Thoughts from the Edge

Change of Address

2010-09-28T20:21:00.002-04:00

As part of my attempt to further my independent writing career, I have created a web site: http://summaria.net. I have moved my blog over there and will not be posting to this blog again. Once you visit the home page of the new site, a list of most recent posts will be on the right; a drop-down menu is right below the list of recent posts and will allow you to access the archives.

I thank whomever has been reading "Thoughts from the Edge" here on Blogger. I look forward to "seeing" you over on summaria.net (powered by WordPress). I will continue to share links to posts via Facebook.

I'm told you can subscribe via RSS or email to a WordPress blog. In fact, I subscribe to my friend Moritz's blog, "Byline to Finish Line," also on WordPress.

Just don't ask me how to do it - I haven't figured that out yet.

Confessions of a Former PC User

2010-09-27T13:26:00.002-04:00

Or how I shut the Windows and took a bite of the Apple

A couple months ago, my trusty Dell Inspiron laptop started showing signs of age, the most annoying of which was random malfunctions of the space bar (turns out it's really hard to type documents when the space bar doesn't work reliably). After discussing with The Hubby, I started research into replacements.

Now, I've always been a PC girl. Never really had monumental difficulties with them. But Macs have always intrigued me. Ultimately, I have wound up with PCs because of price, and once I totaled up the cost of machine and required software I once again shelved the thoughts of a Mac. But just as I was about to close the deal on a middle-of-the-road, but perfectly suitable HP Pavilion, my brother-in-law offered me Office for Mac for free (legally, I assure you). Hmm. And I didn't really need Quicken immediately, right? After all the Dell was still functional and I had time to evaluate options for home finance.

Another trip to BestBuy was in order. I looked at the Macbook (not the Pro). I got a demo. I was sold. One white, 13" Macbook please - just a shade over $1,000 including tax (and I got 18-month financing).

Two months later, the verdict is in: I love this thing. I can't believe it took me so long to buy a Mac. Seriously, I might never buy a PC again.

How do I love my Mac? Let me count the ways (in no particular order).

1. Form Factor

Even folks I know who don't like using Macs admit it: Macs are pretty. Apple may not have the monopoly on sleek design, but they seem to do it consistently better than anybody else. The Macbook is no exception. The thing is all slim lines and rounded corners, no jutting edges or weird angles. When closed, the Macbook is truly "closed," as the curved lid meets curved body. Apple calls it "unibody design." The only "gap" is a small finger ridge to grasp when opening the lid. The result is a sleek, slim rectangle with rounded corners, easy to carry, easy to slide into any kind of bag. Closed, the Macbook is just over 1" thick and it weighs less than 5 pounds, so it's actually, you know, portable. I don't feel like I'm carrying a bag of bricks.

Of course like so many things Apple, the battery is internal - no popping it on and off (Apple critics will mention that this only means I can't change the battery myself). There doesn't seem to be a fan - no vents anywhere and I found the lack of whirring a bit unsettling at first. Yet the bottom of the Macbook stays cooler than any laptop with a fan I've used; I can put it directly on my lap and nothing gets uncomfortably warm.

There is no CD drawer - it's a slot much like a car CD player. So no jutting drawer to bump into things, get blocked, or get snapped off. Of course this also means no lame "my cup holder is broken" tech support jokes, but I can live with that.

The keyboard is not quite "solid surface," but the keys are much lower profile and seem "tighter" than the ones on my Dell, which means less wiggling - and they feel simultaneously sleeker and "grippier" to my fingers. The trackpad is sensitive without being slippery; much more precise and reliable than my Dell (I found myself restarting the Dell to reload the trackpad driver on occasion). The Multi-touch functioning is both intuitive and flexible (and it does pinch thing too); I like how just using a two-finger swipe scrolls, instead of having to scroll along the edge of the pad.

At first I couldn't figure out where the power jack was. Where was the standard round hole? After finding the MagSafe Power Adapter, I realized this might be the most genius power attachment ever. You mean when my kid trips over the cord it just breaks away and doesn't drag the machine to the ground? Brilliant!

Okay, I wish it came in something other than white, but when you're nitpicking on the color, you know you don't have a lot to complain about.

2. Battery Life

Apple rates the battery usage of the Macbook at 10 hours. I don't know exactly how long it lasts, but I know I used it for about four hours unplugged and still had 65%-70% of my battery remaining. The Hubby and I watched a forty-minute streaming video at almost full brightness of the screen, and the battery was still full of juice. Despite the fact that I paid for the 9-cell battery on the Dell, I never got more than 4-5 hours of computing out of it, and an hour-long streaming video took it down to the wire. Clear advantage to Apple.

3. Ease of Setup

So I arrive at home with my tiny Mac box, unpack, and settle in for what I think is going to be hours of setup and configuration. Wrong. I turn on the Macbook and it steps me right through initial setup. Oh, Mac has detected a wireless network - do you want to connect? No installation of router drivers or fancy software to get connected. It detected other machines in the network without problem. Plugged in an external hard drive - bingo, files transferred. Printer drivers? Who needs them! First time I wanted to print, the Macbook detected printers on the network. Configuring Mac's Mail application to connect to my Comcast.net account was equally flawless (I will admit that Office 2007 was much better at that on Windows than previous versions of Office). The only thing it won't detect when plugged in is my phone (a Samsung Omnia running Windows Mobile Pro 6.1). Oh, and I did wind up retyping my Outlook contacts, but only because I didn't feel like downloading Thunderbird, installing, exporting, and then importing. I don't have that many contacts to make it worth my time.

4. Responsiveness

Whenever you turn on a Windows machine, or "wake" it up, there is a time lag while Windows gets itself settled. Mac, not so much. Push the power button and it's on in less than 30 seconds. I open the lid and boom! its ready to use, no "resuming" lag. Call it responsiveness, or instant on, or whatever. I don't know what to call it, but I like it.

5. Display clarity

The screen on the Macbook is smaller than my Dell (13" as opposed to 15"), but I sure don't miss those two inches. Maybe because everything is so crisp. The colors pop and it's a pleasure to look at the screen. Everything from web surfing to watching videos is easy on the eyes.

6. Stability

No quirks, no finicky behavior. Nothing hesitates or goes into a weird "hourglass" state. I have not had a dropped wireless signal in the two months I've been using it (something that cannot be said for the PCs in the house). No, "Word has encountered an error and needs to close."It's trite, but really, "it just works."

7. Software

The only "external" applications I've installed are Word and Excel for Mac. I've found everything else that comes with the Mac (Mail, iCal, Address Book, etc). to be perfectly adequate. I have friends who say the Mac versions of Word/Excel pale before the Windows versions, but really, for home use they are just fine (I don't need most of the fancier features to type a letter or create a spreadsheet to track Scout dues).

Where the Mac really shines is the multi-media software. It's long been held that Apple does the "artistic" stuff better. I can't speak to animation or CAD, but for what I need it is outstanding. I have thousands of digital photos. For years, all I've wanted to do is put them together in a slide show with some music. And while I won't say I couldn't figure it out under Windows, I couldn't figure out how to do it both easily and cheaply. I didn't want to learn to be a pro with Photoshop, I just wanted a stinking digital photo slide show.

Not only does the Mac come with all the software necessary (iPhoto, iMovie, iTunes, iDVD), it's all ridiculously simple. I am always wary when a company touts how "easy" it is do something. But armed with nothing except the 10 minute demonstration from the Apple rep at BestBuy and my own determination, I created a slide show with music of our beach vacation in about 15 minutes. I created a slide show for my son's Cub Scout pack of their summer camping in about 30 minutes - and most of that time was spent selecting photos and appropriate music. Put the photos in iPhoto, import them to iMovie, dump in music, select a theme, and hey presto! Semi-professional looking slide show. The folks at Cub Scouts couldn't thank me enough for all my "work." Honesty compelled me to admit it hadn't been that hard - the Mac did all the hard work.

And I love the Dock. I'm just saying.

Conclusion

It's hard for me to categorically say, "Never buy a PC," because really, you have to pick the right tool for the job. But for home computing, you don't need a Cray. If you're a hard-core gamer, a Mac may not be for you. If you're on a really limited budget, Mac may not be for you (I don't think Apple sells anything for $300). But if you've got the cash, and you want computing to be fun instead of work, I highly recommend shelving any suspicions you may have and looking at the Apple line. Heck, it might not cost as much as you think. You might just be pleasantly surprised.

And taking a bit of this Apple won't even get you thrown out of the Garden of Eden.

Pax et Bonum

2010-09-04T22:18:00.002-04:00

I recently finished a book called The Saint and the Sultan, by Paul Moses. Moses, a journalist and professor of journalism, seeks to strip away the mythos regarding the visit of St. Francis of Assisi to Sultan Malik al-Kamil during the Fifth Crusade (and believe me, as a graduate of St. Bonaventure University I can tell you the story has a lot of mythos). More than just a historical recount, Moses also seeks to learn what the story can tell us today, especially with the current state of Christian-Muslim affairs.

Even if you aren't Catholic, you've probably heard of St. Francis. You know, the medieval hippie. The guy who talked to animals, and preached a message of peace. The guy who, despite his middle-class upbringing and initial knightly aspirations, ditched it all to live a life of abject poverty, embracing the poor and living how he believed the original Apostles lived, in an attempt to be closer to Jesus. The only saint ever painted by the great artist Rembrandt; the guy who is probably the epitome of "humble."

For Francis, peace just wasn't a really nice thing. It was the only way we could draw closer to God. Francis had been a soldier. He'd been a POW in a war between Perugia and Assisi. He'd been in prison, and it had broken him. His rejection of war was absolute. So when the Fifth Crusade started, Francis was determined to go. Not to fight, but to find a different way to resolve the conflict between Christian West and Islamic East.

See, Francis had a really radical idea. Instead of fighting, why not have a conversation?

Like I said, radical - even by today's standards.

As I said earlier, a lot of mythos has grown up around this story, some of it propagated by the Church and even St. Bonaventure, minister general of the Franciscan order and official biographer of on of Catholicism's most beloved saints. These stories paint a confrontational Francis, who stormed into the sultan's palace, challenged his advisers to a "trial by fire," and convinced al-Kamil to convert.

What really happened? Francis and a couple of followers trudged in their rough brown robes through the battlefield to al-Kamil's palace to preach peace. By all believable accounts, the brothers were welcomed warmly, listened to respectfully, and sent safely back. The sultan did not convert - but he did listen.

Powerful stuff. Radical stuff. Why would this story be embellished and obscured? It wasn't politically correct, that's why.

But close your eyes and picture this scene. A simple, frail man in a rough brown robe speaking earnestly to a richly robed prince. Talking not of war and violence, but peace and love. Speaking not as an opponent, but as a brother. Holding out a hand that did not clasp a sword, but one that would clasp another hand in friendship. After that visit, Francis went back to Italy to exhort his followers. Not to go to war, but to go among the Muslims to live, to "be subject" to them, to love them. For Francis very firmly believed that the only way to truly unite and go beyond the violence was to recognize the Muslims as our neighbors and "love our neighbors as ourselves." Here was a simple man who did not content himself to talking to others in his daily life. He traveled with popes and princes preaching his message, and crossed a battlefield to talk with a prince of his vision of peace.

Powerful stuff. Radical stuff.

Now keep your eyes closed and pretend that this message had blossomed then, instead of "falling on rocky ground" to quote the parable. Pretend that the message had not been whitewashed by a Church intent on a political mission. What would be different today?

It got me thinking. The answer is "a lot." If Christian and Muslim alike had been able to embrace Francis' message of love in the early thirteenth century, what would the world look like today? Would 9-11 or the U.S.S. Cole bombings have happened? Or would we all have learned to get along, to respect each other, to have earnest dialog instead of war?

I did not know this, but turns out that Franciscans sent messengers to both President Bush and leaders in the Middle East before the current Iraqi war to preach peace. What if they had listened?

Francis brought the world a message of hope. He truly and absolutely believe that no conflict could be solved by violence. That the only hope we had was to embrace Christ's message of love and peace. To meet violence with compassion.

It was radical then. It is radical now. But the more I think, the more I hear the stories and diatribe about the proposed Islamic community center near Ground Zero, the more I think it is the only way.

It is our fear that drives the conflict - on both sides. Fear that our way of life and beliefs will be trampled, fear that we will not be free to worship as we believe, fear of the "other." Only learning will free us from that fear. And meaningful learning can only become reality through a spirit of love and peace. Not a fake peace, not "do it my way and we won't have a problem" peace. Peace as Francis envisioned it. He exhorted his brothers to live among the Muslims, to be servants. Not so they would be dominated, not because their beliefs were inferior. So they would have more opportunity to preach peace, to provide a living Gospel example, and convince Muslims that peace was the right way.

Don't get me wrong. Accounts of Islamic terrorism make me sad. Sad on a profound level. Sad that we have not really come as far as we think we have since the Crusades. Sad that we all, Christian and Muslim alike, are still too proud to be "servant" and must mold the world to our vision, even if that means destroying the vision of others.

But I have also come to believe that Francis was right. The only way is to embrace peace - the peace of God, not of men. We must lay aside our pride, and embrace humility in the way Francis did. I don't know that we have to go whole hog, sell our homes and possessions, and start wandering in rough brown robes. But we have to sell our possessions in our heart - sell our pride, our jealousy, our fear, our anger, our possessive desire - to make room for a greater possession - peace and love.

The title of this post, "Pax et Bonum," was a common way to sign things at St Bonaventure University. It is Latin, and means "peace and the good" (roughly). It was a motto for St. Francis and his order - his wish for "peace and the good" for all he met. It should be a motto for us all, right now, in 2010. Imagine the powerful transformation that would occur if we could all look at each other and sincerely wish nothing but peace and good for all, regardless of creed, race, color, or whatnot.

Powerful stuff. Radical stuff.

Pax et bonum.

The Witching Hour

2010-09-02T19:50:00.001-04:00

(This is a short story I wrote a couple years ago. In the absence of having anything illuminating to say, I figured I'd post it for your reading pleasure. Feel free to leave comments.)

The sounds reached her first. The soft music of crickets blended with the deep, mellow bass of night frogs in a soothing nocturnal symphony. Occasionally, the hoot of a screech owl accented the song, lending an eerie overtone.

Determined, she pushed through a blackness that muffled like a thick blanket. They had warned her it might be difficult to break through, but she persevered. Finally, the blackness parted and she passed through with a silent sigh of relief.

Pale, cold moonlight bathed the field, glittering off an early frost. Here and there, she saw wisps of steam rising from still-warm soil into the air. Inhaling deeply, she was disappointed she could not smell the sharp bite of the night air, just as she could not feel the night’s coldness. Oh well, they had told her it would be so. Still, it was a disappointment.

Tilting her head, she looked up. Stars glistened like diamonds on a black velvet sky, surrounding a perfect silver full moon. The moon’s position told her it was just midnight, the witching hour, when spirits issued forth in the land of the living. So went the stories the grannies told the young ones, stories that frightened the littlest ones into obedience and amused the older children. If they only knew, she thought wryly.

She suppressed the urge to run through the forest, the trees beckoning her as old friends. Her time was short; only one hour was allotted. They had been quite firm on that point. She had petitioned long and hard for this chance and had no intention of wasting it. The privilege would only be given once. Gathering her resolve, she sped toward the town, leaving a heavier carpet of frost behind her.

More silent than an owl, she glided through the streets, everywhere leaving the trail of frost. Most townspeople slept, but those who still watched felt a chill as she passed and the more superstitious made signs to ward against spirits.

The windows to the great house were dark and the door was barred, but it meant little to her. The only light was that of the moon and her eyes needed no other. All the details of the house matched her memories, except that her portrait was gone from above the fireplace. The portrait of a man, handsome and arrogant, in a gaudy gold frame hung on the wall that had once been graced by an elegant painting of a young, blushing bride in a distinguished black walnut frame. She curled her lip in disdain and carefully mounted the grand staircase. Behind her, the frosty path glittered with an unholy light.

Her children, her beloved boys, slumbered peacefully. The younger cried softly once, and then snuggled deeper into his blanket as if warding off a chill. Tenderly, she stretched out a hand to comfort him, but snatched it back in time. What once would have been a mother’s soothing touch would now only bring death. Her heart ached to weep, but her eyes remained dry. Tears were beyond her now.

The large feather bed was rumpled, but held only one occupant. Shining gold curls fanned across the pillow; a few tendrils lay across the girl’s rosy young cheek. She recognized the sweet features of the upstairs maid. Peaceful breathing came through perfect rosebud lips. A cold fury welled up inside her. How dare she! she thought, slowly extending her killing touch. Yet again she stopped. It would do no good to punish this foolish young thing who was only a momentary amusement. No, her anger and vengeance was reserved for one and one only.

She found him where she expected to, lounging in his study before a dying fire, the heavy velvet drapes drawn tight. His silk robe was open to the waist; a glass of wine was in his hand. He looked like a tiger, satiated after his last meal.

A sudden, violent, icy wind whipped through the room, causing him to start with alarm. The fire gained new life, roaring behind the screen despite the lack of wood. His features froze in terrified surprise as her misty form, clad in a commoner’s white burial shift, slowly materialized before him. She held him in his chair with the sheer force of her will, reveling in his helplessness as a small boy revels in the pain of the insect he is tormenting. He had looked at her that way once in what seemed a far-off dream.

A slow, wicked smile curved her lips. “Hello dear,” she said in a voice colder than the grave. “We have so much to talk about.”

The old servant walked unsteadily down the hall. The master had not been in his bed when the old man had gone to wake him at dawn, as was his custom. He must have dozed off before the fire again. The master had spent many a solitary evening in his study since his wife’s tragic death and the faithful servant worried for his master’s health.

The fire was only ash as the servant opened the door. He could see the master’s hand resting on the arm of his chair. Shaking his white head, the servant move to wake the master and recoiled in horror.

The handsome features were frozen in a hideous mask of terror; the wineglass remained firmly clasped in his hand. He had the look of one who has gazed beyond death. A pious, superstitious man, the servant quickly made the sign to ward off the spirits whose work this had surely been. Thankfully, he had only a moment to gaze on the horrifying sight before the first gentle rays of dawn touched the frozen figure, shattering master and glass into fine shards that settled on the floor, glinting like frost.

Building a Leader

2010-08-18T21:02:00.004-04:00

"Great leaders are born, not made."

Bullshit.

We've all heard this mantra, usually in response to a perceived failure in leadership. It's a convenient excuse because it absolves the person of any responsibility. It's not his or her fault he/she can't lead the way out of a wet paper bag, because leaders are born.

As a society, we must know this isn't true. Why do I say that? Look around and see for yourself. Books, seminars, courses, heck, even entire college degrees exist to make us experts in "leadership." So either, on some level, we know that there is at least something that can be learned about leadership and are fooling ourselves, or we are gullible sheep who spend thousands of dollars to "learn" something that is an inborn trait. And while it is entirely possible for the latter to be true, my money is on the former.

Now, it is true that leadership comes more naturally to some people. And it is also true that some people have a personality that make it easier for them to get followers. But personality and skill are not mutually inclusive. That is, an attractive personality does not make for great leadership. We all know people who are funny, sensitive, good to spend time with, and great at parties who are also awful leaders.

I can also cite at least one person who history has considered a pretty good leader, but who was a real jerk: George Patton. Chances are you've seen the movie with George C. Scott. Patton was a conceited jerk. He really was that abrasive, obnoxious and demanding. And most of the soldiers under his command respected him and considered him a great leader. I remember an account I heard of a soldier who served under Patton during the war and who was a pall bearer at Patton's funeral. He considered it an honor.

So, what is leadership? I mean, clearly this is important stuff, especially in corporate America. Everyone is exhorted to be a leader. There is big "L" leadership (think CEOs and generals), and small "l" leadership (someone, maybe in your company, who does not have a fancy title, but somehow gets everybody moving in the same direction at the same time). It's on annual performance reviews, for crying out loud - the thing most companies use to determine whether or not your going to get a raise this year. But what is it?

For me, it's a bit like pornography: difficult to define, but I know it when I see it.

But I can tell you what it's not: It's not a title, like CEO or COO. Those are "leaders," but they do not necessarily have good leadership skills. Plenty of companies have been dragged under by "leaders" who couldn't get out of the aforementioned wet paper bag. Being granted a title doesn't grant you wisdom.

So think of someone you consider a good leader. I'll give you a few moments. What qualities, in your opinion, make him or her a good leader? Tell you what, I'll give you my list (in no particular order) and we can compare notes.

1. Honesty/Integrity

While I said this list was in no particular order, I cannot imagine honesty, or integrity, not heading the list of leadership qualities. If you can't tell the truth or if people don't believe you are telling the truth, how do you get them to follow you? I don't know a lot of people who would follow a liar. "I can't believe a word she says, but she's really fun a parties, so let's go along with her idea!" Not.

Leaders tell the truth and the truth is often unpalatable. Yeah, nobody wants to hear that your department is failing to do its job. But if that's the truth, well, you need to hear it. Not so you can be blamed or feel guilty, but so you can recognize a need - to get better at your job.

Similarly, a leader has to have personal integrity. A leader puts up his hand and says "That one's my fault" when he is in fact responsible. A leader does not pass off the responsibility to someone else, either above or below her on the corporate food chain. And to be a leader, other people have to believe you have integrity. They have to believe you will put up your hand when appropriate and not pass the buck. It's wonderful if you say, "I have a lot of personal integrity." It's even more wonderful if the guy two cubes over who has to work with you every day can say it.

Think Harry Truman. "The buck stops here." At the risk of sounding like Bill O'Reilly (shudder) if you want to be considered a leader, make your sphere of influence a "no spin zone."

2. Diplomacy

This is the one that gets me every time. Honest is a wonderful thing, and sometimes the truth hurts. But leaders don't hit people over the head with the truth as if it was a baseball bat. There is, in fact, a way to be honest, but to phrase it in such a way that people are not demoralized or feel that you are making a personal attack. Personally, I can be awfully blunt. There is a time for that. There is also a time for diplomacy. Going into a confrontation with all guns blazing is not always the right thing to do, and will not inspire others to follow you. In all likelihood, you will antagonize and alienate people who would otherwise support you. Trust me, I know this one first hand.

Good leaders, most of them, know this. If Patton had a major failing as a leader, it was his struggle to be diplomatic. If Eisenhower had a major accomplishment as a leader, it was his skill at diplomacy. Eisenhower was a mediocre tactician at best. He was a phenomenal diplomat. Who else could have kept Montgomery and Patton from killing each other? The bottom line is that leaders are not bullies. They do not use brute force to convince others, they invite them - and they issue the invitation in such a way that people want to go along.

Important note: diplomacy is not spin. "Spin" takes the facts and twists them so that one party or another looks better. Diplomacy presents the facts in such a way that all parties want to participate in the problem solving.

3. Inspiration/Vision

Leaders almost always have a vision. Somewhere to go, something to do, something to be. And not only do they have a vision, they make other people want to take the trip with them. It's not a personal odyssey. It's an invitation to journey together. A good leader lets people know that not only does she have a plan, she knows how to execute that plan, it is thought out, and that others are an important part of the plan. A leader doesn't talk about how "I" am going to do something. He talks about how "we" are going to do something - and when you listen to him talk, you think "Gosh, that sounds great! Let's go!" A leader can get everybody to move in the same direction at the same time.

Inspiration, like honesty, also doesn't gloss over messy reality. Inspiration can acknowledge the pain that the journey will entail, but still make people want to take it. Because a good vision, and the ability to inspire, makes people believe the pain will be worth it in the end. The sacrifices will be worth it. The value proposition is understood.

After all, who wants to follow someone who has no idea where he is going in the first place, or can't adequately articulate why we want to go there anyway?

4. Respect

Leaders do not demean people. Nobody wants to follow a boor who is constantly telling them how deficient they are, or making them feel inadequate. A leader makes the people following her feel that they are valued members of the team, no matter how big or small the contribution they make. That office admin who made 50 copies of your position paper? A non-leader treats that as something that of course she did because that's her job. A leader acknowledges her contribution and the value she provided by a) taking some of the burden and b) helping to make sure everybody got a copy of the information needed to do the job. A leader says "thank you" and means it.

Nobody is irreplaceable. Any competent person realizes this. But that doesn't mean that everybody shouldn't feel valued.

5. Encouraging

Another thing that's really hard for me. There is a fine line, in my mind, between being genuinely encouraging and being condescending and phony - a rah-rah cheerleader. A good leader can let the team know they are moving in the right direction, despite stumbling blocks, and make people want to continue. They can look at the giant mound of work, say "Wow, that's a giant mound of work - let's get it done!" and folks want to do it. And a leader can look at someone who is trying really, really hard, but not quite getting it done, and both praise them for the effort while offering corrections and tips for what isn't going right.

I am not advocating praise for praise sake just to make people feel better. Contrary to some belief, people can spot a phony a mile away. They will know that they are doing a crappy job and you are pandering to their self esteem. But their is a way to acknowledge "yes, you are not quite doing the job right" without tearing them down - and propping the person up by letting him know you genuinely believe he will get it right.

Good leaders build people up, either by praise for what is being done right or constructive suggestions on what to correct. Leaders do not tear people down - especially not in public.

6. Competency/Intelligence

Good leaders are not dipsticks who can't tie their own shoes. A leader has a certain level of competency, of ability, to do his job. Maybe not your job. But he knows something about the field. If he's a corporate officer, he knows how to run a company. And while he may not know exactly how to code software, or build a plane, or do anything, he is intelligent enough to a) follow what you are saying, b) know when he's over his head, and c) when he needs to learn enough to keep up. A good leader doesn't bluff his knowledge like he's playing poker. He doesn't pretend to know more than he does. He is comfortable admitting that he doesn't know everything and is willing to try to learn. A good leader also knows that he can't possibly know everything, which is why he wants you to be on his team - because you possess knowledge that he doesn't, and he believes you can do the job. He is intelligent enough to recognize talent when he sees it.

A good leader is also smart enough to know when people are smart enough to see through her. She doesn't try to pull a fast one. People who try to pass off one thing as something else, generally come off badly, because the perception is "What, is she so stupid she doesn't think we know better?" Doesn't do much for your standing as a leader.

And finally,

7. Respected

Respect is not a one-way street. A leader not only respects the people on her team, she is respected by them. Why? See all the other attributes on my list. Leaders who have those attributes, generally have the respect of their teams. That doesn't mean they always are in agreement with each other. But you can respect, and follow, someone you don't agree with if you believe he is honest, has integrity, is respectful of you, is intelligent, can be diplomatic, has an inviting vision, and is encouraging of your efforts. It's really hard to follow a blunt incompetent idiot who is a liar, tears you down all the time, and has no respect for your person.

