Yesterday’s post was about cookies. Today’s post is from CookieBitch! Don’t you just love it? I didn’t even plan it that way.

She’s the sweetest Bitch you’ll ever want to know. (Don’t let her know I said that.) And she’ll see your comments here, so do let her know how much you like her particular brand of snark. Because, y’all, she’s hilarious.

Without further ado, let me present, the first guest blogger ever to grace the Hotfessional’s home… CookieBitch. (clap, clap, clap, clap)

And, don’t forget, when you’re done reading here, if you want to know something super secret about the Hotfessional - go check my guest post over at CB. It’s possibly more than you ever wanted to know.

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I have something in common with Hotfessional as we are both sexy woman of corporate power. Or at least that’s the way we like to think of ourselves, and if anyone questions this fact I’ll put my stiletto through their throat. I’m just sayin’ … don’t question us high-power types. We can get aggressive.

Being in this position means that we have both had to hire people. Many people. This process can be grueling, frustrating, and sometimes entertaining for one simple reason - most people are complete morons. That’s why they currently don’t work, or are seeking work before they get fired from their current job. The act of getting dressed in the morning is the most complex thing they can handle - and even that is done with a 50 percent success rate even after consulting a helpful 6-step guide - which includes pictures, of course.

Which brings me to my first common interview error - the way people dress. So many times I’ve had people show up to an interview looking like they just got out of a gutter, or were going to work later on the nearest street corner.

If someone shows up in jeans and a T-shirt to a corporate interview, I won’t even talk to them. If that is the best you can do, I don’t have a lot of confidence that you’re going to do any better on that project or report, so we might as well just part ways now and save each other a lot of time. Good luck on that career in farming, though.

Here are some other helpful hints about how to dress to an interview I shouldn’t have to mention - but will because so many people are obviously brain dead. Use an iron. Wear grown-up shoes. Mouthwash and deodorant are your friends. So are a brush and comb. Wear a shirt that isn’t stained, and has all its buttons. And no, a safety pin is not a substitute for a button.

My favorite interview dressing faux pas, however, came from a woman who mistakenly thought when she was coming to interview with me, that she was interviewing with a man because of a one letter mix up in writing down my first name. She thought she could win a man over by showing 90 percent of her breasts and wearing a skirt that barely covered her coochie. Little did she know my rack was way better than her’s and I was not impressed. Even though the men in my office begged me to hire her, I thought her tactics were cheap and desperate and an attempt to hide the fact she wasn’t confident enough in her skills to do the job. She did have a nice coochie though - well groomed.

But looking like a homeless person or a pole dancer are just one of many things you can do to fuck up in an interview if you lack basic intelligence. There are certain behavioral traits that will also keep you unemployed. For example, I had a guy interviewing to be a reporter who could not stop adjusting his package. I don’t know if it was a nervous habit, or if he is just so freakin’ huge he couldn’t get comfortable (in which case, may I just say, “Wow.”) But for the love of god, I don’t want to see that. I also really don’t want to shake our hand after you’ve been digging down there all day. EWW.

Gigglers don’t do it for me either. I understand you’re nervous, but if you sound like a 12 year old who just got passed a note that says “I like you. If you like me, check this box,” I am not going to take you seriously. Sorry.

And when you are waiting in a conference room with windows, be aware that I can see you picking your nose and wiping it under your chair. I’ll be sending you a haz-mat bill later, by the way. Also, don’t show up for a 9 a.m. interview reeking like you just consumed a fifth of tequila. Don’t show up for a 3 p.m. interview like that either - but at 9 a.m., it is just going to make me even more violent. If I have to be sober, so do you, buddy.

Finally, there are my favorite responses people give in an interview. First, there are the people who are TOO honest. I understand that you are trying to clear your conscience. But really, you should probably keep the fact you got fired from your last job for choking the shit out of one of your employees to yourself. And while you are at it, take your parole officer off your reference list, too.

When I ask you why you want to change jobs, don’t tell me it’s because your current job is too hard, and you’re looking for something easier. Also, don’t tell me how your boss is a jerk, either. That just makes you look like a jerk.

Look me in the eye when you talk to me too, not at my rack. And try to pay attention to the questions I ask. When you give me a blank stare, like you just can’t seem to concentrate, and ask me to repeat the question four times, I tend to think that maybe you are on drugs. Or possibly retarded.

I could go on and on, but the moral of this story is clear. When it comes to getting a job, or interviewing someone for a job, it is no longer just a matter of finding the best or most qualified person from a sea of applicants. No, in today’s world, it all comes down to just finding someone who is borderline competent and sane - who won’t embarrass you or your company and who may get some work done. And even then, sometimes that’s too much to ask.

