It's Easy To Criticize..Fun Too

When I was in the third grade, my teacher was given a situation that she apparently wasn't prepared for. In addition to myself, there were three other kids in the class with the first name Michael. When she called on Michael, four boys were apt to speak. Handing back graded papers was a nightmare, as she had to decipher which Michael had earned gold or silver stars on his spelling test by handwriting alone. Finally after a few weeks, it became too much for her to bear, and she called us all together. "To avoid confusion," she told us, "I have decided to ask each of you to go by something different. This way, you'll know who I am talking to, and I'll know what papers belong to each of you. From here on out, one of you will be known as Michael, one of you will be known by Mike, one of you will be known as Mick, and one of you will be known as Mickey."

We drew straws, and as luck would have it, I was now to be known as Mickey. Needless to say, I was not pleased. Additionally, it struck me that her solution to the problem was needlessly complex. I suggested a much better one. I said it would make a lot more sense if she just called us by, and if we just signed our papers with, our first and last names. She wouldn't hear it. She liked her gay nickname system, and told me it would be fine. For the rest of the year, I cringed every time I was called Mickey. In retrospect, the nickname itself didn't bother me as much as the fact that she just completely dismissed my idea, which made a lot more sense than her solution did.

It was this experience that shaped my expectation that those with the power to implement my good idea would ignore it, or even worse, dismiss my idea and then introduce it later as their own. I held various crappy jobs during high school and college, and at all of them I felt like I was screaming into the darkness when my brilliant ideas were not acknowledged. Granted, I am willing to concede that my approach to introducing a better process hasn't always been the best. It was my mistake to believe that the GED-holding manager of the place I delivered pizzas for would appreciate my halfway college educated critiques of how he did his job. Add into this the fact that I was rarely the model employee at these jobs (see, eg, this) and I am now willing to admit that my indignation was misplaced.

Fast forward to last year, and my first "real" job; I have written numerous times about the ridiculousness that was my previous employment, so I won't rehash it here. Suffice it to say that my level headed, pragmatic approach to solving problems was not appreciated. This is no more evident than in one particular situation. The company was facing a fairly large problem, so the boss called everyone together to talk about possible solutions. I saw the problem as being relatively minor and suggested several possible ways to solve it. Because my boss had a knack for making everything much more difficult than it had to be, my initial ideas were dismissed, in no small part because I was the one who suggested them.

Finally, towards the end of the meeting, with no resolution in sight, I sarcastically threw out an obviously ridiculous idea with the hopes of illustrating to the boss how impractical she was being. Naturally, she loved it and decided to implement it right there on the spot, despite my insistence that I was joking and the solution would fail horribly. It did, and I got the blame. It remains my shining achievement of my old job.

All of the preceding brings us to now. For some reason, the managers of my current company love me. My general displeasure with most things surrounding my job is seen as "being focused". My brusque treatment of coworkers is seen as "being no-nonsense". My indifference towards parts of my job is seen as "prioritizing the important stuff". I've really been able to pull the wool over their eyes. As a result, when I voice my suggestions for making things better, they actually listen to them. In fact, one such idea was implemented, and in a department meeting I was given full credit. And you know what? I didn't like it at all. All these years, I didn't actually want credit for my ideas. I just liked to bitch. Go figure.

Five People From My Morning Meeting

1) There is a guy in my department who fancies himself some sort of classic rock guru. He's always talking about bands and concerts and albums, and is generally regarded as the go-to guy for music questions. Today, his phone rang in the meeting, and his ringtone was "Stairway to Heaven". That's like a film buff saying Forrest Gump is their favorite movie. Decent in an of itself but completely overrated due to overexposure and shunned by the experts for that very reason. Totally lost all respect for his musical knowledge.

2) Another guy in my department declined to grab a donut. Given his considerable girth, a few people teased him and his curious show of willpower. He explained that he stops at a hotel on the way to work, pretends to be a guest there, and eats breakfast for free. I wasn't sure if this is really cool or really pathetic. Then, it occurred to me that this is something that Creed from The Office would do. Still not sure if it's cool or pathetic, but it’s definitely very Creed-like.

