I Love Shoes

I love shoes. Given that I am a 25-year-old woman who grew up in the Sex & the City age, that is probably the most cliché thing I’ve ever written. However, I don’t love shoes because the clicking of high heels on a shopping mall floor makes me feel empowered and it’s not like couture pumps make me hand over my rent money. I love shoes simply because I spend a lot of time looking at them.

If you stare at something long enough, you start to feel very strongly about it, either negatively or positively. Try it. Stare at a random household object, like a spatula or a power outlet, for about 6 hours and you’ll definitely develop strong emotions toward it (or potentially toward me for suggesting you do this). In the case of shoes, I look at my own so often that life would be miserable if I hated them. So I love them. I don’t just sit in front of my closet and stare at my shoes for hours, I look at them quite often during the day while walking to my car, waiting for the elevator, sitting in a meeting, talking on the phone, ordering food at Subway. Why am I always looking down?

1) I am an introvert.

Don’t mistake this for shy. Introverts are not shy, they just prefer small groups of people they really like instead of large groups of strangers where they have to make small talk. Introverts are usually more intelligent and interesting. Think about some famous introverts—Beethoven, J.D. Salinger, Quasimodo—all captivating individuals. Now think of some famous extroverts—Katherine Heigl, The Situation, Donald Trump—all thin-haired dumb dumbs. Being an introvert is great until you are in a situation where you might run into people you know. Like work. Walking around the halls of the office is brutal. Typically, I’m walking with a purpose—I have somewhere to be and I don’t want to stop for small talk. However, walking the halls runs the risk of coming across a friendly, extroverted coworker who wants to stop and chat. That is why I look at my shoes. If I don’t make eye contact, you can’t initiate a conversation. If you recognize the top of my head because you’ve seen it so much and try to talk to me anyway, I will keep walking because looking down gives the impression of being deep in thought. I imagine people think, as I walk by “Wow, she must be wrestling with some deep emotions or solving a great world issue. It’s amazing how she can block the world out. What a beautiful mind. She’ll probably be a poet one day.”

2) I have poor eyesight

In 5^th grade, I had eye surgery to correct congenital cataracts. In addition to giving me synthetic lenses that make my eyes “glow” like a cat’s, this gave me better eyesight. Better, but not perfect. I still have to wear glasses, but this is a challenge in weather. When I walk outside, my head is always down and my eyes are pointed at my shoes. I have a feeling most four-eyes would tell you this, because getting rain or snow on your glasses is a pain. You can’t see without your glasses so you have to keep them on, but if you look straight ahead during even the slightest drizzle, your glasses get clouded and spotty. Then, when you finally reach shelter, you look like a total nerd with your spotty glasses. Looking down helps you keep your cool and prevents glasses from getting totally drenched.

My glasses give me great eyesight, but they do nothing for my observation skills. In college, I would complain that my schedule was so opposite all my friends because I never saw them on my way to class. It turns out a lot of them walked past me, waved at me, shouted my name, tried to trip me and I completely failed to notice. I believe I have a condition called face blindness where your brain cannot distinguish facial features enough to recognize different people. I saw a story about a guy who had it on 60 Minutes, or I made it up, I’m not sure. Either way, it’s socially inhibiting so instead of facing the problem head-on, I deal with it face down. As mentioned above, staring at my shoes prevents any eye contact, which in this case, avoids any social awkwardness from looking directly at a dear friend and walking right past her. If I have done this to you, I apologize. One day, there might be a cure for face blindness, but probably not since I made it up.

3) I am clumsy.

I know, this sounds like a Bella Swan cop-out (yeah, I made a Twilight reference) but I truly am uncoordinated. I was on the basketball team in 5^th and 8^th grades and between the two years I made a total of one basket. I fell off my bike and scraped my knee when I was 15. I walked into several screen doors at various high school graduation parties (why is the food always on the porch???). You can imagine how graceful I am in a pair of heels. Since I’m looking at them the majority of the day, I choose shoes that are pretty. These aren’t usually ballet flats. I really admire women who can casually walk around in stilettos like their wearing slippers. In the middle of summer, I will go to work wearing my Ugg boots and change into my high heels once I’m firmly planted at my desk. When I have to make the trek to the bathroom or head down the hall to a meeting, I keep my eyes glued to my shoes. Any misstep and I could end up face down on that low-grade carpet. Even in flats, I have to watch my step. My shoes come untied a lot and I trip over absolutely nothing. I’m basically a toddler with shoes that don’t Velcro.

My love of shoes runs deeper than just the materialistic side of it. Staring at my shoes gets me out of a lot of awkward situations, or that’s how I like to think of it. All this downward looking probably makes me appear more awkward than if I would just look up and own my hatred of small talk and misty glasses. However, I’m pretty sure it’s giving me a spine problem popularly being diagnosed as text spine, so that’s pretty cool. My back condition is as trendy as shoes.

Sorting Through My Solitude

I do a lot of things by myself. I live by myself. I go shopping by myself. I eat at restaurants by myself. I’m an introvert to the fullest extent, so usually, I revel in all this “me-time”, but the looks I get from strangers as I order my second gin and tonic and toast myself get a little annoying, and how often I shave my legs is directly related to the amount of human interaction I have, so I figured I’d better make some friends. The last time I made really good friends was at Notre Dame, so what better place to look for new friends than the Notre Dame Club of Cleveland? I could be sure they all shared my love of Notre Dame football and 25-cent hotdogs, and that’s what friendships are made of. The club was sponsoring a service project at the local food bank, so I signed up in hopes of meeting some other guilty Catholic introverts to befriend.

I was one of the last people to get to the food bank, so when I walked into the volunteer room, everyone had claimed their seats and the room was pretty divided. One side was full of young, well-dressed, attractive people, all paired up with a significant other and chatting away with other couples. On the other side were the rejects—single, frumpy looking men and women, complete with hair scrunchies and Notre Dame sweatshirts, staring at the floor or examining their fingernails. My own hair was scrunchy-less, but poofy. My top was kind of cute, but my shoes didn’t really match. Most significantly, I was alone. I knew where I belonged in this group. I sat next to a woman with ashy blonde hair and Velcro shoes. As desperate as I was for friends, I knew this wouldn’t work. I tried to edge my way onto the attractive people’s side by awkwardly jumping into their conversations. I overheard a man named Greg introduce himself two seats away from me and instinctively responded “Nice to meet you!” even though I was not the one he had been addressing. I shrank back into my plastic chair, accepting my seat on the friendless reject side. If I couldn’t make friends, at least I would do my part for the community by sorting some canned goods.

A man with a lobster claw for a hand was in charge of the volunteers. As he led us into the warehouse, one of the attractive people started talking to me. I yammered away, desperate to make friends. I tried to keep myself in check lest someone mistake my enthusiasm for a bubbly personality, but it was difficult when these friend-making opportunities were so few and far between. Lobster man started dividing us into pairs, and I was determined to get paired with my new best friend to solidify our friendship. I could have a shopping date planned within the hour! But then that jerk dumped me for the peppy blonde who didn’t even look like she had gone to Notre Dame. My options for partners dwindled quickly, with pre-established couples obviously picking each other. A man in his 50s wearing a Notre Dame polo that showed off his moobs grinned at me. Lobster man asked for a single volunteer. I jumped at the opportunity.

There are two jobs for volunteers at the food bank—reading expiration dates or sorting food. Since there were too many volunteers, I was placed in between an expiration date reader and a food sorter to “pick up the slack”. Both jobs are pretty easy. There was no slack. Nevertheless, I tried to help. I scanned left behind cans and boxes for expiration dates and placed them on the conveyer belt. When a jar of sauce would pass me by, I’d snatch it up and toss it in the sauce bin behind me. It was pretty mindless work, so I took the opportunity to talk to the girl next to me. She had come with her boyfriend, but as it turns out, people with significant others can be sociable! We were chatting away (me probably more than her, despite my best efforts to not look desperate), but in doing so, I started shirking my food bank responsibilities. A couple of old farts next to me had gathered all the sauces I missed and when I came to gather them for the sauce bin, the man said to me, “Finally! We thought you were never coming back!” As a knee jerk reaction, I responded with “I have ADD.” Somehow, that blatant lie was supposed to explain my long absence from the sauce bin. Then I topped off that gem by grabbing one of the cans he had set aside and saying, “This isn’t even sauce. These are diced tomatoes!” and throwing it in the sauce bin anyway. I have obviously been away from humans for too long. It's a wonder I didn't start throwing my own feces and claiming I had Asperger's as well.

After all the cans had been sorted, lobster claw man came by to thank us for our work. One of the Irish fans piped up and said she would love to help out again. Sebastian hands said we all needed more practice to master the art of spotting botulism, then singled me out. “This young lady over here was too busy being miss chatty to sort her bins!” He grabbed a can of Manwich meat with his one giant finger and thumb to demonstrate. “She’d pick a can up. Look at it. Talk some more. Look at it again. And do that about five more times before finally just putting it down on the belt! Girl, you need a lot more practice ‘fore you come back!”

