I'm not sure where this new insult has come from. I am guessing from some teen movie. I have never been accused of this offense by anyone; no one has ever said those specific words to me. But in my own head, as I looked down at my own, I would sometimes hear "those are man-hands."
Actually I have my mother's hands. I have always looked at her hands and thought of them as capable and strong. No shiny colored polish, just an occasional use of hand cream, nails kept short by clipping. No fuss hands. Get down to business hands. Functional hands. Her hands make wonderful bread nowadays (not the lead-weight stuff I mentioned in an earlier post) and make the very best blueberry cobbler. Those hands take great care of my sister and dad, and have helped me many times with tasks at my business. And when my mom gets a bit excited, those hands help her express herself with flourish.
So how did I end up with low-hand-esteem? My hands have worked at many tasks competently - computer networking, emailing, proposal preparing, sales pitch demonstrating, creating beautiful things, making diagrams of the beautiful ideas to be created, organizing, washing, carrying, greeting, embracing an overly satisfied client. My hands are good hands. My hands are good in the same way my mom's hands are good.
But after all that work, my hands were very tired looking. When I looked down, I saw broken and chipped nails, hangnails, nicks, cuts, and chapped skin. Thus, my square strong hands began to look much like my husband's.
It didn't bother me at first. But the more I worked with my hands, the more I looked upon them with pity. A sad reflection of my inner exhaustion.
I started with a few small changes like drinking more water so my skin wouldn't be so taunt and wrinkled. I started putting lotion on them each morning, hoping to revive them. Then I upgraded to using my super-rich face cream on my hands, saying to myself "those hands work hard - they deserve it!" At Christmas, I splurged and bought myself some smell-good, feel-good hand creme to keep in my purse and use any time of the day, not just in the mornings.
Most recently, at one of the few remaining bastions of feminity, the beauty salon, I got a manicure. Out of all the services available there, this one seems to be the least complicated. No coloring additives, no curling iron, no spa chair. Just me and Cindy, whose real name is Conluy, holding hands. Under a bright light she inspected my hands, still in desperate need of refinement. She proceeded through each step very precisely. Remove polish briskly. File and shape each nail, then buff. Soak hands in softening agent. Paint cuticle oil on each nail. Trim hangnails from cuticles carefully. She was not so business-like to be unsocial, though. Alternating with asking me a few small-talk type questions, she spoke in her native language with her fellow polishers, heavily punctuated with giggling and laughing. I felt like I was a member of a private girls-only world.
Then the hand massage. Mmmmmmmm. I am fairly certain they do not use high quality hand lotion at nail salons, but I didn't care. The rubbing, wrist-rotating, shaking and slathing process seems to smooth my cares away. And just as quickly as I was lulled into relaxation, her instruction "wash hands now" snaps me back to attention.
I return to her station and now the artistry begins. I get a french maincure which basically means I have someone paint my nails to resemble healthy pink nail beds with clean white tips. As the painting starts, Cindy's focus becomes very intense. After coating my fingertips with an excess of white paint, she uses a specially-shaped paintbrush dipped in polish remover to take away just enough paint to leave beautiful gleaming moon slivers at the ends of my fingers. After some clear pinkish nail polish resembling melted pink jello and a top coat, Cindy sends me to the special dryer.
In this rush-rush world of back-to-back appointments and overscheduling, it feels like a decadent luxury to sit for ten minutes under a nail dryer doing nothing but drying. I almost feel guilty, except that I am still reminiscing over the process, the hand massage, the delicate brush strokes and the transformation.
When my time is up, I remove my newly painted nails from the dryer. Presto! No more man-hands. Those are my hands. Those are pretty hands. Those are strong and pretty hands.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Shop-a-holic
I love grocery shopping. Not so much any other kind of shopping, like many women do, but I do like to go to the store for household necessities. Most people I know don't just dislike grocery shopping, they dread it. And many folks find me an anomaly when I say that I love it.
I think it all began when I first moved out of my parents' house. I was freshly 17 years old, full of myself and full of knowledge about the world, or so I thought. I revelled in my independence - getting an apartment, having a part-time job, choosing my classes at college, staying up as late as I wanted. I distinctly remember going to the grocery store for the first time after moving into my apartment. I needed to buy some household basics like laundry detergent, shampoo, toilet paper, but also, I needed to buy food.
