My first job out of college was at a Cleveland based Law Firm located in the BP Building. I had sent my unsolicited resume to HR, interviewed and landed the job before it was ever posted. I started my post college life as a Legal Assistant/Paralegal. I thought I would go to law school.
My first impression of the building upon arrival for my first interview, was holy smokes the elevator talks. I think this was a main motivator for working there. I had never been in an elevator that spoke before.
I felt very grown up working downtown, living on my own, wearing business clothes every day, and I never got tired of the elevator telling me what floor I was on. I took the bus every day, except when running late and then I would drive. Despite my mid 20s salary, I would park in the BP Garage, $12 a day. It was not a smart expenditure. Walking into the building from the garage in my business clothes with all the other suits, made me feel special. Never mind that I got out of a sporty Saturn and they mostly drove BMWs. I really miss that Saturn by the way.
For the last several years, I have gotten my hair cut in The Arcade (see previous posts). This worked great when I worked downtown. I'd stroll over after work or on lunch. My car was already parked as 99% of the time I drove to work, mostly business casual attire, salary not in the mid 20s.
Now, I have to drive and park for the purpose of a hair cut (love my hair guy that much and not just because he's easy on the eyes). Most of the time I manage to find street parking. Sometimes I park in the lot I used to park in for work, but if there is an event, the jacked up price is more than I am willing to pay. This past time I was going to valet as I had the time before, cheaper than any of the lots if there is an event.
I don't have much patience, probably less so behind the wheel, so when the valet was backed up with no real chance of taking my car in the next 5-10 minutes, I did what anyone, who was going to be late for an appointment, would do...I reversed down Superior and pulled into the BP lot. It's $5 on Saturdays, assuming no events.
After my hair appointment, I entered the BP Building to withdraw money from my bank's ATM. Afterall, I had to get out of the parking lot. I hadn't been in the building for a few years. I hadn't entered the building from the garage in over a decade.
I won't lie, I felt cool when I entered the building. I was taken back to my 22 year old self. Plus, damn did my hair look good. I went to the ATM and then I walked into the building's atrium, I always loved the plants, it felt like you were in a park. I stayed for a few minutes and then went back to my car. The rest of my day needed to happen and it wasn't taking place in the atrium of the BP Building.
As I walked back to my car, I thought about how long ago it all seemed. A few months before I left the firm for another job, they had offered me an HR Assistant position. They thought I'd be really good in HR. I declined, still thinking I would go to law school. At the end of the week in which I was promoted to HR Manager, I climbed in my SUV and smiled. I guess a law firm knew me more than I knew myself when I was 22.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Thursday, December 29, 2011
The Coffee Table
My husband moved out on his own when he was 18 and knew it all. He took with him clothing, a pillow case and pillow, and perhaps a few other random possessions. A coffee table was passed down to him.
When we first moved in together, I began the pain of redecorating a man's house aka what all awesome girlfriends accomplish. Of course, what this means is I got rid of the trash, broken items, tacky items, items with holes, items with, well... no real comfort, style, appeal...basically his things. It is not my fault that his things fell into this category. It's just factual...ask any girlfriend.
Please understand, I am not a pack rat, I purge my house every season. I do not like clutter, I do not like junk, and most of all, I do not like disorganization. So I had been purging my things for some time. My mom can attest to this, during my childhood, she never had to tell me to clean my room. So again, also not my fault that the majority of items to purge were, well...his.
There was one item that stuck out like a sore thumb...the coffee table. The coffee table was heavy, solid wood, scratched, old, and large in a room of other large items. I knew I'd never get rid of it, this was an untouchable item.
Over the years, we had a child, moved to another rental house, bought a house, and married. The coffee table came with us each step of the way, heavy, hard to move (not that I lifted it...), good for storage, hard on your toes, if you accidentally knocked into it in the dark, sleep deprived to nurse a crying baby. Just saying.
Several years ago, I had the coffee table restored. I knew I would need to decorate around it, and I needed it in it's prime. Oh, and my husband would like it too. It's return to prime time, gave me an idea. I pictured a couch, several versions in my head, the perfect compliment to the restored table. I searched for 3 years. I'd be a decorator's nightmare. Then, as if Jupiter had aligned with Mars, and peace was guiding the planets, love steered me right to my couch, on Facebook, for sale: must go.
