I picked up the latest Time magazine this afternoon. Just something about the cover caught my eye. I think the headline went something like this: "What Teachers Hate About Parents." I guarantee that'll be my bedtime reading tonight. And before you say a word, yes, I'm a loser, sitting in bed on a Friday night, snuggled up with a Time magazine article. Hush. After all the hoopla I've been through in the past year, I welcome the silent company of a magazine.

It's funny because today's interview revolved around the teaching world, and I was asked why I left teaching. Well, y'all already know the answer to that, so I'm not going to bore you further with a verbose discussion on it. Instead, I'll move on to something I found to be quite hilarious about the whole interview process today, and it had nothing to do with the job itself.

I'm almost at a loss of what to wear to an interview. I have such a difficult time trying to find clothes that fit, and the pin-striped pants and white button-down blouse I had worn for my previous interview are still in the wash (something about line drying doesn't appeal to me...there's this thing called ironing that occurs after that, and I'm not too fond of that activity; believe me, every man I meet knows from day one that I'm not known for my housekeeping skills). What does this have to do with anything, you say? Well, I needed to find an outfit for today's interview. So, I delved head first into my box of clothes. Remember, I'm still at Amanda's and my hangers are in storage, so about 3/4 of my wardrobe is in a box big enough to fit two of me. I basically looked like one of those dogs digging in the backyard and looking for a place to bury a bone. Clothes were flung everywhere (Amanda, don't go in that room; you'll have a heart attack). I finally found a black dress that seemed professional enough to wear for a tutoring interview.

There was one dilemma left, though. My legs were going to show, and anyone with enough fashion sense and interview experience knows that a woman should not go into an interview with bare legs that resemble Casper's, especially when the color black will be against them. So the digging began again, and I finally found what I was looking for...thigh high stockings.

Now, normally I would wear pantyhose, and for the guys who don't know the difference, the stockings are those sexy-looking things that stop about mid thigh (or if you're short like I am, then stop about where my butt ends...lol). Pantyhose have that ugly, control top, undie-looking thing with an elastic waist that nearly cuts off a woman's circulation. Whoever invented hose should be shot. I detest the things. I can handle stockings for a brief period of time, and that's it. Anyway, I didn't have any pantyhose. All of mine had runs in them (another reason to hate the little boogers), and I threw them out before I moved. So I had two choices in front of me this morning: stockings or bare, Casper-look-alike legs. I chose the former.

Big mistake.

I hadn't realized it, but when I got out of the car and walked towards the Corner Bakery (where my interview took place), my stockings had begun to slip down my thighs. You'd think that thighs like mine would keep those babies up, but noooo. And you'd think I'd realize that something was slipping down my thighs (bad news for any guys out there; my thigh sensitivity must be diminishing...lol). It took me sitting down across the table from the interviewer, crossing my legs, and feeling the lace of the stocking just above my knee. "How in the hell did that happen?" was the first thought that ran through my mind while I tried desperately to discretely inch them upwards while smiling sweetly at the man in the tie before me. To no avail, though. The stockings only budged a mere centimeter or two.

To make matters worse, the interviewer asked if I wanted something to drink. I said yes in an effort to get him to go in line, wait for the bottled water, and allow me to adjust my underthings. At that point I was a desperate woman. No such luck, though. He wanted me to go in line with him, and so I shuffled my way, in three inch heels and slipping stockings, and prayed with all my might that my stockings would remain above the knee and thus above the hemline of my dress. The fashion goddess answered my prayer just barely, and I managed to make it back to the table without looking like granny, her knee highs, and elephant ankles.

To make a long story short, I made it through the interview, but the thought of my slipping stockings invaded my mind constantly, and though I avidly tried to keep the stockings at a decent height on my thigh, I never did succeed, and when the interview ended, the man asked me where I had parked. My mind nearly went into convulsions because I knew that in a mere 1.2 seconds, those stockings were going to end up around my calves, and I did not need chivalry at that precise moment. Any other, but not that one. I did not want him walking me to my car and discovering that I can't keep my stockings on. That just doesn't seem like a good impression to me. My prayers were answered once again, and he went in the opposite direction from where I was parked, which allowed me to shuffle my way to my car.

I should let you know that I did not make it in time. I reached the tail end of my car when my stockings dipped down beyond the hemline of my dress, and the lace was hanging around my calves, which was my biggest fear. I hightailed into my car and proceeded to yank those things back up to my thighs where they belonged. I then sped home and vowed never to wear stockings to an interview ever again.