Do I have all these attributes? No - but I'm trying to work on it. I also don't believe leadership is a destination. A good leader never assumes she never has any more work to do in these areas. A leader is always trying to improve.

So take a look around you and ask yourself: Who is leading me and do I want to go there? Where am I trying to lead people and why would they want to follow me?

The answers just might surprise you.

When Private is Public

2010-08-09T10:45:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago, I learned that the 4th grade teacher at my kids' school was not asked to return for the coming school year (which is a shame, because she was a good teacher). The scuttle-butt as I heard it from another parent (gotta love the small-school rumor mill), is that she made disparaging comments about the school and parents in a Facebook status update.

To quote a colleague, "Turns out people can read what you say on the Internet."

The fact is, the Internet has changed personal privacy. Way back in the day, it was harder, although not impossible, to target disgruntled employees. I mean, if you're complaining to friends over dinner in your own home, you can be reasonably sure that the object of your complaint won't know, as long as the person to whom you are complaining doesn't rat you out. After all, while spy-style listening devices look really cool on TV, that sort of thing that common in the general public. Average citizens don't wiretap their employees (we leave that to the Federal government).

The pesky thing about the Internet is this: nothing is really private. Nothing. Once it's out in the ether, it can be found - especially if one is talented, knowledgeable, and diligent enough. And it never really goes away, either. Even if you delete it, the ghost of that email, that photo, or that blog post is still there. Oh yes it is.

But the Internet is also tricksy, my precious. It fools you into thinking what you've posted is private. Web pages let you mark photo albums as private, only to be accessed by invited individuals. You need passwords and ciphers to see account information. Everything sealed behind a steel door, right?

Well, maybe for the average Joe Computer User. We aren't all cipher experts employed by the CIA. For most of us, passwords are just fine. But the reality is that the "steel door" is more like a black curtain. And curtains rip, intentionally or accidentally.

But let's leave the world of cyber-crime aside for the moment, because I'm not really talking about hackers or those nasty people who write malware, or viruses. Because sometimes the more damaging activity comes from a more insidious source: ourselves.

Yeah, you got that right. Us. We do it to ourselves all the time. Our total lack of situational awareness is sometimes more damaging than all the computer nasties out there. Let's take the teacher example. She didn't say it in the privacy of her own home, she said it on Facebook. In front of how many hundreds of her closest "friends." Plus, if her Facebook security wasn't set up properly, her status could be seen by anybody, even non-friends.

But let's assume she did have it set up that status updates were restricted to friends. The school principal is on Facebook. And if they were "friends," well...

You see where this goes. No place good.

Lack of situational awareness. This is why my boss is not a friend on Facebook. And while I do have a couple of work friends there, I try very hard not to post specific rants about work frustrations. Because Facebook isn't private.

Oh yes, I know. Statements made to our Facebook friends shouldn't be used against us. To a certain extent I agree. I've heard stories of teachers being censured or fired because they posted a picture of themselves holding a glass of wine (no joke, my sister knows someone who got in trouble over this). And if the picture is of the teacher at her college reunion with other adults, responsibly enjoying an adult beverage, no, that shouldn't matter. If, on the other hand, the picture is of the teacher at a beach party doing belly shots and there is evidence of underage drinkers, well, "lack of situational awareness" is a bitch.

There is no doubt that Facebook, or the Internet, is a powerful networking tool. You can find jobs, lost college classmates, or information for your kid's school project. But it's all smushed together. And as a co-worker of mine wisely said, humans as a species have not evolved to a point where we are capable of separating these things for ourselves. We need someone to help us help ourselves.

Staying with Facebook, another co-worker said what Facebook really needs are levels or "boxes," so he can have a "personal" box of friends and a "professional" box of friends. And you can kind of do it now, but it's clunky. Because sometimes he says something that he only wants to share with the personal box. And he wants to be reasonably sure (again, this is the Internet), that the people in one box can't open the other box and see what's going on in there. He says it's possible, and since he's a fairly smart computer guy, I believe him. But Facebook isn't there yet. And we humans seem to be incapable of separating our stuff into boxes in our own minds.

Right now, saying something on Facebook, or the Internet in general, is like walking into a noisy, crowded room and shouting. Maybe no one will hear you. Maybe someone will - and it might not be the someone you intended to hear you.

And maybe Mom was right after all. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

Especially on the Internet.

To Catch a (Lightening) Thief

2010-07-17T19:59:00.002-04:00

So last week, our neighborhood pool's movie night feature was "Percy Jackson: The Lightening Thief." My son, age 8, is a huge fan. He might like Percy Jackson more than Harry Potter (I suspect this is because Percy has a cool sword). He had asked to go when it was in theaters, and asked again when he saw the poster at the pool. Since pool movie night is only $2 per person, I said yes.

After the flick, I ask him, "Well, what did you think?"

"Well, it was good - but what happened to the story? They left out Ares, and Clarisse, and the part at the stream," he replied.

"Well, that happens, honey," I said. "Movies based on books are usually different because they have to leave things out. But you liked the movie?"

Long pause. "Yeah I suppose," he said seriously. "But the book was better." And thus, another generation of book snobs is born.

Don't get me wrong. I absolutely recognize that it is impossible to turn a book into a movie, and preserve every little detail. You can spend time in books doing things that would bring a movie to a screeching dramatic halt. That said, some directors and screenwriters do a better job than others. Take Peter Jackson's epic "Lord of the Rings" trilogy. Did he adhere to every word Tolkien wrote? No, but Tolkien's book word for word would have made a lousy screenplay. Jackson kept all of the most important aspects of the story and, while I may disagree with some of the changes he made, I think his three-movie set may be the best book-movie adaptation I've ever seen.

Take, as another example, Harry Potter. These are movies that I think are okay adaptations. They've left quite a bit out, in my humble opinion. But they are serviceable. I've seen a number of them multiple times, and I don't feel as though I'm being tortured when I do. So while I prefer the books, I find the movies entertaining in their own right.

My initial reaction to "The Lightening Thief" was the same - entertaining in its own right, but I prefer the book. But the more I thought on it, and the more I talked about it with others (who have also read the books, and one who had seen the movie), the less I feel that way.

Some of the changes were cosmetic. For example, they aged Percy and Annabeth to be about 14-15 years old, not kids just out of sixth grade. This is the type of change of which I am usually most forgiving, unless there is a critical reason to preserve age (as in the case of Harry Potter). They omitted the scene at the St. Louis arch (which really only serves to highlight Percy's abilities as a son of Poseidon, so okay). They added a character to the scene at Auntie Em's Garden Emporium; okay, no big deal. They changed the role of the pearls. Instead of being given to Percy at Santa Monica by a nereid, they have to find them as they cross the country. As they find a pearl, the next location on the map (given to them by Luke) appears. This is kind of hokey, but I guess the cross country trek needed more drama.

There were even things done well. I think Chris Columbus (who directed the first two Potter movies) did a good job with the special effects. I didn't find them incredibly intrusive and the magical creatures (the centaur and satyr) didn't look plasticky and fake. I thought the scene at the Lotus Hotel & Casino was well done. I think the characters related to each other in a way that was true to the book (although there was some romantic sizzle between Percy and Annabeth that simply doesn't exist until later books in the series). And the acting was fine. Logan Lerman and Alexandra Daddario are a fine Percy and Annabeth. Grover, played by Brandon T. Jackson, was an entertaining (if a little bit "jive") Grover. Pierce Brosnan put in a fine turn as the centaur Chiron, trainer of heros. I found Steve Coogan's aging rock star portrayal of Hades to be good, and even Sean Bean turned in a satisfactory performance as Zeus (he was a bit brooding, but not in the movie enough to turn that into a negative).

But with those positives, I found some serious flaws.

1. Total omission of the Kronos storyline

This, by far, is the worst sin. Yes, the active story of the book is Percy's quest to retrieve Zeus's master bolt. But in Riordan's book, the background story is the impending return of the Titan lord, what it means for Olympus, and the prophecy surrounding Percy (Yes, if this sounds a bit like a Harry Potter rip-off it probably is, and I don't really care.). All of this is missing from the movie. No mention of Kronos, no mention of a prophecy. Yes, Luke is correctly identified as the thief, but he becomes a petulant teenager who feels scorned by his Olympian father (Hermes) and wishes the downfall of Olympus in spite, instead of someone manipulated by the Titan. Without the influence of Kronos, it is then easy to cast Hades into the "bad guy" role by making him desire possession of the master bolt so he can overthrow his brothers on Olympus (Zeus and Poseidon) because he feels he got a bum rap when they divided up the world. Not only is this not in the book (in fact, one of the most entertaining scenes in Riordan's book is Hades carrying on about how he doesn't need more spirits in the Land of the Dead because the current influx is causing traffic problems at the gates), it's not even mythologically accurate - I never remember Hades as wanted to overthrow Zeus or being unhappy about being Lord of the Underworld (in fact, I have a hazy memory that he chose that, but I digress).

Without the Kronos storyline, you lose the main purpose of the tale - it's weight, if you will. A co-worker, who initially recommended Riordan's books, called it an "emasculation" of the story. And I have to agree with him. Columbus and screen writer Craig Titley have written an empty-headed teen adventure flick that happens to incorporate some Greek mythology and the plot shell of Riordan's creation. And, without the Kronos story, there is absolutely nothing to hang a sequel on; the movie becomes a stand-alone episode, much like a lot of television shows (although I did look up the box office for "The Lightening Thief" and they failed to recoup their production costs, so I doubt a sequel would be in the making anyway). Nice summer popcorn fare, but not much more.

2. No mention of Thalia or her tree.

The loss here is more explanation of Luke's motives, and why he is susceptible to Kronos (of course they ditched Kronos and made Luke a sullen teenager so it doesn't matter much; that's why it's not my #1 quibble). You also lose a part of Annabeth's story, and her relationship to Luke - but they didn't really explore that either.

3. They save Percy's mom - and take her to Olympus.

Okay, it was all noble of Grover to stay behind, but Percy learns something by not retrieving his mother from the Underworld - he learns commitment to something bigger. Then to top it off, his mother leads them to the Empire State Building to return the bolt to Zeus. Why does a mortal woman know the way to Olympus anyway - even if she can't get there?

4. The final fight with Luke.

This didn't initially bother me, but in retrospect it's just a gratuitous way to put more pressure on the summer solstice deadline. Luke's whole plot was to steal the bolt and give it to Hades to start a war to destroy Olympus. Now he's been found out, he's going to kill Percy and take the bolt for himself? Huh?

5. Zeus's "law" prohibiting contact between Olympians and their demigod children.

This is just a pathetic attempt to excuse Poseidon's absence from Percy's life (and Athena's from Annabeth's life, and Hermes' from Luke's, etc.). These are Greek gods. They don't need excuses. There's plenty of mythological history to explain this.

Bottom line: Rick Riordan's books are entertaining fare (even for me, a 37-year old woman). The movie strips them of what made them entertaining. The movie may be worth a DVD rental, or Netflix, or a $2 viewing at your community pool. It's fine entertainment for a lazy summer night. My daughter took a friend of hers to the movie and she enjoyed it thoroughly.

Then again, she never read the book.

The "me" in "team"

2010-06-23T16:23:00.001-04:00

There is a popular saying that goes "There is no 'I' in team." Maybe not, but there is an "m" and an "e," and together they spell "me," which is just as bad.

For the past two years at her dance studio, my daughter has been part of two "teams"; an advanced gymnastics team and a non-competitive performance team that does community events (shows at senior centers, nursing homes, parades, etc.). This year, she upped her game and made the competitive "team," actually learning a solo and a group routine and taking it on the road to compete against other studios.

It has been a mostly good experience. She's done very well for it being her first year and only being 10 years old. She's grown in skill and confidence, and it showed at her last recital. At 10, she knows who she is, and has a good sense of herself. And that is good.

But you'll notice something. I put the word "team" in quotations marks in the above paragraph. That's because she belongs to a "team" only in the loosest sense of the word. In fact, another mother recently call this "the most dysfunctional team" she's ever known.

And she's right.

Stop for a moment and think. Have you ever been part of a team? If you have, you know teams have rules. You will wear this uniform. You will be at practice. You will be at the game at a certain time. You will stay for the entire game, which includes congratulations at the end (either receiving or giving). You will ride the team bus to remote events (sports games, academic competitions, whatever). If you go someplace and stay overnight, you will stay in the hotel designated by the school or sponsoring organization.

Period. End of story. Don't like it? There's the door. Don't let it hit you on the way out. Because if you can't live with those rules, the team will find someone who can.

None of that exists with my daughter's dance team. Girls showed up at competitions the bare minimum of time before they were scheduled to compete, and left as soon as humanly possible afterwards, in some cases not even staying for awards. One girl's mother yanked her out of the group less than 3 weeks before the recital, and a month and a half before our National competition, necessitating choreography changes in a routine that these girls have been doing since January (fortunately, another girl agreed to step in, so the changes have been minimal).

Girls (and parents) are complaining that they have to rehearse through July to get ready for Nationals. Parents don't want to buy uniform warm-up gear (they have a black and white warm up suit, but it is NOT suitable for July - way too warm).

Our Nationals are being held in Lancaster. One of the moms proposed renting a bus so we all don't have to drive. People didn't want to travel together. They wanted to arrive on their schedule and leave on their schedule. Some asked if they really needed to be present for the entire 4 days.

We were told that the group would be taking a day trip to Hershey Park. Over half the team has not turned in their forms or money. It was due June 1.

We were told that we would all be staying at the same hotel. Half the team has not turned in their hotel reservation sheets. They were due June 1. The resort is now booked, and many of the surrounding hotels are similarly booked. If I have to sleep in my car, I'll be ticked.

Are you sensing a pattern here?

The irony is that many of these same parents have looked at other studios and said, "Gee, they're so together. We should be like that."

Um, that requires a bit more effort on your part than what I'm seeing.

It's sad, in a way. What my daughter should be learning is the benefit of being part of a group of people with a shared goal - working, learning, and growing together. What she's seeing is a group of people who are primarily concerned with "me," and the group comes second. It's about what they want, not about what's best for the group.

The bottom line is that if you want to belong to a team, you have to make sacrifices. Time, treasure or talent - all usually must be contributed. And that means that maybe you have to defer your movie night to go to practice. Maybe your family can't go on vacation this weekend, you have to go next weekend. Maybe you can't sleep in on Saturday, because you have to be at the pool, or the gym, or the dance studio. Whatever.

The bottom line is that you make these sacrifices because you want to be part of the team. And it's not about you, it's about something bigger.

And that's good training for life. I'd really like to not get up at 6:30 in the morning and go to work. But I do it because I want certain things for my family and that requires money. At work, there are things I don't particularly enjoy or like doing. But I do them because it's not about me, it's about what's good for the company or the client.

Life is all about checking your ego at the door. It's about recognizing that the universe does not revolved around you. And all too often, I see parents leading by the wrong example. Why should we be surprised if we are raising self-indulgent children? Children only sometimes learn from our words, but they frequently learn from our actions. If we act only in our own interest, how can we expect them to learn anything different?

Our studio owner, unfortunately, can't say anything any more because she's damned if she does and damned if she doesn't. But I can, and I say this.

If you want to be part of the team, leave your ego behind. Make it about the team, not about you. Be a part of something bigger than yourself. And if you can't handle it, don't join the team.

In other words, "Shut up and dance - or go home."

Reunion Reflection

2010-06-14T14:38:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, I attended my 15-year reunion at St. Bonaventure University in Olean, NY. I was excited. It had been five years since I had been on campus. There were people coming I had not seen in five years, like my first friend at Bona's, Mike. I was going to see Jay, who I have not seen since my wedding day, almost 14 years ago. I was going to see Moritz, who I have not seen since graduation 15 years ago. I was pumped.

The weekend was everything I could have hoped for and more. St. Francis himself must have smiled down, as warm, bright sunshine bathed a verdant campus, instead of the thunderstorms that were in the forecast. Jay, his wife Diane (not a Bona grad) and I took the walking tour led by a personable young man from the student body. Ooohs and aaahs were made.

Campus has both changed and not changed, which I find reassuring. All the buildings are there, comforting in their red-brick solidness, inspiring in the fresh paint and renovations. The massive study tables in the library are still there (oh, the hours I spent there), but the long couches in the back are gone, replaced by a bank of new computers. Plassmann Hall, where I spent countless hours, still houses the arts and humanities departments, but a new Starbucks kiosk lives on the first floor, and the 1950s desk-n-chair combos have been replaced by more group-oriented furniture. De La Roche sports a shiny new annex - and the lion's head fountain in front, which was completely non-functional when I was a student, pours water into a clean basin housing several fish. Butler Gym has been cleaned up, a state-of-the-art fitness center lives next to the Riley Center (complete with climbing-wall), the hallway between Robinson and Falconio halls has been replaced by a brick courtyard, Hickey Dining Hall has been totally renovated, and a lovely little cafe, Cafe La Verna has been added on to the back. Good thing it didn't exist back in the early 90s; I might never have made it to class.

As we walked, we reminisced. The old post office, the first year the Quick Arts Center opened (I was part of the inaugural performance in the Rigas Theater, a student-led production of "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown"). Jay and I marveled at the size of rooms in Dev; we swore they had gotten bigger - or at least cleaner. We wandered down Third Doyle, remembering who had lived where, and what we had done in each room.

Saturday night at dinner, Moritz led me down more lanes of memory. I had forgotten the night she and I had scared the pants off most of the BonaVenture newspaper staff by going into the RC gym and screaming at the top of our lungs (hey, we'd had six consecutive page layout proposals rejected, and it was 2:00 in the morning - we were a little punchy). We remembered the basketball games. Jay swears they all blur together, but I clearly remember the two of us clutching each other in the stands when SBU beat Temple University in double-overtime, the first win over the Owls in over a decade, praying that the Temple players would miss their free throws and preserve our lead.

Friday and Saturday nights Jay, Mike and I did what we'd done for so many nights; we grabbed something to drink and retired to Jay's room to talk. Past, present, and future, it was no-holds-barred. It was wonderful. The years melted away nearly as fast as the night. I stayed up later and consumed more alcohol that weekend than I have in a long time.

And I saw the friars - Fr. Dan Riley, and Fr. Peter Schneible, still wonderful men, who exemplify what it means to be truly caring. Older, perhaps, but reassuring in their brown and white habits, still interested in us and our lives. Fr. Bernie, still toting the 35mm camera on a strap over his shoulder. I have no idea what he took pictures of, but I never saw him without his camera when I was a student. I smiled at the vision.

The weekend was not without its sorrow. We remembered, with a pang of regret, Fr. Dan Hurley, OFM, who passed away in May of this year. Hurls was a part of Bonaventure for so many years. Old when I was a student, it seemed as though he would always be there, even if intellectually I knew he wouldn't be. His gentle presence pervaded the weekend. I learned with great sorrow about the death of Joy Kwasniak, a member of the women's basketball team and a 1995 grad. She had died several years ago of a rare eye cancer. Moritz put it best; Joy's name fit her perfectly. Not one of the best basketball players, and not a top scorer, she was nevertheless a fantastic player who could be counted on to give her all, both on and off the court. As a student reporter on the women's basketball beat, I could count on Joy for a solid interview, regardless of the results on the court.

And as I stood in the University Chapel on Sunday, the place where I had first come to feel God's love in my life, singing a hymn based on Francis's "Canticle," I felt a sharp pang of longing, a twinge of envy for the current student body, and a tear in my eye. Although impossible, for a moment I longed to go back to a simpler time, when my most stressful problem was getting up in time for my 8:00 class.

Standing on the lawn behind Friedsam Memorial Library on Saturday afternoon, the RC on my left, Plassmann on my right, it all flooded back. It seemed like no time at all had passed between the day I was pronounced a daughter of Bonaventure forever, and that moment in the sun. Looking up into the green lushness of Merton's Heart, far up in the mountains, I realized that the "Magic Mountains" really were magic.

Everybody has a place that is a touchstone, a place that left an indelible mark on your soul. The place that cast the mold of your life, and where you go back to touch the foundation, not only to remember what has been, but to dream of what is to come. That is St. Bonaventure.

"Bonaventure," means "good journey," and that is what the University calls our path when we set foot on campus as freshmen. It is a journey that does not end at graduation, but the Bona staff hopes that your "good journey" in college, prepares you for the "good journey" of life.

My "good journey" continues. I do not know where it will take me tomorrow. But it is comforting to know that if I ever feel lost, Bonaventure will be that touchstone, that guide post on the journey, to help set my feet to the path again.

To all current and future Bonaventure grads, I wish you the same. May your "good journey," fill you with joy, peace, and strength.

Pax et Bonum.

Please, Mr. Jobs, may I have an iPhone?

2010-06-04T13:14:00.003-04:00

About 3 months ago, I bought an iPod Touch with this year's bonus money. I didn't need one; I had a very nice Nano that worked just fine. But my daughter wanted to upgrade her Shuffle (which was having trouble holding a charge anyway) to something that did video, and quite frankly, I'm a tech geek. I wanted a cool new toy. The only reason I hadn't bought the Touch years ago (when I bought my Nano - the square one, the first that did video) was price. I didn't have the money at the time. Now I did, especially when Apple gave me the trade-in discount for the semi-functioning Shuffle. So since I can't afford an iPad (and it's a little big to carry in my purse anyway), I got my Touch.

You may ask, why a Touch anyway? Well, a couple reasons. One, they have a bigger storage capacity than the Nano (I've got 32GB), and two, most of the applications in the App store run on the Touch. Really, the Touch is the iPhone, but without the phone part. It has WiFi. It plays games; I've purchased several, and haven't touched my Nintendo DS since I bought the Touch. I set it up to access my Gmail account. I got the Facebook app, a bunch of reader apps (which I wrote about here), a grocery list app, and a couple others. All of which will work on the iPhone, and some on the iPad, if and when I ever get those devices. It has already mostly replaced my laptop at home. Just want to check my Gmail and Facebook? Use the Touch. Want to look up directions? Use the Touch (it even supports printing to my wireless printer from some apps). Want to check on that actor from Babylon 5? IMDb app on the Touch. The only things the laptop gets broken out for is Quicken, my novel writing, and my Comcast email address, which I access through Outlook (and if I could figure out how to set up multiple email accounts on the Touch, I wouldn't do that either).

All of this is why I would really like an iPad. But I digress.

A friend of mine at work, who has an iPhone, said the Touch would quickly make me realize that the touch interface on my phone (a Samsung Omnia running Windows Mobile Pro 6.0) was not as slick. And he was right. It's not that I hate the phone now, but it is definitely more finicky than Apple's touch interface. I have to touch it in exactly the right place, and it's a pressure-based touch, whereas Apple's is electrostatic. And then there's just the quirks of Windows to deal with (For example, every so often my text messages refuse to type. I'm typing, but no letters are showing. The fix is easy; kill the text message "application," restart, and there you go, but still - really?).

I have long thought the iPhone was pretty cool. The one thorn in my side, however, continues to be one simple fact: it only works with AT&T. I do not have AT&T. I have cell service through Verizon, and I'm very happy with it, thankyouverymuch. It doesn't cost an arm and a leg, most of my family has Verizon (meaning it's free to talk to them), and I've always had excellent service, both in terms of signal and customer.

In contrast, I know several folks, including those with iPhones (and who are very happy with their iPhones) who are less than enamored of AT&T. In fact, one guy I know recently ditched his iPhone for a Droid. Did he hate the iPhone? No - he just didn't like the service from AT&T. So my motivation to leave Verizon for AT&T is, well, very low (to put it mildly).

In the grand tradition of tech and Apple, rumors abound about the iPhone coming to Verizon specifically, and a CDMA version coming in general. But according to this report from CNM News Network (which references a story from TheStreet.com), a Verizon executive recently said that a Verizon version of the iPhone was not coming "in the near future." And although there are multiple rumors of Apple contacting manufacturers and a CDMA version available by Christmas, everything I have found also says that Apple's exclusivity deal with AT&T does not expire until 2012, not this summer as I had believed. That kind of squashes my hopes that my next phone will be an iPhone.

Of course, I've also read that Apple is moving away from exclusivity agreements in other countries, so it only makes sense it would do the same in the US. Frankly, I know a lot of people say the type of cell service used by AT&T (as opposed to CDMA) is superior. Okay, well, I don't know about that. I do know that I've never had a reason to complain about coverage, service, or call quality in the 8 years I've been with Verizon.

It will be unfortunate if Verizon still doesn't have the iPhone by next fall (October 2011), which is when I'll be eligible for a new phone. I generally only upgrade every other year because I can't afford the full cost of a new phone. Now, I don't think AT&T or Apple ever offered a discount on the iPhone, so it may not matter; the phone may cost what it costs with no discounts. However, if Verizon decides to apply the "New Every Two" credit to the iPhone, and they don't have one available next October, it will be October 2013 before I can get my hands on one. And that sucks, because I really, REALLY want one. Heck, even my husband wants one and he's not a tech geek.

So if all this is true, and it will indeed be 2013 before there is a CDMA iPhone, if ever, (and I can't believe that Apple would not want access to the millions of Verizon cell customers in the US. Steve Jobs wants to make money, and he would sell an awful lot of iPhones if Verizon suddenly offered that option) I will most likely be looking for a Droid as my next phone. Don't get me wrong; the Droid looks very nice, and I know folks who have them, and who are very happy. But it's not the iPhone.

And for all the rampant speculation, CNM News is correct in saying "Nothing from the Cupertino, California based company exists until Steve Jobs himself says so."

So please, Mr. Jobs, may I have an iPhone?

Crossroads, finale

2010-06-02T16:25:00.002-04:00

For those who have been tracking this saga...

I am staying put. For now. They are looking for an Information Design person, which I am not. Maybe someday they will also be looking for a writer and I can re-evaluate.

In the meantime, the boss and I will touch base at least monthly to address any issues I have.

And I will continue to write my novel.

And I will be content.

At least for now.

Crossroads, part 3

2010-05-27T15:52:00.001-04:00

So I talked to my boss. She gave me more to think about.

Shit. Why can't things be easy?

The fact is that the writing job has changed, and I have some reading to do before I can determine whether I really want to go back, or whether this is a knee-jerk reaction to a stressful situation. Sort of like a child reaching for a favorite stuffed animal after a bad dream, or grabbing a pint of Ben & Jerry's after a bad day.

The good news, perhaps the best news, is that my boss was pretty clear that she would support whatever makes me happy, and not dreading coming to work. The decent news is that she has no doubts about my ability to do the job, and is willing to work with me to help me gain the confidence/skills/knowledge, whatever I think I need should I decide to stay where I am. That support alone is a serious factor to consider. It's not often you get a boss that is that understanding and supportive.

