While screaming at the Sprint robot Sunday afternoon, I came to a couple of conclusions/realizations:
1) I truly hate automated call systems. I don't like to throw strong words around, but I truly hate them.
2) I have yet to experience a truly "convenient" automated system that was more efficient than if I had gotten a live person on the phone in the first place.
3) These things must just randomly drop people and hope they don't call back. Even on land lines, I get dropped every now and then.
4) Most of these systems are stupid. Most people don't hit the same key 10 times in a row, hearing the "sorry, that is not a recognized option", and actually expect it to work. WE DON'T WANT TO BE AT THAT MENU.
5) My blood pressure gets way too high while working with these things.
6) They just don't work. Every time I call Capital One (who likes to turn my card off every so often), I play nice, and enter in my card number, zip code, phone number, and last 4 digits of my social security number, only to ALWAYS have to give it right back to the human on the other side.
You have to appreciate this. I can't be the only one.
One time, I thought I had figured these bastards out. Actually, US Airways' system is the only one that actually works. I was on my way home from work one afternoon, stuck in the summer heat in my P-Breeze (no power anything, horrible air conditioner, total junk car) crawling at a turtle's pace on highway 40 in RTP, trying to figure out why I hadn't yet received my ticket for an international flight I was supposed to be in a few days' time.
Anyways, it was the most frustrating system I had ever encountered. Kept hanging up on me, kept taking me back to main menus. I almost broke my Zero key, pressing it incessantly hoping to be brought to the operator or whatever. I was beginning to lose it after the 7th hangup or so.
I wasn't able to control anger back then as well as I can now, so it wasn't odd for a poor soul traveling down 40 around rush hour to see a guy screaming, beating the steering wheel of his Plymouth Breeze, cursing the gods.
After a while, when nothing else would work, I just started screaming 4 letter words into the phone, probably telling someone I wanted to kill their mother/child/god, whatever, and what do you know, I am IMMEDIATELY connected to someone!
So maybe these things are smart after all? At least smart enough to know that someone is close to going postal, and that trying to explain to police after they find the carnage that the last number I called was their customer service would not be easy ... smart right?
Sadly, I tried to prove my theory on Time Warner cable, Sprint, American Airlines, Chase bank, the New York Public Library, and StubHub, and got nowhere. Still trying, hoping that there is in fact a semi-intelligent automated call system out there. Waiting to be found.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Sometimes you just need to get across the pond
So I really like my job right now. The most I have ever liked it. I have always wavered between periods of utter joy and also utter defeat in regards to how I felt about the situation at work. I've only once come close to considering a move, but that luckily never materialized.
I write this as I sit in the office (in London) on a Saturday afternoon, and normally this would enrage me and have me cursing the world that I'm working on a Saturday. There are about 45 million things that would be much more fun, but that's besides the point.
Part of it has to be the routine. You start associating work with those 10 hours a day or so where you're just a machine making money so that you can enjoy the other 14 hours a day comfortably. Then sometimes it doesn't even become that, it just loses all representation and can become a chore, a mindless task you might feel that is torture. Why am I here? What does it really matter?
Then there are times where work can really excite you. You're working on a cool project/case/report and you feel like you're LUCKY to be doing it, hell you might even do the same thing on your own time. I've had that before, and that's not what this is, but worth mentioning.
I'm in more of a "I realize what I do is worthwhile enough, and that I'm part of a bigger thing that can actually be of value to people". That's not because CEO's just gave some speech and I'm inspired, but when you start to look at the big picture sometimes, it can be uplifting.
Furthermore, by geographically moving, that just makes everything a bit fresher, gives me a chance to operate at a different pace and level than before. My colleagues back in NY are 5 hours behind me, so my mornings become ultra-efficient before ending the day with meetings. And I like the fact that my "day" ends, and sorry, I just have to go.
We'll see how this project works out and if I'm singing the same tune in a few months, but right now, I'm just happy with where things are. I'll have a pint to that.
