Jeers, Jests and Japes

 

Walk up to a pregnant woman, hold both hands, palms spread out, in front of her belly and, in your best gravelly-voice-of-doom, say:

"It's not whaaaaat you theeeeeenk it issssssss!"

Then walk away, whispering:

"Evil! Eeeeeeeevil!"

For more in the Jeers, Jests and Japes series, click the categories link on the left.

Bookworm - The Sociopath Next Door

 

 

 

 

  

  

I am currently reading The Sociopath Next Door by Martha Stout, Ph.D.

  

Martha is a clinical psychologist who has, among other things, treated the victims of sociopaths.  

 

Her book talks about how we encounter sociopaths in every day life - not the serial killers and rapists, but the person who we fall in love with and marry, only to find that they have no real emotional attachment to us; instead they are enjoying a free ticket to not have to work and enjoying our nice big house, thank you very much.

  

I completely agree with the author that any psychological disorder/disease/condition exists on a sliding scale.  What we see in the media and portrayed by Hollywood is the most extreme example of the sociopath phenomenon, but there are many people who function - to some greater or lesser degree of efficacy - in society with schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder or paranoia or OCD or whatever.  Just like Aspergers lies somewhere on the scale to autism.  We just haven't given the half way house for the other disorders their own names.

  

But here is where I fundamentally differ from her position. 

Sociopaths are not, as she portrays them, all villains.  They are simply a type of person and, after all, they can't help it.  Condemning sociopaths for what they are is the same as condemning a gay person, or even a black person.

 

Sociopaths evolved, like the rest of us, for a very good reason.  They are hunters and warriors.  

 

 

 

Predators

 

I figured this out because we watched the movie Predators last night.  

 

In it, the character played by Adrian Brody shows all the characteristics of a classic sociopath.  For example, he deliberately leads the rag tag group of people into a place where the Predators will attack them, so that he can see what they are up against.  One of the group is killed but, from that, Brody learns that the hunters have a cloaking device, that they use laser based weapons, etc.  The others in the group are shocked and horrified that he led them into danger this way, and that he has little remorse that one of their number got killed, but Brody has acted in a strategic way.  He has done what he needed to do for survival.  He has learned more about his enemy.  Perhaps he was thinking only of his own survival but, at the end of the day, his actions benefit the whole group.

     

Thinking this way is necessary - in fact, it's essential - to survival in combat and hunting situations.  Back when we were tribes, the hunters would go out for days on missions to catch prey.  In that time they were in dangers from large cats, boars, bears, whatever.  I am sure that a sociopath led the group, and led them through a successful hunt.

    

The same is true of war.  From tribes fighting each other in Africa centuries ago to NATO troops chasing an insurgent through the streets of Fallujah, an absence of affect and an ability to think and behave completely strategically is the difference between life and death.

  

The problem is that, outside of a war situation, sociopaths are anachronisms.  It is when they try to fit into polite society, where hunting has been replaced by a trip to Safeway, and combat is now a boardroom war of words, that they become outcasts.    

 

They have a certain way of thinking, of operating, and it's different to how most of us do.  But the same is true of the deaf, the blind, the schizophrenic.  

  

Surely we should find some place for psycho/sociopaths in society?  Aspergers kids get all sorts of therapy and care, why shouldn't they?

 

 

 

The love issue

  

Dr Stout says that sociopaths are dangerous because have no emotional affect and claims this is the prerequisite for being able to love.

 

I have two issues with this.

   

First, what is love?

  

Do you know what it is, because I sure as fuck don't.  It has been mapped as activity that takes place in a certain part of the brain, but I highly doubt that we all experience it in the same way.  

  

Stout says that 1 in 25 Americans is a sociopath, yet she describes them as wreaking havoc on the lives of other wherever they roam.  Seeing as there are that many of them, somewhere out there, there has to be a person who would be diagnosed as a sociopath who is functioning as best they can, protecting those in their lives.  

  

If a psycho/sociopath functions in society and does the best that he can to look after his family, is that love?

  

Second, shouldn't we feel sorry for sociopaths?

 

Imagine living in a world where almost every song, every movie, every poem is about something you don't understand?  Everywhere you go people are laughing, connecting, bonding, and you can't feel what they feel.  

 

Wouldn't that be awful?

 

 

 

We need to change our approach

 

Dr Stout makes the point that sociopaths who grow up in Eastern societies, where the good of all and the interconnectedness of all things is emphasized in the culture, are able to function better.  Although they don't feel connections, they learn that connections exist and therefore how to act accordingly.  

 

Can't we turn this into some kind of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy for sociopaths?

 

And why isn't someone working on a drug?

 

We are ignoring an opportunity to treat people and not only mitigate against them potentially becoming a problem in society (and, by the way, a cost, if they have to be incarcerated) but also help them to feel more a part of our world?

 

Wouldn't that be the ethical thing to do?

 

 

 

The one line review

 

Dr Stout's book was informative but, mostly, it's one-dimensionality just pissed me off.  

 

 

 

 

Jeers, Jests and Japes - Elevator

  

Get into a crowded elevator, stand near the door.

After the elevator starts to move, turn around to face the occupants and say:

"You're probably wondering why I called this meeting.

I'm afraid it's bad news. We have to let some of you go."

To see more in the Jeers, Jests and Japes series, click the link on the left

Workplace Personalities - The Ninja

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

The Ninja is a person who has a very rich life outside of work, and a probably a fascinating life in general.  But you'll never know about all of it.

  

Usually an alumni (if that's the right word) of the armed forces, the Ninja is a finely honed, fit and toned, fighting machine.  He is a black belt in something that has trained him to kill an attacker in 0.3 seconds with 4 strategically placed blows.

  

The Ninja wears tailored clothes, because off the peg shirts and suits don't fit him.  His shoulders are too wide, his thighs are too big, his stomach is too tight to fit into a standard pair of Lucky jeans or a Hugo Boss suit.  

  

The Ninja may make oblique references to military missions in days past but, obviously, he can't tell you too much, which only adds to the air of mystery and veiled threat that wafts around him.  While you come in on a Monday ready to chat about the latest crappy Hollywood blockbuster that you paid $12 to be disappointed by, surrounded by etiquette-free movie-goers chomping stale popcorn swimming in rancid, fake butter, he regales you with tales of his latest martial arts tournament, where ribs were bruised, noses broken and egos shattered.  Not his, of course.  No.  He won the bout.

  

Probably due to his checkered past, the Ninja has a very strong sense of humor.  He sees through the corporate bullshit to the cynical comic gem beneath, and doesn't hesitate to point it out with a pithy statement, as artfully aimed as any sniper's lethal bullet.  If you have even the vaguest sense of the absurdity of modern life, you will find the Ninja utterly hilarious.  And, even if you don't, you should probably laugh along anyway.  Better to be with him than against him.

