Premature

Declaration of victory that is. Damnit!

Apparently TP and TPF are still at the apartment. Gal just got home to discover that they haven't finished packing up the stuff that's not going on the moving truck. Cause they haven't had all day to do that. The movers moved them out in 1.5 hours flat. That would bring them to 10 am. So what, praytell, other than getting the hell out of our apartment, have they been doing all day?

Can't be anything naughty, cause the only bed in the place is Gal's and mine; so help me Whoever, if they were there and I find out, there will in fact be hell to pay.

Apparently they're going to stay with our other former roommate for a few days. He has a new one bedroom basement apartment, that's about 302 square feet. Good idea to have three people there for a few days. I'm guessing it's because TP is to cheap to get a hotel room for a few days. Too cheap in the same way that she had 6 cousins and their significant others stay over for a weekend. Without consulting the roommates.

And too chicken to ask Gal and I to stay with us.

Hopefully they'll be gone before I get home. I hope for their sake, and my own sanity that that will be the case.

We can all hope n'est ce pas?

Victory is Mine!

Okay, I lied.

Well, not really. I just didn't pay attention when TP and her fiancee (hereafter TPF... (odd that particular acronym can also be used for That Poor Fu... err Fellow)) said that their movers were coming today.

So, with any luck, they will be gone before I get home, and I'll not have to see them again. Yea me!

Of course, last night they had to be their typical ignorant, inconsiderate selves. TP got home from work at around midnight, and proceeded to pack up dishes. Much clanking ensued.

The fact that TPF had spent the entire evening on his duff was not lost on me. So, I left the bedroom with the intention of gathering up the cat, and a little education.

See, Gal and I sleep with our door slightly ajar, to allow the cat the opportunity to exit the bedroom to use the facilities, have a midnight snack, etc...

So when TP and TPF are loud after we've gone to bed, there's really no sound barrier. Hence my frustration.

So I collected the cat, loudly telling him that it was time for us to go to bed, as Gal and I had to work in the morning, and needed some sleep.

He started as TP clanked some more dishes togther, and I soothed him, telling him I knew the loud noises were disturbing, but that it was alright, as we were going to bed.

This may seem odd to some of you; knowing that I often have a tendancy to be brutally direct. For some reason I've adopted this approach with TP.

The reason, really, is that if I tell her directly to stop being such an inconsiderate pain in the ass, she'll get all wide eyed and apologetic. "Oh, sorry, I didn't even think. I'll stop doing what I was doing right now!"

Sounds like a better solution no?

Well, the problem is that she'd then sulk and pout about the house for the next week and half. Again, not much of a problem for me, but a big problem for Gal. There's also that whole issue about my bullshit detector going off, and me having to ask her how she could be so stupid as to not realize that whatever she was doing might disturb others.

See, when TP starts a conversation with me, I reply with one word answers, until such time as I can leave the room (usually post haste). That's to avoid the whole bullshit detector going off. Gal hasn't been able to do that (being as they've known each other since before grade school).

So, in the interest of not making the whole year a miserable experience, I adopted this indirect method of communication (handy things, cats).

Now, I don't seem to be able to deal with her in any other fashion. I don't think she has any illusions as to what I think of her, seeing as she hasn't tried to engage me in conversation for about 4 months...

In any case, I don't matter no more!

TP and TPF will be out of Gal and my hair, hopefully forever. I'm sure TP will leave a 'nice' little note thanking us for being roommates, much like the card she gave us a week or so ago.

Rampant insincerity I can deal with. Hell, I've learned to bend it to my own means when the purpose suits me.

Joyous, joyous day! No more flatmates ever!

Vagabond: Victory is mine, victory is mine. Great day in the morning, victory is mine
Gal: Good morning, dear.
Vagabond: I drink from the keg of glory. Bring me the finest muffins and bagels in all the land
Gal: It's going to be an unbearable day

Holidays

I've discovered that I love working on holidays.

Today is Good Friday and I'm in the office working my tush off. I find it much easier to work hard when there aren't people in my way. Plus I can crank the tunes, and just let the phone go to voicemail without worrying about someone glaring at me.

In exchange, I get next Friday off, which is handy cause it's the day after moving day. Gonna need it.

It also means I drove today rather than taking transit, and my commute was 20 minutes instead of the regular hour. And I didn't have to sit next to the smelly subway folk.

And the biggest bonus is that I won't have to do it all again next Friday.

Fear

No, not the movie with Mark Wahlberg and Reese Witherspoon.

