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Wednesday, February 28, 2001
Today's my last day. It doesn't feel real. Like somehow all the foregoing developments happened while I was under general anaesthetic. You know, I always worry about making big changes--will they turn out to be mistakes? But that's no way to go through life.
Exit interview in T-minus 60 minutes.
[This was supposed to be posted Tuesday, Feb 27, but blogger wasn't receptive to it.]
I can't believe it: I'm still ferrying crap out of my workstation. How many pounds of origami paper can one person need, after all?
It feels very, very strange to know that this is my last evening at EyeWire. Tomorrow's the last full day. It still hasn't quite sunk in.
Oh, apparently I have to have what's called an "exit interview." It's always sounded ominous to me. Perhaps I associate it with the famous book on suicide called "Final Exit." Anyway, I have to go through it. I'll keep me posted.
Tuesday, February 27, 2001
I still think this would make money: I was talking about urine with Grant and Duane the other day. It started innocently enough with my revelation about how I'm spending the days between leaving EyeWire and starting at Karo, my new employers. I'm going to be volunteering at the World Cup Speedskating Competition, helping out the drug-testing team. This involves me alerting athletes who've been picked to be tested, then following them around until they feel the urge, then going right into the bathroom stall with them and watching them whizz into a jar. Who says speedskating isn't glamorous?
Anyway, moneymaking idea: Urinal arcade games. Drop a quarter into a machine. Random targets appear on the urinal wall that one must hit squarely with a strong stream of amber. Rack up enough points, and -- oh, I don't know, then coupons for beer discounts would spit out of a dispenser overhead. The more beer consumed, the more visits to the urinal. It's a winner, yes?
Not sure how we'd get a female version of the game. Speaking on behalf of womankind, I'm not sure we'd care. This game is definitely targeted at the standers of the world. And yes, I thought about splashing: specifically, the inverse relationship between accuracy and amount of liquid imbibed. To guard against being anointed by a neighbour, each urinal would have ceiling-to-floor Plexiglas shields. Thinking all the time!
Monday, February 26, 2001
Argh, No One to Blame But Myself: So I have this endearing habit of neglecting to pay my phone bill every month. I rarely make long-distance calls, and the bills just don't connect in my noggin with "urgency." Anyway, the phone company calls on Wednesday, telling me disconnection will occur if my bill isn't paid by 5:00 p.m. THAT DAY. This gets through my foggy wits when I get home at about 10:00 p.m. that evening. Promptly the next morning I pay the bill in full at a bank machine.
Friday: no phone. They cut me off anyway. Oooh, grrrrr....and I really hate it when it's my own fault. The phone company at least admitted that they were a little hasty in the disconnection, and would not charge me the $50 reconnection fee.
Is there a moral in this? Yes, but knowing me, I'll forget it.
Apparently my impending job change made the business section of the local newspaper. Woohoo, fame! I'll have to have the page laminated.
It was weird packing up 4 years worth of accumulated crap at my workstation. Some things I've anthropomorphized ("I have to keep that pen, or it'll get lonely"). Other things I can't remember buying, using, or storing. And my desk still looks like a bomb hit it, despite a truckload of junk and papers being removed.
Saw "Before Night Falls." Really, really, really, really liked it. Hope Javier Bardem wins the Best Actor Oscar. He won't, but he should.
Thursday, February 22, 2001
Thanks again, Grant Man. I had been wondering somewhat idly what had happened to October and December. I thought perhaps roving Arbiters of Blog Boredom had struck and removed them for aesthetic reasons. At any rate, I appreciate your voluntary repair.
I'm staying late at work tonight for nostalgic reasons, I guess. Certainly I'm not getting that metric tonne of work done that I told myself I'd do.
My father, Mad Mel the Road Worrier, is convinced that my next vehicle should be a Ford Focus Station Wagon. My lifelong yet still inchoate attempts to be "cool" may forever be silenced by such a purchase. But Mad Melvin insists it's a "safe, reliable vehicle for highway driving," which I do a fair amount of, and it's definitely within my price range. But dammit, it's just not a green Beetle.
