Not For Me To Say...

...But What Do You Think? (Okay, I'll say. And what I say is, I agree. There, I've said it. And that's all I'm going to say. For now.)

Black Culture Beyond Hip-Hop

As Linda Richman would say, "Tawk amongst yer selves... Discuwss..."


** UPDATE: 5.29.07 **

I promised my buddy, Gunfighter, if he wrote about yesterday's Post article, I would post a link. Here is Gunfighter's response to "Black Culture Beyond Hip-Hop."

Drew Gilpin Faust: The 21st Century's Charlene Wells?

Last week, Harvard University announced it had appointed Civil War scholar Drew Gilpin Faust to be president of its storied institution. Faust, a woman, is noted for her early stand against segregation in the 1950s as a nine-year old Girl Scout growing up in the Commonwealth of Virginia--a very southern, Confederate, Dixiecrat, segregated state at that time.

Faust will replace Dr. Lawrence Summers who came under fire for suggesting that men are innately smarter than women, which is why there aren't as many women in the sciences as there are men. Summers tried to hold onto his job, but eventually the power of public outcry prevailed and he stepped down.

The appointment of Faust calls to mind a situation in the 80s when disgrace fell upon what was then considered an American icon on par with Mom, apple pie, and baseball--the Miss America Pageant. Founded in 1921, the pageant has become schmaltzier and less credible as an institution over the years, but in the 1980s, it was still a highly anticipated and watched event.

In 1984, that year's Miss America was a young woman named Vanessa Williams. Ms. Williams was, like her predecessors and sister competitors, beautiful, talented, intelligent; she possessed all the characteristics of a perfect Miss America. Until six months later, when it was discovered that Ms. Williams had posed for Playboy magazine. The media metaphorically stripped her to rags and public opinion finished the job. Ms. Williams was disgraced (albeit temporarily) and forced to resign her crown.

The next year, Sharlene Wells of Salt Lake City, Utah, won the vaunted title. Ms. Wells was everything Ms. Williams had been portrayed as not being. The most important being she hadn't posed for Playboy. As a lily-white, never-been-sullied, fifth child of staunch, conservative, "moral" Mormons, she was the perfect answer to the previous year's embarrassment. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief that spread across the nation, saying, "Whew. We don't have to worry about this one." In some respects, it was almost an insult to Ms. Wells and her sister contestants. And yet, was it?

Certainly, the pageant folks knew Ms. Wells, a devout Mormon, would be less likely to have posed for Playboy than her predecessor. Undoubtedly, in the minds of the judges, she was low/no risk.

Perhaps the same could be argued regarding Dr. Faust? She's low/no risk because she believes that women (and all other minorities) are people, too. I dare say, Dr. Faust will be a breath of fresh air at stodgy Hahvahd. Hopefully, she will a bellwether upon which selections by other universities will be based when institutions of higher learning seek new leaders.

To read more about Dr. Faust, go here. And here.

Photo copyright: The Boston Globe

Nonsense

Day 2 of the new, temporary job at PharmaCo.

This morning, I decided I’d drive to the Metro station near my home and try the Park and Ride, metered parking feature. This, as opposed to the Kiss and Ride, the hop - a - bus - and - transfer, the walk - in - the - bitter - cold - of - January, or the drive - downtown - and - sell - your - first - born - to - pay - for - parking - near - your - office options. I left the house around 7:30 and arrived at the Takoma Station around 7:40. The Park and Ride lot was wide open; lots and lots of available spaces. Yippee! I thought.

Then I pulled into the lot and started to read the signs. Seven hour parking. Did I read that correctly? Seven hour parking?! Seven hour parking? Are they kidding?! (“They” being an unknown entity. Is “they” WMATA or the Republic of Takoma Park? It’s a mystery. Regardless, seven hour parking.)

I ask you: who among us—among those of us who ride the Metro into our jobs downtown—who among us works less than seven hours a day? Unless you’re an exceptional federal employee, none of us work less than seven hours a day. I have to be at work no later than 8:15, which means—taking into account possible (read: inevitable) Metro glitches, including trains going out of service, trains crashing into each others, and trains killing customers or employees—I’m on the train around 7:30. I can’t leave work before 5:15, which means—at the earliest—I’m getting back to Takoma Park around 5:45 (again, barring any unforeseen incidents.)

