It's gonna be one of those lives.

So, my car is dead. That's basically... carry the one... zero surprise to anyone who's ever seen my car.

I wound up with this gorgeous piece of machinery through a series of missteps that began with my layoff in 2001, while my wife was 7 months pregnant with our first child. That was a fun experience that left me with a bunch of credit card debt related to medical exams and procedures that were rather necessary and subsequent baby food and such that were rather unavoidable.

My wife and I had never actually had any debt before, so we got pretty upset about carrying any. We entered a cycle of paying all our bills each month, then spending every penny on our debt. Turns out that's a losing strategy. A good friend of ours is a debt counsellor, and helped educate us a bit. (He offers this service for free, by the way -- their money comes from other services they offer if they're able to help you, which they're quite open about -- and he's fucking awesome. If you find yourself in a similar sad situation to mine, let me know, and I'll gladly give you his info.)

So we got our finances sorted out. Yay! We started the process of buying a house. Yay! We started thinking about what to replace my aging car with. Yay!

A deer does a half-gainer into my wife's car. Shit.

Totals her car. We didn't want to replace her car while our home loan stuff was in process. I gave her my car, and carpooled with a friend. We purchased our home. We purchased a new car for her. Wife and kids have a car that's safe. Yay!

My car dies. Shit.

My dad, who is fucking awesome, gives me a beater that he was going to donate to charity. Yay!

I drive this until it dies. My finances are still not such that I can really afford another car payment, even a modest one.

My dad, who is fucking awesome, gives me another beater that had been rusting in his driveway. Yay!

I drive the wheels off this one, too. It doesn't take long. My wife drives me to work for a few months.

My father-in-law donates his old beater to us. I'm really starting to feel like a fucking loser mooch. God damn it.

The car's on its last leg, but our finances are in pretty good shape now. We've paid off my wife's car, our credit cards are in a good place, we're saving some money... life is looking up. We start doing our research to figure out what kind of car we want to replace my bucket with.

The IRS sends me a letter. I fucked up my taxes a few years ago. We redo our taxes with help from our lawyer: it's not as bad as the IRS thinks, but it's more than we can put our hands on at the moment. We set up a payment plan. I start crossing my fingers that my car will hold together... not for the duration of our payment plan (I'm under no illusions there), but every month helps.

This car has run on sheer fucking bloodymindedness for a long time now, but today it gave up the ghost.

Two steps forward, eight steps back. I realize that kicking me in the spiritual nuts is pretty funny, but I'm pretty sure Bob Saget gave you the $10,000 prize a long time ago, God. Please stop. I'm sore.

Suicide Pact #3

I have entered in a third suicide pact with Coyote. Sadly, suicide pacts are the only things that seem to motivate me past my inherent laziness and lack of confidence.

It's a deadly combination.

I must produce a second draft of one of my short stories by May 1. Unfortunately, I have only one first draft, so that's all I can work with. I've been hiding from finishing this thing for nearly a year now. Shit.

I also must produce a new first draft by June 1. That'll be slightly easier, considering it doesn't have to be any good.

Damn it all. Why do I do this to myself?

On the plus side, I get to read some new stuff by Coyote.

Let it go, dude, just... let it go.

I got screwed over a while back (a few years ago?). Screwed over? Hell, not just screwed over... after I got served the whole shit sandwich, they came over, showed off how they screwed me over, and I had to make nice noises about how awesome they were for treating me like shit. Fun.

So I started off the morning retelling the story to a friend of mine. I can't remember how the subject came up, but there I went. It started off as just "let me illustrate your point about this person." By the end of it, I felt like shit and was shaking. I really underestimated how upset I still am by the whole thing. Fuck.

There's absolutely nothing I can do about it, for several reasons. Best I can do is learn from it and move on, and I've done my best to do that... but I guess I haven't moved on all that well, judging by my reaction when I made myself relive the whole thing this morning.

I can't remember where I encountered it, but I once heard or read something along the lines of this:

There's two kinds of things I don't worry about: things I can do something about, and things I can't.

This definitely falls into the second category. So just let it go, Taco. Srsly.

Stuff, Things, and Shit (Sorry, no Junk)

1. I got hung out to dry. I've gotten screwed at work before, but never this overtly. Angry Taco is Angry.
2. Piece of shit I used to be good friends with hurt awesome person I really fucking love's feelings. Angry Taco is Seeing Red.
   
3. I had to work late today because of the fuck up that I wasn't responsible for, and that the one responsible won't acknowledge. Angry Taco is Pissed.
4. This jackass in California decided to dick me over and make all kinds of noise about how important it was for him to get my fix as soon as humanly possible without actually answering my question about whether he had to have it tonight (accepting the fact that I'd be harder to reach outside business hours) or if he could wait until tomorrow. I didn't let him have it, but once I asked him point blank and couldn't get a straight fucking answer, I went home and let him stew for the hour and a half it takes for me to drive home, have dinner, etc. He's much more cooperative now. But he's still a fucknut. Angry Taco is Ready to Snap.
5. Wifezilla takes kidzookie out to the mall for Mommy & Son's Night Out (TM). I asked her to pick me up a technical book I really need, since there's a Barnes & Noble in the mall. She comes home and hands me the bag, which contains the book I needed... plus the only Christopher Moore book I don't yet own. I look up and she smiles and says I seemed to be having a bad day, so she and my son got me a present. Angry Taco is... Less Angry.
   

