Why Do You Think It's Called a Strip Mall?

Two relative strangers met and hooked up in California.  While this no doubt happens all the time, it rarely happens in front of a strip mall.  Hey, when you gotta hump, you gotta hump, right?

Now the NSA is really in your computer.  Our good friends near DC have been caught sneaking malware into the firmware of hard drives, as discovered by Kaspersky.  This also brings up the fact that the drive manufacturers allowed this. These are some evil folks, folks.  Lady Gaga or Beyonce had better do something fast...

A Tinder app is said to enable flings at Carnival in Rio.  And let's face it... if you've gotta go down... {ahem}, Rio isn't such a bad place to do it.

Mystery Mars haze baffles scientists. Well, it's not so much haze as the Martians steam-cleaning the rovers for us.

STUDY: Dogs are smarter than people think.  Not watching tv helps.

Show-winning dog semen sells for $2,000.  Further proof that I'm in the wrong business.

Rowdy women attack man at 50 Shades.  So I'm thinking to myself that this is my golden opportunity: stand outside the theater and clean up!  Right up until we discover that the man in question asked the ladies to lower the volume a bit and got the wrong kind of head.

Woman pulls gun on man after being denied sex. Wow, I didn't know we could DO that!

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It's Snow Time in the old neighborhood. Again. This time the forecasters called for three to six inches. Within hours, it was one to three.  In an extreme slip-up, we got three to six.  What are the odds that a weather forecaster will be correct?

As a result, I worked from the couch, where I am generally headquartered.  I was treated to the somewhat altered-state neighbor shoveling early.  I strongly suspect he has some sort of noise-enhancing attachment built into his shovel. Still, this is better than last year, with the snow blower. Snow blowers, while a great concept, bother me almost as much as lawn mowers.  Let's face it - they require so much care and maintenance that they're unlikely at best to be there for you when you need them (as one could argue about a wife).

After work, I shoveled. It wasn't bad at all (especially as I didn't have to start a snow blower). Then I heard this loud noise, incredibly similar to the neighbor's amplified shovel.  This is largely because it was the neighbor's shovel, this time being powered by the 437 year old being from hell who owns the place.  In the autumn, she has some sort of laser-powered Leaf Alarm to tell her when our leaves hit the ground.  I'll bet you she also has a laser-powered Snow Detector too. As soon as it starts snowing, she forces the tenant into Snow Bondage.  Apparently his snow job was not sufficient, as she was out there again, probably cataloging and cleaning individual flakes from the tarmac.

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I thoroughly ruined someone's day today, or at least I hope I did.  

I don't get out much and I don't have anywhere near enough fun, so I have to get it where I can (kinda like sex).

There's a street on the way to work that has a 25mph speed limit and they're not kidding. I suspect half of the town's revenue comes from speeding tickets. I was warned early to obey and obey I do.

Not everybody obeys and this is where the fun starts.

Sometimes people don't want to do the speed limit, so they pass you in great haste. The only problem here is that it's only a two-lane road, so they cross into the wrong lane to pass you. While I have yet to see anyone ticketed (or beaten) for this, hope springs eternal.  When I drive a higher performance car, I speed up while they're trying to pass: it amuses me.

Today's idiot was a special breed.  He got right up my tailpipe from the start. When this happens, I naturally make sure I'm doing exactly 25mph, if not 24.  This did not impress Sparky, who stayed in close formation. Trick Number Two: brush the brake pedal so the brake lights come on. Sparky backed off a bit but in short order, he was trying to climb into my trunk.  Firing up the brake lights again only pissed Sparky off and he blinked his lights at me.

Imagine - he blinked his lights at me.

A brief glance at the speedometer told me I was doing 1mph over the limit, so I slowed down. Sparky backed off.  Not for long, of course, despite passing several 25mph signs.  By this point, Sparky's face was no doubt starting to turn red and veins were popping out of his head.  In fact, he got more aggressive and would not back up, even with the Brake Light Treatment.  

Finally some sense must have seeped in and he backed off. I suspect he might have seen some speed limit signs.  Oh no, he was back again, this time weaving all over his lane, as if he were going to somehow rocket past me.  I smiled and continued to do the speed limit in a nearly offensive manner.

At this point, Sparky probably had to give the steering wheel to his passenger, as he was having a Coronary Event (formerly heart attack).  He finally got around me because he had to get into the turning lane. He shot me a look.  I smiled.

I won.


And as I close this episode, I have but one wish: that both the cat and the dog stop farting.  I'm going to asphyxiate here.

Work is Weird

Yeah, like everybody doesn't know that.

My (relatively) new job is a real treat.
It's a humongous stereotype. It's laughable. And I like it a lot.

