Braaaaaaaains

So last week I participated in a "sleep study" to find out whether or not I have sleep apnea, which is something you don't want to have.  A "sleep study" is where creepy people file into your bedroom (by way of overhead cameras) and watch you sleep to see what you're doing.  Well, there were no actual people; there was instead an apparatus that I strapped to myself and which measured my heart rate and breathing and things of that nature.  There was a little clampy thing on my finger to take my oxygen saturation, and I presume one of these little gizmos told them how long I was asleep and how often I woke up.  I'm not really complaining, by the way, about the apparatus.  When Joan had a sleep study there actually were people watching, which, again, is pretty creepy.  Having to sleep with an apparatus really wasn't so bad.  Not even the cats seemed to mind.

And what should happen, in the next few days, is my doc will look at the results and tell me if I need a CPAP machine or not.  If I do, Joan and I will be like the CPAP twins or something, dozing away in matching masks and making noises like Darth Vader.  If not, then I'm off the hook, at least for now.  (And what I actually expect to happen?  I expect to be told I have sleep apnea, but it's not bad enough to warrant treatment.  That's how it seems to go with me on any number of issues.)  

For this privilege I am shelling out some $275, which, again, I'm not complaining about.  When actual people watch you it costs more like $400. I guess you have to buy the people watching a pizza, or something?

Anyway.  This whole episode got me to thinking about brains, and how they work, and what happens when they don't work the way they should.  When you're asleep, for example, your brain is off, or it's supposed to be.  If it doesn't shut down the way it's supposed to, it can stay connected enough to your body that you get up and sleepwalk around like a zombie, acting out your dreams.  If you have anxiety disorder, all the fight or flight neurons that should be nice and quiet when everything's fine keep firing anyway, making you feel like the floor is about to collapse or a plane is going to fall on your head or something like that.  (I have anxiety disorder.)  If the parts of your brain that process sound start telling you that somebody's talking to you when no one is, you will hear voices that sound like real voices.  And so on and suchlike.

Also, when people have something truly shitty happen in their lives, like being hit by a car or being in a plane crash (and surviving, obviously) or losing a loved one to a tragic accident, particularly if it happens right in front of them, they can get a thing we call PTSD.  Humans have undoubtedly been suffering from this malady for thousands of years, but we didn't give it a name until World War I, when soldiers began experiencing something they called "shell shock."  The mistaken impression was that the shells exploding all around them caused the disease, instead of the conditions that the soldiers were fighting under during World War I.  (And if you ever want to listen to a truly great podcast about trench warfare during World War I, look no farther than Dan Carlin's "Blueprint for Armageddon," which is available here.)  What they didn't know then was that, when truly shitty things happen to you, you can have actual measurable changes in your brain, which causes it to process information differently and results in hallucinations, flashbacks, unreasonable fear, panic, ritualized behavior and all other manner of unpleasant goings-on.

Brains, by the way, are great things.  When they're working the way they're supposed to, life hums along pretty well.  When they stop working the way they're supposed to, hoo boy.

What I'm wondering, though, is if smaller traumas and goings-on cause smaller versions of PTSD.  I'm wondering, particularly, if excessive stress at work can cause a milder form of PTSD.  I had this one job where stuff happened that I'm still not over, if one does in fact get over these things versus just learning how to live with them, or around them.  

Ah, and here we get to a thorny problem that inevitably comes up in a blog post like this; What I Can Say And What I Can't Say.  I can't tell you much about my current job, for example, because confidentiality and ethics and besides, somebody might figure out it's me and point me out to my boss and they'd find that one blog post that I did about Donald Trump and they'd have to fire me or something.  (Well, probably not over Donald Trump; we are pretty much on the same side where that goes.)  And I'm not sure how much I can tell you about my past jobs.  Because, again, confidentiality and ethics and so on and suchlike.

There is one place in particular that was so bad I'm embarrassed to admit I ever worked there,  So I just don't.  Admit it, I mean.  And I don't mean the working conditions were bad, though they were, and I don't mean the pay wasn't very good either, though it wasn't.  I mean what went on there was bad. Very bad.  Almost the apotheosis of all possible badness.  If you wanted to look up "bad" in the dictionary...

Well, anyway, it was kind of traumatic.  It was quite a few years ago and I still cringe that I didn't turn around and walk out the door five minutes into my first day, when I started figuring out how bad it actually was.  And I did have nightmares and flashbacks and so on, though not really any hallucinations, unless you count the one about the giant purple dinosaur that apparently shilled for a kid's show, and somebody told me that was real, though I still have my doubts.

So I'm wondering: Is there therapy for working people who get badly rattled by something that happened at the office but can't tell anybody about it?  I bet they have this figured out at the CIA.  Of course, the CIA probably has on-call therapists on duty 24/7.  I dunno about you, but when people start yelling at each other and calling each other names, I look for a nice desk to hide under.  I am not a big fan of screaming fights.

I'm also not a big fan of pretending everything's normal and carrying on once it's all over.  I mean, look, I grew up in a Lutheran household, okay?  And when I took my vows to become a Buddhist I solemnly promised that if I ever said "Everything's fine" even one more time, I'd be washing my mouth out with--nag champa incense, or something. 

