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.