The first thing you notice is the Cube Farm.  They are particularly nice cubes, with more storage than a woman needs for shoes (as if there's any such thing).  The walls are high, so you can't see your neighbors.  This gives the false impression that you cannot hear your neighbors. Nothing could be further from the truth.  In fact, I have one neighbor who routinely coughs up a lung, another who talks very loudly and constantly to her neighbors and one who snores. I am not kidding.  Today I was serenaded by a speakerphone conference call on ligostics and purposes of pillow puffing on the executive enterprise level. It was difficult to decide whether to kill him or fall asleep.  Circumstances forced the latter.

There's another lady who sits across the large room and talks in paragraphs without breathing. This reminds me of my wife and consequently drives me MAD. Although my wife must have planted her there because she's actually worse, so I don't mind when my wife does it so much.

The organization is not particularly streamlined. Or fast. In fact, it took five weeks to get me a computer and a cube of my very own.  This is in spite of everything being ordered weeks before my start date.  One of the things that slowed operations down was my inability to fill out my forms before my start date. I am not kidding. If I had filled out the paperwork before I got hired, I would have had my computer weeks earlier. Maybe.

We're also slow.  Crawlingly, monolithically, organizationally slow.  The circus I recently left was a veritable speedway by comparison.  Even the doors are slow: I wave my I.D. badge in front of the reader, then wait a bit for it to beep at me. What seems like five minutes transpire before the door starts opening.  S-l-o-w-l-y.

Did I say I have an I.D. card?  Well, I have a temporary I.D. card.  The process to obtain a permanent I.D. card began (again) several weeks before my start date.  One coworker told me it took six months to get his. One poor soul has been there for a year and still doesn't have his paperwork in order.

I have a permanent computer too, as opposed to the temporary computer in the temporary cube.  The company takes security very seriously, as they should. They lock down the computers for safety's sake.  I am most impressed by this, right up until I discover that the only browser allowed is Internet Exploder!  Apparently security is somewhat overrated.  The other problem is that we cannot install other software. The irony here is that my software is safer than the existing stuff.  We can't even surf to many sites, which I'm ok with too. Unfortunately the fellow next to me seems oblivious to this, as he has a monitor dedicated exclusively to YouTube. Today he's been watching sneaker videos (no, really). The other day it was talk show bits (his monitor is in full view). This reminds me of the old place, where the campaign for dual monitors resulted in one being permanently assigned to Faceyspaces.

There is no cell phone signal whatsoever.  This leads to people wandering around aimlessly, staring that their phones and randomly walking into walls.  It also leads to people wandering in the general direction of the stairways, looking for that one signal bar with which to call their brokers. Or bookies.

If you're hungry, there's a cafeteria.  I'd suspect they hire people from my old job but this is different. The first time someone showed me the place, I purchased a soda (at the bargain price of two bucks). My guide let me know to stand in a certain place, let the cashier know what I purchased and how much I was handing over, as he was blind.  Ok, a blind cashier... why not?  He certainly made change a lot faster than most sighted cashiers, so good on him. I was prepared the next time but he wasn't at his post. Instead there was a lady. And saints be praised, she seemed to be looking off to nowhere also.  Ah, another blind cashier, I figured.  By the way, that was the first time that phrase has ever been spoken - I got a prize for it.  I can't wait to find out that the paraplegics are manning the loading dock and the clinically depressed are cleaning the outside windows.


As suggested by a friend, my short-term goal, aside from getting paid to do my work, is to be The Guy.  You know, The Guy.  The Guy who has been there for a while but nobody knows exactly what he does. They've all seen him walking around, but no one has the slightest idea what his job function is.  He's really popular, too. But if he tells you, he'll have to kill you.  They all go home and tell work stories, including The Guy whose job nobody knows. Apparently he's pretty good at whatever he does, because he's still employed and just received a raise and a bonus.  Everyone congratulated him because they have given up trying to figure out what he does.

My boss works in a different city. This results in a lot of streaking up and down the aisles, as well as Wet T-Shirt Nights and Open Guitar Jams. I asked about a dress code and was told no t-shirts with rude settings, which wiped out about ninety-five percent of my wardrobe. I'm teaching them sarcasm now.  It will take a while but the effort will be worth it.


Unfortunately the toilet doesn't like me. I have my choice of three stalls, one of which apparently has something against me. This particular unit is equipped with Automatic Flush.  The first time I noticed this, I was waiting for the toilet to automatically flush. It occurred to me that if I waited any longer, it would be time to clock out. You know that ubiquitous handle? The one on every toilet? This one didn't have one.  In fact, it didn't have much of anything but a sensor (that apparently didn't work) and a tiny blue button.  Hazarding a guess, I pushed the tiny blue button, stepping back and hoping the firemen didn't show up too quickly. Little did I know that a tiny blue button is the international sign for FLUSH.

