Contemplation

I've been thinking a bit lately about my life, and how things have gone so terribly, horribly wrong for me over the last several years.

It's bad enough that my life is in havoc, but this doesn't just impact me. My screw-ups have been affecting my wife's life and the lives of our children for a long, long time too. That's hard to swallow. It hurts a lot to realize that, not only am I not succeeding as a person -- in almost any capacity -- I’m not a very good husband, father or provider either. I’m not sure at what else I can fail, frankly.

A lot of mistakes that I made can be traced back to when I was in high school, and therein is where my introspection has fallen as of late. I realized that, had I subtly changed the course of the direction of my life, and avoided some of the horrific mistakes I made along the way, maybe I’d be somewhere different by now. Maybe not, but I find it very unlikely that I’d have ended up here, in the situations in which I find myself, had I made just a few different choices.

I don’t know what happened to my brain during the years that I spent in high school, but it certainly didn’t function the way it does now. I can look back at the decisions I made and even today I shake my head and mutter “what were you thinking, moron?” I have no idea. I don’t know if I did then, either. All I can do is try not to duplicate those mistakes as I go through what’s left of my life, but the fact is, I probably won’t have the chance to duplicate those mistakes. Many of them were one-time-only, chance-in-lifetime sorts of things, and I indeed blew those chances royally. Those that I could have avoided or changed later I just didn’t, so in some sense, I suppose I did make them all over again.

It’s a damned shame.

I can sum up the things I want to change into a handful of events that, while they didn’t seem like much to me, were cataclysmic, calamitous decisions that had long-term, life-altering impact. All of them took place in a span of just a couple of years, too; perhaps the two or three years from when I was about 16 years old until the age of 19. By then, the decisions had crippled my ability to recover from them, destroyed what flimsy and pathetic “support network” I had, and I am still paying for them today.

I’m not in this alone, however; my genetic donors could have done more to help, but being that they’re not the brightest bulbs on the Christmas tree either, they couldn’t pull their heads from their rectal cavities long enough to see what was necessary. This, sadly, from people that are twenty and twenty-three years older than me. So, well into adulthood, they couldn’t find a clearer path to assist me than what they chose. Or, more likely, the desire to assist wasn’t really there to find another way.

At any rate, I can’t blame them. I have the pocketful of crumbled dreams and ashes of hope in my own hot little hand to attest to the wreckage I’ve brought upon myself. They were, after all, my mistakes, and mine alone. I have to deal with the consequences, not they; I have to try and find the alternate path, not them. This is my responsibility, my burden, my millstone to bear, and no one else’s. Except, of course, for my wife and children, who had nothing to do with any of this at all. They just get to bear the brunt.

If, however, I had zigged rather than zagged, had weaved instead of bobbed, in just a couple of situations I was in, I could be a completely different man. I’ve been down this road thousands of time before. I torment myself with wondering what life would be like if I had chosen differently just once, never mind in every one of those situations. I could have been, and done, so much more, I think.

On the other hand, there is the theory that we don’t actually have choices, only the illusion of choices. We can’t really make any other decision than the one that we made, and there IS no path not chosen, road not traveled, life not lived. There is only this life, this path, this road which is traveled, and no other. While at the time there seems to be a fork, there is in fact only undeniable, inexorable, inescapable fate, and we never had the chance to do other than what we did.

Theologically, I reject this idea out of hand and soundly. It’s ludicrous, because the entire basis for a relationship with God becomes a random, capricious, completely arbitrary selection process to which we will never be privy. Since the decision in the Garden of Eden, the choices have been there, and have played themselves out. While the idea of foreknowledge can confuse some, foreknowledge and predestination are separate and distinct ideas, if intertwined. I can go much more into detail on this, but I’ll allow that to suffice for the Internet. Want to know more? Go look it up. You are aware the Bible opens, aren’t you?

At any rate, Calvinism is not for me. Perseverance of the Saints, one of the five points of classical Calvinism, is about all I can stomach. The rest leads people to irresponsible and dangerous behavior that isn’t biblical.

Now then, where was I? Oh, yes; my misery.

I believe that, now, after all the years of thinking about it, reliving the years between ages 16 and 19 would right the capsizing ship. Of course, I can’t do that, but if I had a temporal displacement device, or if I could slipstream into the time-space continuum and speak with myself, that’s probably the time in which my efforts would be focused. It would be interesting to see if anything that I could say to myself then would have impact on me today. If I return from my conversations with my younger self and there is no change, does that mean that I’ve been ineffectual, that I chose the same routes despite being warned, or that there is no way to alter the past and affect the future?

