mapping out the future

If there's one thing I can say about not working, it's that it leaves you with plenty of time to take stock of yourself. Where you're headed in life. What you hope to achieve and accomplish. And the chance to map this all out to help you get where you want to go. This is exactly what I've been doing these last few days. Some soul searching. Some priority adjusting. Aligning my hopes and dreams. And I've come up with a fool proof plan of how to become the person that I hope to be.

The very first step in this process is to get myself onto the show 'The Bachelor'. Here, I'm pretty sure that I can find true love. Okay, so I would really be more suited for the show 'Average Joe'...and this would be fine with me. After I fall in love, I'll expect the network to pay for my wedding just like they did for Trista.

Once married, my wife and I will proceed to the show 'The Amazing Race' where we can spend our honeymoon traveling around the world. Upon returning, I'll go on 'The Apprentice' and this will easily solve the little 'no job' problem that I'm currently having.

Once the finances are covered, it'll be time to appear on 'Trading Spaces: Home Free' to cover the new house and the mortgage payments. As the years pass by and my wife and I age, we'll need some refreshing in the looks department...which is when we'll need to appear on 'Extreme Makeover'.

I'm a realist, though, and know that even the new 'hot' us may not be enough to reignite that spark. So, naturally, it'll be time for us to head to the show 'Divorce Court' and then 'Judge Judy' to divide the assets from our now broken union.

I'll then be able to spend my retirement years in Florida, enjoying MTV's Spring Break and all their live programming from the beach every summer watching all those nubile and seductive co-eds jiggling around in the sand. Ah yes, it's always good to have a plan.

job fair fun

Last week, I got an email letting me know about an upcoming job fair. Now it should be said that I am not on the best of terms with the internet at the moment. It has a lot of work to do in regaining my trust. In the past several months it has promised me, among other things, that sexy women wanted to meet me, that I could make up to $3000 dollars a week from my home, provide me with an assortment of medication at the lowest prices around, and that it could lower my mortgage rates while increasing the size of my penis. None of this has happened.

But, despite being lied to so often in the past, I felt that the internet deserved another chance. So I went to the job fair.The job fair was being held by my alma mater, so I figured that, as an alumni, I would surely be welcomed back with open arms. Never mind the fact that I've applied to my alma mater before and never heard back from them. Surely, once I returned in person the collective college would exclaim, 'We remember you! So glad you came back! Here, please take this high paying job offer and return home!'.

So, resumes in hand, I got in the car, drove to the college and fought to find a parking spot. Parking was as bad as I remembered, and after 20 minutes of driving around, I found a place that would require a 15 minute walk.

My daily exercise out of the way, I went inside and browsed through the departments that were hiring. 'The Dept. of Neuroscience'. 'Cultural Research of Africana'. 'Applied Engineering Services'. I joined the only line that I was even remotely qualified for...'Undergraduate Academics'. This section just happened to have the largest amount of applicants.

The line slowly inched forward until I was finally face to face with some lady named Mary. She handed me a pamphlet and asked, in a much cheerier voice than she needed, 'How can I help you!'.

"I need a job," I told her, just in case she thought I had been standing in line for some other reason. "I was wondering if you had any openings in advising , admissions or maybe counseling?"

She glanced over her sheet of available positions and said, in a much cheerier voice than the situation required, "Hmm, well, nope...I don't see anything here! But, do you know about our website! We post every opening on there! And you can even post your resume and it will be sent right to the department that you're applying to! Isn't that just the greatest! This way you can look up any job openings that we have and apply to them right from your computer! The web address is on the pamphlet that I gave you! Good luck!"

And that concluded my time with Mary.

So as not to waste an entire afternoon on only one department, I stopped at the University Health Center area, thinking that maybe something there might be open. I couldn't stand to have my whole job fair experience be summed up by the word 'Mary'.

So I stopped by and asked a lady, whose name tag said that she was 'Jane', what openings they had.

"We have an opening for a part-time summer temp position", Jane told me.

"Yeah, well, um, I was looking for something full-time...you know, a little more permanent."

"That's all we have at this time." I noticed that Jane wasn't nearly as chipper as Mary was.

"Well," I asked Jane, "are you anticipating any openings for the fall?"

