Strike a pose

Last month, we were required to get our professional pictures taken for work. The organization I work for thought it was essential for the management team to have their mug shots on our website and for each of us to have our shot to use for press releases and such. I had a hard time paying attention to the rest of the message, I sort of blacked out after “pictures taken.”

There is nothing less compatible with me than getting my picture taken professionally. In almost every studio shot I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to see of myself, I look about as relaxed and comfortable as someone with a stick lodged firmly between their cheeks. For good measure, I swear I develop some sort of exaggerated tourette’s syndrome and my facial features start jockeying for most distorted. My lip curls, my eye squints, my nose starts running away from my face, or some freaky combination of the above occur. A photograph not even a mother could love.

When we showed up at the studio on the day of the pictures, I looked the photographer square in the face and said, “You have no idea what you are up against here, but you better do I good job.” I didn’t know he took me seriously until I realized that he took about 25 shots of me and about 10 of each of the others in the group. Yes, it took TWENTY-FIVE shots to make me look decent. No, I don’t mean 25 of those kind of shots, although that would certainly help.

Earlier this week our proofs arrived at the office. I hoped they might spontaneously combust before my eyes were subjected to such torture, but they didn’t. And believe me, there was torture, about 24 images of pure torture. However, one came through to save the day and the life of the photographer at the studio. Not perfect, but considering what he had to work with, at least acceptable. I can live with it and can now begin to repair the damage done to my heart by this entire fiasco. Do they offer workers compensation for such ordeals?



As my colleagues looked at my picture, they unanimously agreed that, “It’s a nice picture, but it just doesn’t have enough attitude.”

No shit, I said, “I look so sweet, innocent, and friendly, I didn’t even recognize myself.”

Disclaimer: Might make your brain hurt

I mean, the whole post might make your brain hurt. I couldn't be more discombobulated if I tried.

[After an inordinate amount of time had passed waiting for Craig to come out of the gas station.]

CRAIG: Ugh. That took forever.
ME: Uh huh.
CRAIG: There was this guy in line ahead of me and he was paying for his gas. He only got $8.75 in gas because that is all the money he had. I felt bad.
ME: Okay.
CRAIG: And then he paid for it all in change, counting out all $8.75 in change.
KATE: Wow, he has A LOT of change!

I love that kids look at things so literally, forcing us to see things from a different point of view. Still, I couldn’t help but bristle at the whole conversation and realize just ignorant we can be and how much we take what we have for granted. You think I am going all Lifetime movie on you, right? Next up, the self-help book of positive affirmations. Believe me, this isn’t my typical train of thought, so it bears discussing. Anyway, it caught Craig off guard that someone would only get $8.75 in gas because ALL THEY HAD was $8.75. When we need gas, we fill up the tank, right?

I’ve spent the past month volunteering on a few HR related projects in the community. A portion of that time has been spent preparing soon-to-be graduates from local alternative ed high schools for job search and interviewing skills. Another portion of that time has been spent giving interview coaching and guidance to a segment of the chronically unemployed utilizing the welfare system. It is hard not to feel defeated when you are trying to provide motivation and encouragement to people in these situations. Let’s face it, in Michigan there are plenty of unemployed people with graduate degrees. I’m trying to offer hope to people with sparse education, criminal records, and undesirable work histories.

I’m so sick of this economy. I want to punch it in the face.

It just makes me realize how damn lucky I am that I can put $40 of gas in my car when I need it.

In changing my mindset to mirror the optimistic approach of my three-year old, I leave you with this:




Man, I love this kid!

Don't tell me you've never done anything stupid

The other day, Pooba posted a video entry about people who portray perfect lives on their blogs. Prefect house, perfect husband, perfect kids, perfect friends,the quintessential perfect life. While I know those people must exist, I couldn’t help but laugh at my inability to relate to it. It was like she was speaking a foreign language and I was having difficulty comprehending the mere concept. I’m sorry, could you please speak slower and enunciate; I am unfamiliar with this pseudo-perfectionism of which you speak.

Let’s be real here. A small percentage of my readers are people that I know in real life. There isn’t enough money in my bank account to bribe them to conspire with any attempt to convert my real life into some idealistic one. As for the remainder of you … if you believe that I try to depict any degree of perfectionism, I will be bold enough to suggest that you may need to take a remedial reading course of some sort. This phenomenon of ego blogging has been taking up valuable brain real estate over the past few days as I’ve pondered the absurdity of it. Accordingly, it was also on my mind as I prepared to share what happened to me yesterday.

On my way to work, I hurriedly grabbed my laptop and added it to the plethora of things teetering in my arms. My laptop had been residing on my kitchen counter this week, along with many other various non-kitchen related items. On a positive note, at least it was easily accessible and on my way to the door, right? Can you handle the perfectness here? I bet all Stepford women keep their laptops, toddler shoes, and week-old Easter candy on the kitchen counter, right? While I was scooping up my laptop, I reached out to grab the power cord as well. While I love my new laptop, the duration of the battery life is apparently in direct competition with the diminutive attention span of my three year old.

