The Incompetence Conundrum

Da: "We're working as a team to make this dinner, do you know what they call that?"

Mom: "Collaboration?"

Me: "Incompetence?"

Da: "Cluster Fuck."
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Weekdays are 60 - 70% conference calls for me. Do you know how you can tell if someone is new or incompetent?

They talk a lot.

It's a complete mystery.

If you're new, you should spend a lot of time listening and observing, right? If you're incompetent and you know it, why draw attention to yourself?

And if you're incompetent and don't know it, well, that's just a goddamn shame.
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FYI: I had to look up how to spell incompetent.

Shaddap, seriously.
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We're all incompetent at something. Hell, multiple things.

Cooking and chemistry are weak areas for me. Since they are essentially the same thing, we can say this is just one area of incompetence, correct?

I can be very impatient, although middle age has mellowed that somewhat.

I still swear quite a bit, but that is more of a response to my overall incompetence, rather than an actual incompetency.

If you don't know what you're not good at, you should give it some thought.

Now.

This is not an opportunity to beat yourself up over what you can't do well. That's not the point.

Most of us already do that more than we should, right? It's that shitty little voice in your head, constantly reminding you of your past foibles and cock-ups.

If you've got that voice, it's actually a good sign. Because the people who are incompetent and don't know it, don't have that voice. They think they're doing just fine, all the time.

So next time the shitty voice starts up, just say "thank you for sharing" and shut it down.
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Incidentally, last night's collaborative cluster fuck of a dinner was outstanding.

So once you've identified what you're not good at, surround yourself with people who are good at it, and it'll all work out just fine.
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I am listening to: House sounds
I am reading: Religious Constriction by Charles Blow, New York Times
And I am: Incompetent at spelling incompetent

Do's and Don'ts

DO NOT:

• Get in the Express Checkout line (12 items or less) at Meijer's behind a woman on a Rascal wearing an I'VE GOT A COUPON FOR THAT t-shirt. 
• Read anything new by John Grisham, ever again. The Racketeer was the only other book besides [insert anything by Ann Rice] that I've ever wanted to throw away upon finishing it. 
• Purchase a Kenmore Elite Oasis washer unless you like having your clothes ruined by rust spots.

DO:

• Read The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman, including the book notes at the end.
• Watch the new TV series Fargo, based on the movie.
• Take a break from what you're doing right now, go outside and breathe deeply for five minutes.
• Try the chocolate-covered strawberries from Edible Arrangements. 
• When writing anything, watch the number of I's you use and eliminate them outright or switch them to you's whenever possible. As in: I will send You can expect an email update on this by Friday, June 27. Here's a bad good example of someone over-using the I's. And she should seriously know better. It's not only boring, it detracts from your message, by assuming the reader is really interested in only you and your opinions.
• Listen to ZZ Top's LaGrange whilst driving fast. 

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I am listening to: The fan
I am reading: The Gentleman's Guide to Summering at Slate
And I am: Relaxed

Not sad, just sorry

A call from Owosso, Michigan. Late this afternoon. On my mobile.

I assumed it was a family member - someone on my Dad's side of the family - calling to check on Mom, who had gall bladder surgery today.

It wasn't.

"How are you?"

"Well, not very good at all actually. We have some really bad news."

It was my cousin Frank, calling to say his younger brother, Eddie, had died. 

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I have to confess it was a toss-up, guessing which of Frank's siblings (the oldest or the youngest) could've been the source of the sad news. How bad is that? But with serious alcoholism/substance abuse between the two of them, it could've gone either way. Frank, the second oldest, was always quiet but strong and stable, growing up. He didn't stand out much but that was probably by design in a family raised on alcohol-infused rage and depression.

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I am writing this because I don't know what to feel. Eddie's death is not a tragedy in the classic sense of the word. A friend/former co-worker died of breast cancer last month, leaving behind a husband and two young boys. She was a smart, funny, gracious woman. That was a tragedy. Not this.

This is something else. 

I do feel sorry for my cousin Frank. 

He is cleaning up the very last mess his little brother will make.

Is that cold? Maybe. 

Is it true? Yes. 

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In quick succession, there were calls with multiple family members. 

"He made his own choices."

"He lived a hard life."

"He just couldn't find happiness."

"It's a shame but not surprising."

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Apparently he was gone five days before anyone found him. A friend called the police for a wellness check and that was that. An overdose, based on the drugs and paraphernalia found with him.  

"I gave up calling him to check in because he never called back."

"He struggled his whole life with alcohol and drugs."

"He chose that way of life."

