Pink, It’s Not Just for Girls Anymore

You don’t need a calendar to determine the season. Simply watch the décor at retailers. Pink, yellow and green – it’s April. Red, white and blue – July. Orange and black – October. Green and red – December. And if the Ravens are doing well – its Purple Friday here in Baltimore each week in January.

In recent years, pink has replaced orange in October, for Breast Cancer Awareness month. Store windows, publications and numerous products, sport pink ribbons or new pink packaging to raise money and awareness.

Pink controversy has arisen with one non-profit’s sale of pink cancer awareness bracelets reading: “I love Boobies.” Designed to raise teen awareness of Breast Cancer and spark conversation, these bracelets are popping up in middle schools and high schools across the country. The campaign is working, but the conversation is not. Schools are banning them and civil rights activists are rallying.

Teenage boys, in many schools, outnumber teenage girls wearing the “I love Boobies” bracelets. Do some have other motives?
Of course they do, they’re teenagers. That is to be expected.
Take the conversation off the words and onto the topic. Breast Cancer kills over 40,000 women each year – mothers, sisters, daughters, friends, neighbors.

I urge school administrators to keep talking, but talk about early detection, treatment and research, not about dress codes and foul language. Boobies, breasts, bust, bosom – these are not dirty words. I say let the boys wear bracelets!

The Resume Crisis

I know why so many Americans are unemployed. It’s not the economy. It’s the resumes.

Last month, I advertised an Administrative Assistant opening. Instructions were to send resumes via e-mail. The number of applicants was astounding. I read every resume, even though some intro e-mails and cover letters were enough to render a hiring decision. In short order, my finger ached from hitting the delete key.

“I’m looking for a position where my personality will shine.”
This is a desk job, not an on-camera gig. Delete.

“To secure a challenging opportunity that will enable me to grow and fulfill my dreams and help make the world a better place.”
I can’t help you there. Delete.

“. . . taught job performance in the fulfillment department.”
Read this 3 times. Laughed each time. Delete.

There’s a fine line between making your resume stand out and being quoted in my blog. Most people do not know where that line is. One listed their previous job title as “Director of First Impressions.” One signed the cover e-mail “Peace and Love.” Delete. Delete.

People were eager to work for me as a Property Manager, a Public Relations Director and an Instruction Designer. (not even sure what that is) Did they read the job description? Delete. Delete. Delete.

The insanity went on:
“. . . to meet so you can better guage my skills and experience.” Spelling counts. Consider yourself gauged. Delete.

"Type 35 wpm." I was tempted to write back with a little employment advice, "Keep that information under wraps." Delete.

“I think I meet most of your qualifications, but if you think I don’t, I understand.” Sweet, but delete.

I need someone who can accurately complete work, on time and within budget. If you tell me “personable professional” is your strongest skill, I’m worried. “An exceptional listener” doesn’t top the list either. Delete. Delete.

Resumes arrived from near and far with strange e-mail addresses: PecanDiva, BlueSky and StacyDuck. Delete. Delete. Delete.
I think I’m getting carpel-tunnel.

It may be a while until we emerge from the economic crisis.
In the meantime, we need to address the Resume Crisis.

Give Up or Take Up

Whether Catholic, Lutheran or Presbyterian, the time for reflection, repentance and empathy is upon us. Yes, empathy. The age-old tradition of “giving up” something for Lent is a gesture intended to help you identify with the suffering and hardship of your forbearers.

Big on tradition, I passed on the “giving up” gene to my kids.
Now, I’m trying to unravel that. Switching from Catholic to Lutheran a decade ago, my eyes opened to the “Take Up” method of Lenten observance. Help, serve, give, “take up” something new. Empathy and compassion are just as easily practiced when doing rather than denying. Good to know my ritual morning coffee and glass of wine with dinner are safe!

This sits much better with me all around. I’ve always been about action rather than abstention. So kids – help yourself to all the junk food you can stomach this season. But be sure to feed your soul too. Support a cause. Donate. Volunteer. Take up something new.

New Year's Resolution: Read more junk mail.

Junk mail arrives more often than many wish. Stopping the flow of unsolicited mail can be more difficult than canceling a newspaper subscription. (See prior blogs.) Mail arrives routinely for past homeowners, even though I've lived here 6 years. Occasionally, mail arrives for my ex. We split 14 years ago and he has never lived at this address. Apparently the mail marketing gurus did not get the memo.

In early December a fancy letter arrived. “Thank you for transferring your portfolio to L____ M____. Please sign and return the enclosed confirmation to make your file complete.” I threw it in the trash. Who has not received one of these cleverly disguised replicas? I have no desire to change mortgage companies, banks or credit cards.

