I've Made My Bed

I just broke up with the most caring, patient and loyal girl that I've ever met. It was the right thing to do or the biggest mistake of my life.

Daft Bastard

An older gentleman with an Scottish accent called me a "daft bastard" yesterday. I was in my car, he on the grassy curb next to the forgotten train tracks that run through out my section of town. I had apparently ran a red light at the crossing designed to stop traffic just before the lane met the tracks. These same tracks were built for trains that have not operated in years, perhaps a decade now.

This man was livid that I had run these red lights, as is customary for me, and instead come to a stop at the second set of lights at the road intersection, which in my mind were the only lights that mattered in this situation. This lost soul had chosen the train lights as a reasonable place to cross the street. Other more mindful drivers had stopped at those lights, either out of habit of stopping at the sign of red no matter the circumstances, or perhaps the combination of seeing a red traffic light and a grumpy old pedestrian impatiently waiting to rewrite the rules of the road was a powerful enough visual cue for them to hit those brakes and HALT. To these attentive, conscientious drivers, I salute you.

This does not, of course, let my mild-mannered interrogator off the hook. I reflexively rolled down the passenger side windows when I caught a glimpse of an animated figure off in my peripheral vision. I thought for a moment it was a concerned citizen trying to tell me about a punctured tire on my car or perhaps he was interested in shouting over some encouraging words about my driving prowess. Alas it was no such helpful advice that floated across the lane of traffic, through my open window and into my waiting ear drums. It was a good old fashioned chastisement. The old goat remarked on my failure to stop at the red light and how he was trying to cross the road at that particular spot.

I didn't have the heart or time to counter-berate this man. Time seems to simultaneously stand still and accelerate during these moments of impromptu public confrontations. I never did get a chance to question this man's judgment to cross a busy commuter street where no pedestrian crosswalk exists. An abandoned train track exists there, sure, supported by a set of traffic lights that have obviously outlived their relevance, but a railroad hardly substitutes as an improvised crosswalk for old men.

Like I said, too much logical ammunition to expend on a helpless old man, too little time. The real traffic lights ahead of me switched to green and all I was able to muster was a quick shake of my head, a hiked thumb stabbing backwards and a rather dismissive comment about the train that no longer ran on those tracks. Then I was off, but not before my friend on the curb delivered his parting shot.

"I was trying to cross the road there, ya daft bastard!"

Daft bastard. It had a certain ring to it that confused me more than it actually offended. I immediately thought of Mike Myers in his Austen Powers movies. Then just as quickly I made the associative link and realized it reminded me of the Fat Bastard character.

Daft Bastard vs. Fat Bastard. Yes, I may have been a dick for not going along with the crowd and stopping at a fake set of red lights to allow an old man to jaywalk across four lanes of traffic. In my mind, being called a daft bastard yesterday was less a reflection on my performance as a driver and more of a commentary on a recurring theme in my life of late.

Allow me to explain a little further. I quit my job last Thursday, yet my own team supervisor was still expecting me to come into the office yesterday and work my regular shift. I had even committed to going in to work, the daft bastard that I am, even though I had tendered my letter of resignation and contacted the appropriate representatives about my intention to quit. Well, I never did show up for my shift. Why should I? Aside from the obvious, I had quit and I couldn't stomach going back to that environment for even a few more hours.

It was all a miniature mess of misunderstandings, bad timing and administrative mix ups but I got it all resolved this morning. I suppose if I really wanted to disengage from my contract good and proper, I would have forced myself to return to the office, work a rather meaningless two hours into my shift, then pay a visit to my recruitment representative to officially sign off on my resignation. This rep was still on vacation last week, otherwise I would have walked off the job last Thursday instead of dragging things out into ambiguous employment territory this week.

I think the take home message here is I'm a daft bastard. I'm a daft bastard for failing to obey obsolete traffic lights. I'm a daft bastard for not kowtowing to the whims of belligerent, elderly pedestrians. I'm also an insanely daft bastard for leaving a job without first lining up a new gig to hop over to.

Finally, I'm a daft bastard for having the guts to quit the first job I truly despised. In that sense, sometimes being a one dense, daft son of a bitch is the smartest move you'll ever make and a necessary evil if you plan on saving your life.

On Facebook (When the Crush Says "Hi")

I sometimes wonder if Facebook is actually meant to facilitate my online social networking, or if in fact it is a link to my unwanted past. Since I joined over the summer, I've padded my friends list with my share of acquaintances from elementary and high school. A quick exchange of emails or an enthused Wall post, and we were on our separate ways again, never to speak again.

