An interview! A bloody frickin' interview! Can you believe it? I most certainly cannot. It's in downtown Minneapolis, too - well within my comfot zone. Ha. Pardon me, but I need to commence freaking out.

Gosh, I'd sure like a job.

Well hello there. Did everyone have a lovely Valentine’s Day? And you all got the perfect valentine from that special somebody? No? Ah hell, there’s always next year.

The reason you all haven’t heard much from me is because not much is going on. Not much at all. I’ve spent the past three days with the beautiful Audrey and Brody the hell child who turns three tomorrow. And guess what – I get to spend tomorrow with them too! I went to the doctor with them yesterday because their mother needed reinforcement and my belief that there should be six-year intervals between children was solidified. Twins would probably kill me – if not the birth, the raising for sure. Those Anderson kids sure are fun though. (Fun enough to get me sleeping by ten and awake by seven for the past three mornings. Not that I’m complaining.)

I still haven’t decided how long I’m going to stay home. My parents haven’t gotten severely pissed at me for anything, which is unusual. Also, my old man is talking about going to Duluth sometime next week so maybe, just maybe, if he goes I can tag along and visit with the gang.

Oh oh! I got my several-thousand-dollar piece of paper in the mail yesterday. My very own diploma. Aren’t I supposed to just have a job handed to me now?

So do you want to know? Have I heard from any jobs? Nope. Not a one. Fuck you, employment. Fuck you and all you stand for.

I might have to take up your offer soon, Kelly. I never minded writing papers much anyway.

I'm really amused by the Valentine's Day-directed commercials that say things to the effect of, "Make her day so she'll make your night." Do these men really have to work that hard to get laid? A hooker would probably be cheaper than the inflated prices of a dozen roses and a box of chocolates on Valentine's Day. I'll be spending Valentine's Day without Darren. Less pressure that way, you know.

I just sent out twenty job applications. I counted. TWENTY. It was a long morning and now all I want to do is assume the fetal position and cry because that's twenty more jobs I won't get. I'm not actually that bothered by it. I'm sending out applications so it LOOKS like I want a job, but I'm enjoying mooching off those who are close to me. (There's nothing like using loved ones.)

Tomorrow I go home, though I'm not sure how long I'll be there. I've had so damn much fun living with Darren the past month. Something tells me I'll be back before long, so leaving shouldn't be as devestating as it could otherwise be.

That's all. Move along. Nothing to see here.

I woke up this morning to the fat cat puking on the bed. Twice. I went to the bathroom and thought, "Boy, what's that smell?" Not your normal funky bathroom smell, mind you. Because the sink! The sink was full of cat puke! I'm sorry - I just felt like you should know that. That's how my day started.

Yesterday I started watching Debbie Does Dallas, but sex kept on interfering with the plot line and I had to turn it off. I asked Darren last night if Debbie and her bitches ever make it to Dallas. Imagine my excitement when I leanred that they had! Way to go, Debbie and gang.

My days have been reduced to counting down the hours until Iron Chef is on. It's bizarre that Darren loves this show, and thus introduced it to me, considering he will eat nothing with more than two ingredients in it (counting salt as an ingredient...barbeque sauce too). If you don't watch Iron Chef, it's probably about time you start. If Darren can appreciate it, anyone can.

In an hour and a half that young man comes home from work. I've been in complete isolation, unless Hoark the Cat is considered ample company, for roughly 40 hours over the past three days and that's enough to make any person lose it a little. But now I should go make dinner and do the dishes because I'm trying to earn a diamond. Since when do diamonds appeal to me? Could it be that my estrogen levels are peaking and I'm finally realizing that, yes, I do have boobs and that means I should want diamonds? They're just so gosh darn PRETTY!

It’s fifty-one degrees outside right now. I’m not sure whether you’re aware of the amazingness of this event, but it’s pretty damn amazing. I know we’re only just entering February – snowy, snowy February – but it almost feels like spring is just around the corner. Oh how we’re teased.

So my intentions to refrain from moving in with my boyfriend kind of fell through, it appears. A month later, I’m still here and I’m still unemployed. I’ve learned a lot of stuff living with him though. Like it’s not smart to bowl six games in a row. And it’s even stupider to go back to the bowling alley and try to bowl three more the next day, despite the pulled muscle in your left ass cheek, your aching fingers and the blister that is dominating most of your bowling thumb. Darren’s also learning how to cope with my occasional (read: frequent) emotional outbursts. The other day, he actually said, “My God, you’re manic,” and that, of course, made me think of my manic days in Goldfine. Oh how I miss Goldfine.

I didn’t know just HOW MUCH I missed Goldfine until last weekend when Alexis and Chelsea came bowling with the gang and Alexis had pictures of Duluth! And it looks like they’re having a ragin’ good time without me! And I want to go back! It’s not like anyone wants to employ me. Why don’t I just go back?

Next weekend I plan on going back home for a while because I think my mom might die from snotty redhead withdrawal. Okay, maybe not, but she expected me to come home yesterday for some reason and she said she almost cried when she came home and realized I wasn’t there. She told me about she had the whole next week planned out for me, from babysitting to working to playing appalling numbers of Mexican Train. Why couldn’t I have fallen for a boy that lived closer to home?

And although you don’t care, you simply must know that yesterday at the humane society there were FOUR six- to eight-week-old black lab mix puppies and they spent the whole time I was there chewing on my fingers and kicking the crap out of each other. Gosh, it was precious.

Police sirens. Do you hear that? Where I come from, when I hear sirens in the distant, I’m hauling ass to the road to watch that 1976 ambulance top out at speeds of 65 miles an hour to pick up the shoveling-induced heart attack 15 miles down the road. The sirens never stop here. And there’s not even any snow to shovel! Snow can't survive in these tropical temperatures.