Going Crazy

Posted on March 20, 2016 by Sheila Moss

crazy_people.htm
There’s a crazy woman loose who is an accident waiting to happen and a menace to society. Sadly, I must report that I am that crazy woman. It’s true. I’ve departed my senses and am waiting for the men with the big butterfly net to knock on my door at any moment.

It really isn’t my fault, you see.

It all started the other day when I needed to go to the drugstore to pick up a prescription. I didn’t really want to go to the drug store, but you know how it is when you run out of your medicine and need it. Nothing to be done but go get it, regardless of whether I wanted to or not.

I hopped in the car, backed out of the garage and heard a sickening thud. I had run smack into my daughter’s new car that was parked in the driveway. I forgot she had a car. Fortunately, it only chipped the paint off the bumper in a couple of places and didn’t hurt my car at all. That hardly counts at all, I thought, trying not to be upset.

Then I noticed my car was out of gas, bumping empty with the idiot light flashing. That figures, being the sort of day it was. I had to stop at the corner station to fill up. The automatic shut off on the gas nozzle failed to work and the gasoline spilled over, getting all over my car and the ground.

I used the windshield washer bucket to wash the gas off my paint as best I could and went on about my business. I considered going to the car wash, but it was cold and I reasoned that the water could freeze on my car or the doors might even freeze shut.

While I was doing all this thinking, I missed the entrance ramp to the interstate, which is the closest way to the drugstore. By then, I realized things were not going extremely well, but I could go another way instead. The trouble with the other way is there is a bad left turn. No problem; I made it just fine. One wreck in a day is enough. I don’t know why that truck driver was swearing at me.

After leaving the drugstore safely, I decided to run by the bank and use the ATM since I had put all my extra cash in the gas tank, or should I say on the ground? Regardless, I missed my turn for the second time of the evening and again had to take an alternate route. Believe it or not, the ATM machine was out of money when I got there. Who ever heard of a bank running out of money.

I left the door of my attached garage open because of the fumes from the car where gas had spilled. No point in taking chances the way this day was going. Naturally, I forgot that the garage door was open and it stayed open all night long. Not only that, but the inside door to the kitchen blew open from the draft. By the next morning, the house was freezing inside. Why not with the door wide open all night in the middle of winter?

I think I’ve regained control of my faculties now, at least I hope so. I’m just chalking the whole thing up to a bad hair day, a senior moment, or alien mind control.

So, that’s my story.

I’m ready now. You can bring in the white jacket and take me away to my nice warm padded cell. Maybe I won’t need shock treatments. I only hope you have plenty of gas and will try to avoid hitting the car in the driveway.

-0-

Ever feel like you are losing it and going crazy would be a short trip?

©2003

Posted in Automotive, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Twelve Steps for Becoming Southern

Posted on March 19, 2016 by Sheila Moss

man&dog

According to studies by Vanderbilt University and the University of North Carolina, only 70% of the people living in the South consider themselves Southerners. Sociologists attribute this to increased immigration and urbanization of the South.

What do the newcomers think they are if not Southerners? If their residence is planted on our sacred red soil, they are now Southerners whether they want to admit it or not. Since the end of “The War Between the States,” natives of the South have learned to forgive and forget and to tolerate these newcomers pretty well.

Perhaps they have a negative image about being Southern. If so, there’s only one thing for these transplants to do. They must immediately join a 12 Step Program and attempt to turn their lives around.

1. Admit that you have no control over being Southern if you are abiding south of the Mason-Dixon line.

2. Believe that the numerous advantages of living in the South and a glass of sweet tea can restore you to sanity.

3. Make a decision to turn your will and life over to country music, pickup trucks, and football.

4. Make a searching and fearless inventory of the reasons you moved from the North in the first place.

5. Admit to God, yourself, and a native Southerner the exact disadvantages of having to scrape ice and shovel snow.

6. Be entirely ready to explain the difference between a Moon Pie and a Cow Pie.

7. Humbly ask for your shortcomings and your Yankee accent to be removed.

8. Make a list of all the rednecks you have ever offended and be willing to make amends to them.

9. Make direct amends to them whenever possible unless there is a shotgun or mean dog nearby and to do so could injure you or others.

