Merry Christmas To All

I was not raised Christian. I am a different religion, one that my parents and my ancestors have been for centuries. I truly love my faith and I consider myself to be deeply religious. Even though I am not Christian, I have always celebrated the joyous holiday known as Christmas.

I loved decorating the Christmas tree when I was younger. I thought about what toys I wanted to put on my list for months. I remember going to sleep as early as possible on Christmas Eve, because the sooner I went to bed, the sooner I would wake up and get to rip open my presents. I believed so staunchly in Santa Claus, that no red flag went up in my mind when the presents from him were wrapped in the same wrapping paper as those from my parents. I thought, 'Wow, that's funny! He must have gone to the same store as Mom!' My dad always got a ton of gift baskets from clients and associates, and it was our tradition, after we opened presents, to go through the fruits and specialty foodstuffs as we drank coffee and cocoa, picking out what we wanted to eat, save, or re-gift to Grandma.

It's amazing how early retailers prepare for Christmas, and now with Turkey Day behind us, there will be no stopping them. But I love being reminded that Christmas is coming. After all, it's just one day. Some people think that it's silly to get excited so far in advance of the date-- but in my mind, the month of December means Christmas. I love the songs on the radio, the lights all over the place, the candies suddenly available in red and green, and trading and baking numerous cookie recipes (a tradition I love to share with GW).

I think Christmas as Christians celebrate it is a beautiful thing. Thought it's not actually the day of the birth of Jesus Christ, it seems appropriate to have a day in which they appreciate all that he represents. But I think it's totally ridiculous that some people don't think it's right to say "Merry Christmas", and instead, insist on "Happy Holidays". I hate when people say that we should work and open the post office on Christmas, that it should not be a national holiday. Why can't we all, regardless of religion, enjoy the secular aspects of Christmas, and even its over-arching spiritual message? I would love if others did that with the central holidays of my religion. It doesn't mean that other faiths are less important. Obviously, you don't need to believe in Christ to believe in charity, goodwill, and peace on earth. Christians shouldn't feel that others are co-opting their holiday. Non-Christians shouldn't feel that they are being left out of the Christmas fun. And to be perfectly honest, I don't think the fact that holidays such as Hanukkah or Kwanzaa may fall in December is relevant to the Christmas celebration at all.

Christmas is an American holiday. In fact, all countries celebrate Christmas differently, so it's hard to argue with the American aspect of the holiday. I think we should all share in it together. Merry Christmas, bitches.

Thanksgiving

This is a very interesting Thanksgiving for me this year. As I have mentioned in other weeks, I am the oldest in a very, very large family (there are ten kids!). So, traditionally the holidays have been a really exciting and memorable time. However, this year I am on the opposite side of the country as my family and am not able to go home for Thanksgiving. (My husband and I are very lucky because we are able to go home for two weeks during the Christmas season, but in order to do so we decided to stay in Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving).

We were in this same situation last year, and we were invited to one of my co-worker’s homes for Thanksgiving and spent the holiday with her and her family. We were invited to do so again this year, but instead my husband and I decided to have our “First Thanksgiving” together as a family (we were just married this summer).

Although I have been really excited to make my first turkey dinner by myself (and also only for two people instead of 12+), a large part of me is scared to death of preparing such a memorable meal! Let me take a step back for a minute. My husband’s mom was a stay-at-home mom his whole life and consequently he had wonderful, home-made meals for him every day growing up. She is a wonderful cook and every time we have a birthday in the family, or any kind of event to celebrate, we always get together and she cooks a homemade meal. That is their family’s way of celebrating. Now, I am not a terrible cook by any means, in fact I think I am pretty good. However, pretty much every single meal that I have prepared for my husband ever since I have known him has been compared to something his mom makes. I usually get some response like, “Wow sweetheart, these (fill in the blank here) are really good…you know my mom uses this special sauce when she makes them. You should give her a call and get the recipe”. (This is usually followed by a *roll of the eyes* on my part). I know he would never mean to or want to hurt my feelings, but he just grew up with a mom who was a very good homemaker. Moral of the story: I needed to figure out what to do for Thanksgiving.

So, the last week and a half I have been looking through all kinds of cookbooks and websites trying to read up on cooking a turkey, making homemade stuffing, (I was SO thankful for GFriday’s pumpkin pie recipe…thank you!), and baked sweet potatoes. My mom isn’t really available all the time for me to call and ask her for advice. So, I ended up calling my mother-in-law and asking her for advice. We get along really well, so I wasn’t afraid of calling and asking her. My biggest concern, however, was using the same recipes she has always used and then having the way I made the meal compared to how she made the meal.

I called and left her a voicemail yesterday. I said, “Kathy, I am having a mini panic attack. It is two days before Thanksgiving and I really have no clue what I need to be doing”. I got a phone call about a half hour later and we had a great phone call! She gave me all the great recipes I will need and also a few helpful tidbits while I was preparing the meal. I laughed when she warned me that if I don’t save the juice out of the canned pineapple and canned mandarin oranges cans (for the fruit salad) then my husband will probably pout. Also, I found out some other funny antics that he has. For example, apparently he never thinks the turkey is cooked for long enough and is afraid of eating under-cooked meat. But, he gets obsessive about it and will make you cook the turkey for almost an hour longer then it needs to be cooked. So, she lowered her voice and said, “When this happens (and I guarantee it will) just tell him, ‘ok sweetie, thanks for noticing’ and just turn the temperature down on the oven so that he thinks it is still cooking and it guarantees that you won’t have an incredibly dry turkey”. We talked for at least an hour and laughed about some of the funny things that have occurred in the past on Thanksgiving.

Tonight we made the pumpkin pies together, tomorrow morning we are running in a Turkey Trot race, and after that the adventure in the kitchen begins! Although I was initially sad that I won’t be with all my brothers and sisters this year on Thanksgiving, and am very excited to create a brand new memory and start my own traditions! I feel incredibly lucky that I have a wonderful husband to spend this holiday with. Although I guarantee something will likely go wrong tomorrow (in fact, I already burned the crust on the pie tonight!), I also guarantee that the day will be full of rich memories and lots of laughter. I could never ask for anything more.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

Short Stories: Part III

The plane landed in New York without a problem.  And as every other time the plane lands after not crashing, I was thoroughly embarrassed by my behavior.  

The next weekend was Fourth of July and M and Evan took their first trip as a couple to meet me at my parents' house in the Hamptons.  My extended family was out too.  

M and Evan and I sat by the pool, played with my dog.  I offered them drinks, M said, "Don't worry about us, we're low maintenance."  Something about the "we" in there struck me.  I'm not sure how it struck me.  So I shrugged it off.   

I took M and Evan to my father's restaurant.  While Evan was eating, M asked him what he thought of his food and Evan looked at me and said with a laugh, "marry me."  I laughed.  Nervously, and way too loud.  It was uncomfortable.  The work week had gone by with me pushing scenes from airplane out of my memory.  My tactic was going to be to pretend that that split second of almost-something never happened.  Besides, it was almost something, which is practically nothing in most cases, especially where boys are concerned.  They are so rarely keen to subtleties.   

A little bit later my boyfriend arrived at my parents' house.  My whole family knew him so once he got there, the backyard lit up with conversation.  And at the same time, I noticed that Evan closed up.  I don't think he spoke for the rest of the day.  This made me so anxious.

After dinner we piled into the car and ventured to find a good spot to watch fireworks.  Evan was still not speaking or smiling.  Though in one of our many re-hashing conversations, my mother claimed Evan was very nice to her and that he asked her many questions- about her garden and about our dog.  I must have missed all that.

