Rethinking the Interview

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Perhaps I'm thinking too much about it, but for the past few weeks, I haven't been able to get the concept of interviewing off my mind. Now I've been interviewing people for over a decade. You'd think I really know all the ins-and-outs by now. I even wrote articles about how to do an interview for The Writer and Suite 101. But this summer the game (or I) changed a bit.

Am I becoming a Workaholic?


The first inkling I had that something might be amiss was when I, along with my family, was relaxing at a friend's house. I was chatting with an artist who had recently returned from Africa. Fascinating. I reached for some chips and guacamole to keep my hands from grabbing a recording device in my pocket. This was fun. Not an interview. Still, I couldn't stop my flood of questions.

I confessed my dilemma to my husband at the end of the evening when we were home. He laughed and commented that he could see I was struggling. It's those darn interviewing instincts. They just kick in! (note to self - write article on African art from an American perspective so I can follow up with a legit QA session).

Relax - It's Summer


One of my favorite parts of my job is getting to "meet" the people I interview. Sure, it's usually by phone, but I still get unique insight into their lives. Love that.

But I think I'm getting a bit too driven.

A nice conversation has turned into a whirlwind tour. For example, when I get a 15-minute interview, I generally have six questions prepared. In my last two interviews, I was done in less than eight minutes. Self-anaysis time. Why were they so short? I can think of two reasons.

1. The interviewee was not one of my favorite people. In fact, I wondered what kind of drugs were in this person's system. The individual couldn't care less about the viewing audience for the film created, and had no personal opinions. The person didn't even have a dream for what might come next in their working universe. Weird. And a total waste of my time. Good thing I liked the film so I can write more about that.

2. The interviewee was one of my favorite people. I was so excited about interviewing the person and discovered the person was as wonderful in person as I could ever have hoped for. Thanks to my excitement, and the fact that the person was so popular that I knew there was a full docket of interviews ahead in the person's schedule, I rushed it. That 15 minutes of time was allotted to me, and I blew it. And to make things worse, I probably seemed rude in the process because I didn't take time for a bit of chit-chat even when I knew time wasn't of the essence. Rudeness isn't cool.

Proactive Planning

So what did I learn from it all?

I went into the interview from choice #1 knowing the person might be like that, based on my research. Next time I have to deal with that - I'm having at least 30 questions prepared. I'm also going to break the interviewer's rule and ask some questions with yes/no answers. At least I'll get some sort of response I can print.

For interviewees like the second one, I'm going to relax and enjoy the conversation. That was a serious job perk I threw away. Never again.

It all goes to show you live and learn, even after a decade of work. That's a good lesson to remember.

At Least It Wasn't a Worm

I needed to use up the filling I'd made for burritos. 

I said to myself, “Anne, you may as well take this to the office because no one else is going to eat it.”

The tortilla wouldn't fit on the small china plate I keep there, so I found a paper plate in the cabinet.  I avoid using disposables when I can, but I needed a bigger base for the large tortilla.  Everything was fine until I took it out of the microwave.  The soggy filling was dripping all over the counter.  I pulled the china plate under the paper one to catch the mess and took it to my desk.  It would be easy to clean up the china plate later.  It was Friday when we are allowed to eat at our desks and leave early at the end of the day.  All was well until I finished and noticed a small gap in the paper plate.  It was about a quarter of an inch wide and an inch long.  I looked for that bit of paper, but there was nothing left on the china plate -- nothing.  I realized the texture of a tough tortilla and a soft paper plate were identical.  I guess fiber is the name of the game.  At least it wasn't a worm.

Green's Limit

Digital self portrait

Tuna fish salad seemed a good idea for the midday meal, since I didn’t know when husband John would get his lunch break.  We try to have our days off together, but for some reason he was working and I was not.  I prepared the tuna salad, read the newspaper, heard my stomach rumble and ate at 2:00.  That’s when I discovered the limit of green.  The assembled sandwich had a base of one slice of whole wheat toast, topped with tuna salad and a large, crisp leaf of iceberg lettuce.  I crave crunch these days and avoid the satisfying things like potato chips and crackers.  There were two large stalks of celery in the salad, which was overkill to begin with.  The lettuce was not only on top, it was over the top.  My tongue explored each bite, trying to find an identifiable tuna taste.  No luck.  From now on, green will have to fade into the background.  There should be a balance between “good for you” and “delicious.”

