Corporate America Sucks, Part VII: Venting

Begin rambling rant.

So, one of the asshole attorneys has been making some snide comments about my being too serious.

Too serious to work at a law firm?

This cheeses me to no end for several reasons.

First, the most obvious:  It’s a law firm.  Not the same as working on a cruise ship.  Different demeanor.

Now, for what it’s worth, this particular attorney is notorious for making cutting remarks about anyone and everyone.  So he must be perfect, right?  I’m sure he thinks he is.

My interaction with said asshole, Donald, has been minimal, although it has increased of late.  Lucky me.

I admit it.  I am serious at work.  I do my job well, and generally the attorneys regard me as someone who can get the job done most efficiently.  Of course, there’s just no pleasing some people, and a qualified, knowledgeable, capable employee just isn’t enough for them.

We’ve had our share of inane asses here, and, in my opinion, they are too often forgiven for their incompetence.  I guess a jovial (read:  clownishly unprofessional) attitude compensates for poor work.  Sorry, folks, I was not brought up that way.  You have a job to do, you do it, and you do it right.

It further ticks me off that certain asshole attorneys think that what they see in the office is the whole of me.  Ha.  They are so self-centered that it would never occur to them that maybe, just maybe, I am a different person outside of the office.  Duh.  Like I live my life in full-on work mode.

MY JOB IS WHAT I DO, NOT WHO I AM.

But then, why should an attorney ever consider that?  They are so the opposite of that creed.

Today’s snide comments remind me of a similar situation, years ago, when I was a young adult living at home.  Mom basically called me a sour-faced bitch and said she didn’t understand how I could even have any friends.

Ouch.

I explained it to her.

You see, at that time in my life, home was not a happy place.  My father was up to some secret shady shit (SSS) which, in time, would nearly ruin the family.  It had gotten to the point where I was through with dear ol’ dad, but I had my plan in place and had to stick it out.

The Plan:  I lived at home while attending college.  I graduated with a 4.0 in less than four years while holding a part-time job as a bank teller.  (I had the good fortune of snagging that job at a local bank half a mile from home while still in high school).  Upon graduation, I switched to full-time at the bank and looked for my first paralegal job.

(That bank was awesome.  They let me work full-time through summer and Christmas breaks and always accommodated my school schedule, letting me work as many or as few hours as I needed at any time.  Of course, they paid me peanuts, so why wouldn’t they oblige me?)

By September, I had paid off my car loan and landed a job.  My plan was on track, and the next step was to move the hell out.  I did so one month later.

But back to when Mom basically called me a sour-faced bitch.

I couldn’t believe that she thought what she saw at home was the whole of me.  Sound familiar?

Because of Dad and his SSS, the tension at home was unbearable.  I could feel it the minute I walked in the door, even if Dad wasn’t there.  That kind of tension.  Unhealthy tension.  So, yeah, I probably was a sour-faced bitch AT HOME, just waiting to hear what the latest SSS was and trying in vain to make some sense of it, figure out what the hell was going on.

My friends?  Thank God I had them.  Hanging out with them was my only outlet and the only thing that kept me sane during that time.

I tried to explain this to my mother, in gentle terms, and I think she understood.  She said something along the lines of, “I guess I didn’t think of it that way, because I don’t manage to get out of this house very often myself.”

Sad.  Mom was a victim of that generation of women who stopped working during their first pregnancy, only to find they were practically unemployable once the children had grown.  Seeing her caught in that unfortunate trap only fueled my ambition to get through school and be able to support myself.  No way was I going to be trapped by Dad’s (or anyone’s) SSS, ever.

Fast forward a couple of decades.  Work is not a happy place for me.  I don’t hate all lawyers or all law firms, but I do despise this one.  This firm does not represent individuals.  It represents corporations, large corporations – the evil that is Corporate America.

So not me.

I do my work well, because it is my work to do.  It ends there.  I have no interest in the work, the corporations that are our clients, or the outcome.  Corporate America BLOWS.  Every partner here makes over $1 million a year and works only a few hours a day, at best.  Sure, they’re in the office all day, but doing actual work?  Two or three hours a day.  Any staffer here puts in more hours of real work.

But I have my plan in place, and I have to stick it out.

