Scared Bunny

OK, so people are thinking to themselves; “Was he killed in the Great Coffee War? Did an espresso machine blow up and paralyze him?” The fact is neither of these things has happened. Hell, I haven’t really had much talk with either faction in days. Today’s “Happy Friday” was the closest I have had to involvement. Well, other than the fact I continue to drink the shitty coffee while some people are drinking good coffee. But I think the reason I am not on their radar is quite simple. They have come to the conclusion I am not someone valuable to either side as an ally.

I am not taking this personally because I doubt it has anything to do with me as a man. I mean, hell, I have a villa and, for whatever reason, that means something around here. I heard today about how there are people who have villas that haven’t even been hired yet. I also heard about people who have had exceptions submitted on their behalf so they can have a villa. This damn villa shit is very important here. So anyone with enough clout to have one is someone you would want on your side.

But they aren’t worried about me because I am about to be moved off the front lines. Now, I am not saying I am losing my villa, because I don’t believe that is the case. Instead I am being moved. I am told this is something that happens quite frequently around here. In fact, it is the frequent moves that are the reason that, for me to have a villa I had to be located on the far side of the building away from every single person I actually work with.

Truth be told though, I don’t want to move really. It’s not that I don’t want to move, it’s that I really don’t want to be surrounded by a whole bunch of people who do what I do. To be frank, I am now in what can best be called a sales position. That means I would be surrounded by other sales people. I may be a salesperson, but that doesn’t change the fact I know what they are like. It doesn’t help that we are also competitors despite working for the same company. It also doesn’t help that I am the new guy who was basically hired in secret.

Another reason I am not real psyched about this whole thing is what they call the process of getting us all moved. They call it a “restack”. Frankly I am not fond of any human resources activity that makes us all sound like cord wood. I also get a little scared that they may mean it literally and we’ll have villas stacked on top of each other. That’s not too bad if you are in the villa on top I guess, but being a bottom villa would be a pretty lame thing I think. Hell, I bet it’s an insult in some cultures to call someone a bottom villa.

So for now I am just going to drink good coffee from home, shit coffee from work and try to make sure I am not going to end up being a bottom.

Work is just so complicated sometimes.

I don't know when I will write or what I will write. I know that what is on my heart is far too personal for this space. I know I will never speak ill of certain people, or even tell stories that you as readers may use as a basis of judgement for them or me.

I may keep writing, and will probably even write here again. But that which is important to me and really represents my heart and soul will never again be published publically.

I don't know if I am any good as a writer. But I do know that I can't exploit myself or others like I did before. I know that my past may be fodder for writing, but it is too personal to actually share like this. I also know that anonymity on the internet is a farce at best.

I honestly believe there is a way to profit from my past. But I can't do it. It's not in me.

And, as for my future... well, I just don't have what it takes to live a life that generates stories worthy of telling. And those stories I do have mean too much, and hurt too much, to tell them.

I guess I am beginning accepted by the people that work around me. Keep in mind this is no small feat. I am surrounded by tech people. For a reason nobody understands the only non-tech people in this huge open space are myself and a guy that works here 2 days a month tops. Since my position is essentially marketing, the tech guys don’t really seem too fond of me. They see me on the phone all the time, usually bullshitting, and think I am slacking. Of course what they call slacking I call networking.

Anyway, most of them have pretty much ignored me. A few tried to get to know my name when someone came up with the idea of a contest for the person that could name the most employees in the building, but most figured that was both a dumb contest and something they wouldn’t have a chance to win because they hardly ever get to leave their desks except to get coffee.

This brings me to the sign that they have decided to get to know me.

Now, I recently discovered that our area has a separate coffee room. It’s nothing special, but it is easier to get to than the break room. And I don’t have to go through any security checkpoints to get there. That is always good since I feel like a criminal when I have to get security clearance to get caffeine.

When walking over there one day I noticed that there was an empty cubicle with its own carafe for coffee, various coffee flavorings and some other coffee related crap. It’s damn near like having a Starbucks sitting in one of the cubes, except nobody has any facial piercings and they aren’t trying to get me to buy the soundtrack.

I assumed that this was just set up by some guy that likes better coffee than the crap we get for free. I don’t blame him. When I am at home I do the whole grinding fresh thing too. But I don’t really have the time for all that at work. I also kind of go on the assumption that my boss would see the indication that I have all that free time as an indication I didn’t have enough work.

Well, I was clued in to the truth today.

When I went for my 12th cup of coffee today the pot was empty. Being the kind soul I am, I started to brew another pot. While I waited for it, I was approached by a woman who works way on the other side of the floor.

“So”, she said, “You aren’t one of the fortunate souls that get the fresh ground coffee?”

I explained that, no, I had to drink the tar coffee and remarked it must be because I am unfortunate enough to sit in the wrong part of the office.