All told, I’m en route and/or at work at least 11 hours. That’s about four hours more than the seven-hour time limit at the Takoma Park Metro Station lot. Can someone tell me, for the love of all that is holy, why there aren’t 12-hour meters for me to feed? Can’t wait to see what my ticket is tonight when I get off the train. So help me, if it’s more than $25, I’m writing a letter to whoever “they” are. After that, I suppose I’ll figure out an alternate means of getting to Metro.

But here’s what really sticks in my craw. In this era of global warming, when more people should get out of their cars and into alternate modes of transportation if they can, organizations like WMATA (or the hippy, crunchy enclave Republic of Takoma Park, as the case may be) should be doing more to encourage the use of the Metro system. Putting in seven-hour-only parking meters isn’t much of an incentive to use more earth-friendly commuting alternatives.

Okay, Metro rant over.

Now for the good things about today.

1. This morning’s sunrise, as seen through the picture windows of the train, was spectacular! Unlike the temperature outside, it was bright and warm and beautiful.
2. Having ham and pineapple pizza for dinner. Yum! Of course, I had to share the pineapple with the Abyssinian.
   
3. The Abyssinian who likes pineapple (not to mention anything meat, sour cream, cantaloupe, and Doritos. Yes, you read that right. A cat that eats Doritos) and seemed to like me tonight, as opposed to hissing and spitting at me.
   

Photo copyright: deviantArt

Languages

I'd like to thank everyone who contributed to yesterday's post on racism and race relations. I really enjoyed all of the comments and e-conversations and hope some of these new found bloggers will become good friends.

Years ago, when I decided to "follow my bliss" and study religion and society in grad school, I would get a lot of folks asking me why I'd chosen that particular field. My response was, and remains, threefold.

First, I chose to study religion because I am fascinated by the need religion fills in peoples lives and the ways in which it manifests itself.

Second, I wanted to learn the languages of faith. In other words, you say Allah and I say God. You say the Holy Trinity and I say the Godhead. You take communion and I take the sacrament. You have a pastor, I have a bishop. You fast and I fast. Each of those terms have significance and meaning within our specific religious context. I want to understand the words you use to explain ideas and concepts, feelings and experiences that are deeply personal and spiritual, while at the same time recognizing that when it comes down to the nuts and bolts, we're all saying the same thing: we believe in something greater than ourselves.

And third, I wanted to find a way to bridge the gap between defensiveness and proselytizing (two elements that often characterize conversations between the faith of my upbringing and others) and creating meaningful, constructive dialogue. In other words, by understanding your language, I'm able to speak in terms that you can hear and that show my understanding and respect for your faith. It also means stepping outside of what is familiar to me, listening to how it sounds to a total stranger, and reframing it in language that can be heard and understood. It's eliminating the exclusiveness and esoteric language and inviting everyone to the table for a conversation.

Does any of that make sense?

I share that perhaps to clarify why I took up the topic of racism on my blog yesterday. I want to learn the languages of race, culture, diversity. I want to understand what certain things mean and why they're important in groups other than my own subcultures. And, most importantly, I want to find ways to create constructive dialogue that allows all sides, but especially the disenfranchised sides, to be heard and respected. I hope, beginning with Creole in D.C. and The Gunfighter, that we started something meaningful and lasting here.

We're still not any closer to being an inclusive society, but I have hope and I hope those who read yesterday's blog or who commented have hope, too.

O.Q. -- It's the New Tedious

Last year, the running joke around these parts was how tedious I am to work with, a la someone with whom I use to work. ("Tedious good or tedious bad," you ask? That depends on who you are. If you like someone who's detail-oriented and on top of things, that's good. If you aren't good at details and staying on top of things and my doing so makes you feel or perhaps even look incompetent, that's bad. For you, anyway. But I stray...)

This year, the running joke is becoming, "I'm not tedious. I'm... (long pause for dramatic effect) over-qualified. O.Q.: It's the neeeeeeew tedious."

Seriously, though, this is the challenge. I feel like Goldilocks in all of this job searching stuff--only in my case, I'm the porridge, the chair, and the bed. I'm either too hot/too cold, too big/too small, too hard/too soft. All I want to be is "just right."

Sure, I'd like a regular 9-to-5 job with a commute and benefits simply because living from project to project and without health insurance is a sure recipe for shortening anyone's lifespan by a good 20 years. But those aren't the only reasons I want to bill hours, punch a clock, plow through email and voicemail, sit in meetings, handhold those who need handholding and be grateful for those who don't, curse bad drivers in the morning and again at night, and pack my own lunch.

