when did we all fall down and hit our heads?
seriously...
I didn't drink the koolaid -- hell I don't even LIKE koolaid!
but something has happened to us: we point and whisper if people aren't thinking like we are, speaking as we do and certainly best not be doing ANYTHING to enjoy ourselves at any moment that could possibly be witnessed by someone else.
one of the ladies I carpool with said "my job is what I DO, it is not who I AM" and I couldn't agree more. the sad thing is, we are not necessarily allowed to be who we truly are when we are on the job.
and yes, there is the matter of public decency -- I certainly wouldn't encourage the baring of a midriff nor do I really need to see ALL your piercings -- but what about a simply acknowledgement that happy employees are productive ones?
we are certainly restricted now because of litigation that placed some very good guidelines: minimum wage, mandatory meal breaks, allowing for sufficient recovery time between work shifts.
but when did we become so obsessed that we have to watch every employee like a hawk? know exactly when they go to the bathroom, was that a personal call, did you fart...I mean really...I just don't know how much more restriction a person can take.
for example: to this very day, I am uncomfortable chewing gum.
why?
try twelve years in a very strict, single sex, educational environment that frowned upon any behavior that could be considered "unladylike". Is it any wonder that when one's true nature is so severely hampered, harangued, monitored, discouraged, that they either end up in a loony bin, dancing on poles or pose nude?
(for the record -- none of those apply -- well, I take that back and those pictures are EXACTLY the reason I can never run for office)
I am curious though...how long will it take? how many stress disability claims? how many anxiety attacks or cardiac infarctions. In the 1990's I think it was called "going postal" -- but what about now?
Have we not learned a damn thing about how to treat one another?
Do we understand that the more we push a person into a corner, the more likely they are to lash out in ways that may be "inappropriate"?
I sigh, a deep and heavy one this time, as I consider that it would have been nice to know that the rules were going to only apply to those who could read the fine print... and maybe THAT was my lesson to be learned...
13 March 2010
I tried to behave.. it got boring...
don't you just love a good teaser? I have many things sloshing about in my gray matter today. You will just have to wait a little longer for me to share...
~~~ an update on the 28th of March
okay so "April showers, bring May flowers" but just exactly what is up with spring madness? it's as though everyone has lost their freaking minds!
Including me...
when I pulled this blog post up and saw the title again, I blushed.
no seriously, I do blush sometimes, well okay a lot of times...
This week was the culmination of all those weeks of trying so very hard to behave that I finally found myself in the precarious cliche of "hand caught in the cookie jar".
not surprisingly, this is worse, much worse.
[well, maybe not so much for those of us who are open-minded, confident, not sexually repressed...]
"Beware the Ides of March..."
of course it all had to do with emails, and work, and the receipt and exchange of some relatively tame (okay, sexually charged) messages between lovers.
now mind you, this all could have been avoided if there were some flexbility -- simply allowing an employee to access a personal email account whilst on a break, or before they're on the clock -- would have pushed this entire subject into the virtual world, away from the prying eyes of the administrator and far from the land of the "spam filter" on the office network.
yeah, well, sometimes shit just happens.
and when it does, you just have to suck it up, admit your error and call it a day...
that...my friends...was my Friday. and I am certain this won't be the end of it.
In fact, my "email while at work may be monitored"
(truth be told, I knew that already)
But I live by the adage that you should NEVER ever put anything in writing that you would not want to come back and fly in your face -- particularly if you don't have enough of a spine to say, "yes, I wrote that..."
so my sweets, I return to the office on Monday, with an invisible scarlet letter tacked on my person -- I would say it was on my back, but I can see the cheaply made handle of the dirty and dull-edged knife quite clearly -- and know in my heart...they're all just a little bit jealous...
~~~ an update on the 28th of March
okay so "April showers, bring May flowers" but just exactly what is up with spring madness? it's as though everyone has lost their freaking minds!
Including me...
when I pulled this blog post up and saw the title again, I blushed.
no seriously, I do blush sometimes, well okay a lot of times...
This week was the culmination of all those weeks of trying so very hard to behave that I finally found myself in the precarious cliche of "hand caught in the cookie jar".
not surprisingly, this is worse, much worse.
