Aargh, part the second

I was just about to post something on Facebook when I realized that if I had written what I was thinking, all of my posts would be about drinking. I mean, there are other ways to handle issues and problems, right? If you believe that is so, please leave me some advice in the comments.

Pumpernickel is again a very sick kitty. She was born, apparently, with a congenital kidney abnormality and has been running on just one kidney her whole life. For whatever reason, that kidney is now failing. She’s not going to die tomorrow or the next day, probably, but she could die next week or in two weeks. Our goal is to keep her happy and comfortable as possible for as long as possible. That will happen by balancing her blood chemistry to compensate for her failing kidney. So she will get several kinds of meds crushed up in her food every day, plus some antibiotics to fight a mild bladder infection. My dilemma is one that everyone who truly shares his or her life with a furry creature eventually faces. 

I used to have 2 Chihuahuas named Ricky and Lucy. (NB: Both of these dogs came to me via the animal shelter where I worked. I would never dream of seeking out a purebred dog for any reason, but I will happily love any dog who comes my way.) Lucy lived to be a tottering, confused, 19-year-old dog. Ricky, on the other hand, was a much prettier and superficially healthier dog. Whereas Lucy was hydrocephalic (a risk when people breed dogs to have large, round heads), Ricky had a reasonable, solid noggin. Lucy’s fontanelle (her baby soft spot) never closed. Her conformation was not at all what any reasonable person would choose to recreate — back too long relative to her height, among many other issues. Ricky, on the other hand, was a perfect specimen — her body was muscular, solid, and well-proportioned. Lucy was a fragile waif, with translucent ears and a visible circulatory system. But when she was about 7, Ricky started to go into a decline — she lost weight rapidly and lost her lively personality. Tests showed that she was born with a congenital kidney abnormality and had been functioning on one kidney her whole life. Once she started to slide downhill, the slope got more and more slippery. I did everything I could for her, including hooking her up to IV fluids at home to keep her hydrated. Now I realize that all I did was extend her suffering because I wasn’t ready to let her go. I dread doing that to Pumpernickel. Realizing when she’s ready to go will be the biggest challenge I’ll face.

Pumpernickel was born, along with her two brothers, in my house. Her brother Junebug had a terrible incident with a car engine and is now a tripod. He decided to go live with with my neighbors because Molly was just too much for him. They love him and take good care of him. Her other brother was adopted by a loving family who named him “Moro,” which is the Croatian word for black. He died quite young of feline AIDS or leukemia, I can’t remember which. She has spent only about a week anywhere but here when I had to board her and Junebug to go on a shitty vacation. I still remember how fascinated Buster was with those kittens. He would shove his nose in their tiny butts and wheelbarrow them down the hallway.

So, to make a short story long, that’s why I was reminiscing about the first time I ever had Orangina, and why I was now contemplating why Orangina is delicious with vodka added. Wish my sweet girl a ton of love.

Argh

Now the OUTSIDE of my house smells like moth balls, but I haven’t heard the critter since I mothballed the attic. This puts me in mind of an old joke, and I can’t remember the presentation, so I’ll wing it and just screw it up.

Jokester 1: Hey, what do moth balls smell like?
Jokester 2: How the hell should I know? It’s hard to get your nose between their tiny thighs.

Tah-dah.

Job: still trying to kill me, but it’s all fairly uninteresting (not that anything here isn’t uninteresting…).

Please send some Internet love Pumpernickel’s way. She is currently spending the night at the vet and is having an ultrasound tomorrow (if this doesn’t make me sound like an overprivileged Western asshole, I don’t know what does) to find out what’s making her kidneys not function. In October, she went to the doctor because she had an abscess that ruptured, and I didn’t even know she had the abscess UNTIL it ruptured. Cats are just so stoic. During that episode, the vet did blood work and found that her (Pumpernickel’s) kidneys weren’t functioning well. However, over the next weeks and months she did fine. She was fat and sassy and very chatty. Just over the past couple of weeks she has started losing weight and becoming lethargic. So she needs some good wishes that will lead to good diagnostic news tomorrow. I’ve given a lot of thought to the worst-case scenario already because kidney failure is just almost always fatal. I don’t want her to suffer while the humans dink around with trying to figure out what’s wrong, all the while doing invasive tests on her that won’t improve her outlook or physical well-being. I hope it’s just an infection, but it might be worse.

