Wait, poop, No Fix, Wait.

I think that I’ve alluded to my buying habits here in the past. Or maybe I haven’t. I forget. Regardless, I usually buy good stuff that lasts. Whether it be cars, appliances, recording/audio gear, or anything else, I’m happy to spend the extra money (when I have it) to buy something that won’t come to bite me in the ass when it breaks.

Make that most of the time, I buy stuff that lasts, probably more like 9 out of every 10 purchases. The problem? The 10th purchase is such a thorn in my side that I ask myself what I was thinking in the first place.

In this case? It’s my washing machine. I bought it brand new less than a year ago. Mind you, I didn’t just go, found one that “looked purdy”, and bought it. I actually took the time to review “Consumer Reports” and similar to hear user input about the product(s) that I’d been looking at. In the end, I didn’t see any glaring problems, so I got out my credit card and put it on that.

Since last summer, the washing machine and I had many fine moments: deep cleaning of stains, quiet operation, not mangling my clothes, etc. Unfortunately, three nights ago, the washing machine decided to take the night off. Sure, it would wash the clothes, but it was in no mood to rinse them or give them a final spin. Oookay. I read the manual. Maybe I’d overloaded, and it was a matter of cleaning out the washer and starting over? That might’ve been the case, but then I realized that I didn’t own enough clothes to actually overload the washer. Maybe it was too warm and needed a rest? I let it cool, then tried again. Nothing. So, short of taking the thing apart, voiding my warranty, and having at it myself (which is my nature), I relented, and called the manufacturer to get a list of service centers.

In the end, the store from whom I’d bought the washer would be the ones who’d service it. I’d had a difficult time finding a service center who were certified to repair my washing machine, so the end result would be that I’d pay someone to repair the washer, while voiding my warranty at the same time. Hell, I might as well hack at the thing myself. (Yes, if my beloved washer was out of warranty, or required a $100 service call, you can bet that I’d be installing the parts myself. Maybe it could even run Linux. I’d sure find out!)

So, the vendor claimed that it would take them 7 days to get out to my house so that they could take a look at the washer. “Well”, I explained, “I found someone who can come out on Friday, two days from now.” “Oh”, they responded, “actually, we can have someone out to your home on Friday.” Oookay. Guess that two days from Wednesday isn’t next week at all, is it?

Finally, Friday arrived, and the service person was scheduled to arrive between 2 and 4pm. “Right”, I said to myself, “it’s Friday. It’s sunny and hot out. No way he’s going to be here at 4pm, since he probably won’t want to work late tonight.” Sure enough, the doorbell rang at about 2:45pm. “Bob”, we’ll call him, was lead to the washing machine, and asked once again what was wrong with the unit. Funny, this was the fourth explanation I’d made about this problem — to three different people — over the last 2 days. Doesn’t anyone write anything down anymore? Guess not.

So, “Bob” closed the door behind him and got down to business. Literally. My laundry stuff is behind louvered doors in my downstairs 1/2 bathroom, so it’s probably best that he closed the door to the room so that he could pull the washing machine out. Of course, with “Bob”, I had suspicions that there was a plot twist. First, “Bob” had only entered the house with a pretty scant-looking toolbox (flashlight, extension cord, duct tape, crescent wrench, and not much else). Second, “Bob” didn’t seem to be carrying any parts, which was strange because I was sure that one of the motors in the washing machine needed replacement. Third, well, “Bob” just looked like a “banger”. What I mean by “banger” is that Bob looked like a “hack”, or someone whose success as a repairman (or other career path) was directly proportional to their ability to bludgeon things into submission. I had my suspicions about “Bob” and his repair acumen. But what could I do?

Well, after “Bob” closed the door to the bathroom/laundry room, I was struck with these feelings of fear and loathing. The next 5 to 10 minutes were filled with the sounds of rustling papers, banging and clanging, and hearing “Bob” swearing under his breath. Then? Complete silence. I was just about to knock on the bathroom/laundry room door and ask “Bob” how it was going. And then I got my answer.

