Soft Sell.

Anyone want a sneak peak of my new blog?

Bueller? Bueller? Is anybody there?

I'm going to officially launch this in the next week or so at which point, MDU will go away. (insert huge sad face here). The reason for this one going away will be the subject of an au revoir post, but let's just say my ute is threatening to go back to her dirty ways if I don't stop badmouthing her. She's drawing up a contract that requires the absolvtion of this url. She's a tricky bitch, but I need her on my side.

Anyway, send me an email if you'd like a preview of the new one or if you'd like to follow along early! My new blog has no followers and it's not cool to follow yourself, is it??

My email is annie025@gmail.com. Now that I'm a desperate housewife and am less scared of someone at work discovering my blog identity, I'm going to give you all kinds of contact info! On the new blog, though, not here.

Stay tuned here, though for the final few posts. Sniff, sniff, sniff.

Performance Appraisal.

From the little man:

This was the first week my mom stayed home with me. I know she used to be pretty good at whatever it was she did when she left the house all day long because she'd come home and talk to dad about it and then get in front of that black rectangle and keep doing it. She'd pound its blocks for hours. She seemed tense and always worried everything wouldn't be perfect. I used to hear her on the phone, talking to people who work for her in a "I'm the boss lady, and I'm nice but you better get this done," badbum kind of way. I always thought, "Phew! I'm glad I don't work for her!" Not sure if you know, but she can be a bit obsessive-compulsive.

So, you're probably not surprised that I had high expectations for her in this new role. I was looking forward to her applying her crazy intensity to me! Last week when I caught wind of her start date at home I went ahead and had business cards made that read, "I AM the Baby Einstein." With her at the helm, it wasn't a stretch.

However, in Week 1 she didn't live up to the hype. Don't get me wrong, she's good. She feeds me delicious homemade fruits and veggies, plays with me for hours on end, and makes me laugh pretty hard when she tickles my tummy but I haven't seen that crazy look yet that she got when focused on the rectangle. It was a combination of sheer determination, aggravation, and a desire to kick some bum. That tenacity and drive is lacking and I'm worried she may only be middle management material instead of the rising star I'd pegged her for.

Oh well. She'll still have a spot in the organization and I already enjoy having her around. In fact, when I wake up from my nap and she comes in to get me, I am probably the happiest baby on earth.

Wait a second...when did I start napping?!?

Well played, Mom, well played.

Household CEO.

I've made it to the C-suite!

My gig starts tomorrow and even though today is a holiday Boss Man and I have had a few 1:1s and he has reminded me that my responsibilities are enormous. It's clear that by end of day tomorrow, he needs to review and sign off on my "Summertime Fun" strategy, including tactics the organization will align around to beat the heat. He wants a baby food SWOT analysis complete by Thursday and a strategy to keep us up to snub with the competition who I've gathered is the baby down the street. He said peas and forced napping are grounds for immediate dismissal, but I think that is a scare tactic with no teeth. Speaking of teeth, he wants a pain management plan outlined first thing tomorrow morning for teething and cold teethers available at all times. He also has a beast of dog whose care is part of my job description. I protested but he pointed to the small print and sure enough "Golden Retriever Management and Care" was listed right above my signature.

My direct report and I agreed that while he heads offsite everyday, I will handle the move to Dallas. In between writing and implementing all these damn strategy decks for my boss, I will also get the home office ready to sell. I know I should have asked him to takeover some of my other responsibilities in return, but sometimes he's unsure of how to handle the boss.

Luckily, I have reams of marketplace data and at least one Kids Meal strategy from my old job that I should be able to dust off and use here. Unfortunately, I don't know that whiz-bang powerpoint is going to impress this guy. I've got my work cut out for me.

Goodnight Work.

Goodnight perks.
Goodnight work.
Goodnight timelines that cannot be shirked.
Goodnight boss.
And goodnight meetings that drive me berserk.

Goodnight selling wares.
Goodnight office chairs.
Goodnight Ad Team.
And high-powered dream.

Goodnight sell-in decks.
And sticking out necks.
Goodnight product briefs.
And too many chiefs.

Goodnight frequent flyer.
Goodnight corporate jet.
Goodnight office lingo.
Goodnight "net-net."

And goodnight to the CMO,
Yelling, "Go!....GO!!"
Goodnight cares.
Goodnight sleepless night scares.
Goodnight stressors everywhere.

S.O.S

My resignation announcement went out on Thursday and while it will not go down in corporate history as one for the records, the earth under my feet shook when it appeared in my inbox. Since then, there have been calls, emails, inquiries about my health from those who saw me as unbreakable, timid congratulations, and several exclamations of jealousy.  For the most part, my colleagues appear to be in a state of bewildered shock but are all happy to see me escape the arena.

There is one woman I wanted to avoid. She is a level or two above me, several years older, and has two small girls. When I came back from maternity leave, she stopped me in the cafeteria and gave me some words of wisdom.  "Leave at 4:00 when you just need to go hug your baby and stop worrying about doing everything perfectly.  Do that, and you'll quit your job."

Today, I ran into her on the elevator.

She got on and gave me the "the look" I've been fielding from all angles: a concoction of sympathy, pained regret and a dash of fear about my sanity.

"Hey," she said taking the tone one does when approaching her best friend from high school the day after she breaks up with her long-term boyfriend, "I heard.  Congratulations."

We talked about my husband and how much he loves his job in Dallas as if this were the sole factor in my decision.  I finally said, "You know how this place is.  I can't do this with him gone all the time.  I can barely do it if he's here!"

We stepped off the elevator and her voice got quiet and conspiratorial.  "Good for you," she said, "my youngest is three and I don't have any regrets because I love my career and am happy where I am, but I'll never get that time back.  Take it."

