2 Weeks Ago

“We really enjoyed meeting you. We’d like you to come out again, meet a few more people, and take a 4 hour psychological exam.”

At first I thought I had misheard. I replayed the message. I had not misheard.

My first reaction was to laugh. A psychological exam? For four hours? What in the world for?

I returned the call. Very friendly, yet inquisitive. So what exactly is this four hour psychological exam?

This was met by tittering laughter. “Oh, everyone up for a promotion and serious job candidates have to take it.”

Okay, but what exactly is it?

“I even had to take it.” More laughter.

But what does it consist of? What is it? A pen and paper test? A demonstration? Face to face interview?

“Welllll… yes. An aptitude test. And a personality test. And then, well, just talking to a psychologist for awhile.” She was trying to downplay the magnitude of spending four hours of a job interview with a psychologist.

I wasn’t convinced, but I agreed to it anyway.

The Past Week

I mentioned this transaction to a few people and was unanimously met by incredulous stares then exclamations. Let me clarify here, I’m not applying to be a top secret, triple clearance agent. I’m applying for a corporate training position in the retail industry. I’ve vacillated from indignation to intense curiosity. Do I really want to work for a company that gives me a pre-employment psychological exam? Do I really want to work for a company that requested personal references, professional references, financial references, and familial references? Someone for whom I’ve signed my consent for just about every drug test possible? Is this the sign of a company that truly cares about its employees, or am I entering a Big Brother utopia?

The job, as I understand it, seems challenging. I’ve clicked with the interviewers I’ve met thus far. And I’m dying to know what they will ask me for four hours.

Monday Morning, 9:30 am

“Hi. Your psychological exam isn’t until 10:30. I see you’ve brought a book. Good. You can sit in the cafeteria for the next hour.”

I looked at the HR rep. Inwardly, I thought, On the no less than four voice messages you’ve left me over the past two weeks, you’ve said to be here at 9:30. Every single time. I smiled. Did you leave me a message that it starts at 10:30? I was under the impression it was at 9:30.

She pondered. “I *thought* I left you a message. Maybe I didn’t.”

I’m sitting here with my coffee in the corporate headquarters, in the cafeteria. Is this part of the exam? Do they want to see how I react to schedule changes? Are they watching me? I glance around. I don’t see any secret cameras. I smile anyway, just in case. I glance at my schedule for the remainder of the day. My meeting with the psychologist is scheduled from 10:30 am – 2:30 pm. And the schedule does not indicate a lunch break. Is this part of the exam? To see how I function in physically demanding situations? To see how long I can survive without food or water?

There is nothing that triggers paranoia more than preparing to sit with a psychologist for four hours. When you think about it, we are evaluated everyday, constantly. And normally, I don’t think twice about it. But for some reason, today it bothers me.

This extra hour has been a blessing in disguise. I feel like an undercover agent. I can observe all the employees, in a relaxed atmosphere. A priceless opportunity to experience the culture of the company firsthand, unnoticed.

Post-Psychological Exam

It’s over. Several “aptitude” tests – which were quite fun. Lots of logic questions, both verbal and numerical – I felt like I was doing puzzles. A battery of problem solving tests, then the 462 item personality quiz. Yes, 462 individual items with which I had to agree or disagree, then bubble in the corresponding circle. Throughout most of the test I was highly entertained. Some of the questions seemed, well, ridiculous. Lots of questions about how terrified I am of natural disasters. Lots of questions about if I like to dance. Then, the random ones. Some of my favorites:

“I have never been in trouble with the law”

“Several times a week I feel as if something dreadful is about to happen”

“There’s no use in doing things for people; you only find that you get it on the neck in the long run”

“Women should not be allowed to drink in cocktail bars”

“I often feel like picking a fist fight with someone”

“I am often bothered by useless thoughts which keep running through my mind”

And, then, lots of questions about whether I would want to be a race car driver, a soldier, a mechanic, librarian, etc.

I don’t believe that a pen and paper test can accurately capture my personality. But, they’re going to try. They’re going to score me on 28 different personality traits then judge me. I can’t wait to see what they discover.

At Breakfast

“I feel like a…” he began.

Million bucks? I offered.

