Eugene Von Bruenchenhein
I got squash for days. Days. And about a hundred green tomatoes just about to go red on the vine. Phone screen this afternoon that I really, really don’t want to screw up. I don’t have any reason to think that I will, but after bombing the last interview my confidence is a little less than rock-solid. I’ll have to be sure to do some prep beforehand. Maybe listen to this a few times. Or possibly to this. And almost certainly to this and this (hey, I like that one, it ain’t about you).
And I should probably review some cybersecurity basics and architectural design patterns. Even if he doesn’t ask, the practice will help my confidence.
Is that Miami?
Greetings, my friends, and welcome to Big Boob Friday. Normally, this weekly feature on dis here fine blawg includes some funny gifs, some odd history sometimes. Mine’s going to try and get it right, but I’m prepared if it doesn’t. So grab a mug of your favorite morning beverage and keep on scrolling, cats, so you can have a look.
That was some great sax work near the end. Released in 1961 and played on the “Chitlin’ Circuit“. Some of you hosefockers were probably conceived with this song playing in the background (on a 45 record that lasted 2:34 … yeah).
Here you go, horoscopes:
Nine days from now I will have worked here for a year. Neat. Overall, I’ve gotten sort of used to the idea, and I’ve made my peace with it. The rejection from the old office stung, a lot, but even I admit that I bombed the interview. I’m sure it will work out for the best, and there are things I wasn’t looking forward to even if I had gotten an offer. I was even considering turning it down if it came, particularly if the money wasn’t a big step up. There is still an outside chance of me going to work for my friend the wizard doing cyber-security stuff, but I have to live and work every day as though that’s never happening, otherwise I might not put in an honest day’s work or plan properly for the future that it’s entirely likely I’ll be part of.
Redhead. Possibly real, but who cares?
RWA = Romance Writers of America
Note to self: Bees aren’t working, time to change it up…