When I grow up (Or, 5 career paths to fall back on).

Now that I have submitted my bar application, it's time to start seriously considering my fall-back plan. Really plans, since I don't expect any of them to pay the bills for any extended amount of time. My current top 5:

1. Boradway Star. When I was a little kid, I used to say I wanted to be a singer/dancer/actress on stage. I honestly feel like right now I have as good a chance at this as I do getting a job as an attorney. A quick review of the qualifications:

• Can I sing? In my car and in the shower I put on quite a concert.
  
• Can I dance? I actually took dance when I was younger and won some talent contests. Then again, 10-year-old me was pretty freaking awesome at just about everything. Seeing as how I am pretty much old balls now, I would probably break a hip.
  
• Can I act? We should check with Professor Rosenzweig on this one. I try to act like I'm paying attention in tax class three days a week, so if he's convinced, I'm pretty sure it's a go.

2. Reality TV Star. For further explanation, read this.

3. Coiner of Words. There is actually a story to this one, and it goes a little something like so: One Friday afternoon, during a make-up tax class where we were all dreaming of the booze and boos to come at the annual WLC auction, Jackie and I got to talking about rompers. Rompers? you ask, Why on earth were you talking about rompers? Well, it just so happens that our new mutual bff (who doesn't yet know she is our new mutual bff, but once you read her blog, you will want to be her bff too) has a vendetta against rompers of the adult variety. And in case you haven't noticed, for some inexplicable reason, the fashion world for some reason thinks they are a great idea right now. Anyway, Jackie accidentally found herself the confused owner of this gem:

And the following conversation ensued:

Liz: You know, that romper truly reminds me of stuff I wore in the summer when I was about 5. Jackie: Agreed. Which, is awkward, since as Una points out - you have to get completely naked to pee.
Liz: I think I would think it was a really short dress on the rack.
Jackie: Dislike. It looked like a long halter!
Liz: That is so true...the whole peeing thing is not overcomable.
Jackie: Overcomable.....good word.
Liz: I know. I just coined it. Rompers are good for something. Maybe I can get rich off that word. Jackie: I'm not sure you can -but might as well try. You can sell that word to dictionary companies while wearing a romper. It's a unique marketing strategy.
Liz: And they will know exactly what I mean.
Jackie: Totally - because you can strip down to show that the peeing while completely naked thing is wierd.
Liz: And then they would feel sorry for this poor girl who just humiliated herself by getting naked in a business meeting to which she wore a romper and they would totally buy my word.
Jackie: YES! I think this is the best idea yet.
Liz: I will add it to my list of fall-back plans.*
Jackie: Please place it near the top. And hire me as your fashion consultant. I can buy rompers with the greatest of ease.

To anyone reading who happens to work for Merriam-Webster or Random House or any other dictionary publisher: "Overcomable" is for sell.

To any of my friends who happen to have taken IP law classes: I may need your help soon. "Overcomable" is going to be big. HUGE, in fact.

*Done.

4. Professional Poster Maker. Reagan and I are going in together on this one because, as we learned while making posters for the ROW raffle and bar review at the Atomic Cowboy, we are awesome with an electronic paper cutting machine, glue and glitter. Here is just one of our creations:



We are available for weddings, birthdays, bar mitzvahs, happy hours, auctions, potlucks, upcoming evening of fabulousness at Shiver, Sugar and/or Norwoods' and road trips to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

5. Mechanical Bull Rental Company. Haven't you ever been to a party and thought, man, this is a great party, but it just seems to be missing something? What that party was missing, friends, was a mechanical bull. Because a party just isn't a party until something like this happens to one of YOUR friends:

Friends don't let friends ride mechanical bulls...sober.

Also available for weddings, birthdays, bar mitzvahs, happy hours, auctions, potlucks, upcoming evenings of fabulousness at Shiver, Sugar and/or Norwoods' and road trips to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. (I hear Dolly's got some serious mechanical bull skills.)

NB: I am currently seeking investors for any/all of these endeavors. Checks can be made out directly to me. Thanks in advance for your contribution.

Why I will never keep a food diary.

1. A can of Dr. Pepper.

2. St. Louis Bread Co.'s You Pick Two - I picked the Fuji Apple Chicken Salad and Chicken Noodle Soup, with a sourdough roll and a Dr. Pepper.

3. A Butterfinger and a 20 oz. bottle of Dr. Pepper.

4. Two cold pieces of the Colonel's Original Recipe Kentucky Fried Chicken, left over from yesterday's dinner.

Only 35 calories per serving.

5. A can of Del Monte Stewed Tomatoes. Straight from the can, to a bowl, to my mouth.

6. Two Marshmallow Peeps. (Moderation is key here, folks.)

They only come around this time of year.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

On the upside, the Vending Machine Challenge returns tomorrow, live from the WULAW Commons.

I don't need your stinkin' nickel.

