our work here is done.

Inspired by a combination of recent events surrounding my mild to moderate unemployment, the employment status of many of my friends, and this singularly amazing post in Gawker, I’ve decided to make a list of my own to show just how bleak the job market has become in every line of work. What I’ve found is an impressive divide.

There is a distinct lack of mid-level positions. And when an opportunity does arise, job posters realize that there is an astounding amount of unemployed people who are going to apply (especially in the creative sector), and they make you TRY OUT for the position, no matter how meaningless.  As a result, there are extremely talented, motivated, senior-level people fighting to the death Roman Gladiator-style to get noticed for jobs like “Entry Level Copy-And-Paster / Phone Answerer wanted; Hours 8:30am to 6:30pm. Must have 5+ years experience and be proficient in HTML and CSS.”

If you’re looking for an unpaid internship or a position as senior exec / CFO of a major corporation or institution, you’re in luck. Be warned that, in either case, there is a distinct possibility (20% or so) that you may hang yourself or dive under a moving train.

So it appears that it’s either kill or be killed (by yourself or someone else). 
 Either way, someone is going to die. Probably you, and probably soon.

You will die unemployed, unloved and alone. At the funeral parlor, they will have laid off the hair and makeup artist because, well, that just seems wasteful in these times - doing the hair and makeup of a dead person - and you will surely die ugly as well.

It’s best to die, then, in a way that won’t leave any remains to avoid looking like a hot mess in your casket - which is why I predict a rush on jobs in the Alaskan crabbing industry or coal mining. Choose your own ending: you can either be swallowed whole by the ocean or be buried alive 300 feet below the Earth’s surface.  It’s going to be all the rage this summer. Move over, RayBans and hot pants. Told you so! Get ready for me to say that a lot.

List 1: Jobs and job openings I can’t believe exist

If it weren’t for a few key factors, I’d probably apply for these jobs. I’ll ask you in advance not to judge me. I’m judging myself sufficiently for both of us.

1) “Rewrite product descriptions for adult novelties”
“We are seeking a permanent part time writer to rewrite adult novelty product descriptions. This gig requires 250 rewrites per month (100-200 words per description). This gig pays $500 per month via Paypal. Each rewrite must be unique. We will provide complete parameters to assist you.”

This post is courtesy of Craigslist from April 23. I’m a little unclear. Why do they need to be re-written? Who is writing the originals, and why does that person(s) still have a job? I think the job post should be, “Seeking one exceedingly talented adult-novelty writer to replace the one who needs to have everything re-written.”

 But don’t let me tell you how to run your adult-toy business.

I don’t know much or anything about writing for adult novelties, but if I did, I would think 200 words is excessive. Descriptions must be unique? How many ways can you discreetly spell out “Put this in” or “Put it in this”?

I would love to read that corporate guidebook and these “complete parameters” of which they speak.

But wait - don’t go sending your resume and adult-themed writing samples in just yet (they explicitly say not to). You have to try out, first: 

“To be considered for this gig please request our product description for rewrite. All potential writers will receive the exact same product description to rewrite.”

Trying out for a job that’s beneath you and somewhat embarrassing? Isn’t that just a half-cup of salt poured into a paper cut.

2) Vice President, Drexel University

I know, right?

I found this in the City Paper’s job search website, right in between Sr. Documentation Specialist for Merck and Director of Clinical Development, Oncology for GlaxoSmithKline.

Finding these posts in the Free Paper’s Classifieds, where you’d expect to find more of the “donate blood and participate in pharmaceutical drug studies” kinds of posts was, admittedly, a little disturbing.

“The Vice President for Development will be a key person in the successful development of fund raising strategies to ensure the achievement of the Drexel University College of Medicines ambitious goals for growth and expansion.

Qualifications
The successful candidate will be an energetic, upbeat, self-assured leader of stature, able to infuse the university and its programs with a sense of pride, purpose, and excellence. The candidate will possess an advanced degree or an appropriate equivalent blend of education and experience, while also having significant senior-level institutional advancement experience in a complex institution.”

OK, well it’s not actually a post for VP of the University.

 Still.

After 3 more lengthy paragraphs of job description that consists mostly of vague character descriptions and almost no actual qualifications, I am beginning to think that I’m perfect for the job. “- providing leadership, vision, and effective management…” I could totally do this. I should ask about their dress code and policy on tattoos.

