Rock Mobster

Today I applied for a job at Scoutmob. What is Scoutmob you ask? Check out their website for all of hottest deals and discounts at all of your favorite new places in Atlanta: www.scoutmob.com.

Oh, and if you're from Scoutmob, and you're reading this right now, I sure hope you have decided to call me for that interview. Scroll down to read some of more hilarious/less shamelessly obvious interview ploys below.

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Formerly unemployed, and better than ever.

The blog is back, and it's better than ever! Let me begin by apologizing for my extended hiatus from the blogging universe. I'll be honest with you--unemployment had me down and out. Finding the humor in doing nothing all day was taking a toll on the ol' self-esteem. So to make myself feel better, I decided to cut out all of my extra-curricular activities. Blogging just had to go. It was really cutting into my couch-sitting, Deadliest Catch-watching time.

The good news for all of us is that I did, in fact, get a real grown-up job! I began working at Under One Roof Trade Show Services at the beginning of August. Don't get too excited. I still sit around all day. But now I make sales calls hocking carpet to trade show exhibitors. (I know...I'm really putting my philosophy and Spanish degrees to good use).

I have been pretending to be a grown-up for two whole months now--minus the fact that I moved back home with Mom and Dad--and I have realized that there is just as much blog fodder in the work place as there is in my living room. Thusly, I have decided to brush off my blogging gloves and begin a new venture with the "Diary of a White, Formerly Unemployed Woman".

I don't want anyone to think that just because I am not using my degree I'm not learning anything. Oh, contraire! The life of a trade show carpet sales girl has its perils, and new lessons to be learned. 

Lesson one: Contain inappropriate laughter at all times.

It might not be a fancy lesson, (didn't we learn that one when the fat kid farted in kindergarten?) but it is a vital lesson, nonetheless. I mentioned that I make sales calls all day. What I didn't mention is that my calling lists have phone numbers only--no names. So, as I call complete strangers all day, I never have any idea who is going to pick up the phone at the other end. After several painful hours of charming the pants off southern business executives, and sweet-talking my way past countless, unsuspecting receptionists, I'm always crossing my fingers for a number to lead straight to voicemail by lunchtime. However, leaving a great voicemail is not for the faint of heart...

For example, a few weeks ago, just as I was breathing a sigh of relief that I had been sent to voicemail after a long day of calls, the following message came ringing through my headset:

Female voice: "Hello! You have reached the voicemail of Jerry Ariola. *beep*"

Please read the above sentence a second time, and note the name. Jerry. Ariola.

Before I could stifle my laughter, the beep took me by surprise, and I was forced to leave an extremely awkward voicemail through muffled giggles. It went a little something like this:

"Hi, uh, Jerry? I hope I got your name right, Jerry Ari--Uh, my name is Jayne with Under One Rooffff ha ha ha..." You get the picture.

I would like to think that with time, I'm getting better at containing my inappropriate laughter. But this week I was slapped with another doozy. This time, a rather surly, female voice resounded through my headset. "This is the voice mailbox for Dee Fuhrer. I am away from my desk right now, but please leave a brief message, and I will get back to you when I can. *beep*"

I immediately hung up the phone and burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. For those of you who didn't get the joke, let's take a second look at that name: Dee Fuhrer.  

Now, I'm no World War II buff, but I do know that one of Hitler's most infamous nicknames was "The Fuhrer".  See the similarities?  Add that to a deeper than average female voice, and you've got the makings of a voicemail only Franz from the Sound of Music could dream of.  

After the pain in my side subsided, I managed to call Dee Fuhrer back and leave her one of my most professional voicemails to date.  Unfortunately, Dee did her namesake proud by calling me back, and telling me that she didn't need any carpet for the trade show. Maybe I should have offered her some of our swastika carpet. It's a big seller in Berlin.

Lesson learned.

Fowl Play

Tonight marked my first trip to a Gwinnett Braves minor league baseball game. The stadium is only a stone's throw away from my parents' house, and since I'm an avid Atlanta Braves fan, I've been dying to see the AAA up-and-comers in action. Naturally, when my dad asked me if I'd like to attend the game I happily obliged.