I just saw an H & M ad on tv, which is just mean because there isn’t one anywhere near here. And I just realized I’m watching DVRed tv, and I don’t have to watch the commercials. Do you see what work is doing to my brain? DO YOU?

I was under the impression that I’d shared the story about GNO (Girls’ Night Out) with the Internets, but I must have just thought about it enough to think I’d done it (that happens more often than I’d care to admit). We had dinner at Luke, much anticipated, and it was all just meh. I think Grandma enjoyed her seafood raw platter the most, but what BabyGirl and I had was only just OK. Afterwards we went to a bar called The Hangar just because there was parking there. We had fun chatting and people watching, and then somehow there were three young gents at our table. One was named Michael and he was from Newcastle, England, and you know what that accent does to us ladies… Anyhoo, he was very handsome and began hitting on me, quite hard. We swapped phone numbers and he texted me as soon as I got home for the purpose of a booty call, but by then I had gotten too much stodgy sense back and didn’t reply. For the very first time, I had thought that he was too young for me. WTF was that? It was poor judgment, that’s what it was!! I’ve been tempted to send him a “What are you doing?” text, but I’m afraid he would only understand a “What r u doing?” text.

So it’s an hour past my bedtime, and yay for wine. Thank you in advance for your good thoughts for Pumpy.

Random/Abstract

Homeowner’s Tip: Putting mothballs in your attic to get rid of the critter living up there will make your whole house reek of mothballs for days. Maybe even weeks — I’ll let you know. I don’t know who is living up there (or even how many who’s), and I haven’t heard him/her since I put the mothballs up there, but still… Not a good solution. I don’t want to call an exterminator, because I don’t want to kill whoever it is, but I think it might come to that after all. Whatever it is seems to be living mostly in the space between the studs in the wall that separates my bathroom from the other bathroom. I can hear it wake up in the morning and scratch behind its ears. One day, it sounded like it fell down behind the shower wall (frantic scrabbling), but it climbed out again. Sometimes I hear it or a compatriot in the wall near my front door. So far, the strict measures I’ve taken include: wishing it would go away. And mothballs. If it’s a squirrel or a possum, then I don’t want it harmed — just removed. The only situation where I can imagine being OK with killing it would be if it was a rat, but even then, I don’t like the outcome.

In a not-surprising segue, my house is a mess!! I should be cleaning now instead of writing, but in reality I should be cleaning no matter what else I am doing — eating, sleeping, reading, watching TV. I had to find the title to my son’s car a couple of days ago, which led me to go into the two spare bedrooms, which I usually avoid because they’re so scary. Yikes. Molly sleeps on the futon in one of the rooms, and she brings a least a couple of pounds of dirt into the house per week and deposits most of it onto that futon. Buster is really just a device that converts dog food to hair, so there are big tumbleweeds of Busterfur rolling around everywhere. There’s dirt, dust, or fur on every surface. I finally managed to empty the other bedroom of all of the clothes that don’t fit me anymore — I sorted them into “cute” and “not cute” piles, and gave all of the cute ones to Grandma since she’s lost enough weight to put them to good use. In fact, I saw her at week twice last week wearing my donations, and she looked way cuter in them than I ever did, I’m sure.

Another discovery I made whilst looking for the title to the car — I can’t remember the combination to the safe that’s in one of the spare closets. I know I emailed it to myself 4 or so years ago when I bought the safe because I foresaw this very occurrence, but now I can’t find the email. No one who has known me for more than 2 minutes will be surprised by any of this. I know I have the hard copy of the combination somewhere… filed in with warranties and user manuals, I think. Luckily, there’s nothing important in there, which doesn’t make any sense either.

