Circumlocutory Yet Witty Expositions

Compulsive in corporate America

2008-10-02T16:29:00.003-04:00

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:

The huddle room is vacant (room dark, door open) but the sign indicates "Occupied"
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

2008-09-26T08:29:00.002-04:00

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:

Take off my shoes
Take off my watch
Take off my belt
Take out my wallet
Take out my coin holder (won't call it a coin purse)
Take out my keys
Take out my breath mints
Take off my jacket
Put them all into a bin
Take out my laptop
Put that in a separate bin (or be chided by TSA-man)
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
Put my backpack on the rolly doolies
Put my suitcase on the rolly doolies
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
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
Wait! Where's my boarding pass?! Oh yeah, I've been clutching it in my teeth the last 60 seconds.
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!
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

2008-09-23T15:29:00.002-04:00

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?

2008-09-19T09:00:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-17T10:56:00.002-04:00

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?

2008-09-15T09:43:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-12T08:27:00.003-04:00

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!

Pictures Help

2008-09-10T08:31:00.002-04:00

OK, I went to give blood at work recently. (I'm speaking literally, not metaphorically about getting beat up by my boss or something.) I've given blood regularly since 1995. I find it an easy and very meaningful act of service and encourage all my readers to do the same. (Now that my Public Service Announcement is over, on with the blog.)

For those of you who have never given blood, or have not done it recently, here's what happens - you check in with a nurse, they take you into a pseudo-private temporary thin-walled cube, poke your finger to test your blood for iron content, check your temperature (orally) and your blood pressure. Next you're asked a series of very personal questions regarding your health and personal habits then its off to the chair for the blood letting. At the end you get to pick your color of bandage, you get some free snacks, some give-away door prize and then get to feel righteous the rest of the day. That's it in a nutshell.

Well the process has advanced technologically in recent years. During check-in they can now scan your donor card so you don't have to fill out as much info. In recent years they had gone from asking you all the embarrassing questions in person (picture large, mean looking nurse asking, "have you ever had sex with someone of the same gender, even once?") to letting you fill out a paper questionnaire, etc. Now the questionnaire has gone electronic. You now sit at a computer station (with pseudo-privacy) and they ask you all those questions. But now they have pictures to help you understand!

For example:

Have you ever used illicit narcotics? (Accompanied by picture of syringe, needle, powder cocaine and lots of pills)
Have you spent more than 3 years in any European country? (Accompanied by high-level map of Europe on the globe)
Have you ever had sex, even once, with a person of the same gender? (Accompanied by close 0f of two interlocked male hands.)

Gee, I'm sure glad that gave me these pictures. It really helps drive home the point. Heaven knows I wouldn't be able to know if I HAD: taken drugs, been to Europe or had gay sex if they hadn't had the pictures!

Why even bother?!

2008-08-18T10:13:00.002-04:00

Charlotte and I have renewed our humorous observation of certain Olympic coverage this summer. It happens with every Olympics. I don't know if the phenomenon is specific to US TV coverage or if other countries have the same issue. You know you've noticed it. But if not, let me elaborate.

Gymnast makes seemingly small mistake like a hop on a landing after doing 300 flips in the air without stopping. What do the commentators say? "Ooooooh, big mistake there!" On and on they go. I don't know how many times I've heard the words, "huge mistake," mistake of epic proportions," "it's over" and on and on it goes. It truly becomes comical the more you take notice of it.

The worst offenders are in gymnastics and diving where so much subjectivity reigns. Charlotte and I often joke that the commentators should just continue with their defeatist, overly pessimistic theme and add on comments like, "might as well go kill themselves now," "somebody give that girl a pistol, her life is over," "somebody give that guy a razor blade so he can put himself out of his misery"

Well, we find it humorous.

NY Times Weighs in on OKC

2008-08-11T12:28:00.002-04:00

Late last week I was watching Pardon the Interruption on ESPN. They had a substitute "analyst" on that day for one of the two regular guys. When the topic of the name for the new OKC NBA franchise (rumored to be "Storm") came up, this guy went off. He didn't like the name, didn't like that the former Seattle Super Sonics had moved to OKC, and didn't like OKC in general. "What is there to do there besides sing 'Oklahoma'?" Of course, I wanted to ask him when the last time was he had spent any time in OKC. My guess would be a long time.

Those who have watched the renaissance of OKC since 1993 know its transformation has been significant. Those who have actually spent some time there in the last 3-5 years know even better.

As further confirmation, check out the recent article from the NY Times Travel section.

The Smokers' Sprint

2008-08-05T14:28:00.003-04:00

In keeping with the season of the Olympics (but without the Communist overtones) I wanted to talk freely and without State censorship about a potential future Olympic sport. This sport, however, could be populated with the less fit among us, at least in terms of respiratory function. Of course, I'm speaking of what I call the smokers' sprint.

