Happy Friggin' Whatever

Well, folks.... it's been a long year; perhaps fifteen months' worth. We went through all sorts of bizarre excremental stuff here and shared it with you. The good stuff stayed home, sorry. We learned about health insurance, observed the Unemployment Follies, watched the car suffer potholes, Philly drivers, people who stop short, and discovered that each accident requires a five hundred dollar deductible. We also found out that there is a yearly limit on rental car days. Neighbors inquired about the house going on sheriff's sale and reported us to the township because of standing water (which turned out to be the dog's pool).

We were told tales of line-dancing Jews, I Heart Boobies bracelets, the woman who beat her mother with a vibrator, recording a song parody in the living room for Billy Joel, dusty Hawaiian shirts, Carlos Santana's questionable musical choices, Security Plus certification and Waffle House - average food...quickly. We even discovered how difficult it is to put stuff into bags.

There has been much head-exploding. In the world of pets, there has been serious attachment due to unemployment, a spooning spaniel, a dog and cat who taught the neighbor to feed them on command and a cocker who does his own recycling.

---------------------------

And for my last shot of 2014, I give you Internet Acronyms.

SOMFAL - sitting on my fat ass laughing
HYBIBRB - hold your breath, I'll be right back
WPFOMA - when pigs fly out my ass
SWWK - strangling wife with keyboard
IGTRTTIAKY - I'm going to reach through the internet and kill you
WTFAYW - what the f- are you wearing?
OMGYFTAI - Oh my God, you fit that all inside?
MBFFIAT - my best friend forever is a transexual
ITDHTCA - is the dog humping the cat again?
AFKBA - away from keyboard, bleeding again
TKALUITB - the kids are locked up in the basement
ICTWYMF - I can't talk with your mouth full.

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Thank you all for showing up, reading and commenting. I'd like to take this opportunity to wish you Happy Whatever. Stay healthy. Get a job or a better job. Peace. Take care of your pets. By default, 2015 is going to shine.

Joe Has Just Left the Building

Joe Cocker died, age 70, from lung cancer.

It was the 1970's. I remember it well, which is interesting, as I remember very little. In the front of the house, next to the air conditioner, my mom kept a stack of albums [shut up] against the wall. One had a white background and a picture of some strange looking guy who seemed to be in pain. With a cover like that, it had to be good. I was a youngster so I didn't know any better but I knew what I liked. I wore the damn album out and collected more and more. 

Yes, my mother turned me on to Joe Cocker. Turnabout is fair play: I introduced her to the Allman Brothers and took my parents to their first Little Feat concert.

I only saw him once or twice in concert, although I had video and audio. You can catch a lot of his stuff on Youtube but I recommend Mad Dogs and Englishmen, a documentary of his tour in the very early seventies. Leon Russell was his musical director. My, how things have changed.

There are certain songs that never fail to get an audience going. As a result, my bands always played Feelin' Alright. Also The Letter. No matter how poorly we played it, the audience got up and danced.

Jimmy Page was a session guitarist way back then and played on 'With a Little Help' and 'Bye Bye Blackbird'. Page also played on Tom Jones' 'It's Not Unusual' and a fair percentage of the music coming out of England at the time.

When I was doing musical comedy, I did a Cocker parody. While I can do a decent imitation, I cannot really sing (like most singers today, I never let that stop me).

People often ask about non-guitar players influencing your playing.  Joe opened me up to new kinds of music. He made me want to play. He also made me want to sing (my poor audiences). Fortunately his songs and style are well-documented and will be with us forever.

My first black rescue cocker was named Joe Cocker Spaniel. He, too, was a legend in his area.

We aren't left with a lot in his wake. We still have Gregg Allman, Delbert McClinton and Sass Jordan (who did a duet with Joe).

Man, I'm getting old.

Health Insurance or Let's Make Your Head Explode

Now that I'm sorta almost nearly employed, it's time to deal with the Evil Empire (no, not Comcast) - health insurance. For those of you who think Obama did wonders for the uninsured, it's time to crawl back under whatever rock from which you emerged.

I objected to government-run healthcare and I caught a ton of crap for it. I objected because nothing run by the government is a good idea or works correctly: look at Medicare and Social Security. The objection from the other side was that at least people would be insured.

The long and short of it, dear readers/plodders, is that Obamacare is a gift to insurance companies. You must have an Obama-approved plan or pay a fine. After some research, a fine would actually be better in some cases.

If you have an employer-sponsored plan, do the research. You'll probably find that it's cheaper with your employer. You will also avoid the dreaded Donut Hole [more later].

My previous employer (where the yellow brick road meets the duck pond) had good coverage at ridiculous rates. My new employer offers so-so coverage at ridiculous Obamacare rates. It makes my head spin.

So off I went, to healthcare.gov, to do my own research. Now I know insurance, from being in the field, being a consumer and being married to a Frequent Flyer. With all of my cumulative years of insurance dealings, after doing the research and going over the numbers, my head exploded. There are bits of cranium, red stuff and something that looks vaguely like cauliflour all over the ceiling. Have you ever tried to clean this stuff off a ceiling? With or without a ladder? In the dead of winter? Without so much as a pole?

The people who champion Obamacare will tell you that millions more people now have healthcare than before.  What they don't tell you is that in most cases, this is subsidized by everyone else. And they can have up to six thousand dollar deductibles. For all of you playing along at home, this means that the insured have to pay up to six thousand dollars before their insurance kicks in (twelve thousand for couples). People who have never had insurance before are getting the shock of their lives because they don't know what a deductible is. Yes, they are technically covered but most won't even make their deductible (unless they have a hospital trip in their future). So that's a monthly premium plus a deductible. You are paying for the right to pay your deductible (or pay a fine).

To be fair, one of my loyal readers is overjoyed with their plan. I must admit that it's a great deal and really helps my reader out.  There may also be a difference between states that have their own plans and states that default to the federal plan (mine).

Are you ready?  [drum roll]

I did some ridiculously complex spreadsheet projections to see what plan benefits us most. This was rather a shame, as I am completely incapable of ridiculously complex spreadsheet projections. One has to take into account the premium, deductible, copay for office visits (primary and specialist) and drug copay. Add a headache to your already-spinning head.

For a single guy about my age, the cheapest plan is about four hundred dollars per month, with a sixteen hundred dollar deductible. In the end, I will have put out an additional thirty eight hundred dollars on top of the premium and deductible (plus donut hole). I am by no means a large user of medical services. This kind of plan is good for younger, healthy folks or me.

But wait...

Now stop waiting. You can select plans with escalating monthly premiums. For a premium of four hundred thirty eight dollars and a four thousand dollar deductible, I would put out two thousand one hundred fifty six additional dollars. Plus donut hole.

There are a few other plans with cheaper monthly premiums and deductible so high that insurance would never kick in.

And if you think this is bad, try adding your spouse to the plan. It comes out over double the premium for a single person.  And if you think this is bad, I won't even mention the family plan.

And now your head has exploded, like mine, and your relatives/cohabitants/roommates are left to try to remove the stains from the ceiling.


WHO REALLY WANTS TO DO THIS?

I have a thing about being interrupted - it agitates me. The more interruptions, the more agitated I get.
So I'm starting my Grand Analysis and my wife jumps up to have a cigarette. I continue then ask for the cost of her meds. She leaps from the couch and starts watering a plant.

At this point, I'm getting the idea that she does not want to deal with this. I asked. She asked why I asked. I told her that it's important we do this and the fact that she keeps leaving the general area seems to indicate that she wants no part of this process.

Attempting to listen to my point, she sits down and her leg starts jumping around of its own accord. In her family, leg jumping indicates agitation and anger. When Dad's leg was moving, she needed to make herself scarce. I pointed at her leg, which she hadn't noticed. Even when she noticed it, it would not stop moving. I have to admit it was pretty funny watching her trying to stop it (and failing).

Further into calculating numbers, my darling picks up her phone and starts reviewing the calls. At this point, I'm quite agitated due to the constant interruptions (although neither of my legs is moving about on its own). Finally I had to pull out the Big Guns and ask if playing with the phone was more important than deciding on healthcare.  She finally admitted that she didn't want to do this.

Funny, neither did I.  And I pity folks who have little knowledge of healthcare and insurance.


DONUT HOLES

Far from being a tasty treat, donut holes are poisonous entities, otherwise known as gifts to insurance companies, installed by Congress as a Screw You to the populace.  And don't forget - Congress does not have to use this wreck they created; they have their own special plan that covers what ours doesn't.

Donut holes come with drug plans that aren't from an employer, for instance, all Obamacare plans. Your drugs are covered up to a certain dollar amount, then you fall into the donut hole, when the plan pays a paltry percentage for your meds. Another few thousand dollars later, you are again covered under the catastrophic portion of the plan.  If you are prescribed a lot of medicines, especially expensive ones, you are beyond screwed. It's cat food for you (which would be just fine with my dog but not me).

My parents hit their donut hole in October. My wife hit her donut hole in forty five days. And this magic carpet ride starts all over again in January.


OLD FOLKS

The Medicare set, along with the Disability set, gets Medicare insurance. This is a good insurance but it does not cover the entire medical expense. It also does not cover drugs.  For example, let's say the doctor charges you one hundred dollars for your visit. In the Olde Days<tm>, Medicare would pay eighty dollars (after deductible) and your additional Medigap policy would cover the extra twenty. But since this is most definitely not the Olde Days<tm>, it no longer works that way. Out of one hundred dollars, Medicate pays eighty (after a larger deductible) and Medigap, depending on plan, might pay ten, with the extra ten to come directly from your pocket.  So you need Medicare hospital and doctor (Plans A+B), supplemental/Medigap (Plan C) and meds (Plan D, after deductible, with possible pre-existing conditions).  There are also Medicare replacements, which encompass Plans A,B,C and D and have exclusions and weird HMO regulations.

