I didn’t go into the office today. I know, that’s a first, right? This week work has been agonizingly slow. I think most people, including our customers, are just getting back into the swing of things. Which is fine, but rather than twiddle my thumbs at the office, I decided to get moving on all my errands. After all, we’re moving next weekend! I got some quotes from moving companies. I’m such a cheap bastard though. You never know, I may just U-Haul it once more. 😛

On the consumer advocacy front, I sent several flaming emails this week to San Leandro Honda, where I got my hybrid. Turns out, their finance manager totally deceived and gypped me with that damn Honda Care extended warranty. Misinformation left and right, I tell you. And then when I pointed it all out to her, she claimed ignorance. Jesus, salespeople have some nerve. Ok, let’s just assume there was no chicanery: how then does a finance manager not know basic stuff about the one product she sells? All I know is, for a President’s Award dealership, there’d better be some major re-prioritizing. Something has to be done to improve employee training. I mean, hello? Your dealership is in California. Your product is an extended warranty. How can you be unaware that in California (and a handful of other green states), the hybrid battery is covered by a 10 year/150k mile extended warranty (compared to the standard 8 year/50k mile warranty)? Exactly. She’s totally bullshitting me. And this enrages me. I totally want to push her on it, but ultimately, I’m passive aggressive. I want out now. So I’m canceling the contract. Gotta give credit to HybridCars.com. You have to really comb through the forum postings, but damn the peeps there are up to speed. The site is LOADED with info. Dealerships really ought to read the forums and get with the program. You see, I’d actually written SL Honda a nice review on Yelp. Too bad their finance department had to go and fuck it all up.

Ok well John and I are heading downtown this evening to a comedy club. Going to see Kathleen Madigan. I don’t know who she is, but supposedly she’s good. Gotta support female talent you know. Have to run. Have a good weekend!

You know, I try not to be one of those self-absorbed, superficial freaks. So anytime I get my hair cut, I remind myself, “It’s just hair. No. Big. Deal.” I mean seriously, having experienced so many botched jobs (including a self-inflicted one), I swore I was desensitized to all this by now. Well, guess not, because even though I kept saying the latest hair fiasco was fine, I was majorly obsessing over it: I rewashed the hair– with Pantene, with my Artec Color Reflector Cherry Bark shampoo. I blow dried. I attempted to style. I didn’t cry or anything but the long, uneven tufts at the nape ate away at me. I could not schedule the “fix-it” appointment soon enough. On New Year’s Day, while everyone else was relaxing and having a grand old time, I scoured the internet in search of pictures for the repaired ‘do. Then, I emailed the hairdresser: I linked to a picture, I rambled about my coloring options, and I pushed for a time slot the very. next. day.

The first day back at work, things were SLOW, which was fine because one of my resolutions was “work is work.” No one said a damn thing about the hair. How super blond streaks could have escaped notice is beyond me but whatever. Anyway, Tuesday night, I returned to the salon. I sat in that chair for another THREE hours. She razored the innermost layer; cut the next layer with notched scissors, and then point-cut the outermost layer. In the end, she determined that the two former techniques didn’t do squat to add texture. She concluded that for my hair quantity and thickness, the last technique throughout the whole head would have worked best. I should have known this, considering I’ve had all those techniques (and more) done on me before, but after so many cuts in my lifetime, how can I remember the details of what works and what doesn’t! Bottom line is, I decided to keep the bleach job. The blond blond streaks are now reddish/coppery (the Artec shampoo perhaps?), so that’s fine. And the streaks are super noticeable, so I’m cool with that as well. The new cut, I must say, is a huge improvement. Still not the BEST cut ever, but so much better. And the cool thing about this stylist is that she’s just a really nice person, who actually has lots of knowledge about so many things– acupressure, massage therapy, cosmetology… she was really sweet about giving me some product recommendations too, and all of it was for stuff I could get at the drug store. So I think I’ll still keep her in mind for future work. I just have to allot a big chunk of time is all.

If you’re curious, her product recs include:
1. Got2B glued spiking cream (in a tube). Good for spiking the edges, as the name suggests. Duh.
2. Zia green papaya enzyme mask. Incredibly gentle organic AHA treatment. Noticing results already.
3. Queen Helene mint julep mask. Already use it. A cheap and effective clay mask.

Ha, ha. Not too late for the new me after all.

Aww yeah baby! Scored myself a CA clean air sticker– one of the limited 10,000 for the year. Ha, ha. My $8 check cleared, so that means the Precious will be mine later this month. Thank fucking goodness! Finally, I can use the HOV lanes to my heart’s content. Watch out drivers, I’m on a mission to get to work/home as fast as possible. Clear the lane!

