Job Interview
He waits nervously in the lobby as employees stream through the front door of the modern steel office building. His new dress shoes feel stiff as he tries to fold his Wall Street Journal back into a neat square but only partially succeeds… iPads are so much better.
A young woman passes through the glass security turnstyle, introduces herself and leads him up 5 floors to her manager’s office.
He runs his finger inside the back of his collar, looks up from under his eyebrows and gives the hiring manager a winning smile and a firm handshake.
“Good morning, I’m Will. It’s great to meet you.”
“Good morning, Will. Margaret. Please have a seat. I’m in a bit of a rush today… I have 15 minutes when I thought I had 45, you know how it is. So, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself.”
The sun streams in through her standard-issue mini-blinds. He squints from the glare.
“Sure, sure. Well, I’m very interested in the open role on your team. As you may know, I’ve just finished grad school right across the bay. My current role is in operations, but I’m looking to use my new industry knowledge and skills in more of a strategy capacity.”
“I see. Terrific. You’re familiar with behavioral based interviews?”
“I am.”
“Excellent, then let’s get to it. Can you tell me about a time when you influenced a policy with which you did not agree?”
“Sure. An example that comes to mind was in my previous job. We had a policy that required customers to purchase a service agreement for each of their locations. I successfully negotiated both internally and externally to adjust this policy, resulting in one consolidated agreement that saved both the company and the customer significant time and money.”
“I see. Good example. Just before you got here I was doing a bit of background Internet research on you and came across your mom’s blog… She calls it sKIDmarks? Memorable title. I thought perhaps you were going to tell me about rebelling against your preschools’ ‘no biting’ policy… Guess that turned out OK in the end, right?!”
“You found my mom’s blog, huh?”
“OK, Will. Can you describe a time when you were faced with stresses that tested your coping skills?… and I’m not hinting for you to tell me what led up to that incident when you were two and defecated on your mom’s friends’ carpet— though I’m sure there’s a story behind that one, am I right?”
The room was beginning to get hot. He shifted in his chair.
“Wow, you, uh, really read back a ways… so, um, what was the question? Oh, I remember, a stressful time that tested my coping skills… not including this conversation, right? (nervous laughter)
Well, in grad school I worked in a group of four to complete our final project, a detailed strategic business plan analyzing the future of Pinterest. One week before it was due, we found out that a key team member had a family emergency and hadn’t finished her piece. I quickly convened the team, we evaluated the work done to date and agreed what was most critical. I then led the team to divide the remaining section and complete the project on time. The final result was an “A” and an invitation from our professor to present our findings at the next on campus student summit.”
“Good, good. Just one more question Will and then I’ve got to scoot to my next meeting. So, we all make mistakes. Tell me about a time where you made a mistake and what you did to resolve the situation. Of course, I’m thinking that incident at Starbuck’s when you were three and inappropriately rubbed your mother’s backside probably wouldn’t be the best example to share.” (inappropriate guffaw)
“What? You read that on her blog? I’ll tell you about a mistake. My mother having access to a computer and the ability to chronicle my every childhood embarrassment. Now that’s a mistake. I’m sorry I have a phone call to make. Thank you for your time.”
(laughing uncontrollably) “Thanks for coming by… needless to say, I don’t think this went that well… I’d shake your hand, but I read about that time you dropped your pacifier in the loo and then popped it straight back in your mouth…”
Model Behavior
This past Sunday I was attempting to languish in an old and lavish pastime from my youth I like to call, “reading magazines.”
When I was younger, my mom and I would spend entire afternoons laying around the living room. And my dad would always come in covered in dirt and debris and the smell that can only be described as “Chainsaw Dad” and say, “Are you two just reeeeeading maaaagazines?” And of course we’d melodramatically mock his disdain for such frivolous leisure (pronounced lezjher) so as to drive him swiftly and permanently from the room. We still savor any opportunity for nostalgic reenactments of our melodramatic magazine reading. I especially relish my signature teenage eye roll…
So this weekend I curled up for about 3.5 seconds before You-Know-Who’s up in my grill, trying to get in on the latest J Crew catalog. It just so happens that their most recent photo shoot was in Africa and so the wild animals had the unfortunate side effect of attracting unwelcome preschoolers.
“Oh, that’s the mommy elephant and that’s her baby.”
“Mmmmm.” (The “mommy” is huge and looks like a daddy to me, but I’m not going to argue this point… I need a new pair of black flats.)
“Mom, is she a doctor?”
He’s referring to the beautiful Ethiopian model, Liya Kebede.
