Stinky fart saga continues...

"Whew, I'm gonna have to crack a window or something."
...as I fan my way through a thick green cloud, over to the nearest window, I find that it is melted shut, they all are - Mother Nature's way of trying to encapsulate and isolate the noxious outgassing of my dogs' digestive processes. I finally sit down, beaten. I resign myself to my fate and wait for death to take me. Then I feel a rumbling deep down in my stomach. Hey! I think I have a fart of my own; my spirits start to rise as I feel the gas bubble work it's way through the last two turns in my large intestine. Relief is on it's way. I lean to the right, a tiny smile starting to show in the corner of my mouth. Aaaah. I let it out. It had bass. It had substance (okay, not really substance). It startled the dogs from their slumber and they raised their heads to look at me with deserved respect and admiration. I once again proved that I am Alpha.
Then the smell - the glorious smell. It crept up gently, barely whispering to my olfactories, just a hint of the sublime: Spaghetti, I think it was, with mild italian sausage and pink lemonade. The purple odor malform then drifted down, down, down, and for a brief moment I thought I saw complete sentience in the dogs' eyes: they each stood in turn and bowed low to their Queen, then in utter humiliation and defeat, they slinked to the bedroom and curled up under the bed.
Like an epiphany for the world: in that same moment the sun came out from hiding and the birds started an excited chattering. I reached for the window - victory was mine - and I hesitated a moment. Reveling in my odorific accomplishment, a smile wide upon my face and the sun shining it's approval, I mustered up all my will: I tugged at the window and it opened.

Job hunting yesterday didn't go as well as I had intended. I think I may have a good lead working for a construction contractor. He seemed like a good Christian man, and he didn't have the French accent that I'm trying so hard to tune my ears to.
On that note: I've heard some beautiful accents in my life. Bostonian, New Yawk-er, Southern, Midwestern, Texan... but I'm having quite the challenge tuning my ears to the Louisiana French accent. It's interesting to say the least. I'm not trying to be insulting: but I have found very few forward thinkers, or had educated discourses since I've been here. It's also very clique-y, just to try to break into the local scene or find a friend has proven very difficult. I went to the ship-yard to look for work and the man there "sized" me up and declared that I wouldn't like this kind of work. Humph.
My hands have finally come clean, and I guess I look a lot more feminine than I usually do, but the assessment appears to be that I'm looking for office-work. If they only knew...
I think I will clean my carburetter and see what's wrong with the vacuum advance on the truck, maybe that will restore my hands to their usual beauty and I can be taken seriously again. It's almost embarrassing to have soft clean hands and glossy trimmed fingernails. The funny thing is: I used to be embarrassed about having permanently dirty cracked hands with callouses. I suppose I need to get back to looking like myself and go roll around in some grease or something.
My second job lead is at the Heli-port. The guy said I could be a CSR (customer service representative), answer phones and such. That doesn't sound too bad, at least I will be working. There is no job beneath me at this point, except maybe DirecTV installer. I hope I NEVER have to be a direct burial tech. Sorry, nuh-uh, no way. I'd work fast-food first. Which reminds me: Taco Bell in Abbeville is hiring. I keep fantasizing that I could swoop in there and create a teamwork environment, make the job fun, get the place in tip-top shape... and then what? Yep. That's where I get stuck too. We all know I would get bored fairly quickly. I have 'way too much imagination to be in a "lather-rinse-repeat" job. It's not pride - I'm never too good to make an honest days' wages - I'm just leery about taking a job where I know I will always be dreaming about "the good-old-days" when I was a top-notch technician,
...and watching all my tools rust in the back of the truck.

Well, time's a wasting.
You have a great day.
MsAmber