Earlier this week, I was delighted to read a short blurb in the newspaper giving me an update of exactly what's on Yoko Ono's mind these days.
Turns out, just in time for Father's Day, she revealed that on the fateful night of John Lennon's death, he could have possibly avoided the bullets that were waiting for him outside the Dakota, courtesy of Mark Chapman. According to her story, when given a choice between grabbing a bite to eat and heading home after they finished their recording session that evening, John Lennon chose to skip the meal so he wouldn't miss seeing his son, Sean, before he went to sleep. And that made the difference in whether he would live or die if you believe her story. Perhaps Chapman would have given up his watch had Lennon and Ono been detained by a prolonged dinner, and the evening would have passed without incident.
As if that weren't enough to make Sean Lennon want to regret being alive, she had more to share. After a two-year separation, Ono and Lennon reconciled in 1975. Shortly after that, she became pregnant with Sean. As a future mother of the year, she turned to Lennon and asked him if he wanted the baby. Apparently, it made no difference to her whether or not she carried the child to term or aborted it. As she put it, "I thought I should let John decide whether to keep it or not. We'd just got back together and I became pregnant very soon, and I didn't know if it was the right moment to have a child. I didn't want to burden him with something he didn't want."
It's immaterial to me that she was conflicted about the pregnancy or that she wasn't sure she wanted to "burden" Lennon with a child. None of that is the point, really.
What is amazing and disturbing to me about her latest appearance in the news is that she very publically told her only son two things:
1.) you're the reason your father was killed that night; he was coming home at that hour only because of you; to make sure he could help tuck you in.
2.) giving birth to you was something I felt ambivilent about; and if your father hadn't wanted me to go one with the pregnancy, I was ready to end it.
If this weren't so sad I'd be amused by it. Why are we still reading about Yoko Ono anyway? Why hasn't she faded from our view? I don't get it. And especially this particular story. It uplifts no one as near as I could tell.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Meth is only one of their problems.
One of the big news stories around here is the arrest of middle school principal for alleged drug activity. I'll leave that to the investigators and courts to decide. But after I read the latest update on the story, I realized that methadone may be the least of school district's problems.
Turns out many of the teachers suspected and reported some of the questionable behavior by the principal. Some came forward and made their suspicions known to administrators.
Last week, independent investigators planned to question some of the teachers and faced some obstacles. Quote: "None of us is going to our interviews," one teacher said Tuesday, a day when several scheduled interviews never happened.
"None of us IS going. NONE of us...."
I'm ready to cry. Let's try this together, shall we?
None of us ARE going...
Not ONE of us IS going...
What is going on here?
I don't know why I'm surprised. A post or two ago I lamented the illiteracy of a reporter for the NYT; now I'm reading the same sort of regrettable grammar ignorance, this time in a quote from a teacher of all people.
As long as the district is considering random drug testing for everyone interacting with students, perhaps they should also institute random grammar testing for anyone speaking to students.
Or at least random grammar tests for the teachers. I don't care if you're teaching participles or molecules or multiples, shouldn't you be responsible enough to speak to children using proper English?
Once they clear up that methadone problem, they should turn to the grammar problem uncovered by this investigation as well.
Still incredulous -
Renee
Turns out many of the teachers suspected and reported some of the questionable behavior by the principal. Some came forward and made their suspicions known to administrators.
Last week, independent investigators planned to question some of the teachers and faced some obstacles. Quote: "None of us is going to our interviews," one teacher said Tuesday, a day when several scheduled interviews never happened.
"None of us IS going. NONE of us...."
I'm ready to cry. Let's try this together, shall we?
None of us ARE going...
Not ONE of us IS going...
What is going on here?
I don't know why I'm surprised. A post or two ago I lamented the illiteracy of a reporter for the NYT; now I'm reading the same sort of regrettable grammar ignorance, this time in a quote from a teacher of all people.
As long as the district is considering random drug testing for everyone interacting with students, perhaps they should also institute random grammar testing for anyone speaking to students.
Or at least random grammar tests for the teachers. I don't care if you're teaching participles or molecules or multiples, shouldn't you be responsible enough to speak to children using proper English?
Once they clear up that methadone problem, they should turn to the grammar problem uncovered by this investigation as well.
Still incredulous -
Renee
Sunday, March 11, 2007
waiting for the other shoe...or feather-trimmed mule...to drop
I'm pretty sure I have a good sense of humor. Really, I think I do. So why wasn't I laughing at the shampoo commercial I watched the other night? And then watched a second time just to make sure I understood it?
It shows two pretty blonde women talking about the merits of some new shampoo developed especially for their very particular hair needs. (I've written about this hair-color based shampoo phenomenon before so this wasn't new to me.) But here's the thing: at the end of the commercial, they speak rather disdainfully to all their brunette sisters who are watching them in sadness, mourning their own plight as non- blondes. They deliver a line that sounds something like this: "Sorry brunettes. At least your moms think you're pretty."
Ahem.
I think it's hilarious that these women appear to value their own looks above all else and have no compunction about sharing that world view.
I also think it's hilarious that they think everyone shares their view. Not looking pretty is clearly a tragedy in their world. And unless you're a blonde, you can't be pretty.
More than one woman I shared this with had the same reaction: is there an equvilant commercial for brunette shampoo where the tagline at the ends sounds like this: "Sorry blondes. At least your moms think you're smart."
If there is, I haven't seen it. But I did see products for brunettes by this company when I was shopping on Saturday.
Are they kidding me? They just dissed more than half the women on the planet with their we're bonde, we're pretty and we're proud of it in your face televison commerical and then they want to sell us shampoo? Then again, if this is all a really big joke, it's a good one. Just not that funny to all the non-blondes out there. And I have to believe there is at least one blonde who is annoyed that the commercial keeps the idea of blonde, pretty and vacant alive and well during network television commericals.
More soon....
It shows two pretty blonde women talking about the merits of some new shampoo developed especially for their very particular hair needs. (I've written about this hair-color based shampoo phenomenon before so this wasn't new to me.) But here's the thing: at the end of the commercial, they speak rather disdainfully to all their brunette sisters who are watching them in sadness, mourning their own plight as non- blondes. They deliver a line that sounds something like this: "Sorry brunettes. At least your moms think you're pretty."
Ahem.
I think it's hilarious that these women appear to value their own looks above all else and have no compunction about sharing that world view.
I also think it's hilarious that they think everyone shares their view. Not looking pretty is clearly a tragedy in their world. And unless you're a blonde, you can't be pretty.
More than one woman I shared this with had the same reaction: is there an equvilant commercial for brunette shampoo where the tagline at the ends sounds like this: "Sorry blondes. At least your moms think you're smart."
If there is, I haven't seen it. But I did see products for brunettes by this company when I was shopping on Saturday.
Are they kidding me? They just dissed more than half the women on the planet with their we're bonde, we're pretty and we're proud of it in your face televison commerical and then they want to sell us shampoo? Then again, if this is all a really big joke, it's a good one. Just not that funny to all the non-blondes out there. And I have to believe there is at least one blonde who is annoyed that the commercial keeps the idea of blonde, pretty and vacant alive and well during network television commericals.
More soon....
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Calling Lynne Truss....
Lynne Truss is my hero. In case you missed her marvelous book, Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, Truss is a British writer who does her best to encourage us to maintain some semblance of rules and order when it comes to grammar and using our language properly, whether writing it or speaking it. I happen to be one of those people who admires those who use language correctly and can't help but feel a little less kindly toward those who don't, especially those who should know better.
I'm by no means an expert on language but I'd like to think that writers who get their bylines published in The New York Times are. I'll go you one better than that and say that even if the writers themselves aren't perfect grammarians, certainly the copy editors and people who literally make a living correcting the grammar and spelling of others should be perfect.
I'd be wrong about that, too. I read this just today and had to reread the first paragraph three times to figure out who on earth wrote the letter being discussed. Turns out it was Otto Frank, Anne Frank's father. Except that's not what the article indicated. Here's the opening paragraph. My notes and questions follow:
"On April 30, 1941, just days after a Gestapo courier may have threatened to denounce Anne Frank’s father, Otto, to the Nazis, he wrote to his close college friend Nathan Straus Jr. begging for help in getting his family out of Amsterdam and into America."
What? A Gestapo courier wrote a letter to a close college friend about escaping Amsterdam? Why would a Nazi officer want to...wait a minute, I think I read that wrong....[re-read]...no, it definitely states that the Gestapo officer wrote a letter to a friend just days after he possibly threatened Otto Frank....wait a minute; let me see this....[re-read again]...Oh, I get it. Otto Frank wrote the letter to his college friend looking for help for his escape to America. Except it doesn't say that.
Here's how I think the opening paragraph of this interesting story should read:
On April 30, 1941, just days after a Gestapo courier may have threatened to denounce him to the Nazis, Anne Frank’s father, Otto, wrote to his close college friend Nathan Straus Jr. begging for help in getting his family out of Amsterdam and into America.
Or even better:
On April 30, 1941, just days after a Gestapo courier may have threatened to denounce him to the Nazis, Otto Frank, Anne Frank’s father, wrote to his close college friend Nathan Straus Jr. begging for help in getting his family out of Amsterdam and into America.
Again, I'm not some kind of grammar freak or grammar goddess but this is just wrong and it appears in what is arguably the number one newspaper in the country, if not the world. Any misused grammar bugs me but it bugs me even more that it appears on the front page of the NYT.
In this particular case, the problem stems from using antecedents and making them represent the correct noun (or something like that.) I told you I wasn't an expert. According to the Guide to Grammar and Writing website,
"Generally (but not always) pronouns stand for (pro + noun) or refer to a noun, an individual or individuals or thing or things (the pronoun's antecedent) whose identity is made clear earlier in the text." This particular antecedent was about as far from 'made clear' as you can get.
