Long Time No See

OH Snap! I'm supposed to be writing posts for this blog, aren't I. Here I thought I could manage three children, a full time job, a new job search, a creative outlet for all my pain and suffering, and a weakening economy at once. I. FAIL.

The good news is that I still have my job, I am slightly less bitter than I was 12 months ago (I think), my husband has a new job (more on this later), and my three children still have a roof over their heads and clothes upon their backs. No small feat. I also found time to write a couple new children's stories and pen some witty posts for my sister's home decor blog, Tables and Chairs. I. Am. Awesome.

In the future I promise to check in more often. Yup, my all loyal readers can take that to the bank.

Interjections Show Excitement or Emotion Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah... YEA!

Breaking News: I, Oh Frappe, have an interview at. . .

wait for it. . .

just wait. . .

this is really good. . .

pinky swear. . .

H

A

R

V

A

R

D

Yes, that Harvard.
I am beside myself with excitement and emotion.

Just Wishing & Hoping & Thinking & Praying

I guess it's safe to say I'm mildly obsessed with work right now. By "mildly" I mean "totally." And by work I mean some other job than the one I actually have because it is sure to be more lucrative, glamorous, and down right rewarding. So, I've complied the following list of well-I'll-be-ain't-that-the-darndest-thing jobs. And because I want to savor the dirty shenanigans I imagine these "professions" entail, I'm only including the job titles. Ready, set, GO:

Muppet stunt coordinator

Laughter therapist

Master sniffer

Taffy Puller

Chicken sexer

Wrinkle Chaser

Cowpuncher

Brain picker

Fantasy broker

Queen producer

Upsetter

Hooker Inspector

Rubbish Auditor

For the record, any job that involves muppets instantly earns my seal of approval. Brains? Not so much.

Clean out Vivienne Westwood in My Galliano Gown

I'm not one for writing multiple posts in a single day. But I almost passed out reading this.
Kid, you're making me look bad.

I'm a Loser Baby so Why Don't You Kill Me

It's official. I am pathetic.

The very first job that catches my eye this morning highlights all that is wrong with my life. I was blind but now I see. And, frankly, I want to be blind again.

WANTED: Admin Assistant for Publishing Co - 35k

That is an annual salary of $35,000 to start which is only $6000 less than what I earn. Correction: I mean earned prior to the total screw that shall not be named. $35,000. To. Start.

I have a Master's Degree. I have YEARS of experience. And I am barely making more money than an assistant? Seriously?

I suppose I should thank Craigslist for my opening eyes. But I really just want to punch it instead.

My Man Wants To Potty All The Time

Imagine my horror to come home and find my husband reading this on the Internet. The man had NOTHING better to do then read an article about a potty training boot camp!?! Oh how the mighty have fallen.

But just so he doesn't feel like I'm a disinterested, know-it-all, I read the article too. Low and behold, I find this is yet another missed career opportunity. It seems the Potty Whisper charges $250 for a session which means if she works with ten toddlers a week she pulls in a cool $2500. Well done, Potty Whisper, well done. I have GOT to figure out how to put my natural talents to work and get a gig like this.

Are You There God? It's Me Black Frappe.

Dear Supreme Ruler of the Universe,

Stop messing me. Oh don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I was in line at the grocery store and I saw what you did.

It's not enough to make me take a crippling pay cut, to force my husband out of a job, to hike up gas prices up so high we won't even be able to drive down the street, to cause the economy to nose drive. No. You have to rub my nose in the opportunity that isn't knock, knock, knocking on my door too?

I mean I can't find a freelance gig to save my life. Not even a little something to help us squeak by. But Harlequin von Trashy Sex Scribe gets to publish Shattered by the CEO (dun dun dun).

Shattered! By the CEO!!! This is, perhaps, the worst book title I've ever, EVER read. And someone, the author or maybe the editor, was paid to come up with this title. Paid actual money. Meanwhile, I get one last chance to pick up this steamy page turner before I buy my loaf of bread, aspirin, and eggs--along with the additional bonus of feeling like an utter reject because no one will give or my effing MA in writing a second glance.

Yes. I am officially broken.

Sincerely yours,

Black Frappe

P.S. Tonight I burn my diploma.