How not to do a job interview

Today is Panic Day.
It is the day I circled on my calendar two months ago.
I have now been laid off for two months and today was the day I needed to have a job by – or, it's time to panic. Not seriously panic, like I can't take care of my son, but panic because I've gone two months and no one has scooped me up.

(Which, let me tell you, is the REALLY annoying thing EMployed people do. They say, "Oh, Sarah. This was meant to be. You'll get something great. Someone will realize your talents and pick you up. You'll be fine. I just know it.) Sorry, I need to take a break from typing this. Apparently, 23 people are knocking on my front door wanting to offer me a job.
Not.
Remember in that great movie Gremlins when the good guys kill the Gremlins by exploding them in the microwave and blender? That's what my kitchen looked like last night. I was making Smartie cookies with my son for his daycare Valentine's Day party today and, thanks to an old blender and an excited toddler, there was batter dripping off the counter and down the toaster. (Don't worry. I washed our hands 10 times during one cookie-making session.)
I had just popped the cookies in the oven when the phone rang.
It was someone I'm really, really, really hoping to work with (you know who you are) returning my phone call.
Too bad my husband was at the gym – so my Mr. No. 1 is on the phone and my two-year-old son's hands are covered in Smartie cookie batter.
I pick up the phone and chat. And chat. And chat.
And now he's licking his fingers. (My son. Not my future coworker. Or, maybe he is licking his fingers in anticipation of working with me, but that's a dream.)
Now, my son's fingers are covered in liquidified cookie batter.
And the timer's going off.
And I have to get the cookies out - and oh, sh*t, they've spread into one massive cookie, so now, while they're hot, I need to cut them into cookies.
Chat, chat, chat.
"Mommy," my son says.
"What?" I mouth.
"Mommy," my son says again.
"What?" I mouth.
"I pooooeeeed."
I immediately put on my best wild-eyed look and put my index finger to my mouth in the universal sign of "SHHHHHHHHHH!"
My devil look inspires my son to play devil, too.
He runs to the counter with a stink-trail behind him and grabs the bowls of Smarties, plowing handful after handful of chocolates into his mouth.
Chat, chat, chat.
My son continues to yell at me about how Toot and Puddle (a cartoon about world-travelling pigs) is on, how it's not The Wonder Pets, nor is it the Backyardigans.
More chat, chat, chat.
Finally, my son is ticked with me.
He grabs his Fisher Price Corn Popper toy and starts to chase me around the house with it. And, so, thank god I'm training for a run, I run around my house, continuing the chat, not letting on for a moment that I'm jumping over Tickle Me Elmo, hurdling his Little Tykes tool bench and leaping over his Thomas the Train set while I try to (forgive me for saying this) run away from my son. (Just for a minute!)
Finally, my husband walks in the door.
The cookie batter is still dripping off our kitchen appliances.
My son's bum is a toxic dump and his face is a rainbow from shoving Smarties in his mouth.
And I am leaping around my livingroom.
And this, ladies and gentleman, is what it's like to try to scam a job for yourself, while being Betty Crocker, while getting some exercise, while making sure my child is getting dinner.
And you thought laid-off people sat around the house watching Oprah. Ha.

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How to Get a Job, By Sara(h) Cosby

This week, I was invited to return to Queen's University, my alma mater, and speak to arts and science undergrads about finding a career (or not) once they graduate.

Maybe it was the free pizza and pop or maybe the students were really interested to learn about what they can do with an arts degree, but they packed a classroom - and on the night of the American election no less.

(Let me just say right now that if Sarah Palin had won the election with John McCain, I was seriously contemplating switching my given name for my middle one.)

Here are some of the issues we covered and the advice I gave:

1. What if I have no idea what I want to do after I graduate:Well, what if I don't really know what I want to do when I'm 31? Most people have the wrong idea that everyone knows what they want to do "when they grow up." No, they don't. Sure, some little girls start playing doctor with the little boys next door at the age of three and now they're surgeons, but many of us aren't sure what we want to do for the rest of our lives. It's true that since I was a little girl, I wanted to work at a newspaper, but that doesn't mean I don't also have dreams about working on a TV show, running a small B&B with my hubby in England, or hosting a radio show. I say after you graduate, if you can afford it, take a year and dabble. Teach English in China. Serve in a fancy restaurant. Volunteer in Mexico, building houses for people who are less fortunate. Train for a marathon. You've been in school since kindergarten. Take 12 months for yourself.

