“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.
Monday, October 04, 2010
Saturday, October 02, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
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?
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?
Saturday, April 17, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
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…
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…
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