My Dream Job

I am currently in the process of cleaning out the 3,843 e-mails in my work inbox right now. No, that is not a typo. Three THOUSAND eight HUNDRED forty three e-mails. And I’ve only worked here since December! However did the employees of the great 925 communicate before the invention of the Internet?!

Well, I guess they picked up the phone. (You should hear my voicemail, the tone of which almost screams “I do not have time to return your call in the next Century so do not even bother leaving a message here!”). Or maybe they just wrote memos and sent them via courier?

It is 11:11 a.m. Gotta make a wish. I am wishing that it wasn’t taking 45 minutes to clean out my inbox. I am looking at my pretty toes while I wait for this e-mail mess to clear, thinking how my new pink polish makes my toes look tan.

Down to 3,092 e-mails…

So, in keeping with the style of our day, here is a work e-mail to You (because all of our carrier pigeons are currently tied up with other deliveries).

To: My Dear Reader
CC: All the friends you forward this to (because good writing should always be shared)
BCC: Mom (I don’t want you to be self conscious knowing she’s reading this over your shoulder)

Subject: My Dream Job

I wish I was the person employed solely to name nail polish. I am currently wearing Dutch Tulips, which is rather a boring name considering OPI turns out such shades as “Cozu-melted in the Sun” and “Rock-apulco Red,” just to name a couple from their new Mexico collection.

Down to 2,415 e-mails…

How does one get the job of Official Nail Polish Namer? Does OPI post a link on their Web site, “Now Open: Official Nail Polish Namer position!”

No! Back up to 2,420 e-mails…

Okay, just did some actual work, then checked out OPI's official Web site. Discouraging…no such position named. There must be an unpaid intern locked in a closet somewhere in middle America, eyes glazed over from staring at color swatches on every available digit…

Management: The theme this Spring is Former Communist Countries. Go!
Unpaid Intern: Um, err, uh, well, let's see, um, “Czech It Out Cherry?!”
Management: Brilliant! Now write that on 1,000 slips of paper and get the pigeons ready!

Only 1,625 e-mails to go…

All this Spring cleaning is making me hungry. Time to break for lunch. “Lunch Break Grape!”

Official Nail Polish Namer, over and out.

In Hiding

Yes, I finally did it. Just this morning, I set my online profile to Private (i.e. 14-year-old girl playing on the Internet without her parents knowledge). I did not do this so all those creepsters out in Cyber Space will stop sending me "Your picture is HOT!" messages, because who doesn't need a quick self-esteem boost on a Monday morning? No, no, I set it to Private because I heard this really creepy (creepier than MySpace stalkers) thing on the radio this morning about your next employer potentially not hiring you because of things they have read about you online. The sick b@stards!

Actually, I have personal experience with this. My current boss (luckily for me, a relaxed individual with a good sense of humor and penchant for my writing style) found and read one of my blog entries about the week I got hired.

Thankfully, I am still employed.

So BEWARE all of you 9-to-5ers looking for a new place to park your Post-it dispenser. Your future boss is online and knows just where to find you...

If The Glass Slipper Fits

This morning I got on the freeway directly behind a Ford Taurus sporting a hot pink Disney license plate cover that read, “Looking for…Prince Charming!”

This got me thinking not only about how badly hot pink clashes with the rusted teal of Ford Taurus sedans (or about how anyone old enough to drive should be too old to sport Disney princesses anywhere on their personal belongings), but also about how unfitting that statement is for single women of America today.

Why? Because the 20-something women of today are not looking for Prince Charming. They are looking for Disney’s Bad Guy. They are tossing out Happily Ever After in favor of the full-sensory scrapes and bruises garnered in the Big Bad World. But the classic Disney movies were made in the days before pierced and tattooed Generation X, so they could not account for Princess 2006 and how her life would really turn out.

Princess 1950 knew she deserved to be treated like a princess and could fully expect Prince Charming to come sweep her off her feet and carry her off into the sunset on a white horse.

But Princess 2006 grew up in an Internet frenzied mish-mash of too much choice and not enough fairy dust.

