Thursday, March 16, 2006
Describing Karen
My husband, KA, had a job all lined up when he arrived in Sweden. In fact, he got here just in time to take part in a team building event at a Japanese-style spa here in Stockholm and spent his first few days on the job running around in a kimono. When I arrived, however, there was neither a job nor a kimono awaiting me, so right after Christmas I made a beeline for the unemployment office. The nice lady there helped me learn how to navigate their job database.
Even though some of the jobs were posted in English, I needed to learn how to understand the job postings in Swedish as well. It wasn’t long before I learned to recognize such words as självständig (independent), erfaren (experienced), and lydig (obedient). There were several tech writer jobs available at the time, and I sent out resumes right away.
To my surprise, each resume produced an invitation for an interview! When I quit my job in the States, I had secretly feared that I wouldn’t be able to find a job in Sweden, but, Wow! These people actually wanted to talk to me. . .or so I thought.
During the next several weeks, I interviewed with five different companies. I quickly learned that the rules of the game called Interview were different here than in the States, where certain questions are absolute no-nos. While State-side interviewers must restrict themselves to questions that are directly job-related, it was much different here.
“Do you have any children?” Ms. Interviewer asked.
“No, just a childish husband. Does that count?”
“Will you have to pick him up at day care in the afternoon?”
“No.”
“Then it doesn’t matter. Do you plan on having children?”
Do I plan on having children? The straight answer was “No,” which is what I told her, but there was something about a stranger asking me about my reproductive plans that made me want to look at my watch and say, “Yes, as a matter of fact, we had planned on working on one about an hour from now, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to rush off and warm up the massage oil. . .”
The next few questions were as intrusive as the first:
“What religion are you?”
Religion? Did she want to know if I could write King James-style documentation? Why was this important? I opted for a non-committal answer, but I had to stifle the urge to repeat a witticism I heard years ago: “I’m a Frisbyterian. I believe that when you die, your soul lands on the roof and you can’t get it down.” (Just for the record, I’m not a Frisbyterian, or even a Presbyterian.)
“How would your parents describe you?”
“My parents? Oh, my dad was kind of quiet, so he wasn’t big on descriptions. Anyway, he passed away in 1993. As for Mom, she would tell you I’m perfect, of course. Isn’t that what your mom would say about you?”
“Yes, of course.”
Ms. Interviewer knit her over-plucked eyebrows in consternation. “Perfect” was not the answer she was looking for. She wanted some dirt. Her eyes narrowed, and I knew a killer question was on the way.
“How would your husband describe you?” she asked.
"My husband? He’s got as much to do with this as my parents," I thought, shifting uncomfortably in my chair.
“Don’t you want to know something about my writing skills?" I volunteered. "I’ve written manuals, online help, marketing material, and . . .”
“I’ll get to that in a minute,” she said as she raised an interrupting hand.
“How about my strengths and weaknesses? You HR-types just love to see applicants squirm over that question. Why don’t you ask me that?”
“In due time. Right now, I just want to know how your husband would describe you.”
“This chick is tough,” I thought. She’d played the husband card, and she wasn’t going to let me fold.
I suppressed my smart-alek urges and answered the question as best I could, spinning the answer in my favor, of course. But wouldn’t it have been better if Ms. Interviewer could have asked my husband directly about how he would describe me? How would that interview unfold?
“My husband is waiting for me in the lobby. Why don’t you just bring him in and ask him yourself?”
Ms. Interviewer picks up the phone and calls the receptionist. In a few moments, my husband, KA, walks slowly into the room, his hands in his pockets, looking mildly confused. Ms. Interviewer and KA exchange greetings, and he takes a seat next to me.
“The lady out front said you wanted to talk to me?"
“Yes,” says Ms. Interviewer. “I want to know how you would describe your wife.”
KA shoots me a questioning glance. “It’s OK. Just answer her question,” I tell him.
"OK."
Suddenly, I notice that certain sparkle he gets in his eyes when he's getting ready to mess with someone. I feel the mother of all headaches coming on. . .
“Well, she’s never really written any technical documentation for me, so I don’t know how I can help,” KA says innocently.
“Just tell me what’s she’s like,” Ms. Interviewer coaxes.
“Yeah, well, she’s OK, if you don’t count the week or so around, you know, that time of the month. Then she’s pretty cranky. I even have an alert set up in Outlook to warn me. When it’s time, it pops up with Witch Week. . .”
I kick my husband under the table in an attempt to silence him.
“OW!” he shrugs and shoots me another glance, this one pained rather than confused. But then he winks at me, and I know it's not over yet.
“Interesting. Continue,” says Ms. Interviewer as she inspects her nails.
“She’s an OK cook, and she doesn’t shop too much. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Geez! I’ve got a snowball’s chance in H-E double toothpicks of getting this job,” I think to myself.
“Is there anything else I should know,” says Ms. Interviewer, peering at KA down her thin nose.
“Nah—Wait! Yeah, we’ve been married 15 years,” says KA, his voiced tinged with pride.
I guess he thinks I've endured enough. "How nice!" I think to myself. "That's got to be positive."
“That’s a long time,” says Ms. Interviewer. “That could mean that she’s loyal and dedicated, or too lazy and complacent to change her situation.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake!” I say, rolling my eyes. “Can’t we get on to my skills?”
“Oh, yes, well, everything seems to be here in your CV. Thanks both of you for coming in. I’ll be in touch. . .”
Back to the real world, over the course of the following few weeks, I managed to get called in for second interviews with the documentation department leads of several of the companies to which I had applied.
