As of last Saturday, I have been at my current job for ten years. There was no party, no gold watch, no token ten-year pin. As a matter of fact, it would have gone totally unacknowledged if I hadn't mentioned it. (Insert heavy sigh here.) Does no one remember the days of employers giving gifts for work anniversaires? Pins? Plaques? Bonuses? Those were the days.
Being on the job for ten years creates a number of interesting statistics. I'm assuming that that is the proper phraseology - a 'number' of statistics. A 'pod' of statistics like a 'pod' of whales doesn't sound right, and a 'murder' of statistics like a 'murder' of crows, might seem appropriate, but a little over the top...unless you're buried in statistics, then it might be the best option. Back to the 'number' of statistics. Being on the job for ten years means approximately 3652 days have passed, assuming that two leap years are included. These are not exact statistics, so don't burn the math. Of these 3652 days, 1040 of them were weekends. Not to say I didn't work any weekends, but for the sake of this demonstration let's say I didn't. So were down to 2612 days. For the first five years, I had two weeks of vacation per year, one week of sick days and about five odd holiday - give or take one or two depending on if Christmas and New Year's day were on a weekend. Let's go with five. So that is four weeks off (remember - we've already excluded weekends, so a 'week' is now five business days) for each of the first five years, and since after five years, our vacation is increased to three weeks - five weeks off for each of the second five years, for a total of forty-five weeks off over ten years. Let's add a week for the occasional snow day and those odd Christmas/New Year's days. So - forty-six weeks off over ten years, for a total of 230 days, which takes our grand total down to 2382 days of actual work.
I have walked into that building and that office door at least 2382 times. Imagine doing anything 2382 times. It's a little mind boggling (unless you're a teenaged boy - in which case you can imagine doing 'something' 2382 in one year.) To put it in perspective....if someone handed me a penny each time I walked in, I would have $23.82. That would buy my lunch for, oh, about a week. That seems a little pathetic, so let's up it to $1.00 a day which would give me $2382.00. That's a little better - at least I could purchase a nice refridgerator/freezer combo or a hundred new DVDs on sale If we raise it to $10.00 a day, I could have banked $23,820.00, which would be a nice little nest egg to survive on, for say....six months. I'm going to recommend this to anyone who is working - besides your pension and 401K, put at least another $10.00 a day into a bank account you don't touch. I think of the interest I could have accrued and I need to go cry now.
I'm back. What if we raise it to $100.00 a day? Then I would have $238,200.00 which seems much better. With that you could buy a decent house in the midwest - not a mansion by any stretch, but a decent house. Now..if you break it down, a hundred dollars a day is only $12.50 an hour for an eight-hour-day. I don't think I'm breaking any rules by saying that I've more than averaged this over the past ten years. Where the hell is my $238,200.00?????
Maybe a 'murder' of statistics is more accurate.
Next year I will have an additional week of vacation added for a total of four weeks vacation, a week of sick time and the odd five holidays. Ok, ok...I know...it's no longer 'vacation time', but 'Personal Time Off" or PTO time. Next year I'll have twenty-five days of PTO time and the odd five holidays for a total of six weeks (business weeks - five days- remember?). I jokingly tell my co-workers that I am taking twenty of those days and simply taking February off. I'll just leave on January 31st and say 'See you in March.' I found this amusing until one killjoy employee, who shall remain nameless (mostly because I can't remember who it was -remember who's blogging here folks!), pointed out that, "I don't think they'd let you do that. Most places won't let you do that.' People, I can't even imagine what my desk would look like after taking a month off, mostly because I probably wouldn't be able to unearth it when I got back. If you don't have a sense of humor, get one - you'll love it. And they're free.
I'm sure I'll have no problem using my six weeks off. A new policy last year declared that we could no longer come in early, work through lunch or leave late to make up for, say, a doctor's appointment. You have to use your PTO time every time. You don't realize it for a while, but this really nickles and dimes your PTO time to death (a 'murder' of PTO time perhaps?) This is the first year that I will not have five days of vacation time to carry over (it was vacation time for nine years - hard habit to break!). Twenty hours of PTO time (are you happy now?) is the most you can carry over to the next year. Last year, horror of horrors, I gave up about twelve hours of time because I had more than a week left. In my defense, our management didn't tell us until the end of November that we had to use our vaca...sigh..PTO time off (ok, that's a little redundant!) before December 20th. I had holiday plans, but there is too much work to do to take too much time off in December. Believe me, that will never happen again. It's only the beginning of September and I have less than a weeks worth of time left to take off this year. Damn that nickle and diming.
Back to my six weeks. Since there are only fifty-two weeks in a year, this means that I will have over one-tenth of the year off. That would mean that if I worked every available day next year, I could get up and leave about fifty minutes early every day! 1540? I'm out of here! I could take every Friday off for the first thirty weeks of the year. Every Friday from January thru the middle of August. I could take an entire week off every other month. Or two weeks off ever fourth month. Or the entire month of February and two other weeks just to spite the killjoy. Damn the buried desk.
To recap, over the past ten years, I've had about forty-six weeks off. That, in really, really rounding-up land, is almost working nine years and getting the tenth one off. This makes me feel a little better that I didn't get a pin or a bonus. But not much. Our office is moving at the end of October and I will actually have a window in my new office, with real sunlight and everything. For the past six odd years, I've been in a windowless cave, but being that my ancestors are from Transylvania, this really hasn't been a bad thing - I'm really, really, really, really white. Ask anyone. I'm practically translucent. It will still be nice to have a window in a bigger office. I think I've earned it.
So, I'll lay in a supply of sunscreen, keep the blinds closed (especially in the morning!) and once in a while I'll peer out over the parking deck next store to see downtown. If I'm still at this job, this will this be my view for the next ten years. ........minus sixty weeks or so.
Holly
Friday, September 4, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
What if I had done that instead?
Life is full of what-ifs, could-have-beens and might-have-beens. From simple "If I had had a salad for lunch instead of pizza, I might not feel so sleepy right now" to "If I had not married him, I could be a corporate executive by now." So many choices - so many different levels of severity, but all important to the individual. Unfortunately, it's something I think about every day - I seem to have made more than my share of bad decisions in my life. I envy those people who have few regrets.
