Jimmie, As Per Usual

PROLOGUE:  This was the year, in June, that I turned 41.

As an aside, I’d like to say that 41 is boring.  It isn’t sexy at all and while I do have nine years left to get my sexy on according to my Auntie Anne, this is not an auspicious beginning.

Eons ago, before I moved to Nashville, I lived in a crappy placed called Alabama.  After living in Alabama for ten years, I decided it was time to get the heck up outta there, and began to search newspapers and online job boards for a job in a place called Anywhere-But-Alabama.  I scored interviews in places called Memphis, Atlanta and Nashville. We all know how that worked out, but not everyone knows the process I went through to get to Nashville.  I’m going to tell you about that.

It took three formal interviews for the company in which I landed to realize my value and offer me a position.  Right before I was given my offer letter, my interviewer dropped the f-bomb a minimum of six times.  In the interview before that, one of my interviewers forgot to comb his hair and had on a sweatshirt inside-out.  And in my first interview – oh law, what a story that was.

That interview process began with a spelling test, a math test and a grammar test.  In order to pass them, I had to score a 100 which was easy as they gave me a dictionary, a calculator and a thesaurus.  (I found out later I was one of only two who passed.  Unless you are a moron of the highest order or you don’t follow directions, there was no reason to not pass.) After the tests, I was asked a series of questions along the lines of:  if you could be any animal in the world, what would it be; if your work were a painting, what would it be titled; and describe the kind of tree you are.  I was stunned.  It was the strangest interview I ever had in my life.  I had gotten my last two jobs just by being nice and bubbly and so having to go through this rigmarole was new territory.  I chalked it up to big city ways, though, and soldiered on.

Halfway through the oddball questions, the interviewer smoothed her hair and said, “I’m sorry about my hair.  It usually wear it up, never down like this.  It must be getting on your nerves.”  She looked at me expectantly and right then I got it.  I was dealing with a narcissist of epic proportions and if I wanted this job, I had to play the game.

“Oh no,” I breathed.  “Your hair is lovely.”  She preened and we moved on.

To be fair, there were valid discussions in which I got to explain my work history and philosophy and since I was called back for second and third interviews, I reckon I made a good impression.  At the end of the first interview, though, my narcissist said, apropos of nothing, “I’m 41 but I know I don’t look it”, and she smoothed the skin on her face and showed me her nicotine-stained teeth.  We both sat there in silence for a moment, me trying to formulate the response that would get me hired and she waiting for my breath to stumble at her beauty.

I managed to choke out a believable “I never would have guessed!” even though I totally would have guessed and made it to the car before I guffawed aloud.  Oh, this place was going to be fun, I could tell.

Years later, my second job in Nashville fell apart because Boss ditched me for Kansas City and I landed the gig where I am now.  Recently I received that promotion I told you about and you should know that the promotion launched me into a recruiter position in which I get to conduct interviews.  And right after I became a recruiter, the position I had just vacated was opened up for interviews and Daisy, my lovely, lovely co-worker, applied for that position and I got to interview her.

My current supervisor, a woman who is the epitome of professionalism and good graces and never says things like “My hair MUST be getting on your nerves”, nor does she preen unnecessarily, had always done the interviews in house and was preparing me to interview Daisy.

“You have a list of questions for her?” MJ-Love asked.

“Yup,” I said, right before I spit out my gum.

“Professionalism is what we like to see, you know,” MJ-Love counseled.

“Yup, I got it.”

“You aren’t nervous at all about this?  You know the entire HR team will be sitting in with you and asking questions of our own, correct?”

I shrugged and said, “Naw, I’m good.”

“Okay,” she said.  “Let’s go get Daisy.” And off we marched.

As we were settling ourselves into the chairs in the conference room, I could tell Daisy was nervous.  I don’t know why as we all desperately wanted her to join our team and were terrified that she would change her mind.  MJ-Love said, “Jimmie?  Go ahead.”

