Get over yourself UPS dude

Who is this UPS whiteboard dude, and why is this an actual national ad campaign? 

My theory is that the entire concept is a subtle ripoff of John Robbins and his utterly fantastic 70's PBS kids series "Cover to Cover."  Remember the show where the dark-haired guy would read you the story while drawing pictures of it?  Yeah.  It was cool.  The UPS guy decidedly is not.

So... unless you plan to draw something more valuable on your whiteboard, can narrate an interesting children's book instead of a clumsy ad pitch, and get a big boy haircut while you're at it: UPS dude, you can just join Lindsay Lohan in getting over yourself. 

Paying a consultant to state the obvious

In the process of wrapping up a five-year consulting business (entirely small time consulting, but nonetheless successful), I stumbled upon another Universal Truth. 

Companies invariably value the opinion of The Consultant over the expertise of their own employees.

Why is this?  The employees I have encountered are plugged in to the corporate culture, the overall industry, and the day-to-day challenges facing a given organization in a way that The Consultant can never be. 

Yes, The Consultant sometimes has the advantage of seeing things from the outside.  They're not in the trenches every day, absorbed in deadlines and details.  The Consultant sometimes has a "best practices" advantage in their area of expertise... having worked, I imagine, with many similar organizations facing the same issues.  The Consultant is not bogged down by whatever culture, operational heirarchies, territorial issues and sacred cows that work together to create the landscape that employees have no choice but to operate within.

All too often, however, The Consultant is given an inordinate amount of credence simply for stating the obvious. 

I wonder how many employers could save a buck - - and quite possibly end up with even stronger results - - if they empowered their own key leaders to become "consultant for a month."  Seriously.  Take the everyday workload and set it aside at a feasible time, and grant the right employees an opportunity to share their insight. 

I know there are many companies where this wouldn't work.  Not every employee, even a great one, can think out of the box.  Or even wants to.  But some of the places I've encountered would do well to plug into what their own people have been telling them all along, instead of bringing in a fancypants outsider to pitch the same ideas.

That said, it's been a fanstastic ride, and having the freedom to be the person charged with thinking creatively about organizational issues has suited me perfectly.  I applaud any employer willing to listen and make changes - - wherever the source of their guidance.  The people I've worked for have been amazing, and I highly recommend consulting as an interesting and challenging line of work. 

Ultimately, I hope my stint as The Consultant makes me a better employee, now that I'm taking off my fancy pants and leaping back over to the other side of the fence.

Death is stalking us all

It’s a rarely disputed fact that we are all on our way to becoming our parents, right? The only real debate seems to be the timing. And how hard to fight it.

I liken the aging process to an insidious creep. It’s the tiger silently following you through the jungle. You know it’s there, and it’s scary as hell, but just keep on walking because you don’t really have a choice.

So those rare moments when the “you’re old!” tiger leaps out of the underbrush, claws glistening, are really, really disconcerting.  Here is a small collection of recent “tiger” moments I’ve experienced lately:

• Thinking how cool it is that my tots are rocking out to “my” music (instead of Barney) in the car… only to realize my previously razor-cool alternative/death metal is now being played on the station one step away from easy listening.
• Being shocked - - shocked! - - by what teenagers are wearing these days, even though I strutted around the same hooker borderlands right into my mid-20’s.
• Realizing I actually don’t want a tattoo that badly, after all.
• Learning that makeup isn’t the magical answer it used to be. Instead of a fun option that can make me look extra-fancy, it’s quickly becoming the thin line separating my morning face from that of an embalmed corpse.
• Having way too many of those “my generation was so much more __________” moments. I mean, we listened to the best music, were the most anti-establishment (in our disorganized slacker way), wore the coolest clothes, and had the best time ever. And who the hell do these kids think they are, anyway?

No I won't be your "Fan" on Facebook - Stop bugging me!

Lately, I’ve noticed my local news programs touting their Facebook pages at every opportunity and repeatedly asking viewers to be their “Fan.” You mean it's not enough for you that I am up a 6 am enduring your insipid banter and not hurling large objects at the TV screen? You exist on my TV for the purpose of providing me with a weather forecast and assuring me that the apocalypse has not or is not occurring. I need both these things to start my day with confidence. I don’t need you to plead with me, like the pathetic cross eyed kid in grade school who creeped everyone out by rocking back and forth at his desk eating paste and boogers, to be your friend. I mean it is starting to sound rather desperate, this lunge towards social marketing. Just because you have a page on a social networking site, it doesn’t make you cool. It is definitely not cool to beg for attention either.

