It's eleven-thirty and I have a few things to do tomorrow. I can't sleep, of course. I only felt half brainless all day, so naturally when I lay down to sleep things start making sense. Then again, I did punish myself first thing this morning with writing a resume, where trying to pull advice about formatting a Relevant Skills one resulted in advice that consisted of referring to my children as 'junior associates'. Junior. Associates.
I am raising tiny adults, here, not micro-managing a few obnoxious know-it-alls fresh from college. I am not going to refer to myself as a 'displaced housewife' either, you idiots. Things are clearly bad because I now have a Title. The thing has been named so the thing exists. It's not even just being thrown around anymore, it's on educational information. Someone help us. According to them when I am finished stalling, my resume ought to look something like this:
Displaced Housewife, formerly managing two junior associates and an entry-level canine seeks a full-time administrative/office assistant position.
Responsibilities entailed, teaching the English language, both written and verbal. Intense service care, including clothing, food, wiping and other ooky things. Developing extensive skills at monster shooing and occassionally, the slaying of. Maintaining strong verbal communication at all times and if necessary, utilize a trip to the Wall of Tears.*
I'm fairly certain that these people are suggesting this sort of...um, whatever it is, as a joke. It must be a joke, for otherwise I will not sleep tonight. For the purposes of the collective mental health of the internet, it is a joke.
Anyway, I'm up late and been putting a lot of thought to jobs the past few days—can't imagine why—and it got me thinking about Dream Jobs. Not the ones that exist, the ones that we invent, or think we invent (I'm certain mine must exist, but I don't care to Google it and ruin the moment for myself), that exist just for us. I have a few Dream Jobs, but the one that occurred to me tonight is an interesting and funny one.
I've always been pretty good at matchmaking friends. Not love connections, just friend ones. 'So-and-so would really get along with what's-their-name' sort of stuff, introducing them and having them get along like pancakes and blueberries.
This would be a fun job that wouldn't pay. I could do it over the internet, in the style of the old awesome matchmakers, via word of mouth. So-and-so could send me their name, email, likes, dislike and a little about them and I would then friend match. This would be a fun job. I could do it over the internet. It's kind of like those message in a bottle things I'd do when I was younger, but with something much kinder than the cruel freezing depths of the ocean. I remember riding the ferry, desperately hoping to have someone over in Japan or wherever find it, translate it into their language, care enough to respond and then be EXACTLY LIKE ME SO IT COULD BE SUPERAWESOMEYEAHFUNTIMESGO.
That never happened.
No one ever answered my lonely scrawlings, there was no amazing Other Kristina somewhere in the world just waiting with bated breath. Well, that or there was and she just lost it. I'm old enough now to wonder what the fuck my mom was thinking, letting me throw dozens and dozens of bottles with my address on it into the ocean, but since our house was never robbed by an angry Orca mob, I guess I can't complain at her about it. (Good going, Mom.) Since I was robbed in my youth, I want to provide to others. It'd be awesome fun times to hook two strangers up for a potentially neat friendship/netpal.
I did this on accident recently. By getting paired up with a total stranger for a project I met a chick I like, have a lot in common with and have great conversations with. Completely unexpected and a truly nice surprise.
Anyway, it's midnight now and I have to try to get some sleep for tomorrow. Dream jobs!
*Wall of Tears: It is the wall where my children put their noses when they are especially beastly, because one day I realized there was tear and snot residue on it at their height (fucking. gross.) I can now point in the general direction of the Wall and say, 'Wall of Tears!' and off they shuffle, sullen and belligerent, until I call their names.
(And, because I discovered my dad, step-mother and brother are all now reading my blog: Hi Dad. Hi Monica. Hellooooooooo Little Michael.)