Workplace Ethics

This was an interesting article:  Why “Jerks” Get Ahead

Not to get into politics here, but it was clearly written by a liberal as there were plenty mentions of Trump and Cruz, but not one of Hillary or John Mayer, for that matter, and we all know almost all celebrities are on the left.

This topic came up not long ago with little bit. Not how John Mayer is a major a-hole, but how it doesn’t always feel like the good guy wins. More often than not, it feels like the butthole wins. The snitch. The goody-two-shoes. The suck up. And all the while, the good guy is left feeling inadequate and irrelevant.

I learned early on that it wasn’t enough to be busy; you had to look busy. At my first job out of college, I worked with a horrible woman — we’ll call her “Susan” —to whom I actually owe a debt of gratitude as she wound up teaching me a valuable lesson. Have you ever worked with this type of person? Susan was completely and utterly useless. There’s a bump on a log and then there’s Susan standing there staring at the log. The rest of us would bust our humps, multi-tasking and putting out fires (once, literally), running around like crazy people, and Susan would spend 20 minutes fooling with the copier that she jammed in the first place. In between checking trays #2 and #3, she’d make a cup of coffee, walk around the office, stop at every desk and tell each person how busy she was, and then she’d head back into the work room to look at the copier some more. Somehow, at just the right moment, the boss would walk by and see a strategically placed smudge of toner on her cheek and call us all together to celebrate this hero among us who so selflessly put herself above others, risking safety and a dry cleaning bill, to keep the office running smoothly. “What would we do without her?” he’d wonder aloud, and while the entire office stood there, half rolling collective eyes and half day dreaming about life without Susan, there she stood:  triumphant and basking in the glory of avoiding yet another day of honest work.

On the rare occasions that she wasn’t able to be seen being busy by the boss, she would resort to just telling him how busy she was. It was repulsive. And he bought it. In the four years I worked with Susan, I saw her work, honest-to-goodness work, for about 45 minutes and not all in a row. Yet, she managed raises, a fancy Herman Miller chair (for her bad back), an ergonomic wrist rest and mouse pad (for all of her late hours on the computer), and, although she held an administrative position, she wormed her way into an office (with a door) on the senior executive hallway because she had to have a window to help with her Vitamin D deficiency and tendency toward Seasonal Affect Disorder (S.A.D.). Feel free to join me when I say, “puh-leese!”

But I’ll tell you this much…as much as I hated the way Susan acted, I saw that it got results. I never brought myself in any of my jobs to perfect “the Susan” and I kind of pride myself on it. For one thing, I (mostly wrongly) assumed that bosses could see through that level of disingenuous behavior but again and again in different scenarios, men and women, bought it hook, line and sinker.

I eventually came to the conclusion that if it came down to me being a successful jerk or a slightly less successful non-jerk, that I would have to opt for the latter. And that’s my version of ascending the corporate ladder.

The Lies We're Told

A friend of mine, brilliant blogger Martha [hint:  click her name back there to access her blog], recently wrote about finding some childhood toys in her parents’ attic, including some Cabbage Patch dolls (both licensed and the homemade variety). If you only read one of her blogs, read this one about how her parents met. But, if you have time for two, read this one about old toys. It made me laugh. It made me cry. It had a little romance. There’s something for everyone, I tell ya.

But it got me to thinking about my own childhood relics. I don’t have that many these days. If you know me, you know I lost just about all living proof of my existence in a house fire at my Dad’s house in 2010. If you don’t me, well, I seriously doubt you’re reading this blog as I do a pretty good job of keeping tabs on all 3 of my readers, but suffice it to say, I don’t have a lot of souvenirs from my past, at least my past prior to 2011.

I, too, had a Cabbage Patch doll. Well, I had something I was told was a Cabbage Patch doll, but it turned out the mother of one of my parents’ co-workers was whipping up fake ones in her basement and I was one of the lucky recipients. 

Enter Margaret. Margaret was approximately 24" tall, had weird yarn ringlets for hair, was wearing a white cloth diaper cover instead of bloomers, her arms were permanently stretched out in a cruxifixction pose, and she had no shoes, showing off two weird club feet. Margaret looked like a Cabbage Patch Kid in the same way an apple looks like an orange.

