I do not fall asleep easily but, instead, channel surf for an hour or two, in order attain a point of "Sufficiently Sleepy Enough" to doze off. This is mostly because I am poor and I'm in a state of near constant panic, the only creature I can find to share my bed is a sociopathic Maine Coon Cat, and my across the street neighbor is dating a bass player who likes to rock out, but ONLY after 10:30 PM. As an aside, he has done more to divide this neighborhood than small, Hindi children with Zippos and Entitlement Complexes. Make no mistake - no one in the neighborhood is actually excited by or desirous of these impromptu, Cat-With-A-Paw-Stuck-In-A-Waffle-Iron Concerts (dude sings, too.) No, we're mostly divided on how best to express our displeasure. See, the girl part of the equation is actually a good neighbor. She shovels our snowy sidewalks for us, sometimes, and passes out banana bread... just because she made "extra."
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have never had even a tiny SCRAP of "extra" baked goods anything. I honestly believed she was either trying to poison me or slip me a Roofie the first time she showed up on my doorstep. But that shit smelled good, so I made my peace with Jesus and ate it, anyway. Since I'm not dead and I don't remember being violated - even in a dream-like fashion - I guess she's harmless.]
There's been some debate at the mailbox. It's been unilaterally agreed upon that we don't, necessarily, want to burn her house down (we're saving that for the parents of the aforementioned children, who only speak English when they aren't being bitched out about their progeny,) but we wouldn't mind kidnapping her boyfriend. And THIS is where the division is most apparent; My camp and I think he should be jammed in a sack (because we're colloquial, like that,) and then dropped off somewhere in rural Missouri, wearing ladies' panties and some lipstick. The opposing camp thinks he should be out-right, straight-up, de-handed.
Which just seems kind of - I don't know - permanent to me.
That's not my point; that's neither here nor there. I'm merely trying to set a stage to tell you about last night. Last night, while my bedroom windows were thrumming, and I was waiting for Two and a Half Men to come on (Charlie Sheen is one delicious hunk of man-meat, and the fact that he's kinky only adds to his allure,) I decided to abandon the local news and switch over to The Food Network. Unwrapped was on - you know; the one with Marc "Nickelodeon's Double Dare" Summers, where he uncovers manufacturing "secrets" (but not really,) to various foodstuffs? This is not my favorite show on The Food Network (that would be, Chopped,) but for the five minutes I had to kill, and since I could only hear about every three words spoken, I figured it would do.
I have NO idea what the actual theme of the episode was, but I'm going to guess "Sugar Coma," because he was wrapping up a segment on cookies with the faces of Oscar nominees captured forever (well, at least until you eat them,) via paper made out of sugar. Did anybody else know about this stuff?! PAPER made out of SUGAR?! Amazing! I started thinking about all the practical uses I could find for paper made out of sugar but, again -- that's not the point.
The point is, right after Marc clued me in to edible paper that would probably be awesome dissolved in some Mountain Dew, he took me to a Nestles' Bon Bon factory somewhere in California and introduced me to a - dig THIS! - "Bon Bon Specialist."
I don't know about the rest of you, but "Bon Bon Specialist" was NEVER an option on any of those standardized tests that I took back when dinosaurs roamed the molten surface of the earth and I was in school. I always scored into, "Frustrated & Angry Sales Person" or "Janitorial Staff." I was also encouraged to look into spelunking as a hobby, as well, but that's probably because I was never shy about admitting to my love of small, dark places suitable for hiding.
But, think about it: a Bon Bon Specialist! That would have been right up my alley, because I can eat chocolate covered balls of ice cream whether Judge Judy is on or not. I can get almost Seussian thinking about it.
I could eat them on a dare! I could eat them in a chair!*
Sadly, Otis-Lennon and their damned profiling denied me that all those years ago! Why, cruel Fate?!
It got me thinking, Well, what else could I have been that The Universe saw fit to fuck me out of?! Are there other cool jobs out there that nobody bothered to tell me about? Could I have been a wildly successful Nap Tester in a couch factory?! Official Ugly American in France?! I'd actually DO those jobs, and I'd do them really well. I doubt I'd gold-brick or slack off and I know I wouldn't invent bouts of explosive, bloody diarrhea and/or "Female Issues" once a month to avoid staff meetings.
Instead of being an impoverished, angry unemployed chick in Kansas, IF there had been some full disclosure back in the mid-80s, I might well have been the preeminent expert on Jacuzzis or Peanut M&Ms. But, noooo! Because of some vast conspiracy, the highlight of my day is hoping to catch a King of Queens rerun I haven't seen fifteen times before, while some ass from Payola, Mother-Fucking Kansas murders "Smoke on the Water" at a volume that makes my dog's eyes water.
Where is the justice in that, I ask you?! If these things had been properly disclosed to me, maybe I wouldn't be well on my way to adopting 17 more cats or adding, "Mean Old Lady" to my last name when I sign checks.
Life ain't fair.
* -- Further testament to why I don't write poetry.