Coming Out Of The Closet

Behold a milestone: my latest piece in the Guardian is the first time I, while wearing my professional-writer's hat, discuss the scandalously fun way I paid for college.

As I said in my phone-sex story, "Behold the grandeur of the twins." I daresay my former career has something to do with why I look so much younger than I am; the good thing about spending your youth hanging upside-down from a stripper pole is that when things start to sag, they sag up.

On a more serious note: the piece discusses the (unaccountably controversial) notion in Superfreakonomics that the supply-and-demand laws which apply to every other economic endeavor apply to prostitution and sex work as well. I'd write something witty and pithy here, but I'm still waiting for my coffee to kick in.

Patriotic Responsimability

Over at Comment is Free: America, I expand upon a theme I've previously addressed here and at the Hartford Advocate concerning American identity theft laws:

Being an American, as I am, entails a truly awesome level of responsibility, not even counting any global-policeman, Pax Americana nonsense, which nobody here takes seriously anyway, except for select government officials and people who make a point of working the American flag into their daily wardrobes.

The whole piece is here.

Flushing My Career Down The Toilet (if I’m lucky)

I don’t want to know the search terms my friend used to find this help-wanted link he sent me today:

Open Casting Call: Charmin Ambassadors

Do you enjoy going to the bathroom enough to earn $10,000?

Charmin is conducting a national search to find five super-fun, enthusiastic people to work at the Charmin Restrooms in Times Square this holiday season!

The Charmin Ambassadors will greet, entertain, and blog about their experience. All candidates must really, really enjoy going to the bathroom.

I have at times been really, really desperate to go to the bathroom, but that’s not quite the same thing. And “relief” is an emotion quite distinct from “joy.” That said, the reason I’ve never truly “enjoyed” going to the bathroom is because no one ever paid me ten grand to do it.

[Before I go any further, I must comply with the new FCC rules concerning bloggers, who are now required to disclose any material benefit they get from a company they blog about, and admit to being a beneficiary of Charmin corporation largesse, by which I mean I used their Charmin Restroom Pavilion they had a few years ago at the Big E, New England’s annual multi-state fair.]

Anyway, Charmin executives: if you’re looking for a friendly, outgoing, talented writer who really, really enjoys going to the bathroom for ten thousand dollars, rejoice! for you have found her.

Ordinarily, when applying for a writing job, this is the part where I’d link to pieces from my clip file. However, none of my clips adequately express the concept “This person really, really enjoys going to the bathroom.”

Since I can’t show you any of my published works I’ll have to improvise. Despite my lack of bathroom clips I have several notable bathroom memories, so if nothing blog-worthy happens in Times Square I can always blog about bathrooms past.

Please note how excellently my tone conveys the concept “The combination of this woman’s writing style and her wacky bathroom hijinx is sure to entertain customers and compel them to buy lots of Charmin products.”

JENNIFER’S BATHROOM BLOG
Excretory Adventures through the Ages

The College Years:

Last night, to celebrate the end of finals, [names redacted] and I got verra verra stoned and at one point I ate an entire box of Froot Loops. This morning, I pooped a shade of green not found in nature. Maybe my digestive system can’t handle a whole box of whatever the hell artificial coloring they use, but Charmin Ultra-Strong™ can!

[To comply with FCC requirements I should mention how, along with the Froot Loops, I got a free plastic cereal spoon that changes color when you dunk it in milk.]

So what do you think, Charmin execs? If you’re not yet convinced I’d be perfect for the job, then consider this: due to a childhood camping accident I have almost no sense of smell, which means if I spent New Year’s Eve in a Times Square public restroom, my differently-abled self would find it much easier than the normally-nosed to sincerely say “I really, really enjoy going to the bathroom.”

Voting For Failure

I voted for the idea of Obama last November, but unfortunately that idea never took office. This continues my long trend of voting for losing presidential candidates:

Early 2008: Spent almost six horrifying days as a registered Republican so I could vote for Ron Paul in the GOP primary. He lost.

2004: Voted for what's-his-name, the guy who looks like an anthropomorphic oak tree. The two-party candidate whose main qualification was that he wasn't George W. Bush, remember? The rich guy married to the ketchup lady? He lost, too.

2000: Didn't bother because I knew Al Gore would take my state of Connecticut whether I voted or not. He did win Connecticut, and maybe Florida too, but the Supreme Court said it didn't matter so he lost, Bush became president and the whole country lost.

But at least Gore eventually won a Nobel prize, as did the idea of Obama, and such declining Nobel standards make me happy because misery loves company, so I take grim comfort in knowing at least America doesn't have to decline alone.

Collecting Antiques: My Hobby Pays Dividends

I still have a slight cold and a touch of fever, but my coughing has been mostly assuaged thanks to my back-of-the-cabinet discovery of an almost-full bottle of codeine cough syrup stamped "Use Before Fall 2002." I kick myself for not having bought some last summer in Montreal.

I shall resume blogging when my codeine-and-NyQuil daze fades away.

Red-Haired American Cougar Seeks British, French Or Scandinavian National For Matrimony And Medicine. Please Don’t Tell My Boyfriend

Over at Comment is Free, the Guardian’s American op-ed site, I discuss my exotic American opinions about healthcare reform and how to end world hunger and generally save the entire world.

This post’s headline, naturally, refers to the personal ad I plan to take out if I ever become too sick to afford my medical bills, which shouldn’t cost more than a few Euros and pounds and I frankly don’t understand my idea hasn’t caught on with American women and British men already. It would be like Russian brides only better, because we sort of know how to speak proper English.

Of course, I wouldn’t have to resort to such drastic measures as complaining in the British papers if I’d made better choices with my life, such as “Don’t start your newspaper career at the exact moment the Internet killed the industry.” My career highlights thus far include working on a phone sex line, infiltrating a Furries convention, and realising only too late in life that acting in Japanese tentacle porn might have been a better career decision than copy editing novels for a vanity publisher.

Sometimes people online mistake me for a certain talented high school athlete from Quebec who went to Beijing last summer as part of the Canadian Olympic diving team. This makes me feel sorry for my Quebecoise namesake, who doesn’t deserve to have her name linked with a disreputable person like me.