Our living room is now not only almost completed, but we now use it--you don't have to sit on the floor.
The other day, I was working, laptop on the coffee table, I looked out the window. I saw calm on a suburban street. I picked up my tea glancing at the coffee table, then out the window. It hit me, only this time my toes were not injured, there was no crying baby, he's 8.
The coffee table now sitting in a living room, a room in a house we own, a room that we hardly used before. We own a house with a room we hardly used. I looked around me. This is my life, this is what we've accomplished...and the coffee table has been there each step of the way.
When we first moved in together, I began the pain of redecorating a man's house aka what all awesome girlfriends accomplish. Of course, what this means is I got rid of the trash, broken items, tacky items, items with holes, items with, well... no real comfort, style, appeal...basically his things. It is not my fault that his things fell into this category. It's just factual...ask any girlfriend.
Please understand, I am not a pack rat, I purge my house every season. I do not like clutter, I do not like junk, and most of all, I do not like disorganization. So I had been purging my things for some time. My mom can attest to this, during my childhood, she never had to tell me to clean my room. So again, also not my fault that the majority of items to purge were, well...his.
There was one item that stuck out like a sore thumb...the coffee table. The coffee table was heavy, solid wood, scratched, old, and large in a room of other large items. I knew I'd never get rid of it, this was an untouchable item.
Over the years, we had a child, moved to another rental house, bought a house, and married. The coffee table came with us each step of the way, heavy, hard to move (not that I lifted it...), good for storage, hard on your toes, if you accidentally knocked into it in the dark, sleep deprived to nurse a crying baby. Just saying.
Several years ago, I had the coffee table restored. I knew I would need to decorate around it, and I needed it in it's prime. Oh, and my husband would like it too. It's return to prime time, gave me an idea. I pictured a couch, several versions in my head, the perfect compliment to the restored table. I searched for 3 years. I'd be a decorator's nightmare. Then, as if Jupiter had aligned with Mars, and peace was guiding the planets, love steered me right to my couch, on Facebook, for sale: must go.
Our living room is now not only almost completed, but we now use it--you don't have to sit on the floor.
The other day, I was working, laptop on the coffee table, I looked out the window. I saw calm on a suburban street. I picked up my tea glancing at the coffee table, then out the window. It hit me, only this time my toes were not injured, there was no crying baby, he's 8.
The coffee table now sitting in a living room, a room in a house we own, a room that we hardly used before. We own a house with a room we hardly used. I looked around me. This is my life, this is what we've accomplished...and the coffee table has been there each step of the way.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Party of Perfect, Table for Zero
For awhile, I have been trying to get myself to remember how I did this working mom gig previously. This weekend I read an article about the working mom's work life balance lie. It wasn't an in-depth research article, with NYU study citations and books written by Harvard grads in the footnotes. It was written by a working mom about...(shockingly)... her own life.
Reality is you are not going to work 15 hour days, work out, clean the house, fold the laundry, make a 5 course dinner, make out with your husband, check homework, and put your kid(s) to bed every day and then wax your legs, pluck your brows, and polish your nails...without help and a little downgrade on the expectations you have for yourself. This last part may be the hardest part of all. AND it doesn't mean you have to gain weight, have unruly brows, or be a Kardashian.
I can't look to the past for how to do it now. In the past, my step daughter lived with us. She was old enough for 1-2 hours of unexpected child care, to sweep a floor, run a vacuum, and occasionally start dinner. In the past, a bad week was 45-50 hours, not 60-70. In the past, my husbands shifts were just that shifts: he didn't need relief to come to leave his floor, he just needed the clock to read a certain time. In the past, Gabriel didn't have homework, he went to bed earlier, he didn't have sports. In the past, I could eat a cupcake without much thought.
I can't look at a mistake as a sign that irresponsible immature Janine has surfaced. Sometimes, life happens. I mixed up a soccer schedule when Gabriel's practice day changed. I forgot to confirm plans with friends I haven't seen in awhile, and then never met them. It took me 2 weeks to reschedule an eye appointment the doctor's office had to move.