"No," she told me, and thus concluded my time with Jane.

But still, this was 'MY' college! My alma mater! Wouldn't they want one of their very own graduates working for them? But rather than a job...or even feigned interest from anyone at the college, all I had to show for my afternoon was Mary's pamphlet.

Which just happens to be the same pamphlet that is now sitting in the garbage can by the main entrance to the job fair.

my health craze kick

I'd like, just once, to have the 'professional' and 'love-life' aspects of my existence in sync. Being that this has never been the case, I'd gladly accept one of these things to be going well. But, alas, this isn't the case either. Both are pretty much in shambles at the moment.

Last night I went on a semi-blind date. 'Semi' meaning that, having been introduced to the girl and having talked with her before, this was the first time I actually 'saw' her in non-photograph form. She was much larger than I expected. Now I have no objections to fat girls. They have every right to be walking around (though this should not be done in skin tight pants where every ripple is obvious), living, laughing and enjoying their extra-poundage to the fullest extent that their hearts can handle. I'm just on a non-fat chick kick. I prefer to think of it as a 'health craze' kind of period that I'm in.

Not that the date was unbearable. The conversation was pleasant enough. But talking distance was as close as I wanted to get. Though I'm not convinced that she was any more attracted to me than I was to her...and it becomes extremely depressing when non-attractive people aren't even attracted to you!

Needless to say, serious self esteem issues are arising.

rejection letter #554

Today's rejection letter came courtesy of the Neighborhood Academy...

"The Academy received resumes from several strong candidates and has decided to hire an individual whose skills more closely match our needs at this particular time...thank you for your interest"

In truth, the place sounded crappy from the start, but I figured that if they'd hire me I'd take the paycheck despite the crap factor, so it's really no big loss. But it does raise an interesting question...do all companies hire the same person to write letters of rejection? After so many, you begin to realize that they all use the exact same wording and phrases. And if there's one thing that, at this point, I could do extremely well, it would be writing letters of rejection. Now if I could just find a job opening for this type of position.

I did have an interview today with another company for an 'Employment Specialist' position...which sounds more impressive than it is...and, as luck would have it, I nailed this interview *brag*. Of course, the pay is much less than the one yesterday, which I bombed. So basically, I'm the perfect candidate for a low paying job. My 'skills' are a perfect match for any position that require no skills.

another job interview

Today's interview was for a job that actually sounded pretty good. The position was for a background checker. Which, I hoped, would be like paid blog reading. I'm not sure how many sordid details would be included (hopefully plenty) but either way, it could possibly make for interesting reading. Convictions, expulsions, instances of public nudity. All those dirty little secrets that made it into the court documents.

Upon entering (through two sets of password protected doors), I was grouped with six other interviewees and instructed to complete the 'written examination' portion of the interview. Once seated, pencil in hand, I stared down at the question which I had to elaborate on. 'Write about something that you enjoy doing'.

I stared blankly at the sheet of paper, completely at a loss. Possible answers which crossed through my mind were, 'alcohol?' no, too irresponsible. 'Television?' no, too unmotivated. 'Sex?' no...just, no...so in all my genius, what do I choose? 'Literature'...my psuedo attempt at appearing intellectual. Which may have worked better had I not rambled on for two pages. I have no idea what I wrote and had no desire to read it over being too afraid it would make absolutely no sense.

After this, the individual interviews began...and once again I realize why I hate having a name at the bottom of the alphabet...I sat while every other jobee goes in to interview. And finally, after 90 minutes, I'm up. Though, while waiting in the lobby, I couldn't help but watch as people tried to enter into the building. Every single one of them walked up to the door, pulled on the handle, realized it was locked, looked very confused, pulled on the other handle, realized that it was locked too, and then acted as if they were just dropped into a different dimension. Folks, when you approach a door that has a high tech security system password thingy that requires you to push buttons, THE DOOR WILL BE LOCKED!!! So don't look confused when it is!

