Okay, so I'm trying my hand at writing...

Who am I kidding? I've been writing since I was a kid. Here's something I've started. Tell me if I should finish. (believe me, there's a great underlying story within this story...)

RAIN

It fell gently that afternoon, as more of an after thought from the heavens than a weather system. Sitting near the open window, I could hear the ping ping ping as it bounced off the aluminum awning just outside. I turned to my grandfather. “Don’t you think the rain was more fun when you were a kid?”

He looked up from his newspaper; glanced at me over his glasses. “Absolutely. When I was a kid, it rained just about every day. We didn’t have a choice but to enjoy the rain. People these days don’t know what it is like to get wet. I am telling you, this global warming business is drying up the planet. God damn Jimmy Carter, too busy kissing asses and babies to actually do anything about it when there was still time…” His voice faded out as he looked down at his paper.

I smiled and turned back to the rain outside. “But at least he was a Democrat.”
I heard the flip of a page. “Democrats, Republicans…they’re all a bunch of bums. Now Truman, he was a Democrat!” Good old Pop. Communism accusations be damned, he stood by his President. It’s funny how minds work. Truman was not well liked during his Presidency, yet many years later scholars declared he was one of our best presidents. On the flip side, Kennedy was loved by the masses, yet many moons after his death, those same scholars felt he would have been one of our worst.

Time. It doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath.

I got thinking about the days. Days past, days to come. I looked back over at Pop. The cancer had really taken a toll on him. His mind was still sharp, but I could tell his body was wearing down. He had lost weight. The color faded from his cheeks. It killed me to watch, and I got angry with myself for pitying him. He was not a man to pity. Occasionally, while reading the Obituaries, he would comment on old classmates and former neighbors who had died. If he was ever asked to go to their funerals, he would respond with a quick, “Why should I go to theirs? They won’t be at mine!” It was hard to argue with that kind of logic.

It was also hard to imagine a time when we would not sit here, as we were, partially engaged in conversation yet fully aware of each others’ presence. Admittedly, it hadn’t always been this way. He and my grandmother used to baby sit me when I was a child. Time passes, children grow up, and people grow apart. We may not have seen much of each other as the years flew by, but we were always there.

I remember the day I found out like it was yesterday. It was a warm September day, when it still felt like summer but there was a subtle chill in the air that made you aware that Fall was just around the corner. That was the day that after several months of unexplained exhaustion and mysterious bruises, the doctors finally discovered the cause was a rare form of blood cancer; an aggressive one. The survival rate was slim to none, and Slim left town. It was awful news, and we took it as a family. At the time, Pop handled it best, with his typical comments, “Looks like you won’t be able keep the cash cow around much longer, eh Doc?” It wasn’t appropriate, no doubt, but then, I never said he was an appropriate man. It was decided that we’d skip the treatments and work on life quality, not quantity. As with most things, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

A ringing phone jerked me out of my thoughts and back to the present. I kept the cordless close, and reached over for it. “Hello?”

“I’m on my way over.” It was my mom. She lived across town, which, in our town, was roughly a 10 minute drive. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I answered. “Just sitting here, watching the rain. What’s shakin’?”

“I was going to swing through Burger King and pick up some burgers,” Mom said. “Did you want anything?”

I motioned to my grandfather and covered the phone, “Mom’s coming over. She’s going to run through BK.” He glanced at me, smiled, and shook his head.

“I’ll take a Whopper, with cheese. Don’t worry about the onions, I’ll pick them off.”

“Alright. I’ll see you in about 20 minutes. Love ya,”

“Love you, too.” We both hung up.


To be continued......?

"I don't want to make money. I just want to be wonderful." - Marilyn Monroe

First of all, let's all take a look at my new boots. Sweet Christ, aren't they just...BADASS? And they came with two colors of laces: Black (which you see here), and Total-Disregard-for-Human-Life-I-Will-Kick-Sick-Orphans-mustard-brown. They are heat and fire resistant up to 475F degrees for up to 40 minutes and they meet the NFPA 1977 Standard on Protective Clothing and Equipment for Wildland Fire Fighting. Dudes and dames: I have arrived. Now mind you, I am not one of those chicks who is shoe crazy, but I have to admit, I cried a little when I opened the box and saw these monsters.

Okay, enough about the boots. You've been following my employment drama for quite some time. I am realizing a lot of things during the process. 1. People in my office don't care about anything at this point, and 2. We are all competing against each other in the job market.

