Kiss-Ass Assassin

I have a rule: don’t kiss ass. Self-respecting individuals who are worth a damn in the business world are confident enough to know they don’t need it. And if you find yourself around people who do need their asses kissed, distance yourself. These people are not worth being around no matter how accomplished, wealthy, or recognized. In regards to this rule, the one thing I was not prepared for was someone kissing my own ass.

These fucking compliments are wearing me out.

The reality of my career is I am barely middle-management. No complaints, this is fine. The middle is often underrated. On one end of the spectrum, I do not fulfill work orders designed for production at lower levels. On the other end, I am not belittled by C-level executives while sitting across a sea of mahogany in fantastic lighting. My skill-sets fill the in-between. I convert high-level strategy to work processes, all of it based on orders from a much higher level and pay-grade. If someone is kissing my ass, their priorities are misaligned and their self-esteem is lower than whale shit.

Don't worry, I already took a dump in the ocean.

It started with gentle reminders about the workload. It was redundant but innocuous. That's fine, remind me what you are working on even though I already know what it is. It transitioned to suggestions for improvement on a process I created that was commented to be "superb." It escalated to unnecessary compliments on how well I was able to complete tasks that are, to be frank, mundane. Saccharine soaked compliments that would make Trump blush. Most people would take time to enjoy it. I'm too busy putting myself down to know what to do with a compliment. Self-deprecating humor is a bitch.

Corporate Joe, let me know when you want self-help advice.

My first attempt was to eschew the compliments. A simple ignore on my part in hopes to discourage the behavior. The compliments continued. My second attempt was to let the individual know there is a disconnect between their assessment of me and my actual achievements. Neither worked. Time to step it up a notch.

I am going to make this kiss-ass pay. For each compliment, another work item is assigned to their inbox. If this doesn't shut them up then I am sitting on a lottery ticket. A work masochist who is impervious to laptop late nights and early morning meetings. Together, we can rule the workplace. Cue the evil laugh and wringing of the hands.


Whatever you say boss.

Disjointed Author

I was struck by a new business idea that had substance. This occurs when I sense a waning relevance of my place in the working world. It buys me time. Before I release my idea into the ether I need a sounding board. I have to get the idea out of my head in an ugly auditory first draft. At this point I need a trusted co-worker. One who can listen, be direct, and determine if my idea has weight. Unfortunately, my idea went viral. I should be flattered but instead it makes me realize that in an instant, the idea is no longer mine to control.

One co-worker. A trusted co-worker. One meeting maker. One invite. Solidify the idea: repurposing of documentation and processes, efficiency, dollars saved. The brainstorming session will help calcify the thought. Shape it, hone it and then express its essence in a clear manner to a higher pay grade. I won't crumble in the cross-examination. Once that happens, it will be easy to get others on board. Except others are already on board.

Last time I confide in this guy about a conference call.

My trusted co-worker forwarded the meeting maker. And then it was forwarded again. Some of the individuals joining the call I have not even met. A snowball effect outpacing the architecture of my original thought. People will expect my idea to be equivalent to a polished version of "Ocean's Eleven" and they're going to get the original instead.

Which one of us should kick Corporate Joe's ass?

The call is scheduled for 60 minutes and starts on time. I begin with an early draft of the idea, the stakeholders, who benefits and why. My disclaimer quickly follows. Please folks, keep in mind this idea is in its infancy. I control the floor and the narrative....for about three minutes. The fact that I am speaking does not mean the other side of the line is listening. It is faux courtesy. An informal protocol to allow me a brief sense of ownership before the predators pounce. I am a wildebeest with a broken leg and the herd has left me. Fresh meat on the Serengeti.

Okay, hold on. One question at a time folks.

Who will be involved? What about this? Where are the savings? When will this happen? Why haven't we started yet? How long will this take? It is the cross-examination and I am folding like a brand new textbook. Forget the disclaimer. Those brief moments of joy when the idea hit me will now be replaced by the months long anguish of implementing the idea itself. I created my own job security along with my own living hell.

Hot Dialed in the City

I was commuting in a vapor cauterizing my skin. It is as if Satan himself launched heated SBDs on the greater Washington Metropolitan area earlier this week. Africa hot. Oppressive heat with weight that slowed me down. I don’t mind it in most circumstances. When I’m working out, fine. Going on a hike, great. Half-baked in a red light district, bring it on. However, I draw the line on hot weather in work clothes.


