Francey Pants

December 27, 2007

I <3 cover letters

To Whom It May Concern:

First of all, I don’t think Midwesterners, especially Minnesotans, should be put through the torture of writing cover letters. We are a modest people who frown upon the trumpeting of our achievements, instead preferring to play them down.

That said, I am pretty much the Mistress of the Universe. If you hire me, and you would be a fool not to, I can solve pretty much any problem you and newspapers around the country are currently suffering from. I will achieve beyond your wildest dreams, taking your paper from the squalor it is currently wallowing in to a golden palace of success.

That’s really all you need to know about me, but allow me to regale you with my many, many accomplishments. I was literally born with a pen in my hand (don’t ask me how it ended up in my mother’s womb; suffice to say it was my generous request muffled through the amniotic fluids for a pen rather than a pencil that saved my dear m’ma from lead poisoning), and took the occasion of my birth to do an interview with my parents about how momentous the event was for them.

I was a star student throughout my schooling days, despite the fact that I constantly peppered my teachers with questions. My gigantic well of natural curiosity was always bubbling to the surface, threatening to burst through my very being. I was in desperate need for an outlet, which is why I single-handedly founded a series of award-winning community newspapers in my hometown at the age of 5. Several give the papers credit for exposing the multitude of corruption in our city government. I was able to manipulate city data at the age of 7 that uncovered a massive money laundering scheme, which led to the resignation of no less than 34 city officials.

My accomplishments since have been widely publicized in the mainstream media, so I don’t think I need to name them here.

Let me reiterate that my work is practically dipped in gold and encrusted with diamonds, for all the magnificent profits they will bring to your foundering establishment. I will allow you to contact me for an interview (as if there is even a mote of competition! (doubt it)) at my earliest convenience.

Please feel free to contact my references, for I fear I have been far too humble in describing my incredible worth as an employee. BlogThis!Share to X Share to Facebook Share to Pinterest

December 23, 2007

A Christmas Miracle

I heard on NPR on Friday morning that approximately 1 million people were making a grand exodus from the D.C. area that day to spend the holidays with their families. Included in that million is every single one of my acquaintances here (except one of my mom's friends from the olden days with whom I will spend the actual holiday and a fellow member of the tribe with whom I will nosh on Chinese food, as we Chosen are wont to do).

One of those departing ones, an angel I will call The Blessed One, gave me the keys to her lovely apartment for my use this entire week. I walked in there this Friday after work and nearly wept with pure joy. It smelled faintly of clove, not of stale death. There was a pleasant glow from the Christmas lights instead of the harsh fluorescent glare to which I've become accustomed. The surfaces were clean and free from chunks of mystery meat. The bathroom was immaculate, instead of-- well, you know what I'm living with here.

Best of all, there was a plush couch I could stretch out on when I wanted to read or when I wanted to watch a movie. It didn't smell like homeless man.

The Blessed One has my eternal and undying thanks for giving me the very best present I could ask for: an entire week of tranquility away from the Man-Child. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

December 18, 2007

My very own Bridge to Nowhere

For the past few weeks I've been trying my bestest to put away my procrastinatin' practices of the past and get to work on a year-end profile on one of our senators. Every time I open up the doc to start working my verbal magic, however, it seems like the Powers That Be at my news establishment toss another urgent assignment my way.

This morning I went in with every intention of taking that profile by its horns and shaking it every way to Sunday until it didn't know what cliche was going to hit it next, but fate had other plans for me.

A dude at the home office asked if I could assemble a spreadsheet of all the pork our delegation had requested in the 11-bill omnibus legislation Congress has been trying to squeeze out before they go home for the holidays. I had already printed off lists of earmarks on the original bills last week, when it looked like House Appropriations Chairman Dave Obey (D-Wisc.) was going to strip away all the billions of dollars for lawmakers' pet projects to bring the bill closer to the amount President Bush wanted. Facing an uproar from some very unhappy campers, Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) reneged. I kept all the lists just in case debate resurfaced.

(A note about earmarks: they get a lot of negative press because some of them are truly ridiculous, like Sen. Ted Steven's (R-Alaska) $315 million Bridge to Nowhere or Sen. Hillary Clinton's (D-N.Y.) much-maligned request for $1 million for a museum commemorating the Woodstock music festival. But most of them go to really worthwhile projects, like road repair or social service programs.)

