The Search is On…

According to The Secret when one is in need of a particular something, all they need do is make a request to the Universe. Although many a day is spent cross legged on the floor, humming some nonsense to quiet the mind and open up for all the good the Universe has to offer, I’m coming up short on the job front. I figure the trick might be to put it out there into the bigger Universe–the blogosphere; ‘cuz for sure all business tycoons with the ability to hire are searching wordpress.com for people like me right? I’m going to put it out there anyway. Take the chance. State right up front my wishes and talents, then sit back and wait for delivery. According to Secret lore, it’s as easy as picking from the catalog of the Universe. So here’s my pick: Who wants to pay me six figures, or more, to sit in a comfy chair, wear lovely dresses, drink dirty martinis and judge the outfits of others?

If I center myself, and my third eye, I am told to make a list of my talents, how I work most effectively, what I really get lost in and that will lead to personal happiness and money. In real life, public relations, marketing, media stuff and events is my schtick. Which means I talk to people about you or your organization, make you or your organization look good, speak for you on tv and throw your parties. Really, is that so hard to conjure, Universe? Asshat.

It’s not that there aren’t interviews, and second interviews and third interviews and interviews with the president of the company. What I’m having troubles with is closing the deal. And given how patient I am, various companies don’t take kindly to my gentle prodding nature. Tenacity is a trait to be used on their behalf not in their faces. Some even have the audacity not to respond at all. I’ve heard this from other job seekers as well. So not only have you stopped doling out positions, you’ve also stopped using basic manners? What is your mother’s name? She needs a personal phone call. This Sunday when you go to dinner, prepare to have your ass beat.

Other reasons for not getting hired may include jealousy over my stunning footwear. Or my constant chatter. Or my obsession with how long lunch is and do we all go together? Actually I’m a serious person and I never take work casually. I stay up all night night long writing chapters, proposals and media guides. Granted there’s usually a dirty martini next to me but the job gets done.

Up until sixteen months ago, when my husband had the nerve to drop dead and leave the finding of health insurance, job security, oil changes and heavy lifting to me, I worked for fun. I was a professional world saver; read nonprofit. Only with conservative values and great shoes. At least once a week, The Norwegian warned against bringing home another stray, be it child or cat. I spent my days convincing the press, politicians and businesses that we must focus on our children. I lobbied in DC that if we don’t take care of the least of us, the best of us will crumble. All in two tone pumps.

One must consider as well, is it presentation? I’m gaining weight. It’s bothering me. Granted I sit on my ass all day exercising only my fingers on a keyboard and still I’m baffled. I figure the best solution is to self tan it. We all know fat looks better tan so for my next interview, I’m slathering up. All my fat stores will bathed in a warm golden hue. God forbid they be toned. That might involve movement and stimulation of something other than my brain. Pfft.

Here’s the things I know I can’t do. Sitting still kind of bothers me. I look around the room and silently decorate it to my liking. I question your placement of the armoire and the upholstery on the chairs. Then I wander office halls looking for friends who might like to chat. My last job featured a boss who liked charts. She was a brainy banker; a bit stiff for my taste. And bad shoes. Heinous shoes. She preferred my every thought recorded on a spreadsheet. Event planners, pr people, creative, flighty-brained types and party planners across the globe don’t really function well in Excel. We think impressions and feelings and colors and baubles and decorations and ambience, food and wine and appropriate cocktail wear. Our brains aren’t filled with charts and graphs. They’re filled with flowers and aromas and amazing food and entertainment and great fonts. And how to make you look good on tv; starting with the shoes. For us, it dampens the spirit of the festivities to have all this charted. This particular boss, and her bank brain, believed all the world’s problems could be solved by placing information in little Excel boxes. And got mad when those charts didn’t look like hers. Mine were the ones done in pink with ribbons to hold the pages together. Point being–chart making, unless its with scented magic markers, is out.

Also, I can’t be quiet. It’s like a tic or something. If it gets quiet for too prolonged a time, I have the overwhelming urge to scream out and then laugh. Although I don’t appreciate when someone does it to me during quiet time. I also don’t care for numbers, casual Friday or grumpy coworkers. But if we circle back The Secret way, we are reminded to look at what we’re good at and focus there. So I examine what I’m good at, really really good at. Conclusions? Determining what skirt length is appropriate for your shape and height. Applying makeup, especially mascara. Getting my nails done. Mixing the perfect dirty martini, shaken perfectly with ice crystals. Having lunch with girlfriends. Spotting the most expensive item on the rack. Making pearls work with any outfit. And snark; I’m kinda good at snark. Oh, and sharing my opinion. I’m kinda good at that too.

So, maybe, as the only thing that spills out of me with ease is words, therein lies the actual secret to The Secret. Who wants to advertise on the blog? I’ll sell my dignity for your business. I have no shame. Saying that upfront dismisses your judgy pants from saying it to your girlfriends. Gossip kind of loses its sailing wind when the subject says, “Yeah, so?”

So if you should stumble upon an ad for an older, fashiony, pearl wearing, talkative snarkist bitch who is known to drop an f bomb now and again, give them my number won’t you?