Friday, April 9, 2010

In which Primo sort of humiliates himself to get me a treat

February 2010 Primo has to go to Germany for work. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It sounds good, but I have traveled with him before and here's how it goes: he gets up early, grabs something to eat from the hotel buffet, goes to the customer's office, spends all day there, then returns to the hotel and tries to get into his email so he can do all his regular work that has been accumulating while he has been gone.

Usually, the internet connection is bad so he has to go down to the front desk to complain and sometimes they have to put him in a different room because Oh dear, sir, guess what we put you in one of the three rooms with broken internet even though you're obviously a business traveler and we have plenty of rooms with working internet available.

Then he spends a few hours doing his email before he realizes that he needs to eat some supper but if he's stuck in a suburban hotel (most likely because he stays close to the customer offices), his easiest food option is the hotel food, which most people will admit is not the tastiest.

So. International travel for work. Not so glamorous. I will have to tell you about our trip to England together last summer and how that little adventure nearly ended our marriage. Let's just say for now that the combination of two control freaks, google maps, narrow English "highways" and left hand side of the road driving are not conducive to romance but make fabulous tinder for a blowout fight.

This trip, he is traveling alone. I don't want to spend five days in a suburban hotel while he is at work all day and we don't want to waste frequent flier miles on the trip.*

On his way back, he calls me from the international lounge or whatever you call that place when you have an upgrade to business class and you get free internet and some cheese and grapes that are close to becoming raisins. Well, that's what you get in the US.

In Europe, you get really good food and free booze. Which would be great if either of us were heavy drinkers, but we are not. OK, Spain's business class lounge is not so fabulous - they have olives and potato chips for breakfast. For breakfast. But they also have booze for breakfast, so again, if this is your thing, you are fine.

But the German lounge?

They have yogurt and salami and pretzel rolls and candy and curry (yes, curry or at least some kind of Indian food) and sausage and fish and lots of other goodies that I do not remember.

And they have Nutella.

Which I do remember because when we took our trip to Germany last year, we went through this same lounge and I made about ten trips past the Nutella bin, grabbing two or three little Nutellas each time.

Oh yes it was tacky.

That's why I had to get only a few at a time - so nobody would see what I was doing.

Not that the businessmen busy on their computers or with their newspapers or their morning gin and tonics cared about what I was doing but what about the help? What about the Algerian buslady who was replenishing the breakfast buffet? I didn't want her to see me being so greedy.

So he calls me. "I'm in the lounge. Do you want me to get you some Nutella?"

Oh yes I want Nutella. I want it even though I still have about two dozen little Nutellas left from the last trip and even though I have three jars of Nutella-like substance from World Market sitting in the pantry. Unopened. I like the idea of Nutella. I can't control myself once the jar is opened,** but it is comforting to know that the Nutella is there should I have a Nutella emergency. The little Nutellas are better because once opened, there is only about a tablespoon of Nutella to eat. It's safer.

"How much?" he asks.

"As much as you can get!" I tell him.

"I can't keep going back to the bowl!" he exclaims, shocked.

I think about this. Nobody knows him there. Why does he care how he looks? Why does he care what the Algerian buslady thinks?

And then I think about the 400 pounds of Nutella in the basement pantry.

"Maybe not that much," I admit.

He returns with eight packets. Proof of love.


* We should be saving those to visit Sly and Doris, right?

** I have the same problem with dulce de leche, also known as manjar, which is a spreadable caramel you get in South America. I asked my roommate in Chile not to bring any more manjar home because I was having a tough time not eating the entire jar at once. He started hiding it. Ha. As if he could hide manjar from me. I asked again. I came home to find a note on the table: "That Woman, I spit in the manjar." Did he really think a little bit of spit was going to stop me? I just scraped off the top layer and ate the rest. All the 140 calories/tablespoon rest.

In which we get cats and I discover that Primo baby talks to them, which is a little creepy if you ask me

Spring 2009 We are in the house, done with the big traveling (we take a two-week trip to Spain and Morocco in the fall as our sort of honeymoon, then have to go to Sly and Doris' for Thanksgiving), settling in.

It's time for cats.

Primo promised me cats.

I have found a purebred cat rescue place run by crazy cat ladies that has Siamese cats. Siamese are my favorite. They look cool and they don't shed as much as other cats do. O'Malley, the Siamese we had when I was a kid, didn't even have a brush. He just didn't shed. Love that.