I took a deep breath, grinned at Daisy with my minty-fresh teeth, smoothed my big, sexy hair, and to MJ-Love’s eternal horror said, “Daisy, I’m 41 but I know I don’t look it . . . .”

EPILOGUE:  Daisy was hired, and I was not fired, and MJ-Love has recovered nicely from her stroke, and we all lived happily ever after.

The end.

For Mature Audiences Only

Recently some friends of mine got married.  I love to hear stories of how couples met and how they decided that marriage was their thing, so naturally I grilled them about their story.  They met online, which really seems to be the way to go anymore.  I mean, every time you turn around you find someone who met their someone on a dating sight.

I pondered over internet dating for a while and after some time, decided that it sounded fun.  It was a lark – what was it going to hurt, right?  I marched on over to that dating website on a Sunday afternoon and I threw up a profile.  First, though, I ruminated over how I wanted to present myself and over what I’d ideally like to find.  I decided that negativity was no way to begin so I gave myself the name of Happy; then I decided that I’d like to weed out anyone who wasn’t on the same page as me spiritually, so I explained that I’d need the interested party to put God first.

There was a section titled “You should message me if . . . .”, and I wanted to do this right, too.  I asked for bravery and niceness and then said the following:

I can definitively say who shouldn’t message me:  the guys who say “wow, I bet your body is amazing” or “how do you feel about making out with 25 year olds?” or “I am stuck in Nicaragua where my mum is dying and I need $3000 to save her and I love you, please wire money.”

See, this is okay, right?  Overall it was kind of light and happy and fun.

This is what happened on Monday:

I didn’t think I would ever find someone half as cool as me, but I think you might be able to measure up.  Seriously, you really do seem like a very sweet nice lady.  Anyway my name is XXXXX and I decided you should shoot me an email.  Oh by the way, when a big fat man comes and puts you in a bag at night don’t be scared.  I told Santa I wanted you for Christmas!

Pertinent Facts – age: 27, height: 5’6”

Kind of sweet, definitely original, and although I had no interest in a 27-year-old little person, I was flattered.  I messaged sweetly back and moved on, thinking, “This isn’t so bad.”  Y’all, let me tell you, Monday I peaked.

This is what happened on Tuesday:

Hello, how would you feel about a guy if he called you an amazon as a compliment?

Pertinent Facts – age: 27, location: Istanbul, Turkey

I’m looking for a good woman who would like to f— and hang out sometimes.  I’m sorry if that’s forward but I’m honest. You interested?

Pertinent Facts – who cares?

Doesn’t a good massage sound fun? I’m a great kisser.  Ever had a full body massage?  Like a sensual massage, not one for your health lol.  Sounds fun, doesn’t it?

Pertinent Facts – Religion: Christian, and serious about it

Did you have lucky charms for breakfast?  Because you look magically delicious!

Pertinent Facts – Married

You are 5’11”?  I bet your feet are amazing! What size shoe do you wear?

Pertinent Facts – Professional photographer, business info attached

I gotta tell you, Tuesday pretty well took the wind right out of my sails.  I examined my profile thoroughly to see if some pervert had hacked into my account and changed my lead in to “Please Message Me If You Want All Sex All The Time.  🙂 🙂 :)” To my surprise, my profile read exactly the same as my original posting.  Also, my pictures had not been tampered with. This was again a surprise as I fully expected to find that someone had photoshopped my head onto to Pamela Anderson’s naked body and loaded those pictures.  But no.

This was certainly a dilemma.  My girlfriend told me you’d have to weed through a lot of low-hanging fruit to find the good ones but I was getting slightly nauseated at all the fermented pieces I was attracting.  Hurk.

A couple more days, I decided.  I could hang on for a couple more days.  Maybe something fabulous would come along.

