As I mentioned earlier this week, I have bad luck. But like total life bad luck. I was born under a bad sign. You guys…I think I’m cursed. But like, I seriously think I’m cursed. Or my energy is out of whack and my karma needs cleansing or some shit. I was informed while watching an episode of “House” tonight with my mom that shortly after she got pregnant with me, she developed Pre-eclampsia, which means she was about to develop Eclampsia which basically means your pregnancy fills you to the brim with toxins and kills you. I HAVE BEEN A TOXIC PRESENCE SINCE MY CONCEPTION! That didn’t happen with her pregnancy with Becca! I suck so badly.
I do have a theory on how I got cursed: my mom maintains that she’s part witch and indeed comes from a family of people who practiced Kabbalah (a mystic form of Judaism. And they did it before Madonna made it hot and trendy, thank you very much.) I also know that my mom’s Aunt Florence (Aunt Flo…HAH!) greatly disliked my mother (a second-born daughter) and favored her older sister. ERGO, I believe that as a fuck-you to my mom, she put a curse on her second-born daughter. That would be this guy. Thanks a lot Great Aunt Flo! (Great Aunt Flo…HAH!)
But look here Florence, you old bat, no one puts a curse on me and gets away with it! I have jobs to get, apartments to dwell in and success to achieve! So come hell or high water, I will remove this curse and cleanse my karma and remove my energy block or whatever the fuck I have to do to make this curse akrite whether you like it or not!
How to Remove a Curse:
So naturally I started by googling “I think I’m cursed.” The first hit was a Yahoo answers page:
"Best Answer - Chosen by Voters
God says, commit all your ways to Him, and He will give you the desires of your heart.
The direction of my life changed immensely when I turned to Jesus Christ. And it's not about luck; it's about God blessing me because He gives good things to His children."
LOLZ! No but seriously. Most suggestions for “I think I’m cursed” involve a lot of praying and attitude changing. Look, that may be all fine and dandy for the average Cursed-One, but I have a deadline looming. I don’t have a ton of time to pray to my Lord Tim Gunn to give me the strength to get over this effin’ curse.
Other unhelpful suggestions include:
“Start thinking positive, we have much more influence over things in our lives than most people think we do.”
Please see my past two blog posts.
“Another possibility is that you're just ‘in a funk’ psychologically and so a good licensed psychologist might be able to help.”
I have a good licensed psychologist. He looks like if Vern Troyer weren’t a little person. The only thing he’s helped me do is imagine what Vern Troyer would look like if he weren’t a little person.
I need something stronger. I want to skip right to the hard stuff. I want a voodoo priestess to throw chicken blood on me and then I want to trip on Peyote with my Indian spirit guide and see the answers to life’s questions in the eye of a crawfish or something equally off-putting.
My resources are limited, however. A google search for “Spirit guide, Washington DC” only netted results for how to reserve The Sprit of DC for a night. If I want a relaxing cocktail cruise down the Potomac, I’m covered, but that’s not quite where my priorities lie at the moment.
After much on-line research, here are my final curse-removal options:
1.) Consult Psychic Katherine of Divine Psychic Solutions. Psychic Katherine can blanace my Chakra and metaphysically heal me over email. Or AIM.
2.) Ask the Temple of Yehwe. So, the Temple of Yehwe is a Haitian Vodou church founded in Washington DC in 1996. Their website has a handy “Ask the Temple” section where I could fill out a form asking them politely if they can remove my curse. The chances of me getting doused with chicken blood are probably not as high as the chances that they’ll think I’m joking and toss me out on my white ass, but I think it’s worth a shot.
3.) I also might have a shot of getting the chicken blood treatment if I go to the Psychic Studio of DC. Is it a little too close to Trinidad for my comfort? Yes. Do I have a sense of adventure and not a lot of time to work with? Yes & yes!
4.) Go to Mrs. Natalie of Georgetown. I’m torn about this option. Any psychic who can keep a boutique space open in Georgetown automatically impresses me simply on a fiscal level. But then again, any psychic who has a Yahoo email account and a “mention this for 1/2 off” ad loses some street cred in my eyes.
5.) A Reiki healing with Reiki Master David P. Wright at Blue Lotus Treasures. From what I gather from Wikipedia, Reiki is where someone moves their hands over you through which a warm tingly sensation is produced leading to healing and clarity. And let me tell you, it has been far too long since a man has used his hands to give me a warm tingly sensation (ZING!…I’m so sorry, it grossed me out too).
Inspired by Rachel’s wedding blog advice snafu yesterday, I realized that I have seriously underestimated the power of asking complete strangers what to do with my life. So here’s the deal, you tell me which way I should get my curse removed and I’ll do it, document it with my camera, post the pictures and write an entry about it. Here are your options again:
1.) Psychic email/AIM conversation with Psychic Katherine
2.) Ask the Vodou temple
3.) Go to the Psychic Studio in Trinidad (the dangerous hood in DC, not the Island, for you out-of-towners)
4.) Get a ritzy Georgetown psychic reading
5.) Get felt up by a Reiki Master
Post your vote under “comments” and I promise you I’ll go through with whatever option wins the majority of the vote. No pressure to leave a witty comment or feel weird if I don’t know you, it’s cool to just post a number anonymously.
Thanks for the help.
AND SUCK IT GREAT AUNT FLO!!! (...HAH!)
12.10.2008
12.09.2008
Behold! A CYBER MEEK!
