Day 134 - DIY Hits Again, Chickpeas Threaten to Revolt

Three hours, a half bag of dried garbanzo beans, two gutted lemons and one exhausted food processor has netted me a delightfully gloppy and slightly dry hummus.

The argument for DIY is that you save money. Hmmmm ....

$10 for ingredients
$8 for a cheap food processor*

I could have gotten a couple of buckets of prefab hummus at HEB for $18.

Damn. Damn. Damn.
 
* I have a shocking lack of kitchen appliances. No microwave. No blender. In fact, my one-shot pod coffee maker abdicated its throne by throwing out its closing mechanism/arm yesterday.

Day 125 - The Evalution of the Mind through the Viewing of Cinematic Offerings

I rented Nine.

I'm watching Aliens instead.



Analyze away.

Day 122 - If I Had a Hammer

Do not make things hard when they can be simple.

BEHOLD! The beauty of double stick tape. Up yours, screws! I need not hardware!

Day 121 - People. I See People.

I talk to people all day long.

I e-mail, Tweet, phone, text, IM, Facebook and (my new talent) mind read.

So while I'm far from a self-imposed Antarctica-style isolation, at times I have to admit that my operate-from-homebase style leaves me a little deficient in vitamin face-to-face. Hence (man, I have been waiting for an opportunity to use "hence" for a looooooonnnnnnggg time now), when I am in group meetings (as in today's Austin American Marketing Association luncheon), I tend to act a little like an over-caffeinated Richard Simmons.

In a three-second span:

"What'syournameareyouexcitedtobehereI'mexcitedtobehereohthere'sRobindoyouknowher?Whatdidyou say?Oh!That'sshiny!"

Something to work on, for sure.

The real news: I got to dress up in big-girl clothes today (as opposed to clothes with elastic bands that double for work out duds or pjs) AND I still fit into them. GOOOOAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL!

Day 119 - Pros and Cons

The good news: I've picked up some contracting work.
The bad news: It's 10 pm and I'm just now closing up some loose ends.

The good news: Paycheck.
The bad news: I'm sorta getting addicted to work again. And enjoying it.
The good news (reminder): Money, money, money, money. Moooonney. (Guess what song that is from. It'll take you two seconds.) 

The good news: I'm expanding my work experience.
The bad news: Working again, eh? How does that go now? Wait, wait - don't tell me. I'll figure it out.

The good news: I'm working from home.
The bad news: Showers are optional and I've been known to abuse this.

The good news: I'm on the agency side, which means I am learning a lot.
The bad news: I'm on the agency side, which means I now know that I was kind of a jerk to agencies I worked with in the past.

Belated apologies.

Day 118 - 37 Years and Counting

Birthday partial disclosure (courtesy of ol' Southern lady customs. It's true - they are harder to kill than tree roaches):

• Yes, it's my birthday. I'm one year older than I was last year.
  
• I'm only as old as I feel.
• A lady doesn't tell. 

Well folks, I'm not a lady (but I'm all woman.) Today I turned 37. And PS: It feels fabulous to break out of the age closet.

Somehow, along the way of life, it became bad taste to ask someone their age. And even worse taste to answer truthfully. People (oh, let's be honest, mostly women) were told to shut it, stay sly and avoid - at all costs - the age question. (Enter the coy dragon. Bruce Lee ain't got nothing on this.)

So why all the hubbub? Why the silent treatment? Why is there the distinct refusal to proudly fly your age flag?

Aside from vanity (hello Hollywood and 99% of the population - me included), the only answer I have is the fact that this notion of hiding is so ingrained that sometimes folks aren't sure how to react when you just tell them the truth. 

For example:

• Conversation 1:
• Colleague: How old are you today?
• Me: What? [In my defense, old habits are hard to shake.]
• Colleague: How old are you?
• Me: 37.
• Colleague: 37? Wow - I'm going to be 37 this year. [Then later:] I have one kid. We're working on another before my lady parts dry up.

• Conversation 2:
• Setting: Conference call, three people - one looking for personalized information to write down as part of a presentation.
• Person 1: Happy birthday, Melanie. How old are you today?
• Me: 37
• Person 2: Let's do degrees instead.
• Me: 37
• Person 2: Yes, 37 degrees.

I'm 37. And I'm ok with it. Here's a clip that celebrates the number 37. Be warned, if you aren't a Kevin Smith fan (and hence have an idea of what this clip is), you might be offended. Perhaps you should just Google it.

Video clip.

Day 113 - Freakout

I originally hail from the land of Houston, where tree roaches are often big enough to saddle up and ride to work. After a certain amount of time (in my estimation, usually 3 years), newly settled inhabitants get over initial freak-outs and condition themselves to a roach reaction I call "Hey and spray." (Hey, there's another one. Where's the Raid?) 

Having crested this tidal wave of horror-movie-sized invaders, I cockily thought nothing could phase me. Austin is a paradise in comparison to Houston. No influxes of flying tree roaches (they like to jump in people's hair),  just representation from the upper crust such as butterflies, dragon flies and birds.

But much like the empire, Austin struck back. I saw a scorpion* traipsing across my bedroom floor. 

Despite the smaller size (about as long as my dainty, dainty palm), my fight-or-flight instincts crushed in. If a bystander had been, er, bystanding, then he/she would have seen me:

1. Gasp
2. Freeze, then slowly shake from side to side
3. Stare, then cringe
4. Scan the room for objects of war
5. Frown guiltily and look for a cup or bowl or vessel to trap it in (so I could release it into the wilds)
6. Shake hands out of indecisiveness
7. Go ape-crap crazy on the poor thing with a slipper

Later, while telling this story to my good friend Julie, she informed me that the little ones can hardly sting and are pretty much harmless. You don't even feel it. Yes, I am more of a monster than the scorpion itself.

But to round out this story with a Brady Bunch moral, the experience reminded me of my initial reaction to unemployment. I spent roughly 9 months worrying about unemployment - from the moment my company's acquisition was announced (May 2009) to the acquisition close (July 2009) to the time I knew I would be laid off (January 21, 2010 if you're keeping count.) How many hunks of hair fell out during that time? How many panic attacks did I have? And come to find out that, much like my friendly scorpion, there wasn't much sting to the actual sting.*

* Sure it wasn't ideal. But what I imagined was far, far worse. 

Big Thank You - The 405 Club

If you are unemployed, there are a variety of treasures you can troll for information. But none are quite as informative or collaborative or stocked with as much expertise as the 405 Club. (Their name is a nod to the weekly amount of an unemployment check. Yes, we unemployeds live the good life. Gimmie my $405!)

They were kind enough to publish an interview with me about this blog, in which I rambled incoherently about life as the newest version of H1N1.

If you are unemployed, worried about being unemployed or interested in hiring folks or helping out, go visit their site. Now.

Day 111 - Snipers Aren't All Trained by the Government

America loves snipers. We love to see them on TV, hear about their mysterious exploits and how they save the day with one trigger pull.* If we can't have superheroes, then maybe we can have lone gunmen that (long-range) swagger into combat and save the day. 

To clarify, I'm talking about the government-certified ones - the ones that wear camouflage and (according to stereotype) are often quiet and very intense. 

But there lurks in our world the untrained, uncertified snipers as well. You may or may not know them, but they definitely know you. And they have the biggest, untempered mouths you have ever encountered. They could be colleagues, former employees, contacts, competitors - anyone.

Reputation slaughter is usually reserved for word of mouth or back alley slander. But a new website, Unvarnished, is taking this talk online, offering anyone the chance to review anyone - without vetting or accountability. It's online sniping, pure and simple. 

Imagine this: You finally get that interview for a dream position at a dream company that offers a dreamy salary. You ace it. The interviewer nearly asks you to marry him/her and have his/her workforce babies (e.g. create reports, projects, etc.) Blushing abounds! It closes with a reminder that there are a few due diligence points HR has to hopscotch through, but that should be no problem. You'll hear from them in a week.

Two weeks later: Crickets.

Three weeks later: You discover a very public bad review from a former employee that rampages on a bad business decision you made and its results for the company and direct reports. Is this a contributing factor to the Fort Knox-like wall of resistance you've encountered from your dreamy job crush? The review neglected to mention that there were contributing factors to that experience** - potentially senior leadership neglect or cut backs that forced hard decisions. Or maybe the former employee (let's name her Molly Jo because you'd probably be able to ID the culprit from his/her comments) was an underperformer that was let go or just plain vindictive? The point is two-fold: 1. There's no context to these comments and 2. Everyone likes to bitch.***

Now let's flip it: Say you did do an extremely horrible job and Molly Jo's public complaint is warranted. Does that mean you'll be haunted forever by a bad business decision from 10 years ago? Or 2 years ago? Don't you have the right to take the blame and explain?  

