giving my heart again

Beautiful Gift

I am lucky. Last year, during my darkest moments (read about it here), a wonderful gift serendipitously fell into my lap.*

“Gift” is really the only word to accurately describe my experience working at Event Management Company X. **

I am grateful for the opportunity I had to explore event management, something I’d wanted to do for several years. I am grateful that I was able to work my much blogged about Bermuda event (here and here.) But most of all, I am grateful for the people. They took a chance on a girl with no previous experience, they hired me even though I planned to go to graduate school soon and they accepted me with open arms into their professional family. They were patient and generous with their knowledge. Even more notably, they were fun to work with and TOTALLY appreciative of my clothing choices.

I would like to thank them all. Them being:


•The Glamorously Tall One – She who is not only the owner and founder of the company but is also on my Top 10 Women List because her courageous vision, optimistic energy and uncompromising principles have inspired me from the moment we met. Although she might never publicly admit it, I believe that it is the courage of her convictions that sustains the strength of the staff and drives the success of the company. She also has a special talent for making and keeping friends, is a champion hula-hooper and throws one hell of a fun holiday party. To work for someone like this, I maintain, is not an ordinary thing.
•The Token Maleness – God bless his long- suffering. Somehow, he gets through each day amidst a handful of women who shamelessly primp, gossip and generally act like girly girls. And yet he has never thrown up nor has he ever made up for it by belching, spitting or engaging in other “gross man” behavior. And he can manipulate a database with his eyes closed, sort spreadsheet data 10 different ways in less time than it takes most of us to open the spreadsheet, and sweet talk the crankiest client/vendor into a thankful toady. During his off hours, he makes a mean cocktail, drives a kick ass car and defies the social structure of the small town he calls home. (He also proposes to anyone who brings him Starbucks in the morning.)
•She of the Cool Hats - The one who has kept me laughing since the day she bestowed upon me the beloved sobriquet, “Stupid New Girl” - the master of imitations, voices, funny faces, hyperbolic stories, and “squirreling.” She knew the answer to every one of my rookie questions, refused to be intimidated and could lash the most remiss of vendors into action. But as equally as she is no-nonsense, she is also compassionate. She has a heart of gold and is an exceptional family member and friend – even to me despite my need for privacy regarding certain subjects. Truly, a GOLDEN star.
•The Girl with the Platinum Locks (the one shade of blond which I covet, yet could never get away with) – She makes handling hundreds of tradeshows look like nothing – always unruffled despite multiple deadlines and looooong conference calls with her “favorite” people. The QUEEN of brilliant email discussions like this and always in on the latest celebrity gossip, she had an impeccable sense of when we needed a little levity whether it be an email, a snack break or a FLYING MONKEY.) She once drove 25 minutes in the opposite direction of her home just to take me home when I twisted my ankle at work and couldn't drive. And how can I not love someone who loves the shopping as much as I do?
•Supergirl – Seriously. It isn’t without reason that everyone has learned to trust what she knows and what she says…from hooking up a scanner to picking out classy gifts to finding (on-line) the name of the cute doctor at the hospital. She threw me countless lifelines from day one including an orientation of the office building (like how to find the third elevator in the small, hidden dark corner of the lobby that you must find in order to get to the mailboxes and deli), the explanation of industry buzzwords, standing next to me to help me fax 50 pages through the fax machine that hates me (I’m not kidding – the machine knows me and actually despises me), and most unforgettably, pushing me in a rolling desk chair down the hall and to the restroom when I twisted my ankle. She’s exceptional at her work and exceptional at her life outside of work. And that girl can DANCE. To quote a client, she is “clearly a legend.”
•She Who Left Big Shoes to Fill – Fortunately, she stayed for a while to hold my hand before she moved on. She was there when I had my first-event breakdown and when I answered my first official phone call. She listened to me talk all day and shed consistently intelligent and extraordinary insight. Best of all, she gave me much needed daily shots of confidence during the grad school application stress. The short time we worked together made a significant impression on me and I still miss her humor, her genuine kindness and, of course, her love of all desserts!