I left the food bank with no phone numbers, no shopping dates, and no feeling of helping the community, since apparently I did such a crappy job at it. Maybe it’s better that I spend the majority of my time in solitude. It gives me a chance to practice swiftly reading all the expiration dates in my pantry.

False Signs of the Snowpocalypse

You might think that the scariest thing about moving to Cleveland would be the crime or living by myself or starving to death because I get lost every time I try to find the grocery store. However, the part about Cleveland that sends me into fits of terror is something I’ve been dealing with my whole life—weather. I grew up in Ohio and spent the past five years in Indiana, which are both places with hard winter and lake effect snow, but never before have I watched the morning news before hitting the road on a snowy day.

Just a month into my new job, and I’ve already started a routine. I wake up, flip on the TV and set the channel to WKYC, Cleveland’s NBC station. The anchor and meteorologist fill my morning with cheery banter surrounding stories about school board meetings and photos viewers sent in of their dogs. They gently tell me to wake up and gleefully instruct me to grab a cup o’ joe. Then, just when they’ve gained my trust, even my friendship, their jovial attitudes turn dark and the weather and traffic segments begin. The weather woman warns of the doom that surely awaits me as soon as I leave my apartment. She tells me the visibility is so low I will need bat sonar to navigate my way to work, that I will freeze to death if I can’t make it to my car in under two minutes, and that it will be even worse on my drive home. Then, she puts on her whitestrip-enhanced smile and tosses to the traffic guy, who has a grizzly beard and more bad news. He says that traffic is so heavy I need to leave an extra 15 minutes early, even though I’m already running 20 minutes late because I stayed in bed a little longer to watch their news story about teens raising awareness for puppy cuteness or something. The grim traffic man reports that there are already several accidents and some cars are sliding right off the road into deep ravines filled with sharks. He warns that I better get my butt moving or I’ll be next. Then, the morning news resumes its cheerful disposition and tells a story of a local cherry farmer who makes jewelry out of the pits.

Just after I’ve convinced myself that the weather can’t be all that bad—I mean, I looked out my window and there’s zero precipitation—the meteorologist steps back in front of her green screen to point at a bunch of arrows that are meaningless to me but she says indicate a blizzard or a plague of locusts. I look out my window again and start to doubt my vision. She is on TV. She has a clicker in her hand that makes a smoke-like graphic move across a map. Even though my eyes are sending my brain an image that says it is not snowing, the weather woman must be right, so I start to panic. Not only am I going to have to fight the 4 gods of winter—Snow, Ice, Wind, and Seasonal Depression—but I will have to do it partially blind! I scan the closings scrolling across the bottom of the screen, hoping my place of business has the compassion to protect its employees from the storm, but no such luck. I pack up my things and prepare to leave my apartment for what could be the last time. I bid farewell to my cat and put out extra food just in case the snow piles up past the 10th floor and no one is able to reach my apartment. I take one last look at my apartment, and head out toward my destiny. On the way down in the elevator, I try to think of the great life I have lived, but all I can picture is my tiny car careening off the road into Lake Erie. Then, I’m eaten by a polar bear.

I expect a snowpocalypse, but when I drive out of the parking deck, the world is not a whiteout—it’s perfectly fine. Cleveland is not breaking off from the rest of the state under the weight of the snow and floating away to become a Great Lakes iceberg. In fact, the roads are dry. There isn’t even any traffic. I briefly wonder if perhaps I am the only survivor of a terrible snowstorm that quickly melted and moved on. But then I realize that the people I trusted so much, those I considered friends and who I allowed into my home to start my day, had lied to me. The anchor and the meteorologist and the bearded traffic guy were all in cahoots to trick me and make me panic so they could have the roads all to themselves. Oh, they’re good. They really had me going. Then comes the part where I vow never to watch them or believe them again.

And the next day, the cycle repeats.

This is going to be a long winter.

Is Gelato the Cat Bipolar?

Is Gelato the Cat Bipolar?

Supporting Arguments:

• He sometimes sleeps curled up next to me. Other times, he wakes me up at 4:30 in the morning.
• Though he is relaxed and purring, Gelato will occasionally lash out while I am petting him and bite me.
• Gelato will cry at the top of the steps, seemingly waiting for me to come pet him or feed him. However, as soon as I get near him, he runs away.
• Gelato never plays with his anemone-shaped toy when I toss it to him or perform any other gesture inviting him to play. However, the anemone tends to change locations during the night.
• Gelato will usually eat tuna straight from the can, but on some occasions, he will unexpectedly turn his nose up at it, leaving me to find stale tuna hours later.
• Gelato find household items, like pens and shoelaces, very entertaining. However, store-bought toys have no appeal to him.

Defending Arguments:

• Gelato is a cat.
  

What Beats an Applebee's Steak Knife?

Some people are very easy to Christmas shop for. My parents are not these people. Dad never has any ideas except for “consumables”, but getting him candy is counterproductive to the healthy lifestyle he’s supposed to be living, and getting him golf balls when there’s a foot of snow on the ground just seems mean. My mom thinks she’s easy to shop for because there are so many things that she likes. The problem is, she goes ahead and buys all these things while she is Christmas shopping out of fear that no one will think to get them for her.

Giving a great Christmas gift is really important to me. I love to see the joy on a loved one’s face when they open something so unexpected, yet so absolutely perfect. It’s one of the ways I’ve maintained my status as the favorite child. Last year, Alex threw his old fedora and a stolen Applebee’s steak knife into a giant cardboard box without wrapping and gave it to Mom. This year, he plans on getting her a tattoo. With this kind of competition, it would seem I wouldn’t have to try very hard to give the better gift. However, since Alex is the baby, his thoughtless tradition of calling whatever item he grabbed from his bedroom floor that morning a present is considered adorable. With the kind of stuff Alex pulls off, I sometimes wonder what he could get away with if he were actually retarded. Despite Alex’s gift-giving misgivings, he has inspired my idea for the perfect Christmas gift for the parents this year—a lava lamp.

A couple months ago, Alex went shopping. Instead of buying clothes or things that might actually be useful, Alex traditionally blows all his cash at Spencers on things that make the basement look like a rave. This time, he bought a giant poster of a naked girl and a Bob Marley lava lamp (nevermind that Alex probably has no idea who Bob Marley is). He hung the poster in the basement and put the lava lamp below it as a sort of shrine to buyers’ remorse. While Alex was enjoying his new décor with a few friends, my Mom went down to the basement to get something and this is what happened:

Mom: Hey guys, how’s everyone doing?

Alex and Co.: Gooood (all awkwardly avoid eye contact because of giant naked poster)

Mom: This is new (Mom heads toward poster). Woah! Cool Bob Marley lava lamp! I love lava lamps!

Alex and Co.: (snickering, waiting for Mom to notice giant naked poster)

Mom: That’s awesome! You should take that to your dorm! Lava lamps are great! Ok bye!

Later, Dad came downstairs…

Dad: Hey guys, what’s going on?

Alex and Co.: Noooothing (all look bashful because of giant naked poster)

Dad: Hey, is that a lava lamp??? That is one cool Bob Marley lava lamp!!!

Alex and Co.: You think so?

Dad: Yeah! I love Bob Marley! Well, see ya!

Alex and Co.: (now wondering if the giant naked poster has parent invisibility powers)

It wasn’t until days later that Mom discovered the giant naked girl poster hanging directly above the lava lamp she so admired. I had no idea my parents were so smitten with lava lamps and Bob Marley that the combination of the two would send them into a sort of tunnel vision, but now I know exactly what I’m getting them for Christmas.

Winter Memories

The snow is falling, the Christmas lights are twinkling, and everyone is bundled up in hats and marshmallow coats. This time of year always reminds me of an event a few years back that still has me chuckling. Actually, I wasn’t laughing about it at first, which is probably why I haven’t blogged about it until now.

It all started on a cold winter day in Columbus, Ohio. My mom and I had enjoyed a day of shopping at Easton mall, then we parted ways. Mom went to spend a night relaxing in a hotel room, and I left to spend some time with my dear friend Metzger, an OSU student at the time. Mom told me she would call me when she was on her way to pick me up at Metzger’s apartment the next morning, then Metzger and I headed out for the night.

The next morning is where the trouble/hilarity began. I had my phone on vibrate, so I didn’t hear my mother’s eight phone calls. What I did hear was a crazed woman outside Metzger’s apartment, yelling into a cell phone. I looked out the window to see my mother standing outside in the snow, wearing a beret, and asking passersby if they knew where Stephanie Metzger lived. I knew she would be angry, so I wasn’t sure if I should hurry up and get out there, or hide and come up with a good excuse. I looked at my phone and noticed the nearly dozen missed calls and voicemails, and decided to grab my stuff and run out of the apartment in my pajamas.