“Maybe it’s not so unfortunate.” she responded. “Personally I would love to be as far away as possible from ‘those people’”.

Now, as near as I can tell, the difference between this woman and “those people” seems to be what coffee they have to drink. She has decided to sidestep some of the fray by switching to tea, but she made it very clear that there is a clear social stratum, and you have not arrived until; you are invited to share the good coffee.

I was grateful for this insight, but I fear it may come at a great cost. After she shared information I headed back to my desk and then, as one would expect, had to go piss out a few of the cups of coffee. As I walked to the restroom the man who sits across from, and apparently manages, our in office Starbucks, trotted over to introduce himself. He was quite friendly, and wanted to know all about me. Personally I felt asking questions as we both visited the urinal was somewhat odd, but that’s OK I guess, as long as he kept his eyes looking forward.

But he didn’t invite me to share in their coffee. I am not sure if I didn’t measure up, or if this was an interview and maybe there will be a vote taken later. I am hoping there isn’t a vote because I think the “I hate Bluetooth” coalition will blackball me for sure.

There are 168 hours in every week.

56 of those hours are spent asleep. To be honest my wife and I wish there were more of those hours.

I spend 48 of those hours at work or driving to and from work.

56 of those hours are spent with my wife and me caring for and playing with one or more of our kids.

That leaves 8 hours. Those 8 hours are the most precious time I have in every week.

For 8 hours every week my world consists of just my wife and myself. We spend this time talking and relaxing. We spend this time laughing and playing. Sometimes we will just sit quietly and read or watch a movie. Other times we just lie in each other’s arms and enjoy the closeness and quiet. Often we doze as we lay close together on the couch. Whatever we do, though, it is the only time that we are truly able to set aside the rest of the world. There are times during those 8 hours that my wife and I are truly the only people on earth. There are times that not an inkling of my past, present or imagined future problems exist.

During those 8 hours the world as I know it is one of pure peace and love. Those who would try to hurt my wife, myself or our relationship simply cease to exist. There are times that the fears that go along with raising 3 children aren’t overwhelming. For those 8 hours I am able to live in the moment instead of the past. For those 8 hours I am able to imagine the future that is possible with my wonderful wife instead of the life of pain and loneliness I had assumed was my destiny for years.

There are times I have to sacrifice some of those 8 hours. When you have a wife and children, there are needs that must be met that cannot wait or be rescheduled. When you have other family members you love that have needs, sometimes you have to give-up some of your time, and for those reasons there is no question that we make the sacrifice.

But when someone intrudes on those 8 hours with nonsense it breaks my heart. Losing that time is like losing a part of my soul. I know that my wife and I have a lifetime together, but what people don’t understand is the profound sense of loss I feel when I lose a moment with her. Maybe I am a fatalist, but the truth is I realize we never know how long we have. So while some look at that 8 hours and say it’s just 8 hours out of the hundreds of thousands a person lives, I look at that time realizing I may not have hundreds of thousands.

Life is far too fragile. I just can’t take any time I have for granted. I have already wasted so much of my life and I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to look at every minute of the rest of my life as something precious to be treasured. And the time with my wife and children is more precious than any other time I have or ever will have.

So if I am rude and ignore your call, I am sorry. I understand that nobody else can feel what I feel about my family and my marriage. Maybe I am being selfish when it comes to those 8 hours, but while I am willing to sacrifice for my family, I would not trade a moment of those 8 hours for anyone or anything. No amount of money is worth what those 8 hours per week mean to me. Nothing you could offer me would be worth what that time is worth to me. Because nothing you have or ever will have has half the value my wife has to me.

OK sports fans, I have big news! OK, it’s not big, but it is news.

Although you could never tell it by the lack of comments, it seems lots of people are following the saga of Sister Grim. I have been posting this series here and on MySpace because, well, it’s an interesting story, and it doesn’t involve me doing anything stupid for once. That is a nice change of pace.

Anyway, in discussing the story with my wife, we came to the conclusion this is not a series that is likely to ever end. True I cannot write an installment every day because I would have to associate with Sister Grim a shitload more than either of us could handle. But recent events have also made it very clear that she is a long way from changing her life enough that she won’t always be generating new material. Plus, Momma Grim always has a few tricks up her sleeve.

So we decided that Sister Grim needed her own blog. For that reason I am happy to announce that "Tales Of Sister Grim" is up and running. I have copied all the stories over there so they can more easily be read in sequence. Sadly although there is no blog at http://sistergrim.blogspot.com, Blogger won’t let me have that address. Also, some douche has SisterGrim.com and isn’t using it.

Oh well, I still have the new blog running, and you can check it out. The format sucks for now, but you can deal with it.

