to the rescue

Now, I know we just saw the Arcade Fire… but they are coming back in mid-January for a rock-star binge 3-night stand at the Great American Music Hall. I knew about the shows when we saw them at the first show, but just assumed we’d seen them once – so why again so soon? But man, reading all the hype about their LA shows selling out in less than 20min… and hearing that two out of the three nights in January have already sold out, it makes me wanna go see them again. I told Ben that since Suzy didn’t get to go last time, we might be able to use her missing them as an excuse… y’know, we’re doing it for Suzy. Yeah, that’s it. Problem is, that’s a mere week after Sharaun will have had her knee surgery… do I leave her alone to fend for her gimpy-self? Such a dilemma.

Hey, I’m starting this paragraph now! It’s “evaluation” time again at work, I’m sure most big works have something like this each year. Y’know, it’s where you’re compared to your co-workers and ranked for possible raises and promotions and whatnot. Some people hate it, but I have a theory that those people are just sucky workers. I don’t hate it, although I do get kinda tired of writing “reviews” of myself and others. It doesn’t scare me though, like it does some, I guess because I’m confident that I’m a decent worker, and that there are a lot crappier employees than me. The sucky workers who always complain about the process must have something to fear, I figure. The guilt of knowing you suck, or something. I don’t get too worried, I just tire of the long formal process of giving feedback about others, “assessing” myself, and then waiting for what seems an eternity before hearing how the money and promos finally pan out. It’s a necessary evil though, so I always do my best to write good reviews of my co-workers (the ones that don’t suck, at least). So, bring on the review… do your worst corporate-America… I’ve been not-sucking all year in preparation. Rank me, rate me, compare and contrast me, for I am a cubicle dweller known to his company as a number… and I am to be feared.

Speaking of work, got word the other day that it’s likely they’ll be willing to bring Sharaun to Taiwan – providing I stay for a monthish amount of time. So, that set us planning and scheming ways she might wrap a weekend in vacation days or something, so that she could be there for near a week with the minimal amount of time away from the classroom. If the whole affair gets approved, she essentially gets a free ride to Taiwan, and I get a little break from the hotel-room masturbation doldrums. I really hope it works out, I think she’d get a big kick out of the city, and I’ve been there enough now to show her around pretty well. We could hit the night markets, Taipei 101, dig on some real Taiwanese food, and both party in the palatial hotel. I won’t miss home nearly as much if I can take her with me… so I’ve got my fingers crossed.

Tonight, when I asked Sharaun to pause the OC so I could do the dishes, she decided she would take that time to run up to the store and pick up a gift for her “secret santa” at work. She left, I went about my business: putting away clean dishes, putting new ones in the dishwasher, taking the house trash out to the bin and the bin to the curb, and feeding the cat. Somewhere just after taking out the trash, my cellphone rang. It was Sharaun. “Hey babe, do you see my wallet on the kitchen table?” “No… no I don’t,” I replied. She sighed heavily. See folks, this is not the first time she’s gone shopping only to get to the register and realize she forgot her wallet… in fact, it’s not even the first time this week she’s done it. I looked around the house with her on the phone, and finally located the wallet in the guest bathroom. I told her it was here, she sounded sad, and we said goodbyes.

After that, something happened… I can’t explain it… I guess it was like my “good husband” instinct kicked in. I called her back right away and asked where she was. I grabbed her wallet, threw on some flip-flops, and headed out for a wallet-delivery. Running out in my standard after-work ensemble of shorts and a t-shirt, still slightly damp from dish-washing, I got some strange looks from the people bundled up for the cold. At Target we did a little shopping, and overheard a highly-comical conversation between two white teenage Target stockboys, who were restoring order to the rifled rack of Christmas cards, about who’s lyrics were more poetic: 2 Pac or Biggie Smalls’. It was highly entertaining, their recitation of accolades for the two gunned-down gangstas drilled into their heads by MTV’s “Diary” and VH1’s “Behind the Music sounded so serious.

I’m outta here guys, goodnight.

Also written on this day...

• sleeping in walmart parking lots - 2020
• no soap, radio - 2010
• desert island iPod - 2008
• pardon the disappearance - 2007
• rememberies - 2003