tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63752352024-03-13T04:26:15.287-07:00CAD Monkey in the Cubicle JungleI <strike>am</strike> <i>was</i> an architect.
Now, I don't know what I will be.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.comBlogger286125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-18372644880162059172011-10-19T07:05:00.001-07:002011-10-19T07:13:43.936-07:00...and we're back.Germany was awesome. Unfortunately, we couldn't find work, and didn't have the time or money left to stay, so we're back in the US.<div><br /></div><div>This means I'm back in the same situation I was in before: clueless as to what to do for money. Oh, but wait! There's a twist: now my architect's license has expired, so I'm even <i>more</i> unemployable in the field than I was before. (I knowingly let it expire, because I couldn't justify the $300 to renew it when there's little chance I'll get a job using it.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I managed to make it to the age of 36 without ever being fired or laid off, so this has taken a major toll on my self esteem. The longer this drags on, the less confident I am in my ability to do <i>anything</i>. Even though I was in a field I absolutely hated, I am desperate to go back, because I feel like a complete loser being unemployed. It's a little too similar to an abusive relationship, except that with a relationship, remaining single is always an option. Remaining unemployed is not. (No, I'm not trivializing abusive relationships. I'm just bad at crafting decent analogies.)</div><div><br /></div><div>As always, art is not a career option, because I like having health insurance. And money.</div>CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-55388063123953136462011-05-16T10:53:00.000-07:002011-05-16T11:06:31.145-07:00Not What I ExpectedI got laid off from my last architectural job in April of 2010. Although I hate the sentiment "everything happens for a reason" on a molecular level, I believe that having the decision made for me, in this case, was a really good thing. Given the choice between continuing on in a career field I hated to the point of physical illness, just to maintain a steady paycheck and some illusion of security, or venturing into the Great Unknown, I would have chosen the paycheck.<div><br /></div><div>I was let go 2 weeks before a (planned) major surgery that would leave me unable to work for 6 weeks. When I was ready to start looking for a job again, I realized I had become permanently unemployable in the architecture field- I mean, who wants to hire someone who hasn't worked for 2 months? Such a person is obviously not a good choice, if nobody picked them up for 2 months (Sarcasm Meter set to "kill")!</div><div><br /></div><div>I managed to obtain one interview for a Project Manager position, and put on my best (though completely false) "I'D REALLY LOVE TO WORK HERE" face, but they must have seen right through it. Applying for positions below my experience level have proven pointless.<br /><div><br /></div><div>This summer, on my birthday, my Architect's license will expire, and I have no intention of renewing it. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>You might think, from reading this, that I am completely depressed and hopeless, but I assure you, that is the farthest thing from the truth. In two months, my husband and I are moving to Europe. I can honestly say I have no idea what we'll do for money past the 90 days' worth we have saved.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't wait. :D</div>CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1610351378665639072009-07-21T05:43:00.000-07:002009-07-21T05:58:57.120-07:00What Do You "Do?"That question. I <span style="font-weight:bold;">hate</span> that question. How I pay my bills does not define me, much as I wish it could.<div><br /></div><div>What do I do?<div><br />Why, I am a <b>cerebral prostitute</b>.</div><div> <br />I whore out my brain for money, M-F, 8-5.</div><div> <br />While my brain is otherwise occupied, performing tasks that slowly strangle it in a gray shroud of boredom, my body is forfeit, as it is forced to sit in a chair during that time; getting fatter, slower, more useless. A month ago I started Metformin, because, at age 35, I have insulin resistance. Despite the fact that I sit all day, I am exhausted beyond measure. This body is a carcass, transporting the golden whore-brain to and fro, rather than a living thing. My hands shake constantly. I can't even remember the last time I felt "right."</div><div><br />I am on the "last-resort" antidepressant, an MAO inhibitor. It comes in patch form, and every morning I rip off the patch, and a good portion of my skin, to replace it with a new one.</div><div><br />For the last several months, while I've been away, I made the mistake of listening to the slew of "follow your bliss" bullshit artists, whose line is "do what you love and the money will come." <i>Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.</i> By all rights, I should have gone even more insane from the stink of it. If I had in my possession the physical amount of bullshit I've wasted my time reading, money would no longer be a problem.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>You know how they've managed to "follow their bliss and the money came?" They sold volumes of fix-your-life fallacy to suckers like me, who are searching for a little bit of hope. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am that idiot who bought into the "get a real job, be a grownup, ignore every true thing about yourself" line; believing that being an artist would be the impossible way. Now, I will drag myself onward; waiting to die, always regretting having lived.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-31882983981491441912008-08-05T11:40:00.001-07:002008-08-05T11:40:36.360-07:00ARgh.Trying to fix template.<br /><br />Not working.<br /><br />Liking WordPress better all the time.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-44747184013130302242008-08-04T05:54:00.000-07:002008-08-04T06:02:08.154-07:00Always a bad signIt's always a bad sign when I start blogging at the office.