If I’m ever in a position to direct the work of others, I will not walk off at “quitting time” because I have an itch to start my three day weekend and leave my people holding the bag on a project that I am responsible for delivering on Monday.
Conversely, when in a position to be directed by others, I will not let the mission fail because of poor leadership from those providing the direction.
On weekend mornings, the background noise in my houses is most often the FoxNews business report. One of their major talking points for the weekend just passed was the impending collapse of Social Security and what it would take to put that program on a solid fiduciary footing. If my calculations are correct, I can retire from government service in 26 years, 10 months, and 23 days. With that kind of time horizon, I don’t know why anyone in my age bracket would even contemplate Social Security in their calculations on what they need to do in order to retire comfortably. Without a massive infusion of cash from a tax increase, a dramatic reduction in benefits, and an increase in the age when the “pay out” begins, the program is, for all practical purposes, a dead man walking.
Even if some semblance of the program is salvaged, those of us in our 20s and 30s can count on receiving only a return of pennies on every dollar we “contribute” to the plan. Since it’s a government program, we don’t have the choice to “opt out” and invest that portion of our retirement into a sector that actually provides a positive return on investment. Effectively, every dollar our generation is forced to contribute to Social Security is a dollar that is lost to us and is nothing more than a tax by another name.
I was asked not long ago what I would do to fix the system… I don’t want to fix it. I want to tear the mother down. Sixty years ago, Social Security was a stop-gap measure that has been elevated to the lofty status of an entitlement. I don’t want to fix it. I want the government to allow me to be accountable for my own retirement planning and stay out of my way. I don’t want to fix it. I want Americans to start taking responsibility for what happens to them.
I don’t know how or when exactly we became a country of whiners, of men and women too infirm of mind to make our own decisions, of people terrified of the successes and failures that come with making your own decisions and being held accountable for them. If you are in the dawn of your career, it is your responsibility to make yourself smart on your options. Contribute to 401k, Roth, or other investment vehicles until it hurts. If you don’t make any provisions for how you plan to live out (and pay for) your golden years, don’t come bitching to me when you’re eating cat food and living under a bridge. I’ll be too busy playing golf to give a shit.
Nothing like the last minute requirements that have you up at 6:00 on a Sunday morning to head to the office for the day. I don’t think I will ever understand what drivers a manager to suddenly think of something on Friday afternoon that needs to be done on Monday. Chalk that up to one of those things I hope I remember when I’m making the decisions.
I don’t intrinsically have a problem with working on Sunday. Of all the reasons my immortal soul is in danger, that’s probably the least of them… As long as the overtime keeps flowing, I’m there.
I realized this afternoon that it has been a while since I posted anything. I think this might actually be the first time since I started blogging that I’ve let five days go between getting some thoughts out here. It’s also one of those things that I realized I missed when I didn’t do it. With that said, I’m back for a quick update before dinner.
A lot of the really hard decisions have been made already. The house is where it is, the finance people are doing their thing, the lawyers are drawing up the necessary paperwork and I’m running from pillar to post here in Memphis working the detail stuff.
In the last week, here’s what we’ve managed to accomplish: carpet picked and installed; linoleum picked and installed; washer and dryer purchased and delivery scheduled; refrigerator purchased and delivery scheduled; cable, electric, gas, service change scheduled; cable, electric, and gas service in Maryland terminated, blinds measured and order. There are a bevy of other issues resolved that I can’t remember in detail.
Here are the major things still to accomplish by the end of the month: Install washer, dryer, and refrigerator; put the punch list together with builder and do walk through; fly back to Maryland; finish packing and close out the apartment; get an estimate from the movers; actually do the move; drive back to Tennessee; unpack; collapse.
Oh, and I almost forgot squeezing 10 hours a day in for work and grad classes. Can someone tell me why the hell anyone ever inflicts a move on themselves?
To be perfectly honest with you, I’m just killing a few hours before I need to head to the airport this morning. I’m back in the home of the blues for a few more weeks before Christmas. In retrospect, I wish I would have driven down again this time. I would have been just getting to Harrisonburg if I would have left at my normal time. One of the great annoyances of flying is having absolutely no control of your schedule. That annoys me almost as much as not being able to see out the front of the airplane. They should put in some kind of monitors on the bulkheads and simulate a “windshield” view, but I digress.
I’m leaving a half packed apartment and I can’t say that it upsets me all that much. I need a reprieve from packing for a while. I am always surprised that the sheer amount of junk one person is able to accumulate in a small space over the course of three or four years. As much fun as the great purge has been, I’m ready for a few days of something more normal… And yes, I do note that I am talking about living in a hotel for three weeks as “more normal” without a hint of irony.
It’s time for a fresh cup of coffee and a smoke, so the next time ya’ll hear from me, I should be safely delivered. See you all then.
We can do things one of two ways. #1 we can do it cheap or #2 we can do it right. Options #1 and 2 are mutually exclusive. That’s a decision that needs to be made at pay grades above reality. Until the decision is made, however, things are what they are.
That is all.
…is the Army’s delicately phrased way of telling you that you’re about to be jerked out of your regular job and put on a plane to go stay in a hotel and do something that may or may not be in any way related to your primary area of expertise. Temporary Duty (TDY) is a strange combination of work and happy hour where the two tend to bleed into one another to the point where it’s 9:00 at night and you’re not sure if you are working or just sitting at the bar having a drink… but in a good way. Even when home, I’m not exactly known for leaving work at the door, but being here on the road, it turns into something more of a compulsion. You talk about work having your morning Starbucks. You talk about work driving to the office. You spend 9 hours actually working. And then you spend 2 hours talking about work over dinner. I wouldn’t say it’s exactly monotonous, but it does beg the question if any of us have lives any more. I’ll step to the forefront, save you all time, and admit that for me, the answer to that question is a resounding no.
For the record, I’m not complaining about it, just making an observation that struck me as interesting; how many of us have put or lives on hold to work on this project over the last 18 months. Up until last week, things were academic, like moving the pieces on a chess board. But now we’re here, with a real building, real offices, and whole lot of real people who are betting their livelihoods that we have it all figured out. It’s a little intimidating to see how much is still left to do, more, probably, than we have put behind us. It occurs to me tonight that it’s time to stop being academic and to figure out how this applies here in the real world.
Here comes the hard part.
As much as I enjoy spinning yarns about the absolute stupidity that is working in Washington, I am utterly bereft of ideas. Absolutely nothing happened today that is blog-worthy. I could pull a filler story out of draft and flesh it out a bit, but that doesn’t seem quite right either. Better luck next time and please stop by again real soon.
It’s what I’ve been waiting for. It’s what has eluded me for the last six months. It’s what, late at night, lying in the darkness, I feared would never come. It’s the prize I felt cheated of, the gods of the bureaucracy conspiring against me.
Now, at last, it’s mine. Permanent, undeniable, irrefutable proof that my work has not been in vain. I am promoted. I’ve seen the paperwork and held it in my own hands. I’ve scrutinized every box and am convinced of its legitimacy. I am exhausted, spent, but I am at last happy.
Gloria in Excelsis Deo.
What’s next?
I spent a great deal of today hiding out and trying to do a few items that were, once, part of the actual job I am theoretically supposed to do on a daily basis. Several of my coworkers had gotten themselves trapped on tasks on the other side of the building for our other project.
I’ve often thought that I don’t try to make myself very conspicuous unless I need to get something from someone else, but after lunch, one of my dear coworkers commented that “Jeff’s like a cat, he’ll come around when he’s ready for attention.” I’m not entirely sure that was a compliment, but I found it pretty apt.
JEFFREYTHARP.COM 