Perfectly average…

It was a perfectly average day. Nothing good, nothing bad, just minutes ticking by until it’s time to go to bed, wake up, and start the process over from the beginning again. I’m not saying that like it’s necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes you need those average days to smooth out the rough edges of days you spend chasing your own tail. Maybe it’s even more true when you’re brain is already checked out for a long-overdue vacation. And no, I’m not counting the three days I spent on the couch last week as a vacation. I might not be into backcountry skiing or skydiving, but laying on the couch, mouthbreathing, and watching old episodes of House on iTunes does not qualify as relaxing and restorative in my book.

The one obvious down side of being perfectly average is that it doesn’t lend itself to high interest blogging… which is when you get what we have here today, a blog post about blog posts. Sure, I could have probably forced some new topic out of my head and onto the page, but it feels artificial and generally turns out to be even worse schlock than going free form and letting whatever happens happen. I know everyone is use to being entertained 24/7 in the information age, but hey, we all need a day off now and then.

I’m sure tomorrow will be more interesting. It’s hard to fathom two days in a row where there is legitimately nothing significant to report.

Stew…

It’s so much more than a warm, filling meal. In fact since I was a kid stewing has been my preferred approach to whatever is bothering me at any given time. It’s as if letting the issue simmer there on a low flame will give me some insight, or at least not make it taste not quite cauldron-clipartso bad going down. Mostly, I think it’s the mechanism my brain uses to buy time to try looking at things objectively before flying off on a wild tangent. That’s a theory. Possibly a bad one, but it is a theory.

So yeah, I’m stewing this afternoon. Unfortunately for the blog, there are (believe it or not) some parts of the day that even I consider off limits for publication, so instead of telling a fun story on Saturday afternoon, all you get to know is I’m stewing. I’m thinking. I’m pondering. And I’m trying to find my way into an objective head space. As usual, that’s easier said than done

Skipping today…

As many of you have noticed based on the number of posts that showed up on Facebook, today is my birthday… the 35th of its name. Sigh. Let’s not get into that.

Instead of a new rant, feel free to browse around my thoughts on this occasion in 2012, 20102007… I think they should pretty well cover everything from gratitude to denial. In case you’re wondering why there was no Official Birthday Post in 2011, I seem to recall being busy that day driving back to Maryland from Tennessee so the best I would have been able to manage after falling out of the truck would have been maniacally mashing my fingers against the keys before falling asleep sitting up. As for 2009, I have no idea what happened there… and 2008, yeah, that one is still in the archive. I’m sure it’s a barn burner, but we’ll get to it in time.

I hope you’ll forgive the obvious laziness of this post, but after all, it’s my birthday and I’ll do what I want.

Surprise…

I haven’t lived in Western Maryland since the summer I graduated from college… Almost eight years ago now. For the first time in those eight years when it was time to leave, I found myself searching for a reason to stay. I don’t know exactly how to describe it, really. Intellectually, I know there is no practical reason for me to live there. I certainly can’t work and since no work means no money, that’s an obvious non-starter. Yet somehow, the home of my youth calls me. I know it was just a passing fancy, but still, something that caught me by surprise simply because it was so unusual.

The Rains of Castamere…

Since there’s only so many times a reasonable blogger can gripe about back-to-back-to-back meetings, I’ll give it a rest tonight. Instead, I’ll simply mention a fun few seconds dashing from one meeting to the next. Admittedly, I have a probably inappropriate habit of whistling to myself if the hallway happens to be empty. Sometimes it’s whatever song is stuck in my head from the drive in, sometimes it’s something I heard at my desk. This morning, it was The Rains of Castamere. Something about it’s bleak overtones seemed to fit the day of meetings without end. Of course it’s even better when a complete stranger coming from around the corner recognizes the tune and makes it a brief duet without saying a word.

Sunday drama…

As we all know by now, I’m a creature of habit. In the spring one of those habits is enjoying Game of Thrones as each new episode airs on Sunday nights. Sunday night dramas have been part of the routine since The Soprano’s was the highest rated show on HBO, so let’s just go with the assumption that the 9PM timeslot on Sundays is a very well established and sacrosanct part of my weekly schedule – the parting shot signaling the end of the weekend.