I write this as I sit in the office (in London) on a Saturday afternoon, and normally this would enrage me and have me cursing the world that I'm working on a Saturday. There are about 45 million things that would be much more fun, but that's besides the point.
Part of it has to be the routine. You start associating work with those 10 hours a day or so where you're just a machine making money so that you can enjoy the other 14 hours a day comfortably. Then sometimes it doesn't even become that, it just loses all representation and can become a chore, a mindless task you might feel that is torture. Why am I here? What does it really matter?
Then there are times where work can really excite you. You're working on a cool project/case/report and you feel like you're LUCKY to be doing it, hell you might even do the same thing on your own time. I've had that before, and that's not what this is, but worth mentioning.
I'm in more of a "I realize what I do is worthwhile enough, and that I'm part of a bigger thing that can actually be of value to people". That's not because CEO's just gave some speech and I'm inspired, but when you start to look at the big picture sometimes, it can be uplifting.
Furthermore, by geographically moving, that just makes everything a bit fresher, gives me a chance to operate at a different pace and level than before. My colleagues back in NY are 5 hours behind me, so my mornings become ultra-efficient before ending the day with meetings. And I like the fact that my "day" ends, and sorry, I just have to go.
We'll see how this project works out and if I'm singing the same tune in a few months, but right now, I'm just happy with where things are. I'll have a pint to that.
Monday, January 19, 2009
New shoes are stupid (or at least that's what I thought)
Me a few weeks ago:
There is no point in buying new shoes. Well, there are some cases where it is warranted, but otherwise new shoes are one of the biggest letdowns known to man. Allow me to explain.
1) New shoes never feel as good as your old shoes.
They just don't.
Sure, they always take time to break in, I'm a patient person so I realize this. But each time I think the shoes should be broken in by whatever time period has passed, I start thinking back on how good old shoes felt. Sometimes, I abandon the new shoes for the old ones just because I can't stop thinking of them. Thus, I have several pairs of brand new shoes that are something like 10 years old. I can't throw those away either, but that's another story entirely.
This might be some deep-seeded issue with comparing old to the new (and letting go of the past) but I ain't reading to deeply in to this. Shoes aren't like cars, they don't get more comfortable. It's a conspiracy by the shoe industry to make them less reliable so we buy more. I'm not falling for their tricks.
2) If it ain't broke, don't fix it
If my feet feel fine, and if I don't feel like spending money, why worry about it? Sure the backs might be crumbling away and the color is 5 shades different from the original, but I'm cool with that.
I've worn a pair of shoes before until literally a hole had been worn into the bottoms. I even let my feet get a little wet before thinking maybe it was time to replace. Wet shoes don't smell great though, so I finally caved.
3) Cleaning shoes is impossible/pointless
Enjoy your nice new shiny shoes while they last ... for no longer than a day usually. Weather hurts, plus any tight spaces like bars where your shoes will most definitely be stepped upon or have various alcohols (the staining type, like red wine and jager) all over them. So all those white shoes that look so cool ... ruination immediately.
Me Now:
To hell with it. Unless it's old family photos or baseball cards or something, I have no desire to hang on to anything that's that old, especially something that my feet have been touching for that long. Furthermore, there's something to be said about having that "worn" look and feel to it which is fine, but looking homeless is another thing (nothing wrong with being homeless if that's your choice).
I put some old gym shoes in the garbage the other day and kind of stared for a moment, saying my goodbyes. Why do we have trouble throwing things in the garbage sometimes? Who knows, but I'm relieved now that every time I can throw something like this away and love the feeling when I buy a new replacement and think "that wasn't so hard. How good do you feel now?"
Again, not all old is bad. But seriously, 10 year old shoes? Who was I kidding.
There is no point in buying new shoes. Well, there are some cases where it is warranted, but otherwise new shoes are one of the biggest letdowns known to man. Allow me to explain.
1) New shoes never feel as good as your old shoes.
