srsly_you_guys's blog

the day after the last day

My last day at work was fairly uneventful which was mostly how I wanted it. Actually, when I first gave my two weeks' notice, I was really hoping to keep it quiet and avoid the fanfare — my logic being that I don't talk to these people about my personal life normally, so why get into it now? — but about an hour after I told my boss' boss I was leaving he ambled out of his office, stood right in front of my desk and boomed, "SO, ARE YOU MOVING?"

Oh, LORD, I thought, but told him yes, I was heading to California, yes, it was in fact for the Marine, and then another guy in the office overheard and shouted "YOU'RE MOVING TO CALIFORNIA?!" and so my hopes of secretly slinking out of the commonwealth were dashed then and there.

But it wasn't so bad, really. The conversations weren't as cringe-y as I thought they would be. On my last morning I made sure to wear a dress and the patent red leather Mary Jane pumps I know the CEO hates. My favorite office people arranged a farewell lunch for me, where after MUCH deliberation I ordered a beer (I did ask permission from my mother, my father and my grandmother via text; all approved ENTHUSIASTICALLY and so I figured, what the hell, my elders gave it a thumbs up). When I left for the last time, my boss gave me a really awkward hug and my bff carried my stuff to my car and then took me for a very expensive last-day-of-work dinner. I didn't have time to come home and get my tiara, which I like to wear to important restaurant meals (half because it's fun and half because it annoys my bff), but for the most part, it was a pretty perfect last day.

Today, my first official day of unemployment, started out that way. I got my car checked out to make sure it would make the drive to California (my car guy said "you have to remember that you drive a TOYOTA" and I responded "but you have to remember that I HIT THAT DEER") and then I went grocery shopping and to the post office and got a facial, but then I came home and just kind of napped and puttered the day away and now I feel twitchy about that. I don't do well with extended bouts of inactivity; I was reminded today how much I really like having a job and earning a paycheck and having somewhere to go during the day. I know myself, and I expected this, and I have so much to get done in the next week (namely, all of my packing) so I know the days won't all be like this. And once I get to California, if I can't find a full-time job right away, I will find things to fill my days. I will take photos of the desert (I get so excited just thinking about the photos living there!), I will volunteer, I might wait tables or temp.

That part of it is uncertain and a little scary. But I've done this before, and what I have learned from that is that it does work out. It does and it will. I will find a job, and I will find a place, and I will carve out a niche and hang new photos and develop a whole new life.

That is, of course, the entire point. :)

a brand new beginning

For as long as I can remember I have always been a big fan of random milestones. I mark silly dates in my planner and privately celebrate multiple anniversaries that would have no significance to anyone but me. I could tell you the birthdays of my first three boyfriends, my childhood best friend's phone number and what I was wearing when I interviewed for my first job in New York.

So the fact that I didn't realize until right now - 11 p.m. - that today is my two-year anniversary at my current job is probably telling. I'm more focused on tomorrow, which will be my last day there.

I'm leaving this weird, tiny town and my weird, sucky job to move to an equally weird, small town in the desert of southern California. I'm moving to live with my beautiful Marine, who is finally returning home after seven months in Afghanistan. I have known him for 10 years, but in our 10 months of dating we have spent probably a total of a month together.I have nothing figured out, except that I'll be doing some freelance work and undoubtedly wandering around among the cacti with my many many cameras.

I don't feel scared about really any of this. I just feel happy.

I came here, I think, to try to write some large dramatic entry about the night before my last day, or maybe the last day itself but I can't muster any drama for any of it because I don't feel any. I feel a little nostalgic, the way you get when you're leaving any place, even a place you hate, but mostly I feel calm and then like I should be feeling more, you know, MOMENTOUS. But, meh. I feel momentous about a lot of things, like that moment when I'll run into his arms again and a lot of times about my shoes, so I think maybe I have enough MOMENTOUS in my life most of the time anyway.

It is this:
I was here in this town. And now I will not be. And I think I am totally okay with that.

He probably had it coming.

About a month ago, via drunk text (of course), one of my dearest friends asked me to be his date to the Marine Corps Birthday Ball. For me, this is about as no-brainer as decisions get; I would get to wear a fancy dress, get my hair done, hang around with a man in Marine dress blues and drink rum and vodka to my little heart's content. Of course, I said yes. Of course, my answer involved a lot of exclamation points.

 

The friend (hereafter referred to as Marine) is stationed in Kentucky, and figuring out the logistics of the trip was a little difficult because, as a Marine, he has unpredictable work hours. I couldn't fly into Louisville and take a cab to his apartment on the base, because it's something like a 40-minute drive. He couldn't guarantee that he'd be able to pick me up, and when I looked at flights, the cheapest one I saw was around $400. So I decided to drive. I couldn't take any vacation days for the trip, because the company I work for is... not sympathetic to things like Marine Balls and fun and personal days and Needing To Get The Fuck Out Of Virginia Oh My God, so I would have to work a full day and then drive. None of this mattered to me, really, because at the end of all of the driving would be rum! And vodka! And a man in Marine dress blues!

