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In Relationship Therapy with my Blog

I just read a post on Mike Manuel's Media Gorilla Blog called "Why Blogging Has Become Harder". I don't usually read posts that are not business-related anymore, but I was drawn to it, especially this passage:

The truth is, last year was an amazingly good, but challenging year for me at Voce. We won several big accounts. We grew our team. We formalized partnerships (and forged new ones). We innovated. And where we could, we shared what was working. And amidst all of this, I must admit, I felt an increasing need (really, a responsibility) to focus whatever extra attention, energy and know-how I had on my projects, my clients and my teams.

As a result, I went dark online.

But here’s the other truth: My insularity was also influenced by my frustration with the signal to noise ratio, especially around social media consulting. When everybody’s talking and acting like they’re the experts, the last thing I wanted to do — really, the last thing I could do — was to try and show my expertise by shouting the loudest or talking the longest. That doesn’t help anyone, plus, you know, I don’t want to be that guy...

I commented on Mike's post, realizing that I had more to say than just what I had posted:

Mike, I had a similar Come-to-Jesus moment looking back at my blog during my first real vacay in years and realizing how little I’ve contributed to my digital legacy, and yet it was a time when I’ve done more speaking and educating on social media and marketing. It depressed me that my blog bling was outdated (I couldn’t even quite remember how to change it!) and that my meatiest recent piece was on wearing tight jeans. I used to geek out on social media, even get sweaty writing about it! But alas, the more work we have In Real Life, the less time I’ve had to participate online. I’m going to endeavor to get re-involved–how else do people put their money where their mouths are? But in different fashion than in 2005. I actually have a JOB other than reading blogs and writing four hours a day. It should be interesting.

This has been my struggle for the past few years. Even at the BlogHer Conference, when I'm surrounded by women who spend enormous amounts of time on their blogs, and women who are just opening to this life-altering pursuit, I feel alienated. I can only hear their stories and nod, knowing that at one time I could relate. Today, I just help pay for the booze. I know there's more to it, but when I'm just sitting on my ass, or am doing what my blog tagline indicates--"sitting still"--I become Annie Dillard, wistful for the writing life.

Mike's right, there is much more flotsam out there on the Web, and it's difficult being able to follow it so closely that you can say something that hasn't already been said in a comment on TechCrunch, let alone in a fully-fleshed blog post. Some of us have removed the obstacles of other commitments by designating our best thoughts to Twitter, just getting them out there, unroasted, before we overthink them or they fade away. Back when I had a non-start-up job, I used to jot down ideas, then work on them at night, going to bed minutes after clicking "Publish." Now, I struggle at night to catch up on email.

But you know, a lot of this is beginning of the year resolution making, a lot of talk. If I were in therapy right now, my shrink would insist that I stop talking about my blog like it's not in the room with me. I have to address it directly. Here goes:

Blog, it's true, I know it. I haven't been seeing you as much. And because of that I'm ashamed and stay away. It gets harder to come see you because every time I come back I see signs of my neglect. TypePad has added so many new features I don't recognize your dashboard anymore. I struggle to add and remove Typelists. I push publish again and again, and still no change. I know that I'll need to go deeper, into your source code, to truly make changes, but I struggle with the commitment. The commitment I once had, when for hours I would explore every last feature you had, upload images, even have H-band create new headers for categories, when you were my everything, I've saved for other pursuits, like ensuring payroll.  

It seems, I became so excited about you that I took it to a macro level. I needed to help others enjoy what I enjoyed when I began to write every day. It started with a conference, then grew to something that exceeded any part-time effort. I still kept posting to you, but by then I had a business to run, and you could no longer be the receptacle of personal takes on my business pursuits, because now there were others besides H-band whose privacy I needed to protect. People like employees and investors.

Yes, there have been others, but you knew about the print gigs--I even wrote about them here--and the affair with Fast Company. I promise you, JackMyers.com is strictly professional, and of course I have to blog on your sister, BlogHer.com, from time to time. You have to be realistic. Sometimes she even links back to you.

