Compulsive in corporate America

Those of you who work in corporate America know that at most places, getting a meeting room for each of your numerous meetings each day can sometimes be a challenge. Here at LandAmerica they're much better at it than at my previous employer. One can reserve the meeting room directly through Microsoft Outlook, i.e., invite the meeting room as you would any other attendee. One can see the room's availability like everyone else's calendar, and if you cancel the meeting, the room reservation gets canceled too. In addition to that, LandAmerica deploys at about 75% of their meeting rooms, little six inch LCD screens by the meeting room door. The device has a big green light that goes on when the room is available and a big red one for when it is booked. Additionally, one can look at the little screen to see what meeting is taking place in the room at that time. Pretty cool, I think.

The problem is the "huddle rooms." Now those not in corporate America may not know this term, but I have found it fairly universal in its application. Contrary to its name, in these huddle rooms we do not assemble in small groups, bent over and holding hands while talking about work. We do not map out plays to destroy the competition. And we (usually) do not slap each other on the butt upon leaving the huddle room. It is, however, used for impromptu conversations or working sessions for 2-3 people. At LandAmerica, these rooms cannot be reserved, but they do have a sliding indicator at the door where the occupant can indicate if the room is "Vacant" or "Occupied". Sounds simple to operate, right? Apparently not!

What I have observed regarding the usage of these sliding indicators is very disturbing. I have found a wanton capriciousness as to their usage. I mean, people are walking around pel-mel, sometimes using the indicator, sometimes not. I walk by many a huddle room each week and find one of two very distressing situations:

1. The huddle room is vacant (room dark, door open) but the sign indicates "Occupied"
2. Conversely, the room is clearly occupied (room lit, door closed, voices emanating) but the sign indicates "Vacant."

What is wrong with people?! How can they be so irresponsible? So cavalier? So unconcerned about their blatant disorganization and its impact on their coworkers?

I mean, is it just me? Of course not. I'm not the type to be compulsive about such things. Some people are just so inconsiderate!

I may be a goober traveler

I have many "goober-like" traits, many eccentricities, odd personality traits that endear me to, well at least a few people. I can be obsessive compulsive, inordinately subject to process and sequence, overly righteous about some principles, even acerbic. It's all part of what make me...me.

Today I want to write about another goober-like trait that I may be adding to my arsenal of oddities. On a couple of recent business trips I elected to wear on my person...a fanny pack. You know, that dorky looking apparatus slung around the waist of the middle-aged chubby hubby type you see walking around Disney World? The need for this apparatus is driven by the now exceedingly intrusive security steps one has to endure in order to enjoy the pleasure of air travel today.

The security check point in today's modern airport is, I think, little more than an opportunity for TSA agents drunk on power to laugh under their breath at we trained monkeys. Instead of "stand on one foot" and "eat the banana" it's "take off your shoes, take off your belt, assume the position." I approach the conveyor belt and my stomach starts to tense up. I gotta perform! Gotta be fast! Don't leave anything in my pockets. Is my one stick of aluminum wrapped gum gonna make the alarm go off? Gotta get everything unpacked and loaded onto three different trays in 10 seconds or less or the line behind me will start to get angry. And if I do make it through the portal of death, i.e., the metal detector, without sounding any alarms, then it's a race to get redressed and out of the way before backing up the people coming behind me.

Seriously, when I get to the part where I have to put everything into the little gray trays it's like a gun goes off and I have to:

1. Take off my shoes
2. Take off my watch
3. Take off my belt
4. Take out my wallet
5. Take out my coin holder (won't call it a coin purse)
6. Take out my keys
7. Take out my breath mints
8. Take off my jacket
9. Put them all into a bin
10. Take out my laptop
11. Put that in a separate bin (or be chided by TSA-man)
12. Slide both the bins onto the rolly doolies but be careful not to let them get away from me and be prematurely sucked into the secret portal of radiation
13. Put my backpack on the rolly doolies
14. Put my suitcase on the rolly doolies
15. Wait my turn and then slide my train of crap onto the conveyor belt and guide them into the secret portal of radiation one at a time being sure to properly space each item so as not to provoke a snide comment from the bitter government worker with poor interpersonal skills
16. Stand in front of the portal of death and wait for the frazzled government worker on the worthy side of the portal of death to wave me through
17. Wait! Where's my boarding pass?! Oh yeah, I've been clutching it in my teeth the last 60 seconds.
18. Now the moment of truth...proceed through the portal of death, holding my breath then hand the slightly moist boarding pass to incorrigible government worker. Then, I pass! I'm worthy! I'm a winner! Look at the slob next to me getting wanded, or the lady getting her compact checked for explosives...suckers!
19. But I can't gloat. Now I must undo everything I just did in steps 1 - 14...and quickly!

