Trapped in a box for 29 hours...

Sometimes I wonder how people got through the work day before the dawn of gchat and email. Honestly, what is there to do for eight hours a day, stuck in a cubicle? The obvious answer is "work," but when you’re within a few years of graduating college, your superiors barely trust you to use scissors without a safety guard, nevertheless do any meaningful and time-consuming work.

Honestly, I should update my resume and say that I have advanced software skills in playing the following games via gchat or gmail: Hangman; Tic-Tac-Toe; Rock/Paper/Scissor (it’s possible, although both parties must abide by a serious honor system); Free Word Association; What Would you Rather be Doing Right Now?; Finish my Sentence; MASH; Two Truths and a Lie; and (creating and answering) Surveys.

Today I’m going to share with you my favorite game and what might be the most potent weapon against office boredom. Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you—Trapped in a Box for 29 Hours.

Trapped in a Box for 29 Hours is a game that my dad and I created (and Helena helped refine) over the Summer of 2004, in preparation for my road trip with Helena from DC to Canada. Over the years the rules have been further refined, and although initially used to combat road trip boredom, I’ve found it useful (if not vital) in the war on office boredom.

The rules are quite simple: email/gchat/text message a friend and propose to them a question—would you rather be trapped in a box for 29 hours with ______ or ______? Your juxtaposition must be well thought out and the options must somehow relate. In my experience, I have also found that the more abstract your juxtaposition, the better. Use your imagination, what else are you going to do?

In addition, you must abide by the following rules:
1.) As stated in the title, you are trapped in the box for 29 hours. You may not leave under any circumstances. I cannot stress this enough. I hate playing this with people who think the objective of the game is to be a smart-ass and find a way out of the box or a way to make their box-mate leave. You are trapped in the box with one of two people; just choose which one you would prefer. Don’t disrespect the game by trying to outsmart it.
2.) Whomever you decide to be trapped in the box with cannot touch you (whether it is to cause harm or pleasure) and likewise, you cannot touch them. You also cannot have any sexual contact with your box-mate after you are trapped in the box as well. When the 29 hours are up, you are both released, never to see or hear from each other again.
3.) The box dimensions are as follows: you can sit comfortably in your chair and stand with your head just barely reaching the ceiling. You are separated from your box-mate by four feet. You are sitting on reasonably comfortable chairs, facing one another.
4.) You cannot die in the box. I don’t care how claustrophobic you are or how many weapons your box-mate has, death shouldn't factor into your decision. Your box-mate may verbally or mentally abuse you as much as they wish, but physical harm is never possible.
5.) Food, sleep, defecating, work etc. are non-issues.
6.) You may include dead people in your juxtapositions. However, once they are released from the box, they’re dead again.

You might be thinking this sounds totally lame, but I really recommend you give it a try. Half of the fun is thinking of a really good juxtaposition. This game started as a random thought on the way to Outback Steakhouse four years ago, and I still play it regularly with Helena and my dad.

I went through my email with my dad and picked out some of our more quality games of Trapped in a Box to illustrate the beauty of the game:

Dad: Trapped in a box for 29 hours with a theater geek or a computer nerd (dungeons and dragons)?
Me: I choose the computer nerd. Theater geeks are truly awful people. They genuinely think they're better than you when in fact they're lame and outgoing in a completely annoying and needy way. The computer nerd and I could play a vicious game of some weird medieval fantasy game and talk with ye olde accents! Not bad, sayseth I!
Dad: I agree. The computer nerd wins. I couldn't stand hearing someone humming the Rogers and Hammerstein songbook for 24 hours, let alone the jazz hands invading my personal space.

Dad: Trapped in a box for 29 hours with a crazy homeless person vs. Jehovah’s Witness?
Me: I vote Jehovah’s Witness. In both cases you're going to be trapped with someone spouting off crazy stuff to you, but in the Jehovah’s Witness' case he won't smell foul or give you a few diseases (well...depending on the Jehovah’s Witness.)

Me: Trapped in a box for 29 hours with a Hasidic Jew or a Catholic Priest?
Dad: Again, I think there may be some wild hand and arm movements with the Hasidic Jew. You know how those Eastern Europeans are. They're all out there smelling of their exotic eastern foods and crazy talk and socialist ideas [editor’s note: this is just our family's brand of sarcasm talking, not racism. My mom is an Eastern European Jew. Please don’t sue me]. The Catholic Priest will be all quiet and shy and unlikely to impose himself, withall the unfortunate business of, well, you know what. So I'm down with the quiet criminal organization. So let's talk about Jesus -- except there will be no talking in this box! Really.

Dad: Trapped in a box for 29 hours with Al Sharpton or Chelsea Clinton?
Me: Oh God... I guess Al Sharpton based on charisma alone. I wish it were Jesse Jackson though.

Dad: Trapped in a box for 29 hours with either Bob Marley or Bob Dylan?
Me: I guess Bob Dylan just for hygiene’s sake. And my love of acoustic guitar. The only argument for Bob Marley would be his probable amount of pot, but odds are Dylan’s holding too.

Me: Trapped in a box for 29 hours with Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck?
Dad: Donald Duck. Mickey is a sanctimonious mouse bast**d. He's oh so smug about having his own club, and amusement park, and stupid dog thats named after an ex-planet. Now Donald, there's a real duck. He can even swim. That mouse would float face down like a tu*d in a bowl. I didn't know I felt so passionate about this.

Me: Trapped in a box for 29 hours with Judy Garland or Lisa Minelli?
Dad: To be trapped in a box with either you would probably be gay, but all that aside, I'd go with Judy. She would have the best pills and booze (yes, it was booze back then). I think she would also have the better stories. Although, on the other hand, she would likely cry a lot. Bummer. Liza (with a z) seems like a manic whiner. I'd have to put up with a lot about her ex husband and what's his name, and a lot of repressed bitterness about nobody liking her as much as mom. And I think she wouldn't have as good a selection of drugs, mostly downers.

Now I’ll get you the reader started: Would you rather be trapped in a box for 29 hours with an authentic 1940’s German Nazi, or a modern day Afghani terrorist? Go!


Birds of a Feather - What I Wanted to be When I Grow Up

Unlike my sister, I will not put my shameless self-promotion in brackets and italics as an attempt to make it look unintentional – I will do the opposite. Listen up people! There’s some new stuff going on with the blog. I don’t “know the specifics”, I am not very “computer literate”, I don’t “do the Facebook”; all I know is every morning when I get to my corner to start my long day of tempstituting there is an email waiting for me from Meg with updates. Cool updates. Updates designed to make the blog better for you (‘cause lets face it, you’ve pretty much seen the extent of what we’ve got to work with).

