It's been a little over a month since I've been unemployed, and I've started my job search again. And by again, I mean for the third time this year. By now, you'd think I'd be a unemployment pro. To be honest, I haven't even revised my resume to my liking yet. I don't think I ever will. I mean, it's pretty, but that's pretty much it. But if I don't even have prospective employers with whom to share my resume, what's the point?
So I took to the internet this afternoon and searched the listings of five different websites. (I already get automatic emails from all the big job websites like monster.com.) Just my luck, the Las Vegas Review Journal classified section was experiencing some annoying technical difficulties, allowing me to view job listings, but only the leftmost half inch of the posting. Am I applying to be a classy Las Vegas Strip hostess or to dance at a strip club? Html only knows.
Another major problem I always run into when job hunting in Las Vegas is that many of the job for which I'd otherwise be qualified require headshots. I don't have these, nor do I have the money to obtain them. If I did, I wouldn't be looking for work. Some employment listings even say things like, "Send photos," with the caveat, "Don't worry. I'm not a pervert." Oh, phew. Now I feel comforted. I can TOTALLY trust the guy who needs photos before he'll set up an interview for his potential future secretary. I'd personally rather know I'm applying for something sketchy than be surprised later.
In the end, I wound up finding two jobs that look interesting: rare book salesperson and hookah hostess. Neither require photos. Now excuse me while I write my cover letters.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
I told you I work better at night. Part 2.
Lately, I've mostly been worried about getting older. Shoving all well-meaning comments from older women about how they wish they could be my age again aside, it really freaks me out. I could write about 5 million entries about the psychological effects of facing my own mortality, but in this blog I'd like to tackle the good, old-fashioned shallow things like wrinkles and gravity.
I am completely aware of the edge that my youth gives me. I'm also completely aware of how to use my gender to get things, not only socially, but also in the business world. As I reach middle age, being a woman is going to become a hinderence instead of an asset in my professional career. No longer will I be able to get through difficult situations by acting cute. I'm going to be an old lady in the eyes of male colleagues. I'm going to be expendable. Let's face it: Women who've been at a job for a long time aren't looked at as veterans like men are. Shit.
Not to mention the fact that I'll have to compete for men with women half my age. How is it fair that men continue to have their choice of women as our prospects twindle to nonexistent as we age? But there isn't anything I can do about it. I'm aging right now, and whether I like it or not, it's going to dictate how other people percieve me. Even if I choose to be "young at heart," I'll still be religated to the role of wacky aunt or cougar or Cat Lady (the plastic surgery woman, not someone who likes cats). Shit.
So here I am. Now what?
I am completely aware of the edge that my youth gives me. I'm also completely aware of how to use my gender to get things, not only socially, but also in the business world. As I reach middle age, being a woman is going to become a hinderence instead of an asset in my professional career. No longer will I be able to get through difficult situations by acting cute. I'm going to be an old lady in the eyes of male colleagues. I'm going to be expendable. Let's face it: Women who've been at a job for a long time aren't looked at as veterans like men are. Shit.
Not to mention the fact that I'll have to compete for men with women half my age. How is it fair that men continue to have their choice of women as our prospects twindle to nonexistent as we age? But there isn't anything I can do about it. I'm aging right now, and whether I like it or not, it's going to dictate how other people percieve me. Even if I choose to be "young at heart," I'll still be religated to the role of wacky aunt or cougar or Cat Lady (the plastic surgery woman, not someone who likes cats). Shit.
So here I am. Now what?
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
I told you I work better at night.
So it's six minutes until 2 a.m., and I'm really, truly exhausted.
I know, usually I'm a total insomniac, but I'm really exhausted from a long day of writing, exercising, and reality TV watching. I also started a new blog recently. It's not ready for public viewing yet. It's my profession blog, as opposed to this personal one in which you must endure my sleep-deprived ramblings.
