Let's think about this for a minute.
Let's think about it from a "truth in advertising" point of view.
When you sign up for one of those dating sites you create a profile for yourself. Women try to make themselves sound attractive and fun loving and tread the fine line between being the type a man wants to be around his children and vixen. Like they will tolerate entire Sundays of football without complaint (and may even fetch the beer and nachos for the gang assembled in the Man Cave) or will happily go camping.
Men will fill their profile will the same sort of bullshit about candlelit dinners for two and romantic sunset walks on the beach and that they'll love and adore your kittens as if they were their own. Like they will happily hold your purse while you try on the 40th dress for some distant relative's wedding and gamely sit through countless Sunday brunches with your aging parents or your gaggle of shrill girlfriends with the wimpy husbands.
But what if the dating sites asked you to provide a resume instead, listing in chronological order all the marriages and relationships you've had (omitting all the brief encounters like one would omit the 3 month prison sentences that some jobs inevitably become)?
Names, addresses, length of relationship, accomplishments, reason for leaving.
It might look something like this:
Joe Jones
Kalamazoo, MI
9 years, 3 months
In our time together, I learned all the rules and terminology associated with football, golf and ice hockey. Consistently prepared breakfast and elaborate 4 course dinners on a daily basis and became an expert at laundering and ironing dress shirts with the precise amount of starch. Routinely cleaned urine from around the base of the toilet, removed fossilized blobs of toothpaste from sink basins, and collected random piles of laundry from various and sundry spots about the dwelling. Provided coaching on closing drawers and closets, appropriate storage of mail, car keys and personal belongings, and acceptable disposal of toenail clippings.
Reason for leaving: Relocation. I relocated to the guest bedroom when I discovered that he was having an affair with his chiropodist.
Or
Ann Jones
Kalamazoo, MI
9 years, more or less
During our relationship I mowed, trimmed, edged, weeded and disposed of countless tons of grass, leaves, branches, sticks and other unsightly yard waste. Prepared for and executed all manner of vehicle maintenance, inclusive of removing squirrel detritus from the where it had become affixed to the grill of her car. I was given in depth instruction on such things as managing ones spouse's premenstrual bouts with bi-polar disorder, the subtle nuances between listening and pretending to listen to dissertations on shoes, weight loss endeavors, issues with ones mother/sister/co-worker/fellow member of the Fall Gala decorating committee, and how to tell "satin finish" from "eggshell finish" especially when choosing between such wildly different paint colors as are "toasted almond" and "buttered caramel."
Reason for leaving: Better opportunity. Chiropodist is an only child with deceased parents and has a 72 inch plasma screen TV with the NFL channel.
I think this idea has legs!
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Monday, July 8, 2013
A Search Is a Search
My job search underway, my inbox forever being filled with emails from head hunters and job boards sites suggesting different "exciting opportunities" for which they just know I'll be a smash, and my resume constantly evolving, I am noticing something.
Admittedly, I may be the last person on the planet to have noticed it, but better late than never.
There are not a lot of differences between searching for the perfect job and searching for the perfect mate.
And I am not just talking about the "needle in a haystack" thing, or the "all the good ones are taken" complaint.
Many of the acts, the people involved, the technology used are remarkably similar between the two searches. (To say nothing of the devastating disappointments...) On any given day, one search, or the other, can be either wildly exciting or crushingly humiliating. Can make you feel validated or insignificant. Worthwhile or not worth a second look.
And frankly, the things that make them different only exist because if a job search were allowed to be more like a search for a mate, there would be a whole lot more discrimination and harassment law suits.
What if they were more the like one another? Just imagine.
Not that I know much about matchmaking sites firsthand, I can see the similarities, having lived vica riously through girlfriends who have used them for years.
Like the Girls Weekend friend who told us, three cocktails into Happy Hour, about the psycho she met on a dating site who appeared normal enough at first blush to warrant a second date.
