The Dirty Little Secret of Interviewing

There aren’t many things that I can say I know a lot about but this is happens to be one of them. Over the last 15 years I have interviewed, hired, or overseen the hiring of literally thousands of employees – both from an internal talent acquisition position and as an external recruiter.  I have hired people across the enterprise from the C-Suite to the reception desk in just about every job family in between. I currently provide coaching and feedback to people who are trying to change jobs, careers, or move from the ranks of the unemployed.  But I don’t consider myself an expert based on sheer volume; I like to think it’s because I have a passion for it. Nothing gives me more satisfaction professionally than knowing I helped someone find and do their best work in a job that is right for them. It’s gratifying beyond measure. 

Last week while I was in a coaching session with a colleague who is trying to maneuver from his own consulting firm back into a corporate role, he talked about his ability to secure first interviews but his lack of success at getting asked back for a second date. 

I am writing this post today to share some of the content of that session by illustrating the single most important weapon in your fight to best your competition and win the job. This also holds true for consultants who are trying to get past the initial free consultation and secure a lucrative engagement with a prospective client. Get ready, because this will really rock your world:

              The interviewer has to like you.

What!? How can that be?? Isn’t it based on my outstanding credentials and practical experience? Why, I can go through the job description point-by-point and cite examples of my work; success metrics, references, and awards. I am PERFECT FOR THIS JOB, DAMMIT.

Yes, you are. But the screener – whether they are a Junior Mint HR intern or the head of Recruiting or the Hiring Manager – will not you move you to the next step in the process unless they like you.  And you can imagine how subjective that criteria is. But it’s such an essential component of standing out from the huge crowd of other candidates that I strongly suggest you start paying closer attention to it.

I cannot tell you how many times as the head of recruiting, I would deliver a slate of qualified candidates who all passed muster with me – including the general likability factor which might also be described in less subtle terms as having no visible signs of being a jerk - to a C-level hiring manager and had the following conversation:

Me: So, what did you think of So-and-So?

Them: Eh, okay I guess. I didn’t love him.

Me: Why not?

Them: I don’t know. Can’t put my finger on it. I liked Such-and-Such better.

Me: Why?

Them: Don’t know. I didn’t hit it off with So-and-So. Not a fit for me.

And that was the sum total of the complex decision process to extend an offer. I had already provided in-depth detail on both candidate’s credentials and alignment for the role – but the winner was Such-and-Such because of the likeability factor. Which is usually cleverly disguised as “fit” or “energy.”

Why is that? Well, for one, no one wants to work with someone they don’t connect with. Period. Oh, I know all you diversity experts will be screaming that people prefer to hire in their own image which is why corporate America is so white and male. Please know that I was a head of Diversity too, and while there is certainly some truth to that, I think it may have more to do with a visceral and personal connection than someone’s conscious or subconscious preference for a particular gender or color in a role.  Connections can be completely blocked by hateful bigotry, yes, but that’s not something a candidate can really battle against in any meaningful way nor would they want to. Who wants to work for someone like that anyway? 

This guidance is really meant to speak to the candidate who is always a bridesmaid. If you’re doing a lot of interviews and not getting called back the law of averages says it’s not your gender, ethnic origin or any other visible differentiator that you have no control over; it’s something else. And that something else could be the dirty-little secret: they’re just not that into you.

So when you know you’ve nailed down a date for the first screen or interview, and you know you want the job, remember that the interviewer wants to like you. Really and truly. They don’t want a long protracted process and they need to fill the position with the best possible person. And one of the key factors will be if you measure up when they ask themselves: Do I want to be working with this person every day? Do I like them enough?

To help your chances, think about the following tips. This is by no means a comprehensive list, but hopefully it will get you moving in the right direction.

1 – Ask questions. Right off the bat. Before they even take your resume out of the manila folder. Get the conversation started and be your genuinely pleasant self; smile and keep a calm but engaged demeanor.

2. Get them talking about themselves and listen for what’s important to them as a person.  It shouldn’t be deeply personal but with a little coaxing, most interviewers love to go off the reservation a bit to break up the monotony. And most people, when asked in the right manner, do love to talk about themselves. The more they do – the better chance you have of building that connection.

