TIP TUESDAY: I HATE BUZZZZZWORDS

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

My job search has reminded me of how much I hate buzzwords. Some of the job descriptions I've read make absolutely no sense. One said that the employee's duties would include "onboarding clients." What? Put them on board? Is it a cruise?

Favorite Young Man calls this kind of writing "corporate speak." I don't know the language.

Unless you're writing for a specific audience, avoid buzzwords.

Here are some buzzwords I can't stand:

Empowerment
Face Time
Impact (instead of effect)
Paradigm Shift
Stratcom
Unpack
Come-to-Jesus Moment
Downsizing
Logistics
Offshoring
Benchmarking
Synergy

I'm also amused by all the Web sites that tell me if I have even one typo in my resumé, then the potential employer will toss it in the trash. But the job descriptions are full of errors!

One of them said that the employee needed to have 205 years of experience. Wow! That company needs to hire someone much older than I am. The descriptions have plenty of misspelled words and misused words, too.

Someone needs to hire Your Queen of Grammar to write the job descriptions.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Thanks, fishducky!

A STORY ABOUT MY SON AND A CANADIAN TREE

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

When Favorite Young Man was a rowdy Favorite Young Boy and The Hurricane was so little that she didn't even show signs of becoming a tropical storm, we lived near Seattle. Every now and again, we'd hop on a ferry to visit the beauty that is Canada.

On one trip, we spent the afternoon in Stanley Park in Vancouver, British Columbia––one thousand acres of heaven.

We went to an outdoor show at the aquarium:

It was a perfect, early summer's day.

We also strolled around the park for a while, and stopped where we saw swings and children playing so Favorite Young Boy could expend some of his boundless energy. Now, you have to understand something about the person who is now Favorite Young Man. When I popped him out at the hospital, he came out screaming I'm gonna end up with all sorts of injuries and scars from skateboarding, roller blading, bicycling, and a bunch of sports. I'll cover myself in tattoos, too.

Therefore, Favorite Young Boy didn't find some other kids with whom to play tag or claim a swing. No, he ran off to climb a tree.

Before we could say, Where in the hell has that kid gone now? he had his foot stuck in the crook of a tree and was hanging upside down, well above the ground.

He has always sworn that his father and I simply stood there and looked at him while he swayed in the breeze, but in reality, we dashed over to pull him out of the tree. On that one occasion, he did not suffer any injuries.

The subject of You stood and looked at me while I hung upside down in the tree continues to come up, but now Favorite Young Man has changed his tune. Last week he told me that he wished we had left him in the tree so he could have become a Canadian.

Hell, yeah, I said. Some nice Canadians would have pulled you out of the tree, taken you home with them, and given you an excellent childhood. Now you'd be a happy Canadian. What a mistake we made when we saved your sorry now-tattooed ass.

No doubt the story of the boy in the tree in Stanley Park in Vancouver, British Columbia, will come up again, as these tales do. Until the day I die, I expect to be accused of standing around to watch as he hung upside down in the tree. But now, I stand accused of eventually rescuing him when he could have had a better life as a Canadian.

I can't win.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

FRANKLIN FRIDAY: I'M LETTING PENLAPEE WRITE WITH ME TODAY

HI! HI! Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi! It's me me me me me me me, Franklin the Bordernese, and I'm with my sister Penla who Pees! Hahahahaha! That's not really her name, but I made a funny so I laugh.

Penlapee and me wanna talk to you today because we have something we want, and we don't always get it.

We have this Human Brother. Mom calls him Favorite Young Man. It's okay if Mom goes outside with us during the day when we potty, but before we go to bed at night, we want Human Brother to take us out. Sometimes he's not here at bedtime. Sometimes he's asleep. He should be here for us every night.

Mom doesn't understand about us wanting Human Brother. She says there's no reason we can't go out with her.