Is this normal?  I mean, does this sort of thing happen in offices?  I know it sometimes happens in households, though not my household.  And hospitals.  In fact, doctors are kind of known for ranting and raving.  I've worked in law firms for a long time and law firms are pretty volatile places, all in all.  I've seen yelling matches break out before.  In fact, one time I saw a guy throw a Bible at another guy and say--oh, wait.  I can't tell you about that. 

I guess if I just knew that human beings sometimes behave this way in situations that aren't law offices, I'd feel better.  I mean, they say that lawyers are human beings, but I don't know. 

(Update!  I just got the results from my sleep study.  I have mild sleep apnea but not bad enough to warrant treatment.  I'm not making this up.)

Gone But Not Forgotten

Boy, when you miss two whole months of regularly scheduled blog posts, you by God better have something pretty spectacular to make up the gap, or else your ever-patient audience will, I dunno, drive past your house and throw tomatoes at you.  I don't spose I can claim exemption because I have a trial coming up in three weeks, can I?  To say nothing of flying out to Phoenix for my Dad's 80th birthday party and related festivities?

Well, I hope so. Flying, for me, is not easy and not cheap.   When Joan comes with me, it's even more not-easy and not-cheap. But we did it, and at least the flying part was surprisingly smooth.  Going through an airport with a wheelchair assistant is MUCH easier than going through an airport in real time.  I'd have paid a lot for that service but I didn't have to, it was free.  (Minus tips.) In case I haven't said anything on here about how much I love Southwest Airlines, I love Southwest Airlines.  If I had to fly any other airline I don't think I'd ever leave the state.

 And the festivities were good, too. There were something like 40 people there, including my dad's 2 surviving brothers. (Uncle Jonny died some years ago but I'm sure he was there in spirit.)

My dad (left) and his two remaining brothers.

No gifts were requested but people brought some great cards.  Here, blow this one up on your monitor so you can see all the fine print.

And a great time was had by all.  I'm really glad we got to go. Hopefully the next trip to Phoenix will be sooner than later. 

Meanwhile, back in the real world, the Methodist Church decided last week to firmly lock down their current ban on gay and lesbian pastors, as well as a ban on affirming same-sex marriages (which are legal in all 50 states).  Which, as they're a religious body, is their business, I guess, but what a slap in the face to ten percent of their potential converts, to say nothing of those who are already hanging out in their buildings.  I'd wager they already have gay pastors, many of whom may even be married to a member of the opposite sex.  And I'm sure those pastors, and maybe others, may have blessed same-sex unions, whether in the church or outside.  My pastor did, when Joan and I got married, before the Lutheran Church had codified its Official Position (and before it was legal, even in California, which should tell you how long ago this was).  And so on this finest of fine days, I bring you the story of Why Jen No Longer Runs With a Lutheran Street Gang.  And you should feel honored.  I don't tell this story to just anybody, you know.

I grew up in the Lutheran Church.  It was a weird way to grow up. I lived in Utah in the early 70s, when it was about 90% Mormon, and that made me an oppressed minority, of a sort.  If we'd have stayed in Utah, I probably would have been fairly devout, except that I didn't believe in God.  When I was a kid I made many attempts to force myself to believe in the Big Guy, and managed only to get myself confused, or wind up with a headache if I tried it long enough. And I eventually figured out that it is not possible to force yourself to believe a thing.  "You can't pray a lie," as Mark Twain famously said.

I had, of course, several Bad Experiences With Religion.  I could give you the details, but they're really not that important.  So when I got to be a teenager, I quit going to church.  This occasioned World War Three, which lasted from approximately the time I turned sixteen until I moved out of the house, by which time all participants were thoroughly tired of it anyway.  (That's the way the next war will end, folks.  He who gets tired and goes home first loses.)   Then I grew the rest of the way up, graduated from college, moved to California, and lived a perfectly fine nontheistic life until I ran into this total stranger in a used bookstore and started what seemed like an innocuous conversation.

Considering it was a pivotal moment, it's amazing that I remember so little about it.  It had something to do with a book, and whether or not I had read it, and a rather astute comment about literature in general that made me raise my eyebrows and pay attention to this guy.  I asked him what he did for a living, thinking he must be a professor or something, and he told me he was a Lutheran pastor.  I mean what are the odds.  A person could almost believe a twist of fate along those lines was occasioned by a Supreme Being.  Almost.  But not if you were me.

Being a sport, however, I thought I'd check out this guy's church, First Lutheran Church in San Diego, California.  As it turned out, they fed meals to the homeless, and they had an acupuncturist come in and treat people for free, and once in a while they were able to do the same with a doctor, and they had a charitable organization that was doing political stuff to address the problem of homelessness in San Diego, and oh yeah, they had this church over there, too, and if you wanted to come in on a Sunday you could hear some good music and maybe learn something.