FART!

*pause*

FAAAAAAAAAAAAART!

*sounds of “Bob” sighing in relief*

Oh, for Chrissake. “Bob”, it seems, decided to unleash his fury at my washing machine on my precious porcelain receptacle. cms? He could get away with such a thing, given the current state of our book. But “Bob”? Don’t think so.

Within 5-10 minutes, the sighs and expulsions stopped. I heard a flush. And then the “Bang ‘n’ Crash Symphony Orchestra” started its 3rd movement (they had already done their 1st movement, and “Bob” was responsible for the 2nd).

*Bang!*

*Crash!*

*Bang!*

*sound of washing machine dial twisting*

*sound of running water*

*sound of washing machine making an awful grinding sound like it had done before*

*Bang!*

*Crash!*

*sound of more dial turning*

*sound of washing machine making more grinding sounds that somehow seemed weaker than they had been earlier*

*Bang!* *Bang!* *Bang!*

Bathroom/laundry room door opened. “Bob” emerged.

Bob: Hi, uhh, I had a chance to look at your washer…
Me: (thinking of Bob with his pants around his ankles, unleashing a Daisy Cutter or two on my precious toilet) Oh, good.
Bob: And, I’m really glad that you saved the tech sheet for your washer.

(For the uninitiated, the “tech sheet” outlines the wiring diagrams and location of parts for anything mechanical. Some vendors include it, and others do not. Now, to me, a “certified” repair person should be familiar with what they’re repairing, considering that said manufacturer only has four models of washing machines, whose lines haven’t changed in 2 years, but that’s just me.)

Me: Yeah, I try to save everything.
Bob: So, can I use your phone?
Me: Uhh, sure.

(Now, “Bob” calls the “mothership”, and starts asking for parts for the washing machine, none of which the henchman on the “mothership” seems to know about. “Bob” is getting agitated, and basically tells the “mothership” to order one of everything. The reason that he tells them? Well, I want to make sure that the right part gets replaced, so that this doesn’t happen again. I’m starting to feel unamused, even more than I did earlier. “Bob” hangs up the phone, and comes to speak with me.)

Bob: Well, like I said, I’m glad that you saved your “tech sheet”.
Me: Yes, so did you find out what was wrong with the washing machine?
Bob: Well, uhh, yes, it’s one of the motors and a pump.
Me: Which motor?
Bob: Well, I ordered the parts.
Me: But what’s wrong with the washing machine specifically?
Bob: (spouting part numbers at me) The parts should come in in about 5 days, and you’ll need someone to come out and install them.
Me: Umm, 5 days for parts?!
Bob: Yeah, that’s how long it will take.

So, to recap:
1. “Bob” doesn’t know what the problem is.
2. The washing machine is still broken.
3. The toilet had to be thoroughly cleaned.
4. The washing machine is still broken.
5. I reviewed the “tech sheet” and will probably ask them to order the parts that I need. I might even install the parts myself.

In the meantime, I’m going to emulate a lower caste member who’d be forced to do their laundry in the Ganges River. Of course, I’ll just use my guest bathtub upstairs for the wash and rinse. But, call in “National Geographic” if you must. I’ll show you my man boobs for that “sexy (suburban) tribesman” effect.

*Bang!*

Don’t Mess with Texas … or Be Sodomized!

[Note: I'd wrongly stated that it was the Texas Supreme Court who overturned the laws. It was, in fact, the U.S. Supreme Court who did so. What do you think this is? A news service?]

Apparently, the state of Texas had pretty, uhh, stiff anti-sodomy laws … until the U.S. Supreme Court called these laws unconstitutional today (as reported on cnn.com). From what I understand, these laws had been enforced primarily against homosexual couples (despite the fact that the sodomy laws had some specific descriptions of sodomy as something that’s done without any consent from one person to another), and the punishments were made to stick.