“No, more like a single paper note. Denomination unimportant.”

Hard night last night, dear?

This time, it was my turn to laugh.

Life Just Isn’t Fair

“It’s so quiet there? What bar are you at?”

I’m not at a bar, I’m at home.

“What? It’s Friday night! Is this the same LoriLoo? Not used to that 40 hour work week?” and with that he laughed, mockingly, mocking me.

It’s been a particularly stressful week at work. One of the conferences that this company produces is opening in Los Angeles next week. I’m working in the Operations department, so that means preparing everything. Kind of like throwing a party for 15,000 of your closest friends. Normally, I enjoy the planning, the detail work. But an issue came up this week that has weighed heavily on me.

Press are allowed to attend our conferences free of charge, with press verification. This is done so that, hopefully, we will get good media coverage of our event. Or coverage, at least. Many times, however, people claim they are press, but they aren’t, really, in order to circumvent paying the several hundred (sometimes thousand) dollar conference registration fee. They audit classes, accessible with a press badge, yet never write the follow up articles. It’s one of the challenges of this business. You want media coverage, but only by true press members.

A team of press members signed up from a Deaf publication. They seemed legitimate. We had never heard of the publication they were with, but, then again, we don’t read Deaf culture publications that often.

The editor requested a sign language interpreter for 4 days of the conference – one 9 hour day, three 13 hour days. This seemed excessive. Usually, press come for a couple of hours, usually on one, maybe on two days, visit a couple of classes, maybe interview a speaker, visit the tradeshow floor, then leave and write their article.

I called the Los Angeles Convention and Visitor Bureau. They recommended a sign language interpreter service. For the hours requested, it would be almost $10,000 per reporter (there were four) for the week. When I relayed this information, I was met by dumbfounded looks and incredulous gasps. I offered to research other interpretation companies; the director went to contact our legal department to find out exactly what our responsibilities are under current ADA laws.

Our legal department returned with this advice: Since the prospective attendee would be on a work assignment, it was his or her employer’s responsibility to provide the sign language interpretation services. When this information was relayed to the Deaf press applicant, a scathing email was returned, threatening our company with litigation and malicious press if we did not meet their demands. I spent the majority of a day researching other interpretation options (I found one, offered through the county, which was about half the price of the private service) and researching ADA laws, precedents and frequently asked questions. Though I’m not trained as a lawyer, it did seem we were in the right. That, by the letter of the law, the Deaf press person’s company was responsible for providing an interpreter. Had the person registered as a paying attendee, it would be our company’s responsibility to ensure equal access of information. But since they registered as a Press person, that responsibility should rest upon their employer.

It just didn’t feel right, though.

I thought about all the times I’ve lived in an area where, linguistically, I was at a disadvantage. Kuwait. Cairo. Korea. I wish someone had offered me translation services. But they hadn’t. And it was hard.

I approached the director. “Is there any way we could offer, say, 5 or 6 hours a day of interpretation services? Not because the law requires it, but, well, just because. Sort of a compromise.” The decision wasn’t hers to make. It went to another director, then another. Discussions were held. Numbers were crunched.

While all of this was going on, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The United States is one of the few countries that tries to ensure equal access to all people. We’re not always successful, but the law is there, whether or not it’s actually implemented, well, that’s another story.

Is this a good thing? Is this good for our society as a whole?

I thought about my abilities. And lack thereof. There are some things I should not do. I have absolutely no sense of direction. I should not be a bus/taxi/limo driver. It would be bad for everyone involved. I’m tone deaf. As much as I long, I desire, I crave, to be a back-up singer in a rock and roll band, it’s probably a good thing that I’ve never been extended that opportunity. I have horrible sinus problems. I shouldn’t have an equal chance to be a deep sea diver.

I thought and pondered and thought some more. In theory, equal access works out well on paper. Someone’s blind? Provide a tactile way for them to receive information. Someone’s deaf? Provide a visual way for them to receive information. Physically challenged? Provide alternative entrances, exits, pathways for them. But whose responsibility is it to pay for all of this? The government’s? They made the laws. The individual’s? That doesn’t seem fair. Businesses? Pretty soon those business will be out of business, not able to provide services to anyone.