So I started hanging around with this crowd.  I mean, why not.  I still didn't believe in God, but I think I faked it fairly well. I sang in the choir, joined in the occasional Bible study (and always managed to turn the conversation around to ancient UFOs), became one of those ladies with the clipboards who are in charge of this and that.  (Warning:  If you ever go visit a church, for ANY REASON, do NOT let anyone hand you a clipboard.  Ever.  Not even if they say, "Here, hold onto this for a second.")  And while all this was going on, I met and married Joan, gay marriage became legal in San Francisco for ten minutes, Clinton became President, "Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow" was back in the charts some 20 years after it came out, the Y2K bug came and went, and it was an interesting time to be alive, okay?  Oh, and the Westboro Babtist Church came and picketed us one day.  Which was kind of cool.  You're nobody until you've been picketed by the Westboro Babtist Church.

This brings us up to 2002, approximately, which was the year of the big Lutheran synod convention.  One of the matters on the agenda was whether gay people could be pastors.  Officially, there wasn't a position on that yet.  There were stipulations that a pastor should be either married, or celibate, but the issue of gayness hadn't been discussed.  The church was already more or less fine having gay members, the pastor officiated at Joan's and my wedding, certain congregations were calling themselves "Reconciled in Christ" and were actively welcoming gay people, and it really didn't seem like that big a deal to go a step farther and say, sure, gay people can be pastors.

Well, you can probably guess what happened.  Roughly the same thing that happened at the Methodist convention, only different. It was a close vote, but that doesn't really matter a whole lot.  And suddenly I was out in the cold; not because I didn't believe in God (again, I was faking it pretty well), but because I didn't have the right gonads to be married to Joan.

I mean, okay.  It was about whether or not a person could be a pastor, and I didn't want to be a pastor, so what was the big deal?  Well, for one thing, I had wanted to be a pastor at one  time. (Probably because my first crush, at the tender age of eleven or so, was a pastor.)  For another, the Church was taking a group of people, arbitrarily selected, and saying, "Nope. You're not good enough."  And when a person looks at the history of the Church, you'll find that they did this very thing over and over again.  I mean, examples abound, and most often they involve, "Can black people be accepted as _____ in the church?  Can women?  Can Nova Scotian emigres who hop backward on one foot under a full moon every January?"  And the answer, while it might eventually become Yes, always started out as No.

 By the way, by the Church I don't just mean the Lutheran Church.  I mean the entire body of Christianity, from the few folks who survived the fall of the Roman Empire to the massive quantity of professed Christians we have today.  And upon looking at this stuff, and the Great Universal No, I realized I just flat out couldn't stand under that banner anymore.  Ever. At all.  For any reason.

I always felt like I more or less got cheated out of Christianity.  After all, the Lutheran Church reversed itself on the issue of gay pastors in 2009, and everything has evidently been chummy since.  But I was gone by then.

There is a happy ending here.  There are twists and turns through Paganism and Unitarian Universalism before I fetched up against a group of Viet Namese Buddhists who cared not one hang if you were gay, straight, black, pink, North, South, Nova Scotian or even ugly as long as you could meditate for twenty minutes at a time.  Or, for that matter, if you believe in God; belief in a supreme being is not a big tenet of Buddhism.  And I like being a Buddhist, but I sort of miss being a Lutheran.  The way you might miss a certain color that's on every wall of your house, and then you move to a new house where the walls are a different color, and you suddenly realize that the first color is gone and you can't get it back.  It was my church too, people.

Well, I guess the Methodists will carry on, or else split up into more than one church. I only know one Methodist pastor (Hi, Charles!) and practically no Methodist devotees, so I don't really know how things are shaking out.  I expect many people will leave.  I expect some people, thanking God (so to speak) that SOMEbody is standing up for "traditional values" (which are neither traditional, nor values), will come back, or join for the first time. But one thing is for sure; the question will keep coming up, because love wins. Maybe not every day and maybe not every time, but love does win.

It didn't win today, though. And that's just sad.

The Contents of a Fed Ex Package

I left work with a Fed Ex package tonight.  I often leave work with a Fed Ex package, or with certified letters, or other things that need to go places.  Sometimes it's because something absolutely, positively has to be someplace overnight.  Other times it's because somebody's been procrastinating and the same letter that could have been sent for a 47-cent stamp is now costing $35.50.  I won't say which was the case this time, but that's because I'm such a nice person that I wouldn't accuse any of my cow orkers of procrastinating.

Anyway, I should probably mind running errands for the office after work, but I don't.  There's something kind of nifty about leaving work with a Fed Ex package.  It's that combination of white, purple and orange that says to the outside world, "Look!  I'm doing something important!  Something so critically important that it calls for a Fed Ex package!"  Which is great for the ego, especially when you've been having a string of days when you feel like you're the least important person on the planet.  Now, the Dalai Lama would argue with me about this, but there are days when I'm convinced nobody would ever miss me if I were to suddenly disappear.  If, however, I were carrying a Fed Ex package at the time I vanished into thin air, a huge multinational corporation would pull out all the stops to find me (even in thin air) and bring me and the package back to terra firma.  To do anything less would just be un-Fed Exy.

