Monday, June 16, 2008
Happy Bloomsday.
The Writer's Almanac Today has Garrison Keilor reading from Ulysses. Worth a listen.
Reviews
Job reviews always make me a little unhappy. I've never had a bad review per say. Usually there's a couple criticisms-most of which have been pretty solid and on the nose-but mostly they're pretty decent. I just go in, sit down, listen to them read off whatever they've written down and react to it a little and then go back to my desk and wonder why they even bothered. The thing about the reviews is that I could tell them everything they've written down, and I could tell them more. But they don't really want to know more. They just write the reviews because they have to.
I bring this up because the outsourcing agency gave me my review last Friday. (I don't know why they do end of the year reviews in June, but that's their way, I guess.) Everything averaged up to a "meets expectations" (which I think is like a B), which is good I guess. This half-year (which is all they were reviewing) hasn't been a "meets expectations" kind of year, in my opinion. I have really done an okay job. I'd say it's more C+ than anything.
Of course I'm probably harder on myself than they are. But that's the thing. My opinion doesn't matter. Reviews are really just a time for them to tell you what they want you to work on. Their criticisms are meant to give you something to strive for, sure, but really they're just meant to enforce on you that what they think of your performance is what counts. They have a point of course, because they're giving me a check* to do this stuff. But I think it's this that irks me about it.
Trying to simmer what I do into anecdotal evidence of my worth is really dumb. Sure, someone once saw me checking my email at work, but is that a reasonable reflection of how I spend my time? Actually, I am updating my blog right now...but, no. It's not. And yes, I lost my cool with a couple of people (who are idiots by the way. I wonder if at their reviews, it gets mentioned that they can't read past a third grade level. It maybe should be at least brought up). But what about the sheer volume of shit I handle? And the times I didn't lose my cool (when I clearly should have)?
I don't ask these questions because I actually care about the answers. I gave up on really caring about this job (you know to really try to make this place what I think it could be). I now just try to make sure I do enough work everyday so that I won't ever feel overwhelmed when they ask me to do more stupid shit.
But, yes. I can do it with a smile on my face, since that's what they want.
The truth is it's the not caring that upsets me. It's how I'm getting through this until I start classes and doors start opening. But it still bothers me.
*Note. I wanted to put cash, but they don't give me cash. I shouldn't have even put check, because I have the direct deposit. So, every other Friday is like an old spy movie where I'm checking my accounts (sadly, it's not Swiss) to see if everything's okay and disaster** has been averted for another fortnight.
**Note to note. Not that it would be a disaster for me to not work here. It would however, be a disaster for them if I stopped holding their system together through my amazing willpower and sheer tenacity.***
***Note to note to note. Maybe I shouldn't write my review. Too much sarcasm and truth. And they wouldn't know which was which.****
****Note to note to note to note. This one's merely gratuitous.
----
Sigh.
I bring this up because the outsourcing agency gave me my review last Friday. (I don't know why they do end of the year reviews in June, but that's their way, I guess.) Everything averaged up to a "meets expectations" (which I think is like a B), which is good I guess. This half-year (which is all they were reviewing) hasn't been a "meets expectations" kind of year, in my opinion. I have really done an okay job. I'd say it's more C+ than anything.
Of course I'm probably harder on myself than they are. But that's the thing. My opinion doesn't matter. Reviews are really just a time for them to tell you what they want you to work on. Their criticisms are meant to give you something to strive for, sure, but really they're just meant to enforce on you that what they think of your performance is what counts. They have a point of course, because they're giving me a check* to do this stuff. But I think it's this that irks me about it.
Trying to simmer what I do into anecdotal evidence of my worth is really dumb. Sure, someone once saw me checking my email at work, but is that a reasonable reflection of how I spend my time? Actually, I am updating my blog right now...but, no. It's not. And yes, I lost my cool with a couple of people (who are idiots by the way. I wonder if at their reviews, it gets mentioned that they can't read past a third grade level. It maybe should be at least brought up). But what about the sheer volume of shit I handle? And the times I didn't lose my cool (when I clearly should have)?
I don't ask these questions because I actually care about the answers. I gave up on really caring about this job (you know to really try to make this place what I think it could be). I now just try to make sure I do enough work everyday so that I won't ever feel overwhelmed when they ask me to do more stupid shit.