There is also a late filing fee for people who don't get their insurance during Normal Signup Time. Normal Signup Time is a few days in December, between the hours of ten and eleven, at the Normal Registration Place, around the corner, in the sub-basement, in the secret room you must go on a trek to locate the key for.  Hint: beware of the anteaters; they're out to get you.

By the time my wife has navigated this mess, her plans cost two hundred dollars per month with a five hundred dollar deductible and an additional six thousand dollars out of pocket. This estimate does not include some meds, hidden deductibles, hidden costs, late fees, and a one thousand dollar mandatory tribute to the President and architects of this Insurance Wonder.

If you're wondering why I was unemployed so long, let me do the math for you.... I need to make approximately two hundred thousand dollars per year to pay for all of this. And this is before anyone runs into my car (with its five hundred dollar deductible).

I have to go now. My insurance only covers one cranial explosion per year, plus the ceiling cleanup is not covered by anybody but me.

Carlos Santana Does it Again - or Does He?

I'm sitting here, desperately trying to avoid doing anything productive and being incredibly successful. Part of the traditional activity of being incredibly successful at avoiding doing anything productive is the traditional activity of watching something on tv, or in my case, online. I'm what they call a cord-cutter; a person getting away from cable and using the 'net to watch whatever I want. So up pops a Santana concert and I'm glued to the computer, as a lifelong Santana fan.

And who doesn't love Carlos?

I just have a few questions:

* what happened to his tone? That clear, singing sustain seemed to have evolved(?) into a very dirty, high-gain tone without much brilliance (or all the high end rolled off). His PRS namesake guitar is magnificent and has a small camera attached to the headstock, allowing a very interesting view of him playing (providing you don't get dizzy easily).

* Sarah McLaghlin? (yeah, I know I didn't spell that right). I recognize the weepy tune from an SPCA commercial. Carlos is playing a nylon string guitar. It's attached to a stand for no apparent reason. Is this a mic thing? Sarah is desperately in need of hair.

* Carlos seems to be touring with a small circus, including a number of dancers. I wonder if he thought he'd be as famous as Miley Cyrus if he got dancers. Regardless, I'm thinking this would not be a good idea for me - I can barely walk without tripping over my own feet, no less colliding with a lady with a huge, colorful headpiece and a tiny yellow outfit. Normally this would not be a bad thing (I can take or leave the headpiece) but I have a show to worry about.

* Something called Everlast (the boxing gloves guy) came out to sing a song. He's a bit melodically impaired, not singing so much as growling. The best I can do is Dr. John without all the singing ability.

* Carlos' hat appears to be on backwards. Perhaps, like his shoe line with the dangerously high heels, he's making a fashion statement. I make one fashion statement: I give it the finger.

* Lauryn Hill? The rather large fellow in the tan rug must be Cee Lo. C'mon... Carlos really didn't have to go with this concept of using 'hip' front persons. Judging from album sales, this was apparently a really good idea. Sigh..

* No Santana concert would be complete without his Big Jewish Hit: Oy Vey Como Va.

* The Project J and B: this seems to be largely one guy singing Maria and another guy saying UH-HUH for no apparent reason, with no apparent timing. You must be really cool when you say Carlos Santana in a Carlos Santana song; way too cool for me to understand.

* Rob Thomas: I've actually heard this song. This guy can't sing either but oh boy, he must be hip; he has an earring.


So I mentioned I got a job.
Well, let me be 100% accurate - I am logically, technically, provisionally, traditionally and damn near fully working. Soon. Still waiting on whatever it is they make you wait on before your start date. I think we're off to a really good start: H/R gave me the wrong information and I had to complete all of the paperwork a second time.

I asked about a dress code and the answer was more or less affirmative: there is a dress code but they're not going to tell me what it is. It's also possible that they don't know what the dress code is - I'm new here and don't know squat. It is also possible that there are several dress codes, depending on how far from Manglement and the metal detectors you work.  At first I objected to the anal probe but the lady with the gun was pretty cute so I let her continue. Of course they didn't find anything but I may go back and tell her I hid a surprise for her.

Oh dear... I have a conundrum... I'm typing this shit out, being creative, and there's now a huge manhunt on the scanner in the next county [there are helicopters and a Dairy Queen involved]. To top that off, my wife just arrived with some sort of double chocolate ice cream with huge Oreo chunks [click].

The Unemployment Follies - Final: The Pets' Lament

Thanks for hanging in there with Thermionic Emissions through this most interesting time (all three of you).

As you might have noticed, this is the final installment of The Unemployment Follies.  This can mean a number of things: 1. I'm going to shoot myself (or someone else), 2. I somehow managed to become employed.  As amusing an idea of shooting would be, I'm going to have to go with number two; I somehow managed to become employed.

This blog is nothing if not logical.  Now follow this logic: as we know, I'm am information security guy. And as we've all read, there are tons of hacking incidents happening all over the place, each worse than the previous one. Therefore, there is a huge demand for security people, so I should get a job very quickly.  While this blog is logical, little outside of it is, thus the five month desperate search for a new position.

My wife is very supportive. She's been dealing with everything well but for some reason lately she's been reminding me (constantly) that I only have one month of unemployment compensation left. It's not that I didn't appreciate the rather frequent, panic-filled reminders, but I was somewhat well-acquainted with the impending date. No pressure, of course. Mowing lawns and McDonalds were starting to look good. And you know about my almost paralyzing fear of mowing. Not to mention my almost paralyzing fear of eating anything from McDonalds.

I started looking outside my specialty. Interviews started picking up. I spent hours each day looking for a job. My in-laws were holding prayer vigils outside the house at night, complete with candles that kept me up until daylight. The neighbor's children added me to their school's prayer list. Two people read my tarot cards and put me in a job before the end of the year. A friend said I was working way too hard and to simply ask for a new job within forty-eight hours, also writing it down on a piece of paper.

One, some, or all of the above held a conference, wherever these types of conferences are held and laid one on me. Within a few hours, someone called about a job. Within a week, I was provisionally hired. When I say provisionally, I mean that they have to do a little snooping around in my past. You're thinking that I'll be back on the unemployment rolls again, aren't you? I wish them luck - since I can't remember a bunch of it, perhaps they'll have better luck (and tell me a little about it). Hopefully neither of us will discover what I did with the bodies.


ADJUSTMENTS

There will have to be many adjustments made after me being home for such a long time. The ones affected most would be the poor pets.  Not that we weren't bonded well before this but now I have two quadrupeds almost physically attached to me all day.  Since I'm not exactly an athletic guy, this means there are two pets fighting for lap and sofa space all day. If one lays against my leg, the other one hops up on my lap. This is less than optimal, as there's usually a laptop there. The damn dog can do things I can't do on my laptop, with just one paw. I suspect my wife will have to take them through some sort of Pet De-Attachment Program. They won't know what to do without Daddy sitting around the house all day.

Inter-species same sex sibling relationships are the best.

The humans will have to make adjustments too, like having electricity and heat. Ok, more like having better chocolate and paying bills. I have a genuine fondness for paying bills. Well, maybe not a genuine fondness and maybe the wife pays the bills, but you get where I'm going with this.

Speaking of the little four-legged darlings, the cat has taken to peeing on a mat by the kitchen sink. Even after I've just gotten up, the mat does not resemble his litter box in any way, shape, or form. Now picture my sheer delight when washing the dishes, to discover I'm standing on a mat made wet by cat urine. Serves me right for not wearing shoes when I wash dishes. Or for having a lovely little furball who decided not to use his litter box that particular time.

The dog, not to be left out, has decided I take too much time to let him in from outside. Today I had to apologize for him having to bark twice before I let him in. I looked at the cat and asked him why he couldn't let his brother in - after all, he's a very bright cat. Of course he's bright... he gets ME to open the door.

THE BIG EVENT

Once in every decade or two comes an event so spectacular as to defy belief.  Yes, we started cleaning the house. Marshall was especially grateful for us removing all of the clutter that had deposited itself on the dining room chairs. This allowed him to use a chair as a step stool, gaining access to the table itself, whereupon he proceeded to eat the remaining half of a fresh cherry cheesecake. Let this serve as a lesson to each and every one of you: DO NOT CLEAN. EVER.


STARBUCKS

Most of you know Starbucks as a place to get overpriced, over-roasted coffee with a whole lotta smug appeal. Did you know it's also a great place for a sociology lesson?  Someone asked me to meet him there last week, in spite of my begging and pleading to go anywhere else, even Denny's.  While I waited in the parking lot, I observed the following:

• Some genius in an SUV pulls up to the NO PARKING HERE sign and parks (with a half-full parking lot).
• A BMW driver getting into his car with his double espresso half latte nonfat cream. He closes the door then opens it again and proceeds to pour out his old coffee onto the parking lot.
• A sixty-something with dyed black hair and boots so high she couldn't walk in them, attempting to navigate the lot and somehow open the door.
• Two more people spilling old coffee onto the lot.
• Several other people randomly inventing their own parking spaces, again with a half-full lot.

WESTERN UNION - WORSE THAN DENTISTRY

Speaking of paying bills, it became important to pay one bill immediately, as in now; and when I say now, I mean yesterday. I was advised to use Western Union, Moneygram or Wells Fargo. So I went online and did the transaction with Western Union. A day later, I realized that Western Union had not only not bothered to complete the transaction, they hadn't bothered to let me know they didn't complete the transaction.

