Job Search.

Everybody lies.

I can't say that it's my favorite quote. On the other hand, it's true. And in the job-seeking world, it's not an exception. It's the rule.

For the most part, I have been independent for the last decade and it was a path that seemed best-suited to my personality. I worked in commissioned sales. Then when the opportunity came, I took off on my own shouldering the burden of being employer and employee. In this world, there was only one divining principle you followed in order to survive: you made your own rain.

It rained. It poured. But when the economy collapsed and our community drowned in a regrettable flood of sharply declining values tied to a housing market inventory that is projected to last the next five years, I found less and less need for my services. I held out a little longer than most but in the end, I joined the ranks of entrepreneurs looking elsewhere for a steady paycheck and reluctantly began the process of job-hunting.

Of course, the first step was to polish the resume–long forgotten under a file that I thankfully still had in my computer. I updated my work history to include my current status as owner of my own design firm and reviewed the previous jobs for relevance and accuracy. I was careful to maintain a brief, concise, single-page presentation I always believed to be more credible than the multi-page pandering I've seen in the past.

I've reviewed my share of resumes for former employers who invited me to sit in the hiring process and for my own company when the time came that I needed help. Those that went to the circular file ran the gamut from mediocre to appalling to hilarious. They verified my suspicion that unless you're a professional athlete whose stats are scrutinized by anybody and everybody, the superfluous padding on that resume is likely not worth the paper it's printed on.

Ultimately, I knew that I needed to be as straightforward as possible. I . Interviews are the final measure of how well our image holds up. Granted, there are always those who will present themselves well. But when the honeymoon is over, I would just as soon not have them look at me and wonder where that person they hired went. After all, the interview is going to determine why you want this job and how badly you want it. The best course is enthusiasm.

I turned in my resume to several potential employers: an insurance company for a sales position; the ski resort for a marketing and the school district for a paraprofessional. This is not a career objective but they don't need to know that. Sure, I wanted a rewarding position with opportunity for advancement but at this point. any job will do.

 A lie, after all, as a means to an end.

A Fascination for Kimonos

A while back, I made my first Japanese kimono. It is a yukata–a traditional summer garment made of cotton or synthetic. It is a more casual form of the more elaborate kimono in silk.

It all started when I was looking for ideas online on how to make a Jedi costume for my son. After an exhaustive and obsessive research, I found a pattern by way of a kimono. One website led to another and it didn't take long before a little seed of need formed in my head: I wanted it for myself. And the more I looked, the more fascinated I became.

My history with the Japanese culture is rather limited, I admit. Japanese presence in the Philippines has existed since the 12th century peaking at the time of the Occupation during World War II. To my knowledge, my mestiza heritage is a mixture of Spanish and Chinese blood combined with my native island roots, which I shall explore on another day. So it was no surprise when the hubby asked a very valid question recently. He wanted to know why I'm interested in the culture when I'm not even Japanese.

Good point.

Then again, why not? Geographically, Japan is close–another island nation–separated only by the Philippine Sea to the north. It was a major trade partner for centuries and Japanese merchants have established settlements in the island as a result. Even with the unfortunate events of the war, the memory of the Bataan Death March died with my grandfather years ago so any bitter feelings I may have had have more to do with his cold, distant bearing than for the hardships he faced as a soldier in the Philippine Army.

Nonetheless, the kimono drew my attention. The style has been copied by designers for years, modified and updated to fit the current trend. It is simple as it is elegant with structure and grace that projects Japan's cultural tradition implicit in its design.

Perhaps that is where I found my emotional connection. I have shed traditions out of ambivalence. I can blame that on my youth. My sense of self has long been assimilated into this culture in order to fit into the mainstream. I have been so "Americanized" that I now face my 40's searching for an answer on who I really am only to come up short. Of course, that too is for another day.

But on the here and now, as I write while wearing my new yukata, this is what I have learned: I love wearing this garment. I love the comfort that it offers as I lounge at home or work on my daily tasks. I love the forgiving lines of its design, delicately accentuating the good parts while hiding the more problematic issues. Though not the least, I love that putting it on–right panel over left, tying the koshi-himo, (under-belt) to wrap the kimono in place, and finishing the garment with the final obi adds a meditative quality to the process.

The McRib is Back!

Now, McDonald's is not exactly my favorite go-to fast food joint. As much as I loved it in my youth, my stomach has developed a severe reaction to it over the years. I learned to stay pretty well clear of the place–or at least, the hamburgers on the menu.

