Since I need to add to my existing issues with Brighthouse Networks a complaint that their online complaint form will only accept 1,000 characters, here is the full text of the message I'm trying to get to them so that I can send them the link and share my thoughts with the company in their entirety:
I’m sending this feedback from my home cable internet service, which I have tonight, no thanks to your staff. The multiple points of failure in the service I have received from your employees are as astounding as they are infuriating.
On the evening of 12/28/09, I began experiencing odd issues with my cable television service. My DVR allowed me to watch recorded programming and displayed title bars as I changed channels, but every channel showed only a black screen instead of the listed program. Having had issues with my Brighthouse service before, I knew how to reboot my DVR and did so before calling. The reboot stopped with an “alt” error message on the screen.
When my husband arrived home from work that night, he called tech support. He was told that because of the error message, the DVR was bad and that he should come to the local office to swap it out the next day. However, later in the evening we noticed that we were not getting any service on our cable modem. This brought doubt into our minds that the problem was with the DVR, so my husband did NOT juggle our toddler through the process of swapping out the box as he rushed off to work the next day.
On 12/29/09, we called the tech support line again to explain the new development and were told that we needed to have a service call. Over the course of a few conversations that day (and again on 12/30/09), my husband attempted to convince the techs to allow an “outside only” service call. We work odd hours, have dogs and a baby, and are unable to take time off of work to accommodate a service call. Furthermore, with the same problem occurring with two devices plugged into two different outlets, there was every reason to believe that the common denominator was the outside connection to your network. Even upon threat of our canceling our service with you, your employees (or your guidelines) would not accommodate our needs.
Today, 12/31/09, we realized that your company had backed us into a corner with no good options. We could lose time at work, make arrangements for the care of our pets, and find a babysitter so that you could conduct a service call we believed to be unnecessary. Or, we could cancel our service with you and jump through the same unreasonable hoops to have a Dish or FiOS installer come to our home.
With no good options, my husband went to the outside box to see if he could easily determine what the problem was. He found that the wire labeled with our apartment number coming from the building’s main connection was lying, loose and unplugged, in the box. In constant communication with tech support, he worked in the box until he realized the root cause of the problem. On the line coming from the main building connection was a splitter. One of the lines coming from that splitter had a tag for our apartment number. The other line had a red tag labeled with the date “12/28/09”. However, rather than just the “12/28/09” branch being disconnected, the entire main line had been separated, taking our service down along with our neighbors’.
Once he figured it out, it took my husband two minutes to fix it.
Here are the major issues we have with this series of events:
1. When our neighbor’s service was disconnected on 12/28/09, the service technician disconnected our service in error.
2. During our initial service call, we were told in error that we would need to swap out the box, which is functioning perfectly.
3. During subsequent calls to tech support, we were assured that the problem was inside our apartment. Again in error.
4. Your policies dictated that we must go to extreme lengths to accommodate a service call, rather than your being willing to eliminate external causes before inconveniencing us.
5. No point in the troubleshooting process cross-referenced our location with recent disconnections to determine if some type of error had been made.
6. The box containing our cable connections on the outside of our apartment building is not secure and most teenagers would have the tools and knowledge necessary to steal service that we are paying for.
My husband and I are VERY dissatisfied. Short of a few months last year when we lived out of state, we’ve been doing business with Brighthouse for 10 years in spite of the availability of competitive products and services. To have so little regard shown for our time and effort is insulting. Almost everyone we’ve dealt with through this process (spanning 9 calls) has been sloppy, poorly informed, and dismissive. Thank goodness we’re savvy enough to solve the problem ourselves. I shudder to think what an elderly customer in the same situation might suffer.
We would like to know how you plan to make amends for this nightmare. I believe a credit is in order for at least the amount that you would charge a customer for a non-covered service call. Please let us know what arrangements you’ll be making on our behalf.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
It Just Got Real
I've been a perfectionist for as long as I can remember. I have vivid memories of losing sleep and having an upset stomach over my perceived failures in a house we moved out of after I finished the second grade. In third grade I regularly missed school, my stomach was so upset over the criticism I received from a stern math teacher. Since childhood, the slightest embarassment or criticism makes my chest and neck (sometime my arms and face too) turn hot and red.