You've all seen it, I'm sure. Watch as the smoker approaches the door of an office building to exit on their smoke break. In my observation the really good smoker has the cigarette in their mouth AND lit before both feet are out the door. Truly, this takes both great skill and practice. Think about it. You have to position your hands on both the box of cigarettes and the lighter as you approach the door. Then a few steps before the door you shake a cigarette out of the package (a skill in itself) and put it in your mouth. Then, while pocketing your pack of cigarettes and as your hand hits the handle to the door you raise the lighter to your mouth, cupping the tip of the cigarette from any wide resistance and initiate lighting as soon as your first foot hits the outside. Then by the time your second foot hits outside the cigarette is lit and you can begin with the carcinogenic imbibing. Can't you imagine smokers from around the world lined up in office chairs who, at the sound of a small gun leap to motion toward the awaiting door. I'd pay to see that! I'd put my money on the folks from western Asia.

Be on the lookout for this practice. It's quite amusing.

Dude, where's my underwear?

2008-07-30T09:33:00.002-04:00

Well this is definitely the post you've all been waiting for. As the title implies, I recently had a problem...with my underwear. Sunday is the day I typically do the family's laundry. I sort, launder, dry and fold while watching NASCAR or some other manly type sport. (Sorry to tell you I no longer pre-treat, though I know I should). Anyway, I completed the laundry that night. The next morning when getting dressed I noticed that my prodigious supply of underwear seems thinner than it should for a Monday. But I didn't think a great deal about it. However, by later that week I was starting to really run low. Given my inventory, combined with my Sunday laundry schedule, this should not be happening. Something was definitely amiss with my underwear.

I checked the dryer. Nothing there. Nor in the washer. I checked my son's supply of underwear. All far too small for me. Perplexed, I was forced to conduct an off-schedule laundry cycle for my underwear. This was most distressing.

About a week later I got my dry cleaning. When I opened it up what do you think I found? That's right, about six pair of neatly laundered and pressed men's underwear hung with care. Not since the Spring of 1987 had I enjoyed such a pleasant change of underwear.

Please file this under the category of Too Much Information!

Beware the Druken Dude

2008-07-28T20:06:00.004-04:00

So I had a business trip recently out to Denver. Love Denver. Could picture myself living there...or at least owning a nice condo up in Summit County (dream large, right?!). Anyway, I had a connecting flight through Charlotte, NC. It was a Boeing 737 so the set up in coach is 3x3. And of course, I drew the middle seat (blech!) But there was hope because the aisle seat next to me was still empty as the stewardess...excuse me..."Flight Attendant" was going to close the cabin door. Well wouldn't you know some bozo comes stumbling in right about then and as all the passengers watch him work his way down the aisle, oblivious to the fact that the entire plane is waiting on HIM, he dumps his stuff in the seat next to, you guessed it, me.

Of course he doesn't just quietly take his seat, he has to struggle to arrange all his crud in the overhead storage bins which are obviously full. After a few minutes of futile struggle the stewar...Flight Attendant helps him find a place for his stuff. She then has to remind him to sit down so the plane can, you know, LEAVE! He sits, and then takes out his cell phone (mind you, the door to the plane is now closed at which point all electronic devices should be in the off position) and calls what I deduced was his girlfriend. He spews all sorts crap to her about how he can't wait to see her again...blah, blah, blah. All the while I'm wishing the Flight Attendant would come flick him in the ear and tell him to get off the freaking phone.

After the obligatory safety briefing which says nothing about how much I'm going to have to pay to get my midget-sized portion of stale trail mix, the guy starts chatting me up. "Dude, I almost missed the flight, do you believe that? Dude!" I feel the blood leave my head when I realize what's happening. I've got a chatty drunk sitting next to me! This is bad. Next to an angry drunk, the chatty drunk is the worst thing for a slightly anti-social person like myself to encounter in a small, assigned seat, extended confinement situation.

Right after take off he starts in, "Dude, what do you do?" "I'm a project manager" trying to keep my answers short and close-ended. "Dude, that's cool. I manage golf courses. Dude, you play golf?" "No." Please leave me alone, I thought to myself. "Dude, you ever heard of (fill in name of golf courses here)?" "No." "Dude, its sweet. I get paid to get people to build golf courses." Great. In the name of all that's holy and decent, shut UP! "Dude, what's up with that stewardess, she wouldn't let me buy any drinks yet. You believe that dude?" "Life's a jip." Where is the nearest emergency exit? I might need to fling myself through it before we get to Denver.

Since my close-ended answers weren't having the desired effect I switched strategies; I put on my headphones, turned up the volume and started making demonstrative jiving and grooving motions with my head and hands. Clearly, I'm into my music, i.e., leave me alone. Then I see him turn toward me and his mouth is moving...and moving...and moving. I keep grooving, eyes forward. Not responding. His mouth moves some more. I continue to groove feverishly. Eventually he stops.

When I grew tired of the music, I didn't want to let my defenses down, so then I feigned sleep. Eyes closed, head tilted, little bit of drool coming out of the corner of my mouth. Very convincing, right? "Dude, after I go to Denver I'm gonna meet my girlfriend in Vegas. You ever been to Vegas, dude?" "Are you talking to me?" "Oh, sorry dude, were you asleep?" Would it be considered self-defense at this point to slap this guy in the face with my laptop? "Dude, here's my card. Let me know if you ever want to build a golf course." "I'll cherish it always."

