Retail Therapy

As one of my faithful readers, Damon, reminded me, it’s been a long LONG time since I’ve written here.  I do a lot of writing these days.  I write for Six Brown Chicks on ChicagoNow (http://www.chicagonow.com/six-brown-chicks), which is also a web show on WCIU.com (http://www.wciu.com/sixbrownchicks), not to mention that I’m relaunching my original baby, The G-Spot, or The Gina Spot, depending on how you know me.  The trouble is that I have things in my life that drain my creativity, so it’s sometimes all I can do to get all of that done.  And sometimes it doesn’t get done.  The thing that suffers the most is this blog, unfortunately.  So . . . if you haven’t seen me write in a while and you want to catch up with me, follow me on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/ginabauthorsite), and in the meantime, I’ll try to remain diligent on here. 

First, you should all know that I’m in Jamaica for Christmas.  It’s been an interesting trip thus far, and I’m sad to say that it’s almost over.  I’m here with the BF, and the trip has not been without its challenges.  The first issue is that the BF was sick for the first four days of the trip.  If I were being honest, I’d say that he’s been sick for the entire time, which sucks to tremendous proportions.  Don’t even get me started.  To be fair, I was also sick for the first day or so, which really amounted to my having eaten something weird at the buffet on the first night.  But I’m a strong girl, and I made it through — even though I’ve avoided certain foods here ever since.  Then, we planned the trip to switch resorts at the halfway mark, which sounded like a great idea at the time.  The trouble is that I LOVED the first resort and not so much the second one (even though it’s still beautiful).  I’ve spent the last few days mourning the first half of my trip.

But this post isn’t about my frustrations about illness (because, really?  There are plenty).  Nor is it about resorts.  This post is ALSO not about my father, alias my housesitter, who has managed to set off my overzealous alarm system, which caused Chicago’s finest to show up at my house, walk about on my otherwise clean floors with their nasty shoes on and answer my phone.  Nope, this post isn’t about that at all.  It’s about what I do to seek comfort from the things that drain my energy and piss me off. 

It’s called shopping, people . . . and I highly recommend it. 

Honestly, shopping is second only to cocktails, although I wouldn’t recommend the former after indulging in a lot of the latter.  Or Ambien — which my friend Jen is famous for.  I haven’t tried Ambien myself, but I’ve heard about the packages that have arrived after ”Ambien Jen” was let loose on Amazon.  It ain’t pretty.  Don’t do it. 

As usual, I digress.

Online shopping is absolutely my best friend in this world, and since I have so many events to attend, I can justify a dress purchase because I do have occasions to show them off.  (Note:  if you decide to begin a career in retail therapy, my suggestion is that you make a habit of buying things that are supportive of your life.  For example, I go out a lot, so dresses — especially the small, black variety — are a staple.  If you are a veritable couch potato who doesn’t party, might I suggest that you purchase gadgety home things?  The key thing is to buy things you need so that they can be justified to people who hint that you could have some sort of “problem.”  Pfft!  Disclaimer – if you’ve either appeared on or are a candidate for the A&E show “Hoarders” or “Hoarders, Buried Alive,” OR if your abode has often been mistaken for the aisles of Salvation Army, do  not do ANYTHING that I’m musing about in this rant. In fact, do the opposite . . . put some of that shit on EBay [which is, quietly, equally therapeutic])

Just since I’ve been here, as a matter of fact, I’ve racked up over $200 in online dress purchases (does it help to know that I had a credit with Rue La La?).  I was just miffed a few minutes ago, and now I’m actually quite thrilled at the thought that a short tight ruched LBD will be delivered to my house in a mere 7 days.  And now that I’ve shopped, I’m off to the swim up bar, because, really?  Shopping with a wine back is just about the best combination that I can think of — irrespective of your location.

Happy holidays, good people!  And thanks so much for your patience.  XO

 

 

The Birthday – LA Trip Part Trois

Third installment . . . and this is the long one.

I arrived at the airport a little later than I would have liked to — largely due to the pimple-infested donut-eating Dollar rental car agent (unfortunately clad in a pair of big boy shorts that look more like gauchos from the 70s [not a good look]) who moved at a glacial speed while checking in my car. Thanks to sausage fingers, I missed the first shuttle bus back to the airport.

The next one arrived 10 minutes later, just in time to also retrieve an Italian family of 5 (including 3 toddlers) who spoke about 5 words of English between them. The father had a surfboard, which made me wonder if he at least knew the English word “shark.” It took them forever to board the bus, and another eternity to get off the bus at their terminal.

Mine was terminal 7 – the last terminal. Because, really? Isn’t it always the last terminal when you’re in a hurry?