Since I graduated college six months ago and I still can't find a job, I've grown to believe that my degree is absolutely useless. It might be useless in helping me find a job, but it's good for one thing: free parking at a Gwinnett Braves game. The parking lot attendant must have noticed my expired Georgia State parking permit hanging on my rearview mirror because when I pulled up he said, "I'm not even going to let you pay. You're a fellow Panther. Go on ahead, now." That's right. My $3 parking fee was waved. Talk about savings. Little did I know that this generous Panther foreshadowed what was to come...

No, I didn't receive more free stuff. Although, a free beer would have been nice. Even though the Gwinnett Braves play minor league baseball, in the words of my father, "they sure do charge major league prices on beer." No, I was bombarded with every endorsement the G-Braves could throw at me in six short innings. (We left early. Who could stick around for nine innings at $6.25 a beer)?

I quickly realized that the nod to the Georgia State Panthers was endorsement one of seemingly thousands over the course of the game. There were the usual endorsements--concession stands advertising Budweiser, fancy hot dogs, funnel cakes, etc. Those types of advertisements don't phase me because they have become a part of our every day lives. But the G-Braves have a flair for the cheese factor unlike any I've seen before.

Here's an example of the cheese factor. Since Chick-fil-a is a sponsor, each of the foul poles in the stadium dons a sign that reads, "Eat Mor Fowl". How very clever. (Insert eye roll here). The fowl pole signage isn't the only trick Chick-fil-a has up it's sleeve. Every five minutes or so an announcer would come over the loud speaker to inform us that, "Any time you catch a foul ball, bring the ball to customer service to receive a coupon for a free Chick-fil-a sandwich!" And sure enough, every time a lucky spectator caught a foul ball, the same voice would boom, "Don't forget to take that foul ball to customer service to receive your free Chick-fil-a sandwich." I hope you can understand how annoying this ritual was. I'm getting annoyed just typing the words. 

All of this fowl talk doesn't even compare to the ultimate endorsement lesson I learned this evening: When in doubt, dress people up in inflatable costumes. (Because obviously inflatable costumes are the ultimate marketing tool). In an attempt to advertise for America's Best Eyewear, three schmucks ran onto the field wearing--you guessed it--inflatable eyeballs. One green, one brown, one blue. The first eyeball to run to the opposite dugout and back won a free pair of eyeglasses for a kid in the crowd wearing a corresponding colored shirt.

Really? Inflatable eyeballs? The cheese factor just increased exponentially. 

Now, instead of focusing on my obvious disdain for all things inflatable, I think I should use my G-Braves experience as an idea for future business ventures. I think it's time for me to start calling local business and offering myself as a marketing tool for their products. Just picture it:

Me. The busy streets of downtown Atlanta. An inflatable Coca Cola bobble head. Or maybe a pair of inflatable CNN googly eyes. How 'bout an inflatable Chicken & Waffles bra and panties set? I wonder how Gladys would feel about this idea. 

If all else fails, maybe I can get a job as an inflatable moon bounce operator at the Gwinnett Braves stadium. Oh, I didn't mention the wide array of inflatable moon bounces located in the outfield?  The inflatable castle was pretty cool, but the inflatable dog looked a wee bit inappropriate bouncing up and down rhythmically amongst a swarm of anxious youngsters. No wonder the other team couldn't hit any home runs...

Welcome to Our ool...

Since swimsuit season is officially upon us, I thought it would be appropriate to pay homage to one of my favorite summer traditions: lounging by the pool. For as long as I can remember, at least one week out of every summer has been spent visiting my mom's family in Rhode Island. Little Rhody will forever be my favorite vacation spot because we make it a point to keep our "To Do" list to a minimum. It usually looks something like this:

1. Eat.
2. Sit by the pool.
3. Get Dell's Lemonade.
4. Eat.
5. Sit by the pool.
6. Play cards.
7. Eat.

We like to keep it simple. And if we run out of things to do, it's best to keep eating. The last thing you want to do is upset my Italian aunts by saying you're on a diet--even if you really are on a diet.

