Be Everything Be Nothing

I don't make it any great secret that I really like going to a job where I do something. The office jobs that keep me sat behind a desk shuffling numbers across a spread sheet kind of kill me. So I've gone away from that career path and I'm limping along the path in retail, where if you did it yesterday, you'll probably have to do it again today AND do it with a smile (which is like a bonus challenge for me... because I look angry ALL the time) and sitting is a kin to sin. So I'm more or less happy there. I have a great management crew. That statement is kind of loss on some of my co-workers... but I get it from their perspective. I've been there long enough to see the flaws and the benefits... and I really like my team.
So as I'm limping along, I've moved departments. The new team is doing some great things, just needed a new person to shove them, it seems. But there's one person in particular, who having been there for a long time has seen fit to try to instruct me on what he wants me to do for him... he's telling his boss how to do their job. If that's not enough to drive me crazy, he's doing it in cryptic text messages. The latest of which informs me that while I don't have to DO everything, I have to BE everything.  ... What the hell does that mean?

I've ruminated on this for a few days... including a night at the bar which reminded me that I am no longer 22.

I can't do everything... there is literally not enough time in the day to have the face time my crew needs as well as do all of the packdown, take care of all of the customers and learn all I need to know. No way I can do all of it while fighting the neccessary destruction of shoppers. Can't do it all. But be it all? Be a face, and a shoulder, and a packdown guy, and personal shopper, and designer, and problem solver, and ... and... and...! But can a person be it all?... Not really.
There will always be something that just isn't part of our natural skill set. There will always be something that we're not great at. And being a leader doesn't mean that we have to be everything that the group is not, it's that we must be able to guide them, motivate, and train them. I am not perfect. I will never be. There will always be a weakness. But the mission to be a supervisor, to be a leader, isn't about being a super hero. It's a mission to help them see where they can improve while being willing to see where we can improve. There is no space here for hardened hearts and stubbornly digging our heels in. We must be flexible, but not string cheese.  Being a leader is like being copper or gold. Malleable enough that when circumstances change we can change, but rigid enough that when the path is set, that is where we remain.

It's not always easy to get there, but when we do... It's really annoying to be told to be EVERYTHING.

Song for the day: Yo La Tengo : The Weakest Part 
       Blame it on the night at the bar. There's only space enough for one new obsession, and Yo La Tengo is it at the moment. This song spurred the debate across the bar "It's a happy song!" cried out a lovely girl a few seats down, followed by my neighbor retorting "No it's not. It's a really sad song."  "But it sounds happy! The melody!" "It's a sad song!"
           A few days later, sober... it's a sad song, but it sounds happy, and it's where I lived for years.

Films and the Sad Days

Some time ago, I think I was 12, I realized that sometimes I just have to have a day where I am just unjustifiably sad. Somewhere around 18-19 during that insufferable spring (how did my family put up with me? I was horridly morose for no good reason, a break up was not a good reason for that crap.) I realized that it was the perfect day to watch all the sad films I didn't want to watch when I'm happy. And this works for two reasons. 1) Watching sad films when you're looking for a reason to cry is perfect tear fodder. and 2) People don't ask you if you'll be alright and think you're crazy for crying during and after particularly sad films. And it's important that they be films and not movies. They have to be good, the kind of good that makes you put down the freaking popcorn and cry.

I have a solid week off work. A solid week to organize the apartment (it's almost there. It's at the point where I can function and the rest is just design.) and to let out this pent up need for a cry fest. So I took it today. Today is the cry fest day. Today is the day I justify investing in Kleenex.

So I went out to the movies. I watched The Intimidation Game. It was fantastic. Brilliant. Perhaps the best film I've seen in ages... since Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, or Van Gogh, or Third Star. But oh it was brilliant.  But I knew what I was signing up for. I know the outline of Alan Turing's biography, and it is not a happy one. It's a game changer. The kind of story that makes you reevaluate a lot of your own life and what one person can do in changing the world. (Take a moment. Imagine your life without a computer. Not just with out a computer, without a cell phone, without all the digital enhancements of your car, without the information age. Hell, forget calculators even. That life. That 1950s world. That's where we'd still be without Turing. And before last year you probably didn't even know his name.) But it's not a happy ending. Turing was a homosexual. In 1950 UK, that was illegal, punishable by 2 years in prison or chemical castration. Turing eventually was found out, and was sentenced, and chose castration in stead of prison because he couldn't work from prison. A year later he committed suicide. The man who brought us computers, the predecessor to Steve Jobs, pushed to the breaking point because he was different. It's pretty rare that I sit through the credits of a movie because I'm crying so hard that I can't walk through the lobby. But today... after that, I had to sit in my car for a moment to be alright enough to drive.

