I'm Doing My Part to Help the Economy

I'm not an economic genius. I'm pretty sure there is some kind of down-turn going on with the dollar, economy, and housing market. However, I feel the general public is affected more by the media, than anything else.

This is how my little brain sees it: Famous, well regarded economist predicts slight economic down-turn. Media picks up the story, predicting gas prices will rise along with a reduction in big ticket item purchases (ie houes, cars.) Other media outlets pick up on the story and sensationalize the details to one up the other networks, until the story is exaggerated and prematurely bleak. When the public sees the story carried in the paper, CNN, and the Today Show, they stop spending and in effect create what they feared: An economic down-turn.

It might not be that simple but the lady and I are doing our part to counter this wave of economic turmoil; Four thousand dollars later, our honeymoon to Tokyo is booked. We are staying in Shinjinku, a trendy spot filled with shops and lots of restaurants to satisfy our foodie hearts. I've never traveled outside of North America, and the places I have been were easy to plan for. Maybe it's the language barrier, but I'm having a hard time planning this trip.

Last time I went to NYC, I went online and picked a slew of places to eat, spas, things to do, cool bars, and sorted through reviews about all those places for several hours. I came up with an air tight plan, that could be broken, changed, and morphed to our traveling moods on a whim. Whenever I try to do the same for Tokyo, I'm met with a wall of foreign characters that only induces frustration for my planning, OCD laden heart. Not being able to plan, plan, plan this four-thousand dollar trip makes me anxious. I have visions of us holed up in our most certainly small room, watching television the entire time we are there.

Now that I think about it, our trip isn't helping the US economy at all, as everything (save a small fee for Travelocity) is going to the Japanese economy. Looks like I'll need to buy an iPhone or something to make up for that. You can help too by spending some money. Starting with that well thought out six-hundo-dollar government check George W is sending us this week.

I Wish I Could Speak to My Dead Dog

My mother killed my childhood dog while I was vacationing in Florida. I was on the road with a friend and his family, at the age of fifteen, winding through the Carolinas, Georgia, the Smokey Mountains, to Florida and then back home. Arriving home after my two week adventure, I expected all sorts of excited greetings; My parents happy to see my tanned face, my brother putting Mario Brothers on pause for a moment to wave hi, my sister waving but not hanging up the phone, and the family dog jumping all over me, licking my face uncontrollably. Instead, the house was empty.

Although it might seem like she was named for a prostitute, Trixie was in fact a black and white, fifteen pound dog that was lovingly trained by my mom the "dog whisperer." She fetched the paper daily, would roll over, stay, sit, play dead, and do all sorts of other tricks that my miniature pincher does none of.

The current family dog (Trixie's replacement) is getting up there; Cass is a half Collie, half Alaskan Shepard who is the sweetest dog, fetches the paper, never needs to be leashed, and is fifteen years old. Old enough that my parents get her the one year rabies shot, instead of potentially wasting money on the shot that lasts two years. While discussing her approaching demise, I made my mother promise not to put Cass down until I could say goodbye.

Trying to make her case about putting Trixie down, my mom provided a laundry list of reasons: She wouldn't even eat liver sausage. Murderer! She wouldn't walk to the corner. Murderer! And was shivering in the corner, throwing up. Mur.... well that one is kinda bad. Did I want my beloved Trixie to suffer four days till I returned? No. Was it that important for her to see me, or me to see her? Yes.

Imagining her suffer pains me, but the idea that I could not send her off with a loving look and comforting pet is worse. I love animals. Sometimes more than people. While I'm not faulting my mother's actions, denying me this farewell under the circumstances, I want to be there next time a family dog dies. Death is death. It's not the similarity of the blood or species that's important, but the proximity of the hearts.

As if the conversation of her demise had been translated to her, while simultaneously exclaiming "don't bury me yet," Cass was overcome with the urge to play. She pounced at me like a tiger, ran circles around the living room as I gave chase, and came back for more.

I Thought I Might be Writing Posts From Seattle by Now

It's now been almost two weeks since I was supposed to hear something about a second interview. Five weeks since my well prepared, stellar performance at the initial phone interview. I know the corporate machine is a slow ride, but this wait is starting to get to me. Even if I do make it to the next round, there is yet another round after that, and then a final decision to pick from the finalists. If I am fortunate enough to secure employment, I suspct it may be sometime during Obama's presidency.