I zoomed to the kiosk, thinking that I was ahead of the game. I had checked in the night before online, and even paid for the behemoth 50 pound suitcase that was struggling to remain upright on its casters. I typed in my ticket number. The machine flashed an angry error message. I inserted my credit card. Still no clue. I reinserted the credit card. It clearly had no idea of who I was. I moved to the next kiosk and inserted my credit card. Paydirt.

But there was a problem. By the time I was finished screwing around with the ghost in the machine, I was exactly four minutes too late to check my bag.

Well, fuck!!

I went to the agent, who told me (with a bit too much glee in his voice), that I would have to catch the next flight. I offered to let my bag go on a later flight, as I still had 40 minutes to catch mine. He shook his head no, and explained that since 9/11, they have a policy that passengers must travel with their luggage. (Since the agent had a Muslim surname, I thought better of saying what I wanted to say: “do I LOOK like a terrorist?”)

He directed me to a line that contained easily 50 people – most of whom were traveling to Taiwan, by my estimation. The woman behind me kept asking me if I was in the right line. I don’t really know why she cared. I was already irritated and inclined to tell her to mind her own business (while silently trying to keep myself from cracking her in the mouth), although it occurred to me that she had a point. WAS I in the right line??

In the meantime, my good friend Christina called to say that she wished we could have spent more time together. I saw her the first night I was in town and hadn’t seen her since. I told her about my travel woes and she volunteered to retrieve me from the airport if I wasn’t able to clear the list.

When I finally made it to the front of the line, I was told that I would have to fly standby on the next flight, and that my chances of making that flight were about equal to my chances of winning the javelin toss in the next Olympics.

He checked my bag, which I found ironic since there was such a low chance of my making the flight, and allegedly, separating a customer from his/her luggage is against policy and the very reason that I couldn’t catch the first flight.

I ambled through security (but not without having a mini-nervous-breakdown and making a hysterical call to the BF, who was in the middle of a shoot and didn’t really have time to deal with me, although he was trying to be nice. He talked me off the ledge by saying that if I got stuck, I could crash in the house where he was staying and we could spend an extra night together. One bright spot. ).

I arrived at the gate and peered up at the screen, where I saw myself listed as #9 on the standby list. I went to the agent, who was surprisingly pleasant, and she advised me against trying to get on any of the overbooked flights during that day, and saw that there was exactly one seat available on the flight that was leaving the next day at 8:09 am. She pointed me in the direction of the in-terminal customer service desk, and off I went.

(When I was a kid, I would call what I did “pulling an OJ,” which at the time referenced his famous rental car commercials in which he ran through the airport to make his flight. Using that same phrase now would raise several eyebrows. Damn him for messing up my reference point. But I digress . . . .)

I made it to the customer service desk and joined the line behind four people while the customer care agent leisurely helped one customer and didn’t seem to have a care in the world for the antsy people whose travel schedules relied on her attention.

Because, really? There is NO calm person in that line. Anyone who is paying a visit to the in-terminal customer service agent is having a travel catastrophe and is generally in dire straits. And, also? The customer “I don’t care” agent didn’t give a shit, which made everyone that much crazier.

I was the least calm, given that I had just a few minutes to secure one little seat before the other 81 people who were flying standby that day began to jockey for my position. If they hadn’t already.

She wasn’t moving fast enough, so instead of standing there powerless with steam emanating from my ears, I whipped out my cell phone and called United Airlines customer service. Instead of punching in numbers to further the menu according to my specific situation, I kept screaming “representative,” until a live voice answered the phone.

I will admit that I was slightly obnoxious, but the good thing about being in a line with other desperate people is that belligerent acts of despair will not garner dirty looks. You will, in fact, receive looks that are the visual equivalents of high-fives, and if you seem to be making progress, others will emulate you. By the time I was done at least two of my other line-mates were picking up their phones in frustration and taking matters into their own hands.

The customer service rep was in India, which I felt was the Universe’s way of bitch-slapping me for thinking murderous thoughts about any number of people, including the sloth at Dollar, the original ticket agent, the inventor of the kiosk, and that nosy Taiwanese lady in the first line.

It took him forever to find my reservation (which made me believe that he was the mastermind powering the kiosk), and I had to correct him about the spelling of my name (three times, but who’s counting). He confirmed me on the flight, and swore that there wouldn’t be an extra charge (you see where this is going, right?).

The call ended on a positive note, and he assured me that he would email my confirmation letter.

In the meantime, Christina was kind enough to pick me up and hang out with me. We did the girl thing – lunch and shopping.

While shopping – in fact in the dressing room – I received a call from the car service that was supposed to retrieve me from the airport in Chicago.

