, there will just be a few cameras there documenting the process. You will hardly be on tape. I have included a contract you will need to sign and send back before the career coach interview. Talk to you soon!"


I signed the contract without reading a single word.

Like I said, I turn into a different person when the word 'interview' enters into the mix, so now not only do I have one interview with the Model Agency, I have two and they are taped. Perfect.  Needless to say, the day of the career coach meeting I was not excited. I had a lump in my throat the size of a golf ball and the only way to get passed this was a shot of Jameson. I didn't think this was the best career move so I opted for a sugar free Red bull to get my high. I was put in a room with two other girls. We were getting ready for our meeting with the career coach when a production assistant came in the room to put a microphone down my shirt. This was farther than I had gone with my 8th grade boyfriend of six months (that is like a three year relationship in middle school). Anyways, the whole 'you won't even notice the cameras are there' thing...lie! I was asked to walk out of the waiting room, down the stairs and to the interview room. I was then told to stop, turnaround, now walk back to the end of the hallway, up the stairs and begin walking again on the count of three. I repeated this several times until I cued to walk into the interview room. Completely normal. 


The career coach told me I needed to get rid of the large 'trapper keeper'  I was carrying. First helpful and humiliating tip of the day. I might as well brought in a rolling suitcase. For this position, I would need to be able to read people's moods. He asked me what I thought of his mood that day, my response, "You are chipper and professional." What the hell did I just say? Not to worry, I could just resort back to the tapes! The interview ended with an awkward handshake and another dig at the 'trapper keeper'. The post-interview was held on my way out of the building. It was only me talking to the camera which was a disaster. I couldn't put sentences together and I couldn't answer the questions in a full sentence like they asked me to do. Finally they told me not to worry about it and just leave.


I went to the actual interview a week later which didn't go much better. In the waiting room, I sat next to a short, young man whose previous job was as a Junior Agent in New York. I would've walked out right there, but I was being documented on video. My resume consisted of Arnold's Tavern, The Lincoln Journal Star, Pinnacle Bank in Havelock, and Wet Seal all in Lincoln, Nebraska. My name was finally called and it was time to show off my beaming personality to a partner at the agency. He began talking to me about Nebraska, like every interviewer does, maybe they believe it will get me in my comfort zone. What they don't know is I have no comfort zone. He asked me the normal questions; why are you right for this position? Why do you want to work here? Why are you turning bright red when you speak? OK, he didn't ask that last question but I know he wanted to. Then, he asked me a not so typical question, "Do you know what a 'comp card' is?"


I sat there in silence. I knew that my answer could either be extremely wrong or exactly right. I'm sure you can guess the latter.


"Ummm...I'm not positive," I stammered.
"Just guess, no big deal," he said.
"I think it's a card you get and use so you don't have to pay for anything. The entire purchase is free or 'comped', I said, totally unsure and ready for my back lashing.
"I mean, that's a good guess, but...no," his words were more of a stab to the throat, where my stomach was the past 2 weeks. "It's a card displaying the models sample pictures, head shots, info, etc., like those on the wall," he pointed to the 100's of comp cards on the wall.


Good research job, Claire. I decided this was the end of my career as a Model Agent. I gave a nice, firm handshake and left this man who I hoped to never see again. Not because he was rude or unprofessional, but because I looked like a douche.


The show later appeared on MTV. (If you look this up and I find out, you can consider us defriended). I started getting texts and calls from people I hadn't heard from in months or even years who said they just saw me on MTV. Yeah, you saw me, I look green, bloated, and stupid, that's the end of it. It's true what they say though, the camera does add the 10 lbs of baby fat I thought I shed a few months ago. The interviewer from the Model Agency told the millions/hundreds of  MTV viewers that I was 'too nice' for the job. I needed to have a thicker skin to be a Junior Agent. I have to say, good thing I had never heard of a Junior Agent position before this interview; otherwise I might've been pretty upset.


What I took away from these two death-defying interviews was I didn't do half bad; I was chosen from hundreds of resumes, I didn't get a terrible critique from the interview, and I made my tv debut. Looks like my dreams of becoming a Hollywood star were finally coming true....


I got the job!

Just kidding. The short guy did.

Teen Lines and Tilt Tales

Instead of washing my hair this morning, I hit snooze over and over (more than my regular 7 times), laying in bed thinking of ways I could get out of work. Could I be sick?? No, people would just talk behind my back about how I have the 'brown bottle flu'. I hate that phrase so I couldn't have them saying that. Could my dog be sick? No, I've already used that. Did I have to be rushed to the emergency room? I decided to go a different route, now I sat there thinking of jobs I could do from home but actually still be successful.