(Yeah, there’s that double entendre again.)

Of course, I’m a bit surprised that the USSC found these laws unconstitutional, but that’s another issue entirely. Frankly, I’m more shocked and amused about the nature of sodomy laws than anything else. And I’m even more amused with (a) my unwillingness to read the multiple articles about sodomy on cnn.com in fear of getting caught for reading such a thing at work and (b) my own bias as to which states I believe are “pro” and “anti” sodomy without even looking at the “sodomy laws by state” chart on cnn.com. And obviously, I take great pleasure in the words “sodomy” and “victory” being used in the same sentence. The Jackson 5 had a “Victory” world tour, so following the previous sentence, does it mean that the Jackson 5 were actually on the “Sodomy” tour? Would Michael inserting his glittery-gloved hand into Tito’s anus be considered sodomy?

In all? Much fun to be had thinking about sodomy, but not with the act of sodomy itself.

So, without even looking at the chart, I’ve come up with the following “pro”, “anti” and “push” (double entendre? sure.) sodomy laws as my bias tells me they exist for a select number of states. I could give you a breakdown of how I think that sodomy is handled in all 50 states, but I’m an American, which means that I can name maybe 15 states, or point at the wrong continent if I’m looking at a map. Am I lying? You decide.

For this purpose, I’ve chosen 8 states (6 continental, Alaska and Hawaii) and have listed their policies on sodomy, that are, once again based on my bias.

Florida. Strictly anti-sodomy. They’ve just gotta be. The state that brought us Skynyrd surely couldn’t be proponents of backdoor dirt, could they?

New York. Formerly, pro, but now “anti”. Do you think that Mayor Guiliani wouldn’t have raided every bathhouse in his beloved city if he believed that sodomy was taking place? Even if the inhabitants of such establishments actually wound up, uhh, coming out of these establishments clean, I can’t see him allowing such behaviors to be tolerated in his city. (Yes, I know that he’s not in office anymore, but he certainly set a tone for NYC.)

California. I’m guess “pro” or “push” would be par for the course.

Alaska. It’s cold out. It’s dark all of the time. I’m lonely. It’s grim, but I’ll say “push”.

Hawaii. I’ll say “push” because Hawaiians probably want to be known more for their great weather, and less for “Baywatch Hawaii”, “Magnum P.I.”, and taking kindly to sodomy.

Tennessee. I’ll say “anti”, just because I can’t picture a bumpkin attacking a perfectly-innocent tourist who’s on a canoe trip without taking the pleasure in perpetrating an illegal act.

What silly times we live in!

From God to Justin to Kelly to the Cleaners.

I guess that I can understand why many people don’t like the movie, “Ishtar”. I, for one, got a huge kick out of it, in part because I don’t trust a far-reaching government. “Ishtar”, despite being cheesy and funny, strikes a chord with me that in times of far-reaching government, it’s best to push nationalism and to candy coat the ills of government operations with song and dance. “Ishtar”’s espionage undertones really cracked me up, actually, given that sometimes the general public seems to be impressed with lots of sizzle, despite the fact that the meat itself came from the maddest of all mad cows. Bogus.

For this reason, despite your first impressions, I believe that the movie “From Justin to Kelly” is actually some clever message that the United States is sending to Al Qaeda (Al Qaeda will probably respond with some subtitles in a Baliwood production). Forget the vocal stylings of Justin Guarini as he cops a James Ingram impersonation. Forget the fact that one-line dialog is followed up with lip-synching and (inexplicable) dancing. What we might actually be seeing is messages, very heavily-veiled messages between our government and our enemies.

These messages, of course, are best delivered by a former cocktail waitress and a man who’s got hair of unknown origin.

Maybe that’s why nobody was allowed to review the movie ahead of time. Just maybe.

