Wanted: A Job

I’m about to emef4525062c618a1117a71f831c0af885bark on one of life’s most unpleasant tasks and I’m not talking about having to guzzle that pre colonoscopy gallon of goo. No, what I’m gearing up for is much worse.

I’m preparing to begin an intrepid journey through hostile territory where all my weaknesses will be probed, my insecurities highlighted and it will feel like my self-esteem has gone one-on-one with a battering ram.  Yep, I’m getting ready to look for a new job.

Right now, I’m in stage one of the employment expedition which means I’m running the resume and cover letter gauntlet. Oh, the agony! I’d rather shop naked at Target for school supplies than tackle a resume. A major problem is the mountain of misinformation about how long a resume should be. Some authorities on the subject swear that it shouldn’t exceed one page others say if you’ve done it list it.

Then there’s the whole goal/objective thing you’re supposed to put right up there at the top of your resume. Do you go all philosophical and list world peace as your goal because come on who doesn’t want that and who wouldn’t want to hire someone who would want that? Or do you just share some good old fashion truth as in “my goal is to make money because my children’s college tuition will soon be killing me.”

You, for sure, don’t want to put down your real goal because that would scare people. For instance, my real goal today is to not harm my teenagers because I’m this close to going full cray on them. (Good God in heaven, 15 and 18 years old and they still haven’t grasped the concept of hanging up a wet towel. It’s not like they’re lacking opposable thumbs. They have the body parts needed to pick up a sheet of terry cloth. Where have I gone wrong?)

Once you get the resume done it’s on to the cover letter which I see as a total waste of time. Who thought up the concept of a cover letter? I googled it and got nothing. You know why no one knows the founder of the cover letter? It’s because the demented, evil troll who birthed the concept is probably in protective custody due to an inordinate amount of death threats.

Someone please tell me what purpose the cover letter serves? Is it like resume Spanx? Do you use it as a tool to pretty up or compress unattractive employment truths?

If I worked in human resources I’d be all about getting to the facts. I wouldn’t want to waste my time reading drivel like – “I feel my previous job experience has prepared me for undertaking multiple projects while maintaining a strong commitment to quality, the customer experience and fiscal responsibility all resulting in a positive reflection in both the bottom line and employee team engagement.”

I just got a headache writing that. I can’t imagine being the person who has to read about 100 different versions of that kind of blah, blah, blah everyday. I’d be popping extra strength Advil gel capsules like they were Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies.

I have zero experience hiring people for jobs, but if I did well, I would change things up. No, I would do better than just change I would revolutionize the whole resume/cover letter two-step. My version would be called the “Cut To the Chase” (trademark pending) employment portfolio.

All you would need to do is list your work history for the past five years and then under the heading “extra stuff” you could briefly pontificate on your volunteer work and/or awards. (This award thing would also do double duty as a psychological profile. If a person goes on and on about their awards you know if hired this employee would be the one that makes every meeting last two hours longer than it should.)

Think of the time this would save anyone who works in the hiring field. You could plow through resumes probably 10 times faster. This would speed up the process so much that a company could probably even reduce the number of people working in human resources thus saving money.

See, what I just did there? I problem solved. Yep, I’m going to put that in my cover letter  by calling myself a “conflict resolution specialist with an emphasis in employee consolidation and organizational time management.”

Wow, that sounded pretty good. Based on that alone I’d hire me. Sure, I’ve raised children that can’t hang up towels so that might reflect on my failure in motivating subordinates to achieve goals, but if I did some cover letter magic on that I could turn the whole towel thing into “I strive to mandate positive change in a caring environment by role modeling behavioral experiences that will lead to long-term employee productivity.”

I think I just found my perfect job – Cover Letter Wrangler. You’ve got to admit the way I turned that towel thing around was most impressive.

*Attencover_1.3-2tion Snarky Friends, I have a new book out and for a limited time only it’s just 99 cents for a heaping helping of Snark! You are now gazing at the second book in the Snarky in the Suburbs series – Snarky in the Suburbs Trouble In Texas. You can buy it for your Kindle or in paperback on Amazon.  It’s also available for the Nook or you can get it for your Kobo reader. Click on a link and give it a test read.  I hope you like it! 🙂

Back Off Fitbit

1*PeaaVoTan_j2PiCCpcwVFw(This is an excerpt from a piece I did for a magazine.)

I don’t believe in working out in groups or even around other people. I’m now a proud, new member of the solo workout club. Just recently, I had the epiphany that I was better off exercising in solitary confinement. (What’s the sound you’re hearing? It could be a collective sigh of relief from the people who have had to witness me attempting to do a burpee.)

