It's a dog-eat-dog world out there. Sadly, I'm not 'out there'...

So apparently I passed the drug test. I started working at the golf course a couple weeks ago, and I loathe it (Mom doesn't like when I say that I "hate" things). Don't get me wrong... The job is a cinch. I load up the cart, drive around all day, smile, wave, sell some brews and the occasional Powerade, and then unload and put my sales into the computer. If I'm lucky, I come out of the day with at least $20 in untaxable income. That's the good part.

The bad part is the management. I report to six bosses who, based on my whole two weeks of experience, don't communicate with each other very well. They're all wonderfully nice, they just really don't seem to have their shit together. For example, our week runs from Friday to Thursday, as opposed to the conventional Sunday to Saturday, or even Saturday to Friday, schedule. At any job you would expect to know your schedule at least a week ahead of time. For some reason, I don't find out if I have to work on Friday until one day, or if I am lucky, two days, before.

Now, I don't think I am being unreasonable here, but this girl has a life. I like to go out with my friends. I even like to spend time with my family (don't judge me). And I understand that sometimes work comes first and my social life will occasionally suffer. But ask anyone, I have a minor case of OCD, and I kind of need my plans. I like to know what I am doing. Spontaneity is great and all, but it usually ends in a total clusterfuck, and I need my plans. That being said, how the hell am I supposed to make any plans whatsoever when I don't know if I have to work on Saturday until the Thursday before? What the eff.

I have realized that the real world is more my style. Like I've said before, I graduated college wanting to work. I showcased my talent with two awesome internships, and in line with my OCD comes my need for structure and a 9 to 5 job. Not to mention, lately I have been hearing all sorts of things that make an office job sound pretty awesome.

Take Scott: Somehow we got on the topic of work. He informs me that his biggest requirement is that he is there by 9 and doesn't leave before 5, but as long as he does that, he can take a two hour lunch. I don't know for sure, but I think I got the short end of the stick. On Sunday, I worked from 9:30 to 7, and took a 10 minute lunch. What's wrong with this picture?

And then there's Blake: A couple weeks ago, he had so little to do at work, he almost caught a flick (Tropic Thunder, to be exact). He figured that would be slightly irresponsible, so he went to H&M and bought a few shirts instead.

Now I'm not knocking these guys. Rather, I'm jealous. Yes, I work as a beer bitch, but I'm also working my ass off at this stupid job that pays me peanuts, and I'm obviously not having near as much fun as these office job stiffs. Fuck this shit. I just want a real job. One that requires business cards. And self-respect.

The PC term is Beverage Cart Attendant.

All summer I have been sitting on my ass. Or at least that's what my dad thinks I have been doing. Truth is, I've been among the crop of unemployed college grads who are completely stumped by the painful job shortage, and who are settling for jobs much below their qualification level.

I graduated from UGA in four years (which, you can ask anyone, these days, is a feat in itself). I knocked out two majors, and managed, after slacking a tad my freshman year, to kick my ass into high gear and pull out a 3.52 GPA, allowing me to graduate with honors. On top of that, I rocked two incredible internships in New York City. If I may say so, I whooped college's ass.

Yesterday I interviewed to be a beverage cart attendant, a position more fondly known as "Beer Bitch," at a golf course. So glad my double major and Cum Laude honors are going to good use.

For the first time in my life I had to take a drug test. This was an experience in itself. First off, I walk into this place that I have passed while driving a million times, and each time wondered what could possibly possess anyone to set foot in such an establishment. It's called "Any (LAB) Test." Seriously. Inside there is a nurse speaking a dialect of Ebonics that even someone who grew up in Atlanta, GA couldn't understand. I wasn't sure if she told me to 'pee in the cup' or 'be da gub.' I hope it wasn't the latter, because I peed in the cup.

Then there was this kid with his dad. I kept trying to sneak a peek at his forms to see what kind of (LAB) test he was there for, but then the nurse gave it away (I think) when she asked the kid if he wanted to wait for his drug test results (that's a rough translation--it very easily could have been something more sinister). I also assume drug test because when the kid looked at me, his eyeballs couldn't focus. It was like he had a twitch. Or was on meth. One or the other.

