The Interview

"So why do you want this job?" The CFO asks, steely gray eyes, gnarled demeanor, hair pinned up to the snore-bore core of her six foot seven height, making it six foot nine.

I gulp.

WTF.

You see I don't actually WANT this job if it means working with HER.

I panic.

I think about my life. Why was I always picked last for dodge ball, and all the other sports? Why had the entire sixth grade class decided to laugh hysterically at my knobby, wobbly knees? Why was I such a dark horse? Why was I the black sheep in my family, a family of athetes, graceful ballerinas? Why was I here?

I actually hate marketing and this would be a marketing analyst position masquerading as a pseudo-customer service rep with shitty-swill-of-the-universe hours (4 am until noon), and very little pay.

But it was still better than nothing, and a had a heap of nasty bills to pay.

I need this.

I look at her with my most conservative, anal look.

But I blow it.

I just know it.

I just do.

That's my life. Blowing a lot of things. Competing with others and losing.

A loser. That's what I am.

And it just sucks ass.

It really does.

interview

I hope my unemployment stint is over soon, coming to a close, FINITO, Exit Stage Left, Oh-So-Over, Bombardedly Leaving The Earth, DONE, Poke-Me-I'm-Done, Far Outta Here, Audi 500, Lost In Space, Breaker-Breaker Over And Out, etc.

Because I have a job interview today.

HURRAH!

I write Chick Lit and NO NOT Chiclet, like the gum

So over the holidays at countless parties and so forth I talked about writing Chick Lit and what it entails.

And NO, that’s not Chiclet as in the gum!

Monday finds me now diligently writing about Chick Lit and what it is. I scour my brain trying to think of way to explain this easily to others, especially those who do not read.

Thus, I relate Chick Lit to movies.

I ask two questions:

1. Have they ever seen the movie When Harry Met Sally? i.e. Meg Ryan. If they are aware of who she is and what she's played in, then we're good.

2. Have they ever seen the movie, Bridget Jones's Diary? i.e. Renee' Zellwegger. If they are aware of this Chick Lit Phenomenon that set a full-charged blast of Chick Littedness into the Publishing World, then we're good.

If they have neither seen nor heard of either movie, or of Meg Ryan, then their eyes usually glaze over as I continue to grapple like withering apples (explain) my writing genre to them.

Since not many are reading this Chick Lit blog O’ Mine and it’s STILL lost loquaciously and sadly in the Blogosphere, I clamour to gleefully and hopefully tell them about it.

By then, this victim O' Mine at the said Holiday Party have eyes that are darting about trying to escape from me and my uber-long explanation of Chick Lit and what it is. This victim is morose and has a tendency to froth and foam at the mouth by now, saying they are parched and might they get me a drink? I usually shake my head NOPE I am not done explaining yet.

Normally by now, another person has joined us in the convo at this Holiday Party and if this new person does not know who Meg Ryan is, or has not heard of the two aforementioned movies, I now have TWO sets of withering glazed-over eyes.

Luckily most partygoers have heard of Meg Ryan. Luckily most people at parties who deign to talk to me are women and most women have heard of Chick Lit, and most of my friends who are women who are partygoers who talk to me at parties know that I write Chick Lit merged with other genres such as murder mystery, thriller, and the like.

Only one person told me not to merge my genres of mostly Chick Lit with Paranormal.

Chick Lit is literature for women, including romantic comedies. It can encompass several subgenres within the realm of Chick Lit. Mom Lit and Supersingle girl lit and many others. I just happen to merge mine with thriller and murder mystery and whatever other genre I want at the moment.

After all, I’m just a Jobless Wonder and QUIM (Quirky Uncontrollable Middle-aged Woman) who has read more than her fair share of everthing that counts and even more of whatever doesn't count to know enough about Chick Lit to write a novel or two.

Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for more stories!

PART DEUX: A Chick Lit Cliffhanger I wrote - with a Hot & Sexy Man

I am beguiled by your green-eyed goddess beauty, Wilder says.

I nearly faint.

My stomping and galluping heart pierces my throat. Such a rough rider my heart is!