These pants need more vents for my junk.

For commuting, the trick is to delay perspiration as long as possible. In order to hold the ocean of sweat at bay I lower my core temperature through the max A/C method. While driving to the metro parking garage, I align all vents towards my face and armpits. The temperature is set as low as it will go and the vent is set as high as it will blow. It is of particular importance due to my commute timing.

I am at the right side of the bell curve for the morning commute. Several standard deviations away from the height of the frenzy. Because of this, I end up having to park at the very top of the garage. Four stories up. The “low blow vent combo” technique helps to suppress my body temperature to a reasonable 70 degrees. Once the ice is chipped from my suit, I grab my backpack and head for the metro. The temperature quickly rises upon exit.

Ready to face the work day.

I move with efficiency and do my best to exert minimal amount of energy while gaining maximum ground. I enter the elevator and head down. Upon exit there is a long walkway leading to the main doors of the metro station. A futuristic curved metal canopy provides shade on the walkway. I diligently stay on that path. The heat moves through the epidermis to the dermis. My body thawing like ice from a long Russian winter.

Oh shit, it's starting.

While the tourists fumble with their paper metro cards I hit the hot lane with a metro pass. I successfully circumvent a logjam. I move down the escalator just in time to see the metro rail doors shut. The train moves down the track without me on it. Next train, six minutes away. It would be fine on most days but on a 100+ degree day, six minutes might as well be an hour. The heat moves through the dermis to the hypodermis. My core temperature is officially compromised. The metro arrives and luckily the A/C is on. I must keep minimal movement for the next nine stops until my exit.

My body stabilizes. The melting process grinds to a halt and unfortunately for me, so does the train I am on. Stopped underground. There is an announcement but I don’t speak bull horn metro so I just hope and wait. The heat strips through my hypodermis and hits the core. The reactor disintegrates its own containment structure and begins melting.

This doesn't look good at all.

It takes me awhile to break a sweat, but once I do, the faucet is on. It’s official, I am Frosty the Snowman in the green house. The metro starts running again and the vents kick in but it’s too late. You could place me in a cryogenic chamber designed to freeze a Sherpa and it would not matter. I’m toast.


Professor Hinkle, why are you such a dick?

As I exit metro to head to my building I realize it is even hotter. Body heat and 100% wool are a toxic combination for personal hygiene. That is when I finally give up and give in. It is beyond my ability to control despite best laid plans. It also allows me to lodge my head out of my own ass and realize everyone is in the same predicament. Looking around I see all the commuters and they are a collective hot, sweaty mess. Several of us nod to each other. My brothers in arms from the commute. Today, we all stink, and the leaders of the business world are just going to have to deal with it.

A Tale of Two Weeks

Last week the commute was easy. The office half empty. The roads were clear, the lights were green, Metro was running on time with no one on it. A still office.  Hustle and bustle replaced with stretch and yawn. The last week of summer everyone got their groove on while I held the fort.

Where is everybody?! Also, we are out of creamer in the pantry.

Last week I was reentering the atmosphere of work. Others were leaving it for seven days of greener pastures.  I was on the downside of a double helix that intertwined with an upside for my absent coworkers. I was alone with the hum of fluorescent lights while they rode the ascending crest of sun and fun. We all meet the equalizer next week. Back to the grind. Labor Day is gone and I am already nostalgic for summer.

The masses return for tomorrow’s commute. The rat race is full throttle. And even if you finish first, you are still a rat. Goodbye summer, the commute you provided was a short-lived love affair. Hello fall, the ice-cold feel of a familiar ex.

Last week I had big dreams when the office was mine. No calls, no emails, no distractions. Laser focus for bigger ideas. Forget leadership. They are not here. I am. I reviewed our current stakeholders and their respective pressure points. From there, I cast a wider net to include our stakeholder’s superiors.  Build eminence in my professional circle. A promising future for our project.


Who created that Visio diagram? Me, that's who!
Who do I trust with expense reports? Me!

This week leadership comes back. My machismo swapped out for a plate of milquetoast. Everything I built will be torn apart.

Lovely bridge. Afraid we're blowing it up.

It is as quick as a light switch. Last week I was left alone to my thoughts. Uninhibited business energy flowing through me like a series circuit. Then click. It’s off. People, emails, phone calls. Everyone exits the erosion of summer, sees the work horizon of fall and realizes they are behind. Their hurried actions and flailing arms making up for lost meetings and deliverables they will never catch up to. I’ll join in as I do every year and look at the silver lining. The heat replaced with a cool breeze. The weak sauce light beers replaced with lagers. The motionless sports world injected with football. It’s not all that bad. I can build again. All I need is quiet time. Columbus Day is right around the corner.