Because I had all those handy lists, I thought it was going to be a breeze to plug them into a happy little database. And it was fun for this Excel geek, at least for a little while. As the day wore on, I started getting press releases from various legislators' offices enumerating the amounts they would receive for their myriad projects in the omnibus bill, amounts sometimes very different from what I had listed. Why hadn't I just looked at the omnibus bill text in the first place to pick out what I needed, you ask? My dear, silly, friend: this behemoth is thousands of pages long. And the document is unsearchable, thankyouverymuch. (I was going to link to it so you could behold its glory but 10 minutes' worth of Google searching has proved unfruitful and I'm bored with the pursuit.)

So I had to meticulously compare the press release figures with the ones I already had, going line-by-mother-freaking-line. Then the Powers That Be decided they wanted the Senate numbers in there, too... we might as well make it a "master" document, eh? Eh indeed. The House and Senate project names often vary at least slightly, so finding corresponding entries was a real treat.

After hours (upon hours... upon hours...) of increasing my susceptibility of carpal tunnel syndrome, I finally finished and chirped my relief to my coworker.

"Yeah, I don't know if we're still going to use that or need it, but I'm glad we have it! Thanks!" he said.

Editor's note: Apparently Nugget wasn't smart enough to Google search "text of omnibus bill," because if she had she would have found this right away.

December 17, 2007

This morning there was a pair of dirty boxers on the kitchen counter

Think about that for a bit.

I often tell my coworker here about my daily battles with the Man-Child and he's graciously extended an invitation to me to move into his basement on many occasions. Because he has three cats and felines make my face explode in hives and my eyes and nose explode in itchiness, though, I've had to decline.

Last week he suggested I move into the office. I'd have everything I needed there: a kitchenette, showers in the gym downstairs, a TV and computer, ample space to store my things because of all the layoffs/ buyouts... The only I was missing was a place to rest my head. The most viable option was under my desk, a quite spacious space, really. I would just need some blankets and pillows to make my nest and I'd be set.

During our office holiday party on Friday, several now-empty offices were opened up to house the nosh. In the dessert room we discovered a couch. As soon as I can figure out a way to schlep all my worldly possessions there on the Metro, I'm moving in.

December 15, 2007

Ladies' Men

Overheard on the Metro:

Fratboy 1: So today, I was, like, texting with Morgan. I was like, "I had a Caesar salad with salmon; are you proud?" And she was like, "Yeah, five points for fish." Then I was like, "So we're going to be rolling in Arlington later, you in?" And she was like, "Was that meant for me?"

Fratboy 2: Oh man... Snap.

Fratboy 1: I know, right? So I was like, "Yes it was meant for you. We're going to a party if you want to hit that."

Fratboy 2: NICE!

Fratboy 1: Yeah, so she was like, "I don't want to hook up with you if that's what you mean."

Fratboy 2: Dude, she so totally does. That girl is like horny as a toad. She totally wants to get stuffed.

Fratboy 1: Totally.

December 9, 2007

Warning: this is quite possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever written

Alternative title: Poop goes the roommate

I want to make sure that you, my beloved readers, are adequately prepared for what you're about to read. I don't often venture into writing Tales of the Toilet, but I had to make a special exception to convey what depths of despair I experienced last night. If you're weak of stomach or faint of heart STOP READING NOW.

I came home last night after a lovely holiday party looking forward to brushing my fangs, washing my mug and slumbering. When I walked into my apartment, however, my ol' olfactorys were slapped with a pungent odor. Figuring the roommate decided to boil the intestines of a suckling pig for dinner, I shrugged it off and entered the bathroom I share with him to commence my nightly routine.

The stench was so strong in there it almost took on a shape. I then noticed the throne was filled with the soupy contents of The Thing's bowels.

Let it be known that this man-child is 29 years of age. Even accounting for the fact that he was most likely a late bloomer in terms of potty training, he still has a more than a quarter-century relationship with the toilet and that nifty lever that makes its contents magically disappear.

Assuming he left the apartment with it sitting there because the throne was in need of repair, I texted him:

"The toilet is overflowing with your shi(r)t. Did you call someone to fix it?"

I got this in reply:

"wrong number. my name is (Thing's name). No idea what ur talking bout. good luck with that."

Because I am technically squatting here-- the apartment management knows not of my existence-- I couldn't just approach the office and request service without giving away the ruse and probably getting stuck with a hefty fine.