The progression of voicemails went something like this…

Voicemail 1:
“Hi Elise, it’s me. I’m just about ready to leave the hotel and come pick you up, so I just wanted to make sure you’re awake. I’ll call you again in a little bit! Bye!”

Voicemail 2:
“Hi Elise, it’s your mom. I’m on the road now and I don’t really know why you’re not answering, but I’ll be there shortly. Ok, bye.

Voicemail 3:
“Elise, why aren’t you answering your cell phone??? I think I’m on the right road, but I don’t know which apartment is Stephanie’s. This is really irresponsible. “

Voicemail 4:
“Ok, I don’t know where the hell you’re at, but this is ridiculous! The roads are getting terrible, it’s snowing like crazy, and we have to drive back to Stow so you better get your little ass out here now!”

Voicemail 5:
“Hi sweetie, it’s your dad. Mom’s pretty upset and I’m a little concerned about why you’re not answering your cell phone. I really hope you call Mom back soon because she’s really angry and taking this out on me. Ok. Bye”

That’s about when I woke up. My mom wasn’t kidding about the roads. What is usually a two-hour drive turned into a five-hour one because of, what my Mom dramatically calls, “the blizzard of the century”. Lucky for me, that blizzard saved me from taking on too much wrath because it was all directed at the snow. All I came away with was a wonderful memory of my mother standing outside of some OSU apartments in a beret, accosting undergrads.

I really hope it's OK to laugh about this now.

Song and Flashdance

Either this job search is making me crazy, or the questions potential employers are asking are getting ridiculous. It's probably a little bit of both.

Evidence to support that Elise is going crazy

Exhibit A:
One job application for a copywriter position asked the question "What is the best piece of copy you have ever written?" My response:

After years of toiling away at pages and prose, I finally completed what was sure to become the next great American novel. As I held my completed 4,224 page masterpiece, a plane full of babies crashed into a nearby field. I cast my life’s work aside and ran towards the flames, grabbing the first child I saw. I turned him over to see if there was still life in his eyes, but there was not. There never had been. This “child” and the hundreds of others scattered among the burning debris were nothing but plastic dolls. I knew right away that this was the work of my arch nemesis, Plaige Urism. I looked up just in time to see the evil woman grab my book, hop on her hovercraft and take off. My cry of despair rivaled the din of the weeping robot babes, but there was nothing I could do. After that, I wandered through life a shell of a person, my spirit gone with my novel. Years later while walking past a book store, I saw my story. It had been divided into seven volumes and was being sold to millions all over the world. My elation at finding my long-lost masterpiece quickly turned to despair when I saw the byline: J.K. Rowling, Plaige’s secret identity. Not only had she stolen the best piece of copy I have ever written, but she had also denied me fame and fortune. Now, there is nothing I can do but hope that one day, I can write a book to rival my own.

Honestly, I'm a little surprised I didn't get that job. Claiming to write the Harry Potter novels shows creativity and awesomeness, but perhaps it displays too much crazy.

Exhibit B:

In an in-office interview for a marketing job at a welding company, I was asked the following question:

"What experience do you have with welding or welding machines?"

My response to the executive who had spent the past 30 years of his life with the company:

"Well, I've seen Flashdance....so....that's about it..."

I have yet to hear back from them.

Evidence to support that potential employers are asking ridiculous questions

Exhibit A:

In an online job application for a marketing position, I was given the following writing prompt:

"Writing in the first person, describe a turtle's greatest accomplishment"

My response to this inane, totally irrelevant, but kind of fun question:

It’s not easy carrying your house around with you everywhere you go. Imagine, every time you want to go to the grocery store or the movies or even just to visit a neighbor, you have to pick up your home and all your belongings and trudge on over to your destination. That’s why turtles are so slow, and that’s why simple things like crossing the street are so perilous. In my 72 years, I had never seen a single member of my family cross the street, but we always speculated about the other side. We could see that the grass was indeed greener, and we guessed that the worms were plumper, the ponds more inviting and the birds less threatening.

One not-so-special Tuesday morning, I decided I did not want to wonder anymore—I wanted to wander. I kissed my wife and eggs goodbye and slowly began the long journey across the road. Thankfully, the traffic was light and I made it an entire five feet without encountering a single vehicles. My luck would not last for long, and the rest of my journey was plagued with cars and trucks and mopeds whizzing by, threatening the home I bore on my back. I kept walking, focusing on each step, until I felt grass under my feet. I had made it, and the other side was just as wonderful as I had imagined. I looked back across the street to see my family celebrating my great accomplishment, or at least I assumed that’s what they were doing—I had forgotten my glasses at home.

I think that story is downright precious, so if I don't get this job, I'll at least have a great start to my collection of children's stories.

Exhibit B:

For another marketing job, I was asked to "choose any word and add, subtract or change a few letters to make up a new word and define it." After running through several manipulations of the words "eggplant", "giraffe", and "leotard", I settled on the following:

Fedorable (adj.) - adorable or charming while wearing a felt hat with a curved brim.


I'm not sure where this evidence leaves me--either crazy, or a victim of the ridiculous. Either way, finding a career is turning out to be a lot less professional and a lot more song and flashdance.

Librarian

I think I would really like to go back to school. The pursuit of knowledge thrills me. The idea of expanding my mind to its limits while furthering research in an academic field excites me. Moreover, if I hide out in school for a couple years, maybe the job market will be in an upswing when I come out.

I’ve been considering PhD programs in media studies for a while now, such as the University of Wisconsin’s Media and Cultural Studies program or Northwestern’s Screen Cultures program. However much the prospect of studying television sitcoms for the rest of my life entices me, it also gives me pause. Who would this help? Who cares? This kind of program truly would be research for the sake of academics in the field itself and no further. I’ve never been much of a do-gooder, but I’ve always thought that at some point I might do something meaningful. Plus, I don’t really like the idea of having “She watched sitcoms for a living” on my headstone.

I’m still going to apply for these programs (my chances of getting in are pretty slim anyway) but now I’m looking at shorter, more practical programs. Masters degrees seem to be the new bachelors degrees, with no one finding jobs and everyone having the same “let’s hide out in school” mentality as me. However, I’m not really sure what a masters degree is worth. Most jobs I’m looking at don’t require them and if a business wants you to have one they’ll usually pay for it, so it doesn’t make too much sense to go for one on your own. That is, unless you’re super passionate about a specific field. Oh, to have a passion….

After perusing through masters programs, one kept catching my eye: Library Sciences. It would keep me in academia without having to write a dissertation or actually become a professor. I’m good at being quiet. I can read. I wear glasses. As it turns out, these are not actually requirements to be a librarian (except literacy). According to the American Library Association, librarians should:

· Enjoy helping and serving others (I have never met a nice librarian so I believe this is more of a suggestion than a requirement)

· Interested in developing and providing services, resources and materials that inform and entertain, such as books, movies, music, storytelling, websites, local history, databases, and puppets (PUPPETS???? I’m picturing a puppeteer class in library science school)

· Believe strongly in First Amendment rights protecting the freedom of speech and of the press (Well, I’ve never not believed in this)

· Wish to contribute to the greater good of a literate society (as long as I don’t have to teach people to read)

· Believe all information resources provided by libraries should
be equitably accessible to all library users (Books for everyone!)

After reading more about becoming a librarian, it turns out you don’t always need a library science degree, which kind of defeats the point of becoming a librarian at all. That also brings to light that I might not actually want to be a librarian—I just want to go back to school.

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the job outlook for librarians in the next decade looks good, since most librarians are old and probably retiring (though I just assumed they all died on the job since all librarians seem to be ancient). The median salary is about $53,000, but a lot higher if you work for the Federal Government

I think I could enjoy being a librarian. I could get a lot of reading done and rock the pencil-absentmindedly-stuck-in-my-hair look, but I’m not sure if it’s really what I’m supposed to do. If I did become a librarian, I would be sure to implement a “reading to dogs” program. This has been started at other libraries, and it involves dogs being told to sit and stay (and probably sedated) while little kids read to them. The point is that children who aren’t confident with their reading skills can get good practice reading out loud to dogs, since dogs won’t interrupt them or make fun of them. But I have a hunch that this is one big librarian prank so they can get a good laugh watching a first grader read to a golden retriever. Or maybe I’m just a sick, soulless person, in which case, library sciences is not for me.

Genetic Counselor

In high school biology, I always thought the subject of genetics was fascinating, and that’s not just because class project where we had to make a double helix out of gumdrops. Genetic counseling might seem like a totally off-the-wall career option, especially considering I didn’t take one science class in college, but in the spirit of getting back to the basics of what I enjoy (or what I’ve enjoyed in the past), it’s something I think I should explore.

