out, damned lodger!

I spoke too soon, sorta. The dumbass lodger moved some of his stuff out yesterday and today, but he still has shit all over the place - on the side porch, in what should be his vacated bedroom, in the living room. I'm going out of town this weekend and if it's still here when I get back Sunday, I'm hauling it to the dump. Or to the Goodwill. Or I'll eBay the few valuable bits.

Actually he tried to move as scheduled last weekend, but it fell through as the truck he'd rented wasn't available when he went to collect it, even though he'd made a reservation in advance. Why he didn't demand a larger one - hell, they were parked all over the place - is beyond me. He can be an assertive dick when he wants to be one, so why not last weekend? So then he rescheduled for yesterday, but for reasons unknown, he's still got junk everywhere.

At least his alarm clocks are gone. You see, his sleep patterns were/are so permanently messed up that he'd literally Nyquil himself to sleep each afternoon. To ensure he hear his alarm, he'd set two incredibly noisy radio alarms. These usually went off when I was trying to go to sleep.

This weekend I am headed to the Hill country for an odd mixture of a lunch date with a potential beau (yes, the Triumph owner), then an overnight stay at a meditation retreat. I booked the retreat as an antidote to my meeting with PD and her New Joisey cousin tomorrow afternoon, as I haven't a clue how that's going to go.

So I'm looking forward to getting up at 5:00 a.m. Sunday morning with no coffee - seems that novice bodhisattvas aren't allowed caffeine - then moving on to lawn clippings for lunch.

If truth be told, I was hoping to hear from OOD this week, but no luck. Perhaps he's waiting for me to give the "lodger all clear" sign. Or maybe he's waiting for my week off in June; more about that later.

Help! I've fallen into a bad Kafka story and can't get out!

Although I had, until recently, thought my job could be salvaged, I don't believe it's an option any more. The most upsetting bit of it all is that I can't understand why the Poison Dwarf thinks the department will be better off without me. It's not like she can go down to Sam's Club and put another copywriter on her credit card. I can only think she has a buddy lined up for the job, which also defies logic since no other writer is going to do any better than I'm doing. Except maybe in the ass-kissing department. But I have my karma to consider.

The surprising, and only truly painful back-stabbing, was administered by the department's junior VP late last week. I had made the mistake of thinking she would do the right thing when told of my impending termination. We were both around during the early days, when the 35-person department only had five of us. But instead she ducked out with a lame apology and "nothing I can do". Huh? Sheesh, she hired PD. The VP bitch is not getting a shower gift out of me, except perhaps a baby-sized t-shirt that says THEY SHAKE ME or similar.

I finally found the time to document and deliver a description of the ongoing mess to a recommended employment attorney, and to apply for a couple of jobs. The situation isn't really that bleak job-wise, so I'm trying to keep my greying head out of the oven. Perhaps it's for the best: lose the house, spend more time with my mother before she checks out. I just wish I could view her impending passing with the same level of matter-of-factness that she's decided to adopt.

cool root beer ad

I dug this up for a friend of mine, but thought hell, I'll post it here too.

defragging one's subconscious

I'm not sure what this says about me, but the music I play in my car is often different than what I listen to at home. The car mixes are, well, odd. Alas, I don't have a good stereo system at Chez Melina, where I mainly play classical and trad jazz, but I hope to upgrade soon.

To illustrate, here is what I ended up putting on my last car-destined CD while searching for my lost iPod:

The Who: Substitute
Moby: Find my Baby
Franz Ferdinand: No You Girls
Rolling Stones: Satisfaction
Annie Lennox: No More I Love Yous
Eurythmics: Would I Lie To You?
Ella Fitzgerald/Count Basic: I Can't Get Started
Harry Nilsson: Daybreak and Jump Into The Fire (can't put too much Harry Nilsson on your music lists, imo)
Paul McCartney: Back Seat of My Car
Fatboy Slim: Weapon of Choice

To top it off, I had an odd dream with Dismissed Date appearing in a distance, missing half his left arm. The man I was with, wearing a long black coat and yellow sweater, explained that DD had been in an alternate dimension (the Matrix?) recently, and had lost the arm there.

Since almost everyone in my dreams is from my past, I can only guess that my subconscious was trying to decide where to file DD. Or maybe it was running a defrag. Or perhaps it was an outright pun: in the past, when I didn't write people, I'd get snippy comments like "hope your writing arm's out of plaster soon". But I'm left-handed and DD was/is right-handed.

It's just as well I have an appt with my cognitive therapist this coming Thursday. I need to talk about the motorbike owner in Hillsboro.

the week that was odd

After receiving yet another negative performance review via email from the Poison Dwarf earlier this month, I finally decided I should handle the matter as directed by the HR folks. Which is to go talk to the HR folks. I figured that it was a good CYA move if nothing else.

I took the scathing review with me, after carefully pasting it into another Word document and adding my comments where needed. PD had actually told some outright whoppers in this review - and they were easily disproved. So, after waiting some months, I had a fair amount of ammunition. Plus, I took every previous annual performance review with me, all with high marks.

I spent about an hour with the HR guy, who took a lot of notes and not much else. My main concern is that he wouldn't have any idea it actually took a writer to write anything, but after I presented a few recent jobs (press releases, brochures, etc) he seemed quite impressed.

Of course, I did the politically correct thing - insisted I did not want PD's head on a stake, and declared that I simply did not understand why she was treating me in such a manner. I felt a bit nauseous, but I need this job.

On the more romantic side of things, I admit I finally broke down and e-mailed the Triumph owner I met over the weekend. He sent quite a lengthy mail back. My heart leaped...he can actually spell. Which complicates my long-standing feelings for OOD, which still have not dissipated. He is now suggesting lunch, but not until later in the month. Will he or won't he? Should I dust off my Lise Charmel lingerie, or take a vow of celibacy? I feel confused, so I'm going to bed.