This was an odd day. On one side, I learned that I suffer from osteoarthritis in my knees. Treatable, manageable without surgery. YAY! On the other side, I learned that the application I placed for a new position within my firm, one which boasts an actually career path and advancement opportunities, was filled the end of last week and my application wasn’t even considered. I cannot begin to tell you how much – at the risk of sounding vulgar – that pisses me off!
Here’s my problem. I am good at what I do. In my “day job”, when I’m given a task, I do it right the first time. That’s not me boasting, that’s actually written in my annual reviews. Consistently, even. Goody for me! I’m a good, sometimes great, and conscientious employee. But, I’m more than my job description and title alludes.
My official “day job” title is “Executive Assistant, but I never add “Executive Assistant” to my business cards. I can do that because I order business cards for everyone in my office. I have that much power. I know that I am more than an ‘executive assistant’; I’m more of an office manager. “Office Mommy” is the term I’ve coined for my position. The one who maintains calendars and schedules appointments and lays in supplies and tends boo-boo’s and, on occasion, wipes asses. I do do it all, and the earth-mother, Capricorn that I am comes by this very naturally. But…the “conducting-implementer” that my DISC assessment labels me balks at this pigeon-holing.
DISC assessment tests, the secret weapon of today’s Human Resource department. That random, algorithmic determination of one’s natural vs. adapted behaviors test which funnels you into one predetermined life lot over another. The track system, defined, redefined and employed by the American public school system since its inception in the 1920’s. If, for example, an employee like me - intelligent, willing, ambitious and with a demonstrated acumen for management and advancement, is hired into a subservient role, like the title "Executive Assistant" denotes, he or she is destined to languish in a life of career stagnation. Whether or not that employee takes it upon him or herself to further his or her education, to accomplish corporate training and skills advancement protocols, or pursue non-firm sponsored training programs is moot. Once an "EA", always an "EA", with the obligatory, five second “stand-and-be-recognized” moment at the annual meeting.
I’m sorry, Mr. and Ms. Corporate Executive, but just because I lassoed my personal career ambitions to balance my work/life dynamic and support my single-parented offspring does in no way mean that I am inherently complacent, or malleable, or devoid of independent logic and thought, and, thereby, a happy and willing supplicant in the role of blind subservient to you, or your wife or your children. I certainly didn’t put myself $50,000 in student loan debt to spend the rest of my working life kowtowing to your every rational or otherwise whim.
No. No, indeed. When, during the annual review, one is asked what one’s personal career goals are and one explicitly outlines two or three possible, not to mention heavily experienced and well-qualified for lateral advancement options, and is told (and I quote) “I’ve got your back”, only to learn that viable opportunities are not mentioned and one’s applications are not even reviewed, much less considered despite following the rules of the game, one tends to get, shall we say, bitchy. Embittered and demoralized are probably the more politically correct terms, but what does corporate America care. Another wide-eyed idealist will come along and subject him or herself to this continued abject humiliation and abuse perpetrated by the egomaniacal and self-serviant career overlords until the disillusionment manifests itself in a drastic measure, like quitting without alternative prospects and sucking the unemployment coffers dry. Or something involving firearms.
Once upon a time, this country prospered and grew, thrived even, on the opportunities afforded to the diligent, hard-working, rule-abiding, imaginative populace. Those of us who bled and sweated to attain the dreams bred and nurtured by our forefathers. Unfortunately, the world today is rife with “haves and have nots”, “achievers and achievement –challenged”, “rainmakers” and the drowned corpses of the proletariat.
When will I ever learn that the least qualified, most lackadaisical and unmotivated are destined to advance beyond their talents and capabilities while the rest of us, we sparse few, the unsung, conscientious, do-gooder, suffocate beneath the stampeding herd of valid or not privileged ambition? It’s been fifty plus years, and I’ve yet to divine an answer.
Meanwhile, I’ll follow doctor’s orders, take my glucosamine, and keep trudging one foot before another praying to whatever deity may be out there that my knees don’t give out.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
...On Writing. No, really.
Disclaimer and attribution: With my abject apologies to Stephen King for borrowing from his critically-acclaimed memoir on the craft (I just finished reading "On Writing" and am agog. Thanks, Steve.), I turn my attentions to my sorely neglected blog.
It's ten days into a new year and long past time to start making good on those lame-duck resolutions that we all spew in our 12:01 a.m. drunken stupors. "I resolve to quit smoking!" "I resolve to get into shape!" "I resolve to eat better!" "I resolve to get sober!" "I resolve to learn piano!" By ten days into the New Year, you realize that your arthritis will never allow you to graduate beyond “Chopsticks”, you've just cracked open your second carton of Marlboros, your third fifth of bourbon is down three fingers, and your pantry has been neatly restocked with Cheez-Its, Ho-Hos and Orville Redenbacher's Movie Theater popcorn (extra butter). As my alter-ego, Ms. Green, says "I've never met a resolution I couldn't break."
MY resolution for 2011 is the quintessential, perennial, unpublished writer's pledge: "I will read more and I will write Every Day." I’ve got the ‘read more’ portion down, but, silly me, I forgot to set my specific, daily word count goal. Mr. King is quite firm on the idea of professional writers having set professional tasks - 'X' number of words per day, 'X' number of pages per day - and I have managed to overlook that crucial detail yet again.
