So.....what next?

With this amount of free time, it’s important I use it wisely. Sure, a majority of it will be used to find a job that doesn’t crush my soul (try entering that in the Career Builder search engine.) . But what I’ve learned from previous experience is it is important to strike a balance. It’s easy to beat yourself up and think you’re the loser black sheep of the family. But you need to do other pursuits so you DON’T become a raving lunatic. And I have learned the following practices are going to help me from going pastel. Because, really, I hate light orange.

(In case you're new here, or my one reader who lives in Turkey, Part One is here, and Part Two is here.)

Figure out how CatDog poops. Really, how has this not become a pressing issue? There’s no poophole! I suspect maybe it binges and purges, but I don’t really know. HOW IS THIS NOT BOTHERING ANYONE ELSE!?!

Drink less. Yes, yes, I hear you snickering. But I’m really gonna try. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the temporary feeling of euphoria alcohol can swaddle you in. I see the need to blow off some steam from time to time with a 30 of Natty Ice. But I really don’t want to be that unemployed stereotype of the guy who’s sitting in his front yard in a lawn chair pounding Beast Ice cans at 9 AM on a Tuesday. Of course, this won’t be easy. As soon as news of my unemployment rippled through the neighborhood, the rum store down the street added extra shifts and extended their hours. Well played, guys, well played.

"Hi, we're new here."

Read. Really, I have barely watched any TV at all the last three weeks. I see all these grown people with kids going on about how they’re binge watching 13 hours of a show and I’m wondering how the hell they get the time. Why, just in the last 4 weeks, I have started and finished four books! Real books! Like with no pictures or need for crayons!

Music, music, music. I don’t know how many thousands of CDs I have. The songs I’ve labeled as ‘Rock’ in my iTunes is 12.5 days long. The songs I’ve labeled ‘Mellow’ is 2.5 days. (C’mon, I’m not the only one who categorizes their music like this? I have my moods.) Explore some new stations on Sirius. I have so much great music to listen to. Music is great medicine.

Rehab my back. Bulging discs? Ha, I’m gonna get bulging lats, brah.

"I can't even brush my teeth anymore."

Spend more time in the gym. Ok, maybe because literally the day before I got “terminated”, I renewed my yearly membership. But also because, to me, the gym is therapy. No matter how bad I feel about anything, or what’s weighing on my mind, or what pain I’m in, the gym almost always seems to erase it all. I can go get lost in heavy music and heavy plates. Get the blood flowing, the sweat going, pushing myself for that one last rep or set. I almost always leave feeling better in that I at least improved myself in some small way. In these trying times, I often feel the need for “run or rum.” I mean either way, I feel better. It’s just that I never get a hangover after a heavy sesh at the gym.

Spend more time with my dog. Ahead of rum and the gym is the Theory Pup. He always makes me feel better. Dogs really are the best therapists. Suck it, human therapists. My dog is far better, and sometimes our sessions are nothing but us farting on each other.

Volunteer. For the last two years or so, I’ve been a volunteer at a local animal shelter. I walk and feed the dogs. I clean their kennels and play with them. This is truly a rewarding experience. While employed, I was lucky to get there once a month, but now I hope for at least once a week. Volunteering (whatever the cause) is truly rewarding, and a side effect is it makes you feel so much better about yourself. I suggest helping with animals. It breaks my heart when I leave some nights, and I know they are all so lonely, and sometimes scared, in their kennels, it really bothers me. I’ve dealt with dozens of dogs of all types, and never had a bad experience. Yea, you find a few you feel a connection with and just wanna take ‘em home. As sad as I may feel if I only work with a dog once, that is equaled when I go back and they are gone; happily in their forever home. It’s my job to just be a little ray of sunshine in their journey to their home. If I can just make a difference it their life for the time I have to walk and play with them, then that is pretty damn rewarding.

Write more. As with some of the above, this is great therapy. And, look, I promise to not write all these maudlin, “oh woe is me” posts. No one wants to read that shit. (Trust me. The numbers for Part One of this were more than twice that of Part Two. You unsupportive bastards.) I’m gonna write (hopefully) funny stuff. Probably some about dealing with being unemployed and finding that alleged “dream job.” But I will do my best to make it funny. I have decided to be a bit more open about my current situation, and if we can all get some humor out of it, cool. But, I swear, I will write those adult, off color stuff that we all need more of. Trust me, I know my strong material rests with penises, vaginas, farts (you caught the one with me and the dog, right? See?), self deprecation, observational humor. I may end up a bum, but I will not bum you guys out. Pinkie swear.

