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Magical Thinking, The Secret and Wishing Really, Really Hard

*Don’t forget to enter my Blair Waldorf approved giveaway from Andrea’s Beau! Click here for details.

Sorry for the re-post – but I wanted to put this guest post on my own site as well. And if you didn’t read it – well here is your second chance.

I wrote it for my friend Christy’s blog, so she figures prominently – and it’s a little different from my usual style – but my mom said it was the best mothers day present I could give her, so that was nice!

Magical Thinking, The Secret and Wishing Really, Really Hard
May 7, 2009

When I first met Christy – I was almost bowled over by her enthusiasm. The Christy experience is one you never forget. Her excitement for life is truly a force to be reckoned with.

And she’s a good woman to have in your corner. I often call her my own personal cheerleader. If it were up to Christy, I’d have an agent and a book deal tomorrow, all based on the haphazard scribblings in my personal blog. I have no real writing experience, but Christy sees no hindrance there. She doesn’t waste time worrying about obstacles – she sees only infinite possibility. This ability to focus all of her energy on “making things happen” has served her well. She found her dream husband, her dream career and became the mother of a baby who looks to have sprung directly from a Botticelli painting of angels. She knows how to live life to the fullest and does so every day. And it’s all due to the fact that this girl keeps her eye on the prize.

Everyone has heard of “The Secret” by now, and Christy is in fact, a success story for this Oprah-approved method for finding happiness in life. In one of our recent conversations she told me that when she was single and feeling ready to meet Mr. Right, she thought about everything she would want in a husband and always kept that in the periphery of her thoughts. She went on plenty of bad to so-so dates, but never doubted that this perfect man was out there. She could picture him clearly and knew that she would recognize him the minute he appeared.
And apparently she did, because they’ve been married for five years.

And when they were ready to have the as of then unknown Ms. Foo…the same rules applied. As it did for the dream job. While direct routes may not have been available to her, Christy always knew what her final destination would be be. This complete confidence comes from knowing what you want. And now, thanks to a wildly popular self help book endorsed by talk show hosts everywhere, anyone can be a Christy.

I’m not mocking The Secret of course, but it just strikes me as funny that people need a manual for something that boils down to common sense and a positive attitude. It’s all so simple, or at least it can be if you let it.

So it’s no wonder that a seasoned professional in self-doubt like me would find inspiration here. And not just because it sounds so logical and attainable. For me, this approach to life also sounds very familiar…

While she may not engender Christy’s particular brand of zest for life, my mother is another force to be reckoned with. Jo Coveny is a firm believer in taking responsibility for your own happiness. She didn’t “see the light” as early on as Christy did – but hey, better late than never right?

It all started when I was in elementary school and found myself making frequent trips with her to the Georgetown new age bookstore, “YES! Books” (if you read The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, this may sound familiar – Anna Brashares grew up in the DC area and actually featured this blast from my past in her book). Crystal healing and meditation became common topics of discussion in my house and I believe there were “workshops” involved as well…

Since we were children, my brother and I didn’t actually meditate or read up on what crystals would best absorb the negative energy causing a recurring nightmare, but we were “exposed” to my mother’s new interests. A story that mom loves to tell involves my seven year old brother answering the phone while she was meditating and telling the caller that his mother wasn’t available at that time since she was not to be disturbed while she “levitated.”

But long after the crystals became fewer and far between, the self actualization tactics held strong. And my mother was a firm believer in the laws of attraction that The Secret explains. For YEARS I’ve been hearing that if I visualize good things coming my way, they eventually will.

I’ll admit that I’ve always battled a tendency to sit back and let life happen “to” me. Playing it safe and accepting what is offered is just so much easier than asking for more. But with Jo Coveny behind me, I’ve managed to expect more when it really mattered. I have a wonderful husband and beautiful children and my friends inspire me and make me laugh every day. But there is always that one tough spot. The one that doesn’t come clean with just one scrubbing. For me it’s a lack of confidence in my ability to “be something.” And it seems to be a stain made with permanent marker.

Or maybe not.

I recently read Magical Thinking by Augustine Burroughs, and was rather taken with his attitude that he can cause things to happen simply through sheer force of will. And he had this his whole life, even while he was “running with scissors” through his outrageous childhood. I love that he just decided one day that he would write a book that would be on the New York Times best seller list – and then DID.

Magical thinking is pretty much the same concept that the The Secret outlines. That you can make things happen for yourself. And I believe this – because I’ve seen it first hand.

My mother has cancer. She has for years. It began ten years ago as breast cancer, and after a long remission, came back as lung tumors and then brain tumors. So you might wonder how this secret magical thinking BS could be working for her. And I don’t blame you, because I’ve often wondered the same thing.

But that’s just not how life works. You can never dream up a perfect life and then get it. Nothing will ever be perfect – but it can still be wonderful. And the parts that aren’t so wonderful are always subject to change. The Secret proposes that “The Universe” is always listening. If you say “hey, Universe – how about sending me a life without any problems?” – you won’t get much of a response. It seems The Universe is more of a short order cook and not quite equipped to cater to requests on that large a scale. But if you ask for something specific, then you may get better results.

My mother realized many of her dreams. She and my father moved to Key West and opened a home furnishings store. They’ve faced floods and recessions – but they’re still there. In fact their current store is even more beautiful than the first location, and they now have a new business partner and best friend to share this dream. Mom wasn’t handed a perfect situation, but she has never doubted that everything would work out in the end. She knew what she needed, knew it would happen – and then it just did.

She never dreamed of getting cancer – but she did believe that she would find the treatment necessary to get her through it. The year that she developed tumors in her brain – a condition once only treatable through radiation and with a life expectancy of a few months to a few years – the FDA approved a new chemotherapy that specifically targets brain tumors. Almost a year later, my mother’s body is almost entirely cancer free. Was this just luck – or the laws of attraction?

Who knows. Maybe both. But we’ll take it.

