Who Me?

I turned in a freelance assignment that I thought was pretty good. I added a little pizzazz, a little TGIF flair, if you will. Hip, happening, now kind of stuff. Just the right amount of (subtle) cuteness.

Of course, like any insecure writer would, I kept checking the site to see if he had posted it. Finally, around 9pm, there it was. But it didn’t sound like my piece. Truth be told, I didn’t even recognize it.

I was a little discouraged, because he must have edited the heck out of my work. And, if I’m honest, it was a whole lot better his way.

And then……

I opened up my original and he had only changed two words! Combined a couple of sentences with an “and”, but only changed two words.

So, two things: (1) I don’t even recognize my own writing and (2) Either he was that tired or I was that good. You can imagine the conclusion I have to draw here.

What'cha Doin'?

I guess with age comes the loss of things. Most notably friends. Lives change, people change, goals change, heck, even our personalities change. I’ve lost eight friends in the 21st century and, even though I’m sure it’s natural and the way God intended, every ending has stung a bit.

Last night, I woke up from a sound sleep at 3:18 AM thinking of one former friend in particular. Now, of course, I will worry about her for days and never know why.

There were signs that year that things were going to end. She was busy, and I think I became more of an obligation. We had less in common and were growing apart. I think we both knew it was time. We didn’t exactly lose touch, as they say, we just stopped all forms of communication. There was no talk about it, no warning about it, it just happened. Our last conversation was Thanksgiving Day 2006.

At the time, I thought it was especially bad timing, because she had recently won somewhat of a genetic lotto. Her father sold his business, and each of his three kids received millions of dollars. To this day, I’m afraid she may think the friendship ended because of money. Ironically, we had a lengthy conversation not too long before about how she’d soon find out who her real friends were.

Looking back on it, though, God knew what he was doing and ended this relationship at the perfect time. There’s no way we could have lasted. I’m a single mom, working multiple jobs, saving, paying for college. In a nutshell, she’s not. I would not have reacted well in any conversation about grand vacations and surgeries and jewelry and days, weeks, months, years with little to no responsibilities. I was happy for her, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think I would have been able to appreciate the details. I’m probably wrong and small for that, but maybe I get points for honesty. Plus, I'm awfully glad I didn't have the opportunity to embarrass myself.  

She was so important to me during the divorce from my father. She made jokes at all the right times. We came up with elaborate and hilarious schemes for his (and his wife’s) demise (yes, two middle-aged women sitting in a parking lot planning all sorts of Fargo-type things) . She just sat there in silent and supportive agreement when I busted out in uncontrollable crying in the middle of one conversation I’ll never forget. She made the hurt of it all more bearable, and she made me feel validated and like I mattered when I knew I didn’t. Heck, even her mother got on board, and she was sure to let me know that at least one parent on the planet wuv’d me! I like to think I was a good friend during her nasty separation and divorce from her ex-husband and oodles of recurring family drama.

She was funny, sharp as a tack, and the most effortlessly kind-hearted person I know. I hope she’s well and happy and enjoying her life, her son, her new house and her family. I miss her. And I know it’s the way it’s meant to be.

But I do wonder what she might have been up to at 3:18 AM.

Lucky Charms

This morning, while stopped in an intersection waiting for an extended family of Canadian geese to cross the road, I started thinking about life in my potential new condo.

While I’m not thrilled about it, I am thrilled about it. There’s a pros and cons list, as with anything, but I think the advantages far outweigh the disadvantages. 