So I steeled myself, gathered all my courage and bravery, and flushed, prepared to turn off the water should the mess reach a danger point in the bowl. To my intense relief it all went down. I lit five matches and a scented candle and opened a window to try to coax a more bearable smell into this place.

One more month one more month one more month one more month one more month.

December 2, 2007

Even free makeovers come at a price

After slogging through yet another work week, my buddy Wink and I decided to have a bit of fun by going shopping. Since I had completed all my holiday shopping the previous weekend and wasn't in need of anything (except a new pair of black boots, which Ma Nugget has promised to purchase for me when I come home--thanks Ma Nugget!), I could browse carefree without the pressures of finding that perfect something something.

Our final stop of the evening was Macy's, where we were determined to get ourselves free makeovers in anticipation of the Event of the Year: Truth Pirate Slumber Party 2007. We weaved in and out of the Chanel, Estee Lauder and Clinique counters, making eyes at the bored salespeople that clearly told them we needed a makeover, stat. But no one was biting. We even went to the Bobbi Brown counter and paged through her instructional book while wondering aloud what the makeup would like like on our visages. The best we got out of that shopgirl was, "Can I help you find something?"

Yeah-- a new face! Gosh!

Admitting defeat (but not admitting to anyone what we actually wanted... which in hindsight was a bit silly), we moseyed our way through the shoe, purse and wintertime accessories sections. On our way out we decided to give it one last go and looked adoringly at the Benefit makeup counter.

A bored, emo-looking lad immediately perked up and asked us if we wanted to browse his company's catalog. We paged through them and asked which of the products he was pimping was best. Benetint, a rose-colored serum for cheeks and lips, he told us. Put this on your cheeks and everyone will wonder, "What has she been up to?" he said cheekily. During his pitch we discovered he was from a locale across the pond. Ipswitch, England, to be exact.

We also discovered his name was Mark, which prompted me to bellow, "MAHK? MAHK!" a la Elizabeth in E.R. He didn't know a titch about his own products (other than what he read off the label)... or makeup in general for that matter. There was no way this limy upstart was going to be able to give us a makeover.

Then he started telling us about how he came to be in this freedom-loving nation. He said he met a girl on MySpace and they got married, but they have since divorced. He assured us he didn't marry her for a Green Card. Then he asked if we knew the hotspots in town where single women would congregate.

Wink told him emphatically that we wouldn't know because we were both dating muscular Minnesota boys. We bid him good day and then left to try on ball gowns.

November 29, 2007

Impervious to Illness

This is about the time of year when everyone starts feeling the tickle at the back of their throats or the snuffle at the tip of their nose that tells them they are about to be felled by pestilence. Multiple colleagues of mine have even reported a suspicion of having modern plague (mono).

I would like to take this opportunity to declare that this year I shall not be one of Disease’s many fallen. This year I will escape the clammy clutches of any form of influenza or common cold. This year I will conquer mucus, phlegm and fever.

This year I will be a vision of health.

And it’s all really simple whycome. The human interaction in my life is now so limited that my chances of germ contraction are next to nil. Compared to the stewing cesspool of human filth that is a college campus, I now live in monk-like conditions. I rarely interact with my roommates and I disinfect that which I must touch in our shared space on a regular basis. The parties I used to host so frequently are no more, so there’s no chance of mistakenly swapping syndromes by swapping snacks or sips.

At work my closest coworker sits approximately five feet away from me, so there’s no chance of a wayward sneeze or errant spittle to mar my biochemistry. The next-closest coworker after that is stationed approximately 25 feet from me and faces the opposite direction. I don’t have to handle money or touch people in order to do my job, either.

The one place where I’m in real danger is on the metro, where people are often packed so tightly during rush hour I literally have a crush of humanity breathing down my neck. Beyond sporting a surgical mask, there aren’t a lot of measures I can take besides wearing my gloves when I cling to the handrails for dear life.

Even if a sneaky germ managed to get its way into my system, I am fully confident the ridiculous amounts of Vitamin C I ingest daily will bring it to its knees.

November 28, 2007

Broke Boot Metro

Yesterday wasn’t the best of days. Actually, it was the latest in a string of not-so-good days. But yesterday was particularly bad. My coworker had a personal crisis that was so sad it made me nearly weep, and then I got into a huge fight with a dear friend and felt like I was having a heart attack.

And then, on my way to the metro after I left the office for the day, the heel of my right boot snapped off. It was still dangling to the upper part of the shoe by a few sinewy pieces of leather on the heel, but it would no longer serve as a support for my girth.