Jerky Boy

Since my rafting trip to NM, I’ve taken a liking to beef jerky. At first, my infatuation with this high-protein treat brought me feelings of shame. “I’ve turned into such off-white trash”, I said to myself, “as I’m eating fucking beef jerky”. So, instead of denying my recent dietary, uhh, glitch, I decided to meet the issue head-on.

The only thing worse than being in the closet was being uncloseted by someone else. Fine. So, I told everyone that I’d taken a liking to beef jerky, and that its high number of proteins just did it for me, and perhaps even then some.

Funny thing? I’m not alone. After mentioning it to 3 or 4 people, I’ve realized that not only have others tried it, there are those who like it so much that they make it at home! Apparently, there are other men out there who like the delictable taste of rawhide and worchestire sauce as much as I do! And some of these men are red-blooded, slightly liberal men just like myself. Yippee!

Perhaps, we can start a Jerky Turnkey?

The Gay (Pet) House and Children

I’m a proud father to two very gay pets. Max, a 7+ year old male tiger (mix) kitty, is the friendliest and gayest of all felines. Emerson, a 3+ year old male black labrador, is the squirliest and gayest of all canines. Together, they form a tandem of extremely gay pets.

Max tends to like only men. He pays enough attention to women, but likes, in particular, to be the friendliest around men — which includes jumping on laps, sleeping in bed with, meowing at, etc. Very gay. Emerson likes everyone in general, to tell you the truth. But he really likes to french (kiss) men, with younger men being his gay lovers of choice.

I, on the other hand, am straight.

So, imagine my surprise when I learned that both of my pets relished being gay with me. The dog, I can control. Consternation followed by food and praise seems to be working. The cat? He refuses to be rational at all. “*meow* I want to be gay with you, Dad. *meow*”, no doubt bounces around in his tiny brain.

Recently, my date’s son became acquainted with Emerson. The first meeting was pretty ungay, what with Emerson having returned from the kennels earlier that day. He was pooped, and his tongue kept to itself pretty much. Yesterday, however, Emerson was practically parading around the garage in a pair of chaps, frenching my date’s 7 year-old child like community standards during the Reagan Administration were never enacted. It was truly a day where I searched my garage for a sign that read “YMCA” or “Macho Man”, but I could find neither!

Now, this is not to say that the young man was all that put out by Emerson’s sexual deviance. Actually, Emerson was the one who was putting out. But I learned something about young people in the process of witnessing these terrible acts of NADBLA (North American Dog Boy Lover’s Association); and that was, “young people are pretty fearless, and this kid was unphased by the frisky pooch. In fact, the kid was laughing so hard that he could barely breathe.”

With then-filthy trowsers and still laughing, it was time for the boy and date to go home. This, of course, made the boy sad. Emerson will have to bring his DB Love show to my date’s house next time, I guess.

Finally, today, I had this conversation with my date.

Me: So, did you tell the boy that my dog is as gay as they come?
Date: No.
Me: Are you going to?
Date: (I paraphrase.) I don’t think that I’ll have that conversation with him now, if ever.
Me: Oh.

The Deal

Every once in awhile, friends approach me about writing books with them. Now, I’ve been writing professionally for 8 years — in my “spare time” — when I’m not blowing my mind with Things UNIX, and have been lucky enough to have been under 7 book contracts — from which I’ve completed 4 books (actually 5, if you count the one that was just about complete before it was canned by the publisher). Or maybe it’s 6 books, if you take into consideration the book that cms and I “finished” this evening.

What’s the point, you ask?

Actually, this time, I’m not sure that I have one. I might actually have 3 or more.

This is a story about our book, and why I choose to write technical books outside of my, well, technical job.

cms approached me about writing the book back in the Spring of 2002. We hemmed and hawed about the topic for several months, perhaps even until the early Fall — at which time I moved into my new house. In the end, I think that I said, “Say, we should write a ‘cookbook’ of sorts.” cms confirmed that he’d mentioned this idea, well, back in the Spring of 2002. Oops! Score one for the cognitive powers of Bill Gates!

