The last few months have turned into officially the longest funk I've had in over a decade. It's not been awesome and I'm a giant pansy. I realize this.
Writing is just not happening for me. Maybe it's because I'm lazy, mostly I think it's just because I don't have anything to say that can't be said in 10 lines or less.
However, if you feel the need to keep up with what I'm doing (or not doing), what I'm saying (or not saying) I do have a Twitter account @sharibooms. And I finally caved and started a tumblr. You can find me here. There you can hang out with my current Joy Division obsession, the voyage to my next tattoo, pictures of me and mine and other assorted hooey.
I don't know if I'll come back to traditional blogging anytime soon.
I know, go cry yourselves to sleep. Soak your pillows.
The end has come.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
So I Grumbled... A Lot...
I did. When the merger was happening I grumbled a lot. And I feel it was rightfully so because, to be frank, I had the best job in the world. I'm sure there are people out there that would disagree and argue with me that I was full of shit, but as it stood, I had the best job in the world.
The best job in the world for me.
And I was heartbroken. That job was the squishy landing pad that I went to every day in the months and few years following the death of my son.
It wasn't my home away from home. It was just my other home.
I always knew what I was walking into. There were no politics, only smiling faces. And while you can't like everybody, I have managed to be surrounded by truly kind and talented people for the last almost four years.
I was crushed.
It's begrudgingly that I admit to you that I am happy in my new job. I'm not only surrounded by those same wonderfully talented people, but I'm now surrounded by over 200 other talented people.
Who all dress better than I do.
They probably smell better too, I'm not sure, I think if I sniff them at this point, I might never get the chance to sniff again.
I'm kidding.
Mostly.
So yeah, I was a little titty baby because I complained about losing the awesome place that I worked in where we could bring our dogs to work and we had a keg. Where we had a pool table and hobos in the alleyway.
What's the trade off? What did I end up with?
Well, I'm still a titty baby, but now, I'm a titty baby that does not have dogs in the office anymore. I do have the ability to watch TV on my Mac at my desk. And I no longer have a keg in the office, I now have four. No longer do I have a pool table in my office, I have to settle for ping pong. And hobos... Don't get me started. Less hobos, more strippers. We are right across the street from a strip club where the guys start lining up at 10:00 am to get inside.
I also get to work with an awesome Motion Graphics and FX department. And I have resources galore and some crazy amazing clients, that I'm sure you know, with commercials that my company created that I know you've seen.
That's me...
Titty baby.
PS. I have yet to find the zombie department.
I'm pretty sure it has to exist though.
And the Journey department. Or maybe Foreigner.
I already found the techy nerdy guy that walks around in the Joy Division T-Shirt.
The best job in the world for me.
And I was heartbroken. That job was the squishy landing pad that I went to every day in the months and few years following the death of my son.
It wasn't my home away from home. It was just my other home.
I always knew what I was walking into. There were no politics, only smiling faces. And while you can't like everybody, I have managed to be surrounded by truly kind and talented people for the last almost four years.
I was crushed.
It's begrudgingly that I admit to you that I am happy in my new job. I'm not only surrounded by those same wonderfully talented people, but I'm now surrounded by over 200 other talented people.
Who all dress better than I do.
They probably smell better too, I'm not sure, I think if I sniff them at this point, I might never get the chance to sniff again.
I'm kidding.
Mostly.
So yeah, I was a little titty baby because I complained about losing the awesome place that I worked in where we could bring our dogs to work and we had a keg. Where we had a pool table and hobos in the alleyway.
What's the trade off? What did I end up with?
Well, I'm still a titty baby, but now, I'm a titty baby that does not have dogs in the office anymore. I do have the ability to watch TV on my Mac at my desk. And I no longer have a keg in the office, I now have four. No longer do I have a pool table in my office, I have to settle for ping pong. And hobos... Don't get me started. Less hobos, more strippers. We are right across the street from a strip club where the guys start lining up at 10:00 am to get inside.
I also get to work with an awesome Motion Graphics and FX department. And I have resources galore and some crazy amazing clients, that I'm sure you know, with commercials that my company created that I know you've seen.
That's me...
Titty baby.
PS. I have yet to find the zombie department.
I'm pretty sure it has to exist though.
And the Journey department. Or maybe Foreigner.
I already found the techy nerdy guy that walks around in the Joy Division T-Shirt.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
T-Minus Two Days...
Two days, that is what I have left in my current office. Monday we make the move to Hans and Dieter and I have to tell you, I'm not sufficiently medicated.
Tomorrow I get half of the Blackberry/Laptop combo that is known as the "corporate umbilical cord". The other half comes next week, with orientations and training sessions and corporatey horseshit.
