This lady proudly proclaims she is the only person in the world who knits conceptual pieces on an extreme miniature scale. I believe her. She, no matter what you feel about it, is a professional. She is the best at what she does, an expert in her field. She is also extremely fulfilled. She loves her job, and working in miniature has been her passion since she was young. Many "traditional" business types might scoff at her. They may say, "Professional? More like quack! The financial reports I proofread have much more of an impact on the world! My work gets things done". I would say "Hmm, not true. Her work is a fundamental element of one of my, and many others', favorite movies! That movie in turn inspired the aforementioned and me, and we then used that inspiration to do many things in all fields. Your red penned financial report spelling checks passed under your boss' eyes, then situated themselves firmly into a filing cabinet, never to be seen again, except in cases of audits...if you're lucky. You are BOTH professionals!"
ETA: Accounting is Very Important. I take an Accounting class. But the balance sheets only as important as the thing it's supporting.
CASE #2
After this video you might dismiss this man as some crazy kid pulling a stunt. This man, in addition to being my brother's role model, is a professional. More specifically, he is a professional CHAMPION. Takeru Kobayashi is ranked as the 3rd competitive eater in the world, and held the record for hot dog eating for 6 years. He has broken many records. You can read all about it on Google or something. "Ha!" Financial Proofreader man screeches victoriously. "His work is much less important than mine! Who needs competitive eaters?" "Hm, Takeru Kobayashi has a Wikipedia page. You don't. So Wikipedia needs competitive eaters. Also, my brother views Kobayashi as a role model. Kobayashi is notoriously fit and dedicated to his chosen mission. He works out constantly, and trains for hours. My brother saw something he liked, and uses him as inspiration for bodybuilding. Also, they both like to eat. Kobayashi's determination, dedication, and hard work are all much sought after traits in the business word. You are BOTH professionals!"
ETA: This is my competitive eating role model: (Please do not inquire further as to why my brother and I are so into large amounts of food, we both possess extremely healthy appetites, and food is tasty).
Isn't she amazing?! Gal Sone really loves eating. She is a good example of loving your job. Enough to eat 20lbs of noodles.
CASE #3
Stephen Colbert, folks. What I love: Stephen Colbert loves his job so much, he never steps down for one second from his "Colberrrrr" persona. "Stephen Colbert is just doing what many have done before him. Comedian news reporters are nothing new!" Yes, but your kids don't care about older comedians. And kids are more tuned into politics because Colbert has made them relevant and entertaining. When they don't get a joke, you know what they do? They look it up. And also, he's hilarious without being gross and/or profane. He stays in character to a fault. Dedication, creativity, and hard work. So that is why he is a professional. The suit doesn't hurt, either.
Next, I'm gathering materials for a PEOPLE WHO DON'T LOVE THEIR JOBS post.
Jeex. Hello, everyone, my name is Babbles When Nervous, and my talent is blurting out really incriminating things that reflect poorly on me during job interviews. Yesterday I had a quick job interview to try to score a second job with the school. You know that quote- "Think quickly, speak slowly"? Usually I do a pretty good job with that. Except in important situations I guess. I'm actually not very talkative most of the time. Why on Earth do I suffer diarrhea of the mouth when it comes to things that are actually relevant to my life? It's almost as though as soon as they ask a question, this jerk named My Mouth decides to blurt out a bunch of embarrassing crap, and his girlfriend My Brain is standing there, gaping at her boyfriend's sheer unfettered JERKFACENESS, until she slaps him. I really want to practice the Art of Being Suave. Speaking in slow, measured tones, assured of my precise meaning and wit lacing every. FREAKING. WORD.
..and while I'm wishing for stuff, I want a pony.
But really. Maybe I should take speech therapy classes or something. Is there one for "Dealing with socially retarded babbling"? Or "Nervous Rambling: How to End The Heartbreak". Heck, I'd even considering signing up for "Becoming a Debonair Gentleman: For Women".
