Thinking Inside the Box: The Road Trip

I think we can all agree that one of the most stressful things about moving is finding a new place to live. When looking for an apartment you have to start scouting out neighborhoods, finding out availabilities, planning visits, and making sure that those three felonies and five misdemeanors (alleged, not proven) don't come up during the conversation.

I imagine that buying a house is even more complicated with the added pressure of getting a mortgage (let's spin the wheel of credit and see where you come up…) and taking care of all the closing paperwork and redecorating.

At any rate, a few weeks ago my wife started the laborious process of finding us someplace to call home. After lots of web searches, phone calls, friend cajoling and shaman consulting we scheduled a day last week to go out and look at five different properties. Of course that means it's time for a road trip.

The first leg of our trip was pretty normal as we left home and passed through familiar towns we had known growing up. All that changed however, once we got east of Columbus, OH. Now then, not to offend anyone out there who grew up in Eastern Ohio, but I really don't know how you did it. Long swaths of nothing stretched for miles in every direction, and my wife started salivating at the mere prospect of seeing a town the same way a dog gets excited when he knows he's getting close to the park. Whenever we would pass a few buildings and a sign she would whip out her cell phone and start snapping pictures like crazy, just as a reminder that there were people out here, we just hadn't seen any of them yet.

We eventually stopped for gas and food in a town where everyone seemed to know everyone else, making us stick out all the more readily. I may as well have been wearing a t-shirt that said "We're not from around here." Actually, I was, but I'm sure that didn't have anything to do with the stares. To top off the pit stop, the men's room at the restaurant was out of order, so I was faced with a decision; do I swallow my male pride and go to the ladies' room, or do I clamp down my bladder and try and hold out for another three hours? I decided to suck it up and go ahead to the ladies' room because there are few things more shameful in all of mandom than stopping a road trip just to use the bathroom. You better be getting gas, food, or be on fire before that car pulls over. Besides, I reasoned that since the men's room was out of order the other bathroom was now unisex, so I was in no danger of having my man card revoked.

As we continued our journey we quickly discovered that the route we had chosen featured a whole lot of nothing. Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Western Maryland all featured about the same landscape as Eastern Ohio, and I had begun to wonder what I had gotten myself into. Thankfully, as we neared Washington, DC signs of life sprung up and I was shaken from my fear of driving off the edge of the world and falling onto the turtle that holds the whole thing up.

After a night of greasy takeout and restless sleep we were ready to find ourselves a place to live. We had scheduled five appointments, but only needed two to know we had found the perfect place. We had spent 10 hours on the road, and now we had decided where to live in 45 minutes. In a way I felt cheated. A part of me wanted to demand we look at the other places or at least make our new property manager take us on a sightseeing tour of the area so that driving all this way for such a short meeting and decision wouldn't feel like a waste. But hey, now when we show up we'll actually have a place to put our stuff, so I guess I can't complain.

Since we finished early we finished early we decided to just go ahead and drive home that same day. This is when we learned the most important lesson of the whole trip… ass grooves are the most powerful forces in a car. You see, we took my car and I had driven the entire way out. We decided to switch places on the way back so I could rest for a bit and my wife could not be bored to death staring at the same cornfields and billboards as she had seen on the way there. She knew exactly which exits housed the best fireworks outlet stores, but I was completely ignorant to the fact, a wrong which must be remedied.

However, things didn't go as planned. When we traded seats neither one of us could get comfortable, and it was so bad for her that one of her legs started to fall asleep. After just a couple hours we switched back, and instantly we were each fine again. We attributed this to the fact that since our posteriors differ so much in size, shape, and density that our respective seats have become so in tune with our own rumps that they will simply reject that of another. It is a symbiotic relationship, one which cannot be undone through sheer force of will.

We made one last stop on the way home at a hillbilly gas station where my wife refused to get out of the car or even unlock her door. While I found the place to be a wonderful mecca of all things redneck (where else can you find gas, beer, chewing tobacco, and bait all under one roof?) she feared that if she came out of the car she'd be kidnapped and turned into someone's mountain wife. Her fears were confirmed when a gentlemen no less than 70 years old decided it was just "too dern hot" and took off his shirt. I bid the gentle hilljacks farewell and we continued on our merry way, vowing to never again stop at a town where the first thing you see from the freeway ramp is a feed lot.

The most foreboding part of the whole process was that we're going to have to make the same trip again next weekend. This time though, we're only going one way, and I already know the two most important rules of the road; there's no shame in creating your own unisex bathroom, and car seats are not one size fits all.

