It ain't all pizzas and cream

Day 314: the work paradox

Most people will tell you that the more work and thought you put into an endeavor, the better your results. Most people. But not me. In my experience, my work has never had the least correlation with my results. Which can make life confusing. A few posts back I quoted Charles Bukowski's gravestone, which reads: Don't Try. Allow me to explain. Simply put, if your entire life has told you that effort and results are uncorrelated, then you might not give your all to every project. In fact, if you got an A+ for a C- effort often enough, you might be persuaded that a C- effort is your ticket to success.

Ltely I've been trying to "change my stars" as it were. To be one of those people for whom the fruits of their labor reflect their effort. My stars, it seems, do not want to change. And I've been beating myself up for "taking the bait."

So, until I can work this out, I'll probably be a little salty. Just so you know.

* * *

In an unrelated item... anyone know what brand of cigs Obama smokes? 

Day 313: How was your criticism-free weekend?

Time to check in, as promised, on our criticism-free weekend. Cecily and I went from Friday evening to Monday evening (72 hours) without criticizing each other, and I'll say it made a substantial difference in the way we relate to each other. And, more importantly, I did not feel myself bursting at the seems with comments and resentments. By simply regarding Cecily with the same courtesy I'd afford someone I met in the street (and she, returning the gesture), we were able to function far better as a parenting team, and with far less chaos in general.

Like any bad habit, criticism seems self-reinforcing. That is, the less I criticize, the less I want to criticize. So, by that reasoning, if I can refrain from criticism on a daily basis over time, the urge to criticize should fade further. Being a recovering drunk, it's easy (or at least familiar) to apply the "one day at a time" model to criticism as I've applied it to alcohol. And so far, it seems to be working.

Cecily and I have always been an effective team when it comes to cooperative tasks like camping and parenting. By "effective" I mean, we get the job done. However, in the process of getting the job done, there is usually much cursing, some screaming, and a liberal sprinkling of snarky asides. By eliminating criticism, we have been able to retain  all the teamwork while removing the snarkiness and chaos. 

Since last night, we've hit a few little bumps in the road, but nothing major, and are currently trying to extend the "criticism-free zone" into the week.

Now it's time to hear how you did... so spill it.

Day 312: Fort Hood, Maj. Hasan, and the "War on Islam"

On a day with not one, but two, mass shootings, it's hard to make sense of anything. For the moment, we'll leave the second case--that of a disgruntled ex-employee running amok at a Florida engineering firm--in the big "disgruntled ex-employee" box. Instead we'll look at the far more puzzling and deadly case of Major Hasan, a United States Army Psychiatrist, who seemingly went monkey balls crazy, sold his belongings, bought two guns, and began shooting his fellow soldiers while screaming "God is great" in Arabic, resulting in 13 fatalities and 30 wounded at Fort Hood in Texas.

First, let me extend my sincerest sympathies to all the families of those lost and wish a quick recovery to those wounded.

And now my thoughts...in no particular order...

• We were just turning the corner on the War on Terror vs War on Islam thing. Just beginning as a nation to see some distinction between Arab extremists and the general Islamic community. Just a glimmer of hope. Then this asshole comes along, one of our own officers, and throws any progress right down the toilet. 

• Apparently, there is some evidence that Hasan, a devout Muslim, was chided for his beliefs by fellow officers and was not afforded the respect that usually comes with the rank of Major. That wouldn't surprise me. Butt that doesn't begin to excuse mass murder.

• In one alleged incident, another soldier tore a bumper sticker from Hasan's car. the sticker read, in Arabic, "Allah is Love."  Hasan's response was apparently to assert with his actions that Allah is, in fact, something other than love.  Again, nice going, Major.

• If you were so against the war in Iraq, then walk away from the army. The civilian world needs shrinks too.

• The military is now in a strange position. What do they say to the next Islamic recruit? "Umm, no thanks pal, you remember what happened last time. Why don't you go play for the other team."

• Hasan, unlike most mass shooters with a death wish, did not die. He was shot and stopped by a law enforcement officer. So now he can stand trial, and simultaneously become the white-hot focus of hate for all those people who already hated Muslims, and all those who almost turned the corner but now feel vindicated in their original bigotries. Even my own personal jury is still out on this one. I just don't know what to believe.

