Conversation 101

Some people just give good conversation.

Maybe it’s your best friend. Your mom. Or if you’re really lucky, your spouse.

Time flies when you’re with them. You usually learn something new – an easier way to do something or a different way of looking at your world. Sometimes you even learn a little bit about yourself.

The good conversationalist you know is genuinely interested in what you have to say and asks questions about what’s going on in your life.

And they make it easy for you to do the same in return.

It’s a cool and equal exchange of ideas and information – what a conversation is truly meant to be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Then there are those folks you go out of your way to avoid talking with – people who wouldn’t know a good conversation if it sat on their face, spun around three times, and shouted hallelujah.

These people are the Conversationally Impaired. Chances are they fit into one or a even a few of the following categories:

The Historian – A simple yes or no answer would suffice, but this guy has a story to tell. It usually involves his wife or kids or dog (sometimes all three) and takes a minimum of 30 minutes to tell. By which point you’ve both forgotten why he’s telling the story in the first place.

The Bitch – Male or female. Loves ranting (with no interruptions please) about how wrong it is and who’s responsible for it. Usually accompanied by much finger pointing and hand waving. Expects the worst out of the world and usually gets it given their attitude and disposition.

The One-Upper – Ironically, conversations with this person rarely go anywhere and they usually go something like this:

“We went to Brazil last year and it was great.”

Instead of asking a question like “How long were you there?” or “How was the food?” the One-Upper responds:

“Oh yeah? Well when we went to the South of France…”

It’s never a conversation with One-Uppers, just a verbal volley – a boring competition to see who’s done or seen or spent the most.

The Close-Talker – Violates your personal space by getting thisclose to your face. The more you back up, the more they move in. Unless you can maneuver yourself to the edge of a convenient cliff, it’s tough getting away from the classic CT.

Deadly Phone Yapper – You’ve said “I really gotta go” five times in the past 20 minutes and the DPY is still talking. You put the phone down, visit the bathroom, fold some laundry, do your taxes and mow the lawn and the DPY is still going strong when you pick it back up. Caller ID is proof that God loves us (apologies to B. Franklin) and is kryptonite to the DPY.

The Know It All – The self-appointed Smartest Person in the Room. Enjoys hearing the sound of her own voice and is an expert on Everything including topics with which she has little knowledge or experience. Always, always right. Unless you’re into self-flagellation, arguing with her is an exercise in futility.

The Interrupter – Never lets anyone finish a sentence. A classic conversation killer when combined with a One-Upper or Know It All. Too busy thinking about what they’re gonna say next to listen to what you’re talking about.

The Egomaniacal Babbler – Doesn’t actually need others to have a conversation. Talks incessantly to anyone within earshot and doesn’t wait for or even expect a response. Tells you every single thing that’s going on in their lives without taking a breath. Often wonders why they never know what’s going on with anyone else but is usually too self-absorbed to ask. Add a phone and the EB easily transforms into a DPY.

The Drunk – Says the same thing over and over again regardless of how you respond. Usually bossy, weepy or angry – sometimes all three. Often combined with the Close Talker.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Recognize someone you know? How about yourself?

C’mon, you know you do it.

I’ll be the first to admit that I am an Interrupter and can be a Know It All on occasion.

And when I’m The Drunk I tend to repeat Really Bad Swears at the top of my lungs in public places.

Very charming. That’s why I don’t drink so much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You need escape tactics for when you’re trapped yapping with the Conversationally Impaired. Here they are, in no particular order of importance or effectiveness:

Self-Extrication Maneuver #1: Drink heavily.

But Heather, you just said alcohol is bad.

Right.

Alcohol seldom makes any situation better. But this is one of those rare occasions when getting completely hammered actually helps.

Here’s why: An empty glass is always the perfect excuse to duck out of a bad conversation. If you get roped into a yap fest with the Conversationally Impaired and you have a drink in your hand, you are in complete control. Your conversation will only last as long as it takes to quaff that convenient can of beer. Plus, if you’re drinking a lot you usually have to hit the bathroom more often – another great excuse to get the hell outta there.

Tip: Always position yourself far away from the bar or kitchen or keg so you have to leave to re-fill your glass.

Bonus: This tactic actually works in the office with non-alcoholic beverages. Getting up to get a glass of water or hit the john works well in virtually any environment.

Caveat: Drinking heavily when dealing with The Drunk doesn’t work because he usually follows you to the bar or bathroom. The good news is that if you’re trapped by a Drunk, you can just keep drinking until you stop caring about the quality of the conversation and become a bossy, weepy, angry repeater yourself.

SEM #2: If you’re sitting down, stand up. This is a signal that you’re going somewhere and it is time for that person to leave. Works great in an office.

SEM #3: Instant messenger is your friend. If you get trapped in a long conversation with a Deadly Phone Yapper, IM someone you trust and have them call you. Turns out, you’ve “been expecting this Really Important Call” and can extricate yourself safely.

SEM #4: Give them something. There’s a psychology to this and I’m not sure why it works, but if you hand something to someone it is a signal for them to leave. I learned this from working high tech trade shows. The easiest way to end a conversation is to give ‘em a piece of candy or a cheap pen. Works like a charm every time.

SEM #5: Fart. Loudly, frequently, and fragrantly. Belching works, too. But watch out: This tactic could literally blow up in your face if you’re dealing with a Drunk One-Upper.

Tip: I find that combining several Self-Extrication Maneuvers is most effective. The Stand Up, Get a Drink, Hand ‘em Something combo is very nice in an office situation. The Drink Heavily maneuver usually leads to unintentional Fart maneuvers, especially when draft beer is involved.

Of course, the Drink Heavily, Fart, Fall Down and Shit Your Pants maneuver has the highest degree of effectiveness but is extremely difficult and shouldn’t be attempted by amateurs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So we’ve learned who they are and how to avoid them, but what if like me, you’re guilty of being Conversationally Impaired on occasion? How can all of us make the world a better place by working harder to have great conversations?

Here’s the secret to being a good conversationalist: Shut the Fuck Up.

A conversation is usually give and take between two or more people. If you’re doing most of the talking, it’s not a conversation. It’s a lecture. And lectures suck.

If you work hard at becoming a good listener first, you’re more than halfway there. Focus and really listen to what the other person is saying. Maintain eye contact.

Ask questions based on what the other person tells you. I ask questions for two reasons: 1) It gets me out of “It’s all about me” mode and 2) I learn a lot.

Here’s another tip: Read up on current events so that you have something new or interesting to share with your friends. Try reading a good book once in a while, not just the latest James “I need to use TV commercials to sell books” Patterson crap.

Like I’ve said before, it all comes down to self-awareness.

Be aware of your tendencies to be Conversationally Impaired, shut the fuck up once in a while, and above all, listen.

And if all else fails, Drink Heavily.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: You
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Listening

Train people

There’s an Extremely Large woman with a paper fan sitting down below on the train.

She’s wearing a pale blue caftan. Her fan is pretty and flowery and matches her outfit.