According to genetichealth.com, a genetic counselor helps people understand their risk for genetic conditions (such as cystic fibrosis or cancer), educated people about these diseases, and assesses the risk of passing those diseases on to children. Now, it’s not too clear to me how a genetic counselor does this, but I’m assuming it goes beyond those cutesy little allele charts we made in high school.

Nope, that’s basically what they do, as you can see from this little example of a genetic counseling session, provided by the website.



Does that say rectal bleeding?? I would have to investigate a whole family’s history of rectal bleeding??? Maybe this isn’t the job for me. I can’t even talk about feet without getting grossed out.

But then again, genetic counseling does seem like the cushy side of the medical profession. No surgery. No open wounds. No staring into people’s mouths or looking at their urine. I just have to talk about rectal bleeding and Downs syndrome. I can manage that, especially for an average salary of $55,000 annually (after working in broadcast news, I’m easily impressed).

Becoming a genetic counselor might be a little difficult, since I haven’t taken a science class since I was 18. I would need a masters degree, and I would probably have to take a few undergraduate courses to make up for the lack of science in my past. But, I don’t mind being in school. It delays having to job hunt, which shouldn’t be too hard as a genetic counselor since it’s a growing field.

Now that I know what they do, do I really have what it takes to become a genetic counselor? According to medhunters.com, a genetic counselor should be:
• Calm and able to put people at ease: I’ve always thought I had a soothing voice
• Empathetic and sympathetic: I can fake that.
• Enjoy working with people: Umm….
• Able to impart complex information: Memories of unsuccessfully trying to teach my mother how to use the computer are flooding back to me.
• Non-judgmental and able to keep your opinions to yourself: Well, there goes that option
• Must be pro-choice: They’ll take one look at my Notre Dame education, assume I was one of the crazies who welcomed the president with blood-stained babies, and throw my resume away. Not to mention, I am Catholic, and I have no money for indulgences.

Well, it doesn’t look like I’m meant to be a genetic counselor. The healthcare industry is where it’s at as far as job growth, but maybe I should take a more communications approach to it. At least now I won’t have to talk to some stranger about their colon.

Public Relations

“PR? Bunch of champagne charlies and slosne rangers harassing journalists and going out for long boozy lunches? That’s an easy job!” - The Blog Herald


Ah, public relations—the journalist’s retirement plan. According to a recent “U.S. News & World Report” article, “It's not uncommon for journalists who have become frustrated by the sour state of their industry to seek refuge in this generally more lucrative career path.” I saw plenty of evidence of this in the newsroom I worked in. From day 1 on the job, I heard talk of people switching to PR for a more stable schedule and better pay.

I majored in marketing, but still have no idea what exactly marketers or public relations specialists do. According to Wikipedia (the ever-reliable information source) PR is “a field concerned with maintaining public image for businesses, non-profit organizations or high-profile people, such as celebrities and politicians.” So basically, it’s making people look good. Perhaps I would be good at this. I can put a positive spin on things. “I realize the sludge Company X is dumping into the river appears to be toxic, but I can assure you that all reports of three-eyed fish and two-headed are merely rumors.” Hmm, maybe I need to work on that.

I’m still unsure what a day in the life of a PR specialist would be like, but after searching the internet, I have a vague idea. It seems like a lot of email checking, phone chatting, schmoosing, networking, working lunches, and power words like synergy. While I have the required ability to juggle different tasks and lots of information, I don’t have the suggested extroverted personality or verbal communication skills. Sure, I can write, but going through a conversation without saying “um” is virtually impossible for me.

Education requirement: bachelors (check!)
Average salary: $50,000
Average workweek: 50-60 hours
Average stress level: high.

The pros: good salary, excuse to wear a suit, lots of chances for upward mobility, good projected growth over the next decade

Tbe cons: usually have to start with an internship, staring at a computer all day, networking (I despise that word), have to wear uncomfortable business clothes, probably an office full of the people I went to business school with (there’s a reason I only stayed in touch with the TV people).

It’s definitely something I’ll continue to look into, but the more I learn about the corporate business world, the less I want to be a part of it. Perhaps “The Office” has given me a bad perception of cubicle life, but I just get the feeling that any job description that uses words like “networking” and “action items”. I think a public relations job at a museum or non-profit would be better suited for me, rather than being one of thousands in a global PR megacorp. I can see it now, writing press releases about a zoo, sending it out to all the local news outlets. “The Zoo would like to extend our deepest regrets and sympathies to the family and friends of Timmy Smith. Safety is our highest priority, but the exact cause of the gorilla’s escape is still under investigation. The ape exhibit will be closed as police continue their inspection, but for the rest of the month the Zoo is offering free passes to our dolphin and killer whale show.”

I’ll be sure to file that one away in my writing samples.

Home Sweet Home...Again

At the end of Thomas Wolfe's novel You Can't Go Home Again, the protagonist, George Webber, realized, "You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame.” Years later, Jon Bon Jovi responded in song with “It doesn't matter where you are/it doesn't matter where you go/If it's a million miles away/or just a mile up the road/Take it in, take it with you when you go/Who says you can't go home”. I think I’m somewhere in between that. After a year working in broadcast news, I have returned home, unemployed and once again searching for my life’s passion. I am surrounded by nostalgia—my bedroom is filled with memorabilia from my childhood and I find myself wondering what I want to be when I grow up. Yet, the wanderlust is still there—I have not returned for good. My first job out of college was not meant to be the end of my career search. I still have soul searching (and job hunting) to do, so for me, coming home means a chance to restart, reevaluate, and hopefully, reignite some of that childlike passion to pursue a dream.

Broadcast news is a great career, if that’s what you’re into. I had no intention of ever working in news—I never read the paper, never watched an evening newscast, and generally lived in ignorance of world happenings. I landed the production assistant job at a station in my college town through my college adviser. Having lived at home for 3 months after graduating with no hint of a job offer, I took the position and moved back to South Bend. In my year in the news business, I learned a lot about the industry and even more about the Michiana area. I quickly became bored with my minimum wage, part time gig, so I started helping out with producing newscasts. Eventually, I started producing evening shows on my own and was offered a promotion to a full-time producer. This is where I found myself at a crossroads. I could take the producer job, which was a 2-year contract with laughable pay and benefits, or I could take a risk and say “no” to all of it. I thought of my coworkers, all news junkies whose bedtime stories had been editorials and who had posters of Walter Cronkite and Diane Sawyer in their college dorm rooms. I thought of the day-to-day life as a news producer, staying in my college town as my friends graduated and left, working 12-hour days with no chance of a raise, fighting against layoffs and job consolidation in a struggling industry. I decided to turn down the contract, which might have actually been the less risky option. At least now, I won’t risk two years of my life in a career that would burn me out in one.

So just when my brother went off to college and my parents were settling into their empty next, I flew back to the roost. Moving home was difficult, of course. I really did enjoy my coworkers and it was tough to give up the independence of my apartment, but I am very fortunate to have such a supportive family who will welcome me back with minimal teasing. Now begins the arduous task of searching for jobs and applying to grad schools. Hours will be spent in front of my computer, only half that time on YouTube. The most difficult part of all of this is that I still don’t know what I want to do or where I want to live. I thought I wanted to live in D.C., but then I visited and discovered that, contrary to my naive perception, the city really is entirely based on politics. I have no interest in politics, and even though I spent a year working in news, I continue to get my information from the E! network. What I’m getting at is that I need to narrow down my search. Every day, I think of a new career that sounds interesting or even exciting, but by the next day, my capricious mind has moved onto something else. Therefore, this blog will serve as a sort of tool to help me refine my search. Each post will explore a different career option or location (and it might occasionally focus on my parents’ latest antics). Topics to look forward to include: public relations, sommelier, Minnesota, professor, Chicago, zoo keeper, and genetic counselor. Any other suggestions are entirely welcome and will be considered. Except sales. I refuse to do sales.

My Mother, the Tree Whisperer

I’m starting to notice, as others of you might be, that this blog’s focus is turning towards crazy things my parents do. Though that wasn’t the original intention of the blog, my parents weren’t originally this weird. I always thought your parents were supposed to seem weirdest to you in your teens, when they drive you nuts about boys and curfew and grades. I actually got along really well with my parents, and I still do. The difference is, I was living at home and too close to the situation to realize just how crazy they really are. Now that I’m living in another state, and my brother is the only one around to keep the parents sane, Mom and Dad have over-indulged in their idiosyncrasies, which I get to hear about over the phone, and you get to read about in my blog.

The crazy parent of the week award goes to Mom, for two specific instances.

