Are you good at negotiation? I'm not. And it seems as if no one in my personal circle is either. Let me share two examples from literally the last four hours of my life.
In scenario one I'm planning to head to NY to visit my family, including four fantastic nieces and nephews. It has been two days since I've sent a potential schedule of activities for my short trip to the four adult members of my family - after several days of cajoling from them. In my note to them I suggest on the first night the kids might head to my hotel for picnic and swimming. Getting no feedback from anyone, I then text a sibling to suggest that maybe a picnic that first night at her kids' favorite playground might be better. Eight hours later, still nothing. (Eight hours is a long time to respond to a text given the speed with which people communicate nowadays, particularly when the other conversant is one who was eager for "a plan.") So then I call. This is how it goes (excerpted to reduce boredom).
Me: Did you get my text?
Sibling: Yeah. It has been really busy at work. I can talk a few minutes now.
Me: So what do you think? About picnic in the playground?
Sib: Well, I'd already told the kids about the pool (me - didn't really we had decided that - it was a suggestion) and they're really excited to see their cousins.
Me: Would your kids like some one-on-one time with me?
Sib: They're pretty excited about the pool and their cousins.
Me: So they don't want one-on-one time? Okay. And if they want to go in the pool we need to figure out how to do it so they aren't trooping in and out of our room. BMG has to do a three-hour conference call that night.
Sib: Well, I guess we can go to the park. I'll have to talk to the kids about it to adjust their expectations.
Me: I didn't say they COULDN'T go in the pool. I just said we'd need to do it in a way to prevent trooping in and out of the room.
Sib: They've never done that. (me - we once spent an entire day at the hotel pool, trooping in and out of the room. I've had her wet kids in my bed. not an issue, just not for this trip) I just want to talk with the kids before responding to you. I'm sure we can go to the park.
Me: Sib, are you listening to me? The pool is fine provided that BMG's call isn't disturbed.
Sib: OK.
In scenario two I'm following up with BMG on an offer he made to do very easy video editing for me at work; I need to have a title page and end page added to a video produced by colleagues at work. I've given him the movie file and asked him to try to get to it within the next 36 hours. I've moved on in my life, made dinner, washed dishes, started laundry, had a glass of wine, chatted with the neighbors, watched some TV. I've come back into the living room after being in the basement. The TV is on mute and BMG is staring at his computer (his usual pose).
BMG: What did they do this video in? Three frame, four frame?
Me: Huh?
BMG: This video what did they do it in?
Me: Are you talking to me? (I seriously thought he was video chatting with the guy who is his partner in a nascent - and awesome - video production company.)
BMG: YES! I'm talking to you. What did they do this video in?
Me: I don't know. Are you working on this now?
BMG: Yes. Come look at this.
I sit down.
BMG: So what do you need?
Me: Branding at the beginning and the end. I didn't know you were working on this right now. I can get you the stuff you need.
I head to my computer, six feet away.
BMG: So what do you want it to say?
Me: Are you typing? Didn't I just say I'd get it to you? I need a minute to get my head in the game. I didn't know I was going back to work right this moment.
In the first scenario both my sister and I assume at different times that simply because someone made a suggestion that suggestion needed to be the decision. This is so frustrating to me. In most cases I crave discussion about things like family plans. I crave the discussion because I want to hear what makes the hearts of my sisters, brother, mother, nieces and nephews go pitter pat. And I want to find a way to make the most people the most satisfied with our family time. To have one person's suggestion become the plan - sans conversation from others - means I (a) miss out on learning more from my siblings, and (b) we don't find a way to try to get what we all want. A child of divorced parents, I know I felt as if I had to do whatever my mom wanted me to do in order to keep her from leaving the family too. So my modus operandi is "Do whatever the other person says, no matter what. The risk is too great to counter with a different idea." Pretty sure other siblings operate the same way.