3) JEWISH EGG DONOR NEEDED by LOVING JEWISH COUPLE $20,000+ not an agency

Once again, Craigslist provides a real gem.

$20 grand for a couple of cells? “You will not need to carry a pregnancy.” Wow. Just - wow. I can’t believe I’m not Jewish. I’m going to have to double check with the family again like I did when I was 7 and didn’t understand why I’m not Jewish.

Because I’m angry and this is how I deal with things, I’d like to share with you the funnier parts of the post:

* Jewish with a biological mother who was born Jewish
* Prefer if your biological father was also born Jewish
So you can’t be any old convert - you have to come with papers.

* A woman between 18 and 33 years old
They want the good eggs - none of those asthmatic, bench-warmer eggs.

* Warm, caring, responsible, reliable
* Motivated and passionate about what you do
* An individual with high self esteem
a) I’m not going to sit here and pretend I wouldn’t give a dozen eggs to the first person who offered me money, but I would think that someone would have to possess at least a small amount of emotional distance to donate her eggs to strangers. Otherwise, there’s that possibility where the donor will go all Lifetime-movie-crazy and try to kidnap the baby after its born, and nobody wants that.
b) Motivation, passion, responsibility, high self-esteem - at the risk of starting a nature v. nurture argument, I think those are more “how you raise your child” rather than “where did these eggs come from.”

*Highly intelligent with high IQ, SAT Scores & GPA (Please Include Scores)
Hurry up and get your transcripts, ladies! It would help to include letters of recommendation from 3 professors.

* Attractive  * At healthy body weight
No fatties, please. No uglies, either, for that matter.

Gifted, hot, slender, compassionate, responsible, fertile? And the hunt for the Unicorn continues. 

But I guess if they’re paying $20,000, they’re willing to pay for designer quality and aren’t going to settle for just anyone’s bargain-basement, slightly irregular DNA.

Also of note:
*It was found in the “Etcetera Jobs” section.
There are so many “we need your eggs” posts there, they should change the category to “Eggs-cetera.”

* “Please e-mail us in confidence… including your age, SAT Scores verbal/math etc., highlighting what you feel is special about you and whatever other information you feel comfortable sharing,”

* “…with a recent photo if possible”

* “…to lovingjewishcouple@yahoo.com”

I’m going to try positing an argument to them, via email, that my eggs are not aware whether or not they are Jewish. They have no religious, spiritual, or socio-political leanings yet. My eggs will believe whatever they want to believe when they are ready to make that sort of decision, and I will accept them no matter what; that’s the kind of relationship we have.

Also, I don’t have a recent photo of my eggs. The one I have is a few years old and doesn’t do them justice.

I might write a “Who needs some Eggs - Fire Sale” post and get rid of some of mine. It’s like the 5 bags of clothing I recently donated to the thrift store - if I’m not using them, someone else may as well.

First there was the iFart. Then there was the virtual glass of beer. Our quest for tasteless iPhone apps knows no bounds, but we have apparently gone a shake too far.

I guess this is where we draw the line:
Now Apple Apologises Over Shaken Baby Game

Look at us, suddenly, with our precious and delicate sensibilities.
Are our economic times this disparaging that our collective sense of humor no longer finds this funny?

Does this mean I’m going to have to table my viral meningitis app concept?

- by tiffany

If you are even somewhat like me – more than just being human, less than sharing a birthday - I would presumptuously say that your fondest memories took place in that time you were almost squatting. Not that time when you were actually squatting and called it “finding yourself.” But the time where you voluntarily lived – and paid upwards of $100 a month to live – in a crumbling hovel that stank of Raid, and you spent your sticky days watching the cats fillet mice on your kitchen floor and play doubles with the roaches. Years later, these days of overflowing litter boxes, lovable neighborhood tramps and police gunfire just outside your kitchen window will be the days that you – like me – will affectionately refer to as “the best time of your life.” And for that, you – like me – will rightfully be called an asshole.

