I spent this morning standing on a hill behind my kids' school in 45 degree weather and a wicked wind, watching a rocket launch. It was very neat, even though the wind complicated things a bit. The kids had to use the smallest motor available, even though most had ordered bigger motors, and still at least half the rockets ended up on the roof.
Except for the one that went straight up, and plummeted back into the bystanders and landed nose first into the ground a foot and a half from a lady and her little kid who were looking in the opposite direction. Pay attention folks! Rockets launching!
I went to Sara's class yesterday to help with the reading program. I worked with 2 boys and granted, I am not a teacher, but they didn't seem to need that much help to me. I'll go every other Wednesday afternoon. The room mom that helped me get started was really nice. And now I'm bringing juice bags for the Halloween party tomorrow. Must. Stop. Volunteering.
Some questions I currently have:
- When did they start putting pockets on Snuggies?
- Why would "SVU" be a rerun on the same week "Fringe" is not on due to the World Series?
- When did "That 70s Show" change Lauries? I liked the first Laurie better.
- Why do I watch so much TV? It's not on the list of things Mitch and Sara say I do all day.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Happy Birthday!
It's Mitch's birthday and as much as I'd like to write a post about him, he would not at all appreciate it. I think he does not feel the same level of comfort in disclosing all his life secrets over the Internet that I do. He's funny that way.
So let's just suffice it to say that it's his birthday. It's pretty much a normal day, work for him, school for the kids, Scouts for Jacob and the like. So we'll be doing something nice for dinner over the weekend. Because I am the queen of last minute, I went out and got him some gifts this morning. It's somewhat comforting to know that even after 16 years of marriage, and 19 years together, I still have no idea what to get him. Asking him is pointless, because it would either involve a trip to Cabela's to get something I have no idea about, or he says he doesn't want anything. Which is how, one of the first years we were married, he got a flashlight and a handheld video poker game for his birthday.
For the record, we still have the poker game. So I guess it wasn't a bad purchase after all.
***************************************************
Yesterday's post generated some response, which is good. It's good to know someone is reading this. Another point I wanted to make, but didn't think of til later is this: Once you have that really good dog, that is the dog all future dogs will be measured against. That's it.
***************************************************
I am volunteering in Sara's class this afternoon, helping kids with reading. Which generated humor from Mitch and horror from Sara. And then this charming conversation:
Mitch: "Come on Sara, reading is what your Mom does all day,"
Sara: "No, she also yells at the dog and Facebooks,"
This is what they think I do all day. While apparently, the laundry, cleaning, cooking and driving fairies come around and pick up the slack so I devote all my time to reading, Facebooking and yelling at the dog.
They'll both be singing a different tune when they're out of clean underwear at the end of the week. Maybe they can write a book about it. I have time to read it apparently.
So let's just suffice it to say that it's his birthday. It's pretty much a normal day, work for him, school for the kids, Scouts for Jacob and the like. So we'll be doing something nice for dinner over the weekend. Because I am the queen of last minute, I went out and got him some gifts this morning. It's somewhat comforting to know that even after 16 years of marriage, and 19 years together, I still have no idea what to get him. Asking him is pointless, because it would either involve a trip to Cabela's to get something I have no idea about, or he says he doesn't want anything. Which is how, one of the first years we were married, he got a flashlight and a handheld video poker game for his birthday.
For the record, we still have the poker game. So I guess it wasn't a bad purchase after all.
***************************************************
Yesterday's post generated some response, which is good. It's good to know someone is reading this. Another point I wanted to make, but didn't think of til later is this: Once you have that really good dog, that is the dog all future dogs will be measured against. That's it.
***************************************************
I am volunteering in Sara's class this afternoon, helping kids with reading. Which generated humor from Mitch and horror from Sara. And then this charming conversation:
Mitch: "Come on Sara, reading is what your Mom does all day,"
Sara: "No, she also yells at the dog and Facebooks,"
This is what they think I do all day. While apparently, the laundry, cleaning, cooking and driving fairies come around and pick up the slack so I devote all my time to reading, Facebooking and yelling at the dog.
