Caterwauling

I’m so annoyed at my field today. Another good, senior, creative and ambitious worker got met with the same fate I did. I could just go back to sleep, in protest. (I do a lot of sleeping these days.)

And yet, quasi-competent people (who cost a lot less) are moving and grooving just fine. The hell?

When I was fresh out of school, no one wanted to take a chance on me. Of course, it was Pittsburgh, where people die at their desks because it costs less to keep ineffective people than to buy them out and inject some fresh blood.

My, how times have changed.

The reason I even know all the gossip today is because that’s what my mornings are dedicated to — finding out who’s doing what, and seeing if they can share some of the love. And I followed up on a lead only to find that my contact is sitting in the not-employed line, too, and it was a complete surprise as well.

(*humming “Where Does all the Talent Go?” to the tune of “Where Have all the Flowers Gone?”*)

I’m trying hard to not work, if that makes sense. To not get married to my next gig without at least living together first. And as I perused one of my favorite blogs (Evil HR Lady), I came across an article that reminded me of years ago, and made me cringe: Job Interview or Bake-off?.

In short, there are people who make you tap-dance your way through the interview process by asking you to DO THEIR WORK for them. Which, in my field, it’s not unheard-of to have to write a sample article or edit a sample piece. The more-ethical among us either use previously published works or stuff that will never see the light of day.

I remember, though, circa 2004, I applied for an editorial job with an engineering group. They sent me an article they were planning to use in their next magazine. I was given a half-day to turn it around.

Two and a half days later, I had shredded the shit out of that horrible piece — WHICH WAS 23 TYPED PAGES. The tracked changes looked like a wounded animal had died on my screen.

I had already gone through two interviews at this point and was a finalist. I have no fucking clue who could have beaten me in this editorial “contest.” Perhaps it was the fact that I spent far too much time with it that cost me my candidacy. Or maybe their widdle feelings were hurt that I basically took government cheese and whipped it into as tasty a fondue as I could manage.

I never did see the final printed version of that POS article. But I have often wondered whether they used my edit and didn’t pay me for it.

The woman was a hoo-ha anyway. She had fired the prior editor after a month, and wasn’t exactly pleasant in general. And the subject matter was God-bloody-awful. In truth, it was a blessing to be out of the running. But that’s also hard to accept when you’re willing to take any job just to prevent pending homelessness.

That being said, as yet another of my compadres is looking for the next rent payment, I do see the value in doing some dating before you jump into bed with a virtual stranger. Interviews are a joke. You sell the best version of yourself that fits their needs, and they sell you the non-crazy version of their dysfunctional family.

I mean, how many times did you walk into an interview with, say, a man and a woman, and you expected that this would be the team you’re on? How are you to know that some nameless, faceless entity in another state is going to have the say-so in your livelihood and that one of the people who sold you on the position (who you were really looking forward to working with) isn’t actually going to be there after you arrive?

In my friend’s case, it involved a very expensive, self-financed relocation. In my case, well, I kind of like where I ended up geographically, but I’d probably fare better on the employment front had I not left the nation’s best job market in the first place.

But maybe if more would-be employers would toss a sample (PAID) assignment to the candidate, I’ll bet that would do a lot to prevent bad career moves and even worse partings-of-ways.

I have to say, though, the most-aggravating interview process was at the job I loved the most. I spent DAYS with those people. I met EVERYONE. Even people who would only be peripheral to my day. I was even scratching my head, wondering whether they trotted out the most-offensive characters just for fun. (They did.)

The editing test blew me away, but after I’d spent days with the cast of characters — not to mention that horrible editing fiasco for the engineering company — I did a very simple, thorough line edit with my suggestions and questions in comment bubbles. I wanted that job badly enough, based on the people and the promised duties, that I was willing to deal with their wacky editorial. (Which was previously published and I got the raw version. Bonus points for the ethical approach!)