I can run out to my car, in the cold and rain, and get my own, thankyouverymuch.

The stuff ephiphanies are made of.

Thus began my epiphany, Sunday afternoon, at this 7-Eleven:

Where an epiphany is free with your Dr. Pepper Big Gulp.

I stopped there on my way to Reagan's to watch Mizzou lose. (Not hating on the Tigers, I had on my Mizzou shirt. But they lost anyway.) Anyway, back to my epiphany. Whenever I run in somewhere to get a Dr. Pepper from a fountain, I bring in the following: five quarters, two dimes, one nickel and four pennies. (Sometimes I bring in a dollar bill and only one quarter.) So I can pay in exact change* and not collect more pennies. Well, today, I thought I had five quarters but I only had four. My extra-large Dr. Pepper rung up at $1.34. Once I realized I was short, I said, "Oh, hold on! I have to get more change from my car." To which the completely unoffensive, non-lecherous, rather mundane-looking man next to me responded, "How much are you short? I have tons of change." Which he did. But I for some reason thought it necessary to dash for the door, calling over my shoulder, "Oh, it's fine, I have tons of change in my car!" Which I did. However, I thought it more reasonable to run outside to my car (did I mention it was cold and rainy?) to get a nickel, forcing the aforementioned man to wait while I did so before he could be rung up, just so that I would not have to accept assistance.

Of course, I realized how unreasonable I was as I left 7-Eleven. Why couldn't I take five cents from a stranger? It was not offered in a manner that made me think the man questioned whether I actually had five more cents or whether I was dashing out in embarassment, never to return for my soda. He had a handful of change, so it wasn't like I was worried that the man couldn't spare me a nickel. It was a simple case of one person being nice to another. AND I COULDN'T LET HIM BE NICE TO ME. He wasn't lecherous. Pretty sure he didn't expect anything in return for his nickel. He wasn't dirty or smelly or anything that would inspire repugnance and he seemed to have all his teeth. I just couldn't let someone help me.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I couldn't help but wonder how the hell I became so eaten up with maintaining independence that I couldn't bring myself to accept five fucking cents from someone. It's not like I think I don't deserve it. I leave pennies in the Take-a-Penny-Leave-a-Penny bowls. Sometimes I even leave dimes. I have totally given someone near me in line change to make up for what they are short, so it's not like I have anything against random acts of kindness toward strangers!

I mean, let's face it, at the moment my income consists solely of student loans and the occasional handout from the folks, and while I did have a real full-time job for two years, I have never considered myself "financially independent." Yet I pride myself on being "independent."

Then I started thinking of all the other unreasonable things I do to assert my so-called independence:

• I refuse to let anyone help me carry out my 40-pound bag of dog food at PetSmart, nor do I use a cart, even if I also round out my trip with several other treats and toys.
  
• I refused to let my mom have a plumber come fix my toilet, which ran constantly for at least two months until the water bill got so high that I started turning the water to the toilet off after every flush which was a pain when my mom, my sister and my two nieces spent a week visiting last summer. (In my defense, after they left I went and bought the $20 part and fixed it myself, which probably saved at least $100 that a plumber would have charged for labor. Plus I kind of felt like a bad-ass because it required more than just replacing the stopper ball, which is what I had been telling everyone all summer but no one believed me, not even the man at Lowe's. Normally I like Lowe's, but this man clearly thought I was a dumb little girl and I ended up arguing with him over what my toilet pump looked like until I finally got frustrated, went home, took a picture of the inside of my toilet tank and went to Home Depot where the man knew what I was talking about without my even having to show him the picture.)
  
• I spent an entire weekend raking and filling 80 bags of leaves last fall rather than just paying the neighbor kid to keep up with it over the course of the two preceding months. I could hardly move on Monday morning.

I am sure I could think of more, but I am starting to see a pattern. An anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better kind of pattern. Mostly it seems I refuse the help of men, or maybe when anything that is stereotypically something a man would take care of is involved. Perhaps I would have taken the nickel from a woman? Or perhaps a woman would have been more insistent that I take it, or would have just handed it to me or the clerk, thereby removing my chance to refuse? Is it the fact of the help being offered in and of itself or is it from whence the help cometh?

Come to think of it, the last time I can remember asking** a man for help, I was about three. (And I don't so much remember this as my parents have pictures proving it happened.) I asked my dad to help me put ALL of my little Goody barrettes in my hair. I had a big mason jar full of them, so there was a lot of barrette happening on my head. We're talking crayons and sheep and hearts and ducks and probably Christmas trees, just to name a few. Did I mention they came in pairs? Like I said, a lot was happening. And for the record, I looked sooo pretty when we were done.***

What I have learned:

1. I should pare down my neuroticism and just grab a random handful of change. Better yet, just put it on a card.


2. When a person offers assistance and I find myself about to refuse, I should pause and ask myself whether accepting proffered assistance will indebt me such that that sexual favors, drugs, or my services as a housewife or an assassin (personally, these are equally to be avoided) are expected in return. If not, seriously consider accepting.