I'm at work now.

It's Tuesday, the day after the 4th of July. It was a long weekend full of sunbathing, drinking, too much food, too much drinking, and too much researching where each checkpoint in LA was set up. It wasn't a crazy holiday like some in the past. I woke up every morning knowing where I was and who I was next to, which will make my boyfriend happy. Five blondes in a convertible headed down to San Diego on Saturday a.m. and what should be a 2 hour drive made into a 4 hour drive. Along with one of our friends being abnormally drunk from one tilt the trip was a success. We were able to dance, ride in a 'bike cart' around Downtown San Diego, lose Jenna, fall over a curb, eat Subway after hours where Stacie apparently picked up the Arabic language, "I know you're talking about me, I know what you are saying!", fight about one of our friends not having cash, fight about walking instead of cabbing, and learn that Jenna sounded slightly like a lesbian as a child and also had a teen line.

After the weekends events, I've concluded that not only should we have the day after a holiday off of work, but we should have the entire week off. Especially for our nation's holiday. The older I get, the longer I need to recover and the longer it takes me to remember the events of the weekend.

At the gas station where Katie got a long-haired man to come over and take our photo.

Festive 4th of July Frocks

The 4th of July is holiday is one of my favorite holidays because it combines the best things in life...Fireworks, days off, lakes/oceans, friends, family, booze and food. I also enjoy this holiday not only because it celebrates our independence but because it doesn't involve the money and time spent on holidays like Christmas, New Years, Halloween, or my friend, Madi's, birthday. I don't need to go buy a new dress or presents, I can mooch off other people's fireworks by simply sitting outside, and I'm not required to wear much make-up or clothing.

Several celebrities have sported their own Patriotic themed outfits over the years. I have included a few July 4th wardrobe options I'm thinking about sporting, who do you think rocked their Patriotic Pride the best?
(I didn't include Miley Cyrus because it seems her normal attire is a USA bikini top and cut off shorts)

Cindy Crawford can do no wrong in her Patriotic Pasties and striped bottoms




Saluting Britain

 


Burning this outfit is the closest I'd come to burning an American Flag



No funny skits, jokes, or punch lines...Tina's Tribute is Simply Glorious!

Fighting for America or a scene in one of the 30 Rocky Movies!

Typical.

I think we've got a winner. I might even have that shirt already.

Smothered in Stars and Stripes spirit!

Just a little fabric can make a big statement.



 "Peace in the...middle east.....?"



I should be looking at his medals, but his mustache is distracting me from the whole package.

Hi, I'm pretty.

The picture of Freedom and Liberty and a lot of make-up remover.

I think I have everything but the hat....too much??

I feel I would HAVE to go fight crime if I wore this and I just want to celebrate.

Halo Hail Mary

I understand the importance of hobbies, extracurricular activities, and any other way to spend your free time then just Facebook, TV, or sitting on the couch. But one thing I don't understand is some people's obsession with video games. An obsession as in more than just a random death match every now and then, or a hour every couple days, but a sheer obsession for the massive killing of your counterparts. There is a line, and several cross it every day.

I will admit, I get carried away with random iPad games now and then. A good run of Bejeweled or Angry Birds could last near 2 hours. I might forget to turn the light off and end up sleeping with my iPad on my face. Does this mean I ignore others or the television program I currently have on? No. I'm a multi-tasker. I attribute this ability to the fact that I have boobs and we as females are naturally talented in this way.

The problem is not the death-filled games like Grand Theft Auto, Call of Duty (COD as 'they' call it), or Halo 1, 2, or 16. The problem is being in a relationship with someone who decides these games trump the words that come out of your mouth. For instance, a past boyfriend of mine would play HALO (first edition) constantly.  At first, I looked past this 'hobby' because I figured I'd lied to him about my age, I deserved a few nights of him choosing Halo games over me.

