Getting Paid's The Only Thing On My Resume. Oh Wait, No, No It's Not....

I have gone on two job interviews during my time in LA, even though I apply to about two jobs every 15 minutes. Talk about an impressive ratio. So I’m clearly not a well-versed veteran in this area, but I’m pretty sure the experiences I have had are not normal. At least I hope they aren’t.

My first interview was earlier in this summer for a company that sneakily advertised themselves as a marketing firm when, in actuality, they are just a door-to-door sales organization. If I didn’t know from the get go that I wasn’t going to take this job (I can’t be pushy, and when they say do anything to make a sale, I take that as smile enough to cover my fear and discomfort with the situation and say something along the lines of ‘so, do ya wanna… it would help yer business… buy this thing… or ya know, don’t. If you’re busy or find it to be unnecessary…’ Real solid pitch.) I knew I wouldn’t be taking this job after spending 5 minutes in the waiting area. I was reminded twice to wear business professional attire to my interview because that was the standard at that office. Knowing this I expected the office environment to mirror that attitude. I’ll tell you what I did not expect: WWE fighting on a big screen TV, and the 1998 R&B hit single “Too Close” blaring from the radio. If you aren’t familiar with the song “Too Close” it is anything but business professional. In fact, it’s borderline pornographic. I certainly was not expecting to have the receptionist ask what my plan was for the fourth of July and continuously insinuate that I would be drinking large amounts of alcohol. Had this not been a business professional setting, or rather, had I not been wearing my business professional attire, I probably would have grilled her about potential hot spots for the fourth of July activities. But I was far too preoccupied trying to block out the lyrics of “Too Close” to wrap my mind around my entire situation. I also knew my future with this company was bleak when the highlights of my actual interview were discussing the Denver Broncos and my premature, and unprovoked confession that I had zero sales experience. But I was okay with it. I couldn’t work in a setting that required business professional attire yet constantly teased me with hit 90’s hip hop jams. Everyone knows it’s impossible to bust a decent move in heels.

My next interview came just this past week. I use the term “interview” loosely because this was much more like speed dating for a job. Each person had a timed 1-minute opportunity to pitch oneself to a human resources representative from various TV networks. Again I had certain assumptions about this interview. I thought I would be ushered into a room, sit down across from the representative, talk for a minute and be ushered out to my next company. I did not expect all the tables lined up in one large room. I did not expect that I would be directed in numerical order, single file towards the tables, like cattle to their trough. I did not expect that there would be no chair for me to sit in across from my representative (Who would have thought it would be so intimidating towering over your interviewer while they are comfortable seated?) I definitely did not expect that I would be pitching myself to someone eating a bagel and schmear. I’m beginning to wonder if California is confused about the meaning of the word “professional”, it’s like that Katy Perry song “California Gurls” (where the confusion on that one is obvious). Hopefully I’ll have more interviews and can tell you if these other two were just flukes. So at the rate I’m going I’ll have two more interviews to discuss by Thanksgiving!

Table Manners

I’m an individual that loves my food. I tend to plan most of my life around what I’m eating and when I’m going to be eating next. There is nothing more enjoyable than sitting down with good company and having a chat over a fine meal. There is one aspect of restaurant dining that truly ruins the experience, and that is live music. I like to hear what my company is saying, or more accurately, I like them to hear what I’m saying because it’s probably much more interesting. But this has been made virtually impossible with live bands harassing your eardrums! I can appreciate the soft classical music in the corner, but I’m talking the four-man band fully equipped with a drummer, guitarist, lead singer, pianist and, of course, groupies. I love live music normally, but not when I’m being charged 15 dollars for an appetizer. It is the nicer restaurants that are not set up for such “entertainment”, often times there is no stage leaving tables directly in the spit zone of the performers. Tables are squeezed awkwardly together so that you have to pole vault over your neighbor to get to the bathroom. No, these restaurants are not designed for such nighttime attractions. I especially hate when the band gets into the music and misunderstands the audience’s enjoyment. Don’t start clapping your hands and pumping up the audience for your Ray Charles cover. The words “Let me hear yaaaaaaa!!” should never be shouted into a microphone at a restaurant that has a dress code. And if I seem uninterested or down right peeved at your overbearing set it’s because your aggressive “rocking out” makes the head of your bass dip into my soup.

I'm Baaaaaack

I’ve arrived back in California safe and sound from my wonderful trip to Colorado. The most important thing for me is that arrived to both of my destinations, via airplane, safely. See, in the past four or so years I’ve developed a fear of flying. Many can’t tell I’m terrified on the plane and that is because, like in most every other aspect of my life, I keep my cool. But little do people know that every muscle in my body is constantly flexed, always prepared to launch through the aisles to an emergency exit. Several people have offered the advice that I drink before a flight to calm myself. This is out of the question. I must have my wits about me while in the air. The last thing I want to do is forget where my floatation device is because I’ve had too many Bloody Marys. My fear ranges from making flying mildly to severely uncomfortable for me. This range in anxiety depends on the variables I have come to realize ease my nerves. Unfortunately, the chance of having all of these variables occur in one trip is slim to none. I follow the acronym, “FLY”, to remind myself of these variables and I advise any and all of you to remember this acronym as well should we ever fly together. Otherwise “FLY” is exactly what we won’t do; a panic attack on my part might ground the plane… (this has never happened)

