Now that I am focusing my attention on passion, it's all over the place. It's like my coworker who recently went on a road trip and rented a Kia, and when he kind of liked the Kia, registered online to learn more about them, and now he's getting Kia sales calls non-stop. Now, that is simply a very annoying sales tactic. Except he's also seeing Kias everywhere, when he hardly noticed them before. This happened to me, too, but it wasn't Kias. The Universe began sending me passionate people.
It started with the boy who works at the Starbucks by my office. I don't know him well, but since I'm in there frequently, we have brief chats about the weather, politics, why soy milk is superior to dairy in the matter of all things Chai...you get the idea. When I told him that I sold my car and walk to work, he perked up (pardon the bad coffee pun) and said that he sold his car, too.
"What made you sell your car?" I asked.
"I want to be a glassblower," he said, "To buy the equipment I need, the only way I could get that kind of money was to sell my car."
As I grabbed my chai and finished the walk to work that morning, I thought about how much guts it takes to sell your car to reach your dream, and that the Starbucks guy was willing to make a huge, bold move to get there. That's passion. Plain and simple.
The past few weeks, Starbucks guy hasn't been there. I miss him, especially because the woman who took his place seems to only be passionate about being slow as Christmas. But that's another story. And while I miss seeing Starbucks guy, I'm hoping that at this very instant, he's firing up his glassblowing thingamajig, the happiest he's ever been.
Shortly after that, I was reminded that for some people, it takes time to arrive at that place where you are willing to sell your car to buy glassblowing equipment. Take, for example, the server at the restaurant we went to for my stepdaughter's 18th birthday a few weeks ago. On an energy level scale of 1 to 10, she was about a four. And I've waited tables, so I know that at some point during your shift, you're so exhausted you want to die, but still. Suck it up. There are tips to be made.
Several annoying things took place at this girl's table that I won't even bother discussing. My husband -- a man who loves everyone -- was completely over her after just a few minutes. But I thought about that glassblowing Starbucks guy, and figured surely this girl had a similar story.
When you're dealing with someone who appears to be passionless, it may just be that they're not particularly outgoing. But there's a chance they lack passion, so it's better not to ask them what their passion is because it could make them feel terrible. You're better off starting with something less daunting.
I waited for her to plod back to our table, then asked,
"I have a weird question for you. What makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts?"
I ask this question to people I have a hard time figuring out. You should try it. It says a lot about a person. Plus, you get to think about how great it would be to see that person laughing so hard they're grabbing their sides for relief.
So I asked the girl, and her first response was to shrug and say, "I don't know."
"No!" I wailed. "No! That is not acceptable! You have to say something!"
She stood there, passionless, and paused for what felt like eternity, and went fishing around in her memory bank of funny movies.
"Bridesmaids?"
Her response was a big bummer to me. Don't get me wrong, Bridesmaids is pretty hilarious, but that's not the point. It was the way she answered it. Had she had answered with absolute certainty, that would be one thing. But she didn't. She was almost asking for permission.
I hoped somehow in our brief exchange that I could figure out what made this girl tick. To learn that she was waiting tables while pursuing her degree in archaeology, because ever since she was a little girl, she was obsessed with fossils. Or Harrison Ford. Or, she really, really wanted to be a tight rope walker. Or that for her entire life, all she really wanted to do was become an assistant principal of a mediocre elementary school. I would have taken any of it had she delivered it with oomph.
If you're doing some self-reflecting and saying, "Aw, man, I'm not sure what I'm passionate about, and this makes me feel like a loser," don't fret. You are definitely not a loser. If you ask yourself the question, "What am I passionate about?" and you answer yourself by saying, "Dog fighting!" then you are a loser. Otherwise, you just need a bit of nudging.
A few weeks after the Passionless Server Incident, a fairly sizable group of my coworkers and I went to happy hour at a nearby upscale barbecue restaurant. Our server was outstanding (and it should be obvious by this point that I am a little on the picky side). She was completely at ease, making it feel like we were at her own dinner party. She knew when to come check on us, but wasn't ever in the way. She handled our special requests like they were no biggie. She was personable and fun, and very good at her job.
When it came time to leave, my coworker Katie and I walked over to where she was standing so we could thank her for her hard work. And for some reason, I was prompted to ask,
"What's your passion?"
She didn't have to stop and think about it. Her answer was immediate.
"I just graduated with a degree in business," she said, "So right now, I'm passionate about getting a job in sales or marketing."
I started digging in my purse for my business cards as Katie said, "As a matter of fact, we're hiring right now!"
From there, things began moving in fast forward. It's crazy how this all went down. Ralph, the person hiring for entry-level positions was with us, and we introduced him to the server. We all went outside to wait, and some time later, Ralph came out and announced that he would be interviewing our server the next morning. The next day, she came to interview, and blew it out of the water. She had done her homework, even though she had less than a full day to prepare. At every step in the interview process, she killed it. And now, she's no longer waiting tables, because we hired her. Yeah, it's a crazy, fantastic story. I love it.
But there is more to this story, and it has to do with the fact that everything lined up not because it was all simple coincidence, but because the right people with the right kind of passion were at the right place and the right time. Without passion, it wouldn't have been possible.
A key player in this story is Ralph, the man who hired our awesome server. Ralph is one of those people who does everything with passion. I have never seen him talk about anything or do anything in a lackluster fashion. When he talks about his wife, his eyes light up like he just went on his first date and he knows she's the woman with whom he'll spend the rest of his life. If you ask about his kids, he'll start showing you pictures of his adorable sons, and you can see how much he cares about being a good dad. Try asking him about how he feels about being a drummer. He's all pumped up. And at the same time, Ralph puts equal passion into Gable Heart Beats, the charity he supports to raise awareness about heart disease.
Ralph is a complete dynamo in the workplace. Every single person I know who has worked on his team at work agrees: when your boss is that excited, you can't help but be excited yourself. So maybe there is some truth to associating with passionate people. If you can be around people who are fired up about everything they do, maybe it will help you find your passion as well. It certainly can't hurt!
So here is your homework: Think about what makes you feel so excited your heart is pounding out of your chest. Has it been a while since you felt excited about something? It's okay. This isn't a test; we're just exploring your passion. Don't panic!
Think back to when you were a little kid. What made you so excited you could hardly sleep?
For me, I think about when I was little, we would go to my Aunt Pat and Uncle LB's ranch where adults with questionable judgment would let my sister and me ride their 4-wheelers all over the place for hours on end. 4-wheelers completely excite me to the point where if I think about them at night, I can't sleep. It's so silly! I also get that same feeling of excitement about riding those huge swinging pirate ships at amusement parks. At Six Flags in Texas, their version of the swinging pirate ship is called The Conquistador, and if I had the money, I would buy one of those for my backyard in a New York minute. Just watch this and try not to get excited! I also get completely stoked about Karaoke (so much that I had my first Karaoke injury last week - I back-up danced with so much passion I bruised my hip with the tambourine). I feel the same way about seeing my husband and kids when I've been away on work travel. Every time! And I get excited about writing, so that when I do it, hours pass and I hardly know it.
More homework: Grab a journal and jot down some of those initial thoughts. Get it down on paper, iPad, text yourself, it doesn't matter. Just write it down, and let's see what happens. And don't get all worried that you're going to mess up. It's just a little list of things that make you excited.
Like the Kias that keep popping into my coworker's line of sight, let's see if things start happening as a result. You're not paying me anything to do this, so don't expect some magic money-back guarantee if nothing works. You may just be a boring, passionless person, and if that's the case, I can't help you. I'm kidding, I just wanted to say that because it made me laugh. I really believe that if you start focusing on what makes you happy now, or at the very least what used to make you happy, that things are going to change.
And by all means, share stories with me. I look forward to hearing what happens next.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Passion: Part 1
I'd like to talk a little about passion. I have so much to say about it, I'm going to break it down into a series.
Don't get too excited, this isn't Fifty Shades of Grey passion, though that would be really fun to write about since the books (yes, I read all three) were so deliciously terrible. I'm talking about the kind of passion that burns deep inside a person and drives them to do something, even if it feels crazy. It's the passion that lives inside 62-year old Diana Nyad, so that despite vomiting salt water for almost the entire 53-hour swim from Florida to Cuba last weekend, she kept on going. And she finally made it. It's such a crazy, amazing story. I'm sorry, but if I were swimming and vomited up salt water just once, I would throw in the towel immediately.
