The below job description was posted on Craig’s List today at 5 p.m. We have already received a number of responses. For example, the young man who owns a Honda sport bike (hate sport bikes) and said that he is:
6′3″, 210 pounds, 34 inch waist, former college athlete.
Then he said that we should send him pictures so he could decide if we were a good match for him. If we were, he promised to reciprocate with his own picture. Which I’m sure would feature him with no shirt on.
There are two responses that are possible soul mate material. They will need to be reviewed before action is taken.
Seeking Two Single Men With Motorcycles, OFFER GOOD FOR SUMMERTIME ONLY
Employers: Two comedically-gifted-cute-as-a-bug-in-a-rug girls seeking summer flings to accompany them on outdoor weekend adventures, happy hours, barbeques, sex-filled evenings and other such summertime-like events; please come equipped with own motorcycle, extra helmet and acceptable degree of normalness.
Scope of Work: Summer Fling should be fun and engaging, enjoy presence of others and taking creative outings during time off, including thinking of ideas for creative outings, such as kayaking, etc. Summer Fling should expect to do all kayak paddling by self. Summer Fling should not be opposed to mild to moderate public displays of affection, as key part of summer fling is holding hands at happy hour and while walking. Summer Fling should be prepared to have fun at all times and cause zero strife. Summer Fling should be virile, confident and a scooch domineering, and understand that domination cannot take place out of bedroom. Summer Fling will also take assigned girl on regular motorcycle rides; however, if Summer Fling is only equipped with bike, Summer Fling must ride assigned girl around on handle bars as condition of contract. If no form of bike is available, piggy-back rides are an acceptable alternative, although Summer Fling will still be expected to provide helmet.
Compensation: As described above, Summer Fling will be enriched by one of the two comedically-gifted-cute-as-a-bug’s ear girls.
Duration of Contract: Contract expires at 11:59 p.m., Labor Day, 9/03/07, or after last Labor Day barbeque, whichever comes first.
Please apply in comments section.
“Dude, I’m getting really serious about this,” she said.
It never occurred to me that she wasn’t.
“I even Netflix-ed a documentary on it,” she said. “That’s insane.”
Bitch, please. Everyone Netflixes documentaries about their life calling. How else are we supposed to find out it’s our life calling if we don’t watch documentaries about it? Why do you think I’ve seen Tomb Raider 12 million times?
Honestly.
“Ok, but I don’t think they want me. I basically have none of the skills or background that they require,” she said.
Again, bitch, please. Since when does anyone not want us? And who do they think they are anyway? The king of England? Because he wants us too.
The FBI is dying to take us.
We do not actually possess any of the experience, education or skills the FBI considers to be the necessary foundation for entering the academy, as she pointed out. However, we find this to be nothing more than a bullshit detail. “Foolish consistencies are the hobgoblins of small minds,” said Ralph Waldo Emerson. And that’s exactly what we think of the requirement-shit. FOOLISH CONSISTENCY.
That is how you get the attention of any rogue FBI/CIA agents that may be cladestinely monitoring your Internet activity. You write in all caps. But seriously, everyone knows that. (NOT REALLY, JUST US.)
“I’m actually planning on going to an FBI career fair tomorrow,” she said. “How insane is that? That’s not ok. Why am I so obsessed with this? And what am I supposed to wear?”
“Ok, what you wear is totally key,” I said. ”I actually feel like we both need to go and wear vintage spycoats and big sunglasses and fedorahs and run around hiding behind pillars. Then, we can go up to them and be like, ‘Did you see us just then?’ and if they say no, then we can be like, ‘That’s right, bitches, where do we sign up?”
Jesus, that plan is brilliant.
“I don’ t know,” she said. “I feel like a black suit and an overly-starched white shirt are in order.”
“Possibly.” Then I remembered that Nancy Drew always word plaid skirts and knee-high socks and realized I may need to change my whole approach.
“Ok, but the training for the FBI is really hard,” she said. “It’s basically like becoming a marine.”
Why does she always have to be so pragmatic? This is about thinking outside the box and USING OUR COLLECTIVE GENIUS TO CONQUER OBSTACLES.
Because I can’t raise my heart rate or sweat. Ever. Hence, marine training is out.
“Can’t we just be desk officers or something?,” I asked. ”Do you really have to be in the shape of a marine to Google stalk people?”
