i only wear white when it rains

At some point I’ll have to fabricate a resume since my real CV expired years ago, and is firmly lodged in the bowels of a dead PC that a certain husband saw no need in rescuing from Hospice as it clicked and sputtered its life away last Summer.

That now extinct hard drive sits untouched on my bookshelf like an urn of ashes waiting to be resurrected for $3,500 (or three years of alimony) and an insatiable desire for Aunt Ethel’s tapioca pudding recipe trapped on a Word ’97 doc.

But until then, I’m diligently searching for the next job opportunity in every nail salon, yoga studio, Starbucks and Neiman Marcus I visit.

So what if my dream job is writing for The New Yorker (I mean The Onion)? I’m not sure my future employers will appreciate me explaining what was in my portfolio before my husband tossed it in the trash during a move. Nor would they be impressed by my clippings from the Florida Concrete Association magazine. So until I can steal someone else’s identity, I’m wondering if any of you have connections with the following publication (fingers crossed).