— And that, my friends, is Cookie. Thanks Cookie - since I’ll be going on interviews myself soon, I’ll be sure to find out for sure whether it’s Jan, or Jon, interviewing me. I know better than to trust an admin to spell their boss’s name. —-

A friend of mine is a huge Girl Scout cookie fan. (Let’s call him Goose, eh?) Only the Thin Mints, but he buys upwards of 40 boxes every year. He swears that they last him the entire year - but somehow, by the time Christmas rolls around, he’s trolling the halls looking for anyone with a daughter. (In Girl Scouts - honestly. For the cookies.)

This year, I got a call from a mutual friend.

“The cookies are in, and I have a plan. I’m going to call 10 people. You have to call Goose and tell him that you’re holding one box ransom. I’m not releasing any of the boxes until he pays each ransom.”

The ransoms were varied. A dark chocolate candy bar from the shop down the street. A cup of coffee and a chocolate chip cookie from the cafeteria. (Can you tell we all have sweet tooths?) A call to a wife to sing Happy Birthday (when her birthday isn’t until October!). A solo “I’m a Little Teapot” at the next staff meeting.

And a tray of brownies.

It was the tray of brownies that broke the Goose’s back.

“1 tray of home made brownies in exchange for 1 box - - 1 TRAY? Are you crazy? I won’t walk to the damn train station for a candy bar and you want me to bake a whole tray? This demand is also rejected. “

The “kidnappers” response was:

” your response has angered the cookie gods. You are in no position to reject demands or dare try to negotiate your way out of this. Given your insolent behaviour, the demand price has now gone up. You are required to provide 2 tray’s of brownies. This demand must be met within 48 hours or a call will be made to Mrs. Goose to discuss the 10 boxes of cookies which were “purchased” by yourself. I would imagine the pain of bringing in 2 tray’s of brownies is much, much less compared to the pain you will experience at the hands of your wife when she is informed of your betrayal. Need I remind you that “TEN” is not what you told your wife. “

Hee!

I love a good email war between friends.

Goose’s response:

“Your demand is once again rejected. The Mrs. has been told of the additional 10 boxes and has forgiven me for my weakness. There will be no further communication with this kidnapper, and the pay back will now be even more severe than originally planned. “

At this point, I could no longer contain myself. I KNOW Goose and his cookie addiction.

From me:

“Weakness? WEAKNESS?

Was Katrina a spring shower? Was the San Francisco Earthquake in 1906 a little tremor?

Is Britney a model mother?

Do Roger Clemens and George Washington share their ability to not tell a lie?

My dear Goose. We understand that addictions are horrible, horrible things. This is your family calling for an intervention. We WILL make reservations for you at the Cirque Lounge in Utah. Or with Amy Winehouse in London.

Deliver the brownies already. There are people who can contact Mrs. Goose. “

—- I can’t wait until I get my coffee and chocolate chip cookie. And I can’t wait to see him sing “I’m a Little Teapot” at next week’s staff meeting. But what I really can’t wait for is to see him carting in those two trays of brownies. —-

This is a take-out bag from Macaroni Grill:

This is the take-out bag from Macaroni Grill after your cat decides to try to get inside it and gets the handles up over his ears and onto his neck and tears through the house bouncing off of walls in a desperate effort to “Mom, Get the freakin’ Superman cape off of me, I only wanted to smell the fettucini that used to be inside!”

Any questions?

**Updated:  He’s fine.  It’s not so much the headlight as the turn signal.  The guy was apparently turning left (coming from the west) into the northbound lane.  Shortman was turning right into the northbound lane.  There’s a left-turn signal there, and the guy must have come through as it turned red and Shortman had the green.  Shortman was lucky because he was stopped, so hadn’t had much time to get any speed up.

It’s probably, as some of you have said, a good thing because it was a first accident that didn’t have bad ramifications (i.e. injuries, bad damage) - and it will make Shortman more aware of his surroundings and the other idiots on the road.

Believe me,  he’s a beginning driver in all of his glory.  He doesn’t have the experience to know that people turn left after traffic is clear, even if the light is red.  He knows now.  (grin)

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Someone ran a red light this morning and hit Shortman (who was driving the tank of a 1995 pickup thank the lawd). The asshole didn’t stop. So far, all I know is what Mr. Hot told me when he called this morning, because Shortman isn’t home from school yet, but it all boils down to:

“He’s not hurt”

and

“A broken headlight”

Of course it kills me that when Shortman called his Dad, he was crying. Because, Oh Mah Holy Hell people, he’s only been driving alone since October 17th. And it’s the first time he’s been in an accident. And it wasn’t his fault and the Fuckhead who hit him took off and didn’t even stop to see if my baby boy was okay. And I wasn’t there to comfort him myself.

He couldn’t get the plate number before the Fuckhead ran.