“I don’ t know, but I think it would suck to be a desk officer. We want to be field agents.”
“Hmmmm, yeah, I think we’d have to work our way up to that, and I can’t do that,” I said. “I just want to be a field agent. No working my way up or whatever. Maybe we could be like Mata Hari.”
Mata Hari was that saucy little belly-dancing whore who used her belly dancing skills to bilk secrets out of French and German officers (depending on who was paying) during World War I.
We love Mata Hari.
“Maybe we could just start the Seduction Unit,” I said.
“I don’t know about that,” she answered. “That seems like a risky business with all the disease in the world.”
“No, we don’t have to actually sleep with anybody,” I said. “We can just wear really well-fitted suits and low-cut shirts and use our feminine ways to get men to tell us all their secrets and then later rule the world.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about that,” she said. “There are some very slimy men in the world and we might have to seduce them.”
“That’s the thing, we never have to come in contact with them. This is all dependent on really well-fitted suits and low-cut shirts. Cleavage and female sexuality is the most ignored, under-used resource in the world. If we ever got it together and started using our sexuality to our advantage, we would rule the world in like five minutes. Men know it too, that’s why they keep trying to cover us up and demonize our hymen. BUT I WOULD NEVER LET MY FEMINIST VIEWS COMPROMISE MY DEDICATION TO THE JOB, ONLY FURTHER IT.”
On that note, she went back to being pragmatic.
“Ok, it also says that you almost always work alone, unless you are on a major case, and very few agents work their way up to that. So no partners,” she said.
“So we can’t be posted together?” I said. “I don’t know how I feel about that. I feel like our seduction powers are depleted if we are away from each other.”
Sometimes it takes more than one cleavage. On the really tough ones, anyway.
“Also, they don’t really want French speakers,” she said.
That’s bad for us. We are French speakers. And English. We speak English fluently.
“I can’t believe they don’t have a place for French speakers,” she said. “You can’t tell me that French people don’t commit crimes.”
French people are also really into cleavage too, from what I hear. I don’t know where I heard that from, but MY SIXTH SENSE WHICH IS OF X-MEN-LIKE QUALITY tells me it’s true.
“Ok, when you go to that career fair, tell them about the Seduction Unit,” I said. “I feel like they would be really in to that.”
“I’ll be sure to run it by them,” she said.
“Also, hide behind a pillar when you tell them. Then ask them if they knew it was you. That will show them how covert you are.”
See? We are good.
Of course the FBI wants us.
EVERYONE WANTS US.
First let me undo the top three buttons on your shirt.
Now I’ll lay my head on your chest.
It’s much better that way.
Shut the windows and turn the AC on, please. It’s hot. The thermostat says it’s 80 degrees in here.
Who really wants to do it when it’s 80 goddamn degrees?
Seriously.
You would think that after all that puking, I would at least have a flat stomach. Usually after that much illness, I walk around for at least a day thinking, “So, this is how the skinny-half lives.”
But no. After all that, it’s not even flat.
There is some sort of major injustice going on here.
And probably a little bit of a body image problem.
Bet everyone thinks you’re crazy.
You know they do.
Inhale, exhale. Let it go. You’re not crazy.
But why does everyone else think they’re so fucking well-adjusted and normal when they’re just as crazy as you are? That’s what makes this feel so urgent. That’s what makes you feel so manic.
Because it’s very important that they know that they are crazy too, and that they need therapy too, and that the only difference between you and them is that you wear your crazy like a pair of over-sized earrings, and you talk about it, you break it down, you explain all the intricacies, and then everyone thinks, “That one, she’s crazy,” which makes you want to jump up and down and scream until they admit that yes, they are crazy too, but you won’t stop jumping up and down until they tell you that you are ok, until they say that it’s ok, you’re not crazy, you’re ok.
Bet you think I’m insecure because I need that kind reassurance. Bet you’re just a scooch self-righteous for making that assumption about me. Bet you’re own insecurities are just begging for a good therapy session. Bet if you wore your crazy like a pair of over-sized earrings, they’d snap your earlobes.
You’re not more sane than me.
And even if you were, that doesn’t make you better than me.
Right?
Bet it would do me some good to take a vacation from my head.
Show me the best road out of here and I guarantee you, I’ll be the first one on it.
“Cheshire Puss…Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?” asked Alice.
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.
“I don’t much care where–” said Alice.
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.
