Social Media is Scary, but Not as Scary as Me Being an Awesome Spy

I am hesitant to say anything regarding my job because it is my sole means of support now that I am no longer a student with allowance. And did you know, in the real world you have to pay rent? And this thing called utilities? And that, when the living room light gets left on all night, the latter increases? Yes, it is all quite overwhelming and confusing but I have been putting on a brave front and writing checks, which I find is easier to do if you are blissfully unaware of the contents of your bank account. I assume I have enough to cover this month's rent, let's just leave it at that. Like that old saying goes, "Assuming makes a .. happy person ...out of me." Or something like that.

Anyway, let me remain purposefully vague because I am keeping in mind one incident in which my sister's roommate went for an interview, came back discouraged, vented about said interview in her blog, and received a call not thirty minutes after it was posted -- from her interviewer. Asking her to take down the post. Because he had seen it through Google Alerts. Yes, the world is a scary place.

So for all our sakes -- including that of my landlord, with whom I'm not well acquainted but who I am fairly certain does not have a secret fondness for bounced checks -- let's just say that I am a spy by profession. And occasional blogger by night (but mostly couch potato).

One day, my daily routine of getting to the spy office by 8 AM was disrupted because -- TADA! -- I had something else on my plate that morning. Not literally, spies don't have time for breakfast. What I had to do was attend what everyone else there referred to as a "social media workshop" but which I referred to (mostly in my head) as a "super secret spy mission". The conference/mission was amusing for two reasons: I was experiencing a weekday morning outside of a cubicle for the first time in over two months (if spies got depressed this would be a good point to do so), and THE WHOLE POINT OF THE CONFERENCE WAS TO LEARN ABOUT FACEBOOK.

But first I had to get there. The directions were vague, giving only the address to what turned out to be a huge cathedral in downtown Los Angeles. Parking in the underground garage (for which the fee was $18, and quite beyond a spy's salary, so I was relieved to find later that it was validated for the conference), I made my way up the stairs and into the first building I saw. Which was the cathedral, of course. I don't know what I thought, that the workshop would be held inside the cathedral? I suppose we could have sat in the pews, and the presenter could have spoken at the ... alter? Podium? I'm not familiar with religious terminology. But this sacrilegious scene was not to be. When I made my way into the cathedral, I saw only a few bowed heads, devout worshippers in prayer for who clearly did not have profile pictures or friend requests on the mind. I tiptoed back toward the door, afraid that the echoing sound of my work heels against the stone floor would disrupt some sort of religious epiphany. It wasn't until I saw a man frowning at me that I realized mincing along with my body curled into the shape of a question mark wasn't the most inconspicuous thing I could have done in that particular situation. Luckily by then I was near the door, so I made my escape.

Soon after I found the actual conference being held in a modern conference room with no pews or praying people whatsoever. It was a lucky thing it was located next to the cafe, ensuring that sooner or later I would come across it, whether in search of the conference itself or just a nice frappuccino.

So I was finally at my social media conference. For those of you who are like I was a few months ago, social media is roughly the concept of marketing through social platforms on the internet. Or something like that. I didn't take notes on that part because they had FREE DANISHES. Spies have priorities, you know.

Anyway, it turned out I didn't really have to pay attention to much of it at all, because most of the conference was spent explaining things like Facebook fan pages and how to effectively use Twitter. Considering my ..spy company.. blocks the use of any website it deems unproductive (goodbye Bejeweled, cracked.com, personal blogs, or anything that may bring a tiny glimmer of light and hope into the dark abyss that is cubicle life), I settled in to enjoy the rest of the conference with a nice blueberry scone.

That is, until we got to the Powerpoint presentation. An extremely nice and dapper older gentleman was presenting from a local nonprofit, explaining how they'd used Facebook to spread the word about their fundraisers. He showed us screenshots of their page, which I guess was taken from his computer when he was logged into the account, because he suddenly cleared his throat. The audience followed his eyes to where he was looking at the advertisements on the sidebar. That's when I noticed for the first time that the ads were extremely... specific. GAY MOTORCYCLE CLUB, the first one said. The second one: GAY AUTOMOBILE CONVENTION. Okay, I didn't even know they had those. We went onto the next page. GAY BOWLING CLUB. "You know," the presenter said, very graciously, "I don't know how they find out this stuff."

