The Unemployment Spectrum

Paperthin Hymns

2010-05-23T23:06:00.004-04:00

If there's one thing I learned from no-longer-underground band Anberlin, it's that "youth fades and glory days deceive".

The sad but relevant truth of my current status as a non-entity has caused me to launch headlong into a solo-listening party of Anberlin's 2005 album "Never Take Friendship Personal", a throwback to my not-so-long-ago college years. Living in the city has taught me a few things, first and foremost that I am only as cool as my friends and what I do. In school, it was how quickly you typed an essay the day it was due or the amount of people you slept with (who am I kidding, that still happens now). I've slowly been transitioning from quirky, live out loud, say what I'm thinking gal to "yes, I can finish that before I sleep" gal. I have dreams about talking to PR reps and ordering products. I wake up wondering how many emails I've gotten to my Blackberry. My weekends are spent calculating how my upcoming week is going to turn out.

I could extend the list to include vacations that are not vacations, merely trips out to the Midwest for weddings that are lightly masquerading as breaks. They are the Lady Gaga of time outs. And not to be bested by that is my raging (suspected) ulcer, which threatens to make every meal I eat a test of will. The Catch 22 of this whole thing? I can't even afford to go to the doctor.

God Bless the current situation in the American Economy. Please, feel free to rob me of any youthful thoughts and dreams and suspend me in a fat-free hell of my own making. And there is no fun in no fat, lemme tell ya.

Facebook Feed Me

2010-05-20T22:09:00.003-04:00

As per my job description, I spend an inordinate amount of time on Facebook, absorbing the latest trends in social media. I'm also taking a close look at the personal lives of many people I'm surprised I'm even friends with. Said perusing has led me to a startling revelation: I have no life.

This is, of course, merely relevant if you define your life based on a.) being so freaking cool you spit Popsicles, b.) spend your evenings attending event after event after event or c.) know lots of super neat people and take oodles of pictures with them. And I am none of these things.

Living in New York has turned me cynical; I revel in the fact that I do attend a great deal of food related night time extravaganzas (as press, sure, but yeah) and have met no shortage of famous chefs/mixologists, had enough cocktails to quench the thirst of Beijing and eaten delicacies above and beyond epic. I don't always advertise it. Perhaps out of laziness but mostly just because I enjoy it on a level that is purely my own.

That being said, I work very, very hard at what I do with no shortage of extra bondage taped on at the end of the night after I've consumed a hastily slapped together meal. I'm tired, people. My mother thinks I have an ulcer. I am not meant for a stressful life. Truthfully, I just want to open a used bookstore in the middle of nowhere and raise a brat or two. It's better than spending half my life reading/visualizing the lives of people who don't exist in my outside social realm.

I have been toying over the idea that Facebook is merely a sounding board for good intentions; those that want to seem important or interesting will retain the bad and bask in the glory of their decent, fully functional ridiculousness through pictures, quirky comments and odd, yet hilarious, "likes".

For example, as I'm watching Buffy in my pjs, Dim Sum stuffed in my mouth, I notice on Erik's laptop that my feed is being bombarded by pictures of friends at the Manhattan Cocktail Classic. Or talking about something in the New York Times. Or tweeting about the coolest ever techy stuff that they obviously have a "very funny" pun about.

And here's the double sided sword: if I complain that it's just a stupid, vapid way of gaining attention, I will receive responses of "turn of the #@!(%&* computer". But if I keep quiet, I'll only wallow in the self-misery of the humble. And god knows that'll probably give me an ulcer, too. Only one way to find out...

Wanna Be a Billionaire

2010-05-10T12:31:00.003-04:00

When I was 10, I wanted to be a famous singer. Not like Britney, mind you, as her shimmying hips and huge ass had not entered my childhood mainframe. When I equate famous and singer, they usually come up with Tina Turner or Whitney Houston...I do not dabble in slutty teenage girl mentality.

Of course, when I say famous I mean rich, because what kid doesn't want to roll around in a pool of Benjamins? Yes, that's right, I wanted to be a billionaire.

Thinking back on it now, I'm sort of glad I'm not. Life would be easier: I'd probably be thinner because I could afford a gym and time to use it and I wouldn't need to worry that last month's paycheck would barely be enough to cover my student loans. The government would be coming to me, baby.

Despite the ups, I'd probably learn zero life lessons, feel invincible and fall deep into drug addiction or alcoholism. Bad? Most likely. Which would make me a bit like Tony Stark. But probably not.

Why push it? In any case, I'm settled living life in Queens and adopting to the fact that English is definitely a second language in my building. I adore my discounted sun dresses and the occasional cheap Chinese from the corner restaurant. Suffering builds character; if so I'm the Mickey Mouse of the lower-middle class masses.

At least this will make a great What Not To Do 101 entry. "How not to completely f*ck up your life if you have loads of money".

Live free or die quick, kids.

The Steel Walls of Life

2010-04-06T17:33:00.002-04:00

Since I'm now partially involved in the World of the Employed, I find that my days are longly spent in one position: seated. My butt aches, my back screams from the tension and my small cube closes in on me like the walls in an Indiana Jones movie. I booby-trap myself into thinking that I'm fine, but in reality the sitting starts to drain my mental capacity.

