I’ve never really had to do much to get a job before…most likely because 1) I’ve never really had to HAVE a job (I’ll go into this more for my next post) and 2) I’ve just been plain lucky. But the last 2 months of this latest job hunt have been pretty rough.

I have become very good at taking rejection. I’ve heard everything from “we’ll be in touch” to “we’re pursuing other applicants” to “due to budget cuts we’ve decided not to hire for the position” and finally “the pay is $10/hour” (That price as a form of rejection).

They say job hunting is a lot like dating—it’s a numbers game. The more jobs you apply for, or the more guys you date, the better your chances are of finding what you want. But you also find rejection. Below are some of my past rejections that I can remember.

• “I don’t want to date anyone before my mission.” (He wasn’t leaving for another 18 months.)
• I think you should serve a mission.” (Still can’t believe he tried using the church as a way out of the relationship.)
• “I love you but I’m not in love with you.” (Please note that this was not a response to I saying ‘I love you’ to him.)
• “Don’t expect anything serious from me.” (See post Textual Difficulties)
• “So I like this girl….” (You are now entering the Friend Zone.)

And then there are the nonverbal rejections such as unreturned phone calls or emails or pretentious flirting with someone else. And last week I was actually stood up—I think—for the first time. A guy asked me to see a movie, and we agreed on a time and place—but he never called. The day went by, and the next, and I never heard anything.

But here’s what I’ve learned from this: I really don’t want these guys—or jobs.

How many times does a girl say to herself after a relationship is over, “I’m so glad he dumped me!” or “What was I thinking?”

The problem is we women have this estrogen-driven need to be loyal. We may want to have a better situation or date someone else, but our emotional wiring makes us cling to the status quo. It’s not until someone lets us go and we can see outside the relationship that we realize how miserable we actually were. Once an old boyfriend called me up and I even verbally thanked a guy for breaking up with me.

So I have a confession to make. About a half hour before the meeting when twelve of us got pulled aside and were told that the company would rather let us go rather than making smarter decisions about spending money (kind of like a girl taking the easy route by throwing up rather than working hard at the gym), I printed a posting for another job someone sent me. I’d been thinking about finding something new. The environment was getting rough, but I wasn’t really doing anything to get myself out of it. Thankfully, they did it for me.

So these rejections, they’re awesome. I welcome them. I thank them. They’ve done me a favor.

Dang it. I might have to go back to school to find a job and a husband.

**So if you’re on a date with Jenny you don’t have to worry about her throwing up the meal you just paid for. She tried to once, many years ago, and it didn’t work. She’s succumbed to going to the gym.

My friend and co-worker JJ asked me to promote his girlfriend’s designer jeans boutique on my blog. (Do you think the next person will actually PAY me to advertise on my blog?) Anyway, I said sure. I kind of owe him because he helped me get my job. So I got thinking about my desire for denim and all the “it” jeans I’ve sought after throughout my life. Here’s what I remember:

Elementary School: Guess jeans. I had a friend who had stitched the upside down triangle on a cheap pair to imposture the Guess brand. My first exposure to the extremes people did with designer envy.

Junior High: Ghirbaud jeans. The price tag of $60 was so steep just for that little white strip across the fly.

Early High School: Gap jeans. The Gap was the store to shop in 90s—especially for jeans. But poor cut and fit has quickly moved them towards the bottom of the denim food chain.

Mid High School: Lucky jeans. I felt so scandalous every time I unbuttoned my jeans and revealed the tagline “Lucky You” along the inside of the fly.

Late High School: Abercrombie & Fitch jeans. These were the first jeans I remember that actually looked good and felt good. And $50 bucks was a good price. Everyone had them my senior year.

Early College: The Freshman 15 prevented me from wearing jeans for about 2-3 years.

Late College: Seven for All Mankind—the first jeans I remember with a $100+ price tag. My first reaction: who the hell would pay $130 for a pair of jeans? I quickly understood as I watched these jeans trailblazers catch the eye of numerous males. I still was wearing my forgiving khakis and corduroys, so I watched in envy.

One month after graduation: I finally gave in.

I bought my first pair of $100+ jeans during the summer of 2004. I remember this so clearly because it was such paradigm-shifting moment. I was in AZ visiting some family, when I went to the Scottsdale mall (awesome mall, btw) to kill some time. While in Nordstrom’s I thought I’d humor myself and just TRY on a pair of Sevens. Big mistake. Once I slipped on that $150 of sexiness, I stared into the dressing room mirror in awe and thought, “I cannot NOT have these.” Seriously, I just couldn’t leave the store without them. And worse, I couldn’t believe I really spent $150 to have them. So from that moment I’ve been determined to find good-looking jeans—even as prices grow increasingly insane—without EVER paying full-price again.

