An Open Letter to the Hiring Manager (With Edits)

*Remember: Keep those cover letters clear and concise.

Dear Hiring Manager:

I am willing to pay applying for the position advertised on your career site, a site I was perusing during work hours at my current place of employment. As a product of a Las Vegas upbringing, I understand applying through a career site is a complete gamble. I am not necessarily a fan of a lottery system - sure, I play the numbers here and there, dreaming of a life of travel and leisure (so far, no hits), but I do not consider myself a lucky person, though I get lucky often. As such, I tend to reach work around the luck-of-the-draw systems. For example, instead of alcohol-infused sleepless nights hoping to be accepted into the ING New York City Marathon via their lottery, I ran. I ran nine New York Road Runner races and volunteered for one in 2012, guaranteeing myself a bib in ING’s last title sponsored New York City Marathon this past November. Essentially, I worked tirelessly for months to work even harder on November 3rd. Unfortunately, I do not have a system for working around the career site onslaught of applications. Thus, here I am, hoping a few paragraphs in a cover letter will shine bright enough to hit one of you in the face with my brilliance.

Sleeping Social media is my passion - how else is one expected to evaluate their self-worth other than with likes and retweets? I dream of working from home going into work each day, affecting the mood of a nation with a simple status update or blog post. Sadly, it has taken me quite a few post graduate years in the workforce to be in the position to allow my aspirations to come to fruition. Now that I live with my boyfriend, transitioning to a much lower salary, as your company offers, is seemingly acceptable if I ever want to enjoy what I do for a living. However, those years afforded me the time necessary to master a diverse skill set (e.g. making coffee and opening mail), for which I could not be more grateful. My prowess for administrative tasks now seems second nature, which I despise, and my understanding of the corporate environment assists my navigation of difficult and, at times, sensitive situations. The only thing stronger than my skill set is my alcohol tolerance work ethic. I have worked since I was legally able, paying my way through college with various work study positions and part time jobs. If I wanted to afford a fake ID, I would have to earn it the honest way. I have always endeavored to better myself, and going after my passion is the only logical next step other than sleeping my way to the top.

While I understand this cover letter is rather unconventional, I hope it has adequately summarized my immense interest in working for any company other than the one I am currently employed with such a well-established and beyond successful company such as yours. I promise to bring my experience and enthusiasm to the position at your company, a promise much firmer than any Kardashian marriage vow.

Thank you for your time, and, more importantly, for choosing to review my application out of what is sure to be a vast assortment of less qualified applicants.

Sincerely,


Patricia Lily


Coupled with my interview skills, it is evident that I will never get hired anywhere else be hired by a top company rather soon.

Living in Sin

Alternative titles: “How to Hide Your Foul Habits From Your Significant-Other-Now-Roommate,” “Learning to Come to Terms With Your Mother Hating You While Saving on Rent,” and “Copulation in Every Corner” 

To get back to blogging, for those of you who enjoy the misdeeds of others, and to celebrate the start of the Lenten Season, a post about sin seems more than appropriate. It is not my intention to bore you with any regular sinning, however. Rather, seeing as I am currently (newly) living in sin, let’s delve into that, or, as my mother refers to it, “what was the gospel about in mass today?”*

 ---

Daddy issues having dissipated (or so I have convinced myself), I made the "yay-this-will-be-so-fun!" decision to move in with the boyfriend. If my mother doesn't hate me enough for it, Jesus surely does. But not to worry, I have weighed eternal damnation against splitting rent costs and a doubled DVD collection and chose wisely. I mean, cohabitation seemed like the next logical step in our relationship (not that my relationship resume boasts a history of healthy partnerships, but I have consulted friends in this regard) - essentially, I no longer wanted to travel to Brooklyn. Sadly, this came at a cost. 

