Four Weeks to Find a New Job

When it rains it pours, and it certainly was pouring.

Dealing with the Mom/Pam/apartment situation was troubling enough, but then something else was thrown into the mix: getting fired. Or, more graciously stated, being "politely asked to leave" with four weeks to find another job.

To an outsider gazing in, my job at the magazine seemed enviable: I was the assistant to a top executive at one of the swanky Conde Nast magazines. The office environment was hip and had a non-corporate vibe, you could wear whatever you wanted (in Condé Nast-land, no outfit was considered too fashion forward), and there were many job-related perks like movie screenings, interesting lectures to attend, parties and lunches out. My favorite perk of all were these incredible "Beauty sales" at other magazines, where you would walk into a conference room filled with hundreds upon hundreds of brand new, top-of-the-line makeup and skincare products, with each item costing an astounding one dollar. My friends never loved me more than when they were the recipients of my bountiful Beauty sale scores.

Despite my job's fabulous, glossy exterior, truth be told I was never very happy there. From the get-go, I really missed working for Tim. We'd had such a fantastic time together. Although my boss at the magazine was perfectly nice, our working relationship paled in comparison to what I'd had with Tim. Still feeling spoiled from the best of the best, there was only so much false enthusiasm I could muster up in my role.

Also, I always wished I were on the "other side" of the magazine. I was on the Ad sales side, which was all about selling ad pages, as opposed to the Editorial side which was responsible for the content of the magazine: the ideas, stories, visuals, et cetera. In other words, where all of the interesting stuff went on. I never cared about selling ad pages. (Not that I had to sell the pages per se, but that was the primary focus of everyone in my department.)

After a few months of quiet discontent I did some checking around. Condé Nast has many titles under its umbrella, so I had this idea of perhaps transferring to the editorial side of a different magazine. I would have to work a year and a half in the position I was in before I could move within the company.

I had been at the magazine for six months when my boss called me into his office one day. With concern he asked, "Is everything going okay? How do you feel about things?" He expressed dissatisfaction with my performance, wanting -- or expecting me to be more proactive and enthusiastic. This came as a surprise because I thought I had been doing a fine job, although, admittedly, I knew I wasn't the most enthusiastic person around.

Under normal circumstances it would have disturbed me greatly for a boss to feel the need to bring up something like this. But coincidence had it otherwise: the very night before I had dinner with Tim and he had said, "I'm up for a promotion at work. Would you come back and work for me?"

Would I? Must you even ask?!

He continued, "But nothing's going to happen for at least six months."

So, you see, I hardly got flustered at all in my boss's office that day, because Tim had placed this delectable carrot of opportunity before me. I needed to stay employed, however, until such time, so I answered, "Everything is great and I really like my job here!" [Pinocchio's nose starts to grow.]

This seemed to appease him. Four months went by without incident.

But then he called me in for another talk. Two misunderstanding-type glitches had recently occurred, and he felt he wasn't getting the level of service he desired. Once again he expressed worry about my performance. And once again I reassured him that everything was okay. I was still holding out for Tim, but now, it seemed, just barely.

I saw Tim two weeks later. I hadn't wanted to put any pressure on him about the job possibility, but it had come to point where I really needed to know. He said although he was going to get his promotion, his assistant would be shared with four others, a position he knew I wouldn't want.

Ugh. All that time waiting, luscious carrot dangling, for nothing. But at least I knew where I stood, so I could move on. Yeah, "move on" from Condé Nast, because after two admonishments for my uninspiring work performance, my chances of moving to another magazine were now slim to none.

Knowing of my workplace discontent, a friend told me about a posting she had recently seen on Craigslist: the Editor in Chief of Forbes magazine needed a new assistant. "Editorial" was the side I wanted to be on, so I e-mailed them my resume. I heard back from HR that they wanted to meet with me.

Interviewing has never been my strong point, but during the Forbes interview I managed to hold my own. About twenty minutes into it, my interviewer began to describe the personality of the Editor. "He's all about business," she said, "there's no personal work whatsoever."

I nodded my head in acknowledgement. I happen to like doing personal work, but if it's not required that's fine. She continued, "When he wants something from his assistant, he wants it right away." Again I nodded in acknowledgement. And then, as casually as if she were describing his preferred car service or airline seat, she said, "He has a bell on his desk that he rings when he wants his assistant."