It was the second time I visited this particular stall that I begun to suspect something was up.  While sitting I sneezed, causing the toilet to auto-flush.  I don't know how many of you have had the opportunity to sit upon a flushing toilet but suffice it to say that it's not particularly pleasant.  When I moved to check my phone, the toilet autoflushed once again, like a puppy, perhaps excited to please his human. Let me stop, at this moment, to let you know that I hadn't actually used the toilet for its intended purpose - it's just that the toilet flushed itself a lot.

When I was finished, the toilet again autoflushed, but this time I escaped its wrath.  Or so I thought. When I pulled up my pants, they stuck to me a bit.  Is this how the French do it?

Some Stuff About Some Stuff

The pope is causing a bit of a stir, after saying that it's ok to spank children, provided they maintain their dignity.

Exactly which part of pulling down your pants and getting your ass slapped is dignified?

What he meant to say was that spanking little boys is ok, but only as foreplay.

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HANDY TIP: If you're having trouble opening a jar, use an unlubricated condom

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There's this odd intersection in the neighborhood. It's kind of an offset four-way with a steep incline (isn't that a pretty, well-illustrated picture?).  Apparently someone decided that this intersection was not safe enough, therefore it required four-way stop signs.  Mind you, the truly dangerous intersection is one block away and already had four-way stop signs.

Here's the good part: everyone ignored the stop signs. It got so bad that they installed blinking red lights on top of the stop signs so people would pay attention to them.  

If that fails, I suppose they'll put pictures of a Kardashian on top of the blinking lights.

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Something is different. I'm working on a theory - perhaps you can help me out.

In the past few days, I have been food shopping with my wife twice.  Both times in the store, a woman smiled at me.  I kept looking around for the person at whom she was smiling. Failing to find anyone else, I was forced to think that perhaps she was smiling at me.

Usually women don't smile at me until I pull down my pants, at which point they're hysterical.

This is unprecedented.  I'm not exactly a warm, cuddly or attractive person and people don't smile at me.  I know I certainly haven't changed, so it must be something else.

And then it hit me: my wife is a chick-magnet.  Ok, technically having a wife is a chick magnet.  You single guys should beg, borrow or rent a female to hang around you in public, if you want to attract other women.

I know there's nothing like standing there with a puppy to attract women.  Now it turns out that having a wife or girlfriend works too.  My theory here is that with a wife, I become the element known as Unobtainium.  There is nothing more attractive in a man than a man who's unavailable. Women who would not look at me on the street start smiling at me in the store. 

Turns out this is true in both directions. Guys won't notice a woman if she's by herself but when someone else wants her, she becomes popular.

Feel free to support or take a whack at my theory.

Perfume. There?

It was a good morning. Both of us (and the pets) were almost awake, getting ready to go to work and other places. Lunch was packed and I was suddenly face-to-face with my wife and her beautiful new purple shirt. What made it more beautiful than other shirts, purple aside, was that it showed more chest than normal (no naughty bits, in spite of this blog's theme). So I gave her a nice, romantic kiss in that general area. We were impressed but the pets went about their business, non-plussed; one appearing starved and the other waiting for the starving one's food.

Fortunately it was time to go to work. When I say fortunately, I am fortunate to have a job. I am, however, still allowed to bitch about being up in the morning. When in the car, the wife ordered me to scrape the windshield. Of course I had to scrape the windshield.. I was already in the car.  This is a metaphor for our relationship.  It's also a direct statement about the weather here.  As we know, Pennsylvania's state bird is the cloud, and this lovely display of weather did nothing to dispel that fact: it was miserable, gray, and had frozen drops all over the car.  We know the sun exists, it's just that we wonder why it doesn't come round to visit now and again.  Anyone following the news will know that the Northeast has been threatened with snow for the past month. Lucky for us the weather forecasters are always wrong and we've barely gotten any snow.  Instead we've gotten frigid temperatures and bits of precipitation, almost constantly.  Last weekend we hit forty degrees and the bikinis were out all around.  Brian Williams saw his shadow and won't be on tv for six weeks.

So as I was finishing up the windshield, I detected a really horrible taste developing in my mouth.  It got worse and worse until I finally realized where it came from: my wife's chest.  Apparently women put perfume there. And I inadvertently ate some of it.  Off we went to Dunkin Donuts, for some coffee to get the taste out of my mouth. Other candidates were soda, windshield cleaner and lye.

I know I'm late to the party but I was/am so sick of the Stupidbowl that I almost can't describe it. But I shall anyway. In an unearthly first, I was invited to attend a party. In an even stranger first, I accepted, largely as this was my best friend and there were likely to be football-free zones.

