Category Archives: work

Do what you love…

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For the third time in as many days I’ve seen or heard the phrase “do what you love and the money follows.” How many times have we told someone coming up in the world to just “do what you love?” The sentiment is fantastic. It would be a Christmas miracle if we could all get up every day and spend hours doing what we love.

Now if someone could just point me in the direction of the organization that wants to pick up the tab for sitting on the couch episode binging, absentmindedly rubbing Maggie’s ears, and drinking coffee that would be great. Please submit your sealed bids no later than February 28th for your offer to receive full consideration. All offers should include base salary, bonus and incentive scale, insurance, and retirement information. I can assure you that I would be a super conscientious employee and always give 100% to the job.

But yeah. Go do what you love looks great on motivational posters, coffee mugs, and refrigerator magnets… but when the market pays $0.00 an hour for doing what you love, my friendly recommendation is to go ahead and do something else for a while. You might not love it, but at least you won’t starve.

Mental preparation…

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I wasn’t mentally prepared for today. To be more precise I was only mentally prepared to be around for part of the day. The other part, the part starting around noon and moving on towards the end of the day, I was counting on that being a little less cubicle and a little more sitting at home wearing fuzzy slippers and hanging out with the dogs.

I might not work with my hands rending a living from the bowels of the earth, but one thing I can tell you with certitude is I leave the office most days mentally worn out. It’s a different kind of tired, but it’s as real and deep down to the bone as any kind of physical tired I’ve ever been.

The level of tired notwithstanding, I need to do a better job of mentally preparing for Mondays… and I need to stop waking up early to clean off the truck and allow extra time to drive to work just because some jackass with a fancy meteorological degree has determined by casting bones and reading entrails that there could be snow the next morning. Two times out of three it’s painfully obvious they have no idea and I just end up missing out on a goodly fraction of the little sleep I allow myself to get on the average weekday.

Winter pastime…

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I’m about to have the first time this year to engage in my favorite winter pastime – watching the Team Aberdeen Proving Ground Facebook page explode with commentary about the weather, when decisions should be made, whether it was a good call, whether it happened early enough, whether it should have been a 2 hour delay, a 4 hour early closure, and 2014_zzsite_graphics_winter_storm_warning-500x330possibly questioning the paternity of those making the decisions in the pre-dawn hours of every day that snow is “likely.” Whatever decisions are made over the next few days, you can rest well assured that social media will decry it as exactly the wrong thing to do.

Despite its off the beaten path location in the wilds of north eastern Maryland, APG and its environs are densely populated with advanced degree holders, senior staff, and the occasional person who has stood toe to toe with Taliban fighters. At the first sight of a flake, all that education and experience goes out the window and everyone devolves into a hopeless mass of name calling indecisiveness. The only thing they can seem to agree on is the goodness of posting poorly thought out comments that everyone on the planet can read and hold them accountable for making.

I don’t want to discourage anyone from voicing their opinion tomorrow because God knows I enjoy reading them. On these snowy days, it really is the most entertaining thing on Facebook. With that being said, I’m not sure when we all got the impression that it was up to someone else to make decisions about our personal health and safety. If for one moment I think my safety is imperiled by being on the road, I’ll make the decision to stay home and sit on the couch with my fuzzy slippers while the world goes on about its business. My life. My decision. That’s one of the perks of being a grown adult in this society. I do wish more people might consider showing the least sliver of personal accountability, but as usual that’s likely too big an ask.

Temporary no more…

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The paperwork needs to catch up and I’m probably making myself a tempting target for Fate by even breathing it aloud, but the word is that I’m in the process of completing the world’s shortest temporary promotion. In fact, it’s been so short that it isn’t even effective yet and won’t be until this coming Sunday. About a month later the powers that be have decided they’ll convert the temporary assignment to a permanent promotion. Still non-supervisory. Still in the same office I’m in now. Basically we’re formalizing the fact that I’ve been doing the job for the last few months without benefit of pay or grade. I can’t deny that it’s nice that they’ve noticed I was punching well above my weight class for a while now. Through a fortuitous convergence of other personnel departures, the fact that I competed for the temporary position, and a few other bits of administrative minutia, it seems that all things are possible.