Unless it's November.

In another week, I will have another opportunity to make a pilgrimage to the red-roofed house below the golden arches for their limited-run offering called the McRib and I'm just glad there isn't a McDonald's in our small town. During it's brief six week stint, this 500 calorie pork sandwich concoction returns to warm the belly and ward off the cold.

Admittedly, this is not a real barbecue rib sandwich. I think that would be an insult to the barbecue world. Call a spade a spade. It is a processed pork patty with a sweet barbecue sauce. But combined with a simple topping of pickles and onions, it's unpretentious comfort food that helps me become a kinder, gentler being on these dreary, mood-altering, winter days at over 6000 feet above sea-level.

I don't mind saying that I'm happy to see the McRib's return this season. I will probably find myself there once or twice during this short window that the sandwich is being offered. I'll pair it with a side of fries that makes opening the bag an almost spiritual act as the warmth of the food rises to sooth my hand and the sweet smell of the sauce mixes in with the salt-infused aroma of their fries.

I'll savor the taste while it's here and store the memory in my head until it comes back next year.

The Great Holloween Costume Caper!

Once again, it's Holloween. I remember just dressing up as a ghost, a fisherman, a trash bag, and other nondescript characters when I was younger using simple materials around the house that I had to put together myself. Today, I indulge my kids with store-bought costumes and when the mood strikes (or lack of funds), I bring out the sewing machine and put together some very interesting characters with needle and thread.

So, a few days ago, I was challenged by my daughter to make her a costume. It was short notice, to say the least. Her school's Fall Carnival was in three days and she didn't even know what she wanted to be. Enter Martha Stewart.  Her craft empire was apparently all we needed. We searched her site online for ideas when we ran into a segment about Martha's "glampire" outfit several years ago. The girl looked it over and was immediately sold on the idea of a vampire in a cape. We found ourselves the next day scavenging at the local thrift store for materials. And with nothing more than a black bedsheet along with a roll of black wool and metallic yarn, we were ready to create a costume.

The trick was to make this in several hours without having the cape look like it was put together at the eleventh hour (which it was but totally beside the point). I made minimal cuts to the fabric, saving time but added decorative stitching for detail.

Ta-dah! What came to be was a very cool, well-made hooded cape that she liked because it was perfect for her character as a ghoul.

Yes, she changed her mind. A ghoul was more to her liking so I added the draping hood. Then again, she looks a little like Chancellor Palpatine from Star Wars Clone Wars, but who am I to argue?

I was so pleased with the result of this creative spark. It didn't lack in style or ingenuity considering it's humble origins–a faded twin flat-sheet and scrap yarn. A while back, I recall a Sponge Bob costume  I made using a large paper shopping bag as the framework and it turned out better than I expected. I wish I had the sense to take a picture of it five years ago. Ditto on last year's creation when I suited up my son to be a dice using cardboard.

This year, I've made a concerted effort, if not a moral one for the sake of my kids, who will one day ask me about a particular memory–for which I shall have no pictorial evidence because I wasn't very good about keeping a camera handy. Thankfully, my maternal instincts re-emerged a year ago along with the camera, a cell-phone camera for back-up and a family blog to which all memories are recorded. No small feat for this particular slacker-mom, let me tell you.

Oatmeal is a Healthier Alternative

You can call a cookie by any other name and it's still a cookie. I don't have illusions about its benefits (or lack thereof) but I don't see me depriving myself of these delicious treats in my quest to lose weight and stay fit.

No doubt there are desserts that can probably kill you.

Over time.

On the other hand, I'm not the kind to sit around eating bon-bons daily so I think it's safe to say that I've got this under control.

Take the chocolate chip cookie. The hubby occasionally makes these awesome melt-in-your-mouth treats that I can't seem to duplicate, despite the fact that I use his recipe and bake in the same oven. Like him, these large cookies are masculine in shape and size. No pun intended, but they rise to to occasion every single time. Sure, I knew that they weren't good for me but that didn't keep me away. More important, since I couldn't quite master the recipe, I wanted to make a killer cookie that equaled his in taste but with a healthier spin.

Enter the oatmeal. It's whole grain. it's got fiber. And if it's good for breakfast, I figure, it's even better as a snack. I found a recipe on-line and made a few modifications.  The result? A chewy cookie worth a thousand words. Or bites, because they actually love it–even as much as the revered chocolate chip cookie!