Picture credit: J Crew
First there was the bunk bed conversation several months back that if men work really, really hard, they too can be doctors. And now this… clearly, we’re doing one thing right.
OK, OK… and perhaps Doc McStuffins deserves a smidge of credit (accompanied by a bit of melodramatic inaudible Queen Elizabeth clapping).
Walkie Talkie
Nate can talk.
I know, I know. I’m always proclaiming this. But every time I do, it’s because it’s like he can actually talk now. Each time he crosses some invisible developmental speech level, it’s just so… apparent.
There are very few times when I can’t tell what he’s saying anymore. Although, just this Saturday morning Nathaniel was pulling his favorite blanket over my lap on the couch and he kept saying “Eagle. Eagle.”
Me: “What? Eagle?”
Nate: “No, Eaaa-gle.”
Jake: “He’s saying ‘Here you go.'”
Me: “He is?”
Jake: “Yeah. I speak Nake.” (Nodding knowingly, hands on his hips.)
Me: “Glad someone around here does.”
Despite this indecipherable example, Natesy is busting out significant vocab, real sentences, and dare I say it? Near paragraphs. Mostly he says things like:
No, I want it. Yight saver. (That’s the uh, light saber. We have four.)
No, I do’ed it. Squeegee.
No, I make it. Agua.
No, I drive it. Car.
No, I need it. Sauce.
Mmmm, I yike it. Yummy.
But then just last weekend he tells me as he’s feeding me a wooden ball in a small play mixing bowl, “Eat it, Mama. Chockit chip cookie. Eat it. No chockit chip i’cream, I said.” Everything is now followed with an emphatic, slightly perturbed, “I said.”
At school, Miss Ixchel told me how surprised she was when he said, “Roll-up my sleeves.” And then, “Other one.” Extending his arms toward her.
I told him he was Jacob’s little brother and he told me, “No beeg. Beeg.”
But, tonight I heard a couple of old standbys that have been out of rotation for awhile. “Mama, UpOrDown.” He likes it when I put him on my lap and then flip him over upside down and backwards… thirty-seven times.
“Mo. Mo! Again.”
“Moe? I thought you were Curly.”
Lean Out
Yesterday morning I woke up at 4:55am, 5 minutes before I’d set my alarm to go off. I stealthily got dressed, got an exemplary free parking spot near the train station… And then proceeded to board a slow train to nowhere. Technically it was a slow train to the city… But at 5:55am, I think nowhere is more than generous.
I meant to get on the Baby Bullet, but the lady I asked, who looked in-the-know, was technically on her way to her third day on the job as an Assistant Something-er-Other at a Palo Alto Peet’s and was even more perturbed about our train mistake.
So I get on the train and I read an e-mail from my Dad about needing help to find and identify Happy Valleyans from my elementary school so he can invite them to the school’s sesquicentennial celebration. I don’t know how long that is, but I’m sure Google does.
I’d already checked LinkedIn and found exactly .036% of my sixth grade class (is this telling me something?) and so I told him I thought the only way was via Facebook.
Mind you, I know nothing about Facebook. Except something about Liking and Poking and it being a huge time suck. Yet, in my stupor of finding 82 minutes to kill on a northbound train before a long weekend, I made a rash decision to sign-up for Facebook with the sole objective of poking around (seriously, no pun intended) so as to coach my dad on the wonders of social networking. I saw that movie with JT so I can totally figure this out.
Plus, I’m on my way to see Sheryl Sandberg at the Professional Business Women of California’s conference. She’s the author of a new book called Lean In and is also the headline act. And given she’s the COO of this whole thing I’ve been avoiding for umpteen years, it seems fitting that I would sign-up that morning, right?
And then I went back to my e-mail and found no less than 8 e-mails from Facebook in the time it takes to go from Lawrence to Sunnyvale.
Update 1: I started this blog yesterday morning on the train and then took a break to listen to inspirational speakers and hopefully learn something. Total count of Facebook e-mails I’d deleted by 4pm: 20.
I told one of the gals on my team and she was very proud of me for joining the 21st century. James found out about my momentary lapse in judgement via some Facebook feature and sent me a text about how disappointed he was that I’d been a hold-out for so long and had finally caved. Nice. He says Facebook is over. That’s exactly when I like to adopt new technology.
Update 2: I’ve been a member of The Facebook for just over 24 hours and my tally of deleted e-mails is up to 29. I like to add the “The” like Larry King. Bump it, Lare-dawg. Looking forward to your 80th birthday this fall!
