Chronicles of an Issue Queen:Over 50, Single, Unemployed, Menopausal, Reality Tv Junkie, With Opinions On It All

If there was a 12 step program for reality TV junkies, I’d be the first to sign up. I’m addicted, no doubt about it and I waste the portion of my day that’s not spent watching reality TV trying to figure out exactly why I do watch it.

I’m still on a giddy high from last night’s Top Chef Texas finale. I guess Top Chef is a reality show. Real chefs do compete for the title but it still doesn’t exactly fit into the reality TV mold. Except for the fact that this season had a longer than usual list of people you love to hate. Arrogant, know-it-all so and so’s who take competition to its highest and ugliest levels. Top Chef had a plethora of Mean Girls this season. Mean Girls get my blood boiling. I didn’t like them when I was in high school and I really don’t like them now. Oh Heather, how I prayed for your elimination each and every episode. You were the Meanest of Mean and an unusually exhilarating thrill penetrated my body when you were finally asked to pack your knives and go. It made me feel, that somehow, there really is justice in the world. And Lindsay, with your perpetual scowl and below the belt judgments and your stubborn refusal to step outside your comfort zone and cook anything other than fish. I cheered out loud when Bev ruined your halibut, even though she didn’t do it on purpose, as you accused. I would have liked her even more if she had. I laughed, Lindsay, while you cried when you also were asked to go. Ed’s not a girl but he was mean, too. Sneaky, snake in the grass kind of mean and his slithering off of the show was another welcomed relief. I despise snakes of any kind. And Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. You hung on to the very end with your annoying fake giggling and phony admiration for your fellow competitors but in the end, the good guy really did finish first. Sweet, shy, nervous, unassuming Paul knocked you off your high horse by winning the title of Top Chef. He deserved it; I rallied in his triumph but also in the “OMG, I can’t believe I didn’t win this thing” look on your face when his name, and not yours, was called.

Sometimes I think that reality TV helps me, in a weird kind of way, to be more appreciative and grateful for my own life. Like how blessed I am to have real friends and how boring my own reality show would be because we do not, for the most part (we’re not perfect), backstab, gossip viciously about or incessantly judge the actions of each other. Reality TV has reinforced the fact for me that just because something is in style doesn’t necessarily mean that it actually looks good while you’re wearing it. Sorry, but those clunky, hideous shoes that the Housewives so adore are just butt ass ugly. They shouldn’t be worn anywhere, except maybe to a costume party, much less to the beach or on an African safari. Reality TV has taught me not to fret over the fact that I, myself, cannot afford Botox. Botox does not always make you more attractive. Unless, of course, you really think that lips the size of a hot air balloon are attractive. I do not think so, but am weirdly fascinated by those who do. I’m also fascinated by wealthy women who wear expensive wigs that look like, well, wigs. Really, Kim? Your real hair could not look worse than those wigs.

Reality TV has taught me to reuse, recycle and to throw out those things that cannot be reused or recycled. Hoarders creeps me out, right down to the bone; sometimes I can’t even watch it.

It’s A Brad Brad World? OMG, every woman’s dream for a best gay friend. Him and that adorable boyfriend of his.

I wish Toddlers and Tiaras and Dance Moms would die slow, agonizing deaths. The only redeeming quality to either show is that they really made me see how exceptionally hard I tried to be a good mother. And I was a good mother; I failed a time or two in my motherly duties but these two shows, single handedly, make those failures easier to accept and forgive. I actually don’t watch either of these shows anymore. Mainly because they’re awful, disturbing, angering and wrong on about 2000 different levels. I’m thankful that I can be somewhat discerning about my reality TV viewing.

But, basically I’m hooked. I get as excited as a kid at Christmas when a new season starts. I mourn the season endings, but not until the reunion shows are over because those are usually better than the whole season combined. And to make things even deliciously better, we now have Andy Cohen, my new BFF, on almost every night to rehash all the drama and make you feel not quite so bad about wasting your own life watching the lives of others. I can’t understand, though, why that loud-mouthed Millionaire Matchmaker woman hasn’t found him a boyfriend yet; he seems to so need and want one. I used to mildly tolerate her until she recently suggested an online dating site for “old” people. She actually used the word “old” and said it applied to those 50 and over. While I used to mildly tolerate her, I now dislike her. A lot.