So check it out, tell a friend. Not only will you be helping a recent college grad get out of her parent’s house, you’ll also be helping a not-so recent college grad stay out of her parents house. And really, you’ll be helping our parents, ‘cause Lord knows they have better things to do with their post-child rearing years then rear adults. Haha, I said “rear” …..

I would not say that I am very goal-oriented. I would say I am good at picking goals, and then horrible at actually achieving them. It’s not necessarily that I don’t like working hard to achieve something; it’s that I don’t like working hard, period. I like my goals like I like my orgasms – easy to achieve. I worked as hard as I needed to in high school to get into college, I worked as hard as I needed to in college to graduate with honors, and now, as a working professional, I work as hard as I need to to not get yelled at.

So I too have a long and varied list of careers that I pursued, and then abandoned for various reasons. Some careers required just a bit more natural talent than I had to offer, some required special schooling that I didn’t have, but most just turned out to be too much work.

Inspired by Meg’s post, which in turn was inspired by Eddie’s post, I give you the first “Birds of a Feather” post on the blog – one topic, two points of view. “Birds of a Feather” – get it? There are SO many bird analogies coming, you have no idea.

When I Grow Up, I wanted to Be:

Professional Figure Skater
I am not sure what it was but I seriously wanted to be a figure skater. On car rides I would make up routines to the music we listened to – this was difficult for two reasons: one, I know maybe three figure skating moves; two, my parents tended to favor music of the Crosby, Stills & Nash variety and “Ohio” does not make the best ice skating song (“I think, yes Brian, she has fallen dramatically to the ice and unfurled a red ribbon to represent the blood shed by the National Guard that day … damn this is depressing!”) I took some lessons at Wheaton Regional and even managed to master jumping up from one foot to the other. And then it became spring, and in order to continue ice skating I would have to get up early, train a lot, and generally dedicate my life to it. Nuh-uh. I must say I was completely vindicated in my decision to abandon my calling when, several years after this dream died, I was watching an episode of Beverly Hills 90210 and Brandon starts dating a washed up figure skater but then he convinces her to go back even though she has to break up with him and she wins some medal and thanks him on the air and tells him that she’ll miss burritos. FUCK NO – any career that prohibits Brandon Walsh and burritos is no career of mine.

This is where the “lack of talent” bit comes in. I had some talent, sure. Maybe even a little more than most. I could memorize lines like a kid with Asperberger’s. I would actually memorize the whole play and then mouth everyone else’s lines as they spoke – distracting but quite impressive, no? I took lessons at BAPA, the prestigious Bethesda Academy of the Performing Arts which, when I was a student in the early ‘90s, was located next to Bloomingdale’s in White Flint Mall. I tore up Drama Learning Center, a three-week drama camp that put on a slightly abridged musical. How many girls were Maria from “West Side Story” and Oliver Twist? I think the beginning of the end came during my second to last year at camp – we where scheduled to do “The King and I” and I was so pumped to wear a hoop skirt and my British accent was still fresh from my turn as Oliver. Unfortunately two older girls showed up out of nowhere, got the leads, and my hoop skirt dreams were dashed. I then got to high school and realized that I was way to cool to be a drama kid. I may also have been not talented enough but that’s neither here nor there.

This is a dream that Meg and I shared together. We were both in-store models at Limited Too, and though she didn’t mention it, we both watched MTVs House of Style religiously. In case you were wondering Meg was indeed a very cute child. Dimples, curls, chubby cheek-ies, the whole bit. I was not cute - no dimples, pin-straight hair. Our Mom decided that Meg was the cute one and I was the pretty one – and I am pretty sure we’re both still fucked up from it. I am not sure why this dream died because I could so totally be a model. Totally. After all, this is what I look like:
[Amusing Editors note: when looking for an image for this part I googled "hot brunette" - BAD idea. VERY BAD IDEA. Especially while at work.]

Cosmetic Chemist
I will not dedicate to much space to this dream as it was but a fleeting one started in 11th grade chemistry when I realized I could balance equations like a motherfucker. I decided that I LOVED Chemistry. I decided I would BE a Chemist. I decided that SCIENCE was boring and the only way the world would be lucky enough to have ME practicing my chemical genius was if I could create make-up (see above career). I believe I told my Chemistry teacher this. He then pointed out that in order to be a chemist one had to actually be good at chemistry. And that was that – put in my place by the man who dressed up like Robin Hood at our school football games.

This is where we start to get into realistic career goals, ones that I had from ages 18 onward. Not to reference BH 90210 twice in one post but I was slightly Andrea Zuckerman. Not in the awkward “throw myself at my male best friend on a merry-go-round” way but in the dark-haired newspaper queen way. I was really into it. Like, editor in Chief of my college paper into it. And it was fun. And I really liked it. And I had an interview with the Washington Post after college. And they told me I was talented. And they told me they’d be honored to have me work at their paper. And they told me that first I was going to have to get some professional paper experience. And then they told me that that experience would be in the form of covering Howard County Public Schools for one the Gazettes. And then I said goodbye to journalism. In retrospect I look at this job as the one who got away. ‘Cause here I am, sitting on my corner, writing but not getting paid, hoping my Boss-Pimp doesn’t bitch-slap me for not editing his meeting notes.

Pastry Chef
I love Martha Stewart. That woman is a genius, a ball-breaker, an ex-model, and she can make anything out of chicken wire and grosgrain ribbon. It was around the time I became obsessed with Martha (summer of ’95 – I love you Martha!) that I decided I wanted to be a Chef. A pastry chef. ‘Cause dessert is delicious and easier to make than real food. This dream waxed and waned from ’95 to ’03 but after giving up on journalism I had to do something, right? I went pretty much full force after this one, literally sending in an application to L’Academie de Cuisine. I was invited to the pastry program’s senior project review – which was a Willy Wonka-esque smorgasbord of baked goods, spun sugar, and candy. But then the whispers started, rumors among the students at the review – pastry chef’s have to get up when? And get paid what?? And work where???

Event Planner
The only job I’ve wanted and worked hard to get. I mean worked HARD. Whenever I’d tell people what I did for a living I’d get “ooh! That sounds like it would be so much fun, going to all those parties!” That’s like telling a firefighter his job sounds fun because he gets to drive a sweet truck. After four years, countless nervous breakdowns, no relationships, and only the occasional Saturday off and I decided that I’d had enough. There was much wackiness and we would have made an awesome reality show but that can only get you so far. Eventually you have to leave the carnival. And what do I have to show for all that hard work? An apartment I can’t afford, a few nice pieces of jewelry, and a life-long aversion to salmon. I think that’s going to be the name of the memoir I write – “A Life-Long Aversion to Salmon: Once Caterer’s Story.” Stay tuned. And for god’s sake don’t tell Oprah – I don’t want her to get all “A Million Little Pieces” on me if I embellish a few details.

