"Working for the man every night and day" --Tina Turner

So, in some misguided attempt to prepare for a job I thought I might like to do in retirement, I took a second job.

5 Reasons I'm Grateful I'm Now Working a Second Job

1.  It's humbling.  Where I know a whole lot about Job 1 or have been faking it so long everyone thinks I do, EVERYTHING about Job 2 is new.  This means I'm making mistakes and saying "Um, I don't know but let me find out" A LOT.  Plus, a few Urkel-worthy Did I do that??s.  Really, this is amazingly good for me because 'groveling, obsequious idiot' is much preferable to 'snotty, condescending jackass'.

2.  It's making me appreciative.  Suddenly, Job 1's perks look a lot perkier.
 
3.  Lack of boredom or insomnia.  Working 7 days a week means never having to wonder what to do with all that pesky free time.  Sometimes I fall asleep in the middle of a sent

4.  I don't take my husband for granted.*  Sometimes I get to see Hubs for a few hours and it's quite delightful!  No, really!  I still remember what he looks like so I can pick him out in a crowd.  So, you know... that's nice.

5.  Extra cash.  I didn't take this job for the money, and it's a good thing since the pay stinks, but on top of Job 1's salary, it's really nice to get a second paycheck.  PLUS, I'm making commissions and I even got a holiday bonus for the first time EVAH!  Ca-ching!

On the downside, it means I don't get to hang out with my friends much and blogging has evaporated.  I miss them.  And it.  And you.  But, in about a month, I'll stop working Sundays and maybe get to luxuriate in activities like doing laundry.

Which brings us to the question du jour:  Fabric softener:  Manna from heaven or the devil's plaything?  Discuss.

Wishing you a joyful 2012,

L A Cochran






* As much.

"Don't know much" --Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt

A few months ago I had purchased half-price tickets for a guided tour.  I realized the tickets were expiring in March 2012, and, fearing the weather would only get worse between now and March, booked the tour for the two of us for this past Saturday, October 29th.  Fall is perfect for tours, no?

Er, no.  It snowed.  And sleeted.  And was quite cold.  The. Entire. Time.

To make matters worse, the tour guide was terrible.  Here are the highlights or maybe I should say lowlights from the tour:

*passing Pentagon*
Participant:  Excuse me, isn't that the Pentagon?
Tour Guide, looking around, in a blase voice:  Oh,... yeah.  That's the Pentagon.

*at Arlington cemetery, out in the snow/sleet, which by the way, only added to the feeling that this place is the most depressing, deathiest place I've ever been*
Tour Guide:  There are now 50 different insignias that you can get on your headstone if you are buried here.  Even Wiccan!  Wiccan is a male witch.
Hubs:  What?  No, Wiccan is someone who practices Wicca, regardless of gender.  A warlock is a male witch.
Tour Guide:  That's right.  I knew that. 

*still at the cemetery, sopping wet and still getting snowed on*
Tour Guide points to three stones at a distance:  Those are the memorials for the three NASA disasters. 
Me, thinking THREE NASA disasters?  Challenger... Columbia... Did they do something Apollo related?:  Really?
Tour Guide:  Yeah, the shuttle disasters.
I walk over to see these.  Sure enough, the ones on the left and right are memorials to Challenger and Columbia.  The one in the middle?  Well, here, look:

After walking back to the Tour Guide, disgusted, I say:  The middle one has nothing to do with NASA.  Go look!
Tour Guide, not looking:  Oh, I guess I was wrong.

*driving near Iwo Jima*

Tour Guide:  I don't know why the carillion isn't sounding.  That's really strange.

Maybe because there's no such thing as a carillion?  It's a carillon, fergawdssake.


After 5 of the 9 people cut their losses and took a cab home, they decided to cut the tour a bit short.  Best decision ever.  I can't believe I paid for this--even half price.

Which all leads to my question of the day:  Do tour guides agree to be tour guides thinking that they don't have to actually know anything about what they're touring because people who go on tours will just assume the guide is right? Grrrrr.

