Month: January 2013

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.  If that is true, then my resume’ cover letters prove that I am certifiable.

While I really like the cover letters I’ve written and think they give prospective employers a sense of what I have accomplished, they don’t seem to be getting any results.  Below is a new cover letter that I am half considering sending out with my next resume’.  I’m not joking, I really might send this.  I figure I have nothing to lose.  But before I do I would like some feedback from anyone who would like to give me their input.  Feel free to tell me what you think.  I value your opinion.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am a married 57 year old white Christian male seeking employment.  I understand that this is more information than you would legally be allowed to ask me for.  However, as my possible future employer, my belief is that you are entitled to it.

You also should be aware that I am not a college graduate.  I was one credit hour short of earning my Associates Degree in Journalism when circumstances caused me to look for full time employment.  While I was intelligent enough to earn a spot on the Deans List, I was not intelligent enough to understand how important a diploma with the words “Bachelor of (fill in any area of study here)” would eventually become.

Along with my two years of college I have 36 years of business experience (33 of those years with the same company) in the following areas; Retail Sales, Warehousing, Customer Service, Technical Research, Corporate Field Representation, Purchasing, Freight Forwarding, and Sourcing / Procurement Management.

I am not the smartest person on the planet.  While others were learning about Excel spreadsheets and database management systems like Access, I was busy nine, ten, and sometimes eleven or more hours a day doing what my company asked me to do.  If they had wanted me to know those things, I trusted that they would have taught me.

I am proud of the dedication and loyalty I had shown to one company for over half of my life and will stand behind the work ethic that I was taught by my parents.  If you have the sniffles and a headache, blow your nose, take an aspirin, get in your car, and go to work.  Don’t forget to take some Kleenex. Your employer is depending on you to be there.

If you are looking for a younger person, one that can be molded like a piece of clay only to leave for a better opportunity in a couple of years, I understand.  This seems to be the path that many companies nowadays are taking.

However, if you are looking for someone my age, someone a little worn due to many years of putting out fires and weathering storms, someone who wants to once again dedicate himself to a company for the next 10 or 12 years, then I think we owe it to each other to speak.

Thank you for your time.

Regards,

Dale A. Massaro

I don’t have many vices.  A little over a year ago, due to a health scare and my son’s insistence, I stopped smoking.  I drink very little alcohol, though I must admit the instances where I do, I tend to over indulge.  I also don’t have a girlfriend.  That is to say I am no ones ‘Sugar Daddy.’  Actually up until a few months ago I used to be someones sugar daddy.  I am relatively certain that my black lab, beagle mix Wrigley would have run off anywhere with me had I asked her to.  Then my grandson Leland was born and Wrigley traded me in for a younger model.  It was painful at first but I’m learning to cope.

The one vice I do have left is food.  It’s a nasty vice.  Giving up smoking and being at home all day for the last seven and a half months, lends itself to a lot of snacking.  If you have read my post “A Weighty Issue” you’ll understand what I am talking about.

So it shouldn’t have been a complete surprise last Friday when I stepped on the bathroom scale for the first time in almost a year and said “WHOA!!”  My wife who was outside the bathroom door said, “What did you say?”  I repeated, “WHOA!”  and she said “OK” and went about her business.

Whoa is a funny word.  It can be used to stop a horse or as an exclamation of surprise or shock.  It can also be used as an acronym, which is how I was using it.  As in;

What the hell?!

How did this happen?!!

Oh my gosh!!!

Are you kidding me?!!!!

The scale read a whopping 229.6 lbs!  I haven’t weighed that much since never.  The .6 really bothered me because I couldn’t, with a clear conscience, round it down to 229.  For all intent and purposes I weighed 230 lbs!  My drivers license says 6′ 200 lbs.  The weight issue is bad enough, but truth be told, because of age and gravity I’m not even 6′ tall anymore.  Which means I am both shrinking and growing at the same time!  WHOA!!!

Feeling guilty about my weight, I got this intense urge to purge myself.  I yelled to my wife, “Sue, I weigh 229.6 lbs, I need to lose weight!”  She said, “Really?  You don’t look that fat.”  I sarcastically shot back, “That’s because you haven’t seen me naked since the Cosby Show was number 1 in the Neilsen ratings!!”

I ran to the phone to call a friend.  “Tonya” I said, “What am I going to do?  I just got on the scale and it said 229.6 lbs!  That’s way too heavy!”  She said, “Really?  You hide it well.”  Was that supposed to be a compliment?  Because she’s a really nice person, I’m pretty sure it was meant that way, but it didn’t stop me from hanging up on her without saying thank you.

I was in a panic.  At this rate, if I kept gaining weight I would have to go to my next job interview in a pair of sweatpants and a bath robe!  This would surely hurt my chance of being hired and might even get me arrested.  As the police usher me out of the office building they would probably ask why my resume hadn’t included information about my stay at Pleasant Valley Hospital for the Criminally Insane.  Trying to explain to them that I’m fat not crazy would probably fall on deaf ears because they would have already made up their mind that I was both.

I tracked down my son and said, “Anth, have you noticed that I’ve gained some weight recently?”  “Well dad, now that you mention it.”  My first reaction to that was, Why you little piece of….  But wait!  That is exactly what I needed, some honesty.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I sat down at the kitchen table, grabbed some left over Christmas cookies, a glass of milk and began to plan my weight loss strategy.  I absentmindedly tapped a ginger bread man against my forehead.  Something seemed terribly wrong about how I was attacking this problem.   Ohhhhhhh, I know.

Today is one week later.  I got on the scale this morning.  223.4  Whoa!  With a clear conscience I’m rounding the .4 down.