By now I'm sweating profusely, both at the stress of the endeavour and at the 300 calories I just burned undressing and redressing in the span of 120 seconds.

So you can see where a fanny pack would be helpful. I can gleefully consolidate steps 1 - 7 into 1 step! Now that's efficiency. Of course, I look like a goober, the chicks don't dig me and the first class passengers only sneer at me.

Gee, isn't flying fun?!

The "drive-by" hello

Those of you who have worked with me know I can be somewhat anti-social in the a.m. hours. It's typically during those hours that I am most productive and, consequently, least receptive to "interpersonal interruptions." That being the case, the person who shows up at my desk at 8:30 a.m. on a Monday wanting to rehash my weekend can be an outright, albeit well meaning, annoyance.

There is an interesting phenomenon here at LandAmerica, what I call the "drive-by hello." I'll be in my corporate cubicle busily working (or typing this blog as the case may be) and behind me I'll he a random, "Hello, Grant." I turn around to see who is there and to acknowledge them, but they're gone. Given the height of the cube walls I can't see who may be leaving the scene to even infer who the helloer might have been. And it's multiple people, not just the same person. I can tell by the timbre of their voice and the Doppler effect in their pitch. So, I've pretty much given up trying to figure out who is saying hello, I just say "hello" back to whomever is within earshot and go about my business.

Where do I work?

Funny little story to share with you today. Actually, it's a recurring situation. As many of you know, I worked for Capital One for nearly nine years. So I got into quite a routine of answering my phone when it rang, "Capital One, this is Grant." Of course I say it in a very commanding way...oozing power and respectability.

The first few weeks at my new job (at LandAmerica Financial Group) I received very few calls because I knew very little about what the heck I was doing and nobody needed me. But the calls did eventually start to come. Problem was, I was having a hard time remembering where I worked! The phone would ring and I'd stare at it thinking, "Don't say Capital One. Don't say Capital One." But then I'd think, "Where do I work again? Where do I work again?" On at least one occasion the phone actually rang and rang and then rolled over to voice mail as I sat staring at the phone thinking, "Where do I work again?"

A good day

Yes, I'm a sentimental guy. Not always soft and cuddly, but almost always sentimental. Borrowing from that side of my highly complex and evolved (though not multiple) personality, this post I'm going to write about a good day I had this summer. Not that my good days are so rare, but this day did stand out to me. And the fact that this day / experience was alone versus with the lovely and talented Mrs. Gregory should not, in any way, lead readers or Mrs. Gregory to think I'm happier without her! In fact, I truly wish she could have been there with me. But then there's that whole medical school thing.

ANYWAY...

Yes, it's back to my trip to Denver (I know, will I never run out of stories from this trip?) During my youth I spent a fair amount of time in Colorado on numerous ski trips, most of them to Summit County where there is a cluster of superb and very popular ski resorts including two of my favorite, Breckenridge and Keystone. While Charlotte is a beach person, I am most certainly a mountain person. On my recent business trip to Denver I knew I had a "night off" coming up, so I decided to go into the High Country, out to Breckenridge to look around, have dinner, shop, etc. My trip out and back there was fantastic!

I lit out of work as soon as I could then with my Garmin GPS handy, headed west into the mountains. It took about an hour to get through Denver's rush hour, but once I did it was smooth sailing on I-70 west with very little traffic. I was driving a huge Suburban king-sized SUV (I had reserved a Chevy Aveo micro-car, but they were out when I got there and the only thing that had was this tank). So I felt very manly driving into the mountains with my huge SUV. I also made use of the XM Radio the car had. Tuned it to the '80's station, of course. So I had great tunes. As I climbed through the mountains the external thermometer showed I had lost about 15 degrees while I climbed almost 5,000 feet, so I opened up the moon roof. I was driving into the sun, but I didn't mind; I just loved the scenery - waterfalls coming down the mountains, quaint little old mining downs nestled along a clear, rushing river, snow-peaked mountains, even in mid-June, even a mountain goat here and there. This was great.

