Of the Gattuso Varietal

Every woman is in some small way attached to her hairdryer. Of course, that could just be me, but there's a reason why we cart our own hefty piece of mobile air on trips - hesitant to place our hair into the hands of a cheap, quickly manufactured hotel hairdryer.

Of course, today, I fell in love with my own just a little bit more. This realization hit me while I was kneeling on my bathroom floor, aiming my blue hairdryer at my large Robert Doisneau print that usually resides above my bed.

To back up...

Reno has been in the midst of quite the snow storm today. So crazy that, as I peeked out my front window to check conditions (it started snowing yesterday early evening), I saw a firetruck and an ambulance a mere 50 feet from my staircase. In snow chains. In about a foot and a half of snow (I would have taken pictures, but my phone is at memory capacity and won't let me save them...). Needless to say, without chains, I was not confident in my ability to schlepp across town, and stayed home to work.

It was a gorgeous work day - blindlingly white, unceasingly precipitous, but gorgeous. And despite some writer's block on a certain email, the day went pretty well. With one of my favorite candles lit, the thermostat at 69-70, a fabulous breakfast burrito, and whatever noise in the background I felt like, I thoroughly enjoyed the way the world seemed to push pause outside. I even took a break around 2:30 to take a walk outside in the white (trekking back in about 20 minutes later with semi-permanent red cheeks and ice blocks for ears).

My second break came after I finished pulling a round of prospecting lists - feeling quite ambitious, I opted to rotate my mattress (I don't have the best mattress, so I typically rotate every few months - don't judge). I stripped my comforter and sheets and set about the slow but less-exhausting-than-flipping-it-by-myself method of pushing and pulling it into its new position. Which, in hindsight, may have not been a good idea, given the burning candle on top of my headboard.

In college, they strictly prohibited the use of candles, fearing the ease with which that flame could lick right through the cardboard-like dorm furniture provided in each room. The No Candles mantra includedg incense and candle warmers... which was fine. And the first apartment away from campus I lived in became the poor victim of a woman gone crazy with the candles collected from gifts over the years, confident in her ability to use candles appropriately. As it turns out, even a woman several years out of college can misuse candles. Because as soon as I gave the mattress a big push, it rammed into the precarious headboard, jarring the big Robert Doisneau print that leans ever so delicately against the wall, sending it tumbling over a stack of books, pictures, and (in case I didn't mention it) the candle that had been burning since 9 a.m. What once was a pool of melted wax became a waterfall cleaning nightmares are made of as I watched helplessly, ducking my head as it splashed onto the box spring, the carpet, the headboard, my new purse, my mattress pad, my dresser, and the picture. Did I mention the carpet?

After a few frustrated swipes with a hot towel on my headboard and dresser, and some harried scraping with a knife - not so fun/easy - I resorted to Google, asking how the heck do you get wax out of your carpet!? Because, as much as I love periwinkle blue that smells like rain, I don't necessarily prefer it in my carpet. The answer? A hairdryer. And as I knelt in front of the large picture leaning against my bathroom door, I fell in love with that piece of feminine machinery once again. A quick shot of dedicated hot air and a towel swipe later, it was like a brand new piece of art. I felt a bit like a restoration artist... I knew the sheer joy that comes from removing an obstruction in order to see the original beauty underneath. Yeah. I know. It's small. But hey - I will take my kicks where I can get them these days.

And now that I've shuffled as much down to the laundry as possible and cleaned as much splotchy wax as is visible (and made a killer dinner burrito - which is truly saying something, since I'm devoid of domestic cooking skills), I'm going to get back to work.

P.S. I think it's finally stopped snowing...

Remember that time I said I was going to be more dedicated at blogging?

Yes, well, hopefully I've trained you, dear reader, to be immune to my lack of frequency. But this evening, with Ruby in a most precariously globular stupor and the jasmine oil diffuser that's helping me slough off anxiety, I feel a bit like I can take yet another stab at this.

