Whine in ’09

My hair’s on fire.

/ wvfurandroot / 14 Comments
I'm rootin' tootin' mad.
I’m rootin’ tootin’ mad.

OK, mouseketeers, I’m cranky and trying to shake it off.

I am all for eccentricity, personal quirks, individual phobias and neuroses. I’m accommodating of these things in both myself and people I interact with up to the point where such are not good for me.

When they’re my own, I work to change myself – sometimes unsuccessfully. But I try. And I don’t expect others to put up with my nonsense.

When it’s other people, I develop power and control issues which surprise me.

It’s all the rage in business seminars to adminster mini Meyer Briggs personality tests. I don’t believe I’ve ever taken the full Meyer Briggs, but I’ve taken multiple short form tests.

A combination that doesn't exist in nature.

That would be me - a combination that doesn't exist in nature.

I’m a combination that doesn’t exist in nature. Test administrators always try to tell me that I’ve done something wrong – fudged my answers. In one test, where personalities are color coded, I’m equally green and blue – which translates as analytical/emotional. In another test where participants are labeled as creatures, I’m a chameleon meaning I’m still analytical/emotional, but I possess the tendency to always see both sides of a situation. (Those who know me well will tell you this is my greatest strength and my greatest weakness – it explains my inability to make a decision. It also explains why some of my co-workers thing I’m two-faced.)

In tests designed to reveal which side of your brain is dominant, I always come out as using both sides equally. I’m told, yada yada, that only 10% of the population thinks like this.

All of this conspires to make me a nontraditional worker. Things that motivate most folks, don’t work for me at all. Things that irritate most folks don’t bother me. The flip side is that I get my panties knotted and shredded over stuff that most folks regard as downright ridiculous.

There’s nothing worse than getting all enraged knowing that 90% of the world cannot even begin to understand why. And so, I suppress the anger as much as possible and just try to get on with things.

Michael L. Smith's incomparable Mad Bluebird Photo

Michael L. Smith's fabulous and incomparable Mad Bluebird photo

At this moment, I’d like to go all Dexter.

I’m trying to shake it off.

Years ago, my father told me that his overriding management technique was to treat people as if they were going to do the best job possible with the best possible outcome. I suppose this is the management version of The Secret. He went on to say that if you treat people like they’re incompetent, they will be. If you treat them as if they’re dishonest, they will be. If you treat them as if they don’t have a strong work ethic, they won’t. If you deny them the right to self-direction, they’ll foment rebellion.

I adopted Daddy’s modus operandi years ago. It has served me well

I’ve found these things to be true. I believe that most people want to do a good job. I believe that most people want to love their work. I believe that most people want to behave ethically and with good principles. I believe that most people know how to best complete a task based on their own personality type. – the corollary to that is that I believe that the people who actually do the task know best how to do it. And if they don’t, it’s a result of bad management in the past.

But by the elastic in Great Aunt Gertrude’s girdle, I get wound up, infuriated, and my hair bursts into flame when I’m treated as if I don’t know what I’m doing when nothing in my work history supports such a conclusion. This becomes apocalyptical if the treatment is such that it is witnessed by co-workers or consumers. Apparently, one of my peccadilloes is the right to be right. (I’m working on it. Really, I have no idea why it bugs me so much to be “corrected” when it’s my opinion that nothing is in need of correction. I’m quick to admit when I don’t know. And I’m quick to ask for help when I don’t know. I was always that kid in class that asked questions. I don’t have that “fear of looking stupid” gene. And in terms of customer service, I practically coined the “I don’t know, but I’ll find out” response.)

Maybe some chammomile tea will return me to my reasonably cheerful eccentric self.

Maybe some chammomile tea will help return me to my cheerful eccentric self.

The only other thing that rips off my safety-sealed-for-your-protection lid is being treated as if I’m dishonest.

We all have power and control issues, but in keeping with my unusual brain, mine are eccentric. If I’ve been given authority for something, I don’t like having my decisions questioned with a view to changing them. As such, I have an on/off switch. Rather than protest my innocence, explain my rationale, or ask why I’m being interrogated when there is no problem, I’m apt to wash my hands of the whole mess. You don’t like what I did or how I’m going about it? Fine. Do it yourself.

