A long time ago I attended an evening course covering Mass Communications. Yawn right? I know. What I discovered was that some of life’s greatest leassons were not waiting for me inside a classroom… but from behind the wheel of a gently used 1993 Ford Escort.

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These events took place between 7:00 and 7:30 AM, July 15^th 2009, at the private residence of George and Kelley Hess in Bellingham, WA. Stories of what happened that morning have been told by many. This is the true account.

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The following are the top ten symptoms found in most patients suffering from Homeofficitis.

1. You call it a 9-5 job but more often than not, mean: 9AM-5PM-9PM-5AM
2. You regularly shower on your lunch break.
3. The nearest you’ve been to sexual harassment in the workplace is your SPAM folder.
4. You consistently overuse emoticons in a desperate attempt to recreate face-to-face communication.
5. “Business casual” means no pants.
6. Every time the UPS driver catches you still wearing pajamas, you swear it will be the last time.
7. You have an arsenal of excuses for why a dog and/or small child would be barking in the background during your phone conference.
8. Workplace violence = Judge Judy and Jerry Springer.
9. You order the cheapest drink possible so as to not feel bad for using a café’s wifi… and then shamelessly stay for 8+ hours.
10. Your conference room has a toilet in it.

or: How I Learned to Stop Pulling My Hair Out and Love the Client

Most likely, none of what you’re about to read will increase your productivity. No, this is all for your well being. To possibly help lower your blood pressure and reveal a few little truths I wish someone had told me many moons ago.

Once upon a time I had the privilege of being a project manager for a web development firm. In my entire career as PM I never read a book on the subject of management, couldn’t stand the motivational speeches either, and never attended a convention. Instead I learned by trial and error. Because let’s face it, who has time for those things anyway?

I started out knowing nothing about the job but left with an understanding of many things. These are ten:

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I have struggled for the longest time to understand why so many women compare themselves to the air-brushed covergirls that grace our checkout lines and newsstands. To me, it would be like comparing apples to wax oranges. Does-not-compute. One is real, one is fake. One tastes nice to kiss, the other like newsprint… not like I ever tried kissing the Cameron Diaz 1996 edition of Rolling Stone… wouldn’t know anything about that.

But maybe it does make sense?!

For I found myself in the exact same situation as my female counterparts (minus the sex change). There I was, minding my own business, watching TV, and then he comes on. Oh how I dislike him! But it’s not the pearly white teeth that get to me. Nor the chiseled abs. I could care less about that jawline. It’s the shave! I want it, nay, need it! Oh sure, we all know he’s had a laser remove every last follicle from his face. I’m not stupid. I know there’s not even a blade in there. But as the (faux) razor glides across his adam’s apple without hitting the slightest speed bump I am filled with envy. I want the impossible, I purchase the impossible, and then I attempt the impossible - a really, really, close shave.

I am optimistic at first. Never mind the prior attempts. Those must have failed due to faulty equipment, this time it will be different. I put my best shave face on. Jaw protruding out for good angles, upper lip filled to 20psi, and I commence to tear my skin apart with a triple stacked blade. The sting is just a reminder of how lazy I’ve become. “From now on, I’m going to shave everyday!”, I say to myself. How else could I justify spending so much on a device that has been around almost as long as the face.

After a solid 10-15 minutes of hacking away last week’s 5 o’clock shadow I am ready for inspection. But alas, I look nothing like ol’ laser-razor boy. Instead, I bare an unsettling resemblance to that of a man stricken with the pox. Patchy, bloody, and now plain pissy, I blame genetics and storm off, more determined than ever to grow a beard. I resign to the fact that I am stuck with this face and the only memories of me will be tainted with a sandpaper like texture.

As I slump back down into the recliner a magazine ad catches my eye. “More Than Just A Blade” - hmmm, I’m listening…