Causerie

Interview Update

I wore my cutest skirt, long-sleeved blouse and the pumps with the not-too-high heels.  Sans perfume (just a tiny bit of body lotion on my arms and legs),  I arched my eyebrows, plucked my whiskers, put on the light coverage foundation and a tiny bit of eyeshadow.  With my beloved dreadlocks twisted up into a very stylish up-do and my shoulders back (just like my Mom taught me)  I walked into that interview like the job was already mine.

As we concluded, Ms. So-and-So looked at me with a smile and said, "Well, Dina, I'd like to hire you; but, you will need to interview with Mr. So-and-So."  Mr. So-and-So was gone for the weekend.  He'll be back Monday.  Ms. So-and-So will call me Monday morning.

Stay tuned.

1988

My last job interview was 21 years ago.  I was about 50 pounds lighter and two inches taller.  My confidence level was at its highest and I knew I would be able to do the job.  And I was hired on the spot, with absolutely no experience in that field.

On Friday, I have an interview for a seasonal/part-time/flexible hour sales clerk job with a major department store chain. (Think Thanksgiving Day parade).  It's not what I want, but you all know I need a job right now.  And retail is nothing new for me.  Years ago, back in New Haven I was the store manager of an upscale women's boutique and I was very good at it.  Truth be told, I've never had a better job.  In fact, I was so spoiled by that company that I swore I'd never do retail again.  It's a lot of work and a lot of customer crap for little pay.  But never say never, right?

So friends, I need advice.  It's been 21 years and I have no idea what I should wear to this interview.  What is considered appropriate now-a-days?  What should I expect from the interviewer?  How should I prepare myself?  What if I have a horrible hot flash in the middle of the interview?  Should I mention this blog? (Remember "Dooce")

Help.

Indian Summer

a period of mild, dry weather, usually accompanied by a hazy atmosphere, occurring usually in late October or early November and following a period of colder weather.

---

Sometimes, the Strangest Person you Know is You

When introduced to new friends, usually they will try to get a sense of who I am and what is it that I do? Here's a short version:

At home, I'm a Mom, a cook, the household manger, hugger and dog-walker.  When I'm at the gym, I'm a overweight woman trying to figure out when and how did I get so fat.  While at the grocery store, I'm the coupon-cluthing African American woman with dreadlocks, hoop earrings and long skirts who's wanting to know if I can trade my Oscar Mayer Bologna coupon for turkey.

At church, I'm a Bible-carrying, praise-singing sister.  When at Synagogue, I'm a quiet, deeply knowledge-hungry woman married to that guy up there playing the guitar. (And, no, I'm not Jewish)  At my children's school, I'm the lady who helps out at lunch time or I'm the Mom with those multi-ethnic kids that look hispanic (except for that one girl who looks just plain white). 

With strangers, I'm a SAHM, wanna-be unemployed writer, but with friends I'm the good listener.

And when I'm with Mr. Man, I'm the sexiest, post menopausal woman he knows.

(Cracking my own self up!)

Hominy

As with most things in my life I have, yet, another story to tell.  But first, I want to share this yummy-sounding recipe from Kate because one ingredient she uses, is the main character in the story I'm about to tell you. 

Before I met Mr. Man, I was a poor, Black-child, single mom to Sir Edward (but that's another story).  We were living in a one bedroom apartment in a three-family home in mid-town Kansas City.  I was on the first floor; another un-wed mother of two lived on the second floor; and in the third floor attic apartment lived a strange, older man named Roy.

Roy was probably in his late 50's early 60's, which at the time I thought was ancient.  He was a tall white man, with dirty brown hair, false teeth and a little bit of body odor. Practically every day I'd see Roy going to where ever he'd go and returning, usually in the evening.  There was something about him that gave me pause, so I was always guarded whenever we bumped into one another.

After I'd been in my apartment for about a month, Roy began knocking on my door almost every day, and each time he would ask the same question, "Do you have a can of hominy?" 

What the hell?  I'd stare at him for a seconds then say, in my most irritated voice, "No Roy, I don't have any hominy," then I'd slam the door and wonder what made him think I had hominy.  Did he check with the white woman on the second floor or did I just look like someone who hoarded cans of hominy? 

Throughout the summer, this odd and troubling little exchange continued between myself and Roy.  But then, one early Fall evening  I realized I hadn't seen Roy for a few days. His car was outside, yet according to Nancy, (the second-floor tenant) as far as she knew, he was gone for the weekend.

On Sunday evening there was a knock at the door.  Two police officers and a concerned-looking gentleman explained they needed to go up to the third floor. The man, Roy's brother, hadn't been able to get in touch with him.  You've probably figured out the rest of the story.  Roy was, indeed, dead on his sofa.  Later we learned that he had died of a heart attack and that in those few days when we hadn't seen nor heard him, the poor man was probably up there in his living room dying.  Ugh. 

So friends, here's the lesson: When someone asks for a can of hominy, for goodness sakes, just give it to them.

Different but Alike

After I wrote the post "Epic" I began to think about my children and how different they are from each other.  My oldest son, Sir Edward, is a rebel, hard-headed and stubborn. For years, we've bumped heads, reconciled and then started over again. He's charming with the ladies and really quite remarkable with young children.  Kind, soft spoken, gentle and funny.  Someday, he'll make an excellent father. (But not too soon, I pray)

Miss P., as you know, is quiet.  She's introspective and artistic.  Friends and neighbors love her reliability, sensibility and warmth.  Neighbors have hired her to babysit, to be the "coat-check girl" at a house wedding/reception and as a "vacuumist" (dubbed by one neighbor).  And almost always, she returns home with a little extra bonus in her pay for a job well done.

Almost 15 now, Sir Richard is developing into an amazing musician and his talent makes me proud.  But, he likes to argue and we seem to lock horns at least once a day.  He's so dang intelligent and witty and non-chalant that sometimes, it drives me crazy.  I can see him as a lawyer by day and a hard-rock guitar-playing fool at night.

Buggabear is just sweet --- like those sweet and sour lollipops you used to be able to buy.  Sometimes, she's a little tart, but most of time she's as sweet as honey.  Right now, she wants to be a comedienne. On her report card, the teacher wrote, "I love her sense of humor!" 

Do you have a sibling?  How are you different?  How are you alike?  Or, we can talk a minute about how your children might differ one from another.  I would love for you to write your comment and then have your sibling (or Mama) stop by to give their point of view.  I think this would make good conversation, don't you?  I'll try to get my own sister (or Ma) to join in.