Etiquette at Work: the Workplace According to Me

As I near the end of my second year in the professinal world, I feel like I've been working in an office for a thousand years. I'm beginning to consider myself an old hat at this. In honor of my upcoming anniversary, I've collected some of my wit and wisdom, as well as the secrets of my success to share with the adoring public. Here you go:

1. If you happen to see a co-worker leaving or entering a bathroom with reading material, resist commenting. Sometimes you can let the context guide you. If, for example, your co-worker tries to hide their reading material in their shirt or under their arm, they're probably not ready to admit they were multi-tasking. In fact, it's best if you pretend this never happened. The question is: who doesn't read in the bathroom? The answer to this questions is: how much would it cost to attach magazine holders to the stall doors?

2. Tank tops at work? If you have to ask this question, you shouldn't be in a professional environment. Quit your job and sign on at Hooters or Christie's Cabaret or at one of Nashville's many "premier gentleman's clubs" where partial and full-blown nudity are encouraged. No one really gets to dress the way they'd prefer to at work. If we could do it, most of us would be here in our pajamas. Ideally, a professional environment should be a place where people can communicate and think clearly. It's difficult to hold a conversation when a woman's breasts are in danger of spilling out onto the conference room table. Everyone feels uncomfortable, not just men. So, do everyone a favor and save the tank top for the pool, beach, or Saturday yard work.

3. Caught your co-worker "scratching" their nose? This will happen. A similar phenomenon occurs when someone "scratches" their nose in the car while driving alone. The sensation of being alone and invisible is simply too real for some people. When this happens your best bet is to pretend it never happened. Just launch into your question or conversation as though you saw nothing. If your co-worker apologizes or brings up what happened, insist that you didn't see anything. Most likely, however, the nose "scratcher" will be wondering whether or not you saw anything. They'll attempt to pretend nothing happened and for the sake of everyone, just go along with it. And then, later, you can add that person to your list of people to never touch. And also, never touch their stapler or anything they've ever touched. And wash your hands a lot.

4. Occasionally, in a meeting or in casual conversation between two people in the workplace, someone will say something that could have multiple interpretations. Let's face it, just about anything could be misconstrued to have a sexual meaning. What really matters is how it's said. In any case, when a co-worker says something that you find to have a hilarious double meaning, please, remember we're at work. This is especially true when in a meeting. Not everyone is on your enlightened level of maturity, and besides, you don't know who else is listening. If you're 100 percent certain no one is listening, and you know you're co-worker will appreciate your singular take on the moment, by all means, cut loose. Just remember, the walls have ears.

And Then Suddenly, Without Having Noticed, You Suck at Climbing

I went to the climbing gym last night. I sucked. I sucked even more than I sucked last year when I bought the pass. I only climbed once after I bought the pass. Possibly because I sucked so bad. It's easy to get down on yourself in the climbing world. Especially when you go to the climbing gym and you don't know anyone, and everyone else is climbing harder routes than you and doing it gracefully and you try a route a baby could do, and you clunk along the wall, like a square tire. That's a horrible simile, but what can I say? I suck at similes too. I have a terrible headache from those three baby routes I did last night. Can't think straight. Tight back muscles stymie the blood flow to my brain.

The climbing gym in Nashville isn't as sweet as the gym in Salt Lake. Last time I was there, The Front (the SLC gym) was one long continuous wall (like the Wasatch Front) and it was mainly about bouldering. Climb Nashville, the gym in (yeah) Nashville, is mainly sport climbs with a small bouldering area. Last night I focused on bouldering because that's the best for someone climbing alone.

But see, Climb Nashville seems to be built around the idea that if you're bouldering, you're hardcore and so you must require hardcore routes. Even the routes that are rated easy need to be technical and pinchy, with lots of overhang. Apparently, the gym just had a competition and hasn't been changed back to normal mode yet. That's why there is only one super easy route, which happens to be immensely hard for the mushy muscled like myself.

This brings me to the difference between muscle for muscle's sake (like a body builder) and applied muscle, like an athlete, a climber. I've been running, biking, and swimming a lot lately. And I've been lifting weights and doing core exercises. But none of this really prepares a person to jump on the wall and shimmy up it, Superman style. Whoa, there, Annie Oakley. Did I just say Superman style? I meant Spiderman style. Yeah, it's the headache talking again.

A good climber is methodical and measured. It's beautiful to watch, like ballet. A really new climber doesn't have the body control of a seasoned climber. They typically seem to see it as a show of brute strength -- which doesn't usually impress anyone. But that's not why we're there, right?

