A note about holiday outfits

My friend Nada observes on FB: "My dress up clothes had a great time at the holiday party last night; their fun continues with a trip to the dry cleaners."

Nada's experience leads me to believe that our holiday outfits may just need some etiquette guidelines to help them through the party season.

One's outfit should never attempt to match the wearer drink for drink. Doing so indicates that the wearer is becoming sloppydrunk and spilling too much.

Outfits with sleeves should be especially careful around the dip.

Ladies outfits should not to provide overenthusiastic introductions to attendant gentlemen. Your humble correspondent would say that nobody wants to see that, but he would be lying, and assures you that we do so want to see that, but trying to maintain eye contact with your eyes and your boobs is making us a bit crosseyed and is causing us to spill drinks.

Gentlemen's jackets should remain on the gentleman, rather than being set aside where mischievous ruffians may be tempted to go through the pockets while the gentleman goes to get another drink.

Gentlemen's outfits, trousers in particular, should remain about one's waist and not wander down to one's knees, even if some mischievous ruffian has come into the possession of another partygoer's new iPhone and decided that it would be the height of comedy to make unclad butts the partygoer's default wallpaper. While it is very funny to iMoon friends, the attendant riotous laughter does tend to lead to more spilled drinks.

Lady's footwear must make every effort to keep the lady upright, especially when near the dessert table and doubly so when the lady is distracted by two cackling buffoons posing for a butt shot. The resulting stumble and inadvertent launch of a tray full of eclairs leads to the only thing worse than a spilled drink, which is a spilled dessert.

Gentlemen's jackets should note that it is inappropriate to accessorize with whipped cream as a boutonniere even if your gentleman has no idea how it got there.

Spilled drinks are permissible in the event of an eclair landing in a lady's cleavage. What are the odds of that happening? I mean really. It never happens. almost.

Finally, every partygoer should consider themselves successful if their party outfit actually follows them home, though preferably not in a cab then next morning. Even so, one can't help but feel superior to those partygoers whose outfits were abandoned out by the hot tub, and who awoke, buck naked, in the cloakroom, to the shrieks of the housekeeping staff. They assure me they thought you were dead.

Big Brother is watching you...

So apparently if you linger overlong on a job link that you followed from Linked In, the talent wranglers will come hunt you down and try to get you to submit your resume. Which is both kinda creepy and kind of cool at the same time. I feel like one of those B-list celebrities that was never sexy enough to have a stalker of my own. It's like I used to have to go to an agency and hire stalkers, cause, you know, you aren't anything in this society unless somebody wants you.

So I guess I'm off to work on my resume...

How to interview for a job you don't really want.

"Yeah, this position isn't my first choice, I'd really rather be a heavy equipment operator but I drink too much."

"Yeah, well, I thought you guys would be good to work for on account of I've used your products, and I liked them a lot, because it's really clear from their design that everybody that works here drinks way too much, so I thought I'd fit right in."

"No more questions? Awesome! when do I start?"

The Problem with Pessimism

It occurs to me that the problem with sustaining a properly pessimistic outlook is that things really are getting better, well for me personally, anyway. And it's not like I'm winning the lottery or experiencing any great professional successes, but I do feel surrounded by love, and a guy can get by on that. And a paycheck.

So while I know the world is going to hell in a handbasket, I'm experiencing a bit of cognitive dissonance in my personal experience. They say the economy is faltering on the brink of a double dip recession, but I'm getting unsolicited contacts from recruiters, which hasn't happened since the wheels came off the internet bubble. Work is being nice. granting stock (paltry amounts) to the domestic rank and file all of a sudden, as if there's something less effective about shipping production to India, China, and what not.

And while were on the subject of me getting my ass handed to me...

Internal combustion engines suck. I've been trying to start my boat for two weeks. (No spark, leading me to the conclusion that the thrill is gone between us. Unfortunately I can't recall how BB King resolved this situation in his song.) Which might be part of the problem. Real mechanics prolly consult an engine manual or some stupid thing like that. Me? I consult the Blues.

I've consulted the Blues for many of life's little problems, and have found the the Blues are a particularly worthless reference when it comes to love advice. Ask the Blues a reasonable question like "Bad bitch done me wrong, what I do now?" And you get back suggestions like "Shoot her dead." and "Jump a northbound train."