This is not an adult response. I’ve been working on it for years. I’ve got to figure out an appropriately assertive, but nonthreatening way to get across the idea that just because I’m not doing something the way you would do it doesn’t mean I’m doing it wrong.

So? What makes you go all purple prose postal?

Substitute Whining

/ wvfurandroot / 16 Comments

I am refusing to whine about anything that might actually garner some sympathy.

I’m about to explode from the built-up pressure.

Thus.

Yeah, verily, I am going to whine about things there is nothing I, or seemingly anyone, can do anything about. In no particular order:

1. What is it with coffee pots? It doesn’t matter if I buy the $10 one at Kmart or the $100 one at Macy’s, they all include a carafe from which it is impossible to pour a cup of coffee without dribbling. Is the proper design of a glass (or stainless steel) receptacle for hot fluids so complicated? Tea kettle manufacturers having been doing it for years. Perhaps the two industries should talk.

2. For crying out loud, people, it’s rude (RUDE I tell you) to go through the Taco Bell drive through at 12:00 p.m. and order $57.63 worth of tacos (17 crunchy, two no sour cream, three extra tomatoes, no lettuce on two of those, add guacamole to 5 substituting refried beens for beef on one, 11 soft chicken tacos…) If you’re ordering for more than two people (or eat more than two people can be expected to eat), get out of your car and go inside.

3. Marshall students? Trust me on this one. You will not immediately drop dead, lose cell phone reception, or be forced to wear sweatpants from the Dollar General if you cross Third Avenue in an actual crosswalk. My insurance rates are high enough – I don’t need your trendy-jean- clad ass under my bumper.

4. Now we all know that there is an obesity epidemic in this country. We also all know that there will always be folks who insist on stopping in the middle of the aisle at the grocery store to respond to a critically important phone call (OMG you saw him with who?) Can we petition Kroger to make the aisles wider? They’ve made the buggies bigger (presumably to make it easier to fit all the groceries it takes to maintain obesity), but apparently the engineers were trapped behind the car in No. 3 above when they had the meeting about aisle width. Between extra-wide buggies, pushed by extra-wide people who can’t hear because they’re talking on the cell phone, I’m tired of gridlock in the cereal aisle. (Don’t get me started on $6 boxes of cereal.)

5. Why does a 34A have to pay the same price as a 40D for mammary torture devices? The inverse of which is why do clothing manufacturers charge $10 more for a tall size that is 3” longer but don’t charge $10 less for petite sizes that are 3” shorter?

6. People who call me and start off with, “Who is this?”

7. Men who think I’m going to strip, shout Hot Damn, and offer to bear their children upon learning they have (or intend to have or used to have) a motorcycle.

8. Retail goods such as CDs, DVDs, batteries, mascara, etc. safety sealed for my protection (i.e. clam-shell packaging).

9. Cheap junk that won’t work even when it’s brand new that my credit card offers me as a reward (if I pay shipping and handling). Even worse, they attach the paper offering this crap to the envelope I need to use to mail my payment WHICH if I try to tear off renders the envelope unusable.

10. Those new fangled shampoo bottles. The spout thing opens and closes just fine, but if you want to take the whole cap off in order to put water into the mostly empty bottle and swish it around so you can get the last drop of shampoo out during those bathing emergencies when you realize you’re (mostly) out of shampoo and can’t because the cap is snapped onto the bottle much in the same way that laptop parts are snapped together.

So what are you whining about?

Routine (or the New Normal)

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments

I’m working part-time at a group home for teenagers. The kids are there because of stuff they did or because of stuff done to them. In most cases, though certainly not all, these kids have lived a life of routine that does not have a discernable pattern – or in other words – no routine.

For years, I viewed the concept of routine as a Great Evil to avoid at all cost. I was, and perhaps still am, convinced that routine stunts creativity and turns us into automatons. But more on that later.

Anyone who has been charged with the responsibility of taking care of a three-year-old understands the importance of routine in a child’s life. Toddlers without a routine are some of the most miserable beings on the planet. More importantly, they know this. If you change a toddler’s routine for any reason, in most cases (aside from holidays, vacations, etc.), the toddler will scream blue-bloody murder.

