Zilla's Day

The last couple of days, most stress was just related to celebrations . . . and that's not a bad type of stress.

My sister is maybe from a different generation, I don't know. She, and her friends, tend to truncate words:

"r u on your way?"

That was my 7:17am text by my sister, "Zilla" as her friends started calling her (short for bridezilla). I was on my way fortunately, and on time. We drove over to the Mall of America for our 8am hairdos. Sherah and two others sat down, as three of us flipped through magazines and drank mimosas.

The girls seemed to know what they wanted. I didn't - or at least I had forgotten all the lessons learned and promises I made to myself about getting my hair done. For future reference: no buns, no snake head slick backed look, no loose ties that make my head look even bigger than its 7 and 5/8" circumference. Instead, I said,

"Oh, I hadn't decided."

(Sherah) "Rachel, just sit down. We'll fix you up."

"Okay."

I was enjoying myself as she curled and sprayed my hair - I bet that would have looked nice - but no, then there was a surgeon's needle and some thread and the next thing I know I look like Ma Ingalls. I'm not photogenic, but I also didn't have make-up on and my hair was loose on my head while the back was a snarly frizzy tangled low-hanging bun.

I looked like I just came in from the prairie.

I had the stylist tighten some parts and loosen others, and in the end, I tried not to say anything else because Zilla was paying for it and Zilla needed to leave.

So we left and headed back to her house. On the way, I called Tolga to bring a few things. I said on the phone,

"Hi husband!" As I usually do, and Zilla immediately launched into mocking me and complaining to her bridesmaids that Tolga and I were ALWAYS together. I had to end the conversation because I think it was becoming a personal afront to her wedding day. Back at the house, we got dressed and put on makeup. It was fun, as I was remembering getting ready for my own wedding at Sherah's house. We all traded make-up. Sherah decided to do mine, and then Meg, her dot-Indian friend (as Sherah refers to her) decided to do my eyeliner. To which I blinked and left it all over my lids, with my left I actually stuck open. Meg said, in Sherah-lingo with her Indian accent,

"Rach, you're such a train." (As in train wreck).

I somehow cleaned the mess up and was the last out of the house, yes, even after Sherah. We had to be at the church at 12pm (but I don't know why really). Meg found parking and as I climbed out of the car I did three things simultaneously: stepped on the hem of my dress, tore a hole through the hem with my high heel, and yanked the front down over my bust (flashing nobody, fortunately).

Note to self: there are worse things than tripping down the aisle at a wedding that could happen.

I proceeded inside to sew my hem, eat a couple of sandwiches, and be yelled at by Aaron for explicitly ignoring his directions to me to not put a band-aid on his son's raw and bleeding ankle and that until I'm a parent I can't make those kind of decisions.

Manzilla.

We flew through family photos, Sherah and Mike doing some great photo's up in the balcony and then prepared for the ceremony. My feet were already hurting by the time we line up for the procession. It was a cool day, but we were all sweating. I had the close-up and front view of Mike and Sherah. Sherah had a scowl forming in-between her brows and I knew it was for the same reason I was shifting feet: too long in too high of heels.

The ceremony went by quickly, always to quickly it seems, and it ended with my Bayport Grandpa shouting in my parents' ears (his attempt to "whisper"),

"All the daughters are married now!"

We took a limo heading to the reception. It was beautiful bus (which is amazing after all the fuss that went into that bus) and it was full and relaxing. It was the first time I've seen my brothers out-numbered. They usually know everybody and are leading the way in partying, but Mike's friends outdid them here. (That was a fun first). We made a couple of stops and took very cool, artsy photos under the perfect lighting of an overcast sky.

The reception was in a modern, high ceiling, alumi center and we were introduced by Joey-the-cruise-director. I have heard much about him, but his MC-ing was like that of a game show host - he was charismatic, he was funny, and his voice was irresistible.

I gave the maid-of-honor speech reading an excerpt from the children's story "The Runaway Bunny." I was ridiculously nervous, and I wasn't even sure it was appropriate to read it thinking: it's too personal, it's too sad, it's not for Mike, it's more for everybody, it's more for me, I'm not really even sure why I'm reading it . . . And then I just decided to read it.

Owen said to me later, "Did you read the story to me once?" I'm not sure if I had. "Ha! You read it to EVERYBODY." Yes Owen, and I almost brought a copy of the book for you and your bright little eyes.