They just don't.
Sure, they always take time to break in, I'm a patient person so I realize this. But each time I think the shoes should be broken in by whatever time period has passed, I start thinking back on how good old shoes felt. Sometimes, I abandon the new shoes for the old ones just because I can't stop thinking of them. Thus, I have several pairs of brand new shoes that are something like 10 years old. I can't throw those away either, but that's another story entirely.
This might be some deep-seeded issue with comparing old to the new (and letting go of the past) but I ain't reading to deeply in to this. Shoes aren't like cars, they don't get more comfortable. It's a conspiracy by the shoe industry to make them less reliable so we buy more. I'm not falling for their tricks.
2) If it ain't broke, don't fix it
If my feet feel fine, and if I don't feel like spending money, why worry about it? Sure the backs might be crumbling away and the color is 5 shades different from the original, but I'm cool with that.
I've worn a pair of shoes before until literally a hole had been worn into the bottoms. I even let my feet get a little wet before thinking maybe it was time to replace. Wet shoes don't smell great though, so I finally caved.
3) Cleaning shoes is impossible/pointless
Enjoy your nice new shiny shoes while they last ... for no longer than a day usually. Weather hurts, plus any tight spaces like bars where your shoes will most definitely be stepped upon or have various alcohols (the staining type, like red wine and jager) all over them. So all those white shoes that look so cool ... ruination immediately.
Me Now:
To hell with it. Unless it's old family photos or baseball cards or something, I have no desire to hang on to anything that's that old, especially something that my feet have been touching for that long. Furthermore, there's something to be said about having that "worn" look and feel to it which is fine, but looking homeless is another thing (nothing wrong with being homeless if that's your choice).
I put some old gym shoes in the garbage the other day and kind of stared for a moment, saying my goodbyes. Why do we have trouble throwing things in the garbage sometimes? Who knows, but I'm relieved now that every time I can throw something like this away and love the feeling when I buy a new replacement and think "that wasn't so hard. How good do you feel now?"
Again, not all old is bad. But seriously, 10 year old shoes? Who was I kidding.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
An Ode to My Liver
Oh Dear Liver
You amaze me ever so
With your magic ways
- T-Pain
This is the most amazing organ I have ever known. I have no idea how it functions, and how it functions with such aplomb and gusto to recover me so quickly, only to "thank it" by giving it more alcohol and foreign substance to deal with.
In all honesty, I do love my liver deeply. Every morning that I wake up after a bender and don't feel like killing myself, I have no one or no thing to thank other than Mr. Liver. It's a male too. My liver is anyways.
I was especially aware of my liver's amazing abilities this morning, when I landed in London at 8:30 a.m. local time, which is 3:30 a.m. normal time. And I was knee deep in airplane wine only 3 hours earlier. Not only did my liver give me the strength (probably stretching it, but whatever) to find my way to my place, but I was even able to run 3 miles a mere 5 hours later. Humans aren't supposed to do that sort of thing. I don't claim any sort of superhuman ability, I put all of that square on the shoulders of el liver.
You have to know what I am talking about. This stems from a series of evenings/mornings when I got up way earlier than any normal person should have after a night of debauchery, and felt way way WAY too good for what I had done.
Speaking of shoulders, that 's the first time in my life that I have ever had the mental image of a liver with shoulders/arms. It's a weird you thought. You should try and imagine it yourself.
I definitely feel like my liver is the main reason I appear healthy to outsiders, outsiders being those who don't see how badly I treat my body when I'm not treating it well.
I have to admit I take some snake oil medicine, like milk thystle and also drink detox teas, but that doesn't take away from the fact of how awesome my liver is.
Or what bad shape my liver might be in. The doctor always tells me "your liver looks great!" which is an invitation for half a dozen Jameson shots and other fun stuffs.
Maybe I have just learned moderation in a backwards ass way and actually AM being OK to my liver? I guess not having to consciously think about it is a gift. Or something.