I mean horseshit with the utmost of respect, because frankly, I used to be fully on board the corporatey horseshit train. Choo Choo mother fucker.
Did I mention that on a normal day there are five of us in my office that do my particular job and today there was just me. Me, with my office in boxes and a nonfunctioning printer and copier. All the tools of success.
So when my co-worker who hadn't answered a call since noon yesterday, who didn't call in before noon today told me that something "wasn't as high a priority as you think it is." after he sat on this huge "to do" list for a week that I was given LAST NIGHT, I dutifully informed him that I did indeed "have the priority straight, especially since we're down for two days moving our office (jackass)." He conceded.
What I'm saying here is that, while I came back to blogging, I need leniency. Delicious,sweet leniency because I'm undermedicated, overworked and trying to determine the fine line between stomach irritation and ulcer. Have no worry, because tomorrow I will have that Blackberry and I will have webMD at my fingertips, even in the CAR, to determine if "hole in stomach lining" is worth adding to my resume.
And have I mentioned that my hair is mostly detestable? Well it is, but I greatly believe my perspective on that will change after my doctor's appointment next week, because one way I always know that the doldrums have settled in is when I feel the need to shave my head and just start over.
Which now that I have laid all of this out, I suppose that I should look at this whole office moving experience as shaving the head of my career and starting over. Only there will be no party in the back of my new mullet. Just business all over.
Business all over.
Choo choo mother fucker
Ps... I promised a BoomTube Saturday night and I might have to move it to Friday. Jason and I have decided to get a hotel room at the casino and get away from the kids for a night before they end up on the side of a milk carton.
Please don't call child protective services.
Tomorrow I get half of the Blackberry/Laptop combo that is known as the "corporate umbilical cord". The other half comes next week, with orientations and training sessions and corporatey horseshit.
I mean horseshit with the utmost of respect, because frankly, I used to be fully on board the corporatey horseshit train. Choo Choo mother fucker.
Did I mention that on a normal day there are five of us in my office that do my particular job and today there was just me. Me, with my office in boxes and a nonfunctioning printer and copier. All the tools of success.
So when my co-worker who hadn't answered a call since noon yesterday, who didn't call in before noon today told me that something "wasn't as high a priority as you think it is." after he sat on this huge "to do" list for a week that I was given LAST NIGHT, I dutifully informed him that I did indeed "have the priority straight, especially since we're down for two days moving our office (jackass)." He conceded.
What I'm saying here is that, while I came back to blogging, I need leniency. Delicious,sweet leniency because I'm undermedicated, overworked and trying to determine the fine line between stomach irritation and ulcer. Have no worry, because tomorrow I will have that Blackberry and I will have webMD at my fingertips, even in the CAR, to determine if "hole in stomach lining" is worth adding to my resume.
And have I mentioned that my hair is mostly detestable? Well it is, but I greatly believe my perspective on that will change after my doctor's appointment next week, because one way I always know that the doldrums have settled in is when I feel the need to shave my head and just start over.
Which now that I have laid all of this out, I suppose that I should look at this whole office moving experience as shaving the head of my career and starting over. Only there will be no party in the back of my new mullet. Just business all over.
Business all over.
Choo choo mother fucker
Ps... I promised a BoomTube Saturday night and I might have to move it to Friday. Jason and I have decided to get a hotel room at the casino and get away from the kids for a night before they end up on the side of a milk carton.
Please don't call child protective services.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Two Things...
Two things happened today:
1) I toured the company that bought us and what is to become our new office in two weeks. I can sum it up pretty well with this...
Imagine a Post Modern, all white, Dutch German mental hospital where men named Dieter and Hans might be walking around in black turtlenecks and off in the distance you hear the faint sounds of screaming. Suddenly those sounds comes to an abrupt halt. "Vould you like some Ice Cream? Be careful sitting in the chair, it's made out of three sticks and a sea shell, but really, sit there and admire this painting. It was painted by a recluse from the Swiss Alps who lost his arms saving kittens from Nazis and overly enthastic PETA protestors known simply as "The Huggers". He paints completely with his toes. We discovered him on You Tube." says Dieter. Or maybe Hans.
From now on I will merely refer to my company as Hans and Dieter.
2) When I picked my son up today he did not stop talking for a solid hour and a half. He only paused for quick breaths.
...And that is why I just opened a beer at 2:30 in the afternoon.
The end.
PS I think my office was decorated in Stanley Kubrick for Ikea.
1) I toured the company that bought us and what is to become our new office in two weeks. I can sum it up pretty well with this...
