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Being the social person that I am, I was an early adopter of Facebook. What could be better than catching up on the goings on of my friends and family, while sitting in my home office, drinking coffee, in my pajamas? I mean, what kind of GENIUS thought this one up? After seeing the movie “The Social Network”, I learned that this genius is actually NOT very social, in fact, he has sat around his dorm room drinking coffee in his PJs pretty much his whole life, or at least that part of his life spent at Harvard– without the opportunity to reach out to his “friends” by any other means than bellying up to the keg in the quad. And so, another problem solved by one who desperately needed to solve his own problem…Mark Zuckerberg never left his dorm room and is now a zillionaire.
I’ve come to appreciate, and by that I mean– shake my head and grumble under my breath–the widespread anxiety bordering on paranoia about Facebook. (FAD seemed a more catchy and ironic acronym than PFD) Some adults in my social circles believe that their children will never have a job other than flipping hamburgers because of their presence on Facebook. While this is just not the case, it is true that the NSA and CIA will find their posts if they should be on their recruitment list. It is also true that, during the college admissions process, your kids should consider that their wall could end up in an admissions officer’s inbasket. So if these are potential landmines that you’d like your kids to avoid, your best bet is to be on FB so that you can KNOWLEDGEABLY become a trusted advisor to your kids.
By assuming that FB is evil, aren’t we acting just a wee bit like our parents who thought we were all going to hell in a handbasket because we listened to Pink Floyd? Without the benefit of noise cancelling headphones no less? We turned out OK. In most cases anyway. Maybe not my brother. I’m pretty sure his ears are still ringing.
I love Facebook. And yet, there are people on FB who I enjoy and people I avoid–just as there are people who I gravitate toward or avoid at a party. Which leads me to my favorite metaphor for Facebook–a virtual party. By using the same social grace that you either do, or know you SHOULD do, at a party–you too can enjoy and benefit from Facebook participation. Here’s 12 easy steps to overcoming Facebook Anxiety Disorder:
#1 Join FB, and create your profile. Spend the first few weeks surveying the landscape. Those of us who are a bit reticent about parties spend the first few minutes learning who’s there and what is being talked about. (Hopefully, in both cases, it’s not you, but at least, now you will know) Just join. You don’t need to post, just listen and learn.
#2 Accept friend requests only from people who a.) you know, and b.) don’t live under your roof. Eventually, when your now 16-year-old cranky adolescent moves out of the house, you can friend her if FB still exists and the technology isn’t there to network communicate telepathically.
#3. Read updates, and walls. Learn what is important to your friends–and what you are missing by not previously being on FB. You will find out some things that you wish you had known in a more timely fashion–”Matt Damon and Jimmy Tindle made an appearance at Joey’s graduation party!”—see? you shoulda gone, rather than sit on your couch watching House reruns. Many “insiders” will post information on FB before they will show anything to the public–so, if you want to be ”in” on the new Farm Dinners schedule for Smolak Farm, ya better get yourself a FB account. Or at least Twitter. But that’s whole different blog post.
#4. Join the conversation. Think: PARTY.
i.e., not WORK: At a neighborhood get together, would you put your company’s new product in front of your friends’ faces and extol its benefits? Hopefully not. And don’t do it on FB either. Keep those business cards in your pocket at the FB party.
Be Discrete:no pictures of you and your “best” friends at a celebration… Hello? Where are the rest of your friends??? I know. Reading about an event they weren’t invited to!
Be Upbeat: Remember Debbie Downer on SNL. Hilarious! But DD Doppelganger on FB are not so funny. You needn’t remind your friends that a recent government study declared playgrounds an unsafe place for children. And, by the way, when you were a kid, didnt’t the kids with caste on their arm from falling off the monkey bars get special treatment? I was a little annoyed by the fact that I could fall off multiple times and never broke anything except my glasses. Which was on purpose. I hated my glasses.
