I have a good routine going now. Four nights at The Big Box J.O.B. and two nights at the gasbar – finances are in order, pre-paid bank accounts are being built up, my garden is “gardening”, and my book is selling.
I feel like I’m in a safe little cocoon again – much like this little guy, who is hanging out in the door jamb of the gasbar.
I was asleep when the ball dropped – woke up when the kids all called for rides home at the same time. It took me three trips, and I drive a mini-van. That’s a lot of drunken 20-somethings…
That old saw about “how you ring in the New Year is an indicator of how your year will go” is flat-out bullshit, if my January has anything to say about it, by the way. I’d have thought January would be a calm and steady same-old, same-old kind of routine month.
So I went broke. Again. My retirement was short, but worth it. I got to go back to The Toy Store again, too.
Now, I work both locations – the one on the hill, which was the second location I ever worked at. Louie ran it then, before HE had a melt-down and quit (I don’t think he cried in the back room when he did it though, the way I did). His retirement lasted a little longer than mine did — before he came back to manage the location he’s in now. Continue reading “The Retirement J.O.B.”
I don’t like pants. I like comfort, and pants don’t equate with that. Any pants, really, but some are a little more comfortable than others. Yoga pants, for example, can be worn to work if you’re skinny and old and decidedly not-sexy, so that’s what I wear to the J.O.B., even though there is a strict NO YOGA PANTS policy; it’s right there written in the dress code. I don’t get called out on the dress code, because on me, apparently, yoga pants do not resemble yoga pants. I dare not ask what they do resemble. I don’t want to know. Continue reading “The Unconventional Guide to Wearing No Pants…”
I’m sure I could do a little digging and find the last photo taken by my Canon PowerShot A550 (named Hilary Federwhore, because every camera should have a name to match the bitch’s personality), if I bothered to. I do know, without the search, that it was some time before February 1 of 2010, which was our release date from imprisonment in our one-room basement “loft” (with a sauna!).
I had surmised that she was killed on impact when Freak Cat swiped her out of The Evil Hypnotist’s hands and smashed her to the cold, hard ceramic floor (models can be so unpredictable), but it turns out she (Hilary, not the cat) was only rendered comatose.
In April, our Techiest of Tech Guys at work, known to us as Large Gentle Teddy Bear, pulled Hil’s guts out, in an attempt to resuscitate her. He found the problem, rectified it, and then discovered that putting her back together again can be rather Humpty-Dumpty-ish.
Apparently if the positive and negative wires (conveniently unmarked, of course) become detached (accidentally, of course) from the whose-a-whatsit, the reassembly becomes much like the defusing of a bomb – only backward: if he reconnects the wrong wire to the wrong terminal, Hilary might fry. I will know the outcome when Large Gentle Teddy Bear has done enough Googling to get up the nerve to flip a coin.
In the meantime, I had to post the following picture as well, which was taken with my Nokia N97 Smartphone. Pretty much the only feature of the N97 that I really like is the camera, which takes great shots, and HD video.
Incidentally, the N97 (whose name is “My Phone”, btw), took a swim in a bucket of mop water last week and I thought she was kakked, too. I was incommunicado until the following morning, when I grew a new respect for My Phone. She be hardy.
I don’t know what organ of Hilary this might be, but it’s a cool photo, anyhow.