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Posts for the date of Friday, November 08, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 5:19 PM |
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Domestic bliss is so domestically blissful, ain’t it? My wife was talking about the chaos that is mornings recently and I suddenly realized that I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s not that I don’t pay attention to my family. I do. But, I think that I’m not an active participant in the morning chaos. True, I may be a contributor, but I don’t realize it.
I am not a morning person. Waking up, to me, is a mental battle akin to a cold reboot of a huge database. All my systems are not fully online for roughly two hours.
Each system kicks in one by one. When I first get up, I’m not sure that anything is online. Sight is partially active, but not fully. It can’t be. I’ve walked into far too many walls for my eyes to be fully functioning at 6:30 am. By the time I exit the shower, I am able to see again, but my hearing is still not active. Apparently, my wife has told me some key information early in the morning and I simply do not hear it. For example, the socks that I folded are downstairs. Okay. Seems easy enough. Here’s a sample of an actual conversation.
Wife: Your socks are downstairs.
Me: Okay.
(Two minutes pass)
Me: Honey, where are my socks? I can’t find them.
Wife: They’re down stairs!
Me: Oh, okay.
(Two minutes pass)
Me: Honey? Have you seen my socks? I thought they were up here.
Wife: THEY ARE DOWN STAIRS!
Me: Oh. Okey dokey.
(Two minutes pass)
Me: Honey? Where—
Wife: DOWNSTAIRS YOU IDIOT.
Twenty minutes later after I’ve eaten my Lucky Charms I will realize that I still don’t have socks on. I ask again and find them shoved into my mouth.
Thankfully, taste kicks in right around the time I brush my teeth. I think it’s more shock though. Smell then quickly follows as I go to kiss the baby in her crib. Sometimes I wish that would be the last thing to kick in.
Actual consciousness does not hit for me until I’m outside waiting for the bus. Usually, while everyone is getting ready I sit and read the paper or work on the computer. My family usually keeps its distance from me until about the time The Wiggles comes on. I’m not sure if it’s out of respect for my sheer hatred of the first two hours of the morning or out of fear. Once, and I remember this clearly, Matilda said, “Good morning Daddy! Your hair looks cool today.” I immediately retorted, “What’s that mean? That my hair is uncool on every other day? AH! AH! AH! Purple gophers are singing Justin Timberlake songs, let me die! Let me die!”
Matilda no longer speaks to me until she says goodbye.
Memory is also slow each day. I think I have consistently stated every morning for the last three months, “Hey! Henry the Octopus has a garden! That’s an Octopus’ Garden under the sea. Ha!” I then launch into my deep analysis of The Wiggles and their deep sociological ramifications on children’s abilities to deal with Australians who wear primary colors later in life.
In the next twenty minutes all systems kick in and I’m ready to wait for the bus with Matilda. I can almost engage the other parents at the bus stop. An example:
Parent: Morning.
Me: FORsznck. Potet.
Parent: Um yeah.
Me: Cold, huh?
Parent: It’s 80 degrees.
Me: Fuzzbubble.
Parent: Is that your little girl? The blonde one?
Me: I’m afraid of watermelons.
Parent: I feel very sorry for her.
I’m usually pretty happy by the time everyone gets home. They still don’t pay attention to me. Sigh.
Maybe I should stop greeting them at the door by giving them wet willies.
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Posts for the date of Thursday, November 07, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:56 AM |
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Now that these annoying and stupid mid-term elections are over we as Americans can finally focus on what’s truly important to us. We can move on and better our lives in the best way we know how. By mocking the misery of celebrities and watching every move they make.
While I could be talking about the self-congratulatory, semi-ego-masturbatory interview the Osbornes had on 20/20 last night, I’m actually referring to the most heinous crime of the century. I am, of course, referring to Winona Ryder’s conviction on charges of theft.
Now, it is my personal opinion that Winona should have been charged with public indecency years ago for making that awful film with Cher. But, the authorities chose not to pursue her, despite the lives she ruined.
