There was an online discussion not too long ago in which a young lad of about 19 was lamenting that he had just been fired from his job, and he thought he was a total failure and his life was over. Always one the help out the Youths Of Today, I jumped in with A Helpful Anecdote.
I have been fired at least half a dozen times in my life– although fortunately all of them fall under the “young and stupid” category of Life Lessons. You never forget your first time, though…
I was, I think, barely 16. It was only my second job ever, and my first “real” job in that I went to an office and worked with a bunch of adults. I was a help desk guy for a large healthcare company, and one of my good friends managed to score me the interview. I was pretty excited about it because I was really into computers and I had no real conception of just how soul-sucking corporate America could be.
Back in the Bad Old Days of Windows 3.1, it was pretty common practice for big companies to set up their employees computers such that it only displayed one group of icons, under the belief that if Patty in Accounting ever saw there was more on her computer than a spreadsheet program everything might go completely sideways. God help us all if they ever discovered there was Solitare.
So I sit down for my first day of the job and log into The LAN, which was pretty fancy. The first thing I notice is that my main administrator application group wasn’t opened on login, instead the business user application group was. I had to close one to open the other because. Worse, my settings were erased on every login by the network policy, so every time I tried to fix it my work was undone.
I cannot begin to explain how frustrating this is.
Let me begin to explain how frustrating this is.
If you don’t know what I’m talking about, try imagining using an iPhone with one app per page, and every time you hit the home button you went back to the first page, and you couldn’t task switch or ever change the order of the apps, and there’s a hundred apps and you regularly use app number 73.
Or to put it another way, imagine leaving the house for an hour only to discover that an invisible tormentor has broken in and made everything hanging on the wall just slightly crooked, and does this whenever you leave the house.
Being a tech savvy guy I immediately determined that problem was that my network account must not have sufficient privileges, because if I was an administrator I would be able to save my settings. I was not one of the lesser ordinary users, and given my job as help desk intern this was clearly an oversight on their part. Fortunately for me, one of the Old People left his administrator console logged in and had just stepped away to get some coffee. Using his account, I gave myself administrator rights, and sure enough my desktop was now remembering what it looked like when I logged out.
Satisfied with my superior technical skills, I whistled as I walked with the team to my welcome lunch at Bennigans.
I had a Monte Cristo. It was delicious.
Who knew deep-friend lunch meat dusted with powdered sugar could be so darn tasty? Image via wikipedia. Yes, the sandwich is so good it has a wikipedia entry.
I didn’t even pay for lunch!
The next morning my manager, an Extremely Pregnant Black Lady, asked me to accompany her into a conference room where I was joined by an Extremely Frumpy White Lady, who I discovered worked for Human Resources.
Then I discovered that Human Resources did more than just hire people.
Despite all protestations to the contrary, I was being asked to leave. Immediately.
It seems like a “security violation” was a fire-able offense, even the first time.
I’m pretty sure I cried like a four year old with a skinned knee.
By the time I got to the parking lot I had chalked it up to a Extremely Pregnant Black Lady over-reacting and went on about my way, obliviousness intact.
I was able to stay oblivious for a good number of years, but as my father said to me so very many times, reality has a way of biting us all in the butt sooner or later.
As I retell this story 20-some odd years later, I find myself siding with the Extremely Pregnant Black Lady… that young knowitall kid really couldn’t tell his head from a hole in the wall for many, many years after that.
He turned out all right in the end, though.
Which is better than the Monte Cristo sandwich ever did. Shudder.
I aspire to be a gardener in the same way I aspire to be handy: first I borrow a bunch of stuff from my neighbors, then they end up taking pity on Mrs. Nostrikethat when it’s been two weeks without load-bearing walls and finally they end up doing most of the work while I am entrusted with operating the Keurig.
Every year, with glasses firmly rose-colored, I try to take on a simple vegetable garden. Every year I manage tomatoes that could be called “tomatoes” in the same way that a Twinkie could be called “food”.
To make matters worse, I am surrounded by green thumbs. My mother relates to vegetables on an almost instinctual level–although I am sure being married to my dad has given her plenty of practice. My neighbors all have several successful well-established garden plots. My Facebook feed is ripe with Gaea’s Bounty, too:
“Oh I have too many tomatoes this year, does anyone want some salsa?”
“My peppers just won’t stop growing!”
“Gardening is so easy and fun!”
Dutifully I watered and fertilized. My gifted starter plants actually grew and started to flower. I Believed.
I can totally survive the End of Days now. Who needs a grocery store? Man I am amazing.
Then my plants stopped responding to light, water, and nitrogen.
They looked like Thursday night after a week of double shifts working to close.
