tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86665532401605991072024-02-19T06:58:43.484-08:00Life in the unemployment lineSotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-20285234375083140082010-11-18T08:10:00.000-08:002010-11-18T09:24:38.815-08:00Calling InHolla,<br /><br />I was attacked late last week. Armies of germs descended upon my sinuses in waves. My body didn't stand a chance. Headaches, rivers of mucus, and a sinus infection were the unfortunate result of this assault. I couldn't function properly. I woke up Friday morning with a fever and a need for sleep. I wrote a brief email to my supervisor telling her that I wouldn't be able make it into the office and rolled back over in bed.<br /><br />This is the picture that I painted. After years of improv and acting classes, I was finally able to deliver a convincing performance. <br /><br />Here's what actually happened. My girlfriend was in town last week. We wanted to go for a hike during her visit, but wanted to avoid the weekend traffic on the San Diego trails. Upon her arrival I made the decision to take Friday off. <br /><br />Normally, I would have simply informed my supervisor that I was going to take a personal day. At previous jobs, sick days and personal days were mixed together in a pool known as PTO. At Traveltime, however, operations are conducted a little differently. Richard doesn't enjoy paying people for their accrued time off. Sick days are forfeited at the end of the year. So, in order to save some of my vacation time, I made the decision to create a big, fat, uncomfortable lie.<br /><br />I'm not good at lying. I never have been. If someone asks me if I think their baby is cute, my mouth might say yes, but my facial expression says, "Oh my God, no! What happened to him/her? This child is straight out of my nightmares."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMjcvsoxJm-X-WFJ5sillhbIykkGrMU0TT0_Xmcsdbu4QzJ5_H70DTcq53NLMu-FfSVZSN_PaJcW227cb2UnrEelCQd5J2Sl39AsF1weY_yxUz_gEX4AC9Lo7dqf_Mn2HwYPAIXV2TU0/s1600/Pee%252520Wee-730680.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 171px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMjcvsoxJm-X-WFJ5sillhbIykkGrMU0TT0_Xmcsdbu4QzJ5_H70DTcq53NLMu-FfSVZSN_PaJcW227cb2UnrEelCQd5J2Sl39AsF1weY_yxUz_gEX4AC9Lo7dqf_Mn2HwYPAIXV2TU0/s200/Pee%252520Wee-730680.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540941863182310850" /></a><br /><br />I'm uncomfortable with the process. My girlfriend kept insisting that I just call in. There are rules in place to prevent me from saying anything more than that. HIPAA is awesome. <br /><br />But I couldn't do it. I needed to convince myself and my coworkers that I was indeed sick. It began with a headache that I couldn't shake on Wednesday afternoon. What's that? You have a Midol? That would be fantastic!<br /><br />The Midol didn't work. The pretend headache got worse. By Thursday, it seemed to be paralyzing. To add to it, my neck started stiffening up and my throat was getting tight. On a normal day, when I'm not pretending to be sick, I regularly need to blow my nose. Unfortunately my snot was not complying with my lying ways. My nasal passages were barren. I got nervous and decided to take drastic measures.<br /><br />My supervisor regularly raves about Dayquil. She says that whenever she feels sick, a shot of The Orange brings her back to life. It was perfect! On Thursday afternoon, I asked her if she had a secret stash of the stuff. She opened up her drawer, pulled out a bottle, and poured me a shot. I stood there looking at the syrup and back up at her. I never had any intention of actually consuming it. I only wanted to create the illusion that I needed it, but I was in an uncomfortable spot.<br /><br />I stood there, transfixed by the Dayquil for a moment too long. My supervisor sensed my hesitation and said, "It doesn't taste too bad." Upon hearing her voice I snapped into action, taking the shot and heading back to my desk. I sat down and tried to get some work done, but had a fuzzy feeling stomach and a slight aura of drunkeness hanging over my head. On one hand, it was great because I could really get into my role. On the other, it was awful because I was lost in the Orange Haze. <br /><br />I left a couple of minutes early on Thursday afternoon, because I generally didn't feel well from the Dayquil and wanted to really sell the lie. I arrived home feeling more normal, and was ready to enjoy my extended weekend. <br /><br />Thursday night my girlfriend and I got lost in China town, went bowling, and got a little drunk. On Friday, we slept in late, went hiking, and classed it up at Olive Garden. And all because of lying. It's an amazing tool.<br /><br />I arrived back at work on Monday, trying to maintain an aura of recovery. Everyone in the office wanted to know what happened and if I was feeling better. Without thinking much about it, I claimed that I was seized by the effects of a sinus infection. I've never had a sinus infection, but that didn't stop me from throwing out tales of visiting doctor's offices and taking antibiotics. The lying continued. I was getting too comfortable. It was all coming too easy...<br /><br />And then someone asked me what I was taking. I stumbled for a moment. I shook my head and said that I wasn't sure what the prescription was called. She said that she got sinus infections all the time, and that her doctor always prescribed something called Z-Pac. I felt my face flush. I mumbled something about an orange vial of pills. I gave her the ugly baby face. I was guilty of lying and I was about to be punished. <br /><br />But, nothing happened. She knew that my ailments were fabricated. I could see it on her face. I calmly tried to return to working, but felt terrible about what I had done. So I enjoyed a day off, and a beautiful hike to a waterfall, and delicious breadsticks and salad at Olive Garden, and some great quality time with the girlfriend. Was it worth the deceit, guilt, and lying?<br /><br />Yes. Yes it was. I'm already planning my next sickness. <br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-80605205402970008392010-10-28T08:15:00.000-07:002010-10-28T09:05:56.613-07:00Impactful WordsHolla,<br /><br />Words are weapons. When used in a certain way, they can be very painful, and that pain can last for many, many years. In 7th grade, while on a family trip to Florida, I took my shirt off at the beach. I was excited to be in the warm Floridian sun and couldn't wait to jump in the rolling waves of the Atlantic. Before I could make it there, my mother asked me a simple question. Jokingly, she said, "Micah, did they just let you out of the concentration camp?"<br /><br />It took me a moment to process what this meant. I looked down at my body. It was the first time my skin had seen sun in several months, and I was being ravaged by the effects of puberty. My bones simply grew too fast for my muscles to catch up. Maybe I had a few ribs poking through. Maybe I looked like a starved, half zombie. But so what? Should my own mother have ridiculed me in that way? No!<br /><br />I immediately started doing push ups and consuming massive quantities of ice cream. My eating habits worsened. I needed to get out of the concentration camp!<br /><br />Finally, my stomach caught up with the rest of my frame, but by that point I couldn't stop eating french fries and Snickers. Now I have a kangaroo pouch sitting on my hips, with an ever expanding roo inside. And all because of a couple of words. (I hope you're loving this mom).<br /><br />This phrase was so impactful to me because it was the first time my mom had ever ridiculed me. Before that it was always, "Micah you're so smart," (true) or "Micah you are such a handsome young man," (very true) or "Micah you are my favorite child" (the most accurate thing she's ever said).<br /><br />With less frequency, the sting of certain words becomes much more effective. Say, for instance, the word "idiot". When I first heard my boss use the word, I cringed a little bit. He was talking to someone on the phone and called them an idiot. I couldn't imagine the reaction from the other side. It had to have been infuriating.<br /><br />That incident was on my first day of work. On my second, I heard him use it again. Only this time it was in reference to his wife. His 'idiot' wife had done something with a bill that he wasn't happy about. I winced a little, but not quite as much as the first time.<br /><br />And then I heard it again on my third day, and on my fourth, and pretty much every day since then. If anyone does something that he isn't pleased about, they earn the nickname 'idiot'. His dogs are idiots, along with his handyman, and the barista at Starbucks, and the people at Sears, and the phone in his office. It's gotten to the point that I don't hear the word any longer. The only way that I know he's really upset is if he uses "F-ing" in front of "idiot". But even that is losing its impact.<br /><br />Words are Richard's weapon of choice, but his weapons are getting old and dull from overuse. With just a little restraint, his verbal barbs could be much more effective. Not that I want those selected words or phrases used on me. God knows I don't need any more body issues.<br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-31761278262387281692010-10-26T08:08:00.000-07:002010-10-26T10:03:53.161-07:00It's a VirtueHola,<br /><br />Patience is a tricky thing. We all have desires. We all get annoyed by things. Personally, there are times that I have difficulties in dealing with people. I don't enjoy waiting for things. I like results to be instantaneous. My version of hell is me, waiting at a bus stop, listening to someone tell me about their crazy dream from last night, while I'm holding my wrapped Christmas present.<br /><br />Ugh. Thinking about that just gave me a knot in my shoulder blade. It's human nature to react strongly to seeing something that we desire greatly. We turn into excitable dogs waiting for a treat. Ooooo Heath Bar Ice Cream? Yes! I want that! Why won't you give that to me? Want to see me roll over? No, that didn't do it for you? Crap, I just peed myself a little. Do you see what happens when I don't get want I want? Gimmee, gimmee, gimmee!!!<br /><br />We are born to be impatient. How we react to those tempting situations is how our patience is displayed. If we are able to quell the desire to punch someone in the ear, or the temptation to honk in a traffic jam, or the longing to steal the pair of hot pants that you can't afford, we can then be described as being a patient person.<br /><br />My boss cannot be described as one of these people. I'm used to it at this point, as demonstration of his impatience has become a daily occurrence. However, at first it can be a little offputting. Let me give you an example:<br /><br />We have a postage machine in my office. It's handy. There's a scale, and a push button menu, and a little tray that will stamp letters for you. I use it every day. I will admit that the machine is not the most user friendly. It possesses a wide variety of error messages that can lead to frustration. PC Load Letter? WTF?<br /><br />However, if you take time to read the message and process the information it gives you, the troubleshooting becomes easier to navigate. My office-mate (we'll call her Mike) has become something of an expert at the postage machine. With her and a little patience, there's nothing we can't properly stamp.<br /><br />Last week, Richard came into the office with three large envelopes to stamp. He approached the machine and started pushing buttons. After several minutes the frequency of the button pushing increased. A couple more minutes went by and the swearing began. I started feeling bad for the machine. He didn't ask for my help or Mike's. He exited in a huff and I didn't think twice about it.<br /><br />Until fifteen minutes later. Richard came back into the office and we spoke to the postage machine's help line. The customer service rep started walking Richard through the process. Buttons were pushed. Everything seemed to be working...<br /><br />...and then the error message appeared...<br /><br />Richard grabbed the phone. He began swearing at the help line, and pushing more buttons. More error messages appeared. The buttons must have been screaming in pain at that point. Richard told the help line guy that his machine was completely f-ed, and demanded that they send someone to fix it. He hung up the phone and continued to jab at the machine. $40 worth of postage and several offensive phrases later, Richard had three stamped envelopes. I thought the matter was resolved.<br /><br />I was out of the office the next day. Apparently Richard called the help line again, cussed out the help representative, and set up an appointment to have the machine fixed. A rep came into the office and walked him through the process of stamping his packages. Office-mate Mike had all of the necessary information, but Richard wanted professional help.<br /><br />This still wasn't enough for him. According to Mike, Richard yelled at the rep again and exited the room in an angry, belligerent state. The rep left, the postage machine cried, and we still don't know if Richard can properly stamp a package.<br /><br />To top it off, I received an invoice from the postage people yesterday. The office visit is going to end up costing the company $405. That's three hours of travel and consulting at $135 per hour. All because Richard couldn't take the time to read the error messages or ask my office mate, Mike, how to properly stamp his envelopes.<br /><br />We are all impatient. It's understandable. A little restrain, however, goes a long way. It also helps prevent $400 invoices.<br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-78680110398498807032010-10-13T08:30:00.000-07:002010-10-13T09:49:05.585-07:00Close EncountersHolla,<br /><br />I like to go out. I don't do it as much as I used to, but I do enjoy a night of drunkeness each weekend. During the rest of the week I try to remain productive and healthy, waiting for Saturday night to arrive. <br /><br />The problem with this strategy is that I try to cram my entire week of partying into a 5 to 6 hour time span. Drinking games? Absolutely. Beer bongs? Yes! Shots of tequila, jagermeister, and Fernet? Ummm, sure...<br /><br />Madison taught me a lot of things. In particular, the great University taught me how to drink. I don't mean that I can consume alcohol in large quantities. Not at all. I'm like a 16 year old girl. Give me three bottles of Zima and I'm good for the night. Give me four and I'm most likely going to end up puking and passing out in my parent's front lawn. <br /><br />My drinking education was more this: Social drinking doesn't exist, you drink to get DRUNK. I've followed this philosophy for 10 years. It's lead to questionable decision making, white suburban dance offs, and countless memories that I can't really remember.