Blog Management

I was quite flattered to learn that my daughter’s friend Caroline reads my blog nearly every day. I learned that she was fascinated to think I got up early in the morning, wrote, and then posted my writing by 8 am.

But Kara explained that that wasn’t the case. She told her friend that’s not how my Mom does it. She writes and posts every day, but at all times there are at least 5 or 6 open word documents in the computer.

It is true. I have several blog posts waiting to be published at all times. Part of it is because I like to be more than well prepared. Having a week’s worth of posts is a kind of insurance---in case life gets in the way of my writing. But the other piece to my backlog is a type of marketing strategy. By having a bunch of saved documents, I can pick and choose when I feel the time is right to post them. Sometimes the decision is topic-based, sometimes it has to do with editing, and sometimes it is a time sensitivity issue.

For example in late June I wrote a rather scathing expose-like post about the Superintendent of schools. It is unpublished. I suspect it will rock his world when I chose to do so. And even though the piece was written to my personal satisfaction nearly two months ago, I will not post it until early September—when school is back in session. This is a post that deserves the opportunity for the broadest audience.

And it is rare for me to write something on one day and then post it the next. There is always a fair amount of tweaking involved in the writing process. Editing your own work is not always easy. So I only publish after a 24 hour period when the timing is key—as in my posts about the Superbowl or Serena Williams winning gold.

And sometimes a post will lay dormant for a while because it makes no sense to post several similar topics in a row. Because my thoughts sometimes come in binges—I will write one post about dogs (for example) and it will generate two others. It’s nonsensical to post successive topics.

But ultimately, in every post I write, I must weigh if my words are of significant value. I must decide if what I have written is thought inspiring -- and revise it if I deem it is not. I am my own quality control.     So even if all of this is not very interesting or provocative for many, it is most definitely for Caroline.

And that makes me smile.

Witch-y Wear

During the heat wave last week I was wearing a maxi sundress-- sleeveless cotton knit on top and white multilayered lightweight cotton gauze below the empire waist. It was very flow-y. It was perfect for the extreme heat.

And I found myself in conversation with someone who admired the ease and apparent comfort of my dress and then inquired Where did you buy that?—because I saw one just like it in a Wicken catalogue I received at home.

And before I could answer her question I became immediately distracted. My mind raced---why does this woman receive a Wicken catalogue?—is she a wicken? And just as importantly—was I dressed like a witch?—albeit a white witch—like Glenda?

But I did not share any of these thoughts. I simply said I bought it at T.J Maxx. It was $24.99.

And that pretty much was the end of the conversation.

And now I am left wondering about the whole Wicken thing.

But at least now I know who to contact if in preparing my caldron I see that I have run out of eye of newt.

Because you never know when you may be in need of casting a good  spell. And you can never have too much eye of newt.

Mitt's Mate

I was watching the Olympics the other day when it was interrupted by a special report. Mitt Romney was announcing his vice-presidential candidate. And when Paul Ryan’s name was broadcasted, I had two thoughts—the first was Isn’t Paul Ryan the guy that proposed some talked-about bill in Congress that never got passed? And the second thought was Wow Romney and Ryan both have aggressive heads of hair. They can both do Grecian formula commercials in the event their campaign fails.

I once read that the Monica Lewinsky scandal shifted the way Americans viewed politics. Within the realm of political issues, post Bill Clinton, minutiae became substantive. We view candidates through the lens of Entertainment Tonight.

In the fall of Samantha’s senior year at Lehigh University, Barack Obama came to speak. It was a presidential year--2008. Pennsylvania was a swing state. And candidates fought for every vote—especially on college campuses.

And during this same time period farther northwest in Pennsylvania, the Republicans held a political rally just outside of Lewisburg. So my daughter Briana went with her two Bucknell University friends to hear Sarah Palin speak---not because they were linked in politically, but because one of the girls needed to attend the rally for a political science course she was taking.

And when I asked Briana, who had been hand plucked from the throng of people to sit behind Sara Palin such that Briana came to be televised on CNN, every primetime news program, and even The View, how the speech was? She answered that Sarah Palin’s high heel boots were awesome—as was her suit. Palin was impeccably dressed. And as for the speech—Briana found herself too distracted by the assemblage of tea party Central Pennsylvanians to comment.

We base our voting decisions partially on the real issues like the direction of the economy and Roe vs. Wade, but also on who we would like to hang out with if given the opportunity. We project which candidate would have been our friend in middle or high school, and then we take it from there. We try to determine which candidate is more like us.

Which is why I am not shocked at all about the prime-time revelations about Mitt Romney’s running mate. The Republicans are pandering to the E! News mentality. We have learned that Paul Ryan is a proponent of the P90X workout. He has a six pack of abdominal muscles lying underneath his fitted (albeit stuffed) shirt. And his wife Janna wears dresses from Kohl’s.

Based on this newsworthy data I must cast my vote—which may backfire on the Republicans. I must decide if given the opportunity would  I want to hang out with an exercise fiend and his dowdily dressed Stepford wife?

