So, I work for a nonprofit. I'm not sure how that works because we do make money from subscriptions to our magazines, but we are considered a nonprofit. Since we are "tax experts" I'm sure our board members and executives know how to utilize tax credits and all that good stuff to the fullest.

None of our higher-ups drive fancy cars or, I assume, live in mansions. Our "culture" is laid-back and casual, we get to wear what we want and our managers are pretty flexible, most of the time.

The downside is that most of us work in a centuries-old building, with at least 30 decades of dusty old volumes of past issues and supporting documents. (Last week, I got to pour through some issues from the year I was born!) Some very nice men come and take out the trash every night, but they only vacumn every 11 months or so. We have spiders and ants, nasty looking centipedes, and due to the volumes and volumes of old issues, silverfish.

Also, the offices are kind of a bullpen where 6 or more people are crowded into a room with open-air desks, no cubicles, no privacy. I guess it works well because we all kind of holler questions to each other about commas and hyphens and all that fun stuff. And it keeps us social, I suppose. But it does get a little awkward when you need to make a phone call about medical issues or something.

But all of that is soon to change. We are moving in November to a new fancy building, one that is still being built. We have to share the building with another company, but there will be a Starbuck's on the first floor and somewhere to eat, too. And hideously over priced condos that none of the employees can afford are being built next door.

Hey, does "over priced" need a hyphen?

Sorry, I was yelling at my co-workers.

Um, does "co-worker" have a hyphen?

Sorry again.

We will also be getting new workstations, which is good because some of us have old teachers desks with very low knee space and mine has "Pickle mora is a loser" and "Amy is a dork" carved into the drawer. We were invited to walk down to one of our buildings (all 200 of us are currently housed in 3 buildings in two cities, hence the need for a new and fancy and large building) to see these new workstations. They are huge! They are so big, they curve, in an L-shape! They have low walls so we can still holler and nice drawers and a thingy that your phone rests on in mid-air so you have more desk space. There is a drawer over head with frosted plastic in the front, very fancy. I'm thinking they are going to shove two proofers into one workstation....we don't deserve all that room. Rumor has it, though, that we get our own. I'm overwhelemed. I feel like a peace corps volunteer come home from Africa, shell-shocked in a Target.

Guys, "shell-shocked" has a hyphen, right?

We are also getting new chairs. These chairs have a name, and the name is Zody. These babies are the "first chair endorsed by the American Physical Therapy Association (APTA)!" We were emailed a link for the "instructional video" which I will include here, for your viewing pleasure: http://www.haworth.com/Brix?pageID=169&catpage=168&category=110. But I sat in it, and it is fairly uncomfortable. I was not impressed. I'm going to see if I can take my chair with me, because it is very comfortable and I just got it in September.

We have been reassured that our "culture" will remain the same, that we certainly won't have to tortue ourselves with the question of "what exactly is business casual again?" or cram our feet into pointy heels or ugly flats. Our company must love us to spend all this money on a new building, new chairs for 200 people and new workstations for the 178 of us that don't get offices!

Of course, none of us are fooled by the offering of a new building and desks and chairs and our old "culture" in lieu of actual monetary raises.

But we are a nonprofit....we have no money for raises!

Forget Waldo.....

Naked Lady Lipstick

My Aunt Tiny works part time at a nursing home caring for aged ailing senior citizens. Miss Annie, an 80ish lung-cancer survivor, is one of her favorite patients as she is the resident comedian for the Bryant Center. My aunt recently had to respond to a page regarding commotion coming from Miss Annie’s room a few weeks ago. When she got there, she found Miss Annie, wearing nothing but red lipstick regailing her visitors with stories of her many lovas she’d “taken” and how she could remember the names of every last one of them (At last count she hit 90, no Gene Simmons, but Erica Kane watch out). When questioned about about her mischevious behavior Miss Annie responded “the two things that have made me happiest in this life are my body and my red lipstick. It’s all any woman really needs.”

I tell my aunt, “I think that she’s (Miss Annie is) great.

Fast Forward two weeks.

The only fatalities at the intersection of Witchduck and Virginia Beach Boulevard this past Friday were an unfortunate traffic light pole and a 2005 Midnite Blue Pontiac Vibe. The deceased were victims of poor timing and being in the path of Otis (the drunk from the Andy Griffith Show). The Vibe momentarily lamented that the last song it played featured Young Jeezy and Christina Milian and had hoped for something more along the lines of Death Cab for Cutie or Rogue Wave. However, it’s death was not in vain as it saved the passengers contained inside which included two 27 year olds and an almost 2 year old.