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you and Thank you for this precious gift. The gift that won’t ever get lost, collect dust on the bottom shelf, expire or cause unwanted weight gain. I can't ask for much more.


*Ok, so it didn’t just fall into my lap…it did take diligent networking, but networking involves timing and luck. And luck feels like a gift.
**Not the real name, the real name being much more clever.

SAHMs, SILs and SUVs

Not working for the past 2 weeks has thrown me into the exotic and unfamiliar territory of the SAHMs: more commonly known to most as Stay At Home Moms and to yet others as Shit Ass Ho Motherfuckers (if you are not one of these others, you are missing out on the fabulousness of dooce). It’s true that I grew up under the care of a champion SAHM, but when I look around me at these SAHMs who are MY age, I find myself overcome with curiosity. Who are these women with their SUVs and mini-vans, double strollers and mommy bags? Who are these women who have free reign of the stores, gyms and Kwik Kars while the masses are at their office cubicles?

I may have found some answers during a 5-day stay in the Bay Area last week where I spent many hours with my sister-in-law (SIL), a competent SAHM with 3 kids under the age of 5. In short, by 12:00 pm on the day I spent alone with my SIL and 3 kids, I’d taken care of myself. SIL had taken care of herself, 3 kids, one husband, one houseguest and the carpet shampooing. She'd also walked 4 miles (she pushed a double stroller while I walked along side, empty-handed), answered a million "But Mommy..." questions, broken up several fights and gone to the school and the store.

Possibly, I’m cool enough to be a Shit Ass Ho Motherfucker. But without a doubt, as I learned last week, I am definitely not cool enough to be a Stay At Home Mom. I'm not saying that I want to be one. Nor am I saying in any way that the daily grind of my life is any easier than their's. But I will say that I absolutely believe that these women have fully earned their few hours a day to freely reign the stores, gyms and Kwik Kars.

Another Reason to Love my Sister-in-Law

SIL: Apparently, before I married your brother, he would get his way with girls by using the big puppy dog eyes expression.


bebe Me: I know EXACTLY what expression you're talking about. The big, sad, brown eyes.

SIL nods.
Slight pause in conversation.


bebe Me: I can't STAND that expression. Gets on my LAST nerve.


SIL: (snickering) Doesn't do a THING for me. It just makes me do exactly the opposite of what he wants.

More snickering and eye rolling.

Four Words and One Contraction

“You’ve got your spunk back!”

Sweet music to my ears.

I saw my former boss this week. The last time he spent significant time with me was almost a year ago when I slogged through each soul-sucking day behind a big ol’ fake smile – a far cry from the plucky, genuinely enthusiastic being that he once knew.

His simple observation makes me think that just maybe I’m headed in the right direction again.

A Night to Vaguely Remember

I recently finished yet another work of teen fiction (my favorite genre). The plot of this particular story revolved around, of course, the PROM. And I had to wonder: are there really people who actually remember every detail of their prom night?

This is what I remember about my prom night: I had a really good time.

Don’t get me wrong. Of course I remember what I wore and who my date was. I know I went with about 20 people (I saved a few photos), but I can’t remember at whose house we took those photos. I’m pretty sure I remember the downtown venue at which the actual dance occurred. But I don’t remember anything about how we got there, the moment we got there, who we saw there or really much at all about what happened there. I know I went to an after party of some sort, but I don’t know where it was or what I did. Clearly, it was not a monumentally significant event for me... then or now.

But I know I had a really good time.