- T-Pain
This is the most amazing organ I have ever known. I have no idea how it functions, and how it functions with such aplomb and gusto to recover me so quickly, only to "thank it" by giving it more alcohol and foreign substance to deal with.
In all honesty, I do love my liver deeply. Every morning that I wake up after a bender and don't feel like killing myself, I have no one or no thing to thank other than Mr. Liver. It's a male too. My liver is anyways.
I was especially aware of my liver's amazing abilities this morning, when I landed in London at 8:30 a.m. local time, which is 3:30 a.m. normal time. And I was knee deep in airplane wine only 3 hours earlier. Not only did my liver give me the strength (probably stretching it, but whatever) to find my way to my place, but I was even able to run 3 miles a mere 5 hours later. Humans aren't supposed to do that sort of thing. I don't claim any sort of superhuman ability, I put all of that square on the shoulders of el liver.
You have to know what I am talking about. This stems from a series of evenings/mornings when I got up way earlier than any normal person should have after a night of debauchery, and felt way way WAY too good for what I had done.
Speaking of shoulders, that 's the first time in my life that I have ever had the mental image of a liver with shoulders/arms. It's a weird you thought. You should try and imagine it yourself.
I definitely feel like my liver is the main reason I appear healthy to outsiders, outsiders being those who don't see how badly I treat my body when I'm not treating it well.
I have to admit I take some snake oil medicine, like milk thystle and also drink detox teas, but that doesn't take away from the fact of how awesome my liver is.
Or what bad shape my liver might be in. The doctor always tells me "your liver looks great!" which is an invitation for half a dozen Jameson shots and other fun stuffs.
Maybe I have just learned moderation in a backwards ass way and actually AM being OK to my liver? I guess not having to consciously think about it is a gift. Or something.
Circus Olay
Circus del Oil of Olay
But now officially the Circus Olay.
Where does one get a trapeze act and a taco to boot?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where does one get a side of beans with dinner? Even if it's actually breakfast?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where does one get fantastic Mexican cowboys battling it out all night with a bunch of bulls?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get to see dozens of Mexican acrobats swinging across the stage to the pulsing jams of Ricky Martin?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where does the staff take a siesta before bringing out your entrees?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get to choose hard or soft when asked where you'd like to sit for the show?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get maracas instead of violins?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get Brown instead of White?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get weird white cheese instead of something that goes by a normal cheese name?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get dragon-fighting hombres?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get a donkey instead of a horse?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
OK. Everyone please listen. There has to have been a time in your life at some point when the following seemed perfect and amazingly perfect for you. Let me introduce you to the concept of the Circus Olay, the one and only Mexican acrobatic lion-taming super circus. Oh yes. It's that good.
Fuck white tigers, fuck dudes driving motocross bikes in bit steel ball cages, and fuck clowns. We got real clowns here.
OK, so let's get serious for a minute. I want you to imagine Cirque de Soleil. Really imagine it. All the meth-heads in makeup flip-flopping around stage. There? You got it. So you have those regular crazies, but NOW you add a little spice to the mix. Or any traditional dish actually. Add an empanada, or quesadilla, or burrito, and now you got the Circus Olay. Let your mind drift for a second as I describe to you a typical act in this Mexiparty:
The show starts as usual, there's a ringmaster who comes out and spews a bunch of bull about the show being great and all that. Once the show actually gets underway, that's where all the damn magic happens.
So you have a couple of ladies throwing batons around in the air. Dancing with those Marilyn Monroe era caps, almost like swim caps. They bounce around for a while in front of a pretty backdrop, until someone bursts through that barrier, and looks a bit like Zorro, snaps their fingers, makes a yodel-type sound, making all hell break loose.
Canons explode. So do fire hydrants. All the while screams of joy and resolve are sounded from all corners. Even where no Mexicans are.
Next you have a bunch of guys who look the the 3 amigos, those of the Steve Martin/Chevy Chase fame. Running around stage doing backflips with guitars in hand.