I was already having trouble walking yesterday because I was wearing a pretty tight pencil skirt that was static-clinging to my tights, causing me to have shuffle instead of taking my usual long, powerful strides. The absence of a right heel just about made me a contender for Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks with my limping hobble.

The shame made my cheeks glow as red as my skirt (and my jacket, and my phone, and my mp3 player… I kind of like the color red). I’d like to think no one noticed my plight unless they looked directly at my shoe because I was I was balancing so gracefully on my toes. But the stares of passers-by told me this definitely was not the case.

What’s really eerie about this incident is that around this same time last year the heel on my previous pair of black boots broke off as I was hurrying to French class. And I was wearing the same outfit I had on yesterday. WEIRD.

So now I’m out a pair of black boots and I keep having dreams about buying a pair of Uggs and my conscious mind can’t understand this because I think they’re really ugg-ly and I’m just so scared and lonely and confused I want to ball up under my desk and dream about Wolf Blitzer instead.

November 24, 2007

A desperate plea for pity

Seems to me that very few people are actually from the DC area. It's a transient place where people flit in, put in a tortuous two or three years with the politician/government agency/news medium of their choice and then flit out again.

This being the case, it's been practically a ghost town here this Thanksgiving weekend. I had a few buddies with whom to spend the actual holiday, saving me from having a complete emotional breakdown, but otherwise it's been just me and The Flatulent One.

And boy, is he creeping me out. I exited my room on Thursday to find he had cleaned the entire apartment. He even laundered the dining room table cloth and our bathmats. This from the the guy who can't be bothered to wipe the sink of his excess shaving cream and stubble. Then this morning I went in the kitchen to find a plate heaping with brownies. This from the guy who has never so much as boiled water for a meal (he tends to favor take out pizza and Wendy's). Maybe the Good Roommate did poison him.

Because I could only stay cooped up in my room for so many hours reading another book about Tudor England-- the TV and thus our entire shared living space had been claimed by Sir Flatulence for hours-- I met up with my sole friend who is actually from DC for dinner. We went to the neighborhood to the west of mine, and on the moderately long walk home I couldn't stop myself from staring in to restaurant windows on families enjoying a lovely meal together.

I felt like the curmudgeonly father in those Christmas movies who leaves his home and children in a huff, cursing the bad luck the fates had bestowed upon him, until he happens upon a scene of familial tranquility. He pauses outside the window rimmed with frost and looks adoringly at the family inside. Feeling his stare upon them, they nudge each other and point to the window. Alarmed at the feeling of his heart slowly shedding its encasement of ice, he hurries home, finally aware of the true meaning of Christmas.

I was that man, dear readers. Except I had no family to hurry to. Only the roommate.

And now, as he takes one of his 40-minute showers in complete darkness, I cannot help but feel that darkness seep into my very soul.

November 21, 2007

And then things got even weirder...

In a repeat performance of the previous evening, The Good Roommate zoomed out of his room as soon as I got home last night, intent on conversing with me as I nuked my Amy's macaroni and soy cheez frozen meal. (Stop that eye rolling. Whole Foods is the only grocery store within walking distance and it was on sale, OK?)

"So how's it going?" he asked.
"Oh, you know. Fine," I replied.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Not a whole lot. My day was pretty standard," I replied.
"What's new?" he prodded.
"Um... I'm having a hard time getting a senator to call me back for a story I'm writing," I finally offered in hopes of ending the cycle of pleasantries.
"Oh. That sucks. So I've been thinking about what I told you last night."
"Please tell me you decided against poisoning him."
"Don't worry. I had another idea. Remember that email I sent out a couple months ago?"
(Note: he's referring to a six-page email he sent me and The Flatulent One enumerating all the different rules of the apartment. Example: "The food I buy is my food. While I don't mind sharing, it is my decision on whether to share my food or not. I did not buy it for you, and you may not have anything I want in return.")
"He's been using all my silverware and dishes and not washing them when he's done. (Note: this is a violation of Rule No. 3--Using Stuff in the Kitchen) Before I leave this weekend I'm going to either take all my pots and pans and stuff with me to my parents' or hide them all in my room."
"What if I have to make something, though?" I asked.
"Oh. Well... You could pick out everything you think you'll need and hide it in your room," he offered.

After politely declining this gracious offer, we spent a jovial 10 minutes discussing how ill-equipped for life The Flatulent One is. It was during this time that TGR told me how much he enjoyed having me as a roommate, all the while staring at my chest.