And then this happened on Wednesday:

I love your profile . . . a lot . . . kiss me . . . . hold me  . . .  touch me . . .  let me kiss you . . . .hold you  . . . . touch you . . . .make you very turned on . . . . excited and yes  . . . more, much more

Pertinent Facts – age: 62

And then this happened on Thursday:

Dear Happy –

We are sorry to see you go.  We’d like for you to take a brief survey and let us know how we can manage our site better so as not to lose valuable customers like you.  If you change your mind, you can always come back!


The Dating Website

In all fairness, no 25-year-old person from Nicaragua messaged me.  That’s something, I guess.

And in case you are wondering – all of this here?  True story. No lie.  No exaggeration.

Valentime’s Day, Or As I Affectionately Call It, Singles Awareness Day

Don’t you hate it when people call it that?  There is no M in Valentine.  Do you also hate it when people call it Singles Awareness Day? Tough, it’s my blog.

So I had a party for all my single friends on Singles Awareness Day.  We went to the bowling alley.  You should know that I am a terrible bowler.  Really awful.   I don’t know why I do this to myself.  You remember Thor?  He claims to be the worst bowler ever.  I say this with love – he’s pretty bad.  I have another friend who doesn’t see too well.  Her vision started to go when she was young yet she has adjusted beautifully.  She’s an okay bowler.  We had some new friends come to the party who tried their hardest to lay claim to the title “Crappiest Bowler Ever”, throwing gutter balls and missing pin after pin.  Y’all want to guess who got the lowest score in every game?  Want to know who was so spectacularly bad at the bowling that breaking a 40 was considered a fantastic accomplishment?  That is correct – yours truly.

One of the new friends whom I shall call Flash pulled me aside on the last two frames of the game to give me some coaching lessons.  “Jimmie,” Flash said, “how do you feel about me giving you some pointers so that maybe you can tie for last place instead of being dead last all by yourself . . . . again?” 

“Sure, why not.”  And so Flash coached me, enabling me to get a strike AND a spare and thus I tied for last place with a guy who fervently tried to convince us that he had never bowled before.  I am amazing.

Lest you think I am a total loser, I do have things at which I excel. 

For example, I am excellent at lecturing men on what constitutes a good Valentime’s Day gift.  Simply look at this post, which can be used for almost any gift-giving occasion in which women are to receive tokens of affection.  I used it with great success on a guy at work, whom I shall call Yao Ming (he is tall and I like standing next to him). 

“Yao Ming,” I said as I cornered him in the supply room, “what are you doing for your wife for Valentime’s Day?  You have planned ahead, correct?”

“Uh . . . .” said Yao Ming.  “I usually do pretty well on ValentiNe’s Day.  I’ll get balloons or flowers or something.”   

“Well, you better giddy on it, Yao Ming.  I do not want any of my friends in the dog house because of a lame Valentime’s Day gift.  I once knew a girl, my sister-in-law actually, whose boyfriend gave her a set of free weights and the advice that she could use lose a few pounds.  She was a rail already but either way, that boyfriend spent a lot of time recovering from that snafu and I do not want the same fate for you.  I like you too much for that, Yao Ming.” And then Yao Ming made some excuse about all the work he had to do and fled to the other side of the hall. 

I used this same argument successfully with the postman, the UPS man, and the Fed Ex guy.  I am very popular. 

Another example of things I do well:  I am excellent at playing with other people’s children in bowling alleys.   I know this because after coming back from a routine visit to the restroom I found a small child hanging out in our lane.  He was a tiny little black boy with the cutest curly Mohawk you’ve ever seen.  He was less than two and had the sweetest eyelashes.  His elbow was propped on one of our chairs and he watched our game intently, probably fascinated by the wildly spinning colorful balls that flew all over the lanes.  Ooh, I snatched him up immediately, cooing “Hi, muffin. What’s your name?”