I don’t know if my parents thought the $30 price tag was too steep, or they wanted to avoid the in-store riots over these silly dolls, or they thought, “sweet little Valerie won’t notice the difference.” I’ll never know.  I’ll tell you what happened. I went to a slumber party.

Snotty girl:  What is that?

Little Valerie:  It’s my Cabbage Patch girl, Margaret.

Snotty:  Umm, no it’s not.

Valerie:  Yes, it is.

Snotty:  Do you have her birth certificate? (That’s going to be a “negative.”)

Valerie:  No, but she’s real and I love her.

Snotty:  Let’s see the signature on her butt. (Balls.)

Valerie:  Weren’t we going to play a game?

Then Snotty put her doll beside Margaret. It looked something like this:

Thinking about Margaret made me think about other lies my parents told me. Not big ones. Nothing involving fictional characters that break into your house in the night. No, I mean the every day variety.

Things like “you’re not fat; you’re just big boned.”

Baby Valerie, age 3 months (Yes, you read that right.)

And, that the pig tailed sailor look will never go out of style.

Kindergarten

First grade.  2nd verse, same as the 1st.

Trifecta. 2nd grade.

And in the most awkward of middle school years, “you look beautiful…keep the sailor look, lose one of the pigtails.”

5th grade

Now that I’m a parent, you wonder if I ever lie to my kid? You betcha. Like every day.

Kid:  How long before we need to leave?

Me:  Five minutes. (Actual answer:  30 minutes)

Me:  If I have to tell you to clean up one more time, I’m taking away your phone, your iPad, your game system, all the TVs in the house, your books, and all the food in the house.”

Kid:  Did you ever ________ when you were a kid?”

Me:  Uhh, who wants to play a game?” (Actually, I answer every question like this as honestly as I can.)

It’s in these lies, though, that I hope one day, my girl will see more love than lie. I assure you, when I look at Margaret today, yes, she still scares the crap out of me. I mean, she’s almost as tall as I am, but I know my mama loved me enough to commission her. And, to me, that makes Margaret priceless.

Margaret, January 21, 2016 (age: 33 years)

Get on Your Knees, As Ugly as They Are

I’ve been thinking about prayer lately and the different forms in which it manifests itself. It could be because I’ve been having talks with Little Bit about how to pray and it could be the season. It could be because my proverbial cup is (thankfully), blessedly, relatively empty right now when others around me seem to be having theirs overflowing.

It reminds me of something our pastor says from time to time:

“Folks, look around you. Right now, right here, there are three types of people and you all fit into one of these categories. You’ve either just emerged from a storm, you’re heading into a storm, or you’re smack dab in the middle of one right now.”

So true.

I’ve shared the ACTS model of prayer with my girl. It goes something like this:

A - Adoration (acknowledging God as the Creator of the Universe)

C - Confession (confessing our own sinfulness)

T - Thanksgiving (thanking God for His personal benefits to us:  forgiveness, family, material comforts)

S - Supplication (asking for what we need)

I don’t want to brag, but I’m pretty good at that last one. I took John 15:16 and ran with it — “…whatever you ask in my name, the Father will give you.” Oh, the requests He must hear!

Please let it be good news.

I’ll never drink again.

Please don’t let my wife find out.

Please be with our country, our world, our leaders.

I know, through the years, some of mine have been doozies. I once prayed, as a child, for pretty knees. There, I said it. I’m vain AND crazy. The laugh that must have gotten in Heaven. “Hey, Peter, come here. Look at this one that just came in. ‘Pretty knees.’ Ha ha ha ha  Don’t they know that’s an oxymoron? He made those suckers ugly for a reason.”

I’ve sat on the side of a bathtub, just a handful of years apart, praying over this little idol with vastly differing prayers:

I’ve prayed, for the same person, to have healing and then just a peaceful departure.

Those of you who know my resume know I’ve prayed about keeping a job and about finding a new one.

And, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve of late sent up a prayer of thanks for all the ways I’m blessed and for my empty cup. It hasn’t always been empty and I know it will fill up again, but the promise we have is that He will be there with a towel when that happens. 

Now, friends, I beg of you. When you speak to a friend in need, for Goodness sake, please don’t quote me about God’s towel. That will be just as well received and helpful as telling them, “God won’t give you more than you can handle” or “If it doesn’t kill you, it’ll make you stronger.” I don’t want to be mixed up in that business.

Story Time

If you know my Dad, you know he’s a story teller. If you’ve spent more than five minutes with my Daddy, you’ve heard a story. I’ve heard hundreds of his stories and some of them, I’ve heard a hundred times. But it’s OK, because I find them riveting and funny and touching. As he tells me these stories, he’s sharing a part of him. It’s not just living history, but it’s personal history. If I’m an extension of him, these stories are an extension of me. 

My favorites include:

• There was the time he was in the Army and stationed in France in the early 1960s and he and some buddies decided to sneak into and hang out in an abandoned WWII French bunker, complete with rations, unexploded artillery, and some 20+ year-old smokes.

• In our attic, among some of his belongings, is a beret belonging to a solider of the Armée de Terre (the French Army) in the early 1960s. He has explained that this was a souvenir from his time in France and has offered few details concerning a night of pub crawls, a drunken brawl between some American and French soldiers, a bridge, and some exchanged slurs. Politically correct? Nope. Badass? You betcha.

• “The ‘Potato’ Story.” This story is infamous in our family. It involves a family we grew up with who had several children, all boys, all fairly close in age, and about as wild and mischievous as they come. The toilet was clogged and the Mom called the plumber, who proceeded to get to work on the pot with an audience of all of these boys. He says while working, “did you all flush something down here that you shouldn’t have?” One nodded and said something that made the plumber’s hair stand up on his neck. “Kitty.”  He went to the Mom and said, “m’am…do you…ahem…did you…have a cat?” Much to his relief, she replied, “no, we don’t have a cat.” Relieved, he returned to the job and finally retrieved the source of the clog. It was then that he uttered these now famous, if not off-color, words:  “it’s a G**-damned potato!”

• The last one is about a neighbor I don’t remember and a dog I never knew and whose name Daddy doesn’t recall. For the sake of this retelling, we’re going to call the dog “Guvnah.” Across the street from the house in which I grew up lived a comely older divorcee named Cora. Now, we moved when I was nine years old and I only saw Cora a few times in those first nine years of my life, but when I think of her, I picture Anne Bancroft from The Graduate.  Cora apparently had a dog named Guvnah. Daddy came home from work one day and saw Guvnah lying in the road, struck dead. Doing the rational thing, he hid Guvnah in some bushes until Cora got home and he could break the news to her. Imagine his surprise when Cora answered his knock and there beside her stood Guvnah. Daddy then had to retrieve a dead dog from her bushes.

What I love maybe most about these stories is they give me insight and glimpses of the Dad I didn’t know. I’ve known him and am part, big or small, of the stories from the last 41 years of his life. It’s the stories from the first 32 years that he was here that interest me most. And I feel an obligation to protect these stories and pass them on.

You know, for hundreds and thousands of years, families’ and communities’ histories were passed down verbally. Your parents told stories that you then shared with your kids and those were living history lessons. Cavemen weren’t boring their kids with old home movies. “Look, kids, wanna see the trip your Mom and I took to the Tar Pits?” No, there was a long time back then when there were no physical mementos, no tangible souvenirs. We had only stories to remind us of where we’d been.

So, last week, Daddy told me this story, which I’d either forgotten or had never heard. As a bank branch manager, he was involved with the building of a new branch here in Nashville from the ground up. As the bulldozers were grading the lot, they ran into a grave. It held a simple, wooden coffin so old that it contained nothing. No creepy skeleton, no bones whatsoever, no clothes, nothing. This was not enough to derail construction and so it continued until they hit a second grave. It was then that the experts had to be called out. I’m sure there were representatives from historical societies, archaeologists, historians, forensic pathologists, and a whole host of people in hazmat suits with tiny brushes and magnifying glasses. After an intense examination of the property, they ruled that it was just the two graves, construction could continue, and that the bank merely needed to mark the two graves in some way. Since there was no way of knowing the deceased, a standard tombstone was not possible. Plus, that doesn’t really say, “come on in and open a checking account.” Instead, he explained that they put these two, small marble or granite markers in the ground to mark the spot of these two graves. Interest piqued and enthralled by this, he read my mind and said, “you want to go see them, don’t you.” Of course I did.  So we drove out there today.