[well, maybe not so much for those of us who are open-minded, confident, not sexually repressed...]
"Beware the Ides of March..."
of course it all had to do with emails, and work, and the receipt and exchange of some relatively tame (okay, sexually charged) messages between lovers.
now mind you, this all could have been avoided if there were some flexbility -- simply allowing an employee to access a personal email account whilst on a break, or before they're on the clock -- would have pushed this entire subject into the virtual world, away from the prying eyes of the administrator and far from the land of the "spam filter" on the office network.
yeah, well, sometimes shit just happens.
and when it does, you just have to suck it up, admit your error and call it a day...
that...my friends...was my Friday. and I am certain this won't be the end of it.
In fact, my "email while at work may be monitored"
(truth be told, I knew that already)
But I live by the adage that you should NEVER ever put anything in writing that you would not want to come back and fly in your face -- particularly if you don't have enough of a spine to say, "yes, I wrote that..."
so my sweets, I return to the office on Monday, with an invisible scarlet letter tacked on my person -- I would say it was on my back, but I can see the cheaply made handle of the dirty and dull-edged knife quite clearly -- and know in my heart...they're all just a little bit jealous...
01 March 2010
[NOT SO FAMOUS] LAST WORDS
Is “text” sex better than the real thing?
***
So I had to come back to visit this. I mean really, you didn't expect me to dangle this carrot out there and wait to see what would happen next, did you?
I am BIG fan of sexy text messages. It's sort of like having that mardi gras mask on full time. Things whispered (or texted - is that a word now?) just seem to take the mystique of sex to a different level.
For example, I recall teasing about how sending a picture wasn't very satisfying...that what we really want is the 3D version instead. The text message exchange turned into a hot and heavy description of what I was wearing, how it was going to be removed, limiting the amount of items removed...and so on...
the end result:
and once the text was sent...moments later the phone rang with the deep sexy voice softly asking:
for long distances...text sex can be fun, tantalizing, wicked (especially if you happen to be in, say, a City Council meeting waiting to present)
there is always that that distinctive buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz of your vibrate (like that isn't it's own best feature) mode on your cell and yes, when that wicked little smile starts to move across your mouth, you lick your lips, eyes begin to sparkle and your breath quickens...
yeah like that won't give you away...
you gotta love it...oh hey...NEW TEXT MESSAGE JUST ARRIVED!!!
***
So I had to come back to visit this. I mean really, you didn't expect me to dangle this carrot out there and wait to see what would happen next, did you?
I am BIG fan of sexy text messages. It's sort of like having that mardi gras mask on full time. Things whispered (or texted - is that a word now?) just seem to take the mystique of sex to a different level.
For example, I recall teasing about how sending a picture wasn't very satisfying...that what we really want is the 3D version instead. The text message exchange turned into a hot and heavy description of what I was wearing, how it was going to be removed, limiting the amount of items removed...and so on...
the end result:
oh baby, you know I want the 3D version...and right now
and once the text was sent...moments later the phone rang with the deep sexy voice softly asking:
are you somewhere, close? you should, you know drop by, like now!
for long distances...text sex can be fun, tantalizing, wicked (especially if you happen to be in, say, a City Council meeting waiting to present)
there is always that that distinctive buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz of your vibrate (like that isn't it's own best feature) mode on your cell and yes, when that wicked little smile starts to move across your mouth, you lick your lips, eyes begin to sparkle and your breath quickens...
yeah like that won't give you away...
you gotta love it...oh hey...NEW TEXT MESSAGE JUST ARRIVED!!!
Life Events
This email was entitled “I am Alive”.
***
What did we do with ourselves before text messaging and email and blogging and Facebook and, for crying out loud, Twitter? Is every second so fucking important that we have to "post" about it? snicker, giggle...as I "blog" this I cannot help to think how ironic that whole line of thinking is.