There were, indeed, football-free zones, sorta, but there were still too many televisions (defined as more than zero or one).  I'm kinda like Charlie Brown and Lucy (or Homer Simpson) with televisions: I look at the motion, realize it's sports, look away, then see the motion again and look....

I don't care who Brady Bellechek is and don't want to hear his name anymore as long as I live.  It's not enough that there is a game.. I have to hear about it until I'm blue in the ears. I hear about it on the news station. I hear about it on the rock station.  I even hear about it on the public radio station, which I had hoped would be free of sports, at least after the first day.  The only thing worse than this is the item, and I use the term loosely, about deflated balls. I have no real idea what's going on here but I have been bombarded by it every moment of every day, no matter whether it's television, radio or the web.  The first time I heard anything of this, it came up on my alarm in the morning. I can be excused from incredulity (and sense) when something starts talking at me before seven in the morning.  As I grew further awake, I heard something about deflated balls and just assumed this was some kind of comedy routine. It became a really popular comedy routine when I noticed that the evening news and even Sunday's edition of Shoot the Press mentioned it.  If they have so much damn trouble with their balls, why don't they ask the cheerleaders to blow them back up and get on with the event? The politicians must be up to something when this is the lead story for days. You'd think that there was a Kardashian involved, for all the press coverage.

Yesterday in England was the first Visit the Mosque day.  This was a hastily conceived bit of press, thrown together after the Charlie Hello attacks, designed to invite outsiders into mosques to prove that Muslims are not all terrorists.  One Muslim lady complained about having to apologize all the time for the actions of the terrorists.  I suspect she should be having that conference with the terrorists, not the press.  The theme of the day was We'll Blow Up that Bridge When We Come to it. Seminars were offered too: Be Nice to Christians Day, Not Murdering Your Neighbors, and Improvised Explosive Devices.  All of the usual British suspects, with all of their comical British accents, ventured out from their quaint little towns to inspect the mosques. They were declared fit and now life can continue in England (at least until something blows up there).

NOTE: be careful reading this blog, as it may be booby-trapped. And boobie-trapped. Furthermore, it may explode.

Whats All This I Hear About Moose Limbs?

I just got an email from my good friends at Live Nation Concerts. I got an email because I spent way too much money on a pair of their tickets at some point in my life. Things sure have changed while I've been going to concerts.

It was about 1974. You could not turn on a radio without hearing something from Frampton Comes Alive.  This worked out well because he was quickly becoming a hero to me.  I even got a talkbox (talking guitar effect) because of him.  All of the sudden a huge concert was announced with Frampton as the headliner. It took place at Kennedy Stadium in Philthydelphia (since demolished to make way for more taxpayer bailouts of very rich sports teams).  My mind wanders so the rest of the folks on the bill escape me, except perhaps for Steve Miller and J Geils. A whole bunch of my friends went and the tickets were about twelve dollars.  Let me say that again: twelve dollars for an all day concert featuring the hottest artist with the best-selling live album of all time and three other hit groups.

So what does Live Nation want to tell me?  They want me to know about some upcoming concerts:

• Brit Floyd: a Pink Floyd cover band. I distinctly remember specialty cover bands playing in shitty little bars. There are also Led Zeppelin and Genesis cover acts playing medium sized theaters for Big Buck ticket prices. If I'm not there by showtime, hold your breath.
• Marilyn Manson: looks a little like a cross-dressing Hitler.
• Lisa Lampanelli: Lisa is one of the funniest women I have ever performed with. We played at some little dive bar in Cover Your Ass, PA. We were in hysterics. Unfortunately she doesn't do that routine anymore and isn't near as funny.
• Nickelback:  Give 'em back.
• Foreigner: on tour without Lou Gramm, the singer on all of their hits. This actually worked out well for Judas Priest and Journey. No idea about Foreigner.
• Artie Lange: a funny guy. Catch him before he OD's.

Nowhere on the list is there a single ticket price or city in which the venue is located.  That's ok - I don't need another mortgage to see subpar acts.

In other news, I work in a pretty cool place. When I say cool, I mean it in its figurative sense. In fact, it's so hot in there, it serves as a Germ Incubator. I'm terrified of getting typhoid due to the temperature and the seven people around me hacking up a lung.

I fear they got me, though. Between screaming at recent events and a new cough (that makes my underarms itch), I sound like a cross between Clint Eastwood and a toad.

Do ya feel lucky, punk?

Typhoid lefty and the Amazing Weather Event

The new job is going well. No, really, it's going decently. I have very few complaints, with the exception of the heat.  It's traditionally women who complain about the temperature being too cold, so I thought they were responsible for the eighty-degree temps in our humongous office.  Where I work is a bit of a cliche, so I asked if we had to fill out a form 8753 in order to get the temperature down below roasting. Even the women were complaining.