She’s waving that fan as if her life depended on it. I’m thinking it does.
~~~~~~~~
There’s a Hispanic woman sitting across from me talking loudly into her phone. Just now, she stopped talking and picked up her book about Italy.

Maybe she’s Italian after all.
~~~~~~~~
To her right is a man who just opened a large can of Guinness beer that splattered all over his leg. He looks like an Angry Young Professional.
~~~~~~~~
Next to him is a tiny, hairy Hispanic man reading the Wall Street Journal. He’s wearing a black Souza tequila t-shirt and dark sunglasses in spite of the rain. His pants are covered with paint.
~~~~~~~~
Then there’s me: Pink t-shirt and an incredibly girly skirt; it’s a purple and white and pink flowery thing that blows up too high when the wind whips through the Loop. I have my headphones on but no music is playing so that I look like I'm not listening to the conversations going on around me.
~~~~~~~~~
The guy to my immediate left is some kind of marketing/art director dude on his mobile phone. At least he’s trying to talk quietly. But I don’t give him any credit for that – he’s in marketing, he should know better.

Right now he’s babbling about marking up a hard copy of something.

At the end of each phone call, he snaps his phone shut to let everyone know he’s Important. He’s on his sixth phone call.
~~~~~~~~
The best seven words ever heard on a train: “My phone battery is about to die.”
~~~~~~~~~
Large Marge is reading a magazine article titled “Every Breath You Take.” It looks like a medical journal.

This woman, who couldn’t be more obviously unhealthy, is reading a journal about health. And I’m thinking that every breath she takes could be her last.
~~~~~~~~~~
The hirsute Hispanic is finished with the newspaper and is cleaning his nails.
~~~~~~~~~~
Apparently the large lady walks with a cane. The cane is blue and flowery like her fan.

I don’t know why I’m surprised her accessories are so well-coordinated with her outfit.

Seems like if she’s that hyper conscious about her appearance maybe she’d put down the sammich once in a while.
~~~~~~~~~~
Here we are. Readers, talkers, sleepers.

Commuters.

The challenge is to feel connected with all these people.

I’ve said it before: All of us are heading in the same direction, but we couldn’t be more different.
~~~~~~~~~
Interesting: Of the people on the train today, all the ones I’ve chosen to describe here are still on as we make our last stop in Aurora.

I think for a minute that we’re in some twisted episode of the Twilight Zone where suddenly I’m a minor deity, choosing who gets to stay on and who gets off the train just by my thoughts.
~~~~~~~~~~
These talkers, I wonder if they ever shut the fuck up.

Really.

Two of them have been on the phone since we left the station.

Mr. Snappy just ended another call.

I bet these are the people who don’t do well with being alone. They don’t do well with silence.
~~~~~~~~~~
I realize the large fan lady might have some sort of gland problem. Maybe she eats one salad a day and still can’t lose weight.

Nah. It’s takes an assload of eatin’ to be that huge.
~~~~~~~~~~
Then there’s this: “I really wish that bitch in the pink shirt would stop cracking her knuckles. It’s so loud and irritating. And I know she can’t hear it because she’s got her headphones on. How annoying.”
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: KT Tunstall – Universe and U
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Disconnected

Lost and found

I was a Major Idiot on Friday.

I lost my wallet. Actually, I left it on the train. That would be the start of the idiot part of the story.

I sit upstairs in the train car, in an area where the seats flip up like the kind you’d find in a movie theater. My wallet has a clear window that holds my monthly train pass. I keep it out for when Sir Richard the train conductor comes through, then I usually sit it on the corner of my laptop or tuck it under my leg.

Friday I did the tuck thing and promptly forgot about it. Idiot.

At lunch I needed money for a cab and that’s when I realized I’d left it behind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I called Union Station right away. I quickly got through to the Lost and Found voice mail and was told to leave a message.

Great. This was just the beginning of my phone frustrations.

Next, I called my credit card companies to report them lost. Amex was first:

“Please enter your account number.”

Hmm. What do I do now?

I hit zero, hoping to get connected to a person right away.

“We did not recognize that account number. Please enter your account number.”

I hit zero again.

“We did not recognize that account number. Please enter your account number.”

I DON’T HAVE MY FUCKING ACCOUNT NUMBER!

Finally I hit zero twice, and by some miracle of the universe I am transferred to a live person.

I gotta think that lost cards are one of the main reasons people call credit card companies – with everything on-line, why would you need to call except for that?

I do my best to not re-direct my frustration with myself towards the person on the other end of the phone. Thankfully I am helped and off the phone within five minutes. My new cards (one personal and one corporate) will arrive overnight Saturday morning.

Fabulous.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Citibank is next.

Same thing: “Please enter your account number.”

Amazing. I try the zero zero thing again and it works, but my frustration burns just a little brighter.

From her accent, I can tell this woman is sitting on the other side of the world in India. I am halfway through giving her my information (social security, mother’s maiden) when the call is disconnected.

I’m so glad Citibank is saving money by off-shoring their customer service so that I can get disconnected after giving out my extremely personal information to someone halfway around the world.

I call back and manage to get through the process of canceling that card when I’m told it will be 10 days before the new one arrives. Citibank must be routing new cards through India, too.

Excellent.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There are what seems like a gazillion trains that run in and out of Union Station every day and the odds of finding my wallet are slim to none at this point, but I decide to walk over there to see if I can speak with a real live person about my predicament.

I expect bureaucracy like Tom Hanks trying to find the Voltar machine in Big. Fill out this form in triplicate and we’ll contact you in three weeks.

I am greeted by a surprisingly friendly and sympathetic person who tells me that my particular train “goes to the yard” after it delivers idiots like me to the city. The guys responsible for cleaning the trains usually bring the items they find back to Lost and Found between 3 and 4 o’clock so I should come back then.

Okay. I can live with that.

But I keep thinking about the way that seat flips up and how my wallet likely dropped behind it and it’s unlikely that anyone will find it any time soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have a lovely afternoon. I drink three Amstel Lights on a 36-foot boat that takes me and my co-workers up and down the lovely shoreline of Chicago.

My mood lifts, but I can’t stop thinking about what an idiot I am and how my wallet is Gone Forever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I’ve got no money. No way to get money. And no train pass.

Assuming my wallet is in fact Gone Forever, I borrow $7 from a co-worker for the train ride home.

I head back over to the friendly Lost and Found person who searches diligently through the pile of black wallets he pulls from a safe behind him.

“It’s not here,” he says, looking at me grimly. “You should try back on Monday.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, it’s gone, I think. Time to go home.

There’s a 4:28 train that I just missed. Express trains run out of the city every 15 minutes on Friday so I catch the 4:44. There’s a 5:04 or a 5:26 after that.

The point is, again, there are a gazillion trains running in and out of the city every day.

I hop on the 4:44 with just a few minutes to spare. It’s jammed as expected and this time even the stairways are full. So I stand for most of the trip home.

Thinking about my lost wallet. I look around the train car and think: “What are the odds?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe this is the same train, I think. Nope. There are too many if’s. If this is the same train car, if no one sat in that seat, if no one found it.

But it couldn’t hurt to look.

I take a peek up top. It’s jammed up there, too.

There’s a giant of a man sitting in the seat next to where I was. He’s so big that I can’t tell if there’s anyone actually sitting in the seat where I might’ve sat this morning.

I have to wait until the train lands in Aurora and everyone clears out before I can look.

I walk back, fully expecting the pattern of self-induced idiocy, frustration and disappointment to continue through the day.

