On Bullshit

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It’s always the same conversation. You’re at a bar. It’s happy hour. You’re holding a gin and tonic that you wish you could just drink in peace. The people around you are annoying or maybe they’re only that way because you’re annoyed. Whatever.

You start talking to someone. Blah blah blah, my name is so and so, who are you, what do you do? I realize that the career question is important for gauging quite a bit of information about a person, but it’s also the biggest chance for filler. Some people immediately jump into a detailed description, including that inflated job title. Some people are more demure. Some pretend to be interested in what you do.

The responses are all bullshit. 

I spend most of my happy hour conversations bullshitting right along with them and listening to people drop their technical terms like it’s going to make them sound, seem, or even be more important. (I did just begin to type “impotent”, I wonder if that was my subconscious trying to make a point.)

I love the implied importance, the illusion of grandeur, the self-delusion.

This is where successful people are forged. Either you can hack it as a bullshitter or you can’t. Your ability to bullshit directly correlates to your ability to work under pressure. It’s not a bad quality; it’s just funny that so much of the human race relies on it for basic communication.

P.S. I was at Target a few months ago and there was a little girl (seriously, no more than four years old) walking down the aisle just whispering “bullshit, bullshit, bullshit” under her breath. It was so adorable. But it made me worry about her media consumption/home environment. 

(sidenote:)
My boss is super rad. We were demonstrating our product for a potential client last week, and when the guy on the other end made a couple of disparaging remarks about women, my boss stepped up and told him to watch it. Considering that I work in an office full of women, he’s probably used to doing it without thinking anything of it, but I think it’s awesome that he was willing to stand up for us and other women. 
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Also, your song of today is a remix of a beautiful indie song.
It’s called Skinny Love and it’s by Bon Iver.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kS2w5B0MvvY

Odds and Ends. Weekend Edition!

Oh Friday, the promise of a weekend that will fly by too quickly, that sense of release building in your body, the way your mind floats around, outside, like a lost bird.

I imagine that prisoners must start anticipating their release date months in advance, and I can only imagine the immensity of the first footfalls outside the gates.
That is overly dramatic, but that is how I feel on Fridays.
I’d like to have a quick chat with you, dear reader, about sacrifices.
Because right now, I am considering myself god-like. (And by god-like, I mean Jesus-like – it’s all part of the holy trinity, so I’m technically correct. Full of hubris, of course, but correct.)
I am missing the ONE concert I’d like to see at Red Rocks this year to go to Barney’s Birthday Bash live at the Pepsi Center with three small children. I love them dearly, but I’m so creeped out by things in costumes. Like mascots. And giant purple dinosaurs and their primary colored friends.
So creeped out.
Don’t know I’m going to explain why I’m covering my eyes with my hands and peering through my fingers.
Ah, Slightly Stoopid and Shwayze – I’ve been dying to see you. I guess that want will have to slowly simmer inside me until next year.
I already have the “I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family,” song stuck in my head.
In future news:
I’m excited. S will be here in a week and a half (ish)! And he’s meeting Mom. I think he’s more scared to meet Mike. I told him that I’ll do way more damage to him than Mike ever will. And I’m not wrong.
I’ve not been this twitterpated since, well, the college boyfriend. I mean, that ended poorly, but it was fun while it lasted, which was a good long while. Someone was asking me about my past relationships, and it was weird to think that I spent most of college in monogamous relationships – there was D and H, both of whom lasted between a year and a year in half. For someone with my attention span, that’s remarkable.
But this kid is driving me nuts. Usually in a good way. Ugh. I secretly don’t like this vulnerability, although it’s kind of nice. There I go, reinforcing gender stereotypes. Don’t worry too much, I’m not going to go all soft on you.
Not yet.
I hope you’re eagerly anticipating the Barney recap. I know I am.

Self-sufficient

I’ve decided that I’m sick of hearing that I don’t do enough.

That I go out too much.
During the month of July, I went out 2x on a “school night,” not counting trivia on Thursdays.
I hardly think that’s excessive.
I work my regular, full-time 40+ hour/week job. I show up, I work, I go home.
On top of that, I regularly babysit for 3 families (others are in the rotation, but I’ve got three regulars). There are weeks that I’ll be at the office five days and babysit five nights, including the weekend.
I don’t have time to breathe, let alone party.
It’s not fair for people with combined household incomes far exceeding mine to tell me what I can and cannot do with my money. I work damn hard. Most Friday and Saturday nights, I’m more than happy to sleep rather than going out. Why? Because I am either exhausted or poor or both.
So if I want to go to Chicago, then I will. Trust me, I make up for the financial cut in other ways.
For example, when I was in Chicago earlier this month, we went to the grocery store and got food/beer for the weekend. I made no meal outside of the home. I bought no beer at a bar.
I manage to pay all of my bills on time. I’m more self-sufficient than a lot of people I know. And it’s not like I expect anything to come easy, but I would just to wake up one day and not have to juggle fifteen different schedules. It’d be nice to have a free afternoon, just saying.
I’d one day like to have a job where I don’t have to work like a madman outside of work to make ends meet.
I’d like to not have to keep pushing out starting my IRA.
I’d like to be able to save a little bit each month.
I’d like to have a “just in case” fund for when I need new brakes.
I’m sick of worrying about it constantly and I’m even sicker of hearing about it from other people. I’m doing what I have to do, thank you very much. I realize that part of being 23 is about being poor and making sacrifices, but this isn’t healthy.
It’s time for a change.

