I’m failing at my once-a-week commitment to post. Obviously.

Disgracefur rack of disciprine.

My job move is still in flux. My missus gave me the croupy throat. Dry cough. Runny nose.  I’m a 250 pound portable germ factory. My brain is hazed over and I’m not sorting logic well.

I am, however, trying to soldier on.

Or at least Girl Scout on.

It rubs me the wrong way when women think it’s funny to infantilize sick husbands. Reimagine us as helpless children.

That’s just so offensive. Madison Avenue loves this shit.

The same women who post this shit to their Facebook are the ones who didn’t have three hours to sit through Saving Private Ryan.

Anywhoo. I was tempted to fight offensive meme with an offensive meme of my own. But, nyah.

Chains. When they ran out of cannon balls they artillerymen stuffed chains into the cannon. Sticks and logs. Shrapnel burned hot and cauterized as it ripped through viscera. Chains and sticks were payloads of infection that left soldiers to lie on their back and watch the sun set and rise and set, clawing blood soaked wool open and closed to try and live another hour when the women may or may not be able to walk the hill and douse drips of comfort onto a parched tongue before infinity closed in.

</dramalouge> Fuck your infantilism. And fuck this cold.

I’m a grown-ass man. I’m old enough to think twice before I email or text my work buddies. How many times does an adult have to get screwed over on something said in confidence before we grow up and censor our fingers before they betray us? A few months ago at work I was beset by some coworker I’ve never met from another outpost. He assailed me on company IM for screwing up the internal web site I administrate. Not only did he chew my ass for his dislike of the way our new website rolled out, but he sent hate mail to my boss and my boss’s boss.

Here’s the thing: The complainer was just flat-out wrong. My internal SharePoint site had been hijacked by some contractors who were supposed to update our site as they converted it. I didn’t break it, and I didn’t even have the new credentials to fix it myself yet. I was helpless.

Another co-worker on my team found himself in the IM crossfire.

[IM Ding!]

DEREK: I don’t understand why this guy cares about how our site rolls out. He’s not a stakeholder.

SHAWN: Plano has complete control over our SharePoint right now. I couldn’t fix their mess if I wanted to.

DEREK: He’s really concerned.

SHAWN: He’s a whiner. He has no idea what the hell he’s talking about. He said the rollout was over, but the dumbass doesn’t know that Plano is rolling it out in phases.

DEREK: Okay. Hang on. I’m going to conference the guy into IM and get this worked out.

SHAWN: Fine.

 

So what does Derek do? He drags and drops the above conversation IN ITS ENTIRETY into a conference request with Mr. Whiner.  I honestly didn’t even know that was possible.

Great. Just frickin’ great.

But… I’m a grown ass man. I should have known better. It’s on me.

A couple weeks ago, I saw Facebook chatter from the male-half of a couple rewiring their home TV system. Cutting the cord. Being a cord-cutter myself,  I was interested in what the guy was doing. Instead of installing “pucks” like a Roku or an Apple TV, he was going balls-to-the-wall by installing a whole house entertainment server on the Ethernet. I envisioned Tim “the Toolman” Taylor. “Roku? Naw, the Binford 3000 whole home distribution raid server with IP boost. Grunt-grunt-haw-hawg.”

I IMed the female half of the couple. I knew, I KNEW I shouldn’t say something to one of them that I would not say to both of them. I’m a grown-ass man. I know better.

SHAWN: “Jeez, does he always pick the most complicated solution?”

Either A: She forwarded the text to her beau, or B: the couple has some setup where he reads her texts. Yeah. Super. Mr. ClassAct made sure I knew that he saw my comment. Sigh. I knew better. I’m a grown-ass man.  Nobody to blame but myself. It’s on me. I did it. I’m an idiot.

I don’t use anonymous usernames on my Twitter and social media accounts. I stopped that practice eight years ago.  I figure I should stand behind my name and if I wouldn’t say it through a bullhorn at a train platform, I probably should not say it at all. That doesn’t mean I tiptoe or never throw a punch. It just means I’m ready to stand accountable for the idiocy of my advocacy.

Here I sit, shaking my head in disgust. Disgust at myself. At the hypersensitive taste of betrayal that I can’t seem to spit off the back of my tongue. Stupid. There are no secrets between bedfellows.

A grown-ass man doesn’t need to relearn that lesson over-and-over. Theoretically.