A long overdue up date.

OMG, two months (ish). And so much freaking stuff happened.

October:

24th: David received a call from this web design firm for a job he really wanted, requesting an interview. He floated about on cloud nine for a while

November:

1st: David was transferred from the deli (that he hated) to the Starbucks (that he loved) in Target (where he worked).

2nd: Interview with Firefly. Nailed it.

9th: Second interview with Firefly, this time the Owners and not the GM. Hashed out salary, but was not actually offered the job.

11th: Firefly did not call back as expected. We pig out in a pity party.

13th: David called Firefly to see where he stood. The GM apologized for not getting back to him sooner and offered him the job. Woot, woot!

During all THIS nonsense:

David's grandfather had his knee replaced, his brother had his gallbladder removed and spent three weeks in two different hospitals due to still unknown complications, and his mother had a breakdown due to exhaustion. He spent and week in Jackson with them, right across Thanksgiving. So I spent Thanksgiving with Oliver and Daisy and my pjs. Score.

Everyone is better now, healthy and home. But now we have to contend with the pooh that this whole thing stirred. And I've been asked to keep my explanations as vague as possible. Grumble. The one time I'm willing and prepared to expound upon the details is the ONE TIME I can't.

Damn.

He started his first real grown-up job at Firefly and loves every minute of it. And... we're not broke and poor anymore. Bonus!

So, that's what's happened in our little corner of the world since I fell off the radar.

Some fairness out of the universe.

Why is it okay for this douche to screw us out of money he owes us, but it's not okay for us to do the same to him?

You used the power in this house, asswipe, used way more than the two of us combined I'll bet, and you're refusing to pay for the third I'm asking for... yet because he's a good guy, David to refuses to take from you what you owe us.

...

My roommate, who will read this, is refusing to pay his share of the July power bill, but is insisting we pay him back for his share of the washer and dryer. David said he would gladly pay for the washer and dryer if Adam will pay him back for the stool David bought for the pub set (the set came with two stools and there are three of us), and then there's STILL the matter of the power bill. My solution? Take the stool AND the washer and dryer and call it even.

Aaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnndddddddddddddddd... this just in...

David's just spent the past forty minutes in Adam's room and walked out with cash, saying Adam will give him more tomorrow... WTF just happened?


UPDATE:

See post dated 10/19.

People who will burn in Hell

And Michael Vick is at the top of my fucking list.

But wait, there's more.

It's not enough that this abusive bastard got to do what he did to those poor dogs and live to tell about it, but now, apparently, the NFL is letting him back in.

Spot number two is now occupied.

How the FUCK does that happen, people? How the FUCK does that asshole get to kill, maim, and abuse dozens of dogs - animals who exist only to be loving and devoted COMPANIONS to your sorry fucking ass - and STILL get to make millions upon millions of dollar playing fucking football?

Where's the justice in that? How can you let that happen Mr. NFL? This man, upon whom the world should only look with disdain and disgust, who should be literally spit upon everyday for the rest of his life, who should be torn apart limb from limb by the very animals he so GROSSLY mistreated, is now being allowed a position of possible respect and hero worship? What the FUCK kind of message is that sending to the public, to the twelve year old who will now watch Dogkiller Vick with admiration in his eyes? JoeBlow Fuckup in Florida horribly mutilates seventy or so cats and now he's incarcerated, but I bet if that little asshole could throw a pigskin or hit a fucking baseball we'd all be giving him another chance.

And I don't care if "we're talking about a young man's life here." You fucked up. You should be forced to clean toilets with your fucking tooth brush for the rest of your life, and then forced to repeatedly watch reels of the dogs for which you demonstrated such HEINOUS disregard suffer AT YOUR OWN HANDS.

You do not deserve a second chance.

This is ridiculous, ree-GODDAMN-diculous.

