Author: Michael

Five+ months at Microsoft. I haven’t worked this hard since I came within a day of billing 300 hours one month at MoFo. I learned that month that more hours just led to more pain in my wrists.

There’s no end in sight here. My wrists hold up better, because I’m forcing myself to use voice recognition software. But there’s no end in sight to the hours. Every evening. Half of my weekends. A product team that does nothing but complain about the two years’ worth of work I have been unable to complete these past five months. A manager who means well, but is so overworked, he can’t provide me sufficient air cover or help me control my workload. In fact, he just seems to want to add more on top.

The other half of my weekends I lose to a complete lack of energy after the previous six days of working without rest. I don’t call old friends back on those days, because I know I’ll just whine. Hell, I’m so drained I still haven’t bought a birthday present for my nephew or my sister-in-law. Only a few days left.

I’m beginning to think this was a mistake.

No. It’s not. It wasn’t.

I’ll feel better Tuesday, I’m sure. I’m just in the umpteenth draft of my marketing plan, which my boss wants me to expand to unexecutable levels so he can argue for more headcount and build his empire. But at this point, the time I waste on planning programs I can’t possibly execute just means time away from programs the product team is expecting me to execute. Meaning more disprespectful remarks from one fellow on the product team.

I’ll feel better on Tuesday, I’m sure. The thrill of searching for a new home has passed. Now, I just have the reality of the financial committment, the inevitable second-guessing of my choices, knowing I’ll have to pack and unpack again when I really just need to work.

I’ll feel better on Tuesday, I’m sure. I have a regular Monday meeting with the product team. These meetings weren’t going so well in November and December (we haven’t met since before Christmas), and I’ve come to view them with a sense of dread, knowing I’ll have more disprespectful remarks from one fellow on the product team. That meeting drags me down every Sunday.

I’ll feel better Tuesday, I’m sure. It’s just that I had a budding relationship nipped in the bud today. The chemistry thing again. My penchant to appear stand-offish and cold as I slowly begin to trust someone. I can’t change myself, I’ve tried, but it’s so hard to find someone who has the patience to wait for my walls to break down. This is really what’s bugging me, I guess.

I’ll feel better Tuesday. I’ll feel better after Duncan and I start executing our evil plan involving the 500 smiley-face superballs I recently purchased. I’ll feel better after the inevitable agony of another meeting with the product team has passed. I’ll feel better after seeing the condo I want to purchase on Wednesday. I’ll feel better after I clean up the mess my apartment has become. 

I always feel better after a couple of days. Just a couple of bad days. It’ll pass.

Some Postal Service somewhere lost a package I sent to Denmark in early December with a handful of dad’s old comics. I didn’t insure it, because eBay buyers don’t seem to like paying for insurance. Which makes perfect sense for them, because eBay’s terms require that I self-insure if shipping insurance is not purchased.

I thought I had an out clause because I listed insurance as optional: if a buyer declined, then they would, in effect, be insuring it themselves. But somehow, the insurance option didn’t make it on to the invoice I sent the buyer. Not sure how, all I know is that eBay’s interface lives up to the bug-free reputation Microsoft has been unable to shake for years.

USPS wasn’t helpful either. Despite having a tracking number, they were unable to track a package.

Of course, it’s not like I lost the money. It’s like I threw those comics in the garbage. Still annoying.

Last Sunday, before Heather left for the last time, we went to a few open houses near my apartment. They were all either very very small, very very dark, or very very expensive. Dark and expensive don’t work for me so if I want to buy an apartment, it will have to be small.

I have a lot of junk that I saved up over the past 15 years, including a library that has long since overflown the available shelves. To fit into a small apartment, I will need to shed some of my possessions, and since I will not part with a single book, it’ll have to be all the other junk.

I spent a few hours today throwing out credit card statements, receipts and other once important documents that I have saved since 1992. Most are neatly filed away in white plastic binders, the way that I learned to file at MoFo. But the oldest were stored in hanging files. I dumped 25 pounds of paper in the recycling.

