I sometimes work with children. Petty children.

A big project I'm participating in at work is a move of about 30 people from our main building to a new space in another building just across the sidewalk. The move is to accommodate growth, and the new space is quite nice. I would be happy to move over there myself - it's a pretty cool setup, designed by a talented architect.

One of the higher-level people moving is a person who has worked at the company for quite a long time and has since gone pretty much batshit insane with office politics and who slots where in the office pecking order. Ever since this person found out that they would be moving, they've nit-picked every last ridiculous detail of the construction of the space, to the extent of hassling the project managers on a daily basis.

Over the last few days, I've been stopped in the hallways repeatedly by various people, all of whom work under batshit insane person, and they've all asked me the same question: "Where will my office be in the new space?" Since I haven't yet committed the 3rd grade seating chart to memory, I've only been able to give out vague info to those who have asked, and I've been starting to wonder where all the questions are coming from.

Until tonight, when this email from the nit-picker hit my inbox:

Currently there are only a few people who are aware of where they are sitting in the new building. We have a lot of inquiring minds right now so please do not share the chart you have with anyone.

Thanks

Q.

What the fuck? I can't think of ANY valid reason for keeping this information secret. Maybe if we worked for the CIA, but for fuck's sake, we make ads selling cars, recliners, cameras and un-tasty energy bars. What are we worried about? Ze Germans?

Why not come out and just admit that you can't manage your department, and that you've let the situation devolve to the point where you're unable to wrangle a bunch of screaming ten year olds?

*snif*

Y'all probably know that I'm just a big 'ol softie, but reading THIS story made me all happy/weepy awesome.

Go read it. I dare you to read that and not feel better for it.

Did I mention that Wall•E is awesome? It is. Go see it.

Meme? Nono. JonJon!

I ran across a meme called "8 Random Facts About Me" where you're supposed to list eight facts about yourself. Blech. I'm vain and plenty narcissistic, but I have a better idea; I'm gonna write eight random facts about my very good friend, Jon Miller. Hopefully none of them will have anything to do with me, but I make no promises.

Eight Random Facts About Jon Miller:

1. His middle name: Lee. His dad's middle name: Emil.
2. He and his lovely wife just bought a new Honda Accord. They fight about who gets to drive it.
3. He used to be a kickass drummer. I don't think he's played since high school, but for all I know, he may still be a kickass drummer.
4. He used to have this small animal trap that he'd bait with peanut butter. He took glee from poking the critters with sticks, but he always let them go, unhurt.
5. He's pretty damn good at baseball. Not bad at kickball, too.
6. It's so damn fun to razz him about stuff - he gets so amusingly bent out of shape if you push the right buttons. But he always snaps right back to happy.
7. He's incredibly good at hamming it up in front of a camera.
8. He's one of the most optimistic, happy-go-lucky people I know. And he's an excellent friend.

Badger?

I was at work today, having a perfectly civil conversation with my boss in his office, when a woman I work with barged in and told me I have hair like a badger.I was caught too off-guard by this to come back with a witty retort; all I managed was a "Gee, thanks. I think." She tried to laugh it off, but it got all awkward for a moment before she asked my boss a question about something unrelated to what *I* was discussing with him before she bulldozed in.

How fast would I get punted in the nuts by women if I went around comparing their hair to that of small ugly creatures? "Hey there, nice innocent lady - your hair looks like an otter." *PUNT*

Even if my hair DOES look like a badger, I don't think I want people telling me so.

Creativity.

To the two or three of you out there still keeping up on this sad excuse for a blog, I apologize. I'm not sure what's wrong with me - I've had plenty of interesting things to write about, but no more than a thin fog of words to commit to electrons. I've got four drafts started, none with more than a sentence or two and nowhere to go.

I'm guarded with my thoughts and feelings right now, like they're a nut I need to stash away in order to survive. I've been wanting to vent, but the time or circumstances just never feel right.

Is it bad that I'm just now mixing my first drink of the evening, at nine minutes after midnight on a Tuesday? Is it worse that I'm drinking a White Russian out of a frosty beer mug because I'm too lazy to go get some ice? Hmm. If I did this more often, I might resemble a drinking problem.

Photographer Robert Capa once said: "If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough." I suspect that can apply to me and this blog, too. The writing here is not good enough because I'm not letting myself get close enough.

Therapy: a break.

I've not blogged about therapy recently because I've decided to take a break from it for awhile. I've only got 9 sessions left for 2008, so my plan is to take what I've learned and run with it for now, then head back in later in the year when I've got questions.

