Would It Be Wrong If I...

spent my free time watching the teenaged Lacrosse players practice at St. Mark's?

I drove by there today, and thought about becoming the new hot teacher. Mary Kay Letourneau. I don't want to be lumped in with that crazy broad.

Bogda and Jason, I really think you two should hang out. It would be like colliding comedy atoms.

I got nothin'. I'm 35. Good pancakes. No job. A mountain of laundry to do. Weather's bad. Speaking of weather, I need to check the report on NYC.

Look for us on Letterman!

Interviewing: I'm Not Wild About It, Either.

Interview did not go as well as I expected. I was told I made some mistakes I shouldn't have. I thought some of them were simply judgment calls, and I would have argued my point if it was a real-life situation. But it's not good form to argue with someone who's interviewing you. In any case, I don't expect a call back.

Which is fine. They just wanted me to dance. Editors don't work directly with writers there. What is the point in that, I ask? What they want is a proofreader so they can say "DANCE, MONKEY! DANCE!" I am a copy editor. And if I have to explain the difference, then I am going to punch you in the face next time I see you.

I found three more leads, which is my unemployment quota each week. And it's only Wednesday! I can watch Lost in peace knowing that's taken care of. Now if they'd just send me my severance money so I can spend it all on vodka tonics. Or, you know, food. And souvenirs from New York. I'm going to write something about how to vacation in New York for 50 cents a day when I get back, if I really go. I need to make some calls on that topic.

I can't think of anything else. Being out of work is robbing me of creativity. I'm not getting enough contact with other human beings so I'm missing the spark that anger always brought to the blog.

I think I'll sit on a street corner for an hour and see what happens.

Valentine's Day: I'm Not Wild About It.

I haven't liked Valentine's Day since I was 16. A guy told me he couldn't see me anymore that day at like 7:30 in the morning. Granted, he was 28 years old and went to high school with my older cousins, one of whom had given him a call and suggested he rethink dating me. He was the Young Life leader. Scott Something. He picked me up for our first date and I was wearing Keds and my socks and my hair ribbon matched. He was wearing a Cosby sweater that really brought out the gray in his hair. It was the only date both my parents waited up for me. On the couch. In the living room. With all the lights on. And the TV was off. To this day, I can't believe they let me even leave the house with him.

So I'm not big on Valentine's Day.

On a completely different note, I have an interview tomorrow morning for a freelance position. They actually wanted to hire me full time, but I turned them down. They want me to work nights. Yeah, I don't want to. I'll charge them time and a half working nights as a freelancer so it won't cut into my cabana boy time. Ah, Raoul makes a mean rum punch.

The birthday celebration will indeed involve pancakes, only at a cute little diner called Lucky's. I'm going to drink 35 mimosas to commemorate the day.

You know who's surprisingly funny? Martha Stewart. She had Kenny Mayne on today, and was freakishly fun to watch. Man, I miss SportsCenter. I used to watch it in college because I thought it was funny. It was usually 2 in the morning, so maybe everything was funny then.

Happy V-day to you, grudgingly.

Expert Negotiator Needs Job.

I asked for more severance money and got it. I am brilliant. I also had some interesting dreams about Naveen Andrews from Lost. Nice! I spent an hour trying to go back to sleep to see what else would happen. Mmmm...Sayid.

Anyhow, I applied for three jobs and the freelance agencies have my info so I guess that's progress. I have allowed myself this week to be a total bum. I have only accomplished the essentials. Next week, I'll be much harder on myself.

Ooo, 18 minutes. Have to bail and not be interesting today.

Man oh man, Sayid is hot. I'm just saying.

You Know What Show Rocks?

Freakin' Sesame Street. That show is awesome! It's way better than The View.

Day Two of being Under Utilized. I am so bored already, I can't stand it. It's one thing to lay around on the couch all day when you know you don't often get the chance. It's quite another knowing I can do it until some unknown time, who knows how long. Enforced laziness is not as much fun. I feel like the guy who was Sloth in that movie Seven. Which by the way is the most disturbing film I've ever seen, and I have a high tolerance for disturbing. It made me sick.

Anyhow, I'm going to make a list today of Things To Do. From getting my oil changed during the early bird weekday special to campaigning for Kinky Friedman. Maybe he'll give me a job when he gets elected.

Hey, at least I brushed my hair today. That's got to count for something!

Also, ice cream and fruit snacks is a healthy dinner right? Note to self: The official number of too many fruit snacks is six.

Chik Fil A is also the lunch spot of choice for North Dallas stay at home moms and their not yet school age children. They're also remarkably well behaved.

What's going on in the world? Let me know...

The Scoop.

The library sucks. I have only 17 minutes left of Internet time for the day. You only get two sessions of 25 minutes each. I used my first session to file for unemployment. Then I emailed WritingGal, who gets a shoutout for being helpful.

There were 11 total people let go on Friday, all departments, all levels. The word on the street is "Blame the new business team. They suck." It blindsided everyone and the troops are scared. They miss me. Word from my source is, without ReadBecca there to get it done, "we're screwed." Wooo! I told them so.

Friday night I did the only rational thing you can do at a time like this. I shaved my legs and put on glitter eyeliner and went drinking.

