Pet Cobra

The Domestic God

Yesterday: woke up, did a DadCentric post, got Zoe up, gave her a bottle, got Lucas up, made him breakfast (one fried egg, two bowls of Cheerios), fed the dog, put a load of darks into the washer, got the kids dressed, took Lucas to school, had a brief chat with his teacher about how he's doing ("awesome" - her word), came home, fed the dog, updated some Facebook stuff, played with Zoe, did some research for the book (did you know that Navy SEALs sometimes carry modified M14 rifles?), made lunch for everyone (turkey sandwiches), put Zoe down for her nap, put together a Compost Box (a Compost Box!) and started a Compost Pile (a Compost Pile!), got dinner going (marinara from scratch, off the top of my head, no recipe needed - ain't no Prego gonna pollute my kitchen), picked up Lucas from school, took him to karate, watched him run through his blocks and kicks and punches, came home, cooked some turkey Italian sausage (first steaming them in chicken stock and then grilling them), served it up with spaghetti to great praise, cleaned up the kitchen, read Lucas a bedtime story, turned out his light, watched a recorded ep of The Unit (accompanied with the last of the Jameson's) while Beth went to Target, watched How I Met Your Mother when she got home, climbed into bed and passed right the fuck out, tired, happy.

The Job

I read somewhere that you're not supposed to let them brush their own teeth until they're at least seven. So as I do every morning, I brush his. He's got a Wall-E battery-powered toothbrush; the irony of it, of some waste-disposal robot finding this very toothbrush in a pile of garbage hundreds of years hence, is not lost on me. 

"Are you going to work today, Dad?"

"Nope, I'm working from home. Actually, I'll be working from home from now on. I'm done with my other job."

"Oh. Why? You didn't like it?"

"Not really. Plus they ran out of money to pay me. That happens sometimes."

"So your new job is being a writer?"

"Yep. I get to write about all sorts of stuff. You, Zoe, books I read, movies I see, songs I hear. Surfing. Any place that we go visit, I'm going to write about. I might even write a book or two."

"Oh! Being a writer is a really cool job."

"Second best in the world, dude."

"Oh - what's the best?"

"Go grab your hoodie, dude. We gotta get you to school. Maybe we'll listen to the Boston CD on the way."

The Battlestar: Galactica Finale Sucked

(SPOILER ALERT: You probably got the jist of where I'm going with this post; it's impossible to explain why Part 2 of "Daybreak" was so embarrassingly bad without spoiling the ending. So if you haven't seen it, yes, I do think you should, if only to remind you of what happens when writers write themselves into a corner and don't have faith - irony! - in the strength of their original material and themes).

Last Day/First Day

It's 9:38. This is what will happen. I will make a phone call to my counterpart on the east coast and fill her in on everything I've been doing so that she can take on my workload. It's not a whole lot, a handful of positions, none particularly challenging. I'll ping my boss and let her know that I've had that conversation. She'll wish me luck, confirm that I submitted my final timesheet , tell me that of course I can use her as a reference. I won't tell her that the Universe willing I won't need to. I'll thank her for the opportunity and for her support. I'll then clean out my desk. It won't take long. I have some papers and a picture of Lucas and Zoe. I'll think about this: that with each successive job I've left, I've packed up fewer and fewer things. I'll remember the first time I was laid off. There were dozens of books, about HR stuff, management, and there was a small book of Zen quotes. I was burning with remorse and terror. The Zen book helped. There was a quote, "I like freedom. It tastes of bread." It was comforting even though I had no idea what it meant. I do now. I'll remember how the two boxes of stuff - books, files, pictures, mugs and keychains with company logos - became one big box with the next job, one smaller box with the next, and I will smile at the manilla folder that holds the remnants of my work, of me, really, the me that existed in this cube for the past nine months. The Office Me. Perhaps the one or two people I had the occasional conversation with during my time here will stop by to say goodbye. I'm not even sure they know I'm leaving. I'm sure I'm not going to find them to tell them. I will think funny thoughts as I do all of this - rework a Springsteen song, "it's a building fulla losers and I'm pullin' outta here to wiiiiiin....", of what lies ahead I'll take comfort in a line from a movie I saw back in sixth grad - "try not, do, or do not, there is no try".  I'll erase personal info from my work computer so that no trace of me is left here. I won't even be a memory. Reports will continue to be filed and databases will continue to be updated and inboxes will continue to fill. And when I get out of my chair and step through that exit door, it won't feel like falling, it will feel like flying.