 

On a normal work day, I leave the office around 4:30. The Friday before the ball, I left at 2:30, but I had many important things to do, like go to the gym and buy a clutch to go with my dress and clean up my apartment and, idk, solve world hunger and build a flux capacitator, so by the time I actually began the drive, it was 8 pm. Under normal circumstances, Virginia to Kentucky is about a seven-and-a-half-hour trek; when you have a tiny baby SUV with a tiny 4-cylinder engine, it becomes something more like nine. BUT NO MATTER, READERS! I was Going To Drive! I had my iPod! I wasn't afraid to stop for coffee and large sodas at scary rest stops in the mountains!

All of this went fine, on account of I have many ridiculous songs on my iPod and also, in general, more energy than the average bear, but let me tell you that West Virginia is a really freaking WIDE state, and I spent many hours there, and none of them were wild or wonderful.

To reiterate: the drive is long. It is epically long. I cheered when I saw the Kentucky sign because it felt like a victory, and I had three hours left to drive after that. I almost ran out of gas twice, because I never stop early enough (I'm on a lifelong mission to really see what the REAL gas mileage of my car is) (spoiler: it sucks); I had also been issued a $2 "you owe us" note by the West Virginia toll people because I never have cash and didn't think to stop and get some in the event of the Partial Toll Road that Google informed me that I would, in fact, encounter. Whatever. I survived my road mishaps! I was almost there!

And then, about 40 minutes from the Army base, when I was so bored and tired of driving that counting the mile markers became a fun pastime, a deer ran in front of my car and I plowed right into it.

I grew up in the Midwest, so having deer run in front of my car is not new to me, but I had never hit one before. I had never hit anything, not even a squirrel. Hitting a deer is kind of awful, it makes a really large BANG and it's scary, I'm sure, under the best of circumstances, so you can imagine how fun it is at 3 am on the highway in the middle of Kentucky.

I didn't know what to do, so I just kind of sat in the car in shock for a minute, not blinking, and then called Marine.

"I need you to wake up, because I just hit a deer, and I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO," I said.

He talked to me for a few minutes, asking about the damage and my general mental and physical state, before realizing that I was still driving. At which point he said, "You need to pull over."

"I AM NOT PULLING OVER," I replied. "I AM TERRIFIED THAT THE DAMAGE IS GOING TO BE BAD. THE CAR IS STILL DRIVING, MY HEADLIGHTS STILL WORK, THERE IS HOWEVER THIS SORT OF SCARY SCRAPING NOISE UNDER THE TIRE BUT IT'S NOT CONSTANT SO I THINK I WILL JUST KEEP DRIVING, POSSIBLY FOREVER."

He told me to watch the engine temperature (which was fine) and then, as the scraping got louder and more terrifying, convinced me that I needed to pull off and take a look. I waited until I found an exit that looked well-lit and, you know, populated, not with people playing banjos, and pulled over, right into the parking lot of a Kroger.

The second I stopped the car, the engine started to steam and leak fluid and the temperature gauge flew up. The driver's side door wouldn't open so I had to climb out of the passenger seat and then walk around the car to look at the damage (note: I always drive barefoot, and did all of this sans shoes; it never occurred to me that I possibly wouldn't want engine fluid and/or shards of things on my feet. I should not really be allowed to leave the house unsupervised). Honestly, I didn't - and don't - think it looked that bad; the bumper was pushed in and the hood was up and the driver's side headlight was smashed, but for taking out a deer, it wasn't awful. 

But since the engine was now LEAKING and STEAMING and OVERHEATING, whether or not to drive the car became an issue. And then it sort of struck me that I was alone, in a Kroger parking lot, at 330 am, in Kentucky. I didn't know WHERE in Kentucky. JUST AT THE KROGER. HANGING OUT. Which is much less exciting than chilling at the Holiday Inn. It was possibly even less exciting than Virginia. (I kid. Nothing is less exciting than Virginia.)

Marine said, "Um. I am on a tank in the middle of a field. You need to call someone with internet who can figure out where you are."

I thought about this for approximately 10 seconds and then called Sam, who I have known via flickr for about two years. By my 330 am logic, the fact that I met him ON the Internet would mean that he was awake and had access TO the Internet 24 hours a day. Half of this was correct; the half that was incorrect required a pot of coffee and a lot of crying and apologizing from me, but in general Sam was very nice and amazing, and dealt patiently with my sobbing and my shaking and my feeling like I was going to puke, and guided me turn by turn to a hotel 3 miles away, and talked to me the entire FORTY MINUTES it took me to get there, because I had to keep pulling over to let the engine cool down. Those little roadside breaks were loads of fun for both of us, as I'm not by nature a very patient person to begin with, and when you throw in the fact that I was crying and shaking at 330 am and on back roads in Kentucky with a busted-up car, I'm sure I was a peach to deal with. The conversation was limited mostly to me wailing, "CAN I DRIVE YET?" and "I JUST NEED TO CALL MY DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD."

Eventually, he got me to the hotel, I cried into the lobby phone and the night manager gave me a room, I called my dad, and then I sat in the bed wide-eyed until 6, when I managed to get two hours of sleep (after crawling under the covers and crying, "I WISH MY CAT WAS HERE"). 

