Work It, Live It

Tomorrow I hope to hear that I’m even more gainfully and happily employed. I submitted to a drug screen last Wednesday as the final step in the acceptance process. Barring the inadvertent ingestion of poppy seeds, I should have no problem there. I’d hoped to hear from them Friday, but it looks like Monday now.

That whole idea, of a drug test gone horribly wrong because I ate something that tripped a positive result, makes me wish I’d showed up at the clinic with a small bag of hair and nail clippings too, maybe a cheek swab, my bath towel, anything to demonstrate good faith, y’know? Certainly they’d look at me askance, but there’d be no doubting my sincerity, right?

I have a letter of resignation ready to go for the contract job I hold now. I dread delivering it. I don’t take rejection very well myself, so I always cringe at the thought of conveying dissatisfaction to other people. This is why I no longer go to the ASPCA; my wife has to bring home all the replacement pets because when I look into the cages at all the animals I want to take ALL of them home and so when we choose only one it feels as if I’ve leveled a finger at all the others and thundered “I FIND YOU WANTING!”. Kills me. Can’t do it.

I’ve been very fortunate in mining the job market here, since I’ve actually only interviewed for two jobs (I don’t count the two or three on-line applications I submitted) since moving to town and got both of them. I’m particularly pleased with this second opportunity because I’ll be working for a non-profit company in aid of a public welfare cause. That’ll be a new experience for me. The missus has expressed an interest in volunteering her time and effort for the organization as well (the company relies quite heavily upon volunteers), so it’s entirely possible that we’ll be in essence working together two or three days per week. Can’t beat that.

So now I must find a route that I can ride to work. I’m feeling a lot more confident on the bike now, thanks to a couple of cruises I’ve pedaled on Tramway and the Riverside Trail (VERY nice riding, by the way). The goal now is to find the route offering the best odds for survival to and from work. Where we live now it’ll be a six-and-something-mile ride one way. That may change within a year because we’re going to move from the apartment community in which we live to somewhere a bit more economical (and roomy, and without a fireplace taking up one whole wall in an already undersized living room, thus forcing us to Picasso our furniture in somewhat awkward juxtapositions, culminating in a need for physical therapy to alleviate muscular distress from simply watching our damned television. Godz save us all from architects who insist upon rooms that have more than four corners. Gimme a box. I can create my own “visual interest”, ‘kay?).

I digress.

We already have another apartment community in mind, should it be necessary in ten months’ time to move to yet another apartment, but we hope to find a decent house to rent or a manufactured home to purchase in a good park. Yes, I said manufactured home. Or call it a mobile home, or a trailer, I don’t care. At our age, “investing in a home” is just another way to pay for something that, in the end, stays above the ground while you get to lie in a box under it. Our tastes (other than for broadband access and cable television) are modest. I’d like a porch or balcony from which I may watch the sun set as I enjoy a beverage with my wife after a day’s work. We aren’t that choosy as to what said porch is attached as long as we aren’t treated to daily viewings of Domestic 911 or meth fumes. We like the Northeast Heights area just fine, the fauxdobe generic style notwithstanding, but when I read the words “located in the prestigious Northeast Heights” in real estate brochures my Inner Trotsky starts hurking his hairballs of indignation. No offense. I’m just saying that these vague declarations of class distinctions make me uncomfy, and I’m not all that neurotic about where and in what I abide as long as it doesn’t necessitate the wearing of Kevlar to fetch my newspaper.

Today I have to change a flat tire on the bike. Why it’s flat I have not a clue. The tire itself looks no more molested than before I rode the Bosque Trail, but the tube won’t accept air. I even tried a Schrader adapter on the off-chance the Presta port on my pump was malfunctioning; nope. (Non-cyclist peeps may Google these terms if they desire to know what the Hell I’m talking about, but yeah, I wouldn’t either probably.) These are Bontrager Race Lite HardCase tires I bought specifically to combat the perils of Portland’s rubble/glass/syringe-strewn streets, and so goat-heads aside I have trouble believing a few cracked sections of pavement here would breach them. I suspect the tube simply unsealed, perhaps at the valve seam. (Non-bikers: Zzzzzzzzzzzzz) I’ll find out. OF COURSE it’s the rear tire, and I suck at changing flats anyway. Grr.

After that, a walk along the North Pino Arroyo Trail through Heritage Hills Park. We discovered it yesterday from the Cherry Hills Library lot. It’s awesome.

But first, the household chores.

Get out and enjoy the day!

Adios.

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