Dear Diary: I Do Work

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Dear Diary:

The day began like any other, which is to say on the eve of tomorrow.  It was a “work” day.  Sorry, of course, I mean work day.  Not sure what those quotations were about as I approach every day with the mindset of giving my utmost effort, especially between the hours of 9 and 5. Now, I don’t go full out the entire time as that could shock the system, and I don’t want to risk injury.  As any athlete or exercise aficionado can attest, you need to warm up first.  Stretch your work muscles, if you will.  For most of Corporate America, that means posting to and commenting on others’ posts to Facebook (or MySpace for those who also still use AOL for their email); checking personal email; scanning your favorite sports, news, and weather websites; grabbing a breakfast beverage and / or food item; and interacting in an analog manner with co-workers who may not have access to your Facebook page, and therefore, have no idea what you had for dinner last night, how cute you kids are, what a jerk your significant other is, or how long the lines are at Wal-Mart.  That’s a good hour, hour and a half depending on how long it takes your computer to boot up and how much FB traffic you have.  Could you do most of this before coming into the office?  No, because that time is spent checking your work email, meeting schedules, and children’s temperatures in an effort to find some reason, any reason, to not come into the office.  “Won’t be in today, Boss.  My dog ate one of my kids…No, not that one; the practice one.  Otherwise, I’d be much more upset, and probably take tomorrow off, as well.”

So, now it’s roughly 10:30.  You respond to a few key emails, and by “key” I am, of course, referring to the emails with the largest distribution lists or highest number of senior leaders.  This lets the largest number of people know that you are fully engaged with the least amount of effort.  It’s all about efficiency.  That “Busy” status on your work IM is for realz.  (With a “z” for extra emphasis.) 

“I can’t see the proverbial ‘ball’,” Senior Executive VP of Doing Thangs says.

“That’s, because I’m on it,” you respond quickly (as you do with all things, cause that’s what being fully engaged is all about)

If there are no such emails, you send an email outlining a relatively small issue that you have automatically made important by adding the right people to the “cc:” list.  I find the “Follow Up” email works best in these situations.  It doesn’t have to be a real issue, or a real follow up.  The key is the distro list.  Let’s face it, people get hundreds of emails a day and attend numerous meetings over the course of a month.  They have enough trouble remembering where they have to be next to worry about what they may or may not have discussed with you on such and such day sometime in the not too distant past.  The key is that the Middle Manager in Charge of Knowing Things doesn’t want upper management to think he / she doesn’t know things, and will, therefore, not call you out in a “reply all” fashion.  Besides, with your company’s notoriously flawed email servers, emails get lost all the time.

Assuming you have done this correctly, it is now 10:45.  (If you have had to respond to several IMs regarding activities from the previous weekend or plans for the upcoming weekend, it may be 11:00.)  It’s close to lunch time.  Someone on the floor makes a “seed comment” (i.e. a comment that has little, if any, intrinsic value but grows into a much larger conversation amongst the people in the general vicinity.)  The comment could be work-related (loosely) or something as “thought-provoking” as “Do you think there any vegan zombies?”  It doesn’t really matter what you talk about as long as several key people are also engaged in the conversation.  The point is to get as many others around you to be as unproductive as you are, thereby masking your lack of productivity in a cloud of “team bonding”.  The key is to ensure the conversation ends soon enough to enable you to get back to “work” (for 5 to 10 minutes), and then go to lunch without having to wolf it down before your next meeting.  During lunch, it is perfectly acceptable to engage in “solitary unproductivity”.  You’ve earned it.  You tried to get that expense report finished before lunch, but…c’mon…vegan zombies.

Danger time is fast approaching, which is to say “the end of lunch”.  If you have no immediately after lunch meetings, you could be expected to get something done.  Something hard.  What to do?  More team bonding, of course.  Five minutes before the official end of lunch, which is an hour or so after the start of lunch, which, in turn, is defined as “when you start eating your food”, because you can’t be held responsible for the long lines at the cafeteria, traffic congestion, ineffective microwave technology, or the time it takes your food to cool / reach room temperature, you start another non-versation (i.e. conversation about nothing).  The topic should be something that you learned while surfing the internet during lunch, overheard while eavesdropping on others’ conversations, saw someone wearing in the course of your travels to and from the cafeteria.  If all else fails, head to the bathroom, which I refuse to call the “restroom”, because it is anything but restful.  There are a lot of unsettling habits in there, and you must always be on the alert.  Taking notes regarding whose hand you should probably never shake, for example.

