Birthday Interview

The interview went well, I think, and I want the job. Small residential developer, some commercial projects, growing fast, very casual (jeans and sandals every day, oh yeah baby!), a market I know well, friendly, passionate about their work, and lots of women in management. I liked everybody, and especially the women in management bit. At my former employer which shall remain nameless, it was very much the WASP Boys' Club above a certain level, and of course a paralegal had a snowball's chance of getting even to that certain level where female management was kept.

I definitely could do this job, and because it is a fast-growing company I think I could somewhat write my own ticket after getting in the door and entrenched in the organization. I love the idea of working for an organization without a formal "legal department" and preconceived notions of how things MUST BE or ELSE. And of course there is the curse of "once a paralegal, always a paralegal" - I'm tired of wearing the Scarlet P. If you're good, you won't move out of the role. I have no problem with being in the role to begin with, it's fun and I'm good at it, but I want to be in it in an organization that is growing and still figuring out what it really needs. And I like the idea that their concept of the "paralegal role" - which is not really a traditional real estate paralegal job description - is considered part of the management team, doing deals and creating projects.

And I realized, listening to the broker talk talk talk about the company and how much she loves it, that I MISS that business - it's fun work. I miss the insanity, the silly problems, and the fun of birthing new communities. So I have my fingers crossed that I will get an offer, and an offer I can live with. The HR guy (same guy I had the good phone interview with) said he'd be calling me tomorrow. So we'll see if they come back with an offer, and if they do, if it's one I can live with, then I want the job.

Yet, it will be hard to leave what I'm doing, because, bitching about the company aside (and all my bitches are valid and believe me, I am holding back mightily) I like the cases, I like the people I deal with most, and I love the Boss. He knows I'm looking, he understands why, he's sick about it, but he would never stand in my way. In a perfect world, I'd rather find a place where we can do what we are doing without being strangled on a daily basis by the truly insane level of corporate idiocy (and this is someone who has worked in and for national law firms and international corporations for almost all of her working life talking here - this is the most fucked up EVER) but this is not a perfect world, that is not on the horizon and I'm not getting any younger.

So, we'll see....

Is this any way to spend a "day of rest?"

New Saucony running shoes that fit my boxy little feet very nicely, courtesy of DSW, with birthday $5 off coupon. I wore them this afternoon running errands to break them in, and my feet are SO happy. I will never go this long in old shoes again. I will not have to avoid the treadmill because it caused miserable aching in my toes, because my feet had no support. Aaaahhh.

New cellphones (while Sprint offered amazing discounts with renewed contract, I wasn't going to let THAT slide). Clean pond, (I think I'm down to 7 fish, but it was hard to count.) Clean patio, clean bathroom, clean laundry, freshly colored hair. My PMS demanded a huge batch of black beans and rice, and who am I to argue? Some women want chocolate, I want ethnic foods. Twice cooked pork one month, calamari the next, this month, black beans and rice. It's cheap and good and very nutritious eats.

The boys are so cute when they get biscuits. They each get one, but they don't eat their own. They take one, play keep away for a bit, then share it. After they share the first one, go back for the other one and repeat the game. I don't know what Murphy will do when this dog moves out. Lapse into a funk, I suspect.

Fiber things: I've almost finished the crocheted Zen shawl. I like it. It's not fine and delicate but because of the texture of the ribbon yarn, it's slithery and drapey. I have an urge to finally break out the Fiesta yarn I bought, oh, God, Feb. 04? to do that knitted but similarly brain-dead-easy shawl in those gawgeous turquoises. Plus I have the yarn I bought from Spirit Trail at MDS&W, which, I think, would make an awesome tank to go with said shawl.

And tomorrow is freaking Monday again. Tuesday job interview, Thursday eye exam. Then three day weekend. Enough to stave off boredom, I think.

Movies, crocheting and a napping puppy, I never made it to buy shoes.

Isn't he handsome, if in need of a good brushing?

Get a little crazy this weekend!

Rainy Weekend

We are under a "tropical wave" this weekend, it's gray, it's wet, it's a day to crawl back into bed with tea, knitting and old movies on TV. I do have errands to run this weekend, though. I MUST buy new running shoes. Mine have no tread left and it's really starting to make my feet ache. That's the thing I MUST get done. That and housework. The rest are elective errands.