The Plan:  Get through school while continuing to work and be able to pay my bills and then start my new career.

And then some asshole of the universe attorney basically calls me a sour-faced bitch.

My hatred of my job is unhealthy, I know.  Just sensing BFB Bob’s presence when I come in automatically puts me in a foul mood.  I feel that switch inside me turn off and on, 9 to 5, Monday through Friday.  That same switch I felt turn on when I walked in the door at home so many years ago.

How’s that for some parallels?

The difference, however, is that I wanted Mom to understand why she was seeing someone who was less than happy.  I cared what she thought.  More importantly, she did understand.  She understood that I was, for the time being, trapped in an unhealthy environment.  (In fact, I remember sitting on my bed in my first apartment just a few weeks after moving in and actually feeling that the weight of all the tension had been lifted from me.  It was a glorious feeling.)

As for some arrogant millionaire Corporate America attorney, I don’t give a damn whether he understands that “work me” is not the whole me, or even the true me.  But how dare you subject me to Corporate America bullshit day after day and then assume I have the same attitude outside the office as I do in the office.  What a jackass.  Trade my indentured servitude for a mil a year for part-time work, and I’m sure I’d have more to smile about in the office, too, you egotistical, piece of shit douchebag.

You’ll just have to excuse me for merely doing my job well while not being all Yippee Skippy about it at the same time.  You are not worth my sunshine, and your nasty comments most certainly will not elicit a smile from me.

Rot in Hell.  There is no Happiness in Slavery for me.

I got away from the tension of home, and I’ll get away from the tension of this job, too; and once again I will experience that glorious feeling of having the weight lifted.

End of rambling rant.

=^..^=

Tool (8-2-09)

Be Patient.  There’s some mention of this band Tool towards the end of this lengthy post.

So, my third Tool concert.  The first was in 2006, and the second was 2007, the as yet unposted third installment of the Tool Trilogy of posts.  I suck.  That post was almost entirely written the night of the concert.  Just needs some tweaking.  Blame school.  And the fact that I suck.

This time, instead of the somewhat nearby Mansfield, Massachusetts, we had to go to Manchester, Cow Hampshire, to an ENCLOSED venue.  I so prefer open air concerts — the sound quality, the ambiance, the less claustrophobic, industrialized, processed feeling.  Exception:  clubs.  Can’t beat that kind of intimacy.

Anyway, I left shortly after 2:00, tanked up, picked up Neil, crossed a couple of state borders, and made it to downtown Manchester in just under two hours.  Yes, we made generous allowances for getting lost and finding parking, neither of which was an issue, fortunately.

Neil, by the way, has been friends with my brother since high school, so that’s how long I’ve known him.  Not my boyfriend.  Tim backed out of this concert, understandably, because of his tinnitus.

I drove because Neil has a tendency to overindulge with the alcohol.  To his benefit, I forgot to bring a bottle opener, and he of course had one.

We found a parking lot just across from the arena for $10, a real bargain compared with Providence’s “event parking” rates.  We later learned that there was street parking to be had for a dollar, but decided we were just as well off in the lot instead of having to navigate unfamiliar streets, while watching for jaywalking pedestrians, in search of an available $1 spot.  And Neil paid for the parking.

Suzanne had tipped me off that there were several restaurants in the immediate vicinity, but we figured they’d be packed with concertgoers, so we picnicked in the punchbuggy.  I made a Caesar salad and chicken quesadillas on corn tortillas.  (After making them with corn tortillas for gluten-free Jenny for our 3^rd of July pre-fireworks picnic, I can honestly say I’ll never go back to using flour tortillas.  Corn is tastier.)  Neil, who sometimes works at his family’s diner, usually in the role of baker, was good (or evil?) enough to bring the pumpkin roll with cream cheese filling that I love.  Mmmm.

I drank a beer and a tall Jim Beam and Diet Coke.  I didn’t count Neil’s beers.  Still early, we decided to stroll over to the arena, where many were already congregated.  The many, I correctly assumed, were the General Admission floor ticketholders.  I don’t do GA Floor.  That be scary.  I thought that, given the GA arrangement, the doors might open earlier rather than later, and my bladder did not have room for another drink.

