Car talk.

I have to carpool with a co-worker to an offsite meeting today. As we were talking about driving arrangements, I asked her if she wanted to drive. She was all like, “I don’t know. My car is REALLY SMALL. Like knees-in-the-dashboard small. When I ride with my dad or even my boyfriend, we are like on top of each other practically.”

OK bitch. Code breakin’ time. What you’re really trying to say is that I AM TOO FAT FOR YOUR PIECE-OF-SHIT SATURN. Jesus. I may be fat, but I’m not a goddamned circus freak. I FIT in cars already.

Couldn’t she have said that her transmission is on the fritz, or that the oil is leaking? Christ. Sure, I’ll drive. But I can tell you right now that I’m pushing the passenger seat all the way to the dashboard, so that Little Miss Honesty is in the birthing postion for the entire two-hour ride. Speed bumps take on a whole new dimension when your snootch is pressed up against the frosty windshield like a suction-cup Garfield.

Let’s make a deal, lady. You don’t get all up in my bizness about my weight, and I’ll refrain from singing the theme from “Yentl” when you and your Streisandesque schnoz enter the room.

Countdown to Khakiland.

I’ve been a little withdrawn since last week, having made zero posts since then. But a lot of shite has been going down. I was offered the job at the Evil Empire (I used to work there, before here, and now want to return to sop up all those glorious benefits).

They had to be tightwads and lowball me on salary. C’mon people! So, all my energies since then have been spent on dickering (if you’ve ever bought a car, you know how much energy that can take). I finally got them up to an acceptable figure, so now it’s official – I start in two weeks. And so the Countdown to Khakiland begins.