In the ideal world****, companies wouldn't let one or two bad reviews halt the hiring process (After all, do you get glowing reviews when you Google, say, BP?). They'd give the applicant an opportunity to discuss the content. Maybe they'd even dismiss the comments if they are attributed to anonymous sources or are blatantly baseless (as in you didn't even work at that company.)  (Heck, in an ideal world, all the reviews would be positive and you wouldn't even have to worry about this.)

But let's be honest: Even though the job market is opening up, there are still more baby birds than mama birds. It doesn't take much to derail your candidacy.*****  

******



* And before you can on your opinion horse and press the spurs to the belly, try to keep these statements in context. I'm talking from an entertainment perspective, not a "Gee, it's supergollywolly great to kill folks!Your turn, Timmy!"
** It's about context here, not side-stepping blame. I'm all about accountability.
*** Think about it - how many times have you taken to the net in anger as opposed to beneficence? Remember: Your Yelp entries don't lie.
**** I like this ideal world quite a bit and sincerely hope that it abuts our land every once in a while.
***** And I haven't even dug into the deliberate sabotage side. A rival person wants that dream job? A competitor wants to cause some corporate disruption? Egads. 
****** I also get that the website offers a certain amount of social democracy - an unfettered, 360 degree view of a professional. And this is all good and well as long as people remember to use this site for good, not evil (or at least unsubstantiated evil.) Unvarnished also allows you to buy your own account, therefore owning every review of you. However, you still cannot control the content.

Day 108 - Paycheck Whimsy

Things I'd like to do/get when I have a steady paycheck again.

• Get a laptop with more than 1 hour of battery life (Ok, that would take more than a couple paychecks.)
• Buy a $20 shirt without agonizing over the purchase
• Take a vacation - a true, hiding-in-the-woods-like-the-Unibomber vacation (but with electricity and without the bomb craze crap. I can also sacrifice phone reception.)
• Get the dog to training classes so she won't pull me down the stairs or bark at every child that walks by. (And yesterday she terrorized another woman simply by walking by her. 20 lbs., folks. 20 lbs. As my friend points out: That's small enough to kick if it attacks you.)
• Liposuction, liposuction, liposuction (It'd have to be a BIG paycheck, huh?)
• Replace my car's windshield. It's been sprouting a wicked awesome crack for about a year now - one that's only about 3 inches from the top. 
• Bask in the glory that is health insurance! (It's like a treasure bath but completely intangible and costs a lot more.)

For my Mom (OR - if you don't like it, you can suck it)

My Mom was always a sucker (like her daughters) for Cat Stevens (as we knew him. Now he is Yusuf Islam.) And she loved "Morning has Broken." (We actually used to sing it in church so to combine a church song with Cat Stevens? Well, that's a double chocolate, hot fudge and vanilla ice cream treat and the [formerly known as] Brenneman women are calling for the ice cream truck!)

So as an early Mother's Day present, here's Cat (as he was known when this was filmed) singing her favorite song.

Two notes:

1. You don't like this, as the title suggests, you can suck it. I have confidence that at least 50% of my 11 followers will tolerate this.
2. The amazingly talented keyboardist with the afro is mine. I saw you looking at him. Back off.

Day 106, er 107 (It is after midnight, after all) - Deadlines: Gone the Way of Units from the 80s?

As you can tell from the time stamp (or maybe you just don't give a damn, which is understandable), this post comes a little late in the evening for me. Normally my bedtime routine is wrap things up by 9, tuck myself into bed at 9:30 and then read until unconsciousness hits me (usually around 10.) And yet, here it is - after 1 a.m. and I'm still awake AND coherent. What gives?

It's simple. I'm being naughty and breaking my (very new) routine. (Hey - Austin immigration demands that new inhabitants fulfill at least 25 hours of live music viewing within a 2-yr time frame. I'm a little behind. Thus, the late night.)  Now that I have (somewhat) steady contract work, I've been cultivating a norm to help me acclimate to the world of 9 a.m. meetings and the unthinkable - (gasp) - deadlines. (I thought, during my disinvitation from full-time employment that deadlines would cycle out of fashion, as did Units did after the 80s, but I have no such luck.)

So my start of day shapes up into something like this:

5:30 - Alarm goes off
5:31 - *Snooze*
5:40 - Alarm goes off again
5:41 - *Snooze*
(Lather, rinse and repeat until 6ish. For the sake of this post, we'll go with 6:10 a.m.)
6:10 - Alarm (yet again)
6:10 (and 20 seconds) - Alright, alright ... I'm up.
6:20 - Alarm (yet yet again)
6:21 - Legs move from bed top to bed side. This is progress. It almost always means I'm up.
6:35 - Teeth brushed, face washed, vague idea of walking recaptured
6:40 - Dog gets first walk of the morning. Result: Much relieved (literally)
7:00 - Vitamins taken, first slug of coffee achieved, work can now commence. Wow - hello e-mail box. Does that much really happen overnight?
1:00 - Time for a jog. But I wait too long and it's too hot (90+ degrees and counting). Mostly I end up carrying the 20-lb dog while I lopsidedly trot like Quasimodo.
2:30 - Holy crap. Why do I feel so bad? Did I eat breakfast? Wait - did I eat lunch?
3:30 - I haven't showered yet today, have I? Hmmm ... do I have to go out into public today? No? Well, a shower can wait. Note to self: If home smells like "sweaty person" to visitors, must immediately take shower after jog.
3:35 - Back to work. Self-imposed deadlines are the hardest to break. (You ultimately look like a jackass if you do, especially if you've shared that information.)
6:00 - Wait. It's 6. Does that mean Miller Time? Not quite yet.
6:25 - Now?
6:45 - Cue the Fred Flintstone "end of day quarry horn." It's quitting time!
6:55 - Oh, one last thing.
7:30 - Have I really spent 12+ hours in front of a computer? Egads!

And then after much calamity, I'm back in bed at 9ish, muddled deep into a book and waiting for the alarm to go off at the (somewhat) break of dawn.

Day 105 - My Trunk the Floozie

During one of my latest visits home to Houston, I somehow ended up with an SAS shoebox of old perfume bottles - some still half-full. I'd like to say that it was a mysterious addition, that it just showed up in my trunk as if teleporting from a parallel universe or from forty years ago, but I have to admit I know exactly how the bugger got there.

My mother is seriously crafty. And I mean crafty like sly. Like super spy.

The perfume bottle shoebox originated from items my great-aunt owned before she passed away. We were all very close to her, so to part with any of her belongings unless absolutely necessary - well that was blasphemy.  And Aunt Ella would probably have descended from heaven and bitch-slapped us if we happened to part with the wrong item. She was the quintessential tough broad, er, lady who preferred direct communications and never hesitated to say what everyone else was thinking. This I loved about her. This I hated about her. (Case in point: On the day of my older sister's wedding, she eyeballed me in the bridesmaid dress and said, "It isn't healthy to fluctuate your weight like that." And no, it wasn't because I was too skinny. She had a point - I had ballooned but really? Really? This is the time to crack that out? This [albeit truthful] comment sparked the "Aunt Ella is a ****" skirmish which took roughly 8 months to [almost] fully subside.) 

So, thanks to this reverence for Aunt Ella, Mom ended up with a lot of odds and ends that we just weren't willing to let go of and that me and my sisters weren't willing to physically hold on to ourselves.

Then, last month, my sneaky mother began to strategically disseminate Aunt Ella goodies (oddly enough at the same time as she was cleaning out her attic and garage.) First, she picks her time. Then, she picks her victim, er, subject. Then, she executes perfectly on the plan.


The shoebox of old perfume bottles made its first appearance in ages at my older sister's house in April, when I happened to be in town for my niece's baptism. Right before we left for the ceremony, my mother waltzes in with boxes. She opens one of them with a flourish in front of my nephews, who having some Walters blood in them, are immediately interested in the bright, shiny objects within - in this case, beads and costume jewelry. Being pressed for time, the consensus became, "Let's take this all with us and we can look at it after the baptism." (There was an after-party at my younger sister's house. Woot!) A gleam arose in my mother's eyes - one that I was too rushed to notice. She scooped up *multiple* boxes and casually headed out the door (I told you she was crafty.) One trunk pop later and the rest is history.

