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really done so much for my business,” she said.
    I explained that résumés were sort of like flyers.
    “Well, just think about it,” she implored.
    You’d think I’d be thrilled to share the job news with her. But landing a job at a party was way too Mary Kay. I could already hear her crowing voice. “ See! It’s all about putting yourself out there! ” It sounded just like “I told you so,” with that little barb wrapped up in a big hug. The big hug almost made it worse, since it’s hard to stay irked at someone who’s smooshing you so energetically into their arms, even if you’re feeling the prick all the while.
    But my big sister was right, you can’t get a job and not call your mom.
    I dialed, and the phone rang and rang. Leaving a message—the best of both worlds!
    “Guess what? I’ve got some good news for you. A job! I got a job!” My voice went into a singsong, exactly like my mom’s when she knocked on a door and said “Yoo-hoo! Mary Kay!” I couldn’t help it.
    It was late, and I turned my phone to vibrate for the night. I knew she’d call back but I’d listen to her message later. And I’d call my dad soon enough.
    Then I sent one more e-mail, to Abigail Wei, my best friend and college roommate. She was marooned in the jungles of El Salvador working for the Peace Corps, and it might be a week, or maybe two, before she was able to take the seven-hour bus ride to town to check her e-mail. But I knew, when she finally did, that she’d sleep a little easier in her hammock knowing something had finally happened for me.
    _________
    Charm magazine is a Mandalay Carson publication. I’d applied for at least ten jobs at the company (everything from assistant to the editor in chief of Outdoor Living to web marketing assistant at Modern Mom ), and while I’d seen photos and walked by the Carson building and looked through the windows, I’d never been in. Apparently, they were interviewing recent grads who had previous experience doing something other than writing legal briefs. The outrage. At the center of the all-white five-story atrium lobby stands a sixty-foot silver tree sculpture by Guier Loudon, complete with thousands of delicately carved silver leaves individually attached with tiny hooks so that they shimmer and quake in the artificial breeze circulating through the atrium’s upper levels.
    The next morning as I walked through the doors, I avoided all staring and gasping so that anyone who happened to be looking would think I was an old pro rather than some neophyte. At the front desk I asked for XADI Crockett, and after flashing a photo ID I was directed up to eighteen.
    Like the main lobby, Charm ’s waiting area was bright white, and at the far end behind a shiny bright counter sat the receptionist and, behind her on the wall, a giant blowup of Charm ’s most recent cover featuring Reese Witherspoon, hung in a way that gave the impression that Reese served as a coreceptionist, but one whose choice of workplace attire might be suspect, boobalicious purple satin dresses typically not on the list of office-approved apparel.
    I asked for XADI and took a seat as the receptionist called back. Of course I’d googled XADI that morning. The Internet had very quickly verified that she was indeed an editor at Charm, but that was about it—my image search had been fruitless. I perched anxiously on the chair.
    And then, there she was, holding open the glass door that led to the offices, the word CHARM in giant letters emblazoned on the wall behind her. XADI Crockett. The second I saw her, any remaining strains of resistance to capitalizing her name vanished. In her forties, with solid square shoulders, she looked like a masseuse at a Turkish bath, the kind whose massive hands could really work out all your kinks. Her hair was mousy brown and bluntly cut to her chin, with wiry strands of gray running through it. Her facial features were broad and unmitigated by makeup, save one savage dash of