Each morning I wake up to a nasty alarm clock (after carefully calculating how many 13 minute snooze durations I can get and still be on time) just blaring at me with no patience, manners or understanding of the weekend I just completed. Knocking the eye boogers away, I drag my butt outta bed and go through the routine of a shower, getting dressed, collection of work stuff and a coffee to go. There - I'm out the door and on my way....
Mondays seem to be the toughest. They don't require any help from other events to make the day any poopier than it already is. Still, I think all the commuting rats in the race try to find ways to kick their fellow drones in the shin on their way to their ivory towers. Is it a game to them? Intentional? Should they be blamed or are they just in a trance and unaware of their idiotic tendencies? Let me share with you my morning travels today...
All starts off as planned with the first mile completely uneventful as I listen to the radio, humming a little jingle from the Bieber. No, I don't have Bieber-Fever, but that little turkey has some catchy lyrics. Careful, before you know it you will be sporting the skinny jeans and Beiber haircut! I digress. I'm taking the normal path into the office and there is a stretch of road where the left lane merges into the right. You know these are always the most challenging for our fellow drivers. My issue is that I KNOW these knuckleheads take this path every morning too. They know where the road merges. They know what they are doing. Still, they make the choice. They see the cars that are taking their medicine, lined up in the right lane and waiting patiently for traffic to scoot along. I'm in the right lane.
Then comes the moment of truth. I see in my rear view mirror the target coming up in the quickly ending left lane. It's crunch time. Do I or don't I? I GIVE, I GIVE. I let the impatient traveler in. I know, sounds so weak of me, but I figure it's early in the week and I can use the positive karma as the days go by. Then comes the point at which I have to physically restrain my right leg from hammering on the gas and ramming this wonderful gentleman right in the "trunk". I let him in... where's the wave? WHERE IS THE FRICKIN' THANK YOU WAVE?? Nope. Apparently, he is entitled to enter any lane he chooses. He need not adhere to the rules. I now feel as though the hope for good karma wasn't worth it. I shall look for his vehicle tomorrow, oh yes, he will suffer.
My blood comes down from boil and is now at a manageable simmer as I continue my voyage. I'm nearing my destination and before I can arrive safely, I have one more obstacle to overcome. A lady, a nice looking professional lady driving what should have been a broom is apparently is late for her 8:00 arrival where she is likely the VP of POOP for some lucky company. I'm minding the laws and exiting on a long off-ramp from the Interstate (Bieber has left the radio by this point). I'm traveling at a fair speed and keeping up with the vehicles in front of me which are also exiting. I notice behind me, the "Broom" is now quite close to the back of my ride. Hmmm... maybe she doesn't realize how close she is. I look again and see what appears to be flailing arms. That certainly can't be aimed at me. Wouldn't be surprised if she had one of those cool bluetooth things and was screaming at one of her minions or something. I continue down the exit as she pulls up next to me - those arms of hers still flailing and now her beady little eyes were staring right at me. Really? She's upset with me? What had I done? I'm not a licensed lip reader, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night and could easily make out the point she was making. She was recommending that I do horrible things to myself. That just isn't kind. Still, looking for the elusive Karma pass, I hold back the longest finger on my hand. I don't present it to her. I give her the "blah, blah, blah" motion. You know it, the opening and closing of your hand like a crazy lady on a broom is yelling at you for no reason. While she didn't like it, it managed to shut her up. Success.
I think I would have felt better had a given her the "gesture", but I was proud of the stance I took. I indeed was the better person in that moment. Tomorrow, well tomorrow is another day and will come with a commute where I fully plan to let someone else be the better person.
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Monday, February 28, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
'Accidental Rocking'
So I think there should be a new warning. A sign or symbol. SOMETHING to warn us guys when "THE ROCK" is to appear in a movie. Sure, we all know the obvious flicks where he and his biceps are plastered on the cover of the DVD, but I'm talking about those accidental occasions. Rumor has it that the ladies appreciate THE ROCK. That's fine. We have our favorites and you have yours. However, you shouldn't be suddenly surprised with an unexpected, unscheduled and unnecessary viewing! Unfair.