Yesterday, I lost $35,000. Seems one of my investment funds sold its portfolio to L___ M____ and closed my account. Three phone calls later, I had the money back. That was one harrowing hour.

Unsolicited mail delivery to my house arrives in bundles. I consider myself adept at quickly spotting and disposing of unwanted items. I don’t have time to read every piece of junk mail, but I can’t afford to lose $35,000 either.

Hate is a Strong Word

A colleague said to me the other day “I hate him.”

My friend, hate is a strong word. Maybe you dislike it when he clips his toenails in bed. His table manners may need some fine tuning. Possibly his politics rub you the wrong way. Are you simply annoyed by the drudgery of everyday life? We all get there every now and again.

I have strong opinions on the use of the word “hate.” We all have unique feelings and preferences on many fronts. Differences in opinion should be respected. Differences in life choices should be accepted. These should not be love-hate issues. Hate is a choice, one that should not be made lightly.

Intentional malicious behaviors, now those are to be hated. That and oatmeal. I hate oatmeal. Now there is the proper use of the word hate.

Watching Falling Apples

“God wants us to have fun in church,” my teen whispered to me as she played tic-tac-toe with her sister during the sermon one Sunday. The stern look instantly melted off my face. I got an A in Debate in college, but I had no come back for this one.

It’s an acceptable practice to knit, crochet or needlepoint during a conversation. No one questions the ability of the knitter to multi-task. They can count rows, switch stitches and thoughtfully concentrate on the stories and conversations around them.
I find no problem with tic-tac-toe in church.

We live in a multi-tasking society. I often dream of a day when I can turn off that switch and return to the carefree single-focused days of my youth. I thought perhaps that was called “retirement,” but to hear my Mom tell it, she’s as busy as ever.

Mother, daughter, granddaughter. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Freedom of Speech

I love 3 year-olds and 90 year-olds. They each tell it like it is.

One’s youthful innocence provides fascinating uninhibited opinion on a variety of topics. “Aunt Mary, how come you have white hairs in your head?” The other, having the reached the I’m-too-old-to-care-what-people-think stage, can give new meaning to the words open communication. As in, “That dress does nothing for you.”

I’m stuck squarely in the middle of the bite-your-tongue-stage, strictly prohibiting me from statements like: “You’re not wearing that tie, are you?” Freedom of speech can be highly overrated, and sometimes, it can get you in a lot of hot water.

Last week, in Towson Maryland, Freedom of Speech, proved its usefulness. The Westboro Baptist Church rallied along York Road to protest Towson High School’s Gay-Straight Alliance club. The mature intellect of the Towson High student body outclassed them beyond compare. THS students, over 300 strong, launched a peaceful anti-protest which gave new meaning to the Bible verse “Love one another as I have loved thee.”

This group from Kansas, who call themselves Christians, never had a chance. Their attempts to stir up hatred fell flat. I beamed with pride at the fantastic youth in our community. Clearly they have learned tolerance, acceptance and patience. Such incredible leaders for tomorrow.

The Leprechaun in All of Us

St. Patrick’s Day is a high holy holiday for the Irish, and the Irish at heart. Yesterday was no exception.

Most days, I enjoy the solitude of owning my own small business.

But yesterday, I missed working in an office full of people. I had no co-workers for my traditional St. Patrick’s Day lunch at the Pub, so I opted for a workout instead.

Wearin-o-the-green abounded at the gym, where I was greeted by a gal with green feather headgear. Not exactly the same as lunch at the Pub, but at least the Irish spirit was alive here.

What is it about St. Patrick’s Day that brings out the leprechaun in all of us? People unite and embrace a common culture. Regardless of their heritage, they wear green. They smile. They toast. They sing Irish songs - songs they do not know the words to. Belly up to the bar, they chat with strangers.

We could all use more days during the year when we are united, carefree, and friendly. A monthly St. Patricks Day would do a us all some good.

This good ole Irish gal did make it to the Pub yesterday - dinner, Harp, chats with strangers and authentic Irish music. (to which I remembered most of the words)

I wish you a Happy St. Patrick’s Day every day.

When Irish eyes are smiling,

Sure it's like a morning spring.

In the lilt of Irish laughter,

You can hear the angels sing.

When Irish hearts are happy,

All the world seems bright and gay.

And when Irish eyes are smiling,

Sure, they steal your heart away.

That Alice in Wonderland Feeling

Spring, for many, is a steady, comforting feeling, like the return of an old friend. Flowers and trees awaken from their winter slumber, emitting buds and blooms. Birds return from southern climates, happily chirping in our trees.