My escape is the bathroom. This is where I'd usually make a joke about "I shit you not, it's true", but let's move on to the real reason behind the...behind. Ha, already I'm off to a great start.

My boss has written about former FirstMark co-workers who would nap in the bathroom or do jumping jacks in the stalls. I'm not nearly so edgy. Mostly I just escape to the bathroom to work out my already sore posterior muscles (gosh that sounds gross, but is just a fancy way of saying "my rear end is numb from all the sitting"). The walk over is enough to have my dead feet tingle with the need to get the hell out of the office and into the Summer weather...April, you're a cruel mistress.

There's nothing wrong with escaping to the toilet, really. Unless you're taking colossal time away from the company by composing your memoirs or baking a cake. The solace one can find is almost re-invigorating: I'm almost always in the mood to get back to the grind after 5 minutes fixing my face or just standing in a stall for awhile. I find I can work for longer periods with that small rest! Quite lovely, I must say.

And much better than cruising your ex on Facebook.

Sick Days

2010-03-26T09:10:00.002-04:00

Sick days are very dangerous days.

Example being today, this very morning. My head is pounding harder than bread dough on a counter. My nose feels like it's stuffed up to my temporal lobe and my body feels as if a UFC fighter took me down in the ring. Hard. No Mercy.

Game. Set. Dayquil.

It's been an hour and a half and already I'm done with the whole mess. Being sick is my Achilles' Heel; I hate feeling gross. I turn into a dripping, slimy, runny nosed adolescent who's been rejected one too many times by the school's hottest football player. Erik could mention that perhaps I could change out of the clothes I've been wearing for two days because it might make me feel better. He leaves for work with part of his ear chewed off after I verbally and physically abuse him in my weakened state for even mentioning something that might possibly be good for me. Of course, I know what's good for me. Y'know, watching Netflix, cuddling with my cat and not moving for seven straight hours.

Not always a good thing, lemme tell ya.

What I don't always like about sickness is having to tell my boss that I'm under the weather and then having to make up the day the next week. Working for a startup means there's really no down time, which I don't mind except I suffer from ridiculous anxiety whatever and need to take various steps to chill out. Such a buying a coloring book with Disney Princesses and shading in hopeless dreams. Or doing yoga...the only way I could even do the pretzel is by accident. And even then I imagine I'd get stuck. And without health insurance I'd most likely stay that way.

I guess I should just avoid the subway...but it's a long walk to work.

The Final Touch

2010-03-23T12:41:00.002-04:00

There's nothing us semi-unemployed peons adore more than recognition. We crave it like the latest gadgets or vajazzling. Each mention of our name in newsletters, Team tabs on websites or on business cards is thrilling, an exhilaration short of mind boggling. When I took hold of my box of business cards it was akin to holding my first born (a feeling I'll have to imagine for the time being).

What brought me to this rather obviously conclusion was a coup. After two months of arguing, pleading, nagging and finally a few quietly shed tears I'm up on the Team page of our site. I had been nursing this puppy since infancy; the cradle's been rocked so hard I still have the bruises from holding on. I have ulcers from the stress, sleepless nights and under-eye circles the size of peaches to prove how hard I've been working. I deserved my picture and a blurb! I DID! It happened. And I almost cried I was so grateful.

I've gone through four years of college and prior to that four years of high school. Those horribly brain rendering years left me with little more than a desire to move on...so why am I clinging so hard to the recognition a single piece of card can afford? I've only been here a year; why the sudden craving?

Perhaps this is the onslaught of a years worth of friends parading their employment in front of my face; throwing business cards at me to prove how important they are. Like a piece of meat, I'm tenderized by the fact that someone cares enough about my work to make me an integeral part of their team. And it's something to wave in the face of nay-saying acquaintances who thought they were so cool because their name was tied to a corporation.

And inside my head I'm using my whole college-sized dictionary of useful, choice words to prove myself better. God Bless the American Dream.

Next thing to trump? Weddings.

...though for now I am willing to accept defeat. Kudos, Weddings, for being something this girl does not want to touch (at least for the next ten years).

Vanity is Fair

2010-03-08T15:35:00.004-05:00

There are few things I regard above others...personal hygiene, chocolate hazelnut pudding, kittens...but it is just this that poses the problem.

Like almost every woman, I suffer from this terrible disease I like to refer to as "a diet seemed like a good idea but I really like to eat" or, "low self-esteem". When I go into the bathroom to wash my face, instead of noting my sharp eyes and full lips, I tend to count the number of times the skin from my neck folds over itself, or the roundness of my chin. These insignificant features are sadly the drawing point of many a judgement in New York; it makes me miss the comfortable bars of Champaign and the restaurants of Savannah. There's something about the East; a desire to be the best even if the best is quite far from it.

I propose a bit of vanity; when I walk into the bathroom I am to find one good part of myself to praise so that in time I hope to love the whole package. The first step to finding a great job is to have the confidence in yourself to do so. I have lacked that from the get-go, resuming my usual internal pout as my boyfriend buys the groceries again. Never have I been a fan of being supported, choosing instead to live apart from my parents, attempt to pay for things on my own. Last week my mom sent me a twenty in a card and I put it towards that weeks consumables. The downside to working with well dressed, high powered women is the dream to have it, but to live in the Target induced coma I've been reduced to.