While the fireworks were going, I caught M's eye.  I mouthed, "what's wrong?" and gestured in Evan's direction.  M shook her head smiling sweetly, "nothing," and rubbed his back with one arm and said, "He's just tired.  Long day."  She made a sad face, sticking out her lower lip.  She was being so nurturing and he didn't even turn to her.  Completely unresponsive.       

That night we all sat down to watch a movie- of my mother's choosing of course.  "Across the Universe," my mother's first choice always.  It was a little late and so not long into the movie, my boyfriend announced he was heading to bed.  The colors and the dancing and The Beatles music of that movie always get me worked up, so I was far from sleepy.  Then a bit later, M announced she was too.  Right before she headed for the basement she turned to Evan and said, "I'm going to head down..."  

"I'm going to stay and watch the rest," Evan said.  I could see my mother's eyes widen in response.  I knew what she was thinking.  She was thinking it was strange that Evan was not going to bed with his girlfriend.  She was thinking, like every mother thinks when it comes to the apple of her eye:  that boy likes my daughter.

So we sat there on the couch-- me and Evan.  A decorative pillow's width between us.  When the movie was over, my parents' living room filled with a heavy warmth that only two hours of All You Need is Love will do.  We exhaled audibly.  I asked him what he thought.  He looked at me, his face illuminated by the blue glow of the TV-- "I loved it."

Now.  We're not talking about a sappy, romantic comedy kind of guy.  We're not talking about John Cusack.  I'd cast A-Rod to play him in the made-for-TV movie about his life.  Not that it'd be a great movie, but you know- he's not the type to love a movie musical love story.  That's all...    

The next morning I got up before everyone else and my mom was already at it in the kitchen.  Without turning away from her dishes she asked me what I thought of Evan and M.  I said, "I dunno.  Evan's not talking. It's weird I think."  

"Well, I'll tell you what I think.  He does not like that girl," she said with her classic, all-knowing mom tone.  I was speechless.  "And it's very sad," she continued, "because they're both very nice people."  I said,

"Do you really think that's why he won't talk?"  

"No," she replied, still matter-of-fact.  "I think he likes you.  And he's trapped.  He's here with his girlfriend and you're boyfriend and I'm sorry but he does not like that girl."  

"Oh my gosh mom shut up."  And I went back to bed.

My boyfriend, Evan, M and I got ready later that day to go to dinner at a great restaurant on the water.  Dinner was painfully awkward for me.  With Evan not speaking and M chatting carelessly.  I spent the whole time wondering if she felt something wrong, if she was going to be OK.  Dinner came and went and when the bill came, my boyfriend threw in his credit card.  I went fishing for my wallet in my bag and my boyfriend stopped me- "I've got you silly," he said.  Then Evan threw down his credit card and M pulled hers out of her pocket and put it down on the table.  Evan did not stop her.  

For me, if I was ex-girlfriend, this would be the one culminating moment where it all became clear.  The last red flag.  I don't know if M saw it that way though.  I thought him blatantly not paying for her was a huge deal.  It was so symbolic.

Evan and M left that night and I got texts from M, from the road:  "he's not speaking to me" and "i can't make him speak. I keep asking him questions."

Writing about that weekend is hard.  Because I hate cringing.  And that's what I do when I think about last Fourth of July.    

I went back to work the following week and somehow everything was back to normal.

I was to start a new job on Friday and so I was getting ready for that.  The new job was still in the building so it wasn't a huge change, but I'd no longer be sitting across from Evan.  Instead I'd be sitting closer to M.  

The night before my first day I was ironing clothes when I saw an email pop up on my computer.  It was from Evan.  I could tell from first glance that the neat paragraph structure implied that he meant business.  Before diving into it I assumed he was going to tell me that he had to break up with M and didn't know how to do it.  But the email was more unfortunate than that.  It was a love note.  A love email.  A love email from my friend's boyfriend.  

 

The Grinch must have been a lawyer

I knew being an attorney would mean lots of sacrificing. I knew that the large salary came with the expectation that I would be willing to work weekends and change my plans last minute. I knew I would run the risk of seeming flakey to my non-lawyer friends, and I knew that there would be times when I would have trouble planning more than 24 hours in advance for anything.

I just didn’t think it would come so quickly. Here I am, the day before I’m supposed to be leaving to spend Thanksgiving with my future in-laws, still uncertain as to whether I’ll be able to get on the plane tomorrow night, or if work will intervene. It’s a terrible feeling—to be as OCD as I am and yet not be able to know for certain if I should be making last minute plans to crash my parents’ thanksgiving instead.

What’s worse is that I know Christmas will be no different. I have filing deadlines the week before and the week after, and I may only end up home for two or three days, max. And I’m working for a firm that is consistently listed as having a “good” work-life balance. I have no idea if and when I’ll be able to write Christmas cards, or how I’ll find time to Christmas shop. I have brushed off my mom four times now when she has asked what I want for Christmas, and I have no clue what I’ll be getting for any of my relatives. And I’m contemplating scheduling shopping into my outlook calendar so I don’t forget to do it.

Yet, no matter how much I’d like to make my blog this week a full-out bitch fest, I find myself realizing that I have plenty to be thankful about this week, even if I may be sitting down for turkey at a different table than I had expected. Given the state of the economy and the legal market, I am grateful to be so busy. I’m thankful for the consistent paycheck, and for job security. I have law school classmates who are leaving in fear of receiving pink slips instead of end-of-the-year bonuses. I have good friends who will come no where near their billable hours and have spent the last few months coming up with a story to back up their performance. I spent the summer before I started working reading abovethelaw.com and fearing the worst about whether my smaller firm would be able to endure the economic downturn. And here we are, hiring attorneys, plenty busy and the future looks equally bright.

More importantly, I’m thankful for the friends and family that have been so incredibly supportive as I spend late nights and weekends in the office. I’m thankful for the colleagues who keep their doors constantly open for questions. I am thankful for my future in-laws, who have promised not to disown me if I can’t make it out to see them on Wednesday night. And I’m thankful for my best friend, who I thought would hate me, but was super supportive when I called her last minute to cancel Saturday dinner plans. And, I am thankful for my parents, who are willing to listen to me whine and willing to pick up and bring thanksgiving dinner to me if need be.

Then there is my fiancé, who is becoming quite adept at giving me the best hugs when I get home and assuring me, in a way that only he can, that I am really getting myself too worked up about things. Now if only I could teach myself to listen when he tells me that I need to just take deep breaths and know that I am doing all I can.

You Are Your Own Superhero!

Like all of us, GMon’y should get a little break, so here I am (GM-BFF) filling in. It’s the least I can do, given everything GM has done for me, especially lately. So, I’m taking a stab at offering some thoughts and some thought-provoking ideas.

I’m a big fan of self-awareness and reflection, especially as part of ongoing efforts toward self-improvement, so I’m always interested in new ways to approach the reflection process. Recently, as I was struggling through a particularly tough episode (and expressing some wishes about being rescued), one of my friends said something that really got me thinking: “You are your own superhero!” Now, I know this isn’t an original line—too bad, because it would be great to think that this friend came up with it on his own—but regardless, it really struck me and stayed with me. It presented an opportunity for an interesting intellectual exercise: what are my super-powers, what are my weaknesses, and what is Kryptonite to me? I didn’t venture into the more fashion-focused aspects of being a superhero, but I suppose that could be a fun game as well—figuring out what kind of costume I’d wear. I could certainly tap into some Wonder Woman influences!

What are my super-powers? Hmmm… I think my strong sense of self and self-confidence are the main things that give me a lot of my power and help me tackle challenges. Knowing what’s important to me and who I really am makes it possible for me to cut through a lot of the b.s. and distractions that life throws my way. That’s not to say that I maintain my powers at full strength all of the time, but I suppose every superhero has those lapses from which they must recover and grow stronger.

