Time To Go Exploring

Exploring is fun. Exploring is exciting. Exploring is perhaps the most enjoyable of all the words that begin with ‘ex.’ I offer as examples (oh hey, that’s another one and that wasn’t even intended) exit, excruciating, excavate, ex-boss, ex-girlfriend, ex-person I used to hang out with before they got annoying because they always said ‘that’s what she said’ in the middle of every sentence, exhume and expatriate. See, not a whole lotta fun going on there, which makes explore that much more desirable, as opposed of course to it being expendable…

Why all this focus on exploring? Well, it’s simple (and I once again must apologize in advance to Kat). This week is ‘Explore Your Career Options Week.’ If only I had known this last week when I wrote about my TV show idea where I try out all types of jobs. That would have been perfect for celebrating this week. But once again, I have fallen victim to premature blog posting. It’s a complex issue that can be very embarrassing for the sufferer and I’d rather not deal with that right now. So, I am left to try to explore my career options in a different way.

One form of exploring is spelunking (can you tell I’m focusing this week on my segues?). However, as opposed to spelunking, I will not be using hats, lanterns, pick-axes, ropes or maps to explore my career options. I decided to use an online career assessment test. It was free. Just remember that tidbit as I guarantee you it will resurface in just a few minutes. I can’t say that I really enjoyed answering 500 questions about myself in 30 minutes, though I suppose it could slightly be related to the fact that my Mtn Dew downgraded to room temperature during this time. The questions explored how I viewed myself as a leader, whether I took initiative, if I make friends easily, how I feel about crowded situations and if I ever blurt things out without thinking first (and we all know the answer to that one). The only problem is that those basic set of questions were rephrased in what amounted to 500 different ways. As my attention span drifted to thoughts of things fried or cheesed, I cannot honestly remember how I answered some of them.

Finally, after having to register and being subjected to at least 20 great offers meant to make my life easier, I got my test results. It said that I am ‘best suited to a creative job.’ Oh my! Really? Who’d have thunk it? You mean all those times I got in trouble for being late on my projects at work because I was busy writing or trying to perfect Christopher Walken’s accent was because I have a creative side? I gotta tell ya how relieved I am. I had just assumed I had some type of tick that made me socially awkward and unemployable. It turns out that I need creativity. Whew! Yes, I am being sarcastic, which I believe was the answer to number 243. Really, 500 questions to find out what counselors and career guidance professionals have been telling me since junior high? I’ll admit I’m a bit miffed, which can happen to me easily sometimes. That was the answer to number 92.

At least I could still look forward to the site’s recommendation of what jobs were suitable for someone assessed as creative. I clicked with unbridled anticipation. OK, that’s stretching it. My anticipation was pretty bridled. And what were my top 3 employment recommendations?

1. Funeral Director
2. Bookkeeping
and
3. Personal Care or Service

Uhhh, did I miss a step here? Creative people are suited for bookkeeping? To be honest, I had always believed that putting the words creative and bookkeeping in the same sentence equated to an illegal act or at the very least a tax audit.. And do we really want to put someone who answered ‘yes’ to the question about whether or not you blurt out things without thinking first in the position of a funeral director? Perhaps even more importantly, do we really need creativity as a trait for a funeral director?

Call me old-fashioned, but I have always tended to think that preserving people for burial and carrying out the deceased’s funeral plans is pretty straightforward. I mean there are ways I can think of injecting some creativity into the proceedings, but who really wants a casket covered with works of fine art, family pictures or a coconut-scented cremation? I personally think that funeral parlor karaoke would be the perfect way to help a grieving family, but I’m sure there are volumes of research somewhere that prove very convincingly otherwise. At least that’s the case with most things I have recommended, especially at work. Seriously, who thought to do actual research on placing a kiddy pool behind our office so that we can dip our feet into it during breaks BEFORE I suggested it? It just seems like every time I come up with a good idea that someone says ‘well Michael, we already looked into this and it appears it is not a good idea.’ Heck, you’d almost think they were making up the fact that they did research just to keep me from recommending more ideas to improve the workplace. If that were true, it would mean that people are conspiring against me and I don’t believe that. Yes, that was my answer to number 338.

Well, I did my part and honored the spirit of the weeklong holiday by exploring my career options. I guess my next step is to enroll in Funeral Director College. In fact, I’ve already started working on my deep monotone voice and will probably start pricing black suits and carnations tomorrow. I can hardly wait until I can brag to people that I am a graduate of Bury U.

Uh, Um, Gulp, Ahem, Well…

It took 5 years, 5 months and a handful of days, but it finally happened this morning. Let me set the scene for you. Lucy and Ethel were mimicking every dance step and singing or saying every word from ‘Hairspray,’ I was desperately scouring contently surfing the web for an idea to write about today, the coffee was getting luke warm, the clouds were rolling in, The Supremes’ ‘Love Child’ was playing on my Windows Media Player, our dog Mabel was asleep outside in the door-way of the twins’ playhouse, I was wearing my favorite t-shirt after just discovering it had two holes in it (yes, I cried. Like a baby), the dishwasher needed unloading…you know what, we’ll just consider that the scene has been set. I think I was a little too thorough there, sorry.

Anywhoo, as I sat reading an article about how Twinkies first went on sale today (which I would be so willingly to celebrate by deep frying them if only I had gotten that deep fryer for Christmas…stupid Santa), the TV dinner was invented today (don’t underestimate the importance of that fact in my life) and that John Ratzenberger was born on this day (remember, he played Cliff Claven, my useless trivia idol. He could totally kick Alex Trebec’s ‘I know it all’ gentlemanly ‘what is his rear-end for $500,’ if you know what I mean) when Lucy asked a question that literally made me turn pale and throw up a little in my mouth. Oh by the way, I should add that even though it really seems like a good idea, Honey Nut Cheerios, fresh pineapple and coffee DO NOT mix in liquid regurgitated form, unless you are the Travel Channel’s Andrew Zimmern, which if you are, please email me because I have a few ideas I’d like to pitch. If you are still able to follow along, I’m sure you have already guessed what the question was. And you’d be right. Lucy asked ‘we are supposed to avoid people who don’t like cheese, right Daddy?’ I’m kidding. Really, I am. I’d never tell them that…at least not directly. Again, just kidding. Have you sensed my nervousness here in even re-telling this harrowing tale I started two paragraphs ago?

OK, Lucy asked me ‘Daddy, when you already have kids, how do you get another one?’ Now granted I am slower than molasses on a December morn, but I realized pretty quickly what she was really asking me, so I pulled out the old Presidential Press Conference tip sheet and sidestepped the real question by saying ‘you just decide to have another one.’ And then she called my hand. She asked ‘Daddy, HOW do you have another one?’ This is the point where I was sucked out of my body, everything went silent and then my years started to ring. I think I also heard that freaky music one the Wizard of Oz when the witch lady flies by on the bike.

I don’t mind telling all of you close blogging friends that I fully planned on exploiting the way she asked me the question. Let’s review: she asked ‘where’ and then ‘how’ ‘do we get another child.’ I don’t want to play Clinton-esque semantics here (I did not have eating relations with that last piece of pie…), but since the whole ‘where do babies come from’ wasn’t really uttered, I focused on the ‘more kids’ part. Go ahead and say it: ‘this man is an idiot who probably couldn’t follow the directions to put his kids’ red wagon together at Christmastime.’ Gotcha! You should have said ‘wow, this is one brave parent tackling such a multi-faceted perception of life altering question so confidently,’ but now that I know how you really feel about me because you were so quick to repeat the whole wagon thing, maybe I just won’t continue this story…

…But I will. I’m a very giving person. At this point, so many ideas ran through my head about WHERE you could get more kids if you wanted them. Before I clutched my pipe, folded my paper, tightened my robe and answered Lucy and Ethel (you know, if I was Ward Cleaver) I concocted an idea of a lottery where you get another child. Then I thought about telling them that you write your local Congress person to petition for another child, or go to Home Depot (go Tony Stewart!) and buy ‘additional child seeds.’ I was also devising a story about a phone line or website where you ask for more children and happily patting myself on the back mentally for my quick ideas, which is pretty hard (that’s what she said).

Then, not realizing no less than 30 minutes had gone by, I was brought out of my mental back patting by the twins shouting ‘Daddy, Daddy, the movie is over and you have been ignoring us. We asked you a question. Also, we are hungry.’ Don’t worry; I was alert, bold, parental, fatherly and quick on my feet. I stammered out ‘who wants ice cream!’ Of course, they jumped on this. There’s nothing wrong with ice cream at 9:30AM. I learned that from watching ‘Little Miss Sunshine.’ Also, did you know that ice cream won’t make you fat?

