ADVENTURES IN UNEMPLOYMENT PART I

A perfect cover letter is like the human body. Each part, no matter how insignificant it seems, plays a vital role in sustaining life. 

Write a bad, boring opening and your letter has a heart attack. No details about the web 2.0 initiative you rallied throughout the company? You're officially brain dead. Too many generic statements citing your can do spirit and team player mentality? Overactive thyroid (and the reason behind that unfortunate weight gain). The balance between your proven talent, future promise and mandatory but subtle ass kissing is a very delicate dance. Disrupt it and your subject line may as well say Do Not Resuscitate. 

Yes, a perfect cover letter is no easy feat. But let's be honest- no one is perfect. 

That goes triple for me. So I've decided to eschew the usual heartfelt notes that I tirelessly craft for each potential check signer in favor of a different- but equally genuine- approach. 

It's time to be upfront about my shortcomings so employers know what they're in for. No sugar coating here. Just a raw, candid look at the real Erin Weinger and what she actually brings to the table. 

Since my severance is almost up and I'm not willing to cancel my Tivo subscription or get rid of my car, time is of the essence. I figure a more direct approach to my job hunt could speed things up a bit (did I mention my love of Grey Goose? The bottle in my freezer is getting dangerously low). 

So this is my experiment in cover letter fun. If it doesn't land me my dream position (whatever that position may be), I'll go back to conventionally conveying why me and a certain job are a match made in heaven. 

But until then, this will have to do. 

Dear Hiring Manager, 

Let's cut to the chase- you have a job opening and I need a job. I don't want to waste your time and I'd like to finish this up before Full House starts (yes, I'm enjoying my paid "time off"). 

But there is a lot more to me than my love of alliteration (I don't need to tell you that I know how to write- just look at my clips from the Los Angeles Times. Some are better than others but in general I think I do ok). So in an attempt to show you the real me as painlessly as possible, here it goes. 

I have a terrible case of attention deficit disorder that can only be tamed with copious amounts of caffeine and prescription stimulants. I'm messy and hate to clean. There's a very real possibility that components of my lunch will surround my cubicle floor and remain there until I kick them somewhere else. I love piles and leave many in my wake- Post Its, ripped pieces of paper, stacks of magazines from last Christmas- name your paper, it's probably in my piles. I won't wash my coffee mug and am unfazed by the crusted stripe of old lip gloss that greets me whenever I take a sip. I get pretty fidgety and am likely to make many daily bathroom breaks and cafeteria runs,  usually without legitimate need. I enjoy daydreaming and have been known to blankly stare at walls for extended periods of time. I'm extremely forgetful and sometimes allow menial tasks to slip through the cracks. I have selective hearing and sometimes think I'm going deaf. Also, my eyesight isn't what it used to be but I refuse to look into the problem. I put things off until the last possible second and make colleagues nervous as I scramble to get them done. And forget about me coming into work at a set time. I'm chronically late and it's unlikely that things will change now. I'm not great at returning e-mails and only check my voice mail once every few weeks. I carry a large tote bag to and from work but it is filled with candy wrappers, receipts and garbage, mostly- not work materials. I'm a social butterfly and make friends wherever I go. So if I'm not at my desk I can usually be found in another department dishing about my latest romance or complaining about the modern media's sorry state. I don't let my young age or lack of authority stop me from speaking my mind to even the most senior level staff. Sometimes I'll continue ranting via longwinded e-mail. Every so often my ego comes out to play. My potty mouth rivals that of a drunken sailor and I make politically incorrect remarks. I'll also crack jokes here and there- very entertaining for some, very uncomfortable for others. I don't really have an indoor voice and laugh as often as possible. I like my legs and show them off in dresses that may not be appropriate for a place of business, depending on who you ask. And if my outfits don't confirm my femininity, the fact that I frequently cry on the job sure does. 

