A Measure of Comfort. . .

. . . mashed potatoes.

Now isn’t that sad – a fifty-eight year old woman eating mashed potatoes for her lunch because she thinks she aced a job interview.

Nuts, I am.
Talking like Yoda, I am.
Sitting with cats, I am.
Back to the “Nuts, I am.”

“Aced job interview.” What part of that leads me to mashed potatoes (damned good ones, too) for lunch? With REAL freakin’ butter, too, I want you to know.

I would love the job. I would be good at the job. I loved the people in the agency. It’s right up my alley.

I would hate leaving my present job. Oh, I wouldn’t hate leaving a lot of the crap behind me. I would hate leaving the people.

And it would be “just like starting over.” Ya just knew I would get a Lennon lyric in there somewhere. Benefits were fairly good – very good if you were someone who didn’t have 17 years in at one company. There are some good things about longevity.

And then there’s the salary – a cut in pay. I need to save for retirement. I need Social Security to be basing my subsistence income of my dotage on the highest amount made not a slide backwards. Yeah, yeah – I know. What Social Security?

I was in a craving mashed potatoes funk because I gave a good interview? Well, that was just one thing.

I’m in the middle of my vacation. I haven’t written The Great American Novel – yet. I haven’t finished the two short stories I started on Monday. I haven’t gone to the library to do research on Easton’s Haunted History (an idea that’s been niggling at me the past week or two or three). And I aced a job interview for a position I can’t accept.

That led me to mashed potatoes for lunch – with real butter.