I renounce my humanity.

I don't want to be associated with you fuckers any more.

I'm flipping through the channels tonight, and I see some lady missing and presumed dead, body parts found on the side of some highway, and a 3 month old infant found dead and probably tossed out of a car.

What the fuck, people?

I'm one of the most disagreeable sons of bitches you're likely to find anywhere. I don't like people at all. And I still can't imagine doing any of this shit.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

I don't want you fuckers messing up my rep anymore. I quit.

Mental Masturbation

That's my favorite thing to call it.

I write software. No big surprise there. Both of you that actually read this know that.

I really just want to be left alone to write good software. Again, no big surprise.

Management isn't so into that, because management isn't really into good software. They're more into preening for the guys above them in the pecking order.

Anyone surprised yet? I didn't think so.

So we have this system set up where people testing and using our software can report bugs in it. It goes through this whole process and eventually get assigned to the programmer best suited to fixing the problem. In theory, anyway.

Frequently, as we're working, we'll find bugs in our own code... and if we're busy with something else and don't have time to work on it right then (which is, of course, usually the case), we'll log a bug against it just to make sure it doesn't get lost. Sue us. We actually like developing software and give a flying fuck. Call us young and idealistic. I'm pretty sure the correct term is "dumbass." So I'll take it as flattery.

Corporate mandate says that the person who files the bug has to fix it... but what do you do when you file a bug that you have to fix? We have a whole QA group for this shit, right?

Wrong. The filer verifies it.

To hell with the fact that the person who fixes the bug is inherently unqualified to verify that the functionality is correct. I mean, I wrote the fix, so obviously, I'm going to bitchslap the fix and say it's insufficient, right? And forget the fact that I'm not really capable of getting outside my own head and using it in ways I didn't anticipate.

That's not important, right?

Nah.

So today I spent the whole fucking day... the whole fucking day... verifying several dozen... DOZEN... bugs I had filed against myself and fixed.

And I actually went through them and tested them, because despite the fact that it's stupid, I give a greasy rat's ass. And I even reopened two of them because of that whole rat's ass thing.

But come on... I'm an aberration. Is it really smart to count on all your devs being as fucking stupid as me?

Dear managementards: Laziness rules. I hate to inform you.

God.

Toldja I was a prophet.

And like any good prophet, nobody fucking listens to what I predict.

The natives were restless a week ago, and raised all manner of hell at work. Management got cornered and had to listen to a laundry list of gripes and complaints. And things went more or less as I predicted they would when they asked me to participate and I declined:

1. Management denied the issue existed.
2. Management made sympathetic noises at them until they shut up.
3. There was a great big hullabaloo about addressing the issues.
4. Nothing changed.

I'm so fucking tired of this shit. I'm tired of the rampant favoritism here. I'm tired of being the bastard child of an office that's the bastard child of an organization.

One of my coworkers called me last week to say he's going to take it back up with management, and I gave my "You're wasting your fucking time, you're just going to end up pissed, it's mental masturbation" speech again. He hit me with "If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. You've got to either fight here or look for another job."

That second one's the row I'm gonna hoe, I think. Six years here and not a god damn thing has ever changed.

Ups and Downs (Updates and Stuff)

Faithy: the brain tumor is benign, but, as one might expect, it's got to go. We had lunch with the guys this weekend. Faith played high fives with my son through the whole meal. She is cute as a button, as ever. My heart is broken. Fuck life.

Father in Law: though it cost me quite a bit emotionally, I kept my mouth shut as per his wishes. He's of an older school, and doesn't share his tribulations. We've had some good news, though, and so he's okay with us talking now. The bad: he was diagnosed with lymphoma. The good: it's relatively early-stage, and his doctors are universally confident that it is treatable and non life threatening.

Work: my temper has grown shorter than usual with incompetence from other teams (and my own team in one notable case). Serious doubts about how much more I can take. Blue says I just need a vacation. Time to move on? I love Raleigh, but I seem to be employed by the best gig in town. Somebody come sweep me off my feet.

Brother: the wedding date draws ever nearer. We had a wedding shower for him and his fiancee this weekend. I had a blast. My soon-to-be sister in law rocks. Hell yeah.

Writing: I had a new idea for a short story, and I think it's awesome, but my self-esteem is at a nearly all-time low, so I'm too chicken shit to start in on it.

Children: we went by my folks' place last night, and my parents spent the evening making ice cream sundaes with my children. Watching grandparents and children laughing so openly and honestly together was one of the most wonderful things I've ever witnessed, so I went total dad-geek and took pictures. If you give a shit, yell, and I'll give you the URL.

I can't take much more of the ups and downs. Somebody stop the ride. I want to get off.

