~Hey! Are you reading this in a Reader? That’s cool… don’t want the man to see you being lazy, for sure. But do me a wee favor and click here, just for a second, if you don’t mind… *vague and mysterious ftw*~

So! My (23 year old) baby sister joined the rat race a few weeks ago. Though we both built character worked through college, she was in restaurants and bank teller-ing, so she’s never had the full-fledged “Office Space” experience before.

It’s been beyond hilarious for me to witness her (via many gchat conversations) discover all the horrible things that come along with the cubicle farm environment, like crotchety old coworkers, bathroom trials and tribulations (the stand-off!!!), pretending to looking busy, avoiding getting dragged into a “lunch group,” etc. etc.

One of the biggest things we both despise about working with people-we-didn’t-choose in a professional setting is, of course, the small talk.

OH GOD, the small talk. If I could banish its existence from this world, I would. I would make everyone’s mouth disappear the moment they tried to talk about the weather, or their kid’s birthday party, or their irritable bowel syndrome.

It would be magical.

But alas, I have no unicorn to speak of, and so we must suffer through it.

Anyhoo, as she was mocking her coworkers yesterday for their endless droning on about insignificant stuff ‘n things, the following conversation ensued…

Lil Sis: seriously, they’re talking about fucking BJs right now
  like literally what things cost

me: who!

Lil Sis: work people

me: *silence*

Lil Sis: You can get 14 bars of Lever soap for like $7!

me: OH
  oh my god.

Lil Sis: RIGHT?

me: um… NOT what i thought you meant when you said BJs.

Lil Sis: ooooo hahahahaha

Apparently, I’ve been away from Massachusetts so long, I’ve forgotten that BJ’s can also mean this:

I kill myself.

Also, now I’m kind of wondering about what they cost.

And not the wholesale kind.




P.S. Thanks to DC Blogs for the shout-out to my neon orange Jersey Shore tribute/condemnation yesterday!

(I’m probably bipolar.)

Last Friday, I had the grave misfortune of attending… dum dum dum… a “Work and Time Management” seminar. You see, I work at one of those huge, incredibly bureaucratic companies where, come Annual Review time, you’d better have some concrete thingamabobs to put on that form that represent trying to better oneself.

I know, I know. Total BS. But whatevs, mama needs a raise. So I’m playing the game, see?

The seminar was from 9 to 5, aka alllllllllllllllllllllllllll goddamn day. So I knew going in it would either be a great thing (i.e. an easy day off work), or complete and utter torture.

I grabbed a coffee and a seat with a few ladies I recognized from my department. I immediately noticed the four “drawing boards” strategically placed at the corners of the room, just screaming “WE ENCOURAGE ACTIVE PARICIPATION!!!”

And the sense of dread set in.

Sure enough, at 9 sharp, a rotund woman in a pants suit that did nothing for her gathered herself at the front of the room, and clapped her hands together sharply.

“Goooooooooood morning!!!”

It was all I could do not to shout “VIETNAM!” at the top of my lungs. The room gave her a half-hearted, “I haven’t had my coffee yet” bedraggled response.

I already knew what was coming.

“I know it’s morning, but you can do better than that!!! It’s FRIIIIIIIIIIday!”

Seriously, lady? SERIOUSLY? That line hasn’t been funny for the past two decades… and I’m willing to bet, neither have you.

She spent the rest of the day giggling at us like Mrs. Butterworth on happy pills while choking on corporate buzzword after buzzword.

“Urgency versus importance!” “Stressful work environments!” “Time management tips & tricks!”

At 10:40, I finally managed to escape long enough to tweet my despair…

“In a seminar w/ teacher Mary Fucking Sunshine. I honestly do not get how one can be so full of PEP and GLEE and STEREOTYPICAL CATCH PHRASES.”

I was just waiting for her to refer to us as her “special people”, a la Billy Madison.

But the most annoying part of it all? It actually wasn’t her. It was the dumbass robots around me who bought every last bit of it, hook line and sinker. The sympathetic nods as people sob-storied about working til 9pm, eating lunch at their desks, even having insomnia from getting up at 3am to handle correspondence with our Asia and Pacific branch.

Um… WHAT? Why??? We’re all assistants. I know what you get paid. Why on earth would you do that to yourself in a dead end job? Didn’t anyone ever teach you to keep the bar low??