They'll both be singing a different tune when they're out of clean underwear at the end of the week. Maybe they can write a book about it. I have time to read it apparently.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Dog Tales
I have a theory about dogs. Want to hear it? Well, you must or you wouldn't be here. And if you don't, that's too bad because here it is:
You only get to own one really good dog in your life.
There, I said it. Dispute it if you will, but that's my belief based on a not-so-random sampling of people I know who own dogs. My experience is that it's usually your first dog. Maybe because it's like your first kid: they somehow know you don't know what you're doing so they tend to be a little more understanding. By the second dog, you know what to expect and what you want in a dog and are less tolerant of stuff.
And to clarify: I generally find that it's the first dog you own as an adult. I had some really good dogs as a kid: Holly and Bill, specifically. But they were both the first dogs owned by my parents. Holly was my mom and Kim's dog, Bill my dad and Nancy's. Good dogs. And I loved them. But they weren't MY dogs.
My dogs were Abby, Sophie, Tiyo, Murphy, Dibbs and now Gracie.
Abby was the chosen dog. Mitch took 30 days leave from the Navy when we got Abby as a 12-week-old Newfoundland puppy. (Please note: He took 4 days off when Jacob was born. Our firstborn child. FOUR DAYS.) Abby didn't drool, she was smart, obedient, and other than the mounds of black fur she left everywhere, perfect. She loved kids and was great with them. My kids crawled on her, pulled themselves up by grabbing her ears and pretended to ride her. She died at 10, which is really old for a Newfoundland, of arthritis. She rarely barked, didn't get on the couch, and only slept on the bed when invited. She didn't try to eat the cats. Really good dog.
Sophie was a Newfoundland puppy we only had for 3 weeks. We sent her back to the breeder because she had a birth defect. But even in those 3 weeks, she was completely different. She was stubborn. She refused to walk on a leash and Mitch spent those 3 weeks dragging her through the grass in the backyard by the leash. She had a bladder problem that was the result of poor breeding. (Always check your breeders folks, the good ones aren't in it for the money.)
Tiyo we got when he was 2 years old. Also a Newfoundland and big as a house. And DUMB as a STUMP. God help us, that dog was dumb. The only living Newfoundland who was afraid of water. He would walk AROUND puddles. When we took him and Abby to the lake, he would wade in to his dog ankles and stand there, shaking and drooling, while Abby swam and swam for hours. He drooled like crazy anytime someone different would come into the house. We had to keep old towels around to clean up the drool. He was a farm dog and when we got him, he had never seen stairs. His technique was to go down them as fast as possible. I always said I'd find him at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck one day, or in the tub drowned in an inch of water. He died at 12, when we had to have him put down. No one told him Newfoundlands don't live to be 12.
Then there was Murphy. A good dog candidate, except for his pesky habit of biting kids faces. He would have been good if he had had a better puppyhood, I just know it.
Dibbs was my nephew Joe's dog, who we fostered when Joe went into the Air Force. And Joe would probably say he was a good dog. But he wasn't really our dog - we only had him for a few months before he went to visit his grandmother for a holiday and just never came home. Lisa needed him more than we did, and she was definitely due a good dog after Riley, the wild beast. Dibbs was goofy looking and had a tiny little head stuck on his fat body. He reminded me of Yoda and whenever I pretended he was talking, it always came out in Yoda-speak. "My head to small for my body it is" and stuff like that.
And now Gracie. I don't know what it is about this dog that drives me crazy. Maybe it's her habit of jumping up on the couch, even though she knows she's not allowed. Maybe it's her favorite game: unrolling the toilet paper. Or her other favorite game: taking tissues out of the box on the end table. She's starting to grow on me some, but she's got a look in her eye that tells me it's going to be a long road. I like my dogs big and lazy and this one is not there yet. Once we get past this puppy stage, I think we'll turn a corner. Let's hope so anyway.
But I still stand by my theory. One really good dog in your lifetime. Once you have that really good dog, the others might not quite measure up. Sure, I loved all those other dogs - especially Murphy, in spite of his obvious flaws - because they were all good dogs in their own ways. Tiyo was a good dog, so was Dibbs and so is Gracie. But really good dogs?