Judging by the "To Do" list I provided above, it's obvious that our favorite thing to do between meals is to sit by the pool. As a child, I distinctly remember a laminated sign hung on a fence post that read, "Welcome to our ool. Notice there is no P in it." Cliché, I know, but effective nonetheless. The "ool" sign wasn't the only tactic my uncle used to ward off looming bowel movements. He also told us that he had put a special chemical in the pool that would turn the water pink if we relieved ourselves while swimming. 

I was a competitive swimmer for ten years, and never once did I see a pool turn pink from someone peeing in it. But for some reason, I always believed that my uncle's pool was the exception. It never occurred to me that maybe he had fabricated the urine-activated chemical story  just to prevent us from using the pool as our own personal toilet. Apparently, a lot of people my age have been a victim of the pink water urban legend because everyone I know has a story about an uncle, dad, grandfather, or neighbor who used the same story to shame them into grabbing a towel and making the trek to the bathroom to relieve themselves.

I give a lot of credit to those brave souls who fooled a generation of children with the pink water trick. I believed in their story long after I stopped believing in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and even Zack Morris. (I take that last one back. I will always believe in Saved by the Bell). But it has to make you wonder... What else is the world telling me that just simply isn't true?

Is the economy really as bad as everyone says it is? Or do people just tell me the economy is bad to make me feel better about being too incompetent to find a decent job? The next thing you know, the writers of Lost will tell us that the castaways are nothing but the characters created in some autistic kid's imagination while he plays with a snow globe! Oh, wait. St. Elsewhere already used that one. But still.

Now, obviously I know that the economy isn't conducive to me finding a job at the moment, but I really think the government could have prevented this mess if they had just gotten a little more creative with the minds of the American public. If they had just told us that pissing on the economy would turn the water pink, then all of this unemployment could have been avoided! I'm telling you, the pink water trick has staying power. 

Obviously, creativity isn't the government's strong suit, so I'll just have to try to stay positive while looking for a job. Or maybe I could convince the government to hire me as a conspiracy creator. There haven't been any good government conspiracies since the y2k debacle. I take that back. Whoever convinced the world that Al Gore deserved a Nobel Peace Prize is a genius! Does anyone have Al's number? I'd make a great global warming fighter.

Inaugural Vlog

Here is my very first video blog (vlog). It's nothing fancy, but it's a miracle I even figured out how to post it. I need to play around with imovie when I'm not as stressed out about the finale of Lost. So, be kind and enjoy my unscripted, virtually unedited inaugural vlog.

Politically Correct, Shmolitically Correct

The wedding I attended on Saturday was lovely. Unfortunately, I didn't come up with all the blog-fodder I had hoped for. Lucky for me, Mothers Day was on Sunday. This year I joined my parents, grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins for a delicious Mothers Day lunch in Atlanta. Like most families, when mine gets together, some sort of good story is sure to follow. Mothers Day was no exception.

As we sat on the patio enjoying our appetizers, and after my grandmother updated us on the most recent Bridge league drama, my two year-old twin cousins provided us with some entertainment. Their older brother received a trampoline for his birthday a couple of months ago, and since that time, the twins have made it their personal "jumping bean" haven. 

For those of you who know me, you are well aware of my nostalgia for all things 90s. The 90s not only held all of my best childhood memories, but they were also the final years before the dawn of political correctness. (Actually, I think PC became a household acronym in the mid-late 90s, but I was a kid. PC meant nothing to me). I mention this because I owned a trampoline in the 90s, and it is a far cry from the one my cousins own today.

My superior trampoline did not have six foot-tall nets around its perimeter or pads that covered the springs. There were no "safety features". There was no "one-person-at-a-time" rule. On cool summer evenings, the neighborhood kids would play all the classic trampoline games. You know the ones. We'd have contests to see who could do the coolest flip without breaking a limb, and who could launch themselves the farthest onto the ground without falling. Not a day went by when someone's leg didn't get caught between a spring or someone lost a little blood from bonking heads with their neighbor. 

When I alerted my family to my childhood trampoline antics, they shuddered at the idea of all the carnage. My only response was that the 90s were "a happier time". Little did I know that a few minutes later, they would prove my point for me.

