Facebook has done away with it's Notes section, which I had been using to self-publish my adventures and mental gymnastics. So, I've returned to my blog.
Hopefully, I can put some good thoughts out there. I did once, maybe once again...
Wednesday, December 9, 2020
Monday, July 23, 2018
Discovering The Junkie Inside Me
Last night, after commiserating with a friend about my new job and the shitty day I had, I sat down and re-examined my life. I'm prone to do this quite often because I'm the first one to say that if someone isn't happy, make a change. I practice what I preach.
About a month ago, I got a job with Specialities Cafe as a low-level manager. WAAAAAAY low-level. It's not a bad job and it fit the criteria I had at the time: there's a regular paycheck. It really is a good company that does a lot for it's employees. It asks for a lot in return, which mostly consists of running your ass off every second to tend to the thousands of mandated details they have for every single fucking process. It's a typical corporate job and as such, even my supervisors can't meet the corporation's expectations. If they did, I wouldn't have been there until 8pm with the Regional Manager to close up shop during my training days. (You are expected to walk out the door half an hour after closing which is IMPOSSIBLE.)
In other words, the employees are constantly in crisis mode. Oh wait, allow me to personalize that.
I am constantly in crisis mode.
Bingo. Now I know where my frustration originates.
Ever since the time I was about ten or eleven, my family was constantly in crisis. Every six months we were moving. Without going into the sordid details, let me just say that I learned to survive, not how to thrive. When a person is subjected to chronic stress like that, if forms life-long patterns. In other words, one becomes a junkie for stress. Like a junkie, a person like myself will subconsciously seek out toxic situations that give us our stress fix, even if it is detrimental to our well-being and/or relationships with others.
The mechanics of the situation is that the brain produces biochemicals that affect our emotional state. Given enough regular exposure to these biochemicals, a person can become addicted to a particular state, which could be productive or detrimental. Take exercise, for example. You've all heard of "runner's high", when the "feel-good" biochemicals called endorphins kick in. When you say things like "What's that idiot doing running in this awful weather?" you've probably identified an exercise junkie who craves that endorphin high and will stop at nothing to get it, even if it means going cross-country in minus-10F weather.
The upside is that I - and people like myself - are not necessarily doomed by our past. With honest and courageous introspection, one can come to understand the source of discontent and treat the disease. Thankfully, I'm a terrible liar, even to myself. I just gotta know why I do the numbskull things that I do.
I noticed while I was going through my day that I had trouble walking. (By the way, yesterday was a day from hell where literally every single thing I did just exploded in my face) I listed. I stumbled. I found trouble forming my words at times and was confused. Just. Like. A. Drunk. Why do I say that? Because that's the unscientific identification of the symptoms of stress. In alcoholic circles, it's called a "dry drunk". I hadn't consumed any alcohol or drugs. I was drunk with stress via crisis and I created it for myself by obtaining an employment situation that fit all the criteria I needed in order to feel that way. I worked fuckin' hard for that moment!
This is called taking responsibility. I did it to myself. I was relaxed and had a super-low level of stress running the hotel in Idaho. After four months, I told myself that I was ready to come back to Seattle and conquer the world. What I was doing, in actuality, was preparing myself for yesterday, my self-created disaster.
Um, you can always find hints to what's going on with yourself if you listen to the things you say. At Specialites, you receive a really cool metal key fob as an anniversary present that shows how many years of service you've put in with the company. When my supervisor showed me his, I laughed. (When he showed me his key fob, you sickos.) I said, "So, this is your version of an AA coin, eh?" Everyone in the office laughed heartily. Now, when I look back on that conversation, I realize the laugh really was on me.
As any good drone from Alcoholics Anonymous will tell you, admitting that you are powerless is the first step towards recovery. Well, I'm not powerless.
About a month ago, I got a job with Specialities Cafe as a low-level manager. WAAAAAAY low-level. It's not a bad job and it fit the criteria I had at the time: there's a regular paycheck. It really is a good company that does a lot for it's employees. It asks for a lot in return, which mostly consists of running your ass off every second to tend to the thousands of mandated details they have for every single fucking process. It's a typical corporate job and as such, even my supervisors can't meet the corporation's expectations. If they did, I wouldn't have been there until 8pm with the Regional Manager to close up shop during my training days. (You are expected to walk out the door half an hour after closing which is IMPOSSIBLE.)
In other words, the employees are constantly in crisis mode. Oh wait, allow me to personalize that.