Oh, I actually have some other good news: John and I got our rental application on a new place approved today. Later this month, we’ll be moving to a 2 BR townhouse even closer to his work (and to my Highway 92). You see, I was all stressed before the holidays. I combed the housing ads frantically in search of decent rentals. Fortunately, I stumbled on an awesome realtor. He sent me nine properties from his MLS database. From there, I selected two to view. Toured them on Dec. 23 and after speaking with John (who was already in Maryland by then), we put in for one of them. I was a bit worried, because John hadn’t seen the place. Luckily, everything worked out. The listing agent actually moved super slowly on our application, and turns out, John got to go see the place this afternoon. The rental was still as good as I had remembered, thankfully. I hope this new space will be a good fit for us. The owners are cool with the dogs, the place is right next to a park, and it’s super easy access to our work routes. Plus, the unit faces south (a Chinese thing). Lots of natural light, plenty of closet space. I’m keeping the fingers crossed that everything with the community is ok, for example, neighbors and the like. No more of this bullshit Archstone-Smith crap management. Archstone can bite my ass!

Exhale. Of course, all of this means we’re moving in ten days. Let the packing and cleaning begin!

Bubbey’s back online… with his blog, I mean. Certainly, I do not welcome the competition for readership but ah well, he does offer some interesting perspectives. And a unique humor in his observations. Guess I have to just hope people will read both. Either that or I’ll just have to outlast him. As it is, Goodbers is three years and counting… 🙂

John and I are finally back from our East Coast trip. I don’t know what I was thinking: one week is waaaay too long. Note to self: five days max. Well, aren’t I in the holiday spirit, right? To be honest, the holidays exhaust me. I enjoyed seeing friends and family, but Jesus, something about sleeping in a different bed every night and shuttling back and forth for a week just makes me tired. Super tired. Like Shingles tired. Seriously, I slept like 10 hours a day, with naps in between. Must be a true sign of my introverted nature: socializing drains me, me time recharges me. Anyway, all is well. The family is healthy. Mom and Dad are regular exercisers now. Dad calculated the distance of their neighborhood circle, so he estimates they walk 2+ miles per day. Plus, they’re like using treadmills and shit. Very bizarre, but great news nonetheless. Noorie James and Yebidiya (the grandfolks) are their usual busy body selves. Couldn’t attend the lunch with the in-laws because they had an event to attend. In-laws are fine: always up on the news. Their dog Oliver is frighteningly obese, but that’s what happens when consumption far exceeds exercise. For some reason, I’m bothered by my passive position on the matter. I should have been more vocal, more suggestive. His body is so wide, he’s like a coffee table. But that’s the thing about life: you can’t control other people, you can only control yourself.

So I’m starting the New Year off right with tons of self work. John insisted that we draft a list of measureable objectives and goals for 2007. In addition to the deeper issues that I must address, I figured one easy way to introduce the new me was with another hair job. I know, women and their hair. Well in my typical cheapie fashion, I opted for an “intro” or “trial” job, meaning, I answered a posting on Craiglist. I did this in August when I had my hair highlighted and cut by a salon trainee. I was pleased with the results. Well yesterday was a whole other ballgame. Appointment was at 3. I was told I’d be done by 5. I was there until 8. Yes, 8 p.m. on New Year’s eve. And the hair is a disaster. Granted it was highlights and cut for $20, but after five hours of labor, I didn’t feel right paying someone $4/hr even if the job was a mess. I asked for red highlights with a razor-cut. I got a streaky bleach-job, with unevenly bleached browns and BLONDS and a blunt cut, achieved with a razor. Then the salon was freezing cold and dimly lit. Five hours later, and color was never even put in. The color was achieved through bleaching alone. I was sick of sitting, so I figured, I should go home, give it a few days, then go back to get it recut and dyed. I got home, and John had already eaten dinner. He didn’t say much other than: Don’t go back. So of course now it’s New Year’s Day. I’m never one to be that attached to hair, but Jesus, I was in the bathroom forever trying to do something about the ‘do. Of course the salon is closed today, and tomorrow I’m back to work. Fucking a. What to do. Guess I’ll pull it back and hope people don’t think I’m too punked out. Sigh. So much for the happy new start.