3) My office is usually casual dress, so most people wear jeans. Today, a few guys in my department were giving a brief presentation, which is occasion to dress a little nicer. One guy's version of business casual? An ancient pair of khaki Dockers, frayed and faded at the seams, and a golf shirt with the logo of a shitty country club, complete with dime-sized bleach stains on the back. Classy.

4) Like every company, we have someone who vehemently hates his job. (Not, not me…yet) This guy will take every opportunity to complain to anyone who will listen. He hates everything and everyone associated with this company. Everyone knows it. It’s like he has a black cloud over him all the time. His negative energy is palpable. That is why I found it to be quite interesting that he was prominently featured in a large number of photos from the company picnic, and looked to be having a marvelous time. Hypocrite.

5) Discussing the Olympics, an overweight balding guy said "We won the beach volleyball gold!" as he shoved a donut in his mouth. This really annoyed me. I get that he meant "we" as in the USA, but I really didn't like how he seemed to take so much ownership of the win. "We" didn't win anything, you fat fuck. Two talented American athletes won. You didn't do shit but watch it. Have another donut, lardass.

The Great Gas Scam

A few months back, when gas prices shot up, the most vocal complainer at work was The Loud Guy, and not just because his voice carried so much. Every day, he would com in and voice his complaints (loudly, of course). He would regurgitate partisan rhetoric straight from Fox News regarding who is to blame for the increase in prices. He openly debated trading in his paid-off SUV for a hybrid. He would obsessively check that website that reports local fuel prices at various gas stations. Once, he found a station selling gas for six cents less than anywhere else, and he called his wife and instructed her to go fill up her mini-van at that station, notwithstanding the fact that it was 15 miles away. Economics is not his strong suit.

However. the biggest thing he did to fight the rising cost of fuel was to find someone to carpool with. Of everything he did or planned to do, this was by far the most practical. He found a coworker who lived less than a mile away, and arranged for the two of them to ride into work together. He seemed very pleased with this arrangement, which lasted until this week. The carpool fell apart when I inadvertently encouraged his carpool buddy to renege on the deal. (Did I say inadvertently? I should say, absolutely did it on purpose.)

It all started on Tuesday, when Loud Guy took a half day and left early, meaning they each drove separately. I was chatting with his carpool mate, an affable but somewhat overly trusting fellow, and he had mentioned their arrangement. Curious, I pressed for the details of their carpool and was shocked at what I had learned. Loud Guy drove every day. Carpool Buddy paid for the gas. All of the gas. At least once a week and sometimes more, Carpool Buddy would spend nearly $70 to fill up Loud Guy's tank. And these guys only live 12 miles from work. Even estimating conservatively, they used 10 gallons per week to get to and from work. Loud Guy has a 20 gallon tank, and Carpool Buddy said that when they filled up it was always close to empty. Basically, Loud Guy had found a way to beat the high gas prices; he convinced someone else to pay for all of his gas.

"Dude, you are getting fucked," I told him upon hearing the details. "When you carpool, at most you'd pay him a predetermined sum of money per week, maybe like $20. Or even better, you guys would take turns driving. What kind of car do you have?"

"A Camry," he replied.

"So how did it come to be that he drove his huge ass SUV in every day?" I was getting fired up.

"I don't know, he was pretty insistent. I just went along with it."

"Okay, well, why did you agree to pay for an entire tank of gas? What was his reasoning?"

"He said that he would take the wear and tear on the car, if I paid the gas. I don't know, it made sense at the time."

"That is fucking ridiculous. He is screwing you over big time. You are paying for almost all of his gas in exchange for getting to ride to work with him. The wear and tear is minimal at best. That is a terrible deal. You should seriously call him on it."

"You're right," he said, getting fired up himself. "This is a terrible deal. I am going to say something tomorrow."

The next day came and went, and the two arrived at work together and then left together. There didn't seem to be a rift in the partnership, so I assumed that Carpool Buddy had chickened out. I was annoyed at this possibility, since I can't stand to see injustice perpetrated by people who I don't like, but I decided not to push the issue any more. So you can imagine my delight when I came to work the next morning and found Loud Guy waiting for me. "THANKS FOR RUINING MY CARPOOL, MIKE. HE TOLD ME THAT YOU SAID I WAS SCREWING HIM OVER AND WANTED TO MAKE DIFFERENT ARRANGEMENTS. NOW WE'RE NOT RIDING TOGETHER ANY MORE."

