Tag Archives: thinking

Reduce Stress Instantly, The Flying Lawn Chair Incident

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Stress. The Flying Lawn Chair Incident. How to Save Time Instantly.

Dateline: DFW Airport International Branch Headquarters, chair in the corner, face to the wall.

First, I’d like to apologize to those unfortunate passengers on flights with me this weekend. If you are thinking, “Maybe I was on a plane with her and I didn’t know it,” you were not. If you recall a short blond woman, her agonized face mashed into the window, who seemed determined to cough up her lungs, or heard one side of the 737 you were in crackle and thunder, just maybe you were. I’m very, very sorry.

Want to save yourself a lot of stress and lower your personal “annoying-to-others” score? It’s really not that tough. Technically. Technically, like jumping rope for five minutes a day can change your life—technically.

To save time and stress, all you have to do is pass out a little permission and decide:

Other people get to do what they do. They do not require my agreement. My opinion is not important, nor does it make any sense for me to insist on telling people what I think of what other people do. To comment takes time and it’s annoying, except to those very few godlike beings who agree with everything I think about people who aren’t like us. Okay, enough with the sermon.

The following account is true. A retired weatherman had an idea how he could make use of several weather balloons cluttering up his garage and change the face of aviation as we know it. First he tied four balloons to an aluminum and plastic weave lawn chair. Next he strapped himself in. Then he popped the launch cords on the balloons. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . LIFT OFF!

Yeah, baby. We are flying now. Mostly we are tumbling end-over-end through the first ten thousand feet. “Oh, what a beautiful blue sky–whoa, there’s my house! Oh, what a beautiful blue sky–whoa, there’s Chicago!” The view went from spectacular to, well, nauseating. But the Man Who Launched His Lawn Chair (MWLLC) was having a ball. Airport radars spotted an unidentified blip on their radar screens. News syndicates were alerted. Planes were diverted. Non-believers were converted. (Sorry, like the MWLLC, I couldn’t stop myself.)

The MWLLC’s wife wrung her hands, though when reporters asked her if she was surprised at her husband’s antics, she admitted such projects on slow summer afternoons were nothing new for her husband. She also admitted the MWLLC had stopped telling her his plans since she’d taken to calling the police and asking the procedures for getting a spouse committed.

What’s the point of this tale? As you read, did any part of you think…What kind of crazy person does something like that?

To instantly reduce stress, let go and let other people have fun. Enjoy their enjoying. You’d think we’d all be savvy on this strategy, but such is not the case. At least not for me and, unless you are Dr. L from the radio who makes no wrong moves, like me, you fall into the boring trap of questioning why other people enjoy activities and possessions you do not. And, if you are like me, when you ask this question, your tone informs listeners that, unlike myself, people are crazy and not as wise as I am if they:

Get up at 2 a.m. on Black Friday. Deep fry their turkey. Don’t deep fry their turkey. Salt their food before tasting it. Buy expensive cars. Spank their kids. Don’t spank their kids. Put up an artificial tree. Spend a day finding a real tree. Watch that stupid television show. Enjoy mincemeat pie. Watch NASCAR, golf, basketball, baseball, fake-real television families, or prison shows. Try to buy love by giving expensive Christmas presents. Are too cheap to give expensive Christmas presents. Are foolish enough to take out a second mortgage to send their child to private college. Are selfish enough to refuse to take out a second mortgage to send their child to private college.

You’ve got the picture. I know. Ouch. Ouch. Guilty. Guilty. One of the elements of psychology that continuously amazes me is how hard and complicated something as simple as enjoying the moment really is.

About the promised Triple Stuffed Turkey Recipe? Next year when I can breathe like a normal person again. Coming: Unique Gifts Only You Can Give.