I ask you: Where does it leave us if The New York Times publishes incorrect grammar? I know this isn't nearly the first time this has happened and sadly, it won't be the last. Yes, I'm accustomed to having to read through stories to ferret out the "spin," the agenda, the bias behind a particular story. But having to read the same sentence more than twice to understand the content is asking just a little too much, even for me.
Soon -
I'm by no means an expert on language but I'd like to think that writers who get their bylines published in The New York Times are. I'll go you one better than that and say that even if the writers themselves aren't perfect grammarians, certainly the copy editors and people who literally make a living correcting the grammar and spelling of others should be perfect.
I'd be wrong about that, too. I read this just today and had to reread the first paragraph three times to figure out who on earth wrote the letter being discussed. Turns out it was Otto Frank, Anne Frank's father. Except that's not what the article indicated. Here's the opening paragraph. My notes and questions follow:
"On April 30, 1941, just days after a Gestapo courier may have threatened to denounce Anne Frank’s father, Otto, to the Nazis, he wrote to his close college friend Nathan Straus Jr. begging for help in getting his family out of Amsterdam and into America."
What? A Gestapo courier wrote a letter to a close college friend about escaping Amsterdam? Why would a Nazi officer want to...wait a minute, I think I read that wrong....[re-read]...no, it definitely states that the Gestapo officer wrote a letter to a friend just days after he possibly threatened Otto Frank....wait a minute; let me see this....[re-read again]...Oh, I get it. Otto Frank wrote the letter to his college friend looking for help for his escape to America. Except it doesn't say that.
Here's how I think the opening paragraph of this interesting story should read:
On April 30, 1941, just days after a Gestapo courier may have threatened to denounce him to the Nazis, Anne Frank’s father, Otto, wrote to his close college friend Nathan Straus Jr. begging for help in getting his family out of Amsterdam and into America.
Or even better:
On April 30, 1941, just days after a Gestapo courier may have threatened to denounce him to the Nazis, Otto Frank, Anne Frank’s father, wrote to his close college friend Nathan Straus Jr. begging for help in getting his family out of Amsterdam and into America.
Again, I'm not some kind of grammar freak or grammar goddess but this is just wrong and it appears in what is arguably the number one newspaper in the country, if not the world. Any misused grammar bugs me but it bugs me even more that it appears on the front page of the NYT.
In this particular case, the problem stems from using antecedents and making them represent the correct noun (or something like that.) I told you I wasn't an expert. According to the Guide to Grammar and Writing website,
"Generally (but not always) pronouns stand for (pro + noun) or refer to a noun, an individual or individuals or thing or things (the pronoun's antecedent) whose identity is made clear earlier in the text." This particular antecedent was about as far from 'made clear' as you can get.
I ask you: Where does it leave us if The New York Times publishes incorrect grammar? I know this isn't nearly the first time this has happened and sadly, it won't be the last. Yes, I'm accustomed to having to read through stories to ferret out the "spin," the agenda, the bias behind a particular story. But having to read the same sentence more than twice to understand the content is asking just a little too much, even for me.
Soon -
Thursday, February 08, 2007
And another thing....
We have another day or two before the wacky crazy female astronaut story leaves our national consciousness. Before it does, her's one more comment on one of the most predictable aspects of this (or any) news story.
According to reporters, Lisa Nowak's neighbors were stunned and shocked to learn of her behavior. That's always the case when it becomes evident that someone in your daily life turns out to be quite different than you imagine them to be. I'm not surprised that this was the reaction of her neighbors.
But here's my larger question, totally separate from the headline du jour: what does anyone really know about the people living up the street? What do any of us really know about each other? Here's the answer, in case you're thinking up a list of things you know. You ready? Nothing. You really don't know anything of substance. People are tricky animals and can hide much much more than we ever give each other credit for.
I'm not saying that we don't open up, we don't trust, we don't tell those closest to us our deepest thoughts. I'm just saying that even at that, there are some things in each one of us that will never be expressed to anyone. Even to a therapist, a priest or a rabbi. And if we have secrets from each other, why in the world would we ever expect our neighbors would know more about us?
I'm guessing if the press spoke to Nowak's husband, he'd agree that there were signs that something wasn't quite right these days. In fact, the couple had recently separated. But I'm guessing even he wouldn't have said it was so she could take her cross-state drive to destiny and the national headlines.
See? Even her husband for god's sake had no idea what she was thinking. And we think it's interesting or newsworthy that her neighbors didn't know?
Please.
According to reporters, Lisa Nowak's neighbors were stunned and shocked to learn of her behavior. That's always the case when it becomes evident that someone in your daily life turns out to be quite different than you imagine them to be. I'm not surprised that this was the reaction of her neighbors.
But here's my larger question, totally separate from the headline du jour: what does anyone really know about the people living up the street? What do any of us really know about each other? Here's the answer, in case you're thinking up a list of things you know. You ready? Nothing. You really don't know anything of substance. People are tricky animals and can hide much much more than we ever give each other credit for.
I'm not saying that we don't open up, we don't trust, we don't tell those closest to us our deepest thoughts. I'm just saying that even at that, there are some things in each one of us that will never be expressed to anyone. Even to a therapist, a priest or a rabbi. And if we have secrets from each other, why in the world would we ever expect our neighbors would know more about us?
I'm guessing if the press spoke to Nowak's husband, he'd agree that there were signs that something wasn't quite right these days. In fact, the couple had recently separated. But I'm guessing even he wouldn't have said it was so she could take her cross-state drive to destiny and the national headlines.
See? Even her husband for god's sake had no idea what she was thinking. And we think it's interesting or newsworthy that her neighbors didn't know?
Please.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Well, she was no rocket scientist...except she was.
What on God's green earth was she thinking? How do you make a living as a rocket scientist for god's sake and then develop some kind of maniacal plan to murder someone because of a love triangle?
I'm trying to understand this. Astronaut Lisa Nowak drives some 900 + miles (say from here to South Carolina) to catch up with her rival, Air Force Captain Colleen Shipman. She wasn't looking for a friendly chat about their mutual friend, astronaut Bill Oefelein. It doesn't appear she was, anyway, since she carried pepper spray, a knife, a mallet and a BB gun with her. But the truth is, I don't want to get into the details of the case against Nowak or the state of her marriage or her disintegrating romance.
The case itself - your classic love triangle - isn't all that surprising. People have battled romantic rivals for thousands of years, often with tragic results. I guess the astonishing part of this story for me is the fact that Nowak is without a doubt one very intelligent woman. She is the cliche: she's a rocket scientist!!! How could she ever imagine this was a good plan, worth following through, and possibly risking the rest of her life as a free woman should she get caught? How could she imagine causing harm to Captain Shipman was a reasonable idea, that would ultimately gain the affection her lover? Hasn't she ever seen an episode of CSI? You can't get away with anything if you're a criminal. The CSI team would find just a single blade of grass indiginous to Texas underneath Shipman's unconscious body and one hour later someone would be knocking on Nowak's door. Plus, she was no career criminal, just a woman with (sick, twisted) love in her heart.
Most of all, here's a question that's bothering me: is this the kind of person we're sending into space? I mean, if this story were about a banker from Baltimore or an accountant from Albany, we'd think it was strange and erratic and that she was evidently disturbed, but Nowak isn't any of those things. She's a rocket scientist!! NASA claims her state of mind showed no signs that she was "troubled" and perhaps contemplating an attempt on another woman's life that would require her to drive almost one thousand miles to accost her, and wear adult diapers during the entire trip so she didn't have to stop for bathroom breaks. Then again, I don't know what kinds of signs one would exhibit to indicate this behavior was in the offing. Clipping coupons for Depends? Choosing "quickest" when given a choice of routes from Houston to Orlando on Mapquest?
But what exactly was NASA going to say? "We knew she was a whack job but boy, could she manipulate that robotic arm. All in all, we thought she was worth the risk." Doubt it. What's going on up there in all that weightlessness? Is it party party party? The ultimate out of town trip for the married astronauts?
Now of course, NASA is going to review all of their policies regarding personnel and screening and how they can keep knife-carrying, pepper-spraying, diaper-wearing astronauts on the second or third tier lists for the next shuttle flight. Good idea. The problem is, your can't write HR rules when it comes to passion. Passion is passion is passion. And if NASA can figure out how to regulate their hiring practices to account for passion among the ranks, I want to read that report.
Certainly Nowak has some problems. But despite her status as an elite scientist, a shuttle astronaut and an employee of NASA, she is still a human being. A flawed human being who went way beyond the pale in terms of saving her romance and her relationship.
The only thing that will complete this story for me is when the press somehow links it all back to President Bush and how some policy he put into place contributed somehow to NASA's shame. It's coming.
More soon -
I'm trying to understand this. Astronaut Lisa Nowak drives some 900 + miles (say from here to South Carolina) to catch up with her rival, Air Force Captain Colleen Shipman. She wasn't looking for a friendly chat about their mutual friend, astronaut Bill Oefelein. It doesn't appear she was, anyway, since she carried pepper spray, a knife, a mallet and a BB gun with her. But the truth is, I don't want to get into the details of the case against Nowak or the state of her marriage or her disintegrating romance.
