and my dad calls

Well, it was bound to happen.

Squishy has officially outgrown its britches, and I’m moving the site to a new webhosting company, with more space. Because of this, at some point next week the mail server might go down for a little while, or depending on InterNIC, it might be a couple of days before you see the change. You might not notice anything different. That’s my goal. But if there’s a bleep or a bug, just be patient. It’ll be all fixed soon.

I’m also getting a new forum. What with the way Rob’s had to bite the dust recently, and the fact that my new hosting company allows for cgi, I’m planning on finally making the move to UBB. I’m going to archive the old forum, so we don’t lose any of that great old content, but to make new forum topics/posts, you’ll have to register. This means greater security for you, easier moderating for me, and more fun for all. I promise. I want to make this easy on you guys, so if you have any concerns, problems or questions, feel free to let me know.

It also means that I’m going to be a bit busy with this site for a little while. I’m wondering a few things: do you guys ever use the “drawers” section of the site? Do you go and search by category? Do you use the search engine? Do you use the day-by-day? Do you check out my links? Just curious.

I bought an Abba CD last week. I think that I much prefer the occasional Abba song surprising me on the radio or at a club than an entire CD full of it. I’m pretty burnt out by “Voulez Vous.” Just an observation. I find that to be the case with several CD’s I’ve purchased lately. I never finish the Eminem CD, and I always turn off The Bloodhound Gang, as eventually it’s just stupid.

I’m showing a new person around at work. This always, for me, exposes my slovenly office habits. I had to move three piles of papers just to show her a manual. At one point I had to minimize sixteen windows on my desktop to find a folder. In doing so, she also got to see that I surf Mighty Big TV, The Onion, and Big Brother (for a piece I’m writing). She also asked when my birthday was, since my office is covered in balloons and streamers from the day they decorated. I did notice her slight frown when I informed her it was three months ago.

I have empty packs of cigarettes on my desk, surrounded in Dr. Evil figures. I have a coffee mug filled with candle wax. The wick died a long time ago. I have Nerf darts, but have no gun. I have a Spice Girls poster with Ginger Spices’ face still covered by a stickie with a question mark written on it. I have a quarter taped to the wall from an old office friend who gave it to me as a tip nine months ago.

I mostly close my office door, as when I get working my music gets rather loud. No one complains. In fact, my neighbor across the hall has those floor speakers going when she listens to music, and it sounds like I work next to a nightclub. There are days when my chair moves from her base. I used to worry that I was the freak of the hall, what with on any given day Perry Ferrell is screaming about sex being violent, or Prodigy smacking a bitch up, but now that Top Volume Top Forty has moved in across the hall, I’m the angel of Marketing.

So, imagine my surprise when my father called me at work today to discuss flight information and told me to turn my music down.

I was working on the computer when he called. At the time, one of the applications was frozen, and I was trying to shut down the operation. I asked dad to hold for a second while I fixed the machine before it crashed.

“It probably can’t work over your loud music.”

“Dad, I’m just next to the speaker, that’s all.”


“Okay, now what were those dates and times you were saying?”

“I can’t think with that racket playing.”

“Dad, it’s just Abba.”

“I don’t care what it is, turn it down if you’re going to talk to me.”

So, at work, I might be a grown-up, but when Dad calls my office line, I’m still grounded for my music being too loud. It just figures.

In any event, I gotta go. I think my mom’s calling me. I’m sure she’s gonna tell me that my office is a pig sty and that she doesn’t want my co-workers to think I was raised in a barn.

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