I’m seeing a new dentist. I suppose that makes it sound like we’re dating, but it’s actually more serious than that - This guy, after all, has greater responsibilities than selecting a restaurant and picking up the check.^[1] In short, his duty is to make sure I keep my teeth as long as possible.^[2]

Until last Monday it had been, oh, a while since I last seated myself in a pleather dental chair. But just over a week ago I took a loaded clipboard and a cheap black pen from a friendly receptionist, plopped down in an empty waiting room, and began to fill in approximately three thousand blanks while waiting for my name to be called. Turns out the paperwork required for a professional floss job is more invasive than a dating service questionnaire. They requested info on everything but my astrological sign^[3] and whether or not I want children someday^[4]. Even my marital status and social security number were up for discussion.

Of course, it would have gone a lot faster if a) they’d shown a little restraint in the inquisition department, b) I wrote as speedily - and as legibly - as I type, c) I could have stilled the jittery knee on which I’d balanced the clipboard and d) my own list of dental-related questions would have shut up as requested. How often do you have to floss in order to say you do it regularly? I found myself wondering. Is monthly enough? Will weekly work? And What are the moral implications of lying to my dentist about the last time I had my teeth professionally cleaned? Do you go to hell for that, or is it an understandable white lie? Do all your teeth fall out in retribution? And, finally, the tiny, niggling little If I lie, will they find out and dump me?

Still wondering if I’d gotten all the answers right, I handed the clipboard back and then dug through my bag for Meg Cabot’s latest, Being Nikki - a fun, but not particularly deep or intricate sequel that’s perfect for waiting room reading. And then they called my name. Swallowing hard, I gathered my stuff and followed the hygienist into the back.

With all the nervousness and questions, it’s no wonder the visit itself was pleasantly anticlimactic: Two hours of scraping and polishing and rinsing and digging and, yes, pain. Most importantly, though: No cavities. My teeth felt loose and puffy afterward, and encased by the same tingling ache I always experienced for days after I skipped my eighth grade history class to have my braces tightened.

I wrapped up the appointment by solemnly swearing to become better acquainted with dental floss, then gathered my stuff and beat it to the receptionist’s desk, where I set up my next appointment. Six months and counting.

Turned out I wasn’t done, though. As I swished through the waiting room and toward the door, still running my tongue over my newly sparkling teeth, one of the hygienists called me back to personally tell me goodbye and invite me to return, saying that I was fun and a pleasure to work with. I felt absurdly pleased, like a kid who wins high marks for cooperation on her third grade report card.^[5] Though I can’t say I enjoyed the visit myself, I can’t complain - I do still have all my teeth, after all, and that is the goal.

1. Do men even do that anymore? [↩]
2. Bonus points for accomplishing the goal with a minimum of pain. [↩]
3. Gemini [↩]
4. Yes [↩]
5. True story. [↩]

I bought a tub of cottage cheese the other day, which means my weight loss plan finally has a chance of working. I never would have made the connection, except the other night hubby and I were in a restaurant and, while I was trying to decide which delectably greasy item to order, guilt nudged me toward the “On the Lite Side”(sic) portion of the menu. You know, all that heart-healthy, tasteless crap they dish up just so they can say they cater to everyone. It was there that I saw the key to effortless weight loss. It’s a trick that all restaurants seem to know, yet women’s magazines still have not picked up on: eat cottage cheese. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, according to menus across the country, one scoop of cottage cheese is all you need in order to stay healthy and lose weight, no matter what accompanies those blessed curds. And the good news is, all restaurant diet plates come with it, so you’ll never be without this magic gut-shrinking agent. And to think, you’ve been lied to all this time: Dieting is not about the portion size, the fat content, or even those now-meaningless calories (or kilocalories for those sticklers out there).

Skeptical? Itching for more specific proof than “every restaurant’s doing it”? Fine, then. Just witness this listing under the diet section of the restaurant menu mentioned above: ½ lb. ground top sirloin with a side of peaches and cottage cheese. And, no, I swear to you I’m not making this up. In fact, I just called the restaurant to verify, in case it was actually supposed to read “Mixed salad greens tossed in a light vinaigrette dressing, accompanied by a side of steamed broccoli and a dish of low fat cottage cheese”.