Anyways, when I’m approached by friends about writing books, I usually encourage my friends to write up a proposal that we can look at. It’s not that I don’t want to do such things myself, or can’t, but if “writer’s block” or mere distractions set in during the proposal-writing stage, it’s probably not worth pursuing the book any further. From my own experience and failures with books, I’ve learned that the number one failure of book projects is, well, life itself. When I’ve been distracted or unable to concentrate, I become the Jennifer Capriati of the technical publications world. That is, I get far enough where everything seems to be moving forward, but then expectations are seemingly never met. So, as for cms, he wrote the first proposal, and we completed it while watching the World Series in October of 2002. I sent it off to the publisher that I’d been dealing with since 1996, and we waited.

And we waited.

Leaves finished turning colors and began to litter my yard.

And we waited.

Heavy winds blew the leaves away.

And we waited.

I enjoyed a wonderful time with family over Thanksgiving.

And we waited.

Finally, I asked the publisher what the deal was, and they responded in a couple of sentences that they were passing on the book.

RATS!

So, I started looking at various technical publishers. That is, there are a bunch of technical publishers out there, but not all of them will do “trade publications”. My definition of a “trade publication” is a “technical book that is not a textbook.” These “trade publications” are technical in nature, but have that “earthy” feeling you’d look for in a technical book that you’d keep aside your desk at work, or keep on your nightstand so that you have something to do instead of downloading pornography from the internet or being rejected by the picture hunters on hell.com. Oh, uhh, right. Blog entry. In the end, I contacted some fellow authors through email, and asked for some recommendations.

We ended up getting in contact with a new publisher in late 2002, and sent along our sample materials. But they needed more. So, cms and I crafted more chapters for our text, and repackaged the entire proposal for delivery in late December of 2002.

And we waited.

And we waited.

And we waited.

Finally, we received a contract at the end of January, 2003. Of course, the stipulation was that we’d deliver the first draft of a 500-page book by June 20, 2003, and the final manuscript would be delivered to the publisher no later than August 1, 2003. If you’ve ever written tech, or something other than a fictional tale of nihilism, German art rock, and bowling, tech writing can be a siege to the senses. A siege to the senses? Yes. If you’ve seen the movie “Casino”, there’s a certain scene where Joe Pesci gets bludgeoned with a baseball bat and is then buried alive. Yeah, it can be like that, in particular once you get into the material (in a book) that you’re less interested in writing. In addition, technical books have a shelf life approximately equal to that of something that you’d find in the produce department of your local grocery store. So, having a 6-month deadline — no matter how unreasonable — is the only way you can assure that your topic has a degree of freshness before it expires or gets worked into a fruitcake or trifle.

The meaning of a 6-month writing deadline is that the author or authors have to — almost literally — go balls to the wall until the book is done. And when the book is done? You revise it. And after you revise it? You revise it again. And finally? You hate parts of your own book so much that you’re compelled to revise it again, in super-stealth mode, so that what you’ve revised at the last minute actually makes it into the printed version of the book. For our book, this meant that we had to complete 250 pages between February of 2003, and May 9, 2003. So, on the weekend of May 2, 2003, cms and I spent approximately 45 hours working on the first half of the book. The second half of the book was more of the same with 3 weekends of 36 hours spent working on the book. Between when we submitted the book today, and its due date of August 1, 2003 (even though cms and I intend on finishing on July 30, 2003), we’ll probably have no shortage of work to do to whip the beast into shape.

The number of the beast is now offically 20030730. Take that, Bruce Dickinson!

As of today, my mind is extremely marshy. I can’t focus at all. I’m going to have some relaxation today after I clean the house (cms and I did something to the downstairs bathroom that even I can’t put into words here) and buy some groceries (right now, I can make myself a sandwich from heels of a loaf of wheat bread, ketchup, and fingernails, and can wash it down with 1/2 pint of heavy cream). Then it’s an evening of dumb comedies and Chinese food. Tomorrow will bring more of the same, with the day involving a thorough cleaning of my garage which is currently filled with enough dog hair to stuff a twin-sized mattress! And finally, I’ll comb through a pile of papers (random papers, junk mail, other mail that I haven’t read yet, etc) that’s about a foot high and is currently scattered all over my kitchen counter. I don’t think that I’ve missed any bills, based on the contents of that pile, but you never know.