There are also rules and key roles to be played in the bathroom.  For example, bathroom “conversations” should be limited to the acknowledging nod or split-finger hand gesture and contained in the “decontamination zone” as opposed to the “handling my business” area.  Another rule involves “urinary spacing”.  In decent society, in other words those places in where men are not asked to clear their bodies of fluid-based toxins in a communal trough, men like their space.  If there are, for example, three urinals and someone is using the one on the far left, it is customary for the next patron to place himself in front of the vessel at the far right, even if it’s a low (aka child’s) urinal.  In order to deflect any childish ribbing that you may experience from others due to your use of the “little boy’s urinal”, just mutter the following to no one in particular (i.e. everyone within earshot): “Finally, a urinal that gives me the room I need.  Hate always having to hold it up at a weird angle.  Am I right?”  When a third individual enters the facility, there are several courses of action he can take:  He could go into one of the stalls and pee sitting down like a little girl; he could act like he just came in to wash his hands, leave and head to the bathroom on another floor…like a little girl; or he can man up and fill the all-important role of “Middle Reliever”.  The Middle Reliever bridges the gap between two urinary worlds.  “It’s okay fellas,” he says. “We’re going to get through this together…but separately.  There’s no judgment here, just flow…just flow.”  (Of course, all of this is said via non-verbal communication, usually via a deep breath and slow exhale, as verbal communication and eye contact is frowned upon.)

Every now and again, the Middle Reliever is saddled up next to a “Chatty Cathy”.  Someone for whom the silence is so uncomfortable, the urinary journey so intense, that they feel compelled to talk; even to a perfect stranger.  This can get awkward, as happened to me recently.  (Editor’s Note:  I share this story within a story as a learning moment…and a cautionary tale about the dangers of urinal-based relationships i.e. “urinationships”.)

It was a typical Fall day. Some may call it “Autumnal”.  The wind was blowing out of the northeast at 5mph with the occasional 10 mph gust.  It wasn’t warm; it wasn’t cold; it was brisk.  The type of weather that may require a light jacket made of nylon with a mesh lining that ended at the elbow.  Perhaps, a wicking material if your sweat glands had proven to be overly sensitive…like a little girl.   The presence of cotton fibers wasn’t required; definitely not a hood…unless you just liked the mysterious mad-bomber look afforded the donner (defined as “one who dons”) of a hood…or the touch and/ or the feel, of cotton.  It is, after all, the fabric of our lives.  I had spent the day working diligently, only taking a brief moment to stop and smell the Rose.  She apparently did not care much for that, as was made clear to me in yet another conversation with Human Resources later that afternoon.

While at my desk, I had consumed water in amounts recommended by many healthcare professionals (and “Big Water”).  It was only a matter of time before Nature called. (And when Nature calls, you don’t want it to get the machine, because, as with unanswered calls from your mother, there are consequences, and you will never hear the end of it.)  I made a bee-line for the second nearest bathroom.  No reason I couldn’t work a little exercise into my routine.

Upon entering the bathroom, I noticed the two side urinals were occupied.  Only the middle remained open.  I “joined the conversation”, as it were, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.  Things were going well.  Flow had been achieved.  All of a sudden, the guy to my left, your right, decided to “break formation”.

“Did you see the game this weekend?”

“Nah,” I responded hoping to end the conversation and get this rogue pilot refocused on the mission at hand, or “in hand” as it were.

He, however, took it upon himself to bring me up to speed and tell me his life story, even the irrelevant points, which most of them were.

After “M. Night-ing my Shymalan”, I zipped up my pants and headed to the sink to wash away the evidence.

Later that day, I crossed paths with Sir Talks-a-Lot.  Out of habit, I gave him the acknowledgment nod.  Not a full, “What’s up, Man?” but more of a “I know who you are, but not really, and I would like to keep it that way, but it’d be rude to act like I’ve never seen you before.”  Nothing.  No return nod.  No half wave.  Nothing!

“Hey, man!...I sez uh, ‘hey’, ma-yun!  What gives?  You don’t know me now?!?  After what we shared in the bathroom?  Yeah, I know how it sounds.  Get your minds outta the gutter, people.  Alright.  So, that’s how it’s gonna be, huh???  You just gonna do me like that…Again, I know how it sounds.   Treat me like some girl that you talk to at “last call” while waiting for your boys to come out of the bathroom?  You say you’re going to call, but you never do.  You never had any intention of calling!  Just a way to pass the time...So, I’m a time passer now!  You know, I’ve stabbed people for less! (Phone rangs…yeah, ‘rangs’)  Human Resources?  Yeah, I’ll be right there…This ain’t over, Man!”

But it was, in fact, over.  Took weeks of therapy before I could ever use that urinal again, and by “weeks”, I mean “months”.

Don’t let it happen to you.  Learn from my mistakes.  Pay it forward.  Back to my original story.

After lunch and the after-lunch bathroom break have occurred, it’s time to buckle down and get to it.  After all, you need something to fill the time between lunch and the afternoon coffee run. (You don’t actually have to drink coffee to participate as it presents yet another opportunity for “team bonding”.)  Hopefully, there’s a meeting to attend.  Preferably, one you are neither leading nor taking meeting minutes for.  If not, there’s always Rhapsody or espnradio.  Both make the day go by much faster and serve to drown out impromptu requests from management or coworkers that could result in hyper-extending your productivity muscle.  (If it’s important, they know how to use email or IM.)