At her request, I've traded several detail lite emails with Stacy in HR. Everyone of them drafted thoughtfully, sent timely, and responded to within a day. The gist of every response I receive is that there is nothing new to report. No details. Nothing to communicate. Nothing decided. No ... you get the idea.

Seattle is still a long ways a way apparently. While I'm approaching mental exhaustion anticipating news, I've found something to temporarily occupy my mind as I wait: I've applied for a second position, in a different department, at the same company.

Teaching Migrating Geese to Read

My car was towed while attending a Billy Ray Cyrus concert. I did have a good time at this work event, but it wasn't because of the music; The ladies and their tasseled attire provided the entertainment. None of this fashion cop fun made up for the sinking feeling I received when I turned the corner, and didn't see my ride. I stood scratching my head in the very spot previous occupied by my recently transmission challenged vehicle, and read a sign that only prohibited parking from 6am to 5pm. When my similarly stranded passenger pointed out another sign 20 feet away, that made it unlawful to park from 5pm to 6am, I knew why my car was gone.

There are too many signs in this world. Signs where there shouldn't be signs. Signs that state obvious details. Maybe it's because everyone is scared of being sued, or maybe these signs were installed as a result of such lawsuits, but I occasionally suppress the urge to physically remove them.

Considering my aversion to signs, it's ironic that I create signs for a living. While it's my job to separate kids from their allowance (and I am deeply ashamed of that,) I'm creating signs for the retail environment, where you'd expect to be assaulted by signs designed to inspire consumption. Other signs I run into, on a daily basis, instruct us on how fast to drive, that bridges might get icy in winter, and when there is a deaf child living nearby. While I don't want to run down any child with my car (not even a deaf one,) there is one rule I abide when I see one in the street: I stop.

I encounter a similar abundance of signs at my condo complex. There are signs that say you can't park in the front of the building, where to park your over-sized truck, that you must live in the complex to use the trash bins, handwritten signs with instructions for the brown clad UPS driver, and lately, signs warning everyone not to feed the geese.

The geese are migrating north or south, I don't know. What I do know is that this is the first time, in the eight years I've lived in my condo, that I've ever seen them make the front lawn their home. While dodging the neon green geese feces is a minor concern, I'm not bothered by their presence nor have I ever been tempted to provide nourishment. Feeding the geese seems like a bad idea, an obvious no-no, and a sign is not going to deter the idiot who does feed them. So, I've been taking these signs down as I see them. When they reappear, I remove them again. The last time I took one down, I decided to replace it with one of my own.

I run into signs daily that, if harmlessly tweaked, could provide humor to the weary masses. Perhaps this is the beginning as well as the end of my life as a sign vandal, and perhaps I've taken the baby step needed to jump start my vision of (if not a sign free world) a humorously tweaked sign laden world. The idea that I might make one person smile, and one humorless soul frown as they remove the offending sign, makes me smile. Maybe one day I'll make you smile, and I won't even know it.

The Asians Want My Baby

I've never been good at picking up on signals. While I can almost always discern people's moods and underlying intentions, I've never easily detected if someone is interested. I've always needed things spelled out for me, in regards to the "more than friends" signals.

I've written notes in grade school with check boxes (Yes if you like me, and no if you don't) and during my awkward high school days it wasn't much better; I needed a conversation clearly stating that you were my girlfriend, for that to be true. So when the various Asian ladies show interest, at all the various Asian eateries I frequent, it's not a surprise that I need someone a bit more savvy to translate and convey these visual cues.

Asian food, in the last fifteen years, has become a staple in my digestive endeavors. I was introduced to sushi (by an ironically named boss: Fish) almost thirteen years ago, I'm fortunate to have the best Thai food in Chicagoland a mere half-mile from my home, and I've run into a slew of cute Asian ladies that all want my baby.

Once, at my favorite Thai haunt, I was asked if "that girl" I occasionally dine with was my girlfriend. Contrary to my usual inability to read people, it was perfectly clear that "Yes she is" was not the desired response. She wanted my baby.

Another one of my Asian girlfriends went missing in action from a favorite Pho eatery. She reappeared last weekend as our waitress, during one of the wallet draining sushi excursions. When a friend said she was blushing, after I told her I remembered her, I knew she wanted my baby.