He looked at me with giant eyes and then turned his attention back to the out-of-control game we were playing.  He leaned against me, completely content.  Oh, I could have held him all night.  After a few minutes, though, I could see the realization dawn on his family that they were missing a kid.  I held him up to show I had him, that he was safe and while they rushed over to rescue him from the wild woman who bowled as if she had a muscle deficiency, they were very kind in letting me get a hug from him before taking him safely to his own lane.  We bonded, though, because he waved good-bye to me as he left.  He was my Valentime. 

I also have other assorted skills like layering on glitter eyeliner in thick, even lines; backcombing my hair into a giant poof; matching my socks to every occasion and outfit (up to and including Christmas, Easter, Birthdays, Equestrian holidays, Dog holidays, and Valentime’s Day); asking Boss for gifts that he never sends; and making friends easily.  You know why I make friends easily?  It’s because I never throw people under the bus by telling stories on them when they are crappy bowlers (Thor) or when they get super excited about the nerdy Tupperware gift they received for Valentime’s Day (Yao Ming). 

This is a pretty impressive list, don’t you agree?  Y’all want to hang out with me this weekend?  We should go bowling.


My dentist and I are no longer friends.  I’m sad about that because I really like him and his staff.  They always do a lovely job of prodding around my teeth with a razor sharp pic and they offer the minty tooth polish which I prefer over the fruity tooth polish which everyone knows is gross.

I had an appointment at 3:50.  At 4:20 I was still sitting in the chair with the stupid napkin around my neck and had seen no one.  I took off the napkin and was headed out, already mad.  The dentist caught me as I was leaving and we had a discussion.  Wait.  We had a Discussion.  We exchanged words that weren’t unpleasant necessarily but we both were pretty upset.  In my anger, I decided it was best to stop talking and didn’t say what I wanted to say.  Instead I shut my mouth (or opened it, as it were), reclined in the chair and had my tooth fixed with tears streaming back into my hair.

The thing is, it doesn’t have to be that way. 

The argument is often made that everyone should expect the wait for a medical professional, that it’s just the way things work.  I, respectfully, disagree.  It is only that way because we allow it to be that way.  Is it too much to ask that I be given the courtesy and the opportunity to value my time for myself?  Communicate with me.  Let me decide if it is worth my time to wait or to reschedule if you are behind.  Emergencies happen, but your emergency should not have to cost me.  I have enough of my own that cost me plenty.  Simply tell me, when I ask, that you are behind.  I’ll happily make other arrangements and come back when the timing is more convenient for both of us. 

I won’t go back to my dentist, the man I’ve seen for nearly seven years.  I’m not mad and stomping off like a brat, but I think we both said things that cannot be unsaid.  So I’ll find another dentist, hopefully one who has an amazing staff and respects my time enough to simply communicate, to let me know, to let me be the grown up who can make a decision for myself about whether I sit in a napkin or leave to continue my day. And I’m pretty sure he will find another patient who is just as lovely as I am, who pays her bills on time and who doesn’t sport the (rarely) bitchy attitude that I carry. 

We both will win. 

Christmas Décor, Taken Seriously

Remember last year when I posted pictures of my neighbor’s house all lit up in its Christmas glitter?  Remember how that was February?  Those neighbors put lights up the night after Halloween and took them down right before March.   I was really hopeful that I would be able to share with you this year their décor but as of this morning they still have their Thanksgiving scarecrow hanging from their front porch and no Christmas lights at all.  Those are some fun neighbors.

I do, however, have other neighbors that have decorated for the season.  I took a few pictures. There is something here for everyone. 


Penguins.  Very nice. This is for those of you who like the cute stuff. 


For you sporty types, a golfing reindeer. 


Mickey and Minnie.  A Disney Christmas.


A Teddy Santa and his faithful giraffe.  I have no idea. Animal lovers, perhaps?


Oh, look, a dinosaur!  I just . . .  I don’t know . . . .


Babe!  I loved that movie!


Surely that isn’t a peacock?  Is it? 


Flamingos.  Okay, a tropical theme.  I can embrace that.