It’s 4:00.  One more hour of being (looking) productive before you get to head home and get back to doing what you really enjoy; nothing.  You release an audible sigh and announce, “Time to call into this freaking meeting.”  It doesn’t have to be a real meeting, you just need to be known as someone who is frequently asked to attend impromptu meeting and, therefore, dials-in a lot.  This can be gained from actually being asked to attend a lot of impromptu meetings or dialing into a bunch of fake meetings.  You pick up a phone receiver, place it to your ear, and push the necessary number of buttons required to dial into a meeting.  After a few seconds, you enter the pass code, wait a few more seconds, re-enter the pass code, because you were so eager to attend that you misdialed, wait a few more seconds, and announce your presence and apologize for being late.  After that, it’s a matter of a few well-placed “sounds good to me”, “I don’t have any concerns”, and “I’ll have to check with my management team and get back to you.”  After hanging up, feign another sigh and proclaim, under your breath but loud enough for people close by to overhear, “That was pointless.”  That way, no one expects any debriefs or deliverables to result from that meeting.  Almost time to go.  You do a little quick “typing” on your keyboard, then head to the printer.  You don’t actually have to type anything.  Just print a blank page or two.  No one actually looks at what you print, anyway.  You can always return the unused paper to the tray later.  In the event some “Make Everyone Else Look Bad Worky Workington” is looking over your shoulder, let out a sigh and ask, “Does anything work in this place?!?  Damn you, maker of substandard printing hardware and / or word processing software!”

It’s now time to time leave.  Well, it will be once you finish closing up.  You don’t close up on your own time, that wouldn’t promote proper work/life balance.  And there you have it, another long day at the office.  When is the weekend coming?  I need a break…

(Editor’s Note: The above was obviously a complete work of fiction as I do real, actual work.  Some have said in an –aholic manner.)

Dear Diary: Thanks for the Memories

May 28th, 2012

Dear Diary:

It was Monday, May 28^th.  Memorial Day.  The day began like any other, which is to say unfortunately.  Day 2 of a three-day weekend.  There was nothing on the agenda.  No work, no massages, no traveling, and no giving back to this or that community.  (Though, to be fair, just being me gave a feeling of joy to the world, which is why I started every day with a sincere “Your Welcome”.)  I hopped out of bed (dragged myself off of the floor) and scampered into the bathroom (slid across the wall) while soaking up the life-giving warmth of the sun (carefully avoiding the pain-inducing light).

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”

“Why, you are, of course, Sir!” the mirror responded.

Talking mirrors???  ‘Twas this magic or sorcery of some kind?  No.  I have a two-way mirror that looks into a cubby-hole where I keep a small child, a voice-activated smoke machine, and a script.  (This is what happens when you keep skateboarding down my driveway towards my house and slamming into my garbage can.)  Whilst in the bathroom, I “conducted my business”, took a shower, brushed my pearly whites --which have been described by some (one) as sexy—put on some smell goods, and styled my hair.

After weighing myself, and reminding myself that muscle weighed more than fat, and carbon fiber, which my body had been likened to, weighed more than both, I cut on the stereo, popped in some Chris Botti to set the relaxing mood for the day, and—

“Wow!” a voice from on high (inside my head) exclaimed.

“What?” I responded.

“Chris Botti?”

“Yes, he sets a very relaxing mood, which is what I am shooting for on this day of rest.”

“Chris Botti?”

“Yes, Chris Botti.”

“Not Todd Bashore, your friend since the 8^th grade and saxophonic wunderkind who recently won a Grammy for his extravagations on Christian McBride Big Band’s ‘The Good Feeling’?  That’s f’d up, Man…That’s f’d up.”

I cut on the stereo, popped in “The Good Feeling” featuring Grammy-award winning saxophonist Todd Bashore (“That’s better.”), and sent a quick text to my massage buddy.

“What are u getting into 2day?” I asked

“Some friends r thinking about doing a flash mob.”

“I’m no longer allowed 2 do flash mob, bc of ‘the incident’.”

“Your inability 2 dance?”

“Funny…I can dance.”
“I’ve known u 3 yrs.  I think I’d know if u cld dance.”

“I can dance, woman.”

“Who told u tht? The same woman who said u hv sexy teeth?”

“Yes.”

“And where is she now?”

“Institution prob.”

“Ur many things: sweet, sexy, thoughtful, intelligent, stunningly attractive with a body built as though from a –wait a min, I wld never say that!”

“This is my story, so that’s what u said.  If u want to provide an alternate account, start ur own blog called ‘Setting the Record Str8’.  Til then, let’s continue…”

“Fine. Wht is ‘the incident’?”

“I don’t like 2 get into it. Let’s just say it’s why I’m no longer allowed in some high schools, state parks, train stations, Chuck-E-Cheeses, hotel chains, convents, monasteries, YMCAs, YWCAs, soup kitchens, Habitats for Humanity, The Smithsonian, The Library of Congress, Legoland…”

“On 2^nd thought, flash mobs sound like a lot of work. I’ll jst hang by the pool.”

“Tht reminds me.  Waterparks, public pools, aquariums, Sea World, any event sponsored by Green Peace…”

“I get it. After letting the sunshine in, I will spend the rst of th day thnkng abt how lucky I am to have someone as wonderful as u in—Again, I wld never say tht.”

“Again, write ur own account.”