When the light turned green, all I seen was white. I heard my room-mate scream at me but I had no time to move. In a literal flash there was only white, I was punched in the face. And I was spinning. I smelt gas, I could taste metal there were sparks near my feet. My godson screaming, things hissing, dizziness, slow motion and then quiet.

Has anyone seen the Volvo commercials? The new ones? I was in my own Volvo commercial.

“Sweety.. can you move??? I’ve got 911 on the phone --- talk to her”...
911: Are you pinned?
911: Are you bleeding?
911: Mam?? Mam?

These were my thoughts (in a non sequitur stream):

One night before I told someone my favorite R.E.M song was Radio Free Europe, because it wasn’t the obvious R.E.M song of Losing My Religion and MY favorite R.E.M song could not be an obvious choice. 11th grade High school: Ian licked his name into Mr. Tucker’s (spanish class) black board. How do you say neighborhood in Spanish? April 6th 2004: Larry’s getting on the plane for Arkansas. I’m not getting this goodbye right. It IS true that in art class there is always a 40 year old “MOM”. Mom, mom, holy cow - I didn’t tell her I I’m not sure if I wanted to be cremated or not?? Why did I have to show off this stupid rental car? If anything has happened to my best friend or her son I think I’ll just disappear. My best friend...the first time I met her she was twirling her keys talking to Nicole while crossing Hampton Boulevard. Are they okay?? Who hit me? Where are they? They left us? She left us?? She hit us and kept going?? She kept going!!! What happened? What is happening? My shoe is burnt, the plastic is melted. My bedroom is a mess. This shirt is a terrible choice for a car accident.

With a phone in my ear, I’m starting to come around again.

ME: dazed coming around: “What? Pinned? No. I have a headache. I’m scratched. I’m okay. I’m alive..I can’t hear you police are here. Thanks......”

Police are all around me now. People are all around. 10 people talking at me at once. In all the chatter a sequence evolved. My light turned green I went forward a few feet and a lady in a black lexus hit me (at about 40 to 50 mph), the light post, and kept going. She never lost speed. 10 minutes later she’s caught, and she’s been drinking.

I was amazed at people. People stopped. And something even more suprising they stayed. One family in her station wagon sat with us the entire time. Another mom and her son, called 911 and helped me carry my stuff out of the road. A third man in a Dakota followed the lady that hit us and led the police to her. I didn’t know how to thank them except giving them hugs. I have to be vague on the who’s and why’s because of impending court dates and anonymity but .... if you should ever stumble across OEF in your internet meanderings friends, you’re honorary members in my book.

I was told in the emergency room I was a very lucky lady. If I would have had a lead foot and moved a few seconds faster she would have hit my drivers side door at that speed and a destroyed rental car would have been the least of my worries.

I’ve been in a depressed “what’s the meaning of this accident funk” for the past Memorial-Day weekend.

I think it’s this. I’m hoping, I make it to 80 or 90, still silly and sassy wearing my red lipstick (not sure about naked). And I’m hoping I can take the whole gang along to laugh at me.

I know you guys have watched the scene in “Pretty Woman” where Julia Roberts is turned down by the snooty sales lady. She’s brave for a minute and then she starts crying “but...I have money, he gave me all this money!” She cries and you are sad for her because even with the money, she’s still broke. And that’s the way I felt yesterday leaving yet another car dealership, because to them regardless of my job or how much cash I have in my pocket, I’m still broke poor ass Leslie.

Granted I made some credit mistakes, but I paid all those mistakes off. Every penny. Most of them two or three years ago. Does anybody care except me?! NO.

For those of you who have great credit. Go and read another entry. This blog does not pertain to you. Buy a Volkswagon Tourag and tell me how great it handles and how sweet your blue tooth technology is. I’m sure you can afford On-Star and if that’s the case you can drive to my house and pick my broke ass up. My current car isn’t nearly as cool as your tourag anyways.

So to all you first time auto buyers with not so good credit, or no credit buying a car let me give you some insight on the real tip.

1. If the dealer starts off with “we don’t make deals here, the price is the price.” Then leave. Right there. If they don’t wanna take off any money at all, or at least pretend that there is a possibility then they don’t really wanna sell that f**ker.