Speaking of women, I work near three women or so, who have apparently been sick off and on for months.  I told them if I got typhoid, it would be their fault. Little did I realize that they had been playing Pass the Germs for way longer than I have been there.

Sure enough, my throat began to feel icky. This was followed, in short order, by my head ringing and being in a vise.  It is difficult to concentrate on your job when you're desperately attempting to fail at falling off your chair.  This all happened in one day.  So I chose to stay at work and irradiate the rest of my coworkers who had not yet become sick.  I'm a giver.

You'll be surprised to learn that I don't get sick like normal people. Being a man, I had to ask my wife if I had a temperature, which she verified. The joke is somewhat on me because whenever I ask if I have a temp, my wife tells me yes. Why we do Fever Theater<tm>, I'm not sure. One day when I'm well, I am going to ask her to feel my forehead, just for fun. And then maybe I'll tell her that's not where my forehead is.  I figured the smart thing to do, aside from consuming copious amounts of ibuprofen, would be to take some Nyquil equivalent to help me sleep. It kept waking me up at hourly intervals, like a seriously snoring spouse with a chainsaw.

By the next morning, I was on our Natural Cocktail: zinc, echinacea and vitamin C. You start taking this the moment you feel sick and it will either help you to ward it off or shorten its duration.  If you don't have trouble swallowing pills, you will when you see echinacea.  It looks kinda like a clear capsule of oregano, only it's the size of a small football (deflated, of course).  And it's a good thing I dumped all this crap down my throat because the relatively simple act of sitting on the couch made my skin hurt. When the phone rang, my head exploded.  When my wife spoke, the hair follicles on my arm contracted and sent pain shooting to my brain (what was left of it).  Even innocent email checking rendered my eyebrows non-functional. My nose does not run but my stomach does: right to the fridge. When I get sick, my appetite goes through the roof. Keep your hands and feet away from my mouth.

SNOW

We're about to get a noreaster, whatever that means. It means PANIC. It means clean out the stores of milk and bread in mass PANIC. Depending on who you listen to, we're getting two or three snow storms. This includes between one and twelve inches of snow, depending on which attractive weather woman you prefer to watch. At least this time they came right out and admitted that there was no way to accurately predict the amount of snowfall, instead offering four different scenarios. This happened on three different networks, as if they were colluding.

The news is calling this the storm of the century. This indicates that total snowfall will be somewhere in the area of an inch to an inch and a half.  Mind you, the news also features shots at grocery stores, where the shelves are literally picked clean. You'd think they weren't going to get out to the store for three weeks. They're now calling it Snowmageddon.  This is why I get my news online.

The real mess is going to happen tomorrow, so naturally my wife asked me to stop at the store and pick a few things up. She is the one who goes shopping, so it's a crapshoot when I have to enter that dark place.  Let's start with walking in: most people have no trouble - not me.  I walk up to the door and it won't open. I strongly suspect it is refusing on purpose, perhaps on principle.  I'd have the store manager come out and explain it to me but as it is, he's busy plowing the lot (or one of his cashiers).

In front of me at the deli counter is an old lady who is apparently feeding a small battleship's complement.  She requires a pound and a half of swiss but it has to be in three packages for some unknown reason. Then some turkey.  No, that's not thick enough. Then a half a pound of ham. That's too thick. I held on well, managing not to strangle her with her own turkey pastrami and half an hour later, it was my turn. Mind you, they didn't have what my wife sent me to purchase. It's friggin' cheese - what's so difficult?

Just to make things more interesting, the Deli Lady wound up in front of me at the cashier. It turned out she had a husband, who kinda popped up when the bags were in the cart. I have no idea where he was the whole time; perhaps he was off trying to convince them to sell him three gallons of milk, but in seven plastic containers.

Once outside of the store, I tried carrying the packages to the car. Fortunately for me, it remained in the place where I parked it.  My wife's creamer took a leap right out of the bag, while I had four plastic bags on me. When I got home, the creamer, which obviously had something against me, had once again removed itself from its confines. This was made more amusing by the fact that I keep confusing the trunk release with the gas release. This won't be a serious problem until I start filling up the trunk with gasoline.