In Plenty of Crunch Time

Presentation and demo to the client. Big day. The culmination point of four weeks of work into a one hour meeting. Me and my co-workers have it down pat. Just a little pre-game practice before the big show. Get our bearings straight. I will arrive at the office a few hours in advance. Plenty of time, more than enough.

Traffic sucks. Stand-still on the beltway. Not good. Is that smoke? Is something on fire!?  Here come the sirens. Stop rubber-necking. It’s just a two car fender bender. Okay, a three car pileup. But still, I’m sure everyone is okay.


C'mon people. I got places to be!

I’m here. Lost an hour but still plenty of time. Time to find my co-workers. Not here. Stuck in the same traffic. I’ll start printing the handouts. Run 12 copies to the printer. Click.

Oh, here are my co-workers. All that traffic made everyone hungry. Grab a quick lunch at the deli. It’s only a few blocks away. Stop by the printer. No print job. I just sent 12 copies to another building we work at downtown. Print it out again when I get back.

The Deli is packed. The special of the day is wait your turn with a side of chips. Order based solely on speed not flavor. Chicken salad. Already made. Slap it on the bread. Everyone have food? Good, let’s go.

Yes, I had the chicken salad. Here, in the back. Order number 7,862.

Okay, that took longer than expected. No biggie, several hours to get through this. List of logistics to check off before the big show. Run 12 copies of the presentation to the printer before we get started. Select a printer that is actually in this building.

Phone rings. The client. They invited another person. This person will not be able to make it on-site. Dial-in. Set up a Webex. Delegate the Webex setup and then check the printer. My 12 copies are double-sided. Ugh, the client hates double-sided. I hate double-sided. Sorry, Al Gore, I just killed a small tree. Send another 12 copies through, select the correct printer and make sure it’s one-sided.

Test the display for the demo. Conference room is booked. I had it for the whole day. Leadership needed it. Leadership took it. Another room needed.

Backup conference room. Grab the HDMI cable. My computer connection is VGA. No HDMI hookup. My computer weighs 10 pounds. When I get a new computer they will put my old one in a museum next to a typewriter. Need a dongle. Not a dongle, an adaptor. Pull up the presentation and demo while I run to the printer. Sweet, right printer, 12 copies, single sided and it’s the previous version that contains one misspelled word. Another tree bites the dust. Mother Nature is going to kick my ass.

I know it's a little dated but it just might work.

Run through the presentation for speaker’s notes and transitions. Hold that thought, leadership entered the room. They want slide 7 to now be slide 2 and slide 3 to be slide 8. Sure, no problem. Plenty of…wow, look at the time. We’ll make those changes then I’ll cross my fingers, do my ‘no whammies’ print dance and send the latest version to the printer. What is that smell may I ask? Oh, you ordered kabobs. Awesome.  It smells….great? Bye-bye leadership. We will keep your ideas but please take the kabob funk with you.

Webex is setup. Update Webex info in meeting maker. Check the latest version of the presentation before sending out. Fingers crossed. Correct printer, 12 copies, single sided, latest version. One more time. Correct printer, 12 copies, single sided, latest version. Fifteenth time is a charm. Like a boss.

Okay, let’s run through the slides. Uh-oh, we are arguing about the image on the first page. Sensing panic. Relax. Reassure everyone that WE ARE NOT CHANGING THE IMAGE. No way in hell. I have single-handedly reinvigorated the logging industry with all the printouts I laid to rest today. Shut-up. Next slide. Shut-up. Next slide. Shut-up. Next slide. Good. Slides look awesome.

To the main conference room. Pass by the front desk. Let them know we are taking over. Client is at the front desk. That can’t be right. Meeting is in....meeting is now. They’re here. Time doesn’t even matter anymore. It is a continuum of hurried moments.


My watch is broke. I'm racking my brain here. When's our meeting again?

Quick, to the conference room. Colleague to use stall tactics on client. Restrooms are down the hall, water is here, coffee is there, blah blah blah.