#5 Be interesting and interested: Here is what happens to me a lot and I am sure to you: I force myself to go to a party, after just finishing a punishing week of exhausting work, (when its everything I can do to resist a movie at home with my dogs curled up next to me), and someone starts in with the itinerary of their last cultural trip through Turkey. In another venue, another mood, and another life, this might be very interesting. But not where I, or most people on a Friday night, are coming from. Remember when Peanuts finally came to TV from the beloved comic strip and all the grown up voices were made by an Oboe? (or was it a French horn?) That’s how I imagine those voices…wha wha wha….cathedral…market…wha wha wha.. Well, same on FB. Don’t be a bore or a boor. If you are, you will be tuned out. Wha, wha, wha.
Be relevant. If people are talking about the dams coming down in Andover, then listen and chime in if you have something to say that will improve everyone’s understanding of the issue. Or share a link to a great article. Or a picture you took of people kayaking on the Mill Pond with the caption, “Will there be more or less of this if they take the dams down?” An open-ended, relevant question is a great way to develop a following on FB.
#6 Don’t be a Bragabond. Travel stories can be interesting! Travel stories can be funny! Travel stories can be informative! Make sure your points are at least one of those, and preferably all. Otherwise, travel can be a thinly veiled outlet for one upsmanship. A picture of you and your beloved outside the George V in Paris with “Our family on our most recent trip to Paris” can be both dull and braggy. You might as well say, “So glad Jimmy cashed out after that IPO “. And enough already with the beautiful, smiling family all throwing coins over their shoulders simultaneously into the Trevi Fountain. Wish there was a cliche alert button on FB. Offer some interesting anecdote/experience based travel tip– “worst bathrooms in Paris at the Notre Dame. Just don’t.” (and that is a seriously good tip. Never, ever use them.) or “If in Lyon, make sure to visit Chateau du Delicious Wine in the Loire Valley. The best Cote du Rhone ever!”. Rule of thumb–no more than one travel related post a month. I break this rule all the time, but do so only when and if I think I’ve got something people might find interesting and/or funny, and, of course, if I’ve had the good fortune to travel more than once a month. I broke many rules, too many to even count, by posting a picture of my husband “working” at a cottage in Menemsha, via a 100 ft long extension cord to a patio table next to another cottage that had cable, but was locked. He was constantly harassed by catbirds; who he neutralized by spraying with Windex. (his co-workers thought his phone was broken–”There’s this funny screeching noise coming from your phone!”) I mean, what is NOT funny about that? Apparantly his co-workers found alot about it not funny.
#7 Don’t be a stuffy old f___ (rhymes with tart) . You can converse with people of any age as long as you respect and show genuine interest in their lives. My mother always said that the best parties were those with a lot of diverse people, of all ages. She was right. (I have a 90 something friend who is always on my guest list. She’s one of the most interesting people I know) It’s yet another party principle that works on FB. (I bet you are getting the idea now) So, here’s a quiz:
When your neighbor’s 19-year-old daughter–who trusted you enough to”friend” you on FB–updates with “really hung over, wish I hadn’t done that last round of Tequila shots”, do you respond:
A. Do your parents know about this? (and then you go and tell her parents.)
B. Oh Honey! So sorry! Take some Advil and drink lots of water.
C. LOL! I know what you mean! I drank too much last night too. Wicked hangovah.
D. Hey next time you are in town, let’s do Margaritas with your Mom!
Answer: NONE OF THE ABOVE
An appropriate response is….queue the crickets…no response. It’s perfectly OK, and she probably forgot that you would see that post anyway. And don’t be a tattle tale. This is not a “it takes a village” moment.
#7 Choose your friends and choose to not be a friend anymore. I have friended many people who I have later “ignored” or worse, unfriended. You have to do this if they are posting irresponsible stuff on your wall or over promoting their business. If I know the person well enough, and care enough about their reputation, I will explain my actions face to face without criticizing them. “Bill, I really don’t care if you did or you didn’t have sex with that woman, but it makes me uncomfortable to see that on my wall.” (Please do not read too much into this example, OK? Let me be clear–I.am.NOT.Facebook friends.with.that.man. )
I am lucky to have many younger Facebook friends. I very much value their friendship, and make a point to call upon them when they may have insights or information that I don’t. We got excellent fashion advice by consulting a 21-year-old in Manhattan. (Ok I also told him to go to bed, as it was 1:30 AM when he answered my question) . And let me just say… you are not going to find out about the latest and greatest food truck in Boston from anyone other than a Boston college student. And Boston college students don’t think to pick up the phone and call their mother’s closest friends when they spot the Roxie Truck at Cleveland Circle. Or Mark Wahlberg at Fenway Park.