<br /><br />Last weekend, my roommate and I decided to get after it. We played our customary games of beer pong, baseball, and flip cup, leading to the usual evening of debauchery. We went out, danced, ate burritos, and woke up with a hang over. Pretty typical.<br /><br />On Monday morning I was sitting at my desk, regretting my lack of sleep over the weekend. My boss came in, said hello, and asked how our weekend had been. Midway through our conversation, a hazy memory struck me. I saw my boss on Saturday night! <br /><br />Or that's what I thought at first. I continued to look at him, trying to figure out why I was having this feeling. I think that Richard looks a little like a Badger, especially when he's mad.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz95SH8C1tA58dBBH43LjX_axSohEZtgYBTXHnf_imVZpp2ldkDZUQajuNKe7uRLttXOZQOXH4Ek-cw6bT2736QHjgfRpPOBnbm236L8pl8kKS15NVB2eb2OXmvsK3PmymRRZyTooYZNg/s1600/badger.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz95SH8C1tA58dBBH43LjX_axSohEZtgYBTXHnf_imVZpp2ldkDZUQajuNKe7uRLttXOZQOXH4Ek-cw6bT2736QHjgfRpPOBnbm236L8pl8kKS15NVB2eb2OXmvsK3PmymRRZyTooYZNg/s200/badger.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527573191334506802" /></a><br /><br />However, I love Badgers. I cannot equate my boss, who I do not love, with my favorite creature in the world. As such, I will say that he looks more like a weasel. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilL_pKsxczTMFAgzbUPubcEELKBsUQc2CbfEkp7HiVYPMSyl9b_bytElNjd0iuxYx3w9iuXHhCuEPD-COMY6HS-MFGz1pqXinPfXF_-OLain1AO6ms7PhsPYNY-o5K2IOt_RoTJE_rItU/s1600/lt_weasel_frontal.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilL_pKsxczTMFAgzbUPubcEELKBsUQc2CbfEkp7HiVYPMSyl9b_bytElNjd0iuxYx3w9iuXHhCuEPD-COMY6HS-MFGz1pqXinPfXF_-OLain1AO6ms7PhsPYNY-o5K2IOt_RoTJE_rItU/s200/lt_weasel_frontal.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527573330533946290" /></a><br /><br /><br />As I looked at his weasel face, the realization struck me. I hadn't seen Richard at the bars in the midst of my haziness on Saturday night. I saw his daughter.<br /><br />His daughter shares many of the same characteristics as Richard. She doesn't look like a 50 year old guy, but if you saw them next to one another, you would definitely know that they were father-daughter.<br /><br />I don't remember much of the encounter, except that I said repeatedly, "I can't be around you right now." I didn't want to reveal my level of drunkeness. The last thing that I need is for bossman to think that I'm a lush.<br /><br />So, throughout last week, I didn't say anything to Richard about the encounter. I kept expecting for him to say something, but his daughter maintained silence...<br /><br />Until Friday. I walked into his office to discuss some bills and he said, "My daughter tells me that she saw you last weekend." Guilt immediately flashed across my face. He continued, "Did you not think to tell me about it?"<br /><br />I didn't know where to go with that. Rather than responding at all, I just made some sort of noise like, "Uhheeeaa..." There was a pause in the conversation before I said, "I thought that I would let her tell you."<br /><br />He seemed fine with that, making it clear that he didn't care about his daughter's drinking habits. He continued by telling me a story about how he was driving home drunk one night and pulled his car through the back wall of his garage. <br /><br />We laughed about it and shared some additional drinking stories. We kept talking and I thought that we had moved passed his daughter. As I was about to leave the room he asked, "So where did you guys see each other?"<br /><br />I responded, "A bar in PB."<br /><br />He asked, "What bar?"<br /><br />Hesitantly I responded, "It's a bar called Thrusters."<br /><br />There was another awkward pause before he said, "Thrusters?"<br /><br />I responded with another word-like sound, "Eeeaaaaa."<br /><br />All he said was, "Sounds interesting."<br /><br />I left the room. If a future employee ever tells me that they saw my drunk future daughter at a bar called "Thrusters", future me may be prone to getting punchy. Thankfully my boss doesn't share the same feelings. Although he may look like an angry badger, check that, weasel, his bark is far worse than his bite.<br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-59253191632630860262010-10-06T08:08:00.000-07:002010-10-06T09:21:56.893-07:00Double AgentsHolla,<br /><br />Accountants are weird. They sit around all day getting excited about excel spreadsheets and depreciation schedules. Some are more gung-ho than others when it comes to professional manners. Their level of joy in reading accounting pronouncements or hearing of tax structures is excessive. I am not one of these accountants.<br /><br />People are also weird. They can appear completely normal in public. They get their coffee or the morning paper and move along with their day. You wouldn't think twice about them. But then, when they get home, their freak comes out. They obsess over feet, or aliens, or sucking the jelly out of donuts and leaving behind the empty casing. I am not one of these people.<br /><br />What happens when these two personality types are combined into one person? Super weirdness, right? It's scary to think about. You wouldn't really want to be around this person, let alone work with him or her on a daily basis. You certainly wouldn't want to be married to them, right? What happens to the person that takes the weirdo's job?<br /><br />Well, nothing as of yet...<br /><br />Dan Bland was the former accountant for Traveltime. On the surface nothing seemed out of place. He was a middle aged guy, a little old school with his accounting tactics, preferring manual general ledger entries to adopting computerized accounting systems, but he was regarded as somewhat normal. He was important to the company and handled everything from bank deposits to financial statements. He was married with a couple of kids. Normal life, right?<br /><br />Well, mostly. I guess the only thing that might appear a little strange was his obsession with young men... Who would have sex with him... In a hotel down the street from our offices. <br /><br />Dan gayness wasn't what was strange. There are plenty of gay men that work in my office, and they are great. It's not that he was having sex with people younger than himself. That happens all the time. It was that he was married with children, and leading a completely seperate life on the side. It caused him to do some strange things...<br /><br />...such as surfing the internet all day for porn. While looking through his old accounting documents, I came across a folder filled with his favorite internet links. Here are the names of a few of them:<br /><br />-Young Boys First Time<br />-Western European Nudists Resorts<br />-Gay Tours<br />-Boys and Daddies<br /><br />At one point Traveltime had a male receptionist. He was just out of high school and it was too much for Dan to handle. He would IM the receptionist throughout the day, sometimes with normal messages: "Has the mail come in," or "I'm expecting this call." Other times it would be less appropriate. To the point that the receptionist had to quit because he was feeling uncomfortable. Our boss offered to lay him off so that he could collect unemployment and not sue the company for sexual harrassment. <br /><br />What ultimately lead to Dan leaving Traveltime wasn't this behavior. His trysts were known about, but they weren't openly discussed, and never directly dealt with. It was what his obsessions lead to which caused his dismissal.<br /><br />Dan's double life wasn't cheap. The gay superspy took vacations, purchased presents, and spent a small fortune on personal grooming, while his married cover had to pay for mortgage payments and children's clothes. I can tell you from experience that this position doesn't pay enough to cover those expenses. Dan knew it too. He was a weird accountant after all. His solution? Stealing money.<br /><br />And a lot of it. Over $100,000 in the last fiscal year. His credit cards were linked up with Traveltime bank accounts. He forged checks. He even withdrew from the petty cash fund. He was the only accountant in the company, and nobody knew what he was doing. It wasn't until he was on one of his many gaycations that he was caught. Another employee was on his computer, printing a check to Sears, and noticed a number of checks made out to Dan. Otherwise the embezzlement could have gone on for much longer.<br /><br />I fell into Dan's job and have been dealing with the results of his actions for 4 months. The company can't really take any action against him because it would require an investigation of the accounting records. And, because Richard has mixed so many of his personal expenses with the company's, he is hesistant to reveal the information. <br /><br />Dan is now the proud owner of a Quizno's franchise in the neighborhood. No one knows how his life is going, but I have some ideas. My best guess? His staff is chock full of teenage boys.<br /><br />More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-74002126792826864022010-10-01T09:31:00.000-07:002010-10-01T09:35:07.214-07:00Bubble TheoryHolla,<br /><br />In an episode of 30 Rock last season, Liz Lemon explained the concept of a beautiful person bubble. Basically, beautiful people are sheltered from criticism because everyone wants to be near them. They want to stare at them like a work of art. Due to this, beautiful people never develop a true sense of how they fit in society and live in a sheltered bubble.<br /><br />I wholeheartedly agree with this concept. I think that it should be taught in school, like the Pythagorean Theorem or verb conjugation. Only I don’t think that Liz went far enough. I think bubbles extend to other social groups as well, particularly to athletes. An athlete could resemble a chemically burned rat, but praise and attention will be thrown upon them as long as they continue to score goals/touchdowns/buckets. <br /><br />My theory was strengthened when I began working at Traveltime. I shared an office with our Vice President of Sales for the first several months. We’ll call him Bob Ramsey. I would use his real name, but I think he’s the type of guy that regularly googles himself. Especially when he’s at work.<br /><br />Within the first couple of days I sensed that there was something going on with Bob. I would ask him a question regarding the business, usually a simple question like, “How are sales going?” 45 minutes later, as he was discussing the connection between leprechauns and Starz premium cable, I realized that I made a grave error. The man loves to talk. That’s fine. I’ve surrounded myself with talkers. The problem is that he doesn’t have anything interesting to say. I don’t care about him hitting on 20 year olds, or his thoughts on luxury automobiles. I learned to never ask him anything. It got to the point that I wouldn’t even make direct eye contact. I just stared at my computer screen until he lost interest.<br /><br />It was his laugh though, more than anything, that really got to me. Ugh, even thinking about it makes me cringe. He was on the phone throughout the day. Some of his calls were business related, but the vast majority were about football, or about his kids, or with old high school friends that had nicknames like The Duke or Weasel. Bob Ramsey style jokes would fly all over the place, which would inevitably be followed by the phrase, “That’s funny,” and then him chuckling in a “Huh huh huh,” manner. It ruined the phrase “that’s funny” for me. I can’t hear it without hearing the laugh. I’m thinking about it right now and making a “I just smelled a fart” face.<br /><br />After a week of being in the office with Bob, I was asked by one of my coworkers about my opinion of our VP. I was new to the company at that point and I gave a very canned response. She informed me that she thought he had been hit in the head too many times during his football career. I laughed it off and didn’t think much about it at the time. <br /><br />It wasn’t until later that I realized the truth to her statement. I did a quick search on Bob Ramsey. He had, in fact, played football. A lot of football. Our VP of Sales played in the NFL for a number of years. He wasn’t a star by any means, but he made a decent career of it. And that’s when it all made sense. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXr3dsgqqq1__LBcND02depeVkU0xWVcLqbduZBCBHK2d-B8KHoMxUDtI6qJIGYE1ekoxYbD13XV20t3uGQmLqAFukWqd3UjnpQcJR8vRn_48kjtF3caBcWVzRk1XSULJepEGqMuN7l-o/s1600/7649844.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 115px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXr3dsgqqq1__LBcND02depeVkU0xWVcLqbduZBCBHK2d-B8KHoMxUDtI6qJIGYE1ekoxYbD13XV20t3uGQmLqAFukWqd3UjnpQcJR8vRn_48kjtF3caBcWVzRk1XSULJepEGqMuN7l-o/s200/7649844.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523116523535318258" /></a><br /><br />The poor conversational habits, the jokes, the constant need for attention. All of it because he was living in the athlete bubble. I felt bad for him. He was once a star, but was now reduced to selling Traveltime to corporate clients. <br /><br />I can excuse most of the annoying behavior. He never knew any better. The bubble is to be blamed. But the laugh…Oh, the laugh. That will continue to haunt my nightmares.<br /><br />-More to Come…Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-77188400930241963062010-09-29T08:29:00.000-07:002010-09-29T10:41:33.583-07:00Fraud with FriendsHolla,<br /><br />In my experience within the business world, I've often heard about a company's "culture". People talking in business speak would say, "company X has a really great culture," or "I love how company Y fosters an innovative culture." Usually these phrases would be followed by discussions of their portfolios and blue tooth settings, and my attention would quickly drift away to thoughts of talking monkeys and wizards. It wasn’t until I entered my current position that the concept of a culture really hit home. In previous jobs I always thought of myself as one little circuit in a giant, Voltron sized machine. I was often told about the culture, but I never experienced first hand until now.<br /> <br />Maybe it’s because I’ve never worked for such a small company before. With only 16 employees, Traveltime (code word for my company’s name) is smaller than most accounting departments that I’ve worked in. Most of the employees have worked here for the majority of the Traveltime’s 27 year history. Over that time, a very unique “culture” has been created. It’s like a group of people that were stranded on a deserted island. They’ve never known anything else. It’s only a matter of time before they turn on one another and start worshiping a pig’s head on a stick. Or turn to cannibalism.