I Feel:

- That Michael Jackson's relevance died long before he did.

- That people who insist upon arguing with an expert in their field (ie: Me with Dairy Products) should be publicly ridiculed for their ignorance and then drawn & quartered.

- That more people should respect the Ginger 'stache. It gets no love at all.

- That the bitch who asked if my "Frotch" matched my 'stache should have been willing to look for herself.

- That having the Sidekick Tweet about the 49er's means he's too embarrassed to Tweet about the Habs.

- That tonight's scheduled operation on my laptop makes me feel half Dr. Oz, half Dr. Frankenstien. ("Tell me what's wrong so I can make you live!!!!")

- That Chocolate Cheerios let me feel like I'm being healthy and dirty at the same time. It's what I imagine fucking a hot (yet dirty) personal trainer would be like.

- That maybe Greece could go to one of those Payday Loan places. Borrowing a couple of billion - how bad could the interest be?

- That someday I just wish my shoes would tie themselves.

- That the only person more disappointed than Greedo in Han's ability to shoot first is Leia - and maybe Chewie.

Later.

Jacked Off.

Welp, my pride and joy is wounded, damaged in the heat of battle.

My Laptop has a busted power jack, and since I don't have time to check it out (working) I've turned it off and am only using it for essentials. (Porn & Banking.)

 I'm one of those people that freaks when anything with a battery is below 50%, and at 42 and falling, I want the laptop to last until I (or someone else) can take a look. I'm confident enough in my nerditude that I can probably get it working enough to get by  - at least I hope so. (Duck tape only goes so far.)

What pisses me of most is that I recently,...um, procured some new music, and was looking forward to listening to it and making some new playlists for the workout/car. Now I'm left with the shitty stuff I've been listening to for weeks. *First World Problem*

Frustration thy name is Toshiba.

Wish me luck.





Later.

Suprise Concurrance.

I'm a fan of The Black Keys.

If you don't know who they are, go here and educate yourself. (Of course, if you are a regular reader we already know you are a person of taste and culture.) You can come back to the blog and thank me later.

So I'm checking out the video for the new single "Lonely Boy" on YouTube -(I highly suggest you check it out below)



And there's an ad right before the video starts -



Normally I skip ads as soon as possible, but for some reason I didn't - and if you've watched it, you'll realize why I'm glad I didn't.

I'm a straight man, but the combination of Ryan Reynolds & Denzel (No last name needed 'cause it's motherfuckin' Denzel) is to much to resist.

The fact that such an awesome looking trailer was matched with an awesome song means one thing:

Good Job, Marketing Boys - I'm going to buy this album and watch the shit outta this movie. (Pictures will NOT be posted of either event.)

But just for the record: I dance waaaay better than the guy in the video.







Later.

Folical Fun for Anal Awareness.

It's Movember, people - which means I grow ridiculous shit on my face to raise awareness and money for Prostate Cancer.

(Not for the cancer itself - it doesn't need funding. It's for research dollars and awareness about getting checked out.)

So as of the 1st, I shaved my regular facial hair and started rockin' the 'stache. I'm not going for the Victorian-Era curly-mustache, though - I've got the badass biker-stache happening.

I figure I'm raising more awareness than most people only because of the color of mine. When you have brown hair and are sportin' the ginger 'stache tapering to grey-white by the chin, a lot of people ask if you are part of the Movember movement - because only a crazy fucker would sport this look without doing it for a cause. Remember my Playoff Beard? it's like that, but without the Hockey jersey.

We're doing some stuff at work for support as well, so it should be fun as I won't be the only guy looking like a 70's porn reject. I'll post pics of my majestic mustache as the month goes on.

I think we should combine the facial hair of Movember with the Breast Cancer Awareness Month (October) and have Motorboat Marathon. Get the right women, $5 per Motorboat ($3 if you're wearing a Mustache), and we'd have the necessary funds raised by the end of the month. Guaranteed.

I'm willing to be the first in line for tryouts.







Later.

Distractional Segueway.

Let's ignore the last post's ranting and look back to happier times.

Climb inside my Wayback Machine and enjoy a simpler time - like a week and a half ago.

Listen to the Sidekick and I Ramble on after the Sam Roberts concert. We discuss a multitude of subjects, but there's one thing that will stand out: the laughter.

I listened, and it cured my Arthritis and gave me a boner at the same time.*
*Didn't actually happen.

So take a break, grab a beer, and enjoy MidlifeRamblings.

My scheduled sense of humor should be back tomorrow.






