On Meaning, Again

When you are looking for meaning, where do you look? It seems to me the answer to that question is as telling as the answer to the meaning of life.

More reasons to abandon the office

I love this site: Overheard in the Office. It's offers many examples of why you should abandon corporate hell. Topping the list: to preserve your sanity.

Some favorite tidbits:

10AM Go Over Resumes

Recruiter: So, what do you think of her qualifications?
Manager: Well, her experience looks great. I'm just not sure what a degree in English has to do with writing?

Naval Air Station North Island
San Diego, California
Overheard by: Teresa Minnich

Hahahaha. Good question. In corporate America? Very little, apparently.

11AM Staff Meeting

Manager: ...And this paper has a timeline for the changes that will benefit you in the coming months.
Employee: So this is kindling for the smoke you're blowing up our asses?

1005 17th Street
Denver, Colorado

There's a good lesson in this one: any time your company rolls out a "benefit," you'd better check for your wallet. Chances are, the "benefit" won't benefit you, but them.

On Blogging and Meaning

I'm still reading Hugh though he's on a rather tiresome tangent about link begging. He quotes Seth Godin about no one reading your blog unless there's something in it for them. I care not about linking and blogrolling and blah, blah, blog. Not now, anyway. Not for this blog. Maybe next year, I'll care. Today I'm just blogging. For me, number five on the Top Ten Blogger Lies is true. But I'm not only too sexy to care about blog money, I'm too freaking busy writing for real money. The kind of money that pays my mortgage. I'm not prepared to devote even a minute to begging for a few Adsense pennies. I'd rather walk the beach than figure out how to drive traffic here. Seems to me the payoff is bigger for walking the beach.

I don't advertise or sell advertising here. I only comment other bloggers when what they say speaks to me. Does that make me a bad blogger? Probably. It depends on your point of view. Will I ever be an A-lister? I'm not even sure what that means or who exactly they are, so probably not. I like Hugh's blog because of his cartoons and because he's smart and funny most of the time. And though I could give a shit about tailoring or the effect of blogging on Stormhoek sales (yawn²), Hugh hits it on the head when he talks about meaning.

Meaning. Yeah, Hugh.

I like Seth Godin, too, even though he can't (or doesn't) draw cartoons. He's also smart. He can also be funny. I've read most of his books and liked them. I think Permission is cool. I think being remarkable is cool and a lot harder than it sounds.

I also like BoingBoing for totally different reasons. According to Technorati, a site that supposedly keeps track of the "blogosphere," Boing Boing is #1. I've never left a comment there nor asked for a link to little old me. While the site makes me chuckle, I haven't read anything there that speaks to me enough that I would leave a comment.

So, what's in it for me to link to them in a post or two? Nothing. I like their work. I have no traffic, so there's not much in it for them, either. Sorry 'bout that fellas. (Don't worry: I doubt they're losing much sleep over it.)

I think I might have about four readers now. So, what's in it for them? I haven't the faintest idea. Maybe if you know one of them, you could ask them for me. What's in it for me? I am conversing, mostly with myself, about the nature of work and how it affects our nature. What's in it for me is that I want to understand. Why is it that what we do and how and where and why and with whom we work is important? I grew up in a trailer park. I've worked since I was ten. I never paid attention. I just worked. Took whatever money they would give me and went home to soak my feet or my ego. The former in cool water, the latter in alcohol. I washed dishes. I waited tables. I cooked. I tended bar. I cleaned hotel rooms. I was production manager at a dinner theater. I was a cashier at at a bookstore, donut shop, gift shop. I tended bar. I wrote music reviews for pennies. I waited tables again. I was a stand-up comic. I tended bar again. I didn't question what I did or why or why I let my managers abuse me. Meaning? How's this for meaning? The fucking rent's due.

After 33 years of just doing work, I want to understand work. And my friends are pretty damned tired of listening to me talk about it. So I'm blogging it. I thought that's what blogging was supposed to be. I didn't know I was supposed to be out there commenting for traffic and link begging and trying to get invited to speak at conferences. Who has time for that? I'll write, thanks. Even if I could, I have no desire to drag my ass across half the planet to be a star of the blogosphere - a place that doesn't even exist. Stand-up cured me of that kind of thinking.

So, the stars can go and maybe I'll read the A-listers' reviews of the conferences. But I doubt it. I just don't care that much about blogging as a topic. Or about the social web or most of the other "thing in itself" topics. They don't hold any meaning for me. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.

In the inimitable words of Doug Horton: Search for meaning, eat, sleep. Search for meaning, eat, sleep. Die, search for meaning, search for meaning, search for meaning.

So maybe if you end up here, you'll find something that speaks to you.
Maybe you'll find "something in it" for you.
Maybe not.
Either way, I'm good.

On working at home

I start early.
Break for a smoothie.
Exercise for an hour.
Do a little housework to cool down.
Shower.
Eat.
Work some more.
Break for a beach walk or do some blog reading* or writing.
Work a little more.
Finish early.
Then it's Miller Time. (Literally -- I drink Miller Lite.)