For the past three years, my writing has been assigned to me by some very demanding professors. It was what this natural-born procrastinator needed and, I suppose, that's why I got my bachelors degree so late in life. But it did exert the necessary pressure on me to perform. To write. Now, the challenge is to write without procrastination. To put the pressure on myself. To demand my own performance. I demand a lot of myself in my day job, so I can demand just as much of my writing self. That shouldn't be too hard. Right?
The depths of my brain ring with Ms. Green’s raucous laughter. She knows me too well. I think she might’ve peed herself.
Rather than immediately plant myself at my desk with pen and paper like a good-girl-aspiring-writer, today, after finishing "On Writing", I opted for a trip to the book store. I felt compelled to purchase a copy of Mr. King's personal master’s class for myself. One that I can flag, jot my margin notes in and prominently display on my brimming IKEA bookshelf next to my copies of Barrett, Bryson, Dubus II and III, Faulkner, Lee, Lopez and my collection of Norton Anthologies of English and American literature. (Note to self: stop by IKEA for another 5-shelf Billy in black-brown.) I grabbed my Christmas gift card, slipped into my Skechers and carted myself to the nearest book store for a good browse and a large latte.
My procrastination excursion opened to an encounter with a local writer promoting his second book. “See?” says Green, “HE writes.” A nice chat ensued and, after perusing the 50% off table and pouring over all available Stephen King titles (the man has his own personal rack in the 'Horror' section...insane), I stopped at the promo table and picked up a copy of Power Grid, complete with personal inscription from author, Art Adkins. One thing I learned in school is to support my fellow artists because, one fine day, they will support me in return.
I managed the prologue of Power Grid while sipping my latte in the bookstore café. Yea. Art's a little adverb-happy. (Yes, I know. Everyone's a critic). I hope the story picks up, but that discovery will have to wait. Right now, I have my own personal copy of "On Writing" to dawdle over for a little while longer. No, it's not the solid, hard-bound edition with the dust cover picturing a butter cream bay window and storm door trimmed by lively impatiens that I illicitly checked out of the WPUC library and must discreetly return. (Adverbs, Glenda. Adverbs.) Mine is the soft-bound edition with that waxy-cum-suede finish on the cover. That finish that lends a sort of sensuality to the touch as my fingertips caress nubby, raised lettering. Moreover, the cover artwork is a simple black-and-white shot of the author in his workspace - cluttered, feet up, corgi standing guard - working. Writing.
Ms. Green is nagging. “Hel-lo-o! So what if the only King you’ve read is “On Writing” and “The Green Mile”, at least he WRITES.” Green can be a real bitch sometimes, but she’s right; I have managed to procrastinate the rewrite of my current short story enough to replace the manuscript in my 'to do' tray for next weekend when I will have one full 24-hour period to concentrate on nothing but those words. BUT...I have posted another blog.
So, there, Ms. Green. Take that!
It's ten days into a new year and long past time to start making good on those lame-duck resolutions that we all spew in our 12:01 a.m. drunken stupors. "I resolve to quit smoking!" "I resolve to get into shape!" "I resolve to eat better!" "I resolve to get sober!" "I resolve to learn piano!" By ten days into the New Year, you realize that your arthritis will never allow you to graduate beyond “Chopsticks”, you've just cracked open your second carton of Marlboros, your third fifth of bourbon is down three fingers, and your pantry has been neatly restocked with Cheez-Its, Ho-Hos and Orville Redenbacher's Movie Theater popcorn (extra butter). As my alter-ego, Ms. Green, says "I've never met a resolution I couldn't break."
MY resolution for 2011 is the quintessential, perennial, unpublished writer's pledge: "I will read more and I will write Every Day." I’ve got the ‘read more’ portion down, but, silly me, I forgot to set my specific, daily word count goal. Mr. King is quite firm on the idea of professional writers having set professional tasks - 'X' number of words per day, 'X' number of pages per day - and I have managed to overlook that crucial detail yet again.
For the past three years, my writing has been assigned to me by some very demanding professors. It was what this natural-born procrastinator needed and, I suppose, that's why I got my bachelors degree so late in life. But it did exert the necessary pressure on me to perform. To write. Now, the challenge is to write without procrastination. To put the pressure on myself. To demand my own performance. I demand a lot of myself in my day job, so I can demand just as much of my writing self. That shouldn't be too hard. Right?
The depths of my brain ring with Ms. Green’s raucous laughter. She knows me too well. I think she might’ve peed herself.
Rather than immediately plant myself at my desk with pen and paper like a good-girl-aspiring-writer, today, after finishing "On Writing", I opted for a trip to the book store. I felt compelled to purchase a copy of Mr. King's personal master’s class for myself. One that I can flag, jot my margin notes in and prominently display on my brimming IKEA bookshelf next to my copies of Barrett, Bryson, Dubus II and III, Faulkner, Lee, Lopez and my collection of Norton Anthologies of English and American literature. (Note to self: stop by IKEA for another 5-shelf Billy in black-brown.) I grabbed my Christmas gift card, slipped into my Skechers and carted myself to the nearest book store for a good browse and a large latte.
My procrastination excursion opened to an encounter with a local writer promoting his second book. “See?” says Green, “HE writes.” A nice chat ensued and, after perusing the 50% off table and pouring over all available Stephen King titles (the man has his own personal rack in the 'Horror' section...insane), I stopped at the promo table and picked up a copy of Power Grid, complete with personal inscription from author, Art Adkins. One thing I learned in school is to support my fellow artists because, one fine day, they will support me in return.
