Double the fun...

Hello my darlings,

I spent the last week in Atlanta attending new employee onboarding meetings.  It was the best business trip I've ever been on and it absolutely reinforces that I am in the right place.  I LOVE my job!  I'm so fortunate to work for a fantastic company and be surrounded by awesome people.  In fact, this company is so fantastic that they employee two of me! 

I know the mere thought that there could be another one of me on this planet is a bit panic inducing, but I swear it's true-ish.  Technically, since my doppelganger was there first I guess maybe I am the duplicate of her rather than her being my twin, but meh, semantics. 

My twin's name is Beth Smith.  Beth is a member of the Porsche club.  The company leases a Porsche for any sales rep that generates $1.2M of revenue.  It pretty much it goes without saying that this woman is a baller, but Beth doesn't drive a Porsche, she drives a brand new Ford truck.  When presented the option to choose a Porsche her response was that she doesn't NEED a Porsche because she knows her dick is HUGE, so she doesn't have to compensate.  I love her! (Full disclosure -- this highlights one obvious difference, I wouldn't have picked a truck, but I certainly appreciate the sentiment about the Porsche.)  Furthermore, Beth gestures wildly when she talks, swears more than necessary, has a booming laugh that can be heard throughout the building and is heartily recognized as the person to go to if you need to get shit done!  Oh, yeah and the physical resemblance between us is uncanny.  Numerous times throughout the week people stopped me in the hall or did a double take because they thought I was Beth.  It makes my heart swell with pride that my look-a-like is a ballsy bitch!

I have lots more stories to regale you with about a few crazy coworkers, the trials and tribulations of traveling to Atlanta for the aforementioned business trip (FWIW Senor Reese, our new VP of sales will NEVER live down the fact that he nearly chose a mini-van for our rental car.  "Where dignity goes to die" was the slogan I coined (and frequently repeated) for the mini-van(s) that he nearly selected) and of course a whole lot more light rail fun, but sadly I have to head out soon to get my taxes finished.  Yes, I realize I am really late getting this done, but taxes were a thing that Ray always did.  I frankly didn't pay attention, I just sorted the tax forms that arrived into his and mine, gave them to Ray and he took it from there.  Fortunately, the CPA I hired last year to file Ray's tax return and the estate stuff had an opening.  Next year I intend to be a functioning grown-up and actually file taxes in a timely manner, but this year I am happily falling on the mercy of a CPA to do it for me. 

I know that I've whined about this many times before, but I sort of hate money.  I mean, I like having money, I love making money and I'm certainly adept at spending money, but I really despise thinking about and managing money.  I don't need a man and I certainly don't need a relationship, but I kind of do need, OK, so maybe I don't NEED, but I would really appreciate having someone to just give me an allowance while taking care of all of the grown-up money shit (i.e. taxes, insurance, retirement etc.) for me.  Seriously, I'm sitting here looking at a stack of THREE HSA cards, I just need to consolidate them all into one card with a single balance, but it's been more than a year and I haven't gotten that done.  I haven't even signed up for the 401K at my fabulous new job yet because I frankly suck at adulting!   

Today, I conquer taxes... and wine.  It's safe to assume that there will be a post-tax appointment with a glass (read bottle) of wine.

Until next time....

XOXO

PS - If anyone wants to place bets on me actually completing my taxes in a timely manner next year it's probably safe to assume that won't happen and you'll all be tormented with my whining about it next April 14.  #Adultingsucks

PPS - I will get the 401K done...eventually, but the HSA cards, meh, jury is still out on that.

In training....

Hello my lovelies,

I just concluded my first week at the new gig.  Thus far it absolutely feels like the third time really may be the charm!  The best part is that they actually want me to be me!  They actually appreciate and reciprocate my sarcastic banter.  It probably helps that I am surrounded by a group of loud, smartasses who all seem to swear and drink!  Sidebar: there was often not room for lunches in the refrigerator at the city because there was so much food, here there isn't room because there is so much booze. 

At the end of my first week I've been on two client visits, I'm officially leading three projects and since I am all cool and shit with my PMP the CEO asked me to work with a PM in Atlanta to stand-up a new PMO.  Oh, and I found out today that I will be doing ALL project close interviews to gauge current satisfaction levels and identify gaps and weaknesses, so I can help grow the business.  It's a HUGE job and I am definitely going to learn a lot.  