I would have preferred knowing if Ryan has nerves, rather than abs of steel.

Because this is what politics has become: The Fashion Police instead of Face the Nation. And it is all because of a trail of blue-light stains on a little black Gap dress. Politically speaking, it’s the minutia-turned-substantive that inquiring minds want to know.

Provoked Dog Bites

When I was 12 years old I was attacked and bitten by a German Sheppard. It was completely unprovoked. The dog, who was leached at the time, decided that I looked like a snack.

I believe in zero tolerance for unprovoked dog bites. But I also believe in humans deserving bites when they provoke a dog, or show absolutely no common sense.

Wheaten Terriers have the ability to jump 6 feet high from a standing position. And up until Jasper was too old to do so, he jumped in front of my full-glass door with regularity if anyone approached it. It was fierce behavior. And unless one had a deficient IQ, they would be completely intimidated—the jumping and barking evoked at the minimum---suspenseful concern.

One day when I wasn’t home, and Jasper was still a very young dog, a Fed Ex man came to deliver a package. And Blanca, who was the only one in residence, did not lock the storm door. And despite seeing my crazy terrier jumping like a pogo stick, the fed-ex man still thought it was a good idea to open the door to place the package inside my house.

Jasper, who weighed 55 lbs at the time, flew out the door, jumped up, and with his paw deeply scratched the man’s abdomen.

The Garden City police came and accused the delivery man of perpetuating a scam—aimed at me (lawsuit) or at his employer (worker’s compensation)---or being just plain old stupid. In either case no citation was issued.

When Jasper was in his middle years an errant lacrosse ball flew into my back yard. A boy, who happened to be friends with my daughter, decided against the advice of his friends to retrieve it. And so he came into my yard even though Jasper was barking at him. And when the boy chose to extend his hand to pet Jasper, Jasper nipped him.

And I called the Mom—completely upset and fearful that I may have to put Jasper down. But the mother told me not to worry about it. Jasper had done her son a favor. She hoped her son would finally get the hint that not all dogs are friendly and that you should never pet a dog without the owner’s permission—let alone trespass into someone’s yard.

There was a girl on one of my daughters’ teams. The girl was in an athletic funk. And when she came to my door one day when I was not home, somehow Jasper, who was in his later years at this point, got out and grazed the girl’s hand with his teeth. The wound, while it drew blood, was superficial. And after the placement of a Band-Aid, the two girls continued on to practice.

I feared the phone confrontation with the mother. I knew the Mom to be externally fragile, but suspected beneath the porcelain veneer lied a Tiger Mom. I prepared myself for some passive aggression. Yet I was conflicted—Jasper on one hand had not bitten the girl full on and had backed off once they made contact, but on the other hand, the girl it appeared hadn’t invited the wound.

So I opened the conversation with the mother by offering to pay for any medical expenses—of which there were none—the girl had not been brought to the pediatrician—there was no need. But I still feared that this woman believed Jasper was a menace to society and needed to be put down—and human safety is something I could wrap my brain around. But what became clear in the most roundabout way was that the Mom thought Jasper was the genesis of her daughter’s faltering play and that is why she implied Jasper might need to be put down.

And now I was the dog provoked--because her daughter had been stumbling athletically prior to the incident—my dog had nothing to do with it. And I was going to be God-damned if I was going to permit my daughters’ childhood pet be put down over athletic statistics.

So I passively aggressively said something like You can’t possibly be asking me to put Jasper down because of competitive play? You are so sweet and kind I can’t imagine you would want to inflict such cruelty on my daughter—especially at such a critical juncture in her life. I am sure nothing like this will ever happen like this again.

And the woman backed off. And Jasper lived more years after this incident than was ever predicted—without further incident.

And now I have Cosmo, my gentle Goldendoodle, who even if provoked, would never bite a human.    It’s just not in his nature. It means that if someone hurts him, I will have to be the one who bites back--he is too submissive to protect himself. And there is a reason the teeth next to a human’s incisors are called canines—they are for tearing flesh--and I would have no qualm about using them if provoked.

Sometimes biting must come from the hand doing all the feeding.

  

Sisters

When my mother was a little girl she shared a bedroom with her 3 sisters. And she, and her next oldest sister Angie, would pretend they were sleeping when their older sisters Fran and Jackie would come home from their dates. Fran and Jackie would poke and prod the little ones to make sure they were asleep. And upon being convinced of their slumber, the two older sisters would gossip about boys.

And my mother and my Aunt Angie, who had only been feigning sleep, would then blackmail their two older sisters with the information they had overheard.

As the mother of three daughters aged two years apart I noticed that sisters were a built in play group. They did not need to constantly have other little girls over. If their own friends were not home, they always had each other. They were each other’s fall-back.

And for as mean and evil as my girls could be among themselves, the meaness did not last long. Eventually all would be forgiven. Their love was unconditional—even if it took a little while for the unconditional part to kick in.