I want to make a contribution. I want to be collaborative. I want to see something tangible for my efforts at the end of a day, a week, a month, a year. As it is now, I give the parts of projects I've been asked to do back to my clients and never really know what the outcome is unless I call them when I follow up to see what they need from me next.

2006 was the year of the Butternut Squash. I'd like 2007 to be the year of the Porridge, Chair, and Bed--just right.

Over

My goal, since the new year started, has been to apply for at least one job a day until I find a job. I've been pretty good about applying to something new on at least half of the days in 2007. As we're now on day 19, that means I've applied for at least eight and a half jobs. Some folks I have yet to hear from. Others have emailed me back and said they've already filled the position I expressed an interest in. One or two others have resulted in an interview.

Do you know what the most common remark is I get in my interviews?

"You have a really impressive resume with some great experience and great skills, but I think you're over qualified to work here and you'd be bored to death."

Hm. Okay. I'm hoping that's the case, but I'm starting to wonder if, in fact, this is becoming the polite way to tell me one or a combination of the following.

A. You're over qualified = You are SO not qualified for this job. What the hell were you thinking applying in the first place? Get outta here!

B. You're over qualified = You've had lots of experience in a variety of settings, but we can't find the underlying theme here. Did you come to D.C. to focus on one issue or cause or what?

C. You're over qualified = Wow! You're really good at bullshitting about your skills and abilities. Very impressive, but no go, lady.

D. You're over qualified = You're more than qualified and we're a bunch of idiots who will look stupid if we hire you because you'll be really good at what you do and that will make the rest of us look like the slackers we are.

E. You're over qualified = You'd probably do a decent job here, but D.C. is a small town and we've heard about you. We could really use your kind of skills, but we'd rather have someone who will fawn over us and kiss our ass. Supposedly, you speak up and make suggestions and sometimes even shake things up a bit. And we can't have that.

F. You're over qualified = You're more than qualified, in terms of the primary skill set we're looking for. But, can you write about the left front wheel of train locomotives, because that matters more to us than whether or not we get our product out the door on time, on budget, and within our style guides.

G. You're over qualified = You could do my job.

H. You're over qualified = You're definitely over qualified. Perhaps you should be aiming a little higher in terms of the kinds of jobs you're looking for.

It's one of those. Makes me wish I was content to be a flunky or a slacker or not quite as skilled as I am. Or maybe I need to realize I'm really not that good and I need to take it down a notch or two. Who knows.

With this resume, do you think I could get a job as a barista at Starbucks? Nah. I'm probably under qualified for that...

Pass the Pot, Please

In the midst of my job searching, I've agreed to help out the folks at a major pharmaceutical concern with offices in downtown D.C. The position is temporary and only pays $20/hour. The hiring process is through a temp agency, rather than the company's H.R. department, which has been a mixed bag.

Not only do I have to go through a criminal background check, but I had to undergo a drug test. I don't object to that. And, since I've never smoked pot, snorted coke, shot up heroin, cooked meth, used any illegal substances, consumed alcohol, or abused federally regulated OTC or prescription medications, I have nothing to hide or worry about. Nevertheless, taking this drug test was no cake walk.

You're probably thinking it should have been, though, right? I mean, how hard can it be to pee in a cup or have your blood drawn? Not so hard. But is this the way they conduct drug tests these days?

Noooooooo. No sirree, indeedy. They do not ask you to pee in a cup or prick your finger. Now, they cut your hair.

Yep, that's right. You get a haircut.

And they don't need just one or two strands of hair. Oh, no. That would be easy. They need a quantity of hair the equivalent thickness of a pencil! That's right. Sharpen up that old No. 2, 'cause that's what they're takin'.

I don't wear my hair long to begin with and I just had it cut about 10 days ago, so it's on the short side right now. And because it's short, if it's cut poorly, it shows. In the case of this particular test, they cut off a hair sample at your scalp. No simple snip, snip. We're talking near scalping, folks.

I'm not usually bothered by stuff like this, but I have to say, my participation in this procedure has seriously bothered me. I now have two fuzzy spots on my head where the lab tech cut my hair almost to the skin. I can feel what my head would feel like if I were to shave all of my hair off. And while the thought of actually doing that one day feels daring, this is disconcerting.

Oh, sure, I understand the reason for the drug test, especially if you're going to work for a pharmaceutical company. No one wants to hire a junky. But still...

Is this really worth $20/hour?

Washing Pots in Moab

I'm working through my piles of books and this morning finished reading Stephen Fry's autobiography, Moab is my Washpot. At 436 pages, the 'good bits' don't start until around page 357. Still, it's an interesting look into the life of one of Britian's funniest funny men. Fry speaks candidly and with rawness about the first 20 years of his life.