I've been stuffing my face with Vince Guaraldi music since last week and trying to turn off the bad switches in my head so I can somewhat calm down (turns out, actual REM sleep is not overrated). It's not a cure in pill form, per se, but it is certainly helpful. Like the jasmine, and most importantly, like my mom.

So here is to that person that helps you stay sane - that person that helps you realize a number of things, but ultimately brings about the epiphany that helps you understand that, regardless of your issue(s), it is going to be ok. And because of her gracious selflessness, her acute devotion to integrity and humility and unconditional love, this post is dedicated to my mother. Because of all the things I am truly grateful for, her presence - her being there for me - is of the utmost importance to me.

Mom's lessons from the Thanksgiving weekend:

Humility - doesn't have to be an admittance of inferiority. It is merely humility - an acceptance and willingness to be quiet and learn.
Creativity - it takes serious energy to be creative. Without energy, creativity suffers.
Health - is paramount. Everything centers around your sanity. Protect it at all costs.
Stress - destroys it all. Protect yourself against it at all costs.
Anxiety - change the fear switch into something positive, into resolve.
Judgement - shouldn't come from those who love you...

And most importantly, because I needed to hear it:

I'm not alone.





Thanks for everything, Mom. I love you with all of my heart!

If you're like me, magazines give you a certain amount of joy. There's just something about the flip of crisp pages, the glossy photographs, the carefully constructed editorial, the timely investigative pieces, the tell-tale scent of perfume, the peek at fall fashion...

Oh... wait... alright. I'll admit it - I buy Glamour and Cosmopolitan each month (I am a girl...so...). I'm well aware that they're the same 10 articles recycled each and every month, but there's something about the frivolity. Something about the lack thereof of necessary brain power that is alluring. Plus, you can find amazing uses for household items like dryer sheets or nail polish or picture wire. I can make pasta puttanesca with picture wire? What?? And (remember, now, I'm a girl) there are pictures of clothes - boots - hair dos. Oh yeah. It's a guilty pleasure.

We should all have a guilty pleasure. I've got more than one. And I'm ok with that. My father once asked me why I watched the Simpsons after work and South Park at night.

"Because at the end of the day, when you've been high-energy, high-focus the entire time, sometimes it's necessary to do something devoid of thought."

Sometimes you've got to inject your high-voltage day with a little vanilla. Even if you're not learning a whole lot, setting your brain on auto-pilot can help you recharge for day 2, 5, or 23.

Of course, this is not to say these mindless activities should comprise your entire extra-curricular diet. There's got to be some awareness that your brain needs to learn more - that it needs to be challenged by new and exciting thoughts, concepts, activities. And, since I'm not the rock-climbing, bungee-jumping, jump-out-of-a-plane-while-it's-actually-flying type of girl, I try to dip into my stash of books - which is easier said than done (Poor Anna Karenina is still waiting for me to break the half-way mark and the abridged works of Churchill sits quitely, waiting for me to at least break out of the prologue). But I'm buzzing through Misquoting Jesus: The Story of Who Changed the Bible and Why, and am starting Groundswell (I know, right? Finally.).

I'll admit, some of the articles in those magazines make me cringe - partly because they're indicative of what young woman today find important. Bah. The editorial is crafted around what will sell, and if that is what we're consuming voraciously, then, well, somebody's got to capitalize on it. Secondly, because some of that stuff is just so blatantly common sense that it's amazing someone expanded the piece into 500 words. I've certainly been known to skip the "If-you-pout-your-lips-like-so-" articles... And of course, there's always the juxtaposition of size 0 celebrity stalking and gaunt models draping themselves over chaise lounges amid a deluge of "celebrate-your-body" stories.

I figure so long as I keep it balanced - a little of this here, a little of that there - it's ok to enjoy both.

And as bold as this statement is, I just don't know if I could stay sane if it weren't for South Park.

P.S. Saw the new issue of Glamour on stands today... will have to pick it up tomorrow.