After a couple hours of talking about our feeeeeelings, Mary pulls out her handy dandy self-developed “Time Management Matrix” tool, outlining the four categories ‘tasks’ should be labeled as in order to identify their priority in our “work plans”. Whatever, right? Let’s just get this over wi-

And then someone actually tried to ARGUE with Mary that the categories were wrong.

<Insert world’s biggest, huffiest sigh of agitated disbelief here.>

Do you really think the lady who MADE THIS UP is going to say, “Oh hey, glorified secretary, you’re right! I’ve been going about this wrong for 15 years! How silly of me to have been teaching this all over the world!”

It’s a good thing there weren’t any sharp objects in that room. I think I would have been the first person to off another human being with a stapler.

OOOOOOOooooo. I just got the email to complete my evaluation of said course…

This? Should be fun.

*evil cackle*

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Steal this button and put it in your post just by copying and pasting the html code in the box below, or just link back to the hub with this link, so your readers can read ALLLLLLL the TMI glory, and I’ll make sure to link to you.***

<a href="http://www.livitluvit.com/category/tmi-thursday" target="_blank"><img src="http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss5/Livitluvit/tmithursday.jpg" border="0" alt="TMI Thursday" /></a>

Now get ready, my darlings, for the ever popular, yet gravely feared, TMI THURSDAYS…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So. Every week, I think, “What the FUDGE am I gonna write this Thursday?! Surely I’ve run out of completely inappropriate and entirely vile slash humiliating stories by now!”

And then myself happens.

Thank the baby jeebus, for your sake.

Moving on!

Yesterday morning, I was on my way to your typical three hour Oh My God This Shit Is So Boring But Goddamn Will It Look Good On My Annual Review Seminar. Having already consumed my morning coffee, I was waiting for the elevator when I felt…

THE URGE.

Y’all know what I mean. That ohsospecial moment when your body’s bowls- your assloins, if you will- start churning in a way that lets you know the timer to The Morning Assplosion is ticking down, and ticking down FAST. The rumblings, if you will.

Knowing that I was going to be sitting in a room with twenty strangers for the better part of the morning, I opted to take care of biznas beforehand. Which was lucky for me, because as I opened the restroom door, my “you need to handle this situation down under” timer? Had DINGED. In a flash, I realized I had approximately 3.5 seconds to plant heiny-on-toilet before the sitch got hairy.

I scooted inside, dropped my notebook on the sink, unzipped as I swung open the door… and plopped down.

[insert abhorrid and inhumane sound effects here]

No, really… what happened next would have made any constipated geriatric insanely jealous. My Chipotle dinner was revisited in an incredibly, um… audible fashion, accompanied of course by my own beatboxing, entitled “Sounds of Intense Relief”. (I’m pretty sure it’s one of the CDs in those thingies at Target where you can listen to a dozen… you know, “Babbling Brook”, “Notes from the Rain Forest”, and “Sounds of Intense Relief While On The Pot”.)

Anytwaddle, after my last, weak little sigh, I reached over for the TPR…

And heard the unmistakable scrape of Other Shoes across the floor.

My heart stopped. As did my breathing. While I desperately tried to will myself invisible, I did the awkward “My Ass Is Totally Hanging Out On The Toilet But I’m Still Prairie-Doggin My Head Downward To See WHO THE FUCK’S SHOES Are In The Stall Next To Me.”

And then I saw them… the unmistakable bad ass pumps of my department head. She’s the only other person (besides me) I’ve seen rock snakeskin stilettos. Let’s just say there was absolutely no question about who was squatting two feet away from the atrocity I’d just committed.

So, I did what any normal person would do.

I camped. The fuck. OUT.

I sat there in silence, perhaps shivering a bit, until she had tinkled, wiped, flushed, exited, washed, dried, primped, and LEFT.

When I heard that door swing closed, only then did I resume breathing. She knew something akin to the Ass Holocaust had been committed here, but she didn’t know I was the Hitler.

SAAAAAAAAAAAFE!

At long last, I flushed and walked to the sink, a woman unexpectedly pardoned from Death Row. I smiled triumphantly at my mischievous reflection while I washed up, and reached smugly to grab my notebook…

Only to realize the email with the seminar’s room number proudly sitting on top.

You know the kind from Outlook? That has the receiver’s WHOLE ENTIRE GODDAMN NAME printed in EXTRA LARGE FONT at the top left?

Yeah. That kind of email.

I don’t think there’s a FML out there big enough for this.

