Our receptionist, Lola, gave notice Friday while I was on holiday. By "gave notice" I mean "informed us she's moving to Amarillo to join her boyfriend" and by "on holiday" I mean "recovering from an epic attack of claustrophobia despite a veritable mountain of Xanax ingested a full hour beforehand."
We had two interviews today with potential receptionists to replace Lola. The first was one of Lola's friends, two years younger than I am - way to go, Oldsmobile, asking illegal questions - and TINY. I can't imagine her reading the riot act to a call center representative because Oldsmobile's wife's phone isn't working, but I'm sure she has other qualities that are lovely. Like being tiny. She was perky, at least.
The second interviewee was a downright matronly woman who seems like a real go-getter, very professional, and with a nice pleasant voice. She also seems like she might be more thick-skinned, because Oldsmobile can get kind of cranky.
Okay, he gets really cranky.
He's 186 years old, what do you expect? If you'd lived through the American Civil War and survived World Wars I & II, you'd probably be pretty cranky, too.
We might interview a couple of other candidates, because we really don't want to jump the gun and hire someone who won't be the best person for the position. At present, though, we're split on who to hire: Oldsmobile likes the young bubbly candidate, and everyone else prefers the staid old maid. Who knows how this is going to end?
I certainly don't.