The Economist…


Work and parenting

Motherly love

Jul 26th 2011, 10:20 by S.D. | LONDON

A WORKING mother knows that balancing the demands of private home and high-rise office is not her only worry. While busy, breadwinning fathers are unlikely to provoke moral panic, the public’s interest in how working women raise their children is easily piqued. One of Britain’s biggest-selling newspapers proclaimed fearfully on Friday: “Three in four middle-class mothers continue to work after having a baby, a study shows… The figures point to a relentless rise in the number of working mothers of very young children.”

ever, to dislodge the stigma that attaches to single parents.

Contrary to these veiled aspersions, the study in question should reassure career-minded mothers. Conducted by researchers at University College London, it surveyed 19,000 British households to determine how parental employment affects a child’s behaviour throughout the first five years of life.

The results will startle those who think that children benefit from having a stay-at-home mum. In fact, the paper indicates that maternal employment can often improve the chances of having well-adjusted kids.

For example, five-year-olds whose mothers had been at home when they were babies were more likely to have behavioural problems than other children. For each child, the longer the time their mother was off work, the more bratty was the child’s behaviour. Housebound women were also far more likely to report symptoms of depression than their working counterparts, problems which can only make the process of childrearing more difficult.

Of course, life can rarely be boiled down to simple equations of cause and effect. What complicates this picture is the correlation between work patterns and other factors like lower household income, poorer education and depression, which might affect whether a woman chooses to go to work. Interestingly, when the study adjusted for these factors, the relationship between bad behaviour and maternal unemployment remained strong for girls but not for boys. This may reflect, the authors said, “the importance of gender in family role model processes”—the inference being that girls benefit from having a mother as an exemplar of a woman who is successful and independent, while the effect is less pronounced for boys.

The paper also looked at the working arrangements of all adults in the household—a sensible method, and a point of distinction with other studies that focused exclusively on what mothers do with their time. Once again, the trends differed by sex. Boys, but not girls, were likely to suffer from their mother being the sole breadwinner, although once the results were adjusted for income, education and depression, the detrimental impact on boys disappeared. Boys thrived equally in homes where both parents were working, and in two-parent “traditional” families in which their mothers stayed at home. Girls, in contrast, appeared to have significantly fewer problems where both parents were employed than in traditional homes.

For social progressives, the results are mixed. Working women can head to their desks knowing that they are doing their daughters a service, and that they are not doing their sons any harm. Yet the study also suggests (the admittedly widely-accepted proposition) that the children of single mothers are more likely to be troublesome, and that the best arrangement for both boys and girls is to live in a two-parent household in which both adults are employed. These results provide a robust defence of why women should be supported in returning to work after childbirth; they make it harder, how

The study has other limitations, too. It restricted its analysis to white children because of problems with sampling other ethnicities. Statistically, that is not a huge drawback: 92% of Britons identified themselves as white in the 2001 census. A bigger issue is the way the data were collected, involving questionnaires about children’s behaviour, almost always answered by mothers. Working mums know that they are vulnerable to criticism from certain sections of society and the media; when surveyed, this might incline them to paint defensively rosy portraits of their children, and so to skew the results.

Dreams

It’s been one of those weeks where your dreams are too real. I am living in those moments, making conscious decisions, and ultimately, freely thinking my own thoughts.

That’s the weirdest part for me. The thoughts.
I woke up startled, not quite terrified, on Thursday morning. I’d just had a pregnancy-labor dream. I realize I’ve probably just been reading too much of NPR’s Baby Project (it’s sort of cute; if you’re into that sort of thing, you should check it out).
In my dream, I was in labor, at the hospital, walking around with my mom and wearing one of those horrible hospital gowns. But the strangest part of the dream was that I kept thinking how I was only x amount of time into labor and already bored.
I sincerely hope that someday, my worst fear for childbirth is how bored I am. I reached down and felt my flat stomach and breathed a sigh of relief. Carlos meowed as he usually does when I bother him too early in the morning, and then came up to snuggle me, and I fell back asleep just as the sunlight was starting to creep through the trees that shelter my window from the street.
And last night, again. But nothing like babies this time. Last night I was an assassin. Don’t ask – it was one of those vivid, shifting dreams where it’s suddenly winter and you’re in Minnesota and then you’re creeping around a house/building/warehouse and you’re killing people. I went down a faux-grass (astroturf) slide like a fish and killed a Japanese guy with crazy hair and a nice suit who happened to be a better at imitating fish movements than me.
That was probably really weird for you, so: Imagine a dark room with a giant, twisty slide that’s not a slide at all, but rather an astroturf covered ramp, and in order to get down it with your gun in your hand, you have to flop like a fish. (I’m not even graceful in my dreams. Great.)
This is the prime example of why I’ll never work for the CIA. I’m not graceful, I’m bad at stealthily fish-flopping, and I have a conscience.
Usually, these wild dreams mean I have a lot on my mind and that I’m overtired. Surprise! Guess what? Both are correct.
The Chicago trip was so worth it, but it nearly killed me, even though I got to spend most of Monday asleep on the couch (as much as I hated missing work, it was so nice to veg out and watch bad television).
Anyway, I’m hoping to get caught up on my sleep this weekend. Babysitting means I’m usually exhausted by the time I get done, so there’s little chance I’ll want to go out dancing (which so bums me out – I haven’t had one of those wild, reckless and possible regrettable [just kidding] nights in ages). Which means sleep – definitely necessary since I have to work essentially a full day tomorrow. The 9-5 hours I missed on Monday and then more babysitting!
Maybe I’ll be able to get to the park before I babysit on Sunday. Or maybe I’ll get to work and log more hours! (That’s ambitious – it won’t really happen and we all know it. I’ll sleep, I’ll probably make some pasta, I’ll be slow to get going – and by then, my weekend will be over.)
But I’m excited for real work tomorrow because I am in creativity mode and thus more prone to devoting my attention to the task of brochure creation. We’ll see how it actually turns out.