On that date he asked her (no joke) if she would be so kind as to read his manuscript and plunked the 500 page tome on her lap in the cab. And then three days later began ritualistically harassing her to hurry up and finish it - leaving increasingly more offensive and foul-mouthed voicemail messages on her machine with artfully articulated suggestions about "what she could do" with her snooty attitude since she had not made the manuscript top priority.
What if things had been different then? What if she had had some of the rights employers have when hiring someone?
What if she had been able to check his references?
"Johnny was an exceptional conversationalist but flunked Anger Management twice and was hospitalized for acute mania following a nude swim in the town fountain after his first book was published."
Next!
But what if?
Admittedly, I may be the last person on the planet to have noticed it, but better late than never.
There are not a lot of differences between searching for the perfect job and searching for the perfect mate.
And I am not just talking about the "needle in a haystack" thing, or the "all the good ones are taken" complaint.
Many of the acts, the people involved, the technology used are remarkably similar between the two searches. (To say nothing of the devastating disappointments...) On any given day, one search, or the other, can be either wildly exciting or crushingly humiliating. Can make you feel validated or insignificant. Worthwhile or not worth a second look.
And frankly, the things that make them different only exist because if a job search were allowed to be more like a search for a mate, there would be a whole lot more discrimination and harassment law suits.
What if they were more the like one another? Just imagine.
Not that I know much about matchmaking sites firsthand, I can see the similarities, having lived vica riously through girlfriends who have used them for years.
Like the Girls Weekend friend who told us, three cocktails into Happy Hour, about the psycho she met on a dating site who appeared normal enough at first blush to warrant a second date.
On that date he asked her (no joke) if she would be so kind as to read his manuscript and plunked the 500 page tome on her lap in the cab. And then three days later began ritualistically harassing her to hurry up and finish it - leaving increasingly more offensive and foul-mouthed voicemail messages on her machine with artfully articulated suggestions about "what she could do" with her snooty attitude since she had not made the manuscript top priority.
What if things had been different then? What if she had had some of the rights employers have when hiring someone?
What if she had been able to check his references?
"Johnny was an exceptional conversationalist but flunked Anger Management twice and was hospitalized for acute mania following a nude swim in the town fountain after his first book was published."
Next!
But what if?
Friday, July 5, 2013
Slam Dunk
So I send Hil off to school feeling a little uneasy about what might happen with The Piece of Paper.
Not unlike the time my mother, when equally as baffled by a language arts homework question as I had instructed me to write "Beats the hell out of me," on the blank in the workbook. Or a similar time when neither of us could answer the question about who did some inane thing in another reading assignment, had me supply the answer "Mabel Selhorst." I was mildly relieved to learn that this name was neither the name of some suspected mistress of my father's nor the name of some recently arrested prostitute, but that of my ancient neighbor across the street where 3 generations of women lived under one roof, grousing about mankind day in and day out.
I assured Hil that I would do nothing to embarrass her, though she shot me that wrinkled forehead look anyway. Evidently, in her estimation, I am just this side of clueless on what things do and do not mortally humiliate my child. Point taken. I apologize profusely for belting out Band of Gold with Freda Payne with the windows open at the Wawa where the Middle School set gets their beloved smoothies.
I get to work and can not resist checking my phone every few seconds for a missed call or voice mail or text.
And as luck would have it, the school does call...but when I am unable to take the call. Not that I wouldn't have blown off just about everyone short of The Blessed Virgin Mary to take the call, but a potential new employer had called and it is poor form for a job seeker to put the interviewer on hold for anything other than being robbed at gun point.
But I return the call, feathers all puffed up and posturing for a fight with the newest idiot the school district has placed in the Principal's office in the Big Boy Chair.
And to my everlasting amazement, when he came to the phone, he was not only polite, but deferential, admitted that the form was a problem, and committed to throwing it in the shredder. Assured me that Hil would have no problem. Hopes she is feeling better.
