To whom it may concern:

Just as Oedipus had to solve the Sphynx’s riddle, to prevent getting eaten for dinner, I had been trying to battle a most challenging tyrant: Unemployment. And the riddle I was left to solve to survive? The Cover Letter.
It seemed to me, that whoever first claimed the now infamous adage “practice makes perfect,” never had to write a cover letter. In the case of cover letter writing, practice makes…frustrated. So, as I always try to do with my cooking, I’d been testing the waters with various [cover letter] recipes. I had written approximately 29,103 cover letters (give or take), and it didn’t seem like I was getting any closer to a formula or award-winning recipe. Also, I feared that what if I had gotten the recipe just right, but that I ended up at a party full of vegans, trying to serve this amazing bacon-wrapped-brie-stuffed steak. What a nightmare- not only would they not “get it”, they would be utterly offended.
Successful cover letter writing is similar to recipe creation in that we must find the delicate balance between being true to ourselves while trying to please others. (That is, if you want a job. Or friends who actually like you). The challenge is that in life, and in cooking (unless you kill someone with your dreadful ingredient combo) we can have many chances. People who tell you “you only have one shot” are pessimists , lazy, or lazy pessimists. The tackling of job postings can, on the other hand, be more a bit more of a one-shot deal. You can only submit an application so many times before the job poster thinks you are a) crazy b) takes down the post. Also, there’s that dreaded word limit. I mean, maybe it’s just dreaded for me because I enjoy writing like Hugo in 5-page long sentences. I guess good ol’ Hugo wasn’t around to get that “brevity is the soul of wit” memo. Moral of the story, we all need a bit of that dreaded sleazy salesman in us. Learning to pitch ourselves effectively within that 30-second commercial timeframe, either written or spoken. Then, wait for people ask for more.
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Writing a cover letter to a potential employer can be like writing a great love story (your own, I mean). We each have different methodology, and to proclaim your love to someone: sometimes less is more, sometimes you’re just not enough, and sometimes you’re great, but just not perfect for them! At least I tried to convince myself of the latter two reasons, to keep from drowning in my Almond Breeze while Oreoverdosing.
The thing is, what if you do feel like you’re perfect for the job, and you just want a shot? I’ve been saying (read: writing) all the right things to show a future employer I’m “the one,” but they’re not buying it. I’m not asking you to hire me, just give me an interview! Please? Employers and people should not have “a type.” It’s like, you don’t have to marry me just yet… let’s go on a date first? One step at a time, people.
Seeing the parallels successful people have in dating and job hunting, I decided to change the way I write cover letters. I was reading Malcolm Gladwell’s book “Outliers,” at the time, where he claims success (of the uber successful variety) has to do with where and when we grew up. So, I thought, why not try to incorporate this somehow into my cover letters. How, you may ask? Well, I started to play up my cultural influences.
For example, if I was applying for PR jobs on a food and beverage accounts team, I might say something like this: Long before I had a full set of teeth, Yiayia was feeding me brizoles underneath the dinner table. Before I could speak, I was attending wine tastings, every Sunday morning at this spot called “Church,” where it was like the food and people were something spiritual. While other children explored play-do, I opted for pastry dough. I had mastered the ancient art of koulouraki making by the ripe old age of 5…
I mean, if that doesn’t scream future foodie and sommelier..! Lol. But, really, I believe, that even if you sound utterly ridiculous being honest, it’s better to be [respectfully] honest first, even with your employer, then tailor yourself from there. And if you’re a carnivore trying to make friends (or date) omnivores, don’t tell them you, too, think seitan bacon (which sounds and tastes like something Satan has created) is just as good as its pork counterpart. Trust me, you’ll be happier in the end. Have fun with what you do and play up who you are… because at the end of the day, you only have yourself to lose. And bacon. You don’t want to lose bacon.

On the dating frontier…
When I was living in Europe, I used to hope guys would approach me and ask, whatever European guys ask in their broken (read: sexy) English and varying foreign accents/dialects. I particularly enjoyed when I’d get the line “Where are you from?” It made me feel exotic. I understood quite quickly, that European men did not, in fact, find American girls “exotic.” That aside, people in general wanted to know where I was from. And, I just got tired of saying “Les Etats Unis” and having people nod and walk away. Long story short, I started telling people I was Greek. Not Greek-American. Greeky-Greek, as I like to call it. While in Paris, I blamed the confusion on my poor grasp of the French language — it was the difference between “I come from Greece” versus ”I am Greek.” They assumed, Greek people usually come from Greece. I just never took the time to clarify. Or when I did, I made it extremely complicated to follow. I ended up confusing the hell out of people. But, I must admit I greatly enjoyed the conversations which would ensue. And, the fact that I was having conversations at all was also a plus.