War in the Swimming Pool

David, Anne, Nate

I may never walk right again, but oh! I can still swim!  Our grandsons were eager for their second swim in two days and were pleased that I put on my suit.  John (Grandpa), wanting to be available to the family for Father’s Day, put his suit on too, although he didn't go in the water.  Their mother Kate did her duty by swimming with them yesterday.  The boys seemed very pleased to have me there and were very solicitous for my welfare.  David (16) stood behind me as I leaned on John and Kate for that first steep step.  I cringed when my feet were in the water, and Nate (11) asked if there were anything he could do for me.  I was groaning on the next step down.  Nate’s advice was to move around and keep going.  I was convinced I was a lunatic when the water was up to my waist.  Finally I plunged in and swam to the far end and back.  Then everything was OK -- no, more than just OK.  I could swim as well as I did 30 years ago.  It was like turning back the clock!  The new knees were watertight and moving better than the originals had for the last 10 years.

The boys were playing with rings and torpedoes.  David retrieved the toys from the bottom of the pool that Nate threw for him, and Nate set up torpedoes on a floating toy.  It was all very pleasant and civil.  I did laps on the shady side, wanting to really exercise while staying cool.  I’m not particularly vain, but I was glad only the bottom ends of my hair were wet and that the top looked good.  David didn’t do a cannonball when I was near, always warning me when he was going to jump in.  He got out routinely to warm up, while Nate and I, with our superior insulation, never got out.  As you might guess, this was very, very tame.  We all became a bit careless, sometimes bumping into each other.  They brought out more toys, and some of the things splashed me.  For that there would be a quick, “Sorry, Gran.” 

The action escalated when the splash bombs came out.  “Watch out, Gran!”  Splat! 

Then it was, “Catch this one, Gran!  Oops!” 

I threw them back to Nate, trying to aim the soggy floaters so that he could catch them.  That didn’t last long.  I learned to throw them hard, aiming at the face for a full frontal assault.  Nate hit me on the lips, and I came up spluttering.  “You asked for this one, Nate!”  Wham! 

By the end of the session I looked like a drowned rat.  The boys merely looked a bit damp.

Monkey Business

In St. Paul’s day, there was a statue to an unknown god that people must have worshiped in case there was one they overlooked.  I can resonate to that, only I’m thinking of worry, not worship.  The second time I went to the dermatologist, he told me ahead of time that he would do a full body scan the next time.  I thought I knew what was coming, so I didn’t worry about it.  I should have set aside some serious time to worry.  I assumed (and we all know one should not assume) that I’d take off ALL my clothes, every last stitch, and put on a very inadequate paper gown. 

The day came that I hadn’t worried about.  The nurse guided me to an examination room, handed me the aforementioned skimpy covering and said something that caused a deer in the headlights expression to cross my face.

She said, “Take everything off EXCEPT your underwear.”

Oh!  My goodness!  What do I do now?  Am I wearing holey underwear?  Please tell me I didn’t pick out the Halloween pair this morning.  Walmart tricked me with that one.  In a package of three they covered the orange pair with one each of green and beige.  I wear the orange ones only when all the others are in the wash, and there is no other choice.  Come to think of it, the green and beige ones are long gone, washed and worn out ages ago.  Getting dressed in the dark, there is no telling what I might have carelessly slapped on my body.  Am I wearing one that has runs in it and looks like a reject from the hosiery drawer?  Go on, nurse.  Let’s get this over with.  Oh.  Whew!  No holes, no strings, no runs.  I’ve been saved from total embarrassment. 