Of course, the latter is true. There is nothing we can do to change the past and get the future back on track. This is what we have, and in that regard, the future -- or the present, I suppose -- is set. Like the time travel theory (if you want to call it that) in the movie 12 Monkeys, there is nothing we can do to stop the inevitable outcome of the choices of the past.

Which, of course, brings me to the future. As murky and uncertain, dark and foreboding as it is, it is the only timeline upon which I can affect any deviation. I can alter that timeline. I just wish, as I sit here and realize that the present has indeed crept into the future and the future has eroded into the present, I had some lantern, some dim candle, even a matchstick to light the inky blackness ahead of me. I just wish that, somewhere along the way, there was a method for piercing the veil that separates past and future, at least my own, such that I might see what it is I’m supposed to do and which road to choose. Even if there aren’t as many as there were once upon a time, the choices are far more frightening. Fewer choices equates to more dramatic mistakes, and less time to recover from them. If I haven’t recovered from those that I made a quarter of a century ago, and if I may not have a quarter of a century left to live, what chance will I have to correct the listing, sinking ship in that shallow, turbulent, violent sea of the future?

No, there is no way to see ahead. We can only guess, and do our best.

P.S. - Don’t even get me started on psychics. Have you ever seen the headline “Psychic Wins Lottery”? I haven’t either; case closed.

Yeah ... About that Last Post ...

So, it turns out that I really AM good at messing things up. And it turns out that God really DIDN'T fix it, after all.

The job fell through; actually, the recruiter's exact phrase was "retracted." The offer was retracted. I no longer have a long term contract with a large company doing work that will greatly benefit my career going forward. I have to start all over again, and begin the painfully slow process of searching for a job again. I know how little is out there right now; it's always that way for me at the end of the year. Monster.com is full of job offerings, but nothing for me. Recruiters are busy enough to earn THEIR paychecks somehow, but me? I'll be lucky to make rent next month. The month after that is doom.

Ah, nothing succeeds like success, eh?

If you pray, please do. If you don't, I'll pray for you. Thanks.

-JDT-

Patching the Holes

Okay, so I have a penchant for messing things up, and being a bit ham-handed at some things. Fortunately for me, I have a God who is great and sorts things out, making the most of even the things that I screw up royale.

That being said, I’ve made some decisions lately that I thought, after “careful consideration,” were good decisions. Mostly in the area of my career, if you can call it that. I’ve blogged before that I had what I considered an embarrassment of riches before after messing up my last assignment: three jobs were in the offering, and all I had to do was to sit down, examine them all, and make a decision. Easy, right?

Wrong. For one thing, I wasn’t really sure what any of the jobs being offered were going to provide in the way of career enhancement. Two of the three weren’t long-term, and the third was never assured. (As it turned out, they hired someone else, so it’s lucky for me I didn’t place all of my eggs in that basket.) While the long-term deal I wanted so badly didn’t come through, I had two offers that were viable, there-for-the-asking jobs and all I had to do was pick one.

Looking at both of them, I decided that, in the interest of future marketing, taking less money and a longer drive over higher wages and something that was infinitely better suited to me was probably a good choice. Now, I didn’t say that I was accustomed to making these kinds of choices; I’m kind of a rookie at it, actually, and usually end up taking whatever I can get. While that certainly isn’t an excuse for being stupid, it allows you to see that with two (and at that time, potentially three) roads to choose from, it’s easy for me to make a bad decision.

Okay, it’s not easy; it’s easier than it is for someone with experience in having to choose the best of two or three good things. Offer me a filet mignon, a prime rib eye, and a tender, juicy strip steak and the choice is akin to what I was facing here. Is that going to be chocolate ice cream, or rocky road? Ah, the choices! Decisions, decisions!

Now, this wouldn’t be a problem for most anyone else. I mean, c’mon; you’ve got one offer that pays more, is closer to home, is something easy to do and very undemanding (depending, of course, on the manager for whom you’re working), and wouldn’t look all that bad on your resume. The only problem is, it’s fixed at eight weeks. The other job is a lot farther from home, much more mentally draining (and some people like that sort of thing), and is a lot more high pressure, not to mention it pays less. But, it was doing something that (I thought) would be very titillating on the ol’ CV. So, weighing the options, talking it (to death) over with my wife, and trying to do the right thing for the long(er)-term, I chose the lower pay, longer commute job.