Most people hear that you're a perfectionist and assume its a good thing. That the drive for perfection means that you have the cleanest house, the most perfect life, and the healthiest relationships. For me, it goes beyond that and loops back to make my life a literal mess. Long ago, I adopted a pretty destructive defense mechanism. Essentially, if I can't guarantee that its going to be perfect? I won't do it. If something goes wrong? I quit. If I'm forced to hear criticism, no matter how kindly its delivered or how constructively its intended, I ruminate indefinitely about my failure.
As a result, I'm a quitter. I'm hyper-critical of everyone I meet. My house is a wreck. I have a laundry list of dreams that I've left behind without even trying to realize. Inspiration dies on the vine because of my fear. I'm terrorized by my perfectionism and its shaped every aspect of my life.
Something has to be done. Not just because life is passing me by, though it is. At this point, my life and house are such a mess that its negatively affecting the people I love the most. I've made a fresh start recently in so many other parts of my life. I should make a fresh start here, too.
What path this is going to take, I don't know. I'm scared of what I'm going to have to face about myself, but it can't get much worse than this.
Most people hear that you're a perfectionist and assume its a good thing. That the drive for perfection means that you have the cleanest house, the most perfect life, and the healthiest relationships. For me, it goes beyond that and loops back to make my life a literal mess. Long ago, I adopted a pretty destructive defense mechanism. Essentially, if I can't guarantee that its going to be perfect? I won't do it. If something goes wrong? I quit. If I'm forced to hear criticism, no matter how kindly its delivered or how constructively its intended, I ruminate indefinitely about my failure.
As a result, I'm a quitter. I'm hyper-critical of everyone I meet. My house is a wreck. I have a laundry list of dreams that I've left behind without even trying to realize. Inspiration dies on the vine because of my fear. I'm terrorized by my perfectionism and its shaped every aspect of my life.
Something has to be done. Not just because life is passing me by, though it is. At this point, my life and house are such a mess that its negatively affecting the people I love the most. I've made a fresh start recently in so many other parts of my life. I should make a fresh start here, too.
What path this is going to take, I don't know. I'm scared of what I'm going to have to face about myself, but it can't get much worse than this.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Today was a Good Day
This afternoon, Dannon, Orion, and I met up with the grandparents on Dannon's side and went to the petting farm. I had a blast. Orion had a blast. As agreed, Dannon pretended he wasn't miserable and didn't complain about how high the admission was. In fact, the theme of the event became, "Jesus Christ, this place is expensive." All week, every conversation with Dannon or his parents involved the special arrangements necesssary for everyone to manage the $19 per adult admission fee. Orion's Oompa spent the whole event waiting in the car rather than pay it, and I had to get a special commitment from Dannon not to bitch about the expense the whole time so that we could have fun. Once we got in the gates, I was glad that I got to stop thinking about the damn $19.
After the trip, I was on the phone with my mom telling her where we'd gone today. She said, "Oh, I know that place! It's really expensive right?" Shit.
Anyway, Orion rode a pony and a train. He milked a cow. He fed sheep and petted a chicken, a pig, and a turkey. Better than all of that, though, was when we were given our own baby duck and chick to hold and pet. He loved those little birds so much! They'd nip at his little fingers, and he'd try to kiss them back. He wanted to take the duckling with him, tapping on his drink holder and saying "Duck! Duck!" to try and get us to set the duck down so he could keep it. It was AWESOME.
The farm was followed by burritos and ice cream, where Orion held court at Ben & Jerry's by making the whole store his private dance floor. Then the whole gang gathered on the sidewalk outside to watch Dannon, his dad, and his mom take turns doing magic tricks with coins.
It was a wonderful day, I hope your's was too.
After the trip, I was on the phone with my mom telling her where we'd gone today. She said, "Oh, I know that place! It's really expensive right?" Shit.
Anyway, Orion rode a pony and a train. He milked a cow. He fed sheep and petted a chicken, a pig, and a turkey. Better than all of that, though, was when we were given our own baby duck and chick to hold and pet. He loved those little birds so much! They'd nip at his little fingers, and he'd try to kiss them back. He wanted to take the duckling with him, tapping on his drink holder and saying "Duck! Duck!" to try and get us to set the duck down so he could keep it. It was AWESOME.