With the whole day ahead of me, I put on some clothes, and rushed out the door with skip in my step, and a song in my heart.  “I think I’ll go for a walk outside now, the summertime’s calling my name…”  In a scene reminiscent of Julie Andrews in “The Sound of Music”, I skipped, and jumped, and twirled, and ran through the streets.  I could’ve run all the way to CVS, and I would have if not for the oppressive heat, asthma, tweaked knee, suspect ankles, exercise-induced anaphylaxis, and a general unwillingness to go “long” distances on foot when I was the proud owner of reliable motorized transport.

Cops

I got to CVS, picked up some beauty products: shampoo, body wash, shaving cream, body wash applicators, toothpaste, mouthwash, and various balms, lotions, and salves, and made my way to the checkout counter.  While waiting in line, I decided to make good use of my time by cleaning up my personal email.  Per usual, there was a lot of “junk mail”, which made the process go fairly quickly.

“I wouldn’t delete that one just yet,” a voice from behind me said.  “It’s a pretty good deal.”

“Don’t really think I need a bikini wax, but thanks.”

“You never know.”

“I don’t want to brag, but I do a pretty good job of keeping the old yard properly manicured…I even have a water feature.  Am I right?  Up top!...Just going to leave me topless?”

“Just saying, it’s doesn’t hurt to get a professional opinion.”

“Do I know you?”

“Do you need to?  The advice is sound, and, deep down, in places I gather you like to talk about fairly often; too often, you know it is.”

“Delete…”

“Suit yourself.”

When I got home, I put away my purchases (a place for everything and everything in its place), got into my lounge pants, turned on the television, laid out on the couch, and proceeded to lounge.  As I was getting my Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chamele on, the phone rang.  It was my mom, who was in Prince George taking care of my grandmother.

“Damion” she said crying, “I think I need to go to the doctor.”

“Are you at grandma’s?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right there!”

“You’re not busy are you?”

“Mom, I’ll get dressed and be right there!”

I threw on some clothes, grabbed my keys, and fired up “Shakira”.  Before hitting the road, I said a quick prayer, “God, please let my mom be alright…and keep the cops away.”  Since my grandmother’s house was 30 minutes away, observing the speed limit was not an option.  “Shakira’s” Dynamic Stability Control, Traction Control, and

All-Wheel Drive

made it possible to throw her around corners with ease, even at high speeds.  I raced through the back streets, plowed down the on-ramp to 288, and flew onto I95.  I was making great time.  People were moving out of my way (hazard lights helped) and there wasn’t an officer in sight…until there was.  I was pulled over shortly after. 

“You know you were going 25 miles per hour over the speed limit.” 

I was actually going 35 miles per hour over the speed limit before he spotted me, but that’s neither here nor there. (Actually, it was here then there.  Rather quickly I might add.) This was my Momz.  I explained the situation and called my mom to corroborate my story.

“I’m feeling better now,” she said.  “It was a false alarm.”

“That’s good.  Can you tell the officer you’re feeling better?”

“That’s fine,” the officer said.  “I don’t need to talk to her.”

“Are you still coming to Grandma’s?”

“Yes, Mom.  I just need to deal with this.”

“Okay.  See you when you get here.”

“I’m going to let you off with a warning,” the officer said. “You’re obviously very emotional.”

“Thank yo—Wait a second.  You’re not going to put it in your report like that are you?”

“Like what?”

“’Very emotional.’”

“Seriously?”

“I just don’t want to be categorized as ‘very emotional’ when this story is played out.”

“Don’t think this encounter is ‘story worthy’, but I’ll humor you.  How would you like it to read?”

“Individual showed strength in the face of what was obviously great concern for his mother, belying his family-oriented nature.  Would make a great catch for any single lady in search of a well-rounded, financially and emotionally stable, man with a sense of humor and an above-average command of the written word.”

“This is a police report, not a match.com profile.”

“Can’t it be both?”

“No.”

“Wikipedia entry?”

“Let me just run your license to see if there are any outstanding issues.”

“You will find that I have no speeding tickets, parking tickets, or DUIs.  I did kill a guy, but we all got a free one after ‘The Inauguration’.”

“Free what?”

“Murder.”

“I don’t think that’s accurate.”

“Are you sure?  I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.”

“I’m pretty sure you read wrong.”

“Well, in that case, I didn’t kill a guy.”

The officer returned my license with a recommendation to drive carefully (keep it under a 100?).  I thanked him again for letting me off with a warning (and ignoring that ‘murder thang’.  Guess you can’t believe everything you read on the interwebs.  You’d think Al Gore would’ve built some fact-checking into that system when he created it.)  When I fired up “Shakira” for the second leg of my journey, the engine did not roar.  It did not bellow.  In fact, it made no noise at all.  The only noise I heard was “Click-Click”.  (Editor’s Note:  Not to be confused with “Tick-Tick”, which I often heard when I was hanging out with that crazy woman.  No, not that one…No…No…No…Ye- No…No…Yes, that one.)

“What’s seems to be the problem?” the officer asked.

“She won’t start.”

“Has this happened before?”

“Only when Jesus wants to mess with me…We have a ‘thing’.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“I have a portable jumpstart thing in my trunk.”  I attached the cable to the battery and engine block.  Nothing.

“Jesus again?”

“My money’s on Moses.  They often work in tandem.”

“I see.”

“I have Triple - A.”

“Triple-A?  Don’t you mean ‘Triple-Six’?”

