Lately I've revived my old interests in the aesthetics of the 1910s through 1930s. It began with dusting off the fedoras and going a little more retro with my outfit choices. Right now I'm wearing cotton twill slacks, a striped button-front shirt, and saddle oxfords, plus my brown fedora when outdoors, all which, conceivably, could have been found on a young man in the '20s or '30s. For a few weeks now, my wife and I have been fostering a young Cocker Spaniel until we can find a more suitable home for it. We got into a habit of taking her to the local park on weekends, and I would put on somewhat vintage-looking outfits, including my replica World War II cotton khaki uniform shirt, my Levis 501 dungarees, which I was happy to learn are very similar to those made 80 years ago, except for the red tab, and a military-style canvas shoulder bag. My next major purchase may be a replica of a World War I British army officer's musette bag and an M1910 canteen for future dog-walking expeditions. Our forays into civilized wilderness, combined with a vintage-inspired wardrobe and accessories, sparked a revived interest in something I'd contemplated long, long ago: camping out in an early 20th century fashion.
"Roughing it" has gotten soft these past few decades, in my opinion. Modern-day campers sleep in feather-weight tents made of slick nylon that pop up in seconds, wear unattractive clothing, keep fresh meats and dairy products in cold-storage boxes or small refrigerators powered by their vehicle's battery, and prepare freeze-dried gourmet meals stored in neat little foil packets just by adding water and heating on a shiny folding propane stove. Many campgrounds even offer electricity outlets, running water, and full restroom and shower facilities. This is what people call "roughing it?"
There was a time when truly hardy folks left what was then the modern hustle and bustle of city life, with its clattering trolley cars, talking picture shows, and jabbering radio programs, and headed out into the forest primeval for a weekend of getting back to basics. The Model A would be packed with nonperishable food, cast-iron pots, tin plates & cups, jugs of water, and maybe a banjo or ukulele for entertainment. The campers would arrive looking like overgrown boy scouts, men and women alike decked out in woolen breeches or possibly denim waist overalls, knee-high boots or ankle boots & puttees, sturdy shirts, and large felt hats. An assortment of canvas sheets and wooden poles became a tent, and a batch of chopped wood formed a campfire. Canned beans and salt-pork went into an iron pot for a hearty supper, and after the sun went down and the dishes were washed, everyone gathered around and sang along to the twanging banjo while passing around a flask of smuggled hooch. Perhaps if one of the campers was skilled in electronics, the group would tune in to Amos 'n' Andy on a radio hooked up to the Ford's electrical system. Upon retiring for the night, they would perhaps read a bit in their tents by the light of a kerosene lantern or perhaps an early flashlight. Come the morning, a shower was unnecessary; change your underdrawers if you feel the need. Time to return last night's supper to the earth? No restrooms here. Go dig a latrine behind a tree, like the bears in those Charmin commercials.
How grand 'twould be to arrive in my cavalry breeches and Montana peak hat, set up a canvas tent, light up a wood fire, and dump canned goods wrapped in replica 1920s labels into a cast-iron pot! I already wasted a good part of my Monday morning in the cubicle re-creating a period Campfire marshmallow label for a metal tin, and even found some high-resolution scans of vintage food packaging. Perhaps someday when I am exceedingly wealthy, I'll be unpacking everything from a fully restored Model T.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Why am I still here?
So I'm still in my cubicle, toiling away, watching the clock, waiting for another day of drudgery to come to a close. The countdown to May 1 continues at a snail's pace. There has been a slight change of plans: while I am holding God and the Universe to the May 1 deadline for the much smaller task of providing an acceptable vehicle to replace my Ford, I gave them an extension to the Wednesday before Memorial Day weekend to make me a lottery winner. So Thursday, May 26 (when I find out Wednesday's Powerball results), could be the last morning I believe in any sort of god. I have decided that if a just god exists, He will not allow me to spend one more summer in this shit-hole office.
I've already got my exit strategy planned out. I would prefer to win a Friday or Saturday night drawing, so that the following day, I could come to the empty office, pack up my few personal belongings, and leave a snarky note in my cubicle, something to the effect of "I won the lottery! I'm outta here." I try not to keep personal items in my cubicle so that my exit will be quicker.
The perfect time for this to happen would be when I start my week's vacation at the beach this Spring. It would be right after I get paid, and my wife and I would be at our favorite place, away from it all, and free to think and plan. Plus with a newly-deposited paycheck, we could splurge on eating out and such during our vacation without worrying about paying the month's bills. Ahem! Are you taking a hint, God/Universe?