I spent most of Saturday on the phone with my incredibly unhelpful insurance company; the claims adjuster actually made me cry and then said, brusquely, "Well, I don't know what to tell you, you're in kind of a bad situation." (I told my mom this; her response was essentially, "Oh, HELL NO," and she then spent several hours on the phone with said company avenging me. She got to the guy in question and told me later, "It's not just you, I didn't care for him either." WIN!) (sidebar: my mom and her friend took out a nine-point buck with a car a week ago. WE SHARE OUR LIFE EXPERIENCES, PEOPLE!)

Anyway, my car is really old, and they had warned me that because its blue book value isn't very high that it might be a total loss. aka, start car-shopping, silly girl. They wouldn't know for sure til Monday, though, because idk if you knew, but people only get into car accidents during the week, so claims inspectors don't work on the weekends. Perfectly logical! 

This made me super sad. My car is ridiculous, and old, and PURPLE, but I love the crap out of it, and I am not really interested in a new car. I did some research online, sort of sadly, but then the inspector called and told me the damage was $500 short of being a total loss so it would, in fact, be repaired.

Of course, they won't pay for a tow to Virginia (that would make them helpful, or something, and they're not into that), so I have to go back to Kentucky to retrieve it. The joke, ultimately, is on them; my policy expired last Wednesday and prior to this trip, I had already paid to switch to a different company, where I'll receive the exact same coverage for half the price and probably a lot less "Well then don't hit a deer in Kentucky, idk" attitude. I'm taking a one-way flight and then making the entire damn return drive IN DAYLIGHT, most likely gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles and gazing around shiftily for any deer on the side of the road. Because I'm sure they're congregating silently, just waiting to exact their revenge. I am sure of it because on the drive home from Kentucky the first time (a very creepy guy from Virginia gave me a ride, and I don't want to talk about it except to tell you that at least an hour of it was him questioning why I didn't want to date him), I saw the deer I hit. I named him Randy. And he is dead.

 

I am not immune to ridiculous; in fact, my life is always full of it, but this was big, even for me. On Saturday morning, after not sleeping and crying and fighting with the insurance company and assuring my parents that I was okay and having approximately 74 different nervous breakdowns, Marine finally got done being in a tank and came to get me at my hotel. I got a hug, and coffee, and we were in the car, and I was calmer, and I said, "My life is SHENANIGANS. Who hits a deer in Kentucky?" and he said, "Yeah, I didn't want to say anything before, but really, I'm not all that surprised that this happened to you."

 

We did make it to the ball, by the way. Marine paid for all my drinks and told me repeatedly that no one would know I was a deer killer just by looking at me. He's a keeper, that one.

The Foreshadowed Landmine

Let's just call this post The Foreshadowed Landmine, in that you would think with all of the red flags popping up all over the place, I would not have been surprised at having my legs blown off by explosives. AND YET.

 

For the past week, I had been going on dates with a guy I met at the bar (that would be Red Flag #1). He's younger than me by a little less than three years and reminded me, somewhat, of an ex-boyfriend I used to call The Prince of Darkness (Red Flag #2, though in my defense, the Prince and I are now quite close friends), but he was cute and tall and could keep up with me, both drinking and sense-of-humor-wise, so I remained interested enough to keep feeling it out.

 

Dateboy and I had tentative plans to catch a movie on Friday, but he texted me in the late afternoon and asked to take a raincheck. "I've had a really bad day," he said.

"Are you okay?" I replied. "Is it your herpes?"

 

To be fair, this doesn't seem like the most sympathetic of responses, though if you know me pretty much at all, you're probably familiar with how humorous I find herpes (I'm sorry. It's freaking WARTS ON YOUR GENITALS; how stupid do you have to be to get herpes?) (Sidebar: I realize my obsession with this basically karmically guarantees me a raging case of the herps later in life. CAN'T WAIT). Dateboy, perhaps unsurprisingly, did not respond to this piece of text-message wit; awhile later, I said, "Okay I guess it's not a joking kind of bad day. I hope you feel better and are okay; let me know if you decide it's something that I - or vodka! - can help."

 

We texted back and forth for awhile and eventually he asked me to come meet him for a drink and take his mind off everything. "Life just threw me a serious curveball today," he said. "It was seriously awful. I need to take the edge off."

 

I met him at the bar, legitimately concerned. He was nursing a vodka tonic and feeling particularly sorry for himself, which I figured was justified, what with the curveballs, and all. Probably, he had cancer, or one of his testicles had fallen off, or someone he knew had died, possibly of herpes. I sat down and played supportive-girl-you're-sort-of-dating role, until he told me what said curveball was.

 

He got a C+.

On a chemistry test.

In a class where the lowest score gets dropped.

 

...

