tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11268062291988546232024-03-05T03:03:51.329-05:00The Sunday Night PoopOh hell.-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.comBlogger257125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-6221882792900457102023-04-02T13:51:00.006-04:002023-04-02T20:49:10.610-04:00Doing good all by myself<p>We've all heard that phrase "I can do bad all by myself," usually spoken by someone disgruntled within their partnered relationship. It never sat right with me, because isn't the idea that you can do good all by yourself, or at least do better than the current less than optimal situation? Why veer to saying "This is bad, but if it's going to be bad, I'll just do it alone." I want to understand, because I haven't had the thought of wanting to leave someone so I could just own credit for all the badness, alone. I've left relationships with the thought that being without the other person would be an improvement.</p><p>In the case of my marriage, I stayed on the fence for a long time, concerned that leaving would be akin to "fucking up my life" (no, I never understood that either, because why would leaving something that is not working be considered "fucking up your life?") This is the narrative we buy, though, and overcoming that to pursue an unseen life on the other side of what I had known for decades, was scary, especially when knowing that choice impacts people you love who had no vote in that decision. Fear can keep us safe. We are constantly trying to survive and fear can tell you, "Look, maybe you're not happy here, but it's familiar, and you know you can live in this situation. Just stick around awhile longer, and who knows, maybe at some point things will even improve." Leaving looked like, "Can I even pay all of the bills on my salary alone?" Living alone means thinking "I might die in alone that house and no one will know until someone happens to find me." It means all of the tasks I don't want to do will still have to be done by me, or I have to hire someone (which means picking up he phone and <i>calling </i>someone, and then <i>paying</i> them, ugh). It means if I fail to flush the toilet, and I open up the lid later to find a big shaggy turd stewing, there's no one to blame but me (and somehow this seems like a fitting, albeit stinky metaphor).</p><p>I'm not doing "bad" all by myself, I'm accountable to myself. I don't have a partner to blame when something goes sideways. When my kids are here, I don't have back up and have to plan accordingly. I've also reduced my exposure to emotional abuse, recurring unresolved issues, and the pressure of being a food shopper, meal preparer, alarm clock, sex provider, personal motivator, appointment rememberer, security blanket, and unskilled therapist for someone else. I've increased my responsibilities for running a household, while also reducing my personal stress level.</p><p>It isn't for everyone, and this isn't me looking down on those who are partnered and/or living in a full house. In my case, I missed that step of living alone as an adult, and I skipped it on purpose, out of fear, and because I believed I could tip my life towards security by pairing up with someone I believed was a solid bet. If you don't give yourself the chance to learn whether you could do something alone, you also spare yourself from learning if you might have failed at it. Time to find out.</p>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-88597148568734504512023-04-02T12:59:00.007-04:002023-04-02T13:07:43.714-04:00And then...<p>This is a follow up from the not at all predictable cliffhanger of a <a href="https://sundaynightpoop.blogspot.com/2023/03/good-bye-and.html">previous post</a>. As suspected, my coworker asked me out. As suspected, I am sure he's perfectly nice, but I don't have the energy or motivation to participate.</p><p>The asking out came with a lame job joke ("I'm applying to the position") and I let it slide, then, but when he repeated it later, I said, "I'm not hiring." Look, if I didn't laugh at the joke the first time, the solution is not to repeat it because you think I didn't hear it, but to understand I heard you just fine, I just didn't find it funny.</p><p>There's no "position." I feel like so many people know how to take those first steps to express interest, but they don't want to actually connect. I don't have confidence that many men can pursue friendship with a woman without treating it like it's a path to the big prize of romance. They want to look at a pretty face across a restaurant dinner table, hide the hard to accept parts of themselves, and have someone to receive the texts they send throughout the day.</p><p>I know how terribly jaded that sounds, and this guy did nothing wrong. He's entered my life at a time when my trust in men is at an all time low. I do not trust that I can communicate how I want to be treated, be heard, and then be treated in the way I requested. When he asked me out, I am pretty sure I let out a sigh and said "Get to know me." I said the selves we show each other in a work setting are not really who we are, it's just a small part. The friendly, funny, and yes, pleasant version of me one will encounter in a professional setting is the side I am choosing to show because I like to receive a paycheck. It is a means to an end. If you decide that's who I am, and then proceed to get angry or disappointed when I then begin to exhibit behaviors of a whole human being, that is on you. It's been known to happen.</p><p>Strike two, he asked my age, and when I said it, he replied, "You look good <i>for your age</i>." Sigggh. Please, take this as a hint from me and every other human being on the planet, adding "for your age" onto a compliment that could and should stand alone, is unnecessary and backhanded.</p><p>Strike three (let's just get there, shall we?), when discussing how Saturday turned into a "really beautiful day" he responded, "Ohhh, you mean beautiful like you?"</p><p>What is anyone supposed to say to that? Just, why? Is he saying something genuine or what he thinks I want to hear? Am I supposed to gush and blush? "At what point do I <a href="https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=cut%20sling%20load" target="_blank">cut slingload</a> and spare us both a lot of pain? John Mayer <a href="https://www.accessonline.com/articles/john-mayer-apologizes-for-racial-remark-in-interview-82072" target="_blank">is a douchebag</a>, but I have to agree with this statement: </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">"<span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 14px;">If you're pretty, you're pretty; but the only way to be beautiful is to be loving. Otherwise, it's just “</span><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #5f6368; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold;">congratulations</span><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 14px;"> about </span><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #5f6368; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold;">your face</span><span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 14px;">.”</span></p></blockquote>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-20121721444503364012023-03-26T12:47:00.016-04:002023-03-30T21:57:16.782-04:00Second chances (Alternate title: I don't want to think about your dog's penis, either)<p>When I first searched for a couples therapist, I was under the gun, understandably. It was in a crisis phase, a "Find someone or we are done" situation following my infidelity. I found a therapist who was holding an open house that week, and decided to use that meeting as a way to decide if she'd be right for us. I didn't know the things to look for when choosing a therapist, and figured I'd go with my gut feeling.</p><p>Long story short, she wasn't right for us. After eight months of weekly sessions, I left with the feeling that we had not made much progress that could be attributed to her advice, which amounted to "going back to the basics" and "Have date nights every week." The sessions felt unfocused and unproductive, without an aim to address the negative patterns that each of us fed into over the years. I side eyed the the book by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laura_Schlessinger#:~:text=Schlessinger's%20husband%20died%20November%202,being%20ill%20for%201.5%20years." target="_blank">Dr. Laura Schlessinger</a> that she had in the bookcase of the office where we sat for sessions, and her lack of knowledge of <a href="https://www.estherperel.com/">Esther Perel.</a> We stopped seeing her when she revealed that she was leaving her own marriage due to emotional abuse. She was able to point out negative comments from my husband as "jabs" and always advised me to "advocate" for myself, and I wondered how much of that guidance she was following for herself.</p><p>Nearly three years after we started seeing her, and after another round of counseling with a more competent couples therapist, I decided to write a review. I felt her couples therapy was a money grab, and while there may not have been any ill intentions, I felt compelled to say something. I gave her two out of five stars, and wrote:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="MarkOT, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #626366;">(Therapist) may be more helpful for adolescent, family or individual sessions, but I cannot recommend her for couples therapy. Most of her advice amounted to going on date nights and going "back to the basics," which, if you are there to change the old patterns in your marriage, isn't quite the advice needed. I felt strung along and kept as a client for months without clear goals or structure to the sessions, and at times it felt like my spouse and I were there for her entertainment.</span></p></blockquote><p>She responded:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><span face="MarkOT, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f7f7f7; color: #626366; font-size: 16px;">For any clients that struggle with emotional intimacy and closeness, continued arguing, and lack of progress, I continue to encourage them to "go back to the basics," and reexplore what helped them develop closeness in the first place. Without mutual respect and understanding it would be highly difficult to work on other issues. Further, I can assure you that there is NOTHING I find entertaining about the complexity of helping individuals, couples and families work through difficult situations!</span></blockquote><p>I didn't even criticize all of her work, just the part of it applicable to me. Usually therapists specialize in an area, especially when they are working with couples. Now, five years later, I had to find someone to see my oldest daughter. I thought, <i>maybe</i>? When my soon to be ex husband asked, "What about (Therapist)?" I took that as permission to proceed. I was hesitant because he did not get along with Therapist. With his suggestion, I reached out.</p><p>Admittedly, I felt guilty about leaving that negative review. I hardly ever do that, but felt it was a disservice not to speak up, especially after having been through sessions with a more focused couples therapist. Therapist seemed glad to hear from me, and had an appointment available within a week. "Isn't that a bad sign if she has appointments available?" my soon to be ex husband asked. I thought it was, too, but was willing to overlook it. </p><p>We went to the first appointment, took the half hour in the waiting room to fill out the slew of forms, and then when Therapist appeared, she was very warm and welcoming, and even gave me a side hug and asked how I was doing. Her tan and white pitbull, "Teddy Pendergrass," trotted out to greet us as well, and seemed friendly and not too hyper. I sat in the first 15 minutes of the session to give a brief update on current circumstances and get the spiel on not connecting with Therapist on social media or contacting her by texting. Then I excused myself because I didn't want to interfere with their time.</p><p>I sat in the waiting room while an overly fragrant candle burned and 90's R&B blared, presumably to disguise anything that might get discussed behind the paper thin walls of the office where she held her sessions. There were wooden motivational signs all around, some of them related to God, and candy, drinks and snacks available for the taking. Even if the decor and atmosphere were not really my style, it was warm and welcoming, and I hoped this would work out.</p><p>Despite the failed couples therapy, I tried to come up with positive points. She lived close to us so would have a good feel for our environment. She was prior military. Her daughter attended the same high school as my daughter, which I felt would ease some of the explaining my daughter might have to do regarding that environment. She was divorced, and would understand that aspect, too. Maybe the couples therapy seemed pointless but it had been the introduction to someone who might be able to help my daughter, I thought, in that "everything happens for a reason" way we do when trying to find meaning from past events.</p><p>We left, and my daughter seemed okay with Therapist and I hoped it would be a matter of warming up. I would be out of town for work for the next session. which I believed would be happening the following Tuesday. When the following Tuesday came, I checked my email and saw a message from Therapist asking when the next session would be, since she could not find it on her calendar. I replied, "It's today, isn't it?" When I re-checked the calendar invitation I saw that it was actually marked for March 28th, not February. Not a hard mistake to make, as the days of both months are in perfect alignment. Meanwhile I was telling my soon to be ex husband to make the drive to Therapist's office, just in case. Well, she wound up replying with an apology for the mix up and telling me my daughter's appointment would be rescheduled for the following day. "It happens to everyone" I said, extending grace.</p><p>Following the next appointment, my daughter called. "I don't think I want to go back to Therapist." She said. Upon further investigation, she shared that while waiting in the waiting room for her dad to get her, the dog, Teddy, not only jumped on her leg to hump it, he "finished" - leaving his DNA all over her favorite pair of jeans (insert horrified "scream" face emoji here). I was horrified, and while I have had male dogs before, they were neutered before anything like this could happen. I like dogs, but they aren't for everyone, and I don't think they should be left to run amok in an office where people are seeing you to address their personal psychological issues.</p><p>Her dad texted Therapist, but I also emailed her, using really gentle language. </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Hi (Therapist), I just spoke to Elise and she doesn’t want to continue therapy sessions. Thank you so much for accommodating us, we appreciate it.</span></p></blockquote><p>Her response:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: courier;">Sorry, my dog was sniffing her leg and humped it while I was speaking to a couple that showed up unannounced. I do hope she will reconsider. </span></div></div></div></blockquote><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="auto"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm sorry, what?! Not only does she casually downplay her dog humping of my daughter's leg as if it's no big deal, but she also blames a couple (who obviously did not read my review) that showed up unannounced. The grace period was over.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><blockquote style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" type="cite"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: courier;">When I talked to (my daughter), her description was much more extensive and she was upset. She stated she’s uncomfortable returning, and I respect how she feels. </span></div><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: courier;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: courier;">We do love animals and understand they will exhibit certain behaviors, but in a therapy setting, clients are in a vulnerable state and need to feel safe and secure to build trust. I am sure you understand.