So I survived my first drug test. I won't know the results until tomorrow, but since I've steered clear of the heroin for a couple months now, I think I should be good. If (fingers crossed) I pass this test, I will have training on Monday. Apparently I need to be taught how to open a beer bottle and drive a golf cart.

Honestly, I am happy to have a job, it's just the principle of the thing. Who goes to college to sell Powerade to, and get hit on by, middle-aged golfers? I had such high aspirations! I wanted to be a wardrobe stylist. I wanted to write for magazines. I wanted people to know my name. Now I'm just going to be Carlen, The Beer Girl.

I guess there is something to be said for this job. They've already made it abundantly clear that I will have the opportunity for advancement. I only have to work there for three months before I can train to be a bartender...

I'm back on JDate. It's not a matter of choice, but of circumstance. Though my previous JDate escapades were short-lived, they left an indelible impression on me, and it is a much desperate situation that brings me back to the mouth of hell I like to call internet dating.

Being a young Jewish female in the South leaves me at a derth for dating material. My options are drastically reduced by the fact that I'm looking for another MOT (Member of the Tribe, for the unlikely goyim reading this), and the good ones that fit in that category are few and far between. Granted, I could move to New York and be engaged in 8 months, but my fondness for the Dirty South, along with unemployment and the option of living in my childhood bedroom, are keeping me down here. Hooray.

I love men. I'm not going to sugarcoat it. Flirting is like breathing for me. Yesterday I blew a kiss to some random guy in the car next to me, just because I could. Then he followed me down the road for six miles and I had to shake him by pulling an illegal U-turn. So occassionally flirting backfires. But on the whole, I love men. I'm open to a relationship, which is numero uno issue with finding a guy. What guy wants to settle down when he can go to a club and get strange ass four nights a week instead? I guess I'm the dumbass.

My past dating experience has been a total clusterfuck. Freshman year of college I had my first real relationship. It lasted a whopping six months and I was only 19-years-old (he was 23). So I guess in this case, I was the one who wanted to continue sowwing my oats a little longer, and he was the one wanting to settle down. Luckily he wasn't Jewish, so I have no regrets about letting that one get away. Since then, there have been a multitude of dates, some memorable, others less so.

I got on JDate the first time the Summer after my sophomore year at UGA. I was interning in New York and was honestly (I swear to God) bored out of my mind and got on it as a joke. Believe what you want, but I had only humorous intentions... at first. Yeah, I was a little young to be on JDate, but what's the harm in seeing what my options are? I started talking to guys almost immediately. I kept it to email and IMing, no phone calls yet. And the first guy I was interested in had potential.

Guy #1: I was 20. He was 28. I've always had a thing for older guys. We talked for weeks via email before I gave him my phone number. He seemed sweet, charming, moderately good-looking (take that, fucker). The night we were finally going to start talking, I had just started talking to another guy, who we will call "Douche Bag," although protecting the innocent doesn't really seem like an issue at this juncture. When Guy #1 called, we talked, and the conversation was effortless. We chatted about the weather, politics, and the global economy (just kidding, I have no recollection of the conversation, except for what comes next). Then he tells me that he was talking to his roommate earlier, and their conversation turned to JDate, which apparently brought to light that the roommate was talking to me also. Turns out, the roommate was Douche Bag, the ever lovable guy I was talking to just earlier that night. To make a long story just slightly shorter, I broke things off with Douche Bag, went on a date with Guy #1, then broke things off with him just days later because it turned out that he could act a fool with the best of 'em. To future guys I date, take this hint: Don't incessantly talk about your penis and expect a girl to swoon. Aaaanway, about three months later, my dad was telling me about a family friend who had experienced something similar on JDate--two guys who "coincidentally" turn out to be roommates talking to the same girl. Oh wait, they have the same names as the two douche bags I was talking to? Wait a minute... I think I know what's going on here. Well played gents, but the game is up.