Asians in general are a beautiful sort and rarely have I run into one that hasn't been polite. Still, all my Asian girlfriends are missing one thing: None of them hold my heart. Meeting the lady is the best thing that has ever happened to me and yes, she wants my baby.

Years Later, the Memory of Denny's Furry Blue Thong Remains

The third installment in a, hopefully never ending, look into the mind of my ex-boss Denny.

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Denny had a stabbin' cabin. He's moved out of state, so I'm assuming it's been sold, but maybe he has a new one in Pennsylvania. I don't really want to know or imagine what went on there. Regardless, constantly picking up waitresses at work functions, mistresses moving from out of state to be with him, and ex-assistants sending him flowers were not uncommon occurrences, all requiring this second home away from home.

Vague, lawsuit inspiring, marriage vow breaking recollections of his sexual conquests were shared at work, and always in mixed company. From the canter and obvious lack of remorse while recalling these tales, you could tell he was proud of his indiscretions. I found the idea of cheating more difficult to mentally absorb.

A girl from Kinko's was hot for me. Needing copies often, I got to know her well, and even better the short time I was employed there. After a well attended work outing, we found ourselves clearing the snow from our cars and not wanting the night to end. So, we sought shelter in her van while the ice melted from our warming vehicles. When she made a pass at me, I wanted to kiss back. Due to my crumbling, doomed marriage I had been deprived of any intimate attention for over eight months at this point, but I was married and simply couldn't reciprocate. Not even a little. I put myself into this situation, knowing what might occur, which was my only fault. Beyond that, I consider my actions a moral victory of sorts, since I hadn't succumbed to my desires.

Denny didn't like his wife's ass. While this is an ugly, embarrassing conversation to have, he made it made more so when he shared this with his female assistant. Uglier still when he complimented the assistant's ass and remarked how he wished his wife's was similar.

Another of his assistants was a Polish born, loud mouth, crass individual named Sylvia. While she would say ugly things as a rule during her short three months of employment, her heritage as a Playboy model was hard to ignore. She was hired because of her body and fired because of her incompetence. None of this prevented him from hittin' that before and after her dismissal.

Denny and his wife attended Hedonism regularly. While the dictionary definition of Hedonism is a spiritual pursuit of pleasure in it's purist form, it has been interpreted by the horny masses as a morally deficient, sexual passport. The Hedonism my ex-boss frequented featured toga parties that turned into naked romps on the beach, body painting, orgies, and wife swapping.

Being the go to tech guy in the office, Denny would often ask me to look up prices for new televisions, print a photo of him with some lame country artist, or help him attach a file to an email. One frightful afternoon I was approached in hushed tones. Along with these hushed tones he brought a digital camera, photo printer, and lack of knowledge of how to use either. While I didn't see the entire content of the camera, as I instructed him on the use of his new gadgets, I was unfortunate enough to see a few shots. I wish I could forget the vision of his wife painted in blue body-paint and his similarly colored furry thong.

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Other Dennytacular reads:
Denny, The Fair and Balanced Whistler
Denny's Birthday Gift From His Fat, Fat Wife

If I Don't Hear Something Soon, I'm Bound to Do Something Drastic. Like Wait Till Tomorrow.

Today is the day I'm supposed to hear something about the Seattle gig. While I'm confident I made a stellar impression, could do the job easily, and have agreed to a slew of concessions that should get me to round two of the interview process, I'm still anxious and excited.

Emusic wants me to take a survey. You get my money every month, not my opinion.

All day I've been watching my email. Every time one comes my way, I let out a singular, involuntary gasp.

The Catlow Theater is playing "The Bucket List" this week. I'll save my five dollars.

While I'm sure they are working on trimming the list of candidates down, it could easily be another week or two before my fate is revealed.

A potential bidder wants to know if I'll ship the Simpsons season 6 DVD set I have on eBay to Canada. Sure.

I don't believe in the jinx. Several friends have refrained from asking for an update because of the jinx. I appreciate their superstitious, kind hearts. I only occasionally ask if an unemployed friend has found a job. If your house is taking a while to unload, I don't bring it up every time I see you. This is different. This possibility has provided hope and I'm happy to share with everyone.

Bob Lefsetz continues to email me his often dribbly literary nonsense, even though twice I've tried to unsubscribe.

Several friends have emailed me today. Apparently they marked their calendars. Thanks.

Ticketmaster just emailed me about an exclusive pre-sale offer for Yes tickets.