So here I am. Floundering after realizing that my chosen career isn’t what I want to do after all. I think this is something that many of us can relate to. As Meg notes, we like to think of ourselves as the voice of the 20-somethings. Something to keep in mind is that she and I are at opposite ends of the spectrum – she’s in her early 20s, I’m in my late 20s, yet here we are, in the same boat. It seems perfectly normal to be a 23 year old looking for that right job to launch you toward your career, it’s a little scary to be a 28 year old looking for that same thing. Especially after a false start. However I refuse to believe that I am the only one may age in this position. Someone once told me that the average person has seven career changes in their working life – that seems like a slight stretch but doesn’t it kind of make you feel good? Sure you’re a technical recruiter now but you can be a hair stylist one day! Sure you work at a financial company now, but there is no reason that your dream of owning a bar can’t come true. With age comes wisdom, and sure your late 20s isn’t really that old, but just as you know what you want to be when you’re little, you know what you don’t want to be as you grow older. And that is wisdom enough for me. At least that’s what I tell myself every night before I eat my dinner of tuna and Ramen.

What did you want to be when you grew up?

[Before I get into today’s blog topic, I have some 2birds1blog news to share. Normally I avoid blog-promotion because it makes me feel self-obsessed and horribly uncomfortable. But then I remember I’m 23 years old and have to call home if I’m going to be out past 10pm on weeknights, and suddenly I don’t care what a self-obsessed a-hole I sound like. So listen up.

I cracked open my piggy bank, went to the nearest coin-star and bought the 2bird1blog domain. So if you’ve wanted to let your friends know about 2birds1blog but can never remember the annoying .blogspot.com extension, I’ve got you covered. Just tell your friends they can go to www.2birds1blog.com for their daily dose of slightly inappropriate post-college humor.

Oh, and if you think I’m just another pretentious, smug blogger who you refuse to help grow, let me remind you that I live at home, am unemployed, single and seriously considering a hostess position at Bennigan’s. You are without a doubt better than me. Help me help myself.

And now back to your regularly scheduled post…]

I’ve always been an extremely goal-oriented individual. If there’s a goal I want to achieve, nothing will stop me from figuring out a way to make it happen. But for the first time in my life, I don’t really have a goal. I’m just sort of pursuing the field of slack-assery these days with no greater goal in sight. I worked hard in high school to get into a good college; I worked harder in college to get a good design job in NYC after graduation. After I got a good design job and moved to NYC, I realized that wasn’t what I wanted do after all. Now my daily goals include remembering to DVR South Park and research the benefits of soymilk.

Inspired by an old post from my ex-co-blogger Eddie, I cataloged my career dreams of yesteryear to see if they can guide me towards a direction for the future.

When I Grow Up, I Wanted to be…

A Stand-Up Comedian
This is the first thing I can remember ever wanting to be. I remember standing in front of the brick fireplace in our family room and pretending I was doing stand-up at a club. Even at the tender age of five I was jaded and full of zingers. I don’t know whether to be worried or impressed.

An Astronaut
I wanted to be an astronaut in the worst way ever. And I really do mean in the worst way. Like in a socially awkward, spent too much time at the Natural Wonders store in White Flint mall kind of way. I’m slightly embarrassed to say I had a pretty sick telescope and multiple posters of the planets adorning my bedroom walls (specifically one with mystic-looking wolves howling at the moon.) However, in third grade I took my first plane ride and had a slightly Autistic reaction to the sensation of one’s ears popping. I asked my third grade teacher, Mrs. Dougherty, if astronaut’s ears pop when they go into outer space. She said that she believed so, and that ended that. Good one Mrs. Dougherty…

A Model
I’m not being cocky when I say that I was an absurdly cute child. It’s just a fact. I have the photographic evidence to prove it. I was a regular in-store model for Limited Too and did local runway work with Nordstroms. Then puberty hit and I got horrible acne and developed more curves than a spiraling staircase. What sort of sick God allows you to peak at eleven?!

A Pension Fund Manager
This is the schmuckiest childhood dream I can think of and I’m embarrassed it was mine. I distinctly remember asking my dad what job would ensure I make a ridiculous amount of money and live in New York City. He said a Pension Fund Manager, and a dream was born. The dream died the minute I found out what a Pension Fund Manager actually does, however.

Fashion Editor/Stylist
This was my dream throughout late junior high and most of my high school career. I worked diligently towards the goal, obsessively focused on getting into NYU and becoming the next Fashion Editor of Jane magazine. I had an unfortunate rude-awakening, however, and realized I would need either an eating disorder or raging heroin addiction before anyone would take me seriously in the New York fashion world. My guidance counselor then sent NYU the wrong SAT scores and I was Rejected with a capital R. One failed appeal and a suicide watch later, I settled on becoming…

A Journalist
Newspaper was my favorite class in High School and I got into SOC at AU. With an apathetic shrug of my shoulders that was that. However, freshman year I took Intro to Graphic Design as an elective and ended up making it my major.

A Graphic Designer
See blog posts from September 2007-July 2008.

A Professional Character
See blog posts from August 2008-Last week.

Taking into account professional experience and training, the only childhood dreams that are still feasible are Stand-up Comedian and Model. However, I’m not aggressive enough to be a Comedian and not thin/pretty enough to be a Model. What’s a good job for a painfully average female? Shit…why do is it always come back to Jewish Egg Donor?!


Drinking Game Fridays are on Xanax

The movie for this week’s drinking game was inspired by a frightening gchat conversation I had with Alex (of “the world is ending, I’m getting a sandwich” fame):

me: alex
Alex: MEG
me: i am totally scared of our country right now!
Alex: you should be
me: that's not reassuring
what's going to happen?
Alex: i'm thinking about moving to spain
me: si?
Alex: europe seems pretty solid right now
but no, you really should be scared
me: yea here's the problem- my backup in life has always been belgium, but now that country has gone to shit too
why should i be so scared?
me: what's the worst that can happen?
Alex: civil war


me: i can't believe alex just abandoned our conversation after dropping the CW bomb
Ashleigh: hahaha
he probs went to get a sandwich

After my conversation with Alex, I started to think about what life would be like living in the movie V for Vendetta. (I’ve taken to stressing myself out because I don’t have a job to do it for me anymore. Seriously. I get anxious watching "Gordon Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares" and yet I decided it was a totally good idea to watch Apocalypto last night.) Two panic attacks, a hot shower and one beer later, I had whipped up the V for Vendetta Drinking Game!

Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I’ve taken the liberty of eliminating my “1 sip—finish your drink” scale of moderation and made everything “chug.” You’re welcome.

Chug your drink when:
- The 1812 overture is played or mentioned
- There’s a broadcast on TV
- Someone is killed
- Someone says “terrorist”
- Someone is dragged away to jail
- A rose appears on screen
- Someone mentions the Former United States
- Natalie Portman says “V!” in her whiny voice.
- The chancellor talks on the big screen
- Every time someone says “terrorist”
- V makes a long speech

Thanks for reading and have a great weekend! We’ll see you back in the office Monday morning (to reveal our new look!)


Tempstitute Theatre

[Meg's note: Apparently I did a shitty job of introducing Becca last week because I got a bunch of people asking me how I got fired from being unemployed. Becca is my sister. She has replaced Eddie as the second bird. She blogs in green, I blog in red. Now laugh. LAUGH I SAID!]


After the shock of being suddenly unemployed wore off I did what any responsible human being would do – I got a temp job. At first, I likened temp work to having a friend with benefits – you both know it isn’t permanent so you don’t get all emotionally invested, you never have to deal with the morning after therefore you can be a little wilder (think stealing cool logo mugs from the communal kitchen, I’ve got my eye on a couple), and the simple fact that you have agreed to enter into this mutually beneficial yet attachment-devoid relationship makes the other person eternally grateful. But conventional wisdom says friends with benefits never works out in the long run – one person wants to be more than friends while the other person causally slips into conversation that he hooked up with a hot senior when he went back for his college homecoming. But an entire industry is built on temping, so clearly it has some staying power.

As long as there have been office environments there have been temps to fill unmet needs, as long as there has been filing and alphabetizing and label-making to be done there has been someone willing to do it for a price. These people are employed by temp agencies, semi-shady organizations that keep a stable of people loyal to them by promising that a great job is just around the corner but, in the meantime, would you run over to XYZ Company and read through a few hundred-page documents and change every colon to a semi-colon? You do need the money don’t you? Oh and don’t forget that you’ll only make $12/hour though I am charging $18/hour, gotta get my cut… Yes my friends say it with me: temping is prostitution. The oldest profession on the books. Talk about staying power – JESUS knew a prostitute! That was waaay long ago!

So wow, what a load off. I’ll say it loud – I’m a tempstitute and I’m proud! This is not necessarily a bad thing - in film and television there have been many prostitutes that captured our minds and our hearts. For instance:

- Julia Roberts as “Vivian Ward” in Pretty Woman - The prostitute with a dream. She got out of her podunk town to become a star but ends up hooking instead. Enter a detached millionaire who is afraid of heights and doesn’t really even want to have sex with her: fancy shopping trips, comically loud laughter, and George Costanza bitch-slapping someone ensue and the prostitute and the millionaire fall madly in love and live happily ever after.
- Diane Lane as “Lorena Wood” in Lonesome Dove – The prostitute with a heart of gold. She loves her johns like they were all her tender lovers and the majority of them love her right back … for approximately three minutes at a time. She follows them on a treacherous journey north to Montana; kidnap, rape, and tragic death ensue until the prostitute finds a home with a kindly Nebraskan family that pay no mind to the fact that she used to “cut cards” for a living and she finally fees like she belongs.
- Taryn Manning as “Nola” in Hustle & Flow – The smart prostitute. Sure she’s a prostitute but hell, that don’t mean she’s nothing! Out of a small-time pimp’s stable of girls, she’s the one who questions his authority; after all, she was doing just fine working the truck stops by herself. When the pimp decides to quit pimping she sticks with him, eventually running his new business, no longer a prostitute but a primary investor.

Of course it’s not all good, as evidenced by:

- Elizabeth Shue as “Sera” in Leaving Las Vegas – The hopeless prostitute. She’s so far gone that when an alcoholic bent on committing suicide one slug of vodka at a time shows up she falls madly in love with him as he’s too incapacitated to do her any more damage. There is no happy ending here – her beloved alcoholic dies and she once again is all alone.
- Generic Third-rate Actress as “Generic Prostitute Murder Victim” in Law & Order – The dead prostitute. We don’t know her back story, we don’t even know her name. All we know is that serial killer is on the loose and he has strangled her with her own panties and left her blue and lifeless body by the docks along the waterfront.

Classic cinema! Touching characters! Thought-provoking plots! Comedy & Tragedy! Ladies and gentleman, I give you “Tempstitute Theatre:”

- Julia Roberts as “Vivian Ward” in Pretty White Out – The tempstitute with a dream – the dream to one day meet and marry a rich businessman. Until that time she temps as an administrative assistant, meticulously painting her nails with white out and avoiding answering the phone while waiting for Mr. Right. Enter a married firm partner who is 25 years her senior and most definitely wants to have sex with her: fancy shopping trips, comically droopy balls, and Mr. Executive bitch-slapping his wife with divorce papers ensue and the tempstitute and the executive fall in something resembling actual prostitution and live probably not that happily ever after.
- Diane Lane as “Lorena Wood” in Lonesome Bachelor’s Degree – The tempstitute with a heart of gold. She loves her temp jobs as if she had actually been hired based on her qualifications and they love her back because they don’t have to pay for her health insurance. She follows her temp jobs on a treacherous journey through barely surviving non-profits and bitter over-worked law offices; condescension, low pay, and the realization that her degree didn’t do shit ensue until she finds a home with a kindly private school that pays no mind to the fact that she never “studied education” and she teaches children how to read.
- Taryn Manning as “Nola” in Hustle the Schmo – The smart tempstitute. Sure she’s temping but that’s because she got fired from her last job for having too much attitude. Of the investment firm’s stable of payroll clerks she alone questions their authority to turn her radio down – after all, Donnie Simpson is doing Donnie’s Morning Wish and she wrote in asking for someone lord to please pay off her Discover card. When HR questions her about shady doings on the part of the Payroll Manager she tells them everything because he acted a fool instead of a grown-ass man, and is given the Manager’s job as a reward.
- Elizabeth Shue as “Sera” in Leaving Colored Paper in the Printer Only Leads to Trouble – The hopeless tempstitute. She is so far gone that she doesn’t even try to play office politics and when she is asked to print something on Goldenrod-colored paper she leaves it in there even though she knows the mean ancient receptionist will be a complete and total bitch to her. There is no happy ending – the receptionist gets the tempstitute fired so she is off to another thankless, soul-less temp job.
- Generic Third-rate Actress as “Generic Tempstitute Murder Victim” in Staples Order – The dead tempstitute. You don’t know her back story, you don’t even know her name. All you know is that fax machine is out of toner and she ordered the wrong kind and now the Controller can’t send the trustees the board meeting notes. The tempstitute’s body is found strangled with an elaborate chain of interlocking large rubber banks, blue and lifeless by the supply closet where the toner should be.