It is now that I would like to thank my high school debate teacher for training me how to diffuse potential hot-button topics so quickly and confidently. And to think I almost didn’t take that class. Now, how do I avoid verbal contact with my children for the next 13 years? On a slightly unrelated note, I have a stock tip for you. You might want to buy stock in Dreyer’s ice cream. It seems to be the Lucy and Ethel’s favorite brand…

Time To Focus On The Work Place

It’s holiday time again (sorry Kat). However, today we need to focus on two holidays you might not be aware of (sorry again Kat). Don’t worry though; you’ll only need to buy one card since the holidays are kind of related. First, April is Workplace Conflict Awareness Month. I know it’s already the 3rd, but there’s still plenty of time left to celebrate be aware.

It’s also Laugh At Work Week. I won’t focus much on this one since it’s pretty explanatory. Not that you have to copy me, but I’m going to do what I did last year and ‘roast’ each of my employees and my boss each day this week. The only difference this year is that I will remember to tell them I am ‘roasting’ them in good fun before I walk up and start making fun of them with no warning at all. Something tells me it will go over much better this year.

As far as Workplace Conflict Awareness Month goes, I guess you really shouldn’t ‘celebrate’ it. Just like the issue of the structural degradation of Liberace’s piano at his museum, workplace conflict is one of the most important, but yet least known issues facing us. Do you have a workplace? See, it’s important to you now, isn’t it. While many people don’t want to work, they have to and no one wants to work in a contentious workplace. And I should know. I work in an office where workplace conflict runs rampant. Trust me when I say that celebrating Laugh At Work Week is very difficult to do when there is conflict in the workplace. Unless of course you work with Female Coworker, who happens to laugh at workplace conflict, thus combining these two very different holidays into an orgy of laughter and sadness and pain. Is it because I just used the word ‘orgy’ that makes me feel like I have to now type ‘that’s what she said?’ I shall resist the urge. That’s what she said. Oops…

I do need to take the time here though to make sure that you realize the difference between conflict in the workPLACE and conflict in the workSPACE. The workplace is the greater (and I use that word very hesitatingly) office space where you are required to work with others, meet deadlines, shop up on time, walk around and where you make copies ( or coffee). The workspace is where you can play your Ipod, blog, use Facebook, forward inappropriate emails and decorate with tasteless items like mini-pink flamingos, Far Side comics and stress balls in the form of Dwight Schrute’s head. I’m kidding, really. That was just an amalgam of all my coworkers’ workspaces. MY workspace has nothing but motivational posters, all of our company bulletins, 5 different hand-painted versions of my company’s logo and all of my work files neatly organized by date in clean manila folders with no personal belongings displayed whatsoever.

Since it seems that no one wants to discuss the ugly topic of conflict in the workplace (at least that is what I am assuming since I’ve never heard anyone speak of it), I feel that we should champion the cause. The question however, is how to raise awareness of conflict in the workplace. My first thought was to hire a skywriter to write something catchy like ‘Be aware of conflict in the workplace’ over office buildings, like mine for instance. That’s somewhat costly though, so I didn’t go with it. Did you know that you have to pay per letter? I had been originally told it was pay per syllable. Ok, I made that up because I couldn’t find a skywriter in the phonebook and was too embarrassed to say so. Then I thought of an eye-popping billboard featuring a really hot woman in a workplace conflict with another really hot woman (you know, to catch people’s attention in order to make them aware of, uh, um, shoot, I forgot what I was writing about...).

Since I got distracted with that idea, I finally settled on going around to other offices and reenacting workplace conflict for them. Imagine the shock factor when I and my fellow coworkers walk into a complete stranger’s workplace in the middle of the work day and begin yelling at each other about the fiscal impact of buying generic Post-It notes and where we should go to lunch. Then we’ll throw a few fake punches, release our pouches of fake blood and bow. (By the way, this is where you cue the dream sequence of me and my coworkers bowing amid standing ovations, weeping ladies and roses being tossed to us). After we bow we will explain how horrible workplace conflict is, how we should all work together and then I’ll pass the tip jar. You don’t think the tip jar is overdoing it, do you?

Well, I am going to wrap this up so I can prepare my skits workplace conflict awareness performances. Wish us luck as we try to turn the spotlight towards this worthy cause. After all, that whole global warming this is getting old. I’m kidding. I’m kidding…BANISH WORKPLACE CONFLICT!!

Of Horse Hooves And Lip Balm

The title has nothing to do with the post; I just really, really like the way it sounds. Although don’t horse hooves get turned into lip balm? Wait, I think it’s glue and those are two things you never want to confuse. I’m pretty sure Lip Balm comes from seaweed. Oddly enough though, you can smear seaweed across your lips and find it to be anything but comforting.

I was thinking on the way into work this morning that I should hit my brakes before I slam into the guy in front of me. Naw, I’m kidding. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Well, I did think that, but I am referring to another thought I had while driving into work. I was thinking about other types of jobs that are out there that might be fun to try. Then I thought since my resume reads like the freeway at rush hour (start and stop, start and stop) that my best bet of getting to try out new jobs would be to pitch a TV show about it. Yes, it’s like Dirty Jobs, but cleaner (say those last two words with a real positive tone and it works better). I gave it the working title of ‘Employee Try Out.’ To be honest, ‘Working Title For New TV Show Pitch, Vol. 34’ was just lacking that certain something. I still can’t put my finger on it.

The premise of the show is simple: me trying out different jobs each episode. I’m really serious about this. I can foresee like, 4 episodes. In each episode, I’ll have to interview for the job (knowing full well that I’ll be hired though, because just watching me interviewing and not getting hired would be too realistic and trust me – repetitive and boring) followed by me actually doing said job. Until work offers start pouring in, we could find the most interesting jobs in the classifieds and apply for those.

I may even get around to pitching this one. I am horrible at math, so a banking job comes immediately to mind. Oh, just imagine the fun mess that could be. Don’t get me wrong. My point isn’t to ruin each company I work for, but it would be much more entertaining that way than just watching me sit there and do the job the right way. And if you are wondering, the answer is yes, I would do the obligatory beverage plant and chocolate factory so that I can do the also obligatory LaVerne and Shirley and I Love Lucy gags.

I could try my hand at short order cook, administrative assistant and maybe even mail carrier (I swear I’ll only make 3 Cliff Claven references) and bus driver. As much as I would like to try air traffic controlling, I’m not as optimistic they’d let me. But how much fun would it be to get to say ‘Niner?’ Plus, I watched Airplane and Airplane 2 recently and am full of Rogers, Overs and Outs.

The real key to this whole working thing working (I fretted over that phrase for 5 minutes) is getting jobs that require speed, patience, intelligence, dexterity and precision. Why? Because I gleefully lack all of those traits and combining that fact with a job that requires those traits is a textbook Food Network recipe for disaster. You may think that this whole thing sounds a lot like Paris Hilton’s ‘The Simple Life’ and all I can say to that is ‘why, yes it does, dammit’ but America hates her and I have at least a three month window until I get that reaction. Besides, we have 37 game shows that deal with secrets and money, so what’s one more job show?

You may also say that part of the premise of my show copies shares elements of ‘The Apprentice.’ All I can say to that is ‘leave me the heck alone and come up with your own idea to criticize!’ Sorry, I don’t take criticism well. What I meant to emphasize is that my show will be different. And because it will be different, it will make it unique. Because of its uniqueness, it will offer variety. Its variety is the thing that is going to set it apart from the other job shows. And if that wasn’t enough, I am horrible at listening, especially to directions on how to do things. See, now you want to watch, don’t you? Please??

Wii Could Only Be So Lucky

If the military can train dolphins to stop torpedoes or gophers to find land mines (ok, I made that last one up, but seriously, think of the practicality of it), then I have no problem believing the story I read this morning. It said that the military has adapted the Wii remote controller to operate a robotic bomb diffuser. Those guys are so clever, what will they do next, adapt the Ipod to control nuclear missiles? I think they may already be working on that one though since every time I use my Ipod at the house, my microwave turns on and my garage door opens. At first I thought it was a defect, but when it kept consistently happening, I just figured it was designed that way. Plus, it seems to do it in rhythm with whatever I am listening to. Those Apple engineers are something, aren’t they?

If you have used the Wii remote, you have already realized what a great device it is. In fact, I have already revised my living will/trust thingy to reflect the fact that if I ever lose an arm that I want a Wii remote attached in its place. My insurance company has signed off on it since the procedure was cheaper than a new arm (perhaps because I requested one similar to one of the animatronic Pirates at Disneyland’s Pirates of the Caribbean) and I even talked Best Buy into giving me free batteries for the first 36 months. I tell ya, when those guys start sniffing a potential sale, they just start throwing stuff in to close the deal. Gee, I hope I didn’t ruin my future bargaining chances with them if they are reading because I still need to get Guitar Hero, though I imagine all my favorite guitar riffs, like any of Barry Manilow’s or that kick-butt fuzz guitar solo in the Carpenters’ ‘Goodbye to Love’ aren’t included. I swear, no one appreciates the classics anymore…

Seriously, I love the Wii Remote. Not in that ‘will you date me and let me take you to the movies and have picnics and run real slow towards each other in a fielded meadow and I’ll propose to you by putting your ring in the gelato, but it melts and the ring gets lost on the floor’ type of love, but that I find it simple to use. Maybe love is too strong a word. I am in like with my Wii remote. It’s a Wii-mance with my Wii-mote, if you will.