I was supposed to fly out of Oakland around 11 tonight. But when I checked my flight status online this afternoon, to my horror, my flight was delayed two hours. My time of departure is now 1:30 in the morning. Nice. And of course security took me all of about 5 minutes. Record time. So here I am, early as hell, at the gate. Thankfully, I have John’s iPod to kill some time. I’m listening to George Michael, and now I’m totally transported to middle school. Ahh, such fond memories during that period. Yeah right. Can you say T-R-A-U-M-A?? All those damn school dances. Jesus, and in the cafeteria and gymnasium no less. Shit man, middle school was all about awkwardness. Who the hell knew such issues would continue into college. Shit. Unhappy times. But, boy did I have the hots for George. Remember that Careless Whispers video? I can still remember sitting in front of our huge blocky 25-inch Magnavox. I had no idea what he was saying, much less singing but damn, he was captivating. Ha, ha. It’s so funny how fickle little girls can be. I swear, I had the hots for a new person like every week. I had a crush on my pediatrician (and later fell for his son— my classmate). I also liked Peter Jennings. I know, I was a total dork. I mean come on, 10 years old, and having a crush on Peter Jennings? In my defense, back then, my love knew no bounds. 🙂

Uh oh. Father Figure playing now. Oh god. I remember at the 8th grade dance, this was the last song, and I actually scored a dance with this kid, Aaron. I was so nervous, we danced with like 2 feet between us, and my palms were so sweaty. And then this damn song… It went on forever. Jesus, felt like an eternity. But I can only laugh now. Eighth grade. I was a Miss Know-it-All, stubborn beotch even then. Sigh. Ok, I have to switch albums soon. I can’t be reflecting on middle school shit. It’s not healthy. Fuck man, I’m 30. Two decades AFTER Monocacy Middle. Ok, now I’m freaking myself out.

And right on queue, here’s Careless Whispers. Ok, I’ll dwell a tad longer… Such a sucker for my man George.

As the music dies, something in your eyes….

Moving on…

John and I always joke that Remy and Martin are the canine forms of me and him. Martin, you see, is super laid back. When he’s ready to sleep, he calls it a night and leaves us alone in the living room while he heads off to bed. In the car, he’s fine with missing out on the scene as long as he can curl up into his tight ball and sleep. On the other hand, Remy likes to know what’s happening with everybody else. She has to stay in the same room as us to monitor what’s going on. When we take her in the car, she always sits up to see/smell out the window. The other thing about Remy is she prefers a schedule. In bathroom terms, that means she is very regular: she dumps twice a day, within 2 minutes of being outside. Just. like. clockwork.

So like Remy, I clear out the bowels morning and evening. Let me tell you, nothing like starting the day off right by dropping the kids off at the pool. Only thing is, when my morning commute ranges from 35-50 minutes, I don’t fuck around. Even if I’m running a tad late, I have to ditch the kids; otherwise, they’re riding along on a trip that never seems to end (“Are we there yet?”), know what I mean? Too risky. Needless to say, I was supposed to drive John to the airport Wednesday morning. We needed to leave the house by 6 a.m. Well what do you know, right at six, the kids started clamoring. I was in a hurry, and well, as soon as they dived in, I realized my sash (I was wearing a duster sweater) took a dip too. Yup, gross. Shit like that only happens to me, no?

So on Friday, the CEO asked me to take on some HR responsibilities. Mind you, I’m currently a contractor with zero benefits; yet, he wants me to sit down with new hires to review the company fringe benefits policies. Say what? A little weird, but whatever. I’d actually forgotten that within the last year, HR was something I thought about getting into… HR and recruiting. I always thought to myself, “I could do that kind of work… I think.” Well I suppose now’s my chance. But the disturbing thing about being asked to take on this new set of responsibilities is well, what the CEO said about our current HR administrator. Apparently, he hasn’t been too pleased. Of course, I was surprised, because just last week several of us (including the CEO) went to lunch with her. She was really cool and knowledgeable. I defended her. Here’s how my boss responded: It’s one thing to be cool; it’s another thing to be knowledgeable; it’s a third thing to deliver.

So I guess that’s why I’m not a business person. I like people; I give them the benefit of the doubt. Plus, I go by personality more than academics: I suppose I believe getting along is more important than having the book smarts. I don’t know. Regardless, what he said really bugged me. I mean, the other thing is, just because some people aren’t workaholics, that doesn’t mean the way they lead their lives is wrong. I mean, these are all individual choices, and I don’t necessarily think you should penalize an employee for say, prioritizing family and balance over work. Am I too much of a softie? I don’t know: I suppose I always find myself siding with workers rather than with management. Even when I was working at CDM, we did these management consulting projects evaluating the efficiency of teams at a government water agency and I always sympathized with the laborers. Come on, they were unclogging shit in your sewer pipes, clearing used condoms off the bar screens… hell yeah, they deserve raises. Shrug. Instead, the project engineer concluded that most of the workers needed to be axed. Sucked.