She-mail

Sometimes you get the chance to work with crazy- talented, celebrity-gossip lovin’, chocolate-craving co-workers who know how to think, work, play hard and carry on brilliant email discussions. Yesterday was a good email discussion day. The longer one involved both on-site and off-site participants and is too lengthy and replete with inside jokes to share (oh, but it was one of the best). However, this little gem fortuitously occurred right as my mid-afternoon eye-glazing started:

Hotness alert!!! Jude Law is going to be in town for some art gallery opening at the Kristy Stubbs gallery tomorrow

I may have to camp out there. However, while he is brutally hot, he is quite awkward and very European. I watched his interview on Good Morning America and was a bit creeped out by him. He seemed slimy. Hot, but slimy.

Hot and slimy. That sounds like the Noodle Bowl we get at Royal Thai.

Just one little slice of my Panic Pie

I was a junior in high school the last time I actually seriously wrote an academic research paper.

The next year, I was consumed with college auditions, applications and graduation recitals. So I coasted through my senior year of AP English by writing my research paper on Debussy so that all of my research sources were in my family’s "library" at home, peppering it with esoteric classical music terminology in hopes of impressing and/or intimidating my way to a decent grade – an easy maneuver to accomplish since that particular teacher was distracted by all the girls in my class who actually bought into the rumors of his willingness to take on under-aged paramours and if not that, then his willingness to give “A”s to the best flirters. I got an “A.” (Believe me, there was no flirting with 40+ men in my under-aged social repertoire so either he was duly impressed or I can thank the flirting, under-aged girls.)

At my prestigious music conservatory, it was generally accepted that good, well-prepared, spell-checked papers would be turned in by music education majors, composition majors, a handful of double-majors and an even smaller handful of performance majors who were wise enough to see beyond the next 4 years. The rest of us performance majors would throw excellent ideas onto paper in haphazard form and print it out 10 minutes before class without spell-checking or any kind of proofing for that matter – all in the name of practice. We had to PRACTICE! How could we spare any extra time to acknowledge that there could be other skills that might prove useful for the future? Other subject matters to explore more deeply so that we could eventually mature into insightful, well-versed musicians and members of society? God bless the long-suffering professors at music conservatories everywhere who have to teach performance majors. They don’t deserve that.

I, on the other hand, fully deserve the panic I’m feeling about entering graduate school with my previous research writing experience having been from the era of actual card catalogs and golf pencils without erasers.

Girly Girl Time

EYELETTING!! Who knew I could love this crafty-country associated fabric so much? It makes a sweet, sexy little corset. And with the addition of some unexpected detail (bows, lace, satin), it makes a decidedly NON-crafty-country, chic summer top in a fresh color (pink, yellow, deep sky blue).

Yup, it’s bebe Spring Collection time again. Other spring trends at the store:

•Maybe just a little less bling on the clothing (sigh), but LOTS of girly satin bows (yum)
•Don’t stop the lunges and squats because there are still lots of leg-baring short shorts in satin, linen, wool, etc.. They are also showing up as fresh, modern one-piece jumpers (shorts instead of the skirt).
•Short skirts and LOTS of short, flirty dresses - some of them will remind you of when you were a little girl
•Glamorous, luxurious satin EVERYTHING
•Patent leather belts, shoes and handbags – I love this!!
•Still lots of wide or thin waist-belts and peep-toes and wedges
•Big ol’ cocktail rings (I got 2) and shiny metallic bracelets


Bebe managers ROCK.

The world has not come to an end!

This is what I always realize after doing or saying something that affirms my intentions to commit.

This past weekend, in the company of a few friends, a few acquaintances and several strangers, I finally worked up the nerve to utter the phrase, “I’m moving to Austin.” Two days later, the sun still rises and sets, I still need to buy Woolite Dark, 635 westbound is still congested at I-35 in the morning, Kroger still accepts my Shoppers Plus card, and it seems that there are no invisible ropes tying me down behind the invisible bars in the invisible 4-sided box of commitment…yet…. And I even managed to establish 2 new social contacts in Austin.