While I cannot promise that I will be back to visit everyday, I will think of you more. I'm not sure what our relationship will look like. When you were raised to help me sort out what I was passionate about, and you did just that. Perhaps now you can help me stay on what I'm passionate about. I can ask you the questions I can't elsewhere. Just know that, while most of your traffic consists of Google Searches on the word "sex", and people who are wondering what I've been up to since high school, I still value you. You've documented me at my best and my worst, been the place I've gone to in good times and frankly horrible ones. I'll be back.

Be patient with me. I'm still working through this phase, where I commute and travel a lot and, you know, work. There's a lot of exciting stuff to share with you about the people and companies I get to meet, but I haven't yet figured out how to share this stuff with you. I promise to work on that. I'll remember to call, or at least post, more regularly. I also promise to visit Mom more often. 

Another chapter in the life of a cryer

Life is hard when you are a cryer. You have to bring extra Kleenex to movies. You have to be extra vigilant at weddings, graduations, and funerals that you don't look like Joan Jett in the rain. You have to contemplate whether to wear mascara. You have to endure condescending terms for your tendency to cry: "She's emotional." "She really feels things." "She's that way." You have to constantly explain to people you really aren't that upset; you just cry a lot.

I've cried at things that some people would consider appropriate, and some things that wouldn't typically elicit that kind of emotion:

• Weddings--no brainer. My own: I berated myself for thinking I could get through a page-long speech without losing it.
• People dying in films. This is common. But I'll cry for anyone who dies in a movie; they don't even have to be good guys. Characters don't even have to die; they can just get sick, or have a bad day.
• National Conventions--Get the spouse and the family to join you onstage and I go from misty to overflowing.
• Olympics--You don't even have to win anything. You just have to show up and run your event/hit your double backflip/score a point at ping pong and you got me.
• Feel good reality shows. Extreme Makeover, the unveilings on TLC's What Not to Wear.
• Cheesy endings of redemption movies. I saw the end of Cool Runnings the other day. I thought it sucked. I cried. I know that the writing is formulaic and the plot simplistic. And I snort and even verbally condemn movies like these, but I still cry.
• Feel good stories. I cried when I saw how a woman funded kids' education with her life savings, how mothers saved up breast milk for needy children abroad, when an African woman emigrated and made a new life in America, when a woman won a Weber Grill on Oprah. All crying material.

I do believe it's genetic. Not to blame it on people or anything. I recall my Dad, despite the hard exterior, breaking down while watching John Wayne movies, hearing the "Little Drummer Boy" on the radio, or watching RiverDance. Swear to God. My mother taught me the triggers. It doesn't matter what people say at these events, but any wedding, graduation, speech with words "I just want to thank" tweaks the tear ducts.

I was surprised this weekend when I was watching the TV series "Heroes" with H-band. I made a movement with my hand that he misinterpreted as me wiping away a tear.

"I know, Babe. This show gets me emotional, too." I looked over and saw that H-band was getting misty.

I felt conflicted. I wanted to correct him and say, "Actually, I'm not crying," but I didn't want to discourage him. Maybe now someone else could cry with me, and I wouldn't have to be the only puffy face coming out of the movie theater. We could both be puffy. We could cry together in solidarity.

"Actually, Honey, I wasn't crying. That's great that you can cry though."

H-band felt bruised: "Why are you lying! Whatever ... you were crying."

I sat there, disappointed with how that turned out , thinking, "Heroes? Sheesh!"

My time in the Burbs: An Anthropological Study

I've been on the East Coast this week on business and decided to stay at my sister and brother in law's place this weekend. Since late Friday morning my life has been very different than it usually is.

Typical Friday afternoon:

I go to a workout class with Britt Bravo. I come home, shower, go to dinner with my husband, watch a movie. Fall asleep around midnight.

This Friday afternoon:

I go with my sister to pick up her kids from Day care. It's the last day of "summer camp," the last hurrah for my 5-year-old niece, Bella, before she starts kindergarten next week. Bella is fully ensconced in what I can only describe as a pre-schooler's rave: Very loud music has been pumped onto the playground, and a man is blowing up and tying balloons, which become swords and glowsticks. Some run over my feet; some come by to chat.

"Are you Bella's Gramma?"
"No. I'm her mother's sister. I'm her aunt."
"Oh."

We pick up her two year old and let Bella dance a while longer. Then we do the "loading," when we put the kids in their respective car seats.

