• The shortest distance between two points is a closed mouth.

    Meetings are one of the constants of my working life. Yesterday we had a meeting about a meeting (it wasn’t my idea). I think I’ve done a good deal of personal growth in the last year or so, and I think I owe it all to these meetings at work. It used to be that I felt compelled to voice my opinion in these meetings, regardless of whether the ongoing discussion was pertinent to the purpose of the gathering. Acting purely out of self interest, I’ve begun to pick my moments. I find myself holding my tongue when folks start debating a side issue. This strict policy of non-intervention has worked for me thus far. Eventually, the conversation gets back on the right track and I get back on the train, without having spent my reserves on a senseless debate. An example comes to us courtesy of last month’s “process meeting”. Everyone decided to debate the merits of the coverage schedule for seeing walk-in inquiries at our office. No one in the room was responsible for the decision. No one in the room had any input on the decision. No one in the room could change the decision. It was just thirty minutes spent debating the wrong people. If a special interest wants the US Congress to pass a certain bill, they lobby a congressman, not their local sheriff.

    I stayed on the sidelines. I’m a better man for it.

  • But seriously.

    Here’s another great question facing humanity in the 21st century… how often should we eat? Is it better to pig out at breakfast and lunch, then moderate you dinner; or, is it better to eat a whole bunch of little meals – aka: nibbling. Does it make any difference? What if you can’t stand going that long between meals? If I eat breakfast before I leave for work, I’m starving at 9 a.m. I can’t even get a Big Mac a 9 a.m. What is that you’re saying, my problem isn’t how often I eat, so much as how often I eat Big Macs? Point well taken.

    There’s a little baggy of colored gold fish with my name on it. Excuse me.

  • Twin mistresses of Cheryl’s psyche.

    One day Cheryl will read this entry and get angry. There are several, sure fire means of procuring an invitation to sleep on our old bed in the spare room (I knew it was a good idea to keep a spare, king sized bed). This entry may well become an example of one.

    Somewhere, there is a fine line between good old fashioned cleanliness, and obsession/compulsion. Poor Cheryl is nowhere near that line. She suffers from something that has been passed down from her father’s side of the family: the need to clean. Victims of this rare, inherited condition are some of the cleanest people on the planet. They have a kind of sixth sense. Seemingly from miles away, they can sense the moment foreign substances soil any exposed surface in their homes. It is a sight to behold. Cheryl will sometimes wake from a dead sleep, swoop into the family room with paper towels in hand like some kind of crazed Mrs. Clean, and sweep the crumbs from the lap of our unsuspecting daughter.

    One day there will be a cure. Until then she’s got me to balance her out; the yin to her yang, the laissez- faire to her policy of strict intervention, the slob to her Mrs. Clean. Who says you can’t use the same towel for more than two weeks anyway?

    Cheryl is reading over my shoulder. She’s getting hives just thinking about it. The smell. The germs. The mold. The mildew. Her husband.