F
Forty to sixty-five year old men.
I must sit next to one. It helps if they appear to be businessmen, this way I know they travel frequently and usually show no signs of fear. What does not help is sitting next to a man that is too elderly, because then I end up helping him with his tray table when I have far better things to do. Like make sure the wing of the plane has not dipped below the invisible line I’ve drawn across the sky suggesting a fall in altitude. This brings me to the second calming factor for my flying experience…

L
Latitude.
I must sit by a window. It gives me the best view of the skyline and I can keep tabs on the consistency of the plane’s latitude. For some reason I think that I can see, perhaps sense, a storm that the pilot might be unable to detect. You can never have too many eyes when flying the friendly, if not sometimes misleading, skies. Speaking of friendly, we come to the last of my variables.

Y
You better know what you’re doing, flight attendant.
I rely heavily on my flight attendants. I look to them for comfort; if they seem in control then all is well. If they seem like they could have taken Britney Spear’s outfit from her “Toxic” video, boarded the plane and proceeded to serve me refreshments while being completely clueless and thus useless to an alert passenger such as myself, I am not at ease.

One time I had boarded a plane headed from Charleston to Chicago. The engines started up and we began to pull away from the gate only to have the pilot come over the loud speaker. We were told we all had to de-board and the problem with the plane would be fixed in a couple hours. As soon as we got back to the gate the pilot came back on and informed us the problem had been fixed and we were heading out again. Immediately I felt the crew did not put their A-game into fixing this problem. How can something go from needing 2 hours of attention to being fixed before we even reach the gate? I was skeptical, so naturally I turned to my flight attendant. She shook her head and looked around, “I don’t know what’s happening” That is absolutely the last thing you want to hear your flight attendant say. It is right up there with your dermatologist saying, “hmm, this growth is abnormal” or the bartender saying “you’re cut off”, it scares and outrages you.

Some people find the flight attendants annoying because they will force you to check your bag if it is oversized (it’s easier on everyone if you check your bag), won’t take your credit card to buy your alcoholic beverage (this is a plane not a bar), and no longer serve you a hot meal (welcome back from 1995, there are no hot meals on planes). No wonder that Jet Blue flight attendant freaked out, passengers can be a real pain in the ass. Good thing I’m on the plane as their ally, another person to maintain order on the plane. Some call the Jet Blue attendant a hero (I think that might be a little strong), but a revolutionary is not. I would have loved to be on that flight because he proved something to me that most flight attendants can’t… the emergency exit slide does, in fact, work.

Embracing The Unembraceable

I have never enjoyed talking on the phone. In the past I have tried to limit my phone conversations to no more than 5 minutes. I have lost friendships because of my discrimination against phone calls. I could never have a long distance boyfriend. Or a needy boyfriend. Or a talkative boyfriend. Or a boyfriend that owns a phone…. I would constantly blame the cramp in my elbow from holding the same position towards my ear for too long on him. But that was the old me. Things have changed! This move to California has forced me embrace the long, catch-up telephone call. I can say I’ve gotten pretty good at it. My mom was really nervous when I was moving that I would never talk to her, she was all too familiar with my hatred of long phone calls, but she has been pleasantly surprised. It does help that I have no friends and decide to call my mom to tell her what I put on my sandwich each day. But hey, it’s our quality time. There are a few things I’ve learned as my phone use has increased and it has helped me realize why I have disliked this hobby for so long…

1. My humor depends heavily on my recognition of body language. If I can’t see your face, I can’t tell if my jokes are a hit or a miss. And damn you, you silent laughers. I never know if you are offended by a joke or enjoying it thoroughly.
2. I also have this tendency to talk over people because I think their story is over. I’m SORRY my definition of a breath between sentences is a short one.
3. I hate the awkward apology by both parties for talking at once, followed immediately by “no, you go ahead” which you also say at the same time. Phone conversation is far too cramped despite being so far away.
4. And don’t get me started on ear sweat, sometimes so severe it gives your phone water damage—am I right or am I right?

So if you want to know even more about my life besides what you get in these blog posts (don’t lie you know you can’t get enough of me) I am now taking phone calls. But keep them brief, alright? I have a lot going on.

I'm going to Colorado today and I couldn't be more excited! Unfortunately for you readers that means I will probably be far too busy to update this blog. BUT that means there will be a large, most likely outrageously funny blog post to come when I return to LA.

A Not So Pleasant Discovery

Yesterday I woke up to discover that someone had thrown up on my car door handle. After the immediate disgust, I went through a series of reactions. At first I was surprised, I had lived in Boulder for four years and this had never happened to my good ol’ CR-V (better known as Black Beauty). I found it much more probable that my car would have been disgraced in the student run circus that is Boulder, CO than the quaint residential area in which I currently live. After the surprise came the excitement. There was, at some point, a person in close proximity to my vehicle that partied, a quality I have been searching for in a friend this whole summer. Where was this person hiding? How would I find them? DNA test the remnants they left behind? I was willing to look past the throw up on my car if they were willing to invite me to their next event. This excitement was quickly replaced by the harsh reality of the situation. Did I reallllly want to hang out with this person? They clearly can’t hold their alcohol.