Double Dipping Gold

I just hit the jackpot of school/work balance. The topic for class this week - motivation. The assignment - assess your company's reward and recognition program. One of my deliverables at work (that keeps getting pushed down on the priority list, incidentally) - revamp the project's internal reward and recognition program. This is when the chi gets good - when you can not only instantly apply theories (which I have been - I listen real good now) but put them into a practice that satisfies both your work work and your school work. To quote Jim Brewer, former SNL "Goat Boy" and current Pizza Hut product whore: "Jackpot!" Seriously, have you seen those commercials? They are nonsensical and disturbingly over-enthused. I imagine Jim's agent calling him, relieved that finally, finally, he would be on TV again. How they passed test audiences, let alone aired more than once, is a mystery to me.

Anyway, this "jackpot's" arrival came just in time - this weekend I started to feel the pinch of going to school, working and maintaining a normal life. Well, actually, it was less of a pinch and more of a anxiety-induced sweat rash catalyzed by sitting in a four-hour video taped management simulation taking place in a building that is not air-conditioned on Sundays trying to sort through an "inbox" of problems while prepping a speech to be graded by peers and formulating an informed point on potential CEO resumes when you realize that you are missing the Bears game and you are legitimately stressed and don't have the benefit of actually having been on the three-week African safari that led "you" to the simulated mess. Whew. The rash intensifies since all the while, work work and school reading taunt you from home. May I quote Mercutio? "'Tis but a scratch."

End of the world? Hardly. Do many people have it worse than me? Damn straight. What is my issue then? Good point. Moving on.

An interesting tidbit from class - a substantial chunk of the three-hour session is spent discussing management issues, our experiences and learned theory. The class is pretty varied in terms of experience, age and gender. As I blogged a long time ago, I was starting to feel that the stigma of being laid off was fading. A woman in my class caused me to re-theorize. The stigma of being laid off has softened among the seasoned work force. Among the millennials (which, technically, I am), or those who haven't worked long or faced the threat of lay offs head on, being laid off puts you in the sloth bucket. To quote: "Well, I am in HR and we always say we eliminate positions not people, but there is always a reason they go. That is just trying to soften the blow." She went on, I boiled.

Head Full of Maple Syrup

I really, really don't like cats. It's bad. I am hesitant type that, because as a lover of dogs, I wonder how someone can even be neutral to those wonderful animals, let alone dislike, or, hate them. Moreover, there are some wonderful people in my life that love cats. Like really, really love cats. For some reason, my freshman year roommate, Gretchen, comes to mind. She is probably the first passionate cat person I ever encountered. We had many mutual loves - junior mints, napping, strange roommate behavior - but we never quite saw eye to eye on pets. However, G did me a great service - she prepped me for a life of loving the owner despite hating the pet. (Thanks, G-ski!)

Why bring this up now, you ask? Where is it going? Well, I'm home from work right now, with a head full of what feels like maple syrup, unable to breathe through my noise, making beautiful hhhoouuchhhuuuuukkkkk klahhh klahhhh sounds and coughing up ungodly amoeba-like globs. I believe this is because of, and will continue due to, cats.

I'm pretty horrifically allergic to these independent, oh-so-sleek creatures. Two weeks ago, John and I went to Nebraska and stayed with a lovely, more than hospitable couple who has an adorable miniature schnauzer and a "world's smallest bear" cat. Having been there before, I stocked up on allergy meds, nasal sprays and prepared to get quite intimate with a Kleenex box. It was pretty much what I expected - runny nose, watering eyes, itchy throat - making me one attractive lady. However, what I forgot was this: after putting my system through such membrane strain, I usually catch a really sweet virus and end up sick sick. And here I am.

Tomorrow, we leave for Minnesota, to visit John's sister, a lovely woman who also loves cats. Perhaps I'll plead H1N1 and don a mask. Long and short, I anticipate another week of illness, which my coworkers seem to revel in and appreciate. Despite my best attempts to hide, "hhhoouuchhhuuuuukkkkk klahhh klahhhh" can be heard down the hall, even when I am in the bathroom. Sorry, esteemed colleagues and polished outside consultants.

The cat deck has been stacked against me from the beginning - between the allergies and the influence of my father, I guess my heart was never open. Here's a story for you:

When I was about seven or eight, there were some cats roaming around our neighborhood. One day, as he pulled into the garage in his sweet 1990 tan Buick LaSabre, my father spotted such a creature on our roof. Just arriving home from work, still in his suit and tie, he sprang into action (dare I say his reflexes had a cat-like quality to them?). As I watched with intense curiosity, he grabbed a rake from the garage and moved to the side of the house. I assumed he was going to encourage the cat off the roof by startling or poking it. This would be one of the many instanced in which I underestimated my father.

He laid the rake down, right in the cat's motion path. When I asked him what he was doing he calmly replied "Just wait." I still have a vivid image of him, never taking his eyes from the cat, carefully anticipating its path with the rake, tongue sticking out just slightly from the corner of his mouth.

Finally, at the exact moment that cat had all four paws on the rake, my father, with the precision of a color guard captain, whipped the rake up and sent that feline flying. I watched, and in what seemed like slow motion, the cat arced into the sky, meowed, then landed on its feet 20 feet from our house. I stood agog.

Being young and under the influence of farm books and the Bearnstein Bears, I asked him if he was worried the cat would get hurt. As the it darted away, he laughed and said "No, babe. They always land on their feet. And now, he won't be back."

So there you have it friends. Do I think kittens are adorable? Yep. Do I respect a cat's independence? Sure. Am I sorry for what my father did? Not really.

Now, I must stop because I get dizzy looking at computer screens. Thanks, Boo.