Work still sucks, but it’s not worth elaborating about. I’m just glad that we have a 3-day weekend so I can have an undisturbed workday on Monday. Sad.

I just invented a new internet radio service for gay men called “Mandora.” 

I haven’t gone grocery shopping in so long that I have almost no food in my house. I did a quick trip at 9 on Friday when I left work, but all I got was wine, Diet Coke, cheese, and dog food. Single ladies’ special. All I needed was some batteries to complete the stereotype.

I need to run, literally. I need to go at least 7 miles today to feel that I’m not a lump. I’m just not sure which direction to go. Metaphorical!!

Dear Sir or Madame:

Every so often, my job becomes unmanageable, and that’s where we find our intrepid heroine today. There’s just too much. Too much drama, too much responsibility, too much accountability, too many words. In my work, I have an awesome responsibility and I take it very seriously, because there are real consequences to the work we do. But instead of being able to concentrate on what’s important, I spend hours (HOURS!!!) dealing with a fair number of idiots who focus on no one but themselves. I am actually hoping that someone I’ve known for years will get canned by the end of the week. Eek.

I got up at 4:30 this morning so I would have time to run and be at work by 8. Fail. All day long, people kept saying, “Are you OK?” Probably why: At the end of my run, I saw a beautiful, orange cat lying in the road. It is my wont to move any dead animal off the road because the disrespect for life demonstrated by a driver running over an animal after it’s already dead is simply unacceptable to me. It doesn’t matter if it’s a skunk or possum or squirrel — that life deserves respect. When I moved the cat, I realized that he had only just been hit. His body was still warm; there was no rigor mortis yet, and when I put my hand on his chest, I think I still felt his heart beating. I tapped on the inner corner of his eye — the vet I worked for taught me that this is a more accurate test of life than finding a heartbeat. His eye didn’t react. I didn’t know what else to do — it was only about 6:15 a.m. and the nearby houses were still dark. He wasn’t wearing a collar, so no tags. I really wanted to be able to tell his family where he was and when he died, and that it was my deepest hope that the very last thing he knew in this life was a kind and loving hand on his body. I wonder if there are children crying tonight because their loved pet is gone. He was a beautiful, healthy, young cat. Too young to die. I’m glad I may have eased his pathway to the rainbow bridge. Slow the hell down, people.

In reality TV news, really, Top Chef? BEVERLY?? Edward’s odd jaw weirdness drove me nuts, but I would much rather eat his food than Beverly’s. And I miss Grayson. I love a mouthy Wisconsin girl.

Keeping up

So. My job is seriously crushing my soul at the moment due to the massive volumes of work I can’t keep up with, but I’m perplexed to say that I still really like my job. Most of the time. We are in Performance Review Season, one of my least favorite times of the year. I love the substance of what I do (most of the time), but I just don’t like managing people. I think people should manage themselves and just leave me the fuck out of it. As always, the 80/20 rule applies here. Twenty % of the people on my team take up 80 % of my time. Almost everyone is awesome, but there’s always at least one… Mine is a whiner. A complainer. Someone who cries every time she comes into my office. Who thinks she does an AMAZING job, but does a very adequate job and no more. This person has been agitating for a promotion for over a year, but hasn’t earned one yet. It’s very difficult to be promoted at EduTech — just doing a good job isn’t enough. You have to do a stellar job for the promotion. You have to do the job you want, and do it better than the people who already have the job. With my problem child, that ain’t happening. Her performance review went something like this:

Me: You’re doing a very good job and I really appreciate your hard work.
Her: Am I going to get a promotion?
Me: I don’t think you’re quite ready yet. You’ve been doing well, but you know that isn’t enough. I have to make a really solid case for your promotion, and I don’t think I can do that yet. However, if you do X, Y, and Z, we can really push for it later in the year.
Her: [heaving sobs]

Of course, there’s a bit more, and I have sympathy, but holy crap, how awesome is it that someone left my office after her annual review with mascara running down her cheeks? Not a bit awesome. And to illustrate why it’s sometimes a mistake to be Facebook friends with colleagues/employees, I believe she’s making snarky veiled references to me on Facebook. Grow the fuck up. Grow a pair. Stop sending me fucking Farmville requests. WTF is Farmville? Gah.

