I apologize in advance for the url. Unfortunately everything I typed was rejected by the giant blogging committee in the sky. No doubt I'll be kicked out of blog land now. Sniff.
It was nice while it lasted!
Anyway, back to important topics, like sandals. I enjoy wearing sandals, mostly because it's footwear that requires absolutely no work on my part. You put them on, they stay. No laces, no socks, no nothing. Jesus wore them, and that's good enough for me, people!
You know, I would not be a bit surprised (yes, more self-serving anecdotal stuff! or just plain self-serving!) if I was diagnosed as bi-polar. I've been on the mental gravy train from hell for two years, and I see this as the final frontier. I either am beamed up to Scotty, or else I stay on the earth plane, dutifully churning out my book, which is going fairly well, actually. In the meanwhile, I blog. Blog away, faithful little farmer.
Enough about all that crap. I am lucky to have amazingly wonderful friends. They have saved me many a time. I wish you all the same and more.
Oh yes, where were we? Sandals. Sandals are great. They make me taller, although I'm tall enough, and are comfortable and surprisingly versatile, although don't show up for your uptight corporate interview with anal-retentive types in 'em, unless you don't want the job. Corporate America these days is scarier than any re-run of The Anna Nicole Smith Show, and that's a promise, people.
In my youth (heh! as if), I worked as a temp for a short while for a chemical company that was so scary I started to feel trapped in a bizarre sitcom, maybe one starring Anna Nicole Smith, I dunno. I do not do well in offices to begin with -- I need work with more freedom and less politics, although God knows you can't escape that -- and this place was like a jail cell populated by people wearing natty suits. All the execs were men with like one exception, and all the women were southern secretaries who actually WANTED to be secretaries. Hey, I'm not knocking secretaries, but I am knocking the good ol'boy system! God, I hated that place. I observed enough to know that the company had NO SOUL. It had been SOLD TO SATAN. And I was just a teeny, tiny little pork chop with a boss who disliked me 'cause I was taller than him. In the meantime, the southern debutants looked at me like I was the Yankee From Hell anytime I opened my mouth, and because I was young and rebellious I would come into work wearing my father's old military jacket. I shouldn't have waited until I was 30 to get baked -- that place would have been the ideal place to get started.
Not that I'm advocating drugs, so stop reading this, Nancy Reagan!
Anywho. What can you do.
There are some who say, until you want to smack them, that everything is a learning experience. True. It's also true that some people are so annoying you want to smack them. What I have taken from ALL of my bad work stories -- and I have some, just like you -- is that it's really best to be born a Hilton. In that sense, no work is required of you, except to look good, be blonde, and make the occasional sex tape.
That's all.