Since all evidence points to syrupy canned peaches, and we all know a whopping ½ lb. serving of beef doesn’t fit into traditional heart-healthy parameters, it must be the cottage cheese that makes this dinner choice “lite”. Which is the reason I had no worries about the contents of my plate at a family barbeque I attended on Saturday. All I had to do was add a spoonful of the miraculous side dish, and I could eat whatever I wanted. In fact, when I weighed myself that night, I had actually lost weight. It’s a miracle.

My kind of diet: Cheeseburger, baked beans, brownie and, of course, cottage cheese (which makes it all good for me).

“There’s a rattlesnake up ahead,” the man said, eying the camera I’d slung around my neck before I set off on my hike. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Really?” Wow. That hadn’t taken long. I’d been in Tucson about four hours, and already people were warning me about snakes. I adjusted the brim of my baseball cap so it blocked the afternoon sun, then tugged one of the straps of my backpack, sliding it off my shoulder. “I’d better change lenses, then. Where is it?”

The man’s wife grinned in understanding, her eyes mirroring the enthusiasm that must have been in my own, while the guy half-turned away from me and gestured up the narrow gravel path. “Up there about a hundred feet. On the left.”

I thanked them and nodded goodbye as they passed, then dug my telephoto out of my day pack, which was now hanging from the crook of my arm. I pushed my discarded lens into a thick sock to protect it, then gently rolled it into the bag.

Camera clutched in my hands tourist-style, I crept along the trail, alert for any movement, heart hammering in a rhythm that was half nervousness, half excitement. I passed several statuesque saguaro, then a cactus flower blooming a cheerful hot pink in the April sunshine, and made a mental note of both. I’d come back after I found the snake.

Only, there was no snake. I went my hundred feet, more, and…nothing. Disappointed at missing such an opportunity, I changed to my macro lens (for closeups) and strode back to the flower I’d seen. At least it had stayed put for me, posing prettily all the while.

Once on the trail again, I paused often for pictures. One such stop required a few illicit steps off the path, but the flowers were worth it. And just ten to fifteen feet further were more, clusters of huge lavender thistles and delicate cactus blossoms.

Already planning how best to photograph the flowers, I picked my way through the shrubs and rocks, then stopped short — three steps from a Western diamondback. It was coiled behind a paddle cactus, its tail hidden and silenced, its slitted eyes watching me warily.

Adrenaline washed through my paralyzed body in a cold tide. A cacophony of unprintable words screamed in my mind. Slowly, steadily, keeping one eye on the snake, I backed up, foot by careful foot.

Around a bend and out of sight I slid my pack off my shoulders, pulled it open with trembling fingers, and located my telephoto lens.

Pit viper or not, that snake was mine.

Excitement, fear, adrenaline — something had my hands quaking so violently I knew I’d never get a clear shot without help, so I yanked my tripod out next, opened it at top speed, and fastened my camera into place. I lowered the pack to the ground and swiveled back toward the bushes where the snake hid, then slunk forward, hoping that the rattler hadn’t fled, that I was not too late.

It hadn’t, and I wasn’t.

Western Diamondback Rattlesnake
Click here or on picture for larger image.

After reading Eileen Cook’s new book What Would Emma Do? in one fun-filled weekend, I knew I had to invite her back for another interview. Fortunately, she consented to indulge my nosiness about her book, her writing process (or lack thereof) and the land of publishing. Please welcome Eileen, who has provided heaps of great information, seasoned with her trademark dash of humor.

Thanks for coming, Eileen! First of all, for those who haven’t yet read it, could you tell us a little about What Would Emma Do?

I think of WWED as a mix between The Crucible and the movie Saved. I think I’ll cheat and use the back copy blurb to explain it:

Thou shalt not kiss thy best friend’s boyfriend…again….

There is no greater sin than kissing your best friend’s boyfriend. So when Emma breaks that golden rule, she knows she’s messed up big-time. Especially since she lives in the smallest town ever, where everyone knows everything about everyone else….and especially because she maybe kinda wants to do it again. Now her best friend isn’t speaking to her, her best guy friend is making things totally weird, and Emma is running full speed toward certain social disaster. This is so not the way senior year was supposed to go.

As the blurb and the title hint, WWED addresses some pretty deep issues, but it’s also hilarious and suspenseful, which is no easy feat! Author Meg Cabot admitted that it made her laugh out loud, and I know my mind kept returning to it every time I set it down, since I wanted to know what happened. So how long did it take you to write it, from when you first had the idea to when the book came out?