Anyway, I just thought I'd share with you all the completely physical, completely existential crisis I've been amidst lately. (I am the only person I know who is able to have a crisis that is both physical and existential at the same time.) It started a few months ago now, but really it started a quarter of a century ago when I was born. It started the first time someone cooed, "Oooo, look at that pretty little girl," or commented how big my eyes were or whatever.
You see, I've always obsessed about the way I look. I know I'm a smart person and an independent woman and I'm not supposed to say that or admit that. I should be spending this time I spend obsessing reading a book or volunteering or something, but I don't and I'd be lying if I said I planned to anytime soon.
I clearly remember being five and having a debate with myself in front of my closet about what outfit I should wear to school. There was a boy in my class I had a crush on, and I distinctly remember my five-year-old self looking at a particular dress is my closet and wondering, "Hmm, if I wear that, will I look sexy?"
Yeah, I had that word, "sexy," in my vocabulary at five. I don't know how it got there, probably TV, but that's beside the point.
The point is, that ever since I was at least five, I've been worried to some extent about my physical appearance. I know everyone does this to some extent. Even the really anti-establishment types dress a certain way due to concern about appearance. I have several male friends who think they eschew superficiality by dressing only in clothing that doesn't have any logos on it. I'm sorry, but do you have any idea how difficult it is in this country in this day in age to track down clothes with no visible label? Even if you found such a garment, the thing would probably have some kind of discernible brand marking. And I'm not just talking about people who "know designers." Any idiot can recognize a shirt from Hot Topic if he needed to.
So I know I'm not the only one who worries about appearance, but I've recently become so utterly obsessed, and at the same time, so utterly tired from worrying all the time. I mean, can't one hour go by when I don't have to worry if I have food in my teeth or what my profile looks like or not stare into my reflection in a window as I walk past (while pretending I'm not looking)?
That's the question. The epicenter of my crisis. Tomorrow I will likely post part II of this blog topic. But only if I'm not too busy buying whitening strips.
I know, usually I'm a total insomniac, but I'm really exhausted from a long day of writing, exercising, and reality TV watching. I also started a new blog recently. It's not ready for public viewing yet. It's my profession blog, as opposed to this personal one in which you must endure my sleep-deprived ramblings.
Anyway, I just thought I'd share with you all the completely physical, completely existential crisis I've been amidst lately. (I am the only person I know who is able to have a crisis that is both physical and existential at the same time.) It started a few months ago now, but really it started a quarter of a century ago when I was born. It started the first time someone cooed, "Oooo, look at that pretty little girl," or commented how big my eyes were or whatever.
You see, I've always obsessed about the way I look. I know I'm a smart person and an independent woman and I'm not supposed to say that or admit that. I should be spending this time I spend obsessing reading a book or volunteering or something, but I don't and I'd be lying if I said I planned to anytime soon.
I clearly remember being five and having a debate with myself in front of my closet about what outfit I should wear to school. There was a boy in my class I had a crush on, and I distinctly remember my five-year-old self looking at a particular dress is my closet and wondering, "Hmm, if I wear that, will I look sexy?"
Yeah, I had that word, "sexy," in my vocabulary at five. I don't know how it got there, probably TV, but that's beside the point.
The point is, that ever since I was at least five, I've been worried to some extent about my physical appearance. I know everyone does this to some extent. Even the really anti-establishment types dress a certain way due to concern about appearance. I have several male friends who think they eschew superficiality by dressing only in clothing that doesn't have any logos on it. I'm sorry, but do you have any idea how difficult it is in this country in this day in age to track down clothes with no visible label? Even if you found such a garment, the thing would probably have some kind of discernible brand marking. And I'm not just talking about people who "know designers." Any idiot can recognize a shirt from Hot Topic if he needed to.
So I know I'm not the only one who worries about appearance, but I've recently become so utterly obsessed, and at the same time, so utterly tired from worrying all the time. I mean, can't one hour go by when I don't have to worry if I have food in my teeth or what my profile looks like or not stare into my reflection in a window as I walk past (while pretending I'm not looking)?
