Decisions, decisions

Our intern's last day is tomorrow and as per tradition, we throw a little good-bye lunch when they leave, so they don't talk too badly about us to everyone else.

When I actually like the person I work with, I usually get for their birthday, or leaving parties, cupcakes from Buttercup Bake Shop. And because I am the self-proclaimed cupcake junkie, I had to take a peek.

You know the angel and devil were sitting on my shoulders for this one.

Today's post has been sponsored by the word "and"

Brangelina, TomKat, then TomKitten, Bennifer, then Bennifer the 2nd...

Attention purveyors of celebrity media: This is not cute. This is stupid. For the love of all that is holy, stop the dumbing down of America!

The media's obsession with combining celebrity first names is just downright annoying. And try as they might, it hasn't caught on among us little people. I don't go around calling C and I some wierd derivation of our names, like C-Mi. Although "C-Mi go after Bonnie Fuller, who is the devil and started this whole mess" sounds rather nice.

Jen Aniston, imploring me with her eyes to save her from Bonnie

It's even creepier when these magazines try to "predict" what a celebrity baby will look like, by morphing the pictures of the mother and father. I think I saw one where Brad and Angelina's spawn is sporting stubble at the age of 9 months. I mean, what is that?!?

According to this morph, Britney Spears' son was apparently born wearing a do-rag

In an attempt to try this name combining thing on everyday people in my life, I called my mother on her cell.

Mom: Hello?

Me: Hi, Momather!

(Pause)

Mom: Call me when happy hour's over. (click)

Although I'll admit, as I ran down the list of my friends' names and combined them, one combination made me laugh: Cladam. It sounds like an Irish disease.

"Where's Bev? Did she not show up for work today?"

"Oh, poor lass, she's sick with the cladam."

I'd like to think that the American public can handle the conjunction "and" and that we snicker whenever magazines try to fob these idiotic names onto us. But when I spy the Nicole Richie and Jessica Simpson clones making a beeline down Seventh Avenue, with the "must-have" bag from last week's In Touch magazine, I seriously do wonder.

Bon voyage for C

C leaves for England tonight. This is wierd, so I'm not my usual sparkling self today.

It's like when we were doing the long distance thing. Of course I'm excited for him. It's the first time he goes back since we got married. There's lots of people waiting to see him. I just wish I could go with him. This is where the disparity between American and European vacation time time just glares.

See how it's staring you right in the face?

After ten years of living by myself, I'm not used to be being alone anymore. (Somewhere in NJ, cheers are erupting from my family) As the joke between C and I goes, I'm like a plant. I need to fed, watered, and loved, and he's doing a damn fine job of that.

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So, there you go. Imagine what dried-up shell of my former self I'll be when he gets back.

"C, come home"

(By the way, does anyone else not realize what a travesty it is to allow a small child to see E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial? If you're looking to give a kid issues, step right up here. Look at him! He's a squat, buggy-eyed alien who makes Chewbacca sound like a PhD in Languages. It's just wrong!)

But seriously, I'm thrilled for C and happy he gets to go home and see his fam. And I'll be even more thrilled when he comes home to me. But he better not forget the Tesco’s.

No soup for me

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"What was that?!?!?!"

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"M just found out her favorite Campbell's soup is being discontinued"

After searching high and low, my local supermarket manager informed me that Campbell's Ranchero Tomato soup will soon be no longer. This is a dark day for soup-dom.

This is quite possibly my favorite soup in the whole world. Forget the Soup Nazi, forget Hale and Hearty soup bars with their freshly made, gourmet soups! I like my soup condensed, in a can, having a sell-by date that falls somewhere...oh, in the next millennium?

And I don't mess around with the recipes they print on the labels either. I'm a purist when it comes to Campbell's soups. No E-Z Bake Enchilada or Cream of Mushroom Casserole recipes for me, just soup. It is all about the artifically preserved goodness that lies within each spoonful. Like Nietzche said, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. And I think he was referring to Campbell's soups when he said this. My body could probably withstand nuclear radiation, thanks to a steady diet of Chicken & Stars and Double Noodle growing up.