 

(Red Flag #3: not sure it's a good idea for me to date someone who exaggerates even more than I do)

 

Unsure what to say about this particular piece of news, I nodded sympathetically. Dateboy proceeded to charge $150 worth of booze to his parents' credit card. "They'll understand," he said. "I've had a really bad day." (#4)

 

After a bottle of Prosecco and two essentially-quadruple-sized shots of Patron, Dateboy, Dateboy's friend, Dateboy's friend's date and I stumbled over to another bar. I wandered off to go to the bathroom, where there was a line, so I did what I always do — struck up a conversation with the person nearest to me. On this particular evening, that happened to be a tall, sad-eyed guy who vaguely resembled Peyton Manning; somehow we got onto the topic of divorce and single parenthood. He, it would seem, had a child with a girl he's not particularly fond of and is now deciding whether or not to pursue custody. I sat my divorced-kid butt down on the barstool next to him and proceeded to have a very long, very emphatic, very drunk heart-to-heart with him about how Yes, Your Kid Needs You, It Does Not Matter If You Do Not Like His Mom, By The Way Let Me Tell You All Sorts of Fun Secrets About My Family. Also, here is my business card!

 

(Note: this is why I have separate work and bar purses, but I was at a work function right before I went to meet Dateboy, and lo, many people received my business card Friday night; thankfully, none of them have emailed or called me. Yet.)

 

At some point during this very long, very emotional chat, Dateboy stormed over to tell me he was leaving.
"Oh. Where are you going?" I asked, nonplussed.

He named another bar; I told him I'd meet him there. I sensed this would be drama, but Drunk Me needed to FINISH MY CHAT before I went! I was Changing Peyton's Life! I was Making A Difference!

 

Okay. So we're clear, I understand this looks bad. It boils down to two things, really: 1. if you know me, none of this is at all surprising; I am forever wandering away from the people I came to the bar with to make new bar friends. When I told my best friend this story, she said, "It's part of your charm!"; I in fact met Dateboy because I wandered away from my guy friends at that same bar. And 2. clearly, he doesn't know me that well; he was completely justified in being pissed, though whatever upper hand that granted him initially would rapidly be retracted later.

ANYWAY, Peyton and I wound up our chat and I headed over to meet Dateboy at bar no. 3. By this time, it was basically last call, so we took a cab to his [parents'] [#5] house, where he proceeded to drink about a pint of whiskey and pontificate on various subjects, including (a) how IMPORTANT his family is in the podunk town where we live (his dad is a bigshot doctor, I guess; my response to this should have been "podunk superstar, DREAM BIG"), (b) how much he enjoys this status and (c) his extensive collection of rap and reggae music and designer-label polo shirts. (I have lost count of red flags, but sense we are somewhere around #47.) After those scintillating topics of conversation got old, he entertained himself by yelling at me for various things; first for daring to fall asleep at 4:30 after he turned the lights out (apparently he asked me for "some affection" and I was totally unwilling to give it to him; I have no recollection of this, probably because it was 4:30 and he turned the lights out so I thought it was okay to go to sleep) and then for my prolonged discussion with Peyton.

 

"Did you used to date him? Do you want to date him?" he asked.

 

"Um. I don't even know his name," I replied. "I called him Peyton?"

 

"Because while you were talking to him, the super-cute bartender was hitting on me," Dateboy continued. "I mean, don't make me compete for your attention, because I'm not going to do it."

 

I tried to explain that I've been steadfastly single for a really long time and as such don't always think about how things like this might look to other people; he cut me off by saying, "We're not together." (Ten minutes later, he informed me that his mom "thinks I'm a really good writer" and that his sister "thinks I sound cool" and that before me, he hadn't had a girlfriend for a really long time.) I tried to explain my propensity for drunk wandering; he shot that down, too. Finally, I apologized, mostly to get him to shut up; instead, he started jumping on the bed and threatening to pour orange Powerade — his chaser of choice — on my head.

 

I realize that this all sounds more threatening than funny. It wasn't. Mostly, I sat on the bed, thinking, "Please, please, please fall asleep," while trying to think of boring current events I could throw at him in order to bore him enough to lay down. Eventually he did; I got up at seven, called a cab, and left. I do not expect to hear from him again. In a normal situation, I would say that because I'd assume the person in question would be too embarrassed to call, but with Dateboy, I'm fairly certain it's more because I'm clearly not a Big Enough Deal in Podunk to warrant another date.

 

However, it is Podunk, and I met him at a bar I frequent, so I am essentially guaranteed to see him again. Will he remember me? Will Peyton be there again? Will I be ostracized from said bar because Dateboy's dad is such a Big Deal? I guess we'll never know. Except that we will. Probably on Friday.

one way or another

Usually, the approach of the weekend while living here in podunk is cause for panic. How will I find something to do on a Saturday night here in Lametown, population: 6? This weekend presents a different problem entirely.

 

It's a long story, and parts of it aren't ridiculous enough for my rigorous blog-quality control standards, but basically, my ex-good-friend/guy I dated briefly is moving out of town on Sunday. His goodbye party is Saturday. All of my friends are going. I had initially opted not to attend — our transition from friends to dating to friends was awkward, to say the least (a tidbit that might give you an idea of just how awkward: he abruptly decided we should go back to being friends circa 5 am while I was topless in his bed, after which I walked the 4.5 miles home); beyond that, I'm good with him leaving but am not sure I need to attend the funeral — but all of our mutual friends had more or less convinced me that this was ridiculous.

 

"I feel pretty strongly that you need to be there," one said.

 

"Lame," said another. "Just come over around nine."

 

"SEE YOU SATURDAY!" yelled a third, exiting the office yesterday.