Later.

Fuck.

*Warning - This is a rant, and I'm going to come across as bitter and hateful - if you would like to keep thinking of me as a nice human being, stop reading.*

I'm in the midst of a minor family crisis right now.

My Dad (72) had a small heart attack about 10 days ago. He was in the hospital for about 3 or 4 days and then he was released to come home. My Dad is overweight, a diabetic, on depression medications, and takes about 15 pills a day. Releasing him home in the care of my Mom (63), who is a newly retired Nurse, makes sense - she manages him well and has been doing so for years.

Mom had to go to the Hospital last night. She was dizzy, unresponsive, and when she was lucid, said her arms and legs were tingling. Dad did the smart thing and called 911 before he called me. She went into the Hospital at about 6pm, and after she stabilized and was okay to leave Emerg to a room it was almost 1 am. They are sure it's not a heart attack, just something to do with her Asthma (which caused her to hyperventilate) and a dosage change on her meds - Mom's biggest concern was that Dad was looked after.

I volunteered to look after my Dad last night and to take care of his meds, food, etc this morning. Making sure that worry is off Mom's mind means that she can just focus on herself and make sure that she's okay. My sister was going to help today while I was at work, and stay tonight. (Mom is staying one more night waiting for test results and should go home tomorrow.)

Now my sister is being a fucking cunt.

It's hard to describe exactly what she's doing, but somehow she's making it seem like what happened with Mom was all Dad's fault. Somehow in her mind, Mom taking care of my Dad caused all this. I should add right now that I work 5 days a week and she doesn't work at all, and yet I'm the one who goes up to my parents place on my days off each week and fixes things, helps with appointments, etc. Mom and Dad don't even ask her to help because she makes it seem like such a imposition on her time. (Like taking her ass away from Farmville for more than 20 minutes would end the world.) Today when we were at the Hospital she said she couldn't stay with Dad because  she had to make sure her Husband got up for work.

So ditching your sick Dad and easing your sick Mom's mind isn't as important as shutting off the alarm clock for ONE day? That's a fucking complete bitch move.

I'd love to go into some of the other massively cunt-y things she's done in the past 24 hours, but I only have so much time - suffice it to say that after all is said and done, and Mom and Dad are okay and settled down, her and I are going to have a nice, long talk that she is going to fucking hate.

I'm done with her shitty fucking attitude.
I'm done with her shitty way of talking to my Dad.
I'm done with her selfish way of looking at things.
I'm done with her.





Later.

Hallowed Out.

I'm just not that into Halloween anymore.

I'm down with the spookiness, the zombies, and the mythos of it all, but Halloween seems like more and more of a contrived, forced holiday that it sucks the joy out of it for me.

I enjoy the dressing up - some of the outfits that people come up with are astounding - but I think so much pressure to have a great costume ruins what I think should be the spontaneity of it all.

The fact that I live in a cold, windy, wet area makes taking the tots out trick-or-treating more of a torture than listening to Justin Beiber. They may be running on a sugar high from house to house, but Daddy wishes there was more than cream in his coffee - just to take the edge off, of course.

I'm sure if I was back in my 20's it would be more enjoyable. Back then all you had to do was dress up as Shaggy and try to fuck whichever girl came to the party as Daphne or Velma. (Those were the days, eh?)

But times have changed, I've grown up, and I have to try and remember that its not all about me. The kids really enjoy it, and the satisfaction I do get out of this day is seeing their imaginations at work.

So I'll do my best to persevere - just don't ask what's in my coffee if you see me out tonight - I might just have some "help" in there.

Later.

Fatty Foods and Running Guilt.

Do you see that wonderful creation to your right?

That's an Applebee's Maple Butter Blondie dessert.

It's fucking incredible. It's an orgasm that comes served to you on a sizzling plate. While you're transfixed staring at the stack of ice cream, walnuts and pecans, some sort of magic sauce is poured over - covering the ice cream, boiling and caramelizing as it hits the plate.

And then you eat.

Now, you're probably already 3/4 full from your dinner, but it doesn't matter. Once the taste of this motherfucker hits your palate, you are instantly compelled to finish it all. The wife and I share, and even then we are battling over the last few crumbs.

The worst thing I ever did was look at the nutritional information on my beloved Blondie. Each serving has 990 calories - and that's where the guilt kicks in.

Skinny Me knows that splitting the Blondie (Sound's like an 80's Porn slang, amirite?) was a good idea, but he also knows that those 500 calories, plus what dinner was, equal at least an hour running.