<br /><br />I (made the mistake and) watched a program about Alzheimer's disease. The show, and it being Sunday night in general, got me started on a pretty heavy doom spiral. Some days I feel like I'm just biding my time until I find out what is going to kill me.<br /><br />The leading contender is stress, being overweight, not eating right; and the resultant heart disease.<br /><br />From how my GI tract has been acting, cancer of the pooper seems a likely second contender (of course, that could just be related to the stress, as well).<br /><br />Third, we have the whole vast list of unknowns. Alzheimer's (early-onset is the one I'm concerned about), cancer of various regions, etc., etc.<br /><br />I'm doing my damndest to try and squeeze some joy out of this life, but Monday mornings just make it difficult. One good night of sleep just ain't doing it for me. (That would be Saturday night; since I'm still too <strike>drunk</STRIKE> jacked up from work to sleep on Friday night, and Sunday is...well, The Day Before Monday.)CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-77548462035315331142008-07-30T05:50:00.000-07:002008-07-30T05:53:29.852-07:00Well, crap on a stick.Things are just not going well today. The server at work has crashed- permanently.<br /><br />I find it somewhat ironic that a similar situation caused me to start this blog; 4 years ago:<br /><blockquote><a href="http://cadmonkey.blogspot.com/2004/01/and-then-there-was-cad-monkey.html">The server at work blew up.</a></blockquote>CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-62410287666568488702008-07-30T05:21:00.000-07:002008-07-30T05:22:42.262-07:00DammitI was trying to get rid of the damn AdSense bar, and screwed up my template in the process. This place will look like ass for a little while, until I can find my old template code, and fix it. <br /><br /><em>If</em> I can find my old template code.<br /><br />If not, a remodel will be in the works!!CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-20699654150197040432008-07-29T07:48:00.000-07:002008-07-30T05:23:40.836-07:00The PlanAfter I quit writing on here in 2006, things actually got much better at Humongo. They were so much better, in fact, that I could actually see myself staying with the company for a good, long time.<br /><br />Then we moved to Houston. I transferred to the Humongo office here. Things went into the crapper, quickly.<br /><br />I'm not blaming Houston, because I really like it here. Even though this is the first time I have lived here, Houston gives me an "at home" feeling that I never got in Dallas.<br /><br />The problem with the Houston Humongo office was, it had only been in existence for 2-3 months before I transferred in. There were <em>absolutely no projects</em> in the office. I can't stand the hectic workload I have now, but I can't stand having absolutely nothing to do, either.<br /><br />I'm not a marketer- never have been, never will be. While the 3 senior guys were out chasing work, I sat, bored as hell, for 8 hours a day. On the surface, it sounds great; but let me tell you, it's awful. For a while, I took my sketchbook and markers in, and drew cartoons prolifically. However, the guilt over blatantly goofing off all day got to me- not that I <em>had</em> anything productive to do, but the guilt is a powerful force. I could think of nothing else but what I could be accomplishing if I weren't stuck at "work." I would wander around downtown at lunch, sometimes for 2 hours, alone. The other folks in the office, while really nice, all had at least 10 years on me. Not much to talk about after a while.<br /><br />Also, I was the only one in the office who knew how to use CAD...so I wasn't liking where <em>that</em> was heading. During my 2-year hiatus from blogging, I earned some hard-won experience as a Project Manager/ Architect. Trying to stomach moving back down the food chain to pure CAD Monkey was not possible.<br /><br />So I left, to go to where I am now, with the shiny new prospect of working with my best friend from college (definitely <em>not</em> Dude). Sure, I'd be taking a pay cut, and losing tons of benefits, but it'll be okay, right? Because I won't be doing healthcare work anymore, and I won't have to deal with big-office politics, and I'll be working in a more laid-back environment, right?<br /><br />Those last three things are true. However. Dude is an ass. That's all I'll say about him for this post, because it's too damn long already.<br /><br />Although I'm going to try my damndest to stick it out for 2 years, at the very least I simply cannot go back to a large company without having some sort of friends in this town. I know that sounds stupid, but when I think back to the worst part about Humongo Houston, it was the crushing loneliness. Currently, I have 12 architectural co-workers (the Dudes don't count), and 9 of them are kick-ass people. Socializing with them is often the only thing that makes going into work bearable.<br /><br />Because I have become so thoroughly involved in all aspects of projects, there is great potential for me to make excellent contacts- and not just in architecture. For reasons I won't go into here, there are possible art world contacts to be made.<br /><br />My plan, as much as I <em>ever</em> have one, is thus:<br /><ul><li>I'm going to stick it out until I can make some friends outside of work, so that I have a damn support system in place when I make yet another difficult career move. The last three jumps have been made on my gut, not with my brains; and they were tough. </li><li>I'm going to force myself to gradually work less each week, with an ultimate goal of 40 hours. </li><li>I'm going to force myself to not feel guilty about it (this will take some work), and not let Dude's idea of an acceptable amount of hours dictate how I feel about this.</li><li>I'm not going to let Dude get under my skin anymore. <strong>This may be damn near impossible.</strong></li></ul>CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-57559703484660118062008-07-27T19:55:00.000-07:002008-07-27T20:13:48.724-07:00ExperienceDammit, Google.<br /><br />Yesterday, I followed the "In Memoriam of Randy Pausch" link at the bottom of the Google start page, and watched the video of his "Final Lecture" at Carnegie Mellon (it's over an hour long, but it's totally worth it).