It's been a helluva month. I'm pretty sure my ass is bruised from all of the kicks it's received from that bitch-goddess called life. I'm about ready to ultimate-punch it right in the beak.
First, I want to punctuate the chapter that I described in my last blog. My sweet Rilo girl is at peace now. I wish I could say the same for myself. A few weeks ago, I held her paw and looked in her eyes as she drew her last breath. It was the single worst day of my entire life and the guilt I felt (still feel) was unlike anything I've ever experienced. My heart thumped in my chest and knowing it was the right choice didn't do anything to make the tears subside.
In the weeks since, I've watched my other pets mourn (each in his own way), though I see a level of calm in them I haven't observed since our little girl joined our family almost 3 1/2 years ago.
Now her ashes sit in a little wooden box, on a shelf in our living room, so she can be with us as we relax at night -- just as she always preferred. When the time is right, we will let her join my husband's grandfather and uncle up at the family cottage on the lake. I think she would have loved it there.
I will remember her as a sweet, snuggly girl who would have gone to the ends of the earth to protect the two of us. I just wish we could have done the same for her.
So that was a giant finger from the universe. We are both still struggling with the quiet and the knowledge that she won't come barrelling around the corner at any second. But I know there will eventually come a day when I lie down at night and realize I haven't cried at all. Looks like once again today's not that day...but someday!
Next, I was rejected for a job for which I was ridiculously qualified. I thought I was tailor-made for it, so how could I not get it?!? I knew I was one of two candidates still up for it. I clicked with the people I needed to click with and my resume definitely supported that I could do this job quite well.
Despite being told they wanted to get this done quickly, the process drug on and on. And then they chose neither of us (Again, universe, I see your finger. No need to come any closer.) and are continuing their search. After the initial sting of "What the what?!? How did I not get this job???", I had the distinct realization that I wasn't upset. I lost out on a lucrative opportunity that I'd only really been excited about because of financial gain. There were some pretty major red flags (red flags for ME, but probably not for most normal folks who can get along in more conservative, religious environments) along the way, and I PROMISED myself that this move would be my pass to start something completely different in my career. It's time to start taking some risks if I'm ever going to attempt to get anywhere outside of the normal pitstops on the roadmap of life. Nothing against that company -- I actually think it's probably great for a particular type of person, and they were very nice to me -- but it wasn't for me. It's time to step up and really start going after the things I want in my life. The biggest risk takers are the ones with the biggest rewards. I'm a risk taker who's been masquerading as the safe 8:30-5 girl, and the timestamp on that persona has expired.
So I'm in a new job with a fantastic (and familiar) company, and I'm working three days a week. I have two days a week to take risks and see what's out there and to try it on for size. You never know what will happen and I'm feeling relaxed and grateful to this corporation for giving me the chance to continue to work with them in a different capacity.
But, seriously, universe, knock it off. I have Chuck Norris on speed dial and I'm not above calling in a favor if you can't stay in your own dance space. I've had enough of your spaghetti arms and I'm ready to dance the Cuban soul dance Johnny Castle suggested. I don't want any more of your Pachanga, thankyouverymuch.*
*If you do not have an unhealthy obbsession with Dirty Dancing, please disregard the last paragraph until you step up and take some responsibility for the cinematic influences in your life. Seriously. Turn off the superhero movies and watch this 1987 classic.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Thursday, June 28, 2012
This One's Different
I haven't posted in awhile. But this one's different. I need your help. In fact, this is a desperate plea. And I know no matter how I phrase it, I'll still be that person, giving away her dog -- something I have never understood and have always found utterly disgusting. But here we are.This is Rilo. She's a Basset Hound/Pit Bull Mix. We think she's about three years old, though she's a rescue, so we don't know for sure. She found us a little over three years ago while we were still in Denver. From the beginning it was clear that she had some problems that just weren't her fault. When she came to us, it was clear we were her first proper home. She didn't know how to do anything -- our older Lab had to teach her how to go up and down stairs, how to squat to pee...everything. And she was probably one when she came to us. And she was terrified of the car, which makes me think she was just dumped by the side of the road somewhere, like she didn't matter. My husband (then boyfriend) and I were resolved to show her that all of that nervous energy could finally be let go and that she would always be safe and loved with us. It took a long time, but she learned to fully trust us and she started rewarding us with snuggles and good behavior whenever her overwhelming energy level would allow. She was a wild one in this previously mellow household (Lab was about 9 and Cat Cat was about 8 at the time), but she was sweet.
We knew we'd need extra training and patience because she's a different dog than either of us (longtime dog owners) had ever had. We housebroke her. We taught her to sit. We taught her that Cat Cat was not after her and, while it's okay to sniff, it's still best to let him do his own thing because she's like a bull in a china shop with all that muscle and force packed into such a compact 55-pound body.