  
For obvious reasons, the Ninja takes no shit from anybody and, on observing his tight muscles, and even more tightly wound temper, people don't tend to give him shit in the first place.

 

 

Key signs:

• Great body
• Military terms may occasionally pepper his conversation
• Secrecy as a default attitude
• If he shares them, incredible stories from his weekend

Catch phrase: You can't narrow it down to only one.  If you could, though, it would be very, very sarcastic.  

  

 

Your Strategy: Placate

 

  

Their comeuppance:  

 

There probably won't be one.  Everyone's too damn petrified of him to engage in political battle, let alone a war.

  

  

  

For more in the Workplace Personalities series, click here.

 

You might like:

• The Curmudgeon
• The Uppity Vendor

    

Short Story / Unfinished Novel - The Nose

  

  

  

 

 

 

 

I have ideas.  I write them down.  And then I do nothing.  Because it takes too much self-discipline and time to write a book.  So here it is...

Maybe it's a short story.  Maybe it's part of a novel I won't write. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Horatio had always been a weird boy although - to be fair - it wasn't really his fault.  

  

It wasn't his fault that, while other people were chatting amiably, he had a disgusted expression on his face.  It wasn't his fault that, in the middle of a boring history lesson, while his classmates were bored to death, he sat with a blissful expression on his face.

 

You see, Horatio had a Nose.  

 

No, not a "nose".  A "Nose".

Horatio's nose was a super-nose, an uber-nose, a dog-like nose.  He could tune into an odor three miles away.  Scents that went undetected by others were thick, heady, almost palpable wafts to Horatio.  

 

You'd never know it to look at him.  His nose looked completely normal.  In fact, that was probably part of the problem, for if he'd had a bulbous, oversized probiscus, others may have understood why his facial expression was sometimes completely at odds with human interaction taking place around him.  Perhaps they would have sniffed a little harder and realized "Ah!  He's smelling dinner cooking!" or "Oh dear.  Horatio's picked up on the smell of that dead rat we cleaned out yesterday."

 

But, unfortunately for Horatio, his face gave no such visual clue.

 

Perhaps it wasn't the nose at all.  Perhaps it was all in his brain.  Receptors which, for the rest of us, lie dormant, may have been firing on all cylinders in Horatio's head.

 

Whatever the reason, you can see why Horatio ended up as a bit of an outsider.  At a pleasant dinner party, he was scowling at the smell of burnt creme brulee.  During intense political debate with fellow lefty college students, he succumbed to the blissful aroma of a neighbor's fresh baked chocolate-chip cookies massaging his facial muscles into a squidgy mass.  

 

Because other's could rarely smell what he did, his expressions were always misinterpreted.  

 

"Horatio's high as a kite."

"What the hell is up with Horatio?  Anything we talked about tonight seemed to just piss him off."

 

Even worse were the questions people didn't ask out loud, prompted by misunderstanding and insecurity.  

 

Does Horatio hate me?

Does Horatio think I'm stupid?  Well, who the fuck is HE, anyway?  He can go to hell!

 

And so, without him ever quite understanding why, people distanced themselves from Horatio.  Even when he tried to explain his nasal prowess, or to develop a better poker face, the mitigations were never truly effective.  Like anyone with a visible handicap, Horatio was "other."  Different.  An outsider.

 

Horatio took refuge in books and learning.  He studied hard, he read prolifically and, the more he did, the more he discovered that chemistry was his favorite subject.  Atoms and elements and bonds became fascinating puzzles which, when solved, helped Horatio understand the thing that had such a massive influence on his life... Smell.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so our hero immersed himself in particles and how they bonded with each other.

I'm sure it won't come as a surprise to you that there was no other kind of bonding in his life.  Friendships petered out after a few weeks, and so Horatio gave up trying.  As for women, well... he didn't have a chance in hell.  Wrinkle your nose at the wrong moment on a first date and you're done.  Get distracted by perfume and sit through an initial conversation with an expression of ecstasy on your face, and that conversation isn't going to last very long.  Word went around the college underground and Horatio was labelled, in large scarlet letters, with AVOID.

His academic career, on the other hand, flourished.  Chemistry became his refuge, and he excelled.  One of the professors, also interested in scents, took Horatio under his wing and, like all mentors, encouraged him to excel in an area where the professor himself had failed - to become a Nez.  

Professor Blanchard explained that France held umpteen opportunities for Horatio to be the official tester and, eventually, creator of perfumes and scents that men would shell out inordinate amounts of money for, and women would use to seduce these men in the first place.  (Blanchard was not the most progressive man when it came to gender issues.)

"I leave that crap to the hairy-pitted, Croc-wearing lesbian professors!" he'd spit.

But I digress.... Back to Horatio.

He was intrigued by the prospect of working in a parfumerie but, sadly, he absorbed more than just knowledge from Prof Blanchard.  The rejection of his college cohorts created fertile ground for the professor's outdated views on women, and Horatio chose to embrace those too.  

With that in mind, he didn't want to enable harlots to be more seductive.  So many men like him, Horatio thought, falling prey to the seduction of these harpies, only to suffer rejection again and again, as he had.

No.

Horatio wanted to turn the tables.

Horatio wanted to make perfume for MEN.

It didn't take Horatio long to get snapped up by a major American brand.  A combination of Prof Blanchard's contacts, Horatio's sterling academic record and a sample of a scent he had created himself (a spicy blend with notes of cinnamon and Ameroni), ensured an obscenely high salary, joining bonus and three months of luxury corporate accommodation.  Horatio soon proved his worth, developing a best selling deodorant range, and an even better selling aftershave.

Promotion was rapid, and Horatio found himself, at 28 years old, running the Men's Toiletries department. 

Ben, the CEO and face of the brand, asked to meet Horatio and, being somewhat of a gormless geek himself, stepped into the shoes of Prof Blanchard and became Horatio's new mentor.  This new friendship, however, was a lot different to the relationship with Blanchard.  Horatio found himself at swanky promotion parties, attending New York Fashion Week and strolling down the red carpet at movie premieres.  

Of course he didn't jump straight into the social big time.  Ben tested Horatio in a few low risk situations, and then advised him on how best to fit in in future.  Horatio began using the company's facial products, having regular manicures and pedicures and consulting a personal stylist.  

But the facial expression issue remained.  Horatio had made considerable progress developing a better poker face, but his brain was not wired to ignore overwhelming wafts of scents, good or bad.  Ben watched closely and put two and two together.  When Horatio grimaced, if Ben tuned into his surroundings, he too would pick up on the offensive odor.  If Horatio zoned out, Ben isolated the source - steam from a hot apple pie, perfume on a female companion or the glug of a fine wine being poured. 

And so Ben took Horatio aside and offered a solution.  So simple, so obvious, but still genius.

