Some Updates

I hate Monster.com. The sick truth that several recruiters placed me at jobs based on a resume I have posted there does little to improve my overall opinion of that non-stop suck-fest. There are few websites more choked by advertising. Every modification requires a click through a dedicated advertising page offering some kind of online college degree or a mortgage solution. Long ago I flagged everything arriving in my Inbox from Letter@Monster.com as spam. If a recruiter doesn't care enough to send a real email rather than click the "Contact This Desperate Job-Seeker" button, I don't want to hear from them. Most of those are unrequested interview times for automotive sales positions just flung towards me based on my zipcode.

So.

Anybody want to buy a Ford?

Yeah, me either.

Wow. I preemptively suck at car sales. I'll go ahead and cross that off my "What I Want To Be When I Grow Up" list.

I'm still dutifully inputting Coke Reward Points. As of yesterday, I was close to 5,500 of those little guys. They added a few things to the site, like a rocker-style gaming chair with dedicated speakers and an iPod pocket (Three Thousand Something Points). They also added a sweepstakes to win a Nintendo Wii, 3 points per entry, no more than 10 entries per day. In short, I could enter the maximum number of times every day until the drawing is held and come up with nothing except fewer amassed total points. I'll need those in case Coke Reward Points are the currency in the New World Order and not (as I have long suspected) Taco Bell sauce packets.

I could buy a Wii. I can find one online conveniently bundled with half a dozen games I can tell I'd hate for three times the MSRP.

No.

The system is $250. I'll buy one for $250 or not at all.

A friend sent me a tip on a real-life hack of a retailer's Wii shipment schedule and the location and times when the units are allocated. There is a pre-dawn drive, some loading dock action, and the smug self-confidence of paying exactly retail for something -- All things I'm completely into.

I've just been working every time the secret time has rolled around and have been unable to exploit it. 

This constant work thing has me feeling (as one would expect) "Stabby". In fact, I crafted a sign using photocopy paper and dry erase marker which features the words "Today I Feel" in bold text across the paper and "Stabby" on a Post-It note, as though it changes. I've added obvious staples to hold "Stabby" in place, though. The sign hangs over my desk with a little image of a grinning skull and off-set eyes which seem to follow people as they move around. Brightens up the place a bit. Some people use live plants or little Zen gardens. Some people are wimps.

Anyway, people need time off. Not just time away from the office, but time when they do not expect to have Home Time shattered by a call at any second with dire consequences if they are not able to get connected to the work network within 3 minutes to begin fixing something at any hour of the day or night.

Constant.

I can't use the charger for my phone in it's usual location because I might not hear it vibrate. I can't turn on the ringer because it might wake my family with an awesome MIDI ringtone of "Material Girl".

I have to use the USB charger at work and at home and keep my phone in my lap while I charge it in the car because I've missed the vibrating phone in the passenger's seat and have had to wade through voicemail. I hate wading through voicemail.

This shouldn't come off as a complete bummer post on a Friday. It isn't.

The truth is, I'm not at all bad at managing crappy work environments -- at least on an emotional level.

Mounting pressures are met with creative profanity and a minimum of twitching now, through long years of practice. I worry for the sanity of anyone willingly considering a career in IT, but I also welcome the company.

Sometimes the requested status update must be delivered honestly as "We're completely screwed", but as long as I can leave that feeling (and some expired yogurt) at work I know I'll be just fine.