 

I love nothing more than feeling wanted at a social function, so all of this "you're insane why wouldn't you go" urging had convinced me to rethink my view of the whole situation. Until I spoke briefly to the guest of honor, who was absurdly weird and standoffish. Fidgety. Avoiding eye contact. Like he had just stolen money from my purse, which I know he didn't, because - aha! - I have no money. In all of the drama surrounding me and the party, it had never occurred to me that he of the 5 a.m. breakup might not want me there.

Rather than take the high road and, you know, discuss this with him, I instead came up with A Plan. It was simple: find something else to do on Saturday so that I am Impossibly Busy and Wouldn't Be Able To Go Even If You Begged, Sorry, By The Way I Am Breezy! (Sidebar: I am actually moving to a new apartment Saturday and therefore actually have a perfect excuse not to go, but moving is not SOCIAL ENOUGH, so I had to come up with OTHER OPTIONS.)

 

To implement the plan, I did what I always do. I went to the gym.

 

There, somewhere between cardio and lifting, I Jedi mind-tricked my way into a date. We'll call the guy Marc. I've been talking with him for a few weeks, ever since he came up to me at the bar and said, "You work out at [local gym], right?" (I don't think this is a commentary on my spectacular hotness, by the way; I think it's more about the fact that I live at the gym and that, again, there are six damn people in this town.) We've engaged in mild flirtation since, both in the gym and out, though when we're there, it centers mostly around his fervent desire to "show me the steam room." Yesterday, in my fit of desperation, I succumbed; we sat (fully clothed) in the sauna and when we exited I asked if he was going out this weekend, then told him he should plan to do something and invite me.

 

"You mean like, ask you out?" he said with a grin.

 

I paused, because really, that wasn't what I meant; I meant more like, "go ahead and go to the bar with your friends but give me a call and maybe pay for some of my rum;" but would a date not fit the exact specifications of my plan? So I said, SURE, gave him my number, and left.

It's now Friday. Gym guy has yet to call, though I did see him yesterday and we continued our ridiculous flirtation. Party is tomorrow, he of the 5 a.m. breakup is texting me currently to schedule our Last Conversation (which I guess probably means I am officially unwelcome at the party), I should probably be packing boxes but am instead watching Gilmore Girls in my underwear. Though I have my SUPER SOCIAL PLANS all lined up, it wouldn't surprise me if, aside from moving, this is what I actually end up doing all weekend. Which, to be honest, might not be all bad. Take that, Lametown.

workplace pimping

So, my office husband emailed me today to say that he smelled popcorn and was wondering if I had been down to his neck of the building to cook my daily bag without saying hi. It should be noted that I suck at making popcorn; I burn it probably a third of the time, which has prompted my boss to say, on more than one occasion, "For God's sake, you have a master's degree." (It's true, I do. But not in microwaving, or engineering, or anything else that would relate remotely to this.) Anyway, when I got this email I panicked a little, thinking I had burned it and stunk up the first floor of the building. This is not unheard of. I have done it before, which has resulted in the scary CEO running around with a spray bottle of Lysol while glaring in my general direction. Work, it can be mortifying.

My office husband, though, is my office husband for a reason, and immediately followed his first email with a second saying, "AND NO, IT DIDN'T SMELL BURNT." Praises.

I had spent part of the day discussing my singleness with a coworker (really, I love living in Virginia, where I am a mid-twenties freak for not having pushed out a kid yet) and, on a whim, replied to office husband's email asking him if there were any youngish, tall, funny, CUTE single guys at his gym. Office husband replied that he thought there were a few who would fit the bill. "They're not lunatics," he added. He understands my needs, this one.

We bantered a bit more before he sealed the deal with this gem:

I'm good at talking to peoplel. Let me think on this. I'll be in gym tomorrow eve again and I'll begin the pimping process. I'll weed the wheat from the shaft and report back.

OMG. It is six hours later and this email is still killing me. Oh, office husband, if you weren't older than my dad, I would totally date you and forgo this middle-man nonsense.

Today, also, during lunch, I went to the library's book sale to peruse the delicious-smelling racks. I parked on the wrong side of the street - in a legal spot, mind you, but facing the wrong way, because a car (also facing the wrong way) stole the only legal spot on my side - and was inside for maybe 15 minutes, and came back out to find a $15 parking ticket on my windshield. Apparently wrong-way parking passes for high crime in Virginia. If office husband is successful in procuring me a gym date, maybe I can persuade him into roughing up the meter maid so I don't have to pay it. I'm nothing if not optimistic.

pick of the litter

Y'all can relax: Donald Trump has announced the competitors for 2009's round of Celebrity Apprentice. Since only one of these super-qualified contenders can win a job with The Donald, I'm here to give you the rundown on their strengths and weaknesses in case the rest come looking for work after being fired (a funny thought until you remember the economy, and suddenly, the idea of Andrew Dice Clay knocking on your office door - most likely wearing fingerless leather gloves - becomes a little less amusing). (Also, I am doing this for free. I am a bargain!)

