After much consideration, self-debate, crying, and eating of Rold Gold Tiny Twists, I have decided to return to work full-time. Allow me to clarify, because that makes it sound as though I actually have a career to which I can return. Sadly this is not the case, as I am remarkably unsuccessful. If by remarkably you mean just as I expected.
Anyway, it was not a decision I made lightly. Mostly because I am great at arguing with myself. Seriously, I can talk myself into and out of anything 100 times before the dust settles. On the one hand, my current existence as a couch ornament is pretty depressing. I would like my life to have a purpose, and I would like that purpose NOT to be occasional sweeping. And I'd like to contribute to family in ways that involve money rather than neuroses. Thanks to me, our household has LOADS of the latter, but "will not go to the dollar store without full makeup" and "runs away and hides in the bathroom when someone knocks on the front door" aren't gonna pay for a nice vacation or any major surgeries we might someday require. But on the other hand, the couch IS pretty comfortable.
Really, though, I know I sound lazy, but the prospect of returning to work full-time and all the craziness that that entails (Who will watch the kids on half days, days off, and holidays? Summers? Whose going to keep them when they're sick? There are three of them, so chances are good that at least one is gonna be infectious on any given day. What the fuck is for dinner? Is my boss going to hate me for being late for the third time this week because the school bus broke down AGAIN?) really puts a damper on the more rewarding aspects. (Money. Just money.)
It also doesn't help that my prospects just aren't good. That dumb Bachelor's degree that I was going to supplement with further education? Well, thanks to life and inability to make proper decisions, that didn't happen. Since it isn't in 'Nursing' or 'Education' or some other field with a direct career path, I've had to take those dull, low-paying entry-level jobs that the government invented for dumbassess like me. Trust me when I say that, when your resume consists solely of that type of work, you are actually NOT going to be as attractive a candidate as you had probably imagined.
Although I'm clearly a genius that any prospective employer would be lucky to have, job searching just has not gone very well. 95% of the job openings I come across are for specialized workers with advanced degrees and 45 years of experience who are willing to work nights, weekends, and all holidays for minimum wage. Seriously, folks, if you haven't job searched in awhile, go check out the Help Wanteds. You'll leave totally fucking disillusioned and will probably become a communist hermit. I know I have, Comrade.
So far, I have found precisely three jobs that I meet the minimum qualifications for, and at least two of them made liberal use of the words strip search. I applied for the third, because if I'm going to be placing and/or receiving gloved body parts in any orifices, I'm going to expect more than $11.24/hr. I have standards, you know.
I'm cautiously optimistic that this particular opportunity will work out. Mostly because I've done this type of work before, and also because I've got a solid interviewing strategy on account of my experience as a career counselor.
My Infallible Steps to Guaranteeing A Successful Job Interview:
1. Get all gussied up in a way that is attractive to male interviewers but not intimidating to female interviewers. It's hard to mask all this hotness, but no woman is going to hire you if she thinks your tits are perkier than hers.
2. Wear a shirt that reads Team Player on the front and Rule Follower on the back. Not only are these traits that all prospective employers are looking for, but they'll appreciate your craftiness and will see you as a "creative type."
3. Address the interviewer as Supreme Ruler of the Universe and All That Inhabits It. The interviewer will either appreciate your superb brown-nosing abilities or will be just frightened enough to see your potential as a stalker that will almost certainly be fully realized if she doesn't give you the position.
4. Blowjobs. Nothing says dedication and willingness to accept a challenge like giving blowjobs to complete strangers. For the ladies, I recommend gift bags comprised of Coach purses, nonfat lattes, pink wine, and Sephora samples. Shouting out, "YOU get a Coach bag, and YOU get a Coach bag, and YOU get a Coach bag," as you hand them out will clench the victory.
So as you can see, I'm practically a shoe-in.
Well, I suppose it's time to wrap this up. Since my days as a professional layabout are numbered, it's time for me to work on my bon-bon eating quota. I'm super behind since I don't even know where to GET bon-bons outside of 1985.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
One of Those Friends
First things first--I cannot STAND a showboater.
Like what you like, buy what you want to buy, be as imfuckingpressed with yourself as you want to be, but don't sit there and rub it under my nose and expect praise. I may be forthcoming with the compliments you so desperately demand to your face, but rest assured that I am absolutely talking shit about you in vague Facebook posts . (I'm such a hardass.) So consider yourself forewarned.
