Management

I'm a great manager. No, seriously. No bragging, I am. It is what I've always done. I get things done and people like to work for me.


When asked, in an interview, what I thought made me a good people manager, I said consistency.


I think it is imperative that you be consistent. If two people are both twenty minutes late, they can expect the same repercussions. No favorites. I use a discipline matrix. For every infraction, there is a non-waivering, pre-determined consequence. Whether it be tardiness, internal theft, or a dress code violation... you will never find me letting one employee get away with it, while reprimanding another employee for the same thing.


It works. Why then, in my personal life, do I not use these same principles?? Why is my reaction different from one person to the next when they break plans? Why can I drop a guy I just started seeing without a second thought and be furious if he continues to call after I said I was done... but in the same breath allow my ex to do this to me repeatedly?? Maybe because I have more invested in him?


Well, Sididdy, that doesn't make much sense. I mean, if I was investing in a product, and it wasn't giving me the results I wanted... I would discontinue using it. I wouldn't throw money into a stock for two years as I continue to watch it be less and less consistent. So, why do I keep throwing all of my energy into a "sinking stock" of a relationship just because I've already invested some?


I've decided that I will begin managing my personal life in the same way I manage my professional life. No, I will not be creating a matrix, lol... I'm not that type A... but I will continue to determine what is a priority to me..... and what qualifies somebody for an oral warning as opposed to immediate termination.

In a small town, everything comes full circle.

I glance at my watch, it is 3:35. Shit. I have 25 minutes to get Olivia and I dressed and catch Sonic Happy Hour. We throw on our clothes, I buckle her in the carseat and climb into my car, put the key in the ignition and turn... click, click, click... nada. FUCK.


Really? My car isn't gonna start? I'm already mid project on my cutlass... my crown vic can't NOT start. FUCK. I climb out and reluctantly dial my Ex... He's the only way I know how to get in touch with the mechanic. He picks up... says the mechanic (Bobby) is with him and as soon as they finish working on his car, they'll come over and take a look at mine. Good. That was easy.


Fast forward three days... my Ex is on some serious bullshit. He's made excuse after excuse... and they still have not been out here to look at my car. He tells me he can't get in touch with Bobby and that Bobby is bullshittin. Great.


Plan B. I dial Olivia's Dad. Tell him I need someone to look at my car... He says he'll find someone.


Five hours later, my phone rings.. It's Olivia's Dad... "Hey, I'm up here shooting pool and I just ran into my old mechanic... he has a job he's supposed to be working on, but the guy won't call him back.. he says he can come look at yours first thing in the morning.. I'mma put you on the phone and let you give him directions" ... me: "k"
I proceed to give the mechanic directions to my house. Before hanging up I say, "Oh, I didn't even get your name" ... He replies, "Bobby". Seriously? The same Bobby? Yuuup. I tell him who I am. We laugh. He says he's been getting the run around from my Ex for days and that my Ex refused to give him my number and finally told him I didn't need my car fixed anymore. Did I mention my Ex is a total douche?


The next morning, bright and early, the mechanic shows up with his friend. I take one look at @AlohaPrncess and tell her we need to talk. *we step inside* Me: "ummm... So, dude with Bobby is the guy I don't know who kept messaging me on MySpace a few weeks ago, asking if I wanted to go out sometime. I don't know if he recognizes me or not." We laugh. Small ass town.


My transmission and starter are shot. The mechanic starts working. This is NOT what I wanted to be wrong with my car. Oh well. Turns out, @AlohaPrncess's ex has the same year crown vic and is willing to give me the transmission out of it. Awesome. *puts $800 back in my pocket* It's gonna take about a week, but I'll wait....



Last night, I'm sitting at my kitchen table with the mechanic. His phone rings. It's my Ex. Guess what? His transmission just went out. I guess he'd better sit on his hands and wait a week while HIS mechanic fixes MY car. Ain't Karma a bitch?

Jesus Loves The Saints.

Peyton Manning, after living a full life, died and went to heaven. When he got to heaven, God was showing him around. They came to a modest little house with a faded Colts flag in the window. "This house is yours for eternity, Peyton," said God. "This is very special; not everyone gets a house up here." Peyton felt special, indeed, and walked up to his house.


On his way up the porch, he noticed another house just around the corner. It was a 3-story mansion with a black and gold sidewalk, a 50-foot tall flagpole with an enormous Saints logo flag, and in every window, a New Orleans Saints towel.


Peyton looked at God and said "God, I'm not trying to be ungrateful, but I have a question. I was an all-pro QB, I hold many NFL records, and I even went to the Hall of Fame."