Last night, my wife and I were watching a romantic comedy (don't judge me, it had Kristen Bell in it) and in the beginning, out of the blue.... WHAMO! I got accidentally ROCKED. As soon as this happened, I sprung off the couch, gripped the Netflix envelope in my hand and started to scan for an apparent missed warning. There was nothing. No mention of THE ROCK. No reference to pectorals, forearms or a bright smile. On top of it all, in this movie he was a flight attendant. A friggin' flight attendant. Can you tell me how THE ROCK can pull off one of those little blue uniforms with the wings on the lapel, offering beverage and ear wax filled headphones to passengers? Come on man! It was like a 2 minute viewing .. 2 minutes of "what the #$(*&%" streaming from my mouth.
Fair? I think not. To add insult to injury, there was some kind of sound coming from my wife when his tan self magically appeared. It wasn't a sigh of discomfort, it was more of a "thank you sigh". I don't like it one bit. I'm cool when watching 'The Tooth Fairy' (with the kids of course), 'The Rundown' or 'Scorpion King' as I know what I'm getting into and can get mentally ready. What I'm not cool with is when you are in a ROCK-free setting and he just appears.
I mean really, what's next? THE ROCK ringtone, THE ROCK cooking mitts and possibly THE ROCK voice over for GPS? This has to stop. We need warnings, and I have to go do some push-ups now.
Last night, my wife and I were watching a romantic comedy (don't judge me, it had Kristen Bell in it) and in the beginning, out of the blue.... WHAMO! I got accidentally ROCKED. As soon as this happened, I sprung off the couch, gripped the Netflix envelope in my hand and started to scan for an apparent missed warning. There was nothing. No mention of THE ROCK. No reference to pectorals, forearms or a bright smile. On top of it all, in this movie he was a flight attendant. A friggin' flight attendant. Can you tell me how THE ROCK can pull off one of those little blue uniforms with the wings on the lapel, offering beverage and ear wax filled headphones to passengers? Come on man! It was like a 2 minute viewing .. 2 minutes of "what the #$(*&%" streaming from my mouth.
Fair? I think not. To add insult to injury, there was some kind of sound coming from my wife when his tan self magically appeared. It wasn't a sigh of discomfort, it was more of a "thank you sigh". I don't like it one bit. I'm cool when watching 'The Tooth Fairy' (with the kids of course), 'The Rundown' or 'Scorpion King' as I know what I'm getting into and can get mentally ready. What I'm not cool with is when you are in a ROCK-free setting and he just appears.
I mean really, what's next? THE ROCK ringtone, THE ROCK cooking mitts and possibly THE ROCK voice over for GPS? This has to stop. We need warnings, and I have to go do some push-ups now.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
I'm a helper.....
For those of you that don't know... my wife rocks. She is like the female, hot, version of Bob Villa. I on the other hand, have been given talents that don't involve a hammer, tool belt and certainly not a level - just ask her. I am a helper and I'm good with that.
This past weekend, I joined my wife and kids as we traveled to my parents house to complete a project started by my wife the previous weekend. An addition of tile back splash in the kitchen and more tile that now surrounds the fireplace in the family room is what awaited us. MOST of the work had already been completed by my better half and this trip was to grout and finish up. I like that, there for the polish and celebration of a completed effort. Like I get to be in the victory parade without having to endure all of the things that warrant the parade in the first place.
We got started on Saturday morning with my wife asking me to remove the excess grout from the back splash in the kitchen. Apparently as grout gets hard it becomes impossible to remove from the tiles that it is smeared on. Think concrete. So I'm handed a sponge with one rough side and one soft, a chisel thing and a bucket of water. I, the helper, can do this. I start in on those little 2" tiles, quickly realizing there are a lot of them and wondering how so much grout could have possibly be left behind. I start with the sponge and not much time passes before I realize this sponge stands no chance against the hardest material known to man. Sponge shrapnel is flying and my fingers are growing numb from the intense pressure that is needed on these grout-covered beauties. I should have considered safety goggles for this project.
