The Lesson Learned

Super-Employee

It’s a Bird…

No. It’s a plane. No—it’s Super-Employee!

While I do not have a problem standing up for myself in most situations, I do have this work-ethic issue. Where my career or job is involved, I have this self-image that I am Super-Employee.

Now, this does not mean Super-Employee-with-nose-buried-in-the-boss’-behind. But rather, my version of Super-Employee is someone who is unable to turn down work, delegate, or ask for help when completely buried under a landslide of paperwork, projects, and deadlines. Somewhere deep in my neuroses brain I equate asking others for help as admitting weakness. And to admit weakness is a sign of failure.

Admitting weakness would indicate that I couldn’t handle the workload. I couldn’t keep up. And maybe I can’t pull my load. So maybe they don’t really need me, but they just haven’t yet figured it out.

Sick, huh?

And I think my perfectionist tendencies come into play as well. I worry that someone else wouldn’t do it right and I would be held responsible because I own the project. And I’m sure the truth of the matter is that they wouldn’t do it my way, which translates into the right way in my sick brain.

Of course, I know better than this. I really do. I know that there are a million ways to get the job done and as long as the end result is the same it doesn’t matter how it gets done. I know this.

But I just don’t know it, you know? Whatever sickness exists inside my brain does not know it and will never acknowledge it. I’ve been Super-Employee at every job I’ve ever held. Super-Employee is so deeply engrained, that I don’t know if I can ever shake it.

And Super-Employee sucks. Yesterday, she made me complete the work I brought home from the office and she’s dragging me into the office this afternoon to complete two more projects.

Super-Employee is not my hero. Not today.

Colors of Crazy

For as long as I can remember, my mom has been nutty. Crazy even. In fact, some of my earliest memories involve my dad telling her that she was acting crazy. He would talk her out of whatever latest idea she mentioned to him.

He would talk to her in a way that I would never tolerate someone treating me today. He spoke to her as if she was a child whose behavior he was correcting. And she would stand corrected. She would discontinue doing or saying whatever initiated the reprimand.

I also recall that he held concerns that she was addicted to prescription pain medicine. On occassion, my sister and I overheard arguments involving the medicines my mom infrequently took. I don't think she was prescribed medication often, but my father obviously didn't think she could handle what little she was prescribed.

This aspect of their relationship, where he treated her like a child in front of the actual children, seemed normal to me when I was a child. However, while it was a normal aspect of our life, I think that on some level, I sensed it was wrong for him to treat her like that. I felt sympathy for her, though I don’t think it was ever verbalized or even consciously acknowledged.

I never discussed the issue with my dad and never will, since he has long since passed away. And now that I’m an adult, of sorts, I think that he may have been on the right track. While I don’t agree with the manner in which he spoke to my mom during their disagreements, I think the incidents could best be described as interventions. She would act crazy, he would intervene, and normalcy would return.

And my dad is no longer here to intervene and return normalcy. In fact, she is now married to someone who is even nuttier than she.

But just what is “normal” and is anyone normal? Who am I to judge what’s normal? I don’t know. But I do know that my mom often has a warped sense of reality. I know reality is warped when I hear the same story several times with totally different outcomes. I know this when I hear my own words and actions twisted into her latest version of reality.

And it not just the stories, there are also incidents. Two separate incidents that have resulted in my mom and her new husband getting evicted from two separate apartments. Of course, it’s never their fault and the reason is never clear because we only hear sketchy stories about the incidents. Sketchy stories containing facts that are subject to change at the next reciting.

There have been so many incidents involving sketchy facts that I couldn’t begin to go into all of them here, but they would definitely support my allegation of mental illness.

There have also been incidents involving prescription drug abuse. This is by far the most serious of the issues and is also the hardest to prove from the outside because it is easily and often denied. And we’ve attempted to intervene in this, but have been met with anger, denial, and resistance, of course. She became angry and refused to speak to us for a few weeks. She then threatened to move away to an undisclosed location if we did not back off.