Other things that shouldn’t happen on Facebook: Political dialogue and commentary. There are a few people that I really like and whose company I enjoy… or enjoyed until they started spouting political ridiculousness on FB. I have diatribes planned here about the education system in the US, WalMart, and Farmville. Oh, wait. Cross Farmville off the list! Facebook is for stories about dogs and kids, and poop jokes, and silly, upbeat happiness, or occasional sympathy. It’s not about abortion, or the Tea Party, or Rick Santorum. Although George Takei can stand up for gay marriage on Facebook anytime he wants to as far as I’m concerned. It’s OK to be Takei!! There are all kinds of sites out there on the Internets that are devoted to political rhetoric. Go there. I want to see a baby panda sneezing, or a picture of a cat named Monkey. I want to read Texts from Last Night, and what’s happening at Love and a Six-Foot Leash.

Since I’m ranting, let me add that 90% of my email over the last two weeks has been related to the dreaded scourge of Valentine’s Day. Stop, Groupon! Let it go, LOFT! I’m painfully aware of my aloneness in the world. Thanks for bringing it up again and again. I’ll be patronizing your establishments some other time. I am lucky enough to have a Valentine’s Day date with the Rack, however, which is a large slice of awesome. We’ll probably go to Taco Garage in order to avoid the schmoopy couples that will be invading most reputable eateries. Screw you, happy couples. Raffles is now taking reservations for Valentine’s Day!! What???

And to close this evening’s ramblings, I will share that a couple of weeks ago, Buster found a cork from a bottle of sparkling Torrentes and decided it was his new best friend. He carried it around everywhere, except for walks. He kept it in his bed and occasionally pranced around with it and flung it in the air. He and Corky had quite a thing going. Corky seems to have disappeared in the last couple of days, but maybe if I ever clean again, I’ll find him. Maybe by Valentine’s Day.

Every day, I say to myself that this is the day I begin blogging again! So far, I’ve been WAY off. Way off. The reasons for my extended absence are legion, but nothing bad, thank you!

Over the holidays, I was lucky enough to have many wonderful holiday gatherings to attend, mostly dinner-oriented. I went to Feast and had lovely meals both times. I also went to La Frite, which was sort of harrowing at first (some wanted to eat at 5:30, others at 8:00, the place is tiny and doesn’t take reservations, I got lost on the way there…), but fun and delicious in the long run. Plus, it was on Top Chef: Texas!! We hit Raffles a time or two, which is always strange and surreal and very entertaining. I ended up at IHOP at 4 a.m. for breakfast with BabyGirl and Grandma once, plus some dude named Bobby who seemed to want my phone number. Or something. But he was my age, so that wasn’t happening…

My job is eating my brain, but I have some stuff to pontificate, describe, and rant about. I have a list! Actually, I have several lists scattered throughout various notebooks that I can’t find. But I’ve been sad for just a couple of days, because yesterday was my son’s 22nd birthday, but I have no idea how or where he spent it, or who(m) with.

I am currently too crushingly exhausted to make any sense, so bonne nuit, mes enfants. A la demaine. My eyeballs have become raisins.

So…

What’s up, Internets? How you been?

I’m trying to come up with excuses for my lack of updates, for some reason, as though I would be held accountable for my recent lack of drivel. My dog ate my update? That’s pretty plausible. Work has been kicking my ass? Again… But I just had a long holiday weekend during which I did very little work, so that one is not so believable. I got nothin’.