But the Ranchero Tomato soup has a special place in my heart since its introduction two years ago. With a squirt of lime juice, I'm in soup heaven. Like bowl-licking-until-every-last-drop-is-gone heaven. If I could dive into a vat of the stuff, I just might do it. So in recent weeks, when I stopped by the market and couldn't find it, I chalked it up to its popularity. But when I tried other stores and didn't see it in those places, I decided to make a call.

"Ah dunno, not many people like it. It don't sell," says the manager at my local Gristedes. Red alert! Red alert! That means: Holy shet, it's time to stock up girl! They're taking my Ranchero Tomato soup away from me!

Wait, is that what I think it is? Is he...is the Campbell's Kid giving me the finger?!?

If you thought Andy Warhol was creative, you ain't seen nothing yet. Happily, I've found a website willing to ship cases of 24 cans at a time. So C, honey, get ready. I'm about to buy up every last can of this soup. If I have to make furniture out of it, I will. A coffee table made out of Ranchero Tomato cans. You can use a can instead of a mouse to surf the Web! Oh yeah, by the way? Say good-bye to your junk drawer - it's all about the soup now. Anything we have left over will be left to the grandkids.

So don't be surprised if you turn on the news tomorrow and find me scaling the walls of Campbell's headquarters in protest. This soup junkie is so not going down without a fight!

Productivity recess #2

I'm not a big Idol fan. However, my incessant channel-hopping (which never fails to drive C crazy) was halted once I saw Chris Daughtry's eyebrows. SOME-body had a brow wax!

Waxed eyebrows on men is like the millennial version of a man perm. It's just not cool.

"Girl knows what she's talkin' about"

Now that the show's stylists have eradicated any sign of stray hair from his eyebrows and his head - what's next? Bleach and an earring?

Forget I even said it.

Intermission from life

I've been busy at work finishing another piece for that website, except they want 2,500 words. Man, I hate deadlines. They make me break out.

But in the meantime, I'm obsessed with this music video by a Montreal band called Wolf Parade. And it doesn't hurt that I love the song as well. So I can't stop myself from checking it out every hour on the hour, hindering what little productivity I have.

Remember when you were a kid and there were music videos that were, like, interesting to watch? The excitement over seeing Buggles' Video Killed the Radio Star video for the first time was a monumental moment in my early childhood development.

I was definitely never the same again

And they kept churning out more interesting videos, aiding and abetting this addiction. Pieces de resistance from Madonna, INXS, and others who had stories to tell in not only their music, but their videos. Especially Twisted Sister. You can't forget Twisted Sister.

'Cuz they're not gonna take it...anymooooooooooooo!

No matter how cheesy the video was, as long as they tried to have a story line, it was interesting. And somewhere along the way, that stopped happening. It became all about guys surrounded by girls "shaking their junk in their trunk" (I have to use quotes, because I'm getting of the age where if I tried to say that without irony, I'd be a putz).

Can you imagine the auditions for those videos?

Casting Director: Okay, we'll take Booty #12 and Booty #26. Thanks to the rest of the booties for coming today.

Chorus of "Aw, man!" and "It was that spinning class! I know it!"

And don't forget the guys sitting around in the backseat of a Bentley or a jacuzzi, singing about their "bling bling". One after the other after the other. Until we heard it all the way out in Iowa.

"Now the next thing I'd like to discuss with you - bling bling."

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It was sad to watch the videos and realize they were targeting an audience with severe ADD. Now I think I have ADD, but nothing as extreme as what these guys were shooting for. So when I was messing around on the Web and came upon the aforementioned video, I figured why not? The band is from Montreal, I have family in Montreal. Makes sense. To me, anyway.

And now I'm besotted with it. It's creative and sharp and has something to say. And that's how I like my entertainment served up.

Zoe Dawg

The boss in our home is not me. It's not C. It's Zoe.

"I said, that's right!"

Pretty much most executive decisions are determined by the presence of this dog. How late will we go out? Do we really need to run this errand, unless we can bring her along? What's for dinner tonight, and how much of it can we give to Zoe?