</span></div></div></blockquote><p>As a therapist I would hope she would understand this, but the lack of sensitivity (or even an offer to talk about what happened) in her emailed response seemed to confirm what I sensed and described in my negative review. I paired that with how quickly she was able to make an appointment, her "I do hope she will reconsider" comment and her joking that she remained open for in person sessions and repeatedly got sick throughout the pandemic. The therapists I saw both went virtual as soon as things shut down, and I'd think if you were solid enough at your work, your business would survive that. Sometimes you believe you might have been wrong about someone and you eventually get the opportunity to learn that you probably had them right.</p><p>I won't leave another review, as this incident is so specific it would be obvious it was me, so I'm sharing it here. You're welcome!</p></div></div></div></div>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-47586915879859655262023-03-26T09:55:00.008-04:002023-03-30T22:00:10.391-04:00Bumbling<p>After I separated from my husband and moved out, the next logical step seemed to be getting myself back out there. I decided to create an online dating profile on Bumble. The app appealed to me because the onus is on the woman to swipe right, and only the woman can initiate messaging. I figured, by giving us the power to choose instead of being chosen, it might be a more amenable experience.</p><p>I lasted a week.</p><p>The free version of the app allowed you to build a profile that consisted of six photos, and a selection of ways to describe yourself, to include sharing your political views, your education level, life habits, zodiac sign, religion and whether you have kids and want more, or not. There were also a few prompts that gave a "fun facts about me" vibe, and finally, you shared your geographical location. It seemed like you could provide just enough information to pique interest while leaving room for some mystery.</p><p>I reached out to four people (remember, I can only message those I selected who also matched with me, and I had to initiate). Two didn't respond at all. In one case, it was brief, as this guy wanted to find "the one" and have babies, and that is not my goal. We were kind to each other and wished each other well. The last one messaged back, and this went on for a few days until it felt too tedious to continue. He went between trying unsuccessfully to initiate sexy talk (Me: It's rainy and gray today and I just want to take a nap. Him: Rain is sexy), or commenting that his son was home and hungry so he was going to cook him some wings (Yeah, I get it, teen boys have bottomless pits for stomachs), or a glimpse on his actual opinion about how the pandemic and society's reaction to it was pretty disappointing and disastrous. I tried to cut him loose and got a bit of a sob story about him not finding love, and out of pity, I stuck around, only to get more lame sexy talk and comments about having to cook wings for his son. I eventually disabled my account. I am sure this guy was perfectly fine and I was the problem, and more specifically that these kinds of apps are not compatible with my style of getting to know and feel interested in men.</p><p>In my week of scrolling, I saw countless car selfies (suspect), plenty of listings of "Tacos" as a favorite food (hairy variety, no doubt - I'm surprised no one said "clams"), and worst of all, the statement "No Drama," which I took as a way of telling someone to shut up before you even exchange words. One guy had every photo of himself posed with a wide-eyed open-mouthed expression, his rendition of <a href="https://www.dictionary.com/e/fictional-characters/blue-steel/" target="_blank">Blue Steel</a>. I couldn't tell if that was a joke or an honest attempt at looking attractive and sensual. There's a lot of scrolling to do before finding someone that has an inkling of potential to be someone you might want to meet.</p><p>During my swiping, I found my husband's profile. I figured he downloaded the app because our shared subscription probably showed that I had downloaded it. In one last ditch attempt to see if I cared (I didn't), when we were still living together, he admitted to downloading Tinder and creating a profile. I took screenshots of his description of himself on Bumble. It's always interesting when you know someone intimately, to see what they decide to show to the public. Most of it was accurate, and some of it was not appealing (if you brag about having long work hours, I'm not impressed, or interested, and I'm wondering what you're trying to prove).</p><p>I don't know why I bothered with any of it, except that I miss the connection of going out once in awhile, and it might have been fun to find a person I could meet up with on occasion. I like going to movies and being able to lean my head on a shoulder, or going to dinner and flirting. I miss feeling attraction, and at the same time, the app seems so limited, and flat. Someone's poor description of themselves might cause me to overlook them entirely, or choosing someone might result in conversation that goes nowhere. I don't have the time, inclination or patience, and swiping through people like I'm shopping on Amazon feels really icky to me. It's another version of having to kiss a lot of frogs before finding a prince. What we don't say is, maybe no one needs a prince after all.</p><p><br /></p>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-80571743968393960322023-03-25T17:55:00.004-04:002023-03-25T17:59:16.759-04:00Goodbye and...?<p> Last week at work, we learned that one of us had found a new job and would be leaving for greener pastures. His <a href="https://sundaynightpoop.blogspot.com/2021/12/had-coworker-who-started-working-at-my.html" target="_blank">predecessor</a> had also left the job in a similar manner. We can't seem to keep that position filled, and hopefully the next person stays awhile longer.</p><p>I suspect the person leaving has a crush. That is not my ego speaking, it is nearly 48 years of finally becoming observant enough to pick up on the cues. When we aren't on a project together, he makes a point to peek into my office in the morning and again in the afternoon, usually a "good morning" and "See you tomorrow?" type thing. He complimented me on my smile once. He's subtle but I get that feeling.</p><p>After our staff meeting when our manager made the announcement, the person leaving stopped by my office with a little small talk and some mention that he needed to talk to me, with a little joking about making things awkward. He didn't elaborate, and I didn't ask. Stay tuned!</p>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-30382770709964201312023-03-12T19:27:00.010-04:002023-03-13T16:18:36.852-04:00I don't want to think about your penis<p>Flirting is a tricky thing. I remember a conversation with someone distinguishing what counted as harassment and what counted as welcome flirtation, and my opinion was, the distinction is based on whether the person receiving the attention wants it, or not. I know that admission offers fodder to anyone who feels entitled to consideration by anyone they encounter, and it feeds into that idea that you can get away with anything as long as you're attractive and charismatic enough to bend the limits of what is considered appropriate.</p><p>The title of this post is based on that long standing assumption that the mention of a man's foot size corresponds to his penis size. In a fairly unprofessional environment where I no longer work, one guy would regularly ask one of my coworkers his shoe size until one day the coworker responded in exasperation, "I wear a size 9 and I have a small penis" (I <strike>cannot</strike> will not confirm or deny this). I remember joking in college with someone I was head over heels for, when he said "You know what they say about a man who has big feet," and on cue, I quipped, "He wears big shoes!" For the first time in my life I'd achieved perfect comedic timing, and with my crush, no less. We laughed and laughed. I can confirm he was well endowed, but also extremely popular, funny, and contrary to what all of that implies, terribly insecure.</p><p>When I <i>briefly</i> went out with a former coworker a year and a half ago, I noticed he made mention that his feet were "DDD" - wide. He favored basketball shoes outside of the steel toed work boots he'd worn at our site, and paired with his not so tall stature, they looked a bit like clown shoes. I never understood bragging about the width, except that he could have been alluding to the girth of his peen. Every time he raised the topic, I felt revolted, because when you don't like someone that way, you don't want to think of anything except a Ken doll situation in their pants. That alone should have been a sign for me to cut my losses, but I stubbornly hung on. When he finally self imploded via text, I felt relieved it was done, and best of all, that I no longer had to hear about the width of his feet and experience the corresponding unwelcome thought of his penis. </p>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-64948196638271510242023-02-21T19:56:00.025-05:002023-02-22T17:30:26.647-05:00Solving for X<p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: verdana;">When the pandemic started, I initially believed I would finally read all of the books I'd been meaning to read, which of course, didn't happen. I didn't learn a new language or become a skilled baker. Years late to the game, I started listening to podcasts. </span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: verdana;">I can't do audiobooks, my attention scatters and I lose the plot, but shorter listening commitments aren't too challenging for me. I subscribed to a lot of love story related podcasts at first. One was the New York Times Modern Love podcast. At the end of 2020, while living separated in my house, was <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/12/16/style/modern-love-podcast-holiday-desire-mistake.html">episode #256, "Desire is Never the Mistake</a>.</span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: verdana;">The narrator describes a story of flirtation, and the magic of being made to feel special, followed by disappointment and shame. The lesson in all of it, "Allow yourself to want things, no matter the risk of disappointment. Desire is never the mistake."</span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: verdana;">In the epilogue to the essay, the narrator informs us that her life is full, complete with a husband, kids, a minivan and a mortgage payment. She kept allowing herself to want things, and was rewarded with her happy ending.</span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: verdana;">Following this essay from 2007, there is present day interview with the author, Paula McLain. Before getting into the update to the update, she summarizes her childhood in foster care after being abandoned by her parents. Her belongings were in a black plastic trash bag, and every time she entered a new home with new "parents" she would have to figure out how to be tolerated by them. It meant being polite, consuming food that she may not have liked, doing whatever was necessary to avoid offending these strangers she she could feel safe.</span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: verdana;">The way she described that made so much sense. When we are young, not all of us are loved in ways that allow us to be ourselves. We have to learn personalities, and figure out how to survive in the circumstances we didn't have the agency to change. When you grow up, and do have greater control over your life, how do you break out of that mindset when it seems like we are programmed for it? How do we even recognize we are doing it? How do we embrace this idea that desire is never the mistake while we are simultaneously taught to appreciate what we have? How do we learn to be grateful for our lives as they and also accept that it is okay to long for something different?</span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: verdana;">On the other side of it, we scold ourselves for being cautious. "Do it scared!" "Shoot your shot!" "Ships were not meant to stay in a harbor!" Someone will be there to spout off a snappy quote and judge you, no matter which way you go.</span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: verdana;">In the interview, the author revealed she was no longer married, and in her words, she chose to divorce because she "was bigger than the marriage was allowing her to be." It's a bold statement for a woman. We aren't supposed to want to be "bigger." We are supposed to erase our names, shrink into "Mrs.," and settle into the wholesomeness of familyhood. We are supposed to be content with the husband, kids, minivan and mortgage, but what if we discover we're not? Then you're selfish, guilty of the sin of "wanting to have it all." How do you stop consuming a life you don't actually like? </span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: verdana;">The author shared that this essay had been released before launching her bestselling book, and that her decision, which she admitted felt scary at the time, had allowed her to prioritize her career. She was also celibate in an effort to stop what she called "solving for X." X was the promise of a safe, secure, fulfilled, joyful existence. Following the approved equation - the things we are told result in obtaining X, <i>do not always result in achieving X</i>. By being alone, she prevented herself from making the error of laying blame on a partner for failing to provide her with the elusive X. She closed by saying, "Security is only being able to live with yourself as you are, and like all the parts of yourself without turning away."</span></p><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was a timely message at the close of 2020, a year we had started out feeling fairly normal. We eventually learned how flimsy everything was, our healthcare, our schools, our need to protect each other from a virus that ranged from mild to fatal, depending on the circumstances of individuals who caught it. We had started off hoarding toilet paper and baking bread - physical things representing comfort and nourishment. We virtuously wanted to make this extended time at home into an opportunity without recognizing how hard it would be, and how much from the "before times" we would miss. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">So many of us wanted keep up the distractions long enough to make it back to normal life, while simultaneously learning that the safety and security --</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the "X"--</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">of "normal" life was an illusion. </span></div><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">With the busy-ness of the old life gone, I had no choice but to look at myself and re-assess my existence. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I hung onto podcasts to thwart loneliness as I worked from home in one of the bedrooms in a house full of loved ones and a marriage I wanted to end. Like Paula McLain, I was afraid to make that choice. Why wasn't what I had working for me? Why didn't I feel more grateful? </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">What's wrong with me?</i></div><div style="color: #222222;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I've listened to that podcast episode at least a half dozen times now, feeling the hurt and heartbreak of that holiday story every time. The interview with the author that followed is the real lesson, that there is no formula for X, no narrow path to achieve a safe, secure, happy life, and <b>that</b> is freedom.</span></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-27135127750364990532022-12-26T09:07:00.012-05:002023-02-21T22:21:12.030-05:00Two years ago<p> <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">On Christmas Eve, my phone showed a prompt to look back at memories from two years ago. I usually ignore the prompt and continue with my day, but the first picture in the series was of the bed in the basement room of the house where I used to live. The headboard was made by my mother's father, and the night tables match my dresser, part of an antique set that my mom insisted on buying in the '80's. The bedspread was orange, and the sheets were reddish purple, a set my mom kept on her bed before she died, and in the center of the foot of my bed was my cat, the only thing there that migrated from that bed to my current one. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I slept there because I was separated from my husband in my own house. At first, it started with him moving into the basement, complete with silent treatment. When he decided he wanted to talk, I said I wanted to separate. I had voiced that I was on the fence multiple times, and this time I was definitive. It was two days before my birthday, and I decided I didn't want to "work on it" anymore. I didn't want to owe anymore. I did not want the conflict of fitting myself into a marriage that seemed to make everyone else comfortable except me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Several days later he set up a Zoom call with friends to celebrate my birthday, later claiming he was still in denial over everything. But that wasn't the point, either. The zoom call was not my style, it was something forced on me, something I hated. I don't like surprises or being the center of attention, or having a cast of thousands acknowledge me. I just want the few special people in my circle, whose connections I've cultivated, to know me, love me, and accept me (and check me when it's needed).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">It seemed like yet another glaring reminder that we were attached, but not connected. That he was big on grand gestures that made him look good, without asking himself if it was what I wanted. My sister was the one to warn me about the call, the same way she warned me about the surprise baby shower he tried to throw for me when our first kid was on the way. She knew me, and knew I'd hate this flavor of celebration. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">In the first couples therapy session after I told him I wanted to separate, the couples therapist kept reminding him that only one person has to want out for the marriage to end. There was no mutuality needed. One person wanted out, and that was enough. This was how many of our sessions went. He would have an issue, and she would gently remind him. He often claimed that she was taking my side. Or, that someone else (or the therapist) had influenced my decision to leave. It was often that way, his idea that I didn't have a mind of my own, and other voices were what solidified my choices. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">After that session, he insisted that I tell him about all of the ways he messed up during the course of our relationship. It was the first time he'd actually heard me. We were the classic case of one partner committing a massive, fatal stab wound while the other made their partner bleed out slowly with the survivable but ever present pain of a thousand papercuts. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I had an affair, which was the thing big enough to land us in couples therapy. I don't mean to sound casual about that, it wasn't. It was devastating, hurtful, destructive and deceitful. It's also more common than anyone wants to admit. It's the thing that will make your spouse never look at you quite the same again. I make no excuses for myself, as there are better, more responsible, less damaging ways to address your issues before heading down that path. My own actions rendered me voiceless for a long time. I didn't feel I had a right to stand up for myself or ask for what I needed, or be the one to leave the marriage, after what I did. If I brought up "old shit," my audacity to even bring it up would be met with incredulity, and in one instance, a hole punched into the headboard at six in the morning. But is "old shit" old shit if it's never resolved to satisfaction? Is it really "old shit" if it keeps repeating?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I finally voiced the "old shit" and he listened, claiming he'd never realized it was all connected, or that it was damaging and hurtful to me. In his mind, his offenses "one offs," and then, in his mind, the couple kisses and makes up. In my mind, "make up" means the problem is resolved enough for both parties to actually want to kiss again. When I'd get angry before, I'd be dismissed as jealous or overreacting, petty, and once, "spiteful." Now something was at stake for him, and he listened. Now that I was on the edge of the cliff, screaming, he finally saw and heard me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">That was a pattern this couples therapist saw immediately. A parent-child pattern, was what she called it. The "parent" in the relationship acts a certain way and the "child" acts out in response. If I'd pointed out an issue in a calmer fashion, it was brushed off. Not serious, not a big deal. If it escalated into yelling, and obvious upset, then it was something to be taken seriously. I didn't want it to be that way, and here we were again, with me saying I wanted to separate, and him finally taking it seriously, despite months of me admitting I was on the fence. It was fitting, one last confirmed display of that old established pattern. Something about that made me feel despair. Even in this last ditch communication, I had to go to exhaustive measures to be heard and taken seriously.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">He'll always claim he was blindsided. And, because he would throw the empty threat of divorce into an argument, that he assumed I was doing the same, not remembering that I didn't operate like that. It was also a way of completely disregarding that I had maintained a deeply intimate relationship with someone else for a long time, and if that isn't an indicator that someone has a foot out of the door, I'm not sure what else to say.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I didn't intend for this post to pan out how it did. I was going to do a comparison of that basement bedroom photo with the progress I've made, the house I've bought, the new, bright and peaceful place where I sleep, and the lack of regret over my decision to move out.</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none; font-size: medium;">I’m not sharing this to make my marriage to look bad, or to say I regret getting married. What I learned recently, it isn’t about getting everything right in the relationship, but how the couple repairs together. When he said or did something that felt harmful, and I pointed it out, he would see it as an attack and defend himself, and sometimes blame his reaction on me. Getting acknowledgement like, "I see how it can feel that way" was an impossible feat. I had made the grave mistake of believing his sensitivity equaled the ability to be empathetic.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Marriage isn't terrible. It can be beautiful when both partners respect and support each other, and have founded their connection on friendship. I question if I ever had a friendship with my husband. It certainly didn't feel like any of my other friendships. Sometimes it felt like a competition, or like he had to bring me down a few pegs, or side with someone else if I came to him with a personal conflict. He would always argue this with, "Do you trust me with your life?" which sounds monumental, but it's a cheap question. We trust strangers with our lives. If I can't reliably share something with you and trust that you can see and validate my perspective, or feel that you are in my corner, even if you disagree, then I can't trust you as my life partner. Others may be able to do this, as these things roll off of them, but I need that, and wanting that isn't too much.</span></p>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-33158036894649589102022-06-16T11:20:00.008-04:002022-12-26T09:24:50.418-05:00Even COVID didn't stop a pushy door-to-door salesperson<p>After over two years of dodging COVID-19, I caught it. I'm guilty of attending several indoor social gatherings without a mask after being vaccinated and boosted. I have to say peer pressure, even at almost 47 years old, plays a role here. But I didn't catch it during an optional fun social gathering. I caught it at a fairly large work meeting, which I volunteered to attend to brief a presentation.</p><p>In retrospect, all of that seems like a bad idea. I had to drive to a different location, sit in a large conference room with people all day, and worst of all, be the last speaker of the day. I'm an introvert and I like routine. None of this makes sense, but I did it, and what was my reward? A hot scratchy throat, sneezing, body aches and a positive COVID test. </p><p>I self reported to the Maryland website and received instructions to isolate for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=waEC-8GFTP4">five days</a>. Hermit permit granted, I guess.</p><p>In the evening of day two of feeling like crap, the doorbell rang. I'm in a three story townhouse, so even if I rushed to get to the door from my third floor bedroom, it would take awhile. I looked out of my second story front windows to see if there was a vehicle to indicate some sort of delivery, but there was nothing. Then I heard them use the door knocker. And finally, impatiently, a loud cutesy "Shave and a haircut" rap at the door. </p><p>I cracked the door wearing pajamas and my KN95 mask. It was a young male person with brown curly hair in that signature uniform of people who go door to door on summer evenings. They carry clipboards or electronic tablets, wearing sweat-wicking polo shirts with the company logo, and khakis. The goal is to inform you of a problem they noticed with your house, that a neighbor has used their services, and if they can just have some of your time, they can give you an estimate, and usually a few discounts *if you act soon* on the estimate for the solution to the problem that you didn't even know was a problem until they graced your doorstep.</p><p>What was it going to be? I needed new siding? Windows? A roof? It didn't matter. I stood in the cracked doorway and stated: "I have COVID. This isn't a good time."</p><p>Any normal human being would have said thank you and walked away. These are not normal human beings. They are fueled by pushy desperation and the effects of being subjected to the heat and humidity of the midAtlantic summer. He kept talking.</p><p>"A neighbor... I noticed spiders on your house... <i>something something</i>."</p><p>I was incredulous. He was still trying to steal my time, and willing to put himself at risk of catching COVID to do so! Aside from that, my house is situated in what should be the woods, so there will be spiders. And, I like spiders. </p><p>"Please don't do this to me," I said. "Go to the next house, please."</p><p>He looked miffed. It wasn't like I removed my mask and coughed in his face. I was trying to do both of us a favor.</p><p>"Okay, enjoy" he said in a "Whatever" tone of voice.</p><p>Yeah, thanks, I really <i>enjoy</i> being sick. I shut the door with a little more force than necessary and locked it for emphasis.</p><p>I'm getting better now. My daily text from Maryland told me it's okay to stop isolating, but I'll savor my time indoors awhile longer.</p>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-30786607106475584142022-02-09T18:01:00.014-05:002023-02-15T12:25:49.586-05:00Compromise creep<p> In life, there is no do over machine. No unringing the bell, or taking back certain events. What is done is done. There's an analogy about relationships that I like, that involves a comparison to cement. In the early days, the cement is pliable. But the things that happen in those early days can wind up affecting the shape and state of the cement once it's set.</p><p>When I first moved in to my soon to be husband's apartment, I had come from Korea, from my first and last duty assignment. His place was decorated but some of the things on the walls were from other women. When I wanted to make his place our place, I removed some of these things. </p><p>The centerpiece, a pen and ink drawing of a scene in the African grasslands, of hunters with their spears and shields, and the words "My Father's People" underneath, was a gift from an ex girlfriend. Her father was from Burundi, so this cliched little scene was possibly rooted in something genuine. It was a college project that she was going to throw away, and he asked her if he could have it. A nice enough story, and at the same time, I didn't want this hanging on the wall in my home. When I approached him to figure out what we could do with it, he revealed that his parents paid $80 to have it framed. My suggestion was to take it down, but store it and take it with us the next time we visited his parents. </p><p>Marriage is about compromise, and I thought this was fair enough. At the time, he agreed.</p><p>Here was my shortcoming: I was insecure. This was my first (and supposedly last) big real life relationship with someone. I don't have a problem with exes, but there are exceptions. This one in particular was a fame seeker. Once, my husband said, "Did you know I dated an Olympic skier?" What I felt wasn't jealousy. I didn't want to be an activist-actress-artist-athlete. I wanted my husband to stop flaunting past conquests in an attempt to see if I cared. I wanted protection, not provocation.</p><p>And there was my husband's shortcoming. He liked throwing out bits and pieces of his past like chum, to see if I'd go into a frenzy. There wasn't a consideration of my much slimmer past, or of how he might have felt had I casually tossed out similar tidbits. It often felt like his way of making sure I knew what I had: a man who was good enough to date an almost famous Olympic athlete. I now realize this not so subtle marketing of his worth was his own way of dealing with being insecure.</p><p> Months after the compromise, he was deployed, and I was home, tending to our pets and the apartment. The art was stowed safely in the laundry room, and life was peaceful. Then, in an email, my husband decided to share an idea. "Let's keep that artwork," he proposed. "It may be worth something some day. We could even send our kids to college."</p><p>There's a thing in my professional life called "Requirements creep." It describes how an organization may want something to fulfill a defined need, but over time that something can balloon into more than the original idea, with cost and time needed for development of that magical solution reaching unreasonable proportions. This was compromise creep. I felt my offer was fair, a meet-in-the-middle fix, and now my husband felt it was acceptable to override that with what he wanted: to keep the artwork.</p><p>The more I thought about this, the angrier I became, until one evening, I pulled that artwork from its cozy hiding spot, unscrewed the frame, and thoroughly stomped the "might be worth something someday" creation into "definitely worth nothing now" oblivion. It felt damned good to put my foot through that foam board. I wish that piece of art had been a lot larger to prolong my satisfaction of destroying it. I fully understand why <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rage_room">rage rooms </a>have become a thing.</p><p>Was it immature? Certainly. Did I let my feelings do the talking? Absolutely. Did it calm the fury? For a little while.</p><p>I told my husband what I did, and he made sure to say "It's okay. I'm not angry." <i>How magnanimous.</i></p><p>We never sorted through this issue in depth. This "cement moment" kept coming back. After a certain point, past some unspoken statute of limitations, a neat little trick happens: you become the problem for dredging up "old shit." In this relationship autopsy phase (we are separated now, over twenty years later), I look at who I was, how I felt, and why I acted how I did. I look at what fed my insecurities, how poorly equipped I was to sort through my feelings and articulate them, how so many seemingly little slights can erode a relationship over time. Often when I revisit these cement moments, I'm angry at myself for not doing a more solid job of standing up for myself.</p><p>It all sounds foolish, but what I know now, after decades of this relationship, and so many years of living, is that the surface issues we argue about aren't really the source of the conflict.</p><p>Here's what I should have asked:</p><p>Why was my compromise not enough?</p><p>Why did he feel so entitled to push for what he wanted, to keep the artwork?</p><p>What was so special about this artwork that he thought it would be worth enough to put theoretical children through college?</p><p>Why couldn't he ask himself how he'd feel, had the situation been reversed, and we kept some bound-for-the-trash art project from one of my exes at my insistence?</p><p>Given how everything panned out (and I am responsible for my own share of offenses), I can also recognize how young we were, how ill equipped we were to commit to a serious relationship when we did, and how many of these seemingly minor missteps wind up forever trapped in the cement, because the chance to smooth them over has long since passed.