Seems that in my flurry of activities, I forgot to call and cancel. Totally my fault, but the guy from the limo company was a little attitudinal and told me they were “worried about me.” (Kinda weird, but whatever) I tried to explain my day, but he ignored me and said that that he would have to charge me for the ride due to their four hour cancellation policy.

I was tired of haggling, so I agreed and hung up the phone.

And then I remembered who I am. (That line was put in especially for Stacey, Jen and Tracey, who got such a kick out of it when I told this story at the last girls’ lunch).

I took off the horrible dress that I was trying on (Michael Kors, you disappointed me!), called right back and told the guy that I needed for him to work with me on that charge.

He was snotty and sounded offended that I hadn’t even bothered to call them and tell them that I had missed my flight. I told him to pardon me if the limo company wasn’t the first call on my list as I struggled with airport issues, luggage issues, fighting the urge to grab incompetent people by their throats, and being essentially stranded in LA. I also pointed out that my flight was over four hours long. Even if I had called right after I missed the flight, I would have violated his precious cancellation policy. He was unsympathetic and told me that they had dispatched a car to pick me up and that driver needed to be paid.

And that? Was where he fucked up.

In a previous life, I was a career traveler and spent 5 days on the road on consulting assignments. I hated it, but I learned a lot. One of the lessons learned is how limo companies work. Most of them have drivers that hover around the airport in holding tanks waiting for customers with reservations as well as any who might have a last minute need. They don’t send random cars to wait for people who haven’t called to confirm their landing.

I might have also mentioned that I would utilize social media to my complete advantage if there wasn’t some sort of reasonable solution. Preferably one that didn’t cost me a dime.

I think I had him at Twitter. He put the owner on the phone – a perfectly reasonable and congenial guy who dropped the charge as soon as he heard that I wasn’t within 1,000 miles of Chicago.

I looked down and realized that I’d had this entire conversation in a dressing room, in my underwear. I needed a glass of wine, dammit! Or perhaps an IV.

A few hours later while flopped across Christina’s couch, I realized that I hadn’t received a confirmation letter for my flight, so I took a deep breath and logged in to my United Airlines account. I saw where I was confirmed, however there was an ominous red message that instructed me to call United due to a problem with my e-ticket.

Great.

I called and got someone on an altogether different continent. Perhaps the Philippines? That agent told me that there would be an extra charge that had to be processed before the ticket could be finalized. I KNEW it!

Here’s the remainder of that conversation:

Me: “[sigh] okay. So, how much is the charge?”

Agent: “Well .. . it’s $700, m’am.”

Me: “WHAT???”

Agent: “Yes, it’s $700.”

Me: “$700 MORE?”

Agent: “Yes, m’am.”

Me: “So . . . you’re telling me that it’s going to cost me an ADDITIONAL $700 to fly back to Chicago?”

Agent: “Yes, m’am.”

Me: “You DO realize that I could hire a chauffeur to DRIVE me back to Chicago for less than $700, right?

Agent: “Uhh . . . yes, m’am?”

Me: “Okay . . .I need to speak to a supervisor, and to be clear I need for THIS supervisor? To be located in the UNITED STATES.”

A few minutes later, I got Marvin. I liked Marvin. Marvin sounded like he lived in middle America, and while that’s not normally a bonus in my book, I was grateful that Marvin at least got my name right on the first try and had sympathy for the situation. He only charged me $75 to change my flight, which, while it was about $75 more than I wanted to pay, it was significantly better than $700. He also suggested that I write a letter of complaint to customer service. I liked Marvin even more.

I didn’t push my luck by asking for a window seat. Because I had the last seat on the flight, my seat assignment was probably the equivalent of “middle seat in between two mothers with a colicky infant on one side and an overzealous nauseous toddler on the other.” I didn’t push it.

I was all set. FINALLY.

The only other bummer was that the BF’s shoot ran so long that he didn’t finish until after I had left for the airport. Typical.

Sigh.

But I got back. Exactly three hours before I had to host a Six Brown Chicks meeting at my house. Whoo hoo!

Stay tuned . . .

The Birthday – part deux

The night before my birthday, the BF had a party to attend, so we dressed up and decided to cab it to the club so that we could both drink freely. (Retrospectively, not such a great idea. The imminent threat of having to drive is what usually keeps us in check.)

Prior to arriving at the club, he was drinking his signature Jack on the rocks, and I was drinking one of my favorites – Maker’s rocks (it used to be Maker’s neat, but I got tired of getting weird looks from bartenders, and suggestions of possible mixers. My famous line: “just put it in a glass and give it to me.”).