#8 Now that we have completed steps 1-7, and are becoming more advanced, it might be time to try ”Groups”. Start one! We have a family Facebook group, which functions as a virtual chat for decisions, such as “What should we get for Grandma for her birthday?”, or, “Where shall we have the next family reunion?” If like me, you married into a large family, this is the best way to keep up with the pace of new entries and exits. (Let’s see…. Karen is married to Lester and they have Duncan, Kerry, and Tim. Tim just started Law School and Kerry broke up with her boyfriend. OK, I’m ready for the family reunion!) .
#9 The next level of FB, and the one I know you’ve all been waiting for, is PROMOTING YOUR BUSINESS. This is done ONLY with FB “Pages”. (Many of you are not following this rule of etiquette and you know who you are. Please stop plugging your business on your wall.) And, please, please, please, don’t ask me to “Like” your business page if I have no reason to use your business. No, I don’t “like” Bald Eagle Arms Dealers. There are many ways to involve your customers or potential customers by engaging them on FB. FB itself has very good info on that.
#10 Surrender to a higher power. (Mark Zuckerberg in this case) You can no more control every little thing said on FB than you can control that which is said in any other venue. Give it up once and for all. Abandon the pretext that you actually were ever in control. . FB is great occupational therapy.
#11 Make amends to those you offend. It happens. Not intentionally. Not often. But it does. And there’s no one to take your keys away before you drive that truck right into the wall of embarrassment and shame. So, if after a couple of glasses of wine, you decide to post on your best friend’s wall that you think that having his face done was the best ever decision, you better call him in the morning, AFTER you have removed the post. And here’s the good news. Stuff on FB CAN be removed. If someone posts an unflattering picture of you without “tagging” you (alerting you), then tell him to take it down. If you are tagged, remove it yourself. And, PLEASE don’t post pictures of others without tagging them. If they are not on FB, then you probably shouldn’t post it at all.
#12 Enjoy! It’s fun! It’s informative! It helps build relationships! It helps organize groups! And yes, it can help your business if you follow the rules and etiquette.
And here’s a dirty little secret that I’ve saved for last, because anyone under the age of 25 lost interest in this blog post already and is planning to exit FB for Google+: Your kids are winning control of Social media and the web. FB is a great opportunity to show confidence and comfort with Social Media, gain insight into the lives of your kids and their peers, and thus deepen your role as trusted advisor to those you care about most.
Hey, friend me, ok?
.
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Did you know that if you drink latex paint, you can move it through your digestive system without harm by chasing it with a can of mashed pumpkin? (Kids, don’t try this at home) At least dogs can. This is one of the many practical lessons that I have learned from my life with dogs. For this one, I was essentially blackmailed by Doggy Poison Control in the amount of $50. ”Before we identify the solution to your situation, we need to ask you for a credit card”, whilst my newfoundland, muzzle and ears dipped in white, looked up at me quizzically. After credit card authorization, I was asked the following: What brand of paint? (Benjamin Moore) What color? (Adobe White) What finish? (eggshell) How much did he drink? (No idea, I’d have to call the painters who left the cover off the can and will be fired tomorrow) How much does he weigh? (155 lb) Really? (YES!! for god’s sake just tell me what to do!)
Another important lesson I learned from my dog(s) is that the best way to get noticed is NOT in the Police Blotter. While we realtors are shameless self promoters, the police blog is one media outlet we try to avoid. However, I have the dubious distinction of having appeared in TWO separate police logs from both “Andovers”. The first notation said, “Sunset Rock Road resident reported woman walking bear on street”. That was me and my newfoundland. The second notation said, “Sharp Shooter requested at Great Pond Road residence to dispatch rabid racoon cornered by dog.” That was me and my other newfoundland. The latter incident taught me all kinds of additional valuable lessons. Such as: Even a filet mignon dangled in front of a dog’s nose will not dissuade him (or her) from focus on a treed racoon. Also, racoons that act like they just downed a bottle of Quervo Gold are generally rabid. (As are humans, but not in the literal sense) If you happen to have a cut or scrape on your hand, and touch something that touched the rabid racoon’s bodily fluids (drool), you then need to endure weeks of visits to the hospital to have shots in the fleshiest portion of your body, which in most people’s cases, is your butt. And it gets even more vulgar and gross, so I’ll spare you the many other tidbit learned, about racoon decapitation and zoonotic disease.
