I had a job interview for a marketing specialist position on Monday, with a follow-up assignment sent via email to provide a graphic and a writing sample on Tuesday. This second step seemed like a positive thing to me, like a second interview. So there I am, Tuesday afternoon, feeling pretty good about the interview and the samples I sent that morning. The Doctor Dog and I are cruising up the road for an afternoon walk, feeling light of foot and generally good, when we hear a familiar sound. There's no mistaking the distinct bumble of my neighbor's Anthurium-red BMW with the black rag top and miscreant muffler. It closes in on us fast, prompting us to step aside and into the grass along the non-shoulder of our one-lane road. Her window is down when she reaches us.
"You didn't play tennis Monday, did you?" she asks. It's a weird question, since I play with her.
"Nope. Had a job interview."
"Oh yeah? Where?"
"At a local credit union. Marketing Specialist."
"Well, they had you come in because you're female. They have to interview all the woman who seem qualified to check them out in person, because you could be local but just married to someone with a haole-sounding name. What they're hoping for, you know, is someone well-connected on the island, with plenty of cousins and aunties and uncles and old friends."
"Well, they spoke to me in person, then gave me a second assignment this morning, which I don't think they'd do if they weren't at least a little interested after the first meeting."
"Maybe. I'm just saying you're probably not what they're looking for. That's how it is here."
"Right."
"Right."
"Well, see ya."
"See ya." And off she bumbled.
Speeding neighbor's buzz-kill aside, I did my best with the interview. I was honest and sincere about my capabilities and experience. I had some good ideas that I think they genuinely liked. You get what you give. I may not be so well connected, but I think I've got a chance.
It finally stopped raining Friday, so Ron set out to mow the lawn. The ground is saturated, so rather than looking nicer, it's as though kids on ATVs snuck in during the night for a quick spin in the mud, leaving tracks across the green.
While he mowed, I ran errands. Errands are excruciating in Hilo. You can never get everything you need at one place and the traffic generally stinks. All the while I was thinking about that job, and what the neighbor said, and mentally reinforcing my belief that the interviewers were very nice and professional, that they are considering me, maybe among other strong candidates, but that I do, in fact, have a shot. When I arrived home, Ron had tipped the front wheels of the tractor into a hole. There are drop offs all over the property, and it's hard to detect their exact location until you fall over the edge. He found one, then spun the back wheels in the muck. Stuck. It happens. I've done it, too.
So here's the scenario: I drive the Trooper to within a few feet of the tractor. He hooks it to the Deere with a heavy chain. But instead of just climbing straight into the yellow seat and shouting, "OK" or "hit it," he makes a special point of walking to the window where I sit behind the wheel of the truck, locked and loaded, ready to roll.
"Go slow," he says.
"Really? Shucks. I was planning to floor it."
"I'm just sayin'."
"For the fifteenth time." How fast does he think I can go, anyway, with the truck in low gear on soupy ground through a coffee grove?
"Well, just go slow, OK." He climbs onto the tractor. "Ready," he yells. Finally. I apply the most miniscule amount of pressure to the pedal as is humanly possible, pressing oh-so-gingerly with my toes. The tires ease around about a quarter turn. The chain tugs tight.
"Slower!" He shouts. I take my foot off the pedal. The Trooper stops. I cannot go slower and actually go.
"Do you want to drive the truck and let me sit in the tractor?"I ask.
"No, just go SLOW." Now I really want to floor it, but instead, he manages to sit still for a nanosecond while I ease the tractor out. All is well until I get the truck back into the driveway.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"It doesn't want to shift out of four wheel drive." I'm working the stick, but it won't budge.
"Why did you use the shifter? Why didn't you just push the TOD (traction on demand) button?"
"Because I wanted the lowest gear possible. TOD is four wheel drive in high gear. The tractor's heavy. It's not like I was planning to drive 55 miles per hour in a blizzard. You wanted me to go slow, remember?"
"Get out. Let me do it," he says. After ten minutes of him grunting and jerking the knob, he acknowledges that yes, it is stuck. "If you'd just pushed TOD. This button? Right here?" He presses it on and off several times for emphasis. "Everything would be fine."
If you hadn't driven the tractor into a hole everything would be fine, too.
"Right," I say.
"Why won't it budge?" he asks, rhetorically, not expecting an answer. I give him one anyway.
"Maybe because it just sits here in the rainforest rotting day after day and something's rusted in there."
He gives me a look. "Maybe if I get it moving," he says, and takes off down the driveway.
"That should work," I say, because that's what I would have done next. It did.
