Strange motivation

So my work week has been... interesting. I had the kid I hired for the summer (who's still around 'cause he got shanghied by my boss) try to give me orders the other day. I stared at him until he fled. Then today, he copped major attitude with me when I asked him to fix an error he introduced to the site. Finally, after two weeks of silence following a very polite, very straight-forward letter to my boss outlining exactly where our (her and my) working relation is falling apart in my opinion, I went to her and said, "Well, let's talk about this thing we have between us." The conversation actually went better than I expected it to, but that's not saying much, 'cause going into it, I was giving 3 to 2 odds of there being blood on the floor by the end of it. I also had a chat with the VP I report to and let him know the situation. I was also nice to him, as I always am, even when he doesn't deserve it. I told him the trouth, which is that I really value my job and think I can be a positive force at Northland, but that right now, I'm completely demoralized, don't give a shit (though I wasn't quite *that* honest...), and am completely at my wit's end for what to do about the situation. So all this has made me realize that there are greener pastures for me somewhere else. I have no idea where, but I know where I'm going to start looking. Right at my computer screen as I build a site for a copywriting venture the wife and I are trying to make happen. More details are forthcoming as they unfold. Oh yeah, and CJ? I'm trusting that you'll keep this information where it belongs (just to alieviate any confusion, that'd be "away from the college.") Muchas gracias, senorita!

You might be a redneck if...

[Editor's note: We at "Digital Beest" (copyright 2004, Nib Communications, a division of Mega Corp, LLC) do not in any fashion condone the use of alcohol or other drugs, legal or otherwise, unless such use is specifically directed by qualified medical personel or a cute member of the oppisite sex. The content of this post is soley the responsibility of the author, and as such, we will forward all commentary we recieve about this post to /dev/null. Furthermore, no animals were injured in anyway during the making of this post, although not for a lack of trying.] I was home sick today, lying on the couch, trying to take a nap in the afternoon sun. tap tapity tapTap Tap TAPITY "Ig. Nore. The. Cat." TAPITY TAPITY BANG So I got up. Looked around. No cat. No sign of cat. Maybe cat is innocent. Nah... maybe pigs fly when I'm not looking, but none of my cats are innocent, even when they didn't do it. Bangity tapity bang... TaptapBANG Hmmmm. Mystery deepens as sound comes from outside house. Must prepare sick self for journey outside by covering pate with hat. Nearest hat choices: straw cowboy hat; blaze orange stocking hat. Remove fashion sense, choose stocking hat for warmth. Go outside. Look at house. Look at hoary woodpecker drilling on house. Go back inside. Grit teeth. Console self with knowledge that bird is destrying house before insects can. BANGITY BANG BTAPITY TANGTAP Go to kitchen, retrieve empty beer can. Go back outside. Crumple beercan on forehead. Wing crushed beer can at bird. Shake fist in air. Shout, "Piss off, you pecker!" Go back inside. Lay down. Eye lids heavy. Breath slowing. tapity taptap

Broom Hilda and soup

First, instant karma

I was in the grocery store this weekend doing a little impulse shopping on an empty stomach (it's really the wave of the future; you ought to try it) and, as usual, I made some smart-aleck comment on the state of the people in the store. I turned the corner into the "soup and prepared food" aisle and started choking on my own spit. If that's just not a message from the gods, I don't know what is.

Then, the dumbest joke ever

I generally like to treat people like they're humans. I find that no matter where I encounter another person, if I treat them like they're me (except perhaps a little less likely to blog about something) just working a job to pay the bills or out enjoying a little snippet of their precious free time, things go along pretty smoothly. So there I am, in the checkout line at the supermarket and the woman in front of me looks like she could be the lead in the cult classic "I was a bored middle-aged zombie working at the grocery store." She's got the dull washed out eyes, the stringy, was in fashion 20 years ago hair, and a huge crooked nose probably picked up in a bar fight somewhere. In other words, just your average northern Wistucky (sorry, Josh, but I had to) workin' stiff. Nothing to be ashamed of, and in fact, I can even hear her internal monolouge: "I hate this job. Soup. I really hate it. Roma tomatoes. Stupid people. Doritos. Coming to the stupid store. Bread. To buy stupid. Lettuce. Things." She gets done scanning everything and says, "Fourteen-eighty-nine." I'm thinking, OK, this I can work with for a little humor. "A good year, from all accounts," I say. And immediately regret it. That's gotta be one of the dumbest, kitchiest, requires-the-least-amount-of-brain-power-possible jokes ever. Yeah, not to mention overused by tools like me. Broom Hilda looks at me, completly mirthless, with the emotional response-o-meter pegged firmly in "contemp." "Hu," she says. Not "ha," not "heh," but "hu." And I figure I got off pretty easy with that, all things considered. But I'm no dummy. I been schooled all the way through grade 16, and I got a piece of paper to prove it. I know when I've been beaten. I shut up and stood there, trying to hide all 6'4" 260 pounds of me behind the little stand they have for writing checks and signing credit card receipts. When Broom Hilda handed me the receipt, I could barely bring myself to look at her and say "thanks," then scurry out the door with my groceries. I haven't been back to the store since. Anywhere I almost die, then find my best effort at a joke is lamer than a one-legged horse ain't for me, no ma'am. But I don't have to worry. That store'll be out of business soon enough. See, Super Wal-Mart's comming to town. Take that, grocery market of embarrasment.