At a party one day, you will fondly rehash the story about the two winters in a row when you had no heat whatsoever and slept in a winter coat and hat. When you do this, and you certainly will, your self from the past will emerge from the ether and strangle you with a frostbitten hand. This Ghost from Apartments Past will sit you down for a long overdue reminder about the time the building’s supports caved on themselves and the whole structure wobbled under the weight of raw timber and 4 x 4s. For some reason the building was never condemned, yet the men who were fixing the porch were whisked away by INS, leaving behind only a cowboy hat as a bittersweet souvenir. Remember the bathroom we had to close off because the beams in the ceiling busted through the plaster and into the shower? Remember the trashcan full of maggots and how you haven’t been able to look at white rice the same way ever since? That won’t be enough, either, and your ghost will have to bring out a memory you just can’t repress: the day the gods played Jenga with your sanity.

In June of 2005, the Weather Channel calmly warned us that summer was about to swiftly and unmercifully beat spring to death with its own umbrella and galoshes. Temperatures were about to soar into the mid thousands with 300% humidity with a chance of locusts. The rapture was imminent, and all babies, pets and grandparents would surely perish of heat stroke. As the previous summer was one of sweat-soaked nights and dangerous dehydration, I promised myself I wouldn’t almost die in that apartment again. I would either move to Canada or save up for AC. Instead, I became the incredibly grateful benefactor of a free air conditioner from the 1960’s that my friend found in his former roommate’s belongings. Back then they made the appliances entirely of lead and melted-down anvils. But for the sweet, Freon coolness, I tolerated the filter’s rancid mildew stench along with the bonus mildew it created by leaking creepy water inside and onto the wood floor. I eventually embraced the daily bouts of debilitating congestion – the smell no longer bothered me – and the ominous rattling of the ancient device became a lullaby.

I wasn’t ashamed of Ol’ Bessy. Even though it pre-dated the plastic accordions that would have helped fit her snugly into the window, I wasn’t too proud to duct tape a big piece of vinyl shower curtain to seal the gap and bottle up my bought, stale air. The colorful elephants and seals on the plastic patch only added to my newfound cheeriness. Gone were the days of cold showers before bed and hoping for the best. Also, my chances of waking up on fire had decreased significantly, going from probable spontaneous combustion to the slight possibility of an electrical malfunction. Should the whole contraption slip from its station, there was a 60% chance it would teeter outside, not inside to crush my skull. The odds were in my favor, and my spirit was not to be shook by meteorologists and their empty threats. I also wasn’t intimidated by my roommates’ sleeker, energy efficient air conditioners with their fancy white plastic and LED displays. Bessy had character – a certain quality that recalled a more romantic, simpler time much in the same way a collector may purchase an antique fan and display it on a shelf next to a stainless steel blender from the 50’s. And for a time, I managed to pass off the smells-like-burnt-hair-o-matic as an aesthetic choice.

As with most choices based on lies and self-deception, I did my best ostrich impression when it came to those nagging thoughts of reason and glaring flaws in logic. I planted my head firmly into the cool, cool sand when I realized that I had successfully brought the apartment’s air conditioner count to 3. If we were to break down the kilowatt-hours, Ol’ Bessy would have counted as 4 units on her own. Part of our deal with the landlord was that electricity would be a flat rate of $25 a head – a small consolation prize for the stampedes of rats that trampled through the walls – and no one much cared at the time if we were depleting the ozone when the air inside is so refreshing. To us, in the moment, we saw no immediate cause for alarm.

One of the hottest nights of the year to date, sometime in mid-July, we all retired to our cooled chambers, closing ourselves off in our hermetically sealed bedrooms. Breathing in the sweet refrigerant, I actually felt goosebumps on my arms that were not sweat-induced. I lulled off into a pleasant, unsuspecting sleep. I don’t remember waking up a few hours later. There was no transition – I was dreaming, then sitting straight up with a nauseating feeling of molten lava pouring over my shoulders and coating my skin. It’s very, very quiet. The only source of light emanated from my cell phone, which told me it was 4:55AM. Several, possibly dozens of things had happened around 4:52AM that had been in the works for weeks since Ol’ Bessy came on the scene. But at 4:55am that day, I became acutely aware of a few things.

First: circuits overload. What with my pre-war machinery guzzling away at the already stressed power source, probably sending sparks flying from the fuse box, it’s no wonder.