I’ve also learned that sometimes Newfoundland love is the best revenge against mean people. One day, I drove to a beach on Martha’s Vineyard with my newfie puppy. It was 15 minutes until dogs were allowed, so I left Larsen in the car with windows down for plenty of fresh sea air, the best kind, and headed up the path to surveille the beach for our local dogsogynist. (my made up word for dog hater) I didn’t see the dreaded wide brimmed floppy straw hat with celebrity sized sunglasses and fancy animal print bainoir, (on our very laid back, shabby chic beach) so I figured “the coast was clear” so to speak. I went back to the car and, just as I came over the rise of the short path, I witnessed my first, but not last, Newfoundland rescue. Upon hearing the cheers of one bodysurfer’s fanclub, Larsen the newf lept through the window, through the recently replanted dunes (very, very bad dog) and into the crashing waves to rescue–yes–an able bodied, perfectly competent swimmer. (not a panicked, drowning victim, nor someone caught in a riptide, nor someone suffering a seizure, or anyone else who might actually appreciate such a heroic gesture) While newfs are very gentle dogs, one needs to be very trusting to allow a dog of this size to take hold of your arm and drag you out of the water. Which this man so graciously did, providing a pat on the head for good measure. But meanwhile, the ridiculously inappropriately attired cruella appeared out of NOWHERE at 3:59 PM, to bark (screech really) exit orders to Larsen and his missing owner, who at that point, was crouching just beyond the point that she could see me. Larsen, covered with a gritty paste of salt water, sand, drool, and seaweed, stood in front of her, waiting for the hug that he was sure was forthcoming for his brave deed, and slowly–v-e-r-y slowly–began his full torso wind up that is the clue that a very vigorous shake is going to result. (Newfoundland puppies have an enormous amount of excess skin that they eventually grow into) Since Cruella wasn’t privy to this important bit of data, she was blinded with the frontal assault/blast of sand/salt/drool/weed. Designer chicness covered in wet beach sludge. (Finally, the look we’d all been waiting for!) At which point, Larsen trotted off the beach, head held high, and off we went. To find a new beach. And wash the car. Again.
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As empty nesters, my husband and I have become “needy” for our children’s attention. (talk about a role reversal!) We will go to no end to keep our usefulness at the fore of their minds. We bake, we buy, we provide for their every comfort in their home away from home. My son complained that his fan was too noisy, we offered to buy a new one. He said, no, he didn’t need a fan, he was just using it to drown out the dorm hallway noise. We immediately orderd a white noise machine, overnight delivery to campus. Food complaints are met with home baked oatmeal cookies. Not enough socks? I’ll deliver more. Mind you, we’ve never been the type of parents to spoil our children. While Christmas was always ridiculously over the top, birthday wishlists were the only other time that coveted toys and games were provided. Otherwise, if you wanted something, you needed to earn it. But college is different. As a parent, you are completely expendable, with the exception of your ability to open your wallet. Creative ways to get your childrens’ attention are essential. There in lies the rub.
Our son was yearning for snackfood–the kind one buys in bulk at Costco. Off to Costco I sped. I spotted a jumbo sized box of individually wrapped Rice Krispie treats… something he loved as a child, that we had made from scratch together. I was struck full-on by a wave of nostalgia, which never ends well. I then learned, from reading the box, that each of the 52 Rice Krispie treats had a label that you could write a message on! Wow! 52 chances to keep the importance of my existence front and center! Eureka!