“Do you have any questions?” a documentation supervisor asked after he had completed his queries.
“Yes, I do. How would your wife describe the documentation department?”
Even though some of the jobs were posted in English, I needed to learn how to understand the job postings in Swedish as well. It wasn’t long before I learned to recognize such words as självständig (independent), erfaren (experienced), and lydig (obedient). There were several tech writer jobs available at the time, and I sent out resumes right away.
To my surprise, each resume produced an invitation for an interview! When I quit my job in the States, I had secretly feared that I wouldn’t be able to find a job in Sweden, but, Wow! These people actually wanted to talk to me. . .or so I thought.
During the next several weeks, I interviewed with five different companies. I quickly learned that the rules of the game called Interview were different here than in the States, where certain questions are absolute no-nos. While State-side interviewers must restrict themselves to questions that are directly job-related, it was much different here.
“Do you have any children?” Ms. Interviewer asked.
“No, just a childish husband. Does that count?”
“Will you have to pick him up at day care in the afternoon?”
“No.”
“Then it doesn’t matter. Do you plan on having children?”
Do I plan on having children? The straight answer was “No,” which is what I told her, but there was something about a stranger asking me about my reproductive plans that made me want to look at my watch and say, “Yes, as a matter of fact, we had planned on working on one about an hour from now, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to rush off and warm up the massage oil. . .”
The next few questions were as intrusive as the first:
“What religion are you?”
Religion? Did she want to know if I could write King James-style documentation? Why was this important? I opted for a non-committal answer, but I had to stifle the urge to repeat a witticism I heard years ago: “I’m a Frisbyterian. I believe that when you die, your soul lands on the roof and you can’t get it down.” (Just for the record, I’m not a Frisbyterian, or even a Presbyterian.)
“How would your parents describe you?”
“My parents? Oh, my dad was kind of quiet, so he wasn’t big on descriptions. Anyway, he passed away in 1993. As for Mom, she would tell you I’m perfect, of course. Isn’t that what your mom would say about you?”
“Yes, of course.”
Ms. Interviewer knit her over-plucked eyebrows in consternation. “Perfect” was not the answer she was looking for. She wanted some dirt. Her eyes narrowed, and I knew a killer question was on the way.
“How would your husband describe you?” she asked.
"My husband? He’s got as much to do with this as my parents," I thought, shifting uncomfortably in my chair.
“Don’t you want to know something about my writing skills?" I volunteered. "I’ve written manuals, online help, marketing material, and . . .”
“I’ll get to that in a minute,” she said as she raised an interrupting hand.
“How about my strengths and weaknesses? You HR-types just love to see applicants squirm over that question. Why don’t you ask me that?”
“In due time. Right now, I just want to know how your husband would describe you.”
“This chick is tough,” I thought. She’d played the husband card, and she wasn’t going to let me fold.
I suppressed my smart-alek urges and answered the question as best I could, spinning the answer in my favor, of course. But wouldn’t it have been better if Ms. Interviewer could have asked my husband directly about how he would describe me? How would that interview unfold?
“My husband is waiting for me in the lobby. Why don’t you just bring him in and ask him yourself?”
Ms. Interviewer picks up the phone and calls the receptionist. In a few moments, my husband, KA, walks slowly into the room, his hands in his pockets, looking mildly confused. Ms. Interviewer and KA exchange greetings, and he takes a seat next to me.
“The lady out front said you wanted to talk to me?"
“Yes,” says Ms. Interviewer. “I want to know how you would describe your wife.”
KA shoots me a questioning glance. “It’s OK. Just answer her question,” I tell him.
"OK."
Suddenly, I notice that certain sparkle he gets in his eyes when he's getting ready to mess with someone. I feel the mother of all headaches coming on. . .
“Well, she’s never really written any technical documentation for me, so I don’t know how I can help,” KA says innocently.
“Just tell me what’s she’s like,” Ms. Interviewer coaxes.
“Yeah, well, she’s OK, if you don’t count the week or so around, you know, that time of the month. Then she’s pretty cranky. I even have an alert set up in Outlook to warn me. When it’s time, it pops up with Witch Week. . .”
I kick my husband under the table in an attempt to silence him.
“OW!” he shrugs and shoots me another glance, this one pained rather than confused. But then he winks at me, and I know it's not over yet.
“Interesting. Continue,” says Ms. Interviewer as she inspects her nails.
“She’s an OK cook, and she doesn’t shop too much. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Geez! I’ve got a snowball’s chance in H-E double toothpicks of getting this job,” I think to myself.
“Is there anything else I should know,” says Ms. Interviewer, peering at KA down her thin nose.
“Nah—Wait! Yeah, we’ve been married 15 years,” says KA, his voiced tinged with pride.
I guess he thinks I've endured enough. "How nice!" I think to myself. "That's got to be positive."
“That’s a long time,” says Ms. Interviewer. “That could mean that she’s loyal and dedicated, or too lazy and complacent to change her situation.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake!” I say, rolling my eyes. “Can’t we get on to my skills?”
“Oh, yes, well, everything seems to be here in your CV. Thanks both of you for coming in. I’ll be in touch. . .”
Back to the real world, over the course of the following few weeks, I managed to get called in for second interviews with the documentation department leads of several of the companies to which I had applied.
“Do you have any questions?” a documentation supervisor asked after he had completed his queries.
“Yes, I do. How would your wife describe the documentation department?”
# posted by Karen @ 1:09 PM 