Climb Nashville was terrible for me last night. I have some muscle, but I no longer have the body control I once had. And the gym isn't really set up for someone who wants to work on developing their strength. Right now it's set up for conditioned climbers. And at 6 p.m. on a weeknight, it's too crowded to not be noticed. If you want to do a route, someone's going to be waiting for you to move, they're going watch you fall off the wall, and when you're waiting for your muscles to recover they'll pull the pad away from your spot, and then you'll have to pull it back when you want to try again, and they'll notice you.

Last night I felt like my body was made of sand bags. Sand bags for arms, sand bags for legs and ankles. I figure I'll go climb in secret at lunch, when hardly anyone is there. This weekend I'll be in Utah and I wanted to go climbing with Mike and Christy. But now I'm not so sure. After about three routes I'm finished, unless, of course, The Front still has the beautiful easy wall, like I remember.

Running in 100 Degree Heat and Other Stories

I went running in the hottest heat ever. I mean, hottest for me. It was 104 degrees yesterday. It might have been 103. And some parts of the run might have been even hotter because the blacktop's always hotter. I avoid really black blacktop roads as often as possible.

But the people of Tennessee have a thing for resurfacing roads. And the roads around my apartment are the blackest and the hottest because landscaping is the most important thing to the management. Not quality walls and paint on the inside of the apartments (our walls are like fax paper -- bump the wall and it leaves a black mark), rather things you can see like the gorgeous pool and the willows and pines.

On the run I thought to myself that if it was going to be this hot and this long without rain, I might as well move back to Arizona, where the plants and animals have adapted for survival in such extremes. Here in Tennessee the trees are dropping their leaves, the grass is brown, and I don't even want to wonder if the animals are surviving. But I do. In fact, because of my concern I've put a big bowl of water on the deck in case the birds get thirsty. Lame, I know, but the water in the nearby pond looks poisonous to me. I bet it's full of anti-freeze and vile green algae.

I'm not really sure if the birds are using my makeshift birdbath, but I hope they are. I worry about them. On my run it was the quietest it's ever been. Once in a while I'd hear a cricket, and at one point I heard a rustling in the woods. I stopped and looked for what was causing the noise. It was a gray squirrel (speaking of, check out this funny blog entry about an urban squirrel at war with humans) climbing around in the dead leaves. I wonder if he was looking for some water, because . . . I know a deck nearby . . .

In case anyone (anyone?) has been tracking my running progress for this month's goal, I haven't done too well. For about two weeks it's been extremely hot and uncomfortable. The heat is so draining it's sapped my desire to run. Yesterday I drew the line. To hell with caution! And I put on my running clothes and headed to the clubhouse to run on the treadmill.

But my apartment complex sucks! They closed the pool AND the workout room, because, you know, the indoor portion of the pool is closed too and blah blah blah. As soon as I move out, I'll be sure to post the NAME of the apartment complex so people who are moving to Tennessee and need an apartment, will know just how inhospitable the employees are at this particular joint.

So anyway, I was in my running clothes already and that's why I ran outside. There were only a few diehard runners like myself out there. Rain, sleet, snow, 104 degrees . . . that's us. We'll run in any temperatures, at any time of day!

It's not too bad, you know. I prefer 100 degrees and 30% humidity to 85 degrees and 50% humidity. I ran with my ice water and poured a good portion of it on me instead of in me. Good advice for running in extreme heat is to have two water bottles. One for drinking and one for splashing on your face and back.

The Beginning Triathlete (Me) and Swimming

As you all know, I have joined a swim class in my journey to do at least three triathlons before the season is over. I may not make that goal, but I'm willing to do some duathlons instead of triathlons. Last swim class, I wondered (for the first time) as I swam, "Why the hell am I doing this?"

Up until this past class, the lanes have always been 25 meters long. But this pool can transform itself through a device—I'm not sure what it's called, but it's similar to a dock—that can be moved up and down the width of the pool. So in this last class, the lanes were 50 meters long. Once down and back was 100 meters. Because I regulate my breathing so poorly and because I'm still susceptible to panicking, I have needed the brief respite at the end of a 25 meter length.

During the 50 meter swims, I often had to keep my head out of the water for a few seconds, while swimming along in a backstroke position with only one arm extended. This way I didn't stop in the middle of the lane and cause a traffic jam or look incredibly stupid and wimpy. The group of swimmers most likely know I'm a wimp anyway. I freely admit my lack of swimming chops and am willing to be the last to launch from the wall. It's just embarrassing when the first person to go laps me. But it only adds fuel to my fire.

