lumpy strawberry milkshake
JOB-SEEKING DON’TS
1. No resumes in italics. No funny fonts. No borders, no shading, no fancy scrollwork. And FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, no clip art. Were you people raised by wolves? Were you beamed down from an alternate universe and told to look for a job in publishing? STOP IT.
2. Cover letters are good. Skipping the cover letter makes me think less of you. Why would you pass up your only real chance to show me you can put sentences together? Plus, maybe your experience looks iffy on the resume, but there is something you can say in the cover letter that would put a positive spin on it.
3. However. Don’t use the cover letter to give me TMI. Especially don’t tell me that you took time off because of kids. Especially especially don’t say it in the following ways:
a. “to pursue full-time motherhood”
b. “to raise three wonderful kids”
c. “five years as super-mommy, gourmet cook, chauffeur, household engineer, meeting planner, and so much more…”
Just don’t do it. (And before you start your angry email, I got no beef with time-off-because-of-kids—but if we ever have that conversation it should be in an interview. Not really in a cover letter.)
4. Don’t have some weird goal that has nothing to do with me. Your “career objective” should not be solely about developing your talents, being fulfilled and satisfied in your work, or (so help me, I just read this one) “growing as an artist.” That is all very nice, and as a boss I do hope your talents are developed and you enjoy the work and so forth (although you will have to grow as an artist on your own time)—but I’m not your boss yet. I don’t give a shit about anything right now except what YOU can do for ME. So flip that script, job-seeker. Seriously.
5. I would think “no typos, no misspellings, no grammar mistakes” would go without saying, particularly in my field. Apparently not.
KEN’S NOT HERE, MAN
Last Friday evening I was home by myself (rare! cherished!) and the doorbell rang. I did not open it, but through the glass I could see a dude, about my age or a little older, carrying a handle-jug of Jim Beam and a small red cooler. Well all right! The Friday Night Party Stranger is here!
But still, one must be cautious.
Me: Can I help you?
FNPS: Hey, how’s it going. Is Ken upstairs?
Me: Uh, no. There’s no Ken here. Maybe you want the house next door? [They rent out their upstairs apartment, so it’s a likely guess.]
FNPS: Oh, okay. Sorry to bother you.
I went back to my nothing-much and soon I heard the back gate open and a peculiar dragging sound. When I looked out the back door, I saw FNPS again, holding the gate open with one foot and shoving the cooler through with the other one. I went out on the porch and freaked a bit.
Me: What are you doing? Get out of my yard!
FNPS: Is Ken upstairs?
Me: What are you talking about? I’m the same person you just talked to at the front! Try NEXT DOOR. Because KEN IS NOT UPSTAIRS.
FNPS: Sorry. Sorry. I thought this was his house.
Me: No. It isn’t. Go away!
He did, and I did not see where he went, but I hope he found Ken. After he left (and after I re-locked all the doors), I actually did go upstairs to look around, check the closets, that sort of thing. You never know.
—mimi smartypants, downstairs, not Ken.