The farm was followed by burritos and ice cream, where Orion held court at Ben & Jerry's by making the whole store his private dance floor. Then the whole gang gathered on the sidewalk outside to watch Dannon, his dad, and his mom take turns doing magic tricks with coins.
It was a wonderful day, I hope your's was too.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Orion Vick, Mind Freak
Orion and I really don't have much time together during the week. My commute home takes about an hour, so by the time we get home there's just enough time for dinner, a bath, and cup of milk while we snuggle and watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse before he goes off to bed. If we have to stop at the store for anything, that time is even shorter.
I've been trying to think of cool things we can do in a very short period of time, so when it was clear that Orion wanted to walk through the park-like area between the tennis courts and the pool, I thought it would be nice to get outside together in the middle of the week. I left my groceries next to the car and followed his lead.
When we got near the pool, he started pointing and calling out "Pool! Pool!" (where do they learn this stuff?) In his excitement, he pitched his sippy cup right through the bars of the pool gate. I reached for the gate latch and found a padlock. Shit.
Down I went onto my hands and knees, hoping that my arm would reach the cup. When I finally dragged the cup back to me by my fingertips, I looked up to see Orion INSIDE the gate.
My first thought was, "How the fuck did that happen?" I was stumped. The gate was locked, and he'd been right there beside me while I pulled in his cup. Then I saw it. One of the bars of the gate was missing, turning two 4-inch gaps into one 8-inch gap. I called Orions name, and got the worst response I can imagine. He looked at me grinning ear to ear, waved, said "bye-bye", and bolted for the water.
While I yelled from the other side of the locked gate, Orion climbed into the water. He climbed down the steps and sat down with the water up to his waist. He splashed and played while I cried and screamed his name.
I assessed my options. I could climb the fence, but the fence was 6 feet tall and I'm fat and weak, plus I was wearing work clothes and shoes. Even if I got to the top of the pointed fenceposts, how could I get over and drop to the concrete patio below without breaking my legs? I could run back across the street and get the cop that lives above us. I could see his car in the parking lot, so I knew he was home. But, that option was no good because it meant taking my eyes off of my baby. Just imagine what could happen in those two minutes. You go ahead, because I sure don't want to.
Over the fence I went, scraping and bruising my legs on the posts as I went over. I ran over and grabbed Orion of the water, freaking him out to absolutely no end. After a little bit of planning, I got us both back out of there and back across the street to our apartment.
After the initial shock wore off, I was livid with the apartment management that they would leave the gate in such a dangerous state of disrepair. Had it been during buisness hours, someone would have had to bail me out of jail. I'm not generally violent, but I was about to get ugly. As it was, Dannon had to handle it on Friday while I was at work. He said that the manager was appropriately horrified and that they agreed to do something about it immediately. In this case "something" has meant that they've closed the pool and wrapped the gate up in caution tape. I guess that's good enough while they get a decent repair made.
Have you seen the little phrase about how having a child is to forever have your heart go walking around outside your body? Yeah, I always thought that was stupid. True maybe, but stupid. I totally get it now.
Have you ever had any close calls with your little one?
I've been trying to think of cool things we can do in a very short period of time, so when it was clear that Orion wanted to walk through the park-like area between the tennis courts and the pool, I thought it would be nice to get outside together in the middle of the week. I left my groceries next to the car and followed his lead.
When we got near the pool, he started pointing and calling out "Pool! Pool!" (where do they learn this stuff?) In his excitement, he pitched his sippy cup right through the bars of the pool gate. I reached for the gate latch and found a padlock. Shit.
Down I went onto my hands and knees, hoping that my arm would reach the cup. When I finally dragged the cup back to me by my fingertips, I looked up to see Orion INSIDE the gate.
My first thought was, "How the fuck did that happen?" I was stumped. The gate was locked, and he'd been right there beside me while I pulled in his cup. Then I saw it. One of the bars of the gate was missing, turning two 4-inch gaps into one 8-inch gap. I called Orions name, and got the worst response I can imagine. He looked at me grinning ear to ear, waved, said "bye-bye", and bolted for the water.