With all that said, there’s just something unexplainably comforting in wrapping my own sort of normal reality up in my favorite afghan, settling in on the couch with a drink and a bowl of popcorn. Rooting for the underdogs. Cursing the evil-doers. Laughing my ass off at those silly, pretentious housewives trying to walk in those butt ugly shoes. I’m addicted, hook, line and sinker, to every ridiculous, wonderful moment of it all. That’s my reality and I’m sticking to it.

I would like to blame menopause for the fact that most anything, and everything, makes me blubber like a baby these days. But truth be told, I’ve always been a crier. Menopause is just a convenient excuse, I guess, to explain away the tearing up at the smallest, and often dumbest of things. Being a big, fat crybaby is not a new thing for me. I’m a crier from way back.

Take parades, for instance. I always cry at parades. I used to feel very self conscious about my parade crying because a quick scan of the crowd usually uncovered no other criers than myself. Parades are happy, fun occasions and even though my bawling was never due to anything sad or morose, I was still uncomfortable being the lone crier in a sea of happy, celebrating humanity. I’m no longer self conscious about my parade crying because I’m going to cry at a parade no matter what and feeling self conscious about it isn’t going to change a thing so I decided to just stop doing it. Not the crying part; just the feeling weird about it part. Color guards, with their marching in step and flag toting always starts off my parade crying. Color guards are cry worthy; doubt anyone would argue with that. But, add a high school band or a bunch of adorably costumed clad little kids from a local dance troop to the mix and my day is shot. Little kids doing anything in a parade makes me cry. Simply watching them watch a parade makes me cry even more. The kind of crying I do at parades is good crying, though, makes me feel alive from the top of my head to the bottom of my toes. I love a good parade and would love them even more if they didn’t contain clowns. I’m not afraid of clowns like some people are; I just don’t like them. I don’t find them funny or amusing and frankly, they make me kind of mad. Clowns have always made me angry, angry enough to cry sometimes but I try to not let them ruin a good parade for me. My son told me very emphatically, when he was about five, that normal, rational people do not cry at parades. And yes, he did use the words normal and rational even though he was only five because he had been using words like that almost from the day he was born. His words, along with the sweet and oh so serious expression on his face made me cry too. I cried a lot when my son was little because he so often said the funniest things. I cry today at his funny, grown up words as well.

I’m a crier from way back but I think I said that already.

Fireworks make me cry; the bigger they are, the harder I sob. Those damned television commercials they run around Christmastime; you know the ones I’m talking about. The way a baby smells after a bath, especially the top of its sweet, little head. The deep, soulful eyes of a dog that loves you unconditionally. Girl Scouts selling cookies in front of the local grocery store. Just a few more things that turn me into a quivering, crying heap. Knowing this, you might not want to sit next to me at a funeral or a wedding or any other event that causes tears for a normal, rational person. Besides, when someone else is crying it makes me cry even harder. Criers From Way Back typically do not sit, though, at an event where everyone is going to be crying. They, (I), prefer standing in the back, near the closest exit, $20.00 worth of Kleenex jammed into their, (my), pockets. You will hardly ever see me sitting at an event where everyone is going to be crying.

If I am Angry Crying, it is best to back up a step or two and give me some space. Angry crying means that I’ve had it, no more reasonable conversation can be reached and that I am trying extra special hard not to wrap my fingers around your neck. I’ve never actually put my fingers around anyone’s neck and doubt I ever will but I’ve also never been menopausal before, until recently. Don’t make me use menopause as another excuse for doing something I wouldn’t normally do. Angry Crying is my least favorite kind of crying because no matter how passionate or right I may feel about the argument at hand, I always come across as incoherently stupid and that just makes me angrier and cry more.

If I’m Happy Crying, which I’m pleased to say I do the most of, just buck up and deal with the hugging and loving that you’re inevitably going to get and the sappiness of it all because if you don’t then the I’m taking This Way Too Personally Crying will start and no one wants to go there. If they gave out trophies for the Best Crier When Feeling Sorry For Themselves, I would have a wall full of them. I’m pitiful and annoying when I cry like that, so let’s not go there if we don’t have to. Just embrace my Happy Cryer and all will be well in the world. I can promise you that.

Stupid Crying is what I do when I’m drunk. The desire to be drunk usually stems from something that made me cry while sober. Do not listen to country music while engaged in Stupid Crying. Just don’t. Do not text, email or phone call while Stupid Crying either because that leads to Totally Humiliated Crying and that, my tearless friends, is the worst kind of crying there is. If I have ever told you a lick of truth in my life, it is that one thing.