Behind the face that is Jeeves of Jeeves & Wooster lies the early years of a young boy and adolescent who struggled to find his voice and his place in English society. The middle child of three and son of an inventor, Fry spent his formative years, as do many of England's young people, attending boarding schools and pulling off pranks and pratfalls in the midst of learning. In between, he engages in petty theft and credit card fraud--crimes that eventually land him in court and prison charged as a felon. He sees the error of his ways and extracts himself from a future of dead-ends, applies himself, and goes on to succeed at Cambridge, becomes friends with the likes of Hugh Laurie and Emma Thompson, works as a headmaster teaching English, German, and History, and goes on to become not only one of England's hail and hearty comedians, but a spokesperson for mental illness.

Fry's autobiography also speaks of his struggles finding love and figuring himself out. He finally embraces his sexuality when he falls in love with a school chum called Matthew. While he makes no excuses for his petty thievery and wayward decision making, he does venture that society's inability to embrace homosexuality likely contributed to his misbehavior and petulance. In figuring out himself, Fry engages in some Byronesque writing that is some of the best reading in his autobiography.

All in all, an intriguing book. Written in a rambling, British conversational, stream - of - conscientiousness manner, Moab is My Washpot can be a bit of a slog, but if you're willing to read beyond page 357, you'll find a well-written story that highlights the complexities of human existence and evolution of character. Out of five stars, I'd give this a three. (And a thanks to my friend Hilary for gifting this to me.)

Mr. Harrison, et. al.

Recently, I offered to help a fellow blogger with her autobiographical statement as part of her application to seminary. In her essay she was asked to write about those things or people that/who had influenced her in life. Said blogger wrote warmly of the impact her 7th grade music teacher had in her life and personal development not only as a singer but also as a Christian.

At one point in our email exchanges, she queried how I became such a good writer (her opinion, not mine. I often think my writing sucks. But that's just me being my own worst critic, I suppose.) I replied that, like her singing, I started young, practiced a lot, and had folks who encouraged me in my abilities.

Later, I thought about this more. I realized I had some pretty amazing mentors along the road of writing.

It started with my dad, who read aloud to us every night when we were kids and who encouraged us to read. My mom had a hand in this, too, by making sure we did our homework, particularly if it involved reading. I think the fact that we didn't have t.v. or Atari growing up also contributed to our voracious reading appetites.

It then progressed to my mom who, with her small town Wyoming education, as she likes to say, was the one who taught me how to write an outline, compile note cards, and put it all together into sentences and paragraphs. In high school, when I took Honors English (a class I hated at the time), she hooked me up with her aunt who was a high school English teacher. Aunt Loa taught me how to write a thesis statement and then argue the points of the thesis.

In the midst of this--and prior to high school--there was my 4th grade teacher, Mr. Harrison; except that it was when I was in 6th grade that he made his greatest impact on me. Mr. Harrison was the faculty advisor for Maeser Elementary School's Advanced Talented Program; basically the gifted students program. I was in his program as a sixth grader. Among the requirements were several short papers and one long research paper coupled with an exhibit hall where each student had to design, build, and staff a display that captured their paper.

I chose micrographics and its processes and uses in library and archiving systems. I distinctly remember the papers and exhibits for two of my peers: Glenn Newman, who wrote about Tutankhamen; and Jon Harrison, who put together a claymation movie. I felt certain Jon or Glenn would take first prize, but was stunned to learn that Mr. Harrison had chosen my paper and exhibit for the top prize that year! (I think it was the fact that my dad had filmed and microfiched all 500+ pages of the Book of Mormon onto one fiche card that fascinated him most. P.S. I went to school in Utah, which made using the BOM as an exhibit piece acceptable and especially impressive, I suppose.)

Winning first place for the ATP group was a high point and a boost to my confidence as a writer and researcher. I don't remember doing a lot of writing in junior high, but I certainly remember doing plenty in high school. I also remember my English teachers in those years: Mrs. Oldroyd, who taught us to love Shakespeare; Mrs. Mendenhall, who was dotty, but made us write several research papers and taught us how to write in several different essay styles; Miss March, who made us read the classics and write thesis statements and comparison/contrast essays.

