I am sorry. No really, I am f*ckin sorry. However, I have been waiting on a job and I felt as though it would be bad karma to blog about being pathetic when in fact I have been told that I should feel confident until I hear otherwise. Congrats to my bloody self, I got it with a little help from my friends. Perhaps this time it will stick.
Speaking of sticking, I am curious as to whether or not my readership is aware of the fact that this will be the fifth job I am taking in three years. Sure, it is the first real job that has been offered to me, but it is technically my fifth offer. E did the math for me so I know it is correct. However, she is so bloody supportive that she said she will treat this one as my first one and we are starting on a clean slate.
You know who is not so supportive, probably M. No, it's not that she was not happy for me because she is, but when I explained that my year is going to take a drastic change she got particularly concerned that I would not have time to meet a husband. I pointed out that for the past three years I have had all the time in the world to meet a husband and it has not in fact happened. In fact, I find the more time I have, the less likely I am to be marrying. DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY??? I do not wash my hair when I have time to be drinking in excess. Every day I wake up thinking I am going to wash my hair and then see that new thing that is like baby powder that you can spray and opt for that alternative. I mean, I think it does the trick, but really have no idea how greasy my hair is due to a very specifc neuoris of mine. You know how Tobias from Arrested Development is a never nude? I am a never profile/back and only ever view myself from the front. The back of my hair is quite greasy serving as a deterrent to husbands. Anyhow, when M asked me what I was going to do to celebrate, I invoked the metaphor as to how people are not nearly as excited for your accomplishment when, let's say, you get married for the third time. Sure, my people are happy, but I am not going to over burden them with a celebration as we have done it like forty million times just for such an occassion. M's reply, "well, you have not been married three times. you have not even been married once. Maybe your people are just sick of you not being married." So unrelated.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Eyes Wide Shut
Ever since I started garbage, I have been consistently told about the importance of networking. And, as a result of being instructed to do so, I have consistently avoided this topic of conversation. When people instruct me about the importance of networking, I explain that I would not be good at it because HELLO, HAVE YOU MET ME? I have no interests that do not involve wine and television. I hate most, if not all, people. How the F am I going to network???
Anyhow, co-counsel and I (if you were wondering co-counsel is also not particularly cheery after a year and change of temping) have been weighing the pros and cons of attending a Bar related event to "network." When we stumbled upon an event hosted by the New York City Bar Association (NYCBA) for free, we decided it was time.
Look, I know I have compared firms to the DMV, my face is next to an advertisement on the subway, I have worked with "attorneys" whose idea of practicing is smoking the ganga, I have remained unhinged like Nell in several trash chutes until Hudson Legal has reached out to me and put me on some document review project above KFC. I know, I know. But for the love of Christ, none of this has anything on the NYCBA.
It may be the case that due to the NYCBA's location (battery park), attendees typically emerge from their beetlejuice type practices in order to "network" (stutter,sputter and slur). It also may be the case that those who actually attend these meetings would have to be pretty piss poor pathetic given the pain and suffering that is typically associated with these gatherings. This is all possible, maybe even probable, but there is simply no excuse for the variety of mutants that co-counsel and I encountered in suits these creatures got as their prize in a bloody happy meal. After our fourth glass of wine, we had the happy occasion of talking to one of co-counsel's fellow alumni, who without question not only sniffed, but most certainly consumed rubber cement ages 2-30, and then his parents dropped him off at this meeting. Funny, co-counsel and he actually had a lot in common BUT FOR the fact that I am fairly certain co-counsel dresses all by herself in the morning.
All of this pre-drinking happy chatter would have been forgivable, but for the speed networking portion of the event which was anything and everything a journalist such as myself could possibly hope for. Also, I believe an anthropologist would have been happy to observe these pre-evolved subjects in their habitat. Please readership, hear me out when I tell you that Darwin's concept of the survival of the fittest was lost on these creatures. I speculated that my brethren may in fact have suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome, but then decided that this could not be the cause of the egregious level of mutation. One of our favorite subjects, a nice young "gentleman," explained to co-counsel that he is having a "rough start." It is entirely possible judging by this rain man that he could not count. Wait, no I take it back, rain man could count. Rather, it is entirely possible that this corky could not because we typically do not say that we are having a rough start since graduation when we graduated in 2002. No, I am fairly certain that if you have still do not have a job seven years post graduation, you have commenced the middle of your career and perhaps you should call it the end. Hate to judge from the armchair (I believe that is an anthropological phrase, I too am interested in the evolution of these creatures), as I have no doubt that twenty years post law school I will be sitting here blogging for your amusement temping at a newspaper stand. But, twenty years post graduation, you better believe that I would not be across from co-counsel with my mouth wide open rocking.