<br /><br />But this familiarity isn’t the driving force of the culture here. Far from it. I think in any organization, the attitudes and personality of its leadership slowly seeps into the nooks and crannies of its members. Traveltime’s fearless leader, someone I will refer to as Richard (actual name), is one of the most hyper-sensitive, reactionary, and ill equipped micromanagers that I have ever worked for. How he has managed to create a business that has survived for 27 years is beyond me. Over the last several months I’ve heard him tear apart his agents for lack of business, watched him give the silent treatment to someone who was leaving, and smelled the wasteland that he leaves behind in the bathroom (I’m not sure it’s human).<br /><br />The last paragraph seems harsh. I’ve read it over several times, and I would like to water it down, but I’m having a tough time cutting anything out. As I was writing it, Richard was spraying venom because he had to answer a phone call. You would have thought that someone kicked his dog the way that he was reacting to the situation.<br /><br />Most of the time he is friendly and cordial to me. I’m not sure why, but he seems to withhold his anger. I’ve never had to deal with the spittle and vitriol. Instead, my frustrations with Richard usually come in financial form. I’m the only accountant for the company. I pay bills, process journal entries, and produce financial statements. Traveltime’s financial statements are not pretty. There are losses each month. It’s not because the business isn’t doing well. Sales are up, costs are down, and new clients are on the horizon. The company is losing money because of Richard.<br /><br />The line between personal and business expenses doesn’t exist for him. Richard wants a new deck for his house, Traveltime pays for it. A new Mercedes? Here’s a Traveltime check. Every member of his family owns a corporate credit card. I had to classify his daughter’s bar bills as a company expense last month. A $600 bill at an LA plastic surgeon doesn’t exactly scream "company expense" to me. Over the last four months, I have been complicit in more tax evasion tactics than the mob (okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but still, it’s been bad).<br /> <br />If you’ve made it this far, you might be asking yourself why I’m still here. Why participate in fraudulent activities in a hostile work environment? Well, for one thing, I nearly ended up on the streets before I got the job, and for another, it’s fun to watch everything unfold. Each day is a comedy of errors. It’s like I’m living in The Office, only less funny, and with many, many more curse words. <br /><br />More to come…Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-26433632269960065442010-09-28T08:37:00.000-07:002010-09-28T08:40:28.474-07:00Life in the Employed LineHolla,<br /><br />I know that you’ve been concerned. It’s been months and I haven’t written a single word. You probably thought that I was kidnapped, or murdered, or, at the very least, very badly burned. What else could keep me from providing updates on my daily activities, right?<br /><br />A job. That’s what is sucking all of my time and energy away from me. And an accounting job, no less. I know, I know, it’s awful. It’s more jarring news than if I had been burned. Since May I’ve been in the accounting department of a small company in San Diego. Soon after my last entry I received a job offer, and my creative pursuits were put on hold.<br /><br />That is, until now. I’m back! Somewhat… Well, this is the first attempt to revive my once proud, and amazingly popular, blog. I have no idea how it will go, but this job has provided a wealth of stories that need to be told. And, I’m starting to run out of things to do during the day. Hopefully that will allow me to sneak an entry in here and there.<br /><br />More to come (hopefully)…Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-41128565190672886812010-05-03T17:25:00.000-07:002010-09-23T12:09:12.257-07:00New BeginningsHolla,<br /><br />Hope. A small glimmer of hope. It appeared today amidst gathering darkness. The streets were beckoning for me. The homeless of PB began looking at me differently. It was as if they recognized a new member. Instead of asking for change, they simply asked me how I was doing (and then quickly followed with a request for money). But this disaster has been averted for a small period of time. I have an extension to my budget. This hope came from the acquisition of a job...<br /><br />Don't worry fair readers! This doesn't mean that I've escaped from the unemployment line. Far from it. I may be employed, but it is temporary. I may be receiving a paycheck, but for little more than what a Subway employee makes. I may be able to pay my rent next month, but it will come at the most extreme of costs...crippling boredom.<br /><br />As I've discussed, I am currently using the services of several job placement companies. For months now, I've patiently called them, asking about any possibilities. When I manage to get a hold of them, which happens quite infrequently, the answer I usually receive is that they are still looking for the "right fit" for me. I told them that I would be willing to scrap gum off desks, using only my mouth, but I still couldn't get their attention.<br /><br />And then last week happened. Out of nowhere, when nearly all possibilities were extinguished, I received a call about a position The job pays $12/hour, and is only supposed to last about a month. Naturally, I jumped at the opportunity. There was no job description given, no discussion of an increase in pay. I needed employment.<br /><br />I arrived at an office building today and was escorted to a conference room with approximately 20 other drones. Every one of us had the gaunt appearance of unemployment and the stank of desperation hung over us. We eagerly awaited our laptops like it was a bowl of gruel.<br /><br />Once we were all set up, we were given excel documents with line after line of home addresses. The company is purchasing tax liens from Florida. These liens are on distressed property in four different Floridian counties. Once the company purchases the liens, they are entitled to the tax payments from the homeowners. If the homeowners go into default, this company is then entitled to first rite of ownership on the property.<br /><br />As the worker bees, we looked up each address in google maps. Using the satellite function, we determined whether or not the property existed and what kind of condition it was in (either "good" or "bad"). I did this for eight hours. Here is a breakdown of my mental state during the day:<br /><br />8:30 - 10:30: Excited. I wanted to do a good job and prove that I was the best of the faceless masses.<br />10:30 - 12:00: Hungry. I've grown unaccustomed to the working world's eating schedule. Also, I started getting very tired.<br />12:00 - 1:00: Content, but restless. They brought in sandwiches for us, but we had to work through lunch. I slowly ate my meal, while staring at properties in Port Saint Francis.<br />1:00 - 2:00: More restless. My butt started hurting. I readjusted myself about once every thirty seconds.<br />2:00 - 3:00: More tired than I've ever been in my life. I couldn't click on the search button without falling asleep. I injected caffeine directly into my bloodstream with little effect.<br />3:00 - 3:30: Angry. Google maps was taking too long to load, and I considered punching my screen.<br />3:30 - 3:45: Defeated. The reality of the job started to sink in at this point. While I was earning money, the thought of returning tomorrow made me consider selling body parts as an alternative.<br />3:45 - 4:00: Excited. The day was coming to a close. I walked to the bathroom and managed to see the beautiful day outside. I could taste the sweet air of freedom.<br />4:00 - 4:15: Thoroughly annoyed. Every minute lasted an hour. The girl sitting next to me had a weird whistle to her nose-breathing. I couldn't focus on anything else.<br />4:15 - 4:30: Murderous. In the time it took to get from 4:17 to 4:18, I aged five years. The whistling wouldn't stop and I could hear the regular employees laughing and having a great time. I was looking up vacant lots in Lee County at this point and wanted to tear my eyeballs out.<br />4:30 - Now: Sooooo happy!!! I'm free for the evening!!! I will eventually receive money for my actions today, and can't wait to spend it. My spending will be restricted to paying my credit card bill, but still, it's something to spend money on.<br /><br />I haven't started thinking about tomorrow quite yet. I'm sure that if I had waited to write this blog, the tone might have been significantly altered from its current state. While I'm not out of the woods yet, at least there is a tiny amount of that oh-so-important item...hope.<br /><br />More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-35753096165227952072010-04-16T00:50:00.000-07:002010-04-16T02:25:21.660-07:00No Pride Left to SwallowHolla,<br /><br />I like history. I enjoy learning about it. I like historical movies, and the History Channel, and Michael Jackson's HIStory. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCmQSoyjfqb1Bozv-rO510-WatIQXjkWNZGnZwSQLgv5xIXKXYaVQ2S7kJgiuxKbK83kCkax-jM57IP8_Vn9A6xwmajOGu2cZyLR4gWdRZjgiMhoHQngC7ZnjCVF16swcP7ccWWvZkN6c/s1600/michaeljackson-history.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 149px; height: 149px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCmQSoyjfqb1Bozv-rO510-WatIQXjkWNZGnZwSQLgv5xIXKXYaVQ2S7kJgiuxKbK83kCkax-jM57IP8_Vn9A6xwmajOGu2cZyLR4gWdRZjgiMhoHQngC7ZnjCVF16swcP7ccWWvZkN6c/s200/michaeljackson-history.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460662662633650658" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I think history is important to know and appreciate in order to learn from it and apply its lessons to your own life. Here are some of the most important lessons that I've learned:<br /><br />-If I ever happen to be the leader of France, I will not to try and invade Russia during wintertime.<br />-I will not ever, EVER, ban the consumption of alcohol, for it will lead to an increase in organized crime and violence.<br />-A woman with warts and a fondness for cats is not necessarily a witch, although she still might be frightening.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh001U7tfHUVKQMjJ3fQlL49R78eOH1dokg1EIu9GCFfBM4lk_hQqeuobD0rtW2ftZ3BBrLzphSMkA_uu2HIeSM80G3wnWlRqbIT4iQhr5onKMy6hjSXw8lOCS22DseSAys3AmQN3A7jO0/s1600/witch.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 149px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh001U7tfHUVKQMjJ3fQlL49R78eOH1dokg1EIu9GCFfBM4lk_hQqeuobD0rtW2ftZ3BBrLzphSMkA_uu2HIeSM80G3wnWlRqbIT4iQhr5onKMy6hjSXw8lOCS22DseSAys3AmQN3A7jO0/s200/witch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460662785586189778" border="0" /></a><br /><br />-I shouldn't ever leave a job without having another one in waiting. Searching for a job in San Diego is a fruitless affair.<br /><br />I've carried these lessons with me for my entire life. I've never invaded a foreign country, never discouraged drinking, never killed a witch, and never left a job without....<br /><br />Crap! See, this is why I should remind myself of my history. I would have remembered how awful it was to find a job in San Diego. Instead, I left my current employment, confident that I would have another position in very little time. Even when I began my job search, my level of self-entitlement was too high. I was too picky. If a position was too far away, or if the pay was too low, or if I didn't like the look of the company's website, I wouldn't send my resume.<br /><br />I surfed through websites that I felt were somewhat legitimate. They weren't Craigslist, which is the red light district of the internet (I mean that more in the shady/gross sense, rather than its proclivity for pornographic material). Career Builder, Monster, San Diego Jobs were part of my daily routine. I looked through the sites and would pick out one or two positions that I considered potential candidates. A day or two would go by before I sent a resume, often feeling like a cover letter was unnecessary, and I would wait for a response. I followed this pattern for a couple of weeks. Results: 0 jobs.<br /><br />After seeing no results from my first method, I moved onto phase II of my getting-a-job plan. I started visiting recruiting agencies. I noticed through my website searching that the majority of job postings were performed by these agencies. I set up a meeting with one of them, convinced that I would have a job in a limited time span. I selected the one that I thought was the best. This conclusion was mainly due to the appearance of their website rather than any additional research. I've been with them for over a month. Results: 0 jobs.<br /><br />Phase III of my plan included expanding the breadth of my recruiting agency exposure. I met with another one last week, sent my resume to another this week, and placed phone calls to three others yesterday. I stopped caring about the appearance of their websites and decided to get them all working for me. Results: 0 jobs.<br /><br />I recently dove into Phase IV. I want to warn you before I begin; It's not pretty. I spent the last several days on Craigslist. That's right. After vowing to never return to the muck-filled gutter that is this website, I've found myself creeping around the "Jobs Board" yet again. Today, I applied to a "staff accountant" position at a San Diego summer camp and a "general accountant" position at a hotel. They pay $13/hour and $15/hour respectively. Results: 0 jobs.<br /><br />By ignoring my personal history, I'm now stuck applying for Craigslist jobs that contain candidate qualifications such as, "College Degree - Preferred". I'm calling recruiting agencies that haven't returned my phone calls in weeks. I'm starting to look at the Subway employees, and wondering how much they are paid on an hourly basis.<br /><br />I have no pride left. I'm willing to do anything, and yet, the results remain the same. 0 jobs.<br /><br />More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-47572333104544896352010-04-11T01:27:00.001-07:002010-04-11T01:55:23.304-07:00Stress-BotsHolla,<br /><br />Stress-bots: Deadly creatures that come at the most inopportune, inappropriate, inconvenient times (adding "in" makes it the opposite, apparently). I spoke briefly about the effect of the stress bots in my latest sports blog posting (sotalove.blogspot.com - it's amazing), but I thought that this was the more appropriate forum for me to delve deeper into the subject.