It's somewhere around this point in the afternoon that I realize something. I'm completely brain dead. Had they caught me 80 or 70 or even 60 minutes before, I would've killed! My interview would have, hands down, been a thing of beauty...perhaps even award-worthy. But after an hour and a half, my brain was no more useful then a bowl of semi-chilled Jell-O. It's sort of like alcohol. There's a certain ratio of alcohol to body mass where, once reached, you're just unstoppable. At this level, you're charming, glib, amusing, and so incredibly personable that no one in the bar can resist the magnetism that is you. The problem occurs when that level either drops just a tad too low, at which point you become a narcoleptic slug or just a tad too high, at which point you turn into an obnoxious ass. Well, by interview time, my moment had long since vanished.

To make matters worse, the interviewer was incredibly cute. So not only was the brain operating in slow motion, but the attractiveness factor that the lady sitting across from me possessed added to my already befuddled neurons. By the end of the interview, I'm quite certain that she had labeled me 'major tool'.

the early employment years

From an early age I should have known that this whole 'job' thing was going to be a problem later on in life. Things started out well enough, however. At 12 I ended up getting a job as the local paper boy, and it was a pretty cushy gig as far as jobs go. No boss staring over my shoulder offering unwanted criticism and, except for the occasional rainy day, it offered little stress and discomfort.

It took an ugly turn the summer I learned how to drive. At 16 I figured that it was now time to go off and get a 'real' job and leave the paper route behind. This desire, unfortunately, led me right to the local Arby's restaurant. I lasted for two months.

I quickly realized that fast food restaurants were much more fun to eat in than to work in. For $3.35 an hour I would come home every night smelling like a deep fryer with a gleaming coat of grease covering every square inch of skin that I had. Except for my right arm. This is the arm that I tended to use to clean the milkshake machine, so typically this arm was covered with dried up, powered milkshake mix which, for some odd reason, grease didn't attach itself to.

Still though, I was 16 and proud that I was a member of the workforce and making some money. All this despite the fact that the managers would yell that I took too long to mop the floor, the shift supervisor would complain that I 'walked' too slow (yes, this was an actual complaint), and that the customers would yell at me because we ran out of cherry turnovers.

The final straw came the day that the assistant manager approached me and told me that I had to plunge the toilet in the men's bathroom. I took the plunger and headed in, glad that I was out of the main restaurant part and figuring that I just might be able to stretch this plunging assignment over the next 20 minutes. This thought changed when I actually saw the toilet.

Quite literally, I think someone's intestine exploded leaving unidentifiable chunky streaks all over the stall.

I turned around, walked out of the bathroom, handed her the plunger and simply said, 'no'. She plunged it herself. But I suspect that I was pegged as a 'problem' employee from that point on. I didn't last too much longer after that.

So here's the valuable lesson which I learned Arby's, which still proves true even today. Bosses suck.

the saint of spring break

Bless me father for I have sinned. But it's not my fault. You see, Father, all of the college girls are home for spring break. Which is very nice, by the way, that they choose to attend church with their families. But their jeans are so tight that it's pretty distracting. I mean, I try real hard to listen to you give sermons about Moses talking to the burning bush, and Jesus helping the Samaritans but my eyes always end up on these tight jeans. And we're talking tight here, Father. You can see every single curve. Really, though, is it my fault that we don't wear burlap sacks anymore? I bet that you could barely make out the shape of a rear end through some of those burlap sacks, so of course all of those saints had an easier time...there just wasn't as much to look at. What could possibly have been in church for saint Luke, and Saint Mark, and Saint Levi's and Saint Lee and Saint Jordache...wait, I'm thinking about those tight jeans again. Don't worry though, Father, spring break will be over in a week or two...but until it is, you'd better believe that I'll be in church every Sunday.

my contract with china

I ordered Chinese food for lunch today and for the first time in a long time I ate the fortune cookie that came with the meal. Generally speaking, I avoid these cookies. Not due to any bleak omens that they portend but rather because I find them to be rather crappy tasting. Today, however, in desperation of something sweet, I gave in.

I crack the stupid thing in half, pull out my fortune and read...

"Success will find its way to you in all which you undertake"

For the record, I've decided that this constitutes a binding contract between me and all China. Therefore, I am hereby holding China, and all the people therein, accountable for my future success and happiness until I decide otherwise.

This being said, China better start getting its ass in gear! Consider yourself warned.