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-1569109677129342212022-02-08T17:33:00.006-05:002022-02-09T09:14:33.623-05:00The bad penny<p>The walking red flag that I used to work with left the job in August last year. After he left, we maintained some sort of relationship, which crashed and burned mid November last year. What's lasted longer than that failed connection is his job vacancy.</p><p>Last week, my manager informed me that he was trying to figure out how to fill a couple of job openings. Our team has become a skeleton crew, and now we are spread thinner than Piggly Wiggly peanut butter (credit for this phrase goes to a lovely southern-born former coworker of mine). Among the candidates under consideration is Monsieur Red Flag himself.</p><p>When he left in August, he took on a significant pay raise, and a significantly shorter commute. Through the grapevine (my manager), I heard that his company has been bought out, and the division he supports will be moving to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. So Red Flag is inquiring about his old job, but with updated terms and conditions.</p><p>A raise, two months a year of time off (to visit Thailand, of course), and the knowledge that, when his mom dies, he will be retiring and moving straight to Thailand.</p><p>I wanted so badly to spill the beans, to tell my manager that there is no room at the inn for this angry little man. To show the tirade of text messages that resulted when he got into a huff about checking with me if it was okay to have a phone call. To reveal that this guy had a lot of nerve to even consider coming back after burning the bridge with me in such a spectacular, unrecoverable fashion.</p><p>Instead, I kept a poker face (thank you, KN95 mask, for protecting the lower half of my face in more ways than one), and said "My concern is that he would leave us again for something better paying, and closer to home." My manager added that he wanted "fresh blood," and while Red Flag is fresh, he certainly doesn't fit that description.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-7744326993587146482021-12-26T18:31:00.007-05:002023-02-19T17:29:40.027-05:00Red flags (in no particular order)<p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li> "I like what you like."</li><li>Explaining that you have to go to the ATM because the $1042 in cash you planned to carry was forgotten at home</li><li>Too many gifts</li><li>Expensive gifts too early</li><li>Having an entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language</li><li>An interest in coins, where you let it slip that these are essential when the banks fail</li><li>Having a loose panel on your car that you didn't get repaired, it flies off and then you take it to the shop, using your auto insurance.</li><li>Being asked questions and avoiding them</li><li>Saying you planned to be at the get together from your old job, but when the date is changed, you now can't make it because it's not worth your daily pay ("I'm not giving up $450 to go eat chili")</li><li>Complaining about "losing" $30K due to taxes, because you didn't get to work overseas for a full year. And why did you have to come home? Because your dad died. But please, let's focus on the $30K.</li><li>Telling a full grown woman that she's going to "blossom."</li><li>Giving a full grown woman two men's size L shirts (one previously worn)</li><li>Finding a new job and leaving a biohazard in the breakroom refrigerator when you leave, consisting of all the food you placed there and failed to remove over several months</li><li>Telling someone to "ask you anything" - instead of just openly sharing the need to know information naturally</li><li>Getting angry at someone for not asking you about your entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language</li><li>Wearing jeans with a hole in it at a nice dinner (okay, it's petty but I don't think it's too much to ask)</li><li>Insisting on "gifting" someone a handicap placard that they don't need at all, and then being miffed that the person won't use it, on principle</li><li>Offering unsolicited swimming lessons when the person you are interested in reveals she is not a strong swimmer</li><li>Jarring spelling errors, while texting (I know, petty. These are *my* red flags)</li><li>Saying "I don't like cats" to a person who has one</li><li>Saying "I think I know why you're in my life" to someone, and then never actually sharing that thought.</li><li>Excessive use of ellipses while texting</li><li>Going on a texting rant, because the woman you're texting does not appear to have the same feelings for you, and also bashing her preferred method of communication because she's a "grown fucking woman." Throwing in insults about different generations, even though you are both Gen X</li><li>Starting a very personal story about the woman who keeps your entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language, and how this woman had never been kissed "on the mouth" (I did not get to hear if that status changed, or he he'd had anything to do with that)</li><li>Saying "Good night" and "Enjoy your transition" when there is a hint of conflict</li><li>Disappearing for two days after getting angry, and explaining that you had to "re-enter your body" to get to a place to be able to apologize </li><li>Saying "I'm going to die there" when discussing your entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language</li></ul><p></p>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-31318867457123301202021-12-26T18:06:00.010-05:002023-02-25T11:41:34.006-05:00Failure to blossom<p> I had a coworker who started working at my job at the beginning of the year. He seemed nice enough, and he seemed competent at his work - an asset, not a liability. Our team was small, and if you could bring more knowledge than your hired position required, you were extra valuable.</p><div>I got to know him more and more during a test. We were testing a ventilator, and it was fairly simple to operate, but with pandemic rules, making sure we had enough people scheduled to run tests could be a challenge. He wasn't officially part of our test team, but he was required to be on our site every day, so he recorded data and monitored any faults that popped up.</div><div><br /></div><div>We bonded over things we had in common. His car was an updated version of a car I had for 13 years. The body was even the same vivid pearlescent metallic light blue. His parents were white and black, but the reverse of mine - his mother was black and his father was white, and he made sure to point out that when they had married, interracial marriage was still illegal in 20 states.We were both former military, and both of us seemed to develop a mutual appreciation for each other as time went on.</div><div><br /></div><div>As we became more familiar with each other, gifts would appear on my desk. San Pellegrino sparkling seltzer, in matte metallic cans, in varying flavors. Izze soda cans. This progressed to bowls of fruit - cherries and grapes and berries, when they were in season. I would snap photos and brag to friends. Look at what C brought me!</div><div><br /></div><div>When I later shared the photos of these offerings with my sister, she commented that something in me was compelled to document this. Maybe because, after two decades with someone who didn't do this for me (and in fact, it felt like he often took more than what was fair), I needed evidence that there were men who were thoughtful, and generous, and knew how to rinse and prepare bowls of fruit for other people. I know, basic shit, but the bar can go very low if you forget what that looks like.</div><div><br /></div><div>We continued like this, with offerings. He sometimes brought in larger fruit, which he would cut up and share with the entire team. I thought this was especially gracious, a version of breaking bread. C brought pineapple, watermelon and cantaloupe. He loved cherries, and a few times if I found some at a good price, I'd bring them in, and leave them in the break room refrigerator, for everyone, but really, for C.</div><div><br /></div><div>I liked seeing his car parked at the test site when I would pull up to the gate. I liked the days when we would do outdoor work. I didn't like when we would take a break and he would send me inside. I didn't really like the nickname he'd come up with, "Lady G." I didn't like when he acted like I was doing anyone a favor, doing that kind of work. It was part of my job, and I had accepted the position knowing there would be manual labor, with sweat and dirt involved. As long as I wore the right clothes and could shower at the end of the day, what was the big deal? I was getting a very nice salary for a break from sitting behind the desk. I didn't like feeling singled out because I was the only woman out there.</div><div><br /></div><div>C found a new job in August. I was disappointed for our team, because we needed him, but also happy that his commute would be much better, and that he'd gotten a raise. Before he left, he said he wanted to talk to me, but in person. If you're an overthinker, you already know it's terrible when someone reveals that they want to talk, but you have to wait, and they give no indication about what will be discussed. So your mind develops a hundred imaginary scenarios while you wait for the real one.</div><div><br /></div><div>We talked on a Monday. "I wanted to stay in touch after I leave. I have cookouts, and I'd like to invite you over for those. And your husband, of course," he added, ensuring that I knew there was no disrespect. I was separated, but I wasn't sure if he knew that. He would joke and flirt, like the time when he saw me I cleaning the front door of the large trailer building, where we worked. "I wish you weren't married!" He'd said. </div><div><br /></div><div>I treated him to lunch at a local Caribbean place as a farewell. I drove, and we joked a little, sitting across the table from each other. Away from work, I shared that I was separated from my husband. Well, he said, smiling, "Then you and the girls are invited to the cookout." I laughed.</div><div><br /></div><div>I received a barrage of parting gifts as he made his way out of the building for the last time. Silver dollars, a metal tool to prevent having to touch icky, germy things when you're out in public. Hand soap and hand sanitizer from Bath and Body works. He even gave me a handicap placard for my car, which expired in 2029, and that I knew I would never use (I gave it back, and sensed he felt hurt or rejected that I could refuse such a valuable gift. I will not take a parking spot someone else might actually need). I left a small gift bag with my favorite things from Trader Joe's. I hope you like them, I'd said. "Whatever you like, I like," he replied. It seems like a sweet thing to say, but it felt completely off.</div><div><br /></div><div>After he left, we went out a few times. I wasn't attracted, but thought he was nice enough, and maybe there would be a slow build to something warmer. If not, the friendship would be good, too, not in a consolation prize way, but because I didn't seem to have luck with male friends. C certainly seemed open to it.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first time we went out, I chose a restaurant at what felt like a middle meeting point. Coal fire pizza. We sat outside, under the harsh lighting of the the strip mall walkway, and ate and talked. He wanted to walk around afterwards, so we drove to a nearby outdoor shopping area, which had a nice path around a small manmade lake. That became our place. We went there two more times, to walk after dinner. The other times we went out, I met him closer to the city, and finally, for lunch near his new job, on Veterans Day.</div><div><br /></div><div>We primarily stayed in touch by messaging. He didn't have an iPhone, so the messages I sent were glaring green. His claim was that he didn't like iPhones because he didn't want a phone smarter than he was, but that's a strange thing to say - aren't all of these devices smarter than we are by now? He certainly wasn't choosing an old flip phone to stay in touch. I found some of his claims, even joking, to be weird, or nonsensical, or dare I say it, bold-faced lies. He said he didn't know if someone could have a Top Secret clearance if they'd had a DUI. I said I didn't know. Then he said, "I have a Top Secret clearance and I had a DUI." I said, "So you do know." Whether he was bragging about his clearance, or his DUI, I don't know. I threw that red flag into the pile with the others I'd seen.</div><div><br /></div><div>We talked on the phone a handful of times. He shared that he had feelings for me, but didn't know what to do with that. I said, "You don't have to do anything." We are so often fooled into thinking we have to act right away, DO something, urgently! Shoot your shot! Now or never! The truth is, you don't. Sometimes it's okay to simmer. Sometimes doing nothing is okay. Sometimes the issue solves itself if you just leave it alone.</div><div><br /></div><div>He tried to get to know me by asking questions. "Have you ever done this, have you ever done that." I said no often, and felt like an unadventurous sheltered loser. He tried to persuade me to agree to swimming lessons with him. I am not a strong swimmer, but I can swim. I am not comfortable in deep water; I have this need to know that I can drop a leg and touch the bottom with my foot. I mentioned that I wanted to buy a folding kayak, so I could use it at a nearby lake, but also store it at home without it taking up too much space. "My sister has kayaks, I can get one for you." With limited storage and no way to carry a traditional kayak in my car, I refused the offer, and thought, did you listen to me at all?</div><div><br /></div><div>He was always offering things. A fire pit. A grill. A TV. An inversion table. I suspect men that do this don't feel they have anything real to offer from themselves, so they show off by upping their currency with what material comforts they can provide. My refusals didn't mean he didn't try. Every time we went out, he arrived with offerings. Coins, crystals, shirts, washable playing cards from Dubai, gold plated earrings, to name a few. I would pull things from the gift bag like a magician who didn't know what was coming out of the hat. None of the gifts seemed personal; it seemed he was decluttering and also giving me things he knew were expensive, but it all felt aimless. He gave me a necklace that was too expensive for the level of our limited relationship. I googled, and saw that it was $250. I made the error of saying I liked it in a different color combination and would it be okay if we exchanged it? I braced myself for the lecture that I was ungrateful, or for an angry response, but he was nice about it. We returned one necklace as he ordered the one I liked better.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we messaged, I noticed a pattern. When it seemed that our conversation was veering towards conflict, he would abruptly tell me good night, and that was the end of that. The first time, I brought up a high school soccer game in which my daughter's team beat the other school 10-0. Not only that, but these goals were scored in the first half. The game ended there, due to lightning. When he responded "That's great!" I tried to explain why it wasn't great, how it was a display of the economic disparity. That the girls on my daughter's team also played soccer for club teams, which cost thousands of dollars a year in dues and travel. In certain schools, you have to be at that level in order to make the varsity team, and at this opposing school, they clearly were not. I shared my annoyance that I was aware of this, but also participating in contributing to the problem.</div><div><br /></div><div>Instead of acknowledging what I was saying, I was told that I couldn't be the "world's hall monitor." "That's the way of the world, bae" he'd say, which caused me to roll my eyes. The terms of endearment irked me. They were interchangeable, impersonal, and not a thing that someone who *gets* me would use. I'm not a<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4Ts63p7NNQ"> dear, sweetie, or babe.</a> Another time, I was told to ask him questions because he's an open book. When I failed to ask him about his household in Thailand , he took offense. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't ask because having an entire household in Thailand seemed like a giant escapist red flag, and I wasn't sure how to get around that without sounding judgmental. But that conversation ended the way the soccer one did, with an abrupt good night. This time, though, he called in the morning to apologize. I accepted it.