The moral? There's just something to be said about control top pantyhose.

I was going to add this to the interview thread on my members' board, but this is waaay too long for the board. So I thought I'd just blind y'all here.

I had my interview with the temp agency a couple of weeks back, and let me tell you...ineptness is at its best (or should I say worst) at this agency. Should it be that the candidate applying for jobs at the agency be a better employee than the people doing the interviewing? I wouldn't think so, but it seems to be that way.

1) I had a 9 a.m. interview on a Tuesday. On Monday afternoon, at 4:35 p.m. (yes, I'm anal and I actually remember this stuff), I called to confirm the appointment. I don't know why, but I just had this strange feeling that I needed to do so. Good thing I did because the girl stated to me, "Oh, I'm so sorry, but I won't be able to meet with you tomorrow. We'll have to reschedule." Hmmm...and when was she going to get around to letting me know this information? When I appeared in person for my interview. Yeah...not professional.

2) I was given two options of when to reschedule the interview: Wednesday or Friday. Well, of course I pick Wednesday since it's closest to when my original appointment was occurring. So, she and I go this whole discussion of when on Wednesday I can come. I ask for a late morning appointment. She says she'll be tied up and can only do the afternoon. So I ask for an afternoon appointment. She says she can put me down for a 2 p.m. appointment, but she'll have to squeeze me in between two other clients and I might have to wait an hour or two to be able to see her. Again....hmmmm. I say to her very sweetly (and slightly impatiently at this point), would Friday work better for you. She exclaims, oh yes! Ah ha! Why didn't she say that in the first place instead of giving me a choice?

3) Remember, I wanted a Tuesday morning appointment, right? Well, when I finally get in on Friday and see her and another woman at the agency, I'm told how perfect I would have been for a position they just filled. Why oh why wasn't I there earlier in the week. Doh!!! Unbelievable. Do you see what I mean? Ineptness.

4) When taking the various tests to discover how well I knew my stuff (including a typing test, on which I scored 99 wpm. On a test, mind you! Flying fingers, huh?!), I had to ask the woman for the instruction booklet, the booklet I was supposed to type information from for the test, etc., etc. What if I was someone who hadn't been through all this interviewing "stuff" before? I would have scored horribly and looked like a dumbass just because the woman in charge wasn't doing her job.

5) The woman I eventually did the major interviewing for said she was going to revamp my resume and help me to get it to one page. Three business days later, I still hadn't received and hadn't heard from her. She gushed on the phone and said, "Oh yes, I have it right in front of me. I was just talking about you to recruiters. Let me get on this right away. So sorry for the delay, and then I'm going to submit to a company that has an opening for a position I think you'll be perfect for." Uh huh. So, I get the resume back...the submitted resume...the one that went to the company that I was supposed to be an excellent, detail-oriented candidate for. There are clerical mistakes and formatting errors all over the resume. I'm fuming at this point, and I call her up and very politely but firmly let her know that there are mistakes in the very resume that she sent off to the company. Suddenly, the story changes. "Oh no...I didn't submit it yet. I was just doing a quick change to it to show you how to get it to one page and then you can make whatever adjustments are necessary and send it back to me." What?! The woman out and out lied to me.

6) I asked to be told about one- and two-day temp jobs so that I can take those and work them while waiting to hear about other things and while I search on my own. Have I heard a thing? Nope. Sigh.

Ahhh...the pleasure of working with a temp agency.

Needless to say I've gone my own route and been putting feelers out with a few people I know and letting them know that I'm looking. I've passed my resume along, and I'm answering whatever I qualify for on www.monster.com and www.craigslist.com. I have an interview tomorrow with a SAT-prep and college-prep tutoring business, and I have an interview on Monday with a major clothing store for a human resources department position. I'm hoping I'm qualified for something like that.