I had a second interview yesterday, so I went to work wearing a suit. Good ol' Crotch Grabber makes a comment about how "professional" I look, so I tell him I have an interview, that I'm leaving early and that's that. As I stroll around the office (let's face it, it's not like I have work to do), another coworker spots me, tells me I look good and asks if I have an interview. I tell her I do, she whispers "Good Luck" and I act out a little 'high five' and then I walk out of the office at noon.

Driving to the interview, it hits me: All I have to do is wear a suit and I have a free pass to leave work whenever I want! So this Friday I'm going to wear a suit and leave early. Why? Because my suit will be like Aladdin's magic carpet, and it will whisk me off to places I have only hoped and dreamed about. Or, it'll get my fat ass out of work early, and that works too.

So there I am, driving to the second interview. This is it, this is the deciding moment. Don't make any stupid comments. No farting, burping, yawning, scratching. Be cool, know your shit. THIS IS IT. And that's when realization # 2 hits me: My music selections are total bullshit for times like these. Unless I'm around other people, I listen to country music or classical. That's it. Can I tell you how hard it is to get pumped when the 'choice' song is about a guy whose girlfriend left him for another man and he couldn't even stop it because he had no idea she was unhappy in the first place? Or, have you ever tried to 'rock out' to Schubert's Finale of the 10th Symphony? It's challenging, to say the least. Not exactly the mood music to help you win the game.

But I did it. I walked in there like I owned the place. I took it to the streets. I told 'em where I got it. I didn't use one lame cliche. And ya know what? At exactly 9:51AM today, I was offered a job. At 2:17pm I accepted.

It's official: I kicked ass. I took names.

They didn't stand a chance.

The only thing better than being awesome is being right.

I finally did it. Yesterday, I finally told my boyfriend that I knew one of his classmates had the mad hots for him. And guess what? He agreed! It was glorious and I felt validated. Then I went back to eating my Oreo cookies. That’s how I roll.

It’s an interesting story, maybe. This girl, while I am sure is a nice enough person who probably wouldn’t club a baby seal even if you told her no one was looking, is (in my humble opinion), a douche bag. I met her once. I spent an entire morning with her, when all I wanted to see was a rat getting dragged out of a tree stump in order to fulfill my wildest movie fantasies (Groundhog Day, anyone?).

Now, I understand you can’t help who you like. Obviously, I can agree with why she likes my guy. But come on. When you like someone and his girlfriend is there, you should probably relax about it. Instead, this chick was trying too hard to be funny and goofy and too hard to make a point of knowing all sorts of things about my boyfriend. It was a classic case of ‘upstaging’ the boring girlfriend, played by me. It didn’t help that she displayed these traits with so much stupid-aggression, I really couldn’t like her, even though I tried (I was willing to settle for flat-out indifference at one point). And the worst part? She wore blue eye shadow. BLUE.

What kills me most is she somehow took over my idea. The moment I saw the “Punxsutawney” sign when I helped my guy find a place to live at school, I declared, “We must go to Groundhog Day this year!” That statement was made circa July 2008.

Now, here’s where it gets fuzzy. I don’t know how, I don’t know why exactly, but at some point, Douchey took control of the wheres and whens of Groundhog Day. In the end, we never got to see the groundhog. We were late. As I recall, I was in a Wal-Mart parking lot around the time Phil saw his shadow. It was awesome. (note the sarcasm) Could the day have gotten any better? It did! It was right around the time when Douchey announced: “We’re going to do this again next year!” Assuming I’m invited, won’t that be fun for me. I can’t wait.

No, really.

I. Can’t. Wait.

She’s the chick you invite to your party, who proceeds to get drunk and hit on your boyfriend. She’s the girl you let borrow a sweater and she gives it back, smelling like skunked Pabst Blue Ribbon. And she does it all while rockin’ out with her blue eye shadow.

The moral of the story, my friends, is this: You can hit on my boyfriend all you want. You can flirt too much, stand too close, laugh too loud and only talk about the things you two have in common….fine. But don’t dare think you’re going to pull all that shit and make me miss the groundhog all in the same morning. I’ll take one or the other, but not both. When I’ve been awake since 5am, you are messing with the wrong girl and she ain’t wearing blue eye shadow. That’s how I roll.

This is becoming more painful than a bikini wax at the hands of Attila the Hun.

