Sick of Work

Jobs are just like men, I wailed to my friend b.r. today. You can never get the one you want, while the ones you don't want are slobbering on your neck and trying to get a hand up your skirt.

Since updating my resume on Monster.com a couple of weeks ago, I think I need to get a restraining order against the insurance sales industry.

Sara's off, she who's wearing the John Deere cap in yesterday's clip-art masterpiece. She gave notice by presenting her boss with a sheet cake decorated with a map of Colorado, a flag with her initials indicating the location of her new home. Isn't that magnificent? I think that officially outclasses all you "I'll-give-notice-in-the-form-of-a-clever-haiku-no-just-kidding-not-really" LOOOOOO-sers! The cake might make a bit of a mess, filed with her exit paperwork; but the gesture is as good-humored as it is grand. We'll miss Sara.

The most productive thing I've done today is go to Goodwill to get a bike, but they were all out. Instead I picked up a cat condo - you know, one of those carpet-covered plywood things with all the little platforms and cubbyholes. I figured the cats needed an outlet for all that excess energy.

Cats don't need a job to be sick of work. They're born that way.