Ever set out to solve a problem, and before long, you begin to decide that maybe that problem really wasn't so much of a problem as it was an opportunity for "improvement?" Now, your problem has become two or more problems, and you find yourself wishing you had your original problem back.
This happens to me less frequently than it used to, but I still occasionally find myself breaking one of the few rules I have for living: "If it works, don't fix it."
Thursday after work, I decided I'd do what I'd been thinking of doing for a while. I didn't like the internet modem and wireless router in the northwest corner of the living room with a bunch of other electronic stuff and The Great Tangle of Cords. There was nothing really wrong with where the internet stuff was, I just thought I could improve upon this "problem."
Uh-huh. After splicing cables and drilling holes through the outside and inside walls of the house, my modem fell 18" from where I had placed it on a chair and instantly became a worthless plastic box with a useless circuit board inside it. In a word: trash.
First thing the next morning I was spending 60+ dollars for a new modem. Brought it home, connected it, ran the set-up assistant, and failed to establish an internet connection. Called the cable company, spent an hour on the phone trying various troubleshooting techniques. No internet connection. The phone rep scheduled a repair person to come to the house the following afternoon.
Did I mention that I like things that work? As if that wasn't enough, I just noticed that an ember from that fire I'm learning so many lessons from has landed on my keyboard and burned a hole the size of a pencil eraser, half of the hole burned away the top of the Backspace key and half of the hole burned away the bottom of the Pause key. Lovely.
Am I the only one that has a love/hate relationship with all things technical? I'd love to hear your thoughts...
15 January 2011
13 January 2011
Judging Your Inside by My Outside
I like humor, but I've come to understand how subjective humor is. If good humor were a science, we'd have rehab for movie addicts. Laughing makes me feel good. If I could figure out a way to laugh every time, all I'd do is do the thing, or watch the thing, that makes me laugh. Soon I'd be jobless and homeless and I'd hit what's known as "my bottom," and most likely, I wouldn't be laughing anymore.
Absurd overstatements or subtle (and absurd) understatements are the things that make me laugh. The movies "Anchorman" and "The Royal Tenenbaums" are examples, respectively, of the kinds of over and understatements that make me laugh. Ron Burgundy is the protagonist in "Anchorman," a local news anchor so full of himself that he makes me look humble. We see him primping with a hand mirror in the first few minutes of the movie as he prepares to go live on the evening news, when suddenly he declares, "I look good, I look really good." Then the absurd part. He says, "Hey everybody, come see how good I look."
One of the complex things about humor is that what makes me laugh are things that are absurd but have a faint (or not so faint) ring of truth in them, things I recognize as my own character defects, the twists and distortions of my psyche and personality.
Be honest. Which of us has not, at some point, maybe while getting ready to attend a wedding or something, has not looked in the mirror and, instead of the usual indifference, thought to ourselves, "I look good, I look really good." Thankfully, most of us don't shout out for everyone to come see how good we think we look. I guess that's impulse control at its most basic form.
A good friend once suggested that I not judge my own insides, who I really am, by other people's outsides. That is to say, don't measure my own worth by what I perceive others to be, based on how they look, what they drive, where they live, et al. I can really fall into that trap, and I do so on a fairly regular basis. It brings out the old "less than" monster, the feeling that says, "See. I knew I was a loser. This is just tangible proof."
Just being aware that I tend to do that helps quite a bit. I don't know much of anything about others beyond what I see on the outside. I have no idea how patient, tolerant, or kind they are. I mention those three attributes because that's what I aspire to, not because that's what I think everyone else should aspire to. I realize I'm a long way from being as patient, tolerant, or kind as I someday hope to be. But I'm definitely not as impatient, intolerant, or unkind as I have been in the past.
It's a good day. I'm above ground, and I can practice. By the way, you look really good.
Absurd overstatements or subtle (and absurd) understatements are the things that make me laugh. The movies "Anchorman" and "The Royal Tenenbaums" are examples, respectively, of the kinds of over and understatements that make me laugh. Ron Burgundy is the protagonist in "Anchorman," a local news anchor so full of himself that he makes me look humble. We see him primping with a hand mirror in the first few minutes of the movie as he prepares to go live on the evening news, when suddenly he declares, "I look good, I look really good." Then the absurd part. He says, "Hey everybody, come see how good I look."