I felt like I was breaking up with my therapist when I called her, but she wasn't in the office when I called. I sometimes view therapists/shrinks with a skeptical eye, always a little wary of being roped into a situation where I feel like I need to do it. I've even caught a vibe from my therapist once or twice where it seemed like she was trying to sink some hooks into me. So I'm nipping that in the bud, as it were, and taking a break.

I may still post about some of the issues I'm working on from time to time.

Therapy, session 11

Today's session was a jumble. I started off rambling about some minor, unimportant annoyances in my life, then snuck in a zinger; I told her I'd been thinking of taking a break from therapy for a month or two as I take some time to apply some of the things I've learned.

Shockingly, she was not a fan of that idea. (Was that too sarcastic?)

I mentioned that I'm a little poor at the moment (we later covered my inability to manage money), and that my 20 sessions per year paid for by my health insurance are already half gone. She then launched into a little riff about how my mental health is worth it (okay, she's got a point there), and that I should make therapy a priority (as if I don't give it enough priority in my life. sheesh.).

The rest of the session focused on my previously-mentioned lack of financial management skills, and how it relates to my relationships. I quickly learned that she puts a much higher priority on money than I do. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but she treated some of the things I said as relationship revelations, when I honestly think that they're no big deal. I do get down on myself from time to time about my poor money skills, but I certainly don't let money (or the lack of it) keep me from being happy. A minor embarrassment, sure. Relationship deal breaker, not so much.

Bah, this post is rambling. Enough for now.

500!

I think most peeps who read this blog are aware of the 366:2008 project and my 365 project from last year. Yesterday, I passed a small milestone; my 500th day of shooting a photo a day. I posted the day's 500th photo(s) over on 366:2008, but I also made a little 50 second video with the 499 photos I shot before it.
499. from steve lyon on Vimeo.

Therapy, session 10

I went into this session feeling a little feisty. See, I recently had this good conversation with a friend, where I came away with the distinct feeling like I just need to buck the fuck up and put my ancient history behind me. Acknowledge it, deal with it, learn from the mistakes, and get on with my life. Stop obsessing with the bullshit minutiae that happened to me 25 years ago and learn how to make some concrete changes in my life right here and now, today.

Those of you still reading this might be yelling "FINALLY!" at your keyboard right now. Yeah, that's how I feel about it, too.

All of my past experiences, all the hurt, the anger, the pain, the power struggles, all boil down to one thing. Fear. I'm afraid. And for me to ever experience life, to really earn my friends, to really love, to really fucking LIVE, I have to manage my fears. Sure, it'll always be easier and safer to do what I've always done, live the life I've always lived, but gee whiz Wally, look how smashingly well that strategy has worked for me so far. Playin' it safe, perfectly content to shut myself off in my own mind where nobody can sneak in and hurt me. That's been such rewarding fun.

The high dive is a cheesy, but apt metaphor for what I'm trying to convince myself to do. I'm up there, lookin' down on that water, drenched in the fear that if I let anything change my little life up there on that platform, oh gosh, I just might get hurt. What I never consider is that after 36 years of puttering around in the shallow end, I'm a pretty damn good swimmer. I can handle that dive.

I just need to trust myself.

Jump.

Post? Me? Oh, okay.

Sorry to leave y'all hanging on that tired old DMV post for so long. The DMV wasn't THAT good.

Problem is, I've been wanting to post a whole shit-ton of my thoughts recently, but my writing skills are just not up to the task of proper expression. Doesn't help that I've felt like I'm lacking traction in most aspects of my life lately.

To combat this wheelspin (hey, I love me a good car metaphor), I've made a mini resolution to try and get more of it down in pixels here.

On with it.

I love the DMV.

Okay, "love" is a bit of an exaggeration; maybe "blossoming relationship of non-hate" would be more accurate. On the 15th, Melba and I went to the Culver City office of the California Department of Motor Vehicles. Recalling the hell I've experienced in DMVs past, I took the day off to do battle with the usual runaway bureaucracy and the sloth-like dregs of civil service.

I could not have been more wrong. The DMV was a breeze.

Seriously. I'm not kidding. And it wasn't just a simple stop, either. Melba took (and passed) the written driver's test, got her picture taken and got her California license. I got a one-trip permit to move a car for a friend, renewed my ID, and even got some info about my driver's license. And we were out of there in 45 minutes.Not only were the folks working at the DMV speedy, they were friendly, too. Pleasant, efficient people who seemed genuinely happy to help. Amazing. Not only was that office speedy and efficient, Melba received her fresh new driver's license in the mail a snappy 5 days later, a week earlier than quoted. What service!

Kudos to you, Culver City DMV.