2. If you have some money saved up for a massive down payment don’t tell them until after they show you your payments without that down payment. Dealers will hike up the price of the car even more just to steal your massive down payment. You don’t really need interior paint sealant or cup holders in your trunk! Do you??

3. Take alot of people with you, especially if you are a girl. A big burly man type or someone conveying power could work to your advantage. Small people are easy marks. You are less likely to be hearded from room to room alone and goaded into feeling like you have to buy the car or your life will end. Nobody wants to buy a Fiat or a Daewoo, don’t be tricked into it.

4. Throw your payment estimator out the window. An 11k car is really 12,500 after tax, title, licensing and.......after that financing...that car is really 17k. The only number that means something is your APR --- get that rate from the dealer and if that start at anything over 12 then you are in essence tacking on at least 5-9k extra on to the price of that car.

APR is everything. If your credit score is under 620 - dealerships can go as high as 20 but.....they can go as low as 12. They can DO it. I’ve seen it done twice.

5. If your current car runs, go right now fill it up with gas and thank it for driving you and your compatriots around all the time. Not everybody has a car, and while status doesn’t mean everything - motility means ALOT.

Yay, radio?

I was just sitting here in the old basement, sort of blowing off going to bed, and yes, admittedly checking myspace for one last time. Somehow I got to fumbling with music, and was inspired by Hench's changing of songs to change my own.

I kind of felt like Soul Coughing, so I went to find some. I chose "Sugar Free Jazz", and even though I've heard it seventy-eleven billion times, I decided to sit and give it a spin; maybe play a game of Snood or two. When the song was over, I wasn't over music, so I clicked on over to my bro's myspace page as I know he has another favorite Soul Coughing song on his page, "True Dreams of Witchita". And when THAT song was over, I still needed some music. So I clicked on my handy Yahoo! Widget Engine icon, and turned on my SIRIUS Satellite Radio Tuner widget.

To my initial chagrin, my favorite station, Left of Center, was playing the MC Lars (pictured here) Show. MC Lars is a self-proclaimed "geek rapper", quasi-famous for such songs as "iGeneration" and "Signing Emo". Sounds cute, right? So why the chagrin? While I sort of enjoy these little songs for their snarky commentary on pop culture; it's not real music, it's novelty, and I came to my Sirius tuner this evening for some HITS to sing while I futilely try to beat my sister's Snood score.

But something odd happened---or rather, is happening. Because you see, friends, it is currently 10:46PM. WAY past my bedtime. Or at least I should be in bed right now watching General Hospital, and already starting to feel the effects of my Tylenol PMs. But nooooo. I'm sitting here actually listening to a radio show (that isn't Howard Stern), waiting to see what this guy is going to play next.

So far, a sample playlist:

• Alice in Chains, Would
• Weezer, The Sweater Song
  
• Soul Coughing (!), Circles
• Public Enemy, Bring the Noise
• NWA, Fuck the Police
• The Ramones, Sheena is a Punk Rocker
• Rusted Root, Send Me on My Way
• Hilary Duff, Fly
• Weird Al Yankovic, Amish Paradise
• Nirvana, Come as You Are
• Rob Base, It Takes Two
  

Yeah, Hilary Duff is whack, but you see my point. It's actual variety, and I actually enjoyed listening to the radio. It's sort of endearing when you know someone actually chose those songs, and chose them to play in that order. Working in radio, the act of actually "doing radio", that is getting the music to the people, is so clinical. Songs are ranked according to some consultant's opinion, and will get rotation based on that rank. Or something like that. I don't know for sure, as I'm not a programmer, but you get the point. It's a totally joyless process concerning one of the things that brings the most joy to the most people---music.

I'ma admit it right here, I don't have a conclusion for this rather meandering blog; and now I kinda want to find out if the brain surgery Dr. Drake illegally performed on Sam will actually save her life, thus vindicating her mobster boyfriend, or further fueling the wrath of her newly-discovered mother, Alexis.

Profiles in Dopeness: Rufus the Cat

We've been so serious around here. I thought we could use some fluff.

So I thought I'd profile a very important entity in my life; Rufus the cat.

I accquired this gentleman on a summer weekend trip to Wildwood, NJ in 2002
when I still lived in Virginia. My friend Nicole's sister Jackie had encountered a family of cats on a misty late-night Cape May County road, huddled together in a box in the middle of the street.