One of the complex things about humor is that what makes me laugh are things that are absurd but have a faint (or not so faint) ring of truth in them, things I recognize as my own character defects, the twists and distortions of my psyche and personality.
Be honest. Which of us has not, at some point, maybe while getting ready to attend a wedding or something, has not looked in the mirror and, instead of the usual indifference, thought to ourselves, "I look good, I look really good." Thankfully, most of us don't shout out for everyone to come see how good we think we look. I guess that's impulse control at its most basic form.
A good friend once suggested that I not judge my own insides, who I really am, by other people's outsides. That is to say, don't measure my own worth by what I perceive others to be, based on how they look, what they drive, where they live, et al. I can really fall into that trap, and I do so on a fairly regular basis. It brings out the old "less than" monster, the feeling that says, "See. I knew I was a loser. This is just tangible proof."
Just being aware that I tend to do that helps quite a bit. I don't know much of anything about others beyond what I see on the outside. I have no idea how patient, tolerant, or kind they are. I mention those three attributes because that's what I aspire to, not because that's what I think everyone else should aspire to. I realize I'm a long way from being as patient, tolerant, or kind as I someday hope to be. But I'm definitely not as impatient, intolerant, or unkind as I have been in the past.
It's a good day. I'm above ground, and I can practice. By the way, you look really good.
12 January 2011
Work, Sloth, and the Importance of Being Smarter than the Dog
My dad's father once said, "If you want to train a dog, you have to be smarter than the dog."
What seems so obvious may have a deeper lesson. Dogs are consistent when it comes to understanding the relationship between behavior and reward. I walk, my dogs run. I ring a small bell, and they come and sit at my feet. They don't get a dog treat until they're present and sitting. And of course, if they don't come when I ring the bell, they go without the treat. You can count on this every time. You can take it to the bank, as they say.
Almost 33 years ago, I went to work for a large company, a quasi-municipality. I was 21 years old. When I tell people I've worked for the same company since 1978, they normally comment on how unusual it is for someone to stay with one employer for so long, as if it's some kind of mysterious phenomenon. For me, it's really pretty simple. They (my employer) keep ringing the bell and I keep showing up for the treat.
When I go to work, I expect to find something to keep me occupied for the day, and I'm rarely disappointed. I don't go there to sit in meetings, talk about my personal life, or work on my own agenda, although occasionally those things happen too.
It's a pretty straightforward deal. I like to eat and to have shelter, and as long as I keep showing up with the willingness to accomplish my employer's agenda, they keep their end of the bargain and put money in my bank account every couple of weeks. Work is not always easy, and many times I'd much rather be doing something else.
But that's why they call it "work."
.
What seems so obvious may have a deeper lesson. Dogs are consistent when it comes to understanding the relationship between behavior and reward. I walk, my dogs run. I ring a small bell, and they come and sit at my feet. They don't get a dog treat until they're present and sitting. And of course, if they don't come when I ring the bell, they go without the treat. You can count on this every time. You can take it to the bank, as they say.
Almost 33 years ago, I went to work for a large company, a quasi-municipality. I was 21 years old. When I tell people I've worked for the same company since 1978, they normally comment on how unusual it is for someone to stay with one employer for so long, as if it's some kind of mysterious phenomenon. For me, it's really pretty simple. They (my employer) keep ringing the bell and I keep showing up for the treat.
When I go to work, I expect to find something to keep me occupied for the day, and I'm rarely disappointed. I don't go there to sit in meetings, talk about my personal life, or work on my own agenda, although occasionally those things happen too.
It's a pretty straightforward deal. I like to eat and to have shelter, and as long as I keep showing up with the willingness to accomplish my employer's agenda, they keep their end of the bargain and put money in my bank account every couple of weeks. Work is not always easy, and many times I'd much rather be doing something else.
But that's why they call it "work."
.
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