More than the talks of diamonds and how much taxes you owed this year because omigod you are just so damn rich, what I REALLY hate is intellectual snobbery and showboating in regards to one's own personal tastes.
Iiiiiiiiiiii would never listen to a Top 40 song. Iiiiiiiiiiii only listen to small local bands or bands from Scandinavian countries that haven't been signed to a label. They're not even indie--they don't have EPs, LPs, or singles. They mostly just chant and tune their instruments.
Fuck you.
Of course Iiiiiiiiiiii didn't read that book--Oprah picked it for her book club, so it MUST be awful.
You know what? Yes. Yes. Some of the books Oprah selected for her (now defunct?) book club WERE awful, but helloooooo, East of Eden anyone? One Hundred Years of Solitude? These are solid, asshat.
Iiiiiiiiiiii spend my free time studying____________ you've never heard of, drinking ____________ you've never heard of, learning to play ______________ musical instrument you've never heard of, and jacking off to _________________ European porn mag you've never heard of.
Dude, seriously? I'm sure there's a word I've never heard of to describe you, but since I've never heard it, I'm sticking with twatwaffle.
Anyone else have one of those friends? It's exhausting, and, honestly, absolutely not worth my time in any way.
Yet here we are, with me telling invisible you all about it, because I keep getting sucked in.
I'll try to rationalize it. Twatwaffle doesn't know any better. Poor Twatwaffle just can't help it. Maybe Twatwaffle was dropped on her head as an infant/abducted by badgers/forced to watch clips of Ricki Lakes spliced with Barney over a Jethro Tull track on a loop, Clockwork Orange style.
And then I'll give in to this stupid, innate, desperate, sad NEED to be nice, and I'll write to Twatwaffle and excuse her showboating and pretend that maybe I'm giving her commentary some unintended stank.
But I'm not. That stank, much like that of the drugstore cologne on a fourteen-year-old boy at his first Sadie Hawkins, is always intended.
You can practice behavioral modification with the mentally ill. You can practice positive and negative reinforcement with an ill-mannered child. But you cannot fix an ass.
It'll always have a big, ugly crack in it.
Like what you like, buy what you want to buy, be as imfuckingpressed with yourself as you want to be, but don't sit there and rub it under my nose and expect praise. I may be forthcoming with the compliments you so desperately demand to your face, but rest assured that I am absolutely talking shit about you in vague Facebook posts . (I'm such a hardass.) So consider yourself forewarned.
More than the talks of diamonds and how much taxes you owed this year because omigod you are just so damn rich, what I REALLY hate is intellectual snobbery and showboating in regards to one's own personal tastes.
Iiiiiiiiiiii would never listen to a Top 40 song. Iiiiiiiiiiii only listen to small local bands or bands from Scandinavian countries that haven't been signed to a label. They're not even indie--they don't have EPs, LPs, or singles. They mostly just chant and tune their instruments.
Fuck you.
Of course Iiiiiiiiiiii didn't read that book--Oprah picked it for her book club, so it MUST be awful.
You know what? Yes. Yes. Some of the books Oprah selected for her (now defunct?) book club WERE awful, but helloooooo, East of Eden anyone? One Hundred Years of Solitude? These are solid, asshat.
Iiiiiiiiiiii spend my free time studying____________ you've never heard of, drinking ____________ you've never heard of, learning to play ______________ musical instrument you've never heard of, and jacking off to _________________ European porn mag you've never heard of.
Dude, seriously? I'm sure there's a word I've never heard of to describe you, but since I've never heard it, I'm sticking with twatwaffle.
Anyone else have one of those friends? It's exhausting, and, honestly, absolutely not worth my time in any way.
Yet here we are, with me telling invisible you all about it, because I keep getting sucked in.
I'll try to rationalize it. Twatwaffle doesn't know any better. Poor Twatwaffle just can't help it. Maybe Twatwaffle was dropped on her head as an infant/abducted by badgers/forced to watch clips of Ricki Lakes spliced with Barney over a Jethro Tull track on a loop, Clockwork Orange style.
And then I'll give in to this stupid, innate, desperate, sad NEED to be nice, and I'll write to Twatwaffle and excuse her showboating and pretend that maybe I'm giving her commentary some unintended stank.