As I look around for better options, I see the chisel and know this will re-energize me and allow me to be the helper I know I can be. I will not allow my wife or onlooking parents to recognize the struggle and fear in my eyes. The chisel is better. It's light and bends as needed. As I reach the 10th, 20th or possibly 30th individual tile that requires my attention, I realize that my forearm is starting to cramp. This shouldn't be. They are 2" tiles and I'm a helper! Again, shielding my discomfort and concern, I'm quick to reply to questions as to how I'm doing with a smile and "doing good, coming off easily". I'm a liar. I know that I've only completed a third of the work needed at this point and can almost feel the beads of nervous sweat starting to bead up on my noggin. I will not quit and I am a helper. I think I would rather come across a back woods, banjo playing hillbilly named Jasper that is in need of my efforts to remove years of plaque build up with this fancy chisel thing of mine.
Things quickly get personal with this little "to-do" of mine as I now feel the need to have each tile on the wall receive my focus and effort. So one by one, I travel down the wall with the extreme desire to finish. By this time, I can no longer feel my right arm and know the left arm is no good with the understanding if I throw a baseball like a girl with the left, it can't be trusted in this high pressure, high demand scenario. I will have to apologize to my right arm later. The morning quickly turns into early afternoon and I notice my pop sipping on a beer. Can that be right? Should I take a break and partake? Will I have the desire to return to my dungeon that is the back splash if I stray? I don't risk it, again looking for the approval and appreciation from my wife and acknowledgement that I'm a helper.
I can see the finish line, only a handful of tiles to go. I race through those with commitment, anticipation and numbness... no longer able to feel my fingers, and my right forearm that is apparently quivering has now stopped talking to me. I complete the work. Then, with confidence and pride, I revisit my work and appear to look for anything that I might have missed, knowing that if I stumbled upon something - it would stay just the way it is. As I proclaim victory, I quickly grab a beer. TASTY. Beer now in hand and my nerves settled, I look around at the work done and the work still in progress and ask my wife if there's anything else I can do. She says "nope, you're good". BLESS HER. If she would have asked me to do anything more, I would have had to sucker punch her in the spleen. (kidding of course). So, I allow myself to sit down, have my beer (followed by another) and relax. Not wanting to appear selfish or slacking as my wife continues her work, I meander into the kitchen to confirm that I'm still off the clock. As I stand there by my wife's side, providing my complete remote and moral support, my mom notices something from across the kitchen. She looks at one of the glass tiles that had undergone my treatment and asks "Babe, can you get this little spot too?". I peer at the glass tile with anger and hatred towards the little 2" devil. There is a small, I mean SMALL amount of visible grout covering the tiniest corner of the tile. As I "calmly" thank my mother for pointing out this obvious lack of quality and control on my part, I chisel that little sucker until it sparkles. Ahh, again.... victory.
I return to the chair with beer in hand and quite certain that I shall not stumble into the kitchen for anything more in fear that another 2" tile screams out for anything. I'm done. I'm finished. I'm a helper.
This past weekend, I joined my wife and kids as we traveled to my parents house to complete a project started by my wife the previous weekend. An addition of tile back splash in the kitchen and more tile that now surrounds the fireplace in the family room is what awaited us. MOST of the work had already been completed by my better half and this trip was to grout and finish up. I like that, there for the polish and celebration of a completed effort. Like I get to be in the victory parade without having to endure all of the things that warrant the parade in the first place.
We got started on Saturday morning with my wife asking me to remove the excess grout from the back splash in the kitchen. Apparently as grout gets hard it becomes impossible to remove from the tiles that it is smeared on. Think concrete. So I'm handed a sponge with one rough side and one soft, a chisel thing and a bucket of water. I, the helper, can do this. I start in on those little 2" tiles, quickly realizing there are a lot of them and wondering how so much grout could have possibly be left behind. I start with the sponge and not much time passes before I realize this sponge stands no chance against the hardest material known to man. Sponge shrapnel is flying and my fingers are growing numb from the intense pressure that is needed on these grout-covered beauties. I should have considered safety goggles for this project.