I was wrong.  Clearly, the arena managers do not remember the 1979 Who concert in Cincinnati.  The whole, entire mother was GA, and that poorly managed fiasco resulted in 11 dead from stampedes.  Fortunately, there would be no stampedes here in Manchester.

Not needing to get in line, we sat on the grassy curb.  Some people-watching notes:  What’s up with everyone wearing their Tool t-shirts to the concert?  Like, EVERYONE.  It was crazy.  I would never do that.  You’re AT the concert.  You like the band.  We get it.  Geez, so cult-like.

The first time I saw Tool (in Massachusetts), I wore all black and felt like somewhat of a Nine Inch Nails outcast.  That crowd was more jeans and whatever shirt was on top in the hamper.  Ditto for the second time, where I went jeans and black jersey.  Manchester, however, was more of a slightly outdated, goth-ish grunge look.  Lots of black.  Me?  I wore cropped jeans and a pink peasant top.  And the flowered skimmers mentioned in the Tool Trilogy, Part I.  I didn’t totally blend in with the passé redneck youth, but I don’t think I stood out either, so good.

In style yet age-appropriate, not a soccer mom, comfortable in her own skin and attire.  And it showed cleavage.  Hip, mature lady-rocker who isn’t ridiculously trying to look 20?  Maybe?  Whatever.  I felt fine with what I was wearing, even if it was too pretty for Tool.  I just can’t help the pretty.

Anyhow, while sitting on the grass, I struck up a conversation with a couple of guys who sat adjacent to us.  Ah, so much more confident I am with the young dudes now that I’m older.  Pity.

Unfortunately, Tyler and Josh had no idea when the doors would be opened either.

And I had to pee in the worst way.

I started looking around for trees and such.  No luck.  On the walk from the lot, I noticed that all the restaurants had signs posted that restrooms were for patrons only.  Makes sense, I know, but I had to pee, man!  Damn that beer.

So, Tyler was a cutie and a sweetie and more talkative than his friend.  (Eventually, Josh and Neil got into some band talk or something.)  Tyler had really long, thick, gorgeous brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.  Beautiful hair.  I wish I had that hair.  Coupled with his sweet face and gentle manner, oh my.  And he probably wasn’t even 30.  Sigh.  So lovely.

The four of us eventually got into one of the non-GA lines.  My bladder, my bladder.  Open the doors, dammit!

The show was supposed to start at 7:30 (which it didn’t, of course), and those jackasses didn’t open the doors until sometime around 6:45.  Typical for Tool, the female frisk lines were MUCH shorter than the guys’ lines, so I told Neil I would meet him at our seats.  I couldn’t stand inside the entrance waiting around for him.  I had to get to the nearest ladies’ room tout de suite.  Did I mention I HAD TO PEE?  So I had to say farewell to my sweet Tyler, too.

(In fact, as I was being frisked, I asked the security woman where the nearest restrooms were.  Classy.)

Our seats were awesome.  Section 119, damn close to the stage and with a great view!  I had a clear view of the entire stage for the duration of the concert.  Unfreakinbelievable!  No NBA types in front of me obstructing my view — a possible first!  We watched that growing throng on the floor, all packed in tight at the front barricade.  No, thank you.  I was much happier from a good, safe distance.

The Funniest Thing that Happened:
The opening act was Tweak Bird.  I’ve never heard of them.  Their gear was set up at the front of the stage, with Tool’s gear in back, covered up.  The lights dimmed, and one guy got on stage.  He made a couple of bird noises and did some weird bird poses.  Then, he squatted down and appeared to be inspecting the wires or connections or something.  I couldn’t tell, exactly.  Nesting?  Then he stood for a minute before sitting at the drums.  Taking his time.  He started to mumble something in a pathetic, whiny voice.  Think Gordon Gano of the Violent Femmes.

“So, um, the other day, I was like, um…”

And then a voice bellowed from the floor.

“PLAY SOME FUCKING MUSIC!!!”

Hahaha.  There was a round of laughter, but I think I was the only one in the arena still laughing five minutes later.  That just got me.

The bellower barely had the last word out when Tweak Bird started.  Clearly, they were chosen for the gig based on their focus on drumming.  The guitarist occasionally made interesting use of feedback as an additional instrument.  The third guy played flute and alto sax (meh) and saxophone (godawful).  The lyrics were minimal, which was a good thing, as there was no vocal talent.