Women from my recent dating past have also resurfaced, Facebook-style. "Dating" may be putting too much of a strong point on it. I went on a one or two non-committal dates with some young ladies and never saw them again, until Facebook. I tried reaching out to one particular girl who I abruptly stopped calling a couple summers ago. I don't think I sustained more than 3 messages in our conversation.

As with my former school colleagues, I sometimes wonder why I even bother keeping the people I've dated on my friends list. Is it all just ego, to add to the ever-increasing tally of random faces on my list of contacts? Strip away all the fat, and you'd be left with the sober truth of me really having 5 close friends, 5 "hang out" buddies and at the most 10 - 15 regular acquaintances. Right now, my list of so-called friends has ballooned into the territory of the mid-to-high 80s. Total bullshit.

But I do draw the line sometimes. There are times when I take a stand and say "no". I'll say no to the incessant invites to add yet another new widget to my already bloated profile page. I"ll say no to the mindless mouse-clicking games, trivia games, personality assessments and any number of time-wasting plug-ins added onto an already crowning achievement in online time-wastery. I'll also say "no" to friend invites from girls how have jilted me in the past.

I suppose this isn't any different from my adding a girl to my Facebook after failing to call her for 18 months. Still, when a girl I went out with twice back in 2000 sends me a friend request, I take notice. She had me stumped, oh for a good 15 seconds until I actually found some photos on her page. I suppose it's no surprise she was able to find me, seeing how we actually did share a couple friends in our tangled web of Facebook. I'm just more surprised that she actually remembered me and bothered to send a request.

Wait, there's no bother at all. Requesting someone to be added to your collection of friends is simplicity itself. It's effortless. That's why people do it. I really don't suppose this girl really cares too much about what's going on with my life. I see ourselves exchanging the usual pleasantries before going our separate ways again. I could always break things up by asking her to return those party photos I'd lent to her after our last date. We could talk about the good old times, like that one week I spent obsessing over her and calling her every couple of nights to ask her out again, but never getting a response.

But no, I don't think that's sanctioned behaviour on Facebook. I'm just another Facebook face to her. I'm just there to be filed into her stack of friends, and likewise I can use her to pad out my own list of 80-something-going-on-90. It's an even exchange. Your empty social credit for mine.

Keep Your Foot Still at the Movies

I don't know why I've had such a bad run of seat kickers when I've gone to the movies.

It must have started in August, when I really started going out to the theaters regularly to take in the final load of summer mega-hits. There was a 2-week span when I watched The Simpsons Movie, The Bourne Ultimatum, Hairspray and Rush Hour 3. At each of these shows, I was harassed by a seat kicker. The seat-kicking ended after I stopped going to the movies for a while in September. But even now, I've encountered some mild seat kicking in one form or another.

I hate having my seat kicked. For one, I don't understand it. Surely, most seat kickers have had their own seats pounded upon at one point or another. They know how annoying it can be, yet here they are obliviously tapping away at the back of my chair. The other thing that gets me is wondering why on earth they can't keep their foot still. Are we still children here, restless in our chairs, feeling put upon by this movie that's in front of us and realizing we'd rather go aside and play in the sun? I don't get it, and I rarely tolerate it either.

A large majority of the culprits so far have been young girls, which goes some way to explain why they kick the seats in the first place. Women have a habit of sitting with their legs crossed, which puts their leg in a optimal position to swing around and deliver percussive attacks to the seats in front of them. I admit this makes it a lot easier for me to spin around and ask my tormentor to kindly stop their kicking, when said tormentor is of the fairer sex.

I think young people, in general, have a tendency towards this. A variant of seat kicking is the classy resting of the foot on the chair in front of you, even when there is someone sitting there. Depending on how the seats are constructed (high backs, sturdy), this may not be a problem. It becomes a problem when the foot resting transitions into foot shifting and switching between feet. It's not quite as annoying as the "tap-tap-tap" of a full-fledged seat kicker, but if I can feel your feet moving around on the back of chair, I am going to be distracted from my movie. And if I'm distracted from a movie -- even if it's a lousy one -- I'm going to be pissed.