Guy #2: Again with the big age difference, but who gives a shit. When I'm 40 and he's 46, no one will care or notice. He was actually quite wonderful, other than his taste in jeans. He was the assistant GM of a restaurant, I was a college junior. We were a match made in JDate heaven. Our biggest issue? We couldn't make our schedules work. How pathetic is that? He worked most every day, and his off nights were usually in the middle of the week. Mine were obviously the weekend, and it's kind of hard to plan dates when you can't get together on the same nights. So sadly, that one was short-lived.

Guy #3: Robbie Levin (no need to use a fake name with this one, kids). The doozie. The primary reason I removed myself from JDate the first time. I was 21, he was 28. A lawyer, a musician, had his own house, gorgeous blue eyes, and a Mercedes. Every little girl's dream. We finally went out after a couple weeks of talking, and everything seemed in order. We had dinner, drinks, he serenaded me at CJ's Landing (R.I.P.), what could be better? The next day I was heading back to Athens, but before I did, my wonderful father called me into his room. He sat me down, looked me straight in the eye, and told me that he had googled Robbie. At first I was mortified. I felt deceived and violated, and then he dropped the bomb. He had found Robbie's Georgia State Bar directory page (all lawyers have something like it). There it said where he had gone to undergrad and law school. I had known that he went to Indiana undergrad and UGA Law, but I definitely didn't know that he graduated from law school in 1996. Do the math kiddies--1996 law school grad made him a whopping 36, not his previously claimed 28. Holy balls, I went out with a pedophile.

Amazingly, the Guy #3 story gets even better. When I broke it off with him, I called him out for lying to me. His response: "I never told you I was 28. You must have assumed I was 28." Uh, can I call bullshit? I try to put this whole thing out of my head, but only a few months later, I am in Charleston for a wedding. While sitting at the rehearsal dinner, my older male cousin inquires about my recent dating habits, and I coyly respond that I just went out with a guy who told me he was 28 but was actually 36. And to my surprise, his response is: "Was his name Robbie Levin?" Whether the look on my face was shock, horror, or disgust, I do not know, but I almost threw up when my cousin told me how Robbie did the exact same thing to a friend of his. Lucky for me, we only went on one date. He dated that girl for three weeks. Ew.

If you're still reading, I applaud you. But if you feel the need for a break, now is the time to do it, because this story only gets better and you might need a few cleansing breaths before you read it. Ready? Here we go.

October 24, 2007. I have a Facebook message from my wonderful cousin from the wedding. The subject states: I was definitely right to tell you to stay away from this guy. A million thoughts run through my head. What the hell is he talking about? I click open the message and inside find a link, this link: http://www.11alive.com/news/article_news.aspx?storyid=105295. I click. I read. I laugh. More out of horror than anything. Robbie Levin, the guy that lied about his age and has a habit of doing so, has just been arrested for sexually soliciting a teenager (his coworker's daughter) online. Wow. Fuck you JDate for letting this pedophile into my life.

And THAT, my friends, is why I removed myself from JDate. Times must be pretty desperate if I'm getting back on there. So, to anyone reading this, if you know of a nice Jewish man, feel free to introduce us, because I would really love nothing more than to one day tell my children anything but "I met your daddy on JDate."

Training begins... Want to make a donation?

In a little over three months, I will start one of the hardest undertakings of my life. I'll be walking 60 miles in 3 days, all in support of finding a cure for breast cancer. Last October, I watched friends cross the finish line in Piedmont Park, and I was forever changed. I knew that this was something of which I needed to be a part. And soon I will be.

This morning I walked 2.5 miles with my mom. Just shy of the 20 I will be walking a day, of course, but you have to start somewhere. Tomorrow morning I will rise again before the sun and take on 3 miles. By the weekend, I hope to be doing 4, and by the end of the month between 6 and 8 each time I walk. It's going to be exhausting, but totally worth it in the end.

My other challenge is fundraising. On top of walking 60 miles, participants are also asked to raise $2,200. I'm glad to do it, but its not exactly pocket change. If you, or anyone you know, would like to make a donation to the Susan G. Komen foundation, in support of a cure for breast cancer, while at the same time helping me reach and hopefully exceed my goal, please go to http://08.the3day.org/goto/carlenfunk and make a donation. It will be greatly appreciated, not just by me, but by everyone walking for a cure. I thank you in advance.