Discussing our forthcoming move, one of the key factors was - there has to be a place somewhere for her to run her little heart out and roll around in the scat left behind by other dogs. It's nasty, I know, but we like to indulge her primal instincts and pay through the nose for the cost of New York City dog grooming.

Another $65 right down the drain

Obviously we've been reduced to big balls of human mush, because it's considered a privilege to rub her belly. Therefore, we must move over to her in order to do so, because she cannot be bothered to come to us. Often, during discussions, we look to her and ask her out loud, "What do you think, Zoe?", as if we were to get an answer. Most of the time, she gives us that imperious look, as if to say: "What are you, stupid? I'm a dog!"

I write about this, because I realized this morning that we're coming upon her second year of being with us, mostly with just me before we got married. And it's like, Wait. This dog has only been a part of our lives for nearly two years? What was life like before Zoe? I think the couch used to be mine, before she took it over and destroyed it. I don't remember. If I met C before bringing her home, I don't remember that either.

Everything started with Zoe.

Me: Hon, when did we meet?

C: Um. (scratching head) You brought home the dog...

Thing is, in my family we're all dog lovers, some more than others. My brother has a history of bringing home dogs from the shelter, only to have them become permanent residents of Hotel Mom and Dad. So when I brought Zoe home, my dad was more than skeptical. Now, any discussion regarding any forthcoming life events (i.e. marriage, moving, changing jobs, etc.), he is convinced that it's a portent of Zoe being offloaded onto him and my mother. So his refrain has become "We're not taking her".

Me: Dad, we're getting married!

Dad: Congratulations. We're not taking her.

Fine, I wouldn't want him anyway!

There are protocols surrounding her occupation of the apartment. This is not based on the conditioning of the dog to our behavior, but vice versa. Going back to issue of The Bed, a peaceable treaty has been worked out that she sleeps in C's spot, until he comes home from work at night. Actually, that was non-negotiable from the beginning.

Another rule necessitates the shutdown of cell phones when no one is home. Many a day has terror struck my heart, as I realize I had left my cell phone on at home. Then I run a marathon of epic proportions back home, praying no one calls or texts me. The dog is deathly afraid of the beeping associated with messages left and I usually come home to find this:

Okay, it's cute that she likes to hide in the bath. But it's not so cute when it's accompanied by an accident. First on her couch, then on her bathmat (see a trend here?), in her race to get into the safety of the tub.

At the end of the day, in spite of her stank and sometimes unusual behaviors, my father can rest assured that she is very much a member of the little tribe we have going on. He will never, ever have to take her.

Reason why I love NYC # 3

Jockey hits the streets with some sort of guerrilla marketing, where people do yoga in the middle of 34th steet. Zen haven that it is.

Judging from the confused looks on people's faces, this was obviously a successful promotional strategy.

The Worm is an underrated dance move

One of the girls auditioning for next season's Flavor of Love and if she doesn't get on, I'm boycotting the show.



Afterthought: By watching it with the sound off, more hilarity ensues.

All in a day's work

So, I'm working at my desk this morning, and the president of the company comes up to me and says: "I did not see a reply to the e-mail."

I freeze. Even though I had 30+ e-mails in my Inbox waiting for me this morning, this is irrelevant to him. And whose e-mail? His? Someone else's? I am supposed to sit up and know precisely which e-mail he is referring to. It's like his version of the Jedi Mind Trick; if he insists on it enough, then somehow it will become true.
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I could ask for clarification, although I'm quite sure he won't give it to me. I try anyway. "Which e-mail?"

And he says in his thick, Israeli accent: "Vhat do you mean, vhich e-mail? De e-mail dhat is dhere!"

Well, that didn't work. I turn in my chair, look him in the eyes, and take the suicide plunge by asking: "And which one would that be?"

His reaction?

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...all rolled into one.

This goes on for about ten minutes while I look to Nose Digger for help, who's busying himself into his computer screen. Times like this are why I have an emergency Cadbury Creme Egg stored in my desk drawer.