Ok, my hippie karma-collecting streak lasted all of one day. I’m sorry oh Higher Power, but it’s just not me. I tried to be calm, positive and forgiving, but how am I expected not to rip people apart with my rapier wit when they so blatantly ask for it? Although I do want to collect good karma and land my dream job, I can’t abandon my position as President of E.M.O. (the End Meeks Offensive) or abandon my War on Social Terrorism. Wherever there is social injustice, I’ll be there. Wherever a co-worker is being passive aggressive, you shall find me. Wherever a Meek is ruining a good person’s day, I will damn well be there to knock the metaphorical books out of their hands and shove them into a metaphorical locker. I don’t care if I’m unemployed for the rest of my life, I will never declare a premature Mission Accomplished on my War on Social Terrorism as long as mean geeks like Anonymous ruin the day of kind and good people like Miss Cleveland Park on the blog DC Nearly Weds.
Yea, that’s right, we have a cyber Meek on our hands. That’s the worst kind. My friend Rachel text messaged me last night that her wedding blog had a hater, and asked what should she do about it. I headed over to her blog to check out the damage expecting some ho to have commented, “HATEZ YO DRE$S” or something and was prepared to reference the T.I. song “Hi Hater” when I saw the comment Rachel was referring to. And by comment, I mean thesis. And one sentence in, I knew it was the work of a Meek. My blood boiled, my fangs descended all "True Blood" style and I sharpened my claws ready to rip this Meek a new one in order to make the world right again. If you were looking forward to the new more positive and family-friendly Meg, you might not want to read on. Sorry Meeky baby, this was long overdue:
Let me just clarify what the Meek got so riled up about: Rachel got a call from a talk show about appearing on a bridal weight loss competition and she posed the question to her blog readers if they thought she should do it or not. The Meek felt the need to weigh in on the matter (pun intended!).
First of all, a simple yes or no really would have sufficed Meek. Christ. I tried to read your response and lost interest after the first sentence:
“Considering our generation's enthusiastic abandonment of personal privacy for overwhelming (and electronic) candor, going on a show and revealing your weight, wedding date, and personal struggle to get fit seems like a logical continuation of the trend.”
Holy SAT prep course, cool out. When someone has to break out the Nerd-English-English-Nerd dictionary to translate your comment, you might just want to not comment at all. Because to me it all just sounds like “blah blah blahblahblahblahnerdtalk” and I don’t even know whether or not you support Rachel. I just know you irritate me.
Next, you would comment anonymously. I honestly have no problem with people posting anonymous comments here on 2b1b (and I encourage it!), unless you're trying to start shit with me, as you were trying to do with Rachel. If you’re starting shit, reach your hand down your pants, grab your nutsack, and leave your name. Because you’re a Meek, you probably have a totally unfortunate nerd name like Beatrice Gaymeister, but it’s the Internet. The Internet was made for nerds like you and you can create a fake little username like 2Smart4U to post under so people can respond while not knowing your real identity (so we don’t snap your glasses in half in real life.)
You point out and judge the shit out of Rachel for losing her privacy via her blog and theoretical appearance on this TV show. Look nerd, not all people are civilians by day and super heroes by night; life isn’t one big comic book. Rachel doesn’t have anything to hide; she’s networking because that’s what socially capable people do. She’s already injected herself into the public sphere by creating a blog, so I don’t think her life will crumble if she’s even more accessible via a TV appearance. She’s putting a small part of her life out there so other people can relate and give her feedback, try not to piss your khaki-pleated-pants at the concept.
Meeky goes on…
“Often people see being on television as its own end. Why? The ironically anonymous commenter above me wrote, "you are so hot...so work your stuff on national tv!" Why? So more people will know you are hot? For average individuals who have nothing to contribute to the world of daytime television, nor anything to gain besides some gifts you would get anyway from your registry, the only point of being on television is an indulgent narcissism. If you are a narcissist, or an extreme materialist, then television is the way to go.”
See now I understand why you posted this under “Anonymous.” Because if you ever said that to Rachel in my presence in real life, I would give you the hardest backhanded bitch slap of your life. You would fly out of your sensible penny-loafers. Meek, you are socially retarded. I’m not kidding, if the chick who posted this comment is reading my blog right now, I want you to go to the bathroom, look at yourself in the mirror and say (out loud,) “I am a social retard. I am the problem. I have no right giving someone a solution.” I’m serious. You had to be home schooled because people in normal society know that it’s not polite to refer to a stranger as “an average individual” with “nothing to contribute to the world of daytime television” and call them an indulgent, materialist narcissist. What the fuck is wrong with you? If I could reach into my computer and give you an atomic wedgie, I would.
Then you go on for a few days about the health risks of shows like “The Biggest Loser” and how 20 pounds is a lot of weight to lose and blah blah blah blah. I’m sure you had some scientific and psychologically sound points there but after reading a few lines, I got a bloody nose and re-grew my virginity from absorbing your Meek-ness.
“…if you are the type of person who would go on television to find a man and get married (a la "The Bachelorette"), then go on television to lose weight. If you value your private life, your health, and your future more than fame and material goods, then you should stay away.
Besides, you should be focused on getting married and not with your next scheduled appearance on television.”
WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU? Rachel just wants to lose weight, have fun and win some door prizes! Why? Because she’s a super cute fun girl! It’s not a big deal! She’s not getting a televised gyno-exam or puking her DNA all over your television screen with her Social Security number tattooed on her forehead, so don’t worry that she’s putting her “private life, health and future” in jeopardy. Christ! I would go on, but I've run out of insults and I think this spanking has been bad enough. Now get out of here with your TI-83 calculator and bad attitude and learn how to interact with people.