The case itself - your classic love triangle - isn't all that surprising. People have battled romantic rivals for thousands of years, often with tragic results. I guess the astonishing part of this story for me is the fact that Nowak is without a doubt one very intelligent woman. She is the cliche: she's a rocket scientist!!! How could she ever imagine this was a good plan, worth following through, and possibly risking the rest of her life as a free woman should she get caught? How could she imagine causing harm to Captain Shipman was a reasonable idea, that would ultimately gain the affection her lover? Hasn't she ever seen an episode of CSI? You can't get away with anything if you're a criminal. The CSI team would find just a single blade of grass indiginous to Texas underneath Shipman's unconscious body and one hour later someone would be knocking on Nowak's door. Plus, she was no career criminal, just a woman with (sick, twisted) love in her heart.
Most of all, here's a question that's bothering me: is this the kind of person we're sending into space? I mean, if this story were about a banker from Baltimore or an accountant from Albany, we'd think it was strange and erratic and that she was evidently disturbed, but Nowak isn't any of those things. She's a rocket scientist!! NASA claims her state of mind showed no signs that she was "troubled" and perhaps contemplating an attempt on another woman's life that would require her to drive almost one thousand miles to accost her, and wear adult diapers during the entire trip so she didn't have to stop for bathroom breaks. Then again, I don't know what kinds of signs one would exhibit to indicate this behavior was in the offing. Clipping coupons for Depends? Choosing "quickest" when given a choice of routes from Houston to Orlando on Mapquest?
But what exactly was NASA going to say? "We knew she was a whack job but boy, could she manipulate that robotic arm. All in all, we thought she was worth the risk." Doubt it. What's going on up there in all that weightlessness? Is it party party party? The ultimate out of town trip for the married astronauts?
Now of course, NASA is going to review all of their policies regarding personnel and screening and how they can keep knife-carrying, pepper-spraying, diaper-wearing astronauts on the second or third tier lists for the next shuttle flight. Good idea. The problem is, your can't write HR rules when it comes to passion. Passion is passion is passion. And if NASA can figure out how to regulate their hiring practices to account for passion among the ranks, I want to read that report.
Certainly Nowak has some problems. But despite her status as an elite scientist, a shuttle astronaut and an employee of NASA, she is still a human being. A flawed human being who went way beyond the pale in terms of saving her romance and her relationship.
The only thing that will complete this story for me is when the press somehow links it all back to President Bush and how some policy he put into place contributed somehow to NASA's shame. It's coming.
More soon -
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
I'm in the wrong business
Just the other day, I read an article about something called "life coaches" and at the end of it, I hadn't learned one blessed thing about managing my life better or figuring out my next move toward greatness. I did, however, find it enormously entertaining.
Apparently, as a society of needy people seeking help, guidance, counseling, assistance, and encouragement every minute of every day of our lives, we have moved beyond the idea of a counselor, or a therapist or even a mentor to help us achieve our potential. Any of the above mentioned people may in fact be able to help but jeez, they can be so negative sometimes, can't they? I mean, who wants to spend three years with a licensed therapist only to learn that you still haven't confronted your anger issues and you have spent no time at all listening and learning some new habits that may help you control your temper? Who needs to hear that without you either making some significant changes to your everyday activity or in fact seeking a new place of employment, your job simply isn't going to change like magic into the dream position you imagine you deserve?
Yes, therapists can deliver some tough messages from time to time, and ask you some very tough questions. This is why anyone with any sense at all is turning to a life coach to help them figure out how to make their dreams come true.
Life coaches come from all walks of life but my favorites are the ones who achieve their credentials through an online course of instruction in a matter of months. What kind of ego must you own if you believe that you can - in all good conscience - and with every confidence that the advice you're imparting to your clients is truly useful and achievable - become something as amorphous sounding and un-measurable as a life coach?
I have no earthly idea. But one of my favorite quotes from the article summed up the entire discipline of life coaching as follows: "If life is a ball of yarn, therapy helps you untangle it. Life coaching helps you knit a sweater."
What? If life is a ...what? A ball of yarn? Hold on a second; I'm going to give this a try:
If life is bowl of apples, therapy helps you peel them. Life coaching helps you bake the pie.
If life is a pile of socks, therapy helps you remove them from the dryer. Life coaching helps you match them in pairs.
If life is a ...oh, forget it. All I know is that some of these coaches are getting something like $225 AN HOUR to coach their clients VIA EMAIL OR VIA PHONE. From their own livings rooms. In their pajamas. They're using the cut and paste features of their email programs as they send scads of empowering, positive, life-affirming advice by the hour. They're watching Law and Order with the mute button pressed on their phone as they half-listen to the next crisis from their clients.
Think about it. They would create various categories of "life" that seem to cry out for coaching skills: employment, marriage, children, your all purpose family issues, money, home management, spirituality, health, recreation. They could then cobble together little snippets of pithy, important-sounding but vapid pieces of wisdom they could share, and little worksheets they could tweak with the stroke of six keys, so that the questions they ask you to fill out to honestly evaluate how you handle money, for example, could be easily edited to indicate how you handle your children, or your parents, or your boss, or your spouse or your exercise program.
I'm trying to figure out how I would sign off my emails at the conclusion of each session if I were a life coach who doled out my wisdom via the internet. "Have a super-empowering week!" "Go be the best you ever!" "Say yes! And keep going!" "You are powerful. You are aware. You are your own destiny."
Honest to god, I could do this for hours. And at $225 per, I wouldn't have to do it for that many hours every week. I'm thinking three clients a day, four days a week and I'd be pretty content.
I'll grant the tiniest bit of leeway here and say that maybe - just maybe there are people in the world who are very, very good at helping others see their strengths, and weaknesses, and call them on bad habits, wrong choices, and mistakes that could have been avoided. They help others make tough choices and stand by them when they do. They celebrate accomplishments and success right along side others, and help them enjoy a moment of glory.
In the old days, they were called friends and family. And they didn't charge $225 an hour.
.....Thanks for visiting......I'll try not to stay away so long next time but god forbid I make a resolution about it. The last thing I need is some life-coach voice in my head telling me to update the blog and stick with my resolution to write here several times a week. I hope you understand.
Apparently, as a society of needy people seeking help, guidance, counseling, assistance, and encouragement every minute of every day of our lives, we have moved beyond the idea of a counselor, or a therapist or even a mentor to help us achieve our potential. Any of the above mentioned people may in fact be able to help but jeez, they can be so negative sometimes, can't they? I mean, who wants to spend three years with a licensed therapist only to learn that you still haven't confronted your anger issues and you have spent no time at all listening and learning some new habits that may help you control your temper? Who needs to hear that without you either making some significant changes to your everyday activity or in fact seeking a new place of employment, your job simply isn't going to change like magic into the dream position you imagine you deserve?
Yes, therapists can deliver some tough messages from time to time, and ask you some very tough questions. This is why anyone with any sense at all is turning to a life coach to help them figure out how to make their dreams come true.
Life coaches come from all walks of life but my favorites are the ones who achieve their credentials through an online course of instruction in a matter of months. What kind of ego must you own if you believe that you can - in all good conscience - and with every confidence that the advice you're imparting to your clients is truly useful and achievable - become something as amorphous sounding and un-measurable as a life coach?
I have no earthly idea. But one of my favorite quotes from the article summed up the entire discipline of life coaching as follows: "If life is a ball of yarn, therapy helps you untangle it. Life coaching helps you knit a sweater."
What? If life is a ...what? A ball of yarn? Hold on a second; I'm going to give this a try:
If life is bowl of apples, therapy helps you peel them. Life coaching helps you bake the pie.
If life is a pile of socks, therapy helps you remove them from the dryer. Life coaching helps you match them in pairs.
If life is a ...oh, forget it. All I know is that some of these coaches are getting something like $225 AN HOUR to coach their clients VIA EMAIL OR VIA PHONE. From their own livings rooms. In their pajamas. They're using the cut and paste features of their email programs as they send scads of empowering, positive, life-affirming advice by the hour. They're watching Law and Order with the mute button pressed on their phone as they half-listen to the next crisis from their clients.
Think about it. They would create various categories of "life" that seem to cry out for coaching skills: employment, marriage, children, your all purpose family issues, money, home management, spirituality, health, recreation. They could then cobble together little snippets of pithy, important-sounding but vapid pieces of wisdom they could share, and little worksheets they could tweak with the stroke of six keys, so that the questions they ask you to fill out to honestly evaluate how you handle money, for example, could be easily edited to indicate how you handle your children, or your parents, or your boss, or your spouse or your exercise program.
I'm trying to figure out how I would sign off my emails at the conclusion of each session if I were a life coach who doled out my wisdom via the internet. "Have a super-empowering week!" "Go be the best you ever!" "Say yes! And keep going!" "You are powerful. You are aware. You are your own destiny."
Honest to god, I could do this for hours. And at $225 per, I wouldn't have to do it for that many hours every week. I'm thinking three clients a day, four days a week and I'd be pretty content.
I'll grant the tiniest bit of leeway here and say that maybe - just maybe there are people in the world who are very, very good at helping others see their strengths, and weaknesses, and call them on bad habits, wrong choices, and mistakes that could have been avoided. They help others make tough choices and stand by them when they do. They celebrate accomplishments and success right along side others, and help them enjoy a moment of glory.
In the old days, they were called friends and family. And they didn't charge $225 an hour.
.....Thanks for visiting......I'll try not to stay away so long next time but god forbid I make a resolution about it. The last thing I need is some life-coach voice in my head telling me to update the blog and stick with my resolution to write here several times a week. I hope you understand.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Let me be clear
I'm stating this for the record: I don't ever want to, or ever plan to, buy any drugs from anyone or from any company in Canada.
None. Ever.
Not so much as an aspirin. Or a cold pill. Or anything at all that means I have to get even one more email offering me dr%#s from Ca8ad% at half price.
There. Maybe that will help.