With all of the client interaction in this job my no-driving lifestyle is going to change.  Luckily one of my clients is only 1.7 miles from my apartment.  If I can schedule visits correctly I can just ride my cute little city bike over there.  Another client is based outside of Chicago (FWIW - they also have an office in the South of France -- YES PLEASE!  I can definitely do client visits in the South of France.  PS - anyone interested in helping me carry my bags or something...) but my other project is in the Tech Center, but too far from light rail to make it walkable, so I will have to drive to see them.  It also appears that my company is doing a great deal of work at the a company where a couple of my IHS boys work.  Depending on what else is in the project pipeline I may be working with F*ing Townsend and Pimp Chaddy again soon.  XOXO

But enough about that, we are not here to talk about the uber-sexy life of an IT Consultant, rather I am going to take this opportunity to recount a couple of fabulous train experiences.  Overall, it was a fairly tame train week.  There were no comic-con outfits, though there are a whole lot of people who need me to coach them on what not to wear and why.  Generally people were well behaved, I mean as well as you can expect a trendy little millennial in super-tight skinny jeans with an iPhone X to behave.  This poor kid clearly had no idea that his actual inseam is about three inches longer than his pants (GAWD I hate that  high-water pants trend) and his jeans were so tight that I guess it makes sense that he sat with his feet in the isle rather than facing forward as they should have been. (it doesn't make any sense at all the kid was just an ass that for some odd reason needed to block the isle)  Fortunately for this little buttnugget his hipster beard was very well-groomed.  If that weren't the case his obnoxious mannerisms probably would have earned him an accidental (wink wink) smack in the head from my bag as I exited the train.  

Today's train experience really was the one that I deemed truly coffee-worthy.  Returning home this afternoon I encountered a large woman with at least eight, maybe ten teeth, wearing a very small Yukon Territory t-shirt delightedly exclaiming to everyone in earshot (aka the whole damn train) how happy she was to be done working.  Don't worry, she "don't got-go-ta work again 'til 11am Thunday" (fairly sure, but not certain that is Sunday to the rest of us) so she was  heading home make fish and chips for dinner and get drunk.   (I'm not judging, certainly not the get drunk part - I trust you all remember the bottle-o-wine in lieu of dinner from last coffee.)  She then goes on to say that her kid keeps telling her that she can't call it fish and chips, because when you go to a fancy restaurant and order fish and chips (and seriously, who doesn't order fish and chips when you go to a "fancy" restaurant) they bring you "some sort of fluffy fish and french fried taters."  Apparently, somehow I've missed the references to beer-battered cod as "fluffy fish" on the Food Network.  The culinary delight that this effeminate creature calls fish and chips is apparently "fishdicks and pringles!"  Yeah, I know that technically that word was supposed to be fishsticks, but there was nothing even remotely resembling an "ssssss" sound escaping her face, though to be fair with the number and placement of those teeth I'm not sure an "S" is even possible.  All that aside, if I'm being honest fishdicks is probably far more accurate anyway.  I actually chuckled aloud, but refrained from telling her that there were probably a whole lot of fish-a-holes along with those fishdicks in her dinner.  She went on to explain how she "don't understand why they call fried taters, they ain't like normal french fries at those fancy places, chips.  Those ain't chips and she likes pringles better anyway."   

At this point in the ride a homeless dude dropped his mostly empty big gulp of soda and I became engrossed in the interaction between him and a well-dressed, very professional looking man.  I'm not sure if the interaction was exceptionally kind or if it was actually very condescending.  It sort of felt and sounded like a little bit of both, but in the end the business man gave the homeless dude some cash and told him to buy some dinner and a new soda.  This sort of stuff is definitely the part of my new big girl life that I'm not completely used to.  

For all of my catholic friends, I'm pretty sure that fishdicks still count as fish, so go ahead an embibe to your heart's delight this fine Friday.  

Until next time...

XOXO

Adventures in big girlhood

Hello my lovelies,

This weekend officially marks the one year anniversary of my new downtown big girl life!  It seems fitting (and fabulous) to celebrate this milestone by blathering to all of you about my adventure while enjoying my live urban soundtrack (sounds a lot like traffic, skateboards and dogs for those of you who haven't yet experienced my new digs) and a glass of wine on the patio. 