But right now Cat Ballou is coming on AMC. I think I'll go make tea....

It's hard to keep up

with all the content on Daily Kos, but do read this. Because as its author says, this is important. And it also explains sending Karl Rove out to hop his fat ass around waving a red cape in front of the Dems, doesn't it? Not that the abject failure of everything these assholes have done (and isn't the stock market nose dive because of oil prices just the icing on the giant manure cake?) wasn't enough.

I need a picture

of Dudley pooping. Because Dudley is a hilariously intense pooper. He Concentrates. His little brow furrows deeply. He Quivers so intensely his hind legs sometimes leave the ground. Pooping is not something he takes lightly. He Obviously Thinks Deep Thoughts while Pooping. So I'm thinking that would be a great logo for my resignation letter.*

If the interview on Tuesday pans out, I think I'm gone. I'm sick of living in a Dilbert strip.

But it's okay, because it's the weekend and I am in my Happy Place, which is full of cute little furry animals, yarn, and of course, beer. Yay, Friday.

* Yeah, I went back and edited this post last night before I fell asleep. It's not that I say anything here that I wouldn't say to my boss's boss's boss to his face, but I really want to do that first. NOT because I think that anything will ever change, but just to be professional about it. I could write a book about that job, believe me - and maybe someday I will - names changed to give the guilty a head start, of course.

Major crush. Can we just make him emperor or something?

Barack Obama.

Because this whole electing people thing seems to have broken down badly lately.

I have a crush on

Grand Moff Texan.

Shamelessly Swiped from

Daily Kos. And I can't find the words. We are in the midst of a terrible, national nightmare, and the saddest part is that we allow ourselves to be distracted by Michael Jackson and Paris Hilton and Tom Cruise and his latest beard fiancee.

I threaten to leave...

and Florida gets nervous. I know this is true, because after announcing this one year plan to God and Everybody, yesterday I got a call about a job that might actually be good, and today I had a very good phone interview with the HR Guy, and next week - on my birthday, actually - I go for the in-person grilling. It could be a lot of fun - a small regional homebuilder, expanding wildly and basically without an in-house legal department, looking to build one. It appears I would be it - working with outside attorneys, of course, I ain't practicin' law for these people. (Screw the unlicensed practice of law issue, I just won't do it for paralegal pay.) But I can do what they need to do, and more, and if they are not full of shit, (and of course they may be) it could be another path out of the paralegal pink collar ghetto. They are expanding madly and don't even know what they need yet. I would not mind being inside the organization as they figure that out.

And believe me, the paralegal ghetto is real. It's a Girl Job and paid accordingly. The automatic lowballing of salaries, the asking if you take dictation(!!!) the entire process of looking for a job as a paralegal - even with my level of experience - just points out that it is a "girl job" to many people, and not an actual profession. The real jobs can be very good, very interesting, very professional and fulfilling, but the bad ones are legion. Today I had a second call, I thought from a headhunter, but no, it was just some agency asking if I wanted to do temp work. (Uh, no.) When I said I had a job and was looking for another one, she couldn't get me off the phone fast enough. Thanks honey, I'll cross that agency off my list of people worth bothering with....

But it's also true that when you stop giving a shit, everything gets so much easier. It was a good interview, I felt relaxed and spoke my mind, talked about what I could do, asked questions, and ended the interview by lecturing the HR guy about what a commercial real estate paralegal with my level of experience REALLY gets in this town, and pointed out that I have a lot more construction and development experience than most of them, because I didn't sit in an office and wonk closing documents all day. I understand land development issues and construction issues and can do a lot more than flyspeck title and fill in legal descriptions, thanks. And suddenly his concept of what he was willing to offer as a salary slid upward, and I have a second interview. And I'll be interviewing them as much as they will interview me. And maybe they'll decide I'm too expensive, and they can make do with someone with less experience who will work cheaper, and that will be their loss, but whatever. I have other things in the works still. So, we shall see....

Crocheting the Hannan shawl. I really it. It has that drapey-but-sturdy thing that appeals to me, I could stuff this in a suitcase and not feel like I have to wrap it in tissue paper first, nor would it come out in a dainty cobwebby creased mess, yet it will look striking over a really basic black tank and slacks for a business casual dinner. I'm loving the Zen, and when the yarn fast is broken, it may be for more of this sort of thing.