"There's someone in my head but it's not me" --Pink Floyd

...when the waitress asked me what I wanted, I heard myself saying "Pancakes."  The words sounded so strange coming out of my mouth, mainly because I never eat out, and when I'm at home I never say the name of the food I'm going to eat before I eat it.  I don't sit down to a nice bowl of soup, pause, and say "Soup" to myself before I eat it.  That would be crazy.  Not that I don't have the urge to, because, honestly, I almost always do.  But once you start actually doing the abnormal things your brain suggests, and not merely thinking them it's only a short slide to shuffling aimlessly through the streets, wearing empty tissue boxes as slippers.  --from FOOP! by Chris Genoa

This I love.  It makes so much sense to me.  The difference for most of us between crazy and not crazy is whether we give in to those weird impulses that are always shooting through our brains.  Right?

*blink*

We all get all sorts of weird impulses, right?

*blink* *blink*

Hello?

*cough*

Like, um, posting to a blog about weird impulses.  That's a pretty weird impulse.

Yeah. *scuffs tissue boxes* That's what I meant.

Question du jour:  What weird impulse are you willing to admit to thinking that you have so far resisted doing?

Equal and opposite question du jour:  What weird impulse are you really glad you followed?

"We are beautiful in every single way" --Christina Aguilera

What's wrong with this picture?  Take a minute and look.  I'll wait.

I mean besides the fact that one of these guys is actually named Poindexter.  

See something strange here?  Ye-ah.  That's right.  These guys want to carve you up in the interest of making you the best-looking you you can be.

These guys. 

With the too big ears.  And the too large tummy.  And the uneven smiles.  And the saggy eyes.  And the deep indents around the mouth.  And... do I need to go on?

Mmm, no.  Just--no.  And don't ask to be my personal shopper or my tanning consultant, either.

"But I say No, No, No" --Amy Winehouse

So, Thursday, I bid Steve Jobs adieu and paid him a sideways tribute by honoring Dan Shechtman.*  Today, not so much.  Try not to get whiplash.

The thing is, I've seen all these tributes to Jobs and so many people quoting him, especially this quote:

“Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.”

This is a lovely strive-for-excellence-anybody-can-be-president-of-course-you're-as-special-as-you-always-secretly-knew-you-were kind of quote that inspires people.  And to be fair, this quote was taken from a 2005 Stanford commencement speech, where a speaker would be expected to deliver a lofty challenge.

It's good advice... if you are a visionary like Steve Jobs.  ...or if you are of demonstrated high potential, like the Stanford grads he was addressing.  (In national university rankings, Stanford comes in tied for 5th place. Which makes them like the "Respect" of songs in the 500 greatest songs of all time**)

But for most people (dare I say 99%?), and in today's recession/depression, I think it's lousy advice.  There are 14 million people who are counted as unemployed.  Fact.  It seems beyond naive and more than a little sadistic to tell someone:  Ignore the hundreds of people queued up to interview at Denny's.  You hold out for your dream job.

Why take a job you don't love?  A colleague of mine refers to her job this way:  "I've developed a nasty habit.  I like to sleep indoors. ...I also like to eat."

It isn't just complete drudgery for her.  She's good at what she does.  If she were truly miserable, she'd seek different employment because work IS a large part of life.  But there's a big difference between finding work you can tolerate/do reasonably well and not settling until you find your one true calling.  There's got to be a balance between "you're a god!" and "you're worthless, be glad if you can get a job picking up poo."

Which leads us to the inevitable question:  Should "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse really be #194?  Discuss.


* Yeah, that guy from Ghostbusters.

** Zamfir, and his pan flute, got shut out.  Oh, the injustice.

"Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade!" --Barbra Streisand

I am doing a little end zone dance.  I've never done one before, so forgive me if it looks more like the chicken dance.  Still, here I am, dancing.  For Dan Shechtman.

I don't know Dan.  Dan lives half way 'round the world.  According to the news, in 1982--yes, that's nearly 30 years ago now--Dan discovered quasicrystals.  Apparently, this so-called discovery was not well received.  Nope.  Dan was criticized and shunned by his fellow chemistry nerds.  In the course of defending his findings, he was asked to leave.  Leave!  Take your cockamamie crystals and get out!  And take your effin' Yoplait out of the fridge, too!  We don't need your kind around here.

[Pause for dramatic effect]

Yesterday, Dan received the Nobel Prize in chemistry for his discovery.

BOO-YAH!  In your face, people who claim to be researchers but can't wrap your minds around a new concept!  HA!!!

Here's to you, Dan Shechtman, and to all the people who have endured pain for daring to think in new and interesting ways.*




* Rest in peace, Steve Jobs.