Yea, that’s right, we have a cyber Meek on our hands. That’s the worst kind. My friend Rachel text messaged me last night that her wedding blog had a hater, and asked what should she do about it. I headed over to her blog to check out the damage expecting some ho to have commented, “HATEZ YO DRE$S” or something and was prepared to reference the T.I. song “Hi Hater” when I saw the comment Rachel was referring to. And by comment, I mean thesis. And one sentence in, I knew it was the work of a Meek. My blood boiled, my fangs descended all "True Blood" style and I sharpened my claws ready to rip this Meek a new one in order to make the world right again. If you were looking forward to the new more positive and family-friendly Meg, you might not want to read on. Sorry Meeky baby, this was long overdue:
Let me just clarify what the Meek got so riled up about: Rachel got a call from a talk show about appearing on a bridal weight loss competition and she posed the question to her blog readers if they thought she should do it or not. The Meek felt the need to weigh in on the matter (pun intended!).
First of all, a simple yes or no really would have sufficed Meek. Christ. I tried to read your response and lost interest after the first sentence:
“Considering our generation's enthusiastic abandonment of personal privacy for overwhelming (and electronic) candor, going on a show and revealing your weight, wedding date, and personal struggle to get fit seems like a logical continuation of the trend.”
Holy SAT prep course, cool out. When someone has to break out the Nerd-English-English-Nerd dictionary to translate your comment, you might just want to not comment at all. Because to me it all just sounds like “blah blah blahblahblahblahnerdtalk” and I don’t even know whether or not you support Rachel. I just know you irritate me.
Next, you would comment anonymously. I honestly have no problem with people posting anonymous comments here on 2b1b (and I encourage it!), unless you're trying to start shit with me, as you were trying to do with Rachel. If you’re starting shit, reach your hand down your pants, grab your nutsack, and leave your name. Because you’re a Meek, you probably have a totally unfortunate nerd name like Beatrice Gaymeister, but it’s the Internet. The Internet was made for nerds like you and you can create a fake little username like 2Smart4U to post under so people can respond while not knowing your real identity (so we don’t snap your glasses in half in real life.)
You point out and judge the shit out of Rachel for losing her privacy via her blog and theoretical appearance on this TV show. Look nerd, not all people are civilians by day and super heroes by night; life isn’t one big comic book. Rachel doesn’t have anything to hide; she’s networking because that’s what socially capable people do. She’s already injected herself into the public sphere by creating a blog, so I don’t think her life will crumble if she’s even more accessible via a TV appearance. She’s putting a small part of her life out there so other people can relate and give her feedback, try not to piss your khaki-pleated-pants at the concept.
Meeky goes on…
“Often people see being on television as its own end. Why? The ironically anonymous commenter above me wrote, "you are so hot...so work your stuff on national tv!" Why? So more people will know you are hot? For average individuals who have nothing to contribute to the world of daytime television, nor anything to gain besides some gifts you would get anyway from your registry, the only point of being on television is an indulgent narcissism. If you are a narcissist, or an extreme materialist, then television is the way to go.”
See now I understand why you posted this under “Anonymous.” Because if you ever said that to Rachel in my presence in real life, I would give you the hardest backhanded bitch slap of your life. You would fly out of your sensible penny-loafers. Meek, you are socially retarded. I’m not kidding, if the chick who posted this comment is reading my blog right now, I want you to go to the bathroom, look at yourself in the mirror and say (out loud,) “I am a social retard. I am the problem. I have no right giving someone a solution.” I’m serious. You had to be home schooled because people in normal society know that it’s not polite to refer to a stranger as “an average individual” with “nothing to contribute to the world of daytime television” and call them an indulgent, materialist narcissist. What the fuck is wrong with you? If I could reach into my computer and give you an atomic wedgie, I would.
Then you go on for a few days about the health risks of shows like “The Biggest Loser” and how 20 pounds is a lot of weight to lose and blah blah blah blah. I’m sure you had some scientific and psychologically sound points there but after reading a few lines, I got a bloody nose and re-grew my virginity from absorbing your Meek-ness.
“…if you are the type of person who would go on television to find a man and get married (a la "The Bachelorette"), then go on television to lose weight. If you value your private life, your health, and your future more than fame and material goods, then you should stay away.
Besides, you should be focused on getting married and not with your next scheduled appearance on television.”
WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU? Rachel just wants to lose weight, have fun and win some door prizes! Why? Because she’s a super cute fun girl! It’s not a big deal! She’s not getting a televised gyno-exam or puking her DNA all over your television screen with her Social Security number tattooed on her forehead, so don’t worry that she’s putting her “private life, health and future” in jeopardy. Christ! I would go on, but I've run out of insults and I think this spanking has been bad enough. Now get out of here with your TI-83 calculator and bad attitude and learn how to interact with people.
12.08.2008
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.
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.
12.05.2008
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!
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!
12.04.2008
Sibling Rivalry: The Slanket (aka Snuggie)
Becca and I got into an oddly heated argument at Thanksgiving dinner over the merit of the Slanket (or Snuggie). If you are unfamiliar with the Slanket please watch the following video to educate yourself immediately.
And now I present to you the 2birds1blog point-counter-point on the Slanket.