Excuse me? Did you just say a bell? The Editor has a bell on his desk that he rings when he wants his assistant? Flash in Laura's mind to the vision of a scene:

Bing! Bing! Laura hears bell and jumps up from desk. Coffee spills, chair tumbles out from under her. Grabs pad and pen, then scurries toward boss's office, knocking into a co-worker or two along the way. Pant, pant, puff, puff. Straightens skirt and tucks in shirt before dashing into boss's office. Blurts out, "Yes sir, hello, what can I get for you? Coffee? Tea? Pastry? Me?" Boss is not amused, and continues downward stare at the stopwatch in his hand. Brusquely says, "Laura, that was 15 seconds. We've really got to get it down to ten."

I acted completely unfazed by the "bell thing," plastic positive expression on my face all the while. My interview wound down to a close. The HR woman handed me her card and said, "If you don't have a problem with this [the bell], give me a call."

Problem? Why would I possibly have a problem in becoming one of Pavlov's new dogs?

I smiled, thanked her, and saw myself out. When I hit the street, I promptly tossed her card into the first garbage can I passed as I thought, Go find yourself some other lackey, Mr. Forbes, 'cause it ain't gonna be me.

The following week I received an e-mail from a recruiter who had seen my resume on Monster.com. She had me in mind for a job she was looking to fill: Assistant to the CEO of Sotheby's International Realty. Sounded rather posh for the likes of me, but I figured, Why not? I heard back that they want to see me, and an interview was set up.

To avoid the discomfort of having to wear pantyhose on an 80-degree day, for my interview I planned on wearing my special "Stay Ups" (thigh-high stockings that had a tacky, rubbery substance on the inside band so they -- surprise -- stayed up). I was going to save putting them on until the last minute, because they're fragile and were expensive, and I wanted to walk as little as possible in them.

The main office of Sotheby's is on 71st and York, a trek from the nearest subway stop, 68th and Lex. After exiting the subway, I headed east at a leisurely pace so as not to get overheated in my freshly pressed silk linen dress. After ten or so minutes of la-dee-da strolling, I looked at my watch and calculated that if I kept up this pace I was going to be late, so started to book it down the street.

When I was a few blocks from my destination I made a pit stop to put on my Stay Ups. I reached into my bag and -- gasp! -- they weren't there. Quelle horreur! If I had any chance at all of getting this job, showing up with bare legs would have blown it.

I started to run full speed ahead in search of a store that might sell pantyhose. Spotting a pharmacy across the avenue, I ran in. "Pantyhose?! Do you sell pantyhose?!" I cried out in a near frenzy. A salesperson pointed to the back of the store. I dashed to the back and found the rack. I scanned for my size, grabbed a pair, and tore open the package like a rabid animal starved for food. Ducking behind the pharmacy counter without even asking, I blurted out, "I'm sorry, but this is an emergency. I have to put on these pantyhose right now!"

Oh my God oh my God oh my God, I mumbled as I kicked off my shoes and hiked up my dress. But with all that running in the warm weather I was now hot and sticky, and putting on constricting pantyhose was one of the last things I wanted to be doing.

When the deed was done I whisked to the front of the store and paid for the item. I glanced at my watch: I had five minutes and Sotheby's was across the street. Phew, I wasn't going be late.

On my way out, double take in the mirror on the sunglasses display: flushed face, hair plastered down with sweat. Damn, this sucks. Somehow I got the feeling that "Just Completed a 5K Run" was not exactly a look that would fly while interviewing to be the assistant to the CEO of Sotheby's International Realty.

Stepping outside, a cool breeze was circling around. Ah, it felt nice. I stood motionless, arms raised to my sides, encouraging the breeze to air dry me. Hey, nice breeze -- make sure you get under the arms. Under the arms! When my precious five minutes elapsed I headed to Sotheby's.

I welcomed it when they handed me an application to fill out, for it bided me more time to cool down. When my interviewer came out to greet me I was sufficiently cooled off, and my pantyhose fiasco was but a memory.

I did okay with the first woman who interviewed me, but with the second it was pure disaster. My second interviewer looked like Ivana Trump and had this extremely haughty air about her. I just couldn't get into her groove. As each word came out of my mouth I could feel it getting choked up in my throat. Bottom line, within ten minutes I knew it was "Game over."

But I didn't really care. I kind of knew all along that I was barking up the wrong tree. I mean, let's be real: how could I possibly always be "impeccable" (the word they used repeatedly to describe the CEO's assistant-to-be) while schmoozing with their privileged, unfathomably rich clients? Considering I grew up in a shack in the woods, shopped in thrift stores, and lived in an apartment that was probably the size of their bathrooms, sooner or later I was bound to say something inappropriate. And it would more likely be sooner rather than later.