<br /><br />Earlier this week, still in the midst of trying to find that damned junicorn, I was viciously attacked by a rabid pack of stress-bots. I wasn't afraid initially. Stress-bots appear friendly at first:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCdM99Rujwt5aeXjJJ4ZKMnYu1tVTutP2frLgSsNJlpS7dinasA_t51QWdzGCnwn5_-W_3LFRdSaCazaOJTxjjkX0YA4iGRaYPZUoIbuWblAG_tLdTfwEenRHU0m1v20zlK5AaVPR8jc8/s1600/happy-bot.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCdM99Rujwt5aeXjJJ4ZKMnYu1tVTutP2frLgSsNJlpS7dinasA_t51QWdzGCnwn5_-W_3LFRdSaCazaOJTxjjkX0YA4iGRaYPZUoIbuWblAG_tLdTfwEenRHU0m1v20zlK5AaVPR8jc8/s200/happy-bot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458800258997638226" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Don't be fooled! These foul creatures are never fun to deal with; especially for those individuals who haven't dealt with them in a considerable amount of time. Say, for instance, over two years. You forget about their steely, cold grip and their dead, light-bulb eyes.<br /><br />At first, you might even welcome the stress-bots into your life. You might feel like you are doing something productive for the first time in, say, over two years. It could feel good to have a clearly defined purpose and goal for yourself. This is when the stress-bots are at their most dangerous.<br /><br />In very little time these creatures turn into all-consuming monsters of death. They feed off of your outside interests.<br />-You want to write blog posts? Nope, sorry. Stress-bots ate those as appetizers.<br />-You want to exercise? Please. That's their soup and salad.<br />-You want to devote more time to your significant other? That's what they enjoy most. It's their t-bone steak.<br />-You have hopes and dreams of being a writer? That's the meal these robots eat at midnight, when they've digested their dinner and aren't ready to turn off for the night.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwoPNAMHZ5MlkNnWz6wy0UMxVya0qR0WlJkCROdRjJ0hmhVl-04V4V6X_0AJFL1LIFZKB607u2Ih9RNdQLe9zaJtAiF11ZDVqTc93lOTATiL67JvvOYvcHBqPxp7SyWPz9dkXNc12ikNs/s1600/hungry_bot_small.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwoPNAMHZ5MlkNnWz6wy0UMxVya0qR0WlJkCROdRjJ0hmhVl-04V4V6X_0AJFL1LIFZKB607u2Ih9RNdQLe9zaJtAiF11ZDVqTc93lOTATiL67JvvOYvcHBqPxp7SyWPz9dkXNc12ikNs/s200/hungry_bot_small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458800310070935874" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The more the stress-bots eat, the more powerful they become. Say you are trying to sell your group of friends on making an investment, you can't catch a junicorn, your bank account is dwindling, you aren't actively working towards your dreams, your parent's stopped paying attention to you because their first grandchild was born, and you're trying to make a long-distance relationship work (this is purely a hypothetical scenario). What kind of stress-bot will you be facing?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0fJbv5C3eqIZzXl2xnCI91-3mNSL9ArvbvDFJAHaTCnalbrw_brCLC0Cku9eHsmTm_OJlwgZKEB8i-kxQjMJ7JZHgrAH1RAH83GE6aYqkkHNKRc7Sv-ZOGeG6Wmu8_I31OlxdtPDR40/s1600/lil_dragon_small.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp0fJbv5C3eqIZzXl2xnCI91-3mNSL9ArvbvDFJAHaTCnalbrw_brCLC0Cku9eHsmTm_OJlwgZKEB8i-kxQjMJ7JZHgrAH1RAH83GE6aYqkkHNKRc7Sv-ZOGeG6Wmu8_I31OlxdtPDR40/s200/lil_dragon_small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458800366807671618" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Oh No! It's become of stress-dragon! And it's even cuter than before! I can't express how dangerous this is!<br /><br />Be careful out there.<br /><br />More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-52619327714961076932010-04-01T21:17:00.000-07:002010-04-01T22:02:07.771-07:00Unexpected ResultsHolla,<br /><br />The beginning of April is here. Spring has fully arrived. The weather has been warmer, the flowers are blooming, and the beach is once again whispering sweet nothings in my ear. It's a time of rebirth, promise, and hope after the long, harsh winter (actually, San Diego's winter is not all that long, or harsh, but it helps to demonstrate my point a little better...). Nearly everywhere I look, things are thriving, excited by the promise of the season. Everywhere, that is, except in my employment status. <br /><br />When I made the decision to leave my bartending position, I didn't think that my job hunt would prove to be this difficult. After all, I was planning to enter back into the corporate world. I was willing to accept a mind-numbing, soul-sucking, accounting position. I was even planning to dust off the business casual section of my closet, for Christ's sake. And yet, the job continues to elude me like some sort of mythical creature. I've been hunting through the murk, sending resumes through numerous websites, fax machines, and electronic mails for nearly a month, but the junicorn (that's job and unicorn combined) keeps escaping my grasp.<br /><br />Prior to my venture into the world of unemployment, I managed to amass enough work experience fodder to create a mildly impressive resume. I worked at a big 4 accounting firm, I created accounting processes at a highly complex trading desk, I started two businesses, and still managed to be proficient in Spanish (don't test me on this). Apparently, however, this page of Micah information does not seem to stand out among the masses. Of the 30 or so positions for which I've applied, I've received responses from only one. This position, which I've previously written about, was for a glorified Home Depot representative. Super!!!<br /><br />I started working with placement service companies recently, hoping that my success rate would improve. I even interviewed with one of them. I told them that I was looking for anything that paid, from the most menial tasks to executive level positions. I left the meeting feeling fairly confident that I would have at least some opportunities within the following week.<br /><br />It's now been nearly three weeks since that interview. I've called the company four times, and have spoken to my placement service representative twice. The first time that I spoke with her, she told me to call her back in a week. Today, being a week later, I talked with her again. After two minutes, she told me that she was getting another call, and that she promised she would call me back once she was finished. It's now been five hours since that conversation, and I'm starting to get the idea that they might not have much to offer me. <br /><br />Over a year ago, I often wrote about my experiences with Craigslist. At the time I was looking for writing and acting jobs and felt like Craigslist was one of the shadier locations on the interwebs. I felt like I was sending out countless emails, getting very little responses, and was occasionally exposed to various scams. I didn't expect to get the same dirty sensation while searching for legitimate employment, but I'm starting to get that all-too-familiar scuzzy feeling once again.<br /><br />The hunting must continue. That's my only choice, really. Either I catch that damned junicorn, or I start sleeping in the streets. As always, I'll keep you periodically informed.<br /><br />More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-20840996440941606472010-03-22T13:29:00.000-07:002010-03-22T14:06:19.873-07:00Running on EmptyHolla,<br /><br />My body hurts. My brain feels like it's partially deflated. I'm squinting in order to make the words less blurry. I'd like to blame an excessive work schedule or an all-night writing session, but I cannot. If I could point at a crying child or excessively loud neighbors for my current condition it would make me feel less guilty. <br /><br />No, I brought this on myself. <br /><br />Drinking made me feel this way. And not just one night of drinking. This was a legitimate binge. It was the perfect storm of drinking conditions that caused this outburst: A holiday dedicated to green beer, a visiting friend, a basketball tournament, and a life in the unemployment line. A stronger man would have foregone some of this temptation, but unfortunately I am weak (as evidenced by my soft mid-section that is beginning to hang over my waistband).<br /><br />Although the details of the last five days are blurry, here is a rough outline of my schedule:<br /><br />Wednesday: St. Patrick's Day bar crawl - First drink, 2 pm.<br />Thursday: Arrival of friend from Minnesota - First drink, 8 pm.<br />Friday: Badger basketball game - First drink, 12 pm.<br />Saturday: Back yard party - First drink, 5 pm.<br />Sunday: Badger basketball game/ epic boccie ball tournament - First Drink, 11 am.<br /><br />Here is a brief list of accomplishments during that time period: Drank green beer, created drinking game (Totally Taut Towel Toss), lost a beach football game, lost a credit card, lost a driver's license, danced with a pole (different than pole danced), climbed a palm tree, lost a flag football game, watched the Badgers lose badly, spent too much money, ate terrible pizza, ate a delicious street hot dog, threw a boccie ball into the street, and destroyed my body.<br /><br />Here is a list of accomplishments that did not occur during that time period: Finding a job, saving money, writing, going to the gym, cleaning my room, practicing good oral hygiene, eating one healthy item of food, or figuring out what I'm doing with my life.<br /><br />It was an incredible weekend, but the hangover is severe. As I've gotten older, hangovers have gotten progressively worse. When you throw in the fact that I'm unemployed, running out of money, and without a clear plan of the future, it makes things hurt all that much more. It's time for me to get back on the wagon, be productive, and get a job.<br /><br />That is, at least, until this weekend.<br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-31322755063986836002010-03-11T00:48:00.000-08:002010-03-11T03:02:17.856-08:00Product PushingHolla,<br /><br />*quick note: The following is an update to my previous blog posting. If you missed it;<br /> 1) What are you thinking? <br /> 2) Are you intentionally trying to hurt my feelings?<br /> 3) You can find it <a href="http://mylifeintheunemploymentline.blogspot.com/2010/03/ego-in-flight.html">here</a>, so that you are fully up-to-date when reading this entry.<br /><br />On Tuesday, I went in for my second interview with the advertising/marketing company that I interviewed with last week. After arriving in the same drab waiting room, I was quickly whisked away to the wonderful world of Home Depot. There was sawdust in the air, and the color orange dominated my vision. The interview took place as we walked around the store, offering unsuspecting customer the opportunity to receive a free kitchen remodeling consultation. Most people didn't want to be bothered. They made it very obvious, yet my interviewer didn't seem to mind burrowing deeper under their skin. Here is an example of a conversation that took place:<br /><br />Interviewer (I): "Are you a home owner?"<br />Customer (C): "Yes..." (said as they turned back to their task of finding screws or light bulbs)<br />I: "Great! Are you aware of the promotion that we're offering?"<br />C: "No, but I'm not..."<br />I: "We're offering a free consultation on kitchen remodeling."<br />C: "Thanks, but I'm not..."<br />I: "It's free!"<br />C: "Really, I'm not..."<br />I: "Oh, come on. Have you ever thought about remodeling your kitchen?"<br />C: "It may have crossed my mind, but I'm not..."<br />I: "Then why don't you come have a free consultation?"<br />C: "Because I'm just here to find some nails. Not to remodel my..."<br />I: "It's free!"<br />C: "Again, thank you, but I'm not..."<br />I: "What's the harm? It's a free consultation. No pressure."<br />C: "Can you please just leave me alone."<br />I: "If you don't come get a consultation, I will follow you home."<br />C: "You're starting to scare me."<br />I: "I will follow you home. Maybe I'll give you a free consultation, or maybe I'll do something else."<br />C: "Like what?"<br />I: "I'm not saying that I am going to hurt you...But I'm not saying that I won't hurt you either."<br />C: "Ok, fine. I'll have a consultation! Just don't kill my family!"<br />I: "Great! Lets sign you up."<br /><br />I was uncomfortable with the process. While I haven't found many job prospects in my week of searching, I knew that this wasn't the position for me. I didn't want to push cabinet refinishing on people that were simply looking for a leisurely stroll through the aisles of the Depot. I'm not a salesman. I enjoying fulfilling the needs of customers, but I don't want to push anything on them either. Let me offer a couple of examples:<br /><br />1) I worked at TGIFridays for a portion of my life. Part of their training involved an extensive exercise in upselling. Say the customer wanted a mixed drink. Maybe a vodka tonic, or a beer. Instead of just taking their order, we were instructed to try and push an Ultimate Mango Mai Tai or a Patron Cosmo Rita Shaker (these are actual drinks that Fridays sells). Our introductions were always supposed to be, "Welcome to Fridays. Can I interest you in a refreshing _____ or some delicious ______?" The blanks were supposed to be filled with more descriptive adjectives and a specific food product. <br /><br />I was not comfortable with this, and would leave my customers alone. This did not please my manager.<br /><br />2) I spent a summer at Abercrombie & Fitch. I did it for the clothes discount. That's my excuse. You're allowed to judge for the remainder of this paragraph, but not any further. Agreed? Okay. While at Abercrombie, we were instructed to leave the customer alone, unless we were approached. Then, we were supposed to suggest clothing items that might match the article that the customer had chosen. "Oh, you want to try on those jeans? Why don't you match them with this shirt? And maybe these sandals? You know what would bring the whole thing together? Some cologne. And also this hemp necklace."<br /><br />It grossed me out. I didn't want to have anything to do with it. Instead, when I would see a customer approach me, I would turn in the other direction, effectively avoiding any potential interaction and product pushing. <br /><br />This tactic lead to my manager placing me in front of the store, welcoming customers. For 8 hours, I would stand in the entryway, listening to the overbearing Abercrombie music (Smashmouth was particularly popular at that point) smiling at people that passed by. Needless to say, I wanted to shoot myself. And, my manager was not pleased.