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PS - I realize today was the day we were supposed to reconvene and talk about our criticism-free weekends. Sorry to preempt that discussion but felt this discussion seemed more fitting for Veterans Day. We'll get back to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

Day 311: Yeh, I'm one of THOSE people

Returned Tank to the shelter today. He just didn't work out. Why? Here's the list:

• He ran away 3 times in 4 days, twice involving the police to get him returned. Last night, he escaped while my mother-in-law was watching him (see yesterday's post), and today he wriggled under the fence and ran away again. Tho he was caught nearby and I was able to retrieve him, escape-proofing the yard proved impossible. He literally tore down a shrub, pushed aside a wood board, and chewed through a wood fence in his subsequent attempts to escape.

• He resisted our attempts to correct him. And rather than becoming more submissive over time, he became more challenging.

• He gave Tori the curled lip on more than one occasion.

• He bit me today while I attempted gently to crate him. It was just a scratch (I have fast hands from years of cat ownership), but it became clear that he was not a reliable animal. And if he'd bite me, he'd bite Tori. And that is not acceptable.

So yeh, I'm one of THOSE people who returns dogs to a shelter after signing adoption papers. But I'm gonna be real clear on this: I returned him NOT because he didn't match the furniture but because he posed a risk to my daughter. There are those who will believe that one little bite is no reason to give up on an animal. But ya know, I'm not Gandhi or Jesus. Frankly, I'm not even sure those guys had dogs.  I'm just me. And the dog crossed the line.

I don't believe Tank is beyond hope, and I put in a good word on his behalf at the shelter to ensure that he would not be put down. But suggested perhaps that he go to a childless adult with the time and patience to work with his particular issues.

So if I lose more readers, so be it.

Dogless again.

Onward.

Day 310: Sailing thru... well, not quite

A sunny Saturday.... hope y'all are having a criticism-free weekend. 

Say hi to Tank...

 

*Amended to add: Cecily and I were out to dinner when my mother-in-law called to say that Tank had escaped. So we rushed home and began circling the neighborhood, while calling the local police departments and animal wardens. By luck, we happened to see a police car stopped in front of his home. We asked if he'd heard of any lost or stray dogs tonight. After a moment he did recall one, where a pit mix had slipped his collar. Another officer, we were told, was en route to that address. We followed, and when we arrived, there was Tank. He'd been rescued by a group of kids in their 20s. Luckily Tank is very friendly.

So, after securing Tank at home, we went to the local Pet Smart and got a new choke collar. Tomorrow: Home Depot for a higher fence.

Day 309: A critic's critic

I've been in a very dark place lately. And if there's one thing I've learned about internal darkness, is that cannot be ended by external light. Or if that metaphor doesn't rub your Buddha, try this: I sailed into this storm, and I'm just going to have to sail out again.

* * *

What is the greatest threat to any human relationship? Physical distance/separation? Nope. Betrayal/infidelity? Wrong again. The answer is: CRITICISM. That niggling urge to nudge, steer, and berate those closest to us. If you need proof: recall the time when you first felt deeply attracted to your partner. Now picture that during your courtship you'd said things like... "You're not going to wear THAT sweater are you?" Or, "You're tailgating again."  You'd likely be alone today, eating your dinner out of a dog food can while watching reruns of Three's Company on TV. Yet we think nothing of saying exactly those things to the one person who has vowed to stay with us no matter what. Quite a reward for loyalty.

So why do we do it? Maybe it's a matter of asserting our autonomy, e.g., we can tell ourselves we're valid and important if we are giving "direction." Maybe it's passive-aggressive retaliation. I really don't know. But I can assure you that it is as destructive to intimacy as antifreeze is to cats. 

I'm not speaking from a position of superiority. I'm one of the most grumpy critical people I know. And that is part of the problem. The other part is that I am married to one of the other most critical people I know.  And it hurts...both of us. I've learned one thing with the utmost certainty: I don't know how I sound. What I may consider a casual aside often comes out as a venomous barb. So what's the cure? Spa retreats with New Age gurus? Self-help books? Intimacy courses from the Learning Annex? 

I'm gonna say: no.

But a shift in perspective is definitely necessary. Ask yourself this: Would I give up ever having sex with my partner again if it meant that she/he would never criticize me again. Before you vote on impulse. Think about it. Celibacy starts to look pretty good. Or how about this: Would I have criticized my partner in that way if my partner only had a year to live? Food for thought.

So here's your assignment. Go 48 hours without criticizing your partner. That means: all weekend, no criticism. Sounds easy, right? Try it. I'm going to be trying it with you.

We'll check back on Monday and see how we did.