The next day,we take another trip to town for Diesel and beer and such, all the stuff we used up or forgot to put on the list the day before. We pick up everything at Cost-U-Less except eggs and JujiFruits. The chewy candy is a must-buy on Ron's list, never mind that it is made mostly of high-fructose corn syrup, something we scrutinize labels for when shopping for everything else. They require a special stop at Walgreens because the only other place that carries them is Walmart, which is enormous and crowded and unpleasant, so we only go there if we have no other choice, and we might have purchased the eggs at Cost-U-Less, too, but Ron wants to get them at KTA where they're two cents cheaper or something. At KTA he runs in and I stay in the car, because it feels silly to me for two people to go into a store, then stand in line to checkout for one measly dozen eggs. There's a location at the edge of the parking lot there where kids wash cars to raise money for their teams or youth groups or gangs or whatever, and it's near where we always park, and I watch them for a few minutes through the dirty windshield, thinking I should wash the car and the algae-festooned Trooper when I get home. Ron returns to find me snoozing, seat reclined, nice tradewind breeze floating through the open window. He gets in, hands me the bag and we head homeward. I close my eyes again and doze.
"Time for a nappy?" he asks.
"Time for a nappy."
Halfway home, he blurts, "Where are the eggs?"
I point to the floorboard between my feet. "Right here." I sit up, awake now, straighten the seat-back and turn on the radio.
"That's annoying," he says and turns it off. I recline again and close my eyes, but can't sleep. Moments later, the wipers click on. Whap, whap, whap...
We pull into the driveway and squeak open our respective doors to exit the car.
"Don't step on the eggs," he says.
"Damn. I was going to stomp on them and smash them all to gooey bits."
"I'm just sayin'."
"Why do you think I don't know that stepping on the eggs we just bought would be a bad idea?"
"Well, you can be forgetful sometimes."
"I have never, in 52 years of life on this earth, ever stepped on a single egg, let alone a dozen of them."
"They're right by your feet. I'm just sayin'."
Now, there's no denying I can be forgetful. I've been known to leave my shopping list behind, or to misplace my purse or glasses or keys. Once, while traveling, I forgot to account for a change in time zones, neglected to reset my watch, didn't think to look at one of the hundreds of clocks hanging in the terminal, hung out for too long in the Hudson's Bookstore and missed my connecting flight. But I have never forgotten to not step on the eggs. It's like saying, "Don't run down any pedestrians on your way to town today." Gosh. OK. Glad you said something. I might have bowling-pinned a dozen of 'em before I remembered that.
Alright, so I've been a little testy these past couple of days. Maybe a little more than a little. I can be a smidge sarcastic when I feel patronized, and am especially sensitive to that if I'm feeling a little more than a little testy.
Testy is as testy does. You get what you give.
Just sayin'.
A hui hou. Aloha!
"You didn't play tennis Monday, did you?" she asks. It's a weird question, since I play with her.
"Nope. Had a job interview."
"Oh yeah? Where?"
"At a local credit union. Marketing Specialist."
"Well, they had you come in because you're female. They have to interview all the woman who seem qualified to check them out in person, because you could be local but just married to someone with a haole-sounding name. What they're hoping for, you know, is someone well-connected on the island, with plenty of cousins and aunties and uncles and old friends."
"Well, they spoke to me in person, then gave me a second assignment this morning, which I don't think they'd do if they weren't at least a little interested after the first meeting."
"Maybe. I'm just saying you're probably not what they're looking for. That's how it is here."
"Right."
"Right."
"Well, see ya."
"See ya." And off she bumbled.
Speeding neighbor's buzz-kill aside, I did my best with the interview. I was honest and sincere about my capabilities and experience. I had some good ideas that I think they genuinely liked. You get what you give. I may not be so well connected, but I think I've got a chance.
It finally stopped raining Friday, so Ron set out to mow the lawn. The ground is saturated, so rather than looking nicer, it's as though kids on ATVs snuck in during the night for a quick spin in the mud, leaving tracks across the green.
While he mowed, I ran errands. Errands are excruciating in Hilo. You can never get everything you need at one place and the traffic generally stinks. All the while I was thinking about that job, and what the neighbor said, and mentally reinforcing my belief that the interviewers were very nice and professional, that they are considering me, maybe among other strong candidates, but that I do, in fact, have a shot. When I arrived home, Ron had tipped the front wheels of the tractor into a hole. There are drop offs all over the property, and it's hard to detect their exact location until you fall over the edge. He found one, then spun the back wheels in the muck. Stuck. It happens. I've done it, too.
So here's the scenario: I drive the Trooper to within a few feet of the tractor. He hooks it to the Deere with a heavy chain. But instead of just climbing straight into the yellow seat and shouting, "OK" or "hit it," he makes a special point of walking to the window where I sit behind the wheel of the truck, locked and loaded, ready to roll.
