Many people have equated managing IT people to herding cats. That's catchy, but a more accurate phrase for exercising futile leadership over mass chaos is "coaching soccer for primary-school age girls." I have never actually herded cats, but I have managed IT people and I have coached young girls in soccer. Managing IT people is significantly easier.
I've never coached young boys, but coaching young girls in soccer is an act of humility and awkwardness. First of all, you're standing in an open field, a 30- or 40-something male with girls half your height and one quarter your age littered around you. Wearing your city-league logo'ed coach's shirt is imperative so that you're not confused with a deviant predator who has one eye peeled for Chris Hanson and his Dateline film crew. I call it my "I'm Not a Predator" shirt which gives me societal approval to hang around with young girls not related to me.
Second of all, prepare to be ignored. I could be offering free candy like a Dateline fugitive and they'd still quibble with your request to perform a drill, assuming they heard you at all. "Do we have to?" "Why would we do that?" "Can I be goalie?" This is a passing drill with no goalie. "Can I be goalie?" Any nanosecond of inactivity in a drill and you lose their attention to chit-chat or grass-picking. Young girls soccer is the scourge of grass activists.
As a result, my favorite part of coaching girls' soccer was the games. I can now better appreciate NBA star Allan Iverson's infamous rebuttal to the media when asked why he skipped a practice, "Practice? We talkin' 'bout practice!" The game is the thing. Right on, Allan.
Games were simple. You assign positions, rotate every 5 minutes, and yell if they go in the wrong direction. Unlike practice, the game provides the built-in structure that keeps them from picking grass (for the most part). Even a soccer dimwit like myself can coach a game and utter safe bromides like, "Pass!" and "Our goal is THAT way!" With coaches yelling and all of the parents shouting all the girls heard anyway was, "BLAHHHHHHHHHHH!" as if someone had given the adult voice in the Peanuts TV specials a bullhorn. Eventually some enterprising girl with determination and persistence, the key attributes for soccer success at that age rather than ability, would break free and score. At those age levels we weren't supposed to keep score, so of course everyone kept score.
I gave up coaching when it became apparent that the quality of practices was becoming much more important to the girls' development. When my daughter graduated to traveling soccer (St. Michael during rush hour? Really?) and the ratio of practices to games went from 1:10 to 3:1, my complete lack of soccer knowledge and I bid adieu to the coaching ranks. I will return to my comfort zone of herding cats at the office.
Monday, November 22, 2010
William, Kate, and Getting Jenna Out of the House By Age 35
Once again the world is agog with fresh news about Prince William and Kate and the royal family. Generally I look upon the British monarchy with detached bemusement. I don't get too worked up about them one way or the other, and if the English and most of the western world want to go bananas over them that's fine as long as they have no real political power.
But as I assess their potential impact on my daughter I'll need to engage in some mass stereotyping AND armchair sociology here which should be fun for all and dangerous for some. I know the Cinderella theme is alive and well in most women across the world. The belief that, no matter my background, deep inside I'm special...I'm royalty -- and it's only a matter of time before I'm discovered and then my dreams will come true. Guys have this too but it's more along the lines of "it's only a matter of time before an NBA scout sees the talent inside me and signs me to a contract." Heave another 3 pointer at the driveway hoop. Clang.
I feel bad for poor Kate Middleton, although she opted in for this, unlike William and Harry who were born into the frenzy. Sure, you get to be Princess and someday Queen, assuming the current queen ever decides to call it a reign. You get to live in a big-ass house and you get footmen named Nigel and Clive to iron your clothes and fetch a pint. You get to attend fancy balls where you'll smile pretty for the cameras and shake hands with the Agricultural Minister of Upper Bushwackistan. You can forget worrying that your 401k is underfunded. You can walk into your health club and have the following conversation with your fellow exercisers: "That's right ladies, it's the friggin' Princess. Now make way while I work on the Royal Abs." That is, assuming you ever go out in public again like a normal person.
On the downside, you are now the most scrutinized woman in the world. You step outside, you make the evening news. You change clothes, you make headlines. Vegas bookmakers now have you as the new favorite to surpass Jennifer Aniston as the US Weekly cover photo career titleholder, and this with Ms. Aniston currently holding a 2,214 cover lead. God forbid you step outside with a wedgie, because 30 seconds later some rain farmer in Bangladesh who's standing in 2 feet of water will look at your picture on his iPhone and mutter, "That skirt is all wrong for her."
Now that I have a daughter I'm worried that I need to pay more attention to the William and Kate franchise and what it means for young girls everywhere, or at least mine. Amid all of the hullabaloo lurks the human existence-old theme that a woman's most important career goal is to marry well. Just when you think you've nearly killed off that old patriarchal axiom here come the Windsors and People Magazine to pull out the paddles and yell, "Clear!" in 72 point font.