3. Eye contact is great but don’t stare like a robot. Blinking is encouraged as is the occassional lighthearted attempt at humor. Stiffness or appearing uncomfortable in your own skin is the kiss of death. So is trying too hard.

4. Get to their pain: what are the top things that this person cares about relative to filling the position. LISTEN. Listen and listen some more. Then ask more questions. By the end of the first five minutes you should know exactly which of your fabulous bullet points speaks to their pain; feed your targeted experience into your narrative and keep it conversational.

5. If they immediately start grilling you – resist the temptation to give rapid fire answers to keep up with them. They are probably just a bad interviewer or believe in that tough-love crap to see if they can throw you off your game. Don’t let it.  Reflect on one or two questions - tell them it’s a great question, and then ask a clarifying question to create a better balance to the meeting. But do not be defensive. Prepare for this.

6. Don’t be cheesy and don’t suck up. Practice your “genuine interest” face in the mirror and bring it with you on game day. Not everyone will like you and that’s okay. But don’t give the interviewer a reason to suspect you might, deep down, be a jerk who just happens to interview well.

7. And last but not least, remember this lesson I learned from my acting days: the most powerful person in the theater is not the director or the producer; it’s the stage manager. If you are not kind and professional and engaging right through to the lowest level person you encounter in the process, you are shooting yourself in your loafers. When interviewing  I would typically ask the receptionist or administrative person what they thought of the candidate. If they were rude or condescending to anyone in the interview chain – they didn’t get the offer. I mean really, can you imagine what they’re like on a bad day?

So there you have it. I hope the next time you interview you remember to bring your best, most engaging, honest and groovy self to the meeting.  You’re already marketable and smart – now go work on being likable. And get the offer.

If anyone is interested in hearing more on this topic – please leave a comment and I’ll respond here on judesthinkin’ or to your personal email if you prefer.

We Can Hear You.

In the last few days I have had the misfortune of being on the receiving end of not just bad customer service, but glaring examples of employees who don’t believe they can be heard. When they are speaking. Right in front of you. Or maybe they simply don’t care.

On Saturday night I was at a very white-table-cloth, trendy farm-to-table, Chef has her own book, kind of restaurant. It was my first visit to the place and it was over an hour from where I live.  While waiting in the drafty foyer – for longer than we should have – our party was treated to one of the most shocking displays of rudeness I’ve seen in quite some time. The chef’s brother, who I recognized from the eatery’s website, came out of the kitchen or somewhere else that caused him to sweat profusely, and began yelling at the elderly hostess who was trying to get all her cold and hungry patrons seated. Yelling. “I TOLD you, the group in the BAR was supposed to be SEATED at the FOUR TOP. Didn’t I TELL YOU?!!” The woman he was screaming at inches away from us was not only in her seventies or better, I later found out, was his mother. His mother.

He saw us standing there. He did not apologize to her or to us. This Neanderthal just stormed back to the hell-hole from which he sprang and left us staring at our shoes. The poor woman was so deflated; she had a look on her face that could only be described as pure humiliation.  This was my first impression of the place and I was tempted to leave except I was with my husband and guests who very much wanted us to try one of their “favorite places.”

In my heart of hearts, I wanted to follow this guy back down the hall, tap him on the shoulder and explain that his outburst was not only the opposite of customer service, it was customer death. I will not go back there. I don’t want him touching anything I will eat.

Two nights later on Valentine’s Day, my tres romantique husband made reservations at our favorite restaurant, another farm-to-table, ultra-fresh and always unique eatery that is a high-rent treat for special occasions. It’s a small place and there is really nowhere for staff to hide other than the kitchen.  I was dropped off at the front door while my husband parked the car, and walked into the very small foyer where there is usually someone to take your coat. There was a young lady I had never seen before with a very surly look on her face and I was not sure if she worked for them or was a patron, but she was standing in front of the coats. I didn’t do anything until she looked at me and said, “name of party?” with all the enthusiasm of a drive-thru attendant asking me if I want fries with my filet-o-fish.  I gave her my name as a very harried looking waiter walked past her as she yelled at him, “I don’t even have their menus ready, so don’t look at me!”

