[Warning, this one is a long one but may reward you with a few LOL moments, I hope]
Last week sucked
I don’t even remember what we did last weekend. If it was good or bad, the thoughts of it were erased by Monday’s events and then hammered down by the drudge of the rest of the week. Here is the glorious synopsis:
Monday
It began with a pain in the ass email from a parental, the father figure type. Something about he knows I am working hard on something but they would love a phone call to know about it. I admit that I never call. Actually I am growing weirder about that as time goes on [that is the stuff of another long winded window into my soul]. None the less, I don’t call like a good son should.
BUT… this blog thingy-ma-jig was created with that in mind. I thought that maybe I could detail the junk that occupies my life for the occasional perusal by the familials. Irritated that they haven’t called me for quite some time either and now looking for ammo to passive aggressively act out in some childish manner I fire up Google Analytics.
While most use this nifty mass of data for proper SEO management, I am going to use it to pick a fight. Perfect. A quick crunch of the numbers in some formula constructed in my irrational state, consisting of time on site with the bounce rate multiplied (or divided) by the number of visits, I deduce that they haven’t read the damn thing in some time. I have even set it as their home page for their browsers to force the issue. [some of you might realize that I have unintentionally skewed the results against them by default, I will refer to the irrational state as a defence]
Add in the fact that my father already has a genetic predisposition to this nagging behavior. Plus the fwd disease that afflicts way too many Americans. This refers to the uncontrollable urge to hit the forward button on every whack ass, sappy email that demands itself to be forwarded to every unfortunate schmuck in the reader’s address book. A another symptom is that the patient has the delusion that this might count as true email communication. Mom at least sends good dirty jokes along like this. And in his defence I a a couple of friends that are way worse.
So, having come to a goofy decision to react dumbly, I begin to come up with a hair brain idea. But it since I was now sort of (actually really) late for work I post pone it and drive off into the next snafu.
It seems that I must have changed the oil in the Echo-Gecko the day before. This was after a sudden realization by my wife that it had not been done for way too long. This was an estimate since we had no hard data, i.e. the sticker on the window had fallen off. But, we did have an over-reaction that must be immediately dealt with. Since it was Sunday evening and no good establishment would be open to this for us, I was elected to crawl under the car held up by metallic toothpicks welded together in what resembled a jack ad change the oil and filter.
This is where I fuck-up Monday’s events. Seems that this particular car has the frigging transmission pan in front of the engine and the oil drains directly from some place else that is not immediately recognizable. In other words, I drained the transmission, changed the oil filter and added three and a half additional quarts of oil to an already full engine. Yeah. That was bad.
We find out how bad when Christina begins describing things happening while driving the car that should never happen. Bad stuff begins here. I will refer to the over-reaction of Sunday. Insert something that actually needs to be worried about into similar emotions. Wow.
So now I am trying to negotiate getting out of work immediately while in the midst of a whole set of bad things happening at work. I can’t get to detailed with this round of shit but it was getting close to being on par with the car crapping out. Christina sends verbal nuclear radiation beams through the phone, into my ear and effectively destroying my brain stem. She does this while crawling the Echo to the nearest filler up station. Crapola. I am know going to have to extract my wife from the hostile country of Osceola County soon and she seems to be just as hostile.
Lucky for me she makes it there. Mr. Jiffy Lube nice guy figured out that some retard drained the transmission, changed the oil filter and added three and a half additional quarts of oil to an already full engine. He hits the reset button, refills things and thanks to my wife’s devilish good looks (and wrecked emotional state) he charges only $9 to get me out of a soon to be super fucked up situation.
We finish out the afternoon and evening exhausted from the enormous height of drama we maintained for a record number of hours.
I execute my ridiculously passive aggressive plan by setting up the nifty Subscribe By Email feature in Feedburner. I punch in the father’s email address and let it roll. Can I count those as proper email conversations?
Tuesday through Thursday
Fortunately nothing like Trauma Drama Monday but it didn’t seem to elevate the mood one bit. Why? Work. I can’t get to the details but it boils down to that I do not enjoy what I am currently doing. I went from performing and writing daily to nothing. I am a technological custodian. I wield a floppy disk rather than a mop.
