"Someday I hope you have a daughter just like you." When my mother said this to me as a young girl, I didn't really understand her point. I was a great daughter. I got good grades; I didn't get in trouble at school; I never got busted for shoplifting like my siblings; and I didn't smoke, do drugs, or drink. I was a great child. Just ask me. I'd love to have a daughter like me.
Fast forward to around, oh, now. My mother, God rest her soul, died of breast cancer in 2001. The Girl was just shy of 18 months. Her personality was not yet fully developed and my mother never got a chance to know her. But somewhere, my mother is laughing - at me.
The Girl and I are not much alike. She is blond and blue-eyed, I am brunette (well, I was) and green-eyed. She is outgoing and popular in a way I still am not. She makes friends easily and has several good friends. I take a long time to get close to people, and even to this day have only a few close friends. She is girly - if it's pink, purple, or sparkly she wants it. I'm more practical, if not tomboyish (I have one skirt and the day I wore it to work folks were checking for signs of the Apocalypse). She wants to be a cheerleader. I thought cheerleaders were bimbos. She takes dance lessons, wants to study pointe, and is pretty graceful. I have all the grace of the bird they call the elephant. She is stubborn, determined to get her own way, and pretty vocal when she doesn't. I am...
Okay, you've got me on that one.
In that one sense, The Girl and I are exactly alike. And that one similarity is the cause of many an upward pleading, "Why me?" I was once relating a story to my father highlighting this sharp wit, caustic tone, and stubborn determination to do it her way. My father was no help. "Why, you don't say. Gee, I've never known a little girl to do that before," was his response, delivered in this fake disbelieving tone. Okay, Dad; I get the point.
At seven years old, her vocabulary is astounding. And her ability to argue is impressive. "Mom," she huffs (usually I'm "mama" unless she's getting mad), "that's not the point. You are actually not even listening." And downward it goes. "Well, Mom, it's like this. I have a style, and you are getting in the way." Well pardon the hell out of me.
She even acts like me. I certainly did not teach her that huff of breath, roll of the eyes, and toss of the long hair as she storms up the stairs. I didn't even have hair long enough to toss by the time she was born. But she does it, exactly like I did. Must be in the genetic code.
I really should have seen this coming years ago. When she was four, I tried to get her to buy this cute pair of hiking boots at the store. Brown suede with Winnie the Pooh and Tigger on them. "I don't like those, I like these." But these are really cute. "No." Are you sure? "No." How can you not want these, they are so cute! "No." I tried for 10 minutes to talk her into the shoes. We left with the ones she picked out. To this day when I try to talk her into something, The Hubby will look at me and say, "Are you sure you don't want these Winnie the Pooh shoes?" I usually shut up around that point - or I tell him to shut up.
There are days when I sit down after bedtime and think, "My god, if she's like this at seven, what will she be like as a teenager?" It's a scary thought. You see, if she's so like me at seven, there's a good chance she'll be like me as a teen. And despite what I thought of myself at the time, maturity forces me to admit that I was a smart-mouth bratty teen. Because not only was I the only kid to never get busted for shoplifting, I was the only kid my mother ever smacked across the mouth in public (you know, back in the day when doing that didn't land you in jail). If The Girl turns out like I did at the same age, I'd better stock up on the L'Oreal Feria and the rum. Hitting in public is rather verboten.
As I go through these almost daily battles, I remind myself there is a bright side. My girl knows her own mind. Peers will have a hard time pressuring her to go along with stupid ideas like cigarettes and drugs. She has very firm ideas about those things. I'm sure she'll do her share of "what on earth were you thinking" acts, but I'm equally sure they will all be her own idea. She is confident in herself as I never was in school. She will be the popular girl, the one at the center of things, although I've seen enough of her heart to know she will be that rare gem - the popular kid who is kind to everyone, even the kids the "in crowd" would keep out. She'll face the world on her own terms, knowing she's just as good as everyone else, and hopefully she will avoid the self-esteem problems that plagued me well into adulthood.
So every time we have one of these run-ins that set my teeth on edge, I remind myself that there is a silver lining. That in the long run, her independence and stubborn attitude will be more of a help than a hindrance (when exercised in moderation, of course). Besides, I also know that someday I will have the ultimate revenge.
Someday, she will have a daughter - just like her.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Where Does It All Come From?
Last Monday, which was the last day I was home before returning to work (see "Stop the World" below for why), I decided to clean the kids' rooms. I don't mean the shove-everything-under-the-bed-or-in-the-closet clean that they usually do. I mean CLEAN the rooms. Something I very rarely do because it is such a colossal undertaking. At ages 7 and 5, you wouldn't think it should be, but it is. However, as such cleanings are usually difficult because everything I want to throw away must be kept, I figured I had the perfect opportunity. You see, they were at daycare.
Armed with a kitchen garbage bag, I sallied forth to do battle. The Boy's room was not too bad. Got rid of some broken crayons, bunches of crumpled paper, and a few fast-food restaurant toys (the bane of any parent's existence, of that I am convinced). I found at least 2 of the 3 missing socks that have plagued me for a few months now, as well as the bottoms to two pairs of pjs. Found and reassembled the pieces of a Spiderman toy, and put away all the wooden Thomas the Tank Engine pieces. A quick vacuum and voila! clean room.
I knew that The Girl's room would be more work. First, it's bigger. Second, she's a pack rat, just like her aunt (not that my sister likes that comparison, but it's true). So I decided to eat lunch first. Good call.
Two and a half hours, and two full bags of garbage later, I had finished. The list of stuff I found would go on for several paragraphs. In addition to the typical litter, I found underwear that had be stuffed under the radiator for at least a month (good thing it was unsoiled), two missing socks, and 2 missing pairs of shoes. I picked up feet for those Bratz dolls by the dozen. I filled an entire tin full of little jewelry beads. I tossed out not only crumpled paper, dried-out markers, and broken crayons, but at least 12 old copies of National Geographic. Oy vey.
