And it's done.
I gave him the abbreviated tour (there isn't really a full tour), took him to Pita Factory for some dinner, he picked up a trunkload of groceries for me, we kicked tires on some Honda bikes, we went for a beer, a walk around campus, then a coffee, and he was gone.
Exhale.
Again.

So my apartment is as close to spotless as it's been since we moved in. Do I want my damage deposit back? Have I developed an aversion to common household floor germs? Did I finally scratch that ten month old itch with a chainsaw?
Yes. Already had one. Not yet, and I'm going to use a rusty pipe when I do.
My Dad's coming to visit tomorrow.
How bad could it be, right? He's a man, I'm a man, what the hell does he care what my apartment looks like?
To tell the truth, he probably doesn't. My Mum, on the other hand, does. A lot. And she'll be getting detailed reports.
When last the progenitors descended on my erstwhile abode, the Bondage Faerae and I (along with a press-ganged Lucas) spent a day scrubbing, sweeping, mopping, and even completely filling the dumpster at the building next door. The place was fucking spotless. We could have eaten off the damn floor. Hell, we could have eaten off the bathtub. So of course the folks were suitably impressed, right?
Stop that. You in the back. I said stop that. No laughing dammit! Fine, those of you that know about those what raised me may sit in the hall for the remainder of this session. Punk kids.
They didn't even want to sit down. I heard nothing but the phrase "living in filth" for the next two days while they made excuses not to be at my apartment. I swear to whatever you want, the place was immaculate like a Madonna greatest hits collection.
Maybe this time'll be better. My Dad gets a little better when he's flying solo. Sweet Jesus on a medical conveyance of your choice, let him be a little better when he's here without my Mum.

Ah, the unparalleled freedom of the graduate...no classes, no assignments, no exams...

The only problem is, I'm not done yet. Precisely eighteen days to go. Debauchery will commence immediately at 5:00 PM, August 10th 2002. Brownies for all.

Hobo signage becomes Warchalking becomes Whorechalking.

1 small yoghurt for breakfast +

1 donut as a snack +

1 chest workout +

36 degrees (with the humidex) -

1 unit of blood (in ~5 minutes)

-----------------------------------

0 work done for a couple hours

I used to get lectured all the time in the gym: "You're going to tear something if you keep doing that", "You should try fewer sets/protein supplements/more weight/creatine/a split routine", and so on, and so forth.

Then a few terms ago, a fellow gym rat gave me a pile shit for leaving my weights on the leg press. I was all prepared to be pissed off at the guy, but the truth is, he was right. I was leaving more than six hundred pounds of iron on a machine that most people used with about half of that, and when you think about it, that's fairly asinine. So I kept an eye on people using the station, and it looked like the average person used between four and six forty-five pound plates. Since then, I’ve left six or eight plates on the machine when I'm through with it (the same amount of work for the lowest end of the scale, and a good deal less for the upper end, with some inconvenience for extremely low weight users). People have asked me why I don't take all the weights off, and once they consider the fact that no-one uses the machine with no weight on it, they all seem to understand.

So fast forward to yesterday, when I had finished my last set, and a guy asks me if I'm finished.

"Yeah man, it's all yours."
"Can you take the weights off then?"
"Sure, what do you want on there?"
"You're supposed to take them all off."
"I know, but from what I've seen most people use two or three pla-" (while I'm helping him set up for his set)
"You're supposed to take them all off!"
"Yeah, but-"
"You have no justification! No justification! No justification!" (while waving at "Please return weights to racks" poster)
"I -"
"No justification! No justification!"

Right about then, the weights were set up, and I decided I'd had about enough of being shouted at by someone more inclined to think with a poster than whatever passed for his frontal lobes, and I went to finish my workout...the guy followed me to a different station to keep "arguing", at which point I told him to kiss my ass. Not the most mature response, but this wasn't exactly a meeting of the minds. I was then informed, sotto voce, that I shouldn't "fuck with [him]".

I love the smell of testosterone in the morning! I laughed at him 'til he left, but he wasn't kidding. The guy actually wanted a confrontation over this. The sheer stupidity of the whole thing aside, the really hilarious part was that he would have had to do the exact same amount of work if I had taken all the weight off. And yes, he really did say "No justification!" that many times...more actually, because he kept it up as I was walking away.

The first of the last five locks is open, and I still haven't got a clue what's on the other side of the door. Consulting is out (work-life imbalance, and who wants to hang with consultants all day?), all the jobs I'm qualified for require "3-5 yrs. industry experience", Europe isn't going to happen (money, money, money), and neither is law school (it's a rich man's world), at least not for a couple years.

So where does that leave me, your intrepid (but unemployed) host? Two words kids: Organized Crime. The underworld won't know what hit it. It's about damn time someone showed these guys how to run a business, too. From what I can see, it's not that crime doesn't pay, it just doesn't pay efficiently. Give me a small team, maybe a couple of risk analysts, an organizational behaviour specialist with a background in abnormal psychology, one or two other change management guys, and some big-ass guns, and I'll make your mob sing baby.

There's got to be a huge demand for it, given how poorly managed most crime syndicates are. I wonder if anyone actually does this? And if so, where do I apply? And for that matter, if not, who do I pitch it too?

Swagger Solutions...that's got a hell of a ring to it.

A further realization from this past weekend: Stainless steel cookware eats its own weight in ass.

I'm used to being treated like shit. Hell, I even expect it most days. It's all kinds of easy to deal with...hand it back, walk away, flip out, whatever gets it done.

But I've got no idea what to do when everybody bends over backwards to make sure I have a good time. What's the proper protocol when people you barely know feed you, make up a bed for you after you leave for the bar, let you use their kitchen, their pool, their computer? I've never really been all that good with compliments (recieving that is...I can talk more silk than your average spider when I want to) or charity, and my meagre skills were stress tested this weekend.

A whole pack of people showed up in Ottawa, and got treated like visiting royalty while we were there (not to mention on the way). I don't feel as welcome as I did this past weekend when I visit my hometown. I'm honestly considering revisiting my basic assumptions about human nature.

Summertime...when the livin's eas-y