Hello Jane. Excuse the interruption, but I noticed that your archive index page was missing the October and December entries. Being the little "sticking my nose into things" boy that I am, I fixed it. Lovely.
Apparently I need a remedial lesson in arithmetic, too. In the previous blog I made mention of my beloved Group of Seven. That should have been Group of Eight. But as they say in Florida, who's counting?
Just returned from the doctor, where I went in a mercenary attempt to get my prescriptions renewed before I leave my current job and cushy cushy drug plan. This also happens to be Day Three of my battle against an annoying bogey of some sort that has made me barfulous, dizzy, and wheezy (the 8th to 10th dwarves, respectively). Unbeknownst to me, I've been walking around with a terribly bloodshot right eye. Diagnosis: Inflamed fat pad.
Only I could have fat eyeballs. Only I could get an inflammation of same. It could have been caused by the microbe that's been punching me around recently, or from staring at my computer screen too long, or from the infamously dry climate of the Alpine plain region I live in. Blink, Janey, blink.
Wednesday, February 21, 2001
The rocks, explained. I'm leaving my current job, that of copywriter, and taking up another position, that of general writer (marketing copy and other stuff) for a local design firm.
I've been at my current company for nearly four years, which is long-term in this industry. Some of the people here are family, and good family at that. Some in particular are going to be excruciatingly hard to leave. They're frequently mentioned in my blogs, so they should know who they are. But in the off-chance that they don't, then a swift but affectionate clip to the noggin for Grant, Howie, Jon, Danyon, Bryce, Rich, Sean, and especially The Bad, Bad Man.
Now I wish I'd really gone to town on my last performance review.
The funniest part of getting the new job was the personality test they made me write. Normally I hate these, but since at that point I figured there was no way in hell they'd ever give me the job, I thought "Oh, what the hell," and sped through it. Turns out that I'm "quick to catch the point and very impatient with those who don't." And apparently I have leadership qualities, as long as I have "someone to take care of the mundane details." In other words, I need a batman/aide-de-camp/maidservant/nanny in order to succeed.
But to anyone who's reading this, and particularly to the above-mentioned Group of Seven: any success I have in the future I owe to the experience I gained on the job with you all. Thank you.
Thursday, February 15, 2001
Update from a very surprised Wile E. Coyote clone: The rocks fell.
Some have said that my oblique references are ever so slightly starting to get on their nerves. Could I not be straight for once?
Okay. I am making a big, big, big change in my life. Oh so big. For me, that is. Is it the right move? Probably. Do I feel scared? Yep. Am I still stunned by it all? Mais oui.
Friday, February 09, 2001
Despite a determined thrust upwards at those boulders, they've stayed put. And so, apparently, shall I.
I have been dull and mournful today. Must be performance review season. I know I'm a reasonably good employee, if perhaps a bit cynical. Why do I always feel like a pathological liar at review time? "Yeah, my work increased sales 14 -- no, 20 -- 28 percent over 2 months, yeah, that's it." Even when I have the stats to back up my statements, I still feel like a shyster. Let the world be your shyster..boom-ching! It could be my inner Canadian at work, refusing to let me boast about my job. It's just *not done*.
Thursday, February 08, 2001
Help! The Esperanto terrorists are back! I found this while clicking on today's Splorpism: "Epicor eFrontOffice ClienteleNet." The hell? It's even annoying to read, let alone understand.
We just found out about some downsizing in a sibling company. Actually, a medical analogy might be more appropriate: does the spleen care if the big toe's been amputated? Probably not. I don't know if we're the spleen of our corporation. Maybe an islet of Langerhans. Possibly a hypothalamus.
Wednesday, February 07, 2001
Still no change to the lugubrious January 15th blog from Duane. I live in hope -- either of him writing something new, or telling me what it's all about. Because I am part of "this place."
Update: Still doggedly poking away at the jammed boulders over my head, a la Wile Coyote.
Unintentional humour (I hope): An excerpt from a company poster: "an introduction to making your life work at [COMPANY NAME]." Yep, that's what I wanna' do, all right, turn my life into a stultifying routine. Yet another example of the importance of proofreading.