So I called Western Union. Apparently the transfer was on hold. Apparently notifying me was on hold too. The nice non-English as a first language speaking fellow told me that it could not be completed. So I asked him why and he didn't know. Then he told me I could go into any Western Union office. I informed him that if I wanted to go into an office, I wouldn't have called him in the first place. He suggested I try online. I already tried online, using two operating systems and four browsers. Online help told me that people were having trouble online and to use the phone. Are you following me still?

He promises me a coupon. I don't want a coupon, I want him to put the damn transaction through. It was like the Cheese Shop sketch:

You are Western Union, right?

Yes, sir.

You send money, correct?

Yes, sir.

You have been around since long before I was born?

Yes, sir.

Are you telling me you can send money for everyone but me?

Well... let me check.  Ok, I checked and we can perform the transaction again. All I need is all of your information over again. And we're processing. And it has rejected again.

What has rejected - Western Union or the bank?

Western Union.

So you're telling me that Western Union cannot send money.

I didn't say that.

But you can't send my money.

You can try again but not for twenty four hours when our computers reset.

CLICK.

So I tried Moneygram online.  Oops, they don't have the correct receiver number - have to go to one of their locations. At their location I set up the payment, got my transaction number, went to the counter and POOF - they couldn't take credit cards for wire transfer.

My friend looked at me in wild-eyed wonder.

This morning I decided to go straight to Wells Fargo bank, as the money was being transferred to Wells Fargo anyway.  I called to make sure this was ok and off I went. After giving them cash, they took the opportunity to mention that the payment wouldn't post for up to three days. At this point my eyes were rolling like a slot machine. My ears were buzzing and the voices in my head were telling me to do things that were quite illegal, immoral and generally Not Nice.

The bank's staff were incredibly helpful and set out to find out how to let another division of Wells Fargo know that this division of Wells Fargo got a payment for them.  After another thirty minutes, we all discovered, to our shock and surprise, that it was faster to use Western Union or Moneygram than their own branch.

Since I will pull all of my own body hair out, one by one, before I visit Western Union, I opted for Moneygram. Within three minutes, the money had transferred. Two entire days to pay a bill by wire transfer. My brain hurts and there are still pieces of my cranium on the ceiling at Wells Fargo.

I'd like to close this merry missive with the words of the latest email I received:

Love the Monkees? Don't miss this!!!  

When I opened the email, it was an ad for an Aretha Franklin concert.

Where's the Other Half of my Dog?

It was getting to be time. In fact, it was past time. Marshall the Cocker went out for Halloween as JK Rowling's Hairy Cocker.  When you're unemployed, you have to cut things back; things like expensive groomers.

Speaking of Indians, why is it that certain groups grivitate toward certain occupations?  Both recent groomers have been gay Mexicans. No thank you, I don't want his nails painted (I am not making this up).  And all of the dentists in my neighborhood are Indian. And the PITA job recruiters are Indian.

My best job offer ever came in this week: would I like a three month contract in Montreal, Canada? Ummm.. no. I've had some real doozies, but Montreal?  At least stay in the same country, guy. Plus, as we all know, it's not polite to speak French in public, making this offer impolite and rude.

But enough about that topic. Whenever I say job, an angel gets shot out of the sky. Have you ever tried to get blood out of white wings? It's not happening, people.

So Marshall gets back from the groomer, half the dog he used to be. To be honest, he looks silly. And as if that weren't enough, they put a bandana around his neck.  Talk about rude!  My dog needs a bandana like the president needs a dunce cap.  No, wait a minute.. my dog needs a bandana like any dog needs a bandana. I've killed people for less. What's next - a bee costume?

Mind you, my wife thinks he looks cute. My wife also thinks I look cute: there's no acounting for taste.

Cat Food Ballet has gotten even worse at my house.  I think I've figured this out... the cat gets his food behind a door so Marshall doesn't nudge him out of the way and eat all of it himself. Poor Marshall has to stand on the other side of the door, waiting for the Cat Food Gods to open the door so he can lick out the bowl. Sometimes he sits there for ten minutes, cleaning the cat food bowl of every microscopic bit of its former contents.  It turns out that the cat purposely leaves some of his food in the bowl for the dog. We know he was raised with dogs but that doesn't even go halfway towards explaining this behavior. One day my wife watched the cat push a pizza box off the table so both of them could eat it. Everybody loves pizza in this house. So the cat and dog are co-conspirators: the old swatting and barking bit is just for show.

The cat is slowly training the wife and it's not pretty to watch.  Having his claws makes our life a bit more complicated, as he won't play with a cat toy, he prefers to use furniture. My wife used to let him outside when he started this and after a few days, he had her trained to let him out with a scratch. He also trained her to feed him on command. Whenever she goes into the kitchen, he races in there and sits by his bowl. If that doesn't produce food, he head-butts her leg and annoys the crap out of her until she produces the food.  Then, of course, he eats a bit and opens the door for the dog to come in and finish it. Sometimes he walks to the dog bowl and eats some of that, making the circle complete.


MAIL AND STUFF


Relatives are out of town for an event. My job has been to pick up mail and manage trash cans. Unfortunately I've proven pretty good at managing trash cans but I am terribly afraid to look for a job managing them. Plus I never wanted to be in management.  Unfortunately this golden effort has been sabotaged by the real trash guys, who failed to empty one can.  How am I going to tell my family, including She Who Must be Obeyed, that there was a Trash Can Emergency on my watch? It reflects very poorly upon me. What if they go away again and won't let me manage the cans? What about the mail - will I still be allowed to pick it up?

On the way to pick up the mail today, I asked Marshall if perhaps there were anybody who wanted to take a ride, perhaps in the car... he looked at me wide-eyed and ran halfway up the steps. No one knows why. So I asked him again and he got all excited, almost hovering above the step but still not coming off the step. Finally he moved when I picked up his leash.  It's almost as if he's very hopeful but not entirely certain so he wants to be asked a second time.  If my wife's napping and I have to go into the room, he follows and jumps onto the bad, making himself comfortable, usually on my pillow. When I leave, I tell him to follow me. He just sits there. So I have to close the door, at which point he leaps off the bed and I re-open the door so he'll come out. It's like COPS, when the police have to tell everybody twice to PUT YOUR HANDS UP.

After picking up the mail, I put on my seatbelt and took off. Definition of seatbelt: the thing that holds your dead body in the car after a crash. In PA, there is no motorcycle helmet law but there is a seatbelt law. Anyway, it's mighty uncomfortable in the car, largely because there's a leash there. On closer examination it appears that I somehow managed to put the seatbelt on through the leash. I couldn't do that again for a million dollars.

On the way home from the groomer's the other night, we got into the car and I noticed the passenger seatbelt warning light flashing.  Apparently I don't have the smart car, which shows a picture of a dog instead of a person on the flashing light.  Can't it tell the difference between a forty pound cocker spaniel and a... much heavier person? The wife made the mistake of leaving her Dunkin Donuts coffee cup in the console.  In a matter of seconds Marshall had the lid off and was face-down in the cup. I shooed him away, noticed the light turn green and in that second, he was back in the coffee. I yanked him out of the coffee and drove down the block and yanked him out of the coffee again. At this point I put the lid back on. And he took it off.  And I put my hand on the top of the cup, at which point he started trying to nudge my hand out of the way.  Trying to keep both of my hands on the wheel was most difficult, as I had to keep pulling him out of the coffee.

And how is the car, you ask?  [get ready...]
The car is fine, thank you. The house is fine too, thank you.
Why is everything fine?  Sage.
When one gets a house or car, a friend provides sage for something called Smudging. This is where you light the stuff and take it to every room in the house. You also see this is the Ghost Chaser tv shows, where they use it to cleanse the house of certain entities (you can choose to believe any of this or not). So Wifey smudged the house and, on the advice of a friend, did the car too.  And why not? At this point, I'm about ready to call a gypsy to wrap up ten thousand dollars and burn it to ward off the Evil Car Spirits.  When she was done, she put the mostly burned sage into a cat food can in the car, as an ashtray.  Fortunately we haven't been stopped by the police because it looks like a giant blunt.



IT'S IN THE BAG

Did you ever stop to notice how difficult it is to put stuff in bags?  Think really hard about this one, folks. Just try opening a fresh new trash bag, if you can. This is a major effort in itself, moreso if you're already holding something in the other hand. You wind up shaking it like mad and if it inflates, it makes a horrible noise, causing the cat to Go Elsewhere in haste.  If you somehow manage to get the bag open, you will require a phalanx of assistants to get whatever you're trying to get into the bag whilst simultaneously making certain that it's not landing on the floor.  It's veritably impossible, I tell you. Even with one assistant, it's a peach. He or she holds the bag open. You attempt to put the first item in the second bag. And you fail.  The seemingly open bag has now folded back up, in spite of your assistant's valiant work.

Again, the assistant opens the bag.  This time you're trying to put a bag inside a bag, which makes the task exponentially difficult to a degree incomprehensible even to Albert Einstein, which makes things even more difficult as the has the temerity to be dead.  Even if you get half of the bag into the bag, the other half with not fit or will wind up on the floor, taking the second bag (and possibly the assistant) to the floor with it.

One day I thought I won the war.  After a time or six trying to get something into a no-longer-folded bag, I succeeded.  I was joyous and thankful.  And when I turned to wash some dishes, the bag fell down on one side, spreading a disgusting substance all over the floor.  It was almost as if it performed some sort of acrobatic leap or possibly a suicide jump. Much mopping up and lots of screaming later, I had everything in the bag, as it were.