We'd wake up at night to find Rilo snuggled in between us (Cat Cat on the pillow above me), on her back, feet in the air. And no matter how many times we'd politely wake her and tell her to get down, she'd be back up there again the next time we awoke. She was settling into our home, but there was still a lot of nervous energy we were working through, so we hired a highly recommended trainer. She came into our home and showed endless patience and understanding with this special doggie. She helped us understand what traits were just Rilo and which things we could work with her on. She gave us very detailed and specific instructions on how to get her used to car rides...and pretty soon, she loved them. We even drove about an hour down to this trainer's facility, where Rilo completed training courses and worked on not spazzing out while walking past other dogs. (I phrase it that way because she LOVED playing and running with our friends' dogs who would come over for play dates. But that was in her own backyard.) She did great. She was becoming our baby and everyone was getting along great. We still had to be cautious when people came into our home because her nervousness would surface sometimes, but we found that if we just let people know they should ignore her until she approached them, all was well.
Well, things have changed. Dramatically. We moved several states away about six months ago and Rilo's world shifted. I'm going to cut to the chase because my husband has made me painfully aware lately that I might talk too much for some people's taste: She's all of a sudden an adult dog and her Pit tendencies are showing more than ever before. She's going after the previously social and ALWAYS around Cat Cat, who now hides in the closet. She now splits her time between playing with the Lab and asserting her dominance by biting his neck. She's not broken skin, nor injured anyone, but she's showing us that she plans to -- I believe. She recently had a full bloodwork panel and is in good health, so it's not a medical issue. She's just doing what Pits do. And I believe we are in an imminently dangerous situation, having two other older and therefore vulnerable pets in the home. It's sometimes fine and sweet and sometimes really not. I know very well that if she really wanted to hurt them, she would have. But her warnings are not falling on deaf ears and I am frightened for the other two pets' safety...not to mention what could happen with strangers in and out of the house (everyone's a stranger in a new city...didn't mean for that to sound weird.).
So, after lots of conversations with anyone who would listen (vets, shelter managers, behaviorists, fellow animal lovers, the homeless guy on the corner who just didn't run away fast enough), we're at the end. WE NEED HELP. I can't wait until she does something to our other babies -- I could never live with myself. She needs a new home and she needs it within the next few days. I really believe she'd be fine in a home with only adults (as she is now), but no other pets. This home would have to be active (she's heavily terrier, so she has energy that has to be channeled.) and have NO POSSIBILITY of children because I don't think that would ever be safe with these new tendencies, and that's not something worth risking. She's a sweet girl and I would never ever ever just want to pawn her off on someone else to make this their problem. If I didn't believe that she could be okay in another home, I would never even ask for help. But I want to give her every chance (let's just say every freaking Pit rescue in this country is so overwhelmed and unable to help. And shelters can't take her if she's shown aggressive tendencies, for liability reasons.) for the happy life she could possibly have. We just have to try to create that somewhere else for her because she is practically screaming that she has to be the only baby in the house.
I hate myself. I'll just put that out there. I hate that I've reached the end of my rope and that I know this is a problem that more love and hope cannot fix. We've done everything from Melatonin pills everyday (recommended by her trainer. Human strength...they just make her slightly more mellow, not go to sleep.) to throwing the dang tennis ball (which excites her the way Chanel excites me) for an hour, thinking it will wipe her out. It does sometimes, but her wiring makes her the way she is, activities be damned.
Look, I don't want to paint her in a negative light. I hope it's painfully obvious how much my husband and I love her. But I have no interest in lying about the situation just to get someone else to take her. The bottom line is this: She is a good girl. She is hyper. She is a breed that needs to be on its own, which means she'll require extra attention from her new mom or dad because she very much likes to be right where you are. I think it's her way of protecting and feeling like she's doing her job, which she obviously values very much.
If you have knowledge of Bully breeds and are an adult-only household and might be able to help, PLEASE please please comment asap. We have to do something very soon because this is an escalating situation.
I have made peace that there may only be one solution left, but I want a happier ending. And I want to know if/when that day comes that we have left no stone unturned.
Please help, if you can.
Friday, April 20, 2012
This post won't give you pneumonia, but inhaling vodka-laced Jell-o can...
It's Day Four of feeling like a lung is going to pop out of my mouth at any moment. It all kind of started Saturday when I felt a little out of sorts, but put on my party face for another rousing Supper Club, only to spend all day Sunday on the couch, being lectured by my liver on the differences between 21 and 30. Monday was a bit crappy and Tuesday was full on miserable. Cut to today. It sux, too. I'm rocking some Betsey Johnson PJs, slippers from Restoration Hardware that just about have this atheist convinced that heaven does exist and it's manifested in unattractive, but dreamy footwear. I've showered, but I'm breaking my cardinal rule of "never be without mascara." I think one is less of a person without proper lash coating, don't you?
Half-hearted jokes aside, all this time on the couch has gotten me thinking about the differences between men and women when they're sick. I'll be the first to admit that I don't get sick all that often, so when I do, I may get just a teensy bit whiny. You know why? Because I really don't feel well. There are tons of days throughout the year when I feel less than my best and have the sniffles, but I don't say anything about it other than, "I'm tired," so when I do say I'm sick I guess I expect to be taken seriously. I'm not asking to have a private doctor on call, but a little "time off" is in order. Since my current job title is Domestic Goddess, let me explain what I mean.