It took me about a year to write the book. I was lucky in that my agent was able to sell it very quickly - in a couple of weeks. Once with the publisher it takes about a year.  First there are edits, then when you think you are done there are more edits, covers need to be designed, and the sales team needs to talk the book up to bookstore representatives.  I had no idea it took so long from the time you sell a book to the time it hits the shelves. Patience is a virtue for writers.

I can see how that could definitely be a surprise. Other than the slow pace of the publishing industry what are some big misconceptions many people have about writing and/or publishing?

I know what surprised me about the process. I was shocked after my first book came out that the world kept spinning along just like it always did. There were no trumpets, no parade, and Oprah didn’t call. I have wanted to write as long as I could remember and it had been such a journey to publication that it seemed that life should somehow be RADICALLY different when it actually came true. The truth is that I still spend most of my days writing in a stretched-out sweatshirt and drinking gallons of tea.

If anyone wants to organize something, I am still very open to the idea of a parade.

I’m sure lots of other people are curious about how publishing works, and you’ve probably gotten numerous questions about it. What are a few that you wish people would just stop asking already?

My two favorite annoying questions would be: You’re a writer? How come I never heard of you? and How much money do you make?

Wow! How rude. Well, as you’ve made your way through publishing, you’ve clearly learned a lot. If you could go back in time and talk to your beginning writer self, what would you tell her?

I would tell myself to hang in there. I had a knack in the early days for taking everything very personally.  If someone told me they didn’t like my work it felt like they spit in my face. Then came back and pushed me down.  I wasn’t prepared for how loooooong the whole process would take and how there would people along the way who enjoy tearing other people down for the sake of making themselves feel better.

I would tell myself to write the books I want to write and worry about the business aspects later.

It sounds like it all came out right, despite those difficulties — lucky for us, since now we get to read your books! What were some of the best decisions you made in your publishing career?

One of the best decisions I made was choosing to sign with my agent, Rachel Vater (Folio Literary).  She has been an excellent business partner.  In this business you need to have someone’s opinion that you can trust.  I count on her to tell me honestly what she thinks of my manuscripts and advise me on details of contracts.  Rachel has a huge enthusiasm for her clients and always picks me up on those days when I want to throw my lap top across the room.

I always stress to other writers to make the agent choice carefully. In the midst of the agent search it can be easy to think “I’ll take anyone. Someone just please sign me!”, but this is going to the person representing you. A good agent can have a huge impact on your career. It’s like marriage, so choose wisely.

I would also add to my “good choice” list surrounding myself with good friends and fellow writers.

What’s your writing process like? Do you tend to plot everything before you start or do you make it up as you go along — or something in-between? How about your writing schedule? Do you have one?

People have a process? I really should get one of those. I love the idea of having a set routine or process, but I find my life keeps getting in the way. Sometimes I write at home and other times I like to be in a coffee shop or at the library. I write in the morning, afternoon or evening — depending on when I have the time. The only consistent would be that when I am in the middle of the story I find I need to write at least a small bit every day or I lose track of the story. What I would tell new writers is to try all different types of approaches until they find one they like. There isn’t one routine that works — it is a case of what works for you. I used to be a total pantster. I won’t ever make it to true plotter status, but now I’m somewhere in the middle. I usually start with a bit of an outline, but leave myself a lot of room to wander where the story takes me.

You’ve captured the YA voice very well. Do you read a lot of young adult books yourself? What are some of your favorites?

I love YA books!  Heck, who am I kidding? I love books period. I am a total author junkie. I love Meg Cabot, Judy Blume, Sarah Dessen, Jacqueline Mitchard, Meg Tilly, Elizabeth Scott, Lisa McMann — I could go on and on.

Anyone who writes (published or not) inspires me because it takes dedication to get the story down on paper and guts to put it out there for others to read.

What is one of the more memorable things that has happened since you’ve been published?

I’m not sure if it’s interesting — but it is funny. After my first book, Unpredictable, came out I was out in a public place and saw a random stranger reading my book. I was beyond excited. This is what I had always dreamed of — someone reading (and seeming to enjoy) something I wrote. I went up and said that I was the author of the book she was reading. We talked for a few minutes and then she asked me sign her book. When I took the book from her I realized it wasn’t my book, the cover looked similar, but is was another book. I signed the other author’s name and hightailed it out there. That was quite possibly the most embarrassing moment thus far — and also the most hysterical.

So what’s next, book-wise? Another YA or back to women’s fiction?