The most remarkably outstanding part of the evening was that these creatures, who for the most part all had "jobs," desperately wanted co-counsel's/my "job." We tried to explain how it would be essentially career suicide for a middle aged "man" to move from being a "lawyer" to a temp at a publishing company that would never amount to anything. This was lost on deaf ears. Co-counsel just received a phone call from some character that emerged from "Where The Wild Things Are" begging for a position here because he is interested in publishing. I have preemptively set aside a spot for him equipped with a hampster wheel and feeder.
After reflecting, I realize that we are only as good as our company. And, if my company's highest aspirations are to do database entry in the conference room of a publishing company, well, I should feel pretty god damn lucky. And, next year, I might even be up for an academy award in my groundbreaking performance of "slumdog thirty-thousandaire."
Anyhow, co-counsel and I (if you were wondering co-counsel is also not particularly cheery after a year and change of temping) have been weighing the pros and cons of attending a Bar related event to "network." When we stumbled upon an event hosted by the New York City Bar Association (NYCBA) for free, we decided it was time.
Look, I know I have compared firms to the DMV, my face is next to an advertisement on the subway, I have worked with "attorneys" whose idea of practicing is smoking the ganga, I have remained unhinged like Nell in several trash chutes until Hudson Legal has reached out to me and put me on some document review project above KFC. I know, I know. But for the love of Christ, none of this has anything on the NYCBA.
It may be the case that due to the NYCBA's location (battery park), attendees typically emerge from their beetlejuice type practices in order to "network" (stutter,sputter and slur). It also may be the case that those who actually attend these meetings would have to be pretty piss poor pathetic given the pain and suffering that is typically associated with these gatherings. This is all possible, maybe even probable, but there is simply no excuse for the variety of mutants that co-counsel and I encountered in suits these creatures got as their prize in a bloody happy meal. After our fourth glass of wine, we had the happy occasion of talking to one of co-counsel's fellow alumni, who without question not only sniffed, but most certainly consumed rubber cement ages 2-30, and then his parents dropped him off at this meeting. Funny, co-counsel and he actually had a lot in common BUT FOR the fact that I am fairly certain co-counsel dresses all by herself in the morning.
All of this pre-drinking happy chatter would have been forgivable, but for the speed networking portion of the event which was anything and everything a journalist such as myself could possibly hope for. Also, I believe an anthropologist would have been happy to observe these pre-evolved subjects in their habitat. Please readership, hear me out when I tell you that Darwin's concept of the survival of the fittest was lost on these creatures. I speculated that my brethren may in fact have suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome, but then decided that this could not be the cause of the egregious level of mutation. One of our favorite subjects, a nice young "gentleman," explained to co-counsel that he is having a "rough start." It is entirely possible judging by this rain man that he could not count. Wait, no I take it back, rain man could count. Rather, it is entirely possible that this corky could not because we typically do not say that we are having a rough start since graduation when we graduated in 2002. No, I am fairly certain that if you have still do not have a job seven years post graduation, you have commenced the middle of your career and perhaps you should call it the end. Hate to judge from the armchair (I believe that is an anthropological phrase, I too am interested in the evolution of these creatures), as I have no doubt that twenty years post law school I will be sitting here blogging for your amusement temping at a newspaper stand. But, twenty years post graduation, you better believe that I would not be across from co-counsel with my mouth wide open rocking.
The most remarkably outstanding part of the evening was that these creatures, who for the most part all had "jobs," desperately wanted co-counsel's/my "job." We tried to explain how it would be essentially career suicide for a middle aged "man" to move from being a "lawyer" to a temp at a publishing company that would never amount to anything. This was lost on deaf ears. Co-counsel just received a phone call from some character that emerged from "Where The Wild Things Are" begging for a position here because he is interested in publishing. I have preemptively set aside a spot for him equipped with a hampster wheel and feeder.
After reflecting, I realize that we are only as good as our company. And, if my company's highest aspirations are to do database entry in the conference room of a publishing company, well, I should feel pretty god damn lucky. And, next year, I might even be up for an academy award in my groundbreaking performance of "slumdog thirty-thousandaire."