Second: we live in a building that used to be a tenement. We initially thought it rather clever that each bedroom door had its own set of deadbolt locks and a painted-over doorbell, but it was not until we all woke up, gulping for air, looking for a fuse box, did all the very obvious pieces come together. Climbing over each other, throwing aside piles of clothes, moving couches, trying to rip open doors that had never been opened – we couldn’t find the fuse box. An emergency call to the landlord revealed a third fact that further complicated our current Hell on Earth. The fuse box, of course, was at a remote location, and he would have to flip the switches himself. Later.

A half hour later, a few hours later, whatever - it may as well be a month. Without electricity there was no hope – not even the half-broken box fan could save us. The hot air stood still, smothering us with its itchy wool blankets. We were faced with panting cats and the grim reality that this may actually be the end. We all patiently took turns taking cold showers. By then it was nearly 6, and under the circumstances, I didn’t mind being an hour early for work. With every passing minute it grew hotter outside, and the chances of me blacking out during the 10-block uphill walk were only going up. I kissed my cat on the head and left her in the sweaty disaster, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time we saw each other. And I also hoped in the meantime that she wouldn’t hate-pee on my bed for leaving her to fend for herself. But I wouldn’t have blamed her. I would do the same.

With nothing but oppressive humidity and tumbleweed to keep me company on my slow procession up the incline, my only solace was the vague promise of air conditioning in the 24-hour Fresh Grocer 4 blocks away. The 7-11 was a closer option, but that place was frightening at 2pm, and I wasn’t about to find out what it looked like at this hour. On the final 10-yard stretch, I restrained myself from sprinting to the grocery store’s automatic doors. Reuniting with the smell of Freon was like the signature cologne of a long-lost lover. With a rush of the icy breeze, my other senses were fully engaged and amplified. Oh, the rows of apples and nectarines were beautiful, the fluorescent lights were brilliant, and the magazine selection was the perfect excuse to loiter. Vegetarian Times, ReadyMade, Writer’s Digest – I was in the waiting room of heaven’s farmer’s market co-op. This would be my own free library until I was made uncomfortable enough to leave. But then I looked up to find myself in line, paying eight dollars for a copy of Adbusters with nowhere left to go but through the business end of the store. My shame prevented me from going back inside, and rather than injure my pride in a place where no one knew me or would wonder why I was window shopping for frozen vegetables at 6:30am, I opted to sauté myself out on Walnut Street.

The cold that was still clinging to my arms quickly evaporated, and the smell of chlorine from the Olympic sized pool inside UPenn’s gymnasium wafted tauntingly from the windows as I limped past. And I got to the giant doors of my work only to find I was the first one there. A few frantic phone calls later, peering into the glass doors looking for any mannequins that may have come to life after hours, I relegated myself to sitting at one of the empty tables in the faux Euro-style courtyard just out front.

Just two sweaty minutes later, a group of non-English speaking tourists sat at the table directly next to mine, avoiding the other dozen or so empty seats. The gibberish, possibly French, complemented the weirdness of their long sleeves and fanny packs. Didn’t they have somewhere else to be, maybe indoors? Just as I’d nearly succeeded in ignoring them, the straw not only broke the camel’s back, but it went on to kill the camel’s entire extended family. I heard what sounded like a recorder.

Allow me to sidebar for a second. Just in case you managed to forget what the recorder is, I will now ruin that for you. It’s the plastic pretend flute they issue you in 4th grade to prepare your parents for the cacophonous, expensive disaster of the school band. By Junior High, you dropped out of the band when you realized it wasn’t cool, and you completely suppressed your memory that your parents bought you a $400 clarinet. Your dim recollection of your fleeting musical endeavors was sparked only when you briefly moved back home after college and you found that overgrown kazoo in your sock drawer along with your First Holy Communion pictures.

But I couldn’t possibly have been hearing a recorder here at 6:45am on the surface of the Sun. I looked up to check, and it was, in fact, the dreaded plastic instrument. Then the overdressed group began singing in tongues to the shrill melody. It’s what I’d imagine would be playing in the waiting room at Hell’s OBGYN.

I’m not here. I’ve passed out in an alley between two dumpsters and this hallucination is just the onset of heatstroke by massive dehydration. I will wake up in the hospital with tubes hanging from my arms, and the plastic bag of saline hanging above me will be a welcome relief. As the nurses flick the needles full of morphine, they will say, “Wow, I’ve never seen dehydration like this. You were lucky your coworkers found you!” And everything would make sense again.