This year in Baltimore, the arrival of Spring conveys a different emotion: Confusion. March is typically heralded as the month that “comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” We completed that directive last week alone. Monday, it snows. Schools close. Planned activities cancel. Flights delay. Tuesday, we dig out. Wednesday, the roads are safe again. Thursday, we yearn for Spring. Friday – poof – It’s here! Sunny skies, warm breezes, 73 degrees.

What does rest of the month have in store for us? Today, the forecast is snow flurries. Add in the time change this week for daylight savings time, Baltimore is just a mess. Where am I?
I feel like Alice in Wonderland.

The lesson for March is “expect the unexpected.” Seems like Mother Nature is in tune with the state of our economy.

Breaking the Rules

Most Christian’s know, today is Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent. Growing up a good Catholic, the mandate each year was to choose something to “give up” for Lent. Lent being a time of reflection on the suffering of our forefathers in faith, what better way to empathize with their suffering, than to give up cookies for 40 days.

As a child, I suffered through Lent each year, skipping dessert or giving up candy or soda (as if soda were actually a staple of everyday life in the household of my youth). One year I tried to give up oatmeal. I said the poor kids in India really needed the nutrients more than I. As you might imagine, this did not pass muster with my parents.

I’ve long replaced giving up something for Lent with “doing something extra” during Lent. I believe one can meaningfully reflect on suffering by helping others. Perhaps I am breaking the rules of my religious upbringing, but I’m also a Lutheran now, not a Catholic.

Catholic, Jew or Atheist, it is a good idea, this doing something extra in life. Call it a Springtime resolution. Add one selfless act to your day, or your week, or your month. Drop some food at the local shelter, pass on the resume of an unemployed neighbor or friend to someone who may be hiring, send money to a needy organization or volunteer your time.

Find something extra you can do and give it a try this Lent. It’s much more rewarding than giving up cookies. Trust me, I know.

Cool Parent Points - A Text Message Away

Last month, I offered to design a Time Management training for busy executives in the seniors housing industry. No one has, as yet, taken me up on my offer. Apparently, they are too busy to meet to review my proposal.

Alas, this a problem many of us face – juggling what we need to do, what we want to do, and what we have to do.

Moms have long been seen as time management queens – juggling jobs, laundry, grocery shopping and PTA meetings, but single fathers and stay-at-home dads rival them today. When meal planning and mopping was replaced with pre-packaged meals and the amazing Swiffer Wet-Jet, we all found more time to attend to the expanded social needs of our children. With school, sports, scouts, church, jobs and more, this generation was born multi-tasking.

My newest time management tool is a Blackberry. I told the salesman I needed it for my business, but I really bought it so I could save time typing text messages. My cell phone bill revealed I sent 132 texts last month. There’s no comparison between typing on a key pad vs a phone pad. This baby is going to pay for itself inside a month.

Who am I texting? My children, of course. If you are not texting your children, you are truly missing out. One - you get “cool parent” points if you text. This is huge! Two – you save both time and frustration when you utilize the communication method that will produce the most desirable result in the quickest time. (One of my key Time Management Tips for Busy Executives) This generation of children does not communicate with e-mail and phone calls, they text.

Those of you who know me well, know I time-manage in my sleep, but we can all use a little help now and then. If you want a few more time management tips, send me a text. I’ll get right back to you.

Hope for a Monstrosity You Can Live With

Time has proven that change is generally good for us, whether that change is in our national government, in our cities or in our own backyards.

My neighbors in Towson, Maryland are up in arms over a proposed expansion of the sports arena at Towson University. The planned “monstrosity” (as a friend refers to it) looms over a nearby residential neighborhood, one where I use to live. The University President spoke at a gathering last night, reminding attendees that TU has been a good neighbor over the decades. He implied it was time for local residents to be a little more neighborly in return.

Someone really needs to have a little chat with that man. The old “you catch more bees with honey” speech might do him some good right about now.

That said, sports is big business. Our economy needs jobs and companies willing to invest in the future. Here, we have a strong local institution that is expanding rather than shrinking. Perhaps they should build this new grand arena, but who am I to say? It’s not in my back yard.

I don't think the real issue is about whether the arena expansion is a good idea. I think the real issue is about being heard. So often, people push their own agendas, rather than considering compromises that address valid concerns. In the end, I believe the greater good of economic stimulation will prevail. I just hope the neighbors end up with a monstrosity they can live with.

There’s a petition circulating to stop TU. I’ll probably sign it – in solidarity with my former neighbors. But I can’t help thinking about a story I heard last week.