What a year this had been!  When we started hauling crap in here 364 days ago I was so unsure of myself, my decision, my decision making skills in general and my overall surroundings.  I tried so hard to seem confident and strong and independent and not like the weak, insecure, terrified jackass that had inhabited my body and brain.  I also now realize how collassaly I failed at that.  My sincerest apologies to those of you who had to repeatedly help put this humpty-dumpty back together again and again and again and... If you only knew how many tears I shed those few weeks/months in this apartment.  If I'm being honest there are still tears today, but fortunately they are a lot fewer and generally much farther in between.    

Rather than my normal sarcastic jackass writing I thought I take a moment and drag all of you on a little trip down memory lane with me.  Here are a few of the lessons I've learned on my new big girl journey.  

1. Cooking for one sucks!  I think you all know how much I enjoy being in the kitchen.  I truly believe that food is love and sharing a wonderful meal with people you enjoy and care about and respect is one of the most precious gifts we can give one another.  I've had so many wonderful nights since I've been here.  It is absolutely awesome the opportunities and food experiences I've had with friends in the last 12 months, but there have also been a whole lot of lonely, bored nights alone.  In so many ways I've learned to appreciate the solitude of the single life, but there are nights when the thought of preparing and eating a meal by myself is so overwhelming that I forego dinner entirely, I mean unless you count a bottle of wine as dinner.  FWIW, my liver also wishes I was joking about this, but not joking.  There have been some (OK, more than I'd like to admit) BAD nights.
2. Cleaning up after me and only me is the BOMB!  I absolutely love the fact that any mess that exists in my 1200 sq ft of fabulous space is mine and mine alone.  A few weeks after Ray died, I actually remember confessing to NaNet that I missed being annoyed.  I'd spent so many years being annoyed that I had to clean up after someone that it became yet another thing that I had to grieve over.  Sadly, I can now recognize that I definitely had a larger part in the slobbishness that pissed me off so badly than I was willing to admit at the time.  
3. Traveling alone is AWESOME, being alone at the destination is LONELY!   Barcelona was amazing.  It was something that I so desperately needed to do for, and by, myself.   It was a fantastic, scary, sad, lonely, funny, exciting, exhilarating, depressing experience.  I would, and will, do it again and again and again! 
4. Mass transit is fantastic!  If you enjoy this nonsense you may be pleased to hear that my new job will, once again, have me commuting via light rail.  I trust that you all remember how much coffee fodder light rail provided previously.  I rode the train a couple of times last week I assure you it most certainly will provide outstanding fodder again quite soon. 
5. Walking is much more enjoyable that driving.  Earlier this week I drove my car and had a shocking realization that in nearly six months I've driven less than 1000 miles.  Remember that whole nonsense about buying tires, yeah, well at this rate the 60,000 mile life of those tires will way more than outlast the car that they are mounted on. 
6. Controlling the remote control isn't as fun as I thought it would be.  Full confession I watched some stupid shit when I first got down here because I was unemployed and finally able to watch all the crap that Ray would never watch.  I've since realized that it really is all crap and there is a good reason that he didn't watch it.  
7. Laundry for one is really easy, but really wasteful.  I remember having full loads of laundry, now I only have a few small loads every week.   It's so easy, OK well, now that my dryer works (there's a whole fire department story behind making that happen) it is easy.
8. Lyft and/or Uber are not likely the most quality places to find dates.  Sooooo, there's chance that I might possibly have asked a Lyft driver out on a date and it's conceivable that said Lyft driver didn't say no, therefore it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility that I've hung out with this Lyft driver a few times.  UGH!  I've got nothing!  I know this is not a great idea.  He's really cute, that's something, right?  This is definitely not a thing that will go anywhere, but I will admit it's been a fun distraction. 

In my Ode to Yoga pants diatribe earlier this month I mentioned the PMP exam, I am happy to say that I successfully passed the test earlier this week.  I still hate it and everything about the PMI organization in general, but now I get to say that I am certifiable. 

On Monday, I start my third job in ten months.  I know that sounds like a terrible track record and it is, but I also believe that in this case the third time really is the charm.  Fingers crossed!  

Until next time...