I should learn to regard myself as myself with no regards to things...my clothes are just as good because no one knows where they're really from.

And can someone explain those big fake framed glasses? I don't seem to understand the point unless you're truly blind.

Vanity is fair, a given right of all women (and some men), but like caffeine, cheeseburgers and wine (psh, who am I kidding) it's much better in moderation.

My Old Friend

2010-02-17T16:57:00.004-05:00

I had lunch today with an old high school friend. It amazed me that I hadn't seen or really talked to her in five years; what had I been waiting for? What aspect of our old friendship had disappeared between high school and the real world? I can only assume the aging of our persons was what left us drifting apart. We chose to disappear from each other's lives but I am ultimately glad that I was able to see her again and now we can continue a new friendship made from our adult musings and pleasantries.

There are differences in losing friends; rather than make the decision to cease communication, sometimes the choice is taken out of your hands.

It's nearing the two year mark of Robert's death and all I can think is "I wish I could still talk to you". Not see his face, steal his drinks or tap his shoulder, but hear his laughter, his voice. Robert was a fount of information and advice; two Valentine's Days ago, we sat in a Potbelly's on campus, bitching about how we were single. He urged me to eat half his cookie, something I didn't want to do with the age-old "I'm going to get fat" mantra of women.

There are the simple memories you choose to remember and the ones you try to forget...and then there are the ones you want to keep making. And I wanted to make them with Robert.

But for now, I'll try not to forget the people I did make memories with, good or bad.

My old friend, I miss you. And my new old friend, welcome back.

Banking Faux Blah

2010-02-17T14:29:00.006-05:00

I am not a trend setter, not by any means. Sure, I'll claim that my beanie baby elephant was the first real foray into the phenomenon at my elementary school, or that I was wearing a peace sign scarf far before the women of New York caught on, but I would never claim to be fashionable. Fashionistas are the ones who have money, or great connections and I have neither.

Which brings me to the point of this entry: saving for something special. Living in Queens isn't exactly cheap; anything involving New York City and rent will obviously be competing with student loans as "the thing that keeps me from owning a home". And since the Boyfriend is kind enough to front the rent for both of us (I'm working towards this not being the case anymore), I'm able to save a few more pennies towards something I need, like a new bathing suit, a gym membership, decent work clothes, a new pair of flip flops come May, a session with a great psychiatrist and, uh, health insurance. That is, unless Obama decides to ignore the whining of the general (re)public and push the healthcare bill. Though I would have to assume that cosmetic surgery will still be uncovered (no pun intended).

I can feel a new blemish on the rise.

In any case, saving isn't exactly something you debate; it's a state of...change (more puns, I know). A few friends have been using their paychecks to front for commuting, parking tickets, auto insurance, regular insurance, better work clothes, Ben, Jerry and beer. Their savings accounts may be minimal but as a 20 something, it's hard to save. We're stuck in the rut of debt and social dependency; sometimes buying a girl/guy a drink can break the bank. Same goes for weddings (it's nearing June...), bar mitzvahs, christenings, and all those other holidays/events that as adults require us to present our own gift (more puns) rather than hide behind the pocketbooks of our mothers.

This doesn't stop me from accepting a handout from mi madre for a plane ticket to Illinois for my cousin's shower. I mean, sure, all the friends there are mine, but family is like one of those "need" things I put into the "Mom owes me one" category. Weddings, funerals and baby showers. All things I dread but must attend well dressed with my mouth shut. Friends, on the other hand, are a completely new animal. I'm in a wedding this year for an old college pal and in no uncertain terms am I allowed to skimp on my duties as bridesmaid number orange. Where the money will come from, I have no idea. The amount I can pull from my savings is equal or less than the amount currently in there...if I cross my fingers hard enough maybe dreaming will turn into reality. Thank god Erik plays the Mega Millions on a weekly basis.

Besides social marathons and family obligations, saving money can be easier than I've made it out to be. Yes, as 20-somethings our calenders are booked until our wake, but that doesn't mean we can't throw 2K of money in a CD or Credit Union and let it rest for awhile. Let it gain some interest and stay far, far away from our Ebay accounts or, in my case, members only shopping sites like ideeli.com.

The mattress just isn't the way to go anymore...at least, not money wise.

*Photo courtesy of Critical Gamers

A Poet's Dream

2010-02-10T19:39:00.003-05:00

I've spent a good portion of my life keeping in touch.

It's quite like a math equation: the time I spend writing letters, making phone calls and leaving Facebook messages is less than or equal to the responses returned.

I find myself wondering what happened to portions of my childhood; huge chunks have gone missing like mini strokes. Oddly, my nostalgia seems repugnant. Infinitely, I was under the impression that if someone wanted to contact me, they would. Instead, reaching out has become my second job. Am I the only one to remember the exciting foils of my youth: the nights of manhunt at my old elementary school, the inside jokes, the talks of boys on the way to track practice on Saturday mornings?

Perhaps, but then again I hear tell that the past is only as important as we make it.

The now has certainly caught up to me, executing old friendships and rekindling vague ones. I've kept much to myself for fear that if I express my condolences at the loss of my youth that someone will mock me for my dissatisfaction of the present. Yes, we're old now, according to new friends who will woe the reception of wedding invites and baby birth announcements, but what does that mean? The sadness we feel at aging is the desire to bring back our youth.