But I'm not. That stank, much like that of the drugstore cologne on a fourteen-year-old boy at his first Sadie Hawkins, is always intended.
You can practice behavioral modification with the mentally ill. You can practice positive and negative reinforcement with an ill-mannered child. But you cannot fix an ass.
It'll always have a big, ugly crack in it.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Dance Drama Drama
Before about 30 minutes ago, I wasn't 100% sure that my daughters start dance class today. Stellar parenting, that is.
Trouble is, they send you the paperwork for this stuff two months early. For most people, this would be a good thing. Time to gather the essentials, mark the calendar, etc., etc. For me, this two months serves the express purpose of giving me more time to keep track of stuff that I'm not going to look at until the absolute last minute. Which means shit gonna get LOST.
Cue me hitting up all the Walmarts and Targets within a 60 mile radius looking for the correct sizes of leotards, skirts, and hot shorts. Because hot shorts, apparently, are THE thing that hot-to-trot fancy-Mommed tiny dancers must have. Which pretty much makes me hate them on principle, but Middle One is at the age where she notices when she doesn't have the thing that is THE thing that one must have to be deemed acceptable. And, though my favorite parenting mantra is, "Who gives a shit? Be YOU!" (so inspiring, I know), the little third grade nerd girl inside me says, "Stop projecting your issues onto your kid and buy her the damn hot shorts." Third-grade me was most definitely into psychoanalysis. Lots of cool shit in the P volume of the encyclopedia...
Also, 'member how in the REAL version of Cinderella, one of the stepsisters cuts her toes off to fit into the glass (fur) slipper? I think that's what we're gonna have to do to get Little One into her tap shoes.
Middle One also needs ballets and taps. I told her just to wear her jazz shoes the whole time until next payday, lol. No one will know she's not really tapping, dammit! I really hope they don't get blisters, but hot damn, dance tuition is expensive enough without having to buy the stupid shoes every time you turn around. And come on. A jazz shoe, a (non-pointe) ballet shoe, a shoe for hip hop--pretty sure we could accomplish the same damn thing with one pair of shoes. Can't somebody invent some detachable taps or something??!?
Assholes.
Oh, yeah--I also can't remember if Middle One's orthodontic appointment (the big important one during which she gets braces and headgear and a retainer and her ovaries removed and a programmable microchip implanted into her prefrontal cortex) is tomorrow or next Wednesday. Fun times.
Trouble is, they send you the paperwork for this stuff two months early. For most people, this would be a good thing. Time to gather the essentials, mark the calendar, etc., etc. For me, this two months serves the express purpose of giving me more time to keep track of stuff that I'm not going to look at until the absolute last minute. Which means shit gonna get LOST.
Cue me hitting up all the Walmarts and Targets within a 60 mile radius looking for the correct sizes of leotards, skirts, and hot shorts. Because hot shorts, apparently, are THE thing that hot-to-trot fancy-Mommed tiny dancers must have. Which pretty much makes me hate them on principle, but Middle One is at the age where she notices when she doesn't have the thing that is THE thing that one must have to be deemed acceptable. And, though my favorite parenting mantra is, "Who gives a shit? Be YOU!" (so inspiring, I know), the little third grade nerd girl inside me says, "Stop projecting your issues onto your kid and buy her the damn hot shorts." Third-grade me was most definitely into psychoanalysis. Lots of cool shit in the P volume of the encyclopedia...
Also, 'member how in the REAL version of Cinderella, one of the stepsisters cuts her toes off to fit into the glass (fur) slipper? I think that's what we're gonna have to do to get Little One into her tap shoes.
Middle One also needs ballets and taps. I told her just to wear her jazz shoes the whole time until next payday, lol. No one will know she's not really tapping, dammit! I really hope they don't get blisters, but hot damn, dance tuition is expensive enough without having to buy the stupid shoes every time you turn around. And come on. A jazz shoe, a (non-pointe) ballet shoe, a shoe for hip hop--pretty sure we could accomplish the same damn thing with one pair of shoes. Can't somebody invent some detachable taps or something??!?
Assholes.
Oh, yeah--I also can't remember if Middle One's orthodontic appointment (the big important one during which she gets braces and headgear and a retainer and her ovaries removed and a programmable microchip implanted into her prefrontal cortex) is tomorrow or next Wednesday. Fun times.
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