If these words sound familiar to you, it's probably because you, too, have seen "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas."
Lately, the Grinch's line about the racket from toys keeps striking me as applicable to the overload of information we're all facing.
I love social media, and am a self-proclaimed all around media geek. But lately, it's become too much.
I'm on Twitter, and really like it, both for my reporting and just keeping up on the world. But between that, and Facebook, and LinkedIn, and the blogs I read for work, and the words I consume for work ... well, at the end of the day, my brain feels like plain ol' mush.
I find I'm more tired that usual, and mentally tired at that. Like the very act of picking up the phone seems difficult, and that I crave time to zone out more.
For example, when my dear husband was interested in hearing about my day last night after I got home late from an event, I found myself increasingly annoyed that he wouldn't let me just watch "ER" (yes, I'm one of the seven or so people who still watch it. Sue me.).
I turned it off, but I can't help but think I might not be so apt to lose myself in fictional emergency rooms and would be more engaging to talk to if I wasn't glued to a constant stream of information all day.
I say all this with no solution, of course, but as an observation. It's a way that media is changing, evolving, and it won't go back. We'll all figure out how to manage it in our own way. But for me, right now, it just all sounds way too noisy, and it's drowning out the sound of my real, and important, life.
Showing posts with label Balance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Balance. Show all posts
Friday, March 27, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Me-lancholy
Maybe it's the weather. Or maybe I've mysteriously lapsed back into the seventh grade. Or it could be that haze that I usually can outrun has caught up with me as it does from time to time.
Whatever it is, I'm feeling so inexplicably sad and lonely right now. With no good reason to, mind you. But it's the kind of thing when you keep checking e-mail, or looking at your phone, just in case there might be a message. Any message, but particularly one from someone you haven't heard from in a long time, or who just had to call to say how great you were. And each time, you look away, disappointed.
It's a lot like those junior high years, where a message scrawled by your mom on a notepad that so and so called - or worse, no note at all - could make or break your day.
The vast number of communications methods that can you mock you with their silence is worse now though, and if it's this way for a grown woman, I can only imagine being 13 again. Rejection for me was limited to staring relentlessly at the French phone in my room, willing it to ring. Now, kids can be snubbed on Facebook, on Twitter, by e-mail, by text message. And worse, there's no hoping that maybe they were just too busy to call. All those status updates proclaim otherwise.
As for me, I'll push through the haze, probably much in the same way I did back in seventh grade: sometimes sloppily, sometimes gracefully, and mostly stubbornly, all while listening to too much 1980's music. And eventually, I'll make that French phone ring.
Whatever it is, I'm feeling so inexplicably sad and lonely right now. With no good reason to, mind you. But it's the kind of thing when you keep checking e-mail, or looking at your phone, just in case there might be a message. Any message, but particularly one from someone you haven't heard from in a long time, or who just had to call to say how great you were. And each time, you look away, disappointed.
It's a lot like those junior high years, where a message scrawled by your mom on a notepad that so and so called - or worse, no note at all - could make or break your day.
The vast number of communications methods that can you mock you with their silence is worse now though, and if it's this way for a grown woman, I can only imagine being 13 again. Rejection for me was limited to staring relentlessly at the French phone in my room, willing it to ring. Now, kids can be snubbed on Facebook, on Twitter, by e-mail, by text message. And worse, there's no hoping that maybe they were just too busy to call. All those status updates proclaim otherwise.
As for me, I'll push through the haze, probably much in the same way I did back in seventh grade: sometimes sloppily, sometimes gracefully, and mostly stubbornly, all while listening to too much 1980's music. And eventually, I'll make that French phone ring.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
So many questions
Slate.com has some very thought-provoking comments on Sarah Palin today. Thanks to the smart author of Quibbling.net for the link.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Crash
It finally happened.
C. walked into our house last night to find both of us crying. Baby in his playpen. Me on the couch.
I finally hit that point, the one I kept thinking that I was tough enough to overcome, to hold myself together, to not give into the desire to just fall apart.
But I'm not.
Poor C. wasn't sure what to do. I tried to explain it, but didn't do a very good job, in between the sniffling and whimpering. It's a combination of things, really, some within my control, some not.
It's an overload of stories at work that I'm doing neither well nor on time and have nothing to be proud of there. It's anxiety about stories, which is something that comes with the job and can often be controlled, but sometimes, you get a big helping that you have to just get through. It's missing my friends there who have left, and not feeling bonds with those who have stayed. It's needing a big heap of inspiration and not knowing where to find it.
It's feeling like I have absolutely no idea what to do with this now one year old, other than feed, change and try to keep from whacking his head on everything. I'm not a mother, I'm a goalie. And I just don't know what to do with this kid right now. I'm not a very good entertainer. I'm at a loss for games to play or things to do.
