In recent weeks it has become ACTM (Abundantly Clear to Me), that I have NAFP (Not a Fucking Prayer) of becoming conversant in the acronyms bandied about by USHE (United States Healthcare Executives).
IAE (I Am Exhausted).
And TOKM (Thinking of Killing Myself.)
I am also looking for ANDJ (A New Damn Job.)
It’s not that the JIHN (Job I Have Now) isn’t AEO (An Exciting Opportunity).
It’s that it’s AEO for someone who DNBE (Does Not Bore Easily) or DATD (Die A Tiny Death) every time someone says, “You’re creative. Will you proofread my PowerPoint?”
So, on to my credentials. Because you look like a recruiter. Yes, you in the blue shirt. (Which really brings out the color of your eyes, by the way.)
I’ve spent the last nine years of my life working in various jobs that fall somewhere under the heinously overextended rubric of Marketing.
I’ve worked for the non-profit, the ad agency, and the corporation—publicly traded and privately held.
I’ve written brochures, product slicks, ads, newsletters, journal articles, radio spots, direct mail campaigns, sales letters, telescripts, animated cartoons, case studies, magazine columns, press releases, and somewhere close to eight million “letters from the high-level sales executive, who cannot himself string two sentences together in a way that makes one granule of earthly sense.” I have ghost-written two autobiographies. I have managed tradeshows, conferences, and speaking engagements, not to mention a slew of vendors, some squirelly, some stellar. I have hired people. And fired people. And above all else, I have been dependable, on time, courteous and professional in my manner and dress.
I am not an outrageous bitch.
I don’t sulk, snap, or give people the cold shoulder when they don’t fall all over themselves to “let me know how much they appreciate my efforts.”
When you say something with which I disagree, I don’t sigh deeply into the phone leaving you to wonder what you ever did to make me hate you so much. Instead, I’ll just say something along the lines of “You know that’s horseshit, Harry.”
Unless I am talking to someone who clearly loves Jesus very much. Then I just say, “I’m not so sure about that, Harry, but I’ll look into it.” Because
I respect peoples’ right to enjoy a profanity-free workplace (at least until they are out of earshot).
For the most part, I leave my personal life at home, unless it’s a story involving my two-year-old and the song we wrote this weekend entitled “A Toot is A Burp Your Butt Makes,” (sung loudly to the tune of the Disney theme song “A Dream is A Wish Your Heart Makes”), because even that outrageous bitch who’s giving me the cold shoulder because I didn’t fall all over myself to let her know how much I appreciate her heroic efforts should get at least a small chuckle out of that.
So you see I have quite a lot to offer.
And yet. What’s the first thing every prospective employer asks me when we meet face to face?
“How would you rate your graphic design skills, on a scale of one to ten?”
This is a fact. Ninety-nine percent of employers in the state of Tennessee think that the people who write ads must also design them.
They also think Santa makes all those X-Boxes all by himself.
So when I kindly explain that I am not, in fact, a graphic designer, and therefore would have to hire a graphic designer—freelance or otherwise—to support my efforts, they inevitably raise a hand to their chin, squint their eyes, and ask, “so what exactly do you see yourself bringing to the table?”
Well. If nothing on my resume appeals to you, may I suggest bringing to the table a nice she-crab bisque? It’s AHS (a house specialty), and always excellent.