If I could pick which tempstitute my “career” (hahaha) most closely resembles I’d have to go with Diane Lane. I actually just visited some very kindly Nebraskans! I’ve got a heart of gold! Each temp job I take I think “this could be it!” while they think “perfect, someone to print and collate 24 sets of board meeting notes!” I have also sadly come to the realization that my degree hasn’t done shit. According the the story line it looks like all I have to do now is wait for a kindly [enter company] to take pity on me and even though I don’t [enter qualification necessary for job], they hire me to [enter job that I’d like to have even though I am not qualified].


Your inner-bitch's favorite feature!


Location: NY Subway, Brooklyn-bound F train


Normally when I see a schmo with a whole lotta look going on, I’m able to keep my bewilderment to myself. But when I saw this character, I legitimately laughed out loud. Noise escaped my body in a very real and very noticeable way. If I remember correctly, I believe I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to explain to my roommate what was going on, so I just pointed at this man’s arm and cackled, to her (and retrospectively my) mortification.

What you are looking at is a tattoo of chain links going around this man’s bicep. Sort of a lame tattoo on it’s own, but I have a ribbon/bow on my ass, so who’s really to judge? Well, that was my thought until I noticed that the tattoo is interrupted where a protruding vein snakes up this man’s arm. At that point, it’s made to look like the vein has busted the chain, with bits of metal flying in various directions.

Here’s how I imagine his tattoo consultation went down:
Tattoo Artist: So I see you brought in a picture of a chain?
Jock: Yea man! I want like, a tattoo of a chain totally going around my bicep. It represents how I’m a slave to sculpting my muscles 'n shit.
TA: Ok, sounds good, I’ll go make a stencil.
Jock: Yea thanks bro, I thought of it in the tanning bed.
- five minutes later-
TA: So I’m just going to put the stencil on now. Wow, that’s quite a vein you got there. Hah, hope it doesn’t bust the chain, haha.
Jock: OH SICK! BRO! DUDE! THAT IS FUCKING SICK! AW SHIT! You gotta tattoo that! My veins are BEASTS, they totally would do that! Like all, fuck you chain!

I guess I can sort of understand a tattoo where a bulging muscle is breaking the chain, but a giant vein is slightly revolting. Muscles are sexy; veins are creepy. The only people who find veins sexy are gothic middle-schoolers who think they’re vampires and play Nosferatu in the basement. I think arms are one of the sexiest parts of a man’s body, but I would vomit in my mouth if anyone were to ask me to feel his big, rock-hard, chiseled…veins.

And come on guy…we all took health ed in 10th grade. I know how you get big muscles with abnormally protruding veins. It starts with an “S” and rhymes with “flairoids." Do you really want to draw attention to the fact that you’re all juiced up, especially when steroids hurt your sex drive more than catching Bea Arthur coming out of the shower?

I’ve seen the 1994 classic Lifestories: Families in Crisis PSA A Body to Die For: The Aaron Henry Story, and guess what champ? It wasn’t pretty. Sure when he was on ‘roids Ben Affleck was all muscles and dimples, buying kittens for his girlfriend and winning state championships, but when he crashed he crashed hard. After seeing that classic I can only assume you’re going to pull an Aaron Henry and punch me in the mouth, kill my kitten and lose your wrestling scholarship.

Also, that tattoo puts a lot of pressure on you to stay physically fit for the rest of your life. The minute you stop working out and lose muscle definition, you’re going to look like a real a-hole. And God forbid you ever get fat at any point in your life or else the tattoo takes on a completely different meaning. There’s nothing hot about arm fat breaking a metal chain wrapped around it (although it is slightly more attractive than a vein).

I’m going to get a tattoo around my waist of pants that are too tight so I have absolutely nothing to live up to for the rest of my life.


Washington Post Wednesdays

From Monday’s Washington Post, 9/22/08

‘First Dude’ Todd Palin Illustrates Alaska’s Blend of Private and Public

“…Todd Palin has become involved in policy, sitting in on his wife’s meetings, traveling on state business and weighing in on some legislative issues.

John Harris, the Republican speaker of the Alaska House, said he had never been called by the spouse of a governor before the two calls he got from Todd Palin. One was to argue for moving the state capitol to Anchorage. The other was to ask Harris to 'keep an eye' on a key aide who had an affair with the wife of one of Todd’s best friends.

Political hands in both parties say the Palins are often referred to as a team—'Sarah and Todd'—and one Democratic lawmaker said Todd Palin has become her 'de facto chief of staff…."

I would like to reiterate that this is not a political blog nor I am I a political scientist. Usually, I want absolutely nothing to do with anything even remotely political, but for some reason I can’t stop myself from reading about Sarah Palin. She’s like a messy, lane-closing, jaws-of-life-needing car accident that I cannot stop staring at, no matter how many nightmares I know it’s going to produce.

Because I’ve sheltered my anxiety-prone self from the nerve-wracking world of politics, I get lost easily. It helps when I put things into a more personal context, so I can relate a little more easily.

When I read this article, for example I translated it to: Sarah and Todd Palin = Spencer and Heidi from The Hills. It makes sense to me; they’re both a team comprised of partners where the female is the breadwinner in the spotlight and the male is the manager manipulating things behind the scenes; all parties involved are generally accepted as flaming douche bags among society; both couples are active Republicans campaigning for McCain; both Heidi and Sarah are hottie airheads and both Spencer and Todd have creepy goatees and make me feel extremely uncomfortable.

The more I thought about it, The Hills relates to life on The Hill pretty closely. From what I’ve heard from friends and family who work there, it’s just like high school, but a lot less well dressed. Thus I give you the cast of...


Lauren Conrad –> Barack Obama
The good guy, the hero, and the everyman we relate to.

"Speidi" –> "Torah"
The nemeses of the Lauren Conrad character. Irritating couple who are sneaky, questionable and hide behind a mask of righteousness. I think I’d enjoy politics a lot more if Sarah Palin told Perez Hilton that Barack Obama had “beef curtains,” however.