Hoarding is in my genetic makeup - meaning, it’s not my fault. These tendencies were learnt behaviors that manifested themselves in the womb. There was no hope for me. Alongside learning to brush my teeth and tie my shoelaces (self-taught as I will forever argue), I was mastering the art of accumulation. Fortunately, particular skills of abundance were lost from generation to generation. As such, I have managed to keep my hoarding to a minimum - old concert ticket stubs here, notes from middle school crushes there with an occasional baby tooth sneaking in from time to time. In no way do I condone keeping cloth diapers from your child's poop-themselves days. However, my mother does. She likely has my entire youth wardrobe in the garage, ya know, "so (my) kids can wear them, too!" Again, my hoarding is not even close to this level. Yet, somehow, I was still required to purge all of my belongings and memories a lot prior to move in day.

I'm not dense. I fully understand that when two people move in together, some items are no longer acceptable. These items are of the "I've lived alone for the past two years and have dodged any judgments because of this" variety. They include, but are not limited to [entering judgment-free zone]: vibrators (no, I don't know why I had more than one - these things happen), many articles of exes' clothing (because basketball shorts and over-sized shirts are comfortable during the moments I'm not allowed to spend naked - e.g. when strangers of an asexual nature enter my dwelling), stuffed animals (gifted by everyone from grandma to the Happy Meal aficionado at McDonald's), period panties (oh, come on, you knew that one had to be mentioned), framed photos of the Kama Sutra (allegedly inappropriate), various clothing items that I wear as undershirts so it doesn't matter if they're pitted out under the arms, God, I sweat more than others, okay?! leave me alone! (apologies, that got out of control), shoes (R.I.P.), assorted unwanted gifts that await a holiday and/or birthday to come around so I can regift them, decor color schemes (zero color is a scheme, thank you), eleven throw pillows (ugh, tear), and Sipasaurus (I don't want to talk about it). Sure, the purging that I went through wasn't that dramatic - I didn't lose my identity in the process, but it was tough. [Stop here if you hate love] What isn't tough, however, is going to bed and waking up every day next to the love of my life...and splitting rent. [Resume]

After two and a half weeks of living in sin, I suppose I don't truly miss any of my old belongings (until a holiday comes around and I am a gift or seven short). Although, I do miss not thinking twice when I leave my clothes on the floor of the bathroom, the toilet paper placed the proper way on the dispenser (over, not under, of course), uninterrupted Netflix binges, and the avoidance of judgments over multiple empty bottles of wine. But all-in-all, playing house is super fun - as sinning typically is. How else do you figure out if you and your partner are fully compatible? Marriage? Eek, reeks with finality. Yes, my mother and grandparents aren't the happiest with my decision (a little bit more disappointment than when I pierced my nose at 16), but they're not paying half my rent...my new roommate is - and, in the end, isn't that the only thing that matters?

*If you are lucky enough to receive pop quizzes about mass on Sundays, here’s a tip to avoid an hour long lecture about how bottomless brunches in the Village cannot be considered a substitute for the Eucharist: Instead of regurgitating the day’s gospel story that you located via a quick Google search, get a little creative. Tell your mother, that you would rather discuss the intricately exhilarating homily that your priest/deacon/bishop (you get the idea) shared. Start with something broad to make it believable (best to go with what I will refer to as a “happy Jesus, happy life” value - e.g. treat others as you would want to be treated, honor your father and mother, do not steal/commit adultery/have fun - really just pick anything from one of the Ten Commandments and you’re golden). After she has zoned out on your Biblical recap, throw in a few curve balls. Mention how your priest discussed his unwavering support for same-sex marriage or women serving as priests. You know, something really Catholic-y. If she ignores the misstep, quickly excuse yourself until the following week. If she notices, congratulations! She won’t be calling for at least a couple weeks as she will be too busy lighting candles and praying to the Almighty to have mercy on your likely-to-be-damned soul.