It all went so fast, but my body was exhausted - and maybe my emotions. I learned many things that day, but there are two things that standout:

1) The Spark family

2) My husband.

The Spark family are fun and loving, I feel like they were long-time relatives of mine that I hadn't seen in ages, and I instantly wanted to spend all our holidays with them and not just Mike. They are, come to think of it, the only "in-laws" that live in Minnesota. Weird.

Secondly, I've been in a few weddings, and they are always emotional and full of expectations filled and unfulfilled. Running around with the bridal party, walking down the aisle, giving the speech - amidst all the dramas of the day I would scan faces and I would see my husband. I realized for the first time, I'm often scanning faces for approval, and when I see my husband's face I feel an instant sigh of relief.

He'll wink or smile, and I'll smile and return and nothing really seems to matter anymore because I all ready have his approval and support.

Reasons to smile

Today I:

Applied for two hospital jobs in my rebellion against the Minnesota education system (ha! that'll show 'em)

Called our property manager (he promised to wire us money again today).

Made fifty (more) chocolate chip cookies

Put together a mixed green salad with apples, roasted walnuts braised with butter and brown sugar, and tossed with balsamic vinegar and olive oil.

Then I:

Went to Sherah's rehearsal/dinner.

There are a lot of people involved in the wedding "package" ("package" is what the wedding coordinator referred to the whole shabang as, when requesting payment). My sister was having trouble making everything perfect: the rehearsal started late, my violinist friend was being iced by the professional pianist, my nephews (that are in the wedding) were rolling a bouncy ball around church, the scripture reader never made it because she thought the rehearsal dinner literally meant we would be rehearsing at dinner, the pastor didn't seem to like change, and a few of the groomsmen had to leave to try on their tuxedo's for the first time.

Sherah says,

"Weddings are stressful."

I, on the other hand, was enjoying the chaos. I found it all oddly refreshing. Or maybe it was the dress and my silver shoes and pink nails that shielded me from participating in any of the dramas.

Sherah, Mike and both parents were quite emotional during the impromptu rehearsal dinner speeches. Everyone cried or became teary-eyed at the words honoring others. Just as Mike became choked up speaking about his older brother, Sherah was extremely emotional when introducing me. I couldn't wipe the silly grin off my face and wondered if I should be trying to produce tears to be more a part of everything.

I don't know, these things don't make me cry, or choked up. It makes me happy to celebrate with family.

Hope for . . .

Things I hope for:

A job for my husband and I

Unemployment benefits to come through

Our property manager to actually pay us our money and not just promise to "send it today"

Our apartment to rent and sell all at once

A better tomorrow . . .

I was interviewing for another job today - a job that I will have for an hour a day every day and I will earn fifty dollars a week. What can I say? I didn't want the job, but I guess that doesn't matter any more what I want. I went to the school feeling resentful. It was hard to smile, to feel hope.

I filled out an application and answered questions about my spirituality, my education, my plans for the future, the last five books I read . . . I was in for a lot more than I expected. The director interviewed me as a formality, and we talked a lot. A lot more than I expected.

I heard myself share our story. It's a rich story - the story of my family, my education, my travels, my marriage and our new life - but I only vaguely observed her interest in my story while thinking - what was it all worth when we can't get jobs nor support ourselves?

Then again, is that my end goal? The extent of my five year plan? Money?

When I was asked my strengths and weaknesses, I felt vulnerable and I was tongue-tied on my weaknesses. Where shall I start (besides breaking down into tears right then and there)? My weakness? I'm not content with what I have. I am allowing these many fearful unknowns cloud hope.

I imagine that contentedness, in some aspect, is a choice to trust God. Trials won't end in this lifetime, but the trials are temporary. It is our relationships that are lasting - and when I think of my relationship with my husband, and the chance to live at home again being near my parents and siblings and nephews and niece - these experiences are lasting gifts.

So then, what should I hope for?

Road-trip for a job interview

Tolga and I drove to Fergus Falls, MN today, a 200 mile trip almost to the border of North Dakota. We packed sandwiches and on the way there I folded programs for my sister's wedding. It was a mundane task, relaxing with an end in sight. I am appreciating doing these tasks for my sister because its reminding me of all the things in our wedding that I couldn't fully appreciate at the time, but now I am reliving it all without the stress.