So I stopped by redbox, and I picked up the rest of my cry fest movies. I've gathered my comfort foods, and then let them be in favor of wine Mom bought me at Thanksgiving and chocolates I got from work at Christmas. The cats have given up trying to fix me, because somewhere around half way through The Fault In Our Stars, the tears were just too much for Waffles to deal with.

I'm on to August Osage County, because after that I should either be drunk enough to sleep it off the rest of the way, or I'll be resolved with this sadness.

Thank goodness for this apartment. I think the move was just in time to save me. But that's another post.

For the night: Chopin Etude no 3 in E major, OP 10, no. 3

Newspapers and dust

I'm settled in.  The house has curtains, trash cans (more expensive than they deserve to be...or at least feel like they should be), a microwave, and rhythm.  It's all going so well until I realize that it's not.  I work two jobs, which while is preferable to being in debt or feeling like I can't quite hack it (my mother is quite pleased with the notion that she won't have to pay my bills or see me back on her door step), is providing very little time for me to think about typing things.

I put curtains up this week.  It was a great stepping stone in to making the house finally feel like the home it's becoming. The entire time I was thinking about the fact that I should be blogging. I did not then go and blog.  I went and ate a pizza, played Sims 2 Pets and went to bed with a purring bedwarmer on my chest. Bedwarmer has bad breath.  I know this because BedWarmer wants to rub not his face but his teeth on me a lot. Almost all the time.  I started thinking about that and I stopped worrying about a blog.  I started worrying that BedWarmer was going to realize that I don't think of him by his name. He'll realize this and then he'll start talking/crying about how I don't use his name and then he'll not play with his new toys to boycott my non-use of his name. Eventually, I'm sure he'll tear in to the newspapers in the kitchen.

And poof. I'm not even thinking about blogging now. I'm thinking that when he tears in to the newspapers, I'll be super mad and super sad at the same time and despondent, because really the fact that he hasn't yet is probably only due to the fact that they smell of 26 year old newspaper, dust and nicotine - they smell of my dad's closet.

The newspapers are ones that my dad saved from when the Cardinals made a run for (and I'm guessing they won) the World Series in '85.  (My brother mentioned this and now I can't not think it: Isn't it a bit pretentious to call it the World Series when it only accounts for the US leagues? I mean, the World Cup actually competes on a global stage.... why not the World Series. Time to rename it.)  When we were growing up, Dad told us about the papers, but none of us cared that much about baseball. Now that Dad's gone... well... now we want to see what was so important.   I've only just started rummaging through, but he's got papers from other major events too from 9/11 to "the Flood of '93", which in St. Louis and most of Missouri was almost the end of the world.  All of those newspapers reminds me just how important newspapers, real newspapers, are to being able to tell our tales to our posterity once we're gone. Our grandparents saved papers, and so have our parents. It's a snap shot of history well worth remembering.

Once I finally get done sorting through these papers I'm going to explore my own attic. It's blocked off and I want to know why...

 Song for the Day: the Number one today in '85. Careless Whisper by Wham!

Just a note

Just a note before I run off to a hockey game.

When autum comes calling, it's easy to see the beauty of death, because we scarcely see leves changing color as dying.

Security and moving vans

I've got one more trip back to St. Louis before I'm officially out of the town. It's a terrifying and exciting feeling, but it becomes more and more apparent to me that a house isn't much of a home when there's no one there. So since the rest of my family has left, it's surprisingly alright for me to be on my way out the door as well. 

And considering that upon returning to Tulsa with the vast majority of my belongings we were hit with a 5.8 earthquake, I might just like the feeling of having a little bit more security than the accepting pillow of my best friends couch.

A little short of crazy

Well, this month has been nothing short of crazy: the slowest move ever, the hunt for a real job, the hunt for part time jobs which pay bills in the mean time, the loss of two dogs, the announcement of an engagement, the visitation of old friends and the discovery of what family is and who it is, and fully understanding what makes a person who they are. 

The emotional toll of all of this is enough to leave one willing to find a quiet day and not do anything but breathe. That's not really an option when every time you turn around a friend is harping at you about a book you planned to self-publish over a year ago and just can't be bothered to finish. What can I say? I've been distracted. I have a few hours down, I just want to cook and find a way to go enjoy some free art, is that a crime?  No. Well, then the book will just have to wait.  Then it will wait for me to finish reading the criticism of Chaucer's work too. Then it will wait for me to spend a few weeks finding a new favorite coffee house.  And... now I'm just procrastinating. It's what writers and want to be writers do best. 