But, yes. I can do it with a smile on my face, since that's what they want.
The truth is it's the not caring that upsets me. It's how I'm getting through this until I start classes and doors start opening. But it still bothers me.
*Note. I wanted to put cash, but they don't give me cash. I shouldn't have even put check, because I have the direct deposit. So, every other Friday is like an old spy movie where I'm checking my accounts (sadly, it's not Swiss) to see if everything's okay and disaster** has been averted for another fortnight.
**Note to note. Not that it would be a disaster for me to not work here. It would however, be a disaster for them if I stopped holding their system together through my amazing willpower and sheer tenacity.***
***Note to note to note. Maybe I shouldn't write my review. Too much sarcasm and truth. And they wouldn't know which was which.****
****Note to note to note to note. This one's merely gratuitous.
----
Sigh.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Thuds.
Thud. Thud. WOOO!
Thud. Thud. Thud. Oof.
It's 1 am and this has been going on for a while. It was okay at first, because I was reading couldn't sleep. They'd been at it for at least two hours. Cornholing. Out in the alley.
Now, this is not a lurid tale of buggery or spoonerism or whatever else it's been called in the past (though I am looking forward to seeing what sort of webtraffic I may get from this*). This is about a past-time that I've never seen adults play before moving to Chicago. Cornhole**. Which is basically bean bag toss into two large wooden bins (sometimes painted with college and sports logos). How this game earned the name cornhole, I, sadly, do not know.
I don't want to degrade the game, because if you look at any pasttime to the bare essentials of action, they all seem silly. (Really, we can throw little missles at a board? I'd love to play darts! Seriously, even baseball can look silly if you think about it in the wrong way. I mean, they're running in a square. Isn't that a more circular activity? But I digress.) I just don't understand how you can play what is basically a child's game for (at least) two hours. Now, I understand beer was involved and the weather was gorgeous here last night. Probably the best it'll be for a while. And, in Chicago especially, you have to get out there and enjoy the weather while you can. But, two hours? Playing a game I haven't enjoyed since kindergarten. (Not that I don't love doing many of the same things I did back then. I love sitting in circles, and taking naps, and breaking graham crackers along the perferation, and only working half a day.)
But there they were at 1 in the morning. Thud. Thud. Thud. Woo!, playing the game with vigor. And there I was, lying in bed, earplugs in my ears, finally frustrated enough to say something. So, I sit up, lean out toward the window and yell, "All right shitbirds, it's 1 am. Enough of the fucking cornholing." (Yup, I turn into a bad imitation of Herc from the Wire at 1 in the morning. I'm not proud of it, but it's interesting.)
"It's not cornholing. We're playing cornhole." I heard someone say not that loudly or confrontationally. "Why do people call it cornholing?" But they shut it down pretty quickly after that.
*Note. As you may have noticed, I have (for vanity's sake) started keeping track of the number of views the blog gets. It's kind of a fun thing. I can see the locations of people who look at my blog. Big shout out to whomever is looking at my blog in Russia.
**Note, the second. Jesus, this is an actual thing. I really thought it was just some local, stupid thing. Who knew?
---
I wake up this morning to the sound of my alarm clock. It's one of those docking systems for my iPod, so it wakes me with some Springsteen. I get up slowly, leaving the music going as I usually do. I'm a little tired from the cornholing last night. (Let's take that out of the context of the previous story, shall we?) Dinah's in California with work this week, so I get up a little later, but not enough.
I take my morning shower, the water helping to ingratiate some life into me. As I'm getting out and just starting to towel myself off, I hear a beeping. I quickly realize it's my alarm clock. For some reason (either the iPod has been disconnected somehow or the the thing just sucks), it's beeping. didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI. Loudly.
So, I do what any normal-thinking person does. I wrap the towel around myself and run (run!) into the room to turn off the alarm before it disturbs the upstairs neighbors. (I really like the upstairs neighbors. Not for anything they do, but simply because they're not the last guys. Those guys where horrible. Terrible shitty loud music all the time. Breaking doors. Shouting and hollering. And sounds from upstairs that I think meant they were getting out the stridgels and oiling up for some greco-roman wrestling. I'm not sure if the upstairs neighbors were the cornholers. But even if they were, they are wayyyy better.)
