The ‘nilla phenomenon

Maintaining personal and professional balance in the PR world is tricky business. On the one hand, characters like me have a hard time masking their colorful-ness. On the other hand, it pays to be vanilla.

What I mean by that is some of the most successful public relations professionals I’ve had the pleasure of knowing are some of the most vanilla people I’ve ever met. Everything about them is PR-proofed. They don’t share opinions on anything that’s not related to the business, they would rather take a hot poker to the eye than accidentally mutter an obsenity and they keep everyone at a distance to maintain professionalism (i.e.- Who needs friends??). In short, everything in their lives centers around maintaining a professional appearance.

Ugh. That’s not going to cut it for me. I like my own thoughts and opinions and, believe it or not, I occasionally think about things other than my career. I love the business and I work myself like a pack mule when need be–but I don’t want to center my entire life around PR.

Sometimes I like to let my hair down. Sometimes I have a few cocktails and laugh too loudly with friends. Sometimes I retweet funny things that have zero PR value.  Sometimes I stop reading the blogs and start watching TiVo’d Grey’s Anatomy. Sometimes I’m a freaking human being. 

If  public relations is all about building relationships, why do some PR pros feel the need to build their professional persona around a complete lack of emotions? Emotions are the cornerstone of relationships after all.

PR people, what are your thoughts?

Talk typeface to me, baby

At the end of last semester I helped one of my good friends and sorority sisters switch her major. It was a little late in the game but necessary. She hated her previous major and couldn’t see it fitting into her life plan. Better late than never.

And honestly I was a little jealous. I like PR. It’s interesting stuff and I’m passionate about it. But there was that little part of me that thought “Lucky you. I wish I had the nerve to change my major way back when.” Not that I would have known what to change it to. I only figured out my other passion my senior year of college.

If I had it to do all over again, I’d choose what I believe is one of the coolest specialized occupations ever–typography. There is nothing more impressive to me than someone with an eye for detail so critical he or she can instantaneously tell what typeface, weight and size are used in a composition. Amazing!

It'd be more appropriate if this was designed in Comic Sans.

One of my coworkers in the KSU Office of Student Media could rattle off the answers like he was looking at flashcards–Helvetica Ultra Light, Meta Bold, Century Gothic, Courier New, Courier Bold, Eurostile,  Baskerville, Garamond, Adobe Garamond Pro. Sweet Jesus, sakes alive.

It’s the kind of thing I find myself doing all the time now. I’ll read the side of a bus or a newspaper ad and think “Is that Gill Sans? Yup. definitely Gill Sans bold. Interesting choice.”

There is nothing hotter than a man who can create something–whether it’s in Illustrator, InDesign or AutoCad. Which would explain why every guy I’ve ever dated/been involved with has been in a major that required design skills.  Mmmm artsy.

I guess it’s just the nature of the beast. What I try to do with the written word,  others do with letters, vectors and renderings.  We’re all in the business of creating compelling pieces of art.

Vaca to the horse face states

Background: A friend of mine who has lived in several New England and East Coast states always told stories about the fabled horse face women who live there. Our only explanation was that years and years of old money inbreeding has resulted in fug-tastic generations of blue-blooded trust-fund-seeking  females. Le woof.

That being said, East Coasters don’t send your hate mail just yet. I happen to know some extremely good-looking ladies and gents from the area. I’m not saying you’re ugly. I’m saying  you look exceptionally good compared to all your ugly girlfriends. Now that that’s squared away…

My older brother and I jotted over to Baltimore for Halloween. After all the “OMG your brother is so hot. OMG I can’t stop staring. Oh God, I think he caught me staring?” crap from the girls, we went to the Inner Harbor to show off our whore-riffic costumes and throw back some Natty Boh. Fabulous, fabulous time. Unfortunate that my brother had to see me dressed so sluttishly, but you can’t win ‘em all.

Over to Manhattan for the real trip! Psych–pit stop at Antietam (yah, the Civil War Antietam) first. I love  my brother but I’d rather have a root canal than visit battlefields. It’s on the same level a step up from Renaissance fairs in my book. Never the less, we stopped and looked around. 

Ok, now on to Manhattan. As much as I wanted to not like New York City (especially with the whole Yankees playing in the series thing going on) I absolutely fell in love with it. The hustle, the bustle, the toothless men selling pashminas on street corners! What’s not to love?

