Mandy: college graduate, super-sinful unwed mother, narcissist, graphic artist by day, disillusioned writer by night, also super-sinful liberal, feminist (need I mention?); mixed bag, you know.

This is an Unsolicited Parenting Advice-Free Zone. I bitch; you listen; isn't that how blogging works?!

Drinks will not be served. But wouldn't it be awesome if they were?
Blissfully Unwed

I Donated Plasma (and Possibly Some of My Dignity)


As you may have heard (or not, whatever, you know now), I have been spending what are typically my working hours at home now for a few weeks, searching for new and more gainful employment. Not being bound to a desk all day by this invisible chain called a paycheck, I’ve spent my time producing more delicious but very possibly (say it with me) diabeetus-inducing home-cooked meals, and fewer blog entries. Just in case you were wondering.

I guess we’re a fortunate little lower-middle class family, because, with his job, B has been able to keep us afloat and even pay for a few weeks of daycare in the name of an uninterrupted job search for Mandy. Unfortunately, though, this tragic (shut up, it IS tragic to me) budget squeeze has required us to cut back to the necessities - and I think we all know how I feel about necessities. Unless I get to define them, you know, but, as the only person in our home who prefers wine to three square meals, AND the one without a job, I’m pretty much SOL on this occasion. So, today, I decided to give back a little by donating plasma for some extra beer money cash.

From the jump, I felt a little slighted by the fact that I would receive a smaller sorry-we-stole-part-of-your-blood compensation package than my fellow donors who were lucky enough to weigh over 150 pounds (THE HUMANITY!) would be given. I wasn’t too unhappy with the amount they gave to people who can’t help that they’re small dammit, so I moved along with the process.  

No one has ever had trouble accessing my veins. I’m not saying those little blood subways are EASY, but they don’t typically object to being poked, either, if you get my drift winkety wink wink. Today, though, of all days, when we actually stood to make some money instead of losing it to a doctor, my veins suddenly developed some dignity and retreated far beneath my armskin to sulk and refuse to come out and play. Or, you know, maybe the phlebotomist sucked. Either way, they plunged the needle what turned out to be way too far into my right arm, took only half of what they needed before it was tapped out, and had to stick me again in my left arm unless I just wanted to leave without my blood or my money which NO.  

As I sat there, wondering how an organization that pays individuals to give up their bodily fluids in a fairly unpleasant procedure has the gall to turn away individuals who have had sex for drugs or money since 1977, my phone rang. Taking the call would have violated the rules of the donation floor, and I didn’t want to risk an infraction that could get me kicked out without what appeared to be most of the blood in my body, so I let it go. I did, however, manage to discreetly (I think… my bar for this shit is so low) listen to the resulting voicemail, which was left, it turns out, by my job recruiter. She had called to report good news, although she revealed no details (but, I mean, really, there are only so many kinds of good news an employment agency can deliver to a job seeker). I’d been in a pretty docile, it’s-all-good-I-don’t-use-that-vein-for-anything kind of mood, up until that point, but, after hearing the message, I started clenching and unclenching my left fist with a vengeance, unable to think about anything other than returning the call, in hopes that I would soon be spending my afternoons earning more than the $30 this vein-abusing place was paying me.

After I finally escaped into the main lobby and returned the call, it turned out that the news was, indeed, very good: I passed the online test I took earlier this week as a perquisite for an interview with the company I’ve been dying to work for. Can I get a HOLLAAA up in here?! The final interview, in all its glory, is tomorrow, followed, hopefully, by my acquisition of 100% company-paid insurance, guaranteed bonuses and the extra $10k a year that I did not earn at my last job.

I’m not trying to sound like I’m better than all my fellow donors, but I’m pretty sure that nobody walked out of that place happier today than me.

To everyone who is all like, ooh, Romney is winning over all kinds of undecided voters after that debate because he is SUCH an orator: articulate lies are STILL LIES.
Also: I highly doubt that anyone who actually folowed, you know, news, before the debate is eager to join Team Romney, since his newest manifestation, Bipartisan Romney, is not likely to impress anyone who is familiar with Rich Douchebag Romney.