I start out with a zeal that somehow makes perfect sense to me, but I realize quickly that my feet aren't dry and the hardwood floors aren't forgiving. I skid a little as I come out of the bathroom, but keep going. didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI. As I reach the doorway to my room, my right foot slips. And my left foot doesn't hold. And I go ass over applecart landing on my hip and smashing my right elbow, actually cutting it in a shower of noise that I would think would be much more disturbing than the pinging of the alarm clock. Thud. Oof.
didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI. I get up slowly and shut the alarm off. Then I collapse on the bed for a second. A bandage on the elbow and a bruise on my hip, nothing big.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Oof.
It's 1 am and this has been going on for a while. It was okay at first, because I was reading couldn't sleep. They'd been at it for at least two hours. Cornholing. Out in the alley.
Now, this is not a lurid tale of buggery or spoonerism or whatever else it's been called in the past (though I am looking forward to seeing what sort of webtraffic I may get from this*). This is about a past-time that I've never seen adults play before moving to Chicago. Cornhole**. Which is basically bean bag toss into two large wooden bins (sometimes painted with college and sports logos). How this game earned the name cornhole, I, sadly, do not know.
I don't want to degrade the game, because if you look at any pasttime to the bare essentials of action, they all seem silly. (Really, we can throw little missles at a board? I'd love to play darts! Seriously, even baseball can look silly if you think about it in the wrong way. I mean, they're running in a square. Isn't that a more circular activity? But I digress.) I just don't understand how you can play what is basically a child's game for (at least) two hours. Now, I understand beer was involved and the weather was gorgeous here last night. Probably the best it'll be for a while. And, in Chicago especially, you have to get out there and enjoy the weather while you can. But, two hours? Playing a game I haven't enjoyed since kindergarten. (Not that I don't love doing many of the same things I did back then. I love sitting in circles, and taking naps, and breaking graham crackers along the perferation, and only working half a day.)
But there they were at 1 in the morning. Thud. Thud. Thud. Woo!, playing the game with vigor. And there I was, lying in bed, earplugs in my ears, finally frustrated enough to say something. So, I sit up, lean out toward the window and yell, "All right shitbirds, it's 1 am. Enough of the fucking cornholing." (Yup, I turn into a bad imitation of Herc from the Wire at 1 in the morning. I'm not proud of it, but it's interesting.)
"It's not cornholing. We're playing cornhole." I heard someone say not that loudly or confrontationally. "Why do people call it cornholing?" But they shut it down pretty quickly after that.
*Note. As you may have noticed, I have (for vanity's sake) started keeping track of the number of views the blog gets. It's kind of a fun thing. I can see the locations of people who look at my blog. Big shout out to whomever is looking at my blog in Russia.
**Note, the second. Jesus, this is an actual thing. I really thought it was just some local, stupid thing. Who knew?
---
I wake up this morning to the sound of my alarm clock. It's one of those docking systems for my iPod, so it wakes me with some Springsteen. I get up slowly, leaving the music going as I usually do. I'm a little tired from the cornholing last night. (Let's take that out of the context of the previous story, shall we?) Dinah's in California with work this week, so I get up a little later, but not enough.
I take my morning shower, the water helping to ingratiate some life into me. As I'm getting out and just starting to towel myself off, I hear a beeping. I quickly realize it's my alarm clock. For some reason (either the iPod has been disconnected somehow or the the thing just sucks), it's beeping. didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI. Loudly.
So, I do what any normal-thinking person does. I wrap the towel around myself and run (run!) into the room to turn off the alarm before it disturbs the upstairs neighbors. (I really like the upstairs neighbors. Not for anything they do, but simply because they're not the last guys. Those guys where horrible. Terrible shitty loud music all the time. Breaking doors. Shouting and hollering. And sounds from upstairs that I think meant they were getting out the stridgels and oiling up for some greco-roman wrestling. I'm not sure if the upstairs neighbors were the cornholers. But even if they were, they are wayyyy better.)
I start out with a zeal that somehow makes perfect sense to me, but I realize quickly that my feet aren't dry and the hardwood floors aren't forgiving. I skid a little as I come out of the bathroom, but keep going. didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI. As I reach the doorway to my room, my right foot slips. And my left foot doesn't hold. And I go ass over applecart landing on my hip and smashing my right elbow, actually cutting it in a shower of noise that I would think would be much more disturbing than the pinging of the alarm clock. Thud. Oof.
didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI didididiDI. I get up slowly and shut the alarm off. Then I collapse on the bed for a second. A bandage on the elbow and a bruise on my hip, nothing big.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Less stressing....(Kind of)
Sorry for the no-post last week.