BMG knows this about me. And he has a very dominant personality. Not a classic alpha male, but he takes up an enormous amount of space - usually joyfully. But the second incident is a classic between us - he is ready to do what he wants to do right now and I (a) need to know exactly what he's doing, and (b) ready to ask "how high" when he says "jump." So my family background is great for him. In the midst of pulling the video content so he could finish his quickie for me (for which I am grateful), I actually sat at my desk and whimpered. I wished BMG had said, "I want to work on this now. I need X, Y and Z from you to get this done. When can you get this to me?" And then I could have said, "You're awesome! Thank you so much! Give me 20 minutes to pull it together starting right now." Instead, I was caught off guard, felt as if I needed to rush because the video editing boat was going to leave without me, and, worse of all, was jolted back into work mode when it is SO hard for me to wind down.
I crave a feeling of partnership with all of my loved ones, a feeling of collaboration that comes from a spirit of adventure.
So...what would you advise to help me get to this place, besides taking a daily dose of Xanax? Seriously. I need help here.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Liberty and justice for all
Settling down to a lunch of kielbasa and cauliflower yesterday (we really need to go to the grocery store), I thought to myself, "My love for sausage is proof that I am German."
I looked at the clunky leather shoes on my feet, worn on one of the hottest days of the year. "And my love for awkward footwear. Yep, that's proof that I am German."
"This body of mine, custom-made for a dirndl, no doubt I am a German."
But it is 4th of July here in the United States, the time when we celebrate the essence of being an American. So, what, I wondered, makes me an American?
I'm distrustful of patriotism in all forms. You'll never see me fly a national flag outside my home. I wear our nation's colors to the Independence Day BBQs that are prolific in my community because of fear of being labeled a traitor to the U.S., not because I want to "show my colors." I haven't recited the pledge of allegiance in years, in spite of having worked for a local government where the pledge kicked off every public meeting I had to attend. If you were to compare my unvarnished sociopolitical views to those of the vast majority of other Americans I'd clearly be labeled a commie liberal.
So, what is the proof that I am an American?
The pilgrims, who set foot on this land mass we now call the United States of America a mere 40 miles from where I sit typing, left Europe in search of religious freedom. In 1692, religious freedom was defined within the context of varying Christian denomination; religious tolerance is much more broadly defined now many communities in these United States can boast claim to sects of Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Wiccans, Christians, Mormons, Jains, and Animists in their midst. I am committed to exploring and protecting diverse religious and spiritual expression, and preserving the separation of church and state, restricting religious persecution where no one is being hurt by the religious expression of others. This, I believe, makes me an American.
I love voting. LOVE IT. Whether casting my ballot for local selectman or choosing the best name for Snooki's baby, I love to vote. I love having the freedom of choice associated with stepping into the ballot box. I feel great responsibility to at least know something about what I'm voting for, even if that means taking five minutes to skim the referendum guide mailed to my home in advance of town elections. And I feel enormous, righteous pride when I get my little sticker after I've cast a ballot. This, I believe, makes me an American.
What really makes me an American? I confessed being loathe to recite the pledge of allegiance. This is not because I don't believe the words, but rather because I feel too much like a mechanistic sheep incapable of independent thought when I say the words with tens, hundreds, or thousands of other people. And this, I believe, makes me an American.
I have a deep and unwavering respect for liberty, or the power of choice, and freedom from obligation, control, interference and restriction. I know the words to the pledge of allegiance, and I want to say them when I want to say them - not because I have to say them. (I won't recite the Lord's Prayer, Apostle's Creed, or other responsive reading in church or temple for the same reason.) This extends beyond liberty of speech and thoughts, to liberty in action, lifestyle, and personal expression (provided they aren't restricting the liberty of another individual).
And the steadfast belief in and protection of liberty is what defines justice for me. I deeply believe that every person should have the opportunity to pursue their choices. This doesn't mean I have to adopt or even understand their choices. Mormonism and cross-dressing are both confusing mysteries to me. But I understand they are meaningful to other people. And because they don't hurt me, so I have an obligation to respect, and when necessary, protect the right of Mormons, cross-dressers, and others who are both like and unlike me to express themselves. This, I believe, is what makes me an American.