</div><div><br /></div><div>The entire time I'd been asking that we move at a snail's pace. He assured me that he didn't want to repel me, or for me to be uncomfortable. I wasn't very interested in him, but he seemed nice enough. He donated blood for children with sickle cell anemia. He took his mother to her chemotherapy appointments. He cooked dinner for his sister and mother almost every Sunday. Aren't these the marks of a good person?</div><div><br /></div><div>Why is settling for nice enough - a good person - especially as a woman, supposed to be enough? </div><div><br /></div><div>I questioned if he was genuinely good, or more interested in appearing that way. I side-eye anyone who seems to brag about their good deeds a little too much. I know it's tempting to want that pat on the back, but I'm suspicious of those who make sure everyone around them knows of the latest act of kindness. Isn't the value in doing good in the deed itself? Do we need an the applause of an audience to feel our efforts are worthwhile? I never got to ask.</div><div><br /></div><div>After C left our work place, another coworker asked me to help him clean the fridge. When I did this, I realized much of the food, which were now science experiments on mold and fermentation, were likely C's leftovers - the extra cut up fruit that hadn't been eaten, the potato buns he had purchased months ago, during a lunch time outing to Food Lion, a half dozen baggies that contained two boiled eggs and a small yogurt container. It was as if the things C placed into the refrigerator never came back out, just like those old commercials about <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jKhGHxO-woc">roach motels</a>. Part of me wanted to verify that he was the culprit, by asking what he liked to bring in to work for breakfast, or a snack. If he responded, "Two boiled eggs and a yogurt," then I had my offender. Let's add that possible red flag to the pile, shall we?</div><div><br /></div><div>The last lunch took place near his office in a town in Virginia where I had previously worked for nearly a decade. I usually took metro and didn't like driving there but it was a federal holiday, I was off of work, and I figured the traffic would be bearable. I texted when I left and told him when I was going to arrive. "Call me when you are five minutes away" he texted. I took that to mean, call him when I was parked, as it was going to take at least five minutes to walk to his building from the parking garage. So, I pulled onto the main drag, snapped a photo and sent it off to him before the light turned green. I pulled into the parking garage, found an acceptable spot, and parked. My phone rang.</div><div><br /></div><div>He asked where I was, and I said I'd parked in the garage across from his building. "I told you to call before you got here," he said. I sensed some irritation in his voice.</div><div><br /></div><div>He gave me the nickel tour of his new office and then we ate outside, at a burger place I loved. He ordered almost exactly what I chose, the second time he'd done that. I always got the sense that he was careful to reveal what he genuinely liked, and wanted to play it safe, by going with my choice of restaurant, and even my selection from the menu. I didn't feel entirely comfortable at lunch, but couldn't put my finger on it. I had gifts for him (it now felt obligatory not to show up empty handed), and he gave me the necklace in the color that I had wanted. I thanked him.</div><div><br /></div><div>He walked me to my car and he told me he'd wanted me to call so he could get me into the parking garage. He offered to cover my parking fee, but when I drove up and inserted the ticket, there was no charge, maybe because of the holiday. I dropped him off in front of his building and headed home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Things seemed okay. We usually started the days with warm good morning messages, and the day after the lunch started the same way. In the evening he asked if I was busy. And then texted "Guess so." And then later, asked if it was okay to call. Then came the text tirade.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I gathered was, he didn't like that he felt like he had to ask "permission" to call me. He didn't like that I preferred to message (so much for "Whatever you like, I like"). Unsaid: he had feelings for me, and apparently it was clear that I was not at the same level. He told me I was a "grown fucking woman" and should have been able to talk to him. He closed by saying he had "broken his finger with this..." (I guess texting is strenuous?) and finally, "I think you are special in many ways and know you will blossom."</div><div><br /></div><div>And there was the root problem with him. He was a 55 year old who talked to me like I was 15, not 46. I tried so often to point out when things he said felt condescending. The issue is being heard when you say it, and not being told "I didn't intend for it to sound that way." Whether one intends it or not, it felt condescending and sexist. I don't hear about men in their 40's blossoming, or being told that by someone not even a decade older than them.</div><div><br /></div><div>This was the end. He reached out in little ways over the weekend, sending an email about restaurant week (did he actually think this was a possibility, after the things he'd written?), and sending a Facebook message with a video of five ways to apologize in Italian. On Sunday morning, I texted him to let him know I would send back his gifts. By the time Monday morning rolled around, he was asking to talk - even texting was okay. I was done.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was done "giving him a chance," which so many women are expected to do just because a man spends extra attention on them. I was done ignoring red flags for on the surface "good" qualities. I was done even trying to cobble together a friendship with someone who did not seem to want to know me, a real person who would never live up to the fantasy version in his mind. I boxed up his gifts, and got that package into the mail. I stayed as calm as I could, and businesslike, when I communicated. I asked valid questions (which, as usual, he failed to address), and closed with, "If this is how you treat people you claim to like, then please do better."</div><div><br /></div><div>You can understand someone's pain and forgive them while also walking away. I was not obligated to give him a chance, or keep trying with someone who had repeatedly proven himself not to be safe, or even able to listen. Safety goes beyond physical - if I feel like I have to censor myself, or tiptoe around someone's feelings, they aren't safe, and I can't really be myself. And as I get older (and yes, this will be a terrible metaphor because of the current pandemic), I refuse to wear a mask so someone else can be comfortable with me.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-65722925082138737762020-11-22T16:01:00.009-05:002020-11-22T16:33:25.514-05:00The Fake Shall Inherit the Earth (alternate title: Jodi Pliszka is a charlatan and other stories)<p> I'm generally pretty selective when it comes to connecting with other people on social media. I have about 400 Facebook friends (and shrinking), 170 or so Instagram followers (and holding), and I don't do Twitter. The exception is LinkedIn. In my own mind, I am a LinkedIn whore. I hate using that term, but this is how my brain has labeled it, and it's an inside joke with myself (and now anyone reading this blog), so as my brain states it, let it be known. I also share the least of myself on LinkedIn. There is a photo and the laundry list of jobs I've had and companies I've worked for, the college I attended (more on that later), and a couple of volunteer positions. In the work world, you're encouraged to be extraverted, to connect, to *network* as far and wide as possible. It's expected. "Get comfortable being uncomfortable," and all that. So, along those lines, the more connections you make, even virtual ones, with people you may never meet in real life, the better. Right? Right.</p><p>I have over a thousand connections on LinkedIn (and growing, admittedly at a very slow pace). It's to the point that my profile says "500+ connections" instead of getting specific. Even when I, the account holder, check that list of connections, the description at the top says "About 1,000 results." A thousand-<i>ish</i>. This is not me bragging, but illustrating how decidedly <i>un</i>picky I am when it comes to connecting on LinkedIn. I don't post there, I mostly lurk, and if you and I have one connection in common, I will most likely accept your request to connect. It's just good business, right? Right.</p><p>What surprises me is how unprofessional certain posts are on LinkedIn. I don't want to hear about political opinions, or birthdays, or memes. That's Facebook territory. Holidays are a mixed bag. Veterans Day is a big one. I'm a veteran and many of my connections are as well. It's not something to be taken lightly. I will always value the experiences I gained during my service. It opened my eyes to a life I would not have known in different circumstances. That said, I didn't give all that much. There will always be a ranking among veterans: those who deployed in peacetime, those who served in war, those bearing physical, mental or psychological scars from their service, and among all of us, we personally know those who sacrificed their lives. There is always a feeling that you could have given more, done more - that someone else had done the most. Maybe it is survivor's guilt, or being hard on yourself in the way military life always asks for more of you, to the point that you don't feel you've ever given enough. So when I saw one of my connections post a photo in celebration of Veterans Day, it raised my eyebrows.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0J_pKDwveQxy_q-kXCmRCIyVA0fypm2YRbzUDUZrgQ2XYXBQSk-IufYbacF-rBNm-5v-uIkcz8tFhW_zAA5mhHWZ04KoUe4tuRiSObgFkxPQga41L36FkAj0ywvGd7d2Wmmu6exwSMfW/s1334/IMG_2082.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="704" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0J_pKDwveQxy_q-kXCmRCIyVA0fypm2YRbzUDUZrgQ2XYXBQSk-IufYbacF-rBNm-5v-uIkcz8tFhW_zAA5mhHWZ04KoUe4tuRiSObgFkxPQga41L36FkAj0ywvGd7d2Wmmu6exwSMfW/w477-h704/IMG_2082.PNG" width="477" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Aside from the ridiculousness of this message and its complete irrelevance to veterans, I realized, I don't know this person. I have plenty of LinkedIn connections that fall into that "I don't actually know them" category, but what I felt inside was, <i>I </i></span><span style="text-align: left;"><i>don't know this person and I don't think I want to know this person. </i>She and I had several connections in common and I'm fairly certain she sent me the request to connect. Given my very lax (nonexistent) vetting process, and my lack of having this individual on my radar, I decided to look deeper. </span></div><div><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Ignoring the idiocy of <i>Jodi Pliska, Ph.D</i>'s post (from the message that a bad attitude is one's only disability, to using a dog in its wheelchair as some kind of surrogate veteran (?!), and finally to "double TAPPING an </span><span style="text-align: left;">image to show vets some love, which does what, exactly?) I noticed something incredibly fishy in her message. I had to ask myself if it was worth making a comment. Did I really want to be the one pissing in the post with little dogs (with one in a wheelchair, no less!)? Did I really want to be *that* person?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After finding myself unable to <i>just ignore it and keep scrolling</i>, as we are so often advised to do, I decided that, yes, I did want to be that person. I needed to say something.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p><span> </span><span> </span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7e0-lTQTyn4sU5VRh5J3uXKu19lH3g2lQA0iYDbCU1NQ04UJtGWo2JS8blUSR-M98ZKrOpOaNXNP235IHGR4u5HkhVxIKQpmNEvGmDKR-vnaM3-9wjn3TKHfzT86BqmNLVTCQbZllZKWY/s1334/IMG_2084.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="677" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7e0-lTQTyn4sU5VRh5J3uXKu19lH3g2lQA0iYDbCU1NQ04UJtGWo2JS8blUSR-M98ZKrOpOaNXNP235IHGR4u5HkhVxIKQpmNEvGmDKR-vnaM3-9wjn3TKHfzT86BqmNLVTCQbZllZKWY/w478-h677/IMG_2084.PNG" width="478" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That was it. I left my thoughts there, in as neutral a way as I could muster. No feelings, no insults, no fuss, no muss. Just the facts, and in fact, a very easily Google-able fact at that (yes, I Googled, which is ridiculous, because if by some miracle after 218 years of existence, West Point suddenly did offer a Master's program, I would have known!). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Inside, upset was brewing, on multiple fronts. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">First, why would someone lie about something so obviously disproven? I went to her profile (okay, stalked) to see how thoroughly she perpetuated this mythical West Point Master's degree.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At the top level, it looked like this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6aLUaT0hENriqsK281FFWf5YRWFz69DEdGaqF6Z4WtmpE4_pv7TGhxlOJVwUyB6uu4lge1cg9kzUfN8p9c6dy7KQRXVnk8YJhpr33X1whVWkY2vBfV8mmQQLHkyrbyGu5-hrEvfpNlTKL/s750/IMG_2083.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="750" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6aLUaT0hENriqsK281FFWf5YRWFz69DEdGaqF6Z4WtmpE4_pv7TGhxlOJVwUyB6uu4lge1cg9kzUfN8p9c6dy7KQRXVnk8YJhpr33X1whVWkY2vBfV8mmQQLHkyrbyGu5-hrEvfpNlTKL/s320/IMG_2083.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Given this information, one would have the impression that she attended the United States Military Academy at West Point. It says it right there. I knew that was incorrect, but I also suspected she was bending the truth by being deliberately misleading.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you click on the education portion while looking at someone's profile on LinkedIn, you will get another screen with more detailed information (I did not know about this feature until I had the opportunity to use it). This is where you can read the fine print:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYpBRAnwLcnurPh7KkTCabCuB06KVNqbP9kWqwMjnhF0pOdotBglIFNWSjKsYBiA8IqH8U41IjfbyJ6lnYG6U4XPD04hve6i0I-5PJ7xqq0tArMQhFLRP7MO_zN3-2X6DRM25Vcm-XmHaE/s1334/IMG_2086.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYpBRAnwLcnurPh7KkTCabCuB06KVNqbP9kWqwMjnhF0pOdotBglIFNWSjKsYBiA8IqH8U41IjfbyJ6lnYG6U4XPD04hve6i0I-5PJ7xqq0tArMQhFLRP7MO_zN3-2X6DRM25Vcm-XmHaE/w276-h428/IMG_2086.PNG" width="276" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here, things come into focus. Ignoring the other two schools listed, at the bottom of the description, it says "WEST POINT through LIU."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What does that mean, you ask? "LIU" is Long Island University, which has campuses around New York, and the school does in fact use some of the <a href="https://liu.edu/Hudson/About-Us/Visiting-LIU-Hudson/West-Point-Location">classroom space at West Point</a>. And, there were uniformed students who attended, because they needed to earn a Master's degree to prepare for the positions they would hold at West Point, and it's very convenient to attend those classes when you are already stationed there. So, you could <i>say</i> you attended classes at West Point because you were physically sitting there, in a classroom, at West Point. Her Veterans Day post could be viewed as being true if you cock your head and close an eye, but it is an extremely stretched out truth. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The irony is that she's lying about having earned a degree from a place known for placing a high importance on honor. "Honor" is at the center of our school motto. We have an Honor Code, which can result in a perfectly stellar student being removed from the academy for lying, cheating or stealing. A large part of the honor investigations deal with determining whether a cadet conducted him or herself with the intent to deceive, to gain an unfair advantage. Yes, there are people who lie on their resumes, and it's done with the intent to deceive, to gain an unfair advantage over others. This is an expanded way of doing that, but to lie about attending a school that prides itself on producing graduates of high integrity, seems especially egregious. In doing so, she is slapping the face of some of the veterans she's trying to honor in her (admittedly lame) post.