Wilder suddenly swings over to me, madcap-galore, crushes me into his hearty arms, swoops down for a kiss...

NO WAIT!

This isn't REALLY what's happening...that's just my fantasy, my thing to imagine. It's what I do. It's my shtick, my terwilliger-susswilliger, my universe of whaddya-want, my nonsensical faux pas; I am privy to FUN FANTASTICAL EXPLOSIONS of starbursts of wily wild wonder and grandeur in my mind's eye, in my brain! Vivid taddywonkers of joy! Vast vehemently fireworks of images, effervescent and delightful!

ACTUALLY now my boss, Grigbee Ritches, is on his way over to my cubicle, just as Wilder slides over CLOSER TO ME to watch me finish opening the envelope...

Well, Ms. Yates, how are we this morning? Grigbee's voice booms as he greets me and shakes Wilder's hand. Wilder, good to see you after all these months. I look forward to the Grand Master presentation ceremony later this afternoon. Do we have a winner yet?

I nod my hello at Grigbee. Still unable to speak. Wilder remains by my side. The envelope is ripped open. Waiting for me to pull out its contents...

Aha! Grigbee says to me. You must be the win...

CRASH!

Loud plunkerings interupt and I swivel in my seat to see five large Mastodian-like Gnarly Hairy Green Gushy-pussball-looking Aliens burst into the bank! Now there's six, now seven, now eight...they are multiplying!

BOOM!

Oh yeah, did I happen to mention that I work at a bank? The Frontier Wilderness State Grandville Largehouse Bank.

People suddenly stream everywhere. It's a madhouse! Calamity and chaos!

Grigbee motions to Wilder in sign language, for what I recall as a vernacular warning to Sound the Alarm! Everyone at once seems to be moving.

But. One of the Vulturistic-Green Gross Aliens shouts:

"Nobody move! Or I'll shoot!"

I duck down, but Wilder pulls me up and swoops me out of there quickly into his glass-encased corner office. It's a psychedelic office with mad ravaging greens and fiery oranges and cyclone yellows and ravenous reds; it's also an out-of-the-way place from the full frontal nude view of the starkness and vastness of our impressive bank lobby.

It might be a good place to hide! Wilder holds my hand, it's warm and my heart clanks and bangs rabid-fire rat-a-tat-tat against my ribcage!

People stop scurrying. Someone screams. I hear a shot erupt and echo scally-blunder blasting off into the vastness of the lobby, the sound pings up to crescendo into our starry-spangled skyscraper skyline. A scary sound!

I am afraid to look at whomever the victim is. I'm shaking. My heart's pounding again - bang bang bang - into infinity forever!

Wilder looks at me. His beautiful blue eyes dilate, with tiny-shiny black-dotted pupils. He whispers and points down on the ground:

Lie down flat.

So I do, scared-to-riveting pieces.

Then Wilder plunks down on the floor next to me, it happens so fast. He rolls toward his desk, grabbing my hand, rolling me with him, but we stop as the door to his office bounds open with a BANG! and a WONKY THUD!

I hear heavy breathing. And a deep growl.

Anyone in here? It roars.

Wilder freezes, he is so close to me, I feel his big massive body tense.

It doesn't see us...yet.

Wilder pulls me quickly under his hulking-big mahogany wood desk.

I'm breathing so heavily, panting with fear as this giant Green gritchy alien's black boots shuffle toward us like it knows where we are...it hears us, smells us probably, I can't believe that I will be possibly eaten alive any second now...

And then...ARGHGHGHGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I yell as it grabs us, there are TWO of them, whatever they are....slimy giant gritchily-green fungus interuptus...!!!

FADE TO BLACKNESS.

***
STAY TUNED FOR A STATION BREAK IN WHICH I WILL RETURN AFTER THESE MESSAGES...

A Chick Lit Cliffhanger I wrote - with a Hot & Sexy Man

Here's a chick lit scene I just now wrote - with a cliffhanger so stay tuned for next time! - after watching the chick flick entitled, The Accidental Husband, with Uma Thurman and Jeffrey Dean Morgan. I just love romance!