The importance of this interview process has already been discovered; A cemented realization that finding a new position soon, on my own terms, is insurmountably better for my mental well being than lingering around this dying company for a golden parachute.

Seller af_books just shipped my recently purchased Philip K. Dick book: The Man Who Japed.

It's close to 5pm PST. I'm not going to hear anything today and that's all right. For the last week, I've had a carefully prepared, casual sounding inquiry typed and ready for Stacy in HR.

The Cascade Drive In is now open for spring. They are playing "Nim's Island" and "Superhero Movie" this weekend. No thanks.

Why the F@*$ Did They Both Get Cake?

We celebrated my mother's 59th birthday last night by having her make us a meatloaf dinner. My parents birthdays, along with their wedding anniversary, are so close that they get jipped. It's common for them to receive a single gift for all three occasions, from their three children. While this might seem unfair and uncool, it allows us to get them a nice gift instead of golf balls and socks.

Plans had been discussed to do the same type of combined super gift this year. But when it came time to pull the trigger, my sister (the planner) was missing in action. I picked up the slack, nailed the plan down on email, and when details of money owed arose my sister informed us that, not only was she forgoing her original plan, but also that she had already purchased our mom a bird bath. This left my brother and I holding a stale plan. We came up with a suitable substitute and our sister signed her name to that gift anyway.

My sister's kids have had a lot to deal with in the last couple years. The strain of a divorce shows occasionally, taking the form of delusional scenarios where their father buys the house next to my parents and visits could be arranged on a whim. In reality, their father has seen them a mere 5 times in the last two years, since they moved back from Ohio. That said, they have my sister wrapped. Because kids are so obviously a personal part of any parent's life, it's tough to openly judge parental techniques. But let's give it a try.

Throughout the entire meatloaf meal, the kids were continually told to eat. The birthday menu consisted of bacon laced meatloaf, corn, mashed potatoes, and biscuits. The only items willingly eaten were the bacon and biscuits amidst countless, defiant cries of "I'm not eating that" or "I'm not hungry." So when another piece of bacon was requested, do you think mommy bargained for the consumption of some corn, meatloaf, or mashed potatoes? Nope. It was handed over with a submission laden casualness that was embarrassing.

Dinner with these two is always a tiresome event. I'm not going to bore you by recalling every insubordinate dinner-time detail, because we would be here a while. The kids have it hard during the transition to their daddyless life. No doubt they'll need extra attention, but they'll also need structure. If getting through a meal is this tough, can you imagine how little those kids will listen to mom when a real problem arises? Start with basics and stick to your guns. Your kids will respect you for it. You can start by sending them to bed without desert once in a while.

I Received a Pretty Good Interest Rate on the Loan I Took Out, to Pay for All the Meals I'll be Eating This Weekend

I've never been that good with money. My whole savings / investment MO is to hide the money away so I don't see it. Otherwise I might buy something I can't really afford on eBay. My first ever transaction on eBay was selling a 6x6 foot Millennium Falcon for $1500 back in '98. Then there was the Planet of Apes sleeping bag with the shredded inner lining, that I retrieved from my parents trash bin. Not in my wildest did I ever think it would sell for $800. I've probably put all that money right back into eBay, purchasing crap that I didn't need.

Over the last few years I've managed to get my 401k to a pretty healthy level, pay off my car, my student loans, I don't have credit cards, and occasionally over pay my mortgage. Somehow saving for the wedding is harder than I thought it would be. Maybe the recent set back of a failed transmission, and it's $2k price tag, has demoralized my saving heart. I received my quarterly 401k update and it's obvious the economy's fiscal legs are shaky; Since the beginning of the year, I've lost two dollars for every one I've contributed.

A mild panic set in as I hurried down the hall to my accountant co-worker, the provider of gracious, vague, yet helpful financial advise. Once it was established that I wasn't retiring in the near future, she told me worrying about the drop was useless and suggested I ride it out. To my surprise, she also suggested I contribute more if I could. "Buy low, sell high" she said, which is about the simplest financial 101 cliché to understand but was tough to recall realizing a financial loss. While I don't have any more funds to float toward the market, I'm comfortable after this advise and not touching a thing.