Those are hard to find.
You only get to own one really good dog in your life.
There, I said it. Dispute it if you will, but that's my belief based on a not-so-random sampling of people I know who own dogs. My experience is that it's usually your first dog. Maybe because it's like your first kid: they somehow know you don't know what you're doing so they tend to be a little more understanding. By the second dog, you know what to expect and what you want in a dog and are less tolerant of stuff.
And to clarify: I generally find that it's the first dog you own as an adult. I had some really good dogs as a kid: Holly and Bill, specifically. But they were both the first dogs owned by my parents. Holly was my mom and Kim's dog, Bill my dad and Nancy's. Good dogs. And I loved them. But they weren't MY dogs.
My dogs were Abby, Sophie, Tiyo, Murphy, Dibbs and now Gracie.
Abby was the chosen dog. Mitch took 30 days leave from the Navy when we got Abby as a 12-week-old Newfoundland puppy. (Please note: He took 4 days off when Jacob was born. Our firstborn child. FOUR DAYS.) Abby didn't drool, she was smart, obedient, and other than the mounds of black fur she left everywhere, perfect. She loved kids and was great with them. My kids crawled on her, pulled themselves up by grabbing her ears and pretended to ride her. She died at 10, which is really old for a Newfoundland, of arthritis. She rarely barked, didn't get on the couch, and only slept on the bed when invited. She didn't try to eat the cats. Really good dog.
Sophie was a Newfoundland puppy we only had for 3 weeks. We sent her back to the breeder because she had a birth defect. But even in those 3 weeks, she was completely different. She was stubborn. She refused to walk on a leash and Mitch spent those 3 weeks dragging her through the grass in the backyard by the leash. She had a bladder problem that was the result of poor breeding. (Always check your breeders folks, the good ones aren't in it for the money.)
Tiyo we got when he was 2 years old. Also a Newfoundland and big as a house. And DUMB as a STUMP. God help us, that dog was dumb. The only living Newfoundland who was afraid of water. He would walk AROUND puddles. When we took him and Abby to the lake, he would wade in to his dog ankles and stand there, shaking and drooling, while Abby swam and swam for hours. He drooled like crazy anytime someone different would come into the house. We had to keep old towels around to clean up the drool. He was a farm dog and when we got him, he had never seen stairs. His technique was to go down them as fast as possible. I always said I'd find him at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck one day, or in the tub drowned in an inch of water. He died at 12, when we had to have him put down. No one told him Newfoundlands don't live to be 12.
Then there was Murphy. A good dog candidate, except for his pesky habit of biting kids faces. He would have been good if he had had a better puppyhood, I just know it.
Dibbs was my nephew Joe's dog, who we fostered when Joe went into the Air Force. And Joe would probably say he was a good dog. But he wasn't really our dog - we only had him for a few months before he went to visit his grandmother for a holiday and just never came home. Lisa needed him more than we did, and she was definitely due a good dog after Riley, the wild beast. Dibbs was goofy looking and had a tiny little head stuck on his fat body. He reminded me of Yoda and whenever I pretended he was talking, it always came out in Yoda-speak. "My head to small for my body it is" and stuff like that.
And now Gracie. I don't know what it is about this dog that drives me crazy. Maybe it's her habit of jumping up on the couch, even though she knows she's not allowed. Maybe it's her favorite game: unrolling the toilet paper. Or her other favorite game: taking tissues out of the box on the end table. She's starting to grow on me some, but she's got a look in her eye that tells me it's going to be a long road. I like my dogs big and lazy and this one is not there yet. Once we get past this puppy stage, I think we'll turn a corner. Let's hope so anyway.
But I still stand by my theory. One really good dog in your lifetime. Once you have that really good dog, the others might not quite measure up. Sure, I loved all those other dogs - especially Murphy, in spite of his obvious flaws - because they were all good dogs in their own ways. Tiyo was a good dog, so was Dibbs and so is Gracie. But really good dogs?
Those are hard to find.