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These were not my initial thoughts. I had to stew over it. By the next day I was angry for so many reasons. I am a West Point graduate. I can say that without hesitation, without an asterisk, without anyone clicking through my profile to see that I went to classes there but my degree is actually from an entirely different school. I went there, and it was not easy for me. I went there and struggled, all four years, to earn my Bachelor's degree. I went there, I wore the uniform, and graduated, and then served in the Army, as graduates are expected to do. I went there, and still have the occasional dream that I am at the bottom of the second semester, my senior year, and I have skipped an entire class. It's the dream of those suffering from <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Impostor_syndrome#:~:text=Impostor%20syndrome%20(also%20known%20as,exposed%20as%20a%20%22fraud%22.">impostor syndrome</a>. The dream of those who, despite their achievements, and despite what they have to offer the world, feel it still somehow isn't enough. Then you have an <a href="https://jodipliszka.com/about">actual impostor,</a> staring you right in the face (or, you know, from their profile photo on LinkedIn), boldly staking claim to something they had not done the work to earn. It's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stolen_Valor_Act_of_2013">stolen valor,</a> academic edition.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That is not to say a Master's degree is not hard work. Or that I'm looking down my nose at anyone who attended Long Island University. I'm saying, claim your school, claim it proudly, and tell the truth. With a few alterations, she could have edited her post to reflect the whole truth. More and more, I think of <a href="https://www.west-point.org/academy/malo-wa/inspirations/cadetprayer.html">the Cadet Prayer</a>, which, like so many things, has gained personal significance to me as I've grown older. I don't know the entire prayer by heart, but one line with forever stick with me: "Make us to choose the harder right instead of the easier wrong, and never to be content with a half truth when the whole can be won."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The following day I commiserated with friends (women who had graduated with me from West Point). I peeked under the rock for her post, and noticed that my comment had been deleted. How convenient, I thought. And those were my kid gloves. I posted again. I don't need to look to know that it's gone the way of my first comment. I was a little less gracious and a little more angry (and a lot more verbose).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi14O_grCX8iB0PsrC0HVPswQ5Xuov1D2UoRFpYQBBRdY-ABc8UZIbkXdw10MqwxzqP5NHyMMcATgveFPvomnSPMVCsXfba_zr5T5PM85G1drg6ysslx1fWb8FdnK0kdTejVf5lA9T3bhg1/s1334/IMG_2091.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="415" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi14O_grCX8iB0PsrC0HVPswQ5Xuov1D2UoRFpYQBBRdY-ABc8UZIbkXdw10MqwxzqP5NHyMMcATgveFPvomnSPMVCsXfba_zr5T5PM85G1drg6ysslx1fWb8FdnK0kdTejVf5lA9T3bhg1/w260-h415/IMG_2091.PNG" width="260" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My disappointment in the world seeps through. It seems that those who are the loudest, or the most proficient at promoting their "brand" are the ones who get ahead. Even if you scrape the most basic layer of this person's claimed credentials, the facade crumbles. But how many are doing that? How many people is she "life coaching" to success when the image she shows people to see is false? Is authenticity and integrity part of this coaching? I sure hope not. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The claim that she attended West Point was not the only bold faced lie (shocking, I know!). Witnesses, for exhibit B, I'd like you to look at the Ph.D credentials - in the detailed section, she states "PhD minus dissertation." *Insert record scratch here* Isn't completing the dissertation the entire point of the Ph.D? (Answer: yes.) One of the friends I commiserated with is in a Ph.D program now. When she saw this, she added a comment of her own, which most likely was also deleted. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Is this the world we want? If you give the illusion of being the thing, is that every bit as valid as doing the work it takes to become the thing? If you don't like when someone calls you out, you can tidy away their response like it never happened (and hope that not too many people saw). What the Cadet Prayer misses, is that the wrong that initially appeared to be the easier option, becomes hard. "Wrong is hard, too" a friend of mine told me, and it stuck. When that person who hired you decides to verify your claims and discovers you are not who you say you are, when you have to jog your memory for which version of the story you told someone, when you have to look at yourself and know that what you are showing the world does not match what is happening inside of you, the lie becomes exponentially harder than the truth. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">No, the truth is not always shiny, or cool, or easy, but it is always right.</div>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-36202189109279616312013-10-24T15:39:00.002-04:002013-10-24T15:54:07.513-04:00Is this thing on? (AKA InfoDump 2013)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I haven’t been blogging because I don’t know where to start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m going to start, but I may not know where
to end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here goes.</span></div>
Running. If you would have told me I would be running at 38 when I was a young, fit 23 year old, I would have laughed in your face. But I am. I know it's an "in" thing to do. It's so simple. You get to wear cool clothes if you want. Technology is so advanced, you can wear your music on your arm and headphones with no wires. The best part--I am not being subjected to a timed test, or forced to run in a formation, or being told I'm "slow" (Hi, Army!) I have been doing this since late December 2012 and honestly, it's the lazy person's exercise. I can run for an hour and burn 800 calories.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I went to my 20 year high school reunion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt a bit like I did after last year’s
college reunion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I had done more,
gotten out more, but then again, maybe I need to stop doing this to
myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is how I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a small circle of friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t kiss up, or put on a happy act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One person told me he “admired” me for
getting in to West Point and joining the military.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never would have guessed that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I still can’t believe I survived
four years as a cadet until graduation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I look at my college classmates and feel like a dud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many have advanced degrees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have doctors and lawyers, people who
continued their education through Ivy League schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have lieutenant colonels and private
business owners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel like I have been
left behind, when really, they are just far ahead, and the ones plodding along just
like I am, are not outspoken about their averageness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the bigger picture, I am doing
alright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just have trouble some days
figuring out what I really want to do, and deciding how to get there, which
brings us to…</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel like
I have fallen off the map and lost my motivation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have 1.5 books revised, and now what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have decided to go the self/Indie
publishing route, which I used to scoff at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The tide has changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still
want an objective edit (possibly $$$$) and a beautiful cover (more $$$) design
and formatting (you can do this yourself, but I read the instructions and my
brain locks up, possibly more $).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have
to do the legwork and I’m starting off tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why, yes, I would like some cheese to go with this whine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right now, I can’t quit my day…</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without
elaborating any further, I will just say it’s time to move on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know that point when you’re ready to
leave your current job (hello pay cut, hello, watching coworkers get laid off,
hello, threat of office disappearing pretty soon?) but have not landed the new
gig yet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And conversely, I am shopping online like it’s
my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think this is a combination of
compensating for sucky job (because things = happiness) and the pre-Christmas
shopping selfishness that goes on every year.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Kids: I love them and they are exhausting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took our two on vacation in July.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The 7 year old had a blast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The toddler, not so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had a horrible fever the first couple of
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took her to the nurse, who took
her temperature and gave us a cup of Tylenol (kids HAAAAAATE this stuff).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fever went down, but went back up again.
We took the toddler back to the nurse, who made me sign a waiver when I decided
not to see the doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who’s the bad
parent now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was okay, but I don’t
think she enjoyed the trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now the
following week with her grandparents?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Guess who was smiling in every photo?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Guess who was bored?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Husband: We are carpooling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some days are great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some are opt
out events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This morning, at the last
minute, I pulled back and opted for the commuter train + metro + walking over
commuting with my beloved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a
series of annoyances that built up into “I can’t do this today.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, I am halfway expecting him to call and
see if I want to ride home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I would
respond, “Only if you don’t mind riding in the cold, cold shade I’m throwing,
darling.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kid (kind of).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the time that is our quality time
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have been very fortunate to
be able to keep up some version of carpooling for the past 4 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are coming up on 14 years of marriage and
16 years as a couple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been mostly
fun and very fortunate. Can you tell I’m not good with writing about these
things?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a great husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not perfect, but most of the time he is
fantastic.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Depeche Mode: Saw them in concert AGAIN.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still love them!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It always wigs me out to think I am roughly
the age (or a bit older) than they were when I watched them for the Violator
tour.</span></div>
-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-11875212198040154312013-06-23T18:34:00.000-04:002013-06-23T18:34:25.129-04:00A time of peace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.parkerliveonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/041210093822_U.S.-Flag-Half-Staff1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.parkerliveonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/041210093822_U.S.-Flag-Half-Staff1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="yiv5223074030MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371173107913_2090" style="font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371173107913_2089" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371173107913_2091">I attended West Point</span> a time of peace. While I was there, the thought of classmates dying at war was theoretical. We were more concerned about making it to graduation and seeing what waited for us in the "real" Army. Sometimes we couldn't even see graduation, the focus was on surviving the month, the week, the day. I knew I would be entering "the profession of arms," but I never realistically considered the full meaning and possible consequences of that profession.</span></div>
<div class="yiv5223074030MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371173107913_2063" style="font-size: 16px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div style="font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif;">
<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1371173107913_2062" style="font-family: Calibri;">The class of 1997 has lost too many classmates in war -- it's not a big number until you consider there were less than 900 of us. Not a big number until you attach faces, names, spouses, children, siblings, friends and classmates to those we have lost. Not every death has been from war, but most of my classmates that have died were in Iraq or Afghanistan.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am hoping <a href="http://newyork.newsday.com/blogs/hudson-valley-politics-1.5052655/mourning-maj-jaimie-leonard-other-casualties-of-america-s-longest-war-1.5523829">Jaimie Leonard</a> was the last. Her funeral was on Thursday, at West Point. From the pictures, it was a good send off, but the world would have been better with her still in it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Life is unfair, but it doesn't mean it hurts any less when we experience the unfairness.</span></div>
</div>
-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-75470348252381641492013-05-16T21:05:00.003-04:002013-05-16T21:12:18.871-04:00See you Monday (or will I?)A couple of weeks ago, I went to a promotion of two co-workers. They are in the Army and both of them took the long route toward earning their new rank. The ceremony was a mess, but it was nice to meet the families and take a break from our desks.
During the ceremony, we could hear an ambulance siren in the background. Later, we learned for whom the siren tolled.
<br />
<br />
“Did you hear? Dr. Rhymes-with-Parker died while waiting to brief Important Dude. Important Dude (ID) was notoriously picky with briefings. He liked clips, not staples, and the documents had to be in a certain format. There was an email with directions of briefing ID, which included forcing yourself to behave unnaturally. If you were there to brief ID, then you look only at ID, even if you are addressing a question from someone else in the room. Answer that guy but KEEP YOUR EYES ON ID. DO NOT LOOK AWAY FROM ID.<br />
<br />
So, I thought, “<i>Maybe Dr. Rhymes with Parker” looked away from ID</i>." <br />
<br />
I know. Mean. <i>Eeeee</i>-Vil.<br />
<br />
Back in our office, we talked about it.<br />
<br />
“I just saw him the other day,” said co-worker #1, clearly freaked out. “I LOOKED AT him.”<br />
<br />
“<i>Oooohh</i>—don’t let #1 look at you!” we said for the rest of the day.