And finally, perhaps the best personal news, is that I have defined who I am. It's similar to a concept my friend Moritz wrote about; defining yourself in terms of what you are, not what you are not. I am a writer. Maybe I'm a little like Superman, playing one role to the world, but my real person is something else. Project manager by day, novelist by night.

I often tell folks that you must choose to be happy. Circumstances may suck, but happiness is always within your grasp.

Why is that always so much easier to believe when you're telling someone else?

Why does life always have to be so damn hard?

Crossroads, Part 2

2010-05-27T11:05:00.000-04:00

Crossroads, Part 2

A few weeks ago, I wrote about being at a crossroads in my career. Do I continue forward, turn left, or turn right. But yesterday, it occurred to me that a crossroads does not contain only three possible directions. There is a fourth - going back the way you came.

For a few months now, I have had the feeling that perhaps I made a mistake when I left my career as a technical writer. Yes, the job had become slightly routine and mundane, but at least I understood it. I knew what I had to do to be successful - and I felt successful. For at least the past two years, I've not felt particular successful at work. As I told a friend of mine, I don't even know what the definition of "success" is anymore, much less if I can meet it.

But the option to go back was not there. We had a technical writer; I hired him. We had a second one at one point, but we had to lay him off, and we weren't hiring that position right now.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, a fellow project manager informed me that person had resigned. A wonderful possibility opened up. Perhaps I could go back. I pondered a bit. I talked to my husband. I talked to the other project manager, and another friend at work. They all agreed that it seemed like a good opportunity, just what I'd been hoping and praying for these past months. They agreed that they could see me being successful at that job, and acknowledged that I'd been so in the past.

So I rolled the dice. I emailed my manager. I want out.

It is amazing how the peace, and calm, and "lightness" of spirit feels when you've made a decision that you've been putting off for a long time, a decision that is "right." Today was the first time in a long time that I drove to work enjoying the bring spring sunshine, instead of dreading my arrival at the office. The first day in a long time where I woke up thinking, "Today is a day of opportunity," instead of "yay, another day of getting my ass chewed."

It feels good.

I do not know what will come of my email. I meet with my boss this afternoon. I am hopeful that she will support me, but ultimately I don't need that support - I can apply directly to HR for the writing position. But she's not just my boss, she's a friend, so I'd rather go with her blessing, so to speak.

Meanwhile, I will enjoy the spiritual "lightness" that comes of knowing what I am professionally. I am a writer, and I am taking steps to get back to that place.

As Bon Jovi said, "Who says you can't go home?"

Finding your inner Gypsy - and feeding her

2010-05-25T15:08:00.003-04:00

If you live in Pittsburgh, and are looking for new places to eat, read on. If you are a foodie, and are interested in reading about good places to eat, read on. If you are neither of those things, well, stop right here because this post will probably bore you to tears.

If you go down to Pittsburgh's South Side, turn off Carson onto 13th St., and turn again onto Bingham St., you will see City Theatre (also a good spot, but a topic for another post). Next door to City Theatre, you will see a quiet, unassuming restaurant called The Gypsy Cafe. Gypsy is owned by a former co-worker of mine, Melanie, and her husband. And if you are looking for a local place with good food and a great atmosphere, well, Gypsy is your place.

Gypsy advertises itself as "offering an eclectic selection of homestyle dishes" and "real food, real people, real entertainment, and real atmosphere." The menu is a selection of pan-European dishes, heavily influenced by the ethnic background of the owners and also a Mediterranean flavor. Sound off-putting to meat-and-potatoes American? Not hardly.

We first went to Gypsy several years ago because a) we had theater tickets and Gypsy was right next door, and b) to support my friend in her culinary career path. We have continued to go back multiple times over the years because yes, it's that good.

First, the atmosphere. I'm not sure what the space was used for before. I know Gypsy's website says it is a reclaimed church. There must have been something requiring glass cases at one point because next to the bar is a case that reminds me of a deli case, tastefully draped in a Mediterranean-style throw. The restaurant is not big; it holds maybe 30 tables that generally seat 2-4, although I have seen them pushed together to accommodate parties of 8-12 people. The decor is the colors of the Med, rich reds, golds, greens, very warm and inviting. There are a number of prints on the walls, including some that look like Greek-inspired icons. It's a very warm, cosy place to eat. Now that it is summer, I noticed one cafe-style table on the sidewalk, although nobody was seated there. They did have the door open, so we got a nice spring breeze, without the crushing cold of over-worked A/C like some places I've been, where you turn into a popsicle before your dinner even arrives.

The wait staff are, without fail, friendly and inviting, willing to share their opinions of the food and to help you select something you will truly enjoy. And if you happen to be there on a night when Melanie is out mingling with the dinner crowd, you get to enjoy her gregarious, friendly banter.

Entertainment varies, but if you like jazz, I highly recommend checking out nights when Don Aliquo and his jazz group are performing. Fantastic. They also have performances by The Gypsy Strings, another local group. I've never done Readings by Rebecca, but if you're into that sort of thing, give it a shot. Gypsy has also participated in the South Side Soup Walk, a tour of soup offerings by South Side restaurants - proceeds benefit charity. They've done special "ghost story" events involving local buildings, and host Dr. Sketchy art events. And if you just want to enjoy a good meal, hey, you can do that too. Something for everyone.

Speaking of the food, well, that's what you go to a restaurant for, right? I've had some great meals - in fact, I've never had a bad one. We went last Sunday with friends of ours, and they agreed the meal was all we promised it would be. My hubby had the Szekaly Gulyas, a Transylvanian stew with Hungarian spices, slow-cooked pork, in a cream sauce over buttered egg noodles. It's one of his favorites. One of our friends had the Spice-dusted Rack of lamb served with roasted red potatoes in a spring pesto sauce. I was torn between the Apricot-Glazed Pork Loin and the Scallion Gnocchi, and eventually settled on the pork. The glaze was perfect, sweet, but not too sweet. After I finished, I found the serrated knife they had given me, but I hadn't needed it; the pork was so tender I cut it with my butter knife.

Gypsy also offers a selection of appetizers. Someday, I swear I am going to try the Saganaki, which is Greek-cheese bread doused with Ouzo, flamed, and then extinguished with fresh-squeezed lemon juice. On Sunday, I went for the Roasted Garlic Hummus with triangles of fresh pita bread. One time, they had a trio of hummus, including one with smoked salmon, which I wasn't sure I'd really like. I would not have called myself a hummus fan, but I like the hummus at Gypsy - it must be prepared right. It actually has flavor, instead of being a bland mush of chickpeas. The smoked salmon hummus that night was my favorite; pity I haven't seen it on the menu since.

While you can order a la cart at Gypsy, my favorite way to order is from the "prix fixe" menu. For $20 you get one appetizer, a house or special salad selection (and the dressings are all lovely, I had the pomegranate vinaigrette on a house salad), and an entrée from the list. But whatever you choose, the menu is fresh and seasonal - and delicious.

So if you and your spouse/significant other/best friend are looking for a truly special, local dining experience, pop on over to the Gypsy Cafe:

1330 Bingham St.

412-381-GYPSY (4977)

http://www.gypsycafe.net/

And tell Melanie "hi."

Writing Experiment - Week 1

2010-05-17T15:56:00.002-04:00

So last week I said I was starting a writing experiment. I'm a week into it and I have to say, it feels good. I usually manage to get about 1,000 words per day down. I'm almost through most of the rough sketch I put down for this story over 10 years ago. Pretty soon I'm going to have to start making up new material. =)

I have no idea where this is going to end. In my pipe dreams, I write this fantastically successful novel, so successful that I can tell my day job to go jump in the river, and stay home to write full time. Realistically, I know that is not likely to occur. I'm sure that for every author who actually manages to get a book published, there are three or four who couldn't sell ice in the desert. And of the handful who manage to get one book published, the number of folks who go on to successful multiple published works is even smaller.

But I've come to the conclusion that publication, while nice, doesn't matter. At least, it's not my primary goal. I have a creative outlet again. I have found over the last week that the thought of"Hey, I've got a great idea for the story - I'm going to go home and write it out," makes the day a little more tolerable. I can go through my mundane corporate day looking forward to something. My work from 8:30 to 5:00 pays the bills. My work from 7:00 to 9:00 (or so) feeds my soul.

So things are good. I hope the momentum continues. I think it will. And if you're a friend looking for a copy to read, let me know. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Let the Writing Commence

2010-05-10T11:32:00.002-04:00

Tonight starts the grand writing group experiment. I need to complete 1,000 words per day on at least 4 days per week (well, there are lower goals, but why not shoot for the top?). I have to post these words for others to read.

I am excited.

I am terrified.

What if I can't get the words written? Worse, what if I do write them, and others day, "This is the worst dreck I've ever read - you call yourself a writer?" Oy vey.

It feels like high school speech time all over again.

I hated high school.

Wish me luck.

What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

2010-04-30T14:44:00.000-04:00

Pose this question to a group of kindergartners, or any elementary-age group, and you'll get a bevy of excited answers. Policeman! Fireman! Astronaut! Movie Star! Rock star! Baseball player! On and on. The enthusiasm - and the optimism - is boundless.

Pose this question to a group of high schoolers, and the response is a bit more subdued, and usually prefaced with, "Well, I'd like to be..." and ends with "..., but I'm not very good at it."

Pose this question to a group of college students and, well, the answer isn't about wants. It's about "going to be's" based on whatever a person's declared major is. Sometimes, you get a shrug of the shoulders. And quite often, the initial answer does not match what actually happens. Take me: I started out thinking I'd be an attorney, gradually decided to be a teacher, and now I'm a project manager at a software company. Say what?

Pose this question to a group of adults, and you'll get anything from a misty-eyed, "If I could do it all over..." to a disgusted "I don't have time for this childish nonsense."

I've asked myself the question frequently lately. And I am not ashamed to say, "I have no clue." But I know it's not what I'm doing now. I mean really, what child says, "Ooo, I want to be a project manager at a software company!" Give me a break. It makes me envious of my children. My soon-to-be-10-year-old daughter has the answer pat: she wants to be a choreographer and costume designer. My soon-to-be-8-year-old son doesn't know, but he still figures he can do anything - including playing professional baseball. :)

The operative part of the question, for me, is when do we "grow up"? Is it chronological, psychological, what?

I think I've found the answer: We've grown up when we cease to dream. It's a terrifying thought, to be stuck in a rut of just getting up, working, eating, and sleeping with no hopes/dreams/aspirations. In fact, I think Dante may have defined that as a special level of hell.

What's even more terrifying is that I think I might be there. I'm frankly unhappy with what I'm doing. As I said yesterday, I see very little chance for real success and, as an achievement-oriented person, I find that more than a little depressing. But at the same time, I've been in one place so long, I find the prospect of change frightening. Where I am might not be enjoyable, but it's safe: I get paid, I get good benefits, and I've been here a long time. So long, in fact, that it's tough for me to imagine what else I can do.

I read somewhere that more and more college students are entering college undeclared and may change majors multiple times. Some have scoffed at this, saying it's just one more sign of the immaturity of the next generation.

But maybe they're actually the smart ones. Maybe they realize the question isn't as easy as it seems. Maybe they realize, subconsciously, that growing up isn't all it's cracked up to be.

So what do I want to be when I grow up? No clue. I don't know if you've answered that question, or if you're happy with your current answer. But if you've got any suggestions, feel free to pass them my way.

And to all the kids out there: Growing up sucks. Don't do it. That's my advice. Stay young - and don't be afraid to dream.

The So-Called "Death of Books"

2010-04-27T11:11:00.003-04:00

Unless you've been living under a rock for oh, about three years now, you're familiar with the concept of an e-reader or e-book. No longer are books simply paper-bound entities, you can buy digital copies of them, and read on an electronic device. While a number of companies have jumped into the fray, such as Sony and Barnes & Noble (the Nook), the two main players in this area seem to be Amazon's Kindle (and by extension the Kindle app for iPhone/iPod Touch/iPad), and Apple's newly released iPad - although to simply call the iPad an "e-reader" is a bit misleading because it is actually much more than that, but I digress and this is not a discussion about the iPad, so back off.

The primary draw of these devices seems to be - at least to me - portability. Imagine going on a two-week trip, and wanting reading material. Now imagine wanting to take 10 of your favorite books, as well as periodicals, with you. That's a lot of luggage space - unless you have a device that is less than and inch think, is about the size of an 8.5x11 piece of paper (or less), and weighs slightly more than a pound. Tempting, huh?

You would think that making books, newspapers, and magazines more accessible would be a good thing, but there appear to be two major camps: one thinks this is the greatest thing since movable type, and the other moans, "It's the death of books! I love my shelves and the feel of paper! I shall never use a digital reader, they are the evil spawn of Satan!" (Okay, that last bit might be hyperbole, but you get the idea.)

For myself, I was kind of skeptical of these digital reading devices. Were they really as easy on the eyes as books? Can I sit for hours reading without getting a headache? Portable they might be, but could I actually use it? I was unwilling to spend $300 dollars or so to find out. Then I bought an iPod Touch. Then a co-worker showed me all the e-reader apps in the App store - not just the Kindle app (which was free), but several that came pre-loaded with a fairly large selection of classics, books like A Christmas Carol and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland that are in the public domain and could be purchased for the low, low price of 99 cents - or in several cases were free. Free being free, well, I was in. After all, I could always delete the app if it sucked, right?

Oh... my... goodness.

In less than an hour, I had downloaded no fewer than five e-reader apps, including the Kindle app, Stanza, eReader, at least four classics collections, and a collection of the most important historical documents in history (the Constitution, the Gettysburg Address, the Magna Carta). I flicked open each app to test read. I was entranced - childishly thrilled with the "page turn" effect of the Classics app and it's virtual bookshelf (it even "bookmarks" your page when you close the book - hee, hee!). Almost instantly, I had close to 90 literature classics in my pocket, available for my reading pleasure at a moment's notice. It was a bibliophile's dream come true.

I downloaded Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief from the Kindle store. I read it for hours. No problem. The first three books from that series joined my collection in rapid succession.

A friend recommended the Harry Dresden series. Poof! Downloaded to Stanza.

If you're keeping count, that's almost 100 books. All on a device that weighs maybe 4 ounces and is only slightly bigger in dimension than a pack of cards. No more paging through trashy, outdated magazines in the doctor's office. No more wishing I had a bigger purse to carry around my current book. Cost? Oh, about $15-$20 at this point (the cost of the Kindle edition of books being much lower than their physical paper counterparts).

Okay, ability to carry lots of books - check. Actually able to read on it - check (and recall this is my little iPod touch screen, 2"x3" - I'd imagine the bigger screen of the Kindle or the iPad would only be better). What about ease of use?

I walked into Bruegger's bagel, ordered a chai latte, plopped myself down in a comfy chair, and started reading. It was actually easier than a book because I could turn a page by tapping the screen with my thumb, leaving my other hand free to hold my latte. It might have been the most enjoyable 30 minutes of waiting I've ever spent.

Could I read to my kids with it? An hour with my son proved I could.

Oh no! the bibliophiles scream. But what about books?

Keep your hoity-toity pants on. All this is not to say that I'll be getting rid of all my books. For starters, I have too many of them. Second, there is something very soothing to my soul to see shelves of quality hardback books. And there are some books I simply want to have in physical form - my complete Jane Austen, my complete works of Shakespeare, the Harry Potter series. Old books that have fallen out of print and aren't available digitally. But throwaway paperbacks? I might as well get the digital copy.

Gutenberg had a pretty good run - how many hundreds of years ago did it take to even start to displace the printing press? Further, I argue that digital books to not displace anything - they augment. I was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to read on a portable, digital device. And I can see it's use. A friend of mine is an avid reader of the NY Times. The week after he bought his iPad, the physical paper lay untouched - he read the entire thing online. Easier to carry around, easier to navigate, no black fingers from newsprint - no expensive subscription.

Anything that brings reading to a wider audience - that makes it easier to read - can only be a good thing, in my humble opinion. After all, does the soul of a book lie it the physical paper and binding, or is it in the words that are read? Anna Quindlen explored this topic in a recent Newsweek article. Is Shakespeare any less relevant in digital print? I think not.

The true soul of a story - whether a fiction novel or a factual biography/news story - is in the words of the writer, the emotions they evoke, the actions they prompt. If you read a story about the environmental damage of throwing away plastic bottles on the New York Times website, and it prompts you to reuse/recycle, is that story any less powerful because the media was digital? Um, no. If you read "Romeo and Juliet" on an e-reader, are Shakespeare's words any less true and vibrant, is the point any less relevant? Hardly. The words and intent are what is important, not the delivery mechanism.

And just as Beethoven's 9th is no less powerful because I have it digitally on my iPod, the words of Keats or Shelley are no less powerful because they are in digital form. Tell a good story, it matters not how people read it. Tell a crappy story and all the fine paper, fancy illustrations, and fine binding in the world won't make a difference. Just look at Moby Dick. =)

I can also see where digital media would be a boon to aspiring writers. After all, what is the biggest barrier to getting published (okay, after you finish the story)? Convincing some big publishing house that your work is worth the not insignificant cost of printing, binding, shipping, and storing a book. That manufacturing/storage cost is not to be scoffed at. Why can Apple offer songs for 99 cents on iTunes? Because they have almost no overhead - no CDs to burn, liner notes to print, cases to manufacture, or inventory to store. It's all ephemeral bits and bytes. Now imagine some enterprising soul starting a company to do digital publishing for up-and-coming writers. You pay a nominal fee to upload your story/novel/whatever, and folks can download it for a small fee. Will you be a blockbuster author like Tom Clancy? Maybe not, but you'll have the satisfaction of pushing your story out for people to read. And who knows, if you have enough success, maybe you can convince Simon & Schuster, or Knopf, or Houghton/Mifflin that you're worth the investment.

So to all you outraged bibliophiles I say this: relax. Books are not dead. They live on in the hearts of readers everywhere, on bookshelves and libraries across the planet.

And on my iPod.

Crossroads

2010-04-16T11:49:00.000-04:00

Crossroads

There is a song lyric (which song, I cannot now remember) that says, "I'm at a crossroads in my life, and I really don't know which way to go."

Brother, am I.

I don't believe in the phrase "mid-life crisis." I do believe, however, that you are happiest when your life is in balance, like an equilateral triangle: personally, professionally, and spiritually. And when one of the sides of that triangle becomes imbalanced, you experience "crisis." Sometimes this is once during your life, sometimes multiple times. You may be 15, 20, 25, or 50 - not yet a quarter through your time on this Earth, or more than halfway. It does not happen at a specific time, nor at a specific frequency. But when it does happen, you feel it in your very bones. It permeates your existence. You feel like you are walking up a steep hill in uneven shoes.

Brother, do I.

I have been blessed to have almost 12 years working in a place where I felt balanced. In the tech sector, 12 years is forever. But as I look around my cubicle today, I am dissatisfied, disjointed. Off balance. I no longer find meaningful fulfillment in what I do. I feel as though I no longer should be here.

Problem is, I don't know where I should be either.

"Life is too short to be miserable at work." I saw that somewhere recently. The sad fact of life is, however, that while love may make the world go around it doesn't pay the mortgage - or the electric bill, or buy groceries. But does that mean I must labor joylessly? God I hope not. My father labored for 19 years at a soul-sucking job, and it nearly destroyed his marriage. I would like to not let it get so dire.

This is not to say I hate work. The Catholic Church defines meaningful labor as essential to healthy spirituality. Perhaps my problem is that I no longer find my labor "meaningful." And I spend too much time at my labor for that. If I exclude the hours I sleep, I spend more time at "work" than anywhere else (even including traffic, although it doesn't feel that way as I slog down Route 28 every day, but I digress). At 36, I'm too young to feel that way.

My day started with the latest entry in my Moritz's blog in my Inbox, a blog in which she writes, "One of the most powerful and profound phrases you can utter to yourself is 'I am.'" I am a mother, I am a wife, I am a friend, I am a writer. But for 8 hours a day, give or take, I am none of those things - and I don't know what I am.

As I flipped on my iPod to take solace in music, I went to an album I haven't listened to in a while, Mary Chapin Carpenter's, "Come On, come On." First song: "Show a little passion, baby. Show a little spark. Everything we've got, we got the hard way."

And as I look to my right, I see my plaque purchased years ago in college: Opportunity always involves some risk. You can't steal second base and keep your foot on first.

True words all of them. The trick now is to find my passion, invest the work, and take the risk. Question is, do I have the guts to do it?

Brother, I hope so.

Claiming Your Space

2010-04-11T19:07:00.004-04:00

"I don't know why I'm not popular, I'm just not."

That was the plight of my daughter, 9, this morning as I readied myself for church. I would not call it a plaintive cry for pity, it was just a statement of fact: she is not the popular girl in her class. Her friend, Meredith, is the popular girl. Ultimately, she is okay with not being popular - it just puzzles her.

I explained that I was not a popular kid when I was in school. The 12 years of my pre-college education were, to put it lightly, socially trying. There seemed to always be someone to remind me that I wasn't cool enough, didn't do the right things, didn't wear the right clothes, and did say the right things to be in the "in" crowd. I vividly remember the very first day of 7th grade, when two of the so-called "popular" girls informed me that I very definitely was not cool, and, if they had anything to do with it, I never would be. They were right - I wasn't. Oh, the social snubbing got less vitriolic as the years progressed, but it wasn't until college than I could count more than a few people in my social circle. See, by college, I figured out that clothes do not necessarily make the woman - and there were plenty of people who thought that way (many of them hadn't been the "cool kids" in high school either).

And truth be told, I am still not one of the "cool kids." I'm considered reliable, but reliability and popularity are not the same thing. I am still the one that is kind of on the fringe, no matter where I am. Not quite as fringe as high school, but still. Of course, at 37, I'm not really interested in proving myself "worthy," you either like me or you don't.

That's a hard concept for a 9-year old. Of course, her level of popularity changes depending on the group. At school, yeah, she may not be popular. The most recent "problem" is that most of the kids in her class like to play football at recess. My child does not play football. It's not that she can't - she can throw a football as well as the next kid - it's that she does not want to play football. She is a dancer and a gymnast. The other kids call her "wussy" and "girly" because she will not play football. Wussy she is not - girly, yeah, maybe. But perception in the dance studio is different. She has a lot of friends, especially among the older girls. Younger ones look up to her.

The best I could do for her this morning is to reassure her that I new what she was going through and tell her she had to "claim her space." She is most emphatic that she doesn't want to be a follower, and that is good. But it is the harder path - and no one is going to give her a "space." She's got to find it herself. I can support her, but I cannot find it for her. No one can.

We all must find - and claim - our own space. Not necessarily physical space, but the thing that helps us define ourselves. We shrink from it, or downplay it, at our own peril. A couple weeks ago, I quoted Marianne Williamson (via my friend Moritz) and I quote it again here: "You're playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you... as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same."

As human beings, we like to classify people, to put them in boxes: the cool kids, the jocks, the geeks, the nerds, the dorks. But when you claim your space, you give yourself permission to live outside of other people's labels. To build a buffer that says, "You may want to stick me in another space of your choosing. But I choose this space, and this space gives me the freedom to thrive despite your label." It doesn't stop the label, but it allows you to understand that the label is not the end. It is someone else's feeble attempt to keep you down. Claiming your space makes less possible for others to make that label meaningful.

Ironically, I find myself at a point where I must again claim my space. At my son's First Communion retreat, I found myself talking with a friend who said he read my entry "The Cake is a Lie." I am always surprised that people would read what I write - in my mind, what I write is just not that interesting. He is a writer - he has written three books. Not published, but still, that's three more than I've written. I told him about my half-started attempt at a mystery novel and he offered to hook me up with a writing group that helped him find motivation. After a moment, and with the prompting of my spouse, I said sure. After all, I did say I wanted to write.

Nervous? Of course. Heck, I just said I didn't understand why people would read what I write. But that's what claiming your space means. In the end, it doesn't matter what others think or if I never publish a book. I am claiming my space as a writer. If I truly mean to claim it, I will join the ranks of those few (relatively speaking) who have not just talked about writing a book, but done it. The decision alone feels pretty good.

Tired of living according to public opinion? Find your space - and claim it.

Somebody's Hero

2010-04-07T13:21:00.002-04:00

A few years ago, country singer Jamie O'Neal released a song called "Some Body's Hero." It tells the story of a mother and a daughter, and how the mother is "hero" to her daughter as a young child, and later as a young woman, but eventually the daughter becomes a "hero" to her elderly mother living in a nursing home. It is a little sappy, but it makes me think of the relationship with my own mother, and my relationship with my daughter.

As a young girl, I didn't like my mother very much. Oh, I loved her, but I didn't like her. I felt that she was harder on me, the eldest, overly critical, and not very understanding of what it was like to be young. Typical pre-teen and teen angst. I still remember the one and only time she slapped me in public and in the face. I said she couldn't possibly be my real mother, because my real mother wouldn't be so mean to me (she wouldn't buy me a chocolate bar). One of those times when the brain is frantically trying to shut off the mouth because it knows this will not end well, and fails miserably.

It wasn't until she was diagnosed with breast cancer, when I was 14, that the relationship changed. I still vividly recall Mom telling me that she was going to die, and she was looking to me to raise my brothers and sister. That conversation simultaneously encouraged and terrified me. Encouraged because it was good to hear that my mother trusted me with her most precious possessions, her children. Terrifying because I was 14 and hey, what did I know about child rearing anyway? Fortunately, Mom didn't die then, and by the time she did pass away, we were all grown - and I had kids of my own to deal with.

Early on, I vowed I would no do some of the things my mother did to me to my daughter. To a large extent, I haven't. The result is a big difference in our relationship: my daughter actually likes me. I know she loves me, but she likes who I am, she regards me as a friend. She knows that above all I am her mother, and I will (and do) frequently tell her things she doesn't want to hear, but she likes me too. She likes spending time with me - going to the mall, reading a book, working in the yard, or even just sitting on my lap in a chair on the front porch while we watch the world go by (although she really is getting too big for the lap - we may have to move to the love seat).

This culminated in the receipt of a poem recently in my email (I got her a Gmail address so she can write to a pen pal). I ignored the lack of poetic form and spotty grammar; after all, it's the thought that counts:

hey mom you rock

you always were there for me

you always cuddled with me

and there fore your great!

