I spent about 30 hours this week turning the Mesa house over for new renters. It hurt, seriously anal-rape hurt, lower-back missing workouts hurt, sawdust and diatomaceous earth in my pores and gravel and drywall turdlings from the ceiling under my fingernails hurt. We pocketed a nice chunk and didn’t miss a month of income.

This same week a little QA contract I have been nudging into place finally kicked off.   Plying my skeelz for myowndamnself.   I’m psyched about the tax write-off potential, and a new challenge, drawing inspiration from a weekend snowboarding with a college bud who’s been banging away in Silicon Valley for 15 years.   I made in the morning almost enough to cover the new dishwasher the old house needed, more-than-enough if you include the sick day i took from work. The cell phone was ringing from 4 different masters once you add in Beckie. The dishwasher repairman asked me when i walked in: how much do you like this dishwasher?

I wonder at the cost of my free time, my investments, my income stream, and any sweet spot along the calculus curve of comfort and value and happiness and sunsets and beautiful children. Planning and endowments, risk aversion and fidelity, adult responsibilities.

I am tentatively calling my contract job ‘Snowboard Telluride.’   Or, ‘Firebird‘.   I haven’t decided.   Its a fun decision to make. Beckie just did a little contract job last weekend, a brain-for-hire, pecking away on her laptop while I drove us to Rocky Point. I was calling that ‘PT Bike‘, hoping she wouldn’t figure it out til she saw the credit card bill. She was a step ahead of me, and thought the Malice would be a nice birthday gift for me and the girls, while treating herself to patio furniture.

Are we conditioned to work hard, harder than needed?   Or are we still on the curve, maximizing our utility while our skills are most relevant?   I can not tell the difference, i’m so programmed, so settled into pushing the rock. I hope its the later, i’m not sure.

Last week Alana crashed the entire checkout system at the Library, in 15 seconds.   None of my apology, my professional qualifications, nor my assertion that their supplier should not leave a master switch exposed at perfect toddler arm-level shook the librarian’s mousy posture. I was actually quite amused, relishing the power in the opening for my expertise, after G’s delays gave Alana an opening. If your barcode reader is good enough to identify the book and author and serial number, why does it report a bad swipe? If your system can be brought to its knees by a 2-yr old, you have a serious bug.

Earlier, a kindly old snarky Library volunteer informed us how the girls’ squeals were carrying.   Why do you build a magical children’s discovery room, with puppets and blocks and magnets and puzzles, encourage kids to develop a love of reading, and separate it from the main reading room by only partition walls?

i am living by the sword.