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May. 18th, 2001 02:01 pmSpent last evening quietly at home, helping B pack for her trip. She left this morning at 5:30, and I've just returned home after a meeting offsite and a quick bite, preceded by a nap after dropping her off at the airport.
The weather is beautiful, and I feel more like being outside in the sun than I do working in the basement, even though it's nice and cool down here. I have a lot of things to take care of before I leave myself next week though, and I don't want to be surprised by any of them before I leave.
Details. They keep you going in the real world, don't they? In this meeting this morning, I was struck by how hard my old co-worker F was clinging to our mutual past together at our previous company; thankfully, the events of this past fall and winter have washed those thoughts clean from my mind so that they no longer catch unwanted emotional debris throughout a given day.
One of the guys I met was a VP. Ah, I thought, the time-honoured position of the Vice President. He or she should be the kind of person who has a clear enough hands-on appreciation for their company's work that they always understand what they're asking you to do. They should also have a clear vision for the future, able to plan strategically to realize your corporate objectives.
This guy was fairly typical for a VP Sales. He was probably in his mid- to late-30s, clearly an ambitious guy, who worked hard to push his way up the corporate ladder at this company. With his stiffly coiffed, slightly graying hair perfectly in place, he stood from his desk to reveal the requisite Nautica label on his pants and the red-and-blue Hilfiger flag on the $85-dollar golf shirt. His handshake, of course, was like a rotating vise that also gave your arm an itinerant jerk about every one-and-a-half revolutions; it felt like your shoulder was being dislocated at the same time as your knuckles were squeaking together in his grip.
"Well, I'm very interested in hearing more about this opportunity, um -- what was your name again? Oh, yes -- I'd love to meet with you after I get back from England next week and talk about this some more."
I looked over my calendar. "Sorry," I said, "I won't be available until early June. How would Tuesday the fifth suit you?"
"My son is graduating from the RAF on Sunday," he replied, ignoring my question. "He's graduating at the top of his class." I tried to tell if he was genuinely proud or if he was trying to sound impressive. Either way, I hadn't asked what his business was in England. He didn't speak, beaming at me.
"Congratulations," I replied mechanically. "You must be very proud."
"Well you know, he got a letter from his squad commander to the effect that he was the strongest new pilot they'd seen in years. He was invited to the admiral's house for a private dinner just last week."
I had no idea why he was telling me this, and I suddenly felt impelled to leave. "That must have been a real treat for your son," I replied. "Did he enjoy the experience?"
"Oh sure," he said enthusiastically. "He was right proud to be there."
I softened, realizing that the guy was just trying to make a connection. He was a salesman after all, and he had to try to establish rapport. "That's great," I said. "So, how was that day for you in the end? Is the morning of Tuesday the fifth any good for you?"
He turned towards his computer. "Ah, let me see, here..." he said, looking down his nose at his monitor and moving his mouse erratically all over his screen. He had started a help file at some point in time, because his main window was split down the middle with it on the right, and his Outlook calendar was squished so small he couldn't even make out the dates.
I resisted the urge to tell him how to fix his problem outright, but broke down after watching him fumble for another twelve to fifteen seconds. "I've been caught by that one myself," I said conversationally. "I found that if I closed that help window on the right by single-clicking on that X there, that the Outlook window would return to its original size and everything would go back to normal."
After a hearty laugh and a look through a few more menus, he followed my suggestion and booked me into his calendar. I continued to observe the rest of the conversation, and watched myself leave his office with F a few minutes later after having gained a business card from him. So unaccustomed was I to local, face-to-face meetings, that I had forgotten all of my own cards on my desk back at the office.
Yesterday, mid-afternoon: When you're doing what you want, everything that needs to get done just seems to get done, he said. It's harder if you have to do things you don't want to do or that don't make sense to you. Then the work becomes a job, and then it becomes hard to do. I think that at least 50% of the energy people expend at jobs is just dealing with the stress of the workplace, your boss, your job, your performance, and all that. The people you work with make up most of the stress in your day.
