Notice Anything Different?
Photo by Heather Wizell. Used under a creative commons license.
I put the Red Stapler on hiatus and made a new header. I realized the stapler was a symbol of my oppression as an office worker, and I’m not feeling oppressed anymore, so – onward.
And anyway, I had to do SOMETHING. I’m in a funk, I’ll admit it. I have been dragging my sorry butt through the days, just getting through everything, none of it particularly enjoyable.
I hate to say it, because on the surface everything is ok and the same and fine. I’m so blessed in so many ways, and I remind myself of that all day long. But underneath…blah. I don’t feel like doing anything.
Still, the other day I felt something stirring way down deep, like a little tightened-up fern uncurling and reaching out in the spring time. Still fragile, still wrapped up, but a possibility of some growth and change.
I don’t know what it will be or where I’m going. But that little ferny feeling is what I’m hanging onto.
Trapped in a World I Did Not Make
(Warning: may be offensive to the very religious)
Sometimes I think God has a wicked sense of humor. It’s as if He (She/It/as you believe) is just waiting for us to start believing our own BS before He takes it upon His Most Holy Self to knock us down off of our own self-built pedestals.
Like the time I found out someone I knew was dating a married man. I said to myself, stomping the tiny little foot in my inner mind “That’s horrible! I will NEVER date a married man!”
Cut to two weeks later, where I found myself on a date with a guy who was later found not only to be NOT divorced, but not really so very completely separated from his wife, either.
Like that.
Everyone who knows me well (or who has read this blog for more than five or six posts) knows I am a bit of a germaphobe.
Not the kind of germaphobe where you could feel comfortable eating off any surface in my house. No, that would assume one could find an uncluttered surface to eat off of.
I’m the hand sanitizer, handrail-avoiding, holding-my-breath-while-around-sick-people kind of germaphobe. The germaphobe who is imagining every moment of her descent into cold and flu when she is stuck near someone who is visibly or audibly sick.
Yes, I know this is not one of my more attractive qualities. It’s right up there with my tendency to correct the spelling of strangers and my insistence that customer service people say “Thank you” instead of “No problem.”
But it is a PHOBIA, not something rational. I am as able to stop it as people with a fear of heights are able to stop from feeling spinny when they stand near a ledge.
I remember flying to Hawaii with a kid coughing behind me, all the while calculating if I would have time to enjoy any vacation before I caught whatever he had. I figured that, if I were lucky, I’d be just in time to infect everyone on the flight home if my math about the incubation period was correct. That was not a happy flight.
Never mind that for every 100 times I imagine getting sick, I might get a cold once or twice. And yet I persist.
God gives me plenty of situations to indulge my rich fantasy life, too. If someone is coughing and sneezing in a theater, I am ALWAYS sitting in front of them. The ONE time I sat in the front row of church was the day the pastor announced she had a cold. The other day at the swimming pool, a woman walked past me as I was getting out, turned her head and coughed RIGHT in my face.
In winter, I don’t go to church much, since so many people come to church sick and it is just misery for me to be trapped there, hardly the spiritual experience I’m seeking. Today was one of the days I didn’t go. I had other reasons, too, but the germ thing definitely factored in to my decision.
I could not, however, skip a rehearsal for this church Christmas eve pageant, in which I have a major role as a sound effects person, portraying both “branches rustling” and “wind.”
I went to rehearsal, in a small room at the church, with about seven other people. The woman directly to my right was – you guessed it – in the middle of a full-blown cold.
And not only did she have a cold, but she didn’t cover her mouth when she coughed. No, she just let it fly.
Photo by Vegard Haugland. Used under a Creative Commons license.
This is not the lady from church. It is a cute dog sneezing. But dog photos make everything better, no?
Occasionally she would give some nod toward sanitation, like when she would hold her tiny fist about six inches in front of her mouth, and then cough.
My favorite was when she would cover her mouth briefly, remove her hand, and THEN cough. AS IF TO TAUNT ME.
She’s a dear lady. We have had many nice conversations on other occasions. And I’m sure she felt she was being dutiful and not letting the Christmas show team down by missing rehearsal.