The conference room. The smell. A waft of kabob-apalooza. It smells like the lovechild of special house seasoning and irritable bowel syndrome. Get the fan. Put it in the corner. Set it to high. Crank the A/C. Get these trashcans out of here. Put the trashcans in trashcans. Air this out. Spray Lysol until my index finger cramps. Lemon fresh. Amen.


We were told to wear these before entering the conference room.

Send out the presentation. Three versions: PPT w/ notes, PPT w/o notes and PDF version w/o notes. Attach PDF to meeting maker. Send. Connectivity. Only HDMI here. Get the adapter from the other conference room. Hook it up. Check. Screen looks good. IM co-worker to log into Webex. They can see the screen. Check. Client is entering the room with an empty bladder and a full cup of water. Check. Distribute hard-copies of presentation. Check.

“Thank you so much for joining us today. We appreciate you taking the time to meet us in person. We would like to go over….”

Plenty of time. I don’t know what I was so worried about.

Plight of the Off-Site

Our project team had a meeting at another contractor’s site this week. Attendees and total headcount were requested. The hosting contractor wanted to make sure there was a correct count based on concerns of available office space. This contractor (from here forward referred to as “Minimalist Consulting”) made all the necessary accommodations for the meeting. We were specifically told in advance that food would be provided. For Minimalist Consulting, sustenance is not a necessity for others. When lunch hit, our project team was in for a surprise.

And remember, let's grab some grub out there.

We arrived, signed in, exchanged pleasantries and received guest badges. The group sat for the next three hours and collectively pushed through the agenda items. A moderator from Minimalist Consulting indicated it was time to break for lunch. Sweet! We would reconvene in 20 minutes. The order of communication from the moderator was 1) location of water cooler, 2) location of restrooms and 3) lunch “will be” available in the pantry. Cool, I’ll hit the head, grab some fresh air outside and come back for grub. Many of my co-workers did the same. The Minimalist Consulting employees took a different approach and scurried into the pantry. Curious behavior that became clear when I returned 10 minutes later.

I know I'm lying just hear me out!

The head count was correct for tables, chairs and handout materials. For food, the head count was calculated for a party of one infant and then divided by eight. I walked into the pantry to see six of my co-workers holding empty plates and forks. My eyes moved to the small carnage of pizza boxes--empty. Then scanned over to the salad bowls--empty. Finally, my sight settled to the meeting room where Minimalist Consulting employees were eating like snarf-o-matic hog-a-trons. To add salt to the wound (yum, salt!), the pizza boxes were medium. That is when I pieced together the order of communication and how the two groups split. This was pre-meditated.

All here were summoned to discuss the events at lunch.

The outsiders were directed to the water cooler, then the restrooms, and THEN lunch. The natural reaction is to follow the orders. The directions were in fact a misdirection, a red herring. Those with insider information headed directly to the pantry to pillage the food that was readily available.

There were a total of 15 people at the meeting. Two medium pizzas for 15 people? It might work if we were competing for the grand prize in a Kate Moss body image contest. For this crowd, two medium pizzas don’t even qualify as an appetizer. The have-nots are looking at me for direction. Every single face is the equivalent of a “What the Fuck?” emoji. I’m good at handling adversity but I’m not Jesus. There will be no miracle of the five pizzas and two salads. But I will make a point.

BY THE POWER OF...wait a minute, I don't do pizza.

I grab my plate and fork, head over to the salad bowl and pull out the remaining croutons. Three croutons to be exact. I take them out one by one with a pair of plastic tongs and place them on my paper plate. I pick up the last bag of dressing and squeeze it over the crumbs. The paper plate dwarfs the serving size. A baby mouse would consider it a tapas. I place myself directly across an employee of Minimalist Consulting who is rifling through his third slice of pepperoni. I cut every crouton in half and eat with care. As if each morsel were lobster stuffed with crab meat. The employee doesn’t even flinch at my antics. Impressive poker face. A full stomach can suppress any emotion.

The second half of the meeting starts. The moderator makes no reference to the seven of us who did not eat. We delve right back into the agenda as if nothing happened. The meeting closes with next steps. One of the next steps is to reconvene in two months. I make the suggestion that we should return the favor and host at our office next time. Meeting logistics fall below my pay grade but in this case I would like to help admin determine how we can reciprocate their hospitality. Especially when it comes to the menu.

Please, have a bite. It'll fill you right up.

Out of Office. Out of Job?