10. Continue to take personal inventory and admit that your ideas about pinto beans and cornbread were wrong.

11. Seek to improve your interactions with Southerners as you understand them, praying for common sense and the power to use a little bit of it.

12. Having had an intellectual awakening as the result of these Steps, try to carry the truth about the South to others and to practice Southern hospitality in all your affairs.

Remember that a transplanted Yankee is always in danger of returning to self-destructive prejudice against the South. Continue to study these 12 Steps and say the Serenity Prayer for Good Ol’ Boys at every opportunity.

©2003

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Growing up in the South, living in the North, and then moving back to the South gives me a perspective from both sides. I can’t resist writing Southern humor from time to time. I am sometimes criticized for perpetuating stereotypes with articles such as this one. However, stereotypes always have an element of truth in them and recognizing this is what makes them funny. So, what do you think?

Posted in Humor, Southern Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Alpha Betta

Posted on March 18, 2016 by Sheila Moss

betta2When my grandson was a small tike, we acquired a new pet at my house. After much discussion, my daughter had managed to talk my grandson out of a hamster – as long as he could have a fish instead.

Now when a fish was mentioned, I though of a goldfish. It seems, however, that goldfish have gone out of vogue. The pet fish of choice these days is called a “Betta” fish. I’d never heard of such a thing, which shows how well I keep up with trends, I guess. I thought beta was the second letter in the Greek alphabet.

In fish language, it has nothing to do with the alphabet. Betta is the “genus” or part of the scientific name of this particular biological species. Yes, it’s been quite disappointing to me as well. They are not even Greek fish; they are Siamese fighting fish. You can only put one Betta fish in a fishbowl, or they will fight with each other, sort of the Pit Bulls of the fish world, I suppose.

“They are only five dollars,” my daughter said. “And they are really cute!” How a fish can be cute I’m not quite sure, but anyhow I agreed that we could have a pet fish.

My daughter volunteered to purchase the fish, not knowing that the local Walmart didn’t have any. Purchasing the fish turned out to mean going to the pet store. After dragging my grandson past the hamsters and prying him loose from the gerbil cage, she finally made it to the back of the store where the fish aquariums were.

These aquatic critters come in a rainbow of colors like red, green, purple, yellow, and blue. They are tropical fish but are adaptable and can survive in a regular fishbowl. They can even breathe air as well as oxygen from the water.

As my grandson pressed his nose against the glass, one fish swam up to the glass as if to kiss him. “It likes me!” he squealed.

Soon he came running home waving a plastic baggy full of water with a small red fish inside. “Look, Grandma, I have a fish! Its name is America.” I didn’t ask about the name, since I knew already knew it had nothing to do with the alphabet.

We put the fish in the fishbowl, but it didn’t seem happy. Why? Well, I don’t know why. It wouldn’t swim around and refused to eat. Maybe it is just adjusting to new surroundings, we hoped. Now that we had a living creature to care for, we felt responsible for it’s happiness.

Time to look up the preferred lifestyle of a Betta fish, I thought, going to my computer. To start with, we had filled its bowl with tap water. Wrong! Tap water has chlorine. Fish hate chlorine. “Buy bottled drinking water for your fish,” advised the article. The fish gets Evian?

Then we found out the fish needed a larger bowl, “at least one gallon of water per fish,” advised the article. So, it was back to the pet store for a jug of water and a larger fishbowl, one with a lid, “So that Little Cat does not decide to have sushi,” explained my grandson.

While there, he also discovered another type of fish food – dried worms. Yuck! The fish loved the new food, however, and slurped it down, being famished after his hunger strike. American was much more content in the large bowl with the drinking water and a full stomach. He swam around gracefully, looking quite attractive with his large delicate fins.

The next day my daughter called me at work. “Something is wrong with America.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, visualizing him floating on top of the water or jumping out of the fishbowl.