I can best describe her life as total and complete craziness. Except for the denial—I think denial is the only part of this story that could be considered normal.

I spoke with her this morning and, as always, I struggled to wrap my brain around all the colors of crazy that were strewn between her words and the truth.

If only I could wrap my brain around a solution, that would make me happy.

The Right Track?

It’s once again finally Thursday. Yeah, in my mind it was the second Thursday this week—what a long day.

I made it to the gym this morning, but somehow managed to leave the house without my gym bag containing clothes, deodorant, makeup, combination lock, and, most importantly, my Dell DJ. No DJ = No music. And No Music = Long Workout. Very. Long. Workout.

And of course I didn’t realize my mistake until I arrived at the gym and was stepping out of my car. I debated heading back home to get it, but decided to carry on with my workout.

The first treadmill I hopped onto had something sticky on the surface of the track. I don’t know what it was and to tell you the truth, I don’t want to know. Whatever it was kept catching my feet just enough to be bothersome. So, after several minutes, I switched machines.

On the new machine, I jogged happily and then broke into a running pace. That is until after about ten minutes when a tickling sensation in the back of my throat overcame me and I had to hack up a lung. Right there on the treadmill. I’m sure someone wanted to tell me to put the cigarettes away, but I do not smoke, nor have I ever smoked.

Anyway, I could not stop coughing, so I hopped off the treadmill and retreated to the locker room where I drank a gallon of water and alleviated the coughing attack.

I then trudged back to the treadmill to discover the only available machine was Mr. Sticky Track. I walked, but was too scared to attempt running on that machine—what with my bad morning-luck and all.

I was a little concerned that my day was not getting off on the right track, but the rest of it wasn’t that bad. Thank goodness.

Here’s hoping for a successful workout tomorrow morning.

On the Menu

It’s Wednesday (even though I spent the majority of the day thinking it was Thursday), which means it’s date night once again. We plan to check out the new German restaurant across town. As you may know, I lived in Germany for three years back in the 80’s.

I loved Germany. I loved the people. I loved the beer. But most of all, I loved the food—I love all German food: schnitzel, spaetzle noodles, brochen, apple strudel, and potato salad, but not necessarily all together. And I can’t wait to revisit Germany and sample some old favorites even if it’s by frequenting a local restaurant.

This makes me wonder what, if anything, can be ordered from the menu without totally forgetting about my diet? What does Weight Watcher’s say? It doesn’t include German cuisine in its restaurant guide. So, I guess I’m on my own tonight.

I’ve been doing great with the whole diet and exercise routine, so I don’t think one evening will ruin it.

I have more to say, but I’m not sure I’ll be back tonight. They may have to roll me home after I eat them out of house and restaurant.

Gnomedex 4.0 in Tahoe

While stopping by Don’s earlier this morning I learned that Gnomedex 4.0 is scheduled. This year, Gnomedex will be held at a casino in Lake Tahoe instead of the standard family scene in Des Moinezzz.

I’m not sure what to think. The new venue is not the only thing different about the geeky event. The Gnomedex site does not yet include an itinerary or list of speakers, but boasts an open bar—a three-day open bar at that. And Gnomedex attendees must be at least 18 years old.

I’ve always wanted to go to Lake Tahoe. We’ve talked about vacationing there, but have always ended up at a different locale.

So, I’ve been scheming a little this afternoon. I wonder if the husband would agree to a vacation getaway in Nevada in October?

Hmmmmm.

Happy Valentine's Day!

That said we don’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day. To us, every day is Valentine’s Day. And I don’t mean that in a mushy, feel the love kind of way.

I simply mean that it is a day like any other day. We didn’t exchange gifts and we won’t be kicking up our heels at a location out on the town. Some friends are having us over for dinner tonight. A quiet evening with friends is perfect for us, since the disappointment from the last time we chose to celebrate the day at a popular restaurant is burned into our brains as a not so distant memory.

