Numbers

Jobs applied for between September 20 and November 31: 50+
Jobs heard back from: 2
Potential employers who replied only to tell me that I "did not meet qualifications": 1
Potential employers who replied to offer me a job within 30 minutes of receipt of application: 1
Interest factor of offered job on a scale of 1 to 10: 0
Level of desperation for any job, regardless of interest factor, on a scale of 1 to 10: 11
Time it took to accept offered job: < 5 seconds
Hours worked on Tuesday: 11
% of those hours spent wanting to pull my hair out: 100
Ratio of hours spent feeling lucky to have a job : hours spent feeling relieved that job only lasts 5 weeks: 1:1
Time of Wednesday departure for Thanksgiving at in-laws: 4:00am
Time of arrival: 3:00pm
Minutes after arrival that sister-in-law announced her pregnancy: 3
Minutes spent jumping around and squealing, approximately: 1 million
Drinks consumed over next four days: 30
% of above drinks consumed before 11am: 5
Drinks consumed based on rationale that pregnant sister-in-law cannot have alcohol and that I must therefore drink for her: 10
% of stay at in-laws of which memory has been obliterated by alcohol consumption/food coma: 50
% of stay at in-laws spent fending off father-in-law's derogatory comments about my hat: 25
Time of Sunday departure from in-laws: 10:00am
States passed through: 7
States in which it rained endlessly: 7
States in which endless rain was accompanied by terrible smells: 1
Odds that terrible-smelling state will always be New Jersey: 100:1
Hours of driving, anticipated: 10
Hours of driving, actual: 13
Hours driven by Brad: 9
Hours driven by Brad from the backseat: 4
Time of arrival in NYC: 11:00pm
Level of exhaustion: unfathomable.

(Y'know, just in case anyone wondered why I haven't been blogging.)

All wet.

Awhile back, I snagged my most interesting gig to date -- writing the label copy, manifesto and website copy for a totally new brand of bottled water. It was one of those product concepts that everyone thinks about doing but never actually does: Take NYC tap water (which has a reputation for being yummy and has won its fair share of taste tests), bottle it locally, and sell it on the the shelves of New York's groceries, bodegas, etc.

The result? This:



(Note: Is this a stupid idea? Maybe. But when you combine the publicity-friendly gimmickry with ridiculously low production and shipping costs, it starts to look a lot more like "stupid genius".)

Unfortunately, between signing the pre-launch non-disclosure agreement and my own inability to stay organized, I finished up the project and then completely forgot about it.

Today, though, as I was composing yet another cover letter to some anonymous Craigslister in search of a copywriter, I found myself wondering, "Hey! Whatever happened to TAP'DNY?"

Imagine my delighted surprise when I visited their lovely little website and discovered.... this.

Whee!

Seriously, TAP'D, way to go. You know you've arrived when you've been inside Regis Philbin's mouth.

It's not just James McAvoy anymore.

About 5 minutes ago, after scrolling through our 1000+ channels three times only to come up empty-handed, I finally decided to watch...

...the Pussycat Dolls Live in Manchester. (What? What??? I like the dancing, damnit.)

Unfortunately, I tuned in three minutes too early and discovered that they were preempting the concert with the music video for Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry".



Upon which Brad and I became (I am guessing) the Last People In The Whole World to discover that said video stars Peter Petrelli from Heroes in the role of the jilted boyfriend.


Me: (staring) What the--
Brad: Is that--
Me: Peter Petrelli?
Brad: It is Peter Petrelli!

(There is a pause.)

Brad: We're, um, gonna have to watch this. Because, you know, it's Peter Petrelli.

(There is another pause.)

Me: (squealing) OH MY GOD! Those tattoos!
Brad: He doesn't have those in real life.
Me: No, but they're still awful.

(Another pause. Fergie is now thrashing around and singing, "I hope you know! I hope you knoooooowowowowww!")

Me: By the way, I hope you know... I have a huge crush on that actor.
Brad: Uh huh.
Me: I mean, I actually had a dream about him last night. Literally, last night, I dreamed that I made out with him.
Brad: Uh huh.
Me: Hey, don't look at me like that! I was totally horrified In my dream, I was like, "Oh my God! I made out with that guy! And sure, he's on television and he is ridiculously good-looking, but that is no excuse!"
Brad: Right.