Going back to washing the dishes, I put a washed knife into the silverware drying rack, causing it to take a giant leap (for fork-kind) back into the sink. I carefully inspected the knife, thinking that it might still be dirty but no, it was perfectly clean. This must be related to the box of coffee k-cups we have on the shelf. It keeps hurling itself to the floor. Last time I put it where gravity couldn't get it and I actually heard it go to ground.  One day a friend walked by the dining room table and a glass hurled itself off the table. I had hoped that sage would have cured the leaping bit but apparently it did not.

The Unemployment Follies #8 - Will the Kurds Get Their Whey?

[The following takes place between the last time I wrote and today.]

Good morning, good afternoon and good evening, dear readers.  It's great to be here today. In fact, it's great to be anywhere.

MUSIC APPRECIATION

Many years ago, when I still flew, I went to Los Angeles on vacation. I visited a lefty guitar store, one of the main ones at that time.  It was truly Disneyland for me.  A store where almost every guitar was a lefty.  He had one of everything.  The one that really rung my bell was a 1958 lefty Stratocaster.  It was like heaven made from wood in my hands.  It was so magical that it almost played itself.  It was only twelve grand or so, just a hair out of my budget.

Hidden away in the back room was a treasure: a 1960 lefty Les Paul standard.  There were only three ever made.  McCartney had one, someone in another country had the second and I got to hold and play the third.  It was a decent guitar at a decent price - only $95,000.  I was a little disappointed, mentioning to the store owner that it only played like a $35,000 guitar.  Price aside, it was not for me.

Yesterday I opened an issue of Vintage Guitar magazine and discovered that one of these Les Pauls just sold at auction, for the bargain price of $194,000.  Don't I feel stupid for not picking the guitar up when it was under a hundred grand...

THE CONTINUING SEARCH OF BUNGALOW LEFTY

To no one's surprise, I am still without a job.  Of course the title probably clued everybody in anway. Let's emphasize the positive and state that when I get a job, I'll have to go back to writing... well... whatever it is that I used to write before the hammer fell. And you'll have to read it, so let's just give thanks where we can.

You were probably wondering what sorts of interesting job search results have appeared.  Let me ease your burden and list some of them:

• Visual Impairment Service Team Coordinator [VIST Team - FREEZE!]
• Customer Destruction Specialist [now here's one we can all get behind]
• Concierge-Event Planning [because I love people and hospitality]
• Java Developer [I'm more of a java consumer]
• Tumor Registrar [a room for how many organs, sir?]
• Freelance Sports Photographer [because I love sports and can't take a picture with an idiot-proof camera]
• Geospatial Technician [huh?]

I had an incredible interview the other day.... it was an intensive security position with a very large company. Everything looked good, I liked the job description and they seemed to like me. Then BOOM - the anchor dropped.  The job required over fifty percent travel.  I don't know about you but two months in beautiful downtown Utah just doesn't make my nipples swell.

I have spent a whole lot of time consuming job interviewing tips from all over the place. I can safely say that I know what not to do and even a bit of what TO do.  The key to a good interview is to anticipate the questions and have answers ready, in addition to examples. During a phone conversation, it should go something like this:

Tell me about yourself.  Hi, my name is lefty and I make people nervous.

What is your ideal day on the job?  Thanks for asking. I'd start with an intensive review of the evening's security events, followed by some chocolate, pizza and then the strippers. I'd close with some oral.

Wait - I need to put you on hold - my wife is flashing me.

Where do you see yourself in five years?  Certainly not in this dump. I intend to avail myself of all the benefits and run like the wind. With any luck, I'll be able to blame it all on the boss.

You were laid off?  Why?  I'm glad you chose to ask this highly illegal question.  My position was eliminated, right after I eliminated the CIO and half of the board.  Just because I soiled his wife was no reason to be so upset. Yes, that was a chainsaw, but I couldn't have done it because I could never start the damn thing.

How do you keep current with security news?  Websites, news readers and Juggs magazine.

With preparation like this, it's amazing that I don't have multiple job offers.

IT'S OK, I'M INDEPENDENTLY WEALTHY

Remember the well-meaning neighbor?  The one who asked when our house was going up for sheriff's sale?  We're finally one-up on him: we called the mortgage company and, as it turns out, they're not all that keen on calling the sheriff.  The best moment was when we were going over our finances, Lieutenant Mortgage came to the conclusion that without our mortgage payment, we were four dollars in the hole.  Suffice it to say, they're quite content to work with us.  This works out well, as I can't rely upon public wifi to write these sagas.

NOT QUITE ERRATA

I passed the dog on my way in.  He had his face buried in something of weird color.  Then I got distracted by the neighbor washing her car in those shorts and.... 

Ok, so I passed the dog on the way in. When I got back to him, he was finishing up someting.  Minimal detective work indicated that he had bored through a pizza box to get at the poisoned pizza that he stole from the trash.  He has a cast iron stomach, largely from eating cast iron.

Speaking of trash, I mentioned our new automatic trash can.  Wave my hand over it and it opens, then closes on its own.  Apparently it needs a tuneup because it tends to open and close for no apparent reason.  Every night we sit in the living room and hear the can opening and closing.  It's almost a form of cheap entertainment these days (as everyone knows, I'm a cheap and easy date. Mostly easy).

Last but not least, I need to unburden myself.  This is just between us, ok? I don't want the wife to find out.  You see, it's about the wife. For some reason, perhaps due to all that loud music when she was little, her hearing has gone to hell.  I didn't want to be the one to tell her that she answers her cell phone in speakerphone mode, then puts it to her ear.  Mostly she puts the phone down and talks to it REALLY LOUDLY. I keep telling her she's shouting. She keeps telling me she's sorry, then goes back to shouting at the phone again. It's getting so I can't hear the tv or watch porn on my laptop.

I feel much better now - thank you.

The Unemployment Follies (#7) - Dusty White Shirts

[In this post, our hero has amazing difficulty in the act of becoming employed, in spite of major effort.]

COMING OUT OF THE CLOSET

The bedroom closet is a bit shallow but extremely wide.  I'd estimate that it could sleep two people, foot to foot.  Four people foot to foot and breast to breast; twenty-four people if you slice them correctly.  How, you ask, does this relate to employment?  By a damn fine thread, as most of my output tends to go.

When interviewing, I discovered it is strongly advised not to wear Hawaiian shirts.  A wag suggested I flout the system and wear Hawaiian underwear but the jury is still out on that.  After paying an absolutely frightening amount for a new dress shirt in the wrong size, the wife came up with about seven of them in the correct size. From the closet, of course.  I'm beginning to think that this closet occupies several more dimensions than we know of, as stuff seems to appear and disappear when searching.  It probably also does this when we're not searching, but I'll leave this to the quantum mechanics to work out (Shroedinger's shirt?).  Speaking of quantum effects, most everything in the closet has dust on it but only the very top.

So there are seven additional shirts in the correct size. This indicates that at some point, it was possible to purchase shirts off the shelf in the correct size.  Just not anymore, plus they're a lot more expensive.  Ain't progress grand?  I'm not good at math (or history or science or databases) but I'm going to say that these business shirts in the correct size look incredible for what must be sixteen years old.  No, really, they look every bit as good as the hideously expensive new shirt, including one that's almost the same shirt.

Speaking of Hawaiian shirts, I have a strange fondness for them.  Because of their dusty-topped condition, the wife decided to wash them.  As it turns out, I have rather a lot of them.  Really rather a lot of them.  The beauty of Hawaiian shirts (or most things) is that if you hold onto them long enough, they'll be back in style in a few years.  I don't want to say my shirts are old but they have come and gone out of style four times.

THE JOB SEARCH

One of my mentors suggested I arrange the Hawaiian shirts very close to the middle of the closet and the business shirts at the far unused end.  This way the Universe knows I need a job in which Hawaiian shirts are just fine and business shirts are laughed at.  So the Hawaiian shirts are just to the right of center, because if I cross the center line, my wife will bite me in a very sensitive place (and not in a good way).

Having located the jacket, with dust only on the top, I am now officially ready to go on interviews.  That is, if there were any.  According to the ads, there are many jobs available... just not for me, apparently.

The recruiters are driving me up a tree.  The metric tonne of Indian recruiters have called about very old jobs and want to submit me for them regardless of skills or location.  Last week I got calls about jobs in Colorado and Wyoming.  One job search turned up a result for restroom attendant (don't laugh - I applied).  Ok, maybe not.  The local recruiters are a different species altogether.  They call, spend some quality time with me, sound incredibly interested, all but promise me a job and then I never hear from then again.  I suspect these folks are recent graduates from local used car lots.  I don't want to tar all recruiters with the same slime - one of them has actually called me back.

I did find a government job.  I couldn't understand the job title or description, so I figured I'd be perfect for it and applied.

I am going to depart from this blog's entertainment and sarcasm focus to mention that this whole thing is downright depressing.


SUPPORTING THE AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR AND RENTAL INDUSTRIES

No post to this blog would be complete without some new and exciting information about the car.  The collision repair place for the insurer called to tell us the car was ready.  When we got there, we discovered that there was yet another five-hundred-dollar deductible.  This topic has actually gone to the realm of logic: how can an unemployed guy make five-hundred-dollars appear out of thin air?  You might be surprised to learn that my piles of hundreds have been depleted by unemployment and tithing to Dunkin Donuts for the dog's coffee.  And even if I had hundreds in the closet, they'd be dusty up top.

