In It But Not Of It

Because I Just Can't Stay Away

2009-01-04T13:29:00.002-05:00

http://thejerkstore.tumblr.com/

That's All, Folks

2008-12-01T18:02:00.005-05:00

Reaching back to my old blog, I have been consistently posting for nearly four years. Four years isn't a long time if you are measuring a marriage or something important, but for semi-daily posts about loud co-workers, gripes about douchebag classmates, and everything in between, its a pretty long time I guess. Or maybe not.

Regardless, it's been one long, boring, gripe-filled ride, and today that ride is over. All good things must end. My blog isn't that good, but it too must end. So, I guess that the lesson is, all mediocre things must end as well. I've been thinking about this for a while, and I have a myriad of reasons for stopping. My job is really starting to demand a lot of me (Lie) I've been doing a lot of volunteering with local charities, which takes up much of my free time (Lie) I am planning a run for Congress in 2010 (pipe dream) and I feel there is some stuff on here which could hurt me politically (Very true)

Plus, maybe I am growing up (Lie) Maybe posting my darkest thoughts and deepest wishes on the internet for anyone to see is beneath me now (Lie) Or, maybe I am just lazy and fickle and bored and have decided to spend more of my time being unproductive in other ways (True) Regardless of the real reason, I am done (Possible Lie)

Of course, in two days, two weeks, or two months, I may very well emerge from my self-imposed blogging exile and begin posting here again. Or, maybe I'll start a new blog. Or write a book that probably won't get published. Regardless, take this goodbye with a grain of salt.

I should wrap this up. It seems really douchey to be at all sentimental about ending a blog, mostly because I have no sentiment about it whatsoever, and also, because it's a blog. Blogs are inherently stupid. But I will say, the thing I enjoyed the most about blogging was hearing from people who read my self-indulgence. So you can always reach me at initbutnotofit@gmail.com

Thanks for reading.

Wise

2008-11-19T20:17:00.003-05:00

There are eight people at my company who do what I do. According to my boss, and to his boss as well, the two best people who do what I do are myself, and a middle aged guy who looks remarkably like Ned Flanders. (I say this not to toot my own horn, because bragging about being the best at what I do at my job is akin to bragging about having the best football team in the Big East. Actually, I've been doing that all week, so bad example. Nevertheless, it's not exactly a feather in my cap.)

Anyway, back in June, they promoted a couple of guys to my role, and neither one of them is very effective, to put it kindly. One of them doesn't seem to care, which is why his job is probably in jeopardy. The other, to his credit, seems to want to improve. This is why, after a meeting of my group and boss (where, incidentally, the boss named me and Flanders [in that order] the best among the group), that guy decided to pick the brains of the best and the brightest to see what else he can do.

He got Flanders talking, and as he is apt to do, Flanders rambled on and on for several minutes, dispensing little to no usable advice. (In fact, he made several statements and generalizations that I know to be patently wrong or false, but I didn't bother correcting him. I just don't care that much.) Finally, he said, "One more thing...I don't know if you've noticed, but I am usually the first one here in the morning, and the last to leave. That should tell you something."

The guy soliciting the advice then turned to me. "Well, I am usually the last one to get here in the morning, and one of the first to leave, and I'm even better than he is. That should also tell you something."

Is This The Woman I Married?

2008-11-17T12:44:00.002-05:00

Setting: My living room, lunch time. I sit on one end of the sectional couch, watching SportsCenter. The wife is on the other end of the couch, playing on her laptop.

Wife: What? Why are Mike and the Mechanics not on iTunes?

Me: I think a better question is, why are you looking for Mike and the Mechanics on iTunes?

[/Scene]

Oops

2008-11-16T13:37:00.004-05:00

There is a guy who I work with; I'll call him Marty. Marty has a very important role with my company. Without Marty, an entire aspect of our business would collapse like a house of cards. He was the linchpin to this product line. Everything having to do with this particular part of the business went through him. He is the alpha and the omega. Or, as he refers to himself, The Man. (I never said he was a cool guy.)

Everyone in the company, from the CEO on down, acknowledges his importance. It's something of a running joke that if he ever left, the company would be fucked. I assume that despite all the joking, there was a backup plan in place. After all, the people running my company seem (reasonably) intelligent. Turns out, my assumption was incorrect. On Friday, he abruptly quit, and all hell broke loose. Not only that, but I may have had a small part in that happening.

A couple of months ago, Marty and I got to talking. He seemed pretty dissatisfied with his job. I found this to be kind of curious, given my perceptions as to how important he was to the company. Management 101 teaches that the more indispensable someone is, the happier you should try to make them. Given how much he did for the company, I assumed he was paid pretty well. That assumption was also incorrect.

Turns out, he made less than I do, even though he was a lot more important to the company than I am. He'd been there a lot longer, too. According to him, when he went in to request a modest pay raise, not only was he denied, but he was asked to take a pay cut, "for the good of the company."

"That's bullshit," I told him. "You have so much leverage over this place. If you leave, they're fucked. Everyone knows this. You should put together a formal presentation, laying out your true value to the company. Then ask for a raise. If they don't give it to you, quit."

He thought about it for a second. "I dunno, I can't afford to quit. I don't even know what kind of job I'd get if I did."

"Are you kidding? I know exactly what you should do." I then proceeded to lay out exactly what kind of job he could get, and how he should proceed in getting that job. He seemed intrigued, but given his defeatist attitude, I doubted he'd ever actually do it...Until Friday.

When I arrived at work, I could tell something was amiss. Managers were buzzing around, annoyed. People were gathered in small groups, gossiping. I walked by a VP, and overheard him saying "That SOB didn't even give two weeks. Today is his last day." I asked one of my coworkers what was going on. "Didn't you hear? Marty quit. We are fucked."

"Wow," I said, happy to hear that he finally stood up for himself. "What is he going to do instead?" The coworker described Marty's new job, which was pretty much exactly what I told him he should do. As pleased as I am that I encouraged this guy to make some (hopefully) positive changes in his life, I just hope it doesn't lead to the collapse of my entire company.

And if it does? Oh well, it's fun being an instigator.

Fatherhood

2008-11-11T17:34:00.004-05:00

I've been married for over a year now. I am 29, and so is my wife. Naturally, the question of kids has come up. She doesn't want them right now, but her clock is definitely ticking. Three years ago, when we started dating, I said that maybe I'd want kids when I am 30. It seemed reasonable, and it also seemed like a long way away. Now that I will be 30 is 11 months and counting, I can confidently say that I am no more ready for a child today than I was three years ago, and perhaps even less ready.

I was talking with my old friend Russ about this, as he is in a similar predicament. Neither of us really wants kids. I suggested that the reason many people want kids is because of vanity, in that they have some desire to pass on their genes. I have no such desire, although I am confident I'd produce a kick-ass child. I just don't see it as a necessity. My world doesn't hinge on producing offspring. Russ suggested that people have kids because they hear they'd like it. I, however, have no illusions about liking it.

Here are the seven problems I have with potential fatherhood.

1) Money. Right now, I work, and so does my wife. We have disposable income. For the most part, if we want something we buy it. If we want to go somewhere, we go. It's a nice way to live. But with a kid, that will disappear. My wife will work less. Extra money will go to stuff like diapers and strollers. That's not cool

2) Convenience. Now, if my wife and I want to go out to dinner or the store or the movies, we hop in the car and go. With a kid, we'd have to either a) get a baby sitter, or b) take it with us. Either option is a pain in the ass and kind of ruins the point in going somewhere to begin with.

3) Sleep. I like to sleep. Specifically, I like to sleep during the night. If I am awoken during the night, I get really really pissed. From what I hear, babies cry during the night. I cannot sleep when there is crying. That shit ain't cool.

4) Appeal. I just don't see it. If I see a cute kid, my reaction is the same as when I see a kitten. I think it's cute, but also that I don't want one. On the flip side, when I see, for example, a puppy, I want one. Kids need to market themselves better, because I'm not interested.

5) Self-Centeredness. I fully admit, I am self-centered. Having a kid would not be conducive to continued self-centeredness.

6) Diapers. I have never once changed a diaper. I watched it happen recently. It was fucking disgusting. I don't plan on changing any diapers. This will not make my wife happy. It's a lose-lose situation.

7) Kids shows. I have seen some of them. They are retarded. If I came home from work and had to watch Dora the Explorer instead of Seinfeld reruns, well, I would probably resent the kid. I like my shows.

So in light of all that, if someone can tell me why I should want to be a dad, please email me.

America! Fuck Yeah!

2008-11-07T21:31:00.002-05:00

You know, a presidential election can really divide the country. But I think there is one thing that unites us all, and illustrates why this is the greatest country on Earth.

We elect a new president, and the whole world watches with bated breath, then celebrates when their favorite was elected.

On the other hand, 95% of Americans couldn't name one foreign head of state, and that doesn't bother them in the least. As Yakov Smirnoff said, "What a country!"

Update

2008-11-05T20:02:00.005-05:00

Recently, I posted about my attempts to make my work nemesis, Loud Guy, vote for Obama. I am happy to say that despite having some extremely conservative view points, the allure of my approval was too great, and he came over to play for the good guys (or bad guys, depending on your point of view).

This morning, when I arrived at work, he looked sullen. "I AM KIND OF REGRETTING MY CHOICE," he told me. I asked him why. "WELL, ITS JUST THAT IF HE DOESN'T DO A GOOD JOB, I'LL FEEL RESPONSIBLE SINCE I VOTED FOR HIM."

"He won Ohio by 4%," I said. "Your vote didn't make a difference."

"WELL, I WILL FEEL GUILTY IF HE ISN'T SUCCESSFUL. I WON'T BE ABLE TO LOOK AT MYSELF IN THE MIRROR."

"That is the dumbest thing you've ever said, and that is a big accomplishment given some of the dumb shit you say," I replied. And we are back to normal.

The Run-In

2008-10-30T16:06:00.004-04:00

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

2008-10-26T13:48:00.007-04:00

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

2008-10-22T18:09:00.003-04:00

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!

2008-10-20T21:29:00.004-04:00

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

2008-10-15T18:41:00.004-04:00

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

2008-10-12T21:52:00.006-04:00

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

2008-10-08T17:36:00.004-04:00

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

2008-10-07T08:25:00.003-04:00

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.

Smart Ass

2008-09-29T20:12:00.002-04:00

I'm sitting in a meeting first thing this morning with eight other people. There was only one topic on the agenda, and it could have been covered in five minutes. But because 80% of the population has a genetic deficiency where they make things much harder than they have to be, the meeting stretched into it's 20th minutes with no end in sight.

Then, instead of resolving the god damn meeting, the manager asked what everyone did over the weekend. One guy volunteered that he went to a Renaissance Festival. Unfortunately, the manager is also a dork and had to ask about the Renaissance Festival. The guy who went was all too glad to tell him about. He told us all about the food, and the games, and the people in period costumes, before getting to the joust. "It was neat, but it went on longer than it had to," he said. "They did in thirty minutes what they could have done in ten."

"Sounds like this meeting," I retorted. The manager did not appreciate my remark.

Sage Advice

2008-09-28T11:30:00.006-04:00

A while back, I did a post about a guy at my office who wanted nothing more in life than to receive a promotion. At the time, I figured he would become my nemesis and I would torment him with a variety of schemes and pranks. Well, as it turns out, a couple weeks after I made that post, he told everyone he got a promotion and moved to a different department.

His move was not a promotion. It was, at best, a lateral move to a position with a slightly more impressive title. My boss told me in confidence that this guy decided to forgo a scheduled pay raise in exchange for the new job, and that the new job paid him the exact same salary as his old one. So in essence, he took a pay cut to look slightly more important than he already was. (Note: He was not, nor is he now, at all important to the company.)

Anyway, because of his move to a different department and my general surliness at work towards people I don't like, I hadn't spoken to this guy since about March; that is, until this past Thursday when he cornered me while I was buying a Diet Mountain Dew from the vending machine.

"Hey Mike, do you have a minute," he asked me, timidly.

"Sure, what's up?" I asked in a disinterested tone.

"You went to law school, right?" He was still acting very timid.

I sighed. "Yeah."

He perked up. "I thought so. The reason I ask is because I am seriously considering applying to law school."

Now I perked up. A few years back, I made it my mission to dissuade anyone and everyone who wanted to go to law school from going. I was in the midst of my own private hell and the altruistic part of me wanted to keep other people from going through the same thing. If someone asked me about it, I would cite evidence both empirical and anecdotal about why it is usually a bad idea. I would take them down the road of examining their own reasons for wanting to go, and then use those reasons against them to show why it was a foolish choice. I would present logical argument after logical argument as to why they were not making a wise decision. But, I was mostly unsuccessful. As I noted in this post, the undefined quality that drives a person to want to go to law school is the same mechanism that makes them believe that they will be the exception to the rule.

Thus, I stopped trying to talk people out of it. If someone expressed interest, I asked them why. Back in my Barely Legal days, Russ and I did a list of bad reasons for going to law school. (You can find links to all of them here.) After typically hearing one of the bad reasons, I would simply recommend that they work for an attorney first, as a paralegal, so they could make sure they actually wanted to be an attorney. They would usually humor me and say it's a good idea, and disregard the advice. Those people deserve whatever comes their way.

Back to the guy from my office. We took a seat at one of the tables in the break room and told me he is looking for a challenge. I warned him of the tight job market and high cost of student loans. Then I asked him why he wanted to go to law school. "Well, for one, I want to make a lot of money," he told me. (Bad Reason for Going to Law School #8)

"Plus," he said, "I've been working here for a while and I am sick of it. There is no real opportunity for growth and I want to get out of the corporate world and move into something less less cutthroat. (Bad Reasons for Going to Law School #9 and #3) He looked at me for a response. "I see. Is that it?"

"Well, I won't lie, I've always dreamed of going to law school. It's a lot more impressive than what I do now," he said.

"The prestige factor?"

"Yeah, definitely." (Bad Reason for Going to Law School #4) Then he mentioned my favorite bad reason. "Plus, I've always been argumentative so I think it will be a good fit. (Bad Reason for Going to Law School #10). "So what do you think?"

"I really should try to set him straight," I thought. "I should fill him in on the facts, to point out all of the bad reasons he just stated, to save him from himself." Then I looked at him in his shirt and tie at my casual-dress office, his face full of enthusiasm and blind ambition, completely oblivious to the reality that lies ahead of him.

"I think you'll do great," I told him.

Signs of a Bad Marriage

2008-09-23T12:22:00.004-04:00

This morning, when I arrived at work, Loud Guy was waiting for me. He badly wants to be my friend, even though I can't stand him. I was in a pissy mood yesterday so I didn't talk to him. Determined to get back on my good side (on which he never has been, by the way), he found me as soon as I walked in.

Loud Guy: HEY, I DIDN'T TALK TO YOU YESTERDAY. HOW WAS YOUR WEEKEND?

Me: It was fine, I didn't do much besides lay around and watch football.

LG: I BET YOUR WIFE WASN'T TOO HAPPY ABOUT THAT.

Me: Well, she had to work so she wasn't around too much, but if she had been home she would have watched with me. She likes football.

LG: NO WAY! MY WIFE HATES IT. SHE ONLY LETS ME WATCH ONE GAME PER WEEK.

Me: How does she only "let" you watch one game per week? How did that exact rule come to be?

LG: WELL, NOT LONG AFTER WE GOT MARRIED SHE WAS MAD BECAUSE I WATCHED FOOTBALL ALL DAY. WE GOT INTO A FIGHT AND SHE SAID, "FROM HERE ON OUT, YOU ONLY GET TO WATCH ONE GAME PER WEEK."

Me: And you just went with it? How does she enforce this rule? What if you watch more than one game?

LG: I LEARNED THE HARD WAY. SHE MAKES MY LIFE MISERABLE IF I DO.

Me: How?

LG: YELLS, SCREAMS, THROWS A FIT, REFUSES TO COOK DINNER. IT'S JUST EASIER TO DO WHAT SHE SAYS.

It's usually not cool to talk bad about a guy's wife right in front of him, but I felt like I should say something about what I had just heard. As I searched for the proper words, the Conspiracy Theorist, who had been listening, interjected.

"Dude, your wife is a cunt."

Most guys would take offense to someone calling their wife a cunt, even if it was true. But Loud Guy, so beaten down from years of marriage to that cunt, just nodded in agreement and walked away.

Book Review

2008-09-21T21:03:00.005-04:00

Early this summer, some guy emailed me and asked me if I would be interested in a free copy of his book, in exchange for a book review on my blog. Usually I ignore emails like this; however, the title of his book intrigued me. "The Slacker's Guide to Law School: Success Without Stress".

This is a subject near and dear to my heart. I am a slacker. I went to law school. I was successful without stress. Slam dunk, right? Well, not exactly. The problem with this book is the same as with every law school advice book; it's full of well-meaning organizational tips and ideas that are not applicable to an actual law student. That is the fundamental problem with trying to advise people on how to be successful in law school. Everyone is different, and has to find what works for them. If you weren't a model student in undergrad, odds are you won't be one in law school. On the flip side, if you spend countless hours in the library, developing maniacally detailed organizational methods, then your law school experience will be the same. No book will change that, and even if you try to do what the book instructs, it won't last.

I didn't do shit in law school compared to a lot of people, but I did pretty well. People would ask me what my secret was, and I would struggle to tell them. It was really hard to verbalize what came so naturally to me.

That being said, every single person who goes to law school ends up buying one of those books. And to my knowledge, this is the first book that isn't written by some law review douchebag who is a lot smarter than you could ever hope to be. The author, Juan Doria, seems like a pretty cool guy who got his shit together enough to write a book. I can appreciate that. Plus, his book is a lot more entertaining than Planet Law School or the dreadful Law School Confidential. And if you are reading this blog, trust me, you would hate those books too. So if you are gonna get a book about law school, buy Juan's book. You can buy it here.

You Don't Know What You Got Till It's Gone

2008-09-17T16:59:00.004-04:00

If you have never been to Cincinnati, there is something you need to know about us: We are a bunch of pussies. We fashion ourselves as a hearty bunch of folks, able to take on anything that comes our way. This is not true. For instance, on Sunday afternoon, the remnants of Hurricane Ike met up with a cold front and swept through our fair city. With wind gusts up to 75 mph, power to more than 90% of the area was knocked out. You'd think that a city with a fiercely independent, give-em-hell attitude like ours would withstand it. You'd think that, and you'd be wrong. Because this city freaked the fuck out.

Sadly, I am included in that freak out. Granted, I didn't wait in an hour-long line for gas or buy every remaining loaf of bread at a grocery store, like some people did. But I wasn't happy. I like power. I need power. On Sunday night, my living room was lit up with candles like we were having a seance. My wife, a Louisiana native and veteran of many hurricanes, was gleeful. "Isn't this fun?!?" she said several times. No. It wasn't fun. In fact, it sucked.

The degree to which I am reliant on internet access and cable television is somewhat alarming, based on my reaction when it is taken away from me. I went through severe withdrawal on Sunday night, knowing I could be aimlessly surfing the web and watching a football game. But that was nothing compared to how I felt on Monday morning, when my wife called me at work to tell me the power was back on. "But the cable is still out," she said. My heart sank. Seriously, what good is power if I can't use it to connect me to the outside world from the comfort of my home?

For the next 36 hours, I sulked. I whined. I complained. Coworkers who didn't yet have their electricity restored shot me death looks, but I didn't care. I'd have preferred to not have power at all. It was like a cruel tease, to be able to turn on my lights but not to be able to watch ESPN. I mean, what's the point?

Yesterday afternoon, I hit my low point. (Please note: I am not proud of this.) I get my land line telephone through the cable company too, so if the cable is out, my phone is out. I sat at work and called my home number. Over and over. Each time I would get a recording. Due to network difficulties, your call cannot be completed. I probably called it every five minutes, hoping beyond hope that it would ring. Ringing means cable. But it did not ring.

This morning, after trying to determine if Direct TV could hook up service on really short notice, I picked up my cell phone again, and dialed my house. I dreaded hearing the recording about network difficulties, but I couldn't resist. But this time, it rang. Four times! Then my answering machine picked up! That could only mean one thing! MY CABLE WAS BACK!

It was only 11:15, but I rushed home for lunch. I prepared myself for the worst, that my phone call was just a fluke. But when I saw my cable box lit up, fully functional, I did a full on Tiger Woods style arm pump. I grabbed the phone and called my wife. "Guess what? The cable is back on!!!"

"Oh, good," she said, not nearly as enthusiastic as me, since she didn't even seem to mind the outage.

"This is the happiest day of my life."

"Um, what about when we got married?"

I thought for a second. "No, this is better." She laughed, thinking that I was joking around. But you know what's sad? I'm not sure if I was....

A survivalist, I am not.

The Facebook User's Dilemma

2008-09-09T21:20:00.005-04:00

When it first came out, I thought Facebook was stupid. Only after some prodding from a friend did I set up an account, and it wasn't until months later that I actually started using it. And for two years, I didn't really do much with it. I would check it every now and then, but nothing more. Then, back in January, I started working at my current company, and I found that my typical day included a lot of downtime. In searching for a way to fill that downtime, I discovered what so many people had discovered before me: Facebook is addictive.

I estimate that on any given work day, I spend two hours on Facebook. And my favorite activity on Facebook is looking through the 'People You May Know' section. (I will not explain what the 'People You May Know' section is, because I assume that anyone who is still reading this post knows exactly what it is.) The 'People You May Know' section is pretty accurate. Most of the time, I do know the people on the list. But, as the title of the post indicates, this is where my dilemma arises.

Of all of the people who I have known in my life, 10% were truly friends, 10% were enemies, and the other 80% fell into the category of chums, cronies, acquaintances, colleagues, sympathizers, compadres, associates, contemporaries, and well-wishers (meaning they didn't wish me any specific harm). The dilemma comes from these 80% of people who have passed through my life.

When one of the 80%ers pops up on my list, my first instinct is to add them as a friend. After all, they are a person I know. But then, I hesitate; what if I know that person better than they know me? Will it look strange that I added them? Or, what if, yes, I know that person and that person knows me, but it's been ten years since I saw him or her? If I add them, then I feel as if they 'win', because I am certainly on their list of people they might know too. We both clearly had the option to add the other as a friend, and if I did it first, then they somehow have something on me. And that is a feeling I do not like. On the flip side, if there is someone on my list who I have not added, but then I get the notification that they added me as a friend, a feeling of satisfaction comes over me, like they cracked first. I now have something on them. Or, as my friend Laura put it, "Aha! I was more significant to you than you were to me!"

