Don't Mince Words

I’ve said it before.  Interviewing for a job is just like dating.  Do you have the same interests?  Do you like women?  Is there long-term potential?  The downside to interviewing is you can’t give a fake name or sneak out the back door when you see you’ve made a bad decision.

I had a funny feeling about this interview, but I went.  Let’s start with first impressions:  underweight emo in black skinny jeans with trying-to-be-hip sideburns.  He was old enough to be my child (if I were a whore in high school) and he had issues maintaining eye contact.  These things combined made it hard to believe he was an entrepreneur, which was how this kid was pitched to me.

The mutual “I’m just not that into you” interview was over in about the same amount of time it takes to drink a latte on a bad first date; however,  the experience made me realize I like my leaders like I like my men:  old and educated.

In the mail on Monday, I received one of those friendly reminders from the local Honda dealership telling me that it was probably time to change oil.  I realized I didn’t come close to hitting their high mileage estimate.

I have become the little old lady of West Hollywood.  Being laid off, there are days my car doesn’t move.  When it does, it is usually to drive to happy hour to met my other laid off friends, or to give Tex a courtesy ride.  I’m averaging 300 miles per month.  That’s just crazy low mileage in this town.  And it is empirical evidence that I don’t have much of a life.

I changed that immediately by adding the FourSquare app to my iPod.  I realize I’m a hypocrite for advising clients to get involved with geolocation apps and not participating myself.  What I didn’t anticipate is the motivation FourSquare can provide to get out of the apartment.  I’ve got check-in’s all over my neighborhood and I am now the Mayor of my apartment building and I’ve been awarded an Adventurer badge because I get out a lot.   I know it is all bullshit, but it is like a Weight Watcher’s weigh-in.  It’s all the motivation I need to feel like I’m making a change in my life.

Today is four square day (4×4 = 16).  It’s like Pi day except the math is so much easier and there’s drinking involved.  Check-ins at The Standard get two-for-one drinks.  The Viper Room has more FourSquare specials:  no cover, cheap drinks, and PBR swag.

I have said many times I don’t do anything unless it gets me a job or gets me laid.  Right now, getting out of the apartment is the first step.

Check-in.  Check me out.

The Betty Ford Center will soon open a wing in my honor – for those suffering from unromantic Valentine’s Day addiction.  My bender began in 1974.  Mrs. Kessenger, my third grade teacher, engineered a project to get our class excited about Valentine’s Day.  Or was it just her way of getting rid of the red construction paper left over from Christmas?

On February 13th, we were given brown paper bags and instructed to create mailboxes for the Valentines we would receive the next day.  I cut hearts, I colored, and I put my name on my bag.  I was ready.

When I got home, I realized I needed to buy Valentine cards to distribute to my classmates.  Mom and I jumped in our Rambler station wagon and drove to the drug store.  I found a large box of assorted Valentines with envelopes that would be perfect.  There was a bumblebee card that said, “Bee Mine,” a bear holding a jar of honey that said, “You’re sweet,” a tiger growling “Your Grrrrreat,” and several other equally sappy selections that were perfect for 8 year-olds.  I spent the evening meticulously signing my name to all the cards, reserving the generic “Happy Valentine’s Day” card for the classmates I didn’t know very well.  Everyone in my class was getting a card.

Love was in the air on the 14th.  My classmates and I played postman and walked around the room putting the Valentines in the customized brown bag mailboxes.  The morning bell rang and we assumed the position, dutifully holding our hands over our hearts while we recited the Pledge of Allegiance.  Afterwards, the PA box squawked and the principal wished the school a happy Valentine’s Day.  We ripped into our mailboxes and ate the cookies our homeroom mother brought.  I soon realized that Valentine’s Day wasn’t that special.  I may have been too young to understand it was a holiday designed to boost the first quarter economy through flower, card, and chocolate sales.  I could tell that it was a day to receive the same goddamn Valentines that I gave my classmates.  It appeared we all bought the same box of assorted Valentines.  I received six bee cards and three generic “Happy Valentines Day” cards in additional to other miscellaneous selections.

Since that day in third grade, all my Valentine Days have melted together into one homogeneous pot of low effort attempts.  Cards, flowers, and candy – the standard fare.  I lived each year to see if Valentine’s Day could get any worse than the last one.  I became addicted to bad Valentine’s days.  I suppose that is why I don’t remember any details of any Valentine’s day until 2001.  I was sitting in my office and I heard it – the “ooooohhhh’s and aaaahhhhhh’s” that are uttered when the flower delivery guy is on the floor.  I could see his arrangements and balloons bouncing along the walls above cube-ville like a puppet show. And then he appeared before me.

“Can I help you find someone?” I asked.

“Miss Marrrrrrrna, this is for you,” he said.

My mouth was still open when he put the box on my desk and turned away smiling.  I opened it and laughed.  It was perfect.  I read my pitch forked card and realized Kathy, my 52 year-old divorced coworker – someone who knew me for 28 business days, gave me the perfect Valentine:  a cactus garden with a mirror backdrop.  It was low maintenance and a thing of beauty.  My prickly valentine injected me with a dose of reality.  My cactus was untraditional, thoughtful, and unexpected.  It was a succulent botanical intervention. One day someone with equal creativity and thoughtfulness will top Kathy’s 2001 gift.

I’m hopeful like a third grader.

This is probably just me. My little problem, you know, because I was born before 1980. But when a help wanted/job ad says “profitable online startup,” that is not a positive selling point to me. It’s about as appealing as a partner telling me their Valtrex copay is only $5.

With my focus on my career, I’m sure you were worried that I’d never write about guys or dates again. Not to worry, this is Los Angeles, so there’s always going to be a story. I just haven’t had the time to write this one.

Houston (let’s call him that instead of nutless) and I met online in mid-July and began dating immediately. He was one of those Type A planners who would book three dates in a week. In fact, I mentioned to him that his frequency was outstanding and unlike the 1x/week LA guy mentality. “I know what I like and I go for it,” was his answer.

So, we went out to dinner, we played tennis, we saw movies and shows, we went to concerts and parties. We did stuff. He even took me and my dog to a four-star hotel weekend getaway. Somewhere in the middle of all this, I got laid off. We went out less. He called and emailed less. But I wasn’t really paying attention because I was focused on the job thing and getting out to network.

Our last date was a business dinner with some of his ad reps, one of whom commented on what a cute couple we were. I never heard from him after that night. The guy who pitched himself as the nicest guy I’d ever meet did the fade out on me. Had I been more alert, I would of seen this coming and beat him to the dump.

“Are you sure he didn’t have a medical emergency and just couldn’t call you? He was older, after all,” said a friend. “No, he’s alive because he posted a marketing job on craig’s list,” I explained. “Gosh, don’t you want to understand what happened?” she asked.

Not necessary, is it? He was under the 90-day LA trial relationship period. He demonstrated by his actions that he couldn’t nut up and dump me proper. That’s alright, he had republican tendencies and poor musical taste. All I can say is…. Celine Dion? Really? That’s my closure.