I want time off from The Details. Every single day, a woman's life is immersed in details. It could be the details of knowing which kid has which practice at which time, or the smaller stuff like knowing when the library books are due and which pet needs which treatment or appointment booked. It could be mailing the birthday cards or actually booking the service appointment for the air conditioner that broke the day before you went out of town...and your spouse just sweated until you got back, rather than making one simple phone call. (Can you tell how confident I am that he doesn't read this?) Details could be planning your menus for two weeks, then buying the groceries and making those dinners each night. Details could be looking more than five minutes ahead to actually plan something. They could be thinking about what everybody else needs before thinking about what you need. They could be remembering to get your wife's medicine that she sent you to the store for, or at least bringing them to her at lunch, so she's not at home, miserable all day.
Let me tell you, dear reader, I need a break from The Details. And I do not want to hear a damned word about those details in the week that I skip them. I don't want to see you pile a dish on the counter because you think I should have unloaded/reloaded the dishwasher today. I don't want to hear about ANYTHING other than my resting, feeling better and highly medicated state. And I don't want you to try to make me feel guilty about it. I'm sick. I've barely eaten in like five days! And, yes, I've been lying on the couch all day, watching TV and napping because that's what sick people do. They do not jump up to do laundry or to take care of household duties that are not dire. And in between coughing so hard I threw up today (twice), I did not clean the kitchen, nor pick up and put away the broom you left in the kitchen a week ago. And I'm not going to feel guilty about that.
Give me a break from The Details. Feminists forgive me for what I'm about to confess on behalf of us all, but: SOMETIMES WE WANT TO BE TAKEN CARE OF. I said it. The cat's out of the bag! Sometimes, after taking care of husbands, pets, children, friends, careers, households, we just want to be taken care of, too. And there's really no better time to show us that you're capable of being a partner than when we are sick. How about instead of acting like we're being lazy, you pitch in and do some cleaning since it seems to bother you so much? How about instead of coming home and expecting the household to be functioning as normal, you take a moment and remember how you are when you're sick? Men are babies when they have the slightest cold. (Bone breaks are another story. My husband walked around with a broken, swollen finger for a month and I once saw a friend break his collarbone while playing softball, but put off going to the hospital until he finished his almost-full beer.) All of a sudden, not only are you Florence Nightengale, but you're also his mommy, making him grilled cheese sandwiches and renting him movies...and cleaning the house, and doing the laundry, and making the phone calls and dropping everything just to run to the store for more cough drops. But you know what's weird? I honestly don't think we mind because we know how crappy it feels to be sick and to still have to take care of everything by yourself. Maybe it's the caretaker instinct in us, but I think taking care of your partner when they're sick is a great way of showing them that they can depend on you when the chips are down...or whatever that expression is.
So, men (all four of you who actually read this blog), please hear this: I'm not ragging on you. I'm trying to help you because women don't want to have to ask for the same courtesies we show you when you're sick. Just help us. Just fuss over us for a few days or a week or whatever it takes for us to seem back to normal. And believe us when we say that we feel like hammered dog crap because if she's couch-bound, sans makeup, coughing and her eyes are watering, I highly doubt your lady's just trying to get you to run the vacuum.
Half-hearted jokes aside, all this time on the couch has gotten me thinking about the differences between men and women when they're sick. I'll be the first to admit that I don't get sick all that often, so when I do, I may get just a teensy bit whiny. You know why? Because I really don't feel well. There are tons of days throughout the year when I feel less than my best and have the sniffles, but I don't say anything about it other than, "I'm tired," so when I do say I'm sick I guess I expect to be taken seriously. I'm not asking to have a private doctor on call, but a little "time off" is in order. Since my current job title is Domestic Goddess, let me explain what I mean.
I want time off from The Details. Every single day, a woman's life is immersed in details. It could be the details of knowing which kid has which practice at which time, or the smaller stuff like knowing when the library books are due and which pet needs which treatment or appointment booked. It could be mailing the birthday cards or actually booking the service appointment for the air conditioner that broke the day before you went out of town...and your spouse just sweated until you got back, rather than making one simple phone call. (Can you tell how confident I am that he doesn't read this?) Details could be planning your menus for two weeks, then buying the groceries and making those dinners each night. Details could be looking more than five minutes ahead to actually plan something. They could be thinking about what everybody else needs before thinking about what you need. They could be remembering to get your wife's medicine that she sent you to the store for, or at least bringing them to her at lunch, so she's not at home, miserable all day.
Let me tell you, dear reader, I need a break from The Details. And I do not want to hear a damned word about those details in the week that I skip them. I don't want to see you pile a dish on the counter because you think I should have unloaded/reloaded the dishwasher today. I don't want to hear about ANYTHING other than my resting, feeling better and highly medicated state. And I don't want you to try to make me feel guilty about it. I'm sick. I've barely eaten in like five days! And, yes, I've been lying on the couch all day, watching TV and napping because that's what sick people do. They do not jump up to do laundry or to take care of household duties that are not dire. And in between coughing so hard I threw up today (twice), I did not clean the kitchen, nor pick up and put away the broom you left in the kitchen a week ago. And I'm not going to feel guilty about that.