<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ji5_MqicxSo&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ji5_MqicxSo&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />It is this kind of thing that makes me feel all kinds of crappy. This man had terminal cancer, and had accepted the fact that he was going to die. He was completely satisfied with how his life turned out. He made achieving all his childhood dreams sound so easy.<br /><br />If I found out I had terminal cancer, I'd be pissed as hell. This is not the life I want to leave behind. I feel like I've been stuck in some sort of financial-physical-social stasis since 2004; and I've been powerless to get things moving again.<br /><br />One of the things he said resonated deeply with me:<br /><br /><blockquote><p>Experience is what you get when you didn't get what you wanted.</p></blockquote>I've certainly been getting a lot of <em>experience</em> over the last few years. All of it has got to be worth <em>something</em>.<br /><br />On the positive side, the video served as a pretty swift (if temporary, as always) kick in the ass. Ever since watching it, I've spent the entire weekend working on my art. I accomplished a lot. This weekend was good, and restful, and I'm ready to face tomorrow at work. <br /><br />Which is good, since I'm thinking about trying to stay. I know, I know! I'm just a big ol' waffle. Running may not be the answer, for once.<br /><br />I'll come back to this later. Too tired now.<br /><br /><blockquote></blockquote>CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-27649819671382600422008-07-25T03:43:00.000-07:002008-07-25T03:45:27.329-07:00Sweet Sweet KarmaBWAHHAHAHAHAH!!! <br /><br />[<em>deep breath</em>]<br /><br />HAAAAAAHAHAHAHA!!!<br /><br />Dude got a sticker put on his car window by building management, for parking in a Reserved spot one too many times.<br /><br />Heh.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-47518589893295717122008-07-24T03:47:00.000-07:002008-07-24T04:17:24.371-07:00Ding Dong DooI want to leave a flaming bag of poo on my boss's doorstep.<br /><br />I have been absolutely infuriated with him, non-stop, since Tuesday. Over the course of the last 9 1/2 months, I've come to realize that he is an asshole. It took a little longer to figure out, because it's hidden beneath a slippery layer of "he seems like an okay guy." However, when I think about what has been pissing me off so badly about my job, Dude is what I keep returning to as the cause.<br /><br />Lemme 'splain.<br /><br />Codes, regulating agencies, and city officials; while often annoying; are in place for a reason. They're not my favorite thing, but I work with them. Dude, on the other hand, sees them (and rules in general) as things to be thwarted and dodged whenever he doesn't like what they're dictating.<br /><br />Minor example: The first two floors of the office parking garage only have parking spots marked "Visitor" and "Reserved." The building management has asked that we not park in spots designated with either of those labels; we are instead to park in the unmarked spots on the third level. No big, right? Unless you're Dude. He insists on parking in the Visitor spots on the second floor, even though the management has already caught him doing it once, and asked him not to. <br /><br />Major example: I'm working on a renovation project that began as carpet/ wallcovering/ millwork only, but has now grown into the need to open up and replace the ceiling. Dude has insisted from Day One that we wouldn't need a building permit for this project. Before the ceiling became part of the scope, I could agree with him. However, the city's permitting requirements clearly state (which I printed out and <em>highlighted</em> for him) that any work involving the exposure of framing- like, oh, I don't know, <em>replacing the entire ceiling</em>- requires a permit. Despite this, he has continued to insist a permit isn't required. <br /><br />His initial reason for not wanting to permit was time-related, as the Owner wanted to get this job moving as soon as possible (the majority of the delays have been because of Dude, ironically). Once we received the engineer's drawings on what would be required for the ceiling work, Dude started to come around to the concept that, yes, a permit was going to be required. <br /><br />Cue the Owner getting pissed off. One of the permit requirements is an asbestos report. I have to ask the Owner for this. The Ower asks, "isn't this something we could have gotten started with months ago?" Yep. It sure is, if I had been allowed to start the permitting process properly (heh, alliteration).<br /><br />Additionally, Texas accessibility rules state that if your project is over $50k, you have to submit for accessibility review. The bids came in at $300k, minimum. I told Dude that we would need to submit to the State, but again, he resisted. His stance was, "it's only carpet and paint." The rules don't say, "over $50k, but not if it's only carpet and paint." Guess what? When the contractor started to pull the permit...the city requires an accessibility review registration number! Surprise!<br /><br />Except not really.<br /><br />I was so pissed off that even the "I Told Him So" dance didn't relieve it.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-16352468583044947202008-07-20T09:09:00.000-07:002008-07-20T10:20:34.847-07:00It's a Generational ThingGar! <br />I just got off the phone with my mother.<br /> <br />I absolutely cannot (and should not) talk to her about work. She comes from a completely different frame of reference on all-things-work. When I tell her that Dude is a pain in the ass, she tells me I need to change my attitude. When I say I'm thinking of looking for a new job, because I'm tired of working 50+ hours a week for crap pay (yes, I know I did it to myself); she says I need to stay put, because "bad times are coming." Never mind the fact that most firms in Houston are still hiring prodigiously. Never mind that the reason I got a damn college degree was so I could have choices about where I work- if not exactly about what I do.<br /><br />I know where part of my frustration with her comes from. For the longest time, I blamed her for not "letting" me be an Art major when I entered college- she told me "I'd never be able to make a living that way." Truthfully, I should be angry at myself for not having the <em>huevos</em> to pursue what I wanted, and stop placing blame on her.