I managed the prologue of Power Grid while sipping my latte in the bookstore café. Yea. Art's a little adverb-happy. (Yes, I know. Everyone's a critic). I hope the story picks up, but that discovery will have to wait. Right now, I have my own personal copy of "On Writing" to dawdle over for a little while longer. No, it's not the solid, hard-bound edition with the dust cover picturing a butter cream bay window and storm door trimmed by lively impatiens that I illicitly checked out of the WPUC library and must discreetly return. (Adverbs, Glenda. Adverbs.) Mine is the soft-bound edition with that waxy-cum-suede finish on the cover. That finish that lends a sort of sensuality to the touch as my fingertips caress nubby, raised lettering. Moreover, the cover artwork is a simple black-and-white shot of the author in his workspace - cluttered, feet up, corgi standing guard - working. Writing.
Ms. Green is nagging. “Hel-lo-o! So what if the only King you’ve read is “On Writing” and “The Green Mile”, at least he WRITES.” Green can be a real bitch sometimes, but she’s right; I have managed to procrastinate the rewrite of my current short story enough to replace the manuscript in my 'to do' tray for next weekend when I will have one full 24-hour period to concentrate on nothing but those words. BUT...I have posted another blog.
So, there, Ms. Green. Take that!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
...On Rings and Bling and Real Things
Celebrity status is habitually defined by its influence on society's average Joe. The lower echelons deify the upper, and the upper echelons dutifully perform for continued deification. Vicious cycle and tax bracket differentials aside, who doesn’t welcome a little adoration now and again? Still, it amazes me how obnoxiously we follow our celebrities. I have no idea why I’m amazed by this given the human herd mentality, but I am. We ogle paparazzi shots, maliciously gossip over tabloid fodder and Twitter profusely about celebrities – their lives, their loves, their families, fashions and foibles. But, there’s a problem with this superfluous adulation. It fosters totally unrealistic, real-world expectations. We want what they got whether we can afford it or not. (Hmmm…shades of Obamanomics, but that’s a whole other topic.)
Recent case in point: St. Louis Cardinals pitcher, Brad Penny proposed to his Dancing With The Stars girlfriend, Karina Smirnoff. She’s a professional dancer on the highest ranked popularity contest in the country. He’s got a multi-million dollar contract so, of course, he can afford to drop $95K on a platinum-set boulder. While I sincerely wish the couple a lifetime of happiness (really, I do), it galls me that Smirnoff is sporting ice worth half my mortgage value. (Notice, I said mortgage value, not home value.) I suppose that’s my fault for marrying poor and divorcing poorer. Twice.
But I digress. Here’s my real beef. How many OMG-tweeting girls out there just itching for a hitching will be dropping Karina’s bling as a most unsubtle hint to their steady beaus? How many of those hapless, shell-shocked guys will be shuttling their IRAs into off-shore accounts and heading for the far reaches of the galaxy to avoid their over-expectant girlfriends? Worse yet, how many of these poor schmoes will plunge themselves into lifelong financial ruin in a futile attempt not to disappoint their bridezilla-to-be?
Exactly what expectations are being established between a couple – blatantly or subliminally, celebrity or not – when two bedrooms and a bath are weighing down her left hand and his wallet? First comes the overpriced ring, then the over-the-top wedding, then the overinflated mortgage followed by the overindulged 2.3 kids…and a dog. All that’s the “for better” stuff. What will you expect from him – from each other – when the “or for worse” stuff arrives? Hmmm?
Since the early 1200's, Western tradition dictates that a man offer a gift, often a ring, to a woman in exchange for her promise to marry him. Nice tradition for claiming property and only slightly less proprietary than the feudal bride price. Reminds me of branding cattle. Anyway, according to my web search, this whole ring thing began in Rome. Not until the late 19th century were gem-bearing rings popularized as contractual engagment symbols. Diamonds didn’t outgun other gems until the 1930’s when they were purchased, primarily, as depression-era investments. The family dower, if you will. Before that, engagement gifts were exchanged by both parties and could have been anything; jewelry, cutlery, or even a pair of blue satin Manolos.
Puritanical lovebirds opted for a sewing thimble as the betrothal gift of choice. How romantic and practical, too! Branding by subservience! Historically, premarital expectations were established by religious dogma and were, well, reasonable. My feminist friends are probably dry-heaving about now, but remember; life, love and relationships were much, much different before diamonds were a girl’s best friend.
Look, kiddies, take it from one who knows. Marriage is hard enough without burdening entry into the union with undue debt, especially now.
My recommendation? Celebs, since you are forced role models, be so in all aspects of life, not just on the ball field or dance floor. Stinking rich or not, at least try. Commoners, forego the celebrity-sized expense and keep your two bedrooms and a bath. Settle for a carport and drop a garage’s worth on her finger to start. You can always upgrade to the condo-sized rock later after you can actually afford a stone equal in value to real estate. Come to think of it, in today’s post-meltdown economy, that doesn’t really amount to much, does it.
Try this. If your paramour truly-ooley is “The One”, recycle grandma’s diamonds. It’s an ecologically sound option. It's far less costly. And you have no politically incorrect, “conflict diamond” consternation. All of grandma's gems were conflict-born and the statute of limitations has expired. Besides, it just might instill a deeper sense of commitment between the two of you because of its family heirloom status.
If it seems like this hopeful romantic is waxing romantically ambivalent, I am. Still, I suppose something precious should be exchanged when popping the question. Truth be told, I really do prefer jewelry. Face it, chicks like bling and I am a chick. Jewelry is a nice deal sealer. But remember: Bling is pretty. Bling is shiny. Bling temporarily blinds us to the true reality of marriage.