As you go through life, you will meet many people. Some you will like, many you won't. The vast majority will want something from you, or be irrationally demanding, or even hostile. Some may call you a "hero" for a big accomplishment at work, or doing something that needs to be done when no one else will. But in the end, this is a hollow heroism - a heroism of the moment, brief, fleeting, and easily supplanted by being called a "goat" when something goes wrong.

If you want to see heroism, look around the dinner table at night - at little faces who want nothing more from you than a hug, a kiss, or a cuddle. Nothing more than to know that at that exact moment, they have your attention, your love, and your friendship.

The angst of the teen years beckons - I can see it coming. But I take comfort in the fact that for one shining moment in time, I really am some body's hero.

The Cake is a Lie

2010-03-27T08:47:00.002-04:00

Over Christmas (yes, 3 months ago), I had the opportunity to talk to my oldest friend - oldest in the sense that she and I have been friends since 6th grade (over 20 years), not in the sense that she is old. She had her first baby last September - a very darling girl, whom I hope to see before she graduates from high school. Anyway, my friend and I were both raised in a very feminist environment: You can have it all - job, family, whatever. But as we've both struggled through our professional lives and walked the precarious work-home tight rope, we've realized something:

The cake is a lie.

Despite how far women have come, let's face it: An assertive woman is often not rewarded in the work place. Heck, I'm not so sure men are either (although they have it easier in my experience). Growing up, I was told that if I worked hard, was conscientious, dedicated, and went above the call of duty I'd be rewarded.

Bull.

If the past couple years have taught me anything, they've taught me that the opposite is true. I gave my employer, whom I have worked for since 1998 (almost 12 years) everything I have between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00 - and sometimes beyond. There was a time that dedication mattered: I was one of 3 employees to receive a very generous cash award when our CEO sold his controlling share interest to a private investment firm.

Now, I'm not so sure.

Lately, I find myself repeatedly slapped - both for going beyond my zone into the "white space," and for not doing so. I can't do anything right. I'm too assertive, I'm not assertive enough. I have let basic responsibilities lapse - despite the fact that a year ago I repeatedly told my boss that I was overtaxed and no longer had the capacity to do all these things. I was letting the "small stuff" slide just to keep the engine running. She was okay with that - right up to my annual review, and then bam! Uh...

The past year, and the past 3-6 months in particular have made me realize something: This is a job. It is not my passion. It's a decent employer, a good wage, awesome benefits and I work with some fantastic people. But it's just a job. A recent email from my alma mater asked me to share "how I was living my passion."

Well, it's not in the workplace.

An email from a guy I've never met in real life, as to whether he was too young for a mid-life crisis, kept me thinking. What is my passion? What is the thing I would love to do - that would really make me excited? And I thought of two things: writing and teaching.

I love to write (the infrequency of this blog notwithstanding). I was good at it in college. I had fun. But I'm not sure at the age of 37 (close enough) I want to do the "cub reporter" bit. And I don't want the pressure of a daily newspaper deadline. I want to be creative, I want to write things that people want to read because it makes them think, maybe the occasional movie or restaurant review.

Teaching, well, that's what I trained to do, way back when. I was going to be a high-school English teacher. But I couldn't get a job in the mid-90s and the loans needed to be paid. Now, I realize I don't want to teach some snot-nosed teenager who is only in class because the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania tells him he needs to be there. Nor do I want to teach some snot-nosed young adult who is only in class to meet an elective requirement of his college. I want to teach people who want to learn - who are interested in what I have to tell them. I adore explaining things to my kids. I had a wonderful evening recently explaining WWII and the rise of the Soviet Union to my kids at the dinner table, using condiment bottles as props. I've explained the solar system using a globe, a tennis ball, and a can of Coke. Why did I enjoy it? Because they wanted to learn, they hung on my every word. I could almost see their little sponge-like minds soaking it all up, and it was fabulous. Literature, theology, natural science, it matters not what I teach - I just like to teach. I'm not an expert on all these things (well, I do have both a Bachelor's and Master's degree in Literature), but I know a lot, and what I don't know I can learn right along with my students.

The problem is, I have no idea how to go about acting on these desires. Because I do have kids, a mortgage, car payments, private school tuition, dance, tae-kwon-do, and thus the need for a regular income with benefits. So I teach my kids and putter on this blog (hoping that someone reads it and likes it). But oh, to find a way to make real money off of that would be so liberating.

In the meantime, I think am living my passion. It's at home. It's in the faces of a boy and a girl who think I'm the cat's pajamas - and a husband who thinks I'm pretty cool too. My passion is not some soul-sucking corporate job. I have the soul-sucking corporate job to pay for my passion - because while love may make the world go around, money sure is more convenient for the purposes of paying the bills.

I've been watching past seasons of "House, M.D." courtesy of a co-worker, and one recent episode hit me. In that episode, a young woman who is the assistant of a high-powered female right attorney gets ill, and she has a conversation with House's young female doctor assistant, 13. And the exchange goes something like this:

13: But that's feminism. You can have anything you want.

Patient: Just wanting it doesn't mean I can have it. I can aspire to anything, but I can't necessarily have it.

Yeah. I can have it all. To paraphrase a former president, it depends on what your definition of "all" is.

Words for Thought

2010-03-14T19:17:00.007-04:00

Every once in a while, you read something that captures your mind and makes you think. Well, at least I do. If you don't, I'm very sorry for you because it means either a) you don't read or b) what you're reading doesn't affect you in the slightest. Which is really a bit sad because, well, reading should make you think - at least occasionally.

Anyway, I recently started following a blog written by a college friend of mine - Byline to Finish Line. Moritz and I were co-editors of the sports section at the St. Bonaventure student newspaper - the BV. In the fall of 1993 I was her assistant editor; when I became section editor in the spring of 1994, she remained as a "consultant" (they called it something else, but whatever). We had a lot of fun together, many sleepless nights of trying to fit copy on a page, and come up with catchy headlines (Hey Moritz, remember, "It's all about soul!"). Like so many people I went to Bona's with, I didn't hear from her for ages, until I found her one day on Facebook. And then I started reading her blog, and then I subscribed to regular updates. Because it's good and Moritz is a good writer. She blogs about two main points: her updates with ultra running and triathlons, and women's issues in sports. The latter really doesn't surprise me, but I find the first two fascinating. One because "triathlete" would not have been a term I'd have used to describe Moritz in college (sorry), and she really seems to have immersed herself in it. Second, I'm about as athletic as a tree stump and can't imagine running a city block, so I find anyone who really digs that stuff fascinating.

And while I have enjoyed all of her posts, there have been three recently that really caught my attention.

Using My Power

This seemed at first just a post about swimming - until the end:

"It made me wonder where else in my life I was failing to utilize my power. It’s not about a lack of heart or effort or desire. It’s not even about working on weaknesses so much. In fact, thinking about your weaknesses only reinforces the negative in a way. Instead, where am I not drawing out all my positives? Where am I stopping short, not using all the power I already have?

In swimming, it’s about finishing the stroke and utilizing all of the power that comes from pushing the water behind me.

In life, it’s about seeing all the positives, all the strength, I already have. It’s about owning that, letting it shine, and letting that carry me forward. We are stronger than we think we are, and when we realize that, our true power takes us right to the places we want to be."

How incredibly true. Think about it. How often does someone encourage you to focus on your strengths? I'm willing to be it's not often. In school, we're pushed to work hard on the things where you don't excel. For me it was math. I kicked butt at history, English, even science (as long as there was no math involved). Ask me to do something more complicated than 2 + 2 and I was toast. And the hours I spent working on my math skills really didn't help. My brain just didn't work that way. And in the end, it didn't matter. Because in the adult world, you don't have to calculate a sine or cosine or standard deviation by hand. That's what calculators and Microsoft Excel are for, right?

Imagine if I had spent all those hours struggling with math enhancing and extending my writing skills instead. Maybe, instead of being a frustrated project manager and blogger, I'd be a writer like Moritz. But while I was "good enough" for high school and college, I spent so much energy focused on math that I never took writing to "exceptional." My daughter has the same problem. She is very good with liberal arts. Not so good on the math. Fortunately, her teacher seems to know what mine didn't: She doesn't have to be an "A" math student. She needs enough to be able to know when she's been cheated in her change at the grocery store, and to know her basic math facts. Heck, even Quicken balances your checkbook these days. Instead, her teacher is trying to get her to use her power: her creativity, her imagination, her generosity, her verbal skills.

Focusing on your failings holds you back. Use your power and it will carry you forward to greater things.

Playing Big with My Tribe

If you are in touch with anything, you know humans are social animals. The news is full of stories of children who are kept from social contact throughout their formative years, and who, therefore, are not functional members of society. This article, like the others, started deceptively "newsy," until the bottom:

Sometimes we are so concerned about not upsetting others, that we forget to live our own truth, live our own authenticity. As author Marianne Williamson wrote, “Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened abut shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. …. as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.”

The world does not generally look favorably on those who "toot their own horn." Pride is, after all, one of the seven deadly sins. And it may be worse for girls and women, who still battle a social concept that a "good girl" doesn't push herself forward. But there is a difference between hubris and knowing your own worth. Hubris puts you above others. Knowing your own worth puts you on equal footing. This concept plays along with using your power: If you are constantly pushing yourself to the background, you deny yourself the opportunity to lift another. If you deny your own power, how can you be powerful enough to give your neighbor a leg up?

Pride may goeth before a fall and it may well be a "deadly sin." But to constantly put yourself down and push yourself into a corner is a form of pride - and one I believe God finds more abhorrent than the former. As the saying goes, "God doesn't make junk" - so if you find yourself tempted to play small, remember that and play big instead.

Celebrating Strengths of All Kinds

This one hit me - kind of hard, actually. Written on International Women's Day, it made me think not just about my own life, but my daughter who is 9 and just beginning to realize her own power. In it, Moritz writes "Athletics breeds strength... It also breeds emotional strength. It develops an inner confidence. It makes you strong and humble at the same time. It allows you to see who you are, what you want, and gives you the focus and the support system to create your own authentic life."

True words. I was not an athlete - I am not an athlete. I spent most, if not all, of my school-age life lacking confidence. I was an awkward adolescent. I never fit in. I never really felt "good enough" - not until I got to college and found people who would empower me, instead of putting me down. Seventeen years wasted where I could have been more.

How different from my daughter. She is a dancer and a gymnast. She started doing competition dance this year: so far she has a second-place medal and a first-place trophy under her belt. She is supremely confident in her abilities on the dance floor - and it carries her forward. Where other children seize up reading or speaking in public, my child doesn't. Read this passage at Mass? No problem. I've danced in front of 200 people. Answer a question? Sure, no sweat. Older girls at school giving her grief? Who cares, I can dance - I have lots of friends who know I'm a good dancer and a good person. This is not to say that she is boastful or doesn't have moments of insecurity. But oh, how I envy her the confidence that dance has given her. The physical confidence and strength to do a back walkover or a back handspring (her latest goal), and the emotional confidence to step out on the stage and say, "Here I am world. Take it or leave it; it's the best I've got." When she started dance competition I told her she'd already done more than I ever had the guts to do, just by saying, "I'll give it a shot." She's hit the tri-fecta: using her power, playing big, and celebrating her strength. God bless her for it.

So there you have it. Moritz will continue writing, I'll continue ready, and who knows what will be the next thing that makes me go "hmm." If you've read this far, maybe I've done the same for you. If so, my work here is done. If not, go read something, keep your mind open, and you just might find yourself saying, "hmm."

Down the Rabbit Hole

2010-03-06T08:23:00.002-05:00

(Wow, has it really been a year?)

Ever since Disney announced they would be releasing a Tim Burton-directed version of "Alice in Wonderland" with Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter, my 9-year-old daughter begged to go. On opening night. With a stop at Hot Topic to buy movie gear beforehand. I was able to squash a midnight showing, explaining that "midnight on Friday" actually meant really early and not only did she have to go to school on Friday, I had to work. Me, I was less enthusiastic about this movie, although I do like Johnny Depp. But since her younger brother would be at a Cub Scout sleepover, I promised we could go. And go we did. She wanted to see it in 3D, but the 7:00 show was already sold out when we arrived, so we settled for 2D (since neither she nor I really wanted to wait for the next 3D show at 10:00 pm).

Now, if you've been living down a rabbit hole and not heard of this movie, here's the gist: it's not a remake of the Disney animated version. The movie opens up with a 6-year old Alice telling her father about a nightmare she had about falling down a hole and meeting all sorts of weird creatures, some of whom weren't very nice. Flash forward 13 years. Alice, now 19, is on her way to a garden party hosted by a young lord (who looks as icky and priggish as he is) with her mother. Her father is dead. In typical spunky Alice fashion, she refuses to wear a corset or stockings, at which her exasperated mother says, "But it's accepted." Alice responds, "If it was accepted to wear a codfish on your head, would you do that to?" It's a nice reverse of roles (okay, how many parents have used the old "If everyone jumped off a bridge" line with your kids?).

Once arriving at the party, Alice learns that Hamish (the priggish young lord) intends to propose, with about 100 party guests looking on, and she is less than thrilled. Fortunately, she spies a rabbit, follows him, falls down a hole, and thus adventure begins.

Turns out, this is not her first trip to Underland. The White Rabbit was sent to lure her back. In the years since her first visit (at six) the Red Queen (deliciously portrayed with a hydrocephalic CGI head by Helena Bonham-Carter) has usurped the throne of her younger sister, the White Queen (a dreamy, more delicate creature than her sister and played by the charming Anne Hathaway) and brought terror to Underland through use of the Bandersnatch, Jub-Jub Bird, and the Jabberwocky. (Okay, note here: If you're thinking Burton has made all these things up, he hasn't. The original Disney cartoon was actually a mashup of two Lewis Carroll books, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and Through the Looking Glass. All these characters are from those books, notably Through the Looking Glass, if my memory serves. And I can't put my hand on my copy right now, but I do believe Carroll calls the place "Underland" and it is Alice who dubs it "Wonderland" so don't go accusing Burton of distorting the story.)

Once there, she meets most of the familiar characters, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, the Dormouse, all of whom seem to think she's the "wrong Alice." So they take her to the Caterpillar (voice by the wonderful Alan Rickman) who dubs her "not hardly Alice." Eventually, she goes off to tea, and is rescued from the pursuing forces of the Red Queen by the Mad Hatter, who explains that it is crucial that Alice face the Jabberwocky (voiced by Christopher Lee, who unfortunately only gets about a dozen lines) on Frabjous Day. And the adventure really begins.

(Another note: It was Disney who introduced the notion of the Queen of Hearts. Carroll always had the Red Queen and the White Queen.)

Earlier on Friday, I got a text message from a friend saying the reviews had not been very good (really, I only listen to Roger Ebert) and the movie was "dark, twisted, and not for kids." Um, okay folks, this is Tim Burton. If you're looking for sweetness and light, you've got the wrong director. Even Ebert gave it 3 stars, only decrying the inevitable battle scene (which, honestly, I didn't have a problem with - it was clear from Alice's first meeting with the Hatter that some sort of battle was brewing).

However, I'm not sure the critics are on the mark here. Yes, this is not Disney's animated Wonderland. The colors are certainly lush, and the CGI is not irritatingly overpowering. Burton's storyline (which actually extends the Alice story) is logical - here is a young woman looking for what she wants. There is a lot of oddity and strange-looking creatures (flowers with faces anyone?), but I would call Burton's version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory darker and more twisted than Alice.

Not for kids? Well, if your child is easily spooked by loud noises, or fantastical (and yes, somewhat grotesque) visuals, then don't take him or her. Depp's Mad Hatter alone is pretty outlandish looking. But the movie is rated PG and I think that's appropriate. There's the battle scene, some fantasy disgust (for example, a scene where the White Queen brews a potion to get Alice back to normal size and uses "buttered fingers"), but no sexual innuendo and no profanity. So really, the only "objectionable" content for children is the fact that Burton has not remade Disney's cartoon and it is slightly twisted. The effect is not quite that of watching a cartoon on LSD, but you know for sure and for certain that this isn't your mother's "Alice in Wonderland."

And here's the thing: Wonderland isn't cute and harmless. Read the book. Tenniel's illustrations are slightly alarming. Carroll's book is not sugary children's fare. Just as those who bemoaned Burton's "Charlie" as "betraying the original Gene Wilder version (which I love, don't get me wrong), Roald Dahl's books were closer to Depp's portrayal of Willie Wonka than Wilder's. The same applies here. Wonderland (or Underland) is supposed to be distorted. It's fantasy, but not a candy-coated one. I've read the Alice books three times: once in high school, once as an undergraduate, and once for a Children's Literature class in graduate school. At no time did I think these were light-hearted affairs suitable for a five-year-old. They are, on a certain level, very disturbing.

There is this notion, perhaps born out of the 50's but that has certainly persisted to today, that a "children's" movie must be cute and happy. I've heard many criticisms of Pixar's "Up!" that say the movie is too sad. But that's life. Life is happy, and sad, and violent, and dangerous, and joyful, and wonderful all mixed together. It is sweet and bitter. A great movies show that. Great children's movies show that in an age-appropriate manner.

The Alice in Burton's movie is a young woman who isn't happy with the role Victorian England has assigned her: marry young to a lord, produce children, and spend your days at teas and garden parties. "What do I want?" and "Who am I?" are the predominant questions here. It's even something that the Caterpillar asks repeatedly, "Who are you?" Alice keeps saying "I'm Alice Kingsley." But that's not the question. "Who are you?" does not mean "What is your name?" The Caterpillar's question is more profound: Who are you and what do you want to be? It's a question that plagues us all, and we are lucky to be able to answer it before we die.

Happily, I think Alice does answer the question. She finds out "who are you" in a way that satisfies her. The last time we see the Caterpillar, he is building his cocoon and says he's going away. "Are you dying?" asks Alice. "No," he replies, "perhaps I will see you in another life." A deep question. But one essential to the human story.

Is Burton's "Alice" children's fare? Perhaps not, in that a child of 9 will hardly appreciate the profoundness of the question. Will children enjoy it? I think so - it is a visually stunning film with plenty to capture the imagination. Should you take your child? Can't say: how sensitive is your child to fantasy violence and visual oddity? As a parent, I don't find the behavior of the characters or their language objectionable (well, nobody wants to imitate the Red Queen, but the movie doesn't exactly try to make her a heroine - the "off with their head" line is alive and well).

"Perhaps I will see you in another life."

Who are you?

New Year's Reflections

2009-01-01T09:47:00.002-05:00

2009 arrived with a bang and a splat in our house. The bang was from someone in the neighborhood setting off fireworks. The splat was from The Girl throwing up a 2:00 a.m. (she had emptied her stomach twice earlier in the evening - no fever, just vomit). The fireworks are over, and I think the vomiting might be too (although I'm keeping her on Coke and dry toast until I'm sure this time - she's not happy with me).

But now that the noise and mess is over, here are some reflections as we start 2009.

Resolutions - Two of them
Yes, I know resolutions are passe, but I think I can keep these.

#1 - Use the F-bomb less
My co-workers should have a good laugh at this one.

Every year for Lent (you know, that period before Easter where everybody thinks Catholics are wallowing in guilt, but is really about getting rid of the things that keep you from God) I give up swearing. And I do it. It hasn't even been particularly hard the last couple years - probably a sign that I should give up something else this year, but I digress.

Every year after Lent, the swearing returns. Full force. And the frequency with which I drop the f-bomb has gotten embarrassing. I'm an educated woman for crying out loud. I have no problem keeping it "G" at home or around my kids, but at work? Well...

Now, I have a friend who does not think this is a problem. I'm not really offending anyone. Except me. I have another friend, an ordained deacon in the Orthodox church, who also doesn't necessarily think this is a problem. There are good times for such language.

Unfortunately, my "good time" seems to be "all the time." Not good - at least not for me.

Thus my resolution. Note that it is not to give up swearing completely, nor to give up the f-bomb completely. Just cut back. Reserve it for the most appropriate situations. I think this is achievable.

#2 - Exercise More
One of the most popular resolutions and one most often failed.

Again, I'm not looking for miracles here. Continuing balance issues and a troublesome knee have put the kibosh on really vigorous exercise (I can't even walk briskly anymore - fell over at last year's Race for the Cure). But I have to do something. Taking the stairs twice a day at work is not enough. I feel like I'm turning into a sedentary lump and at 35, the metabolism isn't what it used to be.

So Santa brought a Wii Fit for Christmas. I'm hoping this does the trick. No, it won't help me lost 20 pounds or get ready to run a marathon, but that's not the point. I don't want to be an uber athlete, just not a couch potato. Some yoga and some light aerobics should do that. I'd love to join the pilates class that is being offered at The Girl's dance studio, but who has the time? The Wii Fit is in my basement - no excuses. There's no money and there's no place I have to travel to use it.

I'll keep you posted on my progress.

New for 2009 - Facebook
I've been resisting the Facebook phenomenon for, well, a long time. Why such resistance? Because. I'm not terribly big on social networking sites. God only knows who is out there watching me. And I've got enough drains on my time. So why cave now?

Because while there are a ton of people from high school with whom I have no interest in connecting, there are a significant number of people from college with whom I'd really like to find again. Surprise, surprise - they are almost all on Facebook. Including a very dear friend who was a bridesmaid in my wedding and who never can seem to write regularly, and a guy who I had the biggest crush on my junior year (he turned out to be gay, but that's a different story).

Email alone just doesn't cut it. I understand - in a hectic world, even finding time to write an email can be challenging. So if Facebook is all about being able to reach out and "touch" someone quickly, so be it.

Hopefully it will not be a time sink. I think it won't. First off, I'm almost positive I can't get to it at work, so there's 10 hours of Facebook free time. Second, I sometimes get home and don't want to look at a computer. And sometimes I just shouldn't if I want to have a happy marriage. I mean look how frequently I write in this blog. I should be able to behave myself.

Oh, and all you HATT-OT people - no Wordscraper. I suck at those games - it's the whole spatial aspect.

Also new for 2009 - Wii
This I'm looking forward to.

Santa brought a Wii (I'm sure you figured that out when I mentioned the Wii Fit) and Mario Kart. I can't play FPS games with friends from work - either the computer isn't up to spec, or I don't have the time (there's that whole peaceful marriage thing again), or I suck.

But I play Mario Kart on the DS at lunch and I don't totally suck. I don't totally suck on the Wii either. And lots of people at work have Wiis and Mario Kart.

I'm sure you see where I'm going with this.

Plus the kids and I have a blast playing together. The hubby not so much, but that's his loss.

Now if only I can find my Friends codes, I'll be set.

2008's Biggest Web Sensation
Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along-Blog is on DVD! Available on Amazon.com. 'Nuff said.

Patience, Young Grasshopper
Patience, I need it - NOW.

Patience at work to deal with people who just don't get it - any of it. No, you cannot have that thing that will take six months to develop tomorrow. Yes, you have to fill out the support request ticket correctly to actually get an answer. Yes, you really should pass this information on to your client. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Patience at home to deal with kids who will turn 7 and 9 this year (egads, I've been a mother for almost a decade). It's true - it doesn't get any easier as they get older.

Patience at home to deal with a husband. This is tough because all the hubby seems to want these days is, well, you know. It's a longer post for a different day, but let's just say that if he wasn't such an ardent opponent of porn, I'd get him a subscription and a blow-up doll.

Patience to deal with, well, everything.

Please God, grant me patience - now if you wouldn't mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So 2009 is here - bring it on.

Well, you can wait until after I shower.

Why are men such babies?

2008-12-03T21:50:00.003-05:00

Well, not all the time. But sometimes.

The Hubby is sick - head cold. The kids have had the sniffles for a week or so; I knew our turn was coming. Started yesterday with a text message saying his nose was stuffed and he felt "woozy." He asked if I felt the same. I did not.

Did my usual Tuesday night thing - which now includes leaving work 30 minutes early to beat the traffic. He arrived home at 9:00 - the same time we got home from the dance studio - and went straight to bed.

I did not go straight to bed. I did not go to bed until 10:30. I had work to do.

So tonight, he calls me sounding all sad and draggy. Cub Scouts was canceled because the pack leader was sick, so what was he supposed to do with The Girl?

"Get her upstairs to dance as usual."

"Well, I'm not going to be able to go get food. I feel horrible. I'm going to bed when I get home."

"That's okay. Are you taking The Boy home or are you leaving him for me?"

"No, I'll take him but I can't get food. I'm going to bed."

"Just worry about him and you. I'll take care of The Girl and I."

"Okay, but I'm going straight to bed when I get home."

Gee, I wonder if he went straight to bed? Well, apparently not judging by the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. The dishwasher is six inches to the right of the sink, yet somehow the dishes never seem to get any farther than the sink - in a big, messy pile no less.

Okay, fine. You're sick. I understand. Stop whining about it, take some cold medicine and move on.

Because that's what I have to do. "You didn't come to bed early last night." Uh, no. See there was still work to be done. Put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher (empty it first). Get the mail. Enter the day's receipts in Quicken. Unpack the school bags. Make sure the homework was done (it wasn't - not last night and not tonight). Pack lunches (because the church hall, which they use as a cafeteria, flooded in mid-November and won't be usable until after Christmas so no hot lunch service). Pack the school snacks. Make sure there are clean clothes for tomorrow. Feed the dog. Let the dog out for the last time (has to be around ten because his bladder won't make it until 6:00 a.m. otherwise and he'll get you up at 3:00 a.m.).

You get the point.

See, here's the thing that after 12 years of marriage and 2 kids he still doesn't understand: Mom doesn't get to be sick. Ever. There is always work to be done and unless Mom is on her deathbed, Mom has to keep going. No rest for the wicked.

I'm not even asking him to change and ignore his illness. You're sick, right, got it. Go to bed and let me get on with what I have to do. Don't play stupid and ask dumb questions such as "Why didn't you go to bed early?" Because I can't. The work must be done. The kids are not going to pack their own lunches - yet.

And don't strain my sympathy either. It's a freaking head cold. Not the bubonic plague. Man up and stop sniveling.

Or perhaps I should say "woman up."

Tip for the Married Men

2008-11-24T13:39:00.002-05:00

Don't tell you wife that you're going to spend $500 on snow tires for your car and put it on the American Express, and then go spend $300 on new tires, pay cash, and expect her to be all happy about it.

Just don't.

Trust me on this one.

My Horrible No Good Very Bad Day

2008-11-15T09:39:00.002-05:00

I've never enjoyed a Friday less than yesterday.

At 9:10, one of our QA engineers came up to me as I was speaking to two other friends at work, stuck out his hand, and said, "I just wanted to say it was good working with you." The three of us were confused. "Are you leaving?" I asked in a puzzled tone. The guy hefted a black garbage bag in response and said, "I've been laid off. Me, three other people, and a few across other departments." Flabbergasted, I went looking for the head of Development, the CEO's younger brother and a guy I've been friends with for 10 years. He was walking another employee, brand new SQL Server developer who moved from Philly to take a job with us to his desk. He shook his head, and said, "In a little bit."