This was about me. And I was standing right there. This place gives you personalized menus to remind you how attentive they are and take the sting out of the gigantic bill when it comes. However, this young lady was clearly of the same mind as the jerk in the other restaurant, and assumed that I was either deaf, stupid or so excited by the privilege of paying their chef to cook for me that I would overlook her open-air venting.

I know people have bad days. I have them. And I don’t mind if someone loses it; there is no crazier business than running a restaurant. But when you do lose it, acknowledge it. Apologize. You are not screaming into a mobile phone - I can see who you are yelling at and I can hear every, insensitive word. This is what’s known as a lose/lose.

Sadly, this happens in the workplace all the time. We hear about “screamers” and in Human Resources it’s usually our job to “coach” these people and let them know how their actions impact everyone around them. Someone who yells because they are at the end of their rope probably has a few threads of justification somewhere – but it is still over the line when they do it and apologies, as well as improved coping skills, had better be forthcoming.  Someone who yells because they believe it is an effective way to communicate or to get things done,  should be fired.  There is no place for that kind of disruption and incivility – unless you work for Fox News.

Upon reflection, I might give both of these restaurants another chance because the food was truly outstanding. But if I am ever subject to open-air rudeness on the part of their employees again I will walk up to them and say, “We can hear you. And I’m not sure if it was your intention, but you sound like a jerk. I’m going to get a pizza at Pepe’s – please give my table to someone else.”

I Want That.

I recently posted on my Facebook page a comment that underscores my outrage at something I just discovered called “Pet Obesity Awareness.” Vets and animal lovers throughout the land have banded together to fight this horrible scourge with every marketing tool available to them, including an invitation for me to “like” this concept on Facebook by clicking a button and becoming a Fat Pet Warrior, which some 35,000 people have already done. For the sake of these poor animals I hope there aren’t 35,000 morbidly obese creatures lumbering around out there whose owners required a wake-up call from Facebook before noticing.

I have a wonderful dog. I have had pets my entire life. My step-daughter is at university in a pre-vet program and has an astoundingly cute puppy - so try as I may I could never fit all the love we have for our dogs into this post.

So when my dog Sophie started to pack on a few extra pounds around the middle, I asked my vet for appropriate proportions for a dog her size and she helpfully told me I was probably feeding her double what she needed. OK. Bad mother. I backed her off and her waistline re-appeared in just a few weeks. If I didn’t have the resources to afford that visit to the vet I would have just reduced her intake anyway. It’s really not a complicated equation. Had it been a more sudden onset, or if the new portion regimen didn’t work – then I would have sought out medical attention for her to make sure it wasn’t something more serious  than food-intake causing her weight gain, which is a responsiblity I gratefully took on when I brought her home from the shelter.

Although Sophie is the first to lunge at any bonus food that hits the floor while I’m cooking, and occasionally will be rewarded with a piece of cheese for chasing the deer and turkey away from the garden, she is now enjoying a level of dietary control that has not only put a spring back in her step but earned her all sorts of accolades at the vet recently. However if she could reach her own food, she would keep eating until she exploded; probably right in the middle of the living room rug. She is a dog, after all.

Therefore, I am glad that I am clever enough to keep the food out of her reach. That’s my job. It’s not my job to give her whatever she wants, or she would get sick and prematurely die. That would be the opposite of doing my job.

The idea that this campaign for pets gets any airtime at all is not only pathetic but surprisingly mirrors the same grass-roots campaign aimed at parents who feed their kids sugar-bombs and fat crisps while they expand to cartoon-like shapes before entering the second grade.  Of course the ubiquitous campaign to remind adults to keep portions, calories, fat, salt and sugar in check has made similar and obvious points for as far back as I can remember; as adults though, in my opinion, you’re on your own. If you ”want that” and you know you “shouldn’t have that” and you eat it anyway, it’s your life.  Even when your eating habits move you from overweight to obese and you drive up my medical insurance premiums with your ill-health and cause me claustrophobic distress on public transportation; have at it; this is a free country; you are free to get as huge as you like. There’s nobody standing in your kitchen with a measuring cup, or next to you in the grocery store with a calorie counter, or helping you choose from the menu at Blimpie. These are choices you alone make every day; explode on your living room rug for all I care. And if your unwanted size is caused by something truly beyond your control I pray with all my heart that you have adequate health insurance. However your kids and your pets are another matter. That’s all you. And it shouldn’t require reality shows (although big props to Jamie Oliver), or our First Lady or Oprah, or a Facebook awareness campaign to remind you of that responsibility - or the fact that if you do choose to eat large quantities of stuff that is known to be bad for you, just because you want it, that is what your children will most likely do when you no longer control the food supply. It is also the mindset with which you will feed your pets. And odds are by doing so, you’re sentencing them all to a lifetime of health issues and an explosion on your living room rug.