Mission accomplished.

USA!

Upon arriving at work Monday morning, I was rushed into an emergency department-wide meeting. The mood in the room was serious; given the urgency with which the meeting was called, it seemed like we were about to receive some bad news. Merger? Lay offs? Bankruptcy? The VP of the department came in and a hush fell over the room. He held a stack of papers in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. He did not look unlike Bill Lumbergh. He walked to the front of the room and began to speak. "Good morning. We called this meeting to let you guys know about something we'll be doing this week." He paused and began to pass out the papers. "We're going to be playing Office Olympics!"

He proceeded to explain the rules. We would be broken up into teams, and would compete in various office-friendly sports each day, like magnetic darts, mini-basketball shooting, beanbag toss, etc. Points would be awarded, and at the end of the two-week competition, each member of the winning team would win a $25 gift card to Ruby Tuesday. (Quick sidenote: I get what they're trying to do here. They want to make us think they're a cool company and that this is a fun place to work. It might work for some people, but not surprisingly, not me. If they want me to think it's a cool company, let me work from home. If they want me to think it's a fun place to work, pay me more. I'll have a fucking blast.)

Anyway, after explaining how the competition would work, the VP opened up the floor for questions. Oh, how there were questions. For nearly twenty minutes, the douchebags of my department clearly identified themselves by asking question after question about the rules, sucking out whatever fun there was in this silly competition. Ridiculous scoring hypotheticals, tiebreaking procedures, rule definitions, we heard them all. The VP did not see it coming, but he should have. With each question, he looked flustered. If he didn't have a good answer, the idiots in my department would begin shouting out how they think the rule should work. You would have thought that their jobs were on the line, and not a free meal at an upscale burger joint.

Finally, mercifully, we moved on. They drew names out of a hat to pick teams. When all the names were chosen, the VP announced one final rule. "Since this is the Olympics, each team needs to pick a country to represent, so that we can have a leaderboard and update scores daily next to your flags." Naturually, this set off a frenzy.

Douchebag #1: I call Team USA.

Douchebag #2: No I want Team USA!

Douchebag #3: No, I am Team USA!

Douchebag #1: I called it first!

Douchebag #4: I was in the Air Force, I should be Team USA!

Douchebag #2: I am not playing if I can't be Team USA!

Douchebag #3: You drive a Japanese car, some American you are

Douchebag #2: I'm more American than you!

This devolved into a near shouting match as the douchebags argued over who got to be Team USA. I wish I had a picture of my face during this argument. I am sure it was priceless. Finally, after thirty seconds, the VP stepped in. "No one can be team USA!" I had a flashback to kindergarten, when a bunch of kids were fighting over the best toy and the teacher just took it away and said no one could have it. I had never been so ashamed to be a part of a group as I was at that moment.

Later in the day, I was in the breakroom with Douchebag #3. "So what country did you pick," he asked me.

"Switzerland," I told him.

"Why Switzerland?"

"Because I just want to stay out of it all. What country are you?"

"Well, we are Team Iraqi Freedom," he boasted.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, got a problem with that?"

"So, does that mean you're gonna play one game, declare victory, and then suffer losses the rest of the competition?" He didn't like that too much, and probably doesn't like me too much, either. Totally worth it, though.

Anchorman

http://www.nbcolympics.com/video/share.html?videoid=0811_HD_SWB_HL_L0194

Last night, the wife and I went crazy at the end of the 400 free relay at the Olympics. The link to that race is above. It was an incredible performance, as American Jason Lezak brought the US back from way behind to improbably win. I have a tale of relay anchor heroics myself...

It may surprise you, the reader, that I was actually a swimmer in my younger days. From the ages of 9-13, I swam on the summer swim team for the local pool that my family belonged to. This brings me to my story, which was the single greatest moment of my swimming career.