In any case, I realize the liability of taking on a new employee goes beyond financial considerations. You want them to be able to do the work, and to bring their creativity. The problem is, it’s easier for the candidate to bring it than for the new hire to keep it after they’ve gotten a whiff of the way things really work.

Which is why I’m not keen on relocating. It’s one thing to move to paradise (where I live now) but if you tell me my dream job is on a potato farm in Idaho, I respectfully decline to hear more about the mere notion of it. That’s all anybody needs, to move to their own private hell and then lose the meal ticket that made it palatable in the first place.

Anywho, my prayers are with my friend today. That wind-knocked-out-of-you feeling is awful. I hope we can start something up ourselves and not even have to worry about moments like this ever again.

Adopt me!

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I made the mistake of going to the animal shelter yesterday. I am on a very casual quest for a canine companion. But the dog selection was sparse and I was drawn to the “Cattery,” as they call it.

OMG, I almost came home with six new pets.

There’s one in particular that I can’t get out of my mind. She’s a 2-year-old Calico — just like my beloved Maddie. I have photos of every pet I loved, and a dozen of her alone. (Pictured: A very lovable kitty who was desperate to be adopted. He was a little too energetic for me but I loved him, too.)

I have a cousin who is nervous that I went to the shelter to look into dropping Kadie off if I don’t get a job soon. So I guess it would be stupid to bring home a new pet when many of the dozens there were dropped off by owners who could no longer afford to keep them.

Sigh. What a horrible world.

More horrible still is that this is one of those places that kills pets that are there too long. There was a section for feral cats — each one cuter than the next — with a big “Not for Adoption” sign.

That’s the green mile for kitties, I guess. And since I inadvertently ushered a kitty to his sad little grave by sending him there, I wouldn’t mind saving another from certain death.

I’m so sad that I can’t save them all. That I’m really not in a position to save *any* of them. And that I’ll be lucky to keep the one I already have.

I’m not down in the dumps, per se, over the sad state of my life. I always try to stay positive because good attracts good. As soon as someone says something full of doom and gloom, it materializes. So I say things like I’m fine, it’ll get better and we won’t be living on the beach because the rent’s too high.

And I really try not to think about how much cheaper life would be if I weren’t supporting two humans. Because, really, aren’t we all in some sort of relationship that we didn’t ask for?

How many men got some poor girl knocked up … or some dumb girl got stuck with a man who seemed OK till she got knocked up by him … or someone sold their soul to their employer for the pension and not the spiritual fulfillment? How many couples have kids and parents to take care of … even long after the kids are in their 20s?

I figure, I never had kids or a deadbeat (ex) husband. Most of my family is dead. I have no in-laws to complain about. Shit, I have no bosses to complain about either. 😉 It’s like I hit the karmic lottery!

But, alas, the universe has to find innovative ways to torture me, to make sure I have my share. And when a job is the only thing it can take away from you, well apparently that’s what it does. And not even a job — no job is THAT great — it’s the INCOME loss that blows.

But that’s “all” it is, if I can be so brazen. It’s “security,” whatever the fuck THAT is. No one can take away my pride, my dreams, my integrity, my ethics. Christ, no. My temporary sanity, yes. And my apartment, maybe. But that’s it. I won’t surrender anything else.

But not to be “Miss Brightside” here, but the universe (and those who are currently in position to be masters of it) can also take away your stress. I’m not saying I don’t have my share. But by taking away my security, my stress also decreased. It’s hard as hell to make other people’s dreams come true. Sometimes, you just can’t. Even if you thought you could and actually WANTED to at some point.

Anyway, I guess I can see how people become “crazy cat ladies.” There’s no love out there in the world. But inside an animal shelter in the center of Florida, there are cages upon cages full of quirky little personalities — ready to love anyone who gives them the time of day.

My little Calico friend, my God. She was licking me and petting me through her cage. She kept touching her nose to mine and looking for me every time I visited another kitty. Every time I came back to her, she looked so joyful.

