The Adnostic

My mother and I went shopping at Victoria's Secret during the After Christmas Sales Marathon and we were reaching a disconnect. I was pulling out sexy lacey bras to try on while she was going for the plain, unornamented t-shirt bras.

Me: Ooooh! Isn't this one cute, Mom?
Mom: No.
Me: You're being negative. Don't be negative.
Mom: What about this one? Do you like this one?
Me: Um, yeah. I guess.

We eventually make our way over to Macy's, where I pull out some Calvin Kline plain cup bras with lace around the bodice.

Me: This is nice Mom. Maybe they have it in your size.
Mom: For me or for you?
Me: For you.
Mom: I'm not going to wear anything like that.
Me: You know, it wouldn't kill you to have some sexy underwear.

Yes. I told my mother that she needs sexier underwear. I don't know what the cosmic repercussions are for that, but I'm sure they exist and they are headed straight for me.

Poor Daddy.

I found a job! I'll be doing Account Management and Planning for another interactive agency in Marina Del Rey! Yeah!

The interview process was bizarrely quick. I interviewed with a recruiter on Wednesday for a job I considered myself to be under-qualified for. He assured me that I had the strategic background they were looking for and my lack of experience managing clients and projects wouldn't be an issue. I had my doubts, but tried to think positive as I researched their accounts and tried to think of new directions for the current program that would fit with the brand.

I barely slept the night before the interview because I was so nervous. Would they like me? Would they see right through me? Maybe I should bring a knife so I can kill myself in case I burst into tears during the middle of the interview like I did the last time some evangelist recruiter tried to make me believe that a job I was totally unqualified for was the absolute perfect position for me. (My worst interview EVER)

I went in for the interview that morning, met with two people, showed them my portfolio, talked about my experience, personality traits, how I got into interactive marketing, etc.. Nothing out of the ordinary and I made an effort to put a positive spin on what I knew I lacked. What struck me as odd is that the VP of Client Services was already calculating my weekly rate and I had only been there for an hour.

They called a few hours after I left offering me a temp to perm position because they couldn't give me a supervisors position given my experience level and I was asking for more than their account managers. This way I would stay at my income level and get the experience I needed to be hired as an Account Supervisor before the end of the year. It just doesn't get much better than that, so I accepted immediately.

I was gushing to possible romantic interest about the deal and being interviewed and hired all in one morning, and he laughed an chided that I probably wasn't supposed to do that, but how could I possibly sit on an offer that giving me everything I wanted? What would be the point?

I can now breathe easier and not worry about how I'll pay next month's rent. [Exhale]

Ever since the day my sister and I asked my parents why we celebrate Christmas when we're Jewish, there hasn't been much of a reason for us to anticipate December 25th (we also manage to kick ourselves thoroughly for being so shortsighted). My mother is an exception to this because for her, December 25th means that she is only one day away from the biggest shopping day of the year - The Day After Christmas. She has actually asked that I sleep over at her place the night before so that we can get a head start and has even threatened to wear her clothes to bed so that she can hit the ground running that morning. This only provides further evidence that my mother is the biggest Jew of us all.

This year may prove to be the exception, because this year there is the This American Life Christmas Spectacular!!! Now, a few people know that I am a big fan of movie trailers, but this may be the audio trailer to beat all holiday audio trailers.

Sleigh bells ring. Are YOU listening?

Kimi and I were at the Cinema Bar after just seeing Michael Wilcox and waiting for the Groovy Rednecks to take over. I'm sitting there somewhat amused at how many people greet Michael with the words, "I'm so glad you're not dead!" You have to really hit the brink for that to be the equivalent of "Hello."

Kimi looks around and says, "I think this is Mecca."

I look around at the male patronage, am confused, and reply, "This isn't Mecca. This is a sparse settlement on the way to Mecca."