Before we look at Winona as a criminal, we must first uncover the unvarnished truth about her name. Winona. Who in the hell would name their child Winona unless they were one of the Judds? Trust me, it’s a mistake and I hope that the Ryders feel truly horrible about this. What’s worse is they appeared to name her after the town in which her essential life force was issued forth from the womb (some people call it being born). Thank god she wasn’t born in Schenectady.
Yesterday, when the verdict came down, I happened to be watching CNN. A whole slew of political annalists (which is to say a bunch of people who have no real job) were discussing the ramifications of the change in the balance of power in Washington. It was a fascinating discussion that left me tingling. Not with excitement, mind you. But, rather, with what I think may have been a boredom-induced stroke.
They actually stopped that discussion, something with national ramifications, to cover the Winona verdict live. LIVE. This is what is considered news. An actress who once had promise but is now starring in Adam Sandler movies warrants BREAKING NEWS. Oh boy! I hope next they tell me whether or not Corey Haim has been on a bender of self-abuse tomorrow!
Somehow I think we’ve lost track of what’s important. Our nation’s political future and the horrid divisions of ideology that are permeating our governing body in such a way that we look like a stupid attempt at recreating the pathetic Israeli government? No, Winona Ryder’s criminal record.
Oy.
But that’s not what I found disturbing, to be honest. As I was watching Winona receive her verdict without emotion (what did I expect?) I realized something. I have a crush on her.
I never had a crush on her before she became a felon. Her pixie-cuteness never did anything for me. I figured she was the poster-girl for the Gen X slackers that I, even though I fit the demographic, have no desire to be a part of. She starred in one of the most abhorrent movies of the nineties, “Reality Bites”, a poor excuse of a film designed to “capture the essence of Gen X.” Ack. The only redeeming quality was the fact that Ben Stiller was involved.
Winona never held much appeal for me. She was great in Edward Scissorhands and several other films, I won’t deny. But she just wasn’t the type of actress I would get a crush on. Jodie Foster? Sure. Audrey Hepburn? Grace Kelley? Oh yeah. Winona Ryder? Not so much.
But yesterday, as she was confirmed a convicted felon I started thinking how attractive she is. I haven’t enjoyed one of her movies since 1990, but yet, she’s really very cute. Nice skin, great hair, impeccable style (one assumes she bought the clothes).
And she’s a convicted felon. Yes. A bad girl.
Finally, I’ve found the perfect trophy woman. She can support me with her bankable films (if she ever has another one). She can look pretty on my arm. And when times are tough, she can knock over a liquor store to pay for my insatiable appetite for smoked ham.
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, November 06, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:04 AM |
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I read something last night that very well may change my life. No, I’m not going to proselytize to you about the merits of a specific religion, tell you about what Dr. Phil said nor will I spew out Deepak Chorpra crapra.
I’ve been reading books by the Nobel winning physicist Richard P. Feynman. Now, Feynman was an amazing guy. Brilliant scientist, talented actor, wonderful teacher, good musician, etc. He’s one of those guys who loved life so much that he would try anything. Anything at all. He was curious. That was his charm.
He spoke his mind and played with the world. Something I wish I could do.
Last night I was reading about an invitation he had received to work with Einstein and other great minds of the time. Feynman was flabbergasted to be invited. He simply didn’t think he was good enough. Then he had a realization:
“It was a brilliant idea: You have no responsibility to live up to what other people think you ought to accomplish. I have no responsibility to be like they expect me to be. It's their mistake, not my failing.”
That’s when it hit me. This is true! So damn true! I’ve been sitting up nights with my heart jumping out of my chest and rampaging around the room because I’ve been worried about living up to the expectations that others had of me! Not based on my abilities, but what they believe I should be capable of accomplishing.
That’s not my responsibility. I work as hard as I possibly can and do everything I can to accomplish the tasks put before me. But the material I’m provided limits me. If something I write for a client doesn’t say exactly what they want it to there are two possibilities. One, I wrote poorly or two, I wasn’t given enough information.