Crazy cat ladies are the same all over. When I tried to get cats when I lived in Miami - I wanted them because I had rats and my landlord's suggestion to get a snake was not that appealing to me - a crazy cat lady came to my house to inspect it before they would give me the cats.

"Vere vill ze kitties sleep?" she demanded. As if you can dictate where a cat sleeps.

"Vere vill ze kitties eat?" she asked.

She was appalled when I mentioned that one of the reasons I wanted the cats was because I had rats.

"You cannot haff ze cats if you haff ze rats!" she exclaimed.

Ha, I told her. Yes you can. I have to work for a living. Why shouldn't my cats?

The Fairview crazy cat ladies are not much better, although they don't require a home inspection. I do, however, have to complete a questionnaire asking me about my habits and my cat philosophy. Indoor vs outdoor is always one of the big questions and the answer is always a shocked, "I would NEVER let my cat outdoors," even if you have every intention of turning your cats into mighty rabbit hunters. I know this now because I have been turned down for cats when I answered well of course I am going to let them outside! Do you think I like litter boxes?

What is my vet philosophy? How much money am I willing to spend on a sick animal? I don't tell them the truth, which is that for most animal sicknesses, it's a blindfold and a cigarette. I can get a new cat for $150. Why would I spend thousands of dollars repairing the old one?

Primo disagrees with me on that one, by the way. Primo is way more sentimental than I will ever be. He should probably have a lawyer help him make some explicit directive on how much medical care he wants or I might pull the plug way earlier than he intended. Except I would pay a lot more to keep Primo alive than I would the cats. Even though he is worth some money dead. Just saying.

Anyhow. We pass the rigorous interrogation on their website and I start watching for a pair of Siamese cats. If you're going to get one cat, you might as well get two so they can play with each other. Cats are a lot more social than people think.

Two Siamese become available in a week that Primo is out of town. I email him the particulars, including the link to a video of the cats. They are so cute.

His somewhat panicked control freak micro-manager response:

The prospect of getting cats RIGHT NOW is causing me some stress, as I'd prefer not to be dealing with that in my short time at home between my trips this week and next week. I would also prefer to have some time to prepare the house in advance. (We may have to install at least one and maybe two cat doors, right? And we'll need to buy a cat box, litter, food, etc. I would like to have some degree of involvement in these things.)

Maybe we could arrange to get the cats a little later (for example, a week or two from now) instead of right away.

Oh good grief. We argue back and forth until I wear him down and he agrees that maybe I am capable of

1. Buying cat food
2. Buying a litter box
3. Buying kitty litter
4. Going to pick up the cats all by myself, especially because the crazy cat lady won't let us dibs them so if we want these cats, I have to get them now

I get the cats. They are so cute. Primo returns home and falls in love. Deep Love. We name them Lily and Sam. (Not really, but those are their blog names.) He picks Sam up and croons to her. Whispers in a tiny little voice. Baby talks.

I am a little grossed out.

"That's just weird," I tell him. "That's such an intimate tone. You're creepy."

He protests. "They're cute!" he says. "We're not going to have kids, so they're my babies."

Oh that's just weird. If I had known he was a cat baby-talker before I married him, I might not have said, "I do." The only good thing is that he has never called himself "Daddy" to the cats or referred to me as "Mommy." I just try not to listen the rest of the time.

In which Primo meets my father

My dad died in 1997. August 27, 1997 at about 6:00 a.m. The nurse woke me up (my mom, my sister, my brother and I were staying at the hospice with him) and told me to come, it was time, but I lingered because I didn't want to see the life leaving my father, who had already been what they call "non-responsive" and what looked like comatose to me for two days. I lingered because I didn't want him to die and as soon as I entered his room and saw him dead, it was real. I lingered in my simple dormitory room with the four twin beds so that for a little while, he could still be alive to me.

But we can't stop death, can we? And when it happens, it changes everything and you wonder how the world goes on as if nothing happened. Princess Diana died a week after my dad did. Somebody asked me if I had watched her funeral and I answered no. Why did I care about the funeral of someone unknown to me when it had been only a few days since my father's funeral?

Primo never met my dad. My dad would have liked him, I know. Partly because my dad liked all of my friends and partly because Primo is a really likeable guy. I used to take my college boyfriend, R.M., home - the one to whom I was engaged and had the church and the dress and then changed my mind and yes I returned the ring I am not tacky - and would lose him almost immediately to my father, who would corral R.M. and ask him to play chess or help him with something in the garage. My female friends were put to work in the yard. My dad was an equal opportunity employer in that way.