When I recovered sufficiently to pick myself up from the industrial grade carpet my cheap-o employer paved the office with, and managed to form words, I found myself smiling as I offered to help rewrite a more effective contract that abides by the law and holds the appropriate people accountable for their own conduct. An Elevator Honor Code.
He sounds overjoyed at the offer (and the free advice) and thanks me. We commit to making it a project for the new school year. We wish each other well and say goodbye.
Now if nailing down a new job were this easy...
Not unlike the time my mother, when equally as baffled by a language arts homework question as I had instructed me to write "Beats the hell out of me," on the blank in the workbook. Or a similar time when neither of us could answer the question about who did some inane thing in another reading assignment, had me supply the answer "Mabel Selhorst." I was mildly relieved to learn that this name was neither the name of some suspected mistress of my father's nor the name of some recently arrested prostitute, but that of my ancient neighbor across the street where 3 generations of women lived under one roof, grousing about mankind day in and day out.
I assured Hil that I would do nothing to embarrass her, though she shot me that wrinkled forehead look anyway. Evidently, in her estimation, I am just this side of clueless on what things do and do not mortally humiliate my child. Point taken. I apologize profusely for belting out Band of Gold with Freda Payne with the windows open at the Wawa where the Middle School set gets their beloved smoothies.
I get to work and can not resist checking my phone every few seconds for a missed call or voice mail or text.
And as luck would have it, the school does call...but when I am unable to take the call. Not that I wouldn't have blown off just about everyone short of The Blessed Virgin Mary to take the call, but a potential new employer had called and it is poor form for a job seeker to put the interviewer on hold for anything other than being robbed at gun point.
But I return the call, feathers all puffed up and posturing for a fight with the newest idiot the school district has placed in the Principal's office in the Big Boy Chair.
And to my everlasting amazement, when he came to the phone, he was not only polite, but deferential, admitted that the form was a problem, and committed to throwing it in the shredder. Assured me that Hil would have no problem. Hopes she is feeling better.
When I recovered sufficiently to pick myself up from the industrial grade carpet my cheap-o employer paved the office with, and managed to form words, I found myself smiling as I offered to help rewrite a more effective contract that abides by the law and holds the appropriate people accountable for their own conduct. An Elevator Honor Code.
He sounds overjoyed at the offer (and the free advice) and thanks me. We commit to making it a project for the new school year. We wish each other well and say goodbye.
Now if nailing down a new job were this easy...
Thursday, July 4, 2013
They Can't Be Serious
Has this ridiculous school never heard of the Americans with Disabilities Act? Are they out of their minds?
I turn to Hil and tell her there is no way on God's green Earth that I am signing the "piece of paper," as she called it.
She crinkles up her forehead and says that if I don't, then she won't be able to use the elevator and will have to take the steps with her backpack and crutches. (I am waiting for her to say something about going uphill barefoot in the snow...)
I tell her that I will sign the paper but I need to write a terse little note asking for a phone call.
She asks me what "terse" means.
I tell her that it means, at least in this case, that the principal will be red faced and swearing under his breath when he reads it. It won't be very nice.
Again, with the crinkled brow, she says, "You know I have to hand this to the secretary." (I am imagining sweaty Beatrice gasping.)
I tell her I'll put it in an envelope so she can convincingly say that she has not read any of her mother's insulting little comments that flirt with the very edge of decency.
We have a deal.
In my most artsy handwriting, which to me suggests loudness, I scrawl the following:
"This is absolutely preposterous. Once again you have managed to focus your attention and take a hard line on something completely stupid and continue to avoid doing anything meaningful about the bullying that goes on every day right under your noses. You will absolutely not discipline my child without my specific permission and will not hold her accountable for the conduct of any of the other little derelicts on the elevator. Have you heard of the ADA? Look it up. I expect a phone call by the close of business."
I turn to Hil and tell her there is no way on God's green Earth that I am signing the "piece of paper," as she called it.