To be fair, my distaste for this marketing tactic may have a little to do with my own personality. As very smart and slightly awkward child, I was an outsider in my small town. I pissed off my peers by being smarter than them and at the same time I was pathetic at sports. I never felt like I belonged, and I decided early on that belonging wasn’t cool. I became devoted to the things on the fringes. I liked the weird music, the books that were different, and the arty films. When one of my obsessions hit the main stream, I would lose interest in it completely. Like it became tainted by the masses and suddenly become uncool. It had “sold-out” for the sake of popularity.

I was a drama kid and later, a Theatre Major in college. I never wanted to join a group or allow people to label me according to my interests. Thankfully I have grown out of most of these tendencies. Although I still can’t bring myself to commit to a political party. Still there is one little black corner of my heart that finds this lust for popularity and acceptance very distasteful. A little room with black walls, lots of candles, music by XTC and a shrine to River Phoenix.

It is for this reason that I have resisted the internet, cell phones, and mp3 players. Eventually I will adopt the technology, but I have to plant my Army surplus combat boots somewhere and pick a line I won’t cross.

So that is why, local news and corporate entities, I will never be your Fan on Facebook.

Surviving the Apocalypse: What do You Bring to the Party?

As anyone who follows this blog knows, the apocalypse could occur at any moment. We here at Snarklet feel that being prepared is our best defense against impending doom. When the crap hits the fan, it is important that you bring some skills to the party. In the aftermath of a civilization destroying event, the fact that you can text 90 “words” per minute will not save your ass from marauding hordes of mutants, feed and hydrate your family, or help rebuild society and preserve human culture. You don't survive the apocalypse by collecting bottle caps. Think low tech skills like the ability to grow crops, hunt and cook food, make clothing, and defend others, because these skills will be difference between you gaining a place in the new world order or gaining a place on a roasting spit.

I myself can cook and knit, and more importantly I have friends and family. I know at least two black belts, two experienced construction workers (one with an engineering degree), two health care professionals, six avid gardeners, two people with access to lots of land/livestock, and someone who spins her own yarn. In fact, my friend Jane, the spinner, may just be the future of the human race. Jane can garden, cook, sew, knit and now, spin her own yarn. (We are expecting a loom to show up any day now.) She runs and bikes daily and is in phenomenal shape. We know she can kick all of our combined butts (with the possible exception of the black belts), and should any one of us become a threat to the new world order, she would not hesitate to take us down.

So take a look around at yourself, your family, and your friends. What do you bring to the apocalypse? How can you contribute to rebuilding society? Even my brother, the sweetest and gentlest man I know, possesses a talent for music and math that will allow us preserve those skill sets for the next generation. So the next time you start feeling really good about your McMansion in the suburbs, your fancy cars, your high powered corporate job, and your spoiled whiny 2.5 kids, ask yourself what you would bring to the Armageddon fiesta and who would you invite?

Get Over Yourself: Kate Gosselin

Ok, first off I'm just going to say that I have been marginally entertained by "John & Kate Plus 8" back when the show used to be about the kids. Remember them? (that question was for you Kate and John...) But since the switch to focusing more on the parents and their drama I have, for the most part, tuned them out as mere white noise.

But, after seeing what Kate said about being on Dancing with the Stars (another show I don't watch, by the way), I have to add her to the "Get over yourself" list.

In an interview with Access Hollywood, she claims she is dancing for all the moms out there...

Kate also added that she would be dancing for moms across America. "All the moms out there, this is for you," she said before her Viennese waltz. "Wish me luck."

Really. Really.

Let me tell you, as a mom - this is the last thing we need. Thanks Kate, but I really don't need you or your high-priced extensions being shoved around a dance floor poorly on national TV to be done -- for me. I'd say you and your over-bleached new teeth need to maybe just get a little grip first before you go spouting off about representing any moms anywhere. Please keep in mind you have now been added to a category you share with Lindsay Lohan, and you have 8 children to teach by example.

So, yes, I wholeheartedly feel that she's due for a strong does of getting over herself.

