I spent quite a few hours with Lynnee and several dogs at John McLaren Park today. The real money isn't in walking them around the block to piddle, but rather taking them to places where they can run around and explore. As I'd suspected it would be, it was the best workout I've gotten since my gym membership expired. Were I to do it on a daily basis, or even (heaven forbid) a living, I would get in shape, no question.

Is doing it for a living an option? I really don't know yet. I'm going with Lynnee for the rest of this week and probably next week as well, to see how much of a grip I can get. Lynnee's pal Kit, who got him into this racket, says that there's plenty of work available in the Sunset. Indeed, she's had to turn down several offers out here, since she lives in Bernal Heights and the travel would be impractical. Lord knows I like the idea of staying in my part of town, or at least west of Twin Peaks. As for places to take them, Fort Funston is close by, as well as the dog run in Golden Gate Park, and probably others I don't know about.

Among the logistical problems is transportation. One of the few things I like about my otherwise craptastic Neon is its relative compactness. Unfortunately, that means I'd only be able to transport maybe four or five dogs at a time, and the average size of one of Lynnee's groups at the park is twice at that. I don't expect to be starting off that big—gotta go slow at first, taking a pomeranian or two around the neighborhood, work from there—but it's definitely an issue. Not like I can just go out and get jeep or something. That could prove to be the insurmountable stumbling block; I simply may not be able to carry enough at a time to make it worthwhile. There's also pet-sitting, for which I'm told there's a great demand in the City. Fifty bucks to spend the night at someone's house with their dog? I've had worse jobs, that's for sure.

Mind you, I'm going to continue to peruse Craigslist and look for A Real Job. Because it's the right thing to do, don't'chaknow.

After parting company with Lynnee and picking up Madeline from work, we went to John Fluevog in the Haight. They no longer make the kind of boot I've been wearing for the last five years, the Lucky. No great shock. Both of my pairs have been worn to death (my original pair was a present from Dana) and it feels like it's time to move on. Unfortunately I'm not entirely thrilled with the latest model, the Lucky Stud. It's not bad, but...I don't know. It feels like it's a bit more ostentatious, or something. (The word "stud" in the name makes my stomach turn, but I have to look past my petty sexism, just like I look past the company's sometimes overt xtianity.) Not to mention expensive; the new boots cost two hundred and thirty-five, whereas I seem to remember the my current ones costing about one hundred and eighty. Of course, that's one hundred and eighty in 2000 dollars. Maybe that's the same as two hundred and thirty-five in 2005 dollars. You know, after four years of Bush.

Perhaps it's time to move beyond Fluevog, to embrace the classics: Doc Martens. This particular pair actually costs a hundred less than the Fluevogs, which makes me both happy and nervous. Maybe it just means Fluevogs are overpriced, or maybe the Doc Martens aren't as good, as heretical as that is to suggest. They need to be able to withstand daily wear, and if the Martens prove to be more decorative than functional, then I'm kinda fucked. The Fluevogs claim to be "constructed for serious wear," whereas the Martens have "a look that assures some second glances."

I'd like to think I know better than to trust any company's description of the the durability of its products, but that's making me lean toward the Fluevogs in a big way. The description of the Martens sounds like fuck-me boots. That's a concept I fully support, but I gotta think practical. I can tell by looking that the Fluevogs will be a lot easier and faster to lace up, having hooks instead of just eyelets. Important detail, but is it worth an extra hundred? Not necessarily. Feh. However much I spend, it'll feel like a splurge, and one which I'm only able to justify because I'm getting a tax return in the three digits. (Not that I have any other source of income right now.) And I do need new boots. Why do they have to be boots, you ask? And when did I stop calling them "buetz?" To answer your first question—

If you've followed either of the boot links (and I'm sure you follow every link, loyal reader), you've noticed that they're both rather tall. No doubt I could save money by buying a shorter pair, but I have this complex. Actually, it's not so complex at all. It's pretty damn simple. I'm tall, taller than I'd be if I had any say in the matter. I'm much more comfortable with it than I used to be, though, and part of the reason is I've been wearing tall boots for years, so my legs don't look quite as lengthy as they might otherwise. That's how it feels to me, anyway. The most recent full-length picture I can find offhand is three years old, so it feels like cheating in some ways, but it kinda gets the point across. Looking at it, I almost feel like I'm properly proportioned, which I seldom do otherwise. Same with this more recent one, which I'm using as my current promo picture. It's also a cheat, since I'm not standing, but still—I look like I'm not an inch over five foot eight. It's the boots, I tell ya.