Sleep more. “Really, Kev?” Yes. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, without an alarm clock, I would wake up about 9, not 6. So for years, I’ve been short changing myself about 15 hours a week. I’ve documented my sleep issues in the past. So now if I go to bed at roughly the same time, and get up an hour or so later, fine.

I’m not talking about sleeping till noon here. (Weekends are a different story, though.) But just another hour so I wake up a bit more focused, a bit more in my head seems worthwhile to me.

Eat raw cookie dough. Really, there’s not much left to lose at this point.

Not get down on myself. OK, a tad harder than some of these, but it’s still as important.

Eat better. And by that, I mean more healthy stuff. These things that are called “fruits and vegetables” that aren’t artificially flavored. I’m a big fan of the NutriBullet. I’m eating ALL KINDS of hippie shit. Stuff like spinach, kiwi, ginger, chia, flaxseed, cucumbers. Add a shot of protein, and I’m good to go. Most of this stuff is dirt (pun intended) cheap, and like 20 bucks at the produce store can last you a week or so. Plus, the NutriBullet can whip ya up some tasty daiquiris. Win win!

No better time to get that facial tattoo. Time for it to heal it up as well. Heellooo Oakland Raiders logo!

Grow those dreadlocks. No better time to. My own personal record of “days without shampooing” is five. And that was while I was working. Yeah, mon!

Formalize my platform for my presidential campaign. If the best a country of 350 million people can do is give us Clinton and Trump, am I not just as viable?  I mean, really, I have nothing better to do. OK, I probably shouldn’t start my first campaign speech off quite like that. “Ladies and gentlemen of the finest country in the world, I really don’t have a lot to do right now. So screw those other two, and just hand the reigns over to me, huh? BTW, just so we’re all clear here, I’m only working Monday-Thursday. So NO shenanigans between 5PM Thursday to 10 AM (or so) Monday morning. ‘Cause that shit is just gonna sit around till Monday morning. Is this clear?”

The above is absolutely gonna get it’s own post. Totally. #VoteForKev Run with it, people.

Next blog is back to the usual clownshoes.

"You're Terminated."

"This is a great termination. Everybody knows about the termination, everybody loves the termination.:

The voice on the phone was my boss.

She was actually one of many. There were probably three more people who could claim boss privilege. But she was the one who first interviewed me, coordinated all the back office stuff and signed off on me getting my check. She was also the one to call me and tell me of this decision. So, she was my boss. My job is very physical; lots of bending, stretching, reaching, lifting, and twisting. I am OK with that, I like the challenge, even though it isn’t in the safest of environments. Still, it keeps me active.

Back in March, I was incredibly on the ball. Planning out the year; a long weekend here, then a week, then another long weekend. I plotted it all out, sent my boss the dates as early as possible. She had those dates and I never heard anything back. I was an independent contractor and wouldn’t get paid for those days anyway. Life went on.

In early May, I was hit in the eye playing hockey. A manly amount of blood,

Guys, we probably should stop playing street hockey on ice now.

and within moments I could not see. But my eye looked legit like Rocky,

"Anyone seen that sexy nurse from the last post?"

so that was cool. I went to the ER, which was luckily right down the street. As soon as I showed them my face, they rushed me back. I was in my second room before they even got all my info. Things got scary for a while. I could only see white in my eye. I was bumped up to a trauma to skip ahead the CAT scan line.

From there, a lot of scary words and scenarios. I had truly underestimated the severity of my injury.

Slowly, as the hours went on, blurry objects started peering through the white. A specialist was called in. An eye doctor who was already starting with the, “Well, why weren’t you wearing protective goggles? I bet no one else does, huh?” Yes, doc, I get it, lecture me. But I was getting to go home, though under orders to see him the following morning. Stitches was the last thing I got.

Next day, swollen and more than a bit worried, I went back for another evaluation. It could have been far, far worse. My brow took a lot of the blow, but some of the ball did impact my eye. Thankfully, my hard contact did not shatter. I was literally millimeters away from true disaster. Still, I was not out of the woods, and there were issues to deal with. Wednesday I rested. From before, I am an independent contractor, so If I don’t work, I don’t get paid. There was a lot of pressure on my WA job, as rumors swirling our contract was up January 1. Numbers, numbers, numbers.

I went back to work Thursday and Friday. The follow up eval on Monday revealed my eye had gotten worse. Per doctor’s orders, no worky for Kevy. I immediately told my bosses of my situation, offered Drs notes if they needed to see them, and kept them advised of my progress and appointments. I didn’t keep track, but I did miss a lot of May. My boss would reply to an email offering support, but never anything about how much time I was missing. I came back, as early as I could, and in all probability, too early. But I wanted to be a team player, and not perceived as a slacker. At the beginning of June, I took a long weekend that I had scheduled.