I'm trying to do some bigger changes in my habits. Nothing huge, mind you, but some things I feel I need to get a handle on before I have kids (which won't be for two years probably, mom. Sorry).
The first of these things is my weight. Since the wedding, I've (somewhat surprisingly) maintained my weight. My running has become a lot less enthusiastic as I sort of expected. So, I talked to my wife about it and we've set goals for ourselves and our health. I'm planning on cutting another 26 or so pounds off my gut, hopefully by Thanksgiving. That'll still put my a bit above my "recommended weight" which makes me feel woefully obeese, but I guess I'll have to get the 26 off either way. So, I'll get it off and see how it looks.
The thing is, I'm probably never going to be a poster boy for fitness or health. I enjoy eating and drinking too much to really ever be as fit as is apparently recommended. But. I need to get better.
The second thing I'm trying to get a better grasp of is my temper. As most of you probably know, I have a bad temper. I let things get to me and after a while of taking stuff in, I vent in somewhat unhealthy ways. I don't want to get into it too much (mostly because I find it embarassing that a thirty-year-old man gets so bent out of shape by stuff he considers stupid and inane), but it's something I've needed to get a handle on for a long time.* So, I'm working on this.
*Note. In 5th grade, the teacher pulled me aside and talked to me about my temper. He said that if I didn't watch it the upperclassmen at McCombs (where I was a Trojan) would "beat me into the ground." I think he told me this after I got into a fight with another 5th grader (I wanna say Troy Donahoe, but I'm not sure. ), while playing soccer**. Truthfully, he was right, it was something I need(ed) to work on, but if it was Troy (and I'm starting to feel sure it was), then he probably he had it coming. He was kind of a dick.
**Note to Note. We didn't play soccer. We played a game of tackle the guy with the soccer ball while the teachers don't pay attention. Oh, sure there were still goals and score was kept, but it wasn't soccer. It was still competitive though. And the teams were for all year. I was on Ryan's (can't remember his last name. He moved away before I got to middle school) team in third grade. And everyday we took on Danny Soda's team. (Which is the greatest name in the history of names.) I remember one day I scored the winning goal and Danny Soda knocked me down and picked me up by the legs and swung me around in a circle a couple times before tossing me a couple feet. I was a heavy kid, too. Anyhoo.
Mostly my temper is a problem at work, where I feel unappreciated and taken for granted (you know, like most everyone). So, I'm working on it. I was doing great last week until Friday. The long weekend before certainly helped put me in a better frame of mind, but even that couldn't get me through a whole (short) week.
I'm trying the deep breathes. I'm trying perspective. I'm even trying giving people the finger under my desk (which sort of works, but makes me almost giggle everytime, so I think people think I'm losing my mind. Which is maybe okay. I'm not sure yet). But thus far, I haven't found a truly dependable way to get through the stress without getting myself all worked up. I think just trying is making it easier and easier though, so hopefully I'll get the hang of it.
The last of the things that I feel like I need out of the way before my children come into this world, (and probably the hardest to figure out and deal with in a way that I will find satisfying-because, you know, it depends on someone else a great deal) is my father.
I've been listening to the Writer's Almanac Podcast everyday for a while now. Seems like a tangent, but the Writer's Almanac, as Garrison Keeler points out at the end of every podcast is sponsored by the Fetzer Institute who is now on a Campaign of Love and Forgiveness. Now, I haven't poked around enough to figure out how I'm going to work things out, or even what sort of time table I want to work on, but I have looked enough to know I no longer want to carry around the anger I have for him. It's odd. I didn't miss him for one second of the wedding, even though I thought I would. But, almost every other day, I think about him. And I wish he hadn't made the decisions he made. And I wish that at least he should have been honest with me. And if I let it, I can feel it all wash over me again and I can hate him anew. And I want to yell and scream and probably punch him in the stomach. (See, that temper thing I'm working on still needs work.) But I don't want to feel that way anymore. I don't want to be that guy. And I certainly don't want my kids to see that example and think that's the best way to deal with people. (You know, like I learned by watching my Dad. But, I digress.) Yeah.
