Dear Applicant: It Doesn't Fucking Matter

Dear Applicant,

We figured it would be best not to use your name, because that could lead to some sort of emotional or personal connection, which we truly believe is not in your best interest at this point. We never plan to have any relationship with you, whatsoever, just so we’re clear. It’s misleading and things could get kind of messy or confusing and that would just turn into an HR nightmare. So, please, let us reiterate that we only have your best interest at heart. Please keep that in mind when you go to rate us on Yelp or if the Better Business Bureau contacts you in the future. Oh, and don’t forget to Like us on Facebook!

We are contacting you to let you know that we have received your resume and application for our open position. Unfortunately, we must inform you that you do not fit the requirements for this position. You actually didn’t meet, like, half of them, so we kind of laughed amongst ourselves before we sent your materials to the head of the department. We know you had a very valid rationale for applying, and a rebuttal for any argument that you’re not qualified for the position. Actually, we don’t know that, because we didn’t read your cover letter, which you probably slaved over and worked unnecessarily hard to make as eloquent and memorable as possible. Well, that was our bad. Sorry. I guess we’re kind of too far into this rejection letter to dig into the recycle bin and retrieve it and reevaluate your credentials, and I think our pick-up was yesterday, anyway, so it’s long gone.

Your resume was very impressive! We see that you met our first requirement: a Bachelor’s degree. Not only that, but a Master’s degree—going above and beyond, that’s what we like to see. Half the people here don’t even have a bachelor’s degree, but you know, they’ve been here forever so they’ve been grandfathered in. We also see that you graduated with honors on both occasions. You must be some kind of hoity-toity bigshot, huh, trying to show everyone up with your gleaming GPAs? Just because you had stellar grades from renowned, private institutions doesn’t mean you have an advantage, okay? Slow down, kemosabe.

We noted that you spent a semester abroad, as well. Very cultured of you. But we must stress the fact that we aren’t looking for culture; we are looking for experience. On top of studying abroad, you spent a summer in South America helping build houses for the impoverished. What a great personal accomplishment! But you have to understand that you forfeited a valuable opportunity for work experience in this field—we had to mark you down for this. It looks like you were heavily involved in campus activities and community service. Well, you know, uh, that’s great! I’m sure those will come in handy somewhere. You have listed several great internships that seem relevant to this position, but again, these were merely internships, and you couldn’t have possibly learned much from them, especially in just a semester, so we don’t really count that as ‘experience.’

For some reason, you have included ‘related coursework’ on your resume? It’s nice that you felt the need to tell us that you took upward of 10 classes that directly relate to the work this position requires, but we’re just a little confused as to why you’ve involved them in this application process. You may be a bit disillusioned if you’ve been led to believe that these make a difference. Though you think that these are tantamount to a few years’ experience, you’re wrong. There’s just no possible way that semester-long research projects, case studies, in-field simulations, work-study and senior or graduate theses could be anything like the real work you would be doing for us. The idea of it is just absurd.

We must admit that your portfolio really dazzled us. One of the most impressive we’ve seen in a while. I mean, we skimmed it, but just by the amount of big words you used and the way you organized and executed your thoughts, you seem very brilliant and serious about your work. Unfortunately, all of these pieces were accumulated while you were still in school, so technically, we can’t really count them toward your work experience. In fact, we didn’t really see much work experience on your resume at all. Just a few jobs while you were in high school, some on-campus jobs from college, a few graduate school assistantships, and a starter job just doing some clerical work here and there. You seem to have such a rich and eclectic background with your schooling and all of the opportunities you pursued in between. And you must be very bright and ambitious to have accomplished many of the things that you have. We really don’t mean to discredit any of your past endeavors, applicant, but we must be frank: it doesn’t fucking matter.

We realize that you might be a great addition to our team. But here’s the problem: you’ve never worked in this industry. See, if we give you a chance to interview, we could end up really liking you and completely recognizing that you would give our company such an advantage by offering a young, cultured and tech-savvy point of view, and we could risk compromising our archaic idea that even without the required experience, you could be just as capable as someone who has been in the game for years. If we hire you, how are we even supposed to begin explaining to everyone that our new employee doesn’t have 3+ years of work experience? From a business standpoint, that just reflects really poorly on us and could create a breach in our credibility. Work experience that is specific to this position is really the only thing that matters here. We hope you understand and respect our decision.

