What Keeps Me Steady

Michelle at When I Grow Up Coach has been Tweeting about Positivity Week, and while I wasn't able to commit to a full week of participation, I did want to contribute! Check out her great blog as well as Jeremie's blog, Sunday Night Success, for thought-provoking articles and more information on Positivity Week. Also, I would be remiss if I didn't mention that this was partially inspired by Colleen's post on taking umbrage.

Historically, I've been an all-or-nothing type of girl; either I'm thrilled and enthusiastic, or I'm Sylvia Plath's spiritual twin. You probably know someone like that. It's a very tiring way to live. At some point I decided it wasn't for me. So I studied what other people did, people who were able to remain calm, non-reactive, rational. Intelligent, kind, authentic [I hate the way that word is bandied about, but it's the only one that fits in this context] people, whose skin seemed to be much thicker than my own, which was more or less like waterlogged vellum. And I'll be honest: it helped me tremendously to be married to such a person (who also, rather conveniently, happens to have a whole lot of patience).

I've found, through observing others and through good old-fashioned trial and error, that there are six things that really help me move beyond my tendency to react. They are:

As much as possible, remaining an observer, not a reactor, to my feelings. It's a bit of a cliché, but feelings are, after all, just feelings. Like fear, they are meant to be a general roadmap, not a step-by-step instruction book. It's a mistake to rely on them. It's also a mistake to ignore them. Listen to them, but remember that context is everything.

Making time for devotion. My days are not the same without this component. When I make time for prayer, I'm more connected, more alive.

Stewardship. (Taking care of what I have.) If I can be trusted to take care of the little things, I can be trusted to take care of the big things. (There I go with that minutiae thing again.) Looking after what you've got, be it as small as one cat and a studio apartment or as large as a family of 8 and a business, is love in action. You'll see a difference in yourself and your life immediately. Seriously.

Being actively grateful for the good things in my life. Here is one way you might look at my current situation--these are all irrefutable facts: I was laid off in early February. We very much need to be a two-income family. When I read up on frugality, I realize that most of what the pros are suggesting in terms of cutting corners are things we've been doing for years--in other words, we really don't have many corners left.

You get the idea.

This is how I view my life as it currently exists: I no longer have to get up five days a week to spend 8-10 hours a day working at a job where I was miserable. Instead, I am spending my days with my son, doing crafts (I love that!), taking him to the park, teaching him things, laughing with him. I am getting my house in order (even the frighteningly-disorganized closets and pantry). I am improving my cooking and homemaking skills. I'm baking! (I love baking.) I spend several hours a day working on my freelance business, which has taken off in a way I can't quite believe just yet. I'm reconnecting with old friends. I'm meeting new friends. I'm getting to know my community better. Yes, our budget is tighter than ever. And I am so grateful.

Running a quick reality check. This goes hand-in-hand with the above, but is sort of in its own category as well. My family and I have a roof over our head, more than enough food on the table, clean water to drink and bathe with, more clothing than we really need, family nearby, amazing friends. We are healthy, resourceful, resilient, and we make our own fun. Most people on this planet are not so fortunate.

Making time to exercise. We all know the benefits of regular exercise, so I'll keep this one brief: when I make time to exercise, I am less of a psychotic [redacted]. (I like to think of it as a gift to the world at large.)

What about you? What keeps you going, keeps you steady, keeps you motivated and focused in the best way possible? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments section.

Image via Shabby Chic.

A Modest Proposal

Aside from the bit in the sidebar there to your right, I've not discussed my jealous and possessive love for ads. [This might be the right time for you to click away from here as fast as you can, if you would prefer to remain blissfully unaware of this madness.] Print ads, in particular. I can talk about the nuances of advertising the way other people might talk about, oh...heroin. (And by "people" I mean "people currently on heroin.") It's endlessly fascinating. When it's wrong, it can be so spectacularly wrong that I almost enjoy the outrage it produces in me, as though it's the villain tying the ingenue to the tracks. Currently, for instance, there is a billboard on the side of the freeway nearest me. It's for a big chain supermarket, and it features a sheepdog. The sheepdog is speaking. (You can tell because the large words right next to the dog are in quotes.) And the sheepdog is saying, "My owner's smart. She shops at Ralphs."

