sure, we have random conversations about things that are completely inappropriate at all times, but this one is too funny.

me: make sure you put your name on one of the new name tags for this promotion and put it in your lanyard, okay?

him: (sad tone) ooohhhhh.  but i like it when you write my name for me.

me: aww, honey, that’s so sweet.

him: (covering his heart with his hand) en fuego.  i don’t even know what that means.  but it sounds cool.

me: i think that means “on fire.”  just don’t cover your crotch and say that to someone, okay?  it could get a little weird.

Fireman to Fight Fire

really?  interesting.  whoever posted this couldn’t have just left it at “Fireman” and expected all of the literate job-seekers to assume that it was a career in which one would “fight fire.”

naturally, my mind wandered.  how about:

Fireman to Street Fight the Homeless

Fireman to Fight Kindergartners Over Spaghetti-Os

Fireman to Fight Baby Seals in the Arctic

Fireman to Fight Macaulay Culkin

Fireman to Fight Receding Hair Lines

Fireman to Fight My Dad Shirtless, Rolled in Crisco

Fireman to Fight The Jews

Fireman to Fight the Creators of O, Oprah Magazine

i mean, really.  if you’re applying to be a fireman, what could you possibly assume that you’d be doing?

5.  that outfit makes you look like a whore.

well, good.  as i was getting ready for this evening out with my girlfriends, i thought to myself, “hmm, what would best bring out the color of my eyes and make it appear as if i am a streetwalker?” nothing says class like ‘i’ll give a hand-jobby for three bucks.‘

4.  you really need to work on your flexibility.

hi.  when you first met me, did it look like i was wearing pink and had Mattel imprinted on my ass?  i wasn’t Gymnast Barbie then, and i sure as hell have not gotten a whole lot more limber since.  Butch Barbie will have to do, babe.

oddly enough, point number four didn’t even occur in a sexual setting.  it was hide-and-go-seek.  yep.  i said it.

3.  i just realized how big your areolas are.

okay, wise guy.  no more skinny-dip watching for you.  here i am, forgetting about my personal imperfections, and you had to go and bring them all back up again.  dick.  and besides, my nipples are fitted just right…for an orangutan.

2.  maybe i should get my mother to come over and (fill in the blank_____).

usually that blank was always filled in with something that would piss me off.  so, if it involves your mother coming over to fix something that i unknowingly screwed up, don’t even mention this phrase.  i like messing my own shit up and not knowing how to fix it properly.

1.  have you always had those stretch-marks?

yes.  now stop looking or else i am going to burn your eyes out for you.

not cool, dude.

thanks to your sexually-laced product marketing, teenage boys will continue to ask me to demonstrate how your contraption works.  stupid ho.

this has become one of my favorite go-to websites…and one of the ways i continuously ruin my self-esteem permanently.

after becoming extremely frustrated today over my current employment situation, i thought i would look at what jobs are out there for a regular, run-of-the-mill smart ass, such as myself.

KINDERGARTEN TEACHER

perks: i get to be a kid all day, i would have a classroom aide, and i’m pretty sure there’s nap time.

downfalls: i will be surrounded by children all day, with their precious, un-warped minds at my disposal.  i think this might be unsettling for some folks that own offspring.  and the application mentioned nothing about a criminal background check or drug test.  where is this place?  oh, south tucson.  ’nuff said.

DANCE TEACHER

perks: i can probably get drunk and still go to work.  i’m a better dancer that way, anyway.

downfalls: i don’t think “watches so you think you can dance and america’s best dance crew” look that credible on a resume.

CAMPUS POLICE OFFICER

perks: i can raid students for their narcotics stash.

downfalls: no one would take me seriously in uniform.  they’d probably think i was the hired stripper for the dorm room party.

PUBLIC SAFETY DISPATCHER

perks: this is an unsupervised position.  definitely the kind i like.

downfalls: i probably wouldn’t give a shit about your dilemma.  i’ve got my own, dude.

UROLOGY MEDICAL ASSISTANT

perks: i really can’t think of any.

downfalls: just about everything.  install catheters?!?  measure bladder retention?  can’t we just make educated guesses?!?

SLEEP TECH TO PERFORM SLEEP STUDIES ON PRISON INMATES

perks: i could get free prison tattoos and learn how to shank someone…finally!

downfalls: all of the bad things that (heterosexual) sex-less inmates could do to my lady bits.  and i hear the prison food is terrible…lunch time would be a disaster.

NAIL TECH

perks: i could probably get high on nail polish fumes.

downfalls: i’m not asian.  thanks a lot, mom and dad.

TOW TRUCK DRIVER

perks: i am guessing the dress code consists of an awesome trucker hat and a budweiser cut-off t-shirt.

downfalls: i’d have to pick up my chewing tobacco habit again.