The year was 1992. I was 12 years old and one of eight boys in the 11-12 age group for my club. By my estimation, I was the fifth best swimmer in the group. (I should note that this says much more about the abilities of swimmers six through eight than about my own.) Being the fifth best swimmer in my age group meant that my contribution to the team was marginal at best. Most pools we competed in had only six lanes, so each team could only enter three swimmers per event. I only occasionally got to swim in the real race. More often, I was exiled to the exhibition heat, where the mere completion of the race earned me a tie-dyed ribbon emblazoned with the word EXHIBITION. I had only a handful of Blue, Yellow, or Red ribbons given to the top three swimmers from the real race, but an entire wall full of exhibition ribbons. To an outsider looking at my swimming career, it would be abundantly clear that I had the ability to complete a race, and not much else.

Having so many swimmers in my age group this particular season did have one perk; I always got to swim in the relays. We usually fielded two teams: The A Team, comprised of the best four swimmers, obviously, and the B team, comprised of the rest of us. A few times I got called up to the A squad when one of their usual swimmers was on vacation or sick, but more often than not, I was the anchor of the B squad. This usually meant that while our A team and our opponents' A team battled it out for the precious double points awarded in a relay, we would be batting for a coveted third place ribbon with the other teams B squad, if they even had one. Most other teams actually didn't field a second relay team, so really, we were just trying not to get disqualified so we could get that ribbon.

Our biggest rival was the Elks Club. Each year, my team approached the duel with the Elks with an unwavering intensity. No matter how the rest of the season went, so long as we beat the Elks, it was a successful year. Summer rec league swimming in suburban Cincinnati is serious, serious business.

The duel with the Elks in 1992 was particularly intense. Each race was hard fought, and the score remained close throughout. The last event of the night was the 4x50 freestyle relay. Everyone was gathered around the pool screaming. First the 8& unders went, then the 9-10 year old. With the 11-12 year olds ready to swim, the meet was tied. I, as usual, was anchoring the B team. The Elks had no B team, so there were only three teams entered.

If life was a Disney movie, my motley crew of B teamers would find a way to defeat the evil A teams and win the race. This is exactly what happened, although not exactly in Disney fashion...

The two A squads waged a hard fought battle, swimming neck and neck the entire time. I know this because, as the anchor of the lowly B squad, I had a great view of the race while I waited for my teammates to flail through their swims. As our 3rd swimmer struggled to the wall, the anchors for both A teams were close to finishing the race. They were dead even, and I really thought they'd catch and pass our 3rd swimmer, and that I would get to see who won. Alas, my swimmer rallied to just avoid being lapped, and I dove into the water as the two other anchors completed their race. I swam as hard as I could for some reason, even though it didn't matter.

Soon after diving in, I heard a strange series of noises. First was a loud cheer, followed by a loud groan. Then there was a second of silence, followed by dozens of people screaming my name and cheering for me. At first I thought this was the pity cheer that I had gotten used to, being in the water alone as the anchor of a terribly slow relay team. But this cheering was a lot more intense. It took on a lot more urgency. I swam as fast as I could, and I distinctly remember hearing one of my coaches yelling, "Don't get disqualified!!!"

I finished the race, and saw the judge come over and hold up the first place sign. All of my teammates and their parents were screaming and cheering for me. My mom, one of the volunteer workers at the meet, came over and hugged me. "The other two teams got disqualified! You won!"

Apparently, the A team for the Elks Club barely outtouched our A team. In celebration, their swimmers jumped in the water. Unbenknownst to them, our A team had been disqualified when one of the swimmers left the blocks too early, meaning the Elks would have won regardless. But, since the Elks team jumped in the water before my lowly B squad was done racing, they were disqualified as well. This meant that as long as I could manage to finish the race, we would win and the relay points would be ours. And as all of my tie-dyed ribbons indicated, finishing a race was one thing I could definitely do. I was the right kid for the job. I touched the wall, we won, and my team got the points.

The last two age groups swam, and when all the points were tabulated, my team won by three. Had Elks not jumped in while I was still swimming, they would have won. Because of my relay, anchored by me, we won the race and the meet. So after watching Jason Lezak incredibly come back to win the gold for the USA, I knew exactly how he felt.

Buzzwords

I loathe buzzwords. They go against everything I stand for. They are so of it. They imply that the user of the buzzwords is stupid, or doesn't mind sounding stupid. I refuse to use them. I am not ashamed to admit that I have consulted a thesaurus to find an appropriate word to use instead of a buzzword, when I knew it was expected that a buzzword should be used.