I'm not afraid of many things. I can probably count them on one hand. That's not to say that I'm reckless or foolhardy, I'm just not especially fearful.

Some of the most commonly heald fears mean nothing to me.

Fear of public speaking? Ummm... got that one licked. Hell, I relish an audience.

Fear of heights? Licked that when I worked in the warehouse for the grocery store. Before that summer the third step of a ladder was it for me. Since then, heights have no hold on me.

Claustrophobia? Nope, not really. That's not to say I enjoy enclosed spaces, but I'm like a cat. If I can fit my head through an opening, the rest of my body can fit as well. No worries of getting stuck.

Emetophobia? I don't have a fondness for vomit, but I'm certainly not afraid of it.

Arachnophobia? Okay, I've got that a touch. Well, more than a touch. It's not like a shriek like a pig-tailed school girl, hands fluttering in a pointless attempt to ward off panic. I just leave the room, and ask Gal to roll up a newspaper and smack the little eight legged freak dead. I even get skin crawlies with obviously fake movie spiders. Fear Factor? Fuggeddaboudit.

What I do fear more than anything is being trapped in my own body. I've always been a tremendously independent person, taking care of myself, doing my own thing. I don't like to be fussed over.

So the thought of dementia, alzheimer's or anything where my conciousness becomes trapped in my body scares the crap out of me.

As my Nan got older, I remember this normally sweet tempered English lady displaying more frequent fits of temper. It was frustration at not being able to do what she used to be able to. And even worse, knowing that she used to be able to do whatever it was.

My grandfather was the same way.

Now granted, Nan was 95 when her mind started to go, and my Granddad was in his 80's. I've got a ways to go before I hit those ages. But I do live in fear of that. I know me. I know that I'll be completely unsufferable. Especially if I'm stuck in the crooked home we saw on 60 Minutes.

8 Days!

Yeah, that's right. Eight little days.

Flash Fiction Challenge #5

The city was dark. Granted, the storm had knocked out the main generator hours ago. Ant like crews scurried about, doing their best to bring light back to life.

His reign over the city was coming to a close. Ultra-violence no longer carried the stigma it once had. He was certain he didn't want to rule over a city rife with gangs and junkies.

All due respect was no longer given. A man of his stature commanded a certain deference. His new lieutenants did not seem to understand this.

The old guard was passing. Burning out, bright loud fireworks fading into mid summer twilight.

The gangs didn't understand. Strength without restraint, influence without class, wealth without refinement were all pointless.

Cash was replacing wealth. Dirty paper replaced influence; anyone holding bills felt that they deserved respect. Common thieves all.

There was one solution; bring the world to it's knees. Free love, free hate, free expression; their time had come and gone. He would bring civilization to an end, emphasizing mass consumption and gluttony.

If the nouveau riche felt they were entitled because of the size of their bank account - let everyone feel entitled. The American Dream was a sham.

Could a man such as he bring it about? The end of civilization as he knew it? Simply to spite what mankind was becoming? Did one man have the will, the fortitude, the stomach to do such a thing? Why not? After all, wasn’t man due?

The lights flickered on.

----------
This week's challenge:
1. Maximum length: 250 words.
2. The theme is: power
3. The time is: 1968
4. Within the story, you must use this text: all due respect.

10 Days to Go

Yes, that's right, 10 days to moving day. I'm fairly confident I can make it through 10 days without committing a homicide. I mean, I'm at work for 7 of those days, which means I'll likely be too tired to commit a mercy killing when I get home.

The other three days I should be packing, so really, the time for cleaning the gene pool is winding down.

Those who read this blog who've known me for a while understand that subtlety is not necessarily my strong point. The rest of you have probably picked up on this as well.

The special version of Vagabond Subtlety ™ is somewhat akin (great word, no?) to the engagement of Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck. Only less understated.

However, with age has come a sense of refinement and restraint. I've learned not to put myself in situations that would lead me to exercise (read unleash) my frustration with The Princess.

Case in point... she did a card reading for her boyfriend Saturday night. She then offered to do one for Gal, who graciously accepted. Apparently during the card reading, TP indicated that Gal might have problems in the future with a difficult partner.

Hmmmm.... project much?

Anyhow, she then offered (wisely through Gal) to read my cards. I politely declined; being as it was Gal who relayed the offer. It would have been somewhat more satisfying to laugh in TP's face, but in the interest of having the next 10 days pass as quietly as possible...

