Better to Dry-Heave than Be Fired

Let me begin by saying that this is my first blog posting (yep, it's me, Andy). I have decided to be a secondary partner in this Watson blog because I'm simply not ready to commit to posting comments on a regular basis. However, I believe that because I choose to refrain from the regular posting phenomenon, my postings will be much like a bottle of fine wine (alcohol-free): the longer people wait to partake, the more savory and enjoyable they will find my profound insights, heart-felt experiences, and all around laugh-out-loud playful banter. So prepare your intellectual palate and join me at the vast banquet table of the blogosphere. The feast is about to begin ...

Andrew Ross Watson Entry #1: Better to Dry-Heave than Be Fired
At a previous place of employment, I had an awkward encounter with one of the vice presidents of the region. I had the opportunity to work on a project that required me to work closely with this VP (NOTE: for purposes of this posting, let's call the VP "Cranky Pants" as to protect potential hurt feelings and to avoid the potential of burning any career bridges should this blog posting go viral). Cranky Pants happened to be standing over my right shoulder as I sat at my computer working on said project. It was a beautiful afternoon; the sun was shining through the window into my cramped, yet cozy cubicle and the atmosphere was dripping with the sweet dew of professional comraderie. Unfortunately, as I would soon find out, that wasn't the only dripping going on that day.

I hope you'll forgive a short detour from the main plot here, but I feel I must provide some additional background on who I am, what makes me tick, and what makes me sick--particularly what makes me sick. I have a hard time with any type of moist foreign substance coming in contact with my being. For example, I cannot handle the feeling of raw hamburger meat squishing in my hands, I deplore the bacteria-laden sweat of other men splashing across my arm during the heat of a sports competition, and I will not tolerate any interaction with others' nasal drippings, blood droppings or saliva sloppings of any kind. Period.

Now, back to my afternoon with Cranky Pants. As previously described, Cranky Pants was standing over my shoulder as I labored away at my desk on this seemingly important project. It was a little past mid-day and ol' Cranky-P had decided to bust out a nice, thick, juicy hoagie--or "sub sandwich" for those of you who pretend to be above middle-class dining jargon. As he chomped and gnawed at the sandwich, I couldn't help thinking to myself, "Wow, can someone possibly eat a hoagie any louder than this guy? Not likely." I honestly wanted to thrust some industrial-strength earplugs deep into my brain. His hoagie chewing sounded like a family of hogs were fighting for the last melon wedge in a giant vat of mayonnaise mixed with Pop Rocks. Gross. The cacophony of his heathen-like hoagie devouring rampage was extremely distracting and I was having a difficult time concentrating on the task at hand. Then it happened. As Cranky Pants--still chewing--leaned closer to gain a better view of the document displayed on my monitor, a nasty glob of chewed-up hoagie fell from his mouth and onto the top of my innocent, clean hand. I froze, not knowing what to do, and a million questions started flowing through my mind: Should I quickly wipe off the globule before Cranky Pants notices? Should I wait for Cranky Pants to apologize and allow him to wipe it off my hand? If he did so, was it inappropriate to allow someone to touch my hand in such a manner? But I didn't have time to explore my options for very long because in a split second my disdain for foreign moist substances kicked in at full force and I lurched forward in a mighty dry-heave. Yep, let that image soak in ... yikes. To my surprise, Cranky Pants didn't even notice my violent reaction--in fact, he was so enthralled with the project, he didn't even notice he had essentially off-loaded a pile of pre-digested hoagie-meal on my hand! Unbelieveable! I realized I was at a very critical crossroads; I could draw attention to my plight and request a napkin from Cranky Pants, but that would run the risk of offending him and in turn would undoubtedly hamper my quest of climbing the corporate ladder. On the other hand, I didn't know if I could remove, or let alone take a second look at, the globule of doom without vomiting. However, drawing on all the stomach strength I still had, I very smoothly removed my hand from off the top of my desk and wiped the substance onto the side of my chair. I then came up with an excuse to head to the restroom to properly sanitize my hand. Crisis averted.

Was I grossed out? Yes. Disappointed in the eating etiquette of my mentor? Certainly. Scarred from deep emotional battlewounds at the office? Obviously. But most importantly, I emerged victorious and lived to fight another battle in the war of life. A battle that will be shared in my next posting. Stay tuned.