Lord, I’m a Ramblin’ Woman.

I was interviewed by Karen at Blazing Minds. She has a great blogger interview series in addition to other engaging content that includes blogging tips, music & film reviews, memes, as well as Twitter tips. I receive daily updates by email, which helps me stay current on all Internet related news, i.e., cyber-threats, blog ads, iPad apps, etc.

Have a look-see and you’ll see the breadth (not bread) of fascinating articles available at Blazing Minds.

FYI, like the Tardis, Blazing Minds appears smaller on the outside. You know Who would know that, thus reminding me that I need to make a doctor’s appointment.

SURREAL PICTURE OF A BLAZING FIRE. 
(I require the use of a visual aid)

Blazing FireImage by Poe Tatum via Flickr

Blazing Minds – the ultimate all-you-can-eat buffet for your eyes. That’s why I keep coming back for more.

When you get a moment, please stop by and let me know if my ramblin’ was interesting or more like a case of diarrhea of the mouth. I can’t believe I spelled diarrhea right.

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Irony or Oy Vey What a Wrinkle.

Various antique irons.Image via Wikipedia

I follow the writing prompt of the day to irony and a wrinkled blouse that gets wedged against the ironing board that stands idly by lacking interest.

With each pressing moment, blouse increasingly reacts badly to the steam. She is a shriveling mess and does not respond well to the pressure.

Poor blouse, lying glued against the weary board. She cannot escape the fact that she lacks the constitution of cotton. She is a fake after all, a synthetic fiber mutt shipped in a box from China with other motley materialistic masses.

Blouse cannot handle the truth that she will never be like her cotton counterpart that performs somersaults in the dryer, finishing her routine with a perfect ten from the judge from Lintland.

Unlike synthetic blouse, cotton remains firm under pressure and can handle the heat, even after an ironic twist of the wrist leaves a wrinkle. Cotton does not falter. The wrinkles that line her back disappear from the rejuvenating steam iron spa. After the treatment, she is refreshed and hangs out in the bar with all the trendy clothes.

While bogus blouse, with creases embedded in her shoulders, gets tossed into a pile of rags. She is now fragments of her former self, crumpled and worn, a victim of the irony and hypocrisy of being wrinkle-free.

Writing prompt, irony, provided by Studio30Plus.

Irony – an outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected.
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A History of Jobs – Part 1

Phantom jobs linger in the fourth dimension of employment history, also known as job purgatory.

My first phantom job occurred at an ad agency and lasted as long as a pregnancy. During the final trimester, I spent my days practicing Lamaze breathing, while doing the doggy paddle in the deep end of the secretarial pool.

After several near drownings and a diagnosis of water on the knee, I escaped the secretarial pool and started my treacherous journey upstream, swimming against a choppy HR current stuffed with schools of pseudo glamour gal fish heads with pond silt on the brain.

A standard bottle of Wite-OutImage via Wikipedia
When I finally washed ashore onto the account executive shoreline, uh, er, department, I sat behind a desk with a Selectric Typewriter, now a rare artifact displayed in the Smithsonian Secretarial Museum.

In the pre tech dark ages, when computers were evil and only existed in movies, i.e., Hal in 2001: A Space Odyssey, the Selectric typewriter served office Cro-Magnon man’s needs, along with carbon paper, and Wite-Out/correction tape used to cover up mistakes, or unwanted wordage, before the invention of the delete key.

My assignment: to work for two account men, one, who was the son of Captain Kangaroo, the other just a son, although I could be wrong. After several hours of hacking away at the keys, I discovered that I couldn’t type, or rather hit the right keys under pressure.

I was a nervous type, with a penchant for puns, and made countless typos, which required copious amounts of Wite-Out that turned boring interoffice memos into works of art. My proclivity for mistypes, missed mistakes, and raised Braille lettered words layered with Wite-Out led to a meeting with Herr Human Resource Director, or the sour kraut, and resulted in my eventual dismissal.

I sat across from Herr HR Director in an elementary school size chair that stood two feet below the desk, and listened to Herr words float above my head, while staring at her knobby German knees.

“Ve have scheduled you for elimination,” she said.

“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

“Nothing. Ve’ve got nothing.”

Herr HR’s voice reminded me of Sergeant Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes.

“You’re dead. Dead. I tell you,” she screamed while rising from her chair, as if possessed by a demon, or not. It was irrelevant. All that mattered. I got the hint and left.

The door slammed behind me, echoing like a gunshot. “I’ve been hit,” I gasped, and slumped against an empty desk, once occupied by another victim of Herr HR’s firing squad, then I staggered down the hall, trying to stem the bleeding to my ego caused by the fatal shot. The pain of old and new puss bearing failures throbbed in my Id. For several weeks, my brain ached from the loss that left a black hole at the top of my resume.