I am running out of options. I'm like the fat girl one week before prom. Everyone I've asked has turned me down. Anyone who might still be available isn't interested. And the whole time, my mother is in the background telling me how smart and wonderful I am, and how anyone would be lucky to have me.

Actually, come to think of it, this is exactly how I felt for my senior prom. Ahh, those were the days. I never thought I'd be 30 and back to being rejected. Well, my friends, life has a funny way of throwing us curveballs. Welcome to Loserville. Population: Me. I guess the silver lining to this whole scenario is that should I snag a 'suitor' late in the game, I won't have to rush out and buy a dress.

I've been playing this little game of 'tease me' on the phone with a recruiter from a fairly prominent insurance company. We've been taking turns. First, I applied for a local job, but he feels I would be a better fit for a position in Boston. "Aw shucks," I say, and gently turn him down, but with enough charm to keep him coming back.

Now it's his turn. He called me tonight. This time, there's a position available in my state, but it's 6 hours west of where I live. "Are you interested?" he asks. I tell him I am. He needs me to throw him a bone and I need to feel like someone is interested in me. We're doing a mutual stroking of egos, if you will. He pretends I'm qualified and I pretend it's my dream job. It's much like Stripping, Corporate America-style. He throws a dollar my way and I act like he's the only guy in the room. The only things missing are the glitter and cheap perfume.

Pride? Dignity? Believe me, they've got nothing to do with it.

"You don't work because you like it. You do it for the money. You do what you enjoy as a hobby." --my dad

I'm beginning to realize job interviews are much like first dates. First blind dates, at that. I don't know them, they don't know me, and we spend the entire time trying to figure who's got the upper hand. Hell, even the questions are the same:

"Did you have a hard time finding the place?"

"Tell me a little about yourself."

"What exactly is your current job?"

"Why are you available?"

"How much do you make?"

"It was a pleasure meeting you. I will be in touch."

Plus, you stress about what to wear: Something uber conservative or something fashionable? You don't want to come across looking "easy," but you still want them to know you're interested. And, meeting the 'main boss' is like meeting the parents. You've gotten this far: Don't screw it up. No cursing, no joking, and you must convince them that you're bringing something fantastic to the table, otherwise you'll never see these people again.

Nowadays, potential employers aren't messing around. I've had two interviews so far and both companies gave me a personality test. Employment has gone beyond job qualifications. They are getting downright personal. There is no more, "Sorry, you're underqualified." It is now, "Well, you're qualified, but your test came back and it seems you've got shithead potential. Sorry." It's unnerving, to say the least. Of course, my tests will say that I am rarely unnerved and that I work best under pressure. They will also tell you that I prefer accuracy to efficiency, my color preference is in the 'cool' family and I really think the next number in this sequence: 5, 10, 15, 20... is 37.

Two tests, two companies, two chances to get a job. I've got my fingers crossed I'll get two offers and have to make one very important decision, because this is it: The next job I get at this point in my career is the one I stay with, forever and ever. I'm viewing it as a marriage: Good or bad, I'm not leaving.

I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat or a prostitute. ~Rebecca West.

Hey Valentine’s Day: I’m just not that into you.

I tried Wikipedia-ing the holiday to find out what the deal is. I never considered it a “real” holiday and as it turns out, I was right. Nothing extraordinary happened which led to the creation of Valentine’s Day. And while there are some religious martyrs out there bearing the name “Valentine,” that’s about it. No great act of romance was committed. No lives were saved. No event happened that was so powerful, so amazing, that people all over the world declared, “This is the day we shall celebrate LOVE!”

It didn’t work that way. I bet you’re as disappointed as John McCain.

Did you know that in the United States, men typically spend twice as much than women for Valentine’s Day? Obviously the men in those surveys were not any of my former boyfriends. Not to say I want a second Christmas in the first quarter of the new year. Not at all. I am a firm believer in “it’s the thought that counts.” I don't need a parade. I just want you to wave to me. Let me share with you some past experiences:

1. One year my boyfriend at the time left 3 bags of Hershey’s kisses (still in the plastic grocery bag) on the front seat of my car on Feb. 15th, complete with a banged up “Valentine’s Day” card with words crossed out inside, ‘personalizing’ it to me. It was obvious he hit a 24 hour supermarket and the card he grabbed was probably one of the last Valentine’s Day cards. I ended up bringing the candy to the office for my coworkers, and he ended up whacking me with a bottle of Jagermeister.