We as a nation already put sporting events and sporting clubs before academics and education (don't get me started), and NOW, NOW, we're putting a man's ability to THROW AND CATCH A FUCKING BALL before the LIVES AND WELL BEING OF DEFENSELESS ANIMALS...

My God people, what's next? Yeah he raped and murdered that hooker, but he throws a mean curve ball. We'll let him back in.

Fuck you Mr. NFL.

Fuck you and fuck the sport you have so immensely disgraced.

A brain for my roommate

Or at least a fucking off switch. This guy is an IDIOT. Why does he keep talking?
He's one of the those assholes who can't be wrong, and ALWAYS has an opinion.
He BEGS for argument. I want to stick my foot in his fucking mouth.

Thirty more fucking days of this asshole and his asshole face, with his asshole voice, and asshole opinions. He's going to die alone. He's 24 fucking years old going on 45, and fancies himself this wealthy bachelor type. He's neither. He wastes his money on credit, and often buys $500 worth of Cuban cigars from Switzerland. He's arrogant and self-serving, and if he's not stretching the truth to have a reason to complain, he's outright lying.

But to his friends (read: Not Me.), he's this great, giving philanthropist. He can't buy groceries, take out the trash, do the dishes, or contribute to this household in any meaningful way, and yet he can PAY the PHONE BILL of some stupid fucking slut with whom he works. He's always broke, but always has money. He had these delusions of being some panty-creaming Lethario, yet we - the people who LIVE with him - have never seen proof of this.

I can't wait to not live with him anymore in hopes that our friendship can be salvaged.

Whew... sorry, I needed that.

Thanks.

The cat in the bag...

Or out of the bag as the case may be.

Seems not only does Charlie Browne know about this little blog of mine, but he's been reading it since effing October.

Excuse me, do you have a towel for the egg on my face?

Oh, and as usual, I have plenty of expounding to do, all of it about dear ol' Charlie Browne and giving in.

It's been awesome. And a relief. Total, fucking relief.

A few happy thoughts for Stellan

The explanation isn't important.
And you can get all you want here.

But think a few happy thoughts for this little boy, if, you know, you're so inclined.

Thanks,
J

My Don't-Give-A-Fuck

(This will make a little more since if you read this, and maybe this.)

Has turned into downright mutiny.

I-don't-wanna, I-ain't-gonna, You-can't-make-me, Just-fire-me-already, Caine-style M.U.T.I.N.Y.

We got a game plan e-mail today. I have to be at work two hours earlier than usual on Monday, at freaking 8:30 in the morning on Tuesday and Wednesday, ad then at 2 "until further notice."

The 8:30 days are for training purposes. Watch me and my subversion. Just you watch.

I don't want to "learn" a "new" way of doing things, just so we can revert back to the old in six to eight weeks. I don't want to listen to that balding bitch-witch babble on and on about inconsequential, bureaucratic bullshit at 8:30 in the effing morning for four effing hours.

I have never felt such animosity for a job, or a boss, in my life.

Urg, grr, grumble, piss, moan, dig in the heels, and then beat the fists on the floor.

(And no, I can't just quit and move back to Houston tomorrow. I have a freaking lease.)
(did I mention I'm moving back in with my parents in August. Parents and batshit-fucking insane sister. Joy and rapture.)

Total agreement

I never thought I'd see the day...

Loathe as I am to admit, I agree with this guy.

Why is it okay to take the money and run? Take my money and run to a house in the Hamptons?

Why don't more people care, have respect for those they serve?

Oh, yes, high-rise Corporate America, I'm talking to you. You serve your stockholders, and now that you're operating on government funds, you serve me.

Where's your humility? Where's your compassion? Where's your "give a fuck?"

Huh?