Sometimes, you just get lucky. Not the "everything went my way" kind of luck, not the "thank goodness my brakes work" kind of luck. No, sometimes you get lucky in that you're the recipient of something that makes you literally die laughing.

After finishing the first mile at the gym this afternoon I was the lucky recipient of a text message that quite literally made me "LOL" - save for the fact I was already breathless. You'll have to excuse my moment of immaturity, but I'm pretty sure I haven't been this amused in a while...

"Totally de-wedgied myself at the EXACT moment cute frozen food aisle guy at Trader Joe's rounded the corner to become cute junk food aisle guy. Ha ha. FML."

Oh my. Thank you, friend - you know who you are. And even though you told me I could mention your name, I don't think it's necessary. This was so entertaining it made me forget about the long day at work, the horrible traffic, the completely baffling WWE wrestling on the TV in front of my treadmill (no, seriously - why do they have to wear underwear? Who's idea was it to have tree-trunks of men in itty-bitty spandex whirling each other around on the springboard boxing ring? I'm pretty sure it wasn't a woman).

There you have it.

My incredibly mature, sophisticated, eloquent post for the evening.

P.S. James Earl Jones is the most amazing guest star on House M.D. yet.

"Because I can't do math..."

This has long since been the answer to why I write, tracing all the way back to middle school essays titled "My favorite school subject: English." I never profess to be the Grand Poobah of all things numeric. Occasionally I can pull the right fraction/sum/price+tax out of my head, but if I'm after accuracy, I like to rely on a calculator.

This being said, when I was the quoted the 20 percent savings I got today for the brake job on my car, something screamed "I'M BEING SCREWED."

"Um, there is no way that that is right."

"I guess it kind of looks funny..."

*Pause...*

"Well could you double check? There is no way that that is 20 percent. That just doesn't sound right..."

*Pause...*

"Oh, ok. Um, I don't have a calculator so, hold on..."

Lest I drag this one out, he figured the right balance out - finally.

For some of us, figuring out how to achieve the correct balance doesn't always come easy, whether it's calculating a percentage or getting the right combination of work and rest. There isn't always a calculator handy - nor do we always know which variables will equal a successful combination.

When it comes to the work/rest balance, it's incredibly difficult to grasp. In the words of Tina Fey's Liz Lemmon from 30 Rock: Blerg. I don't even have the right equation yet, but I'm working on it. September's craziness put a punctuation mark on its importance. There is only so much you can do before you run into that wall and crash.

It's imperative to check yourself, to make sure that brake system is working, and (here's the key), to use it. If I don't give myself at least one day out of the week to stop - to let the day's schedule be devoid of any pressing appointments, overbearing inboxes, or relentless chores, my on-the-job performance declines the next week. I'll end up passing out for an entire evening mid-week because I just don't have the juice to go forward.

I used to feel guilty about not being productive in a given day. We live in a world that enables productivity every minute of the day. The wealth of technology, software and media allow for constant connection to work and social life. But taking at least one day of the week to wipe obligations away certainly helps me. Without it, I end up feeling worn down. Tasks and assignments run into each other like some Rorschach version of Sesame Street and the words (you know, those things I love so very much) seem to bear down, ganging up and flying at me in droves too large to manage. At that point to go on detox. As of lately, I've been keeping my play lists to classical and opera, to minimize words, or at least the ones I can decipher.

When you don't pump the brakes it's hard to test your ability to stop. And if you can't stop, that wall will come on fast - too fast - with crippling implications. And we just don't have all the time in the world to recover.

Are your brakes working?

Of course it's been a few weeks since I've posted.

This is all intentional. I'm really trying to coax my readers into an anxious state of loyalty so they keep checking to make sure their RSS feed hasn't somehow crapped out on them allowing them to miss my latest, greatest post.

Ha ha. That bit of hubris was brought to you by the hour 9:30 p.m. (It was fun, right? I had a good time...) I promise I haven't deluded myself so much to believe I have such crazed readers, or much less, an amount of readers greater than I can count on my two hands.