Anyhow, my early twenty-ish self would have taken up the offer, in order to ridicule and make faces at TP. I come from a background of champion eye rollers. Mom is the queen and Dad is the king of Eyerollia. Plus I've got that whole eyebrow are-you-shitting-me-or-are-you-just-stupid quirk.

So I passed on the offer.

However, there's been a bag of garbage sitting beside the door since early yesterday afternoon. Apparently the 40 trek down the hallway to the garbage chute is too much of a strain. If it's still there when I get home, it's moving into TP's bedroom.

If I have a good day, I'll even leave the garbage in the bag.

I just don't know

This came to my attention this morning while I was doing my daily news check.

I graduated from that school. I have friends who work there. I probably know some of the kids who go there.

I'm in shock. I don't really know what to think.

Some folks I know from there are saying it's getting blown out of proportion. I trust their judgement, so I'm sure that's the case. But still...

I guess if I had any innocence left, it's pretty much gone now.

How can I be so knocked for a loop by something that didn't even happen?

Nasty Sod

Yes I am. No, not full time. On a mostly part time basis. Offer void where prohibited, available with limited APR financing. Offer not valid in Quebec or the Continental United States. All applicable taxes.

An example you say? You won't just take my word on it?

Alright then.

There was a tremendously tall lad in my class in primary school. We'll call him Oval Head, because that's what we called him as he had one. At the tender age of 10, O.H. was already over six feet tall.

Our teacher had the brilliant idea of setting up our desks in clusters of four. O.H. had the desk facing mine.

"Hey OvalHead, get your boat feet out from under my desk."

"Shut up pipsqueak. Your feet don't even touch the floor."

"Articulate for a dumbass aren't you?"

"Shut up!"

"Go fuck yourself Oval Douche!"

We were nothing if not original. I won most of these exchanges at this age because I was the only one who would pull out the forbidden words.

This went on for a few days, with O.H. getting to the point where he'd slouch down in his chair in order to kick my legs under the desk.

"You do that again, and I'm going to stab you in the foot." My bounds of tolerance had been reached. That and my shins were bruised beyond belief.

"No you won't pipsqueak," he sneered. Watching someone with an ovular (am I using that right?) shaped head sneer is hardly intimidating.

So, I got ready. I surreptitiously took out my math set, and readied my protractor. He drew back to kick me again, and I set my weapon in place.

His scream of pain got the teacher's attention. Of course, he couldn't tell her what happened, as she'd already given us shit for carrying on. It was also French class, and he couldn't figure out how to say protractor in French.

I put the protractor back in my math set, noting with sick satisfaction the blood on the pick. I guess the top inch had gone into his foot.

Never mess with a nasty sod with a protractor and the will to use it.

Flash Fiction #4

I’d been deep undercover since the end of the big WW2. Moscow was not the best place to be stationed during the winter of ‘58. First off, it was cold. Secondly, unless you were part of the party elite, there was never enough food to go around.

Supposedly I was training the women’s track and field team. The Canadian Olympic Committee wanted to determine if all the female shot-putters with mustaches were actually women or not. Judging from their Adam’s Apples and visible packages, I was pretty sure they weren’t.

The government subcommittee wanted to be sure though. I think it was because I’d been sleeping with Dief’s wife. The Prime Minister wasn’t happy about that. Not that I can really blame him. For the sake of the country, I’d accepted this post.

Natalya and I had just returned from watching a smuggled in version of Dracula. Christopher Lee is as big a ham as I remembered. At the Hop was blaring from the downstairs babushka’s illegal transistor.

The only good part about being stationed here was Natalya. She was a Slavic Goddess, less the mustache, Adam’s Apple, and package. These Moscow girls make me sing and shout, that Georgia’s always on my mind. Never mind the Ukraine girls.

Natalya wanted to drink. Seeing as there was nothing else to do, I grimaced through three glasses of the cheap stuff, before retiring for the night. I was lucky to have someone keep this comrade warm.

Friendship means sometimes having to say you're sorry

I was perusing the 'sphere and came across this post by Melina about friendship.

I've been thinking about this some recently. Mainly because I don't really think I've made any friends since I moved to Toronto. Not that I've been really trying all that hard (read at all), so I'm not really concerned.

What does tickle the nervous part of my mind, is that I'm fine with that. Gal and I have gone out with a couple different people, but we didn't really have a good time. and didn't particularly like the people.