Against what am I powerless? This is an interesting question to tackle. The first things that came to mind are sort of silly, but very powerful in their own ways. The first thing is: vodka. I don’t mean that I have a weakness for it; I mean that it knocks me on my butt, even just a tiny sip of it. It is seriously like Kryptonite to me, in a very bad way (can you say “instant hangover?”). Bad, bad, bad. Next: a guy wearing Polo cologne (the one in the dark green bottle). Seriously, this smell bowls me over and makes me weak in the knees. I must admit that I’ve had it happen multiple times where I’m in a big crowd and all of a sudden feel like I’m swooning; after a second or two, I realize that I’m getting a whiff of Polo cologne. I think I might even fall for an old tennis shoe if it were wearing Polo. Yum.

On a slightly more serious note, the thing that really zaps my powers is being aware of other people’s pain and heartbreak. When I know that someone I love is hurting in any way, it slams me to the ground. (I’m skipping over an examination of my boundary issues for now…) By nature, I’m a fixer; I want to be able to make everything better for the people I love. Not being able to make things “all better!” for someone is tough for me, and far too often can make me just spin my wheels trying to figure out something—ANYTHING—to do. Of course, trying to take action just for the sake of taking action isn’t always the best use of one’s energy, and it certainly can deplete me. Ah, Kryptonite, you do slay me.

The more I’ve played with this simple phrase that my friend said to me, and claimed it as my own—I am my own superhero!—I see how it can apply to so many parts of my life. It resonates with me when I’m being independent and self-reliant. It serves as a warning to me when I forget to lean on the other members of my group of superheroes. It reminds me to be on the lookout for Kryptonite. Fortunately, it also helps me see some of the crazier things that happen in life as just one more episode of a cartoon. BAM! POW!

Pumpkin Pie

Hey friends. I have a nice, meaty topic I want to discuss, but unfortunately I don't have the time to give it proper attention. But I don't want to leave you empty-handed, so I'm going to pass on my very favorite pumpkin pie recipe, which I originally got a few years ago from Whole Foods. Everyone else in my family loves pecan pie, and every year at Thanksgiving they say, 'why don't we just have 2 pecans, no one likes pumpkin!' I'm always tempted to give in, especially since in addition to traditional pumpkin pie, I make this chocolate chip pumpkin pie that is amazing. (It doesn't sound like it would be, but the chocolate cuts the sweetness of the filling and it is so very delicious.) But, I really love the texture and flavor of pumpkin pie, especially when it is made with the true raw ingredients (real cloves, cinnamon from a stick, etc.) I look forward to it all year. For me, it's not Thanksgiving without it.

Enjoy!

Ingredients:
3/4 cup packed natural brown sugar
11/2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp ginger
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1/8 tsp cloves
1/4 tsp salt
1 can (15 oz) pumpkin, or 13/4 cups cooked fresh pumpkin
3 eggs
1 cup half & half
1 unbaked 9-inch pie shell

In a large mixing bowl, stir together the brown sugar, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cloves and salt. Use your clean fingers to really mix it well. Crack the eggs into the bowl and whisk them into the brown sugar mixture with a wire whisk. Add the pumpkin, whisking it in completely. Gently whisk in the half and half. Pour filling into unbaked pie shell and bake at 375°F for 45 minutes or until set. Serves 8.

Rich the Dealer

Last weekend I had my work Holiday Party. Although I found it a little odd that it was so early in the holiday season, it was a very good time. Each year they have the event “Monte Carlo” themed at one of the Hilton banquet halls. Everyone has a few drinks, eats a very nice dinner, and then goes to the other area of the banquet hall where they have casino table games set up. There are about 200-250 people and it is always a very good time.

This was our second year attending the holiday party. My husband and I had finished dinner somewhat early so we decided to wander over to the gaming tables to secure a seat. As we walked over to the table games with our inexpensive wine in one hand and fake poker chips in the other we decided we would stick with poker for the night. Both of us enjoy playing poker and we knew that the blackjack tables would get too crowded as the night went on. As we headed towards the poker tables we realized that one of the dealers was the same dealer who dealt at our table last year! No one was sitting at his table yet, so we decided to take a seat and talk to him for a while before other players showed up at the table.

Rich was our dealer for the night. He was an older gentleman with kind eyes, a warm & inviting smile, and stark white hair. He made me blush by telling my husband that if he was just a few years younger he would have asked me to dance! He winked and said after a few years behind him he knows a thing or two about the charm of a dance floor. After chatting for a few minutes, recapping how the last year had been, he started telling us a few stories. We only had about 20 minutes to talk until other people started to join our table and wanting to play poker. However, as I sat and listened during those 20 minutes I got an interesting glimpse of a very insightful and experienced perspective from a man who had truly lived a full life.

Rich told us many stories that made us laugh and smile. He had been retired for 21 years and made a clear point to let us know that he had retired at the ripe young age of 54. He talked about how he had worked for US Steel Company for his entire career. He went into a long and very detailed account of the one time he almost left US Steel…. Xerox had heavily recruited him to move to Buffalo, NY to head their finance team. He actually took the job offer, had a going-away party at US Steel on Friday, left for Buffalo and realized it wasn’t the type of city he wanted to raise his family in. He called his old boss on Sunday afternoon and got his job back and was back at US Steel on Monday. Technically, he never actually missed a day of work at US Steel! Not only was he able to keep his pension but he also kept his future bragging rights to claim he had worked at the same company for 35 years. Although that particular story doesn’t have much to do with the rest of this blog, I thought it was such a fun story that I would share!

After hearing about his children, Rich talked about something that resonated with me and that I have thought a lot about since that evening. He talked about how he and his father had a wonderful bond when they were growing up. He had a deep love and respect for his father and his father shared the same reverence for him. He said that growing up they never told each other they loved each other, because they didn’t need to. Both of them understood the love that was there and so there was no need to voice that feeling. In his own words: “Two men telling each other they love each other? We just didn’t do that.” He said the love between a son and a father was to be expected and shown through actions, but not spoken about.

And then his father passed. Rich said he could not get over the overwhelming feeling of sadness and regret due to the fact that he and his father never actually said that they loved the other. He said they both knew and understood that love, but that he wishes every day he would have taken away a little bit of his pride and told his father how much he loved him and meant to him.

He then spoke about his own son who is a grown man now. He said it is the best feeling in the world to call your son on the phone, ask how he and the grandkids are doing, get an update on their activities, and end the phone call with his son saying, “I love you Dad”. No shame or pride to the words, just a simple phrase that represents so much more than just three words.

At that time, two fellow employees asked if they could join the table. The stories from Rich stopped and we played cards for the next few hours. Although the stories stopped, what he had shared continued to tug at my thoughts. My own father and I had a few years that we didn’t see or speak to one another. We have since resolved this rift in our past, however, I struggle getting the words “I love you” out to him when we talk. It seems so silly and for some reason I get this embarrassed feeling when I am getting ready to tell him I love him so I never do it. I don’t have this problem with anyone else in my family. In fact, I probably have the opposite effect with everyone else by telling them I love them too much! Especially my teenage brothers hate that!

So, this is something I am going to work on this holiday season. I will be traveling home to visit my family for nearly two weeks during Christmas. Rich is right, there is absolutely no reason why I should be hesitant to express these feelings. And, if god-forbid, something was to happen I know I would continuously regret this. So, to Rich the Dealer, thank you for sharing a struggle you have had. Your lessons learned have helped me kick start a change my own ineffective behaviors.

Short Stories: Part II

Yes, E became angry with M.  And they fought.  And they resolved it, sort of.  And then they drifted.  And to this day they don't speak. 

But even so, the courtship of Evan and M began pretty swiftly.  It was like up, up and away.  