I mean like what the fuck? Don't blues artists have real jobs!?! Shoot her dead? Really? Like that's what passes for conflict resolution in the delta? And jump a train north? Hello? I have to be at work in the morning.

We need a whole new form of the blues for whiney suburban dads like me.

Ass handing results.

As my dedicated readers will know, I took a soccer coaching exam a month ago, and finally got the results back. As anticipated, I did not get the coveted (by whom?) national D license, being judged to be "Not Ready". So I've got that going for me, which is nice. Now when people ask me to do something I'd rather not do, I can just say, "Oh, I'm not ready, I have like this official letter from WSYSA and everything."

Actually I think I got really close, but there was one teaching standard on my practice exams that I had trouble reaching, partially because my natural teaching style is more of laid back kind of let's see them "explore the space" of the drill, rather than directing it to exactly what I want to see the minute it varies from my script. And there are reasons to do it my way, cause soccer is a sport of "spontaneous expression" where magic happens if you cultivate the player's ability to create situations, but the reality of the exam environment is that you have to demonstrate that you can see and correct flaws in the execution of the exercise. And I could do that if it were a technical exercise, but a tactical exercise is... something I don't have enough experience with, and frankly when my excessively skillful co-candidates were running my exercises, I couldn't keep up with the speed they were moving. Which is my failing, I'll own it, and try to get better.

So I did not come out of this empty handed. While I did not get D national, I got the state D certificate, which means I am not a complete dumbshit. And more than that, I felt like I won the respect of my peers, even those who have a whole lot more invested in this process and a substantial chunk of their future tied up in succeeding. I meant there were folks who were trying to make a career of soccer coaching. That's some serious dedication to the sport, right there. So basically to have them take me seriously and respect my abilities. (I can pass very, very, very well, but you have to be good to appreciate how well (It was when I dropped the first 30 yard chip pass in over the defenders, that they realized it first. That pass takes a lot of touch, and most people have completely blown it enough times that they don't even try anymore.)) And they also respected my insights, if not always my judgement: "You know that flatback four formation is really difficult to coach." Me: "Yeah, but if you're going to teach the offsides trap and defending against through passes, it's the most intuitive formation for the kids."

And the final sour grapes moment: Getting the D national basically means you are ready to take the C National. As if. Look, you all saw me bitchin' about 38 hours of exam against tough competition, do you really think I'm going to sign up fro 68 hours of exam against even tougher competition? Not fuckin likely. I might retake D. But there's no way in hell I'm taking C.

In which I get my ass handed to me.

So in our last installment, we noted that I was headed for a fall with this soccer coaching certification. Oh how little did I know. So coaching isn't a big problem. I know my stuff. I can that part of it off.

The problem is I'm 48 years old. Some of the other candidates are 24 yo, former development team, Div I varsity, or English semi pro (in 1 case) players, and JESUSFUCKINGCHRIST they are a little difficult to play against for EIGHT GODDAMNED HOURS in the HOT SUN. I mean sure they are more skilled, but the thing about players that have played at that level is that they have an intensity level that goes to eleven so every fucking exercise is at level 10 which gets to be a little tiring.

So yeah, physically, I am a whupped as I've ever been.

Heading for a fall

Against my better judgment, I've signed up to try for my US Soccer D coaching license. I actually think I'm pretty well prepared, but it does involve committing my next two full weekends to dorking around with soccer drills. Most people only do this because their association (or employer) is leaning on them but I'm doing it for the pure love of the game. Well, and so that I don't have to do it later and really inconvenience myself. I did my "E" level last year, which is a certificate, and requires you to teach a lesson, but it's not graded and you can't really fail. The D is graded and you can fail and have to retake it. So, ummmm, the pressure is on.

I'm kind of very introverted by nature, though I've learned to move outside that barrier, and have taught adults in the classroom and on skis. I was actually a certified ski instructor upon a time, but my strength there was in my physical ability, rather than my pure teaching ability, which proved to be the yoke around my neck that prevented me for reaching the highest level of certification (despite three attempts.) You can kinda see why my anxiety level is rising.

So basically, I'm headed for a fall. I know I can do this but I'm expecting the worst. Which is as it should be.