But despite my faults, my job is my life. I will stay at the office until midnight to perfect a rewrite if need be. I speak up in meetings, offer innovative ideas and am not afraid to staunchly stand behind my beliefs. And all those friends I make? You can find me standing behind them, too. I don't get jealous of success that doesn't belong to me. I keep personal calls under five minutes and try to save Facebook for my own free time.  I will work passionately on a project until it's the best I believe it can be. And those tears I mentioned? They usually happen in the privacy of a bathroom stall when my best didn't feel quite good enough. I am a meticulous researcher. I know exactly what papers are in each one of my piles. I will never ignore an e-mail from the boss. I am proactive on solving problems and constantly ask my superiors for advice on improving my performance. More times than not, my performance is doing just fine. My complaints about the media fuel my fire for this industry and make me want to be a better reporter every single day. I can fix the printer when it jams. I will torture myself with a single sentence until it rolls off the tongue just so. And if an editor changes it, I won't argue unless I have to. Believe it or not, I'm pretty good at choosing my battles wisely. I talk a big game but I'm a lover, not a fighter. I won't swear in meetings or in front of superiors (most of the time). I'm always respectful when voicing my opinion. I use my abundance of energy to hunt for topics others would never find. My elders tell me I'm wise beyond my years. I have a natural ability to solve problems. Cats wish they could be as curious as me. I'm fiercely independent. I don't steal words or belongings. My jokes and laughter introduce much needed cheer into our too-often depressing world. On days when I'm particularly lucky, my written words do too. I can set up your Blackberry, Outlook and pretty much anything else on your computer or phone. My daydreams often star the next story I want to write. I may forget to file an expense report but will always remember to fact check a sources last name. And though I tend to file stories dangerously near deadline, they are typically on par with pieces someone else turned in last week. I love what I do so my selective hearing tunes everything in. But I really might be going deaf. Nothing a tap on the shoulder won't fix, and you can be sure I'll be listening to you attentively. I will teach you how to set up an RSS feed and explain why social networking applications are a key to saving our industry. I will teach you how to use these apps in ways you probably didn't know existed. I am versatile, agreeable and generally pleasant to be around (even if I haven't had lunch!). Change doesn't scare me. If I'm fulfilled in my work, neither does monotony. I am creative, free spirited and passionate about making things better.  I sometimes scare myself because I can learn new skills so quickly. And I know that the best education comes from asking for wisdom at every opportunity. I also know that silently observing seasoned pros can teach even more. I hate being wrong in life- same goes for my writing. But if I do slip up, I'll admit it and move on. I'm like a trusty golden retriever and am fiercely loyal, even after I'm given reason not to be. And I'll admit it- I enjoy being praised and will do whatever necessary to warrant it. I love feeling proud of myself and will never purposely do anything to strip that feeling away. I have a thick skin and respond well to constructive criticism. Hell, call me fat and ugly and I won't bat an eyelash. But accuse me of not caring about my work and get ready to spar. I am forward thinking, very enthusiastic and generally happy with life. Those traits are always with me- whether I'm writing a 50 word blurb, 2,000 word feature or building a website from scratch. And most importantly,  I really truly believe in my heart and soul that everything- and I do mean everything- is possible. No matter what. Those who spend time with me usually start realizing it too. 

So yeah, I have a few minor issues. But despite my unconventional ways I will be devoted to every aspect of my job and our company from the second I step through the door. And that isn't easy to find these days. So if you can look past the salad bar scraps littering my desk and trust that I really will be the best damn employee I can be (cross my heart), I know I can do some great things for you. 

That said, Uncle Jesse awaits. Thanks for your time. I hope to hear from you soon!

Best, 

Erin 

-Erin Weinger

ATONEMENT IS FUN

To mark the start of the Jewish new year, we're doing something we've never done before on La Source- allowing a guest blogger to post on our hallowed pages.

Not just any guest blogger but our dear compadre Liza Kaplan, a talented scribe whose name you'll soon be seeing when she writes television's next hit show (I know- shocking to think of someone penning an actual script in a world where tanning bed operators are viable entertainment). Liza, a trained playwright, is one to watch, and the Huffington Post agrees. We're honored to host her words.

-EW



Because it’s a day of reflection:

Yesterday, at temple my rabbi spoke about spiritual hunger in a time of plenty. He said although people, specifically young people, have more material wealth today than they’ve ever had in decades past, they lack connection. Intimacy. A sense of community. So what does this have to do with fashion? After all on the surface, the mere idea of runway shows and Mercedez Benz tents screams spiritual (and plain old give that girl a bagel!) hunger in a time of plenty. You can get a rush from the swipe of your Barney’s card and a black bag in tow, but is that really spiritual fulfillment? I think even Carrie Bradshaw would have to say Manol-no.

