CLM’s at the work social functions

A CLM, or “Career Limiting Manoeuvre” is any act, either during work hours, or outside, exposing your inner idiot to management, and making them glad they passed you over for that promotion last year.

The work function, and especially the Christmas party is the best arena to limit ones career. The suits will be swapped for jeans and appropriate collared shirts, staff resources scramble for sausage rolls, the meeting agenda is a massive bender, the project mandate, get the hips to gyrate.   

Within minutes, intentions, reservation and social boundaries are drowning in social lubricant. Different characters then start to emerge, it seems the same types of characters exist in every work place. There is the shy quiet guy who has three beers becomes the worlds loudest extravert. There is the ear chewer, and the person who wants to give the ‘bosh’ a piece of his mind as soon as he finishes this bottle of bourbon.

The obvious secret office romance so closely guarded or unfulfilled starts firing up in the corner. If you are in one, please be aware these are always as obvious as a third nipple on your forehead to your colleagues. A mad drunken public pash on the podium will be hazily recalled with hung over horror the following morning. The excuse, “but I was blind as a welder’s dog!” will have to suffice…again.

And let us tip our hats and always remember the “man of the match”, the one person who’s antics were highlights, the person who had their pants off and on their head before everyone has even arrived, three drinks in front of the field, he started a fight with the bartender, spilt a drink on the pregnant lady, kicked a puppy, demanded a pay rise and threw up in the taxi. Management material. 

 

Jonathan Nolan is an MX reader who will offer you shots at the Christmas party.

Dinner party no go “Faux pas for the course”

I have heard of a rule, possibly a boring one, which states that dinner party conversation should avoid the topics of sex, politics, and religion. Therefore “Have you heard the one about the priest, the Queensland Labour party candidate and the dominatrix?” is fantastic fun if you’re a habitual instigator, persistent line crosser, or a tenacious feather ruffler, but probably not recommended as an icebreaker at your partners work dinner. The reason it is recommended those topics be avoided seems to me to relate to the passion people hold with concepts or beliefs that go to the core and people will rarely shift their opinions. A brick of an idea set in your minds concrete, hardened with age. Having all your beliefs decided seems to makes people feel complete, more whole. I like to think I could have an opinion swayed with a convincing enough argument. Ask yourself, “When was the last time you changed your mind on a big issue? Or more importantly what in your life has the power to change your perception of the world around you?

Religion is an obvious one, no one wants to be baptized between the entrée and main meal, and I have never seen anyone have their religious beliefs changed. Any attempt to convert the heathen, pagan sun worshipers to your cult and have them drinking the coulis by the main course will no doubt end in enough tears to baptize a room full of sinners. “Demons out!” And as far as I’m concerned, evangelists out! Religion is a wonderful thing for people to have, however if I become aware of it, it looses its beauty.

As any dinner party progresses, the socially inept and opinionated have converted the weak minded to the ways of the Jedi, “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.” Sex must be next on the agenda, the outgoing hedonists wanting to shock and awe the left wing conservatives. How quickly a civilised dinner party can end with keys in a bowl, everyone having grown bad mustaches, wearing polo necks and platform shoes. Just remember, kinky is using a feather in the bedroom, but perverted is when you bring the whole chicken.

Discussions of politics arrive with the dessert course, and with the alcohol flowing, some at the dinner party have socially lubricated themselves that well there is no censorship friction at all between concept and mouth. I am guessing the Latin term would be “vino verobolis dihoreticas.”

If it is an important dinner such as your partner’s boss has invited you around, apply the 10/10 Beer Vs. Importance rule. If the importance of the event is 8/10 you can only have 2/10 beers. If you rate the importance is 4/10 then down a six-pack and dance the sprinkler. In Vino Veritas, or “In wine there is truth.” “Hey you, I don’t like you at work, but your wife has a fit bum” will come back to bite you on the bum. If the conversation gets heated before the dinner, play the arbitrator and try to find common ground, “How bad are the local council but how good is the local football team!”
 Remember what happens on the footy trip stays on the footy trip, however what happens at the dinner party will be brought up by your wife for weeks.  

Jonathan gets great joy out of being a habitual instigator, persistent line crosser, or a tenacious feather ruffler.

Making your mark on the world

Mahatma Gandhi, while emptying his piggy bank said, "Be the change you want to see in the world." So I ask you, what is your motivation? What mark do you want to leave as you look back over your shoulder while shuffling off this mortal coil?

I don't know what is worse, aiming low and smashing head on into mediocrities bullseye, or aspiring to walk on the moon, and failing the NASA aptdatood test. Then getting disgruntled, and next thing, “There’s a sniper in the clock tower, run for your lives!” That is how it happens, it's only a small few steps from enjoying camping to get away from the crazy hustle bustle of the city, to brushing the bugs out of your beard while writing the final chapter of your manifesto in your log cabin.


