Of Human Management

Dear Shiddy,

In the way that there are people who derive great pleasure from calculating numbers or measures or notes; people who can assess the strength of a beam or building, who predict the time between accidents, deaths, or weather... that is the way in which I enjoy considering people around me. At its most dumb, my latent anthropologist spends a lot of subliminal energy reacting to and examining how I interact with others, and they with others, ad infinitum. This lends itself to a fairly crippling yet pleasurable sense of nostalgia, which I think it's fair to say is a major component of my personality. (Aside: an older friend once insisted that no one really knows nostalgia until their late 30s. I beg to differ.)

So there really isn't much outside of relationships that interests me about the world. When I respond to music, I'm approaching it from its real or imagined backstory. Photographs: more about the framing than the content. Nature- the way we all move through its space. (I kind of hate that word, what the hell is nature, anyway?) And as my twenties feel further in the past, I find myself in roles where I'm constantly managing other humans. Mostly grownups. And I think I like it most of the time.

That sounds manipulative, here is more what I mean: in my current occupation my tasks revolve around some hybrid art of influencing, hosting, encouraging others to connect and share information. To give in to the more human. Sometimes this coaxing only takes the form of me being an example of empathy or earnestness or frankness. There's almost nothing dark or clever about it, though I often want to indulge that aspect.

It is a strength of mine: rallying a group around a purpose. I am persuading, tailoring my words or actions to another vocabulary, customizing a way of being with a particular individual. I like determining how to be with each other- or at least setting up a series of possible ways of being together, better ways than what has come before. It makes me feel powerful. I work to articulate a public facet of intimacy- the one in which we tell mere acquaintances what we want, and they tell us their desires in turn. And the private instances as well.

If all that I have just described is so valuable to me, if I am detailing these qualities as the essence of what I do or am; then I guess it makes sense that the past would be my most important reference point and study aid. Because past relationships, events, dialogues form an amalgam of technique and intuition that gets richer and more accurate with each experience and contact.

And when a person from my past or present makes a reciprocal gesture toward me- one imbued with a similar attentiveness, affection, consideration- it feels like the world is speaking back to me, assuring me that there is nothing else.

A Trophy.

Middy:

Thank you for your persistence in keeping this blog semi-afloat while I went into communications hibernation. I see that my last post was nearly three months ago. As you know, I wasn't in life hibernation: I moved cross-country, I got a promotion, and I generally worked my ass into total desk-chair adhesion.

It's interesting that you're concerned your brain life is atrophying. (For the record, I don't think you have anything to worry about; just re-read the second paragraph of your last post.) I've come to the same conclusion recently about myself. What do I do? Do I have any passions? I suppose knowledge (in air quotes) is a passion of mine: learning languages, learning about languages, reading, trying to know the smallest things about smallish subjects. But when was the last time I actually studied a language or read a book? Now that I'm not riding the subway for two hours a day, I don't have the same time-vacuum to fill with reading. And, reality check on that last thing: outside of working hours the last year or so, my brain has been so steamed into egg-noodle softness that I could only read partial New Yorker articles or maybe two paragraphs of a non-news- or politics-related Times article on my iPhone. Instead, I usually used my train time for easy iPhone comforts like making colored jewel shapes explode or doing easy crosswords while still using the "check grid" and "reveal letter" features.

Let's get the facts. What do I do? I work, I work out, I spend time with the s.o., I avoid crowds and never really socialize anymore because social situations usually involve alcohol and loud settings and being reminded that alcohol and loud settings make me feel weird and spaced out (a noticeable transition the s.o. likes to call "shutting down"), and that combo doesn't really work out for me. That last sentence causes me to wonder if I have a high-functioning form of autism, but I'll save those suspicions for a separate post.

I have many talents. When I've tried things that have nothing to do with physical activity (e.g., visual art, writing, music), I've excelled. But usually my perfectionism creates self-conscious hang-ups that drive me to stop.