Why should it be there? Do I deserve to find it? Is this the Universe’s way of paying me back for being an asshole earlier in the week?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was there. Sandwiched safely between the seat and the back of the seat. Right where I left it.

I could’ve been on any train. It could’ve been any car. Someone could’ve sat in that seat, but obviously didn’t.

And it was there.

My wallet was lost. Then found. But not really, since it was in the same place the whole time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: KT Tunstall – Other Side of the World
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Fortunate

Random good things

Great company picnic Saturday
Laughing with my Mom
Reorg'd iPod
Fresh sheets on my bed
Kickass workout this morning
A doctor's appointment today
A boat ride on Lake Michigan Friday
~~~~~~~~~~
No time today, my friends. But good things are happening all around.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sugar Ray - Fly
I am reading: Work e-mail
And I am: Smiley

The Oosh

Remember Mr. What Stays in Boston?

He was fired a few weeks ago.

We all kinda thought it would happen eventually, even before the trip. Just like you know when two people shouldn’t get married, everyone knew this guy was on the bubble.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He was confrontational, incompetent, territorial and insecure. Plus, he had serious anger management issues. Not a great combination in anyone, but especially not in a mid-level manager who works with clients on a regular basis.

He was toxic. To his team, his co-workers, our clients, and our business partners.

Or as I like to say, he put the ‘oosh’ in douchebag.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s probably an Oosh at your company. No one knows why he’s allowed to stay. No one likes him. And no one knows exactly what he does besides blame others for his lack of progress.

This invariably results in a wild-ass theory involving the Oosh having naked/incriminating photos of key owners/management.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s my theory – and I’ve never had an organizational psych class, so these are just out-of-my-ass observations from 16+ years of working in an office.

Now that the current Oosh is finally gone, the company will choose a new one.

In fact, within 24 hours of losing our current Oosh, people were already saying, “Now, if we could just get rid of so and so, everything would be great.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s three weeks later and we’re still in that stage where our Oosh-elect has yet to be selected.

Three of us actually floated a shortlist over dinner in Des Moines Monday night.

The merits/faults of about four prospects were debated from salad all the way through to dessert.

One thing is certain: The new Oosh will not be chosen by a small group of people.

He or she will emerge from a magical and collective decision-making process that goes mostly unnoticed by anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don’t understand why managers and owners are so reluctant to fire people.

Sure it isn’t easy. It takes courage.

Someone is going to have a Very Bad Day – a day they’ll never forget – and you’re the person who has to deliver the news.

I’ll never forget the first person I fired.

I’d been managing a marketing team of four for less than three months when I decided my events person had to go. She wasn’t particularly hard working and certainly not trustworthy. When she falsified an expense report and expected me to approve it, I’d had just about enough of her “testing my new manager” bullshit.

I had no guidance. The HR manager (she of the infamous “Jew ‘em down” incident) was not helpful as expected. And my boss, who probably should’ve done it given my lack of tenure as a manager, was MIA for the whole week leading up to it.

Later, he said “Guess I shoulda been in there with you, huh?”

Ya think?

But I did okay. I followed a script I’d written. I was professional and courteous.

And so fucking relieved when it was over and she was finally gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day after he was finally let go, me and the VP of sales took an informal post-Oosh tally of the damage he’d done leading up to his dismissal. Projects lost, business lost, poorly supported marketing programs, negative client perception, employee morale.

It was millions of dollars.

How much is it costing your company?

If you’ve got Oosh that needs ousting, do it. Now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Starting Line – Best of Me
I am reading: New York Times article re: grants for evolutionary biology
And I am: Not a cyborg after all

The Oosh

Remember Mr. What Stays in Boston?

He was fired a few weeks ago.

We all kinda thought it would happen eventually, even before the trip. Just like you know when two people shouldn’t get married, everyone knew this guy was on the bubble.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He was confrontational, incompetent, territorial and insecure. Plus, he had serious anger management issues. Not a great combination in anyone, but especially not in a mid-level manager who works with clients on a regular basis.

He was toxic. To his team, his co-workers, our clients, and our business partners.

Or as I like to say, he put the ‘oosh’ in douchebag.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s probably an Oosh at your company. No one knows why he’s allowed to stay. No one likes him. And no one knows exactly what he does besides blame others for his lack of progress.

This invariably results in a wild-ass theory involving the Oosh having naked/incriminating photos of key owners/management.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s my theory – and I’ve never had an organizational psych class, so these are just out-of-my-ass observations from 16+ years of working in an office.

Now that the current Oosh is finally gone, the company will choose a new one.

In fact, within 24 hours of losing our current Oosh, people were already saying, “Now, if we could just get rid of so and so, everything would be great.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s three weeks later and we’re still in that stage where our Oosh-elect has yet to be selected.

Three of us actually floated a shortlist over dinner in Des Moines Monday night.

The merits/faults of about four prospects were debated from salad all the way through to dessert.

One thing is certain: The new Oosh will not be chosen by a small group of people.

He or she will emerge from a magical and collective decision-making process that goes mostly unnoticed by anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don’t understand why managers and owners are so reluctant to fire people.

Sure it isn’t easy. It takes courage.

Someone is going to have a Very Bad Day – a day they’ll never forget – and you’re the person who has to deliver the news.

I’ll never forget the first person I fired.

I’d been managing a marketing team of four for less than three months when I decided my events person had to go. She wasn’t particularly hard working and certainly not trustworthy. When she falsified an expense report and expected me to approve it, I’d had just about enough of her “testing my new manager” bullshit.

I had no guidance. The HR manager (she of the infamous “Jew ‘em down” incident) was not helpful as expected. And my boss, who probably should’ve done it given my lack of tenure as a manager, was MIA for the whole week leading up to it.

Later, he said “Guess I shoulda been in there with you, huh?”

Ya think?

But I did okay. I followed a script I’d written. I was professional and courteous.

And so fucking relieved when it was over and she was finally gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day after he was finally let go, me and the VP of sales took an informal post-Oosh tally of the damage he’d done leading up to his dismissal. Projects lost, business lost, poorly supported marketing programs, negative client perception, employee morale.

It was millions of dollars.

How much is it costing your company?

If you’ve got Oosh that needs ousting, do it. Now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Starting Line – Best of Me
I am reading: New York Times article re: grants for evolutionary biology
And I am: Not a cyborg after all

The Oosh

Remember Mr. What Stays in Boston?

He was fired a few weeks ago.

We all kinda thought it would happen eventually, even before the trip. Just like you know when two people shouldn’t get married, everyone knew this guy was on the bubble.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He was confrontational, incompetent, territorial and insecure. Plus, he had serious anger management issues. Not a great combination in anyone, but especially not in a mid-level manager who works with clients on a regular basis.

He was toxic. To his team, his co-workers, our clients, and our business partners.

Or as I like to say, he put the ‘oosh’ in douchebag.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s probably an Oosh at your company. No one knows why he’s allowed to stay. No one likes him. And no one knows exactly what he does besides blame others for his lack of progress.

This invariably results in a wild-ass theory involving the Oosh having naked/incriminating photos of key owners/management.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s my theory – and I’ve never had an organizational psych class, so these are just out-of-my-ass observations from 16+ years of working in an office.