<br /><br />The more unhappy I am at work, the more I venture into The Land of Regret- even though I know I'm too damn old to start over. Taking a small pay cut was bad enough. Starting over at $38k- and with student loan debt- would be impossible. <br /><br />I constantly think of ways I can manage to remain in the industry (see above, RE: too damn old to start over). I believe I have narrowed down the 3 things I want out of a job- though I don't know where to <em>find</em> said job, or if I'm fooling myself by thinking it exists:<br /><ol><li>I want to work 40 hours a week, period.</li><li>I don't want to wear a damn business suit, or even "business-y type" clothes every day.</li><li>I want $62k, which, according to the salary report I purchased recently, is what I'm worth.</li></ol><p>I know I can't realistically ask for "less stress," "less frustration," or "less jack-assy project schedules," so I'm not even going to bother.</p><p>So tell me, Houston Architecture World, does such a job exist?</p>CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-37015165559856519512008-07-14T08:56:00.000-07:002008-07-14T08:56:01.501-07:00Big vs. LittleOver the last nine years of my "illustrious career," I've bounced back and forth between working for small firms (fewer than 25 people), and working for large firms (300-1000 people). There are good and bad things to both, of course.<br /><br />Here's the breakdown on how the current place (17 people) measures up:<br /><br /><strong>Good</strong>: The dress code is very relaxed<br />(not that we actually even <em>have</em> a dress code). I am allowed to, and often do, wear <a href="http://questionablecontent.net/merch.php">this shirt</a>.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222159246255251170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_-d0h4-vXlV0/SHjWKpGQ3uI/AAAAAAAAAAg/FAiEZE1sNzw/s200/bearmonstergirl%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /><strong>Bad</strong>: I have gained so much weight as a result of stress eating, that I <em>couldn't</em> wear any of my suits if I wanted to.<br /><br /><strong>Good:</strong> things that I couldn't do at my previous, large-firm job, that I can do now:<br /><ul><li>take 90-minute to 2-hour lunches, and nobody says a thing</li><li>drink beer at lunch</li></ul><strong>Bad</strong>: things I could do at my previous job that I can't do now:<br /><ul><li>work 40 hours a week <em>maximum</em></li><li>take vacation without having to answer my phone for a work-related call</li></ul><br /><strong>Good/Bad</strong>: I didn't have Project Manager duties at my last job. I do now.<br /><strong>Bad</strong>: I'm getting paid less than my last job, though I have a whole lot more responsibility.<br /><br /><strong>Good:</strong> I can cuss like a motherfucker, out loud, and it's perfectly acceptable.<br /><strong>Bad:</strong> I often have good reason to need to (see next item).<br /><br /><strong>Bad</strong>: Things I had at my previous, large-firm job, that I don't have now:<br /><ul><li>in-house ability to print larger than 11"x 17"<br />(My first job while in school was at a firm of 7 people. <em>They</em> had a plotter.)</li><li>a copier and/or scanner that will handle larger than 8.5"x 11"<br />(we have a multifunction fax/copy/scan/print thing that is 5 years old, and does 90% of our printing)</li><li>access to anybody else's calendars<br />(We don't have an exchange server. Seriously.)</li><li>e-mail that will send files larger than 5MB</li><li>IT support<br />(We have a guy, who is friends with Dude, comes from a wealthy family, and only does IT as a time-filler for when he's not playing golf.)</li><li>access to MEP/structural consultants who are worth a damn</li><li>a boss who allows me to look at the project contracts<br />(I only care about looking at the contract to determine what our firm's project-related responsibilities are. Dude is concerned that the staff will see "the numbers," by which he means "what the partners are getting paid." I really don't give a damn about that.)</li><li>paid disability leave</li><li>a retirement plan</li><li>performance reviews</li><li>a clear-cut timeline of when I could possibly receive a pay raise</li><li>direct-fucking-deposit<br />(The absence of <em>this</em>, of all possible benefits, pisses me off the most.)</li></ul><p>That puts the tally at <strong>4 Good, 6 Bad.</strong></p><p>But wait, should the last item count as one thing, or twelve? Some days it counts more heavily than others. For example, it was definitely a 12 during the week we were moving offices. </p><p>This is what our office felt like during that week:</p><p><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lTiRsOa0M4Y&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lTiRsOa0M4Y&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /></p>CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-55751132216144671622008-07-02T09:19:00.000-07:002008-07-02T10:13:13.192-07:00What I'm Doing Right NowSitting on my ass in a coffee shop...but, wait! <br /><br />It's not what you think. I'm not really slacking. <br /><br />Well, I <em>am</em>, but it's not my fault. I was forced into it, pathetically enough.<br /><br />Our office is moving, and through a complete and fucked-up lack of planning on the principals' parts, <em><strong>we don't have an office space this week</strong></em>. In fact, we may not have an office space next week, either.<br /><br />Our crap is packed up in boxes in a storage room, which is doubling as a sad little workspace for the three marketing people as they desperately try to issue an RFQ. Despite the fact that they have no e-mail access. Or phones.<br /><br />Dude (my uber-clever pseudo for Principal #1) told everyone to basically take the week off. That would be great, except that I kind of <em>can't</em>. I currently have a project in construction, and it's of the sort (a renovation with an unrealistic schedule) that has anywhere from one to twenty Crises-a-Day. I often have to answer RFIs and turn around submittals the same damn day they're given to me, because it's for something the contractor is mobilized to begin the same day or day following.