Things I could be doing

Like:

Finishing the count...4 blog drafts waiting to see the light of day
Laundry
Playing with Miss Daisy
Working of Michelle's blanket - that baby could be here any second!
Working on Lori's blanket - but I have until May
Working on Erika's blanket - I have 'til may on that one too
Looking for a Job - urg, grr, gag, vomit.
Looking for a new apartment - see above... and I have until next January
Cleaning my current apartment

Things I'm not doing out of sheer laziness/lack of significant motivation/lack of proper yarn/my deeply embedded procrastinatory tendencies:

(see above)

My Give-a-fuck

Six months ago, if you had asked me how excited I was about The Big Move, I could not have vocalized an answer. Just nod and smile in overwhelming exhilaration.

Ask me that today, or maybe tomorrow, and I might shrug my shoulders. Meh.

And that makes me so very, very angry.

Hustle and bustle saturate my work environment. The shelves are nearly bare and overfilled boxes abound. In two weeks, and at the very most by this time next month, we (my co-hortsworkers and I) will be livin' it up in the new digs, with literally thousands of brand new, spine unbroken, possibly shiny, fresh-from-the-publisher books around every corner, and enough space so that I never have to see, hear or smell the Train Wreck.

Eric is practically drooling at the thought of this place and that guy doesn't get excited about anything. Okay, anything of remote importance.

Gregk, were he not so mired with the actually moving mudanities, would be shivering he tight little ass off in anticipation.

Bill can't wait, neither can Crystal, or Whitney.

But try as I might, I can't give a shit. I've dug deep, too. I really worked at it. But since all this crap hit the fan, I've been too busy trying to pry the eight inch serrated blade out of my spine to care about much else.

There are work place politics, and then there's my job. See, when they can't fire you, they have to get very creative in how they make you leave. And by creative I mean dirty, underhanded, two-faced, backstabbing techniques and slight of hand. And just the slightest little thing, sometimes one may not even know what one did, can set off a chain reaction that would make Mount St. Helens look like a fucking sneeze.

See, I don't know how this got started. Okay, I do know. But it's not really important anymore. It's happened. It's over.

And I just don't give a fuck.

sigh.

Something, Anything!

Because I am B-O-R-E-D. Bored.

All I wanna do is play some sudoku (and get that damn Sheryl Crow song out of my head. Shut up, because now you have it stuck it your head too.) But I can't because my pseudo-boss is still here.

And my God I have so much to blog about. Maybe I'll do that when I get home.

And it's Friday, during Lent, and I'm Catholic, and I want a freaking cheeseburger.

My priorities.

So much happened last week (history, my 25th birthday, really deep moving thoughts about my relationship to my stillborn brother and my mother's acknowledgement of said brother, or lack thereof) and yet the ONLY thing I talked about for TWO weeks is my freaking idiot roommate and his unreciprocated (probably not a word) crush on me.

I hate that. I'm not a romance reader, and I vary rarely watch soap operas. As a matter of fact, I only go out of my way to watch one and it's been cancelled since 1989. AND the only reason I watch it is because it starred Kate Mulgrew for the first five years and I'm a humongous effing nerd.

And yet, somehow, my life is a teenage drama mongers dreamland. Double You. Tea. Eff.


My excuse for not catching up this week: sheer laziness. That's it. I only worked a few days this week, and spent the rest of my time devouring Dr. Who series 4 and Torchwood series 2 (awesome, FYI).

So my goal for this week, well next week because this week is over, is to blog about all the things I meant to blog about for the past two weeks.

And I promise, scouts' honor here, not to discuss Charlie Browne. Unless he does something blog worthy, but only the ONCE, I swear!

My resolutions

Shape up (why should this year be different from every other year of my adult life?).

Fix my problem with "da Benjamins."

Blog at least once a week.

Meet Him. (No, not that Him. I'm not ready for Him. I mean Mr. Right.)

Become something meaningful.

Do something substantial.

Love myself a little better (So that He can love me at all).

Not break a heart.

Find patience.

Find happiness.

Not roll my eyes when someone (anyone) reads this and mentions my relationship with that Him.

Hone my wordsmithing skills. (Not a word, I know.)