Also stuffed away in those hanging files are letters I received from friends and family from 1990 until about 1998, when e-mail finally killed the personal letter. The earliest are all handwritten, often on colorful stationery. By the mid-90s, many  were printed on a computer.

My efforts at throwing things away quickly ebbed as I read some of these old letters. There’s just something about the feel of the old paper, the scribbles and scratches and emotion conveyed by a handwritten note. Reading a letter from Alia–my college girlfriend–about our decision not to stay together brought back all the pain and agony like it was only yesterday. Reading a letter from Eric discussing the end of his two-plus year crush on T**** reminded me of the joy of having a friend for over 20 years, and brought back all the feelings of sadness and betrayal at it ending. Reading letters from women too beautiful to ever be interested in me confessing–when I had, of course, safely moved away–of how much they had longed to date me brought back that empty stomach and pointless cursing from when I first read those words.

So many old friends, so many lost opportunities.

I just don’t think an e-mail could bring back those kind of feelings. The written word is powerful, but to see it written by hand on a piece of paper somehow brings the words to life.

I can’t remember the last time I received a letter in the mail. It was something so special, to check the post box knowing there was a chance of finding a little love from a friend or family member sandwiched between the junk mail.

So in tribute, here are a few quotes.

Uncle Jim took your grandfather to an adult day care center last week to see how he’d like it. He hated it. Jim said he kept asking about grandmom. Jim thinks he wanted to complain to somebody about the way he was being treated. Jim plans to take him there again this week. It will be a good test of his memory. If he begins to protest as he sees the building, that will be a good sign.
22 July 1993, from Joe

I’m still stationed in the Golan Heights as a boring public relations secretary… in the evening when I walk or jog, the hyenas yelling is so clear that it seems they’re only a few meters behind me. Usually I’m not scared, but I’ll admit to breaking into a (slightly panicky) jog or run back to the base once or twice… I’m sure you’ve heard of the "almost war" we had with Lebanon. The Katyusha missiles didn’t fall in my area, but the sound of their coming in contact with the ground could be heard very close by. I also broke into a (slightly panicky) jog or run when I heard the missiles falling during a few mornings.
12 August 1993, from Jasmine

Rule #7 from Parenting a College Freshman: "Do not tell your student these are the best years of their lives." So far we still hear all that positive enthusiasm and excitement in your voice. I envy the philosophy courses, your a cappella group, the architectural surroundings, the thrill of all the new experiences, the rush of new freedoms. So no midterm exams (yet), no all nighters (yet), you and your roommate keep a socially appropriate distance… let’s face it: rule number seven is for November after procrastination has built up and there’s been seven straight days of gray, biting weather and you’ve missed the bus three mornings in a row. Then you’ll know that these are not the best years of your life, because life has got to get better!
16 October 1992, from Mom

I made a wondrous discovery today. The Spanish know about peas in pods. "Big deal," you say. You see, the Germans didn’t know. They thought that peas only came out of boxes or cans. Today I went to the Farmer’s Market, filled with fat 50-year-old women selling their eggs, lettuce, carrots, cheese, an occasional live chicken, and peas to other fat 50-year-old women. Since they’re all Spanish, it was picturesque rather than a little revolting.
6 June 1991, from Chanel

I spent the weekend in Martha’s Vineyard at Ethan’s smelly hovel which he shares with two other sweaty beer drinkers. As you might well imagine, I spent Friday night puking my very soul onto the dirt road about 50 yards past Ethan’s place. Foaming torrents. So Saturday was not exactly easy, but lying in the sun on the beach certainly wasn’t too trying. The only problem is that I am now the color of a lobster. Today at work, my sunburn started itching so bad that I had to sprint to CVS and buy this foaming shit which doesn’t do anything and I was clawing at myself like a plague-stricken infidel for the next hour. It’s better now. A little slice of Duane’s life for your chewing satisfaction.
24 July 1995, from Eric