<br /><blockquote><digression> This project was <em>already</em> several months behind<br />schedule when I got on it last October (natch). I tried, in futility, to<br />tell the Principals that this project was <em>not </em>going to be done by<br />the Owner's specified date of the following August. The Substantial<br />Completion date is now set at September 3rd. There's no way<br />in hell we're making September 3rd, either. But I'm not wasting my time<br />trying to tell anyone that, this time. I'm just keeping it to myself,<br />because they won't listen anyway. </digression></blockquote><br />In order to give the (%$@*^!&) contractor this quick turnaround, I really really really need access to AutoCAD, the project's files, my contacts, the intarweb, Adobe Pro, Excel, and a courier service. I thought I could manage most of what I needed to accomplish by piecing together a "mobile office" with a flash drive, my home computer, a 30-day trial download of AutoCAD, and driving things to the consultants my damn self. I'm sure you can see where this is going- I was grossly incorrect in my assumption.<br /><br />I don't have a printer, ever since an incident, ironically, stemming from me trying to print something for work, killed it. No problem, I thought, I'll just print to pdf. Nope. I didn't have the pen table files, so if I tried to print from AutoCAD to pdf, it would be all the crazy colors of the layers. <br /><br />I don't have Excel on my home computer, so I can't even open the RFIs from the contractor, because they're in Excel format.<br /><br />I can't do anything design-related, because I'm not authorized to select even a paint color for the door frame to a toilet without Dude's approval. He's been "unavailable" because of the build-out of the new office space. He's been doing very important stuff- for example, he blew me off all day Monday because he was picking out carpet. Even though I've been trying to get him to sit the hell down and pick flooring for my project, which has lead time issues, for <em>months</em>. (Going back to the digression, <strong>this</strong> is part of why the damn thing was/is so behind schedule.)<br /><br />My home internet connection is notoriously sketchy, and about the third time it went out yesterday, it resulted in me having a major meltdown of the FUCK IT ALL TO HELL variety. I decided I'm just not going to try so hard to work, when my employer can't even provide me a fucking workplace.<br /><br />So I'm at the coffee shop, sponging off their free Wi-Fi. And I may go get a massage now. The project, the contractor, the consultants, and Dude can all just go fuck themselves. Tomorrow I'm on vacation until the 7th.<br /><br />Except for when I'm picking up fabric sample FedEx's from my front doorstep in my PJs.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-88056773576965759762008-05-25T20:24:00.001-07:002008-05-25T20:35:18.797-07:00The Bitch Is BackOr the bitch-er, anyway.<br /><br />The recap:<br /><ol><li>Still in architecture.</li><li>Still hatin.'</li><li>Moved to Houston. Like it here. </li><li>Left Humongo for a 12-person firm.</li><li>Still hatin.'</li><li>Took a pay cut just to get out of doing healthcare architecture.</li><li>Turns out that other project types only suck slightly less.</li><li>Went through two weeks of hell getting off the crazy drugs I <em>was</em> on, to get on <a href="http://www.emsam.com/">Emsam</a>. I <em>love</em> Emsam. If I weren't already married, I'd <em>marry</em> Emsam.</li><li>Had my two-year "hip-iversary" yesterday. Ol' Lefty is going under the knife sometime in 2009.</li><li>I actually have a place to do art- and it's no longer the dining room table. Of course, it's still just a single table, but- progress!</li><li>Got a kitten the day after Christmas '07. Cutest. Thing. Ever.</li><li>However. She's crazy and is licking her tummy bald. Go figure.</li></ol><br />May start posting regularly, may not. Not even entirely sure why I'm posting now, other than to say "I'm not dead" to anyone still looking.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1153832804479330042006-07-25T05:55:00.000-07:002006-07-25T06:06:44.523-07:00The Monkey Has Left the Building.I'm done, guys.<br /><br />There's nothing left to do but complain, therefore, this blog has nowhere to go but down.<br />I need something positive in my life, and this ain't it.<br /><br />I've had The Scarlett O'Hara Moment- <em><strong>As Jeebus is my witness, I will leave this profession!</strong></em> It won't happen today, or even in the next several years, but I <em>will</em> leave. I just need to set up a safety net first- and that takes time.<br /><br />Anonymity has been...interesting, but I'm getting a clean start at TypePad- real name, real locale, real me. If I'm going to market myself (and beg for donations, heh) I have to learn to take direct hits to my ego; and have people know who I am.<br /><br />If you want to follow, e-mail me. <br />If I know you in real life, I'll be updating you shortly- as soon as there's something to see.<br /><br />Thanks to everybody for your comments and support over the last few years.<br /><br />CAD MonkeyCAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1152892724758402512006-07-14T08:58:00.000-07:002006-07-14T08:58:45.053-07:00Amusing things I’ve seen lately:<br /><br />A man who apparently owns a vast array of sport jackets from the Miami Vice Collection. Monday was powder blue, Wednesday was peach, and this morning was mint green. Each of these was accompanied by jeans, a white shirt, and hideous loafers in cream-colored leather.<br /><br />This is on a cutsheet for some automatic sliding doors: “Stacked” finger safety applied to stroke.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1152802654733527442006-07-13T07:55:00.000-07:002006-07-13T07:57:35.723-07:00Mark of the DevilFirst, the refrigerator magnet did not hold.<br /><br />Second, when people ask me if I am “glad to be back [at work],” <em>why</em> do they always look surprised when I answer, “not really?”<br /><br />Third…<br /><br />Intentionally or not, a certain architectural louver company decided to give one of their products the model number “K666.” I’ve been calling it The Louver of the Devil. I called a local rep to ask some detailing questions yesterday, and she replied, “oh, you mean the Satan Louver. I don’t know why they decided to use that number.”