The cherry on top of the ice cream sundae has to be the mayor of Philthydelphia's press conference. It's fun to watch because we like to laugh (we're outside of Philly). He emphasized that they're serious about snow removal.  If so, this would be the first time.  There will be 375 people and 800 pieces of equipment deployed.  Two days later, people will be wondering why there's snow all over the place, as if they had no idea it was going to snow.  Furthermore, do not throw snow back in the street - it's disrespectful. Disrespectful is promising to clear the streets and failing completely.  It would be a fair bet that it's been snowing here for longer than there has been a city of Philadelphia, yet they have consistenly failed to do an even passable job of cleaning up. There are actually cities all over the country that manage to clean up way more snow way more frequently.  Driving in Philly is a nightmare with no snow.

I have to go now. The dog is doing us a favor, protecting us from the last bag of Cheese Jax (by eating them).  After it gets done snowing, the Abominable Snow Span will grace the freshly-washed blanket on the couch, which was washed yesterday because he was out in the rain and mud.

Good Thing I Have a Job

I'm going to try something new today. You know how they say you should never go food shopping when you're hungry?  'They' also say you should never blog when pissed.  Well here I goooooooooo......

I have to tell you, I have absolutely NO IDEA how you single people get stuff done. We have a very equitable distribution of duties at our house but with my wife taking the week off 'elsewhere', I am the lone biped.  As such, I am in charge of the house and the two quadrupeds. Let me describe my day...

YESTERDAY:

Off to work by eight.
Off to home at four.
Stop by credit union to deposit last week's paycheck.
Credit union, which my wife told me closes at six, closes at four thirty. I got there at four thirty five. Mind you, this is the mortgage payment.
Spitting blood, I go home.

Once home, I am greeted by all sorts of Cat Detritus. For reasons known only to Beelzebub, the cat has taken to peeing on puppy pads. Then he wraps them up around a small rug in a knot and I get to untangle them and deposit them in the trash, replacing with a new one for him to foul.  Later, while cleaning the cat box, I find a pair of gloves. I have no idea why.

The dog is so happy to see me, he runs to the door because he wants to go out. But of course he wants to go out - he's been in the house all day, you are thinking. It's no big emergency as he has already shit on the kitchen floor. While carrying it to the toilet, some leaps out onto the floor.

"This isn't turning out well," I say to myself; in quite different words, at a ridiculously high volume.

Dog comes in and runs to the cat bowl, to lick out every last quantum molecule of cat food. The cat, meanwhile, is eating the dog's food. Funny as Cat Foot Ballet is, the cat shouldn't be eating the dog's food because he's f-ing diabetic. So I tell him to get out of the dog food. Absolutely no effect. GET OUT OF THE DOG FOOD. He doesn't even twitch. GET OUT OF THE F-ING DOG FOOD OR I WILL KILL YOU, combined with rapid motion toward the dog food bowl does the trick.

Speaking of diabetes, the cat needs shots twice a day. This is something I cannot do so a very kind niece helps (although she didn't help last night). When he misses shots, the peeing all over the house starts.

Undaunted, the cat jumps up on the couch next to me and starts pawing and pricking me, wanting attention. This cat is obviously lacking in empathy. At this point, I'd rather play Feline Aviation than pet him.  I gently pick him up and move him to the other side of the couch. Undaunted a second time, he immediately comes back, purring as loudly as he can, trying to get up my butt.  I move him again. He comes back again. I move him a third time and he comes most of the way back, sneaking over half an inch or less, til he can touch me. And purr loudly. So loudly I can't concentrate (ok, let's face it, I can't concentrate too well to begin with).  The dog, with his best I wasn't doing anything Dad look, leaps up on the couch and does not purr.

An hour later, I'm off to the Happy Place<tm>, for our single hour visit.
Then home to cook, straighten, and yell some more.

TODAY:

I lefty work early to make sure I could get to the credit union before closing. In spite of the fact that no one stops for stop signs, I made it(!).  I deposited my check, which my wife told me goes in as cash, and the teller tellers me that it will take two days to clear.  I asked why paychecks didn't go in as cash. She looked confused for a bit then asked me where the check tearoff was. Out in the car, of course. So I ran to the car (it's snowing at this point), only to find it's back at home, where I left it. Back to the counter, it goes in as a check, to clear in two days.  Have I mentioned this is my mortgage payment? Spitting bullets AND blood, I go home.

I'm surprised they didn't call the police at that point.  When I hit the parking lot, I gave the entire neighborhood a lesson in Screamonics. I continued all the way home, questioning the credit union's parentage and noting that the check will clear for them immediately but I have to wait two days. This is why I stopped going to banks.

When I get home, I am greeted by all sorts of Cat Detritus. There is a puppy pad, wrapped around a small rug. And in the cat box is the pair of gloves. I continue to have no idea why.  Does he wipe with them? Do they make him feel more comfortable while he's excreting?

The dog then runs to the door again. And once again, he has shit on the floor. This is the weirdest deja vu I have ever had.

