I Never Thought I’d Say It: I Miss Working

So I quit a job a while back.

It was a bad job. 50 hours a week, doing nothing but keyboarding, high stress, low support. The people were actually okay – but it was a gigantic public corporation, and everybody had the screws on them: the CEO had to hit his revenue forecast. The VP had to make things work better and keep costs down and keep raising revenue. The head of our department had to ram through a new technology despite blowback, and technical setback. Your basic selling of body and soul in exchange for a paycheck.

Anyhow. It’s now been about 8 months and … I miss working.

It’s weird to say, but it’s so much easier to have the work come to you than go hustle for it.

Even with a bad job, you can tell someone you’re *doing* something, instead of staying at home all day concerned with bullshit like what to have for dinner.

In the meantime I putter around the house, try not to spend money, feel guilty about working on pet projects like practicing music. Ironically, when I was working too much I had no time to devote to personal projects. When I’m not working, I feel guilty about devoting time to personal projects instead of doing work-like things.

There are, of course, two solutions. Right away, I treat my home life like a career: Write a to do list. Get things done. Reward myself by playing music or writing. Long term, I find work, which will help with that gnawing feeling of not earning a paycheck.

More on that later.

Guess What I Did while You Were Gone!

I follow Bree Olson on Twitter, who had the funniest goddamn post the other day.

“My guy friend that watched my house while I was gone fucked my pussy/ass mold and admitted it!”

Your … what?

Oh, of course. Your pussy/ass mold.

So naturally the questions are lining up.

1) Why do you get one of those? Of course she has a great pussy/ass. She’s a porn star, so it’s kind of a job requirement. But on a dresser it kinda loses its appeal (though apparently not to her horndog house-sitter).

2) What purpose does it serve now? Is this some sort of fan gift? A promotional item? A paperweight/throw pillow? A conversation piece for when guests come over?

3) What the heck is it made of? Is it flexible and fuckable? And even if it is, it looks about three inches deep. What did the guy do, poke his weenie in half way?

… Come to think of it, I don’t really want to know the answer to that last one. What those horny dudes in Indiana do to get their rocks off is their business, not mine.

Communication Fail

I ask a simple, binary question, and I get an essay.

First example:

“Is this laundry pile on the dryer dirty?” I ask, holding a dirty shirt.

“So the story is that the stuff on the line has to come down, and the stuff in the washer has to go in the dryer.”

(Communication fail.)

“And the stuff on the dryer?”

“It’s dirty. But that pair of shorts on the washer needs to go in the dryer.”

Second example:

“Is that blue laundry basket ready to go upstairs?” I’m going upstairs. I could take it. I’m trying to help.

“I’m sorting child one and and child two’s clothes into two separate baskets.”

(Communication fail.)

All morning it’s been like this.

That Thing You Do

We have this mucky-muck at our company who speaks slowly, thinks slowly, and says “that” every fourth word. As in, “Do you think that list will help those people do that thing that they want to do with that site?”

Uhh …. communication fail?

Anyhow, I accidentally friended her on FaceBook. And she accepted. Uhh … friend fail?

B*tch/D*ckhead of the Week

[B*tch/D*ckhead] has sent the following request… You might want to spell check before you post to the front page of [company website]. I am an outstanding professional not an oustanding one. We have dynamic markets not dymamic ones. Three years ago spell check was around as well. — end message

It was around … but three years ago, it wasn’t on DreamWeaver. And it’s still not. So f*ck off.

Is this Love?

I text-messaged my girlfriend while sitting on the shitter today. That has to count for something, right?

Zombie Hookers on Craigslist

There is apparently a whole zombie hooker meme, complete with YouTube videos, and someone even owns zombiehookers.com. (Apparently zombie strippers, too. Which, if you’ve ever been to a strip club, is the most unsurprising thing ever.)

Where does such concepts come from? A short peruse through the escorts section of Craigslist will give you a pretty good idea.



True, her eyes are closed, but still, you’ve got to think that fornicating with her would be a “super-hot undead time.”



I know, I know, call me a prude, but when chicks get all wall-eyed, stiff-kneed, zombified and jerky, my boner just wilts.

Shadenfreude of the Day

OK, remember that great job that was bombinating around the intertubes a while back? Caretaker of the islands in the Great Barrier Reef.

Yes, lovely, dream job, etc. Also, as it turns out, a way to gauge how inflated someone’s self-image is. I know someone who I’ve since de-friended on Facebook and de-followed on Twitter, who was absotively convinced she was going to get that job.

Well guess what. I just saw the short list for candidates, and she ain’t on it.

Now, it’s not a perfect list. It’s not even a very good list. While Asia and the Pacific Islands are well represented, I don’t see many dark-skinned folk (Rafaelito is from Guam). And apparently to make the short list you need to be young, childless, fresh-faced, and exuberant, like any other sparkling body on a deodorant commercial.

But who cares about that.

Being a Dick, the Social Media Way

I’m probably a dick too, but that’s not the point of today’s screed.

My public persona is on twitter, and one of the guys I work with a lot in our IS department is too. He’s a complete tech-head, and 3/4 of the time, he’s @othertechnerd-ing on twitter, so much so that between twitter and his blog, I think he’s got a bad case of ADD.

But still, I have to work with him, so I thought I’d follow him on Twitter. I tried to. He’d blocked me.

I *think* it might be a misunderstanding, because I tried to follow him once when I was following about 8 people, and he laid down a nonstop stream of tech-gibberish.

So I stopped. Who knows, he might be hacked off about that.

Or not. I can’t remember. But I can hardly go up to him and explain the situation either.

So co-workers we remain, on frosty social-media terms.

Beware the Sample Stalker

From Twitter:
“I’m a sample stalker. I go to the grocery store even when I’ve nothing to buy just on the off chance there’ll be a sample…today, truffles.”

Great. This twit is pumping out a pound per mile of carbon dioxide, plus

* Carbon monoxide
* Nitrogen dioxide
* Sulphur dioxide
* Benzene
* Formaldehyde
* Polycyclic hydrocarbons
* Lead
* Tiny suspended particles

… all so she can sniff for truffles like a pig.