Now that the current Oosh is finally gone, the company will choose a new one.

In fact, within 24 hours of losing our current Oosh, people were already saying, “Now, if we could just get rid of so and so, everything would be great.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s three weeks later and we’re still in that stage where our Oosh-elect has yet to be selected.

Three of us actually floated a shortlist over dinner in Des Moines Monday night.

The merits/faults of about four prospects were debated from salad all the way through to dessert.

One thing is certain: The new Oosh will not be chosen by a small group of people.

He or she will emerge from a magical and collective decision-making process that goes mostly unnoticed by anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don’t understand why managers and owners are so reluctant to fire people.

Sure it isn’t easy. It takes courage.

Someone is going to have a Very Bad Day – a day they’ll never forget – and you’re the person who has to deliver the news.

I’ll never forget the first person I fired.

I’d been managing a marketing team of four for less than three months when I decided my events person had to go. She wasn’t particularly hard working and certainly not trustworthy. When she falsified an expense report and expected me to approve it, I’d had just about enough of her “testing my new manager” bullshit.

I had no guidance. The HR manager (she of the infamous “Jew ‘em down” incident) was not helpful as expected. And my boss, who probably should’ve done it given my lack of tenure as a manager, was MIA for the whole week leading up to it.

Later, he said “Guess I shoulda been in there with you, huh?”

Ya think?

But I did okay. I followed a script I’d written. I was professional and courteous.

And so fucking relieved when it was over and she was finally gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day after he was finally let go, me and the VP of sales took an informal post-Oosh tally of the damage he’d done leading up to his dismissal. Projects lost, business lost, poorly supported marketing programs, negative client perception, employee morale.

It was millions of dollars.

How much is it costing your company?

If you’ve got Oosh that needs ousting, do it. Now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Starting Line – Best of Me
I am reading: New York Times article re: grants for evolutionary biology
And I am: Not a cyborg after all

Career girls are dangerous

Hey guys! Quick, fill in the blank:

Don’t marry a ________ woman.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What was the first thing that popped into your head?

C’mon, be honest.

Fat? Ugly? Stupid? Crazy? Mean?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m guessing ‘career’ wasn’t even among your top five, right?

Why do you ask, Heather?

Because of Forbes.

Earlier this week the magazine published an editorial by Executive Editor Michael Noer titled “Don’t Marry Career Women” that has caused quite a stir.

Did you read it yet? If not, please do. Right now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gut reaction: This is just like when a fading B-list celebrity is “outraged” if a videotape of him shtupping some Pam Anderson clone is “accidentally” released to the public.

We’ve gotta ask: What’s the motive here?

Maybe readership is down at Forbes. Maybe this guy’s career hit a plateau and he’s looking to juice it up a bit. Maybe as a child, Noer didn’t get enough attention from his mother. Maybe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe he’s an authentic, died-in-the-wool, out-of-the-closet misogynist.

That would be the easy answer. Too easy.

Chicks who submitted comments to the reader discussion section of Forbes’ site came to that conclusion, too, demanding apologies and retractions and promising to cancel their subscriptions.

Hell hath no fury, blah blah. Whatever.

But we’re better than that, right?

Let’s take a step back and be the Thinky Folks that we are for just a minute and conclude: a) any marriage has inherent risk; b) generalizations – even the ones based on scientific studies – are rarely helpful or accurate; and c) this article reveals a lot more about the character of the writer than any alarming social trends.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Noer’s editorial was chock full of studies. I lost count around 15. And this is not a long article, mind you.

The fact is I could cite a host of other studies revealing that men are more likely to cheat on their spouses, they’re more likely to get/carry/trasmit sexually transmitted diseases, and are more prone to violence and other sociopathic behaviors.

See where this is going?

When it comes to studying social behaviors, I believe that the laws of quantum mechanics apply. Simply by observing a particular phenomenon we change its behavior.

And as human beings, we can’t help but see the things that reinforce our own core beliefs. Noer did it, misogynist that he is.

All of us do it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I am secretly thrilled at the opportunity to use “misogynist” twice in one week.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From what I understand, Forbes actually took the article off its web site for a time yesterday.

The original link no longer works. It was replaced with a new link to Noer’s column with a female editor’s “counterpoint” editorial next to it.

Lame, lame, lame.

Doing things that are risky takes courage.

Whether you’re getting married or writing a silly column designed to generate lots of media attention, once you’ve decided to do it you’ve gotta have the courage to see it through.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of lame, the counterpoint column by Elizabeth Corcoran was pretty bad.

The title alone made me not want to even read it.

But I did, and the only good point she made was the fact that professional couples can afford to hire someone to do household chores, leaving them more time to do fun things together.

And again, the fact that Noer even references studies related to the division of chores tells us more about how things were in his house growing up than anything useful we might apply to our own situations.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, Heather. You’re a career girl, what do you think, really? Is Noer’s column accurate?

First of all, I believe the preferred term these days is “professional.”

Career girl is wrong in so many ways, do we really need to go there?

Studies are great if you want to determine what most people will say they will do most of the time on any given day in any given situation.

But I’ve always taken a bit of (sometimes foolish) pride in not doing what most people will do. So the studies that Noer cites in his article probably don’t apply to me.

C’mon, answer the question.

Okay. I think the likelihood of any marriage being successful – between any two people, professional or otherwise – comes down to a coin toss. And in that regard, the statistics (not the studies) are fairly clear.

It takes nothing to get married. People do it every day.

But it takes great courage and patience to stay married. To anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Carly Simon – Let the River Run
I am reading: The World is Flat, sorta.
And I am: Relaxed

The hooks are high in heaven

Sure nothing happens here. Sure it’s all about corn, pigs and cattle.

But the people are amazing. They’re so friendly it hurts.

It started with the check-in chick at the Marriott in downtown Des Moines.

I’ve received less enthusiastic greetings from my own relatives.

And I’m quite certain that if the high counter wasn’t between us, she would’ve hugged me. Not just the cursory because-I-have-to hug, either. A Great Big Squeeze that lasts longer than it should but is comforting all the same.

It’s what I imagine heaven is like: People who don’t even know you already love you and are happy you’re there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The hook was up high on the door. I hadn’t seen it that way in forever.

It was in the women’s restroom at Des Moines International airport.

In Chicago and Detroit and San Francisco and Boston and Miami and LA the hooks in stalls are either towards the middle of the door or nonexistent. That’s so nobody can reach over the top to grab your handbag while you’re preoccupied on the pot.

Before they lowered the hooks at O’Hare, there were signs warning folks not to use them and not to even set stuff on the floor. Of course, patrons of that potty also were reminded that the airport was not responsible for lost or stolen items.

The signs might as well have said: “Welcome to Chicago! It’s not even safe to pee here!”

I am happy to report the hooks are still high in Iowa.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I realize that I am dangerously close to sounding like the old person you know who starts every sentence with “I remember when” and proceeds to tell you how much better/nicer/cleaner/safer/hard-working/respectful the world was before things started going to hell in a hand basket.

I don’t think things are any worse than any other time in history. There are more people, so of course there’s more of everything including crime. And because of the media we hear about more of the bad stuff happening everywhere.