So: I'd like to mark a turning point in my life with this move to the place I really wanted to be, which (when I really think about it) is one of the most amazing things that has ever happened to me. And which, I can't let myself forget, couldn't have happened without me. I need to use that general feeling of self-goodness and the extra free time I now have (my commute is only about 20 minutes each way) to do something I already know I'm good at, or to find something I'm good at that I had no idea I'd ever be good at.

Suggestions welcome.

The Year in Review

Dear Shiddy,

Let me begin with all the things I *didn't* do this year: I didn't sleep (because the baby didn't sleep), or make a ton of money, or wean said baby, or move somewhere cool.

But I did get pneumonia, become an aunt, attend five weddings, take the helm of a large commercialization project, lose 5 lbs, work on my marriage, refinance the house... I cried watching Obama be sworn in, made a lifelist, dragged my in-laws to the beach, taught our toddler sign language, fantasized about living in a different climate, rode on a yacht, took tap class, wrote a children's book, bought a live christmas tree, and generally came to the conclusion that I need to be investing way more time in my intellect and in my life-of-ideas.

I'm not sure how else to phrase that last part. Often, I observe my husband making these huge leaps forward, such is his voracity for reading and studying and learning. It's humbling. His energy reminds me that those topics that used to inspire me somehow aren't triggering the part of my head that catalyzes projects and ideas and initiative anymore. As if part of my brain is dormant and listless. What do I need to do next?

I want 2010 to be a year where I wake up and ask myself continuously "What do I want?" And if I am not doing the things I want to be doing, I need to police myself and ask over and over: "Why aren't I doing what I want right this minute?" Is there ever a good enough reason to ignore what you want?

Always Switched On

Dear Shiddy,
There have been more work moments than not lately when I feel as if I must remain in a constant state of hostessness - ever having to be the smiling, nodding diplomat immersed in a sea of sharp-toothed suits.

For instance, here I am from 9am-2pm on an average weekday:


That's right, my professional life IS THE STUFF OF CLIP ART. And beyond the horrifying turquoise blazer I'm obliged to wear, it's all about the handshakes and tightlipped business smile. (Why does everyone else get to wear gray? And I don't even like bangs!)

While most of my adult life I've acknowledged that my natural "peacemaker" tendencies have been a boon, sometimes the constant exercising of this one aspect of my personality GETS OLD. As in: Why don't I ever get to be the bad guy? The bitch? The hard-liner? The slacker?

Is it all my fault because I am simply too lazy to try out any new role? Do I fall into the easiest or most comfortable position just like that? How do I make use of any other unknown facilities or talents I may have when I subvert myself thusly?

Back in graduate school, a colleague once gave me a piece of frank advice: he told me I ought to pursue becoming a dominatrix. At least as a side-career, he said. Whatever character assessment he made to come to that conclusion, he never shared. But now I am wondering if I should have acted on that advice a long time ago. Because honestly I feel stuck in this place where I am a kindly and pandering middle manager.

File Under: My Hood

Our family just got back from a little sojourn to Austin, TX. I don't need to tell you Shiddy, that while Austin is riddled with rock bands, indie folk, students, and hippies of all sorts- it's home to some of the nicest people I've ever met. Within minutes of arriving there, people were initiating pleasant conversations with our toddler, giving us gifts, nodding their heads in sincere approval (of our life choices apparently?), and just being all-around accommodating.

Which brings me to the stark contrast that makes with my current 'hood.

Midwest Scenario #1: It's 9pm, my husband and I are quietly reading in bed. Off in the near distance we hear a clarinet playing Westminster Chimes. We look at each other and go back to reading. The "chimes" become obsessive, repetitive, strangely rhythmic. Suddenly, a 5-7 member drum circle joins the fray from across the street. We look outside to see a burgeoning group of amateur musicians on lawn chairs. Also in the works: a pair of random barking dogs (one pit-sized, one yippee) and then... a circular saw. Then there is a combo yawling/moaning/chanting happening that can only mean raw male bonding at its finest. We try our best to laugh it off. Update: that clarinet is STILL playing Westminster Chimes.