A Cougar Moment

The other day I had a little sneak peek into the world of cougars – no, it wasn’t an episode of Nature, it was the other much more dangerous kind of cougar. At this point I feel obligated to point out that while I have no issues with ladies dating much younger men, it isn’t what I’m looking for personally. Let’s just say that I’m just not that into babysitting.

My introduction into the cougar scene began with a routine shopping trip. I walked into the store and was greeted by the clerk who was either a freshman in collage or 12, I wasn’t quite sure. Yeah, that would make him old enough to be my much younger cousin or something. Anyway, he was able to find the first item on my list, but was a little stumped trying to find the exercise bands I needed. At this point, he volunteered to track some down that he had at home. Hmm, awkward. . .Before he could volunteer contact info I sputtered out thanks and hastily confessed that I had something at home that might work as a substitute, paid my bill and headed out.

Now some may argue that I was a bit bedraggled and it may have actually have been pity on his part, but choose to believe that I was being hit on. Some of you may call that denial; I call it my cougar moment.

'Other women' who just don't measure up

The latest celebrity sex scandal has me wondering, more than ever, about 'other women.'  Why have so many high-profile men with exceptional wives cheated with such lowbrow mistresses?

It has to be really kinky sex. 

(And I am not talking about mildly kinky. I mean really kinky - like, you'd have to pay a woman to perform that act.)

I mean, I can't actually think of a single other category in which "Bombshell" McGee can compete with Sandra. 

Dear god, can you imagine the horror of knowing that every time (probably forevermore) someone googles your name, pictures of this tramp will pop up?

Not to mention Tiger's string of mentally deficient not-quite-whores compared to the stunning, seemingly intelligent Elin. 

Or, say, Elliot Spitzer's actual whore.  (Yes, she's trying to reinvent herself as an advice columnist, but I'm going to be uncharitable and still think of her as a whore.  And not even a very pretty one.)

This is quite good news for most of us, actually.  I am pretty sure the percentage of men who demand truly kinky sex has got to be minute.  And a large number of the uber-kinkies are probably overindulged Hollywood (or Washington) jerks.

In other words, probably not your husband or mine. 

Of course, if kinky sex were the only reason men cheated, we'd all have installed dominatrix dens in our basements by now.  Heck, I'd rather don some latex and grab a whip than go through a nasty divorce.

We average chicks still have to worry about infidelity.  But if we ever find ourselves stuck in an unfortunate situation with an 'other woman,' let's at least hope she's not a clueless, unattractive, overly made-up (botoxed-up, implanted-up, tattooed-up) prostitute.

Now, go kiss your husbands.

 

What is Fisher Price thinking?

Perhaps this might become a new category - What are/were they thinking? - but I had to at least share this one, as I find it to be so bizarre.

With or without children, I think this one is weird. I myself, having one of those kids, have been previewing a few toddler items that one will need and came across this little number...


First off, I do not now, nor ever want to poop in a place that has a smirky grin like that. Seriously, do they think this will make it easier for a toddler? As a kid/first time pooper, wouldn't you be more scared of something with a face and than without? The product description from the Fisher Price web site is as follows:

There’s a fun clicking sound when you push down the handle. There’s even a toilet paper holder. With songs to learn and encouraging phrases and sounds to discover, the Cheer for Me! Potty really does make potty training fun! Because it looks similar to a real toilet, it encourages kids to make the transition to the grown up “potty”. Requires 3 AA batteries."
What!? Songs and "encouraging phrases". What exactly are those like, "Good job, now push that poo out!" And why exactly is potty in quotes? And let me tell you - if I have to use 3 AA batteries in anything that's this close to my babies ass I have more than one concern about said product. Do they really think all that makes "potty training fun!"

Now, normally I'm a big fan of Fisher Price, but on this one I have to give them a huge heartfelt - What Were They Thinking.

Why Brunettes will kick the asses of Blonds and Redheads any day

So, it has come to my attention that the blonds and redheads out there seem to think life revolves around their hair colors. Bah! For them, I'm sure it does....

As a brunette you see, we are indeed too busy with our high-powered everything to devote much time to the paltry musings of the less pigmentally-endowed. But as the previous post has basically double-dog dared me to, I must respond.

You see, brunettes are the ones you don't want to mess with. Brunettes are always cast as the heroine, weather it be in action or fantasy or comedy or love. Brunettes embody mystique, femininity and strength all in one. We are alluring, charming, deeply intense and ridiculously funny all at once.