We're all too familiar with these outbursts; even his son - The Idiot Prince - says his prayers whenever we hear he's on his way back to the office. The collective blood pressure of the office lowers when the president is not here.

I look to one of the other girls, who's sleeping with Idiot Prince. She looks back at me blankly, as if to say: Better you than me. Finally, when he gets tired of ranting, I say, "Okay, I didn't get to this e-mail yet, but I will look for it now."

Which I do. And I look. And look. And I don't see the e-mail he expects me to see. He's left already, so I ask Nose Digger: "Do you know which e-mail he's referring to?"

He does a quick search and says, "Oh yeah, I forgot to cc you on that."

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If we were in the penguin world, who would be me and who would be my boss?

Quick tidbit to start the day

On the hit list of Yahoo's news teasers, I see that English soccer fans are being urged by the Foreign Office to chant football songs in German at the World Cup.

As the wife of a transplanted Brit, who would have Fox Sports Network's coverage of Premiereship soccer on 24/7 if he could, I know what will happen. I will come home to find him laughing hysterically on the floor upon hearing this news, waving a flag erected out of his Chelsea football shirt.

Donald Trump is stalking me

Ever since I revealed it was his magazine that I had that crazy interview for, Donald Trump seems to be haunting me, staring out at me whenever I open my Yahoo homepage. And he keeps giving me this look.

"M, I know what you've been saying"

I understand it doesn't look good for his brand, but does he have to follow me around like this?

Donald, let it go. You're starting to freak me out.

Smell hell

It's been in the 70's this week in New York, and while it's fantastic to walk around feeling the sun on your face, the smells have come out of hibernation. In particular, the people smells. And you know what? A lot of people smell bad.

I step onto the elevator at my office building and just when the doors are about to close, this guy steps on. He was like a bald Crocodile Dundee, I swear. The pants, the beaten boots, wearing a vest with no t-shirt. But worst of all he was Ripe.

Ripe like this?

No...more like this:

I'm serious. He. Was. Rrrrrripe! To effectively communicate just how ripe he was, you need to do some serious rolling of the R's there. Say it after me - rrrrripe! And I was stuck in the elevator with this being of massive ripeness, therefore I was not amused.

I must have been a dog in a past life, because I can sniff out nearly anything. I'll be in the middle of something, when my nose starts twitching away and I start asking, "Do you smell that? Huh, do you?" Then a minute later, I'll hear, "Ew, do you smell that?!?!"

The sudden spate of warm weather calls into attention the amount of people who forgo deodorant, showers on a regular basis, and oh...the concept of personal hygiene altogether. Some of them you can spot right away, because you look at them and instinctively know they smell like feet. But then there's the ones that you could never tell by looking at them. They're the Silent But Deadly ones, in human form. They should come with warning labels.

They should do the rest of us a favor by letting us know this, before we decide to share a small space with them. In a perfect world, the following would happen:

Smelly man: Excuse me, miss. I should let you know that, before you enter this elevator with me, I smell. And I smell by choice.

Me: Why, thank you for letting me know! I think I shall wait until the next elevator comes.

SM: Very well, then. Have a nice day!

Me: You too, oh smelly one!

It would be the right thing to do, instead of assaulting olfactory sensitives like me with your stank. Unfortunately, however, not only was I trapped on the elevator with Smelly Dundee, but he tried to engage me in conversation, while I was doing everything in my power to hold my breath:

SM: Is that button lit up for floor 28?

Me, shaking my head: Mm-mm.

SM, looking at buttons and not at me: Is that a yes or a no?

Me, shaking my head and my finger, while trying to cover my nose and mouth discreetly with the other hand: Unh-unh.

SM: I don't understand what you're trying to say.

Me, clawing at the walls: Argha-agh! Gasp! (Then passes out)

***

Think of this as a PSA from your friendly neighborhood M, letting you know that a little bit of stank goes a long way. If I have to, I'll host fund-raising events to raise money for the anti-persperant averse and ensure that no individual should have to go without deodorant. We'll distribute free Arrid Extra-Dry across the city, until no man or woman is left behind.