Maryann's Monday Madness
Either I missed this yesterday, or she really didn't post it until today, but here goes. You might know the drill by now: I copy these from my friend Maryann and then answer them. You can do the same, and then come back here and leave me a comment so I know you did it!
Where were you and what were you doing ten years ago? Let's see, ten years ago, we were in Kalamazoo and I would have been a stay-at-home mom to Jacob, who would have been 17 months, and pregnant with Sara. So I would have been TIRED.
What's the first play you ever saw live? Besides elementary school plays, I believe that would have been Diary of Anne Frank. Junior high.
Everyone has a trick they depend on, a shortcut for something like fixing a flat, curing a headache, making a kid stop crying, or choosing a cantaloupe. What's yours? My laundry shortcut is to give my kids two baskets in their rooms - one for whites, one for darks. Then I can just grab a basket and throw it in the washer. My trick for hiccups is to drink 10 swallows of water without taking a breath. It cures them every time. I think I learned this from my stepmother, who never failed to entertain us kids with her knowledge of such things.
What's one thing you can't start your day without? Pepsi or Dr. Pepper. Caffeinated soda of some sort.
Where were you and what were you doing ten years ago? Let's see, ten years ago, we were in Kalamazoo and I would have been a stay-at-home mom to Jacob, who would have been 17 months, and pregnant with Sara. So I would have been TIRED.
What's the first play you ever saw live? Besides elementary school plays, I believe that would have been Diary of Anne Frank. Junior high.
Everyone has a trick they depend on, a shortcut for something like fixing a flat, curing a headache, making a kid stop crying, or choosing a cantaloupe. What's yours? My laundry shortcut is to give my kids two baskets in their rooms - one for whites, one for darks. Then I can just grab a basket and throw it in the washer. My trick for hiccups is to drink 10 swallows of water without taking a breath. It cures them every time. I think I learned this from my stepmother, who never failed to entertain us kids with her knowledge of such things.
What's one thing you can't start your day without? Pepsi or Dr. Pepper. Caffeinated soda of some sort.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sick & Tired
Ugh, I'm tired. I've got a cold that's been on the cusp for a few days. I think I caught it early enough that it's not developing into a full blown cold, but I'm just hovering on that line where I'm tired and achy and blah and not quite right. Okay, so maybe I've been "not quite right" for a while, but you know what I mean.
Somewhere in the middle of this feeling, Saturday evening, I banned the kids from playing video games for a week. The constant arguing is driving me insane. And then they start hitting or not hitting each other, depending on who is talking, i.e. "He hit me!" "No, I didn't, she kicked me!" "No, I didn't!" ENOUGH.
Yesterday was the first full day of no video games and it went fine. Sadly for them, I think we're on to something here.
So here's my new complaint. I am SO SO SO tired of fighting with them to do stuff that they volunteered to do. Like Science Club, band, Scouts, etc. The science fair is not mandatory this year I guess, but 4th through 6th graders could join this club after school on Tuesdays and still have a science fair. Both my kids wanted to do it. Jacob went on Tuesday, since Sara was at the dentist, and got the information and brought it home. They had to read a couple pages in this packet and fill out some worksheets. But would either of them do it? No.
And will Jacob practice his trumpet? No. Because most of the band kids are beginners and he's not, so "I don't need to practice that stuff, Mom."
Will Jacob read his Scout book to complete some more stuff he needs to advance? No. Because it's boring.
So this is what I told them last night, while I was high on cold medicine and just tired of all of it.
"These are all things you guys WANTED to do. Nobody is forcing you to do them. I take time out of my life to drive you to band, and to scouts, and to pick you up from Science Club, and I am happy to do it. But if you're not going to do what you are expected to do, it's not worth my time and gas. So if you don't practice your trumpet, I'm not taking you to band and we'll return the trumpet and save ourselves $30 a month. And if you won't do your Science Club work, then you will quit. And when you go to Scouts and they ask you why you haven't worked on this stuff, you can tell them you don't want to and then we won't drive you to Scouts anymore. It doesn't matter to me anymore and I'm not going to drive myself crazy making you do the work. Because I AM DONE."