As I worked through this chore, and then as I recovered afterward, all I could think of was, "Where does a 7-year old get so much junk?" The answer is people give it to her.
And people are always giving her things. My father's fiancee is an older woman who loves kids. How can I possibly break her heart and say, "I don't want you bringing my kids any more crap"? Last time it was a miniature china tea set and a Spiderman motorcycle. I've managed to win the "no toys with a billion tiny pieces" battle, but that's not the same as "no toys."
Compounding the problem is The Girl saves everything. And I do mean everything. Don't ask how many of those cheapie fast-food toys I pitched from her room. There's an entire corner of stuffed animals, none of which she really plays with. In fact, I'd say she really only plays with about half of the stuff in her room, yet all of it is "special to me." Her first-grade teacher sent a thank-you note for the end-of-year gift the class sent. Me, I would have read it, said "How nice," and thrown it away. The Girl taped it to her bed. Sentimental, of course, but rough on the furniture.
My daughter is at an odd spot in her life. Too old for baby toys, just old enough for books. Not quite ready to ditch the Barbie dolls. Wants all the bead kits to make jewelry, but not quite ready to string the tiny ones. The result? A mess. The magazines she brought home from school at the end of the year. Said she liked the pictures, which she cuts out to make art projects. She's just entering the "signs on the door stage too" - things like "Girls Only" or "No Boys Alowd" (her spelling), or "Cool Girl Lives Here."
It's been a long time since I was at that spot in my life, but I dimly remember it. And that's why I have a hard time making her stop. Oh sure, every once in a while we go through the toy bins and stuffed animals, make both kids decide what to keep and what to give to charity, and thin the mess. But to lay down a law that says, "Don't make any more signs?" What kind of parent would I be?
Because at the heart of the mess - the broken crayons, the beads, the markers, the glitter glue, and used up paper - is her growing desire to express her personality. The same goes for The Boy, he's just a little further behind his sister. Through expression comes definition - who am I. It's process we all have to go through, and usually go through multiple times in our lives. The misspelled signs and collages of ballerinas are my child's attempt to define herself in a world where she still doesn't have a lot of control. Yeah, I could put an end to it, but while that sure would be easier on me I don't think it would be that great for her.
So I will continue to fight the losing battle against clutter, probably for many years to come. One piece of advice: Buy stock in whatever company makes Glad trash bags. I'm going to be using a lot of them.
Armed with a kitchen garbage bag, I sallied forth to do battle. The Boy's room was not too bad. Got rid of some broken crayons, bunches of crumpled paper, and a few fast-food restaurant toys (the bane of any parent's existence, of that I am convinced). I found at least 2 of the 3 missing socks that have plagued me for a few months now, as well as the bottoms to two pairs of pjs. Found and reassembled the pieces of a Spiderman toy, and put away all the wooden Thomas the Tank Engine pieces. A quick vacuum and voila! clean room.
I knew that The Girl's room would be more work. First, it's bigger. Second, she's a pack rat, just like her aunt (not that my sister likes that comparison, but it's true). So I decided to eat lunch first. Good call.
Two and a half hours, and two full bags of garbage later, I had finished. The list of stuff I found would go on for several paragraphs. In addition to the typical litter, I found underwear that had be stuffed under the radiator for at least a month (good thing it was unsoiled), two missing socks, and 2 missing pairs of shoes. I picked up feet for those Bratz dolls by the dozen. I filled an entire tin full of little jewelry beads. I tossed out not only crumpled paper, dried-out markers, and broken crayons, but at least 12 old copies of National Geographic. Oy vey.
As I worked through this chore, and then as I recovered afterward, all I could think of was, "Where does a 7-year old get so much junk?" The answer is people give it to her.
And people are always giving her things. My father's fiancee is an older woman who loves kids. How can I possibly break her heart and say, "I don't want you bringing my kids any more crap"? Last time it was a miniature china tea set and a Spiderman motorcycle. I've managed to win the "no toys with a billion tiny pieces" battle, but that's not the same as "no toys."
Compounding the problem is The Girl saves everything. And I do mean everything. Don't ask how many of those cheapie fast-food toys I pitched from her room. There's an entire corner of stuffed animals, none of which she really plays with. In fact, I'd say she really only plays with about half of the stuff in her room, yet all of it is "special to me." Her first-grade teacher sent a thank-you note for the end-of-year gift the class sent. Me, I would have read it, said "How nice," and thrown it away. The Girl taped it to her bed. Sentimental, of course, but rough on the furniture.
My daughter is at an odd spot in her life. Too old for baby toys, just old enough for books. Not quite ready to ditch the Barbie dolls. Wants all the bead kits to make jewelry, but not quite ready to string the tiny ones. The result? A mess. The magazines she brought home from school at the end of the year. Said she liked the pictures, which she cuts out to make art projects. She's just entering the "signs on the door stage too" - things like "Girls Only" or "No Boys Alowd" (her spelling), or "Cool Girl Lives Here."
It's been a long time since I was at that spot in my life, but I dimly remember it. And that's why I have a hard time making her stop. Oh sure, every once in a while we go through the toy bins and stuffed animals, make both kids decide what to keep and what to give to charity, and thin the mess. But to lay down a law that says, "Don't make any more signs?" What kind of parent would I be?
Because at the heart of the mess - the broken crayons, the beads, the markers, the glitter glue, and used up paper - is her growing desire to express her personality. The same goes for The Boy, he's just a little further behind his sister. Through expression comes definition - who am I. It's process we all have to go through, and usually go through multiple times in our lives. The misspelled signs and collages of ballerinas are my child's attempt to define herself in a world where she still doesn't have a lot of control. Yeah, I could put an end to it, but while that sure would be easier on me I don't think it would be that great for her.