It might all sound like roses and microchips, but the Wii-mance does have the occasional hiccup or burp – hiccurp, really. I could win more often. There are just those occasional times when my Wii-mote and I could communicate a little better, like when I get that dreaded split in bowling and I try to hit the one side of the pin so that it shoots across the lane and knocks the other pin down giving me a spare, but I miss it completely. Or when I try to hit the tennis ball with my front line player and it doesn’t recognize my swing fast enough and then I am forced to hit an awkward shot with my back line guy. And I won’t even mention our TOTAL lack of communication when golfing. It’s like ‘what did I ever see in you. I don’t even know you anymore.’

I have long assumed (as may you if you’ve been visiting here for any length) that I had absolutely no employable qualities whatsoever. Perhaps I’ve been wrong all this time. It turns out that I could be completely qualified for military service, but then judging by how well Lucy and Ethel do at the Wii, so could they and that just makes me second guess my employable qualities beginning a vicious cycle of self-doubt that always results in me quoting John Wayne or Fonzie way too much in order to re-assert my presence as a dominant male who can be looked to as a leader and a provider. True Grit? Yeah, I got it, pilgrim. Aaayyyy. See, it’s started already. Now I feel I may have shared too much.

I’m very tempted at this point to award $45 Schrute Bucks to anyone who can remember what the original point of this post was. In fact, if you could just tell me what it was then I’d be able to wrap this all up. All I know is that we need to follow the military’s lead and find a way to incorporate the Wii-mote into more of our daily tasks. Hopefully this Wii-mote controlled robot can be adapted to do things like load the dishwasher, make my coffee and sit in for me during staff meetings so that I don’t get caught saying something that violates that list of words and phrases that I know HR keeps up in their office in poster form.

Nintendo and the United States Military, I know you cannot see me, but I am raising my Wii-mote in a salute-like gesture to your brilliance. Hopefully my Wii-mote is on the same page as me today. But if it isn’t, rest assured that I am not flipping you off.

Time To Be Honest

A friend of mine from the real world (does anyone remember those? They are the friends we had before blogging that we can actually touch) was looking at my blog for the first time this past weekend and had a few questions after reading through many of my past posts.

While a lot of the questions centered around the question of why I haven’t been fired from my job yet because I seem to offer no real productivity at work, there was one question that really set me back on my heels. I mean the heels of my feet. I don’t wear heels. I just feel that needs to be stated. Although, I don’t want anyone thinking anything just because I feel that needs to be stated. Ok, let’s just drop this whole topic. What I was getting at was the fact that my friend called me out on something that I didn’t anticipate having to answer. This must be what it feels like when a politician has that skeleton (or high priced call girl) in his closet brought out for all the world to see.

At first I felt betrayed and then I realized that I was the one who was committed the real betrayal here. I value all of my blog friends and that is why I feel I need to be honest with all of you before I can sit down with a clean conscience, full of peace, to write another blog post. I am ashamed to admit that I DON’T REALLY LIKE CHEESE. I never have. (Ok, please hear me out and don’t leave yet, I beg you). In fact, I am lactose intolerant and really don’t enjoy any dairy product. So, before you read one more sentence, please allow me to offer my apologies to those of you that I have mislead for the last 550 or so posts.

Now, I’d like to explain my subterfuge (as a blogging friend would say). I made a reference to cheese once and it was so well received that I just had to keep referencing it. I guess it’s the same type of trick that NYPD Blue used in making everyone appear naked at some point on the show. Only my trick was contrived and was a lot easier to stomach than having to see Dennis Franz’ rear end. My supposed love of cheese connected me with so many of my fellow bloggers that I just found myself unable to break that bond. I got so caught up in my own lie and the benefits I gained from it that I could not stop.

Now I know how Barry Bonds feels, except for the fact that I never had a shot at the Hall of Fame, well the Baseball Hall of Fame. I think I've still got a shot at the Bocce Ball Hall of Fame. It's much swankier and a lot harder to get into. In fact, most people have never heard of it BECAUSE it's so swanky. I’ve tried to eat cheese, but when it melts it gets so greasy. There is a cheese processing plant where I live in Corona and I have to drive by it daily. Have you ever smelled the elephant or camel pens on a really hot, sunny and slightly humid day at the zoo? That’s what this cheese plant smells like. Really, who wants to eat a slice of cheddar with that scent still lingering (or should I say ‘limburgering’) in the air?

I guess I knew that I’d always have to face this day. I just hoped I could perpetuate my little ‘I love cheese’ gig a bit longer. So, my dear blogging friends, I am sorry. Please continue to visit my blog and allow me to visit yours. In a way, getting this off my chest has made me feel so much better, just like when they removed my chest tube after surgery. Who knows, maybe getting out from under this lie will make my writing better.

I feel so refreshed after sharing this with you that I think I will share something else I’ve been meaning to tell you all…









…APRIL FOOLS!!!!!!! Are you crazy, of course I love cheese. Heck, I’m eating string cheese while trying to type this. It actually made me physically pained to even have to write the words ‘I don’t like cheese.’ Can you imagine someone not liking cheese? Even worse, can you imagine liking cheese but not being medically able to eat it? Oh the humanity. Trust me my friends, everything I wrote above was a lie. Cheese is the lifeblood that makes me want to get out of bed in the morning. It’s my sustenance and my honey pot. OK, maybe throwing in the Winnie the Pooh analogy was a little much, but remember that my world is often seen through the eyes of two 5 year olds. So, thanks for letting me try to bastardize my love of cheese in order to make an April Fools joke. Although, I still don’t wanna see the butt of Dennis Franz’s gun, if ya know what I mean…

6 Words, That’s All. No More. No Less (Wait, That Was 8)

I have seen this tag around blogsville a few times over the last few weeks. Each time I did, I was overcome with joy that I had not been selected to describe my life in only 6 words. It’s much like the way I feel when I wake up on a Saturday or Sunday and think for about 30 seconds that it’s a work day and then realize it isn’t and I can go back to bed. The reason? I could only ever come up with one word: ‘What?’ And let’s face it; that’s not much to brag about. Then, I opened up my blog comments the other day only to discover that I had been tag teamed (that’s what she said) by the deputies of both Karma and Misfortune. Now, I don’t blame the wonderful Hotfessional who tagged me (after all, being tagged and thought of by any fellow blogger is a wonderful gesture), but now I have to use 6 words to describe myself. I probably know about 67 words (although once you take out certain expletives I have learned from Female Coworker that are not allowed in the workplace and are probably illegal in several bible belt states, the total is closer to 23), so you’d think this wouldn’t be a problem. Since I really don’t want to disappoint Hotfessional, I will attempt to describe my life in 6 words. Before we get to that however, I’d like to offer up a little history of this exercise…

The concept was started by Smith Magazine, with the back story being that Hemingway himself was once asked to sum up his story with just 6 words. His reply was: ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’ I’ll be honest with you all: participating in this is very likely the only thing I will ever have in common with Mr. Hemingway (unless I ever make it to Cuba for vacation), so I might as well do it. Then, I can return to work on Monday and say things like ‘did you know that Ernest Hemingway and I were both able to describe our lives with only 6 words? I don’t think YOU’VE described your life in 6 words. Have you?’ Come on now; you know that sounds impressive. Although I guess I’d better keep that type of bragging to myself because several years of going around saying things like that has probably been what brought on this karma and comeuppance in the first place. Well, that and trying to get the most done with the least amount of effort. Hey, come to think of it, describing a life in 6 words should be right up my alley.

So, I kicked around a lot of 6 word combinations, but I don’t think words like ‘erthjhjy’ and ‘ketchagoo’ qualify as real words. This left me with one final 6-word summary of my life. And it is:
‘good people, good food, endless vacation.’

It’s not profound, but it essentially sums up me and what I feel makes the perfect life. And, it’s a whole lot better than what I almost decided to go with:
‘more meat and more cheese, please,’
even though this last one does portray my good manners…

I would like to tag ALL of my regular visitors and commenters who have not already done this. What’s the worst that could come of it? One more blog post idea that was dropped in your lap? See, that’s not so bad.

A Sad Day Indeed

Though I’ve known about the possibility of this happening for a while now, it was made official earlier this week. I am losing my muse, my inspiration, my nemesis, my sworn foe, the Admiral Decker to my A-Team, the Khan to my Kirk, the Dwight to my Jim, the Jack Donaghy to my Liz Lemon, the Clinton to my Obama (and to be totally balanced and fair), the Huckabee to my McCain. Female Coworker is moving to the Lone Star State, the Great State of Texas. I don’t know the official date yet, but coming soon, she will no longer be around our office.