I also had excellent mentors in college. Dr. Lauve Steenhuisen, who now teaches at Georgetown, was one such mentor while I was an undergrad at George Mason U. Dr. Don Compier, who is now dean of the Community of Christ Church seminary in Independence, Missouri, was a wonderful encouragement when I was at the Graduate Theological Union, as was the Rev. Dr. Jane Menton who pushed me and pushed me and pushed me.

Bottom line, though: writing takes practice, which is what I think I enjoy most about blogging. It gives me the opportunity to write. Maybe not about anything important or interesting or even groundbreaking. But it keeps my hand (and head) in the process. Those of you who read my blog keep me motivated, too.

And so, in all humility, I thank you--my fellow bloggers, friends, and family--for reading and continuing the tradition of encouragement that has underscored my life as a writer and lover of words. This one's for you!

Illustration copyright: The Writer at Work.

The Upside

Several friends and fellow bloggers have recently written about worshipping at the Foot of the Porcelain God. There's nothing worse than being sick. And it seems the older we get, the more unpleasant and exhausting it is. (Maybe it was unpleasant and exhausting when we were kids, but our memories were too short to remember then. At least, that's my theory anyway and I'm sticking with it.)

Being unemployed, though, has its advantages. I observed to a friend the other day that after reading about the illnesses of others, I realized, I haven't been sick once in the last nine months!

I don't say that to boast or rub my wellness in the faces of my friends who are suffering the indignities of retchedness. I say it merely to state that work is much more hazardous than I'd realized.

Don't worry, Mom! I'm not going to use it as a reason not to get a job. I'll take a bout with the flu or a cruddy cold any day over calls from my credit card company and dwindling bank accounts.

Resolving My Employment

I haven't made this a New Year's resolution, per se, because NYRs are mostly about things we need to do that are good for us in indirect ways. Like reading so many books in a week or writing in our journals/blogs or giving up chocolate (that last one will never happen in my lifetime unless my internist orders me to do so. And even then, it will be a fight.)

Having said that, I have decided rather firmly on a course of action to end my unemployment. I am going to apply for at least one job every day until I get a job. Necessity and my credit rating dictate that 2007 is going to be the Year of the Success for me (I read it in a fortune cookie, so it has to be true, right?)

I'm going to make publishing my number one priority, with an open mind toward grant writing and foundation work. I'd prefer less grant writing and more foundation work, though, barring a job as managing editor. If I'm going to do that sort of thing, I think I'd like the experience of being the one giving away the money, not the one begging for it.

I'm off to the job boards and classifieds. Wish me luck!

Note: To learn where I'm applying on a daily basis, see the right sidebar under "My Profile."

Photo copyright: Time Inc. Archives.

Day 19: High School

Apparently, I did well in high school. Not that it matters 20 years later, really.

You paid attention during 86% of high school!

 

85-100% You must be an autodidact, because American high schools don't get scores that high! Good show, old chap!

Do you deserve your high school diploma?
Create a Quiz

And speaking of that, can you name the capitals of all 50 states without cheating and looking at a map? I use to know them all, but I can't remember North Dakota... Oh, wait, Bismark. Never mind.

Here's another one for you: name the four U.S. states with state capitals that begin with the same first letter as the state. I'll give you one of the four: Indianapolis, Indiana.

And here's yet another one. This was the final Jeopardy question a few nights ago. Name a homophone that sounds like the letter it is and that begins with a consonant followed by four vowels.

Day 7: Alliteration

al-lit-er-a-tion (noun): the occurrence of the same letter or sound at the beginning of adjacent or closely connected words. ORIGIN early 17th cent.: from medieval Latin alliteratio(n-), from Latin ad- (expressing addition) + littera 'letter.'

While I'm no Dr. Seuss, this is what might have happened at this year's Christmas party at my house:

Avuncular actuarials and academics eat Adriana's Advent asapargus aspics while bulbous, bodacious babes and beach bums brag about sunbathing along the boardwalk in Barbados. Cats cavorting, cuddling, and conjoling, connivingly convince convivial canines to conspire to capture and consume crunchy crudite. In the corner, dilly-dallying dervishes drain devilishly dramatic draughts of drink while dancing with Di. Eccentric electricians eat eggs as elegant engineers extrapolate explanations for Einstein's evocative eee equaling em-cee-squared.

Outside, fortuitously frolicking firearms amateurs face off with a gun safety guru, the Gunfighter, who guides gunslingers on the grange goosing grouse and grousing geese with gunshot. Meanwhile, hotelier Hilton heeds headlines regarding hotty-totty daughter and hollers, "Heel!" I spy and eye jazzed up Jews for Jesus in jammies jauntily juxtaposed with Kip and Kelly in kilts a-kimbo keeping kebabs kosher as Lena lends her luscious libretto to the lively alleluias ringing out in the lyceum.

