Collecting Unemployment...

...Is the new 30.

So.

I am an operations manager for a local company.

Last week, the owner and I-in anticipation of a rise in business due to the upcoming holiday season, decided to run an employment ad.

We want to hire 2 people.

The procedure for this was-send a job application/resume to our page at Facebook. If you are qualified for the position, I instructed that I would send that candidate 5 follow up questions via email before we go forward in setting up a face to face interview.

We got about 20 responses pretty quickly after we posted the ad.

Out of the 20 I pre-screened (checked the qualifications on the app, looked at the Facebook pages if they had an open page, and made sure that the application was filled out correctly to confirm they could follow directions)
I chose 10 of those 20 people to send the 5 questions to.

Out of those 10...not one response. (crickets...taps mic...is this thing on???)

So after this-I send reminders to each person via Facebook messenger.

Almost all of them claimed they hadn't received an email.
I told them to check their spam folder.

The first funny moment of this blog entry is being brought to you by: The Midvale School For the Gifted...where hurtin' is learnin'

These were the responses:

1. What's spam?
2. I don't have a spam folder.
3. IDK.
4. I don't know what a spam folder is.
5. I'm going to decline at this time.  (What???)
6-10. No response.

And those were just the people I did choose to send follow up to.
Nevermind the ones that didn't even get that far.

--There was the girl whose Facebook page was littered with naked men, trash talk, fuck this, fuck that, fuck yo' mama, and death threats. (nope, not kidding)

--Or the girl whose entire job application was filled with text lingo (not the same person with the IDK above)
For instance:
Work experience:
"Barnett's Bar and Grill. 2010-2010. I quit bcuz my BFF had a little baby and IDK what else, but there was many reasons. I don't like getting u ice. "(verbatim)

--Or the person-who sent an image with her resume (not sure why?) of her holding a gun in her hand with a sign behind her that says Guns and girlz-trying to look tough and militant, holding a gun.
That she sent -with a job application.

--And last worth mentioning...the girl who sent no work history-and when asked for it in a follow up email-says:

Applicant: How do I do that? Do you want me to have my former boss call you?

Me: No...I just need you to put it all in the application and send to me.

Applicant: Oh...Ok...But wouldn't it be easier to just have my uncle call you?

Me: (Blank stare) Actually, I'll contact you if we would like to set up an interview. If you don't hear from us, we have filled the position, thank you.

Applicant: Here is his number (---) --- ----

Me: ??????????

So now that the comedy part is over let's talk about-how in the hell.

Did they never teach this in schools? And how do you survive your life not knowing how to properly fill out a job application? Or, have the common sense to understand what SPAM is?

And before you think...they must be young.
1. Millennials know more about computers than people my age do, typically.
2. Bullshit.
3. See #1 and #2.
4. Some of these people were mid 30's. None of the candidates I contacted were under 30, save one. And she was 28.

30 years on the G-damn planet and you don't know how to fill out a job application, or submit a resume, or properly communicate your need for employment?
How do they feed themselves?

I mean this literally.

I mean...without he bib, drool bucket, and helmet HOW do they survive?????

And I keep thinking about unemployment. I mean, if most of these people are currently unemployed (no shocker there, amiright?) HOW do they manage their way through the paperwork of unemployment?
I mean have you seen that total shit the bed conglomeration of red tape and unnecessary ridiculousness that comes with filing for unemployment benefits?
It's like being stuck in the sights of a bureaucratic confetti Cannon that shoots like a batting cage machine for DAYS. Like a literal barrage of nonsensical Dr. Suess Language translated by Klingons.
And THAT -they understand?

But, filling out a job application that begins with the first line asking:

Full Name. 

And it's just all too much?

Good lawd. I need a cocktail.

The universal symbol for staffing should be this:

That's Captain Piquard. Yes, I know this is the second Trek reference in this entry. I'm not sure why this has happened. 

So, to those who are job seeking....please, for the love of ALL that is holy,  treat it more like JOB seeking, and less like DRUG seeking. 

And leave the damn hashtags out of it. 

#commonsense

#isnot

#aflower

#thatgrows

#ineveryones

#garden

None of this is fictional, I'm not that good of a writer. 

XOXO, 

Bosslady.   

As husbands go...

...Mine is top notch.

A letter to my Husband,

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter what anyone thinks, or presumes, or assumes.
Opinions-are like assholes. Everyone has one, and some stink worse than others.
But this post isn't about opinions. It's about facts.

It's about YOU.