I think it's important to have the brains, but the brains don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swin- ...I mean, if you can't express the brains in a coherent, steady flow of words. Honestly, there's enough of a stigma about women in the business world without adding "babbly" to the list of stuff people will whisper about you. I already feel insecure about my voice, which conveniently gets about ten octaves higher when I'm nervous/speaking to strangers/on the phone.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go stand around in lounges and smile coolly while maintaining a mildly interested facade. People always go for that kind of thing.
The teacher said if we made a rubric he would consider using.
SO. I. DID. The first is the boring official one. The second one is something I'd actually look at if it landed on my desk. It's very open ended. You could use a simple but classic numbering system, or write paragraphs of loosely related rambling to make your point! It's all up to you. I feel that paperwork should be exciting. It should reflect your company's aesthetic. Even in black and white, that second one? Classy. Not to say I'm against bare bones. I love simplicity. I mean, look at the layout of this blog. Sharp, clean, dark, and pretty. Just the way I like it. Yes, it's hard reconciling the love of cute with the love of brooding blackness, but I'll figure it out.
...Also my finance teacher told me that printing in amaranth colored ink will drive costs up into the stratosphere.
Well, I read the rest of "Orbiting the Giant Hairball", and thankfully it has a happy ending. Sometime between last night and this morning I got over myself. Actually I'm not sure why I was such a whirlwind of thoughts yesterday. It might have been the fact that in an attempt to save some money, I'm trying to hold out on grocery shopping until the weekend. Yay fluctuating blood sugar! So...apparently I'm extremely perturbed by hairballs. I do live with three cats, so it's not all that out there. I'm not sure if my reaction to the book is positive or negative, but it IS a reaction, which is A+ in my opinion. I'm still working out the issues with this blog, but I think it's starting to feel a little more like what it should be, which...according to me, is a collection of observances on class, communication, business-y concepts, my much awaited magical all of a sudden transformation into a beautiful business butterfly, professionalism, blah blah blah all that good stuff. So...I'm learning. Slowly but surely. I WILL MAKE THIS WORK!
WARNING: this is a long, boring post about me me me whine whine. This is not how my thought process manifests itself normally.
This is how it manifests itself after my brain has been halfway uprooted.
Orbiting the Giant Hairball has rudely pulled so many switches in my brain that I can’t even communicate to my roommates in Earth speak right now. Let’s start with a story. Once upon a time, when I was around 12, I think I probably reached Nirvana. I was in the back of my dad’s Sebring Convertible and I waved to a little kid, even though I’m not a kid person. So I achieved Nirvana suddenly. I felt the whole world go away, and I lived in the wind bubble at 60 mph. We stopped at Kmart. I said with a smile to Dad, “Hey…I think I just reached Nirvana”. My mom seemed oddly accepting. For some reason, though, this threw my Dad into an uncharacteristic fury (He is not unstable or prone to unreasonable anger, by the way). He was vehemently against the claim, saying how there was no way I could reach Nirvana, giving the totally bizarre reason that I’m “Only 12 years old! How is a 12 year old going to reach Nirvana?!” He was livid. My mom on the other hand took this as a challenge. She faced off with him, saying, “If she says she’s reached Nirvana then MAYBE SHE DID!” I just blissed out, until later I thought about what my dad had said. He seemed to always be right so…I hadn’t reached Nirvana. After all, I was just 12 years old. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t until later I thought about what my mom and dad fighting really seemed like. The ultimate rebel, outsider, and all around outlier, Mom, defying authority: angles, the epitome of a white-collar worker, Dad, champion of logic and words. So at the age of 12, I learned that apparently 12 year olds can’t reach Nirvana, but my mom would be accepting of whatever…weird cosmic experiences I would get bestowed upon me. Including Nirvana.
