So... Well.... I was just wondering....

What is your preferred method for people asking you for favors? And what is the hardest thing you have ever had to ask for?

For me, I cannot stand it when people beat around the bush re. favors. Don't finesse me, don't impress me, don't ply me with goodies (well, at least not until I have actually done the favor for you) - just ask. Ask nicely, sure. But just ask. I am not going to be any more willing to do a favor for you after several lead up conversations than I would have been from the outset. Have respect for my time, though still respecting decorum, and just politely ask. No harm, no foul. No muss, no fuss. Mission accomplished. And any of a million other cliches.

I get to do a good deed. You get your favor. I don't feel used, or that overtures of false friendliness were made to me just for the sake of the favor. Let's keep it real folks.

As for the hardest thing I have ever had to ask for... that is hard because I do hate for asking for things, because, as above, if I have to ask, I believe in being straightforward and confronting the issue so to speak. And if there are two things in life that cause me the greatest consternation (and, surprise, anxiety!) it is confrontation and troubling/imposing on other people. Oh, and let's throw in possibly hurting their feelings in any way. I hate that too.

So, the hardest thing to ask for would, to this point, have been when I asked my ex-BF if he was happy, and to make changes so that I could be happy too. It was hard to ask not so much because of the imposition or the possibility of hurting his feelings. Actually, I think it was hard to ask for because I knew what the answer was. I had known it for four years, and only then had I finally gotten around to asking the question. And I knew, upon receiving what I asked for, that I would have to take it, and simply walk away. Forever.

Is this really so wrong?

From an L.A. Times article about college grads moving back in with their parents (see highlighted portion below):

Jeffrey Jensen Arnett, a professor at the University of Maryland in College Park and author of "Emerging Adulthood: The Winding Road From the Late Teens Through the Twenties," says his studies of the generation have shown that they are "not spoiled and self-indulgent. Typically, kids who return home are working very hard. They're not lying around waiting for their parents to order pizza. They're often looking for jobs or employed in jobs that don't pay very well, so they can't live on their own. Many are going to school as well. I definitely don't subscribe to the theory that they're coddled adults."

But they do, he says, have very high expectations for work. "They don't want just a job. Even if it's a job that pays reasonably well. They want something more like a calling, that expresses their identities. This, Arnett allows, can make them seem spoiled to their parents, who often don't find their own jobs fulfilling and don't think that's a reasonable expectation.

(Emphasis added)

Is it so wrong to want a job which calls to you, which expresses your identity, which makes you smile (and doesn't give you worry line wrinkles) and which you never have ambivalence about discussing at cocktail parties?

I refuse to believe that it is.

The tautological argument so often put forth by the incurable miserable workaholic that "I don't want to love my job. That would only encourage me to spend more time there, and *I* aspire to have a life" is absolute crap. Yes, "loving" your job is dangerous because to use the word "love" in describing any endeavour means you will prioritize it above all else, and when you are juggling affection for an endeavour with an affection for people and the endeavour (more often than not) wins, something is wrong. See, e.g., CLC's ill-fated four year sham of a relationship with man who loved his work more than his GF (and told her so every day in choosing work first). However, there is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to do something you find satisfying, that inspires, that lights you up. Work can (and should) be a friendly concept. A platonic relationship with work is fine. Abject misery, and a "I brought it on myself" attitude is not. Work should not be an abusive relationship.

The reality is this: Whether you love it or you hate it. Whether you are a part-time barista, a janitor, an astronaut, or the POTUS, you spend more time at work (some more than others) than at anything else you do. Don't you owe it to yourself and the people in your life which you care about to (at least try to) be happy (or as content as possible) for the majority of your waking hours?

As pie-in-the-sky as I may sound, I do acknowledge that, at the end of the day, everyone is governed by their economic realities and the basic needs for food, clothing and shelter (and payment of student loans). And I also realize, from my experience growing up (if not from my current lifestyle) that supporting one's family in these basic ways takes precedence over following one's bliss etc. My father has been doing a job he has hated for well over 25 years now. Growing up that was an undeniable truth. It pervaded my childhood home. It was, and still is, a pillar of my basic reality that my father hated his job and that it alternately made him exasperated, disconsolate, angry, and grumpy. And without fail, it always made him miserable. And I knew he did it every day. Day in and day out. Hating it all the while. The hatred of the endeavour creating an indomitable pressure within; the insistent cries and clinging hugs of his nearly half-dozen progeny maintaining a frenetic pressure without. Something had to give. But the kids needed braces, and clothes, and always had ear infections and school trip costs. And the job was always there. And he hated it. But it paid the bills. More or less. Always just barely getting by. No relief in sight - at home, at work, at the end of the month sitting staring at the check book. Willing there to be more primary numbers in front of the zeros. Something had to give. But he is the responsible one. The little ones depending, needing, wanting. They couldn't help it. But they never stopped. Never understood. Always wanted more. And so back to work. Day after day. They need. They want. And so, back to work. To provide. To provide. But something had to give.