The first occurred earlier in the week when I called home to have a nice chat with Mom. My little brother, Alex, answered the phone and actually had a conversation with me, which I found odd because he usually acts as if he doesn’t even have a firm grasp of the English language. Suspicious, I asked him why he hadn’t handed the phone off to Mom
“She told me to talk to you until she’s done with a manicure,” he grumbled.
“Oh, that’s nice,” and then I thought twice. “Wait, is she giving the manicure to herself or to the dog?”
“The dog, of course! She never takes care of herself anymore!”
“She’s actually giving the dog a manicure?” That’s when I heard Mom telling Henry the dog to just sit still and be a good boy so she could make his nails pretty, because he’s a pretty boy, yes he is!
“Yeah, stupid dog,” my brother said through clenched teeth, or at least it sounded like he said it through clenched teeth. That might just be how he talks, we’re not sure. “She’s been talking to the fish more, and yesterday she started talking to a tree.”
To give you a little background info, Alex won a goldfish at a school carnival. He named the fish Steve. Mom quickly changed it to “Baby Fish Mouth” and enjoys feeding it every morning while telling the fish how cute it is and asking it how it likes its breakfast. News of Mom talking to the fish was nothing new to me. The tree thing, however, was a bit shocking.
“What do you mean she was talking to a tree?”
“We had a big storm and it knocked this branch part of the way down, so I had to cut the whole branch off. The whole time, Mom just kept saying ‘It’ll be ok. I’m sorry, tree. I know that hurts. Everything will be ok.’”
“Wow, things are getting pretty bad over there. Why haven’t you been on top of this?”
“There’s nothing I can do,” my brother said, apparently after stuffing a handful of marbles into his mouth. “She’s just crazy.”
Finally, Mom finished giving Henry his mani-pedi, and she took the phone.
“How did Henry like his manicure?” I asked, even though I knew this would send her into a love sonnet about her puppy dog.
“Oh, he’s such a good boy! Aren’t you Henry? Yes you are! Henry, stop. Henry, put the ball down, it’s not play time. Stop biting me! Stop it! Down! Henry! Off!”
“Sounds like obedience school is really working”
“It is! I just have to remind him that I’m the pack leader.” Mom had recently enrolled Henry in dog obedience school that was run by a brutish Russian woman with a Doberman. My Dad was forced to go to “doggy school” and texted me from each class with another comment of just how brutish and just how Russian the instructor was.
“So why were you giving Henry a manicure?” I dared to ask.
“Well, you remember what happened last time I tried to clip his nails?” I did. Mom cut his nail too short and Henry bled for what seemed like days. What’s worse is that Mom came out of the bathroom covered in dog blood, and the bathroom looked like a doggy murder scene. “I got a new tool that shaves down Henry’s nails instead of clipping them.”
“Probably a good idea. Hey, I heard you were talking to a tree.” I felt like a psychiatrist checking in on a past patient.
“Yeah, I was talking to a tree,” Mom said in the same tone she might use if instead of “tree” she said “neighbor”. “Alex was cutting into its trunk and it was sad. I felt really bad for it.”
“Oh, that is said. Poor tree.” I’m probably just as bad for indulging in this, but I did feel a little sorry for the tree.
The rest of our conversation carried on as usual, swapping cat stories, talking about our favorite shows, and sharing the latest weird thing Dad did.

The other reason Mom has received the “crazy parent of the week award” is because of her Facebook experiences, or more accurately, upsets.

I made the mistake of introducing Mom to Facebook while I was in college. It started out innocently enough; she just wanted to see pictures of my old classmates that had been in her Girl Scout troop. Then she wanted to see if I could find her old classmates. Once she got tired of only looking at the thumbnail image of each person, she decided it was time to get her own Facebook account.
She figured most of it out by herself, which I have to give her credit for, but trying to explain the concept of a “wall” is really difficult if you haven’t been using it since your teens.
“Your wall is where people can write public messages to you, and you can do the same on their wall”
“Why would anyone do that” she asked, looking disgusted. “Why would you want your message to be so public? I don’t get it.”
“Well, I guess it’s just for little messages, like ‘hey, how ya doing?’ or ‘take a look at this website.’”
“Well, why not just put that in an email? It’s the same thing, then all your stuff is private.”
I have to admit, she had me stumped. I don’t really know why we use Facebook walls. I gave up on the wall explanation and moved on to filling out her personal information. That became a bit futile because she couldn’t decide what she wanted to put, so I left that for her to do on her own later. I neglected to explain the complicated things, like uploading photos or downloading applications, but again to her credit, she figured the photo thing out on her own and now our family’s European vacation is as public as those wall posts.
A few weeks after helping Mom set up her Facebook, I get a call from her, sounding very frustrated.
“Someone friended me, but I don’t want them to be my friend. Can they see my stuff?”
“No, you have to friend them to allow them to see your profile. Who friended you?”
“It’s my old high school friend’s daughter. Isn’t that weird?”
I agreed. That was really weird.
“So what do I do if I want them to go away?” Mom pressed on.
“Just don’t accept their friend request. Hit ‘ignore’”
“Ok, she’s gone,” she said, sounding relieved. “I just wanted to look at other people’s information and pictures. I didn’t know people would start bugging me!”
Mom found the problem we all eventually come across with Facebook: stalking others means you too will eventually be stalked.
Eventually, Mom got more acclimated with Facebook. After not going on for months, then logging in to realize she had been neglecting wall posts and messages (she felt very bad about all this), she started making it a point to go on to the site several times a week. In doing so, she found more old friends and started to make efforts to reconnect with them. However, the results were not what she had hoped for.
“You won’t believe what happened to me on Facebook today!” she said in a recent phone conversation.
“What happened?”
“Well, I found this old friend of mine and I friended her and she friended me back right away.”
“Well that’s nice…”
“Just hold on,” she cut me off. “I sent her a message, asking her how she’s been the past however many years its been since we’ve talked, and she never replied! That bitch never wrote back, and I wrote the nicest things to her and I was such a good friend to her back when she lived here!”
“Maybe she just doesn’t log onto Facebook that much. You’ve been known to do stuff like that.”
“No, I know she’s on Facebook, because I’ve checked her wall and there’s stuff all over it from the past couple of days!” It seemed Mom had mastered the fine art of Facebook stalking. “She’s always playing that stupid game, and pops up on my news feed for adopting sheep and pigs and shit.” It also seems Mom discovered the annoyance that is Farmville. “And you know what? She had big, blonde, over-teased hair in the 80s, and she still has the exact same hair!” And finally, the true purpose of Facebook—to judge.
“That is pretty rude of her not to respond. She sounds dumb.”
“She IS dumb. Facebook says it’s about “reconnecting”, so if you’re going to be on Facebook, reconnect, damn it!”
I feel like Classmates.com might have been a better social networking choice for Mom.

Mom might be a little crazy, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. What else would I have to write about?

I'll Have a "Beer"

So far I haven’t written about my boyfriend, though that’s because up until recently he didn’t do anything embarrassing, distasteful, or hilarious enough to put in this blog. About a week ago, he finally gave me some good blog material, quite possibly at the expense of my respect.

After a rather trying day at work, I text my boyfriend (for the purposes of this blog, let’s call him Red), and ask what he’s doing for dinner. He’s over at a mutual friend’s apartment, and he [jokingly] says they’re all going to dinner at Chuck E. Cheese and that I should join. Starving, and wondering where we were really going, I head over to join them.

I get there and Red is sitting in a chair, awkwardly hunched over. I don’t think anything of it, but after a few minutes of chit-chat, I noticed that what I thought were khaki shorts are something else. Red was wearing the one type of clothing I despise more than any other: camouflage. Immediately, I shout “Are you wearing CAMO?!” and he finally sits up to reveal the camo shorts in all their red neck glory. What this movement also reveals is an Indy 500 sweatshirt, which in his defense, really tied the whole “I’m from southern Indiana” look together. Perplexed by his wardrobe choice, I ask “Who are you hiding from?!” because in my mind, the only reason to wear camo is to blend in with your surroundings. He responds with “I didn’t think I was going to see you today,” so at least he tried to keep the appalling pants from me.

After getting over the shock of seeing my boyfriend dressed like a 13-year-old NASCAR fan, we head out for pizza and beer. What I thought was a joke was actually serious. We were going to Chuck E. Cheese. So after a hard day at work, I was going to blow off some steam with some toddlers and an animatronic rat, accompanied by my boyfriend in camo. Great.

I don’t recall ever going to Chuck E. Cheese as a child, but my mom assures me that I did. I must have blocked it, and I could see why. The robotic animals on stage were more frightening than cuddly, and the music was repetitive and annoying. The games looked boring, and the prizes were even worse. Since it was a Monday night, there were no birthday parties, but there were plenty of teen moms and their brats.

We ordered pizza, breadsticks and beer. We didn’t know what kind of beer, since we weren’t given any choices and they didn’t tell us. We simply ordered “beer”, which required the manager to come out and serve us all, since everyone else who works there is 16. It seemed unnecessary, though, since the “beer” appeared to be O’Doul’s.