I love passionate people. My mother started by setting the example. Years ago, after her marriage to my father ended, she went back to school, earned a Bachelors and Masters in Music while raising two children. She held down multiple jobs and worked her butt off to make straight A's. She then went on to become a highly-respected piano teacher and professional musician, and runs a thriving studio where lucky kids and adults not only learn piano and theory, but they learn to play with passion. Her students go on to do big things, and even if they don't all become musicians, her influence helps them find passion in their lives. Her website even features the following quote from Beethoven: "To play without passion is inexcusable!"
Here's a photo of my beautiful mom and two of her star students. All of her students are star students, for that matter. Just this morning, I read another post from one of her former students who was just accepted into music school and will be minoring in music, and wrote to thank my mom for her influence in that decision.
My stepfather James is equally as passionate about art. Every day, for as long as I've known him (he married my mother when I was 8), he creates art. Every single day. He gets up, goes on a morning walk, and returns, usually with a leaf or a flower in hand, and grabs his sketchbook and colored pencils and begins to draw. James is completely driven by the need to create things, and it has given him a rich and fulfilled life. The result is he owns piles of packed sketch books filled with unique drawings of people, places, events, beautiful bits of nature -- all recorded in rich detail.
Here's a blurry photo of James I snapped when I visited home a few months ago. I've witnessed this scene so many mornings as I groggily sip coffee and look out the window, and it inspires me. Sitting in that red chair is a man who lives each day with passion.
Don't get too excited, this isn't Fifty Shades of Grey passion, though that would be really fun to write about since the books (yes, I read all three) were so deliciously terrible. I'm talking about the kind of passion that burns deep inside a person and drives them to do something, even if it feels crazy. It's the passion that lives inside 62-year old Diana Nyad, so that despite vomiting salt water for almost the entire 53-hour swim from Florida to Cuba last weekend, she kept on going. And she finally made it. It's such a crazy, amazing story. I'm sorry, but if I were swimming and vomited up salt water just once, I would throw in the towel immediately.
I love passionate people. My mother started by setting the example. Years ago, after her marriage to my father ended, she went back to school, earned a Bachelors and Masters in Music while raising two children. She held down multiple jobs and worked her butt off to make straight A's. She then went on to become a highly-respected piano teacher and professional musician, and runs a thriving studio where lucky kids and adults not only learn piano and theory, but they learn to play with passion. Her students go on to do big things, and even if they don't all become musicians, her influence helps them find passion in their lives. Her website even features the following quote from Beethoven: "To play without passion is inexcusable!"
Here's a photo of my beautiful mom and two of her star students. All of her students are star students, for that matter. Just this morning, I read another post from one of her former students who was just accepted into music school and will be minoring in music, and wrote to thank my mom for her influence in that decision.
My stepfather James is equally as passionate about art. Every day, for as long as I've known him (he married my mother when I was 8), he creates art. Every single day. He gets up, goes on a morning walk, and returns, usually with a leaf or a flower in hand, and grabs his sketchbook and colored pencils and begins to draw. James is completely driven by the need to create things, and it has given him a rich and fulfilled life. The result is he owns piles of packed sketch books filled with unique drawings of people, places, events, beautiful bits of nature -- all recorded in rich detail.
Here's a blurry photo of James I snapped when I visited home a few months ago. I've witnessed this scene so many mornings as I groggily sip coffee and look out the window, and it inspires me. Sitting in that red chair is a man who lives each day with passion.
I've had passion on the mind quite a bit lately. It began in mid-August, when I went to San Francisco with my colleagues to participate in a Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator team builder. I will admit; I went in a bit skeptically, having done some similar exercises at work in the past. I wasn't sure that the exercise would reveal things about me I didn't already know. But it did reveal things I didn't know. And it helped me better understand my co-workers. And it solidified that I'm indeed an extrovert, just in case I had any doubts.
During the day-long event, our instructor, the dynamic and feisty Carol Enright, asked us to look up on the projector at an image, study it, and write about it for two minutes. The image appeared to be wall art made on a wooden surface that depicted a tree made from dry macaroni and dried beans. It was ugly.
With the instant Carol told us to start writing, I felt an adrenaline rush so strong I could have lifted a sedan. In my terribly sloppy handwriting, I wrote frantically. What felt like seconds passed and she told us to stop, and I had an urge to yell, "No! Not yet! I'm just getting going here!" I could have gone on for days. Then, Carol pulled two people up to read what they wrote. When she didn't pick me, I wanted to jump up and down and yell, "Pick mine! I want to share with the class!" By the time we moved on to the next part of our exercise, I was still clutching my little scribbled page, not wanting to let go of that feeling.
A week or so later, my CEO Umberto Milletti came to visit our Austin office. He makes a point of having one on one conversations with his employees, a refreshing practice for a guy that busy. He is genuinely interested in what his employees think, and he values our input. During our conversation, I expressed that during the Meyers-Briggs exercise, I was slapped in the face with the reminder that writing is my core passion. I explained that in my day-to-day work with our customers, I use my writing to make my work fresh. But I also expressed that if I could do more writing at work, that would be a dream.
Umberto provided the most supportive, logical guidance on how to make this work. He directed me to the right person internally to open up a conversation, and since then, there's been a whirlwind of emails around how to provide me with the freedom to contribute from a content perspective. It's kept me up at night, but not in the kind of way that business can often keep you up at night. I'm so excited I can't sleep. I've felt like a little kid who knows that tomorrow, her parents are going to take her to an amusement park, and she is going to ride a roller coaster that will make her stomach drop, and she simply cannot wait to get there.
I am thankful that I possess this passion. I'm also thankful that on Saturday mornings, my husband goes out to procure breakfast, and that my family understands that for several hours, I'll be typing, writing, deleting, re-writing, and reading sentences out loud like a crazy person. I may escape to a local coffee shop and do the same thing there, never worrying about what the hipsters think, because at that hour, most of them are hungover anyway.
In this series, I have a few stories to tell that might inspire you. Let's explore passion and see if, during this process, you are able to uncover yours.
Umberto provided the most supportive, logical guidance on how to make this work. He directed me to the right person internally to open up a conversation, and since then, there's been a whirlwind of emails around how to provide me with the freedom to contribute from a content perspective. It's kept me up at night, but not in the kind of way that business can often keep you up at night. I'm so excited I can't sleep. I've felt like a little kid who knows that tomorrow, her parents are going to take her to an amusement park, and she is going to ride a roller coaster that will make her stomach drop, and she simply cannot wait to get there.
I am thankful that I possess this passion. I'm also thankful that on Saturday mornings, my husband goes out to procure breakfast, and that my family understands that for several hours, I'll be typing, writing, deleting, re-writing, and reading sentences out loud like a crazy person. I may escape to a local coffee shop and do the same thing there, never worrying about what the hipsters think, because at that hour, most of them are hungover anyway.
This begins my series on passion, because what I hope comes out of this is that you will also remember what yours is. While researching the topic the other day, I read about one inspirational speaker (many of whom I mistrust deeply for reasons unknown) who said that he only associates with passionate people, and specifically dumps friends who don't appear to have passion. I think that's a bit extreme, and also kind of counterintuitive for an inspirational speaker. I don't want to be that heartless. I want to help people find their passion and encourage them to go for it.
In this series, I have a few stories to tell that might inspire you. Let's explore passion and see if, during this process, you are able to uncover yours.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Nice Work, Chris Kutcher
Sunday night, after returning from a quick weekend road trip, my sister, 10 year-old daughter and I collapsed on the couch, flipped on the TV and landed on the Teen Choice Awards. I had possession of the remote, so I could have moved on to something much more intellectually stimulating, but I'm a sucker for awards shows. That, and my daughter kind of lost her mind seeing her favorite Disney actors tottering around in neon stilettos. Pair that with some flashy lights, annoyingly catchy summer tunes ("Blurred Lines," anyone?), and we had an instant Teen Choice Awards viewing party.
As a mom, I struggle with some of our viewing choices at home, and the Teen Choice Awards is no exception. I'm certain that my husband Tim and I don't always use the best judgment when it comes to what we let our kids watch. But we're also not a very typical family. We're very open, for better or for worse. I'm the parent who happily rented Team America: World Police when my stepchildren were way too young, asking the greasy-nosed kid at the movie store, "I mean, how bad can it get with puppets?"
If you don't know the answer, it can get VERY bad. I'm betting the greasy-nosed kid shared a good snorty laugh with his coworkers after we left. Good-natured, blonde stepmother corrupts young kids with dirty, foul-mouthed puppets. High fives all around.
