Help wanted? Don't ask me.

So recently I started looking for a job. Not a capital-J job, with nice clothes and bonuses and vacation time and a hefty paycheck. I mean a little-j job, in that I want to sit in my office, in my house, and write. Which is what I already do, but I kind of wanted to see if I could get paid for it. So I hung out my shingle as a freelance writer.

At first it was fun. Wine dinners with fellow writer friends who gave me encouragement and advice. Emails to old colleagues who were excited to hear from me. One post on Facebook that got me in touch with an old sorority sister and a guy who went to my school’s brother school in high school (say that five times fast).

Then someone asked me for my corporate résumé.

Um, okay.

I looked at my résumé, which was last updated when my wardrobe was last updated, which was when I needed a wardrobe for a job.

Which was 11 years ago. Trust me, look in my closet and you’ll see.

So, while back then I could stand behind my prowess as a Director of Corporate Communications who regularly jetted places and could offhandedly say with authority, "The bond offering is totally on track" or "This merger is a done deal" and could tell the CEO I had him scheduled for a Time Magazine photo shoot, I’ve become a little different over the past 11 years.

And I didn’t know that my most recent job would fit in with my impressive, yet thoroughly outdated, corporate résumé.

Well, fine, I thought, undaunted. I’ll do what I always did when adding a new job: I’ll think of the position I held, and of the unique skills and knowledge I had gained. Easy peasy. Lemon squeezy.

Mom (March 2002 to present)

Very good at finding the source of a poop smell, whether it’s from the dog, a diaper, or an unflushed toilet on another floor.

Excellent writer of MOMS Club agendas, snarky passed notes during PTA meetings, school excuse notes and a sometimes inappropriate and/or sporadic blog.

Pure genius at sneaking fruits and vegetables into the diets of unsuspecting diners.

Able to diagnose strep throat with a flashlight, appendicitis with some jumping jacks and a fever with a kiss on the forehead.

Fabulous at making a single income stretch...and stretch...and stretch...but never quite break.

Consistently able to prove the existence of the infamous "eyes in the back of my head."

Demonstrates unending patience when faced with children who want to sing a song/show a dance/read a book/tell a story…over and over and over.

Possesses amazing internal clock that instinctively knows when screen time is up.

Gifted at calming irrational fears, turning bad moods around and healing injuries on the spot (particularly when the right graphic band-aids are available).

Able to spontaneously join a soccer game, jump on a trampoline or play hopscotch, even when unprepared and not wearing a sports bra.

Adept at most household tasks, including snaking a toilet, fixing a garbage disposal and installing a doorbell. Not capable of any tasks involving rodents or spiders.

I could go on and on, but you get the point.

I’ve got nothin’.

I didn’t have a résumé to send.

But, on the bright side, I’ve got happy, well-loved kids.

And a husband who will agree we both married pretty darn well.

And fully snaked toilets.

So what did I do about the guy interested in the corporate me?

Duh.

I made him brownies, checked him for a fever, and came home to get back to my blog.

After all, this is where I can fully utilize all the skills that really matter, like how to stay sane all the way up until cocktail hour.