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To everyone who is all like, ooh, Romney is winning over all kinds of undecided voters after that debate because he is SUCH an orator: articulate lies are STILL LIES.

Also: I highly doubt that anyone who actually folowed, you know, news, before the debate is eager to join Team Romney, since his newest manifestation, Bipartisan Romney, is not likely to impress anyone who is familiar with Rich Douchebag Romney.

(Source: livealifethatscompletelyfree)

“How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?”

Charles Bukowski (via dailystendhalnitesaudade)

Shit, I don’t even brush my hair, but, still, THIS. All the way. Americans are not harder workers than our part-timing, vacation-taking, better-benefits-enjoying counterparts abroad; we’ve just had this Virtue of Hard Work mentality impressed upon us by the corporate shot-callers who, coincidentally, are the ones who are actually profiting from the pride we take in our life-sucking careers. 

Seeking stand-in; must be competent in faking it ‘til you make it.

Listen, y’all: I’m a busy bitch. Between managing a full-time job, a precocious 8-month-old baby and a definitely NOT precocious 22-year-old man (let’s be fair, though: I love younger men and it’s nobody’s fault but mine that I decided to parent a child with someone who doesn’t even know how to write a check), I don’t have very much free time to pursue hobbies, and being too busy to make shake-and-bake meth in WalMart is just unacceptable. 

Due to the fact that I can’t clone myself because God specifically told me that the earth could not support two of me (Actually, it was more like, “If I made another you, I’d have to make a bunch more people, too, because there just isn’t anyone left out there who is willing to let you mooch off of them.”), I’ve decided to hire a stand-in. Said person would mostly fill in on weekends, when Li’l G wakes up at 6am, and on workdays, when I have a lot of print jobs that I don’t feel like doing. But, just in case, you’ll need to be proficient in all aspects of Mandy, so, let’s go over the job requirements.

1. Appearance: You’ll need to look good, but not so good that it seems like you tried very hard. OWN IT with a facial expression that says, “You’re lucky I brushed my teeth and put on eyeliner for THIS.” 

2. Children: There will be no need for you to be good with kids, except for Li’l G. Feel free to tell everyone else’s insufferable brats that they’ll probably be getting a new Mommy and Daddy for Christmas, because theirs are tired of having all their fun sucked and plan to drop you at the fire station, and, btw, be very suspicious of any offers to go out for ice cream. Just remember that Li’l G is the smartest, cutest and most agile baby in the entire world, and deserves to be treated as such. Or at least kept out of the cat food. He loves that shit, but the cat is starting to get pissed.

3. Graphic Design: You’ll need to be familiar with a number of design programs for work, or, alternately, be really skilled at pretending to know what you’re doing. Actually, you should just be really good at that, anyway. 

4. Leisure Activities: It is of utmost importance that you are able to hang. If you don’t know what this means, you don’t qualify for the position, because anyone who announces to the party that they’re feeling tipsy after two drinks is subject to instant termination. Anyone who even uses the word tipsy is also out. No beer snobs or drinkers of girly drinks only, either. If you can’t stand the taste of a Natty Daddy, or, even worse, you think you’re too good for a Natty Daddy, just do yourself a favor and apply at a breastaurant or something. 

5. Decision-Making: Here’s something you’ll probably need to start practicing before you even get called for your interview: making bewilderingly-terrible choices, and refusing to provide a sufficient explanation, alternately excusing yourself by pointing your finger at Paul Ryan and saying you did it, “Just for funsies.” 

6. Housework: Cooking and cleaning are someone else’s responsibility. You have books to read and cheap beer to drink. Don’t tell anyone this, though. Make it clear to them by promising to do that laundry later, and never doing it. 

7. Free Things: If someone offers to give you something, always accept. Last week’s salivated-on leftovers and that dresser with three missing legs are EXACTLY what you’ve been needing. 

There are probably a number of other requirements that I’ll remember later, but, in general, just use a lot of obscure words, at least as many swear words, and never take no for an answer, unless the question is, “Is there anything I can do for you?” But you shouldn’t be asking things like that, anyway.