See, though it scared the hell out of me to look down that 50 meter lane, I knew it would push me. You'll never know you can do it if you don't have someone—a coach, a parent, someone who wants you killed—pushing you. Sometimes I think Dee*, the coach, wants me killed. She tells me that I need to breathe less. "Try one, two, three, breathe; one, two, three, breathe." She also tells me that I don't need to breathe until I feel my leg muscles burning.

This is good advice. But I have a hard time not making love to the air. As I swim along, I feel I must breathe with every right arm stroke. When I learned to swim, back in '84, they told us to ONLY breathe when our right arm came out of the water. And they taught us to do it with EVERY stroke. So naturally that's what I want to do. And when I took the swimming class in college, there wasn't a whole lot of coaching going on.

So, these are some of my tips for the beginning triathlete swimmer:

▪ Get a good swim cap.
▪ The less you breathe, the more calm you'll be and the better you'll swim.
▪ Breathing on the left side is as good as breathing on the right side.
▪ You should always have a hand in front of you—don't drop your left arm until your right arm is in the water.
▪ Your body should never be flat—that means your hips should be rotating as you move forward.
▪ As you kick, your legs should move from the hip, not the knee.
▪ The launch is as important as anything else. You can get a good 10 - 15 feet without actually swimming much. Learn to launch well.
▪ Swimming well is as much an exercise in controlling your breathing as it is swimming.
▪ Swimming is also learning how to not panic and trust yourself.

It's really hard to remember all that when I'm swimming. But I'm working on it.

I don't know how other people make it through a triathlon without someone to help them swim better. I wouldn't be able to. At the end of our most recent session, by pushing myself, I was able to go 50 meters without stopping. It nearly killed me, but I did it. In a few months, I plan to be able to effortlessly go 100 meters. Maybe more.



*Dee did the Panama City, FL Ironman. The other coach will be doing an Ironman in a few weeks.

The Beginning Triathlete Swimmer (Me) and the Swim Cap

I've been taking a swimming class as part of my triathlon training. The class is full triathletes. I think I'm the only one in it who hasn't actually done a triathlon. Some of the swimmers are training for Ironman races, and several of them have probably already done some Ironman races.

At our last swim class, I realized that my swimming cap sucks. Yeah, that's right, sucks. News flash: a swim cap not only keeps your hair out of your face, it also provides a slippery surface, so you glide effortlessly through the water. My swim cap has been creating drag. It's made from lycra, I guess. I don't know what I was thinking when I bought that swim cap back in '84. No really, I bought it in '99 or something.

In my college days I took some swimming classes. The Speedo lycra cap was easier to put on than the silicone or latex caps, especially when I had long hair. But now I have short hair, and either I'm less fit now than I was then and swimming is harder, or . . . . hmmm. That must be the problem.

No really, I'm sure the cap has contributed to my sluggish pace. Just a little bit. I'll let you know if I feel faster after my next class when I wear a silicone cap.

Has Anyone Seen My Aereogramme Album?

I lost it. How? I don't know. I probably listened to it a billion times and put it in a case with another cd. Then again, I have a sneaking suspicion that Stoker took it to the studio, listened to it in the control room while he did a set up, and then left it there*. Or perhaps someone took it. One of the session players, maybe.

But if they took it, that's OK. It's one of the best albums to have come out in months (probably years) and the more exposure I can get for Craig B (we're old buddies) the better.

OK, so that's not entirely true, that bit about us being old buddies. It's less true than that. It's hardly true. Once at a show in Salt Lake, I hung out with them for five minutes during the "intermission" and I told a horrible story (my forte). After I finished it Craig told me it wasn't a very good anecdote.

He actually said anecdote, a very unpopular word. His use of the word anecdote impressed me, though I'm not sure why -- he clearly has an excellent grasp of the language, as evidenced by the fact that he WRITES SONGS**. And besides, he's from the United Kingdom, and as we all know, people from the other side of the pond have always been able to wield the language more elegantly.

Or maybe it's just the accent.

I'm able to say I've quite nearly been with Aereogramme from the very beginning (yes, thanks to you, Bryan. No really, thanks). So when they finally become immensely popular I'll be able to claim that "I knew them when they had only put out one album and I've been telling you people for years that they rule." And I'll secretly fume that they're no longer "my band." But they deserve to be great and widely listened to and adored, and so I'm willing to make that sacrifice.