Here's why we want Human Brother:

Penelope––I am so sick of Franklin spelling my name wrong that I could spit. Human Brother knows that my name is Penelope and not Penlapee, and he's not afraid to tell Franklin that he's wrong. Mom Mom laughs when Franklin calls me Penlapee. I'm sick of it. Sick, I tell you. Human Brother is at work during the day, but sometimes he's here at night. I wish to take advantage of that time frame; therefore, he should be here every night.

Franklin––Human Brother is tall. He is so tall. He can see over all the fences so he will warn us if monsters come out of the dark.

Penelope––Human Brother is very nice to me. He pays attention to me all the time when he's at our house, unlike Mom Mom who goes off to get sloshed on margaritas.

Franklin––Human Brother is kind of stinky. He takes showers, but he gets stinky again right away. I love the way he stinks. I could sniff his butt forever.

Penelope––Human Brother is strong. He's the strongest person I've ever seen. He is strong enough to take care of us if something scary happens out in the dark while Mom Mom is sloshed on margaritas.

Franklin––Last year we had a hurricane named Matthew, who is Fishducky's son. Matthew made the wind blow hard. Matthew made the rain fall for hours. Human Brother stayed with us the whole time that Fishducky's son was here. Human Brother protected us from Matthew.

Penelope––Mom Mom is drunk all the time. We are safe with Human Brother.

It's up to me, Franklin the Bordernese, to finish up here. I think you understand now why we want Human Brother when it's dark and scary outside. But that stuff Penlapee says about Mom, who is not named Mom Mom, being drunk? It's not true. And my sister's name really is Penlapee. Okay I love you bye bye.

I'm not letting that dog have the last word. It is I, Penelope. That is all.

FLASHBACK FRIDAY: WHO OWNS THE BED?

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I've applied for more jobs this week. All of the positions are apply-online deals, so I receive an email that says my application has been received and the hiring team will contact me for an interview 
when they fall in love with my mad skills 
if they're in the mood
if the job really exists
if the company actually exists 
if . . . whatever. 

This job hunting business is a real time suck, but I don't want to ignore all of my best friends so I have a Friday

for you. I first published this post on June 14, 2010. It's had 65 page views.

It was my first full summer in Florida, and I took in a foster dog who had cancer. I named her Robin. She wasn't with us very long, but this post describes what happened as Robin took over my life and my bed.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug



Poor, pitiful little Robin who is dying of cancer started out as a cuddler in my bed.

Poor, pitiful little dog, I thought. She is so starved for affection and attention. I was simply thrilled to give her the love she deserves.

But cuddling has turned into a turf war; that is, who owns the bed?

Before I can get in the bed at night, Robin hops in and settles down smack dab in the middle. I have to push and shove her as best I can so I can join her in bed. For a poor, pitiful cancer stricken dog, she is mighty heavy and strong when she plants herself in her desired spot.

Last night, I barely got into the bed, and when I did, I was allowed only enough of the sheet to cover half of myself. Robin was on top of the middle of the sheet and would not allow me to pull more onto myself.

I awoke frequently during the night, finding myself in danger of being pushed out of the bed. Robin, I said, You really must let Mommy share the bed and get some sleep.

I was exhausted this morning because I spent the night fighting for a spot in what used to be my bed.

So the question is: Who owns the bed?

The answer is simple: Robin.

CONGRATS TO ROBYN & THANKS FOR YOUR HELP

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Way to go, Robyn Alana Engel! Her book, Woman on the Verge of Paradise, won Acorn Publishing's Memoir of the Year Award for 2016.

You can purchase Woman on the Verge of Paradise by clicking on this link to Amazon: https://goo.gl/8lc8DP

Robyn would like to sell a million copies of her book, and I say ain't nothin' wrong with ambition.

You can also read Robyn's blog, Life by Chocolate, by clicking here: Rawknrobyn.blogspot.com

Now I want to thank you for your support as I begin my job search. Thursday was quite productive. I applied for my first job, using my killer résumé and a frabjous cover letter I wrote specifically for the job.

I've also taken your advice on getting started with learning more of the Microsoft Office components. I started with Excel by watching an MS Office training video. Then I created a log of my charitable giving for the year. Next, I'm going to track my medical expenses for 2017, of which there are many.

