What a strange week at work it was. The work itself was as it always is — paperwork and phone calls with mild spikes of interesting. By the way, note to anyone out there who cold calls anyone for any reason, fucking look the place you’re calling up on the web (at least) before picking up the damn phone. I answer the phone for those calls and when I give that spiel about “yeah, here’s what we do and shit,” I can tell the lie in your voice when you say, “yeah, me too.”

No, the intrigue at work was various levels of disgruntlement in high and low places, and my sitting in the vicinity of the confessional of such things. Here’s the surprising twist, I’m not at the pissed off vanguard. I’m cool. I don’t think my job is a life-changing lovefest of mind-altering proportions, nah, it’s fucking toil. But, it certainly ain’t working at the meat packing plant with blood and gore at my feet and unsafe sharp-bladed equipment in my hands.

There’s even very little pooh smearing. (Although, if I figure out who the insensitive twat is who uses one of them ass-saving paper doilies on the commode to protect her precious posterior and then leaves the fucker behind on the seat, there will be some legend-making, extreme finger-wagging in that women’s room. (Remember when I use to write about shanking people. I am so reformed.)

Anyway, I’m mildly content. I even got a shiny new RED campaign iPod as a team gift. They were dispensed at a work party I arranged before heading off to Rat Year Celebrations in Asia. Mine’s a bit late but still playable. I loaded it up Linux style on the Asus ‘puter, just because I can. Red and open source. How communistic.

I think some electric scootering videos will have to be created. Now that the weekend is upon us, I think I shall endeavor to create.

Technorati Tags: technology, toilets, RED_campaign, work

I only just saw the commercial Hill’s been airing in Texas.

Not the sleeping children. Whatever will become of them?

I’ve already ranted about her alleged 35 years of experience, although I don’t doubt Hillary’s been answering the phone since her post-college days. But, fucking come on. Why does she get to say she has foreign policy experience, as she is now? That whole 90s dual presidency thing, sure, she was speechifying on domestic stuff. Ain’t no one giving her security clearance back then other than as the wife. She wasn’t sitting in with world leaders chatting, except over state dinners and other shingdigs. When the time came for cigars and the war room, she was left with the other spouses discussing the mushroom souffle and locked out of the big boy room.

Maybe her experience on the Whitehouse red phone was letting folks know the Commander-in-Chief would be there in a moment, soon as he got out of the john. (I was going to go for the gratuitous “soon as he zipped up his pants,” but, eh.)

Technorati Tags: 2008, 2008_Campaign, campaign, Campaign 2008, elections, foreign_policy, guilt, Hillary_Clinton

It’s almost midnight, the start of the day that is my gestational anniversary. Woo-fucking-whoo.

On Friday at work, I got the teddy bear, balloon, floral cake, chocolate treatment, courtesy of 1800flowers and M. Whilst suffering the embarrassment of a circle of co-worker chicks discussing my delivered booty, I mentioned the plan for today that M. had made. (I was going to write “humiliation” instead of embarrassment, but the co-worker chicks were nice enough. It wasn’t like the tampon scene in Carrie or anything. “Plug it up.”)

M. had decided to (1) drop of his car for service and (2) pick up my gift. Now, over a month ago, he picked this gift out and ordered it, and I think it’s been killing holding inside the surprise. I thought he was going to tell me a few thousand times between then and now. All he told me is that it was new technology, and we were to go pick it up north of San Francisco.

I mentioned the drop of car, drive north of the city in my car plan, and my co-workers were full of speculation on what that could mean. Wine country, for example, good old Napa and Sonoma counties, are north. At least one decided on a romantic, champagne-ridden balloon ride or some such thing. They mocked my insistence that the scenario was almost completely unlikely, doubting that I know the man with whom I have chosen to live.

This morning, he told me we were either going to Vacaville or the parking lot of the Costco in Vallejo to meet a man. Rather than a hot-air balloon, I anticipated my own special episode of Unsolved Mysteries. The one where it turns out M.’s name is actually Lee Harvey John Wayne M., or some other killer-styled three-name arrangement, and the parking lot was to meet up with his Navy veteran (or other armed forces), who would aid in hiding the body.

My co-workers and I were both wrong. And, M. kept his standing as an unusual, surprising gift-giver.

It’s an electric scooter, suitable for tooling to work almost silently and without using any of them bad fossil fuels you hear tell about. We scooted around town a bit today, well he jogged. Pretty fun.