I think my long, meandering journey to cardio aloneness began in middle school P.E. If there’s anything that’s going to make you apprehensive about demonstrating your lack of athletic gifts in a group setting it’s the shaming ritual that is a co-ed physical education class held in the cafe/gym/atorium. Decades later, I’m still having bouts of PTSD.

Over the years, I’ve forced myself to steadfastly and enthusiastically embrace almost every kind of ensemble (or commingling in misery) workout. There was “friend Pilates” which I so thought was for me. I mean, come on, how could it not be? You’re laying down for all it. The problem is the thing that looks like a cot with some cool ropes and pulleys is really a rack stolen from some third-rate medieval museum in Europe or the examination room table from the office of a psychopath gynecologist.

Then, more recently, I signed up for a military grade boot camp where you wake up way too early and drag a tire from an 18-wheeler down the street while being encouraged to grunt your way to fitness. The pack of us, “tire pullers,” sounded like a herd of terminally constipated cattle groaning our way to the stockyard. And I was this close to doing some F word fitness (I think it was fusion or fission) until a friend told me most newbies vomit and/or cry during their first week of class. Hmm, tears and throw up, I think I’m going to have to take a pass on that.

As for the workouts described as being kinder to your body, like yoga, well, true confession time here – I have, what I will politely call, a very robust, vocal lower intestine and I don’t wish to share that in a serene workout environment. The one and only time I tried yoga I made my daughter go with me so if things got, shall we say, noisy, I could blame it on her. It did and I did.

All this exercise angst is why when the FitBit came out I thought I had finally found the perfect workout friend. My husband got one first and he fell in love, like love, love. He and his FitBit are inseparable. I’ve caught him, too many times to keep count, gently caressing it. I’ve even heard him talking to his FitBit. I called him on it and he tried to cover up his FitBit affair with some lame excuse that he was just “thinking aloud.” Yeah, right. Who thinks aloud by cooing love sonnets? One night, I, not so gently, suggested he take the FitBit off when he goes to bed. He gave me a look that said, “I’d sooner sleep on the couch.” I had no choice, for the sake of marital harmony, but to concede that his FitBit fetish is now a part of our relationship. I also thought two can play this game and got myself one.

My FitBitting couldn’t have happened at a better time. I had recently sworn off Spanx, well, really any sort of shape wear, due to a near death experience I had while driving  I found myself in the epicenter of a full-blown Spanx panic attack and while attempting to rip, claw, and gnaw off my Spanx I almost killed myself. The primary problem was that I was dual wielding Spanx. That’s right, I had done Spanx over Spanx and it was cutting off my circulation to such an extent that it had to come off ASAP.

I’m telling you it was one thing getting the Spanx tights off, not easy, but doable, especially if you let them rest at your ankles, but getting off a Spanx Power Brief with one hand on the steering wheel and the other crotch adjacent is a whole other story. The good news – I lived and made a vow that I would never wear shape wear again. This meant I had to really step up my exercise game and the FitBit was going to be my BFF.

Things started off great at first. How could it not? My hot pink FitBit was just darling. I even named it Xnaps (which is Spanx backwards and yes, I know, naming my FitBit makes me weird). It seemed like she knew me, like she got me. You know those relationships where there’s an immediate connection? That was Xnaps and I. She didn’t talk, but she buzzed and when she did it was so positive, life affirming really. But then after a couple of weeks things got bad. Xnaps got all pouty. She stopped buzzing for me. Oh, sure she would buzz on and off, but not with the same level of affection she used to buzz for me. And, even worse, I felt like I was being judged. Xnaps had turned into a passive aggressive witch.

Every time I looked down at my left wrist I felt bad and maybe even a little sad. Who needs that? Not me. Because do you know what happens when I feel bad and sad? I reach out for the healing, and some might say the medicinal, properties of Chips Ahoy and Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies or currently Nothing Bundt Cakes bundtinis (yes, that was me stalking their booth at last month’s Holiday Boutique, but hey there was no sign that said “just take one sample”). My paralyzing fear of overdosing on carbs and sugar left me no choice, but to part ways with Xnaps. It was an ugly break up. I didn’t just put her away in my sock drawer so I could possibly reunite with her down the road. Nope, I kicked her to the curb or more accurately to my husband’s wrist.

You see Xnaps is a newer version of the FitBit and all my husband had to do is change the band from pink to black and he had himself a brand new tech lover. Weirdly, he didn’t stop wearing his old FitBit. In fact, sometimes he’s wears both, like he doesn’t want to have to choose between them. Good for him if he believes he’s man enough to handle two FitBits. Whatever. None of that matters because I’ve now gone old school with exercising. The only thing I bring with me is my dog and, trust me, she’s a lot better company than that judgey FitBit. In fact, I couldn’t recommend a better workout partner.