As I strolled through the aisles gathering items, I felt such a rush of freedom. For breakfast, I could have chocolate ice cream . . . and as much as I liked. For lunch, I could have white bread for my sandwich. My mom had previously banned this from our kitchen, mandating instead that we eat only health stuff. Her homemade whole wheat bread could double as a door stop. Finally, I could buy some of those mini-pizza rolls for no good reason at all.
My shopping cart represented my power to choose anything I wanted to eat or use in my new untethered life. A shampoo for $7.99 - why, yes, I would love some. I could easily reject "budget" items like Suave just because. The quantity of options and the ease of my ability to select them was heady.
Nowadays, I am still enamoured with grocery shopping. When I walk in the store, the variety of fruits and vegetables looks like a colorful mural. The number of food items in a store reminds me of my algebra class from 7th grade - variables, variables, variables. You can take ground beef, potatoes and carrots and make shepherd's pie, or Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes with steamed carrots, or with some broth you could make soup with them all. Considering all of the food ingredients in the store, the possible outcomes, that is meals, are endless. That, in itself, is awe-inspiring.
As I shop, I am very thankful to be an American - that we have such abundance to choose from, that the quality of our food is regulated, but the choices in our basket are not. Someone can be a glutton and eat chips, donuts and pizza for every meal, or have fish and veggies. Our grocery store choices can enhance our daily lives - give us energy to work, give us comfort on a cold day, help us celebrate a birthday, and can even improve our health.
Although I am a big fan, there have been times when I have been frustrated with grocery shopping. Like when they remodel a store, and you are nearly done shopping only to find the milk has been moved to the complete other side of the store . . . and you are still wearing your painful work shoes. Sheesh. Or when you go to a chain store in another town, looking for a favored product, only to find that the layout of the store is completely different than the one in your home town. Or, and we have all been behind this person, when you are checking out behind that sweet little old lady who is using coupons and paying with a ziploc bag of pennies, and then rooting around in her purse for her checkbook to pay the rest of the bill.
But these minor disturbances do not take away from my positive outlook on gathering my goods. I love finding a new product, and like a little kid, all the while I am shopping, I am anxious to get home and try it out. Sometimes when I am hungry during my outing, I will buy myself a little snack as a reward, promising myself if I will avoid the mini chocolate-coated donuts, I can have a satisfying banana on the way home. Okay, right; a banana is not more satisfying than the donuts. But again, I can choose either one and no one will stop me!
Nowadays I have added a new twist to my market-ing: my iPod. While enjoying my favorite playlist, I seem to find even more enjoyment when lingering over soup selections . . . chunky basil tomato? or creamy butternut squash? or comforting chicken and corn chowder? Since it was cold and rainy, I didn't choose one . . . I choose them ALL. And was probably tapping my feet while I was doing so. My fellow shoppers may not have enjoyed their own task, but as they watched my head-bobbing while picking apples, shuffling down the cereal aisle and maybe even a teeny-tiny shimmy by the wine & beer, I do think they liked grocery shopping with me that day.
I think it all began when I first moved out of my parents' house. I was freshly 17 years old, full of myself and full of knowledge about the world, or so I thought. I revelled in my independence - getting an apartment, having a part-time job, choosing my classes at college, staying up as late as I wanted. I distinctly remember going to the grocery store for the first time after moving into my apartment. I needed to buy some household basics like laundry detergent, shampoo, toilet paper, but also, I needed to buy food.
As I strolled through the aisles gathering items, I felt such a rush of freedom. For breakfast, I could have chocolate ice cream . . . and as much as I liked. For lunch, I could have white bread for my sandwich. My mom had previously banned this from our kitchen, mandating instead that we eat only health stuff. Her homemade whole wheat bread could double as a door stop. Finally, I could buy some of those mini-pizza rolls for no good reason at all.
My shopping cart represented my power to choose anything I wanted to eat or use in my new untethered life. A shampoo for $7.99 - why, yes, I would love some. I could easily reject "budget" items like Suave just because. The quantity of options and the ease of my ability to select them was heady.