Love and Stress in Las Vegas, A Soap Opera in Four Parts

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Dateline:  Las Vegas Hilton Branch Office and Showgirl Headquarters, no one under six foot need apply. Which is the only thing holding me back from making money on my looks and high kick skills and why I am sequestered in the furthest booth in the Grand Buffet Hall. Yep, that’s me. The be-speckled blond chick in the over-stuffed cargo shorts behind the computer and the foot-high pile of shrimp shells.

Have you ever gotten high? …because someone gave you a compliment?

Have you ever given up a dream? … because someone else thought it was a dumb idea?

Have you ever said you enjoyed an activity? …to keep someone interested?

Have you ever been unable to stop a self-destructive habit? …and paid a terrible price?

Have you ever been unable to stand up to a person you cared about caught in an addiction? …and ended up in trouble yourself?

The following story is true and related with permission of the patient, Mrs. Travis. Names and details have been changed to protect her identity.

Fusion vs. Self: When decisions are made, not out of one’s best thinking, but to save a relationship or to keep a partner happy. Fusion is natural and is part of all close relationships. The problem comes in when a person with a shaky SELF matches up with a person and goes along out of fear to stand alone. The problem comes in when a person with an equally shaky SELF uses fear and threatening behavior to convince the other not to disagree with decisions when the decisions would be obviously absurd to someone outside the relationship.

Mrs. Travis called for an appointment in January with some questions regarding dealing with her three young children when she packed them up and left their father.She explained that she still loved her husband. Their marriage had been great until two years ago when it fell apart in a hurry.

The Inciting (exciting) Incident. All Self Doubts and Anxieties Are Gone

Stress Management Goes Wrong

Two years ago, the couple had gone to a conference in Las Vegas. Mr. Travis, whose only experience with gambling had been years ago when he was stationed in Malasia with the Navy. When he thought about those free and easy days being young and single and successful in dice games, he had a rush of good feelings.

An avid fan of professional football, Mr. Travis was pleased that he could bet on teams combining his remembered good times with sports. As he was knew alot about the National Football League, he thought he knew more than your average bettors.

He made two bets and won them both. He felt the problems of parenthood, marriage and career slip away. Mr. Travis felt better than he had in a very long time.

Episode Two: All I Want Is To Feel the Way I Felt When I Was First in Love

Stress. The Frog Who Flung Himself Off the Mountain

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Dateline: Lost in phone tree hell. Everyone’s been here. I see your tracks, the bloody scratches on the walls made when you tried to escape to the world of real people.

The Goal: The less you take personally in your life, the better life you will have. Thus, our goal on this site is to learn ways to live more easily and joyfully in this world. One more segment in the true life experience of a psychologist taking Dell Corporation personally.

There’s a highland jungle frog about the size of a nickel. His only means of protection is to hop, which often is not sufficient to escape his enemies. His nature is to fight and hop with everything he has, then, if these efforts fail, he clinches his little legs to his sides and throws himself off the mountain.

I now understand the wisdom of the highland jungle frog.

Set-up. To endure the following conclusion to a sad tale of society insanity, you will need to catch up reading part one and part two.

As we return to the Day of Dell, I have just been bumped out of regular Customer Service into the realm of the Executive Resolution Specialist. Executive Resolution Specialist Guy thanks me for choosing Dell and asks me to give him my name, date of birth, and the odds on Texas winning the National Football Championship. He apologizes for the day I have wasted on the phone and assures me he will solve the problem. Sigh of relief. Executive Resolution Specialist Guy puts me on hold.

He returns to the call, has the correct order, and asks for my credit card number, the only number Dell has been receptive to all day. The Executive Resolution Specialist pauses. It is that this juncture that I lose it at a psycho level.

In my family psycho enters the picture when money or getting the best deal comes into the discussion. The family crest is an emblem with the words: WE PAY OUR BILLS. In other families children grow up with warm stories of family holidays and traditions passed down from one happy generation to the next. In my family the stories are about how my predecessors made it through the depression by growing their own food in the backyard and going without shoes.

