Thursday, July 28, 2016

Seventh ping

Considering I'd done all the prep work already for a pitch I heard of another ping opportunity and, fuck it, I took it.

Seventh ping is away.


GLF—where Mikey takes a tough question and considers the state of his dress

I've been blessed with support for the GLF which included a sit down with a professional recruiter for my trade.

The first question she asked was why I wasn't higher in rank.

I told her that it was the work that held my interest and that I chose to remain at my level because I got to do coalface work—even if that work came at a physical and mental cost because of that low status. She said my problem was I thought and acted strategically but I had to deal with tactical types and the uninformed; hence the cost. That I needed to get higher if I wanted to be heard and to deliver outcomes my way.

Later, I had an escorted trip to the shops to get some dress shoes and consider to suits—suits! For if I am to GLF then I need to suit up—literally.

So bring on the GLF and I'll meet it face-to-face in my snazzy new duds.


Tuesday, July 26, 2016

I am a golden god

With thanks to Almost Famous.

I had to vet a client's brief and saw that the core strategy document that underpinned it was missing.

So I emailed to ask for it. Sheepishly she called to say that document had not been started.

It was a hole and I was a hole filler so I volunteered to do it for her.

I bashed that fucker out in under 30 minutes and pinged it back for feedback; I saved her hours of work. 

Later I texted the ex-boss who taught me how to write strategy documents to humble-brag and to thank her for the knowledge and she replied to say those skills were already there.

That was nice of her to say and it fitted with her tradition of total niceness—she took a broken person, fixed him up and skilled him up as well.

I have all these phat skillz thanks to people who cared enough to teach me and now I'm ready to put them to use in the GLF.


Monday, July 25, 2016

I'm in!

When you lived caked in pain you get used to deflecting questions about how you are travelling.

For years I've used a cheery "I'm in!" if anyone says good morning and then asks how I am. The unusual blend of a happily implied illness enough to deflect a follow up.

An ex boss of mine saw me one morning, asked how I was, and I gave my usual reply.

"Yeah," he said, "but you didn't actually tell me how you are."

I was blown away. He was the first person who had never been deflected. I replied to that effect, that he was the first person to have ever done it, and he walked away all chuffed.

But I still didn't have to tell him how shit I felt—because I feel shit every waking second. It's the degrees of shit that is the issue in play, not its presence.

Yes, Mikey is the concealer ... the concealer of pain!

(throws down ninja smoke bomb, coughs, smoke wafts away to reveal I'm still there as I couldn't bother moving).

Sunday, July 24, 2016

The purge

I awoke from a dream where I had been calmly telling off an antagonist while they were in bed to find myself in IBS-afflicted reality. I lay supine in the dark as echos of the dream faded and the screaming pain of the now registered. I staggered off to the toilet and went; it was a double flusher.

But, after some meds and time, the spasms are passing. I think both my mind and body are purging ahead of the GLF. In my dream I wasn't yelling, I was simply stating my case. And instead of the dream spawning a longform grief-stricken space out I've had but mini ones; they flit about my head like a butterfly before flying away.

My mind and body agree; bring on the GLF and lets see where it takes us.


Friday, July 22, 2016

I committed air (prop) guitar to "Blaze of Glory"

I have a skeleton hand-themed back scratcher (1). The other day I found myself air (prop) guitaring with it—as in miming along to the instrumental with the scratcher as a guitar (2)—to "Blaze of Glory".

It's such a hair metal song—is it even metal?—but also so very awesome that I think air (prop) guitaring with a skeletal themed back scratcher looks most-metal.

I am a child-to-teen of the '80s and man of the '90s (3) and that song is imprinted on my high school mind.

Hooray for personal computers (4), VCRs and music television.

(1) For more details see footnote (1).
(2) The irony being that my fucked-up skeletal parts of my hand,s along with trembles, means I can never play an actual guitar. It's also painful to play a keyboard unless I play two-finger because I cannot touch type nor play a piano with all the fingers. Thanks, body and injury.
(3) As '90s man I had a beard, pony tail and wore flannelette. The latter not because it was fashion but because the shirts were seven dollars from Woolwoths. 
(4) For me that includes pre-internet. So old.

Cushions; cats with seven less lives

A cushion lives to show one side at a time. So if you ruin one side, for example, from seep through you can flip it and show the not contaminated view.

But you only get the one extra go. 

So it's underpants and PJs from now on when on the IKEA seat cushion as bought by thewife.

Stupid IBS flare; timed nicely with the back strain and anxiety, thank-you very much. 

At least the knots on the cushion that held it to the chair were easy to untie. With my shaking hands and lack of fine dexterity it could have induced a HULK SMASH! of a flip out. A flip out immediately followed by a HULK HURT BACK MORE! and HULK SEEK APPOINTMENT WITH CHIRO; IT EMERGENCY!

You just had to hope he'd gone Banner by the time he rolled up for his appointment; but don't crank him up with bad back-cruncher bedside manner or HULK THROW TINY BACK MAN THROUGH DRYWALL.

Strained back

I strained my back getting off the floor after a meditation session. How dumb that something so Zen lead to something so un-Zen?

It's healing; it's not that bad. But moving is difficult—or should I say more difficult since easy bending and I parted company in the last Millennium. 

Of course having a strained back and not being able to bend, combined with the delicious powers of pharmacological (slash) psychological induced hand tremours, means stuff  dropped stays on the floor until someone else comes along to take care of it.

Or something, like a cat—and they'll eat anything small and seeming edible in under 20 seconds unless you get to it first. 

Fortunately I didn't drop any head meds this morning; on the doses I'm on that cat would be well-Shr√∂dingered—you wouldn't even need to open the box to know.

At least it's a Friday which means the weekend to heal and I'll be back gingerly to work the week after. 

So a strained back but time to heal; at least I saved it for the weekend.

(Feebly raises arm in shaky triumph then winces from back stress).

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

The Great Leap Forward

The trouble with Great Leaps Forward is the potential for them to go pear-shaped

But then to Sit and Relive Pain is already a failed state. It's just a known failed state against the unknown (potential failure) of a Great Leap.

Whatever happens I acknowledge I am ready and I am capable.

What are my legs? 

Steel springs.

What are they going to do?

Hurl me down the fucking track.