I'm Only a Butt-Dial Away

The only downside to having a Blackberry (aside from the disconnection with any real people because you are addicted to your phone) is that you butt dial everyone. Particularly anyone with a name that starts with "P." For me, this means my butt continually calls my grandfather (Pa for short) in the car, walking to work, or at the bar. I'm not too worried considering he never has his cell phone on (why he even has one I don't know), but I'm sure he's listened to many muffled conversations about hair products, daily gossip, and counseling sessions with heartbroken friends.

Personally, I can spot a butt dial from a mile away. Because my name starts with an "A," it's pretty common for me to get a few a week. I typically let it roll to voice mail if it's A) a number I don't recognize, B) a person from high school I haven't talked to in 4+ years, or C) an old coworker.

Aside from everyone's multi-talented dialing derrieres, I've received numerous accidental texts, which I like to call "butt-texts." This is a talent I haven't quite mastered myself. A few weeks ago, a friend sent me a text that was clearly not meant for me. It's too bad it didn't make it to the actual recipient because I think it was an attempt to flirt. Don't worry, it wasn't quite a Brett Favre or Tony Parker text. Clearly uninterested in this kind of discussion, I kindly sent a reply letting him know I received his message. I know he was embarrassed because he quickly said it was a joke text to a buddy (yeah right). I know he was embarrassed; however, it was definitely worth the stomach ulcer I got from laughing so hard.

In the words of Ryan Seacrest, "please dial carefully." I know you do not wish to send me your dirty texts, drunk walks home or cry sessions with your boyfriends. It's nothing personal because, frankly, I enjoy them. I just want to save you the embarrassment. Control your butt.

My First Date

I had my first informational interview with a PR agency last week. It turned into more of an interview than I thought. I was having an I-feel-like-I-was-hit-by-a-truck day with seasonal allergies and a rough cold, and I hadn't straightened my hair in a month. I was looking a little bush woman and sounding a little phone sex operator. Hopefully, the agency is into that.

Now, not that I know a lot about dating around (I've been with the same person for 100 years), but I imagine it's a lot like informational interviews. You take three hours to pick out an outfit that says "I'm interested but not trying too hard;" you leave an hour early and sit in the parking ramp going over how you'll introduce yourself; and you spend the entire conversation trying to read the undertones of your date's body language and word choice. Unfortunately, I don't have a lot of practice in this area since I can wear flannel pajamas, eat an entire pizza and burp (just another Saturday night) in front of Matt without the slightest hesitation.

Anyways, I felt like a zombie and as the interview gets started, I noticed she was asking more questions than I was. I came in just trying to figure out if an agency was where I wanted to be and I left applying for the internship. I guess even the living dead can compete.

I truly believe when you approach something to learn, you end up getting more than you bargained. People are more willing to connect with you and help you out when you have a general interest in them. I think people appreciate that kind of networking because the relationship is mutual. It's hard to keep that mentality when careers are so competitive, but things seem to just fall into place when you approach the job market in a less-hostile manner.

The Bucket List

Well, tomorrow came and went. Here is the list of new projects I created:

1. Pick up knitting...again.
2. Learn to cook.
3. Work out more.
4. Read a book for fun.
5. Get 8 hours of sleep.
6. Create a budget for the rest of the year.
7. Set up informational interviews at an agency, corporation, and nonprofit organization.

Projects 1-6 look a lot like the bucket list of an empty nesting 40-something. When I really think about it, my nest is pretty empty. I live alone in a studio apartment; I can drink wine on a Tuesday without judgment; and I'm suddenly realizing how much time I have on my hands without other people in the house. I am my mother.

Project 7 is something that just needs to be done. It's one of those things you put off until it's almost too late and you panic. Panic mode on. I'm addicted to job searching. I get a rush from the idea of employers continuing to post job openings on mnprjobs.com or mima.org/jobs despite the jobless economy. It's a total buzz kill when I realize I can't apply for any of these positions until I'm closer to graduation in the spring.

Working as in communications at the same company for 4 summers and several other internships helped me get my feet in the door, but without an internship or event planning project this fall, I feel a little stale. Hopefully Project 7 will help.

If not, I will knit myself a reindeer sweater and revert back to Projects 1-6.

...And then I was bored.