Shit neck deep and rising

Allow me to recap the raging shit-hurricane that has been hovering for the past few weeks, refusing to make landfall and spend itself:

• Faithy, the teensy and adorable daughter of some long time friends of ours, already suffering from cerebral palsy, is diagnosed with a brain tumor. I already bitched about that. Fuck life. I'm stabbing life right in the fucking face next time it gets near me.
• Ray, a guy who was very involved in my high school band program, died. He was one of my mom's best friends back when we lived in that town. I loved him to pieces. He didn't just keep his mouth shut on that one school trip where we broke out after curfew and went to Hard Rock Cafe; he went with us. Bonus points: I think he died from the same form of cancer my dad has.
• Wifezilla gets a call from Faithy's mom. Tommy, a long-time friend of wifezilla's, had been home alone with the kids for a few days while her husband was out of town on business. When grandma couldn't get her on the phone for a few days, she got scared and called the sheriff's office. They broke the door open to find her on her bed, having passed away in her sleep. Nobody knows why. She was younger than me.
  
• I get a call from Luke, who's been a friend for so long I can no longer think of him as anything other than family. He's supposed to be getting married at the beginning of September, but now it's being postponed. His fiancee has a tumor, which has to be removed. Fortunately, the tumor is benign and the procedure is very low risk. But she's not allowed to do anything stressful for six weeks after the surgery, so the wedding has to be postponed.
• I get a call from Mona, who I've known since I was 13. It's weird to think that someone you occasionally go years without speaking to could be such a close friend, but Mona knows me better than almost anyone. It's one of those relationships without any hangups, where you go ages without contact, and then pick up without missing a beat, and without worrying when the next time you'll meet is going to be. Her dad has been fighting cancer for a while. It suddenly exploded throughout his body, and he lost the fight, as we all seem to eventually do. He passed away on Saturday. I think she was tired of talking about her dad. We talked for ours and covered just about everything but that.
  
• I get a call from wifezilla. Her dad, who's in town for the week, noticed a lump on his neck yesterday, and scheduled an appointment with our general practitioner. He didn't like the looks of it, and sent him for an ultrasound. They found that the lump is six centimeters in diameter, and scheduled a CAT scan and a biopsy. Wifezilla is freaking the fuck out. Grampa is playing it lower key around her, but is worrying just as much. He's already shuffling money around so wifezilla can get it "in case of the worst."

That's the last couple weeks. Not months. Weeks.

Those of you who know me, save yourselves. I'm clearly an albatross hanging around your neck.

Dear Life: Fuck You.

I have these two friends, Candace and Carl. They're married. Some people do that. You try to talk them out of it, but they never listen.

They've kinda struggled. Neither of them has a college degree, which makes things a little tougher. They've pushed on through, though, and done pretty well.

They had a little girl, Faith, three or four years ago. Faith's cute as a button. Poor thing has cerebral palsy, though, which is a real kick in the nuts. She had to go to a special school earlier this year to learn how to eat. Poor thing usually eats through a tube.

Making ends meet is tough for them, because it costs a lot of money to take care of a kid with those needs. The government helps out a bit. Of course, if they ever have more than a few hundred dollars in the bank, the government aid craps out, so they can never really get ahead.

They take things in stride, though, and they've done really well with her. A few months ago, they built a new house that's handicap-accessible, so that Faith'd have a nice space to grow up in. Carl's gone back to school and is just about to finish up his degree, which'll mean a nice raise, hopefully.

Got a call from them tonight. Faith has a brain tumor.

Dear Life:

Fuck you.

Hate,
Taco

The Good, the Bad, and the Fugly

Coyote yelled at me the other day for failing to update my blog for a month. In truth, that's been largely because the world has rained shit hip deep in Tacoland, and I'm loath to write about such things because a) nobody wants to hear it, and b) I tend a bit toward melodrama when I write about myself, and it leaves me vaguely embarrassed later. So I've generally tried to only post things that happen to or around me which I find funny, but there's been a bit of a dearth of funny lately.

But since Coyote's been after me, I figured I'd give the whole thing a go.

The Good: Kidzookie's first day of real school was today. It's kindergarten, but it's at a real elementary school, and they follow the same schedule as all the older kids. I took the morning off to ride down to the school with him and walk him to his class today, since the first day is the only time we're allowed to do that. Both kids wound up bawling -- my son because he didn't want to stay, and my daughter because she didn't want to leave ("No, daddy, I wanna go kinnergarden! I saw a playground and they have crayons!"). It was thoroughly awesome, if bittersweet.

The Bad: I found out this kid who worked on our team last summer got a job with our company. He was a nice enough kid, but couldn't code his way out of a wet paper bag, largely due to the fact that he absolutely refused to admit when he didn't know something. We spent the entire summer encouraging him to ask questions (or, indeed, to answer honestly when we asked questions beginning, "So, do you know anything about..."), but when he left after three months, we had very little from him that we could use. He finished up a master's degree and got hired by a different team in our company, and probably makes more than I do now.

The Fugly: I don't really feel like treading this ground publicly, so instead, here's a place you can buy some fugly underwear.