At this moment I'm not ruling anything out, especially seeing as how the business world keeps spitting me back out. It would answer the exercise question, that's for sure.

I received a letter from the insurance company on Friday which I chose not to open. Taking it easy, and all. Their initial investigation of the loss has revealed that the driver of my vehicle (hey! that's me!)was 100% at fault. Evidently they didn't buy my silly story about my brakes not working as well as they should have because the roads were wet. (When Maddy told her boss what happened, he translated it as So Someone Stopped at a Traffic Light and Sherilyn Was Following Too Close So She Ran Into Them. No, but much more plausible than it not being my fault, I'm sure.) I have thirty days to "request reconsideration of this decision." Do I want to? No. Am I going to? Yes.

Things are looking uncertain at work. One of the projects I got hired to do has sorta petered out; it doesn't help that I neglected it somewhat while I was ill (note the latent Catholic guilt in that statement), but there had never been much to it anyway, hinging as it did on the desire of the visitors to a certain site to enter into an unsolicited chat. Most did not want to, unsurprisingly. When I got sick and was working at home, about a week went by before I had the presence of mind to install the chat client at home. Anyway, the client is getting all kinds of impatient and seems on the verge of pulling the plug. That would be a bad thing.

All the while, I was continuing to make progress on the big webmonkey project. It's not an exaggeration to say I got a lot done, considering that I had undiagnosed pneumonia. Brought the fucker in on schedule, and it's about to be handed off to the client. I'm told other people in the office have projects for me, but it's hard not to feel like the axe is at my neck again. Just a contractor, y'know. Nothing more. This can be easily taken away from me, like everything else, and—hell, it was never mine in the first place.

10:52am

Every time someone in the office coughs, I feel guilty. If anybody develops pneumonia...

12:08pm

Looks like there's another little project for me here today, and then...well, I'll be getting a check for last week and today. Beyond that, nobody really knows. Seems there isn't quite as much work here for me as had originally been suggested. (But they're super-happy with what I have done, webmonkey-wise.)

You see how it works. A little comfort, a little pleasure, you make the mistake of enjoying it, and that's that. It's taken away.

The worst part? I have seventeen gigs of music on the hard drive. Feh. Okay, that isn't the worst part, but I'll be sad to have to delete the directory.

I'm glad I never made any extravagant purchases. I ate more sushi than I should have, but never really splurged. Never did get that flash drive that was calling, nor the DVD-R burner (even though the CD-R drive at home is starting to churn out the occasional coaster), or the new vacuum cleaner which sounds so nice. And let's not even start on all the work the car needs. Nope, none of those things. Paying back Maddy and my mother were my first priorities, and I barely made any headway into that.

Back to zero, again.

It may not be entirely over. They're being somewhat vague, and making no promises. But it feels like it is. Familiarity.

Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it, don't do it to me
Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about what it might be
Don't get up to open the door
Just stay with me here on the floor
It's gonna get cold in the 1970s

While erasing my presence from the computer, I decided to leave behind my actual work files, the installer files for the various programs I used, and the music directory. I was a little uncertain about the mp3s, since they took up so much hard drive space. Still, if there was even the slightest chance that I would use this computer again, it would be nice not to have to start from scratch. What the hell, it left fifty gigs free.

Before I shut down the computer, my supervisor thanked me for working with the company, and to let her know if I ever needed her as a reference.

That was all I needed to hear. I deleted the music directory.

It's my second day on the antibiotics—Levaquin, for those playing along at home. (Also note that it's for "Community Acquired Pneumonia," meaning that one's lifestyle has nothing to do with the contraction of said illness. Neener.) So far, so good, I think. The shotgun cough is growing increasingly rare, and my fingers are crossed it'll be gone by Monday. Listen to my radio show to find out, I suppose.

Antibiotics have at long last been administered, and I'm assured I'll feel human again within seventy-two hours. In the meantime, I'm supposed to relax. We're taking Oscar to the vet tomorrow, and then Maddy's seeing The Nice Lady, and there's a Macao readthrough on Sunday afternoon and then K'vetch that evening, but...I will relax, damnit.

I literally just received a phone call from someone asking me if I can perform tomorrow night, be a last-minute replacement. Tempting though it was, I turned them down. See? I'm behaving.

7:52pm

Looks like we're pushing the tour back to this fall, and that Cindy will be joining Lynnee and I. More practical on a number of levels, really.