i loathe professionalism...and networking.

Okay, maybe I don't entirely disdain professional behavior. However, interviewing for jobs can be so draining.

So, I had an in-person interview at Delta Headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia on this fine December day. This was not a simply thirty-to-forty-five-minute "tell me about yourself and qualifications" pow wow, but a five hour process, in which 55 applicants and about thirty flight attendants were forced to smile, mingle and prove they could be the face of Delta Airlines. By golly, upon entering the lounge we had to shake and greet every flight attendant involved in the interviews. It felt like the world's longest Mormon-style wedding reception. We were broken into groups and completed different tasks (the actual interview, a fit test, and a "day in the life of a flight attendant" seminar), and between rotations would chill in the lounge. But it felt as though every aspect of our behavior was being scrutinized. The flight attendants would regale us with tales of their adventures, and we were asking each other, "Now, where are you from?" All day long, as this was a five-hour affair.

There was so much mingling and forced friendliness (Although, I did make two real friends, Nicole from New Hampshire and some girl from Logan, Utah whose name escaped my mind after she removed her nametag. We had a nice dinner at the airport TGIFridays, and while waiting for our plane to Salt Lake Logan, Utah and I shared a bowl of fried okra.) I think I am a friendly person, but ugh, when so much of your gregariousness is geared toward being ostentatious, you tire quickly. And there were plenty of really genuine people, but there were some whose outgoing bubbliness felt contrived.

Several applicants got a job offer tonight (at least that's why we think they weren't excused with the rest of us), but I was not among them. Not that I am too downtrodden. I told myself I didn't even want this job. I didn't need an upgrade from ground waitress to "waitress in the sky." However, it is a bummer not to be begged to take a job that you feel more than qualified for. However, I could still be offered a position, and then I would be facing the more gut-wrenching realization that I would have to decide whether I wanted to live the jet-setting life of a flight attendant.

I want to conclude with some powerful confession about how I have no idea what I want, or that sometimes I am very content to be complacent. But I feel like everything I write ends up on that tangent, so it is getting a bit trite on this blog.

My father's long-lost brother, Zack Galifianakis

Beardism is rampant in our society. Any sturdy man with a dark beard is told that he is Billy Mays', Al Borland's, or Jack Black's doppleganger. However, I have a feeling that Zack Galifianakis and my father share more than just the ability to grow a mane of hair on the lower part of the face.

They share the same face.

Other pictures probably do the similarity more justice, but if my dad didn't have 6 inches on Zack, I would worry about being unable to distinguish the two.

Choose Your Own Adventure

Recently, I've been ever-so-slightly lamenting the course of study I've pursued in my collegiate education. It seems it would have been a lot more practical if I had just chosen some sort of professional track that led to a specific career. This dawned on me with particular umph as I realized I was jealous of those friends and relatives of mine who are in the first years of teaching. They are somewhere. Their education has yielded certain fruits. Specifically, a classroom over which they have dominion.

I guess I sort of had that professional-track thing going on when I was an aspiring journalist tearing up the editorial scene at BYU (by tearing it up I mean writing mediocre pieces and getting people's names wrong, that's a GFE, my friends, a gross factual error). But I didn't like that, I truly didn't. And I don't really look back on withdrawing from all my journalism classes part way through the semester with regret. In fact, I am kind of proud of those W's marring my transcript. Because for me, it took new insight and courage to realize that a piece of paper didn't matter as much as doing what really felt right for me. Blah, blah, blah. It was really profound stuff.

But now, I find myself with diploma in hand, thinking it will give me direction and realizing that it is not actually a map. Career counselors like to tell you that there is a wide berth of opportunities for enterprising young humanities majors to seize. But I remember the only employer advertising on the "Opportunities in Humanities" bulletin board the one time I looked at it was Enterprise Rent-a-Car, which is a nice company, my uncle works for them, but he was a business major. It was sort of a taunting flier; it seemed to be saying "So you looked at your paintings and read your stories, now come to the real world."

I'm sure a number of people who got their elementary education degree feel a bit like I do, like they don't know where they're going (despite their degree did provide some sort of linear progression, with a clear objective). I feel like I am in a choose your own adventure book. I read a couple of those back in the day, or maybe I just read one a couple of times. It's hard to be sure. I remember being a Japanese schoolgirl caught in the middle of some kind of samurai feud or something. But I remember dying prematurely, probably on a machete blade. I wasn't a good decision-maker. Or I just made dangerous decisions. But I don't regret them, it was just a book.

I guess this is just life. It's not quite as dramatic as samurai vendettas. So making the more adventurous decision, the one that strikes my fancy the most, won't be my death. And I mean, if I really want to see what life would be like being the supreme ruler of 30' by 30' space in some high school, I could go back and see how that storyline would progress. But for now, I'll continue to trudge through this because, despite that I have no idea where it is going to take me, I'm still thinking it will yield a better story.

red revival

Communism is alive and well in my heart as a beautiful ideal. This Halloween I costumed myself in the garb of a soviet-era Russian spy. The outfit was replete with accessories ranging from my bright purple bob wig (which inspired a deep love for wigs and an impulsive desire to chop of my hair and dye it a neon hue, but reasonableness continues to overpower my whims when I realize I am not a rockstar, nor do I live a rock-and-roll lifestyle) to my soviet-era soldier's cap. But I am not staving off sleep to blog about my Halloween costume.

No, the topic which inspired this burst of writing is even more--how should I put this--oh, right, vain.