If you’ve spent more than, oh, about 2 minutes on my blog, you would think that I would be renting a bounce house, hiring a catererererer (were there too many ‘ers’ there? I tried to spell it as it sounded) and playing Ella Fitzgerald’s version of ‘Ding Dong, The Witch Is Dead’ on constant repeat to help me celebrate. Actually, I’m not doing that, though to be honest, she hasn’t left it, so there’s still a good chance that I will. But, I’m a little sad and a little worried about my archenemy’s final bow (yes, I’m trying to play up the good versus bad melodrama here). I am worried about what I will write about and what I will now do in the office instead of while working to try to get her all riled up so that I can learn another 17 decorative ways to use the F-Bomb. She weaves that four-letter word like a tapestry rug you’d find at Costco for $45 even though it would retail elsewhere for $99.

She was out of the office two days this week and we got a little glimpse of what things without her will be like (and this is the part where you cut to the outside shot late at night and you can hear the whippoorwill coo and the crickets crick chirp). It was quiet and peaceful and totally warm and unintimidating (or since my spell checker doesn’t recognize that word, the exact opposite of intimidating). It was the first time at work that I could actually hear my bionic (OK, fine, ‘artificial,’ even though that doesn’t sound as cool) heart valve tick. It was nice, until about 10AM when Partner In Crime broke the silence of the work morning by saying it was just too quiet. We all started cussing to try and bring the familiar sand-papery tones of her anger into the office, but it just wasn’t the same. Heck, at lunch that day, those of us who were there could barely string 5 words together to say to each other. So, we just spent the remainder of lunch telling our favorite tales of Female Coworker.

I told her yesterday that I was actually going to miss her. She responded by calling me a sissy. Then, she asked why no one would miss her. I calmly explained it was because we were all afraid of her. Then, I flinched and ran away. Yet, I think under that hard candy shell, there might actually be a chewy center. You know, that whole candy analogy seemed like a good idea before I started typing it, sorry about that. Late yesterday she told me that I was welcome to come see her and her family after they’ve settled down in Texas. Though I didn’t say it, my first response was something along the lines of ‘yeah, I’m going to go see you in a state where they have ample access to cattle prods.’

I have no idea who will replace her, but that individual will certainly have some very big shoes to fill, kind of like the ones that rolled up when the house landed on the witch in Oz, kind of. I just hope it’s someone who will give me something to write about, although not fearing the new person would be nice. I am going to have to increase my daily walks for exercise though since I will now be able to walk directly passed her cubicle when the new person is in it instead of going all the way around the office just to avoid her. Passing her cubicle now is like dodging sniper fire on the airport tarmac in Bosnia, or something like that.

Though she hasn’t left yet, I feel like a big chapter in my life is nearing an end. It’s that chapter where the ‘all-clear’ is sounded meaning that the German bombers have stopped attacking and you can go outside again. All that’s left now is for her to flip us off as she is driving away for the last time.

Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind. Memories, sweeten through the ages just like wine…memories, sweet, sweet, memories…

Happiness Is. Or Isn’t…

Happiness is a bunch of stuff. It’s fun being happy. It’s also fun saying things that you know will agitate your coworkers, it’s fun getting to Disneyland in the evening when there are 4 times as many people coming towards you to leave as there are going in with you and it’s a whole lot of fun teaching two little 5-year-old girls how to say ‘that’s what she said.’ Here is some more stuff that equals happiness, at least to me, because something tells me that your list might differ slightly, as in a lot:

Happiness is lowering the basketball hoop as low as it can go when no one is looking so you can pretend your low post moves are as good as Shaq’s, before you twist your ankle.

The exact opposite of happiness is making a long basketball shot from the street and there is no one around to witness it. Ok, it was an unplanned bank shot, but I’m still counting it!

Happiness is opening the fridge and the first two things you see are a block of cheese and some corn tortillas. Though I’ll admit that it’s a little weird when they start calling out to me.

The exact opposite of happiness is getting out the cheese and the tortillas with grand thoughts of quesadillas floating in your head only to find that the cheese has mold.

Happiness is flipping through the channels after a hard day’s work and finding that there is a Clipper game on that you had forgotten about AND Lucy and Ethel are content playing outside with the dog.

The exact opposite of happiness is finding a Clipper game on TV after a hard day at work and then realizing it is the Clippers and they are going to lose by 25 points.

Happiness is walking across your freshly mowed lawn knowing that at least for that day, you have the nicest lawn on the block. You’ll feel like a king, I tell ya!

The exact opposite of happiness is walking across your freshly mowed lawn and then discovering 4 new gopher holes that you swear were not there 30 minutes ago and are starting to make your lawn resemble the surface of the moon.

Happiness is looking at your TiVo recorded list and seeing that there is a John Wayne movie that you forgot you had taped. Well, Pilgrim, I kinda like when that happens…

The exact opposite of happiness is sitting down in front of the TV only to catch the end credits of your favorite movie.

Happiness is waking up in the morning with one of the best blog post ideas you’ve ever had. Yes, it probably deals with cheese, Tina Fey or being the only grown up in the bounce house.

The exact opposite of happiness is realizing you should have written down the greatest blog post idea you have ever has as soon as you woke up.

Happiness is being the only adult in the bounce house and getting to relish (mmmmm, relish) the joys of being a kid again.

The exact opposite of happiness is being the only adult in the bounce house, falling awkwardly because you are now too dizzy and being responsible for collapsing the bounce house and incurring the wrath of 10-little kids…and their parents.

Happiness is being contacted by a newspaper syndicate with the offer of a nationally syndicated daily column.

The exact opposite of happiness is making up a story about being offered a syndicated newspaper column just to impress an old high school acquaintance and then being asked by said acquaintance when it will be published.

Happiness is hearing Female Coworker sing ‘It’s a hard knock life’ incorrectly as ‘It’s a hard ‘nuff life’ and getting to correct her.

The exact opposite of happiness is having to explain to all of your coworkers how you happen to know the correct version of that ‘Annie’ song.

Happiness is female coworker asking at lunch if anyone wants to eat her muffin (I swear I’m not making that up).

The exact opposite of happiness is getting ready to say ‘That’s what she said’ to female coworker and then realizing your boss is right there saying ‘don’t say it, Michael.’

Today’s Meaningless Holiday? Whatever You Want It To Be!!

It’s been a long year folks, but March 26th is finally upon us. I started to get really itchy mid-January. I just didn’t think I was going to make it, but finally the wait is over and one of the best days of the year is here. I can finally stop looking with longing at the big blue circle I made around March 26th. It’s ‘Make Up Your Own Holiday’ Day. Yep, the day where you or me or us or them or we get to make Wednesday about whatever it is we or me or you or them or us want. I’m trying to post this early enough so that you still have time to call in sick and celebrate your holiday.

Getting to decide what you want Wednesday’s holiday to be about is a very big responsibility, just like making the choice between a kraut dog or a Chicago dog at Weinerschnitzel, and that’s AFTER you’ve made the decision choosing Weinerschnitzel over any other fast food place to begin with. There are so many options. After all, we have so many different passions, interests and things we’d love to celebrate. Do we go all Sesame Street and make Wednesday the day of the letter ‘D’ or the number ‘3?’ Whoa, that got kinda Dr. Seussian there…

Do we celebrate something selfishly that just we (by which of course I mean you or they or them or him or her) like or try to make it more universal? The weight of this decision is enough to crush someone. Of course I mean that figuratively, because the pounds per square inch of a decision that would be necessary to render someone crushed is beyond calculable. Or not. To be honest, I really have no idea. I just keep typing until all my thoughts have been expended and then I add a period. And now, I am woefully off topic, although I think I finally figured out why I don’t interview well when up for a job.

Ok, back to the holiday. With all the news coverage of it lately, you might assume that Wednesday’s holiday was going to be ‘Let’s Keep Talking About Britney’s Appearance on How I Met Your Mother’ Day by default, but the beauty of this holiday is that you decide. Or, I decide and I can tell you that I will not be celebrating ‘Let’s Keep Talking About Britney’s Appearance on How I Met Your Mother’ Day. Since this is such an overwhelming responsibility, I would like to offer you some potential holidays for your consideration. Obviously with Wednesday bearing down on us by the time this is posted, we’ll have to act quickly to get banners, streamers, balloons and the ticker tape parade ready. Oh yeah, the dip. I forgot that we’ll need to prepare the chips and dips. I’m thinking onion, hummus and guacamole, though preferably in separate containers.

The first holiday that comes to me is ‘I Feel Fine But Really Don’t Want To Go Into The Office Today’ Day. This one is pretty straightforward. You wake up tomorrow morning, call your boss and say something like ‘Well good morning. How are you? Oh, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Well here’s the reason I’m calling. See, I like you and I like getting a paycheck and all, but I really don’t want to come into work today. No, I’m fine. I feel great actually, it’s just that I don’t want to deal with working today, but I’ll see you tomorrow though. Maybe we can have coffee together or try that new steak place for lunch. Oh and by the way, since I’m declaring this my holiday, I do expect to be paid for today.’ Of course you don’t have to recite that verbatim, but you get the general idea. I’ll leave how you will celebrate ‘I Feel Fine But Really Don’t Want To Go Into The Office Today’ Day up to you. I would like to suggest that you incorporate your favorite beverage, a hammock and some Jimmy Buffett into it though.