Also, while I'm admitting our flaws, we are pretty heavy on the TV watching at the Arndt house. I'm totally going to blame Tim for that. When Tim was in elementary school, he was a latch-key kid in the afternoons, and I get the feeling he watched a lot of television as a result. He liked Flipper. He loved watching the old westerns. When Tim went to the horse stables with friends when he was a little boy, his friends asked him where he learned to ride.
"I've never ridden a horse before," he answered, hopping on and riding like a pro, "I learned it on TV!"
This made me scratch my invisible beard, pondering this strange and interesting social experiment. Based on this, could it be that a contributing factor to my husband's vast intelligence was because he watched so much TV? Was this television education Tim received the first kind of e-learning?
My television upbringing was a completely opposite situation. Growing up, the TV was rarely on at our house. When I was very little, I could watch half an hour each day, and that was usually public television viewing. As a result, I've committed several seasons of Sesame Street to memory. I didn't learn to ride a horse by watching Bonanza, but I can do the pigeon. I can also count to twelve, which comes in extremely handy at bakeries.
When I got married and became a stepmother, I had grand illusions of switching off the television and recreating an even more Utopian version of my childhood where the kids and I would be in our living room, decked out in smocks, painting masterpieces, listening to Vivaldi. That never happened (mainly because I hate crafts). I thought we'd be kayaking on Town Lake, singing in harmony like the Von Trapps. But I'm weird about dark water, and kayaks make me nervous. I thought we'd be baking organic vegan brownies together, but my stepdaughter Stephanie takes after her biological parents when it comes to baking, so she could bake me out of the kitchen by the time she was in second grade. And quite frankly, I am just not a homemaker kind of gal. So instead, we'd come home from a long day at work and school, and many of our evenings were spent cuddled up on the couch together, laughing at mindless sitcoms. We might not have been learning quantum physics together, but we were together nonetheless, and we were happy. And I'm not one to get all braggy pants about my kids, but they all make excellent grades, so Modern Family didn't mush their brains completely.
So my Utopian vision of what our free time would look like resulted in a lot more TV than I thought we would watch. And now that the kids are older, we have a TV in every bedroom. I know! We are awful people! Not to make an excuse, but we all have different preferences at this point. Tim watches political shows and city council meetings, so unless you want to sleep, stay out of his viewing area. I pretty much binge watch HGTV while I'm doing chores on the weekends, so I'm in the bedroom folding clothes, groaning at the Canadians for being unhappy with the size of the nanny suite. My stepdaughter watches NCIS-types of shows. My stepson's into car shows. And our 10 year-old is into Disney.
As a mother who fancies herself a feminist, I struggle with The Disney Dilemma. I know that some of my daughter's friends watch Disney and some don't, and I can understand the reasons why some kids are not allowed to watch it. It's pretty terrible. Disney is certainly a far cry from Sesame Street. It's obvious that Disney knows this, and is trying very hard to appear inclusive, multi-cultural, and responsible. But let's not fool ourselves, some of those Disney characters are materialistic, narcissistic and, for the most part, extremely irritating. Then you take something like Teen Beach Movie and it's catchy and fun, and has a strong message of empowerment for girls, and we're sucked back in again. Plus, I double dare you to watch Teen Beach Movie and not get up and try to dance along. I watched the dance-along version and I can bust out the main number like a champ. Was it awkward that nobody was home but me? Probably.
So Disney has us where they want us, at least at my house. There was a point where my daughter began talking back without seeming to consider the consequences. This went on for a bit before my husband had a very interesting conversation with her about the kids she watches on Disney. Tim's take on it was that the kids on Disney may act a certain way, but that it's TV, where everything gets resolved in a pretty little 20 minute bow. Tim suggested that our daughter consider that choosing to behave like the kids on Disney doesn't work well in real life. And she got it. Lesson learned.
Back to the Teen Choice Awards. I allowed my daughter to watch, but I was with her. For me, this is key. I'm not with her when she watches every TV show, but I am around if I am unsure what the material will be. If I'm present, we can discuss together the fact that Miley Cyrus' 7-inch stilettos were a bad fashion choice, not because she's not old enough to wear them (because at 20 she can wear what she wants to), but because she's still unable to walk in them, and watching that tragedy unfold is a bit of a nail biter. (Ask my sister for her cardinal rule about heels: If you can't walk in them, don't wear them). We also talked about how some of the Disney actors who presented awards were showing entirely too much cleavage. There may have been some mild discussion around side boob, and again, how these young actors are influencing kids like mine, and how much of that is okay, and how much of that needs to be recognized as inappropriate for a 10 year-old. For me, it's the conversation that needs to take place. I understand that some parents will simply shield their kids from the exposure altogether, but the way I look at it, the exposure combined with an open conversation helps prepare them socially much more than if they weren't exposed to it at all.
After an hour of Teen Choice Awards, I was exhausted from the sensory overload and the Disney cleavage, and was about to change the channel when Ashton Kutcher appeared, accepting an award the "Ultimate Choice Award." One of the first things he said was that he "felt like a fraud," and that name was actually Chris (his middle name is Ashton), and he revealed that his name was changed to Ashton when he was 19 when he decided to pursue acting.
I met Ashton Kutcher before he was famous, and likely before he'd changed his name. It was about 1998, and my sister lived in Los Angeles, and I went out to visit her. We were at dinner at a cozy but loud restaurant in Hollywood where the diners sit at long, shared tables. Ashton sat to my right opposite a woman who appeared to be his mother. He wore a knitted beanie pulled down so far it nearly covered his eyes. His hair was long and he was handsome, but to me, he was just any other guy having dinner with his mother.
Because we were sitting right next to each other, and because it was so loud, we chatted for a while. He had moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career, and he was with his mother, who was there visiting him. The restaurant was so loud that his mother, who sat quietly clutching her handbag in her lap, couldn't hear what we were saying. Ashton laughed and said, "She's from the Midwest, so she's scared someone is going to steal her purse."
Ashton told me he'd just signed on to do a sit-com, and they were going to be working on the pilot. He described the show as a flash-back to the 70's. I remember thinking at the time that the idea sounded terrible, but that he was such a nice guy that I hoped things would work out.
Obviously, things worked out just fine, and the rest is history. When I watched That 70's Show for the first time, I felt oddly connected to that tall, goofy kid who had so much ahead of him. It's been fun watching his career skyrocket, and fun to know that I met him before he made it became a household name and a huge star.
When Ashton appeared on stage at the Teen Choice Awards to accept the Ultimate Award, he laughed, saying he was accepting the "Old Guy Award." At 35, he's certainly elderly compared to the Teen Choice demographic. But I love this speech, simply because it proves that you can make it big and use that opportunity to inspire others to do good things. So perhaps watching TV isn't all that bad, as long as the messages you take to heart are about working hard, being a generous person, and learning that smart is sexy.
Nice job, Chris Kutcher!
As a mom, I struggle with some of our viewing choices at home, and the Teen Choice Awards is no exception. I'm certain that my husband Tim and I don't always use the best judgment when it comes to what we let our kids watch. But we're also not a very typical family. We're very open, for better or for worse. I'm the parent who happily rented Team America: World Police when my stepchildren were way too young, asking the greasy-nosed kid at the movie store, "I mean, how bad can it get with puppets?"
If you don't know the answer, it can get VERY bad. I'm betting the greasy-nosed kid shared a good snorty laugh with his coworkers after we left. Good-natured, blonde stepmother corrupts young kids with dirty, foul-mouthed puppets. High fives all around.
Also, while I'm admitting our flaws, we are pretty heavy on the TV watching at the Arndt house. I'm totally going to blame Tim for that. When Tim was in elementary school, he was a latch-key kid in the afternoons, and I get the feeling he watched a lot of television as a result. He liked Flipper. He loved watching the old westerns. When Tim went to the horse stables with friends when he was a little boy, his friends asked him where he learned to ride.
"I've never ridden a horse before," he answered, hopping on and riding like a pro, "I learned it on TV!"
This made me scratch my invisible beard, pondering this strange and interesting social experiment. Based on this, could it be that a contributing factor to my husband's vast intelligence was because he watched so much TV? Was this television education Tim received the first kind of e-learning?
My television upbringing was a completely opposite situation. Growing up, the TV was rarely on at our house. When I was very little, I could watch half an hour each day, and that was usually public television viewing. As a result, I've committed several seasons of Sesame Street to memory. I didn't learn to ride a horse by watching Bonanza, but I can do the pigeon. I can also count to twelve, which comes in extremely handy at bakeries.
