"Cool Girls": The New Definition

What does it mean when someone says “she’s a cool girl”? I mean, I want to be a “cool” girl. Don’t you?

During church summer camp at the age of 12, I was not allowed to use the word “cool.” I got rebuked by my counselors for calling someone cool because that meant I cared only about appearance and popularity. So they said. I’m not sure if they had their contacts in because I was chubby, awkward, and desperate for a friend…the last person who cared only about appearance and popularity. And if I did, I was failing miserably at both.

That being said, I somewhat understand why my counselor disapproved of the word “cool” as it relates to adolescents. You’re a cool [female] tween or cool [female] high schooler if you have the following:

1. Big breasts

2. Trendy clothes 

3. Ugg boots (class of their own outside of trendy clothes)

4. Good hair

5. Intelligence but not too much

6. Individual birthday invitations like you’re on “My Super Sweet 16” and they forgot to air your episode

7. A boyfriend- or at least a few prospects

Of that list, I had number 5 going for me. I could have had number 4 but I decided to go with bangs in 8^th grade and, well, that was bad move.

Now that I’m 25 and still hear this word “cool” being thrown around, I’ve noticed that the definition has changed. Big breasts are a dime a dozen, plus most guys have realized by now that they really just get in the way (it's the harsh truth). I’m kind of glad I don’t have them. Trendy clothes- eh, no one cares that much anymore. People don’t think someone is cool because she/he has expensive clothes (sidenote: why does everyone seem to think they’re fashion bloggers these days?), rather “cool girls” are always the ones who have- gasp- good personalities. Too much intelligence doesn’t exist, and everyone starts wishing they’d been that smart girl in class who now has her life together while the rest of us still can’t afford much more than rent and Trader Joe's wine. And the whole boyfriend thing? Well certainly if you’re 25 and single, a little voice in the back of your head whispers that you might die alone, but no one else judges you. Everyone just assumes it’s because you’re an independent chick who has more important things to focus on (Yeah! That’s it!).

Let's take a deeper look at the good personality I just mentioned. What is a good personality? I feel like it’s this weird phrase used to describe gene-pool-challenged individuals. Which is so wrong. Just wrong. I won’t get into that misuse, though. From what I gather about “cool girls,” their good personalities follow this general guideline:

1. Witty: Your clothes don’t matter if you have awesome one-liners.

2. Humble: You don’t take 800 selfies per day. Or even one.

3. Independent: You have a job and are passionate about something. Anything.

4. Emotionally stable: What does this even mean??? I still don’t know. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.

5. Awkward: This is a compliment these days. It makes you relatable. This is the primary reason I have friends.

6. Nonjudgmental: If you talk behind people’s backs, people have learned that you’re probably talking behind theirs, as well.

7. Confident: Not the fake kind. The kind where a smart, gorgeous woman can walk in the room and you don't automatically feel threatened.

I’m actually pretty thrilled with what it means to be a “cool girl” in your twenties. How refreshing to know that being cool isn’t about money, genetics, or gossiping. If you are still living in the high school mindset that being cool is about what you wear and how many juicy stories you can spill, you might want to re-think your approach. Hint: Don't have an approach. Accept the fact that being cool is nothing more than being comfortable in your own skin.

To sum things up, I shall present a few of my favorite celebs who have shaped this idea of coolness:

Jennifer Lawrence- Below is a real quote on the red carpet on the night she won the Oscar for Best Actress. Girlfriend was hungry, and we can all respect that.

Emma Stone- I know this was her “character” in Easy A, but she’s kind of like this in real life, too:

Zooey Deschanel- Same thing as Emma Stone…I’m positive her New Girl character reflects her in real life.

Mindy Kaling- If you haven’t read her book Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? then your life is way sadder than those of us who have read it.

Adele- Just. Yes. I've never heard an artist laugh at herself more on stage and off.

Which leads me to…

Beyonce- Okay, okay, I know she hasn’t exactly reinvented “cool” since being perfect has always been cool, but come ON. It’s Queen Bey. What she lacks in witty awkwardness, she makes up in being really nice and really fierce. 

7 Tips for Surviving Your Mid-Twenties

Listen. Everyone's been there, will be there, or is currently there. The empathetic there to which I'm referring is that scary, depressing place called Your Mid-Twenties. You know, that time in your life when you survive on homemade sandwiches, self-harm by way of Facebook stalking your friends who are "already successful," and begin to question this whole idea that you should be passionate about your job. How about a gig that allows me to afford name brand shampoo? That'd really do it for me at this point.