So, the CONTENDERS:

Khloe Kardashian:

I'm afraid of this picture

pro: if you trick her into thinking the company uniform is made of fur, there's a good chance she'll work in the buff.
con: having to see Khloe Kardashian naked.
extra con: extending the relevance of the Kardashians. I DON'T UNDERSTAND. WHO IS WATCHING THAT SHOW, AND WHY?

Andrew Dice Clay:

my gladiator name is BEDAZZLER

Frankly just looking at this picture gave me a headache. Next.

Brian McKnight:

sup baby. I like to lean.

pro: will undoubtedly anticipate and be sensitive to your needs.
con: probably sucks at data entry; if he gets lost, he will start back at one. (ZING!) (this will fail if none of you are into 90s soft rock. DAMMIT.)

Annie Duke, pro poker player:

listening to Brian McKnight on that iPod

pro: judging from the picture, looks willing to be hopped up on caffeine in order to get the job done; could take your low profit margins and gamble them into a fortune.
con: idk, the guy next to her seems impressed. I might give her the edge.

Claudia Jordan, Deal or No Deal model:

Plinko, bitch

pro: was a Barker's Beauty, which in my world gives you 10,000 bonus points immediately; she could open your briefcase for you.
con: that might be the extent of her office skills.

Natalie Gulbis:

this is a totally legit golf stretch

pro: considered an LPGA sex symbol, meaning she can do the impossible. your filing will be a snap for her.
con: was once on the cover of Sactown Magazine. I don't know what that is, but my sense is that it won't bode well for your company.

Herschel Walker:

mothaf**kin JUMP ROPE

pro: won the Heisman, so can help you perfect your Heisman pose, thus ensuring your title as the douchiest person at any party you ever attend.
con: once competed in the Olympics on a bobsled team, but probably will not appreciate your Cool Runnings jokes. Which makes that egg you're carrying around in your pants a little weird.

Jesse James:

note the lack of sepia tone

pro: increases your chances of meeting Keanu Reeves. think of the brooding! think of the LAKE HOUSE!
con: you will forever be thinking that you hired an outlaw from the Old West. (seriously, am I the ONLY ONE who thinks that whenever I hear his name?! EDITED TO ADD: NO. NO I AM NOT. Whilst image-googling young James, the first THREE PAGES are pictures of the OUTLAW. THANK YOU, INTERNET, YOU HAVE REDEEMED ME.)

Joan and Melissa Rivers:

they're laughing at you. yes, you! they can see you, you know.

pro: will be able to tell you what competitors in your field are saying about you behind your back.
con: will probably be saying it with them.

Scott Hamilton:

words fail me.

I'm sorry, I can't get past his butt in this picture. Is he stuffing something in there? I also remember one time that Scott Hamilton guest-starred on Roseanne and did a scene skating around the linoleum floor in his socks. Based on this alone, you should probably just hire him.

Brande Roderick, former Baywatch actress and Playboy model:

grapes are sexy, you didn't know?

pro: probably knows CPR.
con: it's possible that Pamela Anderson might drop by to visit, sans pants.

Dennis Rodman:

so excited about jobhunting, a little pee came out

pro: can reach the top shelf in the copy room
con: a good chance he will show up to work looking like this - AND NOT JUST ON CASUAL FRIDAYS.

T-Boz (from TLC):

not in the Matrix, don't be confused

pro: comfortable working in a group.
con: may quit to go chase waterfalls. also, her abs will make you feel bad, and do you really need that at the office?

Tom Green:

LOUD NOISES

pro: is there anything this man WOULDN'T do? I doubt it. did you want him to fetch your lunch? DONE. did you want him to whore himself out for money to pay for your lunch? DONE!
con: the possibilities are endless and most likely involve poop.

Clint Black:

save a horse. hire me.

I can't think of anything even remotely witty to write about Clint Black, meaning he is probably the perfect addition to your office.

I will gladly accept a headhunter's fee for doing the legwork for you. And some free advice from me to you:  you shouldn't be reading blogs on company time. Get out of here before you're fiyah'd! (groan. I couldn't resist.)

young narcissists, or: may I present, the next generation of myspacers

DISCLAIMER: I do, actually, have a MySpace. I in fact MySpace-flirted with a guy last week, but I blame this on Virginia and absolve myself of all wrongdoing in the process. (I'm embarrassed to tell you that my rigorous MySpace-flirting standards boiled down to searching for tall guys who are older than me within a 30-mile radius and then picking the one I thought was cute. But not that embarrassed, since he ACCEPTED MY FRIEND REQUEST and there is currently a MESSAGE FROM HIM IN MY INBOX. Responding to it - which I plan to, by the way - may count as third-date intimacy in Virginia. If he THEN responds BACK, we are probably engaged. I will keep you posted.)

Anyway.