Guests of the 2005 Ban Ball - supporting the cause so everyone can raise their hands if they're Sure!

But the first step comes from you. (Weeping now) Please...do it for your fellow man!

It starts with one small step in the elevator and next week...the subway.

Clock goes on holiday

I had no luck with the Easter bonnet and I'm still on the hunt for Groucho Marx glasses. But in the meantime, I got a little bored and wondered if C will notice anything different when he gets home from work.

>:)

Hazy Monday

It's a beautiful Monday out and I'm still feeling the ill effects of a weekend celebrating in Hoboken, so this post is bought to you in dribs and drabs. Judging from the call register on my cell phone, I have a telephonic diary of Saturday night's drunkenness, on the behalf of my compadres.

If the amount of phone calls are correlative to the number of people present, this explains the volume of randomly inane observations left on my voicemail. And MJ, my friend, you are one of the guilty parties. I've only had a sampling of what is to come, as I still have to listen to the rest...

"M, you were here, but you are not here anymore." (Plato, move over. There's a new sherriff in town!)

"I'm just letting you know the tag is sticking out the back of your shirt. Even though you're standing ten feet away from me." (Thanks. I only found this out this morning.)

"There is all this drama going on and where are you? How come you're not in the middle of it?" (Now, how am I supposed to respond to that?)

And of course, the ubiquitous:

"I love you man!"

Once I have finished listening to it all, I will then compile the messages, so as to find the hidden meaning underlying these warblings. It's all so very Da Vinci Code.

As for work, my boss only told me Friday afternoon, at the very last possible minute, that they hired someone to take my spot and she is starting today. So when I came in this morning, I employed all possible evasion tactics from having to train anyone, before having my third cup of coffee (yes, the weekend was that rough). So instead, I made our intern do it.

Intern: "What am I supposed to do with her?"

Me (waving my hand): "You figure it out."

It was quite the Joan Crawford moment for me. And I liked it.

Don't make me say it! Because my closet's full of them!

And finally, in response to the question posed, I think I can start naming names. That interview where the guy couldn't keep his eyes open, upon listening to me describe my illustrious career, took place at Trump World magazine.

I know. Believe me, I know. The only way to win this season of The Apprentice is for someone to fall asleep during the board meeting.

What can I say? It wasn't in the cards. And maybe that's a good thing. Because if people are falling asleep over there, maybe I would have been the jackass to carry the load on my back.

I'll take my blessings where I can find them.

Hangover Diary

Judging from my sorry physical (and mental) condition today, I believe the pregnancy rumors have been laid to rest. And in the process, I have nearly dislocated a rib from spending five minutes trying to open a tin of mints. Only to realize I was trying to open them from the wrong side.

Only four and a half hours more to go...

12:45 PM - I have the attention span of a gnat today. Why no one else notices that I have been carefully studying the "p" button on my keyboard for two minutes straight is beyond me.

1:45 PM - My boss' aura obviously is very blocked, because he's not responding to my telepathic messages to let us go home early.

2:25 PM - My stomach is a black hole that cannot be filled.

3 PM - What did people do with their hangovers at work before the Internet? I mean, just imagine. You're out at Studio 54 all night and then you show up at work with an aching head and bleary disposition. How did they kill the time? Especially on Good Friday, when it seems like the rest of the world is off from work. I shudder to think about it.

4 PM - Have I mentioned that my mother-in-law reads my blog? What she must think of me now...

4:30 PM - I am already plotting my premature escape from these hallowed walls. I have every intention of going home, holding the dog out the window so she can do her business there without my having to walk her, and settling in for the latest episode of Ghost Whisperer. All concluded with C coming home to find me asleep on the couch, the crumbs of a demolished pizza scattered around me and the computer actually off for once.

4:45 PM - I have "The Final Countdown" by Europe playing in my head. The FINAL Countdownnnnnnnn!

4:50 PM - I am off. Victory (and soon sleep) is mine!