Thinking Inside the Box: And So It Ends

Last Thursday was my last day on the job. It all felt so surreal, from waking up and making the short commute one last time, to taking down the pictures and decorations that had kept me sane over the past year (surprising how good fuzzy dice and a stuffed walrus can be for the soul). The whole day was rather odd; as no one could remember the last time someone had quit our department. That's not saying everyone who ever worked their loved their job and never wanted to do something else, but rather that all those who had departed in recent memory had been "asked to leave."

I get the feeling the same fate may have befallen me if I had stayed much longer. After all, you can only jump on the conference table and sing "It's Raining Men" so many times before people begin to worry that something may be off…especially if you're married.

So the morning was filled with awkward conversations and assorted well wishes. People squeezing a few seconds into their day to say goodbye to the young guy who was an amusing presence, but never quite fit in with the group because he was too ambitious. Oh well, a quick handshake and a few kind words and you can be off, free to forget that the fellow ever even occupied the cubicle.

After a couple hours it was time for the exit interview. I headed up to HR to figure out what the tax rate was going to be on my vacation hours (28 percent?!?! Really?!?! Did I just move up 3 tax brackets?), learn that my health insurance was terminated "as of today" (Here's hoping for now crippling illnesses or car accidents for the next few weeks), and that my retirement fund was forfeited (you have to work there 2 years to be "vested").

After all the technical stuff it was time for my feedback about the job. Now, if you've been reading this column for any number of weeks you probably already have a sense for how this went. I told the HR rep as politely as I could that you didn't really need a particularly trained person for my job, and that they would be just as well served hiring a slightly smarter than average chimp. You could pay him in bananas and tire swings, and he'd be the happiest little primate in all the land. I chose not to air my grievances about always managing to pick up the onion bagel at staff meetings, as I assumed that was my own bad luck rather than a vast company conspiracy. You never know though…

At lunch it was time for the big goodbye, orchestrated by one of my coworkers whose company I quite enjoyed while there. The email was sent out to all corners, letting the entire department know that this would be the last hurrah, a time to say farewell and reminisce about the good times.

There are 12 people in my old department, 2 of them came. I don't think any more needs to be said than that. Even my good friend, who had commiserated with me time and time again, and whose weekly lunch outings kept me from throwing calculators at passersby on particularly frustrating days couldn't make it. The good news was that some of those who couldn't come chipped in a dollar or two to help cover my lunch, so at least some people made a gesture. Unfortunately, the coworker who planned the lunch forgot the money back at the office. Oh well, seems like pretty much par for the course.

When we got back I started the laborious process of surviving the last few hours and packing up my stuff. The funny thing was, I only had one job-related knick-knack to throw in my box; the rest was all random clutter I had brought from home or picked up at gaming conventions. The sad truth was that my life had stood directly at odds with my job. The good news was, that was all about to change, and as I handed over my keys and security card I felt a strange sensation I hadn't felt in nearly a year.

Relief.

It was over, my time was served, and I was finally going home. I sit here now, happily unemployed, grinning from ear to ear amidst the boxes of clothes and clutter that I will be loading onto a truck in a couple weeks to take with me as my wife and I start a new life somewhere else. A new adventure is calling, and I know that if it hadn't been for my year of misery, I wouldn't be anywhere near as ready to launch into the unknown.

Get ready Washington, DC, because here I come.

Thinking Inside the Box: Why am I So Busy?

When I gave my notice that I'd be leaving my padded cell (I mean cubicle), I assumed that the next couple weeks would be pretty dull, possibly downright boring. I had lined up all my favorite blogs and news sites for daily reading, and had even calculated how much walking around time I'd have on a daily basis. One day I'd go over the marketing suite and offer my unsolicited advice on how to sell our company ("The kids today totally love being told to respect authority and never question the status quo"), and another day I'd head over to accounting and tell them my brilliant scheme about how to maximize profits by simply telling the IRS that we don't have any money while hiding it all under rugs and behind paintings.

My carefree days were not to be however, as I was quickly brought back down to Earth by the horror that is "ongoing projects." You know those things that sit on the bottom of the pile for months on end because they aren't really mission critical and there's no real rush to finish them? Well, turns out you have to turn those in before you quit a job, otherwise they won't give you your last paycheck. And they throw tomatoes at you.

I have three of these mean little projects blocking my exit, and I've managed to knock out a couple of them without much trouble. The last one presents an issue though, as it's one of those tasks so mindless that it's hard to work on it for more than ten minutes at a time without needing to take a break in order to retain sanity.

It's sad to think that the human brain can be defeated by a simple spreadsheet, but I've always maintained that Excel is evil incarnate and now it's out to finish me off before I can find the source of its power and end its reign of terror for good.