No, I'm serious. On a billboard, in front of God and everyone, "My owner's smart. She shops at Ralphs." To which one can only assume the intended reaction goes something like, "Oh! I'm not shopping at Ralphs. Does my dog think I'm dumb?"

At that point in the analysis my brain breaks a little bit, and all I can think is WHO WROTE THAT? Because somebody wrote it, and then someone put it next to the stupid photo of the dog, and then someone pitched it! And then... someone approved it. Someone looked at that ad, with its dog and its bordering-on-Flight-of-the-Conchords-absurdity level of fallacy, and said You know what? That's it, right there. That ad is fantastic! Do it. This will reach our customer, the person who lives in fear that her dog thinks she's a big dummy and might be laughing behind her back with the other dogs. We're going to be rich!

Seriously, what a big hot mess! How does that happen?! Why is it okay?! It's like flushing money down the toilet, as my mother said every five minutes when I was growing up.

At the opposite pole exist the ads that cut through the tired hyperbole and speak to who you are on a very basic level. Yes, yes, it's manipulation at its finest--but that's the point, after all. I may find Apple's policies odious and their ubiquitous presence just this side of Starbucksian, but damn, their ad campaigns make me believe. They (duh) work.

A few years back, Sharpie had this brilliant campaign geared toward creative types--graphic designers, specifically; it was a multi-page affair that ran in graphic design magazines. Each page featured some part of a designer's workday, with one word, in bold caps--e.g., a Pantone book said "LUST" beneath it; under an image of a meeting in an oval conference room was the word "HELL". It was simple and clever and personal and so, so appealing. The very last page said, in part:

When you look at movies and books and typography, do you get excited?
When you can't solve something, do you beat yourself up?
Do you then start fantasizing about jobs like selling shoes?
Worry that you'll never have a good idea?
Feel like an imposter?
Do you suddenly worry you're becoming a hack?
Do you worry you already are one but don't know it yet?
When you come up with a good idea, do you suddenly feel like life is worth living again?
Do you fall in love with your ideas?
Do you wear that love on your sleeve?
Are you, in face, one of those people?

My immediate, gut response: yes, yes, yes! And: I need seven thousand Sharpies because they understand me!

Advertising isn't about showing off. It's about seeing people for who they are. (There is a difference.) When people feel acknowledged, they are more likely to want to be around the entity doing the acknowledging. Brand loyalty, anyone?

But very good advertising has the power to do more than just sell, to create more than that coveted customer-for-life. I cut out that list of questions from the Sharpie ad. I glued them to the front of a notebook. And when I was working a job that I loathed, that made me doubt my innate abilities and the skills I've worked at long and hard, I would look at those words. They helped to remind me that my small-minded supervisor could say whatever she liked, but I wasn't going to be there forever. I'd be on to bigger, better, more creative, more suitable things.

And hey, look, I am.

Oh, of course I don't think Sharpie responsible for my moving on up, so to speak, but look--if it's worth doing, it's worth doing well. Not everything is going to be inspired or inspiring, sure, there's nothing sexy about shopping at Ralphs. But for Pete's sake, what's wrong with stepping up the game, just a little bit? What if we tried?

Why Minutia Matters to Me.

This afternoon I was rude to the security guard at the front gate of my condo complex. I had broken my don't-let-yourself-get-hungry rule, had left the house two hours prior for a hair appointment that had to be rescheduled due to my having been caught in traffic, and had neglected to pack my usual small bag of almonds. And so, when I drove up next to the guard station and the new guard came dashing out, hands raised, asking me to stop, I kind of freaked out. I rolled down my window and without even thinking said, "I live here," in a tone that could have peeled paint. "Oh yes, I know," said the man, politely, "But where is your sticker?"

For my parking sticker, you see, was on the opposite side of the dashboard, rather than taped to the left side, as it should have been. There was no way for him to have seen it, as he was on the left side of the car. So what do you suppose I did?

I pointed. Dramatically. "It's right there," I said, like a petulant thirteen-year-old.