Any breach of contract, and you better believe that I have every intention of boycotting your fortune cookies, possibly forever.

moo says the cow (a job interview - part 2)

The interview last night went about as well as expected...which is to say 'not' well. After driving downtown, I was instructed by the receptionist to have a seat with the 'other' six o'clock interviewees. "Other?", I asked. "Yes", she said, "this is a group interview." Interestingly enough, her name was Osha...one in the same with the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. What are some parents thinking? Osha? No Ashley or Jen or even Laquita, but Osha? Who would look at an acronym and decide, 'gee, what a pretty name that would make?'. Of course, who am I to talk. I'm planning on naming my kids Aka, Epa, and Rsvp (pronounced Raz-veep).

So we're all herded, like cattle, into a classroom where we're given the specifics of the job. Large school, many students throughout the country, admissions based...which, in essence, means tele-sales. By now, I'm sure that this position isn't for me. I stuck around though based on the promise of 'free food'. It was a culinary institute, so I figured that at least I'd get a tasty dinner out of the deal.

Though this wasn't to be the case either. The first clue came when some guy named Jack came in with a tray of styrofoam cups. Okay, so I shouldn't have expected fine China, but what culinary meal is served in styrofoam? We were later informed that the meal we were being given was a mix between won-ton and matzah ball soup. So, with raised eyebrows and ever lowering expectations, I gingerly tried my 'wonzah ball soup' and found that it was incredibly bland. I had much higher expectations from a culinary school.

This didn't stop me from eating it, though. I was determined to get something from the six dollars that I spent to park, and if that meant eating every drop of wonzah ball soup from my cup, then this is what I was going to do! Soon after, we were given a short break. Nobody moved from their seats. Except for me, that is. I went straight for the door, straight down the elevator, and out onto the street. Fittingly, it was raining.

So through the rain, one matzah ball and one won ton rolling around in my stomach, to my six dollar park job I trudged. I started my car and was greeted by the gas light. Understanding that I had very little gas, I rationalized that I needed to go at least 70 down the parkway to ensure that I wouldn't run out of gas.

I made it home just in time for Seinfeld on TBS. So at least there was an upside to the day.

rejection letter #553

Another letter of rejection to add to my ever increasing list. This one came courtesy of Penn State University.

"We are writing about your application for the above position (Admissions Counselor) vacancy. Those involved in the selection process have concluded they will be selecting another candidate for the position."

An admissions counselor?! You entice high school seniors to attend your college over other colleges...I get it! I could do this...yet those involved selected someone else. The joys of job hunting! On another note, I did wrangle an interview for tonight and one for next week. Tonight's exciting opportunity? Admissions counselor (yes, the irony is not lost on me...of course, according to Penn State, I'm clearly not qualified). Though I suspect that this 'admissions' position, which is for a culinary institute, will probably be mainly telemarketing. And if proven correct, I will not be accepting the job. While getting desperate (I've actually been entertaining a return to the retail/waiting table field of work) I feel that unemployment is preferable to having people hang up on you all day long. Next week? An employment specialist. Basically the same type of position that I was hired for and then never called to start work. Probably not a good omen either, if I believed in such things.

march madness

I've never had the height for basketball, played basketball or enjoyed watching basketball. But despite this, in the spirit of March Madness I'm going to relive my best basketball moment ever.

I was about 11 and we were at my grandmother's house. My annoying little brother was running around with one of those dart guns...the kind that shot those soft plastic little darts that would stick to the TV screen if you shot it at the perfect angle. He had been shooting this one little dart (he had lost the other two darts that had come with the gun) at different family members, which was fine until he started shooting it at me. So after it hit me in the arm, I picked up the dart and kept it. He was initially upset but because of his short attention span, he soon forgot about it.

So I was sitting in a chair by the window holding onto this dart and just then, about 15 feet away, my dad walked out of the kitchen and into the room holding a cup of coffee. And the perfect scene played out in my head. In all my 11 year old brilliance, I just couldn't resist, so I took careful aim...from about 15 feet, possibly even more...and lobbed the little dart. Now to fully understand what I'm about to play out here, you need to understand, little dart, regular sized coffee cup, 15 feet away.

So this dart arcs beautifully, sails across the room, and makes a perfect swish right into that cup full of coffee. What I saw from my vantage point was a sploosh of coffee that rose up from the cup, my dad cursing under his breath, trying to catch all of the drips before they hit the floor, and a quick retreat back into the kitchen. What an AWESOME shot! I was mighty proud, and gladly took credit when asked (though there had been no one to blame anyway, my little brother being in the basement at the time pounding on an old board with a hammer).

