A rose by any other name

Mascara Falls / Heather Eatman









My first job interview occurred a few months after high school. A flower shop about 15 miles away had advertised for someone to arrange flowers. Although I knew nothing about flowers, had maybe put a few wild flower in a vase a few times in my life and couldn’t identify a rose from a petunia, I applied and was thrilled to be called in for an interview.



To this day, I have not the foggiest idea what they saw in my make shift resume that I had stretched to include my three forays into babysitting and my one week worth of being a waitress. But, they called and set up an appointment. I was thrilled and couldn’t wait. Dressed appropriately I arrived at my destination to find only on street parking. Holding my breath, I executed a perfect parallel park. I thought this must be a sign.


I remember walking into the florist and being overwhelmed by the perfume. Imagine working daily surrounded by such scent? I was lead to the back and told to put together an arrangement with the flowers and materials on the table before me. With the enthusiasm of ignorance, I set forth and plunged stems in to green foam. Finished, I thought my work not half bad.


I don’t remember my interviewer ever actually asking me questions, though she might have. I remember it being a young woman who looked at my “arrangement” said, “okay” and that was it.


As it turned out, I did not get that job, for which I was at the time greatly disappointed. Likewise, I have never since executed such a perfect parallel parking job. I suspect the whole interview would not be memorable to me at all, if it hadn’t been for the