Who your friends are

You learn who your friends are when you're fired. My sister was just fired, and not only is her old company calling everyone in town and defaming her, but people -- a certain person -- at that company that she thought she could count on has turned out to be a turncoat.

Some of her closest friends have shrugged their shoulders and said, "wow, that sucks," not lifting a finger or a headset to help her. In fact, it's the people she never dreamed she could count on who are going out of their way to help her. Giving advice, making phone calls, telling her how great she is.

Too bad it often brings out a crisis to realize who cares about you. It makes me wonder how I am as a friend. Do I go out of my way? Depends on the person. Who do I consider my friends and why? And would they give the same love back to me?

Between this family crisis and the George Clooney movie "Up in the Air," I've been thinking a lot about whether I'm actually living life, or letting it pass me by while I chat on Facebook. I'm a great surface friend - good with a quip, excellent at checking in, but if I was fired, would anyone care?

Commitment is Futile

I mean it people, stop with the suggestions that I go on match.com. I have no desire to go on dates. Dating is boring. I have as yet to meet a guy who I find more interesting than a good TV show.

Hasn't Tiger Woods proven that commitment is futile? He among many, of course. Men and women just aren't destined to mate for life. Someone always strays. So I'd like to stay exactly where I am, please.

I don't have a problem meeting guys. I meet them, I have playtime, and then I go home. Life is perfect.

No, I am not lonely. I have plenty of friends, I have my sister, and I have my stuffed dog, Pudgy. I'm doing just fine.

Yo, Dog.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Dawg.”

Those are the words of the best friend of my new downstairs neighbor. I have no idea what the friend’s name is, but I’m very familiar with this voice, because I hear it all the time, day or night.

I have a new downstairs neighbor that I’ll call Matt Jeffries, because that’s pretty close to what his name actually is, but I don’t want to get sued. When I first moved into this building, my downstairs neighbor was a woman named Joan Jeffries, whom I occasionally heard leaving early in the morning, but I only ever saw her once or twice. I assumed she traveled a lot, or was a vampire, or a member of the CIA.About two months ago I heard the voices of 20-somethings outside my front window. You know what I’m talking about – that pitchy arrogance of douchebags. Male or female, it’s the same voice. “Dude, Dog, Bro” of the male species, “Hey! Oh my god! I can’t believe you did that!” or the female variety. I glanced out and saw a couple of bimbettes and a Channing Tatem-type guy hanging outside the abode below. Now, I never actually met Joan, but I instinctively knew these weren’t her friends. This was trouble.

The following weeks were filled with the sound of these voices, the smell of smoke and stale beer that filtered up to my living room, the vibrations of silly giggles and post teen hormones. It walked that fine line between amusing and intolerable. The first time I thought “Matt Jeffries has to die” was when one of his bimbettes was having a hard time figuring out where he lived. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was calmly, adult-ly, having lunch and reading when I heard a screetching, “MATT JEFFRIES?” which I ignored.

“MAAATT JEFFRIES!!???” I ignored. I mean, she wasn’t talking to me.

Suddenly, the sound of metal clacking. This nutcase was entering my staircase! I opened my door, face to face with the enemy. “Can I help you?” I asked.

“Oh my god,” the biscuit wailed. “I’m trying to find 646!”

“Well, this is 646 ½, as the numbers here clearly indicate. Try downstairs.”

She didn’t. She simply jumped into her SUV and drove away. I swear she was in tears.

Probably terrified of the girl - er, woman - in 646 ½. I chuckled and adjusted my pointy hat.

I finally met Matt Jeffries when I was returning home from somewhere adultlike and came across Channing Tatum (he of the "Happy Thankgiving, Dog") in the front yard.

"Are you Matt Jeffries?" I asked.

He leaned inside, "Yo Matt! Yo Dawg!"

And Matt Jeffries appeared. A nice looking guy, but multiple-bimbette worthy? Hardly. I introduced myself and turned the charm up to 10+. Channing did the same and Matt Jeffries had a hard time keeping up. Clearly the bunnies were there for Channing. Anyway, the point being that we were all very civilized and friendly.

Until.