Recent case in point: St. Louis Cardinals pitcher, Brad Penny proposed to his Dancing With The Stars girlfriend, Karina Smirnoff. She’s a professional dancer on the highest ranked popularity contest in the country. He’s got a multi-million dollar contract so, of course, he can afford to drop $95K on a platinum-set boulder. While I sincerely wish the couple a lifetime of happiness (really, I do), it galls me that Smirnoff is sporting ice worth half my mortgage value. (Notice, I said mortgage value, not home value.) I suppose that’s my fault for marrying poor and divorcing poorer. Twice.
But I digress. Here’s my real beef. How many OMG-tweeting girls out there just itching for a hitching will be dropping Karina’s bling as a most unsubtle hint to their steady beaus? How many of those hapless, shell-shocked guys will be shuttling their IRAs into off-shore accounts and heading for the far reaches of the galaxy to avoid their over-expectant girlfriends? Worse yet, how many of these poor schmoes will plunge themselves into lifelong financial ruin in a futile attempt not to disappoint their bridezilla-to-be?
Exactly what expectations are being established between a couple – blatantly or subliminally, celebrity or not – when two bedrooms and a bath are weighing down her left hand and his wallet? First comes the overpriced ring, then the over-the-top wedding, then the overinflated mortgage followed by the overindulged 2.3 kids…and a dog. All that’s the “for better” stuff. What will you expect from him – from each other – when the “or for worse” stuff arrives? Hmmm?
Since the early 1200's, Western tradition dictates that a man offer a gift, often a ring, to a woman in exchange for her promise to marry him. Nice tradition for claiming property and only slightly less proprietary than the feudal bride price. Reminds me of branding cattle. Anyway, according to my web search, this whole ring thing began in Rome. Not until the late 19th century were gem-bearing rings popularized as contractual engagment symbols. Diamonds didn’t outgun other gems until the 1930’s when they were purchased, primarily, as depression-era investments. The family dower, if you will. Before that, engagement gifts were exchanged by both parties and could have been anything; jewelry, cutlery, or even a pair of blue satin Manolos.
Puritanical lovebirds opted for a sewing thimble as the betrothal gift of choice. How romantic and practical, too! Branding by subservience! Historically, premarital expectations were established by religious dogma and were, well, reasonable. My feminist friends are probably dry-heaving about now, but remember; life, love and relationships were much, much different before diamonds were a girl’s best friend.
Look, kiddies, take it from one who knows. Marriage is hard enough without burdening entry into the union with undue debt, especially now.
My recommendation? Celebs, since you are forced role models, be so in all aspects of life, not just on the ball field or dance floor. Stinking rich or not, at least try. Commoners, forego the celebrity-sized expense and keep your two bedrooms and a bath. Settle for a carport and drop a garage’s worth on her finger to start. You can always upgrade to the condo-sized rock later after you can actually afford a stone equal in value to real estate. Come to think of it, in today’s post-meltdown economy, that doesn’t really amount to much, does it.
Try this. If your paramour truly-ooley is “The One”, recycle grandma’s diamonds. It’s an ecologically sound option. It's far less costly. And you have no politically incorrect, “conflict diamond” consternation. All of grandma's gems were conflict-born and the statute of limitations has expired. Besides, it just might instill a deeper sense of commitment between the two of you because of its family heirloom status.
If it seems like this hopeful romantic is waxing romantically ambivalent, I am. Still, I suppose something precious should be exchanged when popping the question. Truth be told, I really do prefer jewelry. Face it, chicks like bling and I am a chick. Jewelry is a nice deal sealer. But remember: Bling is pretty. Bling is shiny. Bling temporarily blinds us to the true reality of marriage.
Friday, August 13, 2010
On Lights and ends of tunnels...
Friday the 13th. It's been an ominous date ever since Philip IV of France ordered his unholy rout of the Knights Templar back in 1307. A bankrupt king declares war on his creditors, arresting, torturing and executing virtually the entire Holy Order and bullying the Pope to disband the remnants.
Hmmm.... Sounds a bit like the medieval precursor to the AIG bailout. Absolution of debts without all that messy inquisition nonsense or charred flesh.
My Friday the 13th is not nearly as onerous as the original, though it does smack of financial tumult. I awoke this morning with the dread and apprehension of one as overextended as King Philip.
I graduate from college this month.Technically, my degree confers on August 31st after final grades post and I sweat over tenths of percentages to maintain my magna cum laude status. It will be a rather unceremonious event, a trembling peek at a website followed by either a ridiculously embarrassing happy dance mid-office, or a mad dash down the hall to hide the tears. Yes, GPA is that important to me. After that I'll get a large piece of paper in the mail - no robes or mortarboards or Pomp and Circumstance, just that coveted piece of parchment.
After three very long undergraduate years at Rollins, I will finally have my very belated Bachelor of Arts degree. (Side note to anyone thinking of going back to school, but feels they're too old to - just do it - sorry, Nike.) I've achieved this milestone through sheer stubbornness (more on that in a later blog) and by amassing twice my annual salary in student loans.
Friends, family, colleagues and co-workers are all so excited and proud of me for finishing school. "Congratualtions!" and "Way To Go!" and "Great Job!" and "Knew You Could Do It!" pepper my e-mail and my Facebook wall. And I am truly grateful for all the moral support so generously bestowed upon me. I really do have some of the bestest friends in the whole wide world. (I know it's not a word, but I'm an English major. I can say "bestest" if I want to.) They have been encouraging and helpful, always reminding me that "there's a light at the end of the tunnel." ...I wonder.