Give me a break from The Details. Feminists forgive me for what I'm about to confess on behalf of us all, but: SOMETIMES WE WANT TO BE TAKEN CARE OF. I said it. The cat's out of the bag! Sometimes, after taking care of husbands, pets, children, friends, careers, households, we just want to be taken care of, too. And there's really no better time to show us that you're capable of being a partner than when we are sick. How about instead of acting like we're being lazy, you pitch in and do some cleaning since it seems to bother you so much? How about instead of coming home and expecting the household to be functioning as normal, you take a moment and remember how you are when you're sick? Men are babies when they have the slightest cold. (Bone breaks are another story. My husband walked around with a broken, swollen finger for a month and I once saw a friend break his collarbone while playing softball, but put off going to the hospital until he finished his almost-full beer.) All of a sudden, not only are you Florence Nightengale, but you're also his mommy, making him grilled cheese sandwiches and renting him movies...and cleaning the house, and doing the laundry, and making the phone calls and dropping everything just to run to the store for more cough drops. But you know what's weird? I honestly don't think we mind because we know how crappy it feels to be sick and to still have to take care of everything by yourself. Maybe it's the caretaker instinct in us, but I think taking care of your partner when they're sick is a great way of showing them that they can depend on you when the chips are down...or whatever that expression is.
So, men (all four of you who actually read this blog), please hear this: I'm not ragging on you. I'm trying to help you because women don't want to have to ask for the same courtesies we show you when you're sick. Just help us. Just fuss over us for a few days or a week or whatever it takes for us to seem back to normal. And believe us when we say that we feel like hammered dog crap because if she's couch-bound, sans makeup, coughing and her eyes are watering, I highly doubt your lady's just trying to get you to run the vacuum.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Tennessee -- who knew? (This one's a meandering mess)
"Tennessee: It's not just for rednecks!" I'm going all Greenburg and writing a letter to the Tennessee Chamber of Commerce to suggest the above as the new state motto. Let me tell you, I would have found that information helpful before we moved here. Frankly, I don't think I had any idea what this place would be like and now I understand what my friend, Darbi, has been raving about for years. But, in the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I've really only lightly explored the Nashville/Franklin areas of TN, and that's about it. Of course, I did drive through a little chunk of some of the rest of it on my move out here. And aside from the young man in the purple car who was driving in the left lane and going about 50 when the speed limit was 70, who flipped me off while finally changing to the right lane, I found it very pleasant. It was pretty, green (After about seven years in Denver, I'd forgotten that grass is supposed to be GREEN and not brown.) and reminded me a little bit of my childhood and college days in Missouri -- and it gave me that warm, humid feeling in my heart.
Thus far, every single person I've encountered here -- and I do mean every single person -- has been incredibly nice. People thank one another about ten times in a single transaction. It was a little bizarre to me at first, but now I'm falling into it and it's almost becoming second nature. Don't look for any Southern accents in this household anytime soon, but maybe living in the South will make me a nicer person??? (Mom, I can hear you laughing.)
I have to say that it was a strange realization last week when I went, "Hmmm...maybe I can do the South. I might even like it this time." (A large part of why I didn't like it before was most likely thanks to the fact that we moved at the beginning of my seventh grade year, when I was sporting big glasses, big cheeks and frizzy hair. Seriously, Mom, I'm sure there was no polite way to transform my look without giving me an eating disorder, but holy guacamole, Batman! Nerd alert!!!
My life is really different at 30 than it was at 12 - thank hey-zeus. I (willingly) live in the suburbs (Never thought I'd say that.); I'm married; I'm trying to spend less time being so self-conscious; I'm no longer concerned with being "cool" or making tons of friends. I'm happy with the people I have in my life and anyone else who comes along is just a bonus.
And while it was a hugely important time in my life that I wouldn't trade for anything, I realized something about my NYC days: I loved it, but maybe it wasn't always good for me. I'm not going to elaborate too much on that because there were lessons learned that probably wouldn't mean anything to anyone but me. But it hardened me and threw me into a fast-paced frenzy that's lasted for quite a few years. I left that city in 2005 and I think I'm just now starting to shake that -- mostly because I've never wanted to until now. I think my blood pressure went up and just stayed there for 7 years. On the positive side, though, that city taught me how to be self-sufficient, the importance of being direct (people who don't like honesty are hiding something about themselves), and that if you want something in your life, you have to go get it yourself -- no one's going to bring it to you. They were the best days of my life, but maybe I need to create those days all over again, this time under the banner of being a 30-year old who's somewhat found her way.
Which brings me to my next point: I'm paraphrasing this, but I recently heard the following saying, "Decide you want something more than you're scared of it." I think that's where I am at the moment. I'm at a fork in the road and one direction is starting all over and pursuing new career dreams, not settling for misery, just because the security is appealing. No more being talked down to, no more passive aggressive digs that are absolutely not okay from someone who doesn't know how to do their own job and therefore looks to tear others down. No more backstabbing. No more muddling through. START ANEW and take the plunge. I'll make sacrifices; I'll work really hard and get cray-cray stressed. But I'll be working toward something I actually care about.
The other direction is going back to what's familiar and never really making an effort to see what's on the other side of that door. It's so tempting to plant yourself back in the middle of stability and complacency...but I'm hoping I have the strength to walk as far away from that as possible because it's just not me. The greatest risks produce the greatest rewards.
