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Jobs. And I don't mean Steve. - Blather. Rants. Repeat.
A Møøse once bit my sister ...
captainsblog
captainsblog
Jobs. And I don't mean Steve.
*Mine.

Somewhere before 2 today, my marathon of the week for clients essentially ended, with the last bank statement received, the last BS opposition processed.  Other than the 4th at the end of last week, yesterday was only the second workday all month that I didn't have court (and I'd been scheduled to), and I got through all of it with relative Keeping Calm and Lawyering On.

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* LeBron's.

The Interwebs have been all a-titter (and a-Twitter) all week about whether the NBA's best player would re-up with his fashionable finalists in South Beach, or return to his Rust Belt roots. Early this afternoon, he decided to go home, and did so far more thoughtfully and humbly than his Decision had been four years ago.

Now I can go back to mostly not caring about the sport. Cleveland just had too much Buffalo-like bad karma not to pay attention to the soap opera. I hope he brings them a title; hell, if the Republicans steal his arena in the summer of 2016, there's a remote chance he'll be displaced to our downtown to win it.

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* Somebody's.

For the past three days, I knew somebody in one of my offices was going to be fired today. I had major agitas about just the knowing, never mind the doing: I've never had the Master Of The Universe personality to dispatch fellow co-workers, no matter the merits of the decision. I've participated in a few sacking choices over the years, but only once did I ever get tasked with delivering the bad news myself, and it was one of the worst days of my life.

I spent the ensuing 72 hours largely avoiding the person in question, lest I say or not say anything that would tip the process. Happily, the colleague who delivered the news did it well, and got a largely accepting response from the person in question- who will still be a Friend of the Show, as it were, welcome at office parties and such on account of knowing, as well as the other side did, that it was not a good fit.

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* Emily's.

Late in the day, I meant to call Eleanor with a grocery request, but accidentally called Em instead. (Their mobiles are two digits off.)  She then called me back at the end of the day to return the "call," but it was good to check in with how her new job is going:

Well, apparently. So much so that, in discussing tax-withholding and pay-rate official forms, which she'll have to do again when her formal training period ends in 30 days, her boss told her, don't worry, we'll raise your pay before the end of that; you're catching on so well.

She was also able to get off two whole days next week, before and after the Artpark performance by Sara Bareilles on the 16th; her boss found it funny, and a little endearing, that Em would need the day after to recover from being up that late the night before.

Finally, for this job, and possibly future ones, she got a nice affirmation in our mail today: RIT sent her degree. Her name properly spelled, her achievement properly recognized. (They didn't round her up  the couple hundredths of a GPA point for honors on the degree itself as we thought they might, but she did also just get notification of making the Dean's List for her final semester. She seemed blindsided by that accomplishment, even though she knew she'd mostly aced the final term's courses, so her final memories of the place will be good ones:)

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* Lastly, mine- of the homegrown variety.

Once the day ended at 2-ish, and the court streak ended at 7 out of 9 straight workdays, I chilled... for about an hour. Then I heard the Call of the Bush.

Eleanor began digging out a major nasty from the front gardens the other day: a juniper bush that wasn't thriving and was in a space more suited to something else she had in mind. Last night, and again by phone this morning, she asked for my help in uprooting the sucka.

She was scheduled to finish work at 4. Sometime round 4:15, she called home, and I answered, "Call me Ishmael." For I had just ended combat with the great not-so-white whale of the front bed:



That's the beastie, just upended after cutting off the last of the red-hot roots underneath it. I had filthy and slightly bloodied fingers by the time it was done, and got a bow saw blade stuck in one of the thicker ones (amazingly losing only the wingnut at the end of the blade rather than wrecking the blade itself), but it's DONE.

Which, after all, is the point of most jobs:)
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Comments
i_beckygardens From: i_beckygardens Date: July 12th, 2014 12:53 pm (UTC) (Link)
That bush looks like a cool alien from the henson workshop
plantmom From: plantmom Date: July 12th, 2014 08:45 pm (UTC) (Link)
That's a wonderful simile, Becky! :-)
captainsblog From: captainsblog Date: July 13th, 2014 11:20 pm (UTC) (Link)
I kinda see Scred from the Muppets in the first season of NBC Saturday Night:

symian From: symian Date: July 12th, 2014 03:34 pm (UTC) (Link)
Sheesh! That's a big-un!
plantmom From: plantmom Date: July 12th, 2014 08:49 pm (UTC) (Link)
Yes, it was. The first owner of our house hated trees, and had them all cut down except two which are so far away from our house, it's hard to remember they're ours. Since we moved in, twenty-some-odd years ago, we have planted and planted, and now I'm yearning for a little more space between things. This puppy was five-feet-cubed, easily.
symian From: symian Date: July 12th, 2014 11:04 pm (UTC) (Link)
Oh, he/she probably didn't hate trees. He/she more than likely hated roots and leaves. *chuckle*

plantmom From: plantmom Date: July 13th, 2014 01:19 am (UTC) (Link)
Oh honey, trust me, he hated trees. He was a golfer, and probably detested anything which got in the way of him chipping shots. Anything above ground? Dead meat.
symian From: symian Date: July 13th, 2014 01:52 am (UTC) (Link)
People who hate trees are... abnormal. They should not be allowed outside of a concrete and steel complex, not ever. *winks*
bill_sheehan From: bill_sheehan Date: July 13th, 2014 12:19 am (UTC) (Link)
Regarding the bush: few things cannot be resolved with a modest application of C4.

I have infinite respect for your lovely wife and you yourself. I did some gardening last weekend, removing some things that were running to seed around our front walk and replacing them with boxwood, butterball, day lilies, a couple varieties of lavender, and a few other odds and sods including something called Irish Moss which I always thought was a kind of seaweed. Then I schlepped over a hundred pounds of crushed oyster shells, which The Colony insists on in lieu of mulch.

It like to killed me. I don't want to do that no more. It's too much like work.

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