“Well played.”

Forty minutes later, AAA showed up.  It turned out that my battery had a defective cell…and was also designed for the 8-cylinder Jag and not the 6-cylinder one, which I had.

“Your warranty for the free replacement battery expired earlier this year,” the technician informed me.

“Of course, it did,” I responded looking up towards Heaven.

“Perhaps, you ought church it up more often; move up in the ‘Prayer Request Queue’.”

I gassed-up “Shakira” and headed, once again, to Grandmother’s house.  I made sure my mom was okay, hung out for awhile as she rested, then headed back home.  “Home, Jeeves!” I exclaimed.  “But, first, Bojangle’s”.  Eight pieces of chicken, four biscuits, sweet tea, and picnic-sized mashed potatoes and gravy and dirty rice.  Life made sense again.

When I got home, the phone rang.  It was my best friend, Michael Watkinson.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“You know, same ol’ same ol’.”

Dear Diary: You Are Appreciated

May 10, 2012

Dear Diary:

It was Thursday, May 10^th.  The day began like any other, which is to say with a bowl of Raisin Bran Crunch, a bottle of whiskey, and “The Bee Gees Greatest Hits” playing in my mind’s ear.  Mother’s Day Weekend was fast approaching and there were still miles to go before I slept.  There was no time to waste. Actually, there was some time to waste, as I had taken the next two days off from work, and didn’t have to be at my volunteer event until 10:00.  Besides, I knew a shortcut.  Well, not a “shortcut” per se.  I just drove really fast and took liberties with the legal interpretation of the traffic light color spectrum.  (It turns out interpretive driving is just as effective as any shortcut.)

First on the docket was my annual two-day stint at the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure packet pick-up, or as it was oft-referred, “Yeah, I’m going to Hell.”  As 9 am rolled around, it was time to get dressed.  As is customary with such events, volunteers had been provided t-shirts to enable those in need to identify the individuals who possessed the skills and knowledge to help them through their journey from the general populace.  The wheat from the chaff.  The riff from the proverbial raff.  These individuals had undergone hours of rigorous training in order that they may avail themselves to the community what had given them so much; that they may adequately represent those that had entrusted them to be the face of their organization.  As I pulled that bright yellow shirt with the giant pink ribbon made up of smaller ribbons over my six-foot four inch athletic frame, I knew I was part of something special.  I ran to my bedroom window, threw open the sash, and yelled, “Good morning, Sir and / or Madam.  How may I be of service?”  I had officially availed myself.  I was available, as it were.  At least, I would be once I put on pants.

When I arrived at the place where I was to make magic happen, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and reviewed my internal game plan.  “Let’s shock this monkey,” I said under my breath as I opened the door and headed into the fray.  When I got inside, there was an enormous amount of hustle in lockstep with its requisite bustle.  People were setting up merchandise, unpacking boxes, hanging banners, and folding t-shirts.  (Not to mention the people who were trying to sell and service cars.  This was, after all, a fully-functioning car dealership.)  When I walked into the room, all activity stopped and everyone took notice.  Was it the blindingly bright yellow t-shirt?  Was it the shadow cast by my towering, athletic frame?  Was it the fact that my towering, athletic frame draped in a yellow and pink t-shirt, when combined with my natural masculine aura struck a chord that reminded people of mythological heroes from childhood readings and recent cinematic triumphs?  Yes…yes, it was.  After 15 seconds of standing comfortably silent with my chest puffed out and arms akimbo, a single voice proclaimed “The Champ is here!” allowing work to resume.

“You ready to grab some boxes from the back of the truck, Your Majesty?” one of the volunteer coordinators asked.  “I honestly don’t know why we agree to your choreographed entrance every year.  The only thing missing is a cape and a wind machine.”  (Note to self: Purchase cape and wind machine.  Scratch that.  Already have cape; purchase wind machine…and possibly some theme music.)

“Let’s sock this puppet!” I responded emphatically.

“Huh?”

“What?”

I delivered the needed boxes, introduced myself to the women who were in charge of folding and handing out the shirts –I’m sure there were guys in the area, as well, but let’s be honest—and headed back for further instruction.

“What do you need me to do, Lady Boss?”

“Can you make some signs that will tell people where they need to go?”

“Sure thang.  Let’s Cirque this Soleil.”

“What???”

“Let’s rocky this road?”

“No.”

“Let’s dry hump this camel?”

“Definitely not.”

“Well, I’m all out.”

“Good.”

After preparing and setting up the signage, I took my seat at the “grown-ups table”, as it were.  (They had me working the table for the kids’ race, last year.  They apparently thought better of it this year.  Can’t imagine why, what with my obvious rapore with the kiddies...and their single moms.  Oh, that’s why…Nevermind…I get it.)  A couple of minutes later, I was called over by the coordinator.

“Damion, can I see you over here for a second?”

“What’s up?” I asked in a way that says, “I know I’m in trouble, but let’s see if it’s for the thing I know I did or something else entirely, because they may not have discovered that other thing yet and why incriminate myself?”

“About these signs…”

“Uh-huh?”

“I asked you to make some signs to direct people to the different areas.”

“Yeah…yeah.”