Upon arriving to my morning meeting, I settled in and opened my laptop. I politely requested outlet access from a colleague seated next to me. I then proceeded to to extract the CORD TO MY ELECTRIC GRIDDLE. If it weren’t for the Big Ben sized heat control dial, I may have been able to conceal the evidence. Move along people, nothing to see here. I contemplated mentioning that my plan was to whip out my griddle and prepare some banana pancakes for the meeting. Considering my sarcastic appointment as goddess of the kitchen, I believe that may have increased the comedic value of the whole situation.

I thought it was appropriate that to point out that other than the obvious, I am the absolute poster child of perfection.

Come on Down!

I have been in a management position for the last nine years. In other words, at 29 years old, I have more management experience than a large percentage of people quite older than I. Despite that fact, I continuously find myself in situations where I have to prove my knowledge and ability in a senior management role based upon an initial assumption that am unqualified for it. It used to infuriate me that I was always the underdog, fighting vigorously to defend my position. However, I’ve learned that it is much more entertaining to just sit back, eat a few bon-bons, then catch someone by total surprise when they are least expecting it. I find the humor in this a significant return on all the years I had to work so hard to prove my ability. Now, please excuse me while I attempt to stop gagging and wipe the scowl from my face.

I tell you that not to convince you of my brilliance, but simply to explain that I avoid bringing attention to my age, or the fact that I am the youngest person on our executive team by more than a decade. However, this week I was caught in a weak moment as we were discussing plans for an upcoming event.

ME: I think we should play Plinko, it would be an easy way to extend our prizes through the night and something to get people excited and engaged.

UNIDENTIFIED COWORKER: What is Plinko?

ME: What? You don’t know what Plinko is? It is the game that they used to play on the Price is Right.

(blank stares from a room full of colleagues)

ME: Price is Right, always on weekdays 11:00 a.m. I loved the days I stayed home from school and I could watch it.

(Silence)

(More silence)

UNIDENTIFIED COWORKER #2: Well, I don’t think that the Price is Right was on when I was young enough to be staying home from school. No, in fact, I’m quite sure I was working while you were at home watching Price is Right.

Damn.

Perhaps Monday I will show up with my Trapperkeeper and excuse myself for naptime after lunch.

You're Fired!

Firing people is the most difficult part of my job. Managing affordable health insurance for the hundreds of people who count on me to do so is creeping in behind as close second. I hate to fire people and while it evolves and becomes different with time and experience, it never becomes easier. The only good part of that responsibility is that I am the one doing the firing versus being the employee on the receiving end. That is my wanna-be optimist, keeping the glass half-full.

I initially considered titling this post, “Firing people in the local community since 2000”, while accurate, sends the message that I am proud of that statement, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The problem with firing people in the local community for nine years is that while they are multiplying in numbers, the town isn't getting any larger. Over the course of the past month, I have repeatedly run into many of these “former employees”. It is an epidemic. Did they start a club? Are they strategically aligning their positions to correspond with my weekly errands? These situations are the epitome of social awkwardness.

It starts when I realize that someone is innocuously giving me the Don’t I Know Her From Somewhere Look. You know the look I am referring to, repeated glances in your direction, small smiles, and desperate grappling for anything that would indicate mutual recognition. I can see the wheels churning as they play the mental game of trying to place me in the sitcom of their personal history, the syndicated version. What role did she play dammit? I am sure the ratty clothes, lack of make-up, tennis shoes, and toddler affixed to my leg throws them for a loop, providing me a substantial witness-protection-program type of advantage. Despite that, suddenly, over bins of fresh produce, I realize that they succeeded at making the connection. Next comes that uncomfortable moment of minimizing eye contact and politely nodding their head.

I nod and move on, pushing my cart, hoping that they aren’t compelled to address me. Panic. What would I say, “How are you doing?”, “Sorry about that job thing”, or “I’d reconsider continuing to have potential employers contact me – especially financial institutions if you catch my drift.” While they are busy sizing me up, my mind is racing as I am trying to remember just how horrible their termination was, and the speed at which I should be headed in the opposite direction.

Simultaneously, I am trying to place them. Wait, were you the one who showed up to work drunk and proceeded to engage in a verbal altercation with me regarding the technical degree of your intoxication? Perhaps you were the one who locked yourself in your work area and refused to leave the premises. How about the one who fell asleep, only to be awaken when the next shift employee arrived? No? Okay, hold on, I’ll place you too.

When a relationship ends, a well known phrase intended to soften the blow is, “It isn’t you, it’s me.” In each of these awkward past-employee situations, I have to resist the urge to politely say, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t me. It was definitely you.”