I went to my boss's office. The other members of my department filtered in and she shut the door. "There's been a cut," she said. "Pretty deep."

The CEO addressed the company at precisely 11:30. At 9:00 a.m. a reduction in force had been executed that resulted in the loss of approximately 20% of our staff domestically. With our clients slashing costs and jobs (our clients being all these wonderful financial institutions reeling from the mortgage crisis as well as the stock market turmoil), our sales forecasts were down, and management decided we needed to take action to ensure the company would not only survive, but be strong and ready to rebound by retooling to focus on client service. Ironically, while our clients cut costs and jobs, they will be relying even more on our software because while the jobs may get cut, the regulatory and reporting requirements will not. By focusing on making our clients happy, the CEO said, we will ensure that in 18 months, about how long they are predicting this current situation will last (and these are smart guys - they were right back in 2002 about the 9/11 fall-out), we are ready to storm out of the gate again. We were assured that the RIF portion of the plan was over, and those of us remaining were being counted on to be part of the team to pull us through. We were also assured that a reduction in benefits, such as health coverage, was not being contemplated nor were we going to be asked to pay for a portion of our benefits. Both the CEO and CFO described those as "sacrosanct," although the CFO said they will continue to aggressively shop to make sure our benefits package gives us the most bang for the buck.

Mercifully, the CEO does not follow the AIG example. Our Christmas party, usually quite a lavish affair, was canceled, with the CEO feeling it would be "inappropriate" in the aftermath of a massive layoff. Hear, hear.

Along with the RIF, they unveiled a massive restructuring plan, some of which was very familiar because we've been talking about it in Development for a while, but some of which was quite new. Two guys I work with are leaving their current positions to return to their roots in Client Support - where they will be fabulous, actually, but still.

When the dust settled in the early afternoon, unofficial losses stood around 43 people, somewhere between 20 and 30 percent of the company. One of those losses was a woman I have worked with and called a friend for 10 years - she had been with the company for 11. Clearly, seniority was no protection from the scythe of economic practicality.

Fortunately, nobody in my department was cut, and Development's losses in general were pretty light. That meant I wasn't saying good-by to too many close friends. But in a small company, almost everybody is a "friend," with the possible exception of a few folks who hadn't been with us very long. The mantra of the day was, "How are you?" "Well, I'm still here." It wasn't a particularly comfortable response. As I said to the CEO, "So this is survivor's guilt, huh?" He hugged me in response. The COO and I gave each other a strong hug as well (yes, we are not a huge company and I am that close to our CEO and COO).

Hugs, in fact, were running high all over the company. After work, there was an impromptu gathering at the bar down the street, appropriately named Finnegan's Wake, for our own Irish funeral. Even my friend in TS who never drinks had a Guinness. Our toast was appropriate, "To us, to the future, to our friends who are gone." The most senior developer, a guy who has been with us for almost 20 years and who was floored that a member of the "10 year club" had been let go hugged everybody as he left. We filtered out by ones and twos. I left with a guy from QA who has become a very good friend in the year he's worked with us. "This is the worst Friday ever," I said. We parted at the parking garage with another hug.

Some cynics who read this would say this is only the start, but despite the fact that I've disagreed with the CEO, CFO, and COO over the past couple years, I believe they are men of integrity and they told us the truth. There will be no more RIFs, always barring unforeseen economic catastrophe (like going out of business, which I don't anticipate) and they will not touch our benefits package. And yes, looking at their faces yesterday morning I believe this was as hard on them as the rest of us. And like them, I believe we can and will come out of this a leaner, stronger, better company. We did it after 9/11, we can do it again.

But man, Monday never looked so good.

On My 35th Birthday

2008-09-20T12:07:00.004-04:00

Okay, so I'm a week late. So sue me.

On this rather landmark occasion, I figured I'd take some time to reflect. I did not feel this need at 30; in fact, 30 passed with very little fanfare. Thirty-five is something different. It's not that I'm freaked out about being 35. But it's a little weird - I've officially moved into a new age demographic. I can no longer check the "18-34" box on surveys. Now it's the 35-50 box. I'm not longer the target market (officially at least) for cars such as the Ford Focus or sub-compacts. Now I'm the target market for Volvo (although I'd much prefer the upcoming Chevrolet Camaro, but I digress).

It's kind of a weird feeling.

So where am I in life? Well, professionally I'm in a pretty good place. I just celebrated 10 years with a good company. I make a decent buck (more than my parents ever made), work with people I like and respect, and who (I believe) like and respect me. I enjoy my job, despite the occasional stress caused by idiocy. I'm where I thought I ought to be in my mid-30s, so "check" on the whole "professional satisfaction" line.

On the family side, I must admit I pretty much have stereotypical "American life." Husband, two kids, house in the 'burbs, two cars, a dog. Even had a minivan until last spring. My husband still finds me attractive. My kinds are smart, kind, relatively well behaved, and much cuter than they have a right to be considering the gene pool. Check on family.

Health-wise, aside from the MS, I'm in pretty good shape. My blood pressure is good, weight is good. Because of my mother I've started yearly mammograms, but as expected the baseline showed nothing. Rarely is there anything wrong beyond standard germs brought home by children in school and daycare. Check on health

Spiritually, I'm comfortable. I've moved beyond the funk of 2007 to an acceptance and relative peace. I don't rail against God and the universe, but I don't expect everything either. Check on spirituality.

So every thing's idyllic and there are no problems, right? Well...

The Hubby still finds me attractive, which is a good thing - up to a point. Guys, I have to ask - what is it with you a sex?!? Never mind, don't answer. But I would have thought that at age 44 we could get beyond adolescence. Let me give you a tip, gentlemen: Women do not find constant groping attractive or desirable. My butt and boobs were not put there to be squeeze, rubbed, ground up against, fondled, or whatever ever five minutes. The Hubby will actually say, "I don't think I've groped you today." Oh yeah, that's so romantic! I also do not find the oogling as I get changed or out of the shower attractive. In fact, I find it disconcerting and a little degrading - like I'm a real-live Playboy pinup (with smaller boobs). Whatever happened to a simple hug or kiss? Not that I don't get them, but even those turn into a bad B-movie (or C-movie) grope-fest, complete with tongue. Eww.

Of course, I'm now absolutely convince that The Hubby is going through a mid-life crisis. First, there is sex. If he doesn't get some every couple of days, he becomes petulant and crabby - just like a child. Last Sunday, I got blasted for my "constant negative attitude" and how it "ruins everything." All because I threw a ruined piece of French toast in the garbage, grumbled about how making French toast is messy (um, it is), got slightly irritated when The Girl then complained about the quality of the French toast I had just served, signed when she then fed the dog off her plate, and then said, "Well, here take my plate - I don't think I'm going to have time to eat anyway" - which was true because it was now 9:10 and we had to leave for church in slightly more than an hour, and I still hadn't showered. He blew a gasket. "God, you're always so negative!" This only a week after he had told me what a good mood I'd been in for the last couple months.

Oddly enough, the minute he got some action (not because I wanted it, mind, but because I was sick of his thinly disguised "You're not taking care of me" attitude), he was all rainbows and sunshine again. My negativity? Hardly. Of course, most of our sex these days is obligatory, not enjoyable. It's like a timer - if more than 2 days go by without a roll in the hay, he gets petulant - and petulant is the best word for it. I find living with a petulant 44-year old to be tiresome, so I give in. Sex is just another weekly chore (or daily chore) for me to check off. Oh, and on the same day that I got told how selfish and negative I was, I finished the laundry and ironed shirts, I emptied and re-loaded the dishwasher, I made dinner, I made the kids' lunches, and I ran the vacuum. He sat and read the freaking paper. Nice.

Then there's the car. Last spring the minivan died. Since we had wound up swapping cars a couple years ago, he got to pick out the new one. Instead of the relatively fuel efficient Civic, Malibu, or Dodge Caliber we discussed, he chose a Dodge Magnum. It's a station wagon - a muscular looking one (my mother's Caprice Classic it ain't) - but a wagon. It gets maybe 26 mpg highway; about 23 mpg average per tank, and costs $60/week to fill. At least the Hemi version wasn't available. It's Inferno Red. That in and of itself is not problematic; since I've known him he's always had white or silver cars, and a bit of color is always nice. But the latest thing he wants?

Racing stripes.

I'll give you a minute.

Yes folks, you read it right - racing stripes. For an hour earlier this week, I was treated to a barrage of questions about racing strips. Thick or thin? Body panel stripe or no? White, black or silver? Solid or broken?

Here's an answer - I don't fucking care.

Guys, sorry - I don't get racing stripes. I mean, on the right car they look cool I suppose, but it's not my thing. Neither are flames.

How much is this going to cost? No idea. Will it exceed our $100 limit? Probably. Will we wind up getting them? Of course - because the alternative is a cranky spouse. Oy vey.

Me, I just want some peace. Some time where I'm not being groped like a high school student in the backseat of a car. I weekend free from toting kids to soccer, or running to the Boy Scout store, or trying to keep a 6-year old boy quiet in church by myself. A week where I don't have to run home, run to soccer, run to dance, grab McDonald's, make sure the homework is done, make school lunches, and I collapse into bed feeling like I never stopped moving - and then have to satisfy a grown man who really ought to be able to cope without a night of nookie. I don't need this every week. But one would really be nice.

In the great grand scheme of things, this is small potatoes. Overall, life at 35 is pretty good and I'm pretty happy. But oh, the things that just make me want to run off to the Bahamas - alone.

Gotta run now. Because I need underwear for the Boy, laces for the soccer shoes, and tile for the kitchen. Target and Lowe's await.

Peace at Last

2008-08-21T22:01:00.002-04:00

As I write this, it is 10:00 p.m. The kids are in bed. The Hubby is in bed. The Hubby thinks I should be in bed.

I clearly am not in bed.

There is no noise. The TV is off. No music. Even the dog is quiet. Nobody clamoring for my attention. I even turned my DS off, resisting the temptation to practice my MarioKart skills.

It's kind of nice.

It occurs to me that I don't get enough of this. At work, there is no quiet. I was off sick Monday and found out I am apparently indispensable to the smooth running of the development shop. I know this because the pile of work on my desk Tuesday morning was twice as big as it was on Friday, there were a slew of emails in my Inbox, and two voice mail messages (nobody calls me - nobody). At home there is no quiet. There is always a kid or a husband needing attention, always some chore to be done.

I've gotten fairly good about not letting the stress get to me. Stress is bad for people with MS. I'm working on letting it go. (Yes, yes, I know - it's a work in progress.)

Quiet always bothered me. I came from a noisy home as a child (four kids, what do you expect?). I'm a parent - too much quiet means that somebody is doing something he or she shouldn't. As a student in college, quiet meant I heard the arguments of the person in the next room, or the, um, nocturnal activities of the person above me just a little too well.

But right now, quiet is good. I can think, I can write. The Hubby and I embarked on a mission to go through our five boxes of books in the basement and get rid of the stuff we don't need. Along the way I found some stuff I've been looking for - some for quite a while.

I've always mourned/griped/bitched about the fact that I get no time to myself. I do not get to go out. I do not get to do things by myself. I do not get to write. There's always something else to be done.

But perhaps I've found the answer: Just wait until everyone goes to bed. Yeah, The Hubby will probably complain because he's in bed without me. Tough. This is my time. Time to drink some tea, surf the 'Net, maybe do a little creative work. Revel in the quiet.

Of course, I may also just go to bed.

Go See "The Dark Knight"

2008-07-19T09:54:00.005-04:00

When it comes to movies, some things happen very seldom for me. I rarely regret spending every penny the trip costs, including snacks. I rarely see a movie where I have nothing to quibble over. Finally, I rarely see a movie in the theater and when it's done I want to get right back in line.

Last night, I hit the trifecta.

Christoper Nolan's The Dark Knight, a follow-up to Batman Begins, is probably the most hyped movie of 2008. This might lead some movie-goers to fear for disappointment. Don't. From the first moments of film, to the final scene, The Dark Knight delivers on its promise and launches the "comic book" movie to new heights. This is not Tim Burton's Batman (or any of the awful versions with Val Kilmer or George Clooney). This is not The Fantastic Four. Nolan takes the gritty comic-book-as-cinema trend that started with Spiderman and goes beyond it, with an exquisite exploration of human drama and moral questioning that sucks you in, holds on tight, and doesn't ever let go.

The story of The Dark Knight is not what you would think of when someone says "comic book." Forget the BAM! THWAP! POW! Forget the cartoon-esque portrayal of heroes and villains. Nolan's story is as deep as they come. For while there is certainly a contest between "good" and "evil," the movie is one that constantly poses the question, "What do you do?" in situations where any decision is morally ambiguous. If you can only save one of two people, who do you save? If you have to choose one loved one to die, who would it be? If you must kill someone else to save yourself, would you do it?

These are tough questions, and are (I believe) one reason why this is not a movie for the younger set. The movie escapes an "R" rating because while there is a lot of explosions and gunfire, there is little vulgarity, no nudity, and no sex (in fact, only two kissing scenes, both pretty tame). But parents should not be swayed by the "PG-13." This is a movie that requires some emotional maturity; the questions asked are tough ones that young folks might find difficult to understand or process. (There is also Heath Ledger's chilling portrayal of the Joker, but I'll get to that in a moment.)

These questions are what elevate this flick beyond mere "comic book movie." It's a soul search. It constantly poses difficult questions and says, "What would you do?" And all the while, you are aware that whatever you choose, the consequences are awful - for yourself, for others, for society. There is even one scene that is a subtle, yet pointed, comment on current events with wiretapping - I'm sure you'll see it. Powerful stuff.

Add to this the fact that Batman is not a hero. The citizens of Gotham do not embrace him. Some do, but many do not. He is viewed as a vigilante, one who has contributed to the problem, not helped it. This is hammered home in the last lines of the movie, when Batman disappears into the night against the narrative, "He's not a hero. He does what is needed, he can take it. He is Gotham's protector, it's 'dark knight.'" Wow.

One of the marks of a great film is the lines - are they quotable. This film delivers. There are the funny lines, the ironic lines, the emotionally powerful lines. One of my personal favorites comes from Harvey Dent (played by Aaron Eckhardt): "You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." Absolute brilliance, giving that line to the man who will become Two-Face. Some of these lines you've seen in trailers:

Harvey: Any crazy ex-boyfriends I should know about?
Alfred: Oh, you have no idea.

Alfred: Will you be taking the Batpod, sir?
Bruce: Middle of the day Alfred? Not very inconspicuous.
Alfred: The Lamborghini then. Yes, that's much more inconspicuous.

Others, well, I'll leave you to discover them for yourselves (note to technical writers, there is a great line about reading the instructions).

So, plot depth? Check. Great dialog? Check. Action? Plenty, but it never overshadows the dialog, plot, or people. So that leaves, the characters themselves. Are they believable, are you drawn to them, are they truthful? In The Dark Knight the answer is yes, yes, a thousand times yes. The casting is nothing short of brilliant, and every character - primary or supporting - is a compelling force in the story.

Christian Bale reprises his part as Bruce Wayne/Batman and, as in Batman Begins, he nails it. He is believable as both the playboy billionaire and the dark, brooding anti-hero. Here is not the affable, slightly socially awkward Bruce Wayne/stolid Batman of Michael Keaton, nor the cold industrialist/sexually charged Batman of Kilmer, or the cartoonish Wayne/Batman of Clooney. Bale's Wayne/Batman is a troubled man, searching for peace and answers. If you want the back story though, go see Batman Begins, because there is no exposition here. Outwardly successful, Wayne is still trying to fill the hole left by his experiences of childhood and young adulthood. Batman is a dark alter-ego, not altogether admirable or heroic. Necessary? Perhaps. But emotionally positive? No. Batman allows Wayne to do things he would not necessarily do. Oh sure, Batman is no villain. He is definitely out to protect the citizens of Gotham. But is he an altogether positive force in Wayne's emotional life? Maybe, maybe not.

There are two people who recognize this more than Wayne himself. The first is loyal Alfred, once again portrayed superbly by Michael Caine. Caine's dry British wit lends a touch of levity to his insight, but he knows his master. "You must know your limits," he says early in the movie. Alfred is a moral compass (much like Aunt May in Spiderman, but without beating you over the head with morality), the one who sees Bruce's need for Batman, but keeps him from being consumed completely. Alfred makes his own choices in the movie, choices to protect the man he serves and loves. Are they the "right" choices? You decide, but Nolan admirably avoids giving second-fiddle status to a character that in the hands of a less astute director could become nothing but a foil.

Second is Bruce's love, Rachel Dawes (and thank you to whomever decided to replace Katie Holmes with Maggie Gyllenhall - well done). Rachel loves Bruce, but recognizes he is a broken man who is incomplete without his alter-ego - and alter-ego she is not altogether comfortable with and she is very direct about that. In the end, she must choose and choose she does knowing the consequences, but choosing anyway.

Two more secondary characters add depth to the story. Lucius Fox (the incredible Morgan Freeman), Wayne's gadget guy who manages both Wayne Enterprises and develops Batman's toys, is a man of colossal integrity. He supports Batman, but when Batman's methods cross his personal morals, he must also choose. And then there is Lt. Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman), perhaps the one man in Gotham who sees Batman as an ally, albeit a dark and unpredictable one. Gordon is not a caricature of the ineffective policeman; he is a powerful, decisive, person - one of the true "good guys" - who also feels the sting of making choices.

And then there is District Attorney Harvey Dent (Eckhardt). Gotham's "White Knight." Fans of the Batman story know Dent's fate, which makes the moniker of "White Knight" terribly ironic. Critics have said that Dent doesn't get enough good lines, but the one line I mention above is enough. Eckhardt plays the highly ambitious and moral Dent to perfection, including exposing the one flaw that Joker plays on for his own cruel, twisted entertainment. Yes, Tommy Lee Jones did Two-Face, but this is a colder, less flamboyant Two-Face, a man with serious mental issues. Fodder for Joker's mill.

That leads me to the Joker himself. Oh my god, where to begin? As with many others, I was highly skeptical when the choice to cast Heath Ledger, the pretty boy of Ten Things I Hate About You and A Knight's Tale, as the fiendish Joker. To all those who doubted let me say this: Ledger may go down in cinematic history as the most perfect Joker of all time. So perfect in fact, that although Nolan clearly intended more movies with Batman-Joker story lines (you can tell that from the dialog, as well as the fact that Joker was always Batman's arch nemesis), Ledger's untimely death in January may prevent that, even though Bale is reportedly open to a third movie. The reason? It will be impossible to replace Ledger. In my mind, and I believe in other viewer's minds, Ledger is the Joker. No substitute accepted.

And he's chilling. This is not the overblown cartoon version of Joker as played by Jack Nicholson. The makeup is messy and imperfect, designed to provoke a reaction. To call this Joker "evil" is to shortchange him. He is not merely evil, he is amoral - the physical embodiment of pure anarchy. The law, the criminals - he plays them all for his own, twisted end. His sole goal is putting people in impossible moral predicaments and making them choose.

"Civilized people will turn on themselves to save their own skin," he says, and seeing otherwise moral people forced to make morally ambiguous choices, and thus prove his point, is his entertainment. "It's not about money" he says at one point, and his actions prove it. Pure anarchy is about no order - good or bad. Anarchy does not respect any rules. Anarchy is frightening in its purest form. And that is the Joker in this movie - pure anarchy. This character is the other reason this is not a movie for young kids. It is relatively easy for kids to understand villains or "bad guys." Ledger's Joker goes beyond the typical movie villain. He takes the other characters into a world where there is no "good and bad," and that world is terrifying. Thrilling, but terrifying.

The only thing that saddens me about The Dark Knight is knowing that what could have been may never be. Ledger's death last January almost guarantees that. Ledger reportedly got so far into this character that he became emotionally troubled himself, with insomnia and nightmares. After seeing his performance, no wonder. "Oscar-worthy" performance is another phrase that is highly overused, but I think it applies here. Ledger will almost certainly get the posthumous nomination. I don't know if he'll get the award, but make no mistake. As brilliant as the other actors were (and they were brilliant), Ledger's performance is the centerpiece of this movie. He is the puppet master who pulls everybody else's strings - Batman's, Dent's, Gordon's, Gotham's - and perversely enjoys watching the show unfold. Joker may well be the hallmark of Ledger's brief, but shining, career. All I can say is Mr. Ledger, where ever you are, I am sorry I ever doubted you.

In summation, I loved Peter Jackon's Lord of the Rings trilogy. But I could nitpick even some of Jackson's cinematic decisions (understand them, yes, but nitpick nonetheless). The Dark Knight leaves nothing to nitpick. It is, as they say, all that and a bag of chips. So even if you find yourself reluctant to see a "comic book movie," go get yourself the jumbo bag of popcorn and enjoy a truly brilliant emotional ride. I can almost guarantee you won't be disappointed.

"You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."

PS: Yes, the movie is 2 hours 32 minutes long. Your brain will simultaneously not believe you just sat through a 2.5 hour movie (because it flies along) and think it was much longer (because so much happens). Your bladder will not be so confused - especially if you get the 55-gallon drum soft drink. So go to the bathroom before the movie, and ration yourself on the Coke. Trust me on this one, because it is not a movie where you can just get up and take a potty break.

What Pretty Spots You Have!

2008-07-07T21:25:00.002-04:00

So I've discovered the main consequence (visually, that is) of these injections. A quarter-sized red spot at the injection site. I mean, I know the literature mentioned redness and swelling, but this is ridiculous. I look like I've got welts, as if I've slapped myself with a belt or something. But just on my legs - it doesn't seem to happen on my arms. What a lovely look down at the pool.

And how scary is this. I decided to try calling around to find out what I should do with this red, bio-hazard sharps container once it's full. All the web sites and phone numbers I was referred to (and that are included on an EPA pamphlet The Hubby picked up) are of no use. There is either no listings for my area, or I'm redirected to companies that want to sell me containers and mailers. Thanks, but I don't need to buy containers. I'll get one every month.

So I decide to call my municipality. Lady directs me to Allied Waste Disposal, the company that does our municipal trash pickup. They can't take bio-hazard containers. Fair enough, but then the girl says, "You can just dump the needles in a plastic milk jug or 2-liter pop container, and then tape the lid shut and throw it in your regular trash. That we can take." Excuse me??? Just what else are you putting in landfills?

So I swallow my pride and email the wife of the former religious ed director. She tells me that she just wraps her containers in tape - duct tape - to disguise them and hides them in her garbage, and that this is what the Allegheny County Health Department told her to do!!!!!!

Now, I am no medical expert, but it strikes me as odd that a county health department and a municipal waste company are so blase about this. I mean the friggin' EPA publishes literature specifically stating that this stuff should not be thrown in the garbage. A plastic milk jug? Yeah, that will hold up to needle punctures - NOT!

So now I'm a bit perplexed. I shall try calling the Health Department myself. If they actually confirm this idiocy (medical waste in the trash - really?), I will call one of these companies to see if I can just purchase the mailers.

And if I can't get a satisfactory answer, I just might be calling KDKA with a news scoop. Guess what Allied Waste is putting in your landfill? Story at 11.

The Summer That Never Was

2008-07-04T20:22:00.002-04:00

It is the Fourth of July. I am sitting in my living room wearing sweat pants and a fuzzy fleece pullover. We are watching A Capitol Fourth because that is the only way we are going to see fireworks this year. It has been raining for two days, including a deluge yesterday while we were at Idlewilde Park. I'm thinking of firing up the wood stove - if only the wood wasn't so wet.

What is wrong with this picture?

Global warming my ass.

PS: Who Knew?

2008-06-29T17:29:00.002-04:00

On a totally unrelated note, who knew feather pillows stunk so badly? Had to throw out the one I bought for The Boy a couple weeks ago. It smelled like something the dog had crapped on - repeatedly. Blech!

One Week Down, X to Go

2008-06-29T17:25:00.002-04:00

Almost one week ago today, I started the Rebif injections. So far I've done three. I was right - this is not the most fun thing I've ever done. That being said...

I must be brutally honest here. While I would prefer not to be doing this at all, the manufacturers really have made this as "painless" as possible. There is nothing to mix; the syringes come pre-filled. The need is ultra-fine (29mm), much smaller than the needle used for flue shots, and I don't think that is particularly painful. Banish thoughts of jabbing yourself and pushing the plunger down. All you do is cock the auto-injector, drop in the syringe, yank off the needle cap (this part occasionally doesn't work so well, but you can get the cap off manually if necessary), swab some alcohol, position the injector, push the button. A tiny prick and 10 seconds later, you're done. And actually, you don't really need to wait 10 seconds; when a series of black lines shows up in the injector window, the syringe is empty. No fuss, no muss. Blot the dot of blood, take the syringe out of the injector, throw it in the sharps container, go to bed.

Three doses in, I haven't noticed any side effects. I had achy knee joints the first two nights, but I have no idea if that was because of the meds or because, well, my knees are twice as old as the rest of me and ache in damp weather. Regardless, two Tylenol killed the pain enough for me to sleep like a rock. The regimen builds up the dosage slowly (8 mcg for 2 weeks, 22 mcg for 2 weeks, then 44 mcg) to minimize effects, but so far, so good.

And the syringes came with a sharps container. Now I just need to find out the rules on how to get rid of it.

So all in all, I'm thinking if you absolutely have to do this, this would be the preferred method. Now if I could just get the friggin' cap remover to work, I'd be golden.

Oh, and the kids? Well, that concern evaporated. I told The Girl a few days before the meds showed up. I had to make some phone calls in front of her, and I didn't want her to freak out about me talking about needles and injections. She took it pretty well and said as long as I wasn't going to panic, she wouldn't. Smart kid.

Of course, the following Monday night when the nurse showed up to do the injection training, both kids crowded around the dining room table. "Whatcha doing, Mama? Can I watch? Can I see?" It was kind of like a freak show at the circus. For the sake of my concentration, I sent them back to Webkinz World. Sheesh. Who knew watching me give test injections to an orange could be so fascinating?

Oh yeah, and my bp after all this was 100/66 and resting pulse 74, so clearly I was neither stressed at the time, nor am I at risk of falling over dead from hypertension.

There was also a moment of morbid humor. The first couple times, the needle was bent when I removed the syringe. However, the syringe was empty and there was no liquid on my skin or the floor, so I concluded it had successfully been injected. In musing over this, I remarked that at least I hadn't wasted $4,000. At The Hubby's blank look, I explained each dose was about $2,000. After a moment, he said, "Jeez, babe, the wheelchair would be cheaper." I was not amused. My boss was not amused. My friend at work, who admittedly has a rather black sense of humor, thought it was hilarious. Perhaps I just needed to look at it in retrospect, he said. Been almost a week; still not that funny.