So I read the first 56 pages. I am now sitting, reading my closet doors that are covered in pink pieces of paper. Those pieces in turn are covered in frantic scribbles: my brain overflowing through my favored black Crayola marker. I’m not sure what my brain is trying to say- if it’s agreeing with the book or fervently arguing with it. I’m going to settle for it being overly stimulated. I was on an Elliptical machine while I was reading it, so I couldn’t even jot down my thoughts, just raise the level on the machine to “Nuclear”. I think the reason I feel so messed up is because…I’m not even sure I’m in the orbit of a hairball. I’ve tried to be in a hairball for so long. I once even lost a hold of feeling emotion so I could be in a hairball. Being in hairballs is not a talent of mine. It’s one of the couple things I utterly fail at. It’s the reason jobs elude me, why I can’t say anyone 100% understands me, and why I constantly “float”- float between people, some of who aren’t even there. I am, for better or worse, a 4th dimensional person. It’s a Korean phrase (as far as I know) for someone who has 4 sides, and doesn’t seem to be…”right”. A popular break down of the 4 types can be: Bright and Normal Bright and Strange Dark and Normal Dark and Strange
A 4 dimensional person displays all of these or none of these simultaneously. Another common trait is that “words drop out of the sky” to them. This can have several meanings. They might be seen talking to themselves (there is a distinction from crazy, because, at least in my opinion, they aren't talking to themselves. They're talking to whatever is listening, as opposed to crazy people who are talking to their hand or something). They might be artists or poets with an extremely strange, prolific personal aesthetic. Communication with everything and nothing. I don’t know about other 4th dimensional people, but for me, it’s ensured that I can never converse with someone with my entire mind. I’m either analyzing their brain or missing out on everything, coming away from the conversation with entire messages totally unnoticed. Just because I'm lazy. It also ensures that I totally fail at fitting in. I think part of the reason this book has me so freaked out because it's on the verge of invalidating my existence. So far, I'm almost labeled as a gray fuzzy nothing on the chart. As a bubble person, I float within hairballs and orbits. I go to art school. To study business. I always claim I'm anti-Fine Art, yet…I paint more than most art students do. I’m not an artist by my own definition, but then what would you think when you see my piles of sketchbooks, constant doodles, works in progress? It makes no sense. I love thinking business, and I love the privacy it gives me to do my own projects. I have never been as unhappy as I was in the Fine Art environment. Ironically, it stifled my creativity. I wasn’t allowed to do anything the way I wanted, because it wasn’t “artistic” enough, whatever that meant. As a Business major, I have more freedom in my art than I’ve ever had. I can draw what I want, when I want, how I want, and it’ll still be ok because I’m not supposed to be able to draw. I’m in my own little orbit, I think, floating in my daydreams and scribbles, and ambition. I can raise my hand proudly when someone asks if I’m an artist, because no one expects me to. There isn’t a place for me in the world yet, so I want to make my own place, which is why I’m going to be an entrepreneur. I want to live in the world and show them the 4th dimension through my designs and products. I’m not sure if I’m incredibly stupid or a genius, if I can break through my anti communication frequency and forcefully attach it to everyone else’s frequency, but I’m going to find out. Even if I fail horribly, I can always float back up for some R&R.
With all these opportunities to meet influential and extremely successful people, adults around me are constantly telling me to network and work on starting “professional relationships”. They tell me to shake hands, state my name, get an in. When I hear this though…I have a few prominent thoughts.
a) What on Earth will that accomplish? b) It would be good to tell me, oh wise one, what exactly you do after saying your name. Just stand there and smile? My smile IS dazzling, but it’s not THAT dazzling. c) This feels bad. This feels too close to brown nosing. If I’m not doing it for my own personal interest, and feeling genuinely excited, it feels empty and power hungry.