I've been wondering lately whether a huge cash infusion would change my hatred for the rich. If I had all my basic desires fulfilled, including retirement at age 30, an elegant primary residence, a fine but sensible automobile for each of us plus a spare, and a house at the beach, with millions in the bank earning a comfortable passive income, would I still resent rich people? In my current state of affairs, I abhor the rich. It's not only unfair, but just plain wrong, that there are people who "earn" millions of dollars a year while their underlings, without whose labor they would not prosper, receive pitiful salaries in the $20-$30K range, so that the top brass can acquire more shit no person needs: boats, private aircraft, extra cars, third & fourth homes, $2,000 suits, $600 shoes, and diamond-studded collars for their purebred canines. Some rich people justify their excessive income by citing the long hours they work, like 60 or 80 hours a week. So if one guy works 80 hours a week and receives $500,000 a year, why does another guy lower on the totem pole working 40 hours get $28,000? Are those extra 20-40 hours somehow worth 10 or 20 times as much as the first 40? The rich are driven by shameless, unbridled greed, and can't stop at just getting enough. For the rich, there's no such thing as enough. They want more, more, more, and don't give a shit about employees struggling to make ends meet. "Hmm, Bob does have 3 kids and a sick wife, but man, that 53-foot motor-sailor would be so awesome on my 2-week vacation." In order to delude themselves into thinking they're "giving back," they attend charity events with other rich people at which obscene amounts of money are spent on food and entertainment instead of going directly to the charity's beneficiaries, then take their "contribution" as a tax deduction while the gummint makes up the difference by sticking it to middle class clock-punchers. The abysmal earnings gap in this country just sickens me. While people do deserve some reward for taking greater risks and serving in leadership capacities, just how much more reward do they deserve than the people who come in every day and spend 8 hours of their lives making money for someone else?
I personally am sick of trading a third of my waking hours for a bad joke of a paycheck, and yet I'm pretty much stuck. Freelancing doesn't offer health insurance, which my wife needs and doesn't get through her employer and would be too costly to buy on our own. It's also too unreliable; you never know when you'll get your next paying gig, or whether the one you're working will pay up on time. My line of work doesn't command a huge hourly rate, anyway, thanks to the low value society seems to place on what I do, even though not many people can do it well. So here I sit, fuming about the privileged few who don't have to worry about weekly specials, coupons, and the price of gasoline, while desperately yearning to join their ranks. As soon as that happens, however, I will of course reverse my opinion and do all I can to keep the huddled masses' filthy hands off my cash.
Speaking of a third of my waking hours, I thought about it and realized I actually have less than 8 hours of truly free leisure time on weekdays. Think about it: I drive to work and back, and spend about 45 minutes getting ready to leave for work. I do have an hour for lunch, but I don't consider that leisure time since it severely limits what I can do in the span of 60 minutes. Don't forget evening meal preparation & consumption, about 45 minutes. Showering & drying off takes an additional 20 minutes. I don't go to sleep the instant I get in bed, so in order to get 8 hours and get up at 7:30, I have to be in bed around 11:00. So really it's more like 3 1/2 to 4 hours of time to do whatever the hell I want. What kind of ripoff is that? Work days should be reduced to 5 or 6 hours to make up for the time lost in daily self-maintenance activities. Cooking, eating, bathing, dressing, grooming, and driving to & from work are not leisure activities in my book.
I've already got my exit strategy planned out. I would prefer to win a Friday or Saturday night drawing, so that the following day, I could come to the empty office, pack up my few personal belongings, and leave a snarky note in my cubicle, something to the effect of "I won the lottery! I'm outta here." I try not to keep personal items in my cubicle so that my exit will be quicker.
The perfect time for this to happen would be when I start my week's vacation at the beach this Spring. It would be right after I get paid, and my wife and I would be at our favorite place, away from it all, and free to think and plan. Plus with a newly-deposited paycheck, we could splurge on eating out and such during our vacation without worrying about paying the month's bills. Ahem! Are you taking a hint, God/Universe?
I've been wondering lately whether a huge cash infusion would change my hatred for the rich. If I had all my basic desires fulfilled, including retirement at age 30, an elegant primary residence, a fine but sensible automobile for each of us plus a spare, and a house at the beach, with millions in the bank earning a comfortable passive income, would I still resent rich people? In my current state of affairs, I abhor the rich. It's not only unfair, but just plain wrong, that there are people who "earn" millions of dollars a year while their underlings, without whose labor they would not prosper, receive pitiful salaries in the $20-$30K range, so that the top brass can acquire more shit no person needs: boats, private aircraft, extra cars, third & fourth homes, $2,000 suits, $600 shoes, and diamond-studded collars for their purebred canines. Some rich people justify their excessive income by citing the long hours they work, like 60 or 80 hours a week. So if one guy works 80 hours a week and receives $500,000 a year, why does another guy lower on the totem pole working 40 hours get $28,000? Are those extra 20-40 hours somehow worth 10 or 20 times as much as the first 40? The rich are driven by shameless, unbridled greed, and can't stop at just getting enough. For the rich, there's no such thing as enough. They want more, more, more, and don't give a shit about employees struggling to make ends meet. "Hmm, Bob does have 3 kids and a sick wife, but man, that 53-foot motor-sailor would be so awesome on my 2-week vacation." In order to delude themselves into thinking they're "giving back," they attend charity events with other rich people at which obscene amounts of money are spent on food and entertainment instead of going directly to the charity's beneficiaries, then take their "contribution" as a tax deduction while the gummint makes up the difference by sticking it to middle class clock-punchers. The abysmal earnings gap in this country just sickens me. While people do deserve some reward for taking greater risks and serving in leadership capacities, just how much more reward do they deserve than the people who come in every day and spend 8 hours of their lives making money for someone else?
I personally am sick of trading a third of my waking hours for a bad joke of a paycheck, and yet I'm pretty much stuck. Freelancing doesn't offer health insurance, which my wife needs and doesn't get through her employer and would be too costly to buy on our own. It's also too unreliable; you never know when you'll get your next paying gig, or whether the one you're working will pay up on time. My line of work doesn't command a huge hourly rate, anyway, thanks to the low value society seems to place on what I do, even though not many people can do it well. So here I sit, fuming about the privileged few who don't have to worry about weekly specials, coupons, and the price of gasoline, while desperately yearning to join their ranks. As soon as that happens, however, I will of course reverse my opinion and do all I can to keep the huddled masses' filthy hands off my cash.