It sure does.

Schiavo Autopsy Shows Condition of U.S. Politics.

Fussy Eater Shopping Alert

Murphy is 5 years old. Murphy has never eaten normal dog treats - during his puppy training I had to use cat treats, and his favorite treats are people food - bits of chicken or cheese. But Murphy LOVES these. They smell like people food, and they must taste like it too. So far, the overwhelming successes are the roasted chicken and garlic mashed potatoes flavor and the braised short ribs. The roasted chicken and sweet potatoes didn't go over like these flavors.

Dudley of course adores them, but hell, he'll eat anything. He's a DAWG.

Oh, and I have not escaped the joys of the wicked summer cold running through my office. I swear, I have had more crud working there than in my entire adult life combined. I blame it on the frequent visits from various snot-carrying offspring, but maybe the adults just don't wash their hands enough. All I know is that I started the day healthy and ended it miserable. I know, don't say it - how is this different from most work days?

The 12 Month Yarn Diet

There, that's an eye-catching title for an entry on a knitting blog: "How to Reduce Your Stash to Something the Size of the Boney Olsen Twin(Ican'trememberwhichonethatis)'s Lunch!"*

I'm on a 12 month yarn fast because I've made a decision - if the next year doesn't bring me reasons to stay in OrlanDUH, I'm pulling up stakes and moving - first choice is back to MD, but if my pal in Coral Gables comes through with a real job offer and not just flirtation, I'd go South. I'm not in a position to move right now. Too much debt, my dad is in very bad shape (on hospice, actually) and, like it or not, I am the responsible adult on board so I have to be somewhat nearby, generally too many loose ends of middle aged adulthood to tie up here.

But I am very discouraged about my job hunt here in Mousetown - salaries are low, expectations are low, nobody can afford me and nobody really wants what I can do. If they can get a Bimbolegal to send out canned discovery and sort the incoming stuff, that's all they really want. 3-4 years of experience and that'll get you UP TO 35K!!! Yes, there are jobs in my bracket, I know people who have them, but they don't come open that often. I'll keep looking, maybe I'll get one. In the meantime, it's time for a backup plan. And going back to MD is in it. I could make a "lateral move" and make at least 5% more money, and the cost of living is actually LOWER. Even a brief investigation indicates I'd net out at least 10% ahead.

See, this is the big lie Florida tells - they present this view to the rest of the country that you can come here and live in this lovely low cost of living, snow free paradise. The reality is that a little bitty house on my street goes for well over a quarter mil and it's considered a bargain, meanwhile, the average salary is lingering well below 40K. The economy is heavily service based, and, in Orlanduh, heavily influenced by "major employers" like Mauschwitz and MalWart, exploiting employing thousands on part time and seasonal, no benefits, no future, live with four roommates and eat a lot of ramen noodles wages. In a logical world the retail and theme park salary scales would not spill over into other industries, but here, somehow, they do. I have had attorneys in non-FL cities tell me that with my background I'd be making 90K there. I ain't making nowhere near that here. And here, the average person can't buy that average little bitty 1500 square foot house. My friend L is a single mother, good job, makes more money than I do, and can't buy a house. If she's still in that boat in a year I'll ask her if she wants to rent this place - it's in the Primo School District. Which means the schools are barely adequate by national standards.

I've been here 24 years and barely have my nose above the water, paddling like hell. I am a college graduate with a solid background in complex litigation, construction law, real estate, business, and real life. Drop my ass into the middle of any complex commercial litgation case on the planet and I will sort it out in a week and be able to backstage manage it all in two weeks. That's not bragging, it's just what I do. But here there are like 12 jobs like that. If I'm going to be living on tuna in my old age then dammit, I'm going to do it in a city with museums and parks and places worth visiting for free. And I've seen what we have here and it's a joke and it blows.

So that's what I'm thinkin' - and that's why I'm now on the 12 month yarn diet, as well as in general "Have I used this in the past three years? No? It's outta here!" mode.