I've never opened even one of those 'buy your meds here' emails which is why its so hard to believe they still arrive in my inbox with alarming regularity.
I can only guess that it makes sense to keep sending stuff to someone because one day it just may pay off but dear god, is someone really making a living off of these email solitations for antibiotics from Quebec?
If universal health care is such a successful social experience, why is every Canadian drug company relentlessly looking for business south of the border? Why isn't their government keeping them in the black year after year after year? Did Michael Moore include these companies in his upcoming 'why I hate the lying, deceitful, money-grubbing, profit-grabbing drug companies and you should, too' expose? I'm no fan of MM but when will he do a scathing report about the email campaigns many of us deal with on a daily basis?
I know. In the scheme of things, this is so irrelevant. But it's the little things that can make the difference between life being a joyous ride on a gorgeous fall day or a slippery backroads experience during a February storm.
I'm going to keep track of how many days in a row I do NOT get an offer on a fantastic deal for some prescription meds from our northeern neighbors. I'll bet I don't make it to two.
None. Ever.
Not so much as an aspirin. Or a cold pill. Or anything at all that means I have to get even one more email offering me dr%#s from Ca8ad% at half price.
There. Maybe that will help.
I've never opened even one of those 'buy your meds here' emails which is why its so hard to believe they still arrive in my inbox with alarming regularity.
I can only guess that it makes sense to keep sending stuff to someone because one day it just may pay off but dear god, is someone really making a living off of these email solitations for antibiotics from Quebec?
If universal health care is such a successful social experience, why is every Canadian drug company relentlessly looking for business south of the border? Why isn't their government keeping them in the black year after year after year? Did Michael Moore include these companies in his upcoming 'why I hate the lying, deceitful, money-grubbing, profit-grabbing drug companies and you should, too' expose? I'm no fan of MM but when will he do a scathing report about the email campaigns many of us deal with on a daily basis?
I know. In the scheme of things, this is so irrelevant. But it's the little things that can make the difference between life being a joyous ride on a gorgeous fall day or a slippery backroads experience during a February storm.
I'm going to keep track of how many days in a row I do NOT get an offer on a fantastic deal for some prescription meds from our northeern neighbors. I'll bet I don't make it to two.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
This is why we're all slowly but inexorably, going insane
Because we can't keep up. I mean it. We just can't.
It's just begun to register with me that I'm hearing about something called a blueray which is some kind of supercharged DVD. I think. My husband tells me that blueray is one kind of revved up DVD - hi def I think he called it - and they have a competitor, not unlike the old VHS / Beta wars. If you don't remember those you also don't know who Radar O'Reilly is or why almost everyone who watched the final episode of St. Elsewhere was disappointed. (St. Elsewhere was the TV show where Howie Mandel made a living about twenty years ago. Right around the time he did stand-up but long before the bald pate and the Deal or No Deal deal.)
Wait just one minute. DVDs are on their way out and these new guys are elbowing the shleves for dominance? I cannot stand it.
This is why our parents weren't nuts. Because once they welcomed the television into their living rooms - not their family rooms, their living rooms - they had to do little more than upgrade to a color tv set for the rest of their lives. Luckily for them they had things like raising kids, holding down jobs and running households to keep them busy.
I LOVE that. I really do. I wish I could buy technology and forget about it for at least ten years. I guess it's possible; just not easy. I recently tried to get my laptop repaired and was told it wasn't worth the $200. I could buy a new one with five times the power for about $600. When I asked exactly what I was to do with the one in my hands, the clerk offered few options. Sell it for parts on ebay? It's disturbing. Is there no one on the planet who could use this laptop? Is it destined for the dusty techno-heap?
I love that everyone in Hollywood who claims to love the planet and inspires us to be kind of the earth will switch formats faster than Kid Rock and what's her name are getting divorced. Nothing like a good landfill, packed to the brim with old technology, to express your love for Mother Nature, I say.
Soon -
It's just begun to register with me that I'm hearing about something called a blueray which is some kind of supercharged DVD. I think. My husband tells me that blueray is one kind of revved up DVD - hi def I think he called it - and they have a competitor, not unlike the old VHS / Beta wars. If you don't remember those you also don't know who Radar O'Reilly is or why almost everyone who watched the final episode of St. Elsewhere was disappointed. (St. Elsewhere was the TV show where Howie Mandel made a living about twenty years ago. Right around the time he did stand-up but long before the bald pate and the Deal or No Deal deal.)
Wait just one minute. DVDs are on their way out and these new guys are elbowing the shleves for dominance? I cannot stand it.
This is why our parents weren't nuts. Because once they welcomed the television into their living rooms - not their family rooms, their living rooms - they had to do little more than upgrade to a color tv set for the rest of their lives. Luckily for them they had things like raising kids, holding down jobs and running households to keep them busy.
I LOVE that. I really do. I wish I could buy technology and forget about it for at least ten years. I guess it's possible; just not easy. I recently tried to get my laptop repaired and was told it wasn't worth the $200. I could buy a new one with five times the power for about $600. When I asked exactly what I was to do with the one in my hands, the clerk offered few options. Sell it for parts on ebay? It's disturbing. Is there no one on the planet who could use this laptop? Is it destined for the dusty techno-heap?
I love that everyone in Hollywood who claims to love the planet and inspires us to be kind of the earth will switch formats faster than Kid Rock and what's her name are getting divorced. Nothing like a good landfill, packed to the brim with old technology, to express your love for Mother Nature, I say.
Soon -
Saturday, November 25, 2006
a mile long and an inch deep
That's pretty much what I believe about my knowledge about our country's policies and where we stand on certain issues. And I think that's the extent of most people's knowledge goes when it comes to some of the key questions we face these days. Most people won't admit that but I do, without shame.
Case in point: about six or seven years ago I used to make several trips a year to San Diego to see a client. Every couple of trips, I would combine the San Diego trip with a drive up to Los Angeles as well. I drove through an immigration "checkpoint" on that Highway 5 I think it is , where theoretically border patrol officers were insuring that illegal immigrants from Mexico weren't hiding in my trunk or back seat. The stops and searches they made appeared to be pretty random. But not unexpected since there were enormous booths you had to drive through to continue on your way north.
Here's what I don't know: what about the rest of the border? Especially the border with Canada? I've also driving and flown into Canada and had to go through security checks. But are there vast expanses of border with no checks? Am I the only person in America who doens't understand how we protect our borders? Aren't there thousands of miles of border with Canada - many of them just open land with few people living right there, right on the premises so to speak and watching out for who goes in and who goes out? What happens there?
I don't get it. Yes, I could educate myself and find out exactly what our options appear to be and how we can insure our safety and what exactly happens along the border of Canada and Washington. I'm guessing not much but I'm not sure at all.
Maybe like most citizens, I have my global view of immigration and what seems to make sense as I see it. But I have little or no real facts to back me up. I also have my own views of minimum wage, tax codes, abortion, welfare and public education. The problem is, so do the politicians and they refuse to discuss anything with any real substance, beyond their own agendas. Their facts, as it were, appear to back up only their own agenda, not the greater good in most cases.
Which is why a mile long and an inch deep is about as far as most of us get before we give up in disgust.
Case in point: about six or seven years ago I used to make several trips a year to San Diego to see a client. Every couple of trips, I would combine the San Diego trip with a drive up to Los Angeles as well. I drove through an immigration "checkpoint" on that Highway 5 I think it is , where theoretically border patrol officers were insuring that illegal immigrants from Mexico weren't hiding in my trunk or back seat. The stops and searches they made appeared to be pretty random. But not unexpected since there were enormous booths you had to drive through to continue on your way north.
Here's what I don't know: what about the rest of the border? Especially the border with Canada? I've also driving and flown into Canada and had to go through security checks. But are there vast expanses of border with no checks? Am I the only person in America who doens't understand how we protect our borders? Aren't there thousands of miles of border with Canada - many of them just open land with few people living right there, right on the premises so to speak and watching out for who goes in and who goes out? What happens there?
I don't get it. Yes, I could educate myself and find out exactly what our options appear to be and how we can insure our safety and what exactly happens along the border of Canada and Washington. I'm guessing not much but I'm not sure at all.
Maybe like most citizens, I have my global view of immigration and what seems to make sense as I see it. But I have little or no real facts to back me up. I also have my own views of minimum wage, tax codes, abortion, welfare and public education. The problem is, so do the politicians and they refuse to discuss anything with any real substance, beyond their own agendas. Their facts, as it were, appear to back up only their own agenda, not the greater good in most cases.
Which is why a mile long and an inch deep is about as far as most of us get before we give up in disgust.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Today's puzzlement
Here's what's on my to-do list:
call the music school and try to reschedule the violin lesson
get to the bank and deposit a check
dry cleaners pick up milk and cereal again. stop into the paint store to pick out and buy paint
organize all the receipts in my wallet - collecting in one little pocket for about three weeks now - and record them into the checkbook
figure out where all my money goes every week nail polish - take some off and figure out what to do with my nails, even though I know I won't really like any color I decide to use and will seriously envy the nail color I see on every single woman I encounter, not to mention it really won't matter because they'll all crack or split in about three days send congratulations card to friend who had baby girl 7 weeks ago
call my mom
call my sister
call my friend
paint the bedroom
wallpaper Mom's kitchen and paint
shampoo the carpets
refinish a cabinet
shop for paper goods for the brunch at school
stop into the dealership so they can fix the service engine light that's been lit up on my dashboard for about three weeks
shop for a new washer and dryer since ours are dying and it takes about 8 hours to dry three towels
write emails to teachers about the "(no) progress" reports
change all the sheets on all the beds in the house
And that's just the stuff around my personal life. Don't get me started on the emails I owe people, the column that's due that isn't going to write itself, the miles I'm not putting in on the treadmill, and the projects that are horribly behind at work.