It's interesting. A lot of people forget or don't realize what skills a teacher has. As a former high school teacher, I managed a classroom, created my own filing system, made Power Point presentations, typed up and formatted my own worksheets and tests, used databases for keeping up with grades, spoke with the public, created short term and long term goals and made plans to reach those goals, played mother, babysitter, and psychologist...shall I continue? And yet, when someone looks at my resume and sees that I haven't been in the corporate world for over eight years, they question whether I can handle a simple administrative assistant position.
What was the parting statement from the woman I worked with in real estate a year ago (she was not the nicest woman in the world, and yes, I'm putting that mildly): "All you've ever been is a teacher." Ahem. Cough. Choke. Let me catch my breath here. For the first time in my life, I said exactly what I wanted to say at the very moment I wanted to say it (not five minutes later while driving off in the distance and banging the steering wheel with my hand because the perfect words came too late). "Without teachers like me, you wouldn't be where you are today." Drum roll please. I hate when people have that attitude.

Now, you might ask why I don't go back into teaching. Good question. Have you visited my website lately? Of course you have, or you wouldn't be reading my journal. Since when did your high school English teacher sport a piece of dental floss between two naked cheeks? Yep. That's one perceived problem. Remember, I'm in the south and we're talking about the public school system. I'm also a bit of a rebel and like to do things my way (noooo...you could never have guessed that...lol!). I just sometimes feel there are more efficient manners of doing things, even if they don't go with the convaluted system at hand. Well, that rubs people the wrong way sometimes. Oh yeah, and I don't kiss asses. I rarely play the political game, which I'm aware is present in every faction of society, but it's still something I don't agree with. To top it all off, the pay sucks. Sorry, but it does.

Instead, I'm slowly trying to get the word out about my tutoring services. I'm a damn good teacher, and I'd rather my abilities be put to good use, so I figure if someone chooses to hire me, they're doing so because they know and understand that I can get the job done and get it done right. Plus, I can do the tutoring on the side while having another job, whereas with teaching, there was so much work with grading essays. (Have you tried reading 90 ninth-graders' research papers? I don't recommend it unless you happen to like torture.) Not to mention, outside bus duty isn't my cup of tea. Okay, I jest about several things with teaching, but right now I have other goals in my life that I want to accomplish, and it just isn't feasible or healthy to work 60 hours a week just to live paycheck to paycheck and still try to train for shows and get only four hours of sleep a night and get yelled at by parents because it's obviously my fault that their child is failing and is a holy terror (even though I've only had the kid for six weeks, and they've had him for what...15 or 16 years? But of course, it's my fault.). And I haven't even touched upon the absurd amount of jealousy that older women exude. It seems that the perceived notion by those who are jealous is if a woman is attractive and in shape, then one obviously isn't intelligent. Wrong!

I'm really going off on a soap box now, aren't I? Lol! I just felt a need to explain beforehand why I wasn't looking for a full time teaching position right now. I'd like to be able to have income coming in from a few different directions, and it's just not possible while teaching and training for shows (which is a second job all in itself).

Okay, my rant is done.

Mirror mirror on the wall, which of you will give me the fairest image of myself?

I think it's a good question to ask. Take a stroll through the mall (which I'm sure many of you will be doing, considering it's the day before Valentine's), and step into several stores and gaze into your image in the mirror. Count up how many mirrors give you the same exact reflection of what you think reality is. I'd venture to guess that I have more fingers on one hand than the number of mirrors that you'll find that don't act like those crazy carnival ones.

I guess I bring this topic up because directly after cutting my hair last Saturday (yes...I cut it; I guess that's a whole other blogger issue), I walked into Victoria's Secret to look for bras. All I wanted was a classic, white, underwire bra that made me look like I had more in the breast region than I actually do. Is it too much to ask for from a lingerie-maker? Apparently it is. And asking for a mirror that displays the true Jodi and not some concocted image seems to be just as difficult of a request to meet.

So, while I did not find that perfect 34A bra (I'm almost ashamed to add on the A, but the photos don't lie, so why should I?), I did manage to find some dimples on the backs of my thighs that I never knew existed. How in the heck do mirrors do that? Do they have magnifiers installed? Or is there a dimple projector? And why would a lingerie store do that to the poor women who venture into that dimly lit room that half the time smells like old socks (just imagine the numbers of bare feet that have encountered those carpeted floors...ewww; no more bare feet while trying on clothes for me)? Doesn't Victoria's Secret want me to buy their lingerie? 'Cause I'll tell you this: I walked out of that pink-infused store empty handed. Yep...empty handed. I saw dimples in my thighs and couldn't find my breasts in bras that promised to create cleavage where the gods didn't seem to give me any, and tears sprang into my eyes, and I hightailed my little (well, according to the mirrors...big) booty out of that dressing room and out of the store. I would have expected the lingerie shop to show me having a bodacious body with voluptuous curves, including newly sprouted C-cup ta ta's. I would be buying every bra and panty in the place if that were the case. In my opinion, VS really needs to change its marketing scheme in those dressing rooms.