The essence of my Americanism is less overt than my cultural heritage. You can't see it in what I wear or what I eat. But you can hear it in what I say, read it in what I write, and see it in my work and my treatment of other people.
On July 4th, you won't likely find me on the local parade route - wearing red, white and blue, saluting veterans and waving a flag. Look for me under a tree in my backyard, reading a book of speeches by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. If I'm not there I may be taking a walk on a nearby beach watching the waves roll in thinking about all of the people who have made their way to this country seeking the same freedoms I love and cherish to my core.
Happy Independence Day.
I looked at the clunky leather shoes on my feet, worn on one of the hottest days of the year. "And my love for awkward footwear. Yep, that's proof that I am German."
"This body of mine, custom-made for a dirndl, no doubt I am a German."
But it is 4th of July here in the United States, the time when we celebrate the essence of being an American. So, what, I wondered, makes me an American?
I'm distrustful of patriotism in all forms. You'll never see me fly a national flag outside my home. I wear our nation's colors to the Independence Day BBQs that are prolific in my community because of fear of being labeled a traitor to the U.S., not because I want to "show my colors." I haven't recited the pledge of allegiance in years, in spite of having worked for a local government where the pledge kicked off every public meeting I had to attend. If you were to compare my unvarnished sociopolitical views to those of the vast majority of other Americans I'd clearly be labeled a commie liberal.
So, what is the proof that I am an American?
The pilgrims, who set foot on this land mass we now call the United States of America a mere 40 miles from where I sit typing, left Europe in search of religious freedom. In 1692, religious freedom was defined within the context of varying Christian denomination; religious tolerance is much more broadly defined now many communities in these United States can boast claim to sects of Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Wiccans, Christians, Mormons, Jains, and Animists in their midst. I am committed to exploring and protecting diverse religious and spiritual expression, and preserving the separation of church and state, restricting religious persecution where no one is being hurt by the religious expression of others. This, I believe, makes me an American.
I love voting. LOVE IT. Whether casting my ballot for local selectman or choosing the best name for Snooki's baby, I love to vote. I love having the freedom of choice associated with stepping into the ballot box. I feel great responsibility to at least know something about what I'm voting for, even if that means taking five minutes to skim the referendum guide mailed to my home in advance of town elections. And I feel enormous, righteous pride when I get my little sticker after I've cast a ballot. This, I believe, makes me an American.
What really makes me an American? I confessed being loathe to recite the pledge of allegiance. This is not because I don't believe the words, but rather because I feel too much like a mechanistic sheep incapable of independent thought when I say the words with tens, hundreds, or thousands of other people. And this, I believe, makes me an American.
I have a deep and unwavering respect for liberty, or the power of choice, and freedom from obligation, control, interference and restriction. I know the words to the pledge of allegiance, and I want to say them when I want to say them - not because I have to say them. (I won't recite the Lord's Prayer, Apostle's Creed, or other responsive reading in church or temple for the same reason.) This extends beyond liberty of speech and thoughts, to liberty in action, lifestyle, and personal expression (provided they aren't restricting the liberty of another individual).
And the steadfast belief in and protection of liberty is what defines justice for me. I deeply believe that every person should have the opportunity to pursue their choices. This doesn't mean I have to adopt or even understand their choices. Mormonism and cross-dressing are both confusing mysteries to me. But I understand they are meaningful to other people. And because they don't hurt me, so I have an obligation to respect, and when necessary, protect the right of Mormons, cross-dressers, and others who are both like and unlike me to express themselves. This, I believe, is what makes me an American.
The essence of my Americanism is less overt than my cultural heritage. You can't see it in what I wear or what I eat. But you can hear it in what I say, read it in what I write, and see it in my work and my treatment of other people.