It didn't get as ugly as it could have because I left my wallet at home and had no ID. After happy hour when the doormen show up, I was out in the cold. I know. I look great but I don't look underage for crying out loud. Had to settle for looking through the window at Matt the Miller Man fondling a beer bottle and pointing and laughing at me. I was tired and needed to go home anyway.

I have nine minutes. I feel like Kiefer Sutherland and I don't even watch that show.

Bogda, if I don't call you it's because I can't find your cell number. I don't know if it's still the 214 one. I know I have it on a post-it in one of my get-out-and-stay-out boxes I packed on Friday. They're in the car still.

So if you hear of any editing gigs, let ReadBecca know. She's not busy. She won't even drink on the job.

Mental state: Eerily calm, disillusioned, sober

Five minutes! Time to spell check, publish and get the hell of Station 3 before some other jobless bum kicks my ass for hogging the computer.

Ciao, cheeky monkeys.

ReadBecca Gets Laid.

OFF.

Yes, children, I was made redundant, let go, given the pink slip, received my walking papers, had my position impacted by a corporate reorganization, invited to leave, shown the door, and given the bum's rush.

I do not have a job. Or health insurance. And no, I did not see it coming. On Tuesday, I got a raise. On Friday, I was laid off. Yeah, I don't understand it either.

The severance package I've been offered? Not great. The usual two weeks. I don't get my three weeks of vacation for being with the company six years and I wasn't allowed to say goodbye to my friends. Which makes me a little sad and a little bitter, even though I know it's not personal. If you work for a company that's owned by one of the biggest media holding companies in the world, well, you've got to know up front that it's always going to be about the Benjamins. I get it.

I don't love advertising and I was planning to quit later this year. Just not this week. Because my ducks are all over the fucking place, not in a row. In any case, I'm sure everything will work out. I've got my mom committing insurance fraud to get me free drugs and my friends are being so wonderful. Such good people I'm blessed with.

I'm making a list of all the things I need to do. File for unemployment. Get a library card. Carpet bomb the job market with my resume. See if I can hack it freelancing. Get my old apron from Wings N More out of storage and practice doing tip percentages in my head. Take down my naked Christmas tree. Don't sleep until noon. Exercise instead of watching daytime TV. Put a plane ticket on my credit card and go to Paris for a while. Go to Vegas and gamble my unemployment checks. You know, all the practical things you make excuses for because you're too busy or too tired after working all day.

Tomorrow: Take a final look at my resume. Email it to everyone in the world. Sign the damn "separation agreement" and return it to my former employer. Be nice. Don't burn the bridge. Arrange a goodbye lunch with my former co-workers. Let them pay. Talk to the admissions adviser of the nursing program I'm trying to get into. Cure cancer. Save some orphans. Generally behave in a saintly manner.

I thought I might hang out at Starbucks, but they probably will want me to buy something. I'll hang out with Legless Joe, the head bum in my neighborhood, and get homeless tips. I'm too soft to live on the streets. I don't know how to carry a razor blade in my mouth like the best crack whores do. I better start practicing.

It's going to be weird when I don't go to the office tomorrow and don't yell at people all day. I've been telling people they're morons every day for six years. I won't know what to do with myself without awkward sentence structure to correct and ignoramus art directors to browbeat.

They wouldn't let me take my red pen. Bastards.

I Have A New Nickname.

There's this girl at work who is that cool girl. The one who wears cargo pants and a long sleeve t-shirt under a short sleeve t-shirt and puts her hair up in that messy pony tail and wears glasses and still looks like a Fashion Do. She's the one who sits in the back and says pithy things under her breath. Cool.

Today she called me HaneDog. I have never been called HaneDog before. Do I have to take up snowboarding now? I really don't want to jump out of a helicopter. Being buried in an avalanche is only slightly less horrible than dying of a shark attack, which I think is my greatest fear. Because I think you'd be alive long enough to know a shark was eating you and that would be truly the absolutely worst thing in the world and then you'd die with that knowledge. I hate sharks. And being cold.

But being called HaneDog by the cool girl, who can talk about pee and make it sound cool, that might be worth risking at least a little frost bite.

HaneDog out.

I Think I Want A Pancake Breakfast Birthday Party.

Y'all know how much pancakes mean to me, and it's slightly wacky, which is one of my strengths, so what do you think of an IHOP 35th?

I don't know what's up with me trying to think of wacky things to do. I don't think anyone thinks it's as funny as I do. Not everyone gets it.

You know who gets it? My dad. And you people who keep coming back for more. My step-mom has to talk my dad out of doing wacky things all the time. Like the time he wanted to put a giant fish (or was it Rolling Stone lips?) on the back of the bathroom door to freak out guests. I was totally for it, but we got vetoed. We have wacky DNA.

Being deliberately unusual all the time is hard. Sometimes I just don't have any wacky left to give. I think now is one of those times.

I'm all out of fresh wacky. I'll be over here being usual if you need me.

ReadBecca's Birthday Is In 16 Days.

I'm turning 35 in two weeks and I can't decide how to celebrate. I've considered driving go-carts. I've thought about arranging something at Jimmy Choo. This is a big birthday so I'm compelled to do something special. But I can't think what. Especially since three days later, we're all going to New York. Limits the budget for everyone. What to do? What to do? Anyone know where I can rent an elephant cheap?