So, a month's gone by since I quit my old job, which seems to be my constant preoccupation with this blog (believe me, when I find something better to write about, I will. I just have a fantastic hang-up with this transition, currently). Summing it up, I'd give the change positive marks, though the draw-backs are becoming more obvious as time goes by. Writing is up. Money is down. Personal relationships up. Stability down. Exploration up. Confidence down. It's the trade of my safety and complacency for some adventure and change... which I've always dreamed as a better way to live life.
What I did not foresee are the costs of adventure and change. More on that another time, perhaps.
In other, better news, I have taken the first steps towards writing something that I want to keep. It's a story that I've been kicking around in my head and on loose sheets of paper and scraps of Word files (and yes, glorious, glorious Excel) for nearly a decade. I think I've found a form for it that finally locks in and makes sense to me. I hope I do it justice.
In some other, not so better news, my desire to design a boardgame has fractured into about twenty different pieces and I don't have the discipline to focus on one project right now. It's sad really. Something in my head tells me that I could make a fun game in about a week, but I just can't see a single project from start to finish without getting seriously distracted.
But I can't set it aside, because if I do, then quitting my old job would lose meaning. And that bothers me a whole bunch.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Friday, September 28, 2012
Rescheduling
Okay. I'm new to this and everything. I thought it would be cool to post every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. But, it turns out, I do my writing at night when the sun is gone and I'm inside (weird). Anyway, I'm thinking Sunday night, Tuesday night and Thursday night are better times for this thing.
Truth be told, even writing this much on a Friday night seems like a perfectly worthless use of time.
Truth be told, even writing this much on a Friday night seems like a perfectly worthless use of time.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Chicco is Eye-talian
I was learning about strollers the other day. So, this guy who's giving me this whirlwind tour of all the differences between all these strollers that I'm supposed to be an expert on (very soon) caught me off guard:
"I really like the Keeko line," he said.
"The what?" I said.
"The Keeko line," he said.
"The Chicco line?" I said.
"Yeah," he said.
"Wow, I was saying that wrong in my head," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "Everybody does. It's Eye-talian."
"Ah," I said.
And I just kept my silence and the conversation continued naturally.
Yes, it's true. I refrained from mentioning that "Eye-taly" is truly a wonderful trade partner with eye-ntristing eye-nports... And the fact is, I didn't even have to try to hold it back. I just noted it and stored it away to be snotty about it in this blog.
So, thank you blog! I have become slightly more agreeable to those semi-forced to interact with me (eye-nteract) by not being a full-bored word-snob dick because I know I can just use it as fodder in my next blog with the added delight that I can claim that I'm not such a dick because I didn't call out the mistake at the time.
Wait. That doesn't sound so good now. Ah well.
In other news, my old employer still does not officially recognize that I no longer work for them. This is day 28. Oh those rascals! I wonder if they'll send me another paycheck!
In other, other news, my family suddenly got the idea that they'd like to visit, serially and soon. At least it's not en masse. However, the state of things, household-wise, doesn't really lend itself towards family visitations... Perhaps that's another thing I should focus on with this weird new life of mine... Perhaps.
"I really like the Keeko line," he said.
"The what?" I said.
"The Keeko line," he said.
"The Chicco line?" I said.
"Yeah," he said.
"Wow, I was saying that wrong in my head," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "Everybody does. It's Eye-talian."
"Ah," I said.
And I just kept my silence and the conversation continued naturally.
Yes, it's true. I refrained from mentioning that "Eye-taly" is truly a wonderful trade partner with eye-ntristing eye-nports... And the fact is, I didn't even have to try to hold it back. I just noted it and stored it away to be snotty about it in this blog.
So, thank you blog! I have become slightly more agreeable to those semi-forced to interact with me (eye-nteract) by not being a full-bored word-snob dick because I know I can just use it as fodder in my next blog with the added delight that I can claim that I'm not such a dick because I didn't call out the mistake at the time.
Wait. That doesn't sound so good now. Ah well.
In other news, my old employer still does not officially recognize that I no longer work for them. This is day 28. Oh those rascals! I wonder if they'll send me another paycheck!
In other, other news, my family suddenly got the idea that they'd like to visit, serially and soon. At least it's not en masse. However, the state of things, household-wise, doesn't really lend itself towards family visitations... Perhaps that's another thing I should focus on with this weird new life of mine... Perhaps.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Insight?