Mercifully, at this point the Flight Attendant comes by and he breaks into a 15 minute conversation / negotiation with her about how many drinks he can buy at once. So the lesson here is, beware the drunken dude!

From here to eternity

2008-07-24T07:55:00.002-04:00

OK, I'm going to go Andy Rooney on you for a bit. No, I'm not going to grow my eyebrow hair for 80 years without once trimming it resulting in the appearance of two highly distracting, shrubs above my eyes. I am however going to lodge a curmudgeon-like complaint.

What's the deal with receipts these days? They're getting longer and longer. One of the worst offenders I've noticed is my local CVS pharmacy. I went in to my CVS recently to buy a small electric fan. I purchased only the one item for $14.99 plus tax. Sounds like a small transaction, right? Wrong!

The receipt for this seemingly innocuous transaction was long. So freakishly long, in fact, that I was compelled to measure it. Upon doing so I found the menial retail documentation to measure 29.875 inches long. Nearly 30 inches! For one item! That's longer than my left arm! Can you imagine the length if I had gone on an over-the counter medicine shopping spree? At this rate of paperization, if I had purchased, say 50 items, the receipt would have measured 124 FEET long! 100 items would have been 248 feet. Nearly a football field! I could wallpaper my freakin' bathroom with that.

What possesses companies to do this? Are they trying to prove their worth by the length of their receipts? Perhaps they're compensating for something, I don't know. In this case, I say less is more.

Am I becoming (gasp!) social?

2008-07-23T08:29:00.003-04:00

Those who know me know that I'm hard to get to know. When one first meets me I can come off as aloof or disinterested. By nature, I am not highly social. I typically keep myself to a small group of friends. But once one does get to know me then my true, zany, movie-line-quoting self comes out. Back when I worked at Capital One people would sometimes ask if I wanted to go to lunch, to which I would almost always reply that I had already eaten or had brought my lunch. And this was true. Yep, sometimes I can definitely be a loner.

So during my recent career transition, I had to do a lot of networking. Needless to say this was somewhat less than comfortable for me. But many folks wouldn't recognize me. I was out having lunch with all sorts of people. In fact, I was ASKING people to go to lunch with me! This is madness!

Now that I'm in a new job I thought my sociability might decrease. And while I am back to having most lunches at my desk, I have sought out lunches with various friends. What is this world coming to?

Am I "SAD?" Part II

2008-07-22T08:05:00.002-04:00

So here's another socially awkward situation. Someone goes to hold a door open for you. Normally, this is a nice and courteous act. However, some people do this nicety to the extreme. For example, I'm approaching a door and someone is going through that door holds it open for me. However, I'm a good 20 to 30 paces away from the door. What's up with that? Now, I either have to conduct a sudden burst of acceleration to get to the door and acknowledge this kindly act or be thought a jerk.

But why does someone do this when the other person (namely me) is so far away? It leads to this awkward situation where the "nice" person is contorting their body, two steps past the door, leaning back in a sprawled position, holding the door with the tip of one finger while balancing their lunch in the other hand, teetering in an off-balance position, waiting / expecting me to accelerate from half a block away to come to the door that I would have gotten to about 30 seconds later.

Just keep walking. I can open my own door!

Am I "SAD?"

2008-07-21T08:52:00.004-04:00

So, am I "SAD?" No, I don't mean down in the dumps and crying. And I don't mean suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder (i.e., the winter blues) though I did get that every winter I lived in Chicago. No, I mean Social Anxiety Disorder. Some social circumstances cause me angst and I wonder if I'm the only one that feels this way.

For example, you know that situation where you enter a long corridor or hallway and there is someone else coming toward you from the opposite end - only they're a long way off? Then you've got that highly awkward stretch of space and time to cover where you're both converging on each other. Then the anxiety in me begins to build:

Do I look at them?
When do I look at them?
Where do I look at them?
If I don't look at them where DO I look?
Do I acknowledge them?
When do I acknowledge them?
What if I acknowledge them and they don't acknowledge me?
Do I know their name?
Did I used to know their name but have forgotten? (Highly likely for me.)
What do I do with my hands?
Do I play with my Blackberry?
Do I walk faster to get the awkwardness over with sooner?
Is my fly zipped?
How can I check if my fly is zipped without looking stupid?
Is THEIR fly zipped?
Are there some elevator buttons nearby that I can push to pass the time?

On and on it goes and the anxiety builds until, at last, we pass each other and I'm free to be myself again. Unless someone else enters the hallway! AAAAAGH!

Look at me! I'm modern!

2008-07-18T09:11:00.002-04:00

Hey! I made a blog! Now aren't I modern? At the request of numerous friends and family members, I am taking a step toward some day creating a syndicated column a-la Dave Barry. On this blog you'll find me writing about almost anything - from the mundane to the profound but almost always injected with a healthy does of humor, sarcasm, righteousness, indiginity and more.

I invite you to read and share with your friends and family.