It's feeling out of touch with friends, and like life if just a series of short, difficult sprints, with some time to sleep in between before you have to get up and do it all again the next day.
And maybe most difficult, it's this dull, emotional ache that seems to have invaded everything I do. Some of it is people related, but much of it is just there. I try to fight and put it in its place, but sometimes, it's too fast for me. It's not painful enough to do anything about, but it's always there, like a nasty hangover headache that just won't finally subside.
I try to power through, and tell myself I'm tougher than this, I can keep it together, that I don't have the luxury of letting myself fall apart. I need to keep going, that I can do this. But sometimes, just sometimes, I want to just give into the sadness and cry. I know I need to be the one to make it better, but sometimes, I just wish someone else could do it for me. Just for a moment, the mother becomes the child again. I know I'll summon up the strength, but right now, the demons sank a few three-pointers when I wasn't looking.
Who's more fun to be around than me?
C. walked into our house last night to find both of us crying. Baby in his playpen. Me on the couch.
I finally hit that point, the one I kept thinking that I was tough enough to overcome, to hold myself together, to not give into the desire to just fall apart.
But I'm not.
Poor C. wasn't sure what to do. I tried to explain it, but didn't do a very good job, in between the sniffling and whimpering. It's a combination of things, really, some within my control, some not.
It's an overload of stories at work that I'm doing neither well nor on time and have nothing to be proud of there. It's anxiety about stories, which is something that comes with the job and can often be controlled, but sometimes, you get a big helping that you have to just get through. It's missing my friends there who have left, and not feeling bonds with those who have stayed. It's needing a big heap of inspiration and not knowing where to find it.
It's feeling like I have absolutely no idea what to do with this now one year old, other than feed, change and try to keep from whacking his head on everything. I'm not a mother, I'm a goalie. And I just don't know what to do with this kid right now. I'm not a very good entertainer. I'm at a loss for games to play or things to do.
It's feeling out of touch with friends, and like life if just a series of short, difficult sprints, with some time to sleep in between before you have to get up and do it all again the next day.
And maybe most difficult, it's this dull, emotional ache that seems to have invaded everything I do. Some of it is people related, but much of it is just there. I try to fight and put it in its place, but sometimes, it's too fast for me. It's not painful enough to do anything about, but it's always there, like a nasty hangover headache that just won't finally subside.
I try to power through, and tell myself I'm tougher than this, I can keep it together, that I don't have the luxury of letting myself fall apart. I need to keep going, that I can do this. But sometimes, just sometimes, I want to just give into the sadness and cry. I know I need to be the one to make it better, but sometimes, I just wish someone else could do it for me. Just for a moment, the mother becomes the child again. I know I'll summon up the strength, but right now, the demons sank a few three-pointers when I wasn't looking.
Who's more fun to be around than me?
Monday, July 21, 2008
Workout Work Over
Anyone who thinks that pyramid schemes have gone the way of the parachute pant hasn't tried to join a gym lately.
A friend recommended a trainer who helped her get back into shape after the birth of her second child. Excellent, I thought. I talked to the trainer, a crazy Australian lady who seems like she could give me the exact ass-kicking I require to get moving again.
Then she realized I wasn't a member of the gym where she trains, and broke the news that I'd have to join. OK, I thought. I'm sure they have some sort of three month membership, even if it's a little more expensive.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
How is it, in this Internet-information-everywhere day and age, that they still don't have published prices and can still fish in new members with teaser rates that only apply to one- or two-year memberships (including the bogus "initiation fee" which is waived if you sign on for a year, but costs you $150 (for nothing!) if you want to pay their higher month-to-month rate), all before even getting to the trainer's fees?
Even in spite of the crazy costs, I'll admit I was tempted to try and figure out how to pay for it all, because I'm totally sucked into the idea that if she helped my friend look as great as she does, then it HAS to work for me, right? (Right?? Sure, there's the little matter of the hard work, and physical endurance, but hey, how hard could it be... ). But for now, it's probably not the best option for the family budget.
Goodbye for now, awesome trainer and swanky gym. Hello, late-night infomercial order of "The Firm."
A friend recommended a trainer who helped her get back into shape after the birth of her second child. Excellent, I thought. I talked to the trainer, a crazy Australian lady who seems like she could give me the exact ass-kicking I require to get moving again.
Then she realized I wasn't a member of the gym where she trains, and broke the news that I'd have to join. OK, I thought. I'm sure they have some sort of three month membership, even if it's a little more expensive.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
How is it, in this Internet-information-everywhere day and age, that they still don't have published prices and can still fish in new members with teaser rates that only apply to one- or two-year memberships (including the bogus "initiation fee" which is waived if you sign on for a year, but costs you $150 (for nothing!) if you want to pay their higher month-to-month rate), all before even getting to the trainer's fees?