"Bastian, hold my hand! Hold my hand! Hold my hand! Hold my hand!"
"Bastian, listen to Aunt Jory ... Hold her hand ... hold her hand ... hold her hand."
"(Screaming) My Hannah Montana pencil! It fell! I need my Hannah Montana pencil! Pick up my Hanna Montana pencil Aunt Jory!!!!"
"Jor, do you need help strapping her in?"
"(fumbling) No I got it (fumbling). I got it."
"Here let me ... "(click)

As we drive, we start to socialize the concept of dinner. Julie says to me sotto voce: "I think we should take them to the D-I-N-E-R."

"Where to, kids?"
"Dinah! Dinah!" says the 2 year old.
"Nera! Nera!" says the 5 year old?
"You don't want to go to Panera, do you?"
"Yeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!"
"Nera, Nera!" says the two year old.
"Guess we'll go to Panera."

Bastian gets a grilled cheese.

"Jor, would you cut his sandwich up a bit?"
"Sure." I start cutting Bastian's sandwich into squares.
"Mama!" Bella yells. "She's cutting too much!" I realize that I've created too many pieces as the two year old starts to scream and cry.
"It's OK, Jor," my sister says. "You didn't know." She tries to reason with Bastian that the sandwich tastes just as good in six pieces as it does in three. We end up eating most of his sandwich.

I fell asleep at 7:30 while watching Diego.

Typical Saturday:

I wake up, make breakfast with my husband. He goes on a hard core bike ride (the kind I don't join him on) while I work. We reconvene in the afternoon, go shopping, make dinner, and go out to a movie.

This Saturday:

There's a child in my room. I realize people have been up hours. My sister negotiates breakfast:
"Bastian, you want toast?"
"No."
"Yogurt drink?"
"Ya?"
"This one?"
"No!"
"This one?"
"No!"
"What do you want then?"
"Toast."

My sister and brother-in-law get the kids dressed and ready for their weekly hour at the gym. Julie says that this is a good time for her to get in a workout and a shower while the kids are being watched. I opt not to go--I've only just read a few of the posts about the Palin nomination and want to catch up on email. I also want to workout, but since I didn't pack running shoes, and my sister is wearing hers, I decide to flip channels and watch The Dead Zone--the original--instead. Man, it's good.

I hear a voice from upstairs. My sister is showered and exercised.

"You coming with us to lunch?"
"Duhhhhhhhhh ..."
"Ten minutes."

We go to the Diner this time. Bastian has a chocolate milk, a grilled cheese and a side of cottage cheese. He's had some rather interesting BMs these days, so mom wants to keep him away from fruit. I wonder how a kid can consume so much dairy and not have weird BMs. Bella opts for blueberry pancakes and cottage cheese. I offer to cut them for her, but she shoos me away and opts to stab them into a syruppy paste.

"Watch your elbows, Bella," Julie says. Her bowl of cottage cheese looks vulnerable.
"Bastian sit!"
"Bell, your aunt said she didn't want any. Stop touching her face."
"Drink diss, An-Jory!"
"No thank you, Sweetie.

"Bastian sit down!"
"No picking! Keep your fingers out of there. Don't touch your aunt!" Bella's fingers are sticky and wet.
"Bastian sit down!"
"Bella no!"

The dish of cottage cheese crashes to the floor.

My sister cleans up the short people while my brother in law pays the bill. We decide on a strategy of efficiency: Julie and Chris will go into Trader Joes. Chris will shop, Julie will make sure Bella does not run into anything. I opt to watch over Bastian, who's fallen asleep in his car seat. It's a perfect time to check Twitter feeds on the Palin nomination.

We go home and I fall asleep.

"Jor, you up?" my sister says. "The kids have a swim lesson, if you want to go."

I think, this might be my chance to get some fresh air. I'm getting ready whey the kids' babysitter and swim coach, Michelle arrives. Michelle is a college student and former competitive swimmer. The kids come out in these mini wetsuits.

"What's all this?"
"They're SPF 50."
"Is this what they wear these days?"
"Ummmm, yeah."
"Bella's wearing shoes."
"Swimming shoes."

Despite changing Bastian before Michelle arrived, he has what my sister calls a "Blowout" in his pants. Chris opts to leave for the pool with Bella and Michelle. I stay behind and will go to the pool with Julie and Bastian. We clean him up and strap him into the Touareg.