Between bands, I had a lapse in judgment and waited in a very long, slow-moving line to purchase a $6 beer.  The line was close to our section, though, so if I saw the lights dim, I was prepared to skip the beer and dart to my seat.

Finally, beer in hand, I took just a couple of steps, and guess who I ran into?

Tyler.  Sweet Tyler with the gorgeous, now un-ponytailed hair.  Yumm-ay.  We chatted for a while before heading back to our respective seats.  Actually, he did much of the talking.  I did much gazing.  Ah, too bad we weren’t seated in the same section.

I do admit that Tyler and I likely were so at ease with each other because of the mutually non-threatening circumstances.  Zero intimidation.  I suspect a kind, gentle guy like that, at that young age, would be more ill at ease with a female closer to his own age.

The wait for Tool was long.  About an hour.  WTF?

During this time (and feeling a slight beer buzz, perhaps), I mentioned to Neil about seeing Tyler on the concourse and my regret that we weren’t sitting near each other.

K:  If we were in the same section, I would totally get drunk and be making out with him by the end of the show.

N:  You wouldn’t do that.

K:  I’d like to.

N:  (shakes head) What about that nose piercing?  Wouldn’t that get in the way?

K:  Yeah, I was wondering about that.  Hopefully, it’s short enough that I wouldn’t get shredded or anything.

Tyler had some sort of weird nose piercing, like a bullring, but instead of being an open circle, there was a straight spike protruding down from each nostril.  I suspect it was a vain attempt to make that sweet face look more badass.  Fail.

At last, at 9:45 or so, about an hour after Tweak Bird finished, Tool took the stage.

Not my photos and not from the Manchester show.  Contrary to Nine Inch Nails and their “relaxed camera policy,” Tool is very strict about No Cameras.  I’m just tossing up some online photos to illustrate the light show that accompanied a couple of songs.

Setlist:
Jambi
Stinkfist
Forty-Six and 2
Schism
Lost Keys
Rosetta Stoned
Flood
Aenema
Lateralus
Vicarious

Basically the same setlist as the last two times, but without “Wings for Marie” (Part 1) and “10,000 Days” (Wings Part 2).  I missed hearing “Pushit” this time, but it was good to have “Aenema” back.  Can’t have everything, right?

After “Jambi,” Maynard informed us that he had just arrived by car from New Jersey and that his back hurt.  (Apparently, his flight had been cancelled.)  Also, after “Jambi,” Moody Maynard didn’t seem as into it as I have previously seen.  He was there, he did his job, and that’s it, nothing more.  Whatever.  It would be far too hypocritical of me to criticize someone for just going through the motions of one’s job.  Also, coming off some recent back pain myself, I can understand his reluctance to move around much.

For the most part, the music was awesome.  Of course, I knew that really loud guitars in enclosed spaces would not be to die for.  That kind of sound needs some open space.  There were a few brief muddy parts, and Maynard’s vocals were drowned out a couple of times (by Maynard’s own choosing, possibly).  Overall, though, it was aural ecstasy.  I got my trippy groove on and let the music permeate my pores.  Or something like that.

Um, yeah, that was pretty much what happened.

Lasers, baby.  Usually not my thing, but pretty cool when accompanied by live Tool.

As last time, “Schism” had the speeded up bridge, “Rosetta Stoned” featured the laser show, there was the Third Eye lighting (I don’t think it’s supposed to be the Third Eye, but that’s how I regard it), and “Lateralus” included the drum-off with Danny Carey and Tweak Bird’s drummer.  The drum-off was merely okay, not at all jaw-dropping like the drum-off with Big Business’ drummer back in 2007.  Maynard definitely altered the lyrics at the beginning of “Rosetta Stoned.”  Absolutely his right to do so.  I just wish I knew what those altered lyrics were.

The Lateralus drum-off.  You have to laugh at Tweak Bird’s little Fisher Price drum kit dwarfed by Danny Carey’s impressive array.  And in case you didn’t know, Danny is seriously working those drums at age 48.  That is some extra impressive shit.

