Dead at 58
It seems we are not going to be outsourced. Too expensive. For now. The general feeling is we've been given a very clear "heads up" and it is time to get the resumes together and to at least contact those companies we'd like to work for whether we were under the gun for our jobs or not. Jobs we'd take no matter when they were offered. That and a quick spreadsheet budget to see how long I can last on unemployment, my termination pay and what I have in the bank. My guess is, unless the economy does something unexpected, I can count on a job for another one to four months.
A drag, let me tell you. For someone who sits here bitching about buying a car (this year? next year?), who bitches about moving, packing, unpacking, driving north, driving south, driving in circles; the concept of finding another job is down there with World War III and eating Cauliflower. Except.... Except, after this anguished chest thumping, I do have the thought: a chance to start over, meet new people, shoot new pictures, meet Ms. Write, er, Right. Who knows? Pen the perfect sentence. Construct a promising paragraph. Tomorrow, when the sun shines again (and the birdies go "tweet! tweet! tweet!").
The bed spread was damp this morning, by the way, so the Wusser is still leaking, although he's only been on the pills now for a day. I bought the pill chopper this morning and assembled twenty or so gelatin capsules. They seem to go down without too much trouble and he takes it pretty well. One step at a time. Feed quarters into the washing machine, mix in the Nature's Miracle, buy more of those rubber lined blanket - rug things, zone out, write prose, shoot pictures. What can I say? I've got a leaky cat. I'm out the deposit on the last apartment. Maybe they'll go after me for more. Life goes on. If I'm lucky. If we're lucky.
All Things Must Pass, they say. Goodbye, friend of my youth, one month older than I. George Harrison, dead at 58.
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