Random acts of kindness make me cry.

Going to a baseball game.

A really good book.

The smell of wet leaves.

The beach.

A big, fat, juicy cheeseburger when I am really, really starving.

I’m about to cry right now and not really sure why. I would blame it on menopause once again but I’ve had a peaceful, hot flash-free morning. I had a good cup of coffee and the cat is asleep on my lap and the dog at my feet, though there was a brief fight over who would wind up in the lap and who at the feet. I have gained a pound or two or twenty because of stupid menopause but still cry from joy that my lap has not grown big enough for them both. I received a belated birthday wish from an old friend. The sun through the window feels good on my back. I’m old and unemployed and the money’s running out but I’ll be okay because, somehow, I always manage to be okay. So what, if everything and anything makes me cry these days?

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want to…

Pretty sure I’ve mentioned before how much I love a good party.

She will be laid to rest tomorrow. Her ‘Home Goin’ today was a raise the roof mix of joy, music and tears. Today also happens to be my birthday and I spent a good portion of it saying good-bye to Whitney Houston.

Whitney Houston came into my life at a time where people still actually listened to the radio. A time where the music we listened to was far more powerful and meaningful than the ‘business’ of the music itself, as it is today. We had radio and when a voice like Whitney’s came through all we had was the voice. With Whitney, that was all you really needed; it was enough to make you stop in your tracks, put down whatever you were doing, and just listen. That’s the Whitney I cried for today; the one who left me with wonderful memories of a voice that could stop me in my tracks.

I’ve struggled this past week with the endless coverage of her demons, her troubles. There’s not a soul alive who doesn’t have a demon or two in their closet; if someone tells you otherwise then they are a liar. A big, fat one. Our demons should not be allowed to define the person beneath them. Whitney Houston had a sweet, beautiful soul beneath her own demons. Not only did she possess tremendous physical beauty with one of the most amazing smiles I’ve ever seen, but a soulful beauty as well. How do I know that, you may ask? Just close your eyes, pretend there’s only radio and listen to her sing. Voices like Whitney Houston’s are not made. You can’t teach someone to sing the way she sang. Her voice was her soul and no demon, no trouble, could ever change that.

I’m over the stupid arguments about whether flags should be lowered or not. I’m tired of speculation and gossip and judgment. I think I might scream if I hear one more word about how she died, why she died and who might actually be responsible for it. Whitney Houston is dead and I just want to remember that time where we actually listened to the radio. That’s where I first met Whitney Houston, the Whitney Houston I miss today. I want to remember the days in front of the mirror, lip syncing to I Wanna Dance With Somebody with a hairbrush and/or tampon microphone in hand. I want to remember that hideous haircut I once got; the one that looked great on her but in no way made a skinny, shapeless white girl even closely resemble the pop icon she so admired. I want to remember those dreamy, demon-less days where I danced and giggled and the world was mine for the taking because there was radio and music and Whitney Houston. I refuse to remember her any other way.

I’m a hopeless romantic. Being such, coupled with also being single and over 50, can sometimes make for a rough, and often contemplative, Valentine ’s Day.

I love the pomp and circumstance of most any special occasion or holiday. Picking out the perfect gift for someone. Decorations. Sparkly things. Surprises. Anticipation. Fireworks. Parades. Funny greeting cards. Large and/or intimate parties; I love a good party no matter the size. Specialty themed drinks. Really great food. Music and dancing. I guess you could say that I’m pretty much a special occasion junkie. I’m an addict, full-blown, and not afraid to admit it.

Sometimes, I also think I’m addicted to being single. I have been single for quite some time; it’s not a new thing for me. I’m not unattractive, but I could stand to lose a pound or two, or twenty. I’m wickedly funny , sarcastic and occasionally entertaining. I can carry on an intelligent conversation. I don’t chew with my mouth open, am kind and generous to a fault sometimes, believe in random acts of kindness, love animals and walking on the beach. I probably could maybe care a little bit more about how I look when I go out in public. I’m not the kind of person who puts makeup on just to go get a gallon of milk from the grocery store. In fact, I rarely wear makeup at all. I have heard that grocery stores are a great place to meet men. I would like to meet a nice man and I suppose my stubborn and possibly unrealistic view that the ‘perfect’ man is going to love me for who I am rather than for how I look might be one of the reasons I am still single.