Of course, what happens the majority of the time is that neither of us adds the other. As I sit at my desk, looking at the name and picture of someone I once knew, I imagine the other person staring at my name and picture, wanting to see my profile but resisting the urge to add me as a friend. And so we wait, in a high tech staring contest, waiting for the other one to blink first. That, or my imagination is getting overactive again.

(Note: I am always looking for new friends. If you want to be my friend, email me at )

A Brief Discussion on Dazed and Confused

2008-09-07T11:04:00.007-04:00

Between 1993 and 2001, I watched the movie Dazed and Confused approximately 247 times. During high school and college, it was the perfect movie to watch before starting the weekend. The movie spoke to the adolescent male soul, perfectly captured the duality of the high school party scene: underlying sexual tension and urgency to get fucked up as quickly as possible.

When I was in high school, I would watch Dazed and Confused and wonder why my experience didn't mirror the one in the movie, especially on the slow nights when five guys would sit in someones basement and polish off a case of Milwaukee's Best, no girls to be found. Sure, maybe we'd go smash some mailboxes, but it wasn't the same. In college, my friends and I would watch the movie and nostalgically speak of our own high school party memories, embellishing them all the way.

But then I lost my VHS copy of the movie and never got around to replacing it on DVD. I refuse to watch movies on basic cable, and Dazed and Confused became a somewhat distant memory for me. Last night, however, at 1am, it came on one of my 12 HBO channels, and the wife and I ended up watching the whole thing. And I have to tell you, at age 28, it was a remarkably different experience.

While I was still entertained by the movie, I also found the characters to be vaguely (or in some cases blatantly) pathetic. The reason that the movie was so rewatchable in my younger days is because there is no plot, no storyline. Its just a movie about some kids in Texas partying. No wonder I watched it so much. I liked parties too!

When I saw the movie Superbad last year, it replaced Dazed and Confused as the ultimate high school party movie in my mind. Not only was it more realistic (except for the cops), but that was my high school experience. I was Seth (except not as fat). But what struck me, watching Dazed and Confused as an adult, was the self-importance of the movie. I never noticed it when I was younger. It was almost off-putting.

When I saw the movie as a teenager, I was outraged that the coach would want his football players to sign a pledge to their team. Last night, it seemed to be a very reasonable request. The fact that the quarterback refused to sign it used to be the height of teenage rebellion. Now, he just came off as some angst ridden teenage douchebag looking to find "oppression" anywhere he could, completely disregarding the charmed life he had. What, being the star QB, the most popular guy in school, getting any girl he wanted is soooo bad? Get the fuck over yourself, douche. While still an entertaining movie, I don't think I can count it among my favorites anymore. Maybe I am just turning into a curmudgeon, but the people in that movie really annoyed me when I watched it last night.

All that being said, Wooderson is still perhaps the greatest movie character of all time.

Good Thing For Chlorine

2008-09-05T12:47:00.003-04:00

Last weekend, I went to Mexico with some friends for a bachelor party. One day, we spent nearly six hours in the pool, drinking and getting sunburned. In addition to the four of us, there were a bunch of other people in the pool, and everyone was drinking. Curiously, no one was getting out.

As the afternoon turned to evening, a friend and I decided to call it a day. We climbed out of the pool, and as I was leaving, my old friend and former co-blogger Russ called out to me. "Hey Mike, where is the bathroom?"

"Uh...In the pool."

"Ugh. That is disgusting."

"There are 40 people here drinking, and no one is getting out. What do you think is happening?"

Everyone who heard the exchange laughed. They knew the score.

A Video Treat

2008-09-03T11:29:00.004-04:00

I just got back from a Bachelor party in Puerto Vallarta, and after fitting a week's worth of drinking into a three day weekend, I don't feel very smart. As such, I will forgo a real post and instead, I will give you this, the finest piece of television MTV has ever aired: True Life-I Have A Summer Share

It's about 42 minutes long, but it is well worth the time investment. If you don't have 42 minutes, I suggest going to the 29:20 mark, which for me, is the highlight of the episode. In this scene, our protagonist Tommy, a guido with a heart of gold, is truly touched when some girl he is dancing with goes and gets some napkins to wipe off his profuse sweating. This is simply must-see television.

It's Easy To Criticize..Fun Too

2008-08-26T12:35:00.005-04:00

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

2008-08-21T17:24:00.000-04:00

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

2008-08-16T13:00:00.005-04:00

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!

2008-08-13T12:09:00.003-04:00

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

2008-08-11T13:00:00.009-04:00

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

2008-08-07T18:27:00.008-04:00

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

2008-08-05T12:49:00.003-04:00

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

2008-08-04T12:58:00.003-04:00

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.

Back In 10 Days

2008-07-25T16:51:00.001-04:00

The Mentor

2008-07-24T17:16:00.004-04:00

This morning, I was sitting quietly at my desk, not bothering a soul, when the manager from a different department came sniffing around, with an enthusiastic looking young woman in tow. He walked over to my boss and they conversed for a moment, and then they both looked my way. I quickly averted my eyes, so as to seem like I wasn't watching, but the three of them started coming towards me. I quickly pulled up a work related window on my computer and pretended to be staring intently at it.

"Mike," my boss said, "this is Amy. She's new over in accounting, and if you don't mind, she's going to sit with you for a bit so she can get an idea about what our department does."

"Uh, sure," I said as she stuck her hand out for me to shake. My boss wheeled a chair over for her sit in. She sat down, and we sat in a slightly awkward silence, until it occured to me that I should probably say something. "So, this is my desk," I said confidently. Smoooooth.

She gave me a courtesy laugh. We sat in silence for another few seconds. I asked her about her background, and she said she just graduated from college in May. I congratulated her, and the conversation fell into another lull. "Well...uh...if you have any questions for me, throw them out there."

"Okay...what are you doing right now?" she asked.

"Um...well, right now I am killing time till lunch." She seemed a little surprised by my candidness. She hesitated, not quite sure what to say, so I continued. "I am going on vacation next week. Usually when people are going on vacation, they spend the week before running around, trying to get stuff done before they go. And then the week after, they run around getting all stressed out and forgetting they even went on vacation in the first place. I don't want to be one of those people, so I made sure I won't be."

"How did you manage that?"

"I am glad you asked." My tone surprised me, as I realized I sounded like a Zen master teaching his ways to an eager pupil. "Three weeks ago I looked at everything I had on my plate this month and prioritized it. What absolutely had to be done, I did or made sure was done by the end of last week. What had to be done eventually, I either finished up or pushed out till next month. And what doesn't need to be done anytime soon, I either pushed it way out or delegated it to other people. So basically, I have been spending this week tying up some loose ends, and the week after I get back, I'll just be easing back into the swing of things. It's great. I have two really easy weeks sandwiched around a week on the beach."

She seemed impressed, or at the very least humored me. We chatted for a couple more minutes, before she excused herself to go to the bathroom. I immediately pulled up my gmail account and told all my friends about how some girl was watching me work. Before I could say too much, she came back and I quickly minimized it again.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Oh. That was my gmail account."

"What were those little boxes you had open?"

"Those were chat boxes. You can chat with other friends who have gmail accounts, like instant messaging. It's great for when you're at work, it really helps with the boredom."

"Oh cool! What do you guys talk about all day?"

"We pretty much just bitch about how bored we are at work."

"Oh...."

"Welcome to the corporate world."

Two Completely Unrelated Thoughts

2008-07-22T18:33:00.003-04:00

1. I am going on vacation next week, so I planned ahead. I have pretty much been shooting to wrap up all loose ends by Friday, and then start anew when I get back after a week off. My plan has worked well, but almost too well. I really am running out of stuff to do. When I got back from lunch today, I realized I didn't have much left to do for the day. I estimated that what I definitely had to do would take me an hour, tops, and realistically more like thirty minutes. My instinct was to do everything right away, so I would just have it done.

But this would be a fool's approach, as I would then have three hours to kill with nothing to do but watch the clock. I decided to pace myself, doing a little bit of work then taking a nice long break, before doing a little more. This way I would keep myself kinda busy until it was time to leave. I explained my dilemma, and approach to two different people. One is my friend and former co-blogger Russ, who said "This is why corporate America doesn't work." And he's right. In theory, I could do the work of three people in my department, if I were adequately compensated. But as it stands, I am paid only to do the work of one person, and thus, I spend more time devising my approach to finishing my work than I do actually working.

The other person to whom I explained my dilemma was my friend Laura. Her response was much different than Russ's: "It would be easier if you were stupid." And she's right. If I were dumber than I am, it would take me longer to do certain tasks and thus I wouldn't face the dilemma of having to pace myself so as not to bore myself to death.

Normally, I might expound on the divergence of their responses to my dilemma, but I am operating on two hours of sleep and my brain isn't working so well, and I can't really think of something to say. That leads me to a completely unrelated thought...

2. You know what really pisses me off? People who don't like nuts. What is not to like? There is nothing bad about nuts. They don't have a strong taste. They aren't hard to eat. They don't ruin any dish they're a part of. So, what's the problem? From here on out, I refuse to not put nuts in something I make just to accommodate some unseen consumer who doesn't care for nuts. Sometimes shit just has nuts in it. Deal with it, nut haters. Random, huh? Did I mention I only slept two hours last night?

Responsible Journalism

2008-07-17T12:52:00.004-04:00

The picture above was taken by my camera phone, and it depicts the front page of the Cincinnati Enquirer's webpage today. The featured story is the same story they have been featuring all week: Extreme Makeover Home Edition came to our sleepy little town and built a new house for some family who has a sob story. That's all well and good, if it were a slow news week. Only it's not. This week, the NAACP held it's annual convention in town. This is significant on it's own, but it takes on additional importance because it's an election year and both presidential candidates made appearances. That's kind of a big deal. That doesn't even take into consideration that Cincinnati is and has historically been extremely segregated and has had race riots as recently as 2001. So the fact that the largest and most powerful organization of African-Americans in the country held their annual convention here is also kind of a big deal.

But you wouldn't know it if you only read the Enquirer online. It's not like they ignored the NAACP; if you look in the upper right corner of that picture, you can see a link to a story about it. But all week, the lead story, the biggest story, has been about Extreme Makeover. That should tell you a lot about the target audience and the level of the crowd.

Anyway, it occurred to me today that this whole thing has played out like an article from The Onion. Only if this were in The Onion, the banner headline would read:

CRAPPY REALITY SHOW REBUILDS CRAPPY HOUSE.

And, tucked away in the corner, would be a little story titled:

NEGROES GATHER IN TOWN FOR SOME REASON

Gotta love this place.

Vertigo!

2008-07-15T17:37:00.007-04:00

One Friday morning, late last month, I woke up and got out of bed, and promptly fell into the wall. "That's weird," I thought. "This room has never spun around like this before." I got my balance and stumbled to the bathroom, where my dizziness persisted. I went about my morning routine as I usually did, only the whole time I felt like I was inside of a moonwalk at the county fair. I thought that a caffeine jolt would get me straightened out, but after drinking two giant cups of coffee, I was still dizzy. Surely some Advil would work, I thought, so I took five. It didn't work. After that I guessed that I was just tired from the week, and a relaxing weekend would stop the spinning. No such luck.

Over the weekend, my symptoms kind of became clearer. I wasn't dizzy all the time, like when you're wasted and you lay down and the room starts spinning. That would suck. Nausea did not accompany my dizziness, and if anything it made my appetite stronger, as my wife noted when I polished off my dinner and half of hers. Really, what it amounts to is this: I am fine for a while, and then all of the sudden I get lightheaded and lose balance. If I happen to be sitting or laying, no worries. If I am standing or walking, well then, we're in for an adventure. I went to work that Monday, and I realized I have a little problem on my hands. I would look down to fill up my water bottle and have to brace myself against the wall, or I'd be walking and randomly run into someone's desk, or I'd be pissing at the urinal and fall onto the wall of the stall next to me. (The dude taking a dump in there sure was startled.) It's one thing to be off-balance in my own home, but it's quite another to be stumbling around my office like a drunk--at least, not without a medical excuse--so I called my doctor.

I went to my family doctor. Family doctors are generally nice people, but also are generally worthless. He looked in my ears, my eyes, my throat, and based on what I told him, determined that I had some sort of inner ear issue on my right side. He prescribed some antibiotics, in case I had an infection, and told me if it wasn't better in a week, that he'd refer me to an Ear Nose & Throat doctor. I took the antibiotics, and surprise surprise, nothing changed. So I called for the referral, and I finally got to see the ENT today. He did a few tests and determined I have something called "benign positional vertigo." In layman's terms, I think this means harmless occasional dizziness. This diagnosis was much better than "malignant constant vertigo", although I am not certain that such a malady exists.

Anyway, he explained two options: Either go through a series of exercises, where they would basically "reset" the balance stuff in my ear and allow me to return to normal, or do nothing and see if it goes away. I listened to the details of the treatment and, turned off my the idea of any sort of physical exertion, I decided to take option two and wait and see. Besides, I am a 'do nothing' kind of guy. So for the time being (and possibly forever), I will be the guy walking around like he's drunk, only without the inflated sense of self-esteem. Good times.

Conversation With My Wife

2008-07-13T16:53:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, the wife and I stopped by the hospital to visit my grandma. Being at the hospital always reminds me of death, and that led to the following conversation.

Me: You know how every time someone dies, people around them will question if they should still do things they had planned before the person died? Like, someone will say "I still think we should go on vacation. Uncle Bill would have wanted it that way."

Wife: Yeah...

Me: What if I died and you said, "I think you should stay home. Mike would not have wanted you to go on a cruise so soon after his death."

Wife: Okay...

Me: You could say, "Mike lived as an asshole and he died as an asshole, and he specifically stated that upon his death he wants everyone to sit around and mourn him for months on end, before they even think about moving on with their lives."

Wife: Nice.

Me: Seriously, why do you even have to ask if its okay to do something after a death? What kind of asshole wouldn't want his family to move on with their lives?

Wife: Where is this coming from?

Me: I am just illustrating how stupid it is to honor dead people's wishes. Who cares? They're dead!

Wife: Remind me never to let you give the eulogy at a funeral.

Getting Old

2008-07-09T18:23:00.004-04:00

Tomorrow, the wife and I will have been married for one year. When she first brought it up a few weeks ago, I rolled my eyes and said "Ugh, I know. It feels like twenty." Of course, I was joking, as I am apt to do, but that didn't stop her from relaying the story to my mother. My wife expected my mom to be outraged, but instead my mom shrugged and said, "You knew what you were getting into when you married him."

Last week my wife brought up the anniversary again, and suggested that we do something special. I am a nerd, and can thus incorporate a line from the Simpsons into any conversation, so I looked at her and said, "Okay...we're getting some drive-thru then we're doing it twice!" She was not nearly as amused as I was, so the next day I called a nice restaurant and made reservations for the night of our anniversary, at 8pm.

Last night, around 8:30, we were both sitting on the couch, yawning. We had eaten dinner three hours earlier, when I got home from work. "Do you realize," I said, "that on Thursday we will probably just be getting our appetizers right now?" She shrugged. "So what?"

"If I get home at 5:15, there is no way I'll be able to wait till 8 to eat. Plus, I am tired now. I could probably go to bed right now if it wasn't still light out." With that, I picked up the phone and changed the reservation to 5:30, the time that they open.

If we are catching the early bird special on our first anniversary, I don't even want to know what we'll be doing on our 50th.

Time Off

2008-07-07T07:20:00.001-04:00

One thing I like about the company I work for is that they don't break down our days off into vacation or sick days or personal days or whatever; it's all just paid time off, or PTO as the folks in HR like to call it. I like this because I don't really get sick, so I get to use all my days off for vacation. In order to use PTO, we have to do is log in to the website and request off the days in advance, or else enter time you were out after the fact. And PTO is broken down hourly. If I want to take a whole day off, I enter 8 hours. Pretty simple.

Now, I assure you that I just gave you a brief tutorial on my company's time off policy was not for entertainment, although I am positive that the previous paragraph was the most exciting thing you read all day. Last Thursday afternoon, as people were watching the clock and waiting for the three day weekend to start, Pyramid Scheme Guy was walking by my desk and decided to stop and chat. I have made it abundantly clear that I don't like him, but that only makes him try harder. Perhaps time for a new strategy, but I digress. He started asking me about my weekend, and I mentioned that I was probably going to be cutting out early. He said he would do the same, as soon as he entered in his time.

"Enter it into what?" I asked him.

"The system. Aren't you going to enter in your time," he asked me.

"Oh yeah," I said sarcastically. "I am going to file it under 'L' for Leavin' Early."

"No seriously, you're not going to enter it in?"

"Of course not? Why would I?"

"I don't know," he said. "I always do. If I am late, or take a long lunch, or leave early, I always just enter it in as PTO."

I was astounded. "Seriously? So if you are like 15 minutes late, what do you do?"

"I just enter it as an hour."

"That is ridiculous. They don't care if you're a couple minutes late. How much time have you used this year?"

"Like half of it."

"Have you taken a full day off?"

"One."

"So the rest is just from being late and stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. WOW. That blows my mind. You realize you don't have to do that, right?"

"I just prefer to do it this way. It's more honest."

"Okay dude. When I am taking a full week off later this month to go to the beach, I really hope you enjoy not taking a vacation this year because you used all your time off sitting in morning traffic or waiting in an extra long drive-thru line at Wendy's."

Still Using Those Law School "Skills"

2008-07-03T12:33:00.004-04:00

I work in your standard bland suburban office park. My company is the biggest tenant of the office park, and thus we arrogantly walk around as if we own the place, rather than just lease it. We park wherever we damn well please, which often means that employees of my company brazenly park in front of other businesses. I myself am one of the worst offenders.

Apparently the other tenants have nothing better to do than bitch about people parking in front of their offices, and we got a company-wide email yesterday from our office manager explaining where we could and could not park. Specifically, it said "Do not park in front of the door of another business." Fair enough.

This morning I pulled in and saw two open spaces. One was in front of the door of another business, and one was next to that space. I chose the one next to the forbidden space. Out of nowhere, my office manager came running out to tell me I couldn't park there. "Why not?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

"Did you see my email yesterday? You can't park in front of other business's doors. So, move."

"Oh yeah, I did see that," I said. "That's why I chose this space, and not that space," pointing to the vacant spot next to me. "Didn't want to park in front of their door."

"It's still in front of their door," she told me.

What she doesn't know is that I spent three years training to win such ridiculous, semantical arguments. I don't like to pull out the douchebag law school arguments very often, but I really didn't want to park in the annex, so I did.

"Well if the parking spaces adjacent to the space in front of the door are still considered to be 'in front of the door', then where does it end?" I pointed to the space on the other side of my car, further away from the door. "If this space in front of the door? And if so, what about the space next to it? What is the cut off?"

"I'm not sure," she said.

"Okay then. You should get some clear definitions here as to what constitutes 'in front of the door'. And until you do, I am parking here." And with that, I walked by her and went inside. I am pretty sure she hates me now, which I can handle. Unfortunately, next time I need office supplies I am probably shit out of luck.

How Not To Succeed In Business

2008-07-01T17:10:00.000-04:00

This morning, I arrived at work to find a voicemail from some guy I have been playing phone tag with. This guy works for another company, a company that partners with my own company. I will spare you any further explanation, as the details of the strategic partnerships of my company with others would excite you to the point of hysteria, and I don't want to cause any undo harm. Suffice it to say that this guy and I had to chat about a few things.

Since we had left each other numerous messages, and we really did need to talk about a few things, he said I could call him on his cell phone, and he left me that number. I jotted down the number and gave him a call. Instead of ringing, I heard a recorded female voice: Please enjoy the music while your party is reached.

And then I was treated to the opening bars YMCA.

Young man, there's no need to feel down, I said young man, pick yourself off the ground.

Before I could fully process what was unfolding before me, he answered. "Hello?"

At that point, I did the only thing that I could think of; I hung up. What else could I do? I was speechless. Here I was, calling a respected businessman in a male-dominated industry, and his ringback is a campy 70s disco song with strong homosexual undertones. I figured I must have dialed the wrong number, but then my phone rang, and it was him.

"Hey Mike, did you just try to call me?"

"Uh yeah, sorry, I thought I dialed the wrong number...."

"No, you got me. Anyway, lets get down to business."

I barely listened to him. How could I respect him now? My company was counting on me to make a good decision regarding our dealings with this guy, and his ringback was YMCA. Is that someone we want to be doing business with? If it's up to me, no. And since it was up to me, we aren't. When my boss asked me what happened, I told him the truth. "Something didn't seem right."

My boss shrugged. "Fair enough. I trust your judgment."

The Young'n

2008-06-26T17:41:00.003-04:00

This week, it dawned on me that I am the youngest person working in my department. I don't know why it took me upwards of six months to realize this--I never said that I couldn't be a little slow on the uptake--but I guess just never had reason to think about it.

Of course, thats not to say that everyone else is old. There are a fair amount of people in their early-to-mid thirties, so it's not like it was a bunch of geezers and me and I was just too dumb to notice. And it shouldn't come as a surprise, since they don't really hire any entry level people and actually require like five years of experience to work there. [I obviously don't have five years of experience, and I didn't pretend to. It's my guess that I impressed them (perhaps) or they were desperate (likely); either way, I'm there now.]

I was chatting with my boss and I mentioned my observation, which he backed up. "Oh yeah, you're our young'n," he said, jokingly. "I think you're the only person still in his 20s."

After our chat, I went back to my desk and forwarded him this blog post, from Gawker, on how to manage 20-somethings. He replied back, "Funny article." Thing is, I wasn't really joking...

Phantom of My Office

2008-06-24T17:24:00.003-04:00

In a perfect world, any place that I spend significant amounts of time will be filled with people who likes me and generally seek out my company, and do not annoy me to the point of wanting to hurt myself or others. Sadly, aside from a select few places, I have not had luck in finding such comfortable situations. Far too often, the place in question will suck and I will do anything to get my time there done with and leave. As a result, I have developed a defense mechanism where, if I am forced to routinely go to a place that I do not want to be, I make myself as inconspicuous as possible to the point where most people don't even realize I am around. My reason for this is simple: If the place sucks, I don't want to be hassled, be it by professors, bosses, classmates, co-workers, or whoever. I want to do my time in peace and leave as soon as I possibly can.