<br /><br />My point, you ask? It's that I don't really enjoy pushing things on customers. This must have been overly apparent to my interviewer. By the end of my hour in Home Depot, while I was making a I-just-smelled-a-fart-face, she told me that she had some concerns. She said that she thought I would fit in really well, but that she was worried that I wasn't very excited about the job. I hesitated for a moment before telling her that she had made a fairly accurate assessment. We said goodbye, and I headed back to their office.<br /><br />I met with the office manager when I returned. We had a brief discussion and I told him that I wasn't interested in the position. Despite the inflation of my ego during the first interview, I managed to avoid the trap during the second. We shook hands and parted ways. <br /><br />He and my interviewer went back to pushing product.<br /><br />I returned to the unemployment line. <br /><br />More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-815760552362963012010-03-05T16:26:00.000-08:002010-03-05T17:02:20.670-08:00Ego in FlightHolla,<br /><br />My ego is vulnerable. My ego is large. My ego is fragile, but it's an essential part of me. <br /><br />No, I'm not quoting lines from the "Ego Monologues". I'm simply reminding myself of the dangers that my large, vulnerable, and fragile ego gets me into. Every once in a while, I need to refresh my memory of this fact, otherwise I will find myself in the middle of Home Depot, hawking cabinet refinishing for my next job.<br /><br />I had an interview today. Over the last several days, I sent out countless resumes to a wide variety of job openings. When I received this interview, I was initially confused as to which position it was for. Was it for part-time tutoring? Maybe the data entry position? Could it be for the administrative assistant role at the publishing company? I had no idea.<br /><br />After a few minutes of conversation, I remembered that the job was in entry-level advertising. Previously, I had looked over the company's website, and was intrigued at the possibilities. I've always considered myself a fairly creative person, and there was a period of my life that I imagined myself creating marketing campaigns and writing advertisements. I took the interview, and was looking forward to the opportunity.<br /><br />I entered the office suite, and was greeted by a relatively drab looking reception area. There were hole marks in the walls, dust everywhere, and fake plants that looked like they were dying. To add to this, the company that I kept in the waiting area, was not all that reassuring. I was told that the dress for the interview was "business professional". I put on my suit and tie, however, my fellow interviewees must not have interpreted the message in the same way. <br /><br />There was one guy in a button-down and slacks, which is close enough. Another guy rolled in with jeans, a nice shirt, and a tie. Not really business professional, but not unacceptable. The worst was the guy in the hooded sweatshirt. He carried a professional-looking black folder with him, but he appeared to have skipped the showering/cleansing portion of the "business professional" class.<br /><br />Due to my first impression of the company, my initial excitement was tempered when I went into the interview. I met with a very nice woman that began going over my resume. We talked for 20 minutes or so about my various goals, employment history, and my preferred working environment. I fell right into her devious trap. She talked about how she saw leadership ability in me. That she thought I had management potential. That she was only offering the position to three people, and that I had bumped someone from her top choices. My ego was soaring. Wings spread, it had taken flight and was lifting me far out of the 80's style office chair that I was sitting in. <br /><br />This all occurred before she said a word about what my actual job duties were going to be. Here's how they work. They place employees within big-box stores such as Home Depot or Best Buy. Those employees then promote certain brand names that those companies sell. My job would be to stand in those stores, trying to sell Direct TV installation packages or cabinet refinishing services to customers, from 10:30 to 7:30, including weekends. <br /><br />I just threw up. Writing that was just as bad as hearing it from my interviewer. She had built me up so much, talking about my future management role, that I had almost signed a contract without learning about the job. My ego had grown so large that it was dominating the rationale portion of my brain. <br /><br />Thankfully, she didn't offer me the job on the spot. Instead, she offered me a second interview next week with her manager. I was powerless to say anything but, "Okay, that sounds great." So now, I'm meeting with her and her manager, to learn more about the process and make an in-store visit to one of their selling teams. <br /><br />I just need to remind myself that this probably isn't something that I want to spend my time doing. I want to write, I want to entertain. I don't want to put on an orange, Home Depot uniform. Now, if my pesky ego would just take the day off, I may be able to escape the interview without a job. <br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-46331834377547180592010-03-03T10:38:00.000-08:002010-03-03T11:29:59.436-08:00Back Into the AbyssHolla,<br /><br />Oh, hello fine readers. It's been too long. I haven't seen you for months. That doesn't mean that I haven't thought about you. Not in the least. Sometimes I lay awake at nights, wondering about you. Not in a creepy way. Just thinking that I was neglected your needs over the last six months, and I never even had the decency to explain myself. Just like in any relationship discussion, I'm going to try and offer an apology using a laundry list of excuses. Here goes:<br /><br />-I was writing a more substantial (not necessarily better) piece of work. My time and creativity were devoted to completing the project. Could that be defined as cheating? Maybe. It's a gray area. I was still writing, but it wasn't specifically for this blog. However, if you would like to read this book, I'd be happy to oblige. In the end, I was writing for all my readers. <br /><br />-I had a brief love affair with the ocean, as noted <a href="http://mylifeintheunemploymentline.blogspot.com/2009/09/finding-distractions.html">here</a>. I couldn't help splashing around like a third grader, often having conversations with Poseidon. That's not meant to be an exaggeration, by the way. I really would say things to the mythical God of the ocean.<br /><br />-Lastly, I became more and more involved in work. Longer shifts, later nights, and a proposed night manager position. Business hasn't been great over this time span, and our staff has been pared down to a skeleton crew. There are only four bartenders left, which means a higher level of responsibility and less time to devote to the fair reader.<br /><br />This sounds bad, I know. It sounds like I'm building to a break up. I'm not. I promise. In fact, I have good news. <br /><br />-The project is finished. Well, almost. I have quite a bit of editing and rearranging to do before I will be completely satisfied with it, but the heavy lifting is done.<br /><br />-The weather in San Diego hasn't been the most conducive to playing with my part-time lover, the ocean. It's frequently overcast and rainy, and the water is cold enough to turn portions of my body into ice cubes. Like those little plastic balls that you put in the freezer, and then your beverage of choice. Not something that a devoted partner should do. Shame on you, ocean.<br /><br />-I'm no longer going to be employed by the bar. I've taken too many days off for travel and play, my manager is calling my commitment into question, and business seems to be following it's downward path. On Sunday, I received a subtle hint regarding my future employment status, when the schedule showed that I'm the "on-call" bartender for Friday and Saturday nights. This means that I'm probably not going to have a work shift this week.<br /><br />So, what does this mean for you? Well, it means that I will have more time to write here. I haven't started on my next big project yet, the ocean continues to be cold and unresponsive to my needs, and I will soon be heading back into the unemployment line. Could there be a return to <a href="http://mylifeintheunemploymentline.blogspot.com/2009/03/i-am-e-3.html">E-3</a>, <a href="http://mylifeintheunemploymentline.blogspot.com/2009/03/bicyclist.html">riding bicycles</a>, and a heavy <a href="http://mylifeintheunemploymentline.blogspot.com/2009/04/not-cut-out-for-intramurals.html">intramural</a> schedule. Most likely. Stay tuned for more.Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-12988452467943303562009-09-16T19:03:00.000-07:002009-09-16T20:29:20.312-07:00Forsaken AnonymityHolla,<br /><br />The original intention of this blog was to create a workspace that I could practice writing on a consistent basis. Instead of focusing on one project or another for extended periods of time, I could write a short article that would only take an hour or two of my day. I did not intend to gain a wide readership, or really have anyone pay attention at all. However, over time, the temptation of recognition slowly started creeping into my mind grapes. I started telling my family and close friends about the blog, seeking their approval in veiled discussions.<br /><br />"Oh, you've read my blog? It's pretty silly isn't it? No? You liked it? What did you like? Specifically. Tell me exactly how much you enjoyed your reading experience! I need exaltation of my work!!!"<br /><br />Still, throughout the first several months in the life of this blog, I kept it mostly to myself. If people asked how I spent my day, especially during my period of unemployment, I might make a mention of the blog. The majority of my entries were posted anonymously, without direct references to the names of my family and friends. Nick was referred to as "my roommate", Amanda was "my sister", coworkers were simply "coworkers", as well as a wide variety of nicknames given to homeless people and potential employers. Although I share quite a bit of personal information within the confines of this space, I didn't need the entire world to know every detail of my life.<br /><br />Over time, things have begun to change. I have told more and more people of the blog, sending out the URL over emails, and posting the address on my Facebook page. I become more careless with mentioning specific details of my life, often including my name with the text. Yet, I was still writing material that I didn't necessarily want everyone on the interwebs to know about. <br /><br />This leads me to a moment a few weeks ago, where I immediately regretted my acts of carelessness. I was closing up the bar, after an especially slow evening at work. My manager had spent quite a bit of time in the upstairs office throughout the shift, while I was cleaning glassware and drink wells. I assumed that he was working on paperwork and his closing duties, causing me to be caught completely unaware for what was about to happen.<br /><br />As I turned up the house lights and closed the front door, my manager walked down the stairs and said, "I found your blog."<br /><br />Although every word that left his mouth was said clearly and distinctly, my brain experienced a complete lock-up. I couldn't fully comprehend what he had said, leaving my standing there with an idiotic look on my face. I stammered out an "excuse me" while he continued to smirk in my direction. He said again, "I found your blog."<br /><br />I immediately tried to remember everything that I had written over the last seven months, in order to most effectively plan my damage control. While still in categorization mode, my manager said, "I really liked the 'Good Cop, Bad Cop' one."<br /><br />"Oh Crap!" I thought. This particular entry, in case you may have missed it, was about the management style of one of the owners of Confidential. It was written just after I had spent a 15 hour day in the bar, cleaning under the speed racks and dishwasher, fearing having to return for further cleaning on our day off. I may have said some things in the article that I didn't necessarily want my boss to read for himself. <br /><br />The only thing that I could do was produce a stupid look and ask, "How did you find it?"<br /><br />"I saw the link on your Facebook account," he replied.<br /><br />"Dammit," I thought to myself. My need for attention had lead to a situation that could be potentially damaging to my current employment status. There was no telling how my boss would react to reading the article. Maybe he would think it was funny, and be able to joke around with me about it. Or, he might take offense and immediately fire me while periodically stabbing me with a kitchen knife. <br /><br />I pleaded with my manager to keep this newly discovered information to himself. He informed me that he had already sent out the link to the other members of the bartending staff. "Shit!" was the only word that came to mind. My brief respite from the unemployment line was most likely coming to an end. <br /><br />I deleted the posting upon returning home that evening, hoping that I could somehow stop the bleeding before the situation got worse. Luckily, my manager had saved a copy of the article on his computer, periodically showing it to members of the staff throughout the following week, making my deleting efforts meaningless.<br /><br />It has been almost three weeks since this incident occurred, and I am still gainfully employed. I don't think that my boss ever saw the article, and, due to my lack of postings recently, I'm hoping that my manager has stopped checking this blog. <br /><br />I shouldn't have the links on my Facebook account. I shouldn't mention anything about my job in this space. I shouldn't carelessly throw out the fact that I have a blog. I know this, but my ego can't help itself. It needs that acknowledgment. It craves it. Even though my cover has been blown, I will continue to forge ahead, likely leading back to unemployed status. Not that this would be the worst thing in the world. At least it will provide some good material, right? <br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-80540547749609100202009-09-15T15:59:00.000-07:002009-09-15T16:40:20.320-07:00Finding DistractionsHolla,<br /><br />Blogging has become more and more difficult to fit into my day. I have found myself pushing it off more and more with each passing week. The phrase, "I'll write something tomorrow," has become a regular thought in my mind. It's not because I have become unmotivated to write, or because I have nothing to say, but more so because I have found a plethora of distractions. Things that I would rather spend time doing, than hammering out of piece for this website. <br /><br />Since Nick and I made the move to the beach, I have discovered a whole new world of distracting items that seem to fill my day. The ocean is close enough that I can stop by while running errands. I can stop by the bank, the drugstore, and the post office, and hear the crash of the waves. I often find it calling out to me. What did you say ocean? You want me to jump into you and splash around like a 12 year old? Okay!