I tried to engage myself in his"past time", that's what you do in relationships, but for several reasons I had to stop engaging. I created a name for myself, 'Gatetemptress69', which was obviously a genius name; however, it didn't help my number of 'kills', I still couldn't figure out how to look up or down. I could've been like my cousin's girlfriend who would play only to be used as a shield for my cousin. They recently broke up, I'm guessing she left post. Either way, not my style, so I decided to try and accept HALO and choose to either leave the room or play dead. I once entered the house to find a 23 year-old man with a headset on, sweating profusely while playing HALO in the living room. You figure, a door opening would send a signal to a person that it is time to look at the door and welcome who is entering. His eyes didn't leave the alien world. I thought to myself, I think I'm coming in second best here. A few more nights of HALO playing until the early hours of the morning and then there was the HALO Hail Mary, the bing to the bang, the final straw, okay I'm obviously not good at these sayings. One evening when the video gamer was in full 'gamer mode' I chose to not leave the room but take a nap. I woke up to this conversation:

"You're the bitch!"
SILENCE - Halo assassin on the other end of the headphone spoke.
"Yeah, whatever, how old are you, 15? Your parents don't even love you."
SILENCE AGAIN
"Obviously I don't have as high of a kill score as you, I actually have to go to an 8 to 5 job every day!"
SILENCE
"Seriously?? This is what I'm waking up to."- I said. I left, forever.

Not really, but I did realize I would need to reevaluate a few things. Was I going to have an ultimatum between a plastic video game, headset and a loving red-head like myself? Yes, yes I was. The headset won.

I have learned Gatetemptress can't change anyone. It is engraved in 80% of men to have this sense of  'killing' and 'gaming' nature that takes over their perception of reality. I'm currently in a relationship with another 'gamer' who has tried to make a few sacrifices regarding his COD time and they don't go unnoticed. Although, I have woken up to one of his 4:00 a.m. 'abort missions', I'm growing just like the video game graphics. What I've learned in my gaming relationships, I simply want my gamer to acknowledge when I walk into a room so they can see the look of disgust on my face towards there gaming. Is that so much to ask?

Gatetemptress69

Tracker Tales

I feel it's only necessary to dedicate an entire post to the Tracker, since she will hopefully be 'retiring' after this week. She has been with me since I first got my license at the age of 16. The Tracker became somewhat of a whore when she arrived at Southeast High School my junior year; it may have been her vibrant red exterior, Lego like build or "I don't care" attitude, but she definitely didn't lack attention. The boys in my grade decided to throw things at her, walk all over her, and even hit her and leave, no explanation. My girl friends were a little gentler with the tracker's physical appearance; however, the inside was a different story. The girls thought because I drove a '99 Chevy Tracker and they drove Jetta's, Camry's, Jeeps, Saab's and Jaguars meant my car was the obvious choice for internal mutilation. It was between The Tracker and my friend Judith's car, The Shitter, that got saw the worst abuse. Vomiting, passing out, eating fast food, or ripping off my door handles were all trashy moves that the tracker didn't deserve. I gave one free pass if I performed one of these activities in their car.

After almost nine years and several missing pieces later, the tracker will finally get it's rest, but not before I tell her story (s).

The first major hit the tracker took occurred on a snow day in high school. The great thing about the tracker is, snow days didn't matter, she has 4WD, which was probably made of plastic like the rest of the Lego but I drove like it was the real thing. I know I was joined by a fellow Lego person in my passenger seat, but I can't remember who. I was either reaching for something on the passenger side of my car or dancing (which is probably the more legitimate reason) that I seemed to drift to the right at a good 40mph. I ran the side of my tracker straight into a surprisingly hard snow bank. The tracker's "4WD" kicked in and plowed over the top of the snow bank. When I finally straightened back onto the actual street, I pulled into the hair salon at the next intersection, I got out to find/not to find the right side of my front bumper. Character!! I wish there would've been a video camera in the car because I'm assuming our facial expressions were priceless, they always are right before a near death experience in The Tracker.