Day whatever

I can't recall the number of times my father would return home from a day at the office, strip to his boxers and sleeveless T-shirt, and slump into his dining room chair, his head in his hands, trying to fathom what had gone so terribly wrong.  He had studied hard, loved his chosen field of work, and had excelled to become one of the premiere financial strategists in the banking industry. But unlike most of his colleagues, he believed firmly that one could and should succeed primarily (if not solely) on his merits.  Without schmoozing, without contrived fishing trips, without having to listen to the bosses make misogynist jokes around the water cooler. But at every turn, his best ideas were suppressed, ignored, or stolen. I can still remember the names: Dick Boylan, Roger Hillis, Jim Balog. Snakes and liars. Men without vision. They clawed away at him, chewed away at his guts, and killed his hope.

I wish I could say that dad came thru. That he found a way to be honored for his achievements. I wish I could. And I wish I could say I never repeated his mistakes. Never became emotionally invested in my own ideas. 

You were probably hoping for some pithy funny ending. Can't help you.

Best I can do is to quote the words engraved on the headstone of the poet and novelist Charles Bukowski...

DON'T TRY

Day 307: poem / untitled

I am ill-fitted

to life, its sleeves

like wings

of an abandoned

hotel,

its soles slick

with good intentions.

 

I’m easily lost

in the  solarium

then find myself

drunk

in the honeymoon

suite.

 

Don’t ask me

to dance.

I’ll only tumble

naked

down the stairs.

Day 306: Calling a transit strike during a recession...treasure hunt or gold-digging?

I know I've taken some flack for some of my stances being anti-union. And truthfully, I'm not anti-union.  I believe in workplace safety and fair wages. I believe in the power of collective bargaining. I just believe that no demand should be taken on face value to be fair or reasonable, simply because it is being put forth by a union leader.

So when Septa Transportation Workers Union (TWU) 234 leadership turned down management's offer of an 11.5% wage increase over a 5-year period, an $1,250 signing bonus, an 11% increase in pension contributions, and no increase in healthcare premiums...I was, well, surprised.

The TWU apparently wants a 4% pay increase per year (i.e., 20% over 5 years). In the worst recession since 1937. Mayor Nutter has said in plain terms that the money just isn't there. Not to mention the fact that the union called the strike at 3am with zero notice to allow commuters to find alternate routes.

But TWU President Brown contends that the Governor, the Mayor, and Septa management are concealing federal stimulus money that could meet the union's demand. When you add the fact that the average TWU worker brings in 54k annually in salary alone, that just spells "greed."

Public opinion seems against the union from the outset. Not surprising, given the fact that there are lots of people who are out of work and who would be willing to take management's deal. Hell, I'd operate a subway train for $20 an hour plus benefits and zero pay increase over the next two years, until the economy improves.

So, are we going to be looking at another Ronald Reagan vs the Air Traffic Controllers in 1981? Probably not. But the union has put itself in a difficult spot. Both the Governor and the Mayor have said there's no money in the system for what they're asking  So it will be interesting to see how the union's gamble plays out..

Day 305: A few notes on pack behavior

A friend of mine used to say, "So, what did you do to stay sober today?" I used to have my share of good answers... that I'd done something to help someone else, or to right one of my many past wrongs. Lately tho, I've been going rogue, rather than interacting with others in sobriety. When life gets busy, or in my case, chaotic, I tend not to protect my sobriety. Frankly there have been times when I've wondered whether or not I could drink safely.

Two things stop that line of thought in its tracks: 1) Tori has never seen me drunk, and I hope she never will; and 2) my dad convinced himself that his first heart attack was indigestion and that a few cigars or an extra meal here and there wouldn't hurt him.  He was dead within two years of making that decision.  So I did my bit today and went to a meeting. Nothing exciting, but it was good to be part of the pack again.

And I felt somewhat at peace.

For eight seconds. 

Then Cecily called to say that Tank, the new dog, had gotten out as she went to check the mail...and had run away. Far and fast. I was a few miles away, driving Ruby, so I rushed back as quickly as is practical in a very conspicuous 38-year-old car. By the time I got back, Animal Control had located Tank. He was about 2 miles from the house, in a convenience store. Not NEAR a convenience store, but IN a convenience store. (I guess he was hungry.) Surprisingly, nobody freaked out, and Cecily was able to drive over and get him.

But it was a a stark reminder that we are starting completely from zero with Tank. He needs to bond with us, to feel part of the pack. He also needs to learn some leash lessons.  To know his limits.

Turns out we all learned a little about pack behavior, and what happens when we go astray.