I was once a twenty-one year old boss. I had employees. I made schedules. I had a budget. I spent the company’s money. I dealt with angry, cursing morons-- all with a smile. I hired people. I fired people. I was young, I was naive and I was in charge. I took care of the people who worked for me because that’s what I thought a good boss should do. I figured I had nothing to lose by doing things my way and there was rarely anyone looking over my shoulder to tell me otherwise. My work ethic was less “if you have time to lean, you have time to clean” and more “get the work done, then goof off.”
My work ethic hasn’t changed much in fifteen years. I am not lazy so much as I am rebellious. I don’t like rules. I don’t deal well with authority, especially if the authority in question is an idiot. I don’t like policy and procedure manuals, I prefer to handle things on a case by case basis. I don’t like black and white, I prefer shades of gray and blue and purple. I don’t like being told what to do, nor do I like giving orders. I prefer a looser style of management. Smart employees know what to do and will get the job done. Dumb employees should be taken out back and smacked around. Simple.
I believe vacation days are for vacation and sick days are for whatever you want them to be. I think the best thing you can give an employee-- besides a hefty raise-- is respect and the acknowledgment of work well done, even if it’s the work they’re supposed to do. I believe in positive reinforcement and chocolate rewards; when a raise isn’t in the budget, I believe in commiseration and drinks on the house. I believe in fraternizing and getting to know the people who work for you. I believe everyone is entitled to have a bad day and everyone deserves a second, and even a third, chance. I believe most people want to do a good job most of the time. That should be enough for any boss.
I believe in looking out for your employees and giving them credit where credit is due-- and even when it isn’t. It’s no real hardship to let someone stand in the spotlight for a few minutes and it makes a world of difference in how they feel about themselves… and their job. I believe in staff meetings that include doughnuts and coffee. I believe in pizza parties on me because we’ve had a good, productive week. I believe in looking the other way when lunch stretches to an hour and a half once in awhile. I believe as long as ONE person is on time, everyone else can be a few minutes late occasionally. I don’t believe in evaluations, I believe in heart-to-hearts when the need arises. I believe work can-- and should-- be fun.
All of this just goes to show why I will never be a boss again. Not that I want to be-- the hours suck and, oddly enough, no one seems to think I should be in charge. Imagine that.
Things would be better if I ruled the world. Trust me.
2003 wasn’t my favorite year. I can’t even say it was in the top five. It’s hard to remember the good stuff when the bad stuff is so glaring, but there was good stuff. A lot of good stuff.
Highlights of the good, the bad and the sometimes ugly:
January:
Snow days, a pajama party for the lovely Dr. Shmoo, hockey games with Robbie, Nick and Sharon’s wedding shower, followed by their Vegas wedding which I couldn’t attend, but I watched thanks to the wonders of the internet.
February:
A baby shower for Gigi, more hockey with Robbie, and lots and lots of planning for the London trip with Sheri!
March:
An Art Therapy fundraiser at Cora, more hockey, LONDON, which included two trips to the theater to see The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged) and Les Miserables, and more theater when I got home to see The Tale of the Allergist’s Wife.
April:
Jay’s birthday, Second City, a wedding, a memorable trip to the Farmer’s Market (but not to the central library), Easter dinner with Robbie, Ashleigh and Denis.
May:
BIRTHDAY WEEK and many, many festivities for said occasion including a legendary cookout, a theater trip to see the amazing one-man show Foley, a movie marathon that went a little too long, the Trinity Irish Dancers and the Pungo Strawberry Festival.
June:
The Neville Brothers at the Bayou Boogaloo and another fun-filled, vomit-inducing cookout which turned out to be my last drunken hurrah of the year.
July:
Orville died, I rescued a dog, I gave her away, Jae abandoned us for Virginia Beach, Jay deployed, the a/c broke during the hottest part of the year, baseball games, my first (and hopefully only) attempt at being a class speaker (thanks, Rose), Nick’s birthday week and the unbelievably short Chris Isaak.
August:
Tea for Rose’s birthday, the a/c broke again, more baseball and Jae’s birthday party.
September:
Nick moved, Hurricane Isabel visited, I locked myself out of the house, the power was out for days, I finally took the GRE and Jay came home!
October:
A trip to Tom and Amy’s, fun in Baltimore, thirteen years of wedded bliss, IKEA!!, Lord of the Dance and and the Stockley Gardens Art Festival.
November:
The ill-fated NaNoWriMo, the beginning of The Highly Selective Book Club With Only Two Members(TM), I applied to grad school (application incomplete, still), the symphony, Elton John, Rent, Sheri, Thanksgiving joy and happiness with special guest Brian, a book club meeting, a pizza party and brunch in Richmond.
December:
A surprise party for Robbie, a crowd for hockey, a work Christmas party to plan, a Hail and Farewell, a lovely Christmas eve dinner and a fun Christmas morning, another book to read for the book club and another deployment, but the last for awhile.
And scattered throughout the year, the events that made life worth living:
Many trips to Wild Wing, Panera and Starbucks, lots of movies and lunches and laughter and love and some fights and a few tears and good friends and drinking and shopping and Bubba Chryst touring plans and road trip talk and plots to overthrow the library administration and some job hunting and grad school planning and some writing sales and much (sporadic) writing and some reading, too.
Another busy week, but as I wander into 2004, things will slow down to a crawl and I’ll have time to write and reflect. Until then, I give you the week’s highlights:
--Santa was good to me, but the best thing about this Christmas was having Jay home and sharing Christmas with friends who feel like family. You can’t wrap that kind of happiness.