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
PAY YOUR RESPECTS
I have a very easy routine in the morning. I roll out of bed at approximately 8 AM, brush my teeth, throw on the first thing I see and I am out the door. Okay, it is true, that while my alarm clock is set at 8 am, I generally can not pull myself out of bed until 8:30 and that I sorta diddle-daddle on my way to the temping station by stopping and having like a sit down cup of coffee which is why I do not get to the publishing conglomerate until around 9:40. I am not apologetic about this, no one knows, cares or notices.
Anyhow, usually when I sit down to have my second cup of coffee, not the one I drank on the way here, but the one that is prepared for free, I cry prior to entering my first contract in the database. F*ck this whole "stop feeling bad for yourself" mantra. I feel bad for myself and no I am not going to apologize about it. I am going to own this sentiment and I am not going to allow anyone to tell me that because I am not sitting on my death bed today I should be pretty thankful. F*ck you. However, today, not only did I shed a tear, but noted out loud that "I can not help but think that I am cut out for better things."
It turns out that I am in fact cut out for better things. Nope, not because of the reasons you might have suspected; i.e. that I am 35235236262436346234623463463576 old and going on my second year of temping my J.D. It has more to do with my ancestry. Please read the "About Gargabe" exceprt that I located on Garbage's Website this morning:
Garbage, one of the oldest independent law schools in the United States, was founded in 1891 by the faculty, students, and alumni of some Ivy League Law School led by their founding dean, a major figure in the history of legal education. In 1894, the Law School established one of the nation's first evening divisions to provide those in the workforce, or with family obligations, a flexible alternative to full-time legal studies.
WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL. WEll. I am honored to be woven into this nation's fabric. MY HEAVENS, think about it, just two hundred years ago, Garbagites were not merely soda cans, but were like intelligent revolutionaries revolting against the standard institutions that only afforded day time classes. This precious little artifact is so tasty, thinking of Garbage's founding fathers setting up the pillars of the legal community by making this rather handsome contribution to law students everywhere is indeed something to be proud of.
So there, you have it. My ancestors practically arrived on the bloody Mayflower. I am cut out for better things.
Anyhow, usually when I sit down to have my second cup of coffee, not the one I drank on the way here, but the one that is prepared for free, I cry prior to entering my first contract in the database. F*ck this whole "stop feeling bad for yourself" mantra. I feel bad for myself and no I am not going to apologize about it. I am going to own this sentiment and I am not going to allow anyone to tell me that because I am not sitting on my death bed today I should be pretty thankful. F*ck you. However, today, not only did I shed a tear, but noted out loud that "I can not help but think that I am cut out for better things."
It turns out that I am in fact cut out for better things. Nope, not because of the reasons you might have suspected; i.e. that I am 35235236262436346234623463463576 old and going on my second year of temping my J.D. It has more to do with my ancestry. Please read the "About Gargabe" exceprt that I located on Garbage's Website this morning:
Garbage, one of the oldest independent law schools in the United States, was founded in 1891 by the faculty, students, and alumni of some Ivy League Law School led by their founding dean, a major figure in the history of legal education. In 1894, the Law School established one of the nation's first evening divisions to provide those in the workforce, or with family obligations, a flexible alternative to full-time legal studies.
WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL. WEll. I am honored to be woven into this nation's fabric. MY HEAVENS, think about it, just two hundred years ago, Garbagites were not merely soda cans, but were like intelligent revolutionaries revolting against the standard institutions that only afforded day time classes. This precious little artifact is so tasty, thinking of Garbage's founding fathers setting up the pillars of the legal community by making this rather handsome contribution to law students everywhere is indeed something to be proud of.
So there, you have it. My ancestors practically arrived on the bloody Mayflower. I am cut out for better things.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Caitlin, I Hate You
My apologies to my readership, this past week I was afflicted by the flu. Do not worry, during this period, I was not compensated by my temping station and while I saw Jesus several times during this period, I did not see a penny.
During this period, I got the opportunity to catch up on television that I categorically will never watch. There are few televised programs that I feel like I am too good for, whether it be Brett Micheals Rock of Love Tour Bus or the 45246246346 season of The Bachelor, it is on (my tv) like donkey kong. There is one show, however, which is not even the worst of trashy tv, that I simply have no appetite for. It is true that I should thank my lucky stars everyday that this show came into existence. For, without it, we might be without Reality TV. And, if that was true, where would I be?