Game-of-Thrones-2011-wallpaper-Iron-ThroneNow anyone who has seen the show or read the books knows that when they sit down to watch an episode they’re signing up for 54 minutes of greed, sex, violence, and dragons. Given the show’s ratings, it seems to be a pretty popular Sunday night pastime for a great many people. As I learned this past weekend, my mother is most decidedly not among that legion of devoted fans.

Rather than watch last weekend’s episode, I mostly cringed through it under a barrage of commentary ranging from “I don’t know why anyone would watch this” to “this is stupid” to silent painfully obvious eye rolling. I’d say it was probably a demographic problem, but there’s the tricky fact that George R.R. Martin is himself part of mom’s age group. It’s more likely just a case of widely divergent opinions on what constitutes great television… and possibly a leading reason why I need to seriously consider adding a second cable box to the household and avoid the awkward Sunday drama.

I don’t think mom will be running out to get a subscription to HBO any time in the near future… but maybe she’ll change her mind when she sees Boardwalk Empire this summer.

1,147 Mondays…

22 years, 24 days, 6 hours. That’s the amount of time between this evening and my first date of retirement eligibility. I didn’t start out the day with that stuck in my head. What I was really focused on is what an utter disappointment Mondays are in the grand scheme of things. Monday is the week’s little way of pissing on your leg and calling it rain.

Maybe somewhere there is a happy group of people who leap out of bed on Monday mornings excited and ready to get back to their cubes to get started on the exciting week ahead. It’s a good bet that I’m never going to be that kind of person. The best I can manage on Monday is a grudging acknowledgement that at least Friday afternoon is a few hours closer… and if I really want to put on my optimist hat, I can always do some quick math and find out that there are only another 1,147 Mondays standing between me and having the right combination of age and years of service to qualify to retire. Eligibility, of course, doesn’t mean that it makes financial sense to hit eject, but that’s going to have to be a separate discussion.

But hey, looking on the bright side, in less than three years, I’ll have whittled down the number of Mondays into the triple digits. Wow. Yeah. That’s depressing. Stupid Mondays.

Reality bites…

It’s Saturday! Woohoo! That’s what my inner 17 year old sounds like – full of good intentions and great expectations for the day. Of course after getting up, feeding the dogs and tortoise, changing everyone’s water, making coffee, going to the dump, picking up groceries, sitting in “plant expo” traffic on Main Street, putting groceries away, making lunch, letting the dogs out to burn off some energy, dragging the week’s laundry to the basement (but not yet starting it), dragging the vacuum up from the basement (but not yet using it), and finally sitting down to blog, I’m not entirely sure Saturday is “Woohoo!” worthy. As far as I can tell its only redeeming quality so far is that it’s not a work day. While that’s quite an achievement, I’m think we can do better. Yeah, this would be the part where my inner 70 year old takes over and is pretty much annoyed by everything… especially the reality sets in that I work harder on Saturday than I do any other day of the week and for way less pay.

The great leveler…

Email, like death, is one of life’s great levelers. From the high and the mighty down to the lowest of the low, we all get entirely too much email. Shoving electrons through the network make it so easy to moving information from here to there that most of us never stop to ask if the people on the receiving end actually need the information we’re pushing at them. Because the most important thing the average bureaucrat does on a daily basis is cover his or her ass, we end up in a seemingly endless do-loop of email and instant messages.

The ability to generate an instant distribution list is possibly the worst thing to ever happen to the average office drone… because let’s face it, if the email is addressed “To” more than one or two people, no one is going to take on the individual responsibility of answering it. If you address it to 20 people, no one is even going to bother reading it at all. The only thing four pages of addressees gets you is the merciless ridicule of your colleagues and the tears of a God disappointed that you’ve used your free will for such douchebaggery.

I wish I was making this up, but four pages of recipients for a message that needs to go to three people is, politely put, a bit much. I’m the first to say that if something’s worth killing, it’s probably worth overkilling, but sheesh, even I have limits. I’m not saying an email addressed to +/-700 people makes you look like an asshat; I’m saying that by actually sending that email out into the world you are, in fact, an asshat. It’s a fine distinction, but an important one… kind of like the distinction between covering your ass and becoming an object of loathsome contempt.

Just me?

At just shy of the 35 year mark I’m starting to wonder if there’s ever a time when you can sit down in the house where you grew up and not be crammed into the 16-year-old-who-just-got-his-license role. Being pretty well along in life and having done ok in the job and education lottery, it makes for some tense moments and awkward silences. Or maybe it’s just me.