One time I had a package to be delivered to a town in Australia, and Fed Ex called me to confirm the address because they couldn't find the one I gave them on a map.  (This was before Google Earth, you understand.)  I called the client to double check.  He started laughing and asked me if I'd ever  been to Little Town, Australia.  I said no.  He said that this town had one north and south road that crossed over one east and west road, and where the two roads crossed each other, was the place the package was going.  They couldn't have missed it if they tried.  But of course they called to confirm.  Of course they did, because that's just what Fed Ex does. Fed Ex packages are important.  

(Incidentally, I'm at Afrah, the World's Greatest Mediterranean Restaurant, eating some of the Best Pita Bread on Earth and typing this.   And darned if two Buddhist monks and a nun didn't just walk in and sit down.  Does anybody know if I'm supposed to go over there and bow?  Or do I get to mind my own business?  Maybe they didn't see me.  I am, after all, hiding behind my 8 inch by 4 inch tablet.  I am practically invisible.)

Anyway, a new year has started up.  We're about 16 days into it here, and it doesn't seem too bad so far.  I started out the year getting a new cell phone after mine became possessed by the Devil and started randomly doing things I had not asked it to do.  Demonic possession of small electronics is not something to be encouraged.  So I got a new cell phone.  And while we were in the cell phone store, picking out the best cheap knockoff  my money could buy, I ran into something that I wish I'd never met, because now I want one.  The Samsung Galaxy Tab S4.

Seriously, have you seen this thing?  It's like a tablet combined with a laptop and a dash of a cell phone thrown in.  It has the Microsoft software suite, the Android applications and more features than you can shake a stick at.  Unlike my current tablet, which you have to have Wi-Fi to operate, it's always on, just like a cell phone.  You can use it at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, if they have cell service there.

I need a new laptop.  I've needed a new laptop for ages.  So, why not just forego the laptop and get the tablet instead?  I mean, the thing has the Microsoft suite, right?  Well, there's the $700 price tag, for one thing.  I can get a good used laptop for around $250.  But a used laptop isn't sleek.  It doesn't have chrome trim and megapixel display and a camera.  This tablet is sleek.  It's like a Ferrari.  A laptop--any laptop--is a Toyota Corolla in comparison.

(Don't get me wrong.  I love my Corolla.  But it's hard to pick up girls driving around in a Corolla.  At least I think that is the problem.)

Oh, I'm probably not going to get the Galaxy Tab S4.  I still need a mattress, for one thing, and once I get one of those (this weekend, back.  I swear,) I won't be able to part with the funds.  But it would be really cool to have one of these suckers.  So if any of y'all made a New Year's resolution to give overpriced gifts to total strangers for no apparent reason, that's Galaxy S4.  Through T-Mobile.

One more piece of news:  My novel writing class is starting up again next Friday.  This is pretty cool, because for a while there the novel writing class was the only thing in my life that was going well.  Matters have since improved, but I'm still excited about the novel writing class.  I seem to need other writers to bounce off of and trade stories of Galaxy S4 lust.  Cheers!

Deviled Eggs and Water Polo

We made it!  Two posts during the month of November!  Well, they were two posts that were pretty far apart, but at least there are two posts.  I really will get up to a weekly blog post, here.  I did it in 2008 and I can do it again, even if I am ten years older, heavily medicated and no longer possessed of so many quick ideas to go off on a rant about.  By the way, speaking of time passing us by, it's now officially Cold in North Texas, except on days when it's Unseasonably Warm.  Like yesterday, for example, it got to 70.  Tonight it will be below freezing.  Which night does Grayson the Cat decide to run out the front door and gallivant through the bushes?  Yeah.  And there I am, crawling after him, without a coat, while Joan yells from the doorway, "He went that way!  No, the other that way!  You're getting colder!  Warmer!  No, not that kind of warmer..." 

Anyway, we caught him and hustled him back inside.  Now he's chasing a wad of paper across the floor, periodically picking it up with his mouth and carrying it off as prey.  They told us this guy was two years old when we picked him out, but I swear he was only a year and a few months, because he's still filling out and he's got a serious case of kittenager.  Any day now he's going to ask when he can borrow the car.

Last Saturday, I got up at about five in the morning to drag myself down to the pool, as usual.  (Well, somewhat usual.  Sometimes I sleep late and don't get there 'til seven.) I drove over to SMU's new pool, which is awe-inspiring and 18 feet deep, too, and much to my surprise, the building was locked up and nobody was there.  This wasn't because all the sane people stayed home, either.  I got on my cell phone, checked the Web site, and discovered that practice was canceled because of a water polo tournament.  A water polo tournament.  Just imagine.  I have always wanted to try water polo.  The only thing that holds me back is that I don't own any of those rare swimming horses. 

So I turned around and went back to my car, where I faced a dilemma.  As long as I was heading down to the pool and it was less than forty degrees out, I'd taken with me about twenty deviled eggs.  Yes, I frequently travel with deviled eggs.  Seriously, though, the eggs were left over from Joan's pre-Thanksgiving work potluck. My office often lets training classes use its conference rooms on Saturdays, so I'd had the idea that after practice I'd drive over to the office and drop off the deviled eggs for the lucky trainees, whomever they were.  But I didn't know what to do first; drive up to J.J. Pearce High School, which also has an early swim practice on Saturday, and drop off the eggs on the way?  Or forget about the eggs, go home like a normal person, and go back to bed?

