Job Hunting: No Sweat?

Please hire me. I am an experienced teacher hoping to teach at a progressive, independent school where I can be open about my own values. No - boring. Please hire me. I am an anxiety ball and if you do give me a job, it will really make me feel better. Job seeker losing brain cells by the minute - and reading Temple Grandin's Animals in Translation not helping. Please save me from reading the drone about animals. Not persuasive? Hire me - I'm sweaty! I get sweaty every night - peri-menopausal, dontcha know. Could you please hire me, because maybe sometime I'll sweat at work, too?

I have a portfolio and I just realized there is virtually nothing in the "Inclusion" section. And when I say virtually, I mean a picture of an Asian kid, a white kid, and a black kid hugging - someone strike me now - and an "Inclusion statement" I wrote in graduate school. I am an inclusion teacher, so why the hell did I ever make that section? Should I make a list of the disabilities my students have had? Oh- but when I teach autistic children, I will not encourage them to write hundreds of pages of useful information and call it a novel because autistic people often do not have any kind of idiosyncratic voice with which to write creatively. They have other strengths that are outrageous - like empathizing with animals - but creative writing isn't a biggie. Please hire me. I know a lot about animals and "I like kids" (I hate that expression, as if they're a different breed), and kids and animals are both cute. Except for pugs. And except for those bald dogs. And except for those babies who are born with their big-kid faces - ack! That's scary.

Please hire me because the kids in my class always think I'm funny and weird so then they go home happy and everyone thinks I did something. I'll do recess duty? I'll be quiet and obedient. No, can't even pretend. Aha! I will be well-dressed, albeit sweaty, and good-looking. That just comes with the package. I won't fart in front of the kids. Or burp either. I promise not to teach them any bad words, or talk with them about how girls are better than boys. Can I pretend to be Italian? Please hire me. I know all of the Bugs Bunny cartoons, I hate the new crappy animation and I love the new excellent animation, and I'm likeable, especially to people who like me. And sweaty.

Calling David Lynch

Hard to manage the fact that ex-shrink emailed me, among other "colleagues and friends" to encourage me to spend even more money at his office, but now on "body work." I love it when men write me about body work. I am not a goddamn car. It makes me feel like I'm getting an ivy-league, or new-age catcall. Body work! Holy shit. I'd like to give him some body work, and at women's college we referred to that as "castration with a dull spoon." I'd definitely hire out for that job.

I might be more charitable had it been an error. But no. When I wrote to say, er, doctor, take me off your list, and by the way, you arse, I am not your friend, Dr. Creepo's response was similarly icky. No apology. No pretense that he spammed in error.

Shrinks do not contact ex-patients for business. Yikes. Yuck. Shrinks do not contact ex-patients. Shrinks do not contact patients unless they need to change an appointment or there is a crisis, and they are checking in. Call me old-fashioned, but for crissake, Dr. Fuckup, don't call me.

After taking in the implications of my stern, formerly traditional headshrinker becoming a dirty old man, I contacted our on-again, off-again marriage counselor, who is absolutely brilliant, and who I do trust. Nary a boundary crossed, ever; not a defensive statement ever made. Let's call him Dude. This guy could mediate between two rabid dogs, or even Ball & Chain & me. He completely confirmed that Creepo had been Creepy. I was wondering about my ethical obligations, and we discussed that as well.

I am getting that dread feeling in my gut so this may just be part one. I never liked that David Lynch guy who did Twin Peaks, and I don't like world-famous doctors who violate ethical standards and show me their whole goddamn email list in the process.

Oy vesmir, oy gevalt.

Experience The Mystery

I wake up sticky, like a lollipop someone licked a while back, and when you try to lift it off the windowsill it's not glued yet, but it has pull. My thighs, my palms, under my breasts. And now I have a low backache, too. But this is all wrong. I was perimenopausal, so to speak, and then it went away, and I reverted back to normalcy for a forty-something gal. That's making the long story short, but we don't really need the list of symptoms - it just sucked. Estrogen patch became a necessity, lest I lose all of my hair. I could not abide the hair loss.

But back to the current situation. What the fuck? I wake up a slimeball, an undercooked piece of fish, a person who hasn't bathed in months, soaking the sheets with her blech. Yet I shower daily. My thinking is that I'd rather not experience the menopause thing or the perimenopause thing which is so utterly stupid it makes me think that maybe God is a man except I don't really believe in god (caps or no caps I'm confused), but no matter.

We should eliminate menopause. We should call it something nifty, like The Feminine Mystique. Is that name taken? It rings a bell. So maybe The Mystery. And no telling any boys about it. Or you can tell them because they won't listen. And when a woman is experiencing Mystery, everyone in the community brings her things to remind her of the beauty of her body, like sweet lotions and chocolate cake and cash. If perimenopause - oops - The Mystery - lasts for up to 10 years, this could be an excellent time of life. It would be a cultural taboo to avoid the gifts and courtesies bestowed upon a woman in Mystery. Little girls will ask "Mom, when will I begin Mystery?" Moms and other wizened elders will just smile knowingly, as clumps of hair fall to the floor.

I'm going to go mysteriously drink some more coffee now, which my physician would surely say is not recommended for anyone experiencing the symptoms of a pause. I'll think about that later, after I stick myself to the chair.