On July 4th, you won't likely find me on the local parade route - wearing red, white and blue, saluting veterans and waving a flag. Look for me under a tree in my backyard, reading a book of speeches by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. If I'm not there I may be taking a walk on a nearby beach watching the waves roll in thinking about all of the people who have made their way to this country seeking the same freedoms I love and cherish to my core.
Happy Independence Day.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Grounds for dismissal
I walked away from Starbucks this morning because their decaf was filled with grounds, and they didn't yet have a fiber-free cup of decaf available to me. "I'll make a cup of coffee in the Keurig at the office," I said when told the wait would be two to five minutes long.
As I walked out of my tiny Starbucks, I thought about going back and saying, "I'll take a cup of coffee with grounds - on the house." Because I really wanted a coffee from Starbucks. I like the feel of the warm paper cup in my hand, the heft of a 20 ounce cup of coffee, and savoring the faux caffeine to its last lukewarm drop.
But I thought better of it. "I'm not so desperate that I can't make a coffee at the office. And I deserve better than a cup of coffee filled with grounds."
So imagine my surprise when I walked over to the office Keurig after hearing its last, distinctive rattle, signaling the end of the hot water stream into the ceramic mug, and found this:
Are you kidding me?
Must be that the universe wants me to eat coffee grounds this morning.
As I walked out of my tiny Starbucks, I thought about going back and saying, "I'll take a cup of coffee with grounds - on the house." Because I really wanted a coffee from Starbucks. I like the feel of the warm paper cup in my hand, the heft of a 20 ounce cup of coffee, and savoring the faux caffeine to its last lukewarm drop.
But I thought better of it. "I'm not so desperate that I can't make a coffee at the office. And I deserve better than a cup of coffee filled with grounds."
So imagine my surprise when I walked over to the office Keurig after hearing its last, distinctive rattle, signaling the end of the hot water stream into the ceramic mug, and found this:
Must be that the universe wants me to eat coffee grounds this morning.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
The Red Dirt Cave: An office parable
Once upon a time, a pile of tiny ants struggling to make
their way in the world, found a giant morsel of food in a soft and beautiful
gray field.
They called their friends from near and far to join the
party.
And so they set to work gobbling the food, licking their ant
lips as they enjoyed what they thought was saucy protein.
What they didn’t realize was that this was a trap.
Imagine their surprise when a powerful blue ammonia cleanser
rained down on their picnic.
They stumbled in all directions trying to be free of the damp
pool of stinging fluid.
As they made their way to the far reaches of the cold
mountain at the edge of the beautiful gray field the ants breathed a collective
sigh of relief,
As they joyfully celebrated making their escape they heard a
distant rumbling.
“Huh?” thought the ants, just as they were violently sucked
into a dusty tunnel.
They landed with a thud.
Stunned from the force of their journey, the ants looked
around and asked “Where are we?”
Amidst the crumbled bodies of their sisters and brothers
they saw paper clips, bits of tissue, and packing peanuts.
It was then that the ants then knew they had been forced to
make the journey to the red dirt cave.
The red dirt cave was a place of legend. Not one member of
their tribe had ever returned after being forced to make the trip to the red
dirt cave.
They were doomed.
*****
Save an ant’s life. Please try to be extra mindful of
dropped food in the “kitchen.”
Monday, May 14, 2012
How to spend a windfall (or yet another way my childhood shaped my life)
My best friend and next door neighbor from childhood, Cindy Scott, and I practically shared a birthday. Mine is June 4 and hers is June 6. We also shared friends, so it was natural that we'd share birthday celebrations.
What we didn't share was socioeconomic status. I was raised by a practical and powerful, single mother. My father was the prototypical deadbeat dad, and our financial situation fluctuated wildly. By contrast, Cindy's parents remained married until her mom's death in 2005, and they were solidly middle class. Her family had Oreos, and bought cold cuts from the deli counter, which was proof to me that Cindy's family was in fact, rich.
Which leads me to my story.