XOXO

An ode to Cupid... and yoga pants

Hello my lovelies,

Happy Valentine's Day!  I thought you might appreciate a brief history of Valentine's Day.  If so, I'd recommend Google.  If you just type "history of Valentine's day" into Google's magical search box, that evil mistress will entice you with hours of time wasting information about the subject and if you get bored with that you can always just pass the time by clicking those pictures of all of the super cute shoes she pastes all over the page.   Hmmmm, you don't all have pictures of really cute shoes there.  Weird, I guess Google likes me better.  OR, perhaps that is a direct result of a recent wine-induced shopping spree... (FWIW, I am returning two of the three pairs because they were soooooo much cuter online.)

OK, that's pretty much the extent of chatter about Valentine's Day that you are going to hear from me, because, well, because Valentine's day is not about ME and you all know that pretty much my sole purpose in writing this prattling drivel is to talk about me.  Let's do that, let's talk about me, shall we!  

I am delighted to report that last week (Thursday, Feb 8 - Happy Birthday Katie B.) I left my job at the city.  Without going into details I'll just say I hated it there, they hated me and mercifully I was released from that little self-induced prison.   Oh, and that six-month probation period is really pretty fabulous.  No strings, no commitments just mutual goodbyes!  I spent the remainder of the day Thursday dealing with a few final Ray accounts that were hanging around.  I'd left them active because I wanted to get past the one year mark to see if I heard anything, since it's now been more than a year and I haven't heard anything I cancelled everything.  Wahoo, that's another $100 per month I have to piss away on shoes!  Kidding, seriously, I have to be kidding, I live in a small apartment now.  My closet is FULL and it appears that my clothes/shoes wardrobe either exploded or is possibly reproducing in the closet of my spare bedroom.  I'm frankly too afraid to deal with it in its current state.  

OK seriously, enough about my damn shoes already, what I'm here to lament about is my new wardrobe.  It seems that I have developed a great fondness for yoga pants.  Thursday, when I got home, I promptly hung up my work clothes and donned yoga pants.  Friday, I had a phone interview, which I thankfully realized 30-minute prior to it starting that it was a video interview, so I was able to jump in the shower to wash my hair (I was on day three and it was not pretty) and slap on a smattering of makeup.  For the interview, (totally nailed the interview, but it's not the job I want) since I knew I would be sitting at my kitchen counter I wore a black sweater and pearls with my yoga pants.  Booyah!  I successfully pulled of the fashion-mullet "Business on the top, party down-below!"  Full disclosure, that may also become my new dating slogan!  That is IF I ever actually manage to "date" successfully.  Sidebar: I recently had one unsuccessful attempt at dating-ish?  Don't worry, I did NOT sleep with him.  That experience simply reinforced that boys are stupid and dating sucks.  Oh, yeah and "dating" in 1998 before texting and pictures sucked, but I think it sucked less.  Anyway, I think you get where this is headed.  In nearly a week of unemployment I've only put on pants three times.  Rest assured the yoga pants do NOT have words on the ass (or anywhere else on them) I only wear them outside of my apartment to take out the trash, get the mail or go to the gym.  Furthermore, I HAVE successfully managed to wear said yoga pants to workout 4 of the last 5 days.  No judging after a Sunday brunch with a LOT of mimosa's my workout was a nap, though I did manage to get out for a brief walk (I did wear yoga pants on my walk) after my champagne-induced nap.  

Before you begin to worry that I am going to inundate your mailboxes with flotsam and jetsam about my love/hate relationship with spandex in public places I am delighted to inform you that accepted a job offer yesterday.  Technically, I verbally accepted it on Monday night, but signed the official acceptance letter yesterday.  It's an IT Project Management/Consulting role that will involve a fairly significant amount of travel.  In the beginning of the interview I told the hiring manager that I do not have any desire to be a full time project manager, by the end of the interview the hiring manager was beaming and assured me that while I will have "Project Manager" in my title the majority of the role will not be typical PM work. 