Jenna grew up smack dab in the middle of the Disney Princess marketing machine and we've got the DVDs and the costume dresses to prove it. Really, it's no different than boys putting on a Favre jersey and one day hoping to grow up and throw interceptions for a living. But will the relentless media hype about the royals subconsciously influence my daughter's relationship and career behavior? When she is finally of marrying age, will all of this lead to Jenna holding out for Prince Charming to come along? If this means she doesn't move out of the house until Mr. Unrealistically Perfect comes along then we're going to have a problem. Will I have to be the realist that pushes her toward the good-enough local candidate? Is this where "settling" comes from? "Jenna, what's wrong with good ol' Chester here? He's got a good job, he's never been to prison, and he has most of his fingers. Plus, I want to convert your room into a sauna."
William and Kate, I'll be keeping my eye on you. Along with 2 billion other people.
But as I assess their potential impact on my daughter I'll need to engage in some mass stereotyping AND armchair sociology here which should be fun for all and dangerous for some. I know the Cinderella theme is alive and well in most women across the world. The belief that, no matter my background, deep inside I'm special...I'm royalty -- and it's only a matter of time before I'm discovered and then my dreams will come true. Guys have this too but it's more along the lines of "it's only a matter of time before an NBA scout sees the talent inside me and signs me to a contract." Heave another 3 pointer at the driveway hoop. Clang.
I feel bad for poor Kate Middleton, although she opted in for this, unlike William and Harry who were born into the frenzy. Sure, you get to be Princess and someday Queen, assuming the current queen ever decides to call it a reign. You get to live in a big-ass house and you get footmen named Nigel and Clive to iron your clothes and fetch a pint. You get to attend fancy balls where you'll smile pretty for the cameras and shake hands with the Agricultural Minister of Upper Bushwackistan. You can forget worrying that your 401k is underfunded. You can walk into your health club and have the following conversation with your fellow exercisers: "That's right ladies, it's the friggin' Princess. Now make way while I work on the Royal Abs." That is, assuming you ever go out in public again like a normal person.
On the downside, you are now the most scrutinized woman in the world. You step outside, you make the evening news. You change clothes, you make headlines. Vegas bookmakers now have you as the new favorite to surpass Jennifer Aniston as the US Weekly cover photo career titleholder, and this with Ms. Aniston currently holding a 2,214 cover lead. God forbid you step outside with a wedgie, because 30 seconds later some rain farmer in Bangladesh who's standing in 2 feet of water will look at your picture on his iPhone and mutter, "That skirt is all wrong for her."
Now that I have a daughter I'm worried that I need to pay more attention to the William and Kate franchise and what it means for young girls everywhere, or at least mine. Amid all of the hullabaloo lurks the human existence-old theme that a woman's most important career goal is to marry well. Just when you think you've nearly killed off that old patriarchal axiom here come the Windsors and People Magazine to pull out the paddles and yell, "Clear!" in 72 point font.
Jenna grew up smack dab in the middle of the Disney Princess marketing machine and we've got the DVDs and the costume dresses to prove it. Really, it's no different than boys putting on a Favre jersey and one day hoping to grow up and throw interceptions for a living. But will the relentless media hype about the royals subconsciously influence my daughter's relationship and career behavior? When she is finally of marrying age, will all of this lead to Jenna holding out for Prince Charming to come along? If this means she doesn't move out of the house until Mr. Unrealistically Perfect comes along then we're going to have a problem. Will I have to be the realist that pushes her toward the good-enough local candidate? Is this where "settling" comes from? "Jenna, what's wrong with good ol' Chester here? He's got a good job, he's never been to prison, and he has most of his fingers. Plus, I want to convert your room into a sauna."
William and Kate, I'll be keeping my eye on you. Along with 2 billion other people.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Apocalypse of Boredom
I've been to diversity training. Multiple times. I sit through day-long meetings frequently. I survived 8th grade geography with "Borin'" Gaughran. I've been to the middle of North Dakota. But on the boredom scale all of those pale in comparison to the week I spent in traction a week before my 13th birthday.
That would be the summer of '82. I had my first real job: a paper route so I could save money for a Panasonic boombox. Little League was in full swing, so to speak. At the end of that June, near the conclusion of a week of confirmation camp for my church that was dominated more by hormones and puberty than the bible, I felt a twinge in my hip. To make a long blog short, within days my hip was in excruciating pain, my spine was curved, I could barely move, and the doctor prescribed traction in the hospital. This was the initial onset of my rheumatoid arthritis, except the doctors didn't know that yet but that story is for another day.
For those who don't know what traction is, think of it as an HMO-approved torture device. You lie on your back and they attach weights to booties which go on your feet. It's not a heavy weight, so the real pain is that you can't move. For days. The doctors couldn't tell if my hip was screwing up my back or vice versa, so I think they flipped a coin and it came up "back."