So I'm willing to have my Aereogramme albums stolen by new worshippers, but only if it leads to more album sales and more tour dates. Otherwise, if you've found yourself in "accidental" possession of my Aereogramme My Heart Has a Wish that You Would Not Go album, please give it back. If you haven't heard this album, I highly recommend it. Pay special attention to the songs "Living Backwards," "Conscious Life," "Trenches," and "You're Always Welcome." I'm in love with every song on it, but obviously I had to narrow it down for the uninitiated. You understand of course.


*Is it so wrong to blame Stoker for everything?

**Not that writing songs requires an adept wordsmith or anything, as we've seen with songs like "Love Me Do" and "Do Wah Diddy Diddy."

The Simpsons. Tonight!

We're going to see the Simpsons movie tonight. Stoker wanted to go to a midnight showing, but since I had to work today (he did not), I thought that would be unwise. I guess I'm at the age where I think things like, "that would be unwise." Three years ago I would have thought it more important to be one of the first to see the new Simpsons movie. And I would have done anything to hang out with a hottie like Stoker. And then after the movie I would have stayed up until 3 a.m. talking to him, and then risen at 7:45 the next morning to make it to work at 8.

Oh wait, I'm doing that now. I guess I should have just gone to the midnight showing.

It still irks me that Springfield, Tennessee didn't get the world premier. Vermont? C'mon! It doesn't even make any sense, unless their criteria wasn't based on a feasible location for where the Simspons' Springfield is. I'm not sure what their criteria was based on, some homemade video contest or something. But think of all the episodes where they almost reveal where Springfield is. It's the midwest! (Or even midsouth, as in Tennessee.) Vermont?

Remember the episode where Bart's class goes on a field trip to a Civil War site? It's the episode where the PTA disbands. Were ANY Civil War battles fought in Vermont? I'm not one hundred percent sure, but I'm going to have to say, NO.

Remember the episode where Bart, Milhouse, Nelson, and Martin rent a car and go to Knoxville to see the World's Fair? Ok, how long would it take to drive to Knoxville from Vermont? Fifteen hours! Can you imagine four little kids driving for fifteen hours straight, and that's not counting all their stops -- don' t they stop in Branson to see Andy Williams? That's an additional ten hours! A total trip of 1614 miles! I mean, you have to work up to those kinds of distances . . . you don't just drive 26 hours straight the first time you get behind the wheel.

Springfield, Tennessee to Knoxville, Tennessee is about three hours. AND, we have a Shelbyville! FYI, Vermont doesn't have a Shelbyville.

Anyway, Springfield, Tennessee may not have been the BIG, WORLD PREMIER spot, but they had a premier. Or two. I don't know, I didn't really pay attention. I looked into getting tickets, but you had to go up to Springfield last Monday to get them. You couldn't buy them, as far as I know. So, we'll be seeing it tonight.

And unlike SOME people who couldn't help but SPOIL the big Harry Potter surprise (Terry, I mean you), I won't accidentally explain the entire Simpsons movie in detail on my blog. I won't assume that everyone has already seen it, just because I happen to be one of the first to read it. I mean see it. But I will mention whether it's good, crappy, or life-altering. I'm expecting life-altering. Is that too much to hope for?

Wright, Oliver, Dunn, and Hirsch

Today I'm reading poetry. I brought a few books from home and every few minutes, I'll pick up a book and read at random. Here are some particularly good lines from some of the poems I've read today*:

"This is the earnest work. Each of us is given
only so many mornings to do it--
to look around and love

the oily fur of our lives,
the hoof and the grass-stained muzzle."

Mary Oliver, from "The Deer"


"Snub end of a dismal year,
deep in the dwarf orchard,
The sky with its undercoat of blackwash and point stars,
I stand in the dark and answer to
My life, this shirt I want to take off,
which is on fire . . ."

Charles Wright, from "Reading Lao Tzu Again in the New Year"



"I can't remember
ever saying the exact word, tenderness,

though she did. It's a word I see now
you must be older to use,
you must have experienced the absence of it

often enough to know what silk and deep balm
it is
when at last it comes."

Stephen Dunn, from "Tenderness"


And there's this one I read again today, by the poet Edward Hirsch (from a book Shannon the Great gave to me), about his cat that I'd love to put on here. But I can't. It's too long. It's about his cat and how much he loves him. As with any great poet, he doesn't come right out and say, "I love my cat. This is a poem about my cat and how much I love my cat." He illustrates a moment. And it's pretty damn beautiful.