So long as I get somewhere, she thought. Where ever it is that Not-Crazy People reside.
Which is not where you live, by the way, in case you were thinking of passing some sort of judgement on me and my craziness.
I am clearly overthinking all of this.
Say something to make it all better. Say something to the effect of, Mela, you are still ok, even if you are crazy, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because everyone’s crazy.
Tell me Mela, it’s ok. You are an ok person. I’m just as crazy as you are.
Tell me, “Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here.”
There’s this girl I know, and I secretly hate her, but only part of the time.
There’s no way to escape her; she’s a permanent fixture in my life right now and there’s nothing I can do about it.
It took me a while to realize that I secretly hate her, because she was very covert in her expressions of animosity towards me. Plus, other times she’s really normal to me, so that’s why I only hate her part of the time.
It wasn’t until she started saying things like, “So, do you like that hair color on you?” that I realized she was doing her very best to make me feel small.
Prior to that, we would have discussions ranging from Prince’s home state to the appropriate names for yoga poses, and each time, she would come back to me hours later, sometimes days, and say something like, “I looked it up, and I was right.” And I would always have to be reminded what the hell she was right about, and then I would think, “Huh. I didn’t realize it mattered.”
That’s when I realized that I bother her.
My therapist pointed out to me that I bother her because she’s jealous of me. For whatever reasons she has deemed to be deserving of jealousy. Hence, there is the constant need to prove me wrong and insult my appearance and my accomplishments.
Ooooooo. Someone’s jealous of me.
How empowering.
I have power over her. I can make her feel bad by just walking in the room. The angel on my right hand whispered to me that this was not a compliment. The devil on my left hand agreed, yet still felt disgustingly smug about the whole thing. The hybrid in my head went, “Really? What the hell is she jealous for?”
The question answered itself.
“I wear bigger earrings when I’m around her now,” I told my therapist. “I laugh a little more and tell all my stories, even the ones that are only borderline interesting. I make myself sound really exciting, I do my best imitation of a ‘40s movie star.”
Because those are the things that bother her. So I embrace them, and exaggerate them, and pin all the things that make me Me onto my sleeve.
That topic segued nicely into a discussion about my niece.
“Everyone says my niece is so much like me,” I said. “They say she’s taking after her Auntie Mel, because she dances whenever she hears music, and she’s always singing; she just does that little baby jibberish talk, but she sings all the words. And every time they say that, I think, ‘Please little girl, don’t turn out like me. I hope you turn out to be a shy, conservative little girl with a stable office job and a lovely husband. Whatever you do, don’t turn out like me.’”
My therapist did that thing where she just stares at me, so I kept talking.
“When she turns 30, who do you think they want her to be like?” I asked. “Her Auntie Mel, who is loud and boisterous and a crazy artist, or her mom, who is happy and creative and lovely and refined and has a happy, stable life. Nobody in their right mind would choose me. They would be so sad if she turned out like me.”
My therapist kept staring, but I know how to stare her down when I want an answer, so she finally said, “When you talk about those traits in reference to the Jealous Girl, you talk about them with such pride, but with your neice, you talk about them with such shame.”
Well, yes. I suppose I do.
There’s this girl I know, and I secretly hate her, but only part of the time.
Do you want to know what I did yesterday?
Yesterday, at the end of the work day, while I was doing 65 down a five-lane freeway, I put on a full face of make-up, using the rear view mirror and my finely-tuned make-up application skills, which have taken 20 years to perfect, but required that I steer with my knee as my hands were occupied, so that I could go and pick up my cell phone from a boy, who is not my boyfriend, or a boyfriend-interest, in the parking lot of an old folks’ home, because that’s the only place that’s between his work and my work.
And then I came home and went, Shit. Now I have to wash off this goddamn mascara, which is something I hate more than anything in the universe. I will clean my apartment, pluck my eyebrows into oblivion and tweeze out every single leg hair individually just to procrastinate washing off my mascara.
But well worth the application.
I’m sure they loved me at the old folks’ home.
Scene: The Car, discussing the intense wind outside
Me: Dude, the wind got up to 60 miles per hour yesterday.
Him: I know. It’s supposed to be something like 35 miles per hour today.
Me: I like to make jokes that the wind is speeding. Like if we were in a residential area, it could be pulled over and get a ticket.
Him: It must be very interesting in your world, Mela.
Me: There’s no place I’d rather be.
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