So please, let us reiterate: we are well aware that you could be very intelligent, with great capacity and eagerness to learn this trade quicker than many other applicants. We even see the possibility of you being a joy to have in the office and your ability to really propel our company by offering your generational perspective on things. We understand that your educational background, personal experiences, and well-rounded nature could prove to be an asset. Regardless, applicant, it doesn’t fucking matter.

Thanks so much for taking the time to send us your resume and application! It’s common practice and good for our public image to tell you that we will keep these on file in case anything pertaining to your qualifications becomes available in the future. But to be honest, your submission materials are sitting in the “to shred” pile on Angie’s desk in HR.



Have a wonderful day,



“A very inspirational Ghandi or Steve Jobs quote that no one takes too seriously.”

No Crying Over Wet Laundry

After finishing my fluffy, private-school, graduate program, I moved back home to Louisville.  I had secured my first real job and an apartment with my boyfriend, and I was ready to start adulting.  I immediately began working nights at a news station—a lonely and depressing job, most likely responsible for breeding serial killers and magicians.  Most days, I spent my mornings sleeping until 1pm and dreading the prospect of teasing another murder for the 11 o’clock news or highlighting another vigil for a child gone missing.  But on the days I dragged myself out of bed early, mainly due to the whines of a needy dog pawing at my face, begging me to play with whatever piece of clothing she got out of the dirty clothes basket, I decided it couldn’t hurt to be productive.  Work had been slowly eroding my sanity, and as I saw myself beginning to unravel, I had to find some way to reassure myself that I was still capable of functioning as an adult.

[I’ll preface this by saying that I have never been good at doing laundry.  I would drive my laundry home during college so my mother could do it for me, and when I went away to Boston and Los Angeles, I invested in strong perfume so I could spray many-a pants crotch and blouse armpit.]

On this particular morning, I had looked at the crumpled piles spread about our room.  When your co-habitant equally inept at mastering the whole “like colors” and “tumble dry” thing, laundry for two becomes more than a small household chore.  I had two and a half hours before I needed to shower and get ready to leave for work.  I had this in the hamper bag.

***

As soon as I moved home and started making my own money, it was clearly time to cut the cord.  And by cord, I mean credit card.  My parents had opened a credit card in my name and linked it to their bank account when I was a senior in high school.  “For emergencies,” they said.  Just like when they bought me a cell phone in eighth grade, “for emergencies.”  Ignoring the messaging fees to text Stefanie about my newly-purchased polyphonic ring tone to “Sugar” by Trick Daddy and Ludacris was obviously an emergency.  That definition has always been a little liberal for me.

I called my mother and let her know that I had just cut up my credit card.  Honestly, I always used it very sparingly and hadn’t used it in months, save for a few drunken Uber rides and nights when I got a little ambitious and slurringly promised all my friends: “next round is on me” (irrefutably, these events coincided more often than not).  I was more than surprised to hear that she wasn’t ecstatic that I had snipped the MomNDad Support Hotline.  “What if you have an emergency?  What if something comes up and you don’t have the money?”  Relax, mom.  I’m an adult, remember?  She also reminded me that my HSA card was about to expire, which then reminded me that I was still under the sovereignty and protection of my parents’ health insurance and planned to milk it for all it’s worth until the eve of my 26th birthday.  Okay, so I’m kind of an adult.

***

Slinging a laundry bag over my shoulder and stacking two, full baskets on top of one another, I precariously waddled across the parking lot to the laundry room in our neighborhood’s clubhouse.  I had pre-sorted everything, and even wrapped my unmentionables up in a towel to prevent any mouth-breathing creep lurking in the laundry room from taking a sniff (I’m a lady).

Our washers and dryers are card operated—not even a slot for quarters (which I’m totally fine with, because who collects change anymore, anyway).  Sometimes the connection is shoddy, so it takes a few swipes before the card is recognized and authorized, but still easier than carrying around a sack of silver.  I loaded up five of the eight washers.  One of the eight was out of order, so that makes me a bigger asshole, but it was mid-morning on a Tuesday and I was pretty sure most normal people were at work and not concerned about snagging a prime spot for the spin cycle.  I threw in a few Tide pods, swiped my card a few dozen times, and heard the water begin to fill each machine.  My work here was done.

***

At the same time my parents got me a credit card, they also thought it wise to open checking and savings accounts for me, as well.  I had just started my first job: a barista.  I came home each night with dry milk crusted into my arm hairs and I reeked of 2-day-old mop water, but I was making money.  Money that needed to be deposited somewhere to save me from cashing each check and blowing it “just because.”  Since I wasn’t quite 18 yet, I was given a custodial account, which meant my parents would be there to monitor every move and inspect each purchase, and also reap the benefits of having accounts in good standing.