The coolest part of the city was definitely this rooftop bar that my trendy and super Japy ( her words, not mine) friend Elyse took us to. There aren’t any markers or signs outside this office building, so you have to know by word of mouth that the 20th floor and roof are a super exclusive bar and lounge. I was dying. Plus it’s chock full of CEO’s and Wall Street’s finest. DYING.

Other fabulous things about Manhattan:

1. Subways! Not as dirty or urine-smelling as I expected!

2. Nice people. Completely surprising. But that might have something to do with my lethal combination of doe-eyed helplessness and cleavage.

3. Magnolia’s cupcakes. We went twice in 24 hours. Yes, that good.

And off to Boston! Honestly, not that impressed. I know, how can the land of the Red Sox, Irish-Americans and Sam Adams (the beer, but I guess you could argue it for the person too) not be made in the image and likeness of Heaven itself? Well it’s not so don’t get too excited.

We did walk the Freedom Trail–every last effing mile of it despite the blood running down my heels. Thanks a heap, brother. Truth be told the accents are the best part of the town. Or the clam chowder. Mmm, chowder.

 

 All in all, a great time. You know, minus the Civil War stuff.

The gospel according to brudder

My big brother got home from Afghanistan the other day. A little background, he’s sort of  a saint in this family. To say my family is above and beyond crazy over him is the understatement of the century. Think Pope status.

When I was younger this totally would have pissed me off because I was the revered one, the favorite.  But truth be told, I’m his biggest cheerleader. I just do it a little less obnoxiously from the sidelines because I know all the muss and fuss embarrasses the living Christ out of him. Also, the more concerned my parents are with him, the less they’re all up in my business. Jackpot.

For example, Faj decided to adorn our house in not only the American flag, but the U.S. Army flag and the “my son is deployed” single star flag. Big bro was not pleased. And while my parents can’t for the life of them figure out why he’d be upset, I get it. He’s just not big into praise (ironic for a saint.)  It makes him 50 shades of uncomfortable.  Although most people assume we’re polar opposites, big bro and I are frighteningly similar.

We talk the same, think the same things are funny, hold the same life/world/political views,  both love to annoy the other to the brink of insanity and would both take a bullet for the dog.  What more could you ask for out of  a sibling?

How about one that takes you on vaca! I’m not sure if it’s out of pity that I’m living with the ‘rents or as a Hell of a thank you for helping him write his admissions essays (Harvard, Stanford, Yale. Yah, told ya–saintly.)  Either way, he’s taking me to NYC and Boston for a few days. OK, he might be slightly deserving of the saintly rep

 

Embarassed, molested and annoyed

Those are the three words that best describe my all-time worst date. I stumbled upon this Web site about other people’s dates from hell and instantly knew what the topic of my next post should be.  Be prepared, folks. My life is a series of uniquely embarassing moments strung together in rapid succession. Judge for yourself.

A little background: I met “Jason” while playing beer pong at a house party. Clearly the activity of choice when trying to meet quality men. In all honesty he had a delicious body and a decent face (I mean, 3 games of pong in anyway.) Long story short he asked for my number and we decided to go out. I really didn’t know a thing about him except that he was a beer pong sensai with a southern accent. Meow.

He tells me we can do anything I want for our date. No you’re just saying that. No–anything he insists. OK, fine. I want to go to the Cleveland Museum of Art for the Modern Masters exhibit. Can you tell where this is going? See a bit of  ominous foreshadowing?

He picks me up at my apartment. We get in his car (the kind that isn’t really nice but for some reason the guy thinks it’s  a Porsche. Dude it’s a 1991 T-top, get over yourself.) As we hit I-77 he procedes to tell me how many speeding tickets he’s accumulated–10.

Don’t they take away licenses for that?? Not in the state that he’s from. Whatever I don’t buy that he’s really had 10 tickets. No state would allow that many tickets for a 21-year-old. Wrong thing to say. He decides to prove it by trying to kill me getting up to 112 on 77 north.  Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Please slow down.

He “accidentally” grabs my inner thigh instead of the gear shift. How convenient. Then he gets us lost– so damn lost that by the time we find the museum it’s getting ready to close.