My mom liked my boyfriends, too, so much that after I broke up with the second boyfriend they met, my mom asked me not to bring home any more until I was sure I was going to get married because she was tired of getting to know these guys and then never getting to see them again.

My mom and I tell Primo about my dad but it's not the same as meeting in person. But Primo does get a chance to see what my dad is like. We made a video of my dad when he was dying. Slightly macabre, maybe, but better than nothing at all. Someone lent us a video camera and we kept it in his room and filmed him talking and telling stories. My mom made me a copy of the tape after my dad died but I couldn't bear to watch it.

Finally, almost 13 years after his death, I decide it's time. I want Primo to see my dad. We put in the video and there he is. He's so thin. So pale. Eight months of cancer, chemo and metastisis will do that. Make you lose half your body weight. All your hair. The irony of it all is that if my dad had not been so healthy, the chemo would have killed him way before the cancer (non-Hodgkin's lymphoma) did. He thought he'd pulled a muscle running a 10K. Nope. It was cancer growing in his abdomen. Who knew?

But at this moment, he is cheerful. Even though he is dying. The cancer has spread to his spine, paralyzing him from the waist down (I am not even going to go into the indignities that implies but just think about it), and somehow affecting his nerve endings such that even the weight of the sheet on his skin is painful. Fortunately, the doctor will give my dad as much morphine as he wants, so we can keep him as pain free as is possible.

I wonder how he can be so cheerful and I ask Sister Jovita, the nun who runs the ward, about it. She is careful, but tells me after my dad dies that he would confide his fears in her. He didn't want to worry us, she says.

To us, he says, "Why not me?" when we rage about the injustice of his cancer and ask, "Why him?"

"Why am I so special that I shouldn't get sick?" he asks.

It's as if the cancer strips him of all the externalities and reduces his personality to its bare essence: a good-natured, happy man who loved his family. He did not whine when bad things happened. He took what life gave him and tried to make the best of it. He never got bitter, but maybe that's because he was never a bitter man to begin with.

In the video that Primo and I watch, my dad tells stories about bike riding in Panama, where we lived when I was in high school. He tells stories from his childhood - about the time that he and his brothers and cousins tipped over an outhouse and when they dragged the gate from the cattle-hauling truck to the sidewalk, where it rested, full of calf poop, until my grandmother, in her new fur coat, walked. And slipped. And let loose words that my dad claims he had never heard before. He tells the story of blowing up the basement when he was in high school and trying to make rocket fuel.

The video doesn't show the going-away party we held for him with his mom and brothers and sisters in law and our other relatives who could come. We had champagne and my aunt Pat made a pitcher of Old Fashioneds. We talked about who he was going to see in heaven: his father, who died in 1967, his best friend Harry S., who died in a ship's fire, our cat O'Malley. Yes, your pets go to heaven. I don't care what the theologians say. How can it be heaven if your pets aren't there?

The video does show the two-pound bag of M&Ms sitting on the nightstand next to my father. It remained untouched for the week he was in that hospice bed. A miracle, but not the one we wanted.

"I would have liked your dad," Primo says.

"I know," I tell him.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

In which Sly and Doris buy a new TV for Nancy after her loser boyfriend breaks it but won't buy a computer for Primo

The rational response when the skanky boyfriend of the heroin-addict daughter breaks her television:

Don't buy her another TV.

The Sly and Doris response when the skanky boyfriend of their heroin-addict daughter breaks her television:

Buy her another TV.

The truly obnoxious response when the skanky boyfriend of the heroin-addict daughter breaks her TV and the son in college who is their Only Joy, who has never given them any trouble asks them to buy him a computer:

Tell him they can't afford a computer but buy the heroin-addict daughter a new TV.

In which Primo gives me a hard time about not giving homemade jam to his mother

December 2009 We are getting ready for the Forced March to Sly and Doris' house. Primo asks if I am going to give his mother some of the pear jam I made from the pears from the tree in our back yard.

After we moved in, we had the tree pruned (probably for the first time in years) and sprayed it against brown spot. I took a canning class, bought used canning equipment from a couple I found on Craigslist (they were downsizing and she sold the supplies to me because I was the potential buyer who seemed most sincerely interested in canning), and spent many hot hours cutting, boiling and canning those pears.


Now we have way more jam than we could ever eat, but it is better than letting the pears go to waste. It has been a labor of love. My intention was always to give the extra jam away. To people I care about.

Primo: Are you going to take some pear jam for my mom?

Me: Noooooo.