Imagine a Post Modern, all white, Dutch German mental hospital where men named Dieter and Hans might be walking around in black turtlenecks and off in the distance you hear the faint sounds of screaming. Suddenly those sounds comes to an abrupt halt. "Vould you like some Ice Cream? Be careful sitting in the chair, it's made out of three sticks and a sea shell, but really, sit there and admire this painting. It was painted by a recluse from the Swiss Alps who lost his arms saving kittens from Nazis and overly enthastic PETA protestors known simply as "The Huggers". He paints completely with his toes. We discovered him on You Tube." says Dieter. Or maybe Hans.
From now on I will merely refer to my company as Hans and Dieter.
2) When I picked my son up today he did not stop talking for a solid hour and a half. He only paused for quick breaths.
...And that is why I just opened a beer at 2:30 in the afternoon.
The end.
PS I think my office was decorated in Stanley Kubrick for Ikea.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Christmas Cat, The Furry Little Gift That Keeps On Pooping.
Two days before Christmas, Jason and I picked up the kids and took them to the animal shelter with the brilliant idea of getting a Christmas kitty.
Well, actually, let's rewind for a second.
For months we've been pestering Jason about getting a cat. My daughter would pull out the standard tween girl "awwww, look at the cute kitttttyyyy" whenever there was a cat in her eyeline.
"No. No more pets.", he would plainly say.
And then I would start in, "Yeah, but you love cats. They are so cuddly and cute."
"You're not helping me here. No."
Best of all, our son looooooves the titties. And he yells about it all the time. In the pet section of the discount store, "Mama, I love titties!"
"So do I kid", announced the old man next to us as I weakly smiled, my eyes darting side to side to see who was listening to his reptitious decree. The old man stroking the cat toys a little too fondly.
"Dada,I LOVE TITTIES!", he would announce, unprompted.
"Me too son, me too... but NO!"
And while The Dude does love the mammaries, the ones he so lovingly calls boo-boobs as he sticks his tiny hand down my shirt, it's really just his inability to pronounce the "K" sound that leads to these declarations of his amorous thoughts.
So it is with all of this in the back of his mind, Jason tells me one cold night that we would be getting a Christmas kitty.
I feel a little guilty repeatedly referring to him as the Christmas kitty, because this seems to denote some kind of miraculous gift or loving creature of our Lord. Like he may have been in the manger with sweet Baby Jesus. I'm quite sure that is not how his legacy will play out down the road after he kicks the feline bucket.
Gathering up the kids, we told them only that we'd be going to help someone for the holidays. As we pulled in, Monkey Girl's face lit up, but she tried to contort it to her duck-lipped poker face. It's not very pokerish. Walking into the building we quickly realized that pretty much every other harried parent on the planet had the same idea and mostly piss poor moods. Which is totally not the good deed demeanor, just so you know.
This is where I stop to ponder why exactly we picked this particular cat. Eying the bank of cats and all their cattiness felt a little surreal. Some were in rooms behind screen doors, like some wealthy little penthouse dwellers, others in stacked kennels, those were studio apartment cats. And then the ones that just randomly roamed and jumped on you - hobo kitties. Crazy ass hobo kitties.
It was all a blur of fur and flying paws. Sweet little kitty come hither looks and others swatting at their friends paws and looking like they'd shank you with catnip scented shivs if you even thought about saying "here kitty kitty..."
I noticed the Christmas kitty first. He looked me in the eye and perked up, making that little "brrrr" noise that indicates they want to love you. "Let me love you, nice lady" his bright little eyes flashed at me. I called everyone's attention to him and at that very moment he stood up and turned around and we all gasped simultaneously. Christmas kitty was missing a leg.
Yeah, YOU try walking away from a homeless, three-legged, bright eyed brrrring kitty two days before Christmas with two kids mewing "aaaawwwohhh, poor little kitty cat." "Mama! I want titty! I want that titty. Mammmmmaaaa... TIIIITTTTTY!"
"Give us that one, quick give us the tit- er, kitty with the three legs."
And as I watched three-legged Christmas kitty start to swat at his neighbors feet, it all came flooding back to me.
Cats are total dickheads. Nocternal assholes. Batters and jugglers of the noisiest trinkets hidden in dark corners in the night.
But it was too late. The kids were locked in on him and the paperwork was nearly complete.
So now here we are, the proud owners of a three-legged douchecat.
Christmas came and went.
New Year's Day came and went.
And still, kitty has no name. We call him kitty. We call him Pauly Walnuts when we're putting in effort. Mostly? We call him A-hole or Jerkface.