So let's review the bidding: it's the summer of '82. No internet. No iPods. Walkmans existed but I didn't have one. Cable TV existed but it was not ubiquitous in institutional settings. So what electronic entertainment did I have? Channels 2, 4, 5, 9, and 11. That, and books. Even the utter boredom of the hospital couldn't drive me to watch soap operas, and I was well past Sesame Street age for channel 2, so that left time-tested reruns on local channel 9. I watched more Laverne and Shirley that week than I care to discuss. Squiggy, c'mon man. Daytime TV still gives me the willies and is the best thing for getting me back in the office when I'm ill.
Imagine being on your back for a week with almost nothing to do. Diversity training starts to look good about now, right? It's not like my hospital room cohabitants were providing any witty repartee. The first kid had given himself 3rd degree burns trying to clean his matchbox cars with gasoline and, apparently, an open flame. He wasn't horribly disfigured so I can now get away with saying he was probably my first encounter with a future Darwin Award winner. And I don't think his folks got Parents of the Year that year, either. Just guessin.' The second kid had some kind of fetal-position-inducing (in me) procedure done on his (little) man region that his dad had to explain in a serious monotone. That kid never said much of anything, nor would I if I thought opening my mouth might have invited inquiries into my predicament.
There were only two episodes of notable excitement that week. The first was when they wheeled me downstairs for something called an arthrogram. ("Ooooh! I'm getting out of the room!") A medical textbook will tell you that an arthrogram is a procedure where a physician can look inside a joint with an inserted camera. I will tell you that it is an ordeal where the doctor sticks three giant needles right into your hip and digs around like he's looking for his Audi keys. For 30 minutes. Without anesthetic. "Maybe I left them here. Or here. Or here." I still consider that more painful than any of the kidney stones I've had. (I'm a medical marvel, ain't I?)
The second incident of note was the day when a nurse burst in and declared loud enough to be heard all the way in Hopkins, "Mr. Carl, we note that you haven't had a bowel movement in several days. I'll need to give you this suppository." At the tender age of nearly-13 I was wise enough to know where a suppository ends up. Right at that moment I needed an Ed McMahon-type sidekick to provide a "Heyyyy-ohhhhhh!" I announced confidently that I could produce some war materiel right then and there (ok, I didn't use that phrase at the time but it fits), shucked the traction booties in nanoseconds, hobbled to the bathroom before the nurse could offer a rebuttal, and set to work like my life depended on it. Which, at that age, it seemed like it did since dying of embarrassment is a real pre-teen affliction. Fortunately my intestinal tract came through for me.
Other than those heart-stopping moments it was an endless cycle of cheesy re-runs, staring out the window at summer going by, reading books ("The Bourne Identity" was one, then I had to wait 20 years for the movie), and hospital food. I remember my mom gamely trying to raise my spirits before arriving at the hospital by telling me that hospital food was great and they let you pick what you want from a menu! I later learned what every adult knew: everything tasted the same regardless of what color it was. Nice try, though, Mom.
After exactly one week to the minute from my arrival I was discharged from the Big House in a wheelchair. I bid farewell to Nurse Suppository and Gasoline Boy and Unspeakable Procedure Boy and 3-Needles of Death Doctor and Laverne and Shirley and Lenny and Squiggy and an electrically adjustable bed that gets much less interesting after 30 minutes, much less 7 days. Now when I'm stuck doing something horrifically dull I can look back with a smirk and think, "Dull? I set the bar on dull pretty high back in the day. You young'uns haven't even seen dull."
That would be the summer of '82. I had my first real job: a paper route so I could save money for a Panasonic boombox. Little League was in full swing, so to speak. At the end of that June, near the conclusion of a week of confirmation camp for my church that was dominated more by hormones and puberty than the bible, I felt a twinge in my hip. To make a long blog short, within days my hip was in excruciating pain, my spine was curved, I could barely move, and the doctor prescribed traction in the hospital. This was the initial onset of my rheumatoid arthritis, except the doctors didn't know that yet but that story is for another day.
For those who don't know what traction is, think of it as an HMO-approved torture device. You lie on your back and they attach weights to booties which go on your feet. It's not a heavy weight, so the real pain is that you can't move. For days. The doctors couldn't tell if my hip was screwing up my back or vice versa, so I think they flipped a coin and it came up "back."
So let's review the bidding: it's the summer of '82. No internet. No iPods. Walkmans existed but I didn't have one. Cable TV existed but it was not ubiquitous in institutional settings. So what electronic entertainment did I have? Channels 2, 4, 5, 9, and 11. That, and books. Even the utter boredom of the hospital couldn't drive me to watch soap operas, and I was well past Sesame Street age for channel 2, so that left time-tested reruns on local channel 9. I watched more Laverne and Shirley that week than I care to discuss. Squiggy, c'mon man. Daytime TV still gives me the willies and is the best thing for getting me back in the office when I'm ill.