Primo: Why not?

Me: Because it's all designated already.

Primo: For whom?

Me: My sister. My mom. My aunts. Patrick and Ilene. Other people.

Primo: Why not my mom?

Me: We're giving your mom and dad new knives!

Primo: But my mom likes jam! You gave me jam to take to Mrs D [his ex mother in law] and you've never even met her.

Me: Well I thought you should take her something and she sounds like such a nice lady.*

Primo: I could have taken her cheese curds.

Me: Cheese curds aren't special.

Primo: My mom doesn't deserve something special?

Me: We're paying $500 to fly there and spend vacation days cleaning out their garage and fridge and cat box!

Primo: I know. I'm just messing with you.


What I don't say to Primo is that I do not want to give his mother anything personal. That she does not deserve a personal gift from me - something that has so much of my time in it. That I don't want to give her anything from my heart because there is nothing for her in my heart. I think he knows.

* Primo's ex mother in law, Bertha's mother, loves Primo. Always did, always will. Primo calls her and goes to see her when he can. She has chastised Bertha for letting Primo get away. Apparently, she knows her daughter inside and out.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

In which Primo gets an annulment

January 2008 Primo's divorce from Bertha is finally done. All the delays because the lawyer was having elective surgery and didn't tell Primo and didn't bother to have anyone backing her up in the office and because Bertha sent in the wrong papers and nobody from the lawyer bothered to tell Primo and because Bertha told the lawyer that she and Primo weren't getting divorced after all* are over.

Now we can work on the annulment.

Bertha is not going to be happy about this, Primo warns me.

But she didn't even bother to get her first marriage annulled before she married you, I point out. She and her first husband married in the Catholic Church, but when they divorced, she didn't file for annulment. She obviously didn't care whether about being involved in the Catholic Church - she had been attending a Presbyterian church for some time. Why would she give a darn what the Catholic Church thought about her marital status?

Bertha and Primo married in a Presbyterian church, Bertha in full white regalia, I might point out, even though it was her second marriage and she had two daughters. Not that it's any of my business what someone wears in her wedding but do you do the whole muffin thing the second time? No, this isn't about whether the dress signifies virginity (ha - like anyone thinks that any more). But wouldn't it have been more financially prudent to have a simple dress?

I do some research. Primo talks to the canon lawyer at the diocese. Turns out that unless he has to have a big formal annulment,** the kind where they examine witnesses and take statements and can drag on for months if not years, Bertha does not even have to know about this.

Turns out that Primo can have a documentary annulment, which is basically a "You didn't follow the proper procedures to get married in the first place so the marriage never existed" thing, kind of like committing fraud on your life insurance application (lying about smoking or medical conditions) and the insurance company invalidating the policy later.

With Primo and Bertha, the procedures they violated were 1. Bertha never got her first marriage annulled and 2. they were married in a Presbyterian church. Not that the Catholic Church thinks that Presbyterian marriages are not valid, but if you are Catholic, you have to be married in a Catholic church for it to count.

If you have a documentary annulment, the other party does not have to agree. Does not even have to know about it. Maybe the thinking is that if the other party cared about being considered married in the eyes of the Catholic Church, the other party would not have created the conditions necessary for a documentary annulment in the first place.

I do all the work to get the annulment going. I track down Bertha's baptismal certificate. Bertha's marriage certificate from her first marriage. A copy of Primo and Bertha's wedding license. We complete the application for annulment.

We make a big mistake.

We put Bertha's address on the application. Because they ask for it and we are too dumb think it through.

When I submit the application, I tell the office manager at the diocese both over the phone and via email that Bertha is not to be contacted. That if she has to become involved, Primo will call her first. That she has cancer. Is not happy about the divorce. That we do not want her to hear about the annulment from the diocese.

The annulment is approved in two weeks. The same afternoon that we learn about the approval, Primo gets a phone call from Bertha. "You f---! You're despicable!"

Primo is gobsmacked. How did she know?

Oh. Our helpful friend at the diocese, whom I had told repeatedly NOT TO TELL BERTHA. He sent a letter to Bertha.

I call him and ask what the heck had happened?

Oh, he knew I had said not to send a letter but he had sent one just in case we needed the formal annulment. You know. To be efficient.

Thanks a lot.



* Oh yes. She did.

** Which Primo has categorically said he will. Not. Do.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

In which Primo and I have a big fight about my slight obsessiveness about certain things like exercise and blogging

July 2006 Primo has come to Springfield to visit me for the 4th of July weekend. I am happy to see him as always but I don't plan to make any adjustments to my life or anything just because he is here. He always keeps himself busy. Why should now be any different?