Seeing as I got rear-ended last week by some flippin’ idiot myself, who had NO insurance, (yes, comments were heavily skewed to “Hot, you should have called the police.”) I feel quite qualified to say this:

Damn it people! Get off the phones, open your eyes and pay attention to what you’re doing or stay the hell away from me and my family while you’re behind the wheel of a 2000 pound weapon. If you don’t, I reserve the right to grab you by the hair/collar/nostrils, throw you to the fucking ground, and shove my boot up your ass so far that the pointy toes on my boot will be poking out of your nose.

—- Now while I try to calm down some more, take a look at this face and tell me you wouldn’t get your boots dirty if he was yours. And…sigh…yes, I used up my quota again. —-

…because I’m starting to get the itch, and mine? Are more of a brownish/tan/pest-infested type of color. And suffering from either lack of, or too much water. Sigh.

I actually discovered blogging by looking for information on gardening in the midwest/zone 5 (Hi Genie!). I’m kinda hopeless. I have great ambitions every year. I tell myself that I’m going to start my seedlings early, and pay attention when transplanting, and not get tired of this plant or that plant.

I actually like to weed. (Seriously, want to hire me?) I love being outside. I don’t mind pinching back and hauling water. I just make really dumb choices about what I’m planting and where I’m planting it - and then I get all disgusted and disillusioned and disappointed when things don’t grow. Because dead? Not so pretty.

Last year, I had a couple of projects. The first was to fill this spot where the garage and the house come together. It’s shady. It was full of rocks and concrete from where things got dumped when they built the house in 1972. (Yes, you read that right. No one had ever done anything with this little spot.) I’m really hoping that they’ll grow and fill in and cover the fugly foundation blocks.

Another was to finish filling in the perennial beds in front of the house. These pictures are all from in front of

the garage side of the house. In front of the porch, I had to replace a Butterfly Bush that cacked it after it grew a couple of leaves and then we had a frost. I put in Coreopsis and Balloon Flowers - and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that they survive this winter. (See my rain barrel there in the corner? Doing my part to conserve natural resources. Yay me!) It’s also filled with Daylillies, Anise Hyssop, Rudbeckia, and Beardtongue (which I always call Penis Team On).

I have no doubts that I’ll need to replace some plants in there, but I can live with that. (Why yes, this is pretty much the only picture I have of the front of the house. And yes, it is depressing in the winter. The bedroom window in the upper left with the red curtains? Shortman’s room. It’s decorated in Texas Rangers baseball colors. Don’t ask. It wasn’t a pretty experience.)

Anyway, this gardening shit? It’s a matter of learning and experimentation. I know that. But I lived in a “Garden Level” (read: 1/2 underground) apartment for 9 years, then in a condo, then in a rental house - experimentation to me is hanging a couple of baskets of impatiens and calling it good.

This year, we have two projects planned. (Well, Mr. Hot has one, and I have one.) Mr. Hot wants to plant a garden. Wait, get this - with food growing! - in the ground! instead of in pots. We have a spot all picked out, and come Memorial Day, we’ll be planting. (In Michigan, planting before Memorial Day guarantees that there will be at least one frost around the 20th - so you just don’t do it.)

My project, though, y’all, is something that I need some help on.

In the front yard, we have a wellhead. This is because we have well water. The wellhead does something to protect us from dying when we take showers or make coffee, so it is a rather important fixture for the entire Hotfessional family.

Right now, the wellhead is surrounded by snow. In the spring, there’s a few tulips that may or may not decide to come up (we’ve only lived here since June 2006, so I’m not counting on anything showing from one year to the next). I transplanted one hosta out of there last year - and then I discovered another that I’m going to move this year. Other than that? Weeds. Weeds, weeds, and more weeds. Ugly weeds, too. I can’t even claim they’re wildflowers.

So, I’m trying to decide what to plant. I’m asking for your help. (Begging, really.) Here’s the ground (ha, get the pun?) rules:

1. The house is white trimmed in green and black. (See above). The flowers on the other plants are purples and yellow/oranges and whites. I’m not thrilled about throwing pink or red in there because I think it would just clash with the rest, but if you can convince me? I’m all for it.
2. No viney things or ground cover allowed. The area is cleared of grass and there’s rocks around it (think 12-14 inch boulders of river rock - about the size of a shoe box). Mr. Hot cuts the grass out front. He will not appreciated plants that do not stay within their confines. He may even decide to give them a haircut with the John Deere.
3. The diameter of the entire circle of cleared dirt weeds is about 4 - 4 1/2 feet.
4. There’s a tree that provides some shade, but for the most part, it’s a very sunny, dry spot.
5. I don’t want anything too tall - more within the 10-16″ range.
6. Perennials are definitely preferred. Annuals are beautiful, but damn, are they needy. And we’re definitely Zone 5. I can’t claim 6, as much as I’d like to.