Ah, the warm whisper of a long overdue insight... Nothing like it really. I was at a cash register today, getting trained. The process of accepting and qualifying and categorizing and prioritizing and inputting and marking and filing coupons was explained to me. It should be noted that certain coupons cannot be used for certain types of items and certain brands. Certain coupons work on a single item while other coupons work on the entire purchase while some wily coupons of a very bastardly breed work sometimes on a single item and sometimes on the entire purchase depending on the circumstances at hand. Manufacturer coupons are treated like cash at the end of the transaction. Competitor coupons are honored as one of our own, though not necessarily if the customer is also asking for a price match.
I nodded happily.
"Any questions?" my trainer asked.
"How much of this do we humans have to keep straight?" I asked.
"All of it," she said.
"I see."
And in the back of my head there sprouted a little nugget, much like a seed, that spread black tendrils both fine and piercing through all the little spots in my brain that allowed me to take these rules seriously.
"Ah," I thought. "I bet I'm giving the same dead, off-center stare to my trainer, right now, that I have seen from coworkers for the majority of my adult life...
"More work required from me because they (management up-and-ups, what-have-you) lack the skill to automate the work, well, it doesn't actually make me angry. It just makes me not care. Sure, I'll try to get the rules right. But if I don't... Who cares?"
If they cared about the rules, they'd simplify them or automate them or both. But they don't care about the rules and neither do I. They will say they care. They will actually think and believe they care. I know. But they don't care. They don't care because they have to follow the same rules when they run a register. That's one thing that I LOVE about this new job compared to the old job. Management is neck-deep in the crap right with the people on the floor. It is a business structure to which I am not accustomed. It is a business structure toward which I feel myself naturally gravitating. But there is no way that the managers are keeping the coupon-rules boognish straight in their heads all the time along with everything else they are required to know. It's too much.
But, those stares I got from my old coworkers on the floor for all those years... I tried to explain why we "couldn't just" this or that as much as I could. It never worked. They gave me that dead, off-center stare that I always thought was a polite way to conceal anger. It's not. It's a positively honest, dead, off-center stare that shows the brain engaging the clutch and drifting into neutral.
It's so obvious now.
I nodded happily.
"Any questions?" my trainer asked.
"How much of this do we humans have to keep straight?" I asked.
"All of it," she said.
"I see."
And in the back of my head there sprouted a little nugget, much like a seed, that spread black tendrils both fine and piercing through all the little spots in my brain that allowed me to take these rules seriously.
"Ah," I thought. "I bet I'm giving the same dead, off-center stare to my trainer, right now, that I have seen from coworkers for the majority of my adult life...
"More work required from me because they (management up-and-ups, what-have-you) lack the skill to automate the work, well, it doesn't actually make me angry. It just makes me not care. Sure, I'll try to get the rules right. But if I don't... Who cares?"
If they cared about the rules, they'd simplify them or automate them or both. But they don't care about the rules and neither do I. They will say they care. They will actually think and believe they care. I know. But they don't care. They don't care because they have to follow the same rules when they run a register. That's one thing that I LOVE about this new job compared to the old job. Management is neck-deep in the crap right with the people on the floor. It is a business structure to which I am not accustomed. It is a business structure toward which I feel myself naturally gravitating. But there is no way that the managers are keeping the coupon-rules boognish straight in their heads all the time along with everything else they are required to know. It's too much.
But, those stares I got from my old coworkers on the floor for all those years... I tried to explain why we "couldn't just" this or that as much as I could. It never worked. They gave me that dead, off-center stare that I always thought was a polite way to conceal anger. It's not. It's a positively honest, dead, off-center stare that shows the brain engaging the clutch and drifting into neutral.
It's so obvious now.
Friday, September 21, 2012
No Reason
There are an infinite amount of reasons to figure out what has happened to us in every way. And, without any reason or belief, I'd say we're wrong almost a million percent of the time. Isn't it great?
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Up Early, Little Sleep
This day was bananas. From the word go, it repeatedly smashed my surprised and oblivious face over and over into the hard surface of reality. Up early, little sleep, making moves to satisfy the ever growing branching list of things I have to do and people I need to talk to and problems I have to solve.
Poor old me, finally growing up.
"Satisfy" is a word I know how to spell correctly even though it is obviously the wrong way to spell it.
In an interesting turn of events, I have been earnestly advised in the last 24 hours by no less than two of my long-time friends to pretend to be gay. Needless to say, I am taking their advice to heart. Why not? Pretending to be gay could be interesting. The only thing I'm worrying about of course is, well, the, you know, the hours of upkeep it'll take to pass off as a gay guy. Every gay guy I know is put together and obviously cares about how they look. I lack these qualities. If I were a girl, pulling off the gay fake would be so much easier. I know lesbians that make the expectations of straight-dude fashion sense look elite.
