Wholesome Utah?

We are delighted to be moving to Utah. Not only because it is closer to our family in Wyoming, but because of the State's golly-gosh-gee innocence.

In anticipation of our move to SLC next month we have been reading the Salt Lake Tribune to keep abreast of regional news. That's where we came across this fantastic nugget:
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Caught on Tape: Naked Woman Slams SUV


Holy Heck! What have we got ourselves into?

Hooray. I have career options!

I am officially unemployed. I just wrapped up my old job and am now fully immersed in that most joyful of undertakings: the job hunt. .

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(I hate to lay a guilt trip here, but I am still awaiting SLC job leads . . . whenever you guys get a chance . . . surely you haven't forgotten about me)

I have some interviews lined up in the next few weeks, but for every single interview offer I get, I receive at least three very pleasant rejection letters.

Things are looking good. I have been assured that my résumé is "very impressive" and that many prospective employers will be keeping my information "on file." Oh yes my friends, I am as good as employed.

My favorite rejection letter to date was from an insurance company who was seeking an in-house defense attorney. In their rejection response, they indicated that they had just filled the position . . . however . . . (brace yourselves) . . . my qualifications were so Got-dang phenomenal that I should consider becoming an insurance agent with their company.

I am flattered to say the least.

I say a career move from lawyer to insurance agent is at least one notch over on the dirtbag continuum.

¯I'm a-movin’ on up . . . ¯

Potty Paradox

As I sit impatiently at my desk waiting . . . waiting . . . and waiting, it occured to me:


The longer you have to wait on the person ahead of you in the restroom:

1. The more you need to go to the restroom, yet
2. The less you want to actually enter the restroom.

I need to invest in an S.C.B.A. for office use.

That's some painful protection!

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OH! I actually had to read the ad to understand the illustration.

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This is sketch of a light bulb, not the male version of a chastity belt.

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That's too bad, really. This was a much more interesting advertisement when I thought they were discussing barbed wire prophylactics.

What exactly are you trying to tell me?

The eternal question: What is the greatest gift I could give my family?

Unconditional love? Security? Support? Warm-and-fuzzy memories?

No, no. According to the folks at Accuquote, the most wonderful gift I could ever give to my beloved family is the gift of life insurance.

Is that supposed to make me want to do business with Accuquote? Oh, I picked up on the ever-so-subtle potshot. Their ad should just say:

I hate you, Accuquote.

I'm pretty sure that was not my search.

Google keeps track of the terms you search. For those of you to whom this is news, I suggest you go back and clear your history. Trust me on this, you don't want your kid to be looking up "Bunsen Burners" for her science project only to discover that you have a deep seeded bunion fetish.

Anyhoo . . . I typed in the letter "f " into Google this afternoon and noticed this odd search term:



For the life of me, I cannot recall any projects that would have required "fat chicks" research.

What I have here is a real-life whodunit. WHO has been using my office computer? WHAT were they looking for? WHEN did this happen? WHY the hell didn't they use their own computer?!

If anyone has information that would assist in my office sleuthing, please drop me a line.

Time to retire the sign

Seeing as how teeth are nature's way of saying "time to ween," my days of pumping at work are coming to an end.

While I won't miss the inherently awkward experience of running a dairy operation out of my office, I will miss the sign I placed on my door while I was pumping.

Nothing says "don't bother me" like a cow on your door.

People wouldn't even knock when I had my sign up; documents would just magically appear under my door to be signed at my leisure.

It is with a heavy heart that I bid farewell to the deference, privacy, and quiet that was utterly commanded by my bovine sign (forgive the pun).

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