So I’m feeling a little disheartened with work, be it this workaholic lifestyle or the “rude” comments by the head honcho. All of this negative energy is compounded by a notice from our lame-ass apartment complex: rent is going up $300/month if we want to continue month-to-month leasing. Fuckers. So yesterday after work, we checked out this “charming cottage” in Menlo Park, down towards Stanford University. Jesus Christ. That place felt like a mortuary. Was fricking built in 1945. I thought I was going to croak just breathing in the stagnant air. Had all kinds of quirky decorations– like Chinese wood carvings mixed with shabby chic ruffles. Now I’m all for hodge podge, but seriously, this place was a mess. After being totally let down, we headed to PF Chang’s for a Chinese dinner. We ordered lettuce wraps and received three lettuce shells. Honestly. Three. I wasn’t even in the mood to pipe up about it. I just really wish I were elsewhere. I know, it’s the holidays and everyone is supposed to be all hunky dory. Well I’m bummed as hell. This isn’t how I want my life to be, and now I’m just among that list of people who are unhappy but are also paralyzed with inaction. What to fucking do now? To cap it all off, I got this for my fortune (because fortune cookies are Chinese, didn’t you know?): You believe in the goodness of people. Yeah, whatever. Tell it to the fucking hand. I put in my dues. I believed in the system, and look at this bullshit moron we elected as President. Some lady was on the news the other week for microwaving her infant to death. Wtf is wrong with people? Screw the goodness of people, man. I’m a misanthrope this holiday season, so whatever. Get this though: John’s fortune? Good thoughts make life better. Ha, ha. Is good thoughts going to pull us out of this sinkhole? I know, I know. I have a fortunate life. I could be deformed. I could really be on the edge of survival. But just tell me what to do to maximize on this privileged life. Donate to charity. Volunteer. Join the area Climate Change Action group. I’m doing those things, and still, I’m so frustrated. I’m irritated that companies squeeze as much as they can out of their workers and then as soon as the employee wants to negotiate and really bargain for perks, that employee is labeled greedy or “just in it for the money.” Such bullshit. I mean, if money were no issue, I certainly wouldn’t be working for the private sector (unless it was my own gig). Then, there’s our housing dilemma. There’s like no decent housing around here and it’s all expensive as hell. So now our choices are apartment complex A or apartment complex B, because none of the private landlords accept dogs bigger than 20 lbs. I mean, what is with the size discrimination? Isn’t the Bay area supposed to be dog heaven? See how I am just at my wit’s end? I can’t even convey my argument convincingly. I suppose it’s just the culmination of everything. I miss Shanghai. I miss my friends. I miss that great situation that ended. I had hopes of rebuilding, but I’m 30 now and when I shared my excitement last Friday about acquiring a new boardgame, my CEO rolled his eyes. Apparently, Scattergories doesn’t appeal to anyone here, so I’m left to play with John. And he hates the game. Like the kid in About a Boy claims, people need backup. Where’s my chain of islands?

Damn it’s been a long time since I’ve had to crunch numbers. A few weeks ago, the CEO/President asked me to crank out some calculations on pollutant emissions from electricity generation. Fuck, man. Had to do all these nutty conversions from like moles to grams and KW to GW. The number crunching took me an eternity, and at some point, I put the figures into a Powerpoint slide, only to have him change some assumption and recalculate the numbers. Well, for whatever reason, my numbers were correct but he forgot a zero when he input the data. Well holy shit, screw me with a spoon. I was supposed to proof the whole PowerPoint, and the 0.1 (instead of 0.01) slipped my radar. Just the day before, one of our dataplots was timeshifted. He had just told me the importance of checking our numbers, because errors damage our credibility. Blah, blah. Whatever. Anyway, point is, I was scolded about the data plot. Naturally, when I discovered my oversight with the 0.1, I started stressing out big time. Like almost had a breakdown at work. That night I got home, and I was flipping out. John could not understand my distress over a silly typo. So I emailed the CEO. Two days later, I got a major nasty gram. I won’t insert it here, but basically I felt like he was threatening me with losing the job. I was so pissed, because 1) why was I being pinned to this expectation of perfection when he was guilty of overpromising product performance (doesn’t that damage credability too?) 2) calculations are not in my job description. I’m a customer liason. 3) I submitted the right numbers but he kept changing the assumptions and he input the typo. Anyway, I was really upset, and I swear that other leg was starting to itch that evening. Return of the shingles? Not good.