You might think we’re professionals, but, warning! The rookie move is a-comin’.

We arrived at the party, and had a few rounds before the BF got the bright idea that he should order a bottle of champagne to celebrate my birthday.

Now . . . I love him tremendously for this gesture. I never look a gift horse in the mouth, I am very appreciative, and Lord knows I never want to discourage him from doing nice things, however, I started having Thanksgiving flashbacks.

I spend Thanksgiving with my friends Jen and Fletch every year, and they have a beautiful home, and Jen always provides a spectacular spread, which includes just about every kind of liquor that you could imagine. Although we spend the night, I typically contain my consumption to wine (because I know better), while the BF runs the gamut and participates in each type of alcohol that the Lancaster-Fletchers store in their beautiful, well-decorated home. The day after Thanksgiving last year (incidentally one of our anniversaries [we have two]) was spent nursing his queasiness and mind-blowing hangover due to an innocent champagne toast that was offered between courses of rare scotch.

It didn’t help matters that the four of us went to lunch to get some food in his system and he ordered a salad nicoise. I’m getting sick just thinking about it.

The champagne was a bad idea on Thanksgiving, and an equally bad idea on the eve of my birthday.

The second that the bottle of Veuve was presented, I knew the night had shifted from a birthday celebration to an imminent babysitting session. I tried to share that champagne with everyone in sight, just to keep him from drinking any more than was necessary (even though, let’s face it . . . anything more than one sip would have been overkill).

How drunk was he, you ask? Well, to give you an idea, at some point — roughly at 4:30 am, after I finally fell asleep in the overly-fluffy hotel bed, I heard knocking at the door. I ignored it. The knocking persisted. I rolled over, annoyed, and realized that the BF was not in bed. Where was he? Outside in the hallway, knocking on the door. I opened the door to let him in and he went directly to bed and began snoring without answering my immediate questions, the most important of which was “why were you in the hallway in your underwear?”

My assumption is that he went looking for the bathroom, and ended up in the hall. I was only hoping that he hadn’t peed in the linen closet, and if he had, that it wasn’t caught on camera.

He woke up the next day feeling like shit, and had no recollection of the hallway incident. He thought it was a dream. It was a dream, alright.

Not to dwell on this too much, but let’s just say that my birthday was an anniversary repeat — with potentially a worse hangover and the lovely addition of some sort of frantic emergency associated with his damned project (I could dedicate an entire post to that, but really? I don’t want to).

Except this time, we actually managed to have dinner (as opposed to our anniversary dinner, which consisted of a badly-picked-at Epic Burger combo).

I made reservations for us at Geoffrey’s in Malibu, which has an amazing view especially at sunset, which distracted my attention from the BF, who was still a little green around the gills.

So, what I’ve learned from this? The next special occasion? No champagne, child-proof locks on the door, and the phone gets shut down (because it isn’t like my relatives have any better sense than to call me at the crack of dawn to wish me a happy birthday. I’m in LA and it’s 6:00 am. I love you, but seriously? Pound sand!)

I was due to make the trek back to Chicago the next day. I wasn’t really ready to leave LA. Nine days isn’t really enough time. The Universe heard me.

Stay tuned for customer service issues in the next installment . . .

Birthday – Part One

I’m starting a bad pattern, which is blogging infrequently and then exploding everything into one post. This behavior must cease. I need to write more regularly (at least here on this blog), and anyone who cares to read it should do so in a more easily digestable size.

That said, I’m releasing the details of my LA trip in stages. Unless anyone feels like reading a five-page novella at once. I didn’t think so. Here’s part one:

So, as many of you know, I’m not so much of a birthday person.
First, I hate the concept of aging (and yes, I know that it should be expected that we are all going to get older, but known for saying that I’m a vampire – with the exception of the blood. I really hate blood. If I were literally a vampire, forget about the wooden stake through the heart, I would be certain to starve to death).

The part that I don’t talk so much about is the fact that my birthday reminds me of a ritual that I had with my mother where I would send her flowers to commemorate her extreme level of pain and suffering on that day. It was a ritual that she looked forward to. I would send a huge bouquet of roses to her office, and she would be the envy of her colleagues. FTD reminds me of that ritual each year, exactly a week prior to the day. And so it begins.

Last year, I think I blogged about my birthday, and my surprise spa day.

This year went a little differently. I decided to spend the blessed event in sweet home Los Angeles.

I planned the trip so that I could hang out with the BF while he worked on a show. (More about that later. Or not.) He was supposed to work for only a few days while I was in town. Turns out, he worked every day. But, I worked most days myself, so I guess I can’t complain. (Who’d listen?)

