Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat—I have very few marketable skills. Two degrees, but I’m apparently about as about as employable, at least in today’s economy, as a Jack Russell Terrier. Maybe less so, because I’m really suck at that adorable “pet me” face. Which is why I’m still answering phones at a car dealership, exactly like I was before I got my ridiculously expensive education.
I get to spend every day faking smiles and a lower intellect, while repeatedly saying things like “It’s a great day at Bob Taylor Ford. Have you heard about our Unlicensed Driver incentives?” Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got skills (mad skills, in fact.) They’re just nothing you can get paid for.
For example, I have a wonderful talent of marrying the wrong men, which I inherited from my mother (thanks, mom. Really.). I’m great at forgetting whatever witty thing I was going to tell you as soon as you show up (but it was awesome, I promise). I’m also fairly adept at locking my keys in my car (though to be honest, the last two times that happened, I had my boyfriend to thank for that experience). As you can see, these aren’t skills that would make an employer want to throw exorbitant amount of cash at me.
I’ve tried to come up with other options. I really have. I’m attractive enough to do porn, but not attractive enough to get as rich as I would need to be to justify my actions to my extremely religious grandmother. My brother has already corned the market on dealing drugs and getting arrested for petty theft in my family. And my mother’s office won’t hire me because they’re afraid I’d manipulate the payroll to give her raises (as if, I’d do it to give MYSELF more money). So, for now, I’m stuck answering phones.
My job involves lots of down time. The phone simply doesn’t ring for hours, giving me a lot of time to do other productive things (like play Crackville on Facebook or look for another low paying, emotionally demeaning job). Instead, I’ve decided to harness my rage and write this blog, which no one except my incredibly supportive boyfriend will read.
And he really is incredibly supportive. This morning he was making my lunch, as he does every morning, while I did my hair and got dressed for work. I live in an efficiency style apartment (because student loans are a bitch), so he was preparing my food on a napkin on the floor of my bedroom. I was watching him from the mirror when he started to yell at the sandwich.
“Boyfriend, are you being beaten by a sammich?” I asked, without an ounce of mockery in my voice.
“No,” he mumbled. “The peanut butter just won’t smush on the bread properly.”
“So, it’s winning?”
He didn’t say anything. I was watching him, though, so I don’t think he spit in my food.
It was at this point that I turned to him and said: “I think I should write a blog and become ridiculously famous on the Internet.”
He had shoved the leftover spoonful of peanut butter into his mouth so his response sounded a little like ‘MmmHms Mhmms Smmmh”, which I took as a challenge.
“I’m serious. I could do it. You’re just afraid you’ll be the butt of all my jokes, like you are in real life.”
“Baby,” (he always calls me this, because, to be quite honest, I think he’s forgotten my name) “I’m completely okay with you making me out to be a retard on the web. In fact, if it will make you happy, you can convince the entire world that I’m totally Rainman.”
I smiled, because you know someone cares when they’re willing to look like they’re mentally challenged for your entertainment. And when they make you sandwiches.
But what would I call my little foray into writing that wouldn’t be accepted in the worst creative writing bachelor program? And then I remembered a conversation Boy and I have had several times.
I don’t remember if we were discussing how to survive the impending Zombie Apocalypse (his favorite topic) or debating whether or not Aquaman should even be considered a superhero, instead of a super-let-down. What I do know is that I turned to him and said:
“You do realize our conversations are the intellectual equivalent of jelly beans, right?”
He smiled. “I like jelly beans.”
“Everyone likes jelly beans. But no one purposely goes out and buys jelly beans. They’re just kind of willing to eat them till they get sick if they’re sitting around. That’s what our conversations are like.”
1. Sandwiches are a lot more complex than most people realize. Being defeated by a particularly wily one is no cause for shame.
ReplyDelete2. As long as you're not those horrible jellybeans they released along with the first Harry Potter movie, which actually had (no lie) a grass flavored bean, I'm all aboard.
3. Aquaman is a great hero when--and only when--written by Paul Dini or Darwyn Cooke. Badass guy with long hair and a hook who feeds corporate polluters to sharks=cool. Dweeb who talks to Flipper=meh.