The following week, as temperatures rose, I realized that my trunk suddenly smelled like a 50s strumpet hopped up on free Avon samples. This contributes to the overall skank appeal of my car: Filthy from pollen dust, needing a vacuum and with a caboose that reeks of Wind Song, Charisma, Youth Dew and White Ginger. (There is a bottle of Joy, but it's empty. Figures.) Somehow, in all the hubbub, the transition of my Aunt Ella's boxes did not progress any further than a deposit in my trunk - leaving Mom scott free of extras and me about 150 miles too far away to give them back (for now.) Well played, Mom. Well played.

Day 104 - What are We Bitching About? It's Not Like We're at 20%

The Wall Street Journal (and a million other news outlets) reports that the unemployment rate for Spain has soared to 20%.  And that this unemployment rate is the highest in the developed world. Imagine a country where 1 out of 5 people don't have a job. 

Oh wait. I think I can. I think - I AM.


Free budget software – Mint.com

 

Day 101 - Happy Anniversary

Yesterday marked my 100th day of unemployment. I celebrated with friends, although the happy hour was put together for an entirely different reason and I completely forgot to tell my friends that it was day 100. We were too busy celebrating good news, catching up, enjoying a mild, sunny day and drinking by the lake. All in all, a nice anniversary.

PS: I tried to get them all to flip me off for the picture. Although they are 10x more outgoing than I am, the general consensus was "No way. Suck it."

PPS: Will they sue me for posting this picture? After all, it will be seen by [at least] half of my 10, er 11 reader (who I thank and appreciate immensely.) 

PPPS: Ahh, screw it.

Day 99 - Nice Wake Up Call

My normal schedule during the morning (if it can be said that I have a normal schedule other than waking at some point and stumbling around like a fresh zombie) is to get some coffee and turn on the news. Most often, I start with CNN, get the main stories in 15 minutes and then flip away to avoid the news repeat cycle. My fist was wrapped around the remote, ready to click when my blurry eyes saw a Neutrogena commercial.

It was simple - a shot of the famous amber Neutrogena bar (or sewer water color if you prefer). The voice track says (to the effect of this, not word for word - remember this is 6:30 am), "When you were 14, you relied on Neutrogena to keep your skin clear and clean."

Ok, fair enough. I was more of a Noxzema chick, but many teens did use Neutrogena.

Then the picture shifts to a Neutrogena tube of some sort (magic cream, I'm sure.) The voice continues, "A few years later, you rely on Neutrogena to fight wrinkles."

A few years later? It's hard enough to be dated material in the world (Oh, she's over 30. That's a shame.) but now we're having to battle wrinkles at the age of 16? Great way to 1.) add to the insecurity of teens everywhere (16 and hag bound, baby!) and 2.) piss off anyone over the age of 16 (Now that I can legally vote, it's all downhill from here.) 

See? This is the kind of crap we have to face in life AND work. Btw, what's my expiration date again? 

Day 96 - A Mobile Weekend

There's all this chat, doncha know, about how mobile is the next big thing, we will soon be jettisoning our lap tops and (for some unfortunate souls) desk tops to work solely from a smart phone.

I love the concept of this. Concept. The fact of the matter is, while you might have the phone and apps to pull this off, the rest of the world isn't quite ready for your mobility. And by rest of the world, I pretty much mean websites. (Yes, my world is small.)

For example, a conference took me to Chicago this weekend. The internet connection in my room didn't work, which basically made me think, "Wow, how totally useless my over-sized lap top is right now." No worries, right? I'll have my Droid so I won't completely be in the cave, wearing animal skins and dreaming of that fire substance the tribe across the river has.

I was surprised by how often I'd get frustrated. 

Basic tasks - no problem. I could Tweet, post on Facebook, check my e-mail, read docs - it's all good. But then I had to check in to my flight. United's website was a PAIN on my phone, with scrolling and retyping, etc. (And no Droid app.) Then, when the process was finished, I still would have to find a kiosk at the airport to print out the boarding pass because United doesn't accept passes on smart phones.

Even Blogger let me down. Yes, I can post to my account by e-mail. But, honestly, that is sooooo 2005. I need my app fix!

Maybe it's just me - user error, learning curve, blah blah blah. But by the end of the trip, my fingers were itching for a keyboard - positively itching.

And PS: Having a poor internet connection at the airport is like waving a beer in front of an alky. I can smell it, but actually ingesting? Two minutes to pull up search results? It's frackin' cruel. CRUEL! Hmmmmm. Speaking of beer ....

Day 93 - Sideswiped

My mom once told me a story of a relative who was scared to death of driving on Houston highways. (This is somewhat understandable since Houston highways are the paved playgrounds for drivers that attended the schools of Mad Max, Cannonball Run and Fast and Furious.) My relative would enter the freeway, be too scared to get over and have to take the very next exit. And on and on it went with nary a few seconds of highway time clocked in.

I grew up driving in Houston, so this type of speed- and gymnastics-based driving is second nature to me. Taking it slow? That's just a ticket to accident land. 

So when I moved to Austin, I immediately realized that the cultural differences between the cities spanned further than music and arts. Austin drives ... sssssllllloooooowwwww. You can imagine the frustration level for a hardcore speed demon. If you sifted through negatives from Austin traffic cameras, I'm sure you'd find more than one picture of me red faced, fist thumping and (my forte) cursing (Yes, it's a picture but you could read my lips. I wouldn't be saying, "Thanks for the lovely invitation to take tea with you Thursday next.")

So it came as a surprise to me that, while driving from Austin to Houston today, I nearly got sideswiped twice. Both were trucks doing the classic traffic weave - a desperate search for the fastest lane which often means crossing across lanes with little or no regard or cutting off other cars while trying to get ahead of them (or others.) This usually yields them one or two car lengths ahead of where they were before and they initiate a new cycle by riding the car's bumper in front of them until a new slot opens.  But - almost sideswiped twice? WTF? It's Thursday at 3 pm. What's the frickin' hurry?

Then it hit me: Maybe I finally am the Austin driver - Going a little slower, rolling down the window and listening to The Low Lows or Nervous Turkey (for the record, I'm not even a cool enough Austinite to really know the bands well. Chide away!) Has my automotive DNA been forever altered? Have I exorcised the speed demon? Purged myself of the Houston habits?

Worried, I checked my mileage. I was going 85 mph. Oh thank goodness. They were just a**holes.

Tell Me Something I Don't Know

A study was released today that states women still earn less then men.

Really? Really? What's next? A study that discovers that bears s*** in the woods?

Welcome to the party. You're about 18 generations too late.

Day 92 - Casting Call

Assistant: Brenneman?
Yes? Yes?
Assistant: They'll see you now.
Great. Thanks.
[Enters dank room with three sputtering light bulbs and five shadowy people seated at a table, panel-style]
Interviewer: Name?
MJ Brenneman
Interviewer: Experience?
More than 10 years of PR, marketing and communications for B2B technology companies.
Interviewer: Hmm ... Claus, does she look market-y to you?
Claus: I don't know. I imagined marketers as more ... bubbly. Aren't they bubbly, Cherise?
Cherise: Yes. And very skinny.
Interviewer: Thank you, Cherise. Yes. Bubbly. Skinny. Hmmmm. [pause, paper shuffle] Brenneman?
Yes?
Interviewer: Read the lines, please.
I have supplemented my core experience in public relations by branching into multiple communications disciplines.
Interviewer: Why are you dancing?
Just want to show you my full range of talent. 
Interviewer: Hmmm. Interesting. Claus?
Claus: Stop dancing and read the lines.
Messaging and timely communications are vital components of managing a corporate crisis. In your case, I would have counseled -
Interviewer: Stick to the scripted lines.
Oh, sorry. I thought the lines could have been more personalized, you know - relevant. Ok, ok. [slight pause] Um, I find myself bored if I'm not working 60 hours a week. I think men should make more money than women.
Claus [aside]: That was delivered quite well. 
While I enjoy strategic contributions, I'm not above helping with day-to-day tactical operations.
Zoe [to Claus]: Arrgggh, this is incredibly boring. Let's move on to the next one.
Chaos appeals to me. 
Interviewer: I don't know. I think there's something there.  
Processes should be organic.
Zoe: Stop. That's enough.
Oh - enough? Ok.
Interviewer: Zoe? Are you sure?
Um, thanks for your time. 
Claus: I think she has promise.
Zoe: I don't like that shirt she's wearing. I don't like her hair. She's out.
May I contact you if I have any questions?
Interviewer: Don't call us. We'll call you. 

Day 91 - Twitter, Tweet, Chirp, Flap and all that Jack

The arguments for Twitter, depending on which camp you're enjoying a pint of Guinness with (and in this case, I'm at the fire pit with marketers), are that it enables engagement, expands your audience and enhances communications. So we (marketers) draw up strategic plans, follow the hotshots, build up followers, stress over which applications to use, create and attend seminars with "Twitter" in the titles and use the word "brand" a lot. And by doing this, we have legitimized the outlet from a business perspective.

