I wrote the following post (heretofore only published in my head) on May 6, 2015.  I know it is WAY too long and really only fit for skimming.  I was going to try and cut it down a little (I DID remove a couple of "ands"), but I feel it is a nice representation of the kind of person I am...wordy, scattered, spastic, sweaty and hugely entertaining to myself.  So here you have it. 

After having re-read this just now, I'm a little worried that my post may seem fluffy for the dignified Our Salon crowd.  If that is the case, please show no mercy and simply give me the boot.  If you don't cut me off at the knees, I guarantee I will keep running and running with it.

5/6/2015

So here we go.  I have made a goal to write for a half hour every day.  I actually started with the goal of an hour every day and that was yesterday.  I wrote for exactly zero minutes yesterday.  Therefore, I think my goal may have been too lofty, so I’m lowering it to a half hour.  And look at me go!  I have already started. 

I am going to begin with the story of my teacher intern program interview.   As is the case with many of my appointments, I was running late.  Time is elastic to me.  I always underestimate the amount of time a task may take me.  I was going to stop at the post office to mail my daughter’s graduation invitations and thought that would be a quick stop.  That turned into hand-stamping 46 envelopes at the postal counter.  Not an easy task, pealing all those little stamps off a sheet and sticking them on, particularly when you are a little jittery from your medication for ADD.  But that’s a story for another day.

So, I leave the post office with 25 minutes to get to my interview.  No way in hell.  I had to make the call of shame to let them know I would be late.  She was friendly and seemed okay, yet I was still very nervous and stressed and jittery.  And almost out of gas.  I sped to Iowa City and about halfway there, my last bar was gone.  Running on fumes.   There was no time to stop for gas or I would be even later.  I was the final interview of the day, so I knew they would want to get home.  I decided praying was my best option. 

I made it.  Parked my car in the parking ramp near the College of Education and tried to compose myself as I walked across the street to the building.  I didn’t want to be that crazy hot mess that rushes in all flustered apologizing up and down.  Nope.  Not me.  Not me at all.  Well…totally me.  But, I acted calm and collected and gave a very personable and professional thank you for waiting for me.  I apologize for being late. 

The professor that was assigned the “greeter” position gave me a warm welcome and assured me that this would not be like a typical job interview.  It was an opportunity for three professionals from the state universities to have a conversation with me to determine if they think I would be a good candidate for the alternative teacher licensure program.  I would have an opportunity to ask questions.  “Please just be yourself,” she said, “we want to get to know you.”  Okay.  You asked for it.  I decided to be myself.

All in all, I feel I did a nice job answering questions honestly and professionally.  I later looked over the star teacher interview format they were using, which the interviewees knew about ahead of time.  I realized AFTER THE FACT, that I had answered almost all questions ON POINT.  Yay me!  About three fourths of the way into the interview, one of the interviewers gave me the following scenario, “Let’s say I’m a student in your class and we have spent a lot of time on a class community service project and we are excited about it.  The principal tells us we can’t do it.  How should I, as a student, act when I see the principal in the hallway?  Should I turn my head away from him?”  I looked at my interviewer and gave a shoulder-shrugging, both palms up, isn’t-it-obvious look and said, “Duh…you flip him the bird!”

Bear in mind this is a nice, professional, well-mannered, middle-aged group.  But, while they didn’t guffaw at my terrible joke (although I thought it was completely HILARIOUS), I think they, too, thought it was hilarious.  I kind of half-heartedly apologized and said, “I’ll bet you haven’t heard THAT today.” They chuckled quietly and said, “No, we haven’t.”  Back on task.

I left the interview feeling very pleased and amused with myself.  Just having had the experience was great.  I am really okay if they don’t think I will be a good fit for the program.  Something better happened to me in that interview.  One of the interviewers asked me, “So, Lisa, how many books have you written?”  I looked at him and said, “Zero.” He told me that I should keep that in the back of mind.  I should write a book.  I’m not really sure why he said that, but I feel he saw something in me.  He thought I had something to say.  So, I’m saying it. 

[After the interview, during the polite handshaking phase, this same distinguished gentleman professor asked me, “So what would the 20-year-old Lisa say to the Lisa of today?”  My pithy response was, “She would tell me I should have written a book by now.”]

