You Know It's Bad When . . .

. . . you walk by your boss's office and all his clothes are stacked on a chair--and your boss is nowhere to be seen.

How did you miss the fact that he ran naked out of the office and down the street?

Sometimes . . .

Sometimes when you do work for work's sake, you also make art for art's sake. I love it when that happens.



While taking photos of the new building for the business blog, I happened to catch this one better than I could have planned. The only thing I had to do was crop it--I love getting a shot like that!

How's Business??

Today tastes like butter and bitter chocolate, with just a hint of sugar. Dense and creamy, salty and none too sweet.

Interesting times at work, in the Chinese sense of interesting. Arthurella, Gareth, I and a cast of thousands are setting up a business with the whole vision thing--no more small business association loans where you have to beg and plead for fifty bucks, we're seeking out venture capitalists and investors this time. We're reserving our begging and pleading for figures with seven digits to the left of the decimal.

We have a building in the process of renovation for our use, we're looking at renting a bitty space right now, just to have a place to work, and we're shooting to open the doors in August.

And then I probably won't know daylight from dark for five years.

I'm okay with that; I got to write my own compensation package and my own job description, so I'll be doing many things I love (like writing and writing and writing--see the Capital Collection Bureau blog¹ for details of where the biz is at. I promise not to do more than the occasional link to it here when something cool happens.

It's funny--in order to minimize the possibility of cross-posting, I set up another account for the CCB Blog. I could just see myself hammering out a post about the latest lunchbox project and throwing it up there, or starting a business-related post with "Today tastes like artichokes and used engine oil. Why do people assume that we can't follow our own moral code?" Eeeeeek!

1. Edited--We've killed the "real" Capital Collection Bureau blog due to an order from the guys in black dresses. I'm half-tempted to find out if the Capital Collections Bureau at Blogspot dot Com is the same one as trimmed our ears, or if it's yet another one.

And yes, this is a lesson that if you have a nifty cool name, then someone else thought of it first. Even though you do your due diligence . . .

Round and Round the Ring

Today tastes like apricots. Apricot conserve, to be more precise, with cashews, and just enough sugar to take the sting of the fruit out. With Devonshire cream (expensive at fine food stores) or the Mexican version (cheap in the local supermarket) both as thick as sour cream, but sweet and unspoiled.

I promised pictures of the final Hellmouth, promising blogger that I am, and they will be up this weekend. Roman riding leaves me little time for much else during the week, and last weekend was hectic. (As if this weekend will be any better—I’m dreaming again, I see. Haircut, lube the car, massage, dinner with Mischief—and get 65 paste pages whomped up because I’ll only have two weeks in September to complete them and get them sent where they need to go. Right.)

Although it looks like that situation may be improving. Rather than three horses, I’ll be able to cut back to two in October. It’s not Job 3.0, with the no roaming provision and the loosened skin parameters, but it’s at least Job 1.6, a step in the right direction.

I'll be working for Arthurella, doing collections paralegal work for Wilcox & Wilcox (and writing their newsletter, too, it looks like. Go here for a sample, under the August 4 post. Blog style covering dry topics such as tort reform. To me it reads like brownie batter and pickles, but apparently the sweet and salty and chocolate and crunchy appeals.) In addition, I'll be doing the work of Job 3.0 as it comes up, only I won't have to have a hand mirror on the wall while I do it. So long as what's gotta happen happens, the Once and Future Boss minds not.

So basically, I go on vacation and come back to a new job. And then, hopefully, another new job come January -- but working for the same company, just at Job 3.0. Not too shabby, if I say so myself.

A Circus of One

Today tastes like iron, garlic, and persistence.

Some weeks ago, during a long and evil down period, Mummie Dearest sent me a note, signed with her signature howling coyote, that read “Trust your mother, not those who doubt you.” I hung it over my workbench in the paper studio, where I would see it as bookends to the work day as I left and as I returned. It’s an external source of faith for times when I can’t bootstrap myself.

And in the last couple of weeks, a bunch of stuff has come together like that moment in breadmaking where you finally have enough flour, and the dough magically stops being a sticky mass and all rolls up into a clean elastic ball.

I submitted a poem to Annie Modesitt for her new book, Cheaper than Therapy. What the heck, electrons are free, right? She’s accepted it—actually sent the publishing agreement and all that. Watch for Cheaper than Therapy this fall, in the rapidly growing knit lit section.