Audrina –> Joe Lieberman
Sort of an ambiguous character these days…at first he was a Democratic vice-presidential candidate. Now he’s a registered independent flirting with the Republican Party. Joe Lieberman, you are a sexy brunette who needs to make up their mind and stop making me cry all of my black liquid eyeliner off! Now get out of my pool house!

Whitney –> Hillary Clinton
Driven, successful, competitive, career oriented strong women who we never see get laid.

Lauren “Lo” Bosworth –> Joe Biden
Our hero’s right-hand man who’s always got his back. Both are loyal and slightly cross-eyed.

Stephanie Pratt –> Meghan McCain
Oh the sting of family betrayal!

What happened this week on THE HILL: Barack depearts The Hill to go campaigning, leaving Joe Biden and Joe Lieberman awkwardly alone in The House to bond. Sarah and Todd Palin continue to mend their rocky relationship, which suffers further when Sarah’s sister betrays "Torah" when she has lunch with Obama. Meghan McCain goes to a fundraising dinner with her father, breaking the #1 unspoken BFF rule on The Hill. Joe Lieberman can’t keep his big mouth shut and tells everyone on The Hill about Meghan McCain’s betrayal, including Sarah Palin one drunken night at the 18th Street Lounge. Joe Lieberman confesses he misses Sarah Palin and has never really had anything against her. The two decide they should totally hang out more, right in front of Joe Biden, who is totally going to tell Obama the first chance he gets. Obama finds out about Meghan McCain’s shady business and wonders if everyone was right about her…



American University owes me $152,000

I had a job interview this afternoon that I was pretty excited for. That’s a strong statement considering I spent a large part of the weekend researching foxy boxing as my next career move. The job I interviewed for had so much potential; great location, gorgeous office, creative environment, nice salary and most importantly—I would be one of only three women in the entire office (although it’s been so long since I’ve worked with a guy, I think my idea of office flirting is throwing a box of condoms at a guy’s head and shouting “SUIT UP SOLDIER!” while doing Shooter McGowan hands).

This afternoon, wearing my one conservative office outfit, I was feeling confident as I went into the interview. I’m pretty over-qualified for the job, so I just had to maintain composure and I was sure I’d bag it within the hour. What I failed to realize is that it’s hard to maintain composure when you don’t have a lot of it to begin with.

To start, I showed up to the interview sweating like a fat kid at soccer camp. I drove to the interview in my dad’s Jeep, which doesn’t have air conditioning, and holy hell does that car get hot. I was cooking in that boxy little oven like I was the House Special. What didn’t help is that part of my token professional outfit is a heavy black knit jacket. Of course I opted to wear the world’s laciest bra under the world’s most sheer white top. So unless my interviewer (Maria from marketing) digs chicks who sweat profusely and flirt by throwing condoms, I had to keep that knitted bitch on. I also took a nice jog before arriving at the office thanks to a major dyslexic moment that landed me ten blocks too far down M street. Nothing says composure like a sweaty girl with frizzy hair gasping for breath.

As I sat in my interview trying to discreetly mop the sweat from my brow, I came to a frightening realization. Earlier that morning I got one of those small cuts shaving my legs that won’t clot no matter how much pressure is applied. It was about the time when Maria was explaining the firm’s in-house printing procedure that I realized I still had a comical fake tattoo band-aid (the only band-aid we had in the house) on my knee cap. Of what tattoo? A giant pair of flaming dice. I had two options: Take it off under the table, running the risk that I’m still bleeding and might have to leave the office with blood streaming down my leg, or leave the novelty band-aid on, cross my legs like I have to viciously pee and pray she doesn’t look down. I chose the latter. Having 23 years experience of dealing with awkward situations on a daily basis, I must say I handled myself pretty well and managed to nail the interview. It was when we stood up to shake hands and part ways that Maria looked down at my uncrossed legs and said, “…do you have a sticker of dice on your knee?” to which I awkwardly laughed, “Hah! No, it’s a tattoo band-aid…perfect for interviews, right?” and was received by crickets.

A few hours after my interview, my creative recruiter called me to let me know what the company thought. She said they loved me and I was the most qualified candidate they had, but were going to offer the position to another person who had an architecture degree first, but the job is mine if she turns it down.” And now I want to break things. It’s not an architectural job, it’s a print design job! An architect is not a trained print designer! I can make a mean gingerbread house but I don’t walk around calling myself an architect.

God damnit. I can’t even get a job as an assistant at a law firm or something because I didn’t major in anything administration related (even though I have a black belt in faxing and getting yelled at).

You know those people who tell you to pick your major based on your passion because ultimately doing what you’re passionate about will make you happy, not what will make you the most money? Those people can kiss my indebted ass. I majored in what I was passionate about and a year after graduation, the thrill is gone and the flame has fizzled. Good thing my backup is in Art History. You know, so I can professionally be that friend who’s irritating to take to museums because they keep nonchalantly saying the date of everything like a smug asshole.

I’ve decided I would like to return my college education. I’m serious. It really did not work out and I would greatly appreciate my money back, thank you. I without a doubt did not learn $152,000 worth of anything. Here’s what I learned in my four years spent at American University: feminists are an extremely sensitive group of people, trilobites have over 15,000 eyes; charcoal is hard to get off ipods and clothing; never drink a bottle and a half of wine on an empty stomach; Picasso had a 13-year-old hooker mistress; the hyoid is the only non-articulated bone in the body; cheap vodka can be filtered in a Brita; utility knives are fuckin’ sharp and should not be used when sleep deprived; and scientific documentaries about the Black Death have awesome soundtracks. That’s the ballgame. I would estimate that bundle of knowledge is worth a coupon for a free scoop at Ben & Jerry’s.

And at this point, knowing what’s in my bank account, I would totally take it.


Kyle's Moms a Bitch

You know what group of people really irritates the hell out of me? Over-involved PTA moms. They’re always offended and whining about some stupid thing in the holier-than-thou name of the children. Everything is offensive and you can never win with them! Serving water at the T-ball game? Well where do you propose my son Zackary get his electrolytes?! Introducing To Kill a Mockingbird to the eighth grade English curriculum? Well, I’m a proud member of PETA and I refuse to have my daughter exposed to avian violence at such a young age! Bitch, bitch, bitch… Like most people, they take the shred of power they have and run with it, taking it to unnecessary and intrusive places. Just get a hobby—Mahjong, tennis, crystal meth, anything!