Here are a few suggestions for getting through these dysfunctional years that we'll one day look back upon with wonder as to how we ever took for granted our wrinkle-free faces, children-free schedules, and money-free jobs (<--- see what I did there?).

1. Wine

I know I talk about wine a lot. If ever I drink enough that I'm regularly irresponsible or embarrassing, I'll stop raving about it so unabashedly. Until then, I'm giving wine every bit of praise it deserves. Wine can get you through a lot. I'm not saying to drink until you forget (that bullet point would be called "tequila"), rather have a glass or four until you are good and relaxed. Your heart rate low, your emotions high, and leaning on your old friend named Cabernet Sauvignon. He will listen to you, I promise.

2. Less-trashy reality television

Please don't watch Jersey Shore spin-offs or anything that revolves around partying, fighting, or babies getting spray tans. Rather, find a show that inspires you to get off your butt and stop thinking that your capabilities peak at figuring out how to alphabetize a column on Excel. A few recommendations: Dancing with the Stars, The Biggest Loser, and MasterChef Junior. I know, I know- I shouldn't be promoting TV-watching, but it beats scrolling through Facebook to see who did something more exciting than you this weekend. Especially if you're watching obese people run five miles, a woman with cancer dance the Rhumba, or an 8-year-old cook a ridiculously complicated Beef Wellington.

3. Find a gay best friend

This is the least offensive, most practical, and best advice I will ever give you. For the two or three men out there that read my blog, just skip this paragraph. I know you're skimming anyway. Gay guys are the best of both worlds. They're guys- so they are excellent cuddlers with insight to the male psyche. At the same time, they are boldly loyal, tirelessly sympathetic, and undoubtedly aware of the best brunch deals around. Also, I've never had someone pump me up quite as successfully as a gay man. You're down on yourself? Prepare yourself for a catalog of why you're the hottest, fiercest, most wanted girl in town. Not only are they great cheerleaders, they're awesome at making you feel needed. Gay men tend to be open- probably because they've learned to be very comfortable with themselves during the coming out process, so they'll ask for your opinion, voice how much they miss you, and let you in on their deepest, saltiest thoughts. For once, your voice is heard over the loud mid-twenties grind!

4. Walk more

I'm way less depressed about my looming car insurance bill when I am breathing in fresh air, safe from white walls and computer screens. I, like every normal person on earth, hate running, so I won't tell you that it will make you happier. I'm sure it would, but walking seems like a much less aggressive piece of advice. Even if it's just to Harris Teeter to pick up your Lean Cuisines- stop getting in your car to drive a quarter mile. Or if you're in a city, stop making the Chinese man come to your door. At least go out to get your General Tso. Get off the train a stop earlier, take a phone call outside...you get the idea.

5. Stop believing that spirituality is awkward

Trust me, I'm fully aware that we're mostly exposed to three types of spiritual people: a) The overzealous, completely unrelatable Christian on Facebook who openly condemns you for your love of wine, gay men, and most of the things mentioned above, b) The quote-loving yogi-type whose flexibility allows them a sense of enlightenment that your corpse-like limbs will never let you reach, and c) angry atheists who are really, really mad at said Christians and yogis. Now, pretend none of those people exist. What do you believe? If it's the Bible or the Quran- great, now what does it say? Will you do what it says? Do you want to read a history book about its validity? Maybe research something you weren't taught growing up? Try praying. Try meditating. Try going to church. Try going to a temple. Seek. You will find.

6. Don't text or drink and drive

Especially at the same time. This is how you survive your mid-twenties. Literally.

7. Don't take Facebook seriously

I don't know about you, but I'm fairly certain that every person I know is engaged or pregnant. If they're not, they have glamorous jobs as a fashion designer or news anchor, so who cares if they're single. Also, everyone seems to have a lot of friends, nice clothes, and an awesome sense of humor. But that's why I wrote this blog. I know for a fact that my Facebook friends with expensive new boots, stunning engagement rings, statuses that read "I'm so grateful to love what I do every day!", and pageant crowns on their heads (sound familiar?) are not, in fact, exempt from feeling like their worlds are sometimes falling apart. How do I know? Because they're in their mid-twenties. 