It was slightly weird for me, to be the friend that both turned to. Especially after being the person that E turned to about Evan.   And after very little time of being stuck in the middle of this new scenario, it occurred to me that there were lots of things getting lost in translation between M and Evan.

At the start, M confided in me that Evan wanted to hang out all the time. When was she supposed to do her laundry? She couldn't get her life in order. They hung out Friday, he wanted to see her the next day, and again on Sunday... She worked overtime on weekends, she'd explain.  "There's more to life than work," he'd respond.  Followed by several silent seconds of puzzled stares.  

But other than that things seemed to be OK. If she ever noticed a red flag, she'd forget it because for example, he'd send her a million roses on her birthday. And one night he texted her that he was falling in love with her. OK yes, a text, but still.....

Then our company sent Evan and I, among other producers, to a convention in San Antonio, Texas. Strange place, I'm not going to lie. It was about 115 degrees of dry heat. I didn't even know I was sweating until I looked down at the puddles that had collected in the creases of my elbows. It was so strange. And we were up at dawn and off to work at the convention to try to sell our product. We were delirious and exhausted by noon and yet we would stay until 7pm when the huge hall shut down finally.

At least I had my friend "Emy" with me. She is bubbly and funny. At every work dinner we got drunk and laughed. She too thought Evan was dreamy. It's like the girls just throw themselves at him- unbelievable. Really, I've never seen anything like it.

One night in Texas Evan went out drinking with some coworkers. I opted for sleep. But I got a late night call from him. I could hear the bar in the background.

"Don't you think it's weird?" he shouted over the din, "Don't you think it's strange that she doesn't want to spend more time with me? What kind of a relationship is that? I don't know what I'm doing... How often do you see your boyfriend?"

I brushed him off, told him he was too drunk, then got off the phone. I was a little weirded out, but our trip was over. We left Texas the next day. Like kids heading back after a field trip we were silent. Evan and I passed out on the car ride back to the airport. We snored. Our coworkers made fun of us.

On the flight home I had an empty seat next to me, that- right before takeoff- Evan jumped into. We talked about music. He gave me one of his earbuds and we listened to his playlist. I gave him half my granola bar.

Then we hit turbulence... for the entire ride. I'm not the best flier. At one rough point I cried hysterically and plopped my forehead on Evan's shoulder, dug my fingers into his arm. I have no idea why this made me feel better. We hit a bump and someone's soda can popped and flew across the cabin. I gasped loudly. The flight attendant patted my arm and told me I was being "very brave" which was really embarrassing. But the tears kept coming and I was holding my breath.

Evan put his arm around me and kept saying, "I said a prayer before we took off. And whenever I say a prayer, God takes care of me. And you're with me, so you'll be fine too." He let me squeeze his hand and he made little circles on my knee with his finger tips whispering, "shhhh... it's going to be ok... shhhh."

He made me laugh when he said nervously, "Isn't there medicine you can take for this kind of thing?" I smiled through my tears and wiped them away with my hands self-consciously and saw that my tears were black from mascara. I said, "Oh my gosh. I am such a mess." I grabbed for a tissue and Evan said with a renewed tone- a serious and subdued tone- "No you don't. You look great."

My heart stopped for a moment but not because of the airplane turbulence. This was a new turbulence. Like that false sense that something isn't a problem until you realize or acknowledge it's a problem. Know how that happens sometimes? It's why people say all that about ignorance and bliss.

The tears stopped momentarily with my head still on his shoulder. I didn't move because I was afraid that if I did he would feel me stir and he would know that I was onto something.  So I didn't move but my mind was suddenly very distracted and alert as I started adding up sequences, scenes.  And I became starkly aware that I had no safety net after all.

And I wondered, for the first time, how ugly was this crash going to be and who exactly was going to survive.

Short Stories: Part I

I love short stories.  And am so inspired by the colorful context in which the good ones are written- a retired doctor in a lakeside cabin, a young boy climbing on mossy castle steps in Edinburgh...  Think of all the places you could take your characters with backdrops like these.  But my short story does not have such scenery.  It takes place in a windowless office, with orange walls, a copier, and 30 too-close desks with glass partitions that only go halfway up.  

We'd worked together for two years and this was our "new" office.  None of us could believe that someone in 2008 would actively choose orange walls.  But it just added to our general, suppressed contempt for the mindless work we were doing.  We were bored.  And our walls were orange.  

As in any office space, we socialized.  Mostly, the 20-somethings (which were most of the 20 producers on the project) were friendly.  As time progressed we'd learn on a random Monday that so-and-so had gone out and got wasted with so-and-so over the weekend.  At first it was surprising to hear this news, but then it became normal.

One day, early on, a new boy came into the office.  Let's call him "Evan."  He was tall, with olive complexion, a brooding, serious glare.  He wore cool sneakers.  All the girls thought he was dreamy.  I never really got what they saw.  I remember showing my mother a picture of him on Facebook and saying, "Do you think this guy is good looking?"  She did.  And I really didn't see it.  

Also, I found the fact that he never spoke to any of us to be pretty smug, so I decided not to give him any attention.  But I remember, the second Evan walked into the room my friend, "M," emailed me and declared her love.  

A few months after Evan started, our company had their annual holiday party.  It was held on the set of a very famous TV show.  But for the party, it was decorated like different subway stations in Manhattan and each subway had a different ethnic food to match the neighborhood.  Our project stuck together at one table, somewhere between the skewers at Canal Street and the canolis at Mulberry.  We didn't know anyone else at the company.  

At one point our coworkers went to scavenge for more free food and left me alone at the table with another friend, "E."  We were chatting and giggling when a guy from a different department waltzed up to us holding a beer.  He had blue eyes and a big smile.  I bet he thought he was pretty charming.  "So, where do you girls work?"  We mumbled back, "...this website..."  

I don't know what we said to this guy.  The awkwardness went on for a while.  Then, I could see over Blue Eyes's shoulder that Evan was watching the whole exchange.  I looked at my feet uncomfortably.  Evan walked over, slid in right next to me and said loudly, "SO where do YOU work?"  I snorted, trying to hold back a big loud laugh.  

It was the first time I ever spoke to Evan.  And maybe it was the beer he was drinking, but he was very comfortable and funny.  He wasn't silent or smug.  After he scared away Blue Eyes I talked to him the rest of the time.  Periodically I'd call over all the girls we worked with who loved him secretly.  I'd say "you have to hear this story" and nudge Evan to tell them what he'd just told me.  After the party I texted my friends:  "he doesn't have such a bad personality after all!"

But it didn't matter for me.  I had a serious boyfriend.  Evan knew that.  And I sort of fell into the safety net that I often do, and I assumed everything was platonic because we both knew I was off limits.  

But I'm getting ahead of myself here.  

One Monday, a few weeks after the holiday party my friend and coworker, E, and I took a coffee break.  She had a nervous smile and I knew that well enough to ask about it.  She said that on New Year's Eve Evan texted her at around 11pm to ask her if she had anyone to kiss when the ball dropped.  She didn't respond to this message.  E is the nervous, shy type.  And I'm not going to lie, I was shocked to learn that the coveted guy in the room was advancing on the shy/nervous girl.  It's like the laws of high school were all warped.  Not that I minded- it would have been a nice twist in the typical short story.

But she was wary of the known hot guy's forward messages.  "I don't know if I like him," she said.  And I said, "If he's flirting with you, then you should go for it."  And I gave her that advice because honestly, I honestly thought maybe he wasn't a typical "hot guy."  And maybe Evan had fallen for the girl who was a nerd (not the sexy nerd, mind you) for Halloween.   And the thought made me like him even more.  What a good guy he was turning out to be.