The kids are also regrouping, rethinking - they may stay in FL but they will in all likelihood blow outta Orlanduh too. This is truly the wasteland of the state, career-wise - even Jacksonville, long ridiculed as "Cleveland with Rednecks" among my friends, has grown up to be a really nice, prosperous, fun city. I've always called it Baltimore with Palm Trees, and it turns out I was more accurate in my assessment -the two cities have much in common. I'd consider moving there. My prospects in general would be better. But I'm leaning toward Baltimore as a better place to be. I have family in Anne Arundel Co. and the District. I have friends there. I have professional ties as well, because I've worked for international companies for years. I could transition back to my Native Land with only moderate re-entry shock - I haven't driven on ice in over two decades, but I can buy a Subaru and it will come back to me, like riding a bicycle - or something.

So that is where I am, Monday, June 20th, 2005. Florida has 12 months to make up to me and change my mind, or the Bossy Dog and I (and Boris)will be on 95, heading North, come this time next year.

Fiber talk - I have been crocheting the green jacket, but over the weekend I had a deep need to work with pretty colors and shiny things. So I dragged out the Berroco Zen from the Stash, and I'm working on Hannan in the Mt. Fuji colorway. I love it.

Oh, and check out the free dog sweater pattern on the website - or rather, Who's wearing it.

Bostons are a family tradition in my family - my grandparents had them, my parents had one before I was born. My dad is very pleased that my daughter has brought Bostons back to the family. And Dudley could not be a better choice, he's an angel.

*I'm not mocking the poor wee Olsen Twin's awful eating disorder, just the sick obsession in the media. They wring their hands about it but make a point of featuring her thinness in every tabloid. Sick mixed messages, anyone?

The baby is now a DAWG.

I haven't ranted about anything political

in a long time, but the latest madness from the Other Bush is just too much. I am horrified that this lunatic is our governor. And still more horrified that the wingnuts are talking about running his psycho ass for president. And freaked out that the So Called Liberal Media is reporting this matter-of-factly, when they bother to mention it at all, like it's normal and rational for a governor to direct a state attorney to continue this personal witch hunt/vendetta on Mr. Schiavo despite a mountain of evidence over the years disproving any foul play, apparently based entirely on his failure to look at a clock before calling 911 when his wife collapsed, or remember what time he dialed the phone years later. Jeb doesn't like how the story ended, and can't bear to be wrong - a congenital and dangerous Bush flaw. The Bushies are never wrong, the facts are simply disregarded and new stories are spun and spread by the noise machine until they become "facts" too.

And the state attorney of course knows which side his political bread is buttered on, so he's on it. Never mind that this was already one of the most extensively investigated non-crimes in history, involving the expenditure of a small fortune in tax dollars to investigate and disprove the hateful and slanderous accusations that were thrown around for years, and notwithstanding the reams and reams of documentation disproving every accusation ever raised. Never mind that the autopsy showed no evidence of any foul play and that Mr. Schiavo and the doctors were right. This is an endless nightmare, and not just for Mr. Schiavo. We all should be scared that a governor will single out an individual citizen for persecution by the state based on his own personal whim, and it happens in broad daylight, reported (sort of) by the media, and everybody shrugs and talks about Tom and Katie's engagement. These are very, very scary times.

This week I moved to South Beach Phase 4

This is my own phase - aka "Oooh, there are doughnuts in the kitchen!" It's been a sugary-snacky week, and I felt tired and bloated all week, and got on the scale this morning and just about died at the horrifying number before my pudgy sugar-glazed eyes. And I realized that I've been practicing a creative form of weight loss sabotage - indulging myself for my virtuous exercise, I've stalled and now am moving backward on the weight loss. I go to the gym, I am definitely more toned and my clothes are fitting better - so I let my eating habits wander all over the map. I allow myself indulgences because I feel so virtuous after a good workout. And muscle does weigh more than fat, right? So I've been rearranging my body mass, substituting muscle for pure flab, but the flab isn't going anywhere without paying attention to my diet as well. And I've been decidedly half-assed about that. My motivation has been half-assed, that is, my ass is definitely full-assed.

It's the Fantasy of Youth - the idea that I can still eat like a 20something as long as I exercise like one. It just doesn't work this way in your 40s. My daughter has lost weight steadily since coming home from Tally and joining the gym, her early 20something metabolism has responded to regular workouts just like mine used to at her age. My body is responding well to the exercise, but my metabolism isn't firing up and burning fat like it once did.