As we pulled in, I asked, “does it look the same?” and he acknowledged that, despite the bank having a new name (probably one of countless in the last four decades) and the area around the bank having been over developed, the actual building and parking lot remained pretty much the same.

We got out of the car and he walked right to a small patch of grass in front of the building. And we looked. And we looked some more. And there were no little markers. We moved to another patch of grass. Nothing.

There was a bank employee out for a smoke break so he struck up a conversation with her, partly so they didn’t call the cops on us and partly to see if she happened to know about these two graves. He told her a short version of the story. She listened but offered no insight. And it occurred to me how fragile our history and our stories are. How many people are alive right now who know about these two graves. Four? Maybe five? And of these four or five, how many of them care, to be honest? I’ve found there are two types of people — the history buffs, such as myself. Those who thrive on the stories, the characters, the people, the lives. And then there’s the rest of the world. The “here and now” folks. The “are we really destined to repeat it if we don’t learn from it?” set.

And there you have it. My plea that you listen to stories when someone offers one. And that you share your own before they’re forgotten.

9/11: Remembering Whitney

When I think about 9/11, I think of Whitney Houston. I’ll tell you why in a minute. No, I don’t have emotional incontinence or Pseudobulbar Affect (it’s a real thing…Danny Glover wouldn’t lie).  

What I have, thank God, is something 2,977 (at current count) were robbed of — I have my life. And I have a sense of humor. And I’m committed to live every day that I’m given - however many there are - doing my damnedest to be joyful and to get out there and live. 

And along the way, I want to sprinkle seeds of goodness. I want people who know me to know God’s love. I don’t feel the need to leave my mark here on Earth. If I leave my mark on a few people’s hearts and souls, then mission accomplished. If I’m given the chance, I will lighten the mood and I will make you smile. Because here’s the stark truth:  life is short. Whether you live to be 116 or you end 47 years here in a smoke-filled office building stairwell, you should be able to look back at whatever is behind you and feel like you did your best. You gave it your all. You worked hard, but you played hard, too. When someone reads your book, I hope it has all the elements:  romance, drama, action, comedy. My wish for you is that it is a real page-turner.

So, when someone like my sweet daughter, who was still three years from the beginning of her book, asks about my personal 9/11 experience, here’s what I share from that day 14 years ago.

It was a stunningly beautiful fall morning. Not a cloud in the breathtakingly blue sky. And for a short period of time, a small group of people thought we'd lost Whitney Houston.

Yes, there were the news reports and then the endless media coverage and speculation and reporting. There were the images forever imprinted in the minds of those of us who are old enough to remember….the planes, the smoke, the people waving and then jumping from the buildings, crumbling skyscrapers, the brave rescue workers, the sense of “what in the world is happening?” and the stunned numbness that followed.

We were huddled in a conference room at my office, all crowded around a small TV someone had brought in, but none of us really watching any longer. It was the afternoon and the emotional and physical toll had set in from being on edge all day, from going through motions but being frozen at the same time. A woman ran in and yelled, “did y’all hear?!” Oh no, we thought, and someone asked aloud, Has there been another plane? 

“No,” she answered. “Whitney Houston just died.” And even though Whitney had faded from the headlines and her stardom was fading, people were just on edge enough to take this alleged passing really hard. Someone broke out in tears, openly sobbing. Someone else, a man I remember, said in a loud, melodramatic tone, “what else is going to happen to us?!” It was all very surreal. For a few minutes, a group of eight or 10 of us sat there with, literally, the world going up in flames around us, but we were mourning someone who was not actually dead. Later that afternoon, a retraction was provided for us in that conference room when the woman said she’d misunderstood a news report and that Whitney was, in fact, alive and well.