While I yelled from the other side of the locked gate, Orion climbed into the water. He climbed down the steps and sat down with the water up to his waist. He splashed and played while I cried and screamed his name.
I assessed my options. I could climb the fence, but the fence was 6 feet tall and I'm fat and weak, plus I was wearing work clothes and shoes. Even if I got to the top of the pointed fenceposts, how could I get over and drop to the concrete patio below without breaking my legs? I could run back across the street and get the cop that lives above us. I could see his car in the parking lot, so I knew he was home. But, that option was no good because it meant taking my eyes off of my baby. Just imagine what could happen in those two minutes. You go ahead, because I sure don't want to.
Over the fence I went, scraping and bruising my legs on the posts as I went over. I ran over and grabbed Orion of the water, freaking him out to absolutely no end. After a little bit of planning, I got us both back out of there and back across the street to our apartment.
After the initial shock wore off, I was livid with the apartment management that they would leave the gate in such a dangerous state of disrepair. Had it been during buisness hours, someone would have had to bail me out of jail. I'm not generally violent, but I was about to get ugly. As it was, Dannon had to handle it on Friday while I was at work. He said that the manager was appropriately horrified and that they agreed to do something about it immediately. In this case "something" has meant that they've closed the pool and wrapped the gate up in caution tape. I guess that's good enough while they get a decent repair made.
Have you seen the little phrase about how having a child is to forever have your heart go walking around outside your body? Yeah, I always thought that was stupid. True maybe, but stupid. I totally get it now.
Have you ever had any close calls with your little one?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Orion on the Wagon
When I went to pick Orion up from the sitter's house today she said, "I hate to step on toes here, but have you thought about taking Orion off the bottle to sleep? My doctor said that the bottle should be gone by a year old. He's been going down for naps here without it just fine." OK...couple of things. First, YOU WORK FOR ME! I TOLD YOU TO GIVE HIM A FREAKING BOTTLE AND I EXPECT YOU TO GIVE HIM A BOTTLE!!!! Second, for real? He went to sleep without a bottle? You rock!
In all the press that Orion's horrible food issues have gotten (Gah! Yogurt. Who knew?) the fact that he's a terrible sleeper hasn't gotten much attention. By 10 months old, he was still waking up three times a night. Every time I put him down, it was a complicated dance of laying in my bed with him while he had a bottle, laying with him until I was sure he was asleep enough to move, and then walking across the house holding him like a 30 pound bomb. I don't even want to get in to the issue of putting him down witout waking him up. With the initial bed time I was doing this routine four times a night.
So when, at 10 months, he figured out how to hold his own bottle I took advantage that very same night. I walked him into his bedroom wide awake, put him in the crib, and handed him a bottle. Then I poured myself a glass of wine and climbed into the bathtub with a good book. I didn't care what the parenting books said, I had taken back the night. Soon after, Orion started sleeping through the night most of the time. When he did wake up, all we'd need to do is bring him a fresh bottle and he'd go right to sleep. Awesome, right?
The problem was that he had me figured out. Soon, it was taking two or three bottles to get him to fall asleep. Multiply that by naps, and he's drinking a cow-load of milk every day. He was drinking so much at bed time that he was peeing through his diaper every night. Plus, don't even get me started about his teeth. They're fine so far, but how long would that last with a mouth full of milk all night? Then consider that this means that he won't sleep in the car or the stroller and the choice starts to become clear.
So tonight, I let the babysitter convince me of what I already knew. It was time to drop the bottle Ferber style. Of course, tonight is the night when he figures out to tell me he's sleepy for bed by saying, "Ba, ba, ba!" over and over again. At bed time, I picked him up and took him to bed. He got the usual bed time routine...but no bottle. He looked confused. Before I could get to the door, the screaming started. For the first round, I screwed up and left him for 10 minutes. The next round, I got back on track and let him cry for five minutes. As we neared the 10 minute mark again for round three I posted to Facebook that he was still screaming after 26 minutes.