So I will continue to fight the losing battle against clutter, probably for many years to come. One piece of advice: Buy stock in whatever company makes Glad trash bags. I'm going to be using a lot of them.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Stop the World, I Want to Get Off
The human body, so we are told, is a very complicated machine. There are literally millions of mini-systems that allow us to function from the moment we wake up, to the moment we go to sleep, as well as while we are peacefully slumbering. And we take this for granted. Don't believe me? Just have part of the system stop working. Let's say your vestibular system.
Never heard of the vestibular system? I hadn't either until about a week ago when I started feeling as though I was stuck on the Tilt-a-Whirl ride at a typical amusement park. Your vestibular system is your balance system. Most people know that your inner ear controls balance, but it doesn't do it alone. The vestibular system is actually comprised of four parts:
Never heard of the vestibular system? I hadn't either until about a week ago when I started feeling as though I was stuck on the Tilt-a-Whirl ride at a typical amusement park. Your vestibular system is your balance system. Most people know that your inner ear controls balance, but it doesn't do it alone. The vestibular system is actually comprised of four parts:
- Eyes
- Ear, specifically your inner ear and a structure called the labyrinth
- Joints
- Skin
All of these things - input from your eyes, input from your ears, messages from your joints as you move, and air/water pressure on your skin - are what keep you knowing what way is up, what way is down, and everything in between. When the different parts of the vestibular system send different messages, it results in a condition called vertigo. Vertigo is the perception of motion - either of you or your surroundings - where there is none. This differentiates it from simple dizziness, where you just feel like you are going to pass out.
And that brings this all back to me. Slightly over a week ago, I started having episodic vertigo, although I didn't recognize it. I just thought the old blood sugar was plummeting. It wasn't until the feeling became somewhat permanent that I figured something was wrong. My sister and The Hubby said, "Probably a sinus infection putting pressure on your ears. Just call and get some antibiotics." When I called in sick on Monday, my boss said the same thing. "They'll probably give you some antibiotics for the infection and meclizine for the vertigo. Happens to me all the time." Oh, if it were only that easy.
No simple sinus infection for me, no sirree bob. Instead, I wind up with a diagnosis of labyrinthitis - and inflammation of the labyrinth. The doc says the magic words: It's viral. Those doggone viruses. So pesky, and so convenient for the medical community. Because once those fateful words are uttered, they are followed up with "Nothing to do except wait it out." Wonderful. So I left with a prescription for meclizine, a sedative. Didn't seem to be doing anything, but hey, what the hell do I know. I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV. So I kept taking it.
But when things were no better on Wednesday, I called the doc again. Back to the office. Couple more brief tests. Nope, really just labyrinthitis. Doc offers Atavan, which is related to valium. Again, what the hell do I know? One Atavan later I know this much - I don't want another one.
By Friday, I am still no better and in fact now can't get out of bed. The pressure in my ears is killing me and I can't walk from my bedroom to my bathroom, which is only about 15-20 feet. Doc sends me to an Ear/Nose/Throat specialist. He says, "Yep, definitely vertigo. Could be labyrinthitis, could be benign positional vertigo (BPV). Both can be viral. Take more meclizine." There are those pesky viruses again. At least he says that when it goes away, it will most likely go away for good. Thank god for small favors. They do a quick hearing test (I passed), and some repositioning exercises. See, BPV is caused when small calcified debris gets stuck in the wrong part of your inner ear. The exercises get it out of where it's not supposed to be so it can be reabsorbed. No driving, they say (great, just what I need to hear). Schedule me for an ENG, which is stands for a big long word for a balance test. Recommend a routine MRI - because it our current lawsuit-happy culture, the doc has to run every possible test even if, as in my case, he doesn't think it will actually find anything. Of course now the insurance companies are understandably sick of paying for tests that are performed simply to cover the doctor's ass, so it has to be cleared first.
This brings us all to Saturday afternoon. I'm in the basement, feeling stoned out of my mind. I miss the bottom stair (I mean, my eyes told me there was a stair there), fall backward, and throw laundry everywhere. I start crying - this is freaking ridiculous. Eight days and all the medical community can offer is, "It will go away eventually." If I had cancer, they could treat me. Modern medicine can save the life of a baby born at 20 weeks. They can transplant major organs. Vertigo? Sorry, no can do.
The Girl, who is amazingly smart for a 7 year old, grabs my cell phone and calls her father (who is working). He calls the neighbor, who comes over to get me off the basement floor. Neighbor sends his son the EMT to check me out. Son sees no visual signs of vertigo (called nystgmus - I've learned such cool words over the last week), but tells me my blood pressure is 88/60 and my pulse is 104. To say those numbers are not normal would be an understatement. He recommends I call my PCP.
And my PCP offers this. "Well, meclizine is a sedative. You're not having a bad reaction, they are normal side effects - you're supposed to feel like that. Don't like it, stop taking it. I really can't do anything else for you, unless you want to go to the hospital. There's two possibilities - the vertigo will go away on its own or it will never go away and you'll adapt." Great, thanks doc.
After all of this, I know several things:
- Meclizine is the work of the devil.
- Why anybody would actually choose to be stoned is incomprehensible to me. It is, without a doubt, the worst feeling I've ever had.
- While we know a lot about human physiology, what we know is dwarfed by what we don't know. Again, it would be easier to treat me if I had cancer.
- No wonder they call it "practicing" medicine. There's a lot of exact science there, but a lot of guesswork too.
- Vertigo is now in my list of Top 5 Un-fun Life Experiences.
So here it is Monday and it's my sixth day off work. Enough is enough. There's one more drug to try, which is a steroid (because this could also be caused by vestibular neuronitis, which is an inflammation of the nerve ending in the ear that sends balance signals to the brain and steroids are anti-inflammatories). At least I know I won't get stoned from a steroid. As no physician can give me a reason not to work, I'm back on the job tomorrow; if I still can't drive, The Hubby will drop me off and pick me up.