Tolga asked me today,

"We're you excited about the wedding?" I had to think about that. It was a good question because when we talked about it, I remember wanting a perfect wedding, and wanting to enjoy working on all the details - but all I was really excited about was getting married to Tolga and beginning the rest of our lives. Now, after the fact, I love reading wedding magazines and looking at wedding blogs, and all those beautiful details . . . but they were also stressful distractions at the time.

It was even a distraction in the car ride as we were heading up for another interview. I should have been preparing brilliant answers to possible questions for my position as Online Writing Tutor with the community college. Then I would have been prepared for questions like, "How might you supplement a struggling student's learning online?" The questions were scripted as they are clearly interviewing many for the position. I answered as best as I could in the moment, but I'm unsure how convincing I was. At the end of the interview, I had to evaluate a narrative piece. I was given a pencil, a hard copy, and a computer. I read through "My Fishing Trip to Canada", editing while I read. Then wrote my comments in a positive, helpful suggestion, positive feedback format. I ran out of time, as I usually do and I'm unsure how clear my advice was (I didn't get to revise my own comments) nor did I have time to give more specific comments about sensory detail, cutting ideas that didn't belong, and giving examples.

A woman in Human Resources came in to cut my writing off. I hesitated in the room, wanting to add one more idea, do one more thing . . . something. I felt filled with regret as I finished because I was remembering so quickly how much I loved editing and revising work - it's a craft to help someone improve a piece without changing his or her voice, and I began remembering that it was something I was very good at. Unfortunately, I'm also out of practice and I felt my revisions didn't do justice to my skill or desire. I wondered if my notes were effective enough. I left the building with a pay-schedule handed to me, never being given the opportunity for questions or a timeline of what would be next. I stumbled out of the building a bit confused but happy for three reasons: 1) I really enjoy going to college 2) I really enjoy writing and 3) I really enjoy being in Fergus Falls with my husband.

Now Showing . .

It's a little embarrassing being so involved in Sherah's wedding and not really remembering the details of my own. I remembering the feelings: overwhelmed, wanting all the details perfect (but having no idea what all those details were), being overwhelmed. . .

I went to Sherah's to iron out her program details and get it printed. A job I thought would take an hour, but it got complicated really quickly. Sherah kept calling me,

"Hey. What are you doing?" She would say in a very low, slightly sneaky voice (she was at work). I would tell her, and then she'd say, "Call me back when . . . " I think we called each other 20 times. In between waiting for her, I tried to teach her dog how to roll over. I also called 1-800-Bethany, my former wedding planner to check the details were okay because talking to Sherah so much I was getting sucked into the drama of wedding preparations - when actually, it doesn't have to be so complicated. I printed out the invitations at Office Max with the help of a very competent employee, and brought them home volunteering to fold and put the programs together.

On the way home, I picked up my niece's dress - to which Sherah made several calls to me,

"Did you pick it up? Is there still a stain on it? Call me back when you can see it better."

A little bit later.

"Can you you still see the stain?"

"No, I don't think so. The lighting is not very good here though."

"Can you see the stain."

"No."

"Are you just saying that, because if there's a stain we'll have to bleach it and . . ."

Wow.

I got home to my ever patient husband. The Hennings were over as well - the Hennings are a family I feel as if our lives may mirror sometimes - the father is a geologist and family is in the midst of a move to India. They are under a lot of stress I'm sure, but more experienced with these things and have an unbelievable gift in separating themselves from the stress to be "present" in conversation. I hope to learn from the Hennings.

Maybe it is our youth that blows out of proportion the unknown and unseen stresses, forgetting to enjoy the moment no matter how mundane that moment is in contrast with our ever exciting futures.

I know I should expand on that one . . .

Two of my favorite

I could hear them outside the window,

"Where's Tolga and Rachel? Are Tolga and Rachel here?" And then, two boys busting through the door to launch into a couple of immediate tackles.

Boys are fun. We wrestled. Played with a ball. Built forts. Watched Owen exercise (he took off his shirt to look like the oily muscled guy on the picture), and played Playstation.

It's just gross . . .

Last night (Friday night) we took my brother's dog to keep for the weekend while they were away on vacation. Candy is a good, sweet-natured golden retriever. Very obedient, and very responsive to human emotion. She watches your behaviors to anticipate what is coming next: food, play, walks, lying around. She is mostly a lot of fun.