Not being independently wealthy has been complicated by another ironic phone call, this time from the insurance company.  It seems we are just about to exceed the number of rental car days for the year.  I've never even heard of this happening.  So every day that passes is another day we have to pay for our rental.

Causing five-hundred-dollars to appear is no small feat.  Do they expect me to pull it out of my buttocks?  Let's face it - if I could, as my friend pointed out, I wouldn't need a job.  Perhaps I'm just a masochist.

The entire process of getting the car repaired this time has been one of frustration.  I suppose it's ironic that this is the only time the person who hit us had insurance.  There was a huge amount of confusion over whose insurance was going to cover it and if theirs was, why were we paying a deductible.  After weeks and many phone calls, the repair place overruled the insurer and our insurance is covering it.  The lady in charge of the process possesses all the grace and charm of Genghis Khan.

Off we went to pick up our baby.  The wife got back into the rental and just looked at me.  What now? An additional part had to be repaired and the car, which was 'ready' the prior day, would take another hour or three.  And we're racing the clock on the rental.

Know what?  I have to give major points to Hyundai.  As you've undoubtedly read, we have driven a lot of rental cars lately (stop laughing) and my wife still prefers her Hyundai.  There are definitely features on the other cars that surpass ours (seats, stereo, handling) but the Hyundai is still the better car (or close) overall.  The current rental is from a country known for its meatballs.  We have this car because the choice was between it and a Mini Cooper.  It hurts me to even look at a Mini Cooper; my eyes feel cramped and unprotected.  I have never priced the Meatballmobile but I understand they're fairly expensive.  And after driving it for a few weeks, I'm not impressed.  It's bumpy as hell.  Yes, the power seats have presets and lower back support and the engine has balls BUT that doesn't justify its premium over the Hyundai.


WHAT IS LIVING IN THE KITCHEN

We have an issue with trashcans in our house.  By this I mean we have a Dog Issue.  He loves trash, among other things.  After the little monster kept getting into the trashcans, we bought the cans with the lids that you have to lift.  This kept the dog out for all of two weeks.  Between his innate intelligence and my wife's failure to put the lid back, he was back into things immediately.  Failing that, he just knocked the thing over and took what he wanted.

I have no idea whose idea this is or where it was found but we have a new trashcan.  This one is an automatic can, where you wave your hand over it and the lid opens by itself.  Then closes by itself.  Until the dog figures this one out, it's a perfect solution, plus it's pretty neato for the people.

The other night, we heard a weird noise in the kitchen.  Then the dog started barking in its general direction.  My parents would say we had ghosts - I'm skeptical.  It turned out to be the can, opening and closing by itself.  If the dog hadn't barked, I'd swear he just figured out how to operate it.

Bright as he is, he sometimes fails to notice his mortal enemy, the mailman, coming up the drive but the moment you put your coffee cup on the table, he starts barking like a rabid animal and circling the door.  I yell between hysterical barks and he somehow manages to completely ignore me.  If ignoring me weren't a regular occurance with everyone in the house, I'd be upset.

The Unemployment Follies (#6) - Lefty's Flying CIrcus

Yes, it's another installment of the Unemployment Follies, starring the leftystrat household; the wives, the pets and me.  Judging by the title, you know I'm still without serious employment (or even non-serious employment).

SINKING?

How are things, you ask?
Things are, by and large, still things, only shrunk down by fifty percent. It getting time to call some creditors.  Do you think I can explain to them that since my income dropped by fifty percent, my payments will drop accordingly?

Perception is everything, though.
To anybody looking in, I must look like I'm on some pretty heavy drugs. I spend every day looking for jobs for a few hours, then do some housework (while my wife holds me at gunpoint).  But I'm surprisingly calm.

Of course, I'm probably the only one who's calm. The wife is absolutely Not Impressed with my state of Not Working.  She (et.al.) is in a state of PTSD-induced unrest.  She keeps me on the straight and narrow, memorizing my phone and in-person interviews and asking me if they're still happening.  While the dog is still loving having me home, the wife is definitely not.  Since I have been home, she has taken up a new hobby: laundry.  Nobody knows why but a girl has to have her recreation time.  I tired telling her that it's not necessary to wash clothes every day but there's no dissuading her.  I was kinda hoping she would take up nymphomania but things don't always work out the way one would like.

The neighbor who asked if the house will be going up for sheriff's sale has been really nice, bringing over stuff from the garden.  The other neighbor has been leaving care packages.  For some reason, they include a lot of bread.  Fortunately the dog loves bread, as if we could keep him out of it.  My mom just made us dinner.  We're not destitute by any means but I feel rich in friends and family (ok, and slightly embarrassed).  I even took down the NOT STARVING sign on the house.

AUTO-MOBILE

I'm not exactly certain which neighbors know what but the reactions are priceless. The lady across the street came over to congratulate my wife on the new car.  My wife had to tell her it was a rental.  The good neighbor took one look at the rental car and said, "Oh dear... not again!"  Several other neighbors no doubt think we own a car lot (or are drug dealers).

I have come up with a solution for our next car.  The first part is to NOT LET HER DRIVE.  The other part is to purchase the car and three entire sets of bodies (to be stored at the body shop).  This way, when people hit us (and they WILL hit us), all we have to do is drop the car at the shop and have them replace the body part(s) from our existing inventory.  We won't even have to call the insurance company (at least until we're through the three entire sets of bodies).

Speaking of accidents, my dear wife finally realized that she has a sprained knee and opposite ankle.  This is somewhat compounded by both of her feet swelling like clown feet.  The neighborhood children want to use them for pool floats.  In fact, she's sitting next to me as I type this, blissfully unaware of the content.  Swelling feet are going to look minor in comparison with what she's going to do to me.

Speaking of doing things to me, I have to do my part to help by wrapping ace bandages around her ankles.  Here we are, with this perfect deviant sexual aid, and we're using it for health reasons. Again, I am embarrassed.


WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY?

So when I'm not job-hunting, doing housework at gunpoint or wrapping my wife's ankles for health reasons, there is always TV.  I prefer internet tv, as there's almost always something I want to watch. My wife, on the other hand, lives on broadcast tv. You know, old style, plug in the rabbit ears, horrible reception television.  What makes this really horrible is that she likes to watch ancient black and white movies (from just after they added sound) and really old, horrible sitcoms from before we were born. Leave it to Beaver, anyone?

The absolute worst time of the day is during the day, when all the court shows are on. Judge Lynn, Judge Stanislaus, and the most repugnant (and famous) show of all, Judge Judy.  I am convinced that we can eliminate the national debt by selling tickets to have a whack at Judge Judy with a two-by-four (with a railroad spike in it).  There's Divorce Count, People's Court and Banana Nut Bread Court. After being an involuntary spectator in all of these courtrooms, I figure there's really only one court we need: Grammar Court.  Have you heard how these people speak?

With any tv, you get the absolute best part - commercials.  There is a current commercial for a digital tv antenna that boasts tremendous reception and no cable costs.  For those of us with a functional brain, this is a rabbit-ears equivalent that's being sold as a small miracle.

I also discovered that with a certain cable service, one can DVR up to fifteen programs at once.  This is stunning news, that must be reported at once to either Guiness World Records or your local exterminator.  The first thing that occurs to me is why you need to record up to fifteen programs at once when you can barely find one program that's even halfway decent at any time.

Then there's the sue Sue SUE attorney ads.  No matter what the ailment, they can get you MONEY. And they can do it NOW!  Their close cousins are the drug ads.  If you have suffered from a sore groin, hypertension or death, please call 1-800-SUE-YOU2.

Huh? If you have suffered from death, please call?  Dunno about you, but I'd love to be there to watch that phone call.

Today we got an extremely rare treat.. we got to watch CHIPS on the Antedeluvian Channel.  I never saw the show when it came out but I was aware of it and the fact that it was a joke.  Today I found out precisely why it was a joke.  Absolutely the worst acting, writing and shooting job I have ever seen.  You know things are bad when you find yourself longing for the clarity, wit, and fashion sense of The Fresh Prince of BelAir.

We watched stuff like that?
CHIPS was bloody huge in its day (tell them, Eric).

Also amusing were the wacky antics of the police in ADAM-12.  This museum-view of the police took place when people used dial phones and before police started randomly beating people, shooting dogs, and breaking into apartments, shooting babies, then discovering they had the wrong house.  They used antiquated phrases like 'Yes Sir', 'Yes Ma'am' and 'You get it, Pete.'  There was something odd about police in California arresting lowlifes with southern accents.


THE JOB

So how goes the job hunt?
Apparently pretty poorly, judging from the title of this post.  I hope I'm still going to be amusing when I get a new job.

Since I last wrote, I've been approached for jobs in Arkansas, New York, New Jersey and possibly Saudi Arabia (relocation costs covered!).  When travel time is over an hour, the job stops being local.

I'm told this is the time for information security people.  You'd think that the recent breaches at Target, Home Depot and (horrors!) Dairy Queen would indicate the need for security professionals.  One recruiter told me all the security people are employed (except for this one, obviously).

But I'm online, on phone and on the toilet a lot.  Things are opening up (so to speak).  I'm even in a pilot program from the state to help the unemployed find jobs.  The last time I went to the pilot program, the doors were all locked.  I suspect the pilot crashed.  It does make me wonder why I was specially chosen.  Is it because I'm the first ex-Jew they have ever seen?  Maybe it's because my dog is black.

