The Resume Code

[Editor's note: Hi there. FYI: my Customer Relations Conference ends tomorrow and I'll be back a-bloggin' then, I swearz. In the mean time, thank you so much to Co-Blogger Chris for picking up my slack this week even though I gave him zero warning. And also thank you Chris for talking me off like 5,000 various ledges in the past three days alone. I'm not kidding. If Chris had a nickel for every time I threatened to quit my job, delete this blog or kill myself this week...well, he'd have a shit ton of nickels. In the words of Lou Reed: you keep me hanging on. You a beautiful little lamb, you. (My words, not Lou's.) Ok, back to the conference. SYNERGY, SYNERGY, SYNERGY!]

Welp, I've got big news. In a little under 8 weeks, I will be leaving New York City for greener, more governmental pastures. Where the skyline is restricted by security concerns and the taxis don't accept credit cards. Yours truly is leaving the Big Apple for the greater DC area. Ok, to be specific, I'm moving to Arlington, VA, but I'll be just a few short metro stops from Meg, which is really what I'm most concerned about. This is all very exciting/terrifying for a variety of reasons. But the overarching reason as to why I'm peeing my pants on a nightly basis is that I need to pack up from my secure, albeit irritating job, and head out into the hurricane that we know as a job market.

This does not bode well for me. As I've recently undergone a quarter-life crisis and have no idea what I want to do with my life, I don't even know the first place to start to look for a job. And the last thing I want to think about are cover letters. But first and foremost, I should probably update my resume. So let's see. Haven't looked at that gem since 2007. What marketable skills have I learned in the past two point five years at my job? Well let me think about how exactly I've spent those last two and half years.

I would be willing to venture I've spent at least two of the last 2.5 years on gmail (the remaining half a year is the time I'm not on my work computer). Do you blame me? When I have a deadline looming and my desk is piling up with papers, I can't possibly focus on work until I know what every single person that appears on my chat list has done over the weekend. That has to get done before everything else. I need to know when one of my friends stays in to watch a Weekend at Bernie's marathon. Oh don't worry, I'll get to that progress report, but first, I've got to hear about this weirdo guy my friend met at a bar who literally said they had "a cosmic connection". Psycho, am I right?! Sure, there's usually a weekly pang of regret that I spend so much time on gchat and I think "Man, I should probably do some real work and ditch this distraction." But then I get a frantic chat from Meg regarding the note Betty White left for Rue McClanahan after her stroke ("I hope you die, so I can be the last Golden Girl." Priceless.). Thanks to gchat and gmail, I'm able to stay in touch with infinitely more people that I would have completely forgotten about. So I guess that I can say I've:

• Maintained exceptional interpersonal communication skills

Ok, that's one bullet out of the way. Considering I spend so much time talking to friends at work, I hardly ever have time to actually work. This gets a little dicey when I'm supposed meet with my boss each week to discuss my progress that week and to plan for the upcoming week. Usually, in the hour between realizing we're supposed to meet that day and actually meeting, I'm able to find some small tasks to finish while simultaneously compiling a list of tasks I'm "working on" and another list of things I haven't quite started. It's like when your mom would ask you to clean your room and you'd throw everything under your bed, but organize your bookshelf. It gives the illusion of a clean room without actually doing much of merit. Therefore:

• Improved organizational skills
• Self-motivated to complete tasks of all priority levels
  

God forbid I run out of desk work and have to actually interact with the clowns in my office. I get an ulcer just thinking about having a conversation with any of them. My tactics for office conversation is the same tactic I use in a public bathroom: get in and out as quickly as possible without making eye contact with anyone. (And considering my coworkers' general lack of hygiene, the aroma of some office conversation is about the same as a public bathroom. Foul.) I'm mainly just frustrated when I ask them a simple yes or no question and I get War and Peace in response. When I first got this job, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I'd let them tucker themselves out. After two years, I've gotten a little jaded and will gladly cut in on their tangent about their acid reflux once I've gotten the answer to my question.

• Conducted interoffice relations in a professional and efficient manner

One thing I often take for granted is how lenient my job is. If I wanted to roll out of bed wearing a crushed velour Juicy Couture tracksuit and head to work, I most definitely could. Lord knows I shave maybe once every harvest moon. It's not like I'm interacting with any hot hotties I'd like to impress. Far from it. My unshaven, unshowered, rumpled-clothes look easily qualifies me as the most well-put together nerd in this office. Even when the occasional sales rep drops by my office, they have to trek through the human tragedy I call my co-workers to get to my office, so I'm fairly confident I'm not the fugliest thing they've seen in the past 30 seconds.

• Observed company policies regarding dress code
  

Then there are the times when I'm actually doing my job. And when it rains, it friggin Hurricane Katrinas at work. Believe it or not, the past two weeks have been hell on earth for me at work. As we speak I'm getting double-fisted by grant paperwork. These grants are dressing me up in women's clothing, calling me Kathy, and making me their bitch. But on top of all this, I'm able to still find time for you fine people. And work doesn't stop me from: gchatting, blogging, stifling laughter over ghetto Twitter trending topics, researching terms heard on last night's episode of Top Chef, photoshopping humorous pictures for Meg, wishing I was somewhere else entirely, or any number of equally productive personal projects I'm working on.

• Perfected ability to work on various projects simultaneously

All that being said, I do somehow manage to do my job well. During my annual review recently, my boss told me she was impressed with my time management skills and it took all that I had not to openly scoff, because I know how I spend the majority of my time at work. When she asked me how I do it, I didn't think "Well I put all tasks aside so I can gchat until I realize they are almost overdue, then work on them feverishly until they are finished," was the best answer to that question.

• Managed time at work wisely

My fear when it comes to applying for new jobs is that the HR person who sees my resume will know the code and realize that I haven't done anything of merit for the past two years. Let's just pray that won't happen.

That being said, anyone have a job they want to hire me for?

A very zen approach to having a panic attack.