The first big bad decision I can remember is my choice of clothing for my first day of high school. It was the first year my private Lutheran high school had decided to let girls wear pants (and no, it wasn't the 50's!). My mother had taken me shopping and in spite of the fact that she already had four other children either in or already out of this school, let me buy red, white and blue checked pants. Three-inch checks. I thought they were the greatest, but probably not the best choice considering five minutes after I got to school, the vice-principal came up to me and said 'Do you think those were the best choice?" Those pants never saw the light of day again. But, what if I hadn't worn them? The vice-principal never would have noticed me and he might not have black-balled me from the choir after try-outs. I'm not a bad singer, so I chalked it up to that or the fact that he had disliked my brother and maybe was taking it out on me. Or maybe it was a combination of both. Either way, I blame the pants - or my decision to wear the pants. I guess, technically, the pants were innocent - but that doesn't stop that memory from being permanently etched in my brain. If you've read my previous blogs, you know that is something!
Other decisions that may have been questionable, but on a much larger scale, were getting sucked into party life by my first college roomate and neglecting my studies. Ok, to put the blame where it belongs, I allowed myself to be sucked into part life. I learned that lesson, quit that school and started commuting to a community college - much better for me...but what if I hadn't met her.....would I have stayed at that university and graduated from there? If that I happened, I might not have ever met my first husband, and quit school to get married. There is no what-if about that bad decision. Quitting school to marry a nineteen-year-old musician (who, in his defense, was studying to be an electrical engineer)? No nineteen-year-old musician has sown all his wild oats, which became apparent, oh, approximately twelve days after our wedding which was the first time I recall him cheating on me. We were married about a year - we actually signed divorce papers while out to dinner celebrating our first anniversary. It was slightly awkward when the waiter brought us a cake. Chris, by the way, is now a successful electrical engineer on his third marriage. During his second marriage, he tried to have an affair with me - one bad decision I did not make, thank heavens. He got a college education, I got a divorce.
My second marriage I can't regret, because it gave me my children. Well, technically, I guess we didn't have to be married to have the children and knowing Gary as I do, he would have been fine with that too. Of course he would have been married to someone else at the time (you know, the woman he was engaged to when I met him.) I would not trade my children for anything. I made a lot of mistakes raising them, but they're intelligent, don't do drugs, they're not alcoholics and they never killed the neighbor's cat. All in all, not bad these days. I might have restricted the video games more and forced them to do more outdoor play, but those were hard times and I just wanted them to be happy. (For the record, I don't blame video games for kid's behavior, it just keeps them inside and to quiescent). I don't think their father ever took a break from cheating on me. Not many staid expressions are rock solid, but the 'once a cheater, always a cheater' seems to be one that is true - at least in my experience.
So...if I had never married him, my life path would have changed dramatically. I might still be working for a big three company - I might even be an executive by now. I might have married my current husband under much different circumstances and maybe had more children. Heaven only knows.
I can say with absolute certainty that I've made a few bad monetary decisions. If I hadn't bought this and that I might have had more money in savings. If my husband had kept his 9-5 job instead of starting his own company, we probably would be more financially secure, but he would be miserable, so who can call supporting him in that a bad decision? I know he would back me if I wanted to leave my job. Should I have insisted that my son go to a less expensive school? Maybe, but then I see how much he has grown in some aspects. He's really happy there and isn't it my responsibilty to see him be happy. I wanted to raise strong independent children and that I achieved (or over-achieved!). I have a soft-spot for my kids, as do most people, and it has cost me financially - from the over abundance of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures to cars and college tuition. But I can't regret any of those decisions. I probably should, but I don't. (My husband might differ with me on this, but he indulges me, bless his heart, becuase he feels these are his kids too, and he doesn't have to look like a softy - he can point it all back to me.)
I really, really, would like to quit my job and write a book. There are about ten of them running around in my head (just ask my sister - she's heard all the plots), but I just can't make that financial leap right now. I should have made this leap about twenty years ago - not making that decision I absolutely do regret. First it was - "I'll have my first book published by the time I'm forty." Then it became fifty - and even that is not realistic at all now. So, I guess I'll have to shoot for sixty. Tis is not a goal, however that I'm prepared to give up. I've not, nor will I ever, give up that dream.
Right now, in my life, I can think of at least a dozen major decisions I could make regarding my job, my family, my health, my BMI, my hair (hey - it's a major decision for me!) and a myriad of other things. It just all seems too...........hard. Baby steps, even for adults, are often necessary.
This blog was a decision for me, and I think it was a good one. My friends were the impetus behind this decision - bless them all. Thanks guys - I'll always remember and never regret this decision, or you.
Holly
The first big bad decision I can remember is my choice of clothing for my first day of high school. It was the first year my private Lutheran high school had decided to let girls wear pants (and no, it wasn't the 50's!). My mother had taken me shopping and in spite of the fact that she already had four other children either in or already out of this school, let me buy red, white and blue checked pants. Three-inch checks. I thought they were the greatest, but probably not the best choice considering five minutes after I got to school, the vice-principal came up to me and said 'Do you think those were the best choice?" Those pants never saw the light of day again. But, what if I hadn't worn them? The vice-principal never would have noticed me and he might not have black-balled me from the choir after try-outs. I'm not a bad singer, so I chalked it up to that or the fact that he had disliked my brother and maybe was taking it out on me. Or maybe it was a combination of both. Either way, I blame the pants - or my decision to wear the pants. I guess, technically, the pants were innocent - but that doesn't stop that memory from being permanently etched in my brain. If you've read my previous blogs, you know that is something!
