Stories about Stories about Noah

As of this morning, my most recent blog post on my company’s site is the “most liked” recent post in the entire company. It’s actually just “The Parable of the Motorcycle” from my Stories about Noah series, slightly re-written to focus on the idea that, when people ask if something can be done, they’re not actually interested in how much work it will be, only about the end result. The finished product reads as less cynical than my synopsis makes it sound. The path to a cushy copy writing job is becoming clearer.

On my way to Champlin after work yesterday, the persistent shudder in my right, rear tire that started around the first of the year metamorphosed into a jarring rattle and eventually a blown and shredded tire along north 169. I put the spare on in relatively short order, only to find the spare in only slightly better condition, though it did get me off the freeway and into the parking lot of an appliance store in New Hope where I could stash the car while I ate Mexican food and shopped for tires. As luck would have it, my car was only about a mile and a half from the place selling the cheapest tires in the metro area, well within the radius of my roadside assistance plan’s free towing benefit. All told, assuming that I was planning to buy tires out of my next paycheck or two anyway, the whole ordeal cost me nothing but my afternoon.

I’m off work today at 3:30 which is shockingly early for a Friday. My tentative plan for the weekend involves a lot of measuring, purchasing of bins and shelves, and organizing the two closets off my kitchen. And maybe designing a logo for the Bargain Basement Bar and ordering custom matchbooks from the internet. And probably something involving putting chili on top of other food.

Mortar for the meat castle.

I haven't been updating my blog as often as I'd intended this year. The original theory was that I would have a lot of downtime at work during which I could write blog posts, but I've since directed that spare time toward writing and maintaining the site blog on my company's peculiar in-house social networking site. The blog and discussion pages are already pretty popular, and it gives me a way to pass the time that's within the guidelines for internet usage in the employee handbook.

It's probably not the worst use of my time career-wise, considering the number of job postings for copy writers for the various intra-company publications.

I worked some overtime, I filed my taxes, and I apparently qualified for the fourth quarter bonus. This should make for a pretty flush February, all in all. I've started plans for the Tropical Depression Party on February 18th. I'm hoping that my various invitees' romantic relationships are either too old or too young to worry about the scheduling to interfering with Valentine's plans.

I keep meaning to call Clancy's in Linden Hills to check whether they sell whole suckling pigs. I'm sure someplace on East Lake Street could provide one as well, but if it's something that needs to be special ordered, I don't necessarily trust my grasp of Spanish to be able to express the request clearly.

I spent a lot of money this weekend catching up on bills and buying groceries. I spent $250 between Sam's Club and Aldi. Who wants to come over for dinner? For that matter, I still haven't tried out the awesome latching crock-pot with travel case that I got for Xmas. Who wants to invite me over? I can bring dinner.

Sweater-vest, Beardo, Pigseye, Mom Jeans, Bulky, and Eyebrow.

There are way too many new people at work for me to assign them all unflattering nicknames, much less learn their actual names. It occured to me yesterday that the drastic shift in the median age of my co-workers is probably at least partially responsible for the change to my schedule. The truckload of fresh-out-of-junior-college new reps on the phones has probably made the 10:30 - 7 shift a lot easier to staff. I decided that rather than suffer the undiluted indignity of the opening shift next week, I would just bite the bullet and sign up to work every hour the call center is open next week.

I realize that's the office staffing equivalent of cutting yourself to feel control over your life, but it'll be nice to not have to check my schedule. Combined with this week's overtime, that amounts to almost 3 weeks' pay on my next check and no rent to pay out of it. Current front-runners for immediate self-reward include the 1.5 horsepower meat grinder that Amazon.com keeps e-mailing me about, a second-hand chest freezer, and a new suit or two.

I turned 31 yesterday. Today, I will eat the weight of a newborn child in shiwarma to celebrate with my family, but after that, you should stop by the Bargain Basement Bar for a cocktail.

Is there any sight more nauseating than a sunrise over a cubicle wall?

I'll tell you, 6am is a colder, harsher hour when it's not your signal to go to bed. For reasons clear neither to me nor, apparently, to my immediately supervisor, the workforce management department has seen fit to slide my usual comfortable closing shift up to the bitter pitch black of the early morning. There appears to be abundant opportunity for overtime, and January is my traditional month for financial recovery and social hibernation, so I guess there’s a silver lining to this bone-chilling cloud of pre-dawn rime ice, but it was a roughshod and sudden death that my vacation died this morning.

The new year has also brought the first sign of legitimate winter, which, as it turns out also has an upside. The expired license tabs on the back of my car that would normally mar the dull and dapper semblances of responsible adulthood pending my next payday is neatly obscured by a bulwark of crunchy snow and ice. The truth is, I could afford to buy tabs this week if my work schedule allowed me to get to the Midtown DMV before Saturday. When I say “could afford”, I mean barely. I cleared the holiday season with my accounts pretty well tapped out, though I made it without ever having to think too hard about the costs of the gifts I bought. There’s an argument to be made that the luxury of ignoring your account balance is the real goalpost of financial stability. Worst case scenario, if an especially astute office peeks into the ice cave that holds my expired tabs, the deadline to pay the ticket is still beyond the next non-rent paying paycheck, which will be significantly bolstered by as yet untold hours of mandatory overtime. My dad taught me that the best use of money is to slay petty inconveniences like having to make a panicked rush to the DMV after work. Plus, there’s always the possibly apocryphal story about the “10-day grace period.”

I am unconcerned.

The year of living comfortably

One year ago, I had $5,000 in credit card debt and I lived in my parents' basement. I made $130 less per week than I make now. Today, my apartment is freshly cleaned (many thanks to Stevie for waking up 3 hours before me), the bar is still handsomely stocked post-New Years party and my ten day vacation ends in 14 hours.

My parents bought me a laptop for Xmas, which means that, for the first time since moving to this apartment, I can be on the internet and watching TV at the same time, which, it turns out, is integral to my creative process, so you, Dear Internet, will now be graced with pithy, rambling summations of my day at work three or four times a week, and occasional weekend demands that you come over and eat snacks and drink up my booze.

By the way, thanks again to everyone who came to the party. The guests ate every scrap of appetizer I put out, and dirtied every lowball in the house, but notwithstanding Stevie's now lifelong hatred of confetti, I couldn't have asked for a better party. We also maintain a perfect record of about six parties with no noise complaints from the neighbors. Number seven is tentatively scheduled for early February. Bring flip-flops.