"I don't know where the pool is," Julie says.
"You kidding?"
"Hey, I don't normally drive! I don't pay attention."

God we're similar.

Julie backs out of the garage--CRASH!

"Omigod!"
"What was that?"
"Wha wa da Mama?"
"That must be Michelle's car! Oh God! What was I thinking? Oh God, oh God, oh God."

I get out and take a look. There's some damage to my sister's SUV, but Michelle's car has sustained much more damage. The back end of the car is completely dented.

"What have I done? What have I done?"
"Julie let's go. We'll tell her at the pool."

On the way there my sister relives the event:

"I had SEEN her car before I got in the car, what was I thinking? What have I done!"
"Just make sure that she gets a rental so that she can fix this."
"She's in college. This is such an inconvenience for her."
"Just make sure she's got that rental covered."
"Chris will kill me. He'll kill me."
"Where's the pool?" We've been driving down one road for a while.
"Omigod, am I going the right way?' My sister sounds desperate. "Bastian, Sweetie, where's the pool?"
"Dat way!" He points to the right.
"Oh God, I knew I went too far." My sister flips a U-turn.
"Did you just ask your two-year-old for directions?"
"Bastian, should Mommy keep going this way?"
"Yah."

God we're similar.

Bastian guided us to the pool.

I hang out on the kiddie end, where the water is not even a foot deep. It just seems more manageable over there.

American Girl Redux

So my sister--your mother--breaks down and buys you an American Girl doll. Her name is Julie, but you call her Juliana, because Julie is your Mom's name, and that's creepy. Mom and Dad even take you to the adoption center in Midtown Manhattan, where you get to pick little Juliana out.

They even make your little brother go. This is a special day!

You even get to go to the American Girl restaurant, where little girls get to eat with their dolls--but not without a reservation! Mommy and Daddy rent twins so that your little brother doesn't feel left out.

Look at all the men waiting on the dolls, working so hard and hoping for SAG credit!

So now, after Mommy took you and your girlfriends to see Kit Kittredge, the five year old's equivalent to Sex in the City, and bought you a doll, and taken you to the American Girl restaurant (booked 3 months in advance) and even bought you a cake, what do you say?

   

The Not-so-Newlywed update: 14.5 months after the wedding

"What's going on over there?" H-band says, eyeing the accumulation of people one gate over. The travel paranoia has set in, that fear of being the last to know the newly posted departure time, of being abandoned by our airline.

I'm not supposed to be upset about delays; I'm on vacation. But the usual instincts kick in. "Extra time to get things done,' I say to myself, checking my new Blackberry for new messages. Opening my outlook and reading mail that is losing its grip on me, but that still clings, nonetheless.

H-band and I got up early this morning to get to the East Coast by dinnertime. Now we're experiencing delays, with every update providing deepeningly worse news. I wonder to myself, I have to put up with this shit all year round, when I'm working and traveling, why am I spending Sunday in the Dallas Airport again?

it's different this time; H-band is here, griping with me. I don't have to be quite as vigilant about keeping watch over my personal belongings when he's traveling with me. I feel like a child when he says, at each new inflection point of our travel schedule, "Got your phone? Your boarding pass? Your wallet?" but I appreciate it too. When you travel so much it's quite nice having someone take on the load of staying organized. I can sit here and blog while he investigates our revised travel schedule. And if our flight magically occurs earlier, he'll run and grab my stuff while I power down.

I've been enjoying the additional love coming my way when H-band gets things he's really wanted. I got an evening of this when I bought him a Calphalon Wok; I expect at least a week of it, now that he's bought his latest toy: a pimped out Ibis mountain bike--his seventh bicycle. H-band doesn't mess around when he decides it's time for a new bike. You can almost predict when the itch will start--around bonus-paying periods, or when he happens to come into money. H-band made totaling his WRX and getting a Christmas bonus work in his favor.

"You know, Babe," he said. "I've been really, really needing a new mountain bike. You may recall that I've talked about this before."

"I don't know why you need to justify this to me; have I ever been able to stop you when it came to buying anything related to cycling?"

"But no, Babe. This is different. This is OUR money now. I want you to support this purchase."