Before JJ met his current girlfriend, he was a victim of bad jeans, but now he’s so proud of his new jeans. One time JJ got in trouble for wearing jeans at a trade show. The booth manager told him, “JJ, you’re not allowed to wear Levi’s.” But JJ retorted, “I’m not. These are Diesels.” I’m sure his girlfriend would have beamed at JJ at that moment.

It may be easy to justify expensive jeans that make you look good when you’re single, even if you could support a child in Africa for an entire year instead. But with the right effort and a little luck, you can find fantastic jeans without ever paying full price. This weekend is an opportunity just for that. Namedroppers is having a monster sale off big, BIG names. 50% off on Thursday. 70% off on Friday and Saturday. 80% off on Sunday. That will bring the price tag to a reasonable $60. They are located at 2350 Parleys Way (2100 South) in Salt Lake City. Don’t pass it up.

**So if you want to date Jenny, she gets uncomfortable if a guy knows about designer jeans more than she does. It just seems wrong to her.

When I started my job, I thought I’d make new friends by bringing in cookies. Everyone loved them, and I quickly won their favor. I learned to leverage my cookies to get what I needed. People got cookies based on their CPJ (cookies per Jenny) score. If a co-worker upset me, I’d threaten that his CPJ just went down 2 points; or if they got me that report I needed, his CPJ just went up 5 points! But I soon realized that it was all give, give, give, and no one else on my team contributed any baked goods. People grew unappreciative and started “expecting” me to bring cookies every Friday. I told them I didn’t know it was part of my contract, so I stopped.

But some new hires claimed they had the best cookie recipe, so we decided to settle it with a cookie bake off. I do feel it was a ploy to bring my cookies back in, but I agreed to their self-seeking interests. I made the cookies the night before, and baked them in the morning. But while I was distracted getting ready for work, I left them in the oven a little too long. I thought they’d be okay, but I knew in my heart it wasn’t my best. I didn’t have any more dough, and I was late for work. These had to be my entry.

I quietly watch the judges taste the cookies, containing myself not to throw out excuses that I accidentally left them in too long. I graciously watched another batch win. My (burnt) cookies ended up in second place.  

I’m a Badger, and we tend to choke under pressure. Troy freezes up with 2-foot putts for par; my dad speed checks before the finish line in ski races; Chris falls short in ping pong at the 20^th point; I lose cookie contests.

As I watch the Olympics, I sympathize with those athletes who miss the gold by hundredths of a second. They’ll be haunted by that nanosecond forever. I baked my cookies for a minute too long, and I’ll have to live with those mistaken 60 seconds for the rest of my life. What if I had a perfect cookie, a perfect performance? Would I have won first place? I won’t know.

They say winning the silver is worse than winning the bronze. Silver medalists will always live with being second. Bronze medalists are glad they just get a medal and aren’t 4^th place and lost in the pack of non-medalists. I don’t want to withdraw from the excuse bank, but it wasn’t my best performance. But that’s how competition works. You have to perform. Even though I know my cookies are superior, I still failed to deliver.

Part of me wishes I didn’t participate, but I’d like to think that I am a better person for trying. You only get better with every competition. Next time I’ll do a better job watching the clock.

And in the meantime, I get the pleasure of telling my co-workers I’ll never bring my cookies to work again as I clearly have an inferior recipe (look who lost now!).

**So if Jenny wants to date you, she’ll make you cookies to increase her attractiveness. But it’s not something you’ll want to take for granted. Your CPJ is highly volatile to any sign of misbehavior.

If you were presented with two slices of chocolate cake—one is cut nicely, garnished and served with a glass of milk, the other looks like it was scooped by hand and plopped on a plate—which would you choose? Even though they would both taste the same, you’d choose the pretty one, right?

Well, apply this notion to a guy deciding which girl to ask out. Is he going to ask the girl with the cute clothes, curls, and pretty makeup? Or is he going to ask the girl with the unflattering clothes, disheveled hair, and dark circles under her eyes? Even though they are the same person on the inside, the messy girls are shoved aside.

I shared this Chocolate Cake Theory with my co-workers after repeated quips about my messy hair. I told them it’s annoying to have to do the 45-minute routine day after day, so I often resort to just 5 minutes. My faithfully honest co-workers, as sweet as they appear, try to help me out. They feel I sometimes forget about my “situation” and remind me of the Chocolate Cake Theory. If I come into work with wet hair and/or no make-up, they’ll say, “Aw, Jenny, what did we talk about with chocolate cake?” or, “Jenny, we’re having a group picture tomorrow, so remember the chocolate cake.” However, they do reward me with praise, “Yeah, Jenny! Bringin’ out the chocolate cake!”