I decided to get on Twitter and take a poll, as seen on the right of the screen here.  I actually got one response.  So I headed up to J.J. Pearce High School, planning to stop at my office and hand out free eggs.  Because why not.  But just as I pulled into the parking lot, I got this urgent text message from my boss, asking me to head over to the office and do something important.

Well, what a marvelous coincidence that I was already at the office.  I got out, eggs in tow, and went over to the main gate.  Here I ran into my second dilemma of the morning:  My code wouldn't work when I punched it in. So I texted my boss back:

Which she did.  But it didn't work any better than mine had. 

This building - Maybe I should explain about this building.  First of all, there isn't a ground floor.  Where the ground floor should be is a parking garage secured with two gates.  Outside the parking garage is a door secured with a number pad, which is supposed to open when you punch in the code.  But no matter which number code I punched in, mine or hers, the number pad just danced around and laughed at me. 

At about this point I was getting pretty annoyed.  My boss asked me if there wasn't a gate around the back of the parking lot.  Which there was, and I'd forgotten all about it.  So I headed over there to check it out.

 At this point I could just imagine what the security footage must look like.  Frame after frame of absolutely nothing and then suddenly I show up, checking doors, rattling gates, yanking on uncooperative padlocks.  Could the Richardson police be far behind?  This would be fun to explain.  "No, Officer, of course I work here.  Would I be trying to break into a law firm less than a mile from the police department if I didn't work here?  I mean, I may be crazy but I'm not stupid..."







My boss thinks of trying to open one of the front gates, which might get me inside enough to try the security codes on the back stairs door.  And if that works, I can scoot up two stories to where my desk is, print the letter and all will be grand.  However, neither one of us has the code to the padlock on the front gate.  So while I bumble around, my boss starts texting everyone in the office who might have a code to the front gate. 

And then she finds somebody.  And I dial in the code.  And...

So into the building I go.  Up a flight of stairs.  Stop to pant for breath on the landing because these are pretty steep stairs and my knee's been complaining for a couple of days.  Up another flight of stairs.  Punch in my code at the door panel at the top of the stairs and...click.  I'm in!

I get on my computer.  I find the letter, fix it, print it out, make some envelopes to mail it.  And then there's the problem of who's going to sign the letter.  Finally I decide to just turn to forgery, since burglary's not exactly working out for me. 

So I leave the deviled eggs (remember the eggs?  I bet you guys forgot all about the eggs, didn't you?)  on the receptionist's desk, where anybody who comes in will basically be forced to see them.  And I take my letter and I open the door to the back stairs.  The way this whole morning has been going, I wouldn't have been at all surprised to run right into my boss's boss, or one of the partners, for one of those moments where we both go "AAAAAIGH!!" and scare the living cr@p out of each other.  But that doesn't happen.  It's 7:15 in the morning.  Nobody's due for another hour at least. 

And then it occurs to me that my boss never once asked me what in the name of all things holy I was doing outside the office at 6:30 on a Saturday morning with a passel of deviled eggs.  I mean, that's kind of a pertinent question, don't you think?  But it never happened.  Maybe she thinks I travel the world and hand out free eggs at odd locations. 

Well, anyway, that's the story of Jen and the water polo tournament and the deviled eggs.  Y'all have a nice day, now. 

More Professional Reading

I think I made it all the way through October without a blog post.  Y'all must have thought I died or something.  Please be advised, if I do actually die my next of kin will let you know.  I'm not sure how.  Maybe an obituary post.  Or maybe just "SHOW'S OVER, SHE'S DEAD" in big letters. But I'm not planning to die anytime soon.  I just had a physical and I'm hale and healthy and guaranteed to last at least until the next physical.  Meds are working well, my mammogram was clear, I still swim three or four days a week and I've even been known to get to the gym once in a while to lift some weights.  The last thing that went through the office (I think it was some kind of bronchitis) missed me completely.  And I may be just a few months away from turning 50, but lots of people turn 50 every day and it doesn't kill them.  So there we are and here I am and I don't know where you are, but I hope it is somewhere good.  

(Incidentally, did you know that when you turn 50, you can join AARP and be part of the biggest lobbying group in the United States?  True fact.  Joan's been a member for--gosh, almost 10 years now.  So we already get the AARP Bulletin and AARP Magazine, which are both pretty good reads--and the type is pretty big, too.  Those of us with cataracts on the right appreciate big type anymore.)  