Fatty Me doesn't care - that dessert is worth it.

Skinny Me knows that you can't cut out everything from your diet and, in moderation, a cheat day every once in a while is a good thing.

Fatty Me already wants more. (Fatty Me is a selfish asshole, in case you haven't noticed.)

Thankfully the nearest place we can get the Blondie is a 45 minute drive away - keeping Fatty Me away from it shouldn't be too much of an issue. If it was just down the street, we'd be in trouble.

Maybe if I ran to the restaurant from home (31 miles) I wouldn't feel so guilty about enjoying my dessert.

.....and then maybe I can have a whole one to myself....*evil grin*







Later.

Let's Hear it for Beaver.

It appears some people in our Government want to change our National Mascot from the Beaver to the Polar Bear.

Fuck that noise. Beavers rock.

Hardworking, industrious, big fat tail, buck teeth - Beavers just don't fucking care what people think. They looked at what nature gave them and said, "Fuck 'em - I'm gunna cut down some trees and make a house.". That's the kind of plucky animal I want representing our country.

Polar Bears are only badass because they're bears. Who gives a shit? Winnie the Pooh is a bear and he gets no respect. The fucker is practically retarded. Polar Bears aren't much better - the only time anyone likes a Polar Bear is when it's a rug. No one romanticizes about Polar Bears when they are rifling through the garbage.

Say the word "Beaver" to any international tourist and, next to Pussy, the first thing they'll think of is Canada. (WARNING: If you are a girl, repeatedly saying "Beaver?" to someone who doesn't quite speak English could cause some type of, uhmm...mis-communication .) Say "Polar Bear" and people will nod and point to a Coca-Cola can. Not really an association I'd be proud of.

Sure, individually a Polar Bear will fuck your shit up. But take a thousand Beavers and they'll cut down all your trees, build a dam, and flood your fucking town. Who's more badass, now, eh?

In short, if these people in Government want to "Update" our National Symbol and "Keep it fresh" maybe they should try giving the ol' Beev a trim and shine up that tail - don't go replacing what's not broken.





Later.

Shameful Introduction.

I'd like to introduce you to two people: My Dear & Big Fella.

Who are they, you ask?

Are they characters in my as-yet-unfilmed Porn masterpiece?
Nope.

It's simple, really - My Dear and Big Fella are what I call anyone I run into whose name I can't remember.

Cheezy, right? I know.

It's not my fault - God gave me a great eye for faces (and boobs and butts) but I'm kinda lousy when it comes to names. I'm that guy who says "If I saw them I'd know who it is" when somebody asks if I know someone. I also use it a lot with any ex-employees that used to work for me. After managing a McDonald's (for what seemed like an eternity) I always run into people who remember me after working there for only 6 months - I barely recall any employee who worked less than 2 years.

Big Fella and My Dear work great, though. For women of any age "My Dear" is a personal yet non-creepy greeting, and "Big Fella" works with guys of any age or size. (If they're fat or muscular, they're used to being called Big Fella, and with any other size person it's a nice informal greeting.) I've never had this fail for me, and with working in retail, I use it repeatedly every day - mostly for customers and stuff, but also with people who you haven't seen in years whose name doesn't immediately spring to mind. (If they say hi to me first, I usually respond with a token "Hey..You!" until my brain catches up to my eyes and figures out where I know them from.)

So there you go - my secret is out.

Don't tell anyone, K? Thanks.

By the way, My Dear, I like the way the light of the laptop reflects in your eyes - and you, Big Fella, have you been working out? Nice to see ya, thanks for stopping by.





Later.

A New Groove.

I'm so fucking tired.

For the last 2 years, I was on set days off of Wednesday and Thursday. It was sweet - I always knew what my schedule was, could make plans, and the routine was set.

One of the pluses of the new work location is that I can rotate with my co-workers into weekends off. That means I get to see more of the Boys than just mornings and nights, and it's also great for going to events like this last weekend. (Which I still believe I am recovering from - I just can't party like I used to.)

The thing is, I'm so used to having Wed/Thurs off, that when Wednesday rolls around, I'm fucking exhausted. (Some of you may look at my Twitter and say "Well doesn't the 5 mile run you did have anything to do with it?" - I say no.) My body expects today to be a day off - not really a day of rest, but a no-pressure day.

No such luck.

I'm just about to head back from my lunch break (going to try a 10 minute power-nap and see if that helps) and all I really want to do is sleep instead. I'm contemplating going to bed when my kids do tonight and seeing if there's a difference.