That's the question. The epicenter of my crisis. Tomorrow I will likely post part II of this blog topic. But only if I'm not too busy buying whitening strips.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Just an Observation
You're in luck! Today I'm so driven by procrastination that I'm writing another blog!
The issue I've been thinking about lately is one I've been pondering for a long time. Stay with me here, guys, because it's a woman's issue. I'm curious to hear if anyone else has noticed this phenom.
When I started college and began to circulate in more diverse social groups, I started to notice something. If I was talking in a group of myself and two or more men, I would frequently be either talked over or seemingly half-heard. It didn't matter whether we were discussing politics or parenting, sex or sedatives, but inevitably, I would begin to feel like I wasn't even part of the conversation, and the only thing worse than being left out of it would be to continue talking like an idiot as if someone was listening.
The first few times I noticed this, I felt paranoid, and then I felt angry and hurt (Why were these people who were supposedly my friends/colleagues/servants brushing me off?), but eventually I learned to just shrug it off as part of gender politics.
I would have expected that groups in which the men were the most "liberal" politically (those who would traditionally be most vocal for female rights) would be the least likely to do this. In actuality, some of the worst cases of being talked over/ignored that I can recall were in groups of self-proclaimed male feminists or gay men. This fact makes the "situation" (I hate to use that adjective for fear of evoking images of fake tan or "creepin.") even more troubling and complicated. If someone claims to have your back as a woman and doesn't act like it, you kind of start to feel betrayed.
The male-dominated groups in which I feel most comfortable and virtually never have this occur are 1) several male relatives 2) men who are attracted to me (on the rare occasion that this is the case) 3) men who are intoxicated and have passed out under a bar stool 4) men who are (pretending to be) asleep. So really, the only time men ever listen to me is when they want something (quiet, another drink, the continuance of our familial bloodline, etc.). Isn't that a happy notion?
You might wonder if maybe I'm some man-hating feminist. I am not. I am a feminist in that I believe women should have equal opportunities and receive equal pay. I do not fight the urge to run to the street to burn unmentionables on a daily or even biweekly basis. I shave my legs (but not in the winter).
The simple fact is, I'm never spoken over by other women, nor am I spoken over in mixed-gender groups, so the hypothesis that I'm just quiet or unimposing doesn't really hold up here either.
If you're a woman and have never noticed this, watch out for it. If you're a guy (and probably thinking "I never do that!"), check yourself. That is all.
Disclaimer: Dad, this has nothing to do with a negative male image that you are, right about now, thinking you projected to me sometime during my childhood, nor is this blog applicable to you. Exhale.
The issue I've been thinking about lately is one I've been pondering for a long time. Stay with me here, guys, because it's a woman's issue. I'm curious to hear if anyone else has noticed this phenom.
When I started college and began to circulate in more diverse social groups, I started to notice something. If I was talking in a group of myself and two or more men, I would frequently be either talked over or seemingly half-heard. It didn't matter whether we were discussing politics or parenting, sex or sedatives, but inevitably, I would begin to feel like I wasn't even part of the conversation, and the only thing worse than being left out of it would be to continue talking like an idiot as if someone was listening.
The first few times I noticed this, I felt paranoid, and then I felt angry and hurt (Why were these people who were supposedly my friends/colleagues/servants brushing me off?), but eventually I learned to just shrug it off as part of gender politics.
I would have expected that groups in which the men were the most "liberal" politically (those who would traditionally be most vocal for female rights) would be the least likely to do this. In actuality, some of the worst cases of being talked over/ignored that I can recall were in groups of self-proclaimed male feminists or gay men. This fact makes the "situation" (I hate to use that adjective for fear of evoking images of fake tan or "creepin.") even more troubling and complicated. If someone claims to have your back as a woman and doesn't act like it, you kind of start to feel betrayed.