You want that?

Thanks. Giving.

About ten years ago my brother stopped giving Christmas gifts in the traditional sense. While the rest of our family dutifully perused catalogs, shopped on-line or pressed on through cranky mall crowds bulging with holiday-gift-stress, my brother Victor was carefully selecting farm animals. Whole, live, farm animals. So if Vic was your Secret Santa, you could forget all about that new book or J. Jill sweater you wanted; you were probably going to get a water buffalo, a cow or a family of ducks. You also received a lovely picture of the creature and a wonderful story about how in your name, a family or sometimes a whole village in another part of the world was going to have a means of making a living or feeding themselves. The organization he worked this magic through is called Heifer International and while never super-preachy about it, Victor let us know that he needed to give something  more meaningful and impactful than the ubiquitous gift card.

At first, this “giving of the animals” concept really didn’t resonate with the rest of us because this was Pre-Economic Meltdown when the struggles of others less fortunate were only marginally visible in our own neighborhoods or workplaces, therefore “poor” and “hungry” or “in need of shelter” were words that applied mostly to people in far away places. Yes, I knew there were those who struggled in my own state and country but the lack of intimate knowledge of these people, these other families, helped to preserve my ability to stay comfortably at arm’s length until I was stopped in front of Macy’s and guiltily emptied my pockets into the Salvation Army kettle. 

So as luck would have it, the first few years into this new Christmas tradition (my mom would randomly draw names on Thanksgiving to decide who Christmas shopped for whom), Vic was my Secret Santa four years in a row. We used to joke about the fact that I kept drawing the ”short straw” because while others were leaving the Christmas Soiree with their new top-rated-electronic-wine-de-corker-gizmo or the latest tome by James Patterson, I had a note in my purse with a picture of a farm animal and the name of an unpronounceable country or village where it would soon be deployed in my name. No gift receipt required. It was fine of course, but I suddenly started to understand how my Jewish friends must have felt when I was a kid and would invite them over to show them my piles Christmas loot. Charlie Brown’s Halloween lament, “I got a rock” also springs to mind.

Shortly after we started getting used to Vic’s annual water buffalos he then declared that he wouldn’t accept any more birthday presents so if we felt compelled to give him something, we should donate time or money to a charity of his choosing. Now this didn’t go down very well at first either, but we eventually got used to it and aside from a few good-natured eye-rolls and shoulder shrugs, we didn’t give Vic a hard time about depriving us of the joy of buying and wrapping something he would inevitably exchange for a dozen golf balls anyway. It was Victor; we thought: he just thinks differently about these things.

Then suddenly the universe decided it was going to rain sheets of pure hell down upon our healthy and unsuspecting family with a cataclysmic storm that changed the course of how we all give; and what it means to give.

In the space of just three years we were unceremoniously slammed with four incurable diagnoses; my mother, my father, my sister-in-law and me. Both my mother and I were diagnosed with breast cancer exactly one year apart, and my father was told he had Lewy Body Dementia, which brutally takes down its victims in just a few short years and he was already showing moderate to advanced symptoms.  My sister-in-law, Vic’s wife, was hit with Type I Diabetes. It was chaos.