That's what we do. Marketers get new toys and convince everyone to play with them. It's a gift/talent, really.

But for me - above all these (legitimate) uses -Twitter is, basically, a chance to eavesdrop on everyone and all of their conversations (real time and past.) And then you add Four Square in and now you know not only what they're saying but where they are. And yes, while this may cause quite a bit of privacy concerns for folks, for me - the busy body - holy cow. I've come home. 

Someone, get me some popcorn and binoculars! If you need me, I'm at chez Kravitz.

Day 89 - When Pollen Attacks

Austin = Pollen.

Now, I'm not one for math or math-like work, but that is one equation I learned in March and April of 2009, just a couple of months after I moved here from Austin.

It started out (in March 09) as an irritated eye. In fact, I hardly noticed until one of my coworkers pointed and shouted, "Pink eye!"

Holy shi*t. Pink eye? That's something children get. Or dirty, dirty adults. Cue the shame. Cue the working from home and jabs from coworkers. More importantly, cue the doctor visits.

It took three doctors' visits and three different prescriptions (and by this time, my eyes were mostly shut closed and I had to wear two pairs of sunglasses to drive they hurt so much) until one bright physician finally identified that it was *gasp* an allergy. (Oh victorious day! It is not dreaded pink eye!)

Turns out tree pollen wrecks havoc with my eyeballs. Houston = not a problem. Austin = hypervigilance and major dosage on allergy meds and eye drops.

Don't believe me? Then, my stern disapprover, eyeball this picture:
 

This is my balcony chair today. Notice the yellow? That's pollen. After two days of rain, there's still that much pollen there. And if you look on the floor,  you can see dimplings of more pollen coating. Not clear? Try this:

Ah crap. That isn't so clear either. But take my word for it that all those spots where the balcony looks dirty - that's actually pollen nestled in the teats of my floor. After two days of rain.

Par for the course, right? New city. New things to get used to. Yeah, well, all is ok now after an incredibly painful month of raw eye. Am I holding a grudge? Yes. Yes I am. But I am also holding Zyrtec and antihistamine eye drops. Problem (mostly) solved.

Day 88 - Trimming the (Eyebrow) Hedges

When you aren't employed (or at least when I am not employed), the normal procedure is to patrol every penny and scold it if it tries to leave the fold (dollar fold, that is.) Sometimes the scolding is not as harsh (think groceries [but cheap groceries, dammit, canned goods!] or bills) but parting with each coin - well it dents my monetary confidence.

Of course, the vibe to DIY is strong in this budget padawan. No car wash for me. I let the rain work it out and use my hand vac on the insides. I wash my own dog (and she doesn't smell quite as sweet as when the groomers did it.) I (inexpertly) make my own dinner instead of gnoshing at The Grove or even La Madeleine. 

This philosophy extends to my general upkeep - things like shaping eyebrows and mani/pedis. I do it myself.  With over-the-counter things you can buy that have pictures of serene women on them. (Never trust a women who looks peaceful when contemplating yanking her hair out by the roots with a sticky substance. She's the cousin of the woman who dances on the beach when she gets her monthly visitor.)

After DIY roughing it for nearly 5 month, I realized that I had accumulated a patchy unibrow and heels as thickly calloused as a cow's hoof. (Seriously, walking on hot coals would not have been a problem.) So, today, I caved. I broke protocol. I went to the nail salon for a mani/pedi and facial waxing.

And got a headful of hot wax. This wax, which was intended for my lip (yes, I have a mustache as well as a unibrow. I know, it's hard to believe I'm single.), escaped from its glob post on the Popsicle stick and stowed away in my hair, on my shirt and (somehow) on my eyelids.

OK. I learned my lesson. Sometimes DIY results don't need the Y involved.

Day 83 - Step into my Office

Here I am - surrounded by dark wooden chairs, behind a desk, a printer nearby, a multi-line phone blinking, plush blue carpet underfoot and the drone of (official-sounding) conversations on the other side of the wall. 

Have I started a new job? Or perhaps I have completely immersed myself in method acting and rented an office to prepare myself for re-employment? (IIII am employed. I AM employed. I am EMployed. I am emPLOYED. Which sounds better?)

Today I am practicing the refined art of office squatting. Ingredients: One invitation to visit the office of a friend or family member and one free office (sometimes the office even has a door.) Et viola! It's the Mr. Potato Head of office spaces. (You have the basics - dress it up and use it as you like!)

Besides being a nice break in routine, office squatting can pop you from solo clone to hale and hearty office shape. Sprint past the office politics! Heed the obnoxiously ringing reception phone! Scavenge for a pen! Hunt down the bathroom key! Eavesdrop on conversations (my personal favorite)! Trip on that ridiculous plastic shield shoved under the chair's wheels!

All that is missing now is the Susie Chattie co-worker and the (suspect) head gear for the phone.

Office squatting, however, is only step one of covert work infiltration. The real accomplishments grow into sneaking into meetings or - even more impressive - running a meeting for your (pretend) project. Get to that level and you can easily convince Rudy in payroll to (add you to payroll) give you a raise.

Day 81 - Seriously. What are You Wearing?

PajamaJeans. Pajamas that look like jeans. Failure in indigo blue. Uck. Just give me the flannels. I'll wear those bad boys out and save the $39.95.

Day 80 - Yeah, but Will the Check Clear?

Texas is one of 33 states borrowing federal money to pay state unemployment benefits.To date, the state has borrowed $2.03 billion dollars in order to fund unemployed Texans' glamorous indulgences such as paying mortgages and buying Ramen noodles.

The borrowing cycle is endless, isn't it? Every day folks borrowing via credit cards, banks and credit unions. The state borrowing from the federal government to cover unemployment. The nation turning to Daddy Warbucks China to ask for " Just a little bit more to tide us over."

Day 79 - Dear Diary, Could I be (Health) Uninsurable?

Flat out - I've made mistakes handling this whole unemployment thing. Going through a new experience, sometimes you think you are prepared for everything. You research, you stockpile, you interview ... (Control freak powers - ACTIVATE!) Of course, as that intelli-ass in every class you've ever had would say (with a semi- or full-fledged sneer), "It's not always that simple."

So what slipped through the gaps in my unemployment awareness were those packets from my former employer containing the words "health insurance" and "COBRA." Call it paper blindness.

Now I find I'm entering the fray - the epic search for individual health insurance during these morphing health care times. And the clock is ticking before I hit my dreaded "60 days without coverage" benchmark, which (I believe) vastly complicates the entire acceptance process. (I think, after that point, endurance tests involving fire, leeches, dunking and peyote are initiated.)
 Luckily, I've got some warm leads from friends who have been through this. Now, it's digging through it, trying on some plans, spitting up at the prices and then sucking it up. Or maybe I just say "What the hell" and make myself completely uninsurable. Surely, nothing bad can some from that.

Old Skool

My wireless adapter went out. I'm kicking it old skool now, plugged into a hard line and unable to move more than one foot. Any minute now, I suspect the situation will regress further and I'll be trying to dial into the Interweb and getting only busy signals.

Day 78 - Are Dreams Worth a Confederate Dollar?

Do dreams really exist or are they the grab bags adults hand us as we waltz our of seventh birthday parties? (I'll have a plastic whistle, a novelty pin and a can of Play-Doh, please.) 

Whoa - before you contact the authorities to report that Dr. Conrad Murray has slipped me some mental propofol, this is actually a (semi) legitimate question. From a young age we are taught through parents, TV, teachers, preachers, books and creepy aunts, uncles and grandparents that offer us fused lumps of hard candy, that whatever we dream we can make come true.  Girls can become beauty queens, boys can become sports heroes and we all can become billionaire, statuesque movie stars that exhibit the business acumen of a Buffet.

But here's the thing: Words sure are pretty. They are the verbal one-night stands of the world - they make you feel good, fulfill a quick-seated need and split before that whole monogamous conversation comes up. We can all hem and haw, spit out reassurances and serve the verb as long as we like. But until our words are combined with action, they're as worthless than Confederate money (soon after printing, not today's value, which for collectors might be slightly more than face value.)

My point: Do what you can to support someone's dream. (Heck, do what you can to help someone figure out what their dream is.) It could be as simple as shutting up or watching a show or even shucking out a few bucks. Dreams are very real for some folks, drifting targets for others and still yet very nearly invisible for more. But I figure if you can help someone realize their dream, then you've gotten closer to getting your own.