While that's all going on, you have lots of lovely senoritas floating around the room with roses in mouth, smiling away with a ridiculous shade of red lipstick.
Next, lots of guys with mops fucking come flying across the floor, doing the mopping dance. They are able to hold themselves up on said mops, doing all kinds of spins and acrobatic moves. These moves have names, but I am not familiar with them.
All the while, the guys in the white "get your hotdog" outfits in the stands have ripped those off in favor of bull rider fare, tossing full tacos and margaritas to the crowd. It's a bit messy, but by this point, no one seems to care.
Meanwhile, the guy from the coffee label (actually about a dozen of them) do this weird dance with their donkeys, tossing coffee beans in the air the whole while. It is incredible.
Finally, Rosie Perez comes out and talks everyone's ears into bleeding, ending the show. It's the ultimate in lift up and then let down.
Another shameless ripoff of an idea from inspirational lady.
But now officially the Circus Olay.
Where does one get a trapeze act and a taco to boot?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where does one get a side of beans with dinner? Even if it's actually breakfast?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where does one get fantastic Mexican cowboys battling it out all night with a bunch of bulls?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get to see dozens of Mexican acrobats swinging across the stage to the pulsing jams of Ricky Martin?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where does the staff take a siesta before bringing out your entrees?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get to choose hard or soft when asked where you'd like to sit for the show?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get maracas instead of violins?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get Brown instead of White?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get weird white cheese instead of something that goes by a normal cheese name?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get dragon-fighting hombres?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
Where do you get a donkey instead of a horse?
The Circus Olay. That's what.
OK. Everyone please listen. There has to have been a time in your life at some point when the following seemed perfect and amazingly perfect for you. Let me introduce you to the concept of the Circus Olay, the one and only Mexican acrobatic lion-taming super circus. Oh yes. It's that good.
Fuck white tigers, fuck dudes driving motocross bikes in bit steel ball cages, and fuck clowns. We got real clowns here.
OK, so let's get serious for a minute. I want you to imagine Cirque de Soleil. Really imagine it. All the meth-heads in makeup flip-flopping around stage. There? You got it. So you have those regular crazies, but NOW you add a little spice to the mix. Or any traditional dish actually. Add an empanada, or quesadilla, or burrito, and now you got the Circus Olay. Let your mind drift for a second as I describe to you a typical act in this Mexiparty:
The show starts as usual, there's a ringmaster who comes out and spews a bunch of bull about the show being great and all that. Once the show actually gets underway, that's where all the damn magic happens.
So you have a couple of ladies throwing batons around in the air. Dancing with those Marilyn Monroe era caps, almost like swim caps. They bounce around for a while in front of a pretty backdrop, until someone bursts through that barrier, and looks a bit like Zorro, snaps their fingers, makes a yodel-type sound, making all hell break loose.
Canons explode. So do fire hydrants. All the while screams of joy and resolve are sounded from all corners. Even where no Mexicans are.
Next you have a bunch of guys who look the the 3 amigos, those of the Steve Martin/Chevy Chase fame. Running around stage doing backflips with guitars in hand.
While that's all going on, you have lots of lovely senoritas floating around the room with roses in mouth, smiling away with a ridiculous shade of red lipstick.
Next, lots of guys with mops fucking come flying across the floor, doing the mopping dance. They are able to hold themselves up on said mops, doing all kinds of spins and acrobatic moves. These moves have names, but I am not familiar with them.
All the while, the guys in the white "get your hotdog" outfits in the stands have ripped those off in favor of bull rider fare, tossing full tacos and margaritas to the crowd. It's a bit messy, but by this point, no one seems to care.
Meanwhile, the guy from the coffee label (actually about a dozen of them) do this weird dance with their donkeys, tossing coffee beans in the air the whole while. It is incredible.
Finally, Rosie Perez comes out and talks everyone's ears into bleeding, ending the show. It's the ultimate in lift up and then let down.