Like I said, I have a penchant for screwing up.

Yes, it was the wrong choice. I know how much I hate technical support, how sick of it I am, how demanding and exacting it can be. I know how stressful I find it, I know how tortured I am over it, how I lose interest in it (quickly), and how turning what was once a hobby for me into work ended up being a disastrous and tormenting decision (there’s that word again) that I made all those years ago. Nearly a quarter of my life has been spent working in a field I don’t like anymore. If I had just stayed the course, I’d be a programmer now, with about ten years experience and probably making a whole bunch more money than I am now. Of course, on the other side of that same coin, if I’d stayed the course, I’d probably be a physician now, and making a lot more money – and difference in the lives of people – than I am now.

As it turns out, I hate the job I’m doing. It’s not because I don’t like the place I work – I do, the people are really nice there. It’s not because I don’t like the manager I work for – he’s a good guy, and not that hard to work for at all. I feel a bit guilty, in fact, that I’m not farther along with his requests than I am. It’s just that I didn’t get a real sense for what I was doing until it was much, much too late. It’s basically hardware troubleshooting all over again; and I’m at a different level now than I’ve been before, because the “root causes” of the problems need to be determined. That means I spend a lot of time recognizing that I didn’t ever really get very deep into troubleshooting before, and that I’m probably not as good at this sort of thing as I should be after 10 years of doing it. I’m not anymore than a problem-solver; I figure out what’s wrong and fix it. I don’t care why it’s wrong, I just fix it. That’s not very good technician mentality; very good technicians want to determine why something’s wrong so that they can fix it, prevent it from happening again, and document the problem so that other techs can fix it too.

I’m basically lazy; while my colleagues were at home, studying hardware forums and exchanging ideas with other technicians, playing with new configurations and settings to determine what they’re for and what they impact, and setting up home networks and servers to broaden their scope of knowledge, I was getting laid, working on a novel, practicing my marksmanship on the firing range, and later trying to raise a family and scheming to make more money somehow. (That’s an incredible run-on sentence, and Word didn’t catch it.) None of that paid off, but in consolation, what they did probably didn’t get much benefit from their efforts, either. They’re most likely steadily employed, though.

In short, I’m not a geek. I’m just not; I was good at finding the problem and fixing it. And I wasn’t too bad at remembering that problem when I saw it again at some future point (depending on how much time had gone by). I wasn’t too afraid of dorking around with something to see if the settings could be made to work, and I was good at passing my knowledge on to other techs. But I wasn’t a geek; I didn’t live and breathe computer science and hardware. I didn’t really … well, care about that stuff too much. And as I’ve said in previous posts (you’ll have to read them all to see), being a tech really means you need to care about that sort of thing and work to stay atop it. Like my colleagues did.

So I hate doing what I’m doing, and I think it shows. I’m always allowing myself to get distracted with other things, most of which aren’t work-related, while I’m supposed to be working on figuring out problem root causes and documenting procedures, working to figure out how to break a software installation (yes, that’s right – BREAK it, after spending my entire career trying to figure out ways to FIX them) so that as many possible paths of eventuality can be mapped as possible for when that software is rolled out next year. I go into work every day, and try to convince myself that it’s okay; it’s really possible to do that, even though it sounds like an exercise in futility. Even though the combination of things that can go wrong is so impossibly huge that not even the creators of the operating system can give you every eventuality. Even though this isn’t my favorite thing to do and I’m overall pretty crappy at it. It’s all right, I tell myself, this is what you chose and what you do until something else comes along, hopefully soon.

The year is waning; the days are short, the nights are long, and the job offers are drying up and companies are starting to sit tight until next year. There is nothing on my radar. I’m going to spend time out of work again, in all probability, at the end of this year and the first part of next, unless by some miracle this job is extended.

As I fought my despair and tried to make myself feel like the decision wasn’t so bad, a man named Paul called me. I’ve mentioned this in other posts. He had a job offer. Something interesting. Something I would like to do. Something that pays more – a lot more. And something that will benefit my resume over the long haul. And, best of all, it’s a year-long contract, barring doing something incredibly stupid. You know … like I did on my last assignment.

Friday, things moved forward. I had a phone interview. I found out, in the course of that interview, that the decision would be made on the strength of that phone interview. I was on the phone for 35 minutes, and told that a decision would be made fairly quickly. Monday or Tuesday, in fact. Very encouraging, and very exciting.