<br /><br />Also, the GMP* set for the project we're using this louver for was issued on June 6th. Think about that for a while.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">*Architectural Term o’ the Day: Guaranteed Maximum Price</span>CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1152723374504434112006-07-12T09:53:00.000-07:002006-07-12T09:56:14.746-07:00Broke AssSo I guess I’ve owed you guys an update for a while now. Doing almost anything other than writing in the blog has seemed like a better idea lately. Over the course of the next few posts, I’m going to fast-forward past the previous entry, then rewind, then resume at present time. Strap in and hang on. It won’t make much sense, I’m sure.<br /><br />My six-week post-op appointment with the surgeon was last Wednesday. I finally got to see an x-ray showing the screws in my New and Improved Hip. There are three 3” screws placed vertically, and a shorter one going from back to front. The hospital charged me $506 for them. I should have asked if I could bring in some lag screws from the hardware store. According to my surgeon, I’m doing even better than he expected. He basically said “rise and walk, my child.” I’m down to one crutch. <br /><br />However.<br /><br />My incision still hasn’t completely healed, and he said that may take another 6 weeks. He also showed me on the x-ray where I have a stress fracture in the <em>inferior pubic ramus</em>- also known as the “<a href="http://yoga.about.com/od/howtospeakyoga/g/SitBones.htm">sit bones</a>.” <br /><br />Yes, I have a <strong>fractured ass.</strong> <br /><br />I’ve reached the part of my recovery where I’m sick of being crippled, yet it will be another few months before I can expect to feel “normal.” I’m 80% pain-free, but I have the weird sensation of always feeling like there’s something in my right front pocket- even when I’m not wearing any pants. My leg feels like it’s crammed into the hip socket. I swear I can feel one of the screw heads through my skin, but I’ve yet to test it with a refrigerator magnet.<br /><br />On Monday I returned to work. The good news is, they moved my cube while I was away- I am no longer anywhere near Hack n' Snort. Blissful, blissful silence.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1151075805523689162006-06-23T08:11:00.000-07:002006-06-23T08:16:45.546-07:00CAD Monkey in the Hospital - Day 3 (Part Two)<em>I know that I’ve been dragging this out forever. <br />What the hell’s taking so long, you ask? </em><br /><em>Simply put, I had a crappy first few days in the hospital, and I’ve been reluctant to relive them. I’m frustrated with my recovery (it’s going fine, it just takes forever), and I just want the whole thing to be over- recalling this crappy day in painful detail just hasn’t been high on my to-do list.</em><br /><br /><u>May 26 – Best! Day! Ever!</u> (continued)<br /><br />Little did I realize that actually getting a potty would be so damn difficult. There was no way in hell I was making it all the way to the real bathroom, so the nurse said she’d bring in a bedside commode…45 minutes later, it still hadn’t arrived. My bladder was quickly approaching critical mass; my gas-filled stomach wasn’t helping things.<br /><br />My mother went out into the hall to track somebody down to bring one in; she found nothing but tumbleweeds. I rang the nurse call (which I was quickly finding out was pointless), and asked, “will someone <em>please</em> bring a commode in here?” A random nurse walked in, and tried to get me onto a bedpan <em>by rolling me onto my operated hip</em>. On the verge of tears, again, I told her to stop, and get me a friggin commode. In the middle of all this, a hapless hospital administrator walks in, and says she’s “here to ask a few questions about how everything is going.” Mom, in her finest Mother Bear voice replies, “<em>it’s not going very well right now!</em>” She told the lady our plight, to which she replied, “<span style="font-size:78%;">oh</span>,” mumbled something about finding someone to help, and then scurried off into the hall. Never saw her again.<br /><br />Somebody finally brought in a commode. Then began the complete loss of the rest of my dignity for the day. For the first time in 30+ years, I had to have my mother wipe my behind, because I couldn’t support myself to do it…myself. Someone walked in on me with my butt in the air, and said, “oh! I’m so sorry.” I bet. It seemed that every time I got on the damn commode, somebody would walk in.<br /><br />When the rehab doctor came in to find me on the pot, he became extremely embarrassed, and said he’d come back. When he did return, he asked <em>if I’d saved what was in there</em>. Ew. No. He told me they were planning on getting me transferred over to Their Side, meaning the rehab wing. You could actually hear the capitalization every time he said it. <br /><br />The day got worse before it got better. My stomach had swelled up large enough that I could almost rest a glass on it. The nurse said I had to move my bowels. They’re very concerned about your pooping schedule in the hospital, I’ve found. She brought in the dreaded secret weapon…<em>suppositories</em>. The worst part was having to roll over; it was extremely painful- cue another round of tears.<br /><br />Did I mention that my mother and my husband were in the room for all of this? And for the aftermath of the suppositories? See above, “RE: complete loss of dignity.” ManThing said we’d never speak of it again- yet he is the one who insisted I finish this story.<br /><br />Things calmed down a bit after the suppository adventure. The doctor said I was still anemic, so they were going to have to give me another two units of blood before I could transfer to rehab. They were very reluctant to give me blood, even though my anemia wasn’t improving. I was of the opinion, “<em>just give me the damn blood already!</em>” My IV had to be changed to another location (apparently, veins “expire” after a few days) before they could do the transfusion. I lost my nice, neat surgical IV, and traded it in for a nasty, painful IV that turned my arm into a purple and red tie-dyed nightmare from the moment it was in.