Other awesomely bad TMIs this week…

Maxie’s TMI Thursday: Hole in Number Two

jenniferalaine’s tmi thursday: unexpected delivery

Sebastian’s Making love to my computer

mylittlebecky’s exclamation point (tmit)

spleen’s TMI Thursday: I ate bugs.

BigSis’ TMI Thursday: My Cervix

Daffy’s TMI Thursday -Got Peas?

Sarah’s TMI Thursday: Excuse you?

Sean’s TMI Thursday: Stressed

The Bare Essentials’ TMI Thursday…Ass Candy

RachelSmiles’ TMI Thursday: roommates share more than apartments

M’s TMI Thursday? – Disaster Waiting to Happen

Scarlet Begonias’ TMI Thursday: Would you like relish with that hot dog?

the iNDefatigable mjenks’ TMI Thursday: Car Jacking

Ed’s TMI Thursday: I see your sword isn’t as big as mine…

Olga’s TMI Thursday—I Wet My Pants

shine’s Violence UnSilenced

Narm’s TMI Thursday – Steam Bath

Hillbilly Duhn’s TMI – Put your right boob in…

Travis’ TMI Thursday: Yes, I HAVE Stolen K-Mart Ads…

Big Mama Cass’s Care for some sticky sex? TMI Thursday

The Love Goddess’ I DISCOVERED SHOWER WATER:TMI (NSFW)

Cheddar’s The One in Which There is Argyle

Mb’s So you want a TMI story you say?

Tabitha’s TMI Thursday: My love-hate relationship with the O-word.

Tricia’s TMI Thursday: Bathrooms are Revolting Places

Carissa’s TMI Thursday. I’m really scared of Toxic Shock

Lucy’s TMI:Thursday: Old Lady on Campus

Insomniac Lolita’s TMI Thursday : How Do You Like Your Convertible?

Last week, B and I had one of those long, contemplative chats in bed that practically married fat and happy couples tend to have. Or so I hear.

And it pretty much boiled down to this…

I should stop being such a cunt at work.

Pardon the language (ha! You know where you are.) But it’s true.

When I started my current job, I was coming from a place I HATED. I had also recently quit my second job as a bartender after a decade of catering to the wants and needs of perfect (often assholey) strangers. I was, to put it lightly, a bit burnt the frick out.

And the new organization is enormous, intimidating, and has their own acronym for Ev. Ery. Thing. Seriously. I’m pretty sure “toilet paper” is TPR.

“Hey, Ronda, did you call facilities about that TPR situation in Stall 4 Shelf 2?”

“No, I just used some of the PPR TWL. And now I have a rash.”

Poor Ronda.

At some point, I subconsciously decided to just keep my head down, do my job well, and keep my nose out of anyone’s business. Work to live, you know?

That decision, coupled with the fact that I hate all things small talk and, in general, other people (hi, I’m LiLu, have we met?) means that I have avoided getting to know other coworkers like the plague. Obviously, not the dozen or so people I work for- I’m no idiot. But, the other hundred in my department? Short of wowing them with a rousing karaoke rendition of “The Piano Man” at the Holiday Party last year, they have absolutely no idea who I am.

And I like it that way. I prefer it that way. And up til now, seeing this job as that “Work to Live” kinda deal, in that I’m grateful to pay my bills and see a dentist but it will never be a career kinda way, I figured, who cares? Maybe I’ll seem mysterious and use some reverse psychology to make everyone desperately want to please me. It used to work as a bartender… I always made more money when I was being a complete bitch. (People are effed, man.)

But after talking it out with B, I’ve realized that tactic is more than a little narrow-minded. What about when my contract runs up? What happens when the time for promotions comes around? What if I’m pitted against someone better liked for an opportunity, or worse, to KEEP my job?

I know it might seem shocking that I’m the Cold Bitch at the office, but I’m pretty sure it’s true.

So, yeah, I’d like to change that. It’s just that I’m not sure there’s enough Pixie Stix in the world to make me sweet.

Update: Freaking hilarious… “30 Warning Signs You’re the Office Bitch Everyone Complains About.” (Especially #18…)

2nd Update: Daffy just sent me this. I am so getting a button made and wearing it around the office. Which completely defeats the point but who cares, IT’S THAT FUNNY…

Actually, I’m not lazy. I’m having the most insane week at work I’ve ever had and even though I am lame/psycho enough to bring my BB into the copy room with me so I can gchat, my umbilical cord to the computer has basically been cut for the week and it makes me sad in my pants because I’ve had no time to read or write basically anything. Which is why you are getting deliciously awesome and hilarious videos today!

