Tag Archives: Angry

May21

Advanced Studies in Masochism

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Today marks my triumphant return to the blog, angrier than ever because of the way I spent my day yesterday.  In my industry, like many others, I am required to maintain my licensure through periodic classes good for continuing education credits.   Typically these classes are taught by benign souls, slightly beaten down by a combination or life’s toil and the accumulated years of no one paying attention to them.  Because of my vocation as someone who presents for a living, I usually try to pay due attention to anyone who is trying to share something with me that might be of value.  (Instructors…flight attendants…servers in restaurants sharing the specials…)  That, and the fact that I’m a people pleaser and I want everyone’s approval.

Today, even my limits were officially reached when I encountered the most disagreeable instructor I have ever come across in my decades in the workforce and as a student.  This unique combination of Archie Bunker, a can of Red Bull and a gallon and a half of rancid vinegar, proceeded to alienate and generally insult most everyone in the room during our 8 hour class.

During this time, he committed the following acts of educational barbarism:

  • Opening the class with a 20 minute lecture on punctuality and the paperwork requirements needed to get the credit for the class.  Which, in theory, is fine, but ultimately caused us to delay the class content by 20 minutes as he scolded humanity as a whole, on its perceived inability to follow instructions.
  • Intermittent shouting at the class in a snide and insulting tone of voice.
  • Imprecise (at best) and downright incorrect (at worst) facts about the subject matter.  And when these mistakes were pointed out by savvy members of the class, no acknowledgement of said mistake.  Only a plowing over the unimportance of the issue with a loud, “Right,” and then going on to claim the corrected fact as his opinion all along.
  • Rambling examples and stories on subjects not directly related to the class content, but subjects which the instructor felt were more important.
  • Direct challenging of class attendees as they shared personal experiences relevant to the discussion.  PERSONAL experiences, which can’t be refuted by someone who didn’t observe these experiences.  Unless you’re our instructor, who apparently knows and sees all.  Kinda like an evil deity or patron anti-saint of the mundane.
  • Throughout every topic, he would periodically punctuate the lecture with, “DOES EVERYONE UNDERSTAND THAT?”  in a loud outburst that caused more than one of us get a little jumpy by the end of the day.
  • Overindulging the occasional stupid question that led the discussion even more astray.   No ability, or even much interest, in keeping the class on track and under control.
  • Periodic raging on subjects he felt strongly against, including:
    • The government
    • The president
    • The IRS
    • His local water authority
    • The hotel staff where the class was held
    • Teachers
    • Section 8 housing
    • Poor people in general
    • Late arrivals (see bullet point 1)
    • Snoopy
    • The Biggest Loser
    • Elder care attorneys
    • Corporate marketers who work at his company
    • Technology

These rants would be put forth in a way that was neither diplomatic, nor particularly nice.  Obviously there was no concern about offending anyone.

And by the end of the day, while I learned that he had definite points of view on a range of issues (see above) he did seem to approve of a few select, albeit random, things:

    • Permanent life insurance
    • Tomato juice
    • Flexible spending accounts
    • Club soda
    • Roth IRAs
    • Shark Tank (TV show)
More irritating than all this, though, was a contingent of morons in the class who indulged this tyrant by apparently being interested in the divergent and irrelevant details that stood in place of the actual subject matter that was supposed to have been covered.  This coterie of idiots persisted in asking enough stupid questions that, by the end of the day, I do believe I hated these people almost as much as the instructor.   Didn’t they know we were here only to meet the minimum amount of effort required to ensure compliance with the regulations to qualify as “participation”?  Which amounts to, “Can you fog a mirror at the beginning and the end of the class?”  Few of these classes actually provide you with any information necessary to do your job.  It’s a formality, designed to show your company/clients/industry that you’re minimally qualified to set up and keep an appointment in your calendar.  I learn necessary and important things for my career on my own time.   And the fact that people were extending this collective hell because of an actual interest in understanding the un-understandable was vexing, to say the least.

Yesterday, I spent 8 hours reviewing the provisions of a Flexible Spending Account, many of which were questionably accurate.  Even if you read the entire section of the Internal Revenue Code relating to this subject, it would take less than 8 hours.  It’s all enough to send me to a sensory deprivation chamber, or at least some anger management sessions.

DOES EVERYONE UNDERSTAND THAT?!

 

Nov19

History Matters

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Gettysburg Address-Free

Image purchased from Announced Design

“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

 

Called everything from “dishwatery”, “silly remarks” to “one of the finest examples of English oratory”, the Gettysburg Address is commemorated today, at the 150th anniversary of its delivery.