Then there is always ‘Rachael Ray Is Starting To Control Way Too Many Forms Of Media And That Scares Me Day.’ I can think of a few bloggers right off the top of my head that will want to celebrate this one. The basic theme of this holiday is to avoid all things Rachael Ray, or basically stay in your closet with the lights off until Thursday morning because that chick is EVERYWHERE!

Another nice idea for consideration is ‘Eat Like It’s Your Last Day On Earth’ Day. It’s all about eating with no guilt or repercussions other than stomach pain that will make you scream for your mother and wish that you had never been given teeth or a mouth or a stomach or the ability to feel hunger, but that’s just a temporary side effect of course. For one day, just wear pants or shorts with an elastic waistband and eat everything that you have been working so hard to avoid. Chili Dogs, burgers, lobster tail, 3 slices of Key Lime Pie chased with a slice of coconut cream chased by a slice of pecan, ribs – smoked and sauced, steak, Monte Cristos, crème brule and Elvis’ fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. These are obviously examples pulled from thin air, but I wanted to give you options. Basically, I call it the Trump Method: if you see it and you want it, then get it.

I haven’t decided what I will celebrate yet. It might be cheese related, it might involve me doing something that will require hospitalization or at the very least me saying ‘hey, watch this’ followed by the emergency application of a tourniquet. Perhaps I will celebrate a holiday that involves giving bloggers who have the initials of MC and identical twin daughters buckets of cash. You know, something subtle and slightly understated for the day. One thing is for sure, I’ll be spending all night trying to figure out how to get a paid day off for it though…


As if this post wasn’t long enough (that’s what she said) and didn’t meander all over the place, I’m guest blogging at ...And The Pursuit Of Happiness on Wednesday. Please stop by because it’ll probably be quite a while until I write this much again…unless you are an interested publisher. In that case, I can easily crank out 10,000 words a day. Seriously, it’s as easy for me as chewing…

If Only Don Pardo Was My Tag Along Friend…

I have a problem. It’s a big one (I’m really, really resisting saying TWSS here, by the way) and I need to discuss it. My problem: I seem to enjoy and actually have the biological need to quote memorable lines from Saturday Night Live in almost every conversation I have. I actually cannot stop myself from doing it. I won’t say that I get a tick in my face or anything like that when an SNL quoting opportunity presents itself, but I do get a little giddy. To help you understand, I can only say it’s very similar to that pure rush of joy you get when someone around you blurts out ‘That’s What She Said’ for the first time and then says something like ‘Dammit Michael (or your name), now you’ve got me doing it,’ to which you HAVE to reply ‘I know, that’s what she said.’ Getting the final TWSS in helps assert your mastery of the art over them and prevents them from getting too big headed too early in their TWSS career, but that's really, really besides the point here.

Sometimes, SNL things happen at work that just seem to fall into my lap. Take last week for instance when I was asked to return a call to someone with the same name as an original SNL cast member. Due to client confidentiality and all that overly legal, I need to keep my job mumbo jumbo, I’ll just say she was very short and very funny and married Gene Wilder and sadly died of cancer. I know what you’re thinking; that was so descriptive that I might as well just have told you her name. But, that description was offered to throw you off. This client’s name is the same as the original cast member who was really tall and really skinny and played the Coneheads’ daughter. I’m sorry, but that’s really the only hint I can give you. When I received the message to call this client I could not stop saying her name in my best Don Pardo impersonation, which for some reason sounded a lot more like the late Don Adams from ‘Get Smart.’ Perhaps this is why no one in the office knew why I kept going around saying her name in the voice that I used, no matter HOW MANY TIMES I kept saying it. I joked with my boss that when I called her and she answered the phone that instead of saying hello and identifying myself, I would just say her name in my 'Don Pardo but really closer to Don Adams, at least they both have the first name of Don' impersonation. As you might have already figured, he asked me not to. Well, it was more like he TOLD me not to.

I was also cursed blessed with having the LAST cubicle before the office’s copy machine. I know I don’t need to tell those of you who are SNL fans what comes next, but for the sake of the rest of you, I will. Yep, everyone who heads to the copier in our office is…wait for it…wait for it…ok, here it comes: ‘makin’ copies!’ Most of the work mates are numb to it as if beaten into submission pretty accepting and good humored about it. The lone exception is of course Female Coworker. I don’t care how many times she threatens to kick me in the ankles, flip me off or flash me with the big ‘loser’ L with her fingers on her forehead, I will ALWAYS say ‘Femalus Coworkerino makin’ copies’ each and every time she passes by with documents needing to be mimeographed (while I don’t play Scrabble, that has to be a major point word).

Then are the times we go to In ‘N Out Burgers for cheese burgers (cheese burger, cheese burger, cheese burger, cheese burger…), the times someone says they don’t feel well (time for blood letting from Steve Martin’s ‘Medieval Doctor’) and the times when I find myself doing Dan Akyroyd’s Fred Garvin, Male Prostitute (don’t ask, although I will say that I only do the voice and HR has not had to be called). I have lost track of the times I have told Female Coworker that ‘she looks marvelous,’ regardless of how she looks. Our office is next to a gym, so when we are in the parking lot and happen to see the men who spend a little too much time at the weights, I can’t stop myself from uttering ‘we’re here to pump…you up.’ And who can hear a bit of bad news and not respond by saying ‘well, isn’t that special.’ Paul Simon’s ‘Still Crazy After All These Years’ played on my Ipod the other day and I started saying ‘I’m dressed like a turkey’ and flapping my arms up and down. Sadly, no one remembered this sketch and the whole thing was made worse by the fact that I was indeed NOT dressed like a Turkey. Also, no one seems to get what I’m saying when I blurt out ‘I guess he smells my dog’ from the Dana Carvey head trauma sketch, or my Frozen Caveman Lawyer references or my Bill Murray lounge singer act.

I also routinely find myself talking like Linda Richmond in ‘Coffee Talk,’ Christopher Walken saying ‘champagne and caviar’ in my favorite recurring sketch ‘The Continental,’ and Wayne Myers and Garth Algar (no way, way). At least once a day, I find myself quoting motivational speaker Matt Foley, played by Chris Farley. I cannot begin to tell you how many people I have accused of ‘living in a van, down by the river.’ There are countless other sketch’s characters and sayings I quote often that I don’t have time to include here (it’s scary how many times in a week one can find himself working the phrase ‘this just goes to prove my theory that Germans love David Hasselhoff’ into a random workplace conversation). And I MIGHT have let the occasional 'Jane (or insert any coworker's name), you ingorant slut' slip out, but only once or twice, by which I mean as often as I can get away with it.

The worst part of my affliction special talent is that I think and believe with all my heart that I am being clever. I actually get great joy from quoting SNL over and over and over again, despite how my coworkers feel about it. Yes, it’s true that they once enjoyed it. Yes, they used to sing along when we went to lunch and I would start singing ‘Lunch Lady Land’ or say ‘come let us consume mass quantities.’ Of course they were familiar with the theme song for ‘the ambiguously gay duo’ every time I’d sing it, which our HR will no longer allow me to do. And they all knew what I meant when I said that I just met a ‘Pat’ because I was slightly unsure of the person’s gender. Those days are over now. These days, it just feels like I’m that freak in the corner cubicle who keeps unnecessarily quoting from Saturday Night Live. Wow, that description was hauntingly accurate...

It’s ok though, I still manage to entertain myself and keep my spirits high and isn’t that what’s important here. After all, I'm Good Enough, I'm Smart Enough, and Doggone It, People Like Me. See, I can’t stop doing it…

Reasons I’m An Idiot, Numbers 303-310 (Formerly Known As ‘Things I Learned This Week’)

* My friend at work has helped me name my autobiography, you know, should a reason ever actually arrive for me to write it. The name is inspired by my heart issues and will be called The Angina Monologues (even though saying the word ‘Angina’ makes me nervous and blush a little). The title may be changed if we decide to use The Angina Monologues as the sequel for our never quite fully realized musical, ‘Nylons in Arizona.’

* When Female Coworker says this is the first day in a month that her phones haven’t been ringing off the hook, isn’t it a law of office etiquette that you have to start crank calling her office immediately? I don’t know why everyone started getting so righteous on me after I did it.

* When Female Coworker tries to exact revenge for the prank mentioned above by telling on you by saying that you ate meat for lunch on Good Friday, isn’t it also office law that you have to respond with a ‘that’s what she said?’ Again, I don’t know why everyone started getting so righteous on me after I did it.

* When George Michael’s ‘Gotta Have Faith’ song starts playing while you and your coworkers are at lunch, resist with all of your might the urges you have to sing along to the chorus. Please trust me on this. Ditto for Barbara Mandrell’s ‘Sleeping Single in a Double Bed,’ no matter how catchy that damn song is! And while we are at it, seriously, what restaurant plays these 2 songs back to back?