Regardless, as I may have mentioned in prior posts, or at least on Twitter, something I've also neglected a bit as of late, September has really tried to kill me. With two major publications working toward close and the annual fundraising event for the non-profit I volunteer for, my various projects morphed into needy children, frothing at the mouth for my attention. At the end of each day, keeping my brain on long enough to contribute an actual post just wasn't in the cards.

Until now! After a long combination of early mornings, late nights, work projects, volunteer projects, board meetings, committee meetings, client meetings, yadda yadda yadda, I decided to head to my mother's place (out in the middle of nowhere) to crash. And I most certainly did. I slept on and off from Saturday mid-day to early evening Sunday, when I finally felt I'd rebooted enough to trot my bum back to Reno.

And here I am. It feels good to be pounding on the keys again. I've even got a few post topics rattling around upstairs - with a prominent theme to them: balance. It's safe to say you can expect a few upcoming posts...

I hope that's ok. Don't want to mess with anyone's RSS feeds... ;)

I've got a thing for words. I like them. I like them so much that I've made it a part of my job. In fact, I like them so much that I actively seek to learn new ones, or learn the meanings of ones I don't recognize.

When I was about 12 years old or so I asked my father what the word 'recalcitrant' meant on a drive into town. He turned to me, jaw dropped, and asked "where did you learn that word?" I told him I'd read it somewhere.

To use a rather spent adjective, I had a voracious appetite for books. I inhaled them... and instead of saying "whoa, slow down and chew," my parents opted to pile more into my hands and root me on.

Last week, Josh Hanagarne's post on Copyblogger (@copyblogger) briefly re-hashed one of his own childhood memories concerning word usage, and it brought to mind how I have been in that position frequently (read: sometimes I am still in that position). From a monetary standpoint, he brought some excellent points to the table regarding speaking to your audience and their applicable discourse communities, as well as writing with words that they use. Hanagarne asks "Why write anything in a style that creates distance with your readers?" And it's a valid point - especially if you want to make money by engaging customers with your copy or sell newspapers.

In journalism (at least when I was studying; figures may have changed since), we were taught that the average American reads at a 7th or 8th grade level, and to connect with that audience it's best to write at a 6th grade level. I find this appalling. And when it came to writing assignments, the vocabulary had no choice but to peek out, despite the prolific "why write the word utilize when you can write use?" speeches.

But here's my point (and it was often my rebuttal when arguing about the above concept). I don't use big words to sound snooty or smart or professional, or what-have-you. In fact, were you to comb through this blog, you might find a few that leave you questioning whether 'snarky' really is in Webster's. Yes, I like words. But I don't propagate them into my speech in hopes others will perceive me the Grand Poobah of literary prowess. No - I happen to believe that sometimes the bigger word captures the more accurate meaning of what it is I am trying to convey. And isn't that a worthy endeavor? A clearer picture of what message I'm trying to impart?

Now before I hop up here on my soapbox, let me assure you I'm well aware of how making money with words works. You write to your target audience, you appeal to their interests, you demonstrate how what you have can help them.

But, in essence(soapbox warning!), all that this is doing is catering to the lowest common denominator. And while it makes financial sense, what is it doing to our society? Our collective lexicon? Why, oh why, do we not push ourselves as a nation to learn more by lacing such an integral part of daily lives (reading) with more accuracy? Must we continue to play dumb? I'm pretty sure the last vocabulary class I had was in middle school - and I can guarantee that many a college student reverts to Cliffs Notes. Our up-and-coming professionals aren't getting a very meat and potatoes part of their education. And rather than call this to the forefront, call to attention the fact that Hey! We'd rather dumb our language down than learn more! we continue to make it easy to leave vocabulary out of the question. I ask you, if we continue to make it so easy, what level will our society be reading out 10-15-20 years from now?

I find it pitiful.
(hopping off soapbox now)

If I ever find the guy who said "big words are bad," I'm coming after him with a really big stick.