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Posts for the date of Friday, May 03, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 5:16 PM |
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Yeah. See, I was going to blog today but then I forgot and now I forgot what I was going to blog. Now it sounds like I have a health problem. "Oh yeah, uh . . . I got the blog."
So, go visit my buddy Ed at Ramblings of a Depleted Mind. I can vouch for Ed. He's a good guy.
But, in all honesty . . . there's something seriously wrong with that boy.
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Posts for the date of Thursday, May 02, 2002
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, May 01, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 3:46 PM |
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Until you work for yourself and depend upon the hours you log, you won’t understand the concept of billable time.
I know I didn’t. Until now.
When I was salaried, I took getting paid for granted. I showed up, they gave me a check. It didn’t matter if I didn’t have anything to do (and at the last job, this was true 90% of the time). It didn’t matter if I didn’t do anything all day but stare at the computer trying to will it to work for me. They would still pay me.
In fact, this sort of behavior is accepted workplace behavior. To an extent. If you go to the soda machine thirty times a day, people will figure you’re thirsty. If you wander around chatting most people don’t care, as long as you’re not obvious. Go to the bathroom at least once an hour, spend ten minutes away from your desk, come back and blame it on bad chicken? That works too.
The best way, however, to avoid work is to be a smoker. They get away with everything. If things get rough? Go out for a smoke! Meeting lasted too long? Smoke! Get chewed out for spending too much time in the bathroom? Smoke! It’s the perfect excuse to go and think about something other than work.
But, sit at your desk and zone out for five minutes to take a mental break . . . you’re a slacker. You can’t do it. Put a cigarette in your mouth and you’re exonerated.
Back to billable time. My livelihood now depends upon how many hours I work in a day. To the exact minute. If I work fewer than X hours a week, we cannot pay the gas bill. So, I’m constantly staying ahead of X. Not that it’s hard to find the work. . .
Working freelance, at home, takes discipline. There are hundreds of distractions around me. From television to neighbor spying to cleaning. These are worthwhile activities.
But I am disciplined. I divide my day by work I get paid for and work I hope to get paid for someday.
It’s the way time works that’s the problem.
I have morals. I admit that. I like to offend people, but I don’t like to screw them. So, billable time becomes tricky.
For example, on any given day I’ll receive thirty emails. Some are work related, others aren’t. But they all come to the same address. Now, if it takes me thirty minutes to read my mail, I can only charge for the ones that are work related. Otherwise, I’d feel unethical.
Time it takes to make coffee? Can’t charge for that. If I worked at the office, I’d get paid to do it, but otherwise . . . no. It’s wrong.
The thirty minutes it took me to find the right CD to write letters to authors to? While work related . . . not a necessary task. Isn’t billed.
Brother calls me while I’m in the middle of putting together material for reviewers? Can’t charge it. We talked way too long.
You see, life is all about how you measure things. Mine’s measured in billable time. How’s yours measured? Everyone has a measure. Whether it’s counting the days to your next vacation or tracking how much time you spend online. A good day to you can be summed up somehow. What is it?
The important thing is to know what your life is measured by, but not to be ruled by it. It’s all about balance. These days I’m thankful for billable time. I now know when I’m work Gary and when I’m not. There’s something satisfying in that.
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, April 30, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 11:15 AM |
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Well, the computer is dead again and I sit here on the crappy one watching the words catch up to my typing. Bad hard drive again. Those who are at fault know who they are, but cannot accept blame for faulty products (many times over) because they can’t hear complaints with their heads shoved so neatly up their rectal regions.
It happened last night. All of a sudden. No warning. Scanning for viruses and then . . . Freeze. Restart. Nothing. Restart. Nothing. Restart. Nothing. Dead. Gone. All data lost. All the work I’ve done in the past few months gone. Stupid me didn’t back up in that time because my file size quota hadn’t been reached.
I plan on purchasing an automated back up system now. I’ve had it with incidents and accidents. It’s over. Now vengeance shall be mine. No matter what happens, I’ll always have my data. It’ll be portable and totally separate.
Yes. I’m hiring monks to transcribe my files for me. I will be victorious in the data wars!
Sadly, I lost a story I had written. The first short story I had written in a long, long time. I hope someone in Boston still has it. Maybe he can send me a copy.