Botox.

Overnight,  Horatio turned from someone who would scowl or smile inexplicably, to a man at the top of his game who was "understandably" aloof.  This had the added advantage of making others try even harder to please him.  His staff worked harder, and his social interactions improved immensely.  It was a win-win.

Ben, noticing this improvement, took Horatio with him to more and more social events, both public and private.  Horatio became a regular at Ben's monthly poker game.  They played golf at least once a week.  And then - the ultimate endorsement - Ben sponsored Horatio to become a member of his Whiskey and Cigar club.  

Horatio was "in."

Although Ben had witnessed his prodigy's rapid ascent to ubermenschdom, he noticed that there was one area in which Horatio was still rather lacking - women.  No amount of paralyzed facial muscles and snappy dressing could heal the scars of years of rejection.  Horatio just didn't know how to talk to women.

But, as with everything else.  Ben had an answer.  

One Friday night, after a pleasant dinner with a supplier, Ben bundled the amiably inebriated party into a limousine and instructed the driver to take them to an exclusive and secret location.  In the ornate lobby, they were met by an impeccably groomed woman in her forties (sixties, actually, but not that you could tell) who greeted Ben enthusiastically and then turned to introduce herself - in a soft, slightly accented voice - as Veronica.

The men were ensconced in a lounge area and served drinks as the room was slowly invaded by beautiful women.  Even two sheets to the wind, Horatio got it immediately.  Brothel.

It didn't take long for him to end up in a room with an impossibly leggy and busty woman.  Horatio didn't leave until late Sunday afternoon.

On his way out, Veronica beckoned Horatio into her office, where his credit card was extracted, charged and returned with the speed, subtlety and grace of a pickpocket.  Horatio learned that he could access Veronica's buffet of delights at his convenience, in the location of his choice.

On the way home, Horatio did some rapid mental calculations and realized that, due to his well compensated job and Ben having funded his entire social life so far, his disposable income was substantial.  Substantial enough, in fact, that he could indulge in the buffet every weekend.

And so he did. 

He worked his way through blondes, redheads, brunettes, A-cups, D-cups, flowing curly locks and shaved heads.  But most of all, he worked his way through smells.  Armpits, necks, hair, feet, asses and, of course, vaginas.

The complexity of smells from a woman's vagina fascinated him.  More and more he concentrated his time with the women on contemplating, analyzing and enjoying that one specific area.  He looked, he sniffed and, eventually, he licked.

And then something amazing happened.

One of the women came.

The gush of fluid was unlike anything Horatio had ever experienced in his life.  The notes in the scent were so complex that he was utterly and completely overwhelmed.

He nearly passed out.

Afterwards, Horatio thought for a very long time about his experience.  In life full of scents, this one had struck him like never before.  Was it like this for other men?  And, if it was, how did they function?  Why were they not with women every second of every day trying, in every way they could, to milk that juice, that smell, from a woman?

Wait.  

Maybe it was just THIS woman.  Maybe it was different for every one. 

And so the experiment began.

Horatio took two weeks vacation and spent each night with a different woman.  Veronica had to sub-contract to find him new stock.  He hid sample bottles at the side of his bed and, once the woman was in the throes of ecstasy, collected some of the excretion from her labia.

In an impromptu lab set up in his study, he documented the scents.  He described the notes, rated the overall experience and looked for common elements.  

The vacation time had to be extended with a lie about a family emergency to continue the experiment.  Variables had to be controlled, and so the women were asked to fast for 24 hours before meeting him.  

Horatio eventually had to go back to work, but all this did was slow the pace of the research.  He continued evenings after normal work hours, and narrowed the women down to four types (it was on racial lines, but Horatio didn't really even realize this), choosing a representative for each, and then experimenting with inputs.  

"This week," he instructed Veronica, "they must eat only pineapple for 24 hours before they see me."

"This week, only pancakes, with a lot of sugar and cinnamon."

And so it went on.  

Horatio was sleeping less than four hours a night, he had to dip into his 401K to keep funding the women, but he didn't care.  The end was almost in sight... formulae don't lie.

Horatio had isolated four essential scent groups which could be added to a standard toiletry pack - aftershave, deodorant and cologne.  They each contained common notes from his samples, infused with some of the more appealing dietary additions - cinnamon for group 1, vanilla for group 2, five spice for group 3 and licorice for group 4.   Finally, to honor his four favorite women, he added the specific essence which belonged to her, and her alone, to each of the groups.

And this was his fatal mistake.

Adding the scent groups to a new line of toiletries was easy.  He created samples and took them to Ben, who authorized him to proceed immediately and get the products out in time for Christmas.  Operations made his creations a reality, the Product Design Team made manly packaging and Marketing pulled a nationwide launch together in record time.

January figures showed that one in every 14 houses in metropolitan areas in the US had bought one of the new product ranges during December.  The line was a hit, and Horatio was the conquering hero.

Until March.

The first complaint sounded so ridiculous that Customer Service filed it away with a special code - 999 - which meant "crazy person."

"Some guy said his wife slapped him when he got home and he wants a refund!" scoffed the Call
Center Operator, enjoying finally being the one to have the funniest story at lunch break.

But the volume of complaints increased and, finally, they could not be ignored.  It became very clear that, although men loved the range, women hated it.  Even gay male partners hated it, and said so very loudly, all the while never daring to voice the nagging doubts which they'd never think to link to an aftershave - that their man was secretly bisexual.

By mid-February it became clear that production would have to stop, and the dreaded "Product Recall" phrase was whispered in watercooler conversations.  

Ben called Horatio into an emergency meeting and, for the first time, found his mentee's impassive facial expression to be utterly infuriating at best, and sociopathic at worst.  

Horatio assured Ben that he could fix things.  He knew exactly where he'd gone wrong.  Putting in the unique identifiers of Sasha, Chloe, whatsername 1 and whatsername 2 was the mistake.  Women could obviously pick up, on some subconscious level, on the scent of another woman.  It must be an evolutionary survival thing.  He ought to have known that women were still so unevolved, so utterly primal under all that bouffant hair and make up.

He explain things to Ben in those terms, of course.  He spoke in chemistry terms, and tried to sound confident and professional.

But Ben was hundreds of thousands of dollars in the hole and facing pending law suits.  He wasn't in the mood to listen to science geek babble from a man who didn't seem to give a rat's ass about the shitstorm he'd caused.

Horatio was accompanied by 2 burly security guards to his desk, closely observed as he collected a few personal belongings, and escorted from the building.

A week later, Horatio received a notice from the Whiskey and Cigars club which said that, regretfully, due to a member vote, his membership could not be renewed.

Horatio was out. 