Speaking of a third of my waking hours, I thought about it and realized I actually have less than 8 hours of truly free leisure time on weekdays. Think about it: I drive to work and back, and spend about 45 minutes getting ready to leave for work. I do have an hour for lunch, but I don't consider that leisure time since it severely limits what I can do in the span of 60 minutes. Don't forget evening meal preparation & consumption, about 45 minutes. Showering & drying off takes an additional 20 minutes. I don't go to sleep the instant I get in bed, so in order to get 8 hours and get up at 7:30, I have to be in bed around 11:00. So really it's more like 3 1/2 to 4 hours of time to do whatever the hell I want. What kind of ripoff is that? Work days should be reduced to 5 or 6 hours to make up for the time lost in daily self-maintenance activities. Cooking, eating, bathing, dressing, grooming, and driving to & from work are not leisure activities in my book.
Friday, February 18, 2011
I've got a good feeling about this
Yesterday morning, on my short drive to the cubicle gulag, I spotted not one, but two, black '08+ Toyota Sequoias on the road. I saw a white one in the parking lot, and two more older ones on the way home that evening. Today a white one passed by on my way to lunch, and on my way back, a green one drove right up behind me before changing lanes. This must be a sign of good things to come, from God or some superior force, as if to say, "we're working on it. It's coming soon." I have a good feeling, dear reader, that constantly visualizing the car in my possession is moving everything into alignment, and will result in the Universe fulfilling my burning desire for this automobile. Just yesterday I was thinking to myself, "I'm going to have that Sequoia very, very soon. Within a matter of weeks, or perhaps just days, it will be right outside my front door." As long as it's mine by May, in time for beach season, I'll be ecstatic, but of course the sooner, the better, especially considering that we seem to be in for an early Spring and beach season may come early this year.
I'm done with the Vic. It's been a very solid, dependable ride, but I'm just done with sedans in general. I no longer even want a Lincoln Town Car. SUVs offer so much more - more cargo space, commanding views, legal dark windows for privacy, easy loading & unloading of groceries, and that all-important rough & ready, imposing appearance. This summer I'll be pulling up to the loading dock at our beach condo in a new (or nearly-new), shiny, black, chrome-trimmed beast, the front end proudly displaying that badge of membership, the Wrightsville Beach souvenir license plate.
I'm done with the Vic. It's been a very solid, dependable ride, but I'm just done with sedans in general. I no longer even want a Lincoln Town Car. SUVs offer so much more - more cargo space, commanding views, legal dark windows for privacy, easy loading & unloading of groceries, and that all-important rough & ready, imposing appearance. This summer I'll be pulling up to the loading dock at our beach condo in a new (or nearly-new), shiny, black, chrome-trimmed beast, the front end proudly displaying that badge of membership, the Wrightsville Beach souvenir license plate.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Recent Happenings, and the Quest for the Sequoia
So it's been quite a while since my last entry. Honestly, I didn't have a whole lot to write about. In late January I took ill with awful chest congestion followed by three weeks of being unable to speak. I finally regained full use of my voice a few days ago.
My old school chum had a birthday gathering at his apartment, followed by an attempt at going out on the town. We were nearly deafened at a newly-opened night club and really creeped out by its sleazy clientele. The really shitty thing about this place is that while it had plenty of sofas to sit on, people who had paid god knows how much had reserved them for their own exclusive use. The sofas were all empty except for piles of coats & purses. So after maybe 20 minutes we headed down the street to a pub that should have been much more relaxed; however, thanks to a hockey game in town that same day, the pub was overcrowded, forcing us to sit at a table outside in the cold, with a malfunctioning propane heater and no table service. We finally gave up on the nightlife and headed home at midnight, allowing us to get up at a reasonable hour Sunday morning and finally watch the copy of Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps we had rented. It was OK, but not nearly as thrilling as Wall Street.
Earlier that Saturday I had a much more pleasant experience. My wife and I met my parents and her grandparents, plus my sister and her beau, at a nice restaurant for lunch to celebrate Granny's and my mom's birthdays. Afterward, my folks took us across the street to an upscale gentleman's clothing studio to look at the items on sale. I came away with a very fine purple velvet sportcoat, two beautiful striped shirts suitable for both the office and night-clubbing, and a pair of green corduroy dungarees. I always love to add exquisite items to my collection of gentle-manly garments. Earlier that morning, my wife got the urge to find a pair of denim dungarees for me, as the only pair I owned had paint stains and holes. We fell in love with the Levi's 501 jeans at Brooks Brothers - quite costly, but made entirely in the U.S. of A. of superior materials. Another excellent addition to my wardrobe.
Oh, how I love fine clothing! I don't know what it is - I just feel better and more confident when I wear garments constructed of high-quality fabric. Perhaps it's the subtle message it sends to the rest of the world - here is a man who cares enough to spend good money on good materials, and deserves my respect and admiration. Plus it's kind of like having a collection - you start with the basic items, then branch out from there with variations and accessories. Lately I've been trying to arrange my closet to be not only neater but also showcase my collection better. I moved my Brooks Brothers polo shirts out of the chest of drawers and onto a shelf in a neat stack, forming a column of golden fleece logos. I hope to add a few more soon, in a wide array of colors. I'm trying to figure out a way to display my sweaters without leaving them vulnerable to moths.