The YOU who works hard every day of his life to provide.
The YOU who tries, no matter what. You never give up. (yes, I notice)
The YOU who loves those in his life (even the jackass people who do not deserve it) with a fierceness that equals the heat of the sun.
The YOU who takes care of me, in spite of myself.
The YOU who wants everyone to be happy, and will drive yourself crazy looking for ways to make this happen-even to your own detriment.
The YOU who loves my kid, even when he is a teenaged butthead.
And the YOU...who loves me.

The same girl who knows all this and probably doesn't deserve you all of the time.
And definitely doesn't tell you enough.

I appreciate you.
I love you endlessly.

You are my only future and the best part of my past.

So keeping being YOU. The only YOU, I adore. Because in this life it will always ONLY be YOU and ME.

XOXO,
Wifey.

Drama Queens and Toxic Feet.

I am known for rushing headlong into things.
I am a doer. Not a stand in the sidelines kind of person.

I will almost always volunteer for things-unless it is singing. because, trust me-no one wants to hear that. Ever heard cats under your window or in the alley out back doing it?
If you have, you know the sound of horror.

That's me. Singing.

Damnit. I hate it when I get off track. Sorry, I did have a point. I blame the lack of Ritalin.

Anyway, I was always the person who sat in the front row of class if I could. I always raised my hand. I always volunteered for extra duties, and extra things.
Yes, I was THAT girl.

So, recently I auditioned for a play (not a musical, we covered this already) A play. A macabre, Ray Bradbury, Halloween time play. And I got a part. Miraculously.
Not the part I auditioned for-which was a kind of minor lead..
But, I was stoked to even be chosen at all. with 80-ish people who auditioned with me (for a non-musical) which set a record, I'm told.
I was one of the 20 chosen for a role, and one of the 10 with speaking parts.
So, this was a shock.

Last week, I got a text message from the director...

Director Lady: Hi...this is director lady...and something happened to our one of our characters, and I would like to invite you to come and read for the Salesman-again. Listen, you are the favorite, I won't lie. You read the scene perfectly when you auditioned and It was between you and the person I originally chose, but we have to do some shifting because someone is leaving the cast because of a family obligation...So, will you read for it? I have to hold another audition to be fair...

Me:  😲

So, being the ever-nutty volunteer...I said...yes. I was still a little stunned considering that this is literally my first play since high school-almost 30 years ago.  (yes, I'm old AND fat-shut up)

But after I saw the larger volume of lines to memorize, the longer rehearsal schedule, and the time dedication needed...the ego, the volunteer in me,  the incessant need for validation all but vanished-and there was the older, wiser, and definitely more practical side of me saying...um...so...about that?

Long story short...I declined. I did so because my son starts football next week, my real job just got insanely busy all of a sudden (which is good, and bad) and my second job starts in late September. Which, this week alone-at just the thought of it, has sent me into a bit of a tailspin of anxiety, and stressy, snotty, attitude-and lack of sleep, and or wanting to sleep all day.

Currently, me:

I know pretty easily one sure-fire indication of stress build or the early warning signs of a full-out anxiety attack-and that is wanting to take naps during the day.
I don't like naps. Well, I love them. But, my body does not. Meaning, they feel great while in the process, but the waking part is horrible. I wake super cranky, massively groggy, and murderous.
Nope.
Not exaggerating.
It's best to stay quiet and far away from me after a nap because-

I hate everything.

Babies, giraffes, my sons hugs, strong coffee, pizza. Nothing is safe. I hate it all. Naps + Jadedgirl= death to all things. Nothing or no one- is safe.

And last week, right around noon-ish...the sleepy set in. I resisted most of the days and just guzzled another cup of coffee-but as a side note-this doesn't help me. This just makes me edgy and still tired-which puts me in virtually the same state as I am after a nap...so it's a lose-lose.

And this was the heads up I needed.

There was literally NO WAY I could possibly take on more with my body sending signals like this.
As much as I am a volunteer, and an "eager beaver"-I also tend to get overwhelmed easily.  So, I turned it down. And I am happy about my decision to do so.
Because the director was having issues with her decision, I made things easier for her-which in turn, made her say that she already has a starring role in mind for me for her next play...
Oh my.

I'm in good graces. That's totally not typical.