All this e-mail maintenance has me leaning out. Way out.
Lilon Bait
The very next morning I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom and saw Nate run past the door and down the hall, clutching his baybit, “Liiilon Coming!”
I quick shut the door and hoped it was like me, preferring tapas over full-size entrees.
Urban Safari
So Natesy’s fear of lilons has been quite the roller coaster.
Maybe a bit over a month ago we were playing in the backyard and Nate would point over the fence to the neighbors yard, “Lilon?”
“No, no lilon.”
Then he’d point to the side yard, “Lilon!”
“No, no lilon.”
At one point he was standing directly in front of me and pointing to thin air, “Lilon?” I must admit, the question did cross my mind as to whether two-year-olds can be stricken by Ritz cracker-induced hallucinations…
Then when we went to Los Osos at the end of April, Nate was sure there were lions behind every closed mini-blind, dark corner, and definitely behind the surfboard propped in the corner of the guest room.
This past weekend we went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. We were in the dark viewing room that has the enormous tank with sea turtles, hammerhead sharks, and stingrays. Nate points into the dark depths, “Lilon!” Then thought better of it, “No… no lilon.” Clearly, lilons don’t really swim…
As we’re walking back out into the light he’s gripped by a new level of certainty. “YEAH, LiiiiLon.”
“Where? Where’s a lilon?”
“Ober dare!” (Pointing back toward the darkness.)
Though I’d say the pinnacle of this obsession with lilons lurking in any and all dark or anxiety inducing situations peaked one night at dinner. We were at San Pablo Square, waiting at the Vietnamese restaurant counter for Jacob’s order. As we watched the head chef firing Jake’s noodles, Nate points at the friendly cook, “Lilon!”
Sometimes James and I overhear Nathaniel in his car seat mumbling to himself, “Lilon? No lilon. Lilon? No lilon.”
I’m cutting off the crackers.
Wager
This evening I stopped by Safeway and bought the biggest ketchup they had. I’m tired of always finding I can barely get a splattering for my scrambled eggs. It says it’s 4 pounds of Heinz goodness… a half gallon.
I’m taking wagers on how long we think it will take us to dust this bottle?
I’m guessing it may get us through the summer. Or maybe I should end that last sentence at May.
Mother’s Day
As hopefully everyone knows (we all have a mom, right?), yesterday was Mother’s Day.
I knew something good was about to happen because A) James got out of bed as soon as Jakey woke-up, which rarely happens and B) a short time later I heard the slap-slap-slap of Crocs in the backyard, which is the sound of The-Big-One fetching flowers for me off the one flowering bush out there in the concrete jungle.
I was soon greeted with my favorite morning surprise: Breakfast-in-bed. And let me just tell you, if you’re ever looking for a way to win over a three or four-year old in one fell swoop— serve them breakfast-in-bed. Jacob always asks me, “Mama, maybe when I get five you can bring me breakfast-in-bed?” This morning I told him it’s highly probable, and then let him eat a muffin over a plate on the floor next to my bed.
So our breakfast-in-bed tray is a flat wooden crate that came with one of our Melissa and Doug toys. Probably the wooden Velcroed fruit you get to slice with a wooden knife. It holds a small plate and is also manageable enough that you can trust Jacob to carry it.
And what was I served for my lovely Mother’s Day treat? At first I was completely unsure. There was a cup of hot tea, accompanied by a bowl of… Black beans with shredded mozzarella?
Turns out it was black forbidden rice pudding made with coconut milk and topped with shredded coconut. Scrumptious. Our new favorite breakfast/dessert. Plus it is not something that preschoolers are scrambling all over you to chow down… Unlike bacon or anything served with ketchup.
Though I must note that we woke-up this morning and Jake was hell bent on serving his dad breakfast-in-bed because, well, it’s Monday. There were leftovers so I served him the same thing except I folded his napkin like an airplane (I thought that added a manly counterpoint to our espresso cup bouquet of pink flowers). When I came back to check on them, Nate told me, “Umm, Umm. Nummy.” Seems he’s interested in eating anything that is served in bed.
As I was eating JJ exclaimed, “Oh! I forgot to make you a present.” Last time I had breakfast in bed it also came with a wooden tin of pretend tunafish ensconced in a spare piece of wrapping paper. I made sure he knew the flowerpot he made me at school was present enough.
We then went over the hill and had a lovely brunch outside at Grandma and Granddad’s house along with Geoff, Baby Devon and the Zings. It was hot. Jake and Nate stripped down to their skivvies, followed by their birthday suits (this is always the sequence of events), and spent what may have been several hours swimming in the dog water bowl. Followed by a lot of random base running and a few hits off the baseball tee.
