HOW I SPENT MY SPRING VACATION

If you thought that I was going to let you in on the dream from Monday night, think again. I might reference it later, but you're not going to get the full gist of it. There aren't too many things that I claim as mine and mine alone. The things that happen in my head when I am asleep would fall into that category, unless I choose to share them with you. Usually, because you are involved, in which case I want an explanation of why you were there. All of this, the writing I am doing about my thoughts and what I think, hell, that's up for grabs and open for debate.

I am often considered morose, morbid, manic, melancholy and other words that begin with "M". Moron, comes to mind. I often have a look of what appears to be disgust or anger on my face. It's hard to understand. Usually, I am just thinking, or I am trying to keep moving from this step to the next without falling. Harder than it seems. When you contemplate that the next 30 minutes of your life might be time utterly wasted, and that could be stretched to the point most time is wasted; your life is wasted time. You can see why I might look upset.

In reality, I probably am not. I was incredibly angry growing up. Until about, oh, age, actually, I probably am still angry in a way. I have found another direction and method for dealing with it. If you have witnessed me talking about a seemingly minor episode in life for 60-90 minutes or so, without breathing, you are probably nodding your head. I try to think through things, and deconstruct the different parts, then reassemble them. When I can't put things back together the logic breaks down, it doesn't make sense, and I become frustrated. Very easily.

I imagine my frustration can be considered -- or appear to be -- anger, but it is internalized. It doesn't excuse how I appear, but including a great song like 'Wave of Mutilation' is going make me appear like a negative prick with a self-imposed chip on my shoulder. It's just a great song. Once you are labeled as something it's hard not to conform to that ideal. Whatever it might be; jerk, sweet, caring, bitch, boring, quiet, fun. You find yourself guided toward that principle. You will do, say and look how other people view you in order to be accepted.

Circumstances don't change, the amount of effort you have to exert fighting the expectations and pre-determined views of other people changes the context. It's okay to be an asshole if everyone accepts you as an asshole. When you don't act like an asshole, suddenly something is wrong. If you aren't sweet and nice as you have been labeled, then something is wrong and how you appear changes the context, not the issue itself. People generally could care less about what is bothering you. They are more interested in the mere fact that you are bothered as they now have to work in order to place you in a new context. Show a lot of emotion or sides to your personality and eventually you become tedious to people. Start thinking of your friends or how your friends describe their friends. Is there a one or two word descritpion of their personality? Is that the label you place on them or the label they most consistently conform to?

Tuesday was a lackluster day at EPIC. The classroom was not as warm as the day before, but it was enough that several people in class were nodding off. As an educator I admit that this used to bother me. I should garner your full attention. The reality is, if you are a nurse coming off a 12 hour shift, do you really think you can listen to my voice for four hours and expect to stay awake? I often wonder if I am going to someday just turn to the class and say, "Screw it! None of this makes sense. Let's go play tag in the parking lot."

The EMR system at EPIC is pristine, and beautiful and works. Everything is set up according to specifications and as designed. The problem comes when organizations want to keep legacy systems around, usually because someone in Information Technology (IT) has a stake in furthering and stringing out their job security. There are a handful of applications at some health systems that are no longer in use, but the project analyst for that product still has the function of lording over the dead corpse of that application.

If we all look around we could assume that we are far away from Plato's Republic. If you consider things in a stripped down, deconstructed black and white scenario, it really becomes a situation where the ridiculous is the norm, and there are certain standards of incompetence that are not only tolerated but expected.

The co-worker who never does anything unless under threat of "no more free food".

The manager adept at taking no responsibility for getting a project accomplished leaving it to their underlings - yet will garner praise and adulation when it is pulled off.

The person who always seems to have a medical or family issue whenever the stress level gets above the comparable of whether to buy a vowel or spin the wheel with just five letters left in the phrase on Wheel of Fortune.

For whatever reason, I have a tremendous problem with the idea that personalities have to be defined in the workplace. Whether it is the unbounded logic or the stereotypes that seem to repeat themselves it I endlessly "bitch and moan" about politics in the workplace. It would be better if I found a way to work with these people and maximize their abilities and rare occurrences of production, but that would require me to work harder at the politics than the work itself. Who is the real asshole here; the lazy person who won't do any work or the lazy person who won't ask for help?

This all seems like a junior high exercise in futility. I have something pinned up on my cubicle that I look at every day. For the last few months, I looked at it as a novelty. Something given to me by someone I care about. Now it becomes clear as to why. Despite the religious nature of the undertaking, I'll do my best to sum up and equate. The idea is to get through 21 days without bitching, complaining, gossiping, or criticizing. You wear a bracelet on one wrist. If you falter, you switch wrists and the 21 days begins anew. I don't have the numbers in front of me, but I imagine 90% of people who hear or read that mutter, "21 Days?"

