Was just emailing Sally and I told her that I had just bought a MegaMillions ticket (or four) and that reminded me of the good old days when I would buy a ticket and offer to share the proceeds if only you would show me the love.
Go on - you know you want to. Show me some comment love and if when I win, I'll share my good fortune with you.
P.S. Would have included links to the good old days so you would know the proper way to show me the love, but g*ddam New Blogger gives me a fscking error every time I try to do a search.
I know, I know ... I've only been at my current job since Memorial Day. And the job before that only lasted 5 months. Believe me, I am not a job hopper. I want to be in a job where I am happy to stay for years on end. And since I don't feel that way about my current position, I'm looking.
It's hard to say how the interview went. It was unlike any interview I have ever been on. Of course, every job and job interview I've had previously was for a company that had 1,200 or fewer employees. This company? A Fortune 100 corporation. A national retail chain with over 250,000 employees. And yet ... the care and consideration that went into this job interview was unbelievable. I was made to feel that this hiring decision was one of the most important decisions that would be made.
I think it went well, but you never know. One thing it did do for me is cause me to give even further thought to what I want to do and where I want to go, professionally. I haven't spent enough time thinking about that, and to be honest, I'm not sure why. It's like I have this mental block. Like I can't come right out and say what I want to do with my life because deep down I don't think I deserve to have what I want. Does that make sense?
I have my own little inferiority complex when it comes to life. But it's like someone who smokes or who is overweight - you know it's not good for you, but for the life of you, you can't seem to change things. I know that I haven't taken responsibility for my own life. Trust me, this is a really hard thing to admit ... I'm crying as I type. I walk around with a chip on my shoulder, always feeling like somehow I got dealt a crappy hand and there is nothing I can do about it. Always wondering why other people, who I know aren't as smart and talented and creative as I am, seem to be having more success (note that most of the time, the correlation here is paycheck) than I am.
Okay, so now I got the two bogus posts out of the way, the real reason I wanted to post here today ... Fruit Stripe gum.
I was going through my cookbooks (okay, cook pamphlets) and I happened to have mixed in there a November 2002 issue of Yankee magazine. Must have been a recipe in there I wanted to save. So as I'm flipping through it, I see a photo featuring two sticks of Fruit Stripe gum!
It took me a moment to recall the name, but I did remember it. I remember LOVING Fruit Stripe gum. Did I remember the name of the Zebra? No. Did I recall that each piece of gum supposedly had a temporary tatoo? No. I did, however, remember the sharp fruity taste that lasted but a moment.
So there it is, my little blast from the past for the day.
I really didn't think it would happen, but it did.
Work was cancelled today.
We're getting the blizzard that's been sweeping the nation and my employer had the good sense to tell us all to just stay home today. The snow started later than they had predicted, so I only had about 4 inches when I went out to shovel at 7:00 a.m. But it is bitter cold, and now it's not really snow we're getting - it's mixed with sleet and freezing rain. Part of me says I would have been better off not shoveling because now I'm just getting a layer of ice on my sidewalk and driveway. But if I hadn't shoveled, there would be that much more to deal with at the end of the day, and I actually would rather shovel 4-6" three or four times than try to go out there and deal with 1-2 feet all at once.
Of course, I could just wait for the Boy Next Door to come over with the snow blower. But that would be assuming that he's going to want to clear my snow in addition to his. It's better that I make the good faith effort. And hey, it's great exercise.
Speaking of the Boy Next Door, I realize I haven't told many stories about him lately. Probably because there is not much to tell. He's had a live-in girlfriend for the past two years, so he's quite domestic. And since he got a job last summer, he's not around as much as he used to be. Still, we do make time to get together. Just this past Sunday The Man and I went over for dinner. The Girl cooked a turkey, and we had our own much belated Thanksgiving. Good friends are hard to come by, and I definitely count the BND and The Girl as friends.