> This guy, this floral cake, chocolates and a balloon came to my office today. The card was unsigned. >
> > > >

Snoring in the other room is the man in my life. He’s back from his work thang, replete with office-y, technology-esque, imprinted giveaways, like a courier bag and a desk clock, and a very respectable looking, blunt instrument feeling crystal trophy celebrating his sales-raking prowess. Good to have him back, even if it meant losing remote control.

The downside of the deep cleaning at the dentist, besides the “scaling” itself, was the burden of guilt. I take a painful, pointed sense of personal responsibility about the shit state of my teeth. Not enough to actually floss regularly or show up to the dentist since moving to Cali three years ago, but guilty nonetheless. As the cheerful, inquisitive and chatty hygienist dug away, I felt like the kind of imperious princess who shits on the floor knowing full well that the maid will clean it up.

I’ll probably try to floss well for weeks on the guilt fumes.

The high side of the broken teeth and gums that need help is I was so thorough in cleaning up work stuff at the end of the year and then again before vacation, I got shitloads of time. I’m coasting on my prior organization while waiting for the boss to get back to 120 percent after being on leave. As long as the daily stuff keeps moving it’s all peaceful like.

Tis got me thinking right after someone I know from Boston comedy had instant messaged some complaints about his customer service job with a major shipping company. Basically, the customer service treadmill had gotten him feeling pretty unloved.

It got me thinking about the flip in the customer service aspects of my job. I’m the public face that gets most of the cold calls from folks looking to raise some capital for our group. In other words, instead of wanting something from me that I’m supposed to give, or might have failed to give, or didn’t work out right, I’m answering the phone for people with a huge incentive, like six or seven zeroes worth of placeholders on a check, to be nice to me. So they are. Very.

Where a lot of public interaction gigs chip away at your self-esteem, like my friend from Boston who IM’d, mine kind of boosts my pathetic need for stroking support. They laugh at my jokes, they compliment my comprehension of our industry, they know the path through me could mean at minimum a meeting with people with authority to dole out the dough. We’re instant friends when I merely give a listening ear and promise nothing more.

Kind of brightens the workload a bit. It also makes it harder and harder to remember the way it was at my last bit of paid toil when a ringing phone meant current and future pain. The days can go by more slowly, though.

Finally, and maybe it’s related to my self-esteem, the best part of M.’s being back is, in addition to the nice things I could say about him, is he keeps one neurotic thought at bay. I was pretty much one night away from lying in bed waiting for the home invasion or other onslaught of ne’er-do-wells in my little existence.

The downside of living alone was always the free-floating anxiety associated with what if I am brought in harm’s way and no one hears me scream? Or what if I die right now and no one notices for days and days. At least with my current domestic arrangement, M. would probably notice if I disappeared.

Technorati Tags: California, dentist, guilt, self-esteem, work

A big exciting day today — Part one of a deep dental cleaning. Oh boy, ain’t we got fun. It was an hour or so of scraping and scraping and a whopping dose of Novocaine. I hates me that giant Novocaine needle. No matter how modern the dentistry, that’s a bit monster of an archaic looking torture-y.

The hygienist sent me home with a gentle toothbrush, floss and some Sensodyne toothpaste with a call to gargle with warm, salt water and take ibuprofen for the pain. Yikes, I though, even as I accidentally spit on the wall while spastically and numbly trying to rinse.

So far, though, no pain. I’m a fucking hard guy, I tell you what. And, I gather my right side is lower in tartar than I am sure it has been for years and years. Nothing like a poking, filing, prodding, scaling procedure to get you feeling half clean.

Next week, it’s even more scraping and the added bonus of getting a filling removed, replaced and a crown fitted for the tooth that broke around my old school silver amalgam when I was eating something in Malaysia. No fucking fun, but I won’t in the short term be toothless hag. Something to worry about as the 44th b’day is days away. Nope, I’ll be a toothsome hag.

Other than that, it’s day two of sleeping alone. I’ve used the time questionably. Instead of writing and creating and embracing the ripe possibilities of time enough, I’ve been watching the kind of flicks that M. just can’t handle. Somewhere in the relationship, I conceded control of the remote control, and it looks like I won’t be getting it back. Ever. Sad little (impotent) power play to chick flick it up in my solitude.

Yesterday was Julia Sweeney. I think I’ll by the recording of the book version of her show Letting Go of God. I like a good religious transformation story, especially if it’s away from the big g god. I also inexplicably watched Major League.

Tonight was Bette Midler’s Gypsy, Muriel’s Wedding and the end of Victor/Victoria. Whenever I see any version of Gypsy, I get fired up a bit to perform. I want to have hung out with Gypsy Rose Lee. Maybe I just want to be a stripper deep down. I have the self-esteem for it or lack thereof.