We hang out over the weekend. Primo also has Monday and Tuesday (the 4th) off. We have a good time. We take a riverboat cruise. We go to a 4th of July party that my friend Leigh puts together at the last minute and ends up being fabulously fun. Our friend C. announces her intentions to have a baby on her own in two years (after she's paid off her truck) if she hasn't met and married a guy by then, which throws us into a determined panic to find her someone to marry by the deadline as we are all kind of against on-purpose single motherhood.

On Monday and Tuesday, I go to boot camp. I go to boot camp every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. There is a special session on Tuesday. I go because hey, it's more exercise class for my money. Extract every penny of value from something like that is my motto.

I also blog. Every day. I blog every day. Even if Primo is visiting. That is one of my things. I have to blog. People are depending on me. Readers!*

I don't think going to boot camp is such a big deal. It's at 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday, which means that Primo will still be sleeping.

Maybe this is where I should admit that one of the things we argue about is bedtime. And getting up time. Primo likes to go to bed late and get up late. I like to go to bed early because I wake up when the sun comes up, no matter what time I go to bed. If I want nine hours of sleep (and I do) that means early to bed for me. But once I'm awake, I am awake. Wide awake. I want to get out of bed. I have Things To Do. I can't laze around. The chores don't do themselves, you know.

Primo, however, wants me to lie in bed with him and talk and cuddle. He wants me to waste time. He is a Time Waster. I am Efficient.

This is a problem.

So I go to boot camp on Tuesday and am back by 8:15 a.m., plenty of time for us to go to my neighborhood's 4th of July parade. One neighbor invites us to use her pool that afternoon. They're not going to be home, but we are welcome to go and cool off.

Primo wants to go to the pool.

I do not. I don't like recreational swimming. I don't like to be in the sun. But I go and sit in the shade while he is in the water.

I think I am being accommodating.

He thinks I am being difficult.

He starts to sulk that afternoon. I don't understand. Why is he upset? I ask him in an offhand way because I cannot possibly imagine what might be bothering him.

He points out that I had put all my other activities before him. Couldn't be bothered to do the few things he wanted. Got out of bed early on the one day he could really relax because it was a holiday and he didn't have to worry about work building up. Even if he takes vacation, the work is always there, but at least on a national holiday, his American co-workers are taking the day off, too, so there is less work to accumulate. He is furious. He had flown to Springfield to spend time with me, not to be relegated to my, "When I am done with other things" basket.

I am astonished. And puzzled. Because I don't think I am that interesting. I don't understand why someone would want that much of my attention. Why is this such a big deal? I have lived on my own for over 20 years and the idea of worrying about someone else's feelings and making compromises is not part of my emotional vocabulary. OK, yes, my boyfriend before Primo, JT, had made similar complaints, but he lived only a mile from me, so I didn't see him in four-day stretches.

Tearful recriminations. Fear that he will leave. Promises to do better. Panic at the idea of screwing it up and losing him forever. Wondering why it's all such a big deal and then thinking they "why" doesn't matter. What matters is that Primo was upset about it. Considering that maybe I am just a tiny bit obsessive and inflexible and is that a good thing or a bad thing and do I need to change? What happens if I don't? I hate compromise and I hate being flexible. But I sure like having Primo around.



* Even though as I read through my archives, I realize that I am just not that interesting. Yet I am convinced that it is my writing that stands between my readers and despair.

Monday, April 5, 2010

In which I have a horrible job interview in Fairview

May 2006 I have been trying to find a job. Really. I do need a job. I don't know yet that I am going to marry Primo and become a gold digger of the first order. A money sucking, bon bon eating, soap opera watching* gold digger. Yes, I married Primo just so I wouldn't have to get a job. Sly and Doris were right.

Anyhow. I apply for this job in Fairview because I am thinking I should move to the city where Primo lives so we can date and get to know each other and if I'm going to do that, someone else should pick up the moving tab, sell my house and pay me a good salary.

Much to my surprise, the Acme Company calls me for an interview. I have a phone interview first. The recruiter asks me how I feel about long hours and tight deadlines.

Oh please.

If I tell the truth, which is how everyone feels about long hours and tight deadlines (they are a sign of managerial incompetence and I don't want to work in such an environment), I won't get a second interview. Why bother to ask such a question? Everyone is going to lie and say, "I LOVE long hours and tight deadlines!"