She was a bit restless last night, and I couldn't figure out why. We had gone on a long walk. She had been fed, maybe a little too much. We had played plenty. The dog mostly stays on an area rug or in the kitchen. I went to bed late, and was watching a movie - and Candy whined some. I don't know why I didn't heed it. We had just taken her out to go the bathroom. When she continued to whine, I should have investigated, but I didn't thinking she was just begging to sleep in our room. When I finally did investigate . . . oh the trouble.

I first took her straight outside, and she ran to go the bathroom. It was dark, and I wasn't venturing far out as our driveway is definitely not very private, but I could see the outline of her body hunched over struggling to go poop, while continually checking in my direction. When she finally returned, I brought her in and went up the split entry to our apartment, and she stayed at the bottom of the stairs. I'm sure I heard the dog moan. I turned around and let her back out and she shakily walked out the front step, her body heaving a couple times before she vomited. She came back in, her eyes looking warily up at me, only changing their glance when her stomach gurgled. She came upstairs with me and I investigated what had happened. In short, one soft stool, two vomit piles and some of it tracked around the kitchen.

I don't know if I was able to clean it all up, I dread the thought that I missed even the slightest spot of our formerly perfect carpet. I mopped, I scrubbed, ugh . . .

The dog curled up on her rug and fell into a guilty sleep. I finally went to bed at five am, and she woke me up an hour later - snuffling my arm after having left a small pile of stomach bile on the carpet. I let her out, watching her, debating whether she was okay. I went to sleep, only to be woken in the same manner an hour-and-a-half later - let her out, came back in and cleaned up two more small vomits of stomach bile.

I know this is all very gross, but it wasn't nearly as gross as cleaning it all up.

At this point, I woke up Tolga and he walked the dog back to my brother's house where she could stay in the back yard.

I'm torn between "poor dog" and "ugh, I don't ever want to hand out in the living room again".

Talk-to-the-Hair

Yesterday marked one complete week of blogging every single night and I was going to celebrate my discipline - but then I forgot to blog.

So, today I'm celebrating my tradition of writing six days a week plus one day of rest. Yesterday, I did rest and went and got my hair cut and highlighted courtesy of my mother. I have been bemoaning our bills and fearing our unpaid mortgage, and my mother said, "Well, you need to at least look good for your sister's wedding."

My sister's wedding aside, I used my haircut today to bolster my presence when I made a few appeals for my Minnesota teaching license. My idea was to be appear both saavy, put-together, and NOT DESPERATE. A, I-know-what-I'm-worth attitude (and I have the hair cut and highlights to prove it).

Here was the result:

Stop #1 - The Minnesota Department of Education - I was here in order to look into one of my license restrictions.

"We have your files right here and we need proof that you attended this (indicating) Americorp program or this one."

"I wasn't a part of either program, but I was a Teaching Fellow supported by an Americorp grant."

"We only do those two programs."

"And Teaching Fellows, according to the paperwork," I added. She shuffled the papers, we both looked at the exceptions section, reading the exceptions applied to those who participated in "Americorps, Peace Corps, or Teacher Corps."

"See, it's different."

"I'm not sure I see the difference. Is not the requirement that the candidate work with and recognize diversity? Is there someone I could bring this too and appeal my case?"

"That's me."

"Then please examine my program. I worked in a low-income highly diverse neighborhood. I am sure that the program I participated in fulfills the intent of the Human Relations requirement to a tee."

"But did you take courses on Native American Indians?"

Stop #2 University of Minnesota - Williamson Hall - David. Poor guy. He was just a self-professed paper pusher. I came into his cubicle and forgot about looking calm and collected and started into a tirade of how my Master's Degree in Teaching wasn't good enough for the state of Minnesota, that they had the nerve to require me to take over ten-thousand dollars in classes that would result in nothing more than a MN teaching license . . . a teaching license to a already certified, degreed, experienced teacher.

What is education aiming for?

At least my hair looks a little better.

Oxymorons

I have sent out over 100 resumes out for teaching-related positions alone. I've had four phone interviews, and seven in-person interviews.

Apparently the job-market is tough. I went on an interview today and was told at the end that they would be interviewing ten people, and then there would be call backs for a second round. In the meantime, school starts Monday.

I was at a Multicultural Indigenous Academy in St. Paul. It's a charter school, and I've come to the conclusion that charter schools in Minnesota have a completely different flavor than those in New York (or at least the one I was a part of where the only focus was marked achievement). Charter schools here are more along the line of niche schools - and this ones niche was "interculturalism". I'm not sure why they didn't call it Intercultural Academy, but it seems that its a new word/education philosophy being developed where not simply all cultures are embraced (as taught in multiculturalism), but students are taught to first know themselves, identify their own heritage - and not assimilate but learn to keep his/her culture identity. I was completely on board with the philosophy.