And it did.

He never snapped. He did not run away from home. He did not quit his job. He did not become intemperate or uncontrollable. He just became sad. And unhappy. And he lost the energy to hide it. He knew he loved his children too much to run off and join the circus, to be a beach bum, or jump out of airplanes. Chasing dreams would have to wait, food needed to be put on the table. But something had to give. It was too much. It was so hard. And it made him hard. To his children, he seemed gruff. Always with an air of a gray cloud above his head. Sighs, always. He was the one charged with saying no. And the sadness. The sadness. It was always there.

I knew he hated his job. I knew it was killing him from the inside out. And I knew he had to keep doing it. Because of us. Because of me.

And I carry that with me every day for the rest of my life. I never wanted for anything of real importance or necessity and that was because of my father. He gave up the best years of his life for that gift. I tried to appreciate it then; I do appreciate it now. But I wonder.... what if he had had the opportunity to be happy? How might things have been different? How might I be different?

It may be why I am so sensitive to people's moods. And why it makes me almost physically uncomfortable when other people are unhappy and I can't do anything about it. Or this could all just be psychobabble.

If I could wish it for him and have it come true - I would wish my father happy with the job all of those years. And all that would come with that.

Then again, maybe I don't wish that for him. Maybe I wish that for me. Then and now.

Funks

So this last weekend I went to another baby shower. It actually has been a while since I last attended one. When I woke up the morning of the "blessed event," I was fairly ambivalent about going to the shower. Well, that's somewhat of a lie. I certainly didn't relish having to be at something 45 minutes away in the suburbs at 12 noon on a Saturday. I also wasn't jumping for joy at the idea of getting dressed up in an "outfit," rather than into my usual Saturday fleece, jeans and vest. But I wasn't dreading the event. I had chalked it up to the sort of thing that you have to do every once in a while for your friends. Now, I have certainly been known to spout off about how boring I think showers in general are. And nothing about Saturday changed my mind on that front either. The games, the sheet cake, the tea sandwiches, the inability to have a real drink since I had to drive myself home afterwards. Ick. But putting that all aside, I wasn't thinking that the event itself would leave me in a funk afterward. I was supposed to go to a party, back in "the city" where I live that night. I was looking forward to it actually. But after three hours of being asked "What's happened in your life since we saw you last year at the wedding?" -- (Yes, my pregnant friend managed to get married, change careers, and have a baby in one year) --I found myself in an unidentifiable funk. I was supposed to head back to the city after the shower, but instead I found myself visiting old friends who are the least traditional people that I know. I told myself I'd only stop there for a quick coffee, and then I would head home to go to the party. But I couldn't make myself leave. I wasn't chatty, I wasn't my usual self, I wasn't even having a particularly great time. But somehow, I just couldn't face doing anything more social than that. I realized today that the baby shower had worked its usual voodoo on me. I'm not someone who is dying to get married or to have children. Well, realistically, I would like to meet that perfect person with whom I will decide not to have children with. But being in that setting, I felt like a loser. Despite my general happiness with my life, my choices, and all of that, I felt, as CLC aptly put it, "lapped." Like everyone else had run circles around me in that old game of life that no longer comes in a box manufactured by Milton Bradley. I know I'll get out of my funk, and I think at this point I probably am out of it. But I'm mad that I fell into it in the first place.

Love Affairs

I recently read the astute comment that we ("we" being society I suppose) are too quick to judge a love affair as "a success" only if it lasts for the proverbial "until death do us part" and as "a failure" if it lasts only for a short time. The point was that a love affair -- or relationship or whatever you want to term it -- can be deemed successful if you enjoyed the time you spent in it, or learned something, or became stronger, or whatever. A love that ended is not by default a failure. This resonated with me. Perhaps because I haven't found the one great love to last until death. Perhaps because I have had a number of relationships that while short by the classic definition, have in part helped shape who I am today. Because of my experiences, I am stronger, perhaps more sympathetic to the many plots of life, and less likely to settle just to please the "we." I would of course love to find that someone; who wouldn't? But until then, I'm grateful for my short-term love affairs.