The context:

The nation is embroiled in a long civil war, its citizens weary of the sacrifice and continued struggle.   The president, having been interested in addressing the significance of the war for some time, used the invitation to help dedicate a national cemetery at the Gettysburg battlefield to deliver his message. Until July, 1863, most of the war had been fought in the south.  Gettysburg represented the largest, northernmost battle and the bloodiest of the conflict, costing the combined armies approximately 50,000 casualties.   The Union victory represented a turning point in the war and by October, 1863, fighting again turned south and most of the reinterment of the battle dead was complete, thanks to local efforts to turn the battlefield into a national cemetery.

Total casualties since the beginning of the war:

Union    185,010
Confederacy 211,687

Consider that for a moment.  396,697 lives lost since fighting began on April 12, 1861.  By the end of the war in 1865, casualties would escalate to over 1,030,000 military and civilian deaths, representing 3% of the country’s population.

 

Why the history lesson, you ask?  Mainly because of that question and the connotation that it has.  “A History Lesson.”  To many that phrase implies an overly intellectual dissertation, filled with pomposity and needless detail, most of which doesn’t matter anymore.  Something to be avoided and possibly derided.

I, myself, always wondered why people find history boring.  Isn’t it simply a collection of life’s stories?  People get paid a lot of money to create works of fiction to read, watch and experience.  And yet the masses who flock to the latest blockbuster, will often eschew much of what is deemed historical.

As someone who cultivates an appreciation for the past, I sometimes worry for our future.  I’m afraid we’re evolving into a shallow and uncultured society, with little regard for art, music, history and the other social sciences.  And as someone who has no children, I fret that there’s little I can do to influence future generations by instilling that appreciation in someone.  Anyone.

I wish you, my friend, could experience the feeling I have when I read the speech printed above.  I read it and think about that place in time, what was happening, and the impact of those happenings on the future.  I think about a president beset by political, strategic and emotional difficulties, not to mention battling a form of small pox at the time.  I wonder how a time of such great and terrible events could produce such a lasting lesson for us all of the importance of our democracy and the place that idea holds in the history of the world.   And the simple power of those words makes me tear up every time I read it.

Some things are too important and need recognizing.  History matters.

A history lesson…?  Yes, please.  I’ll take two.

Jul13

The Travel Whore

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I travel a lot for work.  Yes, I’m one of those.  The Business Traveler.  Believe, me, I understand….most of us are insufferable.  Business travelers are like bitchy tweenage girls.  I submit the following, to be read in a petulant whine.

  • “Where’s my upgrade?!”
  • “What do you mean, the exit rows are full?”
  • “Um, excuse me, I’m Platinum and I get to board before the proletariat seated in steerage.”

OK, I’ve never actually heard that third one, but it’s a variation of what most are thinking.  Just to switch things up on the universe, I try not to be obnoxious when I’m on the road.  It’s a taxing time for the average person, rendering them apprehensive, grouchy and a bit confused.   Since this is my natural state anyway, and I have some experience, I figure, why not try and use my power for good and not piss off everyone around me.

In spite of this benevolence, I admit I do hold some travel prejudices and rules of thumb.

  1. Avoid layovers at ORD if you like your luggage.   And yes, you will ALWAYS have to walk through the neon tunnel because your connecting gate is NEVER nearby at that airport.  Or any airport.  Just get used to walking, my friend.
  2. Never spend a nickel on anything unless it gets you points or miles  (preferably both.)
  3. Small airports always seem to give you more hassle at security.  (Probably because they’re compensating for their smallness.)
  4. Prop planes are the mode of travel between the various circles of hell.
  5. I have a hierarchy of favorite seats on a plane.
  6. Always travel in business casual attire, at the least.  It gets you more respect and comes in handy if you travel through ORD.   (See 1.)

…and much more…

All this, I realize, makes me a Travel Snob — a term I coined when a colleague caught me bitching about a minor aspect of a recent trip.  Only he misremembered my clever term and recalled it later as The Travel Whore.  And thus, a nickname was born!

But affectionate pet names aside, that’s what we do when my colleagues and I come together — swap travel horror stories.  Like some kind of demented game of one-upmanship.    “Ewww…food poisoning on the red-eye from LA?!  Can’t top that, Bob*!”  [Hearty congratulations and back-slapping all around.]