Thanksgiving!! I hope everyone had a lovely one, full of joy and fun. I certainly did! This year, my dysfunctional little friend-family decided to host young soldiers, brand-new trainees, at our Thanksgiving gathering. We have decided to do this before, but never actually did it until this year. There’s a lot of excellent ideas, but a certain lack of follow-through… But this year I actually signed us up in time and then I actually drove to Lackland AFB and picked up two fresh-faced adorable children who were away from home and had been yelled at by strangers for the last 4 weeks. Picking them up was an ordeal not worth describing beyond saying that it totally violated all of my rules about personal space. But once I got them in the car… bow chikka bow bowng! The bass guitar wailed and the cameras rolled. Kidding. I saw some trainees that I would TOTALLY have gone all Mrs. Robinson over, but ours were just cute.

As soon as we walked in and introduced everyone all around, BabyGirl had the best idea ever: give them our cell phones. They get 15 minutes/week on the phone, and no Internet access at all. She and I handed them our phones, and the looks on their faces made the 90-minute wait and personal space invasion when I picked them up worth it times 100. They both disappeared into the driveway to call their loved ones and were gone for a while. They made several calls during the day, and there wasn’t anything better we could have done for them. When they were inside, Grandma plied them with many, many questions about their lives as trainees and their futures in the USAF. They were both excited and pleased to be asked these questions. One of these children is married to another child! Yikes, I am very old. Anyhoo, the Packers played that afternoon and won, the food was all delicious, the ambiance was cool and drama-free, and it was as close to perfect as any Thanksgiving I’ve ever participated in. The trainees demonstrated something that’s called a “Face Party” that they have to participate in several times per day. It’s not NEARLY as much fun as the image I conjured up when I heard “Face Party.” It’s push ups, then flutter kicks, then squat thrusts. Then they ate a literal TON of punkin pie. The gratitude these young men expressed was so out of proportion to what we did for them… And what they do for us allows all of us to express unpopular and stupid opinions, vote for nut-jobs, and write silly drivel on the Internet. They were hosted by a nest of rabid liberals, but we all understand and appreciate the fact that we live somewhere that allows us to be so.

We got thank-you notes from both of them just a day or two after Thanksgiving. One of them told me that “not everyone had good experiences…” I would LOVE to hear the stories he heard from fellow trainees who had a less enjoyable time. What happened? Family argument? Craptacular food? Sullen teenagers and drunk weekend Mom? What??? I’m going to see if they have any free time at all between graduation and shipping out (I think they have 3-4 days) and try to put together another gathering. Seriously, if you live anywhere near any military base, find out if they have any kind of hosting program. Nothing will make you feel better.

In other “news,” I have been having some extreme mood swings lately, which occasionally leave me feeling completely full of despair and sorrow. This mood hasn’t lingered long, but it does have a regular orbit. I really like my therapist, but every so often I wonder what she’s writing down on that pad, because whatever it is, it doesn’t cause her to remember anything I’ve ever said before. I have told her about my wish to be a goat farmer, and every so often she’ll ask me something like, “Don’t you have something to do with cows? Or cheese?” So I was telling her about a particularly spectacular downward mood swing, like I’m sposed to do, and by way of description, I told her that the feeling was something like “I’m going to die alone and lonely and no one will know I’m dead until my neighbors complain about the smell.” In all earnestness, she said, “Remember that technique we talked about for handling anxiety where you recognize how likely something is to actually happen?” Yes, I did remember that. We had talked about travel anxiety, wherein I’m sure I’ll miss my plane and consequently lose my job, or that I’ll forget something so crucial that I can’t possibly survive without it. We talked about how likely it was for my car to explode while I’m driving to the beach (there was that one time when it happened…), etc. I had to admit that it was not very likely for many events I worry about to actually happen, which does help control the anxiety. But here, there is close to 100% likelihood that this actually will happen. I am certainly going to die someday, and it seems quite likely that I will do this independently. So I told her that, and she misinterpreted this to mean that I had some unreasonable fear of death, which, in fact, I do not. Then I had to spend 20 minutes convincing her that I wasn’t convinced that I would die before the weekend. It was one of those times when I thought she should have paid me. She has also made me late for cocktails on a few occasions.

