You Shut Your Facebook When You're Talking to Me

uck this.

Thanks to the ridiculous nature of "marketing" these days, no one is safe from the all-encompassing, privacy-shattering, big brother that's simply known as "social networking."

Let me start off by saying I HATE twitter, and I HATE Facebook. MySpace is--thankfully--dying on its own and does not need my help.

Don't let the fact that I fraternize with the enemy fool you, I am a silent Web assassin that would terminate them both if given the chance, but alas, I have resorted to the Matrix way of conquering my foe: by infiltrating their ranks.

What drives me up a wall is that social media has now become a make-it or break-it aspect of any interview. Oh you can cure cancer? Great! But can you effectively tweet about it to the masses? No? Sorry, YOU LOSE.

What started off innocently as a way to share pictures and musings has now become the one (and in some ways, the only) method of showing the world who you are. Don't have 700 friends? You must be a recluse. No pictures of you stumbling home drunk? You must have no social life and we can't have that because we're looking for a team player.

I'd ask you not get me started on Twitter but I already am. Who the fuck needs to know what you're doing or thinking that often? Latest Twitter Feed: June is about to refrain from smacking someone: //tinyURL/ShootMe.

My latest nightmare seems less far-fetched.

Coming soon to a drive-through near you: twitter you order, then update your Facebook status to simultaneously reflect your gluttony! Invite your friends to follow by utilizing our paid ads! We haven't figured out how to make money yet but don't tell anyone!

The only question is, can I communicate three whoppers, twelve large pizzas and a family size bucket (with all the sides) in 140 characters or less? I have a feeling that very soon, some celebrity trainer is going to invent the twitter diet. "I tell all my clients, if they can't list all they're eating in 140 characters or less, they have no business consuming that. Nicole, Jennifer and Kate love my plan."

Bracing myself for more obnoxious interviews (and the inevitable twitter diet in next week's US weekly),

June

Chick View

I've coined a new phrase: Chick View. Follow my faulty logic along, will you?

Any movie starring women = Chick Flick

Any book that merely mentions romantic entanglements = Chick Lit

All interviews I've been on = Chick View

What do these things have in common? Something feminine, something new, a flight of fantasy and lots of blue--as in navy pantsuits to wear for interviews.

It always starts out so promisingly, as do most romantic comedies: an email response, a flirtatious phone call, and invitation to meet.

A girl's mind immediately starts to race, picking out the dress (or skirt and shirt), flowers (or briefcase/professional-looking bag), shoes (for confident strutting), the size of the ring (salary, cash bonus and 401k offer), and the honeymoon (do they or don't they offer health care coverage?)

Will you take this job for better or worse?

Admit it, who reading this hasn't pictured that hot Ivy-League grad who just bought you a drink in a tuxedo? I often commit similar fantasy crimes when I picture the director of Human Resources asking me for a salary range. It goes something like this:

"What sort of compensation were you looking for?"

"F--"

"Five hundred thousand to start? Great! That's just what we were about to offer you."

"When would you like me to start?"

"Oh, please take your time. Go home and call us when you're ready, but in the meantime, let me take your direct deposit information to deliver your first paycheck right this second right now."

"Thank you?"

"No June, THANK YOU. Now go home and enjoy that extended money-worry-free vacation you deserve."

Sigh.

A girl can dream, can't she?

Don't answer that.

Ridiculously yours,

June