Nowadays, I am still enamoured with grocery shopping. When I walk in the store, the variety of fruits and vegetables looks like a colorful mural. The number of food items in a store reminds me of my algebra class from 7th grade - variables, variables, variables. You can take ground beef, potatoes and carrots and make shepherd's pie, or Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes with steamed carrots, or with some broth you could make soup with them all. Considering all of the food ingredients in the store, the possible outcomes, that is meals, are endless. That, in itself, is awe-inspiring.
As I shop, I am very thankful to be an American - that we have such abundance to choose from, that the quality of our food is regulated, but the choices in our basket are not. Someone can be a glutton and eat chips, donuts and pizza for every meal, or have fish and veggies. Our grocery store choices can enhance our daily lives - give us energy to work, give us comfort on a cold day, help us celebrate a birthday, and can even improve our health.
Although I am a big fan, there have been times when I have been frustrated with grocery shopping. Like when they remodel a store, and you are nearly done shopping only to find the milk has been moved to the complete other side of the store . . . and you are still wearing your painful work shoes. Sheesh. Or when you go to a chain store in another town, looking for a favored product, only to find that the layout of the store is completely different than the one in your home town. Or, and we have all been behind this person, when you are checking out behind that sweet little old lady who is using coupons and paying with a ziploc bag of pennies, and then rooting around in her purse for her checkbook to pay the rest of the bill.
But these minor disturbances do not take away from my positive outlook on gathering my goods. I love finding a new product, and like a little kid, all the while I am shopping, I am anxious to get home and try it out. Sometimes when I am hungry during my outing, I will buy myself a little snack as a reward, promising myself if I will avoid the mini chocolate-coated donuts, I can have a satisfying banana on the way home. Okay, right; a banana is not more satisfying than the donuts. But again, I can choose either one and no one will stop me!
Nowadays I have added a new twist to my market-ing: my iPod. While enjoying my favorite playlist, I seem to find even more enjoyment when lingering over soup selections . . . chunky basil tomato? or creamy butternut squash? or comforting chicken and corn chowder? Since it was cold and rainy, I didn't choose one . . . I choose them ALL. And was probably tapping my feet while I was doing so. My fellow shoppers may not have enjoyed their own task, but as they watched my head-bobbing while picking apples, shuffling down the cereal aisle and maybe even a teeny-tiny shimmy by the wine & beer, I do think they liked grocery shopping with me that day.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Other Hot Liquid
Previously I was dedicated just to coffee, but have recently been introduced to tea. At first, it like an "either-or" situation; I could only love one, not both at the same time. But fortunately, it is just a beverage choice not a debate over boyfriends.
My first experience with tea and its mysterious world was in Seattle. One of my dearest friends was getting married there and the rest of our girlfriend group gathered for the event. In our free time, we explored the downtown area and found a tea room. Two of my girlfriends are dedicated tea-holics, and acted as our ambassadors into this new world. We sat at the counter while the shop owner, a small wizened Chinese man, explained the different teas - how certain teas had very delicate leaves so a short brewing time was critical to good flavor and avoiding bitterness, how certain teas are grown high in the mountain and they had previously used monkeys to pick the leaves, which teas are good for curing sore throats, and the descriptions went on. I felt like I had stumbled into an Eastern apothecary.
We all sat together at a long bar with our hands cupped around little ceramic vessels of steaming liquid whose aroma was enticing. Fearful of making a etiquette faux pas in this new situation, I followed the lead of my fellow sippers and did not add sweetener. It felt a lot like wine tasting; that you needed to sample and study the liquid solo before pairing it with anything else.
As our bride-to-be friend was also a tea lover, we asked the shopkeeper about a wedding gift for her. Like a chemist, he gazed upon the glass vessels on his shelf, finally selecting a container. Setting a clear stemmed glass on the counter before us, he transferred a pod-like ball into it from his chosen container. He poured hot water into the glass, and gestured for us to watch the transformation.
The small sphere first floated and then slowly took in water, giving off small air bubbles, finally sinking to the bottom of the glass. Then it bloomed. The little globe opened up and became a flower, complete with petals. We were mesmerized.
It brought back a childhood memory of purchasing the promise of "magical miniature sea monkeys" from the back of a Highlights magazine. Within minutes, a small package and a glass of water had caused a small aqueous world to appear. The later realization that they were brine shrimp, not monkeys, did not take away from the thrill.
