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Is It Me?

Ferdinand came home last night after being away for four days. He survived the foot of snow that fell this week. He’s a smart cat with many places to stay in the neighborhood. I now know of five households he visits. He stayed four hours before leaving. It’s really a strange feeling when your ex leaves a cat behind who ends up finding a new place to live. The ex no longer wanted to be with me and now his cat feels the same way. How sad is that? I can’t even maintain a relationship with a cat.

Driving The Bus

I’ve been working ten to twelve hours a day for the last week. A team member was not doing his job and lied about his progress on a key initiative that launches this weekend. Another software engineer was assigned to the project last Friday. He blew the whistle on the non-performer which caused epic chaos.

The non-performer, a man in his late fifties, has always been a stellar employee. Something has gone terribly wrong in the last few months. His behavior shows signs of either substance abuse (most likely meth) or severe psychological problems.

My friend, Double A, is the HR director at his firm so I consulted him for advice. The company has to follow HR guidelines and employment laws. The department’s management, based in the UK and Texas, has yet to address the issue. They have not taken the man off the project, but instead, assigned many additional resources to the project. The additional resources were helpful but caused another level of confusion.

The non-performer doesn’t think he has a problem. When confronted with proof of not doing his job he becomes angry and comes up with excuses that don’t make sense. He comes in late and leaves early. He often disappears for long periods of time. Two employees are afraid of the non-performer so they are refusing to come into the office and are working at home. I’m thankful I work from home and have been attending meeting via teleconference. I don’t want to be involved in a postal situation.

The team has almost recovered from the crisis. The launch will proceed this weekend. The non-performer is involved in five projects in my queue for the next production cycle. I’m not looking forward to working with the man. I may have to be the tail wagging to dog in order to make sure I’m not involved in another raging cluster fuck. I may not throw him under the bus but I have no problem driving the bus he walks in front of.

Headed To Hell

There’s nothing like starting the work week with a cluster fuck of epic proportions caused by a team member not doing their job. I feel like I’m on a rocket ship headed straight to hell.

Scenes From A Museum

I snapped these picture in the Hamilton Building (designed by Daniel Libeskind) at the DAM on Friday night. Click here for pictures of the exterior. It’s one of Denver’s architectural gems.

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P, P & I

Perry, her friend, Patty, and I hit the museum last night for the final Friday of the month program. We played around with button making and make silk screen family crests. We stopped by one gallery opening on the way home. It was a low key night. Here’s my favorite painting of the night. It’s by Zoa Ace. I thought it had an interesting color palette.
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Redine asked artists to re-imagine the monument for its Monumental exhibit. I posted a picture of Tracy Tomko’s work but here’s another look:
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Here’s the description of the work:
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Don’t you love her sense of humor? I think Tracy turned what she thought was a monumental failure into a monumental success. Perry agreed with me as did all of the people I talked with about this piece.

A Thoughtful Gift

My father called on Saturday to tell me he mailed a Southern Living cookbook to me he found while cleaning out one on my late mother’s stashes. I was touched my father thought I would like to have one of my mother’s cookbooks. I’m sure it will smell like cigarette smoke when it arrives and, without a doubt, spend a few weeks in the garage airing out.

My father filled up the recycling bin with copies of Better Homes & Gardens magazines my mother was saving. He still has a few more years of the magazine to recycle which will take several weeks.

My mother bought Better Homes & Gardens every month at grocery store. I don’t know why she didn’t subscribe to the magazine. It was just another one of my mother’s quirks. She read it cover to cover. Perhaps it was her way of escaping her suburban life as wife of a man she hated and mother of three kids who drove her to Valium at an early age. I can still picture my mother sitting in the living room smoking an Old Gold cigarette while reading the latest issue of Better Homes & Gardens. She would be off in a dream world as the ash on her cigarette grew longer and longer while a cup of weak coffee sitting on the end table turned cold. It was a sure sign TV dinners would be served that evening.

I remember looking at those magazines and wondering why our house didn’t look like the pictures in the magazines. None of the decorating tips or garden ideas were ever implemented in our house or garden. My father left all decorating decisions up to my mother because that was a woman’s job. Just like answering the telephone was the wife’s responsibility. Deciding on a paint color or a fabric tortured my mother. It took ages for my mother to make decision. The house I grew up in had mismatched furniture in most rooms. The only room that looked halfway decent was the dining room only because my mother bought the whole room display at the furniture store. Pictures were hung in odd groupings too high on the wall (Perry insists on sixty inches from the floor to the center of the artwork). A woman who devoured Better Homes & Gardens couldn’t decorate a room to save her life.

I had the important things like a house to live in, utilities, a bed, and food on the table. It just wasn’t like the pictures in a magazine.

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