He was 35 years old.

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Ironically, Jim was the only one who really said a kind word about Eddie and he met him just a handful of times at family Christmas parties. 

"He was a good kid. It's a shame."

I am not at all certain about the 'good kid' part, but it certainly is a shame. 

A wasted life - a life wasted, because of addiction. Which runs so very strong in that part of the family, that Frank doesn't drink. He knows the power of heredity - hell, he lived it - and won't risk it. Not for one drop. 

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Here's the first story about Eddie:

He was four years old. My Dad and Eddie's father, Frank Sr., are returning from errands and pull in the driveway to their family farm. They find Eddie straddling the large fuel tank by the barn, two hands on the hose, gleefully spraying gas all over. 

"It's a good thing he's not smoking," said my Uncle Frank. 

And he wasn't joking. Eddie started smoking when he was three.

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Here's the second story:

Eddie received special permission to be released from jail to attend his mother's funeral. It was extra special because it came from the town sheriff, who also happened to be his brother-in-law at the time.

Eddie makes it to the church for the funeral service but then bolts before the burial and dinner thing after. 

The police find him hiding in a pile of laundry at an ex-girlfriend's house. And back to jail he went.

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It was kind of a sad joke, based on the Christmas Vacation movie. Every family has a Cousin Eddie. 

Someone who isn't quite right, seemingly from birth. Who can't make things work. Who struggles with addiction and other demons.

Da actually used the phrase "bad seed" - which, as unflinchingly cold as I am on this, made me feel a little bit of Yikes, just hearing it. 

Here's the thing: It's no longer a statement of belief, but a fact that some people are born with a serious propensity for addiction to drugs and alcohol. It's in their genes. It's not an "if" but a "when" for them. 

If it is all a matter of the chemical cocktail inside us, are some people just doomed from the start? Or, with the right environment, the right influence, the right HELP, can they overcome it? 

We'll never know with Eddie. But Frank, my cousin Frank, gives me hope. 

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I am reading: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman (Outstanding, fairy tail-ish tome. Such a profoundly excellent, emotional story. Read it read it read it.)

I am listening to: Mom snoring, the air conditioner humming

And I am: Not sad but sorry

The Gun Shot Drinking Game

Shoot. Gun. Assault Rifle. Handguns. Shot in the leg. Guns. Fired back. Shooting. Shooter. Shooting. Wounded. Shot. Wounded. Victim. Shot. Victims.

The above paragraph was me, listening to Chicago 7 news, and typing any gun-related word during the initial three minutes. The talking heads lead with the Shoot Du Jour in Chicago, moved on to the Georgia courthouse shooting and wrapped up with that other shooting (no, not that one) at a college in Seattle.

It's more than a little crazy when we can no longer simply say "the shooting" - we need to be specific when referencing incidents of mass gun violence. Because it's happening every week now, sometimes daily. Here in the United States.
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You know those fun silly TV drinking games, right? You're watching The Big Lebowski and everyone takes a drink whenever someone bowls a strike. Or says fuck. Or shut the fuck up, Donnie.

Or you're watching Fargo and everyone does a shot when someone says you betcha.

Or if Breaking Bad is your show, you take a drink whenever Jesse says yeah bitch.

If you'd like to get completely shit-faced on a Sunday morning (or really any day of the week for that matter), play the Gun Shot Drinking Game. Make yourself a Bloody Mary or Mimosa or Coffee & Baileys, then watch the local Chicago news. And take a drink whenever you hear the word "gun" or "shot" or "shooting".
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Oh, Hedy. That's not funny at all. People are dying every day due to gun violence and you're making a game of it?

Since no one with any real authority has the balls to stand up to the NRA and call for serious change here, the only rational response is to drink. Heavily. And often.
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I am listening to: Gun shoot shooting shooter shot
I am reading: Little Bee by Chris Cleave
And I am: Hammered

Unbuttoned

Well it finally happened.

I was on a conference call today and had switched from headphones to speaker so I could plug in my dying iPhone and not be tethered to the wall like the corporate animal that I am.

I forgot switching like that un-mutes the line.

Some woman I don't know was droning on and on about a webcast when the call was all about planning a live, in-person event.

"WHY IS SHE STILL TALKING ABOUT A WEBCAST? WE DON'T NEED A FUCKING WEBCAST!"

Yep. Not on mute.

But there was dead silence on the phone immediately following.
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A co-worker who was on the call ping'd me via IM after:

Kathy: haha you were totally not muted when you were going off about the webcast

Me: I'm so sorry. I realized as soon as I said it. Totally unprofessional.