My coworkers found me, indeed. But unfortunately for me, they found me conscious. Worse yet, they found me moments after the poor man’s ABBA had finished their set. A crazy tree fell in my forest and no one was there to hear it. Not only did my managers not understand my story, but they immediately tasked me with removing window decals to make way for the new store display. So I climbed the rickety, 15-foot ladder with a razor blade and a bottle of Goo Gone. With the sun beating through the glass into my eyes and the orange-scented grease running down my arm, I wobbled on the second step from the top, and the muscles in my neck finally relaxed. And I was finally cool.

Everyone at home was alive, and to my knowledge, everyone had peed where they were supposed to pee. A few short weeks after the incident, Ol’ Bessy and I broke up. It wasn’t her, it was me. So I ripped her out of my window with some unknown reserve of superhuman strength, being careful to lift her hundred pound frame with my legs. The patch of shower curtain came with her, flapping sadly. I hulked her out of my room and down the hall. She hovered a few inches off the ground, and sweat slid from my temples into my eyes. But she had to go, no matter how bad it hurt. I would have kicked her to the curb, but she really only made it just outside our door. The next time I left the house, she was gone. I can only hope she lives on somewhere as scrap metal.

by tiffany

Oh, the fluffy, rampant irony. In a cuddly yet rabid turn of events, our penchant for exotic pets, stretch SUVs and floor-length designer pelts has finally come to bite us in our warm, entertained bottoms.

According to the Guardian, minks, pet turtles, gross moths and a slew of plants have taken over the banks of Britain. Causes? Climate shifts and human introduction (read: farming) have caused these undesirables to destroy food supplies, overrun habitats and compromise the biodiversity of the island’s natural wildlife.

That fur coat your Aunt Donna ditched in ‘94? “Farmed until the 1980s, hungry escaped minks are blamed for the collapse in water vole numbers.”

Remember your pet turtle that outgrew its terrarium and went to live on a farm upstate? The Guardian says of the red-eared terrapin: “Originally from the US, these foot-long former pets can terrorise ducklings.” Ducklings? Not the ducklings! Oh, the horror.

We’re at fault, but it’s now the duckling-terrorists’ problem. And when i say “duckling-terrorists” I don’t mean that the ducklings are terrorists. Their solution? They will be creating web-based education on the topic. To view that, go to www.myspace.com/Britain/kill_these_things.

Also, “…they will be countered by a special rapid response unit…,” a top secret effort sanctioned by the government. Since I don’t know what that means, I can only speculate their plans: boatloads of club-wielding, big-haired ladies from North Jersey will flood Great Britain’s banks looking for new coats. And they will be led by Karl Lagerfeld. Fierce.

Read The Article I’ve been talking about

Run, Harvey, run!… Run and don’t look back to see me cry.

- by tiffany

I’d like to share with you my mantra of this week. Rather than belabor the blog with all sorts of dramatizations and re-enactments and scripts, this will have to do. The symbolism accurately and swiftly captures the intangible essence of week of 5.12 - 5.16 in one fell swoop.

Dear lord, please make me a bird of prey so I can fly far, far away and capture those people who have made my week intolerable and feed them to my young and build a new nest of their hair and ligaments.

- by tiffany

After frequenting the Curb Alert section of Craigslist lately, I’ve been sifting through all manner of posts offering free futons, free “fill” (hay, dirt, manure, packing peanuts, old futons) and, for whatever reason, a wide variety of free baby formula and cereal. Perhaps in reading so many similar posts I’ve become jaded, but even though many of these posts beg a lot of follow-up questions, I’m largely unimpressed by all the posts this week.

All but this one, I should say.

1) “Free 1986 Pontiac Grand Am…

Whoa, what?

….Owner’s Manual”

Of course.

“Used paperback in good condition. About 5 pages have pen or pencil marking. Please pick up in Quakertown or we can mail it for honest shipping charge. Thanks.”

Well, kick-start my heart and pour some sugar on me! I already have the 1985 and the 1987 owners manuals, so I guess it’s time to complete my set. I sincerely hope those pencil markings are lyrics to “Hot for Teacher.”

Since the last time you saw a 1986 Pontiac Grand Am was underneath Tawny Kitaen in a Whitesnake video, here you go:

I just want to tie up my oversized button-down shirt, grab a chamois and get to sudsing, don’t you?