I have been beating myself up for the last 6 months: every time I don't get on the treadmill, every time laundry isn't done, every time I leave the dishes in the sink/dishwasher, every time (fill in the blank), every time I don't call someone I have been meaning to, or make dinner plans with our friends, every time I go to sleep instead of doing any of the above. But most of all I have been beating myself up for time lost. Gabriel is 8 and soon he will be 17 and he won't want to watch a movie with me and he won't want to show me his awesome new kung fu move against the pillow...10 times. I need to enjoy more and worry less.
So I have started looking at things in the present:
Never in my life have I had the desire to make a 5 course meal in any regularity. Case and point, today I asked my 8 year old if he knew where the cheese grater was. Why do I think I suddenly need to this now?
Today, I watched my blackberry buzz off the kitchen table. It was 11am, I was off, Gabriel was putting a game in the Wii. I picked up the buzzing "find Janine device", I looked at it. 45 emails. I put it down and I played Pac Man Party with my 8 year old. I was off.
Gabriel took a bath, he rarely does this, he is a shower kid. He yelled mom, come see my great water bending move. When half the water in the tub ended up on my floor, I didn't yell or sigh, I didn't get a towel, I laughed. and then we laughed.
I made a work out schedule again, not in-depth, but realistic. It will kick my butt for awhile, but than my butt will look awesome in the jeans I have been eying at Lucky.
and you see, the thing is, I feel better already. AND I am taking Friday off.
Reality is you are not going to work 15 hour days, work out, clean the house, fold the laundry, make a 5 course dinner, make out with your husband, check homework, and put your kid(s) to bed every day and then wax your legs, pluck your brows, and polish your nails...without help and a little downgrade on the expectations you have for yourself. This last part may be the hardest part of all. AND it doesn't mean you have to gain weight, have unruly brows, or be a Kardashian.
I can't look to the past for how to do it now. In the past, my step daughter lived with us. She was old enough for 1-2 hours of unexpected child care, to sweep a floor, run a vacuum, and occasionally start dinner. In the past, a bad week was 45-50 hours, not 60-70. In the past, my husbands shifts were just that shifts: he didn't need relief to come to leave his floor, he just needed the clock to read a certain time. In the past, Gabriel didn't have homework, he went to bed earlier, he didn't have sports. In the past, I could eat a cupcake without much thought.
I can't look at a mistake as a sign that irresponsible immature Janine has surfaced. Sometimes, life happens. I mixed up a soccer schedule when Gabriel's practice day changed. I forgot to confirm plans with friends I haven't seen in awhile, and then never met them. It took me 2 weeks to reschedule an eye appointment the doctor's office had to move.
I have been beating myself up for the last 6 months: every time I don't get on the treadmill, every time laundry isn't done, every time I leave the dishes in the sink/dishwasher, every time (fill in the blank), every time I don't call someone I have been meaning to, or make dinner plans with our friends, every time I go to sleep instead of doing any of the above. But most of all I have been beating myself up for time lost. Gabriel is 8 and soon he will be 17 and he won't want to watch a movie with me and he won't want to show me his awesome new kung fu move against the pillow...10 times. I need to enjoy more and worry less.
So I have started looking at things in the present:
Never in my life have I had the desire to make a 5 course meal in any regularity. Case and point, today I asked my 8 year old if he knew where the cheese grater was. Why do I think I suddenly need to this now?
Today, I watched my blackberry buzz off the kitchen table. It was 11am, I was off, Gabriel was putting a game in the Wii. I picked up the buzzing "find Janine device", I looked at it. 45 emails. I put it down and I played Pac Man Party with my 8 year old. I was off.
Gabriel took a bath, he rarely does this, he is a shower kid. He yelled mom, come see my great water bending move. When half the water in the tub ended up on my floor, I didn't yell or sigh, I didn't get a towel, I laughed. and then we laughed.
I made a work out schedule again, not in-depth, but realistic. It will kick my butt for awhile, but than my butt will look awesome in the jeans I have been eying at Lucky.
and you see, the thing is, I feel better already. AND I am taking Friday off.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Dirty Mondays
The Spring before Gabriel turned 3 we bought our first house. It was love at first site, my now husband and I met in the middle of the house, each of us only having seen half and said "this one". Our Realtor brought us our keys and champagne a few seemingly long weeks later.