2am on a Wednesday morning. Pounding on the downstairs door. "YO MATT! YO DAWG! LET US IN!" This continued for several more call outs and an attempt to pry the screens
off the windows. "MAAAAATTT!! WE'RE OUTSIDE!" Yeah, no shit, but enough of this. I slam my window open.

"Will you fucking quit it?"

"Sorry, but we can't get in and we're staying with Matt."

"Too bad, call the Holiday Inn."

"Yeah but..."

"No yeah-but. If you're trying to get Matt Jeffries kicked out of this building, you're doing a great job." Slam window.

The next day, my doorbell rings. Not another honey. Oh my god, I'm starting to talk like them. I open the door to Matt Jeffries.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "I didn't know they were coming over. I'm so embarrassed." He then proceeded to invite me downstairs "anytime" for a beer.

"This isn't the fucking dorm," is what I wanted to say. But shit, the kid's here apologizing, saying he's embarrassed and olive branching with a beer invite? I guess I could try and let this pass. Maybe. We'll call it a strike one, and see what happens.

So Matt Jeffries is unofficially on probation, and he's actually been okay until the Thanksgiving Hey Dog nonsense. Don't these guys have families? Don't they take a day off?

I'm Not Online Dating

Dear friends,

Stop with the dating sites. I will not get on one of those ever ever ever. I think it's fine that you want to, and I have nothing against them per se, but they just aren't for me. I don't care that I'm single. I like being single, whether anyone believes that or not. I can do what I want when I want who I want how I want and I don't have to check in with anyone.

If I went on a dating site that would imply that I want to date. I most definitely do not want to do that. Dating is boring and my time is usually better spent catching up on my TiVo or reading a book. I somehow manage to meet guys anyway.

Don't get me wrong. Any guy out there who I have met in an organic way and wants to ask me out, please feel free. It's these forced dates that I take issue with. If I don't know what you look like then I probably don't want to go. My problem is that I'm great on a first date and awful on a second. I'm actually a very boring person who just hides it really well.

So friends, although I may whine about guys occasionally, that is not a sign that I should go onto Match.com or any other dating site. I'm simply venting, not looking. And as much as I am legitimately interested in hearing about the guys that you're meeting and dating on these sites, I absolutely refuse to register for a site simply to see what your guy looks like. Cut and paste.

Please don't feel that you have to stop talking about your guys. I love hearing dating horror stories, I just don't want them to be mine. Not that I can even think of the last date I went on. But that doesn't mean I'm going on a dating site. So stop subtly suggesting.

Thanks.

Wood Factor: 3

Who Ate My Hours?

Have you ever noticed that when you work hourly you work all day but only end up officially clocking about 4 hours?

Today I spent my day writing a blog (for someone else. My blogs take me about 12 minutes, if that) and doing social media research. Before I started writing the blog I had to transcribe a 17 minute interview, which, let me tell you, does NOT take 17 minutes to do. Or even double that. No, it takes about an hour of starting and stopping to make sure you got everything and to double check what someone said, or to decipher mumblings. Then, I'm a draft writer, which means my first draft of anything sucks, because I'm just getting the thoughts out. Then I go back and revise. And then I go back and revise again because I'm a perfectionist. Today I went back and revised two or three more times because I know that this blog post is a test of my capabilities. So this blog post actually took me about 2.5 hours to do. But that seems like an insane amount of time doesn't it? 1.5 hours it is.

Next, social media research. I don't know if you have ever done this, but it's busywork. Busywork that sucks you into the lives and hobbies of whatever you're researching. I've officially been sucked into mommy blogs, wine blogs, financial blogs...things I never thought would interest me, but there ya go. Especially those mommy blogs. I get sucked into the pictures, and the stories about little Robbie pitching a fit in the library, and I can't tear myself away. Before I know it, 4 hours have gone by, and I think to myself, Did I really work those entire 4 hours?

No, of course not. I took breaks to goof off and check my email and Facebook and Twitter, and to eat. So I'm not going to clock 4 hours to that. Hmmm, about 2.5.

And now it's 5pm and I've worked all day, but am only officially clocking 4 hours. Clearly I'm an idiot.