"Girl, if you can do better than me, go" --Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

We went here:


for two weeks.

Okay, now that you hate me*, we can get on with today's post.

I am not the most open-minded person. I could give you some nonsense about how I'm working on it and we're all in development and awareness is the first step. Sure. Or, I can embrace my inner-snark because, truthfully, often I have uncharitable thoughts. They come, unbidden and unwelcome, much like The Examiner.

While we were at this place (Sandals Halcyon in St. Lucia), we saw every manner of couple. And it was shocking. And disturbing. I almost had to put down my fancy rum drinks.**

I'm not talking about the mixed race couples. (yawn) Nor the homosexual couples. (also yawn) I'm talking about the shocking number of pretty/ugly pairings we saw.

It wasn't just a game of "look who married up". We'd see the most astounding mixes of buff-gorgeous-model with flabby-ugly-gargoyle. To the point of thinking, How? How do these people get together? HOW??

Is the icky one rich? Are they extraordinarily good in bed? Are they powerful? Are they someone famous I just don't recognize? Did they hire this exquisite escort to hang all over their hideous body for two weeks? HOW??!? Why is this 10 here with this 2? WHY?!!!

(Picture this times a million.)

I don't mind seeing unattractive people. Or attractive people.


And we saw plenty of both types. But when they're mixed together it just seems... against nature.

Question du jour: Does the mixing of leagues bother you?



* No worries. I even hate myself at this point.

** Almost.

"Don't go changing to try to please me" --Billy Joel

[Sometimes it's hard to find the right way to connect.]



Hello.

*blink*

I've been feeling a little disconnected with this here blog lately.

Which, unfortunately, means I'm feeling a little disconnected from you.

Because, as you know, *leans in and whispers* it's all about you. Yes, there are one or two other readers but you and I both know that it's YOU that's important. So, I thought I'd write you a personal message so you understand how much you mean to me, even if I haven't posted anything for your consumption lately. Yeah, a personal message through the blog. That's always a good idea. What better way to keep a personal connection than with a public but oh-so-specific note, right?

But, just so other people don't feel ostracized and icky (nobody wants that, right?), just pick the choice in the parentheses that you know is intended for you.

Dear You,

I like what you're doing with your [ear/chest/toe/special] hair these days. It really suits you. And I've always thought your [smile/smell of chickpeas/left eyelid] was unusually compelling. Plus, I've been meaning to tell you for what seems like years that when you said what you said about [Lindsay Lohan/chitlins/commodity based derivatives] I felt like: FINALLY! Someone really gets it! But that's just how you are. You cut through all the nonsense and let people know what's on your [mind/emergency preparedness plan/anti-itch shelf]. You're special. I know people say that all the time but I really mean it. Nobody else has your [peanut butter licking skills/1930s style/way with a ball peen hammer].

Never change.

Hoping to hear back from you soon!

Yours in [friendship/inappropriate looks/class action settlement partnering],

L. A. Cochran

Assorted Flotsam

• Hey! I think I may have discovered what ever happened to Jimmie "J.J." Walker.

Apparently, whatever he's doing involves driving a minivan in Virginia. Dy-no-sad!

• Saw this at an airport during some recent travels:

Yeah, shorts, flip-flops, and a classic blue blazer. I'm thinking: semi-formal clam bake?

• In other news, I've been on Sensa for the last 5 weeks and lost 7.5 pounds.

I am LOVING it. No work at all, all natural, and I'm losing weight. It's nothing short of revolutionary. It really does curb my appetite. Freaky! And best of all for the people around me, I am not a huge crank-monster like I usually am when trying to lose weight. Huzzah!

• Finally, I am seeing this ad for McDonald's which takes place in someone's home. It is a person calling a family together for dinner and then providing McNuggets. And you see them gathering excitedly and opening the tiny boxes and dipping sauces. Now, I have eaten a lot of McDonald's in my time but I can't remember ever taking it home. Either I ate it in the McDonald's or I ate it in the car. Let's face it, that stuff congeals pretty quickly. For me, fast food only works while it's hot. Once things start to cool... ugh.
  Am I wrong? Am I missing an important bonding experience with my family?
  

"Say my name, say my name" --Destiny's Child

So, yeah, Sean Combs has changed his name again. This time for just one week. Do I care? Aside from the general absurdity of changing your name for one week, mmmnotsomuch.