There was a show on TV a long time ago (one that didn’t last more than a season or two) with a character named Annie who was kind of a flake. She lost her apartment and ended up secretly living in her sister’s garage where she was storing all of her furniture. A snarky friend discovered this arrangement and responded to her claims to have “tried everything” to find a new place to live by asking, “really Annie? Have you tried wishing really really hard?” Of course her deadpan “yes Brian, I have,” was supposed to be funny. But isn’t that what the laws of attraction and magical thinking are based on? That you start with a picture of what you want? A dream. A hope. A wish.

I don’t know if I believe that wishing is enough – but I do wholeheartedly believe in Jo Coveny. And I believe in Christy. And Augustine Burroughs. And everything that they have achieved started with a wish.

Of course you have to take action to make things happen, but first you have to know what you want.

So that’s where I am now. Figuring out what I want. I already have so much – but I want more. As I should. As we all should. So I’m going to make things happen for myself. I’m going to find a career that I love. Like Christy and like my mother (and of course Augustine) I’m going to picture this and believe in it. I’m going to believe that it’s all possible and that it’s never too late. And I’m going to start by wishing really really hard.

Just a Boy and His Robot

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When I wrote about George last week, I had a list of things I wanted to include. Then of course when I sat down to write, I couldn’t remember everything. Probably just as well since my posts are far too long as it is… But I forgot one story that is just too important to drop.

You see, we have recently added another family member to the three ring circus we call The Reston Zoo.

Meet R2:

Chris’ grandfather sent this to the kids for Christmas, and in typical Hood family style, it took us about four months to actually put batteries in it. And we only did it because we found George and Oliver pushing the toy around and “pretending” that it was a working robot. Seriously, Chris and I (but mostly Chris) take lazy to a whole new level.

But once we did give life to R2, we couldn’t believe we let him sit dormant for so many months. To quote Chris, “R2 is awesome.”

This robot makes all of the same whirring and chirping noises that you will remember from the Star Wars movies. AND he responds to voice commands. If you say “hey R2,” his “head” will swivel in your direction and he’ll “beep, whir, chirp.” If you say “C3P0,” he will shake his head and “chirp, whir, beep.” If you say, “R2 – go on patrol,” he will roll into the next room and keep going until he finds a person (he’s a heat seeking robot).

He doesn’t roll into walls. Instead he senses them and keeps turning until he finds a clear path.

In general, after spending an hour or two with R2 chirping and whirring around the house, you kind of start to feel like he’s…well, R2D2. A cognizant presence. Another family member.

One weekend, I walked into the playroom to find George and Oliver sharing their afternoon snack with the R2. Oliver had put him on a chair at the kids’ table and they were conducting a full conversation mixed with toddler chatter and robot beeps.

Since R2 is sound activated, he has random reactions to various sets of sound combinations. As a result, too much noise, namely the kids all simultaneously whining, screaming and talkingtalkingtalking, can send him into a tailspin.

One evening, all three of them were in rare form – probably fighting over something bizarre like a string of Mardi Gras beads or a handful of plastic straws. And the shrieks and complaints had the R2 in fits:

Kids: Scream, smack, howl

R2: Whir, chirp, beep-beep

Kate: Stop it – I want to see some nice sharing.

Kids: Shriek, push, sob

R2: Beep-beep-beep-beep, whir

Kate: I mean it – If you don’t stop fighting, I’m taking it away.

Kids: Shriek, smack, whine-whine-whine-whine

R2: Beeep-eep-eep, Whirrrrrrrrr-chirp

Kate: Okay that’s it – everyone is getting a time out!

Kids: ScreamCryScremCryScreamCry

R2: ChirpWhirChirpWhirChirpWhirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..

Kate: Stopit…Stopit…Stopit… YOU’RE UPSETTING R2!

True story. I actually said that. And I meant it. And the kids must have appreciated the gravity of the situation, as they immediately piped down and looked at poor R2.

George loves R2 the most though.

He’s always the one to seek R2 out. He even makes up voice commands that don’t actually exist. I have no idea where he heard this, but one of his favorite things to yell at R2 is “activate!” But when he yells it, it sounds like “adivate!” Needless to say, R2 doesn’t recognize this command but he does respond with some gratifying whirring and chirping noises. George has figured out the “patrol” command, so he also likes to yell “R2 – Troll!“

He also confounds the robot with this weird “woo-hoo’ing” thing he’s been doing lately. This would be less of a “wah-hoo” and more of a “yoo-hoo.” Seriously – it’s like having a little old lady in the house with us. But when George calls “woo-hoo!” in his supersonically pitched falsetto, R2 doesn’t come running as he is expected to. Apparently, there is no voice command for “woo-hoo.”

Sadly, R2 is starting to slow down. He sits and whirs for long stretches of time and his patrols are rather short lived these days… We suspect that it’s time to change the batteries again. Who knows how long it will take to get around to it… My guess is that R2 will be back to marionette movements orchestrated by the boys before we juice him up again. But by then, we will really have to as by then, we will most likely be semi-insane from listening to George’s futile attempts to “adivate” R2. “Woo-hoo!“

I Love it When Plan Comes Together (Alternately Titled: The Babysitter Who Jumped Out the Window)

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I think I’ve had about 20 ideas for things to write over the past few days, and now that I actually have a minute to do it, I can’t remember a single one…

I usually sit down with at least something in mind. Sometimes it’s fully mapped out and just waiting to be typed, and sometimes it’s just an idea for a title.

But I find that the least amount of effort is involved when I’m relating a personal story or anecdote. Anecdotes with a history of verbal storytelling have already been brought to life. No need to construct an outline or think about what you want to say – it’s already been said. This kind of writing feels like taking dictation. Like I can’t even take credit for the words being typed by my own fingers. They are words that already exist in the world without any thanks to me.

So when I’m at a loss for ideas (or for recall of those ideas), I usually fall back on a well loved personal anecdote.

Now I just need to think of one.

I’ve got my title, which currently means nothing, and the plan to tell an old story…so all that is left to do is pick the story and tell it.

Okay – I’ve got one.