So along with this unexpected snow day, my evening meeting was also cancelled and so that means that The Man and I can have Valentine's Day dinner together after all. Of course that's assuming he can get some of his good friends to help him plow his quarter mile long driveway so he can get over here!
So I was totally shocked when I got home from work yesterday and heard that Anna Nicole Smith was dead. I was glued to the news, and after that, Entertainment Tonight, since Mark Steines was the last person to interview her ten days ago.
It was eerie to see the CEO of TrimSpa commenting while they showed footage of her TrimSpa ads filmed at the same Hard Rock Cafe hotel/casino where she died. And I was not at all surprised to hear that Larry Birkhead was demanding DNA samples from the corpse, although it didn't occur to me why it might be important - that someone might try switching babies. Yeah, where is that poor baby girl?
And I thought about all the mystery and intrigue behind the pregnancy and birth of this child, and the strange death of Anna Nicole's son, Daniel, and I came up with my own theory on who the real father is. I know that when I say this publicly there will be those who condemn me for suggesting it, but I think it could be a real possibility.
I think Daniel Smith was the father.
But if that's not the case, then maybe it really is Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband, Prince Frederick von Anhalt. Just when I thought this couldn't get any more bizarre, he comes out with a story that he had a decade-long affair with Anna and he thinks the baby is his.
Time will tell, and I have to say that I'm surprised that the initial autopsy report does not show signs of a drug overdose. That would have been too easy, wouldn't it? And believe it or not, there is already a web site out there hawking t-shirts. They've got both sides covered - you can get a t-shirt memorializing her or one mocking her. All in all, in very poor taste.
It just may be that this really is a truly tragic story.
So, I'm cleaning out my mailbox and I come across a folder containing only eight messages. No need to save that, I say, but first, let me read the message. Lo and behold, I uncover a classic written exactly 730 days ago today. This is the kind of stuff I used to write!
(A bit of background: the women's group I belong to was bringing Dr. Ruth to town for a seminar/lecture/presentation, thus the impetus to write a letter to Dr. Ruth):
Dear Dr. Ruth:
Last weekend I went out for a few drinks with a girlfriend, and by the end of the night I'd had three glasses of wine, two White Russians, and innumerable shots of Captain Morgan. I brought home a man who I barely know and we ended up in bed. He was a perfect gentleman and nothing happened. Obviously I was inebriated, and now I'm a little embarrassed to show my face around town. What should I do?
Dear Silly Girl:
I'm glad you asked. As luck would have it, I will be in your town on Saturday February 5. You must come see me - I want to hear all about it. How large was his penis? I want to know!
Anxiously Awaiting the Details,
Dear Dr. Ruth:
Well, even if he had removed his long johns and shown me his penis, I doubt I would tell you about it. Some things should be kept private, don't you think? In any event, I feel somewhat awkward around this man now. I was drunk (which I didn't even realize until the hangover hit me the next morning) and I'm not sure if I said something or sent signals that I might not have sent if I was sober. I mean, we were in bed together. We kissed. I snored. He felt my breasts. What must he think of me?
Dear Silly Girl:
What are you so worried about? It's the 90s - oh, wait - I'm 90. Anyway, here's what I suggest. Next time you see him, make sure that you are sober. Sit down over a cup of coffee and just talk about life in general ... you know, the weather and stuff like that. It's okay to take a step back and start over and do things the right way. Get to know each other a little bit better. Become friends. Then decide whether or not you want to see his package. I would imagine he's feeling a bit awkward as well, so he'll probably appreciate your being direct and honest. Good luck - and when and if the time is right, good sex!
1) It's freaking cold here today! 2) Time compression - have you noticed that you now have less and less time to pay your bills? I got a bunch of bills on Feb 1 that are due on Feb 22. Exactly three weeks to pay the bills. Whatever happened to 30 days? Good thing I open my mail - if I didn't the bills would pile up and I'd be evited just like Kathy in House of Sand and Fog. Great movie. Totally disturbing, but great movie. 3) I'm as old as the Super Bowl - which, by the way, I may or may not watch tonight.