On a more personal note, I know people that have changed their names for various reasons. Some of them legal even.


I have a distant relative who, in his 50s, decided that he no longer wanted to be known by his given name: Sol. He changed his name to David because he said it was a name people trusted. Forget that multiple heads already swiveled when the name David was called in our family. Most everyone made the effort to call him David. But I know one relative, let's call him Joe, who insisted on continuing to call this guy Sol or Sol-David.


I have another distant relative who changed her name in her twenties from something very ordinary to something truly strange sounding. I won't tell you what because even though there's probably still three or four Sols in the world, I'm pretty sure there's only one of these. Suffice to say it went from something like "Sue" to something like "Elbownee" because it translated to "unique form" in Urdu. Joe insists that this woman is Sue and will always be Sue no matter what she wants to be called.

Now, if someone wants to change their name to Butthead, maybe I have a problem with it. But these changes? I can honor. Am I wrong? Is Joe wrong?

Which leads us to the question du jour: If someone asks you to call them something else besides what you've always known them as, what do you do?

"If you steal my sunshine" --Len

Congrats on not ascending. You heathen, you. Maybe we all didn't ascend because of this woman...

I was at a nail salon this weekend. I was led to a pedicure chair (sans fish) and noticed the woman next to me because: A) she had her knock-off designer purse on the little table part attached to MY chair and it was sticking out over MY arm rest, B) she was muttering into her cell phone the entire hour she was there and C) she had arrived in three inch, leopard print pumps.

On A): you know I pushed that sucker way over to her side and off my arm rest without even making eye contact.

On B): Eh. I think it's rude to the technician but I guess it's no worse than reading a magazine. Plus, muttering is preferable to shouting.

On C): I have nothing against leopard print pumps but time and place, People. Who goes to get a pedicure in pumps? You go in sandals and shorts! This is widely known. But, apparently, not to this woman.

So, as luck would have it, when my mani/pedi (which always sounds like "maxipad" to me) was done, I was guided to a drying station chair right next to this woman. The dryers ran. Then her technician came over and sprayed her toes with drying spray and walked away. I heard her say into the phone "I'm not going to put on my shoes because I don't think the polish is dry yet." With that, she got up, carrying her pumps, paid at the counter and walked out IN THE FLIP-FLOPS THE SALON PUT ON HER FEET!

I looked around to see if anyone else had watched this theft transpire besides me... nope. I considered calling to one of the technicians. But... I did nothing. After all, maybe you're allowed to take those minipad (hey, we're working a theme here)-thin flip-flops even though there's a return bin for them at the drying station. Maybe she's worked out a deal to bring them back next time. Or... maybe she's just a selfish bitch.

Which leads us to multiple questions du jour: Are those flip-flops yours to take? Should I have said something? If so, to whom? Am I an accessory? Don't tase me, Bro!

Assorted Flotsam

Assorted flotsam: the hate edition.

• We know Blogger screwed up and blew away all but one comment on my last post and that this general screwing up happened to a lot of people. If people comment and the comments disappear, does a tree fall in a forest? And if Blogger is at the heart of deforestation, should we be angrier about that or about Canada foisting Celine Dion on us?
  

• It was the 10 year mark so we had no choice. We sent our passports in for renewal. It'll likely take about 6 weeks. Meanwhile we have no passports. And I hate this. HATE this. Suppose I want to do some crimes and flee the country? Then what? There is no box on the renewal form that has "I'm keeping the old passport until you send me the new one because I may want to do some crimes and flee the country" and this is what's wrong with the U.S. today. The terrorists have won.

• Can I tell you how much I hate the mylife.com commercial where the lady says "Seven people?!" *giggle* "...looking for ME?!" *giggle*giggle* Yuh, because I want to be hassled by more people. Right. Lady, people looking for you isn't always a good thing. Sure, it could be that sweet Jimmy who picked a daisy for you in third grade but more likely it's that weird guy from Accounting who always stares at your breasts. Is the mylife.com target demographic the same demographic that asks telemarketers to put them on a "please call" list?

Yeah, okay. I'm embracing my inner-curmudgeon. Tomorrow, unicorns and double rainbows.

Maybe unicorns barfing double rainbows. Baby steps.

"She's super-freaky, yow!" --Rick James

First question du jour: Is it wrong to pay to watch freaks do their freakiness?*

Yeah, that's what I've been doing of late.