The Unemployment Follies (#5)

Well, it's been a real whirlwind since I last wrote.  And when I say a whirlwind, I mean that much effort has been put forth for absolutely nothing of any consequence in terms of gain.  Oh sure, I've been solicited for jobs halfway across the state, in the next state over, the state on the other side, up north of the next state over; for security guard, software engineer, governance manager (?), relationship director, project manager, and of course, my monthly offer for insurance sales.

I even had a call from a recruiter who was excited about a position, wanted to send my resume and references right over, set up a lunch for us, and never called back or responded to emails.  I specifically avoided references to his mother or family members and farm animals, as I'm told this could be considered offensive by some people.

As I type this, I just discovered that my Linked-In picture was taken down for violation of their terms. When you consider that the picture is of my pets, I fail to get this alleged violation.  Let's face it, a large number of Linked-In pictures are not pictures of the account owner.

HOUSE

My wife has gone on a house cleaning spree. This came as a shock to both of us, causing me to join her.   We've taken untold amounts of bags to the curb, freeing untold amounts of space inside the house. I even discovered there is carpet next to my bed.  While I will cop to being a slob, I'm not claiming responsibility for this, instead preferring to blame it on the dog.  I tidied and arranged all reading material on the side of the bed. The dog proceeded to untidy every single page, in addition to tearing the trash apart on a nightly basis.  After two or three times, I gave up and let him rearrange things to his liking.  Even after we got a flip-top trash can, he still goes there first, every single evening, to see if there is any more tasty trash that needs to be shredded (all over the bed).

With all of this wonderful new-found space, the items in my house are having a difficult time adjusting.  In fact, they're having such a difficult time, they're acting out.  I just watched my wife carry some wash downstairs and a vacuum randomly put itself in her way and got knocked over as a result.  Whenver I reach for something on a clean table, something else falls off.  It's only a matter of time until things start leaping about the house on their own.  One guest swore a cup hurled itself at her.  She was probably correct.


CAR

You know what's coming, right?

It's been quite a few weeks.

Our insurer has missed us.

Yes, someone hit the car. Again.  In fact, I stopped counting a while ago.  Guitar players can't count past four anyway (and I know my limitations.. 1-2-3-4!).  I can only estimate and I refuse to estimate, as it would make me sad(der).  We didn't even report the last time it happened.

This time, some idiot stopped short, caused my wife to stop short, causing the brand new black Mercedes behind her to slam right into her. He tried to avoid the car, managing to only ruin one rear corner of the Target Hyundai.  This being Philthydelphia, they had to wait two hours for the police. I suppose she was lucky, as the Philthy cops don't usually respond to anything that doesn't involve a gun. Did I mention that the idiot who caused the accident drove away?

This morning I am yanked out of bed at some horrid hour (before noon) because someone's coming over.  Why should I care?  Because something happened and the bank account needs money or we won't be able to pick up a rental car.  So someone's coming over with money, bless them.

I am horrified.

I got into the car for the first time, post-accident, this morning.  As we're driving down the street, I hear a really bad rubbing of some sort.  Turning to the wife with that look, she explained that she told me about this.

Huh?

Yeah, it's ok.

Huh?  The horrible rubbing noise is ok?

Yeah, the guy(?) said it was ok.

What guy?

The guy from the accident.

Ah.

So I'm driving, my heart (and wallet) pounding due to the rubbing noise (that's ok). When we parked, I took a look for the root of the rubbing.  No problem, I said... it's only the broken, very hot exhaust pipe, sitting against a rear tire.  No, it's ok.

Is your skull coming apart at the seams yet?  Mine is.

Finally we managed to obtain a rental car.  It's a lot nicer than our car, even if we're just talking about the extreme lack of dents and parts hanging off it.  Since it's black, the polar opposite of white, our luck will be much better with this one.  And I say this because the last rental we got when the last bit of body work had to be done after the last accident, had to have its mirror replaced after someone hit that.  The cost of the Mirror Operation exceeded the amount I paid for each of my first three cars.

Following the wife to the dealer, I pulled in behind her. This was made more difficult by the random parking arrangements of the existing cars.  But all of this was no matter, as this was the wrong location. The correct body shop location was a few blocks down the road (it's all the same dealership).

After locating the correct body shop, we somehow managed to park (this place had the same Parking IQ as the last one).   Some lady, with an 'I just sucked on a lemon' look, came past me and drove our car to the garages.   A few minutes later my wife comes up to me and says we may have to cancel the entire operation, as they won't look at the car for a few weeks if it's driveable.  I point out that it's not driveable, given the rubbing (that's ok).  Lemon Face brought a mechanic out, pointing out the correct area of damage (differentiating it from the other areas of damage).  Mechanic agree with me.  As it turned out, the rubbing noise (that's ok) turned out to be not ok.

Wife explained that Lemon Face was agitated and didn't want to admit the car for repair. Regardless, the repair would take two to three weeks.  For some reason, business is good for the humongous dealer's body shop (with twenty bays or more).  And I thought it was just us....


GIMPY

I casually asked my wife why her walking was worse than normal.  She casually answered that her knee had been bothering her since the accident.

DING!

I didn't want to overstep my boundaries or appear parental but I suggested that she stop cleaning for a few moments and if her knee hurt, maybe, perhaps, she should get it looked at professionally.

I didn't want to bother you.

DING!



I want my wife back.

And my car.

And my typing, which has gotten extremely dyslexic lately.


Meanwhile, the dealer, body shop, car rental place and insurance person all know us on a first-name basis.

The Unemployment Files (#4)

Greetings, friends and neighbors, fellow bloggers, readers, and everyone here from the Wide World of Water Sports.  This is the next in the Unemployment series, otherwise known as Episode 4 (or Why Am I Still Typing This Shit?).

As you know by now, I remain without work, unless you count the constant drone of the wife, barking out orders for me to do menial tasks like carrying stuff, cleaning stuff and mowing. I'm a knowledge worker - this kinda stuff is beneath me.

SEARCHING

You have been privy to all of the interesting search results I've gotten as well as all of the lovely recruiters who have called and emailed.  This installment's Best Of would have to include the offers for work in Houston, New York, four counties over, and of course, the three month consulting arrangement in Arkansas.  Come to Arkansas, work three months is their new state slogan.

A friend suggested a new game: collect all the coins for the states for which we're invited to work. The one with the most coins wins.  No, I don't know what.

In my own searches online, I have come across a few winners also. Business to Business insurance sales, wound nurse and my absolute favorite: lactation consultant.  I have to tell you that the last one had me considering a career change.  I'm somewhat of a subject matter expert in that general area anyway, going pro wouldn't be that difficult.  I can already properly size a bra and check for lumps, so I know wherefrom I speak.  Ok, I am a bit lacking in lactation - it's simply a fetish better left for others.

THE HIRSUTE CANINE CHILD

The dog has been enjoying the hell out of having me home full time, according to my wife.  As I type this, he's sitting next to me, putting his nose under my arm and insisting on all attention being provided to him and him alone.  Unfortunately all the attention has spawned more of a little monster... when we go somewhere, he becomes Spaniel Detective and hunts down anything edible, no matter where it is.  He used to be such a good dog when we left.  Last week he got half a bag of my Reese's Pieces (the bastard).  This was doubly evil, as my wife was supposed to get me Peanut Butter M&Ms, not Reese's Pieces.

He's defintely acting out.  Yesterday he ate half a loaf of wheat bread... the kind with all that sawdust on the top.  Wheat bread.  No matter how bad chocolate is for dogs, he will consume whatever he can reach.  Fortunately it doesn't bother him (it bothers me though).  My wife, who is sometimes forgetful (like it's sometimes humid in PA), left a whole bag of trail mix on the floor.  Strangely, the dog has left it there.  Yes, we've finally found the single substance that the dog won't touch. Remember - this is the guy who has eaten raw brussels sprouts.  Just not trail mix, please, Dad.

Meanwhile, the cat is also enjoying more attention.  The fastest way to get one of them to come is to call the other one.  Sibling rivalry at its finest.

Speaking of the cat, he has developed a new talent.  If you remember, the dog has trained the (good) neighbor to come out and feed him upon his command (bark).  The cat, no slouch himself, saw what was going on and figured he needed to get in on the action. So he, the cat who makes no noise at all, now sits on the fence and goes meow...Meow... MEOW and the neighbor comes out and feeds him too. We have unleashed two beggars upon the neighbor.


THANKS FOR THE HELP

The neighbor with the good intentions, who last time asked if the house was going up for sheriff's sale had another piece of wisdom the other day.  He saw my wife smoking on the front step and lectured that she must stop smoking; it's costing us too much money.  Of course the guy is one hundred percent correct; he's just lucky he didn't get a Subaru through his thorax.  The wife is a little jumpy where ciggies are concerned.

Armed with this great information, my wife decided to save us some money on cigarettes.  Whenever I hear 'save us money', I start to shake.  This usually means that she has purchased two of something 'because it was on sale' or 'because it was cheaper'.  When she gets home, she tells me how much money she has saved us.  I volunteer to save us even more money.... Guitar Center is having a sale and I can get two guitars for just a bit more than one.  Think of the hundreds I can save us!  Oddly enough, it is at that exact point that her math fails her (as well as her sense of humor).

Where was I?  Oh yeah, cigarettes.  She saved us loads of money by buying.... are you ready?  can you guess?  wait for it...  Roll Your Own cigarette parts.  We now have a tray table dedicated entirely to assembling cigarettes. Or rather, a tray table dedicated entirely to holding all the paraphernalia required to assmeble cigarettes.  I figure this is a practice best done when she has enough ciggies already. The moment she's out, she'll run shaking to the tray table, try putting together a single cancer stick, fail miserably, and run screaming to the store to buy a carton of regular old cigarettes (for $77 plus taxes).  In fact, it turns out that the tobacco companies are the ones that started the Roll Your Own movement.