The weather is beautiful, and I feel more like being outside in the sun than I do working in the basement, even though it's nice and cool down here. I have a lot of things to take care of before I leave myself next week though, and I don't want to be surprised by any of them before I leave.
Details. They keep you going in the real world, don't they? In this meeting this morning, I was struck by how hard my old co-worker F was clinging to our mutual past together at our previous company; thankfully, the events of this past fall and winter have washed those thoughts clean from my mind so that they no longer catch unwanted emotional debris throughout a given day.
One of the guys I met was a VP. Ah, I thought, the time-honoured position of the Vice President. He or she should be the kind of person who has a clear enough hands-on appreciation for their company's work that they always understand what they're asking you to do. They should also have a clear vision for the future, able to plan strategically to realize your corporate objectives.
This guy was fairly typical for a VP Sales. He was probably in his mid- to late-30s, clearly an ambitious guy, who worked hard to push his way up the corporate ladder at this company. With his stiffly coiffed, slightly graying hair perfectly in place, he stood from his desk to reveal the requisite Nautica label on his pants and the red-and-blue Hilfiger flag on the $85-dollar golf shirt. His handshake, of course, was like a rotating vise that also gave your arm an itinerant jerk about every one-and-a-half revolutions; it felt like your shoulder was being dislocated at the same time as your knuckles were squeaking together in his grip.
"Well, I'm very interested in hearing more about this opportunity, um -- what was your name again? Oh, yes -- I'd love to meet with you after I get back from England next week and talk about this some more."
I looked over my calendar. "Sorry," I said, "I won't be available until early June. How would Tuesday the fifth suit you?"
"My son is graduating from the RAF on Sunday," he replied, ignoring my question. "He's graduating at the top of his class." I tried to tell if he was genuinely proud or if he was trying to sound impressive. Either way, I hadn't asked what his business was in England. He didn't speak, beaming at me.
"Congratulations," I replied mechanically. "You must be very proud."
"Well you know, he got a letter from his squad commander to the effect that he was the strongest new pilot they'd seen in years. He was invited to the admiral's house for a private dinner just last week."
I had no idea why he was telling me this, and I suddenly felt impelled to leave. "That must have been a real treat for your son," I replied. "Did he enjoy the experience?"
"Oh sure," he said enthusiastically. "He was right proud to be there."
I softened, realizing that the guy was just trying to make a connection. He was a salesman after all, and he had to try to establish rapport. "That's great," I said. "So, how was that day for you in the end? Is the morning of Tuesday the fifth any good for you?"
He turned towards his computer. "Ah, let me see, here..." he said, looking down his nose at his monitor and moving his mouse erratically all over his screen. He had started a help file at some point in time, because his main window was split down the middle with it on the right, and his Outlook calendar was squished so small he couldn't even make out the dates.
I resisted the urge to tell him how to fix his problem outright, but broke down after watching him fumble for another twelve to fifteen seconds. "I've been caught by that one myself," I said conversationally. "I found that if I closed that help window on the right by single-clicking on that X there, that the Outlook window would return to its original size and everything would go back to normal."
After a hearty laugh and a look through a few more menus, he followed my suggestion and booked me into his calendar. I continued to observe the rest of the conversation, and watched myself leave his office with F a few minutes later after having gained a business card from him. So unaccustomed was I to local, face-to-face meetings, that I had forgotten all of my own cards on my desk back at the office.
Yesterday, mid-afternoon: When you're doing what you want, everything that needs to get done just seems to get done, he said. It's harder if you have to do things you don't want to do or that don't make sense to you. Then the work becomes a job, and then it becomes hard to do. I think that at least 50% of the energy people expend at jobs is just dealing with the stress of the workplace, your boss, your job, your performance, and all that. The people you work with make up most of the stress in your day.
