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How It Is
03.14.07
Lately, it seems as if
everybody has been taking great pride in telling me ‘how it is.’
At lunch, a co-worker took notice of the cheeseburger I was eating and
said, “you really need to start eating more healthy, because I’ve
noticed that you’ve been gaining weight. Hey, I’m not going to blow
sunshine up your butt…I always tell it like it is. That's just how I
am.”
While out drinking with a friend a few weeks ago, I commented that the
girl sitting across the bar from us was quite attractive. My friend
looked at me and said, “you don’t have a chance. That girl is way out
of your league. Look, sorry if you’re upset, but I’m just telling you
how it is."
People nowadays take such pride in telling it ‘like it is.’ Their
opinion is obviously important. And I clearly need help…help that only
they can provide.
But strangely enough, I know I’ve gained a few pounds. I also know
that my physical appearance isn’t in the same league as the Brad Pitts
and George Clooneys of the world.
And I find that I don’t want people telling me ‘how it is’…or how they
think ‘it is’…or that I need their help in seeing it 'like it is’.
And if you see me around someday, please don’t come over to tell me
'how it is'.
I’d much rather you lie to me instead.
Elephant Smuggling
Interior Decorators
02.24.07
Another training session
sent me out of town this past week, and with this trip, my total
airplane experience in the past six months has eclipsed my total
airplane experience during the first 34 years of my life.
I’ve actually been enjoying my time spent speeding through the sky…my
only real complaint being that I can’t open the window, which would
enable me to spit down upon all the cars and rooftops that we pass
over.
I don’t even mind living the hotel room life. For someone that has
never traveled to any far away destinations, places like Indiana and
Minnesota seem exotic. And, when I try hard enough to ignore the
cigarette burns in the carpeting and carefully rearrange the sheets so
that the suspicious stains are nowhere near my head, I can almost
image that I’m in a four star resort.
My first night this week started out exactly like this. Shoes were
placed over the holes in the carpet. The sheets were precisely
positioned so that nothing but clean, white linen was situated next to
my head. And the drapes were drawn so that the neon glow announcing
‘Vacancy – Free HBO!’ would not burn through my eyelids and leave
gaping holes in my retinas.
I was living the good life, right up until 4:30 that morning. This
was the moment that a loud, thunderous ‘bang’ sounded from the room
directly above mine.
Jolted from the beach where Sarah Michelle Gellar and I were about to
enjoy a glass of Chardonnay before skinny dipping in the ocean, I
rolled over and closed my eyes…hoping to be transported back into the
dream from which I had been yanked.
These hopes were dashed, however, when a succession of scraping noises
erupted from above, followed closely by a series of bumps and
footfalls cascading back and forth, from bathroom to bed and back
again.
Was this person an elephant smuggler, transporting them across state
lines to sell on the black market? Or perhaps this was an interior
decorating student doing some late night cramming before the final
exam? Curious as I was, I simply wanted sleep.
Unfortunately, neither sleep nor the answer was to come. 4:30 melted
into 5:30, and 5:30 into 6:30 with the bangs, scrapes, and footsteps
continuing at a constant rate.
Finally, at 6:45, the noise stopped as suddenly as it began…just in
time for the alarm clock to announce the start of a new day.
After a quick shower, I wearily approached the front desk. Bleary
eyed, I rang the little bell on the counter and was greeted by a
well-rested looking morning attendant.
“Can I help you, sir?” she perkily asked.
“Please,” I begged, “can you give me a different room. I’m here for
the remainder of the week, and the guy above me made so much noise
that I couldn’t get any sleep.”
“Certainly,” she told me. “You know, we’ve had complaints about him
from some of our other guests too. I’ll just put you in a room down at
the end of the hall.”
In my weakened and fatigued mental state, I didn’t even wonder why, if
other complaints were lodged, they continued to let this guy continue
operating heavy equipment machinery in his second floor room. I was
just glad to be out from under him.
Shortly afterward, with a large coffee in hand, I arrived at the
training session minutes before the 8:00 start time. And as our
presenter introduced herself, I could feel my eyelids drooping ever so
slightly, until finally, amidst the lulling talk of projected sales
revenue and key demographic targets, they shut completely.
At last, I had found peace.
On Ice
02.19.07
The snow that has all
but crippled the Northeast has single handedly shut down schools,
delayed the mail, and has caused otherwise profit seeking enterprises
to put profits on hold…albeit for the short term.
There is no better
evidence of this than the fact that all the local malls in the area
delayed opening their doors last week by a full two hours. Two hours
that forced all the ‘mall walking’ senior citizens to delay their
morning routine, have a second bowl of fiber chocked cereal, and then
find greener pastures on which to tread.
For me, however, the snow has caused headaches beyond lack of early
bird shopping and walking. Because, due to the multiple inches of snow
covering the highways, all of my sales calls for the past two weeks
cancelled. And while it’s true that this lack of sales calls most
certainly indicates a lack of sales, this was not my main grievance.
Rather, this lack of appointments outside of the office meant that I
was forced to stay inside the office.
An office with no windows. An office which has been serving as a Petri
dish of viral growth for the past few months. An office that is drab,
dingy, and depressing.
I relish setting sales calls because of the opportunity it provides to
escape this otherwise miserable dungeon in which we store items to
sell to companies...companies with amenities such as natural lighting and coffee
that doesn’t closely resemble tepid sludge.