#100

This is post #100. Can you believe it? I can't. I certainly didn't think it would go this far. I just wanted to do something while bored stiff at work and now it's post #100. Either I have way too much time on my hands or...I have way too much time on my hands.

In celebration of the occasion, I am posting a 'word cloud' I have been been saving for this occasion.

It's like a Rorschach of my brain. And it ain't pretty.

This was sent to me by Cindy, who was my partner in crime in high school. We just vibed off of each other like good friends do. You know you have a good friend, when you can stand together in front a mirror and entertain ourselves for hours with our New Kids On The Block concert faces.

Flashback 15 years ago...

Me: That's good, that's good, but I think if you're really going to go for it, then your Donnie face needs something, like, a touch more bad-ass, you know?

Cindy: Like this? (Crosses arms, tilts chin, and gives come-hither eyes)

Me: Perrrr-fect! Who's hangin' tough now?

***

We never felt like idiots, even though we probably were. That's a good friend right there. So anyway, holla to Cindy in Jerusalem! Or is it Tel Aviv? Wait, now I'm confused. I'm pretty sure it's Jerusalem. But holla to the peeps in Tel Aviv too.

Looking at that word cloud, I'm inspired. I want to start running around going, "People picker piss. People picker piss. Say it five times really fast!" while doing a little shaboogie. Either I'll get arrested or inadvertently start a conga line of interested bystanders.

"Officer, please...we were only following the crazy People Picker Piss woman!"

Interestingly enough, at the same time my stuff is finally up on the site I'd been writing for, which I'm happy about. I added a link to my sidebar, because Blogger won't let me publish it properly in the post. And yes my name is in print, so don't get any funny ideas, eh? Because I've got a bodyguard.

Not Kevin, but Whitney. So you should be very afraid.

I shouldn't complain, but I'm not happy about how they chopped up my writing through the editing process and lost some of mah flow. I'm an artiste, dammit! Don't you go editing me, fool! Because if you do, I'll write something about you! Oooohhhh.

But nevertheless, it's a good day and I'm all about celebrating. Which is why there's a 99% chance I will come into work tomorrow smelling like a bar, laying all those pregnancy rumors to rest once and for all!

"I'm down!"

The clock gets a makeover

I went this morning to check the outside temperature on C's Super Clock and realized he had changed something. Apparently, he felt that the first go round wasn't fashionable enough, so he gave it an upgrade.

I think tomorrow, in celebration of Easter, the clock is feeling like a bonnet.

Let my people go...get a burger

You know it's Passover in the city when...

All the good Jews are raiding Shake Shack, to enjoy their last burger with a bun for the next 8 days.

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The 'Welcome Moshiach' trucks are out on the streets in full force, with their foghorns blaring the Mordechai Ben David hit "Just One Shabbos and We'll All Be Free"

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All the sweet, little old ladies are shopping at Zabar's, and they're drop kicking your ass across the Hudson if you even think about taking that last jar of Gold's horseradish.

Happy Pesach to all the chosen people in tha house!

Dude, where's my job?

My buh-rain is fried, so pardon me if I make no sense. Between a phoner and two live interviews yesterday, it was no wonder I couldn't sleep the night before. That's in addition to finishing the write-up for that website. If you're nice to me, maybe I'll link it once it's up.

In the middle of all this was a second interview for a job with a pretty well-backed magazine. Note aforementioned lack of sleep, so by the time I got to that interview for the magazine, after everything else, I was a walking zombie. Little did I know I would be in good company.

So this interview is with a man and a woman. The woman seemed nice enough, and more importantly, alert enough. The man, on the other hand, was a different story.

Have you seen this man? 'Cause I know I have.

I've been on many interviews in my time and ohhhh, the stories! But I don't think I've ever been interviewed by a narcoleptic. No, that's just uncharted territory for me, really. The minute he finished asking me his first question, boom - his eyes start drooping shut. I looked at the lady for some sort of acknowledgement, like, "Hey, Sleepy's right here. Where're the rest of the dwarves?" But she was sitting side by side with him and staring expectantly at me, waiting and completely clueless.