Someone asked me, "Do you think this could be some kind of enforced R&R?" If the God or the universe or the Flying Spaghetti Monster (depending on your personal beliefs) wanted me to slow down, I would have preferred a broken leg. And if this is some body's idea of a cosmic joke, well, it sucks.
My personal advice? Stay away from vertigo. If you crave the dizzy feeling, visit the Tilt-a-Whirl.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Vacation (All I Ever Wanted)
My apologies to the Go-Gos.
So last week was our family vacation. My father-in-law owns a place on the shore of Lake Erie, and every year we go up for a week. This year was probably the best, mostly because the kids are now old enough to truly entertain themselves. It's a little hard to enjoy yourself when you're chasing two rugrats up and down the sand.
Mostly we had a good time. But sometimes, I really do have to wonder what planet The Hubby lives on. For example, we arrived at the beach on Saturday. And the week before we leave, The Hubby says to me, "Oh, my cousin and her kids are coming on Saturday and staying the night." Really? So on the day we arrive, have to unpack, go shopping for the week I also have to entertain guests? And find somewhere for them to sleep in a trailer with only one bedroom? Great. I mean, not that these people are difficult to deal with; they are rather nice actually. But it's the first day of my vacation!
Then he tells me that his cousin's husband and the kids are coming back on Thursday. The day he's going golfing. At least this time I only have to feed them lunch.
Crossing into Canada is not really that easy any more. Well, that's not true - it isn't getting into Canada that's the problem, it's getting back into the US. With apologies to all you Canadians, I grew up next door to Canada. Visiting was more like going to another state than another country. But I digress.
So knowing that they are paying more attention, on Friday he says we're going back to the States to visit yet another cousin. Good grief! Now not only do I have to visit yet more relatives (what is this, the grand tour?) I have to go back into the US. My worst nightmare is now that we will get into the US and not be able to get back.
Turns out, that was the least of my worries. I didn't count on the 45 minutes it would take to get through customs. In a car with no air conditioning. In 85-degree weather. Oh, and did I mention that The Boy gets carsick when he overheats?
By the time we get through customs, I'm trying to coax my son into not puking in the car. And we're all starved; I've only had an English muffin at 9:00 and it's now 12:30. My father-in-law suggest a restaurant right on the canal that serves roast beef on weck (look it up). Lovely, let's go. We get there, and I immediately ask for cold water. The Boy's face looks like curdled milk. I get the water and my father-in-law asks what I want to order. I mention I haven't seen a menu and the bar tender says, "We only serve roast beef and chili." Hmm, I see a trip to Burger King in my very near future. Meanwhile, I'm trying to tempt The Boy with popcorn. No dice. The Hubby says, "He gets about 1 more minute, then he's just making a scene."
Suddenly, "I have to go to the bathroom." Oh god. Sure enough, we get into the bathroom and he starts to gag. And while he retches into the toilet, I start mopping up what didn't make it. Five minutes later, The Girl sticks her head in the bathroom. "Daddy wants to know what's taking so long."
"You're brother is puking."
"I told him so."
Pretty bad when your 7-year old knows more than your spouse. At least he had the grace to look embarrassed when I came back to the table.
In the end, we survived. We even made it back into Canada, and then back into the US on Saturday. Oh, and by the way I know what hell is like now. Hell is being stuck at the US-Canada border for 2 hours, in the sun, when it's 85 degrees out, and your car has no air conditioning.
But next year, I'm not moving from my beach chair.
So last week was our family vacation. My father-in-law owns a place on the shore of Lake Erie, and every year we go up for a week. This year was probably the best, mostly because the kids are now old enough to truly entertain themselves. It's a little hard to enjoy yourself when you're chasing two rugrats up and down the sand.
Mostly we had a good time. But sometimes, I really do have to wonder what planet The Hubby lives on. For example, we arrived at the beach on Saturday. And the week before we leave, The Hubby says to me, "Oh, my cousin and her kids are coming on Saturday and staying the night." Really? So on the day we arrive, have to unpack, go shopping for the week I also have to entertain guests? And find somewhere for them to sleep in a trailer with only one bedroom? Great. I mean, not that these people are difficult to deal with; they are rather nice actually. But it's the first day of my vacation!
Then he tells me that his cousin's husband and the kids are coming back on Thursday. The day he's going golfing. At least this time I only have to feed them lunch.
Crossing into Canada is not really that easy any more. Well, that's not true - it isn't getting into Canada that's the problem, it's getting back into the US. With apologies to all you Canadians, I grew up next door to Canada. Visiting was more like going to another state than another country. But I digress.
So knowing that they are paying more attention, on Friday he says we're going back to the States to visit yet another cousin. Good grief! Now not only do I have to visit yet more relatives (what is this, the grand tour?) I have to go back into the US. My worst nightmare is now that we will get into the US and not be able to get back.
Turns out, that was the least of my worries. I didn't count on the 45 minutes it would take to get through customs. In a car with no air conditioning. In 85-degree weather. Oh, and did I mention that The Boy gets carsick when he overheats?
By the time we get through customs, I'm trying to coax my son into not puking in the car. And we're all starved; I've only had an English muffin at 9:00 and it's now 12:30. My father-in-law suggest a restaurant right on the canal that serves roast beef on weck (look it up). Lovely, let's go. We get there, and I immediately ask for cold water. The Boy's face looks like curdled milk. I get the water and my father-in-law asks what I want to order. I mention I haven't seen a menu and the bar tender says, "We only serve roast beef and chili." Hmm, I see a trip to Burger King in my very near future. Meanwhile, I'm trying to tempt The Boy with popcorn. No dice. The Hubby says, "He gets about 1 more minute, then he's just making a scene."
Suddenly, "I have to go to the bathroom." Oh god. Sure enough, we get into the bathroom and he starts to gag. And while he retches into the toilet, I start mopping up what didn't make it. Five minutes later, The Girl sticks her head in the bathroom. "Daddy wants to know what's taking so long."