“He’s blowing bubbles,” she said.

Good grief! He’s a fish. That’s what fish do!

Unlike other fish who are not even aware that you are alive, Betta’s blow bubbles, swim up to the side of the bowl to greet you, swim gracefully showing off their colorful fins, and will even eat food from your fingers if you hold it close enough to the water.

Who would ever think that a fish could be so cute?

-0-

Do you like tropical fish aquariums? Have you ever had a pet fish?

©2003

Posted in Creatures, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Irish for a Day

Posted on March 17, 2016 by Sheila Moss

shamrock

I had a feeling something was going on this morning when I looked in the mirror and my eyes were trying to smile. Then I remembered, it is St. Patrick’s Day. As I slip into my green outfit, I think, “Everyone at the office will be wearing green today. I don’t want to be different.”

Everyone wants to be Irish. They go to extraordinary lengths to find Irish relatives and trace their geology back to Ireland. I turn on the radio and hear strains of “Danny Boy” on an Irish flute as it plays for the first of the many times I will hear it today. I have my morning coffee and flavor the black brew with a white stream of Irish cream, just because it seems like the right thing to do.

I wonder whether to go to the grocery and buy some of the bloody, red, corned beef with spices and one of the green cabbages from the huge display mound in the grocery store, or whether just to opt for a Rueben sandwich from the deli. Deli will do just fine, I decide. While I’m there, I can pick up a loaf of green bread or a Key Lime Pie from the bakery. Of course, Key Lime Pie has nothing to do with Ireland, other than the mere coincidence of being green.

Today is a day when every one appreciates my auburn hair and is even just a bit envious. They will ask me a dozen times if I’m Irish and, of course, I will probably lie and say that I am, when in fact I don’t have the slightest idea whether I am or not. I really don’t know what my lineage is or why my mother gave me an Irish name.

The Scotch-Irish settled in the area where my ancestors came from, as attested by the names of towns such as Erin. But hard as I try, the only thing I can find for sure that is Irish in my house is potatoes, and even their lineage is a bit suspect.

Some people really become enthusiastic over St. Patrick’s Day, mostly because it is an opportunity to drink green beer and party. By the time the evening is over they will be seeing leprechauns and the slurred speech may not be because of an Irish brogue.

I’m surprised that St. Patrick’s day has not yet been declared a national holiday since a large percentage of the population claimed Irish heritage on the last census, at least according to what I’ve heard.

The novae Irish carry cards with a picture of St. Patrick on one side and an Irish blessing on the other. They are all named Patty O’ Something, and are offended if someone suggests that they are not Irish. They have bumper stickers that say, “Kiss me – I’m Irish,” and drink Irish whiskey to show how patriotic to Ireland they are.

Personally, I’m not sure what a limerick is exactly, or how to dance an Irish jig, or what the difference is between a shamrock and a clover, if any. I’m not sure either why claiming heritage from a country where people kill each other over religious and political differences and where hate is carried on through generations of violence is a desirable thing.

But eons of Irish poets and great literary figures have woven a romantic and legendary tradition of the Celtic people that has grown to enormous proportion.

And so, we celebrate the Irish and their contributions to our country, which was largely built through the sweat of the Irish immigrants. We embrace the shamrock trilogy and the symbolic green of the Emerald Isle. We cannot help but admire the hardy people who have faced great diversity and hardship good-naturedly.

On this most Irish of all days, we wear our green and try to be Irish, when, in fact, the most Irish thing about us is probably the fact that we have “kissed the ol’ blarney stone” and deceive ourselves that we are Irish-for-a-day.

©2000

Posted in Holidays, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Cat Fight

Posted on March 17, 2016 by Sheila Moss

catfightSome people have to go to the wilds of the woods, explore nature trails, or go on camping trips to encounter wild animals. Around my place, we need go no further than the back door.

Two neighborhood cats were fighting in the backyard, most likely in an undeclared territorial dispute of some sort. Instead of taking the sensible approach of either just letting them fight, or swatting them with a broom, my daughter tried to separate them manually. I can only wonder if she has been brainwashed by watching too many Garfield cartoons on television.