This strategy was wildly successful in law school. Unfortunately, my last job was with a very small company with overbearing bosses, so I was never able to adequately hide myself and avoid the hassling that I so despise. My new job, however, is with a much larger company. There are always lots of people around, and a lot going on. As soon as I realized that the people there sucked, and that I wouldn't have much fun being at work, I decided it was time to just blend into the walls. Here is my strategy:

See everything but say nothing. I am a great observer. I know all about everything that is going on, but I seldom ever make myself heard. This way I always know what is going on without having to actually ask people what is going on.
Do good work. This way a poor performance will never catch the eye of any higher-ups and bring about unwanted monitoring by managers.
Don't do great work. If I did, then I might be constantly used as an example of great work product and be charged with training new people or giving my insights to current co-workers. If this were a test, I would be shooting for a B+ or A-, depending on the curve.
Don't say hello to anyone in the morning. This only calls attention to my presence. I prefer just to come in and sit down and be there, without making a commotion. If someone walks by and says "Oh, didn't see you come in," I have done well.
Never say goodbye to anyone when I leave for the day. This is obvious, but nothing says inconspicuous like just slipping out the door. It will be a while before anyone notices I am gone, if they notice at all.
Don't talk during meetings unless asked something. Another obvious one, but important nonetheless. No one likes people who talk, especially if it's not their meeting to talk in.
Be anti-social. Some people might have a problem with this, but I only talk to people who I have to talk to--bosses, people I am working together on something with, people who sit near me--and I never say much more than I need to. There are still about 10 people in my department whom I have never spoken to, six months into my tenure. Maybe they think I am a stuck up ass, but in reality, they probably don't give me any regard at all.

So is this all working? It seemed to be, but I wasn't sure until I got some confirmation recently. They hired a new guy in my department the first week of May. Naturally, I never introduced myself to him. Then the other day, he happened to be in the break room at the same time I was, and he stuck out his hand. "Hey, my name is Dave (Lastname)," he said in a friendly tone. "What department do you work in?"

"Same department as you," I told him, almost giddy with his lack of recognition. "I'm Mike (Lastname)."

"You're Mike (Lastname)?" he said, in disbelief. "I always see your name on emails to the department, but I never knew who you were. How have I never seen you before?"

"Beats me," I said, barely able to hide the grin on my face.

3:45 AM

2008-06-22T14:12:00.003-04:00

Imagine for a second that you are young and in love. It's early in the relationship, so you actually want to spend every waking second together. One Saturday night, you stay up the whole night talking. And imagine that on this particular Saturday night, actually very early on Sunday morning, you are sitting on your balcony with your significant other, and someone wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a polo shirt with a popped collar walks by, being dragged by a dog who seems to be on a mission. What would you think? You would probably assume that the dog had to go to the bathroom. But why no pants? Why a polo shirt? Why a popped collar on that polo shirt? Is there a local pervert around? Should the police be called? What could have possibly precipitated this odd sight before you?

Allow me to explain one possible scenario: Perhaps the person in question was awakened from a deep slumber by the sound of a barking dog. After a quick inspection, the bleary-eyed person realizes that his own dog in not in the bed with him, and that his dog must have gone downstairs and started barking. After stumbling down the stairs to determine the reason for the barking, he would probably see that his dog is sitting by the door and deduce that he needs to go out. Too lazy and tired to go back upstairs to put clothes on, the poor sleeper decides that just a shirt will do and grabs one off of the pile of laundry he brought downstairs earlier that day, but had yet to wash. The shirt happens to be a polo shirt, but since it's 3:45 in the morning it wouldn't really matter, because all he really needed was something to cover his torso. In the midst of putting the shirt on, the collar was pulled up into a "popped" position. Despite years of making fun of douchebags who pop their collars, the guy was probably much too tired to notice or even care at this ungodly hour. "Besides", he may have thought, "who is even going to see me?"

Upon putting the leash on his dog and going outside, his dog probably decided that he couldn't make it easy on his owner and go to the bathroom right outside the door. No, it's likely that this dog knew precisely where he wanted to pee, and that spot happened to be roughly 100 yards from the owner's back door. The poor owner was probably powerless against his determined bulldog, and simply followed him to the chosen spot. And it would be on the way to that spot where the owner would notice two people sitting on their balcony, staring at the odd sight before them. It probably crossed their minds that only weirdos come out at night. But I would hope that they took a second to think that perhaps there was a completely plausible explanation for everything before them, and not to judge the person, but to pity him, because it could happen to anyone.

Diet Update

2008-06-19T19:12:00.001-04:00

The wife left today for a long weekend trip to visit her sister. When I got home from work, she was gone, leaving me on my own until I get home from work on Monday. My first act of temporary bachelorhood was to cheat...

Not on my wife, of course. On my diet.

For three weeks now, I have been watching what I ate. The wife got me on the Weight Watchers point system thing that she does. It's really easy. I tell her what I want to eat, and she calculates how many points it is. So long as I don't go over a certain number in a day, I can eat whatever I want. And apparently, Weight Watchers thinks I am a giant fatass, so I get a shitload of points to use each day, almost 2x as many the wife gets. I haven't really had to change much. I just eat out less, have sensible portions, choke down a few vegetables, and viola! I am 15 pounds lighter than when we got back from our vacation. Easy as that.

The diet has had other affects, as well. I feel good almost all of the time. Used to be that after I ate, I would be overcome by a sleepy lethargic feeling known as the itis. It would make even the simplest of tasks seem daunting, and would be accompanied by a bloated feeling throughout the stomach area. The only cure is rest and inactivity, and perhaps beer. I really missed that feeling.

That is why today, after getting home from work I called up my favorite takeout place and ordered up a big mess of wings and cheese fries, and washed it down with a gigantic glass of chocolate milk. I feel terrible, and it's great. Tomorrow I will get back on track, but for now, I need to take a nap.

Old Enemy, New Ally

2008-06-17T17:47:00.006-04:00

This morning, Loud Guy was talking to Conspiracy Theorist, who presumably likes Loud Guy more than I do. They were talking about some place called a "gym", where people apparently go to work out. I wasn't really listening, but I did happen to hear the following gem (mostly because Loud Guy is so loud):

"There was this one guy there who was really ripped. I really admired his pecs."

I do my darnedest not to talk to him more than I have to, but I couldn't let that pass. I interjected into the conversation. "You know how I know you're gay? You just said that you really admire some guy's pecs."

I chuckled, and Conspiracy Theorist laughed. Loud Guy didn't seem to appreciate it. He got offended, and said (loudly) "I AM MARRIED WITH KIDS. I AM NOT GAY, AND I AM REALLY OFFENDED THAT YOU WOULD SUGGEST SUCH A THING."

"Relax, dude, I am just teasing you. Haven't you ever seen The 40 Year-Old Vigin?

"NO, WHAT IS THAT?"

"Uh...it's a movie. Never mind, forget I said anything."

"NO, I DIDN'T APPRECIATE YOUR JOKE, AND THERE ARE A LOT OF PEOPLE WHO WOULDN'T APPRECIATE YOUR JOKE."

I was about to hurl another insult at him, but Conspiracy Theorist stepped in: "Relax, you idiot, it's from a movie. He doesn't actually think you're gay. Jesus dude, you really are lame."

Later on, in an attempt to make peace, Loud Guy approached me in the break room. "SO THIS MOVIE, 40 YEAR OLD VIRGIN, IT'S FUNNY?"

"Yeah, it's pretty good," I told him.

"MAYBE I NEED TO CHECK IT OUT. DO YOU THINK I WOULD LIKE IT?"

"I think you'll love it," I told him. I eagerly await his review.

Friday Quickie

2008-06-13T20:30:00.002-04:00

As things were wrapping up at work today, a guy who sits near me was getting ready to leave, when some other guy came up to him and said, "I'm taking off. Happy Fathers Day."

The other guy looked him squarely in the eye and said, "Happy Father's Day, Man." Then they hugged it out.

Two thoughts:

1) That was easily the gayest thing I have seen at my current job, and among the ten gayest things I have ever seen.

2) If having kids makes guys act like that, then count me out. Sorry, Wife.

Shit on Desks

2008-06-11T18:11:00.006-04:00

Walking around my office, and most assuredly around any office, I see lots of shit on lots of peoples' desks. Pictures of family, pictures of pets, pictures of themselves at someplace more fun than work. Drawings their kids made, word-a-day calendars, calendars featuring cats in costumes. Baseballs, footballs, basketballs, golf balls, tennis balls. Pennants, hats, and a schedule for their favorite sports teams.

And that doesn't even mention the knick-knacks. Oh, how there are knick-knacks. Bobblehead dolls, Barbie dolls, Hula dolls, Troll dolls. Commemorative plates, coffee mugs with unfunny sayings, shot glasses purchased at random airports. Slinkies, Koosh balls, a bunch of cans of Play-Doh. And perhaps the best desk accessory: A fish tank.

In stark contrast, you will find absolutely nothing on my desk, save for a phone, a monitor and my ever-present bottle of water. On the walls of my cubicle, you will find nothing but my name plate and several company-required documents. What I don't understand is how all of this shit ends up on people's desks. It surely got there somehow. This stuff simply doesn't accumulate. In order for this shit to show up on someone's desk, it must have been placed there intentionally, right? Obviously. So I figure that there are two ways something would end up on your desk: Either someone gives it to you, or you bring it in yourself.

Lets tackle the first one first. Now, I'll admit I am still something of a neophyte in the workplace, since I have only about a year-and-a-half of real job experience. But in that time, not once has anyone given me something to put on my desk. Additionally, I cannot envision a scenario where someone would give me, or I would give someone, a can of Play-Doh. It simply seems like way too much effort to go buy a can of Play-Doh, or anything for that matter, to give to a co-worker. I mean, what would the point be? It could happen, but I just haven't seen it. So, that leads me to believe that most of this shit is self-delivered, which brings me to my next question: What would motivate a person to bring something in to work to sit on their desk?

I mean, I can understand having a picture of your wife or kid or something. Perhaps on a long hard day at work, looking at their shining faces motivates some people. I get that. But an Ohio State football poster? At what point does someone think, "You know what would really make my workday better? A poster of a college I did not attend but root for anyway. This will tell people that I am both a Buckeyes fan and an asshole!" Or, for the non-sports fans, "You know what would really make my workday better? A calendar with cats dressed up in clown costumes! This will tell people that I live alone and contemplate suicide!" Of course, you can make the same statement with any of the stuff I listed above, and it still makes no sense to me. It has never once, ever, crossed my mind to bring something in to decorate my desk. Okay, that's a lie. It's crossed my mind and been quickly eliminated as a possibility, as it reeks of both effort and caring, two things I am not so good at.

Over the course of my tenure at my job, a number of people (including the CEO) have commented on the stark nature of my cubicle. I just tell them that I like it that way, which is true. But that doesn't explain the underlying reason that I like it that way, which I didn't realize until today, when I was still scratching my head over the cans of Play-Doh. The next time someone asks me about my desk, this is what I am going to tell them:

"You know what makes my workday better? Looking at my desk and thinking that I could get up and walk out the door without taking anything with me, and never come back, and the only thing that I would leave behind would be a file in HR and the fading memories of my co-workers. Just like that, I could be gone and forget I ever worked here. I'm not saying I will do that, but I like to think that I could. That is a much more pleasant thought than anything on my desk could possibly evoke. That is why I don't have anything on my desk."

Grouch

2008-06-09T12:03:00.004-04:00

Friday afternoon, I learned that I would have to be at work before 8 today. This would suck under normal circumstances, but today is Monday, and I was coming off of a weekend where, over the course of about 35 hours, I spent ten of them driving and eight of them drinking. Even after going to bed at 8:15 last night, I still woke up in a really pissy mood.

The last thing I wanted to do was talk to anyone, especially this guy. (For anyone too lazy to click over, its the super irritating guy who was talking like his three-year old daughter on the phone a few weeks ago.) But for some reason, he thinks we're friends, so of course he had to talk to me as soon as I got to work. "Hey Mike, did you have a good weekend?"

"Yes," I said, shortly, hoping he would get the hint that I didn't want to talk.

"Oh yeah? Good to hear! What did you do?" He sounded genuinely happy that I had a good weekend. What is wrong with him?

"Went to Chicago," I said, completely devoid of enthusiasm.

"Oh cool! Did you eat deep dish pizza? Go to the aquarium and Navy Pier?" He sounded downright gleeful.

"No," I said, sighing loudly.

"What? Why not?" He was incredulous.

I had enough. "Because I am not some fucking tourist," I snapped.

I guess I said it louder than I planned, because ten sets of eyes quickly fixed on me. The guy was taken aback. He looked shocked and simply turned around and went back to his desk. He learned a valuable lesson: I don't like him and he shouldn't talk to me, particularly when I am a grumpy mood. I too learned a lesson: No one has talked to me all day, so if I want to be left alone I just need to be an asshole.

Overheard At Work

2008-06-04T18:05:00.003-04:00

I was sitting at my desk this afternoon. Things were rather quiet, save for a conversation between two guys I work with; one guy is unremarkable in every way, and the other is your stereotypical right wing middle class angry-at-the-world type. Naturally, the following words came out of his mouth:

"I don't like talking to black people because I don't know what they like to be called. When I was a kid, they were 'negros'. But then 'negro' became offensive, and they were called 'colored'. But of course, 'colored' eventually offended them so they were called 'black'. But then some of them were offended by 'black', and people started calling them 'African-Americans'. Now, I am hearing that some of them don't like 'African-American'. So what the fuck are we supposed to call them?"

Of course, I wasn't the only person who overheard this gem. This guy violated the cardinal rule of white people, which is, If you are going to talk about another race, make sure no one of that race is nearby first. The black girl sitting six feet away had a horrified expression on her face. She scanned the room to see if anyone else had heard his insightful soliloquy, and our eyes met.

Suddenly, I was faced with the following obligations: 1) Diffuse the situation so as to prevent a verbal confrontation if she was so inclined to say something to him; 2) Express to her that his views do not represent the views of all white people, particularly this one. As you can tell from above, I am quite comfortable calling black people 'black'; and 3) Eliminate myself from any sort of obligation to confront him on his views, as that would constitute being politically correct, which I am clearly not.

There is only one maneuver that could achieve all of these objectives, and it can could achieve them in under a second to boot: The Eye Roll. I executed it perfectly, bringing a smile to her face. I was off the hook in terms of any sort of counterpoint, she didn't hate white people, and the guy wouldn't have a story to tell at his next Klan meeting. All is well.

Late

2008-06-02T19:08:00.000-04:00

Last week, I intentionally didn't set my alarm clock, so that I could get some extra sleep and not worry about being late to work. Of course, my plans were foiled when my wife shook me awake only 15 minutes after I usually wake up, effectively ruining any chance I had of getting extra rest.

Last night, I accidentally forgot to set my alarm clock. Naturally, when I woke up at 8:40 my wife was sleeping peacefully, her jarring wake up call nowhere to be found when I actually needed it. I don't like to scramble in the morning, so I didn't. I knew at that point I would be late no matter what I did, so I just took my time as I normally would, sipping my coffee and checking my morning websites before getting in the shower and getting dressed, and I eventually left the house at 9:30.

On my way to work, a strange feeling overcame me. At first, I thought that perhaps the milk in my Honey Nut Cheerios was spoiled, but that wasn't it. The feeling was guilt. I am a complex person. I have no qualms about being intentionally late to something, but when I don't want to be late, I am a real stickler for being on time. Be it appointments or movies or whatever, I always make sure that I am there when I am supposed to be there. Up until today, I never thought that this applied to work. After all, its work. But there I was, driving to the office with the same anxiety and annoyance that I get whenever I am cutting it close to being on time for a dinner reservation. "Could it be that I am finally growing up and developing a work ethic?" I thought.

As scary as that thought sounded, the next one was even worse. "You really should stay late today, to make up for your tardiness," some strange voice in my head told me. (I know, I know, I was as shocked as you are.) It seemed as if for some reason on a warm Monday morning in June, 28.67 years after my birth, I had developed a sense of pride and obligation towards work. I set it in my head that I would stay till 5:45 today, to make up for my late arrival.

Then, I got to work and I remembered how much it sucks. Come 4:50, I looked at the clock and said "Fuck it", and came home. Easy come, easy go.

Cringe

2008-05-30T12:09:00.004-04:00

Apparently, when some people have kids they lose all sense of shame and dignity. For example...

There is some guy who's cube is not too far from mine. This guy has a three-year old daughter. This morning, I heard this guy call his wife. "Put on Redemption Song by Bob Marley for Jessica," he told her. When she asked why, he said "Because she sings along. It's the cutest thing ever." He then proceeded to, quite loudly, sing the words 'redemption song' over and over, in the voice of a three year old child, apparently to make clear what his wife was in for.

Now, I am sure that my above description is not doing this scenario justice, so I should point out a few more things: First, he wasn't at all trying to keep his voice down. I have no doubt that half the office heard him impersonate his three-year old daughter. Second, it's not like he only sang the words 'redemption song' once or twice. He repeated those words, in his daughters voice, six times. Six! Third and finally, just to drive my point home, this is a 33 year old man singing like a three-year old girl in front of dozens of people, without a hint of shame or embarrassment. I rarely get embarassed, but I literally cringed as the situation unfolded. If I have kids and act like that, please kill me. I will have life insurance for the child, but I will not be able to go on living if I turn into that guy.

I dare say that this was possibly the single douchiest thing that I have ever heard come out of someone's mouth...and that is saying something. Remember, I went to law school.

A Diary of my Day

2008-05-29T17:20:00.001-04:00

As I type this on Thursday morning, I have nothing to do. My boss will be out of the office for the rest of the week. Everything that I had been working on for the past few weeks is done. With my boss gone, the likelihood of anything being assigned to me before he is back is low, and I sure as hell am not going to ask one of the other managers for something to do. For the next 8 hours, I just have to run out the clock. And what better way to run out the clock than to reach into my bag of cliched post ideas and keep a running diary of my day? Additionally, I would like to break my short-lived record of most times linked to previous posts in a new post. Here goes:

9:19 Arrived at work. Knowing I had nothing to do today, I decided to not set my alarm and just sleep till I woke up, and not worry about being late. At 8:01 my wife shook me awake. "Oh my god! It's past 8! You're gonna be late!!!" Note to self: When planning on sleeping later than usual, tell the wife.

9:21 There is an unspoken rule amongst the workers of the world that states: When a co-worker is late, don't point it out. It is possibly acceptable to acknowledge one's lateness with a wink and a nudge if the late employee is a trusted friend, but any sort of verbal recognition of someone's tardiness is grounds for being labeled a douchebag. Of course, I already knew that the guy who loudly asked me about my lateness was a douchebag. He can expect to start receiving some embarrassing magazine subscriptions in 4-6 weeks.

9:58 If I have a failing, it is that I like to smugly point out people's stupidity. If I have a failing. For example, Loud Guy just announced that his solution to combat rising gas prices is to get rid of his gas guzzling Ford Explorer, which is paid off, and buy a Prius. I pointed out that he will be losing money by doing that, because taking on a $300+ per month car payment will far outweigh the money he will save by filling up less. Not discouraged by my sound logic, he moved on and found an idiot who gladly endorsed his fiscally imprudent idea.

10:41 I decide to eat my banana.

10:42 Annoying guy I work with: Eating a banana, I see.
Me: Who are you, the narrator?

11:12 Some guy just came over and played an air guitar version of White Wedding. I don't have anything else to add to that, I think it's just something people should know.

11:40 Not too long ago, I posted this, about how happy they are with the job I am doing. It confused me for a little bit, since I am not exactly busting my ass over here. I wasn't sure what I was doing right. What I realized is that it's not that I am doing such a great job; it's that a lot of the other people here are just horrible at their jobs. All it takes to be successful in my position is moderate organizational skills, a small amount of common sense, and the ability to buckle down and do a solid hour of work per day. Apparently, finding people like that is harder than you would think. Not quite sure if I should think that this says good things about me, or terrible things about other people. Either way, I'm going to keep up with my lazy-yet-competent approach until further notice.

12:08 If I ever own my own company, I am going to have one strict rule: If you burn popcorn in the microwave and stink up the whole office, you are fired. It sounds harsh, but if you think about it, it's fair. Cooking popcorn is not an inherently challenging activity. You put the bag in the microwave and set the microwave for a pre-determined amount of time. If you follow those simple instructions, you will not burn the popcorn and stink up the whole office. How could I trust someone to balance my books or take care of my customers or maintain my server if they can't even cook popcorn properly?

12:15 An update from my old company: A former coworker has informed me that my old boss has gone from eccentric to batshit crazy. Apparently, she no longer allows people to leave the building for lunch without prior approval. I'm not sure exactly how she enforces this policy, but I really kind of wish she had tried to implement it when I was working there. I fully expect that by September, she will be living in a germ free environment, with tissue boxes on her feet, and will have built a model airplane called the Spruce Moose that she'll expect all of her employees to take to and from work. And on that note, I am leaving the building for lunch.

1:25 Back from lunch. As I indicated last week, I am now watching what I eat in an attempt to lose weight. Part of this diet involves eating vegetables, which usually are not a part of my normal diet. I was preparing lunch today, and I opened a bag of baby spinach and shoved a whole handful in my mouth, getting two servings of vegetables down my throat with one mouthful. I looked up to find my wife staring at me, horrified and disgusted. "Did that really just happen?" she asked me.

1:34 One time, back when I was in law school, I was talking to a friend of mine, who had a real job. I don't remember what we were talking about, but the topic of gross sounds came up. "The grossest sound is going into the bathroom at work, after lunch, and hearing all the old men pooping", he told me. At the time, I expressed hope that I would never have to hear that firsthand. I have not been that fortunate.

2:13 About 634 different people have asked me what happened with my colleague in Utah, who I blew off after scheduling an early meeting this week. Well, I got into work at 9 and had an annoyed voicemail from him. I called back and left him a voicemail, unapologetically explaining that I had slept in and missed our meeting. I haven't heard back from him. The whole thing seems rather pointless now.