See what I mean.

As for that, we are also the ones you want to be sitting next to in say, a disaster such as armageddon or machines turning on us. While there are several brunette femme fatales, there are equally as many with killer sweet moves:







Yes people, being a brunette means you are able to be as coy as Hepburn, alluring as Loren, as funny as Tina Fey, and as kick-your-ass-into-next-week as Linda Hamilton. We can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. And if we're too damn tired after work to do that, we can easily get our significant others to do so for us with nothing more than a coy wink or if needed, "the look".

I say being a brunette is by far the most intriguing of all the coiffure shades.

Blond ambition

As a natural born blonde, I felt the need to respond to the earlier post extolling the virtues of redheads. Let me make it clear that I have nothing against red hair or the ginger people, as they are sometimes called. I myself have been a redhead from time to time, courtesy of our friends at Clairol.

Although my hair has not retained its flaxen shade, I still feel that I am at heart a blonde. When I say blonde, I am not referring to the bleached bubble heads with fake tits that reside mostly in the universe of porn and girly magazines. I mean the blondes of old Hollywood like Jean Harlow, Marlene Dietrich, Mae West, Greta Garbo, and Marilyn Monroe. These women were sexy, feisty, sultry, funny and smart. These women were the blondes that had more fun, and they made blonde look good. But like everything else that becomes popular and copied, every bimbo with a bottle of bleach decided she could be a blond.

Sorry girls, it doesn’t work that way. Blond is not a hair color. It’s a state of mind.

You have to be smart and witty without being too obvious and smug. A great blond is bubbly and fun without being clueless. She has confidence and respect for herself and others.
I look at the famous blondes today and I can’t help feeling let down. Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson give blond a bad name with their vapid antics and marginal talent. Madonna is a great performer and is mostly known for being blond, but there is something a little too brittle and calculated about her, like a brunette that is trying too hard.

Then there are the blondes that give me hope. Ellen DeGeneres, Drew Barrymore, Chelsea Handler, Martha Stewart and Ru Paul are my favorite modern day blondes. So when you think of blond, think of these ladies and “lady” instead of the bimbos that decorate the world of smut.

Being blond isn’t easy, but if you can pull it off, if you are up to the challenge, it is a hell of a good time.

Written by the lovely, blond-at-heart MK Jensen.  Still waiting on commentary from the brunette corner.  They're probably too busy with their high-powered careers.

Get over yourself Congress

A fresh nomination for people who need to get over themselves: The United States Congress – both houses.

Seriously can you people just do your damn jobs for once? Stop with your conniving and filibustering. It’s not about you, you arrogant bastards! At time when this country needs you to be at your best you are giving it your worst. We need health care, we need jobs, and we need to fix the financial system. We do not need petty backstabbing and political maneuvering. If being put in the same category as Lindsay Lohan is not a wake up call, then you really need to get over yourselves.

Special thanks to an opinionated MK Jensen for this submission.

Get over yourself Lindsay Lohan

Today we introduce a delightful new category, and invite you to submit your own nominations.  The first-ever "Get over yourself" nominee is: Lindsay Lohan.

She is suing E-Trade for $100 million dollars for their ad that includes a “milkaholic” baby named Lindsay. She has compared herself with Oprah and Madonna in terms of one name recognition. Really Lindsay Lohan? A sexually confused former child star that has more in common at this point with Gary Coleman is on the same level as Oprah or Madonna. What was the last movie you were in? Your biggest claim to fame lately is a line of leggings and you were banned from Fashion Week in New York. Seriously Lohan, get over yourself.

Excellent new category suggested by contributer MK Jensen.

Men who are actually sexier once they open their mouths and begin to speak

My nomination in this category is Mr. Jon Stewart of Comedy Central’s Daily Show with John Stewart.

While a bit on the short side and slightly balding, Mr. Stewart’s sense of humor and quick wit make him the perfect anchor for a faux news show that pokes fun at all aspects of society. Combine this wit with interviews of celebrities, authors, political pundits and elected representatives that are not only entertaining but also thoughtful and enlightening, and Mr. Stewart’s sex appeal increases exponentially.