Another shameless ripoff of an idea from inspirational lady.
Once, I was on a plane ...
Listening to Alice in Chains on an airplane over the Atlantic ocean is an interesting experience to say the least. Especially after your 4th mini bottle of wine (the 4th of which was a buy-back buy the flight attendant thank you very much, I win!). I am reminded of high school, and the poor attempts of me and my friends trying to play these songs at talent shows, parties, basements. Normally under such circumstances I would revert back to high school memories and try to relive those feelings, but I find I can't do that anymore. I try my hardest sometimes to "feel" the way I did in certain moments of the past, and it just doesn't happen.
For those interested, I am listening to the self-titled 3 legged dog album. Poor dog.
I think this is a sign of maturing/growing up/getting old/getting smart. Maybe. I dunno. But it amazes me. I try to put myself back in a place that I am CERTAIN I knew was great, felt good, made me giddy with juvenile prepubescent joy, but I can't go back there. It just doesn't happen. Methinks it's a natural defense mechanism which forces me to consider the fact that I know more now, and can't rely entirely on new experience anymore for a euphoric high. I've experienced most of it. Now it's a matter of determining whether or not what I felt is genuine or not. And fuck, I love that. May I grow old as dirt and keep realizing what truly works and what doesn't.
God this wine is good. I am told it is French. I don't believe the flight attendant. But he is a nice fellow, so I cannot judge.
There is turbulence. Bring it on.
I am seriously trying to think back to those aforementioned memories, and it's not happening. Living in the now is fantastic.
For those interested, I am listening to the self-titled 3 legged dog album. Poor dog.
I think this is a sign of maturing/growing up/getting old/getting smart. Maybe. I dunno. But it amazes me. I try to put myself back in a place that I am CERTAIN I knew was great, felt good, made me giddy with juvenile prepubescent joy, but I can't go back there. It just doesn't happen. Methinks it's a natural defense mechanism which forces me to consider the fact that I know more now, and can't rely entirely on new experience anymore for a euphoric high. I've experienced most of it. Now it's a matter of determining whether or not what I felt is genuine or not. And fuck, I love that. May I grow old as dirt and keep realizing what truly works and what doesn't.
God this wine is good. I am told it is French. I don't believe the flight attendant. But he is a nice fellow, so I cannot judge.
There is turbulence. Bring it on.
I am seriously trying to think back to those aforementioned memories, and it's not happening. Living in the now is fantastic.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Hump Day Fairy
The Hump Day Fairy
One chilly Tuesday evening on a January night, a young lady made a decision that would forever affect her life. What decision would that be? Staying up past midnight of course.
Sounds safe enough. Sounds like a decision that's easily made on the premise of either being too late or not too late. There's no carriage to turn into a pumpkin. No glass slipper to lose. Seriously, either you stay up and watch the end of the Late Show or you don't. It isn't rocket science by any means. Under normal circumstances, this would be the case. But not on THIS night. Oh no, not tonight ...
Why this night was so different? Well, this is the night that the Hump Day Fairy was birthed in all his glory, beginning an eternal life of making the Nine to Fivers even more miserable than they already were. Once upon a time, Wednesday was the light at the end of the tunnel, proof that the week would indeed end and that the worst was behind us. The Hump Day fairy decided that these humans had not suffered enough during their half-week of agony. No more breaks, no more easy ways out. It's sufferin' time.
Our heroine awoke to what seemed like a normal Wednesday. "Wow, what a beautiful day!" she exclaimed as she tossed the covers aside. She danced around the house, getting ready for work, and headed off to face the day. Little did she know the Hump Day Fairy awaited ...
