The Run-In

On my way home for lunch today, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up something for dinner. I was rounding a corner to head down an aisle when I nearly ran into a woman who was in a quite a hurry heading the other direction. This wasn't any woman, though; I nearly ran down my old boss.

Quick trip down memory lane: My old boss is certifiably crazy and completely irrational. I really liked her at first, mostly because she seemed to love me. But not too long after I started working there, I realized that she treated all of her employees like they were in a relationship with her. Once the honeymoon period wore off, she didn't like me that much anymore. Of course, this manifested itself in passive aggressive ways. Her problem wasn't with my work; her problem with me was that I refused to do things exactly how she wanted them done. It killed her that I did things my own way. Towards the end, she would nitpick everything I did and even create false misdeeds in order to bitch at me. Finally, I decided to move on, and I treated the resignation much like I would a breakup. One more thing: Her company is one that thrives in a strong economy but crashes in a weak one. Back in the winter, there was a large downturn in business, which she blamed me for. I can only imagine how much worse things are going now.

So where were we? Ah yes, we nearly collided. When she looked at me and realized who she almost ran into, all of the color drained from her face. The look she had was priceless. I am sure that she wanted to continue walking without even acknowledging me, but that isn't her style. She mustered every bit of friendliness that she could, and said "Oh, hi Mike!" The disdain she has for me was just dripping from her voice. "Hey Susan!" I replied, almost gleefully.

"What are you doing these days?" she asked me, still fighting off the hatred. I told her about my job, making myself sound 38% more important than I really am. A fake smile plastered on her face, she nodded and congratulated me on my success.

"Thanks," I said. "I am really really happy with everything." Of course, this is a lie, but she doesn't have to know that. The awkward tension had not dissipated, and it was clearly time to end the conversation. Not without rubbing a little salt in the wound, though. "How are things going over there," I asked, referring to her company. The grin on my face would probably be best described as "shit eating".

"Just fine," she replied, no longer faking any sort of friendliness.

"Great! I hope to see you around," I told her. As she walked off, I am quite certain that she called me more names under her breath than I have ever been called before.

Another Example of Corporate Greed

For the longest time, the vending machine at my office sold cans of soda for 50 cents. This was the perfect price. If I had a dollar, I could buy one can, then put my remaining two quarters in my desk and buy another can the next day. Since I like to buy a Diet Mountain Dew every afternoon, this means that I spent $2.50 per week in the machine. Life was good. I was happy because I could quickly and conveniently get my afternoon caffeine fix, and they got to sell me cans of Diet Mountain Dew at a 100% profit. Everyone was happy.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, one of the geniuses at the vending machine company made a decision to raise the price on cans of soda to 55 cents. On the surface, this seems like a good application of price point economics. If someone is willing to spend 50 cents for a can of soda, they'd most likely be willing to spend 55 cents, especially when there is no substitute available. This would equal an extra 25 cents in their pocket per week, which would be pure profit. Seems like a no-brainer, right?

Wrong. Here is the problem: At 50 cents, I always had 50 cents leftover to buy another can the next day. Now, I only have 45 cents left. 45 cents sucks. I can't do shit with 45 cents. Fuck 45 cents. This hit me the other day while I was feeling underneath the seat of my car to try and find a nickel. I found an empty water bottle, an unidentified CD, some pebbles, a receipt from 2004 and a petrified french fry, but no nickel.

So you know what? Fuck those bastards. I am not going to buy anything from now on. We had a good thing going, vending machine company, and you corporate fat cats had to get greedy. I think I'll save my $2.50 per week and invest it in the stock market. These days, that can buy me like 60 shares of GE.

Disclaimer: Partisan Post

As I settled into my desk this morning, Loud Guy approached me. "SO ARE YOU GOING TO BE LEAVING EARLY TODAY?" he asked.

"Uh, I don't know," I told him, extremely annoyed. "Why?"

"TO GO TO THE MCCAIN/PALIN RALLY DOWNTOWN," he replied.

This did not surprise me. Because I never discuss politics with him or anybody but my closest friends, people always assume I am conservative. I suppose this is because I am a reasonably successful white male from an upper middle class household in a very conservative area of Ohio. Also, I can be kind of an prick. Four years ago, when I revealed to a law school friend that I was voting for John Kerry, she rejoiced. "Oh good. I had you pegged as one of those typical asshole Republicans."

"Nope, I am the much rarer asshole Democrat," I told her. Nothing has changed since then. I am a quiet Democrat in a very Republican office, which is why it didn't surprise me that Loud Guy thought I'd be going to the rally.

"No, I'm not going. Are you?"

"NO. I DON'T KNOW WHO I AM VOTING FOR." This did not surprise me either. Undecided voters are among the dumbest people walking the earth. If you don't know by now, you shouldn't be allowed to vote. However, I was intrigued by Loud Guy's indecision.