The next day, things were a bit tense at the office. We actually avoided each other. Finally, I just wanted to get things over with. I went into his office and reviewed the calcs with him. That was the end. I’m not going to live in fear or whatever because of some threatening email. Fuck it: I’m still a damn hard worker and valuable contributor. I’m not going to be intimidated by a silly job.

Since then, the big customer visit and associated presentation has come and gone. I ended up working closely with the perfectionist manager on project boards and parts displays. I don’t know how a hodge-podge decorater like me got pulled into that. Anyway, the visit was a big success, so I guess I’m redeemed. Either way, like everyone else warned, work–no matter what it is– is overrated.

OMG, I was at the Trader Joe’s yesterday, waiting in line for an eternity because the lady in front bought her groceries via check. Hello, it’s 2006! Who pays for groceries with a personal check? Seriously, seeing the lady bust out with the checkbook… that just blew me away. Get with the program people!

These days, people are really trying my patience. I had the biggest ordeal earlier this week jumping through the multiple bureaucratic hoops just to get to the point of submitting my application for the CA clean air sticker (which would grant me the special privilege of driving my hybrid in the HOV lane). First, I had to go to the DMV myself (rather than wait for the dealer to do it on my behalf) so I could get the plates the same day. Unfortunately, different DMV offices require different paperwork. My first trip to Fremont DMV was foiled. Supposedly, I needed some special dealership signature. Then I went to the Hayward DMV (because they didn’t require this paperwork) but the line was so long, I had to leave to get back to the office for a meeting. My third attempt finally worked. First thing, right as they open the doors. That’s the only way to do it. Got the plates. Step two was a trip downtown to get a hybrid fastrak (like the SmartTag) transponder. Luckily, I took the day off Friday, so I had plenty of time to sit in traffic (because people out here drive in the rain like people in DC drive in the snow) on the way. You know, I really don’t understand the segmentation between faxed applications vs. in-person applications. You see, ever so obsessed with efficiency, I called Fastrak to see if I could fax in the paperwork and then just pay to have them Fedex the gadget to me. Nope. Faxed applications take five business days. If I want the transponder sooner, I have to go in person. So fine, went into the office. No one was freaking there. I mean, the place was dead. The good news of course is that I was in and out in a few minutes. The bad news is, why couldn’t those same people process the faxed orders since they were shooting the shit anyway… whatever. So once I got the plates and the transponder, I was legit to submit my sticker application. Apparently, these things are in limited number. Only 3,000 stickers left, like for ever. And it’s first come first served. Hopefully, I’ll get in just under the wire. Otherwise, I’ll have to figure out alternatives. Regardless, I’m driving in the HOV lane one way or the other… ‘Nuff said.

So yesterday was my company holiday party. We had this “white elephant” gift exchange, and I was getting all stressed out finding a decent gift for under $15. I don’t know about you, but you can’t buy shit for $15. Seriously, you have to cough up a bit more for anything that won’t end up in the trash. So I thought and thought… in the end, I think I did rather well. I bought a badminton set. Obviously, not the best quality but still, I’m pretty proud. It’s much better than potpourri and mugs. In fact, my gift was a winner. But the thing that stressed me out the most was the wrapping. You see, I was fine with just tissue papering the set and putting it in a gift bag. However, John insisted that I had to put it in a box. Then I thought okay, I’ll put the gift in a big cardboard Dell box. And I’ll put a bow on it. Nope. Not good enough. Apparently, you have to wrap it and make it all pretty and presentable. God, I hate that shit. That’s what I hate about the holidays. All that waste. I mean seriously, wrapping paper is ridiculous. I mean, what are we, dogs who love to rip through packaging to get to the treats?

Ultimately, I caved to pressure from John. I not only put the gift in a box, I filled the box with stuffing (which was cross-cut paper from my shredder) and I even wrapped the fucking box with newspaper. I know, ugly as hell but what the fuck ever. That’s the lowest I’ll go. Yeah, yeah, maybe gift wrap is recyclable but for one, I’ve never seen people recycle gift wrap/packaging. In fact, at the end of our party, I ended up taking home all the empty cans and bottles and boxes. I know, totally anal but I can’t help myself. I have OCD. What you going to do about it?

The holidays are just so excessive. And if you don’t want to participate, you get ostracized for being a Scrooge. I actually would like to give a donation on someone’s behalf, but John thinks that idea is lame. Shrug. Supposedly, there’s a movement to simplify the holidays… unfortunately, I just don’t see this catching on yet.