My sisters, niece, nephew and cousin set the pace for what can only be called heroic fundraising efforts for Susan B. Komen for the Cure not to mention enlisting teams (including my wildly supportive husband) to walk 60 miles in the 3-day events each year. The Lewy Body Dementia Foundation, The American Diabetes Association, and Breastcancer.org were where we spent our on-line research and donation time now instead of cruising for coupons for Borders and The Gap. We were fighting for our lives and despite the fact that we had decent jobs, medical insurance (thank god) and in dad’s case, veteran status, we were forever changed by the obvious need to give something else: support, encouragement, and hope.

Dad passed away two years ago just before Christmas and left us quite simply wondering how we would get through the rest of our lives without him. We all assembled for the funeral services and stayed together through the holidays. It was then that mom and the siblings decided we would all give to charities instead of each other on Christmas going forward. The kids, of course, would continue to get cool gifts and a minimum of one farm animal until they turned 18. And let me tell you, it feels better. It feels right. Pretty darn sure the old man would be proud, too.

After reading Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn’s brilliant book, Half The Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide during Thanksgiving last year, I decided to sponsor a woman in the Democratic Republic of Congo as a Christmas present to myself and in honor of my dad. Instead of trips to the mall praying for a parking space and four weeks of unpleasant list-making and gift stress, I spent about $350.00 so Safi Kanyere Sibomana could go through a program coordinated by Women for Women International whereby she would learn skills allowing her to earn an income, read and write. We exchanged letters and pictures throughout the year and her last note was about her new job selling salted fish at the local market. Her first job ever. She is 35 and graduates from the program next week with her husband and children cheering her on. I just mailed her a little silver heart-shaped necklace from Target that cost $9.00 with one word inscribed on it: Courage.

It takes courage to do things differently. Challenge the status quo or yourself. Or even get your family on the path to recognizing their true riches every now and then. Thanks to my brother, my sisters, my parents, my husband and my extended family and friends for everyday acts of courage and giving, large and small.

And a happy and healthy Thanksgiving to you.

The Rally to Restore Sanity: Fear Not

Yes, I was there.  I was one of at least 225,000 people wandering around the National Mall in the bright October sun with a silly grin on my face (and “Love Train” stuck in my head) earnestly asking, “What just happened here?” and “Why was I so compelled to travel from my cozy warm house in Connecticut to a crowded and chilly weekend in the capitol to see an event that had no clear…dare I say it, agenda. More interestingly, it didn’t even have a publicized guest list other than Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.  We crazy rally-goers had absolutely no idea who was going to entertain us while we stood on the Mall for three hours, yet we showed up anyway - curious but hoping that it would be worth it somehow.

The Metro was jammed; ten deep waiting for trains. The Mall was a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare with people literally squeezing past each other mashing body parts together that under other circumstances would have been unthinkable. This huge wide open space was so populated that rally-goers retreated to the trees; perched like birds or dangling like monkeys to get a better view of the stage or even just the jumbo-trons.  Interestingly in four hours I didn’t see one security person, badge or uniform. Just a lot of people saying, “excuse me, pardon me” as they pushed past in search of their fellow rally-dudes.

The parade of signage was absolutely astounding and ranged from the political, to the philosphical, to just plain silly. For the life of me I can’t recall another time when so many grown-ups felt compelled to have their own personal displays of cleverness scribbled on poster boards. It was as if Stewart had marshalled us to tap into our inner grade-school psyches and forget all about that whole, “judgement thing” that usually prevents most of us from even wearing witty messages on our t-shirts. We bought our poster-boards, stole magic markers from the kids and went at it as if it was finally OK to break away from the constant barrage of media noise and group-think to find our own words for once.

It was not a Democratic rally as some pundits have been quick to assign to the legion of people who attended. I saw the Green Party, Independents, Republicans, and kids not old enough to vote. There were people from all over the country who had made the trip, the mystery trip because of one thing and one thing only: a dose of sanity. It’s gotten that bad, folks.

The show itself had its ups and downs and it took the techies a while to figure out that with people backed up to the Monument they might have wanted to crank the volume a bit earlier in the show - so some of the dialog was difficult to hear at times. But my favorite moments were in the music; the ever-evocative sound of Yusuf Islam’s gentle baritone and sad guitar when he began his poignant anthem ”Peace Train”, the rockin’ Roots who managed to get the old, white “I hate rap” contingent to head bob and foot tap in spite of themselves, and the wonderful and beyond comparable Tony Bennett singing bravely acapella, “America the Beautiful” and moving anyone with a beating heart to tears.