So why aren't we still friends?

Sure people come and go, and as Baz Luhrman is wont to repeat, but with the precious few you should hold on. What defines those few? Is it a grocery list of stats, a deep personal connection? Or is it perhaps the humor you find within that person's soul, a beauty that lies dormant until unleashed by the power of human connection?

Of course, I'm only waxing poetic. I'm really just missing the long talks and deep bonding I had with old friends. With the growth of our lives and college and family and boyfriends/fiances/lovers/husbands/exes comes putting someone before the other. Seperation. Loss.

Yes, I know this is a bit emo, but I am unwilling to fully admit it.

You're most likely wondering why I'm adding this to the Unemployment Spectrum, but perhaps it's occasionally nice to break from tradition. Frankly, I'm tired of mentioning my commute with people that don't speak English, my part-time job I wish was full-time and my inadequacies of living with a man I must rely on, like my father.

My head has always been rebellious, but my heart has remained loyal and traditional.

Letters should be by hand.

Important heart to hearts should be by phone or face.

A thank you note to a PR person should be written and sent not by email but by snail mail.

Love should be expressed as often as humanly possible.

And if this sounds preachy, stop reading. I refuse to apologize for being honest.

For those friends reading, I'd love to hear from you. It isn't often I rely on the kindness of those close to me.

Or strangers, whichever.

Taken White Female Enjoys Craigslist

2010-01-05T21:31:00.002-05:00

When I was a junior in high school, my friend Brendan sent me a link to Craigslist; a "Missed Connection" that ranted about some girl in a raincoat who was rude. Being 16 and amused by anything unusual, I stuck to the routine of daily Craigslist checks, just to see if perhaps someone had posted something out of the ordinary to amuse my teenage maturity.

By the time senior year of college rolled around, I was an addict. Not of the pill-popping, vein-stabbing variety, but of the "it could be internet porn but there aren't really pictures only words" variety.

I loved everything about Craigslist. That is, until I started looking for a job.

My career advisor at the U of I had suggested the obvious Monster and CareerBuilder, but had failed to mention that a.) the economy was about to go belly up like the Titanic and b.) employers had to pay those sites for chunks of advert space. Craigslist's offers their space for freezies, advising their posters not to spam, throw up some nude photos or blow up the f-bomb like Hiroshima.

This is, of course, irrelevant in the personals section. Pictures of genitals are encouraged.

The "Careers" section has been like mother's milk to my infantile, unemployed soul; I'd scroll through those listings, sucking up their possibility like a sponge. My sent box was filled with "I'd be awesome for this job" emails, begging for a chance to succeed in an eccentric, fantastic universe.

...and nothing. For months.

After silence, constant rejection and spam, I gave up on Craigslist. My muse, my solid career centered glory, all down the tubes because real life is a bitch.

Recently, I started looking in their careers section because it amuses me. More and more legit companies and start-ups have begun hawking their wares; I found my internship now part-time job off Craiglist, and my former nannying position.

I guess I can only be bigoted for so long, right?

Song of the South, Minus the Blatant Racism

2010-01-03T16:15:00.003-05:00

It's cold in New York.

The teenager girls on the subway are huddled together, despite the open seats, rubbing shoulders and tapping their snow-laden shoes on the subway floor. Since I refuse to stand unless forced (hey, my job is hard sometimes), I watch them from my corner seat closest to the doors. They are yammering on about some other girls they know, poking fun and passing judgment. I roll my eyes and return to my book, but the teasing still nags at my head.

New York City inhabitants can be mean.

So I escaped. I drove with my boyfriend down to Savannah, Ga.

Last Friday night at a friend's potluck, I told my plan to the group and was rewarded with a chorus of "Why Savannah?"

Let me explain.

The South is much like the Midwest, populated with large amounts of people who note the joy of having, uh, manners and delight in being friendly. There also exists that soul of the South, that upbringing that doesn't mean four extra-curricular activities and piles of homework. Kids grow up in a city/cities rich in history, as well as culture that portrays the struggles of the Civil War, something that is still prevalent today.

In no particular order I experienced doors held for me, directions given freely, good drivers who weren't rude, cops who paid attention, streets that were clearly marked, talkative sales people and cheap drinks. Some inhabitants had drawls, some had twangs, others clearly had clipped New England accents (tourists), but were so caught up in the general camaraderie that they just went with it. Savannah is a city filled with cheer, brought up from the ashes of Sherman's siege in 1864.

What does this mean, really, that I am rehashing the capabilities of the Southland?

Perhaps that up North we've clearly lost the ability to speak more than five kind words in a row to someone sitting four feet from us. That holding a door from someone becomes more painful than sepuku. "Please" is a six letter expression that hardly passes the lips of those waiting impatiently for their Starbucks decaf-no-foam-extra-hot soy latte.

I'd kill for a little kindness. This is my pleading letter to New Yorker's and beyond...don't fulfill the stereotype! Let the goodness shine through, if only for the sake of my sanity and the person standing next to you. And yourself.