Now for the irritating part. As I mentioned in my last post, I have told very few people - only you my gentle readers, family, my best friend (sort of) and a few folks at work. The Hubby, however, appears to have taken out a full page ad in the Tribune-Review. A long-time friend of his who visited last weekend, another guy he met in the Army, the former Religious Education director at the kids' school (who has probably told his wife), and I think both of the neighbors. I only found out about this because I was poking around trying to find out how to dispose of a sharps container, and he said, "Why don't you ask Maria?" Come to find out he was talking about me to Maria's husband, the Religious Ed guy. This is a man who won't put my picture on his desk at work or talk about me to co-workers because his relationship with his wife is "private."

I'm rather miffed about it. I mean I know all these folks. They are nice people. But this is my health. I'm the one who ought to be telling people about it, in my own time and in my own way. I have no idea how discreet any of these folks really are, so now I have to assume that they, in turn, have told other people. And frankly, I don't feel like being a topic of conversation for other people, some of whom are potentially people who I don't really trust all that much. Wonderful.

So on the plus side, injections not that bad (so far). On the negative side, I feel like I've lost control of who knows what about my personal life. I guess batting .500 ain't so bad.

Lemons and Lemonade

2008-06-17T20:20:00.003-04:00

Isn't that how it goes - or something along those lines?

For those of you who are unfamiliar with my saga, let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

Sorry.

The past nine months have been quite a roller coaster. Vertigo lead to a preliminary diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. After consultation with a specialist, that diagnosis was put on hold until after a second MRI in April. But now it's official.

I have MS.

It still feels a little weird to say. So weird, in fact, that I have not told very many people at all outside my family of course. My boss, one friend at work, and my HR rep, just to make sure I didn't have to do anything special with my insurance. But beyond that, I find myself strangely unwilling to make a formal announcement to any of the people who knew what I was going through in the fall.

Part of this is because, I'm sure, that the natural first reaction will be, "Oh god, I'm so sorry." Yet that's not really what I want and I think perhaps I can't deal with repeated expressions like this, no matter how heartfelt. See, as devastated as I was last fall, I'm not now. Really. Honest to god, I'm okay. When the doc told me, he had a med student shadowing him for the day. She kept looking at me as though she was expecting me to dissolve into hysterics. I think even he was a little surprised at how calm I was.

But see, I've already done the hysterical bit - last fall. I've had nine months to more or less accept this probability. I say probability because somewhere in my heart of hearts, I knew this was not going to turn out to be "nothing." By the time the doc actually got around to saying, "Yes, you have MS," my initial reaction was relief. No more wondering, no more guessing, no more test after test trying to figure it out. This is what your problem is. Here is the course of action we are going to take. The uncertainty of it all was far worse than the reality. I'm the kind of person who can deal with almost anything if I have facts and a plan of action.

Last fall, I had only the shock of the initial diagnosis - How can this be happening to me - I don't have any family history of this! - and then uncertainty. Maybe, maybe not. Wait and watch. It was unnerving. But now, I have the three things The Hubby says are essential to any journey: a map, a plan, and a list.

Don't get me wrong. This is going to suck - big time. It's going to suck because the only approved treatments for MS are self-injections. The medication I am going to take is called Rebif - a three-times-a-week subcutaneous injection. You get little pre-filled syringes via the mail, and there's a handy little auto-injector to administer the dose. Fun wow, right - NOT. Most people experience flu-like symptoms until their bodies adjust. Common (but rare - of course) side effects are depression, increase in liver enzymes, and increase in white blood cell count. Basically, if I feel like slitting my wrists, I turn yellow, or bleed like a stuck pig every time I nick myself, call my doctor. Wonderful.

Best part of all? There is currently no cure for MS. That means, of course, that I get to do this until a) they come up with an oral treatment, b) they find a cure, or c) I die. Whichever comes first. Yippy skippy doo.

Oddly, The Hubby had a harder time adjusting to the news that I did. He was so certain last fall that it would turn out to be nothing. Then I think he had convinced himself that even if it did turn out to be MS, I wouldn't actually need treatment. After all, he has a friend who has had MS for 15 years. He doesn't take anything and firmly believes none of the drugs actually work. I respect that, but I think I'll take a medical professional's advice. Especially since I enjoy walking, being independent, and seeing - all things that could be gone the moment damage occurs to the "right" nerve.

Fortunately, I have a good doctor and a good insurance plan. I got a call the following day from MS Lifelines, an organization that provides support, payment help, and training for MS patients. I received the auto-injector and a travel kit a few days later. By the end of the week, I had a letter saying that the prescription was approved by my insurance carrier. That last is important because believe you me, this shit is expensive. Costs run anywhere from $1,500-$2,000 per dose. Total costs can be as high as $18,000 per year. Me? I'll pay $40 every three months for a prescription co-pay (have I mentioned lately that my employer provides kick-ass health insurance?). That's one worry I don't have to deal with.

So now as I await the call from the nursing agency to arrange training, I'm only left to worry about a few things. For example, used needles are bio hazard waste. How the hell do I get rid of those? I mean, my municipal garbage service is pretty good, but I don't think they take used needles. Of course, as my aunt pointed out there are thousands of diabetics doing insulin injections every day. There has to be a procedure. Duh, why didn't I think of that?

Thinking about diabetics has also prevented me from feeling too sorry for myself. I only have to do this three times a week. Diabetics do this every day. Who's got it easier? In the words of Fox news, we report, you decide.

Then there's the bigger worry. How do I tell my kids and what do I tell them? It's not like they won't know what's going on. They're pretty smart, but still only 8 and 6. My aunt suggested talking to a support group for ideas, but if I'm reluctant to talk to friends, I'm sure not ready to talk to strangers. And how much do they really need to know? I don't want hide things and pretend it's all fine, but I don't think I really have to launch a dissertation on the workings of the central nervous system either. At least the doc was able to address one of my big concerns - MS doesn't appear to be hereditary (you think I would have figured that out on my own, seeing as nobody in my family has ever been diagnosed). He said the chances of one of them developing MS was "extremely low." Good to know.

So there you have it. Ultimately, this will be horribly unfun, and I'm sure some days will suck. But I'll make it - I have to, there just isn't a choice. I've got too much life left to live.

But it's a good thing I like lemonade.

I Love Summer

2008-06-05T21:08:00.003-04:00

I sit here on a warm June night, on a cushy porch chair, dog lying beside me, typing away. Aside from the occasional passing car, I hear the call of night birds, some chirping from my rhododendron that is slowing losing its leaves (can birds nest in a rhododendron bush?), and the trickle of my neighbor's fountain. It is still and peaceful, not yet warm enough for fireflies.

God I love summer.

I'm Such a Slacker

2008-05-30T16:13:00.004-04:00

Yes, it's true. My last post was in November 2007. That's, um, 7 months ago. I can only plead Christmas, then New Year's, then, um, well..

Let's just call me a slacker.

So I'm on the phone with my best friend the other night and she says, "What happened to the writing?" I couldn't even think about what she was talking about. "The blog." Oh yeah, that.

I'm such a slacker.

I logged in for the first time in 7 months, read some of my past posts, and thought, "You know, I'm not half bad at this writing thing." So I'm back - for better or worse. And the topic today is Men.

Okay guys, start groaning. You ladies, you might be more sympathetic. As I read this, the hubby is stretched out, sound asleep, on the deck swing. All things considered, it's not a bad place to spend a sunny afternoon. But this sleeping man confuses me.

A friend of mine at work, a theater guy who describes himself as "having no boundaries," has been trying to help me understand. It's working - sort of. I mean, I still don't get a lot of things, but hey, at least I know they are common to the male gender and not just my bedroom. For example:

A couple months ago, the hubby got a bee in his bonnet about my wedding dress. It all started with me mentioning I've lost about 20 pounds in the past year (thank you, thank you). All of a sudden, "Where's your wedding dress? Wouldn't it be interesting to try it on and see if it still fits?" Uh, no? Not really interested. He badgered my brother about bringing it down from the old family homestead. My brother says, "What's with the wedding dress?" No idea. Well, that's not true. Truth is, I suspect the hubby of having fantasies - a fetish as the friend would describe them. Everybody I mentioned this to, including women, thought it was bizarre. Definitely a fetish - definitely about sex. I will never find out because once the dress arrived, I showed it to The Girl, and put it in the attic. I have pictures if I want to remember my wedding dress. I don't need to play dress-up.

Are men capable of touching their wives in a way that is not sexual? I mean honestly guys - there's a point at which touching becomes pawing. I really don't mind if you don't spend every minute with your hand on my, um, chest (trying to keep it G here, folks). Apparently men do not see a difference between holding hands and fondling. I do. 'Nuff said.

And here's the kicker. The Boy graduated from kindergarten today. So I made plans to take the whole day off and suggested the hubby might want to do the same. "What for?" he says. Well, to do something together, without kids - you know alone. Couple things. Like go out to breakfast, come home, have a little "fun" without having to lock the door to prevent unwelcome interruptions (so to speak). I would have expected some enthusiasm for that proposal. I got a shrug and "We'll see." Huh???

Even my friend doesn't understand that reaction.

Men complain about not understanding women. I've got news for you, guys. I'll be married 12 years this August. Been together for 14. I still don't understand this man of mine.

And I'm starting to think I never will.

Christmas Already?

2007-11-23T13:45:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: I love Christmas, really. It's my favorite holiday. Christmas is all about love, peace, hope, and good will. Who doesn't like those? It's much easier to explain to the kids than Easter. And, if you're lucky, your family comes in, and you get to eat good food, hang out, and have a good time. That said, I have two major issues.

1. Commercialism gone crazy

Why is it that it seems holiday shopping starts earlier and earlier? Two weeks before Halloween, the kids and I walked into a red-and-green extravaganza at Home Depot. The Boy just looked confused. "Mom, why is it all Christmasy?" The Girl was outraged. "For Pete's sake people, it's not even Halloween yet!" Precisely.

This year, the excuse is that with gas prices so high, retailers are afraid that the holiday shopping season will be flat. So they started the shopping season earlier. Great. Before you know it, shopping for Christmas will start on January 2. No wonder everybody is sick of the holiday before the holiday even gets here. People in my neighborhood started putting up Christmas lights weeks ago.

Me, I'm resisting. Our decorations won't go up until next weekend. I've thought about potential presents, but I haven't really bought anything yet. Once again, I'll probably do my shopping online. The hubby asked if I had plans for Black Friday. When I told him no, what did he think, he said, "Well, you might have been going shopping." Yeah, like you could pay me to get near a store today.

And judging by The Girl's reaction in Home Depot, I've got the next generation well in hand.

2. It's a holiday

I really hate to break it to people, but Christmas is a holiday - a Christian holy day, as a matter of fact. Christ's Mass, the celebration of the birth of Jesus. Granted, Christmas is easier to make accessible to people regardless of of religious background. As I said above, it's a holiday about peace, joy, love, and hope, and God knows the world could use more of that.

At it's core though, Christmas is about the birth of Christ. If you get rid of all the presents, the tree, and the decorations, I can still celebrate Christmas. If Christmas is all about the food, trimmings, and presents, you're going to have a harder time celebrating without them. And while it may seem petty, I'm pretty damn sick of people saying I just need to be less sensitive.

A friend recently sent me an email purported to be an editorial written by Ben Stein. If he wrote it, kudos to him because he understands. If he didn't write it, well, too bad because I'm going to pretend that he did. In it, he says that as a Jew he doesn't feel threatened by Christmas trees or creches. And don't call them something else, it's a Christmas tree. And he's right.

Pittsburgh's Light-up Night used to kick off a Christmas season. I forget what it was called, but the concept of "Christmas" was definitely there. Then people got upset and said that "Christmas" was too exclusionary, and it should be renamed Sparkle Season. There's a great name. Then somebody said the word "season" had too many religious overtones. "Season" is religious? So I guess Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter is now a religious concept and The Four Seasons is a temple. So they renamed it Downtown Pittsburgh Sparkles. Because that really has something to do with anything. And they don't light a Christmas tree, they light the Unity Tree. Because that's not offensive to non-Christians who, just like Ben Stein, realize that it's a Christmas tree.

So there it is - my rants about Christmas. But I have one consolation. Now that Thanksgiving is over, I can get out my Christmas music and enjoy myself.

Retreat to Advance

2007-11-11T12:33:00.000-05:00

If you're anything like me, your daily routine might resemble the following: Get up and get dressed; get kids up and dressed; feed kids quick breakfast; drop kids off at school; go to work; spend 8 hours with people who rarely listen to you and then expect you to clean up the resulting mess; go home; cook dinner; help kids with homework; run to dance lessons; bathe kids; put them in bed; do some laundry; and eventually collapse into bed around 10:00 so you can get up the next morning and do it all again. Weekends offer a little variety (grocery shopping anyone?), but it's still a lot of running. It's enough to make any sane person wish she was a hermit in the desert.

However, one need not be a complete hermit to get a little peace and quiet. A couple weeks ago, a letter arrived from a woman in my parish inviting me to the annual women's retreat. I was still in a bit of a religious funk, so my first inclination was, "Why bother?" A nagging feeling and the encouragement of my friends changed my mind. Even if I didn't discover inner peace, at least I'd be free of kids and husband for most of a weekend. That doesn't happen all that often.

Turns out, it was the right decision. I spent a lovely hour in the meditation garden, sitting under a tree in the weak November sunlight listening to an album of Gregorian chant. It was very zen. I got to hang out with women who were like me. And Saturday night, during the evening meditation - silent except for periods of very soft music - I had the great "a ha!" moment of connection I'd been looking for in the past two months. By Sunday afternoon, I felt my inner battery was fully charged. Sure, the kids mobbed me when I got home and within 10 minutes it was as though I never left, but I sure felt better able to deal with it than I had on Friday night.

This concept of "retreat," or drawing apart for inner reflection, has strong roots in most of the world's major religions. Judaism had prophets and hermits who lived apart communing with Yahweh. Muhammad found Allah in the desert. Catholicism abounds with people who used this concept of retreat both to enhance their public service and their relationship with the Divine. One of my favorites, St. Francis of Assisi, insisted upon it. Francis spent a lot of time traveling between communities, ministering to the people in whatever way they needed, usually in return for food and lodging. When this all became too exhausting (especially considering Francis had poor health), he would find himself a mountain cave to retreat to, by himself, to pray and fast. Recharge the old inner battery. And when he came down, spiritually refreshed, he would say, "Come, let us begin again."

But wait, you say. I'm not religious. I'm not even sure I believe in God. I don't need this retreat nonsense. Bullhockey.

Face it, modern life is noisy. The TV, the radio, the computer, your MP3 player - they all compete for your attention. Hours and hours of crap programs play endlessly on the bazillion TV and radio channels now available on digital cable, satellite TV, satellite radio, and now HD radio. Buy this, do that, blah, blah, blah. Yeah, there are some gems out there, but it's mostly crap. Bruce Springsteen once said, "Fifty-seven channels and nothing on." The Boss could update that to 157 channels and he' still be right.

And in the midst of all this bedlam is you. Maybe you don't attend church or feel religious or particularly believe in God. But maybe you feel anxious, tired, stressed, overwhelmed; in other words, out of touch with the universe. The Desiderata said it: You are a child of the universe, no less that the trees and the stars. Being out of touch with the universe causes you to feel "not right." And when this happens, it's not the universe's fault. What I learned on my retreat is that God - or the universe - does not abandon you. You abandon Him (or it).

The answer? Retreat. Turn off the TV and the radio. Banish the video games. Turn off your cell phone, and turn the ringer down on the home phone. Send the kids outside or have your spouse take them. Close your eyes and wrap yourself in silence. If you must have background, find soft instrumentals that soothe and fade into the background, barely noticeable. Quiet your thoughts and listen for that soft, still voice that tells you "You are here, you are mine, you are at peace." God or the universe does not shout. There is a story in the Old Testament about the prophet Elijah (or Elisha - I get them mixed up) who knew God was coming. So he fled to a cave and a thunderous wind came by. But God wasn't in the wind. A roaring fire came by, but God wasn't in the fire. Finally, a soft breeze, barely noticeable, trickled by the cave. And there was God.

Religious or not, we need the silence. We need to retreat to a place where the cell phones don't ring, and the music doesn't blare, and the TV stops turning us into mindless zombies. The great "a-ha!" moments in life don't come when you're in front of the TV or rushing the kids from activity to activity. Like the breeze in the Old Testament, they come in the quiet darkness, where all you can hear is the beating of your own heart.

Retreat is not necessary every week, or even every month. I would recommend doing it at least once a year. If you are religious, check out your local faith community and ask what's out there. If you're not religious, make your own or see if there is a secular version near you.

Retreat to advance. Sometimes, two steps backward is a good thing.

Life Comes at You Fast

2007-10-27T22:33:00.000-04:00

It's a catchy slogan for an insurance company, and a line from a movie. It also happens to be the truth.

The journey that started with a case of vertigo has ending with a most unexpected result - a clinical diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. As there is no history of neurological disease in my family, at least that I am aware of, this was more than a bit of a shock. A diagnosis of breast cancer I would have expected. This, well, not exactly.

The journey from August to October was difficult - emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Physically there were a lot of annoying tests, some of which resulted in some pretty severe residual pain (a week-long migraine on steroids - I recommend avoiding it). Emotionally it was a roller coaster. There was the initial shock that this was even a possibility. Just when I thought I had accepted that, there was another curve/adjustment/curve cycle that left me wrung out and exhausted. I mean we are talking about the nervous system here. The thought that it was slowly unraveling was more than a little unnerving. And spiritually, well, I blogged about that in the past (Mother Teresa and I) so enough said.

This diagnosis has caused me to redefine who I am on all those levels as well. Physically, my definition of "healthy" has changed. Before, I would have called "healthy" as being disease-free. But now "healthy" includes how long it's been since my last flare-up and the amount of damage in my nervous system. Emotionally, I've had to adjust to the changes. No longer am I just mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend, and working professional. I'm also a person with what is, at least right now, a life-long disease condition - something that must be managed every day. Spiritually, I've wondered "why me?" and what I'm supposed to do now. I believe it's Ecclesiastes that says "I can do all things through He who strengthens me"; I believe there is purpose to everything and God will not put a mountain in front of me that I can't climb. But where the purpose is here I just don't know.

Of course the first thing I thought when the neurologist raised this as a possibility was, "What about my kids?" I mean, my kids are young. There are tons of things I want to do with them that are undone - everything from vacations, to dance recitals and soccer games, to graduations and marriages. All I could think of were visions of people like Annette Funicello, wheelchair bound and unable to really do anything. It was rather terrifying. I mean, this is my nervous system, the thing that runs everything else. If the brain don't work, it doesn't really matter how healthy the rest of you is - no electrical impulses and it's all for naught. And speaking of my kids, what does this mean for them? The medical community believes MS has a genetic component, so does that make it hereditary? If so, what are their chances of finding themselves in a neurologist's office some day?

I spent quite a few days reeling, trying to make sense of all this. In the end, there are a few things I can't do physically - get enough rest, eat better, exercise, and, if needed, there are medications. I found out that I didn't have to do this alone emotionally - I have plenty of people around me to listen and help. And spiritually, well, I'm still working on that one. But I'm getting there.

An estimated 1 in 100 people have MS. In a country with approximately 300,000,000 people, that's, well, a lot. The good news is that medical science has come a long way in 20 years. MS isn't what it was - new medications and new treatments mean less interference with daily life and that people with MS have the same life expectancy as "normal" people. I've been fortunate in that I've really never noticed the effects of these flare-ups. The neurologist doesn't believe that the vertigo is related, and all the myriad of tests fail to provide a conclusive diagnosis. I have what is called a "clinical diagnosis" based on a single spot on my cervical spine and a physical examination. I've opted out of medication for the time being, although I will see an MS specialist in January for a second opinion. I get to go about my life as I always have, always watchful for the next "thing" of course. Considering the alternatives - either a more serious disease or injecting myself every day - it's a pretty good situation.

A friend of mine at work who has dealt with health issues his whole life told me how he has dealt with it: I'm luckier than the person they diagnosed yesterday. And ultimately he's right. There are millions of dollars in medical research that yield new advances every day. Who knows what they'll find tomorrow, or next week, or next year. People with MS used to be sentenced to wheelchairs; now they are living ordinary lives. Some day science may find a cure. Anything is possible.

Things like this also have a funny way of snapping things into perspective. You are that much closer to separating the trivial from the important. I've always felt that not living is worse that dying. I started to understand that when my mother died from breast cancer at 54. Now I'm one step closer to understanding that Kenny Chesney is right:

Don't blink, cause just like that
You're six years old and you take a nap,
Then you wake up and you're 25
And your high school sweetheart becomes your wife.
Don't blink, you just might miss
Your babies growing like mine did.
Turning into moms and dads
Next thing you know, your better half
Of 50 years is there in bed,
And you're praying God takes you instead.
Trust me friend, 100 years goes faster than you think.
So don't blink.

Why Driver's Licenses Shouldn't Be in Cracker Jack Boxes

2007-10-13T13:01:00.001-04:00

Okay, I know. You can't really get a driver's license out of a Cracker Jack box. But as I watch other drivers, especially during my daily commute, I really have to wonder.

Take Friday. I'm heading northbound out of the city. Two solid lanes of traffic for miles, creeping along at less than 10 miles per hour. Must be an accident. Or a disabled car. This stinks, especially at 5:00 on a Friday. But what are you going to do?

Sure enough, I soon see flashing lights ahead. Must be some accident. We creep closer. Definitely a big accident. There are police, tow trucks, fire, ambulance, the works. All on the southbound side of the highway. Wait, southbound? Yes, that's right. All the excitement is on the opposite side of a divided highway. None of the production should be interfering with northbound traffic. What the heck? So I've been creeping along for the last 30 minutes because of rubberneckers? Ding, ding! The minute traffic moves past the accident scene everything opens up. You would think that people would have better things to do at 5:00 on a Friday. I know I do - it's called going home. Duh.

Or take this genius. Intersection of two roads, both two lanes - one in each direction. Road coming down the hill widens to two turning lands, right and left, and the lane for traffic going up the hill. Morning, and there is a line of cars waiting at the red light waiting to make the left. Mr. "I'm More Important Than You" pulls out into oncoming traffic zips up to the light, and then makes a left turn against the red light! Here's a real rocket scientist for you, boy. I mean, I'm not talking about a couple of back country roads where you might see a car every 45 minutes. The road he turned on to is a major artery into the city and heavily traveled, especially during the rush hours. So what this jag-off did was not only incredibly stupid and incredibly illegal, but incredibly dangerous. But of course he was in a hurry. That makes it all right.

I could go on, but you get the drift. Otherwise rational people get behind the wheel of a car and become absolute maniacs. It's like there's a circuit that runs from the ignition to the driver's seat. When you turn the key, two things happen. First, the car starts. Second, an electrical impulse is sent through the steering column, across the floor panel, and up the seat into your derriere. When this impulse reaches your brain, all ability to think is shut off. Yeah, you know how to push the accelerator and turn the wheel, but such simple thoughts such as "Maybe I shouldn't cut off that Mack truck if I'm driving a Civic," are gone. Poof. Like magic.

Some people I know are in favor of equipping vehicles with rockets, to blow up these bozos. I'm not so harsh. Stupidity should not be an automatic death sentence (unless you are a Darwin Award recipient, of course). I would, however, like a set of laser beams positioned perfectly to blow out tires. Zap! and watch the tires of the car disintegrate and the vehicle come to a screeching halt. And the driver has to pay to replace those tires. Do it enough times and the cost alone should be a deterrent.

Here's another idea. OnStar, the company that makes all that communication and navigation technology found in GM vehicles, recently announced a new service. They can send a signal to the car that turns off the engine and renders the vehicle impossible to start. The intention is that if your car is stolen, you can call OnStar, they can determine if it is being driven, and then stop it until the police arrive. All we have to do is expand this service to allow people to report idiot drivers. Imagine the call:

"OnStar, this is Kelly. How may I help you?"

"Hi, the GMC Canyonero in front of me just made an illegal turn on red and cut me off. Can you shut him down?"

"Of course. Do you have the license number of the Canyonero?"

"Yes, ABC-1234."

"One moment." Pause. "I'm sending the signal now. The Canyonero should be slowing."

"Yes, he's drifting off to the right-hand shoulder. Thanks!"

"No problem. Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

"No, thanks. You guys are awesome!"

Just think about it. How liberating for those of us who understand that turning on the ignition should not be connected to turning off the powers of higher reasoning.

Things That Make You Go "Hmm"

2007-10-10T20:16:00.000-04:00

Some questions I have asked myself recently, with no real answers. If you think of some, please let me know.

Question 1: Why wash dishes by hand if you have a dishwasher?

I really don't like washing dishes by hand. In fact, in the universe of household chores, washing dishes is right at the top of my "least favorite" list, only slightly behind "scrub the toilet." Washing dishes leaves my hands feeling like sandpaper, no matter what Palmolive claims. The exposure to hot water weakens my nails (yes, every woman has a vanity - what of it?). And dish gloves irritate my skin. So when we moved into our house 9+ years ago, I was thrilled to see a dishwasher, even if it was slightly dated. When that got to the brink of quitting, I convinced The Hubby to buy a newer one. I was a happy girl.

The Hubby, however, does not share my joy. He will actually wash dishes by hand - not just pots and pans, but plates, cups, and silverware - rather than load the dishwasher. He claims its because if have some "arcane method" of loading the dishwasher. There's nothing arcane about it. If you put glasses on the left-hand side of the upper rack, they will get broken. That's because the left side is elevated, and when you go to close the rack with 8-12 ounce glasses in that spot, the glasses will collide with the top of the machine and break. I warned him about this once. He has not loaded the dishwasher since. And, in fact, he rarely empties it. He will actually open the door to remove the single item he needs, and close it on a load of clean dishes. Why?

Question 2: Why do people say "I'm out of clothes" on the day they have no clothes?

Last weekend we traveled out of state to attend a wedding - my dad's in fact. Nice time, long drive. The result was I didn't get to do weekend laundry. I'm thinking, no big deal. The kids have enough clothes to get them through a couple days, so I'll do laundry on Tuesday or Wednesday. Cool. This morning, thinking I'll be really slick since I had a couple minutes, I throw an entire load of kids clothes, including school uniforms, into the wash. This way, they are ready for the dryer when I get home. Time savings for the night. Excellent.