So dad was mad, I was in trouble, but that shot, that beautiful shot, will go down in all time history as perhaps the best 'dart in a cup of coffee' shot of all time. I'd like to see Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant try to do that!

the end of the oldest men

Another mind numbing advertising class last night. To make matters all the worse, I had a headache before class began and it only got worse as the night wore on. Mr. Cop spent about 25 minutes talking about the DARE program that he has done in the schools (drug prevention) and Mr. Blackbox (the company he works for) continued to ask stupid question after stupid question, yet somehow managing to throw his company's name into every statement he made, like, 'so, is advertising really effective, because at Blackbox, we don't really advertise our name that much but we still do lots of business' and 'we do packaging at Blackbox, but when are we going to learn about what colors make you feel different things?'...ARGGHHH! Of course, in a sense I guess the advertising class really did deal with advertising last night...advertisements for Blackbox and the DARE program.

Anyway, I'd like to pay tribute to Joan Riudavets Moll and William Coates. William, who died a few weeks ago on Feb. 25, was 114 years old, the oldest man in America. Oddly enough, the oldest man in the world, Joan Riudvets Moll who was from Spain, died a couple of weeks later on Mar. 6, also at 114 years of age. Both were born in 1889.

To put this into perspective, both men's lives spanned three different centuries, having ushered in the beginning of both the 20th century and the 21st century and lived through 21 different presidencies and two World Wars (both in their 20's at the start of the first World War). I've heard my parents make mention of 'life before the television' but these two guys were old enough to actually remember life without electricity...Edison was still perfecting the light bulb in the 1880's.

You know, when I first went to college, I had this old station wagon that had been passed down through the family. The thing was falling apart from the outside...the front window wouldn't roll down, the inner roof fabric was starting to sag, the thing had over 200,000 miles on it, yet it ran perfectly. It even still had all of it's original spark plugs in it. And I guess people are a lot like cars in that respect. Every now and then a good one comes rolling off the assembly line.

Happy trails Joan and William!

building a better band

So last night I ventured out to one of those little corner bars...you know the place. Crummy bar. Cheap booze. People setting up their amps. Yep, it's local band night. And while I'm not a huge fan of most local music (it's local for a reason...namely because it's not good enough to be national) some of the bands aren't too terrible.

Case in point, out of the two bands last night, one was pretty good, one pretty terrible. The difference? The terrible band had no hot chick playing in it. In my experience, that's what makes a local band good...the presence of a hot chick. Even if they're just playing the tambourine...take the Archies, for instance. Do you really think that anyone would go to see Archie, Reggie and Jughead if it weren't for Betty and Veronica? Of course not.

And, even better, is when the hot chick in the band gets so into the music that she's playing that it looks like she's having an orgasm. This is what separates the so-so local bands from the great ones. Like the band that I saw play last night. Pretty hot girl. She could play the bass good too. But man, when she got into the music her eyes got that sort of bedroom look, her mouth was slightly open...WOW! I suppose the rest of the band was pretty good too, I'm not real sure, but really, who cares?

The only brief disruption came from a bar employee who came over to talk to one of the guitar players during one of the songs. As he leaned over to say something, the audience got a full blown view of some major butt crack. Why does this seem to be mainly a guy thing? And why can't guys (not me, of course...but those 'other' guys) get it through their head that 1) underwear is important 2) they need to buy longer shirts and perhaps try tucking them in and 3) it distracts from the hot chick in the band when they're bent over the stage mooning everybody! But he soon left and, with much concentration, the image slowly started to fade.

Crummy bar. Cheap booze. And hot chick in a local band. Gotta love those Saturday nights!

tampons on tv

I consider the television to be an old friend. Part of the family, actually. We've shared so many good times together and I really couldn't imagine life without it. But lately, my dear old friend has been creeping me out a little bit. Case in point, that tampon commercial has started popping up during my favorite shows.