(To illustrate how honest they are, the first time I came to work without makeup, my co-worker Frank said to me, “Jenny! What happened to your face?!” And please note that I wasn’t offended and my self-esteem is just fine.)

I found out yesterday that someone secretly told my co-workers, “Ya know, Jenny can sometimes look really hot…and not.” I didn’t really know how to take that, but I thought it was funny. I guess I present two different types of chocolate cake. See, the thing is that I’m very fair. Not the Guinevere type of fair, but the pale-skin, light eyebrows/eyelashes, I-can-hardly-see-your-face type of fair. Very vanilla. Maybe in my case, I should call it the Vanilla Cake Theory.

So the moral of all this? Try. It’s somewhat about presentation. But find someone who loves you without makeup.

**So if you date Jenny, remember she has two different slices of chocolate cake. But whichever slice she presents, you’ll soon realize she is full of ooey-gooey, chocolately goodness.

I’m postponing my scheduled blog entry for today to share with you a good laugh from work yesterday. I was in a meeting, trying to pay attention as usual, when a PowerPoint slide came up that was teaching a point using an analogy of a dartboard and darts. As I was looking at the picture, I turned my head slightly to the left and thought, “Oh my gosh. That looks like…” A slight smirked came on my face, and I slyly looked around at my co-workers expecting a similar expression. However, they just sat there looking at the slide. So I had a decision to make. I could (1) be professional and ignore it, (2) risk making a sarcastic comment, hoping to get a laugh, or (3) pass a note to my co-worker and share a giggle. I knew I couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass, but I couldn’t be that unprofessional, so I choose option three. As nonchalantly as possible, I tore off some paper, wrote 5 words, folded it into a ball, and threw it at my co-worker. I anxiously tapped my foot waiting for my anticipated reaction as my co-worker opened and read the note. To my disappointment, he said nothing and handed it to my manager. My manager then reads it, folds it back up, and continues listening to the presentation without  acknowledging my comment. I was dying! How could they not find that funny? No eye-rolling, no snort, no smile, nothing! As I was denied a reaction, I couldn’t hold it any longer and let out a snicker. The presenter asked me what was so funny, and my manager asked if he should read my note to the rest of the “class.” Between my giggles I said, “No, no, I’m sorry. Please continue,” and bit my pen the rest of the meeting to keep from laughing.

So this is the picture of the dartboard and darts:

But this is what I saw:

(The note said “looks like fertilization to me.”)

After the meeting, both co-workers said, “Oh Jenny, c’mon! Why are you the only one who thinks like that?”
“You c’mon!” I retorted, “How could you guys not see that?”
“No Jenny, we only saw a dartboard and darts.”
Other people who had seen the presentation agreed—they only saw a dartboard and darts.
“Well then,” I admitted, “I guess my biological clock must be ticking.”

Ultimately, we all agreed the dartboard and darts looked like…well…what it looked like.

Anyway, that PowerPoint was to be presented at a company meeting later that day. Needless to say, the presenter used a different image. (I don’t think I would be the only one who sees something other than a dartboard and darts.)

**So if you date Jenny, do not assume she sees things like that all the time. Actually, a lot of that kind of thinking goes over her head. And if she ever passes you a note with something that (she thinks) is funny, the least you can do is give her a smile.

There is an urban legend in SLC about a place of little houses, little roads, little cars, and little people. It’s missed by many, not only for being small, but because it’s hidden in a thick grove. I’m not really sure if this place—known as Hobbitville—exists, but one time I tried to find out.

One day my co-workers decided to investiage this, so during lunch we drove to the supposed location of Hobbitville. We drove down the street and saw nothing, so we drove back and noticed a “little” road that led deep into a thick grove of trees. A sign was posted that read, “no tresspassing.”

We pulled into a vacant lot across the street trying to decide whether we should (or even can) enter. The rumor is that the little people get angry and often throw things at outsiders. One guy questioned, “what if we’re attacked by a mob of little people?” to which I respond, “I think we’ll be okay; we’re in a suburban.”

Just then a young college student was walking by, and our driver rolled down the window.

“Excuse me, do you know where Hobbitville is?”
          “Yeah. It’s right across the street down that road.”
“Oh good. Have you ever been there?”
          “Um, no. I don’t really go stare at people who are different than me.”

At that moment I realized how embarrassing, disrespectful and immature this was, and I suggested we go get our lunch. But the student’s righteous rebuke didn’t even phase them. The mission was still a go.