Santa on a polar bear!  Traditional!

So, a wide variety of Christmas cheer, posted here for you.  Want to know the best part?  Every single one of those is in the same yard, and I didn’t even get half of them in a photo.  I believe that is what you call overkill. 


 Merry Christmas, y’all.  

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

Two years ago for Christmas, Madre got me this awesome t-shirt.

Don't listen to my sister - I am the favorite.

Don’t listen to my sister – I am the favorite.

I opened it and as soon as I saw it, I held it up and crowed, “Told you I was the favorite!” 

But to my chagrin, Martie had also opened a gift from Madre which was also an awesome t-shirt.  She, too, was holding hers up crowing, “Told you she liked me best!”

Mom likes me best

Mom likes me best

Well played, Madre.  Well played.

Last weekend Madre and I walked/jogged another 5K together.  This one was the Jingle Bell Run and I’m sure it benefitted some charity or other but Madre and I got jingle bells to tie onto our shoes and so I lost all memory of anything other than my tinkling pretty feet.   Once again, Madre and her legs for days won the race for her age division.  I’m not even going to be surprised anymore.  It has become our status quo.  I, of course, did not place at all.



I did get something pretty cool, though.  I forgot my t-shirt to wear to this race (see post from yesterday) and so had to borrow one from Martie.  This is the one I snatched.


Since I have both shirts in my possession now, I’m pretty sure I WIN! Heh. 


A word of advice from Jimmie:

If you want to look like a badass with a tatted up neck, rock star jeans, a wallet with a chain and a leather bracelet studded with silver spikes, perhaps you should not visit the grocery store with gauze wrapped all around your neck after getting tattoo work done and wince around the aisles like a whipped puppy dog, clutching your throat every time you move or speak. Doing this will instantly negate all your badassyness and instead make everyone (Jimmie) think you look like a wimp and a moron. 

The end.

Coulda Been A Contender

Let’s get ready to RRRUUUMMMBBBBLLLEEEE!  Am I allowed to say that? Is it trademarked?  Don’t any of the 43 of you who read me tell on me if so. 

I got a lot of nominees for my soon-to-be-football team.  I’ve also done a lot of research on my own.  Did you know, by the way, that Googling the term “Hot Shirtless Football Players” will take you to some sexual sights designed for gay men?  Me neither.  Then I learned that Googling plain old “Hot Football Players” would take you to a bunch of soccer websites, and I got all distracted for a while looking at those guys and nearly forgot my mission.  Wow, soccer players are nice looking. 

Anyway, first thing I did on my own was have a look at the NFL site just to get a feel for the teams available to me, and I must say, some of the logos are plumb awful.  Right away I discounted anyone with a stupid logo which meant that the NY Jets & Giants, the Cleveland Browns, and the Buffalo Bills were knocked out.  Then I eliminated poor color choices which removed the Saints, the Buccaneers (any team that willfully chooses to clothe their athletes in pants that are African American flesh colored so that major chunks of the team look naked as they run down the field deserves to be cut), the Packers and again, the Cleveland Browns (how are they even a team?).  THEN I did the Googling which nearly got me arrested/fired and found some cuties which almost put the NY Jets & Giants and the Greenbay Packers back on the list; however, I defined standards and I will adhere to them so those three teams remain disqualified. 

From there, I dutifully studied all the nominated teams which included the following:  Pittsburgh Steelers, St. Louis Rams, Carolina Panthers, Dallas Cowboys, Tennessee Titans, Cincinnati Bengals, Miami Dolphins and the Baltimore Ravens.    I’m giving them all a fair look before making a final decision.  Here’s where I stand with my quest thus far: 

STEELERS:  I have a new work friend, the one who gave me the Steelers jersey to wear, and she invited me to partake of a Steelers game with her and her family.  I’m naming her Katniss, primarily because she seems kind of scrappy, like she could do some damage to your guts if you ticked her off, but also because she’s pretty.  Katniss took me over to her brother’s house for the Steelers/Raiders game, and we settled into the Steelers man cave for the afternoon.  I peed next to Troy Polamalu a few times (life size sticker on the bathroom wall),had snacks out of a Steelers helmet and off of Steelers plates, wiped my mouth with a Steelers napkin (which I was afraid would get me hurt as I felt that they might view that as a desecration of Steeler property), and finally, I smacked hands with a giant inflatable football player wearing Steelers gear every time a touchdown was scored. 