BECCA: PRO SLANKET
I am not usually a cold person. I am not petite, I don’t wear long underwear on a regular basis, I do not always have cold hands. However, I have been turned into a cold person by the BF. The BF is a hot person – a shorts-in-the-middle-of-winter person. As such, he keeps his house freezing. In the summer the AC is cranked to 50 degrees and there is a fan in every room. In the winter, all available windows are wide open, the window units are on full blast, and the fans hum away, oblivious to the fact that they should be stuffed in a closet to enjoy a well-deserved break. So when I stay at the BF’s house I am reduced to shivering silently while wearing some oversized sweatshirt, huddled under a tiny blanket that can cover my shoulders OR my feet, but not both. Plus my hands are trapped underneath – how can I enjoy a beer on the couch if I have to keep a blanket covering me up to my nose lest I freeze to death where I sit? I can’t.
So imagine my total surprise when the commercial for the Snuggie came on! Are you there God? It’s me, Becca – and you’ve answered all my prayers! This thing looks AWESOME! Can you imagine how warm and, well, snuggie it is!?! As the commercial listed all the pitfalls of blankets – mostly that they slip and fall and that you can’t use your hands – I nodded in agreement. They commercial didn’t mention drinking while freezing cold as another impossible task to accomplish whilst huddling under a blanket but I know they were thinking it. The commercial went to say that with a Snuggie I CAN use my hands! And unlike that pesky satin throw blanket we all have at home it WON’T slip and fall! Plus I am free to work the remote, use my laptop, or read in total comfort. TOTAL COMFORT! How often is that promised to you? And for $19.95 no less!?
Lets be honest here, the Snuggie (or Slanket) is definitely a bit of a novelty item. That is not to say that it isn’t useful –other novelty items such as Orange Glow, the Magic Shammy, and the Ped-Egg are all useful – but it’s still being marketed via infomercial. When Billy Mays yells at me about something I immediately think less of it. Plus we have to call in and but wait there’s more and … you get my drift. But people, let’s see beyond the cheeseball infomercial crap and look at the product for what it is. Why do we think those “As Seen on TV” stores are so prevalent (Lake Forest Mall, whatup?!)? Because people truly do want these random, funky, ingenious products and if we can buy it in a store the product seems more legitimate. If we don’t have to call to talk to an operator who is standing by we are in control of the sale, and we haven’t been “had” by some company who probably operates out of someone’s den in an Arizona subdivision (you know I’m right) and is selling us pieces of crap. Don’t be such snobs, embrace the operator standing by. Call her, give her your credit card number, thank Dean and Cindy in Arizon for taking the time to create the Snuggie and then share their vision with the world.
The positive points of the Snuggie are simply not arguable. It is made of fleece. Fleece is an undeniably good thing. How many people do you know have spent upwards of $200 on a fleece jacket? Yeah, lots. And they wear them all the time ‘cause they’re so warm and comfy. Now what would you say if I could provide you with a fleece covering to use at home? Yeah, you’re welcome. Fleece is good.
It comes in a variety of fun colors. Variety is good. You can get the burgundy one and look like a Roman priest. Or you can get crafty and sew a big gold “R” on it and make it a Redskins Snuggie (um, did anyone else see Jesus for a second there? Perfection.) Royal Blue? An American Snuggie! Sage green? The Snuggie for the Pottery Barn fan – it’ll really make the room hang together. No boring old primary colors for you, you Snuggie-fan, you. No sir. Put that Snuggie on, belt it, and get the mail! Pick up the kids at school! And never let anyone say you sacrificed looks for comfort.
It has sleeves. Sleeves are good. More specifically, using your arms is good. Most specifically using your thumbs is good, as it is what makes us superior to the other animals (well that and our uncanny ability to write game shows). So by the transitive property of the whathaveyou having a Snuggie makes you superior to other animals. Just sayin’. Seriously though, you know how hard it is to wriggle into a comfy position with a blanket where all your extremities are covered? And once you get there you don’t ever want to move? Well inevitably you’ll need to use your arms to eat something, drink something, get the phone, turn the page of a book or magazine, change the channel. And when that one arm slips out the side of that blanket all the cold air rushes in and you’re screwed. At principal this really is the best part of the Snuggie. They took a blanket and gave it sleeves, thereby allowing you mobility and therefore functionality while still being cozy. I mean – is there a Nobel Prize for that?
There are some Snuggie detractors who will say things like “but it looks like a backwards bathrobe.” My answer to that is twofold: “no”; “so what?” If it truly looked like a backwards bathrobe it would have a tie around it. But so what? Pants look like a skirt that has been connected in the middle. A tube top looks like a skirt pulled up around your torso. The Washington Monument looks like a straw that’s doesn’t have a hole in the middle of it, has a pointy top, is made of stone, and is really really tall. And your point ….?
Perhaps the saddest anti-Snuggie comment is this “just put on a sweater and then get under a normal blanket.” Excuse me, Sir. When little Jimmy wanted a shaved ice treat flavored with syrup did his mom hand him am ice pick and a bag of ice and say “try not to kill yourself”? No – she bought him the Snoopy Sno-Cone machine and was the best mom ever. When Joan had a party and needed to make potato chips, a julienned salad, and taco toppings did she break out her cutting board and knife and get to chopping. No- she bought the Magic Dicer and did it all in minutes! Just because something can be accomplished a farily simply way doesn’t mean the pure novelty of accomplishing it another, totally different way, isn’t valid. In fact, I would argue, that’s what this country is all about.
So if you’re like me and you love being warm and cozy and using your arms (and thumbs) and you can appreciate the entrepreneurial spirit of our fellow Americans stand up. Stand up with me, and walk to your phone, and order a Snuggie. In fact, give someone you love a Snuggie, and a book – because if you act now you’ll get two Snuggies for the price of one PLUS this mini reading light ABSOLUTELY FREE! (while supplies last). Amen.