God said "So what's your point Peyton?"


"Well, why does Drew Brees get a better house than me?"


God chuckled, and said "Peyton, that's not Drew's house, it's mine." :)

Dear Miami,


The Saints are coming. And so are we, their loyal, long-suffering and slightly discombobulated Super Bowl-bound fans.


While there's still time to prepare -- although a few hard-core Who Dats will begin trickling in Monday, most of us won't arrive until Thursday or Friday -- we thought we'd give you a heads-up about what you should expect.


First things first: You need more beer.


Yeah, we know. You ordered extra. You think you have more than any group of humans could possibly consume in one week. Trust us. You don't.


New Orleans was a drinking town long before the Saints drove us to drink. But it turns out beer tastes better when you're winning. (Who knew?) So let's just say we're thirsty for more than a championship; adjust your stockpiles accordingly.


And look. When we ask you for a go-cup, be nice to us. We don't even know what "open container law" means. Is that anything like "last call"?


It's Carnival season in New Orleans (that's Mardi Gras to you), and we'll be taking the celebration on the road. So don't be startled if you walk past us and we throw stuff at you; that's just our way of saying hello.


Oh, and sorry in advance about those beads we leave dangling from your palm trees. We just can't help ourselves.


February is also crawfish season, and you can be sure that more than one enterprising tailgater will figure out a way to transport a couple sacks of live mudbugs and a boiling pot to Miami.


When the dude in the 'Who Dat' T-shirt asks if you want to suck da head and pinch da tail, resist the urge to punch him. He's not propositioning you. He's inviting you to dinner.


And if you see a big Cajun guy who looks exactly like an old Saints quarterback walking around town in a dress ... don't ask. It's a long story.


We know that crowd control is a major concern for any Super Bowl host city. Our advice? Put away the riot gear.


Reason No. 1: Indianapolis is going to lose, and their fans are way too dull to start a riot.


Reason No. 2: New Orleans showed the world on Sunday that we know how to throw a victory party. We don't burn cars. We dance on them.


Reason No. 3: Even if we did lose, which we won't, leaving the stadium would be like leaving a funeral, and our typical response to that is to have a parade.


Speaking of which: If you happen to see a brass band roll by, followed by a line of folks waving their handkerchiefs, you're not supposed to just stand there and watch. As our own Irma Thomas would say, get your backfield in motion.


And hey, Mister DJ! Yes, we know you've already played that stupid Ying Yang Twins song 10 times tonight, but indulge us just one more time.


To us, "Halftime (Stand Up and Get Crunk)" isn't just a song; it's 576 points of good memories. It's the sound of a Drew Brees touchdown pass to Devery Henderson, a Pierre Thomas dive for first down on 4th-and-1, a Garrett Hartley field goal sailing through the uprights in overtime.


It's what a championship sounds like. You may get sick of hearing it. We won't. Encore, dammit.


Inside Sun Life Stadium, you may find your ears ringing more than usual. We're louder than other fans. Seven thousand of ours sound like 70,000 of theirs.


Don't believe us? Ask the 12th man in the Vikings huddle.


Some people think it's just the Dome that heightens our volume. But you're about to discover a little secret: We can scream loud enough to make your head explode, indoors or out.


It's not the roof. It's the heart.


Well, OK, and the beer.



Don't be surprised if there are more Saints fans outside the stadium than inside. A lot of us are coming just to say we were part of history, even if we can't witness it up close. The Saints are family to us, and you know how it is with family: We want to be there for them, whether they really need us or not. Because we know our presence will mean something to them, whether they can see us or not.


Come to think of it, seeing as how you're taking us in for the week, we pretty much regard you as family, too. So we're warning you now: If you're within hugging distance, you're fair game.


Hugging strangers is a proud Who Dat tradition, right up there with crying when we win.


Most sports fans cry when their teams lose. Not us. We've been losing gracefully and with good humor for 43 years. Tragedy and disappointment don't faze us. It's success that makes us go to pieces.


Hurricane Katrina? We got that under control. The Saints in the Super Bowl? SOMEBODY CALL A PARAMEDIC!!!


So anyway, don't let the tears of joy freak you out. We're just ... disoriented.


OK. Let's review:


Order more beer. Throw me something, mister. Suck da heads. Wear da dress. Stand up. Get crunk. Hug it out. Protect your eardrums. Pass the Kleenex. Hoist the trophy.


See you at the victory party.


Faithfully yours,


The Who Dat Nation