She cried when I left. I cried a little more than she did as I drove home.

Everyone keeps telling me to not get another cat, because I wanted a dog. And to not get a dog until I have an income again. But trying to get to sleep at night knowing that these loving and healthy cats are waiting for their owners — or, at least, their NEW owners — to come for them and that they’re going to go to kitty heaven otherwise, well, breaks my little heart.

Same goes with perfectly wonderful discarded workers. We just want a home. One that feeds us would be nice. Hell, we’ll just take a roof over our heads. Although it’s sad to say that euthanasia would be kinder than ending up on the streets. Hmmm. Wonder if I can schedule an appointment at the vet if I don’t get a job soon. …

I always blather on this page about the challenges (mostly the mistakes) of leadership. And when people ask me about when I got interested in the subject, I have one of two answers.

Usually, I make a flippant statement that I feel I’ve been mismanaged a great deal in my career and that I don’t want to make the same mistakes with the next generation of talent. Or else I talk about working in the mental-health field and being exposed to a fascinating segment called “organizational counseling.” In other words, figuring out how to change a dysfunctional culture from the top down.

But as financial TV is commemorating the loss of the Challenger crew back in 1986, I realize that my first exposure to a good example-setter was my homeroom teacher, Mr. Allison, back at good old Francis McClure Middle School.

It was in our sixth-grade science class that we watched with hope and wonder as Christa McAuliffe stepped into the shuttle as the first teacher to venture into space. And it was merely seconds later that we saw the Challenger erupt into a ball of fire and dust. We were humbled and horrified, and we hoped that our crappy television (without cable) on its rickety cart had simply short-circuited.

We moved through the rest of the day in a haze, and soon enough it was time for homeroom the next day.

I was never a huge fan of Mr. Allison. I don’t know why. I think I had a hard time discerning his sincerity. He taught language and spelling, areas in which I excelled, and I was always overly critical of English teachers in general.

But before our daily moment of silence (do schools still do that?), he revealed to us that he had applied to be the teacher sent into space. And that if the program opened up again, he would do it in a heartbeat.

As some of my peers snickered under their breath, no doubt wishing they could have herded all of their teachers into the Challenger, I was overcome with respect for this guy, on whom I had played my share of practical jokes just to get a rise out of his mostly stoic demeanor.

Now here he was, plain as day, saying he was that eager to do something for the sake of education that he would risk everything for the chance to bring back whatever it was that Christa McAuliffe would have learned in space. And that no deadly explosion would keep him away from the chance to be a part of the next historical journey.

I never told him how much his amazing attitude affected me. Twenty-five years later, I have no idea where he is or whether he’s still teaching or even alive for that matter. But he taught me so much in that moment … that the quiet ones have dreams too … that sacrifices in the name of education know no bounds … that the most-effective teaching moments don’t happen in the classroom … that I, too, could have been convinced to go on the space shuttle if I were following someone who believed wholeheartedly in the mission.

Later that day in our English class, he asked us to write essays on how we were impacted by what happened the prior day. I remember being so thrilled that I exchanged papers with the class heartthrob (Jimmy Skalican) and that my essay brought tears to his beautiful blue eyes. (*swoon*)

Can’t tell you exactly what I wrote, but I suspect Mr. Allison’s name was somewhere in there. In any case, I came out of that tragedy with a whole new outlook on the educators with whom I spent my days, and one in particular.

Needless to say, I stopped playing pranks on the guy and quietly absorbed everything else he had to teach me. And while I forget how to diagram a sentence properly and I couldn’t define a gerund if you held a gun to my head, I count Mr. Allison as one of the best educators in a questionable public school system.

Hat-tip to you, Mr. Allison, wherever you are. Thank you for being the first person to truly help to shape the person I turned out to be.

Wyland’s famous Key West sign

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I only wish I were in Key West. But 70 degrees in Palm Beach County ain’t so terrible either, especially when my northern friends are still digging out of their driveways at 11 a.m.!