If you'd like to read more in the Short Story / Unfinished Novel series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

You might like:

• Casino Girl
• I Died

Being a Doggy Mama - 2 exhausting hours

 

Today a wonderful local lady who does massage and Reiki on dogs offered her services at a reduced rate to raise money for a local dog shelter.  She did it in partnership with our local pet food store, so I booked Puppy Dog in for a half hour session.

Our Chocolate Labs are both very active, so I decided to take Puppy Dog for a walk to the pet store - about 40 minutes away - to wear him out before we got there.  So off we went.

He was reasonably well behaved, although he has a different definition of our outings.  I'm walking, but him?  At this time of year, he's hunting.

He's on an extendable leash, zig zagging on the sidewalk and the grass verge, tracking.  He's pretty good at staying within the extent of the leash, and he always waits for me at streets and crosses on heel.

It was cold but sunny, autumn leaves on the trees, and a few houses decorated with spiders and spiderwebs, ghosts and pumpkins for Halloween.  We were having a really good time.  

But then I see a huge white dog ahead of us, off leash.  And when I say huge dog, I mean it.  It must have weighed 110 pounds.  It was sniffing things here and there, and I couldn't see it's owner.  I stopped Puppy Dog from going any further.  The dog hadn't seen him yet and Puppy Dog was too busy sniffing around to care about the fur covered horse.

I kept looking, trying to figure out what was going on.  And then I saw him: the owner.  Walking at least half a block in front of his dog, talking on his cellphone, completely oblivious to what his pet was doing.

Now, see, this kinda thing pisses me off no end. 

There are laws here about having your dog on a leash.  I'd love to let my dog run around and sniff about, but I don't.  If I have to adhere to the law, so do you, Fuckwit.

Secondly, having your dog wander around on suburban streets is dangerous.  You only have to be in Washington State for half a day to realize that the worst drivers in the world have chosen this place as their home.  Let your dog wander around and there's a pretty good chance it's going to get run over.

And so we waited.  Waited for the man to pause in his conversation, remember he had a dog, turn around to look for it and call it.  Waited for the dog to take it's sweet time to listen to him and trot to catch up his master.  

That little annoyance overcome, we walked on.  

Puppy Dog peed on bushes, telephone poles and fire hydrants, sniffed patches of grass and rubbed his body along decorative grasses that hung over from flower beds.  

I strode along, burning calories and breathing fresh air.

And then, the dreaded squirrel.

I have come to regard squirrels with a deep and burning hatred that pulses red hot within me.  Why?  Because they don't run.

We're halfway across a street and there it is, a little fluffy-tailed critter sniffing about on a grass verge.  Puppy Dog is straining on the leash, panting, his back legs quivering with the hunting instinct.  I can barely hang onto him.

I give him the "Leave it" command, but his wolf DNA is overriding his cerebral cortex.

I wait, holding on.  Puppy Dog waits, straining.

And the squirrel does not move.  It looks up, sees us and just keeps on doing what it's doing.  It's on a grass patch, no trees nearby.  Any escape would be difficult.  But it just ignores us.  

Eventually I have to turn around and choose a different street to walk along.  Incredible.

The rest of the walk is uneventful.

We get to the pet store and Puppy Dog has to be held at heel to get him past the enticing displays of Bully Sticks, dried yam and frozen bones.  

We met the Massage Therapist, and she was lovely.  We were taken into the back, Puppy Dog had some water and she started to massage him.  She had a very gentle energy about her, this woman.  Her voice was soothing, and she worked with our dog, not against him.  If he moved, she followed him.  She gave him treats.  She spoke to him in soft tones.

But Puppy Dog spent the entire half hour panting frantically and trying to hump her.

And not just little humps.

No.

Full lipstick, slobbery chops humping.  He grabbed her around the leg.  He jumped up for full frontal.  He even managed to throw his 70 pound weight onto her back when she was in a kneeling position.  

It was mortifying.

The Massage Therapist remained calm and gracious throughout the whole thing, and I tried to remain calm too.  I mean, it was supposed to be a healing massage.  There's no point freaking Puppy Dog out by yelling.  Being in the back of the shop - staff coming in and out to the bathroom, inventory everywhere and Nirvana (give me a break!) on the sound system - was bad enough.  

Puppy Dog was clearly freaked out.  He panted and humped and moved and sniffed and humped and panted and humped and moved and humped and moved and sniffed and panted and panted and panted.

And this poor woman was doing this for charity!  She wasn't taking any money for her time and expertise!

The half hour took forever.

At the end of it all I was out of that store and on the phone to Fluffy Bear so fast I think I left flaming tracks on the shop floor.

When I told Fluffy Bear he started laughing, of course.

"Well," he said, "come on!  She touched him first!"

Yes, yes, very funny.

If you'll excuse me, I need a nap.

To see more in the Being a Doggy Mama series, click here.

He Said She Said - Negotiation

They were walking home from the grocery store.

"Can you wait till tomorrow night for the roast vegetables for your lunches at work?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.  "Why?"

"I'm too tired to cook.  I'm thinking of just defrosting and heating up the leftover chili."

"Well, I won't say no to that," she said.  "That chili was amazing.  Also, I cooked a big pot of rice the other night so there's rice in the freezer."

"I''m going to have a baked potato," he said.  "But you can have rice."

"When we get home I'll hit the kitchen," he said.

"And when we get home I'll hit the couch," she said.  "I am going to hit the couch so hard it's going to call an abuse hotline for rescue!"

"Can you feed the dogs, first?" he asked.

"Sure," she said, adding: "I find these domestic negotiations so sexy."

"Well you can do it in lingerie if you like," he said.

"WHAT?" she screeched.

"You can do it in lingerie if you like," he repeated.

"Oh, thank God!" she sighed.  "I thought you said you were going to cook in lingerie!"

"Well I can if you want, but I don't think any of your stuff would fit me."

"OK, just stop!" she said.  "This is not a mental image I need."

"OI!" he replied, indignant.  "There's people who'd pay good money to see that!"

"Yes, dear, but they're all men."

"Oh, very funny!" he said.

To read more in the He Said She Said series, click here.

Workplace Personalities - The Teflon Kid

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is a particularly annoying workplace personality.  I'd have to say that, of all the personalities, this is the one I hate the most.

 

The Teflon Kid is different to the Yes Man.  He is infinitely worse than the Yes Man.

 

Everyone recognizes the Yes Man for what he is.  He is taken advantage of, overloaded with work and never promoted.  Whenever he speaks in a meeting people roll their eyes because they know what's coming - acquiescence spiced with fake enthusiasm.

 

The Yes Man, if he ever has time to actually finish a piece of work before being given the next one, can actually complete a task with reasonable competence.

 

Not so the Teflon Kid.

 

This is a different animal.

 

Because, fundamentally, at the root of it all, the Teflon Kid is a raging moron.  

 

Wait.  That's not right.  Because if it was that simple, the Teflon Kid would be fired.  And he never, ever, ever is.