Wood Factor: 2. Working at home Wood Factor: 3

I hate getting old

I'm old. There's a reason I haven't written about The Countercockwise Jogger lately and that's because I haven't been on the track. And I haven't been on the track because I pulled something in my calf. And I pulled something in my calf because...I am old.

I've aged more in 5 years of my 30s than I did in the entire 10 years of my 20s. WHY WHY WHY? I eat healthy, I work out, I don't smoke or drink much. It's so unfair. I used to be relatively cute - yes, I can say this now because I'm not 19 anymore. So yes, now that I'm in my 30s I can safely say that I used to be cute.

And now? Now I'm using Loreal 6R to keep my hair red, I'm pulling muscles, my face is sagging. This is total BS. I don't deserve this.

But what about all the wisdom I've achieved over the years? Yes ok I guess there is that. There is a lot of truth to the saying that youth is wasted on the young. But I wasn't particularly naive even when I was young.

-Sigh- At least I can say that I lived my late teens/early 20s well. I did enjoy being young and cute and smart. My mid to late 20s sort of sucked with all that flailing through jobs trying to figure out what I want to do. Of course I'm still trying to figure out what I want to do, but I guess I'll save that for another whining blog post.

And if I'm really going to whine in this post, I'll just keep going and bitch about the unfairness that women get uglier as they age while men get sexier. How is that not a built in biological reason for men to cheat? Of course, I think women get a lot smarter than men in their late 30s through 50s (and probably beyond) so I suppose there is that. Not that it matters in the workforce because women are almost always held back for being women. And not that it matters in their relationships, because by that point we're smart enough to kick them out. So how does it matter that women are smarter? I'll have to mull that one over.

In the meantime, my calf hurts.

Wood Factor (1-5): 1.

The Jogger Returns

He's back. And he's watching me.

The Counterclockwise Jogger was missing for almost two weeks. Maybe I was arriving at the track later; maybe he was out of town; maybe he's reading this blog and knows to be afraid of me. But he turned up yesterday, this time with a woman. And an added mystery: he's walking. Walking with this woman. Who is she and what has she done to make this guy a Counterclockwise Walker?

I don't even look at him anymore. I know what he's going to do: jog into my path and then sigh and grunt and hiss "What the hell?" while I flail in the grass trying to get around him. So when I saw him, I kept my eyes to the ground pretending to be engrossed with the podcast on my iPod. But there was no podcast. Only silence. I had the sound turned off so that the sadomasochistic side of me could hear Counterclockwise Guy spit out his hatred.

I ran. He walked. I got closer. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his eyes on me. I decided to risk looking up, and guess what I saw? A clear path. Space! Enough room between him and the grass so that I could jog past him without sideswiping his shoulder. I turned my head just a little as I jogged by, and I saw that he too was turning his head, and staring right at me.

Meeep! He's probably put a spell on me.

Wood Factor (1-5): Undecided.

Bandslam Rocks. Yes, really

I've decided to put the fun back into Funemployment, and I went to see the movie "Bandslam" today. At first, I avoided this movie, thinking it was just another Disney Channel-esque piece of drivel. But boy was I wrong.

This movie was produced and released by Summit Entertainment, the same company that is giving us the "Twilight" series, and that produced and released "Sex Drive" earlier this year. Nikki Finke recently posted a letter on her blog that was written to her by a "Summit insider" who said that "Bandslam" was a victim of "Death by Marketing," in that Summit had totally botched the marketing of this movie:

"Start off with the fact that they chose BANDSLAM for a title instead of WILL. They thought WILL was too indie. But that’s what made this movie special. It was an indie voice wrapped up in a high concept. So, instead of selling it quirky and cool (a la Juno) they sold it on the Disney channel's Vanessa Hudgens and Aly Milchaka. Instead of selling the concept, band of outcasts like The Commitments, they Disneyfied this movie with glitter paint."

This insider has it exactly right. "Bandslam" is one of those feel good movies - I almost cried at the end - that is somewhat old fashioned in its appeal, but that's exactly what makes it special. I loved it. What's sad is that despite Disney-fying it with Vanessa Hudgens (she of "High School Musical," who doesn't have the depth to carry this role), and Aly Michalka ("Phil of the Future") they could have made it work. Michalka (also half of the singing duo Aly & AJ) is a star. Watch for her, because she steals this movie. And Gaelan Connell (known for absolutely nothing as far as I can tell) is a typical dork, but he's got some sexy moves. Summit had a gem on their hands and they ruined it by pitching it to Disney kids only. Case in point - my theater was filled with 10 year old girls and their moms. I did not belong there.