There are two particular words, or more accurately, phrases, that are used more often at my company than any others. I cringe when I hear them. They are: beta test and one-off. These are both outstanding buzzwords, as they don't make any sense at face value. I have unfortunately gathered that in the context of my company, "beta test" means they're testing something out and gathering feedback before expanding to a wider audience, and "one-off" means that you're going to deal with that particular situation individually, rather than have a blanket policy.

In product development meetings, I keep score. One point for the use of either of those buzzwords. Five points if they use the same buzzword twice in a sentence, and a whopping ten points if they can use "beta test" and "one-off" in the same sentence. After the meeting I enter the points into a spreadsheet I keep. So far, some software development guy is in the lead, having amassed 23 points during a meeting in May. Of course, there are no winners in this game, only losers.

Anyway, the reason I am writing this all now is because I was pulled into a meeting yesterday with five other people, to catch up with some shit that happened during my vacation. My boss went over a couple of meetings I missed, and wanted to get my input. Then he uttered a fantastic ten-pointer. "Do you think we should continue with the beta test, or should we roll it out and deal with problems on a one-off basis?"

I was trapped. In the past, I have been able to avoid saying one-off and beta test by simply choosing different ways to express the sentiments behind the buzzwords. But this time, it was like a multiple choice test, not a fill-in-the-blank. He had presented me with two buzzwords, and I was to choose one of them. Ten eyes looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to express my opinion through the use of one of my vocabulary enemies. Ever the smartass, I said, "While I think we could probably benefit from additional market-specific trials, I think we should move forward and handle the issues as they arise." My answer was met with silence, before my boss said quietly, "Thank you for your input. You can go now."

Reading Between The Lines

I love the subtext of this eHarmony ad. "Guido ex-cokehead with temper issues finds desperate ex-club rat willing to settle for any guy who will look past her extensive list of one night stands."

And We Don't Tan Well, Either

At 3:30 this morning, I arrived home from an altogether relaxing vacation. Naturally, I am taking today off work, to ease back into my normal life from the arduous past week of sleeping, eating, and drinking on or by the beach/pool. But the trip was not completely perfect. You see, at least 50% of my genetic makeup comes from the beautiful country of Ireland. For me, this means two things: 1) I can drink heroic amounts of alcohol with little effect, and 2) I don't do well in the sun.

A week ago Sunday, after lathering up with SPF 45 and spending about two hours on the beach, 80% of my body turned the color of a medium rare steak. Particularly hard hit were my shoulders, and when I woke up the next day, any sort of arm movement was met with a great searing pain. I made the decision to switch to SPF 70, which I didn't even know existed. I gingerly covered my body in the lotion and headed back to the beach.

However, when my mom saw me, she gasped. "Oh my God! Your shoulders! You can't be out in the sun again!" Of course, I didn't want to spend my vacation inside, so we compromised. I put my t-shirt back on, and waded into the ocean. I was Shirt In The Ocean Guy.

Usually, a guy (or girl) becomes Shirt In The Ocean (or, Shirt In The Pool) Guy/Girl due to severe sunburn or severe insecurity. Now, I hardly have the ideal beach body--the pale hairy look doesn't exactly turn heads--but I am not trying to impress anyone. For this reason, I was somewhat embarrassed to be Shirt In The Ocean Guy. I didn't want random beachgoers to think I was trying to hide crippling insecurity. I considered pitching the t-shirt and showing off my red torso with pride, but the pain of removing the wet t-shirt proved to be too much, so I resigned myself to my fate of being Shirt In The Ocean Guy. My shoulders thank me. The SPF 70 succeeded in preventing further burning on my exposed skin, although I am now just a deep red. It isn't as bad as fresh sunburn, but it's not exactly the healthy tan look that people strive for.

Postscript: After leaving the beach Friday, the wife and I drove over to visit her family on the way home. When being greeted by some extended family members at a gathering thrown by her Mom, the same scene played out over and over. They would hug my wife and say, "Oh look at you! You're so tan!" Then they would hug me, and see my red face, arms, and legs. "Oh...looks like you got some sun, Mike." Like I said, I don't tan well.