A Sticky Situation

It was October 1991. I had just bought a staid navy suit lined in silk gray pinstripes and made of a stiff gabardine that felt like one of those mustard yellow interoffice envelopes with the red string to fasten it. Underneath the suit I wore a cream silk shell with a scrunched mock turtleneck and pearl buttons along the back. It was too thin to wear without a jacket so it was not as versatile as what I’d buy these days. Hell, nothing about that outfit was what I’d buy these days. I had polished black pumps that lacked personality but were big on practicality. The kitten heel was slight, yet gave my five foot frame just the boost I needed to stand up straight without teetering. My jewelry was just plain…boring. Gold watch, Seiko. Pearl stud earrings, fake. Central casting would have given me the role of an early 90s girl interviewing for her first real job.

Indeed I was.

When I graduated from college in 1991 the economy had tanked (as it did in December 2001 when I finished graduate school…I have an uncanny knack for higher education planning). Like every other English and History major I knew, I thought I wanted to work in marketing. A job that entailed writing, creativity, and analytical thinking. Just what my liberal arts education prepared me for. Mind you, I had initially wanted to work in a law firm, but after meeting with several attorneys in informational interviews, I found that career lacked the luster I was looking for. Never mind that my boring blue suit would have fit in perfectly with the uniform of drones I had encountered at all those big firms.

Now, this was before monster.com and the Internet so job hunting required lots of newspapers, a Sharpie, a phone book, and hand written thank you notes. I had applied to several companies that were in search of marketing minions. It turns out that you need previous minion experience to get a job. I have never understood the chicken and egg nature of job hunting. How was I, a girl of 22, to get a job? I had oddles of experience as a waitress, bartender, custom stationery order taker, party store worker, Greek sportswear sales clerk. Those jobs were a stroll on Easy Street compared to the temp work I had done as a switchboard operator for 110 phones lines in a massive office complex (I left after one day) and packing up customer orders of cashmere sweaters and suede patched elbows of tweed blazers for a famous catalog company (I left at the lunch break). I’m clearly too soft for certain types of work. But in my defense, the temp agency had not filled that switchboard job for longer than a day at a time. And the catalog warehouse was full of fire breathing chimney old ladies who gasped and barked and reeked of Marlboro Reds.

During my hunt for a job that had a salary instead of a time clock I worked retail. Just like every other liberal arts grad I knew. Imagine my delight when I was called in for an interview with a real marketing firm. Interview number one went swimmingly. The chemistry between me and the team of VPs and high brows was sparkling with promise. They were impressed with my writing samples and laughed at all my jokes. I left that conference room with a skip in my step and was thankful for my sensible shoes that let me skip without tripping.

Then came the call for interview number two (phone call, pre-email days, folks).

The job was mine if the president deemed it mine. Decision 1991 was between me and one other person. We were each meeting with Mr. President to impress upon him how impressive we were. The job interview was to be in a restaurant in a town about 20 miles away. At 7:30 AM.

It snowed 2 feet the night before the interview.

I had just moved to this Midwestern mecca and had assumed the interview would be called off. I made a call to confirm that. Nope. Mr. President would be waiting. Had I mentioned that I just moved from Virginia, where I had zero experience driving in snow? I also didn’t own a real winter coat because helloooo, it was October; I thought I had time. I put on the boring black counterpart to my blue suit (in a wool crepe) and made my way to the car in those same black pumps. I had called ahead to the restaurant days before to get meticulous directions (remember, pre-Internet means pre-Google Maps). I set out at 5:30 AM for this interview. The one that was going to land me my first real job. I could just taste it! In the dark wee hours I drove off as a snow virgin, behind the wheel on icy roads heading to a town I had never heard of to get my first JOB.

It turns out I got lost and found myself on a two lane road by a lake. I was in Minnesota so there’s no telling where I was exactly; there were 9,999 other lakes dotting the map (pre-GPS too). It’s a good thing I left at the butt crack of dawn because I needed every single second to find this little chalet of a restaurant perched on the shore of the lake like a bejeweled brooch. I tiptoed through the slush and ice, fuhreezing through my lousy London Fog overcoat (that would have fit in beautifully at those law firms). I had time to warm my hands, dot on some lip gloss, and pluck away those flecks of black icy grime stuck at my heels. I was waiting in the lobby when Mr. President arrived. A picture of confident nonchalance was I.

We sat. We chit chatted. We perused the menu. Much like when on a date, I didn’t want to seem gluttonous or order something that would be unflattering to eat (like linguini is taboo on a date). I’m not a fan of eggs unless there is a copious amount of Tabasco sauce, and not wanting to seem high maintenance for asking, I scanned the menu for something else. Ah, pancakes! Easy enough to cut with a fork, fruit on the side was manageable, ixnay on the aconbay. So there it was: pancakes with a lovely side of berries and a warm mug of coffee, black. Mr. President had ordered oatmeal. After spending many years in the Midwest, I would learn too that there is no better winter warmer to kick start your day than a hearty bowl of oatmeal.

My easy peasy pancake syrup came in a cute little pottery creamer pot. You know, the ones that milk come in when you order your coffee with cream and sugar. I only needed the liquid equivalent of a dollop. I carried on with the conversation, maintaining eye contact. I picked up that little pot of syrup, turned it ever so slightly, and poured. Glancing down at my pancakes, I saw they were still naked. I tilted the pot a tish more. Then more. Still nothing. Hmmm… This required breaking eye contact. I averted my eyes from Mr. President (who by the way was oh so very impressed by me, I could tell). I saw nothing curious on my syrup so I resumed my ever so steady eye contact, kept my grin while speaking, and poured the syrup once again.

SPLAT!

It seems there was a firm film atop my syrup that had hardened (likely because it was 15 below  a witch’s tit that morning). My pancakes remained bare, while my interviewer’s hands were covered in pancake syrup. My lap was a puddle of syrup, and the drips off the edge of the table continued to fill my pockets. My plate was a lake of syrup. My hand was sticky and gloppy. Mr. President simply wiped his hands, maintained eye contact, and kept on talking! I was aghast, dumbfounded, horrified. Since he was clearly not breaking his stride I felt I had to keep on truckin, as they say. I fondled my water glass in hopes of unsticking my fingers from the condensation on the side of the glass. I tried to inconspicuously fish out an ice cube to roll between my fingers. I didn’t eat one solitary bite of food.

Mr. President never acknowledged my gaffe.

We left the table, anointed by its new layer of syrup. In the lobby we said our niceties and bid farewell. Out of habit, he extended his hand. And out of habit, I reached for his. That’s when his smile turned to horror, and my posture slumped. Mr. President just shook my hand that was sticky, wet, and cold. He excused himself politely and went to the bathroom to clean up. I did the same, thanking the good graces that my interviewer was a man, therefore not sharing my bathroom. I stayed in there an excrutiatingly long time to ensure I wouldn’t run into Mr. President.

I gathered up my courage, picked up the few shattered shards of my self respect, and bolted out the door, shoulders back, head up. Despite my discomfort driving in the snow, I high tailed it home. My wool crepe suit was ruined but dry cleanable. My ego was gripped by that syrup. To this day that commercial L’eggo my Eggo reads “L’eggo my Ego” to me.

And remember when I said the job was so close I could taste it? Yeah, it tasted like pancake syrup.

So whadya say, did I get the job?