 And one day, early in my travel career, I was the big winner.  The big, pathetic, winner, with this story…

I was traveling to the deep south, to a place where no direct flights flew for me.  I checked a bag, because I charmingly believed that it would accompany me on my trip, providing access to my clothes, toiletries, and other necessities.  Go figure.

As an aside, I know that most travel pros eschew checked luggage in favor of giant, overstuffed “carry ons” that must be wedged into the overhead with a crowbar.  Only for all our safety, no one can bring crow bars onto a plane anymore.  [Wistful sigh.]  So they push, shove and — more importantly — delay us all as they shoehorn their “carry on” into my overhead space.   I aspire to have a pleasant and quick boarding process, without any pulled muscles, so I check a bag.  Besides, it doesn’t cost me anything.  Cos I’m Preferred, bitches!

Anyways…my original aircraft apparently had a mechanical issue and luckily they had a spare lying around, so they switched out our plane.  Only the spare plane didn’t have the same number of seats, so they asked for volunteers to travel a bit later.  Feeling generous and slightly tempted by the treasures they were offering to re-book, I stepped up.  The new flight had a different connection, through a slightly smaller airport*.   When I inquired about my luggage, the gate agent assured me:

“Don’t worry, it will be there, waiting for you at your destination…”

[Imagine echoes as you read that because that’s what we call a foreshadowing in the literary world.  So they tell me.]

Having faith that all would be well, I set off to my new gate to wait for my new flight.  (I did mention that this was early in my travel career and therefore I didn’t have the life lessons I do now?)   Got on the first leg of my journey and arrived at the tiny connecting airport on time.  So far, so good.

So, I go from the Grown Up section of the airport, to the gate where my connecting flight is due to depart from, apparently the Kiddie Section.  Where all the cute little toy planes sit and wait to be played with – um — boarded.   Our flight is called and a gate agent marches us to the tarmac where we will all climb into our lawnmower with wings.  Except, we get word that we have to hold up, just as we are about to walk outside.   Another airport employee relays to the gate agent that we have to wait because the radar is out in the tower.

Let me repeat that.  THE RADAR.  IS OUT.  IN THE TOWER.

Apparently, the employee didn’t think that might be worrisome for the line of passengers to overhear.  The same apprehensive, grouchy and confused passengers who are looking at boarding a lawnmower with wings.  Luckily the gate agent realized the gravity of the message to the untrained ear, and was quick to reassure us:

“Don’t worry.  This happens all the time.”

Let me repeat that.   THIS. HAPPENS. ALL. THE. TIME.

Oh OK, I feel much better now, thanks.  Good news, though!  We didn’t have much time to let that sink in because, lo and behold!  Someone must’ve rapped on the side of it and the radar came back and we were cleared to board.  So, we all climbed aboard, got rearranged based on who ate too much that day  and off we flew!  Right into what looked like a really nasty storm.  An end-of-days kind of storm that looked like it was cooked up by Hollywood special effects geniuses.   Somehow, though, we managed to arrive safely at our destination.  Big kudos to that flight crew, flying a lawnmower with wings, with or without radar, into an end-of-the-world-type thunderstorm, filled with apprehensive/grouchy and/or confused passengers who were recently let in on a little secret about air travel that no one should have to bear.

Happy to see terra firma again, I headed to baggage claim to be reunited with my luggage, which “would be waiting for me at my destination.”   Only, you can see what’s gonna happen here.  No luggage of course.  So I looked for an airline baggage employee and, oddly enough, there were none to be found.  No one from my airline, anywhere.  I asked the only person around with a uniform and after the nice Army officer pointed me to the only other person in uniform, a baggage handler told me that I needed to see someone at the airline check-in counter.  Since this was also a small airport, that counter was within 50 feet and I could already see I was in trouble:  there was no one at the ticket counter either.   The baggage handler, having done his duty putting up with a clueless, annoying Travel Snob from the north, left to unload baggage from some other flights, whose fortunate passengers weren’t stupid enough to volunteer to travel later when their spare planes were too small.

I walked to the ticket counter and see another airline’s employee at the next station.  He informed me that I should go to the white telephone and page someone from my airline to help me.  Now, I have never been important enough to use those mysterious telephones before or since, but since I was desperate, I did just that.

Next thing I know, an announcement over the public address system goes a little something like this:

“To the woman who paged for assistance with lost luggage, please wait at the ticket counter for your airline.  The crew is working the incoming flight and will be with you shortly.”