Looking to unload some of these 6 new family members, Nicole asked if I'd consider taking one home with me. After carefully interviewing all six, I settled on this handsome boy; as he was the one who seemed to like me the most and he had a pretty awesome white diamond on his forehead.

Rufus got his name because on the long, hot drive back to Virginia in the old Lincoln Town Car, we listened to Rufus Wainwright. My mom had put some bottled water in the freezer for the ride home, and Rufus spooned one of the frozen-solid bottles for the better part of the 4 hour trip trying to say cool.

Among Rufus' chief interests are sleeping, grooming the other cats, lounging, posing, and caterwauling in the kitchen late at night.

He often "kills" pears or apples that he has hunted down on the kitchen counter, and presents them as tokens of his affection; and generally enjoys knocking anything off of the counter.

When the world is getting to be a bit too much for Rufus, he retires to a kitchen or bathroom cabinet for undisclosed stretches of time; and upon his exit from said cabinets Rufus is the most non-challant fella on the block. Even if you're in the middle of a fancy dinner party.

Lest you think Rufus is nothing more than a selfish layabout, I assure you, he loves his fellow cat. When he first came home with me, we had another male cat, Tigger. There was no growling/posturing between Rufus & Tigger. They were pals straight away, and remained inseparable until my Mom had to move, and the boys were split up. In that fateful car ride back to New Jersey, Rufus and Tigger washed and comforted eachother until they were ripped apart. Tigger now lives with my brother Butch, Rufus came home with my sister and I. Rufus has tried to forge relationships with subsequent cat-roommates, but he mostly gets abuse from them. But still, he is a lover, and he tries to wash them and protects them from the beastly dog, Uma.

The saddest thing ever

In continuation of the debate on myspace, the news had a jarring headline this morning featuring a soldier that had returned home from Iraq. He simply posted a bulletin (on the aforementioned website) on the sad state of affairs of the world and then concluded that he no longer wanted to play a role in it and that he was making his departure TODAY. His myspace and real world friends found him deceased in his residence.

I know things are bad. New Orleans is gone. Pretty soon I'll be looking at horse breeds because I can't afford gas. You're getting arrested for drinking in your hotel room (yes people that went down in Texas two weeks ago). Your parents are losing their jobs if they work for Ford (3000 unemployed in Norfolk last week). Hell, everyone is losing their jobs. Someone you love or know is, has, or will be in Iraq. Pedophiles are getting caught on National T.V. - anyone seen the Today Show's "Perverted Justice specials"?

I was thinking I was running out of happy things to type. But take heart, I found them. Katie Couric is going to be a co-anchor on the evening news. Rosie O'donnell and Joy Behar are going to be mud wrestlin on "The View". Hench keeps getting promoted to the next grade here in OEF land despite never showing up for OEF class (props to G for making me laugh extremely loud with that statement). Some of our best friends are getting married for the right reasons. Someone in your family might be having a baby. Someone you know might have somehow gotten a promotion. F**K I went to dog-n-burger yesterday!!
And if you go out this weekend - I might be dancing somewhere. Don't be scared I'm not having a seizure.

Myspace Manifesto

A few weeks ago, Phillips totally ripped the band-aid off the scab that I’ve been picking at for a while now; that scab being my love/hate relationship with Myspace. He posted a rather thoughtful bulletin informing everyone that he was going to delete his profile, and that anyone who wished to remain in contact with him should email him his or her information. The thing that struck me as completely odd and telling about the whole thing was that I actually contemplated whether or not I should email him with my info.

Because, you see, I wasn’t all that sure that I was actually friends with Phillips, despite the fact that there was a 1”x1” graphic that indicated that he was just that on my myspace page for the last several months, and the fact that I think he’s a really awesome human being. Sure, we were friendLY enough in college. We swam in a few of the same social pools, and once he was nice enough to star in a rather ill-conceived short film about a boy and his monkey for Hench’s & mine Short Works in Narrative Media class.

Hold the phone. I’m gonna go back to the beginning of my love/hate relationship with d’space for a second. Like most people, I claim to not even be sure why I joined the damn thing. I was on Friendster for awhile, but never really did much with it, and for no good reason later migrated to Myspace. I think I may just have a medical need to be clued-in to everything on the internet, so if I read an article or hear about a website, I’ll bop on over and sign-up; as evidenced by the seventy-eleven billion blogs/journals/diaries/whatever I’ve started and abandoned in the last ten years. Each and everytime, I think I let the very idea of this new web page or program take over my brain. I’ll imagine that this is the platform upon which I will begin to change my life; I will finally be able to communicate my thoughts in a concise and meaningful manner, I will electronically reinforce my relationships via this webpage, I will learn about new music and expand my horizons.