Yet as an aspiring entrepreneur, I’m constantly getting the same advice. I understand that getting my name out there is good. It’s a good thing. But at the same time…I’m 19 years old. I live in a dorm. My main projects lately are digital paintings and deciding whether or not the rice crackers will last until budget refresh day. Yes, I do make up business plans in my notebooks, and I have one hell of a master plan going on deep in the laboratories but…right now, I feel like all I have to share with people is a little silly. I’m super excited about my plans and goals, but it seems petty to take up someone’s time with intangible rambles, especially when that someone has accomplished more than I have in my entire life. I know conceptualizing is valuable, and it’ll transmit the right message to the people who need to hear it, when they need to hear it, but…I have nothing to interest them yet. I have done the business equivalent of doodling, and I’m trying to show Rembrandts and DaVincis my little crayon drawings. I don’t look the part, and I feel like I haven’t earned the excited gushing about entrepreneurship because, duh, I haven’t done anything yet. And my hardboiled office experience amounts to, uh, going on one month of office assistant-ness? I guess what I’m trying to say is I wish I could win the lottery so I could have my own little shop thing. Then I could be the one making people nervous with the slightest facial tic. ...I just invalidated my entire point. Awesome!
Before jetting off to the flea market (I assure you I really am a college student, not an old person), I had some time to kill. Instead of working on Photoshop or continuing to scrounge in our somewhat minimalist kitchen for breakfast, I decided to attack my backlog of half finished entries. It’s a pretty unattractive tangle of half finished thoughts, stupid quotes, and green grammar lines. I do manage to record some potential material, though. The Squiggle model of communication in class was reminding me of something. Also, I forgot the technical name for this model, but..."squiggle model” seems all right to use casually. It haunted me for a bit, and I was wondering, “What could this possibly remind me of?” It seemed weird that it would stand out to me. Naturally, I wouldn’t remember until AFTER the assignment, but I was definitely on to something. The something in question was that series of remake movies, Ocean’s Eleven (and twelve, and thirteen). More specifically Ocean’s Thirteen because it’s on cable practically everyday. You’ve probably seen it flipping through channels. People always say it’s the worst in the trilogy. I don’t care. It’s on TV the most. I make no claims to having a good taste in movies, but I really do like O13. It’s very subtly funny, and I do love plans without a hitch. And the plans in Ocean are always very big. So, jet setters, bored genius thieves, ridiculously high stakes, and stylish transitions- I’m in. Despite my failure to find a script, I’m going to attempt some recall. On with my point: throughout the movie, two of the main characters, Danny (George Clooney) and Rusty (Brad Pitt), are often used to segue into a scene. They are shown midway through their unrelated conversations. The lack of context is what makes them so funny to me.
Now I am going to hate them, because I’m going to analyze what on Earth those could mean, by taking the funny out and replacing it with hard cold description. Oh, school, the sacrifices I make for you.
Situation #1:
Theory: Rusty decided his current love interest, who was threatening to change the channel would appreciate him…dropping his towel, in return for the cessation of channel change! (Tongue twister.) Once the remote is dropped, the towel goes back on. Maybe she had said something about wanting him to be more spontaneous recently? In any case, Danny seems unfazed by his friend’s antics. In the same way you get used to a dog that pees everywhere, Danny has gotten used to his friend. (I'm just bitter because MY dog pees everywhere, and coincidentally, his name is Danny). He also seems to think this situation was handled in a typical way. I get the feeling the woman in this equation didn't stay around for very long.
Situation #2:
Theory: Rusty and Danny are good enough friends that they barely need to say anything to understand each other. I’ve been there, it’s nice.
Situation #3:
Theory: …well at the very least, Danny seems a little shocked by the audacity of the pancake on the floor, but then congratulates his friend putting his foot down and taking a stand. (No comment) I don't even know why pancakes would be offensive. And once again, according to Danny, it was handled in the best possible way. Maybe pancakes are Rusty's least favorite food, and Danny feels you have to make a statement to be understood. I…I’m …having trouble with this one, mostly because I’m cackling while ticking away at my keyboard. I’m going to take a break.