"You're brother is puking."
"I told him so."
Pretty bad when your 7-year old knows more than your spouse. At least he had the grace to look embarrassed when I came back to the table.
In the end, we survived. We even made it back into Canada, and then back into the US on Saturday. Oh, and by the way I know what hell is like now. Hell is being stuck at the US-Canada border for 2 hours, in the sun, when it's 85 degrees out, and your car has no air conditioning.
But next year, I'm not moving from my beach chair.
Friday, July 27, 2007
IT Run Amok
When I started at my current company 9 years ago, we were a 20-person company. I was person #20. We ran things in a way typical of a small, freewheeling entrepreneurial company. Life was pretty good.
But now we're not a 20-person company. We're up around 120 people and growing quickly. And we're going through growing pains. This is not unusual. We don't do business the same way we did 9 years ago because we can't. In an tightly regulated industry and a world that is concerned about high-tech security, our clients expect more. And they deserve more. This makes it more crucial to have a good IT staff that can have policies in place to assure those clients that you are, indeed, a world-class global company capable to meeting their security needs.
But there's a fine line between being a responsible company and being over-controlling Type-A jerks.
We've endured a lot in the last few months. A new password policy that makes us change them every 90 days and meet certain criteria. Fine. Limits on email retention. Okay. No installing unauthorized software without permission. Great. Don't connect personal computing equipment (laptops, iPods, hard drives, etc.) to the corporate network. Okay. These things I can deal with, because I can see a real reason for them.
I even limited the grumbling when we started using a web filter to block access to certain categories of web sites. After all, who really needs to read porn or gamble at work? But last week, the tiniest thing happened; something you wouldn't think would set me off, but it did.
They changed my web browser home page - and I can't change it back.
My home page used to be my department's portal on our Intranet. This was useful to me. That portal contains files, tools, and resources I need to do my job on a daily basis.
The new home page is the main page of the Intranet. Not nearly so useful. It's cluttered. It's filled with information I don't need. I think it's lovely that somebody won the close-to-the-pin contest at the company golf outing, but I simply don't care. I don't even want to have to bypass this crap on my way to the important stuff. I subscribe to the page so that I get an email alert when a new announcement is posted. This email subject let's me decide if I want to go read the whole story and that is good for me.
At first, I thought maybe IE was malfunctioning (because that's not exactly an unheard of phenomena you know). After four days of struggling to reset the home page, I finally emailed the Intranet administrator. "Oh, that's a new policy from eServices. You can't change the page. But you're only one click away from your old page."
"Only one click"? WTF?
I pressed for a reason for this seemingly unnecessary policy change. I also said it would have been nice to hear about it before it went live. "I don't need to announce policies," our CIO told me. Oh really? You don't think changing my work environment, even in a small way, warrants an announcement? I'm not asking that you put it up for a vote, I'm asking that you have the common courtesy (there's that word again) to frickin' tell me you're an anal-retentive control freak who needs to control my web browser.
But even more inane is the reason for the change. At first, they tried to tell me this was so everybody could have better access to information and we'd all be standard. But what it came down to was that they didn't think people were reading all the emails they've been sending out on various things. So now they are posting everything to the main page of the Intranet and forcing people there when they open IE to "make" us read their crap.
I'll give you all a moment to stop laughing.
But it's no joke, it's the truth. "We send out emails and only 8 people read them, and then people complain they don't know what's going on." Tough shit.
But now we're not a 20-person company. We're up around 120 people and growing quickly. And we're going through growing pains. This is not unusual. We don't do business the same way we did 9 years ago because we can't. In an tightly regulated industry and a world that is concerned about high-tech security, our clients expect more. And they deserve more. This makes it more crucial to have a good IT staff that can have policies in place to assure those clients that you are, indeed, a world-class global company capable to meeting their security needs.
But there's a fine line between being a responsible company and being over-controlling Type-A jerks.
We've endured a lot in the last few months. A new password policy that makes us change them every 90 days and meet certain criteria. Fine. Limits on email retention. Okay. No installing unauthorized software without permission. Great. Don't connect personal computing equipment (laptops, iPods, hard drives, etc.) to the corporate network. Okay. These things I can deal with, because I can see a real reason for them.
I even limited the grumbling when we started using a web filter to block access to certain categories of web sites. After all, who really needs to read porn or gamble at work? But last week, the tiniest thing happened; something you wouldn't think would set me off, but it did.
They changed my web browser home page - and I can't change it back.
My home page used to be my department's portal on our Intranet. This was useful to me. That portal contains files, tools, and resources I need to do my job on a daily basis.
The new home page is the main page of the Intranet. Not nearly so useful. It's cluttered. It's filled with information I don't need. I think it's lovely that somebody won the close-to-the-pin contest at the company golf outing, but I simply don't care. I don't even want to have to bypass this crap on my way to the important stuff. I subscribe to the page so that I get an email alert when a new announcement is posted. This email subject let's me decide if I want to go read the whole story and that is good for me.
At first, I thought maybe IE was malfunctioning (because that's not exactly an unheard of phenomena you know). After four days of struggling to reset the home page, I finally emailed the Intranet administrator. "Oh, that's a new policy from eServices. You can't change the page. But you're only one click away from your old page."
"Only one click"? WTF?
I pressed for a reason for this seemingly unnecessary policy change. I also said it would have been nice to hear about it before it went live. "I don't need to announce policies," our CIO told me. Oh really? You don't think changing my work environment, even in a small way, warrants an announcement? I'm not asking that you put it up for a vote, I'm asking that you have the common courtesy (there's that word again) to frickin' tell me you're an anal-retentive control freak who needs to control my web browser.
But even more inane is the reason for the change. At first, they tried to tell me this was so everybody could have better access to information and we'd all be standard. But what it came down to was that they didn't think people were reading all the emails they've been sending out on various things. So now they are posting everything to the main page of the Intranet and forcing people there when they open IE to "make" us read their crap.
