Hey-Oh!

I was about to wonder aloud whether it had really only been two weeks since I posted last, and then I realized that I completely forgot about the month of April. Ah, the joys of working until my brain turns to mush...

And yes, another redesign was in order, thankyouverymuch. I was getting a little tired of my...whatever I had before...and decided to change my background to SPAAAACE. The final frontier. Blogtier? Doesn't matter.

I missed so many things while I was away: Bunsen Burner Day (March 31st), Draw a Picture of a Bird Day (April 8th), National High Five Day (April 21st), AND Save the Rhino Day (May 1st). So many bizarre and wonderful holidays, so little time.

This post was really just intended as a brief blog-and-run, but I guess I do have one thing to discuss: the concept of "overtime guilt."

I think it's a term that I just made up. And a quick Google search confirms its originality. Suck it, Merriam Webster.

Overtime guilt is a thing that I had never really experienced until I started working 80-hour weeks. Basically, it rears its ugly head whenever I don't work 80-hour weeks. It hits whenever I take a weekend off or whenever I work an 8-hour day. I can't help but feel like I'm slacking off. Which is a) ridiculous, b) totally insane, and c) some other closely related word that I can't think of right now.

Bonkers?

No, too adorable.

Whatever this is, it's definitely not healthy. That's the problem with taking your work home with you, I guess. Even when you're at home, it still feels like you're at work.

The one thing I can't figure out is why I never had this problem in school. I did all my work at home, and yet...never really felt compelled to check email hundred of times a day or go to class on a Saturday. Ever.

Maybe it's because I'm getting paid now. Yeah. That's probably it. Now that I'm making the big bucks, it's messing with my mind.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm thinking of starting a new blog about the trials and tribulations of my hockey class. I know you guys wouldn't be super intrigued, but someone might be. I can call it "Get the Puck Outta Here." No, maybe not. "The Puck Stops Here"? Ugh. I think the part of my brain that comes up with horrible puns is officially broken. Good riddance, I say.

Luck o' the Irish

Crosswalks are starting to get a little ridiculous. I remember back in the day when you pushed a tiny button and waited for the hand to turn into the walking guy. That was it. Easy as pie. These days you get all sorts of countdowns and flashing lights and irritating pips (those are for blind people though, so that's okay), but this, friends, is the last straw.

On St. Patty's Day, I came face to face with the most ridiculously aggravating crosswalk ever. I was making my way downtown after work and tiredly leaned on the "I would like to cross, please" button. I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I pressed the button again. Still nothing. I stepped to the curb, looked both ways, and started crossing. I hadn't even touched the pavement before a voice from the crosswalk button yelled, "WAIT!"

I pivoted and glared at the box.  

How did you do that? I wondered, and walked back to investigate. Thinking that perhaps a motion sensor was in play, I waved my hand in front of the box. Nothing. I started walking away again and was accosted with another "WAIT!"

Now it was just taunting me.

What the hell, crosswalk box? What is your problem? No answer. I turned.

"WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!"  

All right, all right, just shut up!! I'm waiting. God. 

I swear it was smirking at me. After another few seconds, I saw that the stoplight was turning yellow. Finally, I thought. It is about freaking time.

The little walking guy appeared, and I started across the street, secure in the fact that I would never have to deal with the crosswalk from hell again.

"HEY!" it said. "THE WALK LIGHT IS ON."

You win this time, crosswalk box. You win this time.

What, Me Worry?

All right, I'll admit it: I am freaking out a little. 

Crazy huge earthquake in Japan = my very first tsunami warning in California. Um...

I was getting ready to go to sleep when the Emergency Alert System bust in on my Man vs. Wild and warned all of us San Francisco Bay Areans (wow, we need a better name) that a tsunami with "significant widespread inundation" was imminent.

I spent my evening watching Japan become the next Atlantis and then was told by the nice newsman that we were about to get some of that action. UM...

The previous hour has been spent researching every possible tsunami inundation map in existence, and my house appears to be out of the splash zone; however, these things are notoriously unpredictable, and I live really freaking close to a body of water that is connected to the Pacific Ocean. SWEET BABY JESUS I AM GOING TO DIE.

Okay, I'm not going to die. Our elevation is about 100 feet above sea level, and the experts seem to think 50 feet is plenty to avoid the brunt of the surge. The water in the delta might rise a bit, maybe some minor flooding, but I don't plan on waking up tomorrow morning knee-deep in tsunami run-off. Still, I'm thinking I'll move my laptop to higher ground. Just in case.

Can't even imagine what people in Japan are dealing with, though...

Get a Life

I think I'm in an abusive relationship.*

Horror of horrors, thy name is Calculus. Last week, it was all butterflies and rainbows. This week...not so much.

We broke up. It was a mutual thing. He thought he could find someone who would appreciate him more than I did; I thought he was too arrogant and egotistical for his own good. We agreed to go our separate ways. I didn't spend a week under the covers, hoarding empty tissue boxes and watching cheesy romantic comedies until I could quote them word-for-word. In fact, I was relieved. Glad to be rid of him.

And then he threw himself back into my life. He tried to convince me that we should get back together. He kept pestering me at work. He started following me home. Calling at all hours of the night. Expecting us to hang out on weekends, just like old times. He went from "socially incompetent" to "class five stalker" in a matter of days.

