Contemplating my first Skyperview

I've been on quite a few interviews in the past several weeks. Luckily, there's no shortage of tips, tricks, musings and even in-depth reports full of stats on how to knock it out of the park in a phone or face-to-face interview. I know all the buzz questions. I can recite my resume in my sleep—in fact, my boyfriend says I do. I've perfected my just-firm-enough handshake. And my mom keeps asking me why I always answer her phone calls with, “Hello, this is Caitlin.”

But tomorrow morning, I will experience a first. A long-distance interview over Skype. I'm excited by the novelty, but can't help but wonder what kind of Internet-iquitte I should be aware of. What's the Skype equivalent of a handshake? Is it weird that the first time these people see me, it will be in my bedroom? If one of my cats jumps up on my lap is that kind of like a cute ice-breaker or a sign of un-professionalism? (That reminds me—I need to change my Skype name. Right now it's Grizabella, after my first cat.)

And then there's the clothing. An in-person interview almost always requires a suit, no questions asked. But I'd feel pretty silly putting on my business attire, just to sit in front of my computer. And what about the all-important eye contact? Do I look into the camera or at the faces on the screen?

Most (ok, ALL) of my Skype experiences are with my parents, half of which are usually spent with frozen screens as a result of the $20 web cam we bought them as a gift, and the other half with one of us putting our eyeballs up super close to the camera lens.

But the more I think about it, the Skype interview may just been the perfect balance of the impersonal phone interview and the high-stakes face-to-face. It's uncharted territory for me, but at least I don't have to worry about having bad breath or sweaty palms. My gut tells me to just tidy my room, put on a nice sweater and follow the interviewer's lead.

To all of my 16 followers, I'd love to hear your experiences and thoughts. I'll let ya know how it goes.

How I tried to hate Starbucks, but just couldn't

With afternoons suddenly free for job searching, I made a goal to try a new coffee shop each day. Why fuel the giant Starbucks fire when I can support Sayid, the African-native and owner of La Citadelle on 16th who woos the ladies with his "bonjours" and "au revoirs," and works overtime all the time so he can one day bring his struggling family here to join him?

Why use my hard-earned dollars to support those bastardized, sugar-laden signature concoctions they call coffee when I can mosey down to 12th Street Espresso where the smell of the beans wafts for blocks and they paint picturesque designs with the foam atop your latte?

The choice seems clear. But it isn't always that simple. From a marketing perspective, the Starbucks brand is gold. Immaculately consistent communications with cult-like consumer loyalty--I can't help but respect that.

One day I found myself cashless. Starbucks takes debit with no minimum charge. I had a book to read. Starbucks has the largest dining area. And so, last Sunday I broke my clean streak. I'd been to the Bucks at 15th and Latimer many times in the past, mostly to feed my Sunday Times addiction and before I moved to my moral high ground. I recognized many faces there, but none well enough to know any names.

The barista position, like many other hospitality jobs, often attracts 20- and 30-somethings who aspire to do more, but aren't having the best of luck. So when a mild mannered employee approached me to ask if I'd participate in a quick quality assurance survey, I welcomed him to my table and we chatted for a few minutes. He asked me pre-formulated questions about my visit and jotted some required notes, but we quickly moved on to other topics. Like me, he was looking for a job. I told him I used to be a barista and he congratulated me on "getting out." He told me his name was James and handed me a coupon for a free drink at my next visit.

During my short time as a Starbucks barista, there were times when everyone in the cafe fell silent. Some stared out the windows. Some buried their noses in books. Some tapped their feet faintly to the beat of their iPod. There was magic in those brief and infrequent moments. During them, I liked what I did and I knew I was doing something good. Doing what a coffee shop was meant to do--be a peaceful, cozy haven for people of all kinds. And that's what my local Starbucks was last Sunday. Quiet except for the pssst of the milk steamer and tinkle of the coffee cascading into the paper cups.

I guess it's that, and the connection I feel to the employees with whom I've been in the same boat, that I just can't stay away.

Of course, during those golden moments, it was never long before a gaggle of giggling high school girls poured in, demanding foamy, whipped, quadruple choco-mocha caramel crap. Or before a very important businessman burst in screaming into his bluetooth, stopping only to bark an order and throw a twenty dollar bill in your face. That's when I went back to hating the job and everything about the fact that I worked there.