The next major incident occurred while The Tracker was minding her own business. Parked in a culdesac at my boyfriend at the time's place. He had an exceptionally good-looking yet cock of a roommate whom always had something sarcastic to say. You can imagine my humiliation when his roommate called out from downstairs, "Claire! I think someone just crashed their motorcycle scooter thing into the front of your car." I ran downstairs and opened the front door while pushing 'Mr. Cock' out of my way. And there she was, The Tracker, looking like she had just straddled a man and his motorized bike. I can't say if it was a scooter, a bike, or a motorcycle, but it was a mix of them all and big enough to do some damage to the Lego's appearance. When I went outside to find the man unharmed and slowly picking up his brand new motorsike, I couldn't help but feel bad for the poor guy.
"I'm so sorry, I just got this bike for Christmas and I'm just riding it around the circle to try and get the hang of it," he moped.
"You obviously don't have the hang of it yet!!"- J/k i didn't say that, i felt too bad for him.
But seriously, he obviously needed to "test scoot" in an open field rather than an ice patched culdesac. After calling my dad, like I always do when something happens to The Tracker (it's actually his Lego on paper), I told the guy to just give me his phone number and I wouldn't turn it into insurance, not worth my time for a motorsike accident. I also told him, keep practicing but somewhere else, I'm not moving The Tracker. I came back into the house to find Mr. Cock laughing and making some smart ass comment about the Tracker's appearance. Maybe the Tracker wasn't born 'a looker' doesn't mean she will EVER lack character like Mr. Cock.
For the record: I have nothing against Mr. Cock, I actually like him, he's just an asshole.

Next debacle, I got into a T-BONE car accident at 6 a.m. on the morning of my vacation to Minnesota. The guy who rammed The Tracker had no insurance, no money and apparently no name because he was gone in two seconds. (Not funny, end of story).

The final Tracker incident (that I will write about) occurred in my college years. I had great friends, but my friends were crazy, my friends loved/love Vodka shots and they obviously wouldn't be my friends if the same qualities didn't apply for myself. One vodka filled night I was being a stupid, vodka loving, crazy girl. My friend and I wanted to do 'after hours' which actually meant after the 21 year olds hours since we were not of age. We went to an apartment complex by campus known for after hour parties; however, you had to know the code to get through the complex gate. We didn't know the code and apparently calling was not an option. The car in front of us knew the code so we did what anyone would do, caught the tail end of their 'gate opening'. We were in! My driver's side mirror was not. I couldn't go back to pick up the detached mirror. We were in, if we went back I would 1) have to deal with the reality of what just happened and 2) we would be at square one, no after hours code!

We partied, had ourselves an unnecessarily good time, and I woke up in the morning to find myself passed out on a couch and my friend gone. I stumbled to the bathroom to splash a few drops of water in my dry eyes so my contacts wouldn't completely pop out, quickly grabbed my things and I left out the back door which was the fastest and classiest way to The Tracker. After I jumped the fence in my dress from the night before, I gazed up with my already blurry vision to see a man in a golf cart parked directly next to The Tracker. As I got closer, I realized the man in the golf cart had The Tracker's driver side mirror in his golf cart's passenger seat.
"Is this your car, Miss?" - he asked me.
"Yes, this is my Tracker," - I slurred.
"Then would this be your mirror?" - he asked.
"No." - I said, it was like word vomit (STUPID! I thought to myself. No sir, that must be someone else's red tracker mirror you found at the front of the complex after slamming into the code machine to enter your after hours community)
"Are you sure this isn't your mirror, because it looks like the red paint from your mirror on the front code machine and you are missing a mirror, miss," - he explained to me (unnecessary sir, we both know that is my mirror)
"Oooh yeah, that is mine. I was gonna pick that up on my way out this morning, sorry about that," I told him. Which I was going to do, but for different reasons.
"Well, I have called the police so they should be showing up shortly to come and look at the damage and see what we should do from here."
"The police?" I might have peed in my pants a little at this point.
The police officer came with a rather nonchalant attitude about the whole situation; however, the words coming out of his mouth weren't so nonchalant. He asked me several times if I had been drinking the night before and told me the amount of damage I had done to the front code machine. All because I wanted to swoop in behind a car to catch the open gate.
The officer came over to The Tracker after speaking with the complex manager and told me he was being very nice and decided not to press charges. Pressing charges? Really? I was able to leave after a few more jabs and jokes from the police officer, which weren't even funny but I had to laugh because he had a gun.
Needless to say, I'm an idiot, but I do believe it was the Tracker's calm and innocent looks that allowed me to get away free and clear this after hours morning, well not exactly free.

I got a new mirror 3 years later. :)

Losing My Pants

The disappearing belongings began at an early age. As early as kindergarten, when I sat down cross legged on the floor, ready to listen to Mrs. Boynton's story time. Like any four year-old child, in our household I made my mother do the laundry, fold my clothes, pick out my clothes, dress me and buy my underwear. However, this day, Marilyn was obviously slacking on her duties. In the middle of Mrs. Boynton's story, I noticed a large lump in my pant leg. I reached in to see what was hiding in there. I pulled my bugs bunny underwear halfway out of my pant leg and quickly stuffed them back into my tube sock. The story time floor plan is very confined so my classmates were sitting right next to me; there was no way I could get bugs bunny into my backpack inconspicuously. How could Marilyn do this to me?! After story time, I walked with a careful yet brisk step to the bathroom. I scrunched my underwear up as tight as possible in my hand and quickly returned to my cubbie where I stuffed them in my backpack, never to be seen in Mrs. Boynton's class again.