Of course, these are all "hypothetical phrases," but let's just say I never want to hear any of the following from someone in authority again:
"I could be in a meeting with 'the big man,' but instead I'm here with you guys."
"No seriously, no one cares what you think."
"I know you guys have put in a lot of hours on this project, but we're just going to present this, so you don't need to come to the meeting today."
"You focus too much on what everyone should be doing."
"You need to learn how to care less about your job."
"I've already heard this -- I don't want to hear it anymore."
"Sit down and shut up."
"You work for me."
"You speak with so much confidence -- I don't know where it comes from."
"Maybe you should ask your husband what you should do with your career. You seem a little lost."
I'm not saying I've ever had such ridiculousness spouted at me in a meeting with other people as witnesses, nor in a private conference room in an effort to hide the potentially lawsuit-friendly nature of these types of comments. (Of course not! Who would be stupid enough to say such horribly reprehensible things to their employees???) Of course, there are plenty of leaders who would never ever say these things. And there are a handful of people out there who even conduct themselves with integrity in the workplace because they know it's completely unnecessary to step on others or to lie just to get ahead. And I've had the good fortune of learning from a bunch of folks who prove that every single day they go into work (my dad probably being number one). I've learned tons of valuable anecdotes and skills from them and just as many crucial lessons of how not to conduct myself from people at the opposite end of the spectrum. But over my admittedly somewhat brief career, I've come to the conclusion that I just don't have enough seconds in my short lifetime to waste on people who, despite being full-blown adults, still haven't figured out the definition of integrity. And I'm not going to work for, nor with them.
But I digress. This entry really isn't about the bad behavior of others from past hypothetical jobs. It's about my new, fresh start and the beauty of having a blank canvas in front of me to paint however I choose.
My mind is a little cloudy at the moment because I'm bored and, frankly, pretty tired of not using my brain much during the day (needless to say, watching reruns of 90210 on SOAPNET and folding laundry or unloading the dishwasher doesn't exactly giving my synapses a trip to Jazzercize.). But my boredom is tempered by my gratitude for not having to take another potentially mismatched job that doesn't fit into my greater career goals. I'm taking my time in the hopes that I will find the perfect (or at least enjoyable) job. Let's hope it's out there! Because, in the end, no matter how great the company is (and there have been some...), you can't fit a creative peg into a Brooks Brothers hole. (But if you can figure out how to still collect the BB paychecks, let me know because that part's great!)
Side note: Just did a little research on General Nathan Bedford Forrest, for whom our neighborhood is named. Apparently, he made a shit ton of money selling other human beings and running his plantation. Like $1.5 million waaaaaaaaaaaay back before the Civil War. Then he was a General. For the Confederate Army, of course. And he slaughtered a bunch of African American soldiers. And then he was an early leader in the KKK. Outstanding choice of a person to memorialize through little boxes made of ticky-tacky.
Thus far, every single person I've encountered here -- and I do mean every single person -- has been incredibly nice. People thank one another about ten times in a single transaction. It was a little bizarre to me at first, but now I'm falling into it and it's almost becoming second nature. Don't look for any Southern accents in this household anytime soon, but maybe living in the South will make me a nicer person??? (Mom, I can hear you laughing.)
I have to say that it was a strange realization last week when I went, "Hmmm...maybe I can do the South. I might even like it this time." (A large part of why I didn't like it before was most likely thanks to the fact that we moved at the beginning of my seventh grade year, when I was sporting big glasses, big cheeks and frizzy hair. Seriously, Mom, I'm sure there was no polite way to transform my look without giving me an eating disorder, but holy guacamole, Batman! Nerd alert!!!
My life is really different at 30 than it was at 12 - thank hey-zeus. I (willingly) live in the suburbs (Never thought I'd say that.); I'm married; I'm trying to spend less time being so self-conscious; I'm no longer concerned with being "cool" or making tons of friends. I'm happy with the people I have in my life and anyone else who comes along is just a bonus.
And while it was a hugely important time in my life that I wouldn't trade for anything, I realized something about my NYC days: I loved it, but maybe it wasn't always good for me. I'm not going to elaborate too much on that because there were lessons learned that probably wouldn't mean anything to anyone but me. But it hardened me and threw me into a fast-paced frenzy that's lasted for quite a few years. I left that city in 2005 and I think I'm just now starting to shake that -- mostly because I've never wanted to until now. I think my blood pressure went up and just stayed there for 7 years. On the positive side, though, that city taught me how to be self-sufficient, the importance of being direct (people who don't like honesty are hiding something about themselves), and that if you want something in your life, you have to go get it yourself -- no one's going to bring it to you. They were the best days of my life, but maybe I need to create those days all over again, this time under the banner of being a 30-year old who's somewhat found her way.
Which brings me to my next point: I'm paraphrasing this, but I recently heard the following saying, "Decide you want something more than you're scared of it." I think that's where I am at the moment. I'm at a fork in the road and one direction is starting all over and pursuing new career dreams, not settling for misery, just because the security is appealing. No more being talked down to, no more passive aggressive digs that are absolutely not okay from someone who doesn't know how to do their own job and therefore looks to tear others down. No more backstabbing. No more muddling through. START ANEW and take the plunge. I'll make sacrifices; I'll work really hard and get cray-cray stressed. But I'll be working toward something I actually care about.