When I got married and became a stepmother, I had grand illusions of switching off the television and recreating an even more Utopian version of my childhood where the kids and I would be in our living room, decked out in smocks, painting masterpieces, listening to Vivaldi. That never happened (mainly because I hate crafts). I thought we'd be kayaking on Town Lake, singing in harmony like the Von Trapps. But I'm weird about dark water, and kayaks make me nervous. I thought we'd be baking organic vegan brownies together, but my stepdaughter Stephanie takes after her biological parents when it comes to baking, so she could bake me out of the kitchen by the time she was in second grade. And quite frankly, I am just not a homemaker kind of gal. So instead, we'd come home from a long day at work and school, and many of our evenings were spent cuddled up on the couch together, laughing at mindless sitcoms. We might not have been learning quantum physics together, but we were together nonetheless, and we were happy. And I'm not one to get all braggy pants about my kids, but they all make excellent grades, so Modern Family didn't mush their brains completely.
So my Utopian vision of what our free time would look like resulted in a lot more TV than I thought we would watch. And now that the kids are older, we have a TV in every bedroom. I know! We are awful people! Not to make an excuse, but we all have different preferences at this point. Tim watches political shows and city council meetings, so unless you want to sleep, stay out of his viewing area. I pretty much binge watch HGTV while I'm doing chores on the weekends, so I'm in the bedroom folding clothes, groaning at the Canadians for being unhappy with the size of the nanny suite. My stepdaughter watches NCIS-types of shows. My stepson's into car shows. And our 10 year-old is into Disney.
As a mother who fancies herself a feminist, I struggle with The Disney Dilemma. I know that some of my daughter's friends watch Disney and some don't, and I can understand the reasons why some kids are not allowed to watch it. It's pretty terrible. Disney is certainly a far cry from Sesame Street. It's obvious that Disney knows this, and is trying very hard to appear inclusive, multi-cultural, and responsible. But let's not fool ourselves, some of those Disney characters are materialistic, narcissistic and, for the most part, extremely irritating. Then you take something like Teen Beach Movie and it's catchy and fun, and has a strong message of empowerment for girls, and we're sucked back in again. Plus, I double dare you to watch Teen Beach Movie and not get up and try to dance along. I watched the dance-along version and I can bust out the main number like a champ. Was it awkward that nobody was home but me? Probably.
So Disney has us where they want us, at least at my house. There was a point where my daughter began talking back without seeming to consider the consequences. This went on for a bit before my husband had a very interesting conversation with her about the kids she watches on Disney. Tim's take on it was that the kids on Disney may act a certain way, but that it's TV, where everything gets resolved in a pretty little 20 minute bow. Tim suggested that our daughter consider that choosing to behave like the kids on Disney doesn't work well in real life. And she got it. Lesson learned.
Back to the Teen Choice Awards. I allowed my daughter to watch, but I was with her. For me, this is key. I'm not with her when she watches every TV show, but I am around if I am unsure what the material will be. If I'm present, we can discuss together the fact that Miley Cyrus' 7-inch stilettos were a bad fashion choice, not because she's not old enough to wear them (because at 20 she can wear what she wants to), but because she's still unable to walk in them, and watching that tragedy unfold is a bit of a nail biter. (Ask my sister for her cardinal rule about heels: If you can't walk in them, don't wear them). We also talked about how some of the Disney actors who presented awards were showing entirely too much cleavage. There may have been some mild discussion around side boob, and again, how these young actors are influencing kids like mine, and how much of that is okay, and how much of that needs to be recognized as inappropriate for a 10 year-old. For me, it's the conversation that needs to take place. I understand that some parents will simply shield their kids from the exposure altogether, but the way I look at it, the exposure combined with an open conversation helps prepare them socially much more than if they weren't exposed to it at all.
After an hour of Teen Choice Awards, I was exhausted from the sensory overload and the Disney cleavage, and was about to change the channel when Ashton Kutcher appeared, accepting an award the "Ultimate Choice Award." One of the first things he said was that he "felt like a fraud," and that name was actually Chris (his middle name is Ashton), and he revealed that his name was changed to Ashton when he was 19 when he decided to pursue acting.
I met Ashton Kutcher before he was famous, and likely before he'd changed his name. It was about 1998, and my sister lived in Los Angeles, and I went out to visit her. We were at dinner at a cozy but loud restaurant in Hollywood where the diners sit at long, shared tables. Ashton sat to my right opposite a woman who appeared to be his mother. He wore a knitted beanie pulled down so far it nearly covered his eyes. His hair was long and he was handsome, but to me, he was just any other guy having dinner with his mother.
Because we were sitting right next to each other, and because it was so loud, we chatted for a while. He had moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career, and he was with his mother, who was there visiting him. The restaurant was so loud that his mother, who sat quietly clutching her handbag in her lap, couldn't hear what we were saying. Ashton laughed and said, "She's from the Midwest, so she's scared someone is going to steal her purse."
Ashton told me he'd just signed on to do a sit-com, and they were going to be working on the pilot. He described the show as a flash-back to the 70's. I remember thinking at the time that the idea sounded terrible, but that he was such a nice guy that I hoped things would work out.
Obviously, things worked out just fine, and the rest is history. When I watched That 70's Show for the first time, I felt oddly connected to that tall, goofy kid who had so much ahead of him. It's been fun watching his career skyrocket, and fun to know that I met him before he made it became a household name and a huge star.
When Ashton appeared on stage at the Teen Choice Awards to accept the Ultimate Award, he laughed, saying he was accepting the "Old Guy Award." At 35, he's certainly elderly compared to the Teen Choice demographic. But I love this speech, simply because it proves that you can make it big and use that opportunity to inspire others to do good things. So perhaps watching TV isn't all that bad, as long as the messages you take to heart are about working hard, being a generous person, and learning that smart is sexy.
Nice job, Chris Kutcher!
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Celebrating Stephanie
Over the weekend, my stepdaughter Stephanie graduated high school. She walked across the stage at Austin's Frank Erwin Center to wild cheers as many of her friends and family members celebrated the big moment.
I was introduced to Stephanie when she was four, and her brother Matthew was five. Fresh out of a tough experience from their parent's divorce, Matthew and Stephanie weren't exactly certain why I was in the picture. Though I'd fallen in love with their father, at 26, I wasn't exactly sure of things myself. Was I okay dating someone with children? Would they like me? Would it work out?
The first day I met the kids, Tim orchestrated a "chance" meeting where we met at the same restaurant. Tim and the kids arrived on bikes and I sat in my car in a red hooded sweater, excited and nervous all at the same time. The goal was for the three of us to have some time to get acquainted, and to take things slowly. We drew silly pictures on napkins. The kids told jokes. Tim did an amazing job making it all seem effortless. We were all okay.
I started coming around more often, and soon the kids learned that I was more than Tim's friend. The kids were terrific - smart, funny, creative -- but Stephanie terrified me. I didn't know it was possible to be afraid of a 4 year-old, but I was. I remember meeting my girlfriends for wine, and I would talk about how hard it was to connect with her. I was afraid she'd strangle me in my sleep. She seemed to peer at me with certain disapproval. Her dark, serious eyes met mine with doubt and mistrust.
I wasn't patient with this. Kids always loved me! But after time, things got better. We'd sit down for a movie at home and she'd be near my space, open to a little hair patting. If I were reading a book she might cautiously find a spot in my lap. One of my favorite pictures of us is when Stephanie was around 5. We're sitting together eating lollipops. Stephanie doesn't exactly look delighted to be there, but I love it because she's on my lap completely by her own choice. Stephanie doesn't do things any other way. Despite her inner conflict, she was willing to connect, even then. I keep that photo on our refrigerator to remind me of how far we've come.
Tim and I dated several years before deciding to get married. Because our wedding was completely non-traditional, I asked Stephanie to be my maid of honor. Matthew was Tim's best man. Stephanie took her role seriously and did an amazing job keeping me calm, looking beautiful in a pink chiffon dress.
Though the years, Stephanie has met every challenge with a determination I've rarely seen in others. She possesses intelligence that's quietly under the surface; she's never in your face about what she knows, but boy, does she know her stuff. She's most creative when she procrastinates. It's nothing for Stephanie to be awake well after midnight, sitting down to begin a paper or a project. For some, that would be unnerving, but Stephanie thrives under pressure. She's written amazing things at the final hour, studied for tests and aced them, created outstanding artwork, choreographed dances. She's at her best when she's doing things on her own terms.
When boys entered the picture, I did my best to listen and allow her to figure things out. My personal philosophy was to defer to Stephanie's parents for the big talks (convenient, right?), and to be there if she came to me with questions. Except lucky for me, most of those questions were answered one night when our hilarious family friend got tipsy and had a wildly inappropriate birds and bees talk while a pre-teen Stephanie listened on in horror. Here and there, Stephanie would share stories with me about the boys she liked, and when it came time to break up with her first boyfriend, she asked me for advice.