I saw an interesting comment on Facebook today, that the truth is only the truth for as long as you want it to be. Someone was cheering on another with her weight-loss goals, and I wanted to adopt it as my mantra today.

I have been paying $40/month to Weight Watchers for the past three years, just in case I wanted to hit a meeting. I never really did, though. Yesterday, I downgraded to eTools (online-only) plan. It costs a lot less but means I have to read more. Oy vey. No wonder people in meetings out-lose the online set — there’s so much to learn and it’s all different from when I first joined!

Since I’ve been home, I’ve been consoling myself with food. Lord knows I can’t go shopping or restaurant-hopping like I used to. So yesterday, I decided to say fuck it and start tracking my food intake.

I’m annoyed, of course, because Mom just baked awesome cupcakes. But it feels good to be in control of something again.

In other news, I was talking to a professional cohort yesterday and learned that their business is really starting to take off. That gave me a lot of hope. What really made me do the Snoopy dance was that they enforce a strict “No Assholes” poilcy.

In other words, no working with assholes. That even though certain people have money to spend and influence to wield, there isn’t enough incentive in the world to take on the aggravation.

I like that. I am inspired that, even in this crap economy, one can choose their projects and colleagues. More workplaces would probably succeed if everyone got a chance to vote people off the island — maybe they’d get rid of the slacker or the dumbass or the ass-pain instead of the people they crap all over.

And really, it’s the human bidets who are accountable for managing the PITAs of the world. And when the talent fails to perform according to task, they aren’t the ones scouring the “Help Wanted” ads.

Speaking of the need to do a worldwide systemic overhaul of the corporate world, check out my buddy Bill Catlette’s new book, “Rebooting Leadership.” Download the first chapter FREE here! I told him I was nodding along like a kid at a headbangin’ concert.

Here’s a small excerpt that captured my interest:

“It means that shaping your career requires more (and better) strategy. Vertical organic career growth (i.e., upward movement within the same organization) is diminished as there are fewer layers of management, many roles are farmed out, and Boomers just won’t get out of the way. In that vein, it’s more important for you to find the right person to work for than the right organization.That person, if so inclined, can take a more immediate interest in your learning and development, provide important growth opportunities, insulate you when you make a mistake, and share credit.”

Read that part again: It’s more important for you to find the right person to work for than the right organization.

*chills*

I think that makes a lot of sense. We often joke in my circle about “getting the band back together.” In other words, when you invoke the “No Assholes” rule and only surround yourself with people you want to bust your ass for, it becomes more about helping the “family” to succeed than the faceless and emotionless “company.”

In any case, be sure to buy the Contented Cows’ new book. Tell ’em Goddess sent ya. And prepare for a discussion group on these pages, because I can’t WAIT to reflect when my copy arrives straight from Cows headquarters!!!

Time keeps on slipping slipping slipping …

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

What a good day.

I registered my business today. Which will look way better on a resume than, well, nothing. 🙂

Also, I’m in advanced talks with some key clients, and if I could just get my mother to stop talking at me constantly (and fucking me up every time I start writing) about the cat, the plants, places to eat and who’s hooking up with whom on “The Young and the Restless,” I may just have a viable business!

I’m not saying the next few months are going to be easy. If anything, they’re going to be the toughest of my life. But if I can put a muzzle on both the mother and the cat, and perhaps move the computer into my bedroom where I can shut the door, the rest will come naturally.

The good thing about my line of work is that it’s fairly easy to succeed in it. Making the party last is the real challenge. Accordingly, I’ve been kind of taking it easy (read: lazy) and getting my wits about me so that I’m ready to charge full-steam ahead.

I think I’m there. Almost, anyway. At least, I’m only going to sell my soul in chunks instead of signing it away in one lump. 🙂

One thing I’m promising myself is to make time for charitable work. All work and no play has made Goddess a very dull girl for too many years. I’m lucky to have everything I have, and I’m not going to wait “till things get settled” to do the things I love and want to do.