She crinkles up her forehead and says that if I don't, then she won't be able to use the elevator and will have to take the steps with her backpack and crutches. (I am waiting for her to say something about going uphill barefoot in the snow...)
I tell her that I will sign the paper but I need to write a terse little note asking for a phone call.
She asks me what "terse" means.
I tell her that it means, at least in this case, that the principal will be red faced and swearing under his breath when he reads it. It won't be very nice.
Again, with the crinkled brow, she says, "You know I have to hand this to the secretary." (I am imagining sweaty Beatrice gasping.)
I tell her I'll put it in an envelope so she can convincingly say that she has not read any of her mother's insulting little comments that flirt with the very edge of decency.
We have a deal.
In my most artsy handwriting, which to me suggests loudness, I scrawl the following:
"This is absolutely preposterous. Once again you have managed to focus your attention and take a hard line on something completely stupid and continue to avoid doing anything meaningful about the bullying that goes on every day right under your noses. You will absolutely not discipline my child without my specific permission and will not hold her accountable for the conduct of any of the other little derelicts on the elevator. Have you heard of the ADA? Look it up. I expect a phone call by the close of business."
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
A Leg To Stand On
But life, in spite of this latest detour, goes on pretty much as usual. The maddening events at school, the confusing behavior by men, the daily grind of home ownership.
Hil's leg injury, first thought to be a sprain was actually a fracture which brought a whole host of problems bubbling to the surface.
I wonder what quack Lars had taken her to who misdiagnosed the injury and wonder if the quack was not a a person at all, this had just been his half-rate medical guess.
She is on crutches now, with an annoying full-length boot affair affixed to her scrawny little leg for most of the day, and a little immobilizing brace (vice) squeezing her ankle into submission all night. She is as cheerful as a rattlesnake.
When she returns from Lars' house at the end of the week, he's given me all kinds of instructions and notes and hoo-hah about what to do to care for her. As if this weren't a natural instinct of mine. Like I am one of those wild animals in Yosemite that wanders away from my young when I get bored with them. I graciously snatch the crinkled notes from his prissy little hands and jam them disrespectfully in my back pocket without looking at them. I help her in the door and proceed to close it in his face with a dismissive little wave. Asswipe.
Hil hands me a note from school that needs to be returned on Monday. It is a note about using the elevator, according to her.
And all I can think is "Elevator? We had mimeograph machines and chalkboards when I was there and now you have A/C, energy efficient windows, scanners, smartboards AND an elevator???" I take the paper from her to see what I have to know.
And I am immediately infuriated.
It is not a helpful little note about how and when the elevator can be accessed by my temporarily disabled child. It is a contract.
Hil is responsible for making sure that no one gets on the elevator with her, except someone specifically designated to help carry her books.
Hil is responsible for proper elevator usage. No horseplay. No noise. No graffiti. No, no Nanette.
If there is any trouble whatsoever, Hil will be subject to detention, a written reprimand and will lose her elevator privileges.
Over my rotting carcass, she will. Mama's on a new mission.
Hil's leg injury, first thought to be a sprain was actually a fracture which brought a whole host of problems bubbling to the surface.
I wonder what quack Lars had taken her to who misdiagnosed the injury and wonder if the quack was not a a person at all, this had just been his half-rate medical guess.
She is on crutches now, with an annoying full-length boot affair affixed to her scrawny little leg for most of the day, and a little immobilizing brace (vice) squeezing her ankle into submission all night. She is as cheerful as a rattlesnake.
When she returns from Lars' house at the end of the week, he's given me all kinds of instructions and notes and hoo-hah about what to do to care for her. As if this weren't a natural instinct of mine. Like I am one of those wild animals in Yosemite that wanders away from my young when I get bored with them. I graciously snatch the crinkled notes from his prissy little hands and jam them disrespectfully in my back pocket without looking at them. I help her in the door and proceed to close it in his face with a dismissive little wave. Asswipe.
Hil hands me a note from school that needs to be returned on Monday. It is a note about using the elevator, according to her.