But I loved every minute of it. Go see it. It doesn't break any new ground, but you won't be disapointed. I'm going to iTunes right now to buy the soundtrack.

Wood Factor (1-5): for the movie: 4. For Summit: 1.

Dear Fellow Unemployed Neighbor,

Get your laundry out of the motherfucking washer. I've been waiting all day to wash my darks and that is just ridiculous given the state of my unemployment. Two hours ago I made the trek to the laundry room and was surprised - nay, flabbergasted - to find the washer in use. I'm patient. I understand that other people have dirty clothes too, so I trekked back upstrairs and kept myself occupied for two hours.

Upon which I made the journey back down to the laundry room with my heavy basket of darks, my Tide, my quarters, and the laundry room key.

Booyah! Washer off.

Fuck me! Clothes still in it.

I'm not one of those people who pulls other people's shit out of the washer or dryer. My old roommate, god bless her, used to stick in a load of laundry and then go to the movies. She didn't care if she was inconveniencing anyone. In fact, she had the kind of karma where people took her clothes out and lovingly folded them for her. If I ever tried such a thing, my jeans would end up in a damp heap in the corner.

So here I am again back at my computer, complaining about my neighbors instead of washing my underwear. Isn't that the story of my life.

Wood Factor (1-5): 2

The Social Media Interview - or not

I don’t get it. Why do you people interview you, say they’ll bring you back for a second interview, and then never get back to you?

I thought it was a good interview. I followed up with a thank you and checked in with my availability for the second interview…and was totally ignored.

Hello? This was for a social media job. And what does that mean? Um, blogs, tweets, status updates. TO THE ENTIRE WORLD. Ok the entire world is not following me, but they COULD BE. Now, I probably wouldn’t make use of my digital friends to get back at a certain company, but I COULD. And how do they know I won’t?

I don’t think hiring managers always get it. If I’m not right for the job, or the job has been filled, just tell me. I can handle it. Instead I’m left in interview limbo wondering where I went wrong. It’s like dating. Don’t just stop calling, just fucking TELL ME.

It’s not that I can’t take a hint. I’m taking this hint. But I’m annoyed because this was for a social media job at a digital agency. They should know better. They should know that someone interviewing for a social media gig, probably deals with, oh I don’t know, SOCIAL MEDIA.

And that this is probably a bad way to brand their company – as flaky and rude. Completely unaware. It just stumps me. A social media job and they treat me like I’m nothing. What if I was good at social media? What if I was followed by the entire world? What if I had 10 billion friends? What if I was LinkedIn to someone at every brand on the shelf? And I tweeted/facebooked/status updated “Was interviewed and then totally ignored by [omitted].” Probably doesn’t bode well for how they’d treat their clients.”

I’m not saying I would. But I COULD.

Wood Factor (1-5): 2

American Idol Concert review

For all of you who asked how it was, I'm posting it here.

Awesome! I had the worst seats ever - so high that I had vertigo - but a clear view of the stage. Fat Guy (I always forget his name, but he's #10) and Megan were AWFUL. (She was so awful that I think she bailed on the finale, as she was oddly missing.) Lil was good, but as usual didn't "own" any of her songs. Anup was good and brought the card with his original audition number! Very cute. Blind Guy was solid. Matt was fantastic. Why wasn't he like this on the show? I think he's finally tapping into his star power. The Goke was reliably good, but man is he boring. The girls sitting around me apparently thought differently, screaming " I LOVE YOU!" at the top of their lungs every 15 seconds. Truly troubling.

Allison was KICK. ASS. She sang Pink's "Rock Star" song (is that what it's really called?) and while she did a much better job solo than the group sang it on the finale, she should probably learn how to sing and play the guitar at the same time. She rocked "Cry Baby" and "Baracuda" (waaaay bad ass) and had her star power on full display.