It was extremely important to me that Gabriel grew up in a house we owned, a house that was our home. Of course, with buying a house comes extra expenses. We had to adjust: a larger monthly payment, water/sewer, the water heater breaking turning our T shaped hallway into a swimming pool.
Money was tight, our expenses had increased, but our salaries had stayed the same. Christmas was around the corner. Pre-school wasn't far away.
I saw it on TV...the advertisement/informational show regarding the research around it got me hook, line, and sinker. I watched the entire 30 minute special. It was a blue and green Little Tikes kitchen. Finally, one that wasn't pink. I found it on-line. It was $150. Plus tax. Plus shipping.
I had not spent that much on one item for Gabriel yet. I debated this in my head. What else would be under the tree if I bought this? What if he never played with it? I wanted that kitchen. He was always playing in the real kitchen. We could put it in the real kitchen, we all spend a lot of time in there. It was perfect. I could pick it up at Little Tikes, I worked near the HQ.
My now husband, being versed in these things, stayed up and put the kitchen together the night before. I did my share...I put the stickers on and put the empty box in the garage.
A sleepy 3 year old Gabriel, woke on Christmas morning and sat on the couch staring at his gifts. Then he saw it. He walked right over to it and started cooking. He loved it! We had to remind him he had other gifts to open...a ton of them at that. Spoiled like his mom, my mom would say.
Fast forward, 5 years. The kitchen, now Gabriel's restaurant, Dirty Mondays, is still in our kitchen. The microwave is covered with stickers. There is a praying lamb by the phone, just in case Gabriel will say if you inquire.
Just yesterday, I ate at Dirty Mondays. They have excellent service and you get a birthday hat, even if it's not your birthday. My bacon was crispy and the eggs were amazing. The menu varies, but you can often get a large meal for only $5. Sometimes dessert is pricey. Sometimes they run out of chicken. Service is always with a smile, especially when you tickle the chef/waiter.
Every now and then the restaurant closes. No reason is ever given. That's when pizza girl comes in handy. Gabriel laughs at pizza girl. Pizza girl is a hick sounding, gum chewing mommy who doesn't pronounce any of her words correctly. "No one wants shoe topping, mom!" Gabriel will laugh. "Who's this ma you keep talkin' about?" I will reply. "I am pizza girl, now you wanna make an order, ya know I have under my nails to clean." "Health code, health code", Gabriel will scream! "Dirty Mondays is open"!
It's still the best $150 plus tax I ever spent.
It was extremely important to me that Gabriel grew up in a house we owned, a house that was our home. Of course, with buying a house comes extra expenses. We had to adjust: a larger monthly payment, water/sewer, the water heater breaking turning our T shaped hallway into a swimming pool.
Money was tight, our expenses had increased, but our salaries had stayed the same. Christmas was around the corner. Pre-school wasn't far away.
I saw it on TV...the advertisement/informational show regarding the research around it got me hook, line, and sinker. I watched the entire 30 minute special. It was a blue and green Little Tikes kitchen. Finally, one that wasn't pink. I found it on-line. It was $150. Plus tax. Plus shipping.
I had not spent that much on one item for Gabriel yet. I debated this in my head. What else would be under the tree if I bought this? What if he never played with it? I wanted that kitchen. He was always playing in the real kitchen. We could put it in the real kitchen, we all spend a lot of time in there. It was perfect. I could pick it up at Little Tikes, I worked near the HQ.
My now husband, being versed in these things, stayed up and put the kitchen together the night before. I did my share...I put the stickers on and put the empty box in the garage.
A sleepy 3 year old Gabriel, woke on Christmas morning and sat on the couch staring at his gifts. Then he saw it. He walked right over to it and started cooking. He loved it! We had to remind him he had other gifts to open...a ton of them at that. Spoiled like his mom, my mom would say.
Fast forward, 5 years. The kitchen, now Gabriel's restaurant, Dirty Mondays, is still in our kitchen. The microwave is covered with stickers. There is a praying lamb by the phone, just in case Gabriel will say if you inquire.