My dream job: host of the US version of Top Gear. I would get to drive bad ass cars, rag them without mercy and complete oddball segments that have no real value to the greater good of anything other than hilarious entertainment. Here are my qualifications:
- I would first submit my driving record (I have one available driving class left to take and the judge made fun of me when I contested my last ticket) as proof that I enjoy driving a bit too much.
- Second my clear lack of looks is not a real barrier (see two of three current host are rather goofy looking).
- Third, I am funny, most of the time. Well I crack my shit up regularly. Plus I have no qualms making a fool, making fun of or just being a total tard in front of enormously large groups of people.
- Lastly, I can talk about anything and sound like I have at least a clue, maybe a bit competent. I can keep this charade going for close to thirty minutes, just enough to fumble through a decent segment. Halfway read a few books I can sound like a car expert.
The problem no is how to find this job. I have checked Monster.com and the other classifieds with no mention of “Wanted: Excitingly normal person to host bad ass car show in new program that rips off yet another great BBC hit and then plans to ruin it with over hype and useless merchandising.” If you ever find that job, send me a link.
The other thing going against me is that I have a Honda Element and a Toyota Echo as my cars to showcase my car knowledge, driving ability and consumer savvy. Additionally you just need to refer to Monday and its events. This could work both ways, one as comic material or make sure that the underwriters make me stay away from any car worth more than $750.
Friday
Work plays out the same. I did manage to work some query magic with SASI. Managed to reduce a mind numbing work-flow to a few manageable queries for some import/export love. Work is still not Top Gear, so it automatically sucks again for all of Friday.
Our evening entertainment was buying kid’s shoes. That just really doesn’t rock in any sense of the word. Christina has a penchant for old styled shoes. She refers to them as “old school”. I kept trying to tell her the only school in those shoes is Sam getting schooled at the bottom of the baby pile as they beat him down as an early nerd. They all remind me of Forrest Gump’s shoes just missing the braces. Luckily we both can agree on some over priced Born shoes that will be too small in way too short of time.
Saturday
The first of several baby b-day parties for the next few weeks. Not so bad. There a few to talk indie music stuff (how rainer maria albums suck but they are great live, etc). The usual collection of rug rats and cake and presents and noise. Lots of baby noise. But there was beer.
I also get to watch USF nearly implode before FAU. Brings hope. But I was unaware of the crap storm of a weekend that was college football. Insane week after week. Then I spend the late evening screaming at the computer (Brighthouse sucks, has no CSTV) while reading about UCF’s implosion at ECU. Suckology 101. Seems they gave a glimpse of the new UCF team for the first half. Then a flashback to last year for the second half. I lost track of the turnovers. This might squash the grassroots hope of a Kevin Smith Heisman run.
Sunday
Normal for the most part. I was cranky in the morning (for one hour) which led to Christina catching the disease for the next four. We renew Christina’s previouslyfore sworn habit of talking to crazies by meeting randomness at breakfast. The day went so well we figured we had to complete the “crappy Seven” as they shall be known by mixing it up a bit.
What better way than to leave everything at Target. I mean the magic bag that is supposed to be tethered to us at all times. The diaper bag that manages to contain every bit of personal info, credit cards and medical junk Christina needs and owns. We left it securely attached to the buggy we just spent the last two hours living with. Figured it would like a souvenir of our time together.
Now there is plenty of blame to be passed around on this one. It is both of our junk. But what is weird that when I flake out on my own, I am flogged with every past transgression and evidence is rehashed at length to prove the already proven fact, I fucked up (see Monday). But when Christina is involved, wholly or partially, it is we flaked out.
Regardless, the wonderful people at Target found the bag and had it for safe keeping. Apparently the only info not contained in the bag was our phone number. The other bad part is that it took us three plus hours to realize the gaffe. Oops.
Reparations
If UCF can beat the snot out of USF, I can find me a job remotely close to Top Gear and finally calling the parentals might bring back cosmic balance to the events of last week.
Oh, by the way Mom. I added your email to the less than thought out plan as well.
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