I’m soooo excited for my next book.  It’s called Getting Revenge on Lauren Wood.  It’s a tale of friendship, betrayal, revenge and classic movies. I had so much fun writing it. It will be out in either December or January.

I’ve also just heard that my proposal has been accepted to write a middle grade series, so that will be my next project. It is about a young girl who comes from a long line of fairy godmothers. She’d rather be normal. Mayhem ensues.

Those sound terrific! I’m especially excited about your middle grade series; the parnormal element can add such fun to a book! In the meantime, I’ll just have to content myself with What Would Emma Do? and Unpredictable, both of which are available now.

My husband and I lie back-to-back on the hotel bed, neither moving in case the other is finally on the cusp of sleep. No talking, no fidgeting. Those are the rules.

Like most motels, a blaring yellow light floods the concrete walkway outside our door. It spills around the edges of the thick curtains and leaks into the room. I use it to gaze around my temporary habitat - cheap furniture, no clock, bags half-opened to let clothing spill out, a table with one chair, the ubiquitous luggage rack we’ve never used in any hotel.

Over there, inches away, lies another person, in his own world of thoughts. And, as per the unspoken rules, I cannot move or speak to bridge that gap, in case he has tumbled into sleep. Are his thoughts along the same theme as mine? I hate trying to sleep in hotel rooms.

When you’re married, you share everything eventually–even insomnia.

Against my will, paragraphs begin to shape themselves in my mind. I grope for my spiral notebook and a pencil and write them down, my script spiky and angled, overlapping in the dark. When I give up on sleep I slip from bed and fumble for my clothes in the grey darkness. I dress, barely breathing, thankful for the carpet swallowing the sound of my steps. My husband, whose occasional shifts and sighs betrayed his wakefulness throughout the night, doesn’t stir now, and I hope that he, at last, is asleep and dreaming, as I am unable to do.

I run my fingers through my hair and let myself out of the room, padding down the hallway toward the lobby and its free internet access. Around me, the smell of coffee brewing, and on TV a news anchor grimly analyzing the stock market. The cheerful desk clerk nods at me, then goes back to his morning paper. I scan the continental breakfast offering: Danishes, two kinds of muffins, and Tang - carbs and chemicals. Outside, flower petals chase each other on the breeze. Cars shoosh past.

Stifling a yawn, I feed the results of my notebook ramblings into the computer and publish them. Perhaps nearly everything is worth it if it gives you something to write about.

These days I’m finding it unusually hard to get out of bed. It’s not the time change, hateful and inhumane though it is. And it’s not that I spend each sleeping minute lumped upon by three dead-weight felines, whose combined corpulence equals thirty-six pounds of purring, furry, gelatinous cat. No. It’s the fact that our new mattress pad begins each night with about as much give as a slab of concrete, but by morning it has the structural integrity of warm marshmallow.

Here’s a tip: Do not buy a mattress that tries, night after night, to eat you.

Once upon a time, investing in a Memory Foam mattress topper seemed like a sensible plan. Long before we met, my husband — who had taken to sleeping on the floor of his college dorm room — finally broke down and purchased a bed. Since habit dictated that even carpeting was too soft for sleep, he asked for the firmest mattress they had. Unfortunately, they delivered. He was thrilled. Plywood would have been softer, and asphalt more forgiving. Life was perfect.

As it turned out, when I married my husband his bed came with him. While I immediately abhorred the thing, hubs’s turnaround came more slowly. Recently, after years of tingling fingers, aching shoulders, and dead arms, I made an executive decision: It was time for a new mattress.

Here’s another tip: Executive decisions should only be made after a full night of sleep.

To our surprise, mattresses, while they seem simple, cost as much as both our cars put together, but without the handy test drive to make sure everything feels okay. Time for a new plan. And so, several weeks later, a thick, gray, queen-sized expanse of foam came into our lives. Filled with enthusiasm, we tore open the box, poured it out, and ripped off the plastic bag in which it came. Then we stood back as it slowly unfurled itself, like a prehistoric beast stretching after a long winter’s sleep. We watched it rapturously. Soon life would be perfect, our dreams delightful and uninterrupted, our nights unmarred by discomfort.

The cats were more skeptical, sniffing the air around it with great distrust, jumping away when we nudged it, and daring one another to cross its dimpled expanse. Dropping them in the center sparked duck-and-cover maneuvering as they tried to escape this brand new enemy.

Final tip: Sometimes cats have a good point.