 

The Teflon Kid may be clever, or maybe not.  He may be able to complete a task, or maybe not.  You'll never know.

 

Because - here's the thing - the Teflon Kid NEVER.  EVER.  DOES.  ANYTHING.

 

See, he is Teflon coated.

 

NOTHING STICKS.

Work doesn't stick

 

When the Teflon Kid is in a meeting and actions are handed out, any task you try to assign to him is deflected.  It's as if he has a force field.  

 

 "Shouldn't Bob take care of that?"  he'll ask.  "He has much more expertise than I do in this area."

 

 

Jobs don't stick

 

Nobody is 100% sure what the Teflon Kid actually does.  He's seen in a lot of meetings, he refers to the enormity of his Inbox, the senior managers all seem to know him by name.

 

But who does he report to?  What's his remit?  Why is he suddenly in your meeting?

 

It's a mystery.

 

And, just when you've wondered for the fiftieth time what the hell the guy's job actually is, he's named in an email of sideways shuffles or minor promotions, as having moved to another group and bringing his "wealth of knowledge" to a different initiative.  

 

You can't help but wonder if he bothers to have business cards printed, because the ink wouldn't dry before they had to be redone.

  

  

Most of all, shit doesn't stick  

 

A project can go utterly, disastrously wrong.  The funding will be pulled.  The consultants will be dispatched.  At least three employees will be fired.  At least two will be demoted in the next round of Annual Performance Reviews.  The documentation - pages and page of requirements and functional specs and test plans and stakeholder analysis - will be archived, never to be seen again.

 

But the Teflon Kid?  He emerges from the shit storm, like a superhero walking, silhouetted, backed by rousing violin music, from a burning building.

 

He moves on, usually just before the bottom falls out, to another project, in some vague role with an even vaguer title. 

  

Key signs:

• Never the one where the buck stops
• Always moving around the company
• Never, ever disagrees with the boss in meetings

    

Catch phrase: "I completely agree... "

 

  

Your strategy:

  

Unfortunately, the Teflon Kid cannot be ignored, which would be a very comforting strategy if only you could pull it off.  He can't be ignored because there he is, for no good reason, in your meeting, asking you an asinine question in front of everyone, catching you on the back foot.

  

And there he is in the corridor, in the elevator, in the lunch room, coming up to say hello, shake your hand and make some comment about some project or other that, by his tone, he makes you feel you ought to know more about.

  

And so, what I suggest is this:  Run, or Hide.

  

If the Teflon Kid comes onto your project, RUN.  Leave.  It's going to fail.  How else will he pull his phoenix shit off?  Get outta there!  

  

If you are working in a different area from him, HIDE.  Try not to get on the Teflon Kid's radar.  If he comes by, don't tell him what project you're working on.  Never schedule a meeting in a conference room on his floor.  Keep him as far away from your work as humanly possible.

   

Because if any shit flies, of any sort, it's going to bounce right off him and hit you.  

  

IN.  THE.  EYE.  

  

  

Their comeuppance:  

 

There isn't a macro one.  As the Teflon Kid is passed on by manager after manager who pretends he's great to get rid of him, he floats sideways in the company, hither and thither.

 

There is, however, a micro one.  Ask the Teflon Kid for his opinion on an issue in a meeting before the boss has expressed his, and watch him squirm.

  

 

To read more in the Workplace Personalities series, click here.

   

You might like:

• The Office Stalker   
• The WIC

I am Woman - Boas and Tatas

 

Last week some friends and I walked to raise money for women's cancers.  The focus was breast cancer, which my mother battled for 7 years before succumbing.  

I named our team after my mother and we joyously entered the decorated bra contest.  Basically you wear your bra outside your T-shirt and spruce it up.  We went with feather boas.  

We met at the start of the walk, milling around with thousands of other people, checking out the promotional stands.  There was a stage where they were giving out prizes and acknowledgements.  Survivors were asked to go up on stage and state their name and how many years they had triumphed over their disease.  It was very poignant.

Then we heard the announcement that decorated bras should come up on stage.  So up we went.  There were already a bunch of people on the platform and they had music blaring, so we danced across the whole stage to the other end, where there was room to stand.  

A guest announcer from a local TV station took the microphone, and I began to realize that there weren't many women on stage... a bunch of people with decorated bras in the audience hadn't come up.  "Well," I thought to myself, "maybe they're shy."

The announcer then proceeded to detail winners of various decorated bra categories - individual, group and child.  

And that's when it hit me.

These people had all decorated their bras before the walk and sent in photos.  They were the winners of the categories. 

So everyone on stage got a prize and applause and we stood there, smiling and clapping.  I whispered to my friends what was going on and we all saw the funny side... we were fierce feather-boaed femmes fatales and we had totally just got up on stage and gatecrashed a prize-giving ceremony!

It gets better.

That night, on the local news, footage of us can-can dancing, boas aloft, featured on the local news when they reported on the event.

YEAH BABY!  I'm forty, fabulous and famous!  And all for a good cause!

To read more in the I am Woman series, click here.

Dear Diary - Me, the Savior

Dear Diary

I think there may be something a bit wrong with me.

I keep fantasizing about saving people, about being the hero.

In real life I'm walking between buildings to a meeting but, in my head...

I'm at a company presentation, I'm in the third row and only I, insightful empath that I am, can see that the CEO is struggling, that he's mispronounced three words now, and that he's starting to sweat.

So I stand up and hurry to the podium, as if I have an urgent message for him. I pass him a note that reads "Pretend there is a crisis and you have to leave with me, right NOW!"

He nods, turns and mumbles an apology to the audience, hands over to the CIO and follows me off the stage.

As we're walking up the side aisle I shoot a meaningful glare at a colleague who I know has first aid training, and he scampers after us.

Once we get to the auditorium door, out of sight, I give the CEO my arm and he leans heavily on it. We go to a conference room and close the door and I step back, allowing my colleague to take over as I discreetly call an ambulance.

Now where the hell does this kind of fantasy come from?

Is it schadenfreude?

Do I subconsciously think people will like me if I save them?

Why don't I dream of being on holiday on a tropical island, sipping a cocktail from a hollowed out pineapple?  Or about driving a red vintage Mercedes convertible on those winding roads above Monaco, hair wrapped in a silk scarf, cornering perfectly? Or even Taylor Kitsch, a hot tub, an empty bottle of champagne and a delicious lapse in our mutual sense of propriety?

Hey!  How about a dream about winning the lottery and hitting Nordstrom so hard the window displays fall victim to spontaneous combustion?

No.  

I have a savior complex.

You see. dear Diary?

This is why I stay in therapy.

To see more in the Dear Diary series, click here.

That's Life - Wasting my time

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

 

  

There are so many things I have to do that get in the way of me living a full, fun life.  And I'm sick of them.  

