Job skills that aren't on my resume

I just don't get Twitter. I've heard about all of the "networking" (a word that gets used in my vocabulary as often as "synergy") it offers me. I looked at my friends' twitter pages and they had, like, 350 followers and growing by the second. Wow! Networking for sociopaths - sign me up!

Convinced that some well-placed key words would net me some instant employment, I signed on thinking I would learn as I went. But two things happened: (1) It became all about getting the followers by following others, which (2) made me feel like I'm back in high school. And still unemployed

"Where are all of my followers," I whined. I tried promoting people/things/animals/funnel cakes/Gold Toe Socks/soba noodles/beanies and Urkel by including them into my tweets, which often didn't make sense. I tried the "@yomama" and the "#freakinneedajob thingies that would make all of this confusion, well, profitable thereby avoiding a trip to my rejection therapist.

So there I was at work yesterday. I looked at my phone that there were about 100 followers and going strong on my twitter page. "WOW!!!" I said. My boss thought maybe someone wrote something about me - "Google your name," he said. So I did. Same old stuff as yesterday. (Let me justify my frequent self-Googling by saying that I want to make sure that when Robert Downey, Jr. Googles me, he'll see that I'm smart and also important.)

So, what literary bombshell, what gems of wisdom had unwittingly shot like grammar lightening bolts from my fingertips? What could it be?

I couldn't wait log on to twitter to find out who all of these Pulizter-winning journalists were that were my new best friends. I started to notice some similarities. First, they were all women with clever puns for names. Second, most of the girls' pictures were certainly not what any journalist would consider a "head shot" as I know the definition. To their credit, I'm sure these women could do many things with a pen that I can only dream about.

So like a petulant child, I unsubscribed from my twitter account. It's not like twitter-ees were knocking down my snarky door offering me fields full of literary gold and opportunity.

I'm sure my quirky missives will be sorely missed by BadBadKitty and her friends but I certainly hope that they get better, um, job offers than I did.

Say, are you employed?

WARNING: What you're about to read contains really awful writing. It is not indicative of what I usually write. Just so you know. I'm just excited.

This has nothing to do with triathlon training but everything to do with the end of my job search.

I. Am. Employed. No more freelancing.

What's the cool cherry on the top of the new job (does that even make sense?) is that this is a brand new company. So new that I'm the first employee.

This guy, Kirk Sullivan, has been in the PR/writing/editing biz for about 30 years. He's taking his experience and opening his own firm and I get to be that employee that's been there since the beginning of time. You know what I'm talking about. The employee where you work that everyone directs their questions to; the one that the boss attaches that extra bit of reverence to since they were there from the beginning.

It feels great to help someone take their dream and mold it and make it successful.

And PR? Something I've never done. I've worked off of countless press releases. I do it everyday. But to write them? Not since grad school. And there's so much more.

I get my own desk. It's my own. Let me say it again - it's my OWN. I can put up my pictures, get a chair that fits my stupid injured back and neck - it's mine. Not someone else's that I briefly turn into my own for a non-permanent period of time.

So, YAY!!

Tamirra's little world of dreams and rainbows

It hasn't really hit me yet. In fact, I can joke about it now but give me until this weekend when I'm simmering with resentment and loathing for all things triathlon/Oceanside.

I've discovered throughout the arduous journey of this injury that the less I'm working out, the longer my Triathlete Magazines sit here. I read Allure, InStyle (no idea why I still get these - I seethe with anti-eating disorder pathos every time I read them) People (total guilty indulgence - since I can't cram cupcakes in my mouth, I read People). The point is that the Triathlete Magazines remain untouched.

Yeah, yeah. You triathletes with your muscles and your non-muffin waistlines and your non-injuries. You just ride your bikes and win your races. So, if I don't read about you, then I'm totally justified in my non-acknowlegment.

During those many fits and starts through the last 2.5 years, I glom onto the magazines and read them word for word - on the toilet, in the kitchen and at work. I pore over the advertisements, Scott Tinley. Everything.

My coach wants me to volunteer at the race this weekend but I don't think that's such a good idea. I like my non-reality just where it is. It would just make me hate the tri-weenies even more than usual. And, more than anything, it would remind me just how frustrating this whole experience has been.

I listen to my coach like gospel but not this weekend.

Blocked and ready

Well, after having nearly every nerve in my upper back blocked, derailed or otherwise distracted, I think I might maybe should be able to return to training.

In the meantime, just a little 2.5 year history of my charitable donations to Ironman through massive and way overpriced entry fees that are non-refundable. This includes next weekend's 1/2 Ironman in Oceanside, which by the way, will be the second time that I've donated money. I swear, at this point I could have not only donated this money to some educational fund for children but given them a Ferrari to drive to school in.

Which brings me to my next (first?) point. Not an original thought, but I'm sick of these entry fees. A few years ago, I staged an IM entry fee demonstration through not entering any "IM" brand races. Well, you can see the egregious effects it had on the organization.

But I'm as big a sucker as anyone else. I'm obsessed by this Kona thing. I'm totally aware of its cult-like status in the triathlon world and I'm not a sucker - I don't even pay retail. But.

Is it because it keeps thwarting me? I've fought my way through years of sucky races with a Physician's Guide of ailments and, thus, refuse to give in. Stupid or stubborn, you decide.