*More on this in the next post.

The Last Day

Today's the last day at my wage slave job. The last day I answer the alarm clock as a matter of routine. The last day I punch a timeclock. The last day I have to deal with the Demon they installed in HR last year. The last day my email will be spied on...errr, well, I take that back: there's still the government. It's the last day for pretending we're doing something important, for pretending I like people for whom I have no respect or any kind of affection whatsoever.

It's the last day.

It will also be the last time I'll see many of my coworkers. You say you'll keep in touch, but with most of them, you never do. Some of them I don't want to. I know I'll keep in touch with one person, maybe two. I'll miss some of them. It's okay. Life is fluid that way.

I don't have any mixed feelings. I know what I'm doing is right for me and for the company. I'm not happy there and I don't enjoy my work anymore. And since I'm not happy at my work, they'll be better off with someone who will be.

I have come so far from what I wanted to be. Today marks the start of starting over from that point. I'm proud of what I accomplished there, but I'm ready to begin again. I'm ready to make my way back.

I want to be what I was when I wanted to be what I am now.
--Ray Prince

Two Weeks Notice is Too Long

Two weeks is too long. I'm almost through the first, but there's really no reason to go back for the second. In fact, I think it will be harmful, but the company shows no signs of wanting to let me go early. Besides being on the outside now, so much so that four people turned me down when I was looking for a lunch partner yesterday, I'm also pretty useless. I've wrapped up my duties. My staff is self-driven. They don't need me to get their work done. And watching their long faces is awful.

They are all experts. All top drawer. They're used to working independently and relying on me only for the resources they need. I give them projects, not orders. I don't check on every detail every day and I don't necessarily care about the path they take to get to the end result. That's why I hired experts; I don't have time to manage those details. I don't want to. I don't have time. And it's boring. It also makes people feel shitty about themselves. I know what that feels like. It's my job to stay out of their way so they can do what they know how to do.

Their faces are worried because I am virtually the only manager in the company who operates that way. It's a culture of micro-managers who insist on being CC'd on every single piece of communication and knowing every detail of every minute of every day of every employee. (I am not exagerating. I have been called onto the carpet many times for neglecting to CC managers on the most trivial requests.) It boggles the mind. It's hard to do anything remarkable when you're busy counting butt-in-chair hours and reading every piece of communication for every single one of your staffers. It's exhausting. Just thinking about it makes me want a nap.

So, this staff, this team of true experts that I built from nothing three-and-a-half years ago, they know they are pretty much doomed.

If they stay.

Not one of them has to. Any one of them could go out and get a better job at higher pay. It will be interesting to see who overcomes their fear or inertia or both. If I've taught them well, they will all go within the year. If not, they'll stay and toe the line, joining the ranks of the Living Dead.

I'll be hawking my Inbox - hoping to see pleas for letters of recommendation. Of course, I'll write them gleefully.

How to Quit Your Job

I quit my job on Tuesday. It wasn't hard. I just typed up a nice letter, went into my boss' office and quit. Bye. See ya. Later.

I didn't recount the company's sins, of which there are many, the most agregious of which is an absolute terror of and stubborn resistance to change. (Scott Hamtpon's post is dead-on accurate.)

No, I didn't tell them all the things they do wrong and all the ways in which I felt they had wronged me as a person and an employee. I didn't tell them that struggling against the company's inertia day after interminable day had sucked the life out of me. I didn't tell them that not being trusted made me feel like shit. I didn't tell them all the things they need to know because it wouldn't change anything. I would have only hurt myself in the process. I mean, I don't want to work at their company anymore, but I'm a freelancer now: work is work. They use freelance writers. Maybe, when they forgive me for putting them through a (gasp!) change, they'll send some work my way. If not, I still win and here's why:

My resignation went like a stereotypical breakup: "It's not you, it's me." Their worldview stays intact and we part shaking hands and smiling. Sure, it's a lot less satisfying than some of the fantasies I've had for several months, all running to the soundtrack of Johnny Paycheck, but it's more dignified and in the long run, I'll feel better about myself for taking the high road out of there. It's been a long time since I felt good about myself at work. That alone is worth it.

So, if you're going to quit (an activity I strongly recommend), do it professionally. No matter how bad they've treated you, insulted you, horrified you, held you back and made you feel worthless, don't sink to that level. If you're going, look forward, not back and just go.

Just go.

What's my label?

I did receive a bonus yesterday. It was insulting. I didn't push it back at them like my coworker did. It wasn't that insulting. Besides, I'm giving my notice on Tuesday and let's face it, I need the money. All the money. Every bit of money I can get. I have about three months of freelancing gigs booked. Probably more even than I can handle until March. But then what?

How did it happen that I have so much work that I have to choose now between being a wage slave and being a writer? I never made a portfolio. I never needed one. I wrote for one person, she told another, he told another and before I knew it, I had clients.

Now I'll have to market myself and I'm trying to figure out what my label will look like. The product has always spoken for itself. I don't know how to package me. I don't even have a business card. I think I have some thinking to do.

