Living the Dream (or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Just Love the Poo!)

So anyway, I suppose this means I'm back. Ok, well, at the very least I'm finding myself in the mood to...what? Chat? Needless to say my sour disposition is elevating to a more, how should I say, jovial status. I still have the same complaints, grievances, issues and dilemmas as before, it's just that as of late I've decided to make an effort to flush some of them down the proverbial toilet. So without further adieu, let's rundown what's been going on in my infinitesimal and insignificant little corner of the universe.

I've been promoted. I'm as of September 1st actually getting the pay grade that reflects what I've been doing in this hole for the last, oh...say, TWO AND A HALF YEARS!!! So, yeah, the recognition is nice, but I'm still being underpaid by about $5,000.00 a year for what's expected of me. I'm like that kid in that investment commercial from a few years ago. You remember, the one who dreamed of "Clawing his way to middle management!"! It's a start...maybe the start of a long, winding trip down the road of lifelong unfulfillment (I know, that's probably not a word...but fuck it!) , but a start nonetheless.

Der Schlecte Affe is in day care. There's still that little voice in the back of my head telling me I'm an awful parent for putting him there (seeing as how I'm home all day - why would I need someone else to raise my child?). But it will be good for everybody. I'll get some time to sleep, or do things around the house...or, perish the thought...compose (fuck off Brad, I can already hear what you're thinking!)!!! He's on his third week and already he's had two colds and caught a strain of Fifth's Disease (which, btw, is just a dumb little virus that lies dormant for a week or two, then gives you a fever, and then once said fever breaks causes your entire body to break out into an ugly little rash distinguished by the appearance of having been slapped in the face repeatedly - ah, missed opportunities...did I just advocate child abuse?). Luckily, it's kinda like Chicken Pox in that once you've had it, you probably won't get it again. Also, it's good to have a little extra help in the whole potty training ordeal. And the social interaction is a key ingredient (the alternative being that we kept him at home until Kindergarten and his first instinct upon meeting other children his age be to attempt to eat them...or at the very least pound them into submission to his will).

Speaking of other things Monkey related, I suppose I should go ahead and relay the incident with the poo (lest the alternative title make no sense at all). I know Brad's already heard this, but it's still funny, and I want to share with the whole world (or at least the 2 or 3 other people that read this blog). To give a little background on my son...he's a thief. He's well on his way to a renowned career as some kind of criminal mastermind. At this point, he's still in the snatch and grab stage...you know, he'll sneak up on the intended victim, pretend to pay no attention to it, then snag it and run away at full speed. He's a taker, he never gives you anything. Prior to daycare, we'd often let him play in his room relatively unattended. He's trained us to know that as long as we can hear him, he's doing okay. It's when everything gets suddenly deathly silent that we have to check to see what he been destroying, or building, or whatever. Anyway, the day in question, he was doing his thing in his room. Things got exceptionally quiet, so I called out to him. A thunk and a thundering calamity were immediately followed by a guilt-ridden full-on run to me. To make amends for whatever he's just demolished, he presents to me a gift...these two droids, err, sorry, wrong movie. He's holding out his hand, shaking it vehemently...he wants to give me something. The child that only takes has a gift for daddy. So I hold out my hand and tell him to let me have it. Worst...mistake......ever! He gave me...a lump of poo. More specifically - his poo. He fished it out of his diaper pail and gave it, most lovingly, to me! I'm just thankful I didn't overreact and throw it like a fastball. Needless to say, things were washed...hands, face, baby teeth, you name it. And the lump of poo was returned from whence it came.

What else, well...I've started learning how to use that loverly (and free) copy of the Sibelius 5 upgrade I got back in April. I've started by inputting my String Quartet into it. It's a process. Even after a few weeks of it, my brain still can't get the Mosaic shortcuts out and let all the Sibelius goodness in. I'm almost finished though; I've only got about 4 pages left - what do you want, it's not bad for a half-hour here and forty-five minutes there. Now the real question is, does anyone know some string players interested in reading and rehearsing some new material? No one, really...no takers at all? Seriously?! M'kay (dicks)!

I'm kind of conflicted because the darkness that has clouded my working environment for the last year and a half is leaving. I of course refer to...THE BITCH! Oh, did I forget to mention? Yeah, I hate my boss, or at least, that is to say, I hate my boss-boss (more on that in a minute). If she was on fire, I wouldn't piss on her to put her out. I have wet dreams of pinning her to the floor and pummeling her face into hamburger...get the picture (okay so now I'm endorsing misogyny - I've already touched on child abuse, that just leaves euthanizing the elderly and torturing the handicapped and I'll have run the entire politically incorrect gamut I think...oh wait no, I forgot minorities and Jews, damn!). Anyway, in my department we have a shift supervisor (who is my boss) and a shift manager (who is also my boss, and since she's also the supervisor's boss, she shall be referred to as boss-boss). In any case, I hate her. Everyone hates her. I'd be willing to bet that the only people on Earth that like her are her children, and even then I'd lay good odds that at least one of them hates her too. I don't want to get into the details (that's another blog - not another posting...an entirely new BLOG!). I've dubbed her The Bitch with the sincerest affection. In the phone directory of my cell phone I have her listed as "The Bitch" for work, and "The Bitch at Home" for, well...home (duh!). Here's the conflict - she's leaving...to manage the 2nd Shift in our department. This is 31 flavors of bad because now she'll be in charge of (cue spooky music)...MY MOM! My mom doesn't put up with my shit (and that's a lot of shit), so there's no way in the deepest, darkest, remotest corners of Hell that she's going to get along with psycho-obnoxious-backstabbing-opportunist-glory hound-cheerleader-bitch. Yeah, I'm almost certain that The Bitch has about four weeks to live...tops.

I guess that's it for the moment. I'm sure I'm forgetting something, but at this point I'm tired and ready for a new post...so we'll see if I can't squeeze another one in sometime in the next six months. Oh, and will someone please just go ahead and lynch Mike Vick by his own nutsack so we can get him off my fucking TV and Internet and get back to more important news. You know, stuff like what President Shrub is going to do now that half of his brain has resigned, or why Brittney shaved her pubes and glued them on her head...you know...important stuff!