"Oh, yes, I see it now, I'm sorry," he said.

In the two minutes it took me to get to my parking spot and reach my front door, I died about a million times. I had been shockingly rude to someone whose was doing exactly as he was being paid to do. (And I recalled all the times I've rolled my eyes when the security guards here have let my guests in without even letting me know they're on their way. Why can't they do their jobs?) He had been polite to me. No, he had apologized to me. Because times are tough and jobs are hard to find. The people are terrible sometimes, I pictured him telling his wife in their language, but you just have to apologize often and they calm down.

With no warning, I had become the enemy. An Ugly American. One of the Entitlement Brigade. The complete opposite of what my parents had raised me to become. And I wanted to disappear.

I had lunch (crucial, obviously). I put on workout clothes. Then I walked up the hill to the guard gate. The same man was in the middle of what seemed to be a very confusing situation, talking to another guard on the walkie-talkie and to a third party on the phone. Nevertheless, he looked over at me and said, "Yes, how can I help you, ma'am?" I died yet again. "Oh no," I said, smiling and bowing my head, "When you're finished." He nodded and bowed his head in return. When he finished, he said, "Yes, ma'am?"

"I just wanted to apologize," I said. "I was so rude earlier, and I am so sorry. I was late [this was to spare myself the deep-seated fear of having to discuss the concept of me, eating, with a perfect stranger--and because anyway, being late is just as bad an excuse for rudeness as being hungry] and I was so rude to you. I apologize. You were only doing your job, and we very much appreciate that [apparently my phone network had joined me? I dunno.]."

"Oh! No, it's okay," he said. "Only that your sticker was on the other side, and..."

"I know!" I said miserably. "I didn't tape it to the left side, it was completely my fault, not yours. I'm sorry."

"It is no problem," he said. "But please try to put the sticker on."

"I will! Thank you."

"Thank you." He nodded. We smiled at one another and I walked my miserable self around the neighborhood for the better part of an hour.


Here's what really gets me: the reason traffic had been so bad earlier, when I was trying to get to the hair salon, was that there had been a terrible accident. The flattened, crumpled remains of a very expensive convertible were shocking enough (I still can't picture what must have happened; it looked as though a boulder had fallen on it), but the sight of two arms limply reaching up from within the cavity, as six men worked together to cut and lift the body out and onto a waiting stretcher? That's going to stay with me for a long time, like the body I saw on a traffic divider once, as a child, of a man who had just been hit by a car and was now lying motionless. I knew he was dead. I prayed for him for miles after we'd passed him, but I knew he was dead.

Despite all that--still! I let my annoyance and my impatience get the best of me, and I abused someone working, for all intents and purposes, in my employ.

I can hear what maybe some of you might think: Oh, let it go, you're not that important, do you really think one bitchy woman ruined this man's life? I'm not that important, no, and I very much doubt that I did much to that man other than make him roll his eyes. But that's not why this matters. It matters because I think one is either part of the problem or part of the solution. If I'm not giving, I'm taking. And I try very hard, though I know my efforts come up short all too often, to give more than I take.

This is why minutia matters to me. Our lives are made up of a million tiny particles that gravitate toward one another, like grabbing like. I've got a rich tapestry of flaws, God knows (and so does anyone who's met me). I want there to be more generosity, more love, more kindness in there, so that those particles can hang onto one another and grow. We've all heard the expression "garbage in, garbage out," but the opposite holds true as well: the more good we output, the more good we want to input. And that changes us. And the people around us. And the world.

It matters. It all matters.

Better Living Through Sales and Marketing

What caught my eye was her name. Merydeth. Oh dear, I thought, for it was too late: I couldn't stop. I was on this particular site--an online publication for the NPR set--to read my very favorite advice column. But over to the right, a randomly-selected-and-placed personal ad had distracted me. Merydeth is her name, and she is interested in candles and dried roses and such.

Clearly, the thing to do was continue. I looked through a few other enticing snippets.

A fellow we'll call Tim would like for us to know that in his bedroom, one will find "Warmth and style, as I have recreated the ambience of a European Villa."