So what is this Hump Day Fairy? I think he has very sharp pointy teeth, wears a dirty brown suit with a yellow shirt, and shows up every day unannounced, without fanfare, and performs some job function which no one else in the company actually knows constitutes. He walks around not looking quite sad, but not happy, just kinda roaming, reminding us all how we resemble a pack of zombies so often in the normal walk of life. His job is to remind us that "UGH, I have to do THIS again today? Haven't I already done this 17 times this week? I thought it was almost Friday for shit's sake!" He reminds you how no matter how cool you might feel, you're the same as him. Asshole.
Once at work, much to the chagrin of Girl (we'll call her Girl from now on), this Wednesday didn't seem quite as right. There were MORE files than were on her desk than the night before, yet she was in the office before any of the regular file-givers were. "What gives?" she said. "Wait a minute ..." and as she looked down, she noticed some crumbs. She picked one up, sniffed it, and determined that it was a crumb from a stale bagel. 2 days old at least. "Is this an expired bagel crumb?" Hump Day Fairies thrive off leftover bagels don't you know?
This "fairy" isn't much of a fairy at all. More of a troll if you like. Except he's not fancy enough to hang out under a bridge to scare you. That would take too much effort. Nor does he come up with clever sayings or cryptic questions to freak you out and keep you off guard. He's just there. Which is more annoying than anything. He gives you more work when you really don't need any more. He talks to you when you make it very obvious that you are not in the mood to be talked to. He's a general annoyance. The proverbial gnat, or actually more like the hair you always find in your iHop omelette.
Every office in the world has a hump day fairy, and usually you don't have to try to very hard to identify him (they are 100 percent male, or possibly a shim, but mostly male). Look for bagel crumbs, folded napkins that are being reused, hordes of desk calendars (those big ones that cover the whole desk), and sticky notes. Also coffee stains from the bottom of mugs are good indications you've found a Hump Day Fairy habitat.
Don't look now people, the Hump Day Fairy is already on your tail, stack of papers in hand ready to deal out misery in bunches.
Inspiration credit given to a lovely soul who helped remind me why I go to the office every day.
Monday, January 12, 2009
What it is to dream
I find it interesting how recently I've noticed a direct relationship between happiness and satisfaction in life and the amount and variety of dreams I have. I mean literal dreams when asleep (although the other kind of dreams also increase in a time like this, but I digress).
I can't say whether not I've ever been out and out depressed before (they say the majority of people have, but I haven't analyzed it), but I've definitely spent periods of time in the last several years where I can honestly say I was unhappy, not enjoying myself, and generally lacking any true desire to change or improve my situation, which is a conundrum in and of itself.
Point being, during these times, life can be dull, monotonous, and ultra repetitive, which I think is the main reason the dreams stop coming. Sleep becomes just about shutting your body off and resting up for another day of the same old shit, nothing special, just need to wake up at X a.m., work for Y hours, shove some boring food in your face, maybe go to the gym, then shut it all down to repeat. Maybe watch a mindless hour of TV. Maybe. Sounds fantastic huh?
You didn't need to read all of that. But it helps explain both the surprise and joy I felt when I started dreaming on a regular basis again. Dreams to me are both an escape, a fantasyland to live out, even if for a moment, some of those impossible situations that maybe you only see in sci-fi movies, or purely impossible due to other circumstances (you meet a dead friend, maybe Ghandi, etc.). They're just neat in a sense. But more important to me is that the physical world I live in becomes its own dream world, in which I am meant to live in fearlessly, flowing on whatever emotion and wave is currently carrying me. I don't control my dreams, they just take me wherever I am supposed to be. When I live in a similar fashion in the "real" world, everything is so much easier, more pleasurable, and just makes a lot more sense.
Most important in all of this are the characters who reside in your world. For a while, I didn't want anyone else taking up space in my dream world. So the dreams died, as no one wanted to show up and hear about my bullshit. One-act plays get old fast. We also sometimes I feel choose the wrong people for us, even though we know we might not like the way we feel/act around them. Why? I dunno. Codependency? Guilt to people please? Want to be the center of attention? Lots of reasons, different for different people. Regardless, I am thankful that today I have some incredible people in my life who have stuck around long enough for me to see how much they mean to me, and how good they make me feel. You know who you are. Thank you.