More often than not, it’s the second option. A client knows in their head what they need, but they do not fully communicate that to me. Being as I am not part of their company and have limited exposure to the development of their product I am, in essence, stupid. I need to be told everything.
So, if I don’t include a particular benefit that I am unaware of, it can’t be helped. On Monday, I would have freaked out and had a heart attack worrying about the fact that I didn’t do it right. Now, I’m learning to accept my fate. I cannot do things that I simply am not capable of doing. Like read minds.
Now, this is not to say that I do not do my very best in the work that I am given. That is far from the truth. I give it all that I have. I’m quite often left exhausted by it.
What I am saying is, if my client expects me to be able to do something that is impossible I am not going to beat myself up for not being able to accomplish it. I will try to accomplish it, but if I can’t it’s okay. It was their expectation of me and I cannot control that. Even if I tell them upfront that I believe this will be impossible, they will still expect it from me.
And that’s okay! It really is. As long as both parties understand that I am not responsible for their expectations. I am what I am. I can accomplish what I can accomplish. I will continually try to better myself, and my performance. However, if I cannot live up to what another person believes I can achieve, I should not beat myself up. It is their expectation, not mine.
Sure, this seems blasé. But I have only one person who I should answer to regarding my accomplishments. And that person is me. If I cheat myself, then I’m screwed. But if Joe Blow believes I can do something that I can’t, it’s not my fault. I will do everything in my power to try and do so but if I do not accomplish it I have not failed. I have just simply proven that I cannot meet his perception of my abilities.
And that’s not my responsibility.
By the way, after Feynman had this realization, he began the work that led to his Nobel Prize. Which is my point. He knew that he would never be able to meet the expectations of Einstein and his crew. Instead he worked on his own material and accomplished something astounding.
Don’t fool yourself. Life is too short to live each moment based on what others expect of us. Live! Go out and play with the world. Who knows what you may discover about yourself.
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, November 05, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 1:58 PM |
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Well we’re very excited in the O’Brien household because last night saw the return of a particularly fun family dynamic that we haven’t seen in roughly three years. Yes, Daddy had a nice four a.m. panic attack last night!
Oh the joy! Oh the fun! Oh the shallow breathing and fear of death! Oh the constricting chest muscles! Oh the wonder of being convinced that you will not make it beyond that moment! The sheer enjoyment of rolling up in a ball and realizing, “oh crap!”
Panic attacks are a thing of beauty. Think of your computer as a person and suddenly you start getting error messages when the damn thing is supposed to be turned off. But these error messages aren’t for REAL errors. No, it’s better than that. The messages are coming for errors that quite conceivably could occur. Maybe. It could happen! Really!
Essentially the brain starts going over everything. And I mean everything, from planning your daughter’s birthday part to the cut on the bottom of your toe and how it may get infected and lead to your foot’s amputation to worrying about Warren Zevon’s lung cancer.
Your brain short circuits and just starts a full data dump on you at that exact moment. Fear, dread, and panic set in. It becomes clear to you that everything that you are involved in may suddenly come crashing down into a giant crushing pile of lost commitments, missed dates and loss of confidence.
I used to get these all the time. Most frequently when I was single and living alone. I’d start the shallow breathing, heart racing thing and I’d end up sitting on the floor with my back against a wall hugging my knees until it went away.
Unless you’ve had a panic attack, you don’t realize how bad they can be. You figure that you’ll just calm yourself down. But it doesn’t work like that. You TRY to calm yourself, but instead you find yourself panicking because you can’t calm down. It’s a vicious cycle.
The attacks came less frequently once I got married. Perhaps having the calming influence of my wife nearby helped matters a little. Although I rarely wake her up to let her know that my brain is about to explode and that I’m huffing like a whacked out 14 year-old with a vat of model glue. She wants me to, but I don’t see the point. Why ruin her night’s sleep too? If I really felt in danger, I’d let her know.
When I left publishing, the attacks stopped. Now that I’m freelancing for a publisher the attacks are back. Why? I don’t know. I enjoy deadlines and I don’t think I’m going to miss any. And yet, I had that crushing sense of doom.