I probably didn't mention this in my last blog post, but I got a new Nook.  Barnes and Noble is selling a small 7" version of their Nook Tablet for only $49, and I don't know how long that'll last but if you're at all interested in having a tablet, check this one out.  There's also the Samsung Galaxy Tab A Nook for about $109, which is faster and has a bigger screen.  B&N naturally assumes that you will buy lots of Nook books to put on your Nook, hence they're selling this dude way below market.  And that's great for those of us who love tech but are poor a lot of the time.  There was nothing really wrong with my old one, the Samsung Galaxy Tab E Nook, but it was just a little bit too heavy and unwieldy for me.  I couldn't comfortably balance it in one hand.  So I gave it to Joan, who does not worry about balancing things with one hand and was mainly after the much bigger screen.  Happy ending for all concerned.  I bet she's in there watching prerecorded baseball games as we speak.  

So this is another post about professional reading.  As I mentioned last time, my local library -- and probably yours, too -- has lots of audiobooks that one can check out for free, load onto one's phone (or Nook) and listen to on one's way to and from work.  The books I've been checking out have been all about the workplace; how to survive it, how to make it better, and how to make lots of money while making it better.  And neuroscience, or, How The Brain Works and, more importantly, how to change some of the ways your brain works so that it works better for you.  Apart, that is, from the stuff that's hardwired into us, which I'll get to in a little while.  

The first book I read after Delivering Happiness was a book called Drive, and it was about what actually motivates people to do their best work. Surprise, it is not fear of being fired or getting patted on the head for doing good work.  It's about having autonomy over the job, being able to make the key decisions without waiting for permission from someone else, and a sense of responsibility for the outcome, whatever that is.  Plus the ability to choose one's team members and choose where and how and when to do the work.  This is so far removed from most places I've worked that I sort of wondered if the guy who wrote it was crazy.  But no. Lots of scientific studies bear this stuff out.  What's more, companies that use these techniques make more money than those that don't.  You can't argue with success, though you can kind of poke your finger at it and laugh if it makes you feel better.

Next up we had Thrive by Arianna Huffington, about why the typical workplace is killing us and the instructions for being a happy human.  Getting enough sleep, for one thing, is vastly underrated.  Ditto getting enough exercise.  Staying in touch with friends and family members.  Volunteering.  And of course not working an 80 hour week, which is ruinous for all kinds of reasons. No. Work 40, spend the rest of your awake time with your friends and family and on projects that make you happy.  Yes, this is the Arianna Huffington of The Huffington Post and no, this book is not political.  I've had it up to here with politics, as probably have you, and yes, I voted, a week and a half ago on a Tuesday.  And I'm typing this with my fingers crossed.  Which is hard.   

Then we get to A Curious Mind, by Brian Grazer, a movie producer you might have heard of (Apollo 13, Backdraft, How The Grinch Stole Christmas with Jim Carrey, etc.)  This guy talked his way into a job at Warner Brothers Studios and worked his way up the proverbial ladder to become a producer and the co-head of Imagine Entertainment.  (His co-head is Ron Howard, whom you also might have heard of.)  Mr. Grazer likes stories, and he likes to have conversations with people.  Any people.  Lots of people.  People it's hard to get to meet and just ordinary people that might happen by in the course of the work day.  Part of the book is about these conversations with people and part of it is about why curiosity is so important and, unfortunately, undervalued. 

(Confidential to Kellum:  If you read this book, skip part of Chapter Two, from the moment where Brian meets Sting on the beach until about five pages past that.  Or let Suzie vet it for you.  I'm betting she'll agree with me.  Any questions, please Google "Closetland The Movie".)  

The last in the series before A Curious Mind was Brain Bugs.  Yes, that sounds like a disgusting concept but luckily we're not talking about actual insects.  We're talking about things in our brains that don't work the way we'd like them to, because we evolved to be hunter-gatherers and instead we're living in the most technologically complex society ever.  For example, it would be great for our modern lives if we could add complex numbers in our heads and calculate the statistical odds of a thing happening, or not happening.  And some people can, but most of us can't because our brains just don't work that way.  Our brains are associational and relational, not technical.  Which means we're very good at connecting things to other things, but not so good at remembering specific things, or calculating them.  We're susceptible to advertising and political propaganda, in part because we love a good story more than we love looking at statistical odds and saying, "Well, this proposal would be good for 1% of the population and pretty much ruinous for the other 99% of the population, but I'm one of the 1% so let's do it."  (Not that that doesn't happen.)  If you've ever wondered why brains do the things they do, this would be a good book to check out.  Though, unfortunately, it offered no advice whatsoever for those of us whose brains analyze a situation, run directly to the most catastrophic possible conclusion, and then yap about it incessantly for hours.  Maybe that'll be addressed in a different book.

And that's about it for this exciting episode.  I've got to go into the living room and see what that loud crash was a minute or so ago.  Generally when there's a loud crash in the house, Grayson the Cat can be found in the middle of it.  This guy is an explorer and a climber par excellance.  He gets into a lot of stuff, too.  Cheers, all!

Organizational What?

One of the problems with writing a weekly blog post is trying to come up with something to write about.  That almost requires something to actually happen, and as you know, nothing ever happens around here.  I mean, except for weird ear infections and things that cats do and the kitchen flooding and the refrigerator needing to be fixed and now the dryer's on the fritz and I'm afraid Joan is going to run out of pants before it's fixed and my former boss leaving me weird messages and this old guy turning up on our doorstep, three times on three different days, pounding on the door and demanding to be let in.