The Wisdom of a Navel Will Set You Free...

In telling a story, unique organization always grabs me. Though there is always a fine line between unique and gimmicky.

Someone was recently telling me about a book by Nick Hornby (who I am not generally all that fond of, but...) called The Polysyllabic Spree that is essentially a memoir of books bought, books actually read, books abandoned halfway. It is organized as a monthly memoir of the proclivities, habits, and indulgences of a reader, and manages to fold in additional personal details along the way. Unique organization. Not gimmicky.

Maybe we are getting mired in the details (the symptoms?) of what is a compelling story. A compelling story is one that captures a feeling that its reader can share, and the words applied to paper are such, that they end up joining the reader and writer in this mutual exploration of this particular feeling.

So being honest in your writing is probably not about being entirely soul baring, but probably just honest enough. Honest enough that you can get close enough to that feeling you are trying to capture and to hold on to it.

To be wholly and entirely honest with oneself and the world is a lovely aspiration, but the more I think of it, the more I think it is an impossibility. Perception is reality. And if that is the case, then honesty is what we make of it. Yes?

Oh, I know. I should be getting woozy about now for spending so much time up here on my high horse.

I know nothing about anything, but I do know that I like to read things I relate to, and I read a lot of different things about people in all sorts of circumstances and there has to be a reason I like them. So I am assuming I must recognize something of myself in all of them. Isn't that why Shakespeare's works are so timeless?

I love Augusten Burroughs. His life is completely the opposite of mine, and yet his inability to harness his feeling and the destructive behaviors they engendered strike a chord with me on a fuindamental level.

Okay, seriously. Stopping now.

Wish I had a burro to lend....

My Love Affair With the Corporate Man

In reference to the article linked below (and again here): It's true. Everyone I know works too much. I tend to work too much. I like to ascribe it to the evils of my chosen industry and it's slavish devotion to the antiquated notion of the billable hour as a measurement of productivity. However, it isn't true.

Apparently everyone, everywhere falls prey to the seductive siren song of Work, Work, Work which is so sultrily conveyed by one's many modern gadgets.

Oh, LapTop. Oh CellPhone. Oh BlackBerry. How I love thee all. How weak I am to try to resist your charms.

But it can be done. It should be done.

Being glad to have the weekend is not right. Being elated at leaving the office at 5 is not right. Missing holidays/birthdays/anniversaries is not right. Always "tentatively" making plans; never being able to firmly commit is not right.

On the other hand, there are the advantages of: working independently, in an office (as opposed to cube - so I can close doors when I cry, at least), office supplies (how I love post-it flags), the ability to create one's own schedule (ah, the 10 am arrival time, or being able to work from home, or taking vacation without "requesting" it from someone). And of course, the $$$ payoff. Unseemly to speak about, but it is true nonetheless.

Don't do this job for my health.

As things go, I always feel that I don't work as hard as everyone else. I feel drained and wrung out and utterly spent, but I never feel that I am doing as much as everyone else. It makes me feel less competent, less complete. Sad yardstick. Who wants to compete to work more? And yet.

I have never worked regularly. My work situation has always been set up so that it goes in fits and spurts. Some periods are beyond hellish. Others are ridiculously slow. Thank god for the respites, but, I do wonder if a more regular schedule might do me some good.

Anyway....

All Work and No Play Makes Everyone Very Dull

The title above is permalinked to an article found by TJH2, and which I am posting because I am still the dorkiest tech person among us all here.

Will also link the article internally right here.

[FYI: Linking to title is done by typing in HTTP address in LINK box right below TITLE box. Linking internally (within the post) is done by highlighting the text you want to contain the link, then clicking on the box on the toolbar that has the icon that looks like a little globe with a chain on it. Then another box will pop up for you to enter the HTTP address, and voila, there you have it - a link! I *love* links! Though I guess that is obvious.]

Questions Questions . . . Any Answers?

Interesting questions. I personally write more honestly to some audiences than others. But regardless, there is always something that I don't share. What I don't share isn't always necessarily private, just a bit of information that a particular audience might not know. I'm not sure how honest I'll be in this format. Remains to be seen. And really, I'm the only one who will know, right?

The question of whether you can write honestly about yourself is a harder to answer. I like to think that I'm very self-aware and thus capable of being honest about myself if I feel like it. But the latter is the problem, do we always feel like being honest with ourselves? Sometimes it's nicer to believe a version of yourself that you like better. I also don't know that anyone can answer this question as any critique of someone else's honesty is necessarily colored by their own view of that person. Plus, in connection with question 1, how well do we really ever know someone else to judge their honesty if we all hide parts of ourselves?