“I was envisioning ‘Competitive Runners’, ‘Recreational’, ‘Survivors’, and ‘Kids’ Race’.”

“Okay…okay.”

“Your signs are ‘The Hotness’, ‘Cuties’, ‘Average’, ‘Unsure’, and ‘Single Moms’.”

“Yep.”

“Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“If your question is ‘What about the guys?’ they are directed to stay outside and send in their significant other, hot friend, or of-age daughter.”

“That wasn’t my question, but now that you bring it up…”

“I should change ‘Average’ to ‘Great Personalities’?”

“No.”

“I should change all of the signs?”

“Exactly.”

“Fine, but things could get awkward.  You know how bad I am at spotting wedding rings.”

After I adjusted the signage, I went back to my post (The Recreational Runners / Walkers table) to serve the public.  Why did I choose that table?  Volume.  Besides, I sat on the side next to the Competitive runners table.  So, I got to benefits of seeing the ultra-fit participants without having to deal with the time-consuming, heads-down work involved with looking up bib numbers.  (Editor’s Note: It wasn’t so much the “time-consuming” as the “heads-down” part that bothered me…because I thoroughly enjoyed interacting with the people.  I am, after all, a man of them.)

Every now and again, the pace slowed, and I was able to engage in the interactions that I found to be the truly special part of volunteering: the getting-to-know-yous.

“…If you don’t mind my asking,” an athletic blonde with her hair in a ponytail, wearing Jackie-O sunglasses, a white peasant top, skinny jeans (they worked for her), and 6-inch stiletto heels began, “how did you get involved with this cause?”

“A friend of mine passed.  So, I do this to honor her.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“Will I see you at the race tomorrow?”

“I’m ‘Sleeping In for the Cure’. So…” I said with a slight grin that would’ve been a much larger grin had I not caught it.

“Are you hitting on me?”

“That’d be inappropriate,” I responded with a look that said “wouldn’t…it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Of course, it would…I was just letting you know…why it was…that you would not see me tomorrow…in the event you were…searching for me.  It’s going to be a beautiful day tomorrow, and I’d hate for you not to enjoy it.”

A few moments later, an athletic brunette with Ray-Bans pushed up to the top of her head, a tight blue tank top, black jogging shorts (i.e. small, high-cut shorts), and flip-flops made her way to the table.

“I like your shirt,” she said.

“Thank you.  I like yours, too.”  I said that second part in my head.

“How can I get a yellow one?”

(pondering appropriate responses…no…no…no…no…ye- no…no…yes) “You have to be a volunteer.”

“This is such a good cause.”

“It is.”

“I know people who have gone through this.  I’m very thankful that I have my health.  When I get down, I stop and think about people who are less fortunate.”

“I used to complain that I had no shoes until I found the man who stole my shoes, beat him down, and took his feet.”

“I don’t think that’s the way it goes.”

“They changed it to make it more family friendly.”

“I did not know that.”

“Few people do…few people do.”

“Damion,” one of the volunteer-coordinators called out, “can you help this woman take these boxes to her car?”

“I was going to help this woman with her shirtssss.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  How many packets are you picking up?  Do you need a box?”

“I only have the one shirt.”

“It’s a big shirt.”
“I’m actually getting a Small.”

“But it’s…heavy…weight…cotton.”

“You’re sweet, but I’ll be alright.”

“Fine.  Where are these boxes?”

“I’m right over here…Unfortunately, I parked way at the end of the lot.”

“Of course, you did.”

When I returned to my post, the volunteer coordinator was waiting for me.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” I asked.

“I did,” she responded as she skipped away with a big smile on her face.

Other than a minor issue stemming from a disagreement regarding whether or not it was appropriate to use volunteers to fold my laundry (they were bored; my laundry needed folding, let’s stone these two birds) the second day of volunteering was mostly uneventful.  (Ed’s Note: There was a tiny, barefoot brunette with giant sunglasses and a baby who brought me a tote bag filled with products from Bath and Body Works to give to a friend, but I won’t get into that as she may want royalties in the event this story makes it into the book.  I will say, however, that I promised to wear a top hat and tails and dance down the escalator the next time we went shopping.  Gonna regret that promise.)

Saturday, May 12^th

Day 2 of Mother’s Day Weekend.  I had a full schedule.  My new coffee table was being delivered; I was going to hang out with a friend, who happened to be a single mom, to give her the final pieces of her Mother’s Day gift bonanza (gift-nanza?); and I was going to take my mom to church and dinner.  The plan was to surprise my mom.  I called my dad to let him know I was coming in late Saturday / early Sunday.  My dad, of course, was in Wilmington.  So, I called my mom to see how she was doing.

“Are you coming down this weekend?” she asked.

“Yes, I figured I’d make sure you went to church, seeing as how you slept in for Easter.”

“Good.  I hate being in this house alone.”

So, here was the dilemma: On the one hand, there’s my friend, who I had promised (and who deserved) a special Mother’s Day Weekend.  On the other hand, my Momz was alone…and was my Momz.  Everything would hinge on the delivery of the coffee table.  It took roughly 2 ½ hours to get to Raleigh.  The coffee table was scheduled to be at my house between 3:30PM and 6:30 PM.  If the coffee table was delivered at the front end, I was golden.  If not…screwed.  (Spoiler Alert: If things worked out for me, the name of this blog wouldn’t be “Paving the Road to Hell”; it’d be “Everything’s Coming Up Roses”.)

