Showing posts from March, 2021

True Story©… Punctuality

       I am habitually on time… No, seriously.   As a character trait, I am completely obsessed with punctuality and become visibly annoyed with people who are not.   Even before “work” was right here in my front room, I was 100% never that dude barreling across the parking lot at 7:56am trying to look like I was where I was supposed to be. My will to be where I need to be when the hell I am supposed to be will usually override the natural human “hit the snooze” reflex. Usually.      Well for the last month and a half, I have been back on my gym bullshit.   That means that three days a week, my day begins at 5am and involves burning several hundred calories in the span of the 75 minutes gyms are allotting people due to local Rona ordinances.   With the coincidence of the spring solstice and Daylight Savings coinciding, I get two more hours of daylight with which to kill one of by burning a few hundred more calories in local parks or designated trail spaces. I say all that to sa

True Story©… Carry Out Tradition

       I will be 42 in about 3½ months… I look back to things I did twenty years ago and shake my head so hard that my neck hurts.   It was legitimately NOTHING to get off work at 11 (or 1am), bolt home and wash the day off my ass and head back out until 4am, then reemerge at 7:30 in time for class to turn and do it all again.   Day of the week bedamned.   If it was a “thong contest” ( ß yes, those were a thing in REGULAR clubs) on a Tuesday, me and the squad were there.   Party promoter needed someone he knew would get the place moving on a random-ass Thursday?   He would call one of us. Needless to say, EVERY day between Tuesday and Saturday could easily become a party night until people started shooting INSIDE of clubs around 2003/04.      The only thing I miss about those days is the stamina it took to go to class from 8a-1:20p, work from 2-11 (or 4-1, or 2-3:30 and THEN 4-1 when overtime was cracking) and THEN hit the skreets. Oh, and the money I blew buying alcohol at club

True Story©… Home Alone

       I really do need an adult most of the time… As of last Friday, I’m informed that my work-from-home situation goes from “indefinite” to permanent effective next week. When I came home to work one year minus two weeks ago today, I had to make my PC space into my bill-paying work space.   It took me thirteen and a half years with the company to finally get a window seat.   Kind of unfortunate that I am the one paying for the window.   Whatever, the dogs and I get to spend my working hours watching and barking at the world go by the front of the house.      That arrangement is cool when I am sitting at the work computer doing work things.   Sometimes, though, I need to Google things for True Story©, or use language that is not safe for work during my internet journey and need to do so.   Don’t worry about that right now though, it will be back later.      Wife person, being a teacher and all, has been vaccinated and dispatched back to the schoolhouse to continue to educate yo

True Story©… We are (Apparently) Family?

       I don’t know if y’all know this but unless I have somewhere to be or something to do directly after work, I watch Maury Povich twice a day every weekday.   Everyone who has watched even one episode knows that Maury’s #1 draw is the paternity tests, complete with the “you are/NOT the father!” declarations.   Witnessing the embarrassment of others live on television is something I find entertaining, for better or worse.   We’ve discussed that before.      Of late – like, say, the last year or two – Maury’s show has been used as a natural “in” to sell up those ancestry DNA testing kits as well.   It is kind of a cruel sick joke that a show that has made their nut on embarrassing the shit out of people to be shilling “legitimate” DNA testing as well, but that is none of my business. So one day last fall, Wife Person sees the ancestry DNA testing segment and says “we should order a kit!”   Without having the brainpower to ask why or even remember how horrible an idea this might