When are all these married couples I'm reading about having sex day and night, night and day???? Who is doing all their errands?
R
Monday, October 30, 2006
I'm certain I'm missing something
On the rare occasions that I don't have a book with me, I love to read Skymall, the catalog you find on airplanes. Actually, I have a love / hate relationship with Skymall. I am never disappointed when it comes to the products I find it in: I can always find something that completely mystifies me.
The companies selling their goods and services in Skymall run from the very familiar, like The Sharper Image, to those you may have never heard of, like The Brightfeet Lighted Slippers company. You won't be surprised to learn they sell lighted slippers. So you can put them on and walk to the refrigerator in the dark at 3 am. The tiny lights on the front of your slippers shine a path for you. Once you step into them, they automatically light up if it's dark. And when you step out of them, they stay lit for a few seconds so you can safely get back into bed.
Our kids had light up slippers once. The lights lasted for about three weeks before growing ever weaker. I will tell you, however, that the ones they wore were definitely NOT from the Brightfeet Lighted Slippers company.
I usually try to find the most annoying product in the catalog and sometimes it's difficult to make that decision. Last weekend, on a trip back from Las Vegas, I had plenty of time to study the selections. I actually couldn't make a final decision so I had to settle for two products that tied for the most ridiculous and overated items in the catalog.
The first was a trash can that opened as a result of an electric-eye sensor. Because I can't top the copy that accompanied this product, I'll quote the sales pitch here: "Sure, a step on trash can is covenient, but how often do you get frustrated fumbling for the foot control? Free your feet and your frustrations with our stainless steel touchless trash can, a completely foot- and hands-free waste disposal system." I love that: "waste disposal system."
It goes on from there to explain the specifics but I couldn't help but think the following in my head: We have a step-on trash can in our kitchen and I don't believe I've ever missed the foot control - ever. It isn't really all that hard to find or operate. I can name three dozen things that frustrate me on a daily basis but finding the foot pedal on our trash can isn't one of them.
In a tie with the electronic trash can, I found the 'Breakfix Cereal Dispenser.' It's not that I'm opposed to a device that dispenses cereal - although it feels much like dog or cat food dispensers to me - I cringed at the copy that accompanied the product. "...fixing the day's first meal will never again be a messy, time consuming chore."
We're not talking about making eggs benedict here! We're not even talking about microwaving bacon strips. We're talking about 'fixing' a bowl of dry cereal!!!!! We have reached some kind of nadir as a society of thinking, breathing human beings when we can be sold a device with ad copy that calls pouring a bowl of cereal for our kids a "messy, time-consuming chore." If three seconds is time-comsuming, it's news to me.
I love the photo for this product. In the background, we see a young, attractive mom in jeans and a t-shirt, smiling gratefully at her young daughter who is holding what appears to be an empty ceral bowl. I imagine the daughter is saying this with her expression: "My mommy is so lame she can't even pour me a bowl of cereal. I think she resents having to put in such a time-consuming chore every morning to make sure I leave the house nourished and ready for my day. Look at her. You can just tell she'd rather be at the gym than caring for me. But that's okay. When she's ninety, I'll set up an automatic pill dispenser in her ratty little apartment and smile as I leave her when I visit three times a year."
Okay. Maybe she wasn't saying that. But she should be.
Talk soon -
The companies selling their goods and services in Skymall run from the very familiar, like The Sharper Image, to those you may have never heard of, like The Brightfeet Lighted Slippers company. You won't be surprised to learn they sell lighted slippers. So you can put them on and walk to the refrigerator in the dark at 3 am. The tiny lights on the front of your slippers shine a path for you. Once you step into them, they automatically light up if it's dark. And when you step out of them, they stay lit for a few seconds so you can safely get back into bed.
Our kids had light up slippers once. The lights lasted for about three weeks before growing ever weaker. I will tell you, however, that the ones they wore were definitely NOT from the Brightfeet Lighted Slippers company.
I usually try to find the most annoying product in the catalog and sometimes it's difficult to make that decision. Last weekend, on a trip back from Las Vegas, I had plenty of time to study the selections. I actually couldn't make a final decision so I had to settle for two products that tied for the most ridiculous and overated items in the catalog.
The first was a trash can that opened as a result of an electric-eye sensor. Because I can't top the copy that accompanied this product, I'll quote the sales pitch here: "Sure, a step on trash can is covenient, but how often do you get frustrated fumbling for the foot control? Free your feet and your frustrations with our stainless steel touchless trash can, a completely foot- and hands-free waste disposal system." I love that: "waste disposal system."
It goes on from there to explain the specifics but I couldn't help but think the following in my head: We have a step-on trash can in our kitchen and I don't believe I've ever missed the foot control - ever. It isn't really all that hard to find or operate. I can name three dozen things that frustrate me on a daily basis but finding the foot pedal on our trash can isn't one of them.
In a tie with the electronic trash can, I found the 'Breakfix Cereal Dispenser.' It's not that I'm opposed to a device that dispenses cereal - although it feels much like dog or cat food dispensers to me - I cringed at the copy that accompanied the product. "...fixing the day's first meal will never again be a messy, time consuming chore."
We're not talking about making eggs benedict here! We're not even talking about microwaving bacon strips. We're talking about 'fixing' a bowl of dry cereal!!!!! We have reached some kind of nadir as a society of thinking, breathing human beings when we can be sold a device with ad copy that calls pouring a bowl of cereal for our kids a "messy, time-consuming chore." If three seconds is time-comsuming, it's news to me.
I love the photo for this product. In the background, we see a young, attractive mom in jeans and a t-shirt, smiling gratefully at her young daughter who is holding what appears to be an empty ceral bowl. I imagine the daughter is saying this with her expression: "My mommy is so lame she can't even pour me a bowl of cereal. I think she resents having to put in such a time-consuming chore every morning to make sure I leave the house nourished and ready for my day. Look at her. You can just tell she'd rather be at the gym than caring for me. But that's okay. When she's ninety, I'll set up an automatic pill dispenser in her ratty little apartment and smile as I leave her when I visit three times a year."
Okay. Maybe she wasn't saying that. But she should be.
Talk soon -
Monday, October 23, 2006
# 4,967 in the list of things I don't understand
I'd like to think I'm not dense or obtuse about most things in life. Don't ask me to explain even one thing Stephen Hawking ever wrote about or how electricity works but despite the title of this post, I feel pretty comfortable moving about on a daily basis; understanding many things about my environment and the people in it.
Except for my latest problem: cell phones. I swear to God in heaven I don't understand what it is with men and cell phones. The only thing I can think of is that a cell phone is kind of like a remote control men can speak into. And since years ago I figured out that a remote control is a polite way for a man to hold himself in a room filled with family or friends,a cell phone is yet another way for him to do it. Except this time, he gets to take pictures with it and set up lots of individual bells and whistles to announce to the world: this is mine! Look at me!
With cell phones, smaller is better - perhaps the only place in a man's life that you'll find that to be true. Cars are getting bigger but phones are getting smaller. So if you're a man who wants to really make a statement about your own conspicuous consumption, drive an Escalade and talk on a chocolate phone. Drive a Hummer and listen to your mini.
Exception: TVs. Thin screen: yes. Small screen: NO. Imagine the man who sits in front of his 6 foot television screen holding his remote and his cell phone. The whole image is scaring me just a little bit.
Women - god help me - will never understand this. Every single thing in a woman's life isn't much more than a placeholder until she can get together with someone face to face. Cell phones, watching tv, listening to music - fine, lovely, fun. But nothing compared to meeting up with a real live person or people to connect in person.
I just can't get excited about new cell phones. It's just not in my DNA. I can fake it - enough to be thrilled for everyone in my house who has a new phone these days -but I don't really get it.
Except for my latest problem: cell phones. I swear to God in heaven I don't understand what it is with men and cell phones. The only thing I can think of is that a cell phone is kind of like a remote control men can speak into. And since years ago I figured out that a remote control is a polite way for a man to hold himself in a room filled with family or friends,a cell phone is yet another way for him to do it. Except this time, he gets to take pictures with it and set up lots of individual bells and whistles to announce to the world: this is mine! Look at me!
With cell phones, smaller is better - perhaps the only place in a man's life that you'll find that to be true. Cars are getting bigger but phones are getting smaller. So if you're a man who wants to really make a statement about your own conspicuous consumption, drive an Escalade and talk on a chocolate phone. Drive a Hummer and listen to your mini.
Exception: TVs. Thin screen: yes. Small screen: NO. Imagine the man who sits in front of his 6 foot television screen holding his remote and his cell phone. The whole image is scaring me just a little bit.
Women - god help me - will never understand this. Every single thing in a woman's life isn't much more than a placeholder until she can get together with someone face to face. Cell phones, watching tv, listening to music - fine, lovely, fun. But nothing compared to meeting up with a real live person or people to connect in person.
I just can't get excited about new cell phones. It's just not in my DNA. I can fake it - enough to be thrilled for everyone in my house who has a new phone these days -but I don't really get it.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
this is just plain sad
I just realized I am old enough to have been one of Josh Holloway's babysitters when I was young.
It's just a little sad to think that Holloway is ten years younger than I. And that the character he plays on Lost - the character I find most attractive (Sawyer)- really, if you were honest about it - is way too young for me. Had I lived up the street from him many years ago, when I was thirteen years old and he was three, I could have been reading him books, helping his mom get him potty-trained, or doing other useful "mother's helper" kind of tasks, and earning a dollar an hour to do it.