Thanks to my love alexa from cleveland’s a plum for this one…

Awesome sauce.

Next up, this insta-classic is via SkylersDad over at Some Days It’s Not Worth Chewing Through The Leather Straps. Make it through to the end… it only gets better.

Ha! That shiz is GRRRRRREAT! Silly fucking leprechaun.

Now, I can’t decide if I only think this is hilarious because it’s 5 in the morning and I’m totally sleep deprived and out of it, but well, I fucking love this.

“I heard that motherfucker had like, 30 dicks.” I heart you, CollegeHumor.

And finally, um, well, this is technically NSFW. Technically. Make sure no one’s behind you, at least. And then Click Here.

AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!! *wipes tears of laughter*

I GOT YOU!!!

No, I’m not sorry. Okay, I’m a little sorry. But you have to forgive me, because it’s FRIIIIIIIIDEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Happy weekend, love muffins. Watch out for the man teats out there…

You may remember that last week, B promised us a guest post. Well he may be a day late and a Susan B Anthony dollar short, but he came through, as always (TWSS). Please to enjoy, my loves!

(And bee-tee-dubs, ladies and oddly curious menfolk, don’t forget to enter my Hello Kitty vibrator giveaway if you haven’t yet! Thru 11:59 PM tonight.)

(First of all, can I just say that today is definitely a vagina-freezing kinda day?? Yeah, I took the metro. Who loves you, my little hoo-ha?)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Last week, my coworker (the one who’s training me) was out sick for four days with the malaria that’s going around. As such, it was up to me to handle everything for the better part of a week. While coming down with the malaria myself. And keep in mind that I still have only the smallest idea of what I’m doing at my job. I was constantly bombarded with requests barked at me by important people that sounded like gibberish (I hate acronyms), and every morning when I came in there was a pile of emails and memos and important documents that needed to be printed, organized, and distributed to the proper places… (of course, I’m still learning what those proper places are).

So, yeah. It was incredibly stressful and a little piece of me died approximately every hour when a new request I didn’t understand came in. One morning, I was sitting under a pile of papers the size of my head (if I was an elephant), and the head of my unit strode by. He was holding a Strictly Confidential office memo; a summary of one of my boss’ mid-year review. He asked me to make copies and distribute them in sealed envelopes to all the heads of the entire department. (You know, like the guy I made an ass out of myself in front of by singing karaoke at our holiday party.) Then I was to return the original to him.

Great! I thought. Something I definitely know how to do. As I was making good headway, I put the memo aside and continued sorting the mountain in front of me (which was probably my first mistake).

A half an hour later, all the emails and assortment of documents had been printed, organized and sent off to their respective destinations. Proud of myself, I sat back in my chair and looked back at the clean desk, satisfied.

Wait a minute. Clean? Desk? Holyshitfuck what have I done?!?

I looked around frantically, trying to recognize the words “Office Memo” or “Strictly Confidential” on the few remaining pieces of paper around me, but it quickly became clear that it simply wasn’t there. My heart pounded as I imagined having to go back to the head of my unit and say,

“Oh hey, bossman, remember that REALLY IMPORTANT STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL memo you threw my way, oh, an hour ago? The one that you signed off on, all official-like? And told me to give ONLY to the most important people in our whole department? The one you put FACE DOWN on my desk because it’s SUPER PRIVATE, i.e. no one else should see it, even a little bit, at ALL?…

Umm… got another copy on you?”

Omigodomigodomigod. So not happening. Way to build street cred my first day on my own, no?

In a panic, I pulled out the hundreds of pages I had put in the mailboxes to go out (thank the baby Jesus they hadn’t been picked up yet)… and looked through them all, one by one, thinking I must have stapled it onto the back of one of them.

15 minutes later? Nada. Nothing. Zip zilch. I put the piles back into the mailboxes and slumped over my desk, contemplating the pros and cons of admitting defeat… or throwing myself out the window. And the window was looking pretty damn good.

Suddenly, something blue glinted in the corner of my eye. My recycling bin! Surely I wouldn’t be that careless… that foolish… that whole-heartedly IDIODIC.