Just yesterday, I ate at Dirty Mondays. They have excellent service and you get a birthday hat, even if it's not your birthday. My bacon was crispy and the eggs were amazing. The menu varies, but you can often get a large meal for only $5. Sometimes dessert is pricey. Sometimes they run out of chicken. Service is always with a smile, especially when you tickle the chef/waiter.
Every now and then the restaurant closes. No reason is ever given. That's when pizza girl comes in handy. Gabriel laughs at pizza girl. Pizza girl is a hick sounding, gum chewing mommy who doesn't pronounce any of her words correctly. "No one wants shoe topping, mom!" Gabriel will laugh. "Who's this ma you keep talkin' about?" I will reply. "I am pizza girl, now you wanna make an order, ya know I have under my nails to clean." "Health code, health code", Gabriel will scream! "Dirty Mondays is open"!
It's still the best $150 plus tax I ever spent.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Saying Goodbye
Before I left for a work trip I went to see my grandpa. My mom said I may not have another chance, and as it happened, mom's are normally right. Go ahead, read that again, I may not have it in print too often.
As I drove to the exit I have gotten off so many times during my life, I had to take a deep breath. How do you say good bye? Does he know it's good bye? Does he realize why so many people are coming to see him all at once? I thought of a million things to say, none of them seemed right. Final conversations are only ever good in movies and books, after multiple re-writes and edits.
How do you say good bye when it really is good bye? I am the oldest of 26 grandchildren. I was the fixer growing up and now probably the one that sounds so old to at least 10 cousins. I can't fix this. You can't fix lung cancer. When I explained things to my son, he said well don't they have a shot for that?
I walked into the house I had walked into so many times, as a child, sometimes multiple times a day. We used to ride our bikes here. I think I played in that front yard more than my own. The first time I looked at the pictures around the funeral home, I noticed a lot of joy and a lot of kids. My very large family could make some rabbit colonies look small. How many kids have been in and out of that house?
No pink jelly shoes today. Grandpa would be in the hospital bed in his room. There were pictures from an aunt's wedding at the funeral home. I was around 8. I was dancing with my grandpa. No dancing today. I stood by the bed. I was afraid I'd pull one of the tubes. I tried not to move. Grandpa looked so small, so weak. At 33 years old, I wanted my mommy to tell me what to do.
There was so much I wanted to say. I wanted to sit on the bed, but I was too afraid the movement would hurt him. We talked, he seemed tired. I thought I should let him rest. He asked about work, about my trip. He talked about my son and when he had come to visit. He offered some advice. I said yes. He knew there was more, but he didn't push it. He's known me a long time... fixers don't like to be fixed.
When I left, two little girls knocked on the door, they wanted their gumballs and grandma delivered. That would have been grandpa's job not too long ago. No, these are chocolate covered ants. Your grandma really likes them. Here eat one. Grandpa, that's gross. Oh, you don't think you can eat it because your teeth don't come out? I can eat it, Grandpa, I will. Give it to me.
So many people came. I guess when you have 11 kids and live in the same house for decades, you know a few people. As I walk around and look at the pictures, I see Grandpa had a good life. Dramatic at times, sorrowful at others, but also joyous, happy, and loving.
There is only one time I remember Grandpa ever being angry with me. I was not only the spoiled oldest, but I was the daughter of his oldest child. That's good for as many chocolate covered grapes and red shell pistachios you can eat in your pink jelly shoes.
As I drove to the exit I have gotten off so many times during my life, I had to take a deep breath. How do you say good bye? Does he know it's good bye? Does he realize why so many people are coming to see him all at once? I thought of a million things to say, none of them seemed right. Final conversations are only ever good in movies and books, after multiple re-writes and edits.
How do you say good bye when it really is good bye? I am the oldest of 26 grandchildren. I was the fixer growing up and now probably the one that sounds so old to at least 10 cousins. I can't fix this. You can't fix lung cancer. When I explained things to my son, he said well don't they have a shot for that?
I walked into the house I had walked into so many times, as a child, sometimes multiple times a day. We used to ride our bikes here. I think I played in that front yard more than my own. The first time I looked at the pictures around the funeral home, I noticed a lot of joy and a lot of kids. My very large family could make some rabbit colonies look small. How many kids have been in and out of that house?