I was feeling better, stronger and doing more. My vision was getting better, though I had never gained X-ray vision like I would have hoped.

I was clear to go back to work, and back to getting active. I was able to again wear contacts. Towards late June, I went for a run, and I felt a slight tightness in my back; like I was carrying a small, but heavy backpack above my shoulder. As the week went on, the pain grew. It radiated down to my fingers. But I kept working; bending, stretching, reaching, lifting. It hurt so bad, when I was driving, I was rolling a lacrosse ball on my back. My arm felt the least pain when I actually had it wrapped above and behind my head. If you saw me driving, it looked like I was trapped in a yoga pose gone bad.

Following Monday, appt with primary care physician. She feels it’s something in my back, refers me to  her chiro that “should be able to fix it in three weeks” and gives me a scrip for the pain. I alert my bosses as I continue to work through it. The pain pills were not working; it felt like I had rings of pain in my arm where the bone was broken and one end was on fire. Unhappy face on the pain scale.

Finally! For once I'm an 8!"

We switched the meds, and the chiro wasn’t really helping, so an appt with a specialist and an MRI were the next steps. I was trying all kinds of things for my back; massage, hot rock, tuning; just nothing seemed to really help. I kept advising my bosses of what I was doing to get better.

New pain meds helped, and I got some physical therapy that alleviated the pain as I awaited the MRI to get a better idea what was happening. I believe I only missed 2 days for all of this. (I am Iron Man!) My boss was supportive, as she was going through something similar. Off I went to my vacation that she had known of for months. I wasn’t in town for an hour when my PCP called and told me I had TWO bulging discs in my back. Not the news you want to hear when you're starting vacation. But I had the specialist lined up when I got back, as well as the eye doc for another evaluation. Now that we knew the problem, we could switch up my physical therapy as well.

After working Monday, I get the above phone call.

“What, I don’t understand?”

“You missed too many days. So far this year, you’ve missed xx days.”

“Yea, and how many of those for when I was hurt? I have doctor’s notes and everything saying I couldn’t work. You know that.”

“And you’re numbers are down.”

“OK, so I had a shitty May, that’s because I wasn’t around. But what rep had the best numbers for June?”

“I don’t know.” Really!? You’re citing numbers as excuse #2 and you DON’T EVEN KNOW??

"So let me get this straight; my employee is hurt, but still working. While he's out, his market sinks. When he comes back, his market in back to number 1. This hotshot needs to be taught a lesson."

“Me. And according to so and so, my route brings in the most money. So that numbers thing kinda doesn’t make any sense. Look, I’ve had some bad months, everyone has. But all in all, I have been competitive.”

"Congrats for being the best rep in June! So for July you win......o boy......"

“Well, they’re not happy with your displays.”

Ok, it really sounds like she’s making things up now. “OK, I admit I haven’t been great with displays, but I make that up with the numbers.”

“Well, that is part of your job, and they’re not seeing it. So and so didn’t even know you were on vacation. I’m sorry, the decision has been made.”

There’s some more to the discussion than that, but I can’t tell all, and it’s stuff that is irrelevant on either end. So, I lost this job because I got hurt, did my best to work through it and took my scheduled days off. that were never questioned. And I didn’t get paid for any of the days I missed. Clearly, WidgetAde is the victim here.

A lot of stuff runs through your head when you suddenly lose your job. Mostly, where do I hire GD ninjas to avenge this great injustice? I certainly wasn’t in love with this job. I was not passionate about the product at all. I am not friends with anyone I worked with. It was just that: “just a job.” Parts of it truly drove me nuts. Terminate me all you want, it doesn’t change the outlook of the brand. Remember when Sobe used to be all the rage? That business is cyclical. The people who are part of the problem are still there, and my belief in karma tells me they will get theirs. Hopefully at the hands of the ninjas.

So-what to do next?

Part 2 of 3. Part three coming next week.

The Ridiculous Way I Got My Last Job

It shouldn’t have been this easy. I just should have known. Finding a job is generally a difficult thing for me. You see, I have a set of very specific skills…. I had been out of work for a few months at this point, unemployment benefits thankfully keeping me out of a cardboard box or living in a Walmart.

"Maybe I just need to keep a better eye on  my family."