<br /><br />By the time the transfusion was over, it was 10:30 at night. I figured I’d be staying put, but hospitals work on a different schedule- they transferred me to rehab. <br /><br />Thus ended the hellish part of my stay.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1150858705867325232006-06-20T19:53:00.000-07:002006-06-20T19:58:25.910-07:00CAD Monkey in the Hospital - Day 3 (Part One)<em>Tomorrow will be one month since the surgery, so I figured I’d better get back to work on this before I completely forgot everything. As it is, I’ve already forgotten a lot. </em><br /><em>Day 3 was, uh, </em>eventful<em>, so I’m going to have to break it into a few parts.<br /></em><br /><u>May 26 – Best! Day! Ever!</u><br /><br />Day 3 started off with my now-accustomed runny-egg breakfast. I didn’t eat much, because my stomach was nearly full to capacity with lovely, painful gas. The doctor came in, and took out my drains. My fever was gone, and after I talked to the doctor, so was Nursezilla. She was supposed to be my nurse again for the day, but after I related the previous day’s events to him, he went out into the hall, talked to someone for a little while, and I got a new nurse. <br /><br />Despite the two units of blood I’d received two days before, I was still anemic. As a result, I was still very weak, and my pulse was pretty high just sitting in bed. Nonetheless, physical therapy would start. The first person from PT gave me some exercises to do while lying in bed. Then he went off on a <em>soooper</em>-long spiel about crutches, crutch tips, what not to do, etc. I only remember pieces: <em>anemic = loopy</em>.<br /><br />The next person from PT gave me some arm exercises to do with a <a href="http://www.thera-band.com/resistive.html">Theraband</a>. No problem.<br /><br />The third person from PT, Lindsey, said it was time to get out of bed, and using a walker. She brought in this 1947-looking, rickety, green spray-painted, scary walker. <em>(Now, here’s where my memory fails me. Damn me for waiting so long to write this. I know it must have hurt like hell to move my legs for the first time in two days, but I’ve already started forgetting.)</em> I carefully maneuvered to sitting on the side of the bed. Since my butt was hanging out of the gown, she helped me put on the robe I’d brought with me.<br /><br />Lindsey told me the first goal was to use the walker to go around the foot of the bed to the other side. My heart was already pounding, just from moving to the side of the bed. With a belt wrapped around my waist, and Lindsey pulling, I got into standing position. She told me to move the walker first, and then move my right foot forward a little. I moved the walker…and then <em>didn’t</em> move my right foot. The signals were leaving my brain, but my leg was out to lunch from the knee up. I had to use my toes to drag my foot forward. <br /><br />By the time I made it to halfway to the other side of the bed, my heart was pounding in my ears, and I was sweating profusely. When I made it to the other side, I damn near passed out. I sat on the edge of the bed, with the vision in my left eye going a little black.<br /><br />This is when the doctor from Pain Management came in to remove my epidural. While I was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyelids not quite working simultaneously, he just walked around behind me and pulled it out. Then, he started talking about...<em>something</em>. I sat there, sweating, vision going in and out.<br /> <br />After he left, Lindsey looked at me and said, “did you get any of that?” <br />“Nuh uh.”<br />“I didn’t think so.”<br /><br />I have no idea what he said the entire time he was there- I was too busy concentrating on remaining conscious.<br /> <br />Sometime after my first pitiful foray out of bed, the nurse removed my catheter. This meant I would have to get my ass out of bed to use the potty. Oh, goodie. <br /><br />Because getting out of bed had been so much fun the first time.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1150232715059233332006-06-13T14:04:00.000-07:002006-06-13T14:05:15.076-07:00So I haven’t made much progress on the “hospital story.”<br /><br />But let me tell you how I am right now.<br /> <br />Right now I’m sitting, crookedly, because I have a block of ice under my right ass cheek. I also have a bag of frozen peas in a pillowcase wrapped around my right elbow. <br /><br />I have officially reached the stage where I feel better enough overall to be annoyed that I’m not completely healed, and frustrated with the things I want to do, but can’t. <br /><br />Out of an otherwise completely healed 12” incision, I have a ½” area that simply won’t close up. It will be 3 weeks tomorrow since the surgery. Close. The hell. UP. My skin is raw from pulling the tape off to change the dressing; it’s also covered in tape adhesive “leftovers” that I can only remove with rubbing alcohol- which makes the rawness worse. <br /><br />One trip up and down the hallway outside our apartment leaves me panting, with my heart racing. This is also the reason I’m having to ice down my elbows- my weenie arms aren’t used to having to carry my entire weight. My physical therapist hath decreed that I shall make this journey five times daily.<br /><br />I’m still waiting for it to become easier. <br /><br />Any time now.<br /><br />At least I have no trouble feeding myself. Like <em>that</em> was ever an issue.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1149879302814351732006-06-09T11:54:00.000-07:002006-06-09T11:59:58.560-07:00CAD Monkey in the Hospital - Day 2<em>I was good and had this all ready to post yesterday, but Blogger had "issues." Guess that's what I get for refusing to pay for a domain...</em><br /><br /><u>May 25 - Nursezilla</u><br /><br />The night after surgery consisted of one- to two-hour increments of foggy non-sleep; broken up by my IV tower beeping (low battery, out of blood, <em>I’m a pain-in-the-ass machine ha ha ha</em>), the nurse coming in to check my vitals, and the tech coming in to empty my catheter bag and surgical drains.<br /><br />That, and the spasms. All of my limbs seemed to have a case of the twitchies, which wasn’t so bad, until it was my right leg’s turn again. My whole leg would kick, sending a shooting pain through my hip that woke me from whatever form of sleep I had been enjoying.