You might know the one I'm talking about. There's this incredibly young girl, I'd say about 13 years old, talking all about her favorite brand of tampons...Tampax, I think. Now logically I know that this is about the age that females start up with the whole menstruation cycle thing, but come on now, do we need thirteen year old girls trying to sell us tampons?!

Now, if this was aimed at informing these young girls of their cycles or educating them on menstruation, I could understand. Not that I'd want to watch it in commercial form, mind you, but I would be able to see the point. But there was nothing informative about the commercial. It was just a bunch of pre-teen girls jumping around showing enthusiasm for their tampons.

And here's the even bigger issue. Menstruation means babies. If babies are being made, then that means sex. If we're talking about having sex, I'm thinking about sex with women...women meaning adults. And here's where the problem comes in...thirteen year olds are NOT adults! And based on this, I don't want to see 13, or 14, or anyone even under 18 talking about their periods on TV. (Truthfully, I'd rather not have to listen to any conversations about tampons with anybody of any age)

And because commercials just sort of sneak up on you...I'm only ever aware of them peripherally...there's not even any time to switch the channel fast enough. And then I'm left sitting there feeling dirty. And not the good kind of dirty like you get when you watch the Real World or Paradise Hotel.

my two days of employment

I just realized yesterday that technically, I am employed. A couple of months ago, if memory serves correctly, I was interviewed and hired as a 'job coach', whose function would be to help disabled people adjust to a new job in the community. It was only part-time and only paid nine bucks an hour, but it was something.

So the very next day I started the two-day training period.

Day one, I went to the on-site area in the building to coach people in packaging light switch units. My conversation with the 'light-switch-boss' went something like this...

Chrissy (the light-switch-boss): Whatta ya want?

Me: I'm the new job coach that was hired. I was told that I had an assignment with an employee of yours today.

Chrissy: I don't know nothin' about that. Who told you to come here?

Me: Andy.

Chrissy: Well why don't you go sit next to Neil and help him.

So I sat down next to Neil, who had been there for two years and knew exactly what he was doing. And for three hours I watched Neil put 1 screw, 2 nuts and a light switch plate into a plastic bag. Finally, for fear of falling into a coma, I went over to Chrissy and told her, 'Neil really has the process down. I don't think there's anything I can really help him with.'

'Yeah, Neil does good work. Well, I got nothin' else for ya. Why don't you go find Andy and see if you can leave.'

Day two was basically more of the same. This time, I was helping train someone in the cafeteria. His job was to wipe down the tables. Not surprisingly, even rather low functioning adults can grasp the concept of wiping tables with little help from anyone else. As I learned later, the guy that I was 'coaching' had worked at McDonald's prior to this. His job? Wiping down tables. Needless to say, he knew the drill. The reason he was fired from McDonald's was because he would occasionally wipe his nose on the same rag that he was wiping the tables with. Hey, I mean, if your nose is runny, right? On this day, though, there wasn't one nose wipe on the table rag. A rather good coaching job if I do say so myself.

At the end of lunch, I asked Andy if there was a schedule or anything to let me know when I was suppose to work, who I'd be helping and where it would be.

'No schedule,' Andy told me, 'I'll call you when we place someone new that needs coaching. I'm anticipating a lot of work coming up in the next few months.' Which was fine by me. I needed the money, and even though the job itself was incredibly mind-numbing, it was something.

That was two months ago. I'm still waiting for the call. And if it doesn't come soon, I just might quit. That'll teach those bastards a lesson!

seeking fame

Okay, after watching American Idol (yes, I watch this show...I'm terribly embarrassed about this, though) I can't get over the fact that everybody, it seems, wants to be a star. What exactly is it about fame that's so appealing? I mean, besides the money, the recognition, the hordes of women (or men) that fall at your feet, the limos, yachts...okay, so I get the appealing part...but if everybody was really THAT talented and interesting, wouldn't everybody be famous? Seriously, most people in the world just aren't very talented. And they're pretty boring to boot.

But watching American Idol, where these folks are literally begging for stardom, I just feel sort of icky inside. How many of them, left in tears claiming, "I'll be famous one day, making someone a lot of money, and you'll be sorry that you didn't pick me then! Your show will suck without me on it!". In truth, the only 'money' they'll eventually be making for someone will probably be the owner of the McDonald's franchise that they'll be working for. Not that I'm knocking those folks that work there, mind you...someone needs to serve me my burgers.