Needless to say, these cats didn’t welcome her involvement in their business, and a big yellow tabby bit her hand as a reward for her unwanted intrusion. It didn’t seem all that bad at the time, and she only screamed loud enough to be heard in two or three of the surrounding counties.

I supposed if I had known, I might have suggested something less fierce than a domestic housecat, like a brown bear or a mountain lion, perhaps.

“Why did you get involved in a catfight?”

“Little Cat doesn’t have any claws and I thought the other cat would kill her!”

Nobel thought, but foolish action. As it turned out, it was not even our cat but a similar cat from the neighborhood. I never thought I would be the mother of a daughter who would disturb the balance of nature by interfering in the process of natural selection and survival of the fittest.

She looked up the neighbor who owned the cat to be sure it had been vaccinated. Of course the owner felt badly, but probably wondered, like every one else, why she became involved in a catfight. “That cat is always giving me trouble,” he declared, making us wonder why he had never noticed that the animal is practically a small jaguar.

By the next day the hand was swollen and an angry red, obviously infected. After two trips to the doctor for antibiotic shots and enough oral medication to shrink my pocketbook into a small change purse, her hand looked worse than ever.

“I’m putting you in the hospital,” the doctor told her, in spite of her gripping the treatment table and begging not to go – until he pointed to the streaks starting to go up her arm.

Who would have suspected that a domestic cat is one of the worse possible animals to be bitten by? Their mouth contains an enzyme of some sort that frequently creates an infection, especially on deep puncture wounds. The saliva carries infectious bacteria with ominous names like pasteurella and staph. And I always thought cats were all sweet, purring little fur balls.

When I tell people that my daughter is in a hospital because she was involved in a catfight, they invariably think that she was fighting with another woman. No one seems to think of real cats, the kind with fur and whiskers, as being capable of severe injury.

Being the tenderhearted sort, my daughter forgave the cat, which was, after all, only defending itself, she asserted. After three days in the hospital receiving antibiotics intravenously and suffering a considerable amount of pain, she felt a bit less generous toward her feline friend. However, I believe she was delirious when she was talking about making cat dumplings.

Anyhow, the swelling finally subsided, and the doctor allowed her to come home. Our cat has no idea that my daughter was gravely injured trying to defend her.

And so, life goes on at our house, just one thing after another.

What happened to the cat? Oh, it’s still around. When I came home from work the other day, I could scarcely believe my eyes as the furry culprit was sitting on my back doorstep as if he owned the place. I’m not certain if he came over to apologize or to look for a second round.

Tempted by maternal instincts to defend my young, I’m wondering why he can’t sense my barely controllable urge to turn him into a feline fur piece.

“Scat, cat!”

@2003

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Going to the Mountains

Posted on March 15, 2016 by Sheila Moss

mountainsWhen I was a child, our weekends were often spent “going to the mountains.” Daddy would say, “Let’s go to the mountains this weekend.” We kids would go outside and hide behind the garage. Mom would pack a picnic lunch, find our hiding place and drag us into the car for a day of adventure.

We never knew exactly where daddy would decide to take us on any particular trip. Now that I think of it, I doubt that daddy knew either. We lived close enough that some parts of the Appalachian Mountains were within driving distance for a day’s excursion. It seemed more like a trip to California to us.

There were scenic overlooks, mountain springs, and sometimes even trails to explore – if daddy stopped driving long enough. Often he would drive and drive until my sister and I became restless and Mother would have to make him pull over before our bladders exploded. Daddy would always say he was waiting until he found a better place to stop.

In those days, there were picnic tables at intervals along the way and travelers would stop, unpack lunch, and eat right at the roadside. We always wished that bears would come and chase us away, but they never did. Probably they didn’t like baloney sandwiches and were waiting for a family with fried chicken.

A special treat on our tour was stopping at a “Blanket Store.” Blanket stores were found all along mountain roads and sold handcrafted quilts, apple cider and other souvenirs imported from Japan with “Great Smoky Mountains” painted on them. We never did buy a blanket at one of these places.