The other direction is going back to what's familiar and never really making an effort to see what's on the other side of that door. It's so tempting to plant yourself back in the middle of stability and complacency...but I'm hoping I have the strength to walk as far away from that as possible because it's just not me. The greatest risks produce the greatest rewards.
Of course, these are all "hypothetical phrases," but let's just say I never want to hear any of the following from someone in authority again:
"I could be in a meeting with 'the big man,' but instead I'm here with you guys."
"No seriously, no one cares what you think."
"I know you guys have put in a lot of hours on this project, but we're just going to present this, so you don't need to come to the meeting today."
"You focus too much on what everyone should be doing."
"You need to learn how to care less about your job."
"I've already heard this -- I don't want to hear it anymore."
"Sit down and shut up."
"You work for me."
"You speak with so much confidence -- I don't know where it comes from."
"Maybe you should ask your husband what you should do with your career. You seem a little lost."
I'm not saying I've ever had such ridiculousness spouted at me in a meeting with other people as witnesses, nor in a private conference room in an effort to hide the potentially lawsuit-friendly nature of these types of comments. (Of course not! Who would be stupid enough to say such horribly reprehensible things to their employees???) Of course, there are plenty of leaders who would never ever say these things. And there are a handful of people out there who even conduct themselves with integrity in the workplace because they know it's completely unnecessary to step on others or to lie just to get ahead. And I've had the good fortune of learning from a bunch of folks who prove that every single day they go into work (my dad probably being number one). I've learned tons of valuable anecdotes and skills from them and just as many crucial lessons of how not to conduct myself from people at the opposite end of the spectrum. But over my admittedly somewhat brief career, I've come to the conclusion that I just don't have enough seconds in my short lifetime to waste on people who, despite being full-blown adults, still haven't figured out the definition of integrity. And I'm not going to work for, nor with them.
But I digress. This entry really isn't about the bad behavior of others from past hypothetical jobs. It's about my new, fresh start and the beauty of having a blank canvas in front of me to paint however I choose.
My mind is a little cloudy at the moment because I'm bored and, frankly, pretty tired of not using my brain much during the day (needless to say, watching reruns of 90210 on SOAPNET and folding laundry or unloading the dishwasher doesn't exactly giving my synapses a trip to Jazzercize.). But my boredom is tempered by my gratitude for not having to take another potentially mismatched job that doesn't fit into my greater career goals. I'm taking my time in the hopes that I will find the perfect (or at least enjoyable) job. Let's hope it's out there! Because, in the end, no matter how great the company is (and there have been some...), you can't fit a creative peg into a Brooks Brothers hole. (But if you can figure out how to still collect the BB paychecks, let me know because that part's great!)
Side note: Just did a little research on General Nathan Bedford Forrest, for whom our neighborhood is named. Apparently, he made a shit ton of money selling other human beings and running his plantation. Like $1.5 million waaaaaaaaaaaay back before the Civil War. Then he was a General. For the Confederate Army, of course. And he slaughtered a bunch of African American soldiers. And then he was an early leader in the KKK. Outstanding choice of a person to memorialize through little boxes made of ticky-tacky.
Friday, February 24, 2012
What is Your Art?
If you can answer that question off the top of your head, count yourself lucky. "I'm a creative" is a sentence I've said probably a dozen times over the last six months and I'm not sure I have a response to that question that really sums up what in the hell that means when it's put in terms of actually creating.
I have to start, though, by saying that that's not my question. I wish I'd thought of it and asked you a long time ago, but I haven't allowed my brain to think that way in years. "Society stifles creativity with fear" and that fear can come in so many different forms: grey cubicle walls, smaller paychecks, being told to "sit down an shut up" (actual quote from someone who could have had a starring role in "Horrible Bosses".), having your work second-guessed because every writer has a different voice. It could be pretty much anything, and I'm willing to bet that it's silenced the vast majority of people reading this -- myself included.
Which brings me to my point:
About a year-ish ago, I had the incredible good fortune to get to know someone who struck me right away as a remarkably warm and comforting human being. His name is Jeremy Make and, as it turns out, we had more than just a vivacious friend in common: we both love film and the creative process. In fact, he loves it so much that he and his friend named Andy Raney decided to take a journey across the U.S. together and to make a movie about it. Oh, and have I mentioned that they drove in a souped-up golf cart? Well, they did, and the documentary is called "kArt Arcoss America." They met people along the way that you'd never expect to hold the jobs they do -- and to be so passionate about them. They turned their art into a living. They shared their perspectives on letting go of what you think art has to be or what the "artist" is supposed to look like. Andy and Jeremy simply asked, "What is your art?" The answers they got, and the self-discovery they seemed to drink in, were nothing short of inspiring. Plus, they're both hilarious, so there's never a dull or tedious moment in their voyage.
Those two guys turned their experiences into art. And it's really f'ing goooooood. Seriously. I can't say enough about how damn compelling and fun this movie is. And I dare anyone who sees this to walk away feeling uninspired or stifled. After a long and stressful couple of months, I now have the urge to create again because it should never be about someone else. It's about YOU and making time for whatever YOUR art happens to be. And if you can't answer the question, "What is your art?" then Sit down. Shut up. And think. and after that, never be silenced again.