More on Meaning; More from Hugh

More on Meaning from Hugh at Gaping Void.

I've been thinking about meaning. I've been thinking mostly about why we think we should find meaning in our work. Isn't a job just a job? Does it really matter what we do for the crumbs that fall off the master's table? The argument I hear most often is, "Do you think people who are hungry and homeless search for meaning in their work? Any of them would kill for your job."

True.

My job is pretty cushy...as long as I'm willing to punch a clock (I'm salaried) yet respond to every after hours emergency. As long as I keep my butt in chair for at least nine hours a day. As long as I never, ever even speak negatively about the company's sacred cows, which are incidentally sucking the life out of it. As long as I'm willing to suffer every little abuse and indignity and slight like having my phone calls and internet activity monitored and reported on every month. As long as it doesn't bother me to justify the number of times I have to go to the bathroom every day (I drink a lot of water.) As long as it doesn't humiliate me to be forced to report every medication I'm on to management because I might be random drug tested and can be fired if they find I'm on something they don't know about. As long as I'm willing to forget that I spend one third of my life there and make it just a job. Go in and do my time and get the check. Do your job. Shut up. Don't care. Don't speak up. Don't make waves. Work harder not smarter. Etc. ad nauseum. Then, sure, who cares about meaning if you can do that?

But who can do that?

It's sucking the life out of me.

Because I'm not in survival mode, meaning counts. Being treated like an adult counts. Being able to contribute and make things happen counts. Looking at my work at the end of the day and knowing it's good, that it's very good counts. It counts. Meaning counts.

Thanks, Hugh.

Crumbs from the table

Year-end bonuses hold a lot of promise. Especially when you've been led to believe told in no uncertain terms that your bonus will be enough to compensate for the denial of a wage increase.

Yesterday a coworker of mine received her bonus. She had been told all year that the bonus would make up for the 1.5x work she'd been asked to do all year without raise. When she found out the dollar amount, she was insulted. She refused the bonus. You gotta hand it to her; she has courage.

For the rest of the afternoon she was alternately in her boss' office, the HR director's office and the bathroom where she cried out of sight. She'll probably be fired over this, but she doesn't care. In her words, "I can't afford to work here anymore."

Amen.

When you are disciplined for not being wag-your-tail happy to lap at the crumbs the company drops over the table, you're at the wrong company.

My bonus? Well, I made $12 million for the company this year and I got nothing so far. Maybe today? I don't know. It doesn't really matter anymore.

My husband and I were talking last night about my plans to quit and the misery of these last days and weeks. He asked me, "What if they gave you a $20,000 bonus?"

After I stopped laughing, I replied, "It makes no difference. I'm leaving."

He laughed and grabbed me. Said he loved me.

I know he's scared. I'm scared, too.

But it's a good kind of scared. Very good.

Hugh Macloud at Gaping Void Reminds Us that Meaning Scales

I read Hugh daily. His little drawings on the backs of business cards crack me up and I think he's pretty smart about living and working and seeking out that which inspires your passion. Yesterday, he recounted 2005 and with it one my favorite posts, excerpted here:

"Meaning Scales."

As Buddha says, there is no one road to Nirvana. Enlightenment is a house with 6 billion doors. While we're alive, we intend not to find THE DOOR, not A DOOR, but to find OUR OWN, UNIQUE DOOR.

And we're willing to pay for the privelege. We're willing to give up money and time and power and sex and status and certainty and comfort in order to find it.

And guess what? It'll be a great door. It'll add to this life. It'll resonate. Not just with us, but with everybody it comes in contact with. The door will useful and productive. Alive and kicking. It'll create wealth and laughter and joy. It'll pull its own weight, it'll give back to others. It'll be centered on compassion, but will be intolerant of dullards, parasites and cynics.

It may be modest, it may not. It could be a little candle shop; it could be a software company with the GNP of Sweden. It could involve politics or working with the elderly. It could be starting a design studio or opening a bar with Cousin Mike. It could be a screenplay, oil paints, or discovering the violin. It doesn't matter. Meaning Scales.

I'm starting to get that my job is my real life. I'm starting to get that working so hard to keep them separate, to tell myself, This isn't important, this is just what I do for money is why I am often cranky and depressed and feeling old before my time. I finally get that I feel this way because I am split in two.

What I do to make money does not give anything of value back to me; my job only takes. It's just a job. I was told I was hired to be the expert, but in the end, I am required only to follow orders only without talking back. I am required only to buy into what has already been decided. I am not allowed to give anything of myself to my work and so it gives nothing back to me. It's just a job. It's clothed prostitution. Sure, it's safer and slightly less humiliating, but most days I think I might as well be on my back as at a desk.

There is no meaning, only money.

Thus at the end of the day or the week, there is nothing left in me for the "other" Me, Creative Me. The Me who has three novels running parallel inside my head at any given moment whimpers, barely heard as background noise, while Wage Slave Me just tries to recharge enough to get up on Monday and get sucked dry all over again.

What do I intend to do about it?

Quit my job.

Drop my rock.

Find my door.