But things aren’t worse.

In fact, life is better in a lot of ways. We’re living a lot longer. We’ve never had more conveniences or comforts. Per capita crime rates are actually down from the 70’s. And nobody has to walk uphill both ways through a blizzard to get to school.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That hook thing really bugs me. I didn’t realize it until this trip.

It’s a small reminder that we can’t trust each other, that the world is unsafe. And if there’s one place you wanna feel safe, it’s in an airport bathroom.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What is a hand basket, anyway?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Don’t you think there’s a connection between how safe you feel and how you treat others?

It’s the flip side of the Golden Rule. If the world’s been mean to you and steals your stuff, then it’s more likely you’re gonna treat others accordingly, right?

When you feel safe it’s just easier to love everybody. Maybe that’s why Iowans are so nice.

I know that’s why I’ll go back there someday. For the people, sure.

But especially for the hooks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Indigo Girls - Galileo
I am reading: The World is Flat by Thomas L. Friedman
And I am: Energetic

Is this heaven?

No, it’s Iowa.

I’m sitting at the 18th hole at the Hyperion golf club in Johnston, Iowa.

It’s rather pretty here. Rolling hills, old trees, green greens.

I’m here because my company sponsored a hole at a user group’s golf outing today. Did I mention I’m the one-person marketing department for a smallish business applications consultancy in Chicago?

That’s why I’m sitting here under a big shade tree on a beautiful Monday, watching golfers play golf.

It’s a tough job, this marketing business. Not for the weak.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’ve done this a few times before. Camping out at a hole.

It probably would be boring for most people but for someone who can never get enough time alone, it is ideal.

If it weren’t for all these damn golfers coming through every ten minutes, I’d do it every day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I like visiting new places. And I’d never been to Des Moines (French for “of the Moines”) so it was kind of an adventure.

And what happens in Des Moines definitely stays in Des Moines, except nothing ever happens here, so there ya go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So what’s the contest? Longest ball? Closest to the pin?

Nope.

I get a two-gallon clear glass jar from Crate & Barrel. I fill it with tees, layering in a couple dozen golf balls with my company’s logo on ‘em. The golfers have to guess how many tees and if they come closest they win something cool like Bose Noise-Canceling Headphones or a gift certificate to Golf Galaxy.

This is the third year I’ve done it. The last two times I gave the winner the jar with the tees, too, but this time I’ve decided to keep it. Nobody will use that many tees in their life and it’s too much of a pain in the ass running around putting this silly thing together every year.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You went to college for this, Heather?

Yep.

Silly little promotions and chotchkies. It’s – as a friend of mine says – my speci-ali-tee.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hook, hook!
Get up over that thing!
Stay straight! Stay straight!

Why do golfers talk to their balls?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: The closest guess doesn’t win. These guys (and they’re mostly guys, yes) have no clue how many tees are in that jar.

So I work with my sales reps to determine which person from which company we want to do business with the most, and then voila, we have ourselves a Winner!

I know. It sucks.

But hey, it’s marketing. It’s what I do.

Trust me, if you’ve ever entered a contest like this I guarantee the winner was picked long before the first tee was counted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I like golf. I can’t play it, but I like it.

I like it because you can be a pale fat white man whose only idea of a workout is doing 12 oz. curls in front of the tv and still be a kick-ass golfer.

John Daly. Great example. The man’s a walking mess of a human being, but he’s one helluva golfer.

Chicks can be good golfers, too. Again with the egalitarianism.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, how many tees in the jar?

I have no idea.

I dumped in three bags of 500 and then half of another bag and by then the jar was full.

Seriously. If I really cared how many, I would’ve majored in accounting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So to recap: Heather’s job is a big glob of marketing silliness most of the time, golfers talk to their balls, egalitarianism is good.

And yes, today Iowa is just like heaven.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Buzzing cicadas
I am reading: The World is Flat by Thomas L. Friedman
And I am: Fortunate

Not dead yet

The running nearly killed me.

It was 3:09 Friday afternoon when I left the office in hopes of catching the 3:18 train home.

Nine minutes is not enough time to walk from my building to Union Station. So I ran.

Running isn’t easy for me under normal circumstances. Even all geared up for the health club with my cushy shoes and industrial strength bra, I can only go about a mile because of this bad knee.

So running through the Loop in strappy sandals on a rain-forest humid day was, as you can imagine, pretty ugly.

But I made it, breathlessly boarding the train with less than a minute to spare.

Of course getting on the train is one thing. But finding a seat just seconds before the doors close is something else.

I checked my usual spot – up top toward the very back of the train – where there’s sometimes a seat that gets overlooked because of the people who spread out trying to avoid being overcrowded.

No luck.

So I decided to camp on the steps. It’s not unusual. But it’s not ideal, either, because the stairs are usually filthy and hard on your butt and back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Ma’am?”

I looked up in spite of my aversion to responding to that particular appellation.

“Take my seat. Please,” said a paunchy, rather non-descript man in a Masters green polo shirt and headphones.

“Oh. That’s okay, thanks,” I say, shocked at the offer.

“Please. Take it.”

He was already up and moving towards me down the stairs so I had no choice but to get out of his way and take his kindly offered seat.

“It’s not dead,” I said, still shocked but smiling.

“Pardon me?”

“Chivalry,” I said. “It’s not dead. Thank you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You left at three on a Friday? What a slacker.

Yep. That’s me. A total slacker.

Do me a favor, okay?

Tell my husband that when I’m ignoring him and responding to work e-mails at 10 o’clock practically every weeknight.

I’m sure he’ll find your assessment very charming.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Feminists dealt a serious blow to chivalry back in the 70’s.

Asserting their Independence and Equality, angry women the world over decided it was un-cool for men to do nice things like open the door or offer seats for them.

Which kills me because that was one of the very best things about being a chick besides always knowing when you’re gonna get laid.

HEATHER! SHAME on you!

Shaddap. You know it’s true.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m okay with feminists. I’ve benefited from their efforts in ways I can’t even begin to fathom.

But I’m not a feminist.

Women are not equal to men. Not physically. We simply can’t gain muscle mass like men; it’s a scientific fact. And we’re certainly not equal mentally – men and women are just wired differently.

Plus, most of the women I know (including myself) have that whole Unfortunate Hormone Thing going on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You’re a closet misogynist, Heather! Who knew?

No I’m not. I don’t hate women.

I just prefer to look at chicks honestly and objectively.

I like celebrating the amazing, cool differences between men and women rather than futilely attempting to homogenize the sexes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Would you vote for a female president?

If we’re talking Hilary, hell no.

If she’s a modern-day Queen Elizabeth, you bet your ass I’d vote for her.

But I’m thinking that as long as scary white men like Dick Cheney are running this country, the odds of a strong, intelligent female leader being elected are slim.

Slim like a regular absorbency tampon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Turns out the Chivalric Seat Guy was going to Aurora too.

I couldn’t resist asking.

“Why did you do that?”
“Well, you’re a lady,” he said without hesitation.

He looked genuinely surprised and maybe a little sad that I asked, as if what he did was common and something anyone would do.

We introduced ourselves (his name is Mike) and I took the opportunity to thank him again before hopping off the train.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You can stop laughing now. And kindly keep your ‘lady’ comments in your pants.

It was a cool thing to do even if I didn’t deserve it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Is chivalry dead? Is it even necessary these days?

