Well, there's just so darned much to post. Where to begin... A few anecdotes, a few pieces of good news... hrm.

I'll start with an anecdote.

Sunday was one of the more wretched days I've spent in a good long while. Sometimes it's difficult to articulate the recipe for a bad day... you just sort of know you're in the middle of one around lunchtime. Carey and I have been rather pitiful when it comes to doing the dishes lately, which has left our sink a towering, dirty pile of porcelain madness. Each morning we say to each other: "today's the day. The dishes must be done." And, inevitably, the day escapes us and we end up blowing our cash by running down to Z-Pizza for a calzone to go. It's a vicious cycle.

Well, Sunday I said "no more." Carey went shopping for some supplies to finally finish the table she's been building for the past year and a half. While she was gone, I dove into the kitchen melee. As a point of subtlety, Carey recntly purchased some rubber dishwashing gloves for me, so I decided to give them a try. And the dishwashing commenced. My tool of choice is that little spongy-scrubber thing with the dishwashing liquid reservoir in the handle. If that thing can't get out the stains... it ain't comin' out.

About 5 minutes in, a cereal bowl slipped out of my hand and into the sink. It exploded into a million fragments, causing me to curse. Shaking my head, knowing the wife would be displeased, I scooped up the pieces, tossed them into the trash and continued. I hate breaking dishes.

Couple minutes later, same deal over again. Cereal bowl slips out of my hand... crash. This one didn't explode, however. It just chipped a big enough piece off of the rim to make it unusable. Ever see the movie Platoon? Vietnam flick about a few guys who decide to try and get wounded badly enough to go home and stop fighting, yet not too badly as to kill or paralyze or permanently maim themselves? I think this little bowl had the same mission in mind. It taunted me as I placed it at the back of the cupboard. "Ha ha HAH," it seemed to say, "I'm still a bowl, with all my bowl-like qualities, yet I'm too unsightly to use! You've no choice but to retire me to the back of the cupboard as some sort of 'Emergency Bowl' where I shall live a life of ease and comfort for the rest of my days." Needless to say, I swore even louder at that little jerk. I even pounded my hand against the side of the sink, in rage, which bruised my thumb and made each dish painful to scrub. At this point, I was a bubbling blob of anger.

5 minutes later, I pulled a glass out of the soapy water to discover that it was... the top half of a glass. Sharp and jagged, it taunted me most of all. "HA HA HA!!! You didn't even KNOW I was broken, did you?! Your move, loser!"

Well, I screamed a string of profanities normally reserved for sailors or rappers or violent Bruce Willis movies. At the absolute height of my one-man tirade, I picked up the spongy scrubber and FLUNG it as hard as I could in a random direction.

It was then that Satan himself leapt up from Hell and posessed the spongy scrubber.

The spongy scrubber flew, in perfect trajectory, out the kitchen door and through the dining room. It pinpointed one of the only pieces of decoration in the entire dining room, a little 8" X 8" framed picture of fruit that Carey adores more than anything in the whole house. The glass from the picture erupted everywhere, covering the table, the carpet, the chairs, a few cat toys that happened to be in there... EVERYthing coated in itty-bitty fragments of razor-sharp, transparent insanity.

I stood, dumbstruck, looking at the dining room... wondering how complicated it is to buy a gun. I carefully walked out into the living room, sat in a chair, and trembled. It was over. The kitchen had beaten me.

Then Carey came home.

Well, I won't go into much futher detail, other than to say that she was actually very gracious about the whole affair. She helped me pick up the glass in the dining room and told me I didn't have to wash any more dishes that night. I vaccumed the floor and the chairs and that was that.

But, two days later, the other dishes remain to taunt me. Still dirty. Still dangerous.
...

Anyhow, the next day (yesterday) was a complete turn-around. I received a few calls with requests for illustration work, which is always wonderful. Then, around 2:00 or so, Tim Howell of Binary Pulse (a design and ad house in Costa Mesa) called to offer me a permanent position with his group. He offered part-time work (3 days a week), which gels very nicely with all of my other interests and commitments. So, I told him yes.

Really, that was the whole point of this post. Both Carey and I now have jobs. I'm tickled pink to join Binary Pulse. They're easily the most impressive and warmest group I've come across of all the scores of resumes I've sent out. It seems to be a great fit. To check them out, their website (our website, I guess I should say), can be found at this link.

Thanks, Tim Howell and Drew Mehl. I'm looking forward to starting with you on Thursday.