All in all it was quite a successful morning.

November 18th, 2010

Brian bought me a camera. For those of you who don't know, Brian is one of my best friends in the entire world (and not just because he bought me a Canon Rebel XS). I've known him since he started college, which makes this friendship almost four years old. That's older than any of the clothes or furniture or electronics I have. I believe I mentioned something about commitment issues.

We did "date" on and off for a little bit (refer to all posts labeled with "Mango"), but alas, it was not meant to be. We realized this at about the same time we discussed our life goals: Brian wanted a PhD in engineering and a family in the suburbs who would go to church every Sunday, and I wanted to finally be recognized as a world beer pong champion.

The parting was pretty amicable.

Anyway, we'd been talking about photography for some time, ever since I had to trail a photographer around for half a day at work while he did some publicity shots for us. It was, without a doubt, the most thrilling half a day of work I've had since I started that job. To fully comprehend how sad that is, let me describe what I did for that half day -- I held up his reflector, opened doors when his hands were full, and tried to convince subjects they were photogenic. I didn't even get to touch the camera. And it was still light miles better than whatever I was doing at my desk job.

The thing about Brian is that he gets passionate about things in a split second. A few months back, he worked with a fellow intern who owned a bike shop. Brian then developed an intense and unwavering passion for folding bikes. Not even regular bicycles, but bicycles that you can fold up and carry around with you. It was a very specific passion, and by association throughout the following months I got to hear about every bike forum, bike shop and bike nonprofit (yes, they exist) Brian came across during his research. And he did a lot of research.

So when we started talking about photography -- me meanderingly and distractedly as I think about everything -- he dove right in. We went to camera shops, looked up camera deals, and debated between Canon and Nikon. It was just like the bikes, except this time I wasn't bored and didn't have to exercise. It was still very abstract for me though. I mostly said things like "wouldn't it be cool if I had a camera?" and, "if I had a camera I could take a picture of that weird guy over there." Brian, on the other hand, started talking to me about aperture and shutter speed and a bunch of other things that sounded suspiciously like science.

As much as my fascination with photography was genuine, I secretly thought that it would go the way of my other interests -- karate (I never got past white belt, because my parents didn't have the money to buy me the uniform for the next level -- come to think of it that one wasn't really my fault), painting (my art teacher mentioned at every lesson that I need more patience, until finally I quit -- that'll show him), drinking (you have to go all the way to the fridge, pour the shot, get a chaser, repeat several times, then go get a burrito when you get the alkie-munchies -- it was all too much to deal with). This was especially true because photography is a difficult hobby to be involved with when you don't actually have a camera. Trying to get the perfect shot just isn't as thrilling when you're framing the subject by forming a square with your hands. And it's harder to convince your friends to model for you.

But yesterday Brian remedied all that. I've read every article on beginner photography Google could find for me. I've researched camera bags and accessories until I had to physically put my credit card out of reach. I've looked at examples of good photographs, examples of great photographs, and examples of photographs I suspected had too much help from Photoshop. I learned about the the triangle of exposure -- I'm using aperture and ISO and shutter speed, for God's sakes. And I think I might even know what they mean.

And I'm starting to feel like I have .. an interest in something. And I mean an interest in something besides what I'm having for lunch (fries sound good). So for that, I definitely need to say: thank you, Brian. Also, you are off the hook for the next five Christmases.

Yesterday, when I opened the package -- after I finished shrieking with joy and Brian uncovered his ears -- he looked at me very seriously and said, "This is going to change your life. You should write about it." So I am.