* When you have written what you think was a pretty good blog post and then go through almost the whole next day without any comments on it and are starting to be filled with self-doubt, self-loathing and have taken to mumbling, go visit your blog just to make sure that YOU ACTUALLY POSTED IT!

* It’s ok to tell people that you spent the night before watching John Wayne, Dean Martin, Ricky Nelson and a very young and beautiful Angie Dickinson in ‘Rio Bravo.’ However, it is apparently not ok to go around the office singing the theme song to it.

* There is no greater at-work dread than composing a very negative email criticizing a new company policy intended to be sent to your coworker and then telling him that you just sent him that email, only to hear him respond with ‘really, I didn’t get it.’

* It can be quite a self-awakening (and a pretty big hint that you aren’t the hep-cat you believe yourself to be) when you pull up to an attractive girl at a stoplight, look over and see that she is shakin’ and groovin’ to something that obviously has a good beat worthy of all that movement and then realize you are listening to Johnny Horton’s ‘Ballad of New Orleans.’ Now seriously, I have NO idea how that got onto my Ipod.

Repost: Beyond The Cubicle Wall…

I thought this little workplace post would be a good repost for a Friday. Get it? Good? Friday? Oh, why won't The Hallmark Greeting Card Company return my calls. Any who, after rereading this, I cannot for the life of me figure out how I was allowed to have a job after late July, which is when this was written...

By the way, have you ever put a post together, saved it, walked away and then spent most of the next day wondering why no one was leaving comments on your blog? Yep, I forgot to post it...

If I ever decide to write a mock work place soap opera (a Mopera, if you will), today’s post title would be the name of it. I haven’t regaled you with my tales from beyond the cubicle wall in a while and yesterday (back in July, which is kind of like yesterday with just a few more calendar pages in between) was one of those days that reminded me that I need to. The day got off to a bad enough start and I should’ve realized it would be best for me to go home, even though it was my fault.

I must be missing something in my life, dying or succumbing to the effects of my weak heart, but I arrived at the office and promptly told Female Coworker that I was so happy to see her that I could hug her. (Here is where you insert audio of crowds sounding stunned or aghast or maybe even the sound of screeching wheels) Where the heck did that come from? Unfortunately before I could recover, I had said it and at least two other coworkers heard me. What was Female Coworker’s response to this? ‘I don’t like to be touched!’ Really, did anyone who has been reading this blog expect anything different? Realizing what I had done, I went and tried to hide in my cubicle.

I turned my monitor so that no one could see my face and tried to pretend I was on the phone for the next hour or so. All was going well until I got my fingers stuck in the handle of my coffee cup. It turns out that while I might be able to get four fingers through the handle of my ‘Incredibles’ coffee mug, I cannot get them out of said mug. And THIS my dear friends was when Female Coworker felt it was necessary to come over and speak to me about my earlier hugging utterance. She walks into my cube in all her ‘I’ll kick your arseyness’ while I am trying to pull my half empty coffee mug off of my left hand. She noticed, rolled her eyes, looked down and asked me ‘what the #$#^$#^% are you doing,’ to which I replied with sunken shoulders and downcast head ‘uh, my hand is stuck in my coffee mug.’ She countered with ‘what did you do idiot, glue it?’ You can imagine the left coast rattling laugh that ensued when I admitted that I had put too many fingers through the handle…

Yes, that is the point when I should have clutched my chest and used my physical disappointments as an excuse to go home. I of course did not. This was only somewhat directly related to the fact that I had a staff meeting to attend. Our staff meetings are always interesting. Mostly this is because of Mr. Socially Oblivious who really picks staff meetings to rise to the occasion. He likes to repeat what other people have said just mere seconds after they say it as if it is his own grand idea. Let’s just say I have a great boss who chooses to pretend that Mr. Socially Oblivious is in fact the architect of the great idea. Then there’s his well, ‘habit.’ He likes to bite his fingernails throughout our meetings. Ok, MAYBE I could handle that, but it’s the fact that he spits them out and you can hear them ping off the blinds. Dear readers, I AM NOT making this up! It’s disgusting and I have more than once been in the middle of speaking when he does this and it causes me to draw a blank and forget what I was going to say, which makes everyone think there is something wrong with me and not Mr. Spitting For Distance.

Then came lunch. Female Coworker, Mr. Lay Low and myself all went out together. You can imagine our surprise when we ended up at the same Hawaiian BBQ joint (aloha, mahalo, sorry it just felt so appropriate) as Boss Man, New Guy, Mr. Socially Oblivious and one of our clients. We sat at the far opposite end of the restaurant and made faces at Boss Man while he was busy conducting his lunch meeting. It was evident he had no desire to be at this meeting and we all thoroughly enjoyed watching him try not to laugh. When Female Coworker took a call on her cell phone, she immediately slipped into her ‘need to yell’ voice, which many cell phone users seem to suffer from. Twice I reminded her to use her ‘inside’ voice but to no avail. When she finally got off the phone Mr. Lay Low and I began yelling to explain to her how loud she is on the phone and everyone in the restaurant turned to watch us. Now it was at this point for some reason that the owner of the restaurant decided to walk by our table. We nodded and smiled in a scene eerily reminiscent of the Cantina scene in Star Wars where the Storm Troopers walk past Han’s table after he shot Greedo. (Author’s mental note: I truly cannot I believe I just successfully made that analogy…). I spent the rest of lunch asking aloud how in the world Mr. Socially Oblivious could be hungry after snacking (on his fingers) throughout our staff meeting all morning!

Before I wrap this up, I need to address a concern. It has occurred to me that some bloggers (well, at least one that I am aware of) may be feeling some degree of sympathy for Female Coworker because it appears that she is the victim of our countless pranks. Let me caution you that Female Coworker is only to be feared, never sympathized with. Let’s put it this way, she gets a client on the phone and you can feel and smell the fear emanating from the phone line or cell tower. Instead of saying good morning to her clients, she greets them with a warm ‘why the hell do you keep screwing up?’ Then there was the time when all we heard her say on the phone was 'it's not morning anymore, you should have said good afternoon!' We ALL fear her. Though it must be added that since I made my hugging remark, I am in the most fear.

Just to save face, I turned some of the staples upside down in her stapler. Sadly, I think she heard me giggling when she screamed ‘who the hell messed with my %$%$%^$&’in stapler!!!!!!’ Yeah, I’m hoping to make it through today. If I don’t, all of you are free to take one of my PEZ dispensers as a memento…

Working 9 To 5. If I Have To. (yeah, it's a repost)

Maybe it’s the dawning of spring and much warmer weather or it could just be the way my boss looked at me when I left the office (45 minutes early) this evening, but I have found myself thinking about other career paths on occasion lately. I should say that on occasion means when I am awake, or just breathing, really. It’s not that I hate my job, but the walls of my cubicle do feel like they are closing in on me tighter than the trash compactor in Star Wars. As a result, I’ve been watching people around me more closely to hopefully get alternative career choices. Well not alternative as in bio-fuel maker or exotic animal manure composting…not that I have anything against anyone currently doing that. In fact, do you have flyers and handouts I can take with me?

While out walking this morning, I passed a pool guy getting his truck ready for a day of cleaning other people’s pools. I don’t know if it was the exhaust of the two 18-wheelers that passed me at that moment or what, but I started daydreaming about going to work as a pool boy, guy, whatever. No, it wasn’t in the adult pool boy meets sexy pool owner bow-chicka-bow-bow way, although…well, never mind. It was more like how envious I was that he was going to spend the rest of the day doing two of my favorite things, while getting paid for it. Yes, could you imagine a more laid back day than driving from pool to pool and inhaling chlorine fumes all day? Sure, it would be a pay cut for me, but I’d be outside and near the water and the medical and insurance must be good if you drive, handle chemical agents and work near water all day, right? And if one of my customers (unless it’s clients) had a nice outdoor BBQ island, well that would just be the cocoa butter icing on the cake!

Aside from a few chemicals and those cheesy straps to hang my sunglasses around my neck, I’ve got all the equipment to begin tomorrow. I’ve got the truck, I’ve got the shorts and I bet my parents would even let me move back in with them. Folks, I’m thinking pool boy cleaner dude might be the next rung on my career ladder. Unless I find something better…

…Like professional charity pledge sponsored walker. I know it’s a long title, but CEO is such a short title and you have to wear professional business attire all the time instead of athletic clothes and walking shoes. Besides, the income potential is only limited by my ability to get people to pledge money for each mile I walk. Yes, it sounds like something Creed would do on The Office, but I’m proud to say I’ve always had a little entrepreneurial spirit in me. It’s so simple really, perhaps even simpler than showing up to the office each day and essentially getting paid to blog. What, did I say that? I know nothing about such sneaky office antics. Surely you all know me well enough to understand that I work my rear off on real serious stuff from the time I get to the office until the time they kick me out. You do believe me, right? SERIOUSLY, BELIEVE ME NOW!!! Ok, thanks.