So the following weekend E and Evan met up for a classic New York City brunch at an outdoor restaurant.  And while they ate and chatted a crazy-eyed man approached them from the sidewalk and surprised them with a pencil sketch of the two of them that he'd drawn-- with a heart around the picture.  I could just imagine E's blush as she looked down and away.  Evan just swatted at the guy when he asked for compensation for his art and said something along the lines of "aaah, get the hell outta here."

So, everything's going swimmingly, it seems.  But then there was M.  The girl who immediately liked Evan.  (Oh gosh this is so complicated and it's only going to get worse).  

M was pretty shocked that Evan appeared to be putting the moves on another girl in the room.  M swore he flirted with her one time at the copier.  But oh well, she must have misinterpreted.  We shrugged it off.  Then M got a job at a different department and she left us for a new desk down the hall.  And one afternoon she ran into Evan in the hall.  They shared smiling, mindless busy talk.  When she got back to her desk there was a message waiting for her from him-- "How are you?  Do you like your new job?"  Her heart skipped a beat, she got butterflies.  And an email rapid fire began.  

Meanwhile, Evan was hanging out with E on weekends.  But he'd yet to make a move.  Weeks had gone by- months even- since that New Years Eve text.  I was already aware of his new flirtations with M.  I advised E to hold back but didn't tell her why.  I told her to be less available.  To disappear for a while.  But she refused to believe that his emails to her and the nights they'd hung out at bars meant nothing.  Even if he'd never bought her a single drink.  

So she didn't take my advice.  Which is fine, you know, I'm not the type of girl to say she told you so.  A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.  I made plenty of mistakes, while being completely aware that I was making them and those were some of the best times of my life.   So, I get it...

Then we got our new, orange office.  And I was seated one glass partition away from Evan.  Whenever I looked up from my keyboard he was right there.  And we all became better friends. 

Then one night, after months of E and Evan going on these sporadic "dates" together (with no end-of-date kisses or concrete romantic advances, only innuendos and texts in which Evan called her "baby" at the end of some of the messages)-- we all went out dancing.  E, M and myself and a bunch of other friends.  At 2AM, E got a text message from Evan and we all huddled around her phone to read it.  She was squealing in delight.    

I read the words out loud, "who... are you... with?"  

What difference did it make who she was with?  By that time, as I'd mentioned earlier, I was skeptical of this relationship.  At first I imagined him as a nice guy who maybe felt comfortable with the quiet girl.  But I'd already started to think he was after something else.  Maybe he was just looking for a friend?   After reading that message, I realized he was after someone else.  

I don't know what E responded, but later that night (or earlier that morning) Evan showed up and later still, after all of us had gone home, Evan drunkenly confessed to E that he liked M.

Yes, that night was a disaster. 

Frolleagues: Friend or Foe?

I finally joined the world of online social networking sites with a myspace page several years ago. I couldn’t really get into it because I’ve never felt comfortable having all of my personal information out there for anyone to find. I like to keep most of the people who aren’t in my close circle at varying levels of information-sharing.

About a year ago I joined the world of facebook, which is much more entertaining than myspace (and a lot less weirdly flashy and pink when it comes to people’s pages). After friending several really close pals, I realized I needed criteria for determining whether someone would be a “friend” or not. I don’t mean to be a snob, I just don’t like the idea of 600 more or less random people thinking that we’re friends. Or being able to see what I’m doing. A guy I dated for two weeks in college doesn’t need to know I have a terrible cold and am lying in bed all day. Again, it’s back to that whole information-sharing bit. So I created the following, probably very weird, criterion:
-If I have never seen you first thing in the morning, in your jammies, or in some sort of compromising situation, then you don’t make the cut. (don’t ask, it was the best I could come up with).

This kept my list at a very respectable 18 for a long time. Eighteen friends, woohoo! Eighteen people who wrote on my wall, cared what I was doing, and got tagged in all my pictures. I seemed to have this facebook thing well under control.

Unlike with myspace, I put my actual name on my facebook page (the myspace page has the dog’s name. Good luck finding me – the whole point!). This wasn’t a problem until I got a friend request from a supervisor at work. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO ABOUT PEOPLE AT WORK. So I said yes, feeling very pressured to do so. Then more requests followed (thank you, People You Might Know Tool). I reluctantly became friends with all of them, but I feel now like I really have to restrict what I say. Isn’t the whole point of facebook to go out and say “this is ME! Like it or not, this is the GM that you’re friends with?” Well now I can never say

GM is……in an alcohol-induced coma
OR.
GM is……..posting her resume online!
OR
GM hates the bitches at work

Oh no, instead I have to say things like

GM is still at work! (total lie, I hate my job most days and manage to slip out under the pretense of riding the bus or having a meeting across town – not that anyone notices anyway).

So, for all of you facebookers out there with frolleagues, be careful of what you say. Or better yet, figure out how to stay hidden! And if you ever see the message GM is still at work, know that’s code for GM is posting her resume online!

The Latte Factor

A few years ago, I read the book The Automatic Homeowner Millionaire by David Bach. He is the "Finish Rich" guy (http://www.finishrich.com/). Bach contends that most people are able to purchase homes and rent them out to make money. Clearly, this book was written a while ago- long before the mortgage crisis we face today. Back then, the author encouraged people to live cheaply and save, and soon, they would find the money they need to put a down payment on a house. Then these people will find renters to cover the mortgage and upkeep, and before you know it, you're a millionaire. I'm being overly simplistic and trite here, but that is the general idea. And in the proper real estate market, I believe it's a strategy worth pursuing. Yet for me, the flatal flaw in this plan is the latte factor.

Early in his book, Bach dicsusses what he calls the latte factor. He wants the reader to take a long, hard look at the things they spend money on which are unnecessary. For a lot of people, it's expensive coffee drinks. This issue is close to my heart, because I love blowing a few bucks on a latte. Bach would encourage me to make coffee at home, or cut down on my caffeine intake for better health, anyway. But it just isn't that simple. I know I can make coffee at home. I know I should consume less caffeine. I don't even love coffee that much. I really like it, but it's not an uncontrollable adoration that draws me to Starbuck's or Caribou Coffee every day.

So what does? A few things. One, I like getting out of my house. Getting a cup makes me feel like I'm out there interacting with the world, which I don't always do when I'm busy working at home. And for people who do work outstide of the home, I think it's a nice break in the day or a part of a daily routine one can look forward to.

Two, it's such a fun premise under which to get together with a friend. When I was a kid, it was totally respectable to go to a pal's house and just hang out. But now, I'm an adult, and my house is not always clean/guest-ready. And there's something less exciting about it. It's hard to keep the momentum up when your at someone's house. It can also be disctracting-- you catch a glimpse of a picture or a new kitchen appliance, and it ends up being a long conversation about Mexico or pizza dough. Which is fine, but it's not the best coffee talk. There is something about disposable cups of coffee at a cafe that is highly condusive to pure gossip. And I love my gossip. It's probably because you know you can't sit there forever and you want to get to the good stuff. Cafes are also far superior to restaurants in this regard, because you don't have to spend a lot of time thinking about what you want, discussing the menu, and being interrupted by the waiter.

Additionally-- I know this is a horribly consumeristic fat American thing to say-- but, I love to spend the money. I mean, it's not a splurge at Bergdoff's, it's only like four bucks. I don't know why, but it feels good to unleash it. Certainly it's good for the economy, but I don't think that's why I do it. Maybe deep down I like throwing away that money because I know I can. On some level, I don't ever believe that things will get so bad for me that I can't get my lattes. Meanwhile, the truth is that considering my financial goals, I really should not be buying coffee. But when I do, the world/my finances does not actually come to an end. And that makes me feel better about my world/finances overall.