Men mainly meander and muck about mincing words without modesty or modicum while naysayers and nabobs nit-pick over obtuse orators and politicians pontificating proudly pursuant to pork barrels and pay raises. In the observatory, the Queen quells queries regarding regimental raiments and regal robes. Sitting serenely on the settee, Sister Mary Lisa sagely supplies succor and solace to sad seekers in smelly sneakers and supine sots in soggy socks.

Twitterpatted toadies temptuously attempt to tantalize taciturn tarts with talking points who then end up understandably upset and uninterested. Varietals from vineyards various and vast flow from vats large and small. While back at the ranch, W whittles away at what's left of the world, 'xpecting 'xigent acceptance of his 'xistential claptrap.

Why worry over year-end yearnings and yadda yadda ya's? It's yuletide! Throw a yule log on the fire and yodel. Zany, zooty Zwinglians and Zorasters with zithers will serenade Zouaves with zydeco as we gather 'round the egg nog and shout "Zounds!"

Note to readers: If you can craft a sentence that uses your blog name in an alliterative manner, I'll post it here. I tried to include everyone who's over in my Links list, but alas, I failed.


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UPDATE: Please read the Comments section for other examples of fabulous alliterative writing by Sideon, Sister Mary Lisa, Miss Understood, and the Gunfighter...

Day 2 (Part 2): Finding a Job is Haaaaaard...

Please note that on October 14 I wrote about the fact that I'd written this exact entry. At the time, it didn't seem like a good thing to post. In re-reading it, though, I think it's a good post and I'm putting it up here. If I think it will be detrimental to my getting a job, I'll take it down.

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Warning: Whininess about to ensue. Full throttle nudity, as well, as I strip myself down to the core and make myself vulnerable to the loyal and/or erstwhile few who either read this blog as a way of passing time or who stumbled here by accident.

Caution: LONG blog entry.

So, as many of you know, I've been jobless since March and trying to find "the next great thing" ever since. What the TNGT is, I haven't a clue. It would seem my "career" trajectory has been in a slow, downward tailspin ever since I thought it would be a good idea to leave San Francisco and come back to Washington, D.C.

Let's review, shall we?

In 1995, I graduate from George Mason University—just another one of thouands with a largely useless liberal arts degree—and move to California to pursue a master's degree at a private religious consortium.

In 1996, I discover that living on student loans is horrifyingly unacceptable and decide I should get a job and go to school full time. I acquire said job as an editorial intern for a socially progressive trade publisher and begin working my way up the ladder of responsibility and pay. (Starting salary: $28,000.)

Zoom ahead to 2001: I'm now successfully working as managing editor of books and special projects for a trade publisher that covers the pulp and paper industry. A yawner, I know, but I can not only get the books off press on time, I can also explain the mechanics of a fourdrinier paper machine and a host of paper end products ranging from kraft paper to corrugated medium to toilet paper to your average lay person. (Salary: 56% increase over starting base pay; promotions: four in six years.)

In 2002, I accept a job as a policy manager at the trade association for the paper industry. Headquartered in Washington, D.C., I (insert adverb) leave San Francisco and return to the East Coast. I take the job for two reasons and two reasons only: first, to build my resume/work experience/knowledge base and, second, to increase my salary. I do not—with an emphasis on NOT—come to Washington with delusions of grandeur or intentions of changing/saving/radically transforming the world like so many of the masses who flock to Capitol Hill each year. I come to learn and make money, straight up. (Starting salary: 15% increase over previous salary.)

I maneuver clumsily through the politics of said conservative organization, but eventually manage to stay on the proverbial horse and learn and write lots and lots of talking points about why recycling paper is important. I also engage in a little fund raising, bridge building, and event coordination. I begin to draw up a career plan: learn all I can about the environmental virtues of recycling and sustainability and begin looking for a job with a corporation doing enviro, greeny stuff.

Around the end of 2004, I get kicked to the curb because there are three of us doing the same thing and one of us has to go. We can't fire the director because said director is the important cog in the trifeca and the admin makes less than I do, so I draw the short straw. (Departing salary: 7% increase over previous salary.)

Strike one to career plan.

Skip ahead a few weeks: I interview with a HUGE multi-national corporate conglomerate with offices in the only southern city east of the Mississippi of cultural consequence at the moment. They like me but forget to get back to me. When they finally do, it's only after being prodded by one of the non-profits they support and I work with. They tell me they’ve decided to go with an internal candidate instead. Foul ball/ball one to career plan.