Sorry seems to be the hardest word

You know its sad, so sad. It's a sad, sad situation. And we could talk it over, but I have nothing to say. So, sorry about the lack of posts. I'm just not getting anywhere near completion on anything remotely resembling the kind of blog post I'd like to make. So, sorry blogger peeps. My wife and kids love me though. So I've got that going for me. Which is nice.

(Now if anyone would just start meeting my expectations, I'd not feel such a profound disappointment. Sorry about that as well.)

Managing Your Expectations of your Children

Oh dear, it's been a while, hasn't it? Well, I've been out there gathering up some more negative experiences to share with y'all.

So my daughter likes to play soccer, and she's pretty good at it, but mostly because she's so darned athletic and runs harder than the others. But she's not super polished, like those kids who do their homework of their own free will and will practice anything you tell them over and over again until they get it right. It'll take her maybe three tries to get any one thing right, and then she's off chasing butterflies--if, in fact, she ever stops chasing butterflies long enough to hear what you're telling her to do. But she's instinctual. She takes the ball away from the other team, runs with it, and shoots, and scores... a lot.

So naturally I figured the best thing for her would be to play with girls that are better than her and can show her how and why she needs to pay attention to what she's doing. So she's been playing Rec league soccer, which is swell but very egalitarian so everyone's playing there, including the numerous kids who don't want to be playing but whose parents require them to do a sport. And the next step up is Select, but that doesn't start until she's a year or two older. And the next step up beyond that is Premier, which is pretty hardcore, but does start at her age group, so I'm thinking to myself "Yeah, that's the ticket, we'll get her in with these girls, get her some really good fundamental training for a year, and then she'll be set to either continue on with them, or go back down to where ever she's comfortable." Sounds like a good plan, doesn't it?

I should have known when I got the promotional emails from Eastside FC that said things like "your child's character will be forged in the crucible of intense competition" that we was in over our heads. I mean, don't get me wrong, Eastside is truly a high character organization, that stays away from a lot of the really shitty things that elite youth sports organizations do, and they do have some really really great professional soccer coaches on staff, but they are pretty fucking intense.

So anyway, we decided to go to the tryouts, and they recommended preparing for tryouts by taking your kids out and letting them play a bit. So that's what we did. We'd go to the park and kick the ball around. We'd work on skills. A was really receptive, and eager to improve. We had a great father-daughter bonding experience. And I felt pretty good about her chances of making one of the teams.

So anyway, we come to time for the tryout, and it's quite a major affair. There are around 70 girls trying out for 25 places, which it pretty intense competition for a 9-year-old, but I told her to just do her best, and that's all I expected of her. So anyway, we got out there for the first day, and dang! there's a lot of really good 9-year-olds, but whatever, we'll shine because of our athleticism.

Wrong! Cue the awful spring we're having, and the skies open up with a hard, steady rain and a temperature in the mid forties. It was pretty awful, and my daughter just got slower and slower as she got colder. And she wasn't the only one, but man, her game fell apart. I had to yell to her to keep moving, not for the sake of the tryout, but just to keep warm. After the longest 90 minutes ever, the first day was over. We scurried back to the car to get on dry clothes and warm up. So many little girls were just bawling as they walked off the field, they were all so cold.

So the next day was much better. Almost sunny, but Ooops! we forgot our ADHD medication in the morning, and we were so very frequently not on task. I know a lot of people think that kids are over-medicated these days and that ADHD is just some made up thing, but here's what it looks like during a soccer scrimmage: Cartwheel. Cartwheel. Attempted front flip. Steal the ball on defense. Run up the field, run back down the field. Cartwheel. Front flip. cartwheel. run up the field, steal the ball, breakaway, score. Cartwheel. Cartwheel. Cartwheel. run back down the field, deny scoring opportunity. Cartwheel. Attempted front flip... etc. for 90 minutes. Impressed with her energy, they moved her up to the next higher group, but she was just out of place there. raw, unpolished, not knowing the protocol, or where to stand, or what to do.