"Go slow," he says.
"Really? Shucks. I was planning to floor it."
"I'm just sayin'."
"For the fifteenth time." How fast does he think I can go, anyway, with the truck in low gear on soupy ground through a coffee grove?
"Well, just go slow, OK." He climbs onto the tractor. "Ready," he yells. Finally. I apply the most miniscule amount of pressure to the pedal as is humanly possible, pressing oh-so-gingerly with my toes. The tires ease around about a quarter turn. The chain tugs tight.
"Slower!" He shouts. I take my foot off the pedal. The Trooper stops. I cannot go slower and actually go.
"Do you want to drive the truck and let me sit in the tractor?"I ask.
"No, just go SLOW." Now I really want to floor it, but instead, he manages to sit still for a nanosecond while I ease the tractor out. All is well until I get the truck back into the driveway.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"It doesn't want to shift out of four wheel drive." I'm working the stick, but it won't budge.
"Why did you use the shifter? Why didn't you just push the TOD (traction on demand) button?"
"Because I wanted the lowest gear possible. TOD is four wheel drive in high gear. The tractor's heavy. It's not like I was planning to drive 55 miles per hour in a blizzard. You wanted me to go slow, remember?"
"Get out. Let me do it," he says. After ten minutes of him grunting and jerking the knob, he acknowledges that yes, it is stuck. "If you'd just pushed TOD. This button? Right here?" He presses it on and off several times for emphasis. "Everything would be fine."
If you hadn't driven the tractor into a hole everything would be fine, too.
"Right," I say.
"Why won't it budge?" he asks, rhetorically, not expecting an answer. I give him one anyway.
"Maybe because it just sits here in the rainforest rotting day after day and something's rusted in there."
He gives me a look. "Maybe if I get it moving," he says, and takes off down the driveway.
"That should work," I say, because that's what I would have done next. It did.
The next day,we take another trip to town for Diesel and beer and such, all the stuff we used up or forgot to put on the list the day before. We pick up everything at Cost-U-Less except eggs and JujiFruits. The chewy candy is a must-buy on Ron's list, never mind that it is made mostly of high-fructose corn syrup, something we scrutinize labels for when shopping for everything else. They require a special stop at Walgreens because the only other place that carries them is Walmart, which is enormous and crowded and unpleasant, so we only go there if we have no other choice, and we might have purchased the eggs at Cost-U-Less, too, but Ron wants to get them at KTA where they're two cents cheaper or something. At KTA he runs in and I stay in the car, because it feels silly to me for two people to go into a store, then stand in line to checkout for one measly dozen eggs. There's a location at the edge of the parking lot there where kids wash cars to raise money for their teams or youth groups or gangs or whatever, and it's near where we always park, and I watch them for a few minutes through the dirty windshield, thinking I should wash the car and the algae-festooned Trooper when I get home. Ron returns to find me snoozing, seat reclined, nice tradewind breeze floating through the open window. He gets in, hands me the bag and we head homeward. I close my eyes again and doze.
"Time for a nappy?" he asks.
"Time for a nappy."
Halfway home, he blurts, "Where are the eggs?"
I point to the floorboard between my feet. "Right here." I sit up, awake now, straighten the seat-back and turn on the radio.
"That's annoying," he says and turns it off. I recline again and close my eyes, but can't sleep. Moments later, the wipers click on. Whap, whap, whap...
We pull into the driveway and squeak open our respective doors to exit the car.
"Don't step on the eggs," he says.
"Damn. I was going to stomp on them and smash them all to gooey bits."
"I'm just sayin'."
"Why do you think I don't know that stepping on the eggs we just bought would be a bad idea?"
"Well, you can be forgetful sometimes."
"I have never, in 52 years of life on this earth, ever stepped on a single egg, let alone a dozen of them."
"They're right by your feet. I'm just sayin'."
Now, there's no denying I can be forgetful. I've been known to leave my shopping list behind, or to misplace my purse or glasses or keys. Once, while traveling, I forgot to account for a change in time zones, neglected to reset my watch, didn't think to look at one of the hundreds of clocks hanging in the terminal, hung out for too long in the Hudson's Bookstore and missed my connecting flight. But I have never forgotten to not step on the eggs. It's like saying, "Don't run down any pedestrians on your way to town today." Gosh. OK. Glad you said something. I might have bowling-pinned a dozen of 'em before I remembered that.
Alright, so I've been a little testy these past couple of days. Maybe a little more than a little. I can be a smidge sarcastic when I feel patronized, and am especially sensitive to that if I'm feeling a little more than a little testy.
Testy is as testy does. You get what you give.
Just sayin'.
A hui hou. Aloha!
Comments
xoxo Anne