Stephanie was in middle school at the time, and I wasn't sure how I would help, so I gave it my best shot. We went to breakfast together, and sat in a restaurant brainstorming on the best way to break up with a boy without hurting him. I suggested that the standard, "It's not you, it's me," is a terrible idea, as is, "I just like you for a friend." I even Googled break-up techniques, and found an article that said you should be honest without being hurtful, and, when possible, be specific about why you were breaking up so the person knows why things didn't work. It also suggested that you express empathy and apologize for causing pain.
I asked Stephanie why she wanted to break up with this boy.
"I know this is mean," she said, "But he's boring."
We sat and thought about ways to present this information to the poor boring boy. It got sillier and sillier, and finally, we came up with a break-up haiku:
You are so boring.
I have to break up with you.
I am sorry for you.
It did meet all the check boxes: Here is why I'm breaking up, this is what I'm doing about it, and I am sorry. After we quit laughing hysterically, we decided this wasn't the best approach. We headed home. Stephanie asked me to be in the room when she made the phone call. We faced opposite directions of the room, fearful that we'd get tickled and ruin it by laughing. She spoke gently to the boy, telling him that she wasn't sure she was ready for a boyfriend, and that she wanted to remain friends. Afterwards, she cried, and I did my best to comfort her, proud of her for breaking up in a mature manner, but remembering how painful those middle-school break-ups can be.
I continued to watch Stephanie grow into a gracious and kind person. She embraced friends of varying backgrounds, and as a result, grew into a person who appreciates diversity and a wide variety of interests. She excelled in school, quietly making grades that blew us away. And while she didn't completely miss the age of being a sassy teenager, honestly, Stephanie was a great teenager to be around.
And then came Billy, the handsome and kind boyfriend Stephanie met in her school's PALS (Peer Assistance Leadership Students) program. During football season, it was fun watching Stephanie in the stands, dressed in her drill team outfit, cheering for Billy.
A few weeks ago, Stephanie and Billy were in a parking lot, and Billy opened the car door for Stephanie. An elderly woman stopped Billy and commented that she never sees that kind of behavior any more, and how pleased she was that Billy opened her door. And despite my feminist qualities, I must admit that I enjoy knowing that Stephanie has a boyfriend who respects and cares for her.
Weeks before prom, Billy met with Stephanie's drill team director, asking her if he would be willing to cancel practice on a specific Monday, and if she would grant him access to the mat room. The director cancelled practice, and told Stephanie that there was a senior meeting. Stephanie entered the mat room to find Billy holding flowers, and this:
From there, it's been a whirlwind of senior activity. Billy and Stephanie were voted prom king and queen (how cute is that?). From prom to honors ceremonies to graduation activities, Stephanie has had a huge cheering squad of people supporting her success.
I am so thankful to Tim and Stephanie's mother for having such an amazing daughter. And what a great combination of her parents she has become -- she has her mother's beauty and her father's height, her mother's discipline and her father's kind and selfless spirit, and both of her parent's intelligence. I'm so blessed to have been a part of most of Stephanie's life.
Stephanie, thank you for sharing your life with all of us. Thank you for welcoming me as your stepmother. Because of my relationship with you, I was awarded the privilege of learning how to be a parent before I became a biological parent myself. We've been through struggles, fights, awkward silences, some killer road trip singalong sessions, huge laughs, silly dancing moments in public places, and yet, through all of it, we've worked on our relationship, and now it's one of the most important relationships in my life.
I cannot wait to see what your next chapter brings!
(Senior Photo courtesy of Kristi Wright http://www.kristiwrightphotography.com)
I was introduced to Stephanie when she was four, and her brother Matthew was five. Fresh out of a tough experience from their parent's divorce, Matthew and Stephanie weren't exactly certain why I was in the picture. Though I'd fallen in love with their father, at 26, I wasn't exactly sure of things myself. Was I okay dating someone with children? Would they like me? Would it work out?
The first day I met the kids, Tim orchestrated a "chance" meeting where we met at the same restaurant. Tim and the kids arrived on bikes and I sat in my car in a red hooded sweater, excited and nervous all at the same time. The goal was for the three of us to have some time to get acquainted, and to take things slowly. We drew silly pictures on napkins. The kids told jokes. Tim did an amazing job making it all seem effortless. We were all okay.
I started coming around more often, and soon the kids learned that I was more than Tim's friend. The kids were terrific - smart, funny, creative -- but Stephanie terrified me. I didn't know it was possible to be afraid of a 4 year-old, but I was. I remember meeting my girlfriends for wine, and I would talk about how hard it was to connect with her. I was afraid she'd strangle me in my sleep. She seemed to peer at me with certain disapproval. Her dark, serious eyes met mine with doubt and mistrust.
I wasn't patient with this. Kids always loved me! But after time, things got better. We'd sit down for a movie at home and she'd be near my space, open to a little hair patting. If I were reading a book she might cautiously find a spot in my lap. One of my favorite pictures of us is when Stephanie was around 5. We're sitting together eating lollipops. Stephanie doesn't exactly look delighted to be there, but I love it because she's on my lap completely by her own choice. Stephanie doesn't do things any other way. Despite her inner conflict, she was willing to connect, even then. I keep that photo on our refrigerator to remind me of how far we've come.
Tim and I dated several years before deciding to get married. Because our wedding was completely non-traditional, I asked Stephanie to be my maid of honor. Matthew was Tim's best man. Stephanie took her role seriously and did an amazing job keeping me calm, looking beautiful in a pink chiffon dress.
Though the years, Stephanie has met every challenge with a determination I've rarely seen in others. She possesses intelligence that's quietly under the surface; she's never in your face about what she knows, but boy, does she know her stuff. She's most creative when she procrastinates. It's nothing for Stephanie to be awake well after midnight, sitting down to begin a paper or a project. For some, that would be unnerving, but Stephanie thrives under pressure. She's written amazing things at the final hour, studied for tests and aced them, created outstanding artwork, choreographed dances. She's at her best when she's doing things on her own terms.
When boys entered the picture, I did my best to listen and allow her to figure things out. My personal philosophy was to defer to Stephanie's parents for the big talks (convenient, right?), and to be there if she came to me with questions. Except lucky for me, most of those questions were answered one night when our hilarious family friend got tipsy and had a wildly inappropriate birds and bees talk while a pre-teen Stephanie listened on in horror. Here and there, Stephanie would share stories with me about the boys she liked, and when it came time to break up with her first boyfriend, she asked me for advice.
Stephanie was in middle school at the time, and I wasn't sure how I would help, so I gave it my best shot. We went to breakfast together, and sat in a restaurant brainstorming on the best way to break up with a boy without hurting him. I suggested that the standard, "It's not you, it's me," is a terrible idea, as is, "I just like you for a friend." I even Googled break-up techniques, and found an article that said you should be honest without being hurtful, and, when possible, be specific about why you were breaking up so the person knows why things didn't work. It also suggested that you express empathy and apologize for causing pain.
I asked Stephanie why she wanted to break up with this boy.
"I know this is mean," she said, "But he's boring."
We sat and thought about ways to present this information to the poor boring boy. It got sillier and sillier, and finally, we came up with a break-up haiku:
You are so boring.
I have to break up with you.
I am sorry for you.
It did meet all the check boxes: Here is why I'm breaking up, this is what I'm doing about it, and I am sorry. After we quit laughing hysterically, we decided this wasn't the best approach. We headed home. Stephanie asked me to be in the room when she made the phone call. We faced opposite directions of the room, fearful that we'd get tickled and ruin it by laughing. She spoke gently to the boy, telling him that she wasn't sure she was ready for a boyfriend, and that she wanted to remain friends. Afterwards, she cried, and I did my best to comfort her, proud of her for breaking up in a mature manner, but remembering how painful those middle-school break-ups can be.
I continued to watch Stephanie grow into a gracious and kind person. She embraced friends of varying backgrounds, and as a result, grew into a person who appreciates diversity and a wide variety of interests. She excelled in school, quietly making grades that blew us away. And while she didn't completely miss the age of being a sassy teenager, honestly, Stephanie was a great teenager to be around.
And then came Billy, the handsome and kind boyfriend Stephanie met in her school's PALS (Peer Assistance Leadership Students) program. During football season, it was fun watching Stephanie in the stands, dressed in her drill team outfit, cheering for Billy.