I don't know what the reason is, but I don't think I will ever stop with the lattes. If you ever want to grab a cup, just let me know. I can't resist.

Help!

My husband recently got an offer to work for a great Fortune 500 company after he graduates from B-school. He received the phone call with the offer last Friday. Consequently, the last 6 days have been full of excited late-night talks discussing our plans for next year, the upcoming years, and our future endeavors.

The last two years have been full of mostly exciting but also some challenging times in our relationship while he was going to school and I was working. There was so much hard work that has led to this final, great announcement. He has spent countless late nights at the school studying, we have given up weekends so he could prepare for assignments and we have spent hours doing mock interviews together as he prepared for presentations and/or interviews.
We are not sure which location he will be working at. It could be anywhere in the US, however, he will most likely be working in Fairfax, VA or Houston, TX. This, however, puts me in an interesting predicament…

I have been working the last two years while he is in grad school. Although I don’t know if I will stay with my currently company forever, it has given me great resume-building experience, and excellent business-to-business understanding. So, now that we know that we won’t be staying in Pittsburgh past the summer I find myself in a quandary. I can either A) Let my boss know now that we are leaving this summer or I can B) Wait to tell him.

The pros with letting him know now are that when I do eventually leave the company I will leave with a stronger relationship and he will likely appreciate my honesty with him. Also, depending upon where my husband is transferred I may have the opportunity to transfer to a different regional location within the same company.

There are also a few cons associated with letting them know now what I plan to do. The main one being that I will likely be given less accounts to work with in the future. I am in a sales position where the relationship I have with my clients is crucial to generating revenue for the company. I would assume that if he knew I were just going to leave in 8 months he would cease to give me new business and allow a different Account Manager to handle the new customers.
This means less commissions and revenue for me and basically my current salary has no opportunity to grow. Also, the company I work for is a bit cut-throat. I know that in the past, salespeople who have left have tried to give two weeks notice but they were told they had to leave that day – they were not allowed two weeks. So, my fear is that I tell my boss now that I am planning to leave and I am then ostracized within the office.

However, I continue to have this nagging feeling that if I don’t let him know of our departure this summer that I am somehow behaving immorally or dishonestly and I hate that feeling! Has anyone dealt with this situation before? If so, how did you handle this? Reversely, has anyone ever been in the employer’s position and had an employee break this kind of news?? This would be a great time for an “interactive blog”! I would love any and all advice/feedback.

Everything Old is New Again

My mom always taught me that a girl should make a show-stopping entrance.  

In her pre-mommy years, she went to F.I.T., created the dresses she wore to Studio 54, sketched designs, worked in the garment district, traveled to Europe and bought fabrics and patterns.  So she taught me everything I know about sequins and feathers and riding boots and white linen....

Whenever I have someplace to go, like someplace real to go, an event, an opening- my mom and I make a special shopping trip.  We seek out the dress, then the shoes, the accessory.  Sometimes it starts with a pair of earrings that we are instantly obsessed with and we go from there.  I like to remember my mother during these trips- the way she will hold the earrings up to my ear and then pick dress after dress off the rack and hold it up to me and squint and say something like, "This would work but you'll have to put your hair up- like really dramatic."  And I try to picture her vision.  We spend hours doing this.  It feels like by the end we'll have a masterpiece.      

This past Friday I got an email from my coworker that her daughter had a formal sweet sixteen to go to and she had nothing to wear.  She wanted advice.  I said, "Let's go shopping!"  Without skipping a beat.  

Her daughter is 16 years old and very tall, but super dainty and girly.  She's got perfect skin and naturally rosy cheeks-- never wears makeup-- didn't know what "macks" is (I had mentioned MAC makeup).  She runs track and wears retro, knit winter hats and always has a tiny leather purse that resembles an animal.  

When Daughter met us after work on Friday she was carrying a blowfish purse that held her chapstick.  How cute!  Just looking at her makes me think of homecoming and the fall musical.  

I made our first stop French Connection.  Daughter was giddy instantly.  I don't really know what the kids are into these days but she gravitated toward the old-fashioned styles- dresses with bows-- nothing strapless.  Very sweet.  She tried on about 10 dresses and when she came out to show us the last one she had a huge smile on her face.  We asked her what she thought.  She said, "Oh my God I love it.  It's so ME."  And as she did in each dress she tried on, she did a little dance so she could see what she would actually look like at the party.

We left there and headed up 5th Ave.  We were thinking about shoes and somehow got sucked into H&M (I hate that place! Especially in the middle of tourist central!).  We wandered through all three floors and then I found, hidden on a table of skinny jeans, a headband made entirely of black feathers.  It was the detail my mom would have insisted upon.  I showed Daughter how to wear it and when she looked in the mirror her face lit up.

OMG pampering the teenage daughter was becoming addictive.  So I suggested we go to the MAC counter at Henri Bendel.  It was like I was speaking a different language.  

Daughter could not stop blinking as the dressed-in-all-black makeup artist was applying the smoky mocha eyeliner.  I dont' think Daughter knew what to do with herself.  When she was handed a mirror she didn't say a word and then finally said, "It's so shocking..."  Mom bought the eyeliner and the mascara.  By the end of the night Daughter was talking a million miles a minute.

And from what I understand, the sweet sixteen was a huge success.  

I parted ways with them to have a gloriously uneventful weekend that involved watching Practical Magic (a present from Girl Friday yay!) and reading this month's Lucky mag, with Keri Russell on the cover.  On the last page (picture posted) I saw the dress we had just got for Daughter!  I officially felt like the cool Aunt. 

I'm ending this post with a list of the songs from my most recent playlist, which help get me in the mood to wear feathers in my hair, sequins on my scarf, fake mink on my earmuffs and red-red lipstick:

Honey Pie by the Beatles

Remember Me by Diana Ross

Southern Nights by Glen Campbell

Everything Old is New Again by Peter Allen

   

  

Pla.tonic

Adj. [usually] designating or of a relationship, or love, between a man and a woman that is purely spiritual or intellectual and without sexuality.

When I checked cnn.com today, I should have been paying attention to the various headlines. But instead I was drawn to an article today entitled “seven signs you have a work spouse.” It was helpful information for those of you out there with workplace crushes, but I found myself unable to get past the question—why is it any of their coworker’s business??

Perhaps it is my own tendency to form close personal platonic relationships with guys that makes me particularly sensitive to the topic. When I was in graduate school, I had a good friend who I used to chat with each day in the lobby while reading for classes and checking my email. Ever the slave to routine, I would park myself in the lobby each day, set up my computer, and he would tend to stop by between classes and do the same. There was no kissing involved. No late night trysts. Just football, conversation, confidences, and a relationship that didn’t carry the baggage of “I wonder what he’s thinking?” or “Does he want to date me?” Perfectly platonic. Funny, thing is, all of his classmates assumed that we were dating. If you think rumors spread like wildfire on Gossip Girl and the halls of high school, you should try graduate school.

Or even worse, law school—it happened to me again there. Only that time, folks didn’t have the courtesy to ask me to my face if my best guy friend and I were dating. They just assumed. So much so that I think most girls who were interested stayed away, even though they would quickly have learned that we just lived near each other. I had a long distance boyfriend I was very much in love with, and that friendship—innocent. Although I guess I can’t blame them for assuming, yet again. When my friend’s ex-boyfriend had the good sense to ask me what was going on, he still didn’t believe me. It was bad enough that when my fiancé, my best friend, and I showed up at a birthday party for a mutual friend of ours after graduation, some of my former classmates had the gall to sit there and question my best friend to his face when we’d broken up. We would have had to date to break up. . .