The last post I wrote on vomit (now there’s something I’ve never imagined saying), had a lot to do with growing up – or more accurately, becoming a grownup. Because I all too often feel like the teenage babysitter when I’m at home and in charge of my kids. And I should know how that feels because I did a lot of babysitting in my teens and 20s.

So with my segue firmly in place, I can now (ONLY six paragraphs later) tell you a story about babysitting.

One summer, when I was home from college, I acquired “a new family” in my parents’ Capitol Hill neighborhood. One of my father’s co-workers lived in a townhouse across the street from Eastern Market and just a few minutes away from us. They had been renovating the house for a while and it was really beautiful. In fact, I was always a little amazed at how tidy they kept it. But it probably helped that they only had one very well behaved little boy. His name was Sam.

The first time that I ever babysat for Sam, he was a very young three. He could talk – but he was a quiet little guy. A man of few words, if you will. He had big serious brown eyes and a thick cap of straight chestnut hair. He was adorable and I fell immediately in love with him.

Since it was Summer, it was still light out at 7 p.m. And when Sam’s parents left, we sat in the kitchen bathed in the last traces of sunbeams, eating a snack and staring at each other. I don’t remember much about the conversation other than the fact that it was pretty sparse.

Sam just gazed at me as if he was waiting for something to happen. His attentive anticipation was a bit unnerving to me since I really had nothing planned – no balloon animals, no wildly imaginative games, not even any knock knock jokes. I was always more of a raid the refrigerator and watch TV kind of babysitter. This usually suited my charges very nicely since there are very few children who don’t get a thrill from the suggestion, “hey – let’s make brownies!” I was beloved for my enthusiastic baking if nothing else.

But Sam was so shy and serious and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. In the meantime, I really needed to use the bathroom, so I excused myself and told him I’d be right back.

I found a bathroom right next to the kitchen which was in the back of the house. It was the last room that needed renovations and didn’t even have a doorknob, but it looked like it was in working order.

As soon as I sat down, I looked up to find Sam shyly peering in at me. So I went over to the door and closed it, telling him that I just needed two minutes of privacy and would be right with him.

This apparently, was a big mistake. When I tried to exit the room, I found that the door had actually latched shut, and the lack of a doorknob presented a serious problem.

I peeked through the door knob sized hole at Sam, who as expected, was peeking in at me from the other side.

“Sam?” I asked. “How do Mommy and Daddy open this door?“

“Use a toothbrush,” he replied.

In looking around I didn’t see any toothbrushes, but I did (inexplicably) find a pencil. I inserted this into the metal mechanism in the center of the hole and tried turning it. No dice.

After several more minutes of pencil rotations and searching for other items to try, I could feel the hysterical laughter building. His parents were due to be home “sometime before midnight” and it was now only 7:15.

There was no way that I could expect a three year old, even a stoic little soul like Sam, to remain in my line of sight through the hole for over four hours. I had to get out of there. And fast. Because paranoia was starting to join hysteria, and I didn’t like the look in Sam’s eyes… Maybe he wasn’t quiet at all and once the initial shyness wore off, he would run for the knife drawer.

Frantically pacing the tiny room like a caged tiger, I thought of every means of escape possible. My lack of upper body strength made breaking down the door unlikely. No phones were handy and the only window available was blocked by a crazy looking shower stall that the previous owners must have added. But upon closer inspection, it appeared that there just MAY have been enough room for me to squeeze through if I tried to exit sideways while sucking in my stomach and channeling a gerbil.

But first, I had to make sure that the old window wasn’t painted shut – which in these old townhouses, was a distinct possibility.

I climbed up onto the toilet, reached behind the shower stall and pushed on the window frame with every scrap of strength my puny little arms could muster. Miraculously, I did manage to get it open. Now I just had to get out on the ledge.

Even with that extra college weight I brought home each June, I was able to just fit through the narrow space, and legs first, pulled myself into a precarious perch. Once I was sitting on the ledge, legs dangling, I assessed the distance. Even though I was on the first floor, townhouses are built rather high, so I was looking at a half story drop.

My old Tretorns didn’t promise much in the way of shock absorption, but at this point, I really didn’t have any choice other than to jump.

I called back into the room, “Sam! I’m going out the window! Come meet me at the front door!“

Then I jumped.

And it did hurt, but I didn’t have time to think about it. I literally had to run around the block to get to the front of the house to meet Sam.

The ally led me to the exact opposite side of the block where I turned left and started to sprint. As I hit the last corner, it occurred to me that I hadn’t really given much thought to phase two of this plan.

So when I arrived at the front door (which thankfully included a glass window) and reinstated my staring game with Sam, I was faced with a new challenge: How do I get back in?

We lived in the city, so of course the door was locked. We never left doors unlocked whether we were home or not. Unfortunately, the only occupant currently “home” did not seem to know how to unlock the door.

Then I remembered that during my quick tour of the house, Sam’s mother showed me a high shelf next to the front door where she kept an extra set of keys.

“Sam – do you see that shelf?” I asked.

Nod from Sam.

“Can you pull up a chair and reach it?“

Another nod from silent Sam.

As luck would have it, the shelf was a little too high for a three year old on a chair to reach. So much for my idea of Sam throwing the keys out of the open window on the second floor.

But looking at that open window suddenly reminded me – they were using ceiling fans instead of central air.

That’s right, I thought. She actually mentioned closing the bay windows, and god bless that little Sam who said he preferred the “fresh, clean air.” And turning to my right I saw several window screens.

So I would be breaking in. But at least I wouldn’t have to break glass.

Since the window closest to the front steps was in fact closed (of course) I would have to climb up to one of the others from the front lawn. This was a somewhat risky affair that involved, a spiky wrought iron fence and a drop into the basement stairs – but I managed to scramble up to the window without falling.

And with a rush of adrenaline, I kicked in the screen and flung myself in.

For a few seconds, Sam and I just stood there looking at each other.