But as a germaphobe, I can’t help but seeing people who are coughing all over turn into Josef Stalin before my eyes.
They just transform, like one of those 3-D truckstop postcards that flips back and forth between Elvis and Jesus, except this time it was Nice Lady – Stalin. Nice Lady – Stalin. Blink blink. Blink blink.
I got to spend an hour trapped with Stalin the Sicky the Perfectly Nice Lady and my fellow sound effects folks in that tiny room. When it was over, I was ready to flee as soon as possible.
But no, God, that special fellow, had ONE more joke left in his bag. Because this is a church production, we had to end our meeting with prayer. Holding hands. With the people on either side of us.
Thank you, God. You outdid yourself today.
I wonder how many sick days I have saved up?
Virtues and Vices
It’s funny how moralistic we are, isn’t it? We’re always putting ourselves in the good or bad category.
I hear this about food a lot. “I was so bad this weekend – I had margaritas and nachos at that Mexican place!” “I was so good, I just had the salad with dressing on the side.”
How about considering that you’re not good or bad based on what you eat. You may be making choices that will lead you to a more or less healthy life, but is that a question of morality?
People even make their dogs a moral statement. “She’s a rescue!” we say, proving that we aren’t so callous as to get a dog from a breeder when dogs in need languish in shelters.
It’s funny that no one would ever dare to call their adopted child a “rescue,” but it is ok for dogs.
I was thinking about Goldie and how I had saved her from pretty much certain death after so long in the county shelter. I should give myself a big moral pat on the back.
But no, that’s not it. Getting a dog is about the most common and most profound thing on earth, which is love.
It’s one of the best and craziest things humans do, I think. Take some shaggy, messy animal into our homes to eat our food and lay around all day. We can have no expectation that they’ll do much for us, unless we want to spend days training them to fetch our slippers – and even then, it’s really easier to get your own slippers, trust me.
So here it is in a nutshell: we just loved each other. Isn’t that enough?
With sympathy for Senator Elizabeth Warren, who lost her golden retriever, Otis, today. Extra treats for everyone, as Kizz would say.
Adventures in Shopping feat: Mom
(Making a late Thanksgiving dinner)
Mom: Did you get rolls?
Suebob: Yes, I got rolls.
Mom: Did you get butter? All I have is that Smart Balance and no one wants that.
Suebob: I got a pound of butter.
Mom: We don’t need a pound of butter. There are only six people. We can’t eat a pound of butter.
Suebob: They sell it in pound boxes.
Mom: They sell it in half pound boxes, too.
Suebob: A pound is four dollars. A half pound is $3.50
Mom: But we don’t need a pound. We only need a quarter pound at most.
Suebob: HOLY CATS, MOM, I CAN USE THE BUTTER.
Mom: You don’t have to yell.
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All Growed Up
I usually hate hearing about people’s dreams, but this was perfect, so bear with me.
In my dream, I fell in love with a brilliant Mark Zuckerberg-esque CEO, who also offered me a job that came with housing.
When I got to the housing, I found out it was a dorm room with four young guys, where I had to sleep on the floor. I was like “Oh, my boyfriend is testing me and my dedication to him and the company!”
Then I thought “Hey, you’re a grown-ass woman. You can rent your own place.”
Then I thought “You’re a grown-ass woman. You don’t need a boyfriend who tests your dedication.”
So I left.
Weekend Photos
I’m still reeling from the time change, so I’ll share some photos instead of trying to put sentences together.
On Saturday, I visited some friends camping at the beach in Santa Barbara county. Too bad the weather in November is so chilly:
I also met a guy I wanted to bring home with me. But he said he was with someone. He was with a couple, actually. Don’t ask what goes on at these camping parties.
Yesterday, I went to Ojai Farmer’s Market in the morning:
And then to a class in walking in a structurally correct manner. No photos of that, because watching adults try to learn to walk is really not that interesting.
Onward to the Dia de los Muertos celebration at the Museum of Ventura County, where the kids were cute:
And the dancers were scary!