I’m not sure.

I grew up in an egalitarian household where my dad was just as likely to do the dishes as my mom. And my mom was just as likely to cut the grass as my dad.

So I’ve never expected chores or courtesies or any other activity to be divided along the traditional gender lines.

What I remember most from my parents sharing work around the house was the spirit in which it was done. It was always as an act of kindness to each other – they did it to ease the burden on someone they love.

So maybe chivalry doesn’t have to die. Maybe it can evolve.

Because it’s the little acts of kindness that we do for each other regardless of gender that can really make life easier.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Snow Patrol – Chasing Cars
I am reading: The World is Flat by Thomas L. Friedman
And I am: Not a lady

The Dorothy Principle

Boy oh boy, Heather. I sure hope Jim didn’t read your blog yesterday.

Why? Because I admitted that I actually enjoy it when he’s out of town? He knows. And he feels the same when I’m gone for a couple days.

Well, then you two must not have a very good relationship, do you?

Because we’re not attached at the hip? Because we’re not together every waking and breathing and sleeping moment?

Screw that.

Spending time away for work or with our own friends and interests makes our relationship that much stronger. In fact, I think it’s downright unhealthy for any couple to spend all their time together.

Let’s call it the Dorothy Principle.

You have to get out and experience the world on your own once in a while to truly appreciate the fact that there’s no place like home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course it’s a delicate balance.

There are times when we’re both going non-stop between work, travel, and social schedules that we have to take a break for some “us” time. We don’t call it that – because that would be incredibly gay – but you know what I mean.

We’ve been together long enough to recognize when it happens. Then we go for a drive, crank the music, and re-connect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
These control-freak wives are asking for trouble when they keep their husbands on lock-down like children who’ll misbehave the moment they’re out of sight.

Jim’s got a mom. He doesn’t need another one.

And I think it’s good for him to get out with his friends on a semi-regular basis.

It makes me happy when he gets to do what makes him happy – and isn’t that what a good relationship is all about?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Dorothy Principle, eh?

You know, Heather, most people who see The Wizard of Oz don’t come away with that message.

Right.

When Dorothy “left” she encountered all kinds of trouble and learned that she shouldn’t go looking for her heart’s desire beyond her own backyard.

Whatever.

She had an adventure. She met new people. Some of it wasn’t very nice, but like she said, most of it was beautiful.

And isn’t it interesting that she discovered a whole new appreciation for her black and white world after traveling over the rainbow?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Israel Kamakawiwo’ole – Somewhere Over the Rainbow
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Relishing day two

Alone vs. Lonely

In last week’s Newsweek, Ann Quindlen wrote an article about being alone.

She loves it.

But she acknolwedged that it's not socially acceptable.

As if it's a shameful, horrible secret to the world. As if we’re supposed to spend every waking moment in the company of others. As if our social schedule defines who we are.

And as if it’s unhealthy to want just a little time for yourself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m not ashamed to say it: I love being alone.

In fact, I crave it. It is what keeps me healthy and relatively sane.

When was the last time you were really alone?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Really alone? What’s that?

To me, it’s being at home in my own space with no one there but Gromit keeping me company.

It’s quiet. I can sit and think. Or I can just sit.

If I feel like it, I can putz around the house and work on little projects that are not chores, just things I’ve been meaning to do.

With no interruptions or distractions.

And no talking. Especially no talking.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I understand lonely. I’ve been there.

When I first moved to Illinois the one person I knew wasn’t worth talking with most of the time.

I read a lot of books and rented a lot of movies. I talked on the phone incessantly, long distance, to anyone who would listen.

And if things got particularly bad, I’d go to the pet store to visit the puppies.

Looking back, it was rather pathetic.

But those little dogs were always so happy to see me – to see anyone for that matter – it was a great comfort in my world filled with cold, joyless strangers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Almost 20 years later, I walk through the third largest city in the United States and see people I know all the time.

Ugly confession: This is actually a small source of irritation for me. Being in Chicago gives me a variation on that feeling of being alone that I crave and rarely get. So when I happen to meet a friend on the street, I’m mostly happy to see them, but a small part of me laments the interruption.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alone is not to be confused with aloin:

al·o·in n
a bitter-tasting yellow crystalline derivative of aloe used in making laxative drugs.

Although to me, alone is a bit of a laxative. It helps me process all my shit. And if I don’t get alone time, I get seriously backed up and things get ugly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alone time re-charges me and makes it possible for me to be sociable.

But Heather, alone is a choice. Lonely isn’t.

I recognize that.

I’m blessed to have the choice today. It’s likely that someday I will not.

So for now, I’ll spend all my sacred alone time reflecting on that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: A conference call with Hyperion
I am reading: Newsweek
And I am: Blissfully alone

The peanut table

“Now they sit at the Peanut Table,” said Sarah, who is 8 years old.

We were talking about allergies over dinner Monday night.

Apparently peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were banned at Sarah’s elementary school for a couple years before they came up with the Peanut Table, the place where all the kids with peanut allergies can sit and be safe in the lunchroom.

“Well, that’s practically un-American,” said Jim.

We nodded in solemn agreement that peanut butter and jelly sammiches are indeed sacred, like Hershey bars wrapped in foil and Band-Aids in a snappy-lidded tin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Allergies. Seems like they’re getting worse, doesn’t it?

Thirty years ago we didn’t have the peanut table. We had the retard table.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wheat. Peanuts. Dairy. Sugar.

Everybody’s got something that gives ‘em trouble.

I’ve had the tests. I’m ‘allergic’ to wheat, dairy and sugar.

And when I was being good and eating right, I never felt better. But it was a royal pain avoiding all that stuff and eventually I gave up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So you’re saying you’d rather feel like crap than take the time to eat right and live longer?

Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.

Besides, living longer is over-rated.

I’d much rather go out in a blaze of glory at 65 than hang around ‘til I’m pissing my pants and calling you Charlie at a foggy and fading 85.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From what I’ve been told, allergies are getting worse because we’re eating too much of these things.

Our bodies can only take so much wheat (which is in everything it seems) and refined sugar, so they respond by not functioning as well.

Our bones ache. We have less energy. More kids are asthmatic. And peanut tables abound.

All because of the stuff that we eat.

Of course I’m no scientist, so this is being pulled straight outta my ass, but I think Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) also comes from food allergies.

We’ve got this sad propensity for pills here in the U.S.

Rather than figuring out the cause of a problem, we mask it with medication.

People with chronic pain become addicted to painkillers. Folks suffering from depression rely on drugs to keep them from thinking too much and solving the very real problems they face. And generations of children are doped so we can manage their behavior rather than searching for the source of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And why wouldn’t the food we eat have a direct effect on how we feel, even how we act?

Plants thrive in the right soil. Hell, your car performs better with the better fuel.

Why don’t we view food as fuel?

I see people walking through the Loop in the mornings before work – a cigarette in one hand and a Starbucks in the other.

If I started my day with all those toxins I’d be face down and drooling on my desk by lunch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at the peanut table discussion, us Indignant Americans agreed that banning peanut butter was a Violation of our Constitutional Rights.

But the school was right to do it.