Oh, also this: http://shannonsnyc.blogspot.com/2011/11/facebook.html

Blood Brother

Sometimes our little minds don't even know when we're out of practice. Let's take singing, for example (I bet you can't imagine why I chose this topic). To put it simply, I know how to sing. I know the correct breathing techniques, warm ups, minor adjustments to the hard and soft palates, and other jingles that make for a healthy sound. When I haven't taken a voice lesson in a few months, I can walk myself through all of these nuances and sound the same as I did during my last lesson 120 days earlier. Or so I think. As soon as I go to another voice lesson, however, I find out just how much my sound has suffered while being out of practice. Here I am thinking it's like riding a bike, when in reality, my training wheels have been reattached without my knowledge.

This goes for most things in life. We think we will never lose a part of ourselves that has been "forever" etched into our brains:

The Healthy Part: Remember that time you gained 30 lbs and felt terrible about yourself? Never eat that much peanut butter again.
The Open Part: Remember that girl who seemed so mean, but ended up being such a great friend? Always give someone a second chance.
The Spiritual Part: Remember when you prayed on top of a mountain and never felt happier? Never lose that kind of faith.
The Driven Part: Remember when you almost couldn't pay rent and about had a heart attack? Always be grateful to have work.

The list could go on and on. I, for one, think I'll never lose these mantras that make me me, but often watch each one float away as though it was never part of my core being. Or- as related to the voice lesson- don't realize they're slipping away until I get a jolt back to reality. Last night, I got one of those jolts.

As I've mentioned before on this blog, I went to Chennai, India in 2004 and again in 2006. I volunteered in an AIDS home for women and children affected by HIV/AIDS, a leper colony, and elementary schools in the slums. I still think about my experiences over there at least weekly, if not daily. The way I perceive buildings, paved streets, cars, clothes, and other dignified things that Americans take for granted will always be in comparison to the humble luxuries- like shoes- in India. Strangely enough, I've let those daily comparisons fool me into believing that I have not forgotten what I learned in India. Watching Blood Brother- Sundance Film Festival winner of the U.S Grand Jury Prize for a Documentary and the Audience Award for a U.S. Documentary- reminded me just how much of India has slipped from my mind.

Rocky and his kids

Blood Brother follows an old friend of mine, Rocky Braat, through his journey working in an AIDS home outside of Chennai (a different home than the one in which I worked). Perhaps more appropriately worded, this documentary follows the start of his life in India, where he has now decided to spend his life serving children affected by HIV/AIDS. His journey will not end in this lifetime, which makes this documentary all the more inspirational and thought-provoking. Painfully graphic, yet somehow light-hearted, Blood Brother depicts the raw reality of Rocky's dedication, from his nursing a child through a seemingly fatal outbreak to his marriage to an Indian woman. Through it all, Rocky maintains an impossible amount of energy, humor, strength, vulnerability, and faith.

My 2006 trip to Chennai

Behind the camera (and occasionally in front) was Director Steve Hoover, Rocky's best friend, who happens to be married to one of my best friends, Kira Hoover. His beautifully artistic shots of India's landscape, each child's demeanor, and the emotion behind Rocky's experiences brought me back to my time in Chennai. I had forgotten that yearning for purpose that India left me craving- the idea of life with grander appeal than wealth and popularity. I am not particularly materialistic, but Blood Brother reintroduced to me a taste for life that I have rarely felt, certainly not acutely, since my departure from Chennai in 2006.

The Purpose Part of me is once again burning brightly. Chris (the boyf) and I are planning to sit down and discuss where this light is actionably leading us, but one thing is definite: Everyone needs to watch Blood Brother. Click here for showings near you (lots near all my New Yorkers!) or here to donate to Rocky's mission.

Unemployment: Saved in the Nick of Time

Two blog posts in one:

Life gets really strange when you’re unemployed. Oh, how I hate that word. Unemployed. Using it makes me sound like one of those twenty-somethings draining the government’s money because I think a college degree earns the me the right to be CEO of a company and nothing less. For the record, I’m not even collecting unemployment. I’m one of the stubborn cases who would rather watch her savings slowly and painfully deteriorate than ask the United States government- or even my dad- for money. That being said, unemployed life can get weird.

My view while writing this.