I tried giving them coffee because that always perks me up and I get my vegetative qualities from my dad so I thought the reverse might be true.
Still they wilted.
It’s as if they said “It’s August, I’m tired of life, let me leave you with a sampling of anatomically ludicrous fruits to taunt you with what might have been.”
“P.S.- you suck.”
Now let me introduce you to my mums. Despite not even the slightest amount of concern from me regarding their well-being they have come back every single year, bigger than ever. They are the ordinary Homedepotus Onsaleacus variety bought 4 or five years ago because we needed some “fall color” or something equally womanly. I think decided to plant them in that little spot because it was a nice day and I was avoiding doing the dishes.
We have had by all accounts a pretty fantastic summer. We’re luck enough to have friends. Some of those friends like us enough to invite the travelling Nostrikethat circus to go places with them. Our kids have amazing grandparents, near and far, who shower them with attention. We did swim team. We swam in a lake. We got lost in the woods. My most favorite moments, though, always seemed to just happen.
Sitting in camp chairs on the driveway drinking beer with the neighbors on a Tuesday night.
Listening to the kids tell jokes at the dinner table. BANANA SANDWICH! HAH!
Sharing a quiet glass of wine with Mrs. Nostrikethat after the kids have exhausted themselves from playing outside all day.
Staying up late with my oldest to play video games.
I’m sure there’s a metaphor in here somewhere.
Or maybe I just need to remember to ask someone to water the plants when we go away for a long weekend.
Despite my natural handicaps and severe pollen allergies I try to get out to state parks and go walking in the woods whenever I can, because I Am A Man. So you would not be the least surprised to know that when Mrs. Nostrikethat said “I am taking you up on your offer and taking the day off–see you at dinner” I said “Erm.”
I am what you might call a “City Slicker”. My people are supremely well-adapted to urban life. Need to find a great pizza? I’m your guy.
Want to complain about parking? Ditto.
Navigate a traffic circle? Sucka, please.
I was not a Boy Scout, nor have I ever been “lost” in the sense of “only find-able by bears and mountain lions.” I am also not really tall or muscular, which are very handy physical attributes when you are crammed on a subway car during rush hour.
I have mostly come to peace with the fact that, in the event of an technological catastrophe in which civilization collapses and we regress to a pre-industrial era, my best shot at surviving is finding a heavily-armed group of nomads and convincing them they need a “entrepreneurial, energetic go-getter with 15+ years of experience.”
As the door slammed and I heard the sound of tires squealing out of our neighborhood, the children stared at me expectantly.
“Okay kids let’s pack a lunch– we’re going to the State Park!”
“Daddy, are you sure you know where we’re going?”
Firstborn Son is, unfortunately, too clever by half.
“Of course, I looked it up on the Internet. You trust the Internet, right?”
Lovely Daughter is excited because now she has something to be excited about and it involves snacks.
Captain Underpants (who is 6) is looking forward to getting wet and promises not to be “too whiny.”
The Hurricane is just excited to be coming along on an “Ad-ven-ture!” with his big brothers and not getting left behind. Yipee!
Two hours later, we’re ready to go, because kids.
I checked the map on the web site and noted the name of the area we were trying to get to– it had “multiple stream crossings” which sounded perfect because it’s hot as balls outside.
I loaded everyone up and take the very short drive to the State Park. I’ve lived in this area for almost forever… why haven’t I done this before? This was a great idea!
I pulled up to the gate.
“Hi, I’m looking for the Avalon area!” I was very pleased with myself for remembering.
The ranger ducked back into his little hut and emerged with a sheet of paper.
“It’s about 15 minutes away. Here’s directions.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that the park has more than once entrance. No problem! WE HAVE SNACKS!
30 minutes and two wrong turns later we arrived at the second gate, pay our $2 (UNBEATABLE VALUE!) and started winding our way though a quiet park to get to the Avalon area. As we roll along at 20 miles per hour, I roll down the windows and turn off the radio. “Listen how quiet it is kids!”
“Ow, HE HIT ME.”
As if on cue.
It’s okay, 1:30 and we were all a little hungry. We hit a picnic table and hunkered down to a delicious lunch of peanut butter and jelly, strawberries, and juice boxes.
Except for Firstborn Son, who has decided that the only thing edible is the little pouch of potato chips.
The kid who swims 15 miles a week is not eating.
This was GIANT RED FLAG NUMBER ONE that I ignored.
We cleaned up lunch and started up the “Cascade Trail” which sounded pretty and was probably the trail I remembered from the map.
Despite having not eaten, Firstborn Son was bound and determined to hurry up and get this over with because he was in the middle of some kind of important quest, or level, or something computer-related and this wasn’t working for him, so he charged ahead. Like me, he’s well-adapted for urban life and allergic to the outdoors.
