Personally, my favorite flava is chocolate mint

Mucho apologies for the non-posting but the one-two punch of overwork and low-fat cookie dough ice cream has proven a siren song too strong to resist.

I auditioned for an industrial (or "training video") on Monday. Nothing new about that, but as I was checking out the competition I noticed several decidedly un-commercial ladies filling out forms. Each was sporting an abundance of black lace and gold (plated) bling, and much effort was spent fluffing hair and repositioning cleavage. Curious about where the role of "Skank" fit into a video for multiple sclerosis (tagline: "Skanks get it too!") I scanned the breakdown. My role was a schoolteacher and mother, the other character was a corporate big-wig. That's when I noticed the other sign in sheet.

Now, I love reality TV. (Beauty and the Geek? High five!) That said, the thought of actually appearing on, say, Flava of Love holds about as much appeal as mushed rabbit.

Who knew they held auditions for Flava of Love?

That's right, I spent roughly twenty minutes in the company of several overexcited, underdressed women who were more than ready, willing and able to swap spit with the toothless, clock-wearing wonder. I'm not judging them (I'M NOT JUDGING THEM) but when you're so excited to be chosen for the opportunity to "date" a washed-up rapper that you poop yourself on national television (don't believe me? Google last season), perhaps it's time to reevaluate your choices in life.

I sat there, torn between working on my audition and eavesdropping ("So where do you live?", "Bensonhurst", "Oh yeah? Me too!") when I got called in. Let me tell you, pretending to have MS is a hell of a lot less interesting then being a fly on the wall at a Flava of Love call.

My only regret is that I didn't steal the application questionaire.