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