I’m riding several horses with one behind, and hoping to quit the circus act soon, but there you go. I wrote an article for a former and (hopefully soon) future boss (the once and future boss? Should I call her Arthurella? Hmmmmm . . .) Anyway, I wrote an article about the then-pending Junk Fax Prevention Act (which passed, by the way. Basically what this does is makes it easier (and legal) for marketers to spam you via your fax machine (where YOU pay for the paper and toner. This was a total non-no under the TCPA—47 U.S.C. §227. The new bill can be found here. It takes effect January 1, 2006. Quick, fax your congressperson and tell him or her to put down the crack pipe!)

Ok, enough parenthetical exposition. Anyway, one of the attorneys on board for Arthurella saw it, and asked me if they could re-publish it in their newsletter. Now, mind, it reads very much like the paragraph above, soapbox and all. Chatty and conversational, with a couple of definitions, references, and what it all means to you. Not a lawyer’s tone at all. Way cool, sez I, so long as I get a byline. Better yet, add a contact for the fledgling company so we can get some ink out of it.

And they did. Not only that, they asked me to whip up an article for their firm for September with reference to Arizona’s tort reform laws as they apply to personal injury caps! Woooo-hoooooo, a project to sink my teeth into, with a guaranteed audience. Crunchy, and good with ketchup.

And as mentioned earlier—one behind and three horses. Arthurella has me doing some of the work that will become the full time position (soon, o soon). I’ll be the liaison between the company and the out-of state attorneys who work for us, so we’ve been getting my contact info together, and I’ve been starting out with phone calls and e-mails to fellas who’ve been out in the cold for a while, making demand and waiting for fees to come their way so they can file suit. It’s very similar to a job I used to do for her—and very different at the same time.

It’s been far too long since I was captain of my own destiny. Arthurella hates to micromanage, and I’m used to reporting in at each and every step—boss, I tied my LEFT shoe. I’m going to tie my RIGHT shoe now, may I? (She’s also bright and logical enough to realize that if you grouse about being asked to APPROVE each step, you don’t get to BLAME when the employee makes a mis-step.) So I’ve been telling her my strategy, and informing her of the promises my mouth makes so our behind can cash them.

I’ve been tap-dancing with this one fella, dickering over a fee agreement. I finally got him to show me his, and it was more than we could handle. I told him that, and counter-offered—then spent the afternoon chewing my fingernails to the elbows, worried that I’d blown it. That I’d exceeded my authority AND ticked off a potentially powerful partner in this gig.

Opened up my email this morning, and there’s a response from the guy. Opened it up gingerly—and he’s fine with our counter-offer, wants to get this show on the road. I smoothed another’s ruffled feathers—hopefully they’ll stay that way. I’d forgotten about the plunges on the roller-coaster ride of a new company.

But the highs are so high. And the thrill of effectiveness; of actually making stuff happen on your own recognizance and judgment makes it worth learning to juggle flaming chainsaws while walking a tightrope.

The Ongoing Soap Opera

So--finally feeling like I've come back to myself after the stress and angst (und Sturm und Drang) of the last month. Perhaps starting a new month has something to do with that.

Perhaps a new job creeping into being has something to do with that also, but I'm reluctant to call the gods' jealous attention to something good coming that has not reached fruition, so -- more on that later.

Tying up some loose ends that were interrupted (Blog, Interrupted?) by the necessary finale of seem and the aftermath thereafter, this will be a series of written gesture poses about posts that I alluded to wishing I could write; but that weren't there then. (And if you followed that last sentence, you probably didn't need an explanation for what follows. If I lost you, sorry. Come back in a week or two; I'm still getting my head back together.)

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Right before Grandfather died--or rather, right after I got the sad news, but before I left to go to the funeral--Mischief, Vincenza and I went to the opening day of an exhibition dedicated to Surrealist Art. Vincenza asked, when we met for breakfast that morning and she noted I was a little distant, if I was still up for a museum crawl. We had made plans Saturday evening, the night before, and then I got the news at o'dark forty-five Sunday morning (one of the pitfalls of answering machines. Evil news hangs on the tape like a poison fog, waiting to blow into your ears without so much as a warning ring.) I told her that life was for the living, and that there was no way I was going to miss this.