He is respectful without pandering to his guests and is the first to admit his own ignorance. Sometimes he is even the unlikely voice of reason, unafraid to ask any political extremist the kind of questions that occur to those with less colorful points of view.

While poking fun at everyone else he is the first to laugh at himself, and this combination of confidence, humility and puckish glee is what makes him, in my humble opinion, actually sexier when he opens his mouth.

Contributed by MK Jensen.

Mustache migration

At our annual tradeshow earlier this week, I was delighted to reconnect with some colleagues I haven't seen in a few years.  These are people who serve on our board of directors, putting them into that shadowy territory where "boss" and "friend" meet.  No, they're not exactly friends.  I mind my P's and Q's, and so do they.  But I've known most of them almost 10 years now, and I genuinely like them. 

However, there was one startling observation to be made: The mustaches are migrating.

And, I must add, at risk of crossing into totally unprofessional territory, it is to good effect.  One or two of these gentlemen were practically unrecognizable without their trademark facial hair.  They were handsome older fellows to begin with, but they looked markedly younger with their new, fresh faces.  These guys are in their 50's and 60's... and their mustaches suited them well.  But now they look, well, modern.  More approachable.  Dare I say charmingly vulnerable?

And so it is with some apprehension that I confess the men of my own generation are suddenly exhibiting a strange fascination with facial hair.  Mustaches in particular.  Large, porn-star-from-the-70's mustaches to be truly precise.

For example: Would you trust this man with your children?

Because teach, my friends, is what this person does for a living.  I've disguised his identity here not so much for his own sake, but for the sake of my dear sister, who is married to him.

Apparently all the teachers in their school (well, the male ones) decided to grow extremely large, extremely sleazy mustaches this year.  Just in time for YEARBOOK PHOTOS.  Yes, this picture has been immortalized.

And it's not just my brother in law.  My husband is just dying for his own pimp-stache.  As are others in his circle.  I am beginning to wonder if mustaches are some sort of crafty alien parasite that feeds off of bored, impressionable young men, discarding their prey once they reach a certain age.

Whatever the reason, I seem to have a front-row ticket to the great crossroads of migration from one generation to the next.  It's quite a treat.  Pull up a chair, take a look around the next multi-generational party you attend, and let me know if you spot a similar phenomenon.

Oscar observations

I'll preface this by saying I don't always watch the Oscars... and I don't usually stay up late enough to watch them all the way through. (Hey, my children are young enough that sleep has been the bigger priority for a few years now.) Last night, however, I made it from the first red carpet interview to the last farewell from Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin.

There weren't any real surprises last night, but plenty to snark about. For example:

I wondered why they opened the field for Best Picture up to ten movies when there really might as well have been only three in the running. How many times last night did someone (the announcer, the presenter, etc., etc.) "The first movie directed by a woman, the first movie directed by an African-American, and oh, Avatar." The little snippets introducing the ten nominees throughout the evening were marginally interesting, but after a while became more promotional nonsense than real substance. And what is with that District 9 film anyway? (Yes, I basically live under a cinematological rock most of the year.) Is it supposed to be funny? Scary? Both? Why is it set in South Africa?

Could they have found someone besides Babs to award Best Director? Was I the only person to find her in-your-face feminism annoying? I'm tickled that a woman director won, but I'm pretty sure she would have preferred to have been acknowledged for being the BEST DIRECTOR. Period. Pointing out her sex over and over during the actual ceremony, I felt, demeaned the achievement somewhat. Maybe I'm a post-modern feminist. I don't feel the need to rub it in everyone's faces when a woman does well. I am grateful to Barbara Streisand and other women who broke down innumerable barriers... but their attitude seems embarrassingly askew in today's reality. Kind of like your grandmother using the word "negro." It's not wrong, per-se. She's trying to be polite and correct. But it's just underlining how out of touch she really is.

Did anyone else find the large woman in purple (best documentary short), grating? She sort of barged onto the stage, interrupted her colleague, and launched into a well-meant-but-still-strange lecture. I found myself wondering who, exactly, she was. And what it must have been like to make a motion picture in her company. Even a short.

Was there any question at all that Sandra Bullock had Best Actress wrapped up? It reminded me of the night Julia Roberts won. She looked so stunning, they might as well have just handed her the statuette as she arrived. More power to her. She always comes across as a nice gal.