Along the same lines, are you more honest when sharing information to a group or one on one? I find I share much more openly one on one that to more than that, even if I consider the whole group to be close to me.

On another semi-related note (more to the comment on trying to remember something to say during the day and then blanking out when you hit the computer screen) does it bother any of you that major world events can happen in a day and there is absolutely no mention of them at all among people at work? Is this just my experience? Is it for fear of offending people with a semi-political opinion? Is it that our profession leads to a single-minded insular focus? I just find it so weird. I've never been in an environment so seemingly out of touch with the outside world.

Sex, Lies and Videotape

Can you write honestly when you know someone else is reading?

First things first, I think that the "question as introduction to written section" is not SJP-like. It is merely a form of organization, and particularly, in this group format, is helpful. Then again, this is coming from a woman who organizes much of her writing in bullet points, "running" lists, and indented block quotations. I find that a lot of times (most times) when I sit down to write, I want to write, but inspiration has not yet seized me. Truth be known, inspiration only seizes me when I am walking down the street without pen or paper or any other means of recording anything and I have a "things that make you go Hmmmmm" moment. And I will myself to remember. And I inevitably forget. And it bothers me. I have written the great american novel approximately 17 times in my head and have managed to mentally misplace it every time.

Actually, that isn't true. I haven't ever written a novel. Mentally or otherwise. I don't seem to be able to sustain the linear progression in my head required to give a fictional story a beginning, a middle and an end. That and the fact that I fear writing dialogue. Anytime I have ever tried it is flat. Somehow the conversations of my fictional characters are never as vibrant as the voices in my head. So being paralyzed by the creative leap required to generate characters that are not me, or the varying phantasmogoric iterations of me, when I do write (when I have written), I write what I know: me.

But in getting back to the original question above (finally) - I think it is actually two questions: (1) Can you write honestly when you know others are reading, and (2) can you write honestly for yourself?

To see your own truths spelled out - even the ones you think you have always known - is a moving thing. It somehow recalibrates your perspective. It frees you. You always knew it, you always harbored it, but now it's out there. And now you are free. And often, you will find, you are not alone.

Many of us putter till the early a.m. - I watch repeats of the Nanny from 12 to 1 a.m. every morning. I also don't make it to the office till 10 a.m. Sometimes because I can't get up, other times because I just can't bring myself to face the day till then (and the 10 seems to be about the point where one is really pushing the envelope of socially acceptable times to get to work). I also like to avoid seeing my roommates in the morning.

As for others: The difficulty seems to rest mostly with people you know. Confessional formats with folks you don't know is easy. Really, what do you care if that guy in Dubuque, Iowa thinks you are odd for eating crackers in bed? On the other hand, if your friends think you are a slob for indulging in Wheat Thins and Cheddar while amongst your bedsheets, you are more invested. Even worse if you are revealing that it annoys you that someone you know absolutely loves to consume Saltines in their jammies. Seems almost like a passive aggressive way of picking a fight.

I think one needs to try to be as faithful as possible to one's feelings and one's take on situations one chooses to write about. There is no truth, there is only how you see it. Not right, not wrong: it just is.

The real question is then what you choose to write about in the first place.

(Damn, now I ended with a question too. Does this mean I do not get to pass GO and collect $200?)

Giving The Diary Concept A Try

For my first entry, I thought I would try to do something in the vein of what we discussed this blog potentially becoming -- a way for us to learn new things about each other and rediscover our creative side. I'm treading lightly with this first entry as self-revelation in actual writing is not something that I'm good at. The "Bob Packwood" scandal (the senator who was impeached because of his diary entries) made quite an impression and I have been leery of putting anything that I actually think or feel into words ever since. As such, I've never kept a diary or anything close to it. It was actually quite a big deal for me to think of doing something like this as there is just something so real about writing things down, even if in cyber-space. (Revelation #1)

I'm writing this at 1 a.m., mostly just to get this going. This might be another "revelation" (#2) -- or maybe you already know this -- but I frequently have trouble going to sleep at night and I tend to futz around until 2 or sometimes 3 in the morning. This is actually the real reason that I usually don't make it to work until the 10 o'clock hour -- I'm often too exhausted to get up in the morning at a "normal" hour.

Anyway, that's enough for tonight. Perhaps I'll have something more interesting to say tomorrow.

When People Stop Being Polite...

You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, Reality Amplified!