Out with the Old, in with the Reasonably Fresh

2010-01-03T13:13:00.002-05:00

Unlike may people, I do not feel as if the passing of time changes much of anything (except aging of course, that much is evident). Instead, I like to remind myself that change can occur whenever I want it to and personal goals should be created whenever I feel that I'm slacking.

Oddly enough, this coincides with the onslaught of 2010 (what a coincidence).

A few things I will most likely be cutting back on or improving in the next few months:

1.) Drop 15 lbs. This has nothing to do with the fact that I have become rotund, but more with feeling sluggish and tired. I want energy and I do not believe it should come from a cup or a can.

2.) Keep on pluggin' Craiglist for a salaried job. I fully heart the job I have now, but when I have to scavenge for student loan payments every month on top of everything else, it's time to weigh my options.

3.) Be more aggressive. People will not understand that my timidity occasionally stems from a desire to avoid confrontation, rather than just being a bitch. I prefer to sit in my office doing database work than go on a shoot or do an interview...this either makes me lazy or a coward. Or both.

4.) Try not to be such a sad clown. Seriously, shit goes down and it's difficult to accept, but as the boyfriend always says, it will work out. So stop crying for the fifth time this morning and have a bagel.

5.) Cut the M-Fing cord. I love my family and would prefer being there to living on my own. This could be because my mother makes all my meals and occasionally does my laundry, or the fact that it's filled with love and happiness and is closer to my high school friends. I have to realize that I live in New York now and if my friends really wanted to see me, they'd make the effort. If they don't, find new friends.

6.) Get a haircut. That's about all there is to that, really.

7.) Learn all there is to know about social media. Interwebz, h3r3 1 c0m3!

8.) Twitter obsessively. It's a sickness, I know, but there's something in being able to make small quips about your life that have nothing to do with anything. It's like Tourettes for internet fanatics. No apologies, just acceptance.

9.) Go to Comic-con. Meet Seth Green.

10.) Respect myself and have fun. Being a Debbie-Downer is just...bad. There's no way around being a complete depressive mess, but there are a few ways to get through it.

The rough outline will suffice for awhile. I guess I should probably include "survive three weddings"...but I haven't even gotten to that point. That will probably include a few months of therapy followed by a trip to the tailor to help turn my orange bridesmaid's gown into something resembling a dress I can wear in public without the pretext of matrimony.

All in all, good goals, I think.

I Dare You to Move (Breathe, Mutter or Otherwise Act Human)

2009-12-08T12:01:00.002-05:00

It feels really good to get back into the swing of things, including starting up this blog. Small blips of online conversation and occasional shouts over cubicles have been the interaction ration I get daily...which I would like to improve upon, heavily. Hence, the point of my entry:

The silence starts ringing at 8:30, when I rise in a dark room, alone. The white noise continues on my commute to work, where the only noises I hear are the germ addled coughs of F passengers and the subtle shift of my person as I attempt to pull my iPod out of my pocket without bothering the old woman snoring softly to my right.

I've sort of started to love my commute, which I now refer to as the worker's Stockholm Syndrome. A chafing, irritating experience, dangerous and filled with fearsome self-loathing, has now turned into a delightful way to people watch. Yes, I still run for the bus as if it is my only means of getting to the subway. And sure, sometimes I'll just put my earbuds in and ignore everyone, but still.

The gentle lull of the subway car has been a Brahm's for me more times than I can count, and when I've devoured my latest paperback I tend to watch groups of Patron girls, tourists or wanna-be-rappers navigate the cars to find a seat.

I have a feeling that my memoirs are going to be labeled "Sitting on my Ass in the Subway"...which brings me back to my heydey, when it was "Sitting on my Ass on NJTransit". Each is a respectable way to get around and offered me a chance to interact face to face with other individuals without the barrier of the web. Sadly, no one really wants to talk to you; instead they will stare idly at their sudoku, ignoring you entirely.

And this, people, is why I need a job where people communicate through their voice box rather than their Blackberry or Gmail.

I've discovered help in the form of Pandora.com...but the glances I get from the lawyers walking up and down the library area where I'm stationed are enough to make one run for covers (and live under them with a supply of Fruit-by-the-Foot and Gatorade). Until people realize that personalized conversation in a day to day arena will not spread H1N1, Ebola or AIDS, I'm going to stick to contently ogling people from afar in the hopes that if I look nice enough, they'll strike up a conversation.

Or I could just go on Twitter.

The Myspace Mambo

2009-12-07T16:07:00.002-05:00

As a viral marketer, you really have to get in there and know the people you're catering to.

Despite all my past opinions on Myspace, it has sort of become my habitat, though not a niche of any sort.

I spend a great deal of time accepting friend requests, updating statuses and taking stock of the scantily clad females and unsigned musicians gagging at their chance to make it big...ish. It's only Myspace after all, and when someone says "have you heard of this guy, he's big on the intrawebz," people merely shake their heads and label you a nerd. And ladies, taking your top off in your Myspace photo only limits you to the creepers that stalk the site for that purpose alone. Pack on some self-esteem and join Match.com. If it worked for me, it's more than likely going to work for you.

