This is what I should be doing with my life

SassyGirl — Tue, 19 May 2009 14:47:22 +0000

Every time I do not get a job, I wonder what I did wrong. It’s not unlike being rejected for a second (or third or fourth) date, except in this case, “It’s not you, it’s me” doesn’t fly¹. Sometimes I think it’s because I didn’t prepare enough for the interview, or I wasn’t energetic enough, didn’t let them see how passionate (read: desperate) I was about getting the job. But most of the time, I settle on the idea that they saw right through my charade, that I wasn’t really in it for the long run, I just wanted to be paid for the summer.

But is it really that bad to not know what I’m meant to do when I’m twenty? I mean, isn’t that the point of these summer internships – to figure out if it’s really for you? And yet if you tell an interviewer that – that you’re not sure if this really is what you want to do, you’re just testing out the waters – they’ll be yelling out “Next” before you can say “Give me a chance.” So, I play by the rules and pretend that I have wanted to be an accountant/financial analyst/marketing specialist/advertising assistant since kindergarten, when every other (normal) kid wanted to be a policeman/woman or a firefighter.

So, inspired by Jamie Ann, I have decided to put together a list of jobs that I know I would enjoy:

Ice cream/gelato taste tester. With my abundant experience (over six years) in consuming ice cream of varying flavours (from ginger to hazelnut to strawberry rhubarb), I am sure I can discern what will be a hit or a flop. Although, how could anything sweet and creamy be a flop?
Food critic. Dining at fine restaurants and then ripping into their cooking skills? I can do that. I practically do already. I just need to be paid for it.
A permanent judge on the Japanese Iron Chef. I’d be much better than those amateur foodies (actors/actresses, voice actors/actresses) they bring in.
Personal shopper for Carrie-Bradshaw-esque girls. Buying beautiful clothes and shoes and accessories with someone else’s money? And getting paid to do it? Hells yeah!
Part-time driver. You know how cars don’t function as well if they’ve been sitting idle for a long time? This is of particular concern to people who own fancy little sports cars or expensive manual cars of the European variety. I can drive them! I mean, these people never own less than four cars, so once in a while, I can come by and take one of their cars out for a drive.
Exclusive purse promoter. Need me to subtly introduce your new limited-stock high-end purse to society (in other words, wear the purse to select shopping meccas in the world)? I can do that. Fab purses, airfare and accommodations to international locations, and the potential to meet some very good-looking people included.

Know anyone who’s hiring?

Except when they tell you you’re over-qualified, which hasn’t happened to me yet since I do not even have a bachelor’s.

Miss Jones

SassyGirl — Wed, 05 Jul 2006 02:15:48 +0000

For a girl who refuses to wear make-up and owns a total of one presentable dress, I’m a pretty big fan of romance-comedies. My rebellious nature does not cover the romance category I guess. In any case, I’m a huge fan of British romance-comedies in particular, simply because I adore their sense of humour. And having a funny accent doesn’t hurt, either.
My absolute favourite romance-comedy has to be Bridget Jones’ Diary. I am in love with the character of Bridget Jones. And I don’t think I’m alone in this. I think the reason Miss Jones appeals to the modern-day woman is that she is the real deal. Nothing about her is perfect. Even her imperfections aren’t perfect. Her diary lets us peer into her innermost thoughts – unabashed hopes, embarrassing fantasies, and the inevitable disappointment when illusion fails to make the transition into reality.
When you watch Bridget Jones, you realize that this character is not a figment of imagination at all. This character exists somewhere in the world – perhaps she even exists everywhere, in all of us. We share her insecurities about our “wobbly bits,” our lack of “legs that go up to there,” and our uncanny ability to make a fool of ourselves. When she’s down, she either sings along to Celine Dion in a drunken stupor and attempts to smoke herself to death, or befriends Ben and Jerry in front of the telly (the latter method is one I’m quite familiar with, and partial to, myself). Yet eventually, inevitably, she pulls herself together and faces the world. She realizes that she has to stand up for herself, because no one else is going to do it for her.
When she finally meets “Mr. Right” after one too many run-ins with “Mr. Wrong,” she can’t quite get herself to trust him. Why? Fundamental truth to most women when we finally meet “Mr. Right”: we don’t think we’re enough. Not pretty enough, not skinny enough, not tall enough, not smart enough, not athletic enough, not funny enough… just not enough. Never enough. And when we see “Mr. Right” with a leggy co-worker, the inadequacies hit home. “Maybe he’d be happier without me. He deserves better anyway,” are just a few of the thoughts running through our minds. The difference between “Mr. Right” and “Mr. Almost Right” is that “Mr. Right” should be able to convince us – eventually – that we are enough.
We all go through that phase. And that’s what astonishes me about Bridget Jones. She is so real. I feel as though I am watching a British version of myself on the screen. I mean, yes, there are many differences between myself and Miss Jones, but our personalities share stunning parallels. I never think before I open my mouth, and therefore, have embarrassed myself one too many times. I have the uncanny ability to command total silence around a room just as I say something incredibly awkward. I try to eat myself to death when I’m down. And, as much as I hate to admit this, I love Celine Dion. The only thing I can cook are omelets. I start out a relationship feeling on top of the world, then soon digress into a series of doubts and suspicions. And finally, I have a kept a diary for as long as I’ve known how to write.
But at least I don’t own leopard-print underwear.

Girl and City » ice cream

This is what I should be doing with my life

Miss Jones