Now I’m wishin’ that I didn’t wear these shoes…

At about the stroke of 1 is when your 4-inch, kick-ass, black patent peep-toe stilettos will tell your thighs, knees and ankles that they are done supporting your gettin’ down real low.

Ouch. And you still have to walk off the dance floor and out of the club. Thank God for $8 valet parking.

The Tragedy (and travesty) of PCD

I have been a loyal fan of the Pussy Cat Dolls. They brought a fresh, vampish twist to my beloved girl pop genre. I purchased, listened to and blogged about their entire CD. When they opened for Christina Aguilera, I was just as excited to see them as I was to see her and I sang every lyric along with them. I love the songs and I love the choreography. Nicole is a great singer and a fantastic performer.

The Tragedy: Nicole is leaving the group.

So what does the rest of the group do? They’re not ready to stop. I respect that - I wouldn’t either. I truly believe that they deserve the same credit that Nicole does in the success of PCD. After all, Pussy Cat Doll just wouldn’t be the same. They are great dancers so they should keep dancing and performing.

Entering Dangerous Territory: But they don’t want to just keep dancing and performing – they want to simply replace the missing member and carry on. Which would probably work if they were still a burlesque troupe. But they are NOT still a burlesque troupe. They have crossed the line to become a pop group.

The Travesty: They are doing all of this on a REALITY TV SHOW.

I just can't do it. I am, officially, no longer a fan.

Ma'am - I - am

Yes, ma’am.

An insulting insinuation of a woman’s age or an expression of respect used to address any female over the age of 2?

The answer, it seems, depends on where you call home. My first encounter of the first meaning was in college when after a brief conversation with a cashier, my Bostonian friend said with a look of sheer horror, “Did she just call me ma’am?” I soon learned that not only can calling someone “ma’am” be insulting, but calling someone “sir” can sarcastic.

In Texas, we learn to say “please,” “thank you,” “ma’am,” and “sir.” We use this terminology freely around friends, family, and strangers. We use it whether we are talking to people older than we are, to people who are the same age that we are and to people who are younger than we are. And to me, it makes perfect sense that we use the term “ma’am” to get someone’s attention. “Hey!” sounds rude and abrupt. So does “Miss” and “hey lady!” “Excuse me” is too impersonal. Down here, we don’t like to sound rude, abrupt or impersonal. Until they deserve it that is.

So imagine my shock today to read an article in which the author (clearly not from Texas) actually spent $3000 on various dermatologic facial procedures all because she started hearing too many people call her “ma’am!!!”

Here’s what bebe Me has to say to her: Yes, ma’am, all the dermatologists and plastic surgeons in Texas and the deep south would looove you.

Outer Power

I discovered the power of fashion in my life at an early age - the power it has to propel me through gloom, to amplify celebration, to inspire me through creative blocks and to simply bring pleasure to my life every day.

I often hear comments that imply that interest in fashion is some sort of obligation, a rite of passage or even simply a means to a goal. “Oh, yes, I used to keep up with that stuff when I was at that age when it was the thing to do.” Sometimes it is followed by: “…back before I got married. Now I don’t need to impress anybody.” And then there are the implications that paying attention to clothing, hair and make-up is vain, shallow, snooty, only for the wealthy and is surely an indication of insecurity.

I find this perplexing, because for me, fashion is just not any of those things (well, it is a little vain.) Fahion is art. Since I was a little girl, I’ve always dedicated a corner of my thoughts at all times to picturing the pieces of my wardrobe and mentally sorting through all the different combinations of tops, pants, skirts, dresses, shoes, jewelry, purses and belts. Not really because I was trying to maximize my wardrobe, but because it’s a creative outlet. It’s color , lines and texture. It’s mixing things up and keeping things fresh. I do the same with make-up and I do the same with hair.