The guards let us in because they feel bad for me (I can only assume because I was on a date with this jackass.) Enter the first room of the exhibit. Ho-ly shitballs. Rodin’s Thinker is dead ahead, staring me down. I actually squeal with glee. “What is it, like, famous or something?” the fool asks. Come again? YES it is famous, it’s The Thinker for God’s sake.

He asks me to take a picture of him with the sculpture on his camera phone.  And before I can mutter “WTF,” Prince Charming is climbing onto its marble frame. Sirens and alarms are going off inside the museum. Security and the curator run in. I have to explain that Duncey McStupidface didn’t know any better and beg them not to kick us out.

“What the Hell was that???” He doesn’t see “why everyone got so mad.” Umm, because it’s effing Rodin. You cannot just touch famous works of art. He decides to occupy himself by singing and dancing to JT’s Future Sex Lovesounds CD. You brought your iPod. Fantastic. Occupy yourself while the adults look around.

He dances his way through four other galleries until we come to the Monet room. He decides he wants to give art another go. After insulting my favorite painter, we move onto Piccaso’s  blue period.

 He says they all look sad.  Hallelujah, even fools can understand a little something about art. Then he touches one. Alarms again. Me apologizing again. Us almost getting kicked out again.

We get the hell out of the museum and are back on the road. He starts telling stories about his friends back home. Said stories are peppered with the n-word. I’m boiling.  “Could you not use that word?” I ask. “What? N*****?”  Oh my God he said it again. “Uh, yes! Hi, this is Ohio. AKA north of the Mason-Dixon line. And it’s 2007. That whole War of Northern Aggression is over. It’s just ignorant.”

Pit stop at Ruby Tuesdays. Shoot me in the face. I order the most onion laden thing on the menu. Hint, hint–don’t try anything creeper. He procedes to eat the food off my plate. I’m ominously twirling the steak knife in my fingers. Back home to Kent.

Super Shmuck invites himself back into my apartment.  He plops down on my futon and begins to tell me what an amazing athlete he is. This many championships and that many awards, and I so could give two shits. He asks if I played any sports. Nine years of softball and four years of competitive cheerleading, aah thank you. “Wow. I never pegged you for the lesbian type.”

OK, get out. “Wow it’s getting really late and I don’t think I feel so good . Yah my roomate had the flu (lies) and I’m feeling kinda weird. You better go. Seriously, GO.” Slam the door in his face.

And the text from him two minutes later: I really wasn’t expecting our night to end that way

Oh really?  Between the the inappropriate touching, racial slurs, mortifying museum experience, rude dinner habits, attempted vehicular homicide and lesbian name-calling –exactly how did you see the night ending? DEFRIENDED.

The other messy, elusive L word–loyalty.

From time to time I write posts about my (future) career/job/ area of interest. So here’s one that fascinates me–brand loyalty. It all started with a conversation with my Aunt Tracey about Macy’s. 

She was telling me how my Aunt Tina left several hundred dollars worth of Christmas presents at the Mall of Georgia Macy’s and was fu-reaking out about it. The manager asked to see her receipt and replaced all the merchandise on it for free. A Christmukkah miracle!

Not everyone has an experience like that with a favorite brand. Personally, I’m a fan of Macy’s because of a) the ridiculous sales  b) their celebrity laden commercials and c) last year’s Believe campaign.

 

To all those at Macy’s who had a hand in that holiday campaign–you knocked that bad boy out of the park. I mean, really, job well done. That resonated with me, and to be honest I’ve always been a Dillard’s girl. Now I’m an avid Macy’s enthusiast. Congrats.

So then I start thinking about what other brands really give me that warm feeling inside–that trustworthy, “I’ll go out of my way to buy it”  feeling. Several of my choices coincided with  Brand Keys’  list of top brands (ranked by customer loyalty and engagement.) Here is my revised list:

Airline: Continental–might have something to do with growing up outside of Cleveland and its hub being there.  According to Brand Keys, Southwest was in the top two. Say what? Sorry, but I cannot trust any airline thats planes look like this.

And the logo? Good God, the logo. Words escape me.

Who is in charge of their identity over there? Fire them. Because when I see that logo and those planes my heart rate instantly spikes. I mean a heart in the logo? Seriously? I feel like Pilot Barbie is flying the damn thing. A lot of people are scared to fly, and they want reassurance. They want everything about your airline to scream “Don’t worry about a thing. We’re professionals. We’ll get you there safe and sound.” And the Crayola plane does’t support that message.