I hit enter. Then wait...I don't hear him. Let's give it a minute. No...still nothing. So now he's been asleep for 33 minutes after just 26 minutes of crying. Hell, sometimes it would take him that long to go down WITH a bottle.
If this is as easy as it would have been all along then, man, I feel like an idiot.
In all the press that Orion's horrible food issues have gotten (Gah! Yogurt. Who knew?) the fact that he's a terrible sleeper hasn't gotten much attention. By 10 months old, he was still waking up three times a night. Every time I put him down, it was a complicated dance of laying in my bed with him while he had a bottle, laying with him until I was sure he was asleep enough to move, and then walking across the house holding him like a 30 pound bomb. I don't even want to get in to the issue of putting him down witout waking him up. With the initial bed time I was doing this routine four times a night.
So when, at 10 months, he figured out how to hold his own bottle I took advantage that very same night. I walked him into his bedroom wide awake, put him in the crib, and handed him a bottle. Then I poured myself a glass of wine and climbed into the bathtub with a good book. I didn't care what the parenting books said, I had taken back the night. Soon after, Orion started sleeping through the night most of the time. When he did wake up, all we'd need to do is bring him a fresh bottle and he'd go right to sleep. Awesome, right?
The problem was that he had me figured out. Soon, it was taking two or three bottles to get him to fall asleep. Multiply that by naps, and he's drinking a cow-load of milk every day. He was drinking so much at bed time that he was peeing through his diaper every night. Plus, don't even get me started about his teeth. They're fine so far, but how long would that last with a mouth full of milk all night? Then consider that this means that he won't sleep in the car or the stroller and the choice starts to become clear.
So tonight, I let the babysitter convince me of what I already knew. It was time to drop the bottle Ferber style. Of course, tonight is the night when he figures out to tell me he's sleepy for bed by saying, "Ba, ba, ba!" over and over again. At bed time, I picked him up and took him to bed. He got the usual bed time routine...but no bottle. He looked confused. Before I could get to the door, the screaming started. For the first round, I screwed up and left him for 10 minutes. The next round, I got back on track and let him cry for five minutes. As we neared the 10 minute mark again for round three I posted to Facebook that he was still screaming after 26 minutes.
I hit enter. Then wait...I don't hear him. Let's give it a minute. No...still nothing. So now he's been asleep for 33 minutes after just 26 minutes of crying. Hell, sometimes it would take him that long to go down WITH a bottle.
If this is as easy as it would have been all along then, man, I feel like an idiot.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Scarred for Life
My great aunt, Sissy Weatherford, was a cozy pillow of a woman. Sitting on her lap as a child was at once blissfully comfortable and a bit terrifying. Once you climbed up, you wondered if you'd make it back down or if you'd just sink right into her lap and be lost forever. Thankfully, it was usually about the time you'd figure you'd better climb down just in case that she'd need to get back to her crochet.
Sissy was always working on a crocheted afghan. Every woman in the family got one. My mom's was dark blue with little multi-colored bursts. Mine was kind of a raspberry red with pink squares. Don't worry, it was uglier than it sounds. What matters, though, is that it was absolutely the most comfortable blanket ever. Laying under that afghan, with just a sheet between us, is still one of the most blissful tactile memories I have. People, I haven't been able to find that afghan in years and years (I think I recall a child thinking I'd given it to her and being stuck with that plan) and I can still close my eyes and feel it's weight. It brings tears to my eyes.
Aunt Sissy lived in a big old house with a huge yard outside of Athens, Georgia. I loved taking baths in the claw-foot tub and squashing pennies on the railroad tracks. Every year, extended family would come from hundreds of miles to a reunion at Sissy's house. I was probably about 9 years old when the reunion turned into the most surreal event of my life.
That the accident wouldn't even have happened without the fog didn't spring to mind until later. At 7am, it seemed to be an extension of the haze everyone was in as they draped around the porch drinking coffee and trying to wake up. Sissy was inside cooking breakfast. I remember sausage patties and yeast rolls. Always yeast rolls.
I can't remember if I was actually outside when the truck missed the curve in the fog and flipped over onto Sissy's azalea hedge, but I've seen it so many times in my mind's eye that I'm certain I know exactly how it happened. What's unmistakable is that I was outside by the time the first chickens reached the porch.