• It has a little spot for Sabrina to sit in the sun and take care of first thing in the morning and last thing at night business. 
• It has huge closets for stuff. 
• It has a good-sized enclosed porch area out front (with a front door an acceptable distance from anyone else's front door) and a deck out back. 
• It has fantastic new windows. 
• No kids. No basketball hoops. 
• It has a really 1970s kitchen which will probably limit my time in there (a very good thing). 
• It’s about half the monthly expense I’m used to. 
• I can still call someone when something breaks or gets a hangnail. 
• It’s closer to the highway and the airport for easier escape. 
• It’s a nudge out of Indy (no complaints, lovely place, but in the wise, wise words of Supertramp, "I really have enjoyed my stay, but I must be moving on"). 
• There are five people in this block of condos: The single elderly man on the end has recently been put on oxygen (so you know he barely moves and certainly won’t be sawing or hammering things). His single lady neighbor is a retired professor and walks dogs for folks. 
• Then, and this is the weightiest of all: the people who would be on either side of me. I know the neighbor on one side - a cool, single, retired lady who spends lots of her time traveling and working on research projects. The neighbor on the other side is a single male - a prosecuting attorney with grown and gone children who, rumor has it, hates noise! I love him already.

With all of this written, the cons hardly deserve a mention. Austin won’t be thrilled because it’s not a hop, skip and a jump to Broad Ripple, but hey and like he says, my decisions aren’t about him anymore.

So now I’m off to buy the most special-est of notebooks, because I have my first of six summer coaching sessions Monday, and I can’t wait to write down all I learn about creating my new life.

Nothing To Say

And He's Back

Austin got news recently that a great aunt in Atlanta committed suicide. She left no note, had just remarried her ex-husband and was preparing for her son to return from Iraq at the end of the month. Austin didn’t really know her and neither did I when I was married to his father, but it’s sad all the same.

“Dad called and told me that he went to the wake today. Betty’s son was there. They let him come home early to attend the funeral. Ironic, huh?”

“Yea, that is so sad. Poor kid.”

“He has a bunch of stuff in California, so he and his father are going to fly out there to get it and then take some time to drive back and see the country.”

“Oh, that’ll be FUN.”

“What?”

“I’d love to do that. Wouldn’t you?”

“Uhhh, I think it’s supposed to help the kid get over his mother blowing herself up with a shotgun. Nice, Mother. Very nice.”

“Oh, yea. I didn’t mean FUN fun. I just meant that it would be a cool trip to take.”

“AGAIN, Mother, the woman is dead.”

“Jeez. When did you get all caring and sensitive?”

“I’m going out.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Wouldn’t you like to take a trip like that?”

“Not with you, so don’t even ask.” (smiling)

“We had fun in New York.”

“This would be in a car. For days.”

“We could find the big ball of twine.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Fine, Get out.”

“Exactly.”

I Choose Ed

I used to be a really good griper. Now, I’m a more of a mediocre whiner. Ever since I saw a documentary about Ethiopian women, incontinent from being hung from trees to give birth, the joy has sort of gone from my griping, making it sound nasally, insignificant and feeble, a.k.a., whiny.

My latest whine is about my neighbor, Ed. I don’t know him, nobody I know knows him, but everybody knows his name, I assume because there have been discussions about him. See, Ed mows his lawn at night. The minute the sun goes down, and not a minute sooner, Ed turns on his back porch light, as if to warn us, and starts up the riding mower.

It takes Ed about two hours to finish. In a neighborhood where driveways are within crawling distance of each other and ON A RIDING MOWER. I think it’s because Ed likes to mulch. A lot. Although I can’t be sure, I’m just trying to make sense of it all.

His yard is like mine – there’s natural growth all over it. It’s not pristeen, is what I mean to say. Why he has to go over the same spot ten times to cut it into the tiniest blades of grass possible is beyond me. But he does. I thought possibly Ed had skin cancer and didn't have an SPF suitable for, say, dusk, but my son saw him leave with golf clubs at high noon the other day. So, Ed plays golf during the day, but must mow grass in the dark. Oh, Ed.

Last night, the mower cut off at exactly 10:23pm. I was fuming at 9:23pm, so you can imagine. I just hate what seems idiotic. We’re supposed to embrace each other’s differences, but I can’t embrace crap like this.

Anyway, at 10:24pm, I let the dog outside and, standing on the deck to wait for her, I heard thumping. Fairly distant but all too familiar thumping. A few houses down, I saw floodlights and boys and the ball attempting to get through the hoop. Basketball. BUT...not next door. I suddenly had a new appreciation for Ed.