But then again, I don't really trust myself in longer, I seem to hop on board anything.

Whatever the philosophy is, I'm unsure how it meshes with the student population. It it a gritty population with a lot of needs. Exactly the kind of place I like to teach because its not just about teaching English, which it never was that for me. . . it is about the kids.

Except these aren't kids, these are high schoolers, some parents. It's a different ball game.

The director of the school was in a golf shirt, shorts, and was barefoot. He was earnest and wanted me to be earnest as well. He had an outline of questions and it was clear they were simply looking for the "right fit." I used to hate that phrase, especially because I was the wrong "fit" at my last job. But I'm starting to understand the idea and I felt less pressure because ideally, I want the right fit as well.

In the end, my interview was interrupted by a tornado. The one interviewer began scurrying around in circles muttering something about checking the computer, man down in Minneapolis, etc. My other interviewer called his kids while I sat and wondered if the tornado was a sign "for" or "against" the job.

Cross-country

Ben, Abby and Candy (nephew, neice, and dog) all came over this morning to play for the day. We all packed up and headed to the dog park at Battle Creek. The dog park there is unfinished. Or maybe its been around for a long while and they just decided to put up a wire fence as a boundary between the dogs and the "Cross-Country Ski Path". The wire fence is incomplete and there are plenty of signs around the large acreage advertising a "lost dog" for those who thought it would be really fun to let their dog run in the "unleashed" zones. Tolga, the kids, and I hiked the trails, coming across picnic tables, water dishes, mailboxes holding poop bags, and a random racquet I suppose being used to hit a ball a bit further. It seemed quiet at first, but as we walked further we stumbled across an incredible amount of dogs - most people had no less than three en tow . I told the kids all my dog-bite stories (two) as a warning, but there turned out to be nothing to worry over - - and none were Kujo-ish.

We then all drove over to Bayport Grandpa's. Bayport Grandpa is 87 years old and starting radiation for lung cancer in a couple of weeks. He plans on driving himself to the Veteren's hospital 45-minutes away for the daily treatments "unless they do something to my eyes."

Grandpa's cat sat behind the storm door periodically meowing at Grandpa and hissing at Candy.

Repeat lessons

Today I:

Got mad at my husband for not being able to fix everything.

Went on a 15 mile bike ride.

Filled out the St. Paul Schools application to be a substitute, and dropped it off at their offices.

Stopped at Sherah's in search of black shoes, let her dog, Whipper, out -- who instead of going the bathroom first, laid on her back in submission and began peeing upside-down.

What have I learned today?

1) No amount of money is worth lashing out at someone you love. 2) Whipper is retarded.

Manna Today

Is New York my Egypt?

Tolga, my parents and I were sitting around this morning having church in the living room - one of the sweet times we've gained from coming home - and my dad was paralleling our experience to the Israelites being led out of Egypt, and because of their unbelief, having to wander the wilderness for 40 years. They didn't know their future and everyday had to rely on God for their manna to appear in the morning. At times the Israelites complained, despite the morning miracle, wondering aloud if they were better off slaves in Egypt where at least they knew their futures.

I used to think the Israelites were lame. What a bunch of whiners and weaklings. God was leading them, providing for them, and promising even greater things and they were a weak ungrateful lot . . . and here I am finding I'm not as different as I thought.

When I left New York I was miserable, and now I keep toying with the idea of returning. Tolga and I decided before our marriage that it was not the best place for us namely because he is a geologist and work there is unlikely, but we also recognized its a hard existence. Slowly I became a slave to my work, and became less a part of the outside world. Work was my master, and I chose it over many things - sometimes even over Tolga it seemed. As as result, I think I did lose my freedom, my creativity, my spirit, my desire - and much sooner than I was ready to admit, I was pretty useless at work as well.

Here, in Minnesota, everything is being provided us - including family. Yet, I still think of the nice steady paycheck I once received, the prestige, the grittiness, and the cool t-shirts (because I'm fickle as well). . . maybe if we go back together we can recover something? Or am I just going back into slavery?

On a practical note - slaves didn't own property in Egypt (I think) as we do in New York, so I'm unsure how we can be released from that Pharaoh.

Plague anyone?