Do you ever have something strange happen, and you want to write about it, but there just isn'’t enough there for an entry? Well, that has happened to me today. Actually it was yesterday, but you get the general idea.

See, my wife and I live in a house that, as far as we can tell, used to be a model home. We started to wonder when the County Appraisal District kept stopping by the house to ask if the garage was a garage. Frankly, I find this to be a pretty stupid question. The damn thing has a giant door for one wall. That alone makes it a pretty good chance it'’s a garage. Not that a door for a wall couldn'’t be cool like in the den or something. But it wouldn't be a big metal door. Probably oak.

Anyway, then we started getting mail for Coleman Homes and people we never heard of. I was pretty excited when I was offered 2 Coleman Homes credit cards, since I would be able to install that giant oak door but not have to pay for it. Unfortunately my wife told me that I couldn'’t turn in the applications and get credit cards in some company's name. She said it was illegal or some bullshit like that.

But then the mail came yesterday, and I found something that was just fucking weird. We got a magazine:



Now, it had never occurred to me the world needed a magazine called "“Mold & Moisture Management Magazine: The magazine for moisture prevention and remediation"”. I am not a fan of mold, although moisture can be nice. But it appears that the people who built this house had lots of concern about the topic because they actually got a subscription.

But then I looked closer and the cover story kind of scared me:

"“Timber: Who takes the blame when wood gets wet?"

Frankly, I don'’t think that'’s any of their fucking business. Besides, I am not at all in to blaming someone when my wood gets wet. When my wood gets wet I am generally pretty happy. And I always give my wife credit when she gets my wood wet. She does not get "blame", she gets praise! I sure as hell don'’t get pissed, and I am not about to write a magazine article discussing my wood and who got it wet.

As near as I can tell these contractors are fucking pervs. I was going to look through this magazine, but I'’m really scared of what may be inside.

You'’d think this filth would at least come in a wrapper so kids couldn'’t see it.

You know, I was going to write something about how I have let my past make me a person who lets fear cause him to react in stupid ways and sometimes be an asshole. But, the fact is, the only person that matters to knows about it and is willing to keep on loving me while I try to get my shit together. Once again she reminded me how lucky I am to have her, and how unworthy I am of her.

So instead I am going to write her what she really wants to read: More Sister Grim.

Sister Grim was not going to let the fact that her sister, her other sister and her sister’s ex (whom she had accused of molesting her) would not give her money to once again fly west to where the sun sets, and to house and feed her and her children. Such selfish behavior by those who had essentially taken care of her for most of the last 8 years was not going to stop her from living her life. She also was not about to accept her mother’s offer of temporary housing in, of all things, a hotel. Such meager accommodations were beneath her, and would be far too uncomfortable.

What she knew, that everyone else didn’t, was that there were lots of people who knew her and her family right there in the east, where the sun rose. Surely they would be willing to take in a mother and her children. It would be best to find someone who she had never lived with, and who hadn’t spoken to her family recently. It would also be a good idea to avoid those who might have religious objections to having children out of wedlock, sleeping with your sisters’ husbands, use of various herbs and powders and a general lack of desire to do anything remotely resembling work.

It seems that she knew just the person. Her mother, who had on many occasions lived in the east, where the sun rose, had managed a local mercantile. In this position she had an employee that Sister Grim was fairly certain would be able to help. Most importantly she met all of the criteria. She called The Wick Witch.

The Wick Witch didn’t have all those religious hang-ups with out of wedlock sex. Heck, even though she was married, she had a boyfriend. Her husband didn’t even have a problem her having a boyfriend, as long as she taped it so he could watch. She was also fond of herbs, although nobody knew her views on powders. She had once been gainfully employed, but had retired to become a “candle maker”, which didn’t seem like real work. Finally, not only had she never housed Sister Grim or her children, she hadn’t even spoken to the rest of the family for years.

So Sister Grim was invited to live at the home of The Wick Witch. Fortunately she and her husband had a spare room. This arrangement had other benefits as well. By staying in the east, where the sun rises, Sister Grim was able to attempt to rekindle her love with Uncle Daddy. While his parents opposed their budding romance, and hated the fact it had spawned a child, if she were to live somewhere else perhaps they would eventually come around. And maybe Uncle Daddy would get a job, a place to live and take care of her and the children.

So Sister Grim informed her less than helpful family members that she would be living with The Wick Witch. They were a little surprised since they knew of the odd behavior of The Wick Witch, her husband and her boyfriend. They weren’t sure this was the appropriate setting for raising children. Of course it was better than a shelter. And they were happy that she wasn’t going to be living with any of them, or their exes for that matter. And while they discouraged her from trying to reconcile with Uncle Daddy, she felt they had lost all right to advise her when they refused to support her.

Then again, it’s not like she listened to them anyway.