It's a lesson I learned some time ago, and I'm glad I got it young enough to do some good. Appreciate the strawberries when there's nothing you can do about the tigers and the cliff.

It was a great time, even though most of the art was flat. I don't like paintings because I always want to turn the frame over and see the back side. You'll find me off to the side, craning and peering at one that really catches me, because I'm trying to see the SIDE view. I know, it doesn't work. Perhaps I should write a short story about what happens when it does. Hmmm.

But they had enough sculpture to be fun. A shame they didn't have Dali's winged snail--that's one of my favorites. And perhaps it's my wimpy little ego (and my logophilia), but I find it rewarding when I find the name of a technique I use when I play ATC's used in "real" art--the kind of art that gets lumped into a movement, and then displayed in museums.

It was fun to meander and look at stuff that you weren't being sold, and thus didn't feel like you ought to covet it. That's the part I don't like about artisan markets/craft shows--the mere fact that there are price tags on the stuff means that someone thought you ought to want it enough to pay for it; and most of the time, I don't. I just want to look, and find inspiration where I can--ooooh, shiny!
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For the first time in 600 years, the full moon fell on the summer solstice. And Lynchpin and I sat down to hash things out.

I wish I could say that this was all planned, that we had chosen the date and to meet outside under the stars knowing that this was an occasion of special magnitude. But actually, it was Mischief's doing. And we all just happened to have that day free.

As you may know, Lynchpin and I have not been friendly. Frankly, I've been staying away--as far away as I can. I have real issues when it comes to fixing people--I've walked away from relationships where it was clear that "he'd be perfect if only." Honey, he ain't perfect. Deal with it, or walk--but fixing is not an option. If he wanted to be fixed, there are plenty of women who have already told him about his pending imperfection, and the fact that he's chosen not to fix it means that he ain't gonna.

And besides, that opens up the whole can of worms where the Other says to you--"You're great, but you know . . . If only . . ."

So Mischief has been the middlewoman in this mess, really enjoying both of us, but walking on eggshells for fear of pissing one of us off by mentioning the other. And here's the thing--I don't and have never hated Lynchpin, just found her behavior hard to be around because so many of the aspects I dislike are ones that I've rooted out of my own self.

It's like finally getting off the needle, and then, as a condition of parole, being required to minister and witness--in a shooting gallery. All around you, you smell the matches and heating opium, the rubber of the tubing; you see the match flames and the junkies on the nod, and while you try very hard to listen to the angel on the one shoulder and remember the climb out of suffering and the work you did to retrain yourself to new choices . . . well . . . just a little taste . . . urg. I have choices, so for a long time, I chose not to be around that kind of energy. I work forty hours a week in a pissing contest; I don't want to spend my free time in hip waders.

Ah, but Mischief was getting the role of the frosting in this Oreo, and not happy about it. So she set up a meeting and offered to mediate (probably because she knew Lynchpin and I are both sufficiently avoiders to duck out of actually sitting down face to face without someone to lose face in front of). I was braced for an hour of yuckitude, cos I'm like a guy when it comes to "working on a relationship." Lay out your position, why you feel that way, tell me without dramatics where you're coming from, and I'll do my best to understand your world. "This is obviously true for you; so what kind of world is this true in?" But please, please, please don't give me this soft squishy querying "I don't know, but . . ." (Honey, if you don't know, who does? And why aren't they here?)

And instead . . . well, we figured out what we saw in each other all those years ago when we first met, and when we began becoming friends. In about fifteen minutes.

And then we spent the next four hours hanging out and drinking lattes. Under the full moon, with the year slowly tipping into winter. (And yes, come December 22, the year will tip back into summer again. Time is ponderous, viscous, and elastic. The seasons catch up slowly.)

This Friday, for the first time in almost a year, we'll be joining our friends again. I think I'm looking forward to it.

Pick What You Want, and Pay For It

Toady tastes like root beer that's been left out on the porch overnight--and now it's three in the afternoon.

Hot, sticky, cloying, flat.

It's review time at work, so all the bosses are snippy, and nothing can be done right.

And this leads into priorities and settling and the connections between them.

Settling used to be the worst thing I could imagine. Getting stuck with less than you really wanted simply because it was comfortable, and change is inherently disturbing. But at the same time, you do need to choose what is maximally importnat in your life.

