I surrender!

I've decided to throw in the dishrag at BMG's little cottage. I will no longer be hand washing dishes there.

This is not a decision born out of the traditional female frustration that her "man" doesn't appreciate her, nor is it an act of defiance in reaction to a mounting pile of dishes that only I appear to wash.

In fact, this is a decision driven by the fact that BMG prefers that I NOT wash dishes by hand. Because, in fact, I stink at it. The poor guy. He is constantly fishing dishes out of the sink drainer only to have to resoak them and sanitize them in the dishwasher because I've left large hunks of food on them.

So, I'm embracing my incompetence, reducing my household work load, and hanging up my holster filled with Dawn today.

Crisis = opportunity

Everyone knows the old management adage that the Chinese character for crisis is the same as the character for opportunity.

My office is handling a crisis right now. I work for a public school system and one of our schools had a devastating fire two days ago, early on Sunday morning. As a member of the senior staff team, I have been pulled from all of my regular duties to assist with the response plan. And it is 100% overwhelming. I am managing the media and donations, working on community relations, and trying to reroute grant management at the school. This is all "non-essential" compared to the momentous task for finding new classrooms for these students and preparing said classrooms for teachers to teach and students to learn.

Through it all, I'm watching my boss as he rises to the leadership challenge, I'm watching the Principal of the school as she falters, and listening closely to the experts who are advising us on the next steps to take - at least with the public. Every chance I get I talk with students, to learn their reaction so that I might respond in customer-centered ways. And above all, I'm watching myself. How am I reacting to this crisis? Am I stressing out? Am I being strong yet kind? How do I make decisions?

I am preparing to start a lengthy process of readying myself professionally for the next step in my career. I'm not trained in education and don't have the desire to get the necessary academic credentials to move up in the hierarchy. My job is fascinating and is a dead end for me. So what's next? Private sector philanthropy? Think tank research and development? Higher education? A higher position within the government? Legislative advisor? I'm not sure yet, but I do know that I need to cultivate my projection of myself as a senior staff member, of someone who can take a crisis and make it an opportunity for growth and change.

Bowling alone

BMG and I were lying in bed this morning, talking about why my friends don't ever have parties. I started going through my list of friends and realize that many of them have circles of friends that I have been excluded from - either because they made these friends long before they knew me, or because their separate friends are married with kids and therefore I either don't fit in (I choose neither marriage nor kids) or the friends fear that I cannot relate. I also realize that a handful of my married gal pals use our friendship as an oasis from their suburban lifestyles. Boobra, for example, often wistfully talks about my crappy illegal basement apartment as if I lived in the Bachelorette Taj Mahal.

I then turned to BMG and said, "Your friends never have parties either!" "Yes they do, we just never go." As we went through HIS list of friends who have parties, we reflected on the fact that his family often has get-togethers that we DO attend. BMG lives 1/2 mile from his parents and maybe six miles from one of his brothers and his sister. "If we lived near my family we'd see them every weekend," I countered. Then I stopped. I would love to see my family every weekend. I would love to make cookies with my sisters, share coffee in the morning with my mother, and play Pet Shop Dolls and Playmobile with my nieces and nephew. But, I don't want to live in Syracuse, NY. I don't want to live in Syracuse because there is not enough to do there for me - this childless by choice, eclectic, and hard-to-pigeonhole adult woman. And, if there is not enough for me to do there, I'll get sucked into being a daughter, a sister, and an aunt all of the time. This I cannot do.

I think this is a classic dilemma of wanting what one knows is not good for them. BMG asked if I was sad about the bind I find myself in. "I'm both sad and happy," I replied. Continuing, "Sad because I love and miss my family. Happy because I'm making the choices that are right for me." "Oh, you are melanhappy" he said cleverly, before turning over and falling into lazy and self-satisfied sleep. "Yeah, melanhappy," I thought, feeling the word on my tongue and absorbing the feelings of wistful contentment. "Melanhappy."

Kitten

I still don't have a kitten, but it is apparently on my mind. "Why?" you inquire with mild curiosity. We got new paper recycling bins in the office today. They are minis, about one-third the size of the standard curbside bin. My reaction? "Oh, this looks like the perfect size for a kitten bed!"

*****

It is fun to recycle at work. I submitted a proposal today and realized my footer had a slight error in it - not one that would make or break the proposal. Rather than tossing the 11 copies (66 pages) into the trash and starting over, I decided to let it go. I can feel myself gearing up for a little internal competition to reduce my paper waste at work. Not at home. But I'll tell you more about that AFTER Christmas.

The Best in Food Writing 2007

I recently wrote an ode to my mother's turkey stuffing. I encourage you to read it, and to consider penning your own paean to the foods of the season at jeffcutler.com.

SPOILER ALERT! This post will reveal the truth - as far as I'm concerned - regarding the existence of Santa Claus.