Within only 10 minutes we hit what appeared to be the cascade bit, which was a short little waterfall into a shallow pool with some rocks around it. We stopped for a few minutes to take a break and climb on the rocks.
The kids were having a great time clambering around on the rocks and wading in the water and at this point I was feeling Pretty Darn Smug. Our quiet time was soon shattered however, by a large group of moms and boys coming down the trail from the other direction.
“JACKSON GET OVER HERE! DON’T GO DOWN THERE! NO! I SAID DON’T GO DOWN THERE!”
I felt a moment of pity for this poor mom. She was having a hard time dealing with her boys who seemed to be hell-bent on getting down into the water with us. I looked at my kids who have chucked off their shoes and were poking around in the shallow pools and then up at her kids, who looked like the one thing they wanted more than ice cream was to go play in the water. If only she was Outdoorsy, Like Me.
Hah hah.
“Panic Mom” was killing my nature-induced serenity, so I told the kids to pack up and head up the trail.
“Daddy, I want to go back now. I’m hot and tired and getting stressed out.”
RED FLAG NUMBER TWO.
“Oh, it’ll be fine. We didn’t drive all this way just to turn around and go home. Let’s keep going, it’s a short trail.”
We headed a little way up the trail and somehow The Hurricane found a lady bug beetle, who was now His New Best Friend.
“Look Daddy! It’s My Friend Mr. Ladybug!” Like most three year olds, he talks in initial caps.
“Oh, that’s great! Let’s keep walking, we’re going to lose your brothers.”
Have you ever seen a small child try to walk while holding something?
It is the SLOWEST. THING. EVER.
Our pace, which was at best one mile per hour was now measured in geological epochs. Mr. Ladybug wandered up and down his hands and arms and had his full and complete undivided attention. In a three year old this means there is no mental processing power available for tiny dude locomotion.
“Oop! Dropped Mr. Lady Bug. Where Did He Go? Ooh! I Found Him!”
“Oop! I Dropped Him Again!”
“Mr. Ladybug’s mommy is calling him in for dinner. He has to go in now.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Saddened though we all were by Mr. Ladybug’s untimely departure, we had to keep going because although I was fairly sure Firstborn Son had not fallen into a ravine, I had lost visual contact with him in his haste to Get This Over With.
The trail was pretty easy and ran along a stream. As we continued our walk every once in a while I had to fish out Captain Underpants from some part of the stream. He was now pretty thoroughly messy and happy. Lovely Daughter enjoyed hanging back with me and the Hurricane and talking my ear off. Aside from the continually worsening temper of my oldest, it was actually kind of pleasant!
Hah-hah.
“Oh Daddy! That sounds like more falls!”
“Actually that sounds kind of like… cars… we must be back near the road that leads to the parking lot. See, we’re almost done.”
The trail opens up onto … a highway. Who the heck blazes a trail through a state park to a highway?
“Gee guys, I guess we have to turn around and head back the way we came.”
“WHAT?!? THAT’S GREAT DADDY. NEXT TIME BRING A MAP.”
By this time, the 3 year old had started to crash as well. We headed back into the woods a short way and found a spot to take a break. I fished out the leftovers from lunch out of my backpack and we all drank some water. Oldest Son has resigned himself to marching back to the car as quickly as possible. He drained his water bottle and half of mine while we’re sitting there.
DING-DING-DING RED FLAG NUMBER THREE!
The Hurricane slurped down a bag of strawberries and perked up a bit. Thus began The Long Trek Back.
As we walked back, I was envious of Panic Mom.
She was back at her car and probably not listening to her kids make a list of things she forgot to bring. Like sunscreen and bug spray and a golf cart with a cooler strapped on the back of it.
Unfortunately, we didn’t run into Panic Mom, or Jackson, or Mr. Ladybug again, nor did we really do much on the way back besides try unsuccessfully to keep up with Firstborn Son.
“Daddy, I can’t see him any more!”
“That’s okay guys just remember: Daddy loves you all but that’s why we have replacements.”
“DADDY!”
Captain Underpants is a little phobic about his siblings getting left behind.
I can’t imagine why.
As we descended the trail past the Cascade bit and towards the parking lot, we spied Firstborn Son in the parking lot with an expression on his face that said “I SURVIVED THE OREGON TRAIL.”
Via mommywantsvodka.com
On the ride back Firstborn Son basked in the air conditioning for a bit in silence and then apologized for his behavior.
“On a scale of 1-10, how annoying was I?”
“I’d give that a pretty solid 7.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. Next time, I’ll bring a map. Now who wants pizza?”
No, Strike That 