(And yes, Mr. Rogers read my entry from heaven. He doesn't agree with all the language, but he supports the overall idea.)

Day 76 - Ugh Ugh Ugh

Every time I see this commercial I throw up a little inside my mouth (in time to the crunches.) Which is why I am sharing it with you. Consider this a passive aggressive gift from your unemployed frenemy.

Day 74 - And You All Shall Suffer

My new neighbors, a couple with a young kiddo and an antsy boxer, have gotten into a bad habit. Sure, time is at a premium when you're working, paying the bills and raising a kid and a dog. But is there ever a good excuse to leave bagged dog feces sitting outside your front door (in a shared hallway) or piled at the foot of the (shared) stairs?

 Instead of knocking on the door and politely asking my neighbors to please throw away the poop after the scoop (as would be the mature thing to do, and definitely the most effective),  I instead involve the complex's management company, leaving a message after hours describing my bane. To my credit, I detailed the evidence but instead of hanging my neighs out to dry I simply said, "Here's what I've seen. Maybe there's a new process for law maintenance. But I have seen this around my neighbor's door." (Ok, that's lame. I admit it.)

I expected the complex to call the neighbors, tell them of a complaint and then leave it at that. That seemed like a good way to resolve the issue. INSTEAD: The next day, clamped on the grips next to every door, a fresh white handbill (that's 50s talk for a flier) touted the penalty for leaving bags of dog feces laying around and alluding to "complaints."

Why is it so taboo these days to go directly to the person involved and tell them of a compliant? One, YES, I should have knocked on their door myself. But being a product of corporate employment, I often defer negotiations to Switzerland (e.g. HR or a third party.) However, once the complaint is received, why is it ok to blame everyone (without saying names) instead of going directly to the source, neutrally explaining the complaint and then go from there? It is just like so many companies I have worked at. If one person leaves early, a catty e-mail goes to all employees reminding them of designated work hours. If one person strips their clothes and streaks the office, everyone is invited to a town hall meeting to talk about proper office etiquette. To to the source, folks. Get to the source. Let that source know what the beef is and go from there.

Don't punish the masses for the sake of one person's sin.

Day 70 - Fetchin' Balls

Here's one piece of practical advise for dog parks that you don't normally get: When you see more dog balls then dogs, get the fudge out of there. Case in point, today, at the dog park, within a five-minute window:

Dog A, a whopper of a canine cresting around 70 pounds, came up to sniff me I sat working in the park-supplied plastic chairs. Dogs do that all the time at the dog park. You either pet them or ignore them. THEN, the f***** peed on my leg. Observations:  

1. Dog A was free balling in a big way. Most likely, many puppy urinaters (not to be confused with Terminators) will sustain his blood line.
2. Upon hearing my (loud) curses, someone asked, "Oh, did a dog bite you?" (My response, worthy of Joe Biden, used a hierarchy of George Carlin's Seven Dirty Words You Can't Say on Television including p***, f*** and sh*t but was not agile enough to pull in c*** or m*****f*****.) Basically, "That damn dog peed on me." 
3. No owner in sight (or one that fessed up.)
4. Bathing feet and legs in city tap water in the middle of a dust park - not top 10.

Dog B (85 pounds) and Dog C (15 pounds), a mere three feet from my bathing station, began innocent play that quickly devolved into an epic, snarling struggle. Observations:

1. Both dogs were neuter-free. Go go gadget Testosterone! 
2. Again, I was 3 feet away. Not optimal. I couldn't even summon my inner superhero and break the fight up. Those bastards were going at it. 
3. My 20-lb dog was two feet away looking unconcerned. (This is her normal SOP. She outsources her worrying to me. And before you go all Dog Whisperer on me, yes I know that humans can overreact. But with 100 pounds of dog teeth, balls and claws coming at you, sometimes the initial reaction isn't, "Let's sit down and discuss how this conflict makes you feel. I have some lovely vegan snacks we can share afterwards. Hot tea, anyone?") 
4. The fight was so fierce I couldn't tell which dog would win. The little one may have been quasi-pinned, but not so much that he wasn't putting his needle-sharp teeth to work - like a rabid rat but bigger and with more jaw power. I would have put the odds in favor of that little bastard if I were a bookie.
5. The owners, upon finally arriving at the scene after sending a text, combing their hair and solving world peace, basically watched before one commented: "Oh, does yours still have balls?"

The visit was over after that. It only took 170 canine pounds, six balls, three feet and one wet leg to help me make this decision.  Never, ever, go to the park where un-neutered dogs outnumber all the others.

Day 69 - Painfully (Un)Hip

Here's one example of how I am a completely unhip person (and yet somehow I still haven't been exiled by the Austin mob):  

Date: March 18, 2010, during Austin's well-known, industry-lauded South by Southwest music festival. This is a time when music moguls, waifs, punkers, rockers, roadies and groupies gather in the Capitol City to outcool each other, wail into microphones (which are located conveniently at every street corner) and look unimpressed in general.

Where: Krush Lounge (Yes, in Austin, Sherlock Smartass, because I know at least one person reading this is about to ask.)

What/why: A friend's band, Katoptric, landed their first Austin gig (and there was much rejoicing.) I had been invited to witness and celebrate their debut.

Evidence: At the conclusion of their set, the drummer threw his sticks into the crowd. Clearly not paying attention on my end (in my defense, there was a lot of showmanship going on), one of drumsticks pegs my friend (who is a cutie, score for her!) who then (understandably) flinches. The stick begins its deflected journey anew to land in the hands of an ecstatic crowd member behind us. Lo and behold, another stick comes soaring in our general direction (again, my friend), this one landing to the right near a doorway. Keep in mind, the crowd was sparser than anticipated (I'd say around 30 nearby, so there were bald patches in the crowd. AND btw, not the band's fault at all.) Me, the big doof, look around, see if anyone is going after it and ask my friend if we're supposed to pick it up. It's something along the lines of, "What's going on? Did he mean to let go of the stick? Do I just leave it laying over there? Is that rude? No one else is going after it. What does this mean?" My friend, who is much hipper than I am and understood that this was a fun thing that drummers in bands do at times to celebrate the end of a gig, tolerated this nonsensical question barrage before vaguely nodding and gesturing. It ends with me awkwardly turning, searching for the stick in the darkness, finding it, bending down slowly so as not to spill my beer and then standing up looking like that confused elderly woman who yells, "I've fallen and I can't stand up."

You now hopefully can understand why I must surround myself with the cool people I currently surround myself with. Otherwise, I'd be one step from living in Sanford and Son's junkyard (yet not in the actual house until cool points accrue.)

Meanwhile, rock on Katoptric.

Here's an Article I Won't be Reading

How to Wear Jeans to Work

Once more, I am mocked! Khan! KHHHHAAAANNN!

Fear. What a Fabulous Motivator.

CNN ditched today about how workers are scared to work flex hours, opting instead to stay onsite and work excessive hours. 

Could it be because companies are flicking off employees quicker then a spring break frat bull can down a shot of tequila?

Could it be because unemployment rates are at about 10%?

Could it be because evil corporations are licking the backs of employees' necks with the wicked, wicked whip of employment uncertainty? 

Could it be that workers are now feeling akin to that crazy, paranoid man that always sits down on the bus next to them? You know, the one ranting about conspiracies, being followed by the CIA and that purple ghost bitch that keeps staring at 'em.

Maybe. Maybe not. You decide. 

Day 68 - Oh Cripes. It's Day 68.

Did I mention it is day 68 of unemployment? 68 days. This is certifiably the longest I've gone in my life without employment (and yes I'm counting college. And high school.) I wanted to put a little perspective around this length of time, so I fleshed out some comparisons.

If my unemployment term was a baby, it's gone from a soft-headed, squint-eyed (all newborns I've seen are squinty) ball of flesh to a rolling, grabbing terror (still with a soft head but slightly less softer.) 

If my unemployment term was a Toyota, I'd be signed up for a class action law suit (that damn thing did not slow down!)

If my unemployment term was beer, I'd have almost 11 six packs (and the makings of a great party.) 

If my unemployment term was enterprise technology, it'd still be gathering specs with an implementation scheduled for early 2011. (Huh. That one actually makes me feel better. Much better.)

Day 66 - Just Do Your Work

Ingredients at a friend's crawfish boil: Crawfish. Crab. Spices. Keg. Enthusiastic guests. A teacher.

The teacher (as all teachers do) had the best stories. We started with subbing talk. I've explored that area before, but AISD was all "full up" for the year. (I'm trying not to take it personally and it's been successful.) Then she started with the the stories of K-8(th grade that is.)  