I had lunch with my dad today. I told him that I was enjoying a more laid back view of life. After staff directing the Maple Grove Triathlon over the summer, I was enjoying the break from 2am coffees, WalMart runs and frequent nightmares that no volunteers showed up.

I had lunch at 12pm. By 1:30pm, I had talked myself bored. The fact is, I'm not one to sit around and wait for the next thing to fall into my lap. Sure, it's good to relax and take a break from a work marathon, but enough is enough.

Tomorrow, I find a new project. Boredom solved.

Trophy Husband

Everyone deserves one. Someone who you are proud to show off and (more importantly) someone who isn't completely embarrassed to be around you. Matt and I met at Culver's, and our first date was at Chipotle. I'm not too worried about embarrassing myself.

My good friend Courtney asked our guys to plan a double date, so (of course) they picked the trashiest bar around, Cowboy Jacks. You can throw peanut shells on the ground. Enough said. C and I went along with it. Upon arrival, the boys immediately started to plot how they would become trophy husbands while C and I brought home the bacon. Unfortunately for them, C and I will probably work with non-profits for the duration of our lives. Looks like someone else will have to get a job.

Apparently, Matt wants to be a PGA golfer. When he makes all his money through winning the masters, I get my turn at being the trophy.

Yeah, right.

Bare Necessities

My annual shopping trip follows my birthday and precedes my first day of my summer internship. This year my mission was to find a tailored skirt suit and blouse, so naturally I left with neither of these things. What I did find was Banana Republic's new summer line of tweed skirts and cardigans.

I didn't wear one of my new outfits to my first day of work, so I wouldn't look like I was ready for the first day of school. I wore it on day two (so much more grown up). My brown pencil skirt fits me like a glove, and with my new beige cardigan belted with a skinny metallic belt with floral decals, I looked like I walked straight out of page 9 in the catalog.

The drive to my internship is about 45-60 minutes in traffic. I don't mind the drive in the morning because it gives me time to charge up on coffee and listen to trashy news on my favorite morning show, so I don't peruse E!Online at work.

The drive home is another story. About 30 minutes into the drive and 6 Justin Bieber songs on the radio later, I have to listen to the public radio jazz station to avoid road rage.

So day two of my internship began like any other day until I felt a breeze. Stepping out of my car in my page 9 look, a sudden chill came over me...well, came over my ass. My skirt had ripped right down the zipper exposing my shelf butt to the world.

I work in a place where most people in the office work on hourly shifts. Getting to work a few minutes before the hour means a few more minutes for your daily dose of celeb gossip. "Am I moving in slow motion?," I asked myself as I looked around at the people sitting in their cars.

Why do car doors lock when you shut them nowadays? What if you're in a parking lot and your ass is hanging out and you need an escape route? One doesn't think to push the unlock button with one's keys. One just tries the handle over and over and over again.

Once safely inside my vehicle, I asked myself, "How do you tell your boss (on day two) that your ass pulled a Janet Jackson and needs to go home to redeem itself?" I made the call, left a near-to-tears message, and drove an hour to get home. I changed into pants from last year's shopping trip (not the same page 9 effect, but at that point I just wanted to avoid another peep show).

On my way back to the highway, I did something unthinkable. I stopped at McDonald's for a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit. My guilty (okay incredibly guilty) pleasure I only delve into during bad moments. My new skirt ripped, I was going to be two and a half hours late for my internship, and I figured as long as I'm busting seams....

I can't make this stuff up.

Growing Up

I was that little girl in the grocery store posing in front of the Stouffer's lasagna because I could see my reflection in the glass of the frozen foods section. That toddler at daycare coloring instead of napping with the other children because she'd rather be sharing her theories on Disney Princesses with the teachers than dreaming the day away, yeah that was me.

And despite the fact that I still put my chapstick on in the frozen foods section, call myself the first brown Disney princess (before that Princess and the Frog movie), and eat mac and cheese like it's a delicacy, I'm supposed to be a grown up. I started working when I was 13 as a receptionist for my father. The feel of new office supplies, desk organizers and day planners has become an obsession. My teens were spent working not to buy the next N'Sync album, but to climb the professional ladder, so I could start on top once I graduated. Turns out, there is no such thing as a professional ladder.

A public relations major with a minor in Spanish, a passion for unpaid work and an addiction to internships. I think I'll just be a professional volunteer.