As for why I write these books? Maybe Def Lep[p?]ard said it best: “I’ve got something to say. It’s better to burn out than fade away.”

Stay tuned.

A New Place (That’s Not to Like)

I’ve been giving finances some thought over the last quarter or two. From 1999 through early 2000 was a time of growth for me, and I was enjoying working a professional job in times of prosperity. And to some extent? That made me a total jackass, or at least enough of a jackass to mention it here.

The best thing that I did, back in 1998, was to invest in property. I owned that home for 4 years, at which time I sold it and had a new home built.

Of course, with every good thing, there’s a bad thing or a dumb thing. For me, the dumbest thing that I did was to buy a gigantic truck. At the time, I was feeling all happy and optimistic about the economy and my role in the workforce. At the time? I was being a jackass.

Now, I’m a firm believer in people being able to buy whatever they want. I won’t tell someone that they’ve spent their own money foolishly since, well, it’s their own money. And that makes it their own business. But, speaking for myself, I’ve found the truck to be extremely convenient for things like moving, bringing the dog on trips, and transporting things like bicycles, but inconvenient in almost every way. Sure, it can withstand a collision extremely well, as I’ve learned. But it’s also removing money out of my wallet like a flutophone player can charm a cobra. Enough is enough. A couple of months ago, I decided to sell it.

I decided to buy a snappy, yet affordable, other car. I’m a large man, so small cars don’t cut it for me. Even with my low carb, I’m still tall, and that’s no match for things like Jettas and almost every other “mid-sized” car.

The problem? Car dealerships. There’s your time. There’s my time. There’s Eastern/US time, and there’s car dealership time. In my world, when I want a drink of water, I leave my desk, retrieve the water, and promptly return. In the world of car dealers, they offer you a drink of water and return an hour later empty-handed, only to remind themselves that they owe you a water. You’d think that their profit motives would make them move faster. But even when it came time to sign the purchase agreement, it appeared to be impossible to have it take more than 30 minutes for the salesguy to transport the paperwork from the other room back to the table where I was sitting. I ended up buying a car at 2pm yesterday, but still don’t know if the financing has gone through. And I’m supposed to be picking it up tomorrow, so I’ll need an insurance binder ahead of time.

While I sat at that table yesterday, waiting for the paperwork to make its way 25′, I got a read on the people who worked at the dealership. And the only thing that my mind could conjur was this: “I’ve put myself into a scene from ‘Return of the Living Dead’.” I’ve never seen a group of people mulling about so aimlessly, so unaware that they were actually, well, working for a living.

So, thank goodness that I don’t buy a new car every year; I could fully liken the experience to “the test”, of which only males and I are aware.

The Death Card

The subject of death is so awkward. Well, I guess it’s awkward if you have a conscience that tells you not to take it lightly, taunt it, or otherwise fuck with it. Death is bad, unless it’s time.

Now, this blog entry isn’t meant to sound like a Suicide Manifesto, because it’s not one at all. It’s to look at death as a wildcard (without taunting death itself, of course), the trump of all trumps without a place in the Hamptons.

As you know, I’ve been struggling as to whether or not I should leave BFC[1]. My current role (actually the lengthy hours of said role) and I hadn’t been getting along for some time. While I had been feeling better since I’d lost nearly 40 pounds on a lo-carb diet, I still felt like ass all of the time, in particular after returning home from work. It wasn’t exactly a dream date, even if I did mention feeling ass.

