I applied for my boss' job about a month ago since she is moving up to her former boss' job. At that point I had been with the company for almost six weeks and it was well time for a promotion.

After grueling interviews, endless waits and one-on-ones with almost every member of my department, I was informed that they chose another candidate.

"How many years of experience does he have?" I asked through grinding teeth.

"Comparable to yours," lied my boss. Unless this new nitwit has a zillion years of experience and his own fucking book, I've been bested. I was unwavering in my doubt and so she offered me a conciliatory gesture. "Timmy [I kid you not] is heading up a proposition to start a company blog. We've agreed that you can write it. It can be about anything you want!"

Ms. Cassidy is doing acrobatic high kicks over being given carte blanc to elaborate on her passion for wine and sex toys in a corporately mandated forum. Cockrings and Corkscrews will be on your screen before you can get drunk and strap something on!

Clooney single? The line forms after me

If you're famous or dating someone famous you should never gush about it to a national magazine, because the three-month publishing lag will ensure that your relationship is over before the rag hits the stands.

So, to catch up... I went back to work after taking almost nine months off. If my new coworkers find me distant, it's because I am making a mental note to look up the combination of prescription drugs Heath Ledger used when I get home.

I think I'm clinically depressed about working again.

I was late my first day and I showed up with my hair uncombed, nevermind unwashed. WhoTF is late for their first day of work? I have a seven minute commute and I was seven minutes late. That means my orientation had already started before I left my apartment. I'm so depressed. I'm actually going to use my work-provided health insurance to pay for the therapy I need because I'm working again.

The platinum lining with renting my soul to The Man is that I can now numb my existential pain at Macy's and shit. This weekend I bought Gourmet magazine. It had a tear-out card with New Orleans recipes. I spontaneously threw together the barbequed shrimp (and I will never be a good Southern cook because I couldn't force myself to throw in the whole stick of butter per person the recipe called for) and it was tasty. I didn't have all the spices, but I went out and bought them the next day. I also bought smoothing crap for my hair, a haircut, carmel highlights, lounging pants that I want to be living in like those halycon days when I wasn't working, tank tops I can wear without a bra and not look tacky, a huge pomegranite-scented candle and some travel-sized Colgates so I can brush my teeth at my Godforsaken job.

Oh, and last week I bought memoirs. Eat Pray Love, Julie & Julia and Chuck Klosterman's Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, which I started with. Is it true that, as he says, the Sims cry and face the wall in despondence if you don't buy them shit? At one time I would have thought that was pathetic, but sadly now I can relate.

Maybe next weekend while I numb myself with plastic I'll throw in a copy of the game.

Things that Discourage Me Part I

Despite what can only be described as a joie de vivre that touches every soul I meet and lights up every room I enter, I have to admit I’m feeling discouraged.

My job search lately has been as follows: I had a series of interviews with a well-known e-tailer that needed a copywriter. I did not know that one could encounter so many people who are devoid of personality all in a row. It goes with my theory that like doesn’t just attract like, it clusterfucks with like. When I emailed this company to tell them that I was withdrawing my candidacy, they shot back a form letter that they were withdrawing my candidacy. Too late, fuckers. I said it first.

Had a chemistry-filled, bantering interview with a project manager for an extremely large software company that was started by Bill Gates. He's a taller, younger Brad Pitt by way of Amsterdam. I didn’t hear a word he said about the job (in his gorgeous accent) because I was focused on his juicy lips. I could be vying for the position of washroom attendant for all I know. I don’t normally check out a potential employer’s ass as he escorts me out, but in this case no one could blame me. The other day he had me write an essay(!), which I did fabulously. Since then? Bupkis.

There was one company that made me feel more than at home. I’m overqualified – I’d basically be a product writer. It’s near my house, no late hours and the pay is good.

The woman who would be my boss interviewed me. She looked like a Ralph Lauren model with her bright blue eyes and tanned skin. She looks like she summers in the Hamptons, but not in a bad way. She said she’s hands-off as a boss and I believed her (Halleluiah!)

They brought me back in to meet three young people. Two women and a guy. After a few by-wrote interview questions, complete with stilted answers by me, we got into an actual conversation. The guy latched onto something that’s taken me seven months to figure out: That maybe the reason my publisher asked for something “topical” for my next book was just to fill out their own roster, not that it was something that necessarily catered to my strengths as a writer. Genius. We also talked about favorite web sites. I offered up Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About, they gave me Stuff White People Like.