Recently, Lookbook.nu an online lookbook which calls itself a “collective fashion consciousness” launched in the blogoshpere. Anyone can post pictures of themselves in their own ensembles and others can comment and even award “hype points” based on how keen they may be for one’s personal style. Which all seems very “I-don’t-care-what-Tina-from-Indianapolis-is-wearing-when-is-this-personal-style-blog-biznazz-going-to-die?”. But a closer look at the titles of people’s pictures: “And sometimes I scream out your name”, “They were all grey”, “You were interested in ancient Mesopotamia and I wasn’t”, and their descriptions of themselves: “aspiring somebody” “16-year-old lost waif” “19-year-old writer runaway trash can dream believer” seem to indicate something more. That in this fashion community that spans Helsinki to Los Angeles and all the Air France stops along the way, fashion may not just be about clothes. About things. But rather, a means for us all to decipher who we are. And a way to be heard. And a way to matter.

I have a very close friend who is paid to be a fashion reporter. (Lucky, I know). But lately, perhaps in the midst of the country’s economic turmoil and impending election bound to be filled with all sorts of nuculear (wink, wink) activity and bridges to nowhere, she has started to feel like there is no point to writing about shoes. And although I tried to tell her you can never have enough of them, I understand where she is coming from. I’m not saying I think it’s revolutionary. I don’t think browsing the futuristic stylings from a 26 year old stylist/photographer from Makati or the effortless chic from a 22 year old student in Enkoping is going to change the world. But something like Lookbook.nu proves it doesn’t matter if you define yourself as democratic or republican, or even if you live in a country where the government pays for healthcare or not, it is a universal truth we all have to get dressed in the morning. And beyond that we, young people, all have something to say. There may be a certain sense of aloneness in these solitary pictures of self defined waifs, dreamers and aspiring somebodies drifting in the blogosphere, and we may even be reaching for connections that can only be electronically made. But it’s a community. And oddly, intimate. And maybe, that’s a start.

-Liza Kaplan

GREAT SCOTT!

"Success is about standing out, not fitting in."- Mad Men producer Matthew Weiner after tonight's season 2 premiere (Brillz advice- I can think of more than a few people who should take it). 

It's old news that the show's meticulous attention to style detail is, well, meticulous (check out Monica Corcoran's outstanding Q + A with Janie Bryant, Mad Men costume designer). After the episode, one particular detail stuck out in my mind- a pair of paisley pants.  

For anyone not up on their fabric 101, paisley is a print that features swirls inside of teardrop shapes in a trippy, Indian looking design. 

During a conversation with neighbor Betty Draper, Francine Hanson (played by Anne Dudek) wears a green fuzzy coat in the style of last season's skinned-Kermit number by Prada but also a pair of green paisley pants similar to prints seen on the fall runways of Hermes, Valentino, Tibi and Dries van Noten. 

In the mid-eighteenth century, the East India Company began 

importing shawls made of the intricately patterned textile to the 

Scottish town of Paisley. But the goods came with a 

hefty price tag (much like Matthew Williamson's pop-inspired version of the classic print, left, $1,950. www.netaporter.com) so Paisley denizens decided to whip up the fabric themselves. 

And that they did (coincidental fun fact o'the day: Actor Gerard Butler calls Paisley his hometown). 

I'd rather be drinking with Don Draper in 1960's Manhattan than whooping it up at a Highland fling with men that sound like Groundskeeper Willie, paisley or not. 

But Willie can always win my affections with Alexander McQueen's rust colored paisley smock dress (everyone has their price, mine just happens to be stylish). 

-Erin Weinger 

Photo courtesy of AMC.

SHOP TILL YOU DROP (LESS MONEY, THAT IS)

Designer outlet shopping can be pretty painful. But it doesn't have to be- if you know where to look, of course. 

Get your treasure map in today's Los Angeles Times Image section. 

Or else.

-Erin Weinger 

Photo by Rick Loomis/ Los Angeles Times

WHY AMERICA IS F*CKED (AND OTHER MUSINGS)

I write this from the comfort of my bedroom in my parents house. Why, you ask, does an adult who is perfectly capable of living on her own still have to tip-toe in at night? Two words: bad credit. Yes, it's true. My credit report is as botched as Tara Reid's fake tits.

