Miss Independence

I changed jobs (one of these days I’ll have a career) a year ago this week. I decided to quit assisting people at an investment firm (thus also quitting a daily wardrobe of black pants and pointy shoes, yearly bonuses and amazing stories about stupid rich people) so I could start assisting people who worked in advertising (thus starting a lower salary, but getting an education in how to effectively market eye drops and gum). Truly, the two biggest factors in my taking the job were not the potential to advance my career or be more financially secure (see the part about the lower salary above), they were the fact that I got to wear jeans, allowing me to be a slob every day and not just on the weekends, and the crazy vacation time we get. (I tend to do a lot of things for the wrong reasons. Savor the anticipation of a future post about how badly I want to get married, but only so I will receive things from Williams-Sonoma without having to spend my own money, and also because I already picked the music I’m walking down the aisle to. Oh yeah, and I can’t wait to love the same person forever and share a life together. With stuff from Williams-Sonoma.)

For all holidays that aren’t Christmas, we get a 4.5 day weekend at this job. For holidays that are Christmas, we get at least a week. So, while everyone else I know has to make Sophie’s choice about whether or not to take personal days or use flex time or to just suck it up and work, I am dreaming about how bad I feel for them as I sleep in until noon. This weekend was no exception. The holiday started Friday at 1pm (although Boss took Thursday and Friday off and while the cat’s away, this mouse will click every link on Gawker and do nothing for as long as possible, so really, even though I was at work, the holiday started at 5pm Wednesday). But for real, who else starts celebrating the July 4th holiday at 1pm on Friday, June 3oth? No one. So I did the only logical thing to do, I went to the movies with co-worker (and person responsible for getting me this glorious job) Maggie.

There is no better way to say “America, you’re beautiful!” than to watch The Break-Up at a $7 matinee in Brooklyn. From it’s overt celebration of property laws and home-ownership, to the representation of strong, successful women due in no small part to the suffrage movement, to the proud celebration of capitalism and nationalism during the opening scene which is set at a Cubs game, the film was the quintissential choice for a (New England) Patriot such as myself.

The Break-Up
New Yorkers would have
stayed together for the sake
of the apartment.

I also saw Wordplay and The Devil Wears Prada during the weekend because the heat could only be beaten by immersing myself in air conditioning that is powered by American-invented electricity.

Three down: two word name
for seventeen syllable
synopsis of film.


The Devil Wears Prada
Meryl looks chic as
a silver fox while she eats
Anne Hathaway’s soul.


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