So save for their coffee monopoly, Starbucks has its moments. It has some great employees. It's a really well executed brand. And for those reasons, I will alternate between Starbucks and my other favorite, but independently-owned coffee shops.

Sorry Sayid, I tried.

When second best is best

When I was laid off from my job, my dad immediately said, "that's the second best thing that could've happened." Naturally, I was pissed. Minutes after being escorted out of my now former workplace, I wanted pity, not a reality check. It took a few weeks, but finally I realized that the old job wasn't the best fit for me anyway, and I was excited about what might be next for me.

I'd almost forgotten about my dad's comment when my close friend found out some unsavory news. I was heartbroken for her. I thought the words, but didn't say them out loud: it was the second best thing that could have happened. Had she found out much later, the damage could have been worse. Still, I was surprised at how calm and collected she was. Perhaps she already had the wisdom of my dad's words, and didn't even know it yet.

My friend and I have different views on life, but I think we could agree that it's less about how bad something seems, and more how much worse it could have been. It's more than a silver lining. It's not just making the most of a bad situation. It's deciding that you actually lucked out.

Now, don't think I'm getting all philosophical on you. When people say "everything happens for a reason," or "it was meant to be," they're usually referring to some sort of divine plan or pre-set path our lives are headed for that's out of our own control. But me, I'm pretty sure we're all just flying by the seat of our pants on this ride. Does everything happens for a reason? Well, sure. It happened because of the thing that caused it. Somehow, this actually comforts me quite a bit. Just to know that in whatever weird and random order these events occur, we're all in it together, just taking it day by day in this mysterious and complex song and dance called life.

How being laid off is like being broken up with

I've been dumped between three and five times in my life. The first two breakups remain in question as to who ended it, because we were both in 5th grade at the time and simply stopped talking/forgot each other existed.

I've been laid off once. Five days ago. The experience, still in progress, sent me reeling right back to those high school and college days when each of those three pimply faced, khaki-wearing dudes who couldn't grow beards told me that it just wasn't working out...

The breakup/layoff starts even before it begins. You notice your boss/boyfriend is acting distant. Acting strange and not talking about your future anymore. Not involving you in activities/projects as much as he/she used to. In both cases, you're probably in denial.

Then the day comes. You're happily working in your office/watching TV in your shared apartment. All of the sudden, your boss/boyfriend says, "I need to talk to you."

They tell you some form of "it's not you, it's me,"/"it's not you, it's the economy." They tell you they want you out NOW, and if you're lucky they even give you a box. Then you're forced out of the place where you've spent most of your time for the past however many years, without as much as a chance to say goodbye to your coworkers/your boyfriend's dog. You get angry and say things you don't mean. You realize that they've already changed the lock/closed your email account. You ask how long ago they made the decision and no matter what the answer is, it makes you feel worse.

You wonder if your boss will offer to let you keep the book you borrowed/ if your boyfriend will let you keep the Ikea couch you went splitsies on--it's more your style, anyway. You obsessively check Facebook/LinkedIn to see if they've changed their status to "single"/changed their company employee information.

When you tell your friends and family, any of the following metaphors can be used to describe either situation equally well: Getting the boot, being kicked to the curb, being taken out with the trash, getting sandbagged.

Both make you want to drink, binge eat, punch somebody, write angry and passive-aggressive Facebook posts. And both elicit the same responses from friends, family and acquaintances alike: "it's a blessing in disguise," "you'll find something/someone better," "he/that job wasn't good for you, anyway," and, of course the go-to, "when one door closes..."

The advice, trite as it sounds to you at the time, is spot-on. The end of a personal or business relationship is the perfect time to start fresh and upgrade your life. And one day, you'll cross paths with the person or people involved again and hopefully you'll have great news to tell them. And secretly you hope they don't.

I've always thought the only way to get over an ex is to find someone new. I haven't found another job yet, but I'm hoping the same is true for both.

But neither one, I imagine, gets any easier the more times it happens.

Three small words

Have you ever read or heard a phrase for the first time and immediately knew you'd never forget it? Happens to me often. But recently, something I heard on an NPR news story stayed with me in a stronger way than anything has in a while.

Memoir author Marion Roach Smith was talking to callers about their own stories turned memoirs. It just so happens it was my uncle Victor who called in and told Marion about his memoir when she said the phrase that struck me so deeply. Vic explained his memoir in progress about his lifelong battle of depression that climaxed with a survived suicide attempt. Marion immediately asked him what made him survive. What kept him hanging on during those dark moments. The human pilot light, she said, is what keeps us surviving in even the darkest of times.