Many of the chickens died when the truck turned over. They were the lucky ones. The rest of the chickens exploded from their...coops? Pens? Crates? Whatever. There were chickens everywhere. Maybe thousands of them. They were all white, at least until the entire clan of aunts emerged from the house with every piece of cutlery from Sissy's kitchen. An army of southern belles descended the steps of that wrap-around porch with dogged determination. The sheer number of chickens to be dispatched required that no time be wasted.
When the fog lifted, many hundreds of chickens had gone to meet their maker. Some had been decapitated, so their heads were scattered randomly with their bodies landing impossible distances away after too many seconds of the proverbial running around. Others had gotten their necks rung when the knives proved messy and inefficient. Those chickens laid on the ground whole, but broken. None of the chickens were white anymore.
When the cops showed up, they were stumped. They'd never seen such a gruesome scene, but they couldn't figure out what laws had been broken. In the front yard, they issued a citation to the truck driver and helped him arrange for a tow truck. In the back shed, however, the plucking and cleaning had begun. They tried to make me help but I couldn't even stay in the room with the bald chickens hanging upside down to drain. When the fried chicken was served at dinner, I tried one bite but then couldn't even handle the gravy.
The temptation is to think that I made this up. Surely I didn't actually witness a bloody chicken Apocalypse at 9 years old, right? Surely the adults into whose care I'd been trusted didn't try to feed me the victims of a fatal truck crash, right? But no, I've fact checked this crazy story many times over the years.
Tonight for dinner? Steak.
Sissy was always working on a crocheted afghan. Every woman in the family got one. My mom's was dark blue with little multi-colored bursts. Mine was kind of a raspberry red with pink squares. Don't worry, it was uglier than it sounds. What matters, though, is that it was absolutely the most comfortable blanket ever. Laying under that afghan, with just a sheet between us, is still one of the most blissful tactile memories I have. People, I haven't been able to find that afghan in years and years (I think I recall a child thinking I'd given it to her and being stuck with that plan) and I can still close my eyes and feel it's weight. It brings tears to my eyes.
Aunt Sissy lived in a big old house with a huge yard outside of Athens, Georgia. I loved taking baths in the claw-foot tub and squashing pennies on the railroad tracks. Every year, extended family would come from hundreds of miles to a reunion at Sissy's house. I was probably about 9 years old when the reunion turned into the most surreal event of my life.
That the accident wouldn't even have happened without the fog didn't spring to mind until later. At 7am, it seemed to be an extension of the haze everyone was in as they draped around the porch drinking coffee and trying to wake up. Sissy was inside cooking breakfast. I remember sausage patties and yeast rolls. Always yeast rolls.
I can't remember if I was actually outside when the truck missed the curve in the fog and flipped over onto Sissy's azalea hedge, but I've seen it so many times in my mind's eye that I'm certain I know exactly how it happened. What's unmistakable is that I was outside by the time the first chickens reached the porch.
Many of the chickens died when the truck turned over. They were the lucky ones. The rest of the chickens exploded from their...coops? Pens? Crates? Whatever. There were chickens everywhere. Maybe thousands of them. They were all white, at least until the entire clan of aunts emerged from the house with every piece of cutlery from Sissy's kitchen. An army of southern belles descended the steps of that wrap-around porch with dogged determination. The sheer number of chickens to be dispatched required that no time be wasted.
When the fog lifted, many hundreds of chickens had gone to meet their maker. Some had been decapitated, so their heads were scattered randomly with their bodies landing impossible distances away after too many seconds of the proverbial running around. Others had gotten their necks rung when the knives proved messy and inefficient. Those chickens laid on the ground whole, but broken. None of the chickens were white anymore.
When the cops showed up, they were stumped. They'd never seen such a gruesome scene, but they couldn't figure out what laws had been broken. In the front yard, they issued a citation to the truck driver and helped him arrange for a tow truck. In the back shed, however, the plucking and cleaning had begun. They tried to make me help but I couldn't even stay in the room with the bald chickens hanging upside down to drain. When the fried chicken was served at dinner, I tried one bite but then couldn't even handle the gravy.