The best tourist attractions were deep in the mountains, places like Grandfather’s Mountain, Cherokee, and Chimney Rock. We never went there. Daddy didn’t like to go places that you had to pay money to see and had the ridiculous idea that you should be able to enjoy nature for free.

If daddy found a roadside stand selling mountain apples, however, he might stop and buy some. The best ones were extra large and he called them “horse apples.” We would stop at a spring that ran out of the rocks cliffs along the side of the road, wash the apples, drink water from our hands, and read the interesting graffiti scratched on the rocks until mother noticed and made us get back in the car.

Daddy sometimes took us on precarious dirt roads to see places that he remembered. One especially steep and treacherous road was called the “stair steps.” We drove along with sheer cliffs on one side and sheer drop offs on the other. He thought it was great to have two wheels practically hanging off the road, but mother usually got angry over daddy’s little side trips.

The mountains were cool and scented by pine. Mountain laurel and rhodendron bloomed in the Spring filling the woods with blossoms. In the Fall, red and gold leaves stretched for endless miles at scenic overlooks. Unfortunately, we couldn’t see too much from the car.

Often a haze hung on the mountains like smoke and daddy would say we were driving through the clouds. My sister and I would hide on the floorboard. We figured if daddy didn’t drive off the edge of a cliff, a runaway truck barreling down the mountain in the fog would probably kill us.

We learned, however, to appreciate the beauty of nature on these on these journeys to the mountains. We also learned that crooked mountains roads made my little sister carsick. I think that daddy loved the mountains and wanted to instill these same values in his children. A bit of fresh mountain air did wonders for my sister’s motion sickness, and also gave us another excuse to make daddy stop the car.

Our trips to the mountains ended as we grew older and became better at making excuses. But even as my memories become misty when I think of daddy and childhood, one of the things I’ll always remember most is the old car overheating and the radiator boiling over as we climbed the steep grades while going to the mountains.

-0-

Did you have a favorite day trip or vacation when you were a child? Where did you go?

©2003

Posted in Family, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Daylight Saving Time

Posted on March 14, 2016 by Sheila Moss

How do you know when it’s Daylight Saving Time, USA?

CLOCKYou’re so sleepy that you can’t wake up and you jump out of bed thinking you have overslept!

You stagger to the bathroom and fall over the dog that is still sound asleep.

The timer on the coffee pot isn’t set right, and there is no coffee.

You try to fix the clock on the microwave and set the timer instead – You wonder why a microwave needs a clock anyhow?

You decide this is really all a secret plot by “morning people” to get “night people” out of bed earlier.

The clock in your car has the right time for the first time since last October.

You arrive for church an hour late – as everyone else is leaving.

You feel exhausted (and will for weeks) even though you missed only one hour’s sleep.

Your computer clock sets itself ahead, but you forget and set it ahead again.

At the office on Monday all the clocks say 7 a.m., so you put your head on your desk and wake up later to find that the clocks were all wrong.

Half the office arrives an hour late, saying they forgot to change the clock. You secretly wonder why they did not arrive an hour early in October.

You take a two hour lunch break and say you forgot to change your wristwatch. (“getting even time.”)

You have an extra hour of light in the evening – just enough time to mow the lawn.

You decide to reset the time on the “singing bird clock” It starts singing and won’t shut up until you remove the batteries.

It’s dinner time according to the clock, but you are not hungry – yet.

You go to bed at your regular time, but you’re not sleepy yet, so you stay up an extra hour.

You wonder where all the energy is that we are conserving because you sure could use some of it.

You consider moving to Arizona where they don’t participate in this nonsense.

-0-

So how are you doing today? Is your biological clock ticking or still asleep? Comments link below – if you are not too sleepy to find it.

 ©2001

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Want to Color?

Posted on March 12, 2016 by Sheila Moss

madalaRemember when you were a kid and loved to color pictures of animals, trees, flowers or favorite story characters? Kids spent many happy hours coloring between the lines. It was fun to decide which color to use or to color something a different color instead of what it was “supposed” to be.

