I had to write a resume today (which killed off my last remaining brain cells) for a job I'd love to have. It's so right up my alley it's not even funny. It combines my love of blogging with my passion for bringing people together. I know that there are much better writers going after the position. And I know that there are marketeers that haven't been out of the job market for three plus years like I have going after the position. And then there's me. Sigh.
Gaaaaaah! I just know I would be perfect for the job. I have the kind of secret, obsessive, strive-for-perfection-or-die-trying style that would fit well. I'm one of those people (perhaps you are the same?) that in highschool or college would wait until 2:00AM to start a paper due the next day and would still get an A. Okay, A-, but it's still an A. And I never would begrudge a B+...Okay, not everytime. I'm the high achieving slacker. I always knew if I applied myself I could attend an Ivy League school or be a doctor or someshit, but who wants to work that hard? I'm the kid that took my AP Bio dissect-a-cat home, shaved a mohawk down its head, and dyed it green. (Color Mr. Ogren very disappointed.) I could work a full-time job but then I wouldn't get to hang out with my girls.
But, as usual, I digress.
I've figured out the whole work-from-home thing now and I am a seasoned pro. To re-enter the job force for real, even if it is a slightly-more-than-part-time, work-from-home job is a little scary. Exciting, but scary. Will I get the job? I've been told I have "stiff competition." (No!!!) Without divulging too much, if I had stayed in Portland, maybe not so much competition. But in San Francisco? I fear moving may have bombed my chances. At this point, though, I'm trying to remain hopeful.
So I set the girls to napping and whipped up a resume this afternoon. I had to think hard about what I used to do back in the day. That was a place and time that seem so far away. I was a Mileage Plus Premier member. I used to take 2-3 European trips a year. I had martini lunches. (Yeah. Okay, sometimes I still do that.) I wore cute J. Crew suits. I used words like "metrics" and "collateral" and "Fom-cor®." I knew how to grease the palms of teamsters to get excellent service at trade shows. That was back in the day when a wink and coupla Andrew Jacksons meant something coming from me.
Now I feel like a dancer in A Chorus Line: "I really need this job/Please, God I need this job./I hope I get this job!" ("Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch...Again!") See! That's me—the tall broad with the tits and the hair. Not really, but I always loved Sheila the best out of all of 'em.
No, I'm not that desperate, but I'd like a chance to put on the old dancing shoes and try out. I don't need to be the star. I'm fine with a spot in the chorus.