TEMPORARY WRITER

perks: stringing together words to form sentences happens to be my specialty.

downfalls: nobody said i was good at it.

one morning everyone is going to wake up and notice that their sock drawer is full of “send-me-off-to-my-corporate-position” foot coverings.

i had this revelation this morning, myself.

black socks?  really?  when did this happen and why i am continuing to wear these treacherous footies five days a week? i am getting old.

i mean, nothing tells you that the party is over and you have to work for a living for the rest of your life quite like dress socks.  nothing tells you that it is no longer acceptable to sniff-test your clothes before rolling out the door, mixing beer in your cheerios for breakfast is a no-no, or you-tubing your  most recent keg stand is soooo freshman year quite like dress socks.

i pondered to myself, “what could clue a person in on aging better than conservatively-printed cashmere dress socks?”

nothing.  absolutely nothing.

forget the stretch mark cream that i have in the medicine cabinet.  don’t even pay attention to the HGTV channel that’s permanently on the television.  and let’s not even touch on the fact that i drive a fuel-efficient, family-friendly vehicle.  none of this compares to the painful reminder of aging like dress socks.

this week, dress socks.  next week, it’s a mini-van and Roth IRA.

don’t know what an IRA is?  maybe you should try on a pair of dress socks.

oh well, what can it hurt?  might as well give it another go, i thought to myself.

i called and scheduled an appointment and luckily got right in.  i arrived 15 minutes prior to my massage to do paperwork.

the front desk worker comes over to me to review what i wrote down.  “so, you had a drunk guy kind of fall on you.  that doesn’t sound like fun.”

“it usually never is,” i laughed back.

“well, we are going to have ricardo work on you, and he can target the lower back if you’d like.”

“awesome,” i said.

i wait around for my massage therapist for a few minutes.

hmm, ricardo?  the last time i did this, i had a female rub on me.  is this going to be awkward with a guy?  will he care if i fart in front of him?  do we high-five and talk about the lakers while we’re locked in the room together for an hour?  and why does he have to sound so feisty already?  with a name like that, i can only imagine he’s got caramel colored, lotion infused skin and smells like avocados.

a man that does not fit my aforementioned description walks out to greet me.

“hi, renee?  i’m ricardo.  you can come right this way,” he says.

“ricardo, i am really sorry, but i haven’t shaved my legs in two weeks,” i blurt out in the lobby, in front of everyone.

“i’m not too worried about it,” he replies.

ricardo leads me down a long hallway with a ton of private rooms.  i immediately wonder if this is what a brothel would look like.

“whoa!  this place is huge,” i say, possibly louder than i should.  here i am, yelling down a long hallway when people are trying to relax in the rooms that i am passing.

ricardo leads me in to a room.  “you can go ahead and get ready, i’ll be waiting outside.  just crawl under the sheets when you are all set.”

“okay, but how do you want me?  how naked do i get?” i asked.

“well, it’s up to you.  but i will let you know that the less clothing you wear, the higher quality massage it will be.”

oh!  i’ve heard this one before.  stupid college.

although i laugh to myself, i still decide that i am stripping down to my undies.  i am such an easy ho.

ricardo re-enters the room after i have climbed in to position.  we chat briefly about what hurts, and then he goes to town.

now, i know massage therapists need lotion, but i have never noticed that some choose to keep it in an apron pocket.  let’s keep in mind that i have a male masseuse, wearing an apron, who keeps pumping lotion in to his hand in the same general vicinity as his genitalia.

i can’t even get a massage without wanting to crack up hysterically.  i will never grow up.

anyway, he works around me, and as he is walking from one side of the table to the other, kneading my skin, i feel a light brush on the top of my head.

wait.  did i just accidentally get tea-bagged by ricardo?  ricardo, did you just tea-bag me?  i mean, really.  when someone’s balls are in that close of proximity to my head, i always assume the worst.  oh well, let’s keep this massage train rolling…tea-bagging and all.

as i was listening to the music, and pondering about my recent possible sexual encounter with ricardo, i thought about asking him to turn on the radio.

do people request songs or radio stations?  i mean, some people might like the sound of birds chirping while they are flying over a large body of water, but i don’t really find that to be soothing.  can we put on a top 40 radio station and hope that miley cyrus is on?  nothing soothes me more than guessing that miley cyrus is going to end up a train-wreck like lindsay lohan.

i decline my urge to request new melodies for the sake of ricardo.

no wonder he probably tea-bagged me…here i am, relaxing, while he is hard at work, lubing up my obviously-neglected, never-seen-the-sight-of-a-razor legs.  i am such a jerk.

an hour goes by faster than it should have.  “okay, renee, we are all set here.  go ahead and get dressed and i will be right outside the door,” ricardo mentions.

i put on my garments and walk out, where ricardo is waiting with a glass of water.  i hand him a twenty.  in a weird way, i kind of feel like eliot spitzer.  i am sure his extra-curricular activities involved him locked in a room for an hour with a person of the opposite sex, that ended in a monetary exchange.

nope.  i’ll never grow up, i tell ya.

tell her that she’s got the “justin bieber haircut.”  but, it does look better on her, anyway.  everyone should really reconsider re-naming it after my mom now.  effin’ hottie.