Somebody hire me!

What do Sphincter Girl’s tuckus and San Diego’s job-o-sphere have in common? They both had a gaping hole ripped in them by a smirky chimperor. Bah-dum chhh.

So yes yes, in case you couldn’t already tell by my crude, tailor-made, bad economy jest, job hunting in San Diego is crushing my soul.

Over the past two months, I have applied to well over 200 jobs - jobs that I am, more often than not, over-qualified for.

Guess how many of said jobs have bothered to call me back? Seven. A lousy, pie-in-the-face seven! And of those seven, only two were actually willing to hire me!

(The disdain continues) And fuck you very much Bachelor’s degree from Boston College - posing so high and mighty in your smug glass frame - neither of those two jobs paid more than what I could get working at Starbucks!

The price tag attached to each year’s worth of knowledge that was crammed into my brain at BC was over 40,000 dollars. Meaning that by the time I donned that adorable cap and gown ensemble, my brain was worth 160,000 dollars and change.

So ten dollars an hour, plus the spiffy company hat and apron, and perhaps a free green tea latte at the end of the day seems like totally fair compensation for a shiny, new, knowledgeized brain, right?

I guess it’s better than poor ol’ brainy collecting dust on the clearance rack at Walley World. Or even worse, being ousted to the isle of misfit toys with that pain in the ass Charles Nelson Reilly-in-a-box (I would LOVE to own the misfit toy gun that spurted jam, however. I would use that gun, and maybe even get me another one that shot peanut butter, to attack unsuspecting bread products and make them delicious).

Perhaps the government would be a doll and let me barter my student loans for coffee beans?

I would do anything for love...but I won't do that!

Bridget Jones is my hero. I have seen that movie roughly a trillion times; it is my visual comfort food. Whenever I’m having one of those mean-red sort of days where I just want to go fetal on my bed and swaddle myself tighter than a burrito’s wedgy in down comforter snuggliness, I pop a little BJD into the DVD and all becomes good in the hood again. BJD does for the soul what mac ’n’ cheese does for the taste buds. Gobs of warm, gooey contentment.

I now pretty much know the whole movie by heart, and so have adopted several of Miss Jones’ pearls of wisdom into my mantra. Namely the one about not wanting to die fat and alone and end up half eaten by wild dogs. Or in my case, the giant R.O.U.S.’s that reside behind my apartment.

With that said, I agreed to go out with this guy that I met while I was living the charmed homeless life in a dank, hole-in-the-wall hostel during my first week in San Diego.

My encounter with said guy occurred on the last night that I spent at the hostel. I had gone out for one last hostel hurrah with some of the new friends that I had made to a local dive bar called the Jewel Box, which is where I became acquainted with David.

Here's a little mood setting for ya - if the Jewel Box were personified, it would have an awesomely bad singing career churning out such melodious gems as Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad and In the Land of the Pig, the Butcher is King. And oh yes, it would be Meat Loaf.

I wasn’t all that interested in David but I’m hardly ever interested in the guys that I meet. Dating was spoiled for me a couple of years ago when I met one of those rare, perfectly perfect, unicorn, albeit unattainable guys. And now my dating standards are higher than Bob Marley at an all-you-can-eat brownie buffet in Amsterdam.

To combat this, I came up with the following plan - I will agree to go out with a guy that I’m not particularly interested in as long as I do not find him vile - as long as I at least nothing him, I will agree to see him again. My reasoning being that a lack of on the spot sparks does not necessarily mean that lightning won’t strike later on.

So for our lightning prelude, David took me to the Surf Club for drinks and a steak dinner. So far so good. Boozy McGee here loves her beef and alcohol.

Slight downside however. The Surf Club makes you cook your own food. Call me old-fashioned…or a lazy arse, but when I go out to eat, I want the restaurant to do the meal prep for me. Plus, I ain't no Rachel Ray, so the chances are great that my meal will end up tasting like a tire, and then I'll have no one to blame but myself.

Anyhoos, all in all things were cruising along smoothly. Even for Libido, who decided to call shotgun halfway through dinner.

That was, however, until David brought up how much he loves sunflower paintings and that he used to sing in an a cappella group.

Umm...is it wrong to want a man plate that doesn't come with a side of girly fries? This totally let the air out of my tires leaving stymied Libido high and dry thumbing for a ride back to Collin-Farrellville.

Meh, I tried.

Rhinotillexomania uh oh

There's something I need to get off my chest dot dot dot my third nipple. Just kidding, but yeah that too.

Anyhoos, here it goes. This summer, I swapped spit (etc.) with the middle school nose picker (insert shocked gasp for emphasis). It was a low point. A supersonic-smack your forehead-what the hell was I thinking low point.

He is a reformed pointer, however. He has seen the error of his rhinotillexomaniac ways (you bet your ass I wikipedia-ed nose-picking) and has been clean for a number of years.

Nevertheless, that does not make it ok. Neither does blaming the booze. Obvi, I was rockin’ the beer goggles, which made ex-Mr. Bougs look like he’d been dipped in handsome sauce a la Ed Norton.

Incidentally, fruit flies also rock the beer goggles. After one too many ethanol cocktails, Chuck fruitfly is all “heeeeeeeeeaaaay how you doin’!?” to Larry fruitfly (once again, thank you wikipedia).