Ultimately, what I've taken from this month, aside from the fact that I seem to be much more lethargic than I previously thought, is that family is what it is, but that you get to decide how you want to respond to family and what boundaries you want to place on them.  It's an important lesson. One I hope to master soon.

On the verge

I've got two days left at my current job. It's a strange feeling. Every other time I've left a job for a new adventure I've felt a bit of trepidation about the new job or the commitment that comes with it. In fact, when I took the job I currently have, I recall actually freaking out in a QT gas station because I figured this was it. I was locked in for at least five years and I would likely retire with this job... or so I thought. 

Now 2years and 9months later, I'm rolling out to Tulsa and while I'm probably the least prepared for this adventure than I ever have been before, I'm feeling excited about strolling out of this job and this city. 

It's odd to look around my house and know that my days here are numbered (3 days!) and that when I leave I'm not coming back. Ever. There are moments when I want to lay on the floor in every room and soak it in, try to absorb it and all of it's memories before I got, but then I remember that I didn't forget the house when I went to college. And who I knew and what I did while here don't fade away just because I'm going some place else. If we spend our lives longing for the joy of yesterday, we never really enjoy today, and we'll never really see tomorrow.

Song for the day (and the move): Wild World - Cat Stevens
When I was 12 riding in my father's Mazda to my 7th grade parent teacher conferences, Wild World played on the radio. Papa sang along, like we usually did, and in between the first two verses, he paused to tell me that this was his song for me. Some day, he said, I'd move, I'd get married or I'd go off to college and settle down somewhere else, and it'd break his heart, but that was ok because that's what little girls are supposed to do.  When we got to the school, I couldn't manage to get my door open. Prompting my dad to tell me "I don't have high hopes for these conferences. You have to be smarter than the door." 

Boxes and the Doctor

This is going to be one interesting weekend. 
I'm spending it doing the preliminary move of my Mom's stuff to her new home and sorting out the loose ends of who's taking what out of the house I grew up in. It's a bit overwhelming. But mostly, what we're finding is that when we seperate everyone else's stuff from our own, it's not that much and we've got it well under control. But every time things seem like they're settled and all that's left is to grab the box and roll, someone breaks down in tears. 

It is after all the house that's been home for 25 years. When we walk out of the house in September, it will be the last time we live there. It will be the last time it is our home, and that seems a bit daunting.

Still, it's all good. We're taking the memories with us, and we'll be able to enjoy Doctor Who quotes and soundtracks as we pack up and move. It's times like these that I wish we had a TARDIS.

Song of the day: Doctor Who- Vale Decem
By the way, Doctor Who is back August 27th at 9/8c on BBCAmerica! Watch it!

Fairy Tale Endings Are Lies

When I was a little girl
Europe was the home of fairy tales
Germany was home to magical monsters and witches who eat kids
France was home to princesses and maternal geese
Sweden was home to elves, Middle Earth and epic fights
England was home to would-be-kings and knights.

When I was a teenager
Europe was the home of enlightenment and growth
Germany was home to Einstein and Kessler
France was home to Pasteur and Curie
Sweden was home to social realism
England was home to the words that untied me to them

When I grew up
Europe was just like America.
We've failed to teach our youth the value of our home,
We chase down rioters and anonymous hackers
We let loose well dressed villains
While we pay off bankers and news corps with millions.

Combat Boots

When I was eleven, I wore combat boots, legitimate Navy issue Shore Duty combat boots. Lord knows where they came from, but none the less they were mine. I used to wear those boots with torn jeans (they weren't bought that way and I've forgotten how many times my parents tried to throw them out but I know I retrieved them from the trash can more than five times) and a Air Force field jacket, which came from my dad.

It's hard to know how I changed from that stubborn, confident, dissident child to this run of the mill milk toast woman longing for approval from random strangers on social networking sites. I'm sure that it wasn't a specific moment. I'm sure it was a slowly lost battle with my mother and society about what a woman is supposed to be and do and wear. I know it happened in college and came with the desire to be accepted by someone who had no idea who I was until after I opened my mouth (and as fast as my pen moves, my brain finds sarcasm and wit slowly when impressions are to be made). It was self preservation at the cost of self.

Looking back now, knowing what the world is and the battles to be fought, I miss the girl with the field jacket and combat boots. They are tools much better suited for the world of adults.



Song for the day:  http://www.thesixtyone.com/#/s/azGPSYWEo5p/