The montage media-slam was absolutely on target, overdue, and well-placed. Stewart and Colbert used their considerable clout and risked their media-darling embraces to try to articulate through humor how the partisan shouting and fear-mongering that has replaced journalism and honest debate in this country is slowly choking off intelligent discourse. One brilliant sign-maker underscored the sound-bite-mentality disease with a poster that read, “If your beliefs fit on a sign, you need to think harder.”

Stewart and Colbert also put their stars and stripes on the line by declaring that no one group can or should declare they are “the true patriots” or “more American” than any other, taking care to specifically include the American Muslim community in this narrative.  In several instances on that sunny afternoon with the Capitol looming in the background, Stewart managed to do what no other politician, pundit, or journalist has been able to accomplish in recent memory: champion civility, respect and truth-telling on the national stage, risking his own celebrity to do it.

He’s a brave and very smart man. I’m glad I went to his Rally.

All Things Pink

I went to an event last night to support the CT Komen for the Cure chapter. It was called Think Pink/Drink Pink and they served lovely pink cocktails, had a gorgeous showing of survivor portraits, and played jazz music. I went with my friend Kimberly and had a great time. Then I got home and reflected on All Things Pink (or Boob-tober as I’ve come to call it) and remembered that we are really no closer to a cure.

I have a daughter through marriage and a niece who are both 18 and I shudder to think that I will still be attending these events when they are within strike range of this horrible disease.

I could write for days about the experience of going through a diagnosis and treatment for breast cancer. But as last night so helpfully reminded me, I’m just not that interesting or different from so many others who have been through it, except of course that I’m still here. Which is never taken for granted.

When survivors get together, we talk a strange language of drugs, side effects, surgeries, cancer centers, and hair loss. And we do it like we’re talking about a grocery list because sadly, it’s become so commonplace in our lives. Sometimes we venture off into the real fear-factors: survival rates and staging. And talking about that aspect is good for some and very hard for others, but we always try to leave each other with a sense of hope or encouragement to “get through” whatever phase of the disease we are in. I marvel at how consistently this happens.

Meanwhile – Komen, Avon and all the rest of these incredible organizations need to take all this “event energy” and “supporter cash” and get to finding a cure. I will wear my sparkly pink pin for as long as I have to; but the pink in my heart fades a little every time I have to pop another very expensive pill to try to keep my risk of recurrence at bay, or wait patiently for blood test results every three months.  

Now that we’re all so “aware” I don’t know anyone on the planet who is not on board with the mission and the goal, but dammit who is in charge? I honestly don’t need a pink ribbon on every item in the grocery store or NFL player’s shoes. I need to hear it accomplished something more tangible than awareness. And I need to hear it soon.

Always Screaming

Several years ago I stopped watching television. I don’t completely shun it - but by and large, it is not a part of my day, routine, life. This makes me boring at parties but I’d don’t mind the trade-off. I find it creates a lot of banal humor, screaming, and not much art these days. So I head to my books or my writing or the quaintness of conversation with humans.

My husband and my step-daughter love forensic shows. If there are murders to be solved, bodies to be recovered, and bad guys to be caught; they are INTO IT.  Now that my SD is away at school, my husband watches them alone. I will occasionally watch NCIS with him but it’s more to have some time together than it is about the show or plot lines.

But there are other shows out there like Criminal Minds, that I swear to you, give me nightmares. And I don’t even watch them. I can hear them through the wall of the TV room in my bedroom and there are always women screaming. Begging for their lives or their virtue, and it’s horrific. I believe people become de-sensitized to the violence after a while because he can sit there and veg out and get a good night’s sleep after one of these horror shows.

I, on the other hand, having weaned myself off daily doses of television am tossing and turning and having nightmares. Just from the screaming. Why are they always screaming?

There is art, there is entertainment, and then there is pornographic violence.  And dare I say it, it’s usually against attractive women. I am not de-sensitized. I am saddened that there are so many people who can watch this crap and lose an hour of their lives by voyeuristically watching someone else lose theirs.