It's been odd for me, as this is the first time I've ever had to/tried to make friends as part of a couple. Hell, it's the first time I've been part of a couple for longer than a couple of months at a time.

On the flip side, Gal and I keep each other company, so I'm not a hermit like I was before we met. Human contact is a good thing (get your minds out of the gutter, you dirty birds!)

Anyhow, is this a normal part of getting older? Not being interested in making new friends? I have enough trouble keeping up with the old friends (sorry!). And I mean old in both the having been friends with them for a decade and a half, and in the fact that they're all getting old(er). They're getting so old and wrinkley that they look like David Brinkley.

I've got to take at least a portion of the blame. The fact that I've become more and more of an introvert (in the Meyers Briggs sense) as I've gotten older has contributed.

That and the fact that most people are assholes. There's only room for one asshole in most friendships, and I prefer that asshole to be me.

Inspiration

Nope, none today. I'm wiped today, what with packing, going to war with the Cable Company, residual irritation with soon to be ex-roomies, impending job & agent search, and an irritating lack of sleep.

So I'm overtired and cranky, which is pretty much what I was all the time at my last job. I didn't realize how much I didn't miss that at all.

But, on the plus side, I've been asked to contribute to a book on working in Independant Film. That will be interesting if nothing else, but it is something else on an already fairly full plate.

I hope that things get a little more steady once we move... these peaks and valleys are killing me.

Vagabond Goes to War

That's it. I'm going to throw down. Cable Company ™ and are I going to go at least 400 rounds, and I'm going to win. Or at the very least, I'm getting a bunch of free stuff.

I can put up with terrible service if I'm not paying for it. I think.

Otherwise that's it. I'm so angry right now, if I were to win a large sum of money, I'd offer $50k bounties for anyone who quit Cable Company and signed a contract not to work there for at least 3 years.

I hate those bastards!

The Cat

The Basil
Originally uploaded by Vagabond_Shoes.

This is a Flickr test.

As an aside, it is sad to note that this cat has had more pictures taken of him in the last 6 months than I have in the last 6 years.

With apologies to Sting

I don't drink Starbucks, I like Tim's my dear
I like my seaweed dulse all dried
And they can hear it in my accent when I talk
I'm a New Brunswicker in the Big Smoke

See my walking Eglington Avenue
A Timmy's clutched close to my side
I take it everywhere I walk
I'm a New Brunswicker in the Big Smoke

I'm an alien, East Coast Canadian
I'm a New Brunswicker in the Big Smoke
I'm an alien, East Coast Canadian
I'm a New Brunswicker in the Big Smoke

No one will like you there, is what someone said
Here's is where you should stay
It takes courage to leave your home and smile
Be yourself, no matter what they say

I'm an alien, East Coast Canadian
I'm a New Brunswicker in the Big Smoke
I'm an alien, East Coast Canadian
I'm a New Brunswicker in the Big Smoke

Messy drunken riotry won't lead to noteriety
Amongst millions I'm a lonely one
Sarcastic anti-piety, is rare in this society
Is drinking hard my only way to fun?

Takes more than a postal code to make a man
Takes more than some pogey from the gov
Teach the Upper C's, learn from 'em when you can
A New Brunswicker will always drink for fun

No one will like you there, is what someone said
Here's is where you should stay
It takes courage to leave your home and smile
Stay East Coast, no matter what they say

I'm an alien, East Coast Canadian
I'm a New Brunswicker in the Big Smoke
I'm an alien, East Coast Canadian
I'm a New Brunswicker in the Big Smoke

Danger Boss Robinson, Danger!

My boss sends out an email that asks me to break down how I spend my day. I'm assuming she means how I spend the time that I spend here working. Broken down by percentages.

There is also a request to break down how I'd like to spend my day. Broken down by percentages.

In the interest of not getting Dooced, I'm going to keep what I wrote between Boss Robinson and I. But there's a part of me, wrestling with a much smaller part of me, about sending exactly what I'd like to be doing with my day. Broken down by percentages.

Anti Bath

I am the above. Firmly.

After yesterday's freezing temperatures, both in the office and outside, I was thoroughly chilled by the time I got home. So chilled in fact, I was doing my paint agitator imitation. (As an aside, don't hand me a cup of hot liquid while I'm in that state)

So Gal suggested I take a bath. I was fairly non-convinced about the goodness of that idea, but she drew it anyway. She lit candles too, which was nice. I'm not sure what purpose the candles serve, but hey, I've never seen her take one without candles, so I'm guessing they're necessary.