"OK...what if I said I want to buy a new sideboard first. We still haven't unpacked the dishes we got from the wedding.'

"There's a time for everything, Babe. I'm just feeling that it's time to get this bike."

"Oh."

"Do you support me?"

"Whatever."

"Don't say that! I want you to be excited about it."

"Excited about what? Now you have a bike for every day of the week. Remember when you bought the Rock Lobster? You were so excited about that bike, and when was the last time you rode that?"

"But that bike is for the velodrome, babe. I ride it whenever I go to the velodrome." (Incidentally the last time was 3 months ago, and the time before that, five months).

I've learned that marriage isn't always bowing to the rational. It's letting people be irrational if it makes them happy. I thought of what H-band has let me do in support of my often irrational pursuits. Sometimes I don't get away from my computer for days, and the plates of food pile up, and my promises to clean up and get dinner started are forgotten because I've got important work to do. Sometimes I do things that he tells me not to--like spray Simple Green directly on my Treo to clean it, rather than wipe it with a cloth; or I leave 35 browser windows open on my laptop, despite his pleas that I stop abusing my electronics. I don't do this on purpose, I just get caught up in my work.

"Babe," I said. "I support this purchase."

"Thank you," he said.

"And thank YOU," I said, "for coming with me to Verizon."

"What are we doing there?"

"I need a new mobile device."

"What happened?"

"Long story."

The Visit

We didn't get to visit for very long. I was dreaming about something I can't really remember. It was a pleasant dream, though, that took place somewhere I can only imagine was the Midwest in Winter. I had wandered off the main street and into a neighborhood where the houses were huge. One, I counted, had four stories.

I remember thinking, "I'll bet these are more reasonable than they would be in California."

I needed to speak to this woman in my dream--why, I don't know. And I'd never seen her before. But as I was speaking to her I stopped in my tracks, because there he was. No overcoat, same tinted glasses, hair still parted on my right and slicked to achieve conformity with a comb, wearing what he might have worn to work in the 70s--a brown suit.

My Dad.

"Hello!" I said reactively. But then I remembered that my father was dead and how momentous his visit was. A friend once told me, after his girlfriend was killed, that she used to visit him in his dreams, to help him cope. I've assiduously read books from people like Sylvia Browne and James Van Praagh to confirm that yes, the most likely time that the dead may visit you is when you are sleeping, because we are too preoccupied metaphysically to see them in our waking lives.

My Dad wasn't one to move hell and metaphysical planes to see his kids, I imagine that when we finally have our time to meet in the afterlife, that he'll be in the TV room with a beer, waiting for us to come to him. But I had been wondering if he would ever pay me a visit. His appearance was checking all of the boxes: so real that it applied as a lucid dream, and so unexpected that no subconscious desire to see him could mitigate the fact that he had intervened in this dream.

I hugged my Dad, longer than we ever hugged before. I held onto him and realized I was swaying like those people in the airport that can't let go. The realization that this may be my chance to check in with Dad began to awaken me. I could feel my husband's sleeping body next to mine. And tears coming from my real eyes.

I had to move fast.

"Dad!...Dad. It's so good to see you!"

He gave me a somewhat sheepish look--he hated getting emotional--he just smiled back.

"So do you have anything to say, Dad? What....."

"You mean, how am I doing?...Is there something you need to know?"

I nodded my head tearfully.

He shrugged, as if to say "nope."

Of course, had he something to say then I would have been intervening in the dream.

"I don't want to wake up, Dad!" I said in a panic. "I can't talk to you!"

But his suit was already becoming a memory; I was already telling myself to remember the details. The process of interpretation was beginning, and I knew the moment was over. Anything he said now would be story writing. 

On Having a Life--Monaco, a New Jersey preschool, Vegas, my whereabouts this past month

I once wrote a piece for no one's eyes but my own--this was pre-blog era, so there really was nowhere to post this thing--called "The Editor". I didn't know why I wrote the piece at the time; looking back I think I was feeling frustrated as a writer who wasn't able to run with the bulls and then jot down the experience over shots of whiskey; my most fruitful writing experiences didn't align with times when I was most physically able to write.