I felt right at home as soon as I drove my hideous rental car into the circular driveway of the Andaz West Hollywood on Sunset.

Regarding the hotel, my father asked where I was staying. When I told him, he said “You’re staying at the Riot House? Oh God.” He remembered the first iteration. The Andaz, formerly known as the Riot House — or the Riot Hyatt, is the famed hotel where Keith Richards threw a television off of the balcony of his room, where Guns and Roses fans gathered, waiting for Axl Rose to feed them bits of his steak from his balcony, and Suge Knight swung Vanilla Ice from a balcony by his ankles. They renovated a few years ago. SO not shocking that they removed all balconies.

I consider myself part Californian. Aside from going to college there, some of my best childhood summers were spent split between summer camp, visiting relatives on the east coast, and hanging out in West Hollywood on the Sunset Strip at the Franklin Plaza Hotel (now an apartment building, and incidentally the place where Nikki Sixx overdosed in the 80s [No, I was not there]). And people wonder why I don’t have a Chicago accent.

My father is a musician/producer, and my mother and I would hang out in LA while he worked on various projects.

And, since I’m clearly a textbook case of recreating my household, there I was . . . in LA, with my entertainment industry boyfriend who was there working, staying on the street where I “grew up.” Life is nothing if not ironic.

Stay tuned for the next installment!

The Power of the word ‘No’

No is probably the first word that we learn as toddlers. It’s so easy to say, and there are so many applications. Somewhere along the way, we are taught that people don’t like to hear the word ‘no,’ and we’re more trained to say ‘yes.’

Even if we don’t want to. Even if to say yes means that your time is being encroached upon, or that there are a whole host of other people in your life that will be disappointed by whatever you’re moving around in order to say ‘yes’ to someone/something else.

I used to bend over backward to accommodate other people, and there are a few things that I’ve learned in the process. First, people rarely reciprocated my efforts. Second, I often neglected something in my own life by jumping on board on someone else’s agenda. Third, the things that I’ve said yes to have occasionally been thankless efforts. No good deed goes unpunished.

So, you know what? For the record? I’m fucking sick and tired of ‘yes.’ I’m stimulating my inner id by bringing ‘no’ back, and it’s sexy as hell. (I’m sure Freud would have a LOT to say about that).

I’m dead serious, though. I’ve made myself a promise – I’m either going to do something and not complain about it, or I’m not going to do it. Sounds fair to me.

The word ‘no’ is the most liberating thing you can say. In just two little letters, you can free up your schedule and avoid doing a bunch of shit you don’t want to do. It can prevent you from injury, and keep you from ruminating for years over how you should have followed your instincts. A bargain at twice the price. The word no can give you something that you might feel that you’re lacking – control over your life.

Let me illustrate . . . a friend asks you to help her move.
Now, let’s be clear . . . NOBODY likes to move, and more importantly, NOBODY wants to help YOU move. I don’t care if it’s your best friend, relative, significant other or parent. No matter how much they love you, almost everyone you know would rather die a slow death of being bitten by dung beetles than go to your house, pack your unorganized dusty shit and move it. Pizza and beer is not a good form of payment.

And let’s face it, after a certain age (25), there are a few things that we must realize: 1) Movers are not a luxury, they are a necessity. If you can’t afford movers, you shouldn’t move unless you can move everything yourself (or employ someone who’s dying to get in your pants). 2) Your friends? With their accumulated sports injuries, back problems and general preoccupations? Are NOT moving professionals! They will drop your shit, and they will break it. And you will be pissed off. As usual, I digress . . .

Back to the point, if any of my friends asks me to help her move, the answer is an unequivocal, immediate no. I’m not going to hem and haw about it. I’m not going to pretend to check my calendar and create a previous engagement. I’m going to say flat-out no. If asked why, I will run through the reasons mentioned in the previous paragraph. I might even donate $20 toward her moving expenses (which saves me $50 on a chiropractor visit), but really? The answer is no. A refreshing no. And if she doesn’t want to be friends with me anymore, I will remind her that she will hate me anyway after I kamikaze her precious Scandinavian dresser down a flight of stairs in an effort to preserve my manicure (yep, I just turned ‘kamikaze’ into a verb. Whatever.). It’s truly a lose-lose situation.

Is it that I’m trying to be unhelpful? Absolutely not! I’m not a mover, and I’ve learned to stay in my lane.

For my friends that have kids, will I say yes to babysitting? NO! But I will be the friend who takes you out when Junior is driving you crazier than a rat in a coffee can. If you’re job seeking, will I write your resume? No! But I’ll edit the hell out of it and run you through mock interviews. If you ask me to go camping, the answer will be no – unless the cabins are at Camp Four Seasons. In which case I make an amazing spa buddy.