Are we so fearful of our mortality that we simply MUST put everything down...right this very minute...in a virtual world that has taken control of not just our waking moments, but our sleep time too? Yes, I've gone to bed thinking, "wow, did I put enough food on those cooktops in Cafe World to actually open it up tomorrow morning at 5am?" The fact that I have a telecommuting friend who "checks in" on both my virtual cafe AND fishtank is, well, embarrassing!
I don't even have a dog walker for my REAL DOG who waits patiently at home, day after day, so excited and happy to see me and then loyal parks herself beneath my chair as I type this blog! She does give the lifted eyebrow look every so often to remind me there are other, more importants task to tend to -- but for now -- she's just happy I'm in the same room with her, a socked foot lightly brushing her back as she slowly falls back asleep...
The rumors of my disappearance are not true. I am still alive. The vessel is up and running and everyone loves her. I am finally resuming a normal life once again but not quite there yet. In the past few weeks in addition to the whole new boat thing, my youngest daughter turned 16, my third daughter graduated from high school, my in-laws celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary and more! Most of the travel is behind me for a little while anyway.
I was viewing your text yesterday but was unable to reply as my phone finally broke beyond repair. I now have a new phone replacing my 5 year old model. That's pretty old in cell phone years. I hope all is well with you. Are you still employed? I have attached a grainy photo of the two vessels together. I will send lakefront shots once we have the opportunity. She's only been in operation for two weeks so we are still learning systems and continue to outfit her. Have a happy 4th!
***
What did we do with ourselves before text messaging and email and blogging and Facebook and, for crying out loud, Twitter? Is every second so fucking important that we have to "post" about it? snicker, giggle...as I "blog" this I cannot help to think how ironic that whole line of thinking is.
Are we so fearful of our mortality that we simply MUST put everything down...right this very minute...in a virtual world that has taken control of not just our waking moments, but our sleep time too? Yes, I've gone to bed thinking, "wow, did I put enough food on those cooktops in Cafe World to actually open it up tomorrow morning at 5am?" The fact that I have a telecommuting friend who "checks in" on both my virtual cafe AND fishtank is, well, embarrassing!
I don't even have a dog walker for my REAL DOG who waits patiently at home, day after day, so excited and happy to see me and then loyal parks herself beneath my chair as I type this blog! She does give the lifted eyebrow look every so often to remind me there are other, more importants task to tend to -- but for now -- she's just happy I'm in the same room with her, a socked foot lightly brushing her back as she slowly falls back asleep...
A STARTING POINT
An epiphany in the bathtub led me to begin a collection of anecdotal tales that have been living comfortably on "a stick" -- you know that hard drive you carry around with a bunch of shit on it that maybe you must might need. Yeah, right.
Anyway, a longtime friend and former co-worker used to say to me “how is it that you can just talk to anyone – even when we’re riding in an elevator?”
And Shay, you had no clue did you? It seems that the shy little girl who could barely stand up in front of class and give a presentation morphed into the loquacious, energetic and somewhat bipolar creative writer who amidst a tub of bubbles thought she should “get it in writing” – so there you have it!
Of course this meant that I needed to “put it” into a digestible sequence. I had a boss once who wanted everything in bullet points – no long dissertation on a crisis – and that was a huge challenge. My creative writing instructors had always encouraged the use of language to be demonstrative and descriptive. To reduce the story of, for example, the drunk off duty bartender who fell over the rail into “bullet points” was akin to summarizing the Iraq war into a brief 5 page powerpoint presentation.
And then there is my knight in shining armor -- who loved to torture me in front of strangers by fielding a question from me and then sweetly saying, "is there a question coming, soon, anytime would be good."
yeah...there is...well...eventually...ah crap, what was I saying?
Anyway, a longtime friend and former co-worker used to say to me “how is it that you can just talk to anyone – even when we’re riding in an elevator?”
And Shay, you had no clue did you? It seems that the shy little girl who could barely stand up in front of class and give a presentation morphed into the loquacious, energetic and somewhat bipolar creative writer who amidst a tub of bubbles thought she should “get it in writing” – so there you have it!