(Pause.)

Me: I'm actually glad I saw this. Between the tattoos and the awful music, I think the crush is pretty much over.
Brad: (sighs and looks at ceiling)
Fergie: And big girls don't cryyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!

Oh, Peter-actor-guy. I hardly knew ya.

P.S. Lest anyone start thinking that Brad got the rough end of the deal in this marriage, I would like to point out that, within five minutes of this conversation, he was enthusiastically humping our dog to the beat of "Don'cha".

Just sayin'.

Unemployment perk #1: Learning new things about your dog.

Coming into the home stretch of Joblessness: Month 2, all the newness has worn off. I'm bored, I'm depressed, and most importantly, I'm no longer the slightest bit amused, surprised or delighted by the experience of being home during the day.

The children who run screaming out of the school next door at noon don't cause me to peer out the window anymore. The fact that TNT runs episodes of Without a Trace and Law & Order all afternoon offers none of its original relief. Even the infuriating red Honda which is always parked outside my building, and whose alarm goes off roughly every 25 minutes throughout the day, barely makes an impression anymore.

Life has become dull.

Until this morning, when I was doing my usual rounds of internet reading, and somehow landed on a website which immediately began playing the song "Mexico" by Jimmy Buffet.

And the dog -- who is generally the most apathetic and lazy animal in the world -- came running into the room at full speed, barked madly for three seconds, and started dancing.


It wasn't a very good dance, and he wore himself out pretty fast, and I realize that this may not sound all that exciting to anyone else. But considering what Fridays are usually like around here, I'll take what I can get.

My dog loves Jimmy Buffet. TGIF, mofo.

go Facebook yourself.

Like many people who grew up to be functioning, happy, intellectually curious adults, I did not enjoy high school.

At all.

In fact, by the time I graduated -- having pretty much divided my senior year between a) dodging a group of delinquent freshmen who kept throwing gum in my hair, b) crying in the bathroom when one of the resident Mean Girls called me fat, and c) attempting to debunk the ridiculous but persistent rumor that my friend Maggie and I had engaged in lesbian sex on a trampoline while being filmed by some guy named Joe -- it was all I could do not to grab my diploma from the principal and run screaming into the night.

Of course, that was ten years ago.

Yep, ten years. And now, naturally, it's all water under the bridge. I'm 26, living in the greatest city in the world, happily career-focused and married to a lovely man. And, as is so often the case in these situations, the people who made me miserable at the age of 17 have all stayed in my hometown, aged poorly and developed enormous, lumpy asses.

But despite all that -- and I'm sure I'm not alone here -- I still remember all the shitty things that happened to me in high school, and the names and faces of the people responsible. The best-friend-turned-worst-enemy who taped a "Herpes Test Results" envelope to my locker? Yep, I remember her. The "popular guy" who asked me out but demanded that I keep it a secret because he didn't want his friends to find out? Oh yeah, him too. And, of course, the lovely young woman who used a Sharpie to write "Kat gives head to her dog" on the wall of the girls' locker room during sophomore year... well, what can I say? It would be impossible to forget her! After all we went through together!

Which is why I nearly peed in my pants when I opened my Facebook account yesterday and saw her smiling face staring out at me, accompanied by the message, "Jennifer wants to be your friend!"

Don't get me wrong -- I've always appreciated Facebook for its ability to throw me the occasional surprise faceful of What the fuck, but... well, you know. What the fuck.

Jennifer, darling, did I miss something, here? I mean, yes, it's been twelve years since that whole "gives head to her dog" thing, and yes, twelve years is a long time... but not that long.

It is not nearly long enough, for instance, that I would respond to your request by saying, "Oh yes, of course, let's be Facebook friends, because I totally do not remember that you once accused me of BLOWING DOGS."

In fact -- and I tell you this as a friend, of course -- when it comes to making friend requests? As a general rule, you should probably wait until it's been at least twenty years since you last called the person in question a dog blower. I know it probably seems unreasonable but people have a weird way of remembering things like that.

A stroll through the lady garden.

On Wednesday, after waking up exhausted/hung over/high on my newfound Love of Country, I headed to the Bronx to spend the day at the New York Botanical Garden with my mom.