It was funny, though. I didn’t react to my data loss the way I thought I would. Or the way I thought I should. When all this started happening I just sat there numb and a little nauseated. Chris asked me what was wrong and Kaitlyn said, “Don’t! He’ll get upset!”
But I didn’t. Irritated, perhaps, but not upset. Not angry. I just felt . . . detached bitterness. The way a Nihilist would feel if he discovered there was something that he could believe in. His own ethos.
But, alas, I didn’t rage against the dying of the drive. I accepted it with grace and humility. To fight the fight another day! Today is that day. I’m being cool, calm and collected as I talk to my various customer service reps. They’ll learn that, just because they can fix it doesn’t mean that the problem will go away. A faulty component will not suddenly be healed by their divine touch. Replace the damn thing. Start anew. Let it wash away its data sins in the rubbish bin.
Why didn’t I get angry? Why wasn’t I upset?
Well, it’s simple, really. Despite the fact that I lost megabytes of wonderful data and beautiful photos of my children, I still had the most important things.
I have a back up computer, for one. Little time lost in the working arena, except for the few hours I have to recreate material.
But, after I gave up I went upstairs. Lying in bed was a beautiful six-year-old girl who is growing into such a poised and intelligent young lady. She’s carving her own path in life, discovering who she is. She’s finding out the blissful pains that this life causes. She’s learning that the Universe isn’t always a fair playmate.
Across the room, in the crib was a little girl who is just beginning this journey. So fresh, and young. Innocence embodied. She doesn’t yet know what a skinned knee feels like. Or a paper cut. She doesn’t know think that you need TV to enjoy yourself. She’s content to roll around on the floor, giggling at her newfound mobility. She’s on the cusp of crawling. Determined, she gets on all fours and rocks back and forth, vigorously. Without fail, she falls. But one of these times, she knows, something magical will happen and her arms and legs will figure out what to do.
In the next room was a beautiful woman waiting to hug me and tell me that we’ll figure this out. That we can replace what was lost. Even though I know she didn’t believe it herself, she knew that I needed to be reassured.
And so, how could I be angry with a computer? It’s just a piece of machinery. Life is happening around me every second. Why waste time on dark feelings when my house is full of the joy of discovery?
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Posts for the date of Monday, April 29, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 4:00 PM |
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Wow. What a weekend. Filled with fun, excitement and noxious fumes.
Well, at least two of the three.
Young Gertrude is having a bout with the vapors. Every movement, every twitch, every roll is followed by a loud report and a smell that could knock over a horse. For such a little body, she can produce an awful smell.
I guess I know she’s my daughter . . .
Yesterday we went to dinner with my family to celebrate the confirmation of my nieces Melissa and Christina (both looked so beautiful, poised and grown up it was hard to believe they were once the toddlers we called “Binker” and “Sissa”.) My sister was holding Gertrude and making her giggle when she said, “Whew. I think she’s got a full diaper! Something is stinky.” Gertrude giggled and I said I’d check it out.
The restaurant was too crowded and noisy to have heard Gertrude’s reverse raspberry, so I didn’t mention her current state of gastrointestinal weakness. I just didn’t have the heart to tell my sister that the cute little Pampered bottom she had just been patting had released mustard gas. I figured they were both having so much fun, why ruin it with the fact that my lovely daughter had broken a taboo and farted at her.
In my family, airborne fart particles are a way of life, but still a crime.
Her poor little belly hurts so much that’s she’s having trouble sleeping. We have to calm and soothe her until the bubble bursts and she can expel it. Between her and the cat, my room smells like a colostomy bag.
But she’s so pathetic. She grunts and whines and whimpers rolls around until she feels better. Because she needs nearly constant comfort, she’s been sleeping with us so her big sister gets a little sleep.
She’s restless though, so she flops back and forth, throwing her little sausage arms to and fro. (Side note: Where is fro?) Whenever she points her little bottom at me, I live in fear. I know it’s loaded and it could go off at any minute.
I’ve been walking around shell-shocked. I wonder, when will it strike? When will it hit? Will I survive?
Oh well. She’ll get hers. Just wait until she’s a teenager and she brings her first boyfriend over for dinner. I already have the menu planned.
Five-alarm chili.
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Posts for the date of Sunday, April 28, 2002
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