(The worst neighbor I will ever have was a basketball player. I support the passage of any bill banning basketballs in neighborhoods and radios and perfume in offices. Seriously, punishable by death or at least isolation.)

So, these were my choices. Which would I rather have? Ethiopian incontinence, Basketball Boy Jones, or Ed? Yea, God, I get it.

Doomed: Technical Writing

Yesterday, someone knocked on my cubicle’s imaginary door (done by saying, “knock knock” as you stand in the opening) and asked, “Can I ask you a technical writing question?” We chuckled, like it would be rocket science. “I have an assignment in my writing class at school and I’m not sure. Do you spell out enclosures at the bottom of a business letter?”

Huh?

Come to find out, this teacher of hers – first semester teaching at her school since transferring from Ivy Tech ( need I say more) – is lumping all non-creative writing into one and calling it technical writing.

Bloody fantastic. Way to go, teach. Way to bring an entire field’s rates down. Thanks.

I’ve never written a business letter, but I want to now. I wonder: do you spell out YAY-HOO or is there an abbreviation?

Again, not that technical writing is rocket science. It’s not. But, the few of us who actually have serious and lengthy technical backgrounds should be offended by what’s happening to the field. We should speak up every time someone lumps us in with secretaries. If not, we’ll all be fighting for $20/hour jobs soon. That’s when I start handing out straws and asking for folks' side item choices. 

Saturday Morning Commercials

I can’t tell you the last time I was in public at 8am on a Saturday, but if it weren’t for the get-up-and-go required, I’d do it more often. Despite being chilly and windy, a friend and I visited the Broad Ripple Farmers’ Market. A lot of the good stuff was gone, but I got some great tomatoes. (What are grocery store tomatoes made from anyway? I can’t really tell, but whatever it is, it’s a far cry from tomato seeds (or however that works)). I think this market will be great once the season really kicks in.

The Fresh Market at College and 54th was the nicest shopping experience I’ve had in a while, too. (I went to Marsh later in the day for something in particular and barely got out alive.) They have a lot of the typical things but a bushel of the unexpected.

And I don’t know what happened to The Barking Dog Café, but it’s much better now than it was last year. A purple and orange (I know, but it works) theme, new awnings, new tables and chairs, and a crab roll to rival any I’ve tasted (not that I’m a connoisseur).

Speaking of not being a connoisseur, when Austin and I went to Ogunquit a few years ago, we could not stop talking about our fantastic meal at the Fisherman's Catchin nearby Wells. Well, and this says a lot about us as human beings, of course, the Fisherman’s Catch was just named top Maine restaurant by Yankee Magazine. See? We’re something, I know.

My Saturday morning friend turned me on to Farm Fresh Delivery. At this point, it might sound like I'm trying to be all obnoxious hoity-toity green, but I don't mean to - I've just always loved the idea of supporting small, local businesses. Anyway, she tried another local CSA last year, but wasn’t crazy about the inflexibility. FFD has lots of customization options. Hell, they even have soup. Tomato and basil soup with roasted pine nuts. Yea, I’m in.

Austin has been horizontal since he got home from finals Friday afternoon. I think he might get up today, though. It’s Mother’s Day, of course, and I think my present is weed-eating and possibly a pick-up at the Chinese dive up the street. Oh, happy day!! My yard- and take-out boy is back for the summer, and I'm taking advantage, because this could very well be the last one.

I just realized something odd. For the first time in my life, my tiny little collection of friends (which has changed and dwindled through the years as lots of things do) includes no mothers. Although, we’re all mommies to some awesome four-legged children, which makes us equally wonderful and lovable and deserving of the day. And our "kids" are probably better behaved and cuter and better spellers than half those human ones anyway. :)

Technical Writer Rates

Even though I’ve been doing this for a while, I’m still learning about the project “get”. Marketing is my most worrisome process due to some personality flaws, but, in these trying economic times, I’ve had to completely rethink contract rate negotiation.

Freelancing negotiation is fairly simple. Rate is always in the initial conversation and average rates have typically been researched by the company before contact. As long as both of you are in tune with the market, discussion can quickly focus on the project and how you fit.