This is why, when I think of 9/11, I chuckle to myself. Certainly I will not forget. I won’t forget the senseless tragedy of that day. The terror. The evil. I also won’t forget the acts of selfless heroism, the patriotism, and the goodness and kindness that emerged that day and the days that followed.

Your book is not over until it goes off to the giant printing press in the sky. So, no lame cop outs about “I wish I had” or “If I was younger or thinner.” You grab that pen and start writing. Do it for yourself. Do it for those 2,977 souls and their survivors whose stories were forever altered that day. Just do it.

Scarred But Smarter

Drivin' n' Cryin's song "Scarred but Smarter" has a good line in it: "I think how foolish I must have looked/To think I could be down for good." It's true. We're all down at some point. But does that mean we're out? 

We had parent open house at school last night. It was long and tedious and overwhelming and I can only imagine how the teachers and staff who had been at school yesterday for 12+ hours felt. But I love our head of school and, in his opening comments as he welcomed us, he shared this anecdote. He said one year when he was at another school, he was speaking with a parent and made the comment that he wished he could walk behind every, single student every day and ensure that they had a perfect day. 

Later, as he reflected last night, he realized that this wasn't exactly true. He wanted his students to fall so that they could learn to get back up. He acknowledged he wanted kids to experience small failures as its in these challenges where character is built and shaped. As he spoke, it occurred to me how broken bones can actually make you stronger. How scars can make you prettier. 

I know first-hand that the sweetest victories I've experienced are ones that didn't come easily. Now, this is easy for me to tell you, adult-to-adult, but when I think about my sweet daughter, you better believe I want to walk behind her. I want to ensconce her in bubble wrap and walk ahead of her, looking for cracks in the sidewalk, bullies, and bees. I want to and would protect her from any and all assaults, injustices, and injuries (physical, emotional, and otherwise). Except I don't. 

I want her to fall (a little). I want her to trip. I want her to work hard and realize the disappointment when it's ultimately not hard enough. I want her to be betrayed (just a smidge). I want her to totally flub something up. I want her to wish for something. Pray for something. To want something really badly and then it not happen. I want her to learn and know the value of unanswered prayers. I want her to learn not just to get back up but to leap up and yell, "I'm OK!" 

I remember going on a big pitch with my boss one time. We'd worked tirelessly on this PowerPoint presentation, getting it just right. The right slides, in the right order, and the right length. We practiced. We rehearsed. It was locked and loaded. We got to the clients' place, got set up in their conference room, exchanged pleasantries and then got ready to wow them with this presentation. It didn't work. Something wasn't working. The computer wasn't talking to the projector or the projector wasn't talking to the screen. I don't know what happened but there was failure to launch. Houston, we have a problem. I was silently, inwardly panicking and I'm not a panicker. As my boss fiddled with cords and restarted computers and checked connections, I watched as the clients grew increasingly restless. There was sighing and shifting and a general "what's going on?"ness. 

After a minute or two, my boss said, "the best laid plans, right? Well, let's do this old school." And then she talked. She closed the lid of her laptop, she leaned across the table on her elbows in a way that said "let's do this" and drew them in. I watched as they subconsciously leaned into her, physically drawn in by the conversation. By the end, the deal was sealed. Hands were shaken and a contract was signed. Done. I was astounded. 

Life lesson learned: things don't always go as planned. You adapt. You keep your head about you. You have a "plan B" and you use it. 

So, the next time something doesn't go your way, look for the opportunity, the silver lining. And embrace it.

I Love You Just the Way You Are (Kind of)

Billy Joel, 1977, "Just the Way You Are"

We're supposed to love our children unconditionally, right? But then, at the same time, we're supposed to mold them and make them the best possible versions of themselves. It's here where I am stuck.

I've exhausted myself and those around me by saying things to my sweet girl like, "try it...you might like it." I might be talking about eating a green bean or climbing on monkey bars. For all of the wonderful qualities of my precious girl, "adventurer" is not one. She's a change-resistant creature of habit and she comes by it honest. If I find a dress I like, I buy one in every color and sometimes go back and buy a second of the same color for when the first one gets stained or worn out. I like to find restaurants who have something I enjoy and then I repeatedly go back to that same restaurant, order the exact same thing, and when the stars align, I get the same worker person who learns me and my order. That's the epicenter of my comfort zone.