2:42 I won't pretend to be a fashion expert, but I think I can make myself presentable. If I have any expertise on wardrobe choices, it is with polo shirts. As such, I would like to offer the following advice to any and all men reading this: It is never acceptable under any circumstance to button the top button on a polo shirt. You'd think this is common sense, but no. I have seen no fewer than three polo shirts today that were buttoned all the way to the top.

3:01 You know what pisses me off? Secretaries on a power trip. I usually love secretaries. I typically end up talking with them more than the person they are answering phones for. But every now and then, I run into a real twat. When I got back from lunch, I had a voicemail from some dude who works for a company we do business with. He asked me to return his call, which I finally just got around to doing. I called, and his secretary answered. I asked to speak with the guy, and she asked who was calling. I told her my name, and who I am with, and she got really snotty. "Sorry, Mr. Clark doesn't take sales calls," she told me in the nastiest tone she possibly could. I got pissed. "First off, this isn't a sales call. Second of all, I am returning his call. Now can I please speak to him?" Having been put in her place, she relented and connected me. I don't really have a point, other than to say that she sucked and mildly disrupted my otherwise placid mood.

3:49 In any given day, I spend a good portion of my time with gmail open, chatting with other people who are miserable at work. Most days, I seem to have a 6th sense as to when someone of importance is walking by, and I quickly toggle over to a different webpage so as not to look like a blatant slacker. However, today I have spent more time than average on gmail, since I haven't actually done any real work. Unfortunately, my 6th sense seems to have deserted me, because literally every time this manager has walked by, I have been typing away to one of my bored friends. Now, I don't know how much she actually sees, or what she thinks. On one hand, it certainly can't look good, especially if she decided to investigate just what I have been doing all day. On the other hand, I have lost all motivation for the week, which means I don't care. It also doesn't bode well for tomorrow. One more hour...

4:28 Conundrum: Someone just said "irregardless". Do I a) correct him on his improper grammar, and look like a smug asshole, or b) silently let it go, and let him use the word again, allowing some future grammar snob to smirk and then be faced with the same conundrum?

4:29 I chose the second option. Gotta pay it forward.

4:46 Well, I am about to call it a day, but I have one more gripe. (Shocking, I know.) Starting around 4:45, people start leaving work early, under excuses like they have to pick up their kid or some bullshit like that. These people are always excused early without objection. Now, I want to leave early too, only I don't have a kid to go pick up. My reason, of course, is simply wanting to not be here anymore. Why should their reason for wanting to leave early be acceptable, but my reason be unacceptable. Picking up a kid doesn't help the company be more productive or efficient. The fact of the matter is, if anyone leaves early, it costs the company money. What difference does it make why someone leaves early? If they’re not there, they’re not there. Just because I haven’t procreated and failed to make proper arrangements for my child’s ride doesn’t mean that I should be subjected to a full day of work. And on that note, I am out of here.

5:18 As I sit at home, editing my above half-assed diary, I just checked facebook and saw my favorite status update of all time: Johnny Hey everyone: in that new Sex in the City Movie, Big leaves Carrie at the altar at the end. See ya. God bless you, Johnny.

About a month ago...

2008-05-27T19:12:00.000-04:00

...some guy who works at my company's Utah office requested an 8am conference call with me. Being the rational person that I am, I presumed that he meant 8am his time, as most people are unable to calculate time zone differences when scheduling meetings. Turns out, I underestimated his cunning. After sending him the meeting confirmation in Outlook for 10am my time, he called me and told me that he had already adjusted for the time difference; he scheduled the meeting for 6am his time.

"What the hell are you doing at work at 6am," I asked him, not realizing that I would probably offend him with that language, since he was from Utah and all.

"I am a morning person," he said cheerily.

Ugh. I really can't stomach morning people. I explained to him that I usually don't get to work until 9, and asked if we could just have our conference call then. "Well, normally we could but I am really busy the rest of this week, and I want to get this off my plate. Could you do me a solid and come in early?"

I have a few hard and fast rules in life, and one of them is that if someone ever asks me to "do them a solid", that I will refuse. But this guy's infectious cheeriness weakened my resolve, and in a rare moment of weakness I agreed to his early meeting time.

The next morning, I arrived at work 70 minutes earlier than I normally do. The office was eerily quiet. Most people get to work at 8:30. When I arrive at 9, the office is usually buzzing with work-related noise. Not so at 7:50. It felt like when I was a kid, and I had to go to school early for detention. The only people there were a few go-getters and chirpy morning people. They looked at me quizzically, the strange, grumpy interloper to their pre-dawn gathering. I made my way to my desk, turned on my computer, and did some half-ass preparations for the call. I watched my phone, waiting for it to ring. 8:00 am came and went, and he didn't call. At 8:04, I dialed the number to his office. It rang four times, then his voicemail picked up. I left an annoyed message, wondering where he was. The next hour passed, and my phone didn't ring. Of course, I was fuming. I learned a lesson, and added another hard and fast rule to my list of hard and fast rules: Anytime I ignore one of my hard and fast rules, I will get burned.

Over the next few weeks, he called me several times, all of which I sent straight to voicemail. He also sent me a handful of emails, which I read, but then refused to send the requested read-receipt to him. (I am such a rebel). Today, he called my manager and said that I had been ignoring him, and that we really needed to reschedule the meeting. My manager asked me why I had been ignoring the Utah guy, and I explained that he flaked on a meeting that I had come in an hour early for, and that I apparently act like a 14 year old girl when I have a grudge. My manager told me that him flaking on the meeting wasn't cool, but that ignoring him wasn't acceptable. I conceded that I was being a bit rigid, and called the Utah guy.

Naturally, he wanted to do the meeting at 8am (my time) tomorrow morning. I strongly objected to this time, on the grounds that he did not show up to our previous meeting. He apologized and explained that he "felt like sleeping in" that morning. I told him 8am was out of the question, and he went on and on about how busy he is, and that is the only time that he could possibly do it. Finally, I relented. He thanked me for being flexible, and sent me an email confirmation, which I confirmed. As I was leaving work today, his secretary call and confirmed the meeting. "I'll be ready and waiting for him to call," I told her.

Guess who decided he is going to feel like sleeping in tomorrow?

My Magic Number Nears

2008-05-21T20:41:00.005-04:00

My wife is kind of obsessed about her weight. This makes her like, oh, every other woman who has ever lived. She doesn't need to lose any weight, in my opinion. It would be awfully hypocritical of me to be content with my gut while expecting her to keep herself in top shape. Nevertheless, she is always counting some sort of point or measuring something called a "serving". Every morning she weighs herself, and she charts her weight in an excel spreadsheet.

Not too long ago, after bragging about her weekly weight chart and the loss of a whole pound, I posed a hypothetical question. "Lets say you were in some sort of horrible accident, and your arm was cut off at the shoulder. You recover and get out of the hospital. You get home and step on the scale, and you are like 10 pounds lighter than before, when you had two arms. Does that number on the scale excite you?"

"Yes", she said sheepishly.

Some guys are obsessed with their weight. I call them "gay". (Not that there's anything wrong with that). I am not one of these guys. I have a magic number. When my weight goes over that number, I take about two months to eat right and exercise, and I usually end up losing 20 pounds. For the next 18 months following my diet, I don't really worry about eating right or exercising. If I happen to eat healthy, great. If I happen to get some exercise, all the better. Slowly but surely I will gain the weight back, confident knowing that whenever I want to, I can lose as much of it as I want. Naturally, this pisses my wife off to no end.

My wife had to work late tonight, so I decided to cook. I got into the kitchen and a rush of laziness overcame me, so I made a quick change of plans and ordered pizza. My wife and I are going to the beach this weekend, and the prospect of being in a bathing suit in public has caused her to go into diet hysteria. Keeping this in mind, I ordered her a calzone. Calzones are smaller than pizza, and small equals healthy, right?

Anyway, she got home just after the delivery driver left. Dismayed that my change in plans had thrown in a wrench into some complex points system that she is following, she began furiously calculating numbers from a nutritional chart she found online. She compared her findings to some other chart, which apparently tells her how many points she is allowed to have. Finally, she concluded that she could eat half of the calzone and stay within her allowable points. "Good thing I have only eaten a salad today," she said.

In the time that she spent figuring out how much she could eat for dinner, I managed to finish off the whole large pizza that I ordered. (In fairness, it was a thin crust.) My wife went into the kitchen to retrieve 50% of her calzone and saw the empty pizza box. She came back into the living room, looking pissed. "Did you eat that whole fucking pizza?" she asked.

"Mmmhmmm", I replied, stuffing the last bite into my mouth.

"Good work, piggie," she said, disgusted. "I can only have half of this calzone."

"Ooh, can I have the other half", I asked, patting my belly.

"You make me so mad!!!!!"

Sunny Side of Life

2008-05-19T20:13:00.003-04:00

On one of my first days of work at my current job, I had a meeting with some guy. I didn't really know who he was in relation to me within the organization, and actually, I still don't. We sat down in a small room and he began speaking, in what amounted to be about an hour-long pep talk. The purpose of the meeting wasn't all that clear at the time, but the longer I have worked there, I know exactly what was going on. He was trying to indoctrinate me with the corporate Kool-aid that everyone in my company seems to swallow. In short, the mantra that he was trying to get across to me that this: Negativity is not allowed.

This mantra, along with the curry from the software engineers' lunches, has pervaded every corner of the office and is impossible to get away from. Company-wide emails are laced with subversive messages that everything is and will continue to be great. Smiley faces are everywhere. Those employees who are overtly negative don't last long, as they will be constantly subjected to the same pep talk that greeted me on my second day of work until they can no longer stand to come into work. Positive thought will rule the day. Naturally, this doesn't sit well with me. While I am not outwardly negative like some people, I refuse to pretend that bad shit can't happen. It does. It's part of life. I don't want it to happen, but it will, guaranteed. To pretend otherwise is ignorant.

Today started off as most Mondays do. I was moving in slow motion, easing into the day and week with no particular urgency. I wanted today to be a good day. I want every day to be a good day. Of course, things happen out of my control that can affect the quality of my day, and at about 10:30 this morning, that is exactly what happened. My day got a little bit shittier, and then stuff kept piling on. By the time I went to lunch at 12:30, my day was shot. (My work day, that is. Outside of work I don't give a shit about this stuff. But if I am at the office, it's gonna annoy me because I hate cleaning up shit. [I mean that figuratively. My job is not to literally clean up shit, although I would hate doing that too.] Outside of work, it barely registers on my radar.)

After lunch, things didn't get any worse but they didn't get any better, either. It was one of those days where I was just watching the clock and counting down the minutes until I could leave. I went back to the break room to refill my bottle of water when I ran into my old friend, Pyramid Scheme Guy. He asked me how my day was going. "Not gonna lie, today sucks," I replied.

"Of course it's gonna suck with that attitude," he told me. It should come as no surprise that Pyramid Scheme Guy dove right into the company mantra.

"It has nothing to do with my attitude. It has to do with shit out of my hands that happened that directly affected my day," I told him, not hiding my annoyance. I then went on to explain what had happened to put my in a grouchy mood.

"You gotta stay positive, Mike," he told me, patting me on the shoulder. I do not like being touched, so this really pissed me off.

"It has nothing to do with being positive," I said. "I didn't want this shit to happen, but it did. I can't pretend it didn't, and I certainly can't pretend that a bad outcome is actually good."

"Life is 10% what happens and 90% how you react to it," he said.

"Yeah, and the natural reaction to what happened this morning is to be pissed off. I can't fake a smile and put a positive spin on it. I'm not Ned Flanders. Spare me your platitudes."

"Who is Ned Flanders, and what does 'platitude' mean?"

"We're done here."

My Daily Moment of Zen

2008-05-16T17:36:00.004-04:00

Today, there was a mandatory department meeting at lunch. I didn't like the food they decided to bring in for us, so I told a little white lie to get out of the meeting.

Later on in the afternoon, while I was plotting my weekly early escape, I saw the department head coming over to me. I had my Gmail account open, with three conversations going on in Gchat: The conversations were about 1) the lack of work I had done in the morning, and the lack of work I planned on not doing the rest of the day; 2) Why it is really funny for someone to think that an able-minded person is actually retarded (see, last nights episode of The Office); and 3) Female Friend's sincere desire to date another woman.

I quickly toggled over to a work-related website. The department head arrived just in time to see me pretending to work. He asked for a moment of my time, and we stepped into a nearby conference room. "We missed you at the meeting today, Mike", he said. Before I could reiterate my white lie that had excused me from the meeting, he continued. "Just wanted to say, we are thrilled with the job you are doing. You really bring a level of professionalism to this place, and we appreciate it." He shook my hand and left the room.

I really have no idea what I am doing right, but I figure I'll just keep doing what I do.

(I would also like to congratulate myself on setting a new record for the most times I have ever linked to previous posts of mine in a new post. Thank you.)

10 Years

2008-05-14T19:29:00.000-04:00

4:52 PM

This summer, my high school class will be having it's ten year reunion. To my dismay (sarcasm), I won't be able to make it due to prior plans. Whenever I tell someone of my unfortunate scheduling conflict (more sarcasm), the majority of the time, that person will express some sort of regret on my behalf. As you may have gathered, I have no such regret myself.

All in all, my high school experience was positive. I had fun, I did stupid shit, I got mediocre grades. Good times. Then I moved on. By the end of my sophomore year of college, I had lost touch with almost all of my high school friends. The reason for this is simple: I found better friends. That's what college is for. (Well, that and something about learning. I missed that part.) When I left, I grew up. I matured. Seriously, I did. When you start at the immaturity level that I was at, you have no place to go but up.

When I did reconnect with old high school friends, I noticed two things: First, everyone kind of reverted back to their high school persona, and second, I probably wouldn't have been friends with those people if I had met them later in life. The latter of those is fine; I can talk and relate to just about anyone, if I want to. It's the former that I found kind of difficult to deal with.

It's kind of a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation. If you are the same exact person you were when you were a teenager, then that's kind of sad. All the cliques will be the same, all the old statuses will still matter, and I don't have to explain why that is pathetic. If you're not the same person you were, then the dynamics won't work when you get around your high school friends. You'd have to start over in terms of friendship, and I would wager that more often than not, the people wouldn't work as friends.

Plus, I am largely happy with the person I am today. The person I was ten years ago wouldn't be able to relate to the me of now. I used to be really optimistic and sunny; now, not so much. Thanks law school. I used to be really concerned with status. Like, I would have much rather dated an ugly "popular" girl than a pretty band nerd. Now, I am married to a pretty band nerd. And most importantly, I used to really care what people thought about me. Now, I really don't give a shit. It's that last one that is the reason that I will not go to my reunion. It's all in my past. Been there, done that. I don't really want to relive it.

7:26 PM

I couldn't think of a good way to wrap up my self-indulgent thoughts, but I just thought of a great reason to go to my high school reunion. I want to see what thin girls got fat, what fat girls got thin, and who turned into white trash. Then I could silently judge them all. That would have been great. Shit...I guess I'll have to wait until the 25th reunion.

Mr. Fix-It

2008-05-12T07:39:00.003-04:00

The wife likes to tease me because I am not handy. She is kind of right; I am not the most mechanically inclined person you will ever meet. (I should point out that I started at a huge disadvantage. Her dad is handy like Bob Vila is handy. I can't compete with that.) That being said, I am not mechanically retarded either. Given a set of instructions with clear directions and well-illustrated diagrams, I can put just about anything together. If you open up the hood of a car, I can point out the battery, check the oil, refill the washer fluid, and know what not to touch if I want to keep my fingers. If I ever needed to change a tire, I know how to call AAA.

The other day, my check engine light came on. Jeeps have a neat little trick where you can find the diagnostic code without paying $90 to a mechanic, so I did the trick and got the code. I then searched for the code, and got the explanation as to what it meant. I then googled the explanation for a layman's explanation. I then googled the layman's explanation to dumb it down a little bit more, and finally I understood why my check engine light was on; some sensor or something.

I did some more researching on the interwebs, and found a message board post about the very sensor in question. (And who better to listen to than anonymous internet people, right?) The posters all seemed to agree that the best way to fix it was to disconnect the battery first, thus turning off the check engine light. Then, if it comes back on with the same code, it needs to be fixed. If not, no worries. That is how it ended up that I set out to disconnect the battery on my car.

I lugged the tool kit that my father-in-law gave me outside, with my wife in tow, so she could a) see how handy her husband was, and b) help me if I got stuck. I successfully disconnected and reconnected my battery with little trouble. I started the car, and the check engine light was no longer on. I closed the hood and proudly returned to the house, having successfully "fixed" my car.

One problem though...last night, I went to get gas, and my stereo didn't come on when I got in the car. It's a relatively new stereo, and the only thing I use it for is to plug in my satellite radio. It always just came on, so I never really learned how to work it. I came home and told my wife the radio was broken, and that I was going to wake up early the next morning and fix it, lest I (gasp!) actually drive the seven minutes to work in silence. This morning, that's just what I did.

I opened the hood, and with the help of my owner's manual, I located the fuse box. I looked at it for a bit, and the jiggled some fuses. I tried starting the car, but no radio. I then disconnected the battery again, thinking perhaps that would do the trick, but it didn't. Still no radio. I sat in the drivers seat for a few minutes, and then it hit me. I forgot to turn the radio on. I pressed the power button, and it magically worked.

Of course, when my wife woke up, all I told her was, "I fixed my radio". She was so proud of me, I didn't have the heart to tell her how...

Green

2008-05-09T17:01:00.004-04:00

Yesterday at work, some guy apparently got an email with a 'green' message at the bottom, that said something like "don't print this out unless it's absolutely necessary". I get what the person who put that at the end of their signature was going for; it's apparently hip to be green now. I have nothing against it--I am not too concerned about replacing my carbon footprint, whatever that means--but I get it. I support my wife's recycling efforts. If given a hybrid for free, I would drive it. I gave up my habit of spraying a can of hairspray into the sky for no reason. I am not not green, for what that's worth.

The problem with that message in the email is that I am not sure that anyone prints emails unless it is absolutely necessary to begin with. I have never once printed a work email; of course, I am not a good worker, so I asked someone who is, and she said she hasn't either. So while the message is good, I don't think it's really needed. Plus, it spawns a whole other kind of problem, which brings me back to the guy who got that email yesterday.

In what I can only assume was an attempt to be funny or cool, he printed the email, and then went around showing everyone what a rebel he is. Some people laughed, others didn't, but it didn't matter. This guy was soooo pleased with himself, he just couldn't wait to show someone else...Until he approached me at my desk.

Douchebag: Did you see this email? Fucking enviornmentalists, I printed it just to spite him. Hahaha!

Me: That's retarded.

Douchebag: No, see...(he pointed to the green message)...It specifically said not to print it, so I did. Hahaha!

Me: Dude, you're an asshole. The first rule of being an asshole is that you better have a damn good reason for it. What is the point of doing that? It's just stupid. And it's not even funny. Seriously, go away.

On one hand, he stopped showing people and went back to his desk and shut up. On the other hand, I guess I have another enemy. Well worth it, though.

I'm on my way to the top of an organization that I am fairly indifferent about

2008-05-07T18:57:00.005-04:00

As anyone who has a job knows, it is more important to look busy than to actually be busy. Take my job, for example: On a given day, I absolutely have to accomplish some certain stuff. If I add it all up, it typically takes me a total of two hours to do it all, rarely more. If I add in the administrative bullshit that goes along with my job, the kind of stuff that isn't absolutely necessary but has to be done eventually, I probably do about three solid hours of work in a day. I suspect other people's jobs would yield similar numbers. Unfortunately, I work an 8 hour day, which means that I must fill 5 hours with something, in order to both make the time go quicker, and also to make the people who pay me think that they're getting their money's worth. (I mean, they are, but they tend to look down upon the whole 'I accomplish all of my work in 3 hours' argument, when I want to leave at noon every day.)

My favorite busy work activity is to run various searches on the intra-office website. This website has information about every part of the business, and more data than you could possibly imagine. Every part of what the business does starts and ends on this website. I keep the site open all the time, and whenever I feel it is important that I look busy (such as when a manager or executive is present) I toggle over to the intra-office website from Gmail. I then run a random search and just stare intently at the screen while not actually doing anything productive, until I feel it is safe to slack off again.

Today, I was doing just that. Normally I don't care what the results are, but something caught my eye after one particular search. What I was looking at didn't make sense. I reran the search, with slightly different parameters, but the same strange result came back. I did it once more, with the same result. What I was seeing didn't seem right, so I went and told my boss. He ran the search, and got the same result I had. "This is not good," he said ominously.

I went back to my desk to resume my busy work. An hour later, my boss came over to me. "You are the MAN!" he said, as he put out his fist for me to hit the rock. Apparently, after I showed him what I saw, he told his boss, who talked to the head of the IT department. The head IT guy got some of the developers to take a look at it, and they determined that I had discovered a huge glitch that ran deeper than even my search had revealed. This particular glitch had been costing the company thousands of dollars per month, if not more, and had been in place since at least November. Had I not found it, explained my boss, it might have gone undiscovered for much longer.

Soon, the VP of my department came by to thank me. Then the CFO. Then the CEO. An email was sent out to my entire department thanking me for what I had discovered. Everyone began treating me like the model employee, which is ironic, since the only reason I found the glitch in the first place was because I was being a bad employee. Funny how the world works sometimes.

The New Car

2008-05-06T17:21:00.007-04:00

Last week, I got a call at work from my wife. She was crying, so my intuition told me something was wrong. "My fucking car just died on the highway," she said, between sniffles. "No worries," I told her. "Call AAA and have them tow you to a shop. When you get there, call me and I'll come pick you up." My cool rationality seemed to calm her, albeit temporarily. Turns out, she needed a new engine, which actually meant that she needed a new car.

That night, after I picked her up from work, she began crying again, and again, I figured something was wrong. "This sucks," she said between sniffles. "Now we have to buy a new car, and you have to drive me around. Argh! It's so aggravating."

"Relax," I told her. "We'll go rent you a car tomorrow, do some research and budgeting over the weekend, and buy something next week. No worries." She seemed to relax a bit, and over the next couple days we carried out that plan.

Last night, after figuring out what we want to get, we went to go buy her a car. I asked my wife to print out the Edmunds.com reports on the various models of the car she chose, so I would know what to shoot for, price-wise. She did, and as we entered the dealership she handed me a neatly arranged printout of exactly what I needed--the MSRP, the invoice price, and what people actually pay for the car. We found a salesman, test drove a car, and decided to pull the trigger.