Example: I don’t have a car, but I live in Arlington, Virginia. A car, while not entirely necessary, would mean that I could drive myself home right now instead of sitting at a rotted picnic table overlooking a busy, not-so-scenic multi-lane road. My boyfriend picked me up and took me to the gym on his lunch break, but the plan to sit in Starbucks when I finished backfired due to the large group of men who hold daily gossip sessions in all the available seats. I’ve arrived before them a few times and had the pleasure of eavesdropping while their chairs surrounded me (I pretended not to notice due to my headphones). Still, I never captured any of the gossip because, unfortunately, I don’t speak Swahili. You heard it right, folks. A nice group of old men from Tanzania meet in Starbucks (the location will remain undisclosed) every afternoon at 2 p.m. If you feel like this club would benefit you, please email me for further information. Anyway, now I’m sitting here. On moldy wood. In front of a busy street. Hidden by 12 trees. Writing a blog post until my boyfriend is ready to go home. Anyone who comes out of the nearby office building is probably shooting me nervous/judgmental glances, but that’s why I’ve chosen to sit with my back to the door.

….

Nearly a week has passed since I was sitting with my back to the door, so here's part two of this blog post. The forest-writing saga ended because Chris swooped in a saved me from my wooded blogging nightmare.  A few days later, accepting a job offer saved me, as well. I must say that as thrilled as I was to receive multiple offers, few things can trigger anxiety quite as debilitating as the process of

waiting for, deciding on, negotiating, and accepting a job. Last week, I thought a few excited toucans were throwing a fiesta in my upper stomach and rib cage. It seriously felt like their rainbow-colored beaks were scratching up my insides, leading to a deep, unresolvable ache. Similar to the feeling I get after eating a full bag of Dove chocolates. If you can’t quite wrap your head around having the Fruit Loops bird inside your tummy or what it’s like to eat 35 Dove chocolates in one sitting, imagine a giant air bubble hanging out right below your sternum. Luckily, as with most things, champagne was the answer. After three days of sometimes searing, sometimes annoyingly dull and persistent pain, I decided to drink some bubbly. Hallelujah. Needing an excuse to drink champagne is always welcome, but I never want to go through that kind of decision/waiting process ever again.

Not these. Definitely not these.

On the bright side, it’s over and I have a truly spectacular job! The company I’ll be working for is small, full of the brightest minds I’ve ever met, will help me grow a legitimate career, and keeps its wine coolers (not to be confused with Seagram’s wine coolers) full at all times. Actually, they’re mostly a red wine group, so I guess they were wine racks I saw, not refrigerators. I can’t remember. All I know is that I liked it.

Back in the post about job hunting from a few weeks ago, I said that I didn’t have any great advice after snagging an initial interview. Now I do- and it is cheesier than Plaza’s queso dip. Be yourself. But only if the yourself you’re willing to accept is that really quirky side of you. Everyone has one waiting to be set free, so everyone can relate to it- even your interviewers. I went into each interview professionally, but also as the Shannon who can’t control her weird faces or habit of bringing up wine and/or teacup toy poodles in every conversation. In response, I had incredibly enjoyable interactions that not only highlighted my ability to do the job well, but also left me wanting to hang out with each person more (and seemingly vice versa). Even the really quiet people who interviewed me ended up laughing by the end of the session because we were just having a fun conversation that happened to be an assessment of my capabilities. I’m no Kathy Griffin, but I definitely found that everyone appreciates a little non-PC honesty. We’re all human, and no one wants to work with a robot (unless it's as cute and witty as R2-D2).

The American Dream

White picket fences, golden retrievers, manicured lawns, whispy curtains, and two sedans in the driveway. This is the American Dream right? Comfortable. Familial. Endearing.

Maybe if you live in the 1940s.

Gated communities, pure bread water poodles, private greenhouses, plantation shutters, and a Mercedes/Range Rover duo in the driveway.

That sounds more like it.

As the rest of this post unfolds, keep in mind the following:
1. I know some people are still passionate about their careers
2. I am very good at Wii bowling
3. The Occupy Wall Streeters to whom I refer are the youngsters who didn't really understand the true issues at hand, rather have entitlement issues
4. Please read the entire thing before assuming I know enough about politics to actually write a politically-driven post (Newsflash: I don't)

The idea of the American Dream seems to have drastically shifted in the last few decades. A happy, employed, nuclear family just doesn't cut it these days. We want more. More cars. More space. More gadgets. Essentially, more money. Seemingly no one is happy starting a small business unless it will provide a luxurious lifestyle. Who cares about passion? No smell of flour on your hands from opening your dream restaurant, no excitement surrounding the best idea you've ever had for your ad agency, no pride in your heart about seeing improvement in your students (see #1 above). Hard work means rarely coming home to the family and most likely getting stress hives from your job, but it's okay because there's a Nintendo Wii to distract the kids (#2), along with a pool, grand piano, and The Yacht.  Wasn't there a time when the American Dream implied the possibilities of succeeding freely, able to provide for a family and live in a home or your own? Not doggedly, without ever attaining complete satisfaction.