This summer, I went on an adventure day with my Girl Scout Troop. We hiked and canoed and did archery and all kinds of fun, outdoor activities. The leader of the camp explained (to the girls, mostly) about the day's activities and how it was kind of up to each girl as to how far she went, how far she pushed herself, and she held her hands up to demonstrate comfort zones. Making a circle with her hands, fingers touching, she described this as your comfort zone. "Inside here," she explained, "are things you do all the time. You could do them with your eyes closed. You enjoy them or at least know how to do them." Then she pulled her fingers apart where the hands still formed a circle, but her fingers no longer touched. "Here," she went on, "is just outside of your comfort zone. This is a fun area. It's where you're a little scared but you're having fun learning something new. That's where we want to be today." Then she stretched her arms over her head and made a big circle and said, "now this is when you're really scared. This is when you're walking on a trail and you see a mountain lion." Oh crap. That's one of my slightly irrational fears -- death by large cat -- I wonder if I need to be worrying about that today? Wait, the woman's still talking. Focus.

If everyone else's comfort zone is the circle you make by making two half moons with your hands and connecting them, my girl's comfort zone is a ridge on a finger tip of just one of those fingers. She likes to explore and try new things, but it has to be under the exact right circumstances and on her own time.

I can remember when she was a toddler and we'd taken her to Chick-Fil-A or McDonalds.....some horrible petri dish filled with fried foods and germy play lands. The centerpiece of the play land was a giant, plastic climbing tower. She had the physical ability to crawl and climb - many tiny heart attacks at home involving a bookcase or wobbly stool attested to the fact - but we quickly found out her confidence wasn't as strong as her legs. As other kids whipped around her, some using her as a stepping stone, scrambling up the tower like spider monkeys, there our girl calmly sat on the first level, busying herself, content to climb and explore no further. "Good girl," we encouraged. "Now go to the next level. Can you do it?" "Can I do it?" Yes, probably. Will I? No. Not for another six months. Now, quit talking to me like a puppy.

Little did I know this was just a precursor. The most recent incident happened this weekend. Last week, we caught wind that, now that she's in middle school, she's eligible to run for student government. At first, there are just two positions -- president and something else. Later, they bring in the better known executive quartet comprised of president, VP, secretary and treasurer. To run, you have to fill out a form of intent, get a few teachers' blessings, have decent grades, get some of your friends to sign and declare their support of you, and give a speech in front of the entire school division.

Excited by this new school year and new opportunities, we asked her if she was going to run. It was met by a lukewarm response, at best. We've had lots of practice at this and have a whole arsenal of tactics. First up, the nonchalant approach. When that doesn't work, we try sharing an anecdote, a story from one of our own childhood experiences. Next, we appeal to common sense and reason. Then we get mad. We let our voice rise to a weird level and feel our faces get red. Finally, we're apologetic but pleading at the same time. I kept thinking, "if we give her time, she'll come around." Yeah, right. Exasperated, she finally said after my final attempt at coercion, "I just don't want to do it." 

And it was there that I was looking in a mirror. I saw a version of myself being pushed by my own parents, teachers and friends into a direction I didn't want to go. I felt my heels digging in. And I felt terrible. I felt terrible for pushing her. For not being supportive of her. For not only not protecting, but actually hurting her feelings. For making her feel small. For making her feel not good enough. For making her feel less. If God can accept us just the way we are, why can't I?

So, I backed off. I still don't know if I did the right thing. And, to be honest, most days, I'm just keeping it between the ditches parenting-wise. I've always said I just want her to be happy and healthy. Anything else is just icing on this cake of life. But I need to remind myself (a lot) that it's her who gets to decorate her cake. Whether she dumps a jar of sprinkles on the top and calls it a day or decides to go to France to study under a master pâtissier, I've gotta remember that it's ultimately up to her and I just need to be supportive.