At a dog park, where my pup likes chewing sticks, a dedicated couple of lesbians (though not married, oh no, could you imagine what sorts of awful stuffs would happen if they could legally acknowledge their commitment to each other? Why, the divorce rate of this country would most likely plummet as quickly as our nation's worldstage relevance!) and I were chatting it up. One was looking handsome. The other was looking like an extra from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure mated with the lint that clogs up your clothes dryer enough to set the house on fire. Anyway, as the hapless straight guy, I couldn't help but think that many improvements would be made if the second lesbian would just tuck her shirt, uh, up, and then nearer to her, and then back down, you know, behind the pants...
What I'm saying is that I couldn't possibly pretend to be a gay guy because I'm much much closer to being a lesbian in many ways. There. I said it.
Anyway, it's not like my two friends suggested that I pretend for no reason. They're just trying to find a good way to manage the requirements of the job I'm still training for. Of course, it's much more interesting to me to not take their advice and see what happens. That's what I'll do. It might be a gear-shift without a clutch, but who remembers the smooth transitions? If nothing else, I might see some interesting sides to a good slice of my local community.
Poor old me, finally growing up.
"Satisfy" is a word I know how to spell correctly even though it is obviously the wrong way to spell it.
In an interesting turn of events, I have been earnestly advised in the last 24 hours by no less than two of my long-time friends to pretend to be gay. Needless to say, I am taking their advice to heart. Why not? Pretending to be gay could be interesting. The only thing I'm worrying about of course is, well, the, you know, the hours of upkeep it'll take to pass off as a gay guy. Every gay guy I know is put together and obviously cares about how they look. I lack these qualities. If I were a girl, pulling off the gay fake would be so much easier. I know lesbians that make the expectations of straight-dude fashion sense look elite.
At a dog park, where my pup likes chewing sticks, a dedicated couple of lesbians (though not married, oh no, could you imagine what sorts of awful stuffs would happen if they could legally acknowledge their commitment to each other? Why, the divorce rate of this country would most likely plummet as quickly as our nation's worldstage relevance!) and I were chatting it up. One was looking handsome. The other was looking like an extra from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure mated with the lint that clogs up your clothes dryer enough to set the house on fire. Anyway, as the hapless straight guy, I couldn't help but think that many improvements would be made if the second lesbian would just tuck her shirt, uh, up, and then nearer to her, and then back down, you know, behind the pants...
What I'm saying is that I couldn't possibly pretend to be a gay guy because I'm much much closer to being a lesbian in many ways. There. I said it.
Anyway, it's not like my two friends suggested that I pretend for no reason. They're just trying to find a good way to manage the requirements of the job I'm still training for. Of course, it's much more interesting to me to not take their advice and see what happens. That's what I'll do. It might be a gear-shift without a clutch, but who remembers the smooth transitions? If nothing else, I might see some interesting sides to a good slice of my local community.
Monday, September 17, 2012
A Poorly Written Review for Something Awesome
FTL: Faster than Light is a video game that I can get behind. It was made by two people. Music by another. Writing help from some guy. Four total. And the game is awesome. The graphics are a throwback and the controls are a little tricky and uninspired, but the game design is solid and most importantly, it's fun.
I don't know if the kids remember Diner Dash anymore, but FTL is kinda like that, but in space with missiles called Artemis and little crewmen called Engi. There are more things to do than resources at hand and the fun comes from prioritizing disaster. The game really hooks into the logic center of the brain. Success means you are a good planner and multitasker. Failure? Well, don't quit your day job yet, simian, coz those stones aren't really that sharp.
Probably the biggest drawback so far is the fact that I haven't found a savepoint yet. Maybe I'm missing something, but now is the age when people demand the right to save their progress in a game anywhere and everywhere. Then again, I got the game for my PC @ $8.99 and it doesn't seem to be set up for mobile app-hood anyway. I'll deal with it because this is a solid game and it validates the sometimes sketchy Kickstarter model of business. Buy it! I got my copy from Steam. If you don't know what that is, I can't help you.
I don't know if the kids remember Diner Dash anymore, but FTL is kinda like that, but in space with missiles called Artemis and little crewmen called Engi. There are more things to do than resources at hand and the fun comes from prioritizing disaster. The game really hooks into the logic center of the brain. Success means you are a good planner and multitasker. Failure? Well, don't quit your day job yet, simian, coz those stones aren't really that sharp.