I couldn’t wait to get home and find my Sharpie! I’d write life affirming messages that would keep him upbeat and focused for 52 days. “You are so smart!” “Today is going to be an awesome day for you!” etc. I told my husband of my clever idea. He suggested that since our college student was struggling a wee bit with his advanced Spanish class, that we write our affirmations in Spanish. But we don’t speak Spanish. And so, we figured out a workaround to this seemingly significant problem: Word Translator. I’d recite a cheesy aphorism, my husband would type it into a Word document, hit translate, and there you’d have it. I opened the box with the attention of a drug smuggler–opening the end with a long, thin knife so that there would be no trace of tampering (this small fact will become more relevant later), and emptied out all 52 Treats. We then concocted 52 aphorisms. I will be the first to admit that they got a little weak after the 30th Rice Krispie Treat. This exercise does get a little old. ”You are a really good Spanish speaker and we love you”….which apparantly actually said, “You good Spanish they you lover. No matter. Our hearts were in the right place.
We sealed the box, and delivered it to his dorm room…
And didn’t hear the expected gratitude, which we imagined as a enthusiastic phone call: “Thank you so much for thinking of me and my challenge in Spanish. These will help me so much!!!” We soon forgot about our ploy, shifting swiftly to the next urgent need to be met.
This past Friday, he came home for the weekend (ran out of clean socks), and, over dinner, he commented, “The weirdest thing happened to me! You know those Rice Krispie Treats you bought? Well, SOMEONE tampered with them! Someone wrote Spanish words on them using horrible grammar! ‘
We came clean. “WE wrote them. WE resealed the box. WORD is responsible for the bad grammar.” He was incredulous! “I can’t believe you actually did that”, he said, shaking his head and rubbing his forehead in mortification.
“I wrote to Kellogg’s and reported the tampering.”, he confessed, humilation now trumping mortification.
At which point, we both dissolved in laughter.
He added, “Kellogg’s called me back and wants the packaging and all it’s contents, so that they can investigate it.”
Amidst my suffocating laughter, I suggested that maybe he should let them know that his parents were responsible. He then cried, “Are you kidding??? That is SO EMBARRASSING!”
So I guess that means we need to own up. We’ll call Kellogg’s on Monday and let them know that their new marketing campaign–enabling needy parents to write on their product–has backfired.
I love to travel, and I know each opportunity to do so will unfold in unpredictable, yet ultimately memorable ways. There was the time I traveled to Europe by ocean liner; (it was the cheapest way to get to Europe back when flight was a regulated industry) After seven days of enduring soot baths from the smoke stacks, (we were in third class), we were anxious to debark. However, the ship was turned away from our destination after cholera broke out nearby. We anchored outside of Cannes at the beginning of the Cannes Film Festival, and our hotel rooms and train ticket to Paris were reimbursed by the Ship’s company. A bad situation turned impossibly fortuitous for two poor college students, in no hurry to get back to school, completely star struck and in need of long, hot showers.
Later that same year, I got hit in the head with a falling ladder–the kind used to access the top bunk in a sleeping car. I was traveling on an overnight train to Davos, Switzerland. A bloody gash across my brow was left untreated, swelling and painful for 7 hours, but the ensuing trip to a Swiss hospital and stories that I still tell when my scar is noticed have made it all worthwhile.
I was brought to the Davos hospital in an ambulance, and I knew from reading the tourist brochures that I was being delivered to a former Tuberculosis Sanitorium. This, I thought, has the makings of a great story, or at least a great ski tan. A very stern looking doctor came into my room, looked at my forehead and said, “Vhat happint?”After explaining, in great detail– in English–since he made the English overture– the accident, the Swiss doctor crossed his arms, looked sternly in my eyes, and said in a thick German accent, “Viey do you Americunz ski zo fahst? Zis happens. Now I must zew you up.” My friend and I burst into laughter, and later went on to experience ZEE BEST SKEE-INK EVER on Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain.
Later that same year, we skied in Garmisch, Germany and somehow ended up at the bottom of a mountain in Austria without passports or money for a train back. Who knew you could actually ski to another country?? We were “Skiers Without Borders” .
30 years later, I’ve just returned from another great European adventure–and have already begun to repurpose my mishaps to tales of fun and fulfillment.