I am proud of me. I have achieved a very self-fulfilling personal milestone. I applaud myself for not giving in to the temptation of quitting and settling for just getting by in life. I believe in myself and I know that life holds more for me now than it would have before completing my degree.
The all-consuming question is, will I be able to afford my life when the student loans come due without a major lifestyle overhaul. I'm coming under some serious financial fire these days, as are we all. I find myself arrested by collector's phone calls, tortured by the monthly vaciliation between payments to either Peter or Paul, never both, and executing my monthly budget diligently, much to the chagrin of my pantry and gas tank. I wish I had a rich uncle in Washington. But, alas, I am bereft of benefactors, which is probably just as well - they love flaying their pounds of flesh as much as ol' Philip.
My grandparents worked for the railroad so I have a long and endearing history with that light and tunnel analogy, but I think my grandmother said it best. "Of course there's a light at the end of the tunnel, the question is: is it daylight or another train."
My degree confers the end of August.
The invoice arrives in February.
Hmmm.... Sounds a bit like the medieval precursor to the AIG bailout. Absolution of debts without all that messy inquisition nonsense or charred flesh.
My Friday the 13th is not nearly as onerous as the original, though it does smack of financial tumult. I awoke this morning with the dread and apprehension of one as overextended as King Philip.
I graduate from college this month.Technically, my degree confers on August 31st after final grades post and I sweat over tenths of percentages to maintain my magna cum laude status. It will be a rather unceremonious event, a trembling peek at a website followed by either a ridiculously embarrassing happy dance mid-office, or a mad dash down the hall to hide the tears. Yes, GPA is that important to me. After that I'll get a large piece of paper in the mail - no robes or mortarboards or Pomp and Circumstance, just that coveted piece of parchment.
After three very long undergraduate years at Rollins, I will finally have my very belated Bachelor of Arts degree. (Side note to anyone thinking of going back to school, but feels they're too old to - just do it - sorry, Nike.) I've achieved this milestone through sheer stubbornness (more on that in a later blog) and by amassing twice my annual salary in student loans.
Friends, family, colleagues and co-workers are all so excited and proud of me for finishing school. "Congratualtions!" and "Way To Go!" and "Great Job!" and "Knew You Could Do It!" pepper my e-mail and my Facebook wall. And I am truly grateful for all the moral support so generously bestowed upon me. I really do have some of the bestest friends in the whole wide world. (I know it's not a word, but I'm an English major. I can say "bestest" if I want to.) They have been encouraging and helpful, always reminding me that "there's a light at the end of the tunnel." ...I wonder.
I am proud of me. I have achieved a very self-fulfilling personal milestone. I applaud myself for not giving in to the temptation of quitting and settling for just getting by in life. I believe in myself and I know that life holds more for me now than it would have before completing my degree.
The all-consuming question is, will I be able to afford my life when the student loans come due without a major lifestyle overhaul. I'm coming under some serious financial fire these days, as are we all. I find myself arrested by collector's phone calls, tortured by the monthly vaciliation between payments to either Peter or Paul, never both, and executing my monthly budget diligently, much to the chagrin of my pantry and gas tank. I wish I had a rich uncle in Washington. But, alas, I am bereft of benefactors, which is probably just as well - they love flaying their pounds of flesh as much as ol' Philip.
My grandparents worked for the railroad so I have a long and endearing history with that light and tunnel analogy, but I think my grandmother said it best. "Of course there's a light at the end of the tunnel, the question is: is it daylight or another train."
My degree confers the end of August.
The invoice arrives in February.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
On My Long Absence...
I just realized how long it's been since I've posted anything. Did you miss me? This will be a short-but-sweet update post. I don't want any of you, dear Followers, to think I've forgotten you.
These past few months I've been burning copious amounts of midnight oil to finish my too long procrastinated bachelors degree. Seems an odd thing to covet, especially at my age, but if anything is worth coveting, it is one's education. Anyway, August 2010 is the golden month of my deliverance from oddly opinionated hack to fully accredited literary academic. Between now and then, though, I still have to finish writing a fairy tale, an academic paper and a marketing case study or two, as well as suffer through two finals and compile my writing portfolio. (Whew! Just typing that list exhausted me!) Needless to say, first thing on my agenda after my last final is haunting the Holt School website until grades post immediately followed by a bottle of wine and nap. Then, with luck and a generous contribution to my travel fund, a long hike somewhere. Sedona sounds good. (Now to find a wealthy benefactor...)
Watch for my celebratory graduation post in late August, and please stay tuned for more regularly scheduled posts on heaven only knows what.
Wishing you all a safe and enjoyable summer!
These past few months I've been burning copious amounts of midnight oil to finish my too long procrastinated bachelors degree. Seems an odd thing to covet, especially at my age, but if anything is worth coveting, it is one's education. Anyway, August 2010 is the golden month of my deliverance from oddly opinionated hack to fully accredited literary academic. Between now and then, though, I still have to finish writing a fairy tale, an academic paper and a marketing case study or two, as well as suffer through two finals and compile my writing portfolio. (Whew! Just typing that list exhausted me!) Needless to say, first thing on my agenda after my last final is haunting the Holt School website until grades post immediately followed by a bottle of wine and nap. Then, with luck and a generous contribution to my travel fund, a long hike somewhere. Sedona sounds good. (Now to find a wealthy benefactor...)