I think we know the definition of platonic love, and believe in the concept, but have trouble understanding and believing in its existence. Whether it be rooted in jealousy or unhealthy curiosity, we find ourselves scrutinizing nearly every relationship between two people of opposite sexes to determine the dynamics at play. Does he want to date her but she’s not interested? Is it the reverse? Is one of them married/engaged/dating? Is the other trying to break them up? Are they having *gasp* an affair? Perhaps it was Harry’s declaration to Sally that a man and woman can never be friends. Or maybe it is that, as a culture, we are so infatuated with gossip and drama that we find ourselves reading deeply into honest acts of friendship and kindness and assuming there is more there than friendship. Even though we all know what happens when you assume things. . .

But even for all of my own frustrating experiences, when I came home today, mentioned the article to my fiancé, and found out that his female work friend had suggestively sent him the article, I found myself just as jealous, just as curious about their relationship. I found myself curious as to whether her intentions were pure, or if she views their friendship as innocently as he does. When he told me that his response to her sending the article was to jokingly ask if he needed to buy her a ring, I actually got angry. First at him—then at myself. The logical, rational, and intellectual part of my brain knows that I have nothing to fear. I know that his relationship with her is very much the same as my past and current friendships with my close guy friends. I value the honesty, the willingness to cut past all the bullshit of female relationships and tell me straight to my face when I am thinking with girl-logic or craziness that comes from the lack of a Y chromosome. I am grateful for the times when I’ve been so livid with my fiancé, but my guy friends have helped me see things from a guy’s point of view—helped me accept all the changes that come with moving in together, starting a life together. My own relationships with guys have made me be a better companion, and will make me a better wife. None of those things would be possible for me without the insight of platonic friends who are there to carry you through life. Whose friendship and love means the world to you, but whose lust you have never craved nor would you ever want.

I know all these things, but I was still jealous. . . I guess I’m human.

Lynx Cats, GRRRRR.

My college soccer team is going to the NCAA tournament. For the first time since 1990-ish. Getting into the NCAA tournament in women’s college soccer is a lot like March Madness in basketball. Teams make it based on winning their conference and then there are a number of at-large bids. Well, this year we won the conference. (I say we, but frankly other than the check I sent for $25, I didn’t have anything to do with it). We beat teams we haven’t beaten since the 40s (well probably not the 40s since women’s sports mostly didn’t even exist then, but it might as well have been the 40s). We finished the season 14-4-1, which is pretty amazing.

When I was a wee little GirlMonday soccer player, I played on a boys team. When you grow up in the south in the 80s, if you want to play soccer, you play with boys. I played competitively with girls in middle school and high school, but there still weren’t a lot of teams around. We won our share of tournaments and games, but when we would travel to places like Ohio and Texas we would, well, to put it lightly, get our asses handed to us. When I was in high school I was the star player. Which was nice, except for the fact that over two-thirds of the team was comprised of new girls we recruited every year. I remember losing a game by 12 goals my junior year. We never made the division playoffs (which just required that you be above .500), but it didn’t really bother me that much because I really liked the girls I played with. They were good sports about losing, tried really hard, and always made playing fun.

My senior year of high school I tore all of the ligaments in my left ankle during summer practice and missed all but the last two games. It was heartbreaking. I had been playing since I was 5. So I made the decision to attend a college with just as much soccer history as academic rigor (that would let me in). They were ranked 17th in the nation the year before I got there, and finished 18th the year before that. I wanted to win, so I went to a place that won.

For the first year I was there, we were okay, winning 13 games, but missing out on the tournament (by a mile). But the last three years we won a combined 18 games. We were terrible and we knew it. We had no team chemistry, fought with each other all the time, hated our coach, and couldn’t seem to put together a complete game. I loved college, I loved playing soccer in college, but I spent the majority of four years wishing I wasn’t hurt, wishing I was friends with my teammates, and most of all wishing we would win a game once in awhile.

So this is hard for me. I am so happy for these girls (whom I know nothing about other than I was once in their place), but at the same time it just makes me sad. Their coach sends weekly updates, getting everyone involved in sending the team care packages, inspiring letters from alumni, and homemade dinners on the road. I just wish I’d had the same experience that I hear they’re having – late night games of cards, lots of inside jokes, dinners at parents’ houses on the road, and win after win. All of it coming easily.

But I guess someday someone will tell them about the teams of 1997-2001 and they’ll wish they had our experiences instead: eating at Subway or Luby’s (any Luby’s fans out there??) every weekend day for four years, spending nine hour bus rides not speaking a word, and losing games they once led 4-0.

In the meantime, while I wait, I’ll have a six inch turkey on wheat.

Hailing a Cab

I was recently watching an old episode of “Sex and the City”, one of my all-time favorite past times, when the characters briefly brought up an issue I find very interesting. Charlotte (the brunette, preppy one) was going on and on about how happy she was that she finally found “the one” (Trey, with whom things did not end up going so swimmingly). Miranda (the redhead, cynical one) rebutted Charlotte with something along the lines of, “he’s not the one; this is not fate—his light was on”. She described this theory about men being like cabs. They go around, living their lives, having dalliances with different women over and over again. Then one day, they decide that they are ready to get married, have children and settle down. Their light goes on. The next woman such a guy dates is the one he will marry.

This theory brings up many relevant relationship issues—soul mates, fate, timing. I think most of us grow up with the idealized version of ever after. We look for love. We look for that special person who is right for us. We want it to feel like it’s meant to be. So the idea that someone would make the decision to get married because the time is right for him to be married, not because of the person he is with, is somewhat unnerving. Even if you don’t believe in soul mates, if you think there are several people you could be happy with for the rest of your life, you probably don’t think you could be happy with any old person. Are there men out there that think it’s essentially irrelevant who the particular person they decide to make a life with is (assuming they meet some base level requirements)?

On the one hand, I don’t think this is a framework I personally could ever agree with. On the other, I wonder how different such a strategy is from something like arranged marriage, which under certain circumstances I am a strong supporter of. In a way, maybe a man behaving as a cab has the right idea. After all, if you are the kind of person who thinks you should “live a little” in your twenties, it makes sense to impose a certain, future time when you are ready to commit to ending the fun. Or, if you are the sort of person who knows you are your best self in a steady relationship, it would make sense to lock it all down at a young age. In that case, you would know that you could meet someone you would be more compatible with later, but if you are ready to build your marital home, who’s to say it’s wrong to go ahead and do so? Same with breaking up with a good partner when you’re 19 solely because everyone tells you that you are too young to be “so serious”. In our society, we don’t criticize that kind of thing. And is what these cab-men do so different from the girls who just really want to be married by 22?

So, maybe I think- to each his or her own. I know I would have a hard time being with someone who is not with me because he feels we were meant to be together. But does it really matter? After all, it isn’t that head-over-heels magic that will sustain our relationship through the years—it’s familial love, respect and commitment. Which, I suppose, can come out of various courtship scenarios. Here’s hoping that you have found or will find the path that works for you.

Tech-Savvy Generation

Sorry that this is posted is so late in the day. My husband left earlier this week for a job interview, took our laptop with him, and I didn’t even realize until late last night that my post was on the computer he had, and because he had the computer I also didn’t have internet access….so I had to wait until I got to the office (I had meetings in Eastern PA this morning). End result: Sorry for the late blog.

So, today is my brother Beau’s 13th birthday. And, as I was trying to figure out what a 13-year old boy might be interested in it got me to thinking how things have changed since I was thirteen. The reality is that things aren’t all that different and is hasn’t been all that long since I was a tall, skinny, awkward junior-highschooler. Primarily there is one area where things are different: technology.