That's the weird thing about age. I guarantee you not one of us imagines getting older every single day - not to mention every single year - but we do. We tend to think of ourselves in some kind of perpetual state of suspended animation; where the rest of the world changes but we're pretty much the same as we were when we were 32 years old.
I mean, short of actually doing the math, what would ever possess me to imagine I'm too old for Sawyer? (I'm of course leaving out the fact that I would never have the opportunity to get to know Josh Holloway in any personal way for the rest of my life. Or that I've been married for twenty years and have three sons. Or that he's married - maybe he has kids. Or that I've never been to Hawaii and have no plans to go to Hawaii where I would have zero chance of runing into him in a 7-11 as he heads to the studio one morning anyway. We're talking imagination here, not reality.)
There must be some "sweet spot" for age - where we think we live and how we think the rest of the world sees us - that we choose for ourselves and never adjust as time passes by. It's the Glory Days Springsteen sings about - those days where we are at our best, with just about everything good in life to look forward to, where we and everything around us, can only get better.
Thing is, even when the Glory Days can arguably be called "behind us," we still think we're in 'em; or even that they're just ahead. I know I couldn't really function at my best if I didn't believe on some level that the best was yet to come in my life, as Sinatra (?) sang many years ago.
But that can't really be true - or it can't be true for a lot of us. I suppose there is that Grandma Moses kind of stuff that happens. You (and the rest of the world) can discover a whole new amazingly wonderful element about yourself after you've spent about seven decades just picking up around the house and balancing your checkbook.
This leaves me exactly no where with my revelation about Holloway and my old age. But I'd love to know what age most people believe they are - what is your imaginary age? We forget the limitations that come with youth - and rely on the standby theory that goes something like, "if I knew then what I know now"... then what? We'd all be brilliant twenty year olds? Doubt it. I'm not a brilliant almost 50 year old. We want to retain our collected "wisdom" (for lack of a better word) that our advancing years afford us. But we want to feel thirty-two. And have the world see us that way, too.
Maybe that's where friends and family come is. As you age together, you preserve the whole fantasy together on some level, right?
Which is exactly the reason I could never really hook up with Josh Holloway. We don't have a past - even a parallel past - to share. When he was playing Little League, I was writing my senior thesis on D. H. Lawrence for college. I can try for a very long time and I guarantee you there is just no way to connect those two events into anything really substantive.
Sorry Josh - I was born too late.
talk soon -
R
It's just a little sad to think that Holloway is ten years younger than I. And that the character he plays on Lost - the character I find most attractive (Sawyer)- really, if you were honest about it - is way too young for me. Had I lived up the street from him many years ago, when I was thirteen years old and he was three, I could have been reading him books, helping his mom get him potty-trained, or doing other useful "mother's helper" kind of tasks, and earning a dollar an hour to do it.
That's the weird thing about age. I guarantee you not one of us imagines getting older every single day - not to mention every single year - but we do. We tend to think of ourselves in some kind of perpetual state of suspended animation; where the rest of the world changes but we're pretty much the same as we were when we were 32 years old.
I mean, short of actually doing the math, what would ever possess me to imagine I'm too old for Sawyer? (I'm of course leaving out the fact that I would never have the opportunity to get to know Josh Holloway in any personal way for the rest of my life. Or that I've been married for twenty years and have three sons. Or that he's married - maybe he has kids. Or that I've never been to Hawaii and have no plans to go to Hawaii where I would have zero chance of runing into him in a 7-11 as he heads to the studio one morning anyway. We're talking imagination here, not reality.)
There must be some "sweet spot" for age - where we think we live and how we think the rest of the world sees us - that we choose for ourselves and never adjust as time passes by. It's the Glory Days Springsteen sings about - those days where we are at our best, with just about everything good in life to look forward to, where we and everything around us, can only get better.
Thing is, even when the Glory Days can arguably be called "behind us," we still think we're in 'em; or even that they're just ahead. I know I couldn't really function at my best if I didn't believe on some level that the best was yet to come in my life, as Sinatra (?) sang many years ago.
But that can't really be true - or it can't be true for a lot of us. I suppose there is that Grandma Moses kind of stuff that happens. You (and the rest of the world) can discover a whole new amazingly wonderful element about yourself after you've spent about seven decades just picking up around the house and balancing your checkbook.
This leaves me exactly no where with my revelation about Holloway and my old age. But I'd love to know what age most people believe they are - what is your imaginary age? We forget the limitations that come with youth - and rely on the standby theory that goes something like, "if I knew then what I know now"... then what? We'd all be brilliant twenty year olds? Doubt it. I'm not a brilliant almost 50 year old. We want to retain our collected "wisdom" (for lack of a better word) that our advancing years afford us. But we want to feel thirty-two. And have the world see us that way, too.
Maybe that's where friends and family come is. As you age together, you preserve the whole fantasy together on some level, right?
Which is exactly the reason I could never really hook up with Josh Holloway. We don't have a past - even a parallel past - to share. When he was playing Little League, I was writing my senior thesis on D. H. Lawrence for college. I can try for a very long time and I guarantee you there is just no way to connect those two events into anything really substantive.
Sorry Josh - I was born too late.
talk soon -
R
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Ummmm; how shall I put this?
How about: I don't care.
Or more accurately (I hope): we don't care.
That's how I felt when I read about Runaway Bride - that's how she'll always be referred to forever, it will probably be on her tombstone some day - Runaway Bride Jennifer Wilbanks - suing her ex-fiance for something like $500 million bucks. Honestly, I could barely skim the article so if you want the real story, don't count on finding it here. Something about he kept the toaster and the sofa and the shower gifts - and - oh, yeah - most of the money she made on her deal to tell her story to Regan Books.
Poor R - B Jen. She really needed a better lawyer than whoever it was who set up her book deal and left her fiance - not even her husband - holding all the money. She's the one who did the running - and the subsequent fessing up - and the community service for causing all that angst in her hometown - not to mention nationwide if you'll recall. (I wasn't particularly anxious about her running but many were.) And he gets most of the money, not to mention the fondue pot and cappuccino maker? Is there no justice?
I hate this story. I hate that they made half a million bucks. I hate that we were subjected to hearing about this story for several weeks a few years ago. I hate that she took the money - only to lose it to her ex-boyfriend, when she should have donated it to a women's shelter or some national organization that truly tries to help women who NEED to run for their lives.
Maybe Katie Couric will do a follow up interview and ask Jennifer about how the relationship ended, what she learned about herself along the way and why she didn't have a decent pre-nup in place. I can't wait.
Talk soon -
R
Or more accurately (I hope): we don't care.
That's how I felt when I read about Runaway Bride - that's how she'll always be referred to forever, it will probably be on her tombstone some day - Runaway Bride Jennifer Wilbanks - suing her ex-fiance for something like $500 million bucks. Honestly, I could barely skim the article so if you want the real story, don't count on finding it here. Something about he kept the toaster and the sofa and the shower gifts - and - oh, yeah - most of the money she made on her deal to tell her story to Regan Books.
Poor R - B Jen. She really needed a better lawyer than whoever it was who set up her book deal and left her fiance - not even her husband - holding all the money. She's the one who did the running - and the subsequent fessing up - and the community service for causing all that angst in her hometown - not to mention nationwide if you'll recall. (I wasn't particularly anxious about her running but many were.) And he gets most of the money, not to mention the fondue pot and cappuccino maker? Is there no justice?
I hate this story. I hate that they made half a million bucks. I hate that we were subjected to hearing about this story for several weeks a few years ago. I hate that she took the money - only to lose it to her ex-boyfriend, when she should have donated it to a women's shelter or some national organization that truly tries to help women who NEED to run for their lives.
Maybe Katie Couric will do a follow up interview and ask Jennifer about how the relationship ended, what she learned about herself along the way and why she didn't have a decent pre-nup in place. I can't wait.
Talk soon -
R
Friday, October 06, 2006
I have hair gel and I'm not afraid to use it
Before I hear from all the hysterics in the world who write to tell me I don't respect or understand our need for national security, let me save you the trouble. Yes. I do.
But as I passed through security the other day at Dallas Fort Worth airport, I wondered if we had all gone just slightly insane. I had heard about the "carry your potentially dangerous creams,lotions and gels in a plastic bag or else" edict from the FAA. I even told a traveling companion about it in case she hadn't read the news.
I thought I'd be safe (and logical), by zipping up my grooming accessories in a plastic bag designed for travelling, the kind that comes with your luggage and is easy to use.
I was wrong. No sooner did the security officials begin barking out the "show us what you're carrying" orders, than I was under scrutiny by one of the officers at the checkpoint. He picked up bag and my stuff and said, "This isn't in a plastic bag." Me, being a perfect combination of bold and dumb, touched the bag as if to reassure myself that I did recognize the product commonly called plastic and said, "I thought it was plastic." At which point, he jabbed at a zip lock bag on the counter and snarled, "THIS is a plastic bag." He pawed through my things and removed a tiny tube of toothpaste, a teeny bottle of perfume - really teeny - and a 4 oz tube of brilliant brunette styling gel which I had just purchased not so much as a week earlier and was still quite full of the stuff I love to use on my hair. I was furious but what do you do? Nothing.
I wanted to say this (but didn't for fear of being locked up and missing my opportunity to get some frozen yogurt just down the hall by our gate): "I'm so sorry you have a small penis and need to assert yourself in this pathetic way. But - we all have our burdens."
