No, I don’t mind that my roommate gets falling down drunk. Every night. And then drives home.

…

What, do you want me to do an intervention or something? He’s like 35! I’m just a pipsqueak compared to him. He’s an adult. He can make his own choices!

…

I mean, seriously, what would you do? Maybe he doesn’t even have a problem. Maybe I’m being judgmental! Maybe some systems can function normally with half a bottle of Jack every night. I mean, it’s not like he was staggering. That badly. When he walked out to his car.

Oh my.

Anyway, he’s convinced that nobody’s going to pull over a 35-year-old white guy driving a Land Rover, so he feels pretty comfortable with it. I’m like, yeah, but what about the people on the road who aren’t cops?

Sigh.

Well, besides Alcoholic Roomie, there’s Amiable Roomie. I like Amiable Roomie. He’s like a big teddy bear. Or a puppy dog! You know, one of those people who are almost always in a good mood. Usually those people annoy the hell out of me. I want to snatch their perennial good humor, crumple it up in a ball, and step on it. But not with Amiable Roomie. Amiable Roomie is like a tape you listen to at night that plays the sound of crickets or the ocean or something. You know, calming. I even think I may be learning some of his tricks of not getting ticked off at everything.

Everything being getting up to go pee first thing in the morning and finding that there’s no toilet paper because once again your boyfriend has thoughtlessly used all but the tuft sticking to the cardboard and failed to replaced the roll. And then trying to walk over to the sink, and seeing that somehow all the laundry has gotten up out of the hamper and strewn itself all over the bathroom floor. Mysteriously. And then going to wash your hands and seeing that three days later, the shirt that you doused in flour, wiped clean, sprayed with pre-laundry cleaner, and left to soak in hot water to get rid of the stains is still sitting in the sink. Surely you can see the injustice and wanton insensitivity of these grave offenses!

Or the fact that, recently, the owner of that favored shirt (now completely free of stains [the shirt, not the boy, regrettably]) said today:

“Gee, it’ll suck if we have to be long distance and you have to come visit me in California.”

Ohhh. I get it. I follow you halfway around the world, and then when I want to stay somewhere, you leave.

Fine. Good riddance.

Just get an apartment near a good break and keep my surfboard there. OK?

…

Now, I’m not paranoid because every publication I’ve worked for has gone defunct, but I think my mag has some cash-flow issues. What really gave it away is that the free office e-mail system requires you to keep an ad visible at all times. And if you cover it up (by mistake, of course), it says:

Hmmmmmmmm. We notice that you seem to have mistakenly covered up our advertisement. Please place it in a visible spot on your screen, and you will be able to send and receive mail again. We sincerely hope that you are not intentionally covering up our advertisement, because we here at Crappy-Ass Free Software are currently hard at work developing new, free CRAPPY-ASS SOFTWARE to improve your blah, blah blah.

Yes, it was the fact that my e-mail guilt-trips me that clued me in.

What was even worse was that today I lost the ad! I was just trying to move it, just a little bit, kind of scooch it over to the corner, and all of a sudden I scooched it so far it was gone and I couldn’t send or receive e-mail for like half an hour until the publisher of our magazine came over and fixed it, meantime noting that I had sent a non-work e-mail!!!

Rest assured, I will f*ck with that add no more. Fucking crappy-ass free software.

But, I forgot to tell you the best part about living with Amiable Roomie and Alcoholic Roomie! They’re both boys! Which means that I’m will constantly feel dainty and polite and nice! Unless they bring home any nasty ho’s. Then it’s on.

Oh yeah, here’s another reason why I like Amiable:

BF: “Don’t you think R. look like a hot mamacita today?”

Amiable Roomie: “I think she looks beautiful every day.”

See why I like him? You know, amiability. My boyfriend could stand to be a little more amiable. Although, I think Amiable may have nice-guy problems. He’s the kind of guy you want to raise your kids. But not the kind of guy you want to date.

Unless you’re a nasty ho.

Got it?

Ok then! Let’s play house.

So as you can guess I didn’t tell the event planners to f*ck off, because I am incapable of saying no, to anyone, ever, and so instead of saying, look, I’m only looking for a job for three months, I basically just want to make some money before I get the f*ck out of here, I said, yeah, I mean, I guess, if I like the work I’ll stay. And they said, ok, be here in an hour.

