Friday, November 21, 2014

This thing could really take off!

Also this.
Currently I am wearing a pair of men's lounge pants in a festive flannel tartan.  It is 4 in the afternoon.  These are the same pants I slept in last night. 

This is why I love to work at home (WAH).

Every day can be pajama party day!

From time to time I am contacted by headhunters recruiters about possible new opportunities that involve 'home based contracts,' and I must confess here and now that the biggest draw for me to enter into that situation is the whole pajama thing.  Also, not having to drive to an office or talk to people, but the pajama thing ranks right up there.  If I wasn't so fearful of going into a contract situation and giving up my sweet benefits package, I might make the leap, but I'm not quite there yet.  I'm a creature of comfort, and part of that comfort comes from having a full-time job with a 401K and insurance.

I live about as far from 'the edge' as a person can, and having accepted that I can focus on important issues, like optimizing the temperature in the house while wearing pajamas in the middle of the day!!

Another bonus of WAH-ing: the food is free.  And good.  Also, the coffee is excellent.  The bathroom is private, which is terrific.  The commute is short, and my coworkers are fluffy and cute.  Heck, I can even get some chores done if I felt like it, which I rarely do, but I COULD and that's something to take to the bank, eh?


Yes, I know how lucky I am.  I used to work in a lab, where working from home was obviously NOT an option.

I used to be a waitress, and bartender, and radio announcer, and teacher, and McDonald's counter girl too, so I know how to show up for work and put in my time.  This is why I know how lucky I am.  I worked for 25+ years before I got a job that allowed this flexibility, so I am WELL aware of how soft the spot is on which I've landed.  Am grateful every dang day for it too.

Did you know that some kids coming out of college now are demanding that they  be allowed to work at home right from the get-go, even in positions that are better suited to co-working in an office space?  I take umbrage at this - those little snots haven't put in their TIME yet, they won't know the sweetly deep satisfaction of the 'special' days when pajamas and hoodies are the work outfit of the day instead of grown-up clothes that require things like shoes, and accessories, and makeup.  How, when they become older, will they enjoy achieving a position that allows them to cast off the shackles of the cubicle?  No no, I say, make them report to the office for at least 10 years, so they can develop the skills needed to get up each and every day to face the yoke of responsibility (and match their shoes to it)!!  Don't let them get away with it! 

Or at least, make them keep their webcam on at all times for monitoring.  Count the keystrokes!  Filter their web-browsing capabilities!  Lock down all other devices remotely until their spirits are squashed and they perform like the drones they were born to be, just like I was!!!

YES!!!  AMEN!!!



All right, 5 years, and they can be released on their own recognizance.

I think we have a plan.


Tiff out.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

What happened to fall?

Pinkies up!
This time last week?  70 degrees.

Today?  35, tops.

Bring fall back, whoever stole it from us.  This winter garbage is too much, too soon.


We bore the dog to utter death, I'm sure.  All we do is sit around doing our thing on teh glowy boxes, and hardly spend ANY time with him at all.  He gets in as much trouble as he does because I'm sure he's begging for attention, but how much attention can one dog gets while the human is trying to get work and stuff done?

So, he rips up used tissues and chases cats.

A dog does what he has to do to stay entertained in the waking hours.


Let's get back to this Winter thing for a mo, along a slight tangent, to wit:

How it is already the middle of November?

How is it almost time to haul out the Christmas stuff (ALMOST, I must note)?

How did this happen?  Wasn't Hallowe'en just last week?  Wasn't Independence day just a month before that?

The end of the year, that vaunted 'sell by' date for many of my work projects, is rushing hither at a fearful clip.  I'm afraid to  count the actual number of working days that are available to get everything done I said I would.  Shhh!  Don't tell me, either.  I don't want to know.  Really, I do NOT want to know.

It won't be enough, is all I'm saying.


Did you know that Will Smith's daughter has control over time?

Rich kids.  Sheesh.  They get whatever they ask for.


Thing 1 started working last week.  He's a tea-rista at the pinkies-out store in the local mall.  Fancy Schmancy!  For a first job, this one's pretty dang sweet, I think.  No deep frying required, no bagging groceries or fetching carts or washing cars for that boy, oh no.  Straight to the indoor retail customer service experience!

Hope he knows how good he's got it.  Because compared to closing a McDonald's at 2:30 a.m. while angry drunk people fight in the parking lot and your hair smells like grease and you've been on your feet for 8+ hours wearing a horrible uniform, his first job seems positively peachy.


Also, Happy Anniversary to my parents.  Number 58, though they only got to celebrate 35 of those together.  Time is short for all of us, for my Dad way too short.  Still miss him, 23 years later.