In other news, I've decided it's high time I acquire a motor vehicle that complements my gentle-manly appearance. Yes, reader, I have grown dissatisfied with the Crown Victoria. I've tried all sorts of modifications to try to make it more gentle-manly, but I can no longer delude myself into thinking it's something grander than an old highway patrol car. It's dented, it's dated, it's missing a wheel cover, and I still feel like a target for the local authorities, who seem to think it's their exclusive privilege to drive that model. After much consideration and mind-changing, I have set my lofty sights on the 2008-2011 Toyota Sequoia, and it must be black. For now, it's mainly a dream; even a 2008 model would run about $32,000, and I'd never be able to make the monthly payments on that, let alone buy it outright. I keep a photo of one pinned to my cubicle wall, with a Wrightsville Beach souvenir plate photoshopped onto the front bumper. I think there is something to that whole "positive thinking" approach to getting what you want; if you constantly visualize yourself having what you want, I think there's a chance it will come true. Back when I was job-searching, I printed an I.O.U. from the Universe, stating that I would have a job paying at least $30K. That summer, I landed the job I have now. Did I do it on my own? Did the Universe do it for me? I don't know, but I'm willing to see if it will work again. I created a "certificate of future vehicle title" with my name on it, a target date of May 1, 2011, and the future vehicle a black 2008-2011 Toyota Sequoia.
The Sequoia will be the perfect choice - it's big, powerful, and imposing, yet elegant and well-proportioned. Toyota is an excellent manufacturer, so it won't need a lot of troublesome maintenance. Best of all, it's respectable, and would go unnoticed on the highway by lawmen. I'll install a DVD player capable of playing movies off my ipod, and install headrest screens for rear passengers. I'll also equip it with a CB radio and digital trunking scanner, hidden in the cavernous armrest.
I deserve this, damn it. I am owed something fabulous for all the shit I've put up with in life. I've played the lottery for 4 years without winning any substantial prize, and I'm stuck in a dead-end job with a mediocre salary that will never foot the bill for the things I desire. While I deserve to be retired at the age of 30 with a lifetime supply of cash, at the very least I am owed a more respectable form of transportation. I've been a fairly religious person my whole life, asking God regularly for help in dealing with life's obstacles and setbacks, and also thanking God for everything I am blessed with. Over the last few years I've grown increasingly disappointed with God's failure to come through with what I desperately want, which is a ticket out of the rat race. Maybe that's too big to ask, but a change of vehicles is far more reasonable. So, blasphemous as it may be, I've issued an ultimatum: if I don't get the car I want by the first of May (in time for beach season), I'll become an atheist. Seriously, one little car, and a modest Toyota at that, is not that much to ask for. It's not just for my own vanity, but for my overall psychological well-being and general self-esteem as well. I'll feel so much better about myself and life in general if I'm driving something that's not an old cop car and doesn't make me feel like I must constantly monitor the rearview mirror for the po-po. 2 1/2 months is plenty of time for God or the Universe to cook up some way to get me that Sequoia: a major lottery prize or jackpot, wife's grandparents kicking off and leaving us a small fortune, wife's rich godmother offering me a new car out of the blue, finding a bag of cash in a parking lot, finding something at a flea market worth $40,000, my parents selling something at auction for a million dollars and offering me a new car, something. Stay tuned to see what I believe in, if anything.
My old school chum had a birthday gathering at his apartment, followed by an attempt at going out on the town. We were nearly deafened at a newly-opened night club and really creeped out by its sleazy clientele. The really shitty thing about this place is that while it had plenty of sofas to sit on, people who had paid god knows how much had reserved them for their own exclusive use. The sofas were all empty except for piles of coats & purses. So after maybe 20 minutes we headed down the street to a pub that should have been much more relaxed; however, thanks to a hockey game in town that same day, the pub was overcrowded, forcing us to sit at a table outside in the cold, with a malfunctioning propane heater and no table service. We finally gave up on the nightlife and headed home at midnight, allowing us to get up at a reasonable hour Sunday morning and finally watch the copy of Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps we had rented. It was OK, but not nearly as thrilling as Wall Street.
Earlier that Saturday I had a much more pleasant experience. My wife and I met my parents and her grandparents, plus my sister and her beau, at a nice restaurant for lunch to celebrate Granny's and my mom's birthdays. Afterward, my folks took us across the street to an upscale gentleman's clothing studio to look at the items on sale. I came away with a very fine purple velvet sportcoat, two beautiful striped shirts suitable for both the office and night-clubbing, and a pair of green corduroy dungarees. I always love to add exquisite items to my collection of gentle-manly garments. Earlier that morning, my wife got the urge to find a pair of denim dungarees for me, as the only pair I owned had paint stains and holes. We fell in love with the Levi's 501 jeans at Brooks Brothers - quite costly, but made entirely in the U.S. of A. of superior materials. Another excellent addition to my wardrobe.