In my stubborn and most likely unrealistic world, I still believe the ‘perfect’ man is out there, somewhere. That he’ll turn his shopping cart down the frozen food aisle one day, see me standing there in all my unmade up glory, in sweatpants and possibly slippers though most likely flip flops no matter the weather, trying to decide which flavor ice cream will best compliment a night of reality TV viewing. This man will tell me that Rocky Road is his flavor of choice and even though it is not my own, I will still love this man unconditionally and forever. He will be touched to learn that vanilla is my flavor of choice because it is pure and sweet and simple. We won’t discuss fat or sugar content, not once, ever. We will chat for awhile before he tells me that he really needs to get home so he doesn’t miss the latest installment of Top Chef Texas and I will know, in that instant, that I’m hopelessly and totally in love. I still believe this man will fall head over heels in love with the ‘real’ me and not the ‘made up, trying to impress’ me, and true romantic history will be made.

I know what you’re thinking right now and it’s okay, really. I’ve been called dreamy and unrealistic and crazy before; my feelings will not be hurt if I have to hear it again. Those attributes help, in a way, to get through another Valentine’s Day with a little hope for my romantic future. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed to admit that I buy my own flowers and chocolates on this holiest of romantic days and I enjoy them just as much as if someone special had bought them for me. I’m headed out to buy them now once I’m finished here. And maybe I’ll brush my hair, put on some jeans, and possibly apply a little lipstick before heading out. Maybe, but somehow I kind of doubt it. I will purchase those flowers and chocolates knowing that there is a lot to love about me. I will know that I am incredibly blessed with love in so many ways from so many different people in my life. A ‘special’ Valentine would be lovely, but I have so many others in my life to be thankful for on this day and every day. They tolerate my crazy, dreamy world in the most unconditional of ways and that love too, should be celebrated. I loves me a good celebration. Let the party begin…

I have issues; a lot of them. One of my good friends has me listed in his cell phone directory not under ‘D’ for Donna or ‘B’ for Bubbles( a nickname I’ve had for so long that I’m a little fuzzy on its origin), but under ‘I’ for Issue Queen. This particular friend and I have spent many an evening bellied up to the bar, drinking Jim Beam and talking about my issues. I love a good issue, to tell the truth. Nothing gets my adrenaline pumping faster. My issue moments are random in nature; I don’t set out looking for any particular one; they just seem to find me. Perusing my Yahoo homepage, a comment on my Facebook wall, a television commercial; I can spot an issue almost anywhere. Some are silly; others require the utmost attention, thought and/or action. My friend who calls me the Issue Queen is a very good listener but he did tell me once that I could make an issue out of a mole hill. I think I laughed at his comment not only because it was clever, but also true. He also added, that sometimes, he honestly wishes that I would just shut the hell up. I had issues with his bluntness and told him so. My life would, no doubt, be simpler if I was not an Issue Queen. But denying that I am one only causes more issues for me so I guess dealing with the hand I’ve been dealt is the better way to go about things.

My burning issue at present? Hands down, it would be that I’m over 50 and unemployed. I will admit that I brought the situation on myself. Not the over 50 part; I couldn’t help that, but the unemployed part was a choice. I quit, in enormously horrible economic times, a job which appeared on the surface, to be a perfectly fine job. I quit that job and moved over a thousand miles away to a city I had never been to before, with a U-Haul full of stuff I probably didn’t need, a dog and a cat and a friend who decided to come along for the ride. I left a perfectly good small home for an even smaller third floor apartment, with neighbors who only know how to slam doors rather than simply closing them. I discovered that I have a dog who really hates the sound of constantly slamming doors even more than I do. Door slam. Dog bark. I cuss. Door slam. Dog bark. You get the picture.

I left the cool (mostly frigid) mountain regions of Colorado for the stifling heat of a Texas city, Austin, to be exact. I had spent most of my adult life in the Colorado mountains but felt that I needed some Texas heat to not only thaw out my frozen, aging body but my numbing mind and spirit as well. I was not only tired of shoveling snow and being cold; I was also in a rut, a long, deep, muddy one. I was an empty nester with more time on my hands than I knew what to do with and few worthwhile possibilities available to stick those hands into. The proverbial mid-life crisis had hit me hard. I took issue with that too because I had always told myself that I was not the type of person to have a mid-life crisis. So I told myself, my friends, my family; anyone who took the time to listen, that I was simply bored to tears with my life and felt like it was going nowhere. Bored to tears sounded so less drastic than a mid-life crisis so that’s the story I stuck with.