It’s weighed on me. I can’t stop thinking about it. And haven’t come up with any solutions or definitive thoughts.

In the end, my company did offer the Deaf press correspondent 6 hours of interpretation per day, as a goodwill gesture. It was graciously received by the press correspondent.

Our lawyer left us with these words, “It’s not our legal responsibility to do this, but, god forbid I was handicapped in some way, I would want someone to do the same for me…”

The Better To See You With…

I bought a new pair of boots last night. I bought them right as the store was closing, so I felt somewhat rushed to make a decision. I didn’t realize how high the heels were until today, as I have been wearing them around the office, trying to break them in. With them on, I can see over the top of everyone’s cubes. It’s kind of fun.

Newbie

I made sure I got on the correct cable car line tonight. Powell-Hyde. Not Powell-Mason.

Surprisingly, I was on the car with the same fare collector that I’ve ridden with several times. I’m always going home at different times; I’m amazed our schedules have coincided so frequently. He’s an elderly man with a tired grey mustache. He has droopy brown eyes always fixed with a vacant stare. I usually sit on the end seat, so I watch him interact with the other passengers. Tourists constantly ask him questions. Usually, he answers, not verbosely, but sufficiently. Tonight, however, he wanted no part of the tourists and their questions.

“Do I get off at this stop or the next if I want to go to the Ritz?” a tourist asked, somewhat condescendingly.

Without skipping a beat, the fare collector continued to stare straight ahead and answered, “I don’t know. It’s my first day on the job…”

Dumb Luck

I’ve lived in my new apartment for 19 days. Every workday morning, I walk over Nob Hill, through Chinatown, across Union Square, eventually arriving at my office South of Market 35 minutes after I have left my home. It’s a great way to start the day. I pass by the merchants, preparing their sidewalk stands. Ever so carefully setting out oranges, apples, Chinese cabbage, newspapers, flowers. I greet the hotel doorman, the hospital security guards, briefly commenting on the weather, exchanging pleasantries. Going home, however, I usually jump aboard the cable car. It’s dark when I leave work, I’m tired, and it’s all uphill. I walk the 7 long city blocks to the cable car turnaround on Market Street, stand in line, then hop inside when the car is ready to begin its trek back up the hill. I’ve done this at least 8 or 10 times. Tonight, however, was the first night I realized there are two different lines that leave from that particular cable car turnaround. Somehow up until today I’ve always managed to board the line I needed. Tonight, however, I was on the *other* line.

The beginning of the route is the same. Through Union Square. Stops at the Sir Francis Drake. The Fairmont. Chinatown. But then, as we should have been going straight up Jackson Street, the car veered, slowly, then more quickly, barreling down Mason Street. I looked around. I was perplexed. This was not the way I wanted to go. I quickly stood up and approached the fare collector. “Um. Uh, why aren’t we going up Jackson?” “Lady, this is the Powell-Mason line, not the Powell-Hyde line.” Oo. A “lady” comment. I asked for the next stop. I jumped off and began my trek uphill. Up. Up. Up. And up some more. Next time, I’ll be sure to look for the Powell-Hyde sign on the gold and maroon cable car.

It Took A Decade

I’ve lived in San Francisco, on and off, for 10 years now. And today was my first time attending a 49ers game. It was awesome. A beautiful sunny day, perhaps in the 70s, I, perfectly comfortable in a short sleeved shirt and a glass of icy lemonade in hand. A panoramic view of the field, good fans all around. Except the one man, that one very, very loud man behind me. Who, no less than 112 times during the game, exclaimed, no, screeched, in a bellowing way, “That is big! That is so big! Do you realize how big that is?”

Missing…

The move went well. Better than I ever expected. Eight of my closest friends showed up – the boxes and furniture were out of the truck in less than an hour. I’ve spent the whole weekend unpacking. Nothing broken. Everything as packed. Except. Except that one box. That’s nowhere to be found. The one with all my bathroom and many of my kitchen items. All my towels. My bathmat. My dishrack. My tea kettle. Seemingly small items, but oh, so important.