Something clicked for me when I heard those words. As a writer, the idea of empathy has been a re-occurring theme throughout my life. It was there when I wrote short stories in elementary school, poetry in middle school, literary analyses in high school, editorials in college, and now professional advertising. The human pilot light puts so perfectly into words exactly what drives me to write. The quest to find not just what makes people tick, but what keeps them living--literally and figuratively. Physically and emotionally.

Ever since then, I often wonder what keeps the pilot light burning of the hundreds of people I see each day on my way to and from work. What does the homeless man who sleeps in the alley think when he wakes each morning that carries him through another day?

Maybe it's nothing more than a simple animalistic instinct. I'd like to think all our pilot lights are the single thread that connects us all. At the same time, I think each person's is as unique as their fingerprint. But then again, I really just don't know the answer at all.

The question astounds, confuses, delights and intrigues me all at the same time. But I know that where ever my writing takes me, I want to spend my life answering it.

Not a stranger on the train

There's an unspoken rule among most train commuters in the morning: don't talk to me, I won't talk to you, and we can all rest or read in relative peace while we wake up on our way to work.

Most early morning blabber mouths are met with flustered glances or evil stares. But when a partially blind, 85-year-old WWII vet with an honorary MBA from Stanford sat beside me the other morning, he couldn't see the other passengers' annoyed expressions.

He was a small man with white hair, dressed in khaki shorts and a while polo shirt. He wore large, think-lensed darkly tinted sunglasses, which was the only indication of his disability. The way he made his way around the car, you'd hardly know he had less than half his vision left.

He had hardly finished hoisting his bag onto the overhead shelf before commencing our intense and mostly one-sided conversation:

"I'm from California and you wouldn't believe how much harder is it to get around here on the east coast," he continued with a story about getting stuck in an elevator in a Philadelphia hotel after receiving inadequate instructions on how to use some sort of special keycard.

Next he told me about his frequent guest appearances at Stanford where he gave talks on business strategy. He was always met with unbridled, ardent praise from students.

"They tell me, every time, that they learn more from me in an hour and a half than they do in a whole year of business school," he said, "and you know why?"

"No?"

"Now, my dear, I don't have a lick of formal business training from a school, but I have experience. I managed people for years. And that's matters. Experience. You'll learn more actually doing than you will reading, no matter what it is you do."

Of the several other stories he managed to squeeze into into my 35 minute ride, (including how a doctor botched his cataract surgery and left his vision where it is today and how and why Texas is the only state in the nation with a stable economy) two things stood out:

"What do you think is more important," he asked, "working on the right thing, or doing the work right?"

It was like talking to a much older and more conservative Seth Godin.

"Doing it right?" I offered.

"Wrong!" He nudged me with his arm. In my defense, my head was still spinning from last night's margaritas.

"That's what most people think. But if you're doing a great job at the wrong thing, you're not getting anywhere!"

Naturally, he gave the example of how President Obama worked on the wrong thing by taking on healthcare reform as his first duty as President, instead of addressing the more pressing issue, unemployment. I kept my political opinions to myself, but couldn't help but agree with the lesson behind the message.

His next question was, "is it better to concentrate on the process of the work or the people doing the work?"

I went with my gut. "The people?"

"Wrong again!" He laughed. "I'm not trying to embarrass you, just teach you something," he said. "You're a smart girl. But this is a lesson that everyone needs to know. If you have a strong process, the people will follow. The strategy is most important. The people are second."

I thought about these rules and how they apply to an ad agency. We can do great work, but if it's for the wrong clients, we lose. And we can have the smartest people in the business at our disposal, but if we're not strategic in our approach, we lose again. This could be a lesson for any business.

So when my stop came, we shook hands and wished each other luck. I don't know that I made much of an impact on him, but I will remember his words for sure. He spoke more passionately about business than I'd heard someone talk about their career in years. I don't remember his name or why he was in Philly, but I remember he reminded me a bit of my dad. The way he was so full of ardor and as my mom says, has "never met a stranger."

As I walked down the aisle, I heard him ask the woman in the next row, "do you know which stop is next?" I looked back. The woman just mumbled no, shook her head and rolled her eyes.

"Wayne is next, you still have a while to go," I called back as I departed the car. He turned his head from side to side. Then I remembered he couldn't see me.

Not for the weak of stomach.