For those of you who don't know my mother, I should mention that visiting a garden with her is much like visiting a SciFi convention with these guys:




Namely, it'll make you feel like you know absolutely nothing about the subject at hand, while your companion happily offers a stream-of-consciousness-esque knowledgeable commentary on everything you see... or, in my mom's case, will arbitrarily break off from conversation with you in order to talk to the plants.

Mom: So, the other day, your father told me-- OOOOOH! (sees plant, runs to it) What ARE YOU?!
Me: Um?
Mom: Oh, of course, it's [unintelligible stream of latin words], and that's [other unintelligible stream of latin words]. And of course you remember this one, it's [something that sounds like "cockblock moose dice"].
Me: Er... yes! Of course! And here's a flower that looks like a peanut!


At this point, I pretty much gave up on pretending to know anything about flowers, and just started taking pictures.





Once we started walking around, we also discovered that the NYBG is hosting 20 Henry Moore pieces, all colossal, gestural sculptures that look beautifully at home in the garden. Like this one...

and this one...

and this one, which.... um... yeah.

Me: Wow, look. It's a giant bronze vagina.
Mom: Huh. Oh, but wait -- according to the plaque here, this sculpture is called "Large Totem Head".
Me: Yeah, fine, whatever. I can call my vagina a Large Totem Head too. It doesn't change the fact that it's a vagina.
Mom: ...The bronze certainly is a lovely color.

(pause)

Me: VAGINA.


And, just so the last word in this post isn't "vagina", here's a picture of me smelling a flower.

P.S. The rose garden is in bloom and the Moore sculptures are fabulous -- if you're in the NYC area, go.

Dear America,

I am so proud of you.

election day diatribe.

Let me begin by saying this: I do not think John McCain is a bad guy.

I realize that, as a liberal, this puts me in a minority. Over the past two elections, we've seen a seismic shift in the way people think about politics, one for which we can thank the policies and ideologies of George W. Bush. Whatever he's done for (or to) this country, he will leave office having successfully polarized us in a most tragic way -- pitting us against each other on religion, abortion, education, race, sex and sexual orientation. Look at the electoral maps from 2000 and 2004, and you'll see a vast swathe of red contained by two blue brackets. It's like the parties have become so alienated from each other that one of them is actually fleeing into the ocean.

Thanks to George W. Bush and the turmoil of the past eight years, it's no longer enough for Republicans and Democrats to debate each other -- we have to HATE each other.

And so, we've found ourselves thoroughly divided into two groups --The coastal liberals, a bunch of elitist, effete, arugula-eating pansies who, if given the chance, would climb right into bed for a round of sodomy with Osama Bin Laden; and the heartland conservatives, a uniformly ignorant, racist, sexist, gay-hating, beer-guzzling class of pseudo-humans who think evolution is a bunch of hooey.

It's as simple as that, right?

For me, the luxury of thinking this way has been revoked -- I married a Republican, and while we don't agree on everything, I'm forced to admit that his party affiliation doesn't make him a bad person. And while the other-ization of alternate points of view is an understandable tendency, in the end, it accomplishes absolutely nothing... except to make us frightened and mistrustful of each other.

Which is why, while I don't think McCain is a bad guy, I do think he's waged a terrible, ugly campaign.

He, Sarah Palin and his campaign leaders have called Obama a socialist, a terrorist, an enemy of Israel, a vapid celebrity. They've questioned his patriotism and his religious beliefs. They've stood idly by while GOP-affiliated groups try to sway the public through race-baiting and fear-mongering.

McCain famously said that he's "not George Bush" -- but he seems bent on dividing the country in precisely the same way as our current President. The past few months have been marked by attempt after attempt to otherize Obama, to tug at people's worst fears, to cement in our minds that He's Different From Us and That's Bad.

So, while I was already supporting Obama on the basis of his policies, his tax plan and his grace under pressure, I'm now adding another reason to the list: I'd like, at least for awhile, to see my country less divided.

And now, I am going to vote.

White t-shirt: $5. Aqua-net hairspray: $2. Bag of balloons: $2.

One night pretending to be Bristol Palin...

Priceless.