Well, the Science Club work got done. And Jacob may have read his Scout book, but I don't know for sure. I know there was no trumpet practice.
Was that too hard a line? I don't know and honestly, don't care. He's 11 and he wants to do this stuff. The Scout stuff is way different, because now he's a Boy Scout and the boys are expected to take responsibility for their own advancement. It's not troop driven anymore, it's boy driven. And if the boy is lazy and only wants to play video games, then he won't succeed. But it's not up to the leaders to take him by the hand and drag him through it. Mitch and I will help him as much as we can, as long as he's willing to do the work. But I will not try to force him to do it. Because trying to force Jacob to do anything is pointless. The harder you try, the more he resists. I can bang my head against the wall on my own time over my own issues, thank you very much.
And it's not all Jacob. Sara just usually caves much easier. We went through something very much like this with Sara over softball. Complain, whine, moan. We made it through that season, but the next year when she wanted to play again we had a similar conversation. You complain about going to practice or games and you won't go. Ever. Again. And she didn't complain last season.
They can complain all they want about school and homework. They still have to do it and I still have to make them. I'm good with that. But all this extra stuff? No thanks.
Somewhere in the middle of this feeling, Saturday evening, I banned the kids from playing video games for a week. The constant arguing is driving me insane. And then they start hitting or not hitting each other, depending on who is talking, i.e. "He hit me!" "No, I didn't, she kicked me!" "No, I didn't!" ENOUGH.
Yesterday was the first full day of no video games and it went fine. Sadly for them, I think we're on to something here.
So here's my new complaint. I am SO SO SO tired of fighting with them to do stuff that they volunteered to do. Like Science Club, band, Scouts, etc. The science fair is not mandatory this year I guess, but 4th through 6th graders could join this club after school on Tuesdays and still have a science fair. Both my kids wanted to do it. Jacob went on Tuesday, since Sara was at the dentist, and got the information and brought it home. They had to read a couple pages in this packet and fill out some worksheets. But would either of them do it? No.
And will Jacob practice his trumpet? No. Because most of the band kids are beginners and he's not, so "I don't need to practice that stuff, Mom."
Will Jacob read his Scout book to complete some more stuff he needs to advance? No. Because it's boring.
So this is what I told them last night, while I was high on cold medicine and just tired of all of it.
"These are all things you guys WANTED to do. Nobody is forcing you to do them. I take time out of my life to drive you to band, and to scouts, and to pick you up from Science Club, and I am happy to do it. But if you're not going to do what you are expected to do, it's not worth my time and gas. So if you don't practice your trumpet, I'm not taking you to band and we'll return the trumpet and save ourselves $30 a month. And if you won't do your Science Club work, then you will quit. And when you go to Scouts and they ask you why you haven't worked on this stuff, you can tell them you don't want to and then we won't drive you to Scouts anymore. It doesn't matter to me anymore and I'm not going to drive myself crazy making you do the work. Because I AM DONE."
Well, the Science Club work got done. And Jacob may have read his Scout book, but I don't know for sure. I know there was no trumpet practice.
Was that too hard a line? I don't know and honestly, don't care. He's 11 and he wants to do this stuff. The Scout stuff is way different, because now he's a Boy Scout and the boys are expected to take responsibility for their own advancement. It's not troop driven anymore, it's boy driven. And if the boy is lazy and only wants to play video games, then he won't succeed. But it's not up to the leaders to take him by the hand and drag him through it. Mitch and I will help him as much as we can, as long as he's willing to do the work. But I will not try to force him to do it. Because trying to force Jacob to do anything is pointless. The harder you try, the more he resists. I can bang my head against the wall on my own time over my own issues, thank you very much.
And it's not all Jacob. Sara just usually caves much easier. We went through something very much like this with Sara over softball. Complain, whine, moan. We made it through that season, but the next year when she wanted to play again we had a similar conversation. You complain about going to practice or games and you won't go. Ever. Again. And she didn't complain last season.