When a contract agency calls, it can feel a little more like applying for a job. I’ve learned, though, that it’s best to throw out everything I’ve been taught about not discussing salary during a “real job” interview and talk rates right after both of us agree that I’m qualified, interested and available for the project. Details about the project and what I can bring to the table should come after the rate is negotiated. It’s been a fairly fast process, because rates have been competitive, limiting negotiation to just a few dollars.

But, throw in a recession and all bets are off. Contract jobs are less plentiful. As any business, contract companies depend on profit margins that, in turn, depend on volume. Less volume means more profit needs to come from fewer contractors.

Result: Contractor rates dive.

I didn’t think this through during a recent negotiation. I’m in the market for a new project, and I know opportunities aren’t coming my way as fast as they have in the past. So, I “interviewed” for something I was qualified for and would have enjoyed. A lot. And I never talked money.

When I was selected (yay!), I was told that their maximum 1099 hourly rate was $20 less than my minimum. They, of course, can depend on other, more unemployed, younger candidates, who will or can work for less. But what could I do?

How can we mid-career folks, who have responsibilities, who have worked every day for more than twenty years, who have struggled to make the middle-class money we make today, compete? The first answer that comes to mind is experience, of course. But, in contracting anyway, experience has little to no value in a recession. It’s a numbers game based on somebody else’s profit.

Lesson learned: More freelancing. More marketing. Less fear. Less whining.

Right. I’ll update this in July from the soup line all because of my ghastly fear of rejection.

Writing Encouragement

I have had the worst time getting back into the swing of my personal writing projects. In casual email with a writer friend who was also part of The Writer’s Success Group last fall, she encouraged me to sign up for the Free Write Fling that starts May 1st. And, today, she so kindly emailed with a link to the Vibration Magazine Blog for Using Flower Essences to Enhance Writing Projects.

I haven’t used flower essences for a few years now. A former college roommate and friend introduced me to them in 2003, and I wasn’t quite convinced. Funny, though, because I recall a good number of journal entries about feeling better about things in general.

So, my new creative, confident, fluid attitude should begin in 3-5 delivery days. The Fling starts on Friday, so I may struggle until I get my dosage right.

*There’s nothing in this world like a supportive writing group or friend. If you’re in Indianapolis, you may have to look outside the borders for this, but once you find one, hang on for dear life! 

Don't Forget that April 25th is World Penguin Day

Come to find out, there’s a celebration (or two) every day of the year (April 30th is National Honesty Day, and I'm already planning to have an honest discussion with myself). This Saturday, April 25^th, is World Penguin Day, a celebration of the beginning of the annual northward migration of the Antarctic’s Adelie penguins. I’m a big fan of the penguin. Not just for their obvious cuteness, but for their tenacity, their loyalty and their attention to detail.

Six things you can do to increase awareness of this marvelous penguin journey:

1. Take a friend to the zoo -- or if you can’t muster the penguin perseverance to make it there, watch this video from the lazy comfort of your home: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHJWtLhHoE0
2. Attend a penguin parade -- or if that’s too much trouble, too, watch this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hocght2zfhA
3. Read a book about a penguin to your child. Or better yet, play a penguin game: http://www.nationalgeographic.com/marchofthepenguins/game/
4. Wear black and white (tuxedos are optional).
5. Walk around your block a bazillion times in solidarity.
6. Honk.

So, take a little time Saturday to wish them well. Happy trails, Penguins!!! Take a sweater.

Elizabeth Strout Wins the 2009 Pulitzer for Fiction

Frankly, THIS just says so much about ME (ha). Elizabeth Strout has been my personal favorite since I heard her read from her first novel, Amy and Isabelle, at the Mississippi University for Women's Eudora Welty Symposium in 2001. It was a life-changing event, and I even wrote her a thank-you note.

I only hope Oprah doesn't ask her to be a guest, because we can't let just anyone into the exclusive fan club. Ms. Strout is charmingly unaware of how inspirational she is, and all this world needs is another worked-up Oprah audience.

Yellow

I’m brushing up on my procrastination skills (brought on by lots of work to do this weekend) and I thought sharing would postpone acting responsibly even more.

