I realize, as I write this, that I've been keeping track of my time in 15 minute increments for more than 20 years. That lovely .25 -- it gets a little old when you figure there's 32 of those .25s in a day.
But what all that time keeping has done for me is make me value my time...even when I'm not at work. Before I put that sod in or paint, or take the time to run around town to comparison shop, I think about what it will cost...in human time. My time. And more often than not, that human time factor and its related cost points me in a different direction. I either hire it out, find a better way to do it or just don't do it at all. I definitely think about ROI when I decide to expend some time and energy.
Time. It's the only commodity I truly own outright.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
My Twitter Honeymoon is Over.
When I first started playing around with Twitter, it was fun. All these people, communicating in real time, finding interesting articles, weighing in with opinions, making pithy comments and wry observations.
But alas. All good things must come to an end. First, there was the onslaught of the multi-level marketers. I figured out how to avoid them (if you have more than a few thousand followers, you are either a vapid celebrity -- Hey, Oprah! - or all you are interested in is ramping up your twitter stats. That's fine, but either way, you won't miss me if I don't follow you back.)
Then there are the self-absorbed twitteraholics. They never reply to anyone. And they spew out twits -- mostly retweets from genuinely intelligent, helpful twitterers -- every five seconds. Seriously, if you can twit every five seconds all day (and sometimes all night) long, you are an unemployed loser who lives in his mother's basement. Ergo=who cares what you think.
My favorites are the ones who merely retweet others twits then add 10 hash tags. The ultimate is when they are arguing a point with you, can't substantiate their opinion, get frustrated, then tweet the ubiquitious #fail. Apparently on twitter, "# fail" is the pinnacle of debate skill.
I envisioned twitter as a two-way street. Short, direct conversations punctuated with helpful bits of information. With some humor strewn about. Some of the best twitterers are congresspeople and news anchors. Some of the worst? The self-proclaimed twitter "experts."
Some days, the fail whale is a welcome sight.
But alas. All good things must come to an end. First, there was the onslaught of the multi-level marketers. I figured out how to avoid them (if you have more than a few thousand followers, you are either a vapid celebrity -- Hey, Oprah! - or all you are interested in is ramping up your twitter stats. That's fine, but either way, you won't miss me if I don't follow you back.)
Then there are the self-absorbed twitteraholics. They never reply to anyone. And they spew out twits -- mostly retweets from genuinely intelligent, helpful twitterers -- every five seconds. Seriously, if you can twit every five seconds all day (and sometimes all night) long, you are an unemployed loser who lives in his mother's basement. Ergo=who cares what you think.
My favorites are the ones who merely retweet others twits then add 10 hash tags. The ultimate is when they are arguing a point with you, can't substantiate their opinion, get frustrated, then tweet the ubiquitious #fail. Apparently on twitter, "# fail" is the pinnacle of debate skill.
I envisioned twitter as a two-way street. Short, direct conversations punctuated with helpful bits of information. With some humor strewn about. Some of the best twitterers are congresspeople and news anchors. Some of the worst? The self-proclaimed twitter "experts."
Some days, the fail whale is a welcome sight.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Sometimes Age just gets up and Slaps You in the Face.
This blogging stuff is sending me over the edge. Now that I created one, I feel the need...obligation...pressure...to populate it on a regular basis. Regular, to me, means at least every few days. I don't have enough original thoughts in my head to blog daily. (Neither do most people, but that doesn't stop them.)
Today it's about my ambivalence about getting older. I'm heading into my late 40s this year, and I have to admit, I don't like the sound of that. I used to say I would never have cosmetic surgery...please, now I'm trying to figure out how to save up for botox and laser hair removal...at the very LEAST. On the other hand, chances are I won't be getting pregnant at my age!
Chuck (he's the ex husband I'm dating, and I'll blog about that eventually, but it's still playing itself out) and I had a moment of clarity the other day when we were looking for concerts to go to over the summer and we realized the bands we would like to see are either swilling prune juice in an old folks home or they are DEAD.
I talk to my folks every couple of weeks...Dad is 80, Mom is 78...and they are fixated on their health problems. To the absolute exclusion of anything else. I do wonder sometimes if they remember they have grandchildren.