A few weeks ago, Stephanie and Billy were in a parking lot, and Billy opened the car door for Stephanie. An elderly woman stopped Billy and commented that she never sees that kind of behavior any more, and how pleased she was that Billy opened her door. And despite my feminist qualities, I must admit that I enjoy knowing that Stephanie has a boyfriend who respects and cares for her.
Weeks before prom, Billy met with Stephanie's drill team director, asking her if he would be willing to cancel practice on a specific Monday, and if she would grant him access to the mat room. The director cancelled practice, and told Stephanie that there was a senior meeting. Stephanie entered the mat room to find Billy holding flowers, and this:
From there, it's been a whirlwind of senior activity. Billy and Stephanie were voted prom king and queen (how cute is that?). From prom to honors ceremonies to graduation activities, Stephanie has had a huge cheering squad of people supporting her success.
I am so thankful to Tim and Stephanie's mother for having such an amazing daughter. And what a great combination of her parents she has become -- she has her mother's beauty and her father's height, her mother's discipline and her father's kind and selfless spirit, and both of her parent's intelligence. I'm so blessed to have been a part of most of Stephanie's life.
Stephanie, thank you for sharing your life with all of us. Thank you for welcoming me as your stepmother. Because of my relationship with you, I was awarded the privilege of learning how to be a parent before I became a biological parent myself. We've been through struggles, fights, awkward silences, some killer road trip singalong sessions, huge laughs, silly dancing moments in public places, and yet, through all of it, we've worked on our relationship, and now it's one of the most important relationships in my life.
I cannot wait to see what your next chapter brings!
(Senior Photo courtesy of Kristi Wright http://www.kristiwrightphotography.com)
Monday, April 29, 2013
Tubas and Letters to Playboy: The Resolution
At long last: a resolution to the story of the mystery letter!
For those of you not following along, a brief recap:
On April 11, while walking home from work, I found a letter on the sidewalk at UT. The letter was addressed to Playboy and had not yet been mailed. I picked it up and took it with me, unsure of what to do about it. I was wildly intrigued and found this to be an extremely exciting situation. Friends offered various suggestions on what to do with the letter. I was shocked at how many people wanted me to open it. Though I had no problem kidnapping a random found letter, I refused to open it. It just felt too naughty.
Okay, now you're all caught up.
Because I am a lazy slowpoke, I took a while deciding what to do, and it took me a while to take action. That, and I kept forgetting about it, then I'd see it on my desk and slap myself in the forehead and say, "Mystery letter! What am I going to do about you?"
The best suggestion that didn't require me to potentially put my life in danger (after all, it would be weird just to show up and someone's doorstep with their unopened mail, right?) was to drop the mystery letter in another envelope and mail it back to its rightful owner.
To protect the identify of the sender, the sender's name will be called "H" from here on out.
Here is the letter:
Dear "H",
This is perhaps one of the oddest letters you will ever receive! Bear with me while I explain.
Several days ago (actually, Thursday, April 11), I was walking in the UT campus when I saw the enclosed letter on the ground. At first, I snapped a photo of it, then wondered if perhaps it included a check, so I was a bit concerned about leaving your mail unattended on the sidewalk. I looked around for an owner (or a hidden camera!), and didn't see either. I was unsure what to do – I tried finding you online to give you a call, because I felt unsure about dropping it in the post (what if you didn't want to mail it until a certain date, changed your mind, etc.?)
Given the rather “sensitive” address, I considered bringing your letter to your address, but wondered if you might want this private – who knows?! Knowing that opening someone else’s mail is a federal offense, I kept the mail with me in safekeeping (though my husband did attempt to peek inside and I stopped him!)
I’m a writer, and curious by nature, so I took the letter home with me, and wrote about it. You are welcome to check this out on neverwearanyoneelseshat.blogspot.com. To protect your identity, the information was hidden in the photo. You must admit this is a curious story and quite hilarious!
I am sorry that I have had it with me for nearly 2 weeks, but I simply didn't know what to do until one of my readers suggested that I mail it back to you. Brilliant!
I have one small favor. I would love to know the actual story if you are willing to share it. There are obviously many theories here – is it a simple subscription renewal, job application, hate letter? – I’d love to know the real story here if you’re willing to share it.
Best regards,
Amy Arndt,
Austin
I included my email address and the return address of my office, just in case the letter writer got really angry at me for kidnapping their mail, I would have a security guard at my disposal. Except our security guard looks like he works halftime as our building security guard and halftime as the tenor member of a barbershop quartet, so I'm unsure how much he could protect me if it came down to that.
By this morning, I had given up hope of ever hearing back from "H." And then, this afternoon, an emailed response!
I will not disclose the identity of the writer, but I will tell you what I suspected all along -- it was a woman! That tell-tale girly handwriting gave it away! Also, it's evident that this Miss "H" is not my age, because these young whippersnappers bust out with a lot of "lols." I would peg her to be in her early to mid 20's, as my cousins are this age and they do a lot of "lol"ing as well. Just an observation.
Here is the response. I changed one minor area to protect the workplace of the writer and the type of car they drive. Otherwise, here you have it:
Amy,
I must say, I am absolutely amused by the fact you found my letter to Playboy and even bothered to return it to me. I also found your blog about it absolutely hysterical! (I will also be following your blog now, if you don't mind.) :)
I don't wish to disappoint you, but all it is is a subscription with a check enclosed. I found a coupon for a year's worth of Playboy for $12 (and you returned it to me just in time, too, as it expired at the end of April! lol). Who could turn that down?! I could save face here and say that I was subscribing to it for my fiance, but I'm rather blase about such topics and will totally own to the fact that it was for my benefit, as well. I do enjoy the articles and find the beautiful, au-natural ladies gracing the pages to be an added bonus, as does my fiance too, I'm sure. lol
I do actually work here at UT and park along where I assume you were taking a walk. I had the letter in my hand when I walked to my car so as to not to forget to mail it and didn't realize until I got home that I had lost it. (And to think I was being all efficient that day. Dammit! There went that! lol) When I realized that I must have lost it somewhere on campus, I had a vision of someone finding it and wondering about the Playboy address. Lo and behold, I get your package in the mail a few weeks later!
Feel free to blog about my response if you wish for those that may want an update on the situation.
Thanks for returning the subscription/check to me. If you want, I can send you a complimentary issue for the trouble you took to return the letter to me. ;) LOL
____
As you can imagine, I love this girl. She had me at "I'm rather blase about such topics," and won further admiration for being that type of gal who can subscribe to Playboy as a heterosexual female and not feel weird about it in the least. I have another friend who used to subscribe to Playboy before she started popping out babies. I always admired that, because the raciest thing I subscribe to is Bazaar. Not that I don't get a little tingle at the "Bath of the Month" section in House Beautiful, but I have a thing for huge showers.
The past few weeks have brought me several random adventures - the tuba incident, the mystery letter, and the girl I accidentally pocket friended on Facebook who accepted my friend request after we realized we already have a ton of things in common. I figure that's just the Universe delivering me things to write about, and that makes me happy.
So I suspect, and I hope, that I will someday meet this "H." Given that she's engaged to be married, at the very least, I hope "H" shares this story with her wedding party, and that someone tells this story in a toast at their rehearsal dinner. And that the happy couple has Playboy subscriptions in their future for years and years to come.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Tubas and Letters to Playboy
It's been a very unusual week.
Wednesday over lunch with colleagues, one of my coworkers told us that a neighbor in her condo community called her the other day, apologizing for practicing the trumpet. Lucky for the neighbor, she called a wildly open-minded person, who happily offered to get together with the trumpet-playing neighbor and have her over for a jam session (my coworker sings and plays the guitar). This resulted in a lot of trumpet-music-based questions such as, "What happens if she comes over and only knows the complete works of John Philip Sousa?" and "What if she only knows how to play 'Taps?'"
As those kind of conversations go, this led to another coworker telling us about when he was growing up, a neighbor kid was learning to play the tuba. The kid was around 10, and his mother made him practice the tuba on the back porch. Not that I blame the kid's mother, but this took place in West Virginia, so I can't imagine that kid had warm fingers when he was pounding out bass lines in the dead of winter.
I put all talk of trumpets and tubas behind me, and went on about my week. And, despite the fact that my father played the trumpet, we own a trumpet (and I don't actually remember why), I don't go around thinking about brass instruments on a regular basis.