No, REALLY scary
But when the scary demons handed out candy, all was well:
That was my weekend. How was yours?
Happy Trails
Today is bittersweet for an odd reason – it’s the end of the Toyota Women’s Influencers Program.
I know that most people outside of blogging think of working with brands as some kind of sell-out relationship where an Evil Overlord milks you for your page views. I have to say that this gig with Toyota has been entirely the opposite – as cheesy as it may sound, I have felt like a valued partner in an enterprise that has been a win-win situation.
The gig was set up by Clever Girls Collective. I’m proud to count the Clever Girls as my friends. They work with brands and blogs in a way that is professional, fun and respectful.
I have to throw them major respect for walking the fine line between aggressive brands and sensitive bloggers with just the right balance. If you’re a blogger, I’d urge you to sign up with them. The worst thing that will happen is that you’ll get a few emails you have to delete.
Toyota has been stellar to work with. Their team performs as well as their cars do. Their corporate philosophy of kaizen – continuous improvement – permeates everything they do. They’re a class act. I feel like the people we worked with really cared about us as people, not just as a means to an end.
For me personally, I’m so thankful to have had the experiences and met the people I did through this process. From yoga at Wanderlust in Colorado to touring the Toyota museum to dining with Toyota execs to paddling a kayak, I have loved all of it.
The best part has been meeting new people and deepening friendships with some women I already knew. They include:
Cat Lincoln of @dearbadkitty
Lisa Morris Frame of A Daily Pinch
Maricris Guadagna of Zensible Mama
Terra of Terra the Bear
Amy Bradley Hole of Freaky Perfect
…and others too numerous to mention, because I have to go to bed.
I just wanted to take a minute to say thanks to Toyota and Clever Girls for this great opportunity and the great times I have had.
In case you think I’m BSing about Toyota, let me share with you my bedtime reading for the next few weeks – a book about which I am waaaay too excited:
Transforming Health Care, which is about a hospital that used the Toyota Production System to improve its quality and patient experience.
In case you don’t want to spend $37 on the book (or spend time reading it) here’s a really great, entertaining podcast that is an intro to how Virginia Mason Medical Center consulted with Toyota to make the lives of its cancer patients better.
The staff met with a Toyota Production System sensei and he took out the ball of blue yarn and a map of the hospital and told the staff to trace the path a cancer patient would take on a typical visit for chemotherapy treatment. When they were finished, it was an immensely powerful visual experience for everyone in the room. They all stared at this map with blue yarn snaking all over the place, doubling back on itself and making complicated twists and turns from one end of the building to the other. They understood for the first time that they were taking their sickest patients, for whom time was their most precious resource, and they were wasting huge amounts of it.
So this is me, signing off as a Toyota woman. But I’ll always have Kaizen in my heart.
Welcome to Suebob Air. Please remove your pants.
I love this Gawker article about the rules on the Abercrombie and Fitch CEO’s private jet. Models wearing flip-flops and popped collars. Coordinated sunglasses. Dog seating charts. AWESOME.
There’s just something so delicious about peeking behind the scenes at the craziness of the rich, isn’t there? I mean, we all have our little house rules, but somehow “put the towels on the shelf with the folded part out” just doesn’t have the same giggle-inducing power of imagining a flight staff made up of sullen models with their fourth button unbuttoned. Or is it buttoned? I can never keep track. This is why I don’t have my own private jet.
Oh, but if I did, I would have a few rules, you betcha I would. Let’s get started, shall we?
1. Flight attendants shall be off-duty firefighters. I know sometimes off-duty firefighters get called into work to save lives, and working my airline will make that impossible, but let’s keep our priorities straight about what is really important, shall we?
2. The pilots can be pilots. That works out nicely, don’t you think?
3. Flight attendants shall wear cycling jerseys. The cutest one gets the yellow Tour de France jersey. They can wear jeans on the bottom, though. They don’t have to wear cycling shorts. There’s something about coming eye-level with a fireman’s package in neon-colored spandex shorts as I sit in my cashmere-lined airplane seat that would put me off my Sumatran single-estate coffee.