I wake up from a dream and think "that was neat, but I'm glad to be back to reality now, because THIS world is where the fun is", accept it and prepare myself to make the most of the day. Not just accept the day as another page in an endless boring novel. Time to write and perform, not act out lines that someone else wrote for me. Build a dream world.
This is probably one of the most rambling excuses for a thought that I have ever had, but that's the point isn't it? This is partially due to the fact that as I sit here on a plane to San Francisco, and am about to embark on a several month stay in London, I am pleased to feel things like love/loss/pain/joy. Without the characters in my world, I wouldn't feel these things. At one time, I might have thought "running away to London would be great". I don't want to run away. I don't want to dream of a better place. I want to keep living and keep feeling. I want to show up daily for those I care for, be present in life and try to be as good as I can, to return the favor done so to me.
See, now I'm just writing about how I love good people, and how happy I am that such people exist. Should I have just titled this life is good? I don't want to jinx it I guess.
I can't say whether not I've ever been out and out depressed before (they say the majority of people have, but I haven't analyzed it), but I've definitely spent periods of time in the last several years where I can honestly say I was unhappy, not enjoying myself, and generally lacking any true desire to change or improve my situation, which is a conundrum in and of itself.
Point being, during these times, life can be dull, monotonous, and ultra repetitive, which I think is the main reason the dreams stop coming. Sleep becomes just about shutting your body off and resting up for another day of the same old shit, nothing special, just need to wake up at X a.m., work for Y hours, shove some boring food in your face, maybe go to the gym, then shut it all down to repeat. Maybe watch a mindless hour of TV. Maybe. Sounds fantastic huh?
You didn't need to read all of that. But it helps explain both the surprise and joy I felt when I started dreaming on a regular basis again. Dreams to me are both an escape, a fantasyland to live out, even if for a moment, some of those impossible situations that maybe you only see in sci-fi movies, or purely impossible due to other circumstances (you meet a dead friend, maybe Ghandi, etc.). They're just neat in a sense. But more important to me is that the physical world I live in becomes its own dream world, in which I am meant to live in fearlessly, flowing on whatever emotion and wave is currently carrying me. I don't control my dreams, they just take me wherever I am supposed to be. When I live in a similar fashion in the "real" world, everything is so much easier, more pleasurable, and just makes a lot more sense.
Most important in all of this are the characters who reside in your world. For a while, I didn't want anyone else taking up space in my dream world. So the dreams died, as no one wanted to show up and hear about my bullshit. One-act plays get old fast. We also sometimes I feel choose the wrong people for us, even though we know we might not like the way we feel/act around them. Why? I dunno. Codependency? Guilt to people please? Want to be the center of attention? Lots of reasons, different for different people. Regardless, I am thankful that today I have some incredible people in my life who have stuck around long enough for me to see how much they mean to me, and how good they make me feel. You know who you are. Thank you.
I wake up from a dream and think "that was neat, but I'm glad to be back to reality now, because THIS world is where the fun is", accept it and prepare myself to make the most of the day. Not just accept the day as another page in an endless boring novel. Time to write and perform, not act out lines that someone else wrote for me. Build a dream world.
This is probably one of the most rambling excuses for a thought that I have ever had, but that's the point isn't it? This is partially due to the fact that as I sit here on a plane to San Francisco, and am about to embark on a several month stay in London, I am pleased to feel things like love/loss/pain/joy. Without the characters in my world, I wouldn't feel these things. At one time, I might have thought "running away to London would be great". I don't want to run away. I don't want to dream of a better place. I want to keep living and keep feeling. I want to show up daily for those I care for, be present in life and try to be as good as I can, to return the favor done so to me.
See, now I'm just writing about how I love good people, and how happy I am that such people exist. Should I have just titled this life is good? I don't want to jinx it I guess.
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