2. Then there was the year I made dinner. That boyfriend showed up and said, “I’m not really in the mood for that. Let’s go out and grab a pizza.” So we did (note to readers who know me: I think I was in too much shock to be pissed at the time. I’m still in shock, and this was years ago). The next day he took me to Home Depot and said I could pick out any potted plant I wanted, his treat. Boy oh boy, was I the luckiest girl in the world or what?! I eventually ended up giving the plant away and he ended up leaving me for his exgirlfriend.

(in all due fairness, I do like potted plants)

3. And last but not least, there was The Year of the Single Girl. Well, that could be any year…there were several of those, too. But the one I remember most clearly was the year I chilled with my gay friend. He introduced me to gay porn. Nothing says “romance” like two football players playing pool, making comments about balls, long sticks and “getting it in the pocket”.

Given my track record, I’ve decided not to push for Valentine’s Day lovin’. So this year, I will be putting the O, Man! in Romance. I’ve gathered up two girlfriends (we cannot have any more, or we’ll look like a Sex and the City cliché) and we are heading out into the city for Valentine’s Day. Girlfriend # 1 is having a lurid affair with a legally bound gentleman. Girlfriend # 2 (bumblebee) dumped her boyfriend last week so she could date one of his friends on the sly. And I am the girl with a plan. I’m thinking we could go to a gun range, or maybe enter some sort of fried food eating contest (my handle will be Eatz4-2). Or, we could do “girl things”: Get our nails done, go to pet stores and cuddle the puppies, grab dinner, go dancing, drink too much wine then cry about how we hit our 30’s and no one wants us, then start telling each other how we’re the prettiest, smartest, awesomest girls in the world (with great hair!) and guys are just intimidated by that and you know what? It’s their loss and our gain, we don’t need them anyway because we have each other…you know, GIRL THINGS.

A repost, from blogs and days gone by...

I used to blog on Myspace on a fairly regular basis. Now I am here, but some of my better blogs are still over there. I am in a writing mood tonight, but admittedly, it wouldn't be much fun for you, Reader Person. Ironically, some of my funniest blogs have been written when I was bummed out. Today, however, I can't pull it off. So, in order to keep with my original intentions of this site (to entertain and not depress), I am posting a blog I wrote for Myspace about 2 years ago (give or take).

Year 2007

I had an interesting conversation with Yahoo tonight. The elusive Yahoo. Go ahead and try to get a customer service phone number for them. Ahh, I'll save you the trouble: 1-866-562-7219.

Anyway, I've been getting matches on "my" Yahoo Personal Ad over the past few weeks. I vaguely remember a jackass guy at work talking about setting up a dating site for me. I didn't think he'd actually do it, though (honestly, I didn't think he'd be smart enough to figure out how to do it). Well, not only did he set me up, he made me out to be a good time. A GREAT time, from what I could tell; the results of my 'matches' were being sent straight to my work email. I was getting responses like, "You sound like a live wire," or "You sound like the no-strings, good time girl I've been looking for!" and even "We don't need to exchange last names" types of shit.

Now normally, I'd find humor in this. But since my company is slowly going down the shitter and we're all afraid of losing our jobs at any moment for any reason, I figure these 'matches' would probably have management frown upon me.

Which takes me back to calling Yahoo. After much searching, I finally stumbled onto their phone number and got Customer "Service" (ironic term for the douchebag who took my call). I try to explain my situation to her.

Me: "Hi, I have a problem. Someone set up a fake Personal Ad for me on Yahoo and I need to get it taken down. The matches are being forwarded to my work email and I'm really not cool with this."

Douchebag: "What is your sign-on ID?"

Me: "Yeeeah...I don't KNOW. Someone else set it up."

She says she can probably find the account using my work email address, which I give to her. Then she says, "Okay, I found the account. The ID is "Cdubswstubs." Can you please tell me who your childhood hero was, so I can confirm this is your account?"

Now at this point, I don't know what is more idiotic: this Pretend-a-Human on the phone, or her question.

Me: "WHAT?!?!? I didn't HAVE a childhood hero! Look, I didn't set this up! I don't even know what that ID means. I can't confirm anything because it's not mine! All I know is, I have every trucker in the Philadelphia area contacting me, it's being copied through my work email and I need it to stop, like, NOW."