Do you want six adorable stairstep children? Then you need to make hatching and rearing the brood your main priority--not a high-octane career (because those often require you to work late at the office, or drag work home with you, or work on the weekends) and realize that there won't be cash for exotic vacations for all eight of you--unless the other parent makes it their mission to support the family and keep you all in nametags for the weekly dinner with the breadwinner.

And some may say that the homemaker in the above scenario settled for that role. A shame about Pat, getting a degree and all that work, just to marry and raise children. Do you think the eight year old is into Proust yet?

But Pat made the choices that led to that life--agreed to marry Kim, agreed to be the one to stay home and care for the brood--heck, agreed that children and a big family were worthwhile goals in life, and that kids need to be raised by parents, not daycare. And agreed that a high-octane career and hundred mile an hour lifestyle was not what was desirable because of the choices that are precluded by that.

So I'm working in a career path that I outgrew years ago, and am frustrated by a job I can do in my sleep. And yet--the very banal nature of what I do allows me to do other things on the side and in the corners of my head, such as blog to keep the writing flowing, and do paper artsy stuff for fun and trade, and design knitwear for fun and profit.

If I had a higher-powered job, I'd have to yield focus to that in order to keep the gravy train from overturning. If I took a creative job, I'm afraid the muse would simply go hide in the bathroom with the door locked.

So am I settling, or is it simply that my priorities are to earn enough bread to make a well-rounded life?

I Say "Feh" a Lot, Lately.

Today tastes like cardamom, wormwood, and amber. Aromatic, yet bitter.

Still in state of high ambivalence about work. On the one hand, I'm finally getting some baby step valuable experience that could go on the resume and help find a better job where the bar (and the pay) are higher. On the other hand, I'm working 45-50 hours per week to try and get it all done, and I have a sneaking hunch that some animals are more equal than others when it comes to remuneration and workload, and especially the remuneration to workload ratio.

Have just about decided that it's time to begin looking--not frantically spamming each and every want ad with a resume in a frantic effort to get the hell out, but to watch for any good looking leads (and to make myself available for good looking leads) AFTER the trip to Italy in September. To put in the time to manufacture a position that is perfectly suited for me, and then to go find someone to pay me well to do it. If nothing else, the feeling of having options will ease my frustration with the high school environment.

And still highly ambivalent about the annual August Revelry coming up. Several good friends have been asking if they’ll see me there, since I’ve been staying away in droves from just about everything to do with Lynchpin and Hub since last fall. And this year’s August Revelry looks to be a history-making goodie much like the Millennial Party. Elaborate costuming, set decoration, three houses for the overflow, and big big LARP (Live Action Role Playing) all night long. Come as you aren’t, in other words.

Mischief has her shtick all laid out, from headdress to props, and is beading her beady little eyes out working on an Egyptian collar neckpiece/breastplate. Vincenza is googling images from the movie Legend so she can go as Dark Lily, complete with Tudor wirework collar. Me, I’m currently accepting bribes to finish a tunic (grommet the sleeves—that’s all that’s left). And still I say feh.

I say "feh" a lot, lately. I've been weeding out lists where I've just been whacking the delete key instead of reading posts; and soon the ones I just lurk in will be going as well. I dropped one that I thought I'd be going old and grey with. I thought I was going to miss them, but then I realized that the them I miss are the them from five-six years ago. We have all moved on.

I've been inching out of the local knitting guild, as well. Last fall, I sort of stopped attending meetings religiously, then I skipped the Christmas party, and I haven't been to a meeting save once this year. My knitting time is precious to me; I don't want to spend two hours of it twice a month to sit with people who belive you need to have a pattern to knit a dishrag or a scarf. I was working on a Linus blanket (Ostrich Plumes with a Basketweave edging) and was asked where I got the pattern (?) and then in hushed tones if I'd thought of putting those two patterns together myself.

Good lord 'n' butter! I love Ostrich Plumes--it's a lot of bang for your buck and is easy to read besides. I love Basketweave for the same reason. I needed something non-curling for the edging (and Basketweave doesn't curl) so there we were. If I hadn't loved it when I got going, I would have ripped it in the swatch--or just pulled back to the border and done a striped Basketweave. No more talent than making a pie crust and filling it with eggs, cream, cooked meat, cheese, and onions and peppers. Quiche isn't hard. Nor is knitting. No reason to need your hand held for the rest of your life with either one of them.