One year, right after Cindy and I turned eight, we were going through our birthday loot. Me? I got $5 in a card from my Gramma. And Cindy? More like $20. In the spirit of continuing our shared birthday celebration, Cindy's mom offered to take us both to the local K-Mart to spend our birthday money. My mom agreed and told me to buy socks. Little did she know that Cindy had generously agreed to share her money with me. So, in 1978, with $25 and our eight year old desires, we headed to the Big K. And we came home with Sean Cassidy posters (dreamy), giant DIY color by number posters with lux markers, and handfuls of other impulsive and age-appropriate shwag. I remember feeling unfettered pleasure and the sense of having everything I could ever want.
But the feeling did not last long. Because I got into trouble for squandering my windfall on something I wanted rather than something I needed. (My mom would say she was trying to teach me responsibility rather than introducing me to self-denial and guilt, which, nearly 35 years later, continues to dominate my financial life.)
And now my current dilemma.
I recently won a $50 gift card to my favorite store in the universe, Wegmans.
So what do I do with it? Spend it on a treat, or save it for something I need?
What would be a treat? Take out from one of their on-site restaurants for me and my friends, a fancy cake and fixings for a nice dinner for my upcoming birthday, or a flower arrangement for myself.
What are more practical uses? Snacks and supplies for my next family gathering in upstate NY, supplies for baking and wrapping Christmas cookies this year, birthday and other cards to have in hand for sending to loved ones, or supplies for the house after the renovations at completed.
What would you do?
What we didn't share was socioeconomic status. I was raised by a practical and powerful, single mother. My father was the prototypical deadbeat dad, and our financial situation fluctuated wildly. By contrast, Cindy's parents remained married until her mom's death in 2005, and they were solidly middle class. Her family had Oreos, and bought cold cuts from the deli counter, which was proof to me that Cindy's family was in fact, rich.
Which leads me to my story.
One year, right after Cindy and I turned eight, we were going through our birthday loot. Me? I got $5 in a card from my Gramma. And Cindy? More like $20. In the spirit of continuing our shared birthday celebration, Cindy's mom offered to take us both to the local K-Mart to spend our birthday money. My mom agreed and told me to buy socks. Little did she know that Cindy had generously agreed to share her money with me. So, in 1978, with $25 and our eight year old desires, we headed to the Big K. And we came home with Sean Cassidy posters (dreamy), giant DIY color by number posters with lux markers, and handfuls of other impulsive and age-appropriate shwag. I remember feeling unfettered pleasure and the sense of having everything I could ever want.
But the feeling did not last long. Because I got into trouble for squandering my windfall on something I wanted rather than something I needed. (My mom would say she was trying to teach me responsibility rather than introducing me to self-denial and guilt, which, nearly 35 years later, continues to dominate my financial life.)
And now my current dilemma.
I recently won a $50 gift card to my favorite store in the universe, Wegmans.
So what do I do with it? Spend it on a treat, or save it for something I need?
What would be a treat? Take out from one of their on-site restaurants for me and my friends, a fancy cake and fixings for a nice dinner for my upcoming birthday, or a flower arrangement for myself.
What are more practical uses? Snacks and supplies for my next family gathering in upstate NY, supplies for baking and wrapping Christmas cookies this year, birthday and other cards to have in hand for sending to loved ones, or supplies for the house after the renovations at completed.
What would you do?
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Top ten list of my least favorite things about my home
What are the features you wish you could change in your home?
We're getting ready to gut The Tiny Bungalow in a very expensive dwelling do over. Here is my top ten list of the qualities of our seaside suburban home I won't miss:
10. The wood that is rotting off the back of the house
9. The entry room that serves no functional purpose but takes up a LOT of space
8. The permanent rot under the bathroom floor
7. The grease stains on the kitchen ceiling
6. The baseboards that start and stop in random places
5. The "pantry" (aka closet in the kitchen) with three foot deep shelves
4. The fireplace island coated with creosote on the inside of the three sided glass insert
3. The slider under the eave that has no gutter and, coincidentally, an enormous amount of mold
2. The stove that has only one functional burner
And the #1 thing about The Tiny Bungalow I won't miss?