Then I realized that I was back in the house and I didn’t have to break a window and Sam wasn’t playing with knives. And I started screaming for joy and jumping up and down like I just found Ed McMahon on my doorstep with a giant check.

Sam cracked a little smile and hopped around a bit. FINALLY, this babysitter was starting to be entertaining.

The entire production, from closing the bathroom door to high fiving Sam in the living room, probably took no more than 15-20 minutes.

Right – so only three to four more hours to kill… I had apparently already used up my best material, so I had to fall back on the fail safes. Cookies and TV sounded pretty good to me at that point. And Sam agreed.

And from then on (even now for all I know), that family referred to me as “The Babysitter Who Jumped Out the Window.”

So my first title did kind of fit. Whether I’m writing or babysitting, I may not always have a plan – but I’m pretty good at pulling it together in the end.

Because Everyone Loves an Underdog

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Remember my very enthusiastic friend Christy who guest posted for me last week with a story about how she almost sent her male boss pregnancy Spanx through Amazon.com? Well she also happens to be my biggest fan.

I’m serious – she thinks I’m fabulous. And it would be a lie to say that it hasn’t given me just a little bit of an ego boost.

If I could bottle that encouragement and sell it as a perfume for teenage girls, I think I could single handedly do away with eating disorders, “bad reputations” and various other byproducts of low self esteem. At the very least there would be far fewer boyfriends whose chief appeal is the ability to offer “couple” status.

But sub par teenage boyfriends aside, I think EVERYONE needs a Christy. The Christys of the world make us believe that anything is possible and that we are worthy of that possibility. They are wonderful friends and I consider myself very lucky to have one of my own.

Especially when she nominates me for awards.

That’s right – she isn’t all talk. She actually takes her encouragement a step further. The other day she informed me that she nominated me for a Blogger’s Choice ’09 award: Best Humor Blog.

I would never have considered such a thing. This is probably my favorite blog genre, so I’m very familiar with what would be considered “the competition.” Let me tell you – it’s no contest. I certainly find myself amusing (what – like you can’t tell?) but I can’t technically label this site a humor blog.

I’ve written about everything from having children with special needs to pretty handbags I found on Etsy. True – I write quite a few anecdotes that again, I personally find amusing…but I can’t say that I fit into an actual genre. At least I didn’t SEE a Best Whatever Strikes My Fancy on Any Given Day category.

So with my recently enlarged head firmly in place, I decided to try to find the category that best fit my all across the board content, and nominate myself.

Behold:

I am currently one of the top contenders for The Blogitzer (as in The Top 53). Right now the #1 spot is held by Heather Armstrong of Dooce. I’m so going to win this one… And I’m off to a roaring start with two votes (that would be me, and of course Christy).

I know – it’s ridiculous. But I just had to do it. I’ve been working so hard to do something about my passive tendency to let Fate, like a distracted pet owner, lead me aimlessly through life. I need to become master of my own destiny, and ANY tiny, flailing attempt is better than nothing. I’m tired of just being along for the ride. I am no one’s purse puppy, and I refuse to be Fate’s bitch.

Instead, I’m just another underdog. Which actually works for me since I’ve always had a thing for underdogs. Lloyd from Say Anything? Chandler from Friends? McDreamy from Can’t Buy Me Love? Well hel-lo sailor! If that’s the company I’ll be keeping, you’ll hear no complaints from me.

BUT…after taking this public stand against Fate, I have to admit that I felt a little silly. I mean it’s so small fish/big pond. I realize that I have no chance of ever actually winning anything Internet-related with my handful of readers and my severe lack of time for social media in general… But there is something very satisfying about the gesture.

And for me, the combination of silly and self satisfied generally serves as a catalyst for even MORE embarrassing behavior. As in “ten years later, I will manically burn all traces of evidence” kind of embarrassing.

So how’s this for evidence to destroy? I decided to start a website: Underdogs Unite.

It’s for people like me, who have been nominated for something even though it’s unlikely that anyone will ever know.

Have YOU been nominated for something? Well…I’D like to know. And that’s ONE more person at least.

So come visit me at my totally ridiculous, embarrassing, and obviously ironic little underdog support group. It’s an open invitation, so feel free to bring your loser friends.

Why keep sitting in the audience?

May I admire you?

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K…

We’re going streaking! Th… W… There’s more coming.

You’re so money and you don’t even know it!

Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!

This is our time.

We’re on a mission from God.

Vote for Pedro!

Nerds! Nerds! Nerds! Nerds!

So who’s with me? Let’s vote for the underdogs! I say our time has finally come!

Because everyone loves an underdog.

And will one of us do the unthinkable and actually WIN one of those damn awards?

We may yet, Mr. Frodo. We may.

(I’m so regretting this in the morning…)

Sexism on the Railroad

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Everyone in the world has “heard of” Thomas the Tank Engine – even if just in passing and not paying attention. But most current mothers of small children are painfully familiar with the minute ins and outs of Thomas’ adventures with Percy, James, Emily and the rest of this merry band of trains.

I had a bit of a break from Thomas and Friends when Oliver turned two and decided that the locomotive characters were “scary.” We never did solve the mystery of how Thomas became frightening, but I assumed it had something to do with their freaky, human faces and rapid mood swings. One minute they’re happy – the next minute they’re crashing into mountains. It makes for very stressful viewing if you ask me…

Just recently, Oliver has gotten over his engine-related phobia, and Thomas has made a comeback in the Hood family DVD player. Chris and I are once again subjected to their little railroad dramas.

Not surprisingly, we’ve found ourselves enjoying some of the old Thomas-related jokes that made us laugh two years ago (this is a well known parental defense mechanism when it comes to annoying children’s programming: we learn to like it, as in, “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em“).

My favorite of these involves the only female train, Emily:

According to Wikipedia, Emily is a Stirling 4-2-2 engine used for high speed express. She is painted dark green, and has large “driving wheels” that I assume have something to do with making her a fast train.

In one particularly gripping episode, Thomas and his friends hear that the Railway Inspector will be coming to see all of the engines and award a prize for the finest one.

