Tag Archives: work

Bag Lady Gets a Job



I got a job.  Surprising, I know, what with the catastrophe that was my first interview  (Bag Lady Goes a Job Hunting).

Nevertheless, I started a new job this week.  My new position has a  wide variety of duties and responsibilities.

Well, just take today, for example.

Today I was required to…

…get my hair done with a fork.

…submit to arrest by a policeman and a king for spilling glitter.

…assist in the construction of a school for baby animals made entirely out of magnets (which was ultimately shunned by the moody giraffe baby).

…go to the doctor to find out I had two broken legs (both curable) and needed numerous shots (some painful) and a band aide.

…dress in zebra print and blue satin in preparation to get married.

…laugh hysterically at lunch with my friends at the clearly undeniably funny phrase “peanut butter and jelly.”

…have my nails done with plastic fruit.

I am thinking droopy stockings and a little bit (or say, maybe a lot) of cat hair stuck to my clothes will go virtually unnoticed in my current work situation.

Because, yeah, my job is just cool like that.

Why I Can Never Be a Big-Boobed Hoochie Mama


hoochie mama

I have recently been in the unenviable position of seeking employment. Honestly, in this economy it’s a bit of a futile trek uphill.  It doesn’t help that in my job life I have jumped all over the map. However, at this phase in my life I can pretty much rule out a few occupations:

A Vampire – I mean, Bella makes it look pretty cool but seriously, how great could it be having to drink animal blood for an eternity?

A Doctor – apparently you need some kind of special license for that job or something.

And after my experience last week, A Big-Boobed Hoochie Mama is now permanently off the list (and I am just sick over the lost tips wages).

How could such an admirable career goal be dashed with one experience?  Well, let me explain.

Last week, I had an appointment with the dermatologist to have a little, itty bitty, teeny tiny cyst removed – a cyst that was trying hard to mind its own business but made the doctor nervous nonetheless.  Apparently, the whole idea of someone coming near me with a knife freaks me out (Thank you Nightmare on Elm Street) because the closer to the appointment it got the more nervous I became – to the point where I could not sleep the night before and was a bundle of jittery goop by the time I arrived at the office on “the day.”  However, the Doctor assured me once the numbing agents were in place, I wouldn’t feel a thing and it would be no big deal. Low and behold, he was right – that numbing stuff is the bomb!  So I settled down and prepared for an easy experience feeling proud of my Spartan Woman level of bravery.

But then I began to hear something– snip, snip, snip, snip.

Doc:  “I know you can hear the ‘snipping’ but don’t let your imagination run away with you.”

Um, too late.

It was pretty much a quick toboggan ride downhill from there.

Me: “Doc, you should know, I feel kinda sick at the moment.”

That statement was instantly followed by cold sweats, light headedness, the urge to hurl, and the involuntary desire to pass out – which I would have done had I not already been lying down with my feet now so very attractively hiked up in the air and the AC cranked down to Arctic proportions. Right then and there I knew I had pretty much blown my whole “I am woman hear me roar” status so I tried to concentrate on preserving what dignity I had left. And then finally, after an eternity, the ordeal was over.  Ok, it only took, like, 10 minutes, but it felt as if I had watched Dr. Zhivago…twice.

Later, as I lay on the recovery table of shame, the Doctor came in the room to check on me.

Doc:  “How do you feel?”

Me:  “Fine” (I lied, no sense in enhancing  my newly acquired wimp status).

Doc:  “Hey, look at the bright side…”

What, there is a bright side?  I’m not as big a wimp as it seems?  I won’t be trying to live down my behavior for the rest of our doctor/patient relationship?  I really am the Spartan Woman I momentarily believed myself to be??

Doc:  “…At least you didn’t puke on my shoes.”

Yeah, ok, I guess I will take what I can get.

But, clearly, the boob job required for me to ever acquire the rack needed for Big-Boobed Hoochie Mama employment is unequivocally off the table.

There goes that “special skill.”

Today I go back to the Doctor get my stitches out.  I hope Doc chooses his shoes accordingly.

Today’s Best Moment: Wednesday, 6/20


I am having trouble keeping up with work and writing this summer. Could it be that I am doing too much of this…? One can only ponder.

Word-Up: Poop


I love words.  I love to laugh. You can only imagine my glee when I discovered the funniest word in the English language is  Poop.  I know this to be true.  I know this because I have proved it: methodically, scientifically and sometimes ruthlessly.

I submit for your consideration the following data.

Hypothesis: Whether by delivery or receipt, when in audible range of the word Poop, laughter will ensue.

Observations: I was fortunate to be able to conduct environment controlled experiments in three locations: Home, Work, Mall.

  • Home: It was in the home environment where the Poop  phenomenon first presented itself.  Once I had an inkling of the possibilities, I had to probe further. I began to insert the word Poop into various conversational situations.  For example:

In answer to what’s for dinner – Poop,

in reply to  complaints about school/friends/brother – Poop,

in response to husband asking how much I paid for a pair of jeans – Poop,

 at random, unsuspecting moments when subjects were otherwise engaged – Poop.

The results were indisputable and consistent –giggles, laughter, guffaws. However, I fear future repercussions as a result of extended, somewhat addicting research on the subjects are imminent.

  • Work:  During the experiment phase, I was asked to Substitute in the third grade at a local school. On this given day, after clearly losing my audience during an apparently not so scintillating reading lesson, I suggested I knew the funniest word in the world and could prove it. Thus began our lesson in scientific exploration.  I presented the test subjects with the opportunity to see how many times the experimenter (me) could say the word Poop and still evoke laughter from subjects (them). We proceeded. Unfortunately laughter was so raucous and contagious, 9 year old lab assistant failed to keep accurate count but offered “It was a lot” as evidence. Experiment was concluded when no end could be reached – oh, and principal came by for a visit.
  • Mall: This experiment was born out of necessity to prove to home-test-subject (i.e. my son) the infallibility of the Poop phenomena. Thus, while walking past random teen in local mall, I casually vocalized the word Poop in passing.  Although accompanied by a strange “what’s wrong with you lady” look, the goal of laughter was nonetheless achieved.

Conclusion: Poop is, without a doubt, the funniest word in the English language.

Final Note: If you attempt these experiments on your own, please keep in mind, your overall appearance of normalcy and sanity may be permanently affected.  But, you can laugh all the way down that slippery slope.

Lastly: For enhanced laughter a few ‘o’s can be added for optimal effect as in: PoooooooP

Poop out.