Margaritas and Kendra, 2 of my favorite things

This email to my peeps yesterday pretty much sums up my life perfectly right now:

Hello wonderful friends!

As all of you know, my summer of leisure, AKA daytime drinking, buying new dresses and hunting down every free food deal in Manhattan, is every so often interspersed with this thing called "job hunting."

I am proud to announce what a few of you already know, which is that I will soon reach a major milestone in my job search. No, not a job offer. Not even the interview of a lifetime. Tomorrow, I expect to reach 100 job applications.

While most people might find this milestone to represent a failure of epic proportions, I think it represents a time to ask a number of questions. Why doesn't anyone want to hire me? What exactly did I get myself into my desired salary's worth of student loan debt for? How many different versions of the same resume can one person possibly create? And most importantly - how many happy hour margaritas can I drink in 3 hours?

Which is why tomorrow I will be downing margaritas like it's my job (because there certainly isn't anything else that's my job right now) in CANCUN BABYYYYYY. That's Cancun, on 8th Ave. between 55th and 56th. Kind of like the real Cancun, only...not.

Happy hour is from 4 to 7. If you would like to join me, please do. And if you would like to bring anyone, please do. Because even if you don't have a reason to celebrate, however fake that reason is, everyone likes margaritas. At least everyone important does.

First 10 people to show up get a free stack of copies of my resume.

With love and tequila,
AJ

Happy hour was fab. I am margarita-ed out. And OMG I forgot to mention how Lacey sent me an email from Berlin or Amsterdam or wherever she was at the time on her whole "honeymoon" thing being like, "Kendra Wilkinson is going to be at Borders signing books." And of course I wrote her back saying "YOU ARE MY FAVORITE" because Lacey knows how much I love Kendra. And Hank Baskett. And Baby Hank Baskett. And then I went with Crapface, a fellow lover of all things Wilkinson/Baskett, and people weren't allowed to take pictures with her but it was all good because I got to see her and Hank (sadly, no mini Hank) and if you think I paid $25 for that book just so I could get her to sign it...you're wrong. I'm not that crazy.

Then over dinner I told Crapface the story of how I ended up being written about (not by name) in one of Jen Lancaster's books all because Lacey was making fun of me because I had never seen Footloose. Maybe one day I'll repost that story from ye olde blog.

How did this post get so rambly? Oy.