I tasted power today, when I temporarily stood in for the abandoned reception desk at XXXXXX, an office located somewhere within Ringling. The phone rang only twice (three times if you count the call I missed while answering another call...cue staring at the blinking SECOND CALL alert, only to snap back to reality when the other line questioned my slack jawed silence...Let's pretend that one didn't happen), but I think I probably hung up on one trying to transfer the call, and made the other one go to the wrong voicemail.
...If it was important, they'd call back, right? Suffice to say, I spent the rest of the time cringing every time someone seemed to be walking towards the office (considering the location, a lot of the time), hoping it wasn't the enraged caller come to beat my face in with the telephone.
I then had a marvelous conversation with somebody. This was probably helped by my nervousness about...um...possibly hanging up on potentially important people? When I'm nervous, I'm a great talker. I'm friendly, witty, and quick minded. Maybe I should be nervous more often! Sure, I look like I have the jitters, my skin gets corpse pale, and my breathing becomes erratic ("Must...not...breathe...it's socially unacceptable!"), but I'm just the life of the party. ...That's just my perception though. It's quite possible I'm imagining this as my mind's way of protecting me from the reality: I come off as a total serial killer.
it puts the lotion in the basket or it gets the hose again!!
I've noticed that people will often chide me for being "too nice" or "wimpy" (I prefer ridiculously laid back and/or lazy). This is okay to me. I'd rather be "too nice" than constantly express "DEAR HELL WHO PEED IN YOUR COFFEE" caliber rage. I also prefer chilly silent anger than "Punch You in the Jeans" anger...but that's another entry. My point is that you would think this gave me leeway when my mouth lets escape a pointed remark in a fit of delirium. (See: running late for class) I've found that, instead, people tend to REMEMBER. EVERY. EXACT. WORD I SAID. For yearsss after the fact. I mean, I'm absolutely ecstatic that people are apparently hanging on my every word, that was a little dream of mine, but when my roommate remembers an offhand remark I said that, according to reports, was arrogantly dismissive, it gives me pause. Also...I don't sweat small stuff, so although I'm sure it wasn't as vitriolic as she perceived it, I have no other context to place that in besides her view, since I filed that memory away, oh say, about 5 minutes after it happened. I guess what I'm trying to say is.... I SWEAR I'M NOT A PURPOSELY BAD PERSON (insert sob) LEAVE ME ALONNEEE Also, it's so weird how something that you say offhand with absolutely no strong feeling or thought behind it can live on for years as a virtual clothespin stuck on someone's nose. (...Interesting analogy. I like this blogging thing; it makes me sound vaguely intelligent.) Although we're good friends, she will always remember that exchange, as well as my defense years later when she told me. It's...it's actually a little creepy.
And that was my allowance of paranoia for the day, back to being cheerfully disaffected!
I feel dumb because I didn't realize the reading was on Sakai until...oh, say, this morning.
When I got to the section on vertigo, my first thought was how much actual vertigo sucked when I got it. In addition to sailors in fogs and scuba divers experiencing it, apparently Temporary Credit Associates who work at XXXX Department Stores get it too. Then I read about social vertigo and thought, "Boy I feel that all the time! How unfortunate a revelation!" Then I remembered my sudden year long bout of apathy in senior year of high school, and thought that feeling social vertigo is much better than not feeling anything at all. This sounds more angst...ful than it really is.
I need some Crayola markers. It'd make my conversation script prettier. (Yes, they really do need their own tag, there at the bottom; what if I feel like talking about Crayola markers in the future?) I'm not going to be able to get them until it's too late, so my script will be black on black. Impressive!
First posts are so unnerving. You always want to post something memorable, but you can't just dive into the content straight away with no fanfare. There's no difference with written journals. FIRST PAGE HAS TO SAY "MY JOURNAL". (Optional: "read and die!" or "Brent Luhguhuu is so dreamy~") So...this is the first post.