I also watched a video of this nature and was pretty enamoured of it:

Steelers Renegade

The logo is fancy, the colors look good on me, and Polamalu has pretty hair.  Also, that coach of theirs, Mike Tomlin, is a lovely man.  Still contenders. 

TITANS:  I had a lengthy discussion with a man I’ve named Thor (because I like the name Thor) about why the Titans would be a good choice for me.  His best argument is that being a Titans fan teaches us patience and perseverance.  This man is a high school teacher so why he needs more things to teach him patience and perseverance is beyond me, yet he was quite passionate about his fandom. 

I will have more chances to see a Titans game live than any of the other teams, plus I like the logo and the colors.  Blue is my favorite color, you know.  Still contenders. 

COWBOYS:  This team was nominated by two men, both of whom I trust absolutely, and that is saying a lot.  Coach has been a longtime fan of the Cowboys and follows them faithfully.  But in traditional Coach fashion, he gives the soft sell so he hasn’t done much to push me.  Quan also nominated this team, noting the appeal of the monstrosity they call a stadium. 

I really dig that Texas star.  The colors are lovely and I have silver eyeliner to match.  Pretty boys play for this team.  Still contenders. 

PANTHERS:  Lynnette and Freddie volunteered this team, simply because the QB is Cam Newton.  I’ve stared at his picture a lot.  It’s quite distracting as it’s my desktop photo now.  He sure is pretty.

Photo credit: GQ, of course

The team colors are gorgeous!  Cam Newton is gorgeous! His teeth are gorgeous!  (You know how I feel about teeth.)  Still contenders. 

RAVENS:  My experience with the Baltimore Ravens consisted of watching the movie “Blindside”, which everyone knows is about Michael Orr, a Ravens player.  Great movie, but I have a policy on all movies I watch: no scary movies, no movies that make me cry and no movies that make me want things I cannot have.  Blindside, unfortunately, violated my movie policy, giving me chapped cheeks because I cried so much. 

The colors are nice, the logo is nice, but the crying did me in.  Sorry, Ravens.  No longer contenders. 

RAMS:  I need to do more research here.  I am quite moved by the horns on the helmets.  Still contenders. 

BENGALS:  This team was nominated by another man that I trust, except he moved away to Atlanta so now I’m mad at him.  He makes the best enchiladas ever.  I like the colors, I like the logo, some hotties play for the team, but I’m going to have to pass.  No longer contenders. 

DOLPHINS:  This team was nominated by an old friend because she thought I would look pretty in the colors.  She gets me!  She understands what I’m going for here!  I’m going to have to do more research on the Dolphins.  Still contenders. 

A final thought or two.  While watching the Steelers/Raiders game, I saw the Raider who got knocked out in the end zone.  You guys, I loved watching this game. I loved the excitement of the fans (Katniss’s family).  I loved their dedication.  Football in general appeals to me. But when that guy got hurt and just laid there, my stomach was all up in my throat and I felt sick.  I prayed and prayed and prayed for him and was a hot mess inside until he gave the thumbs up.  Do I have the fortitude to be a football fan?  Still contending on that one . . . . 

Also, I think someone needs to make me some brackets for all this mess here.  I’m getting confused by my own self.  Coach?


My Loyalty Is For Hire

A couple of weeks ago we celebrated College Colors Day at work with a tailgate party, corn hole, game day music and bourbon.  And also, you know, college colors.  I may share more of that story with you later (you did note the bourbon, didn’t you?), but it depends on space and how wordy I feel at the end of the story. 