INTERVIEWS - WE GOT INTERVIEWS

Hey, I haven't spent the entire week sitting on my ass.  I've spent the entire week looking for jobs, while sitting on my ass, thank you very much.  I have to admit I've had a decent amout of 'hits' on my resume lately, some from actual caucasians (who aren't Indian and trying to pound me into any job they can fit me into).

The prospective employers are getting smart about things, as I mentioned, and doing phone interviews (screenings) to weed out the bad prospects before calling them in physically (if not mentally).  I have had a bunch of phoners, as I call them.  Each one teaches me something, namely that I hate interviewing and that I can learn from my mistakes. And I make rather a lot of them.  And I insist upon making each one of them repeatedly.  Getting feedback helps to learn what to do next time.

So I've learned a lot, largely by failing.  Some call it Trial and Error.  I call it Error and Error.

This week I got a call from a recruiter for a job that turned out to be pretty damn local.  If there's anything I like (besides not having to mow the lawn), it's a very short commute to work. So I sat on the phone with the recruiter, very patiently, and answered questions. Very early in the process it became apparent that the technical recruiter had absolutely no concept of technical matters.  It would only make sense, you know.  I was charming and helped with technical acronyms.  Having gotten through that, I was informed that there was another phoner with their actual technical person.

A few days later, their actual technical person called, only he wasn't entirely technical either; he just knew all of the terms and acronyms. I suspect I was less charming this time but I passed muster. I know this because I was then invited to meet him in person.  In a small county, one state over. Tomorrow, if I didn't mind. For anybody keeping score, this was two phoners and an in-person, just to get past the recruiter.  The visit was pleasant, he asked great questions, we all talked about pets, kids and the coffee situation brewing (get it?) in South America, causing prices to rise exponentially.  I must have been in good form because I passed muster again.

How did I know I passed muster again? The recruiter was going to pass my resume along to his client. IF the client likes my resume, there will be... hang on..... guess what?  a PHONER!  If he likes the phoner, an in-person will be scheduled.  For anybody still keeping score, I will have gone through three phoners and two in-persons before I know if I got the job or not.  And this is for a consultant slot.  This has city government or extreme corporate obfuscation written all over it. I hope they don't take measurements when I show up. I typically disappoint.

Then there was the other phoner/screener for a large retailer.  It was being gang-interviewed, possibly by monkeys, judging from the zoo-like background noise.  It felt like home because I used to work in a zoo.  Well, not a traditional zoo, but they were really loud and sometimes smelled like animals. The secretary's husband likened calling there to a soccer riot.

And there we are - this week's installment.  Although it would break my heart, I am perfectly willing to discontinue this series and get back to the (ab)normal stuff.

The Unemployment Follies (#3)

It's been a little while since the last update, largely because nothing funny has happened.  Well, when I say nothing funny has happened, I mean the normal funny stuff has continued.

When you're under-employed, it is said that your job becomes working toward being employed. It's a full time job.  Sometimes after chasing the Golden Paycheck down all day, I don't notice it's dinner time and I begin to wonder whether I've time warped or all that time flew by (when you're having fun).

The bizarre calls and emails continue to pour in. Job possibilities in all sorts of places, very few of which are in my state or commutable.  I try my best to be nice to the recruiters, even though being nice isn't one of my strong points. I reply politely that California is thousands of miles away, which puts it just outside of my range for driving (or flying).  One company has called me three times about the same job, only they can't seem to figure out if it's in north Delaware or south Delaware (not that it matters, as I'm not driving to either of the Delawares).  And everybody knows that you lose one IQ point for every mile below Wilmington, Delaware (ducking).

When I specify that I'm in security, why do you send me emails seeking an email administrator? Or a network administrator?  Or a database administrator.  Or a drive halfway across the state?

Searching for jobs is amusing in itself because when one searches for Security jobs, one gets mostly results for security guards.  It must be an interesting and exciting field, as there are so many ads, each one listing an hourly rate below nine dollars.  Hmm... I wonder if you get a gun...  One of my searches was at a research hospital and came up with Chief Monkey Handler.  Surprisingly enough, I did not jump at the opportunity (I live with enough animals as it is).


DAYTIME

So I'm home during the day, which delights the wife (and the dog). The only problem here, besides not having a job, is daytime television.  We don't have cable tv, so we're kinda limited to broadcast tv.  Have you seen broadcast tv lately?  Will the last broadcaster turn the lights out before you leave? This is what a friend of mine used to call dog-meat television.  Yes, I love my wife, but some of the stuff she watches makes me wish I were working, so I never knew about it.

There is a show called Wendy that comes on after the morning news (which is more concerned with Facebook than actual news).  I'll try to be polite here (but will ultimately fail): the woman is about seven feet tall (plus wig and heels) and may in fact be a man.  They say the transvestites always have better makeup and clothes because this is their area of expertise and they have to work harder.  So she's tall and has a giant set of mammalian protuberances.  She hoots and hollers, at which point the audience hoots and hollers.  I knew this because my wife likes to listen to the tv at earth-shattering volumes, making it difficult to concentrate on more important things (like poking my eardrums out with a pencil).

This is considered a talk show, for lack of better term.  When guests sit on the couch, the staff fires up the Shoe-Cam and they show the guest's shoes.  This is the kind of show it is.  And now you're ready to poke your own eyes out with a pencil.

If you can imagine it, the only thing more obscene than the alleged programming is the commercials. During the day, there are two types of commercials: SUE SUE SUE, the lawyer commercials and GET MONEY NOW commercials.  It makes your head explode.  It also makes me wonder who the audience is because this stuff is targeted to them.


SHOPPING?

I got another call from a recruiter who didn't seem anywhere near as slimy as the rest of them. The job sounded interesting, the commute reasonable and if they liked my resume, the interview was going to be the next day.

The next day?

This presented a small problem:  I was with my previous employer for about fifteen years, meaning that the last time I wore a suit was about fifteen years ago.  Oddly enough, I still have the suit but I suspect, fashion maven that I am, that it may look a bit out of date. So I was brutally honest with the recruiter, who said just wear something business appropriate.  I lied and told him I had clothes that fit the description.

Let me be honest with you too: when I say I'm a t-shirt and jeans kinda guy, I'm not kidding.  I have more t-shirts than most people have hair.  And some sneakers - that's it.  I don't dress up for anything or anyone, past a nice Hawaiian shirt.  They're lucky to have me at events in the first place so nobody complains about my clothes.

So it became time to go shopping.  I instantly knew I was going to regret this but it had to be done.  As it couldn't be done without the wife, I had to jump up and down upon the bed (it was daytime and she seems to sleep about twelve hours off my schedule, if at all).  We were on the road by 6:30 (I started waking her at 3:30) and off to the local mall.  The local mall has been undergoing changes for some time.  A lot of the really interesting stores have closed, making way for cell phone shops and more women's shoe stores.

We went into JC Penneys, which was wonderfully devoid of patrons.  My wife instantly went into BUY MODE, looking at the clothes and handbags and shoes and trinkets and clothes as if she hadn't been shopping in years.  I had to keep reminding her that one of us was still unemployed so it wasn't a particularly good idea to buy that eighty dollar dress (or that five dollar trinket - she doesn't care). Eventually it hit me, bright observant guy that I am, that this store was not divided by men's and women's - it was divided by designer.  Again, I don't get out much but it seemed ridiculous because you have to walk around the entire store if you're comparison shopping for any clothing at all.  Perhaps this is the idea but it seems like a lot of wasted time and effort to me.  My wife looked at me like I had three heads, which isn't all that abnormal.  Hey - I've never seen this before.  And it's stupid.

Once I got the wife back on task, we went to find a shirt.  This task was almost impossible by itself because we'd have to find the men's section amid all the designer women's sections. When we finally located it, I had my choice of many brands in many colors.  I figured white was a good choice, business-wise.  We found it instantly but, of course, not in my size.  In fact, none of the shirts came in my size.  I had my choice between choking and too much shoulder (I chose the latter). Oh yeah, black socks (because, naturally, I only have white ones).

And now it was time for a tie.  I thought my head was going to explode.  There were more colors and designs than I've ever seen, none of which I liked.  Putting on a tie ranks just above mowing the lawn or going to the dentist on the list of things I love to do.  Finally something caught my eye: a Jerry Garcia tie.  A hideously expensive Jerry Garcia tie.  Now he was a guitar player, like me, but he's also dead, unlike me.  It just seemed weird.  And expensive.  Fortunately it was on sale.

At this point I could take it no longer.  I felt like I had multiple personalities: a child who kept saying, "I'M NOT GONNA WEAR THAT SHIT" and an adult who knew he had to but preferred to let the child vent.

As anyone who has been to a mall knows, all stores are required to have loud, annoying 'music' blaring throughout the store.  Look, I know I'm not going to like the alleged music but does it really have to be loud enough that we have to shout over it in order to ask a question?  I have amplifiers that can deafen a sales associate at fifty feet so I'm no stranger to volume. [Hey you kids - GET OFF MY LAWN!]  At this point my phone keeps telling me I have a voicemail.  Mind you there's no signal in the store, so how can it be telling me anything?  It was pretty insistent so I ran outside to check.  Apparently there is an even newer law stating that there must be loud music playing outside the store too (I kid you not). It was so bothersome that I had to go out into the parking lot to check voicemail.  Checking voicemail, I discovered I had none.  Ok, now the phone is just screwing with me.

