My youngest son, Skippy, turned 10 yesterday. I am now ten years older than I was when he was born. I feel every minute. In case you haven't noticed, I've been miserable. I've really been trying hard not to be, there's no real good reason for me to be, but I am. Chemicals? Maybe. Health? Probably. I am fat as shit and sore as hell. (Because I am fat as shit. It's a vicious cycle.) I have been trying all the regular crap that people say to try when you're in a rut. I got a hobby, an old British sports car. I can't make it run. I started exercising. I am too busy to make it stick. Diet. Are you fucking kidding? New job. Trading old problems for new problems. Besides, thanks to the complete bunch of assholes running the country, our money ain't worth shit. As of this writing, the Canadian dollar is worth a dollar and ten cents American. What the hell are we thinking. We are now Canada's Canada, only with guns and less polite. So maybe we're Canada's Mexico. Whatever, I'm not even trying any more.
I have (yet again) made the decision to become a happy person. It is not going to be easy, there's a lot going against me, but I will do it. This time I'll go with a "fake it 'till you make it" strategy. Since I obviously have some kind of brain issue that periodically chucks my mood into an oubliette, I'll just make the best of it and pretend that it doesn't. I don't want drugs or anything (now) and I don't think I'm too late. I could be "happydad" if I try hard enough, right? I'll make the behavior a habit, I'm good at habits. I'm better at superstition, though. Maybe I can make my behavior change some kind of good luck charm, like wearing my wedding ring on an airplane. I started doing that because I wanted them to be able to identify my body, but so far it's worked out pretty well as a good luck charm. Since nobody's had to. Identify my body. We'll see if I can make the effort. I want to, but damn if it isn't like February in here. "Here" would be my brain, which has temporarily stopped talking to me, as it does periodically. Arrgh. I mean, HA! HA!
The Slow and Glorious Death of America's Worst School System - Reason.com: Per-pupil spending of $27,500 hasn't helped Camden's schools.
It won't either. Camden is the most corrupt place in the US. The only money made in Camden is via graft. Doesn't matter if it's the Port, the Aquarium, the Battleship, or anything else, if you work in Camden, someone is making money off of you. It's a disgrace. A prison. Anyone who has anything to do with that place will eventually be corrupted by it.
Burn it all down.
... Yes, I did work in low income housing in Camden for a couple of years when I was first married. I met lots of people I thought were doing good for the "community". I can name three who went to prison, and two more who should have gone to prison. My experience soured me to all politicians, no matter the party, and made me realize that people who started "non-profits" were in the money making business the same as everyone else.
I took a new job a little over a year ago. I'm not too thrilled with it, and I probably would have done better to stick to my old one. Now I've got another new opportunity bubbling up and I'm honestly not sure it's worth going for it. Is it worth jumping through all the hoops of interview after interview, adding that stress to my life if, in the end, I don't really want a new job? Or, more accurately, do I want to deal with the hassle of doing the same job for a new company and all that comes with that? More money? Maybe, probably not. Better benefits? Probably a company match on the 401k. Everything else is probably the same. How about comp plan? I dunno, I got a pretty good one, and the new company doesn't look to be doing any better on the sales side. The economy sucks again folks. Get ready. Companies are hiring, kinda, but the business of doing business is doing my business. ugh.
My third kid, The Beast, turned thirteen years old yesterday. He's thirteen, I'm forty-three. We are at exactly the same age difference as my father and I. Today, at forty-three years of age; I got a huge, massive, enormous, giant, zit on my nose. HYAOOOOOOOOOOOOGE ASS PIMPLE. Did I mention that I'm not the thirteen-year old? I never remember my father having pimples when I was thirteen. Hell, I didn't have pimples when I was thirteen. goddam.
I spent the last couple of weeks of free time cleaning and rebuilding a set of weber carburetors for my TR6. I finally get the damn things synced up and just about dialed in, and the temperature drops down to mid-freaking cold.