So today I take the pledge - no beer, no pizza, no sneaking chcolate here and there, only SB-approved snacks at the office, portion control, etc., until my birthday 10 days from now. Gym 5x a week. That should be enough to undo the damage and maybe get a bit ahead.

Oh, and the doughnuts were very tasty, but gave me a stomachache by yesterday afternoon. Not worth it. I feel better when I don't eat that stuff - I love the way it tastes, who doesn't? - but I pay the price in lack of energy, fuzzy thinking, bloating and general malaise. It's just not worth it.

Back to ripping that crocheted bag. I still like the concept, but I definitely want to do small and subtle stripes, not big bold ones. Then it's time to shower and pack my healthy little SB lunch for the office....

For Cindy of the Tagboard....

Excuse this segue into a kitchen gush, but a visitor asked.... Here are a few photos of the kitchen taken last year, it's of course finished now, there is no towel in the ceiling and there is crown molding on the cabinets. Photos are also in the archives somewhere around early July 2004. I LOVE my Kraftmaid cabinets, they are very, very well made, the surfaces, the interiors, the hinges, it's all like buttah, baby. I have the deep drawers for pots and pans and can't imagine living without them again, even when loaded with a gazillion heavy pots they glide in and out as if on air. No more crawling on the floor and halfway into a dark cabinet to find the wok. I love the toffee color, it's warm yet neutral, and would go with just about anything. I went with a really clean (read: "cheap") style because my kitchen and my budget were both very small, and popped for the granite countertop, which I still love every time I walk into the room. About the same price as Corian and infinitely sexier.

End of kitchen love-fest....

Love that ceiling towel...

Close up-pre-crown molding but so you can see the grain in the wood. I love this color, it's warm, it's contemporary, and it works with the dark granite countertop better than I'd ever dreamed.

Unfinished kitchen from last year - note the towel stuffed in the vent hole in the ceiling.

Wednesday, the Sequel.

Just go read Angry Black Bitch. I promise that as soon as this Snarky White Bitch updates her sidebar, ABB gets top billing. Love this woman. I was going to say something about the Schiavo autopsy but she beat me to it and hit all the main points.

So, I went to my lousy cube today still deeply ambivalent about tomorrow's interview. I should be old and wise enough by now to recognize that when I am deeply ambivalent it is because I am really turned off, but somehow, this has not quite set in with me yet. So I spent some quality time perusing the prospective employer's website. And I Read the Many Buzzwords, and Yea, Verily, My EYES did GLAZE OVER with Indifference! And when I contemplated a life among the bean-counters of this industry, my Soul Cried Out in Despair! And I called the agency and bailed on the interview.

I'm sorry, but I can contract wonk with the best of them in a subject matter in which I have some interest. Give me the contracts of a GC and a sub and a sub-sub and I'll tell you Who's On First and enjoy figuring it out. That's about people with tools, making buildings and roads and bridges and things that real people use every day. I love Bob the Builder contract work. But the vocabulary and subject matter of the potential employer is just waaaay too esoteric, too actuarial, too bean-counting, too Fucking Boring. It's nice that there are people with this level of detail who can give a shit about it. Or maybe it's not, maybe the existence of people who can numb their souls to the point of caring about this shit enables it to exist. Maybe somebody should just grab them and shake them and say, "You aren't making anything, you aren't helping anyone, you aren't doing anything but writing contracts that create imaginary money and move it around! You are the Dungeons and Dragons players who never grew up, and you are the scourge of the corporate world!" I can't tell, I just know I Can't Do It. I'd rather work the paint department at Home Depot.

Not that my current job shows any sign of going away - I have to remind myself of that, I have time to find the right job or even change paths entirely if the RIGHT opportunity arises. This just was not IT.

No time, no energy

Lots of rants but no time to blog them. Work is exhausting, the days are long, full of non-stimulating busywork and generally no fun at all. I've been going to the gym every evening, which is very good, working out often is improving my mood and my energy level as well as my ass, but by the time I come home, deal with animal care, do whatever chores must be done or else (last night it was dealing with the pond, which is greener than the grass after all the rain and hot weather) I have enough strength to shower and fall into bed around 10. I fall asleep almost instantly, the clock goes off at 5 and I do it all again.