The third day was spent in the remainders group. And the girls played, but I think they knew he score. A was able to stop with the gymnastics, and kind of continued her reign of terror, but got very surly and sat out for a time. She said one of the girls was mean to her. I told her that she was stronger and faster that a lot of other girls, and that she should expect people to try to get even in mean ways. That it meant she was winning (durr!) and that letting them get to her meant that they were winning. We'll see if that sunk in. It's a good lesson for life.

So anyway, she didn't make it. But that's alright. And I told her that it was alright, and that all I wanted he to do was to try, and she did, and I was proud of her for that, and that I would always love her. And she told me that she thought the reason that she didn't make the team was that she didn't run all the time and that she did too much gymnastics. And that made me very happy with my disappointment.

And you know what else? It's been a really, really difficult winter, behavior-wise with the daughter but now she is happier and more relaxed, and we have a great relationship. That fucking stupid tryout was the best $20 I ever spent.

And in case you're wondering, she still loves soccer. I found a Sunday program for her, where she has to play with up to 1 year older kids, both boys and girls. And she's holding her own.

Random Bits of Vomit

1) A neighbor, Milt, passed away last week. He was 92 and one of the most decent, kind, and well loved older guys around. We spent many hours talking about drainage and such. I'll miss him. There's not really anything instructive to take from this, except that if you are nice, people will speak well of you after you pass. Maybe that's enough.

2) So my boy's Physics teacher resigned a couple of weeks ago. Turns out he was caught by the police, buck naked, in his car, in a park, in flagrante delicto with a sixteen year old former student. Ooops. And the thing is I met the guy, talked with him quite a bit, owing to my son's academic waywardness, and he didn't seem like that kind of guy at all. A good Christian, but not in an obnoxious or clumsy way. (Some Christians strike me as the kind of people that weren't good at anything until they found religion. I suppose that applies to all religions, really, and there's nothing wrong with that really, but I judge people by their competence in the here and now, because I'm a pessimist and I'm constantly trying to calculate how long it will be before anyone does anything that will fuck up my day.) I generally just shake my head when these teacher-student stories come up in the news, but this one hits a little too close to home.

Anyway, dude didn't seem like the type. As if I know the type. I suppose they were "in love". Which happens. But not to me. I look at a woman under 30 and I'm thinking "jail time." Well actually no, I think of them as my kids. So I'm pretty much thinking "You dork!" because that's what I think of when I look at my kids. So guys, if your sixteen year old niece has filled out to be an awesome cherry tomato, just remember that, on the inside, she's still Napolean Dynamite, complete with funky ass moon boots, Gosh!

Oh Boy! A Misery Index!

Anything with "Misery" in the title is sure to draw me in like a moth to flame, so when I saw the Wall Street Journal has come up with a misery index, I was sure to read it: WSJ Misery Index.

As it turns out, we in the Seattle area are pretty miserable, which is reassuring, because I was pretty sure I had been singled out unfairly. So I read this article and, as you would expect, it's a big disappointment because it's all about economic measures of misery. Don't get me wrong, I find economics as dismal a read as anything. Every economic nugget I read just reinforces my notion that everything is going to hell even more irrevocably than before. But this Misery index brings the "meh." and this is why:

So it focuses on three things: cost of gas, home prices, and unemployment. While these are all miserable things, they aren't really that terrible, well unemployment is, but the other two are really a folly metric.

Let's start with gas prices. Driving your own car is inefficient as hell. Going all the places I have to go is inefficient as hell, and If I really looked at it, I wouldn't need to go to those places, I could just cut them out of the equation. Send the girl to the crappy afterschool care program instead of the nice one with the pool. Quit farting around with kid sports. Quit taking them to tutors and counseling. Tell them to rub some dirt on it if they're hurt. Those weekend trips up to the ski lodge? forget about it. The point is that the pain you feet from gas prices is self inflicted, based on folly, vanity, or whatever compels us to do these things we do.

Home prices? Cry me a river. It doesn't matter unless you are selling one. If you're looking to buy, then it's a happy circumstance. Looking to trade one for another? Well, you won't get as much for the one you sell, and you won't pay as much for the one you buy. Underwater? Overextended? Don't reach so far next time. See the thing about owning a house is this: the goal should be to own it, free and clear. It's not an investment. It's not a source of capital. It's securing a place for yourself to live. Ideally, a place you can't get kicked out of. If you're not interested in that, home ownership is not for you.

Rising home prices didn't really make me happy. Oh sure, it was nice to see the assessment at so much more than I owed, but it was hollow money. I couldn't get it. If I sold, I would have to move, and that's not something I'm interested in. If I borrowed against it, I would have to pay it back. The only real effect of rising home prices was on the taxes I pay. So yeah, let them fall. Let the people that value home ownership for what it is buy homes. Let the others do something more suited to their values. And please God, let it run up to crazy land just before I have to sell.

So about that unemployment. Yeah, it's pretty miserable to be unemployed, but reflecting back on own my time as a surplus person, it wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to me. It was actually a personally productive time. I lost some weight, I read a lot of books, learned a lot of new things, built some furniture, and had some new experiences. I can't say the time was a complete loss. I'd actually be kind of happy to be out of work now. I mean I could be happier, particularly if I was better prepared for it. (Being a pessimist means that your notion of economic strain is having less that a years salary stashed away in some emergency fund)

But that's the thing: misery doesn't come about as a result of a poor economy. Misery comes from a lack of preparation. The economists should measure that.

So are we miserable in Seattle? Nah. Just spoiled.

The Bug or the Windshield?

So we were yakking in the locker room at the club, bitching about the unreasonable difficulty of our workout in the sports conditioning class, and one guy goes "Well, some days you're the bug and other days you're the windshield..."

So I pipe in with "You know, I'm not sure which of those I like least.."

And we all laughed. Cause sometimes crumpling into a splattered mess is more appealing than standing up and getting shit splattered all over you.

It's all gonna suck, folks, but that's how you get better.

Rational pessimism

Today's guest lecturer: Link

So inspirational, I went out and started a blog about pessimism

First you get old and then you know what's coming next..

There is no more rational reason for pessimism than the simple fact of aging. One year you're motoring along fine and then suddenly you have trouble reading the fine print. And your teeth hurt, cause those fillings from long ago are getting to be of a certain age. And it takes two or sometimes three days to get over a vigorous workout. And you're not as fast as you used to be. And you get weird pains that appear and then leave.

Aging sucks, and you know what else? It's just leading up to death. Isn't that just fucking swell?

I shouldn't complain. I still have my hair. I'm am full of vim and vigor. But I know it's not going to last forever.

Disappointment

You know there's nothing like raising kids to give you those moments that feel like a complete kick in the balls.

Roughly a month ago, I was informed that my daughter has been permanently kicked out off of the ski team for attempting to shove another little girl off the chairlift. And let me just say that there are few things that make you truly question your parenting skills and maybe even your worth as a human being then the realization that you may be raising a sociopath. Cause you know I'm a pretty off the wall person, and I'm not the best at being Mr. Upright and Proper, but still... a 9 year old sociopath... really?

So my wife and I had a long and productive talk with the daughter, and I can see that she didn't mean for it to come out as bad as it sounds, cause basically she was thinking they were playing dare, and my daughter is really not a person that knows appropriate boundaries, and she tends to be a giant douche to kids that don't set boundaries for her, so I can see how she was thinking it was this and the other little girl was thinking it was that, and you know, once you've done something douchy enough, you're basically fucked. Not that I would know anything about that.

Anyway my daughter got kicked out for being a giant douche. So I'm sad for my daughter, who won't be able to make friends with a whole bunch of kids. And we talked about that, and how it was really a bad idea to play around like that, cause someone could get really hurt or even killed that way. And we talked about how disappointed we were that she would make choices like that. And as we were talking she was doing a great job of holding up the bravado, saying she didn't mean it like that, saying she didn't like it anyway, but then she went and wrote us each a note (she like to write a note any time she thinks she has something important to say) stating that she was sorry for being mean and

"this in my harth (sic) it is dieing.(sic)"

And she brought over the notes, and we read them then, oh did we ever see the waterworks. She talked about her birth mom and how birth mom never taught her to make good choices, and how birth mom never came when she was a baby, and she was crying cause she was hungry, and all this stuff that is really painful for a child to admit about their mother.

And it's not a place we go with her. We're very hands off about the whole thing of why she got taken away from her mom and her brother and sisters. We tell her the judge said it had to be this way because her mom was not making good choices.