I'll give you all a moment to stop laughing.
But it's no joke, it's the truth. "We send out emails and only 8 people read them, and then people complain they don't know what's going on." Tough shit.
- If somebody decides not to read an email, and misses important info, that's their problem. They are an adult and they should deal with the consequences of their decisions.
- If IT thinks every piece of communication they put out is of "critical importance," they have an over-inflated sense of importance.
Just so you don't think I'm crazy, the last two emails I received from the CIO were about a change to the company cell phone policy and a notice about storing copyrighted materials (like movies and music) on corporate computers - or attaching hard drives containing such materials to corporate computers. I read neither email, and for two very good reasons. One, I don't have a company cell phone so I really couldn't care less about the changing cell phone policy. Two, I don't store any personal files on my work computer, nor do I listen to my iPod through the computer.
When I politely pointed out that merely changing someone's browser home page was not going to guarantee reading the information, the CIO said, "For your information, hits on that home page have doubled since we implemented this."
No shit, Sherlock. In a company of 120 people, all of whom open a web browser at least once a day, you are bound to see a dramatic increase on hits! Duh! For cripe's sake - our time sheet application is web-based and 3/4 of the company has to use it! Just because somebody hit the page doesn't mean they spent any time reading what was there! I'm just a project manager and I know this.
Another member of the IT department said, "Well, we could make the announcement the first page you see and you have to click OK to get to the rest of the Intranet." Well first, that doesn't guarantee I'll read anything either. It just means I'll click OK to get you off my ass. It does, however, guarantee that I will be in the COO or the CEO's office to complain vociferously.
And to add insult to injury, when accused of "tampering" with the system I replied I had done no such thing. I had sent an email to the CIO voicing my dislike of the policy. The next day, my home page reverted to the department portal page. I assumed the CIO had modified something. "Not me," he said. Okay, whatever. Point is, there's the home page, and the box to change it in IE is completely inactive. I point this out.
"Well, probably some smart-ass developer hacking the system instead of doing his job," snipes the CIO.
Excuse me???? Now you're going to insult the members of my team? I'm sorry, but no way buddy. I hope and believe I enjoy a good working relationship with every developer we employ. I do not think so much of myself that I believe these folks would hack our IT infrastructure just for my personal gratification.
The thing that torques me off completely is this: I am our IT department's customer. Part of their job is to ensure that I have the hardware and software necessary to do my job. This policy does not help me - it gets in my way by taking the information I need most and moving it one layer away from me. And they just don't friggin' get it.
They also apparently think I'm stupid, because I can think of at least three ways around this. The simplest are just typing the direct URL in the Address bar of the Windows task bar or creating a short-cut on my desktop. Yeah, I can't use the little Quick Start menu button any more, but hey, I'll deal with it.
I won't win this battle. I don't expect to do so. But I will not sit by quietly and let some Type-A control freak take over the company that I helped create. And to the extent that I can exercise a little corporate "civil disobedience," I will. Because I'm a non-conformist, at least to policies I consider about as useful as a frontal lobotomy.
So, IT department, stick that in your floppy drive and smoke it.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Remember courtesy?
Pittsburgh has the second-most courteous drivers in the US. True story. Heard it on the morning radio recently - some study by a national driving organization (not AAA).
I don't know how they judged "courtesy," but from what I can see on my evening commute I can only say this: If Pittsburgh has the second-most courteous drivers, I shudder to think of what cities lower in rank are dealing with.
Although I travel a four-land highway for the better part of my drive home, it can take a long time. Part of the reason are two on-ramps very close together and a stop-light at the nearest bridge. If people are feeling sensible, you get a my turn-your turn approach to cars coming down the on-ramp. But every once in a while, some jag-off (that's Pittsburgh-ese for jack-ass), decides to squeeze into oncoming traffic. Of course, this brings the well-oiled machine to a halt. Think of those Visa check card commercials where everything is going so smoothly, then some dork tries to pay with cash. Exactly.
Then there's the two-lane road that runs parallel to the highway up to the bridge. Sometimes I take this route, as I did yesterday. But as I'm sitting waiting for my light, there are cars coming from behind me, driving a few feet to a hundred yards into oncoming traffic, and making an illegal right on red at the light. Big sign "No turn on red." I even saw one joker make an illegal right on red from Washington's Landing, then make an illegal left on red onto the bridge. In one car (a big, honking SUV), a perky young blonde leaned out the passenger window, yelled "Sucker!" and laughed as they make their illegal turn.
And here I thought that double-yellow line had meaning! Silly me.
All of this time I spend in the daily driving survival of the fittest led me to a more profound thought. Whatever happened to common courtesy? Like its cousin, common sense, it doesn't seem to be so common.
Big things, little things - the lack of courtesy is astounding. I went to college at a small Franciscan university. One of the things you learned very quickly as a freshman was to hold the door for the person behind you, even if that person was a few feet away - and especially if that person was handicapped, on crutches, or carrying a heavy load. Failure to do so would be met with a very loud, "GEE THANKS FOR HOLDING THE DOOR!" Very embarrassing.
This small behavior has carried over to my adult life. It's such a small thing - hold the damn door. Thus I am appalled when out at the mall I see my fellow shoppers not only fail to hold the door for the woman with the double-stroller, they let the door close on her! My five-year old runs to the door and manfully struggles to pull it open for her while the big hulking guy pushes right around. Nice. Who'd have thought you could learn courtesy from a kid who can't tie his own shoes?
When you get right down to it, courtesy is about respect. No courtesy, no respect. No respect and you can justify almost anything: failure to hold a door, road rage, cussing out someone who doesn't give you what you want, bad table manners, talking during movies, beating up a black guy in a white neighborhood, shooting someone, going into a pizzeria and blowing yourself up. Big things are made of little things.