But since I know myself, I reached into the depths of the blue monster and pulled out the huge pile I’d tossed in just that morning… to reveal the Strictly Confidential, Super Important, Don’t You DARE Throw Me Away Official Memo, smiling up at me from the very bottom.

I made a noise akin to a humpback whale releasing 9 million gallons of water from his blowhole. My sigh of relief was surely heard by the angels in heaven themselves, who had clearly been watching over me (I guess everyone gets a little protection during the holiday season, no matter how naughty they’ve been…)

I quickly copied and distributed the memo, and handed the original back to my unit director with far, far too big a grin. He probably thought I wanted a cookie, but his “Ummm… thanks?” was all I needed to hear.

Other than “Here’s a shot of tequila, you’ve earned it!”, that is.

This morning, I called my dad on the walk to work, like I have a few times a week for the past year and a half. He always asks, “You walkin’?” And I always reply, “Yup, I’m walkin’.” And we continue on to talk about whatever’s on our mind that day.

Yesterday morning, he said… “You walkin’?” “Yup, I’m walkin’.” Beat. “You walkin’ somewhere new?”

And I said, “Yup… I’m walkin’ somewhere new.”

Monday was my first day at my Shiny New Job. I was so nervous in the morning, I gagged while brushing my teeth, and had to brush them again. My stomach was so jittery I couldn’t even drink coffee, never mind eat breakfast. I made it to the building, took a deep breath, and pressed on inside, having absolutely no idea what to expect.

And it was great. REALLY great. Everyone I met was intelligent, kind, and thoughtful. They expressed gratitude that I was there (No, really, thank you), and the assistant who is training me was born to teach. AND, he’s really smart. And mentioned quite a few times how glad he is that I’M really smart.

God, I love smart people.

I’m sure the sparkles and glitter will wear off a bit eventually, but at the end of the day, it’s still such a totally amazingly superbly much, MUCH better sitch than I was stuck in before. In fact, it’s (knock on wood) positively lovely.

There was perhaps one teeny tiny, barely-on-the-radar, teensy weensy little hiccup…

(Oh, you just KNEW it was coming, didn’t you??)

I may have been a wee bit eager to prove myself, and when the copier wasn’t working correctly, Trainer & I diagnosed it was in need of a toner cartridge change.

“Can you handle that?” Trainer asked, as he was engaged in a conversation.

“OF COURSE!!!” I boomed, chest out (in the proud superhero way, not the buxom come-hither way) and strode off towards the copy room to Solve The Problem.

I quickly opened the printer, pulled out the empty cartridge, replaced it with a fresh one, and closed the machine. While it calibrated, (or thought really hard!, as I like to call it), I tried to figure out what to do with the old one, forgetting that one side of the tube was a BIG HOLE that JET BLACK INKY TONER POWDER would totally fall out of if I turned it upside down by accident.

So I did.

All over EVERYTHING.

I stood there, grateful my pants were black, and surveyed the Black Snow Storm I had created in a corner of the copy room. On my first day. Before lunch.

Whoops.

(Sigh.) I’m sure I’ll do worse, before the week is over…

I think we’ve all stumbled across the GenderAnalyzer (my blog is 63% woman- HA!)

But I discovered the Typealyzer on Marissa’s blog today, and it’s even cooler…

Check it out!

I am:

ESFP – The Performers

The entertaining and friendly type. They are especially attuned to pleasure and beauty and like to fill their surroundings with soft fabrics, bright colors and sweet smells. They live in the present moment and don´t like to plan ahead – they are always in risk of exhausting themselves.

They enjoy work that makes them able to help other people in a concrete and visible way. They tend to avoid conflicts and rarely initiate confrontation – qualities that can make it hard for them in management positions.

I don’t think anyone’s shocked, eh?

What are you?

After biting my lip and stressing all week, I finally bought some damn chapstick told my boss I’m leaving. After he cried softly in the fetal position and we talked him down from the window ledge, he ultimately said he was happy for me and would somehow manage to survive. He’s honestly been nothing but stellar to me, and I hate to leave him in the lurch, but he couldn’t possibly have expected me to rot away here much longer, truth be told.

So, upon my return from MEETING THE PARENTS over Thanksgiving (no of course I’m not nervous, it’s me after all…what’s not to love? Shut yo mouf!), I will begin anew at my fantastic and lovely new jobby job, where I will hopefully not want to poke my eyes out with the various sharp instruments on my desk when stupid, stupid people ask me stupid, stupid questions. Because the people at my new job are not stupid. They are smart and worldly and well-spoken and they know what “technology” and “computers” are, and even how to TURN THEM ON AND DO STUFF. Crazy talk, I know.