Of course this meant that I needed to “put it” into a digestible sequence. I had a boss once who wanted everything in bullet points – no long dissertation on a crisis – and that was a huge challenge. My creative writing instructors had always encouraged the use of language to be demonstrative and descriptive. To reduce the story of, for example, the drunk off duty bartender who fell over the rail into “bullet points” was akin to summarizing the Iraq war into a brief 5 page powerpoint presentation.
And then there is my knight in shining armor -- who loved to torture me in front of strangers by fielding a question from me and then sweetly saying, "is there a question coming, soon, anytime would be good."
yeah...there is...well...eventually...ah crap, what was I saying?
A Raison d’etre…
I was asked recently why now – this book thing – you’ve talked about for years. So what pushed you over the edge to actually sit down, give yourself a deadline and then carry on like a crazed babushka on a spring cleaning mission? Instead of my usually smart assed response, I really did stop to think about it. No, really – and quit snickering because I do often have reflective – or rather contemplative moments. Admittedly, that IS hard to believe but…oh bugger…where was I?
March 20, 1998. There, I’ve said it, put it to paper, taken it to task…think of any other cliché phrases that might be appropriate for facing your demons. And no, ma’am, this is NOT a book that will end up in the “Self Help” section – though I can certainly understand if it did. (And secretly I hope that it will create some sort of underground buzz amongst us “survivor” types!)
And now then, where were we? Ah yes…Friday, March 20, 1998. It has little significance for anyone outside of my immediate circle. And, actually, if pressed to name it, I seriously doubt that all these years later anyone can remember why that day started the clock for how my life was about to change
When I think about today, in this moment, looking back, yes I do still get a little miffed. Okay, angry. Maybe more than angry…I’m thinking serious expletives here but curbing my instinct to utilize them in printed form.
is your EDIT button activated? …roger that
I mean I had MY life all figured out then, didn’t I? The last thing I needed was an illness that could end my life. Oh you’ve heard it all before, haven’t you then? The “C” word…
The week or so leading up to March 20th was a Three Stooges funfest of doctor visits including an attempt to aspirate the tumor, a mammogram that couldn’t see squat followed by an ultrasound that had an image as ‘frozen’ by the technician to print out and give to my physician. When he walked into the room with “that look” – I just knew that the funny half-dollar sized blurp in my left breast wasn’t just going to go away!
The karmic joke definitely turned on the fact that I was trying to add to our family at the time. Pregnant, last I checked does not equal cancer.
So, following a thwarted attempt to see and be seen by a local surgeon, a frantic call to my then brother-in-law brought us to Friday, March 20th and a field trip to Stanford Medical Center – oh won’t this be fun? Are there surprises in my brown bag lunch?
and so...the journey began
March 20, 1998. There, I’ve said it, put it to paper, taken it to task…think of any other cliché phrases that might be appropriate for facing your demons. And no, ma’am, this is NOT a book that will end up in the “Self Help” section – though I can certainly understand if it did. (And secretly I hope that it will create some sort of underground buzz amongst us “survivor” types!)
And now then, where were we? Ah yes…Friday, March 20, 1998. It has little significance for anyone outside of my immediate circle. And, actually, if pressed to name it, I seriously doubt that all these years later anyone can remember why that day started the clock for how my life was about to change
When I think about today, in this moment, looking back, yes I do still get a little miffed. Okay, angry. Maybe more than angry…I’m thinking serious expletives here but curbing my instinct to utilize them in printed form.
I mean I had MY life all figured out then, didn’t I? The last thing I needed was an illness that could
The week or so leading up to March 20th was a Three Stooges funfest of doctor visits including an attempt to aspirate the tumor, a mammogram that couldn’t see squat followed by an ultrasound that had an image as ‘frozen’ by the technician to print out and give to my physician. When he walked into the room with “that look” – I just knew that the funny half-dollar sized blurp in my left breast wasn’t just going to go away!
The karmic joke definitely turned on the fact that I was trying to add to our family at the time. Pregnant, last I checked does not equal cancer.
So, following a thwarted attempt to see and be seen by a local surgeon, a frantic call to my then brother-in-law brought us to Friday, March 20th and a field trip to Stanford Medical Center – oh won’t this be fun? Are there surprises in my brown bag lunch?
and so...the journey began
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