Even in spite of the crazy costs, I'll admit I was tempted to try and figure out how to pay for it all, because I'm totally sucked into the idea that if she helped my friend look as great as she does, then it HAS to work for me, right? (Right?? Sure, there's the little matter of the hard work, and physical endurance, but hey, how hard could it be... ). But for now, it's probably not the best option for the family budget.
Goodbye for now, awesome trainer and swanky gym. Hello, late-night infomercial order of "The Firm."
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Jane, stop this crazy thing!
That image of George Jetson running on the ridiculously accelerating treadmill has been a metaphor for my life in the past (you know, like when I lived in space) but never so much as lately.
I have no idea how parents with more than one kid do it.
We have a very good baby, with a good temperment and generally all-around sunny disposition (thank you, C.). He's sleeping - mostly, save for a few teeth waging war with his gums.
But we are exhausted. Absolutely, totally exhausted. Like can't get out of bed in the morning, and drag ourselves into it again at night. Everything in between? Great big blur.
Will one of you parents out there please assure me that there will be a day, even if it's in the distant future, that we won't feel like we're in this fog? That there will be a time when we return to some semblance of normal that isn't restricted to get up, go to work, feed/eat dinner, go to bed, with the occasional load of laundry thrown in for the occasional giggle?
I know, I know, I'm supposed to find those special moments in life in the process, as part of the journey, blah blah blah. But people, I sleep on planes. Almost always. I'm not so good on the journey part of things.
And for treadmills, I'm more of an outdoor runner, where I can easily vary my speed and surroundings.
OK, the metaphors are now out of control, and this is starting to sound like the whiny ramblings of a crazy person. Or at least a really, really tired one.
Parents, feel free to chime in with advice, quityerbitching remarks, or just general tomfoolery to remind me that there is plenty of humor in simply watching the dog await manna-like Cheerios falling from above. I promise I will appreciate it all, just as soon as I come to.
I have no idea how parents with more than one kid do it.
We have a very good baby, with a good temperment and generally all-around sunny disposition (thank you, C.). He's sleeping - mostly, save for a few teeth waging war with his gums.
But we are exhausted. Absolutely, totally exhausted. Like can't get out of bed in the morning, and drag ourselves into it again at night. Everything in between? Great big blur.
Will one of you parents out there please assure me that there will be a day, even if it's in the distant future, that we won't feel like we're in this fog? That there will be a time when we return to some semblance of normal that isn't restricted to get up, go to work, feed/eat dinner, go to bed, with the occasional load of laundry thrown in for the occasional giggle?
I know, I know, I'm supposed to find those special moments in life in the process, as part of the journey, blah blah blah. But people, I sleep on planes. Almost always. I'm not so good on the journey part of things.
And for treadmills, I'm more of an outdoor runner, where I can easily vary my speed and surroundings.
OK, the metaphors are now out of control, and this is starting to sound like the whiny ramblings of a crazy person. Or at least a really, really tired one.
Parents, feel free to chime in with advice, quityerbitching remarks, or just general tomfoolery to remind me that there is plenty of humor in simply watching the dog await manna-like Cheerios falling from above. I promise I will appreciate it all, just as soon as I come to.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Dear Universe, I Get It, XOXO, Me.
I'm struggling at work right now, trying to dig myself out of some holes I've gotten into while trying not to fall into upcoming holes in the process. Ah, the cycle of fun.
To try and catch up, I worked late, to see if I could somehow get ahead of the snowball for just a few minutes (I didn't). When I told C. this, he, with the best of intentions, read me the riot act, explaining on how I was missing out on time with Baby (I was) and that time with my family is more important than any job (it is). And that he was just trying to help.
I tried to calmly explain that while I appreciated his helpful intentions (I did), he was really frickin' stressing me out further (he was). But I would do my best to get home soonest.
Still all wound up, while I was driving home, I turned on a sappy, way-too-soft-rock evening radio show that I hate to admit that I like (but do), in the hopes that I might unwind.
The song that came on? Harry Chapin's "The Cat's in the Cradle."
Dear Universe:
I get it.
xoxo,
me.
To try and catch up, I worked late, to see if I could somehow get ahead of the snowball for just a few minutes (I didn't). When I told C. this, he, with the best of intentions, read me the riot act, explaining on how I was missing out on time with Baby (I was) and that time with my family is more important than any job (it is). And that he was just trying to help.
I tried to calmly explain that while I appreciated his helpful intentions (I did), he was really frickin' stressing me out further (he was). But I would do my best to get home soonest.
Still all wound up, while I was driving home, I turned on a sappy, way-too-soft-rock evening radio show that I hate to admit that I like (but do), in the hopes that I might unwind.
The song that came on? Harry Chapin's "The Cat's in the Cradle."
Dear Universe:
I get it.
xoxo,
me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)