What’s the connection? I don’t know. Maybe I put too much on myself. Maybe.
Last night I did wake up my wife because I wanted the damn thing to stop. I don’t have the patience for this crap anymore. Sleep is a premium item and nothing should interfere with it. As she hugged me, trying to help me calm down, she asked what was bothering me. “Everything,” I said.
And that’s the logic of a panic attack. Everything in that moment bears a sense of dread. Including the panic attack. Your brain just zoooooms. There’s no stopping it, the dirty son of a bitch. . .
I’m okay now. I’m listing everything that was bothering me last night and trying to pare down my life responsibilities to the essentials. But I don’t think this is the last time the panic attacks will hit.
Stupid brain. Doesn’t it understand that nighttime is when it’s supposed to concoct dreams about purple monsters and giant foam rubber whales? It’s not the time to freak me out.
I’m just pissed because I didn’t get any sleep. Damn it. Now I’m crabby. Maybe that explains why, when I went to vote today, I told the roving pollster to shove his party up his ass and get out of my face. I don’t even know what he was representing, but he probably deserved it.
That jerk.
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Posts for the date of Monday, November 04, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:42 AM |
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Sorry for the lack of update on Friday. I spent the day with the baby. Just the two of us. We partied hard and renamed her as a baby rapper. She’s now the Ghost White Dipaa Fillah. As exhausting as the day was, we had a great time. We had snacks at the mall, visited friends and played, played, played. Then, before Matilda came home from school, we took a nap together. All in all it was a really nice day.
Matilda and I watched ET on Friday. She bawled like a little baby. It’s amazing how well the movie holds up after 20 years. To me, it proves that a good story and strong emotional content over rules any need for bombastic explosions and digital effects. ET works because you feel sorry for the little guy. Not because he’s a lifelike alien. You feel for his problem. And when he “dies” you’re heartbroken that he didn’t make it home. On Saturday we watched Max Keeble’s Big Move and had a great time laughing and eating popcorn. Matilda just about had a heart attack three minutes into the movie when Tony Hawk made a cameo appearance. Heh. Hero worship.
I assume everyone will go out and vote tomorrow? To be honest, as much as I enjoy democracy, I can’t wait for this bloodfest to be over. I mean, really, why don’t we just strip down the candidates and let them fight to the death? It’ll be a hell of a lot easier to watch than these campaign commercials and a lot more fun.
What makes me tingle with happiness is how these guys are in a blood battle over one seat in the senate. Yes, if one party gets the majority then they win for the next two years! That’s your vote at work! If your guys win the popularity contest, then you get someone voting party lines for two years, serving the interest of the boys club he is part of rather than doing his job and giving you the representation he’s supposed to give you.
I love that my local candidates and political parties assume that everything is black and white. That if I am anti-gun, then I’ll also be anti-cigarette tax. Or if I agree with a candidate’s stance on education I’ll agree with their beliefs on drilling for oil in ANWAR. I don’t think so.
You see, I’m a full human being who makes decisions based on my personal beliefs and not by some blind system set up by a bunch of crusty old guys in navy suits and red ties who decide what I should think. It’s a “with us or against us” stance and I’m sick of it.
The bottom line is that I’m an independent voter who is not aligned with any party, be it Democrat, Republican, Green, Libertarian or otherwise. I just don’t believe that a group of people can sit down and say, we stand for this that and the other and I can fall in line with that. Group politics don’t work for me.
So tomorrow, I’m going to vote for who I believe will do the best job and represent me to the best of their ability.
But the truth is that, in this government, I don’t feel like I have representation. Because the Republicans with vote for what their party believes in, not their constituents. The Democrats will do the same. Green will always lose and the Libertarians scare the crap out of me. It’s a huge mess.
So, when I go in to punch my card tomorrow I’m going to do just that. Give that friggin’ card a nice, closed-handed punch. Because if I get one more phone call telling me that Candidate X is a jerk because they sling mud, but Candidate Y is good because they kiss puppies I’m going to scream.
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