My husband went to work and all I got was this lousy blog

Every year for the past five on the eve of April 12, I start ruminating on the significance of the day. Since nothing much changes in the significnce department, I'll just link to the past couple of years.

Here's a patch from April of 2002, just as my contractual obligation to my current employer ran out.

A more sober writer might suggest that it would've been nice to be offered a renewed contract with a hefty raise attached to it. The same sober writer might suggest that he would've been happy to sign on for another three years if management had seen fit to open its wallet and pay for the work it gets out of the man. That sober guy might suggest that he would've continued to put every effort into producing a solid journalistic product every day...if only he had some sort of incentive. He would suggest that it would almost be incentive enough to see people appreicated for the work they do...or more to the point...people reprimanded for the work they DO NOT do.

Fortunately for all of us, that sober writer fell off a cliff of insanity three months ago. We don't think he died. More than likely, he is hobbling around down at the bottom of some ravine, sucking on a wet pay stub, and shooting the bird at local wildlife.

(A quick aside here...Ralph Machio was a bit of a chump in Crossroads. You just can't take the Karate Kid as a serious bluesman. But Crossroads was still a kick ass movie. I think I may watch it this weekend.)

Three years, a couple dozen gray hairs, one Emmy nomination, a gross sense of the lack of work ethic in this world, just enough money to pay the bills and have a little bit of a good time in the process.

There is a certain amount of fear in being cut loose. It's like your wife saying...go out and do whatever you want tonight. The freedom is so severe it straps you to the couch.

And this is from April 2003. My boss had just told me I'd have to work a weekend shift because a employee (who now no longer works where I do) "got hurt" by a bag of frozen vegetables falling out of her freezer...or something

Our workplace survives on manpower. One piece of that power is a bit accident-prone. She tends to fall over a lot without a lot of explanation. We're told doctors have advised her to take the weekend (regular workdays for her) to recover from her most recent fall. I'm currently checking into the possiblities of contracting with the company that produced the Weeble-People to see if we can borrow some of the technology.

The calender tells me that tomorrow is actually my four-year anniversary here. Four fucking years. And I sit at my desk dreading the story I'm about to air. When the dread subsides, I go back to thinking of Weeble-People technology. Fascinating.

So, tomorrow as the sun dries the soil and the sweetgum trees begin their annual greening, I'll be efforting to make weekend news relevant.

Four years, ladies and gents. That's a long damned time in dog years.

Now, it's five years with The Company. I'd like to think that by the time next April rolls around, the story will be a lot different than it is today or has been for the past five years. It's about time this blog writer made some changes.