Failure is a relative term. So is ‘overqualified.’

Failure is a relative term. In space, failure to launch is yes, a problem. In marriage, failure to communicate can be, too. On the other hand, in baseball, failure to hit the ball half the time is a phenomenal batting average and a place in the National Baseball Hall of Fame.

Today I baked muffins in our wee oven. The proportions I used yielded 12 muffins and in a fit of optimism, I repositioned the tiny racks and set two pans in the oven at the same time. Four minutes into the 12 minute cycle, the distinct aroma of char wafted my way and I found the lower six muffins innocuously baking away while the top six fought desperately against the top of the oven. Didn’t realize the little bastards would rise so far.

So are today’s pumpkin muffins a failure? Ha. Not if this was baseball.

This morning I had another phone interview with A Certain Organization and felt that it was going very well until the lady told me, probably meaning it as a compliment, that it sounds like I’m overqualified for the job. As my stomach fell out of my butt in complete dejection, I did my best to prove to her throughout the rest of the interview why that’s not at all the case. They asked me to send writing samples, which is good, but the salary they mentioned is a full 10k under the lowest end of the range I had given for my own salary requirements, which is not good.

I still want this job. Not because I want a job, but because I want this job. It would be great work and I would learn a ton and be able to contribute right off the bat. What does overqualified even mean? You think I’ll be bored and start looking for another job soon? That’s unlikely. Smart people are never bored and if you offered me a job and paid in off-brand groceries I’d take it because I am SICK AND TIRED OF LOOKING FOR A NEW JOB. Also, I hate everyone!!!

Ok that last part isn’t true but I felt like it naturally followed the first declaration.

Like Phil Dunphy says, the art of the sale is what you leave out. Hereafter, my new stock cover letter to send when applying for jobs, complete with new buzzwords and a brevity not seen before. The key follows but will not be provided to potential employers. What they assume can’t hurt me and I’m sick of this circus.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I went to Georgetown* and have recently returned to DC from Johns Hopkins* and am seeking a way* to continue my communications career* in a cutting-edge organization* like yours*. I am capable*, learn quickly*, and am available immediately*. I have Hill experience* and a record of great follow-up* and look forward to hearing from you soon*.


* over the weekend
* where I parked to meet friends for breakfast in Baltimore
* the cover letters I have sent in the last six months could paper Buckingham Palace
* if you don’t hire me I’ll rip you to shreds on my blog
* staffed by assholes and morons galore, like all the other real jobs out here, I find
* or not yours, I don’t really care, I’m losing my will to live
* but not overqualified
* no, I don’t know how to write HTML, someone will have to show me
* read: unemployed as of Friday
* two guided tours plus I bought a hot dog from a street vendor there
* I already have your home address and voting record; fear my follow-up
* or you can expect to be blogged about
* not!


New Year’s Eve, farm style

On Saturday the husband and I packed up the dog, an overnight’s worth of food for him and clothes for us, and headed north to the in-laws’ farm for the second time in a week.

Dietrich was elated to be back with his cousin–a long-haired female German Shepherd who was far more welcoming to the mild-mannered chap than anyone expected her to be–and the husband and I enjoyed the relaxed pace of not-Christmas.

Shooting guns at midnight is the standard celebratory measure on the farm. The husband and I thought ahead to put Dietrich in the barn so he wouldn’t be scared, but he found his way out and shortly after hearing 13 rifles fired in quick succession and close proximity, also found his way into the house and hid out, shaking, under the table. The mother in law was kind enough to pretend she didn’t notice him inside.

When we got home, we washed the dog in the bathtub, a first for us all. He did his best to stoically resist, pretending his legs gave out after we lured him into the bathroom with treats and then stiff-arming the bathtub as the husband lifted him in, one half at a time. Eventually all four paws were in the tub, the bag of bacon treats was empty, and the forlorn but clean Dietrich emerged.

That’s when we realized how much water an 80 lb. Rott holds and decided to blow dry him for all our sakes. Although not thrilled with this, the dog has the patience of a saint (something about he knows he was rescued and we are the bearers of the treats or whatever) and bore his 1800 watt ionic burden with steely resolve.

I can’t believe you are photographing this humiliation. I smell like a girl.
But I am ready for my close-up!

Thursday morning is a second phone interview with A Certain Organization. I had a phone interview with them about two weeks ago, for an editorial position, and was referred to the media relations director after that. So really it’s a first second phone interview. I have heard excellent things about A Certain Organization and would really love to work for them.

Tonight the husband is at a watch party for the Iowa caucuses and I am home, blogging and plotting how to begin a freelance career. And also eating cookies before they go stale.