The temptation is to think that I made this up. Surely I didn't actually witness a bloody chicken Apocalypse at 9 years old, right? Surely the adults into whose care I'd been trusted didn't try to feed me the victims of a fatal truck crash, right? But no, I've fact checked this crazy story many times over the years.
Tonight for dinner? Steak.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Whew! and then AHHHHH!!!
I got the awesome job which is, of course, awesome. I start on Monday and I'm nervous and excited. I want to be successful and I'll be working hard. Also, this will be the last you read about my job because now that I have it, I'd like to keep it if that's alright with you. Word on the street is that some companies are pretty testy when it comes to blogging employees and I'd rather not run afowl of any policies.
OK, that's not the last thing. See, I'm kind of a wreck. I'm realizing that I've forgotten a lot about how to be at work. Even before I began my five month tenure as a stay at home mom, nothing was normal about my job. For the eight years until last July I was kind of a big deal in my office, had a ton of friends, and could do my job in my sleep. I'd mastered the art of work related bullshit. I was super successful, but I always had the sense inside myself that it was all smoke and mirrors. Then we went to Oklahoma and things were a disaster from day one. I spent those eight months running my ass off. I was typically confused, angry, and exhausted. Looking back, I realize how the nature of the business I was in rewarded the appearance of hard work and success rather than the real thing.
Throughout the incredibly complex hiring process I've been through for my new job, I've really learned to respect the company that hired me. They seem really on top of things and they seem to have really high standards. In short, they seem like a really first-class operation. It's just that after everything I've been through professionally in the last year I don't trust myself anymore. Everyone tells me I'll do great, and intellectually I know I will. I just need the courage to put one foot in front of the other and do it.
There are some exciting things brewing on the childcare front. Dannon's mom has offered to do a trial run of watching Orion for us during the four half-days a week when our schedules will overlap. That's awesome for a lot of reasons. I can't say enough about the idea of Orion being with people who love him instead of getting lost in a group at daycare. Also, when he was in daycare he had a snotty nose, an ear infection, and chest congestion all the time. I've been crediting the moist Florida air with doing away with all of that mess but I think if I searched my soul I'd realize that it was the fact that daycares are essentially giant petri dishes that was making him sick. Then there's the very real possibility that I'll get hung up at work sometimes and I really doubt that Dannon's mom is going to charge me $20 for every minute he's there past 6:30pm. I really hope that the plan works out for the adults, because I know its what's best for Orion.
OK, that's not the last thing. See, I'm kind of a wreck. I'm realizing that I've forgotten a lot about how to be at work. Even before I began my five month tenure as a stay at home mom, nothing was normal about my job. For the eight years until last July I was kind of a big deal in my office, had a ton of friends, and could do my job in my sleep. I'd mastered the art of work related bullshit. I was super successful, but I always had the sense inside myself that it was all smoke and mirrors. Then we went to Oklahoma and things were a disaster from day one. I spent those eight months running my ass off. I was typically confused, angry, and exhausted. Looking back, I realize how the nature of the business I was in rewarded the appearance of hard work and success rather than the real thing.
Throughout the incredibly complex hiring process I've been through for my new job, I've really learned to respect the company that hired me. They seem really on top of things and they seem to have really high standards. In short, they seem like a really first-class operation. It's just that after everything I've been through professionally in the last year I don't trust myself anymore. Everyone tells me I'll do great, and intellectually I know I will. I just need the courage to put one foot in front of the other and do it.
There are some exciting things brewing on the childcare front. Dannon's mom has offered to do a trial run of watching Orion for us during the four half-days a week when our schedules will overlap. That's awesome for a lot of reasons. I can't say enough about the idea of Orion being with people who love him instead of getting lost in a group at daycare. Also, when he was in daycare he had a snotty nose, an ear infection, and chest congestion all the time. I've been crediting the moist Florida air with doing away with all of that mess but I think if I searched my soul I'd realize that it was the fact that daycares are essentially giant petri dishes that was making him sick. Then there's the very real possibility that I'll get hung up at work sometimes and I really doubt that Dannon's mom is going to charge me $20 for every minute he's there past 6:30pm. I really hope that the plan works out for the adults, because I know its what's best for Orion.
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