So I signed up for Myspace. And I was on it for almost a year before anyone I actually knew (besides a kid that interned at my radio station) was counted among my “friends”. For the longest time, I had 8 friends. One was Dane Cook, one was Tom, one was Lagwagon, one was the aforementioned intern, and the rest were people from MS groups. True, there were people on Myspace that I actually knew from college or whatever, but I felt kind of like a douchebag “requesting” to be considered their friend when I actually WAS their friend in real life at one time. I sort of assumed that if I was supposed to be in touch with these people that I would have without the help of a website.

IN FACT, one of my original inspirations for this here blog was that it was to be the anti-Myspace. A little corner of the internet where people who actually know and interact with each other in real life could mingle and entertain each other while at work or in spite of geographical constraints. All the while satisfying the need to feel like people give a damn what I have to say and find me utterly fascinating. Cause really, that’s the mission of myspace, but myspace just is just a walmartized version of Our Electronic Friendship.

And I ended up buying into it! I eventually ditched those first few “friends” I’d had on Myspace and replaced them tenfold (save for Dane Cook and Lagwagon) with people I actually know. There’s lots of ODU people, some people I’d worked with at the waterpark, and all sorts of other random characters from my life that I’d otherwise lost touch with. There’s also a bunch of people I interact with on a regular basis in real life; and the effect myspace started to have on those relationships, the way I was conducting my relationships with everyone on my friends list, as well as the just plain curious and anonymous visitors really started to freak me out.

So then comes Phillips’ bulletin. He basically said that while he has really enjoyed reconnecting with everyone, Myspace has become sort of a gluttonous social black hole in his life, and he needs to make a clean break of it. Well, that’s how I took it anyway. I would re-post the bulletin here, but some of you dear readers may not have been on his friends list and therefore not his intended audience. (Rupert Murdoch owns Myspace now, and I’m not trying to get stuffed in the trunk of a car and shipped to Moldova to be sold into human slavery for possibly violating any terms of service.)

I think the most troubling aspect for me is the whole idea of having a page on the internet that is supposed to give the world a succinct picture of who you are as a person. I somehow got my brother to sign up for Myspace, as most of his high school friends had been making it a habit of reconnecting with him through me on both Friendster & Myspace. Which is fine, as they were friends of mine too, but I really just wanted my friend count to creep ever so slightly higher (not really), so the Butcher signed up. A few days later, he said to me in passing, “I was really surprised that you didn’t have ‘Johnny Dangerously’ in your list of favorite movies.” Friends, I was BESIDE myself. I felt like I couldn’t draw another breath without getting myself to an internet connection before any more unsuspecting internet dwellers got the wrong idea about me.

But just including “Johnny Dangerously” in a list of a few dozen other movies doesn’t add or subtract from the picture I’ve electronically painted of myself. I could replace all those movies with fake ones, and it would have the same result. Now, If I had the time and space to explain on my profile page WHY I like “Johnny Dangerously” so much, then you might actually learn something about me, however mundane. (That it was a movie that my dad introduced to my brothers and I as kids, which took as a sort of necessary homework for entrance into his secret club, as we thought my dad was the coolest man on the planet.) But Myspace forces you to boil everything that could possibly be interesting about you into these tiny boxes, conveniently categorized; like Walmart might, and lately I’ve been yearning for some mom & pop shop electronic socialization. So here I is, Miss Celie.

But I will admit that I’m not quite so strong as my sorta-friend Phillips. I can’t bring myself to quit Myspace; as it can be a good thing, if used properly. So for now, I’m risking life and limb and violating those Terms of Service by lying about my age. It’s currently the only way to make it so your profile can only be viewed by people on my friends list. I figure I’m okay with whatever THOSE people derive from what I may or may not put in my profile, as they actually know me as a person (besides Dane & Lagwagon). And, in turn, I’ll do my best to use Myspace less as the leg that my social endtable stands on, and more as the decorative lace doily I throw on top of it to spruce it up from time to time.

I realize now that I was a crummy jerk for thinking that just because people may have drifted out of my life (even when they weren’t all that solidly in my life to begin with) that they should stay out of my life (and mine theirs). There’s no harm in keeping the lines of communication open. But just because they’re there and you’ve agreed to be on each other’s friends list doesn’t mean you have to hold hands and skip down the street with them.