I made my way up to 11,000 feet where I went through the Eisenhower Tunnel and over the Continental Divide and then down into Summit County. As you descend from the tunnel you can see the town of Dillon and its beautiful, eponymous lake down below. I stopped at a scenic overlook and snapped a few pictures with my camera phone and sent them to Charlotte and some old ski buddies (Ryan and Jim). From there I got on the small highway that takes you over to Breckenridge. While businesses and homes had developed, the area still looked much the same to me. LOTS of outdoor activity everywhere you look. On this 9 mile stretch from Dillon over to Breckenridge a small, rock-hewn river runs along the road on its way into Lake Dillon.

Once in Breckenridge I reminisced as I drove down Main Street. Saw lots of the same old stores (Shirt Off My Back) and more. I found a place to park then did some shopping. Got a nice mountain print for Charlotte, a cool t-shirt for Garrett and a stuffed moose for Meredith. After that I found a relaxed looking burger joint at the foot of Peak 9. I sat out on the back deck where I could enjoy the cool mountain air AND the fabulous view of the mountains with the sun begining to dip into the peaks. The deck was right by the river as well. Amidst this fantastic scene there was then added, no kidding, a brass sextet practicing for their upcoming concert outside on the other side of the river. Mostly they played music from the musical West Side Story. Of course I know the score to this musical very well from my performing arts experiences in high school and thoroughly enjoyed their brass only arrangements.

After dinner it was time to head back. The sun was setting over the mountains behind me, but I still had the good music, good view and cool air coming in from the moon roof. As I got closer to Denver, while still in the mountains it was now dusk. As I rounded a corner around a mountainside I caught a glimpse of what I thought was some huge gas station sign on the side of the road. As I looked again it was actually the moon. I was not only a full moon, but a real and rare "blue moon" made orange by the atmosphere. Beautiful. Seemingly as bright as day. At this point I then caught a glimpse of the lit outskirts of Denver far below me. It simply couldn't get much better.

Time very well spent.

This is security?

Apparently, my trip out to Denver earlier in the summer was a treasure-trove of humorous observations. I've already written about the "drunken dude." Today, from the same trip, I need to tell you about your tax dollars at work with the TSA.

I was working my way through the maze of security at the Denver airport. Even though I was catching a red-eye, it was still very busy. The guy behind me got stopped because his drivers license was expired. That seems reasonable to me. A nuisance, but reasonable. I got through all of my probings and disrobings and had finally redressed myself after surviving all the screenings. As I was walking away victoriously, I noticed a very threatening looking passenger who had been pulled aside by the TSA for extra scrutiny.

Yes, this fellow was scary, all right. Definitely worthy of a second and third look. The guy was, no lie, at least 90 years old. Moved slowly, hunched over, with a cane. They were working him over with the magnetic wand and asking him to raise his hands. He couldn't even raise his hands to shoulder height! He could barely stand up on his own!

These are the people we want to closely inspect? Really?! Because you know it was a couple dozen frail, geriatric, Caucasians who flew those planes into the Pentagon and World Trade Center towers. Oh, wait, no it wasn't. I'm sorry, I know it's politically incorrect, but I don't have a problem profiling for terrorists.

Words I don't like

Do you ever run into a word in the English language that you just don't like? I mean, there are really cool words like "arbitrage" and "antipathy" but some words I just don't like. Today's word that I just don't like (and invite you to dislike as well) is "microfiche."

Now, some of you younger folks (i.e., those of you who went to college after Al Gore invented the Internet) may not even know what microfiche is. But those of us who went to college pre-Al-Gore-Internet know that microfiche is a microfilm collection of printed material, i.e., a very manual intensive and unsophisticated version of Al Gore's Internet. You load the film on this big reader and manually scroll through the film looking for whatever interests you (Google the old fashioned way). My college library reference area was full of those gigantic readers.

But really, say the word..."microfiche." It's not "fish" it's "fiche." Feesh! That just sounds corny. Not gross like "puss" or high brow like "doctrinaire" just corny. I don't like saying it. I don't like reading it. I don't even like typing it!