As mentioned, Maynard was less than energetic, but the rest of the band did not disappoint.  Adam Jones has never been very animated on stage (ironic, huh?), so it would be foolish to expect otherwise.  He played well, and really, isn’t that what’s important?  Justin Chancellor was having a good ol’ time and rocking out, as usual.  (Of course, at 37, he’s the young buck of the group.)  And Danny simply amazed, as always.

My favorites of the night were “Jambi,” “Stinkfist,” “Flood,” and “Aenema.”  An hour and 45 minutes later, it was over.  The ride home took just over two hours, due to the initial jam leaving Manchester, which really wasn’t all that bad.

So, out of three Tool concerts, I’d have to put this one in third place.  Any remorse?  Despite the drive, the venue, the hour wait between sets, and Maynard’s seeming lack of enthusiasm, NO.  I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

After all, it’s Tool, for fucking out loud.

=^..^=

Without Andrew

Thinking of the upcoming B-52’s concert this Friday has been making me sad.  So many thoughts of the late, great Andrew.  It was with Andrew and Christy that I went to two B-52’s concerts waaaaay back in the early ‘80s.  How we loved those first two albums (The B-52’s and Wild Planet)!

It still bothers me to this day that people assumed Andrew died from AIDS.  Because he was a young, homosexual male.  Not that a brain tumor is any better.  Or dying on the operating table.  Either way, he’s gone, and I’ll never get to see him again.

I guess it bothers me because Andrew was an LPN, working at a hospital and in school to become an RN, and he was very careful and tested frequently.  Assuming he died from AIDS implies that he might have been careless, and he was not.

So many good memories of and great stories about Andrew, though.  I really need to get them all written down.  Someday.

Why does it seem that the people who live their lives with the most joy are the ones taken too soon?

I have to stop now, because I’m tearing up.

Love you, Andrew.  I think of you often, holding court at your big dance party in the sky.

=^..^=

P.S. I’m tucking a photo of Andrew in my bag for the concert.  I need him there with me.

Swine Flu

It’s come to this…

 

=^..^=

Earth Day, Corporate America Style

The Devil celebrates Earth Day today:  Contribute $5 to The Devil’s chosen green charity (total donation will be made under The Devil’s name, of course) and you get to wear jeans to work.

Hmmm, I think I need the $5 more than I need to wear jeans to work.  Sorry, Devil.  Sorry, Earth.  Yeah, I know, charity.  But here’s the thing — The Devil already has made it clear that there will be no staff bonuses, no staff raises this year.  Staff.  Partners are not staff.  Additionally, The Devil has its own charitable foundation, so if The Devil wants to donate to a green charity, I think it should pen off a check from its foundation instead of hitting up its peons for the cash.  I come to work to get paid, not to give money to my employer, not even in the name of charity.

I’ll donate to charities of my own accord, in my name, without corporate prompting, thankyouverymuch.

And while I’m being a petty bitch, let’s discuss The Devil’s tuition reimbursement program.  Under the program guidelines, I am entitled to $0 reimbursement per year.  Yeah, thanks.  It’s a pathetically measly annual cap, anyway.

* * *

On a more pleasant note, thank you, Sam, for being my alarm cat this morning.  I must have inadvertently switched my alarm to “off” yesterday.  Your meowing woke me, and I was able to make it to the office just three minutes late.  You even let me sleep an extra 40 minutes, bless your feline heart.  Good boy.

=^..^=

The Monday Morning Bitchfest Letters

I am crabbycakes today.

Dear Coworkers:

Please do not confuse my presence here this morning with my being awake.  It does not work that way.  I even took the bus in so that I could continue sleeping instead of having to drive.  So stop asking me to do stuff.  I don’t call you when you’re asleep, do I?

Resentfully,
KarmaCat

Dear Local News Station:

Please stop with the flashback segments.  I do not watch the news to learn what happened 22 years ago.  The word “news” implies new, as in recent.  Twenty-two years ago is hardly recent.  Not new.  Please stop.

Many thanks,
K

Dear Republicans,

You lost.  Get over it.  I am sick of your sniveling, sour grapes commentaries.  Seriously, am I going to have to listen to your crap for the next four years?  What a bunch of sore losers.  Sometimes it sucks to have such a sense of entitlement, doesn’t it?

Hugs and kisses,
Moi

Kthxbai.