Thus–when the beast bearing the name Executive Resolution Specialist said the kryptonite words: “Ma’am your credit card has been declined,”…well, given the previous seven hours on the phone…I earthquake level lost it. I regret being in one of my favorite restaurants at that point because I would have liked to return.

We grew up in a cash up front atmosphere where paying interest or a late fee would be equal to armed robbery. Okay maybe equal to burning down a shed. Or amputating one of your own toes.

Remember the ole Pseudo Self? That part of who you are that’s negotiable depending on what other people think of you? My Pseudo Self is constructed such that when these words are said, “Your credit card has been declined” what I hear is, “Contrary to the image you give to the rest of the world…you are a DEADBEAT. You WILL go to prison!”

In response to being humiliated (strictly the realm of the pseudo self since you can only humiliate yourself) I launched a roaring rebuttal insisting that the Dell Executive Level Problem Resolver was WRONG WRONG WRONG. I went on to relate my life history as a faithful bill payer and threw around all sorts of high-sounding numbers regarding spending limits to make an impression and clarify my status in the world. I’m not saying I was upset, but one of the waiters came over and slipped a napkin into my view. A napkin that read, “Don’t worry about your check. You don’t owe us anything.”  I assume he meant the free meal as a parting gift.

The corker?  Still in a self-righteous melt-down, I called American Express where I was informed that Dell Executive Level Problem Resolver was RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT. Someone had called into American Express automated services and reported my card number as lost or stolen.  Yep. Screwed again in phone tree hell. And, now I sorta needed to call Dell back. I’m thinking put a towel over the phone and fake symptoms of a recent stroke.

 

 

 

 

 

Swinging on the Limbs of Phone Trees. Stress, Part 3

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Dateline:  Left hand on one phone tree limb…Right hand gripping another tree limb…oops.

PART THREE.  Hour Three. You will not be able to properly feel my pain or find some shred of forgiveness for my behavior unless you have read Parts One and Two of my torture history.

Hour Three in Phone Tree Stress

Now I’m bumped up to Level Three Customer Service since my request is
apparently too complicated for the first two levels. Level Three Customer
Service Guy thanks me for choosing Dell and asks me to give him all my
information again.  He assures me he will solve the problem. I let out a sigh of relief.

Level Three Customer Service Guy comes back on the call where I wait with gratitude and anticipatory excitement. LTCSG says, “I see the problem.  Your computer only fits with a six cell battery and what they sent you was a nine cell battery.”

I struggle to breathe. Okay. Just because common sense made no sense to Levels One and Two, maybe it will work with Level Three Guy. I begin, “Sir, I’m afraid you are mistaken. Yo see, the computer in front of me came with a nine cell battery and I have purchased several replacement nine cell batteries from Dell.”

Didn’t even make a dent. He continues, “Ma’am. No. Please listen. You have
the right battery for your computer. We just need to send you six cell batteries of the same type and you will be ready to go.”

“But–”

“Trust me. Your computer can only use a six cell battery edition of the same kind of battery you were sent. I will order two of these for you.”

At this point, I suspect I’m going insane. I give up. “Fine. Here’s my credit card number…though you are sending me an incompatible battery and wasting another week.”

To check out the insanity possibility I now drive to Best Buy to get checked out with a Geek Squad Guy. I run my story, show him my computer and ask if I’m losing it. Geek Squad Guy says: “No ma’am. That is a nine cell battery and your computer uses a nine cell battery.”

Trembling and nauseous. I know what hell lies ahead. I call Dell back. I trudge through levels one, two, and three spouting my name, address, and shoe size over and over.

Level Four Supervisor Guy apologizes profusely and says he’ll fix the problem. Could he please have my name, address, last four digits of my Social Security Number, and place of birth.

Hour Four

Fifty-six games of solitaire and four dropped calls (each requiring that I give them my birth certificate again), Level Four Supervisor Guy is back on the phone. I tell him my sad story. He looks up the order for the two batteries Level Three Guy ordered for me. He agrees that those batteries are not the correct batteries. He tells me not to worry, when I receive the batteries, my money will be refunded after I take the package to a UPS office, since I have nothing to do with my life except to do research and run errands for Dell.

