Random kvetch with gratuitous toe

First, the gratuitous camel toe, courtesy of Alicia Keys.

Meh. Could be worse.

So maybe you’re wondering what the hell is going on with me. I surely am. I haven’t written anything worthwhile in a couple of months, and I have little or no interest in blogging, commenting on blogs, or even answering emails.

It’s this job search. Once things are settled, I’ll have lots to write about, but for the time being I have to keep my mouth shut. I have this paranoid delusion that potential employers might be reading my blog. If I tip my hand, I’ll lose any possible advantage I might have in negotiations. I can’t even kvetch about the folks who have pissed me off, since even that tips my hand to some degree.

But it’s ugly, ugly, ugly. If I were willing to move anywhere in the country, we’d be in the catbird‘s seat, but we’re not so we aren’t. I have requirements. My potential employers have requirements. We’re hoping the Venn intersection won’t be a null set.

It’s looking like we’re going to Santa Rosa, but that isn’t a done deal yet. Details, details. And if we do go, we’ll have to sell this house. Fast. Which means we’ll likely need to sell it at 10 to 20 percent below its true market value.

Which hurts.

Oh, hell, it all hurts. Leaving our familiar environment, leaving my patients, taking the inevitable financial hit (which, hopefully, will be only temporary), stepping out onto the precipice . . .

Yeah. Like that.

D.

Will someone please tell me

why, with my Great Brain, I can’t figure out a less stressful way to make a living?

Perhaps I’m identifying with the wrong Fitzgerald. Perhaps I have less in common with T.D., he of the titular brain, and more in common with J.D., he of the little brain. The data are compelling. J.D. likes to write; I like to write. J.D. has a little brain and doesn’t have T.D.’s capacity for moneymaking; I have a little brain, too, as witnessed by the fact I clean wax and snot for a living*.

I have a bipolar self-esteem. Sometimes I’m a shoe-scraping, sometimes I’m a national treasure who deserves to be paid for his existence. The truth is, I suspect, somewhere in between. Like: I’m a shoe-scraping who deserves a fair wage for cleaning yuck out of people’s ears.

Maybe I need to live a simpler life. On Colbert last night, he had on some fella who has written a book about the happiest places on Earth. Turns out you only need $15,000 per annum to enjoy life. More money does not necessarily equate with more happiness. But it’s not like we’re filthy overindulgent consumers at Chez Walnut. The mortgage is our only fiscal hemorrhage. True, the ferret food is astronomically priced, but $10 a box isn’t that bad in the great scheme of things. Is it?

*WELCOME CROOKS AND LIARS READERS*

Bet you’re wondering why Mike sent you here. Well, you’ll get no enlightenment from me!

D.

*Observant readers will wonder what’s so stressful about cleaning yuck out of people’s ears and noses. Well, you’re right. 98% of my work is dull. It’s the 2% — those times when I’m on the spot for one potential disaster or another — that gets me down.