So I answer the question, and the one after that and after that too. All the while, I'm watching in fascination as his eyelids flutter up and down, travelling through the Land of Nod. He was like this interactive narcoleptic. Everytime I finished my answer, he woke up again, only to fall asleep again when I started speaking. WONDERSSSS for my confidence, I say!

At the same time, my eyelids were reflexively responding to his, begging to do the same thing, and I had to keep looking away. Let me tell you, I was so jealous of him. I'd have loved nothing more than to put my head down on the table and have us both make music with our snores. I'd be alto and he'd be soprano. I really couldn't take it. So at one point, I did debate actually saying something out loud, maybe asking him if he wanted some of my Bawls.

You know, Bawls - the caffeinated candy. Why? What were you thinking?

Despite my dismay at the whole situation, I plugged on and I rambled a little bit, while wondering to myself if this was a part of the master plan? Some diabolical test? Like, "Let's have a narcoleptic interview her and see what she does!" And if I did the right thing, they'd jump out and yell, "Congratulationsssss, you're hired!"

Well, that didn't happen. No.

What did happen was the lady started looking at me strangely, as she began her turn to ask me questions in what seemed the looooooongest interview of my life. Then as I started getting my groove back, I heard what I could have sworn was a snort. Like a snoring type snort. And I crashed. I just mentally threw in the towel and gave up. I told myself, M, this is not meant to be. The Big Man (meaning G-d, not the narcoleptic) obviously does not want me to have this job.

When it finally ended 45 minutes later, Mr. Narky-poo-poo says, "We'll be in touch. I like what I heard." My head practically spun on my neck 360 degrees, like "Saywhahuhlike...how can you...never mind, how about a big ole SAY WHUH?"

If he had done this, I'd have given him points for trying, then run out of the room.

One day later, I'm still beside myself with, oh I don't know, confusion as to what that whole exercise was all about? Because that was quite possibly the strangest interview I've ever had. Scratch that, it was the strangest interview I've ever had. And because it's not over until it's over, I can't even say who I interviewed with.

But once I'm assured I didn't get the job, and I'm quite sure I won't, I'm posting the name. Because you won't believe it. I know I didn't. Those that know who it was have asked me, "Are you sure it was the same company?" And yes, it was. Mr. Sandman works for a name that prides itself on its go-getting work ethic, ambition, and drive. And he set a lovely example, I tell you.

Watch this space.

...Men!....

Since C and I have different work schedules, he decided he really needed his own clock for his side of the bed. This made sense. When he decided that he had to have the Uber-clock x 10 from Sharper Image, with all the bells and whistles, I said, "M'kay, whatever." This is the clock with a barometer, indoor and outdoor temperature, tells you which way is North...I mean everything. This is like the Lamborghini of clocks. If the clock could do anymore, it would be dictating the piece I have a deadline for on Tuesday and doing my grocery shopping as well.

So he buys it. And the durn thing is so bright that at night, it's like you're sleeping underwater. Zoe dog sits at my side of the bed with her goggles and scuba gear on, like, "Are we going or what?"

So here's the clock, and take note: that's the blue-ness of it in regular daylight.

This is what it should look like:

And this is how it is most of the time:

Men!

80's redux

I'm jumping up and down because I just got an e-mail that Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers will be touring this summer. For moi, this is major. Pearl Jam will open for them for at least two confirmed dates, neither of which are in my area. Yet. They've got to, man, they've got to! It would just be the icing on the cake if they did! Nothing would be greater than seeing my favorite, once-glorious 90's rock band, who tried to take on the the monopoly of concert ticket sales and failed. Miserably.

MTV was my baby-sitter as a kid. One of the first music videos I ever saw was Tom doing a duet with Steve Nicks for "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around". As a 5-year old, I remember thinking, "Why is that pretty girl singing to him? He looks too sleepy to drag anyone's heart around. A blankie, maybe, but not a heart. Good song, though." Thus began a lifelong appreciation for Tom Petty that nobody seems to understand.