And I should be feeling elated. I landed a real job at a real magazine, which is the job I never hoped to be lucky enough to find, and they have an Office Dog, the publisher yelled at me for dressing too formally, and they kicked me out early and told me not to come in til 10 tomorrow. And it’s at a magazine! That’s my dream job! It’s exactly what I’ve been wanting for the longest, longest time and I should be gloating like crazy—but instead…I feel…riddled with doubt.

How can I be riddled with doubt, you say? Didn’t I get all than I asked for and more? Aren’t I the luckiest damn editor-with-skilz on the planet for finding a cool f*ckin job in Arizona, of all places, and shouldn’t I shut the hell up before higher powers smite me?

Yeah, well. Then what would I have to be cynical about.

What if I hate Arizona? What if the job isn’t as cool as I think it is? What if I should have been working a temp job and freelance writing, which is what I really, really in my heart of hearts want to be doing but am too timid to actually attempt? What if I should have taken the copyeditor job at the Arizona Business Gazette, which had the gall to leave a message about it for me to listen to as I was driving home feeling insecure about the job I had just taken…? What if I have to stay here forever? Or, which is more likely, what if the BF convinces me to leave and they subsequently hate me? What if I could have found a better job in California if I had just waited? What if I should have taken My Ideal Job in Genève? What if this SUCKS???

Oh well. At least I have a salary. I guess all that other sh*t shouldn’t matter. Ah, money, soothing salve on my aching wounds of doubt and insecurity. You are too good.

But that isn’t the real problem. The real problem is I’m tired as f*ck of fitting my life into my boyfriend’s. You can’t launch a career around someone who moves every three months (and forget about any materialistic aspirations!)—you just can’t!

It’s raining in Arizona. I know, it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as Baltimore. But as I was driving home the sunset was fucking beautiful. It looked like the mountains were on fire, with the layer of clouds just above the mountain catching the blazing yellow of the sun.

Arizona is gorgeous. I have a potentially awesome job. And my pool has a diving board. Why do I feel so fucking depressed?

I found out what goes on at a second-round interview at Auto Trader. They say they already found someone else for the graphic artist job, but how ’bout a customer service rep job because we looked at your resume and we think it’s interesting!

I’ve been getting “interesting” all too often in response to my resume. Now I know my life is interesting (one might even say “fabulous”)—but WTF does “your resume is ‘interesting’” mean? My best guess is: well, she’s not quite qualified but she went to an Ivy League school…underqualified…Ivy League…underqualified… aw heck, let’s give her a call. She sounds interesting.

And by golly, I don’t disappoint. I am everything you would ever expect of an Ivy League graduate: white, upper-middle-class-bred, and the owner of a completely useless degree. I dunno, I would hire someone who majored in Religion modified with Native American Studies, wouldn’t you? Especially if she had a French minor. Because, you know, French is so damn useful in Arizona. It’s not like people here drive around with bumper stickers that say “FOR SALE: French Army Rifle Never Fired. Dropped Once.” Really, they don’t.

So I’ve decided that honesty is the best policy. I’m going to tell the event planners that there’s no way in hell I’m sticking around Arizona when the temperature gets into three digits…unless I really fall in love with the job! …So… please waste resources training me so I can find a better job in three months!

…And Hooters it is.

Oh how interesting I will be.

Well, I don’t have any wild and crazy rendezvous with unbearably gorgeous and manly men, so I’ll just tell you about my job offers.

Why the hell are you so obsessed with sex, anyway? It’s, like, so prurient.

Anyway, my ’weetude went very well, if I do say so myself. So far I have one job offer and one second-round interview. (Second-round interview is at Auto Trader Magazines—can somebody please tell me what goes on at a second-round interview at Auto Trader? Do they make sure you own a monster truck?) The first job I like for two reasons: one, they have an Office Dog, which is just plain rad (I had to step over him to get into the publisher’s office), and two, the secretary wears knee-high leather boots and a miniskirt (and she ain’t that young). This is definitely an interesting place.

Ug. I’m tired of talking about jobs already.

So….

It’s amazing how many monster trucks there are in Arizona...