Seriously, I thought it would be pretty funny if I had boarded the plane, gel intact, and at some point accosted the steward...err, flight attendant and held the tube to her head: "I have hair gel and I'm not afraid to use it. I want another bag of pretzels - now - or believe me, your hair will not know what hit it. And if that's not enough, I'm going to start dabbing this perfume on every pulse point on your body." Maybe I would have gotten a round of applause.
I'm positive that in about ten days, the FAA will refine their restrictions and rule that any plastic bag with contents that are clearly visible is acceptable. And where does that leave me? Replacing my confiscated stuff and packing lunches for my kids for the next seven years.
I kind of love the fact that the plastic bag security system has been a great equalizer among travelers. The first class flyers have to carry and reveal their bathroom accessories in zip lock bags, exactly like the rest of us (and the homeless). How soon will it be before Lands End or Magellan or some such higher end company designs and begins selling "name" zip lock bags for their customers? It can't be too long. I want to watch who carries them and laugh.
Talk soon -
But as I passed through security the other day at Dallas Fort Worth airport, I wondered if we had all gone just slightly insane. I had heard about the "carry your potentially dangerous creams,lotions and gels in a plastic bag or else" edict from the FAA. I even told a traveling companion about it in case she hadn't read the news.
I thought I'd be safe (and logical), by zipping up my grooming accessories in a plastic bag designed for travelling, the kind that comes with your luggage and is easy to use.
I was wrong. No sooner did the security officials begin barking out the "show us what you're carrying" orders, than I was under scrutiny by one of the officers at the checkpoint. He picked up bag and my stuff and said, "This isn't in a plastic bag." Me, being a perfect combination of bold and dumb, touched the bag as if to reassure myself that I did recognize the product commonly called plastic and said, "I thought it was plastic." At which point, he jabbed at a zip lock bag on the counter and snarled, "THIS is a plastic bag." He pawed through my things and removed a tiny tube of toothpaste, a teeny bottle of perfume - really teeny - and a 4 oz tube of brilliant brunette styling gel which I had just purchased not so much as a week earlier and was still quite full of the stuff I love to use on my hair. I was furious but what do you do? Nothing.
I wanted to say this (but didn't for fear of being locked up and missing my opportunity to get some frozen yogurt just down the hall by our gate): "I'm so sorry you have a small penis and need to assert yourself in this pathetic way. But - we all have our burdens."
Seriously, I thought it would be pretty funny if I had boarded the plane, gel intact, and at some point accosted the steward...err, flight attendant and held the tube to her head: "I have hair gel and I'm not afraid to use it. I want another bag of pretzels - now - or believe me, your hair will not know what hit it. And if that's not enough, I'm going to start dabbing this perfume on every pulse point on your body." Maybe I would have gotten a round of applause.
I'm positive that in about ten days, the FAA will refine their restrictions and rule that any plastic bag with contents that are clearly visible is acceptable. And where does that leave me? Replacing my confiscated stuff and packing lunches for my kids for the next seven years.
I kind of love the fact that the plastic bag security system has been a great equalizer among travelers. The first class flyers have to carry and reveal their bathroom accessories in zip lock bags, exactly like the rest of us (and the homeless). How soon will it be before Lands End or Magellan or some such higher end company designs and begins selling "name" zip lock bags for their customers? It can't be too long. I want to watch who carries them and laugh.
Talk soon -
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
a satellite visit
Today's brush with greatness - or near greatness actually - took the form of a short interview I had with the news organization at the Howard Stern Show.
Stern reporter Steve Langford called to discuss Sunday's Morning Call column on Howard Stern and the relentlessly bad press he's received of late - most of it courtesy of one particular reporter. The column I wrote did little more than point out the questions all of us should ask regularly about what we read and what the agenda behind it may be. Yes, the column discussed Howard and his current leadership position on satellite radio but the larger question is this: how do we filter the information we get and why do we tend to believe what we see in print?
It's hard to know who tells the truth and who has a spin that twists the facts of the story just the slightest bit. I write an opinion column; I'm not remotely an investigative journalist. But even with opinion writing, I take the time to make sure I'm being as accurate as possible so I don't mislead readers about the "truth" that prompted my response.
I'm kind of stunned that a rumor - with just one published column in the New York Post- could then become a "report" that created an illusion of fact but I watched just that unfold with the Stern story. If I weren't already skeptical of what gets reported as "news" these days, this little incident would encourage that skepticism. It shoud do the same for you.
If you missed the original piece, it's online at www.mcall.com in the opinion writers section.
Talk soon -
Stern reporter Steve Langford called to discuss Sunday's Morning Call column on Howard Stern and the relentlessly bad press he's received of late - most of it courtesy of one particular reporter. The column I wrote did little more than point out the questions all of us should ask regularly about what we read and what the agenda behind it may be. Yes, the column discussed Howard and his current leadership position on satellite radio but the larger question is this: how do we filter the information we get and why do we tend to believe what we see in print?
It's hard to know who tells the truth and who has a spin that twists the facts of the story just the slightest bit. I write an opinion column; I'm not remotely an investigative journalist. But even with opinion writing, I take the time to make sure I'm being as accurate as possible so I don't mislead readers about the "truth" that prompted my response.
I'm kind of stunned that a rumor - with just one published column in the New York Post- could then become a "report" that created an illusion of fact but I watched just that unfold with the Stern story. If I weren't already skeptical of what gets reported as "news" these days, this little incident would encourage that skepticism. It shoud do the same for you.
If you missed the original piece, it's online at www.mcall.com in the opinion writers section.
Talk soon -
Saturday, July 08, 2006
A Replacement Star
I know. You can't stand to read even one more word about Star Jones, late of The View. She turned her "resignation" into a media event and that's saying something - although I'm not sure what. I tired of it too, so this isn't really about Star Jones.
But it is about The View apres Star. The show has already named Meredith Viera's replacement, Rosie O'Donnell. Presumably, she'll bring a different perspective to some of the roundtables that go on during the opening segment of The View. Good for them for trying something sort of surprising and hiring Rosie. I'm pragmatic about this choice mostly because it's immaterial to me - she'll work or she won't and the show will move on with or without Rosie in the months and years ahead.
But now they have to replace Star and that could be another opportunity to do something surprising. Suggestion: hire me. I'll be the voice of the "everywoman" in America watching The View from her family room floor everyday as she chases toddlers, does her crunches, folds laundry or otherwise is not engaged in office life. The one woman on the set - on network television for that matter - who doesn't have the hollywood / television / unreal world perspective that even Elisabeth-with-an-s Hasselbeck (sp?) has by now.
I'm not bringing a lot of television experience to this so I'll make them the deal of the century: they can pay me considerably less than they paid Star and I'll also include in my contract a promise to never charge off a party to ABC. The next logical step here for me is to reach beyond my weekly newspaper column and speak to a larger group. The View works for me.
So, to the intern to the assistant associate producer who has to Google The View everyday and create stacks of web / press clips for the associate producer to show the producer to show the executive producer, I invite you to drop me a note. The last thing The View needs is another mainstream journalist (I use that term loosely give Elisabeth's background as a reality show contestant and Joy Behar's successful career as a comedian) who brings the same old same old to the group. It doesn't need another celebrity. I guarantee you if I were part of that team, I would not only contribute smart, provocative, funny, interesting comments to the topic of the day I promise you that I would also be the one person on the sofa who asks Johnny Depp the really good questions, not the ones provided by the publicists and the movie studio.
I'm sure they already have their short list of replacement Stars - have probably had it in hand for months now. So add me to the list and let's talk. I'll represent the neighbor none of these hosts really have since I live 100 miles from the Upper East Side. I'll be the woman who has real issues raising children because I've never had a nanny in my house. I'll be the person on the couch who can legitimately be starstruck by the appearance of certain guests since I've never once attended a Broadway opening night, a movie premiere or a CD launch party. I can be the voice of the fans watching from the other side of the camera.
It's unlikely. You don't have to tell me that. I have less than zero Q factor. I will bring exactly one new fan to the show - my mother. I can offer The View nothing more than my own personality and perspective - but that's enough if you ask me. I ask you: why not break some rules and ignore the "right" thing to do when filling this space and surprise the entire broadacasting industry by hiring me?
This is definitely worth some consideration and if the assistant associate producer's intern can't see it, I probably have very chance of Barbara Walters seeing it. But it's still worth at least a very good try. So I'm sending this out there - and yes, I can be in midtown at your convenience.
But it is about The View apres Star. The show has already named Meredith Viera's replacement, Rosie O'Donnell. Presumably, she'll bring a different perspective to some of the roundtables that go on during the opening segment of The View. Good for them for trying something sort of surprising and hiring Rosie. I'm pragmatic about this choice mostly because it's immaterial to me - she'll work or she won't and the show will move on with or without Rosie in the months and years ahead.
But now they have to replace Star and that could be another opportunity to do something surprising. Suggestion: hire me. I'll be the voice of the "everywoman" in America watching The View from her family room floor everyday as she chases toddlers, does her crunches, folds laundry or otherwise is not engaged in office life. The one woman on the set - on network television for that matter - who doesn't have the hollywood / television / unreal world perspective that even Elisabeth-with-an-s Hasselbeck (sp?) has by now.
I'm not bringing a lot of television experience to this so I'll make them the deal of the century: they can pay me considerably less than they paid Star and I'll also include in my contract a promise to never charge off a party to ABC. The next logical step here for me is to reach beyond my weekly newspaper column and speak to a larger group. The View works for me.
So, to the intern to the assistant associate producer who has to Google The View everyday and create stacks of web / press clips for the associate producer to show the producer to show the executive producer, I invite you to drop me a note. The last thing The View needs is another mainstream journalist (I use that term loosely give Elisabeth's background as a reality show contestant and Joy Behar's successful career as a comedian) who brings the same old same old to the group. It doesn't need another celebrity. I guarantee you if I were part of that team, I would not only contribute smart, provocative, funny, interesting comments to the topic of the day I promise you that I would also be the one person on the sofa who asks Johnny Depp the really good questions, not the ones provided by the publicists and the movie studio.