One of my interests is health and fitness. So I had been pursuing jobs in that area. I came across a job for a beverage company; for the sake of this blog, let’s just call it WidgetAde (WA). WA was a rather popular drink, but had been waning for a few years now. I did my due diligence, and discovered, in fact, it wasn’t really healthy. It was rather sugary

Sugar is a vitamin, right?

and some reports on the ‘Net told me it wasn’t quite full of all the nutrients it had claimed. There was actually a lawsuit against them for misleading advertising. Sounds attractive, right? Well, I needed a job, and I seem to specialize in working for fucked up brands.

To the best of my recollection, this is how events unfolded. I believe is was a Monday when I sent my resume to them. The following day I already got a reply and a quick phone call. I passed that test, and had a call the next day with the next higher up. I love phone interviews. I really think that’s the best way to go. My dress code for most phoners is pajama pants, flips, and if I feel inspired, a ratty concert T. I am sure the alert reader will notice nothing about underwear.

Phoners are great. I pace around the K Theory office like a panther pacing in its’ cage. I am very animated. My hands move. I walk around. I fist pump when I think I nailed a question. I take quick, small swigs of water so I have a clear voice. Thank God, we don’t do this shit on Skype. Or even real life. I am pretty sure I wouldn’t have nailed the job if I showed up in matching Simpson pajama pants and slippers. Unshaven, unshowered, perhaps a bit of flop sweat if I was nervous.  “So, Kev, tell me a little bit about yourself?” I immediately pop up from my chair and wander around like Jeff Goldblum. “Well, I am an Aries that likes long walks on the beach…” (Scratches balls.)

"Sooo....am I hired? I will need to buy more shirts."

Second call lead to third call. I was doing my homework, studying up on WA and seeing how they were handling some poor press and the haters every product has on their FB page. A few times I asked questions and the answer was, “Ask the next guy that.” Lotta cooks in this kitchen.

Fourth call lead to the big mahoff, the chief, the big cheese. Since I’m me, and this was another phoner, I aced it. I had concerns about this gig. I would be an independent contractor-or 1099 as it’s called after the tax form that takes away most of my damn money. Zero benefits, but I got a branded company van. I was not in love with the brand, as it was clearly not as healthy as it touted itself. I actually really struggled with that part a lot. Outside of mixing, I believe soda is the devil, and this stuff isn’t much different. That’s probably why I use so little of it in my whiskey and rum. I felt a tinge of guilt that I could be peddling this stuff to people who aren’t truly getting what they think they are getting. I could at least console myself I that, if asked, I could recommend a sister water product that was just, well, water.

I am many things right now. And calm is not one of them.

I believe it was the following Monday I was offered the job. I signed the papers. There was never a face to face. No one ever laid eyes on me, outside my Linked in profile pic, which was shot at a distance. I actually had a pro head shot taken, but realized that was not in my best interest, so went with the far away shot. PhotoShop can't fix this mess. There was never a blood or urine test. Or sperm, if the nurse was sexy and friendly enough.

 I was getting a company car to drive. Never a test.

I should have known. I just should have known. Too easy, too quick.

The only thing more ridiculous was the way I lost it…

(Part 1 of three. Part 2 coming soon.)

That Asshole on The Boardwalk

I was on vacation a few weeks ago. You probably didn’t know it because I didn’t post 30 pictures of the beach, dinners and the boardwalk every day. Not to get too off topic here, but speaking of vacation pics, can we all just call a moratorium on the over-clichéd pictures? No more shots of your pasty white legs on the beach. No more shots of your fucking dinner. “OMG!! A PLATE OF CRABS!! THAT LOOKS LIKE EVERY OTHER FUCKING PLATE OF CRABS EVERYWHERE ELSE IN THE COUNTRY.” No more shots of drinks/beers sitting on a dock or bay or whatnot.

"Stop chasing me, you pervert!"

You know what I do when I see the endless stream of vacation pictures on someone’s social media? I march right over to that person’s unoccupied house and rub my junk on all their door handles. Car handles, too. You would think their neighbors would complain, but when they see Big Kev a-comin’ over with his junk hanging out, they know they can pool hop and raid the unlocked shed all week. You’re welcome, neighbors. Alas, this post is not about those assholes.

For the last 4 years, I have been doing this thing called the Warrior Dash. For those who don’t know, the Dash is one in a growing number of “mud runs” or Obstacle Course Races (OCR).

This girl has never run a Spartan race in her life. Guaranteed.

"Ugh, this is worse than what I do for my boyfriend!"

"OK, we're here. Where is one cup?"