I'm Fucked: A Series of Haiku Poems
by Meghan McBlogger

Labor Day was brief,
Conference calls and dog-walking;
Can't turn off my phone.

Early to rise and
Scramble to put out big fires
Not of my making.

Mr. Foxx once said,
Blame it on the alcohol!
My boss prefers me.

Communication
Is the key to good business;
Got no Blackberry.

I emailed you twice!
Saturday nights reserved for
Red Stripe, not email.

I shoulder the blame
So my boss looks less inept,
Hark! It's Saint Meggles!

Scene from Rock of Love:
Don't throw me under the bus!
My boss is Lacey.

An office full of
Executives not so pleased,
Thank God for Xanax.

Feeling depressed I
Struggle to courtesy laugh;
You aint no Saget.

Oh, VP of Sales!
I've met you one-thousand times,
You should know my name.

I anxiously wait
For Boss number two to come.
Enter, Diablo!

What would Diane say
If I get fired today?
Goodbye apartment.

Twirling and whirling
Sliding down the pole with ease,
A limber new job.

A silver lining!
No dress code and finally
Some health insurance.

Item J-062509: Drinking Game Friday

As many of you may recall, last summer I peaced out of New York and moved back in with my dear old mom and dad for a good six months. Those six months were dark days. On day 1 I got mono and spent two solid months in the fetal position praying for death to embrace me in his cold, sharp claws. After that I started the Great Job Hunt of '08. Again, I prayed everyday for death to embrace me in his cold, sharp claws. Basically when I wasn't praying for death to embrace me in his cold, sharp claws, I was hangin' with my parents, and they definitely made the entire post-NYC-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life-it's-a-recession-maybe-I-shouldn't-have-pissed-all-over-my-job-and-moved-home-to-be-an-unpaid-comedy-blogger-please-someone-hold-me phase of my life much, much more bearable. If not enjoyable!

Everyday I had the same little routine: wake up (cough—at noon—cough); check my email for the many "Dear Ms. McBlogger: Thank you so much for your interest in working for ______! Unfortunately at this time, you can suck our balls through our drawls. We will keep your resume on file for the future. Sincerely, ______" emails waiting for me; writhe around my bed listening to INXS's "Never Tear Us Apart" for a while; finally make my way downstairs; grab the cat, a box of Kashi and my laptop; plop myself down on the couch next to my mom and watch QVC/job hunt for the rest of the afternoon.

I got in some great quality time with my mom during this period of my life. (I also got some great Diamonique jewelry and Joan Rivers makeup, but that is neither here nor there.) My mom always jokes that she watches so much QVC she could make a QVC drinking game, so I thought, pfff—why not? Because who doesn't love The Q? It's hypnotic! Everyone is so perky and everything is so shiny! It's a zen experience. You can watch it for hours on end and completely zone out and forget all your worries and cares. It's a terrific way to forget that you aren't even qualified to work as a janitor at a gallery and that maybe that art history minor was a flagrant waste of time and ha ha...ha...

So without further ado, I give you My Mom's QVC Drinking Game!


Rules:
Drink Once When Someone Says:
- "By the way"(given the right host, this alone can keep you blasted for 1-3 hours)
- "Pop of color"
- "Best of the best"
- "It has a good hand"
- Any time the host or caller says "thank you" while trying to end a phone call
- "You're my favorite host"
- A host says to a caller "thank you sooo much, that means sooo much to me"
- "you're on the air with ______, welcome in to QVC"

Drink Twice When:
- Today's special value is announced
- Something is available on easy pay
- A piece of jewlery is measured with the wooden ruler
- The host says she bought the item for herself or a family member
- The host tests the durability of a bracelet by violently banging her wrist on the table

Chug When:
- Joan Rivers or Tori Spelling make a special guest appearance

I'll add more if i can think of any, feel free to donate some of your own. I humbly submit these for your approval.

Love you, Empty Nester. (That's my blog name, dude.) [Editor's Note: GET IT, YOU GUYS?! GET IT? Empty Nester?! Because it's 2birds1blog?! Isn't she the best!?!????!]

Thanks mom! And thank you, reader. Now normally this is where I ask you to tell a friend about the blog, but today, let's switch things up! I'm feeling a little crazy, so tell an enemy about the blog. Yeah, that's right, tell a straight-up jackhole to follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page and/or shoot us an email (meg@2birds1blog.com; chris@2birds1blog.com). And thanks for that. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning!

Where's My Federal Bailout?

I don't know about you, but I continue to find myself strapped for cash. This might be my own fault for having basic needs. My financial problems could be easily remedied if I gave up drinking (but once it hits your lips, it's just so good), eating (I have got to stop ordering the Lover’s Delight at Plunder), clothing myself, existing, etc. Aside from an extreme hunger strike to boost my bank account, I’ve been toying with idea of getting a second job.

This thought is usually beaten into submission by my social life because bars don’t have "disgruntled hours" for those working multiple jobs. But the closer I get to having my own apartment and becoming an actual adult, the more I realize my current salary is not nearly as much money as I had previously thought. Since Amy Winehouse's mental state is in better shape than our economy, I probably won’t be seeing a raise in the near future. So I’ve got to think about alternative ways to put dollars into my starving bank account. However, if I'm going to sacrifice my free time that I spend working on my night cheese or smiling with my eyes (10 points to whomever gets those references), it's got to be worth it. Retail jobs are like waterboarding without the water, and they don't believe in weekends or holidays. So no thank you, as I've got plans for Memorial Day Weekend that don't include hawking a Banana Republic credit card with your purchase of argyle socks. What I need is a supplementary source of income off the beaten path.