Oh, how I love fine clothing! I don't know what it is - I just feel better and more confident when I wear garments constructed of high-quality fabric. Perhaps it's the subtle message it sends to the rest of the world - here is a man who cares enough to spend good money on good materials, and deserves my respect and admiration. Plus it's kind of like having a collection - you start with the basic items, then branch out from there with variations and accessories. Lately I've been trying to arrange my closet to be not only neater but also showcase my collection better. I moved my Brooks Brothers polo shirts out of the chest of drawers and onto a shelf in a neat stack, forming a column of golden fleece logos. I hope to add a few more soon, in a wide array of colors. I'm trying to figure out a way to display my sweaters without leaving them vulnerable to moths.
In other news, I've decided it's high time I acquire a motor vehicle that complements my gentle-manly appearance. Yes, reader, I have grown dissatisfied with the Crown Victoria. I've tried all sorts of modifications to try to make it more gentle-manly, but I can no longer delude myself into thinking it's something grander than an old highway patrol car. It's dented, it's dated, it's missing a wheel cover, and I still feel like a target for the local authorities, who seem to think it's their exclusive privilege to drive that model. After much consideration and mind-changing, I have set my lofty sights on the 2008-2011 Toyota Sequoia, and it must be black. For now, it's mainly a dream; even a 2008 model would run about $32,000, and I'd never be able to make the monthly payments on that, let alone buy it outright. I keep a photo of one pinned to my cubicle wall, with a Wrightsville Beach souvenir plate photoshopped onto the front bumper. I think there is something to that whole "positive thinking" approach to getting what you want; if you constantly visualize yourself having what you want, I think there's a chance it will come true. Back when I was job-searching, I printed an I.O.U. from the Universe, stating that I would have a job paying at least $30K. That summer, I landed the job I have now. Did I do it on my own? Did the Universe do it for me? I don't know, but I'm willing to see if it will work again. I created a "certificate of future vehicle title" with my name on it, a target date of May 1, 2011, and the future vehicle a black 2008-2011 Toyota Sequoia.
The Sequoia will be the perfect choice - it's big, powerful, and imposing, yet elegant and well-proportioned. Toyota is an excellent manufacturer, so it won't need a lot of troublesome maintenance. Best of all, it's respectable, and would go unnoticed on the highway by lawmen. I'll install a DVD player capable of playing movies off my ipod, and install headrest screens for rear passengers. I'll also equip it with a CB radio and digital trunking scanner, hidden in the cavernous armrest.
I deserve this, damn it. I am owed something fabulous for all the shit I've put up with in life. I've played the lottery for 4 years without winning any substantial prize, and I'm stuck in a dead-end job with a mediocre salary that will never foot the bill for the things I desire. While I deserve to be retired at the age of 30 with a lifetime supply of cash, at the very least I am owed a more respectable form of transportation. I've been a fairly religious person my whole life, asking God regularly for help in dealing with life's obstacles and setbacks, and also thanking God for everything I am blessed with. Over the last few years I've grown increasingly disappointed with God's failure to come through with what I desperately want, which is a ticket out of the rat race. Maybe that's too big to ask, but a change of vehicles is far more reasonable. So, blasphemous as it may be, I've issued an ultimatum: if I don't get the car I want by the first of May (in time for beach season), I'll become an atheist. Seriously, one little car, and a modest Toyota at that, is not that much to ask for. It's not just for my own vanity, but for my overall psychological well-being and general self-esteem as well. I'll feel so much better about myself and life in general if I'm driving something that's not an old cop car and doesn't make me feel like I must constantly monitor the rearview mirror for the po-po. 2 1/2 months is plenty of time for God or the Universe to cook up some way to get me that Sequoia: a major lottery prize or jackpot, wife's grandparents kicking off and leaving us a small fortune, wife's rich godmother offering me a new car out of the blue, finding a bag of cash in a parking lot, finding something at a flea market worth $40,000, my parents selling something at auction for a million dollars and offering me a new car, something. Stay tuned to see what I believe in, if anything.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Snow day!
We had quite the winter weather yesterday, and for the first time in my stint at this soul-sucking cubicle farm, I was able to take a "snow day." I awoke to find my parking lot and surrounding streets covered in a sheet of crunchy ice. Per my employer's adverse weather policy, I called in the morning and said I didn't feel safe to drive to work. Not a lie, either - while I'm close to a major road, getting out of my neighborhood in my RWD sedan would have been quite difficult if not altogether impossible.
Knowing that there was little in my inbox, and nothing time-sensitive, I knew they wouldn't need me so badly that they'd send someone to get me, so I kept my PJs on and settled in with my wife, also unable/unwilling to make it to work, for an entire Tuesday of goofing off. We began with a leisurely breakfast of fried eggs, then sat in the living room all day watching movies and TV shows on our glorious 46" HDTV.
This morning, after getting screwed by the lottery yet again, I saw that the ice sheet had softened enough to make me feel like I'd better drag my ass to the office, though I nearly called it quits when I almost couldn't get my car up the gentle slope out of the cul-de-sac. Upon my arrival, I saw only one new work order waiting for me. Apparently more than half the staff didn't make it. So instead of wasting 8 hours of my life sitting in my cubicle with nothing to do, I spent the day in my warm house, in my pajamas, watching movies and munching on popcorn. Such is the manner in which I would like to spend every day in winter, not only when it snows and sleets, but merely when the temperature dips below 50 degrees.
Knowing that there was little in my inbox, and nothing time-sensitive, I knew they wouldn't need me so badly that they'd send someone to get me, so I kept my PJs on and settled in with my wife, also unable/unwilling to make it to work, for an entire Tuesday of goofing off. We began with a leisurely breakfast of fried eggs, then sat in the living room all day watching movies and TV shows on our glorious 46" HDTV.