See, here's the funny thing. When I came home and looked in the bathroom mirror...no dimples (well, one has to look really, really close to find the dimples...and no, I'm not asking for volunteers right now; maybe later). So, what makes the Victoria's Secret mirrors different from Amanda's bathroom mirror? I really do want an answer to this. And I'll tell you, it makes me think twice about shopping at Victoria's Secret unless I'm like two weeks out from a show. And if you think I can find my breasts then (or a bra that will make me look like I have a breasts), then you obviously don't understand what breasts are made of. So basically...I think I'm going to boycott Victoria's Secret for a while. Speaking of which, why oh why are the really pretty pieces of lingerie not made for the itty bitty A-cups of the world? There are a few of us who cherish our mosquito bites and don't find a need to expand them.

I should add, though, that while Victoria's Secret drops the ball when it comes to presenting a flattering reflection of you in your knickers, the Gap does an excellent job in making you look quite lovely. And considering they do carry extra smalls in camisoles and size A-cup bras, it's a wonder I didn't stop in at that store instead. I guess I was a little lightheaded after my haircut. Yuck yuck yuck. Oh well, I had a need to leave y'all with a really bad pun.

Speaking of dimples on thighs and butts, tomorrow's my cheat day...any suggestions?

'Til the next time.

Jodi

Have you ever noticed that no matter how many times you untangle the wires to your headphones, they somehow end up ensnarled all over again the next time you pick up your Walkman, MP3 player, or iPod? I don’t understand the physics behind this (though I’m sure someone here is going to give me the proper explanation for it); all I know is that it is annoying. So, every workout begins with me undoing the knots that I just undid the day before and murmuring little curses at these dang wires that won’t stay straight. It would be easier to just go wireless, now wouldn’t it?

Of course, the same thing could be said about relationships. No matter how much you try to undo yourself from the person you were tangled with, the wires always end up getting crossed and ensnarled all over again, unless you go wireless and cut the ties.

And that’s precisely what I’ve had to do. In the present age of technological advancement, a forlorn lover has many avenues to get in touch with the object of his amoré. Be it text messaging, cell phone, e-mail, telepathy (okay, I’m smart but not that intellectually advanced; telepathy doesn’t work with me), one can send desperate messages of love, promise, and apologies until either he or his cell phone or his computer is blue in the face (or monitor). And so…snip snip went the scissors and the tangled wires do not exist anymore. The strings to my heart were cut, cell phone number changed, and ability to break my resolve erased. I’d say it’s working…five days of no contact and counting (believe me, in this relationship’s case, it’s a record).

See, I don’t want to have to untangle today what I spent hours (and hundreds of dollars…moving across country the first time isn’t cheap; the second time is even less cheap) undoing yesterday. I hate doing it with my iPod every time I step onto a piece of cardio equipment and every time I want to place dumbbells in my hand, so why would I want to encounter this ugly task in a relationship?

So, here’s the question. Can you really be friends with someone you just ended an intimate relationship with? In theory, it sounds great, and I’m sure it works for the same people who manage to decorate their houses for every single holiday and write their thank you cards for gifts they received earlier that same day. I’m just not one of those people. Honestly, I tried. But all I got were the entanglements. Each time I stepped away and then came back to be friends, I got ensnarled in the promises (empty ones) and the wonderful words (how is it guys know to say just the right thing to get just what they want and a girl’s brain cell power has an outage at that untimely moment?). I’m sure it can be done but most likely only with someone who hasn’t put such knots into the relationship that you need scissors and a new set of headphones to fix the damage that was done. And I don’t like knots (especially when they occur in two consecutive relationships).

Right now the only knots I plan on dealing with are those darned ones that my iPod keeps giving me. See, the idea of a thousand songs at my literal fingertips while I grunt, groan, and sweat is very appealing, and while I realize that grunting, groaning, and sweating can also be done with a guy, my iPod doesn’t talk back, doesn’t make empty promises (except how long it can last…lol), and will only repeat itself when I ask it to.