When Chef Boy R’ Mine was that age, any deviation from the weekly routine turned him into a hyperactive monster prone to tears, rage, and publicly embarrassing behavior. Being sufficiently enlightened, knowledgeable about child development, and having examined all of my parents’ shortcomings as parents, I, like nearly every other parent, was convinced that my child would always be happy and well-adjusted. It’s such a rude awakening when enlightenment, knowledge and introspection does not, in fact, make a damn bit of difference as to whether or not the child is going to have a tantrum at the Kroger.

Anyway.

The older the boy got and the older I got, the more I realized that routine is not just important to toddlers, it’s important to everyone. It’s not the blanket evil I was once believed to be true.

My first day of school.

My first day of school.

The beginning of the school year was always a time of relief and rejoicing. Staples used to run a commercial with a happy, frolicking father tossing school supplies into the basket with great glee. His two disgruntled children watch. I laughed every time I saw it and said Amen! I thoughtfully provided the commercial at the beginning of this post.

The start of school signaled a return to routine. After a couple of months of flexible bedtimes, erratic meals, impromptu outings, and any number of unscheduled activities, we were all worn out from too much deviation.

Now of course, school brought its own challenges, but there was a carved in stone routine that was only interrupted by Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Valentine’s Day, Easter and Memorial Day. Those interludes provided needed respite from the grind, but like the first day of school in August, I always looked forward to January 2nd when the holidays were officially over and we could get back to the routine.

At the group home, the first thing we do is put these kids on a schedule. They have standard mealtimes, standard bedtimes, and a daily rhythm that doesn’t vary too wildly. They chafe at first, but like the toddlers they come to both expect it and need it. The minute something gets off-kilter, they get hyperactive and there are tears, rage, and the occasional tantrum. Routine is good.

As the years went by and I began noticing how much I looked forward to the first day of school (and January 2nd), I realized that routine was important in my life too. While it does inhibit my creativity and does, to some extent, turn me into an automaton, the emotional equilibrium that routine provides does mitigate the downside. For the most part.

Several years ago, I became disgusted with my routine and made some sweeping life changes. I do not regret this.

Can you see John Lennon's head?

Can you see John's head?

However, these sweeping changes punctuated by some disasters of varying importance have left me, metaphorically, in the cereal aisle at Kroger having a tantrum. Everything is in flux and while I can envision the goal line, I cannot see it. (I can’t believe I’m using a sports metaphor, but there you have it.) I had a plan and I have goals, but I don’t see the plan being executed for another 5 to 7 years which means attainment of the goals are going to take even longer. I have resisted looking that truth in the eye.

I am emotionally exhausted and prone to rage and tantrums. I am simply tired of not knowing what I can expect from the next day, the next month or the next year. I’m fond, perhaps too fond, of quoting John Lennon’s “Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.” It’s good to have goals, but that doesn’t preclude having a routine or abandoning a plan that can’t be executed under the circumstances. Muttering “This too shall pass” has been comforting. It may very well be passing, but the movement is so slow as to be imperceptible.

I have chafed at the routine that is trying to emerge, because it is in direct opposition to my goals and expectations. I had a major setback yesterday. I’m still reeling. I do know that the chafing, the grumpiness, the rage and the tantrums have not changed one damn thing. I need to embrace the latent routine and accept my New Normal.

So. My task for the day is to try and fine tune the routine that I think circumstances are dictating; and tweak it enough to insure I don’t become a bitter, old woman whose creativity is limited to seeing what happens when she substitutes Campbell’s Cream of Celery soup for the Cream of Mushroom in the tuna casserole.

The New Normal I’m trying to talk myself into embracing is so far outside my realm of experience (and not in a good way) that figuring out how to turn it into something that’s going to work for me is daunting. I do know that viewing it as temporary is not working. For years now, I’ve hung onto arbitrary timeframes uttered by doctors, lawyers and Indian chiefs that have proved to be complete fiction. There is no goal line in sight. (Damn it, did it again.)

So, channeling the sentiments of many sages, the goal is to be right here, right now with a routine, day in and day out, that doesn’t ignore the future, but doesn’t treat the now as the aberration. The now is the future. I will resist discussing quantum physics to make this point.