Probably the biggest drawback so far is the fact that I haven't found a savepoint yet. Maybe I'm missing something, but now is the age when people demand the right to save their progress in a game anywhere and everywhere. Then again, I got the game for my PC @ $8.99 and it doesn't seem to be set up for mobile app-hood anyway. I'll deal with it because this is a solid game and it validates the sometimes sketchy Kickstarter model of business. Buy it! I got my copy from Steam. If you don't know what that is, I can't help you.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Largest Font Size
Largest Font Size
Well there it is. Now I know what the largest font size is, at least for this blog. After I quit my last job, I was sure that I would be energetic and purposeful and accomplishing things at a frantic clip. That just ain't so. Heck, I'm barely making a blog post here.Today has been a complete and utter waste. I have done so close to nothing that it would be embarrassing to to mark the difference. But that is what tomorrows are for.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Little Time and Less Time Now
God help us and tell me that I'm wrong, but doesn't it bother anyone else that we all have little time and less time now?
I spent time today folding corrugated flaps of cardboard like a wizard. I have all the inconsequential scratches and gouges on the inside of my forearms to prove it.
Oddly enough, while socializing after work, a friend called me out on a bruise on my arm that I couldn't explain. I apologized. At the same time, I wondered if I could intrigue her with all the nicks and scoops I had on my arms as well.
The moment passed.
Here's my problem: I don't hold to the modern social norms that physical work is dirty work.
Here's my other problem: I don't have a good enough set of skills yet to make physical work profitable. I need a trade.
Here's my other other problem: I don't have the patience to learn a real trade... I might have to become, yeesh, an artist... Whatever the fuck that means...
Monday, September 10, 2012
And Day 1 Again
So, I'm going to sit tight on some thoughts about how embarrassingly easy it was to get a job and instead focus on job: day #1 [no, it didn't take all last week to do it... in fact, it took all of six hours... I didn't have time to write last week... I just was otherwise preoccupied... (videoGAAAAAMMMMEEESSSS)].
Anyway, job: day #1 was awesome. But I don't mean to be biased. This is a blog after all, and not worth its weight in electrons if it doesn't follow journalistic standards like, uh, raising hell and reporting news and taking a fair and balanced approach to stories.
Job: day #1 was purportedly awesome to some. To others, perhaps not quite so awesome. There.
Pro: the little pregnant trainee beside me at one point said while our trainer was away: "If I don't get to go soon, this little man is gonna crawl out of my... woman parts... and go for me!" I did not edit for content. That's what she said word for word. She wasn't talking about leaving the store. She was talking about urinating.
Con: the vending machine was out of both Coke and Pepsi. This didn't bother me in the least, but there was plenty of uproar from others. Sunkist Orange Pop quickly worked its way up to the rank of "ugly kissing cousin" in my mind, simply because everyone was grabbing it and grumbling before smashing it to their thirsty lips.
Pro: everyone at that damn store is as nice as peaches! On the outside at least. But who cares? I'll take it! This is quite the change from my old place of employment, where a sullen stare was the best one could hope for because it, at least, was not dripping sarcastic fatalism with the pointy end pointed at your guts.
Con: everyone at that damn store is as nice as peaches. I have spent the last decade of my life pickling in a hostile workplace brine. If these teeth aren't dulled quickly and quietly, I might face an uphill battle towards, oh, interacting on any level with my new coworkers. I'm now the rusty garrote in the pile of strawberries. Sure, the strawberries might be poisoned or at least fake, but they're strawberries!
Yes, I will work on my metaphors. Check.
Pro: in five short hours, I learned everything I never knew about selling something. Man, this information is applicable. Of course, my dark mind see uses for this power far beyond the original intent. How have I come this far in life without realizing the algorithm of manufacturing and satisfying desire in less than two steps? How? It's impossible! But now I know... it's not not impossible...
Con: I feel a bit brainwashed. It's nice because I don't mind.
Enough. Overall, I dig this new job. I figure, after adjusting for the hours I put in for my old job versus my current hourly rate, I'm making (as a rate) only 60% of what I made before, but I'm not going to see the hours I saw before, nowhere close... That's the salaried American's dilemma:
You can figure out that your $80K salary job is shit because you put in 70 hours a week. For an hourly worker, that would pay 85 hours worth of wage with time and a half overtime. Now you're seeing that your $80K job at 40 hours a week gives you $38.46/hr. Not too shabby. But at 85 hours a week, it gives you $18.10/hr. Less than half! Yuck!
And you think about the kind of jobs that make a straight-up $18.10/hr. Here's the news, those jobs are hard to find, unless you've got yourself a trade, and even if you do find one (no trade involved), you probably won't be getting 70 hours of work a week.
Yeah, you put in 60 to 80 hours a week, but it's steady. I'm scheduled for 10 hours of training this week. That's it. I have to learn the new math fast. 60% rate at a quarter of the hours does not bring the chow home to puppy, if you know what I mean. It's a mean world out there. Time to get to work finding other work than work, it seems.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)