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Iced Tee: My First Encounter with Arnold Palmer

April 25, 2007 1:44 PM | 0 Comments

While in Wapato Point in Lake Chelan, Washington, during Spring Break, I was reminded of one of many times in my life when it was clear that there is NO escape from sports, no safe haven for the Sports Widow. It was one of my more memorable job interviews several years ago, which began on a precarious footing.

I was being interviewed for a job over lunch at a seafood restaurant on Lake Union in Seattle. The job was way out of my league: Corporate, relatively high salary, generally reputable. I was convinced they would never hire a lunatic like me, but then, no guts, no glory. Furthermore, my prospective boss and interviewer is everything that I am not as a professional. She speaks in bullet points. I speak in tongues. She has unnaturally blond hair, but it is clearly a salon versus a drugstore creation. Her makeup is carefully applied (with no visible lines indicating where the foundation ends and her real face begins), and she is wearing an outfit that reminds me of one of the members of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Uniforms like this with epaulettes say, “I’m in charge.”

I, on the other hand, am sporting what I affectionately refer to as “the unplugged look.” A small amount of blush, a dab of mascara to prove that I indeed do have eyelashes, and some fading lipstick, because I’m always too distracted to “repair” it throughout the day. I am wearing a red silk pants suit my southern mother-in-law, my personal shopper, selected for me, the one that I always wear for important occasions because I read that red is a “power” color.

As my potential boss slides into a seat opposite me I find myself becoming paranoid about our obvious differences and fervently hoping my outfit doesn’t have the telltale stains of motherhood. I have three young children who are always “smarming” me in some unavoidable way. And, sure enough, there’s an MUO (Mark of Unknown Origin) on my left shoulder.

The waitress approaches the table and asks my interviewer what she would like to drink. She replies, “I’d like an ‘Arnold Palmer,’ please.” This casual comment sets my mind into rapid overdrive. I am thinking to myself: “Wow, I thought the 70s were long gone. I didn’t think anyone drank alcoholic beverages during lunch anymore. But, she’s the boss. Why does Arnold Palmer have a drink named after him? Who is Arnold Palmer? Who is Morey Amsterdam, why does he have a sandwich named after him, and where can I get one? Then the REALLY BIG QUESTION emerges: “What is the appropriate response? Is this some kind of test? Should I, in the spirit of camaraderie, also order an alcoholic drink, say, a Gin Rickey or a Singapore Sling?”

So, I take the safe, Emily Post tack. “I’d like an iced tea, please.”

A few minutes later, our beverages arrive. Barb’s drink to my surprise looks quite a bit like my iced tea, but a little on the cloudy side. So, remembering that “There are no stupid questions,” I ask, “Is that a Hop, Skip and Go Naked?” Her humorless reply is: “Noooooo… (BIG, PREGNANT, NEARLY-GIVING-BIRTH PAUSE)…It’s an ARNOLD PALMER.” Without missing a beat, I recover handily and further query, “What are the ingredients in an Arnold Palmer?” she replies: “Oh, it’s a mix of half iced tea and half lemonade.”

At last, we discover common ground. I tell her in amazement, “I have been preparing this concoction in its various forms for years, but I had no idea there was a formal name for it. Sometimes I replace the lemonade with limeade…” Then I realize I’m not interviewing for a cooking show on the Food Channel. But… my inquiring mind wants to know more about Arnold Palmer. Who is Arnold Palmer? It turns out my potential employer is an avid golfer and Arnold Palmer is high on her list. (I am sure she has a closet full of matching golf outfits.) In my next entry I'll tell you more about Arnold Palmer.

The day after my interview, I received a call from the HR Manager to tell me I landed the job. I’m not sure if that’s an eagle, a hole-in-one or a birdie, but I attribute some of my success to Arnold Palmer. Arnold Palmer’s inspiring example makes me feel emboldened, like maybe I should go out and whack a few balls. Unfortunately, my personal golf history, off the Putt-Putt Golf Course, is more of whacking players and excavating a considerable amount of divot. Guess it’s time to alert the local golf club of my pending arrival. They’ll want to take out a hefty insurance policy.

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