Didn’t See That Coming

I wore the perfect outfit to the interview from hell. (But more on that later.)

When I started this blog, I promised to share my experiences with you—to give profound advice and provide comic relief. My biggest mission—finding a new job. While I hoped my first mention of an interview would be slightly more magical, with a signing bonus and new office attached, I clearly overlooked the learning experiences I had yet to endure.

Insert last Wednesday.

It was the second round interview for a fashion marketing and events internship where I would head all marketing and social media campaigns, attempt to gain a cult following and plan national events. Though I had some reservations about the company, the experience I would have gotten was the driving force behind applying.

The scene:

2:41 – I arrive and am greeted by reception for my 3pm interview.

2:44 – I steal two butterscotch candies (for potential celebration).

2:50 – I notice I haven’t stopped sweating yet. I walked here.

3:02 – I stop sweating.

3:11 – My two interviewers enter reception. They are laughing.

3:11 ½ - I get a smile and a nice to see you from Vicky* and a weak handshake from Phil*. Phil has a heavy Italian (?) accent. I am horrible at broken English.

3:12 – We enter a room the size of a closet. No windows. There are two black faux leather hotel lobby-looking office chairs seated at an angle, facing each other on the left. Vicky and I struggle to bring in a barstool. Yes, a barstool. (Even though the triplet of said black chairs is nearby.) We are not equals. Phil helps. The barstool is placed along the right wall, facing the black chairs. It is the tallest object in the room by three feet. This is my seat. We form a triangle.

3:13 – They joke that this is an interrogation. I ask where the spotlight is. No one laughs.

3:14 – We begin.

I believe that triangle was a metaphor for being backed into a perpetual corner that I would never escape. Somewhere in between the beginning and the end, the alpha and omega, I was asked a series of “nontraditional” interview questions, and consequently, was nontraditionally offended. Fast forward to the end of our 90-minute escapade—I realized I was hit by the proverbial bus and still have yet to know what actually happened.

Phil was an ass. He’s the type of guy that puts poison ivy in a flower arrangement. He was pretentious, hated the American youth and only asked questions he knew he wouldn’t like the answer to. He also criticized Nicholas Kirkwood. Side note: I effing love Nicholas Kirkwood. Vicky barely spoke. When she wasn’t telling me how much she liked me (confusing, I know) she was passing back inside jokes to Phil while I sat there and pretended to look fascinated. Seriously, I would have loved a picture of my face during those moments.

Our cross-examination had more ups and downs than a heart rate monitor. While Phil praised me on how well I fit into their brainstorming sessions, the majority of the interview was turbulent at best.

My biggest qualm was the cash. Though advertised as a paid internship, Phil said Americans are brainwashed for wanting money and thought that with an apartment, shopping habit and student loans to pay off, I was making excuses for needing a paycheck—aka—he didn’t want to pay me. He also bragged about the price of his socks and suit jacket, adding that if he wanted to, he could work remotely from the Cayman Islands because he was just that rich. Phil, you are furthering my point on why you are an idiot.

The immediate issue with this is that they thought I was stupid enough to agree to a salary-free year with the hopes of maybe becoming partner to a company that would most likely go bankrupt within 16 months. Secondly, and apparently ultimately, Phil tried to make me feel bad that I wanted any financial compensation for my work. I wanted to cry.

Though I remained polite and pleasant, I stood up for myself. Through the job hunt and interview process, you may second guess your skills or your experience but never let anyone force you to question who you are as a person. And though I’m still coming to terms with this after my traumatic experience, never feel bad for wanting or, more importantly, needing money. Phil tried to dethrone me multiple times but with each swing, I came out kicking. I was also on a higher chair and height gives me power (hence my motto of 4 inches and above—high heels sickos). With this, I urge you all to fight back.

I’m no going to let this experience ruin me. I sent a very generic follow up email thanking them for their time; all the while wishing invisible ink existed in emails to insert a big “F-you” before every sentence. 

A week later, I’m still hoping Phil gets deported. 

*names have been changed