I am at the beach using my vacation days for actual vacation. Finally, I have the chance to test the durability of my customized east coast shark tank. Whatever the excursion, taking time off must always have a corresponding out of office plan. Rest and relaxation without guilt or worry is true job security. Part of maintaining that security is having all my ducks in a row before I leave. The stronger my out of office plan, the more I can enjoy the vacation itself. The office building won’t survive without me. At least that’s what I thought before I left.

I’m trying to relax, honey. I just have this sinking feeling.

The crux of coverage is to develop a multi-diversified package. Divvy up responsibility among several peers instead of putting all the eggs in one basket. The other pivotal piece is to balance the release of information. Provide enough institutional knowledge to hold the fort and withhold enough to maintain job relevance. The coda for coverage is the out of office email --- a well-crafted reminder for others that I am not around.


All play and no work means leave me alone.

For an overwhelming majority of the time, the email notification can take care of any further contact. A shot across the bow indicating that whatever is of concern can wait. This is reinforced through a supporting work voicemail. A unified communication front indicating my services have been disseminated and are unavailable for the commands of superiors. Despite the most exhaustive efforts to cover the bases, there is the inevitable phone call.

I should probably get that.

The mobile phone has disintegrated all communication barriers for the last 15 years of the business world. It makes you accessible regardless of location. Every email signature is expected to have a cell number. It is inevitable that cell will.....RING. The number is from a co-worker. RING. It is someone who is responsible for a piece of my job. RING. I wrote out a procedure incorrectly. RING. I forgot to carry the “1” in a comp calculation. RING. Our data has been hacked by narco-terrorists and held for ransom in exchange for the release of multiple drug king-pins. RING. Just answer the damn phone.

This better be good. It can’t hurt my career.

I hit "Answer" and prepare for the horrible news...

My co-worker wants to know if I left for lunch yet. Her and several other peers are hitting a new Thai place around the corner. They forgot I was even out of town. The conversation closes with a curt, “See you when you get back to the office.” The absence of being essential hits harder than the imaginary work crisis. What was not stated on the phone speaks volumes about my future.  I’m not that important anymore. Maybe I never was. This vacation has been extended for another week.


Hey guys, I’m back! Guys?

Hold Fast to Your Dreams (unless it's this one)

It is the last day of school. I sprint in the hallway, classroom to classroom. I cup my hands into makeshift binoculars and peer through the wire glass window frames of each door. Inside each class, students are seated in an orderly fashion as the professor hands out a test. I survey the faces. No one is familiar. I don’t even know what test I am supposed to take. The hallway lengthens and the classrooms multiply. I am trapped in the equivalent of an M.C. Escher painting. This final test is do or die. The sprint and stare technique continues to the next classroom and then I wake up. This is the reoccurring nightmare when stress enters my life.

I understand you skipped the final exam.

Please, sit. Let's talk probation options.

The last classroom setting I attended was 20+ years ago yet the dream remains embedded in my subconscious. Instead of classroom consequences, this dream is now a metaphor to homework in the real world. In this particular case, it is a project management delivery schedule that will align personnel to specific assignments. How could I forget this test?

Something tells me if I do remember, I ‘m shit out of luck.

Ahhh yes, build a cross-sectional team for a nebulous end-product where multiple personnel provide minimal support to an overall objective. Ugh, it’s all coming back to me now like bad Indian food. The problem with this initiative is diluted responsibilities. The sum is greater than its parts but in this case, the parts are falling apart. The number of colleagues to contribute to the workload outweighs the actual amount of work to be done. This minimal support lowers the liability of each person. This results in the easy homework being pushed aside, or into the trash can. There are bigger deliverables out there to be addressed. Deliverables directly tied to reputations. When my deliverable is compartmentalized there are no repercussions to the individuals for not completing the assignment. When my deliverable is viewed as a whole, it is directly tied to my reputation. Repercussions indeed. The meeting is on.

Tell me about your billable hours for this project!

This meeting is the opposite of my dream. I know exactly who I report to, where I report to and what is expected of me. There is no stock footage alarm clock scene to save me in this circumstance. The anxiety level is palpable. It is time for a mental rolodex review of my excuses as a last ditch effort. 'Competing priorities' is always a good one. 'Need to pick your brain a little more' has a hint of reverence. 'My African pygmy hedgehog had eye surgery' neutralizes authority with surprise. Oh well, I’m screwed. I had a nice run, time to take my medicine.