A friend shared how an elderly relative, a native Baltimorean, was up in arms 25 years ago over a proposed new development in downtown Baltimore. She couldn’t understand why everyone wanted to renovate the Inner Harbor. She thought the proposed National Aquarium was a ridiculous notion. “If I want to see fish – I’ll go to Woolworths!” she said.

"Oh, the Thinks You Can Think!"

My children will tell you, I do not quote scripture and I do not quote politicians. But many times, they have heard me quote lines from songs or children’s books, to reinforce values and lessons. I do also quote myself from time to time, as in “because I said so.”

My children are just about grown, but today’s historic events, had me yearning to dig a Dr. Seuss book from my dusty collection.
“Oh, The Thinks You Can Think!” came to mind, as I watched
Barack Obama take the oath of office and speak of hope, opportunities and unity of purpose.

I am filled with pride and encouragement for our nation and our people. Today, President Obama reminded us of who we are and how far we have traveled. He reminded Americans, both Republican and Democrat, that nothing is impossible. Look what we can do, if we just put our mind to it.

“Oh the thinks you can think up if only you try!”

You are never too young or too old to heed that reminder.

When President Obama said, “the time has come to set aside childish things,” certainly he did not mean Dr. Seuss. Today, you should remind your children, whether they be toddlers or teens:

“THINK! You can think any think that you wish!”

What a day, and a lesson, for the history books.

Paper or Plastic?

When asked, “Which is better to bag your groceries, paper or plastic?” a local environmentalist replied, “which ever you will use again.”

Many of you know, I went “green” this Christmas. I sent an e-mail instead of a Holiday card. I made donations to local charities in lieu of gifts. I turned conference giveaways into stocking stuffers. This, by the way, was a big hit at my house – I am a discerning shopper on the conference trade show circuit.

I didn’t expect everyone was going this route, but I did think most people were on the recycle bandwagon. Municipal trash pick-up has included a recycling schedule for a decade. Who doesn’t recycle?

A lot of my neighbors, apparently. When I dragged my boxes and bottles out to the alley last week, I took a look around. Only one other home had placed recycling out for pick up. Don't tell my kids, because I told them recycling was mandatory. Well it is - in my house.

I wondered, how many other neighborhoods look like this? Scan your alleys and sidewalks next week and send me a tally. Is it really just my neighborhood? I’d like to get a handle on this sad state of affairs.

At a time when many companies are making green practices common in the workplace, I certainly hope folks are not trading off on the home front. Choosing between paper or plastic does not matter, whether you reuse, recycle and reduce does.

Road Rage Confession

I took a little heat from my girlfriends about my Road Rage blog in August. You see, I had a little “incident” back in April. One I prefer to pretend never happened. They say confession is good for the soul, so here goes.

Six of us were heading to Key West for a rare girls’ weekend. Our brilliant plan: get up at 4 AM, catch the early flight into Miami, rent a car, drive 4 hours through the Keys and be sipping Mojitos pool-side by noon. My memory of the road rage incident is a bit foggy. I was terribly sleep deprived and blinded by pain. (See my June blog titled Bedside Manner, the one with a warning about flying when you have fluid on the ear.)

I vaguely recall taking a wrong turn out of the airport, spending an hour driving through Miami looking for an on-ramp to the highway. When I finally located the highway ramp, an aggressive driver was unwilling to let me merge in. (You know the drivers who speed up once you put on your blinker, so you can't get in?) I do recall a raised voice emitting a few expletives, (I didn’t see anyone else’s lips moving, so that might have been me), a finger being raised (quite possibly the middle one), and a loud horn blairing (did that come from my car?). When I turned to the gals for comaraderie, to diss the idiot who almost hit us, they looked at me with fear and trepidation. Uh-oh.

I am embarrassed. I am ashamed. I'd like to plead temporary insanity, please. But, hey gals – I am confessing! That, and a round of Mojitos, might get me invited back next year. Or, might not.

See what can happen? Be careful when you are driving. Road Rage is never OK. But, hey folks - can you also try to remember to be polite behind the wheel and let that car full of lost girls merge in? Perhaps you will help keep folks like me from being put on the "maybe" list for next year's trip.

Back-to-School Night: the end of an era

My first Back-to-School Night was in 1989, Mrs. Desmarais’ 3’s class at Northwood-Appold Nursery School. I came home scarred for life.

The evening had just begun when a gentleman walked over and said “Hi. I’m Sarah’s Dad.” Quickly learning my birth name was no longer relevant, I introduced myself as “TJ’s Mom.” “Oh, Sarah talks about TJ all the time,” He exclaimed. “Really?” I replied. Sarah’s name had never been uttered at our house. “Sarah says she wants to marry TJ and have his babies,” he responded. I was dumfounded. I smiled and nodded, in a bit of a stupor.