Yesterday, when I returned my acceptance letter I cc'd my new manager.  Within seconds of me hitting send he replied with this "Just so you know, this makes my week!! Enjoy your time off…can’t wait to have you here…"  I officially start my new job on Monday, March 5 and since I am going to have a project management title I've decided that I need to complete my damn PMP.  For those of you who didn't know I sat for the exam in late December and failed.  I'd studied for weeks and felt totally prepared, so it was a huge blow to fail.  I'm now scheduled to re-sit for the exam on Feb 28, so my time-off is going to largely be spent studying the PMBOK.  UGH - it still sucks, I hate everything about it, but I actually feel like I am comprehending it better this time.  I'm fairly certain that is mostly because I'm not obsessing about the miserable project I was working on in my last job.  

Finally, for those of you who really wanted that history of Valentine's day, here's an excerpt from my googling.   

Long before St. Valentine’s execution, February 14 had come to be associated with fertility—and blood. Between February 13 and 15, Romans celebrated the feast of Lupercalia by sacrificing a goat and a dog and then whipping naked women with the hides, all in the interest of making the women more fertile.

WOW!  ...whipping naked women with the hides, those crazy Roman's sure did know a thing or two about romance... On second thought, this approach really would make a pretty kickass party story to tell about how we met. 

Can't you just see me sitting at party, glass of wine in hand (hello, it's me, of course I have a glass of wine in hand) reminiscing... "Well, after sacrificing a goat he whipped me with a hide which quite literally swept me off my feet.  It also caused a little head injury, which is why we've been together ever since.  Isn't that precious!"  

I wonder if Tinder or Match is a better dating site option to find me a goat sacrificing hunk of manlove..... I'm guessing Tinder!  I'll keep you posted!  

Until next time...

XOXO

parental supervision required

Hello my darlings,

I have a legitimate question for all of the parents on this list.  What on earth possesses seemingly intelligent, rational adults to decide that their lives are such a miserable, pathetic existence that they consciously load the kids in the car and go to Target on a Sunday afternoon?   I'm guessing you probably don't need me to explain why I'm asking the question, but seriously, I'm asking the question.  WHY?

Let me begin by explaining that Target and I have a special relationship.  Special in that there seems to be some strange force at work, whereby upon entering said store I am unable to exit without procuring a minimum of $100 worth of crap I didn't realize I needed until I walked in the door.  I know I am not alone in this phenomenon, so I can't even imagine how expensive it would be if I were constantly being cajoled by a few ingrate spawn in tow.  I imagine as a parent you hear a giant sucking noise as you approach the store, which undoubtedly is a sound of all of your hard-earned money being sucked out of your bank account. 

Throughout the store today there was a never-ending chorus of:

"MOM!"

"Oh, dad look!"

"Maaaaaaaaawwwwwmmmmmmmm!" 

"Why does she always get what she wants?" 

"I need...."

"You NEVER buy me anything."

"UGH...but I only have ONE black one." 

"I want....."

"...but for my school project I need....." 

"I do NOT have blue eyeliner, I only have blue mascara." 

Just observing this was awful, my bank account and I are both very thankful that I do not have to actually experience it.  That said, I do wonder why on earth parents voluntarily put themselves in this situation.   Did you really NEED to go to Target?  Was there really no other option than bringing the kids?  Were you somehow unaware that this was going to happen?   

The only explanation I could come up with is that dealing with children in Target is such a horrific experience that doing so makes returning to work on Monday seem marginally less dreadful.  Am I right?    

Until next time....

XOXO

a lovely shade of jaded....

Hello my darlings,

Let me warn you, it's been a bad week and I'm feeling particularly snarky today.  I've been doing a lot of soul searching and this introspection made me realize that I am becoming a bit jaded in my outlook on work, people and life in general.  HA!  Who are we kidding, me "becoming a bit jaded?"  Right!  I've clearly BEEN jaded for going on 40 years now.  FWIW, I'm not trying to sound younger than I am I just don't think I was this snarky or jaded before the age of 5.  I have many, fond memories of my mother that all seem to start with her uttering the phrase "that smart-mouth of yours...." so, realistically if I was this much of an asshole before I turned 5 I'm fairly certain my obituary would had stated something about "a very tragic accident at such a young age..." Kind of not kidding, she wasn't a sweet, nice little old lady and she had SEVEN other kids, but I digress, or maybe this is not really a digression?  Keep reading, you'll understand...  