Later the art critics decided that coloring pictures someone else drew was not creative and that kids should be able to color outside the lines, or even better, draw their own pictures. That pretty much took the pleasure out of coloring books, and so we moved on and creatively colored the wallpaper in our bedrooms instead.

Coloring has now become the new rage. And it isn’t just for children who scribble on walls anymore. That’s right; we now have “coloring books for adults.” The designs are not the simple ones we remember from childhood; they are incredibly elaborate renderings of geometric kaleidoscopes, floral patterns, mandalas, stained glass and ornate designs that defy imagination. Once adults become involved, simple things always become complicated.

Can you believe coloring books are among the top ten best sellers on Amazon, which shows how much trouble books are in. Favorite coloring books, such as “Secret Garden” and “Color me Calm” encourage a break from other activity. Adults love the quiet relaxation provided by coloring. The activity seems to require just enough concentration to relieve stress, but not so much that it becomes a burden to do, unless, of course, you have misplaced your eyeglasses.

I was introduced to the new concept of adult coloring books by my sister. “Do you want to color?” she asked. “I think not; I’ll just watch.” “Is she crazy?” I wondered. But it did look like fun, so what the heck, I might as well try it. I selected a design and some markers and went to work. To my surprise, it was mesmerizing. Some of the patterns were symmetrical and you had to be careful to keep the colors balanced and be sure to use a pen that still had enough ink.

It becomes addictive. Once you start coloring a design, you are compelled to finish. You can’t quit a design before the picture is complete. Some designs are relatively easy while others have very small design elements and are difficult to color without messing up. We colored for days on end. I posted some of mine on Instagram for bragging rights.

Once finished the pages are not really good for much, but they do not require a lot of space, a wall to hang them, or a place on the coffee table. The purpose is more the process rather than the competed project, sort of like working a crossword puzzle. It is the task of coloring that provides the pleasure and it gives us something to do while ignoring housework.

So, I decided to get some books of my own and was surprised to find dozens of them online – dozens and dozens. I ordered some books. I couldn’t wait for the books to arrive, however, and decided to look for some books at Walmart. I tried the craft section and found nothing. I struck out in toys also. Finally, I gave up until I stumbled across the books in the sewing section, of all places.

The naysayers still say you are not creating because it is someone else’s design and it isn’t really art. I say “Phooey!” It’s a great time killer and an alternative to staring at the computer screen.  They don’t call them coloring books for adults for nothing, and that pattern with the butterflies is calling my name.

Want to color?

©2015 – 2016

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Are You Ready for a Red Corvette?

Posted on March 11, 2016 by Sheila Moss

vette

 

Since the first Corvette rolled off the assembly line in 1953, it has starred in TV shows, such as “Route 66,” received mention in songs (Beach Boys, Jan & Dean, Prince) and is glorified in it’s very own museum. It has become a legend as the only American sports car, with a large following of enthusiastic owners and fans.

Take the True/False Quiz to Determine Your Level of Readiness for a Vette

T/ F – Life in the fast lane is the only way to travel.

T/ F – My driver’s license has no points against it – yet.

T/ F – I can tolerate the wind in my face and the highway patrol on my rear end.

T/ F – The speed limit should be raised to 180 mph.

T/ F – Being an adult is no reason to stop playing with hot wheels.

T /F – I like the idea of having no back seat drivers.

T/ F – I like getting yelled at, whistled at, waved at and honked at.

T/F – I like it even better if I haven’t left my coffee cup on the roof.

T /F – I refuse to park where my doors might get pinged.

T/ F – I frequently practice “creative parking”.

T/ F – The roar of the motor sounds better than the radio.

T/F – Low bucket seats don’t give me leg cramps or a backache.

T/F – I love planning activities and outings that my car will enjoy.

T/F – I’m willing to measure the height of speed bumps to see if I can get over them.

T/F – I’m offended by a challenge from a Porsche.

T/F – When caught speeding, I’m willing to tell a traffic cop “It was worth it!”

T/F – I’ve bottomed out on a steep driveway without swearing out loud.

T/F – I know the meaning of 0-60 in 4.8 or I would like to learn.

T/F – I’d be willing to lose my virginity, or my fear of flying in an automobile.

T/F – Time can be measured as BC and AD (Before Corvette and After Deal)

T/F – The generation gap is smaller in a Corvette than any place else on earth.

T/F – I know the one and only answer to “How you like your Vette?”.

T/F – I love driving an ego car with a vanity license plate.

T/F – I’m experiencing a mid life crisis.

* * * * *

23+ True – Mid-life crisis ready to happen. You’re speeding in the fast lane.

15-20 True – You’ve got “The Fever” – Kiss your bank account good-bye and close the generation gap before it’s too late.

5-15 True – Senility is closing in. Consider an SUV. Then get out of the way and eat our smoke.

1-5 True – Hopeless – Stick with the old clunker and affordable insurance rates. Hot cars are not your forte’.

 

Let me know your score. Sorry, I can’t supply a Corvette if you got them all right; however, I’m sure your local dealership will be more than happy to help you out.

©2003

Posted in Automotive, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

The Interview

Posted on March 10, 2016 by Sheila Moss

workI read with interest the notice in the office newsletter about a vacancy. I hadn’t been promoted in years. Although, I already had a great job where I was chained to a computer and forced to drink black coffee all day, my career had stagnated. I could work in my sleep, and very often did, in spite of the stimulation. It was time for a change.

I could hardly contain myself until I could set up an interview. I called and made an appointment with someone named Barbie who had been there only a year and had already being promoted to management. It had nothing to do with her being related to the CEO.

I visualized myself in my new cubical, doing important tasks on the computer, handling business efficiently, watering my plants, and all at a much higher salary. I was beginning to get enthusiastic about how I was going to spend all that extra money.

I got out the old resume and padded it shamelessly to make my current job sound responsible. I wanted to make an impression, a very good impression. I typed it up and dreamed about how great this new job was going to be as I watched it print.

I figured I needed the perfect outfit to wear for the big day. Somehow I had a feeling that Barbie didn’t come to work in a gray flannel suit. I finally decided to buy something new, a navy blue dress in the new longer length that was stylish but businesslike. They call it “dressing for success.” It maxed out my credit card, but I figured no sacrifice was too great when it came to advancing my career.

It took me most of the day, but I tried to think of possible questions that they might ask and possible answers I might give to emphasize my impressive profession qualities without giving away any of my shortcomings. No need to mention the computer files I once accidentally deleted or the time I burned popcorn in the office microwave, I decided.

I rehearsed a few answers in front of the mirror, which was hard because being a female, I had to keep stopping to fix my hair. By the time the big day came, I was pretty nervous. I dropped the toothpaste in the toilet and nearly stabbed myself in the eye with mascara. By the time I finished, however, my hair was perfect, my makeup tasteful, and I had on plenty of deodorant.

It took two motivational tapes to get me out the door, but I finally felt ready. I showed up right on time, not too early and certainly not too late. I clenched my teeth and smiled, trying not to be irritated at being kept waiting while Barbie made an appointment for her hair, nails and aerobic class.

At last I was ushered in. The interviewer began to drill me with the expectations of the new job and asked none of the questions that I had rehearsed. I maintained eye contact and tried hard not to faint until perhaps later when no one was watching. I wondered how long it would take my resume to be filed in the paper shredder after I left. When it was finished, I shook her hand and thanked her for her time, feeling as if the IRS had audited me.

Back at the old office, I lacked the strength to use my computer mouse, so I simply stared at the screen saver all afternoon, wondering why I had never noticed all the pretty colors before. Well, if I don’t get the job at least I will know why. The CEO probably had another relative.

My greatest fear, however, was not that I might NOT get the job, but that they might actually offer it to me.

-0-

Have you ever been to an interview that made you wonder if they actually intended to hire someone?  Have you ever turned down a good job offer?  I would be interested in knowing.

©2003

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