No, I'm not dead. At least, not in the clinical sense. Although I am at work, so same diff.

For the past few weeks I've been rather morbidly depressed for no good reason, so I thought I'd spare any blog-readers from any sniveling that may result.

See, it occurred to me a few weeks ago that I have a deep and abiding committment to failure. Considering my committment issues, this is kind of ironic, but oh well.

I guess I've been sort of depressed since the wedding. It's not the fact that it's all over, it's just that it was a way of putting off thinking about/assessing all the things in my life that need improvement, such as my so-called career. I hate grant writing and fundraising. It is an inane line of work (no offense to any card-carrying members of the Association of Fundraising Professionals). I realize that someone has to do it, in the way that someone has to, say, collect elephant semen to help pachiderms reproduce in captivity. But still.

I really, really, really need a new job. I can say, without hyperbole, that my job is sucking out my soul and digesting it and then spitting it out and batting it around like a chew toy.

In the past, when I've really hated jobs or been at a crossroads, I just picked up and went somewhere else for a while. The other day I woke up and thought fondly of going to Florida for a while and living in April's "porn room" (what spare bedroom isn't?). Not that I'm going to do that, because I'd also have to bring my husband and two cats, which would be like the premise to some very bad reality show, called something like, "FreeLoader Island" where April would win a million dollars if she could put up with us for six weeks. It would be a hard-earned million.

Or maybe the idea is that Paul and I would be the butlers, in exchange for room and board? The show would be called "Bad Butlers." (Unrelated note: Why is it that virtually all movies with "Bad" in the title are, in fact, just that?)

Anyway, I'm officially seeking a new job. Possibly as a female butler. Can women be butlers? I'll be like the Elizabeth Cady Stanton of butlers. It'll be hot.

Today I called in sick to work.

I said that I'd thrown out my back, which, if anyone from work is reading, is absolutely and thoroughly TRUE. Although if in an entirely theoretical scenerio someone were to be dishonest and lie about such things, back pain is remarkably hard to disprove. You don't have to fake-cough or come up with an elaborate description of what caused the "food poisoning."

I briefly considered calling in insane, which would have been more to the point. Sadly, honesty ain't always the best policy.

Sometimes I think I really am going crazy. I spent all day Tuesday staring blankly at the computer screen at work, nursing an elaborate fantasy in which I came down with appendicitis, or some other not-fatal-but-still-serious condition, so I could take a few days off. Not a good sign. (Hello, universe? Just kidding about the appendix thing. I respect & value all of my vestigial body parts.)

Today was the best day I've had since the last time I called in sick. Mind you, the last time I called in sick, I spent the entire day lying on the floor of my bathroom puking my innards out (including something that looked like an appendix), wishing that my parents had been more cautious about birth control and thus spared me the agony of that moment.

Still, it was notably better than being at work.

I really shouldn't complain, as my job could be much worse. I could be gluing lifelike hairs onto "adult novelties" in Malaysia for 12 cents a week. I could be the poor sucker in the Shamu costume at Sea World in August. Or I could be a producer for Bill O'Reilly, for god's sake.

The other day, my dad half-jokingly sent me a link to this article entitled, "Are you ready to jump ship?" It included one of those quizzes like you sometimes find in women's magazines, that typically lead you to think that you should run screaming to your doctor, leave your spouse, or buy a better bra.

The first few questions:

1. I find it hard to get out of bed in the morning.
2. I'm often late for work.
3. Once I arrive at work, it takes me a while to actually get started working.
4. I sit at my desk and daydream.
5. I spend time at work doing personal tasks.

My score was "Why Haven't You Quit Already?" Of course, I'm pretty sure that was the score of 98% of all people who aren't Paris Hilton for a living.