Anyway, College Colors Day got everyone at work in the mood for football which apparently doesn’t take much. These people are serious about their football, and about one hour after we celebrated our favorite college teams over lunch (UK, all the way, GO CATS!), everyone started clamoring about their favorite NFL teams.  Human Resources, the department I work in, began receiving email after email asking for permission to wear NFL gear on Fridays from now until the end of the season.  My boss, after two whole minutes of deliberation, sent out an email that read:  During football season, you are allowed to wear clothing in honor of your favorite college or NFL team on Fridays.  No Steelers, Gators or Ravens attire will be permitted.

What I know about football is this:  you want to score touchdowns, you don’t want to give the ball away, and football players can be hot.  I’m a fan of Kentucky stuff in general because my heart belongs there but last time I checked they didn’t have a professional football team.  I have never had a strong opinion about an NFL team, although I do remember liking the Cowboys when I was younger because my brothers felt quite emotional about the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders (and in my mind, those brothers were the coolest people on the planet), and my Daddy-O taught Emmitt Smith in high school for one whole day in a photography class.  Otherwise, I’ve never given it much thought.

Now I want to fit in with my co-workers and I most especially want to the chance to wear jeans and sweatshirts every Friday for the next few months as I celebrate my team’s victories.  I just don’t know who to pick.  A co-worker, fast becoming one of my favorites, asked me if I would wear a jersey in honor of her favorite team if she brought it for me.  Of course I would!  You know what she brought me?  A Steelers jersey.  You remember who hates the Steelers?  My new boss.  Oh noes!  I sat at my desk, typing away like mad, when my boss, a raging Titans fan, saw me and said this: 

(indignantly) “Jimmie, what are you wearing?”

Jimmie:  (sheep facedly) “A Steelers jersey.”

New Boss:  (jokingly, I hope) “I’m going to have to write you up for insubordination.”

Jimmie:  (slightly defiantly) “Well, I have no loyalties.  This was the jersey I had, and this was the jersey I wore.  If you bring me a Titans jersey, I’ll wear that next time.”

And thus my job was saved.  

That following Sunday, I was invited to the Titans game.  I happily went.  I purchased my own Titans gear, thinking “You know, I live in Nashville.  We have our own team. These fans sure know how to party.  There is a lot of loyalty here.  Maybe I am a Titans fan.”  But then I watched the Patriots wipe the floor with us, and I watched us let them wipe the floor with us without a fight, plus I got sunburned at the game and we all know how much I love the sunburn look on me, therefore I have decided the Titans do not get my loyalty. 

What I’m saying it this:  I need a team, people.  I need to choose a team, all for me, so that I can have a football purpose.  I’ve kicked around some ideas for what is important to me.  If I want to invest in clothing, I could consider cost per wear and go with the Steelers as they have had more Super Bowl wins than anyone else.  But Ben Roesthenesligersnot is kind of a douchecanoe, so the Steelers may not work for me.  If I want to choose local flavor, I’d be all for the Titans but again, how can I support a team who merely tosses the ball to the opposing team and says, “Here.  You look like you want to win.  You can have the ball.”  Madre is especially partial to Peyton Manning so the Broncos are under consideration.  I do like Peyton Manning.  He’s funny, he’s smart, he’s cute.  But that is Madre’s team and I feel like I need my own.

I had a phone conversation with Jonquil about this, and also Ty, and we all agreed that I need to have some criteria for choosing a team.  This is what I’ve decided to look for:  teams with the prettiest colors (any team using the color brown is automatically disqualified) and teams with a hottie player.  I know that all you men and die-hard football fans (Woney and Kindle, I’m looking at you) will embrace my journey whole-heartedly and really help me determine my best choice.  Please send all nominees to my comments section.  Pictures are very welcome. 

