I Am Job

Monday afternoon, as I all but bounced up Second Avenue, high off of my newly found life of leisure my phone rang.  I grabbed it out of my pocket ready to brag to yet another friend about how great unemployment is, but was instead greeted with the familiar "unknown" popping up on my caller ID. Knowing immediately that it was a recruiter-friend of mine, I picked it up, praying that she didn't have anything for me.  Within four seconds, B (the recruiter) said, "Jane, I have an interview for you and they're OK with you taking off time for your wedding."  Surprised and slightly disappointed that I might have to go back to work sooner than planned, I let her fill me in on the details.  

The Job - Personal Assistant.  The Man- Real Estate Tycoon.  My reaction - No way.  I am neither a personal assistant, nor have any experience in Real Estate, nor do I want to deal with some entitled overage brat, his bratty wife and his four bratty children.  B begged, pleaded and told me that I absolutely HAD to take this meeting, that I could do any job and that I am going to love this man.  It took her a day and half, but I finally agreed figuring it's better to keep myself in the game, in any way, shape or form, before Mid-January when everyone so eager to help me forgets that I exist.  

So yesterday afternoon, scrapping my plans of hitting up Bed, Bath & Beyond, Paper Presentation and some more vintage stores, I reluctantly put on a suit, printed out my resume and headed back into the dregs of mid-town.  After getting rear-ended by another cab on my way to the interview, I exited the car, well-heeled and indistinguishable from the rest of the suits grabbing five cherished moments away from the neon lights of their offices for an afternoon Starbucks run.  Using my eyes, I pleaded with them to realize that I was NOT one of them.  To understand that I get to wear jeans all day and hang out downtown.  To know that I was dressed up to do a favor for someone.  They didn't seem to notice.

Up on the 20th Floor, I was instructed to take a seat at 2:50pm.  I was 10 minutes early as always, because if you're not early, you're late, and settled into the black velvet sofa that resembled something my grandmother would cover with plastic.  Three PM, the time of my meeting came and went and at about 3:05 I heard the door to the waiting area creaking open and put my game face on.  Out walked a short man, with hair grown long in an attempt to cover it's receding line, wearing the khaki pants and blue blazer of someone desperate to prove they own a home in Connecticut.  I stood up and he said, "Your Jane".  I responded, "Yes," held out my hand to shake his and started to say, "Nice to meet you D...", but he interrupted me, waved my hand away and informed me that he was going to need fifteen more minutes then rushed out the door to use the bathroom."  

I did what any self-respecting woman would do and pulled out my blackberry to start messaging my fiance and bestie cracking on this D-bag and the rudeness that I just encountered.  My right mind told me to tell the receptionist I had to go vote or something and rush home to get back to my casual uniform, but I was doing a favor of sorts so I settled back in and got comfortable on Black Velvet.  At around 3:20pm, the door creaked open again, and out walked a gentleman who, by all estimation, was pushing the ripe old age of 103.  He shuffled across the floor, looked at me and grunt-snort-slurred at me, "Who are you waiting for!"  I held back my inherent urge to either crack up or give this old man a hug and responded D... D........ "

Who?!" he yelled.  

So I yelled even louder, "D...! D.....!!"

"Mrs. D....!!?" he asked in as loud a voice a man his age could muster.  

Now, using my biggest voice without giving him my move-out-of-my-way-tourist yell, I said it one more time, "D....! D.....!!!".  

To that, he responded, "Oh, OK" and shuffled out the door.

Not believing this was happening and feeling like I had entered the Twilight Zone, I was at the very least thankful for this comic relief as I continued to wait until about 3:40pm, when finally out walked Mr. Wonderful.  He gave me a limp handshake and led me into an office so large and furnished with so much black leather that it screamed Overcompensation.  

I sat down at his desk which was actually a large round glass table and tried to make small talk as he repeatedly glanced at my engagement ring while I handed over a copy of my resume.  He looked it over and asked me a few irrelevant questions, before saying, "So, you're not really a personal assistant."  "No." I answered.  Now had he been some fabulously-fabulous, event-attending, Black Label-drinking, NY Social Scenester, I would've pitched the hell out of myself and how I can do anything.  But I wasn't sitting across from Jay-Z, I was sitting across from Mini-Me who got lucky enough to run his daddy's company.  I resisted rolling my eyes when he dropped in a line about his "multiple residences" and let him talk for a minute, until he finally said, "Well, I should've looked at your resume more carefully, because I'm looking for someone to fill out my kids' camp forms and stuff."

Even though at this point all I wanted to do was rip this guy a new one, I picked up my things, wished him luck on his search and let him walk me to the door.  So after 45 minutes of waiting and two minutes of "interviewing" I was back in a cab, mourning my lost afternoon and heading home to a waiting bottle of wine.  Lessons learned:  trust your gut and don't always feel obligated to do favors.  

At least I have 2 more months to make up for those precious few hours I lost at the hands of Big Top Pee Wee yesterday and I plan to take full advantage of it.

P.S.  Obama!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!