What got me started thinking about this was an email I received at work. When I’m not blogging my face off, I work as a professional nerd in a science lab curing cancer, replete with beakers and Bunsen burners, et al. No joke, I’m looking at a test tube right now. Anyway, this email was from the Psychology department looking for volunteers for a research study. Normally, I can these emails faster than you can say “I am a Nigerian prince”, but I noticed they were offering compensation for volunteers, so I thought to myself “Free money? Yes please!” So naturally, my first thought is to become a semi-professional guinea pig. I'll just keep my eyes peeled for more mass emails from work and ads posted on the subway or other reputable sources. Are you between the ages of 18-45? Yes, go on. Do you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and cough? That has happened to be before, so this still applies to me. Do you frequently use large doses of herion? Dammit, you lost me on that one. On the upside of this "career", you get paid a decent hourly rate for essentially doing nothing. $10/hour might not sound like much, but when you consider the fact that you're being paid to sleep/learn a foreign language/put together a puzzle/take an unnamed drug with unknown side effects, it's not a bad wage at all. On the downside, you could be taking a drug with unknown side effects and wind up like this infant (slightly NSFW).

As Napoleon Dynamite taught me, you need to have good skills. Nunchuck skills, bowhunting skills and the like. Although I might be whiter than an albino polar bear in a snowstorm, I've got some moves. (Yours truly was a member of a hip hop dance group in college, FACT!) That being said, a posting on Craigslist is advertising for a male go-go dancer. Upside: I would be getting paid to shake my moneymaker like somebody's bout to pay me, AND it's a night job, so it wouldn't interfere with my daily 9-5. Downside: Heavily tattooed?...That could be a problem. Also, I'm not fond of glitter.

Luckily for me, go-go dancing isn't the only opportunity Craigslist turned up. If you're familiar with my 2birds intro, you would know I've got mad game when it comes to rapping. Well lookie here! Professional beat dropping! And I played the drums in high school! I'm perfect for this! Upside: I could make it big as a rappercussionist. Bring the word "rappercussionist" into more common usage. Downside: Oh wait, they are serious about this. And our first gigs would probably be on the F train. Next!

Realistically, if I get a second job, I'm going to need it to be a job with bountiful night shifts. I've considered bartending, as (I like to think) I've got personality coming out of my ears and could charm the pants onto a nudist. However, I'm also pretty klutzy and while it was endearing when Jersey dropped bottles of top shelf liquor in a montage in Coyote Ugly, something tells me it wouldn't be quite as cute if I were to do that in real life. Even if I do sing "One Way or Another" immediately afterwards.

I guess I'm just going to have keep on doing what I do and hope to win the lottery sometime soon. Unless someone is in need of a trophy husband. Or my rappercussionist career takes off.


(Sidebar: After much cajoling from various friends, I've made the plunge and joined Twitter. You can follow me at www.twitter.com/misterlizlemon, because if you think I'm funny here, I'm even funnier in 140 characters or less. Fact!)

Deluxe Cover-Letter-o-Matic 2.0!

Cover letters. I say, god damn. I strongly believe that the Devil ejaculates cover letters and coughs up mission statements. Knowing my strong distaste for cover letters, Jillian emailed me the other day and asked if I would send her my cover letter template to ease the pain of the tedious application process. At the mere mention of "cover letter," I had a 'Nam-like flashback of sitting in my parent's basement, cold, lonely, trying to make "give me this low-paying job and I'll blow you bi-weekly till death do us part" sound more eloquent and praying for just a single interview. Of course I'd help Jillian. Just because I'm out of the jungle doesn't mean I've forgotten the war.

Before I sent my cover letter to Jillian, I removed all of the Meg-specific credentials and replaced them with a blank line. Before I knew it, I had one hell of a Mad Libs game going on. Because I was bored at work at the time (let's not lie, I was researching pogs to buy on ebay because I'm bringing them back, and was in no way bored) I decided to make the official 2b1b Cover Letter Mad Libs Game! The beauty of the game is that because no HR person worth their weight in TPS reports would actually ever read a cover letter, who gives a shit if it's full of random adjectives and boner jokes? You'll never waste another afternoon writing worthless cover letters again! And ohhh the hilarity!

For example, here's Anna's Mad Libs generated cover letter:

To Whom it May Concern:

My name is Sniffy Tecumsah and I am applying for General Electric's Reverse Cowgirl position. For the past year I have worked as a cat de-clawer for Jenna Jameson in New York City. While this was an amazing experience, I have decided to take a different direction with my career and focus on farts.

I am looking for a job that will utilize my genuine love of belly buttons and penchant for sautéing and Lisa Kudrow. I have voluptuous computer skills, strangulation experience, am a creepy communicator (both visually and verbally) and am a very randy and easy to work with individual.

Attached for your review is my resume. I know that if we get the chance to meet, you will see what an asset I can be to General Electric's Fleshrocket department. Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

You are what the French call, Les Incompetants,
Sniffy Tecumsah

Play it yourself!

To Whom it May Concern:

My name is (your porno name: name of your first pet + name of the first street you lived on) and I am applying for (major American company)'s (sexual position) position. For the past year I have worked as a (random occupation) for (porn star) in (city). While this was an amazing experience, I have decided to take a different direction with my career and focus on (noun, plural).

I am looking for a job that will utilize my genuine love of (body part, plural) and penchant for (action verb) and (favorite actor on Friends). I have (adjective) computer skills, (method of killing someone) experience, am a (adjective) communicator (both visually and verbally) and am a very (synonym for horny) and easy to work with individual.

Attached for your review is my resume. I know that if we get the chance to meet, you will see what an asset I can be to (repeat name of large American company)'s (synonym for erection) department. Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

(random insult),
Sniffy Tecumsah

Score:
Cover Letters: 0
Pogs: 1

Why I was the World's Worst Waitress Slash Bartender

Praise the sweet Lawd Jesus; I'm no longer a Waitress Slash Bartender! I got a call last week from a company that I'd been interviewing with in early December for an event planning/marketing job. I didn't care who I had to blow to get it-- this job was mine. I walked into the first interview feeling confident and left an hour and a half later feeling the same way I do after a really good first date: I was giddy, couldn't stop smiling, told my friends it was "The One!" and was envisioning our perfect future together. Unfortunately, as with most of my amazing first dates, I never heard from the rat-bastard again. I was left hurt and wondering what I had done wrong (I hadn't even put out yet! According to my mom that means they have to buy the cow, or the truck or whatever you're buying!)