But I digress. This back seat batch of nonsense was not not not ok. Admittedly, I’d been experiencing a bit of a dry spell. Well actually, it wasn't really so much a spell as it has become more of a lifestyle. Thumbs down.

So when it came to decision making time, the randy Sandy inside me was jonesing for a bonesing. So up and over I went.

I’m still dizzy from the shame spiral.

Rats!

Wow. Summer is pretty much finito. Official countdown: 7 days. But I guess that doesn’t matter much out here in sun-drenched San Diego.

I feel for all you New Englanders though, I really do (insert stifled, bratty chuckle).

Even before I made like a tree and left Bean Town, some of the leaves had already opted for their autumn ensembles. And now, from what I see on weather.com, the summer warmth is beginning to wilt. And I’m sure every pair of New England butt cheeks are clenching with disinclination to acknowledge the imminent arrival of another cold, dreary, snow-filled winter (suckahs!).

Snowflake? Blizzard? Nor’easter? These words no longer hold meaning for me. These and all other winter related words have been excommunicated from my vocabulary. I am now a devout follower of Sunshinism.

Mmm that sounded pretty cult-like, didn’t it? I swear I haven’t joined a cult. I’m steering clear of the Kool-Aid and Nikes…pinky swear.

But if it’s any consolation, residing in the bushes behind my apartment, there is a pack of rats the size of taxi cabs (ran into the exterminator today). So that’s always delightful.

Then again, if gas prices continue to make like the number of Lindsay Lohan’s staggers into rehab, then the R.O.U.S's could be a potential solution. Saddle up ol’ Ratty and away you go!

Ew. Please no.

Sandy Eggo

When my brain wheels are turning full throttle, and I can feel the anxiety levels starting to mount, like on a roller coaster when you’re inching your way to the top of the slope for that first horrifying plunge that launches your stomach into your throat, and makes your whole body rattle and roll so that you now know exactly what it would be like to go through life as a maraca, I need to hash my worries out with someone. But not just anyone will do.

What I like to do is drive right on past the exits for Normalton and Sane-Peopleville, and park my cranked-out jalopy in front of a mirror and pretend that I am talking to a celebrity. For a little one on imaginary-one celebrity therapy time.

Lately, as my San Diego departure time draws near, I’ve been conversing a lot with Edward Norton; he gets me. Plus, he is easy on the eyes and is the fluffer to my nutter.

So what usually happens in my delusional therapy sessions is that I run into Edward in some commonplace setting like the grocery store or on the subway. And naturally, I have a Siren-esque effect on him where he becomes so enticed by my charm that he invites me out to dinner, which is where I proceed to open up the Pandora’s box of lunacy that is my brain.

Then, depending on the mood that I’m in, the celebrity therapy session can go either one of two ways:

The first being that Edward is so enthralled by my tales that he decides to pen a screenplay based on my life. We then exchange digits and decide to meet everyday for as long as it takes to go over filming details - then I win an Oscar.

The second ending to my celebrity therapy session is a bit friskier, however. In this scenario, I pop the lid off my id and Edward comes back to my place where an entirely different kind of film is made.

In a nut shell, I’m a big, steaming pile of crazy. But with Edward’s help, I am like so ready to live in San Diego. Woot woot.

Coast Swap

The first time I saw Titanic, at the raw, green age of 13, my newly pubertized ovaries gave Leonardo DiCaprio the superlative of standing OVAtions (oh the wittiness) and so, he was dubbed the crown baby making partner.

Ever since then, I have had this insatiable urge (might it be my megalomaniac of a biological clock?) that I need to get myself to California. And so, here I am in sunny San Diego.

Leaving home wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be though. As I moved through the airport security at Logan, I found myself slogging knee deep through a gooey quagmire of the "I don't want to leave my mommy's".

I felt the compulsion to turn and wave to the parental unit not once, but four times. Good God, I’m such a boneless little fledgling.

However, any lame tears that I had stored up for the in-flight portion of the journey were soon transferred to the bigger fish to fry bucket.

Once the plane was up up in the air, I had the fret rug pulled out from under me to be replaced with wall to wall nausea. Suh-weet.

And damn it all to hell, if this wasn’t the one time that I was seated next to a decently attractive, non-creepy, young guy who, under less barfy circumstances, I totally would have fantasized about having an erotic romp in the airplane bathroom!

But no, I was too busy adorably dry heaving into the air sick baggy. Go me.

Dunkin' DoNOTS

So, thus far my dieting ploy to intimidate my fat ass and thighs into retreat by threatening to swaddle them in nothing but spandex and/or saran wrap has failed miserably.

But let’s be real, I suck at intimidation. Kind of like Bambi trying to mug someone, “No, I will not give you my wallet, you cute, little deer. Now come here and lemme pet you! You‘re so freakin’ cute!”

So I came up with a new dechunking plan. Any time I want to eat something, I ask myself “WWGD?” What would Gisele do? Crisp lettuce? Gisele says yes! A half gallon of double chocolate fudge brownie ice cream? Gisele says noooo! Put down the spoon and back away slowly.

Then I ogle a picture of her 5 foot 11 inch Brazilian goddessey goodness and mentally photo shop my head onto her body...my thinspiration.