So here’s my plan. I get dressed up (that means jeans that aren’t faded and a polo shirt that makes my neck itch) and go house to house with a pamphlet about a charity or cause so I can ask for $1.00 per each mile that I walk. If I can do it without killing myself, I’ll cover fifty miles and make fifty dollars per person that sponsored me. Wait, wait, wait. Let’s make that twenty-five miles. Twenty-five dollars per person isn’t bad, I’ll just sign up more people to sponsor me. OK, you know what, let’s just make it ten miles and I’ll hit up friends and relatives too.

Except for the mind numbing guilt I will feel because of my Catholic upbringing and the whole ‘it might be considered illegal’ part, it’s a brilliant strategy. I can do a different charity every day and after the tax deducts, I should be sitting pretty, in a house, on a hill, with a view, ooh, and a pool. The best part is, I’ll still have all the chemicals and equipment to clean the pool myself.

So, have I told you about the plight of the Spotted Yellow Tipped Duck? Well, I’m doing this walk you see…

What A Taxing Letter

Well, it finally came. I finally got mine. I was really starting to worry. It was that same kind of worry one gets during those split seconds as you begin to open an email from your boss titled ‘Report Overdue’ but it hasn’t loaded and you can’t read the words yet although you begin to vaguely remember a report you think you were probably supposed to have done, but didn’t. Actually, I guess that’s more of a panic than a worry. When the IRS and the government spends over $100 million just to mail a letter that says a tax rebate is coming, well, I don’t want to miss it.

Just to be clear though, I’m not talking about missing the tax rebate action; I’m talking about missing the extremely costly letter. And now my worries are finally over because I have the letter and I got to read it and I no longer feel left out when all my coworkers say things like ‘well, what did you do wrong, I received mine’ and ‘can’t you just stop blogging and get a little work done like the rest of us.’ Ok, while that last one is said to me often in the office, I guess it really isn’t pertinent to this story.

After looking over the $100 million letter, I have to say that I’m a little disappointed. Does anyone remember the $10 million dollar man? Think about everything he could do and he only cost $10 million, not $100 million like this letter. As far as mass mailings go, it was pretty bland. There were no big bold words, no clip art of dollars or dollar signs, no calls to action, no pictures of families happily holding their rebates, no celebrity spokespeope (I’m thinking Steve Carell or Charro. She’s still around, right?) and not even a free subscription to IRS Weekly or IRS Illustrated.

If they let me spend $100 million on a mass mailing, I can guarantee it would be one you’d remember! It would be glossy, it would have big words, there would be lots of color and probably a few coupons for things like a free chicken sandwich at Chick-Fil-A or toothpaste at Target, or aspirin. Yes, aspirin is pretty common in ads and stuff. And what would a pretty mailer be without a piece to detach, fill out and send back in? Not much of a mailer, if you ask me. If the IRS is going to spend so much to mail you something, why not use that mailed piece to help improve their reputation with us, the tax payer, who would rather become a field tester tasked with finding out whether buffalo or bull manure had the better consistency or pin the tail on a real donkey’s ass (is donkey and ass in the same sentence too redundant??) than deal with the IRS. In case you are wondering, yes, that last sentence probably just earned me a lovely tax audit***. I’ll let you know how it goes…

Now I know that the real reason the letter was sent to us was so the government and current administration could get a little good press and get credit for doing something good, especially in an election year. When it’s put in those terms, I really can’t complain. Who doesn’t like a pat on the back when you do something right. After all, I do the same thing. On those few occasions I get to work on time (well, within 20 minutes either way. OK, I’ll be honest - within 20 minutes, give or take an additional 20, passed when I should arrive), I essentially do the same thing that the IRS does. I sit at my desk, play my music very loudly so everyone can hear it, actually take the time to greet my boss and send emails to everyone within the company so that they can see the time stamp on my email and know that I got to work on time. Except maybe the government is self-patting here (which I believe may still be illegal in a few southern states).

But over $100 million to get a little positive attention? I can’t even begin to fathom how much that is. Well ok, smart asses, I know it’s $100 million, but I can’t wrap my mind around the idea of having anywhere near that type of coinage. Perhaps if someone could break that down for me in terms of something I can understand like tonnage in cheese or in relation to what Rachael Ray must make in a year…

*** Though I did make a few disparaging remarks about the IRS, I should take the time to clarify that I love the IRS. You, IRS, are my favorite government entity. I heart you even more than the American Battle Monuments Commission or the greatest government entity of all time, The Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars.***

Everyone Is Looking For A Bullet Come Monday

Does anyone else find it odd that random thoughts seem to occur as if on a schedule? I fear that it might take the randomocity out of it. Whatever the answer is, I have some random thoughts to share, just as I do every week, which might not make them as random as I’d like to believe they are. And the answer is yes, I do like to hear myself type…

* To everyone who I kept saying ‘have a great Monday’ to since Sunday night, I am terribly sorry. I’m not usually such a oxymoron!

* It’s a sobering thought when the city puts up those radar screens that show how fast you are driving on your daily walking route and a car zooms past doing 40 and no matter how fast you run, you can’t even make the thing detect you…

* It’s a true sign that you are getting older when you no longer see the radar detectors I mentioned above as a way to gauge how fast you can make your car go. In high school and college, we saw these radars as a challenge instead of the threats that we see them as today. *Sigh*

* Need a few extra bucks? Just woo Sir Paul McCartney so that he falls for you without signing a pre-nup, dance with a professional for a few weeks in front of millions watching at home and then ask for a divorce. The artificial leg is optional, of course.

* Do you think that dressing like Indiana Jones will come back into vogue when the new movie comes out? There are times when having a whip would give me some much needed credibility around the office.

* According to my coworkers, wearing yellow and blue DOES NOT make green on St. Patrick’s Day. Apparently this holds true even when I ask them to squint real hard while looking at me.

* I recommend not going for your daily walks with the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack loaded onto your Ipod or MP3 player. When ‘Staying Alive’ comes on, it’s essentially impossible not to walk without doing the Travolta strut from the movie. And that just makes you look like a big idiot, especially when you pretend to be wearing bell bottoms and holding paint cans in both hands, unless of course you are able to hear that song and NOT walk like that. If that’s the case though, you have far better self-control than I do, but somehow I suspect you already figured that much out.

* I just saw that some dude who used to blog about the Food Network just got his own webcast show about the Food Network. Wait a finger lickin’ minute here, I don’t remember any auditions for this! Lots of us blog about the Food Network and we weren’t offered this great opportunity! We too write about the great food, the great hosts (hi, Giada) and the great shows just like he must have done. Oh wait, I think I just figured out why: we don’t write NICE things about Rachael Ray. Ok then Food Network, I am officially declaring today that I am changing my allegiance and becoming a Rachael Ray fan (sorry Chefmom, I know this will both surprise and upset you greatly, but the chance of getting a Food Network webcast doesn’t come along every day). Yum-o, EVOO, spunky, spunky, spunky, you CAN cook these meals in 30 minutes…See, I’ve converted! Now please email me at michaelmwc@sbcglobal.net with my webscast contract. Gee, thanks!

That’s One Clean Memo (Again)

Ok, I have rescheduled Q & A Monday to another day to be determined later so that you can all put on some green and celebrate St. Patrick's day. Since they say that yellow and blue make green, I am wearing blue pants and a yellow shirt to work.

I’ve heard of someone wanting to wash their hands of a particular office memo or corporate directive, but I’ve never heard of a company issuing a memo or interoffice directive about hand washing. When I received it in our staff meeting, I thought to myself, boy does my employer care about me. Then I realized it was probably more motivated by my employer wanting to cut down on having to pay sick time when an airborne illness levels their office staff. That made me bitter, resentful and disappointed so I decided it was time to blog about it. Actually, the moment I saw an office handout titled ‘STOP THE SPREAD OF GERMS,’ I knew I’d miraculously found material to write about just when my internal well of inspiration appeared to have run dry.

It’s really a very helpful document and I doubt I will ever become ill again if I follow the simple steps that are outlined within it. I knew about washing my hands before eating and after using the ‘restroom’ (which is usually anything but restful by the way). I didn’t realize however that I should also wash my hands when I am around someone who looks dirty. Who would have thought of that? Heck, that just saved three sick days right there!