Let me take a step back and explain my family situation. I am the oldest of 10 children. Yes, t-e-n. Ages and names are as follows: Rich-22, Megan-19, Erica-16, Derek-14, Beau-13, Luke-9, Jake-5, Emma & Anya (twins)-2. It was crazy growing up (it is all different now, but when I was in high school there were 10 people in the same house and we only had one bathroom!). So, having a huge family basically means that we have a birthday almost every single month. I usually don’t have a hard time finding what to get for my siblings…but 13 is a tough age, especially for a boy.

As I started thinking about the kinds of things I wanted when I was his age, I realized that I was really into clothes, cd’s, and lip gloss. I asked my older brother, Rich, what kind of things he was into at that age, and he remembered wanting cd’s, videogames, and sports gear. But, what really surprises me is that the things that Beau is asking for are things like an upgraded cell phone, ipod touch, and a new motorcycle/dirt bike. I still can’t get over the fact that my 13-year brother has his own cell phone (and probably my 9-year old brother will be getting one soon)! I didn’t have my own cell phone until I left for college and I was paying for it myself!! Now don’t get me wrong, my siblings aren’t very spoiled, and they usually have to work for the nicer things they get, but the things they are asking for seem so different.

The funny thing is that it seems as though I missed this young-technology era only by a couple years. When I was in junior high, the cool thing was to write notes in all kinds of pastel-colored pens, fold them up in quirky ways, and pass them during breaks. Now, the primary way to communicate with people in your grade is to text them. I still get a kick out of the fact that my brothers will text girls all day long, but they are too shy to actually talk to the girls. It is almost as if the craze with texting has left our younger generations a bit socially inept.

In many ways it is a great thing that technology is being utilized at a younger age. The learning curve will be much gentler when they are required to use technology in school, new ideas and advancements will likely be created due to younger minds being trained in this area. However, I miss the days when have a blast meant climbing the tree house in your backyard cherry tree, playing tetherball with the neighbors was so cool, and summers were filled with climbing sand dunes and jumping in canals.

So, in lieu of my cell-phone-free youth, I ultimately decided upon getting my brother a Cabelas gift card. My dad is going to take him on a hunting trip this month and I figured he could buy a nice hunting knife or a vest to wear while he is out. Although it may not be the tech-savvy gift he had wanted, I think it is something he will create a memory from and will be able to enjoy for many years. He may not understand my rationale now, but maybe if I show him this blog in a few years he will get a kick out of it.

Broadcast News

You know...  Ugh.  Sigh.  I was going to say that my super annoying day started when I rolled out of bed and logged onto Facebook and saw that almost all of my "friends" proclaimed they had donated their status to the Obama campaign.  I was going to say that but then I realized this has been going on much longer than today, and this issue is much bigger than Facebook etiquette.

The friends who donated status updates to Mr. Obama works at the major-media company I currently work at and/or the major-media company I worked at previously.  And when I say "media," I am specifically talking about the news.   

This fact should upset you if you watch, read, or hear the news.

I work in the news.  I went to graduate school to study the news.  But I never felt that someone needs to have a shiny degree in order to know right from wrong.  

I also happen to believe that personal politics are... hmm, I dunno... personal?  So while it always rubbed me the wrong way when a professor would unload his proclivities on the classroom as if they were fact, at the blue-state, private graduate school I attended, I took the preaching a little more in stride since there was always the underlying lesson that personal politics had absolutely no place in the newsroom.    

This was the single-most emphasized point that was taught at grad school.  The professors painted a sacred newsroom where all ideas were discussed.  And I really liked this magical place... 

And then I woke up.

And then I interned at a hit TV news show where the seniors cheered when a Democrat won an election.  Where I actually heard a producer say, "you're an idiot if you voted for Bush."  And then I worked at a Northeast bureau breaking news desk where similar scenarios played out.  And then I worked on a network news website that was intended for classroom use (yes- intended to mold the minds of America's youth), where marketing executives would blatantly try to cut Republican personalities from our content and where ridiculing Republicans seemed as acceptable a sport as Scientology-bashing and terrorist-hating.

And then I woke up and opened Facebook and nearly every single news person I know is publicly donating their viral powers to a political party.  I'm talking about bureau chiefs and producers and rights and clearances people and editors and former journalism classmates and even deans at the journalism school.

And then I went to work and I actually saw people wearing Obama pins.  And in one of the hallways someone had taped up that Economist cover featuring Mr. Obama and the text:  "It's time". 

Shame on all of you who work in the news and engage in this type of alienating behavior, this behavior that hinders robust discussion of the issues.  Shame on you.  If you are so passionate and educated about policy and politics, what are you doing working in what should be an objective industry?  Go run for office.  

  

 

And you know what? I had a really crappy day.  

   

  

    

       

Enlightened Statesmen

I do not like politics. I promise that this will be the one and only time I broach the subject, but I figured that since Election Tuesday is Girl Tuesday’s exclusive jurisdication, I might as well subject you to my two cents.

Let me begin by saying that it is not that I dislike ALL politics—it is that I dislike modern politics—the cult of personality that Girl Friday pointed out last week. The truth of the matter is, I dislike modern political parties and election campaigns because I idolize our founding fathers. The Federalist Papers is one of my two favorite books (or serial publications, if you want to be painstakingly correct. As a side note, my other favorite is equally lame, but that is a subject for another day). I am your typical political science geek. I find Locke, Rousseau, and Machiavelli fascinating; and I am inspired by the fact that Hamilton, Madison, and Jay were able to build upon these great enlightenment foundations and articulate to the constitutional convention the arguments for the great American experiment. I don’t want to vote for career politicians, or support the political machinery. I don’t feel particularly strong allegiances to my political parties, and I would rather engage in intellectual debate on the issues than subject myself to two minute sound bites from the candidates hammering away their three or four talking points for that particular engagement.

I detest the lying; I can’t stand the calculating. I long for leaders who act as gentlemen. I don’t want a President I can have a beer with, I want a President who is smarter, more courageous, and more principled than I could ever be. I want a President who is strong in his convictions but gentle in his guidance. I want a President who harbors the same level of respect for the American Experience—who recognizes that if men were angels, they wouldn’t need Government.

And I can honestly say, writing this at 11 pm on Monday night, that I am still undecided. I’ve been joking all fall that I wanted to write in George Washington, because neither candidate satisfies my personal criteria of what it should take to assume the role that our Founders so carefully crafted to lead the Executive Branch of Government. I note, as well, that it was to lead the Executive Branch, not to lead our entire nation, or to lead the free world. Perhaps there is an argument to be made that the nature of governance has changed enough since 1783 that we should remake the Presidency in a modern image. But right now, sitting and staring at a blank television that I shut off to block out the final barrage of advertisements, I still don’t know who I am going to vote for. Because neither candidate seems to be quite what my friend Publius had in mind.

Daddies

This has been a difficult week for me (and a very difficult last 11 months for a dear, dear friend of mine). I have written several blogs for use in just this case, when words don’t come so easily or when life prevents putting pen to paper in time for Monday morning. But on days like this, a trivial, frivolous blog seems just that . . . trivial.

And so here I sit, words not really coming because hearts are so heavy. So I’ll write some words of advice and then go on about my day.

Go tell your daddy that you love him. If you don’t have a daddy, or aren’t close, tell your momma (or tell her anyway!). Remind yourself that life changes in an instant, one second you’re eating Thanksgiving dinner with the ones you love, the next minute you’re coordinating hospice care and preparing wills. Just like that.

I don’t know what it is about fathers and daughters. If you’re anything like me, you have one of the strongest bonds in the world. I have an amazing DaddyMonday (PH to those of you who know him!) who would do anything in the world, not only for me, but for just about anyone else.

Someday I’ll write about how wonderful he is, but not today. Today I just want to send you off into your work week with this advice: Tell the ones you love that you love them. Show them you love them. And do this every day, for tomorrow they could be gone.