If you do aim too high and actually have a successful moment in your life, you then face the dilemma of experiencing what I have dubbed "the Aldrin curve" named after astronaut Buzz Aldrin, the second man to walk on the moon. The Aldrin curve is the point where you realise that from here on in it's all down hill and everything you will do from this point on will never surmount your yesterday. This is an opportune time to take up story telling and drinking, and not in that order. "Lend me a dollar and your ear and I'll tell you about a time when [hiccup] men were men and we travelled to the starsh."

Perhaps success will be measured in the future, not by actions, but by the number of followers you have on Twitter? “Oh my god, that’s @LazyGirl54, she has over a million followers!” Social media is the equivalent of standing up at the grand final at half time with a microphone and informing everyone, “I had toast for breakfast.” Advances in digital communication have taken us in leaps and bounds down gibberish lane.

Some seem content with a simple life, cave and a curtain, a place to exist, own the dream, buy a boat when your fifty-five, make a speech at your child’s twenty-first, have a hip replacement and die. Leaving drive and ambition in the will for the grandchildren. It was drilled into me when I was growing up that how are we raised is critical to the way we end up… What comes after indoctrasix and indoctraseven? Indoctrinate, that is correct, so don't tell your children they can achieve great things, that one day they could travel to another planet, or walk on the surface of Mars, tell them that one day they could own a large television and watch Arnold Schwarzenegger walk on Mars in the total movie Total Recall after they finish their night shift at the factory.

Don't say to them, "You can be whatever you want to be if you apply yourself." Instead tell them with the state of the world, when they grow up the Australian economy; will have more problems then an Icelandic Air traffic controller, the unemployment queue will be busier then a one-armed brick layer in Bagdad, and there chances of owning their own home will disappear quicker then a fart in a fan factory. Happiness is all about managing expectations.


Jonathan Nolan is an MX reader who wants to leave his mark on the world in ink, like a cheap blue pen leaking in the pocket of life’s new white business shirt.

I’m mild allergy Intolerant

“How are you?” I always answer good, great, fantastic, even if I am feeling a little under the weather, or last nights vindaloo has left me running to-the-loo. The response I hear all too often is, “I’m a little bloated from eating a piece of bread, I have a mild case of celiacs.” Now let me take a deep breath here, swallow down my delicious piece of sesame seed encrusted Vienna loaf, topped with peanut butter and crab dip and say that unless you have a pen that is filled with adrenaline on you at all times, even in the shower, then don’t tell me about it! The only qualifier for filling me in is if need to let me know and train me to use it on the off chance that a sesame seed falls onto your foot, potentially ending your life within two minutes, unless this is the case, get over yourself! If something disagrees with you, frustration fueled drum-roll …eat around it fatty, and don’t tell anyone.

These are all pathetic first world problems like “my car stereo won’t read a 16-gig USB stick, or “There are too many choices on the menu!” And then you have the third world problems such as "I fear for my life constantly and my brother was just abducted by the 'free democratic peoples party' while searching for clean water." Think about that for a minute next time your telling someone in detail about the rash on your inner arm every time you eat slightly unripe tomatoes.

I wonder if UNICEF and World Vision deal with a lot of cases of mild food allergies when they supply food to famine ravaged and starving war-torn areas. I am going to go out on a malnourished limb and say no. I am presuming the hierarchy of needs kicks in faster then you can cook a pack of two-minute noodles between meals.


The Fruitarians of the world are ruining my BBQ. No, I have not catered for people who only eat fruit that has fallen from the tree, and yes the Soysages were cooked in the BBQ fat of real animals, that is the only way they are anyway tolerable. Don’t forget it was the late great Kurt Cobain who told us “It’s ok to eat fish, cause they don’t have any feelings.” I do have a box of BBQ shapes, a tub of hommus, and a copy of the book, “10 steps to being annoying at social events,” if you would like to accompany me to the special people corner.

If people are going to insist on ruining my meal with detailed descriptions of their terribly feeble afflictions, perhaps that is the done thing. If that’s the case then allow me to get some payback... While you were eating your Christmas trifle, I hope you remembered that jelly is made from the hooves of horses, one of which may have been named black beauty just like the one you rode as a child that time on holidays. The turkey you carved up was named Denis. He preferred corn over grain and loved the morning sun. And finally the ham, let us stop and think of Babe – a pig in the city, trucked to the city then covered in apple sauce. Payback is a beach, and that is where I spent Christmas, eating a Black Beauty Trifle, Babe and applesauce roll, and a cranberry Denis without any minor allergic reactions.

Jonathan is an MX reader who does not tolerate your lack of tolerance