As we continued to watch the newly opened flower, we were startled. We thought the presentation as over. But a small plant-like figure slowly unfolded out of the center of the flower. The shop proprietor said "That groom. He wait for bride." Transfixed on this ordinary glass of water, we squealed with delight as we watched a matching organic stalk appear out of the bloom. "Here come bride" our host announced in a gleeful sing-song way. What was one was now two at this watery makeshift altar. He then revealed the secret; this entertaining orb was actually a blend of flowers, a real chrysanthemum being the base and other tea producing leaves being embedded within. Wow. A drink and a show.
We HAD to have these tea pods. They would undoubtedly amuse the bride and groom with their unexpected underwater ceremony. We asked our host the name of these curious tea tricks. He replied in his adorable Chinese-accented American speech: "At First Sight....Love Balls."
Love at first sight, indeed. This enchanting introduction into the world of tea surrounded by good friends is why I now love not just coffee, but tea also. Not for the flavor, not for the aroma, not even for the show; but for the experience of sharing a moment in time with people I love.
My first experience with tea and its mysterious world was in Seattle. One of my dearest friends was getting married there and the rest of our girlfriend group gathered for the event. In our free time, we explored the downtown area and found a tea room. Two of my girlfriends are dedicated tea-holics, and acted as our ambassadors into this new world. We sat at the counter while the shop owner, a small wizened Chinese man, explained the different teas - how certain teas had very delicate leaves so a short brewing time was critical to good flavor and avoiding bitterness, how certain teas are grown high in the mountain and they had previously used monkeys to pick the leaves, which teas are good for curing sore throats, and the descriptions went on. I felt like I had stumbled into an Eastern apothecary.
We all sat together at a long bar with our hands cupped around little ceramic vessels of steaming liquid whose aroma was enticing. Fearful of making a etiquette faux pas in this new situation, I followed the lead of my fellow sippers and did not add sweetener. It felt a lot like wine tasting; that you needed to sample and study the liquid solo before pairing it with anything else.
As our bride-to-be friend was also a tea lover, we asked the shopkeeper about a wedding gift for her. Like a chemist, he gazed upon the glass vessels on his shelf, finally selecting a container. Setting a clear stemmed glass on the counter before us, he transferred a pod-like ball into it from his chosen container. He poured hot water into the glass, and gestured for us to watch the transformation.
The small sphere first floated and then slowly took in water, giving off small air bubbles, finally sinking to the bottom of the glass. Then it bloomed. The little globe opened up and became a flower, complete with petals. We were mesmerized.
It brought back a childhood memory of purchasing the promise of "magical miniature sea monkeys" from the back of a Highlights magazine. Within minutes, a small package and a glass of water had caused a small aqueous world to appear. The later realization that they were brine shrimp, not monkeys, did not take away from the thrill.
As we continued to watch the newly opened flower, we were startled. We thought the presentation as over. But a small plant-like figure slowly unfolded out of the center of the flower. The shop proprietor said "That groom. He wait for bride." Transfixed on this ordinary glass of water, we squealed with delight as we watched a matching organic stalk appear out of the bloom. "Here come bride" our host announced in a gleeful sing-song way. What was one was now two at this watery makeshift altar. He then revealed the secret; this entertaining orb was actually a blend of flowers, a real chrysanthemum being the base and other tea producing leaves being embedded within. Wow. A drink and a show.
We HAD to have these tea pods. They would undoubtedly amuse the bride and groom with their unexpected underwater ceremony. We asked our host the name of these curious tea tricks. He replied in his adorable Chinese-accented American speech: "At First Sight....Love Balls."
Love at first sight, indeed. This enchanting introduction into the world of tea surrounded by good friends is why I now love not just coffee, but tea also. Not for the flavor, not for the aroma, not even for the show; but for the experience of sharing a moment in time with people I love.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Caffeine-d
I am a coffee snob. By that I mean I like my coffee a certain way; distribution method is just as important as the quality of the product.
There are many elements that go into the ultimate cup for me. First of all, there is the cup itself. If I am at home, there are only certain cups that I prefer to use - either because of the positive memory associated with the vessel, or its shape and volume. For example, my Fiesta ware coffee cups are too small and do not retain heat well, thus you have a small portion of cooled coffee. My oversized heart-shaped mug holds 2 cups of coffee and reminds me of the loved one who gave it to me.