A better quiz might be as follows. Respond to each question with never (0), sometimes (10), often(20), or fuckin' A! (40)

1. I've consulted a witch doctor or shaman about harnessing the forces of darkness against clients/boss/photocopier

2. I no longer pay attention to traffic lights.

3. I linger a little too long in the "Guns & Ammo" section of Wal-Mart

4. At work, I somtimes get distracteed by non-essential personal tasks, such as sitting in the corner slowly ripping up newspapers, while talking to self.

5. On Sunday nights I sit in front of the Medical Encyclopedia trying to decide anyone would believe I actually have rickets. Consumption? Cat scratch disease?

Prince Charmin

I should be working.

That's going to be the title of my autobiography. I Should Be Working, by Marguerite.

In my state of procrastinating doing work, I've been reading a lot of infotainment (CNN, for instance) on the internet.

Things I've Learned:

Christian Slater appeared in court yesterday. He was charged with "grabbing and squeezing” the buttocks of a woman coming out of a deli on the Upper East Side, apparently while engaged in a heated argument with his girlfriend. Because, let’s face it –grabbing another woman’s ass is the easiest way to win a fight with your girlfriend.

In court, Slater plead “not guilty,” stating that he had simply mistaken the woman in question for a roll of Charmin.

This all took place on East 94th Street, a few blocks from where I live. Not that it's appropriate anywhere, but Carnegie Hill (as the 'hood is known) is not exactly the grab-ass capital of the world. It's rather hard to grab the buttocks of people in this neighborhood, because the broomsticks wedged up their derrieres typically get in the way.

That, and because linen wrinkles if you so much as look at it, dahling.

Desperately Seeking New Job

Where I work, almost everybody is quitting and/or getting fired (or, "fired off") because nobody seems to get along with the new boss, who arrived in January. I take the Vanna White approach, and just keep my mouth shut and nod and smile. They probably think I don't even speak English. At this point, I'm the only full-time employee left in my department.

If people keep leaving, I'm going to become diabetic. Every day, it's another "goodbye" sheet cake. I'm pretty sure that the blue flowers on sheet cake are made out of roughly the same ingredients as crystal meth.

Here's an excerpt from my conversation with a co-worker at today's going away desert party. I call the following piece: Why I Need A New Job, by Marguerite.

CO-WORKER: I met Sponge Bob this moring. At the bookseller's convention at the Javits Center.

ME: So, is it true? I hear that, in real life, he's a big asshole.

(Silence)

CO-WORKER: Actually, he was very nice. The guy in the costume, that is. Who's not really Sponge Bob.

ME: I hear he's dating Katie Holmes.

(More silence; odd looks)

The End.

Deep Throat

I've been reading the coverage of the "Deep Throat" story. I don't know why Mark Felt didn't come out sooner, but I suppose as a high-ranking FBI official, he didn't want people to know that he was secretly a porn star.

All in all, the whole thing is a bit anti-climactic. No pun intended.

In all seriousness, Bob Woodward's Washington Post article on the subject is a strangely absorbing read. (If you miss it, I'm sure that by December it'll be a major motion picture inspiring Tom Cruise to finally announce that he's getting married to the Church of Scientology)

Personally, I was hoping that Deep Throat would turn out to be Linda Lovelace. Who would have seen that coming?

(ahem.)

I think I just missed the boat on the perfect job.

It seems that Country Music Television recently conducted a nationwide search for the position of "Vice President, Dukes of Hazzard Institute." (No, seriously.)

The VP of this think tank will be required to watch the Dukes of Hazzard every day on CMT, and write about it in a blog. The institute will also seek to improve international relations and World Peace through the Advancement of Tight Pants.

I guess Henry Kissinger wasn't available.

Anyway, as a part of the online application process, candidates for this $100,000 a year job had to answer three questions, including: If you Bo, Luke and Daisy took off in The General Lee, what would happen next?

I'm sure all of the entries were something like this: We'd hop in through the windows of the General Lee and head straight for the Hazzard County Airport, where we would hop on the first Air India flight to Delhi and then make our way to the ashram of Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, where we would just, like, clear our heads of material attachments.