What is the power in the process of choosing what to wear, which make-up to use and how to style my hair? It gives me something to look forward to every single day when I’m sad. It makes an already special event even more special. When I feel an ebb of creative thoughts, it reassures me that the juices are still flowing somewhere in me. It brings out a strongly opinionated side of my generally open-minded nature as I most recently experienced while watching the 2007 Oscar’s Fashion Police show on E! this year, sometimes wholeheartedly agreeing with the fashion experts and other times jumping up and yelling at the screen about how WRONG these same “experts” were.

This is not a power that comes and goes depending on where I am in life. Sure, the details may change with trends, age and yes, personal budget. But the fulfillment remains the same. For that, I am grateful.

March 6, 2007

What a coincidence that the quote in my day planner is:

The best thing about the future is that it only comes one day at a time. –Abraham Lincoln

Yesterday, I made a monumental decision regarding my future – choosing between two fantastic graduate programs to attend. Unfortunately, I had less than a week to decide, the last few days being a blur of visiting the schools, talking to as many people as possible and changing my mind every hour, depending on what I was looking at or who I was talking to. My brain hurts.

You would think that a decision would bring some sort of relief, maybe some excitement. But it didn’t. I’m just exhausted and plagued with uncertainty and nagging reminders of what I might be giving up by choosing A instead of B. I know I would’ve regretted not choosing A, but truthfully, I have plenty of regrets over not choosing B. Having two equally good options truly is that cliché, a blessing and a curse. Why then, being the eternal optimist, am I only feeling the curse?

Maybe because the uncertainty of picking one program over another isn’t what’s bothering me the most. Perhaps I hoped that making the decision would somehow eradicate the rest of my original misgivings about going to school in the first place. They are still there.

I haven’t been telling anyone about my decision because I’m just not ready for the responses. "Aren’t you excited?" "Isn’t it great?" "You’ll love it!" "You’re so lucky…I wish I could go back to school." "When are you moving?" And I’m too exhausted to fake it. Because the truth is, I’m not excited right now. So how can it be great? I'm not completely sure that I'll love it. I’m aware of my fortunate circumstances so I feel guilty for not feeling lucky and for not being one of those people who LOVES school. I’m just not one of those people. And even though I put in a lot of time and soul-searching to come to terms with the fact that going back to school is what I want to do, there are still plenty of things about it that I’m not looking forward to. I’m not saying that I don’t want to go. In fact, as much as I’m enjoying my work as an Event Coordinator, it seems more clear every day that I’ve made the right choice. What I’m saying is that I’m not as enthusiastic as I think someone should be after making that right choice.

So I’m grasping for something to pull me out of this funk so that I can celebrate my own excitement and not everyone else’s. I’ll start with the words of Abraham Lincoln. One day at a time.

You Know You Work In Texas when...

you hear the Senior Account Manager in the office next to you on the phone saying, "Oh bless your heart, it's co cold out there. Did you have to go out back and poke holes in the ice so your cattle could drink?"

All in a (14) Day's Work

As I stumbled out of the cab in front of our hotel on the highest point of Bermuda, gasping for fresh air and trying (unsuccessfully) to ignore the queasiness in my stomach from the 25 minute taxi ride along the island’s serpentine road, I was met by what appeared to be a seven foot giant* wearing a suit coat, tie and Bermuda shorts (some sort of island mirage?) and offering me Bermuda’s national cocktail...oh, that dangerously smooth and delicious Dark & Stormy. My single-minded response? "Please, PLEASE, where is the ladies' room?" Clearly, my first hour in Bermuda was anything but indicative of what turned out to be a red-letter two weeks and perhaps, one answer to my previously blogged New Year’s Plea.