<br />
<br />
“I looked at him, too.” Said co-worker #2. “And I said to myself, that’s an accident waiting to happen.”<br />
<br />
Clearly co-worker #2 is not the sentimental or rose-colored glasses type. He was also correct. Dr. Rhymes-with-Parker was not the picture of health. He probably should have retired and taken care of himself instead of making that last trek to ID’s office. It saddens me that someone died at work on a Friday afternoon, the time you are looking forward to the weekend and the plans you have for the time that belongs to you. The thought of dying at work is a nightmare, but dying on a Friday is an extra twist of the knife.<br />
<br />
“Maybe ID will have new standards for those coming in to brief him,” we guessed.<br />
<br />
“A blood pressure check before you enter his office.”<br />
<br />
“A cholesterol count."<br />
<br />
"A BMI of no more than 25.”<br />
<br />
It was so awful we had to joke. It’s like the jokes that came out after the Challenger explosion. It's so horrifying you compelled to distract yourself with something funny.<br />
<br />
“They’re cleaning his desk out now,” said the boss.<br />
<br />
We all shook our heads. This reaffirmed the things we already knew: Life is short, take care of yourself, and if you can help it, don't die at work.-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-80490809670356081892012-11-14T16:45:00.001-05:002012-11-14T22:06:18.169-05:00My two cents<img src="http://www.magsays.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Two-Pennies.jpg" />
<br />
--I graduated two years after Paula Broadwell. No, I do not remember her. I knew about the book just from being in the same circles, but that’s it. On Facebook, the class of ’95 started multiple discussions. Of course there are plenty of people in glass houses there. One idiot said her actions do not speak for their class, and therefore... (wait for it) ...the class should issue a statement saying just that. So you want to distance yourself from this situation by inserting your entire class into the media spotlight. Luckily someone had the spine to call this out as a stupid idea (basically saying, I don't want the loudest mouths speaking for me. You all don't represent me.). No one is looking at the West Point class of ’95. No one is saying , “Oh, we knew that entire class was a bad egg.”<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWV77vxJRys"> C'mon, son</a>. The class president also added that the class of ’74 (Petraeus’s grad year) was not issuing a statement so they wouldn’t be, either. <br />
<br />
--Also included in discussion(s): She was not the #1 physically fit person in her class, there were many people with that title, as the ranking changed from semester to semester (I am possibly the #1 worst ranked in physical fitness, so that was something I did not know). And there was some petty sniping about her using Facebook to promote her book (because, no other author uses social media to self-promote, apparently).<br />
<br />
--I can no longer spy on their class board anymore via my husband’s account, since someone has done an audit and removed those not in the class. <br />
<br />
--Despite what many people think, West Point and its graduates represent all segments of society, despite being touted as the best and the brightest and having to follow the Honor Code. Maybe the percentages are different, but I assure you, every “type” is represented there.<br />
<br />
--Another day, another groundbreaking revalation, and another person is dragged into this. I am genuinely curious when this will die down.<br />
<br />
--If something seems like it came straight from a <a href="http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/bad-idea-jeans/1354204/">"Bad Idea" Jeans</a> ad, do not proceed.<br />
<br />
--Husband commented (on the drive home, on Friday, when this was breaking news)—"He’s not the cheating type." I said, “what -- you mean he has no swagger?” He said, “I don’t mean swagger, just that he’s not like a Clinton.” I said (again) “So…no swagger.”<br />
<br />
--How do people find the time for these shenanigans? Head of the CIA? Married mother of two young kids? I can barely handle a 9-5 and a crappy DC-area commute with two kids. And I have zero swagger. <br />-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-13061506971316347742012-10-18T15:19:00.003-04:002012-10-18T17:03:21.953-04:00West Point BluesI went to my 15 year reunion last weekend. Weekends have been work lately. We went from trolling for a new home every weekend to settling on one, buying it, and moving in. It was a short move. Five miles from the old home and in the same town (different zip code!) We looked at countless houses and wound up going back to one of the very first ones we walked through. I don’t want to think about how many hours and gallons of gas we wasted only to end up 5 miles away. On the up side, we saved a lot on moving costs by shuttling everything but the furniture in our cars and not buying a truckload of boxes.<br />
<br />
I made the hotel reservation way ahead of time. The last thing you want is to not have a hotel. This is a return to college, yes, but not the college days of getting in the car and hoping someone will let you sleep on the floor/couch/hideaway bed/cot/backseat/bathtub/lobby when you get there. I missed the registration deadline. Yes, I caught it on the right date, however nothing anywhere stated that the registration site closed at 4 pm and not midnight of the last day. The 2004 grad who answered the phone was very polite and helpful in getting things done. <br />
<br />
I was supposed to lose weight by the time the reunion came. Do I even need to explain how that went? I don’t think I look bad and I am healthy otherwise, just not entirely pleased with the spare tire I have going on. I know, we are hardest on ourselves. Suck it in or stuff it into some Spanx (or Spanx knock off) and keep it moving (I sucked it in)<br />
<br />
I told our older daughter a week ahead of time. That gave her fair warning that we would not be around, but it also meant a week’s worth of guilt trips. I had to remind her that this was a Mommy and Daddy weekend and the next weekend, birthday weekend, was hers. Who falls for the guilt trip? Hint: Not me. My husband promised we would watch a movie and have pizza for dinner before heading out. He also promised that we would stop by the storage and get my “not as sloppy looking as the classic short” black Ugg Roslynn boots. Yes, I know, they are still not a fashion statement but the high for Saturday was supposed to be in the mid-50’s.<br />
<br />
I had to hurry up because we had 10 minutes to get to the storage place. You know me and driving and not driving the car I’m used to drive and a time crunch and night time are not a good mix, right? I don’t even know why I was at the wheel.<br />
<br />
We got to the gate on time. There was someone coming out of the storage units, which meant the gate automatically opened up and husband did not have to hop out and punch in the access code. I cleared the still opening gate and then curbed the front passenger side wheel. Followed by the rear passenger side wheel. And upon later inspection, removed a chunk of rubber from the rear tire. I tried consoling my husband by telling him the wheels on my own car were more messed up. It didn’t help.<br />
<br />
We reached the storage building, my husband punched in his access code. He checked his (analog) watch and said, “Bullshit!” I went to the car and checked my (digital) phone. We were three minutes late. <br />
<br />
We went back home (to get the sloppier looking, but bright purple classic short Uggs).<br />
<br />
This is why it’s so hard to get anywhere. We forget things. We go back. We underestimate the time needed to wash clothes, pack bags, plan outfits. We left ( again) and in the next town, husband realized he forgot his antibiotics for the cough-sorethroat-cold symptoms he has. "Keep going," I said. "Otherwise we'll never get there. We arrived at the hotel at nearly 2 in the morning.<br />
<br />
I woke up around 6 and checked online for the registration info. There was a breakfast from 5:30-6:30 am (as if?). The parade started at 9 but you had to be there almost an hour earlier. Dork that I am, I wanted to go. I went to the bathroom and stared at myself. My eyes were excessively puffy. Like hours of crying and a night of horrible sleep puffy. Like two pissholes in the snow. Not cute atall. Vanity trumps dorkiness and I decided to go for my beauty rest. I did go to the lobby to get my registration packet. I nearly missed the woman, but asked if she could help me out. “Oh, I’m packing, but if you stop by the Mess Hall after the parade.” I was good with that. But then she said “Wait a minute. What class are you? 2007?” I wanted to hug her. Here I am looking like Mr. Magoo with bedhead and she thinks I’m ten years younger. And when I corrected her, she apologized!<br />
<br />
I got my packet and took my arse back to bed.<br />
<br />
We had a late breakfast at what might have been the least efficient Dunkin’ Donuts in the history of man run inside of the most poorly thought out rest stop in the history of highway transportation (it had a one way parking garage that required every car exiting to cross the crosswalk for every pedestrian entering and exiting the building). We went to the homecoming game where no one checked our tickets and we were in the nosebleed seats. I texted my former roommate and they had much better seats with much more space. This was another thing. My husband criticized me for not making plans with anyone before the reunion. I know. But in my defense, no one contacted me, either. It happens.<br />
<br />
We lost. The good thing is, I can go to a game and not pay any attention to what is happening on the field. I know the basics of football, but not the details. My poor husband played when it was a winning team, and I know it kills him to sit there and watch the new team, with way better turf, practice facilities and a life that includes cell phones and a lot more freedom than we have, lose the game. I mean, games. I mean, seasons. Okay, you get the point.<br />
<br />
When my roommate said temperatures were in the 30’s for the parade (yes, I’m a big dork, and I honestly wanted to be there for it), I didn’t feel so bad.<br />
<br />
She looked great. Most of the women in my class look great. Someone commented on the bright purple Uggs. The men—ehhhh. And as a cadet, guess which sex got dogged (hint: not the men). Living well is the best revenge.<br />
<br />
The hard part was the social thing. If I didn’t talk to you or vice versa when we had four whole years together, it’s really awkward for me to catch up. Yes, there is Facebook and LinkedIn. I am on both of those. I just have a very difficult time small talking my way through sooooo, what have you done in the past 15 years. Or talking about my job like it is any kind of representation of me or my personality. This makes me look stuck up and rude, but I don’t mean to be either of those. I just tend to run out of words past, “Hey, great to see you!” and, "Where are you living these days?"<br />
<br />
It was great to see some people, but generally I am in touch with them already. And it’s easier to talk in smaller groups vs. "Hey, look, here is a whole room of people and….GO!" On the last day, I ran into one classmate who posted on Facebook that anyone who voted for Obama should be “ashamed.” I hugged her and acted happy to see her. I don’t wish anything bad on anyone, I just will not forget being scolded via Facebook because I didn’t vote the same way she did. I also didn’t engage on Facebook, because that is another way to raise blood pressure and drive yourself nuts while obsessively checking back for the latest volley -- a lesson learned by yours truly from another extremely conservative classmate who shall not be named, but was subsequently unfriended out of pure annoyance. Subject? The now not-so-relevant-and-the-sky-didn't-fall-when-it-was-repealed, Don't Ask Don't Tell policy. <br />
This is a total tangent. I’m glad I went. Sorry I was not more social. I say the same thing about my time as a cadet. Some things don’t change.<br />
<br />-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-49248288977142001082012-04-09T18:34:00.002-04:002012-04-09T18:41:43.138-04:00Civic duty done<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://cultofandroid.cultofmaccom.netdna-cdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/gavel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="275" width="456" src="http://cultofandroid.cultofmaccom.netdna-cdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/gavel.jpg" /></a></div>While on maternity leave, I received a questionnaire from the county hinting that I was under consideration for jury duty. I filled it out, sent it back and about a month ago I received my summons. You get assigned a number and a date to report for duty. You're supposed to check the number on the website or by dialing in to see if you're needed. I was #29. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHWnw5Cg3I6WBoZzJBV_6T_vIK4McY8xdogIDgPlDqbN8Xk-PYBoANvtEmZqFMsfbF1vWfDgHalrPw8aYXvxXKL08HM5hKibbnKeY44N3cBbMpO2o55KICld6pKP9Cv9gzpk4-LVkaO8i/s1600/IMG_3220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHWnw5Cg3I6WBoZzJBV_6T_vIK4McY8xdogIDgPlDqbN8Xk-PYBoANvtEmZqFMsfbF1vWfDgHalrPw8aYXvxXKL08HM5hKibbnKeY44N3cBbMpO2o55KICld6pKP9Cv9gzpk4-LVkaO8i/s400/IMG_3220.jpg" /></a></div>If you were number 1-164, you were supposed to report for duty, do not pass go, do not collect $200...oh, wait.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihPbepTTeCGPJTU27Stc3nc3VUDfWocyNDqC3Gz3G2SjYhnyhXjCFyr87ocPndDF_eLNwKlbsoEic8Ni5SYKgBvc0b9E_AiB_AiOeq-LqMEkdjVxhpe5hZsYlyg0g2DeaB7jlZMpxL19QK/s1600/IMG_3460.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihPbepTTeCGPJTU27Stc3nc3VUDfWocyNDqC3Gz3G2SjYhnyhXjCFyr87ocPndDF_eLNwKlbsoEic8Ni5SYKgBvc0b9E_AiB_AiOeq-LqMEkdjVxhpe5hZsYlyg0g2DeaB7jlZMpxL19QK/s400/IMG_3460.PNG" /></a></div>Woo hoo, I was in!<br />
<br />
Soooo....following a very poorly drawn out strip map on the back side of my summons paperwork, I made a bunch of right turns until I found the poorly marked parking lot. I showed the police officer guarding the lot my summons (I guess people try to park for free) and found a spot. Then I took the poorly drawn strip map and walked up to the "Judicial Center."<br />
<br />
I had to go through metal detectors. Then I had to go up to the jury lounge (but only after asking information because there were no signs). The "lounge" was a huge room where everyone who had been summoned waited. I was #29 out of 164. I checked in (no one checked ID, but I saw my age and sex marked on their paperwork), got my juror packet and this lovely sticker:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oCsE64Hdn47bsIjMbFWdYv56aInkpLs0w7anJUJoPYBHRmFac_T21TJ2csai_tSgd_ubb5ohX_OCHJYoepBAuRLomt27kHdUKjIDD2ArmncbJ7sOKavZn3PCYara-YdmEDvI9jeCtMgb/s1600/IMG_3467.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oCsE64Hdn47bsIjMbFWdYv56aInkpLs0w7anJUJoPYBHRmFac_T21TJ2csai_tSgd_ubb5ohX_OCHJYoepBAuRLomt27kHdUKjIDD2ArmncbJ7sOKavZn3PCYara-YdmEDvI9jeCtMgb/s400/IMG_3467.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I found an empty seat and waited. I also asked where I could pump and the lady in charge said there was a room in the library on the third floor. Unlike <del>work</del> some places, the "judicial center" accommodates nursing mothers without making an issue out of it. <br />
<br />