Somewhere a few clicks up the highway from where I sit, M. is sales rallying it up in a hotel with his company and a slew of employees.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that after two weeks of total togetherness I am kind of digging the solitude. I like M. and all, but it’s been a while that I had the remote control, the apartment, the heat, the lights, the windows all to myself. I ate cereal for dinner, because Weetabix were just find by me. Then, I dominated the television choices opting for Julia Sweeney’s “God Said ‘Ha.””

The irony there was spending any time at all watching some one’s one woman show in stead of using the quiet down time writing. I mean nothing like evenings alone to get my writing swerve on. Did I? Ah, well, did I mention the Weetabix?

The big weekend event was the big recital. We went to see M.’s aunt’s husband’s high school friend’s teenage daughter. Folks from the old country who live in the relative neighborhood have a singing daughter, so we thought we’d get tickets and check out the show.

The main problem with supporting a talented child is they tend to be surrounded by the more averagely gifted. It was a big night in the big city for Asian suburbanites and their families and friends. I hadn’t been surrounded by that many non-Caucasions since, well, last week.

The big act of the night was a core crew of 15 to 20-year-old young women singing their little hearts out both in ensemble and with solos. They were supported by their sister companies, both the older “graduates” and the younger, junior high up-and-comers. If that weren’t enough there was a local high school band appearing for their 4th gig, yup numero 4 after having 3 under their belts, a crew of Asian teen rappers and an a cappella church group of quasi-adults. Oh yeah, chockfull of entertainment goodness.

Remember the rock and rollers who formed a band in your high school and with cocky, earnest bravado jumped on stage and banged away on the equipment their parents gave them? Yeah, same shit, different generation. An amp and electric guitar does not talent make.

Now, unlike back in my day, you don’t even need instruments. You can kill time and make audience ears bleed with some rhyming, rhythm and mediocre choreography. Oh yeah, thug-style.

As for the main group of girls, one could belt a tune and shake the rafters. Even though she was singing some current, pop, R&B-light shit that I hate, I almost got the goosebumps she sold her song so hard. Other than that, the girl we knew took some voice classes on a whim, because her friend had signed up, and discovered a powerful soprano. Despite a cold, she still hit the high hard ones and best of all, she can hold a tune. Thank god, she’s good.

A handful of the rest had you hoping that they get good grades. I can’t think of any sight quite so heart-wrenching as an awkward, not-yet-woman with all her heart and soul singing off key.

It was a few hours we won’t get back, but I think karma might smile on us a wee bit.

Technorati Tags: Asia, California, music, puppy, recital, singing, talent_show, Teenage, women

The big weekend event was the big recital. We went to see M.’s aunt’s husband’s high school friend’s teenage daughter. Folks from the old country who live in the relative neighborhood have a singing daughter, so we thought we’d get tickets and check out the show.

The main problem with supporting a talented child is they tend to be surrounded by the more averagely gifted. It was a big night in the big city for Asian suburbanites and their families and friends. I hadn’t been surrounded by that many non-Caucasions since, well, last week.

The big act of the night was a core crew of 15 to 20-year-old young women singing their little hearts out both in ensemble and with solos. They were supported by their sister companies, both the older “graduates” and the younger, junior high up-and-comers. If that weren’t enough there was a local high school band appearing for their 4th gig, yup numero 4 after having 3 under their belts, a crew of Asian teen rappers and an a cappella church group of quasi-adults. Oh yeah, chockfull of entertainment goodness.

Remember the rock and rollers who formed a band in your high school and with cocky, earnest bravado jumped on stage and banged away on the equipment their parents gave them? Yeah, same shit, different generation. An amp and electric guitar does not talent make.

Now, unlike back in my day, you don’t even need instruments. You can kill time and make audience ears bleed with some rhyming, rhythm and mediocre choreography. Oh yeah, thug-style.

As for the main group of girls, one could belt a tune and shake the rafters. Even though she was singing some current, pop, R&B-light shit that I hate, I almost got the goosebumps she sold her song so hard. Other than that, the girl we knew took some voice classes on a whim, because her friend had signed up, and discovered a powerful soprano. Despite a cold, she still hit the high hard ones and best of all, she can hold a tune. Thank god, she’s good.

A handful of the rest had you hoping that they get good grades. I can’t think of any sight quite so heart-wrenching as an awkward, not-yet-woman with all her heart and soul singing off key.

It was a few hours we won’t get back, but I think karma might smile on us a wee bit.

Technorati Tags: Asia, California, music, puppy, recital, singing, talent_show, Teenage, women