Okay so here's my new scene, as usual, with my heroine, the clueless QUIM (Quirky Uncontrollable Immature Middle-aged woman) Jacy Yates:

In CubicleLand today, I sit sipping my café mocha latte at my cubicle, trying hard not to let Gloria’s moanings and grumblings get to me.

My workload is full and everyone is in a flurry today. My boss is coming back from New York and I’ve got to get my project finished. I’m working while Gloria is talking.

I’m not sure how she gets her work done. I think she bribes her assistant to do all of it for her. Or maybe she bids out her jobs on eWorkHorse.com and they monkeyhump out her work and get ‘er done, just in time…silly as this sounds, it just could be what happens.

It’s a Monday. I look around the office and spy Wilder. I sigh.

He’s across the frazzled fray on such a manic Monday, talking to someone else who’s just as high up as he is. In Vice PresidentLand. Where the norm (and peons such as myself) do not hang. Nor dare. Nor speak. Not ever. Unless spoken to.

Gloria interrupts herself in mid-madhouse rumbling-rama sentence and looks over to where I am looking - at Wilder - and she sighs as well. The man is just so dreamy.

Wilder. He is a sizzling man with the perfect fitting name. A glistening pirate of hearts. He has dark brows, smoldering blue eyes, a tan that tomorrow never forgets.

He’s smarmy sexy frothy-flirty. He is heat intoxicated up and down my spine. His voice is velvet. He is Robinhood. He is Bogie. He works at my company where I’ve toiled away for ten years. He’s never noticed me.

He was dating a supermodel fashionista extraordinaire, but I’d heard they just broke up rather tempestuously. He is passionate. He is infamous. He is also famous. He is a part-time producer for movies as a hobby; a volunteer firefighter, a famous writer of thrillers, a grand master chef.

He is a vice president at my company; he is rarely here because of traveling the world on his book tour. They keep him around for marketing purposes. He lures new clients. He is a big attraction. He is sex on a stick. He is a passionate swarthy sex-god of a man.

I dream about him night and day. Everyone – at least all the woman in my office and all my girlfriends do, too. He is a fantasy.

He can’t be for real. Real mean aren’t like this.

Except…I look up from my cubicle.

And he is walking right towards me.

Gloria stares too and stops talking.

And it takes A LOT for her to just shuddup.

So I’m at work, still, on my project, typing ferociously, and as he gets closer and closer I’m now piling up in sweat. I’m now biting my nails. I am now done typing. He sees me watching him walk towards me.

It’s been real, Gloria says. I better let you get back to it. She is such a cream puff wasteland. She’s been in my cubicle for the past hour and a half complaining about her uber-rich over-bred over-stuffed beau, Victor, and about the new supercharged SUV he’d just bought her in the wrong color. It’s an off-off-off white, when she really just wanted white.

Gloria is a spoiled woman who was/is/someday-in-this-century supposed to inherit millions from her Aunt Ermengarde. When Ermy never died in the 80’s, Gloria decided to go to college, which was a good idea because now Ermy is an octogenarian, still hanging on by a barely-lifelorn roadhouse thread.

Gloria recently decided to start dating someone rich and fancy to fit her inexhaustible shopping habit and uber-charged supercilious lifestyle. And now that Gloria’s dating Victor, she’s now hoping to also inherit millions from his family. (When they got promised-to-be-engaged, she raved and oohed-and-aahed over pictures of his four-story mansion of a house. Even though there were NONE of him.) She tells me it’s always good to have a backup plan.

Gloria is now the caretaker of her Aunt Ermy, which, needless to say, is sort of making Gloria a good person, albeit slowly. So now what am I going to complain about to my friend, Jazhette? Since nothing interesting ever seems to happen to me. I seem to find myself living vicariously through Gloria's richly extravagant life.

I am still not sure why Gloria and I are friends. It might have to do with the fact that nobody else likes her in GirlLand and I’m too sweet and too full of savoir faire to be a meanie to her, like everyone else is. Sometimes I just feel sorry for her. But she can be quite a bore and a tarty blow-hard bitch. The Magnus Opus of infantileness extremes of the world.

