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Monday morning, I listened to my weather report via Guy and sighed. This was going to be a difficult day to dress for. I had two interviews, and so had to look good. But it had snowed and the night before, and then the temperature went up so now it was supposed to rain. And be incredibly slushy.

My nice pants are too long, and would drag in the yuck. I didn't want to wear a dress, since I'd have to wear boots and one of the publishers is kind of conservative and I didn't want to be looking overly sexy. Also, it's not exactly like I could just wear my galoshes, but none of my other shoes have decent traction. Tricky, very tricky.

Also, it was the morning after Oscars night, and while I was a good girl and didn't stay up for the end to watch Martin Scorcese's eyebrows get all excited, I did stay up long enough to be horrified by the return of Celine Dion and Damn, Clint, where are your reading glasses? So I was tired.

I arrived, bespattered, at Interview #1 with the requested copy of my resume (Hello? You just responded to my email which had the resume attached. Surely you already have a copy? Do you folks in HR not have printers?) in its protective envelope, umbrella, coat, and scarf in hand. Or hands, because that's a lot of stuff for one hand. I took my proofreading test, and waited patiently for the HR lady, and was kept entertained while waiting by the Intelligent Young Man who walked in all pompous and said "I have an appointment with HR lady," and when asked to sit down and take the test, responded "Oh, she's expecting me, I should just go on in." Poor, naive, Intelligent Young Man. I was called back before he was, and when I returned he leaned over and asked what imprint was I applying for, and with whom, and did I think my interview went well. Wouldn't you like to know, little man.

Actually, the interview did go well, and I was out of there in an hour and a half and got to see the inside of the Flatiron Building. Really not that impressive, but yes, it's all pointy in that corner.

And then I went to work. And acted like I'd just beer-bonged a case of Red Bull, since I only had two and a half hours before I had to leave to go to Interview #2--which was in Hoboken, so I had to leave at around 1 in order to get there in time. A Clif bar is a very healthy lunch, under those circumstances.

I took my proofreading test and my letter-writing test. And then I waited. I waited long enough to read three issues of New York Magazine--which is three issues too many. I asked about the status, and was told I'd be seen soon. I read Issue One again. I met with one interviewer, and we chatted about Pluto's demotion and how fun it is to proofread. I met with a second interviewer, and we chatted about the history of the company and the history of the interviewer's employment in publishing. We chatted very little about my skills or qualifications.

When I finally walked out the door almost four hours after I'd walked in, it occurred to me that I had spent five hours of my day sitting around being weighed and measured.

Suffice it to say, I had a martini when I got home.