It started in the train station in Florence, where, after a great week together, I said good-bye to my husband and our best friend, who would be traveling home to the US, while I went on to Sienna to meet girlfriend for more travels. My husband gave me a hug and a kiss and looked at me with his “I really don’t know if I should be leaving you alone” look. Our best friend slapped him on the arm and chided, “She was traveling around Europe when you were still in diapers! What are you worried about?” First of all, that’s almost but not quite true. I am a self admitted, proud, cradle robber. I did start traveling in Europe at age 18, while he was navigating his first year of high school. Secondly, his intuition was, as usual, correct.
I got on the train to Sienna, and settled back into my seat for a quick nap. There is nothing more soothing than the rocking of a high speed train. Ambien without the embarrassing side effect of heavy snoring. AHHH. I awoke in what I believed to be just a few moments later, as the conductor announced, “Termini, termini” which I took to mean ” get out of my train”. So I did. There, at the end of a short main street through town, was a funicular lift that scaled the steep slope up to the famed medieval walled city. (or so I thought) During the short ride up the wall, I dug out my map of Siena, to navigate the ancient brick streets to my hotel in short order. I figuratively patted myself on the back for my efficiency, noting how proud my husband would be when I told him that I used the inexpensive, public transportation system instead of a taxi. I walked to the first intersection and admired the beautiful view of the Tuscan landscape below. I looked on my map for the street names identified on the etched stone street markers…and didn’t see any of them. I entered a “Tabachi”, and showed the barrista my map of Siena, pointing to my hotel’s address. “How do I get there?” I asked, in my made up language, “Fritalian”, mostly French with some Italian sprinkled in. The barrista looked back at me with a perplexed look on her face. “Siena? To Siena?” “Si” I responded, “Siena” “Pensione Ravizza”. “near Piazza del Campo.”, I responded confidently. “Piazza del Campo? Siena?”, the tone was transitioning from confused to incredulous. “Would you like me to call you a taxi?”, she said in perfect English. (This often happens. Italians will patiently let you struggle through a few botched lines of their beautiful language before revealing their far superior ability to speak our clunky English) While I would rather have walked the few short blocks that I estimated it would be, I said “si”, and within moments, a shiny Mercedes 4×4 arrived for what, by my misguided calculations, would be a five minute ride. My driver started DOWN from the hilltop town, rather than ACROSS. “Where are you going?”, I asked politely, in my best Fritalian. The driver replied, “To Siena, alore, Siena, si?” “Yes, Siena. How far is it?”, I asked distrustfully, now fearing that I was being taken advantage of. I imagined the barrista hopping on line when she saw me wandering in circles, rollerbag in tow, map in hand. “WE GOT ANOTHER ONE! Clean up, Aisle Two!”, she might have broadcasted to the local cabbies for a small commission on the hapless tourist’s ride.
The driver replied, “Alore, 100 kilometers…” “100???” “Si, 100″ “Impossible! “, I replied with my best/worst Fritalian. “Ce n’est pas Siena ici?” (Bad French for ” This isn’t Siena here?). “Mais non, madame. Siena est tres loin d’ici!” (But no madam, Siena is very far from here, in perfect French)
Putting the pieces of my self induced puzzle together, I realized thatI had slept through the Siena train stop and was now in Southern Tuscany, close to Rome. I had mistaken one of the many Tuscan medieval hill towns to be Siena. This very kind and patient man gave me a scenic tour of Southern Tuscany in an air conditioned Mercedes 4×4 while inching my Italian language skills from “sucks” to ” tolerable to an elder Tuscan gentleman”.
The price? There are two ways to look at it. It was equivalent to airfare and time to travel from Boston to DC– or to an hour and one half of private language tutoring while driving through the most beautiful landscape in the world in a luxury car. I prefer to think of it as the latter.
I imagine that all parents, like us, spend a lot of time wondering what choices our children will make as adults–careers, spouses, places to live–all the big decisions that have guided our own fate. It seems that from the moment of birth, each child presents certain dominant character traits that knit together and power them along a path in some substantial way. Our daughter, a junior in college, has decided to major in Human Resource Management, a decision we find far from surprising–in fact, it’s a perfect fit. She’s already managed through some tough “personnel” issues, with authority, ingenuity, and total self confidence.