Yesterday, while walking home, I was deep in thought. I was asking myself why I keep procrastinating on a book I'm trying to write, when I looked far down the sidewalk and did a double take. Coming towards me on the sidewalk by the stadium at UT was this guy:
That's pretty random, right? What is even more random was that I was completely okay with stopping him and asking to take his picture, while breathlessly telling him about the boy who was forced to practice the tuba outside. He's laughing in this pic because I asked him to play a few notes for me. While he played, I did a little dance that one does while listening to an outdoor tuba solo. Not exactly sexy.
I walked on, looking down and texting the picture of Tuba Boy to my coworkers, laughing to myself like the crazy person I am. Because I was focused on looking down, I happened to see this:
I'm sorry that the picture is blurry, but I wanted you to see the proof. Sitting proudly on the sidewalk was this plain white envelope with a fresh stamp, addressed to Playboy.
On my walks, I've found lots of interesting things on the sidewalks of the fine institution known as the University of Texas at Austin. One morning I found a huge pair of grey flip flops, as if the owner just took them off, set them neatly on the sidewalk and said, "Flips, it is time we part ways." That same huge pair of flip flops stayed there for a good two weeks. So weird. Where WAS that barefoot guy? Another morning I found -- in this order -- an empty bottle of cheap whiskey, an empty Red Bull, an empty condom package, and an empty package of Cheetos. I wanted to photograph it and title it "A Good Time Was Had By All." Except that I wasn't sure that everyone in that scenario had a good time.
The letter to Playboy was, by far, the best find to date.
I looked around for a camera crew, figuring this was some kind of "What Would You Do?" taping. When the coast was clear, I bent down to snap a photo and thought I'd move along. Except I didn't. I picked it up, looked around for a possible owner, and carried it with me. I'm not always up on the current laws, but a few laws have been ingrained in me for a very long time: Don't speed in a school zone. Don't pick bluebonnets in Texas (we'll shoot you). And for the love of God, don't open anyone else's mail. So I kidnapped someone else's mail, which may also be a federal offense. But I took my chances.
From there, I had a strong urge to talk to someone. A UT student, or possibly young professor type, came walking down the sidewalk. I walked toward him cheerfully and said,
"I'm sorry to bother you, but something very strange just happened and I'm hoping you can help me decide what to do."
"Okay.." he said, looking skeptical.
"I'm a mom," I said, feeling that would make me appear less mentally unstable, "and I walk this route almost every day. I was just minding my own business when I found THIS on the sidewalk."
I displayed the letter for his review while pointing to the sidewalk where I discovered it. Also, I often find that in random situations, if you tell someone you're a mom, it makes them feel comfortable. I don't think this was the case this time.
"Okay..." he said, twisting his wedding ring uncomfortably.
"I know! It's crazy! Did you see the address? It's to PLAYBOY!" I said excitedly, "It was just sitting there, and the owner is nowhere in sight! Now, I bet you think you're on some kind of reality show right now, right?"
"Um, yeah." This guy was quite the conversationalist. He looked around for cameras.
"Don't worry, you're not," I assured him, "Unless of course we both are, because I just found this letter a few minutes ago and I have no idea why I picked it up. But I have some choices to make here. I could leave it where I found it, but what if it has a check in it? Or, I could drop it in the mail, but what if the owner wasn't ready to send it just yet? Or, I could track down the owner, but it's not like it's just an everyday letter. I mean, it's kind of awkward subject matter. Like is it a subscription renewal? Or maybe it's a hate letter. What should I do with it?"
By this point, the guy was fake laughing like he was laughing at his father-in-law's bad joke. He was not catching my drift, or even remotely excited about this awesome situation.
"Yeah, I don't know what you should do," he said, clearly walking to safety, "Good luck with that."
And with that he was off. I walked on, still clutching the letter, wishing I'd come across someone with more personality and gusto for life and its random happenings, and wondering why this letter was suddenly in my care.
I walked quickly home to share the story with my family, who all found the letter to be extremely entertaining and mysterious, thank goodness. My husband Tim tried to hold it up to the light to review the contents. Then he wedged his finger in the corner of it and blew, trying to peer in, until I got very protective and ordered him to stop. After all, I am the temporary guardian of this strange letter. I need to guard and protect it. (Some of you will get that reference, which makes me happy.)
Tim doesn't like it when I'm bossy, so he quickly lost interest, adding sarcastically that it could be filled with anthrax. I suggested that his decision to blow in a stranger's anthrax-filled letter was probably not a great idea, and he better watch himself.
From there, I spent entirely too much of my free time researching the letter writer's name. Because they only put a first initial and last name, tracking this individual down was nearly impossible, and I am very good at research. I tried the UT staff listing. I did all sorts of name searches, tried LinkedIn, Facebook, and even tried tracking the return address to the home owner. Right as I was identifying the owner of the home (a different name from the letter writer), my stepdaughter came home, and I told the story again.
To set up the mysterious letter story, I started with the tuba story. From yesterday. It's just how I tell stories.
Over dinner, we considered the options:
Decisions, decisions.
I hope you're not waiting for a climactic finish to this story, because I still have the letter in my possession, and I have still not figured out what to do with it. I slept restlessly, dreaming about driving up to middle school band on a motorcycle, a tuba on my back, and all the while, worrying about a missing letter.
Rest assured, I'll keep you posted on what happens next!
Wednesday over lunch with colleagues, one of my coworkers told us that a neighbor in her condo community called her the other day, apologizing for practicing the trumpet. Lucky for the neighbor, she called a wildly open-minded person, who happily offered to get together with the trumpet-playing neighbor and have her over for a jam session (my coworker sings and plays the guitar). This resulted in a lot of trumpet-music-based questions such as, "What happens if she comes over and only knows the complete works of John Philip Sousa?" and "What if she only knows how to play 'Taps?'"
As those kind of conversations go, this led to another coworker telling us about when he was growing up, a neighbor kid was learning to play the tuba. The kid was around 10, and his mother made him practice the tuba on the back porch. Not that I blame the kid's mother, but this took place in West Virginia, so I can't imagine that kid had warm fingers when he was pounding out bass lines in the dead of winter.
I put all talk of trumpets and tubas behind me, and went on about my week. And, despite the fact that my father played the trumpet, we own a trumpet (and I don't actually remember why), I don't go around thinking about brass instruments on a regular basis.
Yesterday, while walking home, I was deep in thought. I was asking myself why I keep procrastinating on a book I'm trying to write, when I looked far down the sidewalk and did a double take. Coming towards me on the sidewalk by the stadium at UT was this guy:
That's pretty random, right? What is even more random was that I was completely okay with stopping him and asking to take his picture, while breathlessly telling him about the boy who was forced to practice the tuba outside. He's laughing in this pic because I asked him to play a few notes for me. While he played, I did a little dance that one does while listening to an outdoor tuba solo. Not exactly sexy.
I walked on, looking down and texting the picture of Tuba Boy to my coworkers, laughing to myself like the crazy person I am. Because I was focused on looking down, I happened to see this:
I'm sorry that the picture is blurry, but I wanted you to see the proof. Sitting proudly on the sidewalk was this plain white envelope with a fresh stamp, addressed to Playboy.
On my walks, I've found lots of interesting things on the sidewalks of the fine institution known as the University of Texas at Austin. One morning I found a huge pair of grey flip flops, as if the owner just took them off, set them neatly on the sidewalk and said, "Flips, it is time we part ways." That same huge pair of flip flops stayed there for a good two weeks. So weird. Where WAS that barefoot guy? Another morning I found -- in this order -- an empty bottle of cheap whiskey, an empty Red Bull, an empty condom package, and an empty package of Cheetos. I wanted to photograph it and title it "A Good Time Was Had By All." Except that I wasn't sure that everyone in that scenario had a good time.
The letter to Playboy was, by far, the best find to date.
I looked around for a camera crew, figuring this was some kind of "What Would You Do?" taping. When the coast was clear, I bent down to snap a photo and thought I'd move along. Except I didn't. I picked it up, looked around for a possible owner, and carried it with me. I'm not always up on the current laws, but a few laws have been ingrained in me for a very long time: Don't speed in a school zone. Don't pick bluebonnets in Texas (we'll shoot you). And for the love of God, don't open anyone else's mail. So I kidnapped someone else's mail, which may also be a federal offense. But I took my chances.
From there, I had a strong urge to talk to someone. A UT student, or possibly young professor type, came walking down the sidewalk. I walked toward him cheerfully and said,
"I'm sorry to bother you, but something very strange just happened and I'm hoping you can help me decide what to do."
"Okay.." he said, looking skeptical.
"I'm a mom," I said, feeling that would make me appear less mentally unstable, "and I walk this route almost every day. I was just minding my own business when I found THIS on the sidewalk."