The same sleep schedule as an 8 year old.
Life's not as glamorous as I imagined.





Later

Unfathomable.

My kids were amazed last night.

Why?

Because my Wife cooked rice.

Now cooking rice isn't a new thing around our house - we frequently enjoy the tasty grain. The kids are used to seeing Mommy setup the rice cooker on the counter while getting stuff ready for dinner.

They were excited last night because they got to help pick out what we were having and were looking forward to it as we haven't had rice in a while.

Imagine their disappointment when we found out the rice cooker wasn't working.

The kids were just about to go into whiny/crisis mode (I know - over rice. First World Problems, eh?) when they looked astoundingly at the Wife when she pulled a pot out and put it on the stove. They asked her what she was doing and seemed dumbfounded when she said "Cooking Rice".

My kids have never seen rice cooked on a stove.

As hilarious as that sounds, I somehow feel like I've let them down. If my kids are baffled by the fact that rice can be cooked in something other than a rice cooker on the counter, how are they going to be when they are lost in the wild? I can only picture them wandering around, trying to plug their Nintendo Ds into trees, hoping for a miracle.

I'm wondering what other things they are missing out on - maybe I can surprise them with the news that dishes can be washed by hand or before air conditioning we just opened a window.

Trust me, the situation will be rectified, even if I have to strand them in the park, Man vs. Wild style.




Later.

Discordant Arrangement.

There was something that struck me as odd at the Sam Roberts concert the Sidekick and I attended Saturday night.

There was a lot of old people there.

Now, I'm close to 40, so when I say someone is "Old", I'm saying around late-50's. I'm not going to judge these people, but I will admit that maybe they were at the wrong concert - I did a quick Google search and there isn't any operas or classical artists named Sam Roberts, so maybe they were at the right venue after all. There where quite a lot of them, (I'd say 10% of the people there) and I just chalked to up to season's ticket holders or some such thing.

But they sure weren't there to have fun.

There's one thing that happens at every concert I've been to: People stand up and groove along to the music and the people behind them stand up and so on and so on. It always happens. Sit down when ya want, but once the music starts, prepare to stand up.

These people were having none of that.

When the teenage (mid-20's? - I can never tell anymore) girls in front of them started dancing, they complained to the usher. When the people in front of the girls were standing, they complained to the usher. No matter what, they complained to the usher. It wasn't just an isolated incident either - I could see him running around to every group of older people and receiving some kind of bitching. This 19-year old kid looked like he was frazzled from having to try to appease all these people, and all because some kids want to dance.

The Sidekick's comment: "These people make the parents from Footloose look like a bunch of party animals."

When I go to a concert, I don't expect to sit down. In fact, I really only use the chair to hold my jacket and to mark the general area where I'm permitted to do my flailing about. (That's dancing, for those of you who have never seen the spectacle of my moves.) There was a bunch of old people around us, but since no one was standing (and I could see just fine) I restrained myself from jumping up.

The Sidekick's brilliant plan saved the day.

He had seen that even though the ushers had moved some people around to seat the dancers and non-dancers together, there was still a couple five or six rows in front of us who weren't looking like they were having a good time. He took it upon himself to approach the usher (who looked completely terrified at the thought of someone else complaining) and suggest that we switch seats  - as stated before, I'm perfectly fine with standing up and dancing my ass off.

So we switched, the people were happy, and all was well.


But the question remains: Who the fuck goes to a ROCK CONCERT and just sits down? Elvis would be rolling in his grave at the sight of it.

That older generation - I'll never understand them.





Later.

Digestive Downfall.

Beer kills me.

As much as I like the foamy beverage, it doesn't seem to reciprocate much at all. Normally, this isn't a problem, but on weekends like this it can be an issue.

You see, I was just in Vic at the Sam Roberts Band concert, and since I'm hanging with the Sidekick (official Beer Snob) there's a lot of the brewskie flowing.

I lost count of the types and amounts of beer that was consumed. (Really, it was all the Sidekick's fault.)

Add coffee, Gin, Denny's, pancakes, and driving to all of that and it means my guts are churning up a storm. I'm sure the wife and kids are really going to appreciate the odor I'm bringing home.

Yet another great thing they don't tell you about middle age.

Maybe I'll be nice and strap a charcoal filter to my ass and save everyone some discomfort.

Or maybe not - I'm kind of an ass that way.

Later.

Sammy.

I know I usually call my TV Sammy, but tonight it's a different story.

