Beware: Job Hunting Causes Dementia

I am finding myself facing the possibility of becoming unemployed.

The Michigan State Legislature has squeezed the blemish of bureaucracy and out I have popped with countless other Americans and about 30% of Greek citizens into the job market.

My first thought was to consider joining the dozen people of the ‘Gaylord 99%’ on the lawn of the city building.  Sadly, I do not draw bubble letters very well and my sign would read:

’I really shouldn’t be here, these are not my politics.’

But the idea of hanging/protesting on the lawn all day during the beautiful northern Michigan summer with some probably very nice people sounds inviting. As I am certain they would not like my sign, and that I could face an angry mob, (okay, maybe not a mob, but perhaps a disgruntled cluster), I decided to go the traditional route and hit the classifieds for new prospects.

What a wonderful plethora of opportunity! (Insert sarcasm) I was truly surprised at how many positions met my skill set.  (Insert hysterical laughter) As I read from ad to ad I found that I was qualified for almost every job! From advertising to welding, I decided I could do just about anything to keep the dollars flowing. This is a result of either high self esteem and efficacy, or clinical dementia.

Logically I understand that a high tolerance for bad coffee and the desire to acquire a commemorative sterling silver spoon from each of the lower 48 states, does not automatically meet the criteria of a tanker truck driver. But yet, somehow, I can envision myself riding high above the Prii (Pronounced ‘Pri-eye’, is plural for multiple Prius) perched upon a bouncy hydraulic seat, smoking (I do not smoke, but would be willing to try for the right position), chewing on a toothpick, (yes both at the same time) and wearing a cut-off sleeveless t-shirt. Truck drivers are tough. The job would require a tiny bit of preparation, truck driving school, licensing, insane people that would want to put a small, pre-menopausal, bi-focal wearing, soccer mom behind the wheel of a tanker truck, but hey, it is all in the attitude right?

If that does not work out, there may be other options such as a Sous Chef. Whatever sous are, I bet I can whip up a tasty batch. Or, there seem to be many positions open in the mental health field.  Amid the hoard of my personal issues, combined with children and a large extended family, I would think starting next week would be suitable.

Yesterday, I visited with an old friend and former supervisor (yes, shamelessly digging for a reference).  In relation to my fears regarding my qualifications she stated, “Oh I wouldn’t worry about that dear, we thought you were highly under-qualified when we hired you, and look, you didn’t screw that job up too bad.”

Wow, with that confidence booster you all better take heed and make good with your maker, fate may place me in your neighborhood hauling toxic waste in my new tanker truck.

Plumbers Night At The Races

It was topless night at the Merritt Speedway dirt track in Lake County.

 My family was in attendance to view the Wood Tick 100 race night. Not understanding what “topless night” meant, and always priding myself on being a team player, I made certain I had on clean underwear.

The night was off to a rough start as we discovered upon arrival that had we worn all of our Budweiser apparel; we would have received two dollars off the admission price. A sign of the current economy was apparent as the two year old gaining entrance directly  in front of us was wearing a “This Bud’s for You” oversized onesie. I was looking for a Bud Light hat to grab off of someone’s head to thrust onto my nine year old, but none were in reach. Full admission was paid. A sign of rain loomed in the clouds overhead, but a nearby sign promised rain rebates up to six races, so my husband’s wallet was put to ease.

We entered and found a precarious seating arrangement on some bleachers that made me envision numerous possibilities of collapse. The headline crossed the ticker of my mind as we sat on the old wooden planks, “Mother of Three Perishes in the Cheap Seats, saves family by cushioning their fall, thank goodness she had eaten all of those chili cheese fries….”

We quickly learned, to my relief and my husband’s dismay that “topless night” referred to the type of roof on the race cars that were competing.  Roll cages covered the racer’s heads rather than a traditional metal roof. No group nudity would be called for on this summer’s eve.

The energy at the track was high, the cars were awesome, and the people friendly. We were all having a great time. Until, that is, the happening happened.  My husband ‘happened’ to direct my glance to a portly gentleman about two rows below us who was sporting a most obvious and colossal plumber’s crack for the whole world to view.

It is like a train wreck; you simply cannot look away. (Why do we always say ‘train wreck’? Now, I have never actually witnessed an incident involving locomotives, but, I do have a second cousin with horrible taste in men. Every time I talk to her, I cannot help but ask, “Hey Karen how is Lance? Is he still in-between modeling jobs? Has that other guy ever paid you back the money you lent him to start his Karaoke business?” Now that is a train wreck!)

I digress. For the entire evening, until the first rain drop fell, I had a viewing process in place….cheese fry, race, crack, cheese fry, race, crack...after an hour and a half, the pouring rain, like the cleansing agent it is, saved me from myself. As the drenching ensued it was time to finally look away and race for our car. Of course we had just viewed race seven for the evening and would not qualify for the rain rebate.

As I rose from the bleacher, I heard my son groan. “Jeesh mom, nice plumber there! You shouldn’t wear those jeans when you sit on the bleachers anymore that is just nasty.” I reached behind me to verify my son's assessment, and sure enough, my T-shirt was a bit too high for the jeans I was wearing.  Those poor people behind me, they just wanted a nice night at the races. The horror.

 I can only hope that they are not writing about me today.