<br /><br />To add to this, a couple of friends and I have decided to make a slow transition to surfing. We started with body surfing, just to introduce ourselves to the waves. It was like playing Truth and Dare with the ocean. We were discovering things about each other, occasionally kissing or taking off articles of clothing, but it wasn't like you would regard it as a true make out.<br /><br />That's where the boogie boarding came into play. We had graduated from Seven Minutes in Heaven and Spin the Bottle to a legitimate make out session. We bought some cheap boards from a convenience store and quickly fell in love with the activity. Possibly due to my aggressive boogie boarding style, or maybe because of my fat ass, I quickly broke my board in half. I had gotten a little too excited for my first ocean make-out, and was punished for it. Two boards later, I think that the ocean and I have reached a compromise. I will no longer go directly for the heavy petting, but will slowly work my way towards it, after a sufficient warm up period.<br /><br />In addition to the ocean time activities, we live in close proximity to a wide variety of bars and restaurants. I spend the majority of my nights and weekends in a bar already, so it's not like I'm stopping in for drinks on a regular basis. However, if I happen to get off work early on a given evening, it is much easier to meet friends than it was in the past. We are a two minute drive away from the Badger bar, a couple of blocks from bars that my friends work in, and in the same neighborhood as a large collection of our San Diego crew. In the past, living in the hood, I might have spent my free time by myself, writing, and attempting to entertain you, fine reader.<br /><br />The biggest distraction, however, has become the time that I've spent with a certain someone over the past couple of months. Despite my best efforts to avoid commitment, I find myself involved in a situation that provides a wide range of distractions on a daily basis. It isn't a bad place to be in, but I often find myself dedicating more energy into this situation than into my on-line writing. I have a commitment to the reading public as well, right?<br /><br />In the end, it's more laziness than anything else. I have often used these distractions as excuses for why I can't write anything during a particular day. It has to stop! The writing must continue! <br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-18579274694843293872009-08-18T22:45:00.000-07:002009-08-19T00:48:43.131-07:00Taking the LeapHolla,<br /><br />There are certain events in everyone's life that are so monumental, so hard to believe, so foreign from our everyday experience that they seem to take on a feeling of fantasy. It can often feel like we are recounting a dream when attempting to recreate these experiences within our memory. There seems to be a glossy hue surrounding the exact details, often making the event difficult to describe to others or even to yourself after it has occurred. <br /><br />These experiences takes on different sizes and shapes for each person that experiences them. It could be a monumental point of your life, such as your wedding day, or the birth of a child, or your first kiss. But it could be something small and simple at the same time, like the first time you saw the ocean, or scored a goal, or tried a dipped cone from Dairy Queen. It's difficult to put the exact emotions from these events into words, and you're often left with a goofy grin on your face as you attempt to do so. <br /><br />Last week, I experienced a few of these goofy-grin moments while hosting a friend that was in town. The biggest of which was sitting on the edge of a plane's open cabin door, looking at the vista of Southern California 10,000 feet below my dangling feet. There was a brief moment that I sat there, with a large man named Eric strapped to my back, while watching my friend falling below me, that I said to myself, "What the F have you gotten yourself into?"<br /><br />I had consciously made the decision to skydive weeks earlier. I made reservations, paid the fee, and didn't think much about what was about to transpire, until I was walking along, fully strapped into my jumping gear, toward a small plane on the tarmac. <br /><br />There had been small outbursts of nervousness and trepidation prior to this moment, but nothing in comparison to the emotions that started to reign down upon me as we left the ground. My friend, myself, and two jump instructors were sitting in a tiny cabin, watching the runway grow smaller below us, while the cabin door was wide open. Less than a foot away from my left foot, I watched San Diego progressively decrease in size.<br /><br />I attempted to disguise the boiling emotions of my insides from the rest of the passengers. I laughed at the jokes of the jump instructors, attempted to engage in conversations, and think of anything other than certain death, however, these attempts ultimately proved unsuccessful. My friend could clearly see the nerves that my stonewalled face was expressing, and quickly pointed this fact out to everyone else in the plane. Surprisingly, discussing my fears did nothing to quell these emotions, and I quietly contemplated throwing up.<br /><br />After circling over the coastline and heading back inland, we began preparing to make the jump. Eric, my instructor, told me to get on his lap, so that he could strap himself to me. The effect of sitting on another man's lap, although not something that I would enjoy doing regularly, did provide some amount of distraction from the upcoming events.<br /><br />Which brings me back to sitting on the edge of the plane again. Soon after getting strapped in, we had shuffled from our corner of the plane toward the open doorway, after watching the other instructor and my friend disappear from the cabin moments earlier. <br /><br />Thankfully Eric didn't give me much time to think about the situation that I was in. Before I could back out, or request a countdown, or even wet my pants, he said, "Let's go!" and we began falling through the atmosphere.<br /><br />After tumbling a few times, seeing the plane above me in one of my mind's snapshots, and then the quickly approaching ground in the next, we flattened out to a standard free falling position. Arms extended, I could see the mountains of San Diego to the east, and the ocean extending out to the horizon in the west. I saw my friend in full superman pose well below me, a small speck in the air, set-off from the scene of the Tijuana slums that extended into the south. I heard myself yelling, and involuntarily cussing at the top of my lungs, before realizing that I was doing so. I looked at the brown fields that were spinning below me, and before I could envision death by impact, the man on my back told me to cross my arms, and he pulled the shoot.<br /><br />We had fallen from 10,000 feet to 4,000 feet in the manner of 45 seconds. A full mile in the air, accomplished in less than a minute. I had experienced a multitude of emotions; fear, exhilaration, joy, certain death, the need to pee myself, among others, in a minimal time period. <br /><br />I was soon landing on the ground, getting unconnected from Eric, and not knowing exactly what to do next. I ended up running around in a dirty field in a couple of circles and then finding my friend to discuss what had just happened. I knew that it was an amazing experience, but my mind had just been overloaded, and I couldn't fully comprehend the moment at that time.<br /><br />I still don't think that I can. It still seems like a hazy dream, even after spending an hour writing about it. It is an experience that I will carry with me for the rest of my life, but one that still doesn't seem quite real. Trying to explain the emotions and the experience to my friends and family over the past week was a difficult affair. I don't think that I ever effectively orated everything that was going through my mind while falling through the air. Hopefully, this blog post will provide a little better of an idea of what it was like.<br /><br />More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-65121820433557968642009-08-17T18:47:00.000-07:002009-08-17T19:19:25.791-07:00As PromisedHolla,<br /><br />I didn't expect it to take this long, but I finally have some photographic evidence from my rendevous to the the Midwest. Enjoy!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Truman</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0j7ho58AAojcgXPKbGK80eepq0WcW_lSDzv44JpXNs6VxHcsy-mq5fp4YwLTTAx27LkM_394e7-4SvhXQMJ6aALD1qJP38EpYHqe5SOYWXbFNMEmBe8Pse7gysMT6NUnSnfcRKkynjQU/s1600-h/6060_100283826652686_100000132065456_5322_4193534_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0j7ho58AAojcgXPKbGK80eepq0WcW_lSDzv44JpXNs6VxHcsy-mq5fp4YwLTTAx27LkM_394e7-4SvhXQMJ6aALD1qJP38EpYHqe5SOYWXbFNMEmBe8Pse7gysMT6NUnSnfcRKkynjQU/s200/6060_100283826652686_100000132065456_5322_4193534_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371116135919280770" border="0" /></a><br />Mr. Party Lion, partying with a well mustached Lampi<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggLs6lKGVZXUchvAAj3iFb9XgXN_h_JuZDdZKpE-8-Nd_EsfDzw84mJdoAJ32yY3qM29msNDzL6CPYRXl17VCT2aaY-cki6np4UIox39m_HtHxwb42HArOxhFOAARmayC09tSIXP_fsP4/s1600-h/6054_832948337777_8649730_51047795_5946269_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggLs6lKGVZXUchvAAj3iFb9XgXN_h_JuZDdZKpE-8-Nd_EsfDzw84mJdoAJ32yY3qM29msNDzL6CPYRXl17VCT2aaY-cki6np4UIox39m_HtHxwb42HArOxhFOAARmayC09tSIXP_fsP4/s200/6054_832948337777_8649730_51047795_5946269_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371114953387386738" border="0" /></a><br />Full Tigger outfit, found at a garage sale, and later worn by our starting pitcher for our afternoon games.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPoZa7KKHX-7YaJwywXXXGpqyq_NkxJUFa8C2KmEoGrZS3SM-lv3zTrBr9BetVLXYq0xdEPoS0KdL_09mBT-xbI9F0yOlnsH982wbJS6fh6pqAGNEXOsk4f1Vo4geIIajk5dd0L_FFFY/s1600-h/6054_832948462527_8649730_51047814_3076258_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPoZa7KKHX-7YaJwywXXXGpqyq_NkxJUFa8C2KmEoGrZS3SM-lv3zTrBr9BetVLXYq0xdEPoS0KdL_09mBT-xbI9F0yOlnsH982wbJS6fh6pqAGNEXOsk4f1Vo4geIIajk5dd0L_FFFY/s200/6054_832948462527_8649730_51047814_3076258_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371115058900713906" border="0" /></a><br />A friend, dressed as the Gingerbread Man for the Truman parade. Maybe my favorite picture of the entire trip. He was hit by a truck soon after this picture. Of course, it was only traveling at 5 mph, but it was funny all the same.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeKF5Zwpe0rXoySQZeEi2zzpS3gGCL6pPBXjMFvqclrHuv7R1SlZxf6I9CJkQtYn5w8DWL_-kt6ZRfVxOF8hdZ9ycdWcWtK_7D9z-N4VSe6gPSwuDaabMrYdxVzKwuEp7G9ERD61EjpYs/s1600-h/6054_832948447557_8649730_51047812_4324248_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeKF5Zwpe0rXoySQZeEi2zzpS3gGCL6pPBXjMFvqclrHuv7R1SlZxf6I9CJkQtYn5w8DWL_-kt6ZRfVxOF8hdZ9ycdWcWtK_7D9z-N4VSe6gPSwuDaabMrYdxVzKwuEp7G9ERD61EjpYs/s200/6054_832948447557_8649730_51047812_4324248_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371115006552610322" border="0" /></a><br />Princess Fiona being attacked by Captain Jack Sparrow. She looked so beautiful, I can understand why she would be targeted by such a bloodthirsty pirate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9ekIvTr1N0czfc9-ZsCdxypCIZovnn9AZ5hyuCykyltYymy5qnlV7aJC2DBnk8qfREFX_qBSGZfBF-WKEsA2KCD48Hibeje9JAm7pk6L6cxhyw3Fgok_UrQtAIiQJaxIB-sVvxRNm0c/s1600-h/6054_832948507437_8649730_51047820_1277857_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9ekIvTr1N0czfc9-ZsCdxypCIZovnn9AZ5hyuCykyltYymy5qnlV7aJC2DBnk8qfREFX_qBSGZfBF-WKEsA2KCD48Hibeje9JAm7pk6L6cxhyw3Fgok_UrQtAIiQJaxIB-sVvxRNm0c/s200/6054_832948507437_8649730_51047820_1277857_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371115119377018194" border="0" /></a><br />The emergence of Beltran. So beautiful, yet so dangerous.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Milwaukee</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1W2Pu04xq7xTk-zB1bDgPOwAxlpVlVMGAZVOUA0t9AT_lNJmDd-hu-BOpDOPObv7Alex1MtAswkXlSFBxJxXycG4I_uvUFg4rBKfetLnip3X_jpL6Ty6KC0j0r4HiPMNDvH20xYw5K3k/s1600-h/6054_835535343397_8649730_51161332_2230094_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 153px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1W2Pu04xq7xTk-zB1bDgPOwAxlpVlVMGAZVOUA0t9AT_lNJmDd-hu-BOpDOPObv7Alex1MtAswkXlSFBxJxXycG4I_uvUFg4rBKfetLnip3X_jpL6Ty6KC0j0r4HiPMNDvH20xYw5K3k/s200/6054_835535343397_8649730_51161332_2230094_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371115170293632130" border="0" /></a><br />Turning our attention to the union of Pooch and Courtney now, we can see the appearance of Guy Sampson's long lost cousin, the Packer superfan himself, Ronald Sampson!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JgMWv3C_kmTxxdN00B0IKJwMw4C5t4cP6EcX1Ph9D65Aqnsq5GN2r9iCzdsBjU5AgKezCwItOKx85a0axkJYHcWD_adQDl2aMgPdrsZHVIIyT3wvz8NApi0K-fqhwKWRDuOSAV2SsLs/s1600-h/6054_835535358367_8649730_51161335_1672337_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JgMWv3C_kmTxxdN00B0IKJwMw4C5t4cP6EcX1Ph9D65Aqnsq5GN2r9iCzdsBjU5AgKezCwItOKx85a0axkJYHcWD_adQDl2aMgPdrsZHVIIyT3wvz8NApi0K-fqhwKWRDuOSAV2SsLs/s200/6054_835535358367_8649730_51161335_1672337_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371118497253153106" border="0" /></a><br />Ronald Sampson, later making it rain, with a collection of napkins, on the dancefloor.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxGc2zt0EqN8kK3CrtX2eBSaJjHI8jrjxRqpiLORspHVF6vgfJGS1BZC_mVion6kMwAZTwbc0OdA2fYpWDOnG4dPchwO8fk3KREC0Pl8Mub4Ae-cpQnw1WCzGiR3ZJZLqPNODQsmIZnVU/s1600-h/6054_835535418247_8649730_51161344_4558682_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxGc2zt0EqN8kK3CrtX2eBSaJjHI8jrjxRqpiLORspHVF6vgfJGS1BZC_mVion6kMwAZTwbc0OdA2fYpWDOnG4dPchwO8fk3KREC0Pl8Mub4Ae-cpQnw1WCzGiR3ZJZLqPNODQsmIZnVU/s200/6054_835535418247_8649730_51161344_4558682_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371115225952583186" border="0" /></a><br />Beltran's back! With high kicks and a new haircut. Nice dye job, Beltran.