I will leave you with the image of my glorious exit from my fabulous interview.  Remember the parking ramp?  Remember how flustered and medication-jittered I was?  I was chuckling to myself at my clever sense of humor as I walked into the ramp.  I walked to where I thought my car was parked.  No car. I walked up the ramp.  I walked down the ramp.  Those damn ramps are so fucking confusing.  They go up, but not really.  There are ups and downs and in-betweens.  After about nine minutes, I called my daughter in a panic.  “I can’t find my car!”  She said it has to be there.  Try pushing your key button to make it honk.  So I did.  I could hear it honk!  As soon as I walked toward where I thought it was honking, I couldn’t hear it anymore.  Walk, walk, walk, walk.  Push, push, honk, honk.  Please don’t let any of my interviewers be parked in this ramp.  Please don’t let them see me walking and walking and sweating. And honking.  Horrible.

NINETEEN MINUTES!!!  I timed my fiasco because that’s just something I do.  I enjoy quantifying and categorizing occurrences.  Sometimes if I have an annoying spin instructor who talks too much, I will start to keep track of the number of seconds she can keep quiet.  When she talks again, I restart the timer.  Usually she can only make it about eight seconds before talking again.  Anyway, if you think nineteen minutes isn’t that long, try walking up and down a parking ramp for nineteen minutes in your dress clothes when it’s warm out.  And when you are now going to be late to your spin class because of losing your car in a parking ramp.  Let’s hope they decide I would be a good candidate to eventually teach your children in the public school system.  

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Comment by Theodora L'Engle Knight on March 20, 2017 at 7:50pm

wow, so nice to meet you. a fellow Looney Tune. :) i love what you've written here. you described everything perfectly. and you should be so proud of yourself because i have not seen jmac or some other guys makes such long comments. but that is probably because my writing talks about my being a formally  diagnosed bipolar outpatient. i never thought about losing my car. and i'm amazed that i never have.

thank you so much for friending me. not sure why but i'm so pleased. i probably won't come around here much for complicated reasons. if i'm able to scroll quickly through the comments, i will. FM is so right about the dress code. i have a gold lame dress -- hmmm, that says lame because i don't have the french thing that makes this frency -- gown that i put on every time i come on this site.

Comment by koshersalaami on March 20, 2017 at 9:20pm

You mean to match Sha Na Na?

Comment by Lisa Winkie on March 21, 2017 at 7:08am

So nice to meet you as well, Miss Theodora.  At the risk of sharing too much, I will tell you that I have a bi-polar daughter, a son with Disruptive Mood Dysregulation Disorder (a new addition in the DSM-5), two sons and another daughter with ADD/OCD/Anxiety/Depression and another daughter with depression/anxiety.  Mental health is my shit.  I am very passionate about the issues faced by persons with mental health disorders.

I wish I had some lame (I'll bet there is a way to make that little mark above the e, but I'm too lazy to figure it out). I have some pleather, however.  That might suffice.

Comment by Lisa Winkie on March 21, 2017 at 7:08am

kosher, don't be knocking Sha Na Na.

Comment by koshersalaami on March 21, 2017 at 7:21am

Not knocking them. A friend of mine was at Woodstock, fifteen years old at the time, tripping, and the memory he tells me about is being blown away by all these guys showing up on stage in gold lame jumpsuits. 

Comment by Lisa Winkie on March 21, 2017 at 7:24am

Way cool.  Aren't they Jewish?  Sha Na Na?

Comment by tr ig on March 21, 2017 at 8:32am

Aereola sauce = mother's milk? Yes there is a lot of mental going around this place. But smiling mental we are short of so do please carry on.

Comment by J.P. Hart on March 21, 2017 at 8:52am

maybe heavy metal should be called smiling mental

Warm embracing hellos (did I just type halos?) Lisa Winkie.  I'm thinking of one of your dad's comments when he practiced law. Passionate pro bono, my goodness.

Again, welcome aboard!  More than a few woke last night to the sound of thunder. (What with all this Watergate Redux)

Comment by Stephen Brassawe on March 21, 2017 at 11:31am

Experiences such as this can lead one to suspect that one is not really well-equipped mentally to function in this world at a basic level. So many distractions. You may have inherited the problem.

Comment by nanatehay on March 21, 2017 at 11:54am

@ James and tr ig - Smiling Mental is my favorite death metal band! How did y'all know? Every one of their CD covers has a smiley face on it, but the smiley face is actually Sarah McLachlan's skull dripping blood and wearing a loop of intestines for a necktie with dead orphans and eviscerated, flaming Wall Street bankers shooting out its eyeballs with a Byzantine-style mosaic depiction of smiling, crucified Jesus in the background telling me to take my new Fiskars machete down to the 7-11 because they have to pay for what they did, oh yeah they're gonna pay because Smiling Byzantine Jesus wants a free Slurpee and he wants it now...

 

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