Skip ahead a couple of months: I'm in the office of an itty bitty, teensy weensy, yellow polka dot bikini non-profit that advocates for recycling. Same said non-profit is one of the organizations for which I've raised money and with which I've built bridges. We--the executive director and I--decide I should become fund development director because a) I'm highly organized and detail oriented, b) she's overwhelmed and needs someone to pick up the slack with sponsors, and c) because I “get” what IBTWYPDB non-profit is about and I'm good at organizing high level, corporate/executive events. I agree to deviate from my career plan, recognizing that this job will actually put me in touch with the kind of people at corporations where I want my next job. The only reason I take this job: so I can network and get the next job in two years or so. (Starting salary: 4% over previous salary with a $10K bonus.)

In 2005, previously enamored executive director kicks me to the curb and pins failure to meet fund development goals fully and unashamedly on my chest (a topic for a whole other blog) while failing to acknowledge her own role in failed plan. (Departing severance: $0 and none of the bonus, of which I’m entitled to at least half, since I met 50% of the fund development goals and I know the company underwriting my position has paid the bonus. That last point, by the way, is a violation of all that is holy in fund development. When a company/foundation gives money and it's not used for its original, stated intention, the receiver/non-profit is suppose to give it back or talk to the giver about what to do differently. I have a strong suspicion said discussion never took place between receiver and giver. But again, a subject for another blog.)

Strike two to my career plan. (Note to self: Modify hitting stance and decide to look at opportunities in addition to enviro, greeny stuff.)

Gaily skip along to October. I’ve long-weeks-ago jettisoned my original career plan, deciding I want nothing to do with recycling or sustainability because they’re just words anyway and I’m done with that heady jazz. I just want to get down to work and wrap my hands around a project. I decide to get back to what I started in and was really good at: publishing.

So, I start to pursue that vein and I even land an interview with a publishing firm in the D.C./Metro area where the executive suites are fully occupied by the same folks who used to lead the company I worked for in San Francisco. I even meet with the VP of HR who goes to bat for me within the company. I interview for a position as managing editor for a trade pub that writes about non-fixed wing aircraft. They’re desperate for someone to get them back on track. They need someone to enforce and police deadlines. They want someone who can make their magazine shine and comply with style guides. They’re looking for somebody who can write and contribute content. The pay is significantly less than my previous jobs, but I'm willing to take a cut in pay to get back into publishing.

I’m doing the “I’m going to wet my pants I’m so excited” dance over in the corner with my hand raised saying, “Pick me! Pick me!” Thinking I'm on the upswing, I then get an email several weeks ago from the aforementioned VP of HR who tells me that all the editors who are Desperately Seeking a Managing Editor are fixated on finding an editor who has “industry experience and knowledge” who can write about whirly birds and whirly gigs right out the gate. Screw deadlines. Style guides be damned. They want a writer, not a manager. Or, they want a writer who will feign managing.

Strike three.

And I’m left standing in the corner thinking, “Fudge balls! Fudgity, fudgity, fudgity, fudge balls.”

So, dear readers, what would you advise?

I really want to work in publishing again. (Hell, let's face it: I really just want to work again.)

I have a reputation for getting the job done.

I have a reputation for grasping concepts and ideas quickly and being able to assimilate and explain those concepts and ideas so seasoned professionals and lay people alike understand and don’t feel talked down to or talked over.

What do I have to do to land a job in publishing where I’ll not only prove I can get your magazine/newsletter/website/book/blog/ whatever your media is off press on time, on budget, and looking good, but where I can contribute content to said medium of choice after a short learning period?

Help, oh wise ones.

Okay, whining over.

To see my resume, go to this site: Kincaid & Associates. Or click on November 29's blog entry and read on. Please ignore what I’m doing now. I am doing that stuff, but only as a placeholder. A girl has to eat. (Or, in my case, pay the mortgage, car payment, insurance, student loans, utility bills, gas, groceries….)

Day 1 (Part 3): No Comment

Okay, I'm giving up on leaving comments on my favorite blogs and any new blogs I visit, because it seems 9 times out of 10 I make glaring grammar errors and I fail to catch them before I hit "Login and Publish."

For example, yesterday, I told Rio Grande Valley Girl, she should expect me at "your house of lunch today." I suppose improper use of a preposition isn't the worst thing. I mean, maybe RGVG is opening a restaurant called House of Lunch. Still...