Before I say a word, the issue is resolved. I am saved. I am informed the contract has been placed on a no-cost performance extension. This is not a free male enhancement pill. It is when funds remain in the contract and work will continue beyond the original end date. My dilemma resolved by deus ex machina. I can hold off my reoccurring nightmare for at least another month. Time for lunch.

Saved your ass. Now run to Chipotle!

The Cafeteria Chaos Theory

This week, I forgot my lunch along with an emergency breakfast bar. I would have to visit our "new" cafeteria. At least new to me. It opened four years ago but somehow I have managed to avoid it. Upon confession of my first visit to co-workers I received incredulous reactions. I heard talk at the water cooler over the years. It was an experience. Time to find out for myself.

Before entering, I scanned the layout to find a point of engagement. No luck. The flow of human traffic in the cafeteria resembled a mock riot. No stones were being thrown and no one was crying injustice yet each person had their own unique cadence and destination to reveal a pattern that was no pattern. Behind me, the next wave of hungry consultants pushed me into the fray against my will. I was part of the mob. It was time to grab some grub.

You take the salad bar, I’ll grab the tofu stir-fry.

I search for what I’m craving and the chaos begins to make sense. My scanning eyes and line of sight are out paced by the number of options. I am fully integrated into the chaos by wandering aimlessly to each poorly marked station. Only to turn a corner to find more stations: regular salad, supreme salad, Korean BBQ, pizza, sandwiches, vegetarian, gluten-free, soft-drinks and health drinks. Being accosted by the caterers of each station while trying to reach a decision: “Would you like to try a sample?”, “Interest you in a salad?”, “Make a decision, yo?” This cafeteria was not designed by an architect, the layout was created by Pussy Riot in the hopes of upsetting the status quo.

Say no to the New Food Order!

It’s a smidge of anarchy paired with the blueprint of a traditional food court. A well-assembled plan that was cut into pieces then used for a game of 52 pickup. For all of the process improvement the consulting industry brags about, the cobbler’s kids are without shoes in this instance.

The Korean BBQ looks really good, except I don’t know where to get in line. The station is less than three feet away but there are a dozen people in front of me. I’m not sure if I’m cutting in front of someone or being taken advantage of. It's as if I'm sifting my way through the thick forest of pins in a Pachinko machine. With 25% will and 75% luck, I shake and ping my way to the food station. I load up on meat, veggies and white rice and head to the cashier.

The scale I set my food on has the gravitational pull of Jupiter. Apparently the Korean BBQ has coagulated into a ball of concrete as the scale indicates a price close to $13. I am tempted to ask about a layaway plan. Instead, I grab the last Andrew Jackson from my wallet and hand it over. My expression to the sticker shock registers with the cashier. Her smirk equates to, “Welcome to the cafeteria, sucker.”

Hello! Trying to find the weigh station for my Korean BBQ.

I exit to the seating arrangements of the cafeteria and survey the grounds. Waves of anxiety undulate in the pit of my stomach. Holy shit, I’m in high school again. The pressure to find a place to sit during the busiest part of lunch. There is the young crowd of astonishingly good-looking career climbers who occupy the majority of the space. They appear to have been pulled from a United Colors of Benetton casting call. In stark contrast are the apex predators atop the corporate ladder who sit at smaller tables. Then there are me and my co-workers: in the murky middle with little career growth and ambition. Luckily, we are the table that no one notices. I eat as fast as possible and head out the door.

Look, man. I just want to eat my food and leave.

The cafeteria exit is designed for assimilation back into work mode. A badge is required to depart the lunch experience. Leaving through turnstiles that account for where you were and also where you are going with your next security card swipe. Chaos to order. Somehow heading back to my cubicle doesn’t seem so bad anymore. But maybe that’s the point of the design. Damn you cafeteria. Damn you straight to hell.

Ahhh, home sweet home.

Short-Lived Legacy

Managing work and doing work. Each is unique. But there are brief periods of time when they actually intersect. Particularly in the case when a manager must transition processes for production at lower levels. Give the lower paygrade an early win. It’s another notch on the evaluation belt of a subordinate. It’s also one item subtracted from the manager.

The work has to find a new home. Unlike Wheel of Fortune, we cannot do the same thing over and over.

We're going to ignore that low-blow,

think about our paychecks, and smile.

The manager creates an efficient way to complete a repetitive process. After that, give it to someone else. Simple. Except there are three reasons for my reservations about the passing of the torch.