1. The laundry that is accessible only by walking outside and around the side of the house.
What would be on your wish list of things to get rid of if you could do your home over?
We're getting ready to gut The Tiny Bungalow in a very expensive dwelling do over. Here is my top ten list of the qualities of our seaside suburban home I won't miss:
10. The wood that is rotting off the back of the house
9. The entry room that serves no functional purpose but takes up a LOT of space
8. The permanent rot under the bathroom floor
7. The grease stains on the kitchen ceiling
6. The baseboards that start and stop in random places
5. The "pantry" (aka closet in the kitchen) with three foot deep shelves
4. The fireplace island coated with creosote on the inside of the three sided glass insert
3. The slider under the eave that has no gutter and, coincidentally, an enormous amount of mold
2. The stove that has only one functional burner
And the #1 thing about The Tiny Bungalow I won't miss?
1. The laundry that is accessible only by walking outside and around the side of the house.
What would be on your wish list of things to get rid of if you could do your home over?
Saturday, April 14, 2012
10 things I learned from my mother
I didn't shower today. I spent the day in my gym clothes; I cleaned the house and and went for a hike. At about 8:00 PM I headed into the bedroom to fold clothes and remembered it was clean pajamas day. And then I realized I could NOT put on clean jammies without first taking a shower. I learned this from my mother. Saturday was the day we changed sheets in my childhood household, which meant we all got baths on Saturday, so we didn't crawl into our fresh sheets with dirty bodies.
Here are ten more lessons I learned from my mother:
1. It is a waste to throw away moldy food or bruised produce. Try scraping the mold first or cutting out the bad part before sacrificing the food.
2. Sticking your finger in hot candle wax is a federal offense, because it can burn off your fingerprints. And everyone is required by law to have fingerprints. (This is similar to the "Swallowed gum is never digested; if you continue to swallow gum it will eventually pile up in your body and pop your head off" lesson.)
3. One isn't *really* sick unless one has a fever or is bleeding from the head. And then it is SERIOUS.
4. Snickers are the most delicious of the commercial candy bars.
5. Conformity is not admirable (neither are ostentatious displays of wealth).
6. Charity - real or perceived - is admirable.
7. Never pack a cooler for a day trip. Lunch meat, cheeses and other items get unappetizingly soaked.
8. Be conscious of what underpants you are wearing under what article of clothing; patterned panties under light clothes is tacky.
9. Polite slang for a penis is a "horn." (You interpret this. My mom can't explain it.)
10. Homemade cookies are more delicious and virtuous than store bought. In fact, homemade anything is more delicious and/or virtuous than store bought.
Here are ten more lessons I learned from my mother:
1. It is a waste to throw away moldy food or bruised produce. Try scraping the mold first or cutting out the bad part before sacrificing the food.
2. Sticking your finger in hot candle wax is a federal offense, because it can burn off your fingerprints. And everyone is required by law to have fingerprints. (This is similar to the "Swallowed gum is never digested; if you continue to swallow gum it will eventually pile up in your body and pop your head off" lesson.)
3. One isn't *really* sick unless one has a fever or is bleeding from the head. And then it is SERIOUS.
4. Snickers are the most delicious of the commercial candy bars.
5. Conformity is not admirable (neither are ostentatious displays of wealth).
6. Charity - real or perceived - is admirable.
7. Never pack a cooler for a day trip. Lunch meat, cheeses and other items get unappetizingly soaked.
8. Be conscious of what underpants you are wearing under what article of clothing; patterned panties under light clothes is tacky.
9. Polite slang for a penis is a "horn." (You interpret this. My mom can't explain it.)
10. Homemade cookies are more delicious and virtuous than store bought. In fact, homemade anything is more delicious and/or virtuous than store bought.
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