So for now, I will keep up my walking regimen as I break in my Nikes and build some major muscle. And don't worry, I will be back with an update soon.

For Hire: Cute brunette. (Yeah, that's about all I have going for me right now.)

Ok, I get it. I suck at this whole blogging regularly thing. I mean, its not like I have anything else to do with my time, being unemployed and all. I suppose that tanning and shopping don't provide me with much provocative writing material.

Since my last entry, things have been uneventful. Unfortunately, the graduation presents have stopped rolling in, so I again find myself broke and jobless. The hunt continues, and I have broadened my horizons as I venture into the field of event planning. Oddly enough, it's actually something I have always wanted to do. In high school I was the BBYO queen, planning conventions and parties galore. Sorority cliques in college are all that kept me from being the social chair and from planning a kick-ass formal. Yeah, I'm not bitter or anything.


So now I'm back at square one. I have only a minimal amount of event planning experience, and technically it dates back to high school. I have mountains of fashion experience, two whole summers in New York's worth, and I can't get a job in that field to save my life. I guess regrouping is my best option. Now if only I could get someone to respond to my emails...

It's been a month since my last post. Give me a break. I'm still not used to this whole online journal thing. A lot has happened since May 6th. Allow me to give you the rundown.

May 6, 2008 was the last day of finals. Of course I passed them all with flying colors. Four days later (May 10), I graduated from college. The reality of that last sentence has not quite sunk in, so please forgive any continued talk about Athens being home or "my roommate" who I no longer live with. I came back to Atlanta on the 11th (the day after graduation) only to spend two days packing for a ten day trip to Israel. On the 13th I flew to New York to spend two days with my lovely friend Tess (who suffered a massive hangover while at work for me), and then flew out of JFK to Israel on the 15th. The ten day trip in the Holy Land, which will be chronicled in another episode of Carlen's Blog because there is far too much to say in just one posting, ended on Tuesday the 27th with my arrival back in New York at 5:30am. From there, I flew back to Atlanta that same day. For two days I recovered from jetlag, and that Friday (the 30th), with my parents, I drove to Athens, rented a U-haul, and packed up my apartment, which we promptly drove to Charleston, SC to move my shit into my sister's apartment there. On Sunday, less than 48 hours after arriving, we left Charleston to come home to thrilling Marietta, GA. And what have I been doing since then? Nothing short of nothing.

Now I find myself sitting alone in my room, or alone in the kitchen of my parents' house, or alone on the back porch, wondering what the hell I am doing with my life. Its the worst possible time to be looking for a job in the US, and to add insult to injury, my parents are trying to sell our house. Yeah, cause that's actually a really good market right now. My boredom is almost consuming me. I mean, I guess there is a silver lining--I'm so bored I'm writing on my blog.

My first foray into blogging...

I've always been a little skeptical of this whole thing. I suppose its hard not to be when you grow up on actual literature, the kind that requires physically turning the page. But every journalism class I've ever taken has told me the same thing: Blogs are the future. Now what kind of space age bullshit is that? Blogs, the ignorant rants of under- (or over-) sexed morons with nothing better to do with their time than plaster their idiocy all over the internet, are the future? You've got to be kidding me. It's going to take more than a couple tenured professors who, based solely on their six-figure salary, can say whatever they damn well please (and could very easily just be jerking my blog-ignorant chain) to convince me that blogging is legit.

So you're probably wondering, if I'm so disapproving of the whole online journal trend, what could possibly draw me into the throng of morons that claims "blogging" as a hobby? To be perfectly honest, I don't know what I'm doing here. I guess I just want to write, and I'm doing this in the hope that until my words can be read on a larger scale (hint hint to any magazine editors out there), this blog just might mean something to someone. Side note: I apologize now for the completely condescending tone of the previous sentence. I was aiming for empathy and came up trite. Sorry about that.

So for now, welcome to my blog. I hope you find yourself intrigued.

If you got funk, you got style. You're funkin' and you're styling all the while.
When you got funk, you got class. You're out on the floor movin' your ass.

-George Clinton and the Funkadelics