And this all seems much grimmer and whiny than is my intention. I’m more at peace right now than I have been. Years ago when the New Normal began, I would have told you I couldn’t have gotten to this day without losing my mind. While my mental health has ups and downs, I have not worn a strait jacket or been prescribed haloperidol. While I’m not dancing around singing “It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” I am also not railing at the universe.

Now then. If you’ll excuse me, I have a set of chores that I’ve previously allotted 9 hours to, but which the New Normal dictates must be done in 45 minutes. I need to get cracking.

Two Kinds of People

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments
Mosquito

Mosquito

I can’t remember who said it, but somebody said, “There are two kinds of people: those who think there are two kinds of people and those who don’t.”

As someone who has studied anthropology, I know full well that there are far more than two kinds of people, but if I were to make sweeping generalizations I might suggest that people react to stress by either developing chronic headache problems or developing chronic intestinal problems.

Like the Great Apes, I fall into the latter category. When life gets crazy, I buy toilet paper by the truck load. When life gets crazy, other folks I know buy Excedrin, Motrin or Advil by the gross.

Two kinds of people.

I’ve had a headache I attributed to tripping over the computer cord and cracking my head on the sewing machine 11 days ago. At the time, I felt fortunate at not having to call 911 or an undertaker or my chiropractor or my orthopedist. I was absolutely fine (and grateful to not have had witnesses to my clutziness) until days later when the scab started pulling. There was a blazing headache behind my left eye. I was sure that if I looked in the mirror there would be flames shooting from my ears.

Removing the scab, drinking 4 oz of vodka, and binging on Advil seemed to do the trick. For three days.

I'm not dying, I'm not dying, I'm not dying

Repeat: I am not dying.

I almost never get headaches.

Since I never get them, I have no tolerance and develop a feeling of certitude that I’m dying of something. Excuse me a moment while I put the CDC on speed-dial.

That certitude is not without foundation.

Eleven years ago, on the way to the pediatrician to get Chef Boy ‘R Mine his sports physical, I developed a headache. By the time the doc started yammering at me about height percentiles, immunizations, and puberty, I could barely see for the headache. How I drove home remains a mystery.

By 2 a.m., I was delirious from the headache and puking up internal organs. My head was an orb of pure pain, my back was screaming, and I couldn’t hold my head up to drink water to wash the vomit out of my mouth which was okay because I couldn’t have kept it down. By 1 p.m., I managed to dial the phone and talk long enough to convince the ex to take me to my doctor. Upon arrival at her office it was mere moments before I was wheel-chaired, in great haste, to the E.R. and folks started yammering about brain scans and spinal taps. The only thing I remember with any clarity was telling the E.R doc that I was afraid of the spinal tap. He assured me that it would only hurt for a moment and then all the pain would go away.

Blessed relief.

Infected

Infected

I’m not sure what he gave me, but I was unconscious for three days – the length of time it took to grow a culture and determine that I had viral meningitis. I might be making this up, but I’m pretty sure they told me that I most likely contracted the disease from a mosquito bite.

Unlike bacterial meningitis, there’s no treatment for viral meningitis other than pain meds. It just needs to run its course.

It was a miserable three weeks.

August, I’m told, is the signature month for viral meningitis. With all the rain of the past several months, I have a mosquito problem for the first time ever. They’re everywhere. As soon as I get out of the car, I’m enveloped in a swarm of blood-thirsty proboscii (proboscises?).

This headache bears no resemblance to that one of eleven years ago, but still I’m nervous about those mosquitoes. It was with some relief that I started sneezing this morning. About an hour or so ago, I developed a cough.

I have a cold.

A simple cold.

Nonetheless, I’ve still got the CDC on speed dial.

Quarantined!

Quarantined!

Summer colds suck, but they’re infinitely better than meningitis. So far it’s not affecting my work life (even if I’m using lunch time to blog).

One of my pet peeves is that people won’t stay home when sick – thus infecting everyone else. I don’t have time for a sick day. I’ve put a Quarantined! sign on my office door and warned folks. I’ve sprayed Lysol and I’m mainlining orange juice and aspirin.

As soon as I feel better, I’m buying mosquito netting and swaddling my body. Think see-through burka.

So. There are two kinds of people. Those who over-react to statistically-unlikely possibilities and those who don’t.