When I heard nothing today, and knowing that the interviewer was speaking to another candidate on Friday, I assumed the worst. I always seem to lose out when the interview seems to go well, so why not assume that? It’s happened to me a couple of times already over the last few months.

At about 1:15 p.m., my contact Paul called me back. In his very English accent, he told me that he had good news.

You see, even though I have a penchant for screwing things up, I have a very great God who can make even my worst decisions work out somehow.

Thanks, Lord. I really, really appreciate what You’ve done here today.

-JDT-

Men and Their Bodies

It’s a wonder as many people get married as do.

Women are completely different creatures than men; by and large, they’re much less … let’s see, what’s the right word? … oh, I know – disgusting.

As an example, just spend a few minutes in a public restroom. I don’t mean a public restroom that you’d find in the mall, or maybe in a restaurant. I mean a public restroom in a place of business. Specifically, go find a potty in a place where there’s only one company. That’s the best example; if you find one in a place where there is a public restroom shared across multiple companies, then you get mall-like behavior. To really see what I mean, you want the bathroom in a corporate headquarters of a company, or in a building where only one company resides. That’s when you’ll get it.

I do my best not to use them. I have my reasons, but unless the need is really dire, I’ll put it off until I get home, or at least until I get to “off-peak” hours.

If you’re a woman, it’s obviously going to be harder for you to do this, but maybe if you’re feeling adventurous one day, you can sneak in when no one’s there and hide in one of the stalls. I don’t know. Or, just take my word for it.

I don’t know what the thinking is behind it, but men in a public restroom in their place of work are absolutely nasty. I mean, nasty.

Here are a couple of examples to illustrate. I used to work for company that had the entire second floor of a three-story building. The company that owned the building had strict regulations in the lease regarding where we could and could not go within that building. We were allowed in the cafeteria/dining area, and on the second floor, period, and nowhere else, without prior approval from the leasing company, etc. Fine; not a problem.

So anyway, on this floor there were four restrooms: two for men, two for women.

In the men’s room, there was one urinal and two stalls.

Go into the restroom on any day after about 10 a.m., and atop the urinal, where only a man standing 9 feet tall would be able to reach normally, there would be urine puddles. All under the urinal would be puddles. On the wall behind the urinal, and beside it, were urine marks. Any day of the week, guaranteed. Someone there either had really bad aim, or was deliberately whizzing all over the place.

What kind of person would do that?

Pretty gross, huh? Well, it gets better. One day, I went into that same restroom, and the stench of feces was absolutely overwhelming. I couldn’t stand it. I covered my nose (and mouth to keep from gagging), and looked into one of the stalls. The toilet was clogged with dirty toilet paper, urine and the biggest pile of defecation I’d ever seen from a human. It was as if the individual gave himself an enema in the stall.

Of course, I left to use the other washroom. Ugh.

On those occasions when nature’s call will not wait until I get home, things get even more exciting. I never know exactly what will happen in that nether realm of the bathroom. I have laughed uncontrollably, wanted to weep with anguish, and been nauseated, all by staying quiet in the semi-private domain of the restroom stall.

There are times when I swore the person with me was going to have to have new clothing, because they excreted so much, surely they’d lost sixty pounds. Other times I’d swear the person was having a heart attack and needed help (I didn’t offer to help, of course, but my GOD man, what is WRONG with you??). I was certain in other instances that the person I was hearing was struggling against an opponent, wrestling and sweating, toiling with a task too great for any one man to bear.

What is the matter with these people?? Don’t they realize that those of us outside of their immediate family don’t care to hear that sort of – yuck?? We don’t want to know that much about you, dammit!! Stop sharing it!

The sounds that emanate from the stalls in a men’s room are horrific. And none of us are exempt; I can’t tell you how many times I struggled to keep my anus from blowing fecal raspberries into a crowded men’s room and failed – to my mortification. In those times, I wait patiently for the restroom to empty before shyly creeping back out, hoping no one would recognize me. Don’t ask how I thought they would recognize me. Distinctive shoes, I guess. And who’d be looking at my shoes while I’m in the bathroom? What kind of person does that?

Well, I do for one.

Yep, I’m guilty. I’ve more than once noticed the bunched up pants crumpled at the ankles of a sitter and noted the shoes. Later in the day when I saw those same pants and shoes again, I’d steer clear and try to avoid eye contact. I figured, if I’m doing it, others are too. So I try to keep my private and dirty bodily functions to myself as best I can.