The semantics of the issue are apparent:

What is a complaint?

What is criticizing in an analysis process?

Does gossip cover answering the question, "How is so and so, and good ol' Whatshisname, how is he??"

I suppose the idea is to keep things off a personal level and to limit the venom. To a larger, more subtle extent, smack the Allegory of the Cave into your face.

Do I think I could pull this off? Probably. I write more now than I have in months which means I don't have to run endless thoughts through my brain on exactly how many things that are wrong with that. I also run a website on the Oakland A's that is pure analysis and critique. How far can I go? If Player A is performing at less than a replacement player level, and there are so many flaws in Player A's performance; it is justified for me to insist on his banishment and throw in a few funny retorts? Probably not. Perhaps if it were written in a questioning manner; "Player A has dropped off in performance to the point that it might be time to reconsider their position on the roster."

The teeth of the analysis is lost, but so is the venom. Unike my suggestion that the A's front office take Terrence Long, stuff him in a sack, drop him off a cliff into a river, then hurl the river into space.

Yah. I know. I am unbearable at times. I recognize that. Maybe I should consider that I don't have to explain everything about everything. Often the word,"fine" works. It seems so cliché, though, "How are you?" and then to follow up with "Fine." What if you aren't fine? Is that lying? What if there is more to the story? Are you withholding which is lying with another pair of boots?

On Wednesday night I found myself back at Pizzeria Uno. Four cheese pizza, no tomatoes. Mint lemonade. Being stared at by a booth full of people. I tried not to acknowledge it, but eventually I had to look up. Oscar Wilde once wrote something funny. But this is not the line, "The only thing worse than being stared at is not being stared at." I crooked my neck and mouthed, "What?" Perhaps my fly was undone or I had something in my hair. Maybe I stepped in something. As it turns out, I looked really familiar to a one-night stand one of them had. It was a nice 90 second interaction with their table but it was a conversation that I really did not feel like jumping into. Eventually, I pawned it off to the girls that it couldn't have been me; nobody forgets being with me!

C'MON!

I finished the second slice of pizza and had the rest boxed for my departure. I am not sure why. I ended up giving it to someone on their way to the Governor's Club. I made it a point to not acknowledge the booth as I got up. On the way out, I asked the waitress to bring a pitcher of beer to their table and I gave her a $20 to pay for it. If it was a vain attempt to get my attention, then they got my attention. I don't think it had anything to do with me. I think it was a 'Truth or Dare' situation, and I was nearest. Still, it was flattering and I wanted to thank them. And I did it the only way I know how -- by buying something and then walking away.

My editor (he has an editor?) has a fetish for post cards or a penchant, you decide, and I had several to mail. I couldn't find the post office that day and I walked around for an hour trying to find it. I needed to buy poster tubes to slip the wrapping paper in so I wouldn't look like an idiot on the plane. That night I started to pack and make my list of things I couldn't forget and the list of things I had forgotten. I started to summarize the trip in my head and paced around the room for a bit. Then I remembered that I had a 12 hour drive Friday to do that and I should savor the opportunity. I put everything aside and I felt I was ready to workout the next morning, shower, pack, go to the post office and then head to the airport without forgetting anything.

I also had a book I needed to mail. As I put the book into the envelope I thought about everything the book meant and it had nothing to do with the content at all. I thought about what I might write to include with the book but I couldn't think of anything that would be appropriate under the circumstances. Usually I like to leave a, what are those things called? The little things that are pasted in front of a book - like the library uses but for personal use? Yah, those. I usually like to have one of those to mark the occasion. All I could do was hold the book for a few seconds and hope that by osmosis the thought behind it was clear and meaningful. But so many other things had become a clusterfuck of miscommunications and misunderstandings that I wasn't really capable of considering the implications.

I am absolutely horrible when it comes to expressing feelings and stuff. The excuse can be offered that I have an Italian heritage and emotions pour out at will. I've been able to suppress that concept for years. I don't necessarily disagree with it. But I think it has more to do with nurture than nature. An older relative that weeps at the smallest notion of affection allows you to emulate. Or suppress that notion.

So, let's cross off the DNA factor.

The next concept would be to consider that my home life was rampant with abnormal episodes and an emotionally unstable environment. Isn't that why they call it 'home'? That's where you take everything and dump it. That's why you eventually want to leave home or in some cases confuse the issue and buy a new house. I don't really subscribe to the idea that my home life was any worse or better than anyone else's.

So, let's get the child raising entry off the list.

How about I take this opportunity and get to what I have been trying to say for two weeks? Skip the subtext and concentrate on the text? Try to include you on what has been on my mind?

Yah, that would mean exposing my emotions and feelings and I'm not ready. When I do, I'll let you know. But right now I have to get ready for PART X and the Epilogue. Then I have some waiting planned.

. . . Continue to Part X . . .