How can we curb this behaviour at the movies? I suppose it's a lot like manners: you're either brought up early to be mindful of this sort of behaviour or you're not. I'd like to think it's a habit that can be untrained or weaned off by aging. Ideally, I'm hoping this piece serves as a public service announcement to bring in awareness. In the end, all that's really needed in open, polite communication. Most seat kickers don't really know what an idiot they're being until you turn around to ask them to kindly stop. And usually, they do. I have yet to meet a huffy seat kicker who takes umbrage with being called out for their misdeeds. Come to think of it, I've met a lot more rude, petulant Movie Talkers than I have Seat Kickers, so I'll give them some credit where it's due.

Lucky for those seat kickers, I'd say. There seem to be a lot more of them, and to be rude and huffy as well? Well, I'd hate to have to take a hatchet to their ankles.

As for Movie Talkers? My God, these pricks need to be shot. But that's another blog post altogether.

Countdown to Thirty

It's a little less than 3 days until my 30th birthday and I'm feeling fine. Funny to think that if you asked me about turning 30 back when I was still 25, you would have gotten some wacky, over-dramatic soliloquy out of me. It sucks, I'm getting old and what will I do then would be some of the more choice sentiments found in my ramble. That was a particularly tender time for me, since I was still coming to grips with my "quarter-century crisis". Thirty was looming large and, judging by how quickly my life went from ages 20 - 25, it was really just around the corner for me.

I stand at Thirty's doorstep now and all I can muster is a relieved, "MEH".

A small part of me is grateful that my 20s are over and done with. I spent the better part of those years alternately being very afraid and pretending not to be afraid. I also took many small, stupid risks while shying away from the really colossal, moronic risks that might have really changed my life. There was fun to be had, as well as some experimentation. I just wish I had experimented with things even more. Again, it comes back to my fear. It's the fear and insecurity about myself that I've always had and the same I still carry with me today, like an old coat.

As each year passes, I managed to shrug off more layers of fabric from this coat. Turning 30 is just a blip in what is my life-long process of accepting myself. Each year I realize my weaknesses are not always deal-breakers. I get a better appreciation of my own quirks, learn new lessons from mistakes made long past and slowly but surely, I come to cherish the qualities that others recognize in me and the very ones I rarely give myself credit for.

Oh I'll regret not having the chance to be a complete dumbass doing completely dumbass things as a 20-year old. Come to think of it, I wasn't exactly the most reckless, dumbass 20-year old out there, not by a long shot. I'll just have to settle for getting into dumbass shenanigans in my thirties, when I'm slightly smarter and just slightly more experienced. The thrills may not be the same, they'll just be different.

So in a sense, I am committed to making my thirties my new twenties. My twenties, minus the fear, the anger and the aimlessness. No, this is not about recapturing my youth like they do in Pepsi commercials. This is about forging ahead, taking risks and jumping on new opportunities.

Young, sadly, is not what I feel. I'm feeling lethargic, I am cramps and aches and I generally couldn't feel more like an old man than I do right now. So here's to creeping across that line into thirtydom in true form: creeking and wheezing, yes, but ready to duke it out for at least another 10 years.

Pendulum Swings Back to 500WPD Blogging

Job hunting disorientation, the cooler weather today and feelings of borderline sickness all conspired to eat up my hours today and preempt a long overdue post to this humble website of mine.

I never knew managing -- or in my case, failing to manage -- two blogs at once would be so taxing an effort. Just a few months after launching my Xbox 360 blog, I switched full gears into writing video game updates and little else. Much to my surprise, friends began asking about the sudden dearth of posts. Asking is a bit too polite, although I don't want to fault anyone for exercising some good ol'fashioned "bitchin' & moaning". Particularly friends in transit or living abroad were using my blog as live conduit into my life and my extended radio silence left them completely in the dark about little old me.

And now I'm back, not with more empty promises of getting back into regular blogging habits, or even recapping all the petty going-ons that have marred or otherwise enlivened my existence since the end of March.

I just... felt the need to write.

And in the process of my urge to form thoughts and ideas in blog-friendly format, maybe I will ruminate over some things that have been going on in the World of Me.

Unemployment, especially during the height of summer, is a bizarre sort of predicament. The gorgeous weather, uplifting vibe and reams of lovely exposed flesh are not the most conducive motivators for hunkering down inside a job resource centre, library or even at home in front of the online job boards. I've been playing it all off as some free-spirit, happily advertising my unemployed bum status to all who dare to ask and confessing my unadulterated enjoyment of the work-free summer lifestyle. I will say this: of the 3 or 4 times I've found myself without a job, this is undoubtedly my most pleasurable, guilt-free stint ever.