Currahee

An example: 250 applicants for 1 position: a systems engineering role with a background in tactical communications/SATCOM. Of these, maybe 5 are qualified; of those, 1 will get the job. I sort through them all, and try to forget that they are people with spouses, kids, dreams, hopes, bills, debts. It helps to not look at the names. Most are not qualified in the slightest. The first few times I saw this - the truck driver, the financial analyst, the teacher - I thought it was kinda funny. What are they thinking? Then the stark truth of it: anything, they'll try anything, because everything stands to be lost. Dozens of open positions, hundreds and hundreds of people vying for them. I spend hours staring at the screen and sorting through the resumes and from time to time I try to escape from it, I do a stupid Tweet or write a blog post or just shut my eyes and watch the glowing lines dance on the black screen of my eyelids, and those lines coalesce into the muttered curses and soft pleas of people who just want to be able to buy a new pair of shoes, or maybe a toy for their kid's birthday, maybe pay their rent or mortgage or purchase enough groceries for the week...it becomes unthinkable. 

I've been there before. I'm lucky; what I do, recruiting, is the greatest job a potential job hunter can have. The flip side:  I do one thing, I find people and hire them, and that's great if your company is actually in a position to hire people. Getting laid off to a recruiter is like a combat drop to an experienced paratrooper; you feel that old fear, but years of training and experience help you push it down into your gut, where it gnaws at you but remains trapped, in a place where it can't possess you. You snap into routines; emails and phone calls to old colleagues and people you've never met but know through association, resumes posted and sent, databases mined. Yesterday: a brief, apologetic phone call from my boss, something about "overhead" and "budget projections", and suddenly I'm there again, an open hatch, the wind in my face, the earth rushing by miles below. 

PSA

Oh, I saw it last night/this morning. My review can be found here.

Two A**holes At Starbucks: A One-Scene Play Based On Actual Events

Dramatis Personae:

ASSHOLE #1: A muscle-bound oaf, wearing an Affliction t-shirt and a tremendous amount of hair-care product.

ASSHOLE #2: ASSHOLE #1's girlfriend, wearing a white parka, which makes sense since it's about 72 degrees outside. Although we do not see it, the ASSHOLEs pulled into the Starbucks lot in a metallic purple Scion.

STARBUCKS LADY: Mid-50's, forced to work at Starbucks due to the horrible state of the economy, living on broken dreams and unsold cranberry-orange scones.

ME: Me.

YOU: The Reader

SCENE: The Oceanside Starbucks that ME stops at occasionally on the drive to work. It's Monday morning, and ME is slightly hungover from margaritas consumed the night before. ME is clearly not in the mood to deal with anyone, much less a couple of ASSHOLEs. The curtain opens, and the two ASSHOLEs are in line in front of ME. STARBUCKS LADY is behind the counter.

ASSHOLE #1 (to STARBUCKS LADY): So does the mocha have caffeine?

STARBUCKS LADY: Yes, but you can order it decaf.

ASSHOLE #1 (to ASSHOLE #2): Yeah, babe, it has caffeine.

ASSHOLE #2 (standing directly behind ASSHOLE #1, busy tapping keys on her iPhone): What about the latte?

ASSHOLE #1 (to STARBUCKS LADY): So does the latte have caffeine?

STARBUCKS LADY: Yes, it does, but you can also order it decaf.

ASSHOLE #1 (to ASSHOLE #2): Yeah, babe, it has caffeine.

ASSHOLE #2 (standing directly behind ASSHOLE #1, still busy tapping keys on her iPhone): What about a...mach-ee-do?

ASSHOLE #1 (to STARBUCKS LADY): So does the...mach-ee-do have caffeine?

STARBUCKS LADY: Yes, the macchiado does, but you can also order it decaf.

ASSHOLE #1 (to ASSHOLE #2): Yeah, babe, it has caffeine.

ME: (looks at watch)

ASSHOLE #2 (standing directly behind ASSHOLE #1, still busy tapping keys on her iPhone): What about the Chai Tea?

ME: (wonders to self if these two ASSHOLEs have ever set foot in a Starbucks, or if they have any understanding of the alterable nature of caffeinated beverages)

ASSHOLE #1 (to STARBUCKS LADY): So does the Chai Tea have caffeine?

STARBUCKS LADY: Yes, it does. Actually, most every drink here does. The menu behind me says which drinks don't have caffeine. (To ME): Can I get something started for you, sir?

ME: Yeah, can I please have a grande non-fat no-whip one-pump vanilla mocha?

ASSHOLE #2: Do they have anything without caffeine?

YOU: Ohmyfuckinggodhumanbeingscannotpossiblythisgoddamnstupid.

CHORUS: Hast thou ever been to Oceanside? Nay? Well.

ASSHOLE #1: Do you have anything without caffeine?

ME: (sotto voce) Can I get a clawhammer with that mocha?

STARBUCKS LADY: When I was young I wanted to be a ballerina. I wanted to dance. To dance round and round under the bright lights, and the people would cheer for me and there would be roses.

FIN