MEG: ANTI-SLANKET
I would first like to apologize to Becca for my heated words during our Thanksgiving dinner argument about the Slanket. Maybe I got too heated, maybe I attacked her, maybe I even threw around a few swear words that weren’t too Puritan making things at the dinner table a little tense and uncomfortable—whatever, I’m sorry. It’s just that Becca’s always been like a sister to me (wait…?) and I’ve looked up to her as the pinnacle of cool for literally my entire life. She’s the Fonz to my Richie Cunningham. Therefore it’s very scary to me when she makes crucial missteps in judgment like this and I tend to freak out. Kind of like the time she asked me if Nickelback was cool.
Now, onto the Slanket: this is the dumbest fucking thing on the planet and we as a race and people are worse for having it exist. For every Slanket that is sold, a kitten dies. I want the following people to choke on a piece of steak immediately: 1.) the person who thought, “OH MAN! I’m going to wear a robe backwards and market it as the Slanket! 2.) the friends and loved ones of that person who encouraged said person to move forward with the idea 3.) the manufacturer who agreed to make the Slanket 4.) the factory workers who didn’t turn of the machines the second they realized what they were making and finally 5.) any and everyone who actually purchases this abomination.
I’m going to dissect why I find the Slanket so offensive point-by-point because I get emotional and easily overwhelmed about this subject:
I think it’s stupid. I just feel like that should speak loudly on it’s own. I am the laziest, most easily impressed, gullible, irresponsible dumb-fuck shopper on the planet. I own the following: Mighty Putty, multiple Sham Wows, Therm-O-Seal, Air Climber Stair Stepper and the Shake It Flashlight. Need I remind everyone that I got the Gopher Grabber and used it so much it broke and it felt weird to pick up things with my hands again? The Slanket people are basically marketing to old people and me. And I say no thank you sirs. Even I think this is a horrible fucking waste of money.
It’s just a robe on backwards. AM I THE ONLY PERSON WHO REALIZES THAT? Isn’t that a crucial design flaw?! I don’t understand why ONE person during the Slanket’s entire inception didn’t call Bullshit on that. I essentially already have two Slankets hanging on the back of my bathroom door right now. I’m going to take a fork, turn it upside down, call it as a cuticle pusher with decorative tongs on top and make a billion dollars.
It’s insulting. The Slanket offends me for the same reason why dickeys offend me: why do you think I can’t handle layers? If you’re under a blanket and your top is cold, how hard is it to put on a sweatshirt? If your feet are cold, put on socks. I also can’t believe the Slanket people sell you a backwards robe for $20 and have the gall to tell you it will cut down your heating bills. It’s almost impressive. Almost.
It’s not condusive to snggling. When you snuggle under a blanket, a crucial part of that act is pulling the blanket up and over your body and then snuggling into it. I like the feeling of clutching onto the blanket when I snuggle. You can’t do that with a Slanket. To snuggle in a Slanket you just hug and snuggle yourself. It’s like snuggle masturbation. Which proves that anyone who wears a Slanket is a real jerk-off.
The Fortress of Warmth is a Myth. During the Great Thanksgiving Slanket Fight of ’08, Becca’s big argument was that a Slanket allows you to have your hands free while you’re in the fortress of cozy warmth that being under a blanket creates. That is complete and utter horseshit. The fortress of cozy warmth is created because you’re under the blanket. It’s draped over you and creates a dome of trapped cozy warmth. You can’t wear the fortress of cozy warmth, and that is exactly what the Slanket and Becca ask you to believe. Can you honestly tell me that you feel the same magical sensation of being cozy under a blanket every time you wear a robe? I think not.
Decreases Your Chances of Hooking Up. Do you know how many hook ups I’ve had that started with snuggling under a blanket while watching a movie with someone? 100 billion. That’s how many. Two human beings can’t be under the same blanket and not hook up, it’s just science. Read a book. Imagine you take a special someone home, you turn off the lights, turn on the TV and then both put your respective Slankets on. No hookup is ever going to result from that. The word Slanket itself is like a form of birth control. “One second baby, I’m just gong to put my Slanket on.” You could argue that the whole hands-free thing could have its benefits, but where are your hands going buddy? I’m wearing a chastity belt of the highest quality fleece from head to toe!
You look like a purple Klansman. I think that says it all. My work here is done.
And now I present to you the 2birds1blog point-counter-point on the Slanket.
BECCA: PRO SLANKET
I am not usually a cold person. I am not petite, I don’t wear long underwear on a regular basis, I do not always have cold hands. However, I have been turned into a cold person by the BF. The BF is a hot person – a shorts-in-the-middle-of-winter person. As such, he keeps his house freezing. In the summer the AC is cranked to 50 degrees and there is a fan in every room. In the winter, all available windows are wide open, the window units are on full blast, and the fans hum away, oblivious to the fact that they should be stuffed in a closet to enjoy a well-deserved break. So when I stay at the BF’s house I am reduced to shivering silently while wearing some oversized sweatshirt, huddled under a tiny blanket that can cover my shoulders OR my feet, but not both. Plus my hands are trapped underneath – how can I enjoy a beer on the couch if I have to keep a blanket covering me up to my nose lest I freeze to death where I sit? I can’t.
So imagine my total surprise when the commercial for the Snuggie came on! Are you there God? It’s me, Becca – and you’ve answered all my prayers! This thing looks AWESOME! Can you imagine how warm and, well, snuggie it is!?! As the commercial listed all the pitfalls of blankets – mostly that they slip and fall and that you can’t use your hands – I nodded in agreement. They commercial didn’t mention drinking while freezing cold as another impossible task to accomplish whilst huddling under a blanket but I know they were thinking it. The commercial went to say that with a Snuggie I CAN use my hands! And unlike that pesky satin throw blanket we all have at home it WON’T slip and fall! Plus I am free to work the remote, use my laptop, or read in total comfort. TOTAL COMFORT! How often is that promised to you? And for $19.95 no less!?