Feh.

Assmillinery 101

Today tastes like really good hummus topped with lamb and pine nuts. Gallons of the stuff, with bushels of pita bread and some olive oil, and oil cured olives. And feta. Oh baby.

Really, the only fly in the ointment is this one case I'm wrestling with. Boss₂ is dealing with The Thing That Would Not Die (it is a BAD thing, a very very BAD thing when three days before trial starts (1) your client tells you that, well, actually there are some errors in the data you've presented as gospel; (2) promises to have the raw data right to you, by Friday at the latest; (3)delays until the night before trial).

Cabeza del Queso is undergoing meltdown. I had not understood how exceedingly well Boss₂ kept everything in perspective until I really saw him in action. Henceforth Boss₂ will be known by his superhero name of Perspective Man {fanfare}.

EXPOSITION BREAK

"Perspective Man!! Perspective Man!! It's a dire emergency! The City needs you!"

"Has the world ended?"

"No . . ."

"Is anyone bleeding? Any open head wounds, sucking chest wounds, babies crying?"

"No . . ."

"Well, then, it's nothing that can't be fixed." Perspective Man took his feet down off his desk, arose from his comfy leather chair, and took his cardigan off the hook on the back of the door on his way out to save his beloved City.

END EXPOSITION BREAK

So anyway--about Assmillinery. There is a pithy and pungent phrase I really like--asshat. (I know, Rabbitch likes "asstrumpet"--for those speaking through the nether orifice, I assume) but being a fan of the chapeau, I like asshat. The person in question has not quite achieved full recto-cranial inversion, but good lord'n'butter, he's headed that way. Buttocks perched jauntily on his cranium, legs waving merrily like those springy deeliebobs that were soooo hot in the eighties. And if you're not old enough to remember the eighties, you probably aren't old enough for this blog.

And hey, if you're going to be an asshat, you might's well get some feathers and ribbons out of it. Hence assmillinery--a well-decorated asshat.

And then of course you get into ranking the asshats. You have the Magritte Bowlerasshats; The 500 Asshats of Bartholomew Cubbins; the 10-Gallon asshats; and then, at the very pinnacle, the Queen Mum asshats.

And that last, me dearios, is the type I wound up dealing with this afternoon. Boss ₂ took on a simple personal injury case with property damage--a real bread and butter case. Client is a tich on the needy side. (Aren't they all.) But she's pleasant and reasonably articulate (which they all are most certainly NOT). Knowing Boss ₂ is up to his li'l earlobes in the Case From the Pits, I put together a string of queries and suggested solutions, and ask his opinion, becuase, well, I can always get another job if'n I really screw the pooch. He can't get another license, so really, it's his dime and my time. S'a'right, I'm not the one working from 7:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m. while the Vile Drama plays out. Boss₂ says do everything you can.

Which means, do everything a lawyer would do, except square it with me first before you give legal advice, and pass the phone to me if there's advocating to be done.

Client calls, and mirable dictu she's been able to get to the towing yard, get her final personals out of the car, and has some bad news. It's been on the lot long enough that it can be deemed abandoned, and the title pass to the towing lot--so she'd be minus the car (totalled) and the cash-out (which we're haggling over).

Call the tow yard, and get into assmillinery.

Employee says company policy won't let her make the calls to Responsible Driver's Insurance, and no, she lacks the power and glory to hold off on acquiring the ttile to the "abandoned" car, but if I call her boss at 555-1234, there'll be no sweatsky. (This is after thirty minutes on hold.)

Dial 555-1234, ask for Mr. Gloriosky. Who? Not on the auto dial directory either.

Ok. Call Magritte Bowler asshat back (another thirty minutes of music from the 70's 80's and whatever we want) and she says, no, no, call Mr. Gloriosky at 555-2345. That's his direct mailbox number.

Try again. Get an automated system that wants an extension the first time, directs me to a full mailbox when I punch for the operator the second time, has no listing for Gloriosky the third time.

Decide to bypass the 485th asshat of B. Cubbins, dial the main line for the company, ask for Mr. Gloriosky, and am routed to Sandbagg's voice mail. Leave message for Sandbagg. Rather snarly sort of message, like a very polite 300 pound gorilla slowly losing patience.