And one rather texture-focused lady, ostensibly hailing from North Carolina, judging by her handle, which I've shortened to Silky, says "I am lookin for a man not a boy. I am lookin for someone to treat me right."

As a happily married individual, it's perhaps unfair for me to nitpick the attempts of other people to find true love. After all, I've said more than my share of awkward (at best) things in my own attempts to find it. But I've always believed that when you're on the market, so to speak, advertising the buyer benefits (forgive me, I've been in marketing a long time now) is the most important thing you can do! What's in it for me? is always, always what it boils down to.

My hunch is that Merydeth will fare best out of these three; she is part of a very specific, easily-identifiable demographic. Like attracts like; voila. Tim and Silky, however, are a different story. And now I feel the need to address them directly.

Tim, no woman wants to hear that your bedroom looks like a European villa. Villas are really big, Tim. Is your bedroom that big? If your bedroom is that big, why isn't the rest of your apartment that big? Simply put, it's like an unattractive girl saying she's got the wardrobe of a model, do you see what I mean? If I say "model" to you, you immediately think "smoking hot," not "awesome clothes." You may feel somewhat misled when the girl shows up for a date with you. It's okay to live in an apartment. Apartments, for most of us, tend to be smallish. It's okay! And anyway, what kind of European villa did you have in mind when you recreated its ambiance? There are many different countries in Europe, Tim, and they do not all share the same architecture. Or decorating styles, for that matter.

But perhaps I am being too harsh. Let me try a different tack. (A slightly different tack.) The kind of woman you are hoping to attract with your advertisement does not want to visit a man whose apartment bedroom has the ambiance of a European villa. She wants to visit a man who owns a European villa, or inherited one, or can rent a room in one for a few days or so. Tim. Listen to me. Do you like European villas? Are they a special interest of yours? Then why not put that in your ad? If they're not an interest for you, what is? What's in it for me? Because right now, all that's in it for me is that you really wish you were someone else. And that's too bad, for a couple of reasons: a) there's undoubtedly a lot more to you than you're giving yourself credit for; and b) no one wants to be with someone who wishes they were someone else.

Now then, Ms. Silky. This will be quicker, as it's getting late and I am sticking by my resolution to go to bed earlier -- but also because your ad just irked me. Of COURSE you want a man, and not a boy. Of COURSE you want to be treated right. Straight up, sister: if you're that demanding in a personal ad, what incentive does a man have to even answer it? Are those wants really the most interesting things about you? I suspect not. What's in it for me?, they will ask, and when they see your ad they will think: Oh! Not a thing.

People, a personal ad is supposed to be the flash, sanitized, most awesome version of you that can exist in a brief paragraph and one artfully-Photoshopped picture! I know that as a society we've become incredibly sloppy relaxed, airing our dirty laundry all over the place and whatnot, but if this is your best, why should I even entertain the thought of sticking around for your worst? If you're anything like me, your worst is pretty stank anyway, and tends to require a lot of apologizing. So come on. What makes you unique? What about you will make it worth their while? It's not about bragging, you see: it's about knowing your strengths. If you don't know what those are, ask your friends. They'll tell you. The last person you dated? What did he or she best like about you? Ask yourself what would make you valuable to another person.

Maybe you're a terrible cook, you never pick up after yourself, and you routinely oversleep. But maybe you also make the other person feel like a million bucks because when they're talking to you, time stops and nobody else even exists. Maybe you are naturally funny, quick to make other people feel comfortable, always making sure everyone else is having a good time. Small things, maybe. But maybe they're big things. Think about it.

Okay, now. Go out and sell it like the rent's due.

See CNN fail. Fail, CNN, fail!

Look, nobody's perfect. Certainly no proofreader is perfect. Certainly I am woefully far from that. But this is the blurb for the main story on CNN right now.

U.S. takes North Korea off terror list
The United States today removed North Korea from its list of states that sponsor terrorism. The two nations reached agreement "on an number of important verification measures" of North Korea's nuclear program, State Department spokesman Sean McCormack said.

On an number? Wow.

USA! USA!