I am constantly in crisis mode.
Bingo. Now I know where my frustration originates.
Ever since the time I was about ten or eleven, my family was constantly in crisis. Every six months we were moving. Without going into the sordid details, let me just say that I learned to survive, not how to thrive. When a person is subjected to chronic stress like that, if forms life-long patterns. In other words, one becomes a junkie for stress. Like a junkie, a person like myself will subconsciously seek out toxic situations that give us our stress fix, even if it is detrimental to our well-being and/or relationships with others.
The mechanics of the situation is that the brain produces biochemicals that affect our emotional state. Given enough regular exposure to these biochemicals, a person can become addicted to a particular state, which could be productive or detrimental. Take exercise, for example. You've all heard of "runner's high", when the "feel-good" biochemicals called endorphins kick in. When you say things like "What's that idiot doing running in this awful weather?" you've probably identified an exercise junkie who craves that endorphin high and will stop at nothing to get it, even if it means going cross-country in minus-10F weather.
The upside is that I - and people like myself - are not necessarily doomed by our past. With honest and courageous introspection, one can come to understand the source of discontent and treat the disease. Thankfully, I'm a terrible liar, even to myself. I just gotta know why I do the numbskull things that I do.
I noticed while I was going through my day that I had trouble walking. (By the way, yesterday was a day from hell where literally every single thing I did just exploded in my face) I listed. I stumbled. I found trouble forming my words at times and was confused. Just. Like. A. Drunk. Why do I say that? Because that's the unscientific identification of the symptoms of stress. In alcoholic circles, it's called a "dry drunk". I hadn't consumed any alcohol or drugs. I was drunk with stress via crisis and I created it for myself by obtaining an employment situation that fit all the criteria I needed in order to feel that way. I worked fuckin' hard for that moment!
This is called taking responsibility. I did it to myself. I was relaxed and had a super-low level of stress running the hotel in Idaho. After four months, I told myself that I was ready to come back to Seattle and conquer the world. What I was doing, in actuality, was preparing myself for yesterday, my self-created disaster.
Um, you can always find hints to what's going on with yourself if you listen to the things you say. At Specialites, you receive a really cool metal key fob as an anniversary present that shows how many years of service you've put in with the company. When my supervisor showed me his, I laughed. (When he showed me his key fob, you sickos.) I said, "So, this is your version of an AA coin, eh?" Everyone in the office laughed heartily. Now, when I look back on that conversation, I realize the laugh really was on me.
As any good drone from Alcoholics Anonymous will tell you, admitting that you are powerless is the first step towards recovery. Well, I'm not powerless.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
It's Good To Be Home (Or, What The Hell Happened To My Hair???)
I arrived in Seattle late last Saturday night, to 37-degree weather that felt nothing short of tropical.
"Hey! Hey! You wanna haycuh-t? Clo dooh, clo dooh!" yelled an older Vietnamese lady in black stretch pants and some kind of top in a horizontal zebra-striped print. She's sitting in one of those chairs used for mani/pedi clients, eating what I assume is the rotten fish I smell. "You wan haycuh-t?" I nod. She yells into the back, "Hahy! Cuh-tomah need cut!" in a shrieking Asian falsetto. I'm feeling the pangs of regret already.
She glares at me. "How yuh wan?" She grabs a comb that's about ten inches long and starts pointing (stabbing?) at photos on her mirror of impossibly handsome Asian men that must be twenty years younger than me. "Off the ears, off the neck, shorten the sideburns, and just make it look nice." She gives me a phlegm-filled huff (oh, please not in my face!), grabs a electric razor and goes to town. Hair is flying e-ver-y-where. I'm somewhere off in space. In retrospect, I believe I was suffering from shock.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm standing at the cashier's booth, slightly dazed. "Yuh like! Yuh like!". I can't tell if the girl is asking me or telling me. "Uh-huh," I say as I pay and walk out the door. I passed by a mirror in the window next door and can see the haircut up close. Totally. Butchered. MyHair. For a moment, I felt like Britney Spears - and not "Baby Hit Me" Britney. We're talking self-shaved, drink in one hand, baby-driving with the other hand Britney. As I'm writing this, I'm having one of those maniacally strained giggle-snort-WTF?-combo moments.
After this incident, I was wondering how I could memorialize this in a photograph. I see myself, wearing the hair drape, hands by my horrified face, climbing backward on the barber's chair. In the foreground, all you see is a hairy arm holding a machete that drips blood. Really, it would be a better comic book cover than a photo.
