Shake Before Serving
Each year, about this time, my father-in-law heads for Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and spends nearly a week playing golf and getting re-acquainted with his college buddies. Hank is a wonderful guy and the perfect father-in-law, however, his annual departure unleashes an unholy hellfire that compels me to start praying, almost immediately, for his quick and safe return from the links. Why would I want to deprive such a fantastic fellow a trip to this putters paradise? The answer is simple: When Harry departs, my mother-in-law moves into my home.
I realize comedic material regarding the subject of mothers-in-law spans centuries and even ions. The earliest unflattering portrayal of in-laws were probably found etched in a pre-historic cave somewhere near Henny Youngman's boyhood home, launching one-liners that live even today. Legends are truths with a little age added, don't you think? Why would mothers-in-law be so scorned if history had never recorded their kind as shrews?
If you had ever had the opportunity to spend a week in the presence of my mother-in-law, you would agree that myths have some connection to reality. Sometimes a very strong connection.
Possessed with a blunt nature that would make an IRS auditor blush, Jane has the ability to make one feel unwelcomed in your own home. Phrases like "What are you doing here?" or "I thought you were gone" can make a mortgage paying homeowner like myself want to run out in the street and re-check my address.
My son, a stoic lad, is unfazed by his grandmother, citing his IPOD as his source of comfort. "Nana is best heard through the muffled sounds of Green Day" he explained. Ignoring grandparents has come quite a long way since I was a kid.
The person that suffers the most during this week long siege is my wife. She is a petite, angst-ridden insomniac who receives a Christmas card from the Augustus Busch family for her continued support and consumption of their products. The mother-daughter bonding time that the golf trips creates is both painful for her and painful to watch. This combination of guilt, criticism and downright meanness are a recipe straight out of Freud's cookbook.
The best way to explain this angonizing interaction, is a model I call "The Pepsi Metaphor". Here's how it works.... First, think of my wife as a can of Diet Pepsi (I know that's weird, but stay with me on this). Next I place my mother-in-law in the role of a disturbed and thirsty infant. Finally, I will play the part of an unsuspecting schlemeel (not a stretch for me).
When the infant meets the canned drink she throws the Pepsi into the air, rolls it on the ground, steps on it a few times, and then hands it to me to open for her. Anyone who has ever had a shaken can of soda knows what happens next. Now take that metaphorical scenario and replace the Pepsi with my wife's emotions. GUUUUUUUUSSSSHHHHHH! All over me.
Every night, when I arrive home, I am greeted by a geyser of mom-induced rage. All I can do is hug my stuttering, convulsed spouse and keep her head from flying off. The are moments when, approaching my driveway, I nearly head for the lifeboats and drive off, leaving my wife to fend for herself. My love for that disfunctional little woman keeps me coming back, allowing her to vent herself into exhaustion every night.
Tonight marks the final night of this yearly ritual. Harry will return, I will have one final soaking until next year, and my wife will sleep until Tuesday. Next year, I get an IPOD.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Team Building
The effects of rope walking on the middle-aged employee
Carl Walenda, late patriarch of the world famous "Flying Walendas" circus family once said "walking a rope is living, everything else is waiting." While I admire people like Mr. Walenda and his zest for adventure, I suppose that I fall into that "waiting" category.
Last week the company that I work for bused a group of managers to a small farm on the outskirts of a town. The goal of the outing was to impart critical information about our company and combine that data with an outdoor group activity. Sounded like a harmless enough plan to me. I would go over some spreadsheets look at some cows, maybe pet a few goats and return to the office refreshed and educated.
Following lunch we were introduced to a large, burly gentleman who was twisting a rope into a noose as he spoke. "Could this be our new performance review process?" I thought, tugging on the top button of my shirt "Would an afternoon lynching denote a "Needs Improvement" score for a below par employee?"
As the man continued it became apparent to me that a mid-day hanging didn't sound like too bad of an idea afterall. He went on to describe a set of rules which we would need to adhere to as our groups strayed into the wilderness. We were then split into groups and were introduced to our guides. Our guide was a rustic, yet pleasant looking young lady who looked as though she had stepped from the meadows of Woodstock, New York in 1969. Short of wearing a Buffalo Springfield t-shirt, she was the real deal, floppy wool hat an all.
The first few events were somewhat benign, challenging the team to problem solve and work together. Our group mix was diverse, including people from many different departments. Everyone was ready for the next turn in the road and was good humored about all of the activities. I am fortunate to work with very nice people. Even I, an oft injured, belly heavy desk jockey relished the adventure, that is until we reached the rope course.