As the sands of the hourglass went by, so did the days of my life.  Long story short, the delivery truck arrived at 7:00 PM.  I was angry, but seeing as how the delivery guy walked from the street, down my front yard, and up the outside steps while carrying the coffee table, with one arm, on his shoulder, I decided to let him off with a warning.  (A warning that was in my mind, but I’m sure he gathered from the way I wrote my signature on the invoice, that I was less than thrilled at his tardiness.)

Now, it was time to get ready.  It would be roughly 8:30 before I could get on the road.  Whilst in the shower, I started running through various scenarios.  Spending time with Momz was never in question.  The question was would I be able to see mom before heading out to spend time with my friend, should I go see my friend first, or should I forego seeing my friend altogether and just hang out with Momz?  Technically, my friend did not know that there were more gifts coming or that I had written her a note --incredibly thoughtful note, if I do say so myself…which I do, ‘cause I am.  However, my friend was also a mom; a great mom; and she deserved to be celebrated.  What to do?  What to do?.

When I got out of the shower, there was the following message from my friend: “Can’t wait 2 c u”. Decision made.  Time to call Momz.

“Hello, Damion.”

“Heyyyy, Mommzzzz…”

“What’s up?”

“Coffee table was delivered late.  So, I am will not be by the house until late Saturday / early Sunday.”

“You don’t have to come down.  You can stay in Richmond and play with your new coffee table.”

(Ah, there is no guilt like mom-guilt. Subtle…pointed…laser-guided…mom-guilt.)

“I’m coming down, Mom.  Wouldn’t miss it.”

Since my pants had exploded the last time I saw her, I decided to stress-test my pants before heading to spend time with my friend.  I did some lunges, odd jumps, twists, turns, and “The Robot” (no real reason for that last one, it had just been awhile).  The pants survived.  My self-respect, on the other hand, took a very large hit.

Due to my late arrival, my friend had already eaten.  She noticed the gift and card.

“You got me something else?  I love your notes.”

‘What can I say?  I’m an old softy…Don’t!”

“Don’t what?  I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure.”

“C’mon.  You can massage me while I read the card.”

“You’re not gassy are you?”

“What?!?  What the hell kinda question is that?!?”

“I have ‘burped’ you several times.  Not to mention, I once threatened to tickle you, and you said, ‘Okay, but I’m gonna warn you; I’m gassy and holding it in.  So…’  Therefore, the question, while off-putting, is not without merit.”

“No, I’m not gassy!  I had seafood and rice for dinner if you must know!”

“Fiiiine.  Just asking.”

“I loved the chocolate-covered strawberries, by the way.  And the flowers were beautiful, as always.”

“Thank you.  I’ve always fancied myself a bit of a horticulturist.”

“That’s funny, I’ve always fancied you a bit of an ass.”

“And I’ve fancied you a bit of a --.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“What?  I was going to say ‘ticulturist’.”

“And I was going to stab you in the eye.”

“First of all, I’m not gonna lie to ya, I’m kinda turned on right now.  Secondly…Actually, there is no secondly.  Just seems like there should be after that first thing I said.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you.  I wish you were kidding.”

“As do I. My therapist, on the other hand, is glad I’m not.  What can I say?  I likes my ladies like I likes my Greenwich Time.”

“Mean?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re an idiot…massage.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“That feels good.  What’d you do today?”

“I rode my bike through Switzerland.”

“How was that?”

“Lotta hills.  You’d think they’d advertise that more.  Warn people so they know what they’re getting into.”

“I think they do advertise it.  They’re called the Swiss Alps.  They’re kinda famous.”

“Well, I’m gonna need a little less Alps and a little more Miss…and Bikini Team.”

“That’s Sweden.”

“What’s Sweden?”

“The Swedish Bikini Team.  Don’t you know anything about geogra—(Burp)”

“I’m sorry.  What was that?”

“Shut up.  That’s what that was.”

“I had seafood and rice.  I’m not gassy,” I said in a condescendingly high-pitched, know-it-all, girlie voice.

“Oh, you’re funny.  This from the guy who tried to convince a waitress that ‘Pay it Forward’ meant giving the bill to someone else.”

“It was an honest mistake.”

“There was nothing honest about that.”

“Cut me some slack, woman.”

“Oh, I’ll cut you.

“Flirt.”

After a few more hours, her Mother’s Day Weekend was over.  It was, by all indications, a rousing success.  I am so thoughtful.  Now, it was time to head to Durham to get some sleep and spend time with Momz…and the Lord.

Sunday, March 13^th

The day began like every other Sunday, which is to say with me lying face-down on the floor and a voice in my head whispering, “Sometimes Life can keep you down with your face all in the dirt…Now, if you feel that left behind, you need to get up and go to church…”  (What can I say, turns out my inner voice listens to Outkast.)  Unlike most Sundays, however, this was one of the four Sundays I actually did go to church.  For the uninitiated, those four Sundays are: Easter, Mother’s Day, my Mom’s birthday, and Christmas.  Sure, I could go to church more frequently, but that would diminish the value of the times I did go to church, and I wasn’t going to do that to my Momz…or, for that matter, to Jesus.  (Editor’s Note:  You just can’t argue with that kind of logic.)