Then the cat jumps up on the sofa, purring, and tries to physically attach himself to me. This horrid rerun is brought to you by the Philly Credit Union, where no cats are ever hurt via banking. The dog is smart enough to make himself scarce when I go off. The cat, not so much.

LAST NIGHT:

Things are lovely at the Happy Place<tm>.  Walking in the door was not a smart idea in the first place, considering my mood. Where is my wife's hoagie from the previous day? Some idiot threw it out (probably after eating it). Why is my wife tired? Her first roommate spent her entire time coughing up a lung. When she left, they moved the Sandwich Stealer in, whose other hobby is snoring. Loudly and constantly. They had to give out earplugs (I am not kidding). Later that night, the idiot threw out someone else's sandwich.

Where is the staff?  I sure see them a lot. They suggest to keep sandwiches in their fridge. Do they discipline the Sandwich Stealer? No.  When Nina Jesus'd everyone to death and threw liquid at someone, did they move her? No.  Pardon my math and lack of psychological experience but why are the malcontents allowed to destabilize the entire unit? Where is the accountability? Over with Obama's accountability. I informed my wife that sometimes people trip. Perhaps the Sandwich Stealer tripped and hit her head on the wall three or four times. These things happen.

So here I am, ready to go visit for that generous hour and I'm in quite a Mood. Worse than yesterday. I sure hope they don't keep me.

Then it's shopping and dinner and lunch for tomorrow.  Only three more days of this heaven.

You betcha I'm pissed.


P.S. And just as I'm finishing this up, the f-ing BROWSER CRASHES. I am being pushed too far.

EDIT:  I found out some High Mucketymuck at the hospital came down personally to badger and intimidate my wife for copays. Someone will answer for this.

What's Black and Scrubs Your Back?

Martin Loofa.
[timely, no?]


So I have a new job.  More on that later.

The real excitement is depression.  Let me rephrase that... two solid months of depression.  Let me embellish. My dear wife has gone through two solid months of depression. Folks with bipolar disorder tend to swing from manic to depressed (Manic Depression - Jimi Hendrix). Two months of depression is really rather a lot. For anyone. In fact, it's unprecedented here.  After a brief conversation with the psychiatrist, it was time to take a trip to....

THE HAPPY PLACE

Yes, the Happy Place<tm>. Otherwise known as The Booby Hatch. Funny Farm. Loony Bin. Madhouse. Laughing Academy. Etc.  I'm kinda shocked at all the synonyms for this. I'm kinda unhappy too, as I like to refer to our house as The Madhouse.

It's not what you think it is.  Or maybe it is, depending on what you think.  Over the years, there have been a few trips there, little with any real comedy potential.  Generally, things are pretty calm. This time we hit the jackpot.

There are many units there, for people with different disorders and capabilities. This one seemed fairly nice.  I was allowed two one-hour visitations per day (this would have worked better when I was unemployed, not that I'm nostalgic or anything). When I got there, I was introduced to Nina, a very nice girl. Ten minutes later, Nina handed us a note. It said we were a great couple and that Jesus loved us. We should play the lottery precisely because Jesus loves us.

Uh-oh.

Then there was Sara, an eighty year old lady with one of those diseases that makes you shake. She would get so angry at her hands for shaking that she'd yell horrible things at them. Anatomically impossible things. As a result, she scared the poop out of most people (except for my wife, of course). There was also Julio, the Manic Hispanic. Julio is a great kid but apparently under-medicated. They were watching DVDs and Julio was reciting the lines along with the characters. Loudly.  Mania and noise have a negative effect on me so we moved to the next room.

In the next room, we were serenaded by Vicky the Snorer.  We'd get a word or two out and then [SNORE] and a few more words [SNORE]. A nurse interrupted her slumber to let her know that this was not good behavior. She agreed and quickly resumed snoring.

Nina came back and asked if we had read the letter.  Apparently Nina had written a letter to everybody, including the staff and visitors, about Jesus.  I think most of them knew already, so it got to be annoying.  I told my wife that they had better explain that this was not acceptable before someone with less understanding than me (really?) popped her in the nose.

Today's visit started with Nina asking if she could sit with me until my wife returned. With all of the goodness I could muster, I said yes.  She actually got an entire sentence out before she mentioned Jesus. If we weren't at the Happy Place<tm>, I would have brought out my inner Satan. She was good enough to leave when my wife came back.

Shortly before I arrived, Nina flipped out on her group, which upset everyone. I suspect they finally decided to send her to the Jesus Ward.  A further person debated me on how great a president Obama is. I had to keep reminding myself to behave. Of course she was arguing this point - the lady was in the mental ward.

If you're still following this, you probably have one question: how did they allow me to leave?
No, the other question: how is my wife.