Up until recently, I had used the same custodial account I originally opened.  To write rent checks.  To pay the electric bill.  To pay the water bill.  To purchase all my school supplies.  It didn’t really bother me that my parents could see my purchases (all the adult stores along I-65 preferred cash, anyway).  But now with a new job and a new life, I needed to open my own account, and probably get my own credit card.  I applied for the credit card first. I waited.

I seethed when I read the letter from PNC.  Despite my sterling credit score of 778, I was denied.  All the credit I had established and all my account activities over the past 6 years were pointless, because they were reflected on my parents.  I tore the letter up and decided I would try Chase in a few weeks.  I could survive for while without a credit card, anyway, and why start racking up more debt right away?

***

I returned to the laundry room to switch my loads to the dryers.  The complex still seemed abandoned as I scuttled across the parking lot again, wallet, keys and phone in hand.  I struggled moving all of our sopping wet clothes to the dryers.  Mainly because I had been skipping arm day for the last 6 months (and leg day, and back day, and gym day altogether), but also because whoever laid out this laundry room did not take into consideration that stacking dryers on top of one another really puts hobbits like myself at a blatant disadvantage.  I tossed in some dryer sheets, shut all the doors, and began swiping.  Swipe swipe, swipe swipe.  Swipeswipeswipe.  I knew these things were temperamental, but this was just obnoxious.  After the twelfth “DECLINED” message, I figured it had to do something with my card—probably because the several $1.50 purchases in a row sent up a red flag.  I would just call PNC, get my account unfrozen, and I’d be good to go.  12:33pm.  I definitely still had time to shower and have these dried before I had to leave at 1:45.

After waiting on hold for what seemed like an eternity, I was connected with Cheryl, who sounded like she didn’t completely hate her job and genuinely wanted to help me.

Name.  Social security number.  Birthday.  Address. Account PIN.  Recent purchases. Blood type.  Dental records.  Family medical history.

Finally.

“Um, Ms. Hines, it looks like your account has a hold on it…”
“Yes, yes I know.  Our laundry machines over in my apartment complex get crazy sometimes, and I’m doing a bunch of loads at the same time so I’m sure that caused some sort of…”
“Ms. Hines, were you in Oak Park, Michigan mid-January?”
“Um, no?  I don’t—“
“Has anyone from PNC contacted you about this recently?”
“No…”
“Your account has been marked for suspicious activity.  You did not make a $52.70 purchase at a 7/11 in Oak Park, Michigan, correct?”
“No, no, that wasn’t me.  I was just calling to hopefully get the hold taken off my account so I could finish doing my laundry because I really have to be at work soon, and I have wet clothes just sitting in here.”
“Ms. Hines, I understand.  Unfortunately, your account has been compromised and for your safety, we have to close your card and send you a new one.”

My face got hot.  I begged.  Come on, Cheryl, woman-to-woman, domestic goddess-to-domestic goddess.  Just take the hold off my account for like 3 minutes, and I promise I’ll tell you when I’m done with the dryers and you can go ahead and shut ‘er down.  I won’t tell anyone. If PNC calls asking me questions, I don’t know nothin’, didn’t see nothin’.  My voice began to crack and I could feel the tears slowly creep into the corner of my eyes, just waiting for the dam to break.  Cheryl apologized again, and repeated that Gold Star in Customer Service phrase, “I really wish there were something I could do.”

I burst into guttural sobs, my mouth flapping like a baited catfish’s—the ugly cry that is only reserved for karmic misfortunes and pet funerals.  I opened my wallet and looked at the empty slot where my credit card used to be.  “What if you have an emergency?” my mother’s voice rang in my head.  In desperation, I grabbed my HSA card—that’s linked to an account, right?!  As I swiped it, grasping for straws, the expiration date glared at me.  It was now 12:57 and my face was salty and sticky and I still needed to dry these clothes and take a shower and I was stuck on the phone with Cheryl who was trying to get information on where to send the new card, pausing to let me weep after every answer I gave.  I sunk into a corner of the room and let out a visceral wail. 

“Um, Ms. Hines, are you alright?”
“I just...ssft ssft sssft...I just have to get to work and…sssssft…I hate my job and it’s awful and I was just trying to do some laundry today…ssssssft ssft…everything is just going so wrong right now and my clothes are wet and now I don’t have a debit card…ssftssftsssssft...no, it’s not your fault Cheryl, I know, girl, I know.”  And just then, a woman cheerily walked into the laundry room to see me puddled on the floor, regaling Cheryl with the events that led up to this quarter-life crisis like she was my high school guidance counselor.  I scooped myself up and wiped my eyes, muttering some unbelievable explanation, “ugh, allergies.” 