And all I can think is "Elevator? We had mimeograph machines and chalkboards when I was there and now you have A/C, energy efficient windows, scanners, smartboards AND an elevator???" I take the paper from her to see what I have to know.
And I am immediately infuriated.
It is not a helpful little note about how and when the elevator can be accessed by my temporarily disabled child. It is a contract.
Hil is responsible for making sure that no one gets on the elevator with her, except someone specifically designated to help carry her books.
Hil is responsible for proper elevator usage. No horseplay. No noise. No graffiti. No, no Nanette.
If there is any trouble whatsoever, Hil will be subject to detention, a written reprimand and will lose her elevator privileges.
Over my rotting carcass, she will. Mama's on a new mission.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Brave New World
So now I have a work plan and an Other Work plan.
One will be shear torture, doing work for which I have the enthusiasm of a British land slug. I must remain cheerful, swallow my pride, suppress my anger, refrain from lashing out indiscriminately, and tolerate, tolerate, tolerate the sheer lunacy of what goes on around me.
The other will be a mission not unlike those on Survivor. I am driven to win at any cost. The competitor in me wants to land a fabulous job before I leave so I can walk about the office preening and cooing about the fabulous new opportunity I have landed simply because I was smart enough to decipher the writing on the wall, take a treasonous position and go over the proverbial wall.
I begin to network - in the form of telling people the news. First, the Chairman of the board I sit on, however temporarily, given the circumstances. I am deferential and professional. Until she figures out what exactly it is I am prevaricating about the bush over and lets fly with the F bomb. She is horrified and gasping in disbelief. I love executives like her.
Now that the pantyhose are off and we are talking turkey, she lets me in on a few tidbits of word-around-the-campfire intelligence, unwittingly confirming my suspicions about the changes I anticipated. Colorful language, name-calling and all. It appeared that I had read the signs correctly. I was smart to roll the dice and go while the going wasn't too heinous. She offers to network. She offers to help. She offers to read my resume. She offers to be a reference. And here I thought she'd be disappointed in me. Who knew?
And all those annoying placement agencies who call me incessantly. They each get a call. Guess who is on the market and will be so grateful when they've landed they will surely give you an exclusive right to their business in the future???? Yes, they are all excruciating to speak with, but business is business.
And all of my former colleagues and work friends in Human Resources departments all over the local area get a cheerful call and a follow up email with my resume attached. The long tentacles of my job search are making their way across the area with the efficiency of The Plague.
By lunch time, I am feeling pretty good about the connections I've made. And I've only stifled overwhelming nausea twice. It is going to be a bumpy 12 weeks.
One will be shear torture, doing work for which I have the enthusiasm of a British land slug. I must remain cheerful, swallow my pride, suppress my anger, refrain from lashing out indiscriminately, and tolerate, tolerate, tolerate the sheer lunacy of what goes on around me.
The other will be a mission not unlike those on Survivor. I am driven to win at any cost. The competitor in me wants to land a fabulous job before I leave so I can walk about the office preening and cooing about the fabulous new opportunity I have landed simply because I was smart enough to decipher the writing on the wall, take a treasonous position and go over the proverbial wall.
I begin to network - in the form of telling people the news. First, the Chairman of the board I sit on, however temporarily, given the circumstances. I am deferential and professional. Until she figures out what exactly it is I am prevaricating about the bush over and lets fly with the F bomb. She is horrified and gasping in disbelief. I love executives like her.
Now that the pantyhose are off and we are talking turkey, she lets me in on a few tidbits of word-around-the-campfire intelligence, unwittingly confirming my suspicions about the changes I anticipated. Colorful language, name-calling and all. It appeared that I had read the signs correctly. I was smart to roll the dice and go while the going wasn't too heinous. She offers to network. She offers to help. She offers to read my resume. She offers to be a reference. And here I thought she'd be disappointed in me. Who knew?