I mostly want to be her because of my girl crush

As Keeping-Up-With-The-Joneses-Syndrome becomes a greater epidemic by the second, a new, profound rage against the "1%" is also hitting an all-time high. Or, the way I see it, low. Demonizing the richest of the rich is the middle class' favorite pastime. Ironically, the middle class (generalization- deep breaths) is openly upset that the exorbitantly wealthy have so much more than "the rest of us." Meaning they want more, too (which would make them equals with those they supposedly disapprove of), or at least want the 1% to have less. Sounds like the age-old case of the green monster to me. What you're saying, dear Occupiers of Wall Street, is that you should get a share of that opulence. That it's not fair. I get it, because I often think that it's not fair that I wasn't born Kate Middleton, Carrie Underwood, or Heidi Klum. [Before you huff and puff, I'm aware that none of those women fall into the 1%. Maybe Kate Middleton, but she's not even American, so none of you really care.] All of this disdain for the rich makes me roll my eyes, because most of the blind indignation (#3) comes from believing that opportunities aren't equal, the "inhumanity" of the wealth gap, and- essentially- people wanting to be richer themselves. You hate the rich because you aren't.

I will say that the one argument against the 1% that I can tolerate is regarding their alleged control over the government. I most certainly do not have the inside scoop on that can of worms, but I'm with you- corruption is no bueno.

The American Dream has shifted from living a secure suburban lifestyle to having your own plane to fly to Paris for the weekend. But then everyone's mad at the people who do fly to Paris for the weekend. It's very fickle. Life would be super awesome if we were all born into homes with two employed, educated parents. But that's not life. Therefore, yes, the rich should help the poor. What would be even more amazing is if they did it on their own accord- which many do, tax write-offs aside. They're not bad people just because they're rich. The world hasn't gone to shi...itaki mushrooms...because Henry Ford invented the automobile and his ancestors now get to enjoy the ride (no pun intended). Good for them. No, the world's- rather America's- real problem is lacking the ideal to work hard until reaching a level of comfortability, then finding contentment in that level, no matter how much the paycheck continues to increase (or not). Again, I recognize the extreme cases and outlying variables that don't allow this basic progress in certain demographics, but I am speaking to middle class America: Work hard, be content (not the same as shunning growth/motivation), and stop looking at those with more than you as villains.

I hope you all kept in mind the four disclaimers at the top of the page. As the proclaimed "Switzerland of Pageantry" by our current Miss America herself, Lord knows I understand both sides of nearly every argument- almost to a fault. All I am saying here is find a way to be happy and don't dislike other people just because of differing lifestyles (#4). If you've read my blog over the years, you know my life mantra comes into play here: You are in control of your own happiness. Also, may I add, you are only allowed to dislike the rich if they're nasty, bad tippers, or hate Harry Potter. I don't like anyone who hates Harry Potter.

Man's Best Friend

I'll be the first to admit it: Whenever I have an extreme emotion, all I want is someone to join the party. I don't want to hear how to make things better or listen to why I should manage my expectations. I want you to jump up and down with me when I get a new job lead or lay prostrate on the floor with me after realizing I've gained eight pounds. And if you can't bring yourself to join me on the overenthusiastic highs and the self-indulgent lows, at least be very quiet and just smile at me like I am the most wonderful person on the planet.

This is why I need a dog.

Two humans have ever come close to the qualities I'm looking for in an emotional sidekick: Tommy Hendrickson and Emily Howard-soon-to-be-Montovani. Their bonus: In addition to hopping on whatever quickly-moving train I'm riding, these two will also make sure I have a full glass of wine in hand. Unfortunately, they aren't furry and I can't nuzzle them while talking in a high pitched voice. Scratch that. The latter has definitely occurred. And Tommy's legs, well, let's just say they're not NOT furry. What I'm trying to say is that even my best friends are no match for the therapy dogs bring to the table.

True or false: When a puppy looks at you with those wide eyes that are bigger and sadder than Precious on a diet, you can't think of anything else in the world at that moment.