The restaurant, one of our favorite Italian eateries in the area, was incredibly busy. We waited for our table, along with two other couples, for three long hours. We spent the time squeezed together at a small table at the bar where I drank entirely too much wine. When we were finally seated we were informed that the only pasta dishes available would have to include linguine as they had ran out of all other noodles. The salad consisted of four wilted pieces of lettuce and a shriveled tomato slice.

The experience forever ruined the idea of going out on actual Valentine’s Day. We now celebrate the week before or after--if at all.

Tap Tap Tap

Is this thing on? It seems quiet in Blogland today. It’s too quiet even for a holiday. Does anyone else notice the quiet?

Because I’ve been noticing it for some time.

And the fact that it is V-day can’t factor into the reason this site has been quiet because it’s been quiet here for weeks. The comments are quiet and traffic is slow.

That’s why I ask the question: Is this thing on?

It is?

Can you hear me now?

How about now?

And I’m not whining. I’m really not. (For once.)

Truth be told, I don’t blame anyone for not stopping by. In fact, several days ago I asked myself a different question entirely. The question is something I’ve never before asked during the year I’ve been a Blogger.

That question was: If I didn’t own this site, would I even read it?

And worse yet?

I’m not sure the answer to that question would be affirmative.

How sad is that? I’m afraid it’s pretty sad when your site is so dull that you don’t even want to read it. And I’m really not saying this to get attention or sympathy.

That’s not my style.

No, I see this as a challenge to improve my writing and to post better, more interesting entries. And I know that sometimes it will be a tough challenge to deliver interesting prose after composing uninteresting prose at the office all day.

And this site is important to me. When I’m not sleeping, that is.

The Curse of Friday the 13th

I’m not fond of Friday the 13th. But I don’t consider myself overly superstitious.

Oh, sure, I avoid breaking mirrors because I wouldn’t want to tempt fate for seven years of bad luck, but mostly because of the mess and danger of getting cut by glass.

And even though I love cats, I’ve never had a black cat and, although I did develop deep affection for a certain black cat name Mo who lives in Oregon, I’ve never before been especially fond of black cats. And I hope that a black cat never crosses my path.

And I NEVER, EVER walk under ladders because that’s just insane.

I’m not afraid of full moons, vampires, Jason, Freddy, or any other lame crap. Normal Friday the 13th haunts aren’t the reason I detest the day.

Fridays, as a rule, are very good days. However, I’ve been suspicious and anxious about Fridays that fall on the 13th ever since I lived through a particularly bad and bleak Friday the 13th.

At my first office job on this particularly bad Friday the 13th, I took heat at work for something I did not do. My accuser would not listen to the voice of reason and I did not want to implicate the guilty party, so while I strongly disagreed with what was said, I had to endure the accusation and for the duration of my employment with this office I had to move past this incident with the bitter memory. I also had a very bad sinus headache that day and remember having a difficult time making the drive home. When I arrived home I managed to lock myself out of my apartment and had to contact the building manager to let me in.

At that time, it was the longest day in the history of my world.

It was over ten years ago, but I’ll never forget it. And I’ve never looked forward to the day since the curse of black Friday.

Today

Today was not a good day for productivity. Not in my world anyway. Sure, I kept very busy and did a lot. Or rather, I made a lot of motion and did an excellent job of looking busy.

But what did I accomplish?

Absolutely nothing.

There were too many interruptions and distractions. I kept getting drawn into problems and problem solving. Only I never solved any problems.

Here’s hoping I can actually get something done tomorrow. That would be good.

Feel the Burn

Three miles is three miles, right? So why is it that running three miles on the treadmill gives the illusion of being a longer distance than when walking three miles on the treadmill? But three miles should equal three miles regardless of the pace. And while one does exert more energy when running than when walking, it’s still the same distance.

So why do I feel like I just ran five miles?

Oh well, no pain—no gain, right?

Update: I actually wrote this entry yesterday, but I was unable to post it because Typepad was down. Bad, Typepad.