My wife and I normally do not buy clothes for each other.  The issue is this.  She complains that I try to dress her like a hooker.  Apparently, according to her, I have in the past bought her some questionable outfits.  Outfits that were more suited to strutting her stuff on the sleazier streets of downtown Chicago than to wearing to her job as a parochial school secretary.

On the other side is my complaint.  For some reason she wants me to look like a bowl of Easter basket jelly beans, continually dressing me in pastels.  The shirts she buys for me make me look like a tennis pro at an exclusive members only organization that could be named “Fruit Loop Meadows Country Club.”

The reason I mention these personal things at all is to give you an idea of how either trusting or apathetic I am becoming.  If you haven’t read my last post you should probably go back and do that before continuing on with this one.

Some of you will remember that a couple of weeks ago my wife asked if I wanted to stop at Kohls and purchase a white dress shirt.  I didn’t.  Bad move and here’s why;

I received a call for a job interview last week.  To say the least, these calls have been few and far between.  Wanting to make a professional impression I decided that a nice crisp white dress shirt should be part of my attire.  Uh Oh, you know where this is going don’t you?

I chose the best one of the four that I own and put it on.  I was mortified!  You thought the black dickey reference in my last post was just a funny one liner?  It wasn’t!  It was worse than that.  The shirt was so thin that if I tried to get through airport security wearing it, the TSA would probably strip search me, mistaking my chest hair for a baby ferrite that I was attempting to smuggle onto the plane.  You could see through the shirt so clearly that it looked like something I would buy for my wife.  Oops. OK there, I admitted it, now can we just move on with my story please?

I tried to convince myself it didn’t look that bad so I put on my tie and fastened the top button.  That’s when I realized all hope of wearing a white dress shirt to this interview was gone.  Immediately upon buttoning it, my neck bulged and my air supply was cut off.  It was so tight I looked like a python who had just swallowed a six week old calf.  If I went to the interview in this shirt I risked passing out due to lack of oxygen.  I could see it now.  Not being able to get enough air I become disoriented, I slump forward thus impaling my forehead on the interviewers pen and pencil desk set.  If that were to actually happen it could very possibly damage my chance of any future employment with this particular company.

I had some options of course.  One was to leave the top button open and wear a T shirt underneath.  I rejected that idea because I didn’t think the extra layer of clothing would allow me to button my pants comfortably.  I could shave my chest, sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures.  But not this time.  I’m desperate not insane.

Finally, I could choose a different color shirt.  The pink one or the navy blue one.  On principle I chose the blue.

I’m not sure the interview went all that great but at least I was comfortable.

That is how we got to this point;

“Dale, I’m going to Kohls today.  Would you like me to pick up a couple of white dress shirts for you?”

I’m sure I can trust her with getting me a couple of white shirts can’t I?  But the possibility does exist that I might still end up with a daisy yellow or lime green one.  Oh, who cares.

“Yes please.”

Looks like I’ve become more trusting AND apathetic.

Ladies, where do you come up with these questions?

My wife and I were in the car the other day, when out of no where she asked, “Would you like to stop at Kohls for some white dress shirts?” 

My first thought was, what did she mean by that?  The article of clothing she mentioned was so specific.  A white dress shirt.  Was this code for something or did I really need a white dress shirt for some event she had previously told me about and I had now forgotten.  I really hoped that wasn’t the case.  The last thing I wanted to do, other than shop for a white dress shirt, was once again have to admit that I didn’t pay attention to something she told me.  Over almost 28 years of marriage, I have in my opinion become rather skilled at saying in a convincing tone, “No, you never told me that.”  However, It is still a statement I feel should only be used in dire situations.  For instance, my wife says, “Dale, are you almost ready to go?”  I answer, “Go where?”  She says, “Remember, we have to go to my mother’s house today and take down all of her Christmas decorations.”  And that’s when I say, “What?  You never told me that!”  See what I mean?

They say your brain is more powerful than the most sophisticated computer and I believe it, because while all of this other stuff is running through my mind I am also picturing my closet  to determine if her white shirt question has any merit to it.  In other words, do I actually need a white dress shirt?  Is this perhaps a legitimate question not intended to trick me into admitting that once again I wasn’t listening to her?

My computer like brain surveys my wardrobe. Top shelf, jeans are separated into three categories;  Three pairs of, why did I buy these?  Four pairs of, couldn’t squeeze into them if I used a shoe horn, and two pairs of, can still wear them but thank God the holidays are over.

The bottom shelf has some shoes.  A brown and black dress pair, another black pair that was meant to be worn with the jeans that don’t fit, gym shoes that make my feet sweat, and a pair of cowboy boots that I haven’t put on since the Reagan administration.

On hangers I have two suits I tried on just before Christmas, they both make me look like I’m doing an impersonation of Chris Farley’s fat guy in a little coat routine from the movie Tommy Boy.  Next comes a grey sport jacket and then some beautiful dress slacks that if I begin fasting today, I can probably begin wearing again by November, provided I wear them with a sweater to hide where I can’t pull the zipper all the way up.

Finally I get to the shirts.  I’ve got long sleeve shirts, short sleeve shirts, pull overs, button downs, polos.  Ah, here they are, white dress shirts.  Four of them.  Two old ones and two older ones.  I can see them as if they are right in front of me.  The two old ones don’t look that bad, no tears or rips or stains.  The two older ones look alright too.  In fact they look great if you overlook the fact that they have become so thin that even if I button them all the way up to my neck you can see right through the material and the hair on my chest makes it appear that underneath the shirt I’m wearing a furry black dickey.  And they are oh so comfortable.

“Dale, I said do you want to stop at Kohls and look for a new white dress shirt?”

“No, not really.”