Lets be honest here, the Snuggie (or Slanket) is definitely a bit of a novelty item. That is not to say that it isn’t useful –other novelty items such as Orange Glow, the Magic Shammy, and the Ped-Egg are all useful – but it’s still being marketed via infomercial. When Billy Mays yells at me about something I immediately think less of it. Plus we have to call in and but wait there’s more and … you get my drift. But people, let’s see beyond the cheeseball infomercial crap and look at the product for what it is. Why do we think those “As Seen on TV” stores are so prevalent (Lake Forest Mall, whatup?!)? Because people truly do want these random, funky, ingenious products and if we can buy it in a store the product seems more legitimate. If we don’t have to call to talk to an operator who is standing by we are in control of the sale, and we haven’t been “had” by some company who probably operates out of someone’s den in an Arizona subdivision (you know I’m right) and is selling us pieces of crap. Don’t be such snobs, embrace the operator standing by. Call her, give her your credit card number, thank Dean and Cindy in Arizon for taking the time to create the Snuggie and then share their vision with the world.
The positive points of the Snuggie are simply not arguable. It is made of fleece. Fleece is an undeniably good thing. How many people do you know have spent upwards of $200 on a fleece jacket? Yeah, lots. And they wear them all the time ‘cause they’re so warm and comfy. Now what would you say if I could provide you with a fleece covering to use at home? Yeah, you’re welcome. Fleece is good.
It comes in a variety of fun colors. Variety is good. You can get the burgundy one and look like a Roman priest. Or you can get crafty and sew a big gold “R” on it and make it a Redskins Snuggie (um, did anyone else see Jesus for a second there? Perfection.) Royal Blue? An American Snuggie! Sage green? The Snuggie for the Pottery Barn fan – it’ll really make the room hang together. No boring old primary colors for you, you Snuggie-fan, you. No sir. Put that Snuggie on, belt it, and get the mail! Pick up the kids at school! And never let anyone say you sacrificed looks for comfort.
It has sleeves. Sleeves are good. More specifically, using your arms is good. Most specifically using your thumbs is good, as it is what makes us superior to the other animals (well that and our uncanny ability to write game shows). So by the transitive property of the whathaveyou having a Snuggie makes you superior to other animals. Just sayin’. Seriously though, you know how hard it is to wriggle into a comfy position with a blanket where all your extremities are covered? And once you get there you don’t ever want to move? Well inevitably you’ll need to use your arms to eat something, drink something, get the phone, turn the page of a book or magazine, change the channel. And when that one arm slips out the side of that blanket all the cold air rushes in and you’re screwed. At principal this really is the best part of the Snuggie. They took a blanket and gave it sleeves, thereby allowing you mobility and therefore functionality while still being cozy. I mean – is there a Nobel Prize for that?
There are some Snuggie detractors who will say things like “but it looks like a backwards bathrobe.” My answer to that is twofold: “no”; “so what?” If it truly looked like a backwards bathrobe it would have a tie around it. But so what? Pants look like a skirt that has been connected in the middle. A tube top looks like a skirt pulled up around your torso. The Washington Monument looks like a straw that’s doesn’t have a hole in the middle of it, has a pointy top, is made of stone, and is really really tall. And your point ….?
Perhaps the saddest anti-Snuggie comment is this “just put on a sweater and then get under a normal blanket.” Excuse me, Sir. When little Jimmy wanted a shaved ice treat flavored with syrup did his mom hand him am ice pick and a bag of ice and say “try not to kill yourself”? No – she bought him the Snoopy Sno-Cone machine and was the best mom ever. When Joan had a party and needed to make potato chips, a julienned salad, and taco toppings did she break out her cutting board and knife and get to chopping. No- she bought the Magic Dicer and did it all in minutes! Just because something can be accomplished a farily simply way doesn’t mean the pure novelty of accomplishing it another, totally different way, isn’t valid. In fact, I would argue, that’s what this country is all about.
So if you’re like me and you love being warm and cozy and using your arms (and thumbs) and you can appreciate the entrepreneurial spirit of our fellow Americans stand up. Stand up with me, and walk to your phone, and order a Snuggie. In fact, give someone you love a Snuggie, and a book – because if you act now you’ll get two Snuggies for the price of one PLUS this mini reading light ABSOLUTELY FREE! (while supplies last). Amen.
MEG: ANTI-SLANKET
I would first like to apologize to Becca for my heated words during our Thanksgiving dinner argument about the Slanket. Maybe I got too heated, maybe I attacked her, maybe I even threw around a few swear words that weren’t too Puritan making things at the dinner table a little tense and uncomfortable—whatever, I’m sorry. It’s just that Becca’s always been like a sister to me (wait…?) and I’ve looked up to her as the pinnacle of cool for literally my entire life. She’s the Fonz to my Richie Cunningham. Therefore it’s very scary to me when she makes crucial missteps in judgment like this and I tend to freak out. Kind of like the time she asked me if Nickelback was cool.