*****

I started to realize that my mom and dad were actually Santa - in fact that Santa did not exist - when I was aged somewhere between four and six. I remember my brother, who I credit with teaching me to snoop, told me had to show me something in the basement. We silently, and without benefit of lights, walked into the dusty and dry cellar. We tip-toed into a corner veiled by shadows, far away from the washer and drier. Todd brought me to a generic and uninteresting white sheet, which he pulled back to reveal an enormous pile of brand new toys. We contemplated the shiny boxes and cellophane, pondering the mystery of all of these toys.

I don't remember saying a word to him then, or anytime afterwards.

What I DO remember is seeing my younger sisters each unwrap Holly Hobbie stuffed baby dolls that Christmas morning. And I remember those toys were labeled as gifts to the girls from Santa.

Sometime later, I remember a conversation that went something like this:
"But, mom, I saw those dolls in our basement?"
"Well, sometimes mommies and daddies store toys to help Santa and his elves out," she replied sensibly.
I didn't buy it. I didn't tell her I didn't buy it, but that was the beginning of the end of the Santa myth for me.

*****

It wasn't the end of Christmas being magical for me. I have vivid recollections of crying when I received a plush version of the Camel with the Wrinkly Knees - a character from the Raggedy Ann and Andy stories by Johnny Gruelle. I cried because I was so happy that someone knew me so well (in this case, my mother) to give me this gift - when I didn't even know that I wanted it. I also cried when I received a doll I named "Angel-y". (By the way, the name I gave the Camel? Camel-y.) Angel-y was a standard pillow-sized, two-dimensional stuffed angel. I cried that time because I had torn through my gifts that Christmas morning as if a tornado were coming to take them away. The Angel, wrapped unceremoniously in a white kitchen garbage bag, had been lost in the melee. When she was found, I was firmly convinced that I had no more presents and no one loved me. Unwrapping Angel provided me with such excitement and joy at a time when I was feeling an unreasonable loss.

*****

What does Christmas mean to me today? Exuberant joy and quiet peace. I find both energies in the lights that illuminate homes, businesses, and the overall landscape during this time of year.

*****

When do you remember realizing there was no Santa? What does the magic of Christmas mean to you? How has this evolved over time?

Are you like a caveman?

While tearing over to the Whole Foods at Alewife at 7:45 tonight - in pursuit of salad bar goodness after a 13-hour day at the office - I was yelled at by a Cambridge cop.

I was on a narrow, two-way street. There was an emergency vehicle blocking 1/2 the incoming lane. I was proceeding slowly in my lane, uncertain if the oncoming traffic was going to go around the ambulance and invade my lane. As I proceeded forward at around 20 miles an hour, I found myself face-to-face with a cop.

It was nearly 8:00 at night. The street was poorly lit. The cop was wearing a cop outfit - navy pants, navy jacket, and even a navy hat with ear flaps and a chin tie.

He screamed at me for "driving into oncoming traffic" while being directed by a cop to stop. I rolled down my window, apologized, and explained that I couldn't see him because it was dark, there were no lights, and he was dressed in navy blue. He continued to scream at me. I apologized again, feeling my heart rate rise and unpleasant and unwise retorts rising in my throat. Aware that I have (a) a broken headlight, (b) two unpaid parking tickets, and (c) a 2009 inspection sticker to put on my license plate, I wisely chose to quickly put my window up and drive away.

*****

What is it about authority figures who yell at us that causes the physiological response characterized by increase heart rate and blood flow - particularly to the extremities? I know this is the "fight or flight" response. Why does it happen?

Researchers at Ohio State University have conducted studies to examine if the fight or flight response was different for anger versus fear. It wasn't in their sample size of ten (10). In fact, it affirmed the symptoms of flight or flight for both situations. I'm intrigued particularly by the increase of blood flow to the limbs. Have you ever felt like you wanted to pound your fists, or run away? Is this because of the increased blood flow to the hands? The legs? Is that the reason for the response?

One online writer trying to explain this reaction writes that "fight or flight" is not rational, but rather hard-wired and primal. Wanting to punch a police officer for yelling at you when in fact he was directing traffic in the dark is not rational. But, should someone find themselves in that type of situation (hypothetically speaking), s/he may want to in fact punch that police officer. There are times when the punching instinct is useful (e.g. defending oneself against an attacker), and others when it is not useful (e.g. punching a police officer who is a poorly lit meglomaniac).

The next time I feel that tingling in my legs or hands or mouth in response to anger or fear, I'll consider what my Neanderthal ancestors are trying to express in me. And then I'll consider what is needed for my own survival in that situation. Shall I take a caveman course of action or the rational/enlightened 21st Century course?

******

Oh! I'm considering writing a letter to the Cambridge Police Department suggesting reflective gear for officers directing traffic at night on poorly lit streets. This would allow me, in this case, to respond in a righteous and smarty-pants kind of way. This is one of my favorite options when I'm consciously choosing not to punch or curse at cops.