I have that job interview tomorrow and I'm still very ambivalent, leaning toward negative. I was very tempted to call the headhunter and tell her I've changed my mind, but Girl says I should go talk to them, so I'll go talk to them. Maybe it really will be something I'd like to do. I've done some research on the company and it ranks at the top of the industry. It may be a great opportunity, but honestly, right now my instincts say it's wrong for me. But I could be wrong, and after talking to them I may be a better fit than I think. Or not. So I'm quite relaxed about the interview. Whatever. God knows I need a change, but I'm not sure that this is what I need. Of course, I may come home with a totally different attitude after talking to them. We'll see.

Crafting - not much during the week, that's for sure. A few rows on the re-started, re-sized crocheted jacket. There is a reasonable hope that I will have it finished by the time cold weather hits again next, uh, Christmas. I'm in a ripping out frame of mind, and if I am not moved by a project it's history. Am I crazy because I get satisfaction from frogging failures? I never feel terribly disappointed, there's something very pleasing in figuring out where it went wrong or what I find dissatisfying and changing it. The crocheted bag? The stripes are too wide. I need to re-start it, same colors, much narrower stripes so after it felts it'll have a more subtle color scheme. That may get ripped this evening.

Time to get moving and go start Wednesday. Whoo.

Rip. Re-size. Repeat.

So I was working away on my crocheted jacket, holding up the back panel, which is basically a rectangle at this point, and the light finally dawned. It's too small. I made the second from the smallest size, a 38, which in theory should be the right size. It looks skimpy. And I then remembered that I made this in the smallest size for my then 9 year old daughter, who was tall for her age and slender, and it was only slightly oversized on her. Rip. I've restarted it in the next-to-the-largest size.

It has been another very wet weekend, and when the sun comes out the world is transformed into the exhaust from Hell's Dry Cleaner. It's a day to hide in the A/C, venturing forth only to forage for necessities, and to drink gallons of iced tea with lemon and mint and lots of Splenda. Splenda makes a good sweet tea - very sugary tasting compared to using, say, Equal, which makes "sweet" but somehow not quite a sugar sweet. No point in exerting too much energy today, and the next round of afternoon rain will be here in a couple of hours. Lazy, lazy weekend.

I'm hoping photos of the boys will distract the few and faithful readers from the total lack of content or finished fiber projects in these posts. Note that the girlchild is confident enough to show her face on my blog sans makeup and in her jammies.

Best buddies.

Girl and her baby.

Yes, all 4 feet are off the floor. Murphy is asking, "How does he do that?"

Quick!

Go read the Daily Dilbert. Sound familiar?

ThisnThat Friday

Go read the text of Bill Moyers' latest speech. I'll wait.

It's been a long week, and I'm exhausted. Boss is on vacation and I've been "being him," and a few new crises popped and I haven't gotten to a lick of my own work because I've been returning his calls and interviewing witnesses and writing his letters and consulting with him via cellphone on his "vacation." I'm perfectly capable of doing it, but I'm now up to three jobs (his, mine and the secretary we will never have) and it's wearing me out, and of course my own work, not to mention the admin work, is going undone and I'm falling further behind. I'd hoped to use his vacation time as quiet time to tidy things in anticpation of eventual departure from this hellhole. Ain't happening.

I have an interview next week, and fingers crossed that we like each other and I'm qualified, because if it is as presented to me by the headhunter, it's a good opportunity to break free of the paralegal pink collar ghetto, because, though they are looking at experienced, degreed paralegals as candidates, IT IS NOT A PARALEGAL JOB! It's corporate, an analyst job in an area of contract law about which I know nada, but neither does anybody else, and I can learn. So we'll see what that's about and whether 1) it's a good fit for me and I want it; and 2) whether they want me. I'm interested and want to hear more about it, but I'm not breathlessly freaking out that it is OhmyGodthebestjobever, I may talk to them and decide it's not for me at all and I can't bear to leave construction, or they may find someone else whose background is more in line with their niche industry, so whatever. I'm open to the idea but not desperately crazy about it. I think it will be another strong, relaxed interview on my part.