"What is holding you back from deciding," I asked him. He went into a long, boring, and loud dissertation about how he has voted Republican all his life, but that he isn't happy with where the country is now, blah blah blah, but that he isn't sure about Obama because he heard he is a Muslim yada yada yada, and he just doesn't know what to think.

This raised a big dilemma for me. On one hand, I don't like Loud Guy. I could not see a situation where we would be friends or even acquaintances. I make my dislike for him pretty apparent. On the other hand, Ohio is a swing state and a vote is a vote, regardless of who it's from. I know that he would do anything to gain my approval. He works so hard to get me to like him. Should I exploit this? In a normal election, no, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Well, I am voting for Obama," I said, "and I think you should too." His eyes brightened, and we got into a discussion about it. Afterwards, he seemed much more enthusiastic about him. "THIS WAS REALLY INTERESTING. I NEVER THOUGHT YOU WERE A DEMOCRAT. YOU GAVE ME A LOT TO THINK ABOUT."

For the next two weeks, we will be friends. He will vote for Obama. And on November 5th, he will feel used and abandoned, and I will feel like I have done my part.

Hey, Mike only looks after one guy...Mike!

For the most part, I am a pretty pleasant guy to be around. Seriously, I am. People like me. I am easy going. I make people laugh with wry observations and subtle jokes. I can converse on a variety of topics. I give good advice. I am humble. All in all, I am a decent person to be around. You wouldn't know it if you worked with me, though.

To be perfectly honest, work turns me into kind of a prick. I rarely engage coworkers in conversations about outside work stuff; when they engage me, I become argumentative and dismissive. They learned not to talk to me before 11am, since I am grumpy in the morning. As one of my few work confidants put it, I am grumpy in the afternoon too, just less so. I don't participate in the stupid workplace games; I routinely turn down invitations to lunch; and ten months into my tenure, there are still people in my department with whom I have never conversed. I am sure most people think I am an asshole, but I can't help it. It's a defense mechanism. (For more on my defense mechanisms in unpleasant situations, see this post.)

In my mind, I know I need to improve upon this. I can't go through my work life so obviously unhappy about being at work that people notice it. It's one of those things I intend to work on at some point, just like I intend to lose weight and get in shape. But my improvement is only potential energy now; I have yet to move into into the kinetic rhelm. So when I sat down for my quarterly review this afternoon, it came as no surprise when my boss told me that I earned an "Excellent" rating in every category except for Interpersonal Relationships, in which I got a "Needs Improvement". This is the work equivalent to getting a bad mark under "Plays Well With Others" on a grade school report card.

I expected my boss to give a half-hearted lecture on how to improve this category, but instead he said, "Frankly, I don't give a shit about that. You come in, you do your job, you do it well, and you leave. You don't waste time socializing or playing politics. I wish more people were like you." And with that, he ended the meeting. So much for self improvement.

An Open Letter

Dear Guy Who Drives A Scooter To Work,

I get it. You're progressive, eschewing a normal vehicle for one that maxes out at 20mph in order to save money on gas. That's fine. I respect that. You probably laugh at me and the 14 miles per gallon I get in my vehicle. If only your scooter ran on your smug sense of self satisfaction, then you would have zero fuel costs. I'd probably drive a scooter too, but I have this thing called 'dignity' that gets in the way. But you don't, which is what allows you to put an Apple sticker on your helmet, I suspect.

Anyway, so now that we have established that I don't have a problem with the fact that you ride a scooter, let us move on to the issue at hand. If I pull into the parking lot one more time and get excited because there is a space close to the building, only to pull halfway in and have to stop suddenly because your glorified Schwinn is parked in a full-sized parking space, I smash that piece of shit scooter with my gas guzzler and then come back to your desk and I will fucking cut you.

Cordially,

Mike

Growing Older But Not Up

Three years ago, I made the following post on my old blog: (For anyone who cares, here is a link to the original post)

When I was in 8th grade, a kid in my English class stumbled as he got up from his desk. Predictably, I laughed, and my teacher, Mrs. Smith, was not pleased. "Michael, I am very disappointed in you", she said. "Only immature people laugh at somebody when they trip and fall. You'll know you are an adult when you no longer find that funny."

Yesterday, I turned 26. Walking across campus, I saw someone stumble on the sidewalk, and I chuckled a little bit. Oh well, so much for being an adult.

I turned 29 today, which makes it ironic that I was reminded of that post I made three years ago. I was taking the garbage out and some kid was kicking a soccer ball on the sidewalk in front of his house. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him try to stand on the ball with one leg. He wasn't successful. He fell on his ass, hard. I'd be lying if I said I didn't laugh at him. A lot.

At this point I am starting to suspect that my 8th grade teacher was wrong. People falling down is fucking funny, I don't care how old you are.