People are like suns

On our way home from the farmers market this morning, H. said we needed more potting soil. We swung into the parking lot of our local big chain home improvement store, where the world's best hot dogs sell from a white truck. (Which features a giant metal hot dog on its roof.) It was hot, as it's been all weekend -- hot for the season, and hot for our heat waves. We stepped to the side of the truck to order, and hotter air blasted out from its interior as the owner leaned forward toward us.

"Good morning!" he bellowed to me in a thick accent I couldn't quite place -- it could have been Mexican, but based on the man's features was more likely Croatian. "Hello, my friend, how are you?" he said, recognizing H. (who has clearly been enjoying lunch there quite often!). "Hello, my man! How are you? Give me five! All right! You are my man!" he said to Luke, laughing.

As I was putting the condiments on the hot dog for Luke, another man approached the window to ask why his food was taking so long. The owner explained that he was cooking chicken on the grill, and had to wait for that to be done before putting meat on. "I cook it fresh every day," he said. "No yesterday. It's all done same day. So, there's nothing I can do, and I'm sorry. The chicken will be done soon, and then I do your food." The other man quickly softened and very pleasantly said he understood, it was no problem.

While H. went to get the potting soil, Luke and I said in the shade with the hot dog and a bottle of water. I listened as the man greeted every customer with the same level of enthusiasm, kindness and respect. It seemed genuine, not a sales pitch, not desperate--far from desperate, in fact: he had a nearly regal air about him that was simultaneously humble. How often do we see that? This man, older man, is selling hot dogs, tacos, soda and water outside a home improvement store to, let's face it, countless fat jerks in SUVs who think they are IT because they can fix a garbage disposal or whatever--today, in the blazing heat. Not angry that he's not doing something else, not humiliated because he's serving food from a truck, and with more self-respect and generosity than most people you rub elbows with every day.

I've been working in the corporate world for 4 years now, and it's changed me. Mostly for the better--that's a list for another day--but also in a couple of ways that make me less than proud. In particular, my awareness of status. It's useful, here and there, to be able to mimic the behaviors of those with societal/organizational status. A tool is a tool, after all. But having been exposed to that world every day for the last thousand days or so, I find myself childishly upset over my unattractive 12-year-old car (which has never really given me a day's trouble and gets good gas mileage), my salary (which seems not to expand with my material desires--must talk to someone about this), my kitchen (which was last decorated sometime around 1975), and the like. And obviously that's a slippery slope. I find it disappointingly difficult to resist, and that is frustrating. I spend hours in frank discussion with myself, either fending off or volleying working-class disgust, among other varieties, from and at myself.

Observing this man today, though, I was able to simply step away from all of the tail-chasing. Isn't that the beauty of simplicity sometimes? The solution is not to talk myself out of materialism: it is to focus on what is important. Respect, kindness. Which really means love. Love, again. The solution is always love.

Unleashed

Sonia Simone over at Copyblogger wrote a great piece called Unleash Your Inner Dork to Become a Better Copywriter. Whether or not you spend your days writing copy, it's worth a read, as it contains the kind of kernel of truth that would do some good for anyone who happens to be alive. An excerpt:

Enthusiastic copy isn’t cool—at least, not while you’re creating it. It isn’t polished. It isn’t sophisticated.

In fact, it’s usually kind of dorky.

Any creative person who’s worth a damn has a dorky side. Good creative work can’t survive cynicism. I’m willing to bet that even Bono gets a little secret thrill over something lame—maybe it’s brand new white shoelaces, or blue Jell-O or LOLcats.

Being a dork just means you can get insanely excited about something that not everyone can see is cool... A dork is someone who’s not afraid to be excited. A dork is a great thing to be.

Enthusiasm is so underrated! It's one of the most attractive, fascinating traits a human being can exhibit! It is glorious. Why do we forget this?

Breaking news

From a top story on Rupert Murdoch's blog CNN.com this morning:

The spokesman who defended President Bush's policies through Hurricane Katrina and the early years of the Iraq war is now blasting his former employers, saying the Bush administration became mired in propaganda and political spin and at times played loose with the truth.

WHA?
The Bush administration mired in propaganda?
And political spin?
And at times played loose with the truth?!?

We've been living in an absurdist comedy and it's high time the credits rolled.