Guys, Avoid These Girls

What your name says about you, ladies (more so - Who to avoid, gentlemen):

Amanda: [Origin: English - Worthy of being loved] Your parents chose this name because you were clearly a mistake and they hoped that its origin would help them love you. It hasn't. You're not worthy. You're not worthy of your parents' love, but you sure are worthy of the basketball team's. As the resident slut on campus, you proudly sport athlete-provided hickies like a champion. You bask in your triumphs and continue to chase jerseys well into your late 20s. Unfortunately, your penchant for athletes combined with your severe daddy-issues, leads you into one team-huddle-gang-bang too many leaving you with more baby daddies than you can count. It's hard to raise athletes when you're too busy fellating them. Nothing a healthy round of rehab or an economy pack of condoms can't help. Play on playa.

Ashley: [Origin: Anglo-Saxon: Dwells at the ash tree meadow] You're big into the outdoors - which we all know means you're into rocking vintage bush. This is completely OK with your boyfriend because it reminds him of his mother, but it does get a little weird when he reminiscently twirls your shrubbery during breastfeeding foreplay. The one great thing about your love for mother nature is that while you're ready and willing to get down and dirty, you're exceptionally great at natural family planning - meaning you won't go getting pregnant "accidentally" (unless he's loaded and has a lake house). Just make sure you warn him that those aren't bug bites, or don't.

Brittany/Britney: [Origin:  English - From Britain] In recent years, you've considered changing your last name to "Bitch." It's much too unfortunate that you've confused people calling out to you "Britney Bitch" with them quoting the pop princess. When you take a second to timeline the exact moment people began referring to you in such a manner, you realize it came long before Britney's iconic statement. You discover that, in fact, people have been referring to you as "bitch" for most of your life. It wasn't until recently that you asked one of your "friends" if there was any validity to your revelation, and she conceded that back in '97, when it all began, the kids at school thought you resembled a dog and your obsession with 101 Dalmatians didn't help. You now inexplicably regret all of those Halloweens that you ironically dressed as Britney Spears. Woof.

Elizabeth: [Origin: English: Bountiful] You fluctuate between chubby and curvy, and maintain a fashion sense that works perfectly with your body. Your style rocks, but just because you can dress yourself doesn't mean you have the talent to maintain a fashion blog. If you stuck to pictures and designer references, it'd be one thing, but when you try to articulate what your fit suggests on a metaphorical level you're just embarrassing yourself. There's a reason you went to beauty school versus majoring in English. Stop abusing the internet's disconcerting accessibility for the ignorant and keep to snapshots. You're elementry grammer mistakes our making every one nautious [sic].

Jennifer: [Origin: English - Fair One] Your whole life you worked your ass off in school. Too bad you didn't take a moment to develop some social skills to complement your wisdom. You're the epitome of an awkward pause, and your peers completely avoid you unless they need help with something. Your indifference to them works toward your advantage when you begin to embezzle money from them. You remind yourself that you're smart and they're dumb - the only thing that gets you by. Well, that, and all the newly acquired wealth you can squander. Unfortunately, you're not as smart as you think you are - you get caught. Now you're tutoring felons working toward their GED in a minimum security prison. Perhaps you'll write a book about your experience and it will become a Netflix original series. More likely, you'll return to your life of solitude and cats. Life is never fair.

Jessica: [Origin: Hebrew - Rich] You're adopted and have ignored your Asian heritage you entire life. All the teasing you encountered in your youth has only strengthened your level of independence and self-resilience, which works wonders during your world travels. That trust fund is really paying off in every sense of the word. Now you just need to find an often absent husband to give you the children you have never always wanted - dad promised you more money if you give him grandkids. Sure, you and the hubs will sleep in separate beds and won't vacation together, but those little things only enhance the co-parenting you succeed at while your kids are at boarding school. Years later, your husband will start porking the help, and you're able to trade up for a newer model. Trust funds and prenups - happily ever after...apart. 

House Arrest

Whenever I begin to consider visiting my hometown, I remind myself of the goings on of Las Vegas.  Not the strippers or the gambling (even though I mastered both early in life) - more so, the goings on of the quaint two-story house in the middle of a cul-de-sac of a master-planned community - the house I grew up in. Home sweet home (allegedly).  