Sweet little Thomas and Percy, both steam engines (or “steamies” as they are often called), exclaim over how wonderful it would be to win.

Thomas

Percy

Poor little steamies! Their so called friends immediately assume that THEY are the more likely candidates to win:

Gordon says that “of course” an Express Engine will win.

Emily is quite confident that an engine with “big wheels” is the obvious choice.

And that upstart James thinks that his red paint gives him an edge.

What immediately strikes me is that THE ONLY GIRL ENGINE pins her dreams of victory on her “big wheels.” Did the writers do this on purpose? Is it some sophomoric joke that their internal twelve-year-olds just couldn’t resist? Or was it completely unintentional? I just can’t imagine that they would be so lacking in irony to let that one slip…

And what kind of message does this send to our tiny home viewers? That girls need to rely on their “assets” to get what they want? Thomas and Percy plan to just clean up well because “a really useful engine can look as grand as any engine.” Big he-man Gordon claims superiority based on his status as the strongest of the trains. And James…well, James also relies on his looks… But then again, I always suspected that James might be gay, so he doesn’t count.

Right. So with the exception of gay James, all of the male engines plan to win based on their overall merit. While the one female engine thinks that her larger than normal wheels will mesmerize the Railway Inspector enough to win her a blue ribbon.

It’s sad. And typical. And ultimately, just another case of a fast girl relying on her big wheels to get ahead.

Sunny Spain, Danger Island and International Abductions

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Have you ever been in a foreign country and found yourself wondering if your cab driver might be kidnapping you? Well – this did happen to me once. And I suspect that it’s not all that uncommon (the suspicion as opposed to the actual kidnapping). I mean, with language barriers, unfamiliar scenery and standard issue paranoia – it seems like this could happen to the best of us.

Or – maybe it’s just me. Either way, here’s my story.

In September of 2000, Chris and I got married and then flew to Spain for a two week honeymoon in Andalusia. We stayed in Malaga, Marbella/Puerto Banus and Seville. And while we were in Puerto Banus, we decided to make a quick trip to Great Britain.

Yes – you read that right – we left the sunny beaches of the Costa del Sol so that we could enjoy an cool, overcast day in the city of Gibraltar. This British territory shares a border with Spain, and was just an hour drive from our hotel.

Our hotel was beautiful, but after a few days relaxing by the pool with a book, I got at little bored with my sedentary pursuits. Not the kind of bored that made me want to fly home and leave the fun filled vacation of suntanning and tapas bar hopping of course. But the kind that made me feel the need for a day trip.

So that morning at breakfast, I pulled out our trusty Andalusia book and said, “I’m tired of looking at topless German supermodels at the pool – I have to have an activity today.” And while Chris probably didn’t quite agree about the topless German girls, he was happy enough to leave the hotel to have a little adventure.

One of the reasons that we selected Gibraltar was that we would get to enjoy a drive along the coast. It was a beautiful day and the hour long cab ride felt more like minutes as we took in breathtaking views of sun sparking on sea.

Then we saw “the rock.” It’s almost shocking to see Gibraltar looming on the horizon. It is literally a giant rock under an ominous looking cloud. We immediately dubbed it, “Danger Island.”

While it’s not technically an island, it does kind of look like one as you’re driving down the coast.

I won’t go into detail about our arrival at Danger Island (where we brushed elbows with armed soldiers), or the time we spent there (purchasing hand stitched lace pillow cases and hearing jokes about Monica Lewinsky from the locals). But I will say that my only regret is that we didn’t take the cable car up to the top of the rock for a view of Africa. Oh well – maybe next time.

When departed Gibraltar later that afternoon, I was very ready to put my shopping bags at my feet and close my eyes. Between the walking and the overcast sky I was feeling rather sleepy, and within minutes of entering the cab, I had dozed off.

At some point I felt sun on my face, and peered out from under my sunglasses to see that we were in fact, back in Spain proper. But the expected view of sun sparkling on sea had inexplicably been replaced by green hillside vistas.

While groggily trying to make sense of this new scenery, I realized that my husband was engaged in an animated conversation with our cab driver. This was no surprise since he feels the need to “chat” with pretty much anyone within a ten foot radius. But the fact that we were so obviously NOT driving back up the coast, made me extremely curious. I thought that if I could hear what they were saying, I would surely be clued into where the hell we were going.

Unfortunately, I don’t speak Spanish – so I was going to have to ask Chris to translate. Right before I sat up and announced my confusion though, the city girl in me held out a cautionary hand. Something wasn’t right. I mean, we were being chauffeured by the Spanish equivalent of a gypsy cab driver, and we were obviously not taking the familiar route back.

My first thought was that it might be a short cut. But in researching our day trip, we did look at a map which clearly showed the coastal road was the most direct route. I may be map-challenged, but Chris is practically a human GPS system. So he would be aware that we were taking the long way.

I had to conclude that we weren’t going back to the hotel – or at least not directly. And the fact that Chris and the cab driver were now BFFs indicated that they had made a decision to…well, I wouldn’t know would I? Because I was asleep when said decision was made.

At this point City Girl started fuming. What the hell was Chris thinking? This stranger could be a criminal for all we knew. To let him drive us into the hills of Spanish no man’s land and to not even consult with me about it was inexcusable. I would NEVER agree to this. What if he planned to take our credit cards and passports and then leave us miles from civilization. He could be a serial killer. He could be planning to sell me into white slavery. We didn’t know anything about this guy! City Girl was irate. I was a little frightened.

So I decided to feign sleep while I worked out what could possibly be going on. And soon enough we seemed to have reached our destination. The cab pulled up to a small group of buildings and parked in what could only be described as a rural ally.

I sat up an started to ask Chris, “exactly what the hell is going on?” But I never had a chance. Within seconds, my companions were out of the car and too busy talking and laughing to give me any explanation. Chris barely glanced over his shoulder as he said something about coming in with them and that we would “only be a minute.” Whatever that meant.

