Craigslist Grabbag...Grab Bag?...Grab-Bag?

All the below are resume headlines from Craigslist:

If you do outside criminal background checks. Dont bother.

If you can teach it, I WILL SALE IT!!!
I just don't know how good you can truly be at selling if you don't know that word exists.

From resume headline AND Department of Lowered, Sad-Making Expectations: Recent college graduate seeking an entry level admin position

From a resume headline I forgot to post about back when this resume was relevant cuz summertime fun is OVER: Gay summer personal assistant

Once again, careless placement of modifiers might just create questions rather than instill in potential employers an overwhelming desire to hire your sizzling competence like yesterday.

I mean, first of all, I don't need to know that you are gay, but this is where my thoughts immediately go when I read that (read in voice of Ronco announcer):

Are you planning on having a Gay Summer but are overwhelmed at the thought of how much is involved? Making the reservations at P-Town? The manscaping? The purchasing of lube and hot pants? Making a house mix for the BBQ? It's endless, girlfriend!! [Of course in the commercial I am making in my head, that last sentence has a dude in a mesh shirt like collapsing on a pile of CD's on a table.] Never fear! Your Gay Summer Personal Assistant is here.

Or was. But the summer, Gay or no, is over.

(And I'm sorry, Gay Husband, for the parade of Gay Cliches but whatever, you do it too. Shut up.)

You know it's Friday the 13th...

...when your Gay Husband calls you and cheerfully announces that one of the engines on the plane he was on this morning EXPLODED.

!
!
!

The Gay Husband has a bizarre (to me) and deep love and appreciation for aviation, has worked for airlines, made me take him on a airplane-related tourist activity on his last visit...so his response to all this was measured calm and mild curiosity.

My response, on the other hand, even though as he was on the phone telling me this so clearly he was safe, was to nearly pass out then nearly start to cry.

I don't like planes. I don't like flying. The planes are so BIG and HEAVY. I don't believe in the physics that keep them aloft. I just can't believe it! You can explain it to me a hundred times, I still react like some superstitious dark ages ignoramus who thinks it's all DEVIL MAGIC.

I went through a weird period post-9/11 where I was seriously COMPLETELY terrified to fly. Not, mind you, because of terrorists. I think my brain had some kind of meltdown, though, after seeing the planes fly into the buildings over and over again. It's like we have an understanding of what planes can and cannot do, and to see that totally broke down my subconscious understanding of What Planes Do. Like because my brain couldn't process the horror of what had happened, it just stopped...almost like believing in flight at all. It is obviously a totally irrational thing to think - but I guess being irrational is sometimes how your brain handles things it finds too horrible to process rationally.

Anyway, with time that all faded and I can now get on a plane and not feel gripped with utter terror.

Nevertheless. THE ENGINE EXPLODED. Gay Husband wants to research the nitty gritty of what happens during such accidents. I want to crawl under my bed and cling to the ground.

Word Cop: Nails on Blackboard

For as long as I can remember, I have been obsessed with language and how people use it. Um (gestures to entire blog) OBVIOUSLY.

I don't know why it is. If someone has a verbal tic or uses certain words, I cease to be able to actually listen to the content of what they say, and instead become completely focused on the tic or the word. Sometimes it's in a good way. My gay husband refers to a certain kind of girls' short-shorts as "Cooter Cutters" and sounds exactly like some sassy seventy-year old lady when he says it. And the channeling of a Golden Girl through this Banana Republic-wearing hot gay potato never fails to make me giggle endlessly.

Then again, sometimes it's NOT in a good way. We recently had a call with our team to talk about certain things, and we kept discussing "basic qualifications." Instead of calling them "basic qualifications" everyone on the team calls them "basic quals."

Quals.

Quals.

I don't know why...I mean I REALLY don't know why, but this word "qual" makes me shudder. I have tried to parse my reaction but I cannot. I just inexplicably hate this abbreviated word with every molecule in my body. I didn't hear anything else I'm supposed to be listening to because every time they said "qual," I tensed up.

Secondly, they also kept talking about making our job descriptions "pop." I think it's great that we're trying to improve our ads, but "pop?" It's not a red accent wall. It's not eyeliner. POP?

Anyway, this post is less to critique anyone on my team and more to wonder: what is wrong with me? Why am I so fixated on this stuff? Does anyone else do this?

"Emergency Colonic"

Although not quite as horrifying as "decapitated head," "emergency colonic" is yet another two-word phrase I would not have normally expected to encounter in a job-searching related capacity.

And yes, Reader, I have noticed the slight uptick of late of my posting links to other sites and then brushing off my hands like I've done a good job with this blog for the day. As Boris Becker would say: Lazy!



(Here's a little quick story for you...I once worked with a former tennis pro named Jenny Byrne. Jenny is an AWESOME person and hysterically, pee-in-your-pants dry-Australian-humor funny. She told me a story once of watching a match with Boris Becker and some other dude. The...um...ref? Umpire? What do you call it in tennis? The person who's supposed to be watching where the balls lands and stuff? I only watch tennis for the men's thighs, I don't know any of the terms. Anyway, so a ball landed and the guy in the chair called it in, and Boris insisted it was out and kept pointing to...something on the ground, the line. CRAP. This story is impossible to tell without actual tennis knowledge. Anyway, Becker wanted the dude in the chair to get OUT of the chair to come look at the irrefutable physical evidence on the ground that the ball was out. The dude refused. Becker points his racket at the dude and spits out two damning Teutonic-inflected syllables: LA-ZY! To this day, when decrying anything lazy, in my head, I hear the staccato sound of Jenny's imitation of Boris Becker. The story is REALLY funny when she tells it. Not so much when I do.)

So I am actually not entirely being lazy. After-Dark Ill-Suit has a new gig AND the long-distance gay husband is coming for a visit next week so all in all, things are a little hectic around here. But will continue to post other people's crap as my own once things settle down.

My gay husband has a boyfriend...

...and a real job so I guess I better start a blog.