Despite those two rather general categories, they've also branched out into the following:

1.) The not-quite-legal emo-faced hipster
2.) The could-be-your-mom-if-she-was-a-redneck profile
3.) Pictures of food when you're clearly a human
4.) Yes, it's your cat, but why the hell do we care
5.) Mom's with their kids who ask you for 3 forms of ID before friendship
6.) Your bra is pretty but you're not
7.) Chefs. And lots of 'em.
8.) I see that shot of your cleavage, but I'd rather see your face
9.) Are you that rapper that tries to corner me in Times Square?
10.) You're a DJ...so you're automatically too cool to be my friend.
11.) Is that a mugshot or a scene way to be awesome?
12.) Completely average, everyday, totally normal 20-somethings
13.) That frat guy with a backwards cap and a drunken grin, holding a stein
14.) Family profiles
15.) Loads and loads of canned spam. Or email spam, all the same.

This isn't to stay that Myspace doesn't have its perks. Everyone tends to accept you whether or not you have the same political beliefs or similar unicorn pictures gracing your profile background. It's the sort of Utopian society that Thomas Moore dreamed about, minus the obvious web infrastructure and nudity. Why can't the "real world" be more like this online social crossroads?

...though to be honest, if the world was like that I probably wouldn't want to live there.

It's Ho-Ho-Horrible

2009-12-02T16:04:00.004-05:00

Everyone has a different take on what the media commonly refers to as "The Holiday Season". Many revel in the spirit, striding around humming X-mas carols that reek of joy and goodwill.

Mine scream "BANKRUPTCY" (and future torment at the hands of the IRS).

The upside to working many jobs for minimum wages (total) is that I'm kept very, very busy so as not to recall how often money is siphoned from my account into that of good ol' Uncle Sam. The downside is I've been shopping online for gifts and that shipping is eating away at my savings account.

It's okay, I didn't need that flu shot anyway.

Despite my bah-humbug feelings on the subject, I still enjoy the season enough to bake cookies for the office(s). I've never been a firm believer in diets, either, especially when you can spend enjoying delicious foods during the "Holiday Season". Save your working out for the New Year, when looking at your resolutions wracks you with guilt (I know mine do).

I hope that this "Season" brings some stimulation to my life, a much-needed knock in the noggin to motivate me the way I should be. When I go home, I hate the computer. Mine has technically been shelved by the management due to complaints from the staff (myself) when it refuses to turn on and overheats ten minutes in, but still, I avoid the machine. The resolution to this problem is to find something that makes me hate the computer less and allow me to check Facebook at home without loathing myself later for it. But what?

For now, I'm going to restrict my guilt to that of eating the cookie dough at 12am.

Hey, it works.

Certain Unavoidable Truths

2009-10-19T11:34:00.002-04:00

I have never gone to therapy (despite begging my mother upon hitting puberty), but have instead relied heavily on Baz Luhrman's "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)".

Pulling two appropriate lines from the song, I manged to come up with a mantra to help get myself through disappointments in the job market:

"The race is long and in the end it's only with yourself."

"Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's'."

Moments have passed where I have felt so horribly inadequate and alone; applying to job after job and receiving rejection after rejection. Discovering I'm only asked to work when there is no monetary compensation. Watching the bills pile up as I make a meager sum doing three jobs (student loans are unkind). Getting carpal tunnel from sitting at a computer for 6 hours filling out online applications, then never hearing back.

Baz Luhrman reminds me that I am really never alone, that there are many people suffering like myself, stuck in limbo, waiting for that right opportunity.

And it will come.

A few things not to say during an interview

2009-10-18T23:01:00.003-04:00

I was lucky enough to go into an interview this past week at an amazing place and was reminded of how my mouth can run away from me faster than a speeding locomotive.

When I discussed how I thought I did this past weekend with my boyfriend, he explained that perhaps I was a bit too personal, or even too forward, with my responses to my interviewer.

Over brunch we created a list of things not to do during interviews and the following emerged:

1.) Do not bring up your day to day life if it does not apply directly to the job you're interviewing for- I made the mistake of bringing up my family a bit. No one really needs to know what your dad thinks about Twitter, or your mother's quest to find you a job. What they do care about is you and what you think. I know that to me my family is a big part of my life and who I am, but my thoughts are not always directly linked to theirs.

2.) When asking about salary, do not just ask "how much am I getting?"- My friend Scott mentioned that the best way to ask without seeming all about the cash is to say "Will there be a stipend?" and then they can tell you, or respond with "It will be full-time pay". With the market the way it is, occasionally job posts will neglect to mention if there will be salary; I've been on a few interviews where they will only respond with "unpaid" if you ask them if there will be compensation. Everyone looking for a job is looking for money, even when they fail to ask how much.

3.) Don't ramble- I am a nervous interviewer. My brain works quickly and can run to any tangent. I find that even bringing a notebook to an interview and keep tabs on what your current job entails, or previous things you've done in correlation to the job you're interviewing for helps to hold the focus in the here and now, rather than discussing what you had for lunch as it pertains to the quantum theory of relativity.

4.) Be personable, but not overly friendly- I have a tendency to want to be everyone's friend. I will openly tell someone my social security number if I like them enough on the spot. The interviewer is not your best friend, but someone scrutinizing your every move. This is not to say they are not kind or understanding or equally friendly, but everything you say or do can be interpreted differently by someone who has yet to get to know you. Be kind, be thorough in explainations of what you do, but it's probably best to keep your brother's hygiene habits or your sister's boyfriend's Honda Civic breakdowns to yourself.