What's more, I actually have to come up with two things, because that's how blog posts work.  I'll bet you didn't know there's a pattern to this, did you? Well, there is.  First you spout off for two or three paragraphs about something that's not really important, just to warm up a little.  It can be about anything; politics, a joke you heard yesterday, the religious leanings of grasshoppers or even a monologue about dwarf bowling.  Then you say, "Speaking of androgynous left-handed bullriders who speak Mandarin Chinese, here's something that happened..."  and you go off on another topic.

I don't know how blog posts evolved to follow this format.  They just do.  I don't see any reason to break the pattern, either.  So speaking of slithery touch typists with gout who wear SAS shoes, here's what's new around here: Professional Reading.

Yes, I know. Professional Reading should not be new.  Anybody who has a job, much less a career, ought to be trying to get better at it one way or another, whether that's by taking a class or volunteering for extra projects or, yes, Professional Reading.  But it is new.  Or at least, it's new that I have any desire whatsoever to do it.  For that I blame Joan and these things called podcasts.

I'm pretty sure I posted about this a while back, around the time I figured out that I had heard most of the songs that ever came on the radio at least 9,185 times apiece since the early 1980s.  Joan installed a "podcast app" on my phone, which talks to my car and plays itself over my car speakers, and lo and behold, I could actually learn something while driving all over creation, or all over Dallas, anyway.  What a concept.  My current favorite is this one on neuroscience called "The Hidden Brain."  It's the only podcast on neuroscience I've come across where I can actually understand about 90% of it. I'm also a fan of The 12-Step Buddhist, The Podcast of Doom (failure analysis on a large scale) and Witness, a history podcast from BBC America. 

And just when I realized I was hitting the "refresh" button on my phone a little too often, something new happened. Audiobooks. Audiobooks about business.  What's more, audiobooks about business that are perfectly free.

Yup.  The Dallas Library has this app called Libby that gives you access to audiobooks. With nothing more than a common ordinary library card, you can check them out---again, for free--and download them on your phone and play them over your speakers just like a podcast.  In fact, your phone automatically kicks on when you start your car and goes right back to the place you left off.  I'm currently reading, or rather, listening to "Delivering Happiness" by Tony Hseih, the guy who founded Zappos and then sold it to Amazon for $1.2 billion.  You wouldn't think it, but the life story of an industry titan is actually pretty hilarious.  Especially the part where he declares that his life partner is Red Bull, but you'd probably have to hear that for yourself.

Anyway, the Dallas Library has a pretty good selection of business audio books.  A lot of them have waiting lists, but that's okay; it takes me a couple of weeks to get through each one, anyway, and by the time I'm done, there's another one waiting for me.  I'm not sure why I'm suddenly interested in stuff like management and leadership and organizational psychology.  It may have something to do with my new boss, who is the PR guy at the law firm. (Most law firms are set up like this. One partner is the PR guy, one is the money guy and one is the Brilliant Legal Mind who keeps the others in line.)  My office is right next to his so I get to listen to him on the phone all day, and believe me, he really is on the phone all day.  What's more, he has to be nice to all those people he's talking to, even if they're cranky back.  And he does it.  It's pretty amazing.

So I figure it can't possibly hurt to know how one does that sort of thing, and more stuff about how people work together generally.  I'm supervising two people that are much younger than me and one who's the same age but who comes from a totally different background.  I have to talk and interact with them all the time, and it can't possibly hurt to learn how.  For whatever reason, I've always felt like an anthropologist in this thing called human society, tentatively approaching with a notepad and a pen and hoping not to interrupt the village ceremony.  Who knows; maybe if I learn enough about How People Talk To Each Other At Work and What That All Means, I can at least be a better mimic.  Even if I never start a company and sell it to Amazon for $1.2 billion.

Earregularities

Holy moley, two blog posts in less than a week's time. Could this be the start of a trend? It could.  I would like, if I may, to update this thing once a week.  I think that'd be good for traffic, get me to write more stuff, and keep me off the streets, where I'm bound to cause trouble.  So look for this space to be updated on Thursdays. Thursday seems to be a good day.  It also means I have an extra day in case I miss Thursday; there's rarely anything going on at our place on Friday night, apart from a baseball game, and (snif) the season's almost over (snif, snif).  Remember, kids, writers churn the stuff out on a regular basis.  Once a week is regular.  I'm a regular kind of gal.  Well, okay, I'm really not.  But I'd like to be.  See last blog post re: getting my shit together and things I'm supposed to be doing every day. 

Anyway:  About a week ago, I suddenly became aware that both of my ears were swollen shut.  This isn't exactly an uncommon occurrence, but it was a kind of odd time of year.  I get two ear and/or sinus infections every year, and I have them in April (right around the time of the big Dallas Book Festival, as it usually happens) and November (right around the time I have to get on an airplane to go someplace, as it usually happens).  Which is annoying, but I can live with it.  When I was a somewhat younger person I had so many colds and sinus infections I ended up having The Surgery, and while that was not fun, it did make things much, much better.  Two sinus infections a year are really No Big Deal.  You go see the doctor, the doctor reads your medical history, she skips the whole lecture about overprescribing antibiotics is going to cause the Apocalypse, and she prescribes you antibiotics. You take them for a week and you're fine.