To note...I am still stressy. It happens at this time of year-almost every year.
So much all at once tends to make me a little (ha!)  off kilter. Also, I haven't been exercising. I don't know why. I just stopped after we came back from vacation. Laziness maybe. Maybe lack of energy due to all of the stress.
I know that slippery slope. Like the anti-drug commercials of the 80's (gotta buy more cocaine so I can work, gotta work so I can buy more cocaine)
The exercise helps the cortisol build and the stress-it also fights the anxiety, and helps you sleep better. But, the stress and generalized anxiety disorder also saps your energy and gives you zero motivation-which makes it terribly difficult to get out and just do it. Anxiety is a total bastard. Maybe I should give my anxiety a name, you know...to humanize it, but not in the good way. Maybe, giving it a name (knowing how much I loathe people as a whole) will help me hate it more and drive me to kill it. Killing it with exercise and happy thoughts?
That's an idea!
How about Hitler?
Or...or...
TRUMP! No...too easy.
Who else do I hate? Hmmm?
Pro life bombers? (I don't have an actual name here, that won't work)
Osama Bin Laden! No...too ethnic and way too long.
The Westboro Baptist Church?
Nope, still too long.
Women who play the victim?
No. Too controversial.
Ooh! I know! COMCAST!

This is something I am apparently going to have to think more about. I mean it has to be effective. Sigh. I'll dedicate time to that...later.

And see how easy that A.D.D. kicks in? Damnit, man.

So... there is almost always too much going on in early September.
I won't list it all and bore you, but what I mentioned above was but a whisper of the stuff going down in my life currently.
However, without the worry of even more being thrown at me like a wild pitch in the major league-I feel enough lighter not to have a major meltdown.
And when I say meltdown-I mean, major BF (bitch fit) Like, land moving proportions.
And the aftermath is usually even worse than the initial storm.
The wreckage is a weeks-long cleanup process. My wake is devastation. True fucking story.

Ever heard of the elephants foot in Chernobyl?

Read this: 

Yes. It really is that bad.

So having said all that...knowing my limitations, I have to learn how to not have to be the boss all of the time, and also...learn how to hang back and just go with it occasionally.
It's not easy for me. It goes altogether against my nature.

But, at this time of year-it must be done-mostly to avoid poisoning all of my friends and family with my deadly toxic radiation. It doesn't smell good.

So this week has been full of meditation, and avoidance, and bottling things.

You know what happens when you bottle a volcano? At some point...

You get the point.

Next week will be different. I am going to make a schedule.
A schedule that dedicates time to each task in my week.
And will NOT deviate-lest someone wants me to lose that Goddamned cork.

And I will happily sit through my minor role rehearsals and love that I am doing it at all.

Life in the drama lane.

By The Pricking of my thumb, something Wicket this way comes...

Belly rise...belly fall.

XOXO,
Thespian girl.

Weekly yay or nay.

Read this:

I have decided to do a weekly thing. Basically, I am going to pick apart memes, post comically in yay fashion, about an article, or rip it to shreds. 

Fun, huh?

Look. I spend too much time on the cesspool of Facebook. I know it, you know it, and the world knows it. It's a guilty indulgence. But, one I make no apologies for because I have anxiety. And because of this...the escape of the non real world in this shiny little box is the thing that takes my head away from whatever is freaking me out on any given day. Also, Facebook is part of my job. I do social media stuff among other tasks as an operations manager for a local company.  So, there you are. 

So, I see a ton of "dank" memes. And a ton of "fake news" and even more fundamentalist religion posts and crazy Trumptards spouting something about how that one Mexican guy is stealing their neighbors' job....🙄

It's like almost 100% of the newsfeed, kids. 

However...It's not as bad as my anxiety is. 

Yes, that's sad, I know. Don't cry for me, I'm scrappy. 

For instance-Today, I almost chewed the inside of my cheeks off at the other necessary-evil cesspool of Walmart because of it. They are remodeling, and it was busy, and people-en masse (especially Walmart customers) suck like a Dyson Airblade.  My husband had to pull me aside and make me focus on him and kiss him to distract me from literally considering going Waterboy on 2 specific clerks who were standing there...talking...not working-with crap all over in the aisles and 10 people trying to maneuver past. Bumping me, Pushing me with their carts, and no one saying excuse me. The people are bad, but the clerks standing there talking- rather than clearing the aisle was infuriating. I had a mental scenario of me grabbing the loaves of bread and tearing them open and pitching bread slices at every person walking by like a pissed off baboon. Only throwing bread...not shit. 

I'm not that bad. Although, I have a sneaking suspicion that throwing shit would effectively clear the aisle. 

