Shortly after I graduate from college, I’m working part-time in retail. I apply for a full-time event photographer’s position online and receive a call back. I’ve had several other interviews that didn’t pan out recently, so I quickly agree, despite the location in question being over an hour-and-a-half drive away, when the position listing had said it was more local. They inform me that they have multiple candidates to interview that day, and would like to meet on neutral grounds in a chain coffee shop.

Being a bit paranoid about traffic and not knowing the area well, I arrive early on the day and read in my car while I wait. About five minutes before my appointed time, I head into the coffee shop. The interviewer is clearly in view, with a laptop and large drink in front of her, and a small placard with her name on it like you’d see on someone’s desk in reception.

I walk up to introduce myself, and she points vaguely behind her without even looking up to see who I am, and informs me that there are two interviews ahead of mine, so I’ll have to wait.

A bit annoyed now that I was paranoid about being so early, I sit down. After half an hour, none of the interviews have started, and staff have pointedly come by to wipe my table down twice, so I get up and order a cold drink. After another fifteen minutes, the interviewer calls all three of us to her table and says we’ll just do some of the interview all together, to save time. She waits until we’re seated, turns her laptop around, and a video starts playing.

I can feel the other two candidates deflating next to me as the video plays: the job listing advertised for a professional event photographer for a new company, but is actually just a newly named branch of a well-known yearbook photography company, who has decided to expand into the market of preschools.

The video is all about their ideal candidate:

“Good with kids!” “Cheerful and punctual!” “Willing to go above and beyond!” “No photography experience necessary!”

The more we hear, the worse it gets compared to the original listing, and the more it sounds like a scam. They don’t compensate for driving time. They don’t compensate for set-up time. There’s a fee that acts as a deposit on the equipment that we apparently have to pay before we start. They pay a flat rate per school no matter how many kids, or how much time it takes. So on and so forth.

After we watch the video, we split up again for individual interviews. By the time it’s my turn, I’ve been at the location for roughly two hours, in addition to the drive to get there. By now, I’m considering whether to leave or stick it out. I decide to finish the interview, and do my best throughout, because a full-time position might still be better than my current job, even if it isn’t what I’d expected it to be. I put genuine effort into the interview, though the interviewer seems distracted and keeps looking down at her watch as we talk.

Towards the end of the roughly fifteen-minute interview, she asks if I have any questions, and I give the usual responses:

“What kind of training do they provide if experience isn’t necessary?” “What kind of equipment do they use?” “What is the deposit fee like?” “Are we expected to do retouching, or just straight photos?” “When can I expect to hear back about this interview, and when would I be expected to start if I receive an offer?”

She glosses over most of the questions, but sticks on the last one. Her expression changes entirely and she finally looks me in the face and says, “I don’t know why each of you has asked that. We’re not even hiring for the new school year yet. This was just to gauge the market.”

And suddenly I feel like screaming. I’m pretty sure my face turns bright red from holding in that sudden surge of absolute humiliated rage. I say that’s all I have, thank her for her time, and shake her hand. I then march straight to my car with my portfolio. By the time I leave, rush hour is starting, and the drive home takes two hours. The minute I get in the door, I find the nearest couch cushion, and finally scream into it.

I’ve never received a call about the interview, and even if I had, I think I’d have told them quite politely to shove the offer up their a**es.

(When my TV is on but idle, it runs a slideshow of various photos and paintings. One night when my partner and I are settling in, we turn on the TV to the image of a bright orange sunset. My partner was an art student, and often has to explain to me who famous artists are.)

Partner: “Wow. That’s pretty. It looks… Aya Surani.”

Me: “Oh? Does she shoot landscapes and stuff like this?”

Partner: *clearly confused* “Wha… No, from Lord of the Rings. It looks Eye of Sauron-y.”

(When I explained what I thought I’d heard, we had a good laugh for about five minutes. I just assumed Aya Surani was a photographer I’d never heard of. The kicker? My partner hasn’t even seen the movies or read the books!)

(I work in a coffee shop that sells blended ice drinks. In order to blend well, we use whole milk, but can use other substitutes; it just might not blend smoothly. If a customer asks for a non-dairy substitute, we are required to ask if they would like whipped cream — which is standard for our blended drinks — in case of a dairy allergy.)

Customer: “Hi, I’d like a medium latte, and… a medium caramel blended coffee. Can you do almond milk with that?”

Me: “Of course! Personally, I would just add a very tiny amount of heavy cream to it. Almond milk tastes good, but it tends to make it chunky, so I find adding a little heavy cream makes it much better.”

Customer: “Umm, I don’t know. I’m getting it for a friend, and she’s very allergic to dairy, so no, thank you.”

Me: “All right, no problem! So, I guess you don’t want the whip on there, either, then.”

Customer: “Oh, no, she can have whipped cream!”

(One summer while in college I take a job at a day-care center to earn extra book money. My job is to drive the kids in a passenger van to the local pool. It is the kids’ favorite day of the week and they are usually incredibly excited. One day we’re slowed down by a group of police cars with their lights on taking care of an accident on the side of the road. The kids are hollering, “Faster, faster! Drive faster!” A little four-year-old sitting behind me cries out:)

Four-Year-Old: “No! Oh, no. Don’t drive faster!”

Helper: *curious* “Don’t you want us to take you swimming?”

Four-Year-Old: “Oh, yes! I just don’t want the driver to walk the white line.”

Helper: “What do you mean?”

Four-Year-Old: “Well, every time the police stop my daddy, they make him walk a white line, and we always end up not being able to go where we wanted to.”

Our cats have a raging addiction to sharp cheddar cheese. They also prefer it to be finely shredded. Because “finely-shredded, sharp cheddar cheese” is rather long to put on the grocery list, we instead write “cat cheese.”

I was grocery shopping when my husband called to ask when I’d be home. I answered, “I just need cat cheese and I’ll be checking out.”

The shopper about two paces in front of me abruptly stopped and turned to stare, obviously puzzled. She followed me to the cheese and watched me pick up a package. When I walked away, she started picking up different cheeses and examining them.

My husband and I had a good laugh speculating about her thoughts; maybe she was picturing a dairy barn with rows and rows of cats hooked up to milking machines?