As for mine, well...I'll get back to you.
I have to start, though, by saying that that's not my question. I wish I'd thought of it and asked you a long time ago, but I haven't allowed my brain to think that way in years. "Society stifles creativity with fear" and that fear can come in so many different forms: grey cubicle walls, smaller paychecks, being told to "sit down an shut up" (actual quote from someone who could have had a starring role in "Horrible Bosses".), having your work second-guessed because every writer has a different voice. It could be pretty much anything, and I'm willing to bet that it's silenced the vast majority of people reading this -- myself included.
Which brings me to my point:
About a year-ish ago, I had the incredible good fortune to get to know someone who struck me right away as a remarkably warm and comforting human being. His name is Jeremy Make and, as it turns out, we had more than just a vivacious friend in common: we both love film and the creative process. In fact, he loves it so much that he and his friend named Andy Raney decided to take a journey across the U.S. together and to make a movie about it. Oh, and have I mentioned that they drove in a souped-up golf cart? Well, they did, and the documentary is called "kArt Arcoss America." They met people along the way that you'd never expect to hold the jobs they do -- and to be so passionate about them. They turned their art into a living. They shared their perspectives on letting go of what you think art has to be or what the "artist" is supposed to look like. Andy and Jeremy simply asked, "What is your art?" The answers they got, and the self-discovery they seemed to drink in, were nothing short of inspiring. Plus, they're both hilarious, so there's never a dull or tedious moment in their voyage.
Those two guys turned their experiences into art. And it's really f'ing goooooood. Seriously. I can't say enough about how damn compelling and fun this movie is. And I dare anyone who sees this to walk away feeling uninspired or stifled. After a long and stressful couple of months, I now have the urge to create again because it should never be about someone else. It's about YOU and making time for whatever YOUR art happens to be. And if you can't answer the question, "What is your art?" then Sit down. Shut up. And think. and after that, never be silenced again.
As for mine, well...I'll get back to you.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Are all straight men disgusting?
I'm pretty torn about the answer to this question. On one hand: yes, absolutely. (I mean, take a shower for christ's sake!) But on the other: no. Is there anything more irresistible than a well-groomed man with a nice haircut in a suit and tie? (wait, I think I just described a page of DETAILS magazine, which is not straight at all...)
I ask this question because I recently wrapped up my time as a corporate minion at a very conservative company, where a lot of the men look like The aforementioned non-disgusting subject. Suits and ties are kind of the norm there and they pay people well enough for those to be NICE suits and ties. Almost all of the gentlemen would open and hold the door for you, and board the elevator only after all ladies were in. (Perhaps it's all of the etiquette training they have them take, in preparation for those $11,000 business dinners?) It's not without its faults, but it's a pretty civilized place.
And then there's THAT guy. I'm walking into work a few weeks ago and there's a dude about 30 feet behind me, coming from another direction. We'd made eye contact and smiled at one another. I turned around and took 3 or 4 paces when I heard the loudest belch come out of his mouth. As it's echoing off the walls of the parking garage, I hear the worst thing of all coming from him: nothing. No "Oh! Excuse me!" (even though it kind of would have been said to no one in particular.). No "Whoops-a-daisies! Pardon me." (This could have taken place in Victorian England...you don't know.) Nothing.
Now, I realize I'm not a "lady" in the strictest sense (I'm pretty sure taking on the F-word as your most favorite word ever excludes you from that category...but it's so versatile!), but I am still a GIRL. And when I'm at work, you'd probably never guess that I'm as much of a hot-mess express as I actually am. (Exception: all work buddies.) And, frankly, I do not appreciate a lack of basic manners. Maybe it's a little Colonial of me, but say "Please" and "Thank you" and "Excuse me," even when you don't necessarily need to -- and hold the door open for people...which I did not do for him because he was so blatantly rude that I was appalled and had to clutch my pearls and run in tiny steps far far away, taking care not to expose my ankles through the ruffles of my hoop skirt.
Okay, that last part didn't exactly happen that way, but I did not hold the door for such a disgusting human being (who was, actually, far enough behind me that it wasn't as rude as it sounds.). I did, however, not hold back and say, "that's nice" after he burped so rudely. My guess is that he may have heard me say something, but probably couldn't tell exactly what I said. It wasn't too loud, though I think I should have said it to his face. Something tells me his mother would have been embarrassed.
All I'm saying is this: things happen. But that's why the words "Excuse me" came along. Once you say that, it's like nothing ever happened and people don't hate you.
I ask this question because I recently wrapped up my time as a corporate minion at a very conservative company, where a lot of the men look like The aforementioned non-disgusting subject. Suits and ties are kind of the norm there and they pay people well enough for those to be NICE suits and ties. Almost all of the gentlemen would open and hold the door for you, and board the elevator only after all ladies were in. (Perhaps it's all of the etiquette training they have them take, in preparation for those $11,000 business dinners?) It's not without its faults, but it's a pretty civilized place.