In a stroke of uncharacteristic luck, I got a call from the company last week apologizing for losing touch and asking if I was still interested in the position. Because "YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS I AM" might be a wee bit too forthcoming, I said yes. Two days and a meeting later, I was hired.

I'm excited about this turn of events for a bevy of reasons, (money! a company issued Blackberry! corporate dress code! I feel like Maxine from Living Single!) the most exciting being that I don't have to be a Waitress Slash Bartender anymore. And I'm not going to lie to you, if I hadn't quit I'm pretty positive I would have been fired within a few weeks. Why you may ask? Because I am without question the World's Worst Waitress Slash Bartender. Here's why:

• I'm not actually a waitress. Nor am I really a bartender. This is slightly problematic when working as a waitress slash bartender. If I had a dollar for every time I couldn't make a drink or acted genuinely inconvenienced when asked for silverware...well, I'd probably have tips that were proportionate to my number of tables.
  
• I'm slow-moving and easily distracted. If I wanted to run around I would join a gym, a-thank you very much. I handpicked this job because I thought it would allow me maximum slack-assery with minimal effort. I'm sorry you have to get back to the office, but I have a text message to get back to. That takes precedence. And I'm going to write it at my own pace. Yes, my pace is that of a sea turtle, but that's how I roll. Slow and covered in tortoiseshell accessories. And it wasn't my idea to put five TV's in the bar! Do you have any idea how distracting Judge Judy is on mute? DO YOU?!
• People are stupid. The things that come out of people's mouths make me wish I could perform a vasectomy. Because my mind is always on auto snark, it's incredibly hard to stop myself from cracking wise-ass comments while dealing with a customer. Then there's always this really awkward delay between their question and my response because I've yet to master constructing said wise-ass comment in my head while simultaneously saying something polite to their face. Here's a real world example:

Man standing at top of stairs: Excuse me, I want table service. I don't want to order deli-style.
Me: Sure thing sir, if you go downstairs I'll happily take your order and bring you your food.
Man (in an exasperated tone): PFFSHH, but how am I supposed to get down there?!
- You fly sir. Step one: grow a pair of wings. Step two: flap them motherfuckers. Happy landing. -
Me (after staring in silence for six seconds): There are stairs directly to your left sir. Walk down them.

• I frequently leave the bar to flirt with the barista upstairs. As it turns out, bar managers don't like when you leave customers alone with their alcohol and cash register to ask the hottie barista the story behind his tattoo. I'm sorry, but if you don't put it in the employee handbook, how am I supposed to know?!
  
• Sometimes I just don't feel like talking. Many people a day come in alone, order a drink and expect you to entertain them. This isn't a date buddy, I'm not going to bend over backwards to carry on a conversation with you. A guy came into the bar last week (who had an honest to God snout, but that is neither here nor there) who would not stop talking to me about iced tea. Of all the asinine things to talk about, he wanted to talk about iced tea (do you like it sweetened or unsweetened? How about instant mixes? Ever brew your own? What's your favorite flavored iced tea? Ever try an iced green tea from Starbucks, it's amazing! Iced tea is such a delicious way to stay hydreated throughout the day...) COME ON!!!!! I've been talking about everything from Obama to fly-fishing for the past seven hours! I'm exhausted! Sometimes I just can't converse anymore. Call a friend. Christ.
  
• The Inauguration is over. The Inauguration was my somewhat unique go-to conversation starter. Now that it's over, I got nothing. Just a lifetime of conversations about the weather and iced tea.
  
• I'm horrible with names. At the bar, we're supposed to ask every customer's name, shake their hand and put their tab in the computer system under said name. The problem is that I have the memory of a goldfish and once a customer tells me their name, I've forgotten it by the time I get to the computer. To make up for this, I get a little descriptive with tab names (which has to be in eight characters or less.) This leads to a lot a lot of open tabs under names like "AcneKid," "BstdChk," and "HotLawyr." I had to be taken aside by one of the bar managers and informed that the tab name gets printed on the patron's check in large letters, so stop being so "creative."
  
• I was accidentally racist. Last Friday I was waiting on a large birthday party during happy hour. One member of the party, an Asian gentleman, was hassling me to card the birthday girl because she had just turned 25. The birthday girl was clearly irritated by this guy pointing out that she had just turned 25, so I decided to diffuse the situation by telling him that if I had to card her, I would have to card him first. Then the following misunderstanding took place:

Asian Man: Oh come on! You're going to card me? I'm ANCIENT!
Me (...who heard something entirely different than "ancient"): Ohh, I'm definitely going to card you sir. Especially because you're ASIAN!
Asian Man (deadpan): I said ancient. Not Asian.
Me: (gurgles a series of painfully awkward noises.)

...I never thought I'd say this, but I can't wait to get into the office tomorrow.

Happy Drinking Game Friday urrybody!

The Quitting Your Job Drinking Game!

Rules
Drink when:
- You walk into work, heart pounding, palms sweating, like you're about to break up with someone
- Tasks you would never normally do seem inexplicably important to complete before you talk to your boss about quitting
- You consult with a friend about how you should quit
- You text a friend "I'M NERVOUS"
- You remind yourself of all the things that piss you off about your job to give you the adrenaline needed to confront your boss
- You inevitably fumble your well-planned quitting speech
- Every time you say "um"
- Every time you say "I'm so sorry"
- Your boss tells you that he just doesn't know how he's going to fill these shifts
- Every time you compromise your schedule and agree to work on days you clearly can't work because you feel guilty
- You justify working more shifts (even though you promised yourself you wouldn't) because this means you'll be making more money
- You realize that you'll be working during Inauguration weekend/day/week and it will be hell on earth not worth all the tea in China
- You suddenly adopt a "fuck this noise" attitude, walk out mid-shift and go to Cosi's to get a slammin' bowl of soup and spend the rest of the day catnapping

...See you all Monday morning when hopefully I'll be an ex-bartender and full-time young professional again...

twitter.com/2birds1blog

Happy Drinking Game Friday!