Of course, I'm always tempted to write poems about my cats. Who isn't? But I haven't. Not yet anyway. I'm waiting for the perfect image to happen. Hirsch's poem is called "Wild Gratitude" and it's found in the collection of that same name, which I find particularly telling.

Here. I give in. Here are a few lines from it, just to give you a hint of the beauty that awaits you: "And only then did I understand / It is Jeoffry -- and every creature like him -- / Who can teach us how to praise -- purring / In their own language, / Wreathing themselves in the living fire."

It just so happens that I've given you the last stanza. Which is sort of cheating. But as with any good poem, you've got to read the whole thing to really appreciate the carefulness of it. To appreciate its precision.


*I have tried to keep the orginal formats of the poems, line breaks and all, but the publishing feature erases them as soon as I hit "publish post." I'm not savvy enough to figure out a way around this. For original format, see the original poem in a book.

A Few Days Later, the Healing Begins

It's hard to be mad about the house now. I feel like I've gone through a break up. I had my heart set on that house, you know? There was a short period of shock, disbelief, and mourning. But now I'm at the vengeful stage.

"How could the house do that to me?! Who did it think it was? That lying bastard!"

Honestly, now I just count myself lucky that we got out relatively unscathed. I mean, there are scars, of course. Of course there are scars. But at least we found out early on that it wasn't quite what it appeared to be. Before we got in too deep. Before we'd gotten too committed and breaking up would cost twenty thousand in repairs and a structural engineer to vouch for it's soundness. You know what I mean?

So, I'm moving on. And I think anyone who'd take that house would have to be a blind idiot. If they're smart, their love affair will be short-lived. Just long enough to figure out what lurks below the surface, in the crawl space (might I say it?). No backbone. You know. Nothing there. No integrity.

Integrity and backbone. Two essentials for a good relationship. With a house or a human.

And Then The Mother Raccoon Shreds the Insulation, Making a Nest for Her Babies . . .

I really think a family of raccoons lived in the house at some point. We almost bought it. We came this close to buying it. Then we had it inspected yesterday and we were lucky enough to get a thorough and honest inspector who charged a fortune, but can you really complain when he saves you from purchasing a former raccoon's nest? Do raccoons live in nests? Is it only rats who live in nests?

I know it was raccoons by the names of Angel and Sheila because those were the names written in the circuit breaker. They also seem to have operated a barber shop somewhere in the house. I imagine it was in the room with the black disco ceiling fan. Though it could have also been in the little room next to the closet and the master bathroom. I had thought there used to be a vanity in there. But now that I've put more of my deductive reasoning powers to work, it's occurred to me that one of the raccoons was a barber and he cut hair in the little room by the master bathroom. No vanity. Just a barber chair and maybe a mirror (both gone now, of course). Of all animals not in the homonoidea superfamily, the raccoon is the only one I can think of who could brandish clippers and a comb.

Angel and Sheila seem to have been fond of jury-rigging important household items like the water heater. They enjoyed storing their treasures in the ventilation ducts for later use, items such as nail files, crayons, and pogs. It was also extremely necessary that every room in the house be cable friendly, thus the six way cable splitter dangling from the house like a fly caught in a spider web.

Angel and Sheila also loved nestling in the insulation in the attic, or when it got too hot up there, down in the crawl space. The crawl space insulation was a little more tricky because first they had to rip it away from the air conditioning ducts. But that was actually convenient, as they could then tear a few holes in the duct and instantly cool the crawl space at the same time. And why have your dryer duct carry dryer heat and lint to the outside world when you could make another perfectly soft nest in the crawl space with all that heated lint by not connecting it to the dryer vent? For the winter of course. When the attic was too crowded.

The crawl space was the perfect spa for two raccoons.

Only raccoons would think a Lowe's emergency jack would really support a structure, when they realized their kitchen was sagging because it didn't have a finished foundation. And that was the biggest mistake of all. That was the real kicker. That's why we won't be buying that house. I could live with all the other crap. Rather, I could fix all that crap. But the sagging kitchen? No way.

To make a very long story short, I guess if you don't take care of your house while you're living in it, when you move out you realize you've been living like an animal. Or you never realize it and simply move on to the next house and destroy that one through neglect, too. It depends on your level of enlightenment. Do you collect crap and store it in the vents like a rat? Do you tear things apart and leave them a mess like a raccoon? Do you feel comfortable and cozy wallowing in your own filth like a pig? Or, are you more like a cat, bathing all the time?

So it's back to the drawing board for me and Stoker. In our defense, the house looked pretty good.

Pictures to come. Maybe. If I feel like it. If I get around to it.