During my last visit, over a year ago, I had been enjoying my vacation away from the big city reminiscing with my siblings and old friends. Of course, all of this reminiscing took place at bars or pools with bars - as is necessary. The final day of my trip, my sister and I returned to our mother's house during the wee hours of the morning, dodging her glares and piercing judgments as best we could.  After a few hours of recovery and fluids (the nonalcoholic kind), we were able to pull ourselves together to head back out and meet our friends for some day drinking quality time. 

We braced ourselves for the task at hand and walked outside to the car. With a quick click of the remote entry button, the doors unlocked and my sister opened the passenger door as I walked around to the driver's side - I had requested to drive seeing as I was a Manhattanite whose feet acted as a main form of transportation powered by Jameson instead of unleaded - it had been too long. Apparently, I wasn't as recovered as I had thought I was (similar to Lohan's lack of understanding of her readiness to accept sobriety) because it wasn't until I sat down in the driver's seat that I noticed my ankle monitor - my ankle monitor in the form of a club.  Yes, the steering wheel club invented to thwart would-be car thieves from operating a vehicle.  We were being treated like common criminals. Our mother had placed this bullshit device on the car before leaving in her club-less vehicle. 

It was a Sunday and, as a product of a strict Catholic upbringing, I immediately attempted to use this to my advantage. Grandma would see things my way; she'd have my back. Standing in the driveway, I enthusiastically dialed her up, woosah-ing with every dial tone to calm my frustration. Similar to enjoyably aggressive intercourse suddenly surprising you with a mistimed hip thrust resulting in penetration of the wrong opening, I was shocked and angered when my mother's voice answered the call. A quick glance at the screen of my cell phone confirmed a correct dial. "Put grandma on." As soon as gma picked up the receiver, I began explaining the situation. "Hi, Grandma! I'm not sure if your daughter already told you what she did, but there is a club on the steering wheel, and we can't get to mass." I figured this was a perfect story. I simply mispronounced "the bar" as "mass" - a common mistake, especially if you're born and reared in Las Vegas.

"Well, why don't you walk to mass?" Grandma, you snake! You know we're Catholic. We're not a couple of Orthodox Jews on our way to synagogue who must abstain from operating vehicles on Shabbat. What do you think this is? Additionally, it's sweltering at over 100 degrees outside and you want us to walk five miles? Immediately, I realized there was no winning in this situation. My mother had already polluted her mother's thoughts with images of us shooting tequila in little-to-no clothing (in our defense, please note it was over 100° outside).

Our mother's plan worked. She successfully circumvented our attempt to enjoy life further - story of my life. We were left with no other choice but to retreat back into the house and finish out our sentence. Fortunately, as the one of her four children who moved 3,000 miles away and emancipated herself years prior, I was not under her control nor the control of some device that acted as a dedicated deterrent. Single mothers sure are creative in their attempts to materialize an absent father.

Soon after this inconvenience, my sister wised up and hid the club as soon as she located it in the master closet. Too bad our mother presumably bought in bulk. She produced a fresh club each time my sister assumed she had successfully outsmarted her. One can never outsmart crazy.*

Yes, I plan on keeping a cab service on retainer the next time I visit.


*The use of crazy in this instance is meant in the most loving and respectful way.**
**In case my mother reads this.

Getting Naked is Dangerous

Brian and I were thoroughly reveling in our last night in Miami.  Stumbling out of the club, bidding adieu to the South Beach nightlife, we made our way down to the beach to enjoy one last free pedicure the sand always so cordially provides.  We passed a few people on our stroll across the shore while the remnants of waves splashed at our ankles; some homeless, some couples, all enjoying the moon's reflection on the dark water (OK, so the homeless person was sleeping, but it's likely his glazed eyes smiled at his surroundings before he passed out).  When it came time for us to travel back up the beach toward our hotel, we exchanged a knowing look.  "Let's do it," was the general consensus.  