She drives a sports car, goes clubbing with her girlfriends on the weekends, and has (gasp) premarital relations. Princess 2006 is not looking for you, Prince Charming--working in her office IT department and putting a nice deposit down on a fixer-upper in a residential neighborhood. This 20-something Princess likes the fast lane and she is quite happy getting all of the Trouble out of her system before she is locked into Cinderella’s life with a ring on her finger.

And Trouble comes in the form of a smoldering hunk of a man sporting 3-day stubble and a wrinkled Hanes t-shirt.

He is Prince Charming’s good-for-nothing cousin.

He most likely holds a couple of part-time jobs and prefers hitting the beach to Starbucks at 8 a.m. He knows he should open the door for you, but he just can’t seem to remember. And he would pick up the tab for dinner, but his wallet doesn’t fit in his board shorts. He is not your boyfriend because he is leaving his options open, and he’s leaving those options open with Snow White and Cinderella too.

And this is alright with Princess 2006? gasp the Disney execs. Is her Fairy Godmother M.I.A.?!

Well, for right now…yes. Because Trouble is exciting and fresh and fun and no frills. Trouble is edgy and hot and could stop traffic with his chiseled abs. But eventually, Princess 2006 will get tired of driving her own car and opening her own doors and dining in another joint with paper napkins and a drive-thru.

She will long for a moonlit ride in a pumpkin coach. And that Prince in IT has started to look, well, pretty Charming.

Gave up writing for Lent

I came home from a sushi dinner last night to find my fish floating upside down in his bowl. After learning of my decadent consumption of his relatives, I think he died of disgust.

Maybe this is God's way of telling me to give up seafood for Lent... or to stop buying pets on a whim.

Speaking of Lent, what have I given up? Smoking, actually. But it started a few weeks ago with a gnarly sinus infection. This lack of nicotine inhalation has actually been less traumatic than anticipated considering my throat is still fresh with what feels like razor blade nicks and a constant sewage spill. Gross with a capital G. But I digress.

Back to Lent: Forty days of giving up something that you do not really need to have anyway. Like in 4th Grade when I boldly gave up potato chips until Easter. Come that first Hot Dog Day in the Catholic school cafeteria, picture me reaching for the Doritos arguing: “Hey, these are tortilla chips, Sister!”

Lent sacrifices usually follow this formula:

a) You give up something you eat/drink/ingest
b) This is not your absolute favorite something to eat/drink/ingest
c) You do not depend on this something to survive the every day trauma of life

I ran a few scenarios through my head (and past my social advisors) to determine what I should personally give up for the big J.C. this year. Those scenarios went something like this…

I’ll Give Up Sweets…
But since there are only crumbs of the 2 boxes of Girl Scouts cookies left in the cupboard, and I have to keep a Food Diary to impress my personal trainer anyway, that would be too easy.

I’ll Give Up Coffee…
But that would just make my coworkers’ lives a living Hell from about 8am-noon, so that would not be very kind. And I am trying to win Employee of the Month, so caffeine is my ally on this one.

I’ll Give Up Alcohol…
But that is sadly the center of my social existence and the balance that keeps the pendulum from swinging too far to “bright-eyed and bushy tailed at 6 a.m.” And this would also cause my cocktailing shifts to turn quickly from Weekend Moonlighting into the 7th Circle.

So I have finally decided just to give up Sanity…but that could just be the lack of nicotine talking.

I am a 2010 Olympic Hopeful in these events:

1) Curling. Also known by anyone outside of Canada as “that thing with the squeegees.” No, I haven’t actually curled before (is that the correct verb for “to play Curling”? I need to find a Canadian to ask). However, I have bowled in socks. Which is exactly the same as pushing a heavy object down a slick surface while trying not to split your pants.

2) Alpine Skiing. I was a proud member of S.A.R.S. (Schweitzer Alpine Racing School, not the deadly airborne disease) back in the day. Although I seem to remember less trophy winning and more hiding from my coaches in snow forts surrounded by penny candy wrappers.

3) Beer Pong. Okay, I realize this is not an Olympic-recognized sport (yet). But I am from Washington, and we Washingtonians excel at two things: Lasting through unending winters, and drinking.

So all of you national sponsors out there, send those bids on in. I would like to sport Reebok Pumps (hot in 1989, hotter in 2010), a neon Spyder one-piece, and a Budweiser logo on my helmet (good enough for SeaWorld, good enough for me).

U…
S...
A!