Let me repeat that.  THE CREW IS WORKING THE INCOMING FLIGHT.

Now, to this day, I still do not know if the crew was working the gate, on the tarmac, or actually on the inbound flight, but I could see that these employees were significantly overworked.   Luckily, my wait wasn’t long, which was the important thing.  I soon learned that my luggage (somehow) got routed through my original connecting city, but didn’t get loaded on the connecting flight, because I didn’t get loaded on the connecting flight.  (Poor choice of words, perhaps, but in retrospect, I wish I had.)  It would arrive sometime later.  They’ll let me know.  Go away.  (That last part:  not explicitly stated, but I could see it in the overworked employee’s eyes.)

Fast forward to the next morning.  No luggage, but it’s at least in the same city.  On its way, they assure me.   But not in time for the meeting that I have to depart for at 8:30 am.   So I shower and step back into the clothes that brought me there.  Luckily, you know from my rules above, I always travel in business casual, so I didn’t embarrass myself too much by showing up to an important meeting wearing a concert T and yoga pants.   But as for the rest of me…you can probably gather, if you’ve read any of this blog, that I’m kinda high maintenance.  That’s why I check a bag.  I bring too much stuff and I know this, but that will probably never change.  So, left without my normal accouterments, I had to be creative.  I slapped on some lipstick and put my hair up using my luggage tag and off I went to take on the world.

Of course, I opened my presentation with an abbreviated version of this story and immediately had the audience on my side.  (I choose to believe this over the possibility that the audience believed I was an idiot for volunteering for a later flight in the first place.)    ‘Finished things up and scurried back to my hotel, only to meet up with my luggage being delivered at the front desk.  I packed it back into my rental car, drove off and checked it again back to PHL.  The rest of the trip was blissfully uneventful, a fact you’re probably all grateful for.

That short trip was the strangest travel experience of my life.   But, I arrived safely, and that, really, is what’s important.   A safe journey is a good one, no matter how delayed, inconvenient or far back in the plane you’re sitting.

The next time we’re all sitting together at the gate and we hear that our flight is cancelled, or there’s a ground stop because of the weather, let’s all try and be a bit more human to one another.  Remember, things could always be worse.  You could be wearing your luggage tags or you could be working the incoming flight, in addition to your regular job.  It’s always good to walk a concourse in someone’s slip-on shoes before we judge another on our journey.

Travel ho’s of the world unite!

 

*Names have been changed to protect the humiliated and the incompetent.  🙂

Jul2

I’d Better Get Off My Ass Because I’m No Picasso

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I realized that the more days that have elapsed since my last post, the harder it is to think of something to write.  Right now, these posts are somewhat like rare art or endangered species, without any of that real monetary value or meaning to the world.  Let’s face it, in a hundred years, we won’t have archaeologists gushing over the lost limited editions of The Angry Suburbanite.   So, I’d better get going and deliver some content to at least prevent this endeavor from landing on the scrap heap of Failed Resolutions Past.  And so the next post should be something good, right?  Something important, worthwhile…inspirational?  And not like posting a favorite poem, cos that’s really kind of a cop-out, isn’t it?

Since I’m just coming into my voice (which is one of those sorts of phrases that self-important, creative types use pretentiously all the time.  Apologies all around.)  I realize that I need to muse on a variety of things to see where it leads me.  My nom de plume here is “The Angry Suburbanite,” so that must mean I find myself often aggravated.  True, there’s lot of fodder there, but there are lots of different types of aggravation and I should carefully consider how I want to explore that here.

I mean, it’s easy these days to be angry.  There is so much to potentially be angry about.  War, crime, poverty, politics, man’s inhumanity to man.  The decline of knowledge and the loss of a polite society.  But these are the Big Things.  I can’t find the fortitude to tackle Big Things here, because these are multi-faceted issues that I’m largely unqualified to resolve.  Sure, I can add my two cents to the cacophony of other voices who think their offerings make a difference.  And maybe they do, but it’s just not my thing.

[Except the “polite society” part.  Would it kill us, Society, to get some f-in’ manners?  It’s a sad state of affairs when most young people seem to get instruction on how to interact with their fellow humans from their first job waiting tables!  Common courtesy, people!  Definitely fertile angry ground for another day.]

Aside from that, I suspect my lot is to rage against the little things.  Or maybe not rage, so much as observe…the bad, the good and, more importantly, the absurd.  Because, deep down, I’m an optimist.

Or at least a hopeful pessimist.