Just stop and think about it. Imagine a world where everybody respects everybody else. Racial tensions evaporate. Terrorism plummets. Anti-gay sentiments disappear. If you can respect the outer differences, you can get past them to the internal commonalities. Fail to respect them, and well, the world's a mess.
Big things are made of little things. So as you go about your daily life, stop and think about it. How can I be more courteous today? How can I, in whatever way possible, show I respect my fellow humans.
In other words, hold the door.
I don't know how they judged "courtesy," but from what I can see on my evening commute I can only say this: If Pittsburgh has the second-most courteous drivers, I shudder to think of what cities lower in rank are dealing with.
Although I travel a four-land highway for the better part of my drive home, it can take a long time. Part of the reason are two on-ramps very close together and a stop-light at the nearest bridge. If people are feeling sensible, you get a my turn-your turn approach to cars coming down the on-ramp. But every once in a while, some jag-off (that's Pittsburgh-ese for jack-ass), decides to squeeze into oncoming traffic. Of course, this brings the well-oiled machine to a halt. Think of those Visa check card commercials where everything is going so smoothly, then some dork tries to pay with cash. Exactly.
Then there's the two-lane road that runs parallel to the highway up to the bridge. Sometimes I take this route, as I did yesterday. But as I'm sitting waiting for my light, there are cars coming from behind me, driving a few feet to a hundred yards into oncoming traffic, and making an illegal right on red at the light. Big sign "No turn on red." I even saw one joker make an illegal right on red from Washington's Landing, then make an illegal left on red onto the bridge. In one car (a big, honking SUV), a perky young blonde leaned out the passenger window, yelled "Sucker!" and laughed as they make their illegal turn.
And here I thought that double-yellow line had meaning! Silly me.
All of this time I spend in the daily driving survival of the fittest led me to a more profound thought. Whatever happened to common courtesy? Like its cousin, common sense, it doesn't seem to be so common.
Big things, little things - the lack of courtesy is astounding. I went to college at a small Franciscan university. One of the things you learned very quickly as a freshman was to hold the door for the person behind you, even if that person was a few feet away - and especially if that person was handicapped, on crutches, or carrying a heavy load. Failure to do so would be met with a very loud, "GEE THANKS FOR HOLDING THE DOOR!" Very embarrassing.
This small behavior has carried over to my adult life. It's such a small thing - hold the damn door. Thus I am appalled when out at the mall I see my fellow shoppers not only fail to hold the door for the woman with the double-stroller, they let the door close on her! My five-year old runs to the door and manfully struggles to pull it open for her while the big hulking guy pushes right around. Nice. Who'd have thought you could learn courtesy from a kid who can't tie his own shoes?
When you get right down to it, courtesy is about respect. No courtesy, no respect. No respect and you can justify almost anything: failure to hold a door, road rage, cussing out someone who doesn't give you what you want, bad table manners, talking during movies, beating up a black guy in a white neighborhood, shooting someone, going into a pizzeria and blowing yourself up. Big things are made of little things.
Just stop and think about it. Imagine a world where everybody respects everybody else. Racial tensions evaporate. Terrorism plummets. Anti-gay sentiments disappear. If you can respect the outer differences, you can get past them to the internal commonalities. Fail to respect them, and well, the world's a mess.
Big things are made of little things. So as you go about your daily life, stop and think about it. How can I be more courteous today? How can I, in whatever way possible, show I respect my fellow humans.
In other words, hold the door.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
God I hate waste!
This thought occurred to me at 11:00 last night as The Hubby and I were finishing watching "Psych" on USA Network (great show, by the way). The next step for the basement remodel is to scrape and paint the walls. So the hubby is talking about how he's got to put plastic up so the scrapings don't fall into the new interior french drain and clog it.
"Okay, put up the plastic, scrape, move the plastic, scrape, etc. Tedious, but not complicated," I say.
He looks at me in wonderment. Seems he was planning to ring the entire perimeter of the basement with plastic and then scrape. "But you're way just seems less..."
"Wasteful?" I supply. Uh, yeah.
To me, waste is an affront to God and Nature. Think about it. What other animal on Earth is as wasteful as humans? No other animal kills more that it can eat, or drives ginormous vehicles, or builds ginormous houses that cost hundreds to heat, or throws away food the way humans do. It's disgusting.
Throwing away food is actually emotionally painful. While I've never actually used the "There are starving kids in {fill in a third-world region}" on my kids, their habit of taking two bites and announcing "I'm full" drives me crazy. This disdain of waste is what keeps me eating the spicy fries that came with my Smoked Turkey wrap long after I'm still hungry. (Okay, you've got me. That's not the only reason. I'm a sucker for good french fries and these were really good.) It just seems so wrong.
Pulled up to the pump at my local gas station yesterday. The previous customer had racked up $50 in gas. Fifty bucks! And I thought my $25-$30 every 6-7 days was a lot. What kind of vehicle sucks $50 in gas? And just what is the practical purpose of a Hummer or a gargantuan SUV? Contractors with large F350 pickups I get. It's a business expense; how else do you haul around equipment and materials? But soccer moms driving H3s? Give me a break. Now those who know me might say this is the pot calling the kettle black. And in a way it is. We drive a Dodge Grand Caravan and a PT Cruiser, neither of which can be described as "excessively fuel efficient." But they get better mileage than a Hummer. And the van is up for replacement within the year. One of our criteria is that the new vehicle must get at least 30 mpg. So cut me a little slack; we're working on it.
Look at a new housing development. How much gas does it cost to heat those monsters? And come night time, every light bulb is on. My kids, young as they are, are already familiar with the "I'm not a stock holder in Duquesne Light - turn off the lights when you leave the room!"