...I’m tired, ok? I had two interviews today! The second one was two hours long and they said I needed serious training in editing! How do they say that and then offer you the job? It makes you feel like you’re the least unappealing candidate instead of the most appealing one! Jerks. Who else but an incredibly talented and scrupulous and naturally anal editor would make sure that all the quotes in her blog are smart quotes and not straight ones? Who else?!

Anyway, I’m holding out for Hooters. I happened to talk to one of the waitresses there (when I called) and she said you don’t need any training (when I asked about available positions) and that you make lots of cash! But who knows, she’s probably 16 and thinks eight bucks an hour is a lot of cash.

I have a question, while I’m at it: does blogging fall within the F*cking Around category, or the Polishing Craft of Writing category? I tend to think the latter, but feel free to chime in.

...

I mean, I can’t help it that I’m bad at lying. The event planning people (the ones who are woefully unappreciative of my superior editing skilz) want someone to work there for a long-ass time, and I just want something to do until I split for California. Don’t tell me I’m afraid to commit! You would be too if you lived in a place that was hotter than a (…quick, what’s the opposite of colder than a witch’s tit??) …Gee, that would be A SUMMER DAY IN PHOENIX, ARIZONA. Or so I hear.

So, jobs, yeah. Woo.

God, I am so unfabulous. Maybe I should take a lover.

My dog must think my boyfriend and I have ESP. “How does he magically appear and how does she know to send me down to find him when she’s at the opposite end of the house?? How does she do it???” my l’il albino Scooby Doo must think. (He’s deaf, remember.) “And when is she going to get off her fat a$$ and play with me? Maybe she wants to throw me a tennis ball instead of staring at the computer? Huh? Yeah? Come on, tennis baaaaall! Aw, why won’t she play with me? Ooh, cookie crumbs. I’m going to go bark at the wall now. Wait, where’d she go?”

This is an extremely accurate portrayal of the basic scene every night:

40 percent of Americans think abortion will be illegal in the United States within the next four years. I heard this on NPR today. This is insane.

Then again, these are probably the same people who think Iraq had weapons of mass destruction. What do they know, right? Hmph.

Unless they’re extremely pessimistic, disillusioned blue-staters, in which case, I have to say to you, extremely pessimistic, disillusioned blue-staters: stop being so damn pessimistic! Because pessimism in this case can become endorsement-by-default. Because a poll reflecting the opinion of people who may or may not have any clue what the f*ck they’re talking about actually affects other people’s opinions. Because basically, we’re all one big pack of lemmings, and we all want to be stampeding in the right direction.

Ok, not you. Or me. Because we’re really unique. But everybody else.

Think about it: Almost half of Americans think it will be illegal. That’s a hair away from half of Americans thinking it should be illegal. But how many people do you think actually notice the difference? Probably only anal editor-types like me, and there are precious few of us, let me tell you.

This is the first time my country’s politics has ever made me cry. Bad Bush, bad! I’m certainly not one to be shrill about a cause, because I generally consider myself to be in that group of people who may not have any clue what the f*ck they’re talking about, but dammit, women have been undergoing (and dying from) abortions since the dawn of time, and you think you can pass a law about it? Who the HELL are you to say? Do you think we do it because it’s fun?

Hm. “Dawn of time” eh? Note to self: do some damn research. Anyway, I never claimed to have any clue what the f*ck I’m talking about. But, I mean, it’s been going on since, like, forever. So, in my humble opinion, we’d prefer not to have to do it with a COATHANGER.

Holy sh*t, I do believe I have a developed a Political Awareness. And…according to my scale it weighs about five pounds. Can’t wait to get rid of the bugger.

Well, I have to say, that even though I am completely unfabulous, lodged in one endless, sprawling strip-mall of a city that is chewing up pristine desert by the minute, at least there’s NPR. Because I really missed NPR. In fact, NPR, I would even deign to work for you if you could open up an office in like, Glendale. What’s up with this Washington bullsh*t?

But seriously, I’m still fabulous, right?

...Dammit, I knew I should have taken that job at Hooters. I mean, how interesting would my life be if I worked there? Like, I’d have guys hitting on me all the time, chicken wings to serve, tables to bus… ok, it wouldn’t be that interesting. But, as good friend of mine suggested, I would have a kick-ass Halloween costume!!!