So, yeah. A lot of changes I'm going to try and make. It's good. Change is good. At least these changes.
Anyway, I hope all is going well for everyone else.
I'm trying to do some bigger changes in my habits. Nothing huge, mind you, but some things I feel I need to get a handle on before I have kids (which won't be for two years probably, mom. Sorry).
The first of these things is my weight. Since the wedding, I've (somewhat surprisingly) maintained my weight. My running has become a lot less enthusiastic as I sort of expected. So, I talked to my wife about it and we've set goals for ourselves and our health. I'm planning on cutting another 26 or so pounds off my gut, hopefully by Thanksgiving. That'll still put my a bit above my "recommended weight" which makes me feel woefully obeese, but I guess I'll have to get the 26 off either way. So, I'll get it off and see how it looks.
The thing is, I'm probably never going to be a poster boy for fitness or health. I enjoy eating and drinking too much to really ever be as fit as is apparently recommended. But. I need to get better.
The second thing I'm trying to get a better grasp of is my temper. As most of you probably know, I have a bad temper. I let things get to me and after a while of taking stuff in, I vent in somewhat unhealthy ways. I don't want to get into it too much (mostly because I find it embarassing that a thirty-year-old man gets so bent out of shape by stuff he considers stupid and inane), but it's something I've needed to get a handle on for a long time.* So, I'm working on this.
*Note. In 5th grade, the teacher pulled me aside and talked to me about my temper. He said that if I didn't watch it the upperclassmen at McCombs (where I was a Trojan) would "beat me into the ground." I think he told me this after I got into a fight with another 5th grader (I wanna say Troy Donahoe, but I'm not sure. ), while playing soccer**. Truthfully, he was right, it was something I need(ed) to work on, but if it was Troy (and I'm starting to feel sure it was), then he probably he had it coming. He was kind of a dick.
**Note to Note. We didn't play soccer. We played a game of tackle the guy with the soccer ball while the teachers don't pay attention. Oh, sure there were still goals and score was kept, but it wasn't soccer. It was still competitive though. And the teams were for all year. I was on Ryan's (can't remember his last name. He moved away before I got to middle school) team in third grade. And everyday we took on Danny Soda's team. (Which is the greatest name in the history of names.) I remember one day I scored the winning goal and Danny Soda knocked me down and picked me up by the legs and swung me around in a circle a couple times before tossing me a couple feet. I was a heavy kid, too. Anyhoo.
Mostly my temper is a problem at work, where I feel unappreciated and taken for granted (you know, like most everyone). So, I'm working on it. I was doing great last week until Friday. The long weekend before certainly helped put me in a better frame of mind, but even that couldn't get me through a whole (short) week.
I'm trying the deep breathes. I'm trying perspective. I'm even trying giving people the finger under my desk (which sort of works, but makes me almost giggle everytime, so I think people think I'm losing my mind. Which is maybe okay. I'm not sure yet). But thus far, I haven't found a truly dependable way to get through the stress without getting myself all worked up. I think just trying is making it easier and easier though, so hopefully I'll get the hang of it.
The last of the things that I feel like I need out of the way before my children come into this world, (and probably the hardest to figure out and deal with in a way that I will find satisfying-because, you know, it depends on someone else a great deal) is my father.
I've been listening to the Writer's Almanac Podcast everyday for a while now. Seems like a tangent, but the Writer's Almanac, as Garrison Keeler points out at the end of every podcast is sponsored by the Fetzer Institute who is now on a Campaign of Love and Forgiveness. Now, I haven't poked around enough to figure out how I'm going to work things out, or even what sort of time table I want to work on, but I have looked enough to know I no longer want to carry around the anger I have for him. It's odd. I didn't miss him for one second of the wedding, even though I thought I would. But, almost every other day, I think about him. And I wish he hadn't made the decisions he made. And I wish that at least he should have been honest with me. And if I let it, I can feel it all wash over me again and I can hate him anew. And I want to yell and scream and probably punch him in the stomach. (See, that temper thing I'm working on still needs work.) But I don't want to feel that way anymore. I don't want to be that guy. And I certainly don't want my kids to see that example and think that's the best way to deal with people. (You know, like I learned by watching my Dad. But, I digress.) Yeah.
So, yeah. A lot of changes I'm going to try and make. It's good. Change is good. At least these changes.
Anyway, I hope all is going well for everyone else.
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