Flash forward, a year or two, I am now back in the States, and I have… evolved. I am a working girl. It took a little bit before I secured a position in PR, but I’m learning so much and loving it. In the “little bit” of time (which really felt like 17 eternities and then an afterlife) it took me to find a job after graduation, I panicked. Not because I was unemployed and my student loan payments were ready to kick into gear any minute, but rather because I did not like going out and not having something to talk about, in general, but mostly with men. See, American guys– scratch that– guys (girls, too) in America tend to ask “What do you do?” I’m not sure if this is a cultural difference, but I’m going to go ahead and label it as such. No guys were asking me “Where are you from” anymore, everyone seemed to be asking me “what do you do?” I was perplexed. I think this might be because we as an American society are obsessed with work. Work work work. Does anyone like what they do? Some people must, but most don’t. It’s one thing to work and love what you do, but in a lot of cases job happiness is not high on people’s priority list. Still, they want to talk about what it is they “do” all the time– even when they get home or when they go out. So, I have fallen victim to this. I started to feel trapped by this cultural idiosyncrasy. I too, must talk about what it is I “do.” But, first I have to er— do something!! I quickly forgot about all the places I have been or knowledge I had acquired, whether it was about myself or the world in general. Because I had no job, I had no philosophy, no values, no hobbies.

I started reading this book yesterday, “If Life is a Game, These are the Rules,” written by Dr. Cherie Carter-Scott. I found out about this book at a perfect time, in need of a little inspiration, having moved back home to NJ 6 weeks ago, and more importantly towards the end of my one month Korean detox/cleanse. Rule 1 is “You will receive a body.” We should try to be in a healthy (positive) loving relationship with our body. We should take care of it and praise its redeeming qualities. And before we try to change it, we must accept it for what it is, and then, maybe it’ll be more willing to do the things we ask of it. I think the same is also applicable to other relationships we might have in life.

Tomorrow also marks the fourth week of my time in the Korean version of the X-Men mutant test center, where in I am Wolverine and my fat is the mutant. Before I elaborate, I need to let you know two things: this is the first regime of its kind I have ever undergone and that I have placed myself in willingly. Doctor J at the Bliss Acupuncture Center in northern NJ (their 2nd office location) made it sound so simple that I left that first day, four weeks ago so confident I could do this. Then again, he, unlike me, doesn’t have to fight 23 years of pastichio and fresh doughy shmelty feta-filled tiropitakia memories.

Approximately seven umbrellas were injured since the writing of this essay.

Class over, I walked out of the Language and Communications Center to a warm outdoors, albeit slightly drizzly. I thought to myself, what nice weather to walk home in; great way to clear my head. But, somewhere between the Gotye song blaring through my headphones and the construction going on across the street, the delivery of my message must have been misconstrued by the universe. Like someone up there had heard what nice weather to walk home in; great way to clean my head. In a matter of minutes, the sky started to fall, and I became Chicken Little. When I say the sky was falling, the sky was falling…

There is the classic comparison, between women and fine wine, which claims that both become better with age. I can’t vouch for all women or all wines (I would err on the side that certain types tend to not age so “gracefully”), but I believe such is the case with the Greek woman, the Greek Mother, specifically. Overbearing and meddling as she might be, the Greek Mother may be misunderstood for much of her life, and appreciating her is an art form in and of itself. Did you take tissues? Do you have money? Did you charge your phone? Why aren’t you wearing a jacket? THA KRIOSIS! You don’t need deodorant, it gives you cancer! And you smell delicious. Ah, a mother’s love (read: lack of sense of smell). Maybe it’s not only that she (Mother Wine) is aging well, but in my coming of age, I can appreciate all the nuanced aromas and flavors, which once seemed unpleasant and bitter are now palatable and even enjoyable. I didn’t understand just how wonderful this complexity was until recently. And I’ll admit, I still can’t appreciate it for all its worth, but I guess that’s just how life is sometimes. All we can do is hope that one day we will enjoy that glass of wine, and the numerous daily reminders sent via every technological medium she has recently discovered.

As the years go on, I find myself thinking of all the things Mama was right about. Save for the deodorant thing, she’s been pretty spot-on (trust me, Mom, I will not find my future husband by using my “pheromones”). I blame Dr. Oz for this. I don’t know if he’s actually at fault, but I feel as though he’s only exacerbated Greek Mother Syndrome. Remind me to send him a thank you note. That aside, I find myself at yet another crossroads in life, soon to be a college graduate, (I thought this day would never come), and now more than ever I seem to be turning more and more to Mama for a shoulder to lean on. And, although she often complains about the weight of my head on said shoulder, I gently remind her 1) it was your choice to marry the large-headed man I call father and 2) stop that, you like the attention.