Anyway, I needn’t concern myself with such paltry insults to my overabundant talent. Really, it’s unbecoming of my status as …INTERVIEWEE! Yes, that’s right. I am officially a ’wee. All my hard work finally paid off. Can I put “Cover Letter Writer” on my resume yet? Because those beautiful babies are masterpieces, each and every one of ’em. But you noted that yesterday.

Oh, by the way, check out how much bloggers are making the news. Who’s fabulous now, huh? Aw yeah. Change my URL to MISSfabuLISS.blogspot.com.

(Am I blogging about blogging again? Gross.)

Anyway, I feel better. Maybe I misheard that whole dratted statistic. Can you be dyslexic at hearing? Because half my resumes had the wrong phone number on them, la la la. A 355 instead of 335 sort of thing. But that’s ok. Because it’s not like they would need to call me. Or anything.

So maybe it was like 0.04 percent. Now, tell everyone you know.

Fun with Roget's!

January 18, 2005

John -------
VP Quality Assurance
Taser International, Inc.
7860 East McClain Drive, Suite #2
----------, -- -----

Dear Mr. -------:

I am writing to make a claim for the position of Technical Writer/Documentation Coordinator, which I exposed through your want ad in --- ------- --------. With my stout written communication and organizational skills as well as my encounters in editing, I am positive that I would offer the enlightening and idiot-proof information Taser is committed to bestowing.

As a most important editor with ---------- ---- --- ------, I ensured that the company’s offering circulars were effortlessly graspable, perfect, and frank. I consistently handed over high-class work on or ahead of time, balancing a workload of several ongoing schemes, and vying with additional work to make sure that our department was put out of misery before deadline.

As a Technical Writer/Documentation Coordinator with Taser, I would bring my experience in writing and bowdlerization, beefy organizational skills, and knack for coping with concurrent projects under a body-hugging deadline to your company. I look forward to speaking with you in the impending future regarding this chore. Please do not balk at contacting me should you have any further doubts.

From the bottom of my heart,
R----- ------

Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Actual job posting from The Arizona Republic:

King Kong

I'm willing to pay stupid

money to one Bi-lingual

Used Car selling King

Kong. If that's you, call

me. If not, but you know

someone who is, I'll pay

you a bird dog.

Jim

480-797-****

Any takers?

Well, I’ve just been so busy checking out all the fabulous job opportunities available in the Phoenix metro region that I just haven’t had a moment’s peace to write to you. And what with all the lucrative job offers I’ve received, you can’t imagine all the time I’ve spent comparing signing bonuses and dental plans! I mean, these HR managers get real pushy when they see a juicy candidate, and I must say that I’ve had just about enough of these fruit baskets! Why, I can hardly go to the bathroom without tripping over one, nevermind some pesky manager interrupting, wanting to take me out to lunch or give me complimentary courtside seats at the Suns or free Botox injections. They just won’t leave you alone! I must confess that I have been tempted by more than one offer—oh, have I been tempted!—but I always remember that being true to yourself is more important than a big, fat, waddling paycheck. I spurn thee, big, fat, waddling paycheck! And thy implications of societally approved success! I am instead committed to Inner Fabulousness, the kind which an extremely limited number of people is keen enough to perceive, a sort of imperceptible glow, a “twinkle”, a “halo”, even; the kind that is, like a MasterCard, priceless, rare, valuable, inimitable, and organized to implement! Yes, try, oh denizens of corporate slavery, to inter my soul into your crepuscular cubbyhole of materialistic heathendom, and reap the consequences of your machinations!

RRRR!!!!


Well, there’s always Hooters.

People often stop and stare when I walk by. I can’t really help it. And it’s not like I encourage anything, but I have to say I really get a kick out of it. After all, every girl needs people to stop in the middle of the road, roll down their window, and say:

“My, that’s a beautiful dog you’ve got there.”

Hhhhhh. We middle-ageds have to get our ego-boosts any way we can, ok? We buy deaf albino great danes.

I was walking through my neighborhood today (or rather, my one hundred and sixty pound puppy was walking me) as a sliver moon rose in the infinitesimal blue of the evening sky and the sun spattered a pink haze along the horizon. I listened to the irregular thud of kids shooting hoops in their driveways and birds settling in trees for the night and I thought: I could be happy here.