Level Four Supervisor Guy has a special goodie for me since I’ve had so much trouble.  The goodie? “We are going to give you free shipping for these new batteries!” he says grandly.

I go back to the insanity possibility.  Did he just say Dell was generously going to
pay for shipping back to Dell the batteries to replace the wrong batteries for which I had paid Express Shipping?  I couldn’t hold in my glee and laughed. He asked me if I’d be interested in opening a Dell credit card.  Now I am roaring with joy.
“Oh, yes, that’s just want I want to do. I want to arrange my life to deal further with
Dell customer service, that is exactly what I want to do.”

Then, Level Four Supervisor Guy asked if I would stay on the line for a survey to help them out.  What?  I’m working for Dell Human Resources now?

Maybe I would have answered a few questions, but I was thinking margarita and a Jorge’s enchilada platter for lunch.  Oh, but wait.  My other phone is ringing….which was handy since my call with Level Four Guy had dropped before the survey commenced and before he’d ordered the correct batteries for me.

I answer the cell. “First, let me thank you for choosing Dell. We show that earlier today you ordered two six-celled batteries. We’d like to follow up on your call to Customer Service. Would you punch in your name, phone number, and the Day Lincoln was shot…and then choose from the following options…”

Lunch turned out to be a fantasy. You’d think this situation couldn’t get worse, but it does. Going insane seems like a small price for how I spent the afternoon.

 

Adventures in the Phone Trees, Part 2, Super Stress

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Dateline: Seventh Rung of the Phone Tree. I can see Saturn from here.

To comprehend this portion of Customer Service Phone Torture, first catch up with Part One.

Hour Two

Now I’m bumped up to Level Two since my request is apparently too complicated for the first ring of hell. Level Two Customer Service Guy thanks me for choosing Dell and asks me to give him all my information again.  He assures me he will solve the problem.  Sigh of relief.

Someone’s going to help me.  But, oh. Nay, nay! Because what Bubble Voice Lady is really saying is:

“Hey, don’t you get it? You are the one causing us a problem. We do not hire people anymore…that’s a sham…not to mention expensive. You have landed in our Customer Service Slave Section, that is, employees who have chronic lateness issues and bad breath. What’s really going to happen here is, I am going to torture you until you quit this nonsense and hang up. We’d prefer that you spend your money with this company without us even having to hear about it.  Just check the boxes and put
in your credit card number.  Wouldn’t we all be happier if you’d just hang up and do the ordering for us?  If you continue to persist, you will be put on the special terminal hold we’ve set up for customers like you– which is a message suggesting you go online and not bother us. This will be rotated with my voice every two minutes reminding you how important your call is to this company!”

A new voice picks up the call. I’m excited. The customer service guy says, “Thank you for calling Dell. Unrli whu ssoommoo. Ursache waser.”

I have no idea what this guy means because now I’m in India.  I don’t blame the “customer service” guy. He’s working to make a little money in a poor country and he’s brave to take on the task of trying to be understood. I do blame Dell for not caring
enough about customer service to hire people for whom English is a first
language.  The call from India drops off.

Right. Start all over with Bubble Voice Lady. “Thank you for calling Dell!  Please choose…”

After five trips to India and five times giving my address, service code, order number and educational history…in my broken Indian-English I tell the guy that the batteries Dell sent me (to replace those that were stolen) arrived yesterday and they are the wrong batteries for my computer.  He asked if I purchased the batteries on line.

What he’s really saying is: “Hey, if you bought these on line, then you, dear valued customer, is the one at fault. Haha. Gotcha. No more time for you!”

I explain that, no, I purposely bought them on the phone because I wanted to be very sure the correct batteries were sent—since the last time I ordered these batteries it took Dell three shipments before I was sent the correct batteries.  That I had ordered
on the day my luggage was stolen because I needed them as soon as possible.
They are the wrong batteries. What follows is thirty minutes of repeating what
I told my Indian friends.