While I don’t like it when the freedoms of many are limited to protect the needs of a few, nobody deserves to die by peanut butter. Especially not kids.

And nobody’s stopping you from eating a peanut butter sammich at home.

Off of a paper towel at the kitchen counter, as God intended.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Korn – Coming Undone
I am reading: Oracle event status
And I am: Craving a peanut butter sammich

BOHICA

Within two minutes this morning from two different sources I learned that a) someone died, and b) someone’s marriage is in Big Trouble.

It seems Mercury retrograde was not responsible for this summer’s ugliness and things are still Bad All Over.

Of course things can’t be good all the time. And as usual, I’m counting my blessings that all of this death and destruction is relatively removed.

But I do believe in the Rule of Three. Good and bad things happen in threes.

So as they say in the Army, BOHICA.

Bend over here it comes again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Train – All I Ever Wanted
I am reading: Chicago Sun-Times
And I am: Pensive

Foiled again

You hold the thin bar in your hand – it’s a perfect, unchangeable, delicious little marvel.

Under the wrapper, you can feel the ridges that make it easy to break it into bite-size pieces. You tear off the paper sleeve. You open the foil and smell the fresh chocolate.

Opening the damn thing was half the pleasure of having that rare Hershey bar.

But no more.

Hershey bars are no longer wrapped in foil. I discovered this last night.

Another one of life’s little joys crushed under the relentless march of Progress. Hershey bars in foil have gone the way of drinking Coke out of a glass bottle or keeping your Band-Aids in a nifty little tin.

It’s all cardboard and plastic now. And it’s depressing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
So when the hell did that happen? Tells you how long it’s been since I’ve had a good old-fashioned Hershey bar. Which is a good thing, I suppose.

But still.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I realized that Band-Aids were switching from those nostalgic tins with the snappy lids to cardboard containers, I had the wherewithal to save one.

Now all of my new Band-Aids are transferred over to the old tin so I can experience a bit of my childhood when I need one.

Of course, they did away with the little red string you used to open the individual bandages, but I’m okay with that because it rarely worked well anyway.

See, I’m okay with progress as long as it’s an improvement.

But Coke just tastes better from a glass bottle. And my Band-Aid tin is more durable than those silly boxes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Where the hell have you been, Heather?

Lamenting the whole cardboard and plastic thing is so 90’s.

I know, it’s not like this is new.

But I really miss that foil. And you know what?

That Hershey bar didn’t taste quite as good as I remember.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: the fan on my desk
I am reading: Salon.com
And I am: Nostalgic

One good thing

Do one good thing.

It doesn't have to be a huge good thing. And you don't have to tell anyone.

Just do one good thing.

And it can change everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Nothing, too busy
I am listening to: Sheryl Crow - Every Day is a Winding Road
And I am: Feeling better, thanks

Somebody

must've said something to the Notorious Yapper here.

He didn't say much at this morning's follow-up meeting with that partner company. Same conference room, mostly the same people and he was refreshingly quiet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's very dark outside right now. A reflection of what I'm feeling inside, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Nothing
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Dark

Ya had me

Dear Buddha,

Your book is great.

I get the whole ‘oneness in everything’ thing. Your instructions on being a master of your mind were very helpful. And that compassionate wisdom concept? Just beautiful.

But what’s up with this regarding the Duties of Brotherhood on page 386?

“First, they wear old and cast-off garments; second, they get their food through alms-begging; third, their home is where night finds them as under a tree or on a rock; and fourth, they use only a special medicine made from urine laid down by the Brotherhood.”

Heh?

I gotta drink pee to achieve Enlightenment? What the hell is that all about?

Ya had me, then ya lost me, Buddha.

Your disappointed fan,

Heather
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why do the world’s major religions have to ruin things with their quirky little rules?

Jews: Abide by God’s laws, love one another, don’t eat bacon.
Catholics: Love one another, don’t eat meat on Friday.
Muslims: Love other Muslims, bomb everyone else.
Hindus: Love one another, don’t eat beef.
Buddhists: Love one another, drink piss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Buddha book really had me. It’s not nearly as challenging to read as the Bible with all of its begats, chapters, psalms, and shit.

The Teaching of Buddha is for the most part practical, interesting, and logical.

And I really like the fact that it is unequivocal on the equality of all people – especially when it comes to men and women.

The Bible is peppered with misogyny – both the Old and New testaments. And don’t even get me started on those kooky Muslims and their screwy views on women.

It was so refreshing to find a religious text that doesn’t emphasize an “us versus them” mentality. You won't find one word about smiting thine enemies in the Buddha book.

It’s all love and compassion. Except for that urine thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before all you Really Smart People go writing about how unfair it was for me to categorize all Muslims as fundamentalists, lighten up. Seek your Inner Sense of Humor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From what I understand most of these silly religious quirks were: 1) leftover sectarian practices from that particular time or 2) inserted by religious or political whack-jobs with their own agendas.

Either way, I’m quite certain that I won’t be washing down my hamburger with a glass of piss this Friday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: The Teaching of Buddha
I am listening to: R.E.M. – Talk About the Passion
And I am: Disappointed

Buddha-mind

Silence is often misinterpreted but never misquoted. - Unknown
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Nothing
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Everything

The intelligent up-sell

It’s 8:45 Sunday night.

I’m at the corner Walgreens on an emergency run for what Jim charmingly refers to as field dressing.

You’re prolly thinking this is too much information, but trust me, there’s a point.

Usually there’s a perky little high school chick working the cash register. Of course that’s not the case tonight – it’s a high school boy with rubber bands in his braces.

Great, I think, setting the conspicuous pastel boxes on the counter without looking up.

“Can I interest you in some chocolate-covered PayDay bars? They’re just two for a dollar,” he asks.

You’ve got to be kidding. There is no way this kid is up-selling me chocolate.

“What the HELL is THAT supposed to mean?” I scream, grabbing a fistful of his cheap Walgreen-issued uniform and jerking him over the counter. “Do you think because I’m buying nearly $20 worth of feminine products that I NEED chocolate? Huh? Ya pimply little PUNK! ANSWER ME!”

That’s not how I replied. Really.

But I thought about it.

It was a good thing I noticed the big two-for-a-dollar PayDay display on the counter before responding.

“Thanks, I’m all set,” I said with a smile.

He smiled back through his braces, more knowingly than any high school kid should.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Bob Dylan – Things Have Changed
I am reading: PGA Championship schedule
And I am: “Cute and need to go shopping,” according to Jim.

Racially un-motivated, part two

It’s Wednesday night and we’re leaning against a rail at Wrigley field watching storms punish Chicago from the south and west.

“Did you read it today? It was about racism,” I ask.
“Not yet. Did ya tell ‘em your two ‘Jew’ stories?” Jim replied.

Oh, man. How could I have forgotten?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We’re in that same large conference room.

It’s three of us reviewing a new brochure about employee benefits.

“It’s going to be about $400 to print these,” said Susan, the best graphic designer on the planet, who also happens to be Jewish.

“Can you Jew ‘em down on that price a bit?” asked the most ignorant director of human resources on the planet.

Yes. It really happened. I was there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That idiotic director of HR claimed she had no clue she’d said something wrong.

Ignorance is no excuse when it comes to bigotry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As if that first story wasn’t bad enough, here’s another one. Same topic, same company.

“He’s gotta work Christmas eve, I can’t believe it,” complained our director of recruiting, whose husband worked for a big law firm in Chicago.
“Bummer,” I replied.
“It’s those damn Jews,” she said. “Making people work on Christmas eve. What are they thinking?”