After the Rednecks play we head over to house party only to find out that we had just missed Dave Alvin's set. Dammit. I don't know who had taken over, but he wasn't very good, had his shirt open to his navel, and although I am in favor of good manscaping, is waxing really necessary?

While Kimi and I are talking to some friends we turn back to the stage only to find the tallest man in the place standing directly in front of us with his VERY diminutive girlfriend.

Kimi: Where did he come from?

Me: I don't know, but the sex must be awkward.

I scan the crowd and find a lot more good-looking guys than at the bar, but they're all hanging out with their girlfriends and the only guys trying to catch my eye look old and homeless. Suddenly Mr. Manscape doesn't look half bad and that's when I know that it's time to leave. Exit before desperate are words to live by.

I was at another tree trimming party the other night at a friend's and I got to talking with one of her actor friends about Screen Actor's Guild Health Insurance of all things.

Beans: You should see the retirement home. They have bungalows and everything. I have a friend in the Alzheimer’s ward.

Me: Oh, the Alzheimer’s is the worst. It's like lock-down.

Beans: Not for my friend. He thinks he's on location.

Me: Sweet.

Alzheimer’s runs in my family, so it's nice to hear of some people in the advance stages actually enjoying themselves rather than continuously feeling hopeless and confused. Alzheimer’s is the main reason why I'm so scared of getting old.

I was once watching a friend of mine and his brand new band open for a much bigger band, and afterwards we were talking.

Me: I like the new band. You sound really good. (I was lying. They were okay, but needed to practice more. A lot more.)

Music Man: Thanks. I want it to be just like this. I want to just focus on the music and not worry about the business side of things.

I simply stood there and nodded and decided it was best that I didn't beg him to never quit his bartending job, because when I used my internal Instant Musician Speak Translator, this is what I was really hearing:

"Trying to be a successful musician is too hard. I just want play my guitar, get lucky and score some gigs every once in a while because I know the owners of the club and not because I can actually draw an audience, and not put in the time and effort it would take to market myself, build a sizable fan base, tour, and land a record deal. I'm pretty sure I can still get laid this way."

It has always been a sneaking suspicion of mine that some people (not all, just some) become actors, artists, or musicians because it looks like easy work. Recite some lines, paint a picture, or sing a song and you're done for the day. You have "worked." It must be a real shock for these slackers to realize that the people who are actually successful at these vocations work very very hard.

Successful actors often jokingly refer to themselves as Professional Auditioners. They just run from audition to audition to audition and get rejected 90% on the time. They constantly market themselves to managers and casting agents through websites, videos, postcards, headshots, anything they can get their hands on.

Artists have to market themselves to gallery owners, collectors, and curators in much the same way.

I am always a little weary when a musician says he or she wants to stay independent. Not that I don't think that is great, but I sometimes wonder if they really understand what they are saying. When a band decides to go it alone they are undertaking all of the marketing, financing, and sales that would normally be handled by the label. They can no longer say that they are just about the music, because they're not. They are about the business too.

The Internet has made it a lot easier to do this. International exposure can be accomplished with nothing more than a web site, an email address, and a MySpace page. The bands that are really using these tools to their advantage realize that the Holy Grail for them is the same as it is for every interactive marketer: one-to-one communication.

For a baby band it is not enough that people just dig your music anymore, they have to feel like they know you too. You blog regularly and people read it. If a fan sends you an email you answer it personally and genuinely, not with a form letter and sooner rather than later. You give away free samples of your music and you give people a reason to buy the album and come to the show. Fans these days need more than just a good song, they need to like you as a person too. If they like you AND your music then they will be just that more likely to buy an album or see your show at that shitty bar in the middle of nowhere.

It may take more effort to gain a fan base these days, but the fans you do get through one-to-one marketing will follow you to your grave, or at least until the point you completely sell out and start selling your songs for toilet paper commercials.

My name is Lauren, and I do not work in the music industry. Take this for what it is worth.

Jodi got a new job and took some extra time off in between.