Last week, after an exhaustive multi-month search that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies, I found my perfect apartment. The charming unit was built in 1930, had hardwood floors, a tiled mantle and private outdoor patio perfect for evenings of laughter with friends. A ridiculously cool black and white art deco kitchen and a walk in closet rounded out the dream home's offerings. Best of all, it was in my price range.

Unfortunately, just as I was negotiating and searching for a soul to vouch I'm not a deadbeat, my home was rented to a girl whose life is surely worth more than mine, as her credit score is 690. My score is considerably lower due to two paltry years spent living beyond my means. Hopefully my closet full of Christian Louboutins and Forever 21 shmata dresses (that's rag in Yiddish, y'all) will keep me warm at night, as I won't be meeting a man in my mother's house anytime soon.

A lovely realtor named Jizelle (or Funky Spunk for short) worked with me over the weekend and told me to find a cosigner. I sprung into action calling everyone I know (for reasons too long to get into in this post, my parents are not an option). Sperm and I stayed in constant communication throughout the process. Which is why today, as I was out reporting a story for the July 27th issue of the Image section, I was flabergasted to get a call saying the apartment had been rented. Say what? We were in the middle of negotiations! I offered to take the apartment as-is! I offered a cosigner! I ponied up my future first born! But someone else had better credit.

Nevermind that I give my word to millions of Los Angeles Times readers every single week that what I'm saying is truthful. Who cares that one of the most revered fashion journalists in the world suggested that the building would be wise to take me. And my cushy salary- likely more than Love Juice's earnings last year- was apparently not enough to satisfy the owners of the tiny one bedroom dwelling, based on my credit score of course.

Why is it that a piece of paper with outdated information relating to a person much different than my current self gets to dictate my future? In college, I- like most- lived a life of excess (an $1,800 Chanel bag bought while drunk comes to mind...). Now, I no longer use credit cards and rely on my earnings to pay my bills. My new philosophy is simple: if I don't have it, I don't spend it. I no longer have three martini lunches at the Four Seasons or spend $200 redecorating my bathroom on a Tuesday night simply because I'm bored. Maybe my credit report should mention how I gained and lost six dress sizes over the course of college and was so excited to feel confident in a tube top again that I went a little overboard with the AmEx. (It feels damn good to try on a slinky dress without crying and covering up in a sweater. I'd do things differently, sure. But I make no apologies.)

I explained as much as possible to Spluge the realtor in a very detailed and heartfelt letter begging for a chance. My newfound financial maturity isn't seen on my credit report, but it is apparent in the fact that I pay for my own car (again, worth more than Man Milk makes in a year),  have a nice little savings and haven't incurred any new debt since college. The bottom line is this: I have a fantastic job, make a more-than solid salary and come with wonderful references. If I don't pay my rent, kick me to the curb and call it a day.

No one else can be held accountable for my spending habits. Except maybe the geniuses that granted my 18 year-old self a $15,000 Visa credit limit. And MTV, reality shows and tabloid magazines can take an itty bitty part of the blame for shoving a life of ridiculous extravagance down my throat and telling me that anyone who didn't follow the same lifestyle was worthless.  Perhaps if the same educational system that taught me the long division so vital to my everyday life explained actual finance too I would be in a better position to manage my life as well. 

Since I am far from the only person my age in this awful predicament, I realize how screwed America really is. I've never been a very spiritual person but I pray for me and my peers unless our country can help us get out of the hole they've helped bury us in. (Let's give Phil Gramm a copy of my credit report and see how far he gets. It won't be all in his head when even Sears denies him a credit card.)

As for the bitch that stole my apartment, I have the last laugh. The place is right next to the finger lickin' good scent of grease and poultry, better known as KFC.  Homegirl is about to gain more weight than a stoner with a thyroid problem. I, on the other hand, will stand proud (and skinny) - tarnished credit and all- and find an even better charming art deco apartment that will one day be listed on Wikipedia as a known residence of the famous writer Erin Weinger.

And my name doesn't sound like ejaculate. 

-Erin Weinger

Nailed

Forgotten were my unkept nails today, and so I went to a job interview with these bad boys. From the looks I got, the Olsen chipped-polish look is so very last season. C'est la vie.
-RE