My current project is trying to understand and give a shit about basketball so the end of the football season isn’t so devastating this year. So far, no good.

Search engine fails

Today I am full of malaise and ennui. No sleep last night. Instead of bitching about why this is, I will instead share with you how a couple of unfortunate Internet users recently stumbled into this blog:

Ummm, Google, this is just cruel.

Ahhh hahahaha! I think I know how that happened!

Bitter? Table for one!

Internets, I have a fabulous misadventure in not-dating to tell you about! I’m going to try to put all of this in the most positive terms possible, because I really think it’s mostly funny (although pathetic). I mean, the intersection between funny and pathetic includes 62% of everything, so it’s not completely self-hating to relate this incident. Although it really is, but if I don’t have self-hate, thenI have very little to discuss.

So, I have detailed here before my attempts to find one, 1, just one single, solitary male human being worth spending time with who would value my companionship on the upper right quadrant of the grid, and those details have included my failures, which range from imperceptible to epic. I have attempted to use eHarmony, and ended up weeping on the phone to the customer service representative because I just couldn’t believe that these people who had nothing in common with me were somehow harmonious with me. What had I done wrong? I’m pretty fucking good at standardized tests, so I can’t believe that I answered the questions in a way that would link me to these people.

But I was still pretty raw then, so I gave it another try. Late last spring I thought I’d try Match.com because a lot of people I know, like, and trust said it was worth doing. It wasn’t. Every time I opened my email, there was some salt to grind into the wound. Sometimes I got an email that said no one matched me so I should lower my standards. Other times I received profiles from people who I’m sure are OK human beings, but whom I just didn’t want to meet. I work hard at being literate, so I don’t want to spend time with someone who doesn’t give a shit about that. I work hard at being fit and somewhat attractive, so I don’t want to spend time with someone who wants a fit partner but can’t spend 45 minutes a day being active. It was just devastating. I don’t know if I’ve explained this well or not, but it was hard to understand that this is what I was reduced to, trying desperately to grab the attention of people who can’t measure up to their own requirements. It just destroyed my self esteem. I’m also tired of being judged by a single metric: age. I have been told directly that I would be worth spending time with if it weren’t for the fact that I’m 53. That I’d be eligible for “fixing up” with someone or another if I weren’t so fucking old.

A couple of nights ago I got this cockamamie idea that there must be something else. That I could find some means that would help me, but wouldn’t match me with assholes like the assholes I’d been “seeing.” And I stumbled upon a service called eLove. It was a matchmaking service that took a personal approach instead of using an algorithm to find compatible mates. I filled out a couple of forms and looked around on the Internets for documentation of success/failure/criminal behavior. Then I spoke with a representative of this corporation on the telephone and we chatted for a bit about how much Internet dating sucks, etc. Then I set up an appointment to actually GO INTO their offices and SPEAK TO a human being. I kept telling myself, “What do I have to lose? What I’ve been doing hasn’t been successful, so why not take a chance?” So I made that appointment. And didn’t sleep for one minute Sunday night, although, in truth, that was for a wide number of reasons. On Monday they called to confirm my appointment and I told the rep that I had a bad case of cold feet and didn’t think I’d really be going to that appointment. The rep, clearly well trained for this sort of situation, told me about all of the positive aspects of their service, including background checks, personal service, etc. In my attempts to be positive and try new things, I decided that I had nothing to lose, so I should just try it. JUST TRY IT. I didn’t know all of the answers, so what was I doing rejecting this approach out of hand?

Just so you know I’m not completely oblivious to reality, I will state that I had begun to notice that I couldn’t find any information anywhere about the cost of this service, although that’s standard for all Internet dating sites. They use all of the standard marketing techniques, so they try to make you buy into their service with an emotional commitment before they reveal the cost.