5.) Keep Relaxed- What always manages to get me through, no matter how nervous I am, is the image of my mom and dad and how proud they are of me. My mother may look up jobs for me and then call me at 11pm while I'm sleeping to tell me to apply ASAP, but even if I was loafing on the couch, trying, she'd be proud of me. The thought keeps me balanced, knowing I'll always have a home to come to even if my interview/job/life has botched so completely.

I'm hoping these tips will be a bit helpful. My wording may be a bit off as I am desperately holding onto the plotline of Mad Men for dear life (Those Drapers... Also, bring back Joan!)

Maybe my life isn't exciting. Maybe my family makes up more of my day to day conversations than corporate jargon. Someday someone will see my potential. If only I could remain positive...

That New Fangled Interwebz

2009-10-13T11:33:00.002-04:00

A constant complainer, my mother woes my current employment status and insists on searching this "internet" for jobs for me.

"It's not the same as it used to be," she said to me. "When I moved to California with your father I had to send my resumes or go in and talk to people."

Admittedly, I love email. The best way to express how you feel without that awkward stutter or slurred speech. A way for all women kind to be free of gender-bias that makes us seem better fit to bake a pie than write a headline. A way for men of the slightly more anemic persuasion to prove their worth through their words rather than the width of their pectorals. Also, I'm a chicken and have serious rejection issues.

As I thought more about it, I wondered why as a populous we don't hearken back to the good ol' days of print copies and up close and personal. Why must we be distant?

So today I applied for jobs hoping that if I really convinced them of my worth I would get an interview.

And then my phone rang. Wish me luck!

And so it begins...again

2009-10-09T11:36:00.002-04:00

If you're close enough to know me well, you'll understand that as a person I am hardly ever satisfied with my current position.

Movement needs to happen. Sitting on my rear for so many months has left me with cankles, soreness and a severe lack of drive. While it is fulfilling enough to live with a roof over my head, fueling the minds of young deviants, I have yet to break through the desire to write until my fingers fall off. This is also a reminder to scale back the Raptor claws, which I usually keep short for the typing of articles and AIM messages but grew longer in a fit of femininity.

I need a challenge.

Therefore, the job search starts up again. And therefore, this blog starts up again. My apologies for the state of the Spectrum; I have been lulling on my own sea of doubt and complacency.

The knock on the noggin came roughly three or so weeks ago when I had to pay for a bridesmaid's dress. Then thought about the cost of shoes for said dress. And the plane ticket. And the travel. And the lattes I'd have to buy to stay awake.

The accumulation of bills, obligations and destined-to-be-empty Starbucks cups are what shot me out of the cannon and back into the job market. I have applied for two or ten gaping handfuls of positions, only to be blatantly ignored once again.

Someone remind me why I relegated myself to domestic semi-bliss? Please?

I am no domestic diva, despite the cookie baking and occasional vacuuming. I bleed Webster's Dictionary and would die to live in a used bookstore or library. My soul needs letters, sentences, punctuation and poetic injustice...though I could also use a steady paycheck.

So, hardy readers, wanna throw a sad dog a bone?

Unsure

2009-06-25T17:43:00.003-04:00

For years I suffered from something that vaguely (or obviously, depends on your POV) resembled self-doubt. I look back on pictures of myself and hardly remember that naive girl who challenged herself little but dreamed big.

Today I spoke with my boyfriend and his cheerful demeanor crippled all of the walls I built to protect me from the growing problems I faced. My insecurities regarding my ability to do the easiest of job-related tasks broke me down into tears; what sort of person doesn't get hired after over a year of looking? I felt a failure. A loser.

And the bf pointed out something to me that I always disregard: that I'm not alone. It didn't matter. I've always been a selfish mourner, refusing to believe that anyone else has the same horrible denial and self-effacing feelings as myself. Punishment is doled out on the daily, all mental abuse.

What sort of pattern have I built up in my mind that allows me to do such things to myself? Where is there a place to help cure the agony of self-loathing?

I've crossed out shrinks. I've crossed out pills (forever). My final cure?

Love.

There is a power inside Love that can dissipate even the illest regrets. I can rage, cry, scream, hit my head against walls until whatever pain I felt pales in comparison, but all of that can be cured with a simple "I Love You". And I hear it enough to realize it isn't an illusion. The sentiment should not be caged, but released until each and every human realizes it exists in the here and now.

I re-read posts like this and wonder if I'm being dramatic. If this is a superficial desire to be a trophy human, awing all who glance my way with whatever success I've amassed. Instead, I'm merely haunted by the fact that I am what I am and there's no changing it.

And I can change it. With a simple "I Love You".

Reconnection

2009-06-22T17:57:00.002-04:00

I have suddenly had a brilliant idea.

In the course of ripping apart my room in search of old high school yearbooks, I discovered a photo album given to me by a friend. Inside were pictures from my teen years, capturing the essence of my freshman through senior years.

As I sat examining the photos, gasping at the memories, my boyfriend sat on the edge of my bed in apparent boredom. The few photos that hadn't been ripped from the album laid intact within the wrapping, securing my moments as a teen in tip top shape and were of no interest to him.