ABC's red carpet coverage prior to the formal show? Really uncomfortable to watch. I was trying my hardest to place the stunning mannequin spanxed into that unbecoming sequin gown (Kathy Ireland). She looked gorgeous, but was not well suited to celebrity interviews. Unless all you're looking for is a very sincere "Have fun in there [celebrity]." And that Sherri (?) from The View? Obnoxious is only acceptable when paired with funny. And hitting on George Clooney in front of his date wasn't really very funny. He didn't think so. His date didn't think so. And I'm pretty sure, cute as George is, that joke is not at all funny anymore. The other red carpet guy, editor of something or other, was perfect.

I'm looking forward to the best and worst dressed reviews. I didn't spot too many disasters. Sarah Jessica Parker stood out from the crowd in a good way. Demi Moore stood out in her own mutton-as-lamb way... too fussy a dress, too high a heel, too much (over tanned) leg, and tuck those annoying curling-ironed tendrils behind your ear you twit, you're wearing great earrings.

Finally, did anyone really expect Avatar to win either big award? I mean, I thoroughly loved the movie. But I felt, as did most of the academy apparently, that given 10 years, a staff of thousands to carry out my tiniest demand, and a practically unlimited budget, I probably could have done as good.

The catch-and-release approach to sex offenders

This isn't the most well-thought-out post, so I reserve the right to modify my position at a later date. But I'm having a gut-check reaction to several prominent news stories with one common thread: Sex offenders seem to re-offend. Sometimes in really horrible ways, like murdering young women or attacking child after child.

Right now, "registered sex offender" can mean so many different things that the term has become useless.

Have you ever wasted time checking that stupid online map with little red dots? After a dozen or more dots popped up around my former residence (in a nice neighborhood!), I found myself wondering if the registered sex offenders living all around me were convicted of statutory rape as teenagers, were raging pedophiles, or had extremely violent histories. Or maybe they just raped someone that one time when they were, I don't know, having a really bad day. You know... just a single, straight-up rape that I shouldn't be too worried about.

Is a meaningless google map that makes me want to stay inside with the doors locked, no matter what the actual threat is, really the best protection we can offer the women and children of this country?

Oh, and don't forget that most states still don't have registries that work with other states... so even though it seems like a lot of red dots on that map, the sex offenders from Illinois or California or Alaska are most likely off the grid here in Wisconsin.

While folks in the media are busy wringing their hands over our nation's utterly inneffective tracking system, I'm wondering why we're trying to fix a system that is fundamentally flawed.

There seems to be a disconnect here.  Sex offenders have been deemed dangerous enough by the system to merit lifelong tracking.  So why, when our jails and prisons are stuffed with non-violent offenders, do sex offenders (at least the aggregious ones) get to leave prison and return to society?  Either they're a threat or they're rehabilitated.  Isn't that how it is supposed to work? Or is the very existence of the sex offender registry tacit acknowledgement by the system that many of these people will not ever be rehabilitated?

Why is this type of violence (usually against women and children) placed in a not-quite-as-serious category when it seems quite obvious that many rapists re-offend, and quite a few escalate?

How is it possible to rape a woman and be out in 15 years? Don't non-violent drug offenders spend a whole lot longer in jail after their three strikes? I don't know about you, but I'm all for a one strike law when it comes to sexual assault... or at least sentencing that keeps the individual locked up longer, if not for life.

I can be open-minded. If you're not willing to put violent rapists in jail for more than 50 years, then why don't we create a new type of sex offender registry that can't be so easily subverted? A scarlet letter tattooed on the forehead? Nathaniel Hawthorne may have been onto something.

I want someone way more knowledgable and powerful than me to look into recidivism rates and sentencing guidelines. While I understand that we can't paint all sex crimes with a broad brush, there should be a certain category for which there is no leniency.

Dear employer

Dear Employer,

What do you want from me?

I read your ads and go to your websites to learn about your company’s “mission,” and I am still baffled. Every want ad seems to require the separate and unique skill sets of at least three individuals all rolled into one neat package. And for all these skills you will pay the princely sum of $30,000 annually.

I know we are in a recession but no one can be all things to all people. Sound business strategy and a good sense of design, while not mutually exclusive, do not generally reside in the same brain. Would you ask Donald Trump to lay out a brochure? Keep in mind that his hair looks that way on purpose.