I am kicked up to Level Three. I think Foreign Legion Customer Service Guy hit the panic button on his keyboard.

I give my information again to Level Three Customer Service Guy (LTCSG). This is the seventh time I have given this information to citizens whose native language is not English. The Level Three customer service guy puts me on hold while he checks part numbers, computer service tag numbers, and blood type.  He returns to the call.

Here is where the conversation really slips off the page.

I am sitting at my computer. I am holding one of the wrong batteries in my hand. Foreign Legion Level Three Customer Service Guy says:  “Ma’am the batteries you received are the correct batteries for your computer.”

Did I mention I was holding one of the wrong batteries in my hand?  That it did not look like, nor was it configured like the battery that came with the computer or batteries I’ve bought since. I convey this to Level Two Customer Service Guy.  He repeats his assurance that I am holding the correct battery.

I say again that I have the battery in my hand and it doesn’t fit the computer. You can see that from just a look.  It’s not the battery for the computer.

LTCSG repeats his claim and asks me if I will open the package the battery came in and take a look at it.  Did I mention…

Part 3…Level Four…

The Intoxicated Babysitter and the Third Graders at the Renaissance Hotel

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The Intoxicated Babysitter and the Third Graders at the Renaissance Hotel

Dateline: Chili’s bar, Little League World Series Final. These kids are great fun.

What was your first thought when seeing the two boys in the pool. Was it, where were their parents? Not that the question is a bad one, just not the only one.t was your level of fear seeing pic? Remember herding sheep in other countries. The swimmers do look a bit younger than the third graders in the situation below.

Okay, one more shot at James Arthur Ray, then I’ll let him go. Maybe. The sweat lodge situation is just such a good example of one person saying to others (who ended up dead, by the way, even though they were good “Warrriors”) “Listen to me. Not your own mind. You are safe because I know you and you don’t know yourself. You are safe because I am with you and I am so cool and great, you should trust me with your bodies and your money.” Okay, I paraphrased a little. But you get the message. is the same.

Remember the pledge. No judgments. James Arthur Ray and both mothers came by their responses to anxiety honestly. A child’s anxiety is hard to resist. It’s hard to keep
ourselves calm and communicating confidence once our fears are stimulated, once
we know or think we know danger lurks.

The following situation came about accidentally, but taught one father a lot about his
daughter and himself. This particular weekend Mrs. W was out-of-town and Mr. W
was in charge of his ten, four, and two-year old daughters. The mother of one
of his ten-year-old’s best friends called and asked if she could attend a small
slumber party.

The friend’s aunt, staying at one of the best hotels in town which happened to include
an indoor pool and miniature golf course, had offered to arrange a room next
door for their niece and three of her friends. The niece was excited and happy that her aunt had made such a generous offer. The plan was for the aunt to supervise an afternoon in the pool, then take the girls out to dinner before settling in.

What actually happened: An hour after the girls were in the pool, the aunt got into a huge argument with her husband on the phone. After the battle, the aunt
left the hotel, then returned with a six-pack of Mike’s Lemonade. Afte the swim the now intoxicated aunt retreated to her room and room service alcohol.

The girls went down to the indoor miniature golf and played a couple of hours. Returning to their room, the niece peeked in on her aunt to find her passed out on the bed. The four third greaders were on their own and for some reason, probably the fun
night ahead, no one called parents.

They made a joint decision for everyone to shower and change into the dresses brought for dinner. The four girls escorted themselves to hotel’s fine-dining restaurant signing the check to their room. Afterwards, the evening was spent with television and games as planned. Ice cream sundaes were ordered from room service.

The next morning, the aunt still in bed, the girls enjoyed breakfast in the restaurant then returned to the miniature golf course to wait for parents to pick them up at the
assigned time.