--I finished Middlesex. I am proud of this accomplishment because I read it during the busiest December I can remember and it’s over 500 pages of literary joy and madness. Book club meeting coming soon…
--Mona Lisa Smile made me (almost) wish I’d been born a few decades ago. The limitations and rules that applied to women are ridiculous by today’s standards, but the clothes and music were to die for. Who says I can’t wear an apron while I cook and get a law degree? Huh?
--At the other end of the movie spectrum, Jack Black proves anyone--yes, anyone-- can be in a band. Rock on.
--Taking my own advice, recent music purchases include: greatest hits from The Eagles, some all-girl blues, going crazy with Patsy Cline, some old standards sung by jazz great Chet Baker, and classic Cheap Trick just for fun. Jack would approve.
--Due to this end-of-the-year deployment, the big, broad, fat, drunken tree had to come down. It did not come down without a fight, however. I have the scratches and abrasions to prove that dry, brittle trees are bad, dangerous things.
--Christmas cards! Christmas cards! To date, cards have arrived from seventeen states, the District of Columbia and Canada. Which only means that a) I’m a geek for counting and b) people move around too much.
--I apparently make kick ass gravy-- and not enough of it.
--Sharing Christmas morning with people I am not related to is an experience. A nice one. And I’m really, really glad we didn’t go camping.
--I have a shiny new datebook in which to record, well, dates. Woooo.
--My thank you cards are not written. My bills are not paid. Ask me if I care. Go on, I dare you.
--Jay left, which casts a long shadow over everything else. Pardon me while I feel sorry for myself.
Last week was one of those weeks. You know, one of those weeks. Craziness, a million things to do, staying up until 3 a.m. night after night, getting up before 10 a.m. (ack!). That sort of week. Last night I played hostess for a party (aka “Navy function") which involved cooking, baking, table setting, flower arranging and, because I run a small zoo out of my house, corralling the pets upstairs. Henry the WonderDog (aka “No Knees") went into the office, the cats went into my bedroom, Lola the crazy bird went into her cage. The fish, thankfully, do not harass guests as a rule, so they got to stay downstairs.
I left Jay in charge of gathering the pets and didn’t get a chance to check on the cats until I went to get dressed.
Begin Small Digression
When the invitation says 6:30, it MEANS 6:30, not 5:53. If you leave your house two hours early so you won’t get lost, PLEASE don’t come ringing my doorbell forty freakin’ minutes early. Go buy yourself a Slurpee or check out the neighbor’s giant inflatable snowman from Hell, but DO NOT show up at my house and expect me to greet you with a smile when I’ve been forced to get ready at the speed of light so as not to make YOU feel uncomfortable as you sit on my couch sipping your beer and looking at my half-finished party preparations.
End Small Digression
So, I go into my bedroom and the cats are doing their pitiful “we are so abused to be confined like this” meows and I’m taking a head count. One: Wilbur, the purr monster Siamese-looking old man cat; two: Annabelle, the gracefully aging princess calico with dainty paws and hunter instincts; three: Savannah, the baby brute tortoiseshell who terrorizes the other cats and is in love with the dog. They all stare expectantly at me from the bed and floor as I scan the room again and do another head count. One, two, three. Where’s four? Where’s Orville?
Then I remember. Orville died in July.
It’s funny how that happens, how I sometimes forget he’s not here any more, even after all these months. He was Wilbur’s brother and my baby cat, a cuddly tabby who would let you hold him and pet him for hours. Thirteen years old, blind and suffering from a thyroid condition that left him painfully thin, he’d find his way through the house to where ever I was, meowing loudly so that I’d respond and he could locate me. He died in my arms which I hope made it easier for him to go.
Having so many pets, you’d think I wouldn’t miss Orville so much five months after he died. The little guy is still in my heart and there are times when I feel his presence and I can almost convince myself he’s still here, sleeping on my pillow and begging for cheese. Which is why at the end of a hectic week, in the midst of doing the hostess thing, I found myself standing in my bedroom and crying because three wasn’t the right number of cats.
I have thirty Christmas/Hanukkah cards left to write. That’s not so bad, considering I started with over a hundred. What is bad is that three days ago I thought I only had thirty cards left to write and I’ve since written over twenty. First, I misplaced ten cards that need addresses (if I know you and you haven’t gotten a holiday card from me by December 20th, I probably don’t have your address), then I added a handful of editors to the card-giving list. What better time to get in a few suck up points than the joyous holiday season? So, I’m having nightmares that the thirty cards will never go away, that every time I make a dent in the pile they will be replaced by more cards and there will always thirty of them. Scary.
I am running on chocolate and caffeine and sheer willpower these days, otherwise I would collapse into a weeping, quivering puddle just like Frosty. It’s been a stressful week. Actually, stressful isn’t a good word for it. Stressful implies something serious and weighty, when I’m mostly talking about the hectic, chaotic, insane holiday stuff. It’s self-imposed martyrdom and I do it to myself every year. I guess I’m afraid if I slow down for a second I might miss what everyone else seems to have this time of year-- family, roots, a sense of place. It sucks to feel like little orphan Annie when everyone else is starring in the Brady Bunch. I don’t feel sorry for myself (nor do I expect anyone else to feel sorry for me) because I’m grateful and lucky to have people in my life who care about me and look out for me. The truth is, I’ve worked my ass off to make this happy little life for myself and I’m proud of it. Still, I’m reminded at this time of year of what I don’t have that most people take for granted. It must be nice to be loved no matter what and not have to work at it so damned hard all the time.
Life. Love. Writing. Friendship.
Sex. Books. Movies. Travel. Politics. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Rants. Raves. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Some names have been changed, some stories have been embellished. Thanks for stopping by and beware of the dog. Read more...