I don’t know what they were thinking, but I’m pretty sure I knew what Susan was thinking, sitting in the next cube over.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So how did my good friend Susan react?

She was cool. Both times.

Maybe it was because she was used to hearing that kind of hateful language.

But I really, really hope not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And how did you react, Heather?

I apologized profusely on behalf of ignorant people everywhere and told my manager who apparently spoke with both of them about it.

I’m sure they were embarrassed. But I’m guessing they were mostly irritated at having to watch what they say in the future.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s not easy talking about prejudice when you’re white.

And I don’t have a good explanation for why that conference room was so divided over the OJ verdict.

How could people who had so much in common – intelligent, motivated young professionals in the high tech industry – see the same evidence so differently?

The fact is, we see what we want to see. Whatever reinforces our core beliefs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So let me get this straight: Both the director of human resources and the director of recruiting at the same company made anti-Semitic comments?

Yep. The people who should’ve been leading the charge when it came to creating a culturally diverse bigotry-free work environment were complete idiots. And they weren’t fired either.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ah, maybe that’s what they meant in that RA interview so long ago.

As a leader, I was responsible for creating a welcoming environment on my floor.

And maybe they were just making sure that I really understood that responsibility, as a young and potentially ignorant white person who’d never personally experienced prejudice her whole life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finally, there’s this, compliments of a friend and loyal reader who enjoys poking fun at me:

I am listening to: Myself hum (insert any obscure band and song here)
I am reading: All the cool shit I just wrote
And I am: Feeling like I need to take a big stinky dump

Working from home

I am working from home today.

"That's what you get for being so friendly," said my co-worker Brian, after I complained that more than 15 people stopped by my desk to chat yesterday.

That's what I get all right.

So now I'm lounging on the couch eating peanut butter toast and trying not to get crumbs in the laptop.

I am savoring both the toast and the quiet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every few minutes, the quiet is interrupted by a big sigh from Gromit the Dog.

He gets so excited when one of us stays home on a weekday only to be bitterly disappointed when he finds us camped at a laptop all day.

So these forlorn little sighs are his way of saying, "I'm here. In case you wanna play or gimme a scratch or something."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Somebody dies. Family members argue.

Is this an unwritten rule somewhere?

You would think that sort of deep loss and sadness would bring people together.

Of course it's stressful. There's nothing worse.

But it's also a reminder that we're all here on a temporary basis and that we should love each other and get along.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gromit is particularly pissed off today. He didn't even beg for a bite of peanut butter toast.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Since I didn't get my usual train ride this morning, this has to be short and sweet.

Because when I say I'm working from home, I actually mean it.

Tomorrow: Racialy Un-motived Part Two
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Quiet
I am reading: Lab & managed services sell sheets
And I am: Productive

Racially un-motivated

I applied to be a resident assistant during the summer before my junior year at college.

I had made it to the second round of interviews when they asked: “How will you handle it if you have an African American resident living on your floor?”

Keep in mind I’m paraphrasing here – and back then we had just a handful of minority students at this small school surrounded by cornfields in the middle of Michigan.

I responded instinctively and sincerely with what I thought was a great answer: “Why is a person’s skin color even relevant? I’ll treat her like everyone else. With kindness and respect.”

Wrong answer. Way wrong answer.

Later, I found out that this was what they wanted to hear (again with the paraphrasing): “I will pay extra special attention to the needs of this minority student so that she feels comfortable and welcome. I will ensure that all the residents on my floor are sensitive to her unique perspective. I will be her advocate and champion and do what I can to protect her from any intentional or unintentional racism she encounters at this fine institution.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I didn’t get the job that first time around.

But you can bet your ass I answered that question like a champ the next time.

Turns out, I wasn’t a very good RA anyway – I had my own issues to deal with besides worrying about whether or not some fictional black chick was comfortable – but that’s a story for another time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Butch A____ was a friend of mine in college. I met him through my boyfriend -- they were RAs in the same dorm. Butch was a wise little black dude who looked just like Danny Glover.

We’re sitting next to each other in Religion 101. My right hand is splayed out flat on the half moon desk in front of me. For whatever reason, he plants his hand right next to mine the same way. We look down.

“Pink fingernails,” we say at the same time – like a small miracle – only seeing the one thing our hands had in common.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few years later, I learned that my original answer was in fact the correct one.

Nobody wants to be treated differently when they’re different.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We’re gathered around a tv set in the large conference room. It’s 1995.

There's maybe eight of us – a surprisingly even mix of black and white folks – eating lunch together. We’re laughing and talking and waiting impatiently for the OJ Simpson verdict to be announced.

Looking around, I remember smiling and thinking that the racial make-up of the room was so cool – a reflection of my company’s commitment to hiring exceptional people who happen to be exceptionally diverse.

Then it comes: Not guilty.

Half the room cheers. Half the room sits in angry silence.

Instantly, we’re divided.

That so-cool feeling evaporating like the sweat on OJ’s forehead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Pussycat Dolls – Buttons
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Quiet

The bug Nazi

I was in the middle of my Saturday morning ritual cleaning up the kitchen when I saw it: A lovely bug flying near the window above the sink.

Its gauzy wings were unbelievably bright; its body was darker, the color of sage. It was beautiful fluttering against the glass desperately trying to find a Way Out.

I’ve gotta save this bug, I thought.

This bug did not deserve to end up crushed in a paper towel and tossed in the waste-basket.

This beautiful bug needed to be free. And it will be my One Good Deed to start the day.

It took much longer than expected to capture him. It was easy enough pressing the cup against the window, but more challenging getting him to stay inside long enough so I could put my hand over the top and trap him.

I silently willed the bug to cooperate. C’mon, bug. Can’t you see I’m trying to do you a favor?

He finally complied, waiting near the bottom of the glass while I quickly open the back door to release him.

In seconds he was gone, way across the yard, without so much as a thank you or even a glance back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The good feeling I got from the early morning bug rescue didn’t last long.

Because I realized that if it had been one of those ugly pincher bugs that creep into my laundry basket and across my kitchen counter, I’d have squashed it without a thought.

What I perceived to be the beautiful bug deserved to be rescued and live in freedom. But what I perceived to be the ugly bug could die a horrible death.

I am the bug Nazi.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well, I rationalized, those ugly pincher bugs have bitten me.

Nope, not good enough.

Biting is not a capital crime.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This reminds me of my all-time favorite movie: The Wizard of Oz.

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” Glenda asks Dorothy, soon after she arrived in Munchkinland.
“I’m not a witch at all,” Dorothy replies. “Witches are old and ugly.”
“Only the bad witches are ugly,” says Glenda, laughing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As a society, why do we equate evil with what we perceive as ugliness and good with what we see as beautiful?

Maybe that lovely green bug I rescued on Saturday is a Menace to the entire bug population. Maybe he uses his beauty to charm other bugs into getting closer and then he kills them viciously and without remorse, as I’ve done with the pincher bugs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Raconteurs – Steady as She Goes
I am reading: Client survey
And I am: Trying not to kill the ugly today