  

So I'm calling them out.  I'm naming and shaming.  I'm putting it out there.

  

  

These things are a waste of my time:

• Exercising to balance calorie burn with calorie intake
• Fast forwarding through TV ads
• Sleeping
• Having to earn money
• Hangovers
• Pooping
• Peeing
• Laundry
• House cleaning
• Being polite to neighbors I have no interest in knowing
• Stopping at 4 way stops when there are no other cars around
• Flossing
• Scooping dog poop
• Airport security
• Travelling to and from places 
• Cooking
• Waiting for the kettle to boil
• Ironing
• Doing my own manicure or pedicure
• Being sick

Life is short.  There are things to do!

Imagine all the things I could have done if only I didn't have to sleep.  I could have learnt Spanish.  Gong out clubbing all night with no after effects.  Practiced yoga naked in the dark.  Read that pile of books that's been sitting next to my bed for two years.  Watched all the classic movies people refer to.  Brushed my dogs' teeth.  Hell, trained my dogs.

Add up all the time you've spent in the toilet in your life.  Ten minutes a day?  That's TWO HUNDRED AND TWO DAYS of your life wasted!

Those guys that write science fiction concentrate on all the wrong things.  Never mind that everyone has perfect teeth, bodies and hair.  Show us how we can not have to poop!

For more That's Life, click here.

He Said She Said - Snippets

   

They were driving to meet friends for brunch.

"Maybe we should try that place sometime," he said, as they passed a restaurant.

"I don't know," she said. "I'm not sure it looks that great. There's a sign that says eight dollar steak night. For that price, it's probably tough, stringy meat. What's worse than that?"

"Five dollar steak night."

The dogs were lying on the floor next to them, growling over a bone.

"Can you hear it?" he asked. "What?" "It's the soundtrack of our lives, in Grrr minor."

For more He Said She Said, click here.

Dear Diary - Vent time

 

Dear Diary

The last 9 hours of my life have pretty much sucked.

The day started with me arriving at the hotel where my team was hosting a training course.  We didn't book the venue - the training company did.  But we're hosting the training and it reflects on us.  

This place was half a step above being a highway side motel.  As one attendee said "I thought I was going to pass a crack deal on my way up to the conference room."  

I did, in fact, pass a kid with no front teeth when I left the hotel to get coffee, but I guess he was a bit too young for it to be from crystal meth.

Then... the trainer.

Oh, the trainer.

I will sum him up with a visual.

He is one of those trainers, dear Diary, who takes a chair, pulls it out in front of the presentation screen, puts his back leg up on it and effectively displays his penis to the audience.  No, I don't mean literally!  But that is basically what he is doing.

He stands like that and talks about his accomplishments, the books he's written, the consulting engagements where he helped a team of 3000 IT engineers, the fact that he disagrees with Deming's summation of what Lean actually is.  He spends the first half hour talking about his background - starting with the first program he wrote in college in 1972 - progressing to all the other courses he teaches, just in case we feel like paying him more money to display his family jewels at us.

I have come across more than one of these kinds of trainers.  They are older men who have seen it all, done it all, and now they want to tell you how to do it.  That's not to say they don't have something to share, I just don't want them to be a Big Swinging Dick about it.

It takes us to lunch to get through the introductory section of the course.  We haven't even got to a definition of what it is that we are here to study. 

Again, dear Diary, this course is being hosted by my team.  This guy's performance reflects on me.  And there are some very senior people in the room.

Finally, lunch comes.  I heave a sigh of relief.  A break, and maybe he'll get on track afterwards.

Like the venue, his company had arranged the lunch.

Oh.  My.  God.

Oily, bony bits of chicken with herbs on the skin, mashed potatoes, sloppy roasted vegetables and a salad. 

We told them that there were vegetarians on the course.  As per usual, they are a catering afterthought.  

Lunch completely reinforced the hotel's tacky factor.

Then I get a call from my husband to say that our cleaner is sick.  I forgot to tell you that my in-laws were, as this was happening, on a plane winging their way towards us.  I don't want to be mean to my cleaner.  She's lovely and she works miracles.  She had a migraine - that can't be helped.  But... today?  Really?

So now I have to try to scrounge a ride home from someone because Fluffy Bear has the car at the airport and I was going to just take the bus but now I have to get home as soon as possible to get the house cleaned of all the dog-hair-tumbleweeds.

I get a ride with a lovely colleague and I rush back to the house.  

First, I burn myself.  Yes, dear Diary, burn myself.  

Our tumble dryer is depressed.  Well, if you were that old and stuck in a basement and the that seventies mustard color, you would be too.  It intermittently has suicide attempts.  It overheats the clothes and tries to set itself on fire.

So, when I pulled the comforter out of it, I burnt my right hand.

I grabbed the underwear and socks that were in there too and, having a total IQ lapse, stuck my hand in to move press one of the metal bits to get the drum to turn so I could get to any socks stuck on the side.  

And burnt my left hand.

Some colorful language and stomping upstairs later, I had the guest room bed made up.

Then I went to put the underwear away.  We have those little wire three tier drawer units in our closets. You know the ones.  They are made out of wire mesh with holes big enough to catch your finger and crush your fingernail.  I chose today to prove that last point.

I don't tend to pray, dear Diary, but at that moment I felt the need to reconnect with God and tell him exactly what I thought of him.

Next, I went to find out why Puppy Girl has been standing in the dining room crying for the last ten minutes.  I asked her what was wrong, she looked out the window.  I asked again, she looked out the window.  I leant out of the open window and there was her special green chewy ball down in the yard below.  And she started crying again.

So I went out the front door, round the house, slipped on the grass on the bank and kissed the dirt.  

Yes, seriously.  I'm not even vaguely kidding.

I stood up, dusted myself off, retrieved the ball and threw it back in the dining room window - possibly with more force that was necessary - and limped back into the house.

Back inside, I was straightening out the kitchen when Puppy Girl came trotting in and tossed the ball towards me.  She does that when she wants you to throw the ball for her to retrieve it.  Unfortunately her aim was a bit off.  The ball sailed past me and slapped into the dogs' water ball, splooshing water all over the kitchen floor.

By this stage I was beyond being angry.  I just sighed and moved on.  I wiped the floor, changed my jeans and plonked down on the couch.

Fluffy Bear arrived with his sister and her husband and they walked in - thank God! - champagne in hand.

After the greeting hugs, they asked if we should open it right away.

They may have been a little shocked at the vehemence of my reply, in the affirmative, and expressed at deafening volume.

For more Dear Diary, click here. 

Dear Diary - Flash Mob

 

Dear Diary

Today I was part of a Flash Mob that danced in front of 70,000 people at an American Football game.

This is one of those situations where only an American phrase can capture the moment:

IT WAS AWESOME!