Earlier this week in my Internet wanderings I stumbled upon a blog post about these Golden Girls dolls:

you're a friend and a confidant...and slightly creepy, if your name is Blanche

I need these, and I need them immediately. They can sit on the kitchen counter with my talking Bill Clinton doll, and he will hit on them and hilarity will ensue. (Picture it: Sicily my kitchen. Bill trades barbs with Dorothy, then takes her out for a night on the town, becoming attracted to her because she is brainy and witty! Then Blanche meets him separately, by the coffeemaker, and he is POWERLESS to resist her Southern charm and honeyed seduction maneuvers, and they do the dirty; Blanche unaware that he has already barbed with Dorothy! The ladies fight, Dorothy runs to Sophia for comfort, there is some cheesecake, Rose mentions St. Olaf, and at this point they're probably locking me up in a padded room because I have been in my kitchen envisioning this for weeks.) Anyway, after perusing the rest of the merchandise on the doll website (and by "perusing", I mostly mean "looking at the Carrie doll and running away in terror"), I began to wonder what other creepy doll merchandise could be mine with the click of a mouse button.

I started with Twilight. I don't know anything about Twilight; it has something to do with teenage vampires, it has this chick in it:

vampires, idk

and my dear friend Jess had Robert Pattinson songs on her iPod for a month without knowing who he was and was mocked mercilessly for it by her fiance when he discovered them. This is the extent of my Twilight knowledge, but even I know this: bitches be crazy about Twilight, so I figured if there were to be a recent surge in creepy doll production, it would be from this genre.

I went to eBay and was typing it into the search box when one of the predictive typing search suggestions piqued my interest and I landed, instead, here:

And I will call you my squishy

Just in case this is not CLEAR, this is a website encouraging you to create a doll in your likeness. Your twin-doll, if you will (or, I guess, your twiNN doll. extra N. like if I were to say, "TERRIFYINNG," which would make about an equal amount of sense). As you can see, the website says that having a tiny mini-you to carry around will "inspire imagination," except it is pretty much doing the opposite by having you create a doll that's your carbon copy, thereby negating any creativity at all in the process - although it does look like you can dress her up as a princess. I am betting she wouldn't get judged for it, either; my own attempts at instituting Tiara Day in my office were met with mostly blank stares. I suppose that is a little inspiring.

Anyway, I believe the My Twinn website solves several pressing cultural dilemmas I have been struggling with. Namely, how will reality TV, Facebook and MySpace survive once my self-obsessed generation gets too old for them? (I admit that since my 50-something mother has recently joined Facebook, we may never officially be too old for these things, but it has to at least get sad after awhile.) Well, the answer is, WE WILL BE REPLACED. BY A NEW GENERATION. WHO IS JUST AS SELF-OBSESSED AND PERHAPS EVEN MORE SO, BECAUSE LO, THEY HAVE MADE DOLLS OF THEMSELVES. WHO ARE WEARING TIARAS. UPON WHOM THEY GAZE ADORINGLY.

I admit, this is weird and creepy, but I also admit I am a little in awe of these girls. They are taking MySpace whoring one step further by recreating themselves in plastic; they are, indeed, The new Plastics.

it's just that we don't have headwear

I should just teach them to shoot one-armed self-portraits, hand over my shoe collection and be done with it.

I would never do that, of course. If I give them my shoes, I will never know if MySpace Boy is tall enough to date.

Also, if I've yet to convince you that this is scary, I leave you with the My Twinn site's footer image:

disembodied baby heads

BUY ONE, GET THE SECOND 25 PERCENT OFF!
(My favorite is the fourth one from the left. It's like she just saw the Golden Girls dolls for herself and is wishing she had arms to reach for her credit cards. I feel your pain, honey.)

we live in the mountains, we don't resemble them

  Today, discussing a potential crush, I told my friend Brianne that the guy in question — we’ll call him Tim — is only about my height, five-nine. “I’d have to wear FLATS,” I wrote in an e-mail. “CLEARLY, THIS WILL NEVER WORK OUT.”
  She wrote back, laughing, “I love that that’s your reason why it won’t work.” Even my friends find me ridiculous.
  This, by the way, is probably what my father means when he says I’m picky about the people I date. I have never understood why this is a bad thing — of all decisions in life, is this not the one (besides footwear) that requires most careful consideration? But perhaps my height hang-up is making me miss out on potential dates.
  I should explain. A naturally tall girl, I have no business running around in heels and yet, I can’t resist them. Once, in Las Vegas, wearing five-inch peeptoes, I left a blackjack table to greet a friend and the dealer, staring after me blankly, muttered, “That is one tall drink of water.” (My best friend, seated next to the stool I’d just vacated, snapped her fingers at him and said, “Eyes front, Neil.”) I know I don’t need them; indeed, it’s possible the tall drink of water comment would have been uttered were I barefoot, but I can’t help it, and to further the ridiculous, I refuse to wear heels shorter than four inches. (What, I ask you, would be the point?) Therefore, my ideal height for a date is six-two – that way, I can wear my four-inch heels to my heart’s content and still have to stand on tiptoe to have a good kiss.
  Silly? Perhaps. But until I moved here, to a smallish town in the middle of Virginia, my height requirement (you must be at least this tall to come onboard) was never a problem. Perfectly, magically, every single boy I’ve ever loved has stood at six-two. Here, where the dating pool is mostly dry to begin with, the average height seems to be about five-eleven, which has caused me to rethink the entire thing and consider the five-nine-ish guy in question. He’s cute. He’s funny. He likes football. He almost kissed me last weekend.
  All of this is a moot point, of course. I don’t know that Tim is interested, at all, and there are things about the situation that indicate it’s a bad idea to begin with. But should the opportunity present itself, I’m not entirely certain I’d turn it down, height be damned.
  Virginia is clearly broadening my horizons. I'm sure my father will be proud.