Picky much? (I know! Geez.)

So, what do you all think? Send me some ideas.

—- I’m dreaming about dirt and digging. And sunshine and heat. And Oh Mah Holy Hell people. It’s freakin’ snowing. Again! There’s a couple of inches in the parking lot and we just got an email that says “there is a regional salt shortage and only public agencies are able to acquire such”. A salt shortage? In Michigan? In February? Fuck a duck. —-

When I signed up to participate in Neil’s Interview Experiment, I wasn’t so much worried about who was going to interview me because, y’know, I pretty much tell anyone anything here, as long as I don’t have to show my face. But I was worried that the person I interviewed was going to say, “Geez. What a dorkwad bunch of assinine questions.” Or “Does this person even know what an interviewer is supposed to do?”. Or, “I’d rather shut down my blog than respond to this drivel.” Or some such stuff.

But when I got Whitney’s link and started reading through her archives and her 101 things, I calmed down somewhat. Because she’s really quite down to earth for being so young (Shush. Yes, I know that I’m 23 years older than her. Yes, I do know that she’s barely of legal drinking age. That doesn’t mean that I couldn’t tell her to drink vodka while answering the questions.)

So, here’s the results of our email interview. Enjoy - and then go visit Whitney so you can see why I asked the questions I asked. (By the way, I added more stuff after she answered. My little sidebar comments look like this.)

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What is your favorite Middle-eastern food?
Arab baklava. But you have to say it the right way: BAWK-law-wah.
Oh, absolutely. We need to get people to stop saying “Back-lav-uh”

How many Kate Spade items do you have?
Not nearly enough, seeing as I break something new every week. On Super Bowl Sunday, a ceiling fan took my new sunglasses right off my head when I jumped a bit too high at the local bar.

How do you explain your auto-immune deficiency to others?
If it’s a new doctor, I smuggle in some tequila and say, “Oh, you are going to NEED this when I’m through.” Otherwise, I don’t really talk about it much. To be honest, I have some of the weirdest medical issues, so I feel strangely guilty bringing up another one to anyone other than family.
As a fellow auto-immune disease sufferer, I can understand this.

Are Kyle and Sona going to get back together?
I don’t know, Kyle’s off doing his own thing (read as: continuing on his mission to impregnate as many fifteen year olds as possible).

If you told me what Sona does in Quantico, would you have to kill me?
No, but Sona might. She is in the Marine Corps, training to be a translator. After that, she’s in the Middle East for a couple years. She’s originally from Iraq, you see, and she’s looking forward to kicking some insurgent ass.
My brother-in-law worked for a year as a translator….I remember hearing the phone clicks when we would talk to him as he was going through the ’security clearance’ phase of getting the job. We used to tell the people listening in that they were welcome to come over for dinner. hee!

Which arm did you break?
I basically shattered my carpals in my wrist. My school nurse told the ER doctor I broke my arm (elbow) so when I arrived with just a broken wrist, the doctor went ape-shit and bitched and moaned and shook my arm with annoyance/impatience. I remember, being nine years old and thinking, “You dickhead.” Thankfully, my mom said it for me.

How does anyone name their kid Brady Bunches?
His parents were bizarre (who sends their nine year old to school with Kahlua-filled chocolates for lunch?).The one time I met them, his dad started licking the school walls. Not gonna lie, it was a little awkward.
Um, I would think so.

Can you tell me where your piercings are?
Both ears are double-pierced and my belly button is too.

What was the best word you ever made playing Scrabble?
I flubbed a lot of words, but the best one I ever played was quaxi. It’s not even a word, but everyone bought it because when I was a loner, I read the dictionary. I think I gave a definition as some arithmetic term. Anyway, I won like 8 bazillion points.

Who was your date for Prom?
Sona. I’m not obsessed with her, I promise. Or maybe I am. Just a little, though.

Where do you buy candles that smell like cleaning products?
At the Bump N’ Dent. One of those food warehouses that sell expired food or products that didn’t really hit it on the market. For some crazy reason, people don’t like Clorox or Pine-Sol scented candles.
If you find Murphy’s Oil Soap or Orange Glo, grab one for me, eh?

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Thanks Whitney - for being such a great interview subject.

—- Now, the rest of you, if you haven’t done it already, go sign up! —-

My Dad turned 66 today. I wrote about him here and here.

It wasn’t always easy growing up as the daughter (the oldest daughter y’all) of a cop. Of a Lebanese cop. Oh Mah Holy Hell. Talk about chastity belts and date-stake-outs.

But I love the man with all my heart.

Happy Birthday Dad.

Have a falafal for me.