Dirty Pretty Things

Other than the fools' paradise aspect that home reality shows have these days, what with the economy continuing its slow decline [which in my head is accompanied by tuba music], the other thing that gets me is the type of person that appears on the shows. Fresh from reading many home decor magazines and high from having arrived as homeowners, each couple each woman in each couple believes herself to be a connoiseur [Connoiseusse? Have I completely massacred that? Help me!] of taste, sophistication and just-so-frisson of whimsy. Last night I watched two such women tear down one another's choice of red paint for a dining room, and was struck by the fact that it was the same color. The snootiest, bitchiest couple [because the men on these shows are always henpecked wienies who adopt the bitchiness of their wives--o, the humanity!] had perhaps the most pedestrian and yet sterile house of the three couples featured.

I am not proud, but neither will I deny that this kind of thing pushes my snob button. Immediately, I want to talk with the couples about the subjective nature of taste, about how one's home should ideally reflect the people that live in it, about how one is more than one's belongings; but the sad truth is that more than any of this, what I want to say is PEOPLE YOU LIVE IN A SUBURB OF A SUBURB OF THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE and you have no right to be putting on airs like that, JimBob and Sally Ann, or Chip and Susie, or Del and Marie, or whomever.

It's ugly, I know. And the obvious question is then why do you keep watching, you elitist? And the answer is Doug, the manliest, handsomest interior designer ever. He can build stuff, sew stuff, paint stuff, and say things so snarky right to Middle America's face that they don't even realize it's not a compliment.

Sure, tough guys, you can joke about his totally-guessable preference in companions, but can you do half the carpentry he can do? Not bloody likely. If you happen to live in Los Angeles, you are probably a lot less manly than this dude. Oh, and the dimples, the tall, the eyes, the rapier-sharp wit? METRO CITY BOYS, YOU JUST GOT PWNED BY AN INTERIOR DESIGNER! Henpecked wienies who start the show being condescending because what can an interior designer have over you? You lose! Wake up, America. Wake up and be a man.

I had no idea that it couldn't be done

This morning found me emptying out a box my mother had given me some baby clothes in last year. The box is covered in a small, brown and white floral print and has two ribbons that run across the lid and down the back and front, where two bows made of the same ribbon sit festively. It's a lovely box, perfect for storing treasures. I gathered up the few items of clothing I've saved so far, things Luke can no longer wear but with which I just can't bear to part. A tiny blue-and-white-striped, long-sleeved onesie that I bought before I was ever pregnant. A long-sleeved t-shirt my mother brought back from Scotland, bearing a stick figure boy, the Scottish flag and the words Brae Bairn ("fine boy" is the literal translation but I believe "strong boy" is more the implication). A onesie that my husband decorated with a photo of an old fishing boat with peeling paint docked next to a small rowboat with brand-new paint, both leaning to the left. ("Is that you and Luke?" I had asked him. He had nodded, wordless, shy suddenly.) And finally the pair of brown plaid flannel pants, so punk rock and so terribly nerdy, the pants that prompted my brother to say that making my son wear them fell under the category of child abuse.

As I folded them all, put them into the box and looked around for somewhere to put the box, I felt somehow that I was looking into a mirror and seeing my mother as she was when I was a child -- young, idealistic, altruistic. It's such a vulnerable state, this having a child. There -- there!-- is your reason for driving more carefully, for being more kind, for following up with people to make sure they know you care -- there in that very small 22-pound package, is life itself. Frankly sometimes this terrifies me. Having spent most of my life finding ways to disguise my vulnerability and extreme sensitivity, it's shocking to recognize over and over again that the jig is up. That the disguises won't work anymore, because see that little blond boy with the huge blue-gray eyes and the drooly shirt? There's my soft spot for all the world to see.

So, really, what's the point of trying to hide? It's all out in the open now (as if my various tactics at seeming fortress-like had ever fooled anyone...). There's a huge freedom in that, I'm finding. Oh well, and a shrug, has become a standard response, and not in a glib sort of way, but rather with relief, knowing the pressure's off, somehow. Enough with trying to be all things to all people. Here I am, doing my damndest. That's all. And that's everything.