1. Control Freak - What if they do it wrong?
Legacies are built from CEOs and successful entrepreneurs. These positions hone the power to craft a business swan song. Legacies are not built for middle-management. It hones the power to hand shit off. This limited influence leads to complete control of the final product. Giving the repetitive deliverable to someone else often proves tougher than expected. No matter how specific the instructions, a hiccup will slip in and re-engineer the process.

The paper clip always faces due south after collation.

2. Eat Humble Pie - What if they make it look easy?
My control freak concern subsides when I realize the processes are being placed in capable hands. Maybe too capable. We can bitch all we want about the younger generation. The hard lesson is that the smartest ones figure it out faster and make it better. What I took so long to build into a manual routine the millennials can automate without breaking a sweat.

I took your rickshaw and made it into a rocket. Hope you don’t mind.

3. Planned Obsolescence - What if I have nothing left to do?
Great, I’m handing off so much work that I have none for myself. It can result in an empty performance review. “What did you do?”, “Ohhhh, I gave away the store and engineered myself out of a job.” Once you run out of work you’re either fired or labeled as a thought leader. I’m not sure which is worse.

A thought leader is that crazy uncle you see on holidays. You don't know when, but eventually he's going to say something certifiable. It’s hard to find out who you are once you’ve outsourced all of the materials that provided a small but solidified place in the corporate ladder. If I want to be a thought leader I have to start making up stuff up. Abstract shit that Mensa would have to Google. Crazy uncle time.

I’m here to talk to you about the Overthruster method. Listen carefully!

The trick is to create a concept so absurd that the highest level of leadership is convinced it must be too great to ignore. Eventually, I’ll be found out, but at least it buys enough time to look for a new job.
 

Dressed for Moderate Success

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Based on my available wardrobe, it appears I want a middle-management job from the late 90’s. After reviewing my outdated inventory, I tried to think of the last time I went shopping for work clothes. All that resulted was flashing images of my flip-phone, G-Shock watch and AOL screen name.

Um, Yeah. I heard we had matching outfits today.

I know my business attire is in desperate need of an upgrade. The scariest part is that I am not even in the right decade. Parting with my money for work clothes is the same as buying new tires for my car. The need is there but I’d rather spend my dollars somewhere else.

I don’t mind getting dressed up for weddings and funerals. These are special occasions. Events that occur at such a low frequency should be given a high amount of attention. Clothes are a part of it. Work? That is five days a week: ordinary, common, conventional. I intentionally flip the script, high frequency and low amount of attention. If I have to dress up every day I might as well be as average as the day I am a part of. I am not delusional. The other high-end suits are. But then again, I’m not given the same amount of attention as the high-end suits. Are clothes the key ingredient to success? Or are they a part of the ensemble cast of looks, height, eye contact and the ability to control flatulence during negotiations. The only one who takes business appearance lightly in my office is me.

C’mon, you know my tagline. No? Google it.

There is no such thing as casual in our office. Gone are casual Friday’s, casual dating and casual drinking at your desk. People mean business and their dress corresponds to that attitude. My clothes are as outdated as my philosophy. Not only are my wool pants see-through, but people now see through me and my lack of ambition. My appearance inspires curiosity instead of confidence. Time to make a change. Time to find out if clothes really do make the man. Time to break out the MasterCard. Time to see the price tag on a 21^st century dress shirt.

Whoa! What? Are these dress shirts threaded with gold? Is this tie made from the mane of a unicorn? Why are these oxford shoes equal to a car payment? Inflation has hit this store in some parallel universe run by Jimmy Carter. It has been a long time. Too long.

This cannot be the right price. What year is it?

I exit the Brooks Brothers store empty-handed and downhearted. Maybe I don’t need to inspire others with confidence. Maybe all I need to do is show up with new clothes that actually fit me. My lack of ambition doesn’t have to go away, just my old threads. The right balance of being paid attention to without being essential personnel. The answer: Burlington Coat Factory. It’s not sophisticated...but neither am I.

Dude, There's My Car

It’s proposal season, or as my kids call it, “Where’s Daddy?” The proposal writing consists of putting my head down, writing about the promise of deliverables, the qualifications of our team and how we can do it for five dollars in just under six months. The hours are long and the nights are late during proposal season. It burns white hot for several weeks. So hot that you forget things, like where you parked your car.

Where is that tat about P4 parking?