As I go back upstairs I hear The Girl say, "I don't have any shirts." Well, too late; everything is in the wash. Wear your jumper. There is much pouting and huffing as she dons the jumper she insisted I buy, but has since refused to actually wear. Too bad, so sad. The I hear The Boy. "I don't have any pants." Well, it's 60 degrees outside and shorts season is over (not to mention shorts aren't in the uniform code for October). Guess you'll have to wear jeans. "But people will laugh at me!" No, they won't. Put on the jeans. Of course then I had to write a note to his teacher explaining why he wasn't in uniform. And of course this could not have happened tomorrow, Picture Day, when they can wear whatever they please.

News flash. The time to tell me you are out of shirts/pants/skirts/whatever is when you pull the last one out of the drawer, not at 7:10 on the morning you need to wear the shirt/pants/skirt/whatever.

Question 3: Why ask me a question when you don't like my answer?

This is a work thing. I am, as I have mentioned before, a project manager. My job is to put together a schedule of work, monitor that schedule for slippage, alert the appropriate folks when it does slip, and assist in getting things back on track. It is also my job to call people when I think the plans they are developing are not even connected with reality. I am a bull-crap detector, and I call it like I sees it.

So this past week, I'm asked to jam a task into a plan that is going reasonably well, but has a lot of risk. I ask for a task definition. "Performance enhancements." Okay, what are the estimates? "No idea, maybe a week maybe two. Just stick in a task for two weeks." Uh, do we have any requirements? "Make it faster." How much faster? "Faster than it is now." Okay, so you're really asking me to put in a task for an undetermined amount of time that you are giving a half-baked two week estimate for, there are no specific requirements, the task may go longer than two weeks if you think you can get more functionality, and if it really explodes we'll just take it out. "Yes." My bull-crap detector goes off. "But I need to show we're working on it!" Are we really? "Well, maybe." Then why put in a task? "Because I need to show it." What about testing? "We'll do it in system testing." More bull-crap. Dear god.

This went on for twenty minutes, I kid you not. The lead product manager, lead developer, and I, with them saying "Why does it matter?" and me answering "Because I cannot knowingly put together a plan that I believe is a lie just so you can look like you're doing something." And then I get accused of being negative, of not being a team player, and of making things difficult.

Fortunately, my boss is on my side. We, the Project Management Office, are all that stand between bull-crap plans and the Rest of the World. It's a sucky job, but somebody has to do it.

Question 4: Why are video games so addictive?

I am not a big gamer. Don't really like shooting things, or blowing them up. I do, however, like puzzle and "adventure" games. Once upon a time, I played the original Zelda game for Nintendo and really enjoyed it. But I don't really have a lot of time for it, nor do I have the money to invest in serious gaming. So I don't do a lot of it.

However, a friend at work has a Nintendo DS and the latest Zelda game - Phantom Hourglass. He let me use it once at lunch. He is an evil man. I now spend my lunch time bolting my food so I can get maximum game time. Today, I was so engrossed in getting to the next level of the Temple of Flame, I was nearly late for a meeting. My geek cred has skyrocketed in the Development section. My time management has plummeted. My friend says, "Why don't you buy one?" Because I have other things to do with the $165 plus tax buying a DS and the game would set me back. But he's a good guy - he'll let me keep playing his at lunch.

Crack for adults, I tell you. "Just once, everybody is doing it. The first one is free."

