I recently got a new job after being on the hunt for a little over a year. Damn you, flaccid economy!  It was a long process, all told, spanning eighteen interviews, countless reassessments of the happiness/salary/workplace correlation, and two very brief moments in history where I considered jobs I have historically deemed unsavory: retail and clowning. It was a long exhausting process that has, for now, come to an end.

This process is not a foreign one. Having recently entered my 30s, I have watched several friends in various age brackets wade through the troughs of gainful employment. I myself have held far too many jobs in what most HR professionals  would surely deem far too short a time span. There are many reasons for my fickle CV —new opportunities, new locations—but mostly the good old realization that I just don’t like what I do.  And I am not alone. The majority of people I know legitimately hate their jobs, resent their schedules and mutter curse-laden voodoo spells under their breath whenever their boss’s names are mentioned. They dream of breaking out, telling people off and fucking people over. Resignation becomes a semi-religious term; two-weeks’ notice the epicenter of the canon of the disgruntled.

We who hate our jobs are not a passive bunch by nature, with our manic dreams of freedom and machete-wielding revenge (metaphorical of course, Rambo), but we become passive and pliant on the surface, usually while silently plotting our escape, and usually after our spirits have been broken.

Yo. Wanna Hire Me?

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...that are not so awesome as adults:

Happy Meal Toys

Remember how exciting this used to be? You beg and plead your mother and fathers to take you for greasy, sugary, fatty, delicious fast food so you can be rewarded with the coolest little plastic trinket this side of type two diabetes.  Stuck in between limply fried potatoes and battered chicken briquettes were individually wrapped emblems of hope and childhood, hermetically sealed promises of hours of play and happiness. While recently cleaning out my basement, however, I stumbled upon one of these lost relics of youth. It looked like this.

Wait a minute … what? Is that? … Is that a fork? A trident? Satan’s chosen weapon/accessory? Nope. It’s a gardening tool.  A miniature, flimsily constructed trowel and pitchfork that would be helpful only if you had the hands of a remarkably dexterous two-year old and had planted a garden made of yogurt. And the damn little toy was broken. Still in the bag, and broken, one of the tines having snapped off during all those years of incredibly strenuous storage. Way to ruin my dreams, Hamburglar, and be a cheap-ass to boot.

Sugar Cereals

Disclaimer 1: I am coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs and always will be. Chocolate milk and jet-puffed balls of cookie-like substance breakfast is pretty much my dream of dreams (a.k.a. liquid Oreos. Make it happen, Nabisco). Amazing.

Disclaimer dos: I was not allowed very many cereals as a child, so my lonely walk of longing down Aisle 7 was punctuated with a lot of angst and drooling. What cereals were allowed in my house? Cheerios, Shredded Wheat and Cracklin’ Oat Bran. I was a very regular child.

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If you were a cherry tomato in a salad, how would you escape from the bowl to avoid being eaten?
- Hungry and Confused

Dear Hungry and Confused, first, I read this and I thought up a few genius things immediately, because that is what my genius mind is capable of: instant genius. Initial idea: toothpick pole vault.  Second option: celery ramp, perhaps aided by a step up from a very helpful large floret of broccoli. Third item of brilliance: in-bowl protection by a thatch of potent red onion slivers, woven together to form a shield.

At least I'm not ketchup

But then I remembered that I hate cherry tomatoes. Do you ever notice how when you bite into a cherry tomato it resembles what it would probably feel like to bite into an inflamed eyeball? Or a small animal’s testicle? Or a Gusher? If I spot a cherry tomato in my salad I have to cut it in half and scoop out the guts, because the seeds and what I can now only imagine is grape-flavored testicular eyeball pus, are squirting into my mouth with every bite. And I don’t need to tell you all that is not a pleasurable experience (except in very small social circles in France).

So, really, what you’re asking me is a trick question. But I won’t be fooled! Oh no! Not this time, chica-boom! The real, true, honest to goodness and dollars to donuts truth, is that if I were a cherry tomato, I would suffer from extreme self hatred and my morose and disgusting self would wallow in a pool of shame and Italian dressing until someone took pity on me and stabbed me with a fork.

I Can Think of Worse Ways to Die...