Cheryl had gotten all the information she needed, and I headed back to my apartment to get a few baskets so I could retrieve my wet clothes and my dignity from the laundry room.  I called my boyfriend and cried.  I called my mom and cried.  I sat in the shower and cried like an angsty teenager in a John Cusack movie.  And I decided that sometimes, trying to be an adult is weird and complicated and sometimes you’ll crumble like a child who just received news that Santa isn’t real and oh by the way, we’re not you’re real parents because we kidnapped you at birth from a gas station in Hoboken. 

Wet laundry and cancelled debit cards are trivial, at most, in that grand scheme that everyone always refers to.  But subconsciously, it was more than that.  I was trying to navigate this new life and prove that I could be a certifiable adult, and I was trying more than anything to convince myself of it.  In truth, we all need that metaphorical breakdown in the communal laundry room to really move forward, right?  That moment when we confront one of the greatest fears of most 20-somethings: trying to be kind of an adult, but not really.

I'm Not A Quitter

Pin-pointing the exact moment I knew I wanted to be a writer is kind of fuzzy for me.  It’s kind of like puberty: the awareness that all these weird experiences are adding up, but you don’t fully realize it until you look down one day and your C cups are busting out of your training bra and it’s excruciatingly difficult to do any sort of physical activity without sweating profusely, making your face a most heinous battleground that your bottle of Clearasil clearly can’t cure.

While my inception story typically begins with Lisa Frank notebooks and my penchant for soap operas as a child, I think the real tale began when I was eight years old.  As a mandatory assignment for third graders at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, we had to participate in the city’s Young Authors competition.  While other students complained and made up excuses to go to the principal’s office during writing time, I pulled my finest No. 2 pencil out of my Spacemaker and began to pen a work of brilliance.  In my best cursive, on my extra-wide-ruled paper, making sure not to make any mistakes (because everyone knew even the lightest eraser stroke would tear that paper in half), I eloquently put my vision into words.  “The Blue Goo,” a poignant mystery/suspense story with themes of friendship and personal hygiene, was about Bridget, a young girl who becomes friends with a glowing-blue-glob-turned-alien that her father accidentally created in his science lab/their basement (admittedly, an idea taken by mashing up Flubber with a Goosebumps book I had recently read).  On the day of The Big Announcement, I sat on the edge of my seat, nervously jiggling my feet against the tennis balls on the legs of my chair.  The PA system crackled.  This was my moment.  I waited, clutching the straps of my purple L. L. Bean, pulling them closer to my chest.  And then there it was.  “And the winner of this year’s Young Authors Award is Jessica Hines for her story, “The Blue Goo.”  I awaited the applause.  I awaited the glorification.  And just as I was about to smooth my brown plaid jumper in preparation to stand and curtsy, the kid sitting next to me puked.  All over his desk.  All over the floor.  And just like that, my crowning moment was soiled.

And I think that’s when I looked down and realized my dream was to be a writer.

***

It's an amazing thing to realize a dream and vehemently pursue it.  For me, this dream has driven me for two-thirds of my life.  Not only to be a writer, but to be known for my writing.  Known for entertaining with my bold and questionable observations.  Known for inciting stifled snickers at my wild inappropriateness.  Known for bringing people together through painfully honest humor.  I was destined to be a sitcom writer.

There’s a rush in it all.  Recklessly doing everything you can in order to fulfill what you truly believe is your calling.  Constantly composing yourself to say “fuck you,” as politely as possible when people tell you to look at things realistically and more responsibly.  Reminding yourself that you’ve hyped this up so confidently, and if you fail, everyone will be waiting to say, “I mean, I’m not going to say I told you so, but…”

“Well, I truly appreciate your concern.  That’s sweet.  Fuck you.”

***

I had my dream tucked in my back pocket—where my wallet would be if I hadn’t spent all of my money on this crazy dream.  Ironic and fitting.  I firmly planted my feet in every step I took forward, no matter how big the risk, because my goal became tangible.

I found a graduate program that seemed surreal—classes for spec scripts, classes for pilot scripts, classes for sitcoms and dramas and TV movies, classes in development and production, classes in everything I once thought was just a distant thrill, but had now become so real.  I was going to make it, because there was no other option.  Over a hundred thousand dollars in debt, because I was going to fight until I wrapped my fingers around that dream and felt it squirm in my palm.