He is an evil, evil man.

~~~~~~~~

All these questions presented themselves in the last three days. Not quite as deep as the meaning of life, but if you have any answers, please, share with the class.

How Bad Can it Be?

2007-09-30T11:03:00.000-04:00

I would not naturally describe myself as an extreme optimist. That's not to say I'm a pessimist either. I prefer to think of myself as a realist. Things are rarely as good or as bad as folks think. However, I lately have found myself not being as "realistic" as I might want to be.

Last Monday, I underwent a testing procedure known as a lumbar puncture. Just the sound of it is bad - puncture. Despite being warned by the physician who did the procedure and a number of people who have had this done, I figured "How bad can it be?" After a week of head-splitting headaches, culminating in another procedure known as a blood patch - which eliminated most of the pain, but not all - I can answer that question. It can be pretty damn bad. I always knew having needles stuck in my back was a bad idea.

This is not a new facet of my personality however. Seven years ago when I became pregnant with The Girl, I was warned about morning sickness. I read about it, people told me about it, my mother counseled me. "How bad can it be?" I wondered. Hm, there's that phrase again. I threw up 9-10 times a day for the next 4 months, and 1-2 times a day after that. I was hospitalized for dehydration. Slightly less than two years later when I got pregnant with The Boy, I should have been prepared. It couldn't be worse, right? Uh yeah it could - and it was.

I am not sure, however, that this trait is unique to me. I'm beginning to think it afflicts most people. There seems to be something in human nature that prevents us from really recognizing how bad a situation can be. At least, most of us in most situations. Think about it. How many times have you or people around you said, "It can't get any worse, right?" And how many times have you been wrong? I thought so.

I think it's natural protection. If we were truly aware of how bad things could be, we'd be mired in depression, unable to function. But something in us always - or almost always - wants to find the upside in things. Even people who describe themselves as cynics will try and look on the bright side. At least some of the time. Maybe that's why clinical depression truly is a disease. It runs counter to human nature. We weren't built to be depressed.

Of course this doesn't mean we weren't built to be sad. Sadness is part of the human condition. If you aren't ever sad, how can you appreciate being happy? And without looking forward to something better, how do you get through the rough patches?

I suppose that acceptance of this human condition does make me a realist. And that's a good thing. It's not healthy to wallow in negativity, but neither is it good to ignore it completely. Just do me a favor, okay? The next time I say "How bad can it be," just say "Remember that lumbar puncture?" I'll remember, I promise.

Things Parents Say

2007-09-23T15:57:00.000-04:00

When you have kids, you automatically sign up to say certain things. It's just a part of parenting. I think once conception happens, Nature trips a part of the genetic code - in both mothers and fathers - that prepares them to utter any number of things that parents have said for centuries.

- Don't run with scissors
- Don't touch the stove
- Don't play with matches
- Don't hit your sister/brother

The list goes on. A lot of basic safety and good conduct stuff. Then there are the things that your parents said to you. You know the stuff you swore you'd never say to your kids.

- Because I said so
- I'm the parent, that's why

And the ever popular, "If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you want to do that too? Don't kid yourselves my friends. If you have kids, one day you will say something that will make you go, "Oh my god, I've become my mother/father." Trust me, it will happen. Just do it and get it over with.

This is all well and good, but it still doesn't fully prepare you. Because you will also find yourself saying things you never in your life thought you would say. Your beloved offspring will do something so arcane and unexpected, you will find yourself thinking, "I can't believe I need to say this!" Some examples below.

"Stop hitting your friend over the head with a hot dog roll."
Yes, this gem came out at The Boy's birthday party. We were at the neighborhood pool and grilling hot dogs and hamburgers. Now, I am always prepared to tell my son not to hit people with sticks or toys. But as I looked up, he was bouncing a hot dog bun off his friend's head. The friend was not helping matters by laughing hysterically. As I uttered my admonishment, I turned to another mother: "Now there's something I never thought I'd say." She was sympathetic. But the truth is, kids do weird things and any object can become a toy - sticks, the water hose, leaves, and yes, even hot dog buns.

"Don't eat all the vegetables."
Most parents cannot imagine ever needing to admonish their kids to not eat vegetables. I mean, isn't that a part of the Childhood Code of Conduct? Thou shalt not willingly eat vegetables (especially green ones)? And yet, things happen. Recently my employer partnered with a local company to offer a "virtual farmers' market" at my office. You order over the Internet and on Friday your goodies are delivered right to your work place. It's absolutely brilliant; fresh grown veggies, fruits, artisan breads, gourmet pastas all with the click of a mouse. So a couple weeks ago I bring home a pound bag of whole green beans. The kids fell to with enthusiasm. Fantastic. Except three nights later, they came home from school, went directly to the fridge, pulled out the bag and started eating. "Hey, don't eat all the vegetables! We won't have anything for dinner!" The Hubby and I looked at each other. "Did you ever think you'd have to say that?" "Nope."

"Please, play on the computer."
In an age where kids are obese at earlier and earlier ages, this is a no brainer. Hours in front of the TV or a computer have robbed kids of the need - or indeed the desire - to play outside. Right? Um, maybe. My two spend a fair amount of time outside simply because we don't allow them in the house on nice days, especially as "nice days" are numbered in Pittsburgh in the fall. However, The Boy has to wear a patch over one eye for 30 minutes a day. The eye doctor wants him to wear it when he has to do something that requires a lot of visual stimulation. Needless to say, The Boy detests wearing a patch and tries to avoid it all costs. "You have to wear your eye patch." "No, I don't want to." "If you put it on, I'll let you play on the computer for an extra 30 minutes." "No, I don't want to." Yes, ladies and gentlemen. I was begging my kid to play on the computer, not to get off it. Amazing.

These are only a few examples. I'm sure there are others. I'm sure I'll say more. I'm sure that if I opened up submissions to parents across the globe, I'd get some real humdingers. And if I collected them all up in book form, it would probably be a New York Times #1 Best Seller. It's just a part of parenting.

Erma Bombeck would be proud.

Mother Teresa and I

2007-09-16T15:21:00.000-04:00

The death of Mother Teresa in 1997 touched a lot of people across the globe. The wrinkled old nun who worked in the slums of Calcutta inspired a lot of people. She seemed to exude the very essence of spirituality, peace, and connectedness to God. Winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, she taught by gentle example how people should treat each other. People across the globe, Catholic and non-Catholic, were inspired by her example, even as she remained humble about her work. It was unsurprising, therefore, how fast the Roman Catholic Church moved to beatify her and even less surprising at how many people are working for her canonization.

All of this made the revelation of her personal letters, many of which articulated a profound "spiritual darkness" and feeling disconnected from God very surprising to a lot of people. How could Mother Teresa, of all people, feel that God was ignoring her? If anybody in the last century had lived life in the path of Christ, it was Mother Teresa. If Mother Teresa felt this way, what hope is there for the rest of us?

I've never particularly felt as though Mother Teresa and I had much in common, apart from being Catholic that is. I don't work with the poor and I've never taken a vow of poverty. I certainly don't have her calm, gentle demeanor, or seemingly infinite patience. I don't think you could examine the globe and find two women more different.

But lately, I feel very connected to Mother Teresa. For most of my adult life, I would describe myself as being pretty spiritual. I found a great connectedness to my faith and God when I was in college with the Franciscan order. My faith got me through the death of my mother, the deaths of my grandparents, and a 15-month separation from The Hubby. Whenever I've alone or afraid, it's been a rock I can lean on.

Lately, the rock isn't so strong. In fact, doesn't seem to be there at all. I feel sort of lost and disconnected from the very thing I've relied on to keep me grounded. And it's not fun. It's also very disturbing. I feel like a piece of driftwood floating down whitewater, swirling around and bumping off the rocks. A boat with no anchor. Yes, that's a few mixed metaphors. Cut me a break.

Frankly, I'm kind of angry about it. I rarely ask for anything for myself. I've prayed for my family, friends, friends of friends, and people I've never met. I volunteer at my kids' school, with The Girl's Scout troop, and our parish festival. I've participated in food drives and book drives, and every other kind of drive.

None of this is meant to say "Look at me" or toot my own horn. Lots of other people do exactly the same things, and even more. The point is it's not as though I go through life only concerned about myself. I don't even expect payback. I do all this stuff because I really want to do it. It makes me feel good, and it many cases it's even fun.

I would think, however, that when I do ask for something I deserve at least a response. Six weeks after being diagnosed with vertigo (Stop the World), I'm still dizzy. Not so much, now I can actually drive, but walking a straight line can still be a challenge. For the past week, I've had bouts of double vision (talk about something that is very disorienting). All I want is to go back to being able to play soccer with my kids and read them a story at bed time. That's it. I don't want to be able to run a marathon, or some other stupid thing. I just want some parts of my life that I really enjoyed to come back.

I've prayed pretty consistently over the past six weeks - to God, to Christ, to every saint I can think of, even to my own mother. As I'm stuck in this rut of dizziness and double images, I can only say I don't appear to be getting a response. Yeah, I know. The response you want isn't always the one you get. But I don't even get the sense that anybody is listening. As I told someone earlier today, "God appears to be too busy for me."

I've got well-intentioned friends, some religious and some not, who'd say I am overreacting. My own brother has referred to "my imaginary friend." I suppose to them this may seem like a lot of fuss over nothing, but for me it's quite real. And I'm hurt, and angry, and spiritually alone. It sucks.

Traditional wisdom in these matters says I have to stop fighting things and put it in God's hands. I've tried that - at least I think I have. What else does "God please help me" mean? I'm quite familiar with the concept that God doesn't give us what we can't handle, but is He trying to break me here? Because if so, I'm feeling pretty broken. Feeling whole would be really good right now.

Mother Teresa felt the same way, I guess. She somehow managed to keep going. Maybe she was stronger than I am. I don't know. I do know I could use a bone here, something small just to let me know I'm not all alone. Let's say we start small - I'll stay dizzy if I could just see straight.

Yeah, I know. God's not a deal maker. Maybe I just need to read copies of those letters. You know coin a new phrase - What Would Mother Teresa Do?

What's Wrong With Wholesome?

2007-09-08T17:24:00.000-04:00

If you are a parent, especially of a girl between the ages of say 6 and 16, and your child watches the Disney Channel, you are probably aware of the juggernaut known as High School Musical. The first movie debuted in 2005 (I think) and surprised even Disney execs with its popularity. The Disney Channel Original Movie (DCOM) spawned a mega-hit soundtrack, clothes, toys, various accessories and, most recently, a sequel - High School Musical 2. The HSM2 debut was anticipated by eager fans with at least as much enthusiasm as any Hollywood blockbuster, including Pirates of the Caribbean and Lord of the Rings. The Girl attended a premiere party at the house of one of her friends, and even The Boy wanted to stay up an watch. Lots of sports pretty much guarantees boys will be interested too, I guess. Young stars Zac Efron, Vanessa Hudgens, Corbin Bleu, and Ashley Tisdale (and others) catapulted from relative obscurity to high popularity with the teeny-bopper crowd.

The story lines of these movies are not very deep - boy meets girl (or in the case of HSM2, boy has girl), boy loses girl, boy gets girl. And in the true spirit of Disney, they are a little campy. I mean really, no high school has that many good-looking kids. Even the one overweight girl is pretty. But all that aside, there are some good messages about friendship, being true to yourself even when that's not easy, and the pressure to conform (The first HSM has a rather catchy tune called "Stick to the Status Quo" that is all about not stepping outside of your social circle; if you're a brain, don't say you like hip-hop, for example.), all good themes. And the music is catchy.

The movies are also something of a rarity in entertainment - pure "G" rated fare. Just about every one of today's animated movies, from Pixar to Shrek, contains something that kids don't really get, but adults do. Not HSM. When director Kenny Ortega wanted to put in a line that "parents would get, even if kids didn't" he was told "this is a movie for kids, not adults." The line did not go in. The result is two movies completely devoid of drugs, alcohol, sex (not even much kissing), swearing, law breaking, cigarettes, suggestive dance moves, questionable song lyrics, baggy pants or bare midriffs. HSM2, which takes place at a country club with pool, shows all the girls wearing either one-piece suits or tankinis, with nary a belly button or butt cheek in sight. To those without kids this seems ludicrous, but let me tell you that as a parent of two young kids it's a refreshing thing. Something I can let my kids watch unsupervised and know they aren't seeing anything I wouldn't want them to see.

So this is good, right? Newspapers and magazines are cheering this event, right? Maybe, maybe not.

A few weeks ago, I happened upon a copy of Newsweek that had a brief write-up about HSM2. The article left me feeling a bit perplexed. It started off positively enough, citing many of the things I mentioned above, while simultaneously making snide comments about Lindsey Lohan, the Disney child star turned party girl. But I got the impression that the article was somehow both disbelieving and disappointed at the lack of "dirt" on the HSM stars. Hudgens' Disney-approved biography was cited as listing "walking in the rain and puddle jumping" as one of her favorite activities in a scoffing manner that left me thinking the author didn't believe it could be true. I would suggest that the author visit the campus of my college alma mater when the rugby fields flood after a severe rain storm. He'd find about 50 undergrads, and more than a handful of grad students, having the time of their lives treating the fields as a gigantic Slip-n-Slide. It snidely stated that both Efron and Bleu said they never got a detention in school, as if such things don't happen. Hey, I never got a detention either. By the end of the article, I couldn't decide if Newsweek thought the apparently wholesome nature of the HSM cast was refreshing, disappointing, or fake.

I pondered this for a while. What is the lament of entertainment industry analysts everywhere? A lack of good, quality entertainment for children, things that don't give parents nightmares. And whether you be a Disney fan or not, here is exactly what these pundits are crying for. So why the disappointment?

The answer, I think, lies in the peculiarity of the American culture. At heart, American culture is puritanical. Yes, those pesky Puritans haunt us still. The so-called "Moral Majority" is practically raised on Calvin. Think of the Puritans and the stereotype: rigidly moral, against sex, against fun, disapproving of any who fail to conform. But underneath, there is the pull to things decided un-Puritan: sex, money, gossip, scandal.

Fast-forward 300 years and not much has changed. Oh, we deplore the antics of Lohan, Paris Hilton, Russell Crowe, Ray Lewis, and every other spoiled celebrity out there. "Oh, what a poor example for the children," we cry. "American society is degrading, morals are missing, oh we're surely headed to hell in a hand basket," we lament. (Note that I'm speaking of American culture as a general thing here, not about specific individuals. Ask any European, Americans are much more prudish about sex and drugs than those cosmopolitan Continentals.)

Yet what is the staple of the American check-out counter in supermarkets, convenience stores, and drug stores everywhere? If you don't know, you are a) completely non-observant, b) living under a rock, or c) shopping from the Internet. The answer, of course, is the tabloids. Headlines in bold, screaming print blast the latest gossip about all the Hollywood antics. Brangelina is over, no they aren't; Lohan arrested just days after completing rehab; Nicky Hilton pregnant and 87 pounds; all the starlets who weigh less than my 7-year old; Whitney Houston on another coke binge; Tom-Kat and all the drama surrounding them. It's all there in letters so big even the most myopic of shoppers can't miss it.

And believe you me, it sells. Oh boy does it sell. I know this because if it didn't sell, these papers wouldn't exist. Oh, some of them are higher class than The Enquirer or The Globe. It's hard to put the shiny cover of People in the same category as a trashy newsprint. But make no mistake -People is just a tabloid in pretty clothes. The same goes for In Style and all the rest of those rags. They make their money reporting on the foibles, foul-ups, and decadent lifestyles that are fodder for celebrity gossip. And the American public eats it up.

Unfortunately, the young stars of HSM didn't stay unknown or exempt for long. People recently featured real-life couple Efron and Hudgens on its cover, talking about how they started dating on the set. In Style showed Efron, flanked by Hudgens and Tisdale, with the headline "Behind the set!" and a sub-heading talking about the sniping and fighting "especially over Zac!" And while I have not seen it, Rolling Stone reportedly featured Efron on the cover with a half-buttoned shirt and is left hand up the front.

All in all, it's kind of sad. Yeah, kids grow up and the innocence is lost, but why do we treat this as inevitable? Why is it so difficult to believe in a group of kids who just might be what they seem to be - good-natured, sensible kids who just like making movies, music, and having fun? Why must we drag them on to the tabloid covers?

I don't have the answer. I'm not sure anyone does. But I do believe this: When we figure out the answer, and actually act upon it, maybe some of the "oh, society today has no morals" outcry will lessen.

Or maybe not. Just ask Socrates.

Somewhere My Mother is Laughing

2007-08-29T20:42:00.000-04:00

"Someday I hope you have a daughter just like you." When my mother said this to me as a young girl, I didn't really understand her point. I was a great daughter. I got good grades; I didn't get in trouble at school; I never got busted for shoplifting like my siblings; and I didn't smoke, do drugs, or drink. I was a great child. Just ask me. I'd love to have a daughter like me.

Fast forward to around, oh, now. My mother, God rest her soul, died of breast cancer in 2001. The Girl was just shy of 18 months. Her personality was not yet fully developed and my mother never got a chance to know her. But somewhere, my mother is laughing - at me.

The Girl and I are not much alike. She is blond and blue-eyed, I am brunette (well, I was) and green-eyed. She is outgoing and popular in a way I still am not. She makes friends easily and has several good friends. I take a long time to get close to people, and even to this day have only a few close friends. She is girly - if it's pink, purple, or sparkly she wants it. I'm more practical, if not tomboyish (I have one skirt and the day I wore it to work folks were checking for signs of the Apocalypse). She wants to be a cheerleader. I thought cheerleaders were bimbos. She takes dance lessons, wants to study pointe, and is pretty graceful. I have all the grace of the bird they call the elephant. She is stubborn, determined to get her own way, and pretty vocal when she doesn't. I am...

Okay, you've got me on that one.

In that one sense, The Girl and I are exactly alike. And that one similarity is the cause of many an upward pleading, "Why me?" I was once relating a story to my father highlighting this sharp wit, caustic tone, and stubborn determination to do it her way. My father was no help. "Why, you don't say. Gee, I've never known a little girl to do that before," was his response, delivered in this fake disbelieving tone. Okay, Dad; I get the point.

At seven years old, her vocabulary is astounding. And her ability to argue is impressive. "Mom," she huffs (usually I'm "mama" unless she's getting mad), "that's not the point. You are actually not even listening." And downward it goes. "Well, Mom, it's like this. I have a style, and you are getting in the way." Well pardon the hell out of me.

She even acts like me. I certainly did not teach her that huff of breath, roll of the eyes, and toss of the long hair as she storms up the stairs. I didn't even have hair long enough to toss by the time she was born. But she does it, exactly like I did. Must be in the genetic code.

I really should have seen this coming years ago. When she was four, I tried to get her to buy this cute pair of hiking boots at the store. Brown suede with Winnie the Pooh and Tigger on them. "I don't like those, I like these." But these are really cute. "No." Are you sure? "No." How can you not want these, they are so cute! "No." I tried for 10 minutes to talk her into the shoes. We left with the ones she picked out. To this day when I try to talk her into something, The Hubby will look at me and say, "Are you sure you don't want these Winnie the Pooh shoes?" I usually shut up around that point - or I tell him to shut up.

There are days when I sit down after bedtime and think, "My god, if she's like this at seven, what will she be like as a teenager?" It's a scary thought. You see, if she's so like me at seven, there's a good chance she'll be like me as a teen. And despite what I thought of myself at the time, maturity forces me to admit that I was a smart-mouth bratty teen. Because not only was I the only kid to never get busted for shoplifting, I was the only kid my mother ever smacked across the mouth in public (you know, back in the day when doing that didn't land you in jail). If The Girl turns out like I did at the same age, I'd better stock up on the L'Oreal Feria and the rum. Hitting in public is rather verboten.

As I go through these almost daily battles, I remind myself there is a bright side. My girl knows her own mind. Peers will have a hard time pressuring her to go along with stupid ideas like cigarettes and drugs. She has very firm ideas about those things. I'm sure she'll do her share of "what on earth were you thinking" acts, but I'm equally sure they will all be her own idea. She is confident in herself as I never was in school. She will be the popular girl, the one at the center of things, although I've seen enough of her heart to know she will be that rare gem - the popular kid who is kind to everyone, even the kids the "in crowd" would keep out. She'll face the world on her own terms, knowing she's just as good as everyone else, and hopefully she will avoid the self-esteem problems that plagued me well into adulthood.

So every time we have one of these run-ins that set my teeth on edge, I remind myself that there is a silver lining. That in the long run, her independence and stubborn attitude will be more of a help than a hindrance (when exercised in moderation, of course). Besides, I also know that someday I will have the ultimate revenge.

Someday, she will have a daughter - just like her.

Where Does It All Come From?

2007-08-26T15:30:00.000-04:00

Last Monday, which was the last day I was home before returning to work (see "Stop the World" below for why), I decided to clean the kids' rooms. I don't mean the shove-everything-under-the-bed-or-in-the-closet clean that they usually do. I mean CLEAN the rooms. Something I very rarely do because it is such a colossal undertaking. At ages 7 and 5, you wouldn't think it should be, but it is. However, as such cleanings are usually difficult because everything I want to throw away must be kept, I figured I had the perfect opportunity. You see, they were at daycare.

Armed with a kitchen garbage bag, I sallied forth to do battle. The Boy's room was not too bad. Got rid of some broken crayons, bunches of crumpled paper, and a few fast-food restaurant toys (the bane of any parent's existence, of that I am convinced). I found at least 2 of the 3 missing socks that have plagued me for a few months now, as well as the bottoms to two pairs of pjs. Found and reassembled the pieces of a Spiderman toy, and put away all the wooden Thomas the Tank Engine pieces. A quick vacuum and voila! clean room.

I knew that The Girl's room would be more work. First, it's bigger. Second, she's a pack rat, just like her aunt (not that my sister likes that comparison, but it's true). So I decided to eat lunch first. Good call.

Two and a half hours, and two full bags of garbage later, I had finished. The list of stuff I found would go on for several paragraphs. In addition to the typical litter, I found underwear that had be stuffed under the radiator for at least a month (good thing it was unsoiled), two missing socks, and 2 missing pairs of shoes. I picked up feet for those Bratz dolls by the dozen. I filled an entire tin full of little jewelry beads. I tossed out not only crumpled paper, dried-out markers, and broken crayons, but at least 12 old copies of National Geographic. Oy vey.

As I worked through this chore, and then as I recovered afterward, all I could think of was, "Where does a 7-year old get so much junk?" The answer is people give it to her.

And people are always giving her things. My father's fiancee is an older woman who loves kids. How can I possibly break her heart and say, "I don't want you bringing my kids any more crap"? Last time it was a miniature china tea set and a Spiderman motorcycle. I've managed to win the "no toys with a billion tiny pieces" battle, but that's not the same as "no toys."

Compounding the problem is The Girl saves everything. And I do mean everything. Don't ask how many of those cheapie fast-food toys I pitched from her room. There's an entire corner of stuffed animals, none of which she really plays with. In fact, I'd say she really only plays with about half of the stuff in her room, yet all of it is "special to me." Her first-grade teacher sent a thank-you note for the end-of-year gift the class sent. Me, I would have read it, said "How nice," and thrown it away. The Girl taped it to her bed. Sentimental, of course, but rough on the furniture.

My daughter is at an odd spot in her life. Too old for baby toys, just old enough for books. Not quite ready to ditch the Barbie dolls. Wants all the bead kits to make jewelry, but not quite ready to string the tiny ones. The result? A mess. The magazines she brought home from school at the end of the year. Said she liked the pictures, which she cuts out to make art projects. She's just entering the "signs on the door stage too" - things like "Girls Only" or "No Boys Alowd" (her spelling), or "Cool Girl Lives Here."

It's been a long time since I was at that spot in my life, but I dimly remember it. And that's why I have a hard time making her stop. Oh sure, every once in a while we go through the toy bins and stuffed animals, make both kids decide what to keep and what to give to charity, and thin the mess. But to lay down a law that says, "Don't make any more signs?" What kind of parent would I be?

Because at the heart of the mess - the broken crayons, the beads, the markers, the glitter glue, and used up paper - is her growing desire to express her personality. The same goes for The Boy, he's just a little further behind his sister. Through expression comes definition - who am I. It's process we all have to go through, and usually go through multiple times in our lives. The misspelled signs and collages of ballerinas are my child's attempt to define herself in a world where she still doesn't have a lot of control. Yeah, I could put an end to it, but while that sure would be easier on me I don't think it would be that great for her.

So I will continue to fight the losing battle against clutter, probably for many years to come. One piece of advice: Buy stock in whatever company makes Glad trash bags. I'm going to be using a lot of them.

Stop the World, I Want to Get Off

2007-08-20T10:16:00.000-04:00

The human body, so we are told, is a very complicated machine. There are literally millions of mini-systems that allow us to function from the moment we wake up, to the moment we go to sleep, as well as while we are peacefully slumbering. And we take this for granted. Don't believe me? Just have part of the system stop working. Let's say your vestibular system.

Never heard of the vestibular system? I hadn't either until about a week ago when I started feeling as though I was stuck on the Tilt-a-Whirl ride at a typical amusement park. Your vestibular system is your balance system. Most people know that your inner ear controls balance, but it doesn't do it alone. The vestibular system is actually comprised of four parts:

Eyes
Ear, specifically your inner ear and a structure called the labyrinth
Joints
Skin

All of these things - input from your eyes, input from your ears, messages from your joints as you move, and air/water pressure on your skin - are what keep you knowing what way is up, what way is down, and everything in between. When the different parts of the vestibular system send different messages, it results in a condition called vertigo. Vertigo is the perception of motion - either of you or your surroundings - where there is none. This differentiates it from simple dizziness, where you just feel like you are going to pass out.

And that brings this all back to me. Slightly over a week ago, I started having episodic vertigo, although I didn't recognize it. I just thought the old blood sugar was plummeting. It wasn't until the feeling became somewhat permanent that I figured something was wrong. My sister and The Hubby said, "Probably a sinus infection putting pressure on your ears. Just call and get some antibiotics." When I called in sick on Monday, my boss said the same thing. "They'll probably give you some antibiotics for the infection and meclizine for the vertigo. Happens to me all the time." Oh, if it were only that easy.

No simple sinus infection for me, no sirree bob. Instead, I wind up with a diagnosis of labyrinthitis - and inflammation of the labyrinth. The doc says the magic words: It's viral. Those doggone viruses. So pesky, and so convenient for the medical community. Because once those fateful words are uttered, they are followed up with "Nothing to do except wait it out." Wonderful. So I left with a prescription for meclizine, a sedative. Didn't seem to be doing anything, but hey, what the hell do I know. I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV. So I kept taking it.

But when things were no better on Wednesday, I called the doc again. Back to the office. Couple more brief tests. Nope, really just labyrinthitis. Doc offers Atavan, which is related to valium. Again, what the hell do I know? One Atavan later I know this much - I don't want another one.

By Friday, I am still no better and in fact now can't get out of bed. The pressure in my ears is killing me and I can't walk from my bedroom to my bathroom, which is only about 15-20 feet. Doc sends me to an Ear/Nose/Throat specialist. He says, "Yep, definitely vertigo. Could be labyrinthitis, could be benign positional vertigo (BPV). Both can be viral. Take more meclizine." There are those pesky viruses again. At least he says that when it goes away, it will most likely go away for good. Thank god for small favors. They do a quick hearing test (I passed), and some repositioning exercises. See, BPV is caused when small calcified debris gets stuck in the wrong part of your inner ear. The exercises get it out of where it's not supposed to be so it can be reabsorbed. No driving, they say (great, just what I need to hear). Schedule me for an ENG, which is stands for a big long word for a balance test. Recommend a routine MRI - because it our current lawsuit-happy culture, the doc has to run every possible test even if, as in my case, he doesn't think it will actually find anything. Of course now the insurance companies are understandably sick of paying for tests that are performed simply to cover the doctor's ass, so it has to be cleared first.

This brings us all to Saturday afternoon. I'm in the basement, feeling stoned out of my mind. I miss the bottom stair (I mean, my eyes told me there was a stair there), fall backward, and throw laundry everywhere. I start crying - this is freaking ridiculous. Eight days and all the medical community can offer is, "It will go away eventually." If I had cancer, they could treat me. Modern medicine can save the life of a baby born at 20 weeks. They can transplant major organs. Vertigo? Sorry, no can do.

The Girl, who is amazingly smart for a 7 year old, grabs my cell phone and calls her father (who is working). He calls the neighbor, who comes over to get me off the basement floor. Neighbor sends his son the EMT to check me out. Son sees no visual signs of vertigo (called nystgmus - I've learned such cool words over the last week), but tells me my blood pressure is 88/60 and my pulse is 104. To say those numbers are not normal would be an understatement. He recommends I call my PCP.

And my PCP offers this. "Well, meclizine is a sedative. You're not having a bad reaction, they are normal side effects - you're supposed to feel like that. Don't like it, stop taking it. I really can't do anything else for you, unless you want to go to the hospital. There's two possibilities - the vertigo will go away on its own or it will never go away and you'll adapt." Great, thanks doc.

After all of this, I know several things:

Meclizine is the work of the devil.
Why anybody would actually choose to be stoned is incomprehensible to me. It is, without a doubt, the worst feeling I've ever had.
While we know a lot about human physiology, what we know is dwarfed by what we don't know. Again, it would be easier to treat me if I had cancer.
No wonder they call it "practicing" medicine. There's a lot of exact science there, but a lot of guesswork too.
Vertigo is now in my list of Top 5 Un-fun Life Experiences.

So here it is Monday and it's my sixth day off work. Enough is enough. There's one more drug to try, which is a steroid (because this could also be caused by vestibular neuronitis, which is an inflammation of the nerve ending in the ear that sends balance signals to the brain and steroids are anti-inflammatories). At least I know I won't get stoned from a steroid. As no physician can give me a reason not to work, I'm back on the job tomorrow; if I still can't drive, The Hubby will drop me off and pick me up.

Someone asked me, "Do you think this could be some kind of enforced R&R?" If the God or the universe or the Flying Spaghetti Monster (depending on your personal beliefs) wanted me to slow down, I would have preferred a broken leg. And if this is some body's idea of a cosmic joke, well, it sucks.

My personal advice? Stay away from vertigo. If you crave the dizzy feeling, visit the Tilt-a-Whirl.

Vacation (All I Ever Wanted)

2007-08-08T19:04:00.000-04:00

My apologies to the Go-Gos.

So last week was our family vacation. My father-in-law owns a place on the shore of Lake Erie, and every year we go up for a week. This year was probably the best, mostly because the kids are now old enough to truly entertain themselves. It's a little hard to enjoy yourself when you're chasing two rugrats up and down the sand.

Mostly we had a good time. But sometimes, I really do have to wonder what planet The Hubby lives on. For example, we arrived at the beach on Saturday. And the week before we leave, The Hubby says to me, "Oh, my cousin and her kids are coming on Saturday and staying the night." Really? So on the day we arrive, have to unpack, go shopping for the week I also have to entertain guests? And find somewhere for them to sleep in a trailer with only one bedroom? Great. I mean, not that these people are difficult to deal with; they are rather nice actually. But it's the first day of my vacation!

Then he tells me that his cousin's husband and the kids are coming back on Thursday. The day he's going golfing. At least this time I only have to feed them lunch.

Crossing into Canada is not really that easy any more. Well, that's not true - it isn't getting into Canada that's the problem, it's getting back into the US. With apologies to all you Canadians, I grew up next door to Canada. Visiting was more like going to another state than another country. But I digress.

So knowing that they are paying more attention, on Friday he says we're going back to the States to visit yet another cousin. Good grief! Now not only do I have to visit yet more relatives (what is this, the grand tour?) I have to go back into the US. My worst nightmare is now that we will get into the US and not be able to get back.

Turns out, that was the least of my worries. I didn't count on the 45 minutes it would take to get through customs. In a car with no air conditioning. In 85-degree weather. Oh, and did I mention that The Boy gets carsick when he overheats?

By the time we get through customs, I'm trying to coax my son into not puking in the car. And we're all starved; I've only had an English muffin at 9:00 and it's now 12:30. My father-in-law suggest a restaurant right on the canal that serves roast beef on weck (look it up). Lovely, let's go. We get there, and I immediately ask for cold water. The Boy's face looks like curdled milk. I get the water and my father-in-law asks what I want to order. I mention I haven't seen a menu and the bar tender says, "We only serve roast beef and chili." Hmm, I see a trip to Burger King in my very near future. Meanwhile, I'm trying to tempt The Boy with popcorn. No dice. The Hubby says, "He gets about 1 more minute, then he's just making a scene."

Suddenly, "I have to go to the bathroom." Oh god. Sure enough, we get into the bathroom and he starts to gag. And while he retches into the toilet, I start mopping up what didn't make it. Five minutes later, The Girl sticks her head in the bathroom. "Daddy wants to know what's taking so long."

"You're brother is puking."

"I told him so."

Pretty bad when your 7-year old knows more than your spouse. At least he had the grace to look embarrassed when I came back to the table.

In the end, we survived. We even made it back into Canada, and then back into the US on Saturday. Oh, and by the way I know what hell is like now. Hell is being stuck at the US-Canada border for 2 hours, in the sun, when it's 85 degrees out, and your car has no air conditioning.

But next year, I'm not moving from my beach chair.

IT Run Amok

2007-07-27T23:44:00.000-04:00

When I started at my current company 9 years ago, we were a 20-person company. I was person #20. We ran things in a way typical of a small, freewheeling entrepreneurial company. Life was pretty good.

But now we're not a 20-person company. We're up around 120 people and growing quickly. And we're going through growing pains. This is not unusual. We don't do business the same way we did 9 years ago because we can't. In an tightly regulated industry and a world that is concerned about high-tech security, our clients expect more. And they deserve more. This makes it more crucial to have a good IT staff that can have policies in place to assure those clients that you are, indeed, a world-class global company capable to meeting their security needs.

But there's a fine line between being a responsible company and being over-controlling Type-A jerks.

We've endured a lot in the last few months. A new password policy that makes us change them every 90 days and meet certain criteria. Fine. Limits on email retention. Okay. No installing unauthorized software without permission. Great. Don't connect personal computing equipment (laptops, iPods, hard drives, etc.) to the corporate network. Okay. These things I can deal with, because I can see a real reason for them.

I even limited the grumbling when we started using a web filter to block access to certain categories of web sites. After all, who really needs to read porn or gamble at work? But last week, the tiniest thing happened; something you wouldn't think would set me off, but it did.

They changed my web browser home page - and I can't change it back.

My home page used to be my department's portal on our Intranet. This was useful to me. That portal contains files, tools, and resources I need to do my job on a daily basis.

The new home page is the main page of the Intranet. Not nearly so useful. It's cluttered. It's filled with information I don't need. I think it's lovely that somebody won the close-to-the-pin contest at the company golf outing, but I simply don't care. I don't even want to have to bypass this crap on my way to the important stuff. I subscribe to the page so that I get an email alert when a new announcement is posted. This email subject let's me decide if I want to go read the whole story and that is good for me.

At first, I thought maybe IE was malfunctioning (because that's not exactly an unheard of phenomena you know). After four days of struggling to reset the home page, I finally emailed the Intranet administrator. "Oh, that's a new policy from eServices. You can't change the page. But you're only one click away from your old page."

"Only one click"? WTF?

I pressed for a reason for this seemingly unnecessary policy change. I also said it would have been nice to hear about it before it went live. "I don't need to announce policies," our CIO told me. Oh really? You don't think changing my work environment, even in a small way, warrants an announcement? I'm not asking that you put it up for a vote, I'm asking that you have the common courtesy (there's that word again) to frickin' tell me you're an anal-retentive control freak who needs to control my web browser.

But even more inane is the reason for the change. At first, they tried to tell me this was so everybody could have better access to information and we'd all be standard. But what it came down to was that they didn't think people were reading all the emails they've been sending out on various things. So now they are posting everything to the main page of the Intranet and forcing people there when they open IE to "make" us read their crap.

I'll give you all a moment to stop laughing.

But it's no joke, it's the truth. "We send out emails and only 8 people read them, and then people complain they don't know what's going on." Tough shit.

If somebody decides not to read an email, and misses important info, that's their problem. They are an adult and they should deal with the consequences of their decisions.
If IT thinks every piece of communication they put out is of "critical importance," they have an over-inflated sense of importance.

Just so you don't think I'm crazy, the last two emails I received from the CIO were about a change to the company cell phone policy and a notice about storing copyrighted materials (like movies and music) on corporate computers - or attaching hard drives containing such materials to corporate computers. I read neither email, and for two very good reasons. One, I don't have a company cell phone so I really couldn't care less about the changing cell phone policy. Two, I don't store any personal files on my work computer, nor do I listen to my iPod through the computer.

When I politely pointed out that merely changing someone's browser home page was not going to guarantee reading the information, the CIO said, "For your information, hits on that home page have doubled since we implemented this."

No shit, Sherlock. In a company of 120 people, all of whom open a web browser at least once a day, you are bound to see a dramatic increase on hits! Duh! For cripe's sake - our time sheet application is web-based and 3/4 of the company has to use it! Just because somebody hit the page doesn't mean they spent any time reading what was there! I'm just a project manager and I know this.

Another member of the IT department said, "Well, we could make the announcement the first page you see and you have to click OK to get to the rest of the Intranet." Well first, that doesn't guarantee I'll read anything either. It just means I'll click OK to get you off my ass. It does, however, guarantee that I will be in the COO or the CEO's office to complain vociferously.

And to add insult to injury, when accused of "tampering" with the system I replied I had done no such thing. I had sent an email to the CIO voicing my dislike of the policy. The next day, my home page reverted to the department portal page. I assumed the CIO had modified something. "Not me," he said. Okay, whatever. Point is, there's the home page, and the box to change it in IE is completely inactive. I point this out.

"Well, probably some smart-ass developer hacking the system instead of doing his job," snipes the CIO.

Excuse me???? Now you're going to insult the members of my team? I'm sorry, but no way buddy. I hope and believe I enjoy a good working relationship with every developer we employ. I do not think so much of myself that I believe these folks would hack our IT infrastructure just for my personal gratification.

The thing that torques me off completely is this: I am our IT department's customer. Part of their job is to ensure that I have the hardware and software necessary to do my job. This policy does not help me - it gets in my way by taking the information I need most and moving it one layer away from me. And they just don't friggin' get it.

They also apparently think I'm stupid, because I can think of at least three ways around this. The simplest are just typing the direct URL in the Address bar of the Windows task bar or creating a short-cut on my desktop. Yeah, I can't use the little Quick Start menu button any more, but hey, I'll deal with it.

I won't win this battle. I don't expect to do so. But I will not sit by quietly and let some Type-A control freak take over the company that I helped create. And to the extent that I can exercise a little corporate "civil disobedience," I will. Because I'm a non-conformist, at least to policies I consider about as useful as a frontal lobotomy.

So, IT department, stick that in your floppy drive and smoke it.

Remember courtesy?

2007-07-26T19:50:00.000-04:00

Pittsburgh has the second-most courteous drivers in the US. True story. Heard it on the morning radio recently - some study by a national driving organization (not AAA).

I don't know how they judged "courtesy," but from what I can see on my evening commute I can only say this: If Pittsburgh has the second-most courteous drivers, I shudder to think of what cities lower in rank are dealing with.

Although I travel a four-land highway for the better part of my drive home, it can take a long time. Part of the reason are two on-ramps very close together and a stop-light at the nearest bridge. If people are feeling sensible, you get a my turn-your turn approach to cars coming down the on-ramp. But every once in a while, some jag-off (that's Pittsburgh-ese for jack-ass), decides to squeeze into oncoming traffic. Of course, this brings the well-oiled machine to a halt. Think of those Visa check card commercials where everything is going so smoothly, then some dork tries to pay with cash. Exactly.

Then there's the two-lane road that runs parallel to the highway up to the bridge. Sometimes I take this route, as I did yesterday. But as I'm sitting waiting for my light, there are cars coming from behind me, driving a few feet to a hundred yards into oncoming traffic, and making an illegal right on red at the light. Big sign "No turn on red." I even saw one joker make an illegal right on red from Washington's Landing, then make an illegal left on red onto the bridge. In one car (a big, honking SUV), a perky young blonde leaned out the passenger window, yelled "Sucker!" and laughed as they make their illegal turn.

And here I thought that double-yellow line had meaning! Silly me.

All of this time I spend in the daily driving survival of the fittest led me to a more profound thought. Whatever happened to common courtesy? Like its cousin, common sense, it doesn't seem to be so common.

Big things, little things - the lack of courtesy is astounding. I went to college at a small Franciscan university. One of the things you learned very quickly as a freshman was to hold the door for the person behind you, even if that person was a few feet away - and especially if that person was handicapped, on crutches, or carrying a heavy load. Failure to do so would be met with a very loud, "GEE THANKS FOR HOLDING THE DOOR!" Very embarrassing.

This small behavior has carried over to my adult life. It's such a small thing - hold the damn door. Thus I am appalled when out at the mall I see my fellow shoppers not only fail to hold the door for the woman with the double-stroller, they let the door close on her! My five-year old runs to the door and manfully struggles to pull it open for her while the big hulking guy pushes right around. Nice. Who'd have thought you could learn courtesy from a kid who can't tie his own shoes?

When you get right down to it, courtesy is about respect. No courtesy, no respect. No respect and you can justify almost anything: failure to hold a door, road rage, cussing out someone who doesn't give you what you want, bad table manners, talking during movies, beating up a black guy in a white neighborhood, shooting someone, going into a pizzeria and blowing yourself up. Big things are made of little things.

Just stop and think about it. Imagine a world where everybody respects everybody else. Racial tensions evaporate. Terrorism plummets. Anti-gay sentiments disappear. If you can respect the outer differences, you can get past them to the internal commonalities. Fail to respect them, and well, the world's a mess.

Big things are made of little things. So as you go about your daily life, stop and think about it. How can I be more courteous today? How can I, in whatever way possible, show I respect my fellow humans.

In other words, hold the door.

God I hate waste!

2007-07-21T09:02:00.000-04:00

This thought occurred to me at 11:00 last night as The Hubby and I were finishing watching "Psych" on USA Network (great show, by the way). The next step for the basement remodel is to scrape and paint the walls. So the hubby is talking about how he's got to put plastic up so the scrapings don't fall into the new interior french drain and clog it.

"Okay, put up the plastic, scrape, move the plastic, scrape, etc. Tedious, but not complicated," I say.

He looks at me in wonderment. Seems he was planning to ring the entire perimeter of the basement with plastic and then scrape. "But you're way just seems less..."

"Wasteful?" I supply. Uh, yeah.

To me, waste is an affront to God and Nature. Think about it. What other animal on Earth is as wasteful as humans? No other animal kills more that it can eat, or drives ginormous vehicles, or builds ginormous houses that cost hundreds to heat, or throws away food the way humans do. It's disgusting.

Throwing away food is actually emotionally painful. While I've never actually used the "There are starving kids in {fill in a third-world region}" on my kids, their habit of taking two bites and announcing "I'm full" drives me crazy. This disdain of waste is what keeps me eating the spicy fries that came with my Smoked Turkey wrap long after I'm still hungry. (Okay, you've got me. That's not the only reason. I'm a sucker for good french fries and these were really good.) It just seems so wrong.

Pulled up to the pump at my local gas station yesterday. The previous customer had racked up $50 in gas. Fifty bucks! And I thought my $25-$30 every 6-7 days was a lot. What kind of vehicle sucks $50 in gas? And just what is the practical purpose of a Hummer or a gargantuan SUV? Contractors with large F350 pickups I get. It's a business expense; how else do you haul around equipment and materials? But soccer moms driving H3s? Give me a break. Now those who know me might say this is the pot calling the kettle black. And in a way it is. We drive a Dodge Grand Caravan and a PT Cruiser, neither of which can be described as "excessively fuel efficient." But they get better mileage than a Hummer. And the van is up for replacement within the year. One of our criteria is that the new vehicle must get at least 30 mpg. So cut me a little slack; we're working on it.

Look at a new housing development. How much gas does it cost to heat those monsters? And come night time, every light bulb is on. My kids, young as they are, are already familiar with the "I'm not a stock holder in Duquesne Light - turn off the lights when you leave the room!"

And money. Oh God, don't get me started. One of the most annoying things about this whole car debacle (oh, and somehow my reservation got botched, so I have no idea when I'll ge the rental - that's topic for another post) is that my kids will now miss swimming lessons today. I paid $80 for the two of them to take lessons this summer. They were going to miss at least two, but that's because we are going on vacation, and I was cool with that. But now they're going to miss a third! I think there are only 8-9 lessons total! Argh!

(The Hubby, by the way, does not feel this way about money - at least spending or wasting it. He will have nightmares about writing the $8,000 check for the basement, which I will not, but he'll think nothing of spending $4 per day for a pastry and a coffee on his way to work, or $15 for a lunch out. Meanwhile, I'm eating homemade grilled chicken salads that average $3/each. Then he asks, "Where did all the money go?" Grrr.)

But waste goes beyond physical things like money, natural resources, or food. Think of the astronomical amount of time and effort we waste on a daily basis. Meetings that go on for-freaking-ever and nothing gets done! I am a Doer - I need to be accomplishing things. Ask me how many meetings I spend doing nothing but doodling hearts, moons, stars, and flowers on a piece of paper. (Side note: I do not draw these things because I am cutesy by nature. I just can't draw anything else. My best friend is a terrific artist. I can't draw a stick figure.) A co-worker of mine was stuck in a 3+ hour one of these time wasters yesterday. I'd rather slit my wrist with a butter knife.

Does this sound familiar? You spend 3 hours and a lot of effort tracking down information or a decision for someone. And as you report your findings/progress/whatever, the person on whose behalf you are expending all this effort says, "Oh, I changed my mind. I don't need it anymore," or "So-and-so got that for me 2 hours ago." Gee, thanks for telling me. Because you know I have nothing better to do than spin my wheels for you.

I guess at my current age this should not surprise me. After all, it's human nature and that hasn't changed in millions of years. But it still seems so fruitless. Think of what we could accomplish if we'd just stop and think about the impact of our choices and activities. We could have solved world hunger, global warming, AIDS, and cancer by now.

God I hate waste.

Introduction to Blogging

2007-07-20T20:17:00.000-04:00

So here I am. I've hit the 21st century. Blogging. The new journal. Except now the entire world can read my useless thoughts.

I suppose I should state a few things up front. I'm married (let's call him, The Hubby) and have two kids: one girl (The Girl) and one boy (The Boy). Oh, and I'm not really a housewife; I work as a project manager for a software development firm. But something just appealed to me about having "Disgruntled Housewife" as my byline. Because while I'm not really a housewife, I am often disgruntled.

That's why I'm here, really. I need an outlet. I figure a blog is cheaper than therapy. And my real-life friends are probably sick of hearing me bitch. And The Hubby is always saying I need to write more. Did I mention I'm a frustrated writer? "Frustrated" because it's really hard to write when you have kids pulling on your elbow saying "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy" from the minute you get home to the minute you go to bed. And oh yeah, The Hubby gets annoyed when I spend too much time on the computer. Go figure.

So as I said, here I am. My most recent frustration is home renovation. We have an old house, built about 1920. We've done a lot to it - built bookshelves, put in a wood stove, painted, new bathroom, it's all good. The newest project is a basement remodel. This one will either turn out brilliantly or turn me into an incoherent pile of goo.

First, I endured a week of no hot water. Yes folks, you read that right. A week - 5 days - of no hot water. Not only did this mean no hot showers, it meant no laundry, no dishwasher, we boiled water on the stove to wash dishes and bathe the kids. I cold-showered the first day. That sucked. Not even The Hubby, Airborne though he is, could stand that. The rest of the week I showered at my office (fortunately, I work for a nice company that provides fairly luxurious locker room facilities). The upside was that I had hot water. The downside was the water pressure was pathetic and I spent the first 30 minutes of my work day in the locker room (fortunely, I have an understanding boss). But this is okay.

So they finally finish the concrete floor, and The Hubby and a buddy go to reinstall the hot water heater. Great. They turn off the water. Then they need parts. Swell. This at least gets me dinner out. Then the buddy calls and says, "I've taken my shower, lets do this tomorrow." Um, okay. The Hubby tries to turn the water back on.

Turns out 80-year old plumbing does not like being shaken. At all. Not a bit. Things leak. Wonderful. So now I have zero water. This is not an improvement.

Saturday morning I take the kids to swimming (I have not showered). Cell rings - hot water is back on. Yay! Take kids to Target. Cell rings - hot water tank is leaking, need to turn water off. Boo. Take kids to McDonald's. Cell rings - hot water back on. Yay! I finally get a hot shower Saturday night, six days after the water went off. I am a happy camper.

Fast-forward a week. Friday night washer and dryer were supposed to go back in. But the buddy disappears. So now it's Saturday. Washer and dryer are in the basement. They might get installed tonight. Who knows.

And falling into the category of "Why don't you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it"? my car failed to pass inspection today. The Hubby was supposed to take it last Saturday. I told him, let me take you to drop off the car, I'll run the kids, and we'll pick it up later in the day. But he refused; showed up at the mechanic's at 11:30, and he closes at noon. So now I find out I won't have use of the car tomorrow (when I have three times as much running as last Saturday) and The Hubby will be working all weekend. Lovely.

I call Enterprise. They open at 9:00, but won't be able to pick me up until 10:00. Kids have swimming at 9:30. Wonderful. And all The Hubby can do is say, "I don't know why you're complaining to me. I'm stressed too." Yeah, but he's taking off for work at 6:30 tomorrow.

I hear lots of banging downstairs. Keep your fingers crossed - because my kids are out of underwear.