So I went to my matchmaker appointment last night. I answered a couple of questionnaires about myself — the same sort of questions asked by the Internet sites and included on the MMPI. How did I feel about religion, finances, control, etc. Except that the questionnaire I answered had typographical errors included. The representative was very nice and asked me lots of questions and seemed to care. And then I asked about the cost of the service. They promised a lot — background checks, personal service, etc. So I didn’t think it would be cheap, because those things aren’t free. But imagine my surprise, Internets, when the laminated “menu” was handed to me. It detailed 3 different levels of service: Standard, Something Else I Can’t Remember, and Executive. I don’t remember all of the details, but I do remember that the Standard package included 12 introductions to suitable mates, plus not much else. I think email notifications were included here, although I’m not at all sure what sort of value that adds. Email seems much more efficient than telephone… And for 12 introductions to suitable mates over a period of 6 months the cost was…

ridiculous…

and seriously?

What?

$5,495, less a first-visit discount which brought the cost down $1,000. So I could have been introduced to 12 persons over a period of 6 months (an average of 2/month) for $4,500.

The next levels up included a variety of other crap, for a boost of about 2 grand per level. That’s right, Internets. I can’t even afford to purchase a date. So I’m not going to go stick my head in the oven right now, but I have resolved to tell the 2 assholes I’ve been “seeing” to fuck off because I deserve much better.

And I am beside myself because Pumpernickel is on top of a sleeping Molly, purring and making biscuits as Molly sleeps on and it’s so cute it makes me want to sort of squeeeeeeee with delight.

This has been going on for 45 minutes!

Focus!

Focus is what I’m struggling with lately. I find myself so easily distracted. I have just a shitload of work to do before tomorrow and I’ve already spent 2 hours avoiding it. It’s all of that extra work that is usually known as the “vacation tax,” but I was out of the office for work, not vacation. Other things I’d like to get done today: long run, vanquish hangover, watch Packers win, grocery shopping, prep lunches for next week.

Here’s some information that may be useful: Twizzlers have a laxative effect. If you eat a lot of them. Like really a lot.

Last week I went through my work calendar to find days when I had no meetings scheduled, and I made the following appointment for each of those days: VACATION. That’s right. This year for the very first time I am going to take all of my vacation days instead of giving them back to the company, which is essentially working 2 weeks for free. We can roll one week over to the next year, and I’m doing that, but I’m not going to lose any days because I just didn’t take them this year. And next Friday is one of those days! Yay! I’m also going to the beach for a few days again next month with BabyGirl and Awesome McCool. Sure, it’ll be December, but the weather very well could still be in the 70s-80s then. It could be frickin cold too, but that’s fine.

Last week sometime I read an inspiring post on HuffPo about avoiding negativity. I can’t find it now to post the link, but the essence of the message resonated very deeply for me. I recognized a LOT of my own behavior, cited, of course, as the DON’T DO THIS STUFF examples. Hmmm, did I say that in a negative way? One of these behaviors that has become deeply ingrained in me is my habit of stating several times a day, “I’m an idiot.” I say this to anyone who will listen to explain why I made a mistake or said something outlandish or made a bad decision. I think it’s a way to try to lower people’s expectations of me so that I can exceed those expectations, but it’s a terrible message to give. Yet I say it often. I wouldn’t tolerate for a second someone else saying that about me because it isn’t true, but I broadcast these words on a regular basis. When other people make mistakes or a bad decision, I don’t usually conclude that they’re idiots (although, to be honest, sometimes we end up working with an idiot or two…). I give them the benefit of the doubt that they meant well and will do better next time. I show them compassion. So my first step toward a less negative existence is that I’m going to stop saying and thinking negative things about myself. We’re human — we make mistakes. It’s part of our essence, and it’s the best way to learn the right way to do something. No more trash-talking about myself.

I should probably work on that focus problem now by actually trying to do the work that’s been silently taunting me.