We pay for Dish satellite service and I've been watching Extreme Couponing on TLC. Have you seen this stuff?!

I'm all for getting a good deal buuuuut...

As near as I can tell, this is not about getting half off a product you'd buy anyway. This is about setting up a room that is Armageddon-worthy and filling it with items that can be gotten for free or nearly free, whether they are needed or not. These people hoard. With a capital Holy Moly. There was one woman who had hundreds of packages of diapers but no children. Okay, so diapers don't go bad but who needs 400 bags of Doritos?** It's freaky, I tell ya.

And, yet... I can not stop watching. It is amazing to see these people, invariably sweating as they see the purchases ring up to hundreds--sometimes thousands!--of dollars and, then, they hand over the stack of coupons and the total steadily drops down to $28.52.

Additional questions du jour: Do you clip coupons? Are you annoyed when you see the person in front of you has a lot of coupons? Have you ever passed a bad coupon?***



* Thank god reading blogs is still free. You freaks, you.

** Mike, put your hand down.

*** You may want to respond in code to that last one--the coupon police are everywhere.

A Quickie

Me: Happy Earth Day! I got you dirt.

Him: Thank you! It's also Good Friday. I got you a dead messiah.

Me: Ooo! I hope it fits in with the living room colors.

"May you find some comfort here" --Sarah McLachlan

As long as we're discussing bathroom-related stuff... I'd thought I'd share these recent bathroom oddities:

In a conference facility bathroom, I saw this.*


What's this? A standard flush toilet. But there's a sign...


Huh? Like an idiot, I looked around. No button anywhere. Guess I was lucky, there was that high-tech handle.

And in a local restaurant, I found a toilet with guest seating:


How... *perplexed look* ...gracious?

Despite the stereotype, I do not need girlfriends to accompany me to the Ladies Room.*** Especially, not into the same stall. Call me un-share-y if you must. I guess the chair comes in handy if you need to take a child in with you and you don't have one of these...

[Brilliant, right?!]


But I've never known a child to just wait patiently in a chair while Mom uses the facilities. Most toddlers spend their time stooping down to play "peek-a-boo" with the person in the next stall. Which brings me to the question du jour:

What is the protocol for responding to this? Is a discrete kick out of the question?




* I almost wrote "In a conference facility bathroom, I came upon this." but thought better of it.**

** In other news, I'm eight.

***What do these ladies do when they're alone? Hold it?

"Oo--oo, that smell... Can't you smell that smell?" --Lynyrd Skynyrd

Can we talk towels?* (Anyone can talk turkey, amIright?)

I have had the experience of being in a guy's bathroom and smelling an odor. And, because sometimes I am too curious for my own good, I tracked that odor to its source: the towels. Ever smell someone's towels and think "Ew!"? This particular Ew! smell was of the musty, moldy sort. And, since everything else appeared to be reasonably clean/non-smelly, I realized this person must have been using these towels, sans washing, since Balki was telling cousin Larry, "Well, of courz nut, don be reedeeculous!"

I wondered if I got close to this reusing towel guy**, would he also have that smell? (Ew!) Did he not smell the smell? Did he smell it and like it? Did he just not care? None of these were good options so I never broached the subject with him. I, also, gratefully never found need to stay at his place. On rare visits that included a bathroom break, I dried my hands on my pants.

On the other end of the towelly spectrum, we have sometimes stayed with folks who provided us with fresh towels every day. EVERY. DAY. Even the fancy hotels try to avoid that nowadays, citing environmental concerns.

My folks never covered this topic with me and I don't really want to learn it on the streets. So, I'm asking you (answers to any or all are appreciated):

1. How often do you change your own bath towel?
2. Do you have separate "guest" towels?
3. When you are in a bathroom and there are paper "guest" towels (aka printed napkins) and regular (terry) hand towels, which do you go for?
4. What's your clean towel frequency expectation when staying with someone else?
   
5. Am I the only one that loves those new public restroom high-powered hand dryers that nearly blow your skin off?
   

* Because you count on me to take on the important topics of the day. Tomorrow... Butterfinger versus Chunky Singles: Which candy has the best porn name?

** And, no, he was not Vince, of ShamWow! fame.

Assorted Flotsam

• I don't see myself ziplining. I'm not afraid of heights or even hurtling along a narrow wire. But I am afraid of looking bunchy. Okay, make that even more bunchy than usual. Have you seen pictures of people in those zipline harnesses? Definitely NOT a fashion statement. If you've always wondered how you'd look in Depends, have at it.