And my ass isn't red, it's white. I don't sunbathe. 

Food for thought. 

Sorry...tangent. 

So, anyway-via my blog...I decided to-much like the Empire-Strike back. (nerdy star wars reference) You'll have that sometimes, although...it is usually a comic book thing, but the Vader thing fits today. 

So the first article is the one I posted above.

I used to love Cracked Magazine. I was a faithful reader and hearty-laugher for years. The snark factor alone was seriously the best the net has to offer.
But, for the past few years I have noticed a massive slide in material.
It's not funny anymore.
It's still plenty of tongue-in-cheek humor, but lame tongue-in-cheek.
Nothing clever about it. It's like poking fun at the retarded kid...too easy.
(Shutup, I never said this blog was PC-I'm fat, and am OK with being called FAT. Because, it is what I am)
Enough qualification.
Cracked Magazine sucks.

Yep. I said it.

It is no longer the mag of 10 years ago, with the brilliant article of bad ass Bible verses, or the 20 worst presidents, or damn...there really were so many awesome, piss myself laughing articles.
Now, it's come to what you see above, which I will get to in just a moment.
First, the less important reason it now sucks.
Because they have gone political. And not in the good way.
Look, I don't like it when businesses or even magazines or any media decides to pick a political side. I think that should stay in your own wheel house. I mean...why would you pigeonhole yourself into that one side of viewership/readership?
Isn't a business about money?

I'm a believer in capitalism, what can I say.

So...being a true middle of the road cruiser, myself-seeing the liberal agenda there on a daily basis and leaning as left as they can...it has left a bad taste in my mouth-so now, coupled with reason #1...bad writing, bad articles-it is now OPEN SEASON on Cracked for week one.
Damn, I hadn't intended for that explanation to go on that long...sorry.

The article above is more like something out of Cosmopolitan...right next to the quiz about how high your eyebrow arches should be, or how many martinis should you drink before a big job interview.
You think I'm kidding about Cosmo. I'm not. In my 20's it was "so insightful" and now: Schlock. Schlock and partial nudity wrapped in bad fashion.
Maybe I will buy a Cosmo and do that next week? There is comedy gold in dem der hills.

Anyway, the article above is one I saved for awhile. Because it is tragically stupid, un-funny, and ridiculously wrong. You know, I'd say...get a sense of humor plebe...but, it's not funny. At ALL. So, it's not even really a spoof. Just obtuse, non-facts disguised as sarcasm-all poorly written. Like most of their articles these days. Lame.
This one asks the question: why would a successful, pretty, woman ever agree to marry a guy like George Costanza.
If you didn't watch Seinfeld...this part could be confusing-you have been warned.
We know George was a tool.
We also know that he was shallow, vapid, and losery to the nth power.
(I said a math thing...wow)

This stems from women. Maybe successful. Maybe pretty. But, mostly a little desperate.
Women of a certain age-at least here in my neck of the woods can get a little eager-for lack of a better term-in their late 30's to lasso them a man.
No, I didn't leave the word "good" out by accident.

Ever thought about why men hold all of the Goddamned cards in that area? I don't have an answer for that, but...how many women really want to flip that script? Do you really want to be the woman who has the responsibility of making that decision on marriage and settling down? I mean, Independence is one thing...but I was always moved by the man choosing me. That's some real stuff there. He could have had his choice, really...because women want marriage a lot more than men. (oh shutup...it's true and you know it!) But, that guy...good looking OR not...could have asked 3-5 other women in his lifetime to marry him, and he chose me. ME.
I would never want to take that away from myself. But, I'm just one chick.
I admit I am a little traditional in that sense. I don't care.
So, Susan says yes. She says yes because unless you look like ScarJo, or Angelina Jolie, or Christina Hendricks-you can be pretty, but not ScarJo pretty...and never get that one guy to ask those 4 words. It makes a girl a little crazy.
Sure, it's a little nutty sounding. But, let me clarify.

Men.

You choose wrong.

Most of you (with the exception of my husband, of course)

You choose the wrong women.
And we stand there in the fucking friend-zone going...fuck me, another one bites the dust.
He laughed more with me than he does with her.
He was himself more with me than he is with her.
He was happier with me. I know he was.
We are compatible.

And now, he is with her. And they are engaged. After 3 months. I was with him for 5 years. Asshole. 

So, when a douchebag like Costanza asks you...you say yes. Because now you are a clingy, baggage heavy, desperate, bio-clock ticking, slutty idiot...with permanent beer goggles super glued to your face.