And THEN. Hypothetically, I get to Kona and finish it. Then my plans are to do the sensible thing by once again protesting IM and head to Europe to compete where it's actually cheaper to buy a ticket, airfare and get bonked by fees to get my bike over there. No more IM races. Yeah, right. Is Kona like a drug? Like my tattoos? You do one and you have to keep going. I guess I shouldn't dis smokers and drug addicts - am I really any better. Yeah, they're less healthy to be sure but how great is being homeless except for my tri-bike (that's awkward to fit into my cardboard box even if I don't fluff the newspaper for greater sleeping comfort) and a ticket to IM Wisconsin?

I guess I'm getting ahead of myself.

Aside from this, I started working out with the OC Roller Girls. Way less money and I get a cool derby name: Slay Achin' (In honor of my mom's love of Clay Aiken. There you go, mom. Don't say I never gave you anything.)

Before and after

I'm writing this under the influence of muscle relaxants and god knows what else thanks to a mega-migraine this morning. My spell check might explode with the corrective effort this post requires. I can honestly not blame computer error this time around. I apologize ahead of time.

This concerns the New Year's resolution to lose weight. I assume this is a popular one. (A good writer would have some sort of statistic credited to some researcher or another but I don't.)

As triathletes, weight loss might not be precisely our resolution but dollars to doughnuts it's a close relative. Trying for Kona? Faster bike time? Finish a sprint tri? You don't have to be a high-strung overacheiving triathlete to know that weight is a factor to accomplish any of these.

But before putting those Peter Reid (old school) or Chrissie Wellington pictures on your refridgerator, consider the before/after photos of people who've lost an amazing amount of weight.

I love these pictures. Here are people who've lived their entire lives being the kid/adult who instantly garners doubt from their peers and they turn it around and passive-aggressively rub it in their peers smug faces. I can't even give up caffeine without whining.

I can't fathom how hard this must be. They change their psychology, their determination and I-don't-know-what-all else.

An added bonus is when these people embrace exercise, including triathlon. How pure is their joy upon finishing. There's no snobbery about bikes, no excrutiating analyses about carb percentages vs. endurance. Their finishes are in their most basic form - a victory so innocent that I and most of the athletes I know will never know again. They are persistent, train for a goal loftier than my own and operate on a reward system far greater than mine.

I wish I could tap into their resolve and use it for my own (evil) plan to get to Kona.

So here's to resolutions that are way more likely to happen than my promise to get organized, become the first female president or an airline pilot. I'm still going after Kona.

Have a psuedo pop-psychology New Year

As I was sitting at a light during yesterday's ride, I thought it would be the neighborly thing to say, "Happy New Year" to the guy sitting two feet away from me on his bike.

He thought the neighborly thing to do was outright ignore me and push on with his ride.

I thought about two things:

1. Why can't we just be nice?

2. Why am I so disaffected about this?

Here's my insightful yet thought-provoking answer to number 1: We can't just be nice.

Here's my equally profound answer to number 2: Because we can't just be nice.

Number 2 was the more disturbing thought, in my opinion. At what point did I start to not care about human rudeness? This kind of thing used to really bother me. On and on I'd rant about this d-bag that ruined my ride/my day/my week. Yesterday I simply continued my ride - a stick with ends too blunted to neither hate nor love. Have I turned into "them"?

Sort of.

We can't "just be nice" and we can't care about other people's niceness
because we're humans. I know this sounds rudimentary and it is. We think that our life is the perfect way to live it and that gives us the right to attempt conversion of our fellow earthlings by bossing them into it.

At least mentally. As my story illustrates, no communication is needed because the less-enlightened should already know. I believe that was the source of the wanna-be world leader at the stoplight.

To move from the dead horse of the stoplight dis, I had probably the worst New Year's eve of my life last night. It was a combination pity party with a side of blame and resentment. Balloon drop at midnight. Champagne toast.

Here's where the philosophical part (and also the cunning intermingling of subjects) comes in. Well, it would if I had one. It's me. It's the rest of the planet. I'm right. I'm wrong. If I ignore everyone at stoplights, everyone will see that they want to be exactly like me. Only they don't because (Here's where the pity party started. It's censored to retain a modicum of self-respect.) *pop*

Was there ever a conclusion? No. Much like this blog entry, it's still hanging around, I'm still wallowing in self-pity/resentment and I'm going to go back to bed. There will be no epiphany, no future bumper sticker. Just me going back to bed and smugly acknowledge that I would never ignore anyone.

Happy New Year and be nice.

Unemployment as writing material

After two years I got a job and not one involving a decision about with or without fries.

This is a job where I write. I knew this place was real when (a) the editor had an actual physical copy of my resume printed and in her hands and (b) she was excited about the three degrees (implied was the vast amount of loans to obtain said degrees) I've collected over time.

But I worry. Unemployment was good fodder for my writing. Will I be witty with a job? What now will I write about? Even now I search the toys on my desktop, looking for something to write about. Severus Snape? A dish of Red Hots that have been sitting here for four months? A pen cup containing pens of which only 2 percent actually write?

Oh yeah. This is supposed to be a blog about my training, which has turned into a blog about my back injury.

Well, I'll have to worry about this later. My dog needs to go out.