But the daughter went ther on her own, and that was pretty much of a breakthrough moment, but she really cried some bitter, bitter tears. And you know, I've seen her cry out of fear, and I've seen her cry out of frustration and anger, but this was something different, this was her coming completely undone.

Fortunately she has the attention span of an incontinent gnat, so she's moved on to normal kid thoughts. But she's not the same. She's a kinder, more loving child now, still rambunctious as all get out, but a bit softer.

And me, I've taken a hit. And some hits make you wonder if you really wanted to get back up again. But I'm up, just a little dizzy.

Of course the reason I took the hit was having high hopes. If I'd expected a cold pail of vomit, well then I would have been right.

Success

I got this thought from an Esquire article on Sumner Redstone, though I'll be damned if I can find it. Anyway the thought is this:

People place too much upon being successful. Success does not come about as a result of previous successes, success comes on the heels of failure. Failure, failure, failure, failure, failure. It is only through failing that we get to the next level, and the only people that get there are the ones who fail, and find the strength to get back up and fail again. And again.

If you're not failing, you're not going to be winning. And if you just failed, remember that you might be one more try away from succeeding.

But expect to fail every day. If you want to move forward.

George Mallean

When I was younger, I worked in aerospace--defense contracting stuff. And it was very fun cause there was a bunch of money to do science, and a bunch of smart people, and it was interesting work, trying to prove that one solution or another was a viable strategy in the battlefield of the future. And the people were really interesting, because everybody is pretty sure they are smarter than everyone else and are looking for an opportunity to prove it.

So I kinda stepped into a loaded situation, where I was a contractor and people at the customer site were waiting to tear my work apart, which they did, immediately and with great vigor. And so I got assigned to work under this really, really negative guy, George Mallean. And he was great. He started out our first meeting with "I know your type and you think you're just gonna sweep in here with some magical bullshit and it's not going to prove anything." And so forth for like a half an hour. It was pretty severe. But because I pretty much expect the worst (especially when the president of my company warns me that I'm really in for it with this Mallean guy) So anyway, long story short, I just say: "Look, I'm 27 years old, I have no idea what you're looking for, and I'm not prepared to defend my work as the greatest thing since sliced bread. You know what you're looking for, tell me what I need to do here." Apparently people don't roll over that quickly in that industry, but it sure worked, because everything got a whole lot easier from there on out. George was happy, my boss thought I was a fricking genius cause George was happy, and I was able to get access to the information that George wanted in my reports.

But that's not the real point of this post. I had George's trust, and the great benefit of his experienced guidance, but the thing that George really taught me was something else. One day George was all bent out of shape (probably justifiably) at something his company was doing and he gave me these words of wisdom: "Erik, if you just think of people, and you expect the absolute worst from them, you know, 99% of time you'll be... absolutely correct."

And, you know, happy people don't think this way. They think people are their friend and that good things will just fall from the sky, like rainbow scented jellybeans from the asses of flying unicorns. But George wasn't interested in being happy, he was interested in being correct. And that, dear readers, was a very significant life lesson for this cowboy.

God love you, George Mallean, where ever you are. I'll not forget you.

Introduction

So, I'm really horrible at blogging, because I just get bored prattling on about my life, and the news, and whatever else I've attempted to blog. Frankly I'm best at commenting on the rich stream of random thoughts I read throughout the day, which is great, but it's not really a great way to collect my wisdom. So anyway, I'm trying to create something worth reading but I need a theme, a unifying concept, something I can search on and find a new idea that inspires me to the next post.

So here it is: Pessimism. I'm a pretty upbeat, energetic sort of guy, but it's because I draw my energy from the daily confirmation that everything is, indeed, going to hell in a handbasket. And when it doesn't, well, that's just a miracle. Think of me as a black hearted Candide.

So really it comes down to expecting the absolute worst. I'm not here to give you simple heartwarming platitudes and whitewashed anecdotes to warm your soul. If your soul is like mine, it draws nothing from that stuff. It pretty much just makes everything worse, leaving me wondering why my life can't be so simple and beautiful and sensible and free of a dozen caveats. I'm not looking for chicken soup here, I'm looking for something worse. And what could be worse than a cold pail of vomit?