A perfect Mother’s Day indeed.
You-Know-Who
Have I ever told you about one of the best days of my life?
I think it was a Friday, I’m not entirely sure. In any case, it felt like a Friday. You know that Friday feeling. I do know that I got on the train and instead of opening up a giant new 5 lb. macroeconomics textbook, I opened up a giant new 5 lb. Harry Potter novel. And I was in heaven.
It was the elation of pure freedom… something I rarely brush elbows with these days. I’d finished the grad school quarter and was free to not study on weekends, to watch television at night, and to read pure witches and warlocks fiction to my heart’s desire.
I still remember Kristen telling me how she was on an airplane and an older gentleman next to her looked over and saw her cracking open her giant Harry Potter tome. (It has to be good if you’re willing to lug that around on your travels, right?). He says to her, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for our children to be reading about witchcraft and sorcery.” And in typical Kristen fashion, she says without missing a beat, “I’ve read the entire series and have yet to cast an effective spell.”
How I wish I had such in-the-moment wit at my disposal.
These days, I’m frequently reminded of my historical love affair with Harry Potter (the books, not the movies so much) as we use an exact phrase from the series almost daily: You-Know-Who.
In the book, the kids are forbidden from saying the bad guy’s name. Something about if you say Lord Voldemort then he’ll come and get you. So instead they’re always saying He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or You-Know-Who.
I noticed James and I also talk in code so as to avoid detection. We’ll be driving in the car and James will check the rearview mirror, “You-Know-Who’s almost lights out.” If you say his name, it’ll snap him out of the pre-nap trance and that kid’ll never go to sleep. I’m talking about The-Big-One. Another one of our simplistic code phrases. They haven’t completely caught on to The-Big-One and The-Little-One.
The last two mornings in a row, The-Big-One showed up at my bedside at exactly 5:11 and 5:26am. I tried my most focused and potent “Expelliarmus!” on him.
You-Know-Who was not phased.
Horseplay
Yes I know. I told you not to read the warning on your bunk bed. But I didn’t tell you not to read the warning on mine:
First up, the word entrapment freaks me out. How can I fall asleep with visions of a bed that could silently squeeze the life out my most darling bambinos? I prefer my entrapment of the Catherine Zeta-Jones variety.
Rule #1 is not to allow anyone under 6 years of age on the upper bunk. Meanwhile, who really buys a bunk bed unless they have limited space and more kids than fit in said space? And usually those kids are much younger than 6 when you need to begin stacking them on top of each other, literally. So considering we let Jacob sleep up top at the ripe old age of 4, rule #1 is out the window. Plus Nate climbs up there fast as a squirrel. So Nate’s out the window, too.
Rules #2 and #3 are about the size and depth of your mattress. When you buy a bed you really should always factor in the cost of the mattress, or in this case, mattresses, before determining if you can afford it. Styrofoam peanuts or balled-up bathroom towels are not a replacement for a real mattress. Got it.
Rule #4 is about using guardrails on both sides of the top bunk. Fortunately we have that in place now. I’ve removed the two Euro pillows stuffed into the window crevice that clearly were the stars in my mental movies of entrapment.
Rule #5 is the one I repeat most often: “Horseplay is prohibited on or under this bed!” Maybe I have to repeat it so often because I’m not lecturing horses. I’m disciplining monkeys.
Rule #6 says to prohibit more than one person on the upper bunk. This rule is completely useless because I can’t enforce a hypocritical rule when I need to read books in the top bunk and climb up there to yank horses down for playing.
Rule #7 commands the use of the ladder to get up and down from the top bunk. In less than 10 minutes Jacob realized he could easily climb up to the top bunk without the ladder. This was an unfortunate realization. Then there was about 30 seconds where he thought he was safely out of reach and immune to consequences. We dispelled that right quick. That was a fortunate realization.
Rule #8’s all about entrapment and walls again. I think we’ve covered that nightmare sufficiently. The editor of this label really should have considered combining #8 and #4. I’m glad my job is not editing bunk bed labels. Talk about nightmares…
Rule #9 says not to exceed 165 pounds on the upper bunk. James uses this as his excuse not to read bedtime books up top. Maybe I can fatten Jakey up and save myself the unflattering climb up and down.
And Rule #10 paints pictures of bunk bed strangulation via jump rope.
It’s a wonder any literate kid can fall asleep up there.