They can complain all they want about school and homework. They still have to do it and I still have to make them. I'm good with that. But all this extra stuff? No thanks.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Fun Fact Friday
I had another post written out, but it went nowhere. So here you go, Fun Fact Friday. Believe me, you're grateful.
The names of Popeye's four nephews are Pipeye, Peepeye, Pupeye, and Poopeye!
It's illegal to drink beer out of a bucket while you're sitting on a curb in St. Louis! (Nancy's note: I don't know if it's illegal to throw up in said bucket after you drink all the beer.)
It's against the law to pawn your dentures in Las Vegas!
In Natoma, Kansas, it's illegal to throw knives at men wearing striped suits. (Nancy's note: It might be illegal, but it's certainly understandable.)
The average American/Canadian drinks about 600 sodas a year! (As I always suspected, I am well above average!)
You'll eat about 35,000 cookies in a lifetime! Wow! (Again, I am above average here.)
A person uses approximately fifty-seven sheets of toilet paper each day! (Probably because of all that soda they drink.)
The names of Popeye's four nephews are Pipeye, Peepeye, Pupeye, and Poopeye!
It's illegal to drink beer out of a bucket while you're sitting on a curb in St. Louis! (Nancy's note: I don't know if it's illegal to throw up in said bucket after you drink all the beer.)
It's against the law to pawn your dentures in Las Vegas!
In Natoma, Kansas, it's illegal to throw knives at men wearing striped suits. (Nancy's note: It might be illegal, but it's certainly understandable.)
The average American/Canadian drinks about 600 sodas a year! (As I always suspected, I am well above average!)
You'll eat about 35,000 cookies in a lifetime! Wow! (Again, I am above average here.)
A person uses approximately fifty-seven sheets of toilet paper each day! (Probably because of all that soda they drink.)
Men are 6 times more likely to be struck by lightning than women! (Because they often say "May God strike me down if I'm lying...)
Every 45 seconds, a house catches on fire in the United States! (This isn't that odd, except for when I first read it, I thought it said a HORSE catches on fire, which did seem odd.)
Happy Friday folks! Have a good weekend!
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
9 to 5
I am not a business owner, nor do I aspire to be. I am not a head honcho type either. I am a secretary, plain and simple. I started when I was 18 and I've been at a few different companies, but pretty much always in the same capacity. Administrative support, administrative assistant, secretary, receptionist, clerical, office help, whatever you want to call it. It's all the same.
I'm the person who does a lot of the work so higher-ups don't have to. I'm the person who gets dumped on when something bad happens. I'm the first person most callers encounter, whether it's because I answer the phone or because the phone tree led them to my extension. So I'm the first person they can yell at.
I have always enjoyed my jobs. (Well, mostly.) Sure, people may yell at me for no good reason - because hello higher-ups, being a jerk is actually NOT a good reason - but those are the same people who will come to me when they realize they actually don't know how to do their own jobs without my help. If customers yell too much, I transfer them to someone else who gets paid more to listen even if they still don't know how to solve the problem.
So I feel a little bit qualified - because I think 20+ years of secretarial work does make me qualified - to give bosses/owners/anyone whose title is a series of letters that stand for something longer, a little employee relations advice.
Please note: Below, "secretary" is used as a generic term for any office help you currently employ.
In the words of the Lorax, I speak for the trees. So listen up, tree killers.
So the bottom line is this: be nice to your secretary, receptionist, office help, whatever. Don't be an arrogant fool. Your job might be very important. But so is ours. Maybe more than yours. Because we make it possible for you to do your job well. And if you piss us off, we can make you look like an idiot. But if we're at this point, it probably wouldn't take too much to do that.
Ever see the movie "9 to 5"? Go back and watch it. See what happens when bosses get too full of themselves. I suspect that was based on a true story. Except for Dolly Parton's chest size anyway.
Please note: Below, "secretary" is used as a generic term for any office help you currently employ.