We started down the driveway then stopped. Someone was standing there, but he was no little person. He was a (relatively) big Hispanic man with a rake. He stared us, and started walking towards us to which our driver immediately reversed and aborted the mission.

In the end, I guess I’ll never really know if there is a village of little people, with little homes, little cars, and maybe even little playgrounds. But I do know of some little people that make excellent chocolate (and I’m not talking about Willy Wonka. See here.).

**So if you date Jenny, please take her to the chocolate factory (but don’t actually call it the chocolate factory in the store; it happened once and wasn’t good) to buy her some chocolate, as well as meet her little friends.

Usually people associate guns and co-workers with a terrible tragedy they hear on the evening news. But at my job, guns bring the employees together. With a disproportionate number of gun activists at my work, I suggested we go trap shooting for our next team building activity.

The two co-workers I work the closest with is Atkins and Frank (first names are hidden to protect them. But I really just call them by their last names because they share the same first name). As an older single LDS girl, I’ve been forced to find a job and work—with the same people day after day after day. Fortunately, I work with cool people, so it makes it easier to show up every day after day after day. (But I often feel I get to know them a little more than I’d like to e.g. they openly talk about their vasectomies.)

I’ve worked with Frank everyday for over a year and a half. He’s the nice, quiet, put-your-shoulder-to-the-wheel kind of worker. He has absolutely no self-control over my chocolate chip cookies (post on those babies later) and gets really embarrassed when someone gives him a hug. Frank releases his pent up fury with weekend paintball battles. He is a fanatic, and his paintball team Bad Karma just got a prestigious sponsorship. He always tries to invite me to his paintball matches, saying there are plenty of young single guys there for me date. I ask him if he would ever set up his daughter with one of his teammates, to which he doesn’t reply.

Atkins joined our team last fall. He was quiet at first, but always talked really loud when it came to politics and the End of the World (EOTW for short). Atkins believes EOTW is just around the corner. He goes to the food storage center every weekend to buy wheat and supplies. One day I mentioned a cool movie preview I saw the previous weekend. Atkins asked, “why haven’t I heard of this movie?” I replied, “Because people usually go to the movies on Saturday rather than buy wheat.” In addition to stocking up on food and supplies for EOTW, Atkins has built his personal arsenal. In the past few months, he has purchased 2 handguns and an AK-47. He’d wear his drop-leg holster to work everyday if he could. He also pulls out a Rambo knife to cut his apple at his desk.

(What is it with grown men playing army?)

So yesterday afternoon, we gather our shotguns to the Great Salt Lake Gun Club for a couple rounds of trap shooting. I owned them all, winning both rounds. A few clay pigeons I pulverized into dust and would say, “Did I hit the bird because I don’t see it anywhere? Oh, that’s right. It’s because I obliterated it.” After the third time using that same line, they told me the joke wasn’t funny anymore.

My dad, brother Chris, and I recently joined the Heber Valley Gun Club. We joined not only to get a discount on our new hobby (and an upcoming Badger Family Championship, see post on June 16), but we also joined mainly because we think it’s cool to tell people we are members of the Heber Valley Gun Club.

It’s open every Thursday night, and I invite anyway interested to tag along with me. Below are some pictures. Check out how happy I am after blasting a bird.

**So if you date Jenny, you don’t have to like guns but know that she does. If you do, you needn’t be embarrassed if she shoots better than you. Her co-workers handled it pretty well. And if EOTW happens while on a date with Jenny, take comfort that she could protect you.

I’ve recently acquired a nickname at work, and here’s how. I was having my regular chat with (one of my favorite co-workers) Paul. Paul’s cool. He has tattoos of his motherland - the Isle of Man - allover his arms. He plays the bag pipes. And he talks my manager into letting me leave work early to go shooting with the 5th floor crowd. During one of our daily chats, I show off my burgeoning biceps (see post on June 18). They’re still pretty small, so Paul called them little guns. Then he said he’ll call them pistols. Then he said he’ll call me Pistols and lo and behold, I have a nickname. (This is also fitting because Paul thinks it’s cool I own a handgun.) Within a week, everyone was walking by my desk calling me Pistols, and it continues to stick. Someone even made me a logo that I proudly hang over my desk.

One afternoon I was really sleepy, so I go to my “secret place” to sneak a quick 20. Well, I ended up snoozing a little longer than I planned. When I finally returned to my desk, everyone was saying, “¿Dónde está Pistoles? ¿Dónde está Pistoles?” (Where is Pistols? Where is Pistols?) in Mexican accents. Now when someone calls me Pistols, I answer in Spanish.

**So if you are dating Jenny, just know you can speak to her in Spanish if you prefer.