Wha' Happened?

It's been more than a year (aarrgghh!) since my last post because I'm freaking lazy about blogging. Ever since I discovered the mindless joys of Facebook (thank you to all who encouraged me to "get with it") I simply ran out of the extra umph it takes to post elsewhere. Especially when the masses are hanging on my every thought -- what is on my mind today, you must wonder. I want to say: Not much, frankly, but I'll make some shit up to entertain you. To keep up with the facebook Joneses, as it were. I'll tell you the random tune that's stuck in my brain, what I'm making for dinner, things I see out the window, etc. My "thumbs up" for your status to show I'm still connected to the world, and because I can't think of anything clever enough to say. I let the thumb icon speak for me. Pathetic. That doesn't mean I intend to stop giving the thumb. Sometimes the thumb is all I got.

My Brain Is Flaming

This is one woman’s story of her deep and unwavering love for Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.


Ah the cheesiness, the crispy, crackling crunchiness, the freakish, unnatural, nuclear glow of them… I love the punch-in-your-face heat. FHC are turbo-charged atomic nuggets that set your whole mouth aflame. When I eat them the top of my nose beads with sweat, but I can't stop: I crave the endorphin rush. Tears spring to my eyes, my scalp prickles with perspiration and my tongue all but blisters in the aftermath, and yet… I dream of them. I’ve been known to eat them for breakfast. I see the gaudy, orange package in the 7/11 and I have a Manchurian Candidate moment. Before I realize what has happened I’ve torn open the bag and devoured all 7.5 ounces.


Only this man understands a burning love like this.

Who asked ya?!

I was a few minutes late getting to my desk this morning because I met a new woman in the locker room (named Olga) who wouldn't stop talking to me -- even while I had the blow-dryer going and all I could see were her lips flapping. I thought, "Look, sister, I can't stand here and yap with you all day; I've got a job!" But no... She kept blabbering and blabbering, yap-yap-yap-yap-yap... And do you know what she had the audacity to speak to me about? Bear in mind that she is a complete stranger to me, I've never laid eyes on this chick... With out any provocation she starts telling me about some Chinese pill that will make me lose 40 pounds in 2 months. Now I ask you: What made her think I wanted to know about weight loss??? Could it be how utterly flattering my gym shorts make me look? Could it be my massive thighs? I gotta tell ya, it is considered RUDE to start talking to a fat person about losing weight unless that fat person asks for advice! Uhh! What a way to start the day.

Now how can I get my hands on that Chinese pill? ;)

Green in the Extreme

It's disturbing. It's intriguing. I can't stop thinking about it.

You Might Be A Redneck If...

Look what I spotted on a neighbor's porch.

People are getting more intolerant these days. Used to be they'd only ask you to step outside when you wanted to smoke.

Mind yer head

Admit it: Aren't we all just a teensy bit keraunothnetophobic?
Farewell, USA 193; please don't land on me.

Room with a 'View

Ahhh, yes: The Interview. Many are wondering how I fared on my first interview in 15 years. Here is the blow-by-blow account of the entire event, which I am forever referring to as The Debacle.

First, The Outfit. I selected a black, knit dress that fell to the knee with black, leather boots and belt. The only embellishment was simple, silver jewelry. Very understated: Elegant without being flashy, professional yet playful, neither too young nor too old, neither too stuffy nor too casual. These were the adjectives I imagined as I dressed. Sassy! Classy! Chic! My boss took one look at me that morning and complimented my attire by saying, "You're looking very Goth today."

Yes, that's exactly the look I was going for: Gothic. Look, it's not like I had a leather whip tucked under my belt. The black dress just happened to be the only one that fit. It was either that or the ultra-tight bronze skirt that makes me look like a malformed sausage link.

Next, The Hair. I took extra time styling my 'do and then -- god help me, what was I thinking?! -- I decided to try a new product that should be called Helmet Head for Hos. Suddenly my fluffy, breezy, shiny, Breck-girl locks were molded to my skull like a wax wig, and there was no way to undo the damage. Especially not by applying a bit more goop, as I tragically discovered. When I got to my desk a co-worker smiled pathetically and asked, "What happened?"

After that, The Drive. Thank goodness I gave myself 2 hours to reach the office in Washington, DC (even though it's only a 15 minute commute from my office in VA) because I got terribly lost after taking the wrong exit and found myself in a trash-strewn, burned-out, chop-shop wasteland where men think nothing of yelling, "Hey lady! Hey lady!" Really, what is that all about? Am I supposed to pull over and ask them what they want? "Oh, hey there scary-looking stranger, are you talking to me? Wow, that really is a gun in your pocket! Here, take my purse and car keys while you're at it."

Next, The Arrival. I got to my destination with 8 minutes to spare, and as luck would have it -- good luck for a change -- there was a parking space right out front. The HR person met me at the front desk and exclaimed, "You look beautiful!" Let me just say to any HR people out there: What a BRILLIANT thing to do! Seriously, I suddenly forgot that I had been driving around for 2 hours with my heart in my throat, and that my hair looked like crap, and that I was dressed like Johnny Cash. It was a nice little boost to my confidence. I sailed into the interviewing chamber like a runway model.

Then, The Interview. Things started off beautifully with the three of us -- me and 2 interviewers -- laughing, chatting and swapping IT horror stories. I thought I had it in the bag, as the saying goes. We were all smiling, nodding, saying the right things, such as, How soon can you start? Is two weeks soon enough?

And finally, The Debacle. We were wrapping up, when suddenly one of the interviewers decided to ask 2 technical questions that completely derailed me. Up until that moment I was calm and confident. Suddenly the room began to fade in and out, black and white, my brow began to sweat and it felt as though I was looking down upon myself from the fluorescent light fixture, where I could see my hideous hair-do and watch my nervous gestures as I feebly tried to distract them. I mean, answer them. It occurred to me that I might faint, and I hoped that if I did faint I would do so in a lady-like fashion, none of this legs akimbo and my dress scrunched around my ears business, as has happened in the past. Don't worry... That wasn't during an interview; that happened at Memorial Stadium. Yes, I sure do like to please the big crowd! I began to wonder if fainting might help me get the job -- the ol' damsel-in-distress ploy -- no matter where the dress ended up. Still, I'm certain my chances would be slightly better if I didn't expose my enormous bottom on our first meeting. Though clearly I was doing that anyway.

I stuttered and stammered through what seemed like an eternity, but was really just a few minutes. Both men were looking at me with a queer sort of curiosity usually reserved for meat products formed using tofu. They both pushed their chair back, slapped their hands on their lap and proclaimed that they had enough information, very nice to meet you, someone will show you out, etc.

Lastly, The Debriefing. Mary Beth and I headed to The Dubliner in order to dissect the entire episode. The Guinness stout helped to ease the embarrassment as I recounted the last, crucial five minutes of the meeting. Mary Beth assured me that it wasn't as bad as I imagined, but I think that was just the booze talking.

It's been exactly a week since that fateful day and I haven't heard a peep, so I guess it wasn't meant to be.

C'est la vie! Me and my bronze skirt are ready to dazzle the next prospect. Now who's in the mood for a sausage?