Someone finally figured out that running is the most boring physical activity to do on the face of the earth. So why not snaz it up with things like cargo nets, fire, barbed wire and, of course mud. WD is really the only ‘competitive’ thing I do all year. And by ‘competitive,’ I mean something I actually train for; both running and in the gym. The Dash is by far the least hard core of any of the similar 5k runs I am aware of. I am routinely beat by guys older and heavier than me. I am also routinely beat by guys dressed as Ghostbusters, Bronies, Ultimate Warriors and Ninja Turtles. Yes, you do get a participation medal for finishing the course. But for someone who is nothing close to a “runner” or “athlete” like myself, it’s my own gold medal. Except it isn’t made of gold. But it can open beers. Fair trade. How many tall boys are your medals opening up, Phelps? Thought so.

"I'm just gonna shower after my morning run."

For months, I will force myself to run. Now, you would think when I go on vacation, I would just get hammered all day and sit on my ass. And there are some days I do just that. But, in a cruel twist of fate, I have found I actually enjoy running while on vacation. Shocking, right? So why does someone who hates running go running 3 times while on vacation?

Atmosphere. Running to and then on, the boardwalk, you just can’t beat it. My love affair with the beach is well documented. Most mornings, I can see Dolphins near the beach, which is kinda odd because you would think they would be in training camp now. So to get the rare chance to actually run next to the beach is pretty damn invigorating. The atmosphere is made up of many things; the sun, the breeze, the people, the sounds, the boardwalk shops. There’s so much going on, it’s like playing a human game of Frogger. I like it because you do have to keep your head on a swivel, and it mimics running in a real 5k. Oh, and the chicks that wear tight UnderArmour type clothes; they’re pretty cool, too. It’s really hard to ruin this precious experience.

Except for that guy. That one guy. That one asshole on the boardwalk.

I am sure every boardwalk has one. It’s probably written in the town ordinance somewhere; the douche bag law. I saw this guy twice. Imagine a bright, sunny morning. The boardwalk is bustling with activity; walkers, runners, bikers, those douchebag hipsters in the reclined bicycles. Every age group and demographic represented. There I am, huffing and puffing. Sweaty man boobs in the salty air. Even in my favorite place to run, it’s still a struggle for me. Dodging people who are oblivious, lost on their cell phones. People who just seem to exist to suddenly stop in front of me for no apparent reason. I’m doing my best. We should all be happy we’re out there, sweating our collective asses off, trying to make ourselves better. And then I see… him.

He is to the side of the boardwalk. He is under a roofed area. He has no shirt on. He has a muscular chest and six pack abs. His tan torso is adorned with a few big tattoos.

A lil' somethin' for the lady readers. All two of you.

His hair refuses to move in the sea breeze. Even though I already don’t like this guy, I am jealous. I want that body, minus the fugly tats. Here the rest of the world is running by. And this asshole is doing  jumping split squats?

Ugh, really dude? This is what we’re doing here? You can’t just run like everyone else? Sure, jumping split squats are a fantastic exercise. But that’s not what we’re doing here. We’re running, that’s what we’re doing. I don’t know how that got to be the rule, but it is. No one wants to see anyone else doing push ups or lunges or sit ups. You can do yoga on the beach, but that’s as far as it goes. But, no, this guy’s gotta be peacocking on the side of the boards. Asshole.

The next day I go for a run again. It’s another beautiful day on the boards, and I happen to fall behind a pack of tight Spandex asses where I can breathe loudly and no one is creeped out. And, then, I see him.

This time, he is modest. He is actually off the boards, on a street that runs up to the boardwalk. He is in a driveway that sinks below street level to the garage. He is walking on his hands back and forth.

"Hey ladies. Just alligning my chakras. And I just shaved my bunghole."

Really, dude, are you kidding me here? Walking on your hands? In someone’s driveway? This isn’t freaking American Ninja Warrior here. Just a bunch of schlubs running up and down on the boardwalk. I imagine this is some house wife’s Pepsi wet dream or whatnot, but i-we-don’t need to be seeing this shit. We get it, dude, you’re ripped. I suppose you did the rest of us brothers a favor by not actually running faster than us on the boardwalk. On your hands. Really, at that point in my run, if I thought I had anything left in the tank, I would have run over, knocked you literally on your ass then ran away. But I had already been running for four minutes and was pretty gassed. Lucky you.

She's running because she hears quarters jingling.

The third day I went running, and it was glorious. Sun was out, the cool ocean breezes muting the heat. Asses to tight you could bounce a quarter off them, which is why I always run with a pocketful of change. And Mr. Asshole nowhere to be seen. Maybe I had already missed him. Maybe he already spiderwalked the length of the boardwalk. Maybe he ran the length of the boardwalk on top of the hand rails, I don’t know, nor do I care. It was the best run I had all week.