And even though I sound like the asshole here, you should know, we love kitty. And you have no idea what a complete doucharang you feel like when maybe you might toss a handicapped cat off the couch and he doesn't land on his feet. Instead he thunks, clumsily onto his little furry tail bone that still shows the regrowth of fur from where they shaved his butt when he his leg removal surgery.
You will hate yourself and question your upbringing.
And there isthe shame. Lots and lots of dirty shame.
Until three-legged kitty attacks your head in the middle of the night and as you are torn from your peaceful slumber and trying to process the burning, the stinging and the sound of ripping flesh (and the PAIN, what the hell is going on?!) then his claws dig in deeper as his one back foot slips out from under him and he is clinging to your bleeding scalp for dear life. The writhing, the flailing, the caterwauling. No really, what the hell is happening to my head? And finally kitty falls off, but not before he struggles to catch himself all the way down your left side before he crashes in a furry lump and then morphs into a hobbling flash of crazy yowling.
Handicapped kitty is no ninja.
More like sloppy, drunk hobo.
Well, actually, let's rewind for a second.
For months we've been pestering Jason about getting a cat. My daughter would pull out the standard tween girl "awwww, look at the cute kitttttyyyy" whenever there was a cat in her eyeline.
"No. No more pets.", he would plainly say.
And then I would start in, "Yeah, but you love cats. They are so cuddly and cute."
"You're not helping me here. No."
Best of all, our son looooooves the titties. And he yells about it all the time. In the pet section of the discount store, "Mama, I love titties!"
"So do I kid", announced the old man next to us as I weakly smiled, my eyes darting side to side to see who was listening to his reptitious decree. The old man stroking the cat toys a little too fondly.
"Dada,I LOVE TITTIES!", he would announce, unprompted.
"Me too son, me too... but NO!"
And while The Dude does love the mammaries, the ones he so lovingly calls boo-boobs as he sticks his tiny hand down my shirt, it's really just his inability to pronounce the "K" sound that leads to these declarations of his amorous thoughts.
So it is with all of this in the back of his mind, Jason tells me one cold night that we would be getting a Christmas kitty.
I feel a little guilty repeatedly referring to him as the Christmas kitty, because this seems to denote some kind of miraculous gift or loving creature of our Lord. Like he may have been in the manger with sweet Baby Jesus. I'm quite sure that is not how his legacy will play out down the road after he kicks the feline bucket.
Gathering up the kids, we told them only that we'd be going to help someone for the holidays. As we pulled in, Monkey Girl's face lit up, but she tried to contort it to her duck-lipped poker face. It's not very pokerish. Walking into the building we quickly realized that pretty much every other harried parent on the planet had the same idea and mostly piss poor moods. Which is totally not the good deed demeanor, just so you know.
This is where I stop to ponder why exactly we picked this particular cat. Eying the bank of cats and all their cattiness felt a little surreal. Some were in rooms behind screen doors, like some wealthy little penthouse dwellers, others in stacked kennels, those were studio apartment cats. And then the ones that just randomly roamed and jumped on you - hobo kitties. Crazy ass hobo kitties.
It was all a blur of fur and flying paws. Sweet little kitty come hither looks and others swatting at their friends paws and looking like they'd shank you with catnip scented shivs if you even thought about saying "here kitty kitty..."
I noticed the Christmas kitty first. He looked me in the eye and perked up, making that little "brrrr" noise that indicates they want to love you. "Let me love you, nice lady" his bright little eyes flashed at me. I called everyone's attention to him and at that very moment he stood up and turned around and we all gasped simultaneously. Christmas kitty was missing a leg.
Yeah, YOU try walking away from a homeless, three-legged, bright eyed brrrring kitty two days before Christmas with two kids mewing "aaaawwwohhh, poor little kitty cat." "Mama! I want titty! I want that titty. Mammmmmaaaa... TIIIITTTTTY!"
"Give us that one, quick give us the tit- er, kitty with the three legs."
And as I watched three-legged Christmas kitty start to swat at his neighbors feet, it all came flooding back to me.
Cats are total dickheads. Nocternal assholes. Batters and jugglers of the noisiest trinkets hidden in dark corners in the night.
But it was too late. The kids were locked in on him and the paperwork was nearly complete.
So now here we are, the proud owners of a three-legged douchecat.
Christmas came and went.
New Year's Day came and went.
And still, kitty has no name. We call him kitty. We call him Pauly Walnuts when we're putting in effort. Mostly? We call him A-hole or Jerkface.
And even though I sound like the asshole here, you should know, we love kitty. And you have no idea what a complete doucharang you feel like when maybe you might toss a handicapped cat off the couch and he doesn't land on his feet. Instead he thunks, clumsily onto his little furry tail bone that still shows the regrowth of fur from where they shaved his butt when he his leg removal surgery.
