And I can't get a job?

Sigh..... Mr. Morgan, it's taking me crazy patience to not flick you on your head so hard you don't even remember your name! It's part of my (whatever not what I aspired for as a kid but I'm good at it) profession to take a proper note. THIS is how he takes a message from a job inquiry:

By the way, I don't smoke menthols. Right (snitch). So, I get this lovely ... post it? and he had told the lady that I was sick. PERFECT introduction to a doctor's office interview. I wasn't sick at all. Football was on, so take a guess why that particular reason was flopped out to make me look extra special. Christ almighty babe, we can't tell people I'm fucking ill before I'm even offered a job, and more so when I'm completely not sick. Bitchy, of course, but sick????? No! My god it's the first bite I've had in weeks and he is proving QUITE the helper. My eyes are still bulging like a cartoon character and I phoned immediately to proclaim my husband was an idiot and just didn't hand over the phone. In defense, for all he knew it was a sales call, but let me field those too, it's kinda what my resume says I do. Some of the writing on the "memo" is not in english, I'm not sure if I'm missing a crucial point. I haven't had a sick day in over two years, but he proclaims my death bed on a call to hire me up. And I still cleaned the house. I think it was to stop myself from going slappy in a flurry of waspy whaps that don't hurt, but are ran from all the same.

I made cookies today. Eh. They look nice and I managed not to mangle nor burn them. Have I eaten one? Mr. Morgan asked of me. Second time of the day I wondered if he was out of his damned mind and blankly looked at him with a half wrinkled brow of "you are sober right?" There is no stretch of the imagination that I'd be eating those. Feel free to ask me why. Also, they pissed me off. They came in a mason jar and the brown sugar was so hardened I almost threw it at a wall to break it free. I'm super at throwing shit. My hands cannot do things like mining for a cookie fluff anymore and it is painful, both mentally and physically. And it fucking embarrasses me. I once was an artist and I now drop things regularly, then blame them for jumping.

I stared at the jar for a while, knowing that my Mister really wanted a homebaked cookie, probably more so the smell of cookie in the house. I growled at it. I squinted at it. I microwaved it in hopes of it softening. I had ideas that it was itentionally fixed to upset my inability to use my hands and I got really mad. Squinted some more and circled it about 80 times before making such a noisy scene that Mr. Morgan came out and helped me without so much as a word. Not from fear of wrath lol, but because he sees my frustrations of being 30 and not able to do what I consider a simple fucking task. He's an awesome bean that one.

Otherwise shit is same 'ol and I'm my bouncy fun self. The moments of yuck pass quickly enough, I can't dwell on being pissy over shit I have no control over. But I wanna. Not in my nature, plus I have Halloween 2009 to start thinking on. /weeeeeee........... Don't miss my xmas vid below.

- DM

Thanks to Mr. Morgan for while being .... no word, just a shaking of the head, thanks for flagging a worker in Walmart to find more of the shirts I begged for since the one given on Christmas. A for Effort! I'm using my calm girl side as reward. No feeling bad for me, I'm not happy with the hand job (I SO said it) but I can still twirl a pencil like it's a baton, you' have to see it to understand. It takes more effort than it used to but.... /grin. I'm not happy, but I am alive so how can I bitch.