Guys I have been totally Scroogin' it this week and I want to apologize. I've been going down an emotional spiral ever since I found out the following:
1.) Christmas is next week. WTF? When did that happen? I'm always horny for the holidays and I just can't get in the mood this year. Now I find out that I have less than a week to get it up?! I can't handle that kind of pressure and performance anxiety!
2.) Bing Crosby beat the sin out of his wife and was an all-around asshole. Yea, Bing Crosby. As in one of my favorite Christmas crooners of all time. Now every time I hear "White Christmas" the left side of my face hurts and I smell cheap whiskey and broken dreams.
3.) I have $46.98 in my bank account. This means that if I'm getting you a Christmas present this year, there's a 98% chance it will be made out of Popsicle sticks, cotton balls and Elmer's glue.
4.) Despite my best efforts and many interviews, it looks like I will remain unemployed through the holidays and into the New Year. That breaks my little soul into two equal pieces. And then pisses on those pieces. And then puts those piss-soaked pieces into a kiln to bake. And then I shall paint those pieces with tempera paint and give them away as gifts.

Man...the holidays are a really shitty time to feel like a big-fat-failure, what with all of the cheer and family newsletters people feel the need to "share." My mom was reading our neighbor's holiday newsletter to me tonight and I thought I was going to snap like a twig. Now isn't the best time to hear that Kari will be wrapping up her last semester at Law School after her wedding and Guy is using his extra retirement time to distill his own gin. That is unless Guy is giving me some of his distilled gin for free, and then I totally care. True story: upon hearing in a holiday newsletter tonight that some random friend of the family just had a new baby girl , I interrupted my mom with, "I HOPE IT WAS FUCKING BORN PREMATURE AND HAS A TINY HEAD AND A SPEECH IMPEDIMENT!!!" and stormed out. I don't really hope that. I just half-hope that. Because I think lisps are more adorable than kittens.

It's really not pretty though. I've spent the past week pretty much acting like when Ron Burgundy gets fired from the Channel 4 Evening News Team and stumbles around San Diego drinking milk and making fart noises with his mouth. I've increased my sleeping schedule tenfold. It's gone from house-cat to koala bear level. When I am awake, I just lay around my bed downloading apps for my iphone and feeling sorry for myself. It's pretty disguisting. (But my Tap-Tap-Revenge score is through the roof!)

I had a rude awakening today though. No it wasn't the screaming about premature babies and small heads that made me realize I'm acting like a complete asshole; I realized I skipped my blogging duties this week. Twice. I'd love to say I didn't blog last night because I was up late applying to more jobs or re-designing my resume. But that would be a lie. Because the truth of the matter is I was up late last night watching You Tube videos of "Bartending 101" and listening to old Beastie Boys singles in my bed. As rough as life seems, there's no reason for me to act like an anti-social 12-year-old boy from 1998. It's time to quit feeling sorry for myself and get back to my real life. And the first order of business: get in the Christmas spirit.

But how to do it? Making s'mores hasn't done it, watching Home Alone hasn't done it, picking out a Christmas tree hasn't done it...It's time to bring in the big guns. I need something that's going to pull mercilessly on my heart strings and kick me in the sentimental bone hard. I need a frog. And a pig. And a Gonzo. And a Michael Cane. I need The Muppet's Christmas Carol.

I talked a bit last year about how every Christmas Eve my family watches The Muppet's Christmas Carol and I weep like a small child in the arms of whoever will hold me. It's that God-damn frog. I think Kermit the Frog could sing "Dick in a Box" and I would get choked up and nostalgic. Kermit the Frog is essentially a puppet/amphibian version of Tim Gunn in my mind. But if anything is going to melt my black heart and fill me with holiday cheer, it's this movie. And a big 'ole Irish Coffee. Extra Irish.

So if you need a little help getting in the mood this year as well, let The Muppet's Christmas Carol be your Viagra. Take my hand, grab a box of tissues and let's get it on with The Muppet's Christmas Carol Drinking Game!


Rules!
Take a Drink When:
- Gonzo and Rizzo get into an argument
- Someone says "Merry Christmas"
- "Bah, humbug!"
- They break into song
- Someone complains about being hungry and/or cold
- Beaker flips off Scrooge as he and Bunsen are leaving Scrooge's office
- Jacob and Robert Marley (aka the Old Hecklers) laugh at their own jokes
- Michael Cane gets a visit from a ghost (sidenote: could the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come not make me shit my pants out fright every year?)
- THE BELL TOLLS ONE!
- Tiny Tim has a coughing fit
- Michael Cane gets teary-eyed
- Tiny Tim dies, specifically when Kermit says the following: "Life is made up of meetings and partings. That is the way of it. I'm sure that we shall never forget Tiny Tim, or this first parting that there was among us." (Yes I did tear up just typing that...eff you.)

Finish Your Drink When:
- They sing "The Love We Found" during the last scene and you're inevitably crying but trying to play off your tears by pretending to text message someone because grown adults don't cry and emotions are for losers. Damn. That. Frog.


Have a great weekend and look forward to a Becca post bright and early Monday morning! (Want your 2b1b fix over the weekend? Friend us on Twitter! Last weekend Twitter friends got to be the first to hear about Meg's drunken Britney Spears dancing shenanigans...come on, take the 5 seconds to make an account and follow us...www.twitter.com/2birds1blog) It won't suck that badly.

You. You reading this. You look amazing today.

I have really bad luck in life. If something can go wrong, it will. The worst-case scenario will inevitably happen. And then my pants will fall down as an added bonus. This has definitely provided me with many comical stories, and for that I’m grateful, but right now I don’t have time for my bad luck. I need to get a full-time job to move into my sister’s apartment. And I have a deadline: January 1st. I went on a really good interview last Thursday for a job that I would blow a midget for. I expect to find out if I get a second interview this week and at this point I need all the luck I can get.