As I look around for better options, I see the chisel and know this will re-energize me and allow me to be the helper I know I can be. I will not allow my wife or onlooking parents to recognize the struggle and fear in my eyes. The chisel is better. It's light and bends as needed. As I reach the 10th, 20th or possibly 30th individual tile that requires my attention, I realize that my forearm is starting to cramp. This shouldn't be. They are 2" tiles and I'm a helper! Again, shielding my discomfort and concern, I'm quick to reply to questions as to how I'm doing with a smile and "doing good, coming off easily". I'm a liar. I know that I've only completed a third of the work needed at this point and can almost feel the beads of nervous sweat starting to bead up on my noggin. I will not quit and I am a helper. I think I would rather come across a back woods, banjo playing hillbilly named Jasper that is in need of my efforts to remove years of plaque build up with this fancy chisel thing of mine.
Things quickly get personal with this little "to-do" of mine as I now feel the need to have each tile on the wall receive my focus and effort. So one by one, I travel down the wall with the extreme desire to finish. By this time, I can no longer feel my right arm and know the left arm is no good with the understanding if I throw a baseball like a girl with the left, it can't be trusted in this high pressure, high demand scenario. I will have to apologize to my right arm later. The morning quickly turns into early afternoon and I notice my pop sipping on a beer. Can that be right? Should I take a break and partake? Will I have the desire to return to my dungeon that is the back splash if I stray? I don't risk it, again looking for the approval and appreciation from my wife and acknowledgement that I'm a helper.
I can see the finish line, only a handful of tiles to go. I race through those with commitment, anticipation and numbness... no longer able to feel my fingers, and my right forearm that is apparently quivering has now stopped talking to me. I complete the work. Then, with confidence and pride, I revisit my work and appear to look for anything that I might have missed, knowing that if I stumbled upon something - it would stay just the way it is. As I proclaim victory, I quickly grab a beer. TASTY. Beer now in hand and my nerves settled, I look around at the work done and the work still in progress and ask my wife if there's anything else I can do. She says "nope, you're good". BLESS HER. If she would have asked me to do anything more, I would have had to sucker punch her in the spleen. (kidding of course). So, I allow myself to sit down, have my beer (followed by another) and relax. Not wanting to appear selfish or slacking as my wife continues her work, I meander into the kitchen to confirm that I'm still off the clock. As I stand there by my wife's side, providing my complete remote and moral support, my mom notices something from across the kitchen. She looks at one of the glass tiles that had undergone my treatment and asks "Babe, can you get this little spot too?". I peer at the glass tile with anger and hatred towards the little 2" devil. There is a small, I mean SMALL amount of visible grout covering the tiniest corner of the tile. As I "calmly" thank my mother for pointing out this obvious lack of quality and control on my part, I chisel that little sucker until it sparkles. Ahh, again.... victory.
I return to the chair with beer in hand and quite certain that I shall not stumble into the kitchen for anything more in fear that another 2" tile screams out for anything. I'm done. I'm finished. I'm a helper.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
30 million smackaroos
Really? You see, this is the problem with professional sports. Athletes are becoming bigger than themselves with media, fans, merchandise and EGOS. While popping up MSN for a little work relief, I see that Mr. Pujols down there in St. Louis in on the cusp of a contract that will pay him about $30 million a year.... TO PLAY BASEBALL! Are you kidding me?
Americans wonder why we need to sell vital organs on the black market to afford tickets to a professional sporting event? By the way, do I have one or two spleens? In my opinion, playing a sport and having that be your job that earns you a paycheck of any kind is magic. It's something that 99% of us can't get our arms around. We work for the man and earn our little paycheck so that we can worry about college tuitions and the cost of health insurance while still trying to carve a little out so we can take the family to the game. Well, let me run it down for ya. Parking $20, Tickets (4) $140, Hot Dogs and drinks $35, foam finger thingy for boy #1 $8, flat billed hat for boy #2 $35, seventh inning cotton candy $10. So, the total for a FUN family outing to cheer on your home team... $248!! And that is assuming you didn't get a parking ticket while you were applying sun screen. (please note that the above costs aren't accurate and assume that you already screamed at Boy #2 twice for asking for the authentic jersey at $199)
Interestingly enough, I think I read where Alex Rodriguez discovered $248 last week in his couch cushions!
