Image Matters

I've been interviewing senior-level marketing candidates for a position on the leadership team of a local firm. This individual will report directly into the President/CEO and will be responsible for guiding the organization's strategy and marketplace presence.

One candidate, who we liked immensely, sent gorgeous cards to both the CEO and me. Beautiful, gold embossed cards inside of which she inserted a nondescript, poorly written, two sentence, typed note on a scrap of paper that was literally ripped (i.e., not nicely cut) from a piece of white copier paper.

No time like the present to conserve paper. And time. It wasn't even personalized to us, the job or the company.

If we hired her, can we expect the Marketing Plan to be written in crayon?

Bad Day: #2

When I was in grad school, I drove to Buffalo in a blinding snowstorm for a job interview at a management consulting firm. I had heinous snow boots on but when I pulled up in front of the beautiful mansion that housed this company, the first space, right in front of their door, was remarkably vacant. As always, the parking gods were shining down upon me: this was going to be a fabulous day. So I turned off the car, switched into heels and got out.

Alas, when I slammed my door shut, a giant, black mountain of NYS Thruway car sh*t fell off my front wheel well, crashed into the ground and splattered all over me. From my feet to my face and hair, I was covered. And I was approximately one minute late already.

I entered the building, told the receptionist my name and who I was there to see, and immediately hit the ladies room where I took what felt like an hour washing myself up as well as I thought was humanly possible.

After I met the man I was interviewing with, he began to take me on a tour of their building. It was gorgeous. Chandeliers. Persian rugs. But I couldn’t concentrate on a word he was saying because I could feel something dripping down my leg. I looked down and I was creating a huge, black, tar-like stain on their rug. I had to interrupt him and explain my debacle. I’m sure he was horrified but he remained calm, sweet and understanding. We went to his office where I took off my shoes and he handed me paper toweling to get the rest of the muck off my legs. What I still didn’t realize (and to this day I’m not sure how this enormous realization escaped me), the biggest chunk of icy black gook was still lodged under my skirt and beginning to thaw.

As I interviewed (poorly I may add), I knew that my legs felt wet. But I kept going, answering all of his questions, and listening with feigned interest to the details of the position. I didn’t dare look down. Big mistake.

When I went to stand up, there was a giant, thick, filthy puddle below my chair on his Oriental rug and I began repeating profuse apologies.

Needless to say, I didn’t get that job.