Today was supposed to be a momentous day, one filled with positive news, answers to very important questions and unbridled enthusiasm about the future.
In the end, I got positive news, a pat on the back and asked to reschedule the answers to very important questions, and a karmic reminder that unbridled enthusiasm about the future should be discouraged at all times.
The moral of the story: driving a shitbox can take the wind out of your sails in a heartbeat, no matter how excited you might be.
And now, the story - and I'll even start with the happy part.
Who's got two thumbs and works for Armageddon Fighting Championships? This guy!
You can't see it, but I've got my thumbs up and am pointing back at myself, like Rob Van Dam used to do. I miss RVD.
As of a sweet lunch meeting today at Red Robin (Chicken Ranch Club... delicious), I'm the jack-of-all-trades Media and Public Relations guy for the AFC.
Basically, I write things, try to find things, suggest things and am one of three employees of the organization, though technically, I'm a contracted employee. The technicality is there just so that if I ever do anything stupid, Darren and Jason can disavow me without penalty or repercussion, from me or the law.
Still, technicalities aside, I work for an emerging Mixed Martial Arts organization and get to be pretty hands-on from here on out.
That is the one step forward.
The one step sideways came literally ten seconds after I walked in the door from that meeting.
Yesterday was supposed to be my "contract negotiations" with Heavy.com for the new year. I use the quotes because really - and don't tell them this - outside of them offering me less money, I'm staying put, but you know, only after playing some hardball first.
Anyhow, it got bumped yesterday and rescheduled for today.
Long story short, it got rescheduled again for early next week. While some positives came from the brief phone conversation with my new editor - he likes my work, sees the dedication and talent, wants me as part of the core team - I have no idea what kind of money I'll be making, which means tomorrow's joyous resignation from Islands West Produce isn't happening.
Interestingly enough, my editor calling wasn't who I was expecting on the other end of the phone. I was expecting Canadian Tire.
For my 17 American readers out there, Canadian Tire would be like if your local Mienke had a store attached to it that sold everything from hardware and electronics, to sporting goods, lighting and seasonal items.
True story - our '93 Honda Shitbox was leaking gas. Not really sure for how long, but long enough that today was the day we finally decided to check if it was our car after convincing ourselves for the last couple weeks that it had to be the boat in the driveway, Monica's car or something Derek spilled while filling up his snowmobile.
Turns out, it was the Civic and we really shouldn't have been driving.
Sidenote: good thing I quit smoking. One flicked cigarette blown the wrong way and I wouldn't be here writing this... Smoking can kill in so many ways. God I miss smoking...
The call from Crappy Tire eventually came, along with an estimate for roughly $500, depending on how bad things are.
It's a '93 Civic with decent amounts of rust around the back wheel wells, over 190,000 klicks on the dial, and we've spent a good 50% of what we paid for it fixing things in the year-and-a-half we've owned it.
The chances of "depending on how bad things are" coming back as not too bad at all are slim and none.
Ah, I see you have a vacancy at The Poor House. I'll take a room. Thanks.
Win some, lose some, throw a whole bunch of money at some.
Or as I like to call it... Tuesday.