When I can say yes, and when it’s convenient for me to say yes, and when I WANT to say yes, the answer is an enthusiastic YES! When it’s a win-win, the answer is yes, and even if I don’t get anything out of it and I’m doing a favor in the name of friendship, the answer will most likely be yes. If you’re a friend and need my support (that doesn’t involve manual labor or breaking a nail) the answer is definitely yes! And when I say yes, people can rest assured that I mean it.

Tongue firmly rooted in cheek,
Gina B.

Guidelines from my corporate life

So, in addition to the media stuff, by day I’m a recruiter. Before you start flooding my inbox with resumes, I specifically recruit high-level executives that are currently sitting at VP level or higher.

Because the people that I recruit are seasoned professionals with typically 15-20 years of experience, I’m always amazed at the rudimentary lessons that I have to teach candidates about what not to do during the recruitment process.

Typically I don’t co-mingle my blog with my day job, but, because there are so many people out of work these days, I know that someone here could benefit from the following information:

How To Be a Serious Contender for an Executive Role (or How Not to Piss Off Your Recruiter)

1. Get a serious email address for job search correspondence. By serious, I mean something conservative, like firstname.lastname@yoururl.com. While your friends use the personal address that you’ve had since college, trust me when I tell you that hiring managers will not think that beerpongmaster@yoururl.com is appropriate. Not to mention your potential behavior at the corporate Christmas party will be questioned.

2. Proofread and spellcheck your resume. You’re taken far less seriously if the title of your most recent role is “VP of Makreting.”

3. When you go on an interview, don’t do anything to distract from your message. By that I mean take off all kooky “unique” jewelry, and be careful of your use of cologne and hair products. An SVP of Sales candidate once wore lizard cufflinks that were 60% covered in rhinestones. Between those and the incredible amount of gel in his hair, I was so mesmerized that I couldn’t pay attention to anything he said. Oh, and if you have a signature fragrance, please know that your interviewers don’t want to be introduced to it. You want your interview feedback to be “she’s brilliant” or “he will fit in so well with the organization.” You don’t want anyone to say “yeah, she’s smart, but there’s no way we can hire anyone who has such an affinity for Lady Stetson.”

4. Land the plane. Meaning, don’t give a 10 minute answer to a 30 second question. An interview is the opportunity for the recruiter or hiring managers to get to know you and learn about your experiences. We’ve often allocated a certain amount of time to speak with you, therefore you need to be succinct. When we ask you to take a few minutes to walk us through your background, we really do mean a FEW minutes. FYI, 60? Is not a few.

5. Don’t condescend to the recruiter. We’re in the process for a few reasons. First, we’re professionals trained to recognize talent. Second, our clients and hiring managers use us as the first line of defense to screen out your garden variety yahoo who thinks that their 8th grade education and two years of experience as a basket weaving technologist make them qualified board room contenders. Third, if we meet and like you, we will always keep you in mind for future positions, even if this one doesn’t work out. We’re great friends to have. That said, if you approach us with attitude, such as “is there anyone more senior than YOU that I can speak to?”, you have just bought yourself a permanent black mark on your record. And we’re not shy about sharing our opinions with the recruiting community.

6. Don’t stalk us. I appreciate tenacity. I do NOT appreciate a pain in the ass. Let me illustrate the difference. Tenacity is a followup email or call, and maybe another one a week later if you don’t hear back from me. Stalking is calling every day (even when I’ve told you that I would circle back in a week), sending multiple emails begging for another meeting, and giving me the feeling that I might have to look both ways when I leave my office.

7. When you’re told why you won’t be considered for the position (which, unfortunately happens more often than not), don’t argue with us as a last ditch effort. Your personal circumstances, while they might pull at our heartstrings, are not going to make our clients say “okay, since he’s gone through so much this year, let’s bring him in to interview despite the fact that we’ve deemed him wholly unqualified.”

If you’re qualified for a role, and follow the abovementioned guidelines, you’ll be just fine. If not . . . well never say I didn’t warn you!

Meet the Six Brown Chicks — the REAL skinny

I promised to blog about this a long time ago, so now that I’m on a roll, here we are.

So . . . at the beginning of this year, I received an email from Zondra Hughes asking if I’d like to collaborate on a blog. When she worked for Ebony/Jet, Zondra used to call me for quotes for relationship-related articles, and she also used me in a few photo shoots. I hadn’t spoken to Zondra in a long while, but it was good to hear from her.