Kathy: No worries. It gave me a chuckle. You're always buttoned up.
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Buttoned up.

Whoa.

Buttoned up? Really?

What she said really struck me. So it must be true, right?
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1. buttoned-up - (British colloquial) not inclined to conversation
colloquialism - a colloquial expression; characteristic of spoken or written communication that seeks to imitate informal speech; taciturn - habitually reserved and uncommunicative
2. buttoned-up - conservative in professional manner; "employers are looking for buttoned-up types"
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Boy, I shouldn't have gone down the rabbit hole of "taciturn" - yikes.
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I'm actually sorta glad it happened. Like when I dumped my motorcycle for the first time.

I knew it was going to happen. It made me a nervous rider, knowing it was coming. So once I was over the OHMYGODHEREIGO, heart-in-throat, shit-in-pants, stranded in the middle of a four lane Adrenalin Explosion, I was actually quite relieved.

Same with the phone. A thousand nervous potty breaks and now I can pee with confidence whilst on my (muted) phone.
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But...but...but...buttoned up? Have I really become my father?

Background: My Da, bless his huge heart, took fatherhood VERY seriously. To the point that, as a teenager, I was absolutely convinced he didn't even know the f-word. He was buttoned up around us kids because he wanted to be a good role model.

As an adult, there was delight coupled with a tiny bit of anger/mourning over discovering that he was a completely normal guy who not only knows the f-word, but lets it fly occasionally.

Not that knowing/using the f-word is my standard for normalcy. Wait. I think it is, actually.
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The motorcycle is long gone and I don't miss it.

Sure wish I could say the same for my phone.
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I am reading: Little Bee - Chris Cleave
I am listening to: Another conference call, safely muted
And I am: So fucking unprofessional

Wednesday Random

Google's "Man-Gobbler" commercial with Hall & Oates makes me laugh so hard I snort. Every time. Repeatedly.

The hold music for my company's conference call service makes me happy. Odd.

Wonder where the word "gussied" comes from...as in "I'm all gussied up with nowhere to go since my Big Meeting postponed to next week."

This whole craft beer thing needs to go away. Before it does, however, it would make an outstanding Saturday Night Live skit - with some Grizzly Adams-bearded beer geek spending 15 minutes explaining the craft beer list with names like Nutter's Ballsack, Bitchslap Red, and Your Mom's Tainted Ale. In the past year I've wasted at least 20 hours listening to grown men talk about beer like giddy little girls. Like beer was just invented last week and it can cure cancer, pattern baldness, erectile dysfunction and global warming. And everyone is acting as if it will never fade, that craft beer will stay as hot as it is today. Craft beer is to 2014 as cigars were to 1998. 

If you're not watching Fargo on FX, give it a try. We were cynical - because how can you make a TV series from that movie - but it works. The cast, the pace, the humor - everything just works. Really well. They even reveal what happens to the ransom money that Steve Buscemi's character buried in the snow. And that skinny little shit Billy Bob Thornton just makes every scene. 

Everyone says that technology has made us more distant - that folks on trains and in restaurants don't chat anymore because they're nose to screen all the time. I get that. But being able to text my brother every other day after years of chatting with him maybe every other month is downright wonderful. We've had some fun conversations and I feel closer to him than ever. 

Honey Bunches of Oats is addicting cereal.

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I am listening to: A plane flying

I am reading: Little Bee by Chris Cleave

And I am: Starting to relax a little finally

Assigned Reading Today - "The Most Horrible Thing"

Please read this interview with Richard Martinez. His son was killed by Elliot Rodger. He's remarkable. If anyone can mobilize and motivate voters to call for significant changes to gun laws, it's him:

"But I will never run for political office at any level — ever. I will never write a book. I will never sue anybody. Karen and I — Christopher’s mother and I — had this conversation early on. Our kid was a terrific kid. We’re not going to cheapen his memory by doing those things. He deserves better than that."

Mr. Martinez will be attacked for saying he won't sue; some will say it was a back-handed insult to other families that have filed lawsuits after mass murders. There will be conspiracy theorists who suggest that Mr. Martinez was even involved in planning the attack.

That's okay, it seems like he can handle it given everything he's done in the handful of days since his son was killed.

There's nothing the NRA and crazy gun "fetishists" won't say or do to keep things the way they are. But there's nothing they can do to keep this guy from speaking his truth and honoring his son's memory.
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I am reading: Little Bee - Chris Cleave
I am listening to: WGN News Chicago
And I am: Amazed