2. But if I take a year off, all my friends will have a career and I won't!: Oh, so what. I can tell you from experience, that one or two years aren't going to make or break you. In my group of friends, we all chose different post-university paths. Some of us went straight into the workforce, some of us went to college, some of us took multiple internships, but guess what? In the long run, it didn't matter. It's not a race. Your career (and, more importantly, your life) is about you and your pace.

3. Interview tips? The best advice I ever read is that the second you wake up on the day of your interview, the interview starts. Think about the fact you could cut off your potential boss on the highway driving to the interview, or she could see you putting your hand under your shirt and rubbing it on your armpit so you can smell it to make sure you don't have B. O. You never know who's watching you. Also spend some time in the city in which you're applying for the job. That says you want to learn more about your future home. And in the interview you can say: "As soon as I leave here, I'm actually going to zip over to Sam's Coffee Bar. They have the best lattes. I've only been here for a weekend, and I'm addicted." Also, Google your future employers and learn everything you can about them.

4. Resume tips? I don't ever want you to send me your resume if you're going to tell me you're hardworking. What else are you going to be? A lazy sloth? Tell me who you really are on your resume. If you are applying to be a newspaper entertainment writer, you should tell me you've seen 74 movies at the Screening Room, you have six magazine subscriptions and you're taking a French cooking class. That says more about who you are than telling me you're hardworking, motivated and a fast learner.

5. Final thoughts?Please, I beg of you, learn how to spell your potential employer's name: I've been Sarah Crosby, Sara Crosbie, Sara Crosby and Sara(h) Cosby. (Although, if the world turns on its head and things go horribly wrong in the U. S. in 2012 and a certain somebody becomes a major player on the world stage, you may also call me Elizabeth Crosbie.)

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A talent for handling raw meat

What mattered most in the Crosbie household when I was growing up was hard work. Just as there are no small parts, just small actors, my parents taught me that when it comes to making and saving money, there are no bad jobs, just bad attitudes.
Like every teenager, when school ended I wanted a summer job that was cool.
(For those of you who think like my dad does, I don’t mean air-conditioned. I mean sweet, fun, comfy, hip – something that would make your friends jealous.)
My very first summer job was working at a community newspaper. I made $9 an hour – which was an incredible amount of money for 1994.
When my job wasn’t available the following the year, I knew I had to go on the hunt and I also knew that it couldn’t get any better than writing stories and columns in a nice air-conditioned building. (Yes, the job was cool on two levels.)
And so hunting I went.
I handed out more than 100 resumes and I waited and waited for a call while all my friends landed what seemed like perfect summer jobs: lifeguarding, summer camp counselors, Gap salesperson. It didn’t get better than The Gap.
And then I waited.
Finally, I got the call. A fast-food place that specialized in fries wanted me to come in for an interview.
I put on a brave face for my parents but I was freaking out on the inside. Fast food wasn’t cool. Being greasy wasn’t cool. But money was money. A job was a job. Beggars can’t be choosers. I remember sitting with my mother in my kitchen going over and over and over possible interview questions.
“Why fries?” the fast-food manager asked the following morning.
“I’m sorry?” I questioned. “Why fries?” was not one of the questions my mother and I had rehearsed.
I had top grades. I had spirit. I had gusto. I had determination.
What I didn’t have was any sort of an answer for this man’s question.
“Why fries? Why choose fries over pizza or subs or donuts?” he said very seriously.
The question seemed far too philosophical for a high school kid looking to making minimum wage (which was $6.85 an hour).
I remember babbling about fries being hot and crispy. Subs and donuts aren’t hot and crispy. No sirree. They’re cold. And with pizza, well, there’s just one pizza slice, but with fries, you can eat just one, or two, or 39. And incredible new advances are being made every day in the French fry industry. Poutine is becoming popular. Some people are making nacho fries, using fries in place of nacho chips. It is a revolutionary idea to add sour cream on fries; a nice way to cool them down on a hot summer’s day, I always say.
I returned home to my parents, completely sure I ruined my one and only interview.
An hour later, the phone rang.
“You seem to have a knack for fries,” the manager said.
“You’re hired.”
I worked hard at that job. No, it wasn’t cool. Mean high school kids flicked pennies and shot spit balls at me when I was working at the cash register and I came home every night slicked with grease. And yes, it was damn hot working around the deep fryers. But I made money. Nothing could compare though to the next summer when, again, I couldn’t get a job – until a butcher shop called me in for an interview.
“You look like the kind of girl who has a talent for handling raw meat,” the manager said.
“You’re hired!”

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