So when a company in an adjacent town actually kept the appointment we
had previously set, I was in my car and down the road in a
flash...fleeting goodbyes as I raced out the door, a trail of papers
fluttering in my wake.
It was late morning as I pulled alongside a parking meter across the
street from the small company I was heading into. I gathered my
brochures and catalogs, slung my laptop over my shoulder, and
grabbed my samples from the backseat. After carefully balancing
everything with exact precision, much like a skilled waiter does when
delivering eight drinks to a large table of diners, I headed across
the street to the main entrance.
I had crossed the street and stepped over the curb when my foot fell
upon a rather large patch of ice. What happened next was exactly what
you would expect to happen when someone loaded down with multiple
bags, briefcases, and papers steps onto an immense continent sized
patch of ice…the result looking very much like something out of a
Three Stooges movie, minus two of the stooges, of course.
My legs flew out from under me, the weight of my laptop wrenched my
left shoulder, the samples and brochures which had previously been so
carefully balanced went sprawling across the sidewalk, and I went down
in a flourish, ripping a hole in the knee of my slacks as I landed.
As I lay flat on my back, I turned my head and noticed a miniature
pair of Keds directly in front of me. Gazing upwards, I saw a small five year old child staring down at me, her mouth
wide open with what I like to image was awe at my spectacular Olympian
display of clumsiness.
Wanting to use this embarrassing predicament to impart some type of
wisdom that I had gained from years of experience, I said, “Boy, this ice sure is
slickery.”
Not 'slick', not 'slippery', but 'slickery'. Not only did I fail to impart
something deep and substantial, I didn’t even use the proper English.
I struggled to stand up,
back aching and shoulder throbbing, quickly gathered what I could, and
trudged off to my car.
And as I sit here, I can't
help but think that I'm single-handedly corrupting the youth of
today...one make-believe word at a time.
Working Stupid
01.29.07
I met with my boss today for
of his weekly ‘Monday Morning Meetings’ which are held once every
week...or whenever he remembers. Truthfully, I’m often overjoyed when
his weekly meetings occur on a monthly, rather than weekly, basis.
The general topics discussed are usually things such as sales
strategies (“why the hell aren’t you selling more?!”) and morale
boosting (“do you like your job here? Then you better start selling
more!”)
I took a seat directly across the particle board desk from my boss.
“Look,” he began, “you’re just not working smart enough.”
“I don’t understand,” I responded. “I mean, I’ve been meeting all of
my monthly goals. My paperwork is always done by the end of each
week…and often times, I’m the last one to leave the office in the
evening. I feel that my work ethic here has been impeccable.”
“No, no, your work ethic has been fine…it’s not how hard you’re
working, but how smart you’re working.”
“So you think I’m working too hard?” I asked.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. You’re working hard enough,
just not smart enough.”
I mulled this over for a minute, but being at a loss for words simply
said, “Hmmmm.”
“You see,” he continued, “if you’d continue working just as hard, but
do it in a smarter fashion, you’d get twice as many results as you’re
currently getting.”
“So how do I start working smarter?”
“Smart work isn’t something that can be taught,” he told me. “It’s
just something that you either have or don’t have.”
“So I’m not working smart now, and it’s not something that I’m going
to learn, but you expect me to do it.”
“Exactly,” he answered, pleased that he had gotten through to me.
He swiveled around in his chair, turning his attention to his
email…his subtle way of letting you know that the meeting was finished
and that he had tired of you.
As I returned to my desk, my head was spinning with thoughts of hard
work, and smart work, and how in the world I was going to learn all
about working smartly. And working hardly. And doing both
simultaneously.
I stared at my computer monitor in front of me. ‘Work smart’ I told
myself…as if wishing it would cause it to happen. ‘Work hard.’ All I
discovered was that it’s hard
work trying to figure out what my boss is ever trying to
say…smart or not.
Shiver Me Timbers
1.01.07
I saw my sister this
holiday season, and while we were catching up over a cup of coffee,
she called my two year old nephew into the kitchen.
“Tell your uncle what Santa says.”
My nephew looked up at me and, in the deepest and jolliest voice that
his two-year old vocal chords could muster, said, “Ho Ho Ho, and a
bottle of rum!”
My sister sat, wearily shaking her head, while my nephew ran off to
delve back into his newly acquired toys. “I don’t know where he got
this from,” she said. “I keep telling him that pirates say ‘Yo-ho-ho
and a bottle of rum’ not ‘Ho-ho-ho and a bottle of rum’. Santa just
says ‘Ho ho ho’.”
“Well,” I reasoned, “he has reindeer instead of a parrot, a sleigh
instead of a ship, and they both carry around bags of loot. I guess
that I can see the similarity.”
“We’re talking about Santa!” she exclaimed. “The personification of
Christmas! Good tidings, generosity, and spending time with your
family! Not pillaging and raping! He’s only two years old and I’ve
already ruined him!”
I tried consoling her by explaining that mistaken catchphrases don’t
indicate poor parenting skills. Rather, it simply pointed out that
more pop-cultural knowledge was needed, something that the
television would certainly provide in the years to come.
“Why don’t you try talking to him,” my sister suggested.
I headed off to the family room where I found my nephew sitting at the
base of a mountainous heap of toys. I sat down but simply couldn’t think of anyway to adequately explain
the Santa-Pirate conundrum that my sister found herself in.
Still, I hated to let a learning experience pass by. So after only a
few short minutes, I had my nephew running around the house yelling,
“Merry Christmas Ye Mateys!"
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