Other decisions that may have been questionable, but on a much larger scale, were getting sucked into party life by my first college roomate and neglecting my studies. Ok, to put the blame where it belongs, I allowed myself to be sucked into part life. I learned that lesson, quit that school and started commuting to a community college - much better for me...but what if I hadn't met her.....would I have stayed at that university and graduated from there? If that I happened, I might not have ever met my first husband, and quit school to get married. There is no what-if about that bad decision. Quitting school to marry a nineteen-year-old musician (who, in his defense, was studying to be an electrical engineer)? No nineteen-year-old musician has sown all his wild oats, which became apparent, oh, approximately twelve days after our wedding which was the first time I recall him cheating on me. We were married about a year - we actually signed divorce papers while out to dinner celebrating our first anniversary. It was slightly awkward when the waiter brought us a cake. Chris, by the way, is now a successful electrical engineer on his third marriage. During his second marriage, he tried to have an affair with me - one bad decision I did not make, thank heavens. He got a college education, I got a divorce.
My second marriage I can't regret, because it gave me my children. Well, technically, I guess we didn't have to be married to have the children and knowing Gary as I do, he would have been fine with that too. Of course he would have been married to someone else at the time (you know, the woman he was engaged to when I met him.) I would not trade my children for anything. I made a lot of mistakes raising them, but they're intelligent, don't do drugs, they're not alcoholics and they never killed the neighbor's cat. All in all, not bad these days. I might have restricted the video games more and forced them to do more outdoor play, but those were hard times and I just wanted them to be happy. (For the record, I don't blame video games for kid's behavior, it just keeps them inside and to quiescent). I don't think their father ever took a break from cheating on me. Not many staid expressions are rock solid, but the 'once a cheater, always a cheater' seems to be one that is true - at least in my experience.
So...if I had never married him, my life path would have changed dramatically. I might still be working for a big three company - I might even be an executive by now. I might have married my current husband under much different circumstances and maybe had more children. Heaven only knows.
I can say with absolute certainty that I've made a few bad monetary decisions. If I hadn't bought this and that I might have had more money in savings. If my husband had kept his 9-5 job instead of starting his own company, we probably would be more financially secure, but he would be miserable, so who can call supporting him in that a bad decision? I know he would back me if I wanted to leave my job. Should I have insisted that my son go to a less expensive school? Maybe, but then I see how much he has grown in some aspects. He's really happy there and isn't it my responsibilty to see him be happy. I wanted to raise strong independent children and that I achieved (or over-achieved!). I have a soft-spot for my kids, as do most people, and it has cost me financially - from the over abundance of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures to cars and college tuition. But I can't regret any of those decisions. I probably should, but I don't. (My husband might differ with me on this, but he indulges me, bless his heart, becuase he feels these are his kids too, and he doesn't have to look like a softy - he can point it all back to me.)
I really, really, would like to quit my job and write a book. There are about ten of them running around in my head (just ask my sister - she's heard all the plots), but I just can't make that financial leap right now. I should have made this leap about twenty years ago - not making that decision I absolutely do regret. First it was - "I'll have my first book published by the time I'm forty." Then it became fifty - and even that is not realistic at all now. So, I guess I'll have to shoot for sixty. Tis is not a goal, however that I'm prepared to give up. I've not, nor will I ever, give up that dream.
Right now, in my life, I can think of at least a dozen major decisions I could make regarding my job, my family, my health, my BMI, my hair (hey - it's a major decision for me!) and a myriad of other things. It just all seems too...........hard. Baby steps, even for adults, are often necessary.
This blog was a decision for me, and I think it was a good one. My friends were the impetus behind this decision - bless them all. Thanks guys - I'll always remember and never regret this decision, or you.
Holly
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Why couldn't I remember?
As we age, and boy are we aging, we find our memories aren't what they used to be. I read an article on msn.com the other day that said that not being able to find your car in the parking lot, or not remembering someone's name is not necessarily a sign of Alzheimer's or dementia. According to the article if you can't remember the word for a popsicle and say something akin to 'ice on a stick,' that might be a warning sign.
Well, I frequently forget where I parked my car, but that has been going on since I started driving. One time, many years ago, I carried on a conversation with someone I had worked with for three years and was totally unable to remember their name. Check those off the list.
Several weeks ago, I printed some papers at work, matched them with other papers as per protocol and filed them awaiting the remainder of the paperwork needed to complete them. I promptly then went back to the printer looking for the papers I had printed and was quite upset when I couldn't find them. It was only when I gave up and went to reprint them that I discovered by previous actions. I almost called my doctor for a CT scan order, but decided against it.
This week, while working on this blog, I forgot how to spell the work existence. I found myself on dictionary.com typing in igsistence to find the spelling. I think I will have that CT scan ordered.
Memory is an odd thing. I always thought that forgetting little things was my brains way of making sure there was room for the important things. I would love to be one of the scientific anomolies who use more than the average capacity of their brain. I've read that the average human only uses 10 -30% of their brain capacity. Imagine what you could accomplish if you could use it all.
My mother has Alzheimers. I don't see her as often as I'd like or as often as I should, and I miss her terribly. The problem is that after I see her, I miss her even more because she is not my mom anymore. Actually that is not true - she is still my mother, I'm just not her daughter. She seems to enjoy seeing me, and thinks I'm a very nice person. Considering she doesn't know who I am, I take that as a compliment every time. The last time I saw her, she leaned over after we has visited for awhile and said "You might want to pull up you shirt. I don't think you want to be wearing it that low." I thought my shirt was respectable, but I thanked her for pointing it out to me and yanked it up.
We had brought pictures of family and she would take great delight in telling my father - Look Bill, this is our daughter (or grandson, or son). She seems to remember my father more than anyone - sometimes as her husband, sometimes just as someone who comes every night to sit with her and watch Wheel Of Fortune and stay for a few hours. She recently hurt her leg and was confined to a wheelchair. After she recovered, she didn't want to get out of the wheelchair and walk. My father was pretty insistant that she get up, but my thought was if she is happy in the chair, let her have the chair.
My grandmother on my father's side had Alzheimers and ALS. I cannot imaging the horror of not only losing your memory but losing control of your body also. To have no idea who these people are that are helping you use the bathroom, and bathing you and not being able to hold your head up or call for help. She was a saint and I hope when she got to heaven she got to stand up tall and say to God "That was a hell of a thing, Lord. Let's not put anyone else through that, ok?"