OTC Pain Reliever: Advil. Only because Acetaminophen doesn’t do a thing for me. I know, I know, Tylenol is a God among brands and brand loyalty, but it’s not my cup of tea.

Credit Cards: Visa, not Discover Card. Granted, Discover does that nifty cash back program but Visa is Visa. It’s everywhere I want to be! Except in debt. I’d prefer not to be there. 

Retail Stores (Discount): Wal-Mart and Target. Wal-Mart is an easy one because although it treats its employees like ca-ca, it has good stuff for cheap. Plus it has a knack for being the only game around in college towns. Completely brilliant if you ask me, since that’s the age when we start buying our own groceries/ toiletries etc. 

 And Target is just perfect in every way. 

 It  frequently has awesome designers create collections for its juniors section, features great brands at cheapie prices (Dwell Studio, Yankee Candle Co. etc.) and there is a dollar aisle! A DOLLAR AISLE!

What can a brand do to gain your loyalty? What brands are you loyal to?

not-so-new year’s resolutions

“Never put off til tomorrow what you can do today.” Old TJ was onto something with that one. I have a love/hate relationship with procrastination. Some things I have to do right as I think of them–like putting away the coffee creamer–or it drives me insane. And some things I’ll drag my heels on for weeks– washing my car. Gag.

But this is one of those things that I have to do right now. I decided it would be a good idea to make some resolutions–why wait for January to better myself, right?

1. Stop biting my lip. I’m not sure if it’s a nervous habit or a boredom thing or something to do with that oral fixation crap that Freud was talking about. Whatever, it just needs to stop because it’s becoming permanantly discolored.

2. Give less of a damn. I have a bad habit of being overly concerned and worrysome, and I’m sort of over it. I’m going to work on caring less about things that are beyond my control.

3. Become fluent in French/learn a new language. I took six years of French but you’d never know it. I have no problem reading it, but speaking it is a different story. In addition to becoming fluent in French I’d like to learn a new language. I already pepper my vocabulary with bits of Yiddish, Spanish, and German so it’d be a good thing to actually learn one of them. Spanish isn’t really new to me–I took a year of it during college–but I feel it’d be the most useful. And German just sounds too angry.

4. Be impulsive. I’d love to think ahead and plan less. I’ve always wanted to wake up, pick a city and go there on a whim. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

5. Love hard. It’s not a new resolution, but it’s a lot harder to keep these days. Despite the messy relationship stuff I’ve dealt with in the last two years, I’m hell-bent on not letting past experiences turn me against the only four letter word I think twice before saying.

6.  Keep traveling. This whole unemployment thing has given me a chance to travel and I’ve been taking advantage of it. Next up on the list–Chicago, New York City and Boston.

7. Fight back. Not literally of course. The first rule of being a lady is to maintain composure. Flying off the handle isn’t flattering on anyone. But once–just once–I’d like to give them a piece of my mind. I’ve bitten my tongue enough in the  past year, and I’m tired of being the peacemaker. Just once I’d like to throw away my composure and give ’em the finger.

I’m sure I’ll add more as I think of them, but for now these are the only things I’d like to fix/change/improve about myself or however you want to phrase it. Which I guess is a good thing. ‘Cause I really like me

The never-ending parade of douchebaggery

I’ll preface this post by saying I’m a firm believer that there are quality men available at any age. That being said, lately I’ve been surrounded by the creepiest bunch of creepos imaginable. Here’s a few examples:

On Friday I went to the Warehouse District with friends. It’s sort of a running joke between me and my bestie that Cleveland has the best downtown scene for ladies because the men here are so crazy horny and desperate that they throw drinks at you left and right. Quite a bit different from her icky Pittsburgh where the cheap bastards won’t buy you so much as a Yuengling.

As expected, I didn’t buy a drink all night. In the spirit of full disclosure, I’ll admit I was wearing a completely backless shirt that may have tempted the creepers into picking up my tab.  Don’t judge. We’re in a recession, folks.

But in exchange for those free drinks I had to deal with a lot of unwanted touching, groping and general ickiness from men hopped up on Muscle Milk.  You know that old SNL skits with the Roxbury guys? The ones where the three guys surround a girl and bounce her around with their man junk? That actually happened to me. Who does that? Apparently the same men who are backless shirt enthusiasts.