Did you know that in the state of Virginia, children are no longer allowed to come to school dressed in their costumes on Halloween? Why? HALLOWEEN IS A PAGAN HOLIDAY AND CELEBRATING IT WOULD BE BLASPHEMOUS! They’re also not allowed to observe Valentine’s Day in class. Why? NOT ALL CHILDREN WILL GET VALENTINE’S FROM EVERY ONE AND THAT’S JUST UNFAIR AND OFFENSIVE! I wish I had a daughter and lived in Virginia because I would force her to come to school every single day dressed as a pirate and hand out love letters just to stick it to the man. This happens to also be reason #235 I don’t think it’s a good idea that I have children.

Although I tend to dwell on random issues for far too long, my irritation with over-involved PTA moms doesn’t really affect my day-to-day life. Sure, every now and then I’m in line at California Tortilla and overhear a conversation between PTA moms about banning black nail polish and want to shove guacamole down their throats, but usually I have nothing to do with them and they have nothing to do with me. However in just a few short months, that might all change...

Ohhhh Sarah Palin. Sarah Palin is a self described “hockey mom” who wants to instill Christian values in our country and teach Creationism in our public schools. Sarah Palin is like the ultimate over-involved PTA mom, but in a frightening twist of civics she’s not just the pain in the ass of her community—she’s about to become the pain in the ass of the free world. And thus the end of the world is nigh.

Follow my logic: In the major potion picture South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut, Kyle’s mom, Sheila Brofvolski, starts a war between the US and Canada over bad language, fart jokes and toilet humor on television (see video):

The movie, in summary, is about a small town mom from a chilly climate who becomes a local leader, eventually taking advantage of a community’s ignorance and using scare tactics to rise up and control the government to implement the changes she sees morally fit. Hmm…

Kyle’s mom eventually takes over the American government and executes two Canadian scapegoats making it possible for the Devil (and his lover, Saddam Hussein) to rise above to the Earth to rule for the next two million years. All because as the MPAA says, “horrific, deplorable violence is okay, as long as people don't say any naughty words!”

Worried that Trey Parker and Matt Stone might have predicted the end of the world, I did a little case study between Sheila and Sarah:

Now I’m not a sensationalist, but I do feel comfortable saying that my research and deductive reasoning has led me to strongly believe that Sarah Palin will cause the Devil and his bitch-lover Saddam Hussein to rule the Earth for two million years if she’s voted into office this November.

Fucking over-involved PTA moms...I was irritated when they tried to change the location of my high school graduation from DAR Constitution Hall to a horse stable because it accommodated more people, but when they summon the wrath of the Devil and Saddam Hussein, I am just plain pissed.


Double your pleasure on Drinking Game Friday!

Happy Drinking Game Friday everyone! In addition to bringing you a random drinking game this Friday, I'm also bringing a bit of good news: the blog now has a second bird (holla back for the title actually making sense again!) It is with great joy that I introduce you to the Paris to my Nicole, the Jessica to my Ashlee, the Ashley to my Mary-Kate (or at least I think Ashley is the older, classy one and Mary-Kate is the younger, quirky one...either way, that pretty much spells out our dynamic)--my sister, Becca! Enjoy her first post after the drinking game.

In honor of Becca's inaugural blog, I decided today's drinking game should center around a movie that deals with the complicated and complex relationship between sisters (and the complicated and complex issue of illiterate hos). So grab a box of tissues, break out the baby pictures and cuddle up with your sis, it's time for the In Her Shoes Drinking Game.

(This is a really lame drinking game and I apologize. It's currently 1:30 in the morning and I'm still slightly drunk from a raucous night on Capitol Hill.)

Take One sip When:
- Someone says the word "sister"
- Someone says the phrase "my Marcia"
- Cameron Diaz has sex with someone
- Someone tells a lie
- An inappropriate old person sex joke is made
- They talk about Caroline, the dead mom

Take Two Sips When:
- Cameron Diaz tries to read something out loud and st-st-stutters her way through it
- Cameron Diaz has a job interview
- Toni Collette is referred to as being fat
- Toni Collette cries
- Rose and Maggie hug

Finish Your Drink When:
- A poem is read (but not stuttered)

Thanks for reading and have a great weekend! See you Monday.

One Badass Bird.

I got fired. Say it in the “I got worms” Dumb & Dumber voice – sounds funny, right? Say it in the “hey Dad, remember that large mortgage I have to pay every month? Well …” voice – decidedly less funny.

But dude, I TOTALLY got fired!!! WTF?? I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised … after all, I worked for French people. Fucking French people. I am so bitter now. Like, can I still enjoy Ratatouille? I love that movie but his little rat French accent is going to make me enraged. Although there is this great line where one of the characters says “Well, we hate to be rude, but, we’re French” AHAHAHA ok phew, Ratatouille is ok. Or Bistro de Coin, that awesome … um … bistro (duh) on Connecticut Ave where they have yummy moules & frites (sorry, freedom mussels and freedom fries) – I can’t give them up so I’ll just go and be really rude to the servers. Oh wait … they’re French, they won’t even notice! SHIT!

I suppose I should have known this would have ended in disaster the second I got the voicemail from my newly former employer. I could not understand a god damn word he said – he was literally the Frenchiest Frenchman in Frenchville. And a chef, at that. The message was just all “French Frenchy Eiffel Tower mon dieu sacre bleu champagne beret Moulin Rouge merde.” Now, for those of you who know me (do you know me? You have no idea do you? Insert evil laugh here …) you know I’ve worked for a French chef before. A man I THOUGHT was the Frenchest man in DC. And he was crazy, and demanding, and chubby, and short, and ALWAYS wore a scarf REGARDLESS of the temperature and generally had that affected French attitude of “hmm, your non-Frenchness amuses me but, sadly, it also bores me. BE GONE! And bring me a glass of red wine.” So when I found out that my first French boss was trained by this new French boss I should have RUN FOR THE HILLS. But no, I thought “I survived French chef #1 for four years and actually managed to become somewhat friends with him, I can do this again.”

I could not. And it took only 2 short months to figure it out. I’ll spare you the dirty details of the firing and skip to the positives. For one thing, my parents feel really badly for me. I didn’t do anything wrong (I didn’t!) so they’ve generously decided to float me for a bit while I temp and look for a new job (with NO FRENCH PEOPLE). I am sure they are looking at each other like “both daughters, out of work, being supported by us?” but hopefully they just shrug their shoulders and go back to antiquing or whatever they do all day instead of feeling like failures as parents and role models.