It's almost time for the Broad Street Run--Philadelphia's famous ten mile race straight down Broad Street in the height of spring. It attracts runners from all over the country. They cap registration at 30,000 people, which usually happens within days of opening.

Last year, my debut on Broad Street, was a learning experience. So as I prepare for my second go, I feel it's a good time to reminisce and remember the lessons of the past...

It was May 1, 2010. I'd trained hard. I bought special socks that help prevent blisters. My playlist was all queued up. I started loading up on electrolytes 48 hours before the big day. I woke up that morning feeling invincible. There were a few butterflies in my stomach, but nothing could stop me. I ate my protein bar, grabbed my vitamin water and proudly flashed my bib to the SEPTA attendant who nodded and let me through the subway turnstile without charge.

All decked out in my spandex pants and tank top, I fit right in with the rest of the runners waiting for the next car. I decided the night before to skip the undies. Race day happened to also be the start of an unexpected heat wave, with temps in the high 80s for the first time of the season. My pants were the sweat-wicking kind and I didn't want to risk the extra layer of underwear causing any discomfort.

When I got to Olney, I was even more charged up after squeezing shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of anxious runners, all basking in our pre-race adrenalin. Herds of us lined the roads. The number 30,000 didn't mean much to me until I stood there amongst that many others all waiting to embark on a serious adventure. Thirty thousand became even more tangible to me when I turned to find a row of about twenty porta-potties, each behind a line of about a dozen people, all eventually morphed into one giant eager cluster of people waiting to use the potties.

Thirty thousand divided by twenty...assuming everyone shows up and uses a toilet at least once...minus the guys who pee in the woods is, well.... not pretty.

I figured I'd waste no time and get myself in line. After a half an hour or so, I finally got my turn. I took a big breath, squatted and finished my business as quickly as possible. And breathed. Whew. It really wasn't that bad.

I resigned to a shady spot under a tree and starting stretching. And all of the sudden, I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. I took a deep breath, stretched...it was still there. Exhaled. The pain was quickly replaced by lurching feeling and a low grumble. My hand instinctually patted the spot on my tummy. I knew this feeling. It was roughly the same feeling I had the day after eating at the city's spiciest Chinese restaurants and far too much wine and beer.

All I could think was with such immaculate care I had put into my diet and workouts the past months, how could this be happening? But there wasn't much time for coulda-shouldas. I had to get back in line.

Start time was getting closer and the length of the line proved it. Several people ahead of me, I noticed a couple women holding what appeared to be baby wipes or paper towels. They must be germ-conscious, I thought, brining their own hand-washing materials.

I tried to hide my discomfort with a confident smile as I made idle conversation with other waiting runners. "Oh this is your first time doing Broad Street, too? Me too!" (Nervous laughter to cover my lower intestines' wail.) Until finally, a mere thirty minutes before start time, it was my turn again. Relief, even in a porta-potty, was wonderful. Until I looked to find a bare cardboard roll where the toilet paper used to be.

I froze, mid-squat, spandex around my ankles. My mind raced. I started to look frantically around for something to use as a substitute, as if I really expected to find some kind of reasonable alternative inside the portable plastic bathroom. I seriously considered using my canvas baseball cap, but could not bring myself to it. Finally, I swallowed my pride, unhinged the empty cardboard roll and did the best I could with it. Which wasn't too great.

I'm sure the shame on my face was obvious when I finally emerged from the bathroom in front of hundreds of leg-crossed runners. I darted far away from the crime scene and resumed stretching. I scanned the nearby trees for a spot secluded enough so I might be able to clean myself with a leaf, or maybe even a handful of grass. But the crowd stretched as far as I could see. I realized there was no getting rid of the remains of my bathroom debacle for at least ten more miles.

Finally, it was time to group in our corrals. There I stood, crammed like sardines with thousands of people, the morning sun scorchingly hot and bright--commando--with a mess in my pants. I was convinced those near me could smell me. Since things didn't seem like they could get any worse, I thought to myself:

Shit happens. I guess I'm just going to have to run with it.

And that I did. I finished the ten-mile race in about two hours. The low point was when some spectators sprayed the passing runners with a hose for relief from the heart--and I brought completely new meaning to the term "swamp ass." The high point was my third and final potty break at mile marker nine, where I had a second bout of what I now know is called "runner's diarrhea"--and finally found a full roll of TP.

So here's to learning (the hard way) to bring BYOTP--and to a successful race for 2011.