I’ve never been a big believer in karma because I feel like doing something good and trying to be a good person because you want karma points negates the karma you would get because you’re not doing it for the right reasons. Sort of like how I would never thank the AU shuttle bus driver on principle. Don’t thank the shuttle diver to make yourself feel better about having someone earn minimum wage to chauffeur you the half a mile from campus to the metro, thank them because you actually appreciate it, you smug a*hole. Or walk. God I hate white people.

Given my track record with luck, I need some good karma on my side and I need it fast. Therefore, instead of writing a catty That’s a lot of Look piece or ranting about people who don’t give the “courtesy wave” after letting them merge into your lane (WHO INDEED DESERVE AN STD, AND A RELLY EMBARRASSING ONE AT THAT), I’m going to write a positive, calm and zen-like entry giving recognition and thanks to the otherwise unrecognized things that enrich my life on a daily basis in hopes that the Universe will see my selfless gratitude and repay me.

I thank the Universe for:
Kashi Go-Lean Crunch Cereal: Well shit you’re delicious. You taste like Sugar Snaps, but you’re healthier, and for that I thank the world for your existence. If I get scurvy and die of malnutrition, it’s because 2 out of 3 of my daily meals seriously consist of a giant bowl of Kashi Go-Lean Crunch cereal and a quad-shot latte. And you’re hippie commercials delude me into thinking that that’s a healthy and wise decision. God bless you.

NBC News 4 Anchorman Jim Vance: Jim Vance is a really soothing presence in my daily life and he’ll never even know it. I’m not quite sure what it is about his demeanor that makes me want to sit on the floor Indian-style, put my head in my hands and listen to him like he’s reading me a children’s book, but I appreciate it. I also appreciate the giant blinged-out diamond stud he rocks in his left ear. He makes the news soothing and mother-fucking gangster at the same time, and for that the man deserves an Emmy.

My parent’s cat, Evie:

I used to think Evie was kind of an asshole because I’m 98% sure my parents could never love me as much as they love her. Then I moved home and got mono and I think she genuinely felt sorry for what a sad-state-of-affairs I was in and started giving me pity snuggles. Now we’re BFFs. She’s curled up in my lap like a shrimp as I type this. I’ve grown to fully accept the fact that my parents love her more than me. Hell, even I would choose Evie if we were both dangling on the edge of a cliff and only one of us could be saved.

The Washington Kids Post: I’m not going to lie, when I sit down in the morning with my giant bowl of Kashi Go-Lean Crunch cereal, quad latte and Washington Post, the first section I flip to is the Kids Post. I appreciate that the Kids Post takes whatever news story is most prevalent, dumbs it down real good, adds a few penguin illustrations and makes it seem less scary and depressing. As someone with ADD and an anxiety problem, it means a lot to me. I think the only reason I could intelligently discuss the election with people is because the Kids Post spelled it out in stick figures for me everyday. The Kids Post crossword puzzle also makes me feel pretty good about myself every Sunday. God bless you Kids Post.

Cab Drivers: I don’t know what it is, but cab drivers love me, and God damnit I love them. I can’t even begin to recount the number of meaningful heart-to-hearts I’ve had with cab drivers. I pay a therapist $200 a session, two sessions a month, and 3/4 of our session is spent with me awkwardly looking around the office desperately trying to think of something to talk about. However get me in the back of a cab and I open up like I’ve just taken a truth serum. My life is just one incredibly un-sexy episode of "Taxi Cab Confessions." One time I was talking to a cabbie about his native Barbados and he told me that he thought I would like life there better than New York because it was laid-back, like me. I actually told him, and I quote, that I “indeed have the soul of an islander.” First of all, who the fuck says that? And secondly, just on a factual level, I actually don’t have the soul of an islander; I’m kind of neurotic and high-strung. I don’t know why I adopt this Jimmy Buffet, open-book persona with cabbies, but I appreciate our time together. It’s less expensive than therapy and pine-scented.

The hot High Schooler who makes my mid-afternoon latte: I don’t mean for things to take a statutory turn, but the kid who makes my mid-afternoon latte at Starbucks is a-freaking-dorable and I want to thank him for brightening my day. He looks like Pacey from "Dawson’s Creek" and I think we can all agree that Joshua Jackson is bangin’ hawt. Not that I’m describing a 17 year-old boy as bangin’ hawt. Because that would be illegal. Starbucks kid also always looks incredibly stressed out, which I find endearing for some reason. Part of me wants to be like “It’s OK boo! Don’t be stressed!” The bigger part of me wants to be like “I will totally be your date to prom! I can buy you and your friends alcohol!”

...And now I just wait for the karma to kick in.

Drinking Game Friday has a firm handshake

Happy Drinking Game Friday kidos. I started to write a “It’s a Recession Bitchez!” drinking game but got unbelievably depressed about five minutes in and decided to take it in a different direction. I had a job interview every day this week, so I felt inspired to write:

Meg’s Week of Painful Job Interviews Drinking Game!