P. S. I think I feel like typing more, so I’ll tell you the bourbon story.  First let me tell you about the CEO I last worked for, the man who was ultimately responsible for letting me go.  (This may not be a warm, fuzzy description.)  Physically, he is an imposing man.  He looks oddly like a human version of Shrek.  I like Shrek, kind of crabby, soft hearted, a bit like an ogre.  CEO Shrek fancies himself an Everyman, always wanting to relate to the little guy while still maintaining his status as “Boss”.  Often his conversations and speeches are peppered with warm anecdotes and “I remember when” stories.  He is partial to the sweater vest.  A nice enough man, certainly, but not one you ever get to know, and not one who can separate himself from the awkwardness of being the stereotypical engineer nor having the same veneer that sticks to all politicians.  He’s like a warm yet firm handshake that leaves you feeling like you just got played.  I don’t hate the man.  I’m not even angry at the man.  I can honestly say that if he were on fire on the side of a deserted highway and I drove by with an exceptionally full bladder, I would urinate on him to save his life and it would give me great pleasure to do so. 

Now let’s talk about my current CEO.  I hear rumors that he genuinely cares about his employees and I believe it.  He’s helped me open mail before, when I’ve been overwhelmed, and twice he’s moved boxes for me.  For our potluck on College Colors Day, he brought the following:   baked beans, O’Doul’s, beer pong, and pickles.  He also brought a bottle of bourbon.  His family makes it so it’s decent stuff.  He sold it for a dollar a shot (after lunch only, one shot limit) and he donated all the proceeds to charity.  He’s never once worn a sweater vest. 

Oh, how different is my life now . . . .

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar

Guess what works now?  My toilet.  Guess who fixed it?  Me!*  You may think me pathetic for being as ecstatic as I am over a working toilet but its been five months.  Levels this high of ecstasy far surpass any harsh names  you throw my way.  Besides, sticks and stones and all that.  I am too happy, happy over a porcelain seat with water that runs through it.  Murphy, too, is quite charmed.  His drinking fountain has been restored. Five long months with no properly working toilet and/or watering hole will do that to a person and/or her recalcitrant cat.  I’ve learned more about toilet maintenance than I ever cared to know and now feel a little greasy under my fingernails.

Guess what else works now?  My garage door openers. Both of them.  Guess who fixed them? Me!* I learned, all by myself*, how to reset those suckers.  It only took two years and some swear words and a new battery and the realization that the new battery was in upside down.  Now they work great and I can get rid of the one I’ve been using all this time that is held together by a rubber band once used to hold broccoli in a bunch. 

Guess what else I don’t have to worry about for a year or so?  My hot water heater.  Guess who figured that out?  Me!* I learned how to drain the water out of it and look for sediment, all by myself.* Turns out my house won’t blow up in a fiery explosion due to lack of working water heater, at least for a while.  This is good news. 

This is one of the happiest nights of my life.  I squealed like a little girl and clapped each time something was fixed.  Sigh.  I can go to bed content, secure in the knowledge that I am a grown-up who can fix things.*

*with the help of a handyman that I hired for the evening.  BUT!  I hovered over him a lot, which is certainly not at all annoying.  I watched everything he did.  I downloaded the manual for the garage door openers and told him which buttons to push and for exactly how long he was to push them.  I chose the code for the wall mount and I chose which button he was to mash on the opener.  I read the instructions on how to drain the heater and I followed him and his bucket of water on every trip he made to dump it.  Finally, I mooshed on the potty gasket which was fine but in the wrong place in the toilet tank.  I DID A LOT! 

In other news, it turns out that Seamus likes tool boxes.  He was all loved up on the handyman’s tool box, kind of curved around it and snuggling.  I wanted to take his picture for you but he caught me and ran off in embarrassment. 

So, anyone want to hire me for some general home maintenance?  I’d be happy to come over** and tinker around with your broken appliances.  Just let me know.

**with my handyman, naturally

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