Alas, what wasn't meant to be... wasn't.

I returned to my office and continued on at the magazine.

A month or so later it was brought to my attention that I had failed to put this extremely important meeting on my boss's calendar, which he now couldn't attend because he was out of town on a business trip. The origin of the meeting was tracked down to a single e-mail sent to my boss and me ten months previously, listing three separate meetings. I had put the first two on his calendar, but somehow the third had slipped through my fingers.

Defying predictions that it couldn't be done, I managed to reschedule the meeting with all eight VIP's involved. Relieved, I thought the oversight was behind me.

My relief was short-lived. When my boss returned from his trip, he called me into his office. He said, "I'm sorry Laura, but this just isn't working out."

I nodded my head in agreement.

We talked it through. He said I could have four weeks to find another job. I could come in late, leave early -- whatever I "needed to do." He could have fired me on the spot, but he was a nice guy and he didn't. I was very appreciative that he granted me those four weeks, because to future employers it would be considered a positive to be looking for a new job while I still had this one, rather than a red flag to have suddenly "left" a great company without something else lined up.

I returned to my desk with a mission: Find a New Job in Four Weeks. The race was on. Could I do it? I didn't know, but I would soon find out. One thing I did have in my favor was that in the fall of 2003, the job market was bustling.

Within a week I landed an interview for the position of "Assistant to the CFO" at a large advertising agency. Before the interview my new counselor prepped me on some basic interview questions. Following my lackluster responses, she said, "You have got to know how to answer these questions. They're going to be asked."

As instructed, after the interview I called my counselor. "How did it go?" she inquired. When I said I wasn't sure, perturbed, she replied, "Then it didn't go well. If it went well you would know it." The post-interview feedback she received from the company confirmed that she was in fact correct.

Similar to Sotheby's, I wasn't crushed after tanking on this interview. But what if I had really wanted either of those jobs and didn't get them because I was a poor interviewee? This was no time to be playing around -- I had to do something about my interviewing skills.

Searching around Monster, I noticed a link for "Career Advice." After following the link and taking a free test on my interviewing abilities, the results said I would get 1 in 30 of the jobs I interviewed for. If I had a year or two to find a job those odds wouldn't have be so bad, but in my situation the same couldn't be said. For a reasonable fee, however, I could purchase access to an on-line program that was guaranteed to help.

Guaranteed to help? Sold to the girl with only three weeks left.

I had an interview the following Monday, so I reserved the upcoming weekend to study the program. It focused on the strategies behind interviewing: why specific questions are asked and how to best answer them. Throughout the weekend I studied the program diligently. Come Monday morning I was ready, with guns a' blazing, to ace my interview for the position of "Assistant to the President/Chairman" of Newsweek magazine.

I showed up at Newsweek determined and rearing to go. First on the agenda was a typing test. At 60 words per minute I'm a relatively fast and accurate typist, but after the typing test my interviewer came over and said, "I'm sorry, but I can't interview you. We have a minimum of 40 words per minute for Executive Assistants. You typed 30 with 31 errors."

"31 errors?" I questioned in complete disbelief. How could that possibly be? I asked if I could please take the test again? Begrudgingly, she let me. On my second test I got a 40.1 with 29 errors that once again left me baffled.

I asked if I could please see the printouts? (A nuisance I was fast becoming.) After looking at them I realized what had happened both times: the test document was three pages long, not one page as I had thought. On both occasions, when I reached the end of the first page I went back to the beginning, instead of onto the next page, so every word I typed back at the beginning was counted as an error and docked my speed one less word per minute.

The HR woman came out and saw my score of 40.1. "Well," she said unenthusiastically, "I did say we have a 40 wpm minimum, so, okay, I can interview you. Come this way."

Walking alongside her en route to her office, I explained that I didn't know the document was three pages long, not one, hence the many errors in both of my tests. In a snippy tone she replied, "Well, that's a mistake unto itself."

Even though I had studied for hours on how to be a great interviewee, it all went to pot that day in the offices of Newsweek. A zombie could have replied to the questions better than I. Adding to my pitiful performance, I hadn't slept soundly in three days. There had been a problem with my building's heating system kicking in at the start of the season, and the radiators in my apartment had been intermittently banging and clanking to high heaven for the past three straight days and nights. Last but not least, when I found out the job was working for two high level executives, the President and the Chairman, for the same stingy pay, in my eyes there was no need to continue for another minute.