The worst part about it is that I think his shock and awe campaign is finally starting to pay off. I think about him constantly. I find myself blowing off my other friends just to spend time with him. I even lose sleep.

Something needs to change, so here's an open letter to Mr. C., from me:

Hey buddy, you want to back it up a little bit? I think I need my space.

*Note: I am not actually in an abusive relationship. It's called an "extended metaphor," ya dig?

The Apocryphalypse

Gas just hit $4 a gallon, and there's a chance we'll see snow in San Francisco tomorrow. The end is nigh.

Okay, not really. But it's still pretty freaking crazy over here.

Life is...life. Deadlines are looming, an epic battle is waging between my immune system and the Office Cold, and I am losing sleep for no apparent reason. Actually, there is an apparent reason: I can't convince my body that it's okay to go to bed before 1 am. It's a real problem, you guys.

I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but I feel like I have zero time to do anything but work, eat, and sleep. Still kinda loving it, though. Granted, I think I need a hobby, because I find myself checking my email compulsively and I really don't want to become that person. Rock climbing was supposed to be that hobby, but I'm finding it very difficult to set aside two whole hours for the gym, AND find a partner, AND muster up the willpower necessary to actually do anything but veg out on the couch. Maybe I'm a lost cause.

Still, work is great. Ridiculously busy, horrifically stressful, pushing me so far out of my comfort zone you wouldn't believe...but great. And when it seems like I just can't take anymore and miiiiight just snap, I take joy in the little things: bonding with my coworkers over a common enemy, debating the probability that one of our writers has multiple personalities, or listening to the jingle that the electric kettle plays whenever the water starts to boil. Ah, yes...love is in the air. Not happily-ever-after-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-this-company kind of love, but still love.

Ugh...I just used the "L" word. It really must be the end of the world.

Cubicle Monkey

I am one. Seriously. Every time we run up against a deadline (namely, every month), I start living in the writer's room. Technically it's not a cubicle - I don't have one of those - but "writer's room monkey" doesn't have the same sort of ring to it.

It could be worse. At least I get to talk to people, which is something the real cubicle monkeys don't get to do. Whoever controls the thermostat is a sadist, though...turning on the air conditioning when it's cold and wet and rainy outside. Evil.

My birthday happened. That was kind of a thing. There was a family dinner at a delicious German restaurant in San Jose. Meat. Cheese-covered extravagances. Apple strudel. Oh, and liters of beer. That's right. Liters. Of beer. The food coma lasted for days. Okay, that's a lie. It lasted for about an hour and then I had to stuff myself full of birthday cake. But then that food coma lasted for days. Mmmm.

There's not much else going on. I've been so tightly scheduled these days that I haven't had more than five minutes to do anything but work, eat, sleep, and gym.* And you guys know how much I enjoy being lazy. What a shame.

I have other things to tell you guys, but they can wait until our next Skype session.

*It's a verb now.

Not So Common Anymore

The topic of tonight's post, friends, is common courtesy. Wow, that sounded really passive aggressive. I'm not accusing you guys of being uncourteous*, I swear! No, the target of my ire is my next door neighbor.

I shall call him George.

No, George is too awesome of a name for him.

I shall call him...Wonston. That's right. Wonston. It was going to be Winston, but the "i" and the "o" are really close together on the keyboard and it's too late to turn back now, so Wonston it is.

Wonston has been living next door to me for a couple of years. I've never spoken to him (our neighborhood is not what you might call "friendly"), so I have no idea how many people actually live in his house...but they have seven cars. Seven freaking cars, people. Two are parked in their driveway. Three are in front of their house. And two are in front of my house. Most of the cars rotate in and out - sometimes the Jeep is in the driveway, sometimes it's the Corolla with the "Jesus Loves You" license plate frame - but the ones in front of my house never move. They're just there...in front of my house...forever.

You know what, Wonston? I would like to park in front of my house.

I live on a corner, Wonston. You know that, because you live next to me. Around said corner, there is room for at least six of your multitude of cars. Why do you insist on trying to fit both of your humongotron pickups in the space between my driveway and the handicap ramp for the crosswalk? This isn't the twilight zone. Neither of them magically shrink when the other is present. You either block off the ramp, leaving wheelchair-bound folks SOL, or you extend a good half-foot into my barely-big-enough-for-one-car driveway, forcing me to go off-roading every time I stop home for lunch. 

Wonston is my mortal enemy. And he knows it, too. (Why yes, I am being melodramatic. Why do you ask?) Last week, the parking duel came to a head: I was walking up my driveway as he was leaving his house. I opened the gate, turned, and spotted him. We made eye contact. I glanced meaningfully at my car, then at his, and looked at him. He gave me a nod, seeming to understand. He walked to his car. I loitered at the mailbox. He turned the ignition. It roared to life. He looked at me. Smiled. He got something from the glove box, turned the car off, and walked back inside. CURSES, I thought. Curses indeed.

Also, before you say that I should be a little less film noir with my narrative and actually talk to the guy, there is some shady stuff going on at that house. Unless he just has a bunch of friends who enjoy stopping by at all hours for a quick chat through the windows of their cars. Yeah. I'm sure that's it.

Pretty exciting, right? See what all of you are missing?

First day of bike commuting to work tomorrow. I bought a bell. Here's hoping I don't die.

*It should be a word.