Anyhow, while I realize there are many faithful viewers of The Real World and my interests do not diverge from this viewership (regardless of their age), I simply can not watch a whole season of this retardation. Every time I turn on this sh*t, I nearly have a seizure because these twenty somethings are so god damn dumb. This week, while doped up on Nyquil, I did not find one of their stupid stories remotely compelling. Nope, not even Sarah the molested one.
It is not enough that this season Devon has created a barometer to gauge her "closeness" with some other thing on the show that she is sexually attracted to, but the fact that Ryan has a) written a book and b) has written a song about tampons truly makes me want to hide for fear that I might turn it on again. However, what I found the most offensive is really not The Real World's fault, but my own. Look, I am no stranger to trannies. I encounter them all the G*d Damn time and while I presume most of them have not had a sex change, perhaps some of them have. I do not give a damn. While I have surmised that quite a few that run various makeup stations are more attractive than me, I do not think many of them are more attractive than the real thing. AND, furthermore, I am not so close minded to believe that my opinions are truth, but I believe the general population, would agree with me that the average looking trannie is not as good looking as the average looking female.
Caitlin, this season, truly blows my mind. I ADMIT, sometimes in my flu induced delirium in conjunction with my spotting of Jesus, I found Caitlin passable especially when she revealed that she had manufactured inverted penis now vagina to the gay dude at that awful restaurant Elmo's. That being said, there is no god damn reason that Caitlin is prancing around town with not one, but two boyfriends. Furthermore, the boyfriend she found while taping is kinda good looking. I am sitting here, the real deal, and I am going to give myself some credit and venture to say that I am more attractive than her/him/it completely single. I thought about it and I THOUGHT ABOUT IT and decided that this guy just knows s/he is on The Real World and agreed to go on a date with her to get some of his own air time. With this in mind, I have decided to hire a full camera crew for no purpose at all, there will be no airing of this "show" (though I have been told I am made for reality TV), until I am bloody married. Cameras will follow me everywhere until some semi fame crazed fool agrees to be my boyfriend. YEs, just the type I like.
During this period, I got the opportunity to catch up on television that I categorically will never watch. There are few televised programs that I feel like I am too good for, whether it be Brett Micheals Rock of Love Tour Bus or the 45246246346 season of The Bachelor, it is on (my tv) like donkey kong. There is one show, however, which is not even the worst of trashy tv, that I simply have no appetite for. It is true that I should thank my lucky stars everyday that this show came into existence. For, without it, we might be without Reality TV. And, if that was true, where would I be?
Anyhow, while I realize there are many faithful viewers of The Real World and my interests do not diverge from this viewership (regardless of their age), I simply can not watch a whole season of this retardation. Every time I turn on this sh*t, I nearly have a seizure because these twenty somethings are so god damn dumb. This week, while doped up on Nyquil, I did not find one of their stupid stories remotely compelling. Nope, not even Sarah the molested one.
It is not enough that this season Devon has created a barometer to gauge her "closeness" with some other thing on the show that she is sexually attracted to, but the fact that Ryan has a) written a book and b) has written a song about tampons truly makes me want to hide for fear that I might turn it on again. However, what I found the most offensive is really not The Real World's fault, but my own. Look, I am no stranger to trannies. I encounter them all the G*d Damn time and while I presume most of them have not had a sex change, perhaps some of them have. I do not give a damn. While I have surmised that quite a few that run various makeup stations are more attractive than me, I do not think many of them are more attractive than the real thing. AND, furthermore, I am not so close minded to believe that my opinions are truth, but I believe the general population, would agree with me that the average looking trannie is not as good looking as the average looking female.
Caitlin, this season, truly blows my mind. I ADMIT, sometimes in my flu induced delirium in conjunction with my spotting of Jesus, I found Caitlin passable especially when she revealed that she had manufactured inverted penis now vagina to the gay dude at that awful restaurant Elmo's. That being said, there is no god damn reason that Caitlin is prancing around town with not one, but two boyfriends. Furthermore, the boyfriend she found while taping is kinda good looking. I am sitting here, the real deal, and I am going to give myself some credit and venture to say that I am more attractive than her/him/it completely single. I thought about it and I THOUGHT ABOUT IT and decided that this guy just knows s/he is on The Real World and agreed to go on a date with her to get some of his own air time. With this in mind, I have decided to hire a full camera crew for no purpose at all, there will be no airing of this "show" (though I have been told I am made for reality TV), until I am bloody married. Cameras will follow me everywhere until some semi fame crazed fool agrees to be my boyfriend. YEs, just the type I like.
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