Bubbling with anticipation, we ignored their fears. Instead, we tossed it into place on top of the old mattress, fitted the sheets over it, and waited for night to fall. To our horror^[1], though, when bedtime hit we quickly discovered that our revolutionary new Memory Foam mattress topper morphs into a four-inch-thick brick in the cold evening air. We didn’t so much crawl into bed as on top of it. The pad hesitated^[2] and then, with an almost audible sigh, it slowly began to give under our weight and warmth. Fighting back giggles, we watched each other sink until our bodies had formed deep, steep-sided troughs from which we then fought to free ourselves each time we rolled over, reached for our bedside glasses of water, or flailed for the snooze button. In the morning we excavated ourselves with effort, as the sleep-softened foam beneath us sucked at our tired bodies and the untouched, cold foam beside and between us formed impossible, unyielding walls. Once we had escaped, a glance back at the bed showed the outlines of our sleeping positions, as crisply formed as chalk lines around a murder victim.

It has been thus for weeks now. While we are gradually growing accustomed to this new arrangement and the mild spring days make for softer nights, well, it’s still no wonder I was late to work today: My mattress tried to have me for breakfast.

1. mine more than my husband’s [↩]
2. which led my husband to quip, “Foam has slow memory. Needs more RAM” in a stilted, computer-esque voice. [↩]

Dear Spring:

We would like to thank you for your continued years of faithful service. Your performance has been unfailingly cheerful and, at the risk of sounding politically incorrect, your grooming beautifies the place.

However, it has come to our attention that your lack of consistency has caused a number of problems, especially in the areas of production and public relations. This has resulted in considerable delays in crops, such as those illustrated below, as well as dropping customer approval ratings. As a result, the board has determined that you shall be subjected to a probationary period, which will last no less than one half decade and no longer than one century. This is effective immediately. This has been a difficult decision, made with heavy hearts, but in the end we must ensure that all seasons, fronts and spells we oversee best represent the Weather Oversight Board, as well as the weather in general.

In order to receive full reinstatement of your powers, you must agree to and meet with the following requirements:

1) March shall no longer “come in like a lion”. It shall be a lamb throughout. Leonine behavior is merely an excuse for spotty service, and shall no longer be tolerated.

2) Once the flowers arrive, you do, too. This means no more frost, and most certainly no more snow. You may exercise your powers to the point of providing brisk breezes and occasional hail; more extreme weather is limited to those who control winter and, in some cases, late autumn. If you wish, you may request a transfer to either of these departments.

3) Blatant favoritism shall be considered inappropriate and grounds for immediate dismissal. This refers specifically to your habit of providing certain areas of the country with balmy, late-spring weather while other parts are mired in temperatures befitting mid-January.

As you are aware, we encourage communication between members of the Weather Oversight Board and those seasons, fronts, and spells we oversee. For this reason, if you have any questions during or after this probationary period, we encourage you to contact us.

Once again, we would like to thank you for your continued service.

Sincerely,

Jack O. Frost
President, Weather Oversight Board

Around the middle of July, when the sidewalks sizzle and the sun scorches, I begin to fantasize about winter. Ah, the crisp, cold air! The pretty swirling snowflakes! The hot chocolate and baths and cozy evening fires!

It takes exactly one snowfall before my naiveté dissolves and memories of past winters rush in. From that moment on, I long for spring to come again.

In our area, hints of the changing seasons can appear as early as late January: bickering birds, a breeze whose arctic bite is more of a nibble, and — my favorite — the unfolding of flowers. This year the flowers held out on us, popping up well into February. Finally, a week ago the delicate creations below poked through our dry, winter-brown grass and opened up to the sun. While we’re not ready to break out the shorts and sandals, I’m already helping winter pack its bags and hinting that it should hit the road before rush hour clogs the interstate.

In the meantime, I’ve decided to enjoy whatever springly attributes this month has brought. And so on Saturday morning, the first bright, clear day since the crocuses’ appearance, I carted my camera and my new tripod (the latter courtesy of my brother and sis-in-law) into the yard and let loose. Recorded now for posterity - or at least the extent of this digital age - are this year’s first flowers. Click on the photos for larger renditions in more detail. Trust me; they look much better that way.^[1]

1. If you like these, check out my photoblog, Playing with Pixels, at http://www.caryncaldwell.com/photos! [↩]

My dearest blogosphere,

In the words of a pen pal from my elementary days, how are you? I am fine. Mostly. I know that it has been ages since I’ve written, but I promise that there are reasons, many of which are even valid.