<br /><br />Around 7:00am on Day 2, things started to look better: breakfast appeared on my overbed table. People started calling my mom to see how I was doing, and the standard answer was, “she’s got food in front of her now, so she’s happy.”<br /><br />Given that my nurse the night before had been so cheerful and attentive, I had no idea what was coming. My nurse for the day seemed nice enough, if a little cranky, in the morning. By that evening, however, I wanted her dead.<br /><br />I started to feel feverish at around 4, and I asked her to take my temperature. Nursezilla said she “already <em>had</em> taken my temperature” (3 hours before), that it was 100, and that they “don’t do anything until it goes above 101.” For the next several hours, I tried to nap, but I felt like my head was boiling.<br /><br />I called for Nursezilla when the IV tower started beeping; saying it was on low battery. She didn’t come. A short while later, I called again when <em>my epidural ran dry</em>. She didn’t come. Did I mention that I was being given <em>no other pain medication</em> besides said epidural?<br /><br />Finally, the charge nurse came in, and found me sobbing uncontrollably, and my mother with a vein about to burst out of her forehead. Nursezilla came in shortly thereafter, with the nurse who would be working overnight. They didn’t say anything to me at all; they just stood at the IV tower, trying to figure out how to get it going again.<br /><br />Finally, Nursezilla took my temperature (I can only guess the charge nurse made her do it). <strong>101.6</strong>. Suck it, Nursezilla. I wasn’t just whining after all! She gave me some Tylenol… and told us we needed to <em>close the curtains</em>, because it was the sun coming in the window that was making me feverish! Then she turned the thermostat down to <strong>60</strong> and left for the night, saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I just groaned and lay back down. And froze my ass off all night.<br /><br />My poor mother stayed with me all night- for the second night in a row- because she was afraid to leave me at their mercy. I appreciated it more than she’ll ever know, especially since she had to spend the night chasing down someone to empty my catheter bag and drains every few hours, before they burst.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1149622581404911782006-06-06T12:31:00.000-07:002006-06-09T11:55:54.216-07:00CAD Monkey in the Hospital - Day 1<em><strong>I live!</strong><br /><br />I have been back home since the 1st; but there has been some craziness (which I’ll get to in a chronological manner), I’ve been exhausted, and my parents have just left this morning- all of which have made writing low on the priorities list.<br /><br />Starting from the beginning…<br /></em><br /><u>May 24 – Surgery</u><br /><br />My surgery was scheduled for 12:30. I was told to show up by 10:30…so I could then sit around until nearly 1:00. During these two and a half hours, I changed into a hospital gown (thus beginning the <strong>Week of No Pants</strong>!); read a <a href="http://usmagazine.com/blog/index.php">trashy magazine</a>; was grouchy because I hadn’t had food since 7:00 the night before; had my right leg “autographed” by one of the surgeons; and was offered an epidural for post-op pain relief- which I heartily accepted.<br /><br />When I was wheeled into the OR, I remember the anesthesiologist starting the IV, telling me to sit up on the side of the table so they could put in the epidural, injecting <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fentanyl">something lovely</a> into the IV…then fluffy, fluffy clouds.<br /><br />I woke up in recovery; I don’t know how long after the surgery, or how long I stayed there. My mom said it was 8 hours before she got to see me again after they’d wheeled me away. All I remember is hearing the staff talking about how they’d lost my chart, and thinking, <em>well, this is going great so far. At least the correct leg is hurting.</em><br /><br />Boy, howdy, was it hurting. I still had the oxygen mask on, but I was pitifully mewling “<a href="http://www.webmd.com/hw/health_guide_atoz/stp1310.asp">eight</a>” to anybody walking past, attempting to get someone’s attention. I was told I couldn’t have any pain meds until my blood pressure came up, and my pulse went down. This brought on thoughts of <em>go <strong>up</strong>, blood pressure! <strong>Goooooo!!</strong> Mama needs <strong>drugs, now</strong>!!<br /></em><br />At some point in recovery, my right leg started <em>convulsing</em> (seriously- no other word describes it better). One of the nurses tried to hold it down. I was told this was from the anesthesia wearing off. I wished it had chosen the other leg to torture!<br /><br />Somewhere in the haze, I was moved to my room, via a painful transfer off the stretcher. They started to transfuse two units of blood into me over the next several hours. I don’t remember much else, except that my nurse the first night was really nice, and the tech became my best friend when he offered me two kinds of sorbet at 11:00 that night- my first “food” in nearly 30 hours.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375235.post-1148222714642858372006-05-21T07:43:00.000-07:002006-05-21T07:45:14.660-07:00There seems to be some cosmic connection between my impending surgery, my immune system, and the suggestions of my coworkers. <br /><br />Last month, my PA made the comment, “couldn’t you put this off for a little while longer?”<br /><br /><em>Ta dah!</em> I got strep throat for the first time in 15 years, resulting in the surgery being postponed for another month.<br /><br />This past Thursday, another coworker comments that I should be eating light, and trying to take off a little weight before the surgery. I won’t even go into how rude that suggestion is in itself.<br /><br /><em>Ta dah!</em> That very night, I came down with a vile case of food poisoning, and have lost six pounds as a result.<br /><br />I’m glad I’m not supposed to go back to work anymore before the surgery; I shudder to think what the next “suggestion” might inflict upon me.CAD Monkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05888244942012890195noreply@blogger.com4