Tonight the Sidekick and I are attending the Sam Roberts concert at the Royal Theatre. They are one of my favorite Canadian Bands, and seeing them live is something I've been waiting for and can now check off my list.

Just so you don't feel left out (and to rub it in a bit) here's a couple of samples of what I'll be enjoying:







It's okay to be jealous - I would be if I was you.






Later.

To Good to Be True.

I checked the mail yesterday, and there was some interesting news.

Supposedly, according to the letter I received, their was a multi-millionaire with the same last name as me that died in China in a mysterious hiking accident. The partner in his investments is looking to cash in on the $21 million dollars that was left in-estate, and needs my help. He hasn't given me all the details yet, but it seems almost too good to be true.

Which is why I know it's a crock of shit.

We've all heard this one a thousand times - just usually a Nigerian Prince instead of a wealthy Caucasian. This guy did try really hard, however, and I will give him credit on a couple of things:

• His use of actual paper. Everyone is so used to the email scam that receiving something in the mail almost makes it seem legit. You'd think the cost of the postage and the paper would work against the scammer, but all he needs is for one person to fall for it and his expenses are covered.
• He didn't make it an outrageous sum of money. Having $21 million tied up in a foreign country seems like something that could possibly happen to a person who deals in International business.
• The English language is butchered horribly - almost as bad as when the Sidekick sends a tweet - but he actually apologizes for it at the end of the letter! Would a real scammer do that?

But there were some red flags:

• This guy is supposedly a Investment manager who deals with moving money Internationally - his English should be better, and if he has access to a computer to type this request, he probably has Spellcheck. Like I said above, the apology was nice, but c'mon - who falls for that shit?
• If a Multi-Million Dollar Financier disappered in a mysterious accident, it would have been covered on the news. Bill Gates can't take a shit without someone writing about it, so overlooking a death seems far-feteched.
• Looking up the name Anderson Watson in any search engine brings up 0 results. Google, motherfucker - have you heard of it?

If it turns out that I'm wrong and this kind Chinese gentleman really is trying to give me millions, I will apologize - right after I endorse the cheque with my Unicorn-horn pen and blot the ink with the ass of Santa's Reindeer.






Later.

Partial Timeline.

My Day Off today:

• 7am - Wake up, stumble around house in a daze until I make my way to the kitchen to put coffee on.
• 7:05am -  Go into each kid's room and proceed to wake them up with a combination of tickling and threatening to fart on their heads. (They're Boys - they think farting is the height of comedy.) 
• 7:15am - Hand coffee to the Wife as she gets out of the shower. (Yes, I'm that terrific of a husband.)
• 7:20am - Get breakfast for the Boys, and try to make sure they eat it while they deploy every strategy known to 5 & 8 years olds on how to postpone eating said breakfast. (The Ruthless Parent in me sometimes wants to send them off with no breakfast like they want - but the Shameful Parent knows they'll tell their Teacher "Daddy didn't feed me".)
• 7:40am -  Tell the kids to get dressed - Check with wife to see if it's going to be a "Need a Second Cup" kinda day before she goes to work.
• 7:45am - Find out that the kids must be colorblind - there's no reason they would dress themselves like that on purpose.
• 7:50am -  Redress the kids, and make sure their hair is combed/teeth brushed/faces are clean  - one wants me to gel his hair up in a faux-hawk and the other wants his hair to have the Superman "S"-type curl on the front. (Yup - I've raised a couple of classy ones here, people.)
• 8am -  On my way to get dressed for the gym, pass by the wife getting ready and give her a little Helicopter Dance (no contact). I don't think she appreciates it.
• 8:10am - Tie my shoes, kiss the Wife goodbye, (There's a bit of a twinkle in her eye - maybe the Helicopter worked after all..) and hustle the kids out the door to school.
• 8:30am - Drop the oldest off and let him go to class - take the youngest to kindergarten, where I realize that while mine seem bad at times, they pale to other people's kids in bad behavior. (One Dad tells me his kid pissed on his bedroom floor because he was mad about Lego.) I try not to gloat.
• 8:45am - Sign in at the gym and run my ass off for 45 minutes (give or take). Try to avoid repeat glances at the tatted up, firm-buttocked lass on the stair climber in front of me. (Unsuccessful - Great inspiration, though) Proceed to stretch my hams, glutes, lats, pecs, and any other muscle that feels like jelly.
• 10am - Get home, make a coffee and a sweet omlete for breakfast and say I'm only going to spend 15 min online while I eat.
• 11am - Finally realize that 15 minutes has turned into an hour. (Don't judge me - I bet you've done this too.) Resolve to finish one last thing and then sign off.
• 11:30am - Feel shame and amazement at how quickly a half hour flies by. (But look! Now you can tweet this post! )
• 12pm: Fresh from the shower, dance around naked while listening to the Foo Fighters. (Yes, I checked - the blinds where closed.)
• 12:15pm - Scramble to put pants on when I hear a noise at the door. Relax after realizing it was just the paperboy. Wish my paper was dropped off by out-of-work Supermodel.
• 12:30pm - Try to figure out what I want to blog about today. Running? Work? Batman? Poker? Why I think Gerbils are classier rodents than Guinea Pigs?
• 12:40pm - Start typing. You have no idea how shitty I am at typing. I'm not a touch-typist, and not quite a hunter-pecker, either. People who have seen me type compare my roaming, fumbling hands to a teenage boy undoing his first bra clasp. 
• 1:19pm Post this and hope for the best.