Timing is everything. If I had received that note just two months earlier, I would have declined. In my mind, I had retired from writing. I had burned myself out a year earlier and hadn’t yet recovered. It was a bad one. I had been trying to write the memoir that I’ve been trying to finish that documented my mother’s bout with breast cancer from diagnosis until death. Not exactly a light topic.

Fortunately, the burnout coincided with RedEye — the paper where my columns: The Gina Spot and Date Night with Gina B. appeared — reacting to the economic downturn and letting go of most special contributors, including myself.

The BF had been trying to get me to start writing again, which was both interesting and annoying. Interesting, because most men don’t encourage their relationship columnist girlfriends to resume their writings for fear that they’ll end up being a topic at some point (although his ego can MORE than handle it), and annoying because I never react well when someone is persistently trying to get me to do things that I don’t want to do. Even though he had the best of intentions.

For some reason, after the first of the year, I was ready to get started again. And I actually had things to talk about and opinions to espouse. So, I wrote Zondra back, agreeing to be a part of the collaboration — even though I had no idea what it was.

When I talked to Zondra, she told me the premise was that there would be six women, each writing articles on a daily basis — with the exception of Sunday — and each with very different perspectives and walks of life. We had a space on Chicago Now, the Tribune’s blog site, and we would be called, collectively, Six Brown Chicks.

Most of us had never met one another. I knew Zondra, and I had met Yanni previously and read her book. The rest were a mystery.

We decided to have a photoshoot for official pictures, which is where we all met for the first time and bonded over brown dresses and lots of makeup.

Here is the cast of characters (I’m sure they’re gonna love this, but oh well. My blog, my jurisdiction)

Zondra Hughes: The organizer. Z is our Barbie, our bombshell — loves all things girly and pretty. She’s kindhearted, a great peacemaker and touts the regular use of toys (as a substitute for boys).

Yolanda “Yanni” Brown: Yanni keeps it real, and she’s an advocate for intimacy and marriage. She doesn’t sweat the small stuff, and she stresses her proficiencies in the sack. We believe her.

Dawgelene Sangster (alias, Dr. Dawj): Dawj is a true survivor — she’s overcome homelessness and domestic violence. She has a soft touch, and a very strong core. She is the most serious of us all (although she wears surprisingly wild shoes).

Shoya Bowman: Shoya has become known for her exuberance about her relatively new relationship. She’s happy, she’s giddy, she’s completely in love. We try not to vomit when she tells us about her romantic dates. Most of our male viewers are waiting for her to have a wardrobe malfunction.

A. Comeaux: What to say about Kayann? She’s a fireball, and you never know what she’s going to say, but you can bet it will be hilarious. She specializes in spoken word artistry, but she adds a different perspective to the group as the single mother of a young child.

Then there’s me . . . Gina B. If you know me, you’ll know that I’m the analytical one. I get teased for my $10 words and aggressive assertion of my opinions.

So, a few weeks after we began blogging, WCIU (a local Chicago channel) wanted to meet with us to see if we had chemistry among us, so we all trailed down to the studio (and believe me — six women are difficult to get in the same room), and met with the producers.

Yada, yada, yada, we have a web show.

It’s like The View, but with six black women. We used to do full 22 minute episodes with each of us leading one topic, but they recently changed the format so that we’re now doing mini-episodes that last about 3 minutes apiece.

I’m going to try to be better about posting episodes here, but here’s a link to the latest where I’m leading the topic on numbers of sex partners — do you fret about it, or forget about it? If you’re interested in reading the corresponding blog, check it out.

So, now you know the story of the SBC. Let me know what you think?

Conference calls and observations

I haven’t blogged in a while and there are SO many ridiculous things that I could talk about, but I’m keeping it light and telling a few stories about weird stuff that has happened over the last month or so.

So . . . a few weeks ago, I was sitting in my car taking a conference call in front of the salon before my hair appointment (because, unfortunately, that’s how I roll). I had my portable office – my laptop, wireless hotspot, cell phone, and blackberry (there are more devices, but I’ll spare you. You’re welcome).

I was on the call when I noticed two very small, very blonde kids walk out of the salon. They looked to be about 2 and 4 (give or take a year. I’m terrible when it comes to assessing the ages of children). They walked out alone and they were standing near the door.

My first assumption was that their mother was standing just inside the door and that she would be out shortly. Instead, one of the stylists stuck her head out of the salon door and called the girls back in.

The girls remained sequestered in the salon for approximately 5 minutes before returning to the sidewalk.

Again, I thought certainly a mother would soon appear. I was proven wrong when the four-year-old took the hand of the two-year-old and began aggressively leading her down the street toward Michigan Avenue.