Drink When:
- You are inevitably late because you have the sense of direction of a drunk chick 30 seconds away from blacking out.
- You forget your resume.
- You realize the cashier at Loehmann’s left a security tag in your skirt and you look like a total clepto.
- You can’t stop thinking how the woman interviewing you looks like Kimora Lee Simmons with a lazy eye.
- You get asked a bunch of stereotypical interview questions you know the interviewer googled five minutes before the interview.
- You answer a question fully knowing that the person who asked it isn’t really listening and you could say “I fucked dinosaurs in a kiddie pool full of lima beans and kool aid at my lost job” and they wouldn’t bat an eyelash.
- You can’t stop stifling your giggles and urges to squish the interviewer’s cheeks because he has an adorable lisp.
- The interviewer asks you what your parents do for a living, how much your father makes, what your sister does, if you were in a sorority and if you have a boyfriend and you can’t help but feel like you need to take a shower immediately.
- You concentrate so hard on making professional eye contact that you realize you have no idea what this guy has been yammering on about for the last three minutes but you’re pretty sure he just asked you a question and he’s waiting for your answer.
- You’re asked what you do for fun and you answer with “uhhhh…God…good question…” while shifting your eyes around the room because you don’t feel comfortable answering with “sleeping, drinking, shopping and making fun of people like you on my blog.”
- You realize you’re going to get this job not based on your portfolio but because you have a convincing courtesy laugh and DD circus boobs.
- You get asked, “Why did you leave New York?” for the billionth time and have no idea what to say.
- You answer the question “What do you want to do with your life?” by sighing deeply and mumbling something about new media because “farm during the day at a hippie commune and do lots and lots of drugs at night” isn’t a good answer.
- Blatantly make up an answer to some inane question because they’ll never know the truth, you need a job in a serious way and it’s a recession bitchez!

Have a great and relaxing weekend and we’ll see you Monday morning!

Because you asked

You know when life isn’t exactly going your way and things just build and build until something relatively insignificant happens and you snap like a twig? I snapped like a twig today. I totally lost my shit and I would like to thank the Google Gods from above for the “Save Draft” option on gmail.

This morning I was laying in bed searching through the new job postings on Craigslist feeling a wee bit frustrated with life when I happened upon this ad for a DC area Executive Assistant. Now, I sift through what feels like hundreds of ads for executive assistants everyday, so what made this ad so uniquely enraging, you might ask? You have to answer six obnoxious essay-like questions in addition to sending your resume and cover letter just to be CONSIDERED for a preliminary interview.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? FOR SERIOUSES?! How many hoops are you sons-of-bitches going to make me jump through just to answer your phone and alphabetize some files?! I don’t want to offend any executive assistants out there, I mean I’m desperate to join your ranks so mad respek to you and yours, but let’s all admit it’s not brain surgery. My blood boils when I think about the HR person writing this ad; all fat and cocky with his job devising hilarious ways to make this process more difficult. You’re not hiring Jack Bauer asshole, so there’s no need to have a screening process on par with Homeland Security’s.

We all know I consider writing cover letters to be just as inhumane as female circumcision, so you can understand why I lost it when I read this ad’s “short answer” section. I decided that if this jackhole really wants me to waste my time answering their irritating and unnecessary questions, then I was going to waste their time reading my honest and unnecessarily obnoxious answers:

1 - Describe your previous experiences as an EA. What have you enjoyed about being in that role? What negative experiences have you had?
I’ve never officially been an executive assistant but I’ve run my life pretty well up until this point. I also have a lot of experience working for assholes on a power trip. Does that count?

2 - Are you currently employed? If not, why not? If so, why are you looking to change jobs?
I am not currently employed. And are you seriously asking me why not? That’s like when people ask why I don’t have a boyfriend. If I knew what I was doing to prevent that from happening, I would have changed it by now asshole. Likewise on the job front.

3 - What responsibilities do you want, and what expectations do you have for your next job?
I don't want any responsibility. It doesn’t really fit with where I am in my life right now. At least I’m mature enough to realize that. It’s why I think condoms are a good idea; I’m just not ready for the responsibility of a child. If I could use a giant job condom, I would. But only abstinence is100% effective, so maybe I’ll start practicing that in regards to my career too.

4 - What would your previous (and current) boss(es) say about you if I asked them what it was like to have you as their assistant?
Really? You really want to play this game? Now who would really answer this question honestly? Let’s go down my resume, shall we?

• Editor of magazine in NY: “Meghan who?”

• Boss @ Paper Source: “Meg was a pretty good employee for the first year she worked here, but then she only worked Sundays and every time she came in was either still drunk, hung-over, or still drunk and hung-over. She was frequently wearing the outfit from the night before and smelled like Lindsay Lohan. When we had to separate her from various co-workers because all they did was quote A League of Their Own and make 90’s dance-pop mixes called “Now That’s What Paper Source Calls Music!” instead of actually helping customers, she stopped coming in all together out of spite. So did she finally OD or something?”

• Director of the Gallery I interned for: “Meghan was well-dressed, good with computers and kind of snarky. Being an older gay man, I loved her.”

• Editor of AmLit: “I thought Meg and I were totally tight until she hooked up with a friend of my boyfriend’s in the bathroom at my Christmas party last year and when I jokingly called her out on it a few months later never talked to me again because she was so painfully embarrassed. Although socially awkward, she was a good designer.”

• Boss @ 3Citron: “Meg was the best freelance designer we’ve ever had. I am proud and honored to say that she is my sister. She is my reason for living. I strive to be more like her everyday.”

• Boss @ NEST (green/organic home goods store): “Meghan ruined our natural cork floors by walking on them in 5” stilettos one day. Her carbon footprint was also astronomical. Bitch.”

5 - What are your salary requirements/expectations?
Enough to move into my sister’s apartment so I can move out of my parent’s house and live like an adult again and she can go live in sin with her boyfriend.

