As of late, I’ve been applying to many not even close to my qualifications, but perhaps, just maybe, I’m first in line for a job they haven’t considered needing yet. It’s a reach, but I’ve got plenty of time and nothing to lose. Or so I thought.
I recently replied to a craigslist ad for a graphic designer. No can do, but I asked if they’d like a writer to go along with that designer, and low and behold, I got a hit! Ego boosting and hopeful yet again, I plan for the interview.
But rather attractive husband watches way, way too much tv and is convinced I’ll be tied, bound, mutilated never to be heard from again. The thought of driving kids and flying solo with two teenage girls, one moody pre-teen and The Boy is too much for him. He suggests I meet at a mutual location so perhaps I’ll make it back for Scouts.
I’m not a moron. I did my homework. This is a real shop, real creative director with real clients and a substantial history. I research the firm, clients, location, and am more than confident this is not a set up in the least. See ya.
The building is a nightmare. The entrance is blocked off with caution tape, the stairs just plain ol’ nasty, garbage, unpainted sheetrock, exposed lightbulbs and a long hall of doorways with nothing but sticky notes marking the suite numbers. And it smells. Think Alice in Scary-land.
I hate it when he’s right. Husband. Shit. This is a set up and rather than be scared, I’m pissed. Really, really pissed.
Okay, so maybe I am a bit of a moron, because now I want to let creative dude know exactly what he’s dealing with and he will not get the better of me. Ignoring the pit-tingling, hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck caution signs, I open Post-in Note #215 . . . dumb dumb dumb.
But inside, I’m amazed. The space is gorgeous. A beautiful Manhattanesque office suite teeming with employees and black leather and iMacs and funky art and real people. Seems the complex had a fire a ways back and tenants are struggling with the condo association to fix the building, although the individual suites have all been rebuilt, obviously better than ever.
So this time, all’s good in the craigslist world. But I do realize that made-for-TV originated somewhere, and will take more precautions to make sure it’s not with me.