• Over the last coupla weeks, I've been hearing about the horror playing out in Japan and, of late, the comment that the US will stop importing fruits, vegetables and milk from Japan. Um, were we really getting a lot of our fruits and vegetables all the way from Japan, anyway? Really? And MILK? From Japan?! Color me skeptical. Now, if you want to cut off the Kobe beef, that I can swallow. Wait...

• I have a confession. I don't like Bill Maher. I think I should like Bill Maher since I think he's brilliant and I agree with 99% of his positions. But I don't like him. He's mean. Not just snarky, but mean. He delights in trampling on people's dearly held beliefs and that bothers me. I know a key part of his shtick is to be controversial but he seems angry and nasty and condescending. And, let's face it, that's what blogging's for.

• We saw District 9 a few nights ago and it's really stayed with me. It goes way beyond sci-fi. If you haven't seen it, I recommend it as a very impressive technical achievement but also from a "get you thinking about the way we treat each other" viewpoint.

• ObligatoryCharlieSheenReference: Charlie Sheen.

Question du jour: Is there a famous person you think you should like and don't?

"Photograph... I don't want your photograph" --Def Leppard

Back in the dark ages, I was invited to the house of a friend (let's call her Mildred) for dinner and to view pictures of her and her husband (let's call him Ernesto)'s honeymoon. Honeymoon pictures... wouldn't you go?

It was a free gourmet dinner with pleasant people. And, yeah, I was curious what I was in for, picture-wise. For better or worse, it didn't play out as you might imagine. And, really, I'm having a hard time thinking of friends I'd want to see in flagrante. This was perhaps especially true of Mildred and Ernesto. So, I guess I got lucky... not seeing them get lucky.

But seeing other people's vacation photos? Usually, anywhere from incredibly dull to depressing, right? Post them on Facebook and move on. Alas, this was pre-Facebook.

We had a perfectly pleasant dinner and then Ernesto set up the slide show and we settled in.

*click* (picture of sign)

Mildred: Here's a shot of the "Welcome to Maine" sign.

Me: Ah.

Mildred: We just loved Maine!

*click* (picture of cabin)

Mildred: This is the cabin we rented for the week. It was so great!

Me: That looks nice...

*click* (picture of living room)

Mildred: Here's the living room in the cabin.

Me, thinking it's going to be a loooong evening: Pretty...

*click* (picture of vista)

Mildred: Here's the view from the cabin.

Me: OOOooo, very nice.

Mildred: Yeah, it was pretty amazing.

*click* (picture of Ernesto in a Captain Morgan-like pose on boulders with a scarf tied pirate style on his head)

Me: Hahaha! Look at you, Ernesto! A pirate! Hahaha! That's great!

Mildred: *pause* We went hiking. It was really nice there. Some great trails.

*click* (picture of Ernesto still with the same scarf on, in front of a rocky bluff)


[Ernesto may or may not have looked exactly like this]

Me: Arrr, Matey! Hahaha!

Mildred:

Ernesto:

Me: Hahaha!

Mildred:

Ernesto:

*click* (Yet another picture of Ernesto in the scarf.)

Me: Ha...ha...*cough*

It was at this point that it occurred to me that Ernesto was not trying to be a pirate so much as cover his balding head in what he perceived as a fashion forward way.

Awkward. With a capital AWK.

Which brings us to the question du jour: Is it appropriate to show other people your vacation photos?

"I miss you since I've been away" --Scorpions

You know how you hate those self-indulgent bloggers that post videos of music because they LOVE THAT SONG and they're way too crazy busy to write a decent post and they somehow feel that if you just hear this brilliant song, that they had absolutely nothing to do with, that you'll feel way closer to them and totally GET them and blahblahBLAHDIblah?

No? You like that sort of thing?

I did not see that coming. You are full of surprises! *chucks you under chin*

Okay, then, for you: Here's the clean version of Pink's latest with pink outlined lyrics, just to make it a little more precious.

And?

You

are

perfect

to

me.

"Takin what they're givin 'cause I'm workin for a living" --Huey Lewis and the News

"I can't believe they pay me as much as they do for the amount of work I do."

"They don't pay me anywhere near enough for the aggravation I have to endure."