I’ve heard men exhale loudly through flapping lips as they dumped their loads into the toilet, as though this were the culmination of a great effort. I’ve heard men stand at the urinal and let out a long, low groan like they’re having some sort of orgasmic experience by urinating. I’ve heard guys pushing and grunting with tremendous strain, knowing that if I could see their faces, they’d be purple and pursed from the expenditure (and was always so glad I couldn’t). I heard one man pushing until an explosion of material splashed violently into the toilet (and I’m certain it splashed back onto his buttocks when it hit), at which time he panted and heaved as though he’d hefted a huge burden from his shoulders (which, I suppose, is one way of looking at it).

They share so much that we don’t want to know, and they don’t seem in the least embarrassed or concerned that they reveal that much of themselves. They greet each other in the bathroom too, as though they’re in any other social setting. I hate that; I’m only in the restroom for one of two reasons, possibly both, and neither of them are social contact. Leave me alone.

I’ve also heard other, more disturbing things.

I was sitting once in a restroom trying like hell to mind my own business, when someone came in the door. Great, I inwardly groaned, just what I wanted: company. I heard the man step in front of the mirror. I didn’t know what was going on, but he was there for a short time, and then came back to the adjacent stall. I heard him drop the seat, I heard his belt buckle and zipper, and I heard him collapse onto the toilet. No seat cover used. I heard him rectally vomit into the porcelain pool; I heard the sound of toilet paper being taken, and thence used. I heard the man get up from the commode, dress himself, and go out of the stall. I heard him step back in front of the mirrors (hey, idiot, aren’t you forgetting a step here?), and after another brief time there, I heard him leave.

Just like that … no hand washing, no toilet flushing, and no concern whatsoever that I was there to blindly stand witness to the aural crime he’d committed.

I can’t tell you how many men I’ve seen and heard use the urinal and not wash their hands. It’s one of the primary reasons I don’t like to shake hands with anyone I meet, and it’s one of the reasons I’m about a half step away from becoming like Howie Mandell. Even someone born in a barn would realize how sick that sort of behavior is. For the sake of us all, in the name of all that is holy, please – PLEASE! – wash your frickin’ hands, jackass!! No one’s in that big a hurry, I don’t care who you are!

What if one of these vile pigs is your waiter? Or better yet, the person that cooks your food for you? What if it’s the person who assembles your hamburger at the Golden Arches or BK? At least at Subway they wear those ridiculously large vinyl gloves. I’m glad for that, frankly.

I suppose it could be worse … I suppose I could have to watch all these horrors and still try to get through a meal. Like some sort of spectator forced to watch the lions devour the Christians, I could have to watch the atrocities that are men in the bathroom. If they’re like this at work, what are they like at home?

Never mind … I don’t want to know.

-JDT-

Thankfully

I have a lot for which to be thankful.

I don't just mean for things like the roof over our heads, the fact that we're all safe and happy, well-fed and warm, etc. I am grateful for those things, and for my salvation in Christ Jesus, and for a myriad of other things I can't even begin to list here. But I mean I have a lot to be grateful for just this past holiday weekend.

Here's what happened to us over the weekend:

First, everything seemed to be going well. A bit of a tiff between my wife and I on Thanksgiving day, but nothing major. I don't like the way she cooks poulty and she doesn't like the way I like it, so there. I ate what I liked, left what I didn't, and we went on. Nothing big, and we had a wonderful meal. Lots of leftovers and some really great football to watch, although I wouldn't have minded some of the outcomes being different. Oh well, still a good day.

Friday was just rest and relaxation. Wonderful. I finally felt like I was rested and unstressed. Normally, it can take me a week to leave a job I don't like at work and be fully relaxed; this time, for any combination of reasons, I was able to completely unwind by Friday of a 4-day weekend, and that was reason enough to be grateful.

Saturday was fine, too -- to a point. We got up earlier than normal, and scampered about to go get family haircuts. My wife's is wonderful, and she's loving how it's turning out. My son always keeps his about a quarter of an inch long, and never waivers from that. I got mine cut. It was nice, and we left with a good portion of the day in front of us. We had a Sam's Club run to make, and after that, it was off for home with the children getting a bit tired and ready to relax at home. I was feeling the same way. So, we went happily home and as we pulled into our parking space, it happened.

The brakes on the car ground grotesquely with that metallic, crunching sound.