The Mirror Is Not Our Friend.

Okay, let's face it. As women, we have a love/hate relationship with shopping. Sure we love to treat ourselves: a new outfit, a pair of kitten heels to show off those killer calves, that purse you've been coveting for months. That is, until we get to the dressing room.

For a rare few, those with little or no neurotic fears and insecurities, it isn't painful. But for a vast majority–myself included–the experience resembles an act of war and your enemy is the mirror. The dressing room becomes the emotional battleground to which the victor goes the spoils. And as in any battle, you don't know if you'll walk away bleeding or triumphant.

I refuse to take seriously that BMI number which indicates I am obese. I've got plenty enough on me to be critical about and I don't need a ridiculous little machine to add major insult to my injuries. I'm 5'5" with a little more mass than I would want but I'm working on it. I circuit train most days of the week, happily sweating away the pounds, the inches...and the anxieties.

You know what I'm talking about. We keep a mental list of structural deformities. Is it the short neck? The large breasts? The small breasts? The spare tire? The cankles? And that's just on the outside. We haven't even addressed the internal issues we're cursed with as women. If the mirror could see those too, then we're well and truly screwed in a battle that would surely end before it could even start.

Luxury Lift® Bra

The Wonder Tee

On the other hand, I'm proud of my DD's though I prefer the girls separated–not the "uni-boob" cleavage that often comes with larger cup sizes. My Olga wire bras have been my favorite since I tried on the first one a few years back. I also prefer to wear my Downeast's Wonder Tees. The 5% Spandex helps to lift and shape my body's contours. I discovered recently that the bra and tee were very useful weapons against the enemy.

So yeah, shopping is like waging a war–with ourselves. The mirror is not a friend. We enter the dressing room with these preconceived notions about our bodies that do little to make us feel comfortable about what we're trying on. But with these two pieces accentuating my favorite area, I take advantage of what I do like and use it as my shield against all the negative self-talk firing back at me through the mirror because whatever I put on over that bra or over that tee looks really good!

I Hate Paris!

I always considered myself well-rounded, cultured and sophisticated. But yesterday, I found myself wondering if I have been cooped up in a small town for too long. Again.

I hate feeling like a country bumkin' or maybe it's the idea of being perceived as such that bothers me. After all, I'm an educated articulate, and intelligent woman! But twice in as many years, I showed, to my great chagrin, what may appear as backwoods ignorance.

My first "Duh!" moment occurred when I called a client and was told by his partner that he was in Paris. Now, I absolutely KNOW where Paris is but at that moment, I felt a sudden disconnect as I attempted to create an association. He's a realtor. He may be looking at property or handling some type of business in...Paris...as in...Idaho. Hey, it was possible.

Yesterday, I found myself in the same sorry circumstance. A client, who owns a local title company, had to leave our meeting briefly. Upon her return she explained that she had to meet the Fedex driver who had arrived with a packet that she had not expected to be delivered that day because–as she pointed out–it was still in Paris as of the day before. I can only attribute this particular "Duh!" moment to my poor misguided logic. For a packet to have arrived so quickly from Paris (just four hours away) to here could surely ONLY mean that Paris...in Idaho. Right?

Paris, Idaho is situated in a high mountain valley on the Utah/Idaho border, along the scenic corridor of US. Highway 89, and the gateway  into the Bear Lake Valley–a popular destination boasting a large scenic lake dubbed the "Caribbean of the Rockies" for its intense turquoise-blue color, the result of suspended limestone deposits in the water. While small and modest in comparison to our Jackson Hole neighbor, it has steadily found favor among many in the region as an ideal retreat during the summer months as evidenced by the growing number of resorts and second-home owners that have invested in the area.

Paris, France on the other hand is more refined, cosmopolitan, and uber-conscious of its status. It is considered one of the most influential cities in the world. It's history and pedigree outshines it's Idaho counterpart's more humble Mormon pioneer origins. This bustling city of over 2 million residents was once part of the powerful Roman Empire while Paris, Idaho was briefly attached to the shrinking provisional State of Deseret during the mid-1800's.  Paris, Idaho may have the historic Paris Tabernacle but Paris, France has the more iconic Louvre.

So you can imagine my feeling of inadequacy when the retort I received, on both occasions, was "No, as in France, the country!" I told myself it was an honest mistake but hopefully one I won't repeat a third time. Still, I hate the disambiguation. And, yeah, I hate Paris.

Yes, as in France, the country.