Because...men.

And don't you dare say anything about loving yourself. I preach that, myself. But, I am also 47 years old. In my 30's there was no self love (Unless you count those lonely stretches of celibacy)
It was all kleenex, unrealistic chick flicks, and Ben and Jerry's.
The only chubby hubby that was offering at that time in my life.

And this is a LOT of women-don't act like you don't qualify, whatever.
I don't believe you.

Men choose wrong.

And here is the crappy, non-funny article that pokes fun at that very thing.
I have three words for you...
Fuck you, Cracked.

You are no longer funny, or relevant.
ZZZZ.

I answered your entire article-here.
(please refer to an image of a person dropping a mic)

That's week one.

The venom is strong in this one.

It's been an edgy day.

Next week maybe I'll review something I actually like. Who knows.
Depends solely on my mood.

Until then, don't read Cracked. Just don't.
Unless you are a liberal minded person who likes terribly written articles, and ones that try way too hard to be funny but completely miss the mark.
If that's your thing...go for it.

The rest of us will be over here laughing at you (not with you) because you are.

Good times.

XOXO,
Bittergirl.

Why I don't work...

...At Dunkin' Donuts.

If I can't wear flip flops...

...I'm not going.

So, yesterday was about purses. Today is shoes.

Flip flops. The title gave it all away, I know. Sue me.

I like flip flops. As a matter of fact...when fall comes-the hardest part is having to cover my feet in socks and add heavy sneakers, or boots. Winter is the worst fucking thing...ever.

I would wear flip flops every single day if I could. Mostly because they are the most comfortable shoes known to man. And I am a creature of comfort-as you are all well aware. If it feels good...kids, I am in.
My hedonistic nature knows zero boundaries. I like comfort food. Comfortable clothes, comfortable beds and furnishings, clothes, and hats.
Comfort...I am all about it.

I never liked wearing heels, but I did love looking at them. A good Christian Louboutin will make me climax in 3.3 seconds. No. I'm not kidding.
Sexiest shoes on the planet.
That Frenchman knows how to make a shoe that can invoke the Kama Sutra.
I have a vast appreciation for shoes and the look and style of them. But wearing them is another matter altogether.
First of all-I don't have the legs for heels. Never have. I have wide calves even when I was thinner. I have always had large ham hocks for legs. Not a good feature of mine, sadly.  These days, ham hocks with lumpy cottage cheese cellulite and spider veins. Good times. An aging hooker comes to mind...
Yeah it's self deprecating. Who cares, it's my party. And it happens to be true.
Imagine a pig.
Standing upright.
In 3' heels.

It's not a pretty sight, trust me.

Considering I have average sized feet at the end of these massive legs-it looks like a two sides of beef trying to hold up two twigs on fancy shoes. Not good. I used to be able to do the heeled boots because they hid everything bad.  But heels in general have never looked right...as much as I tried to force that issue. Sigh. Shoes are so pretty.
Carrie Bradshaw is my spirit animal in all the ways except the actual wearing/buying of the Manolos.

As I age, I find that even sneakers are uncomfortable. Yes, even the pricier ones. I have a pair of 65 buck Ryka's that I rock to work out or walk...but even these strangle my feet.
I have weirdo oddly shaped feet. Super wide at the ball and super skinny at the heel. Trying to find shoes to fit me properly is not an easy task.
So, I usually like nudity to that effect.

Just topless, not bottomless. I'm not a complete foot slut.

Flip flops. God's perfect solution for ham hocks legged, oddly shaped feet women. Me.

So, I'm thinking that someone needs to design covered flip flops for fall and early winter. Not ugly rubber ones, but, like...leather, stylish, sexy, and actually comfortable ones. Like, just covering the top of your feet with like lace or fur, and a lining underneath so they are purty, and practical.
Yes, I'm serious.
I'd wear them.

And I bet I'm not the only one. There are fat women everywhere aching arches and all waiting for sexy flip flops. No...not sandals with ugly bedazzling. Walmart already has the market on those and they are ugly and uncomfortable.
I'm talking Steve Madden, Christian, and Manolo getting all up in this trend.
Charge like a buck fitty a pair and call them something clever...like fashion flips, or sexy thongs, or practical pretties.
Whatever, I don't know. I'm not good at buzzwords, but you get the point, right?



Shoe designers...hear my plea.

That's it for now.

I need to put on my flip flops and go somewhere.

Because they are fabulous.

XOXO,
Shoegal.