Jodi: I can't believe I have to work a full week!

Me: It could be worse.

Jodi: I could be you?

(I would have called her a bitch if she hadn't taken the words right out of my mouth.)

Gary has been taking me out to lunch while I'm "enjoying" unemployment.

Gary: Jamie is dating an actress who seems pretty nice. Not one of those Hollywood types.

Me: You mean I'm the only one not in a serious relationship?

Gary: You're saying that like it's a bad thing.

I also told Gary about my decision to start going to therapy.

Gary: Why don't you just watch sports?

Me: What?

Gary: It's true. I was depressed after a fight with my girlfriend, so I cracked open a beer, turned on ESPN, and felt a lot better because no matter what's going on in the world, there's always sports.

(This is the part of the conversation I don't bother responding to. He says something absurd and all I can do is shake my head and change the subject. It is a pattern which is always the same but never truly repeats itself.)

I am lying face-up on the floor after having sawed off the lower branches of my friend's Christmas tree, screwing it back into the base, constantly having to remind myself "lefty loosey, righty tighty" every time I switch to a different screw, and feeling decidedly Jewish.

"Leave it to the Jew to set up a Christmas tree," I kvetched. "What is it with you goyem and the trees? Why can't you just get a menorah and light some candles like normal people?!"

Last night Jodi decided to celebrate her birthday by inviting a few friends over, having dinner, and trimming the tree. She said that doing it by herself is depressing and she wanted to keep her birthday small this year, so what could be better than a tree trimming party. I can understand this line of thinking. It seems like most holidays are pretty meaningless without friends and family, which is probably why I don't celebrate any of the Jewish holidays unless my parents are involved.

We drank our fair share of wine and champagne, the tree only toppled over once (I hope I was able to fix that), and I only broke one ornament. Okay, so it was one of the good ornaments, but at least it was only one. The damage could have been so much worse. Pretty good for a bunch of drunks and a token Jew (who was also on the tipsy side).

Once again, jazz-hands. Happy birthday Jodi!

I have always hated pet names. They just make my skin crawl. Isn't that enough of a reason to reject any attempt of some significant other to bestow upon me a pet name? You'd think so. Unfortunately, my therapist is in disagreement. A pet name, like "Sweetie," is a way for some people to establish intimate connection and my rejection of this can be interpreted as, well, not so good.

So, in my attempt to establish stronger interpersonal connections, I have bestowed one of my very good friends a brand new pet name - Sausage Casing.

Yes, there is a story behind this. Last night she invited me as her +1 to her company Christmas Party on the set conditions that I did not embarrass her and that I helped her into a brand new girdle so that she can fit into a sleek little black number she bought 5 years ago and wishes to pretend that she is indeed still that thin. I can safely say that I met both of these conditions adequately.

"I'm a small! I bought a small!"

"Umph! You may be needing a slightly lager size. Argh!"

She's just lucky I still have strong rider's hands, because I silently congratulated myself when I got the last hook safely in place. I stepped back to look at the girdle, which resided around her middle like a broken sausage casing around a partially cooked bratwurst. May I never feel the need for such a masochistic garment.

Now don't get me wrong. Sausage Casing is not fat. She is, in fact, a size 4. The problem, in her mind, is that not so long ago she was a comfortable size 2 and is in desperate need to regain her stick-like figure. Speaking as someone who fluctuates regularly between a size 6 and an 8, I find this ridiculous. She should enjoy the extra padding that comes with a 4 and get herself some new clothes which compliment the new shape.

We tried to spend most of the evening standing, which worked well until it was time to eat dinner. SC went running to the bathroom every five minutes and continuously complained of being pinched in inappropriate places. At one point in the evening I tried to pinch her, more to make a point than anything else, and I couldn't do it. The casing was too tight.

After four hours of self-torture, SC decided it was time to leave the event, where we drove back to her place, I released her from her bonds, and she was once again able to breathe normally.

Chicks are crazy.