No pink jelly shoes today. Grandpa would be in the hospital bed in his room. There were pictures from an aunt's wedding at the funeral home. I was around 8. I was dancing with my grandpa. No dancing today. I stood by the bed. I was afraid I'd pull one of the tubes. I tried not to move. Grandpa looked so small, so weak. At 33 years old, I wanted my mommy to tell me what to do.
There was so much I wanted to say. I wanted to sit on the bed, but I was too afraid the movement would hurt him. We talked, he seemed tired. I thought I should let him rest. He asked about work, about my trip. He talked about my son and when he had come to visit. He offered some advice. I said yes. He knew there was more, but he didn't push it. He's known me a long time... fixers don't like to be fixed.
When I left, two little girls knocked on the door, they wanted their gumballs and grandma delivered. That would have been grandpa's job not too long ago. No, these are chocolate covered ants. Your grandma really likes them. Here eat one. Grandpa, that's gross. Oh, you don't think you can eat it because your teeth don't come out? I can eat it, Grandpa, I will. Give it to me.
So many people came. I guess when you have 11 kids and live in the same house for decades, you know a few people. As I walk around and look at the pictures, I see Grandpa had a good life. Dramatic at times, sorrowful at others, but also joyous, happy, and loving.
There is only one time I remember Grandpa ever being angry with me. I was not only the spoiled oldest, but I was the daughter of his oldest child. That's good for as many chocolate covered grapes and red shell pistachios you can eat in your pink jelly shoes.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Let the Memory Live Again
We all have them. No matter how much you try to escape, run, or hide, they don't go away. Some make us smile, some make us cry, some make us wistful and some just make us wince. No, I am not talking about Mothers, I am talking about memories.
The other day, my Dad brought over a box of books. The Disney series with read along record. Of course, there were more, but the Disney series made me pause--take the needle off the record. I have so many memories of these books. I had no idea my Dad still had them. I am now hoping to find a record player (hey, I still have Thriller on vinyl, back off, it's a good purchase...like you don't have your 8 track tapes...).
The nostalgia that books from my childhood could instantly cause, got me thinking. What other memories do I have that are instantly brought back...just a few from the last few days...
IF we let them...This reminds me of a religion lesson in school regarding freewill. Freewill was how good and evil was explained, how we can love a God, who isn't always nice. Plagues anyone? I can let memories cause me to smile or I can let them cause me to cry. The choice is mine. What I chose will determine not only my mood for that minute, hour, day, but how I move forward or how I stay stagnant.
Staying still is boring...I chose to move forward.
The other day, my Dad brought over a box of books. The Disney series with read along record. Of course, there were more, but the Disney series made me pause--take the needle off the record. I have so many memories of these books. I had no idea my Dad still had them. I am now hoping to find a record player (hey, I still have Thriller on vinyl, back off, it's a good purchase...like you don't have your 8 track tapes...).
The nostalgia that books from my childhood could instantly cause, got me thinking. What other memories do I have that are instantly brought back...just a few from the last few days...
- The Florescent Light over my Kitchen Counter: Tati (my Dad's Father), who would watch tv and have a snack over the counter, with a florescent counter light on. Perhaps he only did this when my brother and I were visiting, so he could watch us in the other room, but I remember it none-the-less.
- Waffle Irons: Nana (my Mom's Grandma) used to make the best waffles using an old waffle iron. Coincidentally a waffle iron was one of the first things I asked for when I had my first apartment. I still have the one my Grandma (Nana's daughter) bought me.
- Matilda: a good friend from college and all our fun times together, I wish we still lived down the hall from one another many times each day. There are so many other things that cause me to think of her as well (Friends, Marlboro Lights, The Go-Gos, Dawson Creek, the list goes on and on)
- I can't pass a certain rapid station on the West Side without remembering a student I read to in my early 20s. I often wonder where that little 2nd grader is today. I wonder what the me of today would have said to her drunk mother on the rapid had I been there instead of the 22 year old me.
- After a bad break up, it was a few years before I could return to my college without sadness or a sickening memory. Now, this seems ludicrous to me.
IF we let them...This reminds me of a religion lesson in school regarding freewill. Freewill was how good and evil was explained, how we can love a God, who isn't always nice. Plagues anyone? I can let memories cause me to smile or I can let them cause me to cry. The choice is mine. What I chose will determine not only my mood for that minute, hour, day, but how I move forward or how I stay stagnant.
