And I’m not talking by hunting down each individual cast member of 300, or, as I’d like to call it, 1800 Abs.
So, I subscribe to a Morning Social Media Newsfeed, and yesterday morning, I read my sister this headline: ‘300 Sandwiches’ blogger cuts book deal’. I love sandwiches, so I clicked on the link that led me to the New York Post’s article about one of their writers, who began authoring the blog over a year ago when she made her boyfriend a sandwich, the act to which he responded, “Honey, you’re 300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring.” Challenge accepted, and now she’s getting a book deal.
“Well there you go, Frances, just concede your values and make your nonexistent boyfriend some sandwiches and get a book deal that way!” my sister replied. Seriously, God, what the fuck.
Rather than wallow in loathing over a total stranger who, in my [figurative but still impeccably written] books, will now be categorized in the ‘Death of Literature’ category along with Stephanie Meyer (author of the Twilight Saga) and E.L. James (author of Fifty Shades of Grey)—I mean, seriously, if my hypothetical boyfriend made a comment like that, I would say, “Honey, you’re 10 seconds away from my foot up your ass”—I am going to follow suit with Darren Franich, who wrote a response for Entertainment Weekly (‘300 Sandwiches’: 10 films to make out of the book), and draw inspiration from this event.
Introducing my new venture: 300 Demoralizing Ways to Get a Job and/or Marry Rich! “because this is still America, and if you can’t get a husband then at least you can get a book deal, amiright, ladies?”
“You know, Grandma offered so many times to find me a rich husband, but I said no because I wanted to ‘marry for love’, or whatever. MISTAKE. I could be childless and $30k richer right now!” Oh Disney – disillusioning generations of young girls since 1937 with the misplaced hope of finding Prince Charming and living happily ever after.
So, to start us off, here are my first three entries to the list. Please feel free to contribute some ideas of your own!
1) Use Christmas money to move to Zurich, live under the immigration radar while bumming off one of my best friends and her boyfriend, and get them to duct-tape me to a lamppost outside of FIFA’s headquarters wearing only a towel with my résumé conveniently printed on it
2) Stalk industry-related conferences that I can’t afford to attend, wait outside the venue, and hand out my résumé like they’re flyers (“Here you go! Have a nice day! Call me!”)
3) SWIM like Michael Phelps to Australia or New Zealand (whichever the current floats my lifeless body to first) and show off my beach body (natural by-product of swimming that distance) on the beach till I attract unsuspecting sexy male with hot accent who will want to wife me and pay for my bougie lifestyle as the baddest bitch in Oceania
It’s not enough to say, “I’ll just find a rich dying man,” because even I have certain standards, and lest we forget, my base requirement is that you have to age like Johnny Depp for this to work out.
P.S. I wonder how the suffragettes would feel about ‘300 Sandwiches’…