Well the way my fine county does it is first, they see if there are any trials because some of the scheduled trials settle out of court. There were only 3 criminal trials taking place (and yes, I got excited--no boring civil cases!), and each one requires 12 jurors. When selecting jurors, they called our numbers in order, so I was 29 and each group of prospective jurors is about 35-40 people. They call numbers in order, so I got called up in the first group. We had to go up to the court room to be selected. So then in the courtroom we all sit and the judge asks questions, like whether you are a cop or you know police officers or law enforcement people, whether you have family members that are lawyers, whether you have sat in a criminal case before, etc. Basically trying to weed out people that may be biased. One person wanted to get out. She claimed her job was important and she could not afford to be there longer than one day. The judge was unsympathetic. "There are no other psychiatrists in the entire District of Columbia? What if you get hit by a bus?" And so on. <br />
<br />
So the next thing they do is go into further questioning with certain members who answered a certain way. Some of those people got booted (people who knew cops or lawyers, people who were cops or lawyers, etc). Then they start filling the seats on the jury. So the lawyers on both sides can say they don’t want someone as a juror. From what it looked like, they wanted women, but they did not want older Asian women or any men. "They" claim to not look at race or sex or age, but "they" are hoodwinking. "They"(the lawyers) are looking for advantages. <br />
<br />
There were 11 women on the jury and one man, and one male alternate.<br />
<br />
The case was about two neighbors who had once been friends. One filed a “peace order” which is a restraining order, against the other. They lived in adjacent townhouses. The case was about whether the one lady violated the order. The one who filed had three daughters. Well, the mom was at work and the oldest was watching the other two. They heard a bang on their back door but did not see what caused that. Then the oldest one opened the sliding glass door and said the neighbor was looking at her and “using profanity.” The kid called her mom, who was driving home from work and the mom said to call the cops.<br />
<br />
After the selection and opening arguments (fun seeing a very pregnant state attorney and the hired defense attorney trying to dramatize what looked to be pretty simple turn of events. Not fun knowing my taxes probably funded part of this process. Here's where my taxes didn't go: the building itself. It looked like it had not been updated or redecorated since the '80s).<br />
<br />
They were trying to prove that the neighbor was trespassing by reaching over the privacy fence and banging on their door, and that the neighbor was “attempting to contact” by yelling at the kids.<br />
<br />
Most of the discussion hinged on the height of the fence and whether the neighbor reached over and knocked on their door. We don’t know it happened because no one saw it, they just heard a bang. There were no photos of the fence or anyone reaching over to the neighbor’s door. It just was witnesses saying how tall they thought the fence was (anywhere from 5 ½ to 7 feet) and speculating whether the neighbor could reach across and bang on the door. <br />
<br />
The judge had closing arguments and released the alternate. The 11 angry women and one man went to a back room to deliberate.<br />
<br />
"I wanna believe those kids" one person said.<br />
<br />
Another one: "I'll bet those kids could talk some shit too."<br />
<br />
We sympathized with the defendant. The woman was in and out of her townhouse and had to face a neighbor who filed a "peace order." When you live in that kind of set up, giving someone the wrong look could be enough for them to nail you. It was not enough for us to say she was “guilty beyond reasonable doubt” so we all agreed she was not guilty and we came back after an hour and said that.<br />
<br />
What was that about boring civil cases? I said that not knowing "criminal" cases could be boring too.-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-66740193805099098492011-12-27T00:10:00.005-05:002011-12-27T00:26:06.806-05:00Hacky new year!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://thatstotallytarot.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/mercury_hermes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="361" width="300" src="http://thatstotallytarot.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/mercury_hermes.jpg" /></a></div>The other day, on Christmas Eve, I was sitting on the couch with my laptop on Facebook. Someone messaged me. It was a friend, but not someone I am in touch with regularly. He graduated two years behind me.<br />
<br />
This guy: Hi<br />
How are you doing??<br />
<br />
Yours truly: what's up (insert friend's name here), how are you?<br />
<br />
TG:Am not too good at the moment<br />
<br />
<i>Rut-roh</i>. I didn't like where this was going. I kept it breezy.<br />
<br />
YT: I'm alright--just chillin' <i>(aside from all of that, does anyone say "just chill in' anymore? I mean besides me? No? Okay.)</i>. I'm sorry you're not doing well.<br />
<br />
TG: I am currently stuck in London,uk......got mugged at a gun point last night<br />
(so I'm going to write a random friend on Facebook about it instead of filing a police report)<br />
<br />
At this point it sounds eerily familiar to a sob story a (real) <a href="http://butterflybap.blogspot.com/">friend</a> shared about one of her Facebook friends contacted her about (except I think that "friend" was in Scotland).<br />
<br />
The rest of the conversation:<br />
<br />
YT: Jeez. Awful--sorry. I hope you did not get hurt<br />
<br />
TG: All cash,credit card including cell phones were stolen away<br />
i was hurt on my head<br />
<br />
YT: I'm so sorry. I hope you can get everything straightened out soon. Take care of yourself. I have to go, but I will keep you in my thoughts.<br />
<br />
TG: Glad still have life and passport saved.......i need your help<br />
<br />
You see? I tried to break off. When I got the "I need your help" line I knew for sure something was amiss. I emailed my<a href="http://butterflybap.blogspot.com/"> friend</a> with the pasted conversation to say "Hey someone is scamming me" since she is familiar with random peeps (Does anyone still say "peeps?" Just me? Okay.) writing sob stories from the UK.<br />
<br />
So once I realized--hello, someone got hacked. Someone is not having an adventure gone awry. Someone is not suffering from a head injury. This guy is probably okay and probably would never Facebook message me. My friend emailed back with: "Well you know, you have to tell him he got hacked, right?"<br />
<br />
Well, yes. It's an unwritten rule. Even though I told her, "No ma'am. I don't want to. I don't want have to hear a fake sob story about someone getting assaulted in the UK (you see? My imagination is still picturing a vicious mugging, Euro style). I tried to give myself an out--I don't even have his email address. But then I remembered--I am connected with him on LinkedIn.<br />
<br />
So I wrote and told him he got hacked.<br />
<br />
And he replied "I reset me (sic) password. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year"<br />
<br />
<i>Ohhh</i>. Okay. <i>You're welcome</i>. Do I need to add I pictured you on a dark London street with blood oozing from your ear and I wasted time feeling bad about it for you to be grateful?! Because I did!<br />
<br />
Why do people not even say thanks for the heads up? It's almost like you're wrong for even saying anything. I did the same thing when Steve Jobs died and all of that crap about <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/10/06/steve-jobs-facebook-scam-free-ipad_n_998334.html#s281412&title=Clickjacking">Free iPads</a> was going around "in honor of Steve Jobs." I told someone THAT was fake and the guy just deleted it from his page. No "Thanks." No warning to anyone else. Just delete. Poof. It never happened. <i>Ohhh!</i> You're welcome.<br />
<br />
I think people are ashamed to admit they fell for the okey doke (I do it every day). If you call that out publicly (see also: <a href="http://sundaynightpoop.blogspot.com/2008/07/worm-holes.html">replying to alarmist emails with a link to snopes disproving it</a>), you're the bad guy, not the one pulling the hoax or hacking the account. <br />
<br />
Today I saw someone post <a href="http://urbanlegends.about.com/od/facebook/ss/100-Shares-To-Help-Boy-Get-Free-Heart-Transplant.htm">this</a>. And I thought "No way did she fall for this. How is 100 shares on Facebook giving someone a free heart transplant. That HAS to be fake." I googled (the truth is out there), had my suspicions confirmed and said nothing. Someone else can be the messenger this time.-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-31299252123681326972011-11-26T12:28:00.000-05:002011-11-26T12:28:14.757-05:00The Good BabySo the new kid is nearly 4 months old and the general consensus is that she is a "good" baby. It seems that a baby who is quiet unless she needs sleep, food or to be changed is "good." Does anyone ever say "Oh, this is a BAD baby. She's just awful! Send her back."-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-33097750715982793692011-11-13T09:28:00.004-05:002011-11-13T09:37:03.251-05:00How high can you go?To all of the ladies out there, please know that when you are <del>hobbling around in</del> wearing these:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://a1.zassets.com/images/z/1/7/0/7/5/9/1707591-p-DETAILED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="240" src="http://a1.zassets.com/images/z/1/7/0/7/5/9/1707591-p-DETAILED.jpg" /></a></div>I am watching, and waiting to see if you fall on your arse.<br />
Sincerely,<br />
-G-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-10077769319599182302011-10-10T14:07:00.003-04:002011-10-10T14:23:19.844-04:00We knew this was comingThe last keynote Steve Jobs hosted, he looked thin. Like scary-thin. Knife thin. Turn to the side and vanish thin. iPhone thin. Had enough? Moving on...<br />
<br />
He just didn't look well. I feel sad that he's gone. My best friend emailed me and for a few minutes I enjoyed my husband's blissful ignorance before I told him.<br />
<br />
In the 90's I used to wonder why computers were that awful "putty" color. You would have your big ol' desktop or tower, a clunky monitor and matching keyboard and it was <a href="http://www.otxwest.org/images/stnd_home.jpg">a big ol' pile of fug</a>. And I used to wonder why it didn't look better? In college I used some shiny purple gift wrap from a present (I don't even remember who gave it to me) and I fashioned a frame for my clunker monitor. It was an attempt. Colored appliances were still unheard of. Later, when I tried to explain this to my husband, he said "Who cares what it looks like! It's just a computer!"<br />
<br />
Not to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IMac_G3">Apple</a>. These fascinated me. I wanted to make the switch, but my husband was hesitant. Then when we finally switched, (in this case, the iPod was the Gateway drug, and an Apple store employee admitted that all of the smaller devices are gateway drugs for the iMacs and MacBooks) it was "Why didn't we do this sooner?" This is what most people say after switching. After, my husband would marvel at the tight packaging and the design. And how well everything worked together. No more "Who cares what it looks like!" No more "it's JUST a computer." <br />
<br />
Then the iPhone came out. We watched the keynote for that too. No one knew what it would look like. There were all kinds of drawings. Would there be a plastic keypad? A stylus? It was hard to imagine a smart phone without these things. They seemed necessary. Now they seem kind of silly. And now, people complain that the newest iPhone is a <a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/the-fallout-no-iphone-5-2011-10">letdown</a>. At some point you do something so well, people reach unrealistic expectations. It's like they totally forgot -- just a few years ago people did not love their phones. <br />
<br />
If you have it in your house, it should be nice to look at. If you're going to spend a lot on it, it should be easy to use and you should love it. This all seems obvious, but so many techie companies completely missed the mark. One guy got it, and figured out how to design products with the obvious in mind.-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1126806229198854623.post-3430480184957235582011-10-10T13:28:00.005-04:002011-10-10T14:18:29.492-04:00Cardinal sins of FacebookThis isn't directed at anyone (okay, it kind of is, but I'm not into direct confrontation, so I'll just leave the names out of it). This is just a post of what annoys me (what else is new?)<br />
<br />
1) Status updates that try to guilt/dare/bully/cajole/pressure you into copying and pasting by lumping you into a statistic. I tried to come up with one, but it sounded really lame and the real ones people post illustrate what I mean so much better. The generic format is: Righteous comment with possibly exaggerated or false information that may have some shock value. Random percentage of people who are too lame/lazy/cynical/selfish/thoughtless to re-post comes next. If you are not one of those losers, copy and re-post.<br />
<br />
Here goes:<br />
<blockquote>One day a father gets home angry & drunk. He takes out his gun & kills his wife, & then he shoots himself. His daughter was sitting behind the couch crying. When the police came they took the girl & gives her to her new family. The first day she attended church & notices a picture of Jesus Christ on the cross. She then asks her teacher "how did that man get down from the cross?" The teacher respon...ded "he's never gotten down!" Then the girl said: Yes he has because the day my parents died, he was with me behind the couch telling me everything was going to be alright. 66% of you won't re-post this. But remember that in the Bible it says "Deny me in front of your friends & i will deny you in front of my father." Post if your not embarrassed.</blockquote><br />
I'm embarrassed. Embarrassed that among all the repostings and whatnot, someone could not edit it to say "you're" instead of "your." Let's not even get into that ran...dom ellipsis.<br />
<br />
And also, I want to know who comes up with the percentages. It's usually not a fraction, but a percentage. This one is odd because it uses 66%. Usually the percentage is in the high 90's. I want to reply and ask for the documentation to confirm these results. Did someone do a study on this? Are they using EVERYONE on Facebook, or only those who have friends that post this kind of thing? I want the details.<br />
<br />
2) Giveaways. The latest: Steve Jobs died and Apple is giving away 1000 iPads! Just click this innocent li'l linky-poo and you could be a winner. <br />
<br />
Do I have to say it? "If it seems too good to be true..."<br />
<br />
I have one friend who posted it and I replied with a link and "It's probably too good to be true." Poof, he deleted it without even saying "Thanks for the heads up." Hmph. <br />
<br />
3) Self promotion. I violated this one the other day. My friend <a href="http://butterflybap.blogspot.com/2011/10/weekend.html">Micki</a> read "Coldest Winter Ever." I thought, Ooo, oo! I read it too. I posted a blog link in the comments. Then I felt icky and deleted it. I did not want to pimp my blog on someone's status update. It seems really tacky to me. I barely even pimp my own blog on my page. I do not want to bombard people with my two cents. Do I look like Andy Rooney to you? If they find their way to my blog, cool, if not, it's okay. I have read the book though, and <a href="http://sundaynightpoop.blogspot.com/2010/05/thing-about-books.html">here's what I thought</a>. I obviously have no problem pimping my blog on my blog.<br />
<br />
4) Inane (mis)quotations<br />
<br />
<blockquote>“The thing about quotes from the internet is that it’s hard to verify their authenticity.” – Abraham Lincoln</blockquote>-GRChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08572804405784557926noreply@blogger.com1