The group was to negociate the course without touching the ground one foot below the cables. Some of our more engineering savvy teammates were silenced by our guide, who hoped to spur some thought from the rest of the team. Once a strategy was conceived, the congregation mounted the suspended cables one person at a time and formed a human chain. The chain linked each person to another and the end people to trees that held the cable. The concept was strong, however, there was one variable that our engineers didn't consider, me.
With a fair amount of struggle, the group shuffled through the course, snaking through the turns like a slow moving python. I, on the other hand, traversed the course with the drunken grace of gorilla carrying a piano. I can't remember how many times I fell off of this apparatus, forcing me to start again from the beginning, but bet my teammates can recall that number. The hour was getting late.
Determined not to fail, I soldiered on. My teammates were waiting at the end of the course urging me on, their out-stretched arms hoping to reel me in. Rubber-legged I hula-ed on the cable desperately trying to steady my knocking knees. Anguish etched the faces of my poor teammates, hoping against hope that I would make it to safety and end the agony for everyone. If were alone and the wire was stretched across a hundred foot high gorge I would have stepped off the cable and perished into the abyss, but I was not alone, I was in front of my co-workers. I couldn't let these people down, not after all the effort and energy they exerted to reach the summitt! Summoning whatever strength that remained within me I hurled myself forward into the waiting arms of my brethren.
The rest of the day was a blur. My legs felt like soggy linguine.
On the bus ride home I recalled the words of Carl Walenda and thought "Hopefully Carl meant his message metaphorically, because if this was living, I will park myself and wait for the next best thing."
The effects of rope walking on the middle-aged employee
Carl Walenda, late patriarch of the world famous "Flying Walendas" circus family once said "walking a rope is living, everything else is waiting." While I admire people like Mr. Walenda and his zest for adventure, I suppose that I fall into that "waiting" category.
Last week the company that I work for bused a group of managers to a small farm on the outskirts of a town. The goal of the outing was to impart critical information about our company and combine that data with an outdoor group activity. Sounded like a harmless enough plan to me. I would go over some spreadsheets look at some cows, maybe pet a few goats and return to the office refreshed and educated.
Following lunch we were introduced to a large, burly gentleman who was twisting a rope into a noose as he spoke. "Could this be our new performance review process?" I thought, tugging on the top button of my shirt "Would an afternoon lynching denote a "Needs Improvement" score for a below par employee?"
As the man continued it became apparent to me that a mid-day hanging didn't sound like too bad of an idea afterall. He went on to describe a set of rules which we would need to adhere to as our groups strayed into the wilderness. We were then split into groups and were introduced to our guides. Our guide was a rustic, yet pleasant looking young lady who looked as though she had stepped from the meadows of Woodstock, New York in 1969. Short of wearing a Buffalo Springfield t-shirt, she was the real deal, floppy wool hat an all.
The first few events were somewhat benign, challenging the team to problem solve and work together. Our group mix was diverse, including people from many different departments. Everyone was ready for the next turn in the road and was good humored about all of the activities. I am fortunate to work with very nice people. Even I, an oft injured, belly heavy desk jockey relished the adventure, that is until we reached the rope course.
The group was to negociate the course without touching the ground one foot below the cables. Some of our more engineering savvy teammates were silenced by our guide, who hoped to spur some thought from the rest of the team. Once a strategy was conceived, the congregation mounted the suspended cables one person at a time and formed a human chain. The chain linked each person to another and the end people to trees that held the cable. The concept was strong, however, there was one variable that our engineers didn't consider, me.
With a fair amount of struggle, the group shuffled through the course, snaking through the turns like a slow moving python. I, on the other hand, traversed the course with the drunken grace of gorilla carrying a piano. I can't remember how many times I fell off of this apparatus, forcing me to start again from the beginning, but bet my teammates can recall that number. The hour was getting late.
Determined not to fail, I soldiered on. My teammates were waiting at the end of the course urging me on, their out-stretched arms hoping to reel me in. Rubber-legged I hula-ed on the cable desperately trying to steady my knocking knees. Anguish etched the faces of my poor teammates, hoping against hope that I would make it to safety and end the agony for everyone. If were alone and the wire was stretched across a hundred foot high gorge I would have stepped off the cable and perished into the abyss, but I was not alone, I was in front of my co-workers. I couldn't let these people down, not after all the effort and energy they exerted to reach the summitt! Summoning whatever strength that remained within me I hurled myself forward into the waiting arms of my brethren.
The rest of the day was a blur. My legs felt like soggy linguine.
On the bus ride home I recalled the words of Carl Walenda and thought "Hopefully Carl meant his message metaphorically, because if this was living, I will park myself and wait for the next best thing."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