Next, Mrs. Desmarais shared with me TJ’s overwhelming fondness for the housekeeping corner. In fact, she shared, he spent his entire self-directed-play time there, every day. He loved cooking, cleaning and tending to the baby dolls. “Really?” I said again. He was strictly a guns and trucks fellow at home. What was his father going to think when I got home?

The rest of the evening was fairly uneventful as we sat in miniature chairs built for 3-year-olds. Mrs. Schmidt played records (yes - records) on her (you guessed it) record player to share the music our little ones were learning. Mrs. Desmarais talked on about field trips to the pumpkin patch, story time and how the children were learning to use their inside voices.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

Nineteen years and nearly 50 Back-to-School nights later, I am now a Pro. I saunter in to Back-to-School Night with all the knowledge and finesse of a well seasoned veteran. With my youngest now a high school senior, last week my Pro career ended.

I was wondering – does that mean I get to use my birth name again or will I forever be known as so-and-so’s Mom?

Road Rage or something else?

Some people have anger management issues.

Whether in the grocery store or on the highway, you can easily spot these folks. You've seen them - people who huff and puff, role their eyes and eventually resort to glaring at the cashier so the line will move quicker. On the road, these folks tailgate to bully you out of their way, lay on their horn so you know they mean business, even gesture with their hands or release a few choices words, not to be repeated around young children.

Other people are just naturally impatient.

They pace waiting for the bus, dart past you on the sidewalk and never wait on the crosswalk sign for permission to cross. Behind the wheel, they change lanes, constantly, often squeezing in where little room appears to exist. They speed up at yellow lights and keep going even when those lights turn red. They must drive just a little faster and get ahead of just a few more cars. These folks have an innate need to get where they are going, fast. To them, cruising or idling is simply not an option.

We have seen a steady (and alarming) increase in Road Rage in this country. I can accept the drivers with anger management issues and even tolerate the impatient ones. To some degree, they just can’t help themselves – its how they’re wired. I yearn to help them discover the pleasure of patience (or find a way to get them into therapy).

It’s the rest of the maniacs on the road I take issue with. They are simply rude, for no other reason than they can get away with it.

You know who I'm talking about – the ones who don’t yield the right of way in a merge zone or a traffic circle (that’s a Rotary to you New England folks). They cut through residential streets, flying over speed bumps and rolling through stop signs. They zip down aisles to beat others to the open parking space or even snatch up a handicapped spot, because “they’ll only be a minute”.

Would they behave this way with their friends and colleagues? Would they slam the door behind themselves rather than hold it open for the next person? Would they cut through the conference room with a meeting in session to take the shorter route back to their desks? Would they run down the hallway to beat someone else to the copier? I think not.

Insulated in a vehicle, anonymity allows them to misbehave without consequences. The ability to drive away without confrontation is liberating. Who are these people? I think they are folks just like you or I. So, next time you are on the road, relax, take your time and remember the good manners your mother taught you.

We Hear What We Want to Hear.

I'm writing a book. Did you know? I can't imagine you don't. I tell everyone - friends, family, colleagues, the cashier at the grocery store . . . . .

As I write, I meet other writers. I hear about the dozens of query letters sent to agents and publishers, followed by rejection letter after rejection letter. I hear how writers "rework" their manuscripts, again and again. I hear the most common mistake writers make is to "over write."

Some of these I choose to ignore - like the rejection rate. After all, you need to do what you love and you need to have faith in yourself. I look at it like the lottery - "you gotta play to win". (and somebody does win) But it really is amazing how we allow ourselves to only hear what we want to hear. It's a gift really, and a curse. We listen, but then we pick and choose what we think really applies to us.

I learned a valuable lesson last week. I over write! I knew it was common for new writers, but certainly that did not apply to me!

Many months ago, I posted a quote on my computer which I found in a writer's magazine. It reads, "Seventy percent of a first draft is garbage and 30 percent is gold, but you have to write 100 percent to get that 30." Imagine, my pleasure when I completed my first chapter and only ended up with 25% on the cutting room floor, instead of 70. I was so far ahead of the game - I was patting myself on the back as I trotted to the head of the class. Wrong!

An intense manuscript rewrite last week (following comments from an editor) had me sorting through a lot of garbage. I mean a lot of garbage. Because, guess what? I over write!

My revised book proposal is off in the hands of an agent now, so we'll see if I've cleaned enough garbage out of my pot of gold. If not, I'll simply buy a bigger shovel and go at it again.