Removing my jewelry, dropping my purse, and losing my dress as quickly as I lose my dignity at bars, I skipped into the ocean allowing the salty waves to try their hand at sobering me up.  Occasionally squinting at the dark shore from the water, whose sand mirrored the 3am night sky rather than the hotel lights of Collins Avenue, we kept an apathetic eye our belongings. We gleefully splashed through the ocean whilst screaming inside jokes from our trip, our way of immortalizing the good, the bad, and the inappropriate before we had to hop in that death trap that is a South Beach cab to the airport a few short hours later.

Brian and I were in heaven.  That is, if you can be drunk, naked, and swimming in the ocean in heaven (I'd consider sinning less if that were the case - yeah, I know, that's unlikely).  In those moments, I was the happiest a person can be.  Don't believe me?  I snapped and texted that picture just before stripping down. Pure, unadulterated joy right there.

As Amanda Bynes famously said, "All good things must come to an end." We couldn't remain carefree floating in the ocean forever (though we considered it).  We were forced to reclaim responsibility and make our way back to shore.  Slowly trudging through the waves, unacknowledged goose bumps started forming.  We felt nothing - clearly the brisk water did little in the way of moderating our inebriation.  Where the water failed, however, a war veteran succeeded.

Our shoes were all that remained of our belongings - my $2 flip-flops and Brian's flashy Adidas sneakers.

Vocalized panic started erupting from Brian's mouth while my internal panic manifested itself in nail-biting. All I could think was - which of our friends were playing a prank on us.  Too bad all of our friends were at least 1,300 miles away.  This couldn't be happening; we were leaving for the airport in two hours.

We noticed some people about 50 yards down the shore.  I told Brian to go ask if they saw anything.  He insisted that I come with him.  I shot him a piercing look and motioned to my hands fully occupied with covering the goods (or the OKs - whichever), and responded that I would not be joining him on this endeavor.  Besides, I was busy chomping the last of my manicure off.  

Moments later he was back with the bleak news that our useless neighbors had seen nothing.  He checked inside his shoes for the second time and felt something that the hysteria had previously caused him to miss - his phone and wallet. He had tucked them into each of his shoes before jumping in the water.  While his sense of alarm began to dissipate, mine was still violently attacking me as I stood naked on the shores of South Beach.  

We tried calling my phone - it was off.  This war vet was good.  Oh, I suppose I should explain how I knew the thief was a war vet. Simple - the only way he could have stolen our things unnoticed is if he had been army crawling through the sand (important to note: this theory was later endorsed by a friend who watched a man do exactly that in an attempt to steal his friends' belongings during a similar night's swim in South Beach). So, either this person was a war vet or an infant in its pre-walking stage.  I'm going to stick with my gut on this one.

Thankfully, Brian's phone proved rather useful with its flashlight app as he was able to locate our clothes about 100 yards up the beach. I assume the vet determined our duds were neither his style nor size.  Flip flops in hand, I threw my dress back on and we agreed it was time to head to the hotel to sort things out.  En route, I called and made the necessary cancellations to cards (at least I had the sticky magnificence that is the material used to adhere credit cards to the trivial piece of paper enveloped and expedited for your convenience to look forward to - God, I love that stuff - so underrated). I then dialed the boyfriend who so wonderfully answered what could have been an annoying drunken rant and, after following my sloppy directions leading him to my passport, sent me a picture of my last available form of photo ID.  Not sure if TSA would have let me anywhere near my gate without something showing I was who I claimed to be.      

The front desk printed my passport and called up a cab.  I regretted finishing off every finger nail because the return flight was close at hand.  It's pertinent to mention that I'm a nervous flier. Ignore the fact that my father was a Naval Fighter Pilot and my mother served as a flight attendant during my youth - I should be most comfortable in the air - but as we all know, I'm most comfortable in a dive bar surrounded by my friends, Jameson and self-doubt.  I digress.  What was already a stressful situation was exacerbated by that damn vet.  I suppose I should be thankful for his service, though. Ugh.

Overall, it seems I have become a bit too comfortable neglecting protection; specifically, protection when it comes to nudity and my goods.  I suppose getting naked in any capacity requires a form of safety, but it's always a bit more exciting when safety is ignored - amiright?