And then I thought: I’m thinking I could be happy here. Wait, don’t think! Just enjoy it! …Am I thinking too much? Damn. I’m thinking again. Will I ever achieve happiness if I think about things too much? No! Stop thinking about it! …I really do think too much. I should stop thinking too much. And thinking about thinking too much.

Yadda yadda. And so I maintain my lively state of general discontent and active inner cynicism.

It’s just against my nature to be happy in Arizona, ok? It puts me on edge to live in a place that so obviously cannot support its own population. I have visions of violent intervention when I see people wasting water. (I’m talking to YOU, guy who let water run on high while taking forever to make my frappacino!) I mean, come on, we live in a desert, people! And the city’s best plan for preserving water is reducing California’s water rights! (Like, hello, we native Californians need water too, ok?) But the abundance of strip malls, lack of authentic local culture, and plentitude of fake-tanned, big (FAKE)-boobied chicas ought to give me plenty to rail against. And as we all know, I am happiest when I have something to rail against.

Aw, my doggy is lying on his back. He is So Cute! L’il pipsqueak.

Er. Now he’s trying to get on the bed.

Ack! Now he’s sitting on me.

Grr.

He better not start farting.

Anyway, even though I have a dog and a stable relationship and a four-bedroom house in Arizona, I promise that I am not one of those boring people whose greatest pleasure is sitting down to watch TV every night. I don’t even have a TV. Hah! And when I get one, I assure you that it will only be utilized for purposes of intellectual stimulation like watching Dog The Bounty Hunter and American Casino: Green Valley Ranch (!). Because those have educational value.

But honestly, the only thing that’s saving me from an advanced case of settledom is my unemployediturdinality. But it shouldn’t be a problem because there are literally hundreds of jobs that I’m perfectly qualified for and which pay well, will advance my skills and are located in the greater Phoenix area. Hundreds.

Oh wait, did I say hundreds? I meant NONE. The two are easily mistaken.

All of which feeds my illusions about My Ideal Job, which is waiting patiently for me back in Genève (or so the voices tell me). Meanwhile I am confident that addlebrain is tanning every memory of my existence out of his sweet l’il head on vacation back in Oz. But he will be back in seven days, at which point I’m sure he’ll offer to fly me out of this hell hole of jobs like

• IT/SALES/MANAGEMENT/ADMIN/ADVERTISING* WORK AT HOME! *NEW YEAR-NEW CAREER*-*BE THE BOSS* IN *2005*

• Downsized, Outsourced, Job Security, Home Business Opportunity! Put Your Computer To Work!

• Imagine the Freedom - make up to $10k/month working from home, on your schedule!

Dear Company Confidential: I am imagining the freedom, and it sounds just thrilling.

My eye is twitching. Will I be able to get a job with a twitchy eye? Will they just sit there and look at the pulsating muscle beneath my lower eyelid instead of listening to my stellar qualifications and drinking in my lovable personality? I mean, not that I’m worried. I have stellar qualifications and a lovable personality, after all. But they may not be able to see it if my eye looks like it’s about to explode out of its socket.

So I only have 14 cover letters to go before I get an interview. I hear you have to send out 15 before you get a bite, so I feel like I’m well on my way. Unfortunately, I’m kind of at the point where I’m overqualified for jobs I don’t want to do and underqualified for all the cool stuff. Damn. I’m compensating for it by lowballing the competition. I’ll let you know how that works out.

But first things first. Tomorrow I will brave the snow-covered, treacherous mountainous pass from Colorado to Albuquerque to visit my new computer. (And my sister.) And I can’t tell you how excited I am to see my new computer (and my sister). I am so ready to have my own bookmarks. And My Documents that are actually mine! No more visiting boyfriend’s porn sites (TOTALLY BY MISTAKE), waiting til he finishes using it at 2 a.m. to write a cover letter/catch up on my the doings of my blog-twin (!!!), and no more floppy disks! (Yes, they still make them.) I will finally have my very own unfathomable, magical laptop computer. Praise be.

And then it is finally off to the promised land, aka Glendale, Arizona. Get ready people. You have four more days of winter.

People: I am ready for winter to be over.

Just as soon as I hit the powder in Copper Mountain tomorrow. And not before I hit up Snowbowl. But right after that, k?

I mean, it’s not that I minded having to drive through bumper to bumper traffic during a blizzard in Omaha. My nerves can use a good fraying at times. My shoulders are definitely not tense enough usually. And I certainly haven’t worn enough layers off my molars.