So now I'm in the world's least thrilling race against time to get this last touch of work done, work which I've neglected for months but now suddenly must complete in a few days.

Oh well, this time next week I'll be free of spreadsheets, staff meetings, and ongoing projects forever.

Or at least until I get a new job.

Thinking Inside the Box: Sweet Freedom

A couple weeks ago, my wife had a very busy day.

She was all set to be interviewed for a job on the East Coast, and had decided to fly out, conduct the interview, and fly back all on the same day. That meant waking up at 2 a.m., flying out at 5 a.m., and getting home at 10 p.m. if everything went perfectly, which it didn't.

Her trip out to the site went fine, with all flights arriving on time and the interview going well. Coming home was another story.

The first leg of her trip went well, but then when she got to Cincinnati to make the last leg of the trip the carrier (whose name rhymes with SMELTA) told her there would be a delay. Long story short after several more delays she finally arrived at the airport by 1 a.m. She promptly fell asleep on me in the car and by the time we got home all she could do was drag herself to bed and collapse.

It was all worth it.

Last week, the company called her and offered her the job. She accepted.

What that means, dear friends, is that it is time for me to leave my current employer in search of bigger and better things.

Now then, if you are the emotional type, you are probably thinking "But, we've grown so close over these past few months, in some strange way I found myself caring about your plight. What will I do with myself now?" The more utilitarian of you will wonder where else you can go to take pleasure in the misery of others on a Wednesday morning. Well to both groups I say fear not! I'm not going anywhere.

Though I may not have many weeks left to discuss my own personal office drudgery, that doesn't mean I've run out of things to say. I mean, in the next month I'm going to be moving into a state I've only visited once (Maryland), living in a city I've never seen, moving into an apartment I've yet to examine (road trip in a couple weeks), and looking for a new job in a culture that is far removed from the slow, relaxed Midwestern culture in which I grew up.

So don't worry dear friends, even though a chapter of my life is closing I won't leave you behind. I still want to give you all a glimpse into my special little mind every week, so as long as you aren't afraid to come in and take a look around. Do take off your shoes though, I don't want footprints all over my insanity. Oh, and by the by, if anyone would happen to know of good places of employment in the greater Washington, DC area, I'd be much obliged.

I'll be back next week; a little thing like quitting a job and moving halfway across the country isn't going to slow me down. You won't be rid of me that easily.

Thinking Inside the Box: The Light, It Burns!

There's little doubt that one of the most evil of all office creations is bright fluorescent lighting. The harsh glare is so intense that even a passing gaze into a bare bulb carries the same danger as staring at the sun itself for over 40 minutes. The reason offices insist on these bulbs is that they don't run on electricity, they run on human souls. That's why, when you sit under them day after day, you slowly feel your energy and creativity sapped away until all that's left is a husk that will mindlessly complete whatever task is laid before it.

Once, I nearly escaped from those dreadful lights, but evil always seems to find a way.

A few months back we were decorating our office for Christmas and someone, a prophet perhaps, or a knower of truth, had the wonderful idea of turning all the lights off so that the only illumination came from the lights on the tree and the strands decorating the cubicles. The results were incredible, within days we had our vitality back, and it was so much easier to come to work every morning. Of course, that could have been the afterglow of all the holiday parties we had been attending, because we all know Christmas cheer is best enjoyed in liquid form anyway.

For a month or so life was great, for the first time in ages I wasn't spending my break time looking for other jobs and trying to figure out if I had the qualifications necessary to be a nuclear research engineer or an Alaskan crab fisherman (the answers, respectively and surprisingly, are yes and no). While my work wasn't any more exciting, I was still able to power through it because the new mood lighting just made me happy inside. Meanwhile, over my head, the now dark fluorescent bulbs waited in silence, biding their time before they struck again. Though they are evil, the lights are also wise, and they knew it would only be a matter of time before they feasted on me again.

They were right.

Early in January the boss decreed it was time to take down the decorations. We knew we couldn't really put up much of a fight; stockings hung on the doors in April might cost us a bit of professional appearance, so we hauled all of our red and green trinkets off to the storage closet.

And then the lights came back on.

The flash was so sudden and violent, I had to shield my eyes and fumble for my chair. We tried to scrap the lights and use table lamps instead or at least turn the wattage down and only use half the lights, thereby prolonging our survival, but it wasn't going to happen.

And so here I am once again. Every day a little piece of me dies and floats up into those bulbs, and my resolve continues to weaken.

Abandon all hope ye who sit beneath the bulbs.