How does two weeks of working my arse off to help coordinate a sales training event, where 14 hour days are still too short to finish our work, manage to unravel 10 months worth of the stress-induced tightly wound knots I'd tied myself into? By providing that first illuminating moment we all wait for after a drastic career change: the moment when something clicks and all the pieces (the cryptic jargon, mysterious tasks and puzzling co-worker comments) start to fall into place and the big picture finally starts to make sense. The fact that it happened on the most alluringly beautiful island in the world just makes it sweeter. And the indulgently, fluffy frosting on the cupcake? Our client was a well-known, MALE-DOMINATED software company, famous for their fun-loving sales force. Being showered with attention from a lot of men at the same time who are not only fun, but also smart and interesting to talk to was like I said, the indulgently fluffy frosting... (enough for an entire blog post--see post below entitled "Candy for My Feminine Senses")

More highlights from the event :

•Going to the local market with my co-worker to buy client gifts and filling our cart with 20+ bottles of Gosling’s Black Rum, eliciting more than a few incredulous stares from local residents
•The flavors of Bermuda: fish chowder, fresh rock fish, violet candy, Bermuda rum cake, Dark and Stormies** and Rum Swizzles
•Spending more time ironing (thank you logo table cloths and event shirts) than I’ve spent ironing everything else combined in my entire life while warding off the obvious, not-so-funny Stepford Wife jokes
•Feeling like kids on Christmas morning when our missing Fed-ex box from Dallas finally arrived 4 days late (complete with screaming, jumping up and down and tearing open the box)
•The delicious, full chocolate, avant-garde chocolate sculpture (gift from the hotel pastry chef)
•Turquoise (count the gradations) water, white/coral sand, tourists on scooters, pastel colored houses behind moon gates (see photo below), and the truly genuine nature of Bermudian natives and residents

So on that last morning, as we pulled out of the hotel drive in the taxi to the airport, my stomach felt fine but my heart was aching. I already missed the island, permanently etched in my memory as the place I was when what should have been soul-sucking labor, instead turned out to be the invigorating gust of epiphany and motivation that I needed to just let go. The Magic of Paradise? I believe!

*The seven foot giant turned out to be our one and only Director of Conference Services, the gallant leader of our hotel staff, all of whom sport suit jackets, dress shirts and ties with Bermuda shorts, which is indeed a Bermudian custom and looks perfectly normal by the time you leave the island.

**Barrit's Ginger Beer and Gosling's Black Rum

Candy for My Feminine Senses

I’m not going to lie. One of the highlights of the Bermuda event was that I was a female Event Coordinator after 2 months of long hours in a female-dominated industry, amidst hundreds of male software sales reps from a male-dominated industry who spent 10 days of intense training with each other.

Throw in a secluded tropical island, Gosling’s black rum, a nearby dance club that plays Shakira and Sean Paul, and what did this lucky girl get?


•Guaranteed friends and attention from men at every function and during every break
•Free drinks and invitations to socialize every night
•Lots of dance partners
•Someone telling me that I look like Fergie (YES, the singer, not the actual British royalty)
•The guy I’d been secretly crushing on all week looking into my eyes on the dance floor, grabbing my waist and singing along with the lyrics, “Who knew that she could dance like that? She makes a man want to speak Spanish…” (the fact that I don’t actually speak Spanish aside, why is that so endearing when you actually have a crush on someone, but so cheesy when you don’t?)
•If I simply mentioned something I might need, there it was. (a sofa on which to lay down and rest my feet, a jacket to keep me warm, a refreshing drink, etc.)

And the sweet red cherry on top?

A foot massage by not one, but TWO doting men (and not just any two men, but my two absolutely favorite men) at the same time, one on each side. Oh, but it gets better. It eventually turned into a foot, calf AND hand massage. And as I settled back into a relaxing state of nirvana, I had but a single thought:

“I LOVE (Male Dominated Software Company.**)”

Any girl who doesn’t take advantage of THAT, is either lying or crazy.

** Clearly, not the actual name of the company. This is still an anonymous blog, after all, and for the protection of all parties involved, I must add that the drinks and dancing happened only after the event when it was professionally kosher. In addition, despite the drinks and dancing, all participants maintained the professional behavior expected and no inappropriate lines were crossed.

Aaaaah, Bermuda......

Wild Chickens run around like squirrels