My mother's mother lived to be ninety-six and just recently passed away. She had to see her daughter's mind go while she still had hers. My mother never asks about her, my dad went to the funeral without her and says if she ever does ask about her mother, he'll just tell her her mother was deceased and she just didn't remember. It's kinder this way.
So, you can see why everytime I can't remember something, I start to panic a little. I'm trying everything I can to avoid the A word, but I'm sure I could be doing more. Which research do you believe?
I know my car is in the garage, my husband's name is Keith and I'm going to go have a popsicle. Guess I'm ok for now.
Not time for that pity party yet - at least not over this topic.
Holly
Well, I frequently forget where I parked my car, but that has been going on since I started driving. One time, many years ago, I carried on a conversation with someone I had worked with for three years and was totally unable to remember their name. Check those off the list.
Several weeks ago, I printed some papers at work, matched them with other papers as per protocol and filed them awaiting the remainder of the paperwork needed to complete them. I promptly then went back to the printer looking for the papers I had printed and was quite upset when I couldn't find them. It was only when I gave up and went to reprint them that I discovered by previous actions. I almost called my doctor for a CT scan order, but decided against it.
This week, while working on this blog, I forgot how to spell the work existence. I found myself on dictionary.com typing in igsistence to find the spelling. I think I will have that CT scan ordered.
Memory is an odd thing. I always thought that forgetting little things was my brains way of making sure there was room for the important things. I would love to be one of the scientific anomolies who use more than the average capacity of their brain. I've read that the average human only uses 10 -30% of their brain capacity. Imagine what you could accomplish if you could use it all.
My mother has Alzheimers. I don't see her as often as I'd like or as often as I should, and I miss her terribly. The problem is that after I see her, I miss her even more because she is not my mom anymore. Actually that is not true - she is still my mother, I'm just not her daughter. She seems to enjoy seeing me, and thinks I'm a very nice person. Considering she doesn't know who I am, I take that as a compliment every time. The last time I saw her, she leaned over after we has visited for awhile and said "You might want to pull up you shirt. I don't think you want to be wearing it that low." I thought my shirt was respectable, but I thanked her for pointing it out to me and yanked it up.
We had brought pictures of family and she would take great delight in telling my father - Look Bill, this is our daughter (or grandson, or son). She seems to remember my father more than anyone - sometimes as her husband, sometimes just as someone who comes every night to sit with her and watch Wheel Of Fortune and stay for a few hours. She recently hurt her leg and was confined to a wheelchair. After she recovered, she didn't want to get out of the wheelchair and walk. My father was pretty insistant that she get up, but my thought was if she is happy in the chair, let her have the chair.
My grandmother on my father's side had Alzheimers and ALS. I cannot imaging the horror of not only losing your memory but losing control of your body also. To have no idea who these people are that are helping you use the bathroom, and bathing you and not being able to hold your head up or call for help. She was a saint and I hope when she got to heaven she got to stand up tall and say to God "That was a hell of a thing, Lord. Let's not put anyone else through that, ok?"
My mother's mother lived to be ninety-six and just recently passed away. She had to see her daughter's mind go while she still had hers. My mother never asks about her, my dad went to the funeral without her and says if she ever does ask about her mother, he'll just tell her her mother was deceased and she just didn't remember. It's kinder this way.
So, you can see why everytime I can't remember something, I start to panic a little. I'm trying everything I can to avoid the A word, but I'm sure I could be doing more. Which research do you believe?
I know my car is in the garage, my husband's name is Keith and I'm going to go have a popsicle. Guess I'm ok for now.
Not time for that pity party yet - at least not over this topic.
Holly
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Pity Party - My house - Next Saturday.
My co-workers and I seem to have a lot to grouse about lately. I think it's time to throw a Pity Party! At a really good pity party, everyone in attendance takes turns spilling their cares and woos. No one but the speaker would dare to really interrupt - we're just there to make the appropriate noises at the appropriate moments. "Oooo." "Oh No!" "Really?" "I'm soooo sorry."
No one offers advice at a pity party. You aren't invited for your opinion, you're just there to commiserate. That would be the the whole point of a pity party.
As I see it, sometimes we just want/need/really desire someone to just listen. Or we want everyone to listen. Just listen, don't speak. We don't need advice or a lecture or any words of wisdom from your Aunt Chloe. All we are looking for is a nod of your head, a knowing look in your eye, or a pat on the shoulder. That will suffice, thank you very much.
Knowing that this is how we all really feel, we now need to recognize this same need in our friends. For instance, when one co-worker is complaining about another co-worker - listen closely. Are they wanting advice or are they just venting? Sometimes a single shocked look on your face is enough response. Vindication for their thought process is what they are looking for, no clever retort or inspirational message is necessary. Pleas call for advice, venting calls for a pity party.
I love my co-workers. We are such a fun disfunctional bunch. Not to long after reading my entry on drowning my phone, one of my co-workers dropped and broke her's. Her view screen looked like a Jackson Polleck painting. I would have loved to enlarge it and hang it on my wall. Mostly white with a large, thick black streak coming from the bottom right corner to the center and other black specks on the rest of the screen. Nice work. Anyway... she felt compelled to call and share her story. She obviously knew I would appreciate it, but she wasn't looking for advice and she wasn't looking for chastisement. She didn't need advice - suffice it to say it's not the first time something like this has happend, and, under the circumstances, who the hell was I to chastise? She just wanted to share what was clearly a momenot of both angst and hilarity for her. She didn't need me to add to her burdens, just share in the humor. I was extremely happy to do so, I must say!
Another of my co-workers is dealing with the economic crisis. She has a laid-off husband and a teenage son. Enough said. Sometimes she needs to vent about one or the other, or both! I've had both of those too - the stay-at-home hubby with too much time on his hands, and I've raised two boys. I could have a lot of stories to interject when she is venting, but I have to remember that this is her moment, her stage, and it's not about me.