 

After tackling the first draft of the proposal, I walk the empty halls amid the hum of vacuums from the cleaning staff. I exit the building, inhale the city air and make my way to Metro. One of the benefits of late hours is hitting the far right side of the commuting bell curve. An opposite experience to Sting’s poetic “packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes.” There is more room to breathe, an opportunity to decompress from a day’s work. There is also a significant reduction in B.O. This is a blessing any day, but for the summer commute it is a God send.

Don't be stealing my lyrics, bitch.

I am near the heart of the city and heading to a suburb. The metro map resembles a bicycle wheel without a rim. The center is a hub of transit activity in the densely populated portions of the city. The rails diverge outward like spokes on a wheel until they reach the far extension of satellite suburbs. Each stop that moves to the 'burbs thins out the herd of suits. My exit is at the end of a spoke. I hop off Metrorail and move up the steps. Less than eight hours later, this desolate space will be engulfed with very important and busy people. But for right now, it’s just me. Parking garage, car, home…if only it were that easy.

Muscle memory helps me put away my Metro card and security badge and grab the car key. A necessary move that is also symbolic, one that I recognize as the end of my work day. My car is right around the corner on the first floor. Except that it’s not. As a matter of fact, there are not any cars in the entire row. Must be on the opposite side. Except that it’s not there either. Both sides look exactly alike. Actually, every single angle in this parking garage is starting to appear the same in this dimly lit hour. The absence of cars provides no markers for reference. The garage is cosmetically homogeneous. My brain only holds so much. The proposal writing shoved my short-term memory to the side. The piece that remembers where I parked my car and some witty dialogue from Fletch is now gone. No need to panic, yet.

You're pushing me out the door?!

I double click the lock symbol on my key fob waiting for a DEET-DEET reply. It is met with silence. I am not even close to my car. My stomach sinks at the thought of it having been towed. I walk to the front of the garage and call the number. Nope, license plate doesn’t match up with anything in inventory. Awesome! My car is still in the garage…somewhere.

I know it's on one of these levels.

The parking garage is a boxy mass of concrete columns and floors. It is large. Six floors and 5,000 spaces large. Serious ground for my wing tips to cover. I could attack this systematically or try various areas where it might be. I opt for panic and begin an aimless search. My key fob is pressed with each step. It endures the wrath of my frustration through the single digit fury of my thumb. Double-click, silence. Blisters form on my heels. Double-click, silence. My perspiration is equal parts anger and exhaustion. Double-click, silence. The oppressive humidity turns my light blue shirt to dark blue. Double-click, silence. I give up. My desperation turns to a mea culpa of commuter etiquette...

From this day forward, I will not board a rail car while others are trying to step off. I will not sit in the area reserved for the elderly or handicapped. I will not place my laptop bag in an empty seat next to me during rush hour. I will not huff and puff when a tourist asks me to point out their stop.

...double-click, DEET-DEET. A reply! F*ck all those promises. I found my car! Startled at the digital response, I laugh with hysterical glee. I cup my hands over my mouth to suppress the hyena-like sound. Almost home! Don’t get ahead of yourself. Instant karma based on broken promises.

I hear it, but where is it? Double-click, DEET-DEET. Double-click, DEET-DEET. Double-click, DEET-DEET. With each click and response I walk to opposite ends of the garage. I am playing Marco Polo with my car. And my car is not just winning, it is officially kicking my ass. The DEET-DEET response echoes off the concrete of the empty garage. The sound reverberates against multiple walls until I’m convinced it is everywhere. It is the cricket stuck in your room on a summer night. The sound is ubiquitous but the cricket is a ghost. Except all I want to do with this cricket is catch a ride home. I promise I won’t be angry and smash you with a random flip-flop. Pinky promise. To hell with the promises! I just got burned on that. Where are you my beautiful 2006 Altima with bad alignment and limited options? HELP ME!...and that’s when the DEET-DEET was accompanied by a red light bouncing off the wall. My brake lights. Sound and sight. I laughed like a hyena again. Except this time I let it all out.

Dude, found it.

I hobbled to my car with fresh blisters from the junket. My hair was matted with sweat. Beads of perspiration masked my tears of joy. I hugged the car door. I don’t remember parking here. I don’t even remember this level. And I don’t care. This experience has changed me. It has made me a better person. Sometimes things have to be taken away in order to understand how important they are. I can’t wait to tell my family about what I have learned. Merging onto the freeway never felt so good. I just wish this asshole in front of me would move. Time to lay on the horn for this idiot. Some of us have places to be!