And all those annoying placement agencies who call me incessantly. They each get a call. Guess who is on the market and will be so grateful when they've landed they will surely give you an exclusive right to their business in the future???? Yes, they are all excruciating to speak with, but business is business.
And all of my former colleagues and work friends in Human Resources departments all over the local area get a cheerful call and a follow up email with my resume attached. The long tentacles of my job search are making their way across the area with the efficiency of The Plague.
By lunch time, I am feeling pretty good about the connections I've made. And I've only stifled overwhelming nausea twice. It is going to be a bumpy 12 weeks.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Moscow Rules
But now I have to concentrate on work. I have a meeting to prepare for and a strategy to execute. And I have to be nimble. I have to stay calm (I've mentioned that this is not a natural state...) and I have to be cool. Can't let anyone see me sweat. And no flinching allowed. Practice practice practice.
When Don and I finally meet, I present him with a work plan. It is thorough, it is detailed. It is brilliant. He is impressed.
And when we've gone through all the details, he asks a few questions and then says we'll meet as the work progresses and talk about the next 30-60-90 day plan.
I tell him I don't think there will be one.
He looks at me blankly.
I tell him that this is an exit strategy. And ask him to listen.
I tell him that I am not at all comfortable with the changes I've seen and what I envision. I tell him that I understand that my position will be eliminated eventually, but in knowing that, I have reached my own conclusions about what is happening as opposed to how it is being couched for the general audience. He leans back and nods.
I tell him I don't want to stay and wait for the other shoe to drop when someone else decides it's time to drop it.
I would rather choreograph a graceful exit and control how it is blabbed about. Because it will be blabbed about. That we can count on.
He nods again.
I tell him that I think I can tolerate 12 weeks of work without misbehaving (hence that 12 week work plan) and he describes a creative severance package he thinks he can get for me (while he is still in charge - which I don't envision is for long). I thank him and look at him directly so that he understands that I am serious. I tell him that I will be fair and decent with him so long as he remains fair and decent with me. (This is more a question than a statement).
We shake on hands. I think we know exactly what each of us knows and what each of us has said, without saying it out loud.
I have assessed the situation correctly. I know more than I should. I am smart not to believe everything I have heard. He is almost envious.
I return to my desk and think about what to say to my team. And all I can see on my bulletin board are the Moscow Rules I have posted on a little piece of paper a former boss had given to me long ago. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moscow_Rules).
How true they are.
When Don and I finally meet, I present him with a work plan. It is thorough, it is detailed. It is brilliant. He is impressed.
And when we've gone through all the details, he asks a few questions and then says we'll meet as the work progresses and talk about the next 30-60-90 day plan.
I tell him I don't think there will be one.
He looks at me blankly.
I tell him that this is an exit strategy. And ask him to listen.
I tell him that I am not at all comfortable with the changes I've seen and what I envision. I tell him that I understand that my position will be eliminated eventually, but in knowing that, I have reached my own conclusions about what is happening as opposed to how it is being couched for the general audience. He leans back and nods.
I tell him I don't want to stay and wait for the other shoe to drop when someone else decides it's time to drop it.
I would rather choreograph a graceful exit and control how it is blabbed about. Because it will be blabbed about. That we can count on.
He nods again.
I tell him that I think I can tolerate 12 weeks of work without misbehaving (hence that 12 week work plan) and he describes a creative severance package he thinks he can get for me (while he is still in charge - which I don't envision is for long). I thank him and look at him directly so that he understands that I am serious. I tell him that I will be fair and decent with him so long as he remains fair and decent with me. (This is more a question than a statement).
We shake on hands. I think we know exactly what each of us knows and what each of us has said, without saying it out loud.
I have assessed the situation correctly. I know more than I should. I am smart not to believe everything I have heard. He is almost envious.
I return to my desk and think about what to say to my team. And all I can see on my bulletin board are the Moscow Rules I have posted on a little piece of paper a former boss had given to me long ago. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moscow_Rules).
How true they are.
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