Recently, I came upon an old envelope containing an assortment of momentos that I must have stuffed into our file cabinet during that period when you don’t have the time, talent, or motivation for staying organized. While I have no recollection of saving these artifacts, I am ever so grateful that I did this.
All of it’s contents–from both children– were precious, and, one in particular portended her career choice with documentation of her first recruiting interview.
It was a snack sized plastic bag containing a tiny tooth, a note attached with an inordinate number of staples, supplemented with several pieces of tape, probably intended to convey it’s importance to the creator. The note was written as a form fill in.
” Dear _____________(tooth fairy),
Hi! My name is Kate! How are you? I hope fine. I just want to ask you: What is your name?___________How old are you?______how long have you been in business?_________Are you a boy or a girl?_________Well I just wanted to ask you that and please fill in the lines how you are suppose to.
PS My tooth in in the bag
PPS Can you wake me up when you come if the answer is yes please do so and don’t sprinkle forget powder on me. Thank you very much!
Mouths of babes? Or apprentice recruiter? This profound discovery prompted me to recall another memory of the HR Manager persona surfacing in her formative experiences. What I have often refered to as “Disneywhirled” came immediately to mind.
Our first pilgrimage to Disneyworld was researched and planned with the precision of a military offensive. I read, highlighted, and dog eared several volumes of trip guides. I interviewed friends and family members with questions intended to elicit high quality tips. “What do you wish you had done differently?” What did you miss that you will do next time?” Ultimately, I boiled down all the information and insight into–oh my god, what was I thinking–AN AGENDA.
Yes, a one page table, known in the consulting world as a “windowpane” of our magical journey through Disney. 2 rows : “AM” “PM” and activities listed in chronological order. I had calculated the crowd factor for each attraction at each time of day, and “mapped” our visit to minimize wait time. Eh hem.
I gave a copy to my husband to ensure mutual understanding (gag), I kept one, and off we went. First up was Mickey’s Town, strategically located on the opposite side of the park, where we would be the first to arrive. Second would be the ever popular “Peter Pan” ride, as we make our way back to the front of the park. But, on the way to see Peter, we had to pass the Grand Prix ride, deemed, in my research, to be inappropriate for small children such as mine. Both kids gazed with awe at the race cars moving noisily around the greasy track, the smell of diesel overwhelming us all. Both asked in unison, ‘Can we go on THAT??”
Shamefully, (sadly, in retrospect only) I plucked my copy of “THE AGENDA” from my backpack, and knelt down to their eye level. Pointing to my chart, I patiently explaining that the Grand Prix ride was not on our schedule, and that we needed to get to Peter and Wendy soon or we’d be BEHIND schedule.
Kate grabbed THE AGENDA from my hand, stomped over to the nearest trash bin, and began tearing it into shreds. Each word spoken was punctuated with one rip. “Mom. (rip) This. (rip) is. (rip) not. (rip) work. (rip). Into the bin went the AGENDA confetti. Defiantly but clearly “in charge”, she marched toward the Grand Prix and we all sheepishly followed. We’d been managed.
Fast forward to yesterday. The now HR intern came home from college for a doctor’s appointment, which, predictably, ended up going over it’s alloted time, and we found ourselves leaving the medical building at 6 PM. I asked, “Why don’t you spend the night tonight and go back in the morning?” She considered the possibility for a moment but then replied, ” I shouldn’t. Today is D Day. It’s important that I get back to campus.” D Day, as I recall, is June 6. Seems a little late to be celebrating, but who am I to question. Wait a minute. It’s September. I can’t help myself. I gotta ask.
“Um, D Day?”, I ask.
”On this day last year, “D” got so drunk he had to be transported to the local hospital. So we celebrate “D Day” with tequila and jello shots.
“Ohhhh.” ( I tried not to over react, knowing that she doesn’t and can’t drink) “Soooo, why is it “important” that you be there?”
“I need to supervise the situation. Somebody needs to make sure no one gets in trouble.”
Spoken like a true HR manager.