=^..^=

Pass the Vitamin C and Birth Control, Please

That crappy bug that’s going around?  I got it.  Three days before Easter.  Four days before my Big Exam.  The thought of studying while sick like dog is depressing.  But I trudge on.  A passing grade is 95+, and I intend to pass.  Yes, 95.  Court reporting is for hardasses.

Anyway, half the class was out last night, and the rest of us (save two or three people) were sick like dog.  Our instructor mentioned how great that Airborne stuff is supposed to be.  I had heard that before and meant to stock up at the beginning of the winter.  The instructor’s words, “Get the Walmart brand,” stayed with me, and upon leaving school, I bolted to that unappealing store.  Duh, I’m sure my preferred Target has its brand, too, but my thinking cap was not on after eight hours at the office and three more at school.

So, I got the store brand, some orange juice, and a couple of carbohydrate-laden comfort snacks.  While at the register, I overhead the cashier at the register behind me ask someone if it was her first.  The woman replied, “No, these are numbers six and seven.”

BABIES?

I had to take a glance to see what this was all about.  Actually, I’m sure it was more of an uncontrolled head jerk than a discrete glance.  Yup, babies.  The woman was preggers.  With twins.  Babies No. 6 and 7.  Yikes.  Who does that anymore?

Judgmental me:  She looked like a Walmart welfare mom.  Badly dyed hair tightly pulled back in a no-style ponytail and no makeup.  Who knows how many daddies behind those six pregnancies?  But then I cut her some slack.  I mean, would I look any better, would anyone look any better, with five children (none were with her, so I can’t guess ages) and twins on the way?  Hell, no.  I know I looked rundown at 9 PM, following eight hours at work and three more at school, all sick like dog, no children.

Driving home, I wondered if any of my high school classmates had that many children.  I remembered Jenny’s mother reporting that classmate Tracey had five, and that was some years ago, so maybe.  Heh.  I remember when I told my mother about Tracey (who wasn’t the brightest girl) and her five babies, including a set of twins.  “Ooh, she found something she’s good at.”  Killer.

My point here?  Nothing, except (1) I’m sick four days before my Big Exam (so sad), and (2) I don’t have seven children (so glad).

=^..^=

Part 2: Pourquoi?

So, why haven’t I been posting?  What have I been up to besides school and the loathsome job?

Well, my job took a turn for the busier over the summer, which turned out to be a damn good thing, as we were hit with 10 percent firm-wide layoffs a few months back.  This leaves me in the awkward position of having to be grateful for this job I so loathe.  More recently, at our “state of the firm address” (barf), we were told no raises, no bonuses for 2009.  Expected, but still sucky to hear.  Perhaps that’s because the CEO droned on for the next 40 minutes about how great The Devil is doing.  Yeah, if you’re a partner.  But for the no-raise, non-bonus getting staff and associates, well, you know.  Let’s put it this way:  Last year’s bonus covered four months’ tuition for me.  The Devil can suck my ass.

School?  My light at the end of the long, annoying tunnel.  The really good news:  I tested out of the Friday night English class!!!  Six brave souls coughed up the $50 (that could not be applied to English class tuition) and endured a 3-hour, 25-page English test.  One soul passed.  Yay, me!  Grammar Bitch* wins!

* Don’t judge by these posts, where I try to adopt a more conversational, casual tone.

Of course, no English class on Fridays means one thing – return to league bowling!  I subbed a few times in the fall and officially joined a team right after Christmas.  I carried over a 104 average, climbed to 107 (yikes), fell back to 104, and am now at 105.

I’ve also managed to squeeze in a couple of Girls Board Game Nights at Kelly’s house and a poker night with Lauren, Jeannie, and Leah.  And there was the day of tubing with Jenny.  My friends are adjusting to the fact that I, the girl who’s generally up for anything, now have a really tight schedule, and my free time (ha!) must be carefully coordinated.  They’ve also been told that I don’t think I can have anyone to my house until school is completed due to the house looking such a wreck.  Of course, with my three-year plan, I hope to be able to open my doors some time prior to that.  But possibly only a little bit prior.  Jenny has already been over, so she’s exempted, I guess.  A benefit (if you can call it that) of being friends since first grade.  Ditto for Olivia, when she visits from California again.