So there I sat, in front of a singing rat with my nondescript beer and a slice of fairly gross pizza, next to my charmingly blend-able boyfriend. Never had I ever felt further from adulthood. The only good thing is that we laughed a lot, and Red will never wear those shorts again.

Conversations With My Parents About Celebrities

Mom: Have you seen “Celebrity Fit Club”?
Me: No….
Mom: Well, that Kevin Federline surprisingly seems like a really sweet guy.
Me: Huh?
Mom: I think the media has him pegged wrong. He’s just so laid back, so sweet, never starts fights, and just seems like a really nice guy.
Me: So you’re saying Kevin Federline is a good guy?
Mom: Yeah! He seems really great! Makes you wonder how he ended up with crazy Britney. I mean, she obviously didn’t go crazy because of him.
Me: Obviously…
Mom: I mean, Kevin Federline is probably the nicest person in Celebrity Fit Club. Now, Sebastian Bach is a jerk. He’s always starting fights with people and he’s downright mean.


Mom: I think John Mayer is a jerk.
Me: Oh, because of those things he said about Jessica Simpson?
Mom: Yeah! But especially because he badmouthed Jennifer Aniston. I love Jennifer Aniston. I’ll see anything she’s in. I can’t wait to see “Bounty Hunter.” But John Mayer is just a jerk. I mean, what kind of guy goes around saying that stuff? He’s not even attractive. He’s ugly!


Me: I had a dream that we were at the grocery store and Snoop Dogg was our check out person and you were telling him how much you loved his music.
Mom: I HATE Snoop Dogg! Why would I say I love him?
Me: I don’t know! Do you even know who Snoop Dogg is?
Mom: Yeah, isn’t he the ugly one with all the girlfriends?
Dad: No! Snoops a good guy! He has that show about his family!
Me: Yeah, you’re thinking about Flava Flav.
Dad: FLAVA FLAV!!!
Mom: Well then who is Snoop Dogg?
Me: He’s another rapper. Kind of has a long face, braids…
Mom: I still don’t know who that is, but I don’t think I would like him.
Dad: Snoop’s cool


Dad: Have you seen that “Pretty Wild” show? Those girls are crazy! They make the Kardashians look tame!
(One week later)
Dad: They had the first and second episodes of Pretty Wild one right after the other so I got to watch them both. Those girls are crazy! I figured, if Mom can watch “Biggest Loser”, I can watch stupid E! shows.

Taylor Swift's New Clothes

After watching this year’s Grammy Awards, I am sure of a few things: I will never have Pink’s acrobatic skill or killer body., 3-D is really annoying when you don’t have 3-D glasses, and I absolutely hate Taylor Swift.

I’ve always had a hunch that I hated Taylor Swift, but the Grammies really sealed my distaste for the latest pop/country phenomenon. Some might say, “Why hate on cute, innocent Taylor Swift when there are so many more annoying celebs out there, like Miley Cyrus, Robert Pattinson, and Heidi Montag?” True, those other “stars” are annoying and talentless, but despite their popularity, everyone hates on them. There are plenty of college students who rock out to “Party in the USA” and in the same breath, lambaste Cyrus for her mush-mouth, child porn-inspired performances. It’s the same with the other obnoxious celebrities – everyone acknowledges that they are talentless idiots, but their ironic fame keeps them in the spotlight. However, Taylor Swift’s fame is not ironic. People actually think she’s good. That’s why I need to hate on her, because someone needs to tell the crowd that the emperor has no clothes.

Taylor Swift has a sugary sweet image and cutesy, elfish looks. Her long blonde hair, conservative clothes, and acoustic guitar make her non-threatening to teens and parents alike. Her lyrics relate to the every-day teen, talking about that first date or the boy who doesn’t notice you. She plays her own music, she writes her own songs, and she’s so young, so how is this not talent? Any American Idol hopeful can do this. Sure, it’s talent, but it’s nothing special. What would set Taylor Swift apart from every teenage girl with a crush and a guitar would be maturity.

Granted, she sings about what she knows, but all she knows is that high school is tough and boys are mean. Every time I hear one of her songs on the radio, I think, “Didn’t this song come out a year ago? Oh wait, no, it is actually a different song about a different boy in a different class.” She is too young to be so famous for writing such crappy songs. Also, her voice is not very strong. She would blow me away at karaoke, but when your job is to be a singer, you better be better than good karaoke.

These were all things I knew about Taylor Swift before the Grammies. What really irked me and inspired me to write this blog condemning the blonde bimbo was the fact that she won so many awards and her reaction each time. First of all, how did she beat out so many phenomenal singers for album of the year? I can hardly believe that her collection of songs about teenage boy drama was deeper and better composed than Pink’s divorce compilation or Sasha Fierce’s take on life. However, Taylor Swift seemed even more shocked than I was that she won. Maybe she’s been scarred from the Kanye West incident and feels she needs to show her thank-you’s on her face in case she doesn’t get to say them. In any case, she has proven to be the Meryl Streep of music, ever-humble, ever-obnoxious. Come on, Taylor, like you didn’t know you were going to win something. Quit talking about your parents and what a great year it’s been and quit fanning yourself with your hand and acting speechless. You’ve been practicing your acceptance speech for days in front of the mirror (along with how you’re going to tell that boy in math class that you like him, which will surely lead to a chart-topper).

In a perfect world, Taylor Swift would not be so decorated for her merely decent performances. However, the world is run by tweens, so I can’t wait until next year’s Grammies when the Jonas Brothers and High School Musical cast-offs duke it out for album of the year.

The office ham

Sitcoms and Dilbert comics portray the work place as a hotbed of hilarity and awkward situations. Never having been in a true office environment, but having heard complaints from others about the daily grind, I assumed office shenanigans were just a myth, like unicorns or North Dakota. Now that I have been in the working world for 3 months now, I can say that there doesn’t seem to be so many office hijinks as there are people who make your day fly by with their hilarious quips go on for hours longer with their inane comments.

In the news business, you would expect everyone to be on top of the daily goings-on and to be in touch with the world around them. This is true. You might expect news people to be observant and desperate to change the world. This is occasionally true. You might also suppose that news people are intelligent and articulate. Not always.

One of my fellow production assistants nabs the prize for most frequent butt of everyone’s jokes. The poor fellow wants to be in news so badly and tries so hard that he ends up being his own worst enemy. His writing and comprehension skills are sub-par, and his ability to observe and react to social cues is that of an autistic 10-year-old. He is kind (with occasional bouts of swearing), and determined (with frequent instances of self-importance), but most of all, he is entertaining.

In one of my first experiences with him, he was posting a story to the website about a local event called “Fall-o-ween.” I’m sure you can guess that this is an autumn-based event around Halloween time. However, this cutesy term tripped him up so much, that every 3 minutes, I heard him muttering “Fall-o-ween? What could Fall-o-ween be? That can’t be right. What’s Fall-o-ween?” I tried to explain to him that it’s just a clever title of a silly local event, but he wouldn’t accept that answer, and kept on proclaiming “Fall-o-ween!” around the news room for the entire night.

My favorite instance of him just not getting it involved a very sad story where a young woman was raped after someone broke into her apartment. The silly PA (who we will call Chester from now on…why Chester? Because I want some Cheetos) posted the story to the web with a headline of his own, but was later reprimanded by the executive producer. Distraught and confused, Chester asked me why his headline was changed. His original headline was “Woman raped after forced entry.” Oh my, poor baby Chester did not understand why this was so wrong. I tried to decode the double entendre without going into detail his 5th grade health teacher should have provided him with, but he still did not see the error in the headline.

Occasionally, I will bring in cookies to work to better secure my promotion for the enjoyment of my coworkers. This, without fail, brings out Chester’s ham obsession. After seeing the delighted smiles on our coworkers faces as they try a fresh-out-of-the-oven chocolate chip cookie, Chester will get jealous and declare that he is bringing a ham into work. “I should bring a ham into work!” shouts Chester. “Everyone loves ham! That would be great! A nice big ham at work!” Chester never mentions any other meat or baked good, but is fixated on ham. Only ham will do for his beloved coworkers! So every day, when he walks into the newsroom in his blindingly white jacket, I wait and hope that he pulls a ham out of his backpack and places it on the empty desk to share with everyone. But alas, months have passed, and no ham! Finally, out of the blue, as if he can read my mind, he tells me that he has no container big enough to fit a ham. As I’m typing away and he’s still trying to figure out what Fall-o-ween is, he looks at me and says ,“I have nothing to carry a ham in.” It was like watching a part of him die. Perhaps it was at that moment that he realized that bringing a ham to work would be ridiculous and difficult, and his dream of eating a freshly prepared ham while working died.