The more you learn to not spew out the instantaneous thoughts that immediately pop into your head, the more you should have the favor returned. Of course, some people never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, grasp this concept. They simply don't recognize the existence of this concept and everything will always be about them. Their lives are one big pity party where they are the guest of honor. They cannot hear a story - sometimes they can't even hear two words of a story - without interrupting with a one-upping, totally awesome, story of their own. If your child made the swim team, their child had been scouted by Major League Baseball. If your uncle had a heart attack, their grandfather saved someone who was having a massive coronary on a plane to London. If you have a headache, their cousin Sophie had one once that turned out to be a brain tumor, don't you know?
We all know this person. Hopefully, however, recognizing how much this person irritates the crap out of us, we're all better people for knowing them. I like to think it's the main reason for their existance - to teach the rest of us. We should learn from their example, not to do exactly what they do all the time. I know that sometimes the story that pops into your head and makes you want to raise your hand and go "Ooo....ooo" like you're a first-grader who has to use the potty, can sometimes actually be related to the storyteller's tale. If you truly feel that your story is just too precious (horrible, disastrous, cute..) not to tell, my advice is to store it. Listen to the pity party person like you should. Take your story out of storage later, analyze it and if you still feel it is absolutely necessary (appropriate, important...) to share with them, bring it up at a later time. "Do you remember earlier when you were telling that story about little Johnny? Well...that reminded me of the time when...."
That way you haven't stolen their moment and you get to have one of your own! Two separate pity moments in one day for two separate people. Everyone wins, no losers.
Pity parties aren't always about true pity - more about just giving the spotlight up for a moment. I think they're a great idea. Whether it is a single moment of a single day when you focus entirely on someone else, or a true 'let's go out for drinks and vent' spur-of-the-moment gathering. Pity parties happen every day over the lunch table, the dinner table, on Facebook exchanges, text messages or phone calls, at casual parties and stodgy business meetings.
We're all, myself included, guilty of being a bad pity party guest at one time or another. Usually on a daily basis. It's only human. Put this in the back of your mind (with that story about you friend Susie), and next time you find yourself at such an event, just remember the rules. Actually just remember the one rule - It's not about you - right now.
Pity party - my house - next Saturday. And you're welcome.
Holly
No one offers advice at a pity party. You aren't invited for your opinion, you're just there to commiserate. That would be the the whole point of a pity party.
As I see it, sometimes we just want/need/really desire someone to just listen. Or we want everyone to listen. Just listen, don't speak. We don't need advice or a lecture or any words of wisdom from your Aunt Chloe. All we are looking for is a nod of your head, a knowing look in your eye, or a pat on the shoulder. That will suffice, thank you very much.
Knowing that this is how we all really feel, we now need to recognize this same need in our friends. For instance, when one co-worker is complaining about another co-worker - listen closely. Are they wanting advice or are they just venting? Sometimes a single shocked look on your face is enough response. Vindication for their thought process is what they are looking for, no clever retort or inspirational message is necessary. Pleas call for advice, venting calls for a pity party.
I love my co-workers. We are such a fun disfunctional bunch. Not to long after reading my entry on drowning my phone, one of my co-workers dropped and broke her's. Her view screen looked like a Jackson Polleck painting. I would have loved to enlarge it and hang it on my wall. Mostly white with a large, thick black streak coming from the bottom right corner to the center and other black specks on the rest of the screen. Nice work. Anyway... she felt compelled to call and share her story. She obviously knew I would appreciate it, but she wasn't looking for advice and she wasn't looking for chastisement. She didn't need advice - suffice it to say it's not the first time something like this has happend, and, under the circumstances, who the hell was I to chastise? She just wanted to share what was clearly a momenot of both angst and hilarity for her. She didn't need me to add to her burdens, just share in the humor. I was extremely happy to do so, I must say!
Another of my co-workers is dealing with the economic crisis. She has a laid-off husband and a teenage son. Enough said. Sometimes she needs to vent about one or the other, or both! I've had both of those too - the stay-at-home hubby with too much time on his hands, and I've raised two boys. I could have a lot of stories to interject when she is venting, but I have to remember that this is her moment, her stage, and it's not about me.
The more you learn to not spew out the instantaneous thoughts that immediately pop into your head, the more you should have the favor returned. Of course, some people never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, grasp this concept. They simply don't recognize the existence of this concept and everything will always be about them. Their lives are one big pity party where they are the guest of honor. They cannot hear a story - sometimes they can't even hear two words of a story - without interrupting with a one-upping, totally awesome, story of their own. If your child made the swim team, their child had been scouted by Major League Baseball. If your uncle had a heart attack, their grandfather saved someone who was having a massive coronary on a plane to London. If you have a headache, their cousin Sophie had one once that turned out to be a brain tumor, don't you know?
We all know this person. Hopefully, however, recognizing how much this person irritates the crap out of us, we're all better people for knowing them. I like to think it's the main reason for their existance - to teach the rest of us. We should learn from their example, not to do exactly what they do all the time. I know that sometimes the story that pops into your head and makes you want to raise your hand and go "Ooo....ooo" like you're a first-grader who has to use the potty, can sometimes actually be related to the storyteller's tale. If you truly feel that your story is just too precious (horrible, disastrous, cute..) not to tell, my advice is to store it. Listen to the pity party person like you should. Take your story out of storage later, analyze it and if you still feel it is absolutely necessary (appropriate, important...) to share with them, bring it up at a later time. "Do you remember earlier when you were telling that story about little Johnny? Well...that reminded me of the time when...."
That way you haven't stolen their moment and you get to have one of your own! Two separate pity moments in one day for two separate people. Everyone wins, no losers.
Pity parties aren't always about true pity - more about just giving the spotlight up for a moment. I think they're a great idea. Whether it is a single moment of a single day when you focus entirely on someone else, or a true 'let's go out for drinks and vent' spur-of-the-moment gathering. Pity parties happen every day over the lunch table, the dinner table, on Facebook exchanges, text messages or phone calls, at casual parties and stodgy business meetings.
We're all, myself included, guilty of being a bad pity party guest at one time or another. Usually on a daily basis. It's only human. Put this in the back of your mind (with that story about you friend Susie), and next time you find yourself at such an event, just remember the rules. Actually just remember the one rule - It's not about you - right now.