For one thing, blogging minus the internet doesn’t work so well. It’s been nearly a week since my (former) phone company, a bottomless reservoir of brilliant communicators, interpreted a clear request for ditching our land line as an order to disconnect all service, including our internet and every one of our well-established email accounts.^[1] It’s possible it was an act of spite, brought about by their jealousy at our choosing somebody else’s cell service over their land line offerings. I, however, prefer to think of it as an honest mistake somehow perpetuated by, well, no fewer than six different customer service reps, four technical support gurus, and two managers.^[2] In an act of breathtaking incompetence, they managed to make the problem worse every time I called. While their communication skills may be lacking, their determination to screw things up is admirable.

Whatever the cause, this incident, as you may imagine, has not exactly filled my days with sunshine and rainbows. The good news is that I have now developed an exciting new hobby: unsuccessfully battling the company that ate my internet. Which is excuse number two for not having written. You know how hobbies can be, so all-consuming that at times they almost cease to be fun.

The public library, with its abundance of light, foliage, and wireless internet, is perhaps an obvious choice for those who find themselves marooned in a house without a workable way to surf the web. If only I hadn’t also been battling something mean and contagious, a fight I plan to win tomorrow, or maybe Friday.

Then there was the possibility of writing from work, with its many doors to all things online. Let’s just rule that option out now, though, shall we? I don’t typically blog about work, and I definitely don’t blog at work. The two entities go together like plaid and stripes.

I would like to think that my remaining time has been spent well, however. For example, I’ve attacked my new cell phone, associating different ring tones and photos with almost all of my contacts, a crucial first step in breaking in a new device. And then there are the book revisions. It’s astonishing how much less painful they can be without the worldly web tempting me at every turn.

All of this is to say that there is more coming soon, when I am less annoyed and more coherent. And to apologize for my lack of communication. A new company swooped in a few hours ago to hook us up to the rest of the world, which means I’ll be touring the blogosphere - and adding to it - in no time.

More soon,

Caryn

P.S. I think everyone should probably be without the internet for a while. At the very least they can rewnew their relationships with the dictionary and the phone book, two worthy publications that don’t see a lot of use these days.

1. That means that if you wrote to me in the past week, I may not have gotten it. And since I’m not about to post my shiny new gmail address online, you can use my contact form to try again. [↩]
2. This is no exaggeration. I actually counted how many people couldn’t help me. I had to do something with all that time on hold. [↩]

I looked up when she came in the door, this girl in her twenties wearing jeans and an old tee shirt, blond hair pulled back in a messy pony tail.

“Can I help you?” I asked, thinking I sounded like a stereotypical sales girl.

“Uh, yeah.” She leaned forward against the counter between us. “Do you have any job openings?”

Since it’s not my place to make personnel decisions, I told her when Those in Charge would return. “Or,” I added, trying to be helpful, “You could always drop off a resume.”

Her eyes lit up. Ah. This was the perfect solution. “Great! Where can I get one?”

For a second, I couldn’t speak. Perhaps I’d had an advantage, as the daughter of small business owners, but this seemed like common knowledge. Then I reminded myself that she probably thought I meant to say “an application”. I tried to decide how to phrase this tactfully, in case she truly had misspoken.

“Well, actually, I’m not sure where the applications are,” I told her slowly, thinking aloud, putting a bit more emphasis on applications. “But if you write up your resume, then you can come back with it.”

She wrinkled her brow in confusion. Okay, so apparently it was possible that someone in her mid-twenties might not know what a resume was. Maybe she’d never needed one before. But she must have had other jobs. I tried again. “You know. A resume? Where you list all the jobs you’ve had?”

“Oh. Okay.” Her eyes drifted toward her hands. The left moved vigorously, picking at the cuticle on her right thumb. Then she looked up. “By the way, what do you guys do here? I’ve done lots of cashiering. I have tons and tons of experience with it.”

I glanced around the room, which held plenty of evidence of our products. Itching to explain the finer points of job-hunting — including dressing professionally, researching the company, and preparing the appropriate paperwork — I summoned up a kindly smile and briefly outlined our tasks, none of which included working the ancient cash register hunched on the counter between us.

“That sounds fun!” she chirped, swinging her sagging pony tail in her enthusiasm. “I’d like that a lot.”

Moments later she skipped out the door, full of cheerful promises that she would return later that afternoon to pick up an application. I never saw her again. Perhaps getting a job the traditional way just turned out to be too much work.