After a brief, awkward and completely non-flowing conversation, my interviewer asked, "Do you have any questions?" I asked one lame question and she answered it. "Do you have any other questions?"

Expressionless, I shook my head and replied, "No."

"Is there anything else I should know about you?"

"No." Disastrous. Simply disastrous.

I exited the building. October's biting wind was whipping around like crazy. As it blew through me, chilling me to the core, fighting back tears I looked up at the sky and thought, I'm never going to find another job. Just shoot me now.

My intense job searching and interviewing was tough under the best of circumstances, but my circumstances were far from that. How was I going to keep up a positive self-image? The situation with my mom and Pam had gotten so ugly that we weren't speaking and I was no longer visiting my apartment. It was awful. And there was no boyfriend in the picture to provide even a bit of comfort, love or affection. And now I was fired. I had failed. And my days of being employed were rapidly dwindling away.

A few days later I met with the owner of a small placement agency. He thought I would be perfect for this "very hands-on" assistant spot at a "creative think tank company" -- a boutique consulting firm on the Upper East Side. A few hours later he called to let me know an interview had been set up for the following morning.

That afternoon I had an interview scheduled by a different agency: Assistant to the President of a financial company. But this wasn't just any "financial company" -- they were "Financial Advisors to the Stars." Before setting up the interview the agency made me promise I wouldn't get star struck, one of the prerequisites of working there. Yeah, I promise I won't start slobbering if I see some celebrity.

Waiting in the reception area, I surveyed the office scene: shades of beige and brown décor stuck in early 80s bad taste, not one moderately interesting-looking person to be seen for miles, and the workers appeared drone-like and oppressed.

I reached into the bag at my feet to grab my water. When I looked up, there was Uma Thurman walking directly towards me. Gee, I guess they really were "advisors to the stars." She was chatting with this smarmy-looking man I assumed to be The Boss. She kissed him good-bye on the cheek and left. Ick. I would never have wanted to kiss him, even if it was just on the cheek.

A frumpily dressed woman with orangey bleached hair and painted-on makeup came out to greet me. Not your usual look for corporate HR employees. That's because she wasn't your usual corporate HR employee -- she was The Wife, whose task du jour was finding hubby a new assistant.

As desperate as I was to find a new job, I knew right off the bat that this one wasn't for me. I couldn't walk out, so I took the opportunity to test my supposedly newfound interviewing prowess. Hey -- that interviewing program really worked! The perfect answer to every question rolled smoothly off my tongue. Within half an hour I became the woman's dream applicant. She was so excited that her tedious search would soon be over. We were all just one big, happy family now, weren't we?

Sorry, but no, we weren't. I wouldn't have been happy at that dreadful company if they'd have tripled the pay. The most egregious display of their ill taste came when The Wife introduced me to The Boss. It took all of one minute: "Honey, this is Laura. She really wants to be an executive assistant!" (Uh, huh. It's my sole aspiration in life.) He gave me the once over, commented, "Okay" and then went back to his business.

Done? That was it? If the wife likes me and I pass her tests I'll be hired to assist her husband? What about what I think of him? Boss/assistant relationships are not a one-way street, you know. They made me feel like a servant on the chopping block.

When the interview concluded I thanked The Wife and said my agency would be in touch. Leave it to them to break the bad news.

Although somewhat disgusted when I left, I also felt very positive, because now I knew how to be a great interviewee. All I needed was to interview for a job I wanted, because now I had a good chance of actually getting it. I thought, Maybe tomorrow at the creative think tank company....

My interview there went great. It seemed like a really cool company, and I was definitely interested in the position. I was called back for a second interview and that one went great as well. Next in line was a phone interview with one of the two consultants I would be supporting.

Despite my nervousness about interviewing on the phone with a Chinese woman I was told had a heavy accent, conversation flowed during the grueling, hour-long interview. When we hung up I knew I had aced it. I had successfully done what my interviewing program had said: "Be your best when it matters most." I really wanted this job and was really close to getting it!

I was brought back into the office for a fourth interview. It was more of a friendly, personality-type interview than a stuffy Q&A one. After twenty or so minutes a call was placed to the owner of the company, the final person I was required to meet with. That interview went smoothly as well. The following afternoon my counselor called to present me with an offer from the company. I happily accepted it.

Hallelujah, I did it. I really did it!

My boss at the magazine congratulated me when I told him I had found a new job. I accepted it four weeks from the very day I was told I had four weeks to find another job. Crazy coincidence, huh? Crazy, amazing and great.