I've heard that sound before. Last time I heard it, the brake job that came with it cost me a ton of money and the car was out of commission for a good while during the repair process. My heart sank. My wife and I looked at each other; we'd both heard it. We knew the brakes needed to be done; we just kept hoping for more time. With my commute being so much longer now than it was in September and prior, the brakes just wouldn't be stalled any longer. At 2:45 on Saturday afternoon, panicking about the fact that my contract is going to expire at the end of December, I have to go out and find a place to fix my brakes on a Sunday during a holiday weekend and hopefully do it all in one day. If God is willing, it will only be replacing pads and maybe a rotor. The expense was frightening, but I had no choice; we need the car. It's all we have.

I started calling at 3:21 p.m. Nobody was open on Sundays. After four phone calls, I gave up. I'd have to book an appointment for Monday and miss work. No work, no pay; it was an ugly situation, but I didn't feel I had any choice. I stormed off in frustration to have a cigarette and just settle down. So much for quitting over the weekend.

My wife intruded on my internal soliloquy of anger. "Here's a place," she said. "They're less than three and a half miles away, they have a really super website, and they are open 8-2 on Sunday. See if you can get the car in tomorrow."

Hmph, I snuffled. How DARE she come up with a ray of sunshine in my gloom. I'll call, all right; and I'll rain on HER parade when it's ridiculously expensive and there's a minimum $500 charge for work on Sundays.

I did call; after speaking briefly with a nice young man, I came smiling and panting in relief out of the bathroom (or maybe that was from smoking, I don't know) with a new sense of hopefulness. I had an appointment at 8 a.m. to have the brake pads replaced and the rotors re-surfaced, and all of that was competitively priced with the national chains that AREN'T open on Sunday. Ah, thank you, Lord. Another bullet dodged.

Oh, I never mentioned to my wife that she was right ... of course. How could I? That would be ... well, that just isn't going to happen.

I opened my phone to check on the phone number I'd called; I thought I may need it if I had trouble finding the place or was running late the next morning. A black screen stared back at me.

"Hey, my phone shut off. What the ...?"

I powered the phone on, but then I heard the familiar sound of it shutting down. Confused, I activated the power again. The phone powered up, and buzzed happily at me to announce it was on -- but the screen remained black. Tapping on the back of the LCD, the screen would flicker back on briefly with each tap before going black again.

GREAT. My phone's display has died. While making desperate phone calls to find a repair shop open on Sundays to fix my car, my phone died. Just over two years old; they don't make 'em like they used to, eh?

The problem is, my wife and I fulfilled a two-year contract as of October. We were month-to-month with our carrier, and I didn't want to commit to another two-year contract. But to get a reasonable price on the phone, or to take advantage of any of the promotional offers the carrier is touting, a two-year commitment is required. So I had to bite the bullet and go get a new phone; but, while I was at it, I got one for my wife too, since buying one got us one free and with rebates, etc., both end up being free. Okay, so I'll sign up for two more years.

So now I have a car that actually stops when I step on the brakes, and a phone that I've wanted for a long while, and we have a whole lot more credit debt than we did on Friday. Still, I'm grateful, and here's why:

• The car only needed brake pads and rotor re-surfacing. It could have been much, much worse.
• The phone deal ends up being free, so after 6-8 weeks when the rebate comes back, we're back to square one with that situation. And if we have to cancel the contract, it would be about the same as the cost of the two phones anyway ... my wife says. I'll trust her judgment.
• The brakes could have failed altogether, and while we were out and about rather than as I was pulling into the parking space. The kids could've been hurt; my wife could've been hurt. Any or all of us could have been killed. No, the Lord was definitely watching over us.
• The costs aren't really as bad as I thought for either of them. And we got good, fast service on the car (I was only there for about an hour), and we had a GROWN-UP, who was COMPETENT, servicing our requests at the cellular store. THAT was a refreshing change.

Overall, it wasn't as bad as it initially seemed; it's just that things never come one little bit at a time. It seems as though when it rains, it pours, and the rapid succession of events probably made them look larger to me than they actually were.

In the end, I'm grateful. Our family is (seemingly) healthy, and happy. We love each other dearly. We like each other too. We enjoy time together. I'm working, and we're going to be okay, at least until the end of the year. We are praying and doing what we can between now and then to find something for longer-term, but for the moment, we're all right.

And this moment is the only one we have, isn't it?

-JDT-