Once the niece’s parents were beyond their anger at the aunt, they could step back and see how well their daughter and the other girls had handled themselves. Would they have allowed her to go if they’d known what was going to happen? Of course not. But instead of raging on about the irresponsibility of the adults, or about the fact that his daughter had not called him the night before, they were able to appreciate how the girls had managed a tough situation quite well–and without anyone having to instruct them along the way.

Hang on, no one’s saying leave your third grader with a drunk relative in a hotel. Ten-year-olds do herd sheep and tend to the store in other cultures. (When a young person tells me he or she just can’t do a chore, I tell them about the young herders. Straightens them out in a hurry, since they do not want to end up with more responsibility.)

Next: Relationship
Dependence, the “Woman Who Used Two Potato Peelers at Once.”

 

 

 

Two Chicks on a Mexican Highway, Final Episode

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How the Worst that Can Happen Could Be the Best that Could Happen

Dateline:  Toll Road into Mexico City, after midnight, raining. And we are out of gas. Stress.

This episode will make no sense unless you read Episode One and Episode Two. Even then, the true story will make only marginal sense.

After a whispered confab and a prayer, Sam and I, okay Sam, asked the truck driver to follow us until we ran out of gas, She told him both of us would climb in for the ride.  Less than ten minutes later the inevitable came to pass.  What was said during those ten minutes Sam and I never talked about again, but each of us knew the other’s final wishes should only one of us survive. Even El Sanborn was part of the deal as we both forgave him for not warning us about the gas situation, which Sam still contended was my responsibility, but I forgave her because I’d heard nuns could be stubborn.

Stress Management:

I hit the hazard lights and rolled to a stop on the shoulder.  The trucker stopped as promised, but on learning that we both were coming along, said there was only room for one in the truck cab.  The other one could ride in the back.  Which is how Sam and I ended up coming into Mexico City in a driving rainstorm at two in the morning on a pile of mangos.

Now, wait.  Remember how the worst thing that could happen can turn out to be the best?

We made it to the Pemex station and did find a return ride (surprise, surprise given my pink see-through pants) in the cab of a Pemex hauler with two tanks behind him.  Sam and I were squeezed between the driver and his helper with six long and scary looking gear shifts mingled amongst our legs.  Sam had gone mute while I couldn’t shut up telling the truckers how we were the nieces of the president of the United States and most likely plenty of people were out searching for us already. Though she’d made her position clear, I kept elbowing Sam in the ribs telling her to translate while I peered up through the windshield pretending to look for search helicopters.  We politely declined the suggestion we all stop for a drink. Or, I did. Like I said, at this point, Sam only stared straight ahead.

The Pemex honchos refused to accept any money after they dropped us off and poured in the gas, but we gave them each a cola as a thank-you.  Of course, five miles down the road while we were still hugging each other and congratulating ourselves on being alive, we realized just what kind of surprise our friends would have when the still over-heated cans were opened.  Now, here comes the good ending.  We’d planned on staying the night with a distant aunt of Sam’s in Mexico City which obviously wasn’t going to work out.  Thus, I checked us into the Maria Barbara Motel, a place I’d stayed with my family on the northern outskirts of the city, and by now hungry and thirsty, we hit the bar where food was still being served.  Also, a little combo was playing.

A little combo with a cute bongo player who noticed Sam the minute she came in.  After a couple of chicken tacos, I crawled away from the table and passed out in our room without even changing out of my wet clothes.

When I woke up, Sam hadn’t been to the room.  I found her when I went down to breakfast.  She and Bongo Boy were still at the table from last night. Still talking and giggling like six-graders.  That was as far as the romance went, they never spoke again, much less ever kissed.  Yet, Sam forgave me everything from the night before declaring it had turned into the best night of her life.

As she climbed into shotgun she said, “I can do this. I’m pretty. Guys are going to like me.”

We consulted El Sanborn and carefully mapped the way to the relative’s house in Mexico City.  Then we drove around lost for almost five hours, consulted El Sanborn for a nice restaurant, then followed a taxi to the address.