Thanks for nothing, Samantha Jones (round two)

Maybe it was because I spent the afternoon lost in Costco in search of wheelbarrows of Tofu for $10, having only pickles the size of my leg for sustenance. Or, it could be because I came home to find the power cord for my Macbook smoking (not Marlboro Light smoking, but oh-my-god-how-have-I-gone-so-long-without-apartment-insurance smoking). Who knows, it might just have been repressed rage from people assuming that I have a list of sexual partners longer than my résumé (FAR too lazy)…

No matter what, I jumped to some conclusions and now my first ever “blog bitch-out” is a distant memory, handled in a way that was truly Canadian where we both basically half-assed our way through starting with my apology-laced rant, and her apology-laced “Are you seriously upset about this? Get a life…”. This is lucky for me because I really didn’t have the time to take the Photoshop course to learn how to make the perfect pictures of her eating babies.

So, in a show of moving onward, can I pick another fight with Sex and the City? Just let me say how annoying it is as both a public relations professional AND a freelance writer when people assume that you live the life of Samantha and Carrie? I mean, do you really think I went through four years of school to stand at the door of a club and tell people they’re not on the list? And if you think I wear anything more the pajamas with holes in them when I’m working on a contract from home, you are absolutely kidding yourself…

Although, I can’t imagine I have it any worse than REAL CSI people. You know, the ones who don’t carry guns, wear high heels, and do everything from sweeping the scene, to genetic testing, to interrogating the witness, to running in slow motion…