City girl and I huffed as we picked up every bag in the cab and dragged them over to the big wooden gate through which the two men had disappeared. There was no way I was leaving all of my beautiful lace napkins and pillowcases in an unlocked cab with open windows.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to see when I followed them in, but I couldn’t make any sense of the scene that I encountered. I seemed to have entered a courtyard. To my right were rows of kennels and cages. Dogs barked and birds squawked at our intrusion, and flies buzzed around my head. The general effect was something like a barnyard pet store. Directly in front of me was a paddock with a huge brown horse – apparently, the source of all the flies. On the left was what looked to be the side wall of a house.

Our host had opened a door to the house and gestured for us to stay where we were, saying something that seemed to indicate that he’d be right back. Again, there wasn’t time to interrogate Chris about where we were, let alone why we were there. Before I could open my my mouth (which was already agape), the man was back, now holding a box.

He looked at me and asked Chris something in rapid fire Spanish. Chris looked in my direction, and then with a smile shook his head. He laughingly held up his hands and said something that involved the words “no” and “gracias.” I couldn’t imagine what he thought I didn’t want – but I was happy to finally hear Chris say “no.”

Then it suddenly came to me. It was so obvious what was going on, I couldn’t believe that I didn’t figure it out earlier. I gasped internally as I silently articulated to myself, “oh my god – he’s trying to sell us drugs.“

But before I could begin to puzzle out why Chris would have even agreed to this detour trip, I was being ushered back to the cab. In a cloud of unintelligible banter and every fly previously stationed on the horse’s butt, I followed.

Safely back in the car and surrounded by my shopping bags, my anxiety began to fade. City Girl was back and mapping out the tirade the Chris would hear as soon as we were alone. At this point, I was certain that we were in fact, on our way back to the hotel. And I let out the last vestige of the breath that I was holding when that sparking sea came back into view.

We finally arrived in Puerto Banus, and the minute the cab pulled away I rounded on a happily waving Chris. “What on earth were you thinking? WHY did you let him take us to that, that…whatever that place was? Did he try to sell us drugs?“

Chris just stared at me in utter bafflement and said, “What?“

Exasperated, I replied, “that weird farm-like place! What were we doing there? He came out with a box and asked you something. Then you said, ‘no.’ Was he asking you if we wanted to buy drugs?!“

Still dazed, Chris said. “He asked if you wanted a ride on his horse. And we stopped there because his radio had died and he needed to pick up another one. That’s what was in the box. I figured that you were sleeping and we weren’t in a big rush to get back, so it wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t charge us for the extra time or anything.“

Oh.

Well – that didn’t sound quite so bad, the way he explained it. I may have overreacted just a little bit. But I’m still a city girl at heart, and don’t assume that I’m safe with a stranger – no matter how nice they may seem.

I doubt we would encounter a situation like this again – and now that we have kids, Chris would be far more likely to take a conservative view of friendly strangers with cars. But either way, I like to think that he would remember my feelings on the subject, and at least give me a vote the next time we’re encountered with the unknown.

We were newlyweds – and with every year of marriage, you get to know each other better. I now know that Chris is a good judge of character, and would never have put us in a situation that seemed like it could be dangerous. And Chris now knows that I prefer to be be informed of what’s going on – AND to be asked for my opinion before it is assumed.

But Chris did get one thing right all those years ago… You couldn’t have paid me enough money to sit on that fly-covered horse. Especially if it meant that I’d have to abandon my shopping bags.

I’m Not a Career Woman, but I Play One on My Resume (Part II)

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UPDATE 3/4/09: I have cut this bad boy into two posts. See below for Part I. I originally wrote it as one and then had blogger’s remorse after seeing it online and scrolling and scrolling and scrolling through it… I had no time to fix this yesterday – so my apologies (and thanks) to the nine commentors who actually read the whole thing in one sitting. Send me your addresses and I’ll mail each of you a prize for “longest attention span.” -Kate

I had already paid for a summer house at Dewey Beach (Delaware) with my friends. Making it (in my mind) a free vacation from my problems. I figured that I’d just get a job waiting tables and take a couple of months off from the serious job hunt. In the end though, my obsessive nature made it impossible for me to stop worrying about my unemployment, and my lack of upper body strength made it impossible for me to carry those heavy trays at the restaurant.

THEN something amazing happened. Well – two amazing things really. First, the Federal Government was so completely confused by my tax forms (which involved two different jobs and residences in two different states within a year), that I received a rather large tax return in July. In truth, I should have received no return. I won’t get into the boring details, but I did make several calls to try to rectify this and was informed that there was absolutely nothing I could do. The Federal Government would not take their money back – damn them! And then, one of my roommates ended up needing a temp at her office for a couple of months.

So I left the beach.

I have a friend who liked to refer to this time in my life as “that summer that Kate freaked out and moved to the beach and then freaked out and moved home.” Well…it was a bit of a roller coaster.

I finally did get a job, but not in “marketing.” It was in meeting planning. Or more accurately, association management, which included meeting planning. And then two years after that, I found a real meeting planning job and FINALLY had an actual career path. I don’t even have to use “air quotes” when I say meeting planning, because once I got that first foot in the door, I knew what this career involved and could have a clear vision of it – no more hazy montages of what I thought it was supposed to be.

But this was not a fairy tale ending (sorry – no, it’s not over – and I haven’t even gotten to my point yet).

While I basically like my current career path, I’m starting to wonder if having to work with crazy people is a requirement for every job I take. Because I have worked with CA-RAY-ZEE (and not in a good way) people.

It started with that first crazy boss experience that drove me to the beach, and continued at the association management firm where I had to work with various boards of directors. I learned that when it comes to a board, there are lots of chiefs, very few Indians and GIANT egos. At the very least, I think it’s safe to say that there is a small, Greek director at Suntrust who has a reserved seat waiting for her in Satan’s boardroom.