I'd post the rest of the day, but it hasn't happened yet. I could make it up, but all of you would get suspicious if I mentioned winning the lottery or battling dragons I found in my crawlspace. Best to just stick with reality.






Later.

Under The Bus.

I'm enjoying being at the new (old) location for work - everything is going well, I'm getting lots done, and I like just  enough of the people  I'm working with. (They are finally starting to get my sense of what's funny.)

There's only one thing that's bugging me:

The guy I switched with.

He's a good guy, and we've known each other for ages. He took over my old section at the other location. I had found a couple of minor-ish things wrong down here, and I expected for him to do the same there - everyone is different and we all notice different things, so there will be some stuff that we each will find. I didn't say much about what I found, just gave him a heads up and he told me a couple things too.

But I heard from two or three reliable sources that he's slagging me down there - trying to critique my job and blowing anything he found waaay out of proportion.

This fucking pisses me off.

I checked with my bosses, and they don't believe or don't care about any error or missed item on my part.

I confronted my co-worker, and he complety denied saying anything negative. (Repeatedly, in fact - I think he's scared of me.)

I don't really give a shit about it, as I know and am fully confident in my job performance - it's just that for some reason the useless little shit pushed my buttons the wrong way.

I think that a pen to the forehead (Dark Knight style) should be punishment for anyone who pulls this type of shit. (Anyone else agree?)

It's over, it's dealt with, moving on.

Thanks for the rant, Internet, its been fun.

Later.

I Feel:

- That beating up thugs playing Arkham City is almost as much fun as shooting up Zombies in Left 4 Dead.

- That if there was a game where Batman blew the shit outta Zombies, I'd be first in line at the preorder desk.

- That being closer to home means I get a nooner when I go home for lunch.

- That it also means I can play video games.

- That being able to do both in the same lunch hour doesn't say much about my staying power. (Sad face)

- That having once-regular customers ask if I just got back from holidays (when I've actually been gone for 2 years) is kind of a letdown.

- That having the Sidekick finally finish editing the podcast is excellent, because I can then post this.

- That kicking ass at Jeopardy, thereby schooling everyone else in the room, will never get old.

- That after gym, work, dinner and kids, my body and mind are both completely wiped.

- That I used to have the same feeling after Spring Break when I was younger - but it was Gin instead of Gym, Weed instead of Work, and somehow Women replaced both food and kids.

- That I'm finally in good enough shape to keep up to the dreams of my youth.

Later.

Switcheroo.

So after being down in the OR for 20 months, it's my first day back in WP, where I spent my first 8 years.

Some things I noticed:

- Next to Department Heads and long term employees, I have no fucking idea who anyone is.
- But no one knows who the fuck I am either, so it kinda balances out.
- I'm so used to my routine in OR that I'm just kinda wandering today. Boring only begins to describe it.
- The breakroom in OR? A fucking palace, with 2 couches, a recliner, and tons of space.
- The breakroom in WP? I could fit it in my crawlspace. (Hopefully I'll be going to the gym/home on my lunch more often.)
- I have yet to see one redneck today, or sell one pack of cigarettes - in OR, both are staples.
- The people I could usually make my witty/crude/humourous comments to aren't around, and I haven't had a chance to break these new ones into "my" sense of humour.
- Hopefully doing that doesn't involve lawyers.

It'll take a bit to get back into my rhythm, but I'm looking forward to being back - even if it's just because the drive home is 3 minutes instead of 25.

Later.