6 - Tell me a bit about yourself (non work related info) so that I can get a feel for your personality. (Hobbies, interests, background, etc. - anything goes!)
My name is Meghan. People have called me Meg ever since third grade when there were three Meghan’s in my class and Mrs. Dougherty told me to think of a nickname to make things less confusing. I don’t have any real goals or serious aspirations at the moment. I like thinking of harebrain schemes to avoid facing the real world, brunch is my favorite meal, I’ve never broken a bone, I’m awkward, I’m an Aires, I’ll do anything if I get a free commemorative t-shirt at the end, the only shots I’ll take are Jägermeisteror or Goldschläger, I want a Shina Ibu dog named Steve and a red-eared sliding turtle named Stanley, I’m agnostic, if it turns out there is a God, I wouldn’t be totally shocked if it’s Tim Gunn, I never answer my cell phone, I think I have ADD and/or it’s hyperactive cousin ADHD and every time I bring this up with my mom she says “probably” and then nothing ever happens about it, every time there’s an MTV "True Life" marathon on, I watch even though I’ve seen them all, if I could be reincarnated into anything it would be a house cat, the fact that I a.) went to Hawaii and hated it b.) don’t like burritos and c.) don’t watch Lost makes me feel like less of an American, I’m horrible at math, my go-to karaoke song is “Brandy” by Looking Glass, when I see a couple on the street I can’t help but think of them having sex later, I’m afraid of heights, I taught myself how to swim, my favorite champagne is Andre extra dry, the only movie I ever walked out of was The Brothers Grimm, Mr. Burns is my favorite Simpson’s character, I’m oddly good at kayaking, I need to get my tonsils and wisdom teeth out but won’t because I’m scared and I quit tennis camp when I was six because Shannon Mertz made fun of my volley.

So now that I've bared my soul and we’re best buddies, will you please let me organize your mail, allow you to talk down to me and silently resent you until I find a better job?

TMI & a Conspiracy Theory to start your day off right...

November marks a few personal milestones for me: 4 months since I left New York, 4 months since I got mono, 4 months since I made-out with someone, 5 months since I’ve had sex and 4 months unemployed with no job prospects. I can’t decide which part of that list depresses me the most. It’s sort of a five-way tie at this point.

I think the whole “job thing” depresses me the most because once I get a job, everything else will fall into place. Behold my logic:
Job -> Money -> Move out of Parent’s House -> Ability to go out Guilt-Free and Afford Alcohol -> Meet Mad, Crazay Hawt Dudes = Sex. THEREFORE: Job = HI-OH!

There is one slight problem in this equation: I cannot physically get a job to save my life. Upon hearing this, most people don’t believe me and assume I’m just a lazy, drunk, blogger who doesn’t try. Which is only half true. Name a non-profit, government agency, design studio, marketing firm, law firm, architecture firm, college, gallery, museum or private company and I guarantee you, I’ve applied there. I have written an encyclopedia’s worth of bullshit cover letters sent out with my resume and haven’t gotten even one preliminary interview. Who do I have to blow around here to get an interview??? Because as God as my witness, I will!

By the way, I find it irritating when people tell you not to freak out because you haven’t been looking for a job that long. Not only is their entire point condescending, but they say it in this horribly judgmental way where you end up feeling like a complete asshole for being understandably stressed out:
Me: Oh man, I’ve been looking for a job for a while now, I feel like I’m never going to get one.
Friend: Umm Meg, you’ve only been looking for a job for four months. That’s really not that long at all. Some people have been looking for years. It’s really not a big deal.
Me: Oh good call. I’m such a pussy for being freaked out that I can’t buy my own food or afford to pay rent in a radically declining economy, which might become a Depression. My B*! LOLZ!

…Call me when you lie about where you’re going at night because at the age of 23, you still need your parent’s permission to go out, and then we’ll talk. In the mean time, shut your pie-hole. I digress.

I got a good design job in NYC pretty quickly after graduation, so you can understand why I’m slightly miffed that after another year of professional experience designing for a national entertainment magazine, I can’t even get my foot in the door at Kinko’s. My first thought was: maybe I’m just a straight up shitty designer. I can handle that. It’s concrete logic. And I embraced and accepted that logic until I met with six agents from Aquent last week that reviewed my portfolio and pretty much fell in love and went down on it. As psyched as I was that my portfolio got some ass, this meant I had to go back to the drawing board about why I can’t get a job. However, I think I’ve come to a conclusion.

This might sound slightly paranoid and neurotic, but…I think I’m part of a government conspiracy aimed towards avoiding massive layoffs by keeping an unnamed amount of people in a so-called “holding pattern” designed to ensure that they never get and therefore laid off, which would generate public outrage demanding an immediate solution because layoffs are ostensibly more disturbing to the public than an unrealistically tough job market where inability to get hired puts the blame on the candidate and not their government, thus avoiding said public outrage and solution.

AND I AM BLOWING THE WHISTLE! Hear me out…

When I say, “I can’t get a job,” it’s not in a “Dear Diary: I can’t get a job and Tommy is never going to realize I exist and ask me to the dance. And am I ever going to grow boobs like Sarah’s??” kind of way. No matter what job I apply for, whether it’s a Junior Designer or janitorial position, I never get an interview. As you know, I’ve ruled out my suckage, I know for sure that my resume is perfectly designed and grammatically correct and my e-mail is fully functioning. Thus, I believe that any e-mail I send containing a resume or cover letter is never actually sent out, instead blocked by the government. To test this theory, (and I’m not exaggerating this story for the giggle factor,) I sent out 20 fake resumes, which made me appear ridiculously over qualified for the position, while still being believable. I tailored my major and minor to whatever job I was applying for, enhanced my GPA and gave myself more honors and recognition than a Vietnam veteran missing a leg. And yet, four weeks later, I haven’t heard from a single one.

After that, I went one step further. I sent out 20 more fake resumes, but this time I applied online and checked off various minorities in the ethnicity box. I’ve been African American, Latina, a South Pacific Islander and my personal favorite—a Native Alaskan with Cherokee blood and a handicap. I realize this is unethical and probably illegal, but ethics are for people whose mother’s don’t analyze the fat content and carbohydrates of every meal they eat giving them an extreme complex. Plus, I have to take some risks to see if this really is a conspiracy.

And alas! Weeks later I haven’t gotten an email from a single possible employer. It’s obvious that I’m not a lazy ho, but rather a victim of a government conspiracy. And I want the Bush administration to know that my walls are COVERED in a networking web and I WILL find a job!

…Although I sort of hope I never hear back from anyone because it might be slightly uncomfortable to explain how Meghan Riverdance McPotatoFamine is Asian (despite the Irish name, fair skin and red hair) and served in the Gulf War at the age of five…

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.


Singer/Actress
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.


Model
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.

Journalist
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.