For another thing, people are totally cool about buying me stuff! It’s not like I quit my job (which I have a tendency to do, and then to go on really extravagant vacations like St Thomas or Disneyworld), I didn’t do this on purpose (not this time) so beers are being bought for me, dinners, etc. Which I appreciate immensely btw, to any friends reading – THANKS!

Thirdly, event the smallest amount of initiative taken on my part is greeted with some serious kudos – “You applied for a job as an assistant manager at Giant Bakery? GOOD FOR YOU!” When people have low expectations, you always exceed them. Ergo you always ROCK HARD CORE.

But I think my most favoritest positive outcome of this whole debacle is that I can officially, now and forever, talk shit about the French. I totally can. Bring it. How many French people have you worked for? Oh really? Not two? And you weren’t fired by one and generally abused by both? HAH! I am an EXPERT on the suckiness of the French. Now now people, lets simmer down, I like French food & wine, and I do appreciate the culture etc that these frog-like surrender monkeys have given us – hahaha see? See what I just did there?? I turned a compliment into an insult! Manger, my baguette-eating bicycle riding friends, and bon apetite.

I think I am going to be French for Halloween. I am going to wear thigh-high striped socks, Chuck Taylor’s, a black ballerina skirt, a maroon short-sleeved t-shirt with a white long-sleeved shirt underneath, a checkered scarf, have unwashed, un-brushed hair pulled into some faux-trendy ponytail, bangs, and a big slouchy bag. And I am going to smoke cigarettes and look incredibly bored by all of humanity/like I just smelled something funny (I did, it was myself, I’m French). And then I am going to be really nice to people, thereby ruining the reputation of general assholeness that they’ve worked so hard for: “No no, mon cheri, it is ok – call the sparkling white wine from New Jersey champagne, I know we always get our striped boat-neck shirts in a knot about that but we’ve decided to relax;” “I agree mon ami, Italy is a better version of France, let us work to move the Eiffel Tower to Rome;” “C’est vrai, it is totally bizarre we eat snails – we like to say its because our access to food was severely limited during the Nazi occupation but, come on, really, whose fault was that?”

Ah yes, what a wonderful benefit. Sure I didn’t get severance pay, won’t get commission for the events I booked, and had to tell all my friends and family I got FIRED (so humiliating) but at least I can then add “by a crazy fucking French asshole – and I oughta know.”


I would rather set myself on fire than write a cover letter...

I’m going down an emotional spiral of pure disappointment now that I’ve given up on my dream of an endless summer and am actively trying to get hired somewhere for reals for reals. I’m fully aware that I’m being a complete brat about this process. I really do understand that everyone has to get a job. I understand that in our society, money is exchanged for services, which is then used to buy shelter, transportation, food, clothing, one’s bar tab and other such life-sustaining necessities. I’m just convinced there has to be some way I can get around that, which doesn’t involve prostitution, drug trafficking or selling my Jewish eggs.

You know who I blame for this whole disillusionment (because Lord knows
I’m certainly not to blame for attaining this level of obnoxiousness…)? I blame Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld. How dare you, sirs, create and flaunt a false illusion of a lifestyle that could never be. I have two words for the both of you: Cosmo Kramer. That’s what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a professional character, a professional quirky best friend. And I want to live comfortably in a nice apartment in the city while doing it, which I don’t think is too much to ask for. But this is a dream that can never be. It’s “unrealistic” and I’m being a “selfish” “child” for thinking I can achieve it. Thanks a lot Larry David. I’m going to go kick a young gymnastic hopeful in the kneecap as hard as I can to dash her Olympic dreams just to balance out the universe.

I think the worst part the job hunt is writing cover letters. Whoever invented the cover letter is a real jerk-off. According to any HR person I’ve talked to, nobody reads them and yet every job requires you waste your time writing one. What is a cover letter? It states what your background is, why you want the job and why you think you would be a good candidate, right? Well why don’t you take a gander at my resume, which states my background, which in turn qualifies me for the job. And if I’m applying for this job in the first place, I clearly want it, so why must I write you a formal love letter explaining that out of all of the places of employment,
YOURS is special and different than the rest and we’re a perfect match?

This is a cover letter I just emailed to a prospective employer:

“To Whom It May Concern:

My name is Meghan and I am applying for the [job title] position at [place of employment].

I recently relocated to Washington, DC from New York City, where I worked in publication design for a national entertainment magazine. While this was a wonderful experience in design, I am interested in exploring the journalistic side of the communication field. I would like to express my sincere interest in doing so with [place of employment] as the [position].

I graduated from American University in 2007 with a BA in graphic design and minors in communication studies and art history, cum laude.

I strongly believe that I am the perfect candidate for this position. I have professional experience in the communication industry as well as academic experience in writing for communications, public relations and journalism. I am an energetic self-starter, extremely organized and a very effective communicator—both verbally and visually. In addition, I have worked as an assistant in government and private offices as well as artistic environments.

I believe that my communications background, organizational skills and administration experience make me an important asset to [place of employment].

As requested, I earned [dollar amount] a year in my last position. I have attached my resume for your review and look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely yours,



Here’s what that actually says when you wipe away the bullshit:

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is Meghan and I need a job. I just moved from New York to DC because I recently had a mini-crisis during which I realized I don’t want to do what I went to college for and don’t have a backup plan. I feel sort of screwed but I need money so I’m applying for your random assistant job to hang at for a while I figure out what’s up.

I have a college education that is currently doing jackshit for me while I hustle hard to pay back my student loans. But, all that matters is I have a college education, so I’m super psyched I spent $38,000 a year for four years so you can check that little box next to my name.

I think I’m the perfect candidate for this job because it isn’t rocket science and I’m not a blow up doll. I’ve had jobs before and I didn’t burn the place down, so kudos to me. I’ll work moderately hard for you depending on how much I like you. If I don’t like you, I’ll work the bare minimum and spend the rest of my day talking shit about you on gchat and Wikipedia-ing random things like Easter Island to make the time pass. Therefore, I recommend you not act like an ass on a power trip, for your sake and mine.

I’m going to level with you, I totally need this. I live with my parents, and while they’re cool, I’m going crazy and need to move into the city. I’m pretty easy to get along with though and have references from various friends who can attest that I’m a good time. So just be a buddy and bring me in for an interview where I’ll charm the pants off you. Please? Seriously. I have Jewish eggs if you want them.

Love always,

You know what makes me want to cry for 45 minutes and then quit this foolishness and get the inevitable job at Hooters? When I pulled up the cover letter I just wrote to compare it to what it actually means, I found a blaring grammatical error.

I hate you Seinfeld.
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