It’s that time of year where I troll for summer help on Craigslist, a process not unlike slamming your head in a storm door. The storm door emails you in pink capital letters, eschews punctuation completely, and inquires “What is this job for? How much does it pay? When do you need me to start? Why am I emailing you again? A/S/L? Is it OK if I commute from another state? Is it OK if I am only 12? Gas is expensive: can you pay more than you stated you would in order to assist me in my unreasonable commute to your town?”
Well, you get the idea. Pesky storm door. It’s only a slight deviation from the “selling something on Craigslist” response template. Of course some people shock me by being competent! I don’t know what to do with that! I fear success! But not exclamation points.
My personal formula for Results seems to be “email address with some combo of numbers or xnamex” + “lack of standard English” = “hilarious inappropriate Myspace profile.” Do people really think that a prospective employer can find Craigslist but not Facebook and Myspace? Is it that hard to refrain from putting a photo of your butt smoking a cigarette on a public website? The formula is never wrong.
I keep forgetting to call about the results for my back scab hole. Wouldn’t they call me if something were awry? Surely this is need-to-know stuff. Uh, it’s not getting any smaller. Does skin stop regrowing at a certain age? After all, this year I will be 25 again.
Also, ybab said “Go to store. Buy cake.” Uh, twist my arm!
Someday I am going to go to grad school just so I can write a dissertation on the archetype of the hero dog.
I need a hero dog. I would probably have more luck finding one of those than I am having finding a small human minder on Craigslist. My ghost writer is on strike, so perhaps my ad was less than compelling: “You: don’t be a degenerate! Salary negotiable. You troll! I just know you want to sell my small human the second my back is turned.”
My upper lip smells funny. Am I dying? Oh, it’s my lip balm. I apologize, but sometimes it takes a few moments of “freewriting” to clear the cache before I can do real work. You read this of your own free will! I am going to put that in my gratitude journal.
How about all that politics and that guy who did that thing? Remember when I cared? The last election cycle sent me onto heavy antidepressants. Although I don’t take those anymore, I am still pleasantly dumb thanks to related short term memory loss and the brainfog that comes from all things to do with a baby. Hey! I like socks! Do you? My anti-drug is avoidance.
And WTF is with all you packy-loving sonsofbitches who don’t want to buy boxed wine at the same time you pick up your VeganHelper crumbled substance? I hate you! I bet you’ll still go to Starbucks, despite all your blah blah about preferring to support local businesses. Knobs. Do you all live in my condo association too*?
In other news, I am trying to craft the perfect bib for babies to wear to Thanksgiving. I’m thinking of “Don’t feed me. My mommy bites.” Or maybe “Don’t feed me. You had your chance to make your own kids fat.” A baby is still too young to eat food, pish.
*A baby and I compromised and signed the rudest neighbor up for casual encounters ads on Craigslist. You: must have own python.
After throwing myself off a cliff the other day due to reading the nanny postings on Craigslist (“Little Angles Nanny Service,” anyone?), I was reincarnated as a dung beetle who is doomed to go to the post office every day for the rest of her life. Tomorrow I will go and cast a “Yoga for Your Pregnancy” DVD into the abyss. I can’t say I ever managed to do any of that yoga. Putting on pants becomes entertainment enough at a certain point.
But anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. Craigslist is full of the little creatures of nature. And the occasional salacious outing of a wealthy family who stiffed the nanny. I’ve given up on ever selling anything with Craigslist, because one can post all salient details and a photo and still get an email reading “Hi! I want to buy your item! How much is it? How big is it? Will you bring it to my house? What were you selling, anyway?” Of course there are many more misspellings in the actual email. So I’m trying eBay and Half.com to purge our home of useless clutter and Mr. H’s awful CD collection from before he knew me. People ask all sorts of questions on eBay as well, it turns out. Apparently I must not have written my listing in Australian*, as someone wants to me to sort out the cost of shipping. Clearly, I can do this with much more panache than the shipping calculator link at the top of the page. People are so starved for love and attention these days. Let’s heal together.
*I responded pitifully, with the help of the Outback menu: It’ll be a dinkely doo bonzer right Thunder From Downunder $18.75 American dawlahs.
Have I told you all lately how AMAZING my life is? My husband is just the handsomest man. I never thought I’d grow up to marry him! Everything is so wonderful, I can’t even tell you. It’s beautiful, just amazing. AMAZING. We had wood-grilled pizza the other night. It was just gorgeous. I’m so happy.
Yes, I am taking vitamins! Tom Cruise was right. They are AMAZING. What? I’m not supposed to take them all at once? Oh.
As I continue the grueling process of hunting for a job (day 2!!!), I’ve narrowed down my options to the following:
1. GeneralÃsimo, small island nation preferred
2. Writing whiny Chick Lit about how hard it is to be a chick/hip mother
3. Leader of spaceship religion, retaining all merchandise rights
4. Tony Robbins
I don’t want any of the jobs on Monster.com or Craigslist. I am too sensitive to work for someone who indicates they want to hire a “profetional” or commands that “salary commiserate with experience.” My heart, my heart. My Chicago Manual of Not Being a Douche Bag.
Shit. I am supposed to be using my time to write an episode of “Law & Order: They Had It Coming.” More vitamins, please.