We went back into the showroom, and he started working up a proposal. My wife kept looking at me as he was mentioning the sticker price of the car, waiting for me to negotiate. When he stepped away, I told her not to worry, and I glanced at the printout she gave me. The sticker price was a good $1800 above what Edmunds said I should pay, and $2000 above the invoice price. He sat down with the proposal, and I made my counter offer, which was the invoice price, according to my sheet. He seemed kind of shocked, and told me he didn't think he could come down that much. "If you can, I will buy it right now," I told him. He went into his managers office and said there was no way he could do it. After some discussion, I relented and offered the price that Edmunds said that I should pay for that car. He took it to his manager, and but came back and said that my offer was much too low.

I told him that I wasn't going to budge, and that if he wanted to sell me the car, he would have to meet my price. He went into the managers office, and came back with some paperwork. "I don't know where you're getting those numbers, but here is the invoice of the car. This is what we paid for it." He pointed at the bottom line, which was $1000 more than I was demanding. I looked over the paper top to bottom, at the different features and what they cost. I stepped outside and compared it to my notes. Everything matched up, except one thing. I turned to my wife. "Hey, when you did the research, did you check the prices of an automatic transmission?"

"Yeah," she said, getting defensive. "I don't want a stick. I don't even know how to drive a stick."

"Then could you tell me what this little 5M means, next to the transmission?"

"Um..."

"It means a 5 speed manual. The automatic transmission is $1000. That's where the extra money went. No wonder they were so surprised I asked for that price. Jesus, I must look like an idiot."

"Sorry...Do you want to go buy it somewhere else so you can save face?"

"No, lets just go do this." I went in and offered the invoice price, according to his sheet, without telling him about my transmission miscalculation. He counter offered $200 over invoice. We split the difference and closed the deal. All things considered, I got a pretty good price, and he was just happy to have me gone.

As I drove home, behind my happy wife in her new car, I reflected on my mistaken negotiation tactics. I was absolutely wrong, but I had no clue that I was wrong. It never once occurred to me that I was being completely unreasonable. Then it struck me: That must be what it is like to be a woman. That's a sweet deal you got there, ladies.

(Dodges a barrage of high heels and purses)

I kid, I kid.

(But not really)

This Is Why I Can't Have Nice Things

2008-05-01T17:52:00.004-04:00

Several years back, I bought a white Ralph Lauren polo shirt. I thought white seemed like an obvious color to have, and it was on sale, so I made the purchase. A few days later, I was going to grab dinner with some friends and I pulled the white polo out of the closet and put it on. As I walked out the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped. I was on my way to a place where I would inevitably order wings, and I had a white shirt on. That isn't a good combination for anyone, but it is an especially bad combination for me, because when I eat, my motor skills regress back to the level of a toddler (as I outlined in this post). I put on a much darker shirt.

After that, my white polo shirt became like one of those living rooms full of nice furniture that no one ever uses. I can count the number of times I have worn it on one hand. Any stain I made on it would ultimately render it unwearable, because I have a unique gift to only spill things on myself that do not come out. I have been so afraid to ruin it that I almost never wear it. The shirt has been relegated to the back of my closet, always an option, but ignored in favor for it's darker colored brothers, picked as my shirt of choice on the rarest of occasions. Today was one of those days.

Of course, my timing could not have been worse. I had a breakfast meeting this morning, and I absentmindedly ordered blueberry pancakes. That was my first mistake. Mistake number two came when I put my dignity in front of the well being of my shirt, and chose not to shroud myself in napkins to avoid potential stains. The third, and ultimately fatal, mistake came when I cut into the blueberry pancakes, crushing a pod of fresh blueberries which was embedded in my pancake, sending purple juice all over my chest. I looked like I took a cumshot from Barney the Dinosaur. (I would like to acknowledge that the proceeding analogy is probably the grossest and most disturbing thing I have ever written. Sincere apologies for any unwanted mental images.)

Anyway, the dilemma arose: Do I leave immediately after breakfast to change, or do I stay at work, stains and all? That raised the following question: Which is worse, to be that guy who left and came back with a different shirt on, or the be that guy with the blueberry-stained shirt all day? Both are potentially bad. I know that if I saw someone come to work with a white shirt on, and then come back an hour later with one of a different color, I would totally assume something was up and perhaps think less of them. That being said, I would think much less of some slob with a purple speckled white shirt, so the choice was obvious. I went home and changed, and assigned my wife the task of attempting to save the shirt. The outlook is grim, however.

If you are saying prayers tonight, say one for Ol' Whitey. I always knew things might end this way for him, and it's sad. He didn't get to live his shirt life to the fullest. Maybe the world was never made for one as beautiful as him.

Dumbest Conversation I Had Today

2008-04-28T19:38:00.006-04:00

Earlier this afternoon, I walked back to the break room to get more water. An older guy was sitting at one of the table, reading the paper, and the song "California Dreamin'" was playing on the radio. I was refilling my bottle when the old guy spoke. "Betcha don't know who sings this," he said.

"The Mamas and the Papas", I answered flatly. I was mildly insulted. Of course I knew who sings it. When I was like 11, my sister and I used to sing the song on road trip, harmonizing together, her taking the Mama part, and I, of course, singing the Papa part. (Note: My childhood was 153% less gay than the previous sentence would indicate.)

"Good," the old dude said, impressed. "Betcha didn't know that Mama Cass died from choking on a ham sandwich." He chuckled a little bit, as if the thought of a morbidly obese woman choking to death is somehow funny. (Which, in fairness, it is.) Sadly, his tidbit of trivia is false. I know this because when I visited the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame a few years ago, there was an entire display dedicated to Mama Cass, and the urban legend surrounding her death. In reality, she died of a massive heart attack, which makes sense considering her considerable carriage, but it's much less amusing than choking to death on a ham sandwich.

"Actually, that's a myth," I told him. "I learned about it at the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame. She died of a heart attack, the ham sandwich story is just an urban legend."

"No, it's true," he said, somewhat peeved that I had corrected him. "She died from choking on a ham sandwich."

"That's precisely what the urban legend is. Everyone thinks she died from choking on a ham sandwich, but it's not true. That's what an urban legend is--something everyone assumes to be true, but it isn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I said confidently.

"But..." he said, and trailed off. He seemed truly dumbfounded, as if his world view was altered greatly by the fact that Mama Cass had not, in fact, died by choking on a ham sandwich. Oh, how his life would have been different if only he knew the truth. Maybe that's my calling--to walk the Earth and correct people on their false belief in utterly meaningless facts.

2008-04-24T19:11:00.000-04:00

Pissed

2008-04-23T07:15:00.005-04:00

Last week, I was teamed up with a few other people on a project at work. One of my coworkers was waiting on me to finish one portion of it so that he could start another part of the project. I told him I would have my part done by Thursday. Last Wednesday morning, I arrived at work, turned on my computer, and went to take a piss. He followed me into the bathroom and asked me if I could have it finished by the end of the day so he could start on his part first thing Thursday morning. "I got some other stuff I have to get done," I told him, "but I'll give it a shot."

A little bit before lunch, he came back over to my desk. "Hey, just checking in. Any progress? Do you think you'll have it to me by the end of the day?"

"Well, I am pretty swamped over here, but I'll see what I can do." This wasn't a lie; at that moment, I had five separate Gmail chat conversations going, and from experience, it is very difficult to keep five chats going at the same time.

After lunch, he came back over. I was on Facebook. "Hey, anything to report? Looks like you've got some time on your hands now."

"I'm working on it," I said. "Give me until the end of the day."

At 3:30, he followed me back to the break room, where I was refilling my water bottle. "Hey, I don't want to seem like a pest, but I really want to make sure that you have that to me so I can get started first thing tomorrow morning." He moved closer and looked me in the eye. "Can I count on you?" he asked me, solemnly.

"Probably," I said dismissively, and headed back to my desk.

At this point, I should let you, the readers, in on a little secret. My part of the project was done. It had been since the previous morning. In fact, I had already drafted an email to that guy with the project document attached. All I had to do was click send, and he would have it. So why make him sweat it out?

Simple. He came and talked to me when I was peeing. I fucking cannot stand to be talked to when I am peeing. That's the number one way to piss me off (no pun intended). There is literally nothing in the world that cannot wait the 30 seconds it takes me to empty my bladder. If he had simply waited until I was out of the bathroom and asked me for a status report, I would have gladly told him I was finished and clicked send. But no, he had to be a douchebag and bother me when I was peeing, and he drew my wrath.

At 4:58, my phone rang. I knew exactly who it was, but I answered as if it could be anyone. "Mike, I am getting ready to leave. Please tell me that you have that ready for me."

"Relax dude. I just finished it. Check your email." At that moment, I clicked send, and he got it instantaneously. "Just got it. Thank you so much," he said.

"Yeah yeah...you owe me one," I told him.

"I really do," he said. "Just let me know."

Believe me, I will.

It's Fun Being An Instigator

2008-04-22T20:19:00.004-04:00

There is a guy I work with--let's call him Rod. (The reason I am calling him Rod in this post is outlined in a previous post. You can read it here, but suffice it to say, he looks like he should be named Rod.) Anyway, Rod is a decent guy. If push came to shove, he would be my ally. That being said, he, like everyone else I have met at my new job, has some defect that prevents him from becoming my actual friend. Rod's defect is that he is a conspiracy theorist.

Rod believes that no matter what the company does, there is some ulterior motive behind it. He is decidedly anti-establishment, and considers himself an outsider in the corporate world. On this point, I can understand where he's coming from him. I too have a negative view of my company and some of the decisions they make, but the reason for these decisions is where our points of view differ. While Rod thinks all of these decisions are made with some evil overriding goal in mind, I take the more pragmatic approach, and believe that human stupidity and incompetence is the source of the problem. This doesn't mean I don't have fun at Rod's expense.

You see, Rod thinks I too am a conspiracy theorist. He thinks this primarily because I come up with conspiracies, which I then explain to him, with the sole goal of getting him riled. Typically I will explain my theory, and let him go off. Usually he only vents to me, which is good for five minutes of amusement, but today, I hit the jackpot.

This morning, my department got an email inviting us to a company appreciation dinner coming up next week. The dinner was scheduled for a fancy, albeit way out of the way restaurant. My first thought was, "What a stupid place to hold the dinner." My second thought was, "Let's go tell Rod my newest conspiracy." I went over to his desk. "Hey," I said, in a hushed tone. "Did you get the email about that dinner?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Did you see the location? That's ridiculously far away. There is no way I am gonna go." My tone was incredulous.

"Yeah, me either," he said. "What do you make of it?"

"Well," I said, trying my best to sound conspiratorial. "You think we're the only two who won't go? I bet they had it out there so two-thirds of us wouldn't go, to keep costs down, but they still look good for having it at a fancy restaurant. That's what I make of it."

"That's BULLSHIT!" he said, causing the heads of the people around him to turn and look.

"Yeah, but what can you do?" I said, pleased with the scene I had caused.

"I'm gonna do something," he said, with intensity.

Two hours later, everyone got the following email from the head of our department:

It has come to my attention that some of you are under the impression that the location of our appreciation dinner was chosen to discourage attendance. I want to be clear that this was not our intention, and I would like to apologize for any convenience that it might cause you. We just wanted to do something nice for our employees, and thought that the location we chose was adequate. We certainly hope to see all of you there.

That was my fun for the day.

Blackout

2008-04-17T19:27:00.005-04:00

When I was 14, I was watching a TV show on TLC or Discovery or something; I don't remember what the show was about, but I do remember some unkempt scientist saying that it was very difficult to achieve pure darkness, because unless you completely sealed off all potential sources of light, you would always have some light stimulus. (Why I was watching such an obviously dull show baffles me. In retrospect, I would like to say that I only saw five minutes of the show, which happened to be the five minutes about absolute darkness. In fact, that's the story I am sticking with. No way I watched the whole thing...Nope.)

Anyway, the point about absolute darkness peaked my interest. Being a 14 year old boy, 96% of my thoughts were about tits, so anything else that made it into my head had to be something good. I began to wonder if I could create a room of absolute darkness. (It should come as no surprise that at this point in my life, I had never seen a tit, other than in photographs.)

I had my own bathroom attached to my room, so I decided that the bathroom would be the ideal place to create my own light deprivation chamber. I gathered up some supplies: Black garbage bags to cover the walls and floors with; electrical tape to cover all cracks from the doors; and black foam rubber to seal the small area between the door and the floor. It took me several hours to complete the project. When I laid the last piece of tape on the last remaining uncovered part of the door frame, I turned off the lights, and viola!, I had complete and utter darkness. I sat in my black bathroom for three minutes, got bored, and went downstairs to watch more (and hopefully better) television.

That night, my mom went into my bathroom for some reason, and saw my experiment. Of course, in her eyes, the entire bathroom being covered in black didn't look like a product of my 14 year old boredom; it looked like I was up to no good. She called me upstairs and asked me to explain myself. I was a little embarrassed by the lengths to which I had gone to black out my bathroom, so I hemmed and hawed and joked around and avoided the question. She took my evasive answering as a sign of guilt, and accused me of smoking cigarettes in my bathroom, or even worse, marijuana! And who could blame her? Eight of the first ten years that she raised her kids were during the Reagan presidency. She was led to believe that drugs were an epidemic, evil and rampant, that dealers were cornering me at every pass, trying to get me high. And what's worse, she thought they had succeeded, and that the evil drugs had found their way into the hands of her precious 14 year old son.

I never told my mom why I had blacked out my bathroom. I guess I didn't think she'd believe me even if I told the truth. I let her toss my room, looking for any evidence of contraband. She did not find any evidence of drugs, because there was none. Luckily, she did not find the aforementioned tit pictures either. But from then on, she was suspicious of me, grilling me about what I did and who I was with, wondering if perhaps I was on a road to ruin.

Nope, just a dork, mom. Just a dork.

Missed Connection

2008-04-16T19:35:00.000-04:00

Dear Girl From My Office,

I am going to be blunt: I don't think we'll ever be friends. We can still greet each other, and perhaps engage in meaningless small talk from time to time, but as for a real, true office friendship--it's not gonna happen. It's not that I don't think we would be good friends; in fact, it's the opposite. I think, under different circumstances, we could be the best of work friends. Our conversation next to the vending machines was enlightening. Your takes on pop culture, sports, and politics were the first sane things I have heard from a coworker in months. For the first time at this company, I felt like I connected with somebody.

I had noticed you before, too. I've heard some of your comments during the otherwise pointless departmental meetings; they were downright clever, which is rare in our office. And when I made a joke in front of the entire department, you were one of the few who actually got it; that was a big deal to me. And when we were talking in front of the vending machine, and that overly ambitious tool came up and asked you the sort of question that only overly ambitious tools ask, I saw you roll your eyes...I rolled my eyes too!

It seems like a perfect match. I have been waiting for someone at work who I can relate to, and maybe you have been waiting for someone as well. But there is one problem, and unfortunately, it's a deal breaker. As you know, technically, you are my boss. I don't report to you directly, but if you told me to jump, in theory I would have to say "how high". In reality, I probably wouldn't, and that is part of why this friendship would never work out.

You don't know this, at least not in full detail, but a lot of what I do, even who I am, revolves around my casual approach to work and my various shenanigans therein. This is a character flaw, for sure, but it's who I am. The problem is that you are paid by the company to reform my casual approach and snuff out my shenanigans. Surely you must see why this would never work. Ours would have to be a secret friendship, one where you would pretend not to notice that I am not a good employee, and where would I pretend not to care that you are, at least on paper, the enemy. Our friendship would be based on lies, and we both know that just isn't a good way to go through life.

So, I bid you adieu, my once-potential friend. Perhaps in another life, or just at another company, things could have been different. But you've chosen your path and I've chosen mine, so it will never be. But we'll always have the vending machines.

Intelligence Test

2008-04-15T21:36:00.005-04:00

I arrived home from work today, full of energy. My creative juices were flowing, and I was planning on popping open a beer and writing my first post of the week. But first, I opened up my email account, where I had one new message, from a friend of mine. It read:

http://www.supuzzle.com/supuzzle.html

i can't figure this shit out.
see if you can.

Always up for a little brain teaser, I opened the link and began working the puzzle. The confidence I had from the countless logic games I completed when preparing for the LSATs quickly waned, as I would get ever so close, but ultimately fail to complete the required tasks. I spent a solid half-hour working out possible solutions before retreating to the place where my mind is at it's clearest: the shower. I emerged cleaner and confident that I could find a solution. I spent another half-hour working through the puzzle before giving up in shame, no longer confident of my intellectual abilities. I wanted to know if anyone had solved it, so I Googled the solution, and found this:

http://www.lomont.org/Math/Papers/2002/K33.pdf

Apparently, the puzzle is impossible. The fact I couldn't find a solution doesn't mean I am dumb (although a lot of other facts point in that direction); rather, it means that I actually was able to come up with the solution. Had I just given up, I would have been conceding that I could not solve the puzzle. But by searching for the correct answer, I learned that in fact, no one can solve the puzzle. And that is what the correct answer was all along. My intellectual confidence was restored. (I would still like that hour of my life back, however.)

Anyway, my point is, all of my mental energy was wasted on that stupid puzzle, and thus, you are deprived a post (other than this half-assed one). But, if I may make a suggestion...send the puzzle to a friend and tell them to solve it. Make it seem like it was really easy. Make them feel stupid for not being able to figure it out. It's fun for about nine minutes, which doesn't sound like a lot, but nine minutes of fun is better than nothing.

Fun With Instant Messaging

2008-04-11T12:25:00.003-04:00

Thursday, April 10th, 9:49 AM

Female Friend: One of the partners here, Bill Hunt, just gave me a ton of work to do on this huge development deal
Me: Does Bill Hunt have a brother named Mike?
Female Friend: I don't know, why?
Me: Ask him. I think I might know him
Female Friend: Hunt is a common last name
Me: I know, but the Mike Hunt I know has a brother who is a law firm partner. I bet it's Bill. Just go ask him if he knows Mike Hunt, from West Chester
Female Friend: I will, if I see him

Thursday, April 10th, 3:34 PM

Me: Have you found out about Mike Hunt yet?
Female Friend: No, Bill left for the day
Me: Damn, I really want to find out if they're related
Female Friend: I will find out, I promise
Me: Thanks

Friday, April 11th, 9:33 AM

Me: Hey, did you ever find out if Bill Hunt is related to Mike Hunt?
Female Friend: No, why is it so important?
Me: Because, Mike Hunt told me a really funny story about his brother and I want to see if it's the same guy
Female Friend: He's not here...I guess I will just email my boss, she knows all about everyone's personal lives
Me: Okay, thanks
Female Friend: Okay, done
Me: What did it say?
Female Friend: "Does Bill have a brother named Mike Hunt? My friend keeps asking because they are good friends with Mike Hunt."
Me: Short and simple, good work

Friday, April 11th, 10:29 AM

Female Friend: Got a response from my boss...No, Bill doesn't have a brother named Mike. It's not him.
Me: Okay thanks...one more favor to ask...
Female Friend: Shoot
Me: Say "Mike Hunt" out loud
Female Friend: fuck you
Female Friend: FUCK YOU
Female Friend: god
Female Friend: What is your fucking problem?
Me: Hahahahahahahahahahahaha
Female Friend: Thanks alot dude. Jesus
Me: No, thank you, dear. You have provided myself and others with a ton of entertainment over the past few days.

Random Rant

2008-04-09T18:55:00.003-04:00

You know what really pisses me off? Funeral processions. If I am driving my car, and I see the unmistakable sight of a motorcycle cop followed by a hearse followed by 942 cars with a little flags on the antenna, I know it's going to be a bad day for more than just the person getting buried.

I don't care if this is insensitive or taboo, but unless you are some war hero who did the ultimate "take one for the team", you don't even come close to deserving a funeral procession. People die every day. It's a fact of life. But only a select few of these people seem to have family members who feel that their life was so damn special that they need to stop traffic to deliver the corpse to it's final resting place. I'm sorry, but far too many people have places to go to be held up in traffic when the only place you have to go is six feet below the ground. How about just saying, "hey, everyone meet at the cemetary"? There is simply no need to stop traffic. That hole ain't going nowhere, you can wait for the fucking green arrow.

You know what else really bothers me about funeral processions? That no one car pools. I saw one on Saturday, and every single car had one or two people in it. Even mini vans! Jesus Christ, you're all going to the same place. Would it be so hard to double up and cut that line of cars in half? Assholes.

It occurs to me that perhaps the only people who's funeral includes a procession are those pricks of the world who don't give a shit about anyone but themselves. It's like one final 'fuck you' to the world, or in this case, anyone who has the misfortune of driving near the cemetery in the middle of the day. Now, you might be thinking, "But Mike, you're an asshole. It seems to me that you would want a line of thousands of cars to hold up an entire city when you die." Not so. I might be an ass, but I am a considerate ass. I live by the golden rule; I treat people how I want to be treated. This means that I don't make idle conversation with strangers, I don't pay with change when people are behind me in line, I don't hold doors for someone who is too far behind me, forcing them to do the gay little jog to get to the door faster, and I sure as hell won't inconvenience hundreds of people when I die, just because I died.

When I do kick the bucket, I want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered near all of the delicious restaurants that undoubtedly contributed to my ultimate demise. And if my wife or any of my relatives does arrange a funeral procession for me, you better fucking believe I am going to haunt their asses for a long time.

Sorry, had to get that off my chest.

Label Whore

2008-04-08T17:42:00.003-04:00

I was sitting at my desk today, quietly minding my own business, when one of my co-workers sauntered up to me. "So," he said smugly, pointing to my shirt, "I see you are wearing a Lacoste polo. Pretty expensive..." He trailed off.

"What's your point?"

"No point, just saying, the difference between your shirt and my shirt is that little alligator, and my shirt cost $50 less." If this guy was my friend, I would chuckle, agree with his sentiment, and call myself a label whore. But I don't like this guy. He annoys me. I don't ever approach him, but he always manages to find a reason to stop by and make some snide remark about the price of the clothes I am wearing. An insulting response was in order. But what sort of insult?

