Beams alight from broken sky
Hallowed ether to the ground
A vacant plot of reclaimed land
A moment’s pause it doth demand
Breaking free from worlds on high
To pierce the gloom without a sound.
I hate winter.
–Simon
AVP-Ness
A middle-management banking title, AVP (Assistant Vice President) can mean whatever the company wants it to. In my case, it appears to mean more to my employer than it does to other banks, as it’s defined with a higher pay band than the junior-level exempt positions, whilst other banks tend to use it solely to define a more senior employee, often devoid of significant pay delineation. But regardless the salary details, the title identifies a certain managerial level–one specifically higher than a mere supervisor who manages a team’s time cards.
I am, at present, an AVP of Marketing Email Management (AVP, Email Manager, to be exact).
And with that grossly uninteresting introduction, I’ll segue to the actual joke. As Liz also holds an AVP title at a financial company, we have modified the title in self-mockery of who we’ve become in regards to such socioeconomic standing. We call it AVP-Ness (say it out loud if you’re having trouble getting it). Clever, I know. But it serves a useful function. It’s a reminder to appreciate what we have and to keep hubris in check, as while job success requires a certain degree of experience and ability, possessing these qualities alone doesn’t guarantee success, to which anyone underemployed can attest.
And AVP-Ness can creep up unexpectedly. But I will be the first to admit it! Here are some examples:
And there you have it. We have achieved success, but in the spirit of the Holidays and in the words of Bing Crosby, and overlooking the religious implications of the exact wording, “I count my blessings”, because “when my bankroll is getting small I think of when I had none at all”.
Hoping everyone had a good Christmas!
–Simon
Luck
Falling somewhat behind on my posts over the holiday, I’m going to throw out one of those lazy “Here’s a random picture with some commentary” posts.
Behold:
I’ve never seen a five-leaf clover.
The internet tells me it’s called a “Rose Clover”, and will bring me wealth. Woohoo!
–Simon
Ode to that Tiny Fleck of Debris That Won’t Dislodge from my Eyeglasses
Static cling or Van der Waals?
You grasp eternally
Upon the lens, you won’t let go
A force of air
I breathe upon
The tiny speck–a mighty foe
Calm turns into fury.
I’m huffing, puffing, wheezing
Tenacity, I think
I will not touch the lens, to smear
And so I blow
Until at last
Expectorate, my greatest fear
I wash now in the sink.
Forced Childhood
Every artist has their medium. Snow is not my daughter’s. My theory (based on the current state of her basement art studio), is that snow is too monochrome (#FFFFFF is sooo pedestrian).
Yet this irritates me, probably due to my own childhood memories. Texas didn’t offer much in the way of snow, and as our culture as a whole is heavily influenced by the Midwest and New England and their associated images of holiday blizzards, Christmas time always carried with it a bit of melancholy as I peered out the window across a wind-swept and barren Dust Bowl landscape. I never once rode a sled in my childhood, and on only one notable occasion do I remember building a snowman (to which my dad added breasts, followed by mom administering a mastectomy via garden trowel).
But the joke’s on this youngest generation. Climate change will either warm the region beyond the point of regular snow, or cool it to the point that it destroys us. Either way, those quaint Rockwellian scenes will vanish alongside the planet’s biodiversity. And I, Dad, will mock my child for her youthful indifference.
–Simon