Note to self:

Have Bildo’s Levitra script refilled.

Happy days are here again. Let’s drink another beer again. Put the empties up our rear again.
Happy days are here againnnnn…..

Oh.
Nevermind.
It’s Monday.
Dammit.

My husband, being unhappy with my mood swings, bought me a mood ring the other day so he would be able to monitor my moods.
We’ve discovered that when I’m in a good mood, it turns green. When I’m in a bad mood, it leaves a big fricking red mark on his forehead.

Maybe next time he’ll buy me a diamond.

Dumb ass.

.

Having had a birthday recently, which reminded me of my mortality and the need to be released from the ninth year of frying eggs on my forehead, the spam in my email has reached a new low.

Your babymaker needs to be bigger in order to perform its functions.
My parts are ready to fall out now. If it gets any bigger I’ll need a bigger purse to carry around my uterus.
Just take a quick look at this, thanks.
Nope. It prolly looks like a pecker, only smaller, thanks.
Ask us how to achieve your true manhood. We’ve got an answer!
With my estrogen level nearing zero, this may be an option.
Increase your penile size and feel the difference!
No effin’ way.
Let us match you with a Real person.
I did that when I divorced that chinless, spineless bastard 30 years ago.
True masculinity is impossible without a substantial amount of male.
Well, no shit, Sherlock.
It works.
All the time?
Do you know your credit score?
Yes, and unfortunately so does everyone else.
Nedocoh
If this is a breast-size enhancer, I’m not the least interested. Some guy who thinks this shit up needs to wrap around his chest two bowling balls in a contraption designed for the least amount of comfort; to be worn at least 8 hours of each day.

I swore when I left the hell-hole I would never look for employment in the finance field again, but upon seeking gainful employment for the past two weeks, it’s become increasingly apparent to me that in the grand scheme of things that this is what I do best.

This is a very depressed area, with most folks around this section of the city collecting welfare, food stamps, and Social Security disability benefits, so in my field of expertise, there are many, many businesses that cater to this particular group of people.

When I call these businesses to inquire as to whether or not they’re hiring, that for the most part they say they’re taking applications, but once I arrived in all sixteen places, they took one of the 16 resumes and I’m told, “We aren’t hiring right now, but I’ll fax your resume to the home office.” I never get to the application unless I ask for one. It’s difficult too, for me not to notice that most of these females are in their 20’s and 30’s, dressed like they’re going either to a barn dance or a rave, and hold managerial positions.
Please, someone help me out here. What in the hell is wrong with this picture?

I did have a call-back from an online application from a huge call-center from an East Indian type fellow who said they’d love to set up an interview for Friday. He asked me if I were using Microsoft Word and Microsoft Excel if I knew how to switch programs. Woah! Be still my heart!
Not to be daunted by a little condescension, I said I would be happy to be there at 9 AM; and would of course arrive fifteen minutes early, as requested.
Little more than two hours later, another East Indian fellow called to confirm I would indeed be there at the appointed time and place, and could I also confirm that none of the information I had given had changed since my last conversation with the other representative of their company.
I wanted to tell him I’d moved three times since then, changed my phone number more often than my underwear, and given birth six times.

Yesterday I stopped in the grocery to buy a six pack of soda. I had no Bi-Lo discount card with me, so the cashier offered to get an application for me. In the meantime, she did offer another card to use until mine arrives in the mail. Cute little thing I can put on my keyring.

Bi-Lo for Seniors.

As an extra bonus, I have a birthday coming up in just 11 more days.

Perhaps I should pick out my shroud now.

I finally bit the bullet and advised the powers that be to shove their job up their proverbial chocolate whizways last Monday. In good conscience I could not make the effort to earn the scum-sucking bottom feeders another dime toward their blood-sucking enterprise that preys on the misfortune of others. I’m free as a bird, albeit a poor one, but the release was so great and satisfying that I’ll just do a Scarlett O’Hara and do a fiddle dee dee, I’ll worry about that tomorrow number.
It wasn’t a hard choice to make, really. I was being pushed out of a job I intended to retire from when the time came by the Little Big Boss who’s stuck up the Big Boss’ derrière so far he hasn’t been able to blow his nose in months.
Being a mature woman means so little to those in corporate America. Having common sense means nothing as well. I’m not a dumbass, and will not be pushed around by a snotty little snake thirty years my junior whose sole purpose in life is to climb a corporate ladder and beat his feminine little chest while he goes on and on about the new Disney On Ice.

I expect to be beating the streets for gainful employment this week, but in the meantime, I must color my grey hair, lift my wrinkles, buy a new bra and bring my stilettos and fishnets out of retirement.

This time around I’m going for the big time.

A few days ago, I was floating aimlessly around Testosterone Bay…Sweet Jesus, I have found my way back to the Estrogen Ocean! Last week, you see, it was my wonderful husband, myself, and our two sons. By my count that is one female. This I am used to, as I was the only girl in my family growing up…I had 5 male cousins, and one brother. Yep, 6 against 1. The only thing I had going for me was that I was the oldest…Sometimes, however, this was a disadvantage. “You are the oldest, you should have known better.” was something I heard OFTEN. Obviously, because, as I said before, I was the ONLY girl. That means 1 in 6 was using the brain. Recently, my mother-in-law moved from Florida to the mountains…she is residing with us until she finds a home of her own.

I know what you are thinking…this is going to turn into some rant about how miserable this makes me and so on.

WRONG!

I could not wait for this to take place…see, my mother-in-law and I have a very treasured relationship. She, to me, is not only the mother I wish I could have had, but the best Grandma that my kids could ask for. She is very down to earth, funny, and going through menopause.

Now think about this for just a moment, allow it sink in, settle down, and tweak your brain a bit.

There is only one time of the month that the husband/son in this very happy, hormonal family needs to watch his tone, be careful of the looks he shoots around the room, and watch for little piles of dung NOT to step in (which are strategically placed around the home, just waiting).

He is a good man, though, and recognizes all the warning signs. He usually asks if Flow (as in menstrual) stopped by today. And the only thing I can think of to say is…

“Welcome, passengers, this is your captain speaking. We are now departing Testosterone Bay. In a few short minutes, we will be entering The Estrogen Ocean. Please leave you seat belts fastened tightly around your lap…I have a feeling we are going to hit terribly rough seas ahead.”

Today and tomorrow I will undergo the rigors of corporate America by attending meetings with my area manager and the president of my company. This will also be the first time in three years I’ve met the “president”.
My breath is baited, I can tell you, and I hope I can make it through without too many hot flashes. I hate to be seen excusing myself 25 times throughout the course of the first day. Perhaps I should wear my bra backwards. *fans self*
The beatings will begin promptly at 9:30 AM.

Wish me luck, as I dread the next two days like the plague.