The best way to insult someone is to hit them where it hurts. Fat jokes work best on someone who is self-conscious about being fat. For example, I recently made a joke at my wife's expense, and she responded by making a comment about my slowly but surely expanding waistline, which I could not care less about. Her insult missed the mark. Later on, when it was my turn to return fire on her, I went for the jugular: The gray hair she found. My retort was as effective as hers was ineffective.

But what could I insult that would hit him close to home? His children, of course. "You know those two kids that you are always talking about? I don't have any. In their place, I have disposable income, so I can afford all the overpriced polo shirts I want."

He looked at me in disbelief, forced out a fake laugh, and walked away. Was that a really dick thing to say? Sure. But my Lacoste shirts are like my babies, and I won't stand to have them insulted.

When I was a kid...

2008-04-03T22:16:00.001-04:00

...I watched a lot of TV, including cartoons. I never much went for the Thundercats/Transformers/GI Joe class of cartoons; I was much more partial to cartoons that were supposed to be funny. My favorite cartoon, the one I looked forward to the most, was Garfield. What can I say, something about his gluttonous devil-may-care approach to life really spoke to my ten year old mind. There was only one problem: Garfield wasn't just Garfield. It was Garfield and Friends. The "friends" part was in the form of another cartoon, called U.S. Acres, which was set on a farm, and starred farm animals.

I hated U.S. Acres, not so much for what it was, but for what it wasn't. I looked forward to watching Garfield more than anything, and all U.S. Acres did was get in the way. I couldn't understand why they would choose to play that piece of shit cartoon when Garfield could be on instead. When it was time for a new vignette, I would anxiously wait to see if the Garfield intro played, or if the godforsaken farm scene would pop up. If it did, I would walk away in disgust. I would tell anyone who listened, usually my sister, how much I hated U.S. Acres. I hated it so much that I didn't even recognize it's right to exist. I would sit in the other room and watch the clock until I felt like the U.S. Acres portion of the show would be over. Because of this, I was never fully able to enjoy the Garfield portion of the show.

One day, my sister didn't want to watch Garfield, and I was afraid that if I left, I would forfeit my right to the TV and miss the final Garfield cartoon. Begrudgingly, I stayed and watched U.S. Acres. I would never have admitted it at the time, and I am still somewhat ashamed to admit it 18 years later, but despite my best efforts, I actually didn't hate it. It wasn't great or anything, and it certainly didn't hold a candle to the misadventures of an overweight cat and his retarded dog friend, but it was okay. I got it. I could see the appeal. But the problem was that I had expended so much mental energy on hating U.S. Acres that I couldn't just change my mind on it, even if my mind only went to neutral. I had gone too far in establishing my distaste. After years of having an absolute disgust for U.S. Acres, I couldn't just act like I liked it. I had drawn my line in the sand. There was no going back.

There is a gimmick that many writers use, popularized by Chuck Klosterman, that a great deal of bloggers have come to imitate. In this gimmick, the author begins the piece with a story about their life. If the story includes an obscure pop culture reference, even better. After laying out the story from their life, the author explain a current issue, event, or situation that they are facing. Predictably, the author comes full circle and explains how the story from their life and the lesson learned from it somehow provides insight into the current issue, event, or situation that they wanted to write about in the first place.

This is not a post like that. Sorry to say, I have no point to my Garfield and Friends story. Not that there is anything wrong with that gimmick; I've used it myself, I'm sure. But for now, I have no idea why I remembered that anecdote. I was just laying in bed the other night, and I remembered how much I hated when U.S. Acres was on instead of Garfield. I have no idea what I could possibly relate that to in my current life, nor what sort of insight it would provide. In fact, I have no idea why I made it into a post, other than because I could. Sorry to disappoint...

15 Will Get You 20

2008-04-02T18:32:00.004-04:00

This is Taylor Swift, teenage country music star:

This is a picture of some guy who looks a lot like a creepy middle-aged dude who works at my office:

This is the music video for Taylor Swift's biggest hit, about innocent teenage romance. This song also happens to be the creepy guy's newest ringtone:

This is Chris Hansen. He and the creepy guy will be meeting very soon, I would imagine.

I got dibs on his desk chair when he goes to jail.

The April Fools Engagment

2008-03-31T17:56:00.004-04:00

Any astute reader of this blog knows that I am married, and have been since July. The wife and I had been planning on getting hitched for some time before that, but we actually got engaged one year ago tomorrow, on April 1 2007.

A necessary evil of getting engaged is buying a ring. Luckily, my family has a longtime friend who is a high end custom jeweler. Last February, I contacted this friend and told him I was going to get engaged, and needed a ring. He offered to make the ring for me at a substantial discount, only charging me for the materials. (This is what I was hoping he'd say when I called him. It's good to know people.) My then-girlfriend had dropped a few hints as to what she wanted her ring to be, and I passed these tidbits along to him, and he designed a ring for me. He finished it at the end of last March, and had it shipped to me at work. I took it to my mom's house for safekeeping, trying to decide the perfect way to propose.

By perfect, I mean perfect for me. I am not a romantic guy, so any sort of romantic act coming from me seems forced. The other factor to consider is that women love telling their engagement story. I wanted my then-girlfriend to have a unique story to tell, not the typical 'he got down on one knee' sort of blandness. I joked with her that I might just pop in when she's on the toilet and propose, but it didn't go over well, even for a joke. I couldn't come up with anything good, and I conceded that a boring 'will you marry me?' over dinner would have to suffice. That is, until I realized what day it was.

Last April 1st, we were out running a few errands, and I decided to drop by my mom's house to retrieve the ring. My stepdad distracted my then-girlfriend while my mom handed me the ring box. I stored it in my pocket, and we left soon after.

Some months earlier, before I ever even contacted the family friend jeweler, I had haphazardly told my wife that she would have a ring by Easter, when we were going to visit her family. That was actually the impetus that I needed to actually get the ball rolling on the ring, but she didn't know that. All she knew was that I had a guy who would make her ring, whenever she got it. As Easter approached, she sweetly referenced my promise on several occasions, wondering if perhaps I had forgotten. "I know what I said," I would tell her, gruffly, and change the subject.

So, it's April 1st, I have a ring in my pocket, and an eager-to-be-engaged girlfriend in the passenger seat of my car. We were driving back to our place, and I figured that was a good of time as any. I turned down the radio, and spoke. "Hey, I need to talk to you about something. It's kinda important," I said, solemnly.

"As you might know, we have that family friend who is a jeweler, and a couple months ago, I talked to him and had him design you a ring." Her eyes lit up, as I continued. "Well, we went back and forth for a while on designs and stuff, and came up with something I though you'd like. Well, he sent me the ring last week, and I hated it. It was atrocious, it wasn't at all what I wanted. Everyone I showed it to thought it was ugly, so I called him and told him I didn't like it. I will spare you the details, but that conversation didn't go well at all."

Her expression went from excitement to concern, and I continued. "The word 'lawsuit' was thrown out there, and let's just say that a 50 year family friendship is probably over. I tried to send back the ring but he wouldn't take it, nor would he give me a refund. So, who knows what is going to happen. Long story short, what I am trying to tell you is, there is no ring, and there is no money for a ring, so...."

She turned away, staring forlornly out the window. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she said nothing. We sat in silence for the next 20 seconds. A tear now rolled down her cheek. When I stopped at a red light, I pulled the ring out of my pocket and exclaimed "APRIL FOOLS!". I opened the ring box to show her the ring, and she gasped. I put it on her finger and said, "So, still want to marry me?"

"Yes!", she said, as she kissed me on the cheek. Then she settled back into her seat, and stared down at her ring for a while. She then turned to me and said, "You're an ASS!"

Late this afternoon...

2008-03-27T18:14:00.004-04:00

...I walked down to the break room to refill my bottle of water. I was in the killing time portion of my day, so I wasn't in much of a hurry to get back to my desk. I decided to peruse the selection in the vending machine. (I know, this is incredibly mundane. But I am going somewhere, I promise.)

I was taking a long, hard look at the Swiss Cake Rolls when someone else entered the room. She was black, late 20s, fat, and had a huge ass. (That detail isn't really important, and I suppose you could say it goes without saying that she had a huge ass, but I don't stereotype like that.) I had never seen her before, but that isn't surprising, since the building I work in is fairly large and I typically stick to just one area. I was fumbling through my pocket for change when she spoke to me. "How's your diet going?"

I have to admit, she startled me. There was no one else in the room, and like I said, I had never met her before. On top of that, I am not even on a diet, really. I hadn't expected her to say something to me, and I really hadn't expected her to question me about my diet. She was looking at me, expecting an answer, so I obliged. "Oh...uh...it's going alright, I guess."

"I see you looking at those snacks in there," she said to me in a mock scolding tone. "I thought you said you was watching what you ate!"

"Oh...yeah...well, who isn't, right?" I was perplexed. It had all happened so fast, I had no idea what to do but play along. She did succeed in shaming me into not having those Swiss Cake Rolls, and it crossed my mind that she was my diet fairy, following me around and assuring that I make healthy choices.

"You been going to the gym, like you said?" Finally, it hit me what was going on.

A quick description of me: I am white, I have dark hair and eyes, I am six feet tall, with a large build. (Think Seth Rogan.) In my department, there is another guy who vaguely fits that description. He's about my height, a little bigger than me, with the same hair color and a similar haircut. Facially, we look nothing alike. This guy has been talking to everyone who will listen about his new diet/exercise plan. Apparently, at some point this girl had the misfortune of hearing about his ill-fated attempt at weight loss, and mistook me for him.

There is a common complaint among black people that all white people think they look alike. I can't speak for all white people, but I don't think all black people look alike. (Asians are a different story.) I mean, I instantly knew that she wasn't the other fat black girl in our office, whom I have spoken to a few times. Apparently, she did not make the same distinction between myself and my pseudo-dopplegenger.

I played off her question about the gym and made a hasty retreat. I didn't have the heart to correct her mistake, and I thought it was kind of sweet that as I walked away she encouraged me to stick with it. But walking back to my desk, I found myself slightly annoyed that she thought that I was that other guy. My annoyance wasn't based on some perceived cultural bias on her part or anything like that; I was annoyed because that guy is kind of a tool and I didn't like being mistaken for him. If she had mistaken me for someone cool (if someone cool actually worked at my company) then I would have been fine with it. But since the person I was mistaken for is not someone I would appreciate being mistaken for, it kind of stung. This leads me to believe that when black people, or people of any race for that matter, get angry because people from other races sometimes mistake one for another, it's not because they are a victim of prejudice, it's because they don't like the person they are being mistaken for.

Want proof? She would definitely have been offended if I thought she was the other fat black girl, but I sure as hell know that she wouldn't have been offended if I thought she was Beyonce.

The Loud Guy

2008-03-24T17:40:00.006-04:00

Something is really starting to affect my ability to do my job. Surprisingly, it's not my my lax attitude or questionable work ethic--It's the guy in the cube next to me. More specifically, it's his voice.

If you're like me, you have watched waaaaay too much TV in your lifetime. Accordingly, I have devoted waaaaay too much of my memory to pointless, useless, and obscure television tidbits. It is because of this that I can confidently say that the guy next to me sounds like Jacob Silj. If you are among the 4% of people who know exactly what I am talking about, you can skip down a few paragraphs.

Jacob Silj was a character on Saturday Night Live, played by Will Ferrell. He appeared on Weekend Update a few times, and he suffered from a condition called voice immodulation syndrome. This caused him to have a very loud, monotone voice. Normally I would post a video of it, so I could spare you my attempt at trying to describe why a sound is funny, but I can't find any video online. (Thanks, NBC legal department. Douchebags.)

This guy, like Jacob Silj, has a very loud speaking voice. A booming voice, if you will. A deep baritone voice that carries across the room. His normal speaking voice would be considered shouting for most. Unfortunately, this isn't the problem. The reason his voice is so fucking annoying is because he has zero inflection. None. He is completely and utterly monotone. He sounds exactly like Jacob Silj (This is where a video of one of the few Jacob Silj appearances on SNL would be so great. Seriously, fuck you, NBC legal department.) Your best bet at this point is to think of some guy you know, who has a really deep, booming voice, and imagine that every word that comes out of his mouth is devoid of inflection, and you might have an idea as to what I have to deal with every day. It is slowly driving me crazy.

Since he sits next to me, I hear everything he says. He loves talking about his kids: THEY ARE SO ADORABLE, WE TOOK THEM ON AN EASTER EGG HUNT YESTERDAY; and his workouts: I GO TO THE GYM EVERY DAY AT LUNCH AND GET IN A QUICK WORKOUT; and his sex life: EVER SINCE MY WIFE GAVE BIRTH SEVEN MONTHS AGO SHE HASN'T HAD MUCH OF A SEX DRIVE. (He said that last one in what I guess was supposed to be a whisper, when he was talking to some other dad who works with me. Everyone heard it.)

The worst part of it all is, he loves to talk. He makes and receives personal phone calls all day, random people stop by to chat with him, and he is one of those people who talks to himself. (Normally, people who talk to themselves do so under their breath. Not so with this guy. Every now and then I'll hear him say "OKAY TIME TO TAKE A BREAK", as if announcing it to the entire office. For the first few weeks I thought he was retarded. Actually, I still do.) In addition to being just generally irritating, when it comes time for me to do my 45 minutes of actual work on a given day, more likely than not, his voice will be reverberating off the walls of my cube and making it nearly impossible to summon the attention span necessary to complete even the smallest tasks.

Today, I was trying to make an important phone call but he wouldn't shut up. It is impossible to be on the phone when he is talking, not only because I have to hear him, but because the person on the other end can hear him too. Someone I was on the phone with once asked me if there was some guy on a megaphone around me. "Nope, just some asshole," I told her.

I kept waiting for him to shut up to make my call, and he finally did. I dialed and got a hold of the person I was trying to reach. I wanted to get my call done before ol' Jacob starting talking again, but I could not. As soon as I got into my conversation, he received a call on his cell and began a loud conversation with his brother about some vacation plans. "HEY, WHAT WEEK ARE WE GOING TO FLY DOWN?"

I couldn't take it anymore. I asked the woman I was talking to if I could put her on hold, and I stood up and poked my head in his cube. It was hard to hide my aggravation. "Hey man, I'm on an important call here. Would you mind lowering your voice a little?"

He looked at me with a tinge of embarrassment, and said, "I'M REALLY SORRY, I DIDN'T REALIZE. I'LL KEEP IT DOWN." I'm not entirely certain if he was being contrite or sarcastic, since his voice never conveys any emotion, but he looked like he was sorry.

"Thanks, I appreciate it," I told him as I sat back down and took my call off hold. I started to resume my conversation, and he did his.

"SO ANYWAY, WHAT WEEK ARE WE FLYING DOWN?"

I spent the rest of the afternoon registering him for porn sites and magazine subscriptions.

Random Rant

2008-03-19T18:41:00.003-04:00

Back when I used to blog at Barely Legal, every now and then I would randomly rant on some topic that irked me. I haven't done this much on this blog. Why not, I don't know. Perhaps I have mellowed since leaving the hallowed halls of law school. Or maybe I just forgot that it was an easy gimmick to use to make posts. Regardless, something has recently really started to annoy me, so here goes...

You know what really pisses me off? Facebook groups. And you know what Facebook groups piss me off the most? The ones that support some political cause. I admit, I have come around on Facebook. I used to think it was really stupid; then I thought that it was stupid; and now, I am fully comfortable in saying that Facebook is kinda stupid. That is high praise coming from me. Anyway, the only real use of Facebook, for me, is to keep in touch with people. We're living in an online world, and posting a 17 word message on someone's wall is much easier than picking up the phone, or even texting. But what I cannot fucking stand is logging in and seeing that some idiot I am friends with has decided to show their support for all of the injustices in the world by joining a group.

The best example of this is Darfur. There are like 500 groups on Facebook dedicated to Darfur. To me, this seems like an incredibly lazy way for someone to feel "politically active". But seriously, it doesn't help anything. What do they think it's going to accomplish? "As soon as the evil African warlords see how many people joined the group, they are sure to stop the genocide!" I mean, pissed off American college kids are a force to be reckoned with. Watch out, Evildoers of Darfur!

What if Facebook had been around in the 1960? There would have been no actual war protests. There would have been a group called "One Million Strong Against the War in Vietnam". Some overly self-righteous douchebags would post on the wall about how terrible it is, and everyone would feel like they are actually trying to make a difference.

Look, I think the situation in Darfur sucks as much as the next person, but I'll be perfectly honest...It's on the other side of the world, and I got my own shit to take care of right here. It doesn't move me in a way that make me want to actually help. Maybe that makes me incredibly selfish, but at least I admit it. Everyone else joins some stupid intangible group and thinks it makes them socially aware. Fuck that. If you really cared, you'd haul your ass over there to do some real relief work. Otherwise, quit pretending like it affects you. I'm on to your game, Facebook political activists. You don't fool me.

Sorry, had to get that off my chest.

I kinda fucked up today at work...

2008-03-17T18:12:00.003-04:00

...My mistake was not huge, but it wasn't insignificant either. Well actually it was insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. It didn't cost the company any money, it didn't cause anyone any extra work (other than the extra work required to point out my mistake). The only reason that it was a mistake at all was because at some point, someone decided that it should be done differently than the way I did it. But I digress.

For the sake of this post, lets call the particular task that I fucked up "filing a TPS report". I have filed a fair amount of TPS reports already, but this one was slightly different. There were two possible ways I could have filed this report, and I wasn't sure which way I should have done it. Normally, in such a situation I would have asked my manager what to do, but he is traveling on business this week. Now, I suppose I could have asked someone else what to do--a different manager or a more experienced co-worker--but I am stubborn and never doubt my own instincts, so I decided to do it the way I thought was best and filed the TPS report. As you already know, my infallible instincts were wrong.

I first learned of my mistake about fifteen minutes later, when one of the members of the support staff came over to me. "Mike, [The Division VP] wants to see you." Her tone was ominous, so I figured that I had done something wrong. (I am so intuitive.) I walked down to the executive end of the building, looking for the office of a man I have never actually spoken to, aside from a quick handshake on my first day. I found the office I was looking for and poked my head in. "Uh, you wanted to see me?"

"Yeah Mike...Did you just file this TPS report?" His tone was one of displeasure.

"I sure did."

"Okay, well, who told you to do it this way? Did [your manager] tell you this was okay?" He sounded even more disgusted.

"No, he's gone, I just did it that way because I thought it was right."

"Well, it's not," he told me. "It's definitely wrong." He was not happy.

"My bad, I didn't realize. I'm still new." As soon as I said this, his expression softened, his demeanor changed, and all of the anger he had previously displayed left the room.

"Oh yeah, you still are new," he told me in the same tone you would condescendingly explain some basic concept to a child. "Take a seat." At this point, he calmly explained to me why it is preferred to file the TPS report one way, and not the way that I did. I nodded along as if I was slowly grasping the concept. He finished up his little teaching lesson, we talked about the upcoming NCAA Tournament for a few minutes, and I returned back to my desk.

Two things struck me as significant about this encounter. First, it amazed me how well the "I'm new" line worked. It was literally like night and day. I have been there for about two and a half months now; how long will I be able to use the "I'm new" excuse? Another month? Two months? Six months? Actually, I think I'll just keep using it until it stops working. He went from being legitimately pissed off to sincerely understanding in a flash. Why waste it?

That brings me to my second thought...Why was he so pissed to begin with? Like I said, in the grand scheme of things it was minor. Yeah I did something wrong, but so? No money was lost, no lives were threatened. Is it really that big of a deal? To him, it was. But why? If I had his job, I'd be like, "Oh whatever, alls well that ends well." I wouldn't give it a second thought. I mean, really...who cares? Well, he does. A lot, apparently. I suppose that is why he has the job that he does. Maybe that is the thing that sets some people apart. The ability to give a shit about the stuff that no one else does. But if that's what it takes to be successful...I think I'll pass.

The Continuing Adventures of Female Friend

2008-03-16T15:28:00.003-04:00

On Friday afternoon, Female Friend sent me an IM, telling me about her plans for the evening. Often, FF has very normal sounding plans, which often go awry and leave her in some ridiculous situation where she is either lucky to get out alive, or to not be arrested. I wish I was exaggerating here, but I am not. Seriously, this girl could start the evening with something so simple as drinks at an upscale bar, and end up in a meth lab in rural Kentucky with three members of the local Arena Football team and a random Hooter's waitress.

So on Friday, when she herself even acknowledged that it would be a "crazy" night, I was understandably concerned.

"I have a bad feeling about you tonight," I told her.

"Why?"

"Just do...You know what they say...Beware the Ides of March."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It's from Julius Caeser...you know, when the soothsayer warned Julius that something bad would happen on March 15th, and that's when he was killed. And at midnight, it will be March 15th, the Ides of March. Just watch out for yourself."

"Whatever, I'll be fine."

Cut to this morning. Female Friend sends me an IM. She proceeds to tell me about her evening, which I will summarize here for the sake of brevity: Long story short, she and her roommate get extremely wasted. They take a cab home at 3am, but discover that neither has house keys. Locked out, they decide the best course of action is to have their cab driver take them back to all the bars that they had been in to look for their keys. Unfortunately, they could not find them. They got back into the cab, and the driver, a recent immigrant from West Africa, has a great idea. He suggests that they crash at his place. Not thinking clearly, FF and her roommate agree to this plan.

The cab driver takes them to his place, which I should note is in a notoriously violent housing project. He takes these two young, white, attractive PRACTICING ATTORNEYS to his apartment, which FF described as smelling like the foulest body odor you could imagine. FF and her roommate sleep on his foldout couch. Luckily, they were not raped, robbed, or sacrificed to whatever God that recent West African immigrants worship. He drove them back downtown the next morning, and after a long day of looking, found their keys and finally got home.

Now, while her evening was harrowing and wrought with bad judgment, no harm done, right? Well, not exactly. Starting yesterday afternoon, FF's eyes became severely infected, turning bright red and oozing a disgusting pus. Her eyes were so bad, in fact, that when she met her parents for Sunday brunch, they were so shocked that they rushed her to the emergency room.
Upon telling me about her eyes this afternoon, I had to say I told you so.

Me: What did I tell you about the Ides of March?

FF: I know, but this is a tad unexpected.