When I was a student in France, I invited a Parisian couple over for an American Thanksgiving dinner with all the fixins’. I bought a frozen Butterball turkey, frozen squash, and Or-Ida potato flakes at the commissary of the American Embassy. I had never cooked any of these items before. How hard could it be? Anxious to get the bird in the oven and move on to more interesting activities, I raced through the prep, ignoring the instructions on the plastic turkey casing. I shoved the thawed turkey into an undersized roasting pan and stuck it in our tiny, one setting only (“chaude”) oven. 4 hours later, out came a roast turkey, internally marinated in melted plastic encased giblets. The Parisians were horrified, as was I. Thanksgiving dinner was wine and cheese, with a side of fake mashed potatoes, taste disguised with generous dollops of creme fraiche. My Parisian friends never came back to my apartment. Since that incident, I always carefully preview recipes and cooking instructions before preparing any new recipe.
My husband learned the same painful (literally) lesson last weekend. He decided to pickle his robust harvest of red peppers. Of course, he had never pickled peppers before. He had never pickled anything before, with the one exception of his/our brains on a wine tasting tour of the Finger Lakes.
And so, he needed some guidance, which he wasn’t going to find from me. (Stuffed peppers? yes. Pickled peppers? Naaaa.)
Recently, he discovered that his prefered learning style is “YouTube”. From this resource, he has viewed many ”How To” videos, and has learned how to keep deer and other varmints out of vegetable gardens, eradicate squash bores, Japanese beatles, and voles. And so, he snapped open his laptop, perched it on the ledge over our kitchen sink, and searched “Pickling Peppers”. Sure enough, there were several alternative videos offered up, and some of them were even about the actual process of pickling peppers, rather than new and creative uses for Hukas. He chose one, fast forwarded through the introductory remarks, and got right into the process–preparing the brine, chopping the peppers, pouring the brine in the Mason Jars, and stuffing the chopped peppers into the jars. After about 854 rewinds, several gallons of vinegar, multiple 5 lb bags of sugar, the peppers were pickled–as was everything within a few feet of the bowl of brine. Did you know that pickling brine pits granite countertops? Nasty stuff. As if you needed a reason not to pickle peppers.
Anyway, the conclusion of the pepper pickling project on a lovely summer, Saturday afternoon segued nicely into cocktail hour. While my husband continued to admire his rows of colorful Mason Jars, accompanied by his Vodka Tonic, my daughter and I moved to our sunroom to read. A few moments later, we heard a moan. He staggered in, staring at his hands, obviously in great pain. He screamed, “My hands are on fire!” Which, we believed to be true based on his expression only. We didn’t see any flames. “I can’t believe it. My haaaannnnds are on fiiiiiiire!” We, the onlookers, did what comes most naturally to us at times like this. We laughed hysterically, a side splitting yah ha ha ha ha.
”What should I do?”, he screamed helplessly.
Giggling, I said, “Search YouTube perhaps?”
Which, honest to god, he did. And yes, there are numerous videos available on the topic of “What to do when you forget to wear gloves when you pickle hot peppers.” Unfortunately, none of them were very helpful. One suggested rubbing alcohol, to which I added–if rubbing alcohol is good, than Absolut vodka must be better. Nope. Much better pain relief if you drink it.
Another suggested aloe vera. Out came the sunburn kit and all it’s assorted potions. More suggestions discredited.
We reasoned that if it helps to drink milk to calm your tongue after eating overheated Mexican food, then perhaps applying a paste of plain yogurt might help calm the nerve endings in one’s hands. He tried it. Moderate relief, but hilarious visual.
Meanwhile, he tossed back another cocktail, and the hysteria was reduced to a quiet, pathetic mumble.
“my…..hands…..are……so……hot……”
We asked the obvious question. “Didn’t the video tell you to wear rubber gloves?” “yeah”, he replied, sheepishly. “I didnt’ think it was that important.”
“Did you fast forward through that part?”, I asked. I rewound the video (for the 855th time). The first line: “Before handling your peppers, make sure to put on your rubber gloves.”
Apparantly, regardless of your prefered learning style, shortcuts in food prepartion instructions can have disastrous results.
