No Scrubs!

Okay.

My secret's up. Most of you know it anyway. I'm a girl. That's right, the attitude and opinions expressed within this blog are (mostly) those of a 30 year old girl. Why am I coming out about this now?

Because.

Boys? We need to talk.

Just because you think I'm hot doesn't mean I care. What I mean is, when I'm walking and I'm dressed in heels and a skirt-suit, don't honk at me. Don't whistle at me. Don't hang out of the passenger's side window and holler at me.

I swear, I lost count of how many guys honked, cat-called, slowed down, and hollered to me while I walked a mile or so in heels and a skirt-suit. I was on my way to an interview for a position I wasn't sure I even wanted (not that I have any better idea as to what that position is now that I'm home from said interview).

So, for those of you who have no idea what I look like. I'm a red head. I'm 5'5" short and about 145lbs. Most of my friends are really nice and say "You don't look that heavy!" Stop the flattery. Yes I do. I'm just happy to be back in size 10's, thank you very much.

I have boobs. Apparently, this is what the guys think sets me apart from other women. I would think that my hair would do it, but no. It's my boobs. Or my butt. I didn't think this particular suit was all that flattering, but I guess from a passing car or a cherry picker, I look pretty hot.

Which is good. Because I was ROASTING! This is Southern California. It is a desert. I think I was starting to limp by the point everyone started making the cat calls and honking because my beautiful silver heels were digging into my feet. I have blisters. I have a gash on the back of my ankle--all this so I could dress professionally for an interview at a company that doesn't seem to know the meaning of "dress professionally."

They also, apparently, don't know how to answer my question of "what exactly will I be doing and what, exactly, is the position?" There are only so many ways to ask this question. I've tried several. I've gotten the same, vague answer.

...and yet!

They want me back tomorrow for a follow up interview.

Back on topic.

Scrubs.

Okay, okay, not that kind. But, still. I'm not sure which has been worse for me. Wearing a skirt suit with nylons and heels--and, let me be very clear here. The particular suit in question today had a light blue skirt that was one inch above my knees. The top was a short sleeved button-down shirt-jacket that was white and light blue plaid. My nylons are always "nude" since I don't tan (see the reference: RED HEAD), and my shoes were silver, pointy-toed heels. My hair was down and that was that. It was a very professional look. If I could have worn "something casual, but nice," I probably would have worn one of my denim mini skirts, nylons, boots and a clingy top. And I probably wouldn't have gotten cat calls in that.

Maybe it was just the section of town...

I dunno. I just know that I stepped off the bus and felt like I was somewhere beyond Thunderdome. I was in a residential area and felt like there were things hiding in the shrubbery, waiting to jump out and attack me. Of course, I have heels. And kick really hard. And, I'm a singer--classically trained. Which, if you can't figure that out, I have a large lung capacity and a very high voice. You attack me, I'll break your eardrums. And your gonads.

So, me. Walking. In a bad neighborhood. Getting catcalls every three minutes. I should be flattered. Maybe the first three times. After that, I was at the point that I wanted to implement the "3-honks a month" rule--you get to use your horn three times in the month. If you waste it, your fault. I also made up my mind that the next person to whistle or holler at me was getting flipped off.

Update

No rant today.

You may have noticed a lack of rant from yesterday, as well.

It's not that there isn't anything going on in the news... I'm just busy. I've got job interviews lined up for Friday, Monday, and Tuesday. Hopefully, one of those is worth while.

While I'm on the topic of jobs...

PUBLIC RELATIONS IS NOT DIRECT SALES!

CUSTOMER SERVICE IS NOT DIRECT SALES!

MARKETING IS NOT DIRECT SALES!

Know what direct sales is? SALES!

And don't lump those all together, mkay? I'm sorry, any job that says it's "Public Relations/Sales/Marketing/Customer Service" is most likely direct sales. What's worse than hearing this now is finding out after wasting 2 hours for an interview that lasts 7 minutes because YOU DON'T DO DIRECT SALES.

I should put that on my resume. NO DIRECT SALES.

If I have to call someone to set up an appointment to go to someone's house to sell them something, I'm not interested. If someone ELSE is setting the appointment FOR me...that's a different story. I'll make your company money. I know that I can sell ice water to a penguin. I've done it.

I hate calling people.

I don't talk on the phone to my friends. Why would I talk on the phone to strangers? Oh, sure, there's a couple of you reading that I call on occasion. How long do we talk, though, really? I mean, before I start repeating myself? Seriously. How long do we talk, though? I repeat myself a lot. See what I mean?

If ya need a job, check craigslist, Monster, or Careerbuilder. Probably that order.

...and a big THANK YOU to my one loyal reader for his generous donation. It will hopefully get me my bartender's certification. Then I'll really have stuff to rant about!

Too Fat to Execute!

Momma, just killed a man. Put a gun against his head; pulled my trigger, now he's dead...Momma! Ooooh oooh ooooh ooooh! I don't wanna die!

Famous song. You know it. Especially if you've seen Wayne's World. It's Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. It's rather fitting for this very short news article that made me say, "Bwuh?! I don't THINK so!"

Since I know you're not clicking the links, anyway, I'll just copy/paste the article here for your enjoyment. I did say it was short. Long enough for me to make an opinion. Of course, there's not much out there "too short" for an Assassination.

Supreme Court rejects inmate's too-fat-to-execute appeal
COLUMBUS, Ohio (AP) -- The U.S. Supreme Court has rejected an appeal from an Ohio prisoner who argued he is too obese to be executed. Richard Cooey is scheduled to be put to death Tuesday.

The court denied his request for a stay without comment Monday. Cooey is 5-foot-7 and weighs 267 pounds.

State officials said prison staff examined Cooey's veins and found no problems that would interfere with the execution.

Cooey has one more appeal pending before the court. It argues Ohio's method for lethal injections could cause an agonizing death and violates the constitutional prohibition on cruel and unusual punishment.

Cooey, 41, raped and killed two college students in 1986.

That's right, you read this correctly (and if you follow the link, you get to see a creepy looking guy). He's "too fat" to execute because it will be "cruel and unusual punishment!"

He raped not one, but TWO women AND killed them. Notch his penis twice and let the victims' families make a wish. Not sure what I mean, here. Read this article.

I'm sure it's the prison's fault he's fat, too. I mean, they make him eat 3-times a day and offer exercise routines for all the inmates. I'm sure he could turn around and sue the BoP for not stopping him from over-eating or sneaking food into his cell or not showing up for the exercise classes. People are sue-happy here in America. Because, as I've stated numerous times, we have no responsibility.

He has one appeal left before his execution.

Why?

Why is he appealing this with stupid reasons? Whether you're for or against the death penalty, I really don't care. I'm very for it. It eliminates prison-overcrowding and keeps repeat offenders, such as murderers and rapists, off the streets. If you're convicted, take it like a man (or woman), and own up to your wrong-doings and take the punishment. Quite whining and complaining about how your circumstances set you apart from any other person who's done something as stupid or worse than you. You are unique, just like everyone else. And no one else cares about their personal problems.

You raped and killed two women.

You should not live. THEY didn't get the option to say they were "too fat." And if they did, you didn't listen. Why should I?

Unsympathetic? You betchya!

I'm just a poor boy, no body loves me! (He's just a poor boy from a poor family! Spare him his life from this monstrosity!) Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?

Yes.

We'll let you go.

Straight to the Lethal Injection Table.