Answer: true

If you answered false, might I use these as my rebuttal:

Now that I'm positive we're all on the same page, I'm sure you will agree that pups have an inexplicable way of making you happy. Their approach is very similar to Sour Patch Kids, in that just when they're getting so sour that you can't believe you decided to have one, they become ridiculously sweet. Observe:

 

 

I've done a lot of thinking about getting a pooch and have decided it's a must. First I need a job, then an apartment, and then a car, but I'm thinking a new little lovebug will come into my life within the next year! Also, the name will have something to do with wine or cheese, depending on the personality of the little one. Options are: Brie, Veeta (Velveeta), Colby, Jack, Colby-Jack, Grigio, Aquinas (favorite pinot noir), Raymond (favorite cab), Kendall-Jackson (if I get a Great Dane), Chardonnay (if I get a little fluffy white dog), Napa, or Noma (Sonoma).

 

They say you can't buy friends, but I can't wait to buy my new bestie! Don't worry, human besties, I'm not replacing you. I'm just buying you out of the emotional sidekick gig. You can still bring me wine, though.

A Dummy's Guide to Job Hunting

Before I begin this post, I'd like to address the title of this blog. "Shannon's NYC" may seem rather misleading considering that I am now a resident of Washington, D.C....actually that's misleading, too. I technically live in Virginia. But anyways, I'm going to come right out with it and tell you: I'm not going to change the name. Basically, this blog is a compilation of my musings and interesting happenings in my life, beginning with the chapter of my life that took place in New York City. The rest of my life will always be shaped by my time in that crazy city, so why not remind myself and readers why this blog started to begin with? We all know that life takes us in different directions, from city to city, through different relationships, jobs, and apartments. In "Shannon's NYC," NYC no longer represents that literal city, but the start of a new adventure and a new chapter in life. And I hope those never stop coming my way.

Today's topic: job hunting.

The first thing you need to prepare for when starting the job hunt is the basic understanding that you will, without a shadow of a doubt, gain 5-8 pounds during the process. Accept it, embrace it, and enjoy it. I've never met someone who does not procrastinate when applying for something: college, jobs, match.com, anything. If someone told me I have to write one paragraph on why I deserve a million dollars, after which I would then win a million dollars, I'd still take three days to actually write it. In the mean time, I'd order Indian food, take a leisurely walk to Starbucks, watch the entire first season of Orange is the New Black on Netflix (while eating a large block of sharp cheddar cheese), and clean every room in the house while listening to The Jackson 5 station on Pandora. That's just how it goes. Get your yoga pants ready because you sure as hell won't fit into anything else by the time you're employed.

Next, if you have been twiddling away your life by pursuing your impractical dream of being a big time actress, rock star, eating contest champion, Olympic jump roper, or anything else that does not take place inside of an office, you will be qualified for absolutely nothing. Every single entry level position will be taken by biddies coming right out of college who don't have a weird talent that they wanted to pursue professionally. Anything above entry level requires 2-5 years of experience. And I'm not talking about the experience you've had feeding yourself and surviving on your own for the past few years. I mean, they want you to have already had this job before, somewhere else.  Prepare for an overwhelming sense of having nothing to offer this big, bad world. You can know in your heart that you're a phenomenal writer and the fastest learner since that horse who started counting with his hooves, but communicating those traits in a cover letter and resume is nearly impossible.

How do you actually get an interview, then? From my lengthy experience in the last week (hah!), A. Pray that people in college and high school liked you enough to reply to a plea for help finding a job on Facebook and B. Write a cover letter that cannot be copied and pasted for multiple applications. Start each one from scratch and explain to the recruiters why that one, specific job is the perfect fit for you. The first time I did this was for an office manager-type-position at a company that functions similar to Google- we're talking meetings on bean bags, no dress code, and free weekly back massages. I decided to be 100% personality. My cover letter started like this:

"According to the most reliable source on the internet, Wikipedia..."

And wrapped up like this:

"If I can feed llamas without getting bitten, I’m fairly certain the world is mine for the taking."

They contacted me requesting a preliminary interview exactly 3 hours and 38 minutes after I submitted the application.

I'd love to have some wildly amazing advice for what to do after you get the initial interview (because I know my insight so far has been wildly amazing), but that's as far as I've made it in this process. I can tell you what not to do, though: don't stop applying for jobs. My brain has told me the following: Oh, you're doing great! That one company is interested so that means you get to reward yourself with a three day break from applying for anything! I'm acutely aware that this is the wrong move, but here I am, writing a blog in Starbucks, trying to avoid cabin fever while also using this as my reason to not apply for anything today. Am I employed yet? No. Thus, should I stop applying? No. Don't worry, I'll get back on the wagon. But for now, I'm going to bask in the fact that a cover letter that included my experience with llamas back in 2007 got me my first real-world interview.