I'm 6 feet 2 inches tall. Gangly some would call me. I do not fit well in a standard sized tub. My options are to submerge my upper body, or submerge my lower body. I cannot be fully submerged.

Which means that while I'm soaking my top, my legs are getting cold. And when I switch, my upper body get cold.

I'm also kind of lacking in padding, so sitting in a tub is not exactly comfortable for me.

So, the whole point of the bath - warming myself, was at least half defeated at any given moment.

And thus, I am anti bath. Firmly pro shower though. If I had a shower with a seat in it, I might never get out.

Some things

A.
I'd like to present the Toronto Transit Commission with the following awards:
Meritous Citation for the avoidance of accidental displays of competence.
Burgundy Fellowship for adherence to the letter of their service promises as opposed to the spirit.
and finally The Silver Mass Transit Award for the pool to see how often they can cause passengers to take a tumble through jerky and erratic operation of all TTC Vehicles.

Way to go folks, way to go!

B.
It's about -15 C in Toronto today. Seems like a perfect time to shut off the heat in our office. It's hard to type with these gloves on, I'll tell you what!

C.
Saw a kid today with a Megadeth Ride the Lightning patch on his backpack. I'm officially a curmudgeon, as my first thought was "He can't wear that! He wasn't even born when that album came out!"

D.
Am I old because there are kids entering high school who were born the same year I entered high school? Mare - How does teaching them feel?

E.
I hate the cable company. Not in a normal every day type of hate, but more in a I'll dedicate my life to bringing you down hate.

F.
That's it. Carry on!

Singing in the Rain

Hello Mudda
Hello Fadda
I think I'll eat this
Hot Enchilada
It's so tasty
It's so yummy
Now I've got hot grease upon my tummy!

I now pronounce you...

The Anonymous Coworker is getting married, and has a good post on the start of wedding planning. And it got me to thinking.

Now, I've never been married (that I know of), and don't really have any burning desire to be married. But I have been to a fair number of weddings in the last 8 years or so. In fact, I was averaging 4 a summer for a couple of those years.

As I mentioned, my soon to be ex-roommate, The Princess (TP), got engaged. Now the engagement was kinda silly in my mind, but what the hey, it means something to the two of them.

So I'm wandering through the kitchen over the weekend, and what do I see but a HUGE three ring binder, bursting at the seams. It's wrapped in cloth, with Dream Wedding (or something like that) stencilled on it.

Basically, it looks like she has her wedding already planned. From what I've heard, she started gathering articles, pictures, etc... in her early teens.

I'm all for planning, but if you've put that much thought, love, wishing, hoping, praying, and what have you into an event, is there any possible way that it can live up to your expectations?

Really, if you've dreamed about it since you were 13, can it end up being anything but a let-down? I honestly don't know. I can't see that it would for me.

And isn't the wedding really just the starting point? Is getting married more important than being married? It's a big day granted, but come on... There are lots of days to come after it.

I equate it with some folks I knew in High School. It was obvious to everyone (them included) that they were living out the best days of their lives. Good for them. But if the best days of my life occurred when I was 17, someone please shoot me in the head.

It's not the day, the ceremony, cake, photographer, reception, and gifts that matter. It's the possibility of everything to come after that day.

And I guess that's why I'm in no hurry to get married. I don't need one day to remind me of the possibilities of every day to come. It's great for some... it's just not my bag baby!

Questions from AlexandraLeigh

Here goes:

1. If you were a superhero, who would you be? What special powers would you have?

I'd be the Muter... with the stunning but useful ability to envelope people in a bubble of silence, so I don't have to be subjected to their snivelling idiocy.

2. Describe your ideal bathroom. (OK, this isn't a question, I know. But...it still requires an answer, so it counts.)

Not so much into bathrooms... one with all the fixtures, a kickass multi-headed shower, and a huge tub for Gal. Oh, and self cleaning. Slate tile, and heated floor perhaps? Hmmm... maybe I'm more into bathrooms than I think.

3. What are your top three favorite songs of all time?

Hmmm... that's a toughie.
Are you gonna go my way - Lenny Kravitz
Across the Universe - The Beatles
Amazing Grace - but only on the bag pipes.


4. If you could pack up and move, where would you go?

Well, I did pack up and move to T.O. with no job prospects, so this is familiar territory... but now I would say New York. If you want to act, it's that or LA. Though I like the idea of 72 degree winters, New York appeals to me more. Of course, London would be really cool as well.