You will hate yourself and question your upbringing.
And there isthe shame. Lots and lots of dirty shame.
Until three-legged kitty attacks your head in the middle of the night and as you are torn from your peaceful slumber and trying to process the burning, the stinging and the sound of ripping flesh (and the PAIN, what the hell is going on?!) then his claws dig in deeper as his one back foot slips out from under him and he is clinging to your bleeding scalp for dear life. The writhing, the flailing, the caterwauling. No really, what the hell is happening to my head? And finally kitty falls off, but not before he struggles to catch himself all the way down your left side before he crashes in a furry lump and then morphs into a hobbling flash of crazy yowling.
Handicapped kitty is no ninja.
More like sloppy, drunk hobo.
Corporate Droneness, Not For The Weak
So I've been on this ridiculous, subconsciously imposed blogging hiatus, and it's come to the point where I either start again or we might find that the oven door doesn't close with my neck in the way.
I was promoted at work and it turned my days and my mind to a pile of steaming... well, pile.
In the midst of the promotion my awesome, family-like small company sold themselves to the highest bidder. The beginning of this new year has a decidedly more corporate existence. Which is decidedly not mega.
I woke up yesterday and I looked at this strange brunette in the mirror. Getting into my car felt stiff and awkward and then I walked into a place that I had a hand in creating and it just felt foreign and down right weird. Then it was capped off with further unfamiliarity and depression catalysts when I filled out a horseshitty amount of corporatey paperwork and I felt my soul shrivel. The whole day was just entirely out of body.
Out of body and bordering on splitting into multiple personalities.
Like I need help with being weird.
I guess what I'm saying is I HAVE to come back here and do this or... or... these stupid life insurance policies that I'm looking at will equal woohooo, partay, look who won the lottery day for the mister.
It's this or living with the absence of a soul and identity.
And when the hell did I start writing like an angsty, 14 year old honors English student's diary reads?
Meh.
Also? I haven't drawn a zombie in months.
I'm dead inside.
I was promoted at work and it turned my days and my mind to a pile of steaming... well, pile.
In the midst of the promotion my awesome, family-like small company sold themselves to the highest bidder. The beginning of this new year has a decidedly more corporate existence. Which is decidedly not mega.
I woke up yesterday and I looked at this strange brunette in the mirror. Getting into my car felt stiff and awkward and then I walked into a place that I had a hand in creating and it just felt foreign and down right weird. Then it was capped off with further unfamiliarity and depression catalysts when I filled out a horseshitty amount of corporatey paperwork and I felt my soul shrivel. The whole day was just entirely out of body.
Out of body and bordering on splitting into multiple personalities.
Like I need help with being weird.
I guess what I'm saying is I HAVE to come back here and do this or... or... these stupid life insurance policies that I'm looking at will equal woohooo, partay, look who won the lottery day for the mister.
It's this or living with the absence of a soul and identity.
And when the hell did I start writing like an angsty, 14 year old honors English student's diary reads?
Meh.
Also? I haven't drawn a zombie in months.
I'm dead inside.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
I Don't Know If You've Heard, But My Job Is Kind of Scarce These Days
I just wrote the longest post I've wrote (I'm changing this to written and in my mind going "WTF is wrong with me", but want you to see what a grammatical jerk I am right now) in a long time, but it wasn't here. It was at my other blog.
Mostly? I don't feel like writing about my job and possible lack thereof all over again. And really? Cutting and pasting it just what a chump would do.
And while I mostly try to own my chumpness, I'm going to save you from it. Me and my chumpness that is and just allow you to either skip it or go here to read all about it.
This has given me a really good excuse to use the word chump repeatedly. Because like so many other good terms from the 80's, that one has gone to the wayside, like jive turkey. Which, I'm mostly sure, is a synonym for chump.
Speaking of the 80's, SYFY (so stupid SciFi, really) has been showing the original V mini-series in a marathon the last few days and there is nothing chumpish or jive turkey like about that shit.
Mostly? I don't feel like writing about my job and possible lack thereof all over again. And really? Cutting and pasting it just what a chump would do.
And while I mostly try to own my chumpness, I'm going to save you from it. Me and my chumpness that is and just allow you to either skip it or go here to read all about it.
This has given me a really good excuse to use the word chump repeatedly. Because like so many other good terms from the 80's, that one has gone to the wayside, like jive turkey. Which, I'm mostly sure, is a synonym for chump.
Speaking of the 80's, SYFY (so stupid SciFi, really) has been showing the original V mini-series in a marathon the last few days and there is nothing chumpish or jive turkey like about that shit.
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