There are other amusing instances of Chester’s follies, like the time he wrote “to make ends meat” or when he asked me what “k-through-12” meant, but those are just a sampling of the daily shenanigans that go on at this office. They should really make a sitcom about it…

Vampires vs Zombies: A look into the paranormal world of popular creatures

DISCLAIMER: Now that I'm out of school, my amount of mental stimulation has dropped significantly. The other day, I began a discussion with some friends about which are better; zombies or vampires. Since I had a couple days off and really feel strongly about vampires (more so the former reason than the latter), I decided to write an essay arguing that vampires are superior mythical creatures to zombies. I should really join a club or get a second job or something....

In this essay, I will discuss the advantages of vampires over zombies based on the following parameters: fear factor, fight, sex appeal, friendship and boyfriend-material-ness, popularity/media, myth/lore, and metaphor.
Vampires and zombies both have a place in paranormal pop culture, but vampires are the more significant of the two, given their lasting popularity among all age groups, their stable, yet adaptable legend, and their prominence as a metaphor for real-world outcasts.

I will begin with a basic discussion of the physical attributes of zombies and vampires. Both undead creatures are feared for their strength and ability to destroy humans. Zombies are humans who have died and risen again to either eat human brains or dance in a Michael Jackson video. They move rather slowly, but are not easily destroyed, since they are already dead. They are very ugly, appear to be smelly, and some have appendages attached by simple needle and thread. Vampires are also humans who have died and risen again, but their sole purpose is to terrorize humans, or as they like to call them, food. Vampires are sultry creatures of the night who are driven by a need for human blood. This leads into my argument that vampires are much scarier than zombies. Though the stench and appearance of zombies is quite terrifying, they are much less frightening in concept than vampires. Zombies are always immediately identifiable as zombies. Vampires, however, maintain their human form, and can possibly even improve upon that form. It is a natural first response to run from a zombie, since they are gross and eating human flesh/dancing to Thriller. Vampires, on the other hand, draw a person in using tricks as simple as seduction or as complex as hypnosis. A person might not even know he/she is dealing with a vampire until it is too late and they are lost in the ecstasy/agony of being completely blood-drained by a ferocious and sexy being. Therefore, vampires are far more frightening, because anyone could be a vampire. Zombies have no disguise, no mind tricks, and no speed. Vampires have all this and more. The only thing to defend yourself against a vampire would be a cross, garlic, silver, or a slayer, none of which are carried around by a normal person. While there are fewer things that can defend you against a zombie, a swift chopping off of its head will do the trick. Fire and joining in the Thriller dance can also aid in thwarting the zombie.

Admittedly, humans are weak, so the real challenge to decide between vamps and zombs would be to place the two in a battle against each other. Spoiler alert: Vampire wins. Although the vampire’s powers of seduction and mind games would not work on the zombie (because the zombie has no brain or lust), vampires are better fighters and have greater endurance than zombies. The vampire’s traditional threat – it’s teeth – would also be no use against the zombie, but vampires have many strengths, including strength. Each creature would have to rip the other’s head off to win. The only advantage the zombie would have is it’s brute strength, while the vampire has supernatural strength and speed, and in some cases, the ability to fly. Vampires are also clever, since they have maintained their human mind. Zombies are like the village idiots of the paranormal world. They have lots of strength and are physically capable, but they have no strategy or cleverness about them. A fight between a vampire and a zombie would end rather quickly. The zombie would lumber towards the vamp as the fanged felon casually lights up a cigarette, biding his time (being immortal, he literally has all the time in the world). When the vampire gets tired of waiting for the ridiculously slow zombie to make his way over, the vamp jumps in the air, landing on the zombie’s back, and rips his head off. The zombie didn’t stand a chance.

Sex appeal might seem like an unfair category to discuss when comparing vampires and zombies, considering that zombies are hideous, but it’s a vampire’s greatest strength, and certainly important when later discussing the media explosion of vampires. Though the original portrayal of Dracula by Bela Lugosi was not attractive in the slightest, vampires have come a long way in the looks department. Zombies have gone in the opposite direction. Frankenstein’s monster was vaguely attractive in a Beauty and the Beast sort of way – you could tell he had a soul and had once been beautiful (you know, before he was dug up and composed of various different people’s body parts). Since then, zombies have become diseased humans with exposed skeletons, blotchy skin, and oozing orifices. Vampires have become sex symbols, gracing magazine covers from Tiger Beat to Vogue. The Vampire Lestat, Angel, Bill Compton, and Edward Cullen are some of the most famous vampire hotties. And it’s not just male vampires that are appearing in lusty supernatural fantasies – Kate Beckinsale in Underworld got hearts racing, even though her character’s heart had stopped beating, and Salma Hayek had a memorable scene involving a bikini and a boa constrictor in From Dusk Til Dawn. A zombie has never been a sex symbol. Perhaps zombie killers could be considered sexy, but part of the appeal would be that they’re destroying the ugly.

Sex-appeal aside, who would make a better friend: zombie or vampire? It might seem contradictory to say that vampires would make better friends, considering that earlier in this essay, it was determined that they are more frightening. However, in personal relationships, vampires would prove to be more mentally stimulating and occasionally loyal. As was previously discussed, zombies have no brains, or at least no brain function. They simply exist to destroy humans. Also, they are extremely slow. Imagine going to the mall with your bff, the zombie. It would take an hour just to make it around the food court. He couldn’t offer you any good opinions on clothing options, and he certainly couldn’t grasp the concept of making fun of emo kids in Hot Topic. Also, he would discourage anyone else from talking to you given his appearance and stench. Hanging out with a zombie would basically be like having a really ugly, decomposing dog with you. A vampire friend might be dangerous, but at least it would be exciting. In some cases, vampires have been able to maintain relationships with humans. For example, Angel had a soul, and was thus a great buddy to Buffy and her pals. In True Blood, Bill Compton swears off human blood and drinks only synthetic blood so that he can be with his human love. In Twilight…actually, let’s not talk about Twilight because I refuse to subscribe to the idea of sparkly vampires. A vampire friend would be like having a bodyguard…a really hot bodyguard. A vampire would know all the great place to go at night. True, you couldn’t share garlic bread, but your vampire could tell you stories about what life was like 100 years ago and you could talk to him about what the sun looks like these days. A person would be very lucky to bag themselves a loyal vampire with a soul, because that would be one great friendship.

Lately, zombies and vampires seem to be battling it out for popularity and prominence in the media. Movies like Zombieland and 28 Days Later proved popular with a college crowd. However, there are far more media outlets that vampires have claimed dominance in. TV shows like True Blood and Buffy the Vampire Slayer have developed cult followings, and in Buffy’s case, this following lasts long after the series is off the air. Books range from Anne Rice’s intricate description of a New Orleans vampire to Stephanie Meyer’s inane, yet tween alluring, Twilight. Dracula is a classic novel that is taught in high schools, and has been adapted into films several times. Zombies provide entertainment and fright, but a zombie could never be a main character, given its lack of verbal communication and it’s grotesque appearance. Vampires maintain the lead in the paranormal popularity contest given their ability to appear human and super-human, making them relatable and unattainable—everything a celebrity should be. Zombies will always be a part of horror films, but vampires have successfully preserved their place in mainstream pop culture throughout the years.

The legends of zombies and vampires have changed over the years, and varies depending on who you ask. Zombies are sometimes humans brought back from the dead, and other times they are humans infected with a virus. Some are fast, some are slow. Vampires have even more variation—some can be thwarted by silver, some are bothered by crosses. Some can fly, some can go out during the light, some need coffins. Numerous variations in myth might seem indecisive and inconsistent to a fault, but it leaves room for experimentation. There’s not much to play around with in zombie lore—in all cases, they cannot relate to humans and thus are strictly scary, killing machines. The myth of vampires can be molded to place the creatures in different settings and situations. Your imagination can run wild and you can make up your own rules, given you stay with the basic tenets that vampires drink blood, are supernatural, and are undead. This mutable legend is part of the reasons vampires have maintained popularity. As culture changes, so do vampires. They can go to high school, fall in love with a waitress, or regain their soul. Having a loose, varying legend is a good thing, because this ensures that the myth will be fresh and adaptable for future generations.

These myths not only serve to create great stories and fear, but they also exist as metaphors. No matter what the scenario, vampires are metaphors for the outcast in society. They are not accepted by the general public and cannot even go out in the daylight. They're persecuted for their unconventional ways. Sometimes, the metaphor is for an evil outcast that must be destroyed, such as in Dracula. In other media texts, vampires are symbols of the misunderstood outcast who does not deserve persecution. In True Blood, for example, vampires “come out of the coffin” and reveal themselves to humans in an attempt to “mainstream”. This is a clear allusion to the gay community and their attempts to be accepted by mainstream culture. Another facet of the outcast metaphor is overt sexuality. Vampires exude sex in a society that censors. Vampires stand for raw human sexuality, thus they are hidden under cloak of night and seen as a threat to stability and safety. Twilight (sorry, I didn’t want to talk about it, but it really fits in with this argument) takes the side of cloaking sexuality and uses the vampire metaphor to stress chastity and self-control. Anne Rice’s vampires see feeding on humans as a sexual outlet, insinuating that they survive on sex itself. However it is used, vampires provide a powerful metaphor from something as simple as representing the high school bad boy to something as complex as symbolizing a puritanical society’s fear of sexual expression. Zombies, save for Frankenstein’s monster, represent nothing. Frankenstein was the apex of zombie culture, and everything after that has been for pure fun and fright. There is nothing wrong with a paranormal myth existing purely for entertainment, but this only furthers the point that vampires are more complex and significant creatures. If anything, zombies represent poor hygiene or, at their most complex, biological warfare, but either of those metaphors is a stretch. Zombies are zombies. Vampires are much more.