The good news is I don’t have to worry about being a 45-year-old 24-year-old anymore because the BF’s sister got me (da da DAAAAA) Superbra!!! Ah, the wonders of Superbra. My boobies are finally more in the chin region of my torso than the bellybutton region, god bless ‘em. I mean, not to diss my boobies, but gravity can do a number on 34Ds. Don’t you feel sorry for me?

By the way, is it weird that my BF’s sister bought me lingerie? …Good. I didn’t think so either.

Oh man. Can I still use cool French timestamps now that my life is no longer fabulous and I’m stuck in a hotel in Nebraska during the heaviest storm of the year? …Can you get any less fabulous than being stuck in a hotel in Nebraska? Why, yes. I could be stuck in a hotel in Nebraska without FREE! WIRELESS! INTERNET!

So you see, I remain a pentimento of fabulousness no matter where I am. And no, I don’t know what pentimento means. But I read it in the New York Times, oh benevolent deity of superlative writing, and am doing the best to integrate it into my vocabulary. If I use it enough everyone will think I’m smart, and eventually somebody will tell me what it means.

You know what? I am ready to settle down. Oh, am I ready. I have not lived in one place for more than a year for the past six years. I’m tired of being a nomad! I’m tired of living out of a suitcase! Give me a job and a paycheck and a mortgage and two kids and love handles and…a paycheck! Sure, I’ve been able to see a lot of cool places. But I, for one, am tired of buying brillo pads and scissors. I’m tired of buying hand towels. I’m tired of throwing away the canned beans we didn’t get to. I’m tired of having to fit my life in a backpack. I want to keep my crap, ok? Not to be materialistic, but to me, a home is where you have everything. And not just things you need, but things you don’t need. Like a leather puncher. Like extra toothbrushes. Like an extra pair of mittens and a fondue set. House plants, for god’s sake. I want a house plant! I don’t want to have to make my toothbrush holder out of an old shoebox and duct tape any more! Got it? I’m tired of always going somewhere and never getting anywhere. Not that I measure my life in material possessions, or anything. I mean, it’s not like I needed the other half of my wardrobe that’s in storage in California. Or anything.

So I think I’ll move to Arizona for six months and then move to California. And then I’m Never. Moving. Again. Although I may split time with my apartment in NYC when (cue celestial music) the New Yorker needs me.

By the way, my darling little Only Published Clip in the World is right next to an article entitled “Wet Weekend Dreams” that is not about water or weekends or dreams. I’m so glad they took my editorial input seriously.

I want to be the person who sits there and develops Victoria’s Secret underwear fashions. Why can’t that be my job? I want my life to consist of deciding whether we’re going to go with flowers or plaid this year, and whether it will be a pastel collection or what shade of orange goes with lime green. Hey, let’s stick some dogs on there too. Every girl wants a dog on her underwear, right? (Well, I did at least. They’re really cute!) I want to source died feathers from China! I want to determine who’s best at sticking rhinestones onto thongs! YES!

Well, either that or some editor/writer bullshit.

I’ve officially met every Russian Jew in the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul area. But the family has decided they “like” me, as I was informed by the BF’s mommy. Before I came here he told me that his mom thought I “seemed unhappy” and his dad “liked that I did the dishes.” So my strategy to ingratiate myself with them was, naturally, to act happy and do lots of dishes. And man, have I done a lot of dishes. The other day Baba A. (the BF’s mommy) told me to stop doing dishes because it was making her feel guilty!—Score! I think I’ve succeeded at acting happier as well, despite having to have hour-long conversations with people whose language I don’t speak and the godawful weather. Not to be like, a wuss, but constantly being cold makes me want to curl up into a little ball until April. Why does it have to be so gosh darn cold? WHY?

…Man. Hanging around little kids has thoroughly cleansed my language of all the fun words. I feel like I’m on one of those “Kids Say the Darndest Things!” shows when I’m with the BF’s niece and nephew (three and five). The other day we’re out to brunch with twenty or so of the BF’s relatives and his little nephew happens to find a general lull in the conversation to say to my boyfriend, “But Uncle V**, WHY are you eating PORK if you’re JEWISH?” …oh yeah. Good stuff.