So now Wilder’s at my desk station, Gloria’s just left in a flurry of overdone perfume (Este Lauder), and I’m now flustered, sweatrolls farkle down my back, I wipe my brow as nonchalantly as possible and look up at him.

I’m sure I resemble a placid blank-faced cow, hopefully sans the cud-chewing numbness. I hope he doesn’t think that I am wearing all that over-the-top perfume. Este Lauder is not quite who I am. I am more of a Vera Wang kind of perfume.

My cubicle neighbor, Macie Blanders, on the other side of my work station, stops smacking her bubblegum to eavesdrop. This is quite a big deal. Extravaganza to the fullest.

Hiya, he says.

Now I can hear Macie typing madhouse-galore on her computer, she’s perhaps IM’ing everyone in the office about Wilder actually speaking to me. Etc etc.

I can just imagine what everyone’s thinking. Why her? Why NOT me? What does she have that I don’t have? Well, possibly more sweat than: a Chinese sewing manufacturer’s sweatshop, a tax accountant’s armpits, and the inimitable Sweathogs of the 70’s!

All I can do is gulp.

Boy, I feel cheesy, grubby, about twelve years old, looking up at this moviestar hotness glamourama dude, I feel grittiness; really, I feel like a kid in a candy store without coinage.

So then I just grin. It’s all I can do. Gulp and grin. I cannot speak. I’m in whimsical distress, sort of on the fence between golden parachute joy and bitter embroiled hell. Here’s this gorgeous candy and I have no wherewithal to buy it. I have no funds. My soul is normally a parade, but it’s on strike, and so’s my brain.

My Brain? Zip-oid. Nada. Zipland. KAPUT. Over and out!

You’re Jacy Yates, right? He says. Such a golden enriched smooth voice. Such a joy to hear erupt from those luscious lips of his.

Gulp. I go.

I nod. So now I’m queasy, sick, really. My face goes green, I’m sure. I clutch my stomach. I have to hold in my urpiness, a burp about to burble from my boiler-of-a-face. But I think I still have this shit-eating grin plastered on my now greenish-gurgly urpoid face.

Are you alright? He sits in the vacant stale chair in my cubicle. Nobody’s sat there for eons. Nobody comes to talk to me, just Gloria, but she’s usually pacing when she comes over, her crazoid bloody-bore antics, always about her blow-hard self. Self-absorbed that she is. And she is usually complaining about something "wretched." The divine blasphemy of her life.

She has a lot of anger and adult angst.

Don’t we all.

Um, I sort of mumble. But I can just nod.

You okay? He leans in and looks into my face. He’s so close and I breathe in the smoky scent of him.

But. It's too much for me to handle. Now I just want him to leave. I can feel the curious eyes of everyone in the office looking at us. Eyeballs boring into our backs. I do not want or need this kind of attention. I’m not used to it, for one. I’m not going to like the myriads of queries from everyone as soon as he leaves. They’ll be like, what does HE a supergod want with YOU a mere peon?

It will be like a SPIKE in my neon-thwarted stock. My stock is up. I've never in my life had this happen. Juiciness of life usually just skips over me and blunders onto the next cubicle mate. And my stock is usually half-penny-ness.

It’s okay. I know I’m a peon. I’m fine with it. I’ve been one all my life. I’m not ready to NOT be one, not just yet.

He hands me an envelope. This is for you, he says with a white-teeth gleaming smile.

I swoon. I know I am such a loon. I think I smile, but it might look like a grimace.

I reach over for it and I tear at the corners of this envelope. My mouth is dry, I am speechless. I can’t even thank him properly!

What does he want?

What’s in the envelope?

Did I win the lottery? Oh yeah, I don’t remember even buying a lottery ticket.

Death of a Career

My basilisk-eyed, wanderlust once-creature-comfort career has ended abruptly.