Free agency and the lack of team/community loyalty is a horrible lesson for each of us and future generations. It's okay that we're not a RIGHT NOW (insert Veruca Salt character from Willy Wonka here) society. It's okay to work for a championship in Cleveland - despite how many years it takes. It's okay to bear through the late 1970's Houston Astros uniforms and work for better. Take my friend 'Melo here in Denver. Tired of losing to the Lakers? Work harder! A person shouldn't be able to announce "I want to win a championship" and demand a trade. I tried that magical power the other day... I said "I want a foot massage" - guess what happened... NADA. There wasn't an agent in a shiny suit with a stupid blue tooth ear piece in and flashy pinky ring there to react to my demand. I wasn't immediately shipped to China's foot massage district!
Our superstars are Wonder Woman (hot), Incredible Hulk, He-Man and Mary Katherine Gallager (different kind of superstar). Those are superstars! These impostors in uniforms that pretend to have true passion for the game are only a bigger contract away from calling a press conference to tell you how bad your town is and how they just aren't understood. Oh, I understand alright. I understand that you feel entitled to drive 12 million miles an hour and not get a ticket. How you should be able to carry a concealed weapon. How some of the green found in your glove box couldn't possibly be yours.
I also understand how you aren't a role model for anyone.... maybe stop for a second while you're looking in the mirror to adjust that 4 ct. diamond hunk in your ear and see if you can channel the voices of those that were inspirations in your life. Your fans long for it - bring back the passion for the game, not the dollar.
Americans wonder why we need to sell vital organs on the black market to afford tickets to a professional sporting event? By the way, do I have one or two spleens? In my opinion, playing a sport and having that be your job that earns you a paycheck of any kind is magic. It's something that 99% of us can't get our arms around. We work for the man and earn our little paycheck so that we can worry about college tuitions and the cost of health insurance while still trying to carve a little out so we can take the family to the game. Well, let me run it down for ya. Parking $20, Tickets (4) $140, Hot Dogs and drinks $35, foam finger thingy for boy #1 $8, flat billed hat for boy #2 $35, seventh inning cotton candy $10. So, the total for a FUN family outing to cheer on your home team... $248!! And that is assuming you didn't get a parking ticket while you were applying sun screen. (please note that the above costs aren't accurate and assume that you already screamed at Boy #2 twice for asking for the authentic jersey at $199)
Interestingly enough, I think I read where Alex Rodriguez discovered $248 last week in his couch cushions!
Free agency and the lack of team/community loyalty is a horrible lesson for each of us and future generations. It's okay that we're not a RIGHT NOW (insert Veruca Salt character from Willy Wonka here) society. It's okay to work for a championship in Cleveland - despite how many years it takes. It's okay to bear through the late 1970's Houston Astros uniforms and work for better. Take my friend 'Melo here in Denver. Tired of losing to the Lakers? Work harder! A person shouldn't be able to announce "I want to win a championship" and demand a trade. I tried that magical power the other day... I said "I want a foot massage" - guess what happened... NADA. There wasn't an agent in a shiny suit with a stupid blue tooth ear piece in and flashy pinky ring there to react to my demand. I wasn't immediately shipped to China's foot massage district!
Our superstars are Wonder Woman (hot), Incredible Hulk, He-Man and Mary Katherine Gallager (different kind of superstar). Those are superstars! These impostors in uniforms that pretend to have true passion for the game are only a bigger contract away from calling a press conference to tell you how bad your town is and how they just aren't understood. Oh, I understand alright. I understand that you feel entitled to drive 12 million miles an hour and not get a ticket. How you should be able to carry a concealed weapon. How some of the green found in your glove box couldn't possibly be yours.