Also, since I will be working with intelligent, accomplished people instead of bumbling fools, it is conceivable that I will even be (gasp) challenged. Yikes, people… I might actually have to (other word for sharp intake of breath) use my brain a wee bit.

Because lately? This is how I’ve been, ahem, stretching my mind:

If you ever played Mario? You will SO thank me.

Happy Friday!

Oh, hey. How’s it hanging.

Me? Not too much. The yoosh. (Giggle.)

A shit-eating grin, you say?

I suppose I might. It’s nothing.

Well, I don’t want to jinx it…

Okay, okay. God, you’re pushy.

I GOT THE JOB.

(You may buy me a drink now.)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There’s still some details (very important details) to work out, but if all goes according to plan, I should be at a very different sort of Holiday Party this year. (I heard tell of pomegranate mojitos and a karaoke room.* Just saying.)

The place is huge and grand and all important and politicky and such, basically the wet dream of an International Politics major. I couldn’t be more excited. And now when people ask what my major was in college, and subsequently ask where I work, they won’t look at me as if I just said I use boogers to mosaic my lampshades on the weekends.

Too much? Sorry.

I only have one great fear… As I promised Lem that I will never leave her alone in the dark place, scared and lonely with no e-hugs or e-farts or e-incredibly offensive remarks about the unsuspecting innocents of the world, the question of whether Gmail/chat will be available looms on the horizon. Because without it, I would totally e-die.

But for now, can I just say… Squeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!! I don’t even mind that someone got here by googling “my secret taboo love preteen” yesterday. (It came up with my Banana Pants post. Figures.) Let’s celebrate!

It’s Business Time, bitches!

*Huge thanks to Beach Bum for thinking of me! I owe you, chica.

For the past week or so, I’ve officially been on the job hunt. You know, rather than just having an ear to the ground.

And it? Officially blows.

The actual search itself is a pain in the ass, of course, but you know what makes it totally, completely, unabashedly suck balls?

When you have absolutely no idea you want to do with your life.

I’ve looked everywhere for ideas; the classifieds, find-jobby books, friends, networking, the interwebs, my mom, YOUR mom… and nothing. I have inklings, to be sure. I have tiny tidbits of notions of what I may want to do with my life. But each of them take me in a completely different direction: Psychological analysis? Hospitality and/or Event Planning? International relations? Dancing to 80s music? Drinking heavily and with reckless abandon?

How the hell do I pull those all together?

More than one person, older and wiser than I, has told me that choosing a career path is often a result of realizing what you DON’T want to do, rather than what you DO. This makes sense, to be sure, but I am just so envious of those assholes people who grew up knowing they wanted to be a veterinarian, or an attorney, or a fireman, or a meth addict who gets high and stomps into the woods to hack the burls off of trees to sell to carpenters. (Someone’s been watching too much Intervention…)

I’ve tried remembering what I wanted to be when I was younger, but all I’ve got is singing along to my dad’s Beach Boys albums when I was 14 10 7 years old, imagining that they would pull up to the house in their touring van and tell me that OH MY GOD YOU ARE SO AMAZINGLY THE AWESOME AND YOU MUST JOIN THE BAND IMMEDIATELY!!! Can’t you just see a little girl in a tutu fitting right in with these guys? I’m sure they make wee Birkenstocks.

(Ed. note: I cannot sing. Not at all. I can sing like Sarah Palin can debate. It’s a really cute-yet-pathetic effort, but it’s just that- an effort.)

Anyhoosits, it ain’t going so hot. Never mind the fact that basically every person I know on the planet, their moms, and a few stray dogs are looking to make a career change right now, apparently. I guess we were all inspired by the economy PLUMMETING INTO THE TOILET in a matter of a week. Coolio.

I need to go on a spirit journey, or something, a la Wayne’s World. Where is MY Jim Morrison, dammit??

To quote the ever-fantabulous and chucklesome “It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia“, (AKA “Sunny”), which has very quickly become my #2 favorite comedy of all time- after Arrested Development, obvs:

Charlie: Why don’t I strap on my job helmet, and squeeze into a job cannon, and fire off to jobland, where jobs grow on jobbies!

Why indeed, Charlie. Why indeed.