I don't live paycheck to paycheck, but it seems like I am always spending more than I'd like. I suppose if circumstances required my fiscal scrutiny I could manage with less. I'll have to do with less if I move to Seattle. Making less will require the occasional social lie. No, I can't go for sushi because I have plans with X Saturday and will be doing Y on Sunday, when in reality X and Y are the same thing: Sitting at home watching the tele with the lady. It will be quite a change to not do everything I want, when the idea or mood hits me, but I'm up for the social downgrade in exchange for happiness.

This weekend I have three dinner outings planned, and none of them are going to be cheap. I'm showing up prepared to lay down more than a few bills tonight not just for my dinner, but to buy a friend's sushi as payment for a foolish bet. Wish my savings challenged wallet luck. Upon winning the bet, my friend's exact words were: "I'm going to eat so much sushi, you'll have to postpone the wedding."

I Wish I Had a Blu-Ray Player to Play My New Blu-Ray Disc

Recently I unearthed a rather large, dusty box of cassette tapes. These relics made it all the way from Minneapolis and I regret telling the lady to bring them along, instead of tossing them as she had planned. There are some questionable gems in there (buh-uuuuudy,) not to mention a hell of a lovingly crafted custom gift from her then heavy metal sister. Some are albums we still listen to, while others have not been blessed with any attention in the last twenty years and never made the transition to compact disc. So we'll be buying a few of these so we can relive some of these fond audiorific memories. However, once we get the CD, we'll just be packing it away with the others.

Last year I took on the daunting task of uploading all of our music onto the computer. I have painstakingly tweaked info about each release, collected or scanned every piece of cover art into a perfect, digital square, and backed it all up so that I won't cry if one of my hard drives fails. My 5 year old iPod holds a mere 20 gigs (equaling 400 CDs) of the 220 gigs of music. Because of the iPod, I haven't played a CD in years. That's why, in accordance with my overly organized / anal self, I recently packed all our CDs away.

Technology has always been a part of my life. My father went to college for computers in the 60's, back when they had reel to reel and punch-card computers, I remember typing messages back and forth to my cousin on the computer back in 1984, waiting a half an hour for video games to load off a tape cassette on the Commodore 64, and writing choose your own adventure text based, basic language programs back before I kissed my first girl. While I'll miss looking at the booklets of my CDs, I'll trade that for the convenience of carrying 400 albums in a device the size of a calculator over large format anything. I don't want to be 70 with 12 O'Clock continually flashing on my iPod ala your grandma's VCR. Technology is my fountain of youth.

I don't currently own an high definition television. Even if I did, I don't have an HD signal from the cable company. I pay nine dollars for cable and I like the idea of dieing with that plan in place. Especially since, through an honest, accidental miscommunication, we get the fifty dollar plan at the nine dollar price. Am I going to replace the hundreds of DVDs with their digitally superior, younger, and high definition brother the Blu-ray? Not a chance; DVD is good enough. But from this point forward, I'll be purchasing Blu-ray discs for any new releases, even though I don't own a player to watch them. Because I'm young, hip, and my future kids will not be cooler than me.

I've Easily Sent Thirty Requests for an Update, Why Haven't I Heard Back?

I was told, weeks ago in my initial interview, that I'd hear more by April 7th. The lethargic, molasses like corporate machine just moves that slow. Waiting three weeks to hear, if I made the cut for a round two interview, inspires feelings of bleakness while I trudge through tiresome work tasks. While I haven't (as the title of this post suggests) been pestering the HR girl who interviewed me at all, I already have a friendly, inquisitive email draft ready, if the specified date comes and goes without an update.

Everyone in the company just returned from company wide meetings. This is the first year that my invite was lost in the mail and it sends a clear message: I am not part of the team anymore. With lay-offs a yearly (if not twice a year) occurrence, it's easy to see why constantly getting more work, more responsibility, and less recognition warrant my loyalty devoid indifference to this company.

To say that I've mentally checked out of this job is an accurate statement. While I'm not putting all my faith in securing this particular opportunity, I am hopeful. Hope is a word I have not been able to type or mutter for longer than I'd like to remember. I like the idea of hope. If I'm not picked to fill this position, I've at least regained knowledge of what hope feels like and will take that knowledge with me on an aggressive search for a new career.

When I started this job 13 years ago, I thought it would be a fine company to retire at. After all, it was a dream job. That said, if this new dream job doesn't pan out, I won't be sad. I'll just start actively looking, because nothing here makes me smile anymore.