This year has reeked of that same alienation. A lot has happened this year--a lot that I could make more sense of if I just had the opportunity to mull them over on Pause. But I've had to settle for scraps of time, and knowing that I was writing in shortcuts, not fully fleshing out much of anything. Getting notes of support back from the community has been on the one hand incredibly gratifying, and on the other incredibly sad. I know that if we spoke on the phone, they would sound a lot like my mother, who supports my adventures and wishes I was blogging again at the same time.

Quotes from this Weekend's Family Wedding

This weekend I was in Hanover, N.H. for my brother-in-law's wedding. Congrats to Dan & Deirdre; here's some color commentary that might not make it into the photo album

• "Are you wearing a bra under that?"
  --Mother-in-law, looking at my backless dress
• "Well, there's good wine, and there's good for the price,"
  --a distinction I made to my brother-in-law, the groom, when we went to buy booze for the rehearsal dinner
• "Let's buy the Bud Light for later in the night, when people are too drunk to know the difference,"  --H-band, on his libation-buying strategy before the rehearsal dinner
• "They've got to pick up stuff at K-Mart for the rehearsal dinner, so you should go with Marilyn--waitaminute, she's got five in her car. OK you go with Mom and Dad, and make sure Jackie and Steph have a ride--oh wait, they're getting here later. When do Grandma and Grandpa need to get there?"
  --Logistics planning during complimentary continental breakfast at the Hampton Inn
• "Where's Grandpa? I thought you said you were taking him ... Oh well, I guess I'll have to go buy prunes later. "
  --My father-in-law, upon learning that he was to have taken his parents to the wedding rehearsal and turning around in a parking lot
• "Doesn't he know I'm old and in heels!"
  --Grandma Phyllis, walking across the Dartmouth Green to the chapel for the wedding rehearsal
• "Hey Gunny,"
  --Grampa Seymour, a former WWII Navy sub seaman, busting Cousin Sidney's balls. Apparently Cousin Sidney was a Navy gunman, but was never stationed on a boat
• "I was researching the migratory patterns of chipmunks. Later in New York I specialized in bats."
  --H-band's second cousin Ethan's answer to my question, "What were you studying in grad school?"
• "I wonder if Ethan's seen Fast, Cheap, and Out of Control?"
  --H-band's retort to me, after chatting with Cousin Ethan and referring to a film about someone with an eerily similar profession
• "But what if the tuxedo's scratchy?"
  --My father-in-law, Arnie, protesting when his sons looked at the 30-year-old set of Yale longjohns (complete with with ass-flap) he was going to wear underneath his outfit to his son's wedding
• "If you wear those, Dad, I'll kill you."
  --The groom
• "You HAVE to look me up next time you are in New Jersey. We'll have lunch at the mall!"
  --Cousin Lisa
• "I want a picture of that couch, and the cat you said was on it."
  --Great Aunt Hilda, 93, referring to the note I sent after my wedding last year thanking her for her gift: a donation toward new furniture
• "You and you, in! And you and you, out!"
  --Cousin Janet, who took on photo-wrangling duty
• "How are your fire-extinguishing skills?"
  --Me, to my father-in-law, during the lighting of the unity candle, during which the mother of the bride was having extreme difficulty with the Bic lighter
• "Should I keep in the joke about the blow-up doll?"
  --My husband, the best man, five minutes before toasting his brother
• "I see you've learned a thing or two from your wife about exaggeration."  --the Groom, after my husband, the Best Man, toasted him
• "I don't have a lotta money; I have enough. And this...THIS! You can't buy this."
  --Grandpa Seymour, looking out at his adult grandkids

The New, New Suburban Yuppie Kiddie Party

I was staying at my sister Julie's in her new home in New Jersey, just a half-hour train ride from New York City. It was a Sunday, and my niece, Bella, had been invited to a birthday party of a neighbor's down the street.

"Let's get in the car, Bella," Julie said.

"Why does she need to get in the car?" I asked. "Isn't the party at the neighbor's?"

"Birthday parties are never at people's homes," Julie said. "They are usually at a venue. This one is at a pottery making shop. They'll do an activity for 45 minutes, have cake and water, and go home. We'll be there an hour and a half, two hours tops."

"What about presents?"

"You still bring them, but they are put in the corner and opened later."

