October 14, 2008

I was snacking on something that went straight to my thighs when…

Aw shit. Now, I’m pissed I missed Heroes because of this damn application. I continue snacking.

Nine minutes later…

I’m thinking this is a sick joke played by editors who are high off of a late deadline. 10:49 p.m.? Who sends business emails at 10:49 p.m.?

I read it over again. Okay, so this shit is real. I scream through my teeth, forcing Karen to pause Making the Band 4 and pull off her headphones. And then, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I read it over again. Apologies… interview….. Friday… interview… UM TWO HOURS?? Did “tell me about yourself” suddenly become to mean from the birth canal onward?? My life flashed before my eyes. A rapidly beating pulse was gaining momentum in between my eyebrows as I dreadfully speculated how many opportunities I would get to fuck up this interview in two hours. After replying to J**’s emails as formally as I could (Lots of “looking forward to”, “please confirm”, “regards” in our email conversations), I email M - in ALL CAPS mind you - to express my anxiety via emphasized type face.

He didn’t reply until two days later. It’s like going on a really great first date, then getting a hesitant call for the second. The interview was postponed to Monday, giving me the weekend to Botox the face of my resume and build up the courage to answer the tough questions. Sometimes when I’m dreaming, I have this cartooned version of myself, like Lizze McGuire, except I look more like the black kid in The Boondocks and my language would put G-rated television to shame.

I would ask myself, “How do you handle stress and pressure?”
Boondocks Nicole would answer, “I start crying and get the fuck out of there.”

Eventually I suppressed her, and woke up Monday morning more than ready to answer questions better the Alex Trebek. The entire time my mushroom professor was talking about the hallucinogenic properties of Amanita Muscaria, I was thinking of some epic excuse to get out of my Philosophy class. I skipped it anyway; he was saying something like “How do you know the future won’t be the same as the past?” …whatever.

It’s 12:40 pm, and I’m twenty minutes early. Inhale, Exhale, Inhale, Exhale. Walking down into Lower Freeborn reminds me of CSI, when they descend into the dungeons to view the victim corpses. You can hear nothing but the sound of your shoes bouncing off the walls of the bare hallways. My breathing becomes less tame, and I decide to take a huge gulp of water to calm myself but instead, I’m overcome with some outrageous cough attack. Confident that everyone on the entire lower level is bearing witness to this audible mammoth of a sound, I retreat to the stairs and wait for the cough to pass.

The California Aggie is a place that looks more like the houses on frat row that have laundry dispersed throughout, even when guests are over. There’s a wall for critique - I eye a poor victim article scrutinized by the tyranny of someone’s red pen. There’s a wall for Graphic requests, for reference, for random shi…..

“Nicole, are you ready?”
I was.
“Please, tell me about yourself.”
Something something yearbook something Macs and music something something.
“Any questions? No? Please, if you will follow me, I will prepare for the exam.”
UM WHAT. EXAM? SERIOUSLY??

I’m in emotional shock, but still manage to whip out four Ticonderoga pencils and a block eraser. Part I: Grammar. Okay, not so bad… Principle/principal, insure/ensure, blah blah. Part II: Circle the errors. What is this, the fucking SAT? Boondocks is flipping out. I survive and the exam is over. Now the real interview will begin.

No.

Part III: Identification. I’m looking at this list of names and acronyms that remind me of well, nothing. WERT, DFTA, LMNOP, ABCDEFG - is basically what it looked like to me. The only one I knew was LGBT/Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender organization. Great, now I’m a lesbian. I finish, now the real interview begins.

No.

I’m mano a mano with something that vaguely reminds me of…….
Shit. An essay exam. SERIOUSLY? A list of quotes, 65 minutes to construct a full-fledged article, and go.

When I conclude, I review the email in my head over and over and over again. Let’s count the times the word “interview” was mentioned.. shall we? One… two… three…. four…. five… SIX…. SEVEN… EIGHT!! Eight times. My non-interview was over faster than you can say Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Resource Center.

That was my first experience with the California Aggie. Hopefully it isn’t my last but if it is, fuck the acronyms; I hold them responsible for the demise of my journalism career.

If you care about what I’ve been up to at Davis, then lurk away!