What really intrigued me were her stories about the differences in communicating (or authoritatin') between ages and classes. One class (we're talking elementary here) related well to deadlines without a threat of punishment. One class didn't respond until there was a deadline and a threat of punishment. And one all-As  ninja felt the pain because he couldn't produce all parts of his project in time. The teacher, knowing he was a good egg but also knowing she had to produce on her threat, phoned the assistant principal and bow-wowed to the voicemail so the student wouldn't have to go down for the count. (Hey if you don't follow through the children will never listen to you again.) Mission accomplished. 

Ah, but this does remind me of company projects I've been involved in. It's a fine art trying to figure out how to get someone to do their part of a project. Because, unlike the classroom, normally a blanket strategy doesn't work.  Some co-workers you have to cater to. Some you have to stalk. Some you have to ignore (they'll come to you! Rare, but they exist.) Some you listen to (because if you listen to everyone's advice you'll go gonzo.) Some need karaoke and a light show to get the point across. There are a million tunes I could tap dance to because, in the end, saying something like "Do your work by this date" should work. But, alas, nyet.

Day 64 - Hoe. Plow. Plant.

Now I'm frickin' semi-addicted to Farmville. I grow things. I know it's time to pet the cat. It takes three days to grow artichokes.

I blame you, unemployment! YOU!

Day 62 - Shed the Skin, Exorcise the Demon

My inbox - be it e-mails, Tweets, posts, IMs, texts, voice mail or smoke signals - vomits many, many treasures. Some days it is an article. Other days it is an interview request. Yet other days it is treasured snarkiness from my good, good friends. (It is probably no surprise to hear that many of my friends and family are straight shooters - no icing on the cake, no warning before the Band-Aid rip and laughter when your heel breaks, because let's face it - that is pretty frickin' funny if it ain't you.)

Today, my inbox yielded a synopsis titled (remember: It is always titled, not entitled. Entitled means you are owed something. Titled means, well, here's the title. Ok, grammar lecture deactivated.), "Three Reasons Not to Leave Your Job."* It says that if you are peeved, disgruntled, burnt out, etc., you should not immediately leave your job because it could be hard to replace said subpar job, you are ruining relationships and you could be overestimating your value in the market place.

All good points.

But it overlooks one possible solution. Yeah, storming out in a blaze of curse words, flying headphones, crude hand gestures and evil-hearted kicks won't produce the most desirable results (and will most likely incur lawsuits as well, but that's a whole other imaginary scenario.) But, my radical idea is that you don't have to stay at your non-dream job. With some planning, saving and good network connections, you can actually leave your job before you secure another job. Yes, it is a bit risky. And I admit that I don't know if I would have taken this path if it wasn't chosen for me** (thank you company that shall not be named). But imagine the possibilities: An opportunity to relax, unwind, reevaluate who you are and what you are doing (without the added incessant job searching that accompanies unexpected layoffs), catch up on your life.***

At a time like this, when more than ever we're eschewing vacation time to work 60+ hours a week, a complete planned break - sans the Blackberry - could far outweigh the benefits of staying at a job that weighs you down more and more each day.

* Disclaimer: The synopsis links to an article titled "Five Ways to Bungle a Job Change," which is actually a very relevant look at screwing up the outbound process. But let's just keep this related to the synopsis, shall we? 
** I am legitimately unemployed, Texas Workforce Commission. You verified this already.
*** Not to insinuate that I am not actively searching for a new job, Texas Workforce Commission. But hey, when not searching or networking, I do stop to smell the wisteria.

Day 61 - F*#^ Goes Mainstream

Are we sure Joe Biden isn't from Texas?

Our esteemed VP has pushed f*** into mainstream. As a native curser myself (it's truly like a second language to me), I thank you Mr. Vice President. It's only a matter of time before the term completes its mainstream trek and appears on job applications, news programs and cooking shows.

Now, what's the time line for *#&^, @("#@ and (my personal favorite) *&$^#%@#^?

Day 60 - Thank You, Math Teachers

I hated math in school. Not passionately, mind you - not with a fervor that eventually includes explosives and/or a cabin in the neck scruff of the woods. More like hatred combined with annoyance. The kind that bubbles up when a mosquito bites you after you've already been bitten 20 times and you're out of bug juice.

However, kudos to my math teachers. (That's how much I hated math classes. I can't remember any of my math teachers' names. I can remember English and history teachers. Heck, even a phys ed teacher from elementary school. Math teachers - nary a one.)  My math teachers taught me the value of addition and multiplication, which came in handy while reading this article by Andy Rooney.

First off, I like Andy Rooney. Anyone who can spout out contrary points of view with a frame of reference from the Great Depression is immediately high up on my list. He has experience and I respect that.  But is it relevant now when it comes to job searching?

Says Andy:  

More college graduates ought to become plumbers or electricians, then, go home at night and read Shakespeare.
 
First of all, thanks for ruining the dreams of graduates everywhere who once hoped to rise to the lofty heights of middle management jobs dependent upon quoting the bard.

Secondly, hello hello math. I could spend a majority of my time trying to land a job waiting tables or punching a register but I'd have to stand in line behind the hundreds of other overqualified applicants waiting for the same job. (Remember, this is Austin. You pretty much need a Masters in order to wait tables here. Need I remind you of the Masters recipient that couldn't find a minimum wage job? And, should I try to become a plumber or electrician, I'd need to go back to school for training and certifications.) And then, working 60 hours a week I probably still wouldn't make as much (Ha - I say this like Unca Sam is showering me with diamonds and furs) as I do with unemployment benefits. And taking unemployment benefits allows me to focus full time on a search for a full-time job (and attend interviews without scheduling conflicts) so I can get off said benefits as soon as possible.

I'm not being a snot, Andy. And neither are a lot of other people out there looking for jobs. We're not afraid of working with our hands. We're trying to find jobs - ways to contribute to the world that makes sense and that lets us use our skills in a logical manner. We're far from dreamers. We've got reality up to our eyeballs - bills to pay, families to support and worries. Beat your drum in your mansion when there are plenty of jobs, when companies aren't shrinking left and right, when unemployment isn't 10 percent for the country. Then you can call us choosy.

Until then, I'm doing the math and pushing for interviews.

Day 59 - The Penny Shimmy and Unfaithful Spouse (This Rant Starts with the Letter ... )

One of my* online job search resources shipped me** an article about how to "remain empowered after months of job searching."

Fabulous. Great advice. "Keep searching. Oh - and work out and eat right, you lazy sardine!"

Want to know my secret? Actually find a frackin' job. Then, after months and months (or years) of dancing for pennies*** during interviews (I can cabbage patch, wanna see? Wanna see?), you can finally settle ("settle" being the operative word) down and marry the mediocre "spouse" of your dreams (probably for a couple of months to a year or until said spouse finds someone who can do your job cheaper. Like a 20 year old with no degree.) And live happily (not so) ever after.**** 

* Guest post by Grump E. McGrumpgrump. Hard to believe, right?
**Again, guest post. By someone far grumpier (eviler) than I (usually) am - a Mr. Hyde to my Dr. Jeckyll, a Faith to my Buffy (if only I were as cool as Faith), a Meat Lovers to my Veggie Delight  ... you get the idea now, doncha?
***Watch the clip to the end. It's Christopher Walken. And he's re-al-ealllllly working for his pennies. 
**** Ok, maybe it's time for bed now. Grump is full-blown Godzilla now! (Click the link, click the link!)

Day 56 - B2B Hangover

I've been selling to businesses (B2B) for waaaaaayyyyy too long. It's usually a long, drawn out process (for enterprise-level software it could range a couple of years) that necessitates a lot of relationship and credibility building. After today, I'm beginning to think I took the long, thorny, uphill path to the ice cream shop instead of the paved, air conditioned one populated by smiling people and their beautiful offspring.

I should have been selling to consumers. (For my seven readers, some of who might not be familiar with marketing, that is commonly abbreviated as B2C.)

Case in point:

Tilling the overflow of my apartment (organizing two closets) yielded a few nuggets of crap. Fortunately, it was crap that I could easily siphon off via Craigslist (what I call eBay without all that auctioning hoopla.) 

Fifty words, one picture and three hours later, I'm in the parking lot of my complex brandishing some DVDs and waiting for $40. As the buyer approaches, I'm working out a strategy, thinking of small talk to build a rapport, maybe bring up the history of the TV series and my ownership of said property ... all those steps you normally consider in a B2B environment (read "tons of extra boot licking for the moola.")

AND ... the whole process took three seconds. Three seconds!

Four words exchanged, three sets of DVDs handed over, two more bills added to the coffers. That easy. 

Yep, I should have gone into B2C.  Definitely.
 