At True Value Paint’s website, you can match your personality to a color.

I am a Yellow, which means:

You are quite the powerful thinker. It’s this talent that allows you to overcome a plethora of great obstacles. Luckily, this doesn’t affect your ego and you give off a pretty easy-going appearance. You enjoy the finer things in life and also have an attraction to art. If you can help it, you try not to rock the boat. But you also can’t stop yourself from searching for new ideas, methods or styles.

Click here to find out what color you are. (Loitering time = ~ 4 minutes)

Britain's Definitely Got The Talent

At the risk of jumping on the Interwebs' bandwagon about Susan Boyle: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

I wonder if the reaction would be the same in America. I hope so, but I'm not sure.

Poor Derek

I had my annual flat tire on Friday. Luckily, I was near a gas station, so I pulled over and assessed the damage. Flat doesn’t quite do it justice, because the tire was really just wrinkled up around the rim that was touching the ground. It was a lovely Spring Indiana day – freezing cold and gusts of 30 mph – so I got back into my car pretty quickly and called to say I’d be late for an early meeting.

Then I called Free411 for the number to Big O Tires.

“Hello, Big O Tires. This is Derek.”

I explained the situation and asked about a mobile service. Derek said they didn’t really do that, but, if I could wait, he could come down after the morning rush and put on my spare tire.

“Well, Derek, here’s the thing. I don’t really have one of those.” (Lost it in last year’s blow-out and haven’t gotten it replaced because anything in my trunk isn’t really a part of my life anymore.) I went on, “I guess I’ll have to call Allstate Motor Club for a tow to you. It’s a shame, too, because I’m only about ¼ mile away. But I really appreciate your offer.”

“Have you tried airing it up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Putting air in it. You said you were at a gas station.” It was at this point that I knew Derek would talk about me for the rest of the day.

So, I aired it up, slowly drove the ¼ mile to the tire store, made the walk of shame to the counter and then waited on the diagnosis. “Your tire’s had it. The rest are in fair condition, but I noticed that none are the same. Do you plan to put a set on soon?”

“They come in sets?”

He laughed a little. I explained that I have annual tire catastrophes and haven’t really had the chance to buy a complete set. Plus, now that the car is 11 years old and could die at any time, new tires would just look silly, sort of like a really old woman with brown hair.

“For you, I recommend a used tire in comparable condition that comes with a 30-day guarantee.”

Thanks to Derek and his quick thinking, the whole thing cost me $35. And 75 cents for the air.

Life Magazine Online Again, But Better

LIFE and Getty Images, the two most recognized names in photography, have created Life.com so we can wander through the legendary LIFE archives - for free! More than 3,000 new photos added every day.

How this came about (again) is pretty interesting: Wall Street Journal, Life Magazine is Reincarnated Online

This issue is the first one after the day I was born. The feature story was "Point of No Return for Everybody" about automation eliminating jobs. And a story that made the cover was about an injustice in our justice system. Crazy. 46 years later and not much has changed after all.

Technical Writer Torture

Situation: There are gobs of flowcharts. So many that people roll their eyes at the mere mention of them. At first, I thought they reproduced at night when all the lights were off. Sort of like cockroaches. Despite folks’ pleas to management to stop producing them, they are continuously created.
Goal: Because management thinks people are merely confused by the flowcharts, they want to develop a process document that explains at a high level what they do. From there, they can add support documentation on “work practices” (don’t say procedures in the office, it’s comparable to saying bomb in the airport). Everything would be in easy-to-find, connected, textual presentations to alleviate the reliance on people grasping a bunch of willy-nilly flowcharts.
Nine months later and the umpteenth dance around the goal: Manager sends my first draft of process doc to Director for opinion.
Result: Director sends reply email to Manager:
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From: Director
To: Manager
Cc: Senior Manager
RE: Processes_All_Phases.doc

I did a quick read, looks pretty good. One thought: Might be easy to get lost in the process. I wonder if a high level flowchart (with brief descriptions of what the process is and why it’s done) would help?
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