“What do web sites have to do with your copywriting?" the silverfox, gay human resources manager (is that redundant?) asked me later. "And I'm not sure, but isn't that offensive to white people?” We both know that working with people is the ability to hang out with people and discuss things with people, though. Interviewing is like dating. You know within 15 minutes if the chemistry is there, the rest is just purposeful torture.

He relaxed with me too. “Look, don’t worry about your book. You published with a major house, not Mom and Pop’s Book Factory…”
“But maybe I should have been with a mom and pop. I could have gotten more attention…”
“You’re always going to be published, with a big P and no one can take that away from you.” He was right I guess, no matter how down I feel.

We sat in silence for a moment.

“You’re not a convicted felon are you, by the way? It won’t decrease your chances of getting hired or anything, it’s just that I have to ask.”

Are you into more than vanilla?

While vanilla sex is tantamount to an insult at the Kitchen -- after all, those chains, suspension cables, spanking benches and Teddy bear costumes are not just decorations the crew from Extreme Home Makeover left behind -- any dessert flavor other than vanilla is, well, just not my scene.

Okay, chocolate cake is generally fabulous, ditto for pistaschio ice cream, but for the true taste of a delectable's quality, homegirl has to hop the Vanilla Express. Just picture a plain sugar cookie. Without all those chocolate chips and nuts getting in the way and distracting you, you can feel the butter melt in your mouth, you can taste that snap of vanilla. It's like you're on a fucking Island in the Caribbean. When Cortez and co. first discovered the holy bean, you know their first thought was, "This was totally worth sailing through Kraken-infested waters for, dude." The only way to judge the quality of a cheesecake is plain -- perish the thought of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups or chocolate-chip cookie dough defiling the purity of high-fat cream cheese with plain sour cream topping.

If you really want to revel in unashamed flavor nudity, there's Danish Cream ice cream, which doesn't have any extracts.

I'd like to be licking some off Lars Ulrich* right now.

* Scarlett Johansson? Cut me some slack, there are very few famous Danes apart from Hamlet.

Please allow me to introduce myself blah di blah ‘60s peace, love and Satanism.

My name is Dorothea "Damage" Cassidy (there was an unfortunate creme brulee experience). I’m a published food writer/critic. And by published I don’t mean some self-published "pay $5,000 to see some dreck I wrote between an actual cardboard cover", I mean published like “Judith Regan saw a story on me in New York Magazine and got suckered into giving me six figures even though I hadn’t written so much as a haiku before” published.

I’m with one of the major houses in NYC.

“Where can I get your book?” people ask when I go on day job interviews (more on this later).
“Everywhere, bitch,” I answer.

I’m afraid that since then my publisher has led me astray, however. He suggested that I make my next book more “topical” so naturally I turned in a beautiful proposal for a tome about how to recreate war rations in your very own home, so your family can dine as on trend as the soldiers in Afghanistan! You cannot imagine my shock and awe when my very own publisher sent me a form letter wishing me luck placing my manuscript elsewhere. Mon dieu (that means holy shit in French).

While I wait for this silly miscommunication to get straightened out or for my editor to get fired, I need some sort of day job. Luckily financial salvation came to me today in the form of a brand new Mastercard, which I plan to live off of for the foreseeable future. There is not much I love as much as a fresh credit card. It’s as shiny and unblemished as I imagine Zac Efron’s butt to be! I immediately took it out for a spin (the card, obviously) and got back to my usual schedule of heavy research (dining out) and gathering inspiration (hanging around bars during the day).

Ms. Cassidy does not enjoy playing Hide From The Landlord much more than she enjoyed playing Hide The Sausage with the landlord one Christmas after too many eggnogs, so employment is a must-have accessory for this summer.

tmi

I once had a very public web site and there was no such thing as too much information.

I didn't care if the ladies from my mom's seven bridge clubs wouldn't look her in the eye. I didn't care that my friends were so thinly veiled they may as well have been waiting for the bus wearing Ralph Lauren hand towels. I didn't care what any of my liaisons thought. I was ladylike. I never talked about tender, intimate acts of love unless the guy's dick was really huge or something.

This was all well and good (you know, for me), except that lately I've been looking for a job. Last week a potential employer said: Congratulations. You won the award for most results when I Googled a candidate. 1,800 web pages talk about you.

So I decided that too much information might not always be a good thing.

Now that I'm no longer writing under my nom de reality, I can say things like "Last night I had a dream that I was in a produce aisle and a very young guy bought me a chocolate cigarette that grew into a big fat engorged chocolate cigar as I was eating it" and no one will think I'm weird.