Skip to main content

My cover letter needs some work

You'd like to know about my background as a writer?

Well, let's start with my deep love for language and stories. I am also literate. I also know the difference between 'you're' and  'your' and also 'there', 'their', and 'they're'.

Look, I'll be straight with you.

I could make shit up, but that would be wrong.

What I do have to offer is my perspective:

I am Every Woman and can appeal to the universal experiences of Women.

HA! No.

Okay, so I'm not really an Every Woman.

I am however a Fairly Common Woman. I am funny, smart, and quirky.

I have conceived, carried, and expelled two human beginnings from my very own body, and this makes me an expert on all things pertaining to snot, shit, and stretchmarks.

The two humans who once inhabited my uterus are 15 and 10. I live with them and keep them alive. This makes me an expert on all things pertaining to patience, maternal love and devotion, self doubt, worry, despair, and laundry.

I have been married to the same guy for 17 years, as far as I can tell. I mean, he appears to be the same fellow. Blond, tall, two eyes, two ears, male. I think it's the same guy. Seventeen years. This experience allows me to know all things regarding the human heart: high blood pressure, angina, cholesterol. I also know a little something about vasectomy aftercare.

I help take care of my elderly mother. In the capacity of caregiver, I have the unique opportunity to practice my parenting skills: patience, devotions, love, self doubt, worry, despair, and laundry. Helping my elderly mother is like taking a master class in parenting. The only reward is knowing that if there is a Hell, taking care of my elderly mother may be the only thing that will exempt me from taking my place there.

I am able to blather wittily or poignantly or an amazing combination of both --mixing it up lightning speed, funnysad funnysadfunny POW!-- on many subjects not limited to parenting, marriage, elder care, shit, snot, and laundry.

I am sure that given a chance, I could think of something else to write about. Give me a chance. Oh for the love of GOD. Please.

I forgot to mention the fact that I have ADHD which adds a bit of mad-cap excitement and zaniness to the mix. I am also occasionally depressed, for added pathos. I have an anxiety disorder too, which gives some of my writing a sense of peril and doom.

I can write at least as well as the woman who wrote a personal essay about her open marriage or the woman who wrote about her emotionally unfaithful fiance or the piece I just now saw about tantric sex, OMFG who has time for tantric sex?!  or the dude who wrote something about whatever it was that I got sort of bored with. You know?

I mean, Jesus Freaking Christ.

Come on.


Sincerely,







Comments

Margaret said…
As are you, No Filter, as are you!

Popular posts from this blog

Just don't call me Late to Dinner

A friend recently asked if I was ever called Maggie or if I'd always been a Margaret. That got me thinking about my name. I hate my name.  Hate it. I have never liked my name. It seems fine to call other people Margaret. It sounds agreeable enough when I say hello to another Margaret. "Hello, Margaret!" I might say. And the name doesn't offend me. It doesn't make me recoil or wretch. It's just a name. And a fine name at that. But it's not for me. I don't feel like a Margaret. It doesn't fit me well.  Hangs off me all funny and weird. Can't ever seem to wear it comfortably. I don't like to be called by name. Frankly, it makes me feel sort of sick.  When I was a chubby 3rd grader I decided I wanted to go by a nickname.   Peggy. I wrote it in my clumsy curly cursive on the front inside cover of my books.   I said it out loud to myself in the mirror. Peggy. Peggy! I liked it. First of all Peg...

possible blog material

possible blog posts for blogtober: 15 things you don't know about my left nut: 1. I don't have a left nut 2.  I do not even have a right nut As I can only get to #2, this idea needs fleshing out before I commit to it. Hahaha...fleshing out.  some things you don't know about my cat 1. I have a cat 2. she's a cat  3. she does cat things 4. she shits in a box   15 things I want to change about myself 1. fuck this shit 2. seriously 3. back off 4. you do not want to go down this path 5. really One billion (maybe this is too ambitious) observations made while sitting on the toilet  1. someone should really mop the floor  2. I need to get some new reading material in here,   3. I think the new Oprah magazine was in yesterday's mail  4. there are only so many times you can read about living your best life while sitting on the shitter  5. reading recipes while using the bathroom is sort of we...

Thinking about my son, jail, near death experiences, and hoping for the future

It's disconcerting when your 9 year old son asks if there are any jails in town that he could tour. My first thought, naturally enough, was that my son was planning a life of crime and wanted to see where he'd be spending 5-8 years of his life. But then I took comfort in the realization that my son is a dear darling boy who absolutely can not think past this moment. THIS moment. THIS MOMENT. He is the boy who tried to pick up fire, the boy who tried to put the knife in the toaster, the boy who ate his entire chocolate Advent calender in one sitting, never contemplating for a second what would happen next. The look of surprise and hurt after the touching fire thing was heart breaking. He was utterly disconsolate on December 2nd when he found he had no more candy and would have to watch his sister eat her stale misshapen chocolate stockings, stars, and bells, one each morning, for 24 days, in front of his very eyes. He was completely dumbfounded not not just a lit...