We're all so fame-hungry, that I think we're well on our way to a society where cable TV will be filled with thousands of channels, and reality TV will be taken to a whole new level. On channel 1,733 you can watch Mary from down the street shave her legs before work and then buy coffee at Starbucks! Or flip to channel 344 and see Brian do his morning crossword puzzle in the morning paper while drinking coffee. And at 9:37, be sure to tune in to channel 9,322, where Candi and Renaldo will make out during their coffee break in the supply closet. Well, actually, that probably would make for pretty good TV. Perhaps we do all deserve to be famous. Isn't that the REAL American dream?

In fact, all I need is my own publicist, make-up artist, hair stylist and script writer, and agent and I could be just as famous as anyone. And really, don't I deserve it?

observations from a night class

You know, there are many differences between 'typical' college aged students (18-23) and 'old' college students (27+...and yes all you 27 year olds, to the 18-20 year old crowd, you are OLD) but probably the most depressing thing is the aging of your typical conversation that takes place before class
For example...

18-23 year olds: "yo dude, that party last night was killer! I got so wasted!"

27+ year olds: "so now my roof is leaking all over my new sofa and the repairman said this will cost at least $800!"

18-23 year olds: "OH MY GOD! You know that wrestler Rick that was going out with Jenna, who's that friend of Beth's? Well Beth told me that Rick broke up with Jenna and was asking about ME! Can you believe it?!"

27+ year olds: "So now they're raising property taxes again, and between that and the cost of preschool for Benny, I just might have to take out a second mortgage on the house."

The next step in the aging process of conversation will be the aches and pains talk, "oh my back is killing me, but the corns on my feet make it that much worse!" and then the updates on who you know that has died before you...(my grandparents would check the obits every morning to see who they outlived...honest)

I'm only 31! For the record, that's younger than Tom Cruise, Will Smith and Uma Thurman! It's just too depressing to think about so I guess I'll just head to the kitchen, grab a glass of prune juice and go rest awhile in my rocking chair.

And you damn kids better stay out of my yard!

shopping on a sunday

My first mistake was going for groceries early Sunday afternoon. Logic told me otherwise, but I thought, 'how bad could it be?' Naturally it was crowded, but that was to be expected. And naturally the deli counter was packed, but again, this is what I expected. I grabbed a number and leaned up against a cheese display to wait. 20 minutes later, I was one number away. So it only figures that this is when someone I know walks up and starts talking to me. Not 20 minutes before when I had nothing but time, but now, when my senses had to be on full alert for when they called my number. Trying to listen to my friend talk while keeping an ear out for my number didn't work. I missed my opportunity. So rather than jumping up at 27, which was my number, I had to wait for 28.

28 was called, I struggled to the counter, only to be met by the real number 28, who happened to be some 70 year old guy. I tried to explain that I missed my number only to have him rant about how he was 28, and that is what they called, and why would they call his number if they meant to call 27?! The lady behind the counter took my order while he was ranting.
He eventually cooled off and, by this time, I guess he saw me as a compatriot of sorts, so he started to tell me about this lady who, just a few minutes ago, grabbed the last can of crabmeat from him. He continued by telling me how he told her to wait there while he went to get the manager. Not to help, mind you, but to 'tell' on her for taking his canned crab. Just like the kindergartener that tells the teacher on you for eating glue. By this time, while waiting for the lady to slowly slice my cheddar cheese, I wasn't really paying attention to my new friend. I heard him say something about this lady's friend jumping into the fray and how he told them both that he would gladly tell the manager on both of them, but I can't be sure because by now I had my cheese and was doing my best to fade into the pasta aisle and disappear. I'm not sure what the end result was, but I doubt that he got his crab or that he got the ladies kicked out of the supermarket. Banning people for buying things just doesn't seem to make good business sense.