Man, time does indeed fly. 

We'll talk soon,
Tiff out.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Two in a row!

So, maybe the floodgates have opened.  Let's liveblog a moment, this one.

Wish it was my quote...
-I am at the kitchen table, facing away from the window and toward wonderful new art.  The art makes me happy in a way I can't describe, though it's much akin to the warmth felt when a baby is lying peacefully on one's chest, napping, and the day is sunny and the temps are balmy and dinner's already on the stove.  Like I maybe somehow birthed these things that are beautiful and peaceful and still allow me to make dinner.

Love the arts. (Check is on the way, Ms. Artist!)

-Wern just gave a big-boy growl at the front door, because a dog was out there, being walked.  This is the first time he's shown any 'warning' about dogs, or people, but probably that's because it's dark now and maybe he's beginning to know he's a separate being with Jobs To Do.  I don't know; it was an admirable effort on his part and I was glad when a simple 'hey Wern, whatcha doin'?' took him off his wag-tail alarm,

-Today was about as beautiful as day as there will ever be.  High autumn color, warm temps, golden sunshine, high wispy clouds that nobody could possibly walk on, no matter how ethereal their being.  Pretty sure God designed this day just for himself, so he could maybe play a round of golf without the slightest chance of being rained on.  Good going, God!

-I haven't really cooked since Sunday.  This might be a record.  'Pretend' Thanksgiving was Sunday, leftovers casserole Monday, NOTHING last night.  Not a pot was sullied, not an onion pierced 'round, not a dish warmed except by the microwave.  It was kind of nice, but I'm ready to cook again.  Two nights off is enough to fill my Energy Bars for another night in kitchen central.

-We are now about to stuff a puzzle ball for Wern, so he can cavort and I can sizzle up some dinner ideas while the crickets chirp outside and night descends even more deeply on this tiny nugget of Earth.

Let's talk soon,

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Girl Trouble (for ladies and sympathetic men)

(I suspect I've posted about this before, so apologies in advance.  I'm over this)


Bodies are wonderful things, mysterious and unpredictable, wouldn't you agree?

Like, sometimes, my body forgets how to swallow and I wind up aspirating a spit bubble or coffee or whatever isn't supposed to be in my lungs, and BOOM!  Instant highly troubling splutter session.  Much fun trying to gasp around that bolus of liquid that, if the body remembered properly what it was supposed to do, would already by in the stomach where it belongs.

Or, sometimes, intestines can play beautiful music, rather loudly and in a disturbing fashion much resembling a badger or active bubbling tar pit.  Usually when in meetings or when the cube farm is aggravatingly quiet.

Or, like when the brain decides to stop remembering the names of super-important movie characters during a conversation and then coughs it up in the middle of a dream cycle so that Alan Rickman is your cab driver in Puffy City, where you're about to purchase a new hotel only you forgot to get dressed and the towel you're still wearing from your shower just keeps getting smaller and smaller and smaller, then you're in a parade on a float and the towel is now a washcloth so you're glad you've been named Grand Marchall so at least you can use the sash to cover up one boob and you still have one hand free to wave.

Note: quote not by an actual old lady
Or, as happened today, old lady lady-parts that should have gone quiescent long ago decide to behave like it's 1989 again and issue forth proof that uterine lining does still exist and wants you to look at it!  LOOK!  Still there, or, more properly, HERE.  Surprise!!

It's said that menopause can take between 5 and 10 years to complete.  My body?  A trickster, and at 8 years into the process I can with certainty say that it is pulling some fast ones wit this latest incident.  Good grief, the whole monthly shebang completely STOPPED for 2 years a couple of years ago, and there was much relieved breathing throughout the land.

But no.

It's back.

What started is extremely uneven pacing when I was 44, with bursts of extreme over-production followed by long gaps in between times turned into a slowly decreasing frequency, which was nice, then full stop.  For a year.  Then things got going again for about 6 months, then full stop.  For 2 years.  Now this.

I would like to state that this is NOT going according to plan.  This should have been done and over with that first time the production line shut down, can I get an Amen on that?  All this crazy dang off and on is aggravating, and sheesh.  Come ON.  I am 52, it's time for me to sprout some (more) chin whiskers and begin the transformation into a little old man, isn't it?

Stupid estrogen, anyhow.

If you are lady of a certain ago, does all this sound normal to you or is my body an overachiever in the 'longest menopause EVER' category?  Because, really, isn't 8 years enough??

Well, at least I know why I've been so irritable the last couple of days.  There's the bright side, I suppose.

Tiff out.