Hey, Snarky friends please re-like my page on Facebook. I got hacked and had to start my page from scratch. Thanks! Click on the FB icon located at the top right hand of blog and let your friends know that Snarky is back.

 **For more Snarky check out my book  Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. 

Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. 


Spanx Is Slowly Killing Us

spanx_funny.png?w=420&h=294People, I’ve been preaching for a while that shape wear is a killer. I’ll give you that it’s not in the top 10 of killers but I think it at least makes the top 50. Do not doubt me on this because finally my empirical research has gotten some much-needed back up in the form of this article from the Huff Post.

If you were too lazy to click on the link, are suffering from painful finger callous buildup from numerous attempts to pull on and peel off  your shape wear or bed ridden from damage due to excessive spanxing let me sum it up for you. Wearing shape wear will compress your internal organs, making you constipated, gassy, and heartburny to such an extent that an acid reflux waterfall to rival Niagara is created that dissolves your esophagus into a mushy throat puddle.

But wait there’s more – all that jamming, stuffing and squashing down causes extreme lycra urination syndrome or as those of you in the non scientific community call it, “Oops I’ve peed my pants.” And much worse in my book of public humiliations and shame, the tamping can truncate your bowels leading to a master class in self-crapping. Sure, you could wear an adult diaper to help you out but I’m thinking the extra bulk from the diaper would kind of cancel out the whole reason you’re Spanxing in the first place.

The deathblow comes when you bust a blood clot from all the excessive squeezing. This is why I swore off of Spanxing or really any shape wear even the Target brand (with coupon) three months ago. Because there’s a killer the article missed – Death by Spanx due to driving while trying to free yourself from the lycra coffin that you’ve encased your body in.

It was right after Halloween, so you know after liberally feasting on what probably amounted to thousands of snack and fun size candy bars I was in desperate need of some major league fat suppression thus my decision to initiate a full Spanx force field. I didn’t go nuclear which is Quadra Spanxing but I most definitely doubled Spanxed. Well more like two and half times, no make that tripled Spanxed if you count the patented tummy control tight end tights I was wearing.

I had shoved myself into a dress with it’s back zipper straining like a baby trying to get out of its mother’s body when she was only nine centimeters dilated and had awkwardly gotten into my car to drive to an event while trying to breathe only when absolutely necessary to maintain life support. As I’m driving I’m in a horrible mood because it feels like the Spanx is strangling me. I thought if I die right now my obit will read death by Spanx asphyxiation and then I thought the Spanx company really needs a freaking warning label on their products and that just maybe someone, perhaps me, should file a class action lawsuit. Then all that thinking about my imminent Spanx related death freaked me out which sent me into a sharp shame spiral descent about dying due to vanity.

The next thing you know I’m having a full-blown panic attack. I have to get the Spanx off like right now. I can’t wait another second. So, still driving at 65 miles per hour down the interstate I start ripping off my undergarments. I’m telling you it was one thing getting the tights off, not easy, but doable, especially if you let them rest at your ankles but getting off a Spanx Power Brief with one hand on the steering wheel and the other crotch adjacent trying to rip off that lycra infused, Satan sanctioned, nylon is a whole other story.

I heaved. I tugged. I cried. I prayed. I ripped. I swore. My fingers hurt from trying to pry the Spanx off and still the farthest I could get that damn thing was mid lady business territory. Finally, I pulled over. Which wasn’t easy because the tights resting at my ankles had become hitched on the brake pedal. So I had to use my other foot to toe the fabric off the brake so I could come to complete stop.

As soon as my car was in park I hitched up my dress to my chest so I wouldn’t have any obstacles in the way and just yanked with all the might the Good Lord had bestowed upon me and got that sucker down to my ankles. Then I laid down across both seats with the gear shifty thing stabbing me in the back and finally peeled off both my tights and the power brief.

I took some cleansing breathes, pulled down my dress, started up my car and got back on the highway. When I got up to 70 miles per hour I rolled down my window, checked my rearview mirror to make sure I had no cars behind me and gleefully tossed the power brief to the wind while screaming, “So long sucker!” This girl was done with living a lie. Beginning right at that moment I embraced a fib no more, free range, flab philosophy. I’m letting it all hang out and all I can ask is that more of you brave souls join me!

***For all things wonderfully Snarky go to www.snarkygear.com where you can find the new winter Snarky line of clothing and accessories. (Flannel Snarky P.J.’s anyone?) Plus, there’s my book – Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. (Click here for purchase information.) Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. To stay up-to-date on new posts and take part in my not so deep thoughts click on this Facebook link – http://is.gd/iEgnJ (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs.