We should also hopefully have some workadoo projects up on YouTube shortly, and you’ll be able to see what all the bloggerly-silence has been about… well, that and rampant socializing.
I discovered Cincinnati this weekend, and learned that it’s not ALL of Ohio that sucks… just Dayton. Dayton is the jewel of suckage.
But Columbus and Cincinnati… not so bad!
I am so tired.
Graphic designer: Wow, you look nice today. Did you iron that shirt and everything?
I love my coworkers.
(P.S. I did, in fact, buy 3 no-wrinkle shirts this weekend, for just this reason. I’ve begun looking a lot like Raggedy Ann again.)
My OmniPod has been working pretty wickedly for the past few weeks. I haven’t seen a morning, noon, or night “hit” number above 150 in nearly four weeks (just correction numbers), which is why I was suprised this morning to wake up at 178.
I was even more stunned to see my noon number hit 248 for no reason.
Was I getting sick or something? What the hell was going on? I realized that I’d changed the pod out yesterday, which is when the wacky numbers started (I thought I was way higher than I should have been during my 1:30am test, too).
But hey, maybe I’m just getting sick, so I just keep on keeping on. I popped down to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription.
As I walked back from the pharmacy, I stepped into the elevator and heard this high pitched whine.
That’s a weird elevator whine, I thought. It’s that high dog-whistle radio noise type whine that’s really, really annoying.
And then I had a thought.
I put my hand over my pump.
The noise lessened.
Oh, shit.
When I stepped out of the elevator, it became very clear that I was the one emitting the high pitched whine. I made a beeline to my office with my hand over the pump and grabbed my backup from my bag.
In the bathroom, I went to change out the pump with my PDM. But the PDM said it couldn’t communicate with the pod…
Which meant –
The pod kept beeping.
I peeled it off and replaced it with my backup without any issue, but…
THE POD KEPT BEEPING.
So here I am, standing in the bathroom at work, and I have this continuously beeping pager-sized device in my hand. I pulled off the adhesive backing. I pulled at the edges of the plastic backing. It wouldn’t budge.
I checked to make sure I was the only one in the bathroom.
Then I started throwing my beeping pod as hard as I could against the bathroom floor. I did this at least three times. Thank God nobody walked in on me trying to destroy a piece of medical hardware.
My next thought was to throw it in a sink full of water, but these things are waterproof up to 8 feet for 30 min. I’d have to let it soak – batteries and all – for 30 min.
These fuckers are really well made.
And here’s the deal: you can’t just throw away this beeping thing at work in a high rise building. It looks like a mini-bomb. I knew that if I tossed it and it kept beeping, there was a chance somebody was going to call in the police for bomb sweep. No, seriously. If people are willing to call the cops about half empty bottles of water left in elevators, they’re going to call about a pager-sized device beeping in a bathroom trash can.
My next thought is that I have to somehow pulverize this thing into small pieces. I need to get the fucking battery out, but I don’t have anything on my desk to hammer this thing.
So I went to the experts in demolition.
I went downstairs to the IT hardware guys.
The infrastructure manager pulled out his tools and said, “So I can destroy this, right?”
“Yes, I already replaced it.”
“So basically, I can destroy it and just tear it apart?”
“Yes. Please. It wont. stop. beeping.”
“OK, I’m going to totally destroy it then!”
“Excellent!”
He pulled out some regular pliers and some needle nosed pliers and pried off the plastic backing after a couple of tries (I told you these are well made!). Then he popped out the batteries.
The pod went blessedly silent.
It was then that he asked me, as he handed me the neatly destroyed remains, “What is this, anyway?”
“My insulin pump,” I said.
He just shook his head at me.
I mean really, what do you say to that?
“You know, if we all looked in real life the way we did after I got done with them in Photoshop, that would be pretty awesome.”
Had a project get pushed back to me at work today, one of those low priority projects that comes across your desk, you clean up as best you can in a couple passes, and send back out again.
It came back in the hands of one of our clients, who had marked it up and gave it back to our CEO… along with an offer for his copy editing services.
Yeah, seriously.
I had this terrifying moment where I wished I was just cleaning up and formatting technical SOPs and writing up exec bios and maybe internal memos again, instead of… well, instead of everything. I just wanted to work on things that didn’t really matter. Things that nobody looked at. Things I could do where screwing up didn’t look so huge and didn’t make me look so goddamn incompetent.
I wanted to be nobody, doing nothing important.
I wanted a risk-free job. Because having a job where you actually do public-image type stuff means that not only are the odds good that you will fail – and fail often – but that you will look like a total incompetent ass in front of a great deal of people.
On the bus home, I wanted nothing more than to beeline for Chipotle. I was trying desperately to talk myself into pizza, but it makes me feel so much worse these days that it turned out to be easy to talk myself out of. I wanted something external to fix me and my incompetence. I wanted to hide under the floor, watch some crappy shows, and just disappear.
But you know what?
Here’s the thing. Living is full of risk. Especially when you live like you want something. It’s easy to do crap work that nobody cares about. It’s easy to stay in the same job, in the same town, with the same friends, going to the same places, your whole life. There’s nothing wrong with that. It involves minimal risk.
When I chose to be a writer, I chose to risk making an ass of myself in public when I fucked up. More than that, you don’t even *risk* it, you just *do* it. Every time you put any kind of work up, any time you do something and put it up for public discussion, you *will* at one time or another, fail. You will fail utterly, and publicly. You just will. And you have to accept that. You accept it when you choose that life, or you find some other life, because this is what it is.
God’s War is going to get slammed next year (if anybody even reads it. Slammed would be great, honestly, cause then it would mean people were reading it). I’m going to get called out on a lot of lazy shit. There will be typos. There will be offensive things to people of all walks of life, who will likely tell me just how offensive and stupid and ignorant I am (much of which will be true). There will be continuity errors. Huge plot holes. The occasional stupid line and unlikable character.
That’s how it is.
I’ve had a lot of fear lately, because so much of my writing *has* felt disjointed, off. I’ve been writing a lot of blog posts and personal correspondence with typing errors; words show up in a sentence that shouldn’t be there. Paragraphs don’t tie together. Those deft open/close text packages aren’t as easy to craft, in part, I think, because I haven’t been working hard enough to create them.
I’m going too fast all the time, thinking ahead of what I’m typing, and then losing my train of thought (this post is a good example of that. I started out ready to tie it all up with a bow, and now I’m digressing into sugar numbers and copy edit errors, when I wanted to talk about fear and failure). I don’t know what’s wrong, if I just need a vacation, or what. My sugar numbers are fine. It’s just harder to concentrate.
But whatever it is, temporary insanity or just my usual wackiness, this is how it is. Public failure is the price you pay for a public life, small as mine may be. Sometimes I fuck up. All you can do is work toward not fucking up next time. Or fucking up less spectacularly.
I need to go back to editing everything in triplicate before it goes out. I need to slow down. Not every project needs to go out an hour after I get it, which may be some of the problem. I’m always feeling a sense of urgency that’s just not nearly as important as accuracy.
I remember working with my old boss back before he became President of another company, and how he’d work his ass off all night on projects. Things got done, yeah, but they weren’t done without errors. And they weren’t little errors. I remember one time we actually forgot to turn on an antenna at one of our cell sites. Another time, we sent guys up a tower we weren’t sure we had a structural on (turns out we did, but we didn’t know it when they were 100 ft up an icy, overloaded cell phone tower). We made a lot of mistakes. Tired, overworked mistakes.
But he kept all of our contracts, and got us new ones, because he fessed up to errors, accepted that they were going to happen, and knew how to make the best of them. Shit happens. It’s the price you pay for running too hot, too fast.
And, like I said… in the three years I knew him, he went from Project Manager to President.
He made a lot of mistakes along the way. But he knew how to get shit done.
So it’s back to boning up on my copy writing reading and research, which I’ve been lax about during our latest project, and, as said, instituting my triplicate copy check, exhausting as that may be.