Next, there is temperature. My favorite coffee shop serves it scalding hot in spite of the now-infamous McDonald's lawsuit. At home, the coffeemaker brews it hot, but then the cupful is cooled by the addition of refrigerated cream. To remedy this, I fill my cup with water and microwave it for 30 seconds, then pour out the water. Thus, I add hot coffee to a hot cup, effectively offsetting the chill of the half-n-half. When I do order coffee at my favorite shop, I usually take my iPod or a magazine with me to fiddle with while my coffee temp settles into that degree called: warm-up-my-mouth-without-burning-my-tongue. Maybe it will sound a bit better if I confess that I do NOT use any type of temperature measuring device.
Now, we arrive at the additives. There are plenty to choose from, but when I want a coffee, I want to savor the flavor of the beverage not eat dessert. Yes, I have had my share of frappacino's and lattes during a friendly gal-pal chat. But first thing in the morning, I need a consistent friend to revive my mind. So I take cream and sugar. Again, this order takes clarification. I mean, real cream aka half and half, not some soybean oil pretender or a watered down version of milk. Its a small indulgence, these calories and fat grams, but my morning outlook is the better for it.
When I said sugar, I meant the white devil derived from the cane. Sugar has gotten such a bad wrap lately, at times it is hard to find a single packet when dining out. Your choices are rainbow-rific: blue, pink or yellow packets, something with a green leaf on it, and then a brown [natural] version. I don't really know what sugar bleach looks like, but I think it can't be as bad for you as the chemical formulas of those "colored" substitutes. I don't each a lot of sweets, so when I have coffee, white sugar seems like a small, yet reasonable indulgence.
Now we get to the glorious brown liquid itself. My number one preference is Starbucks - either standing in a long time for a cup, or doing a home grind. Since my home coffeemaker is shared with my husband, he has his own preference: Eight O'clock brand. Which is definitively not Starbucks, but is still very acceptable and nowhere near my least favorite, Folgers. Blech! There is something else in that coffee brand besides beans, I think. Maybe buckwheat hulls or recycled cardboard boxes.
French, Espresso or Dark Roast fit my palate. I want coffee to be strong in flavor and strong in brew. I have also tried flavored coffees such as Pecan this or Tribecca blend that. But the flavor gets in the way of the coffee's ability to realign my neural pathways at dark-thirty.
I have not gotten so consumed with the "perfect" cup of coffee to have a preference for water, other than it needs to be clean and cool at the start of the process. I do know of other people who use only bottled water to brew their morning elixir, but I am not that compulsive. Yet.
The prescribed brew - I would call it "thick", as in cutting it with a knife. I certainly do not wish to be rudely greeted with seeing the bottom of the cup through my freshly-poured hot brown liquid. It is called coffee, not tea.
Someone once commented to me, as we stood mixing-and-stirring at the sidebar of Starbucks, that life is uncertain; your morning coffee is one of the few things you can control exactly to you taste. I agree: it is a cup full of warm sweet creamy goodness that helps you embrace the day knowing that you at least got one very important thing right.
There are many elements that go into the ultimate cup for me. First of all, there is the cup itself. If I am at home, there are only certain cups that I prefer to use - either because of the positive memory associated with the vessel, or its shape and volume. For example, my Fiesta ware coffee cups are too small and do not retain heat well, thus you have a small portion of cooled coffee. My oversized heart-shaped mug holds 2 cups of coffee and reminds me of the loved one who gave it to me.
Next, there is temperature. My favorite coffee shop serves it scalding hot in spite of the now-infamous McDonald's lawsuit. At home, the coffeemaker brews it hot, but then the cupful is cooled by the addition of refrigerated cream. To remedy this, I fill my cup with water and microwave it for 30 seconds, then pour out the water. Thus, I add hot coffee to a hot cup, effectively offsetting the chill of the half-n-half. When I do order coffee at my favorite shop, I usually take my iPod or a magazine with me to fiddle with while my coffee temp settles into that degree called: warm-up-my-mouth-without-burning-my-tongue. Maybe it will sound a bit better if I confess that I do NOT use any type of temperature measuring device.