I truly hope I never get that way. I have visions of being a sassy old lady who still drops the F bomb occasionally.
Today it's about my ambivalence about getting older. I'm heading into my late 40s this year, and I have to admit, I don't like the sound of that. I used to say I would never have cosmetic surgery...please, now I'm trying to figure out how to save up for botox and laser hair removal...at the very LEAST. On the other hand, chances are I won't be getting pregnant at my age!
Chuck (he's the ex husband I'm dating, and I'll blog about that eventually, but it's still playing itself out) and I had a moment of clarity the other day when we were looking for concerts to go to over the summer and we realized the bands we would like to see are either swilling prune juice in an old folks home or they are DEAD.
I talk to my folks every couple of weeks...Dad is 80, Mom is 78...and they are fixated on their health problems. To the absolute exclusion of anything else. I do wonder sometimes if they remember they have grandchildren.
I truly hope I never get that way. I have visions of being a sassy old lady who still drops the F bomb occasionally.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Not the Write Stuff.
My children are terrible writers. Really, truly. Oh, they can write a quick, down and dirty paper for school. But an essay with a point of view? A creative writing assignment that is supposed to take you to another place and time? A poem? A haiku, for pete's sake? No. Just...no.
I guess I shouldn't be suprised. When I ask my son where he's going, he says "places." When I ask him with who, he says "people." When I ask him what he'll be doing at those places with people, he says "stuff." I know, part of it is a "back off, you're prying," message to Mom. But the other part is that he's just too lazy for good, old fashioned conversation.
That's the boy. Now, the girl...she is full of drama. The facial expressions and the tone of voice I am subjected to on a regular basis are the stuff of Lifetime Television for Women. But when it comes to translating this to a piece of paper...total deer in headlights.
MEAP testing (which I despise, but it does point out areas needing drastic improvement in the school system) indicates my kids' school system is piss-poor when it comes to teaching solid writing skills. My experience with their homework proves this true. But they've also forgotten how to converse in colorful language...too much texting, too much IDK, LOL. I read that the average vocabulary in 1950 for a teenager was 25,000 words. Today...more like 10,000.
Not surprised.
I guess I shouldn't be suprised. When I ask my son where he's going, he says "places." When I ask him with who, he says "people." When I ask him what he'll be doing at those places with people, he says "stuff." I know, part of it is a "back off, you're prying," message to Mom. But the other part is that he's just too lazy for good, old fashioned conversation.
That's the boy. Now, the girl...she is full of drama. The facial expressions and the tone of voice I am subjected to on a regular basis are the stuff of Lifetime Television for Women. But when it comes to translating this to a piece of paper...total deer in headlights.
MEAP testing (which I despise, but it does point out areas needing drastic improvement in the school system) indicates my kids' school system is piss-poor when it comes to teaching solid writing skills. My experience with their homework proves this true. But they've also forgotten how to converse in colorful language...too much texting, too much IDK, LOL. I read that the average vocabulary in 1950 for a teenager was 25,000 words. Today...more like 10,000.
Not surprised.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Scary Water Cooler Talk at Hospitals
I was carted off the hospital the other day from work (I won't bore you with the details, and I'm fine, but there's nothing like getting hauled away in an ambulance with chest pains to ramp up the stress level at work!), and while I was waiting on a gurney for a room in the ER, I couldn't help but eavesdrop on the nurses chatting behind the desk.
Normally, water cooler chat is harmless...or at the most, petty and spiteful. This talk, however, was enough to induce a heart attack if you didn't already come in with that problem. I heard how over worked they were, how stupid some of the doctors were, how George doesn't know what he's doing half the time, and Lisa is hungover, and that policy just causes people to get infections...well, you get the drift here.
The only point to this blog post? When you are in charge of caring for the public--in whatever capacity that might be such as nurse, doctor, day care worker, social worker, therapist--your idle chatter about your job might be scaring the hell out of some of us.
Normally, water cooler chat is harmless...or at the most, petty and spiteful. This talk, however, was enough to induce a heart attack if you didn't already come in with that problem. I heard how over worked they were, how stupid some of the doctors were, how George doesn't know what he's doing half the time, and Lisa is hungover, and that policy just causes people to get infections...well, you get the drift here.