There are a few contributing reasons to my shameless enjoyment. A certain, unhealthy fixation to video games keeps me in the house, out of trouble and away from the general flow of daily consumerism. The weather, at least during one glorious week in May and for much of July so far, as been suitably hot and cheery, and on those days I am tempted out into the beach or the coffee house to wile away precious hours alternately reading or ogling, depending on what affords the best view at the time. My love life has also undergone a bit of a jump-start in defiance of my usual self-bias of someohow being dating-ineligible by mere fact of being unemployed. In that regard, I have pleasantly surprised myself and currently enjoy relearning the ropes: fumbling through the early stages of courtship, or wooing, or whatever sappy formalized term you prefer to use other than simply, "hooking up".

Lastly, I think I'm enjoying my unemployment so much simply because I have progressively let go of my "career transition" stress. Whereas before I might be hell-bent on finding the job, now I have a more positive view on the possibility that the job will find me. Oh, I am still quite in the dark about discovering that magical answer that melds some passion of mine to an actual job title. But I've started to let that go and be at peace with perhaps doing work, any kind of work, and being able to realize quickly if I would derive any satisfaction from doing it.

I wish I could be more clear about that but I feel like I'm rapidly fading in terms of being articulate. My writing ability can feel like it runs on a dusty backup generator: juice fires up for emergency situation, then dissipates quickly. Simply put, my work-free bliss will soon be facing some harsh reality as my employment benefits will run out early next month. The search for a stable, long-term job is taking on a different tactic, the one of finding some stop-gap work ASAP so I can continue my Quest of Finding a Meaningful Career and still have some change left over to eat, sleep on a bed and play more video games.

There are also a couple articles stewing in my Blogger queue, so don't be surprised if you see some new material on these pages in the coming week. Although not a full-fledged promise of a return to consistent blogging, it's the best I can do right now with oh, just SO MUCH ON MY PLATE. You do understand, don't you?

Besides, I love flaunting the irony that is the title of my blog with the actual frequency of my blogging.

Hope everyone is having a semi-interesting July.

p.s. - I've also succumbed to the charms of Facebook. God help us all.

A New Day & a New Chapter

I had a severe case of the "poor me"s two weeks ago, making it impossible to write anything coherent aside from dropping a couple F-bombs and calling it a night.

I've been trying to come up with a trite metaphor about life and roads and directions, knowing that all it would accomplish is to highlight just how uninspired I can be at 12:09AM on a Thursday evening.

Two weeks ago, I received my walking papers from the current job, signaling the end of my dutiful, perfunctory 15 months of service as the company's webmaster. Like all lay-offs, this one came as a bit of a surprise. My boss trundled into my office near day's end, quickly sat down and got down to business. Sales were down and cash flow had tightened and support staff would need to be terminated. It didn't occur to me to ask why our sales board was so awfully white when he had went through the trouble recruiting the boss' old friend (and hotshot salesman) to rake in the new business. No, I was too busy being bemused and rapidly oscillating my emotions between joy, relief, annoyance and perfect calm.

As I left work that day, I was positive of having already come to grips with my termination. This is what I wanted since January, right? When I reactivated my Monster and Workopolis accounts, that was the time I was itching to get a change of scenery. Now my secret wish was fulfilled.

I drove home, slightly happier and with mind braying with ideas and possibilities.

Not two hours later, I was scanning the rain-slicked street outside my apartment, searching for the malcontent who crushed the driver-side mirror off my car with their own poorly driven vehicle. Still fresh from the shock of newfound unemployment and the memory of my unresolved claim from September, I was beside myself. It really was an inhuman feat to not feel victimized at that point.

I did a point check on my karma rating, wondering what foul deeds I have committed recently to deserve this double-whammy. Not that I'm a saint by any stretch, but I couldn't think of any thing.

Today is my final day at the job. Had one of the owners at our satellite office dump a truckload of menial tasks on my lap these last few days, no doubt gettin' that web work while the gettin's good. After that's wrapped up, it's the slow process of backing up my best work, saving all my personal files, clearing out my browser cache and collecting the few personal effects I have on my desk. It's all very anti-climactic. Even the owners are out of town and will miss my send-off.

Oh yes, I will get my farewell lunch. See, who says it doesn't pay to get sacked?