Watch for my celebratory graduation post in late August, and please stay tuned for more regularly scheduled posts on heaven only knows what.
Wishing you all a safe and enjoyable summer!
Saturday, January 9, 2010
On My Bohemian Baby...
I hate my daughter.
No I don’t. I love her to bits, and I'm dreadfully, terribly, obnoxiously proud of her. But I hate her nonetheless. Why? Well, folks, the reasons are numerous and are firmly rooted in my own, very personal, feelings of regret, but for the sake of argument, let’s just focus on the top four.
First of all, my Bohemian baby is taller and more slender than I ever was in either my first flush of youth, or as a dancer and competitive gymnast. Second, she has a ready openness and an entirely personable, c'est la vie attitude that, try as I might, I shall never attain. I happen to be as totally guarded and anxiety-ridden as the rest of my matriarchy. Third, she is as intelligent as she is beautiful. You can accuse me of motherly conceit here, but she is a former model who consistently earned academic honors throughout her high school and college careers. And fourth and most importantly, she is flat out, talented! My daughter is (as my waistline will attest) a sinfully delicious pastry chef, a provocative, budding artist, a not-half-bad karaoke singer, and a thoroughly distinctive writer.
"What?" you exclaim in feigned surprise knowing full well that the apple rarely falls far from the tree, "She's a writer just like her mother?"
No. She's better.
While I sit stewing over characterizations, plot lines, and the sticky 'K' on my keyboard, she opens her notebook, hits 'repeat' on her iPod, clicks her Bic, and starts scribbling. Her words flow like the Niagara, plummeting onto the page in a cool, showering rainbow mist of literary brilliance ... and I sincerely hate her for that.
As a parent, I have always encouraged my children’s interests. Always. Like my maternal forebears, I firmly espoused the “you-can-do-anything-you-set-your-mind-to” adage during her formative years. I still believe in that, as should we all. Am I jealous much? Not really. Honestly, I have nothing to be jealous of. I'm just patently amazed and, perhaps, a tad more than mildly envious of her talent. Simply put, my daughter, Danielle, astounds me!
My daughter first shared her writing with me one day when she “was bored,” as she puts it. She sat at my computer and pounded out her brainwaves. She typed furiously for less than 10 minutes, printed the page off, and said, “Mommy,” (it’s always ‘Mommy’ when they want something), “could you proofread this for me, please?” Other than a missing comma or two, I was rewarded with 525 words of unadulterated brilliance, and I’m not exaggerating or “mommy-boasting.” I was just so got! At age 22, she possesses an insight that I still strive for at age 50.
Now, I have always known my daughter is an astonishing creature (that is a "proud mommy” statement), but, until recently, I never realized how readily her talents flow. This last Friday, she and her best friend from high school - an equally talented and stunning young woman, and one of my surrogate progeny - surprised me at my office. The three of us caught up over a light lunch-cum-gabfest, and my daughter explained her literary process. She really does put a song on 'repeat' and listens until it fades into nothingness. Then she opens her notebook, writes down her predetermined first sentence, her prompt, and allows whatever else is in her brain to spew forth. She calls this "Word Vomit." (If you ever happen across that title in your favorite book store, BUY IT! And remember you heard it here first, folks.). Right now, Danielle’s pieces are short, more of the flash fiction genre, but they are concise, full-bodied, and easily relatable, leaving a tangy warmth on your soul. Sort of the same way a really good chardonnay finishes in your mouth.
I suppose what enflames my little green monster is how wholly original and fluid my daughter’s voice is. Perhaps it has something to do with how liberally her mind works. There is an eclecticness in today’s youth that is, often, sorely lacking within my pseudo-diversified generation. My writing is, sometimes, forced and a little rigid, just like my synapses, although my workshop colleagues might argue that point with you. I even have professorial attestation to my “unique, disarming, and brutally honest” writing. But Danielle is a force majeure.
One of the foremost lessons I absorbed growing up is that the really good parents always harbor “better-than-me” aspirations for their children. By this I mean that, as a mother, I hope and pray that my children will be fabulously happy and financially more solvent in their lifetimes than I have been in mine. However, we parents never seriously consider whether or not our children will a) follow in our footsteps, b) exceed even our own expectations for us or for themselves, or c) ignite inter-generational, hypothalamic envy, angst or competition. Personally, I find it rather disarming that, with no actual intention, my daughter far surpasses the artistic goals that I have set for myself. And she does so with zero premeditation. It just happens.
Trust me when I say that I am fully aware that my own writing is nothing if not genuinely impactful. I know that I am possessed of my own unique and wholly original voice, every writer is. But it’s the genetic predisposition that truly flabbergasts me. My mother is a Christian writer with a book deal pending. I am an aspiring novelist with three short stories in process while working on submissions for upcoming masters classes. My son is a poet, lyricist and amateur rapper. But my daughter? My daughter is a canon-worthy, naturally born literary artist.
Did I mention that I hate that girl?
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Merry “Kitschmas” to All…
Ah! The Holidays! Chestnuts roasting on open fires, Jack Frost with his pesky nose-nipping habit, Yule logs in fire grates, holly and mistletoe swagged over door jambs, and the lights. Oh, the holiday lighting! Not since Edward Johnson first electrified his family’s Christmas tree back in 1882 have we seen such spectacles of illumination gracing our lawns and public venues. For some "illuminating" history, check out www.oldchristmaslights.com.
Me? I’m a bit of a holiday lighting connoisseur, one with a specific eye for tasteful and tacky ornamentation, which I firmly believe harkens back to my Midwestern, Bible Belt youth.