Now, we arrive at the additives. There are plenty to choose from, but when I want a coffee, I want to savor the flavor of the beverage not eat dessert. Yes, I have had my share of frappacino's and lattes during a friendly gal-pal chat. But first thing in the morning, I need a consistent friend to revive my mind. So I take cream and sugar. Again, this order takes clarification. I mean, real cream aka half and half, not some soybean oil pretender or a watered down version of milk. Its a small indulgence, these calories and fat grams, but my morning outlook is the better for it.
When I said sugar, I meant the white devil derived from the cane. Sugar has gotten such a bad wrap lately, at times it is hard to find a single packet when dining out. Your choices are rainbow-rific: blue, pink or yellow packets, something with a green leaf on it, and then a brown [natural] version. I don't really know what sugar bleach looks like, but I think it can't be as bad for you as the chemical formulas of those "colored" substitutes. I don't each a lot of sweets, so when I have coffee, white sugar seems like a small, yet reasonable indulgence.
Now we get to the glorious brown liquid itself. My number one preference is Starbucks - either standing in a long time for a cup, or doing a home grind. Since my home coffeemaker is shared with my husband, he has his own preference: Eight O'clock brand. Which is definitively not Starbucks, but is still very acceptable and nowhere near my least favorite, Folgers. Blech! There is something else in that coffee brand besides beans, I think. Maybe buckwheat hulls or recycled cardboard boxes.
French, Espresso or Dark Roast fit my palate. I want coffee to be strong in flavor and strong in brew. I have also tried flavored coffees such as Pecan this or Tribecca blend that. But the flavor gets in the way of the coffee's ability to realign my neural pathways at dark-thirty.
I have not gotten so consumed with the "perfect" cup of coffee to have a preference for water, other than it needs to be clean and cool at the start of the process. I do know of other people who use only bottled water to brew their morning elixir, but I am not that compulsive. Yet.
The prescribed brew - I would call it "thick", as in cutting it with a knife. I certainly do not wish to be rudely greeted with seeing the bottom of the cup through my freshly-poured hot brown liquid. It is called coffee, not tea.
Someone once commented to me, as we stood mixing-and-stirring at the sidebar of Starbucks, that life is uncertain; your morning coffee is one of the few things you can control exactly to you taste. I agree: it is a cup full of warm sweet creamy goodness that helps you embrace the day knowing that you at least got one very important thing right.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
It has begun
"So what do you want to be when you grow up?", a well-meaning adult asked me. "A ballerina," I replied confidently. I think I was seven years old.
Nearly 35 years later, I find the question still relevant although I have since been to school, pursued a degree, changed my degree plan, graduated, applied for jobs, held jobs, loved jobs, hated jobs and quit jobs. Oh, and started a business. A completely different kind of job.
Writing a resume seems overwhelming to me. My list of positions held, to put it generally, is vast, varied and eclectic. It makes me look like a nomad; which I am not. I have lived in Texas all of my life. And it makes me look a bit scattered and irresponsible. Which, I am sad to report, I am usually referred to as "organized" and "responsible" by my friends, acquaintances as well as my former employers.
Not sure if this is completely comprehensive, but here's a good try at my list of job titles:
Baby sitter
Ice cream scooper
Data input assistant
Pet sitter
Rank Leader (of a drill team group)
Teen Board Model
Assistant to Executive Assistant
Lieutenant Officer (of the drill team)
President of the Company (for a Junior Achievement company)
Secretary to an Insurance Agent
Nanny
Office Janitor
Residential Maid
Fragrance Model
Go-Go Dancer (that's one of my favorites)
Receptionist
Office Manager
Administrative Assistant
Training & Development Instructor
Executive Assistant
Executive Secretary
(for insomniacs, I will be glad to explain the nuances in the different titles of the secretarial field)
Business Owner, which includes but is not limited to:
Business Development Specialist
Logo Designer
Marketing Director
Website Designer
Website Manager
Sales Manager
Human Resources Manager
IT Specialist
Bookkeeper
Payroll Manager
Inventory Manager
Purchasing Manager
Training and Development Manager
Design Specialist
Event Designer
Wedding Coordinator, and
the whole Customer Service department.