I know, right now I’m a lot of talk and no action. But it will come. The nice guys are tired of finishing last. Slow and steady is going to win this race. Mark my words.

Key West sunset 17

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

So on Jan. 1, I sat on a blanket at Smathers Beach and did nothing but snap photos of the sunset for 20 minutes. There’s a reason they call Key West the “Home of the Sunset.” Spectacular.

I’m aimless these days. Working is overrated. So is pretty much everything else. I just want to curl up and sleep for a week or two. Or keep watching “Ghost Whisperer” marathons, interrupted by the occasional Oprah episode where she hosts Bon Jovi or reveals her secret sibling.

My purpose is out there. Hell, it’s right in front of me. And I can’t stare it straight in the face. I can’t bear to be disappointed again. Not that I have much choice, mind you. None of us does.

I just never thought I’d be this tired at 36.

Simone Hemingway

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

This is my six-toed (on each paw) buddy Simone, who I met at the Hemingway House in Key West. She reminds me of my Maddie, and I wanted to stick her in my bag and bring her home.

So it’s been a month since the “It’s not you, it’s me — oh, wait, it’s you” speech. I’ve spent a lot of time searching my soul for what went wrong and how not to find myself in the same situation next time around. Somehow, I think giving me time to reflect is the worst punishment of all. 🙂

And punishment for what, exactly? My mom is one of those people who assumes she deserves whatever poop on a platter the universe is serving up. Yet I’ve never met a nicer person than her, you know? Like, why would anyone feel that ordering a gyro and getting a shit sandwich instead feel like there must be a reason for that? Oh hell no — it is our birthright to be happy. So, send that bitch back and bring me what I ordered!

The last time I found myself job-free, as the months turned into MANY months, I started to feel that way, though. That damn, I must be a real asshole for the universe to keep punishing me with the prospect of losing what little I had. And I don’t want to ever succumb to that feeling again.

That said, while I wouldn’t say I deserve anything bad, I finally have insight into how things came to be.

I was watching Joel Osteen last night. It blows to be home on a Friday but, hey, a girl’s gotta conserve her resources. And while I was just looking for a fuzzy-wuzzy feel-good message, I got knocked off the couch with something he said.

He was speaking specifically about the workplace, and gave the example of having a crazy supervisor who makes your life difficult. But if you don’t hang in there and let that experience change you, then you will go to another job with TWO crazy people, not just one.

And I snickered at that. Because I see the truth in it. You think you’re running away but then you get a heaping dose.

But that was something I struggled with when I left the Den of Iniquity. At what point do you dig in your heels and wait for God to show you why He put you there, and when do you cry “Uncle!” and run away from the disturbed uncle who keeps psychologically molesting you?

For me, I fell silent at the Den for my final months there. After I dared to question Elvis on why he did something so incredibly stupid that he did, and I got roared at (and lied to) for five solid hours, I stopped asking questions. I slipped out quietly and started my new life.

At my “new life,” I didn’t want to be silent anymore. I was quiet, sure, but based on past experience, I only wanted to be part of battles that I had a chance of winning.

It occurred to me last night when the battle lines got drawn. I can pinpoint that very moment. What I thought was full disclosure turned out to be a choice I couldn’t undo. What others cheered me for, was my undoing.

I don’t blame anybody for that. I can’t. I just wish that I would have spoken up more, if this was how it was going to turn out. I am not sure exactly what God wanted me to learn, but I always felt that I was there to help change others. I guess I failed Him there, too.

Anyway, with all this time to think, my worries are all over the place. I worry about money, sure. Who doesn’t? But moreover, I fear that whatever unresolved baggage I’m left with from the last time around will haunt me next time, the way I never expected the last luggage set to appear at my doorstep once I moved on.