And on Sister Mary Lisa's blog, I left a comment about being a blogaholic. I wrote, "Hi, my Janet and I'm a blogaholic..." It was only after I hit send that I noticed l'd left out the ever so important "name is." Had to go back and delete and resubmit that comment.

Then, this morning, I'm over at Big Sky Girl (formerly Beauty and the Beltway) and I left a comment about people who choose not to wear underwear. I said, regarding the easy, breezy underwear-less, "I suppose I can see not wearing undies when you're pants, but when you're wearing a skirt?!?"

Ugh!

Wearing! Wearing. When you're wearing pants.

Gag.

Of course, I guess if I was a pair of pants, I wouldn't want to wear underwear either. I mean, how silly would that look? Nice pair of pants with a pair of undies on the outside? Not exactly the best superhero look, now is it?

I think I'm imposing a moratorium on comments. Otherwise, I'm going to have to hire a proofreader.

Day 29: Résumé Queen

Still unemployed.

But.... I'm becoming the Résumé Queen.

A few nights ago, a friend (I won't say who, on the off chance her web usage is being tracked at her workplace) who is looking for a new job, came over and I helped her with her "I'm Wonderful! Hire Me!" document. In the midst of working together, my friend, Rio Grande Valley Girl, called and asked for similar assistance.

I just finished helping my dad with his résumé.

And, I'm revising mine.

I wonder if I should do this for a living and forget finding a 9-to-5, in-an-office-with-benefits job?

Nah.

It's enjoyable, but I think I really need to get something more permanent and stable.

Still, if you have a résumé you want to beef up or if you have a résumé sample you think is the absolute BOMB, please share.

Here are two formats I use.

The first is very traditional. (Both résumés have been redacted as a privacy measure.)










The second is a bit edgier and interesting.











Of course, if I keep this up, I may have to develop a fee structure...

(Please note: I'm trying to figure out how to embed an Adobe PDF file into this blog entry so you can actually see all of the pages of the résumés. The second one is a great format that includes a list of selected accomplishments, then a list of the person's professional experience. As soon as I can get this figured out, I'll fix this posting.)

Day 17: On My Worst Enemy

I wouldn't wish the job of taxi dispatcher on my worst enemy. But this guy writes so beautifully about it, it almost makes you want to run out and apply, just for an outlet to vent your disbelief at morons and idiots. Honestly, you can't make this stuff up.

Read on, MacDuff, read on.

Day 15: Grammar Going to Pot

My grammar is going to hell in a hand basket.

Yesterday, a fellow blogger wrote about how the Marine Corps' Toys for Tots Foundation has refused to accept 4,000 talking Jesus dolls (something I agree with, by the way.) I wrote this comment: "Toys for Tots is about the kids. Not about politics or religion affiliation." (And that's just one example of my bad grammar of late. There are more. Many more.)

Religion affiliation? RELIGION affiliation?

Arrrrrrrrrrrgh.

RELIGIOUS affiliation, dummkopf.

And speaking of religion, next week is the annual meeting of the American Academy of Religion. They're holding their convention here in D.C. this year. I may just dust off my Master's Degree in Religion and Society and head over to the convention center. I'd like to find out what possibilities exist for the application of my degree in the secular world.

I hear that spirituality and environmentalism are becoming the next big thing in denominations and religious life. I could get behind that, especially since I believe people, in general, and people of faith, in particular, should be better stewards of the earth and its resources.

Day 12: Onomatopoeia

Today’s weather, in a word: drizzly.




Don’t you love words that sound like the thing they are?




What’s your favorite onomatopoeia?








Photo courtesy of iStock Photo.

Counter-Musing

Stumbled across this musing today on a random blog that was rolling on Blogger's log-in page.

Being in a contrary mood this morning, here's what I wish:

Wouldn't it be great if, for one day, others could see what we see in ourselves? All of it? The good, the bad, the ugly. The true depths of our hearts. Our real intentions. Our integrity and fallacy. Understand what we mean when we say what we say; what we intended and didn't intend; how we felt and didn't feel?

How nice would it be if everyone suspended judgements, assumptions, stereotypes, and prejudices and clearly articulated expectations, feelings, perceptions, and methods?

How nice would it be if we would stop expecting others to read our minds and actually took a little time out to mentor rather than criticize? Communicate rather than gossip?

Wouldn't it be great if we'd stop bullshitting and get to the point? Stop beating around the bush and just get the job done?

Wouldn't it be great?