I'm sure they already have their short list of replacement Stars - have probably had it in hand for months now. So add me to the list and let's talk. I'll represent the neighbor none of these hosts really have since I live 100 miles from the Upper East Side. I'll be the woman who has real issues raising children because I've never had a nanny in my house. I'll be the person on the couch who can legitimately be starstruck by the appearance of certain guests since I've never once attended a Broadway opening night, a movie premiere or a CD launch party. I can be the voice of the fans watching from the other side of the camera.
It's unlikely. You don't have to tell me that. I have less than zero Q factor. I will bring exactly one new fan to the show - my mother. I can offer The View nothing more than my own personality and perspective - but that's enough if you ask me. I ask you: why not break some rules and ignore the "right" thing to do when filling this space and surprise the entire broadacasting industry by hiring me?
This is definitely worth some consideration and if the assistant associate producer's intern can't see it, I probably have very chance of Barbara Walters seeing it. But it's still worth at least a very good try. So I'm sending this out there - and yes, I can be in midtown at your convenience.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
People hear (read) what they want to hear (read)
After more than five years writing a column that appears in front of more than 150,000 people once a week, I've received a generous number of emails, letters and clippings that made it clear to me that many of those people believe I'm a complete jerk.
Most of those notes come from people who feel compelled to judge every aspect of my being based on about 750 words I composed five days before they appear in print. They have every right to do that I guess, but most of the time, their judgement is flawed. Not because I'm perfect. Because they absolutely missed the point of whatever I tried to communicate in my column. Which means their conclusion is probably inccurate. But it also leads me to doubt my ability to make a point in print.
I've had my favorites over the years. One person writes me (anonymously of course) and points out the number of times I use the word "I" in my Opinion piece. Errr - it is an opinion piece- my opinion at that. How very bold of he / she to leave their assessment unsigned.
Over the years, readers have called me a terrible mother, a cold career women, a blazing feminist, and a throwback to barefoot and pregnant womanhood. I baby my children too much; I'm raising rude brats. I should be ashamed of their behavior. I've been labeled a liberal, a communist, a conservative idiot and an immoral person who should be concerned about the state of her immortal soul.
I'm sappy. I'm harsh. I'm funny. I'm sarcastic. I think I'm being clever but I'm wrong; I'm really just a no talent loser who has somehow found a way onto a newspaper page every Sunday.
It's always eye-opening to discover exactly what people read in my column. Many, many times it's not remotely connected to what I wrote.
And that's been the most interesting part of this whole column-writing experience. While I think I'm being clear and saying one thing, people often read something quite the opposite or irelevant to my topic at hand. That continues to amaze me. I have a love-hate relationship with my email because I'm the worst correspondent in the world. I tend to answer emails about three months after I get them which leaves the people who write to me quite mystified about my response when it finally arrives in their inbox.
Despite everything, including the venom that leaps from the screen from time to time, I love writing the column and I even love the emails, regardless of the content. I often find myself wondering why I'm still writing it, five years in, and if I'll be asking myself that question in another five years. I judge it very harshly every week, when it finally makes its debut to the world. Some days I scan it and wonder why I didn't correct that one overused phrase or fix the comparison I tried to make but did it badly.
All this to say not much more than the blog has been horribly out of date of late and I apologize to anyone who has visited on more than one occasion only to leave empty-handed. Don't give up on it - or on me. I'll try harder to keep it current - filled with the minutia that makes up my life and takes up most of the space in my head.
Talk soon - thanks for visiting -
R
Most of those notes come from people who feel compelled to judge every aspect of my being based on about 750 words I composed five days before they appear in print. They have every right to do that I guess, but most of the time, their judgement is flawed. Not because I'm perfect. Because they absolutely missed the point of whatever I tried to communicate in my column. Which means their conclusion is probably inccurate. But it also leads me to doubt my ability to make a point in print.
I've had my favorites over the years. One person writes me (anonymously of course) and points out the number of times I use the word "I" in my Opinion piece. Errr - it is an opinion piece- my opinion at that. How very bold of he / she to leave their assessment unsigned.
Over the years, readers have called me a terrible mother, a cold career women, a blazing feminist, and a throwback to barefoot and pregnant womanhood. I baby my children too much; I'm raising rude brats. I should be ashamed of their behavior. I've been labeled a liberal, a communist, a conservative idiot and an immoral person who should be concerned about the state of her immortal soul.
I'm sappy. I'm harsh. I'm funny. I'm sarcastic. I think I'm being clever but I'm wrong; I'm really just a no talent loser who has somehow found a way onto a newspaper page every Sunday.
It's always eye-opening to discover exactly what people read in my column. Many, many times it's not remotely connected to what I wrote.
And that's been the most interesting part of this whole column-writing experience. While I think I'm being clear and saying one thing, people often read something quite the opposite or irelevant to my topic at hand. That continues to amaze me. I have a love-hate relationship with my email because I'm the worst correspondent in the world. I tend to answer emails about three months after I get them which leaves the people who write to me quite mystified about my response when it finally arrives in their inbox.
Despite everything, including the venom that leaps from the screen from time to time, I love writing the column and I even love the emails, regardless of the content. I often find myself wondering why I'm still writing it, five years in, and if I'll be asking myself that question in another five years. I judge it very harshly every week, when it finally makes its debut to the world. Some days I scan it and wonder why I didn't correct that one overused phrase or fix the comparison I tried to make but did it badly.
All this to say not much more than the blog has been horribly out of date of late and I apologize to anyone who has visited on more than one occasion only to leave empty-handed. Don't give up on it - or on me. I'll try harder to keep it current - filled with the minutia that makes up my life and takes up most of the space in my head.
Talk soon - thanks for visiting -
R
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
It's the little things. That are sort of annoying and become big things.
It doesn't take much to make you realize that yes, as the title of this blog indicates, you may the only sane person left on the planet. I had that moment a few weeks ago and since I mostly hate technology, except for electricity, it's not surprising that my moment of clarity was prompted by a computer.
As is our habit in my office, we are required to change our passwords on our computers on a regular basis. The screen even gives you a countdown to remind you that "your password will expire in three days. Do you want to change it now?" I never change it until it's expiring in one day or less. Mostly because I always find it painful to come up with new passwords. I know- it's a waste of time to obsess over something like a password but I do.
At least I used to - until I came up with a little system. I decided I would use the first initial and last name of authors I liked as my passwords, based on something that was going on in my life at that time. Example: last fall, my oldest son was in a stage production of A Christmas Carol. My password: Cdickens. When I had to change it, I had just watched the latest movie version of Pride and Prejudice. So here you go: Jausten. It made sense and they were easy to remember.
Fast forward a few months. One day, I had trouble logging on and called my friendly analyst who came to inspect the problem. Turns out my computer was broken. That's what he called it: broken. I needed another one and he'd have it out to me later that morning.
He called and asked my my password, which I spoke to him over the phone and explained my reasoning. He came by shortly thereafter and set me up while I was out of the office at a meeting.
Later that day, I tried logging on several times and was rejected. I was confused about what had happened with the repair to cause the problem. Feeling rejected and confused (my typical state), I called and tried to solve the problem with him. Turns out I should have spelled the password. He added Jaustin when he programmed my login name. Like Austin, Texas not Austen, Jane.
We laughed about it and moved on. Well, I mostly moved on, really I did. Except it's the little things that diminish you just the slightest bit - just a touch - and make you feel like the world is not quite what you hoped it would be. Everyday, when I would type in Jaustin, I felt just a little bit less like myself. I know it doesn't matter except it does.
I know - I can change it. I will. But not before I finish the book I'm reading by Atrigiani. At least that's spelled exactly how it sounds.
As is our habit in my office, we are required to change our passwords on our computers on a regular basis. The screen even gives you a countdown to remind you that "your password will expire in three days. Do you want to change it now?" I never change it until it's expiring in one day or less. Mostly because I always find it painful to come up with new passwords. I know- it's a waste of time to obsess over something like a password but I do.
At least I used to - until I came up with a little system. I decided I would use the first initial and last name of authors I liked as my passwords, based on something that was going on in my life at that time. Example: last fall, my oldest son was in a stage production of A Christmas Carol. My password: Cdickens. When I had to change it, I had just watched the latest movie version of Pride and Prejudice. So here you go: Jausten. It made sense and they were easy to remember.
Fast forward a few months. One day, I had trouble logging on and called my friendly analyst who came to inspect the problem. Turns out my computer was broken. That's what he called it: broken. I needed another one and he'd have it out to me later that morning.
He called and asked my my password, which I spoke to him over the phone and explained my reasoning. He came by shortly thereafter and set me up while I was out of the office at a meeting.
Later that day, I tried logging on several times and was rejected. I was confused about what had happened with the repair to cause the problem. Feeling rejected and confused (my typical state), I called and tried to solve the problem with him. Turns out I should have spelled the password. He added Jaustin when he programmed my login name. Like Austin, Texas not Austen, Jane.
We laughed about it and moved on. Well, I mostly moved on, really I did. Except it's the little things that diminish you just the slightest bit - just a touch - and make you feel like the world is not quite what you hoped it would be. Everyday, when I would type in Jaustin, I felt just a little bit less like myself. I know it doesn't matter except it does.
I know - I can change it. I will. But not before I finish the book I'm reading by Atrigiani. At least that's spelled exactly how it sounds.
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