And money. Oh God, don't get me started. One of the most annoying things about this whole car debacle (oh, and somehow my reservation got botched, so I have no idea when I'll ge the rental - that's topic for another post) is that my kids will now miss swimming lessons today. I paid $80 for the two of them to take lessons this summer. They were going to miss at least two, but that's because we are going on vacation, and I was cool with that. But now they're going to miss a third! I think there are only 8-9 lessons total! Argh!
(The Hubby, by the way, does not feel this way about money - at least spending or wasting it. He will have nightmares about writing the $8,000 check for the basement, which I will not, but he'll think nothing of spending $4 per day for a pastry and a coffee on his way to work, or $15 for a lunch out. Meanwhile, I'm eating homemade grilled chicken salads that average $3/each. Then he asks, "Where did all the money go?" Grrr.)
But waste goes beyond physical things like money, natural resources, or food. Think of the astronomical amount of time and effort we waste on a daily basis. Meetings that go on for-freaking-ever and nothing gets done! I am a Doer - I need to be accomplishing things. Ask me how many meetings I spend doing nothing but doodling hearts, moons, stars, and flowers on a piece of paper. (Side note: I do not draw these things because I am cutesy by nature. I just can't draw anything else. My best friend is a terrific artist. I can't draw a stick figure.) A co-worker of mine was stuck in a 3+ hour one of these time wasters yesterday. I'd rather slit my wrist with a butter knife.
Does this sound familiar? You spend 3 hours and a lot of effort tracking down information or a decision for someone. And as you report your findings/progress/whatever, the person on whose behalf you are expending all this effort says, "Oh, I changed my mind. I don't need it anymore," or "So-and-so got that for me 2 hours ago." Gee, thanks for telling me. Because you know I have nothing better to do than spin my wheels for you.
I guess at my current age this should not surprise me. After all, it's human nature and that hasn't changed in millions of years. But it still seems so fruitless. Think of what we could accomplish if we'd just stop and think about the impact of our choices and activities. We could have solved world hunger, global warming, AIDS, and cancer by now.
God I hate waste.
"Okay, put up the plastic, scrape, move the plastic, scrape, etc. Tedious, but not complicated," I say.
He looks at me in wonderment. Seems he was planning to ring the entire perimeter of the basement with plastic and then scrape. "But you're way just seems less..."
"Wasteful?" I supply. Uh, yeah.
To me, waste is an affront to God and Nature. Think about it. What other animal on Earth is as wasteful as humans? No other animal kills more that it can eat, or drives ginormous vehicles, or builds ginormous houses that cost hundreds to heat, or throws away food the way humans do. It's disgusting.
Throwing away food is actually emotionally painful. While I've never actually used the "There are starving kids in {fill in a third-world region}" on my kids, their habit of taking two bites and announcing "I'm full" drives me crazy. This disdain of waste is what keeps me eating the spicy fries that came with my Smoked Turkey wrap long after I'm still hungry. (Okay, you've got me. That's not the only reason. I'm a sucker for good french fries and these were really good.) It just seems so wrong.
Pulled up to the pump at my local gas station yesterday. The previous customer had racked up $50 in gas. Fifty bucks! And I thought my $25-$30 every 6-7 days was a lot. What kind of vehicle sucks $50 in gas? And just what is the practical purpose of a Hummer or a gargantuan SUV? Contractors with large F350 pickups I get. It's a business expense; how else do you haul around equipment and materials? But soccer moms driving H3s? Give me a break. Now those who know me might say this is the pot calling the kettle black. And in a way it is. We drive a Dodge Grand Caravan and a PT Cruiser, neither of which can be described as "excessively fuel efficient." But they get better mileage than a Hummer. And the van is up for replacement within the year. One of our criteria is that the new vehicle must get at least 30 mpg. So cut me a little slack; we're working on it.
Look at a new housing development. How much gas does it cost to heat those monsters? And come night time, every light bulb is on. My kids, young as they are, are already familiar with the "I'm not a stock holder in Duquesne Light - turn off the lights when you leave the room!"
And money. Oh God, don't get me started. One of the most annoying things about this whole car debacle (oh, and somehow my reservation got botched, so I have no idea when I'll ge the rental - that's topic for another post) is that my kids will now miss swimming lessons today. I paid $80 for the two of them to take lessons this summer. They were going to miss at least two, but that's because we are going on vacation, and I was cool with that. But now they're going to miss a third! I think there are only 8-9 lessons total! Argh!
(The Hubby, by the way, does not feel this way about money - at least spending or wasting it. He will have nightmares about writing the $8,000 check for the basement, which I will not, but he'll think nothing of spending $4 per day for a pastry and a coffee on his way to work, or $15 for a lunch out. Meanwhile, I'm eating homemade grilled chicken salads that average $3/each. Then he asks, "Where did all the money go?" Grrr.)
But waste goes beyond physical things like money, natural resources, or food. Think of the astronomical amount of time and effort we waste on a daily basis. Meetings that go on for-freaking-ever and nothing gets done! I am a Doer - I need to be accomplishing things. Ask me how many meetings I spend doing nothing but doodling hearts, moons, stars, and flowers on a piece of paper. (Side note: I do not draw these things because I am cutesy by nature. I just can't draw anything else. My best friend is a terrific artist. I can't draw a stick figure.) A co-worker of mine was stuck in a 3+ hour one of these time wasters yesterday. I'd rather slit my wrist with a butter knife.
Does this sound familiar? You spend 3 hours and a lot of effort tracking down information or a decision for someone. And as you report your findings/progress/whatever, the person on whose behalf you are expending all this effort says, "Oh, I changed my mind. I don't need it anymore," or "So-and-so got that for me 2 hours ago." Gee, thanks for telling me. Because you know I have nothing better to do than spin my wheels for you.
I guess at my current age this should not surprise me. After all, it's human nature and that hasn't changed in millions of years. But it still seems so fruitless. Think of what we could accomplish if we'd just stop and think about the impact of our choices and activities. We could have solved world hunger, global warming, AIDS, and cancer by now.
God I hate waste.
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