My personal preference decidedly leans more toward the traditional, Currier & Ives style of holiday décor. I remember a stunning, red brick, Georgian home – black shutters, white trim, wide, looming porch, and two chimneys – festooned in holiday splendor. Real holly and evergreen wreaths adorned the doors and porches, white lights (long before white only lights were fashionable) wound around manicured shrubbery, and huge red velvety bows held each element in place. From every window shone a single candle to light the prodigal’s path home, while the main event, the family Christmas tree, seemed from the street to fill the entire living room with glowing warmth, red ribbons, sparkling glass ornaments, and if you bent down just so, an ethereal, golden angel hovering on top. For me, it was, and remains, the apex of tasteful holiday decoration.
Another street in my old home town has long been famous throughout that little community for its coordinated holiday decorations. Candy Cane Lane, they call it. Besides the obligatory, four-foot, illuminated, red and white candy cane obstructing the mailman’s access to the box, each home displayed a variety of lights spilling multi-colored cheer from its eaves, and a sequential three-block tableau of early ‘70’s, animatronic Santas, elves, and reindeer. There was, of course, the one house on the lane with its life-sized, garishly painted, two-dimensional manger scene complete with floodlights for night viewing of the Baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the Magi; and "O Holy Night" looped through the not-so-neatly hidden loud speaker behind the Heralding Angel’s derriere. At least the snow – when we had it – covered the cords and other wiring. It wasn’t my Currier & Ives house, but it was on our way home from midnight Mass, thereby making a wee-hours, drive-by ogling a family tradition, of sorts. Another ploy by overworked parents to tire excited children before stuffing stockings and hidden presents under our own, limp, sadly artificial tree.
But that was a long time ago, and in a far different climate than my, now, Central Florida home. Here, many of us hope and pray for a cold snap to swoop down the Eastern seaboard before fully feeling the holiday spirit. Native residents plan Carolina mountain excursions so their young children can experience snow. (No need…I’ve got pictures and a vivid memory.) And then there are the lights. No, not the lovely Georgian manor lights that I so fondly recall; those are reserved for public venues and mall atriums. What “graces” the homes of many Florida neighborhoods is, well…definitely not Currier & Ives, and even less like Candy Cane Lane.
Who knows if the trees displayed mid-picture window are real or not? With advancements in rendering the lifeless lifelike, who really cares? Just spritz the evergreen smelling air freshener, and you’re set.
Here we have Santa – fat, red, and jolly – sporting shades and speeding through the holidays atop inflatable speed boats, or Harley-Davidsons, or NASCAR replicas, with a phalanx of elves dashing haplessly after dripping tattered, tinsel presents in their wake across green, irrigated lawns. Santa’s rosy cheeks (not his face, mind you) are seen clamoring into unused, ornamental chimneys. Monochromatic lighting displays abound on spiraling trees, or icicle strings, or netting draped over ragged shrubs and palm fronds. Sheets of blinking lights illuminate rooftop landing strips. Manger scenes are faded, free-standing, plastic statuary with a 40-watt bulb screwed into the back of each piece. There are Christmas-y carousels, and dancing penguins, and bounce-house snow globes revolving on practically every block.
Those who attempt the more tactful opt for cleverly wrapped light strings, or glowing balls, or glimmering tubes hung from the branches of oak trees with a downward sputter that is more reminiscent of the static charge climbing rabbit ears in the science museum than it is of holiday cheer and merriment. Some people over-light their lawns, synchronizing the display to holiday music. One homeowner in a neighboring municipality has a sign in the yard informing viewers which station on your A.M. dial to tune in to as you drive by a lighting display worthy of competition with the now Disney-owned Osborne Family Spectacle of Lights.
Then there are those who fully embrace the snow-less, Florida lifestyle, and fill their front lawns with Santas in board shorts, diving into inflatable kiddie pools while martini-swilling elves laze in inner tubes, and porpoises tail walk around neon pink flamingos wearing red, fur-trimmed stocking caps. Perhaps I’m just too old-fashioned, too traditional in my holiday mindset. I want poinsettias, ethereal angels and Nutcracker Suites. Give me sleigh bells, silver bells, The Carol of the Bells, or nothing at all.
During one of my evening strolls, neighbors with far too many lawn ornaments year-round – my township’s “kitsch” house – were busily rearranging, restringing and resetting their holiday fare following a rather breezy afternoon. The spiraling light trees were rearranged into a little corner of Christmas forest strewn with gaily colored, twinkling presents beneath. The eight tiny, light-sculpture reindeer were firmly staked before a miniature plywood sleigh. Red, stuffed-nylon Santa-doll was stapled securely behind the reigns, while winking-mooning Santa was bolted to the chimney.
“Wind did some damage,” I asked.
“Just a bit,” one of the bent figures replied. “At least it will be calm for our new manger scene.” The bent figure pointed to a cumbersome box with yards of nylon spilling out of the top. The picture on the box top was covered, and I didn’t want to snoop, so I continued my constitutional.
Rounding the corner towards home a good thirty-minutes later, and much to my dismay, I was greeted with the newest holiday addition to the “Kitschmas” house. A 6-foot, inflatable, bounce-house style manger scene with cartoonish Joseph, Mother and Child grinning whimsically to one and all beneath a pinwheeling Star of Bethlehem. Ah! The Holidays in Florida!
We wish you a very Merry Kitschmas!