This morning, after getting screwed by the lottery yet again, I saw that the ice sheet had softened enough to make me feel like I'd better drag my ass to the office, though I nearly called it quits when I almost couldn't get my car up the gentle slope out of the cul-de-sac. Upon my arrival, I saw only one new work order waiting for me. Apparently more than half the staff didn't make it. So instead of wasting 8 hours of my life sitting in my cubicle with nothing to do, I spent the day in my warm house, in my pajamas, watching movies and munching on popcorn. Such is the manner in which I would like to spend every day in winter, not only when it snows and sleets, but merely when the temperature dips below 50 degrees.
Monday, January 3, 2011
I survived Christmas 2010 and didn't get disowned
Yes, dear reader, my wife and I lived through the heart-squeezing stress surrounding Christmas and I am here to tell the tale. As you recall from my previous entry, we were being pulled in all directions by various blood relations who all wanted to claim a chunk of our vacation time. We eventually had to give up the prospect of an entire Christmas Day at home and left for my father-in-law's house at noon. Lunch was pleasant and I received some fine gifts, including a replica of an 11th century Claymore that resides in a museum in Scotland. We also got a few pieces of sterling flatware to fill out our place settings.
The whole time, however, my tired brain was under constant stress due to my grandmother-in-law's consternation over our choice to stay at her estranged son's house. Usually we keep such visits a secret from her, but this time our choice of lodging got blabbed by dear old Granddaddy. Needless to say, Granny was pissed. Our phone call to her on Christmas Eve was very brief, answering everything with one-word responses like OK, yes, uh-huh, etc.
Around 6:00 we went to my parents' house for dinner and family togetherness. The evening was pleasant enough, though my poor put-upon brother, still in the middle of a nasty divorce, was upstairs for half the evening taking a much-needed nap. I did get to meet the parents of my sister's current suitor, who were pleasant company. Granny's disfavor continued to loom, and the mental strain was only exacerbated when they declined an invitation to come to my parents' house, claiming they were "too tired." We also heard that the grand luncheon at the Marriott was canceled; my wife's aunt made some sort of lame excuse to weasel out of it. I was expecting a class-5 shitstorm on our visit to her house the following day. If there was anything I needed that night, it was booze. My sister's suitor took us to one of the few watering holes open on Christmas, where I downed a few black & tans.
At least we had a lovely snowfall late that night. First white Christmas I've ever had in my life. The snow piled up overnight, and after breakfast with the in-laws we decided it would be best to pack up and leave from Granny's, rather than return for our things on the treacherous roads. Granny managed to cover up her displeasure and put on a brave front since we brought my sister and her beau along as a dirty trick to make sure she behaved herself, lest the word spread all over town that Granny was cross with her own granddaughter. It was nevertheless unmistakable that the Grande Dame was not amused when we opened our gifts, which consisted of a meager selection of goodies from Granny's favorite grocer, some other goodies that were probably re-gifts, and $100 in cash for each of us. Last year we each received $300 in cash. Granny was communicating her disapproval through the withholding of benefits. Such is the way of the Granny. She gradually seemed to get over it during our visit, as I worked my charms and social graces to amuse her with stories. We seemed to be on fairly good terms again by the time we departed for my parents' house.
After a quick last visit to my folks, we headed back home in the early afternoon to make sure we arrived before nightfall and the re-freezing of the streets. The drive home was the first time I felt truly relaxed in 3 or 4 days. The following day we sat in the living room and watched all 10 episodes of The Pacific.
Next year I am resolved to avoid any travel on Christmas Day. We won't leave our house and we'll stay in our bedclothes the entire day, and if there is a loving and just god above, the day will be spent in our sprawling mansion, which we will have constructed with a portion of our lottery winnings.
The whole time, however, my tired brain was under constant stress due to my grandmother-in-law's consternation over our choice to stay at her estranged son's house. Usually we keep such visits a secret from her, but this time our choice of lodging got blabbed by dear old Granddaddy. Needless to say, Granny was pissed. Our phone call to her on Christmas Eve was very brief, answering everything with one-word responses like OK, yes, uh-huh, etc.
Around 6:00 we went to my parents' house for dinner and family togetherness. The evening was pleasant enough, though my poor put-upon brother, still in the middle of a nasty divorce, was upstairs for half the evening taking a much-needed nap. I did get to meet the parents of my sister's current suitor, who were pleasant company. Granny's disfavor continued to loom, and the mental strain was only exacerbated when they declined an invitation to come to my parents' house, claiming they were "too tired." We also heard that the grand luncheon at the Marriott was canceled; my wife's aunt made some sort of lame excuse to weasel out of it. I was expecting a class-5 shitstorm on our visit to her house the following day. If there was anything I needed that night, it was booze. My sister's suitor took us to one of the few watering holes open on Christmas, where I downed a few black & tans.