3. It's probably okay to accept a nickel from a stranger at 7-Eleven.


4. Goody barrettes rock my face off.


5. I like the word "epiphany."
   

*This clearly only works for anything $1.54 or less. Do the math in your head. And yes, I do realize that I am likely obsessive compulsive with neurotic tendencies, and I'm fine with that.

**However, as my dear friend explains so well, while it is true that I may not always accept help, I feel perfectly justified in getting all sorts of pissed off when it's not offered at all.

***I will post a picture of the results next time I am home. You'll see. My 3-year-old fabulousness will overwhelm you.

I can't abide a whiny man.

I know this is belated, but since he has decided to remain on Reality TV Radar via Dancing with the Stars, I'm fine with airing my grievances now. Jake the Bachelor is a whiny bitch. I only watched the first episode and a half of this season, but between that and his time on the last season of The Bachelorette, I say he is a whiny bitch with full confidence. First of all, look at him. Also, any man who confesses (often, as Jake was prone to do) that women always tell him they are breaking up with him because he's just "too perfect" and who has the "good guys finish last" chip on his shoulder needs to check to make sure he still has balls. (Although in Jake's case it may have worked out for him, as I have been convinced since she stepped out of the limo that Vienna was a tranny. Hopefully a pre-op tranny so they have a full set between the two of them. )

A message to whiny men everywhere: Get ahold of yourselves. I mean, I get it, it's the twenty-first century and all, which means:
- Little boys can play with dolls and little girls can play with trucks.
- Men can be nurses and women can be doctors.
- Daddy can stay at home with the kids while Mommy goes off to work (looking fab in her power suit and mankiller heels) every morning.
- Men can emote and be sensitive and commit and women are free to, as Carrie Bradshaw put it, "have sex like a man."

But come on men, have a little pride. Good for y'all for being "in touch" with your emotions and for being comfortable talking about relationships and blah blah blah. But seriously, enough is enough. No one besides your mommy is happy to listen to your pity party. It's not that we don't care. Well, that's not entirely true because, often I for one don't care at all. Sometimes we want a man to be a man.

I will give him the benefit of the doubt and allow that perhaps poor Jake is a product of the times. He tries so hard to be the perfect man. He has a sexy job, a sexy smile and a sexy ass. He comes across as a gentleman and seems to genuinely want to find the perfect woman, settle down and start a family. (Of course, the fact that he went on a show where he knew he would likely develop more than one incredibly contrived relationships with women he only knows in a controlled environment calls his judgment into question, but a rant about the ignorance of Bachelor/Bachelorette participants is for another day…)

Back to Jake and his quest for the perfect woman and why he won't find her. These days, the perfect woman isn't necessarily going to be wearing an apron and pearls, greeting her man at the door, martini in hand, saying, "Wash up dear, dinner's on the table." Hopefully, she's the woman who knows what she wants and goes after it, and she may just want a man to greet her at the door with a martini. The point is, unfortunately for Jake, she most likely doesn't want to shack up with a whiny bitch unless the sex is really just that fabulous. If she happens to be a house-wifey type she probably wants a man's man. And if she's a woman in a man's world, she doesn't have time to nurture his "mama's boy" tendencies. Either way, she would almost certainly prefer not to have the pressure of matching his perfection added to her already busy day.

Also, to clear something up once and for all for all the Jakes in the world - you're not "too perfect." If a woman tells you that , she doesn't actually think you're perfect. Why on earth would I dump a guy if I thought he was perfect? I may be moody, manipulative and easily excitable, but I'm not stupid. When a woman says that, what she really means is that you might genuinely be a "good guy" and have none of the character flaws we women are taught to watch out for (e.g. a wandering eye, a controlling nature, a hot temper, a tendency to burp and fart in polite company) you are also overly aware of your good qualities that you cultivate martyrdom, and nobody wants to bang a saint. Basically, you've just grown annoying, but we're too nice to tell you that so we stroke your ego by telling you it's not you because you're perfect, it's us. (Trust me, it's usually you.)

Besides, all you Jakes, perfect is fake. Just what are you hiding under that façade? Six toes? A penchant for porn featuring women who look like men (with six toes)? Even if you are pretty near perfect, women are by nature suspicious and we will keep waiting for the AHA! moment where our worst fears are confirmed and our pristine image of you crumbles before our eyes. Do yourself a favor and develop some harmless little idiosyncrasy, like wearing brown socks with black shoes so we'll stop overanalyzing every aspect of your personality.

So guys, stop the whining because no woman worth her salt will put up with it for long. Nut up and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Also, don't fall for the tranny - her balls are almost certainly bigger than yours.

Cheer up Jake. Vienna's got a used set of balls you can have.