Now, if anyone comes up with wireless headphones, that was my idea first. I swear. The patent was in my head the moment I caught the headphone wire on my knee while straightening myself out of a kneeling position and nearly taking my head off at the same time (not funny…that was done in the gym and in public; I never said grace was my middle name). So if you’ve made millions off of this idea, I expect a percentage. I know, I know. The check is in the mail.

Jodi

Is it really just a story?

Or for that matter is it really just a doll? I watched the news tonight with Peter Jennings and happened to catch the last segment that discussed an uproar over a Hispanic doll named Marisol, the use of a true town in Chicago (I believe it was Chicago), and a little detail about it being too dangerous for her to play outside, so the parents decided to migrate to a new, “safer” suburb.

Now, many residents in the city have cried foul on this story and the writer, stating that she has hurt the city’s image and that the city is trying hard to make it a safer place, and by writing what she did, she negates the cultural flavor of the town. On the other hand, the writer and proponents of the story state that it is just that…a story.

So which is it? Is it just a story, or is there a responsibility to include truth and reality into the mix when preparing fiction for the public eye?

I guess I found this interesting because I was having a chat the other day with one of the members of my public board (Muscle Bunny, in fact), and I posed the following question: which came first, the story or the person? (Yes, this highly reminiscent of the chicken and the egg question; I realize that.) I used to tell my students to remember that behind every poem, every short story, every novel, every play, every song is a person. And behind every person is a story. So again, I ask…which came first?

See, would I be who I am today if I didn’t have a story behind my character and my name? But would that story be what it is without me? Ask yourself that in your own personal life. And if you ask why this matters, well, the next time you step out of bed, consider this: that new day is like a new chapter in your book. And you have control over how that chapter begins and how it ends to some extent. You can’t dictate who steps in and out of your life and what others do. But you do have power over yourself.

I need to remind myself of this all the time. I answered a post on another board about what I don’t like in the bodybuilding/fitness/figure industry. And there’s an awful lot that I don’t like about it. All in all though, the only thing I can do though is speak up here and there, not do the things that I don’t like that I see others do, and remember that I’m in control of my own destiny in this federation. Of course, I’m not perfect, and I will stumble, and that’s what makes the story. The one element that must be present in any plot is conflict. In realizing that, I don’t regret any conflict in my life (it may not have been the most joyous occasion to endure at the time, but I don’t regret it); it all adds color and flavor to my story.

All in all, it may be a little bit of fiction and a little bit of truth, but this doll will still be standing as tall as 4’11” will allow when it’s all read and done.

And all this thinking has me craving sweets. Well, it's either the thinking or the fact that I haven't tasted chocolate since this past Sunday since someone very mean made me start my diet. Oh...umm...wait. I am my trainer.

Off to bed. G'night everyone.

Jodi :)

For those of you wondering which lines you should not use on a woman, the following would be a good example of one such line.

Let me first set up the scene. I'm in between sets of my one arm cable rows. I'm focused. I'm sweaty. I'm bloated (it's almost that time of the month, but I won't go into details, for I remember a member complaining about me discussing Aunt Flo awhile back; forgive me for mentioning Mother Nature's gift to womankind...and I use the term "gift" very loosely). I'm wearing practically no make up. I'm dressed in all black. And I'm dead serious...I'm gonna get my back bigger if it hurts me really badly...lol! In other words, don't mess with me!

Workout boy: Wow! The first thing I noticed about you were those glutes!
Me (after I've cleared my throat): Really.
Workout boy: You could really hurt someone with those things!
Me: Ummm...thank you.

Okay, now is it just me, or would it have been honest and more effective to tell me, "I was just staring at your big ass and getting turned on"? He still would have received the same reaction, so why not tell the truth...ya know? It would have been much more fun for him in the process at the very least.

I think that was the most exciting thing that occurred to me today. Well, that and watching American Idol and trying to pick my jaw up from the floor from the atrocity of voices that seem to make it on that show. I have one question: how in the world do you not know you can't sing? Take me, for example. I turn the radio to such a high volume in the car so I can't hear myself sing. I scare myself, quite frankly. You couldn't pay me to go on American Idol. Wait, let me take that back. Someone might show up tomorrow and offer a million dollars and then I'd be stuck with that statement. So yeah...for a million bucks, I'd embarrass myself and wail on public television that encaptures several hundred thousand viewers per episode. But that's exactly what I know I'd be doing...wailing. Dogs come running when I sing. I promise...it's that bad.

And on that note, I'll talk with y'all later in the week.

Jodi