I won't bore you with the details about my current nonsense, but suffice it to say that my fabulous new job is not what I'd hoped it would be, so I am once again embarking on a job search.  In addition to the job stress I've been having a lot of tooth pain and after enduring a nightmare-inducing, six-hour dental appointment (root canal, new crown and a filling) in mid-December I still can't bite comfortably on the left side of my mouth and now I suspect I need a root canal on the right side, oh and most importantly, a new dentist.  Finally, there's that whole matter of death and grief and life changes and figuring out who I am again and what my new normal can and should entail and..... waaaaaahhhhhhhhh!  Some days (weeks) just SUCK!  

I've lamented to a number of you about the well-intended, but incredibly stupid things people say to a grieving person. (For those of you who haven't yet endured that diatribe, don't worry, there will be a whole chapter in the not even remotely helpful self-help book I'm going to write.)  Recently, I was whining to a friend about how depressing it is after a frustrating day to come home to an empty house.  Her kind, precious response, one that I've heard countless times in the past 13 months, was to inform me that "he's an angel up in heaven looking down on me now."  STOP THE DAMN BUS!  What?  Is that actually supposed to make me feel better?  Am I supposed to take comfort that I'm alive having a shitty day, generally making a mess of my life and in my selfish little walnut-sized brain what I want is to someone to vent to at home, but the dude that I once would have vented too is dead, so now he's sitting on a fluffy cloud, sipping a  glass of bourbon (come on it's Ray there is definitely bourbon and he probably has a cigar too) watching my shitshow life?   Really, THAT is supposed to make be feel better?  Well meaning, but NOT actually helpful....

This got me wondering if the whole Christian "heaven" thing really just a voyeur's paradise?  While I do not practice any religion today, I did go to Sunday school (Otis Presbyterian Church, Otis, CO and the building IS still standing in case you think that claim is a little too unbelievable) for a lot of years and I remember that to get to heaven you have to be good, and kind and nice and say your prayers and go to church and endure those horrific church potluck dinners and resist the temptation to shove sticks in your ears when that old hag in the row behind you starts wailing a very off-key Amazing Grace-ish hymn into the back of your head and..... (SIDEBAR: I wasn't a great Sunday school student and I didn't pay as much attention or behave as well I a possibly should have.  I still remember sweet little ancient Ms. Vera saying frequently "God is watching you, Ronda!"  Seriously, that happened, a lot!  As you can all attest based on my behavior today, I don't think that scare tactic ever really achieved the intended consequence.  Teehee)  My point is, I was informed during those Sunday school years that heaven was this wonderful, beautiful place where everything was tranquil and peaceful.  Now as an adult, I'm being told that when someone dies they go to heaven where they just sit around and watch their loved ones continue to f*up their earthly lives.  Kind of seems like a raw deal.  You do all this good shit to earn your place inside the pearly gates and when you get there you just sit around watch your loved ones continue to be asshats.  Yay, sign me up for that.....

I understand that this well-intended sentiment is supposed to provide comfort that someone is watching over me, but I suck as a human and it kind of creeps me out.  For starters, my life is BORING, spending all of eternity watching the nothingness that I amble around doing certainly doesn't sound like paradise to me.  Furthermore, while it's not a thing currently, there might be a point in time when I want to have "relations" with another actual person in the room.  OK, so I realize I probably need to lose 20 (fine 50) pounds and have a personality transplant before that is a real possibility, but it might happen.  Alright, I get, that's probably not likely, let me step away for a minute to add batteries to my shopping list, OK, I'm back pardon the interruption.  The really weird thing is that my parents are dead too, so does that mean it's not just Ray watching my pathetic existence, but also my parents?  If that's the case, I guess I should apologize for joking that my mom wasn't very nice and that she probably would have killed me as a child earlier in this post.  Oh crap, and I should probably apologize for.... nevermind we're not getting into details of any other lewd and lascivious behavior that I never intended my mom or my dad or my husband or my aunts or my sister or my uncles or my....oh hell I got a lot of dead people, this just got terrifying.  

Please don't think I am saying that spending all of eternity in the Sunday school version hell would be better.  I just have to question how comforting it really is supposed to be knowing that someone you loved is watching your every move.  Holy crap, can dead people read my thoughts too?   YIKES!  I guess I don't need to worry about how to negotiate a "premium package" at the pearly gates to watch something more exciting....

Until next time...

XOXO