I can’t be specific about co-workers and contacts from my more recent positions, but at this point, I’m fairly certain that the list of accomplishments on my resume should include “significant experience in diffusing unnecessary office drama and placating egomaniacs.” I really have spent an inordinate amount of time time tip-toeing around these crazy people over the past ten years. And I have tried to leave these toxic work environments and find others that offer a better quality of life… But it appears that these boots are actually made for walking on egg shells.

So where am I going with this rambling account of the story behind my resume? Hell if I know! And that’s my point.

I think we all kind of fall into our career paths. Whether we start out with a clear vision of total global domination or with a dissociative aversion to any thoughts beyond next week – we all have to start somewhere.

Using myself as an example, I can clearly see that things eventually fall into place regardless of the chaos in which they begin. And on the flip side, things don’t always work out the way we had originally planned. In the end, there are no guarantees.

Whether you love your job or hate it, know exactly where you’re going or wander aimlessly as life pushes you along – you never really know what’s coming around the corner. So you have to be ready for anything.

There is something about the word “career” that implies a plan or a strategy. A direction taken forward. Taken up. Ideally to “the top.” But the reality is that people who decide where they are going and then get there as planned are the fortunate minority.

The rest of us get by through trial and error. We start out in advertising, then escape to the beach, then fall into a new industry that we didn’t even know existed. Then we find out that the ideal job for our industry isn’t ideal for having a family – and then we have to reassess our previous goals (oh wait – I’m talking about myself again…). And sometimes that decision is made for us – and we don’t have a choice.

Having been lost and then found several times over, I have no doubt that this will happen again. There is always opportunity out there when you look for it, and you can never be sure where you will find it. The career you currently love or hate may not be the one you will have five years from now. The only constant is you. So think of yourself as your career – not your job.

I have no idea what comes next for me, but I’m hopeful. And given my past experience, I have every reason to be (crossing my fingers for the Federal Government’s lack of math skill this year!) In the meantime, if all else fails, I hear that houses are going for cheap at Dewey Beach this summer.

I’m Not a Career Woman, but I Play One on My Resume (Part I)

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UPDATE 3/4/09: I have cut this bad boy into two posts. I originally wrote it as one and then had blogger’s remorse after seeing it online and scrolling and scrolling and scrolling through it… I had no time to fix this yesterday – so my apologies (and thanks) to the nine commentors who actually read the whole thing in one sitting. Send me your addresses and I’ll mail each of you a prize for “longest attention span.” -Kate

One of my favorite blogs, The Lil Bee has been running a guest blogger feature called Bee’s Stimulus Package (click for details). When I first expressed an interest, I thought that it was only a matter of time before I lost my job. For now though, it seems the crisis has passed, as has my reason for guest posting. But regardless of my employment status, I have no doubt that Melisa recoiled in horror when she saw how long this was. Far too long to inflict on someone else’s blog. But I can do what I like here right?

Anyway – she had some great guests (the lovely Amy from Doobleh–vay is featured this week). I highly recommend reading them.

While I’ve been wanting to write something about work for a while, I generally steer clear of the subject since this is a personal blog. But writing about work “in general” seems appropriate given the current climate (job-wise not weather-wise, both of which suck right now in the DC area).

I’m not going to talk about layoffs and unemployment. At this point, all angles of how to weather a layoff, look for a new job, and discover the meaning of life while sitting at home watching Golden Girls reruns on a Tuesday afternoon…well – they’ve pretty much been covered.

Instead, I’m writing about “career.” I don’t know about you, but I started out with a rather apathetic attitude when it came to my career. I can trace this back to eighth grade when I had to include future career goals under my yearbook graduation picture. I said, “graphic designer.” Did I know anything about graphic design? No – of course not. But I liked art and figured that “graphic designer” sounded like a real job.

Spoiler alert! I did not become a graphic designer.

Then in high school I continued to let everyday life and concerns carry me in their wake, and spent four years getting good grades in the classes I liked and mediocre grades in the classes I didn’t. Career goals? “I don’t know – maybe something in art.” Still with the art! What exactly did I think that meant?

And don’t even get me started on my college application process. The word apathetic sounds like a pep rally in comparison to my attitude toward visiting colleges and filling out applications. Now, I have to say that this is partly due to the fact that I wasn’t really ready for college (I’m a late bloomer when it comes to change – always the last one to the party). But it was also because I had no real vision of my future beyond high school graduation. There was just a hazy montage of college-life stock photos featuring classrooms, cafeterias and parties… But nothing really tangible – nothing I could honestly say I looked forward to.

I felt futureless.

Long story short on college, I started out at a small school in Manhattan because I wanted to be in the city (the ONLY thing I actually expressed an interest in), but transferred to Fordham University once I realized that I’d be happier on a more traditional campus, where I wasn’t the only student who owned a pink tank top from J. Crew. Seriously – I used to joke with my roommates that I was the alternative one. They were all wearing black and piercing things while I stood out with all of my just arrived from prep school fashion “don’ts.”

Four years later, there was another graduation and another fuzzy montage of what comes next. This one would include break rooms, cubicles and those computers that terrified me so (I’m in my mid-thirties…OKAY! late thirties…So when it came to technology, I had had more in common with Fred Flintstone than I did with college students today).

It was a bad job market in 1994 (fine – do the math – I’m old), and I was thrilled to find the crappy job that I did. It was in advertising (though not in the “graphic design” department). It wasn’t a bad place to work – I stayed for two years – but it also wasn’t a dream job. The best part of that job was that I had a great boss. I loved my boss then, and I thank god for her now since she validates that fact that when I started to encounter some of the crazies that followed her, it wasn’t me – it was them.

I guess I was good enough at what I did since a couple of other firms tried to recruit me. And I actually took one up on their offer. I mean, who says no to a promotion and a higher salary? Um – people who are smart enough to realize that they are in the wrong industry. People who know that they are not interested in what they are doing. People who once had glamorous (though vague) dreams of making it big in “graphic design.”

Unfortunately, I HATED working at that new firm. And mainly because of my new boss. I was spoiled. I had never reported to a crazy person before. It was culture shock and I didn’t last more than three months.