Thanks for asking - she's pretty good, all things considered.

FALLOUT

You're probably asking yourself what's been going on at the house while Mom's in the hospital.
Glad you asked.

The real loony bin is the house.  The pets have taken full advantage of the situation. Marshall has taken to waking me at obscene hours of the morning to go outside. Mind you, this only happens when Mommy goes away. So far he's gotten me up at 5, 3 and 7 on alternating days. Here I am, all set to sleep late (job starts at 8am) and the little monster decides to play Fun with Daddy.

I thought I got away with ignoring him the first time but he showed me: he got into something and had diarrhea. The other times were just for fun.  Ever have to keep watch on a dog at 3am, so he doesn't run around the side of the house and bark? In the freezing cold? Naked?

As I mentioned a while back, the cat is diabetic, so he needs insulin shots. Unfortunately his daddy doesn't do needles, so a brave family member stops by to Dart the Cat. Unfortunately the brave family member lost my keys, so the cat missed a day or two. As a result, he's been rewarding me by peeing all over the house. Naturally I found this out the hard way. We actually have puppy pee pads two feet from his litter box because he likes going there for some reason. This is by his Southern Litter Box. The Northern Litter Box is near the kitchen. He avoids that one by peeing on the rug near the sink, which is how I discovered there was a problem. Ever do dishes and wonder if you spilled water, only to discover that it wasn't water? Yeah, that.

Marshall won't eat his food when nobody's home, although he will dive right for cat food, so I know he's not sick. He also goes Fishing for Treasure in the Cat Box, a game nobody wants to watch. To change things up, he 'helped' me clean the rug yesterday. I had to clean the rug because every time I clean the rug, he magically makes tissues appear, then shreds them all over the rug.  So he helped me clean by continually sticking his nose in the bag I used for picking up the detritus from the last time he shredded. He really seemed to enjoy that bag. After I got home later that evening, he had gotten into my work bag and consumed three fruit bars, shredding the silver wrappers all over the rug. Mind you, there was not a single crumb of fruit bar - only wrapper.

KMART

On the way to the Happy Place<tm>, I was ordered to stop at KMart and pick up a few games and puzzles for the folks.  Happy to contribute, I unhappily stopped at KMart. Unhappily because KMart is a hell hole. Every time I go there, there are unbelievable lines at the cashier. Apparently putting more than one or two cashiers at registers physically hurts management, so they make sure there aren't enough cashiers at any single time.

The parking lot had so few cars in it, I wondered if they were even open. After locating everything I was ordered to procure (coloring books are with office supplies and puzzles are with toys), I made my way to pay for them, with just enough time to get to the hospital.

Heh heh heh.
I had forgotten where I was.

There were exactly two lanes open, one of which had customers bailing out. The register must have started spitting out lungs or bullets or whatever KMart registers spit out (anything but register tape or change). People were fleeing the aisle with arms full of boxes and bags.

I was in the other lane, which had inexplicably ground to a halt, for no apparent reason.  Ah, I thought to myself.. I'm at KMart. This is precisely why I don't go there, not even with my wife.  Several millenia later, there was only one person in front of me. By this point, I had given up on seeing my wife on time.  The lady in front of me had one tiny little box (of fiber bars, don't ask), so this was a slam dunk.

Not so fast, Coloring Book Boy.

The register had stopped spitting out register tape, so the guy allegedly operating the register called a halt to operations (how could one tell?) and threaded the paper into the machine.  Or rather, he tried to thread the tape through the machine. He seemed to be a fairly competent cashier, which should have made me suspicious in the first place, so I figured I was in the right line for once. However, the simple act of putting new paper in the register was obviously beyond his meager capabilities. He kept jamming it in, folding it, ripping it and completely failing to get the paper through the slot.  I suggested if perhaps he hit it, REALLY HARD, that might help.  After a few more failed tries, I told him that I was going to hit it REALLY HARD. I even reached out to help him.

A small cheer went through the line as the cashier finally succeeded in putting more paper in the blasted machine. Fiber Lady paid with some sort of loyalty card and, as a result, somehow wound up getting fourteen receipts (I was terrified the paper would run out again) AND a whole lot of change that required meticulous counting out.

Sweaty and nervous, I stepped up to the plate (my only sports metaphor for the year). Register D00d got me checked out in record time, although he bagged stuff up and never exactly told me how much I owed. Having eventually gotten that out of the way, I ran to the car and took off.

When I got to the hospital, I noticed something was missing. Yes, Register D00d had somehow managed to keep one of the coloring books for himself and I somehow managed to not notice it til an hour later. WHY DID I EVER GO TO KMART?


So yeah, I have a new job.
I'll tell you about it next time.

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.

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

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.