Dial main line again,ask for Mr. Gloriosky, am transferred to first automated system, asking for non-existent extention.

Dial main line again, ask for Mr. Gloriosky (because each time I do this, I get a new operator, and eventually someone will screw up and actually connect me with who I'm looking for. Or so my logic runs.)and am transferred to the full mailbox.

Dial main line again, amusing self by putting all this in a cut and dried memo to the file. Get an operator who is busy and distracted, because he tells me I can reach Mr. Gloriosky at 555-3768. Hmmm. No relationship at all to what 10 Gallon asshat was telling me.

Leave message for Gloriosky. (The heavens open up, an angelic choir harmonizes, light shines down on my office--ok, that last happens pretty nearly every day. However, this is SPECIAL light, ok?)

O course, Gloriosky has not returned my call at all, at all. So I do a little research, and draft up a letter to the DMV asking them to put a hold on any title transfers for the next 30 days. And hey, if this goofs up Responsible Driver's Insurance's Plans, well, they COULD have agreed to cough up the bux to get the car out of the storage lot (not to mention doing thier inspection back before moving the title was an issue).

Cuz lemme tell you, the folks at R.D.'s Ins. Co are Queen Mum asshats. With feathers AND flowers AND ribbons.

My Life With Boss and Cabeza de Queso

Today tastes like the aforementioned chocolate cake with raw beef liver frosting (and for those of you who are wondering; that’s a buttercream frosting, with raw beef liver ground fine and blended into the mix) except that now it has been garnished with raw onion, and served with a glass of warm gin.

Rotten pistachios, anyone?

I have reached the conclusion that a particular ex-boss of mine is a monster in the Latin root sense of the word* – every time I see him, things are about to go terribly wrong. It’s ironic—we work in the same neighborhood, and frequent the same Starbucks at about the same hour of the day. Well, he “frequents” it, I “very seldom” it any more. Today was the first time in . . . uhmmmm . . . well, since before Thanksgiving that I’d gone in for a cuppa.

And there he was in the scales, feathers, and fangs. (He only breathes fire on his days off.) We civilly ignored each other—we spoke once since the relationship was dissolved, and that was enough closure for me, thanks. But I knew that today would be one of those days that cracks rocks open to get to the bones inside in order to have something to REALLY gnaw on.

And I was right. About ten minutes after I sat down at work, I was ready to clean my desk extra-well, take an early lunch . . . and then take my chances with the want ads come Sunday.

My boss is deeply involved in an extensive (and expen$ive) suit that goes to trial the first week of May. (He’s a lawyer—go figure.) So of course that means El Queso Grande is also involved in the matter. (Firm is “Queso, Boss & Associates,” more or less.) Well, Cabeza de Queso has his own particular little ways of dealing with complex litigation whereby he takes an organized file and lays it out in one layer of papers scattered all over the office. That would be why there’s a ping-pong table in the employee’s break room.

C de Q conscripts every employee whose job it is to deal with the filing and puts them to this task, which means that not only the file you are dealing with on a urgent basis has been torn apart and flung to the four winds, but all the other filing is not being done and is piling up in drifts in the file room. Alphabetically stacked and separated drifts, to be sure, but drifts just the same. How many last names begin with s, m, or r? More than you’d think.

And C de Q is totally helpless without someone to be there holding his widdle hand and providing energy. Guess who was elected?

I've been listening to the Dahli Lama's Art of Happiness at Work and that has helped crystallize some of my vague feelings about what I do and why I do it. I prefer work that leaves me space to think my own thoughts -- maybe I don't make hella money at it, and it may not be a job whose title is spoken in hushed tones of reverence, but really, if those were the most important aspects of my work, I would have made other choices. Or, in the alternative, I would make different choices starting right now--to drop the art balls and go back to school to get the training for a job to make scads of money or become respectable or both.

So I guess what's important to take along at times like this (because pain IS inescapable and part of the human condition) is that there are choices. There are ALWAYS choices. You just have to decide your priorities.

* “Monster” from monstera, to point out. Monsters are not the noun lurking under your bed, they are swats on the head from the divine, demanding that you wake up and not just smell the coffee, but notice that the kitchen has caught fire and that the house is burning down around you.