Me: Well the soothsayer didn't tell Julius Caesar he was going to be stabbed in the back by his best friend. He just told him to beware, and left it up to Caesar to be careful, as I did with you.

FF: Okay, thats true I guess. I wonder what exactly about his apartment messed up my eyes so much.

Me: Remember in Knocked Up, how all those guys got pink eye?

FF: Oh my God I am going to vomit.

An Open Letter to Myself, At Age 16

2008-03-13T20:02:00.007-04:00

Dear 16 Year Old Me,

The year is 2008. You are married and you have a job. Trust me, I am just as shocked about it now as you are reading this in 1996. You have the two things you want most in this life, a Jeep Wrangler and an English Bulldog. The bulldog is great, the Jeep is a piece of shit. When you are 22 and looking at new cars, choose something practical. You won't regret it.

But lets get down to the reason I am writing. In a couple of weeks, you will begin flirting with a girl from the cross country team. She loves running, and in an attempt to make her like you, you will talk about how much you want to start running. Don't do it.

First off, it doesn't work. It doesn't make her like you. (Some free advice from the future: Try being a dick. For reasons you cannot yet understand, girls between the ages of 15-23 like that. It works. Your nice guy thing doesn't.) But that's not the reason I am writing you. I am actually writing you because, from your ill-fated attempts of courtship will rise some great idea that one day you--YOU!-- will actually become a runner. This will remain but a pipe dream.

You will develop a vision of yourself as a runner. That vision looks like you, only slightly thinner and less pasty white. You will envision yourself as being in great shape and great health. You will assume that running will allow you to eat whatever you want, whenever you want. And most importantly, you will assume that running will make you a better person. None of these visions will come true.

You will have a couple of near misses. The first time that you will actually attempt to run will be in three years, after coming home from college, having gained the freshman 15. (Actually, it's more like the freshman 25...seriously, don't eat so much when you get to college. Just because Papa John's delivers until 4am doesn't mean you have to order pizza every night, tubby.) You will run 15 steps from the end of the driveway and stop with a stabbing pain in your side. Neighbors will see you, and you will look ridiculous. Don't let this happen.

Your next attempt will be several years later, when you are in law school. (Yeah, law school. It's incredible, you'll have the time of your life. Get excited.) You will purchase some expensive running shoes, thinking that perhaps your buyer's remorse will guilt you into using them for their intended purpose. This ploy will not work. You will never attempt to run in these shoes. The shoes still sit in my closet, worn only a handful of times. Don't let this happen.

A few years later, the fact that you aren't getting any younger makes you think it is about time to become that runner you were meant to be, once and for all. You will map out a plan to train for a 10k. Where this sort of misguided ambition came from will never be fully understood, but on the morning you had planned to start, training, you will take one look at the drizzly weather and go back to bed...but you won't be able to fall back asleep. Don't let this happen.

The point I am making here, 16 Year Old Me, is that you are not the kind of person who is meant to run. You know how you always make fun of joggers because they look stupid? Yeah, well you would look stupid too. Those in glass houses, Young Mike...remember that. You are a lot of things. A runner is not one of them. Let go of that vision now, and you will save yourself humiliation, money, and even some sleep.

A few more things: Make sure that old people in Florida vote for Al Gore in 2000, stay away from New York in September of 2001, bet all you have on the Red Sox in 2004, and in 2007 , when given the choice between the clam chowder and the French onion soup, play it safe and pick the French onion. Everything else you'll figure out on your own.

Take it easy,

You in 2008

The Office

2008-03-10T20:40:00.008-04:00

Today, two idiots I work with were standing a few feet away from my desk, discussing their favorite TV show, The Office. Now, I like The Office. I like it a lot. It doesn't hold a candle to 30 Rock, but it's probably the second best comedy on television, which is not a bad place to hold. The problem with these two idiots was that they didn't get it. I don't want to sound like some sort of television snob who looks down at people for having simpler tastes, nor do I want to completely bore you (and ruin the fun of it) by explaining why The Office is (sometimes) comedic genius. Suffice it to say, these are the types of people who thought Kramer was the funniest part of Seinfeld.

Anyway, the point is, they discussed the show and got to the point where they inevitably decided which characters they represent from the show. "I am sooooo Pam," cooed the female idiot co-worker. "I am a lot like Jim," laughed the male idiot. The romantic implications of their admissions caused an uneasy silence between them, which I was happy to break. "Bullshit," I said. I pointed to the female and said, "You are Kelly Kapoor," and then to the guy, "and you, my friend, are Andy Bernard." They both laughed uneasily, unsure if they should be insulted. (They should have been). It was this moment that fully solidified which Office character I embody: Stanley Hudson.

Let's do a quick comparison:

Complete boredom with his work? Check

Disregard for authority? Check

Thinly veiled disdain for coworkers? Check

Fairly quiet, save for the occasional biting remark? Check

Loves pretzel day? Check

Would take a cab to a bar rather than participate in a mandatory company fun run? Check

Black? Check

Okay, that last one isn't true, but the rest of them are pretty dead on. I don't really know what, if anything, to do with this newfound realization, but it's nice to know.

PS...Several people asked what happened Friday with my notebook rebellion (see my last post)...Nothing happened, since it started snowing so hard Friday morning that they closed the office at noon, so we didn't have a meeting. I'll have to wait another week before staging my pointless rebellion.

The Notepad Rebellion

2008-03-06T19:37:00.007-05:00

The structure of the organization that I currently work for is vague and confusing. There are three levels of employees in my department, and I am in the highest one, although I have no idea what that distinction gets me, other than more money (not that I'm complaining about that). There are several different managers that seem to do the same thing, and there is no rhyme or reason as to who reports to what manager. I report to the guy that I report to because, well, he told me that I report to him. There are several people in the department who aren't a part of any of the three levels, but are not managers either, and don't seem to have any sort of responsibilities at all. (This is the job I hope to get next.) And the man in charge of this quagmire is the VP.

As far as Vice Presidents go, Bill Lumberg he is not. Our VP is seldom heard from and even more rarely seen, choosing to spend his days down in the executive end of the building doing whatever it is that VPs do. The only interaction that we ever have with him is on Friday, at the weekly departmental meeting, where he swoops in with an air of great importance and delivers fairly mundane company news in a mildly condescending tone.

I have attended eight of these meetings now, and they're all exactly the same. Everyone grabs a notebook and pen and trudges down to the biggest conference room and grabs a seat around the giant table. The VP speaks for up to an hour about a variety of incredibly boring topics while everyone pretends to pay attention. At the end, the morons in the room waste everybody's time by asking stupid questions that matter so little in the grand scheme of things that the only possible reason for asking the question would be for the person presenting the query to prove their own stupidity to the rest of the room. (Nope, no residual bitterness from law school here. None whatsoever.)

But lets go back to that notebook and pen that everyone brings. Very early on, I noticed that no one takes notes. Ever. In fact, I spent the entirety of the last three meetings watching for some sort of note taking activity, and I could find none. No one was even doodling. 40 people sit around the table, blank note pad in front of them, and not a single word is written. Now, far be it from me to ever question the illogical behavior of others, but this strikes me as really, really dumb. Seriously, NO ONE EVER TAKES NOTES!!! WHY BRING A NOTEPAD???

I am not one to rebel against pointless widespread social behaviors, but last week I decided to take a stand. I don't care if everyone else does it. I don't care if I'm new. I am no longer going to take notebooks to meetings, starting tomorrow. I expect to be stared at. I expect to be ridiculed. I can take it. No longer will I sit idly by while people haul notepads to meetings that they don't end up using. I am going to do something about it. Tomorrow, the revolution starts!

God, my job is boring.

Smartass

2008-03-04T17:24:00.005-05:00

One of the fun little perks of my company is that we are provided with reading material in the bathroom. Above every urinal, there is a plexi-glass case that contains the cleverly named "Restroom Reader"--a monthly printout containing company news, a list of "wacky" holidays taking place in the near future, little known facts about the month, and even a trivia question. People are urged to submit answers to the trivia questions. As far as I know, the only prize for the correct answer is getting your name printed in the following months' Restroom Reader, but that's neither here nor there.

A far more prestigious award that is given out on a monthly basis is, of course, Employee of the Month. On the first day of each month, the entire company meets to recognize the award winners, where 300 people cram uncomfortably into a large conference room and listen to various managers utter platitudes about the award winners, all leading up to the grand prize, Employee of the Month. I didn't go to work yesterday, so I didn't get to make it to the ceremony. Darn my luck. But when I got to work this morning, I quickly learned who the winner was--some assbag who would actually gloat about being Employee of the Month. I saw him walking around with his trophy in his hand, beaming like a proud father, grinning from ear to ear as other assbags showered him with kudos. It was a regular assbag love fest. When he started coming my way, I ducked into the bathroom.

As I emptied my bladder, I perused the new Restroom Reader and pondered the fact that it is actually part of someone's job description to make a new one every month. It's clearly time consuming...Lots of obscure stuff on there, graphics, formatting. Does that person ever stop to consider that the only time someone reads it is when they are going to the bathroom? Then I noticed the winner of the trivia question: the very same assbag who won employee of the month. (Quick aside: Does it come as any surprise that the sort of person who would answer these trivia questions is also the sort of person who would act like winning employee of the month makes them cock of the walk? Didn't think so.)

A little bit later, I was walking back to buy a bottle of water and the assbag was coming towards me. He made eye contact, and tried to stop me to chat, but I kept walking. "Hey, did you hear? I won," he boasted as I passed him, clearly fishing for more congratulations. Instead of my normal disinterested patronizing, I decided to feign enthusiasm.

"Hey, I did, congratulations," I said over my shoulder. "Those trivia questions hanging above the urinals are tough. I'm impressed. Good job!"

The Rock

2008-02-29T17:12:00.004-05:00

There is an episode of Seinfeld where Jerry was attempting to get a good deal on a car from Elaine's boyfriend, David Puddy. Throughout the process, Puddy kept asking Jerry for high-fives, until eventually Jerry refused and offended Puddy, costing himself a deal on the car. "Slapping hands is the lowest form of male primate ritual," Jerry told Elaine.

Peer pressure (and the desire for a good deal) forced Jerry to set aside his pride and conform to a ritual that the self-aware find humiliating, until he could no longer take it and stood up to the face of douchebag tyranny. He lost his deal, but he saved his dignity. I know how Jerry felt.

At some point, the men of my office apparently decided that they weren't big enough tools, and were looking to find some sort of expressive gesture that would make them more unlikeable. This was before my arrival, so I wasn't privy to the origins of their choice. All I know is that some point, "hitting the rock" became the preferred way for men in my office to casually greet each other.

For those unfamiliar with hitting the rock, allow me to explain. It's sort of like a high-five, only dorkier. Person A makes a fist (the rock) and sticks it out towards Person B, who takes this gesture not to be one of aggression but one of friendship. Person B also makes a fist and extends it so that his fist bumps the fist of Person A head on (the hitting of the rock). This is pure speculation, but my guess is that hitting the rock originated in African-American culture, where it would be cool. White people then adopted the ritual, sucking all coolness out of it. You know, standard black-to-white procedure.

From my first day of work, I was inundated with requests to hit the rock. The first guy who did it seemed like a tool, so I wrote it off to his toolness. But thereafter, more and more guys asked me to hit the rock. And it wasn't like these were celebratory rock hits; it seemed like a standard greeting. First thing in the morning, hit the rock. Get up to take a piss, hit the rock. Get Wendy's for lunch, hit the rock. Just pass someone in the hall, hit the rock. Even the CEO presented me with a rock to hit. It's seriously out of hand.

Being the new guy, I reluctantly and unenthusiastically returned their request. Over the weeks, I grew to abhor the rock hit requests. Anytime I got up from my desk, I was sure to have my cell phone in one hand and a bottle of water in the other to render myself unprepared to make a rock. The strategy worked, although it has resulted in more light punches to the shoulder than I would care to have received. But I have been unable to completely eliminate rock hitting from my daily life. One guy has made it a routine to come over to me when I arrive each morning to greet me and hit the rock. Today I resolved to leave him hanging.

I got to my desk a little after nine. Like clockwork, he was there. I stared at my computer screen as he came up behind me. "Hey Mike, what's up?" he said, as he extended his fist.

"Nothing at all," I said, fixing my glare straight ahead at the computer, refusing to acknowledge the rock. Undeterred, he moved more to my side, putting his fist in an area where I would better be able to see it. Still, I refused to acknowledge it. We stayed there in an uncomfortable silence for several seconds, before he shook his fist and said, "you aren't gonna leave me hanging here, are you?"

"I sure am," I responded.

He looked at me with disbelief and walked away. I had offended him. I might be the office asshole, but at least I have my pride back.

The Secret Is Out

2008-02-27T17:29:00.003-05:00

Well, I hid it for as long as I could--nearly two months--but I knew that this day would come. My big secret, the one that people use to define me, the one that changes how people perceive me, is out. No longer am I known around the office as Mike, the New Guy. I am now Mike, the Lawyer.

As probably everyone reading this blog knows, I went to law school. I hated it. But I stuck with it, and graduated. Then I moved on. I didn't take the bar. My job in no way incorporates my law degree. And that's how I want it. Like so many people who graduated at the same time as I did, I have abstained from practicing law. Unlike many of those people, my abstinence was not thrust upon me by circumstance; it's 100% voluntary. In fact, I would rank my decision not to even pursue a career in law as one of the five smartest decisions I have ever made.

As such, I don't exactly go around advertising my educational background when I am at work. It's on my resume, so my bosses know. And if it comes up during the natural flow of a conversation, I will be forthcoming about it. It's not like I can just write off 2003-2006 as my "dark period" and be done with it. But I am not just aching for the chance to tell someone that I went to law school, mostly because I want to avoid the dreaded conversation that I had a dozen times today.

Up until now, I hadn't told anyone who I work with about it. It just hadn't come up. But the other day, in the break room I was filling up my bottle of water and I got sucked into a conversation with some dude in my department. I had never really spoken with him before, so he was poking and prodding about my background, and it came out. He seemed a little surprised, but I gave him my canned answer. He seemed satisfied, and left it at that.

Then yesterday, after lunch, some other guy came up to me and said, coyly, "Hey Mike, I heard an interesting fact about you...You're a lawyer?" Word spreads quickly. I explained that I am not technically a lawyer, because I never took the bar, but that is a nuance most people do not care about. Apparently, the guy I had spoken to in the break room delighted in telling everyone he conversed with about my education. Between then and now, more than a dozen people have asked me about it. It's become the hot topic in my department. (While I don't doubt that to a moron who knows nothing of the legal world, a real live "lawyer" working amongst them would be a curiosity, I think the fact that this qualified as some juicy office gossip says more about the extreme banality of my office than anything else.)

These conversations always have two parts to them. Part one is where the person is curious, or sometimes incredulous, as to why I didn't practice law. I like to give my canned answer, which is essentially "the world of law was never meant for one as beautiful as me". I expect people to be curious--I would be if the situation was reversed--but what really bothers me is when someone is incredulous about it. "What the fuck are you working here for?" one guy asked me, as if we are in a coal mine making minimum wage and not a temperature-regulated office that pays us fairly handsomely for our services. With these people, my stock answer is "because I make the same money working half the hours." This is essentially true, but I say it condescendingly so as to point out their ignorance. (See, I did learn something in law school.)

The second part of the conversation is my favorite part. This is where they ask for legal advice. Invariably, I am given some convoluted set of facts about some legal issue they are facing, ranging from child support to tax law to a contractor who screwed them over to speeding tickets, and they ask me to weigh in on it. I actually kind of like doing this. It's like going to a lawyer fantasy camp; plus I get to pretend for a second that I didn't waste three years of my life. I don't always know the answer, but I like to venture my opinion and tell them what course of action I would take. Everyone wins. They have free legal advice, and I get to feel like the sage voice of knowledge...like Papa Smurf.

Anyway, soon after I was outed as a law grad, I was talking to my friend Russ, who is a real live practicing attorney. I told him about all the free legal advice I dispense. He, being a real lawyer, warned me about the unauthorized practice of law.

"Don't worry," I told him. "I just give them an educated guess and refer them to a real lawyer."

"Funny", he replied. "Your policy is not dissimilar to mine." He's a hell of a litigator, folks. I promise. But I digress...

So, point is, my secret has been revealed. In an office of people with only bachelors degrees, this puts more pressure on me. I screw up and it's like "And you went to law school?" I succeed and it's like, "Well of course, you went to law school." The ultimate irony to me is that these people think that law school is a sign that you're smarter, more capable, more competent than the average person. Those of us who have been know better.

Tragic

2008-02-25T17:28:00.005-05:00

One of my co-workers is a terrible dresser. Actually, a lot of my co-workers are terrible dressers, but one stands out above others. This guy, on a fairly regular basis, likes to wear jeans with dress shoes. That isn't a problem in and of itself. Jeans and dress shoes can be very fashionable. Sometimes I wear jeans with dress shoes. It's a good look, if done properly. The co-worker does not. The jeans he wears are normal, tapered Levi's. The dress shoes he wears are shiny and black. Don't believe me? I stealthily took this picture of him today with my phone:

My old friend Russ summed it up nicely: "At first I was thinking, 'you can wear dress shoes with jeans'. Mind you, I was thinking of brown shoes with nice jeans, not tuxedo shoes with work jeans."

Female Friend added her decidedly fashionable input: "The female equivalent to that would be wearing black stiletto patent leather heels with mom jeans."

But my friend Katie put it the best: "Good God. That's horrible on so many levels."

Yeah, so we're a bunch of snobs. Get over it.

After Midnight

2008-02-23T00:25:00.003-05:00

It started during my first year of law school, as an easy way to come down from the adderall and/or coffee high that made my central nervous system race. It went from a once-a-week thing, to a few nights a week, to a weeknight thing, and finally, a nightly ritual. I am talking about, of course, my consumption of Tylenol PM. Until I discovered it, I could be described as, at best, a restless sleeper and at worse, an insomniac. If you haven't gathered from this blog, my mind tends to race and wander, which makes sleep an elusive state. I spoke to my doctor about it, and he said that it's okay to take Tylenol PM to fall asleep, so long as I take the recommended dosage. So, I take my nightly dosage of over-the-counter sleep aids and get the rest I badly need. I'm not addicted. I can quit anytime, okay? What can I say, I like my sound sleep,

That's how I ended up braving icy roads on a midnight run to a 24-hour CVS three highway exits away. I discovered that my bottle was empty, and that my grocery store right up the street was closed. My wife annoyingly suggested I suck it up and sleep without them, but she just doesn't understand. I sure as hell am not going to waste a night of weekend sleep like that. I threw on some clothes and headed out.

It's funny how what would be such a mundane task during the daytime becomes surreal after midnight. I entered the CVS and headed to the back to grab my pills, and went back to the front, to check out. There was some dude in front of me, placing items on the counter. He looked a lot like what I would expect an after-midnight CVS patron to look like. He had long red hair and a scraggly beard. He wore those weird jeans with tons of pockets all the way to the bottom, and were apparently only pulled up to his mid-thighs. There was a long chain hanging down the side of his legs, attached to his wallet. His jacket was equally dense with pockets. He had one of those weird piercings below his bottom lip that looks like a cone, and multiple eyebrow rings. He struck me as a guy who really enjoys the music of Korn. Given this, you would expect that his purchase would include ingredients for crystal meth or something. However, in his little basket he had eight heart-shaped candy boxes, on clearance from Valentines Day, and two Winnie the Pooh coloring books.

The mulletted cashier rung up his purchases, which totaled only $8.54. He held a five and two ones in his hand, and then searched through the many pockets on his jacket, and then his pants, before telling the cashier he had to go out to his car to find the remaining $1.54. He departed, and she looked at me and told me that she couldn't ring me up until he paid, or she canceled the transaction, and that she didn't want to cancel the transaction. But a minute passed and she got impatient. She voided the transaction, and grabbed the bag she had filled with his candy and coloring books and forcefully threw it down on to the ground behind her, scattering the contents. I felt that her reaction was a bit hostile, and undoubtedly intertwined with the circumstances of her life that led her to be cashier at CVS on the graveyard shift, but I didn't dwell, since it meant I got to pay and leave. As I walked to my car, I saw the dude sticking out of the passenger door of his car, apparently digging for the necessary change to complete his purchase. The man wanted that candy and those coloring books, apparently.

I got in my car, and on the drive home I pondered the dude in front of me and his strange purchase. What could they possibly be for? Why, when seeing the price, didn't he just get fewer boxes of candy, or just one Winnie the Pooh coloring book? How could I reconcile his exterior image, which was so cliched that it lost all shock value, with his overwhelmingly cute purchases? These are questions I will simply never have an answer for, and I chalked it up to the fact that only weirdos come out at night.

But then I realized something...I was out at night. What if, after gathering $1.54 in change from his car and paying his tab, he drove home and told his live-in girlfriend (who I picture to be heavily tattooed) about the weird guy behind him, wearing fashionable rimless glasses and a North Face Jacket and moccasin slippers, who was buying an over-the-counter sleep aid? What if, in his world, I am the weirdo? Boggles the mind. Time to take my pills and go to bed.

Friday Afternoon Ritual

2008-02-22T16:19:00.005-05:00

Ever since I wrote this post, about the debate of whether or not I was tacitly given permission to leave early, the prospect of playing hooky on a Friday has seemed like a really tempting proposition. I wanted to make a good impression on my new company so the following Friday, I intended to stay until 6. I gave it the old college try, and held out till 5:15. It was brutal. Friday afternoons are just not meant for working. I mean, no one does anything anyway. Starting at about 3, people in my office begin wandering around, asking people about their weekend plans. (Granted, in my office those plans usually include church and heavy doses of watching ABC Family.) Productivity falls to near zero. Everyone is just kind of milling about, waiting for the clock to strike a magic number so that they have two days of freedom.

This strikes me as kind of silly. I mean, it seems like no one is expected to do anything on Friday afternoons, so what is the point of me staying until a predetermined time if I am not going to be doing anything anyway? Thus, I have made a habit of leaving early on Friday afternoons.

(Quick sidebar: I have been on the job for seven weeks, and already I am a really valuable contributor. Management loves me. Some retard co-workers hate me for making them look bad. I don't really care either way. This is the upside to employing me. The downside is that I am prone to certain bad habits, such as leaving early every Friday. If my employer tries to stifle these proclivities, then I will become visibly unhappy and defiant. If they concede that it's part of the package, then I will be a very valuable asset to them. I am like the Terrell Owens of the corporate world.)