While explaining the pictures, I had a thought. Each photograph held a moment in time with friends I was either still in contact with or could contact.

I decided I would go back through the album, pick a few poignant shots, and recreate them in the here and now. Old friends would become new, or just reacquainted, as I stole a moment in this time, just like I had back in high school.

When I relayed this to my boyfriend, he said "Well, do it." And my response:

"Someday."

"But why not now?"

I thought about that for awhile. Why must I always push back my dreams until they are nothing but a journal entry?

So I'm recruiting former chums and current conspirators to make an album that will help me reconnect to a time when I was innocent and truly happy.

Who's with me?

The Age Definer

2009-06-18T17:36:00.002-04:00

I recently had a birthday, the 23rd celebration of my birth, and was surprised by how old I actually am.

To clarify, I mean this in a mildly sarcastic way. My mother has told me over and over when I complain to her of my lack of ambition that I have many, MANY more years to achieve all that I want from life. What she fails to realize is that at my age, 23 is just a sled ride into menopause, rather than an opportunity to succeed where others have failed.

Case in point, My List of Why I Am An Old Fart:

1.) I'm going to a No Doubt REUNION tour.
2.) I look at teenagers, like my brother, and ask them to please, pull up their GD pants.
3.) I really enjoy eating at 5pm.
4.) When someone asks me what I'd like to drink, I no longer ask for a Natty Lite.
5.) I go to bed at 10pm on a weekday.

The opposing, My Mother, insisting I'm a huge baby:

1.) Cupcakes are on my top ten list of favorite foods.
2.) I still don't have a job with benefits, including health/dental/401k/natural disasters.
3.) I talk to my cats like they're people (this is technically borderline crazy and up for debate)
4.) My shirts occasionally have super heroes on them.
5.) When I see a dog I still shout "OMG IS THAT A DOG!? SO CUTE!" at the top of my lungs and then insist on petting it.

I know at this point in my life I haven't reached the goals I wanted to, such as having a real job, moving out and living on my own, and having an independent existence.

Admittedly, I am of the larger percentile of well off humans despite my interesting choice of career, and really need to shut my gob and relax.

Do they make a pill for that?

Rejection Objection

2009-05-14T09:11:00.003-04:00

I'm only 22, soon to be 23 and know that I'm in for a hell of a lot more sad moments in my life. Looking on the bright side, making silly faces and generally enjoying myself should take precedent over my daily moping.

Sure, that cool job I thought I wanted was given to an intern who won't make money for their time. Maybe the economy sucks so much that working at Starbucks (which is nothing to sneer at, they have health care)has become more and more appealing. Perhaps someday I'll look back on all my turmoil trying to find employment and laugh as tears roll down my face.

Smiling is infinitely harder when I seem to keep failing.

Both my boyfriend and my mother say I'm a Debbie Downer. I say "of course, have you seen my resume?" I have done TONS of childcare work, which means I should have Donald Trump's job; I'm taking on the child-size version of "The Apprentice". I have/had an internship which took up a great deal of my time, paid for my travel expenses not including my Metrocard and provided me with mounds of experience that mean bupkis to the CEO who knows he's gonna hire his kid rather than me. Childcare, while being incredibly difficult at points and involving lots of patience does nothing for me. Most of the high-ups see childcare as the be all end all of womanly duties that I should be happy to have. And I really want to relay a few choice words to those people...but I'm a lady and ladies keep it zipped.

Which leads me to believe that I'm doomed.

Then I have my coffee, sit and reflect and discover my potential buried deep inside all my insecurity and childhood memories.

If I was completely hopeless, I wouldn't have managed to nab that internship, my nannying position, or any of the numerous clusters of childcare jobs I've had since the age of 12. An intern/assistant is nothing compared to a 10 year old with ADD.

NOTHING.

So I say bring it. I'm completely prepared.

Wedding Savings

2009-05-11T15:44:00.003-04:00

After the engagement of my cousin this past weekend, the total amount of weddings I have this year has congealed itself into a mass of...4.

That's four plane tickets to IL, four dresses to be bought for three different seasons, four presents I have to provide with money from my own pocket, which is currently about as shallow as a wading pool. On top of all that extra moolah, factor in a wedding I'm involved in which would also include throwing in cash for the bachelorette party and bridal/wedding shower.

Total= My first born

To be honest, I am a dramatic person. I've reached the critical age in which many of my family members, peers and dear, dear friends are tying the captain's knot with their most adoring sailors...and I should probably just relax. It's common. Not everyone waits until the very last minute to say "Okay, fine, let's go buy a house and shoot out some babies" like I always thought I would at 38. This tedious economic situation has just made paying for pegs in the game of life a mite more expensive.

Instead of running around my room like a decapitated turkey, I decided that when I'm not paying off health insurance or student loans, the next available paycheck will be turned into what I now refer to as the WS or "Wedding Savings".

This way, come August when the first one happens, I'll have a small chunk of money to help supplement my American Airlines ticket, a smashing dress from Wear Today Gone Tomorrow and a pint or two at the airport bar.

Now if only I could take the money I save for the occasional coffee and transfer it to the WS. It's just silly to believe that I should have a life outside of work anyway.