Birthday Blog

Okay -- I wrote this many many months ago, in anticipation for the one year anniversary of my blog (this was before I abandoned it for half a year.. but any excuse to celebrate!) which explains the fervent devotion in my tone even though this is only my third post in the last six months. It also explains the nicknames, which I don't use anymore (I just got tired of making them up), and the friend I'm talking to, with whom I'm no longer in touch, much less partaking in drunken arguments with. But everyone deserves a birthday, no matter how belated, so --

Happy birthday, blog! I love you. One year ago today we started on this long, windy (as in twisty, not gusty) journey into my self-indulgent pratterings and here we are, 365 days later, going strong.

Oh? What's that, you say? You want to know how much I love you?

Fine, here is a birthday anecdote.

Once upon a time, mere weeks after your creation, I was drunk and having an argument with Tando (also drunk). As often is the case with drunken happenings, I can't quite recall the details. I do know that it was late and we were outside and there was yelling (possibly on my part) and throwing of beer cans that weren't quite empty (also on my part, maybe) and a lot of using swear words because they make me laugh (it's starting to sound like I was the only one having an argument here). In any case, after a lot of me stomping dramatically around in an intimidating fashion and defying Tando to bring up even one example that would support his cause, he cited you. And that totally shut me up. Because I had no idea he knew about your existence, let alone read you.
"W-what?" I stuttered. "You read my blog?"
"Yes?" he replied, looking confused, probably because he suddenly wasn't having to dodge flying aluminum or urging me to be quiet before the police come.
"How do you know about my blog?" I pursued.
"It's on your facebook," he said, confusion not alleviated in the least.
"Well, I didn't think people would actually notice it--"
"Then why would you put it on there in the first place--"

This was not what the argument was about.
"Anyway," he said, trying to steer us back on track, "on your blog you specifically say that --"
I put a hand on his arm and looked at him so seriously he interrupted himself. "What?"
"Did you like it?"
"Yes," he said, exasperated, "but--"

And that's about as much as I remember because I tuned him out after that and started thinking about you, and how great you are because you have always been there for me, through thick and thin and drunken, irrational posts and sober, irrational posts, and just everything. And I love you. Happy birthday, blog.

A Pretty Compelling Reason I Shouldn't Have Kids

I have decided to give up on any semblance of chronological...ity? in anything I do. I've come to realize that it's really just too big a commitment for a girl who is reluctant to buy an entire serving of mushrooms because she knows very well that she is unlikely to cook and eat them all before the inevitable rotting sets in. This commitment-phobia extends to even the smallest of tasks.

A month or so ago I was browsing in a store near my apartment that specialized in selling whimsical things at seven times the price anyone in their right mind would consider paying. I came across a little notebook with some clever name which I no longer remember, but the concept of it was simple: a diary in which you write one sentence a day. Each page is marked with month and date, with enough room for about five sentences. The idea was to write five years worth of one-liners in that one notebook, so that on the same day every year you only need to look a space above to see what you were doing exactly 12 months ago.

The idea intrigued me. It was like conducting one of those long term experiments on yourself, or like that guy who took a picture of himself every day for six years and set it to somber music. So of course (because I was unwilling to pay $15 for something I could put together myself in three seconds, although I do owe the inventor some points for using his idea and so he is free to come and take one of my ideas any time -- like that one I have about, when I eventually own a gigantic mansion, setting library book collection bins in every room so as to avoid the troubling problem of losing a wayward book under a couch every time I'm too lazy to go to the bookshelf, a problem that consistently plagued my childhood) I went straight home (well, not straight home, I had some noodles in a nice little restaurant nearby first but that's not really conducive to the narrative) and got out my prettiest notebook and wrote very firmly, on the first page, September 12th. The notebook was a full size one, so I had enough space for eight years worth of one-liners. Imagine -- eight years from now I would be 30 years old, and the possibilities of the routes my life will have taken by then were endless. I COULD BE QUEEN OF THE WORLD. And such a journey should not be left undocumented.

Oh sure, things went well for a week or two. Every day I faithfully wrote down a brief summary of my day. Invariably the results were along the lines of, "Today I burned dinner so I ate three cookies and went to bed," or, "If that girl at work doesn't stop being so annoying I will probably smack her and get fired but it will be worth it." As is the problem with many long-term experiments, my journal seemed to require patience and diligence, with no promise of instant gratification in sight.