My job kind of, sort of, paid the bills, but when I really sat down and studied my financial situation, it didn’t pay enough to keep me where I was. Or provide any kind of emotional satisfaction. I was over 50 with a burning desire to do something meaningful with my life. I had been at that job for a very long time, there were no more rungs on the ladder to climb and all the really good, challenging assignments were being given to my male co-workers, men I had worked with for a long time, considered friends and part of my extended family, but they cared little for those ‘good’ assignments but kept getting them anyway. The day my boss asked me if I would come in early to make coffee for a before hours meeting was the day I really began thinking about my life, as I knew it. And, thinking about my retirement fund that was rapidly shrinking rather than growing. The thought of having to work at that job until I died, rather than being able to retire from it, was also a major issue for me. I couldn’t stand the thought of silently passing away from old age sitting behind a desk piled with boring reports and multi-colored pads of Sticky Notes. Or while making coffee for someone who had two perfectly good hands to make it himself. That just wasn’t how I wanted to live out my final days.

So, I crafted a quick, brief letter of resignation, somehow managed to sell my house rather quickly during a time where houses were not selling and I off I flew. Well, drove actually, for two days across desert and plain, with the cat howling the entire trip and the dog just happy to be going somewhere in the car, oblivious to the door slamming world that awaited. A small financial cushion in my pocket, a U-Haul full of junk that I couldn’t part with. I’m almost six months into my new life now and the financial cushion has lost a lot of its stuffing, I don’t have a job yet and I’m now seriously considering selling the junk. But honestly, no lie; I don’t remember when I have been happier. Don’t remember a time where I’ve felt healthier or at such peace. I will find a job; I am positively certain of that. Most days it’s easy to stay positive though I’ve had my share of less than positive days, for sure. Some days I panic; I won’t lie, because being over 50, I’m finding that some employers view my age as a kind of disease that inhibits my ability to function in the world of the working. I know what I am capable of; I know that I am quick and smart rather than sick and diseased but the differing perspective of some employers does make for some unsettling days on the old job hunt.

I haven’t had to apply for a job in a very long time and I have to admit; I was quite shocked to see what is required, or wanted, in today’s job market. We’ll take a simple job posting, for example. I’ve become a master at reading between the lines when it comes to job postings. I can usually just read a job post heading in order to deduce whether I possess the required qualities for said job; I rarely even have to delve into the job description itself. Here are a few of the headers for job postings that I’ve encountered lately:

Rock Star Office Manager Wanted! – First of all, almost all job headers end with an exclamation point. It annoys me beyond belief for some reason. None- the –less, this job title means that the employer is looking for someone 25 or younger, with great legs, no experience, willing to work for minimum wage, part time, no benefits. Simply Needing Someone Cute To Look At And Amuse Me! Is what this job heading really says.

Director Of First Impressions Wanted! – You don’t have to be Einstein to figure this one out. This header means, “You are the first person a client will see, so old hags and anyone with a physical defect need not apply.”

Great Boss Looking For Fun, Energetic Assistant! – Really means lonely boss who is looking for a wife and/or playmate, though most likely playmate because lonely boss is most likely already married. Fun and energetic are adjectives that employers do not use if they are actually looking to hire someone my age. I’m as fun and energetic as the best of them, but I don’t waste my time on jobs where fun and energetic are a requirement.

I have become An Expert At Reading Between The Lines! Too bad no one is hiring for that job; it’s definitely one I could hit the ground running with.

I’ve also seen job postings that don’t even ask for a resume to be submitted, asking for a photo or sometimes, a video instead. Yes, paper is not used these days as it was in the past, but an employer who wants a photo instead of a resume or even a filled out job application isn’t really concerned with how qualified a person is for the job. They are concerned, though, how that person will look while at the job. Again, no old hags or defects need apply. This particular kind of job posting really sets my hair on edge. You have no idea how much time I have wasted composing angry, issue-filled letters or photo shopping really hideous pictures of myself to send to these employers. I never actually send them but the simple composing somehow makes me feel better about my fabulous, aging self.