Imagine being on your back for a week with almost nothing to do. Diversity training starts to look good about now, right? It's not like my hospital room cohabitants were providing any witty repartee. The first kid had given himself 3rd degree burns trying to clean his matchbox cars with gasoline and, apparently, an open flame. He wasn't horribly disfigured so I can now get away with saying he was probably my first encounter with a future Darwin Award winner. And I don't think his folks got Parents of the Year that year, either. Just guessin.' The second kid had some kind of fetal-position-inducing (in me) procedure done on his (little) man region that his dad had to explain in a serious monotone. That kid never said much of anything, nor would I if I thought opening my mouth might have invited inquiries into my predicament.
There were only two episodes of notable excitement that week. The first was when they wheeled me downstairs for something called an arthrogram. ("Ooooh! I'm getting out of the room!") A medical textbook will tell you that an arthrogram is a procedure where a physician can look inside a joint with an inserted camera. I will tell you that it is an ordeal where the doctor sticks three giant needles right into your hip and digs around like he's looking for his Audi keys. For 30 minutes. Without anesthetic. "Maybe I left them here. Or here. Or here." I still consider that more painful than any of the kidney stones I've had. (I'm a medical marvel, ain't I?)
The second incident of note was the day when a nurse burst in and declared loud enough to be heard all the way in Hopkins, "Mr. Carl, we note that you haven't had a bowel movement in several days. I'll need to give you this suppository." At the tender age of nearly-13 I was wise enough to know where a suppository ends up. Right at that moment I needed an Ed McMahon-type sidekick to provide a "Heyyyy-ohhhhhh!" I announced confidently that I could produce some war materiel right then and there (ok, I didn't use that phrase at the time but it fits), shucked the traction booties in nanoseconds, hobbled to the bathroom before the nurse could offer a rebuttal, and set to work like my life depended on it. Which, at that age, it seemed like it did since dying of embarrassment is a real pre-teen affliction. Fortunately my intestinal tract came through for me.
Other than those heart-stopping moments it was an endless cycle of cheesy re-runs, staring out the window at summer going by, reading books ("The Bourne Identity" was one, then I had to wait 20 years for the movie), and hospital food. I remember my mom gamely trying to raise my spirits before arriving at the hospital by telling me that hospital food was great and they let you pick what you want from a menu! I later learned what every adult knew: everything tasted the same regardless of what color it was. Nice try, though, Mom.
After exactly one week to the minute from my arrival I was discharged from the Big House in a wheelchair. I bid farewell to Nurse Suppository and Gasoline Boy and Unspeakable Procedure Boy and 3-Needles of Death Doctor and Laverne and Shirley and Lenny and Squiggy and an electrically adjustable bed that gets much less interesting after 30 minutes, much less 7 days. Now when I'm stuck doing something horrifically dull I can look back with a smirk and think, "Dull? I set the bar on dull pretty high back in the day. You young'uns haven't even seen dull."
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Blogtacular Blogtacular
Does the world need another blog? No. Does the world need another vanity-satisfying soapbox for an insufferable wise-ass? Certainly not. But I may need these things. I have always had a creative writing bent that I have needed to funnel through brief Facebook posts, absurd out-of-office messages, and unusual spins on dry topics at the office. I prefer complete sentences so I'm not going to Twitter. So I'm going to try this.
My topics will likely center around "corporate suburban dad observing life, job, family, sports, and pop culture." That should cover just about anything as I have a tendency in my life to keep my career options open. It would be nice if a couple people read this as I prefer to write for an audience, even if it's an audience of one.
If no one cares about this then my backup plan is to use this as a compendium of drivel for Jenna to analyze for some sort of family analysis retrospective for a college sociology assignment, where her concluding statement will inevitably be, "I got 50% of my genes from this dufus?"
Please keep in mind that "creative writing bent" does not equal "artistic style." It may be a while before this site is distinguishable from what goes in Josie's dog dish.
And we're off...
My topics will likely center around "corporate suburban dad observing life, job, family, sports, and pop culture." That should cover just about anything as I have a tendency in my life to keep my career options open. It would be nice if a couple people read this as I prefer to write for an audience, even if it's an audience of one.
If no one cares about this then my backup plan is to use this as a compendium of drivel for Jenna to analyze for some sort of family analysis retrospective for a college sociology assignment, where her concluding statement will inevitably be, "I got 50% of my genes from this dufus?"
Please keep in mind that "creative writing bent" does not equal "artistic style." It may be a while before this site is distinguishable from what goes in Josie's dog dish.
And we're off...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)