I was listening to a Jets to Brazil song the other day, and a line struck me:

“We live like astronauts, our missions never cross.”

With Myspace, while that may be true, at least we have access to each other’s flight itineraries just in case we ever want to rendezvous at the Tatooine Cantina for a brewskie.

Teens are Scary

I was standing in line at Hot Topic the other day. (Yes, I know Hot Topic. What am I still doing going into Hot Topic?) As I stood there, ears bleeding from the intense moody sounds of Hawthorne Heights and H.I.M, I realized that there were in fact not one but two lines for one register. So trying to expedite my departure I ask the guy in front of me - Is this the line? He pulls his uni-bang off of his mascara covered eyelid and responds “Man (I’m not a man) I guess it is or I wouldn’t be standing here. His gaze shifts over me and returns back to his feet. I think - well jeeze don’t kill yourself I didn’t ask you to solve the sphinx’s riddle.

Man, if only Robert Smith were here. He’d save me.

As we stand, despite being there longer than the new comers - the dude in front of me continues to let people pass. I attempt to spur him on up to the counter and am greeted with a mix bag of ugly faces and glassy eyed greetings. After 5 people pass him, I say F*** this - I’ve already heard The Silence in Black and White 3 times and fear I my cut my ears off. As I begin to contemplate going all Van Gogh - I gather my super cute black converse and pass this emo chicken and the “gothic” girls wearing the huge baggie pants that have gathered in the speedy line. The cashier gave me no grief at all and just said, “these janks are f**ing hot!” I say - “they are pretty hot.” I make a joke about passing the emo kids and she’s says “Emo” is so over. It’s more about incompetant rebellion now. Incompetant (sp) rebellion??

(so is that abbreviated INCOREBELLO??) Cause I’ve probably been incorebello since 2nd grade..

I’m not advocating cutting in line or joking the morose habits of the rich enough to look poor teenagers. If you have enough money to buy hot topic clothes, then you should have enough to generate some friggin happiness for yourself. I guess it’s just sometimes measures have to be taken to get results. Standing around looking “moody” only makes you look f**ing weird. Not rebellious, not emo, but weird. I may not be as book smart as I was years ago, but I’m happiER dammit.

I found an old CD-R today that had basically all my papers & homework from my last semester of college on it. In reading through them, I couldn’t shake the thought; “Goddammit, Carol Ann, you used to be smart!” I was reading through a paper I wrote for my New Media Technologies class, which was totally not a hard class at all, and I was intimidated by my own writing.

I don’t know about you guys (or any of you dear readers), but I just feel like a big dummy since college. While I am strongly inclined to blame Myspace for the deterioration of the collective intellect of our generation and the annihilation of the generation after ours, I just feel like punching myself in the face for how…stupid I’ve become. Granted, I don’t exactly have Kyle Nicholas all up in my grill every minute to hand in a paper on anything in particular, so my instrument is not as in-tune as it once was. But finding that CD really sealed my feelings about my recent life happenings…

So I got a new job, which accounts for my scarcity 'round these parts lately. As unnofficial OEF policy, I won't really go into crazy details about said new job, as I intend on keeping it, though connecting the dots shouldn't be too hard for those who'd want to. But I will say that I am still working in radio, but still not on the radio.

My old job was great, really. I had a nice little 8x8 lair with a door and a fast computer and plenty of “me” time (this blog is proof). But alas, I was not long for that place, you see, as in my interview with the general manager, when he textbookly asked “So, do you have any questions for me?” I dug around my brain for an equally textbookly answer and asked if there were any opportunities for advancement, and was met with a flat “No.”. I was unfazed due to dwindling unemployment checks and happily accepted the job. Poverty averted.

But as I was rounding out year three there, My “me” time was really stacking up, and it started to worry me. I found myself wanting to re-do old work I’d done over the previous three years. My boss was totally uninterested in my fine-tuning; even though I pointed out how much more efficient things would be with the changes I’d made. In fact, he was pretty much against it. So I , headed on “across the street”, as they say.

So this is my first real career transition, say, from being a lackey to actually needing business cards, and so far I’m not missing my “me” time; even if this blog has. It’s weird to not want to run out of the building at 5 o’clock on the dot, but I promise, I’ll try & scribble in here on a regular basis. I just might need some assignments from Professors Hench & Paxton (hint, hint)….