Pity party - my house - next Saturday. And you're welcome.
Holly
Monday, August 24, 2009
Welcome - please tread on me.
Doormats are severely misunderstood objects. When they are new, you are happy to see them. You take great joy in laying it before your front door, where it proudly exclaims 'Welcome!' to anyone who approaches it and pleasantly takes all their abuse. It happily takes on all the mud and snow people wipe on it and is still welcoming to the next person. It becomes intimately familiar with the mail man and the delivery person. It guards the spare key and the occasional flyer that slides underneath unseen. Over time it becomes a little worn and its welcome may seem more of a 'w lco e' but it still serves its purpose. Then one day, you decide that it has had enough and you pick it up and toss it. Or you try to wash it and when this is unsuccessful, you put it under the litter box. When you did pick it up you notice that the concrete beneath it has stained. Or is it the concrete around it that has stained? Either way, you blame the doormat. You would never consider blaming yourself for not giving the mat more tender, loving care. You have taken it for granted all this time and now that it no longer pleases you, you cast it away for a newer model that either says nothing or says something cute like 'A fisherman and his best catch live here' and makes people laugh. Or it is pretty and makes people go "Ooo" and "Ahh" when they see it. They never inquire as to what happened to the old mat. No one cares.
People can be doormats too. If you've never been in a relationship where you felt like a doormat, consider yourself fortunate. I've been there, and it's not an ideal situation. You start off all new and plush and welcoming. Over time, you remain welcoming, but you're not new anymore and you're nap has worn down a little. Your body sags not only under the weight of time but under the weight of all the things you can't get off your chest. You're worn down and less inviting than you used to seem but, being a doormat, you can't just get up and leave. If you could, you might take yourself down the street to the little house with no doormat. They might like you there, even if you are a little worn down. You are either kept at the door till you are so worn down you don't care anymore, or you are tossed out for a plusher, prettier mat. Either situation is not what you would choose for yourself. If you only weren't a doormat. The wearing down doesn't happen all at once, it is the years of scraping of dirty shoes, of comments on how ugly you are, on being beaten by the weather with no one to care, of being buried in dirt and ice and dirty leaves. You never meant it to be like this, but you don't know how to fix the situation. Like the doormat, you can't move. Every once in a while someone might pick you up and shake you out, or rake you to remove the surface debris, but this is only for show - so they won't be embarrassed to have you seen.
If you find yourself in this type of relationship - the type where you are the complacent doormat - you must move. Shake off the debris and in the ultimate defiant act of anthropomorphism, give yourself life and move. Don't be so welcoming. Dust yourself off. Repaint your letters. Comb your nap and get the hell out of that doorway. You might be missed for a while - they may even try to get you back - especially if they see how well you've cleaned up - but don't go. Haul yourself down to that little house down the block and plop yourself down in the doorway of somewhere you know you'll be welcoming - and welcome. Better yet, get your own house to welcome people into. You can pick who you'll welcome and who you'll turn away. Be your own welcome mat.
Of course you can choose to stay and risk being tossed out or replaced. It's hard, if not damn near impossible, for a doormat to walk away. But if you don't, remember what I said yesterday - there is no sympathy for self-inflicted wounds. We won't judge, we just won't give any sympathy.
Good luck and you're welcome here.
Holly
People can be doormats too. If you've never been in a relationship where you felt like a doormat, consider yourself fortunate. I've been there, and it's not an ideal situation. You start off all new and plush and welcoming. Over time, you remain welcoming, but you're not new anymore and you're nap has worn down a little. Your body sags not only under the weight of time but under the weight of all the things you can't get off your chest. You're worn down and less inviting than you used to seem but, being a doormat, you can't just get up and leave. If you could, you might take yourself down the street to the little house with no doormat. They might like you there, even if you are a little worn down. You are either kept at the door till you are so worn down you don't care anymore, or you are tossed out for a plusher, prettier mat. Either situation is not what you would choose for yourself. If you only weren't a doormat. The wearing down doesn't happen all at once, it is the years of scraping of dirty shoes, of comments on how ugly you are, on being beaten by the weather with no one to care, of being buried in dirt and ice and dirty leaves. You never meant it to be like this, but you don't know how to fix the situation. Like the doormat, you can't move. Every once in a while someone might pick you up and shake you out, or rake you to remove the surface debris, but this is only for show - so they won't be embarrassed to have you seen.
If you find yourself in this type of relationship - the type where you are the complacent doormat - you must move. Shake off the debris and in the ultimate defiant act of anthropomorphism, give yourself life and move. Don't be so welcoming. Dust yourself off. Repaint your letters. Comb your nap and get the hell out of that doorway. You might be missed for a while - they may even try to get you back - especially if they see how well you've cleaned up - but don't go. Haul yourself down to that little house down the block and plop yourself down in the doorway of somewhere you know you'll be welcoming - and welcome. Better yet, get your own house to welcome people into. You can pick who you'll welcome and who you'll turn away. Be your own welcome mat.
Of course you can choose to stay and risk being tossed out or replaced. It's hard, if not damn near impossible, for a doormat to walk away. But if you don't, remember what I said yesterday - there is no sympathy for self-inflicted wounds. We won't judge, we just won't give any sympathy.
Good luck and you're welcome here.
Holly
Sunday, August 23, 2009
There is no sympathy for self-inflicted wounds.
Let me start by saying "I am not a doctor." In the doctor's office I work in, however, it is my job to read the physicians' dictations and code the work they've done. Almost every day, without fail, I read a dictation from one of the physicians that says basically, "The patient complains of right, upper quadrant abdominal pain. The pain is worse after he/she eats pizza." (Or tacos, or fried chicken, or 'a fatty meal.') The physicians do their best to council the patient on a proper diet, but invariably the patient just wants their gallbladder removed so they can continue to eat pizza, or tacos, or fried chicken.