As is my custom, I’ll be nervous and jerky every day between now and then from knowing nothing is real until the paperwork says it’s real. I’ve been burned one too many times on that front to be fooled again. Still, fingers are well crossed in hopes that the human resource professionals don’t fine a way to foul the lines between now and the end of February.

If anyone needs me I’ll be in my corner trying not to say, do, or think anything that might somehow inadvertently change the course we’re currently following.

Twelve…

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Twelve years ago this morning, I was a 24 year old former teacher who had just resigned in disgust from what would have inevitably been a soul crushing career touching America’s future. It was basically a choice of self-preservation more than anything else. I’d interviewed for a new job over the phone, filled out a staggering amount of paperwork, and moved what few household goods I had accumulated since graduating college 129 miles south to embark on a new career. Early that long ago morning I met 30-odd strangers at a Shoney’s in Petersburg, Virginia waiting for an unknown future.

We were met with boxes of additional paperwork and a day’s worth of in processing. We raised our right hands and said the words and poof, we were the most endangered of all Uncle’s animals – we were federal interns. Like everything else in the government, the word “intern” means something completely different than it means out in the world. For us, it meant full salary and benefits and two guaranteed promotions if we managed not to get fired during our probationary employment period.

Since then, it’s been off to the races. Some of it good, some of it bad, but very rarely has it ever been dull for more than a few days at a time. I’ve been equal parts ambitious, discontent, proud, and horrified of the career that day launched. Uncle has given me the chance to go places and see things I never would have done or seen of my own accord. Alternately he’s driven me to drink and to ponder the rules governing what makes a homicide “justifiable.”

With a little bit of rounding, it’s now 12 down and 21 to go – or a little more than a third of a career now in the books. That figure is alternately depressing and incredibly hard to believe… or at least it is until my back starts hurting, there’s a throbbing in my knee, or my shoulder slides out of joint. Then I can tell exactly where those years went. It should be interesting to see what kind of mess I can make of the next twelve.

Tentatively temporary…

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It’s an open secret that for the last six months I’ve been casting around looking for a new gig. Although I was focused on staying under Uncle’s umbrella, it felt like time to branch out into other opportunities. The environment had gotten a little too toxic for my liking and all-in-all, my career path was looking like something of a dead end if I stayed put.

I launched out a fair number of resumes. Had a few interviews. Got a few call backs. But there really wasn’t anything that clicked – either for me or the people responsible for hiring, it seems.

A few weeks ago I threw my hat in the ring for a temporary promotion (back to my old grade without the enormous hassle of supervising anyone) with my current office. Last week I interviewed for the position. A few days ago the HR office called to extended a tentative offer. This past Thursday I accepted. At some point in the next couple of pay cycles I’ll pick up a few extra bucks for a little extra work. Feels like a fair trade and it sets me up for possible options in the future that don’t involve another round of packing and unpacking household goods.

I didn’t start this process looking to stay where I was, but if I’m fair and balanced I’ll admit the bosses are taking legitimate steps to improve on a number of the sore points of the past. I’m willing to stick around for a while and give them the chance to prove it’s a real change for the better and not just a change until the heat’s off. The proof is in the pudding, but I’m happy enough taking their money while the proof sorts itself out.

Now it’s just a matter of the final paperwork coming through. Somehow I feel like I’ve done all this before.

Sad to report…

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It is with great sadness I report that I did not win Powerball, Mega Million, or discover a long lost and incredibly wealthy relative over the last 12 days. Unfortunately the only conclusion I can draw from state of affairs is that there’s no alternative besides rising before dawn tomorrow to reacquaint myself with Uncle’s salt mines. I have a vague recollection of what it is I do for a living, but to be perfectly honest I haven’t given it more than a passing though (if that) since the day before the day before Christmas. It feels like finding the parking lot in the morning will be an accomplishment in and of itself. All I know for sure at this point is that whatever the restive effects of a nice long break are, I can already feel them ebbing away. That’s unfortunate on any number of levels.