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtYfWC3h8FyITf_9aBPT17aP9lpYEG8WPegjlIJGDKG5o2EvGaak3RxGPrzfjrJT1lRttlBTQvpWkiI9i5O4syB5UGTy3Ec5zaGeOygVnEVnOT-kWGHCzT1oUixgrMDYueyvYUo4fwXpk/s1600-h/6054_835535727627_8649730_51161394_2154068_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 203px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtYfWC3h8FyITf_9aBPT17aP9lpYEG8WPegjlIJGDKG5o2EvGaak3RxGPrzfjrJT1lRttlBTQvpWkiI9i5O4syB5UGTy3Ec5zaGeOygVnEVnOT-kWGHCzT1oUixgrMDYueyvYUo4fwXpk/s200/6054_835535727627_8649730_51161394_2154068_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371115296338638946" border="0" /></a><br />A blurry picture of The Wetsuit. He was quite elusive throughout the night, consumed with avoiding Land Shark attacks and encouraging beer drinking.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvsd9fcqzjuNP8IggIxprCp5cXTdhgi-YH_JFpqtpocn1iTDrvJ7VO1LJhjAcUfpNvn3OYghFj8SSLrQ-RMcHQF4gJQkn53XnDWYCR84Fy3sMZeXnkE8ZRNyjIubsBV5qrJCv6XhHVuE/s1600-h/6054_835535737607_8649730_51161396_2066779_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvsd9fcqzjuNP8IggIxprCp5cXTdhgi-YH_JFpqtpocn1iTDrvJ7VO1LJhjAcUfpNvn3OYghFj8SSLrQ-RMcHQF4gJQkn53XnDWYCR84Fy3sMZeXnkE8ZRNyjIubsBV5qrJCv6XhHVuE/s200/6054_835535737607_8649730_51161396_2066779_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371120439170570274" border="0" /></a><br />A collective group of friends, singing the Ghostbuster's theme song at the post-reception Karoake session.<br /><br />There are many more pictures that I could post and caption throughout the day, however they would only be amusing to myself. A personal appearance by Beltran or Ronald Sampson could be arranged for a hefty fee. Please post a comment to this post in order to express interest.<br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-74690464985715512442009-08-04T21:31:00.000-07:002009-08-05T02:08:23.922-07:00Midwest Love AffairHolla,<br /><br />Although I have taken nearly a month off, I am actively returning to the blogging game. I have no excuses. Only a schedule that was somewhat busy, along with some extensive laziness. However, after taking a bit of a vacation, I am throwing myself back into the glamorous, and profitable, world of on-line writing.<br /><br />Over the past week and a half, I have been touring the upper mid-west, from Minneapolis to Truman to Milwaukee and back again. It was the first time I had been back to the homeland since Christmas vacation, and it sufficiently tugged at my heartstrings. From family to friends to dance parties, I was reminded of what life was like in the mid-west.<br /><br />Below, I will provide a brief recap of the events that occurred in the short time period that I was traveling throughout God's country:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Truman</span><br /><br />Truman is Mecca for my friends and I. It is a small town in southwestern Minnesota, that holds a town fair each summer. There are yard sales, parades, softball games, and a street dance. It encompasses everything that is good, and bad, about small town America. Truman Days inspired me to write a book, provides a venue to reconnect with friends, and allows for me to express myself through ridiculous outfits, all while dancing in the streets of the fair city.<br /><br />I woke up on Saturday morning on the floor on my friends house, cuddling with a stuffed lion that we had previously retrieved from a street corner in Truman. It is affectionately named "Party Lion" and travels everywhere with us throughout the weekend. Party Lion even has a Facebook page. Seriously.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_UCQsydyFc1Kx3qzzbHw8Iz98zsFdBTJ2CFTscAR6Z0HRQfbpz5Kk7W4FRN8hRwbaApvZaJ2RdxImF9ybhJGGBrcnH_PoJG2XT9abBzQRq1Cv0X27rbmPdqQrtfw5EZXJWD-SgXQsDzU/s1600-h/6060_100283593319376_100000132065456_5259_284233_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_UCQsydyFc1Kx3qzzbHw8Iz98zsFdBTJ2CFTscAR6Z0HRQfbpz5Kk7W4FRN8hRwbaApvZaJ2RdxImF9ybhJGGBrcnH_PoJG2XT9abBzQRq1Cv0X27rbmPdqQrtfw5EZXJWD-SgXQsDzU/s200/6060_100283593319376_100000132065456_5259_284233_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366402037503496130" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Party Lion and I, rocking out</span></span><br /><br />After cheering on the 5K runners in the morning, with Party Lion in tow, I threw on my softball uniform to start my day. Several hours, and beers, later, I was wearing a Princess Fiona outfit (from Shrek fame) while walking in the Truman Days parade. To complete my day, I was transformed into a ninja master, known as Beltran, while wearing a karate gi, short red shorts, a wig, and a red mask. Three outfit changes may seem excessive, however, in the heat of Truman Days, this is commonplace. Expected even.<br /><br />Although I felt like my internal organs were headed to failure by Sunday night, Truman Days provided a wonderful reminder of the potential that a Minnesota summer weekend can possess. Instead of splashing in the waves of the Pacific Ocean, I was sitting on a dusty softball diamond, surrounded by cornfields and heavy midwestern accents. And it was amazing.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Milwaukee</span><br /><br />I headed to Milwaukee on Thursday of last week, after spending a couple of days in the confines of my parent's house in Apple Valley. My friends were gathering, yet again, outside of the city to celebrate the union of a couple of our college friends. I had been asked to be the dj/host of the wedding reception and had another outfit change in the works.<br /><br />After the wedding, we rushed back to the hotel to set up for the reception. I introduced the wedding party to the sweet, sweet music of Jock Jams' "Let's Get Ready to Rumble", and proceeded to drink heavily. At one point in the night, while I was dressed in full "Packer fan formal wear" (green and gold Zubaz, tuxedo shirt with cutoff sleeves, bow tie, drinking glove, green headband, and mullet wig), I looked around the dance floor to fully capture the essence of the evening. Here is a brief list of what I saw:<br /><br />-The return of master ninja Beltran, as interpreted by another friend.<br />-The men of the wedding party, removing their tuxedo shirts, and only wearing their vests and bowties.<br />-A plethora of reception attendees sporting freshly drawn Sharpie mustaches.<br />-A friend wearing a wetsuit, poring beer over his outfit into the waiting mouths of other party-goers.<br />-Several people on the floor of the reception hall, either performing a dance known as "The Stanky Leg" or simply slipping on the beer that had missed the mouths of the wetsuit-drinkers.<br /><br />At the conclusion of the wedding reception, the majority of the crowd entered into the hotel, to find that the bar within was hosting a karaoke night. The other patrons of the bar had no idea what to make of the scene that unfolded. A relaxed karaoke night turned into pure dancing madness. A bride was dancing with a man in a wetsuit, a ninja was singing Elton John, and a collection of 15 guys attacked the stage when the Ghostbuster's theme song was played. By the end of the night, the bartenders had run out of shot glasses, and we had scared the majority of the other attendees out of the bar.<br /><br />Not yet satisfied, we moved the party into one of our rooms. Drinking games began and Sharpie mustaches continued to be drawn (including a fabulous pirate 'stache on the mother of the groom). After an hour or so, people slowly began to head back to their beds, ending an amazing wedding reception.<br /><br />However, a select group of warriors continued to press onward. The reception was being held in a hotel at the base of a small ski hill, and there had already been discussion of climbing to the summit earlier in the day. At the end of the afterbar, an expedition to the "mountain" seemed only appropriate.<br /><br />And so the wetsuit, Beltran, current roommate, former roommate, and myself headed to conquer the daunting peak. We marched through thigh high grass and weeds, encountered thorns and brambles, experienced some levels of doubt and frustration, and made it to the top after approximately twenty minutes. It may have been one of the proudest moments of my life.<br /><br />After the excursion, we headed to the pool to wash off the dirt from our travels. While in the indoor pool, we crafted a synchronized swimming routine to tell the story of the mountain climb and all of the hardships that we had experienced. While putting the final touches on our water dance, a couple of security guards entered the pool area to inform us that we had to leave. The pool did not open until 6:30 in the morning, and, at 5:20, we were violating the rules. We consented to their request, but not before asking whether we could tell them the story of our night....through expressive dance.<br /><br />After performing for the security guards, we headed back to our room, showered, and fell asleep, thus concluding the quest we had taken. From church halls to the top of a mountain, we had celebrated the only way we know how.<br /><br /><br />The two consecutive weekends were packed with the usual madness that accompanies the collective strength of my friends. Each of us attempts to outdo the other with something more ridiculous every time that we are together. It was a wonderful break from the day to day affairs of my life in the unemployment line. I wasn't concerned with work shifts or grocery shopping. All I was worried about was packing as much fun into a two week period as I possibly could.<br /><br />And to that end, I think I succeeded.<br /><br />-More to come...<br /><br />*Editor Note: More pictures will be added as they become available.Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-12389541075056158792009-07-09T14:21:00.000-07:002009-07-09T23:34:44.332-07:00ComplicationsHolla,<br /><br />As I wrote in a previous post, my roommate Nick and I have made the decision to move from the hood to the beach in lovely San Diego. This transition was supposed to take place this week, in order to be fully acclimated for a weekend full of pirate costumes and crawling between bars. However, as the week has progressed, we've experienced a number of issues that are causing the entire moving process to become considerably more complicated.<br /><br />First and foremost among the complications is the timely disappearance of our new landlord. After dealing with a faceless company over the last few years, Nick and I were looking forward to dealing with a single owner. We thought that it would lead to a more personal touch in apartment management, with small issues being more easily addressed than with our current landlords. If, for instance, a crazy person sprayed a fire extinguisher into one of our bedroom windows, we could turn to a landlord that had more of a vested interest in the issue.<br /><br />I will refer to our new landlord as Howard, which is, coincidentally, his actual name. We also have taken to calling him "How How" or "The Strauss!" when we have become particularly agitated in the last couple of days. When we initially toured the apartment, Howard was there to show us around the complex. He said that he was planning to do some additional maintenance work in a couple of areas, and that the apartment was open for us any time after the 1st of July.<br /><br />Nick returned from the glorious state of Minnesota on the 6th, and we quickly made plans to have everything moved in on Friday the 10th. We reserved a moving truck, started packing boxes, and called the cable company for an appointment. We called Howard to let him know about the move, and to set up a time to get the keys and do a final inspection of the apartment.<br /><br />The first call was on Monday afternoon. On Tuesday evening, I made another call. And again on Wednesday. Nick called on Wednesday as well. Each time, we received a pleasant voicemail from Mrs. Strauss, but could not manage to reach a live person. For the first time, I began to understand my grandmother's annoyance with answering machines. I wanted to start saying things like, "If you're there, pick up the phone... I'll stay on the line.... No? Are you there?!? I know you're there!!!"<br /><br />By the second call on Wednesday, Nick and I decided to drive by the apartment, just to see if Howard happened to be there. We loaded up our cars with boxes and arrived just as the sun started to dip below the horizon. We didn't find How How, but we did discover that the apartment door was unlocked. There was a copy of the key in one of the kitchen drawers, and we decided to unload our first shipment into the living room.<br /><br />Ignoring the flea-ridden cat that was darting in and out of the front door (not a great sign, by the way) we finished bringing in the last of the boxes just as the last light of the day disappeared. In the time between agreeing to rent the apartment and Wednesday evening, a period of approximately three weeks, The Strauss!!! had failed to notify the electric company of his upcoming tenants. While the water was functioning, the electricity was not, further increasing the annoyance factor for both Nick and I.<br /><br />In addition, the improvements that How How had discussed with us while first touring the apartment had not been performed. The broken light and exposed wiring in the kitchen still existed, the quarter's counter had a broken tile that was being held together with Scotch tape, there was a crack in the siding on one of the family room walls, and the beetle that had greeted Nick in his new bedroom was still hanging around. All in all, we were not pleased with was waiting for us, or not waiting for us (in Howard's case), in our new residence.<br /><br />We woke up on Thursday, called Howard once again, and realized that we were going to have to make some tough decisions. We had a truck reserved to move the rest of our apartment, as well as an appointment with the cable installation company, for mid-morning on Friday. Although we had managed to discover the key a day earlier, life in the apartment was going to be difficult without functioning lights and outlets. <br /><br />We concluded that switching over the electricity must have been a responsibility bestowed upon us by Howard, even though it had never explicitly been stated. Nick made a call to San Diego Gas & Electric, finding that they would not be able to provide any service until Tuesday of the following week. Even though we were legally entitled to be in the apartment from the 1st of July, due to Howard's disappearance, it would not be livable for 14 days into the month.<br /><br />The Strauss!!!!!!<br /><br />Sorry for the moment of frustration. Reading over the situation in print caused me to yell his name out loud, and in the text, concurrently. <br /><br />Facing an absent landlord, Nick and I were forced to push the moving truck back to next Monday, the electricity for Tuesday, and the cable/internet for Wednesday. Hopefully, by that time, How How will have gotten back to one of us.