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According to the corporate offices that oversee the retail copy center I work at, it is cheaper for us to leave our copiers in power save mode all night than it is to shut them off when we close the store.

Go figure.

My mother, Elaine Gendron Constable, died unexpectedly yesterday at the age of 55.

This cartridge once dispensed corn, apparently.

First of all, I’m sorry if you posted a comment and it hasn’t shown up on the site yet. I had to turn on moderation because Akismet is absolutely craptastic. Until I move back to SpamKarma, posting comments is probably not the best way to get a hold of me.

If you’re having trouble when using Cricket Moods with WP 2.2, keep in mind I have not tested at all with 2.2. It specifically says in the readme that it’s only been tested up to version 2.1.2. I simply don’t have the time to take care of this right now. If anyone wants to submit a patch that fixes the issue, I’ll be more than happy to incorporate the patch, give them credit, and release a new version.

Until then, I apologize.

After four months of unemployed bliss and non-stop coding, gaming, and loving on my fiancée, I am once again employed at a retail printed document reproduction center. That is, I’m working at a copy shop… again. However, it is at a different national office supply store chain¹.

This time, however, I’m not working at the regional hub. No more 50,000 click² jobs with binding and collating due in a week for me. I get to send that crap³ to the hub! <insert evil maniacal laugh here>

For those of you playing at home, the title of today’s entry is the Wiktionary’s definition of the word “job.”

1. I am being intentionally vague to protect myself and my employer from any litigation that may result from my ramblings posted on The Cricket Log. [↩]
2. A click is industry terminology for a printed side of a page. [↩]
3. Well paying crap, but crap nonetheless. [↩]

Wisdom teeth suck… Stupid vestigial relics from a time when humans didn’t protect their teeth.

Yeah, I had all four of mine extracted. Oh the pain… the pain…

Thank you, doctor, for prescribing hydrocodone.

“Billy Jean, I’m going to count to ten… no twelve. If you’re not sitting down by then… One… Two… Three… Four… Billy Jean, sweetie, sit down please.” Meanwhile, the child in question is running around screaming “No!” repeatedly at what sounds to be the full force of her lungs.

The preceding re-enactment occurred today in the copy center at which I work and is reproduced here nearly verbatim. Why the mother decides to give her child ten seconds to comply—never mind twelve seconds—boggles my brain. I never received a grace period of more than three seconds from my mother. I generally never misbehaved past one and a half seconds when facing a ruler or fly-swatter poised to strike on the count of “three.” I behaved because I knew that she would follow through with her threat, be it a stinging whack from an implement or a simple privilege reduction. I knew she would do it, because she had never backed down before.

I assume little Billy Jean never listens to her mother because her mother very rarely, if ever, follows through.