So I called my doc, and she told me to come on in, like she always does. I went in, got weighed, had my blood pressure checked (112 over 70), had my o-sat and heart rate checked (70 at first, then I decided I could do better than that and dropped it to 63; yes, I can manipulate my heart rate, and yes, I do do it to scare medical assistants sometimes).  Then the doc came in, looked in both of my ears with the little scopey thing, and said, "You don't have an ear infection."

I looked at her like she was crazy.  Excuse me, but my ears were swollen shut.  There are only two things that cause that; an ear infection, or swimmer's ear (which is like an ear infection, but it's on the outside of your ear, so you don't always need to take antibiotics; sometimes all you need are ear drops).  So I said something stupid, like, "Are you sure?" and she said, "Yep.  No infection at all.  What you have is eczema."

Eczema, by the way, is a skin condition, usually caused by being exposed to something you're allergic to.  In short, I was having an allergic reaction in my ears.  Which is particularly weird, because not much goes there.  I mean, they're ears.  "So figure out what you've been putting in your ears lately," she said, "and in the meantime, put this lotion on a q-tip and stick it in your ears twice a day."  Oh boy. What if I'm allergic to q-tips?

I found this immensely puzzling. Again, not much goes in my ears.  I mean, I have ear buds, and I wear them sometimes, but I really didn't think it was the ear buds.  I pour a solution of hydrogen peroxide and rubbing alcohol into my ears after I swim, to prevent swimmer's ear, but I really didn't think I was allergic to rubbing alcohol or peroxide, either (though that might have dried out the skin, giving the eczema a place to take root).

And then, I remembered my SwimPod.

Okay, it's not really called a SwimPod. That's just what I like to call it, and that's what it is; it's an iPod that's been modified for underwater use.  My sister, who's awesome, gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago. It clips to the back of your swim cap, the ear buds are very short (and waterproof), and while the sound isn't quadrophonic stereo with JBL quality, it's still an iPod you can listen to while you're swimming.  I mean, how cool is that?  It gets lonely out there sometimes.  A SwimPod makes things a lot less lonely.  I've got everything from Seals and Crofts to Big Country to Lady Gaga on there.  30 years of pop music. Underwater. Not to mention some classical stuff, and even a little jazz, if you call Ray Lynch jazz, and I think some people would.

For a heart-stopping moment, I wondered if I was allergic to my SwimPod. The thought was horrifying.  I mean, yes, I can always try another pair of ear buds. There are actually several different kinds of waterproof ear buds (check them out at www.swimoutlet.com if you're curious), but the ones that come with it are the best. They have the short cord, for one thing, which means there isn't a long cord to get in the way.  Plus, they seem to last a reasonable amount of time.  Something about being underwater means that ear buds have a rather limited life span.  I've yet to have a pair last for more than six months, and some lasted less than three.  Always get the optional warranty when buying underwater ear buds, folks.  You'll use it more often than not.

Then I remembered that I actually hadn't been listening to my SwimPod for the last couple of weeks. I'd taken it out of commission to add some more music to it and take some off, and I'd left it on my desk, where it promptly disappeared into a haze of gel pens, random pieces of paper and stuff I'd brought home from work and didn't know what to do with. I fished it back out (luckily, it was still there and hadn't been carried off by a cat) and examined the ear buds. Silicone. I'm sure that some people somewhere are allergic to silicone, but I'm pretty sure I'm not one of them. And never mind how I know that.

So if not the SwimPod, then what?  Oh yes. The morning I first left my SwimPod on my desk, I'd arrived at the pool with no ear buds, so I bought a pair of ear plugs at the front desk.  I pulled those out of my swim bag. Latex.  People, I'm almost 50 and just found out I might be allergic to latex.  I'd appreciate it if somebody would fill me in on those things sooner.

(Though, I also woke up one morning a couple of weeks ago and discovered that I'd become lactose intolerant virtually overnight.  One day I could have milk, cream in my coffee, ice cream or frozen yogurt. The next day the same stuff made me sick as hell.  Bam.  Just like that. So I guess these things can happen.  And I'm in good company. Joan is lactose intolerant, too.)

I stayed out of the pool for a couple of days to give the weird ear lotion time to work. Then I tried out the SwimPod again.  No problems. I am definitely not allergic to silicone ear buds.  But I am allergic to latex ones.  I think if you're allergic to latex, you have to tell your doctor and you can't have some kinds of surgery or wear certain kinds of Band-Aids (come to think of it, the flexible fabric ones, which use a latex adhesive, always did make me itchy). 

So now I'm allergic to latex, milk products, codeine, sulfa drugs and their derivatives, cockroaches, five of the most common trees in the United States and every kind of grass there is.  Yes, including the kind you're probably thinking about.  I never understood why smoking that stuff is so much fun when all it ever did for me was cause projectile vomiting.  Peace out.