“The Only Downside…

of my new apartment is that my bedroom wall borders the yard of the elementary school next door. So, every morning, around 7:45 am, I hear the little darlings kicking the soccer ball as hard as they can, then yelling, ‘SCOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!’,” I was telling my friend as he drove me home from work. “That’s a little annoying. But other than that, I love it.”

As I put my key into the lock, I noticed a bright orange flyer on the floor of my lobby, slipped under the door. I stooped closer to read.

“DEAR NEIGHBORS,

One of our second graders kicked a ball with such force as he was playing soccer that his shoe flew off his food and sailed over your fence.

Would you please help him retrieve it from your backyard and throw it back over the fence to the school yard? He would appreciate it immensely. The emergency sandal that we fashioned from packing foam and duct tape made him the object of some good humored teasing.

I know he’ll be more careful next time. Thanks for your kindness!

Signed, The Principal”

I laughed until tears streamed from my eyes. Then I found a flashlight, went into the backyard and searched for the missing shoe. It took me three tries to get it back over the 30 foot high fence. That must have been one hell of a kick.

Night Bocce Ball

Just returned from a weekend of abalone diving. Or, rather, abalone eating. Several times a year, a spirited group of friends plans a camping trip to the Medocino area, for the sole purpose of abalone diving. I look forward to these trips with unbridled anticipation. The drive up is always stupendous, a good four hour drive with my best friend Emily. We usually stop at a barely populated beach along the way, she surfs, I read on the beach, wrapped in layers of fleece and wool. We usually arrive in to the abalone campsite in the late afternoon, just in time to utilize the last rays of light to pitch our tent. This year was no exception.

We arrived, just as the divers were returning from their first dive of the weekend. Nine beautiful, shiny, unsuspecting abalone greeted us. Emily and I pitched our tent, then materialized for campfire duty. The divers prepared the abalone, striking it with a crowbar to tenderize it, scooping it from its luminescent shell, slicing it into edible portions. I resumed my regular duties: chopping garlic, washing asparagus, timing the pasta. And watching. Watching and waiting. Food prepared over a campfire always seems more delicious, more tantalizing, than food prepared in a kitchen, but this more so. Keeping with tradition, we prepared three varieties of abalone: sauteed with butter and garlic, breaded and fried, and “happy enchiladas” a layered concoction of sliced abalone, salsa, chiles, and lots of cheese that tastes unlike anything I’ve ever had before.

Dinner is a communal experience. The abalone is taken from the frying pan onto a single plate. The first person takes a bite, then passes the sole plate to the next person at the campfire. That person digs in, then passes it to the next person, and so on, and so on, and so on. Dinner lasts for hours, a bite here, a bite there. When all the food is gone, dinner is done and the cleanup commences.

As we were roasting s’mores, Ladd announced it was time for night bocce ball. I perked up. This was a new tradition. Something introduced on the last abalone camping trip, the one I missed because I was still in Korea. “What is this night bocce ball? Do tell….” It was explained to me. A bocce ball set, one of the plastic variety, was produced. Glow sticks, the bright neon tiny ones commonly found at raves, were taped unrelentingly to the balls, each person a different color. The colors were exhausted quickly, so color combinations were utilized. I was blue and green.

We began, Ladd throwing the first ball into the woods. No flashlights allowed. We watched as the first ball rolled into the brushes, the glow sticks barely perceptible as it bounced, then rolled, then stopped. Each of us, all eight of us, tossed our balls towards the now unseen ball. Branches were heard crushing. Splashes, into the nearby creek, echoed in the darkness. As the last one threw his ball, we rushed towards the pallino, seeing who earned the honors of tossing for the next round. This continued by the light of the nearly full moon, each round halted by an emergency search effort, as someone had undoubtedly lost their ball. “Red, we’re looking for the red glow sticks. The red bocce ball. Is it over there?” “Red is the hardest to see, you know. Something about the wave length of the color.” “I think I found it! It’s way over here…” “How’d it get that far? Are you sure?”

For three hours we engaged in this madness. This make believe sport on a magical playing field. We stopped not because it was no longer fun, but because we could no longer keep our eyes open. We were exhausted from a day of diving, cooking, eating, more eating, more eating, and night bocce ball. My new favorite sport.