OK, they're not going to say that, but they are going to say something like what I say, which is that sometimes they are necessary.

Only they're not. If you have decent planning and management. Which my former employer did not and apparently Acme does not.

They like me enough that they fly me to Fairview for more interviews. Which go OK until I meet this woman Meg who comes into the room oozing something. Hostility? Anger?

She is wearing denim pants with a wide belt, a jacket with heavy shoulder pads (Honey! 1984 called and it wants its jacket back!), and clunky shoes. On the right (i.e., cute) woman, it could have looked ironic, but on Meg, it is Dykefest 2006.

I look great in a red tailored suit with a just above the knee skirt. Black pumps.

Is she mad that I look better than she does? And if she's a lesbian, why would she care? It's not like we'd be playing in the same market. If she's straight, then I say, Honey, you’re the one who’s dressing ugly on purpose, OK? I didn’t pull those clothes out of your closet, put a gun to your head and make you wear them. If she's lesbian, then so what? The zenn** diagram of our sexual objects does not intersect.

Meg asks me right away if I have any questions for her. I am thinking, Don't you ask me questions? You are supposed to be interviewing me, honey. Do some of the work. Plus I had just had a 45-minute conversation with the first interviewer and we had covered a lot. More than a lot - first interviewer and I were supposed to talk for only 20 minutes, but we really hit it off. Maybe that's why she's hostile: she's getting to me late. Who knows?

So she asks me a question. What is my weakness?

Stupid me, after saying, "I didn't think people really asked that question in interviews," I give her a real weakness instead of a fake, job-appropriate weakness. She smells blood.

She asks why I want the job.

Duh. Because I am unemployed.

Why do I want to live in Fairview?

I hesitate. I don't want to tell them my boyfriend is here or they will lowball me on the salary. Later, I realize that this is a stupid attitude because no Fairview employers can understand why I would want to move here and telling the truth about Primo makes them far more disposed to me. Plus, I can't bear the lying.

I ask what she likes and dislikes about the job. Then I ask her about the employee gym (which she brought up in the first place).

“Why don’t you ask me about the project?” she asks impatiently. Well excuse me! I get sidetracked for one little second! But I think asking her about what she likes and doesn’t like about the job are perfectly legitimate questions. Not to mention FIRST INTERVIEWER COVERED THE PROJECT.

She tells me that she lives in Big City 90 miles away and commutes to Fairview. “Every day?” I gasp.

“No, I have an apartment here for Monday through Friday. I own a place in Big City 90,” she answers. “I’m used to being in a much more diverse, liberal city.”

“So you really live in Fairview and go to Big City 90 on the weekends,” I say snidely.

“No, I live in Big City 90!” she protests.

We don't like each other that much. At all. Primo and I pick the conversation apart later and we figure that either Meg sees me as competition or is threatened by me, which is totally hilarious because I am so not ambitious. Maybe she thinks I would challenge her – she kept talking about “visibility” and “high-profile,” stuff I couldn’t care less about. She can be the queen bee as far as I’m concerned. I just want a fun, challenging, interesting job, but the path to the corner office is clear. I am not standing in her way.

I leave and send email thank you notes to everyone who interviewed me. For some reason, Meg's is kicked back to me. I somehow got the wrong email or something. I re-send, but to no avail. Within two days, I have the traditional go to hell email from them, which does not break my heart too much because they had misrepresented the job on monster.com and the actual job was something I did not want to do. If you are doing an SAP conversion, you need to say that in your ad is all I am saying because that way the people who want nothing to do with an SAP conversion ever again as long as they live will know not to apply for the job and waste your time.

They also all talked about getting like 120 factories all over the world converted in a year or two which meant spending lots of weekends up all night long while the conversion happened. No thank you.

And everyone was in tiny cubicles. Smaller than the cubicle I had in my old job. Smaller than the office I had before my spineless boss let another department take our offices and put us into cubicles 13 miles away in the neighborhood where people were routinely carjacked.

However. I am still unemployed and it's because they didn't want to date me. Which stinks.




* If we hadn't cancelled our cable because Time Warner was charging $70 a month for us not to watch TV, I would be watching soap operas. Well, I'd be watching them now. Primo still has TV in 2006. But he still doesn't watch it. I don't even like to do the math on that. It makes me a little bit sick to my stomach.

** K pointed out that I mean a Venn diagram, not a zenn one. Yes. I do. Thank you. What would a zenn diagram look like? The sound of one hand clapping?