Me? I’m a bit of a holiday lighting connoisseur, one with a specific eye for tasteful and tacky ornamentation, which I firmly believe harkens back to my Midwestern, Bible Belt youth.
My personal preference decidedly leans more toward the traditional, Currier & Ives style of holiday décor. I remember a stunning, red brick, Georgian home – black shutters, white trim, wide, looming porch, and two chimneys – festooned in holiday splendor. Real holly and evergreen wreaths adorned the doors and porches, white lights (long before white only lights were fashionable) wound around manicured shrubbery, and huge red velvety bows held each element in place. From every window shone a single candle to light the prodigal’s path home, while the main event, the family Christmas tree, seemed from the street to fill the entire living room with glowing warmth, red ribbons, sparkling glass ornaments, and if you bent down just so, an ethereal, golden angel hovering on top. For me, it was, and remains, the apex of tasteful holiday decoration.
Another street in my old home town has long been famous throughout that little community for its coordinated holiday decorations. Candy Cane Lane, they call it. Besides the obligatory, four-foot, illuminated, red and white candy cane obstructing the mailman’s access to the box, each home displayed a variety of lights spilling multi-colored cheer from its eaves, and a sequential three-block tableau of early ‘70’s, animatronic Santas, elves, and reindeer. There was, of course, the one house on the lane with its life-sized, garishly painted, two-dimensional manger scene complete with floodlights for night viewing of the Baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the Magi; and "O Holy Night" looped through the not-so-neatly hidden loud speaker behind the Heralding Angel’s derriere. At least the snow – when we had it – covered the cords and other wiring. It wasn’t my Currier & Ives house, but it was on our way home from midnight Mass, thereby making a wee-hours, drive-by ogling a family tradition, of sorts. Another ploy by overworked parents to tire excited children before stuffing stockings and hidden presents under our own, limp, sadly artificial tree.
But that was a long time ago, and in a far different climate than my, now, Central Florida home. Here, many of us hope and pray for a cold snap to swoop down the Eastern seaboard before fully feeling the holiday spirit. Native residents plan Carolina mountain excursions so their young children can experience snow. (No need…I’ve got pictures and a vivid memory.) And then there are the lights. No, not the lovely Georgian manor lights that I so fondly recall; those are reserved for public venues and mall atriums. What “graces” the homes of many Florida neighborhoods is, well…definitely not Currier & Ives, and even less like Candy Cane Lane.
Who knows if the trees displayed mid-picture window are real or not? With advancements in rendering the lifeless lifelike, who really cares? Just spritz the evergreen smelling air freshener, and you’re set.
Here we have Santa – fat, red, and jolly – sporting shades and speeding through the holidays atop inflatable speed boats, or Harley-Davidsons, or NASCAR replicas, with a phalanx of elves dashing haplessly after dripping tattered, tinsel presents in their wake across green, irrigated lawns. Santa’s rosy cheeks (not his face, mind you) are seen clamoring into unused, ornamental chimneys. Monochromatic lighting displays abound on spiraling trees, or icicle strings, or netting draped over ragged shrubs and palm fronds. Sheets of blinking lights illuminate rooftop landing strips. Manger scenes are faded, free-standing, plastic statuary with a 40-watt bulb screwed into the back of each piece. There are Christmas-y carousels, and dancing penguins, and bounce-house snow globes revolving on practically every block.
Those who attempt the more tactful opt for cleverly wrapped light strings, or glowing balls, or glimmering tubes hung from the branches of oak trees with a downward sputter that is more reminiscent of the static charge climbing rabbit ears in the science museum than it is of holiday cheer and merriment. Some people over-light their lawns, synchronizing the display to holiday music. One homeowner in a neighboring municipality has a sign in the yard informing viewers which station on your A.M. dial to tune in to as you drive by a lighting display worthy of competition with the now Disney-owned Osborne Family Spectacle of Lights.
Then there are those who fully embrace the snow-less, Florida lifestyle, and fill their front lawns with Santas in board shorts, diving into inflatable kiddie pools while martini-swilling elves laze in inner tubes, and porpoises tail walk around neon pink flamingos wearing red, fur-trimmed stocking caps. Perhaps I’m just too old-fashioned, too traditional in my holiday mindset. I want poinsettias, ethereal angels and Nutcracker Suites. Give me sleigh bells, silver bells, The Carol of the Bells, or nothing at all.
During one of my evening strolls, neighbors with far too many lawn ornaments year-round – my township’s “kitsch” house – were busily rearranging, restringing and resetting their holiday fare following a rather breezy afternoon. The spiraling light trees were rearranged into a little corner of Christmas forest strewn with gaily colored, twinkling presents beneath. The eight tiny, light-sculpture reindeer were firmly staked before a miniature plywood sleigh. Red, stuffed-nylon Santa-doll was stapled securely behind the reigns, while winking-mooning Santa was bolted to the chimney.
“Wind did some damage,” I asked.
“Just a bit,” one of the bent figures replied. “At least it will be calm for our new manger scene.” The bent figure pointed to a cumbersome box with yards of nylon spilling out of the top. The picture on the box top was covered, and I didn’t want to snoop, so I continued my constitutional.
Rounding the corner towards home a good thirty-minutes later, and much to my dismay, I was greeted with the newest holiday addition to the “Kitschmas” house. A 6-foot, inflatable, bounce-house style manger scene with cartoonish Joseph, Mother and Child grinning whimsically to one and all beneath a pinwheeling Star of Bethlehem. Ah! The Holidays in Florida!
We wish you a very Merry Kitschmas!
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