4. But if they wear jeans, I wouldn’t be able to see their shaved legs. Shaved legs? On guys? Yep. It goes with the cycling jersey lust. It’s an addiction, people. I may have to rethink this jeans thing. THIS IS WHAT MAKES MY JOB RUNNING THIS AIRLINE SO DIFFICULT.
5. The flight attendants do not have to wear expensive cologne, but if they could find some of that original Speed Stick Deodorant for Men from BEFORE they screwed up the fragrance, that would take me to my Happy Place.
6. You don’t have to fold my toilet paper into points or fans or anything. Life is too damned short for people to be sitting around folding toilet paper on my behalf and besides, it squeems me out to think of people fondling the ends of my toilet rolls.
7. The dog sits where the dog wants. Period. At least that’s how it has always worked at my house, so I assume it will be that way on my airplane. (Remind me to put getting a small, neurotic dog with fussy fur on my to-do list).
8. Unlike Ambercrombie Air, anyone playing Phil Collins over the PA will be thrown out, no matter the altitude.
9. You may use the phrases “sure” or “just a minute,” but anyone saying “orientated” or “utilize” will be sent to the Naughty Chair.
10. You may not request that my seat be in the upright position before takeoff and landing. I will remove my seatbelt while taxiing. And I will stand by the restroom door any time I damned well please.
Sea Change
Oh, I feel old all right. My body feels old. Usually on foggy mornings after a night-time zumba class, I awake with my bones rattling about like dice in a cup. I stretch. I groan. I buy Aleve in the big bottle with the arthritis lid.
My attitude, though, feels pretty young to me. I feel like I can hang with the kids and be okay. I’m a COOL old person, damn it. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Until last night. I got my first taste of feeling really old. “Kids these days” old. Old as in “from a different generation.”
My friends and I went to see Adam Ant at our local concert theater. It’s a funky venue, an old movie palace, and despite its sucky sound system, it’s a decent place for a show. The last time I had seen Adam Ant was when he was still Adam and the Ants, in 1981 at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles. I figured it was time to catch up with him after 30 years.
Adam was still wearing the same damned pirate hat, which made me a little sad. After three decades, I figured he might be able to put it away, but nope, there it was, looking like a bad pirate costume from the Halloween rental, a little bashed and battered.
The truly odd part is that he had transmogrified from the Adam Ant MTV version of a pirate into the Jack Sparrow/Johnny Depp version, complete with Johnny Depp glasses. Oof. It made my heart squinch up a little to see. I asked CC later, “I dunno what I expected – an acoustic set on a tall wooden stool or something?” I’m glad it wasn’t, because Adam Ant Unplugged might have sent me fleeing into the street.
I was standing in the pit close to the stage when things got weird for me. People were using their phones, which I’m used to, sure, to shoot photos and video. But the girls in front of me – they were maybe 25 – were on Facebook the whole time. The whole entire concert.
They shot photos. They edited them. They tagged them. They commented on their friend’s photos. They uploaded video.
It was like they were at a show, but they weren’t at a show. They didn’t care about Adam Ant as the presenter. To them, it was THEIR show. They were the stars in their own media event. Adam Ant didn’t matter so much except as a backdrop to THEM.
This is a sea change from how my friends and I went to concerts when we were that age. We were thrilled to be in the presence of an artist we cared about. We were fans and we wanted the band to know we were there for them.
Don’t get me wrong. We wanted to prove to our friends that we were there, of course – thus the rise of the spectacularly overpriced concert tee.
But we also wanted that magic shared experience, to capture the magic in our hearts and souls, the ineffable, irreplacable feeling of being in the right spot when the magic happened. We wanted to be able to talk to people years later and say “You were there? Oh, man, I was there too. THAT was amazing.”
There’s a kind of subtle difference, I think, between “You had to be there” and “Look at how much fun I had there.” We wanted to be soaked in the experience. I wonder, if we had had cell phones or were allowed cameras, would be have been as obsessive about using them?
I only shot one photo last night. A blurry one, but I did it. Just to show those young whippersnappers that I could.
Suebob's Red Stapler 