So, on 6/6/2003, moments after returning from my gonzo whitewater rafting trip to NM — in a state of peace and svelte — I promptly submitted my resignation to BFC, effective 6/20/2003. Frankly, I’d expected that a couple of managers and such would question me about leaving, but I felt that by 6/10/2003 or 6/11/2003, I’d be on my way. Needless to say, I was very surprised with the level of response from higher-ups at BFC. This is not to say that I’d changed my mind about leaving BFC. This is just to say that I have a difficult time understanding why it took 2 hours to get hired by BFC, but by 6/13/2003 it had taken nearly 12 hours to resign from BFC.

But that gets off the topic of death, the crux of this entry. About 6 months ago, I had been seeking a different role at BFC. I’ve been doing tech work long enough to have that (curse of a) title: “Senior”, or in my case, “Senior UNIX System Administrator”. But, given my nature to get really antsy about stuff like work [2] and the paranoia about the balance between stagnation and how my salary should stay perfectly balanced so that it never inflates to a point where I take a significant cut the next time I find myself looking for another job, I feel the need to not stay in one place at the same time. This trait, I’m beginning to think, makes me a pain in the ass to my employers. But when I signed on with BFC in 2001, I’d believed that this company would be able to provide me with a level of variety, given their size and interest in growing their technology business, starting with “senior” people. I thought that I’d gotten on the “fast track” to more challenging work about 6 months ago, when my (then) boss introduced me to an excellent contact. The contact and I chatted one afternoon, and we began to (I thought) plan the track that I’d be taking with BFC after its reorganization. I was thrilled! Of course, months and months passed without any messages returned from my contact (let’s call him “Capable-C”), so I gave up the idea of advancement and considered more heavily the notion of resignation.

During the course of my resignation (yes, resignations do have courses, or seemingly so when you take BFC into consideration), I received a sudden voicemail from “Capable-C” yesterday afternoon that said, “Nate, buddy, I’ve heard some disturbing news… that you’re leaving the company. Bud, I really need you in my corner here. I need you to call me so that we can work this thing out.” Ooookay. This is not to fault “Capable-C” for trying; no doubt, my manager was unhappy about my departure, then enlisted other managers, who enlisted other managers (did I mention that this was BFC?), who then dropped a hammer on the head of “Capable-C”. “Capable-C”, by nature of the food chain, was compelled to call me, like it or not.

“Capable-C” started the conversation by telling me my value to the team and similar, things that make me feel very uneasy, in particular when I don’t know the speaker of such things very well. So, I stopped “Capable-C”, and made sure to revisit history about my introduction to him.

Me: Hold on one second. I’d like to go back and revisit history with you. You and I had a similar conversation about 6 months ago, but even after I followed up, you weren’t reachable at all. That played a major factor in my departure.
CC: Oh, well, my Mom got sick about four months ago, and died just last month, so I’ve been rather preoccupied. I’ve been dealing with lots of details about that.

*sound heard of air escaping from balloon*

Okay, so “Capable-C” played The Death Card. The Death Card, for some, is like an emergency brake or for others, an ejection seat. It’s a sure-fire way to win an argument, as most people hate to tell the bereaved that they should buck up. In this case, there was a 2-month skew between when we’d chatted originally and when he said that the difficult time started for him.

Regardless, when The Death Card is played, the game comes to an end. How about a nice game of chess?

[1] If you’re not up to speed, BFC is “Big Fucking Company”, my current employer. I decided not to be a retard by putting actual person or company names in this blog. I’m retarded enough already.
[2] When I go 3-4 months without challenges, I begin to get irritated. When I’m overworked and challenged, I’ll curse the new software in question (that’s causing me the long hours), but will love the employer. Trust me on this one.

On Bye!

Well, I finally did it. This past Friday, I gave a verbal resignation to my employer. Today, I sent in the letter of resignation. My employer shocked me (on Friday) by asking me what it would take to make me stay. I was so shocked that I stammered, in fact.

Also, I’m not going to talk about work anymore in this blog, unless something really stellar happens. I am officially regruntled.