I saw her in a place I will never be, questioning if I should have slowed down to smell the roses.  Relief flooded my body and almost brought tears.

"I know, " I said, "they're only this little once."

"And work will always be here.  Plus, this place is like the Titanic.  I think you're smart to do this now."

Feeling more buoyant than I had in days, I bounced back to my office to begin packing up six years of corporate debris.  Several people stopped by to discuss my decision and several more expressed jealousy, but when I offered my life-jacket, no one took it.  Perhaps recognizing that you're about to drown is the most difficult hurdle to overcome when saving oneself.

The Return.

This should really be two posts, but I want to put it out there because it's not as interesting as I thought when I started writing this series and because next week is my last week of work and I will need to be able to post about that instead of my travel (mis)adventures. Also, we are moving to Dallas and I have to start posting about my fear that I won't fit in. Do I need a new fringed wardrobe??

The weekend away for the family wedding met expectations for such an event. It included family, some friends, a beautiful; albeit so cold I thought this would be the time my ass actually froze and fell off, wedding on the water, and the usual rigamarole associated with New England traffic.

When we departed our 'points paid for' hotel on Sunday morning, I had no fear about getting on the plane with the baby. My husband went to his gate to head back to Dallas and my mom and I headed to the plane which would bring us to Atlanta so we could connect home.

Things didn't start well. Before we taxied, he pooped. Once in-air, I headed to the bathroom for my first mile high changing. Except there wasn't a changing table and the flight attendant sourly informed me that there was not one on the plane. My mom decided an overworked flight attendant would not cause a diaper rash for her grandson. We changed him in our laps.

For the first 90 minutes, the little guy was perfect. He ate, slept, and unsuccessfully tried to gain the attention of a young woman on her laptop across from us. "Oh look!" my mom said to him as he bounced and cooed to no avail, "that was your mom before you! And there she is now!" My unwashed hair, flats wearing self did not find this nearly as amusing as the two of them.

For the last hour he only stopped screaming when I stood up in the aisle. People around us laughed every time I sat down and he started shrieking. Laptop girl never broke eye contact with her screen. Can't say I would have, either.

We landed in Atlanta three terminals away from our connecting flight and 20 minutes after it began boarding. The old road-warrior in me came out. "We'll make it, Mom, but we have to run!" With a breast pump and laptop strapped to my back and a stroller at my hands, I dashed for the tram and told my mom to follow. Once we arrived at our terminal I called on my marathon darting and weaving skills and snuck between the people slowing my down. Believing I really was in a race, once the crowd parted, I took off. Having no regard for the 25+ pound backpack slapping me with every step, I left my mom in the dust and made it to the gate just before they closed the door.

"WAIT!!!" I yelled. We're on this!!" A few seconds later my mom arrived and told me she walked because she thought she was going to have a heart attack trying to keep up with me. I smiled, "My back may be injured, but I'm still fast," I told her. She rolled her eyes and we boarded.

This time around, the little munchkin felt the need to scream like someone was killing him for the first 30 minutes. We tried food, formula, toys, the window and song to make him stop. He finally stopped when we pulled a trick from our bag and changed his wet diaper right in our seat. Sheer embarrassment or exhaustion put him right to sleep. When we deplaned he was all grins. Too little, too late little man. Your performance score remains Significantly Below Target.

We went to the baggage claim. Our bags did not. We dashed faster to our flight than the baggage handlers.

On the highway, headed to the house my mom and I took a moment to laugh hysterically about our travel adventures. Through tears, I saw something blinking on the dashboard. "What's that?" I asked my mom, "It's blinking."

"Oh my god! That means you need gas now!!!! We're going to run out!"

And so, thankfully, our travel adventures ended at a Marathon gas station, not in a tow truck or with a giant can of gasoline.

Leg 2.

In case you didn't notice, dear reader, "Annie's Mad Dash Out the Door" did not include the usual morning pump.  I noted this to my mother as we sped down the highway.  "Shit!" I said utterly disregarding the no swearing rule my mom implemented over 20 years ago, "I didn't have time to pump.  I'm going to explode somewhere."

Once through the flying portion of our escapade, my mom grabbed her rental car and headed to meet my dad for a nice weekend away while the little munchkin and I were Cape-bound with my inlaws.  The little munchkin, by the way, performed on cue, and immediately began smiling and belly-laughing when he saw my mother-in-law.  Smart boy.

The drive itself was over an hour and everyone needed lunch.  Starting to feel some discomfort I asked if we could just drive through or get something to go.  My inlaws happily obliged and suggested Subway.  "Perfect!" I said.  We got off the highway and my father-in-law realized the Subway was several miles away.

"Let's just go to McDonald's!" I shouted, "It's right here."

My mother-in-law's jaw dropped.  "YOU, want McDonald's??"

Feeling a bit sheepish about the impending leakage situation I thought fast.  "I weight as much as a 12 year old boy right now.  I could use a Quarter Pounder."  My mother-in-law's jaw dropped further.

"Annie, I don't even recognize you right now," she said, "but let's go!"

While picking the remnants of the best tasting lunch I've had in years from my shirt, I felt a damp area by my hip.  "Did I spill Diet Coke AND fries?" I wondered.  Not wanting to investigate further in the back of the car, I ate my fry and rode along.

Just in case there had been a major mishap that I didn't want to explain to my father-in-law, I piled the baby and some blankets walking  from the car to the house.  Once in the guest room, I saw this was not a mishap, this was a major fail.  My entire left side, from underboob to hip was soaked.  I'd gone through my padded bra, tank top and shirt in transit.

Disheveled, I asked my mother-in-law to watch the little boy while I pumped out his first Happy Meal.