5. Name a time when you most proud of yourself. (See No. 2.)

Tough call. The time I fired a guy, even though I didn't want to. It was best for all involved, but was really tough.

Delivering the eulogy at my grand father's funeral.

Quitting the job that was driving me mad, despite the fact I had no other prospects, then up and moving 1200 kms.

Thanks AL!

Mom! Why does the mail smell funny?

Oh Really?

Not sure how I feel about this. It all sounds very safe, and very above board, but the idea of shipping anthrax next to my CD's from Amazon just seems odd.

Despite assurances that this is common practice around the world, I'm pretty sure that it was not a well advertised one.

At least it's not CanadaPost. I still haven't gotten two books I ordered before Christmas.

In other shipping shennanigans, a friend of mine was asked to send yogurt through the mail. She found a piece of yarn in a single serving package, called the helpful 800 number, and they told her they would send her an envelope to mail it back to them.

She gets the envelope, and it's basically one of those foil cookie packages, with those fold over twist tie clips. It's got a stamp on it, so she follows the directions.

Now, I think that the people at the 800 number have a pool running on how many people they can get to send yogurt through the mail.

And I would not want to be the postie who has to sort and/or deliver that package in the middle of July.

Why not Puma?

There's a bunch of blogs I read on a daily basis, mainly to keep my sanity at work. The reason I don't have a list of them is mainly sloth.

In any case, today I'd like to say a special thanks to Mooberticus Cowerovskisen for getting John "Cougar" Mellencamp's Jack and Diane stuck in my head.

Thanks MooCow, you glorious sadistic bastard! Now I'm going to have to hum either the Hockey Night in Canada Theme, Mr. Sandman, or Tiny Bubbles.

Of course, he does get bonus points for using the term Manhooker.

Sincerely,

Vaga "Large Breed Cat" Bond

Quandry

I've got one.

So I'm starting on the job hunt, and my Dad caught wind of it.

As I've aluded to before, my Dad and I haven't always gotten along. In fact, we started getting along better once I moved out, and a lot better when he moved 1200 kms away.

Anyhow, he's asked me to send him a copy of my resume, and that he'd "put a word in" at Big Company where he just became a VP.

Now obviously, I wouldn't be working in any sort of area where I could end up reporting to him. But, he's one of 6 VPs. So I'd end up in one of their chain's of command.

And to give further context, my Dad is one of those people you either love or hate... and I'd say more lean towards the latter.

I can't help but think that absolutely nothing good can come from he and I working for the same company.

Plus, what if we were in a meeting together? Everyone calls him Mr. Vagabond... do I call him Dad? Mr. Dad?

Is my resistance to the idea because he suggested it? Pride? Good sense? Laziness (always a good bet for me)?

Last Night in the World

Dreams had always been more real than the waking hours to him. He reveled in their intimacy, their lack of control, the absence of expectation.

In dreams there were no whys, only whats, nebulous though they may be. There were only occurrences, which while they fed off prior incidents, did not need to be directly related. There was no cause and effect.

He longed for that simplicity. Dreams had no requirement of human interaction, something he struggled deeply with. He could never anticipate what waking people would say the way he could in dreams. Waking people disappointed, dream folk did not.

Pulling himself slowly from the cool sheets, he began to plot. Was there a way he could play all day with the dream folk, and avoid those who let him down?

Was there a place where laws were merely conventions? Flying above a room, filled with swimming pools, simply because you could? Where dream folk frolicked, pretending to be unaware of those around them?

He eyed the needle.

Perhaps tonight.

The Ides

March is typically a good month for me. Part of this may be that I could have been Julius Caesar in a past life, and karma is finally swinging my way.

Anyhow, I started my last job in March, and though I hated it towards the end, it was pretty good to me for three and a half years.

Gal was also born in March. Not that I knew her when she was born, you see... it's just another reason to like March.

March is where spring tends to turn the corner, and if not outright kill winter, at least tends to muzzle it somewhat. That and you know that there's a finite number of storms left to the season.

So, I'm starting hard-core into the new job search. I've seen a couple I'm interested in... certainly one of them has a salary range in a neighbourhood that I'd like to live in.

Hmmphh - Just got out of a meeting I was pulled into... just a 'quick' meeting over lunch. Started at 12:30, ended at 3. Nice.

I'll try to post something more interesting tomorrow. But the above does reinforce how much I need to find something more fulfilling. Fortunately, my boss at least understands where I'm coming from, and has no problem with giving me time off for interviews.