It was abandoned within a month.

I occasionally still think about it, of course. In fact, I'm thinking about it now, having just written more on the topic than I've written in the journal to date. But the thought of all those backlogged dates, those empty pages, is too daunting. Going back to it now would be like texting a friend you haven't spoken to in months -- it seems a little more trouble than it's worth, you can't ensure the outcome, and life has been going on just fine so why bother?

I suppose it is possible that eight years from now I will look at my notebook with half the pages used but less than fifty sentences written, and regret it the way I might regret not picking up the phone and moving my thumbs to get in touch someone I may end up missing after all.

But then again, I doubt such things will even cross the mind of the QUEEN OF THE WORLD.

It Was Really Just Good Clean Fun

Circle of Life. But Without Any Animals.

Whenever I come home (like I am now for spring break), I usually feel two things:

1. guilt, for all the bad things I do at school that my darling mother has no inkling of, and

2. relief, for not being in high school anymore.

For the first part, it's not that bad. Like I'll be the first to admit that I make some questionable choices but for the most part I'm doing pretty well. Like my sins run more along the lines of ordering delivery five nights out of the week rather than selling myself for cocaine or something. I'm fairly certain that if you put a mountain of cocaine in front of me and then a styrofoam box of Enzo's wings, I'd be all over the latter. Unless I could convert the cocaine into cash with which I can buy wings. But I guess that would make me a drug dealer. And then I'd probably feel pretty guilty.

But my mother has got to be one of the best moms in the world. I mean we squabble now and then and she has this crazy idea that I have too many shoes, but for the most part she is the greatest (example: she was telling me she thinks I may have too many pairs of shoes today as she was buying me two new pairs). And this is an issue because she's always like "think about how much love and care your parents have invested in you, so don't throw yourself away on a boy who won't treat you as well as we do" and I'm like oh shoot. Like, I have enough trouble meeting a guy who doesn't drop a conversation the second he turns on his xbox, but to be actually treated with respect and affection? Let's not get crazy here.

Although I do want to add as a side note that when Mango puts his mind to it, he can be a pretty good best friend. Like, the other day I had an interview in downtown LA, which is a 1.5 hour bus ride from Westwood. It was also during Tuesday of finals week, and I was done on Monday but Mango had two more Thursday and Friday. Our conversation about the interview went something like this:

Me: I have an interview at City Hall on Tuesday.

Mango: That's in downtown? Like near the Staples Center?

Me: Yeah I think so.

Pause here as we both reflect back on the last time we took the bus to Staples Center (to go to the circus) and the show ended at 10 PM and we had to wait for an hour for the next (and last) bus and after strolling past closed stores for half an hour we made our way down two or three very dark city blocks to the bus stop, which turned out to be on a dimly lit corner next to an empty lot. I'm not kidding. Also we were the only two people on the bus until halfway through when a homeless person joined us. I was pretty glad to see Westwood that night.

Mango: I'll go with you.

Me: But you have finals! There's no way you'll be able to study on the bus.

Mango: There's no way I'll be able to study if I'm worried that you'll get raped in your interview clothes.

Me: I'm going in the daytime.

But yeah he ended up coming with me and it was actually pretty fun to hang out on the bus and walk a little around City Hall and to be perfectly honest I probably would've gotten lost if Mango hadn't been there.

So who needs nice boys when you have friends like this?

Anyway, it's not like I hated high school. I mean I didn't really thrive in it like some people do, but it wasn't like I knew any better. The summer before I left for college I was SO SCARED. I was like OMG MY LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN. And I didn't realize that was a good thing. Like, high school me didn't realize that life could be better than having a curfew, six classes a day, a pothead boyfriend and a wardrobe comprising mostly of clothing from Hollister.

But now that I think about it, after (almost) four years of college I sleep before midnight every day, spend as much as or more(!) time on homework than I did in high school, still have an interest in pothead boys, and ... well, no more Hollister clothing. So I guess that's something. What progress I've made.