The only point to this blog post? When you are in charge of caring for the public--in whatever capacity that might be such as nurse, doctor, day care worker, social worker, therapist--your idle chatter about your job might be scaring the hell out of some of us.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Pardon my Previous Parental Smugness
I'm not a bad parent. But I'm also not as good as I used to think I was. My daughter is doing poorly in two subjects (language arts, which just kills me, and science, which kills her dad, an engineer). She is mouthy, disrespectful, beligerant and moody; most of the time I don't enjoy her company. (She can also be extremely funny, sweet, and fabulously creative.) But what the past school year has taught me is that all those years of being judgemental of other parents with mouthy, disrespectul children was just setting me up for payback: big time.
Everyone has their moments as parents when everything just clicks. But the middle school years? Well, the clicking is silent most of the time. There's weeping, wailing and much gnashing of teeth. But the moments when the sun is shining, the kids are happy and mom and dad are at peace with the universe...hmmm...I'll have to get back to you. And I am SO guilty of thinking smugly to myself, in years past, "oh, I'll never let my child talk to me that way." Or, "I don't know what's so hard about it...it just requires a little discipline." Or the worst, "What is wrong with her (him)? Being a parent isn't brain surgery."
No. It's much harder than that.
Everyone has their moments as parents when everything just clicks. But the middle school years? Well, the clicking is silent most of the time. There's weeping, wailing and much gnashing of teeth. But the moments when the sun is shining, the kids are happy and mom and dad are at peace with the universe...hmmm...I'll have to get back to you. And I am SO guilty of thinking smugly to myself, in years past, "oh, I'll never let my child talk to me that way." Or, "I don't know what's so hard about it...it just requires a little discipline." Or the worst, "What is wrong with her (him)? Being a parent isn't brain surgery."
No. It's much harder than that.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
It's Lunchtime! Go Home!
I've been meaning to rant about this for a while...and a lunchtime stop at my favorite store prompted me to get on the stick and do it. Here goes:
Housewives, Stay-at-home moms, old retired people, people who have the day off...stay the hell out of stores during lunchtime!!!!! (yes, it warranted 5 exclamation points)
Mommies dearest, I know you miss the comraderie of adults and conversation that doesn't include the words poo poo and sippy cup, but that's just tough. When you drag your crabby brat through the produce section it disturbs my ability to pick out a good head of broccoli. And, more importantly, YOU DON'T NEED TO BE THERE AT THAT TIME. You can go in the morning, in the mid morning, in the mid afternoon...well, you get my drift. So if you really want adult company, put your kid in daycare and get your ass to work.
Old retired people, you are just the worst. Not only do you walk too slow and hog the entire aisle, you want to engage every freaking salesperson, meat counter guy and stock boy in tedious, boring conversation. I don't care that you eat prunes to stay regular and neither does Joe...what Joe needs to care about is slicing my turkey paper thin so I can get back to work!
People who have the day off and still can't find anything better to do than go shopping when the rest of the working world is trying to knock one more thing off their list: you're just too pathetic for words. Go back to work, leisure time is wasted on you.
Housewives, Stay-at-home moms, old retired people, people who have the day off...stay the hell out of stores during lunchtime!!!!! (yes, it warranted 5 exclamation points)
Mommies dearest, I know you miss the comraderie of adults and conversation that doesn't include the words poo poo and sippy cup, but that's just tough. When you drag your crabby brat through the produce section it disturbs my ability to pick out a good head of broccoli. And, more importantly, YOU DON'T NEED TO BE THERE AT THAT TIME. You can go in the morning, in the mid morning, in the mid afternoon...well, you get my drift. So if you really want adult company, put your kid in daycare and get your ass to work.
Old retired people, you are just the worst. Not only do you walk too slow and hog the entire aisle, you want to engage every freaking salesperson, meat counter guy and stock boy in tedious, boring conversation. I don't care that you eat prunes to stay regular and neither does Joe...what Joe needs to care about is slicing my turkey paper thin so I can get back to work!
People who have the day off and still can't find anything better to do than go shopping when the rest of the working world is trying to knock one more thing off their list: you're just too pathetic for words. Go back to work, leisure time is wasted on you.
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