I displayed the letter for his review while pointing to the sidewalk where I discovered it. Also, I often find that in random situations, if you tell someone you're a mom, it makes them feel comfortable. I don't think this was the case this time.
"Okay..." he said, twisting his wedding ring uncomfortably.
"I know! It's crazy! Did you see the address? It's to PLAYBOY!" I said excitedly, "It was just sitting there, and the owner is nowhere in sight! Now, I bet you think you're on some kind of reality show right now, right?"
"Um, yeah." This guy was quite the conversationalist. He looked around for cameras.
"Don't worry, you're not," I assured him, "Unless of course we both are, because I just found this letter a few minutes ago and I have no idea why I picked it up. But I have some choices to make here. I could leave it where I found it, but what if it has a check in it? Or, I could drop it in the mail, but what if the owner wasn't ready to send it just yet? Or, I could track down the owner, but it's not like it's just an everyday letter. I mean, it's kind of awkward subject matter. Like is it a subscription renewal? Or maybe it's a hate letter. What should I do with it?"
By this point, the guy was fake laughing like he was laughing at his father-in-law's bad joke. He was not catching my drift, or even remotely excited about this awesome situation.
"Yeah, I don't know what you should do," he said, clearly walking to safety, "Good luck with that."
And with that he was off. I walked on, still clutching the letter, wishing I'd come across someone with more personality and gusto for life and its random happenings, and wondering why this letter was suddenly in my care.
I walked quickly home to share the story with my family, who all found the letter to be extremely entertaining and mysterious, thank goodness. My husband Tim tried to hold it up to the light to review the contents. Then he wedged his finger in the corner of it and blew, trying to peer in, until I got very protective and ordered him to stop. After all, I am the temporary guardian of this strange letter. I need to guard and protect it. (Some of you will get that reference, which makes me happy.)
Tim doesn't like it when I'm bossy, so he quickly lost interest, adding sarcastically that it could be filled with anthrax. I suggested that his decision to blow in a stranger's anthrax-filled letter was probably not a great idea, and he better watch himself.
From there, I spent entirely too much of my free time researching the letter writer's name. Because they only put a first initial and last name, tracking this individual down was nearly impossible, and I am very good at research. I tried the UT staff listing. I did all sorts of name searches, tried LinkedIn, Facebook, and even tried tracking the return address to the home owner. Right as I was identifying the owner of the home (a different name from the letter writer), my stepdaughter came home, and I told the story again.
To set up the mysterious letter story, I started with the tuba story. From yesterday. It's just how I tell stories.
Over dinner, we considered the options:
- I could drop the letter in the mail. Except somehow I've missed the memo on the fact that you can't find a simple mailbox anywhere anymore unless you go to the post office, and I feel a little weird about showing up with a letter I didn't write addressed to an establishment that features naked ladies. And I know, I know, people subscribe for the articles, but I am unsure of the intentions of my mystery letter writer, so this is an unusual situation.
- I could mail it from home, but again, do I want to be associated with this letter if it's in any way threatening?
- Also, if I mail this letter, what if the sender was debating whether or not to send it? What if it was an application for employment, or some kind of private letter to an employee? What if! What if!
- I could drive to the address on the envelope (the one in Austin, that is) and tell the person who answers the door that I found this letter. Except what happens if the letter was written by a male (with girly handwriting), and the person's wife or girlfriend answers, and is then upset at the fact that their partner subscribed to an adult publication without their knowledge?
- I could go and put the letter back where I found it. No. That's even weirder than picking it up in the first place.
- There was brief discussion about putting the letter in the freezer, a technique that evidently opens letters? I'm not sure how my stepdaughter knows this technique. Hmm.
Decisions, decisions.
I hope you're not waiting for a climactic finish to this story, because I still have the letter in my possession, and I have still not figured out what to do with it. I slept restlessly, dreaming about driving up to middle school band on a motorcycle, a tuba on my back, and all the while, worrying about a missing letter.
Rest assured, I'll keep you posted on what happens next!
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
In Support of Marriage Equality
Today, like many others, I changed my profile picture on Facebook to the symbol for the Human Rights Campaign. I live in Austin, a delightfully open-minded place, so pretty much everyone I know did the same - from my gay friends to my gay relatives to my straight friends and my straight relatives -- all the way to my fearless 65-year old mother who lives in my otherwise conservative home town. I'm proud to be part of a vast network of people who support our friends who don't yet have the legal right to marry the person they love.
When my husband Tim noticed I changed my picture, he replied with a perplexed, "????"
Now, before you start thinking I married a homophobic man, you haven't met my husband. The man sews. He wears cuff links. Long before I married Tim, I worked with him, and I thought he was gay because he owned and boldly wore a mustard yellow linen suit. But lucky for me, he's a boob man, so we're all good. It wasn't that Tim was questioning my support of marriage equality; he simply didn't recognize the symbol and was momentarily baffled by it. I joked on Facebook that for a brief moment, Tim thought I was moving to Sweden.
I then explained that I also wasn't familiar with the symbol until a few months ago, when I spotted a blue and yellow sticker on the car next to me at our neighborhood grocery and actually wondered if it had something to do with Sweden. The kid driving the car was an Austin hipster in skinny jeans who smiled at me.
"What does that sticker mean?" I asked.
He explained that the sticker was the symbol for the Human Rights Campaign, and that it was connected with supporting marriage equality.
My 9-year old daughter was with me, and since he was getting in his car and I wanted him to know I wasn't just your typical straight SUV-driving mom, I said enthusiastically, "Rosie and I support you! We watch Glee!"
And then, I snorted a big fat nerd snort and got in my car and drove off while he rolled his eyes at me.
Okay, so I failed to adequately convey my support at that point. I made a huge, important human rights issue seem silly by comparing it to letting my daughter watch a prime time show with gay jokes and characters. So today, I'd like to try again. Or, better yet, let some somebody more qualified do it for me.
Enter Jean Podrasky, cousin of Chief Justice John G. Roberts, Jr., who was present at today's US Supreme Court hearing on Proposition 8. This is what Podrasky had to say on the matter of marriage equality:
“Everyone in this country has a family member who is part of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender community…,” she wrote. “As a Californian, I want nothing more than to marry my wonderful girlfriend. And as a tax-paying citizen, I seek basic fairness.”
I'm one of those people who has a family member who is part of the gay community. And I agree with Podrasky, chances are, we all do (whether we know it or not, or whether that person has felt safe enough to share that often difficult reality with their loved ones). Lucky for me, my mother raised us to be open to all kinds of things that society deems as "different," so having a gay relative was, and always has been, a non-issue. Until now.
I want my relative to be able to have a legally-recognized marriage with his partner of 20+ years. I get to marry my partner, why can't he? I want my dear, childhood friend -- a boy I spent most of 7th grade trying to get to kiss me and who caused me to develop a complex until I learned he liked boys -- be able to marry his partner of 16+ years so that they can grow old together.
If nothing else, I want my LGBT friends to have the same rights to get married, so we can all share the same jokes about marriage. Like, for example, when Tim and I tell people that when we got married, we said, "Divorce is not an option. But homicide is." Or, when Tim says, "The only thing worse than being married is being single." After all, shouldn't we all have the same rights to be miserable when our spouses don't shut the kitchen cabinets or leave the salad dressing lid just a little bit loose? Every time? (And, for the record, that's me, not Tim. I leave salad dressing lids loose. I am sorry. We won't mention who leaves kitchen cabinets open..)
There are some who feel passionately that the institution of marriage is strictly for a man and a woman. While I personally think that is utter hogwash, I am also very sorry they feel that way. I am especially sorry for people who feel that way, marry a member of the opposite sex, and then decide to have a child. And then, that child grows up and finds the courage to say that they are in love with a person of the same sex, and is faced with having to figure out how to tell their parents the truth. Because it happens all the time, and only the tolerant survive those situations, look back, and wonder what all the fuss was about. The one thing that gives me hope is that I know people have the ability to grow and change, and to be more accepting.
I simply cannot understand people wanting to put restrictions on love. We should all be free to love and marry whomever we want. I personally don't care if you want to marry a guinea pig as long as it makes you happy.
So I'll close with this, a quote from the lovely Cynthia Nixon of Sex and the City fame (because by now you know that I have a certain need to associate important issues with gay-friendly TV shows):
"When women got the vote, they did not redefine voting. When African-Americans got the right to sit at a lunch counter alongside white people, they did not redefine eating out. They were simply invited to the table. That is all we want to do; we have no desire to change marriage. We want to be entitled to not only the same privileges but the same responsibilities as straight people."
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