Anyway, my early Friday departures are not done with any sort of permission or approval. If asked, any of my bosses would certainly tell me that it's not okay, because that's what they have to say. If pressed, they probably wouldn't care, but it's not one of those things I can get permission for, exactly. The reality is, my bosses have more important things to do than track people's whereabouts at any given time, especially on Friday afternoons. My presence is not really accounted for, so my presence is not really necessary. Thus, my presence is not missed. I could easily just up and walk out the door and no one would even notice. But thats no fun. Partially because I am conditioned by my old job to be paranoid and partially because I like to pretend I am an underworld spy, I tend to think that I am being monitored all the time, that someone is checking on me and wondering about my every move. So, when I do decide to leave early, I try to do it covertly.

Here is my process for my weekly early Friday departure, otherwise known as Operation: Overactive Imagination

Phase One: Lay low

Starting somewhere between 3:30 and 4:00, I make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I slide down really low in my chair. I don't speak unless spoken to. I only get up if I absolutely have to. I screen any incoming calls, only answering the most important ones. I pass the time by Gmail chatting. Once I have sufficiently made my presence unassuming, I move on to the next step.

Phase Two: Survey the landscape

After about 45 minutes to an hour of laying low, I get up, ostensibly to use the restroom. But I use my time walking to and from the restroom to get a feel for the climate of the room. Are my bosses busy? Is there a lot of activity? Is anyone watching me? If I am satisfied with what I see, I move on to the third step.

Phase Three: Prepare my work area

The key to leaving early is to make it look like you are still around, somewhere. After returning to my cubicle, I spend five minutes or so making my work area look like I am in the middle of something. I place a notepad and pen next to my phone, turned to a page with scribbled notes on it. I make sure my computer monitor displays my Outlook email account open, along with our company's internal website and a work product document. I make sure to leave a half-empty bottle of water sitting there, with the cap next to it on the desk. And as a final step, when I leave, I turn my chair to face out, so it looks as if I swiveled to get up and my return could be imminent.

Phase Four: Departure

Once I am pleased with how I have arranged my work area, I leave. One would think that I would try to make a hasty departure, but that is not the case. Someone in a hurry is drawing attention to themselves. Instead, I move at a leisurely pace. I like to look at my cell phone, as if I am checking missed calls or texts, in order to seem more casual. I am always careful to park my car towards the back of the building so I can slip out the back door and not draw attention to myself by walking across my department. As soon as I get outside, I head towards my car without looking back, and drive home to sweet, sweet freedom.

Like I said, the reality is that it's unlikely that anyone even notices and that all of my paranoia is superfluous. I suppose this is what happens when you take someone with an ounce of creativity and stick him in a boring job...but I think it's a lot more fun that just getting up and leaving early, or worse, actually staying until 6. The horror.

The Great Rick Debate

2008-02-20T18:34:00.007-05:00

First off, I would like to thank the hundreds of people who sent me their two cents on the pointless debate posed in last Friday's post. Not surprisingly, the responses were unanimously in my favor, with but a few people even trying to justify how such a spelling could exist, before denouncing any man who attempted to pull off such a spelling as an absolute ass. And, much to Female Friend's chagrin, not one person came forth with an example of a Rick spelled R-I-C-H, a practice which she disturbingly believes to be common and acceptable.

This is not to say that there are not any wastes of human existence out there named Rick, spelling it R-I-C-H. In fact, Female Friend claims to know several of these men. (Note: The word claims in the previous sentence should be read like a newscaster would say the word claims-- that is, completely dismissively at the notion that the claim is actually true.) But she has yet to produce hard evidence as to the existence of such a man, which is putting the Rick/Rich character on par with Bigfoot, the yeti, and yes, even the chupacabra.

Of course, some people suggested that I am something of an idiot for even caring about such a stupid topic. While I won't disagree that I am an idiot, I believe that stupid topics make life worth living. I will argue with every fiber of my being that some stuff is just plain wrong, and spelling Rick R-I-C-H falls into that category. It's unholy.

And lets not forget who the true idiot is here: Female Friend. For weeks we vehemently argued this topic. One of her strongest points was a guy she knows named Rick, spelled Rich. Every time I made a cogent point in my favor, she pointed back to this strong example. Then, the other night, she IMed me...

FF: Want to see something hilarious? I wasn't going to show you...

Me: Lay it on me.

At this point, she sent over the LinkedIn profile of her Rich. I opened it up, and instead of seeing the hard evidence I have been seeking to the existence of this phenomena, I saw this...

Rick Lastname

I win.

Pyramid Scheme

2008-02-18T18:18:00.006-05:00

Remember this guy? The ultra-boring conservative dude who always comes over to my desk to talk about work? Well, turns out that the motives behind his mundane friendliness were not so innocent...

The Friday after I posted that, as I was wrapping up for the day, he again sidled over to me, and asked a horrifying question: "Hey, can I get your cell number? I have something I want to bounce off you." Panic flashed all over my body. What could he possibly want with my cell number? Bible study? Mike Huckabee rally? Abortion clinic bombing? Or even worse...to hang out? My first instinct was to deny ownership of a phone...but it was sitting right next to me on my desk. Instinct number two was to give him a fake number...but it's not like an ugly girl in a bar who I'll never see again; this guy sits 25 feet from me. He would eventually get the correct number and I would have to face the inevitable. Resigned to my fate, I surrendered my cell number.

A few hours later, the wife and I were in the middle of our exciting Friday night (read: eating pizza and watching The Dog Whisperer) when my cell phone rang. (Quick side note: For anyone who cares, my ring tone is "Frolic", by Italian composer Luciano Michelini. This song is better known as the theme from Curb Your Enthusiasm. It's fitting, for some reason.) I had told my wife about his request, and she encouraged me to answer it. I hesitated, but curiosity got the best of me. I answered, and much to my surprise (sarcasm), he wanted to talk business. But this time, it wasn't about our job, but an "opportunity" he had.

He was very vague, but said he had a great opportunity for the wife and I, and he wanted to see if I was interested. I was immediately skeptical. He requested to meet the wife and I the following day to discuss this "opportunity". Wanting to shield her from his douchebaggery, I declined and suggested we talk the following week, hoping he would take the subtle hint and not bother me with it again. He agreed. On Monday, first thing in the morning, he asked when I wanted to chat. I shrugged, and he suggested lunch the following day.

We went to a place right by our office. To extend my ongoing Office Space allegory, this would be Chotchkie's. We sat down and I pressed him to tell me what was going on. He pulled a brochure out of a folder and opened it. He began by explaining to me how businesses make money. I told him that I learned that shit on the first day of college. I again pressed him to get to the point, to tell me what this "opportunity" was, and he dodged the question. "Tell you what. We have a meeting tomorrow night, you should come by and see what it's all about." I declined, saying that my wife had to work. He told me to let him know when a good time was for us, and to get back to him. I nodded.

The rest of last week, he would come up to me and tell me the stupidest shit about his "opportunity". Stuff like, "I know a guy who retired at 30 and lives on a yacht." Or, "Your financial independence is only one step away; let me know when you want to take it." Or, my personal favorite, "Your week can consist of six Saturdays and a Sunday."

Two things really amused me about the whole situation: First, that me picked me as his target. I am a lot of things, but I am not dumb. You can't sell me on anything. I am the ultimate skeptic. This leads me to the second thing that amused me: He approached the whole situation like I am some unsophisticated rube he found down at the county fair, not a highly educated (albeit moderately lazy) "professional". I wasn't sure if I should be insulted, or just amused. Then I remember that I never get insulted, so I chose to be amused.

Anyway, the situation resolved itself today. As soon as I arrived, he rushed over to me and asked me the following question: "Are you ready to get on board and become financially independent, or should I find someone else?"

Me: You should find someone else.

Him: Oh I didn't mean that. Seriously you should come to the meeting.

Me: Okay...if you tell me right now exactly what this "opportunity" is, what I would have to do, and how much it costs to get in, I will come to the meeting.

Him: That's all explained at the meeting.

Me: We're done here. Don't bring this up to me again.

Him: But...

Me: I don't want to hear it. You're insulting my intelligence.

He shuffled away, looking defeated but angry. On the bright side, he didn't come and talk to me the rest of the day, and completely looked past me in the hall as we passed each other. So, I might not be making friends in the office, but I am doing a great job of making enemies!

Help Settle A Bet

2008-02-15T07:31:00.005-05:00

Myself and Female Friend have an on-going debate. The debate is as pointless as it is heated. I would like to open it to the masses to perhaps reach some closure.

The debate is over the proper spelling of the name Rick.

My side: If you pronounce your name Rick, your name is spelled R-I-C-K, or perhaps R-I-C.

Her side: It is perfectly normal and acceptable for someone named Rick to spell the name R-I-C-H.

I buttress my argument with the following: If you do pronounce your name Rick and spell it R-I-C-H, you are either extremely pretentious or mildly retarded. (Or perhaps both). She disagrees.

Here is what I need from you, the reader: If you agree with her, persuade me. Explain to me how you could possibly get away with such a stupid spelling of a simple name. Reconcile how the word rich, meaning wealthy, does not play into the pronunciation of the name Rich. If you agree with me, tell me how stupid she is. Weighing in on this pointless debate is the perfect way to fritter away a Friday. Send opinions to:

Valentines Day Tally From My Office

2008-02-14T18:19:00.003-05:00

Number of women in my department: 16

Number of women in my department who are married, engaged, or in a serious relationship: 9

Number of women in my department who are single: 6

Number of women in my department who are asexual: 1 (Editors note: Speculation)

Number of married/engaged/serious women in my department who received a bouquet of flowers delivered at work: 7

Chance that I would ever have a bouquet of flowers delivered to my wife at work on Valentines Day: 0%

Chance that I would ever have a bouquet of flowers delivered to my wife at work on any day other than Valentines Day: 3%

Number of married/engaged/serious women in my department who had a barbershop quartet serenade them: 1 (Editors note: I shit you not)

Number of men in my department: 28

Number of men in my department who rolled their eyes and shook their heads at the barbershop quarter: 27

Number of men in my department who loved the barbershop quartet: 1

Number of gay men in my department: 1

Number of married/engaged/serious women in my department who got nothing at work: 1

Number of married/engaged/serious women in my department who left the office with a scowl: 1

Number of single women in my department who left looking utterly depressed: 5

Number of single women in my department who left looking upbeat and unfazed by the fact she is single: 1

Number of attractive single women in my department: 1

Number of posts I made this week: 3

Number of posts I mailed it in on: 2

Happy Valentines Day. (Editors note: pfft)

It's Hard Out There For A Pimp

2008-02-13T18:57:00.001-05:00

Came across this article today...

Hamilton County Municipal Court Judge Nadine Allen noticed a man lurking in the back of her courtroom as she was getting ready to send a woman to jail Tuesday for domestic violence.

When the judge stopped the proceedings to ask the man who he was, it started a conversation that led to the man’s arrest and the judge’s assertions that he may be preying on young women to run a sex ring.

“For 21 years (as a judge), I’ve been trying to catch a pimp and I finally did,” the judge said today.

She ordered Jason M. Lee 28, of Harrison, a registered sex offender, arrested in her courtroom and had him hauled to jail.

The story began with a 20-year-old standing before Allen on Tuesday to be sentenced for domestic violence.

The woman was accused of assaulting her mother and grandmother who, the judge said, were trying to keep her in the house.

“They knew that she was out there prostituting,” the judge said, adding the woman has prior prostitution convictions.

“This case involved her drug relapse,” the judge said.

When Allen Tuesday asked the woman who Lee was and what his involvement in her case was, the woman’s mother said Lee posted her daughter’s bond even though he was a stranger – and that he got his daughter’s name by searching the Hamilton County Clerk of Court’s web site.

Court documents show Lee posted the woman’s $100 bond Oct. 27.

“Jason Lee took her that day (her bond was posted) and forced her to have sex with his friends,” the judge said.

The friends, the judge added, then gave Lee money and drugs for the sex.

“My fear,” Allen said, “is that this guy has done this for other girls, posting bond for girls he finds on our web site.

“It’s possible that there is a sex ring going on.”

Hamilton County Sheriff’s officials, though, are confused.

Spokesman Steve Barnett said Lee was arrested in Allen’s courtroom yesterday but was that was for outstanding arrest warrants.

No new charges were brought against Lee as a result of the judge’s story.

Barnett said deputies couldn’t charge Lee with any new crimes involving Allen’s comments because the 20-year-old woman refused to cooperate with police unless the judge let her out of jail.

The judge sentenced the woman Tuesday to 180 days in jail, but refused to let her out.

When the woman heard that, she refused to give police information about Lee.
Lee was wanted for probation violations involving drug charges.

Lee is a registered sex offender, Allen said, because of convictions in 2000 for importuning and corruption of a minor.

If I may, I would like to take a second to address our would-be pimp...

Jason,

I read about your recent arrest in the paper, and I would like to offer you some unsolicited advice. First of all, I understand that you are a pimp, or at least that you strive to be, and for that I applaud you. While so many lowlifes who decide to live a life of crime choose boring, safe avenues such as drug dealing or petty theft, you have decided to choose a much more challenging criminal enterprise. After all, pimpin' ain't easy, but that's the direction you decided to go. Very ambitious.

If you think about it, Jason, pimpin' ain't even necessary. You are a broker. Many, many hos have found a lot of success by simply eliminating the middle man (the pimp) and selling their wares directly. This is essentially the same business plan that websites such as buy.com and overstock.com have implemented. But there will always be the hos who want the pimp to take care of the details and smack them around if they get out of line. This is where you come in, obviously. But it doesn't take an MBA to realize that the biggest challenge a pimp like yourself has is finding those hos who need someone to take care of the details. The demand is always there, but what about the supply? This is where your true genius shined.

I say this with the utmost sincerity Jason; your business model is really brilliant. Using the County Clerk of Courts website to find young women in jail, and then posting their bond is really innovative. First, you find a girl who is already in a desperate situation and not averse to crime, and then show her how you can be a provider to her...A daddy, if you will. Then, break her in by paying her to have sex with your friends. Once she sees its not so bad, the next logical step is to pimp her out to strangers. I have to say man, for some dumbfuck sex offender from Harrison, this is a really smart plan.

The problem, Jason, is that you are not a smart person. Smart people don't get into crime in the first place. Thus, you made the major mistake of actually going down to the courthouse when you had outstanding warrants, to see your latest ho prospect. The judge said it herself- she's been aiming to take down a pimp for decades. Dude, that sort of stupidity is inexcusable. You are a marked man. You know pimps don't get no love. Now, instead of sitting at home spendin' Gs, you're stuck in county jail while your hos give it away for free. I don't wanna hate, bro, but maybe this line of business isn't for you. It's really time to get your life together. Make a 5-year plan. Go to welding school or something. You are part of a dying breed, Jason. Get out now. Rise above this.

All the best,

Mike

Pick My Next Vacation!

2008-02-11T17:30:00.001-05:00

Sort of...

I did my taxes over the weekend, and I am getting a fat refund. Now, I know it was my money to begin with, and it amounted to a 14 month interest free loan, etc etc. But that doesn't diminish the fact that I have a check for over $7000 coming from the federal government. (This marriage thing is paying off already.) Anyway, the wife decided we should save most of it (booo), but I suggested we use some of it for a long weekend vacation over Memorial Day. The problem is, we aren't sure where to go.

Thus, I have decided to tap the vast resources that you, the reader, can provide me. I am taking suggestions for where to spend our little getaway. Our requirements are as follows:

-Must be by a beach.

-Must not be a destination for young obnoxious people. (We are 28 going on 58.)

-On the flip side, we don't want lots of kids around.

-The travel time has to be reasonable by plane from Cincinnati. No trips to Maui, for example.

In a perfect would, it would be a sleepy little beach town with lots of hole-in-the-wall seafood restaurants and neat little shops for the wife to browse. Send your suggestions t

If your suggestion is chosen, you will be rewarded a CD of all the pointless pictures my wife will take on the trip, such as:

-Picture of other people doing fun things on their vacations

-Picture of a random seagull

-Candid photo of my awkwardly putting the suitcase on the bed

-And her favorite, picture of a sign take from too far away to read

Personal Ad

2008-02-07T18:07:00.000-05:00

I have been on the job for five weeks now, and things are looking pretty good. I am done with the horseshit I previously bitched about and have moved on to bigger and better things, which I have to say, aren't too bad at all. My direct boss is a really laid back guy and he is cool with me doing things my way. And I can pretty much come and go as I please, which is a complete 180 from the gestapo regime that I used to work under. But I still have one complaint (shocking!) and I have to say, its bothering me more and more: I have yet to meet one person who I would want to be friends with.

It's not that everyone I work with is an asshole. It's actually the opposite. Most everyone I have met so far is nice. It's just that in five weeks, I have yet to meet one decently cool person who I would actually want to hang out with. It's like I am working in Squaresville, daddy-o. It seems that my company has made a conscious effort to recruit boring, clean-cut people to work there. (If this is the case, they really missed the mark with me.) Sarcasm is non-existent. Irony is lost on them. Ignorance abounds. Everyone is really freaking nice, and it's driving me crazy. This is what I imagine Utah to be like.

Just as an example, here are three things I overheard people say today....

On "popular" music:

"I don't want my kids listening to the Rolling Stones. They aren't wholesome enough. Neither are the Beatles." I should point out that his kids are teenagers. And what is this, 1967?

or, about a shuffling of desk assignments:

"Hey, it's gonna be really funny when two people who have the same name sit next to each other." [Raucous laughter]. Yeah, fucking hilarious. The height of comedy. We'll barely be able to get our jobs done as the same-name hijinks ensue.

or education:

"I pulled my daughter out of Catholic school. I didn't feel she was getting enough religion there." Do I even need to comment on this?

Anyway, working in this environment is starting to get to me. I need someone to talk to, a sidekick. I need my Samir and/or Michael Bolton, but I'd settle for the O-face guy at this point. I really didn't think it would take this long. Hell, I even found a posse in law school, which is the most vile place on earth. Surely there must be somebody in my 300 person company that I can relate to.

This afternoon, I got an email from our extremely bubbly office manager, letting us know that submissions for the company newsletter would be due today, since it comes out Tuesday. It struck me that I should put a personal ad in the newsletter, looking for my office buddy. Most things that strike me remain in my head, but I was bored and looking for a frivolous way to spend my time, so I wrote out my ad. (Of course, I didn't submit it. Not so much for what it contained, but more that I didn't want to be that guy who submits stuff to the office newsletter.) Anyway, here is what I came up with.

Married White Male, 28, seeks Work Buddy for non-job related conversation, long lunches, and the occasional happy hour. Ideal match should be able to both make and get obscure pop culture references, converse about sports with reasonable intelligence, and always be up for a break. Other important qualifications include: A lax work ethic, no desire to discuss cars or their various features, and strict adherence to the casual dress code. If I suggest we have a beer at lunch, the ideal work buddy's reaction will be one of agreement and not horror. If using the word 'him' casually, the ideal match will say 'em, rhyming with the word 'him', and never 'eem, rhyming with the word 'theme'. Please, no fathers, as I don't want to talk about your kids. Deadbeat dads will be considered on a case by case basis. Kentuckians need not apply.

You know what I hate most about having a job?

2008-02-05T07:52:00.000-05:00

I hate this more than annoying coworkers or idiot bosses or waking up to an alarm; more than I hate being stuck in a chair that is stuck cube that is stuck in an office park; and even more that doing a set of mundane tasks repeatedly for hours, days, weeks, months, and even years on end? (Have I peaked your interest enough with my exaggerated disgust so that I can reveal the loathsome aspect of employment? Or have I simply run out of things I can list? You decide...)

What I hate more than anything is shoptalk. For the uninformed, or for those lucky enough to have not ever had a job, shoptalk is defined as "talking about work in a context where talking about work is not necessary". It occurs most often when coworkers find themselves together in a situation that would typically call for social interaction, such as being in the break room together, leaving or entering the building at the same time, or just wandering around the office when they need to stretch their legs. Unfortunately, it can also occur in situations where coworkers find themselves together in a situation where social interaction is decidedly uncalled for, such as while using adjacent urinals.

The reason that I abhor shoptalk so much should be obvious -- it's fucking boring. It's bad enough that I have to actually do the job; the last thing I want to do is talk about it when I don't have to. My job is not interesting. My company is not interesting. It stands to reason that a conversation about either of the two will not be interesting. Thus, I avoid shoptalk at all turns. I don't give a shit about the war stories that Walt from accounting has, or how Peter from sales thinks we'll do in the 2nd quarter. I don't ask people how their day is going or any derivative thereof. If I am asked, I keep my answers short and unrevealing. I try to project a generally surly attitude if asked about work, and an equally folksy attitude if asked about anything else. Sometimes they get the hint; other times not.

One guy in my department really enjoys shoptalk, and even worse, he really enjoys talking shop with me. Several times a day he sidles over to my desk and tells me some story about work. He bestows general advice upon me, and he absolutely loves to tell me about when he was new on the job. He is a nice enough guy, and I know he is just trying to be friendly...but he annoys the shit out of me. I could care less about how he does his job; if I did, I would ask. I tried to act disinterested, surly, aloof...nothing worked, he still came over to talk to me. So finally I decided, if this guy wants to come over and chat a couple times a day, that's fine...as long as we don't talk about work.

So today, instead of nodding with obvious boredom, I decided to engage him in a normal conversation, the sort of things that people small talk about all day long. Worst case scenario, I have a work friend. So I asked him if he watched the Super Bowl -- "No, I don't care about sports. What a waste of time." Strike one.

Next, I made a casual reference to The Office. He looked at me quizzically until I explained what I was talking about. "Oh, that show is dumb. I don't get it." Strike two.

I was racking my brain for something to talk about, that we could possibly have in common. During the lull of silence, he brought up politics, asking me who I was voting for. Sticking to my rule of not discussing politics or religion with people, I told him I was unsure. He then told me, "I am a big supporter of Mike Huckabee. I make calls for him in the evenings, and work for his campaign on the weekends." My respone: "Um...okay. Good luck with that." Strike three.

It was then I realized the purpose of shoptalk. It prevents you from having to actually get to know your coworkers. Because once you do, there is no going back.