I guess what’s different this time around is that I’ve at least had a chance to analyze, and compartmentalize, so that when I stick this suitcase on the shelf once and for all, I’ll travel light to my next destination.

Christmas in Palm Beach

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

This photo got 1,000-plus views on Flickr within an hour of posting it. Funny how a little snapshot on an iPhone can capture so much attention.

In any case, it’s a pale comparison to talk about how one little photo (hopefully) brightened up so many days. But really, it does just take one person to change a whole bunch of lives.

I was hanging out at the mechanic’s this morning. I go to the same place because I really feel taken care of there. I’ve spent dozens of hours with these guys over the course of the past two years. But it’s not that they are the best and brightest, but more so that they have hearts.

I have a friend whose dad has been a mechanic his whole life. And he’s supposedly never really made a dime because he’s always fair and even generous. Which is probably the same way I’d classify my guys. It sucks that the “good guys” never get ahead. But there are people like me to share their stories, and I hope that’s worth something.

My guy Mark has gotten some fame in the local area because of his work on behalf of a 6-year-old girl with late-stage cancer. He collects money for her and recently donated four tires to the family, who have put more than 40,000 miles on their car just taking her to doctor’s appointments and chemo.

One recent Sunday, they came into the store and he said he couldn’t let them leave without new tires (which they could not afford). He called his district manager and got the approval within 15 minutes. He said the whole family cried and hugged him.

I’ve been there on a Sunday. You can’t get anyone to pick up a phone, let alone return a call, if you need something that the store doesn’t have in stock. Of course, these guys drive all over tarnation when I need a part, so I’m not surprised at the random act of philanthropy.

Actually, the last time I was there on a Sunday, it took so long to get the parts I needed from several different stores (which weren’t yet open when I got there) that the guys wanted to share their lunch with me. They had ordered a bunch of tacos and wanted me to come back into the office and join in the fiesta. I ended up calling the corporate office to commend them and thank them for being so thoughtful.

Today, Mark showed me the company newsletter, where someone did a profile on him and his altruistic efforts. It really pleased me to see that human-interest piece. This was something missing from my last couple of gigs — I wanted so much to have the companies do charitable work (Habitat for Humanity, Haiti, whatever). At the Den of Iniquity, one leader told me that he much prefers sitting around smoking pot than entertaining the thought of donating money or time.

I should have just done it my damn self. Of course, I helped in the only way I could: by making donations. I’d much rather write the check than do the work, frankly. But these days, with the next check nowhere in sight, I’m motivated to get off my ass and help in any way I can, too.

(I made a donation to the little girl, since I got a discount. Amazing, redirecting resources from those who have them to those who need them. What a concept!)

When I came in today, the two top guys were commiserating about corporate’s recent smackdown on them for giving too many coupons and discounts. Everything now has to go through Mark — who gave me a very generous discount because, well, he rocks.

Now, he wasn’t saying NOT to give discounts (in fact, the other guy, Don, handed me a coupon for brake work and when I handed it to him when I was cashing out, he acted like he had never seen it before). He was just saying to get his authorization and he’d take the heat for it.

That is my kind of guy. And the same type of supervisor I always found myself being. Empower the staff and serve as an umbrella when the wrath of the heavens rains down.

Clearly it works, as everyone in there today was a repeat customer. I’ve gotten to know quite a few people in the waiting room over the years. This is as close to a family-run business as it gets.

We were in the midst of a Flock of Seagulls sing-a-thon (“Wishing”) when the phone rang. A customer called to tell him that another customer passed away last night, and to invite him to the viewing. He said she was fairly young, that this was sudden, and that he was planning to spend his one day off (tomorrow) with her family.

THAT is why I go there. Not for the discounts (although those do help) but because this guy takes a very active interest in the people he serves — both customers AND employees. Hell, if I knew anything about cars, I would want to work for him.