An inconvenient bummer occurred a few weeks ago, leaving school on a snowy night.  (By the way, I am SO OVER this winter.)  Walking towards my car, I noticed how odd it was that all of the car was covered in light snow except for the passenger’s window, which held nary a flake.  Um, yeah, that would be because THERE WAS NO WINDOW.  The punchbuggy had been broken into.  Admittedly, my own stupidity.  I know I should put my black work tote bag into the trunk, but I’ve just been too lazy to get into all the shuffling – pulling the steno writer case and book bag from the trunk, transferring my pocketbook (thank god!) and thermos of The Devil’s free decaf into the book bag.  Stupid, careless, lazy.  I could have done a better job of hiding the iPod radio transmitter, too.  The iPod itself (my big iPod, that is) was still in the pocket behind the passenger’s seat, its resting place while I’m in school.  Phew.  The thieves grabbed the tote bag and radio transmitter gadget.  In the tote bag were my glasses (the biggest inconvenience, even though I seldom wear them, except sometimes on rainy or snowy nights), sunglasses, earmuffs (it’s damn windy downtown), iPod earphones, office keys and building pass, and a few toiletries and personal papers of no value.  Those poor, unfortunate thieves.  I’m sure they were expecting to reap much more from that big tote bag.

Several days later, the police called me.  A resident in the vicinity of the school found my tote bag (with most of the items still in it!) shoved under the pine tree near his mailbox.  I retrieved my possessions from the police station.  Everything looked crummy, having been snowed on, then the snow subsequently melting, and all was covered in dirt and pine needles.  At home, dozens of disinfectant wipes later, all was salvaged, except that case that housed the iPod and headphones.  The only missing items were the headphones and the iPod radio transmitter ($75 value).  Fortunately, my eyeglasses were not damaged.  This, I could not determine at the police station, as the thieves had left the case open, and the glasses were dirty.  Dirty, but not scratched, it turned out.

I also learned that there were seven reported car break-ins in the area that night, and I was the only one to have items recovered.  In the end, the inconvenience proved to be short-lived.  I had the window replaced the following day and purchased a new transmitter a few days later on eBay for $11.  So, as stupid as I was, I was also damn lucky.

The (disinfected) tote bag and iPod transmitter now go in the trunk while I am at school.  The iPod comes with me (in my pocketbook).  Lesson learned.  Class dismissed.

On a sad note, yes, P.J. was put to sleep on October 25.  My sweet girl cat was with me for 17½ years, since she was just 8 weeks old, until kidney disease claimed her life.  She gave me her love while refusing to love other humans.  Some may call that bitchy, but as the target of her affection, I was quite touched.  She tolerated younger brothers Sam and Rory remarkably well, even though I know she would have been quite happy to remain an only cat.  The vet’s office was awesome.  Days later, I received a card with sweet comments from the doctor and all his staff and a clay casting of P.J.’s pawprints.  (I’ll try to remember to post a photo.)  You know it made my eyes tear up.

The saddest part about letting go of P.J., the main reason for my tears that day, was that her health declined more than I had wanted it to before saying goodbye.  Despite her low weight, she continued to eat and be active.  On Tuesday night, I noticed an overall decline in her appearance.  I called the vet on Wednesday, and we scheduled for Saturday.  Good, I thought.  A few last days together.  Thursday, she seemed the same, but Friday night she was downright frail and would not eat.  I put her on a folded up blanket on my bed, and she stayed there until we left the house on Saturday.  I felt that I had failed her.  I did not want her condition to get that bad.  I had no idea she would decline so rapidly.  The vet told me that’s usually how kidney disease/failure goes.  Now I know.  If I have to go through it again, the appointment will be for the following day.

Still, why haven’t I been posting?  No, not deep depression over P.J.  I’ve just been busy in general and in an automatic foul mood from nine to five, Mondays through Fridays.  That latter part, not a recommended way to live, believe me.  At times, I’ve been in a general funk overall.  Daylight Saving Time couldn’t have come a moment sooner, or else I’d have to toss Seasonal Affective Disorder into the mix, too.  On top of all that, I actually started to feel guilty about not posting.  So foolish, I.  Then I remembered why I started this blogging nonsense in the first place, some 5+ years ago – to appear busy at work when I had very little actual work to do.  That’s all.  “Enjoy the boredom” was my tagline.  Pretend writing and drafting of documents.  Sheer silliness, much like the inane essays and dialogues Olivia, Audrey, Sonia, and I penned for each others’ reading pleasure during eighth grade studyhall, under the guise of doing homework.