These are the two thoughts that are constantly playing out in my brain when I am at work.*

Constantly. With no middle ground.

It's as if someone said to you, "I'm going to pay you $500 for every comment you write on blogs." Would you take the job? Sure! But what if they neglected to mention that while you were typing in those comments there would be a turkey pecking you in the side while a recorded message played of someone shouting, "I'M NOT TOUCHING YOU!!!"10,000 times per hour? Would you keep the job? And if you did, wouldn't you be toggling between "I can't believe they pay me as much as they do for the amount of work I do" and "They don't pay me anywhere near enough for the aggravation I have to endure" constantly?

This has been going on with me for 25 years. It's staggering. Seriously. This past month marked TWENTY. FIVE. YEARS. And I never, at any point, imagined I'd be with my organization for more than 5 years, tops. Because they don't pay me anywhere near enough for the aggravation I have to endure. Yet, I can't believe they pay me as much as they do for the amount of work I do.

Compound question du jour for the worker bees: Can you believe how much they pay you for the work that you do? Or is it no where near enough for the aggravation you have to endure? Or both?

While the turkey was on break (Wonder how much he makes? Probably nowhere near enough for the aggravation he has to endure...), I snuck off to happy hour last week. And it was an epic happy hour!** In addition to a few non-bloggy friends, there were former bloggers: Just JP, A Jersey Kid, and Gilahi, and a number of current bloggy friends were in attendance:

LiLu
Brutalism
Malnurtured Snay
Blond with a bullet...
Always a drunk, never a bride


Eleven of us cozied up around a table at Vapiano's and it was lovely. My thanks to those that made the trek from hither and yon. Great time! You people are tops!




*Well, that, and the eternal Gilligan's Island question. Yup... Who names their child Gilligan?

**The kids still say "epic", right? And "groovy"?

"I should have left my phone at home 'cause this is a disaster" --Lady Gaga

A few months back, I took one of these:
and did this sort of thing to it:I wish I could tell you I was in a Naomi Campbell rage and flung it at my assistant. But, alas, I just knocked it off a counter onto a hard floor.* Damn that gravity thing. I thought about living with it for 30 seconds--the broken smart phone, I mean, I'm still not keen on gravity.** Spiderweb effects are nice, doncha think? All Halloweeny. But I kinda wanted to use my smart phone without tweezering chips of glass out of my fingertip. Hey, if I'm gonna get into cutting, I'll do it on my terms.

I had insurance on the phone and, fifty dollars later *gulp*, got a beautiful replacement phone.

So, fast forward to this past Sunday. I wake up and it occurs to me that I should probably charge my phone. I was using it the night before on the way to my car after a party. I seek. I no find. I check the purse. The coat. The desk. The refrigerator. The car. Under the sofa. My jeans. The bathroom. Basically, everywhere I can think of to look, whether it makes sense or not.

It is nowhere. ARGGGHHHH! I don't want to spend another $50.



Hubs and I play this game for a while:

Him: I'll just call it.
Me: The ringer isn't on.
Him:
Me: Too much noise.
Him:
Me:
Him:
Me: You know what? Go ahead. Call. Good idea.

We take a drive into the city and take a lovely morning walk along the four blocks between where I parked my car Saturday night and where the party was. No phone.

We go home and search all those same places again. Because, it'll totally be there this time. Not.

And then the Hubs has a brilliant idea. GPS! We can locate it via satellite! Sure enough, we fire up the computer and pull up the app and enter the phone number. It brings up a lovely circle centered on the front of our house. Huzzah! The phone isn't downtown! It's right here! ...Somewhere.

We redouble our search efforts. We check the bushes between the garage and the front door. We look behind curtains. (The great and powerful Oz doesn't know where my phone is, either.)

Hubs to the rescue once again: Take the car. I'll check the app. If it follows you, we know the phone is in the car.

So I did. And he did. And it did. And it was! Turns out, the phone was wedged way under the passenger seat. Luckily, it's black, which blends in very well down there.

Happy ending. I get to keep my fifty bucks and my phone this time. ***


Something sort of related that I've been wondering for a while: Is it reasonable to store a cell phone in your cleavage?




* Plus, Hubs isn't into titles.

** Did I mention I turn 49 next month?

*** I went ahead and turned the ringer on. *shrug* ****

**** On the lowest setting. Shh. Don't tell Hubs.