I plugged the hole quickly by accepting a secretarial job in the A&R (Artist & Repertoire) Department of Columbia Records, working for Producer Paul Aktinson, lead guitarist of the 60s band The Zombies. More on that later.

This week’s Red Writ­ing Hood assign­ment: to write — fic­tion or non-fiction — about a time when you took a detour. Where had you intended to go and where did you end up?

But Wait, There’s More Backside of the Unemployment Front.

Belt FailureImage by mahalie via Flickr

CLASSIFIED JOBS ON CRACK.


Employer one-liners from the butt cheek files.

Comfortable working with people is a must. 

You will also be responsible for running personal errands for employees and the owner. These errands can include car maintenance (fuel and wash cars)…

No cry babies need apply.

Must love Money, Music, & Fun… NO EXP!!!

Basic office duties include; typing, filing, database and social media updates, coping, faxing and answering phones.

Competencies:  Lives to help others.

Full-Time Live-in and Live-out Nannies.

We’ve been in business every day for 60 years.

We need people with great conversational skills to make great impressions…

You should be be obsessed with what is hot, new and be very active in the social space – if you’ve never “checked in” or you don’t know what that is – well…

You take direction well and should enjoy working in a quick moving open environment and be a huge team player – but also stand on your own two feet occasionally.

WE’D PREFER IF YOU:

  • You can scribble/sketch – and others can understand your scratch marks. 
  • Live in a social world – and are actively exploring and connected to it;

Responsibilities: Create campus presence during high season
  


Ideal for retired sales professional or for someone with similar needs.


The Executive Assistant will manage vital business priorities and become the loyal right arm to the President.

-Comfortable working independently (on your own, by your self)…

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The Refrigerator Chronicles: Shelf Wars

Fridge freeze.....
 (previously posted and revised) 

 

 

The last time we peeked inside the refrigerator the light was off and a coup de food was underway. The cheese, yogurt, and luncheon meat on the third shelf were conspiring to take over the top shelf, where Moo Milk, OJ, and a silent Angus Beef enjoyed a prime piece of real estate.

As rumors of a coup leaked across the top shelf, Moo Milk tried to rouse a very sloshed OJ.

“OJ!  C’mon. Snap out of it!” uttered Moo Milk. “I don’t care if you are fermented; you’ve got to listen to me. I’m hearing talk of a coup from Eggsy, a reliable source – of protein .”

OJ groaned. “Not again. I’m so sick of those low shelf-lifers in flimsy packaging. I used to be a cardboarder like them, thin-skinned and weak until I had plastic surgery. Now I can take a whack or two to the mug without getting crushed.

“Besides, I’ve got a stack of Cs hidden in a container of pulp in Sacramento. Cheese and yogurt got nothing. I tell you, nothing but those clingy food groupies. You know, the saturated fat morons.”

“That might be true,” said Moo. “But those low shelf-lifers got something else, something that curdles my insides.”

“What’s that?” asked OJ. “What could be so bad?”

“They’ve got those nasty silver-backed sippers. Oh! They’re a canny bunch. They’ve got numbers. I tell you. A 48-pack of 12-percenters. Just one will blind-side you. All it takes is a shake for one to flip its lid.” He paused. “And, man, when a 48-pack rocks, those sippers can roll. We’ll be lucky if we make it to Monday, the last date of sale.”

“Baloney!” yelled OJ. “All they’ve got is baloney, fake cheese, and that razzle dazzle yogurt punk, Bifidus Schmifidus. We’ve got all the big guns up here: That tall French Dude Christoff Champagne really packs a punch.”

“Nah, he’s only good for one pop, then he fizzles.”

“Well, what about Ruby Red, the tall slender-neck tomato, who faces the pathetic leftovers in the back?”

“Sure, OJ. She’ll get their attention, but when she opens her mouth, she can’t control all those nasty noises. Ain’t that right Metamucil?”

No response.

“What’s with Meta? She usually hangs out on the door.”

“You didn’t hear. Meta’s an Empty Nester now. She’s on her way to Paso Robles, California to clear the air with her cousin Beano. Too bad. I’m going to miss her.”

“So will I, OJ. She’s got such strong moral fiber. I’m not the religious type, but tonight as I recite my ingredients before I go to bed, I’m going to say a prayer for Meta.” Moo Milk sighed. “You’re religious aren’t you, OJ? What’s it called . . .?”

“Acidic, Moo. I’m Acidic. I never pour on Saturdays.”

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