Certainly, I never wanted to share much of my personal life with the world unknown.  Still don’t.  No offense; I’m just more private than others.  Thinking back, though, I’d say I’ve revealed a fair amount of my life here.  I guess it just freaks me out to think there could be people out there who don’t know me know me but who know things about me.  As if anyone cares, but still.

Anyway, I’m still here, schedule permitting, writing inane essays for the Olivias, Audreys, and Sonias of the online world.

=^..^=

Three-Year Plan!

Today is the first day of the next three years of my life.

It’s been in the back of my head for some time, but now I’m moving it to the forefront, putting it out there.  I have a three-year plan.

In three years, I hope to be done with school.  No, not because I hate school.  I enjoy it, really.  I wish I could devote even more time to it, BUT NO, I have this distasteful job taking up my days.  I hope to be done with school because it means I will be out of this loathsome place and starting my new career.

In the next three years, as I work toward that 225 WPM with 98 percent accuracy, I also aspire to get my house in order – de-clutter, get organized, and finish all those unfinished projects.  That’s a long list, let me tell you.  But, relative to the upcoming new career, I will need a home office.  Presently, the guest bedroom is more of a landfill.  I need to do some serious de-cluttering in there (after the rest of the house is straightened out), get rid of the twin bed from my youth (anyone want it?  Dark pine, so 70s, but it’s Broyhill) and possibly the matching desk, and transform the small room to my serene, home sweet home office.  Guests, the sofa and aerobed will have to do.

The last prong of my three-year plan is to lose the weight I’ve gained from being stressed out and deprived of free time to exercise as often as I’d like since I’ve come to work for The Devil.  Yes, that would be a veeerrrrry slow rate of weight loss, but I think it will be for the best.  After all, it’s not like I gained it in one year, so why should I expect to lose it in just one year?

Aside from those three main goals, I also need to get going on Emma’s scrapbook.  In three years, she will be graduating from high school (gasp!  How did this happen?), and it was my intent to give her the scrapbook when she was around 18 or 20.  I need to be ready.  Weren’t we just playing with Barbies last week?  No?  Seems like it.

Then, after my new career is in order, and my house is in order, and my physical fitness is in order, I think I just might go looking for a sweetheart.  There, I said it.  (You have no idea how difficult that was for me to say.)  Take heed, Lala.  Give me the relationship I want in the next three years, or take a hike.  Permanently.  You will be replaced with a more suitable suitor.  Perhaps even before the three years is up.  Yes, my eyes and heart are open to all, but I don’t think I can put forth a concerted effort before school (and the other prongs) are completed.  That’s when the real hunt will begin.  Heh.

I feel a somewhat unfamiliar sense of serenity now that I have my three-year plan.  Goals are good.

=^..^=

A Brief Respite

Much, much fun yesterday, especially later in the afternoon, as the conditions became slightly icier.

http://yawgoo.com/snow_tubing_park.htm

 
We FLEW down the slope (spinning!), past the “finish line,” up the giant incline barrier (not pictured), and into the net.  The secret ingredient:  WD40, applied to the underside of the tubes.  Wheeeeeee!

Wow, that was fun.

 

If only it were enough to take all the bad away.  Work is now beyond unbearable.  It is downright unhealthy for me, physically and mentally.  Surely, this helljob is going to claim my life.  And I feel like no one understands.

‘Cause I’m praying for rain
And I’m praying for tidal waves.
I wanna see the ground give way.
I wanna watch it all go down.
Mom, please flush it all away.
I wanna see it go right in and down.
I wanna watch it go right in,
Watch you flush it all away.

Time to bring it down again.
Don’t just call me pessimist.
Try and read between the lines.

I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t
Welcome any change, my friend.

I wanna see it all come down,
Come down,
Suck it down,
Flush it down.

(MJK, “Aenima”)

I don’t know how I’m going to get through it.  I really don’t.

=^..^=