I gave Mark a CD on the way out — I just so happened to have been listening to the song we were singing when I pulled in this morning. He had heard it on XM and started humming it, and he was blown away that I knew the song. So, I left him with my music, since he was planning to go home and download the song.

I know it’s not big or important or even anything significant, but I wanted to do a little something nice for this guy who takes such good care of the people within his reach.

His colleague Don wished me luck and said he looks forward to the next time I come in because he figures I’ll have good news on the job front. “You’re one of the good ones,” he said. “You’ll be more than OK.”

Maybe I need to step out of my field. Perhaps not altogether, as it’s taken a lot of time to master it and I can do it part-time if need be. But maybe I need to step back into the helping fields again. Because I measure myself by the Marks of this world, and if this one man can make a large difference on the small scale, imagine what I could do if I simply tried to match his contribution to the world.

Suddenly I find myself inspired. …

The youngest victims of the Civil Rights warfare

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

The monument in this photo is in Birmingham, Ala., and reads, “I ain’t afraid of your jail.” This is a place where dogs and water hoses were turned on society’s tiniest citizens — as well as the full-grown set — in a disturbing effort to keep segregation alive for as long as possible. And long after legislation told the state to do otherwise.

The most-impactful part of Lady L’s and my visit to Alabama this past November was a walk through the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute. I remember at the gate, the ticket-taker simply asked us to make a donation of our choice. On the way out, I donated more.

Like any good Smithsonian, the multimedia displays immersed you in sensory overload. I can’t remember a moment in that place where I wasn’t fighting back tears. I’m ashamed of our forefathers who weren’t ready to let go of their self-appointed superiority. I’m thrilled with the “Freedom Riders” and other ordinary citizens (a la Martin Luther King Jr.) who stepped up and said, hey, I’m willing to be attacked if it means a fairer society will ensue.

(Just seeing the video of James Zwerg, the first one off the bus on that famous 1961 ride, is enough to rip out your heart that you have done NOTHING in this world in comparison.)

Although we couldn’t take photos in the Institute, the door from MLK’s jail cell (from which he wrote his famous 1963 “Letter from Birmingham Jail”) is burned into the back of my eyelids. (Read it and weep. I did.)

In going through some boxes in the past couple of weeks, I found a number of awards from the NAACP — yes, in MY name — from writings I did as a wee lass. I was quite sympathetic to the plight and I wrote many stories and poems for literary contests held in honor of MLK’s birthday. I almost wonder whether, in a past life, I were somehow there. The poetry I wrote, circa ages 11 through 14, was surprisingly evocative.

In any event, when I turned on financial TV first thing this morning, leaders were up in arms about all the schools that decided today should be a makeup day for snow days taken. And parents were keeping their kids at home in protest.

(God, I miss snow days. Not the SNOW, mind you. Down here, though, school gets canceled on cold days because many of the buildings don’t have heat!)

Frankly, I am in favor of having school today … with the caveat that it’s like the Chicago school whose principal personally knew Martin Luther King Jr. and uses the day for a special assembly where he shares personal stories about the time he spent with the legendary man.

I don’t see how a day off for kids (or adults) means anything when it’s simply a day spent sleeping in, or at the mall, or playing with the Wii, or WHATEVER. At least in school, the kids can be learning about the man who changed America as only he could. Of course, as my caveat-to-the-caveat, it shouldn’t just be a one-off event — what that man did should be celebrated for more than just a day.

I like the “day of service” approach for today (and also for 9/11). We should have more of those. I’m sick of all these religious and social-rights leaders bitching about people not being able to stay home because it violates the “sanctity” of the holiday. Wouldn’t the best way to serve be to A) learn about Dr. King and/or/then B) DO something in his honor?

We’re lucky and yet so very unfortunate to not have a battle like the civil rights one in our time. Sure, there’s a ton of inequality in the world and always will be. But I imagine Dr. King would still be fighting today, since things are far from ideal for people of color as well as those with different sexual orientations and, hell, people who just look or even SEEM different.