That makes me tired just typing it. And now, I am in search of a new job/career/lifework. Although my list is much shorter, it is still rather diverse:
Graphic Designer
Website Designer
Professional Organizer
Stager (aka one who arranges furniture to make homes sell)
Counselor
Writer
Guess that last one is not a surprise. As I think about each one, I wonder what skills do I need to do that job? Do I already have some of those skills? Do I need to go back to school to get more skills? Can I apprentice with someone in that career field? And last, but not least, what is my learning curve going to be like should I enter that field? My last business endeavor had a very long and painful learning curve which I do not wish to repeat, if possible.
I love synonyms and antonyms. I have plenty of "fifty-cent words" in my repertoire. I am good at typing. And I love my Mac laptop. But that probably is not enough to be a good writer.
Connection. The thing that we all crave from other people - in a romantic relationship, with friendships, in approval from family or employers. I think connection is the key to being a good writer. Writing something that resonates with the person who reads it. Not everyone who reads it, but a particular selection of people who read the writer's word and find a connection in the story and the style of writing. The nice thing about being a writer is that someone can love your work, and yet love James A. Michener, Nietzsche, and A.A. Milne all at the same time. And the writer too, can enjoy other writers' work - reading it for pleasure or edification, without it taking anything away from their own work.
As you can see, I love to write. But then again, that doesn't mean I am good at it, nor does it mean it will earn me a living. Don't worry, I am still considering staging furniture. Or being a ballerina.
Nearly 35 years later, I find the question still relevant although I have since been to school, pursued a degree, changed my degree plan, graduated, applied for jobs, held jobs, loved jobs, hated jobs and quit jobs. Oh, and started a business. A completely different kind of job.
Writing a resume seems overwhelming to me. My list of positions held, to put it generally, is vast, varied and eclectic. It makes me look like a nomad; which I am not. I have lived in Texas all of my life. And it makes me look a bit scattered and irresponsible. Which, I am sad to report, I am usually referred to as "organized" and "responsible" by my friends, acquaintances as well as my former employers.
Not sure if this is completely comprehensive, but here's a good try at my list of job titles:
Baby sitter
Ice cream scooper
Data input assistant
Pet sitter
Rank Leader (of a drill team group)
Teen Board Model
Assistant to Executive Assistant
Lieutenant Officer (of the drill team)
President of the Company (for a Junior Achievement company)
Secretary to an Insurance Agent
Nanny
Office Janitor
Residential Maid
Fragrance Model
Go-Go Dancer (that's one of my favorites)
Receptionist
Office Manager
Administrative Assistant
Training & Development Instructor
Executive Assistant
Executive Secretary
(for insomniacs, I will be glad to explain the nuances in the different titles of the secretarial field)
Business Owner, which includes but is not limited to:
Business Development Specialist
Logo Designer
Marketing Director
Website Designer
Website Manager
Sales Manager
Human Resources Manager
IT Specialist
Bookkeeper
Payroll Manager
Inventory Manager
Purchasing Manager
Training and Development Manager
Design Specialist
Event Designer
Wedding Coordinator, and
the whole Customer Service department.
That makes me tired just typing it. And now, I am in search of a new job/career/lifework. Although my list is much shorter, it is still rather diverse:
Graphic Designer
Website Designer
Professional Organizer
Stager (aka one who arranges furniture to make homes sell)
Counselor
Writer
Guess that last one is not a surprise. As I think about each one, I wonder what skills do I need to do that job? Do I already have some of those skills? Do I need to go back to school to get more skills? Can I apprentice with someone in that career field? And last, but not least, what is my learning curve going to be like should I enter that field? My last business endeavor had a very long and painful learning curve which I do not wish to repeat, if possible.
I love synonyms and antonyms. I have plenty of "fifty-cent words" in my repertoire. I am good at typing. And I love my Mac laptop. But that probably is not enough to be a good writer.
Connection. The thing that we all crave from other people - in a romantic relationship, with friendships, in approval from family or employers. I think connection is the key to being a good writer. Writing something that resonates with the person who reads it. Not everyone who reads it, but a particular selection of people who read the writer's word and find a connection in the story and the style of writing. The nice thing about being a writer is that someone can love your work, and yet love James A. Michener, Nietzsche, and A.A. Milne all at the same time. And the writer too, can enjoy other writers' work - reading it for pleasure or edification, without it taking anything away from their own work.
As you can see, I love to write. But then again, that doesn't mean I am good at it, nor does it mean it will earn me a living. Don't worry, I am still considering staging furniture. Or being a ballerina.
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