When I was 15 or 16, I went to visit my father in Dallas, and he took me to the studio where he worked as a photographer. His friends got me all dressed up in the fancy clothes and jewelry there, and his model friend did my makeup, and his photographer best friend took these pictures of me. I just found them last night when I was looking for something work-related:
I wonder if there was a whole I Hate June club in my high school or if it was less organized than that.
Anyway, my job discussion was fine. I had ice cream. Right in the middle of the time of my interview (job discussion) was ice-cream time, so they said, "Shall we all go get some?" and I said yes, and again. Why did I need larger pants at J. Jill? I think their pants run small.
After the butter pecan, they said they'd let me know in the next two weeks. Am I constantly waiting for Godot or what?
The job sounds really really cool. And it would be editing and copy editing, which I know means nothing to most of the world. But trust me. That would be excellent. Most excellent. Excellent-ay.
In the meanwhile, I have an all-day freelance job on Monday for a different place, so at least I do not have to sit here flapping up Talu's lips when I get bored. Oh, she hates that. I do it when she's asleep, when she's in the back yard surveying her domain on the deck, when she's watching the front yard from her perch on the couch. It does not matter where she is, she hates the flap anywhere I do it. And yet? Who can stop herself? Not me.
Did you ever watch that one show where people have a predilection for getting all up on animals you shouldn't? For example, there was the young woman who had like nine wolves in her house. Or the old lady who fed bears in her back yard. These stories always end with someone coming over to see why Bessie isn't showing up at work and all that is left of Bessie is a femur and maybe part of a nostril. This will be me after one lip-flap too many, over here.
I wanted to ask you something else deeply important. When you were a kid, did you ever tape music off the radio? Like, if I Just Wanna Be Your Everything came on, did you rush to your boom box to record the rest of it?
If you did, now when you hear, let's say, I Just Wanna Be Your Everything, do you automatically start singing the song that came right after it on your tape? Like for me, right after that, Ring My Bell came on and I snapped off the Record button after maybe the first five bars. So every time I Just Wanna Be Your Everything ends, I expect to hear:
But only that first annoying POOOOO! POOOOO! part.
Am I alone in this?
This is the problem with the youth of today. They do not have to WORK for their stolen music. They can just go online and get it. We had to sit there and listen to Kasey Kasem all morning. Is it Kasey or Casey?
Okay, I must go. In the first place, the dogs are barking terribly at these two Jehovah Witnesses who are walking the neighborhood. I know they are witnesses because they are already here and I have spoken to them. I invite any religious people in to talk because I figure it has to be a terrible task, going door to door and getting rejected all day. The last thing they probably wanted to do was enter this house o'fangs.
I did not ask them if they know Prince.
I will let you know if I become employed. You will be the first to hear.
Oh, and confidential to my Real Housewives friends: I think all the gay people of America should kick BOTH Sonja and Alex off their side. Who needs either one of those self-centered whoo-haas? And P.S. Simon's jacket. Enough said.