Then I had a mid twenties crisis (I believe the kids are calling it a “quarter century crisis” these days). I knew that recruitment advertising wasn’t for me, and I needed to change industries before I got stuck. So I was now pursuing jobs in “marketing.” Did I have any idea what that meant? Of course not! But I knew that “marketing” was similar to advertising and my entry level skill set would have a good chance of transferring over.

The more immediate problem was that I decided to quit my job in May, and NO ONE hires in the summer. They conduct interviews – sure – but decisions take months to be made due to all of the decision makers being out of town on vacation. After about a month of interviewing and sitting by the phone, I decided to get practical.

So I moved to the beach.

To be continued on 3/4/09….

Theoretically Speaking, "They" are Awfully Judgey

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They say that you shouldn’t let your children watch too much television, and should instead engage them in educational games to cultivate creativity and intellect.

They say that you should always be consistent with discipline, as it will instill an understanding of consequences.

They say that you should make sure your little ones go to bed as early as possible so that they can get a full 12 hours of sleep. (So necessary for brain development, you know!)

They say that you should feed your children well balanced meals with plenty of fruits and vegetables. (Duh! Brain development.)

They say that you should start teaching your children to dress themselves when they turn two. It’s okay if they don’t master it immediately – it’s all about learning.

They say that you shouldn’t bribe children with treats because it ultimately rewards bad behavior.

and

They say that when it comes to the frustrations of parenting, laughter is the best medicine.

This is all great in theory, but…

They are forgetting the fact that very few children are able to amuse themselves independently with educational games. So if a parent needs a block of time to get something done without interruption, then television is the PERFECT solution. Nothing silences a room full of kids like an hour of Yo Gabba Gabba.

They assume that there is time to commit to consistency. For most parents, this is in fact false. If your oldest son refuses to listen to you when you tell him to get off the table, then yes, you should give him a time out. But if he will not stay in time out without direct supervision, then you must stand next to him. Your younger children will then take this opportunity to climb up on the table too. When you leave the time out area to reprimand the other children, the first one will leave his position in time out. And of course climb back up on the table – because you know, everyone else is doing it. This could result in rotating children in and out of time out for long stretches of time, and SOMEONE has to make dinner.

They must not arrive home from work and daycare pick up after 6:00 p.m. Children have internal timers and will know that only one hour has elapsed if you hustle them into the bedtime routine before 7:30. It is a scientific fact (that I just made up to justify my children’s circadian rhythms) that children need at least 30 minutes of playtime before and after dinner. Otherwise, they can’t even consider going to bed. And if they’re hard wired to be night owls, then it is impossible for them to go to sleep before 8:30 or 9:00. If twelve hours of sleep are required for adequate brain development in toddlers, then we will not be raising future rocket scientists.

They obviously don’t have children who refuse to eat anything but variations of cheese on bread. Such children will not comply with rules regarding good nutrition. They are far more patient than parents when it comes to the choice of eating their green beans or leaving the table to play. They would rather sit at the table until dawn than eat something they deign to be “yucky.”

They must not have children who would be naked at all times if clothing wasn’t forced upon them. It’s flat out logic that a child who knows how to dress himself will realize that he also has the ability to get undressed at any time. Actually, this is inevitable, but keeping them in the dark about how to put pants on by themselves could buy a little time before they learn that they can take them off. It’s never about learning – it’s always about keeping people in pants.

They forget that the fastest way to improve behavior is to offer bribes. It’s a short term solution, but when your three year old is having a tantrum in the middle of a crowded restaurant, you’re not really thinking long term. And seriously – when you’ve been listening to three kids screaming for 30 straight minutes, I dare you to NOT offer them candy.

and

They never tried Prozac.

Me, Me, Me, Me and Me

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Auds at Barking Mad is doing a great giveaway right now. A $250 gift certificate to Target! I don’t know about everyone else, but we are really feeling the effects of this recession – and that gift certificate to Target would buy a lot of diapers….(yes – my two year old twins are still in diapers, what of it?)

The only requirements are to post the badge (see my sidebar – the badge will link to “the rules”) and list your own five favorite posts. This means five posts that YOU wrote, so no worries about offending the readers that you didn’t pick or guilt over “tagging” people. This really appeals to my sense of vanity – which is vast (when I’m not focused on self loathing).

Anyway – here they are:

1. Kate and Oliver’s Excellent Adventure: Part 1 – I wrote this just a week after I started my blog. I had just found out that my mother’s cancer had come back (this time in her brain) and within 24 hours of hearing the news, flew down to Key West with my three year old, Oliver. I wrote the post in two different segments during the trip and after our arrival. I had about three readers at that time and it had ZERO comments. I think it deserves another look – so if you feel so inclined…the link is above.

2. Please Dance Responsibly – Again, written in the early days of The Big Piece of Cake. I love this one because I tell a story about my Dad that is legendary in my family. I think I could write a whole blog devoted to my father – he’s a character…

3. Make Mine a Double: Part One and Make Mine a Double: Part Two – I know, this would technically be two posts – but they’re two parts of the same story so I’m counting them as one. The birth of my twins was rather eventful (starting with the fact that my water broke while I was getting my hair cut). It’s a lot funnier in retrospect…

4. Never Underestimate the Power of a Girl – This makes me happy when I read it. And it reminds me of who I once was and who I want to be.

5. Is Nothing Sacred – This post started out as an idea to compare my kids to gremlins and use pictures from the movie, Gremlins to illustrate my point. But it ended up being more than that. It was one of those mind dump posts that makes you think you should write that way more often.

Runners up include pretty much everything listed as a “favorite” on my sidebar. I would have included a post last week titled Special Needs, but I just wrote it last week, so I decided to leave it out. I’m also pretty partial to my post on tattoos and piercings last week, but mainly because I just love that Elvis impersonator story so much…

If you’re interested in doing this – contest or not – I would be interested to see what other people consider to be their best. And honestly, I think I’ve used up all of my giveaway karma with a HUGE win the other week, so I’m not feeling particularly competitive about this one. Good luck to everyone that plays!