A Discussion of Semantics

Recently at work, I overheard a co-worker take a personal call from his brother. Since they apparently didn't have anything to talk about, they began a discussion of the weather. I hate talking about the weather. If someone brings it up to me, I will immediately make them feel stupid. For example...

Random Person: It sure is hot out there.
Me: (Loud sigh) Well it is July. It's supposed to be hot.

or

Random Person: Can you believe this snow?
Me: (Annoyed) Yeah, I can. I guess I don't have the same weather skepticism that you do.

Does that make me a dick? Probably, but I don't care. I feel like if you have nothing better to talk about than the weather, then you shouldn't be talking at all. But do you know what is worse than talking about the weather? Listening to other people talk about the weather. So I was already annoyed to begin with when the coworker made the following statement: "Yeah it's really nice out. It's about 71 degrees up here."

This nearly set me off. Do you see what is wrong with that statement? Take a second to reread it. Focus on the second sentence. Do you see it?

I asked several people to identify the problem with that sentence. Some saw it, some didn't. So if you see it, you can stop reading. Also, if you think this post is one of the dumbest things you've read in a while, I advise you to stop here, for it gets dumber. But if you didn't see it, here it is: He said it was about 71 degrees.

The problem with that phrasing is that the word about, in this context, should be used to qualify an approximation. 71 degrees is not an approximation. It is a very specific number of degrees. (A quick note to those of you thinking, "But Mike, it can be about 71 degrees. If it was 70.4 degrees, or 71.6 degrees, it would be about 71 degrees." Go fuck yourself. You suck at life.)

It is common and accepted that when it comes to numbers, we only approximate multiples of five. If you are going to give a non-multiple of five a value, it should be an exact number. This coworker could have said, "It is about 70 degrees," or he could have said "It is 71 degrees." He even could have said "it's in the low seventies." But under no circumstances could he have said what he did and not sounded like an utter douchebag.

Think of it in this context: Let's say you were arriving on a plane at 5:17. If someone asked what time the plane landed, you could say it landed at about 5:15, or even at about 5:20, or you could say it lands at 5:17. You would sound like a retard if you said it lands at about 5:17. That just isn't how people talk.

There is one more thing you need to know. The coworker who's reckless disregard of proper number approximation linguistics is the coworker I unaffectionately refer to as Loud Guy. When I revealed this fact to a friend, she asked me how much that affected my annoyance. My answer: Because Loud Guy said it, I was exactly 57% more annoyed.

The Downside of Having a Cool Wife

Unlike some men, I am fortunate that my wife is not a cunt. 99% of the time, this is to my benefit. She doesn't whine about having to watch sports, and in fact enjoys them herself. She doesn't make me eat healthy. When I want to make an impulsive decision, like the time we were at Wal-Mart and I suddenly decided we needed a new 42" HDTV, she doesn't stand as the voice of reason; no, she becomes a cheerleader for the decision, and even points out the looks of envy that all the other men had as I walked out with my new TV.

But like I said, her coolness has a downside. Case in point: This past weekend, my good friend Russ got married in Chicago, and I was a groomsman. On Saturday, the day of the wedding, I cracked my first beer around 12:30. The ceremony was at 6:30, and the reception ended at midnight. By the time the reception ended, I was happily drunk off of beer. If I had gone back to the hotel, grabbed a snack, and slept a solid 8 hours, I would have felt great in the morning. But that did not happen, and I blame my wife.

One of the bridesmaids brought her boyfriend to the wedding. He was a stereotypical Southside Chicagoan of Irish descent. We had talked earlier, and I liked him a lot. After all, I am of Irish descent too. We clearly had a lot in common.

So, after the wedding, some people were still mingling about, and the bar was still open. I was talking to my wife, a friend of mine, and his wife. The Irish guy comes up, puts his arm around me, and says, "Hey, lets go do shots of Jameson!"

My external reaction was, "Okay!". The upside to sticking to beer is that I can still function and know right from wrong, and good ideas from bad. And this was definitely a bad idea. Somewhere, a tiny voice in my head told me that I shouldn't do it. But I have an image to maintain; I couldn't very well decline my new best friend's invitation to do shots. So I looked to my wife. Hopefully, she would validate the lone dissenting voice in my head and allow me to save face. Not so much. When I looked at her to step in and keep me from doing something stupid, she failed miserably. "Go ahead!" she told me. The Irishman, surprised by the lack of cuntiness displayed by my wife, hugged her and said, "You are an awesome wife!"

Postscript: I did the shot, which extinguished the remaining common sense in my head. I then ordered a Jack and Coke with a double shot of Jack to wash it down. And then I did another shot of Jameson. And drank another double Jack and Coke. And then I went home and passed out without eating anything. So when I woke up six hours later to throw up so hard that I broke blood vessels around my eyes, I blamed my wife. When I woke up Monday morning still hungover, I blamed my wife. It's great that she's cool and all, but she needs to learn when to protect me from myself.