I would appreciate this with a bridal or baby shower--avoiding the laborious gift-opening ritual. But something disturbed me about this updated version of the kiddie party--there was nothing kid-like about it. While kids may not like to sit through a present-opening, I believe I learned a lot about giving and saying thank you from birthday parties. Kids seem to be learning a new skill now: time management. Efficiency. How to engage others socially then run. With the next generation, could we lose the ability to be spontaneous and to just hang out?

When business travel and family don't mix: A vignette

I was in New Orleans this week on business and met with a collegue who was born and raised there. I felt incredibly lucky touring the French Quarter with this woman, who seemed to have a memory for every corner we approached, and who nearly smacked my hands when I attempted to extract the meat from the wrong end of a crawfish.

Also, quite randomly, I nearly walked into Evelyn Rodriguez on Royal Street. She wasn't there for the conference; she was just traveling and looking for a place to eat. This, by the way, is a coincidence of seismic proportions; I am used to seeing Evelyn at most of the conferences that I attend in the Bay Area, but not halfway across the country by accident.

Sorry, I digress. My Cajun companion, Lisa LaCour of AOL, had come to New Orleans earlier in the week and decided to spend the rest of her time in a hotel, not with her parents.

"It's just better that way," she said.

"Yes," I said to Lisa. "Family can be distracting."

"Mine keeps me out all night," she said. "I need to stay at a hotel so that I can sleep." I wasn't expecting that.

I would opt for a hotel in order to keep Church and State separate. It's been difficult coming to Chicago and being in head-down work mode. My family struggles to understand why I can't sit down for even ten minutes of Trivial Pursuit. For the most part my family totally gets that when I am home for a business trip I am stopping in and likely not spending quality time with them. This last time I was in Chicago my meeting was in the Near North Suburbs, about 15 minutes away from my Mom's house.

"How perfect!" Mom said. "You can take the Buick to your meeting."

This, by the way, was a very generous offer, but it held a lot of baggage for me. Growing up, we never had cool cars. Sometimes we didn't even have working cars. This stems from a deep-seated disdain of my father's for anything new. Whatever the reason, it was terribly embarassing. Imagine having to drive to parties in a Custom Cruiser. Some would say I'm a middle class spoiled brat--at least I had a car to borrow. To that I say, fair enough.

"I can't do that Mom," I said. "I can't drive the Buick to my meeting." The Buick, by the way, is a 90s model Century Ltd. that had seen better days with its original owners. My Dad got a good deal on the car back at his job at a Buick dealership. There was nothing wrong with it, per se, but it called up a past that I vowed never to recreate of having cars that I was afraid to parallel park.

Suddenly my Mom took on a tone that was reminiscent of my high school days, "What? Do you think anyone CARES what you are driving to the meeting?"

"Yes I do. I think the world cares. I think this is an issue of critical, world-changing importance."

"You're full of it."

I looked over at my brother, who had been kind enough to pick me up from the airport.

"Joe, can I borrow your Vibe?"

"I thought you didn't like Pontiacs."

"That was before I was faced with the alternative of driving a Buick."

"What time is your meeting?"

"10 am."

"Ummm no."

"Where's the closest car-rental place?"

"Don't be silly, Jory. Take the Buick!"

The next morning I took a few minutes to acquaint myself with the Century Ltd. I drive a little Jetta normally and needed to acclimate myself to having more car, much the way I would need to acclimate to waking up with my chest two bra sizes bigger. What can I say, it would be disorienting! My Mom and I are nearly the same height--did she drive on her tippy toes? I pulled the seat closer toward the steering wheel. The automatic gear shifter was to the right of the steering wheel--a peeve I've had about all of my parents' cars.

"Hun," Mom said from the street. "The turn signal is a little quirky. If you don't turn it just right you activate the windshield wipers." I signalled right and saw what she meant.

Mom said, "I'm not sure how the car is on the highway. I haven't driven it there."  To my mother any Interstate is like merging onto hell and to be avoided at all costs. Hence the reason my brother picks me up from airports, and why getting places with my family takes twice as long as it does other people--they take only side streets. I worried about this car; for years it had been driven at 35 miles per hour. Would I try to gun it on the expressway and lose the engine?

"Wish me luck," I said.

"Hun," Mom said. "I think you'll survive."