I landed in Los Angeles for my last semester of school; it was the pilgrimage to my Holy Land, the mecca for TV writers and producers.  I was convinced by all of my professors and all the people who supported me through the entire process of my graduate program that it was a done deal: I would write something brilliant, graduate, send it off to every small production company and big network and talent agency in Los Angeles and immediately land a job in a writer's room somewhere.  It was that easy.  It had to be that easy if I worked this hard, right?  I had been busting my ass to crank out new ideas and new writing over the course of a year and a half.  I had received so much positive feedback and so much encouragement and felt that I had prepared myself for success.  Effort and persistence are the things that get you somewhere, right?

***

Los Angeles was a country of its own.  Everyone you bumped into on the street was trying to be "in the industry," as everyone refers to it.  Everyone had some sort of connection to a cousin’s friend’s dogsitter’s step-uncle who was the CEO or director or producer or sound guy who’s still working his way up the chain.  I went into it bravely, knowing no one except the 8 other girls in my graduate program who also made their pilgrimages, in hopes of similar dreams.  I loved the work I was doing: assisting a small production company in their development department, reading freshly churned scripts from budding writers, just like I hoped to be, and deciding whether or not they had potential, and passing them along to the higher-ups if they did.  Kind of like a guard to the Pearly Gates of Hollywood, except less glamourous than it sounds.  I learned what companies were looking for.  Who they were looking for, rather.  Most of these writers were fed through the weeding out process by that weird-but-reliable, several-degrees-of-separation step-uncle, and here were their scripts, sitting on a desk in front of me at a REAL production company.  I would be lying if I said more than 5% of them were even worth the snide comments I jotted in the margins.  But they had made it.  So why hadn’t I?

I networked. I made connections.  I had talent that I was waiting to share.  But the thing I quickly learned was that seniority and ass-kissing beat talent, 9 out of 10 times, and that 1 remaining time?  Fucking step-uncle.  I had planned to job hunt in preparation to stay after my semester was over, in case by miracle, someone had seen my potential.  All the open positions that I could have realistically been offered were for production assistants (imagine your version of The Office Bitch, and multiply it by 72, and then add the irrelevance of your existence, and you’ve got the picture).  Making $11 an hour to get 17 coffee orders, and then having to go back to Starbucks a second time because you slipped and fell carrying the first 17 drinks because no one in the entirety of Los Angeles County has the decency to lend a hand.  I started to envision my future.  Coffee carrier for 3 years, mail sorter for 2 years, assistant to the CEO for 3 years, and then if someone happens to stumble upon one of my scripts, writer-for-hire for 2 more years, and then I’d be 33 and goddamn tired of pursuing this fucking dream and living paycheck to paycheck, only to be defecated on. Every. Single. Day.

                                                                              

Even if I had wanted to grit my teeth and get through it, my student loan money had dwindled by the end of the semester, and I had less than $1000 to my name.  Well, if I’m being honest, I actually had -$123,000 to my name, but let’s not dwell on the deterioration and ruthlessness of the American higher education system.  My bank accounts were empty, my motivation was thwarted, and the dream I had held onto for so long had been unmasked and revealed for what it really was: just a game of luck.  And I refused to be the joker.

So I left, and moved back home.  And it was the best decision I’ve ever made.

***

I am not a quitter, if that’s what you’re thinking.  I played the game and went all in, but I guess my hand for that round just wasn’t good enough.  I wouldn’t trade any of the experiences I had, because I would not have ended up here: at home in my comfortable, slow-paced Kentucky, with the love of my life who supported all of the endeavors that went along with this unpredictable journey and our obnoxious dog who has a proclivity for dirty socks and underwear, at a job where I get to work with my mother every day and make a livable salary that allows me to put a small chink in what I owe the DOE every month, and with the pride to admit that I put my dream on hold because I wasn’t ready for it, and I don’t think it was quite ready for me, either.

It's an amazing thing to realize a dream and vehemently pursue it.  I know my love of writing started somewhere among vomit-covered linoleum, and my desire to pursue it went on hiatus somewhere around empty pockets and the fear of perpetual Office Bitch-dom. I'll never give up writing.  It's become part of me, and a gift I'm thankful for every day.  The ideas for sitcoms still swirl around in my head, infesting my right-brain in totality.  Sometimes I'll scribble them on pieces of paper or type them out as notes on my phone, just as little reminders that the embers of my dream are still burning, should I choose to breathe life into it once again.  And there’s nothing wrong with that.