As if ties weren't bad enough, it was time for Shoes.  Remember, I'm Mr. Sneaker.  Everything that isn't a sneaker is horrid, ugly or for people who love to pay a lot of money for many pairs of shoes. My wife was quite lovely in this regard, picking out two pairs of shoes in the entire section that she thought I wouldn't lose my dinner over (bless her).  So we took the shoe to the counter to ask for a pair in ten and a half, only there was nobody at the counter.  We waited a while and still there was nobody at the counter.  It's crap like this that makes me walk out.  How can they take my money if they don't man their counters? I suggested taking the display shoe and walking out the door, setting off the alarm. Then coming back in and asking for someone to help us in Shoes.  But I was trying to play nice, so I went and got someone from general checkout.  Not only was the place deviod of customers, it was devoid of employees.

New cashier comes back and informs me they don't have ten and a half but she brought out a ten and an eleven (I see where this is going). My choices were largely limited to tight shoes or loose shoes. I chose loose.  I'd prefer to have chosen another store but my wife's back hurt and she wasn't long for the mall.

Cashier rings us up, we hand over the card and POOF - the entire machine grinds to an immediate halt.  Rather than rebooting, checking a manual or waiting, the young lady started pounding on the keyboard and the display.  If it wasn't completely foobed before, it was then.  Her eyes started rolling like a slot machine.  Finally another employee happened by and as she was explaining it was stuck, it became unstuck. When he moved back, it was stuck again.  It seemed to like him but unforunately not enough to complete our transaction.  Unbag and over to the main cashier.


INTERVIEW

I have gone through a number of phone interviews/screenings recently.  It seems to be a relatively new thing to weed out the riff-raff before calling people in for a personal interview.  This guy didn't want to talk to me on the phone; he wanted me to come right in.  Alrighty then, appointment set. Possibly with multiple interviewers.

It was obviously Time to Panic.  Remember, like my suit, I haven't had an interview in fifteen years either.  I'm no slouch jobwise but I don't interview (or test) well. Consulting some online resources, I read about the DO's and DON'Ts of interviewing.  Combining it with what I got from phone interviews, I made a cheat sheet of stuff I'd have to remember, phrased appropriately.  Since one cannot use a cheat sheet at an interview without looking like a total moron, I had to try to memorize everything.  This was not a good thing, as I have the attention span of a pregnant ant and the retention of a Yak.  The words kept running around the paper, like .. well... words do on paper.

So it's the morning of the interview and I'm still cramming.  Things are starting to get interesting around the house, as there are two hurried and agitated people occupying it.  I also discovered that one cannot wear a shirt from the package - it needs to be ironed (this is just too much change for one person).  Wife tore the house apart for an iron while I brought up the ironing board.  Up went the ironing board then down went the ironing board with a mighty CRASH; the holding upper thingie wasn't holding up.  After a quick visual mechanical inspection, I made a temporary repair with locking pliers.

The wife also turned up some spray starch (which quickly failed to spray or starch).  The atmosphere got more tense as the people got more agitated.  The poor dog kept being in the way, as if on purpose. Where's the tie? Over there where you left it.  Hang the shirt up and don't put it on til before you leave.
DID I JUST PAY FIFTY DOLLARS FOR A SHIRT?  No, you don't look gay in those shoes. Do I remember how to tie a tie?  I think I do.  Good lord, I'm choking.  And I'm melllting......

Out the door I went, accosted by my elderly neighbor (the sane one), who clapped in approval of my bozo attire.  I left myself an hour to get there early, as any more wouldn't be worth the daily drive to me (picky bastard for being unemployed, no?).  Here's a pro-tip: DO NOT USE MAPQUEST for anything, unless you just like the colors.  Especially do not use Mapquest for directions.  You simply cannot turn right where there is NO ROAD.  Really.  I finally got to the address, which looked suspiciously like a private home, not a business building.  Giving up, I got out the GPS, which got me where Mapquest couldn't, with fifteen minutes to spare.

I sat in the lobby, cramming for the exam, checklist on my phone. I couldn't help but notice the amount of very attractive women passing by at regular intervals.  This company obviously hires wisely, as opposed to the last one, which was so severely lacking that attractive people would occasionally picket the place and demand that they hire at least one or two of them.

I met my contact and went to a room.  I'm shaking like a leaf and sweating like a person who is very nervous. Even with no caffeine, I noticed my foot tapping.  I read that in interviews, you DON'T tap your foot.  Then I started to swing the chair left and right a tiny amount, which you should also not do.  So I had to hold myself still, except for the shaking, and nod appropriately at the nice man interviewing me.

The strangest thing happened... he completely failed to ask me about myself. He did not ask me about my triumphs and failures.  What I do to blow off steam.  If I beat the wife or the dog.  Nothing.  He simply asked me how I'd go about doing the job.  He didn't even ask me if I were a tree, what kind I'd be.  There was no firing squad of interviewers. I didn't even spill my water on myself (because I put it on the floor, knowing what would happen if I tried).  He thanked me repeatedly for coming by, then asked about my availability to start.

So that's all until I hear from the recruiter.

The Unemployment Follies (#2)

So, as you might have guessed, I remain without job.  I could go ahead and suggest that I'm only doing this to provide my readers with more of what they expect from this blog (whatever that is) but I'll cop to simply continuing to be without employment (temporarily).  Ok, it's only been two weeks or so but I'm an impatient little (&$#er.

As I mentioned, Unemployment Compensation comes in at roughly half of what I was making, resulting in a few small changes.  The lavish parties, complete with drugs and loose women, have had to stop. Now it's just allergy meds and the wife.  No more buying stuff because it's on sale. I know Guitar Center is having a sale too and I can get a bigger discount if I buy two guitars.  Something tells me this logic isn't going to fly with the Shoe Buying Person.


QUANTUM COCKERS

We've even had to cut down on the amount of cat food the dog gets. This is what really hurt.

The last time I left the house, I came back to discover that the dog hadn't eaten or drank anything. We started to wonder if he was like Schroedinger's Dog, wherein he stopped existing when we weren't there to observe him.  We devised all sorts of clever scientific tests to answer the question but in the end, we couldn't come up with anything that would prove the case once and for all.

Not to worry.  Marshall, as usual, came to our rescue.  When we got home, this is what we found:

He had gotten into the recyclables, spreading them out nicely across the floor.  There's our PROOF that he still exists when we're not there to observe him.  BUT WAIT!!!  He not only spread the recyclables out, he bloody sorted them.  Most of what you see is soda cans.  He separated the soda cans (in the kitchen) from the cat food cans (in the dining room).  Each cat food can was lovingly placed in the next room and licked clean of any miniscule bits of cat food that might remain after rinsing them out.

I think we should get him a job in recycling and he can support us for once.


MORE JOB STUFF

So there has been another great rush of recruiter contacts this past week.  More jobs in Ohio, Wisconsin and across the state from me.  One genius saw my resume and wanted to know if I wanted a job in the exciting field of insurance sales.  I put my own resume together and can assure you that the words insurance and sales do not appear ONCE.  Are they truly that desperate?  Do they get paid for each email sent out?

Some of the Job Nonsense is caused by 'someone' putting out the wrong or incomplete job description. I applied for a network security job that turned out to be helpdesk; installing and supporting programs and being on call to answer users' questions and running the phones.  Ummmmm... no.  I didn't work my butt off in security so I could get a job placating end users who can't grok rebooting their machines, as well as making sure they're plugged in (no offense to the great and tolerant people who do this).

The next job someone sent me wasn't for security at all; it was for a high level engineering job.  Also no.  I would hate to repeat what someone told me once about recruiters: some of these folks can't get a job selling used cars (not all of them, of course).

Many have asked me about consulting.  Well, since I hit the FULL TIME button on all the applications, I dare you to take a stab at my answer.

Perhaps I should consider that insurance sales gig after all.

Quite frankly, I'm not sure I could make it to a job interview anyway.  As I was driving down the street, two out of three lanes had been blocked off by those nice men in their day-glo green t-shirts.  It seems that the local authorities released some cash for a Neighborhood Improvement Project.  Since our area didn't get hit as badly this winter with potholes, the local government decided to heed the loud cry of the area for parity and take some time to install potholes and a few new trenches in the road.  I don't know about you but I feel better about the hood now.

I will also have to allow a lot more time to get to an interview due to my unique ability to make any traffic light turn red, simply by approaching it.  My wife looked at me in great surprise at a light, informing me that she always makes this light (except when I'm in the car).  As if that weren't enough, when I hit the aforementioned hole-installing project, the guy holding the SLOW sign immediately turned it around to STOP.  Some people would see this as a curse.  Thus far I'm choosing to see it as amusing (or not see it at all).


NEIGHBORS

My dear neighbor (the good one) wanted to know if the house was going up for sheriff's sale (bless his pointy little head).

My other dear neighbor (the 437 year old crazy demon from Uranus) bitched my wife out because some trees were hanging over the fence and all she ever does is sit on the steps and smoke cigarettes and why doesn't she ever clean anything.. yet shooting a neighbor is still illegal.  It's a good thing the Crazy Lady is terrified of me... I'd unleash a verbal barrage that would blast her back into her cave before I even noticed what was coming out of my mouth.  It would fail, though, as everything else has, because she's crazy AND mostly deaf.

I finally realized what the best (legal) revenge is: keep the place in disarray.  She has nothing better to do than look at our property and seethe because it's not up to her standards.  So I'll make sure to keep it that way, while still adhering to the letter of the law.