My mom knocked on the bedroom door.  “Are you still going to church today?” she asked.

“Of course, I’m going…it’s part of the gift.”

“Why are you face-down on the floor?”

“If we’re going to continue with this line of questioning, you may not be happy where it leads.  Let’s just say I’m doing pushups and leave it at that.”

“Fair enough.  When did you start wearing pajamas?”

Not sure what bothered me more, the fact that my mom couldn’t tell the difference between pajamas and lounge pants, or the fact that she obviously did not read my blog.

I freshened up, touched up the areas I had groomed the day before, put on my Sunday best, and headed out the door to church.  Why do Church and I have such a strange relationship?  Let’s recap: My namesake is the Patron Saint of Outcasts who ministered to the lepers, it is also the name given to the Anti-Christ; I had a Doberman pincher named Saint John, who is either the person who foretold the coming of and Baptized Jesus, or the person who wrote the Book of Revelations; my parents dressed me as the Devil for every Halloween since the age of five; and I almost drowned during my Baptism.  (Editor’s Note: All true.)  It’s no wonder I’m so conflicted.  It is, however, a wonder I don’t burst into flames whenever I come within spitting distance of a church.  (Editor’s Note: Spitting on churches may also be a reason for the strained relationship…Just a thought.)

We got into the car and turned on the radio, which was queued up to 2Pac’s “Dear Mama”. 

“…Ain’t a woman alive that can take my mama’s place...”

On the way to church, a large snake slithered across the road in front of my car.  “Passing a serpent on the way to church” I thought to myself. “That can’t be good.  Couldn’t have been a naked woman holding an apple?  Probably questions like that which keep me outta church…and Heaven…and the YWCA.”

“…Cause when I was low you was there for me / I was never alone because you cared for me…”

When we got to church, I parked as far from the building as possible as I had grown tired of answering questions about my license plate, DVLS DUE.  An added benefit was that it took longer to get into the church service, and I liked to arrive fashionably late (i.e. after the offering(s) had been collected).  As we entered the building, I heard a faint voice whisper, “Get out…”  Turned out the voice was coming from inside my head.  Apparently, one of my inner demons had left the television on.  When the choral selection had completed, the usher opened the door and led us to our seats.  Front row center.  “This isn’t going to be good,” I thought to myself. “These are the ‘he can see you when you’re sleeping’ seats.”

As I got my spiritual bearings and checked the program to see where we were, I realized that we had arrived well before the Offering.  “Can’t I catch a break?”  Turns out the answer to that was, “No.”  After the Offering was collected, it was time for the sermon by the guest preacher.

The sermon began as follows: “There are some people who would have you believe we came from apes.  Those people are crazy…”

“This has started off well,” I thought to myself. “Evolution is a myth?  Someone better call Charles Darwin…and the guy who wrote ‘Planet of the Apes’.”

“…Earlier this week, people voted God’s Conscience to keep marriage between a man and a woman.”

“Here we go.”  I don’t really care what side of the line people fall on when it comes to what defines a proper marriage.  What I do care about is people using the Bible to keep other people down seeing as how that was how some people justified Slavery.  After all, even the Devil can quote the Bible.  Well, enough of my ramblings.  I’d hate to miss something…

“…God teaches us to not worship false idols, but, yesterday, I saw the cleanest Mercedes I have ever seen.”

“And scene.”  Once you equate having a clean car with breaking one of the Ten Commandments, we’re pretty much done. 

Had I my druthers, or known what a druther was, I would have gotten up and walked out.  But this day wasn’t about me.  It was about Momz.  I knew, however, that this lady preacher was crazy and I didn’t have much of a poker face, especially when I hadn’t slept.  There was only one thing to do; go inside myself and find my “

Happy Place

”.  My thoughts went back to the previous night when I was hanging out and massaging my friend.

“Probably don’t want to go down that road in here,” one of my inner voices suggested, “especially in the front row.”

“You’ve got a point.  Explaining not being able to stand during the ‘standy’ portions of the service is not something I want to do…was awkward enough in the 5^th grade.”  I removed the massage portion and focused on the conversation: the jokes, the sarcasm, the playful threats…the gas.  It helped me make it through the rest of The Sermon on the Mount-ain of Crazy.

We got through the rest of the service without incident.  Engaged in the hugs, shook the hands, smiled the smiles.

As we walked back to the car, I noticed a figure out of the corner of my eye.  “Is that a naked woman holding an apple?” I asked myself.  “Yep, I’m going to Hell…”

Since my mom isn’t much for crowds, we decided to grab some KFC for dinner.  (KFC, because you can love Jesus AND chicken.  Here’s looking at you Chick-Fil-A.)  We got back home, watched some television, and had some fellowship.  Then, it was time to hit the road.  Overall, it was a great weekend.

“And there’s no way I can pay you back / But my plan is to show you that I understand / You are appreciated”