At this point, I had a decision to make. I could either have interrupted my conference call and removed all of my electronics from my lap and jumped out of the car to see where the kids were off to. Or I could have stayed on the call, and distracted myself from my enthralling meeting by watching to see how long it would take before their mother ran out to the rescue.

I chose the latter. Don’t call me a bitch! There were a few important factors.

First, there’s no way I could have explained abruptly hanging up on my conference call. It’s bad enough that I was supposed to be in my office.

Second, if anyone knows me, you will know that I’m not really the type to run and grab a pair of toddlers. Especially if they look even remotely sticky. Which these did. Not to mention the important fact that, realistically, if I, a black woman, were to go and grab two little white kids and drag them back toward an establishment (which is conveniently located next to an alley), the police would suddenly materialize, along with Chris Hansen from Dateline, and I would be in an orange jumpsuit immediately (because we all know that if Chris Hansen appears on the premises, someone’s going down [or in the case of "To Catch a Predator," someone HAS gone down. Gross, but you get the point]).

As an aside, my friends and family would all laugh through their testimonies that I would be the last person who should ever be a suspect in a child abduction case (irrespective of how much I could get for them on the black market). I know . . . this is just one big digression festival. Back to the point . . .

So, JUST when I was starting to rethink my decision not to get involved, fortunately another woman stopped the girls and appeared to ask them where their mother was. (This woman was far less threatening than I. She was with her own child, and she was . . . umm . . . more racially friendly [and by "racially friendly" I mean "white"]) The kids pointed in the general direction of the salon to indicate there whereabouts of their abandoned mother, and the good samaritan walked them back.

At that point, the mother exited the salon.

As I made a quasi-important statement on my conference call, I peered at her with interest. I don’t know what I expected her to look like. What, exactly, is the look of negligence? But once I saw her, I totally got it.

She emerged from the salon, frazzled, looking to be about 8 months pregnant, pushing a stroller containing yet another infant. This woman wasn’t deliberately neglectful. With four kids under the age of four, it’s a wonder that she could discern her ass from a pacifier.

I wanted to disconnect from my conference call, jump out of the car and hug her. (And make her an appointment with my MD for a prescription of Yasmin)

I almost felt guilty later, as I was getting shampooed and pampered, that I could just leave, have a glass of wine (or four) and have a quiet evening.

But not THAT guilty.

Things I don’t care about for $1,000

I don’t carry much cash on me. Never really have. Even at this age, my father is always nervously cramming money in my pocket. He’s old school and believes that I should always have at least $50 on me at all times. Not.

And why would I? I can use my debit card everywhere. Even in cabs. Now . . . the only people who aren’t happy about credit/debit card usage in cabs are cab drivers. They are never unhappier than when a passenger whips that card out and swipes it through the slot of that cute little machine installed handily on the backs of their bulletproof glass-laden seats.

They look so welcoming, those machines. Don’t be deceived.

I was getting out of a cab last weekend and the angry little African cab driver yelled at me for my card usage. Our exchange went something like this:

Gina: “Can I use my card?” begins swiping
Angry African Cab Driver: “Awwwwwwwww!”
Gina: “I can’t use my card?”
AACD: “You don’t have cash?”
Gina: [deadpan] “Apparently not. What is the problem?”
AACD: “How’m I gon make money?”
Gina: “What?”
AACD: “How’m I spose to make money?”
Gina: “Excuse me?”
AACD: “Your fare is $5, and they take $2 each transaction, so how’m I spose to make money?”
Gina: “Listen, your transaction fees are not the passenger’s problem. It’s not my fault that you’re not a better negotiator. I wanted a ride, which I’m willing to pay for, but what I’m NOT paying for is to get yelled at about my payment method.”
AACD: “Well, what would you do?”
Gina: “I’m also not here to give you advice. But what I AM gonna do is swipe this card and get the fuck out of this cab.”

There’s an area where you can add a certain percentage for tip, and I selected the lowest amount, just because he pissed me off. He groaned again and started to complain. I cut him off and told him that he should either remove the machine from his cab, or learn to shut his mouth. I decided not to add insult to injury by telling him that I could have opted against leaving a tip altogether.

So, is it wrong for me to want to take a series of 6 block trips and pay with my card? If nobody hears from me in a while, check random trunks of cabs. I’ll certainly be killed and stuffed into one soon enough.

Schwarzenegger Scandal … Should a Love Child Terminate Your Marriage? | rolling out

And of course, I couldn’t resist making a comment on the Schwarzenegger/Shriver divorce. Check in at Six Brown Chicks tomorrow for a full article with a different slant. (http://www.chicagonow.com/blogs/six-brown-chicks/)

Schwarzenegger Scandal … Should a Love Child Terminate Your Marriage? | rolling out.