I am not going to be a perfect person. That may be obvious, right? But here’s the thing: when you fuck up big time, there’s this part of you that says, “See, you’re worthless! You’re a total fuck up! You should go back to cleaning dog kennels!” and you’re terrified it’s true, that the whole world is smarter than you, that you’re not fit to breathe, that you should have died two years ago in a hospital in Chicago.
And sure, all these things may be true. But you know what? Life is a persistence game, just like writing, just like 90% of the goals and dreams you set and make for yourself. There are a lot of people who give up when they fail the first time, the second, the third. And there are a lot of people who learn from their failures. And, of course, a lot of people who get by on pure incompetence.
I’d like to be in the second category.
Thing is, you know: I’m not a brilliant person. I work very hard just to have what I’ve got now. And I have to work harder to hold onto it, because there are down days, bad periods, and times when none of your emails or blog posts really make any sense anymore and what you really need is a vacation.
Maybe failure just means you need a vacation.
I’m going to go work on my pony mods and have Nyx chop somebody’s head off.
I’m no better or worse than anybody else at anything. At life, at writing, none of it. I just have no interest in giving up or giving in on any of it.
Persistence.
Even when it’s shit. You, your work, the world.
Persistence.
Because being dead is boring.
Copywriter vs. print designer SMACKDOWN!!
I now understand the age-old rivalry between the copywriter and the print designer.
Work weeks when I have big projects due tend to be kind of crappy weeks, yo. I missed both of my workday workouts because of work meetings and was hopped up on too much diet Coke, which meant I was far more jumpy and anxious than usual. Which means I’m not sleeping well. And I’ve been avoiding the cardio sessions at the gym since I got the pump because I knew that leveling for a cardio session was going to be a fucking bitch. So I avoided it.
The one awesome thing I had control over this week was my going-out habit that I’ve been working to crack (once or twice a week at Chipotle is a serious problem). I’m stunned to say this is the second week in a row that I haven’t given in, mainly due to that whole budgeting thing. Doing so well last month has made me want to do good this month. Also, I have a hankering to go bowling *and* see a movie this weekend. Which requires said fun money. I’m also putting away to buy an elliptical for the apartment. Winter isn’t far away, and having it around when I’m too cold to go to the gym will be great for my peace of mind and my sleep.
I did finally do a cardio session at the gym today after work, the first with the pump, and it was predictably shitty. I decreased my basal by 75% and ate three lifesavers and bottomed out twice. I hung on for 35 min instead of the regular 45 and then called it a night. Cardio at the end of the day just kills my sugar.
So I’m thinking of doing something like a -25% 2 hours before, -50% 1 hour before and -75% during to bring my sugar up enough to work out.
It’s just a matter of getting the numbers right, and sadly, and fucking frustratingly, it’s just a matter of trial and error. And I fucking hate it. But the alternative? The alternative is to just hide in your room and just not do anything cause it’s just too hard, too much trouble, because failing is easy and discomfort is hard.
And who the fuck wants that?
But man, I fucking hated it. The worst part is over, though. I went to the gym for the first time on the pump, and didn’t pass out. Honestly, any day I don’t pass out I should count as a good day. Sometimes I don’t think I give myself enough credit for how well I’ve done (with the incredible support of Steph and the Old Man and Jenn before them). I mean, seriously, an A1c of 5.9 at one point, and never above 7. Let’s just hurrah over that, shall we?
Anyhow, back to the fucking book.
Resolutions for next week:
1) Drink less diet Coke
2) Get to the gym for the designated 4 timeslots, come highs, lows, or hellish waters
3) Write 5,000 words of Black Desert, because seriously, this shit needs to get done. I’ve got another series I need to sell. I have no idea why this fucker won’t write itself. I think I’m lacking in proper motivation (we haven’t even started editing the first book yet, so I think I’m being lazy. Quitting WoW, however, resulted in a sudden flurry of activity, so I’m gunning to have it done mid September).
4) Keep on keepin’ on
Tra la.
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