For the entirety of my life I have counted on girlfriends to adopt me as their sister. And I have been fortunate to have found women who have overfilled the void. They were the ones who picked me up when I stumbled. They brushed my children’s hair in preparation for my father’s funeral mass. They brought me soup when I was sick. They listened. They read my writing.

They were the peanut butter to my jelly.

And because I have no biological sisters I think I treasure my girlfriends just a tiny bit more than if I had had genetically related sisters of my own. All sister-less friends do. We recognize that while friendships can mimic a sororal connection there is no blood to seal the contract. Friendships will always be more fragile than true sisterhood. Infractions—intended or not----may cause permanent fracture.

Sister-less women maintain their friendships hyper-wary of potential loss.

And sometimes my mother will call me with annoyance over something one of her sisters has said or done. It is my job to remind her that she is the fortunate one---not only does she have sisters, but they are all still alive and well. They share her history. And at nearly 82 years of age my mother is still the baby sister whose older siblings have long forgiven her for threatening to tell Mama. Because that is what sisters do. They love unconditionally---and they forgive each other everything.

Frozen Treat-Colored Golf Shirts

I like men in golf shirts that are the color of Italian ices: lemon, raspberry, lime, tangerine and blueberry. I think the colors look fresh and cool in the summertime. And I am not alone in my belief. My husband reports that on causal Fridays the women in his office often compliment him on his attire. His frozen treat colored shirts are a hit. And when the ladies tell him how handsome he looks, it is a reward in itself.

Not too long ago one of my husband’s golf buddies told me how it is all the rage at the club  for men to wear Under Armour golf shirts. But the very thought of the men I know wearing such clingy sportwear that shows every body imperfection not to mention every drop of sweat, robbed me of my appetite.

There are very few men who can wear Under Armour attire well. It is designed for tall lean athletic bodies---like Tiger Woods—not Phil Michelson or John Daly.

And Sunday morning when I woke up I saw a new golf shirt wrapped in plastic left on the couch in my bedroom. It was from the pro shop at the club.

I approached it cautiously.

It was the color of digested bile—greenish brown. And the fabric was Under Armour-esque with a tone on tone horizontal knit striped pattern.

 It was heinous.

I contemplated the shirt’s demise while my husband was still on the golf course. This was a topic I had to approach strategically—I did not want to insult my husband’s taste in clothing nor did I want to infer that his physique would not be showcased by the garment.

So when he came home I simply said You know how you enjoy when the ladies in the office compliment you when you wear all those golf shirts I got you? And he said yes—waiting for the shoe to drop. And I continued well I am pretty sure that if you wear the new golf shirt I saw you bought upstairs it will not illicit the same response.

And he laughed and said Are you telling me that I should bring it back? And I said well only if you want to keep the ladies happy—me being one of them.

Sometimes humor is the best avenue to success---especially when it is coupled with vanity. And knowing where to tickle a spouse’s funny bone is just as important as knowing his favorite flavor of Italian ice.

Do as I Say, Not as I Do

When a parent receives their child’s high school schedule in August the first thing they look at is whether their child has received the courses they requested. When the child looks at that same schedule the first thing they look for is when they have been assigned lunch.

When my youngest daughter received her schedule in her senior year she had indeed received the classes she had requested. But unlike her sisters, a letter was enclosed with her schedule and it stated that a new top down policy prohibited students from tweaking their schedule for any reason--especially lunch. Guidance counselors were no longer able to access the computer to make changes.

This was problematic. Kara’s schedule placed her lunch period around 9:30 in the morning—she needed to change her lunch period, not for social reasons, but because scheduling lunch at 9:30 in the morning is simply ridiculous.

And so I appealed to her guidance counselor who appealed to the head of guidance. The head of guidance dug her heels in and said no—even though the change would have helped out the system. A simple flip would have put Kara into a class with a lower enrollment with the same teacher and given her a more reasonable lunch period. So my guidance counselor, hero that he was, at peril to his own working relationship, pursued  someone a rung up. And because it was deemed that “the computer had made an error”, Kara was granted the change.

Fortunately for them, my two older daughters lived under a reign of school administration where there was freedom in changing a child’s schedule. Anything from academic courses to gym and lunch could be modified. The guiding philosophy was that if a child’s needs could be accommodated by flipping a few things around, not only was no harm done, but tailoring a schedule fostered success. Happy students were more engaged students. And more engaged students meant better grades. And students with better grades was a win-win for all parties involved.

This former philosophy to me is a no-brainer. Which presupposes the concept that the top-down decision prohibiting guidance counselors from instituting guidance was made by those with no brains—The top-down decision makers haven’t quite grasped the fundamentals of education—or management.

And when I see the posse of central administration top-down decision makers sitting all together every day at noon at various restaurants in town scarfing down their food, I wonder how happy they would be if in their work environment they had no lunch buddies or were forced to eat their lunch at breakfast time. I wonder if they would appreciate a work environment where what is good for the goose is good for the gander and not an environment where it is do as I say and not as I do.