Even if I don't find a job in which I use Excel, I'm happy I can use it to log certain expenses that I have.

I realize Excel has far more advanced features than I've learned so far, but I needed to start somewhere.

When I requested your assistance in this post on Monday, your encouragement and suggestions lifted my spirits. My favorite comment of the day came from Joanne Noragon of Cup on the Bus fame, who told me

I am the past master of instant learning. I once took a job that required shorthand. I knew nothing. I stopped at the library on the way home to get a book. My mother's shorthand was daunting, and not doable in one night. I eventually took a book called High Speed Longhand, and was a dab hand the next morning.
I learned office pretty much the same way--from internet courses and instruction. It's like jumping into deep water, but what the hell. It's interesting to save yourself. Follow the lesson plans for excel and power point, and pay especial attention to all the little tabs at the top. All the secrets are buried there. Try every one. All will be revealed. 
Yesterday I helped the woman who is replacing me at the township. I have twenty some years on her, and know more about excel and power point than she can learn in a year. There's only one thing between you and learning how to do something: Attitude.

Joanne is recovering from some serious injury-related/health issues, but she never ceases to be a rock. Joanne, I have the attitude, and it's a good one. I'm on my way.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

My blogging and blog reading will probably be sporadic for a while as I job hunt and update my skills. I'll miss you, but I'm never gone for good. 

This video is for all of you, but especially for Robyn and Joanne:

NOT TODAY

No regular post today, Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell.

I'm going to write a cover letter to accompany the beautiful résumé I created and apply for a job.

Then I'm going to use the advice that so many of you kindly gave to me and look into learning Excel.  I have to start someplace.

I won't visit your blogs today and I'm turning off comments on this post.

But it doesn't mean I don't love you!

THE REAL SYBIL

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

In 1998, a retired art teacher named Shirley Mason died in Lexington, Kentucky. She had breast cancer, for which she had declined treatment because she felt she had been through enough trauma in her life. A few people already knew, and many more soon learned, that she had been the famous psychiatric patient known as Sybil.

Shirley Ardell Mason was born in Dodge Center, Minnesota, in 1923. She was an only child whose mother was well known around town for her strange behavior.

A neighbor of the Mason's named Betty Borst Christensen stated:

"She had a witchlike laugh. She didn't laugh much, but when she did, it was like a screech.'' Christensen remembers the mother walking around after dark, looking in the neighbors' windows.

As a young woman, Shirley went away to college to study art, but suffered a breakdown that precipitated her psychiatric treatment with Dr. Cornelia Wilbur.

The treatment led to Dr. Wilbur discovering that her patient had sixteen separate personalities––some were children and two were male––a disorder that resulted from horrific abuse Shirley suffered at her mother's hands.

Patient and psychiatrist cooperated with author Flora Rheta Schreiber to create the book

that was released in 1973 and became a bestseller. The three shared in the profits.

In 1975, the book became the basis of a TV movie starring Sally Field that helped the actress leave behind her Gidget and The Flying Nun reputation to become a two-time Academy Award winning dramatic actress.

A number of people in Dodge Center are said to have known immediately that the family described in the book were the Masons.

The book and movie resulted in thousands of diagnoses of what was then called multiple personality disorder, and later, charges that Dr. Wilbur manipulated Mason into recalling or creating the personalities, which were

Sybil

The "real' patient, Sybil was "extremely suggestible'

Victoria

Warm and cultured, claimed total recall

Peggy Lou

Assertive and eager, but obstinate and quick to anger

Peggy Ann

More tactful than Peggy Lou, also more fearful

Mary

The most religious personality; a maternal homebody

Marcia

A fiery painter and writer; British accent

Vanessa

Attractive and dramatic, Vanessa scorned religion

Mike

A proud, swarthy carpenter; wanted to "give a girl a baby'