At least we had a lovely snowfall late that night. First white Christmas I've ever had in my life. The snow piled up overnight, and after breakfast with the in-laws we decided it would be best to pack up and leave from Granny's, rather than return for our things on the treacherous roads. Granny managed to cover up her displeasure and put on a brave front since we brought my sister and her beau along as a dirty trick to make sure she behaved herself, lest the word spread all over town that Granny was cross with her own granddaughter. It was nevertheless unmistakable that the Grande Dame was not amused when we opened our gifts, which consisted of a meager selection of goodies from Granny's favorite grocer, some other goodies that were probably re-gifts, and $100 in cash for each of us. Last year we each received $300 in cash. Granny was communicating her disapproval through the withholding of benefits. Such is the way of the Granny. She gradually seemed to get over it during our visit, as I worked my charms and social graces to amuse her with stories. We seemed to be on fairly good terms again by the time we departed for my parents' house.
After a quick last visit to my folks, we headed back home in the early afternoon to make sure we arrived before nightfall and the re-freezing of the streets. The drive home was the first time I felt truly relaxed in 3 or 4 days. The following day we sat in the living room and watched all 10 episodes of The Pacific.
Next year I am resolved to avoid any travel on Christmas Day. We won't leave our house and we'll stay in our bedclothes the entire day, and if there is a loving and just god above, the day will be spent in our sprawling mansion, which we will have constructed with a portion of our lottery winnings.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Bah, Humbug
Christmas time wears me out. Despite my best efforts to minimize stress, something always fucks things up and dashes my plans for a trouble-free December.
This year I made an even greater effort than last year to avoid the major shopping centers in my town and their horrific traffic jams. I ordered practically every gift online except for a few little stocking stuffers for the wife, which I am procuring at a small confectionery away from the pushing, shoving throngs. I was doing pretty well at this little game until this past Friday.
On Friday, my office had its annual holiday party, after which we closed early. Precious freedom! I was excited and overjoyed at the prospect of going home and wallowing about in front of my beautiful new 47-inch flat-panel TV my parents bought for me as an early Christmas present. However, my dear wife needed me to procure a few items to bring to a friend's party the next evening, and also rent a Redbox movie for that night. One little errand, I thought to myself. No biggie.
That's where the ass-fucking began. Redbox has a lovely reservation feature, with which you can reserve a DVD through their website and pick it up at the requested machine. Using this feature, I could see that the only machine containing our desired film was at a grocery store in the middle of a Christmas-shopping hellhole that gets so congested with traffic that they have to hire traffic control personnel. I intended to use a promotional coupon for 66% off, only to discover that such codes can't be used for online reservations. What the fuck good is it, then? Goddamn Redbox. Desperate for cheap Friday night entertainment, I reserved it anyway, for the full $1, at the undesirable location. It took me about 15 minutes to get through the ridiculous traffic and reach the grocery store when it should have taken 5 minutes. This is a store I seldom patronize due to its overwhelming size and illogical layout. Why in the fuck did they keep the pita chips on their own rack on the opposite end of the store from the snack isle? I went up and down every isle twice looking for Craisins, and of course every carton of eggs has at least one cracked egg because they hire retarded gorillas to stock the dairy case. After maybe 45 minutes in that god-forsaken pit of human misery, I finally found everything on the jumbled shopping list and got the fuck out of there. Halfway home, I realized I'd forgotten the goddamned movie! So I had to get my ass back there, taking a back route this time, which I should have done in the first place. This time I said fuck it, and parked in the reserved "customer with child" space, probably drawing dirty looks from goody-goodies, but at that point I didn't give a flying fuck. I finally made it home about 4:30. Oh, did I mention that the office party was held at an employee's house almost in the next town? So even though we were released at 2:15, it was 2:45 by the time I got home, and then it was right back out the door again. I lost an hour and 45 minutes of my precious afternoon off thanks to all the other assholes who can't plan ahead and do all their consumerism at the last minute.
Well, at least that was the low point of the weekend. We enjoyed our movie night on our fabulous new TV, and had a good time at our friend's party the next night. We went out Saturday to our favorite watering hole, where I kept my new kilt on that I had worn to the party. That certainly shined a light on the vast sinkhole of ignorance in this town. I kept hearing "omigod that guy's wearing a skirt" and even heard "maybe he's Muslim." Eh, whatever, I looked damn good. Sunday was glorious. We didn't leave the house or even get dressed, and sat around all day watching the entire Band of Brothers miniseries on our new TV.
Then came the call from Granny.
About 5 times now, Granny has called asking when we're coming for Christmas and whether we're coming to lunch. And 5 times the answer has been no, we're not coming on Christmas day, and no, we won't make it to lunch at the fucking Marriott. It's so frustrating because not only is she being her usual spoiled, impulsive, demanding self, but her deteriorating memory is also playing a part in the repeated phone calls. I think she truly can't remember what we've already told her. My wife finally told her last night that we don't like being pressured to come to Christmas lunch when we've already planned to hang around here most of the day. Granny got all pissy after that and hung up to go fume and pout because we weren't doing what the Grande Dame had commanded. I'm getting so goddamned sick of Granny's grandiose meal plans where poor Granddaddy has to get his tired self dressed and out in the cold when he'd probably rather have sandwiches at home. Plus she just doesn't understand that not everybody gets up at 6 in the goddamned morning like she does, and to get there at noon means means we'd have to be done with opening gifts, dressed, have our bags packed, and have the dog at the dogsitter's house by 10:30. We are absolutely not going to rush ourselves through Christmas morning just because Her Majesty wants everyone at the motherfucking Marriott at 12 sharp.