Apparently "condescension and frustration" is the language spoken by idiots. Convinced of my situation, she sends me an email with a new password so I can access the account. Then she gives me a separate link ("delete-user.notlong.com", in case you need to do the same sometime) to terminate the account, which I did. But sweet jesus. Talk about a total moron.

I mean, really. Confirm my childhood hero...? That's such a bullshit question.

It was Voltron: Defender of the Universe.

Prefacing rudeness with a disclaiming sentence does not excuse the behavior.

I am going to throw someone out the window. No, really, I think I can do it right now. Adrenaline through annoyance. Good ol’ Richard Grabber has struck again, but this time he’s not grabbing. He’s listening.

Quick back-story: This guy loves listening in on my phone calls and then giving me commentary afterwards. It usually goes something like this:

Me: …great, okay, I’ll get that proposal out to you. Call me back with any questions. [click]

Grabber: I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you talking about the new rating system. Did you find that helpful when you used it?

Me: Uh…yeah. It was fine.

And here’s how it went down when I bought the fish. Grabber asked me what the fish’s name was. I originally said, “Annoying Coworker,” to which he laughed and responded with, “Oh, that must be me!” and I said, “Only when you listen in on my phone calls (insert sweet smile here) .” He didn’t find that part so funny.

So, I feel as though I’ve put this guy on notice. Unless he’s an autistic, brain-dead zombie-man, he should be fully aware that I get annoyed when he makes it known that he tunes into my calls. I understand he can hear me. I’m not Helen Keller. I get it. He sits 10 feet away. But really, there’s no need to comment on what I’ve said. He’s not a part of the conversation, therefore, he should not have anything to say about it.

Apparently, I have not made myself clear enough. He did it again about 30 minutes ago. I wrapped up a call with a salesperson and Grabber said, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but…” so I cut him off, quickly picked up the phone again and said, “Well here’s your chance to listen in on a second one.” His awkward laugh ensued and I dialed my mom. I would’ve called a strip club and asked for their daily specials just to set up that situation. When I ended that call, he never finished his thought. Amazing, isn’t it?

It’s crazy that he thinks he can preface his comments with, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop BUT…” and think that makes it completely acceptable. Does that even work anywhere else? “Oh, hey, I didn’t mean to shit in your bathtub, but I didn’t feel like walking all the way to the toilet.” Or how about, “I didn’t mean to kill your cat, but I just didn’t have time to feed him while you were on vacation.” No. No, it does not. Still not cool, no matter what follows the “I didn’t mean to…” phrase.

Hey, Grabber, this one’s for you: I didn’t mean for you to find this blog site where I publically humiliate you at least twice a week, but I couldn’t help but leave the web address on your computer screen.

Some people write in a journal. Other people binge eat. I post public blogs. Don’t piss me off.

The Cardinals didn’t lose the game, they just ran out of time.

Good times on Sunday, huh? Steelers vs the Cardinals. Personally, I think the Cardinals were doomed to lose before they even set foot on the field. Let me tell you why:

Fact: The Steelers have won more Superbowls in the past than the Cardinals.
Fact: The Steelers have a stronger defense than the Cardinals could ever hope to have.
Fact: I love pasta.

The start of the game almost led us to believe it was going to suck. Flash forward to the last 5 minutes, and whoa baby, the shit hit the fan in Florida. The Cardinals scored an incredible touchdown, making the Steelers the new losers. Then whoa baby AGAIN, the Steelers turn around, make a touchdown and win! It’s all strategery, people. Plain and simple.

Here are some Cardinals fun facts:

Fact: They are the oldest current professional sports franchise west of the Mississippi.
Fact: They’ve won 10 World Series Championships. How many did the Steelers win? ZERO
Fact: I also really like Mexican food.

I mean, what do you expect when you pit a football team against a baseball team? Of COURSE Pittsburgh was going to win. I mean, the Cardinals had so many flags thrown, it was obvious they didn’t know all the rules. Why? Because they play baseball the other 389 days a year! Geez, you people are stupid.

I can appreciate what the sports teams owners are trying to do with the mix ‘n match of the teams, but come on. They should’ve put the Steelers up against the Red Wings. At least both groups are used to wearing heavy equipment and getting into fights. The baseball guys should be put up against the USA women’s Olympic Volleyball team. No contact, no heavy equipment, and they can all share a locker room.

So you see, it’s really not a big deal that the Steelers won. It was to be expected.