And aren’t we ALL different in one way or another? How can anyone allow one group to be oppressed when they’re just lucky they’re not at the top of the bullies’ list … today, anyway?

I have nothing profound to say. I just see injustice all over the world, and especially in my country. It sucks because we’re supposed to be setting the example and, yet, you’ve got assholes (whole colonies of them, right on U.S. soil) who think that having a black president is a sure sign that the apocalypse is nigh.

As the Repugs begin their crusade to overturn the landmark healthcare law, it just reminds me that morons either in power, with a lot of money or both will do their damndest to keep “everyone else” from the privileges they take for granted. Equality, healthcare, fair wages and not living in poverty when you’re working your ass off are NOT privileges, though. They are rights. And God bless anyone with the balls to stand up for everyone else who is too sad, sick, weary or otherwise beaten-down to be able to fight for it themselves.

I salute you, Dr. King. My generation’s absence of someone like you is palpable. Perhaps everyone knows they can’t rise up to the bar you set. But I sure wish someone — hell, a LOT of someones — would try. …

Just last week in a box I haven’t opened in years, I found a little denim hat, a onesie, a bib and a photo frame with two tiny baby shoes dangling from blue ribbons.

I’m sure I somehow never remembered to stick this stuff into a gift bag and give the package to its intended owner. Of course, I don’t even remember which colleague it was probably for, at this point. And perhaps when I packed up this box before I left D.C., I figured this was the closest thing I’d have to a hope chest.

When I rediscovered this stuff, I started thinking about my cycle. Rather, I noticed the absence of it. Just what I need right now — no job AND a kid. Oy!

I haven’t needed one of those wonderful little tests for a couple of months shy of a decade. And let me tell you, it is the LONGEST three minutes of your life after you pee on a stick.

I wasn’t necessarily thinking it would turn out any other way than it did. Frankly, I should send a thank-you to Loestrin, for keeping me kid-free for 10 years and counting.

I didn’t necessarily have any fantasies about “what if.” Don’t get me wrong, though. Even though I am not mother material, I wasn’t going to go to the neighborhood clinic this time. In fact, my reaction was more, “If that’s what’s meant to be, I’ll figure it out.”

That was pretty much the extent of my thought process. A hearty “Fuck you!” to the insurance industry and to people who can block your access to it, and a depressed, “Well, shit — Mom will NEVER leave now.” Oh, and don’t forget a, “How bad are wine and cigarettes in the early stages?”

I’m OK. No big deal. The only real “meh” feeling I have is that I’m no more stable now than I was 10 years ago. Career, family and love lives still have orange cones around them and a Hazmat suit at the entrance.

If anything, what I’m feeling is that I’ve simply run out of time. The only reason I ever would want to have a kid is to counteract the terrible people with offspring so that I can bring a wonderful human being in to cancel out the assholes-in-training of the world.

Anyway, perhaps this entry is ill-thought-out (see also: career, home and love lives). But I’m rather proud of myself for leaving it in God’s hands and telling Him I’d be OK either way. The outcome is the best one, and I hope it wasn’t merely sheer force of will that produced that negative sign.

Lesson learned here, kids, besides “take your pills and you’ll be fine”?

Simple. This reminds me to NOT waste my time on “opportunities” that won’t get me to wherever I want to go. Life is short, time is precious and God has quite a sense of humor. No sense in being as frivolous with time as I am with money.

That means write those books, open that cafe, volunteer outside your field to keep your heart alive, and for God’s sake LISTEN to your intuition and don’t go where your gut is SCREAMING at you not to go.

The way I figure, any moron can conceive/rear a child. (Case in point: look around.) That wouldn’t make me special. But giving a kid a whole pile of reasons to be proud of you? Well, most of us aren’t there yet. But I will be. Just give me some more time. 🙂

In any case, if ever there is another occasion to stop in the store and buy one of those thingies, I hope my next reaction will be worlds away from indifference.