This day I lost a sliver of respect for Marilyn and my adolescent self.

The second event took place on the soccer field at Cavett Elementary. It was the fourth grade and for some reason I still hadn't lost the desire to have cartoon-designed underwear. Although my glasses were held together by scotch tape, I had red hair, freckles and one of the gangliest bodies in the fourth grade, I was still semi-cool. I knew how to be 'one of the boys' when I wasn't chasing them around the playground. There was one boy in my class who seemed to have matured into an eighth grade man in the fourth grade. He was tall, tan, and already fully manscaped in my fourth grade eyes. This particular day, we were playing flag football in P.E. I put on my red knitted jersey while the only 'mature man' in my class put on his green knit jersey. (I remember because it really brought out the asshole in his eyes). I stood on the field looking for where my red teammates were gathering so I could join them, when suddenly I felt my pants at the bottom of my ankles. Revealed to my entire class was my Mickey Mouse underwear and my abnormally red face. I was mortified. Maybe kids thought it was just balloons and they couldn't see all the figures of mickey mouse attached to the balloons. I laughed it off, disguising the fact that I was trying to find the culprit so I knew who to turn the entire fourth grade class against. I found him, laughing and sprinting to meet with his green team. It was the 'mature man' in the class. He was so cool, handsome, tall, and now #1 on my shit list.

This was the day I lost my pants.

I'm on a Steamboat

In honor of the Holiday Weekend, over the next few days I will take the opportunity to also honor my disappearing belongings over the years. When I say disappearing belongings, I mean these items are there one second and GONE the next (none of it is my fault).

I thought I'd start off with one of the biggest 'blows' to my missing collection of items. First you  have to understand my feelings. When I lose my phone I turn into a depressed, lost, sad girl. I also feel naked. I am disconnected from the world/the six people I talk to on a daily basis. After reading this story, I would like you to take the feelings I have when I lose my phone and multiply it by 50. 

The first incident happened on a boat. A steamboat taking me for a ride down the Brownville River where I was attending a new gentleman friend's fraternity formal. (Here is the link if you are interested in traveling on a steamboat in Brownville, NE, http://www.steamboats.org/traveller/missouri-river/brownville.html). Not only was I extremely nervous to be on a formal date, I didn't know anyone on this 'steamboat', in this frat, or in Brownville.  Some vodka would've helped with the nerves; however, I believe I was the only person on the boat still under 21.  (Sidenote: My parents dedided to enroll me in Kindergarten at the age of three, so I'm literally the youngest person in the class of 2004, across the US). A couple days before, I "came across" a wonderful fake i.d. a friend said looked just like me, when in reality Lois MacEntire of Missouri was 5'4", blonde, tan, no freckles, and 125 lb. Perfect! I had to go for it, apparently bartenders "don't even look anymore". I went to the bar for my first Vodka/Cranberry and either the bartender was blind or people were right because it worked! I was able to ease my nerves, loosin' up on this now lovely steamboat and even show off some of my sensational dance moves (or Lois' moves at the time).  My date and I moved to the back end of the boat where my stomach started to creep right back up to my throat where it had been before the vodka. I put my clutch under my arm and my date went in for a... hug? He was obviously nervous too since he was going in for a HUG! As he moved in, his hand punched my clutch out from under my armpit and it flew in slow motion to the bottom of the Brownville River. I quickly jumped in the dirty water to retrieve my clutch. Ok, not really, but I was seriously contemplating it. With my clutch (which was $1 from Target) went my lip gloss, camera, Lois and my Cricket phone, for a total of $10 worth of belongings. I couldn't even call my real friends to tell them my life had just drown in a river, the BROWNVILLE RIVER at that. My date and I stood there in silence with a slight smirk that more represented disbelief than ANY type of humor. Needless to say, I had to regroup my life after this, stop seeing the 'hugger', and figure out where I could get me another Lois.

You should be multiplying the 'phone feelings' by 50 right now and.....You just felt my pain.

Spirit of Brownville Riverboat