I've been stress eating all week and have not been to the gym. Tonight that will change, and I think this weekend it's time to go back to South Beach Phase 1 lean protein and lots of veggies, knock off the wine and chocolate) to get myself back on track. Yeah, I'm a freak, I'll start a diet on the weekend.

Fiberly pursuits - I haven't been pursuing much. I MUST pack up the Dulaan box this weekend, I found a right-sized box at the office and it is sitting in my bedroom awaiting loading. I've been crocheting what I have privately (and now publicly) started calling my Life is Random bag - I'm experiementing with a large round bucket bag, using Cascade 220 leftovers from various other felting projects. It will be big and colorfully and very randomly striped, and handy for...something. It's a soothing, stash busting project and all I have the strength for after being Boss all day. The crocheted tank is stalled for a bit but I'll get back to it tomorrow. I've been too tired to do anything that required actual focus.

And I have an eye dr. appt for the week after next, because I am freaking going blind. My close-up vision has changed significantly, I suppose this is in honor of my pending 47th birthday. I really, really need new glasses and contacts.

Life is in a major state of transition, so I was not at all surprised - and was cheered - to read this horoscope. Normally sun sign predictions are fairly irrelevant, but this one is freakishly on the money. Or maybe it's because I'm paying attention.

Murphy paused in his obsessive lizard hunting to pose for me.

Yeah, he knows he's cute. He loves the camera like his mommy.

Just Another

Manic Suckass Monday.

When I write about my job I wonder who reads it, but frankly, I don't care much. Do I worry about getting dooced? Eh, not really. It would be no great loss, but it would also give me grounds to, uh, question their decision via a kickass employment lawyer I know. Bring it on, bean counters.

But honestly, my gripes about my job are not with my boss, who is a really good guy, or his boss, who is also a really good guy, or even his, who I barely know but assume he's okay because he hasn't gotten rid of the other two down the ladder, even though they take the whole corporate thang with a healthy grain of salt. So we are all cool.

My problem is basic, it's functional, it's I can't get any damn useful help to do the non-billable, secretarial tasks so I can spend more time billing time.

Exemplar #1. We asked a sec'y in another office to notice a couple of depos for us - it's an area of practice with which we are not familiar, and her boss is taking the depos. Seems reasonable to ask her to do the freaking notices, right? Six emails and two calls later, the notices went out. (Those of you who know the great complexity of a depo notice are already rolling your eyes.) One of them was wrong. We got a snip-o-gram from the P's lawyer today asking us to please get it right. So, yeah, I did the amended notice and launched it. It simply was not worth asking the sec'y to re-do it, I am still recovering from asking her to do it in the first place.

Exemplar #2. We passed off one of our South FL construction claims to one of our heroes on the mothership, a great lawyer and all-around hilarious guy who wanted it and is handling it with panache. He is not the issue. The issue is that his sec'y keeps earnestly sending the filing to me. As if I have the file in our office. I'm sorry, but how can she be working on this matter and not know she has the fucking file? The last straw today - I received a wad of filing for the file which is in her boss's possession, and, buried deep within it, was my note to her, in my own handwriting, sending back the last wad of filing. It says: "(Your boss) has the file." I sent it to her in, probably, early April. I kid you not. I'm sorry, but I'm getting spazzed when my own filing is backlogged to the point I consider obscene, and this girl doesn't even know she HAS this file? I don't know whether to laugh, cry or drink heavily, so I'll do all three.

I contrast this with the Six Weeks of Glory last year, when we had the Fabulous D and all three of us were running full throttle, scheduling and reviewing documents and meeting with experts, and cases were being moved forward at an astonishing clip, and life was so very good. Then "they" (those who have never touched a construction case) decided I didn't need filing help anymore, and took her away.

See, the thing is, we know how we could do the job, and we can't do it. I'm happy playing MacGuyver and inventing my own fixes, I'm fine with making do with less, we are the most low-maintenance people I know, but it just ain't working and I'm sick of the lack of backup. One more email about the status of my billable hours and I'm going to go postal.

Thank you, I feel better after venting.

I also feel better getting back in touch with my Inner Crocheter. And I was thinking about it last night, and figured out why. I learned to crochet about the same time my little eyes focused. I cannot remember learning to crochet. I think Gram and the Aunties may have put a hook in my hand during potty training. And I was free to play. I could do anything with a hook and yarn, creating colorful knots was fine if I was happy with it. Loop this into that, throw a treble crochet here and there, make a big yarn anemone. Now it's an art form called freeform crochet. I called it playing with yarn when I was 4.