It fell through the cracks ending up in bargain bin obscurity. When you shop at a bargainers dreamhouse, weaving in and out among useless countless off-shore off-colors of designers galore: Donna Karan purple plaid shirts, Ralph Lauren futile folds of foreverness, anything-in-abundance circa 1960 through 1989, Izod shirts lampooned into lascivious dryspell dryweave, cold whorish cotton-blended whatevers, lurid lustful polyesters, plentiful paisleys, vomitous greens/mauves/peaches, hellish hues of avenue-blues, whimsically-distressed violets, various vioin-colored old man’s cardigan sweaters, once-bitten twice-shy tawdry yellows and angry oranges, big-mouth toadstool browns, etc. don’t you just ask yourself where did all this crap come from? How did it get here? And furthermore, how the hell did I get here?

Well I happen to know that some of it fell there, just like my crash-bore accident-prone career.

Its fall was deep and crunchy, crusty and dire, harsh and severe…and it just fucking fell…

Like a bad-mouthed irritable screeching baby bird out of its mamma’s bawdy milk-residue-laden nest…

Into no man’s land.

A harrowing gumphawing Harumph! of a wasteland.

Sifted through and possibly pilfered by Jewish American Princesses at Bargain Basement’s R US?

I think not.

Smoothed-over, glossed-through, half-ass-heartily by the glassy-eyed Girl Next Door?

Nada.

Poked, prodded, and breathed-on by the White Trashy Whore Next Door?

No way, Jose!

Rather, ignored impetuously, imperceptively – icy indifference.

Which leads to…

My life is now a big galumphing gargoyle mess. It just stinks. It’s almost like my brain fell out of my head and landed with a clanky KERPLUNK!

It’s quite a killjoy isn’t it?

The brain. If you don’t use it then you lose it.

Yup. My brain.

It’s lost in an abyss of phlegm and flim-flam wading waters surrounding a castle, a moat of mired messiness with gritchy gators guarding its inky ilk. Not to mention the barnacles that have attached to my grimy brain.

So now I’ve got to figure out how to capture my brain from the wild waters in the messy moat from the bitchy beasts, and regain back my career from the blasphemous bargain basement crazy-circus hellatiousness.

It doesn’t help being QUIMMISH, a Quirky Uncontrollable Immature Middle-aged woman. My gut reaction is to consume exorbitant amounts of chocolate and to redux Sex & the City reruns, i.e. to basically escape from everything evil and erroneous in my life.

I’m very good at that. If there ever was a job opening for someone middle-aged to consume large quantities of chocolate and watch girlina chick flicks and write about this stuff, then I’m game.

But. Reality does not play this game well with me. It bites back blue and hard. Insolently, even. And I have vicious teeth-marks from it all over my ravaged body.

So I don’t really know what to do about this tired tangled tragedy. But they do say that tragedy is comedy’s sordid silly sister. And I believe it.

Got Torque? On Torque-blown Tuesdays.

I wrote this yesterday, which was Tuesday. I'm posting it today, which is Wednesday. Sometimes when you're unemployed you don't know what day it is. I meant to post this yesterday, so it's better late than never:

Yeah, it’s a Tuesday.

And how do I know that?

Because today I got torque! (And oh yeah, I survived Monday alright, too.)

I feel good.

I worked out at the YMCA for free (they give you three free tryouts as a guest).

I steamed like a happy new-wave frog dancing a polka (post nouveau style) in the steam room; I heated myself, blitzing like a barking bullfrog, in the sauna. Myriad permutations of animals gyrating in the desert, I see this in my mind’s eye, which is always an interesting place to be. They need steam in that desert, they need water, and they have plenty of deep-fried heat, and love.

I love steam! Bring on that cool song by Peter Gabriel regarding steam.

I love heat! Bring on that cool movie, with Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro.

All this, after I walked - and run-walked - on the treadmill.

I am lost in a dearth of wild woolly wilderness of life. It seems that everything’s been squelched this year. I sift through the smoldering wreckage, and I still see steam erupting from under the embers, the cinders, and the messiness of it all.

Steam. It’s like hope. It’s a good thing.