The male-dominated groups in which I feel most comfortable and virtually never have this occur are 1) several male relatives 2) men who are attracted to me (on the rare occasion that this is the case) 3) men who are intoxicated and have passed out under a bar stool 4) men who are (pretending to be) asleep. So really, the only time men ever listen to me is when they want something (quiet, another drink, the continuance of our familial bloodline, etc.). Isn't that a happy notion?
You might wonder if maybe I'm some man-hating feminist. I am not. I am a feminist in that I believe women should have equal opportunities and receive equal pay. I do not fight the urge to run to the street to burn unmentionables on a daily or even biweekly basis. I shave my legs (but not in the winter).
The simple fact is, I'm never spoken over by other women, nor am I spoken over in mixed-gender groups, so the hypothesis that I'm just quiet or unimposing doesn't really hold up here either.
If you're a woman and have never noticed this, watch out for it. If you're a guy (and probably thinking "I never do that!"), check yourself. That is all.
Disclaimer: Dad, this has nothing to do with a negative male image that you are, right about now, thinking you projected to me sometime during my childhood, nor is this blog applicable to you. Exhale.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Television Review: Gone Too Far
While MTV is not the typical venue for quality television programming, I have to admit, it always has something to say about the state of American culture. In a new series, Gone Too Far, Adam Goldstein, better know as DJ AM, arranges interventions for young drug addicts and offers them in-patient rehab, while MTV foots the bill.
I first decided to watch the show because I was simply curious to see DJ AM in action. The celebrity died earlier this fall of drug overdose after a lifelong battle with addiction. A major aspect of the show is that AM is able to understand the station of the young addicts from personal experience. I was skeptical when I first tuned in because I expected the show might be gimmicky, exploiting these diseased young adults for profit's sake. On the contrary, AM brings a genuine quality to the program. At times, he is unable to hide his emotions. He gets teary-eyed with the family and friends of the addicts and his face is visibly pained as he sees and holds various drug paraphernalia. If the addicts relapses after treatment, he takes it personally.
The show provides real footage of the addicts using. Hollywood glamor aside, Gone Too Far shows real scars, real pain, and real addiction. My toes curled as I watched some scenes. Others I couldn't watch at all. There is ugly tragedy in how young the addicts are and in how powerless they are over their addictions.
In light of AM's death at age 36, I can only wonder what demons confronted him as he filmed this show. Was he using during filming? Did touching a crack pipe again awaken old muscle memory and persuade him to use? MTV recorded 9 episodes, so AM got 9 chances to save others from his fate. Unlike other reality shows with celebrity hosts, I could tell AM didn't care about money or exposure from Gone Too Far. For him, this show hit painfully close to home.
You can watch episodes of Gone Too Far on Mondays on MTV or for free on the MTV website.
I first decided to watch the show because I was simply curious to see DJ AM in action. The celebrity died earlier this fall of drug overdose after a lifelong battle with addiction. A major aspect of the show is that AM is able to understand the station of the young addicts from personal experience. I was skeptical when I first tuned in because I expected the show might be gimmicky, exploiting these diseased young adults for profit's sake. On the contrary, AM brings a genuine quality to the program. At times, he is unable to hide his emotions. He gets teary-eyed with the family and friends of the addicts and his face is visibly pained as he sees and holds various drug paraphernalia. If the addicts relapses after treatment, he takes it personally.
The show provides real footage of the addicts using. Hollywood glamor aside, Gone Too Far shows real scars, real pain, and real addiction. My toes curled as I watched some scenes. Others I couldn't watch at all. There is ugly tragedy in how young the addicts are and in how powerless they are over their addictions.
In light of AM's death at age 36, I can only wonder what demons confronted him as he filmed this show. Was he using during filming? Did touching a crack pipe again awaken old muscle memory and persuade him to use? MTV recorded 9 episodes, so AM got 9 chances to save others from his fate. Unlike other reality shows with celebrity hosts, I could tell AM didn't care about money or exposure from Gone Too Far. For him, this show hit painfully close to home.
You can watch episodes of Gone Too Far on Mondays on MTV or for free on the MTV website.
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