It was kinda like my wedding day.  There's a lot of preparation, rehearsal, coordination and then you finally get there and you wait and wait for it to begin and then it's all over in -- well, a flash.

There were over a thousand of us who danced a six minute routine to 10 songs.

Flash Mobs are a strange phenomenon.  

Basically, someone chooses to coordinate them and you find out by word of mouth or by signing up to a Facebook group or by keeping an eye on the right website.  Normal, average people turn up and rehearse, getting to know each other along the way.

We had two 8 year olds, a bunch of teenagers and I saw at least 5 people who were in their 60s or 70s.

Many kids were dancing with one or both of their parents. 

I met teachers, engineers, data warehouse managers, professional dancers.

I go because it's fun, and I essentially get free dance classes.

I didn't make all the rehearsals, but I spent at least 10 hours practicing.  

And then I got to dance in front of a stadium full of people.

I spent most of the dance thinking about the steps and frantically watching whoever was in front of me so I could copy them, but I did have a few moments where I was confident about the moves and was able to look at up at the crowds, smile at the little dots that were the people up in the nosebleed seats and just be in the moment, be dancing, be joyful, be revelling in it.

As adults, we get so few opportunities to really have fun, dear Diary.

When I find them, I grab them with both hands, and jump in with both feet.  

AWESOME!

For more Dear Diary, click here. 

Puppy Talk - Crazy Mommy

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Puppy Girl:  Mama is really annoying me!

 

Puppy Dog:  What's wrong?

 

Puppy Girl:  She keeps singing this annoying song to me.

 

Puppy Dog:  Singing is nice.  What's your problem?

 

Puppy Girl:  Singing is nice, but the same song all the time gets a bit old.

 

Puppy Dog:  What does she sing?

 

Puppy Girl:  I don't know what it is.  Something about sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset and sweeping go the years. 

 

Puppy Dog:  What?  That doesn't even make any sense!

 

Puppy Girl:  I know!  Then she gets a really high voice and sings where is the little pup she carried and where is the little pup at play and how she doesn't remember getting older day by day.  

 

Puppy Dog:  Yeah, that sounds pretty stupid.

 

Puppy Girl:  Yup.  Then she gets all weird and starts telling me that she bought a puppy, not a big girl.

 

Puppy Dog:  That's ridiculous.  You're tall, you're thin, you're fit, you're looking great.  Womanhood suits you.

 

Puppy Girl:  I know, right?  If I was a hairless ape, I could totally rock those skinny jeans they keep going on about.  I mean, it's not my fault I'm growing up!  And besides, I like growing up!  I can reach the chickens Dada leaves on the kitchen counter now!

 

Puppy Dog:  Yeah, that was awesome.  Thanks for sharing.

 

Puppy Girl:  Uh, it's not like I had much choice. You just got in there.  You ate that nice white meat part before I could even get a taste of it!

 

Puppy Dog:  Listen, Kid.  I'm above you in the pack, no matter how damn big you get, AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT!

 

Puppy Girl:  OK!  OK!  Shesesh.  Just do me a favor...

 

Puppy Dog:  What?

 

Puppy Girl:  Just don't sing me a damn song about it!

 

'

For more Puppy Talk, click here. 

That's Life - A box of chocolates

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So... life is like a box of chocolates?

 

Well, let's see.

 

What happens when I eat a box of chocolates...

 

I start by looking for the little bit of paper that tells you what's in the chocolates.  And, of course, I can't find it.  

 

OK, never mind.  I'm brave.  I take risks.

 

So I bite into the first chocolate, and it's something disgusting like that weird crunchy stuff that's looks like transparent dirty water.  So I throw the other half out.

 

I try another one, and it's just plain chocolate, and it's slightly white on the edges, because it's a bit old.

 

Third time lucky?

 

It's toffee.  And it's too sweet and too hard and gets lodged in one of molars at the back of my mouth and I have to dig out a hard lump of the filling from my tooth with my fingernail.  

 

And so it goes, until, finally, about two thirds of the way through the box, I find one I like.  

 

It's sweet, but not too sweet.  Soft but not too soft.  The outer coating of chocolate is fresh and hard, but not too hard.

 

So I look for another chocolate that's the same shape, the same kind.

 

And there's only one.

 

See?  I finally find what I like in life, and there isn't enough of it.

 

Forrest Gump's bitch of a mother was right.

 

 

To read more in the That's Life series, click here.

I am Woman - Cunt

 

What do you think of when I say "Vagina?"

Oh, right.

A vagina.

Let me rephrase.

What do you feel when I say "Vagina?"

It's an interesting word, isn't it?  Well, perhaps not the word itself, but our reaction to it.

How about "Cunt?"

There's a word that makes you feel all sorts of things, right?

Why, in the Western world, is naming a woman's sexual organs so taboo, so funny, so shameful?

I mean, we all have them, right?

Sometimes I get sick of the shame that society has pinned on the very essence of womanhood.  

I get mad that there is no word for a penis or testicles that is considered as rude as Cunt.  

A few years ago, I went to see the Vagina Monologues in London.  The actresses told us we had to reclaim the word Cunt.  Make it positive.  Make it happy.  Make it beautiful.  They had the audience yell the word again and again and again.

While I was yelling CUNT!  CUNT!  CUNT!  CUNT!  I began to wonder if this exercise would make any difference.  Men around me (the few that were there) were squirming a little, and had lopsided grins on their faces.  Even some of the women were snickering.  I am not sure they were reclaiming the word so much as enjoying the guilty pleasure of yelling it out - like a naughty child.

Ever since then, when someone in my presence uses the word, I counter with:

 "Hey!  A cunt is one of the most beautiful things in the world!"

It usually shuts them up - except, of course, if I'm with my gay friends, who tend to collapse in heaps of sarcastic laughter.

I also try to use swearwords that demean male genitalia, in a one-woman attempt to even the odds.  But they all sounds so... well, facile.  Even flaccid.  

"Dick!"

"Prick!"

"Balls!"

Pathetic.  

The only word that comes close is "BOLLOCKS!"  But it has the added dimension of being foreign in the US - it's peppered, therefore, with an exotic, humorous quality which, again, lowers the impact.

And so I live with the fact that even swearwords reinforce our society's pervasive gender inequality.

But I did discover one good thing through my contemplation of the female reproductive form... 

I saw a documentary on the BBC once, about "Ladies' parts," as some would say in the UK.

For once, I got to see vaginas close up.  All sorts of vaginas.  Large ones, small ones.  Firm ones, soft ones.  

Vaginal lips, I discovered, are as varied as facial lips.  Some are small and firm, while others hang, draping like curtains protecting a wonder behind them.

Of course I ran to get a hand mirror and take a look at mine.  I think it's a strange and empowering thing the first time a woman actually looks at herself "down there."  It wasn't the first time I'd done it, but it was the first time I had something to compare to.