I keep writing into advice columnists for help. Why won’t they answer?
- Believes In Needing A Correct Answer

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Much ado has been made about the Man Cave. These spaces, dens dedicated to testosterone, beer, meat, sports and scantily clad women, serve as a reclamation of shared space, a declaration and celebration of gender. A semi-official definition of the phrase reads: “man cave n. A dedicated area of a house, such as a basement, workshop, or garage, where a man can be alone or socialize with his friends.” And why not? Men and women are different in some fundamental ways: bits and parts, gaseousness, body hair, and sometimes, if we’re just going to go ahead and be stereotypical, in ways that are split down party lines (as in how we like to party, get down, have fun, do shit with the dude in the place).

 I firmly believe in a separate but equal policy of gender politics. Men and women are different. See?

Battle of the Sexy!

Those differences should be celebrated, not ignored, as our equality lies in being able to achieve the same level awesomeness, no matter which path (masculine, farty, corn-nut encrusted) we may take (rose-lined, solid gold, with massaging capabilities).

It is in this spirit of egalitarianism that I present the feminine alternative of the Man Cave, the ode to all things lady-ish and excellent: The Lady Lair.

My Lady Lair Shall Have:

• A giant television. Just like the Man Cave staple, at the center of the Lady Lair will be a big ole screen for watching all the ridiculous things I enjoy (in no particular order, Discovery Channel nature shows, The Celtics, reruns of Charlie’s Angels, I Shouldn’t Be Alive and any time The American President is on … that movie cannot be turned away from, Michael Douglas.)
• Beds. Lots of beds. Like, a big huge giant tiered bed system with different inclines, levels of squishiness, several million pillows and high thread count sheets covered with fluffy duvets.
• Something that reminds us of our childhood. It’s nice to remember back to the day we weren’t disappointed sex objects trying to be thin and successful and married and combat wrinkles with the Oil of Olay Battle Axe moisturizer.
• Something that reminds us of Robert Pattinson. I don’t care that he is super ridiculously lame and probably has no personality and I am kind of a pervy jungle cat for finding him so undeniably attractive, but the man is DELICIOUS.

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Your burningest questions answered! (hint: use a soothing balm)

If I could shape-shift, should I shift into a cheetah or leopard?

Well, that all depends. Cheetahs are capable of bursts of incredible speed, but can only perform said burst once every few hours. If you were looking to use your shape shifting abilities for a purpose, like say, challenging Jackie Joyner-Kersee to a duel of swiftness, then I’d say cheetah for sure. Leopards, on the other hand, are solid hunters and a lot less fragile than their equally as bespeckled counterparts. In a head-to-head battle, a leopard could probably beat a cheetah, but only if it could catch it. Toss up!

If you are thinking of shape-shifting into a baby cheetah or leopard (is that even feasible according to the rules of Einsteinian physics?), I would go for leopard, without question. The reason being that I could then take you home and cuddle you for hours because you are the cutest thing I have ever seen.  

Just please don’t shape-shift back. I don’t know what you look like, I don’t react well to strangers and I highly doubt the miniature set of footed pajamas I plan on putting the cub in would fit you.

My boyfriend just told me he is into water sports. How should I deal with that?

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So, my black footed ferret said “Barbados,” cause she had to go give her boyfriend some Bon Jovi love. Land O’Lakes! Iron Maiden Officials, I wish that side order of bacon is more of a Free-Will Baptist. Welcome to Finland.

Find out what you could be saying when you abbreviate. All of these are listed as legitimate alternatives to our much-beloved slang. I do not think that means what you think that means …

BRB: Be Right Back

Brazilian Rainbow Boa

Blue Ridge Boogie                 

Barbados

BFF: Best Friend Forever

Biblical Foundations for Freedom

Black Footed Ferret

Bovine Follicular Fluid

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I work in a cubicle. It hurts my soul. The day is one long sigh, a dirge of defeat. But they have free coffee and vendors sometimes send us chocolate bars as bribes to keep doing things for them, so hey, VICTORY.

In order to not cry constantly, I like to think of things that don’t suck. Here are some:

1. Meat.  Meat does not suck. Unless you’re a vegetarian (and then you suck. KIDDING. Not kidding. KIDDING AGAIN). See what I did there? I talked crazy. That’s cause I’m high on meat, with all its delicious hormones and sinews and blood, and it’s not even noon yet.
   
    

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