After my cousins had finished jumping on the trampoline, they joined the rest of us on the patio. My aunt instructed them to sit "criss-cross applesauce" on the ground. Excuse me? "Criss-cross applesauce"? The following dialogue ensued:

Me: Criss-cross applesauce? Don't you remember what we called it pre-new millenium?

Auntie Lynda: No.

Me: Indian Style.

Auntie Lynda: (chuckle) I do remember that. But they don't teach it that way in school anymore.

Ok, America. I realize that we have edited our vernacular by removing gender and race specific terminology. But we can't even say "indian style" anymore? Couldn't we have at least replaced it with a term we're all more familiar with, like "native american style"? No. Now we are teaching our kids how to sit properly with catchy rhymes about food. No wonder childhood obesity rates are so high these days.

The "criss-cross applesauce" incident got me thinking. If schools are creating cheesy rhymes to increase political correctness, does the same go for the workplace? If so, someone should really hire me to write some slogans to hang up around the office. I really think I could bring awareness to cubicles everywhere. For example:

• Sleeping on the job: Don't want to get laid-off? Sleep on your day off.
• Too Much Facebooking: When in doubt, log out.
• Booty Grabbing: Don't touch her caboose. That's sexual abuse!
  
• Name Calling: Black, white, purple, or green--racial slurs are mean.

Ok, so maybe PC slogan writing isn't my thing. If all else fails, maybe I can get hired inventing new safety features for classic toys. Someone has to prevent all those Slinky injuries...

Welcome to Wedding Season

In my previous entry, I alluded to the fact that I'm attending a wedding this weekend. Besides sharing laughs, drinks, and bouquet tosses with my friends, I can't wait for all the blog-fodder that will surely come my way. But I certainly don't want the days leading up to the celebration to be overshadowed by the big day itself. Naturally, I should address some of the insanity that has happened over the past few days.

There are few things that push the ol' stress meter to the brink quite as much as wedding planning. The months leading up to the ceremony are filled with dress fittings, food tastings, guest inviting, guest uninviting, bridal showers, bachelorette parties, flower arranging, and all the other little things that need a woman's (or a gay man's) touch. We've all heard about "bridezillas" and maybe a few "momzillas" of the bride. But everyone always seems to forget about that other "zilla": the "maidzilla" of honor.

In the case of the wedding I'm attending on Saturday, the maid of honor happens to be my best friend, Kelly. She has done a wonderful job taming her inner-zilla, but she has definitely been under a great deal of stress over the past few days. She has had to deal with every bridesmaid's worst nightmare. Yes. It's the dreaded "dress-zilla". 

Kelly has had her reservations about the dress from the start, and this week has confirmed her distaste for all things sage green and floor-length. After three fittings and five days of starvation, Kelly's dress still doesn't fit her exactly the way it should. She is going to look beautiful, regardless. But nothing brings out the "maidzilla" in someone like an ill-fitting dress. 

The stress of the dress came to a head last night when I dropped it off at Kelly's house for her to try on one last time. When I walked in the door, Kelly was working on a slideshow chronicling the lives of the bride and groom. She was hunched over her computer, feverishly clicking buttons, and drinking a glass of wine. It was obvious to me that the last thing she wanted to do was try on her dress. After ten minutes of pinching, tucking, sucking in, and zipping, we got Kelly into the dress... I won't go into the details of the conversation that followed, but Kelly wasn't feeling her most beautiful "maidzilla" self. 

Kelly's dress saga made me completely rethink two truths that I have believed in since puberty:

1. Apparently, the trend of the terror-inducing bridesmaid's dress did not go out of style with the 90s, and,
2. Everyone will reveal their inner-zilla, even if it's only to their best friend.

Some people just always seem to have it together. Especially those rare employed people who always say how much they love their jobs. But even if I think someone has it together, I know that that little "zilla" inside will claw its way out eventually. And after it rears its ugly head for awhile, it retreats back to its dark cave somewhere in that part of the brain between "celebrity gossip knowledge" and "clearance sale calculator". So, even though I've been feeling like the "unemployedzilla" for the past several months, I know that eventually, things will get back to normal. 

In the meantime, I will enjoy the fact that I can wear my dress of choice to the wedding tomorrow.