Adam was disappointing. He was upstaged by his lights and his moves sort of suck. I think that was easy to miss on TV , but he really doesn't dance well. He sort of bounces. He dueted with Allison on "Slow Ride" and that was fun. Although they look so uncomfortable. Is it just me?

Kris was great. It sort of pains me to say that. He can play the guitar and piano and sing at the same time! His voice was good, his moves are limited but sexy, and I was impressed overall. I finally understood why he won.

Wood Factor (1-5): 4

The Jogger

This guy is just unbelievable. I know I should probably just get over it, but this hugging of the inside of the track combined with eye rolling at ME is just unforgivable. Look buddy, when I'm edged on the grass at the center of the track, you know you have a problem.

Yesterday he bodychecked me. Well, almost. I was running clockwise on the inside of the track, and he comes up behind me and wooshes by with barely an inch between us. I swear I heard the "woosh." Today he was running counter-clock, hugging the inside; I was going clock, hugging the inside like a clockwise runner should do, and it's like we're playing a game of chicken. I know he saw me coming today. I know he chose to not move. So I chose the same. And I jog and jog and I'm wondering if he's going to inch to the right, like he should. But he doesn't. So I don't. And we come right up to each other and he looks at me, rolls his eyes, and says "oh my god."

Yeah that's right. Talk to your god buddy, because we're not finished. I refuse to got shoved aside when I have the right to hug the inside of the track and you don't. Bring it on.

Maybe it's unemployment getting to me, but this guy makes me feel so incredibly unworthy, like I don't belong on this track at 8 o'clock in the morning. He's like a punishment for my not waking up at 6am and running with the 6:30am people. (Those would be the kind, thoughtful, "I have to get to work early because I actually work" people.) Every time I see him I feel this burst of anger and resentment. It's like he represents everything that's wrong in this world.

And he probably does. At least in my world. Keep jogging buddy, because I'm not backing off.

Wood Factor (1-5): 1

The 8 o'clock People

One of the weirdest things about my new-found freelance life is the schedule. I'm used to going to bed at 11pm, waking up at 6am, and going running around 6:30am. Now I go to bed whenever, wake up at 7:30am, and go running at 8. I miss my old 6:30 runners. Who are these 8 o'clock people?

The 6:30 people were the office people with schedules like mine, or old people who got up at sunrise. The blonde girl whose body I coveted, the Iranian women who walked together, the old African-American guy in his sailor hat who always said hi. These were my peeps. I miss them. The 8'oclock people are the unemployed or the bosses who don't go to work until 10 am. I guess. Actually, it's tough to tell who they are. There's the handsome 40ish couple who run together; they look like they could/should be employed. Why are they running so late? And the Korean guys playing badminton - what's their story?

There is this one guy I just loathe. He jogs with his shirt off, and he hugs the inside of the track, going counter-clockwise. Hello? You don't hug the inside of the track when you're going counter-clockwise. That is not proper etiquette. So here I am, running clockwise on the track (4 laps counter, 4 laps clock) and I see this a-hole heading towards me, so I sort of drift to the side. Not too much, because I don't want to get in the way of a mom with her stroller. And this guy doesn't bother looking up or making any plans to pay attention. (No headphone-wearing excuse either.) So I'm doing the drifting dance, and he's plowing ahead. I had to stop to avoid running into him and the mom. I was irked.

The next day, there he is again. Plowing ahead running counter-clockwise, hugging the inside. FAIL. Again, I had to stop so I could get out of his way. But this time the guy has the nerve to bark out, "Holy fuck, I'm just trying to run here."

Excuse me? You're just trying to run, guy? Well guess what? We follow the proper track etiquette here, turd. No hugging the inside. You've got to pay attention. You don't own the track. We're all on it and you have to make room. And for the love of god, don't yell at me in the morning. I'm just trying to work my stress out, stay in shape, and enjoy my funemployment. I certainly don't need you with that pathetic little crumb trapper on your chin cursing at me about trying to run. I'm trying to run too. I'm trying to run and trying to prove that I belong on this planet despite not having an office to go to. So stop mother fucking hugging the inside of the goddamn track.

I hate the 8 o'clock people.

Wood Factor (1 - 5): 1