Let me put this another way. The patient would rather have surgery, major surgery, than to give up their favorite food. They would rather have incisions through which various surgical instruments are inserted to remove an organ from the only body they are ever going to get rather than give up the pepperoni and sausage. Aside from the appendix, there is not another organ in the body which does 'nothing.' Scientists have decided that the appendix used to do something but now is just a useless appendage that evolution hasn't yet quite gotten rid of, but the gallbladder is not in the same category. It produces bile - bile that your body needs to aid in digestion. Not a useless organ. Not really a good trade for the Hawaiian special at the neighborhood pizza parlor.
Of course, there are exceptions. If you have gallstones and one becomes impacted, then, yes, maybe your gallbladder needs to be removed, but most of the time, no. As with any other surgery, there are always those who legitimately have the need. I don't think the sixteen-year-old who weighs 300 pounds and can't give up the McDonalds is someone who legitimately has a need.
Maybe it's too easy to fall into the 'surgery will fix this' trap. Obese? Gastric bypass, or the latest sleeve gastrectomy where they remove most of your stomach. Skin lesion your doctor assures you is not cancer? You don't like the look of it - cut it out. Abdominal pain after your favorite KFC Extra Crispy? Take out the gallbladder. Don't like your period cramps? Have a hysterectomy.
Now, don't get me wrong. I've had my share of surgeries. Heart surgery as a child. Two C-sections, and a hysterectomy. None of these could have been avoided by giving up fried foods. My heart surgery, at age three, was hole related, not cholesterol related. I suppose you could argue that the C-sections could have been avoided by actually eating birth control pills, but that is a whole nother blog. The truth was it was more due to my total lack of progression in labor and my son's freakishly large head (I love you Gary - you grew into it in no time!) The hysterectomy was a result of severe anemia no amount of meds or less invasive procedures could fix - believe me, I tried. In my mind (at least), these were totally legitimate reasons for surgery.
I aldo must confess, I have gallstones. I've known about them for years. When my gallbladder starts to flair up, I lay off the 'bad' foods for a while and it calms down. Should I give up the 'bad' foods altogether? Probably, and I'm working towards that. I know bile does not seem like your friend - especially when you're vomiting (who hasn't tasted that? yech.), but it actually is your friend. I think I'd like to keep this friend with me for the rest of my life, thank you. (Hello, this is my best friend, bile. He can be a little bitter at times, but if you'd been through the things he has been though, you'd understand.)
In the end, however, it is the owner of the gallbladder who has to make the decision. "I really, really, really want to continue to eat Thickburgers every day, and I really, really, really don't like the pain they cause." This is obviously enough justification for some. Your body, your call. Unfortunately it ends up raising health care costs for the rest of us, but again, I digress.
The migraine that comes from eating dark chocolate, however? So worth it. And it doesn't cost the taxpayers anything. I buy my own meds.
Before you judge me, remember my previous blog? Do as I say, not as I do.
Holly
Let me put this another way. The patient would rather have surgery, major surgery, than to give up their favorite food. They would rather have incisions through which various surgical instruments are inserted to remove an organ from the only body they are ever going to get rather than give up the pepperoni and sausage. Aside from the appendix, there is not another organ in the body which does 'nothing.' Scientists have decided that the appendix used to do something but now is just a useless appendage that evolution hasn't yet quite gotten rid of, but the gallbladder is not in the same category. It produces bile - bile that your body needs to aid in digestion. Not a useless organ. Not really a good trade for the Hawaiian special at the neighborhood pizza parlor.
Of course, there are exceptions. If you have gallstones and one becomes impacted, then, yes, maybe your gallbladder needs to be removed, but most of the time, no. As with any other surgery, there are always those who legitimately have the need. I don't think the sixteen-year-old who weighs 300 pounds and can't give up the McDonalds is someone who legitimately has a need.
Maybe it's too easy to fall into the 'surgery will fix this' trap. Obese? Gastric bypass, or the latest sleeve gastrectomy where they remove most of your stomach. Skin lesion your doctor assures you is not cancer? You don't like the look of it - cut it out. Abdominal pain after your favorite KFC Extra Crispy? Take out the gallbladder. Don't like your period cramps? Have a hysterectomy.
Now, don't get me wrong. I've had my share of surgeries. Heart surgery as a child. Two C-sections, and a hysterectomy. None of these could have been avoided by giving up fried foods. My heart surgery, at age three, was hole related, not cholesterol related. I suppose you could argue that the C-sections could have been avoided by actually eating birth control pills, but that is a whole nother blog. The truth was it was more due to my total lack of progression in labor and my son's freakishly large head (I love you Gary - you grew into it in no time!) The hysterectomy was a result of severe anemia no amount of meds or less invasive procedures could fix - believe me, I tried. In my mind (at least), these were totally legitimate reasons for surgery.
I aldo must confess, I have gallstones. I've known about them for years. When my gallbladder starts to flair up, I lay off the 'bad' foods for a while and it calms down. Should I give up the 'bad' foods altogether? Probably, and I'm working towards that. I know bile does not seem like your friend - especially when you're vomiting (who hasn't tasted that? yech.), but it actually is your friend. I think I'd like to keep this friend with me for the rest of my life, thank you. (Hello, this is my best friend, bile. He can be a little bitter at times, but if you'd been through the things he has been though, you'd understand.)
In the end, however, it is the owner of the gallbladder who has to make the decision. "I really, really, really want to continue to eat Thickburgers every day, and I really, really, really don't like the pain they cause." This is obviously enough justification for some. Your body, your call. Unfortunately it ends up raising health care costs for the rest of us, but again, I digress.
The migraine that comes from eating dark chocolate, however? So worth it. And it doesn't cost the taxpayers anything. I buy my own meds.
Before you judge me, remember my previous blog? Do as I say, not as I do.
Holly
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Do as I say, not as I do.
As a parent, you vacillate between marveling at the wonderful things your children do and shaking your head in bemusement at the things they do that make you speculate about their real parentage. Certainly no child of your's could do something so inane.
I can't tell you how many cell phones I've replaced for my two sons. They've been dropped on hard earth, dropped in bathtubs, run over, lost, stolen, and just basically beaten down from constant use. It always amazed me that they could lose or damage a phone so easily. About five years ago we finally got wise and purchased insurance and, of course, they have not damaged or lost a phone since. Every two years, they get an upgrade and go merrily on their way.