Until yesterday’s memo, I thought I knew how to wash my hands. You put your hands together, lather, rinse, repeat, dry, buff, shine, smile, etc. Apparently, for all the years I’ve been alive, I have been neglecting the most important issue: washing time. Because my company cares so much about me, I can now tell you how long you should wash your hands. It’s a concrete method that’s sure to keep you clean without that annoying and ugly pruning of your fingers. Since it supposedly takes 20 seconds for soap and scrubbing to dislodge and remove stubborn germs (and yes, I am quoting verbatim), sing “Happy Birthday” all the way through twice while washing. As you are finishing the last few bars of the song, you can do so in quiet confidence that you are the proud owner of the cleanest hands in the universe! And no, I am not quoting that last sentence verbatim; it’s just how I feel now after washing my hands to the birthday song. Here’s a tip though: hum quietly rather than sing. I don’t know what it’s like in the woman’s restroom where you wash up, but in the men’s room, I’m getting some pretty funny looks singing “Happy Birthday to You” while washing my hands. I can tell you that I switched the song to “Free Bird” and I didn’t get as many looks. In fact, a couple of the guys joined in. For the fun of it, I tried singing Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry Be Happy” and I was asked to leave.

Our company also suggests using a paper towel to turn off the faucet, but the joke’s on them. What they didn’t think of is that you are not using a paper towel to get a paper towel to turn off the faucet, so you have to wash your hands again and could end up in an endless paper towel/hand washing cycle for the rest of your life! Perhaps the wisest nugget of all though was that if I don’t have tissues to blow my nose on or to cover my mouth and nose with when I sneeze or cough, I should use my upper sleeve. It makes me look at rubbing elbows with upper management in a whole new light! I wonder if accounting will approve the increased amounts of my expense reports for all the dry cleaning of upper sleeves that will start to appear.

I don’t know who they are paying in my company to develop this stuff, but it has got to be the best job here (and possibly greatest squandering of payroll too). Hopefully this is just the first in a series of helpful safety bulletins. I would like to see them cover safe telephone use (like how to avoid accidentally dragging half the items off your desk with the phone cord or cleaning the mouthpiece at least once a year) and proper phone etiquette (especially how to use the mute, drop and transfer features). Also, they should initiate a mouse euthanasia program (oh sorry, I left out the word computer, as in computer mouse euthanasia). Computer keyboards and computer mice have to be the dirtiest and biggest germ spreading devices I have ever seen. Especially when you’ve got temps coming in and out working in different offices every day. I fear temps are germs’ equivalent of communist spies, but that’s a different health story.

I just feel warm all over knowing that my employer cares so much about me to pay people to develop these safety guides, pay for the printing of the documents and using company time to have a staff meeting to address these issues. Or maybe I feel warm all over because I only sang one verse of ‘Happy Birthday’ while washing my hands before going to lunch today and am now coming down with the Bird Flu. Please don’t tell my caring employer (who of course won’t be so caring if they ever read any of this). Cough, cough…

Want To Become A Legend? Paint A Dome!

On this day in 1512 (assuming of course that today is November 1st, which it is NOT, but which it WAS when I originally wrote this), Michelangelo’s artwork on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome was unveiled to the public. Other than “ouch, it hurts thy neck to look straight up at thine painting,” the thing most overheard that day was “woweth, how’deth he doeth thateth and is thee not wearing any pants in thy painting where thee toucheth God?”

There are many facts about the frescoes (one of my favorite drinks, by the way) that adorn the Chapel’s ceiling which most people probably aren’t aware of. The real facts concerning the creation of the paintings have been kept from us for almost 500 years.

My research is a little sketchy, but I wanted to share the history I’ve uncovered with you all. What most folks don’t know is that Michelangelo (who preferred to go by Mikey, possibly because it is easier to type than Michelangelo) wasn’t as much invited by the Vatican to paint the ceiling as he was told to paint the ceiling. It turns out that Mikey had been chasing this real hot chick around Rome named Mona. Mona (or Ms. Lisa if you're nasty) snubbed Mikey and chose to court this cat named Leonardo da Vinci (yes, Lenny D for short). Lenny got to paint her, which broke Mikey’s heart. To deal with his grief, Mikey took to tagging all public walls in and around Rome. Instead of facing inquisition, (nobody expects the Spanish inquisition, especially when in Rome, which is where you are supposed to do as the Romans do and not the Spanish, or the Pythons) Mikey accepted several hundred hours of community service by putting his artistic prowess to good use. His community service was being forced to look upwards for several years while painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. A few years earlier, all of the white puffy and powdery acoustic ceiling had been removed from the Chapel and it looked pretty bad, so the timing couldn’t have been better.

By painting the ceiling, not only did Mikey avoid jail time, he was also able to prove to his true unrequited love Mona that he too was a great artist. As Michelangelo was quoted as saying late in his life, “comeuppance is sweeter to thee than true love lost, especially when it is accomplished with thine own brush. Ha Ha He He Ho Ho!”

Anyone who has ever bought paint at Home Depot on the weekend with thoughts of repainting the family room quickly can attest to what a phenomenal achievement Mikey’s painting of the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling really was. Heck, I can’t even paint around a light switch or door jam! Of course later in his life, Michelangelo was plagued by debilitating shoulder and neck pain and hundreds of people visiting the Sistine Chapel have been injured by walking into pews or other churchly objects while walking through the Chapel looking straight up. Though no one has sued yet. I believe this is because it's all religousy and stuff.

Sadly, on this anniversary of such an artistic masterpiece comes talk of a major change to the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. A Chapel official was quoted as saying, “You know, change is a good thing and since our patrons have been viewing the same thing for almost 500 years, we figure it’s time for something different to adorn our beloved ceiling. The fame of the Sistine Chapel has made it one of the world’s most popular tourist destinations but we are still seeing a decline in the amount of financial offerings to our church. Therefore we are taking advantage of the most popular ceiling ever, which is prime advertising space by the way, and replacing Michelangelo’s work with a large stadium-type TV screen and LCD text ribbon, similar to the one in New York's Times Square,” he added.

The new screen will be called Sistine-Vision and church officials hope it will raise millions per year in ad revenue. Major international corporations like Coca-Cola, Nike and McDonalds are already considering purchasing ad space. Paint chips of Michelangelo’s work will be saved and auctioned off on E-Bay and by Sotheby’s auction house to fund Sistine-Vision’s construction. Plans are to have construction completed by 2009. Just think that 500 years from now we’ll be celebrating the anniversary of the unveiling of the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling all over again. There’s that circle of life thing at work again! And yes, in case you were wondering, they are going to put in a Starbucks too.

Talk About Getting Tanked

I just finished reading a Reuters new story that makes me sad…that I can’t make up stuff this good. It’s like the ultimate Liz Lemon, only it was committed by the Russian Military. Apparently, one of their tanks ‘accidentally’ crashed into a house after the tank’s crew stopped at a local liquor store to buy more, you guessed it, vodka. The story says that the villager got film of a drunken tank driver trying to climb back into his tank holding 2 bottles of Vodka. Um, tell me again why we endured almost a half-century long cold war with these guys. In the ultimate case of a military cover up, the Russians said that the tank must have not been operating correctly and that it had fallen behind the group it was with on an exercise. Which begs the thought that if you are built like a tank, you SHOULD be exercising. OK, go ahead and let out that collective groan…I swear I would give something important like my left pinky finger to be able to dream up a story this good.

Seriously though, I guess the Red Army felt the mechanical failure statement was better than their original one, which was that the tank ‘slipped on ice.’ See, that’s the problem with living in Southern California because we don’t get to use the ‘slipped on the ice’ excuse. We do get to use the ‘I lost it in the sun excuse,’ but I guess that doesn’t always apply. I can’t really tell my boss that I lost the report due today in the sun (well I could, but my stellar credibility would fall faster than a NY governor caught in a high priced hooker scandal, theoretically of course), but I could say I slipped on the ice, got injured and was not able to type my report. So, I guess ice beats sun, assuming of course you live in a rock, papers, scissors type of world.

You have to admit that the image of a drunken tank commander wiping out the corner of a villager’s house does not quite create the cold war scare of the old days. See, if this happened in the US, our military would admit what happened, a congressional inquiry would be started to investigate why military vehicles are being used for beer runs and why the American military is buying Russian vodka instead of Tennessee whiskey or Kentucky bourbon.

CNN and C-Span would devote 24/7 coverage to it and call it something snappy like ‘tank-gate’ or ‘Liquor, In The Armed Forces’ (even though neither one of those are snappy, but after 10 minutes, I gave up and went with the only thing I could come up with) and they’d have a neat little logo already created. Political cartoonists would draw crashed military vehicles with famous drunks like Otis, the town drunk from Mayberry on The Andy Griffith Show or well, some other famous drunk whose name I can’t recall right now, stumbling out of the vehicle. Time magazine would place a crashed tank on its cover with the words ‘What Happened?’ on it. People would start wearing t-shirts that say ‘don’t blame me; I’m not a drunken tank commander.’ Late night talk show hosts would make DUI or ‘driving while tanked’ jokes. The entire country would become wrapped up in this story and the talk radio folks would have a heyday.

And then, on about the 5th straight day of ‘tank-gate,’ Paris would get arrested, Lindsey would go clubbing or Britney would leave her house and we’d forget all about it.

***And thanks to all those great bloggers that correctly pointed out that the way I used 'Liz Lemon' was not actually a verb...Boy did I pull a Michael Scott.***