<br /><br />I must admit that throughout the week, I've had some fleeting thoughts of being subject to a well executed scam. Maybe Howard was just hanging around the apartment, waiting for some unsuspecting idiots to inquire about its availability. He could have easily created a rental agreement and requested a damage deposit and first month's rent prior to the idiot's move-in date. Then he, and Mrs. Strauss, could have taken our cash down to Old Mexico to live like royalty for a couple of months. I keep telling myself that these are stupid thoughts to have, but with each passing day, they are growing stronger and stronger. <br /><br />Stranger things have happened since moving to Southern California. That's all I'm saying.<br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-27163236083364842942009-07-07T14:20:00.000-07:002009-07-07T16:16:26.748-07:00Mysterious WaysHolla,<br /><br />During each evening that I have off from work, around 10 pm, I start having visions of Twix bars dancing around my head, softly whispering sweet mentions of caramel and cookie centers. As hard as I try, I am powerless to resist its urges, often leading to late night visits to the local gas station to fulfill my sugar-laden cravings. <br /><br />Last night, as I rounded the corner of the AM/PM parking lot, I was greeted by a string of profanity-laced insults that were infused with enough anger and venom to make me stop in my tracks. I looked around the filling locations, noticing that all eyes were turned to a black Cadillac that was sitting in front of the gas station entrance. Within the vehicle, a woman was tearing into the person sitting in the passenger seat, who was blocked from my view as I approached the front doors.<br /><br />Here are a couple of snippets from their constructive conversation (swear words have been abbreviated).<br /><br />-"I hate looking at your f-ing face! It makes me want to f-ing throw up every time I f-ing see it!"<br />-"I am wasting my f-ing life with you. You are f-ing worthless!"<br />-"Don't say a f-ing word! I don't want to hear the f-ing sound of your f-ing voice!"<br />-"F you. F you. F you. F you, you f-ing piece of sh**"<br /><br />This last one was shot out of the car windows as I rounded the rear bumper of the car and made my way into the store. Just as I was opening the door, I managed to catch a glimpse of the person on the receiving end of the conversation. He looked defeated, downcast, and was slumping as far as possible in the passenger side seat of the Cadillac. With every obsenity, I could see him cowarding a little further within the confines of his chair. <br /><br />In the gas staition, I wandered through the candy aisles, keeping a close eye on the confrontation. Even through the glass walls, you could hear most of what was being said, which was decidely one-sided at that point. The woman would yell something at the guy, wait for him to open his mouth, and then cut him off with another string of obsenities.<br /><br />As I approched the counter, the attendant asked whether I knew what was occurring in the car. I replied that I didn't. He said that he was supposed to put a stop to it, but was too scared to interfere at that point. I told him that I thought that this was a good idea, and we continued to watch their interactions as he rang in my Twix bar.<br /><br />I eventually decided to leave the building and headed back to my apartment. I walked through the parking lot, hearing the woman continue to tear apart the guy, limb from limb. Just as I was turning into the alleyway, I saw a police car approach the Cadillac. Deciding that I needed to see the conclusion to the story, I stopped to watch the police officers pull each of the culprits out of the car.<br /><br />The man, completely torn apart at this point, calmly put his hands on the hood of the car while one of the officers patted him down. The woman, on the other hand, was still feeling the coursing adrenaline within her veins. She turned her anger from the defeated man, to the officer that was trying to ask her questions. <br /><br />"Don't f-ing touch me, you f-ing pig! We didn't do anything wrong! There's no reason for you to be here."<br /><br />To his credit, the officer managed to calm her down for a bit, and started to ask her questions. I was too far away to hear their interactions and nearly turned to go home at this point. Luckily, I stayed just long enough to see the defeated man being handcuffed by the other officer and lead into the back of the squad car.<br /><br />I believe that the police officers were just trying to seperate the two people in order to hear both sides of the story, but the frantic woman did not see it this way. She immediately transitioned from her relatively calm state, to the overly aggresive level, that she had held as I first approached the gas station. Only this time, instead of trying to melt the defeated man's face with her words, she became apologetic. She couldn't understand why the officers were taking him away, yelling obsenities in their direction. "F**k" was replaced with repeated "I'm sorry"'s in anything that she said to the man. Again, here are some brief snippits:<br /><br />To police officers: "That's my husband! He didn't do anything wrong you motherf-ers!"<br />To the defeated man: "I'm sorry baby! This is all my fault. I'm so sorry!"<br /><br />The officers managed to calm her down once again, probably explaining why they had put her husband in the back of the car. After watching her sob for a few minutes, I decided to head back to my apartment and attempt to recreate the situation to my roommate and on this blog.<br /><br />Initially I could only laugh about what I had witnessed, chalking it up to life in the hood and interactions between a couple of crazies. However, as I started to really think about it, it seemed less and less extreme. Everyone that has been involved in a relationship has experienced one or two of these moments of insanity loss. There are times, in the heat of an argument, when things are said that a rationale human being would never let come out of their mouth. <br /><br />But, in a relationship, both parties are a little bit crazy. Maybe not to the point of the couple that I saw last night, but crazy nonetheless. The smallest issues in a relationship can manifest themselves, over time, into a much larger point of contention between two people. Maybe it's the volume at which your partner watches TV, or the seven varieties of ice cream in the freezer, or how they choose to eat chicken wings. <br /><br />Regardless of the situation, it can, occasionally, lead to an all-out cussfest. While it may seem rationale and justified to you at the time, to an outside party, these type of arguments are located centrally within crazy town. I think the key to any successful relationship is being able to recognize these insanity landmines and being able to apologize for any variety of names or swear words that you may have said during the madness.<br /><br />I don't think that any relationship is immune to these moments, however, hopefully for most of us, these moments won't result in a large gathering of spectators and eventual police intervention.<br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-66607996887486682682009-06-25T16:20:00.000-07:002009-06-25T17:52:35.212-07:00Being ImpulsiveHolla,<br /><br />Downtime and relaxation are key to my survival. As my family and friends can attest to, I can become a bit of an angry buddy if there's too much on my schedule. It causes me to do crazy things, like disappearing from phone contact for several weeks at a time or quitting my job to pursue a career in unemployment (it's not as profitable as you may think).<br /><br />Many may (and have) called this "laziness", but I don't think that this is entirely true. I enjoy getting things done throughout the day, and feel good every time I cross something off of my to-do list. The longer the list, the better I feel when I've accomplished each of these tasks. More than anything, if I can complete things in an expedient fashion, allowing myself to fully take advantage of my relaxation schedule, the more victorious I am. That way, when moms calls me lazy for lounging on the couch, I can point to my to-do list, and shove it in her face. Take that Moms!<br /><br />In the last couple of months, I've found myself needing to dedicate significant time and energy into making some tough decisions. Searching for an apartment, buying a car, deciding on health care coverage, and making travel plans for the summer all made appearances on my daily schedule throughout the spring and summer. For many people, these situations would require significant research and energy, causing certain amounts of frustration and anguish. By the time they make their final decision, they have exhausted all other possibilities and know that they have made the best choice possible for their particular situation. <br /><br />I, on the other hand, in the name of efficiency, have been taking each of these decisions head on with extremely impulsive, and often error-laden choices. Instead of taking the extra time to feel confident with the end result, I will say "yes" to the first option that comes my way, allowing me to watch an extra episode of "Weeds". <br /><br />These recent, quick decisions have not worked out exactly according to my master plan. Here is a quick breakdown:<br /><br />Health Care: I enlisted in the first plan that I found, at the cheapest rate possible. Within a week, I contracted pink eye from a mystery location (I blame the dirtiness of my hood), and found that my health plan didn't cover the prescription or the office visit. After $150, my pink eye was gone, but my unemployed bank account had taken a beating.<br /><br />Summer Travel Plans: I spent approximately 10 minutes looking for flights home this summer, quickly purchasing moderately priced tickets. I randomly checked the same flight a week later, only to find that it had dropped by $50. Curse you and your convenience Orbitz!<br /><br />Apartments: I was ready to move into the first apartment that Nick and I visited. There was nothing special about the place, but it was acceptable in my eyes. Thankfully, Nick, and his ridiculous list of qualifications, prevented this from occurring. Otherwise, we would have been stuck with a small, overpriced place that still had Halloween decorations in its side yard.<br /><br />Car: The biggest error in all of my impulsive decisions was also the most expensive. The car that I purchased was actually the second one that I looked at, only because the first one was a salvage vehicle. It is a Honda Civic that had been dropped a couple of inches, had an air intake valve installed in the engine, and a bubble muffler that caused it to earn the nickname "Vroom Vroom Pow" from my friends. I was only a few neon lights and a set a spinners away from fully converting into a 17 year old Asian. Thankfully, I've had the muffler replaced recently and I am slowly recovering some of my suburban-ness.<br /><br />Some might think that a moment of self-reflection would hit me after writing about these errors in impulsiveness. I would start completing extensive amounts of research, studying Consumer Reports, and feeling confident in all of my purchases. That would be the smart move, however, I can guarantee that I've learned nothing. I will continue to live on razors edge of informed shopping, and persist in making excuses for my mistakes. <br /><br />I guess that relaxation, and above all else, tv programs are that much more important to me. Don't judge me, or I'll shove my to-do list in your face.<br /><br />-More to come...Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8666553240160599107.post-24130373120829130922009-06-24T21:14:00.000-07:002009-06-24T21:59:38.243-07:00Moving On...Holla,<br /><br />Over the last several months, I've been crafting a top secret plan to move out of the ghetto. Days spent at the beach, Tuesdays at PB Bar and Grill, and the desire to take up permanent residence in the Silver Fox have all played into my strategy. After planting the idea within Nick's (my roommate) mind grapes since March, I've finally managed to convince him that moving from the hood is a good idea. We put in our 30 day notice at our current residence last week, found a place on Monday, and signed our rental agreement today. The best part of my entire plan; Nick thought he had a choice in the whole matter. <br /><br />No longer will I be able to rub extremely dirty shoulders with the homeless of North Park. I'm leaving behind robberies, shootings, fire extinguishers, and junkies and entering into the world of cheap tequila shots, beach cruisers, drinking games, and college-aged neighbors. Rather than embracing the eclectic nature of uptown San Diego, I'm moving into the epicenter of doucheness and brosephs, also known as Pacific Beach. <br /><br />With the offerings of bars, restaurants, and the beach, PB is an extremely attractive option for many San Diego residents, which makes it ideal for ridiculously priced rental properties. Nick and I spent three full days touring various locations, seeing every variety of apartment that you could imagine. There was the converted garage that smelled heavily of hippie perfume. The very nice condo, with functioning fireplace, that was located in the alleyway behind the domestic abuse house. The large apartment on the second level of the building that housed the corporate headquarters of a clothing company called Vicious Enterprises. This company offers "a variety of <span style="visibility: visible;" id="main"><span style="visibility: visible;" id="search">lingerie, costumes, stockings, rhinestone jewelry, and pet accessories." Mmmm classy...<br /><br />After our extensive search, we managed to find a place that was described as LG/2 BR/2 BA in its ad. It's within our unemployed (or nearly unemployed) price range, has a secret passageway, a nice courtyard area, and a living room counter that is excellent for drinking games. It's closer to being in the Crown Point neighborhood than PB, but it's within a bike ride of the ocean and bars, and a short walk away from a park on Mission Bay. It's nothing extraordinary, but fairly solid at the same time. The neighborhood is really quiet, and there were no visible signs of bums. No rusted shopping carts or used needles anywhere in sight. <br /><br />As soon as Nick gets back from the blessed land known as Minnesota, we are going to be loading up the moving trucks, singing the Jefferson's theme song, and saying goodbye to El Cajon Boulevard for the last time. <br /><br />Fair readers, if you ever find yourself in the San Diego area, come visit us at the beach. There are couches, courtyards, and quarters tables waiting to welcome you.<br /><br />More to come...<br /></span></span>Sotahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10870020470597410398noreply@blogger.com0