Moms rock. Even when you’re a bratty teenaged girl and they won’t let you borrow that appliqued sweatshirt with the puffy moon and stars and you just about think it’s the end of your world because now how in heavens will TK notice you?—moms rock.
Because only a mom would do you the favor of telling you that you can’t borrow that heinous creation. Only a mom would keep that sweatshirt all to herself, no matter how much you beg and plead, because that’s how much you mean to her.
Moms are all-knowing (‘member the time she sniffed out the bathtub vodka on your breath when you came home from your first makeout party?), all-powerful (she could ground you with her eyes, punish your brother for smoking pot in the garage, vacuum the living room, and never even leave the kitchen), and, it turns out, totally awesome career placement specialists.
Dear—not dear, really, you’re pretty much a step above Hitler and two or three below telemarketers—Identity Thieves, and also aspiring Identify Thieves,
I believe I’ve hinted around at this before, or maybe come straight out and said it, but … the job search is much like dating. And different jobs are much like the different dating options in your life, ranging from the abusive to the adorable. Certain ones are right for certain people, and not for others. And, I have to believe, there’s one for everybody.
The job that comes to you easy, you may not want—until it’s gone, and then you live a life of regret over it. The job that’s a challenge only makes you desire it more—until you get it and it reveals that it’s a total bore and a half, and has halitosis. And the job that treats you like shit and kicks you when you’re down? Well, you’ll just come crawling right back to it in the morning hoping it will still have you, until the day that the light streams in through the dingy window of your pathetic, oppressed soul and you get the nerve to karate-chop it in the nuts and scream “I quit!”
If this week is any indication, things must be getting better, economically speaking and all. Here’s why:
1) I will have been employed by external sources, working outside of the confines of my glorious and overly decorated (according to some) apartment this entire week. Whoot. This hasn’t happened since early May, 2009. And boy, are my arms tired.
Apologies, I’m a little out of sorts today. It happened again. And I’m not sure it’s not going to happen over and over and over again … which has me a little worried. I dare say it is not good for one’s psyche to be jerked out of a pleasant sleep by stomping, shouting, accusatory blame, and furniture dragging.
True, it’s one of our more dubious American holidays, placed so closely with Canadian Thanksgiving as to seem a second thought (not that Canadian Thanksgiving is a second thought, at least not to Canadians). Today, many hardworking American folks aren’t even awarded the day off for Columbus’s troubles.
I promised you a Dad-vice, and a Dad-vice you shall receive. Whether it’s 1972 or 2009, and you’re looking for a job or wandering the streets, it pays to keep them eyes peeled.
Suddenly it’s 5 pm and I’m eating cold pasta out of an old (cleaned, I swear) plastic container that once housed sorbet. This is what happens when one doesn’t consume a drop of alcohol from Monday through Thursday, and then goes on a drinking spree with former coworkers to celebrate Thursday night. There’s something to be said for having a “base level” of booze in one’s system at all times, despite what my personal trainer might tell you.
At any rate, headache has largely subsided at this point, and pasta has been restorative, but I am certainly glad that today did not involve having to enter an office building. I am not sure I would have had the strength.
