Remember that little incident in 1977, madam. . . ?

OK, yeah. It's down to the last two competitors for the job in New York. I still think I'm the ringer. Nevertheless, I signed my life away on Tuesday, agreeing to let my potential employer run every kind of check, test, and screening they want on me - criminal, driving, drug, credit, resume, references, Coke vs. Pepsi, etc.

My fear is that a couple of goons'll show up at my door, handcuff me, and throw me in the clink for something I'm completely unaware of on said records. Did I forget to pay my taxes one year? (Nah, the IRS would of pulled me in by now.) Was I a member of a prostitution ring back in the 70's that I've blanked on? Do I show up on the FBI file? (Cool!) Will they get me mixed up with Mary "Machine Gun Mama" Brennan, mad-dog of Hackensack? Do I get a court-appointed lawyer?

There's something about signing over my right to privacy that makes me paranoid, even though I've been a pretty good girl all my life. Wonder why that is? Oh, well. Pandora's Box has been opened, so I'll just have to wait and see what happens.

(Coke, by the way. I'm from Atlanta. Pah on Pepsi. Put that in my file.)