Day 55 - St. Patrick's Day - A Tale for the Unemployed

Let's take the tale of St. Patrick and trick it out for modern times, shall we? For modern times - and the unemployed!

At the tender age of 16, Britain-born Patrick was kidnapped [by an evil corporation] and forced into slavery [unpaid internship] in Ireland.While there, he was visited in his dream by the CEO of the leading faith-based inspirational organization. Inspired, he broke free from captivity [take this job and shove it!] and returned home to study to be a priest [continuing education.]  After joining the priesthood, he returned to Ireland as a bishop [MBA in hand]. Mostly, he converted the rich [in accordance with his business strategy] so that they could support the church [and thus create new revenue streams.] But he did bring in a fair amount of poor converts [aka your modern day Americans. Spend further into debt, peons!] He accomplished this by using a shamrock to demonstrate the Holy Trinity [the least expensive promotional giveaway ever.] 

Today, we celebrate his accomplishments by wearing cheap plastic green accessories and overindulging in beer [Enron style, bay-beee!] 

The end.

Day 54 - This Just About Categorizes my Frame of Mind Right Now

Second Notice

Day 51,

Now you've taken day 52 with you too? Poaching company employees is an offense punished by a stringent tongue lashing, much gnashing of the teeth and many empty threats. You, sir, shall hear from our lawyers.

Insincerely,
Human Resources
That Unemployed Chick in Austin
Yes, we realize the irony in our signature. 

Notice

Day 51,

It has come to our notice that you did not appear for work as scheduled. You also did not tell your supervisors of your inability to report to work. As a result, the entry for day 51 is nonexistent, which severely inconveniences the seven people that read this blog. Please contact your supervisors as soon as possible to discuss this situation.

Insincerely,
Human Resources
That Unemployed Chick in Austin
Yes, we realize the irony in our signature. 

Day 53 - The Great White Male Ceiling

Twelve years in technology. Twelve years. And I'm still blinded by the white-toned, sausage-laden beings that constitute company leadership. Sure, every now and then a woman pops up (usually as VP of HR or marketing.) But mostly, it's the great white male way in the boardroom and C-suite.

I have very low tolerance for these hierarchical snow flurries. (Flakes, flakes, flakes!) And then I read a story like this and the rankle soars to unbridled pissed-offness. 

Allow me to recap the article's* subject (as I see it), from the point of view of the government and businesses.

Thanks for dropping by today, businesses. I'm super stoked to have you all here.
Thanks. We're not too stoked to be here, really. Unless you're giving us money.
Fair enough. I've been going through your filings and I've discovered some surprising findings.
Look, about that whole fraud thing ...
Oh no no. Not that. I already talked to George in accounting about that. That's taken care of. This is something else.
What is it?
Look, I'm going to be frank. There just aren't enough chicks on your boards. 
This again? We hear this from a lot of people, but we didn't think you'd be on us about this. We let women work. We even promote them to nice, plump, mid-management jobs. Sometimes even VP level. There have even been cases of women, like, leading companies. Leading companies!
Yeah, but I'm getting some sh*t and this time it isn't going away. Get some women on your boards or I'll have to enact a law that compels you to do so. 
Really? Really? Look. We've been over this before. There just aren't any qualified women out there.
None? No business-savvy, well-educated women at all that could contribute to the companies' senior leadership?
Seriously. None. We looked in, like, five places. Four or five.  
Yeah, really?
Yeah. They just aren't suitable for board positions. Mostly they just aren't trained, you know? Don't have the experience. They're in, like, accounting or marketing or human resources.** 
Do what you have to do but there better be some dolls in your seats or else you'll be hearing from me. No more money my friend. And a keener eye on your filings.  
Flippin' Scandinavia.***

****

* Disclaimer: This article focuses on companies/women in Europe. Because in America, we just don't have an issue like this. Not at all.

** Direct quote from article. Not me being a total ass.
*** Apparently, this whole notion of enforcing female quotas on boards started in Scandinavia about two years ago.  They are truly an enlightened people.
**** Basically, the gist of the article is that making boards elect female directors isn't the answer to the problem. The article basically says that if we truly want qualified women on boards, we should start training young so that they are prepared and can positively contribute to a company's leadership. That makes sense. However, let's just take a ride on the honest train. These changes won't happen unless they are mandated and companies are held accountable to them. Men have been the dominant members of boards since, well, the dawn of business. Do you think deeply ingrained practices like that are going to change out of good will? Why not just wish that all businesses stop laying off folks and avoid concentrating on the almighty dollar/pound/euro, etc.?
 

Day 50 - Talk Dirty to Me

I must be in a ginger in Mayberry answering to the name of Opie Cunningham because every damn rejection letter I get is so sanitized it is practically useless. Seriously. You have to read them three times before you realize why they were sent. And they smell (even the e-mails) faintly of Lysol.

Give me rudeness. Give me directness. Even give me childish (as in evil runts on the playground taunting the girl with the big feet or the boy with  first and last names that rhyme.) Here are some excerpts from my proposed rejection letters:

• You smelled funny.
• Were you hitting on Mr. Jenks during the interview? We looked at the video and the jury's out. And so are you.
• Frankly, you gave us the creeps.
• Yeah, you just would not fit in with our crowd.
• Nice skills. But not enough.
• You really shouldn't have said that crap about work/life balance.
• You're waaaaay too smart and motivated. You'll make the others look bad.
• We kind of get off on making our interviewees prance about. And we love all the free consulting you did for us in the process.  We'll use that sh*t. But, you never even had a shot. No hard feelings, eh?
• Oh yeah. Earl from accounting wanted that position. He's never done PR but we'll give him a shot. I mean, how hard can it be?

When that day comes and I get that rejection letter - that beautiful, beautiful rejection letter that embraces the spirit of brutal honesty - then I'll know that our race has evolved into a higher state of being.

Day 49 - Let the Wooing Begin

In the absence of a regular paycheck (no offense, unemployment checks, but your daddy - Unca Sam - wouldn't want me to think of you as a long-term relationship), I'm working on getting some freelance jobs.

If someone could kabuki my wooing routine, the performance would probably go something like:

*Chime*
Strut, strut, strut. 
Fan multicolored tail feathers. 
Tip wing in salute.
Strut, strut.
Leap high.
Tilt head.
Crow. 
Peck food. 
*Gong*"

So, maybe it needs some work. All pitches do. It's an evolutionary process.

Holy Sh**- Worthy Severance

During one of the many firing scenes in Up in the Air, they reference an (ex)employee's severance package: three months pay, six months medical and work placement assistance.

Damn. If only I (and many of my colleagues) got that sweet of a deal.

And PS: Not always so fun to watch firings.

Day 48 - He Loves Me, He Loves Me ... Not

So imagine the moxy of me. I interview for a job that (frankly) I'm not enthused about. The pay, definitely not (think 40% decrease from previous job. Hey, I realize that I'll need to be flexible with pay in this buyer's market, but really - do I have to plummet immediately down into the gutter? Can't there be some gentle medium? Maybe a light episode of soaring. I am contributing a few skills here.)  Anyhoo (pronounced any-who), the job, maybe. The company - no burning urgency to glum onto that buckwheat.

But I still have the nerve to be irked when I find out I didn't get the job. As one friend wisely pointed out, "The guy you're not interested in dumped you." Dagnabit.

The house. It is clean.

Closet cleaned. Front closet organized. Clothes in piles for Goodwill. Carpets vacuumed. Counters wiped. Floors swept. Dressers and gee-gaws dusted.

Martha Stewart, you can suck it.

Uh, sorry. What did you say?

Interview burnout. I gotz it.

[Insert humble sentiment here. Something like: I appreciate the opportunity to interview. In this crazy buyer's market, it's a privilege to get in phone or face time. There, disclaimer and ego suppressant is activated. Blog post can continue.]

I've had about six interviews in the past week and a half. And another slated for tomorrow.  The interview cells in my brain, at least those surviving the networking happy hours, are fatigued. They reduce most interview responses to either single-syllable responses (which is not really that bad) or rambling, irrelevant  doctorates (five minutes of non-committal responses that usually don't answer the question and end with me saying, "Did I answer your question?" because I know I didn't.)

For example: One interview yesterday with an HR rep netted several awkward pauses, verbal stumbling and spacey answers (stumbling and spacey brought to you by yours truly.) It was one of the most painful 15 minutes of my life. In today's interview, two of them I knocked out of the park (and the ball, if I had actually seen it soar, probably would have landed outside of the park on the head of a burglar stealing food from the homeless at a church after said burglar beat up an elderly lady. Boo. Yah.) The third, well, that one shoved my teeth up through my mouth top, through my sinuses and settled dangerously close to my eyeballs.