Even keeping in mind that the laundry list of skills I apparently need to possess to land the most entry level position may not be really what you require, but more of a fantasy on your part, dear employer, I still have questions about some of the other language used in your ads.

For instance, one ad recently stated a desire for a candidate with a “demonstrated sense of urgency."

What does this mean and how shall I demonstrate it in a resume and cover letter? Do I use plenty of exclamation points? Shall I convert my resume to ALL CAPS? Please, I would really like to know, because I really, really need a job badly.

Isn’t that urgent enough?

Thanks to our contributor, Mary, for this disheartening glimpse into her job search.  Fingers crossed for her, everyone.

Breakin' the law, breakin' the law

Yesterday I got my car out of the shop.  In my enthusiasm for having my own wheels again (driving my father-in-law's fancy truck makes me very, very nervous), I may have inadvertently pressed down on the accelerator a weensy bit too hard.  For a few miles.

Just as it occurred to me that I was catching up to the traffic ahead awfully quickly, a police car drove by in the other direction.  In one of those slo-mo sequences, I watched, open-mouthed, as the copper squealed around in a U-turn, right there on the major highway.  And there was not a single doubt in my mind.  He was coming after me.

Sure enough, the flashers came on and I was done for. 

I concentrated on pulling off to the side as slowly and responsibly as possible, then cracking open my door in a non-threatening way (because my window doesn't roll down anymore).  During those paralyzing moments, I instinctively flipped through my personal rolodex of feminine wiles, which all women carry in their heads.  What tactics were at my disposal, as a thirty-something mom of two?

Could I play dumb?  I didn't dare risk it.  After all, he'd clocked me going at least 70 and I'd hit the brakes as soon as I saw his car.  No.  I was guilty and I damn well knew it.

Could I play the crying card?  No.  I've never been good at crocodile tears, and pretending to be weak is not my strong suit. 

Could I squinch my arms tightly to my sides, pushing my cleavage into a more desirable display?  No.  That involved the distinct possibility of suffocating my plump self in a most embarrassing manner.

Mental rolodex depleted, I reached for the one tool that has rarely failed me: manners.  I think my sheepish "yes sirs" and "no sirs" and "I apologize sirs" may have helped.  I'm sure my old station wagon, complete with two child booster seats, eloquently expressed my upstanding and mild station in life.  And his background check would have confirmed that my last run-in with the law was as a teenager. 

I'm grateful to report that I was let off with a verbal warning, and not even all that stern of one.  Thank you, sir.

Dangerous reactions to stress

It's crunch time at my job.  In a big meeting this morning, my coworker leaned over to whisper about how stressed he's been feeling: "I upped my run to 10 miles this morning, and I purposely took the hilly route." 

What?!

I resisted the urge to take him in my flabby arms, shake him violently, and declare him a freak.  After all, that would have involved showcasing my flabby arms.  And charitably, I am able to admit that it wasn't his fault my breakfast consisted of a poptart and a can of Coke.

It's times like these that I wonder if I've been slipped a defective gene.  I have been feeling a tad stressed lately, too.  Has it resulted in additional exercise?  Negative.  I can barely surface from snuffling around in my McDonald's bag long enough to change channels on the remote. 

Why do some people react to stress by hurtling themselves into the nearest pile of comfort food, while other (freakish) people react in healthier ways? 

Exercising, for me, is difficult even under the most promising circumstances.  When life gets tough, whether it's work or parenting, I often turn to my triumvirate of vices: eating, drinking and smoking.  Ideally, all three in the same evening.  Thus a cycle is created: I am virtuous and healthy... something stressful occurs... I misbehave... and, feeling yucky after misbehaving, I blow off being virtuous... you can see where this is leading.

It's been several months since I have visited my gym, and I recently had an embarrassing run-in with the gym's owner.  I was desperate enough for espresso that I hit the coffee shop/tanning salon in my small town.  (Yeah, that's another post altogether.)  And there she was, looking trim and perky as always.  I said hello without actually meeting her eyes and ordered a skim, no flavor, definitely no-whip latte.  To go.

My fit coworker confided that he's also had an embarrassing gym moment recently.  Apparently the front desk clerk raised a definite eyebrow after he visited three times in one day.  There truly must be something wrong with him.  And he seems so normal on the outside! 

Perhaps my coping mechanisms aren't so terribly outlandish after all.