So 40 minutes and much brushing, bumping, waiting later, I was finally headed out only to meet more pleasant folks on the road. I'm waiting for the light to turn green and am stuck behind a long line of cars. To my right is another shopping plaza, and rather than block the entrance I'm sitting back a little to let other cars make a left and enter into the plaza. Well, the guy behind me starts laying on his horn, making rather unfriendly gestures and motioning that he wants to get into the plaza and can't get around me. So I inch up a little bit. Now the lady who wants to make a left and get into the plaza starts honking her horn at me. So I've got horns blaring behind me and horns blaring in front of me as I'm carefully trying to inch up just enough so the idiot behind me and the idiot in front of me can both squeeze through and get into the shopping center. I manage to find just the right spot and, of course, they both hit the gas and speed toward the entrance. Then they both slam on their brakes, inches from each other at this point, and exchange more horn honking and some more hand signals. I quickly slid around them and drove through the light, which had thankfully turned green.

All on a Sunday. The day of rest, silent reflection and prayer. And next Sunday, I'm planning on having a pizza delivered.

a job interview (part 1)

I arrived at 8:30 this morning for my interview at Crappy Calls and, upon entering, soon found out that I would be progressing through a series of interviews with different people near the top of the company hierarchy.

Joe, the VP of something or other, commenced the interview festivities...though it was less an 'interview festivity' and more a 'listen to Joe talk festivity'. Not that there's anything wrong with this...it actually works out better for me. The less I talk, the less chance there is that they'll realize how unqualified I am for the job.

Joe expounded, ad nauseum, on the company and his position in the company. After a few minutes of this, I felt my eyelids getting quite heavy and all I could think was 'don't fall asleep'. But, in an effort to show that I would be perfect for the job, I was able to stay awake...and even nodded a few times to feign interest.

Joe finished up with his portion and told me that Mark would soon be in to further 'gauge' my qualifications. Round one had ended and I was still standing, thus I was feeling pretty good about the interview as a whole.

This feeling didn't last long, however. Shortly after Joe vanished, Bill, the HR guy, came into the conference room where I was sitting and told me, "uh...well, it appears that Mark has decided not to come in today. He knew that he had this interview, but I guess something came up."

I left the building thinking that it can't be a good thing when you're stood up on an interview.

food and the practice

There must be some equation to determine the number of calls you'll get from employers based on the amount of resumes that have been sent out, but apparently I haven't reached the magic number yet to warrant one call. I have found, though, that all this free time has made me hungry. It can't be a good thing when lunch, or the prospect of lunch, becomes a high point in the day. And while I'm thinking of food (again), I read in the paper about the continuing anger toward restaurants, but I really can't figure out why we're blaming restaurants for how fat the kids of America are getting. Is your child's nutrition really McDonald's responsibility? And if you think it is, should you really have had kids in the first place? So now Oreo cookies are changing their recipe and McDonald's changing their food in an attempt to 'health-ify' it, and the end result is that the food now tastes crappy. Though I guess if nobody wants to eat the food the problem of fat kids will be solved. Of course, you always have KFC.
Another thing with not working is that my daytime television viewing has gone up quite a bit...and a few things I've noticed are 1) that Maury Povich really needs to expand the topics that he covers. Paternity tests and make-overs are fine, but there has to be a few other pressing issues out there. 2) That Cheers really isn't that funny. It's a shame too, because it seemed so funny at the time. It just doesn't pay to watch shows you used to like in re-runs. And 3) thanks to FX, I now realize that the Practice used to be a much better show than it is now. I guess this disproves my theory on watching shows you used to like, but I blame this on James Spader. There's just too much James Spader on the Practice now. Part of the problem may be that I never cared much for James Spader in the first place...really now, he wasn't even good enough to get into that 80's club of Judd, Emilio and Rob Lowe. Though I doubt that the Practice would be any better with one of those guys, or even with Molly Ringwald for that matter.

I really have too much time on my hands.

job hunting stinks!

Yes, it truly stinks. I mean, I have a degree, I have experience, and I'm willing to take just about anything. Yet the only nibbles that I've had have been to sell insurance and I'm not so desperate yet I'm willing to become an insurance salesman...I'm just not ready to be 'that' guy. So I go on a non-insurance salesman interview today and am told that the next step is the second round interview (apparently, this was the 'first round' interview, not counting the phone interview which was apparently a 'pre-interview' interview). Since when do you need to go through multiple interviews to make eleven bucks an hour?!? I need to win the lottery real soon. To do that, though, I need to start buying lottery tickets...and to do that, I need money, which brings me back to job hunting, which, by the way, stinks.