Midwest Scenario #2: 11pm, everyone is asleep. Shrieking emanates from the center of the four lane through-way directly in front of our house. This is not completely unusual, since we have the good fortune of living next door to a "Church House" (read: Flop House). The inhabitants of which, over the course of the last seven years, have held keggers and smokeouts and all means under the guise of holy bible study and extraChristian awesomeness. One favorite activity of theirs is a game my husband has affectionately named "Street Douche" which involves just standing in the middle of traffic screaming. When my husband or I have tried to engage them in logical dialogue regarding typical workday hours or noise levels or the trials of living with a sleeping infant, they've either been unbelievably clueless or offered a holier-than-thou/condescending excuse such as "Umm, well that was a REALLY important party where we were fundraising for Habitat for Humanity." Really? Really really? Community service with bongs? You people are out of school, with jobs (ostensibly)! How about you do my community a service and grow the hell up?

Midwest Scenario #3: 4am, I wonder why it is so goddamn quiet and why I cannot hear either of the two different types of buses (city, university), or the recycling truck, or the dumpster hauler, or the drunk driving drag racers, or the half-disabled crane that has been positioned near the abandoned house in the alley for the last six months pretending to do work. I get up to look out the window. It's snowed 21 inches overnight and the whole city is on shut down. That's why it's silent around here.

This is what I have to do to get some quiet in my neighborhood: invoke a fucking blizzard.

Re: Penises

I first saw one, I think, when I was about four. I have this one unconfirmed memory of my mom taking me into the bathroom and explaining to me what a penis was while my dad was toweling off. I shit you not. This has been a vivid "memory" of mine for decades, but I hope I'm imagining or mis-remembering it. And I don't want to have a verifying discussion with my mom ever, so I will probably never know what actually happened.

About a year or two later, my parents did make me watch a VHS with Henry Winkler. The creep in overalls strumming about penises haunted me vaguely until a few months ago, when I realized I could simply Google "henry winkler child molestation" and find the specifics.

When I was about seven, my aunt and uncle gave me a copy of The Anatomy Coloring Book along with a set of fucking sweet magic markers. I'm pretty sure the male genitalia page was the first to get Marvy-ed.

Basically, my fascination with dicks began early, long before I found out that babies didn't just "happen" to women once they got married. I didn't see one in its proper state until I was 17, but it wasn't much of a surprise because of the following fact: I discovered my dad's porn stash* when I was 11. On the outside, I was a quiet and studious adolescent with an autistic level of interest in Mozart. But being an only child of two working parents allowed me to spend my summer days paying excruciating attention to every minute of my dad's VHSes, each of which was like 8 hours long, crammed with back-to-back pornos from the 1970s and early '80s. It was the same scientific-inquiry skill set that had me winning state science fairs. And yes, I knew who Ron Jeremy was long before anyone else in my age group did.

As for your memory, Middy, I have a few questions. Did he whip it out without warning or explanation? Did he fiddle with it? While (in theory only) I admire his spirit of adventure, I wonder why he chose to show it to you in its revolting, flopsy** baseline. Samey for the solidly middle-class-looking man who whipped it out for me on a deserted side street in Chartres when I was backpacking solo in France. I was already pretty familiar with dicks by that point, but it was extra startling and pathetic-looking for being uncircumcised. I walked straight to the train station from there.


* We're talking boxes and boxes of mags here, and about a dozen videos.
** Best word choice ever, Middy. Bravo.

Re: Crack-up Gift

Yeah, that is pretty awesome. What would be more awesome is if you sent a crate of these to an elementary school as a charity gift, and then it turned out they all said "ORGASM WORLD" or something like that.

P.S. Re: Penises. I have a lot to say. More later.