And then there's THAT guy. I'm walking into work a few weeks ago and there's a dude about 30 feet behind me, coming from another direction. We'd made eye contact and smiled at one another. I turned around and took 3 or 4 paces when I heard the loudest belch come out of his mouth. As it's echoing off the walls of the parking garage, I hear the worst thing of all coming from him: nothing. No "Oh! Excuse me!" (even though it kind of would have been said to no one in particular.). No "Whoops-a-daisies! Pardon me." (This could have taken place in Victorian England...you don't know.) Nothing.
Now, I realize I'm not a "lady" in the strictest sense (I'm pretty sure taking on the F-word as your most favorite word ever excludes you from that category...but it's so versatile!), but I am still a GIRL. And when I'm at work, you'd probably never guess that I'm as much of a hot-mess express as I actually am. (Exception: all work buddies.) And, frankly, I do not appreciate a lack of basic manners. Maybe it's a little Colonial of me, but say "Please" and "Thank you" and "Excuse me," even when you don't necessarily need to -- and hold the door open for people...which I did not do for him because he was so blatantly rude that I was appalled and had to clutch my pearls and run in tiny steps far far away, taking care not to expose my ankles through the ruffles of my hoop skirt.
Okay, that last part didn't exactly happen that way, but I did not hold the door for such a disgusting human being (who was, actually, far enough behind me that it wasn't as rude as it sounds.). I did, however, not hold back and say, "that's nice" after he burped so rudely. My guess is that he may have heard me say something, but probably couldn't tell exactly what I said. It wasn't too loud, though I think I should have said it to his face. Something tells me his mother would have been embarrassed.
All I'm saying is this: things happen. But that's why the words "Excuse me" came along. Once you say that, it's like nothing ever happened and people don't hate you.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Snowpocalypse!
It's snowing -- like CRAZY snowing. We already have probably a foot, and they're expecting another 8" by the end of the day, though it could keep snowing until tomorrow morning. Schools are closed (both public and private), government offices have shutdown, many businesses are closed. And my office is open. Apparently, life insurance brochures are more important today than the safety of employees! Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of respect for the very high-up decisionmakers at this place. They repeatedly demonstrate integrity and far more intelligence than I'll ever have, even if I hired Steven Hawking to follow me around and teach me stuff for a month. I'll give the company a lot, but I won't risk life and limb to edit an announcement. It can wait until Monday.
SO, I'm on my couch, immersed in my bad TV (There's a very angry son-in-law on Hoarders. I'm very angry about his wavy ponytail and his wife's Indian headdress t-shirt, but nobody asked me...) and trying not to mess anything up in my perfect house. Since it's now officially on the market I have to pick up anything I put down, arrange anything I move, wipe up any water that drips in the sink and put everything in a cabinet or closet so it's not sitting out. It's a pain in the ass, but I can definitely see that I have some natural OCD tendencies that could maybe be all-consuming and seriously annoying to someone else who may cross my path, if I let them. Good thing I'm kind of lazy and probably wouldn't end up wanting to put in all that effort, long term...
I'm kind of hungry, but I don't think I can eat for at least a half-hour after this episode of Hoarders. It's like swimming, but in reverse.
I really don't have anything to say...I'm just killing time, and, apparently, wasting yours. So I'll leave you with some random thoughts:
-A velvet portrait of wolves in an old wooden frame is a treasure, not junk, Hoarders!
-The only thing better than an Indian headdress tee is one with an Indian AND an Eagle...especially when you clearly have no Indian heritage.
-I'm having a hard time keeping my aloe plant alive. Apparently, I'm less hospitable than a desert. (Oh how I wish that were actually my joke. It belongs to Dimitri Martin.)
-Greyhounds look really awesome in their little racing sweaters...even though I am totally not okay with animal races of any kind...except maybe armadillo and chihuahua.
That's it. Have a happy day.
SO, I'm on my couch, immersed in my bad TV (There's a very angry son-in-law on Hoarders. I'm very angry about his wavy ponytail and his wife's Indian headdress t-shirt, but nobody asked me...) and trying not to mess anything up in my perfect house. Since it's now officially on the market I have to pick up anything I put down, arrange anything I move, wipe up any water that drips in the sink and put everything in a cabinet or closet so it's not sitting out. It's a pain in the ass, but I can definitely see that I have some natural OCD tendencies that could maybe be all-consuming and seriously annoying to someone else who may cross my path, if I let them. Good thing I'm kind of lazy and probably wouldn't end up wanting to put in all that effort, long term...
I'm kind of hungry, but I don't think I can eat for at least a half-hour after this episode of Hoarders. It's like swimming, but in reverse.
I really don't have anything to say...I'm just killing time, and, apparently, wasting yours. So I'll leave you with some random thoughts:
-A velvet portrait of wolves in an old wooden frame is a treasure, not junk, Hoarders!
-The only thing better than an Indian headdress tee is one with an Indian AND an Eagle...especially when you clearly have no Indian heritage.
-I'm having a hard time keeping my aloe plant alive. Apparently, I'm less hospitable than a desert. (Oh how I wish that were actually my joke. It belongs to Dimitri Martin.)
-Greyhounds look really awesome in their little racing sweaters...even though I am totally not okay with animal races of any kind...except maybe armadillo and chihuahua.
That's it. Have a happy day.
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