- You cannot survive without your secretary. You may THINK you can, but you really can't. (One company I worked for unplugged their fax machine a month after I left because there was a paper jam and no one knew how to fix it. True story. Sad, but true.) The work we do is the stuff you can't be troubled to worry about. Sure, you can type on your little laptop and print to the office printer and call us repeatedly on your little cell phone, but we are the ones who know where to order the printer ink and who to call when the printer breaks down. We know where to order pens, and while you certainly can keep bringing them from home or stealing them from the banks, eventually wouldn't you just rather go to the supply cabinet and get one? Yes, you would. And we're the ones who make sure there are pens in there. The specific type of pen you like. We know that stuff, even if we roll our eyes at your insistence.
- In every office, there are two types of secretaries: those who do the work and those who shuffle papers around to make you think they do the work. And let's face it, you know who is who. If you don't have the - hmm, let's say SPINE - to fire the ones who shuffle, then you don't. We know you don't. But it doesn't mean you can shift all of a shuffler's work to the actual workers. It's annoying and makes us crabby. And you should know you don't want us crabby. Because eventually, we'll get frustrated and leave to work someplace else and you'll be stuck with an office full of shufflers who unplug the fax machine to stop the constant beeping. See previous paragraph.
- Don't ever - EVER EVER EVER - say we're replaceable. We might be, and we know that, but here's the bigger secret: SO ARE YOU. The difference is, you don't seem to know it. One company I worked for transferred executives every couple of years. Example: In 7 years, I worked for 7 different executives. I knew all the employees, I knew the business, I knew the customers, I knew the terminology. I knew the history of the office, the gossip and the best place for a salad at lunch. I knew the bars we hit after finishing a big project. My last executive came into my office - because I had been there so long, I had an office - a few weeks after he transferred in and said to me "I've asked around, and while no one here can tell me exactly WHAT you do, they all agree that things don't go well when you're not here. So I'm giving you a new title and a raise." There was a man who knew what was what. We got along great after that. Because to transition right into my next point:
- Flattery is nice. Praise is nice. But if you really want us to like you, give us a raise. Don't give us a big speech about tough economy, industry depression, blah blah blah. Don't give us a "performance bonus" that is based on goals that are unattainable or based on the performance of others. (See previous paragraph regarding shufflers.) Just show us the money. Base it on a performance review if you must, but give us something. Because nothing says "I don't think you're important" like not giving us a yearly pay increase while you attend "industry conferences" on a damn cruise ship or some tropical island after parking your brand new car in the airport parking lot. We're not stupid. No real work gets done at those conferences. I've been to them and once you get off the plane and collect your luggage, all the work is done. We've seen you come back from those conferences so hungover you admitted that you threw up in a little bag on the entire flight home. So shut up and put some extra money in my paycheck. That will get you off the hook for a few weeks, at least.
- Finally, if you came to your position by moving up the ranks, don't forget that you were once one of us. If not a secretary, you were once just a regular old peon with no real power. We may have liked you then. We may have hung out and had drinks. We may have laughed at the higher ups with you about their over-blown sense of importance. We may have skipped out on the afternoon and sat in a bar to celebrate the end of a big project until we were all too drunk to drive home. Once you move up the ladder, we don't forget that, even if you would like us too. Don't expect us still be your "buddy" if you're going to turn around and tell us to "just quit complaining and do what I tell you". It doesn't work that way. You don't get our respect because of your title, you still have to earn it. (Or earn it back if you are stupid enough to say something like that.) I'll do my job, without question, but all the other stuff I do that really isn't part of my job? Yeah, that will go right out the window if you start walking around with your head all swelled up and acting like a jerk. So just don't do it. Or you may find that your tuna sandwich isn't quite cold. Or that client you've been avoiding is suddenly ringing through to your cell phone. These things happen when your secretary is unhappy.
So the bottom line is this: be nice to your secretary, receptionist, office help, whatever. Don't be an arrogant fool. Your job might be very important. But so is ours. Maybe more than yours. Because we make it possible for you to do your job well. And if you piss us off, we can make you look like an idiot. But if we're at this point, it probably wouldn't take too much to do that.
Ever see the movie "9 to 5"? Go back and watch it. See what happens when bosses get too full of themselves. I suspect that was based on a true story. Except for Dolly Parton's chest size anyway.
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