Then, this past January, I came home from the movies and couldn't find *my* phone. We called the theater - they said they had it. Not it. Close, but older and more beaten up. My thought is that the person who actually lost that phone came in, saw mine, and said, "yep, this is mine." Instant upgrade. I wasn't due for an upgrade till September, so my husband slid me one of his old Blackberries and I had my number transferred to that phone. I hated it, but it was my own fault I lost my other phone and I wasn't going to pay to upgrade early. (Although you'd think that being loyal customers paying through the nose for over ten years Verizon would throw me a bone, but no.) It was a pain to lock the keypad and I kept taking pictures of the inside of my pocket. If you scrolled through my pictures on the phone, more than half would be black - like I was trying to take a picture of a starless night sky.
Two months ago, the Blackberry started misbehaving. It hadn't worked all that well for my husband, and it apparently didn't like me any better. Back to Verizon. Since the Blackberry was under two years old, they agreed to replace it since it appeared to be a manufacturer issue. We waited for a phone to be delivered from a neighboring city (almost ten miles away!). This took three days (tortoise mail? snail mail? little old lady with a walker mail?). I really didn't want another Blackberry, but it was my only (free) option. Unfortunately (yeah!) the replacement had a few malfunctioning buttons and they were forced (yeah!) to let me pick out a new phone (for free!). The new enV3 had just come out the day before and I left with a brand new phone. Contented sigh.
This morning, a reminder went off on my phone - it was a reminder to start my son's car. He is away at college and if we don't start it once in awhile, it won't start at all. I snatched the phone off the bathroom counter (wait for it), and promptly dropped it in the (clean) toilet water. It couldn't have been in there for more than two seconds, but apparently that was enough. Maybe someday, someone will invent a phone that can remain waterproof for a second or two. I took out the battery, put the hairdryer on low cool and dried everything I could. It appeared to be working fine. Alas, all was not as well as it seemed. First it started vibrating constantly. Then the camera flash came on and stayed on (I swear that light could be seen from space!). Then the vibrating stopped, the light flickered, but the phone kept saying I was in an extended network and roaming. If my living room is 'roaming' I need a new plan! Then it wouldn't turn on. Then it wouldn't turn off. Then water seemed to appear from somewhere I could not pinpoint. I think the volume of water that came from the phone was greater than the displacement volume of the phone itself. It was almost like it was crying. Maybe the inside of the phone was made of sponge and little nanomites were in there squeezing the water out and cursing me. I could almost hear them.
Back to Verizon, where, again, I was shown no love. Luckily (for me - because my husband isn't one to let me live this down), I had purchased insurance on my enV3 when it was 'given' to me. So, all it will cost me is a deductible, a little embarrassment, and a few days without a phone (a horror almost worthy of its own movie these days.)
On the up side? At least I'll have another story to amuse my co-workers.
Holly
I can't tell you how many cell phones I've replaced for my two sons. They've been dropped on hard earth, dropped in bathtubs, run over, lost, stolen, and just basically beaten down from constant use. It always amazed me that they could lose or damage a phone so easily. About five years ago we finally got wise and purchased insurance and, of course, they have not damaged or lost a phone since. Every two years, they get an upgrade and go merrily on their way.
Then, this past January, I came home from the movies and couldn't find *my* phone. We called the theater - they said they had it. Not it. Close, but older and more beaten up. My thought is that the person who actually lost that phone came in, saw mine, and said, "yep, this is mine." Instant upgrade. I wasn't due for an upgrade till September, so my husband slid me one of his old Blackberries and I had my number transferred to that phone. I hated it, but it was my own fault I lost my other phone and I wasn't going to pay to upgrade early. (Although you'd think that being loyal customers paying through the nose for over ten years Verizon would throw me a bone, but no.) It was a pain to lock the keypad and I kept taking pictures of the inside of my pocket. If you scrolled through my pictures on the phone, more than half would be black - like I was trying to take a picture of a starless night sky.
Two months ago, the Blackberry started misbehaving. It hadn't worked all that well for my husband, and it apparently didn't like me any better. Back to Verizon. Since the Blackberry was under two years old, they agreed to replace it since it appeared to be a manufacturer issue. We waited for a phone to be delivered from a neighboring city (almost ten miles away!). This took three days (tortoise mail? snail mail? little old lady with a walker mail?). I really didn't want another Blackberry, but it was my only (free) option. Unfortunately (yeah!) the replacement had a few malfunctioning buttons and they were forced (yeah!) to let me pick out a new phone (for free!). The new enV3 had just come out the day before and I left with a brand new phone. Contented sigh.
This morning, a reminder went off on my phone - it was a reminder to start my son's car. He is away at college and if we don't start it once in awhile, it won't start at all. I snatched the phone off the bathroom counter (wait for it), and promptly dropped it in the (clean) toilet water. It couldn't have been in there for more than two seconds, but apparently that was enough. Maybe someday, someone will invent a phone that can remain waterproof for a second or two. I took out the battery, put the hairdryer on low cool and dried everything I could. It appeared to be working fine. Alas, all was not as well as it seemed. First it started vibrating constantly. Then the camera flash came on and stayed on (I swear that light could be seen from space!). Then the vibrating stopped, the light flickered, but the phone kept saying I was in an extended network and roaming. If my living room is 'roaming' I need a new plan! Then it wouldn't turn on. Then it wouldn't turn off. Then water seemed to appear from somewhere I could not pinpoint. I think the volume of water that came from the phone was greater than the displacement volume of the phone itself. It was almost like it was crying. Maybe the inside of the phone was made of sponge and little nanomites were in there squeezing the water out and cursing me. I could almost hear them.
Back to Verizon, where, again, I was shown no love. Luckily (for me - because my husband isn't one to let me live this down), I had purchased insurance on my enV3 when it was 'given' to me. So, all it will cost me is a deductible, a little embarrassment, and a few days without a phone (a horror almost worthy of its own movie these days.)
On the up side? At least I'll have another story to amuse my co-workers.
Holly
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