That happened a year or two ago, but you can tell the memory is as fresh as a spring breeze.  The appointment I kept Thursday was made about eight months ago.  They said at the time that they’d do another body scan, so I carefully remembered that and worried accordingly.  What was there to worry about this time?  I’ll tell you.  Avoiding holes and runs was a given.  Making the choice from the best underwear in the drawer was nerve wracking.  What if you chose something Victoria would keep a secret?  The doctor is young and quite good looking.  Go a little too lacy or a bit skimpy and you’d look like a tart ready to flirt and go into high gear.  Err on the conservative side, and you’d look like a novice headed for the nunnery.  I must have made the right choice, because the dermatologist obviously had eyes only for unusual bumps on my skin.  His diligence was rewarded.  He marked a tiny spot on my back with parentheses of indelible ink, took a digital photo of it and showed it to me. 

I ended up feeling like a monkey.  I don’t remember that he did it before, but this time he examined my scalp.  If he were looking for lice, that would be nit hunting if not nit-picking.  His fingers walked intently through my hair, and all I could think of was one monkey grooming another, only I was perched on an exam table, not a tree.  Thank goodness I resisted the urge to make monkey sounds and swing off the table!

a.m.

Hats!

I grew up in a society that decreed a woman should wear a hat to church and to afternoon parties.  Maybe we were supposed to wear them to weddings, too, but I wasn’t invited to any.  50 years later it’s rare to see a hat.  Gail in our church wears one to services, as does Joann.  That’s roughly 2 out of 200 people.  Hats are still in across the sea, as shown on TV at Kate and William’s royal wedding in Westminster Abbey.  I don’t think I saw a single woman without something decorative on her head.  The commentators mentioned several designers of women’s dresses and a couple of hat designers, but they reserved their criticism for hats.  It seemed to be open season for taking a shot at hats.  It doesn’t seem fair.  Not a single comment was made about men’s wear, other than to say what regiment a uniform came from.  No man’s tie, shoes or cuff links got a mention.  Why did all the women agree to perch hats on their heads?  Decorative hats are totally useless except for blocking the view of people behind you.  Well, there were a few with feathers that could have been used for tickling someone, but surely that would be frowned on in church.  The Muslim women didn’t have a choice, but at least their head coverings matched their clothing.

I could accept the little hats that said, “I’m sitting here on this head because they wouldn’t let my owner into the wedding without it.”

The cardinal’s hat said, “I’m good for keeping this bald head slightly warm.”

The hats of Prince Andrew’s daughters stated, “We’re here to make these young ladies look totally ridiculous.  One of us is the color and shape of a raw pretzel.  The other is not big enough to hide a bad hair day.”

The top hats had nothing to say.  They were merely carried, never seen on anyone’s head.  Talk about being totally useless!!!

Did you see the wife of a well-known soccer player?  Her little round black hat, worn totally on her forehead, was almost low enough to double as an eye patch.  She was evidently quite worried about it, because she never cracked a smile the whole time the camera was aimed at her.  There was another bright blue hat in the shape of a canoe that looked like it was going to land on the wearer’s nose.  Camilla’s headgear appeared to be a bowl helmet with a brim.  The bride’s mother looked like her hat aimed at the top of her head, but got stuck on the side with superglue.  Several women were wearing saucers molded flat against their hair.  There were little airy things that pretended to be fake birds, hopefully house trained.  Several hats were HUGE.  I presume the women under them used directional signals so their pew-mates wouldn’t be wiped out if they turned their heads.  If a rushing Pentecostal wind had arisen, they would have been lifted right up to the high ceiling and pinned there.  I saw several dark hats that, if they were moving across the floor, I would attack with a broom – much akin to nasty varmints.  Heaven only knows how some of those creations stayed on.  I remember having hat pins that could double as miniature swords -- protection from a fierce attacker, presumably.  The pins were dangerous to the wearer, as well.  If you missed, you might puncture your skull and have brains leaking out under your hat.  Maybe that’s why some hats were so tight, to contain the seepage.  Frankly, I’m glad to be done with all that silly business.  I do have other, more important things to think about.  For instance, if I were a milliner in England, I would worry that America’s hatlessness would become the rage in England.

One of the last times I wore a hat.