It's a Work in Progress, Okay?

I hate charming boys. Shoot. I take that back. I'm doing this new thing where I'm very peaceable and calm and benevolent and loving of the entire world which is difficult for me because it involves not stomping feet or stabbing anyone (no link to that, I googled "stab" in my blog and my browser almost overloaded and crashed). This little resolution came about in two ways:

1. A little while ago I had a really bad couple of days. It wasn't quite rock bottom but it was close. Like if rock bottom were a balding middle aged woman who is realizing that the man she married twenty years ago likes reenacting historical scenes with stuffed animals more than he likes her, then I was that woman's illiterate country cousin. But as with all things in life (yeah? that sounded pretty zen, right?), the crappiness challenge eventually passed and I realized that I am just a spoiled brat who pouts or buys shoes every time she gets her feelings hurt. And I vowed that if I had to be a spoiled brat, I would be one who doesn't throw tantrums too often because feet broken from excessive stomping will not wear new shoes well I am a mature and sensible woman who is at peace with herself and with the world.

2. I spent some quality time with a friend of mine who is the most tranquil, sunniest person I know. I've never heard her say anything bad about anyone, and even though she's younger than me she makes me want to be like her. Recently something really great has happened to her, and I'm pretty sure there is no one more deserving. She's head over heels in love and it's insane; I've never seen anything like it. A lot of my friends (reference all three of my roommates) are in relationships, but I've never seen anyone glow the way Ash did when she told me about her boyfriend. I mean, a little cynical part of me (the part that remembers about a thousand broken promises by a variety of douchebag boyfriends) thinks that it might be puppy love, and I'm a little scared that she's so optimistic she's gonna get hurt, but another part of me (the part that listens to Taylor Swift) thinks this is the most AMAZING THING IN THE WORLD. And it's so nice to see her once in a while and remember that the world isn't full of jerks.

So I take it back. I hate am uneasy around charming boys. I hate don't like how they can do the most appalling things but all they have to do is crack a joke or flash a smile and everyone adores them again. I guess this is why I may have, in the past, gravitated toward guys who are really (and I mean really) rough around the edges, because they seem to have no pretense.

But. Uh. No. So wrong. Unfortunately life is not a romance novel. Which means that that guy who's a little brusque and rude and not so nice to you? He's not hiding any inner pain that you can magically cure him of. He's actually kind of just a jerk who probably likes making girls cry. And you know how in love stories two people will find each other infuriating and engage in a shouting match that ends up in a steaming bedroom scene (ref: The Notebook, or any other love movie ever made)? Yeah, that doesn't happen in real life either. Apparently being told about all your character deficiencies isn't a big turn on. Who knew criticizing someone's personality didn't count as foreplay?

I had to read this book for one of my classes called The Female Quixote and I feel like every boy in the world should read this. It's set in late 19th century England and it's all about this young woman who's beautiful and intelligent and rich and basically perfect except that she was brought up in a castle far from society and all she had for entertainment were romance novels. Yes that's right. So she expected all her "lovers" to suffer in quiet anguish for her (confessing one's love was very much not allowed in her romance novels) and only after years of this kind of emotional torture could he maybe kiss her hand and that would be enough for him to be inspired to go off and perform all these mighty deeds in the name of his love and when he comes back, the lovely lady will blush and avert her eyes and confess that she "does not hate him" and he will rejoice and proclaim himself the happiest man alive. I swear I'm not exaggerating at all.

So I don't get why anyone would call me high maintenance just because I like shoes and don't hate compliments. It's like uh. Am I asking you to buy me shoes? No. I buy my own damn brightly colored sneakers or questionably skanky boots. And if I get a little upset because your insults outweigh the compliments you give me by maybe 1000 to 1 then no, I'm not being unreasonable or childish, you are being a bully and a stupid douchebag a fellow human being who is completely entitled to your own opinions, but wouldn't the world be a much nicer place if we didn't poison other people's souls all just tried to have a more positive attitude?

This zen shit stuff is hard awesome.