As I compiled the pieces of my Halloween ensemble I thought nothing would say, "I want to seduce you, James Bond, so I can steal your government's secrets" like bright red lipstick. Thus, moments before I was due to work I ran into the grocery store to pick up some red lipstick.

The shade dubbed Red Revival.

I coated my lips with the stuff as part of my costume, and figured, "Well there's $5 frivolously spent, as I have no designs to make my lips so ostentatious on regular occasion." But I left the stuff in my apron pocket and my co-worker Mary convinced me to try it on again on November 1st. I mainly put it on to show how ridiculous it looked for everyday wear, but she told me she liked it. Moments later, my boss walked by and told me she was fond of my lipstick. My sister was also thought it looked quite good on me. So, I wore it again today.

I kind of feel like that Junior High girl that is finally allowed to wear make-up, so she makes sure the world knows it by ignoring the neutral tones and going for shades that make it obvious she is accenting her natural beauty with gobs of glittery blue eye-shadow and crazy lipstick.

But it doesn't look as good on the 14-year-old as it does on me, right?

Perhaps later I'll blog about the environment, or how female veterans are really passed over when it comes to care in VA hospitals, or how I am not mad at Barack Obama. But this is what you get today. Lipstick.

i own an accordion

Ignore the unmade bed in the background and feast your eyes on this Chinese-made beauty.


Sure, the best-made accordions are manufactured in villages nestled along the rolling hills of Italia, but a girl swimming in student debt can barely justify purchasing this little 48-bass accordion. At least the Chinese manufacturer gave it a little Italian flare by prominently displaying that the instrument is to be called Stella.

I purchased this beauty from a Hans Braun, upon learning his name I knew this was legit. He had an accordion school in his past life, before he relocated to the suburban subdivisions of Spanish Fork. He tried to teach me the basics, and spoke of music theory stuff like the "circle of fifths" and I nodded to pretend I wasn't a music idiot. (However, I have this little theory that the more you nod the less you know. It's an over-compensation thing. I wonder if Hans Braun subscribes to a similar theory and saw right through my charade.) I took it home and just pushed all the buttons and pretended I had skillz. I just liked making all the noises.

But I have had Stella since Labor Day. I was pretty devoted in my online research about how to handle her for about a week. I almost mastered "Mary had a Little Lamb" and was simultaneously learning "When the Saints Come Marching In." But the novelty wore off and practice fell by the wayside. But I broke out the old girl tonight, and she smells so good. I think instruments just have this smell (I think it is the scent of wood, to be honest...the accordion makes the noise because you push air through wooden reeds). I love that smell. I want to collect instruments or become a luthier so I can be surrounded by that scent. Seriously, I love it so much.

But, if I don't become a luthier, I want to play my accordion at subway stations with a the case at my feet where those entertained by my musical stylings can drop some change.

I joke not; I would love to be a street musician. At least for a week of so. Or in my freetime. I probably wouldn't quit my day job. Probably.

oh, look. roni posted some nonsense

Leave me alone on the internet for too long and I will inevitably devise a new life plan for myself. I have applications pending with Americorps, the University of Louisville's Pre-Med Post-Bacc Certificate program, Columbia's Graduate School of Arts and Sciences (I haven't completed that one, however, because of the hefty application fee), and most recently, nigh an hour ago to be imprecisely exact, I completed an application to be an Italian/English-speaking flight attendant with Delta Airlines.

I had left the blogging world because I was no longer strolling along the narrow sidewalks dodging the compact cars and scooters of Italy, and it didn't seem like the day-to-day routine of my more mundane life working as a waitress was as appealing to document. And as my life is devoid of children, or a romance worth publicly touting, and that for the most part, I am among those who would care to hear about my exploits, so they can be regaled by tales of my mishaps with with words flowing from my mouth, rather than strain their eyes trying to read those words so strongly backlit on their computer screens, I discontinued detailing my life in a public forum.

But I am back, baby.

Mainly, I think because I want to write. It is a good way to work through problems, and while blogs are basically the epitome of self-indulgence, I've had people's word give me entertainment, solace, or voice exactly some of the things I am feeling [little plug to Katie, who I haven't seen since high school, but whose recent blog posts just felt so beautiful, honest, and spot-on that I said, "Hey, maybe some of my thoughts and ideas are worth
blogging about also."].

So, back to my opening. I haven't felt this unsure about my future since...ever. I always knew where I was going in high school [college], but suddenly, I have no idea what I am doing or what I want. Today, I want to be a flight attendant. Probably not forever, but I could put a few good years in see the world, collect interesting experiences for a memoir, whatever. I could actually put some of my Italian language skills to use. They're just rusting here in Utah; although, I could be resourceful and look for some conversation partners.

But listing my pending applications makes me feel pretty flighty, so perhaps a career in aviation is for me!

arrivederci italia

In my head I can hear "the final countdown" playing.

I am not a very organized person, and I haven't been able to bring myself to pack my belongings. This is not because I do not want to go home--I want to go home--I just do not want to leave Italy. Unfortunately, I cannot have both. And even more unfortunately, the time has come to pack, and I must fit all of my worldly possessions into two suitcases, and I do not have the patience for playing tetris with my books and socks.

And my packing has given me a little headache. And I am not prone to headaches.

However, having all of my clothing untidily shoved into a suitcase that is sitting on the foot of my bed the realization that I am going home has dawned full-force. I am really excited. It will be so good to see everybody.

But, man I am going to miss this place.