Looking for Fortitude

"Life is hard." Sometimes I cringe at that statement because I don't want life to be hard. Sometimes because I don't believe my life is nearly as hard as some.

My husband often recalls the day his family only had one potato to share between his two brothers. His mother, who had forgone the meal herself, was crying, and Tolga refused to eat as well so his younger brothers could eat. He went outside to play and be happy for his family. He chose to be happy for them.

I can only pray that I will choose better in the future, to be happy for him.

My aunt said that to me today, that life is hard. I'm not sure why I (we) expect life to be easy, but I do - I expect happy endings. I cried when I read "The Hobbit" because I could so relate to his fear of leaving the safety of his home - the "cost" of adventure. He started his life, his calling , when he left the Shire - but on many occasions he longed for the warmth and comfort of his chair by the fire.

I know the feeling.

We were at my cousin's bridal shower today - my cousin is adopted and the fact is obvious because she is multi-racial and our family is mostly Scandinavians. Her biological mother was there too, as she had reconnected with her many years ago. One mother's joy, was maybe another mother's pain - and today, my cousin is the joy of both mothers. It is a similar story with the family she is marrying into - she has one son from another relationship, her husband has two children from another as well - and both have already created a son - the pain, drama, separation and union over all these years is getting a fresh start with my cousin's marriage and union of many families.

Joy is being multiplied.

How is that possible? I've been mulling over this recently. Another cousin of mine had lost her second son a year ago, he was a stillborn, having died in the womb a week before delivery. I could only begin to empathize with their suffering - how nothing could ease their loss, and even the suggestion that happiness could return was insulting. My cousin suffered through another pregnancy - and I say suffered because the anxiety and fear of losing another child could not be lifted. Her third son was born recently and I felt overcome with joy and celebration. I was surprised at my strong emotions and I felt a glimpse of how rich joy can be, indeed - because of the suffering and loss, this birth felt so precious.

Is that what it takes, severe loss for us to appreciate gifts? I am afraid of this.

On a much smaller scale, I can relate. I complain about a lot of things. My health, my fitness, my finances - but everytime I dislocate my shoulder I am completely humbled. I've always wondered why. Instead of feeling angry that I was hurt again, I feel vulnerable, and grateful when its relocated. Grateful that I'll be okay, that the pain was only temporary.

Grateful.

I feel like I'm getting a taste of something during those times, but the taste doesn't last and I forget. I forget to be grateful. And then things happen . . . life happens. Life is hard, full of hard things to bear so why do we walk around expecting good things? And yet, here I hope for better things when we have good things: we have our health, each other, support, relatives that are well, near and far. For our sufferings are only temporary, and as another aunt quoted "weeping may last through the night, but joy will come in the morning."

For all our weeping and , in my case - sniveling - joy will come. Time will come that we are overwhelmed with gratefulness again -- and in the meantime, I'm hoping I can buck up - not give up.

Contenders

After my first post yesterday, I noticed the New York Times is doing similar postings titled "Happy Days" (I wonder how long they struggled with that title). The series is a sample of people who are re-evaluating life during these hard economic times, and finding themselves new focus as to how to live life and what exactly is important. Here I guess I was imagining my postings were going to go down as classics at least to the struggles of our days, but I think my not-so-subtle subconcious must have ripped off the idea.

Today we completed Tolga's resume and cover letter . . . again. All these months I'd been focused on my own resume, on applying for jobs and different licenses, on sorting out so many issues, but I'm kicking myself now for taking so long. It's Tolga's job we want first and foremost - and we expect to relocate. My job I imagine will be easier to transfer most anywhere.

Upon the recommendation of friends, I had checked out the book "Resumes that Knock 'em Dead" and its companion, "Cover Letters that Knock'em Dead" by Martin Yates. I'm sure I will keep tweeking both because I'm not in the least convinced the resumes going to knock anybody dead, but its an improvement.

Times

My husband, Tolga, and I both have held professional careers. He as a geologist in mining and exploration. Myself as an English teacher in inner city schools. Currently, we are both unemployed professionals.

I was going to title this entire blog link "Hard Times" to connect with all the others that are struggling right now, knowing I may change the blog title to "Really Hard Times" next month, while having no qualms about the day I can switch the title to "Good Times".

Tolga said to just name it "Times" which I thought was even more lame than my titles until he explained "Because we are all the same, it is just time that is creating the difference. Different times are something we all share in this world, good and bad . . . like we said in our marriage vows."

My husband is also a sage.