Fortunately, my afternoon interview was less damaging to my general facial structure. Still, the burnout - it is there. What's the best way to kick this? Do I take a break? Do I turn an interview down? (Well, that doesn't seem logical.) Perhaps be a little bit more discriminating about my applications (which is actually not an option due to unemployment benefits requisites)? Do I pellet myself with tons and tons of interviews - mock or real - until my brain overloads and reboots (potentially turning me into a drooling lug as well)? Hire someone to be my double? Run away with the circus? Cut off all my hair? Wow. Possibilities are unlimited here. Truly.

Streeeeeetttttcccccchhhhhhhhh

Thank you, unemployment, for allowing me to amass quite a stunning collection of sweat pants. 

 

And this ain't the whole collection. Fabulous.

And in case you're curious, yes, I had to use a flashlight to get this picture. No, I do not keep my legendary collection of sweat pants in a dungeon replete with cheap wire shelving. The bulb is out in my closet and I'm about, oh, two feet short of being able to replace it. Soon, soon. It's on the list.

Day 47 - Slap the Haunches

Here's a new twist in the job search process: Not an interview, but a meet and greet.

Yes, I have a 15 minute appointment today to meet potential co-workers for a job I've applied for. The recruiter announced that it was "informal" and would last "15 minutes." No resumes allowed! What can you accomplish in 15 minutes? Immediate comradery? Or perhaps a quick chance to evaluate appearance?

It makes me think of a horse auction.

Thanks for coming. We have a team here that will examine your teeth, check your hooves and then lead you around the track once or twice to see your cantor. We also have your medical records too. Whoa, Nellie. Settle down. Settle down, girl. 

Update: It was actually like speed dating. Two other candidates for the job were sitting in the waiting room. HR pulled us all three into the room to roundabout with three different employees/interviewers. Not bad. Actually more interesting than the usual interview. But no, I didn't bring home any digits. Ha!

Day 43 - Is Rio Hungry Like the Wolf?

A friend told me that Simon Le Bon crashed her friend's wedding in Dallas during the Duran Duran reunion tour (Isn't always a friend of a friend?)  And she said it like it was a bad thing.

I am here to say this: Simon Le Bon (or any other 80s pop icon), you are welcome to crash any of my gatherings that you so desire. Pop in, drink the expensive champagne (not the cheap stuff set out for guests), insult a granny or two, grab the mic and start ranting with well-placed f-bombs, perhaps break a table. All of this is perfectly acceptable. Heck, I may even get married if it increases my chances.

I can see the Craig's List ad now.

Need a green card? US citizen/woman looking for husband for quasi-sham wedding ceremony. Must be a nonsmoker open to possible sightings of wrung out pop stars. Perhaps that guy from Cutting Crew.

Nothing Like a Little Motivation

It's too early in the morning to tell if this is a fail or pass, but it does smell a little hinky. Here's a line from an e-mail urging job hunters to band together on a project:

The Germans made POWs build their own prison camps the unintended consequence was that it built a bitchin esprit de corps. Let's start stringing barbed wire!!

Has it turned yet? Is the mayonnaise bad?

Day 42 - How Old is that Tree?

Pet peeve: I hate it when people trade primarily on how long they've been in the industry. (For example: I am more than 10 years of experience in competitive eating. I excel at the consumption of Spam.)

Yes, it can be a helpful tactic that allows recruiters to see right off the bat that you've done your time (or have just been sentenced.) However, if someone can only take one thing away from your conversation, do you want it to be how many rings the tree has? And to be perfectly honest, I've known people with decades of experience who are total idjuts.

To me, it's like earning an MBA. I've known quite a few MBAs and most have not impressed me. There. I said it. If you have an MBA and are offended, please get your Excel files and business plans together and you may hurl them at me during my public stoning. I believe it is scheduled for next Wednesday. Put it on your calendar.

Day 41 - I'll Take Jackass for $2,000, Bob

In the business world, if ya do right then you'll (most likely) get the credit you deserve (providing that some southcheek-kissing fool or VP doesn't try to steal it from you.) However, if you mess up you wear it like a scarlet letter for the rest of your term. Be it big, be it small, you now have a badge of work distinction that as apparent as dandruff, pimples, farts and rogue facial hairs all mushed together.

You are the anti-Superman (or woman if you're fussy about that stuff.)

Here is where my patented idea (in my mind) comes into play. Take a moment and welcome ... the Jackass Pass.

We all make mistakes. Now, there's a principle that dissolves the lingering odor of work failure faster than a fan, Lysol and cheap candles combined. If embraced properly, this idea empowers companies - and their once-in-a-while erring employees - to continue to grow and develop sans stigma. Allow me to illustrate.

Setting: Conference room filled with varying levels of corporate beancounters, bigwigs and marketers. You are presenting.

Potential area of concern: After your presentation, Brad the Blackberry Abuser asks a question - a question that has already been answered in your presentation. Your reaction? "Brad, if you'd get your ass out of your smart phone during a presentation you'd know the answer to that question." (Ok, so that's strong response but let's face it - we've all had those days and sometimes logic doesn't have a say. Besides, you worked your butt off on that presentation. Can't he frickin' pay attention for 15 minutes?)

Assessment: The bad news: You just overstepped the limited boundary of office etiquette. You are in danger of wearing the red S. The good news: Take the Jackass Pass.

Implementation: "Looks like I snapped a bit, Brad. I'm calling in my jackass pass." Reaction from the crowd. "Oh - she took the Jackass Pass. Slate's clean. Let's move on." Now, if this really plays out properly, then Brad the Blackberry Abuser would step up and say, "Yeah, I should have put that BB down. Jackass Pass." And by thus invoking the Jackass Pass, both you and Brad get a clean slate with no grudges, blackmarks and/or flip judgements by the witnesses. (Accountability is a beautiful, fragile notion. Maybe even a dream.)

The Jackass Pass extends to all sizes of screw ups (minus the kinds that screw shareholders and employees on a massive, fraudy level) from dropping the ball to failed launches. The Jackass Pass works 100% - no scarlet S, no hallway whispering, no worries about job security. Simply take the Jackass Pass. 

The Jackass Pass. Because we're all (mostly) human.

Day 39 - According to Studies, Teenagers are Jerks (when you're Jobless)

Being unemployed is tough, right? Stressful, right? Perhaps a little bit boring, right?

Well, if you have a teenager, be prepared for extra stress.  According to an emotional intelligence expert (which you can become after three easy online courses and $500 tuition), immediate family (aka spouse and kiddos)
feel the stress of unemployment by proxy. Here's an article - with the best title ever - that elaborates. 

Trust me. It's worth a click. 

Day 37 - Sleeping Cycle

Both my sisters have children and when challenges arise (think habits such as sleeping, eating, no biting) inevitably comparisons will be drawn to us when we were children. If my mom is not present, usually the conversations between us three sisters reels towards this (Note - don't worry about who said what. The culprit changes every time): 

"You were always picky as an eater. You used to dip fish in ketchup and lick it off."
"You used to ride the hobby horse naked." 
"I was two!"
"Tramp!"
"Mom nearly picked up a rat one time thinking it was one of your gerbils that got out."
"You were the one that dragged me into that empty boy's academy behind the house and we stole school berets!" (Note: Long story.)
"You wet the upper bunk of the camper bed and it rained down on Aunt Kay!"

If my mom is present, she'll graciously allow us to continue on for about 20 minutes before doling out corrections along the lines of, "No, that wasn't you. That was you."

The point of this liturgy is that I never once remember my mom saying that I was a bad sleeper - that is I pretty much went to sleep when I was supposed to go to sleep.

I wonder where that is now, that ease of sleeping. I've allowed my sleeping schedule to gravitate a bit from the norm in an attempt to determine my natural resting pattern. When working, I normally would get to bed around 9, read and have lights out by 9:30 or 10. Before you snark, I would get up at 5 or (if I slept late) 6 the next morning. 

Now, I've moved towards a later bedtime. It could be (gasp) midnight before I'm tired enough to turn the lights out. Problem is, I still have the internal alarm clock that comes crowing at 6 a.m. And it crows loud and long. Hence, for me - this is serious sleep deprivation. While geniuses such as Alfred Einstein, Da Vinci  and that kid down the street your mom always compared you to have bragged that they only need a couple of hours of sleep each night, I need a solid 8 in order to contribute to society in a positive manner. If I mix in a couple of naps (or at least one) maybe I can stay human instead of hulking out. Maybe. Or maybe I'll become a genius. Let's just wait and see.