Then at work yesterday I had the following conversation with an uber creepy 20 something who was purchasing lingerie for his girlfriend.

Meathead: So do you think she’ll like the pink or the red?

Me: I mean I’d go pink, but that’s just me. [ I start ringing him up]

Meathead: So what did your sweetie get you for Sweetest Day? [awkwardly staring at my chest]

Me: Oh, I don’t have a sweetie. And if I did, I doubt he’d get me anything, haha.

Meathead: I find that hard to believe. So how come someone like you doesn’t have a sweetie? [blatantly looking me up and down]

Me: Uhh…

Meathead: Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places [winks]

Me: Uhh, do you need a gift box?

Meathead: You just need to find someone who’ll treat you right. I always treat my girls right [creepy sexual deviant smile]

Me: Really? I mean, really?

Meathead: I like your glasses, they bring out your eyes.  I bet you get men do to what you want with those eyes.

Me: Do you need a gift receipt? Just in case this doesn’t fit your girlfriend?

 

God help me. I’m a walking douche magnet.

Virgos have rumbly tummies

Or so my mother always told me. I had a conversation yesterday with a friend about astrological signs and what each of ours supposedly means. I’m a reluctant-to-believe Virgo with a Libra rising.  Apparently there’s a “science” to all this crap. Whatever.

On the one hand, I think it’s a bunch of horse shit, and on the other hand, some of the qualities and characteristics of Virgos are spot on.

For example, “Virgos, more than any other Sign, were born to serve, and it gives them great joy.” I definitely agree that I’m a people pleaser. I want to make everyone happy and it honestly doesn’t bother me to do so. I actually enjoy it.

And “to say these folks are good at fact-finding almost understates the case, since Virgos revel in their exacting (some would argue pedantic) behavior and are a whiz with minutiae.”  This is the nicer way of saying I’m a really good creeper.  I’m a Facebook stalking pro. I mean, this trait paid off in Professor Tabar’s Newswriting class–except we called it “investigative journalism” and it got me an A.

And then there were some not-so-true things. “Health-conscious Virgo makes an effort to stay physically fit and you don’t mind repetitive exercise routines.”  Ummm…

“Virgos also have a reputation for being fussy eaters and health food freaks.” I was unaware that vodka is considered health food.

“Your greatest strength is your ability to focus your attention.”  Oh seriously now. Anyone who knows me knows I have the attention span of an A.D.D. four-year-old after a case of pixie sticks.

Virgos are also supposed to be uber organized. Nope. And very practical. Ba! Hardly. The only practical thing about me is my koozie. I’ve never picked the practical cars, shoes, boyfriends, classes etc. I’m way too much of a dreamer for practicality, friends.

So what does it all really mean? Even if there is some truth to the claim that when we were born affects our personalities, couldn’t it just be that we’ve been told we were this way all our lives and starting acting like it?

If you’re told from an early age that you’re a stickler for details–aren’t you going to pay more attention to the little things? If you’ve been taught that you’re analytical by nature, won’t you start to analyze?

Ahh crap. I’m analyzing right now. I’m being completely analytical–another supposed Virgo trait.  Guess you can’t fight the universe.

Confessions of a crybaby

Some days just really blow. And although I’m anti-pitty party and anti-moping/complaining about life, I also know when I need to just have a good therapeutic cry and give in to my emotions. So that’s what I did today–cried and listened to Death Cab, my emo music of choice.

As masochistic as this sounds, it felt amazing. I mean really, really awful.  I felt so completely miserable but I enjoyed it too. It was like that Mellencamp song, Hurt So Good. 

yup, I'm a bawlbaby

I haven’t had a real cry in a long while. That’s a good sign, right?

It’s not even like there’s anything to cry about. Nothing that can’t be fixed anyway–no one died, no cancer and I’m not preggo so all’s well. It was more the culmination of (1) my recent graduation and finally internalizing it, (2) having to say goodbye to my best friends today as they all went back to their respective cities across the country, (3) feeling uncertain about this whole moving to a different city idea, (4) watching a show about dead soldiers in Afghanistan, (5) arguing with my family, (6) feeling increasingly desperate and deflated about the job search and (7) attempting to help all of my friends with their issues while ignoring my own.

Phew. That felt good. Back to life.