I also understand how you aren't a role model for anyone.... maybe stop for a second while you're looking in the mirror to adjust that 4 ct. diamond hunk in your ear and see if you can channel the voices of those that were inspirations in your life. Your fans long for it - bring back the passion for the game, not the dollar.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Corporate Madness
It can't just be me that grows tired of all the unnecessary that occurs in the halls of ivory towers. Sure, I realize not everything can be simple and straight-forward, however there has to be more that can and should be. I happily make my commute every morning with optimism and hope. Both of those visions are lost somewhere on the trip to the coffee maker at about 8:15am. Things should be easier. Being a satisfied and productive employee shouldn't require a secret decoder ring that is bestowed upon only those that have sipped the red Kool-aid and repeated the oath of the inefficient.
I think we should start an effort to MINIMIZE the meetings, acronyms and politics. I don't want to worry if I offended my boss with a shot I took at Oprah earlier in the day. I don't like the feeling of my head on a swivel as I look for the next bus that is certainly heading my way. Do I really need to keep every email I receive and send as proof that I didn't say that? Yes, I realize the life of the middle manager is a tough one. but let's not pretend that the ability to produce the perfect Powerpoint presentation is equal to landing a date with Heidi Klum. It isn't.
My message to Corporate America is to quit taking yourselves so seriously. Become a company that people want to be associated with. Happy employees are powerful ones and should be treated with respect, challenge and reward. Lead by intimidation and you shall lead no one. Big wigs need not draft a memo... instead, hold an all hands meeting with cookies to share your genius. Fact: people like cookies. Get to know those that are driving the success of your operation. From the Executive layer to the middle manager..... personalize things and become a team. Don't schedule a meeting with that go-to Powerpoint presentation to tell everyone you really are a team - instead, do something different and non-corporate like.
I thank you for reading my vent session surrounding the wonderful world of Corporate America. Please know that I'm not an angry person, only feeling a bit of squeeze in my 9-5 lately. Hopefully my venting has somehow allowed a virtual vent for you as well and we can all look forward to the optimism and hope that our next commute offers.
My general apology as this is my first blog and I'm confident I will get better as time goes on like a fine wine, the value of baseball cards and Betty White. I shall reach across ALL topics and you won't find that I'm stuck in this angry circle of my 9-5 as that isn't the case. I look forward to the next topic and blog-thingy that expores more ways to stop the stoopid in our lives!
Enjoy the day!
I think we should start an effort to MINIMIZE the meetings, acronyms and politics. I don't want to worry if I offended my boss with a shot I took at Oprah earlier in the day. I don't like the feeling of my head on a swivel as I look for the next bus that is certainly heading my way. Do I really need to keep every email I receive and send as proof that I didn't say that? Yes, I realize the life of the middle manager is a tough one. but let's not pretend that the ability to produce the perfect Powerpoint presentation is equal to landing a date with Heidi Klum. It isn't.
My message to Corporate America is to quit taking yourselves so seriously. Become a company that people want to be associated with. Happy employees are powerful ones and should be treated with respect, challenge and reward. Lead by intimidation and you shall lead no one. Big wigs need not draft a memo... instead, hold an all hands meeting with cookies to share your genius. Fact: people like cookies. Get to know those that are driving the success of your operation. From the Executive layer to the middle manager..... personalize things and become a team. Don't schedule a meeting with that go-to Powerpoint presentation to tell everyone you really are a team - instead, do something different and non-corporate like.
I thank you for reading my vent session surrounding the wonderful world of Corporate America. Please know that I'm not an angry person, only feeling a bit of squeeze in my 9-5 lately. Hopefully my venting has somehow allowed a virtual vent for you as well and we can all look forward to the optimism and hope that our next commute offers.
My general apology as this is my first blog and I'm confident I will get better as time goes on like a fine wine, the value of baseball cards and Betty White. I shall reach across ALL topics and you won't find that I'm stuck in this angry circle of my 9-5 as that isn't the case. I look forward to the next topic and blog-thingy that expores more ways to stop the stoopid in our lives!
Enjoy the day!
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