"If you remember, Carrie, I told you that Terrence wouldn't respond to chintz."

OMG MELROSE PLACE SEASON ONE IS TAKING OVER MY LIFE. Allison just got held up at gunpoint and they took Keith's Mustang and the only reason this even HAPPENED is bc Billy was meeting Amanda's dad and couldn't pick her up. AND WHERE HAVE MICHAEL AND JANE BEEN? WHY ARE THEY NOT ON DISC FIVE AT ALL? BC YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THAT MICHAEL MANCINI IS SO ABOUT TO START SLEEPING WITH DOCTOR KIMBERLY SHAW LORD.

Um, anyway. Am really posting so that I can share with you some wonderful emails I received from a nice British man named Micheal Holmes. After I lost my camera on Friday I posted a lost ad on Craigslist and received this email today:

Hello,
my name is Micheal,i found a camera in a taxi i took from the flight bar area some days ago,on my way to the airport enroute london ,wanted to drop it off but could not find someone trustworthy to give it to.then i spoke to a friend and told me to check out craigslist fortunately i found ur listing.the camera is a Nikon Coolpix 5200 digital camera .sorry the pictures are no longer avaliable because i misplaced them at the airport when i was been screened..you can also give me a call on +44 07024029997 between 8am-6pm. you would also need to send me a picture or a perfect description of what your camera looks like.pls let inform you that if truly its yours and you want it back,send me your address and phone number am not sure i can do it but surely can send someone to send it by courier . you might have to pay for it to be sent back to america because am back in london and quite busy.sorry for the inconveinces i must have caused you.take care and God bless you.Happy Easter in advance.

ALRIGHT SO. Things are shady about this email, right from the getgo. First, I lost the camera at a bar. I don't take taxis, so I am not sure why my camera would show up in a cab. I kind of dismissed this bc, idk, many people take cabs and maybe someone picked up my camera and then left it in one. Was also confused as to how someone could "misplace" pictures on a digital camera, but whatever! He said HAPPY EASTER and GOD BLESS so I just wrote back and was like, here's what my camera looks like! Is it mine! Help!

So then he writes back:

Hi Kate,
Am so glad to hear from you i was just on my way out of the office.I have never sent stuffs like this before but from my rough estimate,it shouldnt cost up to $200,including tax,insurance,etc.i would advise you to just send what you think would be okay for now,then you send the balance once you have confirmed its yours.your description sound familar ,i just belive its yours.
You are to send the money through western union money transfer to london in my name MICHEAL HOLMES,therafter you send me the code and every other information necessary for the collection of the funds.
Also you are to send me your contact address for home delivery of your camera to your house,pls do this immediately so we can be through with this tomorrow.Take care and savour the easter blessings.

Hmm. So now, things are a little FISHIER. (fishier is not, by the way, a word.) First of all, in what universe does it cost $200 to ship a camera? I also, idk, it's all "i do not spel things rite and i type in lowercase" until you get to the part where it's about THE FUNDS, and then he is all "I punctuate things correctly, know how to use the shift key, and also would like your money! Thank you!"

I wrote him back saying umm....noooo.....I'll be happy to FedEx you an empty envelope with my name and address on it, and you can just drop it off at any FedEx location. The label will be prepaid so you won't have to pay anything. Thank you! I love my camera k byeeeee!

SO THEN HE WRITES BACK:
Hi Kate,
pls dont let us pull things too far,all these fedex stuff dont work like that here.just do it the way i said,send me your house address and the money,and i promptly give you the tracking number of your camera,with that you can track it down yourself ok?pls no more questions,lets just do it this way and everything would be just fine,take care and have a good nite.once again Happy easter.

lololol what? "pls no more questions" as if I am a petulant five-year-old repeatedly asking him why peas are green and why I have to go to bed at 8:30 omg. Plus, um, I didn't actually ASK a question. And also, FedEx is global, you freak of nature.

So I wrote back:
Hi! I work for a company that has a UK branch, and we use FedEx to send things back and forth all the time. I'm aware that it works exactly the same there, as does DHL, which I can also use. I don't feel comfortable sending you cash without proof that you have my camera and are sending it - and it would NEVER cost $200 to ship a 1-pound camera overseas.

BAAAAH MICHEAL HOLMES! Take your craigslist scams and apply them to someone more stupid than I! I sent his contact info to the legal team at craigslist, because there are some, idk, less FedEx-versed people in the world who might fall for this type of crap, and then Kate and I had a good chuckle over it. I actually want him to write back so that I can reply with witty banter like "do you like puppies! I would definitely wire you $200 for a puppy! Is there vodka in the UK! Tea and crumpets! Pip pip!"

Now I have to go, because Keith is comforting Allison, and he is the worst actor in the entire world, and now they are gonna bone for the first time since they got back together after he got divorced, because they were together BEFORE, but he was MARRIED, and for some reason they always play the worst music whenever Allison and Keith bone/kiss/do anything, and OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SHOW.