From Bela Lugosi to Bill Compton, vampires have grown in legend, sex appeal, and popularity. Their mystique has been consistent, but their meaning and power in the pop culture world has changed. Zombies will also have a place in paranormal culture, but as of now, their popularity seems limited to snarky college students. Vampires span the ages and draw in various demographics. A vampire would kill a zombie and then flash a fang-filled smile that makes your heart skip a beat out of both lust and fear. At the base of this argument is that zombies are predictable while vampires, with their adaptable legend and soulless sex appeal, are dangerous and exciting.

An Enchanting Transition

You may have noticed that I haven’t posted a new blog in awhile (the “you” refers to my mom). Though the last two posts bemoaned the fact that finding a job during the Great Recession is tough, I now have a job, thus the lack of posting. I moved back to South Bend to work at a news station as a production assistant. It’s pretty bottom rung, but I love the work and the atmosphere of the news station, so I’ll just count it as a step toward my future.
Of course, moving to Indiana and starting a job is not without adventure. First, I had to find an apartment. South Bend apartments range from the run-down (recently busted for meth) to the over-priced ($1200/month for a one-bedroom!), but I finally managed to pick one that suited me perfectly. The complex itself has a castle theme, complete with turrets and flags and medieval-looking street lamps (or how I imagine street lamps would look in medieval times if they had electricity). The complex has about 700 apartments divided into sections with quirky little names like The Royal Huntsman’s Court, Coachman’s Trail, and The Royal Vineyards. I managed to score a prime spot in the best building—The Enchanted Forest. That’s right, I live in the Enchanted Forest. Giving my address to strangers at the post office or bank does not come without a smirk or a raised eyebrow. People want to add a “street” or a “road” to the end of the name, but my address is simply “The Enchanted Forest.” Songbirds fly in to dress me each morning and woodland creatures clean my apartment while humming catchy tunes. My mail is delivered on horseback and fairies prepare my meals. Good thing I don’t live on a second floor apartment, or else I would have to grow my hair out in order to have guests over.
In reality, my apartment is very cute and I’ve done a fairly good job of making it homey. I like living alone, except I have to have people over once in a while to bring me back to reality. Too much alone time, and I start losing sense of social graces. Living by myself definitely has it’s perks – watching whatever I want on TV, never having to wear pants, drinking milk straight out of the carton. However, it’s a little strange to laugh out loud by yourself while watching The Office. It’s even stranger when I’ve become so comfortable with it that I start talking to the TV. Every once in a while, I’ll take a step back, re-evaluate, and return to some sense of civility – I’ll put my pants back on, close the bathroom door while showering, stop singing what I’m doing, and open the blinds to give myself encouragement to stay this way. I keep thinking that getting a cat will improve my hermit-ways, but I don’t know if talking to a cat is much better than talking to a television.
To break in my apartment, I’ve had a few get-togethers, and they have been fairly successful. I’m getting better at cooking, though I still manage to make a mess doing the simplest things, like reheating soup on the stove. My first dinner party involved chili and Funfetti cake. The chili turned out great, and all was going well until I cut the cake. As a lifted a piece out of the pan, it pulled away a very noticeable and very long hair from the middle of the cake. Horrified, I pulled it out as quickly as possible, hoping no one would notice. I looked up to see John Minser staring at me, looking partially disgusted, and partially amused at my baking faux pas. I took that piece for myself, and made a mental note to more securely tie my hair back when cooking.
The job is going well, and I’m doing fine living on my own. It’s good to be back in South Bend, where I still have a lot of friends and am familiar with the area. Though I had hoped to end up in a big city (ideally Chicago), this is turning out to be a great transition. Now it’s time for me to go feed the unicorns that live outside my apartment…

Decoding the Job Hunt

If you read my last post, you might begin to understand my frustration in job searching. But the broad reasons I gave are just the tip of the unemployed iceberg. There are countless annoying, ridiculous, senseless, and just plain stupid qualities of the job search that are present regardless of the job market. So if you are an undergrad and want to be discouraged out of graduating, or if you are employed and want to reminisce about how stupid interview etiquette is, then read on.

Emails (or, back in the “old days”, letters) sent to a potential employer must be written in a code that expresses what you want without really saying it. For example, if I am applying for a job at NBC, I send a cover letter that begins something like this:
“As a senior marketing and television major at the University of Notre Dame, I am interested in NBC’s East Coast Page Program. With its worldwide audience, variety of programming, and innovative achievements in new media, NBC is an ideal company to begin my career. I am specifically interested in the Page Program because of the opportunities it provides to explore different departments at NBC and because of its history of successful participants.”
So what did that really mean? Allow me to decipher for you:
“Dear NBC,
I am educated and unemployed. You are a thriving company. I will work for pennies. Hire me.”
Now what’s frustrating is that I can’t actually say that. It would save everyone a lot of time if I could just say, “Look, I have the skills and the education to do this job. Look at my resume and see for yourself. I want this job. Hire me.” But I can’t, because that is improper etiquette.

In the middle of the cover letter, I tout my skills and experiences with the help of a thesaurus because I’ve already used “skills” and “experience” 5 times. Basically, I elaborate on my resume, but wouldn’t a busy HR person rather just glance over my resume than read a lengthy paragraph about how I became so proficient in Final Cut Pro? It says in bold print on my resume that I am proficient in Final Cut Pro. Do they need proof? Is that the reason I need to explain exactly how I rose through the ranks of my college’s television station to become an editor extraordinaire?

Then there’s the last paragraph, which looks like this:
“If selected for the East Coast Page Program, I would commit myself to representing NBC with excellence and hard work. Thank you for your consideration. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me at…”
Translation:
“Please please please please please please please hire me!”
So put it all together, and this is what a decoded cover letter is really saying:
“Hey you, I am educated and skilled. I want this job. Check out my resume. I’m begging for this job!”

Think of how much time we could all save if it were that simple? HR people could take longer coffee breaks. I could use the time I spent looking up synonyms for power adjectives to work on my reel. And at the end of the day, the best person would probably still get hired, because when it comes down to it, they will just look at your resume and who you know.

If you are lucky enough to get an interview, you must learn to speak this mysterious job etiquette code. First, you dress the part by wearing that suit you got for just such occasions, but since you’ve never worn it, you have to take the tags of and get used to how uncomfortable suits are. Then, you pack up your folder with your resume, references, and reel, and head on over to the office. This all sounds doable until you get in there and they ask you something ridiculous like “Why do you want this job?” They’re expecting an answer that flatters their company and expresses your childhood dreams of working at a production house in the old B.F. Goodrich warehouse, so that’s what you tell them. But etiquette aside, the answer would be, “Because I need to make money and gain experience wherever I can get it.” The game goes on for 15 minutes to 3 hours, however narcissistic the employer is, then you leave and wait for their hiring decision.
And you wait.
And wait.
Still waiting.

After a couple weeks of waiting, you haven’t heard a yay or nay from this company. You start to second-guess yourself. Did I flatter them enough? Did I compliment their floor tiling? Did I have a firm handshake? Was it weird that I was wearing a suit and they were wearing jeans? You need an answer, but calling and demanding one would be poor etiquette. So, you send an email that reads something like this:
“Dear Mr. Blank,
I am still very interested in the job opening with Company X. If there is anything else I can do to help with your decision, please do not hesitate to let me know. Thank you!”
Short, sweet, and completely false. By this time, you have given them your resume, cover letter, work samples, list of references, and you’ve taken the special test that all their employees have to take. Unless they need a neck message, there is absolutely nothing you can do to help with their decision. You know what this email really means, and so does the employer. It means, “I’m still here and unemployed!”

Finally, just when you’ve forgotten about the interview, they send you an email saying, “Thank you for applying to the position of X. We had a record number of applicants and can honestly say that the decision was very difficult. Unfortunately, we will not be able to hire you at this time. We will keep your record on file for any future openings.”
This is the job equivalent of “It’s not you, it’s me.” They did not have a record number of applicants, and the decision probably wasn’t that hard, but at least they tried to sugar coat a rejection. What they really mean to say is:
“This other kid was way better than you. Plus, his uncle works here. Sorry, but not really.”

And then the whole vicious cycle of etiquette and lies starts again.