November 20, 2007

And then things got weirder...

Upon returning home from work and a subsequent trip to the grocer’s last night, The Good Roommate exited his room and began conversing with me as I put my plunder in the fridge and various cupboards.

“So, how’s it going?” he asked.
“Oh, fine. I had an alright day. How are you?” I responded.
“So what’s up?”
“Umm… nothing? What’s up with you?”
(note: TGR is painfully shy it often takes him awhile to work up the courage to state his purpose)
“You know those cookies that were on the counter last night?” he finally sputtered.
“I didn’t touch them,” I retorted, knowing how anal he is about people eating/drinking/touching what is rightfully his.
(note: I think I know better than to eat ANYTHING in that apartment that hasn’t been sealed in an airtight container)
“Yeah, I didn’t think you did. I knew it was (The Flatulent One)… Well, I’m going to make another batch of cookies and leave them out and he’ll be sorry he ever messed with me.”
“What-- you’re going to poison him?!?”
“Let’s just say he’s not going to be able to leave the bathroom for awhile.”
“But I share a bathroom with him! If his butt explodes I’m going to have to deal with the sounds and smell more than I already do! Please don’t!” I begged.
“Oh yeah; I forgot about that. I’ll come up with something else.”

November 12, 2007

Semi-employed

Everything I’ve ever done in my life has had an expiration date. I knew when I was going to graduate high school and college, and most of the jobs I’ve held during those tenures have ended around those dates. Both of my post-collegial internships have also had pre-determined exit dates.

I’m nearing the end of my latest endeavor and it’s time to contemplate something that terrifies me: a job with a foreseeable future.

That means I actually have to figure out what I want to do. Most days I love what I’m doing right now: political reporting for a mid-size daily newspaper. But newspapers are dying, if you haven’t heard. Like, sucking in their last rasping, putrid gasps of air, collapsing upon their decayed limbs, taking one last glance at sweet, sweet life from their milky, mildewed eyeballs dying.

So it looks like I’ll have to find something else to occupy my time. Ideally, I’d like to make a contribution to society, but sometimes I think I’d be just as happy popping out 2.5 kids and spending my days playing catch with them using various kitchen implements. Of course, the unfortunate half of a child, who we’ll call “Semi,” will only have one eye. His/her lack of depth perception being what it will be, it seems more likely than not that the various spatulae and egg-shaped timers I'd lob would blind the poor tot completely.

November 8, 2007

NEWSFLASH!

There is a girl in the apartment. A girl!! This is the first time since I've been here someone besides me has brought another person to the lair. Following are the clues I used to piece this occurrence of shooting star-like regularity:

-There are two sets of curtains on The Things sliding doors-- one inside his room and one outside. This morning, for the first time, the outside ones were drawn, indicating that he needed privacy of a very special sort
-While I was in the kitchen fixing my breakfast of frosted mini-wheats, I heard the door slide open behind me and a female voice decide not to venture out in the common area whilst I was there
-Once I was safely ensconced in my room, this creature went into the bathroom and actually washed her hands after relieving herself
-She then proceeded to take a shower-- and left the lights on!

My, my... it seems Mr. Lonely Heart has landed himself a lady friend. I hope beyond hope that this was merely a one-night stand and I don't have to add his primal grunts to the roster of intimate noises I have come to be acquainted with. *Shudder*

November 6, 2007

They slayed her neigh!

Remember little Natalie, who desperately wanted a pet horse but was denied by her City Council? Looks like they might have done her a favor. The Star Tribune published a story today about someone killing another little girl's pony:

LONG PRAIRIE, Minn. -- Authorities are investigating the killing of an 11-year-old girl's pet horse in central Minnesota.
Katie Symalla discovered her horse Savannah dead in the field by her family's farm in Long Prairie on Saturday.
Katie says Savannah was her "best friend in the whole wide world."
The family last saw Savannah on Friday at 5 p.m., and arrived home Saturday just before 2 p.m.
Katie's mother, Victoria Monti, says whoever killed the horse skinned her face and took her eyeball.
Investigators with the Todd County sheriff's office are trying to figure out who killed the horse, and why.

They took her eyeball??? What does one do with a horse eyeball? I mean, do you run a string through it and wear it as a necklace? Can it be used as an amulet to ward off evil?

Note: I'm home sick today so odds are good boredom will drive me to post more than is necessary.