I did play one trick on a potential employer, though. I had applied at a certain place of business on numerous occasions, for jobs that I am so qualified for that you would have thought the job had been created just for me. Each time I applied I was promptly rejected without even a chance to interview. I was beginning to take these rejections rather personally; I knew somehow they had something to do with my age but had no proof to back that up. Until I started a casual conversation one day with a young woman at a local dog park. People at dog parks love to chat and this young woman told me she was preparing to interview for a job at this very same business who refused to give me the time of day. She seemed nice enough, but after talking to her for awhile I had to wonder how she had enough sense to even find her way out of her house in the mornings, much less function at a job once she was out. She was a sweet, attractive girl but not the brightest bulb in the pack, I’m sorry to say.

I went home and immediately wasted a little more of my valuable job hunting time and began composing a bogus resume and cover letter for a young, inexperienced bogus me. I used the name Mandy Green, thought that sounded young and perky and fresh. Mandy’s resume included a business degree and two part time restaurant jobs she had while in college. Her cover letter was filled with lol acronyms and a long paragraph detailing the year she spent surfing in Costa Rica after college. I promptly emailed the resume and cover letter off for a job that possessed requirements Mandy clearly didn’t have. And yes, you guessed it, I received another prompt reply, but this time I was asked to complete an on line assessment to determine whether I would be granted an in person interview. The top of my issue-laden head almost blew off and I was in the process of firing off a response exposing my little trick. But, you know what? Being old like I am does have its advantages and I’ve learned over the years to pick my battles rather than fighting all of them. Plus, there are some bridges that I don’t need to be burning right now. And double plus, I don’t want to work for anyone who bases my worth on how old I am rather than on the fact that I would probably be one of the best damned employees this employer ever had. This business does need to be called on the carpet and I’ll do it eventually, in the right way, where it will have the most affect. Old age has taught me patience, as well.

I’ve also become somewhat of an expert at reading body language during an interview. When someone asks you a question and you are in the process of answering that question to the best of your abilities and the interviewing person immediately rolls their eyes and begins doodling on the pad in front of them, then that person feels some kind of threat about their own job and the possibility that you might just take it from them someday. I’ve noticed this behavior primarily from interviewers who are close to my own age. I actually prefer being interviewed by someone younger than me; they aren’t wise to the world of ageism yet; they don’t comprehend what us old folks do when it comes to getting a job. Or, keeping one. When the eye rolling and doodling starts, I know that employment is not in the cards for this particular job, no matter even if I offered to do it for free. This particular kind of threat-filled interviewer tries really hard to hide the eye rolling and doodling and the occasional snort under the breath whenever an applicant answers a question with more knowledge and expertise than the interviewer is comfortable hearing.

Other body language is more obvious and telling. On a recent interview, a panel of three people interrogated me for almost two hours. The younger male was attentive and responsive and clearly loved his position as interviewer. He asked most of the questions and laughed at every funny remark I made. I wanted to work for him mostly because he ‘got’ my jokes. The female interviewer yawned the entire two hours; at one point she actually, no lie, put her head down on the table and, I believe, took a very short cat nap. I couldn’t stand the thought of thinking that I was really that boring so I deduced, in my head, that maybe she had a new baby at home or was hung over, or something. Or maybe she was just a really bad interviewer. That was probably the case, but her yawning and napping made me feel less than enthusiastic about getting the job. The third interviewer played on his smart phone the whole time, rarely asking a question or even noticing that I was actually sitting right across from him. He did tell me, at one point, that he was looking up information about the town I had moved from. “Pretty place,” he lazily replied, and while he was right, it is a pretty place, there’s nothing about it that would take two hours to research so I assumed he was actually making dinner reservations or checking his Twitter account instead. So, I had one interviewer who took the whole interview process seriously and thought I was funny, one who wouldn’t even remember my name afterwards because she didn’t want to be there in the first place and another who had obviously made up his mind already about who he wanted to hire, most likely someone who already worked in the office and really wanted the job. I can spot that kind of interviewer from a mile away. Needless to say, I wasn’t hired for the position but I think I would have really liked that job. It was apparently okay to nap during work hours and/or keep your social media presence established. And at least one person would have appreciated my witty, snappy conversation. It only takes one to make your day.

Oh well, this old gal doesn’t give up easily. Onward and forward, I say, with all the enthusiasm and drive that someone my age can muster. I’ll knock someone’s socks off eventually; of that, I have no doubt.