Thankfully, I can say that after a good wash and a bit of product, this is really a rockin' haircut she gave me. My only wish is that I didn't feel like I just rubbed shoulders with an episode of the Twilight Zone. Welcome home.
It's good to be home. I just missed the avalanche. Lucky me. Whew!
After arriving at my new digs in Shoreline, I took a day to recuperate from traveling, reconnect with my roomies who I hadn't seen in a long while, and reintroduce myself to the neighborhood. I grabbed a burger and fries, I did some banking, and oh! those damn sideburns are way-hay-hay too long! Time for a haircut.
I mosey on down the street towards a salon but on the way find a different place offering men's cuts for $9.00. Cheapskate that I am, I'll take that deal. It's five dollah less dan de place up de street!
The moment I opened the door, I should have turned and ran the other way. I was assaulted by the humid scent of some oriental fish dinner which made me stop in my tracks. Is this the right place? I look at the sign - yep, haircuts for men, women, and children. I shrug and walk in.
 |
| YO! Certainly, NOT me. |
Out from the back comes a young, slender Vietnamese girl who, I swear to God, looked like she was about to fall over dead. She's no nonsense. "Seedown!" She gestures at the haircut station. I sit. Just as she begins to strangle me with the hair drape I notice a half-used box of Theraflu and dirty tissues littered all over the counter to my left. She coughs. Or has a seizure. It's kinda hard to tell. "HAAAACK! AAAAACK! ACK!" Oh, my god. I hope her's is a cold and not tuberculosis.
"How yuh wan?" she asks, after regaining her breath.
"Um, excuse me?" For a second I'm wondering if we're still talking about a haircut, considering that there is a neon sign in the window advertising massages.
 |
| Wish it was me. |
To my right, through a door and behind a beaded curtain I can hear a young boy playing a video game, murdering pixelated soldiers with wild abandon. To my left, Buddha has a meal that some flies are beginning to take an interest in. Behind me, Grandma Zebra has taken her own client, another Asian woman who can barely communicate with her. As I'm spitting out hair that is falling like snow, I can hear the music in the shop, a kind of oriental-style elevator music. Holy crap! Is that "Guantanamera"?
 |
| Nope. It's her. |
 |
| FEELS like me, sometimes. |
Thankfully, I can say that after a good wash and a bit of product, this is really a rockin' haircut she gave me. My only wish is that I didn't feel like I just rubbed shoulders with an episode of the Twilight Zone. Welcome home.
 |
| Ah. Finally. |
Saturday, February 26, 2011
BREAKING NEWS: For Star Blazers Fans!
OK. For those of you that don't already know, I'm a total dork about some things. The old "Star Blazers" cartoon is being developed into a two-hour live action movie! As I sit here, partially ready to do a little dance, I have the same misgivings I had about the "Lord of The Rings" trilogy: either it's going to be fan-fucking-tastic! or it's gonna suck ass.
Here's a little "halla" to those that watched it before school when we were kids:
Click on the title to go to the Rotten Tomatoes news release!
Click on the title to go to the Rotten Tomatoes news release!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
When You're A Thief, It's Good To Be Discriminating
Click on the title to go to the Belfast Telegraph article. Thanks for the link, Elizabeth!
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Simpsons - In Real Life!
OK, apparently this video is at least four years old, maybe older, but it's wonderful. It's the recreation of the opening sequence from The Simpsons using real people and places. The level of detail is astounding (don't miss Homer's plumber butt) and, as one person put it, slightly disturbing when real people are involved. Ah, the British!
OK, don't listen to me. See it for yourself. Click on the title to go to the video. Thanks for the link, Andee!
OK, don't listen to me. See it for yourself. Click on the title to go to the video. Thanks for the link, Andee!
Prosthetic Pat-Downs?
An Alaskan legislator underwent a full-body scan and then was told that she would have to submit to a intrusive pat-down because the scan revealed a prosthetic boob. (She'd recently had a masectomy.) She refused and opted to take the ferry home to Alaska.
Bully for her.
I refuse to fly anymore. The TSA makes you about as safe as a snowfall in the Andes gives you something to drink.
The TSA was just a way for Michael Chertoff to sell full-body scanners to the government. It's that simple.
Click on the title to read more about how your right against unreasonable search and seizure is trampled on every day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)