Now, onto the Slanket: this is the dumbest fucking thing on the planet and we as a race and people are worse for having it exist. For every Slanket that is sold, a kitten dies. I want the following people to choke on a piece of steak immediately: 1.) the person who thought, “OH MAN! I’m going to wear a robe backwards and market it as the Slanket! 2.) the friends and loved ones of that person who encouraged said person to move forward with the idea 3.) the manufacturer who agreed to make the Slanket 4.) the factory workers who didn’t turn of the machines the second they realized what they were making and finally 5.) any and everyone who actually purchases this abomination.
I’m going to dissect why I find the Slanket so offensive point-by-point because I get emotional and easily overwhelmed about this subject:
I think it’s stupid. I just feel like that should speak loudly on it’s own. I am the laziest, most easily impressed, gullible, irresponsible dumb-fuck shopper on the planet. I own the following: Mighty Putty, multiple Sham Wows, Therm-O-Seal, Air Climber Stair Stepper and the Shake It Flashlight. Need I remind everyone that I got the Gopher Grabber and used it so much it broke and it felt weird to pick up things with my hands again? The Slanket people are basically marketing to old people and me. And I say no thank you sirs. Even I think this is a horrible fucking waste of money.
It’s just a robe on backwards. AM I THE ONLY PERSON WHO REALIZES THAT? Isn’t that a crucial design flaw?! I don’t understand why ONE person during the Slanket’s entire inception didn’t call Bullshit on that. I essentially already have two Slankets hanging on the back of my bathroom door right now. I’m going to take a fork, turn it upside down, call it as a cuticle pusher with decorative tongs on top and make a billion dollars.
It’s insulting. The Slanket offends me for the same reason why dickeys offend me: why do you think I can’t handle layers? If you’re under a blanket and your top is cold, how hard is it to put on a sweatshirt? If your feet are cold, put on socks. I also can’t believe the Slanket people sell you a backwards robe for $20 and have the gall to tell you it will cut down your heating bills. It’s almost impressive. Almost.
It’s not condusive to snggling. When you snuggle under a blanket, a crucial part of that act is pulling the blanket up and over your body and then snuggling into it. I like the feeling of clutching onto the blanket when I snuggle. You can’t do that with a Slanket. To snuggle in a Slanket you just hug and snuggle yourself. It’s like snuggle masturbation. Which proves that anyone who wears a Slanket is a real jerk-off.
The Fortress of Warmth is a Myth. During the Great Thanksgiving Slanket Fight of ’08, Becca’s big argument was that a Slanket allows you to have your hands free while you’re in the fortress of cozy warmth that being under a blanket creates. That is complete and utter horseshit. The fortress of cozy warmth is created because you’re under the blanket. It’s draped over you and creates a dome of trapped cozy warmth. You can’t wear the fortress of cozy warmth, and that is exactly what the Slanket and Becca ask you to believe. Can you honestly tell me that you feel the same magical sensation of being cozy under a blanket every time you wear a robe? I think not.
Decreases Your Chances of Hooking Up. Do you know how many hook ups I’ve had that started with snuggling under a blanket while watching a movie with someone? 100 billion. That’s how many. Two human beings can’t be under the same blanket and not hook up, it’s just science. Read a book. Imagine you take a special someone home, you turn off the lights, turn on the TV and then both put your respective Slankets on. No hookup is ever going to result from that. The word Slanket itself is like a form of birth control. “One second baby, I’m just gong to put my Slanket on.” You could argue that the whole hands-free thing could have its benefits, but where are your hands going buddy? I’m wearing a chastity belt of the highest quality fleece from head to toe!
You look like a purple Klansman. I think that says it all. My work here is done.
12.02.2008
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?
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?
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.”
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?
12.01.2008
I'm too bored to think of a title.
I feel very apathetic about last night’s Britney Spears documentary, which is upsetting. I was really looking forward to it being juicier than it was. I’m so naïve, I fully expected her to be like, “Y’all I gotta tell you, I was doing meth and sniffing nail polish remover for the past year! And I fed my babies Dunk-a-Roos instead of breast-feeding! I even made a sex tape with Burt Reynolds! Let me tell you aaallll about it!” Alas, it wasn’t that interesting. But it wasn’t un-interesting. It was like when you’re craving a really good salad and then you have one and you’re like “Ok. Good.” And then life goes on.
COME ON BRITNEY! I’ve been a damn good fan to you (hi, you’re first tour? I was in the third row. All of your albums? Got ‘em. What keeps me going on the treadmill? “Toy Soldier.” Remember when you attacked an SUV with an umbrella and your publicist said you were studying for an upcoming role? I totally believed it.) so the least you could do is give me something gasp-worthy.
Ugh…I’m so bored. I’m gonna go get an online degree and a tattoo of a marijuana leaf to keep things interesting. If you missed the documentary, here are my favorite moments:
- The documentary opens with Britney’s dad cooking cheese grits while wearing a white tank top that’s so tight I fully expected him to give the camera guy a reach-around at any moment. He was also wearing like 76 pairs of sunglasses hanging at various levels from those sunglasses holders made out of beer koozie material. Frankly, the most interesting part of the documentary was getting to see up this guy’s white trash skirt.
- Was I the only one who thought Britney looked like a rode hard and put away wet version of herself in the “Oops!…I did it Again” video in her long-sleeved red turtleneck interview outfit?
- In reference to losing her shit and shaving off all of her hair, she actually defends herself saying that “lots of people shave their head!” That shit is LOLZ. Because they’re called cancer patients, not fading pop-stars.
- Britney tries to go shopping in SoHo and gets swamped by the paparazzi in a way that totally stressed me out and seemed scary. I felt like an asshole for being a tabloid-junkie for 30-seconds.
- There was a dressing room outfit montage! If you know only one thing about me, know that I love me a good dressing room outfit montage, so automatically this documentary picks up two more points.