My dear father-in-law hasn't made it any less stressful. A couple of weeks ago, he was talking about taking us and my wife's brother on a trip somewhere nice, so we were calling and e-mailing back & forth trying to coordinate schedules. Eventually the grand plan fell apart, so he said just come over on Christmas day for hors d'oeuvres, when we already said we probably wouldn't be coming to town that day. But, that may be the only chance we get to see him before he has to jet off again to some other desolate outpost for his job, so my dream of a relaxing Christmas at home appears to be crumbling.
I am resolved to do things differently next year. I shall call for a rigid, unbending plan to stay put and not leave town all day Christmas day, if at all. Hopefully I'll have the funds to take us somewhere like a resort for a few days, avoid our families, and truly enjoy our time off.
This year I made an even greater effort than last year to avoid the major shopping centers in my town and their horrific traffic jams. I ordered practically every gift online except for a few little stocking stuffers for the wife, which I am procuring at a small confectionery away from the pushing, shoving throngs. I was doing pretty well at this little game until this past Friday.
On Friday, my office had its annual holiday party, after which we closed early. Precious freedom! I was excited and overjoyed at the prospect of going home and wallowing about in front of my beautiful new 47-inch flat-panel TV my parents bought for me as an early Christmas present. However, my dear wife needed me to procure a few items to bring to a friend's party the next evening, and also rent a Redbox movie for that night. One little errand, I thought to myself. No biggie.
That's where the ass-fucking began. Redbox has a lovely reservation feature, with which you can reserve a DVD through their website and pick it up at the requested machine. Using this feature, I could see that the only machine containing our desired film was at a grocery store in the middle of a Christmas-shopping hellhole that gets so congested with traffic that they have to hire traffic control personnel. I intended to use a promotional coupon for 66% off, only to discover that such codes can't be used for online reservations. What the fuck good is it, then? Goddamn Redbox. Desperate for cheap Friday night entertainment, I reserved it anyway, for the full $1, at the undesirable location. It took me about 15 minutes to get through the ridiculous traffic and reach the grocery store when it should have taken 5 minutes. This is a store I seldom patronize due to its overwhelming size and illogical layout. Why in the fuck did they keep the pita chips on their own rack on the opposite end of the store from the snack isle? I went up and down every isle twice looking for Craisins, and of course every carton of eggs has at least one cracked egg because they hire retarded gorillas to stock the dairy case. After maybe 45 minutes in that god-forsaken pit of human misery, I finally found everything on the jumbled shopping list and got the fuck out of there. Halfway home, I realized I'd forgotten the goddamned movie! So I had to get my ass back there, taking a back route this time, which I should have done in the first place. This time I said fuck it, and parked in the reserved "customer with child" space, probably drawing dirty looks from goody-goodies, but at that point I didn't give a flying fuck. I finally made it home about 4:30. Oh, did I mention that the office party was held at an employee's house almost in the next town? So even though we were released at 2:15, it was 2:45 by the time I got home, and then it was right back out the door again. I lost an hour and 45 minutes of my precious afternoon off thanks to all the other assholes who can't plan ahead and do all their consumerism at the last minute.
Well, at least that was the low point of the weekend. We enjoyed our movie night on our fabulous new TV, and had a good time at our friend's party the next night. We went out Saturday to our favorite watering hole, where I kept my new kilt on that I had worn to the party. That certainly shined a light on the vast sinkhole of ignorance in this town. I kept hearing "omigod that guy's wearing a skirt" and even heard "maybe he's Muslim." Eh, whatever, I looked damn good. Sunday was glorious. We didn't leave the house or even get dressed, and sat around all day watching the entire Band of Brothers miniseries on our new TV.
Then came the call from Granny.
About 5 times now, Granny has called asking when we're coming for Christmas and whether we're coming to lunch. And 5 times the answer has been no, we're not coming on Christmas day, and no, we won't make it to lunch at the fucking Marriott. It's so frustrating because not only is she being her usual spoiled, impulsive, demanding self, but her deteriorating memory is also playing a part in the repeated phone calls. I think she truly can't remember what we've already told her. My wife finally told her last night that we don't like being pressured to come to Christmas lunch when we've already planned to hang around here most of the day. Granny got all pissy after that and hung up to go fume and pout because we weren't doing what the Grande Dame had commanded. I'm getting so goddamned sick of Granny's grandiose meal plans where poor Granddaddy has to get his tired self dressed and out in the cold when he'd probably rather have sandwiches at home. Plus she just doesn't understand that not everybody gets up at 6 in the goddamned morning like she does, and to get there at noon means means we'd have to be done with opening gifts, dressed, have our bags packed, and have the dog at the dogsitter's house by 10:30. We are absolutely not going to rush ourselves through Christmas morning just because Her Majesty wants everyone at the motherfucking Marriott at 12 sharp.
My dear father-in-law hasn't made it any less stressful. A couple of weeks ago, he was talking about taking us and my wife's brother on a trip somewhere nice, so we were calling and e-mailing back & forth trying to coordinate schedules. Eventually the grand plan fell apart, so he said just come over on Christmas day for hors d'oeuvres, when we already said we probably wouldn't be coming to town that day. But, that may be the only chance we get to see him before he has to jet off again to some other desolate outpost for his job, so my dream of a relaxing Christmas at home appears to be crumbling.
I am resolved to do things differently next year. I shall call for a rigid, unbending plan to stay put and not leave town all day Christmas day, if at all. Hopefully I'll have the funds to take us somewhere like a resort for a few days, avoid our families, and truly enjoy our time off.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)