Staying still is boring...I chose to move forward.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Do Your Pearls Ever Get in the Way of Your Corporate Ladder Climb?
While traveling last week for work, I went to dinner with a colleague from our Manhattan office. Over dinner, we spoke about how we ended up in Human Resources, our field, our industry. We both remained very politically correct, after all we aren't friends, just co-workers. HR co-workers at that. After we both had a glass of wine with our dinner, we looked at one another as if thinking I'd like one more, but what if they don't...My colleague, senior to me, asked the waiter for one more glass of wine, and I, of course, was happy to do the same. No one should drink alone (except George Thorogood).
We continued our conversation and after awhile, my colleague said, is it hard, what you do? I was a little confused thinking our jobs are not that different. Being a good HR professional, she read my confusion and said: In front of me, I see a 1950s housewife battling with a take charge corporate climber in a fitted suit. The only similarity is a strand of pearls.
The first thing that struck me regarding this statement is I have described myself in a very similar way--I am very self aware -- even if I sometimes ignore this awareness.
How do I do this? I have asked myself that question numerous times over the last several weeks. I know I did it, but it seemed more streamlined then. Not as difficult. It's like I am out of shape and practice.
This week I mixed up my son's soccer practice days. Granted they changed these days the same week I was traveling, but I would have never made that mishap before.
I am not as far in organizing the stewardship binders for my son's school as I would like.
I really wish dinners were planned better. This is a huge heartbreak.
I can drink coffee and 5pm and still sleep at night.
I haven"t been on my treadmill for awhile, but it's okay because my caloric intake is low due to lack of time to eat.
Is it hard?
Yes.
I am still adjusting, still trying to earn that platinum medal for pole vaulting in 4 inch heels while baking an apple pie as a child yells mom in the background and someone else says do you have a minute?
Would I change it?
No.
The 1950s Me and the Corporate Climber Me are friends. They have a lot of work to do, that 1970s me is constantly doing something nuts.
We continued our conversation and after awhile, my colleague said, is it hard, what you do? I was a little confused thinking our jobs are not that different. Being a good HR professional, she read my confusion and said: In front of me, I see a 1950s housewife battling with a take charge corporate climber in a fitted suit. The only similarity is a strand of pearls.
In this corner wearing an A line skirt, lovely pearls, and fitted sweater we have 1950s Janine holding a baked apple pie...In this corner, wait... how does she climb that ladder with those 4 inch heels on...I think her arm is stuck in the strand of pearls...she's not going to make it...no, no wait she's using the strand of pearls as a lasso to pull herself up. Ladies and gentleman, an amazing show of talent! What's that in her hand? An apple pie?
The first thing that struck me regarding this statement is I have described myself in a very similar way--I am very self aware -- even if I sometimes ignore this awareness.
How do I do this? I have asked myself that question numerous times over the last several weeks. I know I did it, but it seemed more streamlined then. Not as difficult. It's like I am out of shape and practice.
You call this dinner? Traffic, traffic, traffic. This is the Office of Weed Control, have you noticed your backyard? What's for breakfast? Tuck in your shirt for school. Can you review the RFP? Check written for field trip, buzz of Blackberry. Picture package picked out. Executive 0ffer letter drafted. Termination, exit interview. Follow up with employee, Blackberry buzz...breathe...and again...
This week I mixed up my son's soccer practice days. Granted they changed these days the same week I was traveling, but I would have never made that mishap before.
I am not as far in organizing the stewardship binders for my son's school as I would like.
I really wish dinners were planned better. This is a huge heartbreak.
I can drink coffee and 5pm and still sleep at night.
I haven"t been on my treadmill for awhile, but it's okay because my caloric intake is low due to lack of time to eat.
Is it hard?
Yes.
I am still adjusting, still trying to earn that platinum medal for pole vaulting in 4 inch heels while baking an apple pie as a child yells mom in the background and someone else says do you have a minute?
Would I change it?
No.
The 1950s Me and the Corporate Climber Me are friends. They have a lot of work to do, that 1970s me is constantly doing something nuts.
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