Sid

Also a carpenter, but fair-skinned and less outspoken

Nancy

Paranoid; obsessed with Armageddon and conspiracy

Sybil Ann

Pale, timid and extremely lethargic; the defeated Sybil

Ruthie

A toddler, the Ruthie personality was poorly developed

Clara

Very religious; critical and resentful of Sybil

Helen

Timid, afraid, but determined "to be somebody'

Marjorie

Serene and quick to laugh, enjoyed parties and travel

The Blonde

A nameless teen, fun-loving and carefree

Whether Shirley Mason really had multiple personalities, we'll probably never know. But Mason and Wilbur remained close friends, with Mason moving to be near Wilbur when she accepted a position at the University of Kentucky. When Wilbur was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, Mason moved into Wilbur's home to care for her.

Wilbur died in 1992. She left Mason $25,000 and her share of the royalties from Sybil.

Shirley Mason seems to have spent most of her life quietly. A close friend shopped for her and helped care for her during the final stages of cancer. 

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

"Blue Is The Color of Love,"
a painting by Shirley Ardell Mason

Source: http://www.newsweek.com/unmasking-sybil-165174

WHAT'S THE BEST WAY TO UPDATE MY SKILLS?

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Your Junebug reaches the month of June with thoughts of applying for a job.

As I look at job listings, I see I'm qualified for a variety of jobs––with an exception. Most employers seem to want people who know everything there is to know about Microsoft Office. While I have no problem with Word, I have very little experience with Excel and absolutely no experience with Power Point and whatever the rest of it is.

What's the best way for me to to become proficient with Office without breaking the bank? How do I interest an employer in me while I start to work on learning all the skills they want me to have?

I applied for jobs years ago and had limited success, but now more jobs are available and I'm still quite a few years away from retirement age. I have some physical limitations because I broke my back in 2009, but as long as I spend most of my time in a reasonably comfortable chair, my back shouldn't complain too much.

I've already looked up all sorts of resume tips, and I wrote a humdinger of a resume on Saturday. Everything nice and neat in one page. No typos. Now tell me, please, how to learn all this Office crap. Do I buy a book? Should I look for inexpensive classes? I prefer to learn at home.

All of you experts out there, please tell me what to do.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

AFTER MAMA BEAR ATTACKED THE NINE-YEAR-OLD BOYS

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

To read TWO NINE-YEAR-OLD BOYS, click HERE.
To read WHAT DO NINE-YEAR-OLD BOYS DO WHEN THEY'RE HOME ALONE? click HERE.
To read WHAT I DO WHEN NINE-YEAR-OLD BOYS ARE HOME ALONE, click HERE.

When last we visited, I looked like this as I told the two nine-year-old boys who live behind me what they are not allowed to do:

The boys looked like this:

They went inside. I didn't see them for the rest of the day. I didn't see anyone that night. The house was dark. It looked like this every night for weeks:

Nobody's home                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

The white lines are the blinds that I could barely make out.

The boys were quiet. The carousel of smoking and cell phone-talking adults had disappeared.

I told Willy Dunne Wooters about the miracle. He said, They must be keeping it on the down-low because they have reason to fear the kids will be taken away from them.

If my yelling at the boys and calling the police caused them to stay inside and––I hope––caused the adults to keep an eye on them, then I did the right thing. It was the only time I've ever called the police about a neighbor, not that I know who these "neighbors" are. 

Something kind of odd did happen one night after many nights of peace and quiet. I went out in the dark with Franklin and Penelope so they could have their before-bed potty, and I spotted a man standing in the backyard of the house where the boys live. I had enough light on my deck to see that he was staring at me. Did he know that I was the one who called the police? Was he angry? I didn't care.

I put my hands on my hips the way my mother used to do when she was angry and I stared right back at him. In fact, I stared him down. Before long, he went inside the house.

Occasionally, I see the boys and an adult or two use the backdoor as they make their way around the house to the front, but the climbing and yelling have ended, along with the conclusion of the carousel.

Now I look like this:

Boys, don't bother Mama Bear while she rests. She will make you sorry.


Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug