Lumps, Bumps, and The Mark of Vanity

Welcome to my Monday, Matt Smith.

Have you ever made a startling discovery about yourself, only to find out that you already knew? This is only slightly different than making a startling discovery about yourself, and finding out that everyone else around you already knew. I haven't had that experience yet -- although I must admit that I do say things aloud, like "I hate people" or "I have power issues," and people seem to know that. I guess I must give off that people-hating, power-hungry vibe.

I'm vain.

No, no. Don't argue. I am. I know it. I'm vain. And not in that "you probably think this song is about you" way. (That, of course, makes no sense. As Carrie Fisher said, "'But it IS about him -- so, does that mean he's less vain?")

I'm so vain, I WROTE the song about me.

For the past week, I've been nursing my damaged vanity as I watched a bump on my neck get larger and larger. I have no idea what it is ("It's cancer," I say to my co-workers. "I'm going to die"), but it's ugly. I know that I'm the only one who notices it all that much -- and maybe Matt, although it's not like the boy sits around and stares at my neck on a daily basis -- but it's there. And I know it's there. And it's getting bigger.

It's a cist. Or maybe a wart.

Whatever it is, I don't like it being there. I want it to leave. I want it to be frozen off or snipped or mailed to Abu Dabi or whatever they do to these sorts of things.

I could chalk it up (chalk it up? why not pen it up? and why can't it be down? you boil things down, but you chalk them up and it all means the same thing... stupid, stupid Americans) to being "in the theatre," but I don't think that's what it is. I think it's just that I know I'm nice to look at, and this lump is obstructing the view.

I suppose I'll just have to go on poking at it, making it redder and redder and redder, until Starbucks comes through with the health insurance.

Love and Indiana Jones,
Meredith

Happy Birthday, Little Miss Can-Crusher

Dear Sivie,

Before I begin, I must issue a brief apology to you, Matt Smith, for not addressing this post to you. Not only did I rip the post right from under your nose, I gave the post to someone that you haven't even met. Although if you've been standing there, nose to the screen for all this time, I suggest you step away from the computer, and get some fresh air. Sometimes a girl and her blog need a change of pace.

In speaking of "pace," "space" rhymes with "pace," and I certainly have given this blog some space lately, huh? I apologize to you, Sivie, and you can stop singing now. Although, if you're hell-bent on continuing, might I recommend "I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am" as sung by Whoopi Goldberg in the movie, "Ghost." Neighbors be damned.

Now that I'm quite through with the pleasantries, down to the nitty-gritty. Actually, I have neither nitty nor gritty, but I'll make some up.

Working at Starbucks again is... um... well, it's no fun, Sivie. I'm not going to get in to all the Not Fun of it, but I'll just leave it at that. I can't stand working for a corporation, and furthermore, I can't stand working for a corporation that pulls the mats, then mops the floors, then puts the dirty mats back on the floors, and THEN mops the mats. It's a vicious, vicious, dirty-floor-cycle, and it's, as aforementioned, Not Fun.

Brilliant segue: Matt cooked a wonderfully decadent dinner last night. And we didn't mop anything. Not one thing was mopped in the making of our dinner. It was delicious.

I had an interview yesterday for a sales/entertainment/public speaking position for a technical school in the area. I had been warned that it would be a group interview; I just sort of figured it'd be a less -- um -- elderly group? Yes. They were all old. Not like, kocking on death's door old, but older than me. Weird, weird stuff.

Yet another brilliant segue: My birthday is rapidly approaching, and I've taken 3 days off to go somewhere fun. However, my brain is all burnt out on coffee and customers and painting an apartment to think of anything remotely fun to do or anywhere remotely fun to go. Any ideas? (My latest: Jumping in a puddle and crushing cans on my head.)

Damn the man,
Meredith