- At a store Britney picks up a hat and says, “Ooh a burr-ET!” and it’s one of those awkward moments where you’re not sure if she’s being funny and purposely mispronouncing “beret,” or if she really is that dumb, and if you were there and she was your friend, you would probably just pretend to get a phone call and walk away from her to avoid the entire situation.
- About half way through the documentary, she talks about how no one really listens when she talks and doesn’t take anything she says seriously and starts to cry. That was legit. That was probably the only moment where I was really like, “Aw, I feel you boo” and felt genuinely bad for her.
- Madonna: WTF? I don’t give a shit about her divorce or whether or not she’s fucking A-Rod, but I do give a shit about the fact that she looks six facelifts to the wind and is entering that dangerous territory where she’s starting to look like a cat. Gwyneth should have been a true friend and stopped her like five nip-tucks ago…
- I’m offended for Britney that Madonna got so much face time in her documentary. Remember when Madonna needed a career-booster so Britney did her a solid and made out with her at the VMAs, but when Britney was going through her trashy phase and asked Madonna to be her son’s God-Mother she was like, “Uhhhh, no thanks.” Yea…I remember, you hagrid old bag of bones.
- I could watch Madonna talk to Britney backstage before their joint-performance for days. My inner awkward-monster feeds off of how uncomfortable it was. Remember that scene in “The Office” when Michael is trying to prove to the diversity coach that he has diverse friends by talking to Oscar, but they’re not actually friends so they have nothing to talk about and Michael doesn’t even know his last name and it’s just extremely uncomfortable to watch? Well, it was a lot like that.
- On Halloween, Britney’s dad shows up to the house dressed like a clown and her son and I have the same reaction: to burst into tears, start screaming, kick and flail about and hide our faces into the nearest set of pillows. Thanks a lot Mr. Spears for the inevitable nightmares.
- The documentary concludes with Britney talking about how she’ll be more guarded in life from now on and compares herself to the Karate Kid. Aw B. Money…I’m rooting for you.
COME ON BRITNEY! I’ve been a damn good fan to you (hi, you’re first tour? I was in the third row. All of your albums? Got ‘em. What keeps me going on the treadmill? “Toy Soldier.” Remember when you attacked an SUV with an umbrella and your publicist said you were studying for an upcoming role? I totally believed it.) so the least you could do is give me something gasp-worthy.
Ugh…I’m so bored. I’m gonna go get an online degree and a tattoo of a marijuana leaf to keep things interesting. If you missed the documentary, here are my favorite moments:
- The documentary opens with Britney’s dad cooking cheese grits while wearing a white tank top that’s so tight I fully expected him to give the camera guy a reach-around at any moment. He was also wearing like 76 pairs of sunglasses hanging at various levels from those sunglasses holders made out of beer koozie material. Frankly, the most interesting part of the documentary was getting to see up this guy’s white trash skirt.
- Was I the only one who thought Britney looked like a rode hard and put away wet version of herself in the “Oops!…I did it Again” video in her long-sleeved red turtleneck interview outfit?
- In reference to losing her shit and shaving off all of her hair, she actually defends herself saying that “lots of people shave their head!” That shit is LOLZ. Because they’re called cancer patients, not fading pop-stars.
- Britney tries to go shopping in SoHo and gets swamped by the paparazzi in a way that totally stressed me out and seemed scary. I felt like an asshole for being a tabloid-junkie for 30-seconds.
- There was a dressing room outfit montage! If you know only one thing about me, know that I love me a good dressing room outfit montage, so automatically this documentary picks up two more points.
- At a store Britney picks up a hat and says, “Ooh a burr-ET!” and it’s one of those awkward moments where you’re not sure if she’s being funny and purposely mispronouncing “beret,” or if she really is that dumb, and if you were there and she was your friend, you would probably just pretend to get a phone call and walk away from her to avoid the entire situation.
- About half way through the documentary, she talks about how no one really listens when she talks and doesn’t take anything she says seriously and starts to cry. That was legit. That was probably the only moment where I was really like, “Aw, I feel you boo” and felt genuinely bad for her.
- Madonna: WTF? I don’t give a shit about her divorce or whether or not she’s fucking A-Rod, but I do give a shit about the fact that she looks six facelifts to the wind and is entering that dangerous territory where she’s starting to look like a cat. Gwyneth should have been a true friend and stopped her like five nip-tucks ago…
- I’m offended for Britney that Madonna got so much face time in her documentary. Remember when Madonna needed a career-booster so Britney did her a solid and made out with her at the VMAs, but when Britney was going through her trashy phase and asked Madonna to be her son’s God-Mother she was like, “Uhhhh, no thanks.” Yea…I remember, you hagrid old bag of bones.
- I could watch Madonna talk to Britney backstage before their joint-performance for days. My inner awkward-monster feeds off of how uncomfortable it was. Remember that scene in “The Office” when Michael is trying to prove to the diversity coach that he has diverse friends by talking to Oscar, but they’re not actually friends so they have nothing to talk about and Michael doesn’t even know his last name and it’s just extremely uncomfortable to watch? Well, it was a lot like that.
- On Halloween, Britney’s dad shows up to the house dressed like a clown and her son and I have the same reaction: to burst into tears, start screaming, kick and flail about and hide our faces into the nearest set of pillows. Thanks a lot Mr. Spears for the inevitable nightmares.
- The documentary concludes with Britney talking about how she’ll be more guarded in life from now on and compares herself to the Karate Kid. Aw B. Money…I’m rooting for you.
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