Rip van Petty

MTV was good like that though. Now, parents are all hip to what could possibly aired within a music video, but let me tell you - my parents had no idea how it was I knew what "virgin" meant at 9 years old.

Thanks, Madge

C, darling, this is a memo. Don't ever take me to Venice. Because after a few glasses of wine, I will find it funny to writhe around on a gondola and starting singing to imaginary lion men in Versace suits. "I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it throughhhhh...hey, where's my lion man? (Snicker, snicker, snork)"

One of my favorite things to do is watch VH-1 Classics when they air the 80's videos, because it's not only just a trip down memory lane for me, but a study in poor production values. Did we love Falco so much that we forgot how bad the "Rock Me, Amadeus" video really was? The leather-clad, German bikers roaring "Rock Me, Amadeus" and pumping their fists in the air, while wondering what it is they're singing and when Mr. Frizzy Rainbow Head will give them the beer he promised.

Rock me to obscurity!

And there's some that will never see the light of day again, like Sammy Hagar's "I Can't Drive 55" music video. Not just the video, but the song too. Do you think you could listen to a song now, about not being able to drive below the 55 mph speed limit, without wetting yourself laughing? Poor Sammy, he just can't put that skeleton, and the yellow pleather jumpsuit, back into his 80's closet.

What about the "Who's Johnny?" video from the film Short Circuit, a movie about a malfunctioning robot who's really alive? When the bad guys try to throw him into the big metal-crunching thingie, and he starts yelling: "Johnny 5 is alive! Number 5 is alive!", oh boy. My friend and I had conniptions in our seats at the theater and we start screaming at each other, "HE'S ALIVE! NUMBER 5 IS ALIVE!!!". My dad had to drag us out of there, before we incited a near riot with all the 6 to 12-year olds in the house.

The great-great-grandfather of your PDA

Alright, forget the music video, the whole movie itself was a testament 80's cheeze. Mannequin was only marginally better - one second, she's a mannequin. Cut away, go back again and look- she's alive! Cut away once more and awwww, she's a mannequin again. As for Andrew McCarthy, dude, you're falling in love with a mannequin! Don't forget, this movie produced the most cheestastic love song ever - Jefferson Starship's "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now".

Kim Cattrall acting as woodenly as ever

What is it with me these days? It started with the drawings, and now it's movies where inanimate things come alive. Snickers bars and Dole pineapple cans, now robots and mannequins...I think I have a problem.

But I digress. The 80s era epitomized a goofy kind of hope. Even our do-good efforts smacked of cheeze. Does anyone remember Hands Across America? It was people forming a human chain across the United States, the proceeds of which would be donated to end homelessness. I remember thinking Wow, I'm connected to someone all the way in California! But judging from the state of things today, someone totally broke the chain.

Sigh, what an era of hope, of dreams, of Nancy Reagan showing up everywhere, imploring us not to do drugs. Did you D.A.R.E.? Then things had to go and be all cynical and grungy in the 90s. But by the power of Greystoke, leg warmers, and Bennetton polo shirts, my 80's uber-optimistim will take on your 90's, plaid-wearing, Nirvana moochiness anytime!

Ah told yew so

What did I say? I knew it! My mother called me this morning and asked me: "Are you a witch???" She asked me that because it's SNOWING in New York City in April! I did say there will be one more freak snowfall left in us before truly going into spring, and sure enough it happened today. Even though it was 74 degrees F just on Sunday.

I took some pictures, and then my freakin' battery died. So the pictures and the rest of this post will have to wait until I get home.

Stay tuned.

Six Hours Later:

Why can't it be like when I was a kid and they had Snow Days?

On a regular day, this would be the Empire State Building

If you close one eye and squint with the other, it could be Tokyo

I was going to write more of a post, but right now I'm busy freaking out about a thank you note I didn't send after a great interview last week. So now I have to write that belated, fluffy thank you note that someone might possibly base my whole future career on. Because credentials and work history don't count for anything. It's all about that thank you note (eyeroll).

Off I go to write it. And then freak out some more. Enjoy.