The Dinner Party Question
The Grey Matter of how I didn’t land the job
I’m grateful every day that I found my way into making a living through writing, because I was profoundly not built for the professional world.
Here is one small piece of evidence from a long, embarrassing paper trail of my attempts to be an adult.
The interview icebreaker question was:
“Name the people, living or dead, you would invite to dinner.”
Was this a job interview or a psychological exam?
I ask the man (who looks so so so young) interviewing me if we are eating at a restaurant or if am I hosting the dinner party.
The interviewer gives me a micro frown. I notice it because it’s the same one I have been wearing for an hour since I had to watch a YouTube video on how to properly put on a tie.
“Does it matter?” He asks.
“Yes, because there might be someone that I wouldn’t want over at my house but would love to have dinner with them at a neutral site.”
He thinks for a moment. Probably about why he chose my resume from the pile.
After a bit of tick-tocking of the clock, he offers:
“Let’s go with a dinner party your home. Who are you inviting.”
Shit. I was hoping he was going to ask who I would want to eat out with. That would be a lot more interesting and a lot less work. That means I have to clean the whole place from top to bottom. I would definitely have to give my wife some warning we were having some surprise company. She won’t be pleased. And then there are my two dogs who are way too big for a short man like me to be in charge of. With strangers they are hump machines.
Hmm. My brain starts to really race. What would I serve for dinner? Something that I can make without looking like it’s a ton of effort. Soup? No, that’s not enough for a dinner party. What about a taco night? Everyone loves tacos and there is no way I could possibly screw those up. Except for that one time about six months ago that I did. I’m not sure what happened. Well, that’s not true. I bought the taco meat from the dollar store. It was grey. Which I discovered in the worst way possible that grey is not an optimal color tone for ground meat that you plan to eat later. I remember how it gurgled in my stomach. It sounded like a charismatic talking in ancient tongues. In between its strange language I heard it say something like “Oh Honey, you are going to remember this for a long time…” I was a vegetarian for about a week after that evening. God, come to think of it, I don’t think I have had tacos since the grey meat night. It can’t be that long, can it? I mean that could be a personal record for-
“John?” The interviewer breaks my inner monologue. “You still thinking?”
“No,” I lie. “I have my answer.”
“Great. What is it?”
Oh no. I don’t have an answer. Think of something. Anything. Jesus. Nothing is coming to mind. I could say Gandhi. Boring. What about Abraham Lincoln or Oprah? Nah…Ugh. So predictable. So cliche.
“I would invite your mom,” I say and half-gasp right after.
“Um, what?”
Yeah, um, what?! Why did I say his mom?! Oh my sweet…
“Did you say you would invite my mother to dinner?”
I double down like a gambler with a mortgage to pay.
“Yes. I would love to talk to her about what it was like to raise such an important person,” I say with so much fake sincerity that I was immediately shocked I didn’t get offered a role in a Hallmark Movie.
His face goes from business casual frown to formally alarmed.
“I have never heard of someone answer with that before,” he replied.
Obviously he has never been with a candidate like me who is willing to go way past the line and into the uncharted territory of full on creepy during a job interview.
Double-Down John strikes again:
“Well, I like to get to know the foundation and backstory of any leader that I am willing to blindly follow into the war trenches.”
So, this is what a runaway train feels like. Huh.
His frown returns. I don’t think he was expecting to have to respond to any World War I. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Not just a little scoot. I’m talking a full body sitting butt shuffle. Which, at the time I don’t assume is because of me. I attribute it to hemorrhoids. I hear they are the worst. He must be miserable. There was once I had a spider bite right on the highest point of my bubble butt. It was really terrible. I could not sit still. Had the spider chomped anywhere else it would not nearly have been as annoying. It chose just the worst area of my ass to -
“Just to be clear, you would just be answering phones,” he stated.
“Yes, but I would answer each call like a soldier who isn’t afraid to get their hands bloody.”
For a moment we both stare at each other. I like to think it was the two of us recognizing that sentence has likely never been said out loud in the history of humanity here on earth.
A long dramatic beat before he tries his best to squeeze the crest back into the tube.
“So, you would invite my mom to your dinner party. Okay. Alright. Um, who else.”
“Right. This is a dinner party. Not a date,” I reply without remembering to say it as a joke and not in a really weird way-too normal tone for what I just said.
“No, it’s not a date with my mom,” he said. He grabs his pen and starts writing down his notes for the upcoming civil lawsuit.
Despite my inability to ever read a room I realize that I am in danger of not making it out of the ice breaker phase of the interview.
“Of course, I would never date your mom,” I say like it’s a totally normal thing to say for a job interview.
He says nothing.
I keep talking. Something about how his mom would be too classy to date a scoundrel like me who once mooned a shuttle bus full of senior citizens when I was 12.
I don’t remember exactly what I said.
Maybe he doesn’t either.
Like Maya Angelou I don’t want him to remember what I said. I just want him to remember how he felt why I said it.
Oh! That’s the answer!
“AND I WOULD INVITE MAYA ANGELOU!” I shout like I just won Bingo.
“To the dinner party with my Mom?”
“No, instead of your mom.”
“My mom isn’t invited anymore?”
“Um, no.”
“What’s wrong with my mom?”
Oh shit. I need to stop talking.
I don’t.
“Nothing she is a fine fine lady,” I state.
Apparently, I said fine twice just to make sure he knew that I was fully committed to being a person he should probably call the cops on.
“What did you say?”
The grey hamburger in my brain starts to gurgle.
It said to me:
“Oh honey, you are going to remember this for a long time…”
You are ready to walk into the wilds of your heart!!
If you have ever wanted to spend time with other like-minded souls in a room or on a screen ~ working on the stories you have been carrying around for years, I want you to know that there are several ways to do that right now.
I have so many writing experiences for creatives of all kinds. Yes, we write - but you don’t need to be a writer to jump in and explore your heart!
Online this spring and summer with Heart Write Soul — a writing series I co-facilitate with Michelle Francois-Walsh that is open to any human ready to explore their heart. A three week taste test starts May 13.
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In person this summer on a magical island in the middle of the Great Lakes, in July. Then by the Pacific Ocean in California during October. At a horse ranch in Tucson in January 2027. Santa Fe next spring and Colorado in August 2027.
The BIG one is France in July 0f 2027 at a 19th century manor house at the foot of the French Pyrenees.
There is something on this list for wherever you are right now. Near or far.
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Laughing so hard! It was a fine, FINE, read. Oh gosh, my stomach hurts🤣.
I’m dead! MAYA ANGELOU - not your mom
😂