Contrast that with knitting. I learned to knit at maybe 6, or 8, I can't pin it down. But by then I was old enough to have developed that neurotic insecurity: "Am I doing it right? Is what I'm doing Good Enough?" So knitting has always been more structured, less "I can just make this shit up as I go along." By the time I learned to knit, I knew about doing it right and doing it "wrong" and that took a chunk out of my creative instincts.

So picking up a hook and screwing around with yarn is more relaxing and freeing to me than knitting right now. I'm loving the whatthefuckism of the craft for me - when I crochet, I'm 5 years old, playing with colors. I'm whipping up a big round basket-bag to be felted, using wild colors of Cascade 220, and I may decorate it with some felted flowers. I may give it away, but I'm having a ball making it because the hook and the yarn and I are just running wild.

In the real world, I'm working on a new roof (but miraculously, the old one isn't leaking yet) and I'm about to cash in the last two grand of my husband's life insurance and piss it away on, uh, bills. That's a major thing too, because when the life insurance is gone, the last support system of my entire married life is gone, and I'm on my own. On my own earning money, paying bills, getting a new roof, finding a new job, working out, going out, it's like graduating from college at 47. It's a strange, strange thing, but I know I can do it. I will crochet something wild to get me through it.

Also from Cozy Crochet - I love it, but don't have enough of the right yarn in the stash (hard to believe, I know!) to make it. Yet.

From Cozy Crochet.

Please God, Make It STOP

Raining!!! Enough already!!! As the bitter joke goes around these parts, on Sunday night we went to sleep in Florida, and woke up Monday in Seattle. And have been there ever since. It is gray, it is wet, the rain has alternated between a light drizzle and hurricane force for a solid week. This is NOT normal Florida weather. Our location and shape - long, skinny state surrounded by warm water - means weather usually rolls over us fast - sometimes violently, but at least quickly. We rarely - very rarely - have a front settle in and pee on us for a week. Half the people I know quickly came down with seasonal affective disorder - we Floridians are used to our sunshine. I've been affected, I think - I've slept more in the past week than I have in the past five years. I've been in bed by 9 every night, and could barely drag myself out by 6 for work, and despite enough caffeine to cause heart palpitations I still yawned all day. And I was not alone.

Virtually no crocheting or knitting has been done. I did drag out the latest leper bandage and knock off a few rows before sleep overcame me, and worked in a few rows on the green crocheted jacket. I fell asleep with the new crochet books in the bed - does that count? And I did pick my next projects. First up - even before the crocheted sweater below - will be the little sleeveless shell. I have some Austermann Saba scored at Elann, uh, two years ago? that has been just waiting for the right pattern to come along. I swatched it for the shell and it's perfect, light and silky looking, good office wear for the next job.

Which I still do not have. While we have a couple of possibilities on the table, I am covering my ass bases and continuing to send out resumes to likely prospects, but as I am both picky and expensive, there aren't that many prospects worth hitting in Central Florida. I am adjusting to the concept of moving to a less Mouse-bound city with more real jobs.

Dudley update - he's nearly as big as Murphy now. He does not care for going out into the rain to potty, but I forced him to do it this morning (by carrying his wiggling ass out into the grass, putting him down and telling him to GO) and he discovered that he does not melt, but he still considers water something for internal use only.

At various points during the week I raged with work rants and People Are Assholes rants, but my general ennui spared you all from listening (virtually speaking).

Thank God the dogs are small - they've been cooped up in the house a lot and are currently on a mad running and wrestling fit. If they were golden retrievers this would be like taking a wrecking ball to the living room, but they are small enough to skitter UNDER the furniture. After the young one has burned off some energy and the old one is in dire need of a peaceful nap, I will put the little booger in his crate and go to the gym. Then I'll start that sleeveless shell and work on it between bursts of housework. Because the rain-soaked lethargy that has gripped this household this week has resulted in a backup of cat hair and clutter that is truly alarming. Maybe a stint on the bike at the gym will give me a burst of energy to deal with it.

Rain, rain, please go away!