And that is how I came to scare the living crap out of my husband as he came home from work.  He walked in the front door to find me standing at the top of the staircase, naked from the waist down, holding my labia spread apart, excitedly squealing:

"I have a pretty vagina!"

To his credit, and keeping in mind that he did not have any context to frame this behavior, he immediately agreed.

My husband is a really great cunt.

To read more of the I am Woman series, click here.

He Said She Said - Cupcakes

 

"It's a CUPCAKE!" she snapped.

"What is?" he asked.

"A cupcake."

"Um..."

"There's a little paper cup.  In it is a little cake.  It's a cupcake!

"Uh..."

"It doesn't need cream under the icing!  It doesn't need ganache in the middle!  It just needs to be a CUP.  CAKE."

"OK..."

"I don't want the extra calories.  I don't need the extra calories!  I just want to bite into slightly crunchy, sweet icing and then down into a soft, moist cake!  And have it be small, so I can only eat so much of it!"

"Honey?" he said.  "Have you seen the can opener?"

"I AM ON A CUPCAKE RANT HERE!" she yelled.  "CONCENTRATE!"

Silence.

"What is WRONG with these people?  I mean, the clue is IN. THE. NAME!  CUP!  CAKE!"

Silence.

"You're ignoring me now, aren't you?"

"Yup."

"Fine!"

Hell is other people - You are where you come from

Recently I have had a some very interesting conversations with people about ancestral origins.  My theory is that you are where you come from.  Where you originally come from.  

And yes, it all depends on how far back we trace our ancestry, but don't start with me, Pedants.  Use your common sense.  Where are your grandparents, great-grandparents and the generations just before them - who probably didn't move around much - from?

In that information lies explanations about diet, about which times of day you're most energetic in, about all those things you describe to other people in these terms: "that's just how I am, I guess."

It's not how you are.  It's who you are.

Fluffy Bear's ancestry is Irish.  Meat and potatoes is what he loves, is what his body thrives on.  He does well in cold temperatures - but not too cold.  He melts in temperatures over 36 degrees C.  

My ancestors come from a tropical island, where the races are French, Indian, Chinese and Creole.  There was no land to farm beef or lamb.  But the island was ringed with ocean, and there were sugar cane fields and rice paddies.  Give me a plate full of rice covered in spicy lentils and I'm happy.

A few months ago, a friend told me a story about a couple who adopted a child from Korea.  They were vegetarian and they brought him up with adequate protein - just of a vegetable variety.  But, as he got older, he got more and more unmanageable.  He got kicked out of kindergarten.  He threw temper tantrums.  Most frightening of all, he deliberately hurt a small animal.  They were worried they had a young Jeffrey Dahmer on their hands.  

They were told to give the child medication.  Being the vegetarian hippies they are, they researched alternatives (and quite right, too).  They found a nutritionist, who explained to them that to feed a child of Korean ancestry a vegetarian diet is anathema to his metabolic system.  His tradition is to eat meat and his ancestors have evolved to do so.  They way his body converted food to chemicals was different to how his parents' bodies did, and there was some kind of chemical that his body was not able to make without eating meat.  Because of eating the wrong diet, he was literally chemically imbalanced.  They changed his diet and he turned out just fine.

I was at happy hour a few weeks ago and told this story to a vegetarian.  He literally laughed in my face.

It was a very difficult moment for me.

I strongly believe in people's right to choose.  Abortion, gay marriage, poly-amorous relationships... you have the right to do what you want to do, as long as it does not hurt anything else with a fully developed brain. 

But we cannot deny who we are biologically.  

If you choose to be vegetarian, and it hinders your health - either physically or psychologically - you have to admit you were wrong and factor complex proteins back into your diet.  You can source them ethically these days.

And if you want to know who you are biologically, go back to your roots.

I grew up in South Africa.  My parents come from a sunny island.  I take 4,000 units of Vitamin D a day, I have consistently tested under the norm for two the last two years, because I now live in a grey, gloomy place.  If I didn't consider the prospect that I get SAD in winter, I'd be a complete fool.

I know the person who laughed at my hypothesis isn't a representative of all vegetarians.  Any named group - be it religious, racial, sexual-preference, diet-preference, political - hell, even a book club - has a diverse spectrum of people in it, even though they market themselves as a homogeneous entity.

But his attitude really pissed me off.

To not consider the fact that there could be people who are simply not suited, biologically, to his dietary life choice, was narrow minded.

Yes, my evidence was anecdotal at best, but counter my proposal, give me your hypothesis.  Don't laugh at me and pat me on the arm like I'm a two year old who just said that I am going to marry my daddy when I grow up. 

I could make a facetious comment about his being too mentally tired to debate due to protein deficiency, but I choose to rise above that.

Nevertheless, my theory still stands...

Hell is other people.

Workplace Personalities - The Golden Child

You know the type I'm talking about.

He always looks good - even on dress down Fridays the T-shirt he wears is uberkewl.

He never says the wrong thing. 

You're standing between the cubes, it's Friday afternoon, and everyone is laughing at some story or other.  Team member one make a slightly dirty - but very funny - comment, and team member two counters with something just as dirty and just as funny.  The Golden Child opens his mouth and you think - finally! - he's going to say something non-PC.  He takes a breath in... then stops himself.  His self-control never wavers.

If you pass his desk and look down at a presentation he's prepared, you realize that is work is annoyingly, bafflingly, utterly impeccable.  He's managed to fit research, options and ROI onto one sheet - in color. 

"How does he do it?" you ask yourself.

• Does he work from home every night?
• Does he have better experience or education than I do?
• Does he have an abnormally high IQ?

You watch him in meetings, trying to follow his train of thought and how he got to that excellent question, that perfectly phrased feedback.

You have conversations over coffee, asking him advice, telling yourself you can learn from him, he can mentor you, even if he is seven years younger than you are.

You try to find out his secret, his method, his Mojo. 

But nothing works.

He just is.

He's a phenomenon, slipping like 4 stroke oil through the corporate machine, fitting in with everyone and everything.

And you hate him.

With a passion.

Key signs:

• Workplace Mojo
• More workplace Mojo
• Even more workplace Mojo

Catch phrase: There isn't one.  Depending on the situation, he just always says exactly the right thing.

Your strategy:

 Try to imitate.  Asking for advice directly is a waste of time.  I'm not sure even he knows how he does it.  If you have to, write down what he says so you can later copy his turn of phrase.  If you can, work for him.  Hitch your career to his wagon - he's going places.

Their comeuppance:

 There isn't one.  This guys climbing the ladder, Baby.  Upwards and onwards. 

To read more in the Workplace Personalities series, click here.

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• Lil Miss Congeniality
• The Ninja