Official Christmas…

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That title is a misnomer, actually. As it has been for the entirety of my career, what was held this afternoon was the official Non-Denominational Winter Holiday Luncheon (NDWHL). I didn’t attend and if the past is prologue all it meant giving up my chance to pay $18 for a mediocre lunch and the opportunity to participate in painfully awkward party games.

I don’t have any philosophical issues with the annual get together. Sure it’s awfully lame compared to some that I’ve seen put on by private sector creatures, but that’s not really the problem either. Hanging around with Uncle, you get used to settling for the PG, family friendly, version of everything. For me it comes down to the simple discomfort of spending three to four hours boxed into a room full of perfect strangers. Being surrounded by people I don’t know and being required to make polite conversation with them for hours is basically one version of my own personal hell.

There is simply no amount of cajoling, peer pressure, or guilt that would convince me attending the NDWHL is a good idea. Telling me who to work with is well and good, but I always reserve the final say when it comes to who I do and don’t socialize with… and when I know something is simply going to be awkward and uncomfortable, why on earth would I pay for the privilege of enduring it when I have any other option?

Humor, or the lack thereof…

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Some people are funny – and no I don’t mean in that “Hey, pull my finger” kind of way. There are virtues to that kind of humor too, of course, but I’m think more about people who can turn drop a perfectly aimed barb on a dime. They have the knack. It’s some combination of timing, ability to turn a phrase, topical awareness, and lacing your words with just enough poison to let the point drive home without ever doing more than brushing against a subject.

Sadly, there are another group of people who wield sarcasm like a brute force weapon – a cudgel with which to beat people about the head and neck repeatedly. It’s a pity, because sarcasm is a real art form when it’s done right. When it’s done wrong, it leaves you looking like a total ass. There’s a fine line there and it’s critical to know where that line is at all times.

People who don’t have the gift just really shouldn’t try to force the issue. It shows every single time and it never stops being uncomfortable. There are few thing more awkward than a person standing around throwing out what they think are zingers while the rest of the captive audience is forced to ponder just how much of a tool that person really is. Here’s a hint: if no one else in the room is laughing, you’re probably doing it wrong. You should stop immediately. And you should consider never doing it again.

The world is a big place. Not everyone needs to have the same skills. For the love of God, if you don’t have a knack for humor please leave it to the professionals – or at least to the skilled amateurs. Sometimes it’s ok to enjoy the show rather than try to be a part of it.

Dull roar…

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The dull roar of the shredder was my companion today. The previous occupant of my desk was apparently something of an old school bureaucrat; bound and determined to maintain hard copies of just about everything – emails, briefing slides, memos, checklists, and all manner of ephemera that go along with spending your life in service to Uncle’s great green machine. The reason I know this is that since I moved in a full file drawer and approximately twenty three-ring binders have been keeping me company here at my desk.

For the last six months I’ve been bound and determined that I wasn’t going to fall into the trap of picking up that mess just because I happen to be here now and he happens to be long gone. That makes about as much sense as going to the dog park and picking up after someone else’s dog. Sure, you can do it, but why would you?

Today, I hit the point of exhaustion – or maybe the point of exasperation – with needing to shuffle around that long forgotten paperwork to get to things I actually need for myself. I attacked the monument to bureaucracy with gusto and was soon rewarded with easily 2000 pages of documentation whose ultimate fate was shredding and ignoble recycling into consumer paper products. Call me crazy but chance of my being called on to produce a 5 year old email addressed to someone else about a project that has been closed out for 4 years seems to be slight at best. It’s almost as if we’d have all been better off if no one had hit “print” in the first place.

And that brings me to my point – I hate paper documents. I avoid them at all costs. When they show up uninvited at my home the first thing that happens is they get transformed into a beautiful PDF, get a searchable name, and then go into the archive for use in the future if it turns out that they’re ever really needed at all. As often as not, that’s the last time human eyes will ever look upon those particular electrons. It’s an approach that’s served me well at home for almost a decade now – virtually making the one lone file cabinet I own obsolete. Now if I could just convince the office that fully digitized documents are better for everyone…

I’m not holding my breath on having any ability to urge the behemoth to step into the twilight of the 20th century so the shredder’s dull roar will likely be my near-constant companion for the next two decades.