Carol Finds Her Way

Why Do I Blog?

Okay, I was tagged by Nancy Marmolejo at Comadre Coaching (a business coach for creative women whom I highly, highly recommend--contact her now!) and asked why I blog. The truth is that I don't, not on a regular basis anyway. I admit to ambivalence about the whole blogging thing. This is partly because, as a freelance writer and editor, I deal with words, words, words, all day, every day, so writing still more words doesn't hold a lot of appeal. It's also because I often feel bombarded with information, between books, newspapers (Iraq! Afghanistan!), magazines, television (Anna Nichole's funeral!), newsletters, enewsletters (take vitamins A-Z, and lots of them!), and online news. Enough already! Can anyone really want to read more words?

There, I feel better. So why would I blog, if I did?

1. It would allow me to get stuff like this off my chest.

2. In every issue of the newsletter I edit and publish for women 40+, Finding Our Way: Wit and Wisdom for Women, I encourage readers to check out my blog. So probably it would be good if there were something there for them to read.

3. This reminds me of the song "If I Loved You," from the musical Carousel. For those of you didn't used to sing along to the album on the turntable, in this number, Billy Bigelow and Julie sing to one another about how they'd feel if they were in love, while we, the audience, can see that they are. Maybe I would actually like to blog, and all this protesting is so much hooey.

Well, then, maybe I'll go back to blogging. Stay tuned.

The Great American Work-Out

BenefitNews.com recently published the results of a survey (www.benefitnews.com/pfv.cfm?id=8706) showing how Americans who "work" at home at least part-time (40 million people) actually spend their time. It turns out they deal with their kids, make personal phone calls, surf the Net, watch TV, nap, run errands, and do housework.

What they don't do is work, or at least not much: 53% said they worked less than three hours a day, and 25% admitted that they spend less than an hour a day working when they're at home.

I can't say that I'm surprised. I've been a self-employed writer and editor for a number of years now, so I'm well aware of the allure of absolutely anything but work when your workplace is home.

When faced with a blank computer screen, I've been known to haul out the step ladder and dust all the ceiling fans. I've voluntarily called my mother to hear about the latest funeral of a stranger she's attended ("It was Mrs. Murphy's husband. You know Mrs. Murphy, your high school English teacher? She wasn't?"). I've done more laundry than I would have thought my family owned. I've checked the weather in Slovenia (chilly and damp) and the traffic in Lahore (jammed). I've bought groceries, picked up dry cleaning, tricked the dog into going to the vet, and washed the car. I've even, God help me, taken my teenage son clothes shopping.

At least now I know I'm in good company. The next time I decide that I really must mulch the azaleas before I can get back to work, I'll do it guilt free. After all, if 40 million people are doing it, can it be so bad?

(To read more about how I manage to fritter away work hours, countered by great tips on how to use your time more effectively plus advice on getting organized, check out the April issue of my newsletter, Finding Our Way, called "Getting Organized, or How to Find Your Desk." To subscribe, simply go to www.findingourway.com.)

When the To-Do List Just Doesn't

I seem to be permanently stuck in that level of Hell called "Poor Time Management," and I'm wondering if my to-do list might be part of the problem. Today is a perfect example. Between teaching a class, appointments with clients, and driving my son to his tennis lesson three towns over--and then back again--I know that I have only three hours in which to tackle everything on the list. Nonetheless, I've written down 17 separate tasks.

This might not be as crazy as it sounds, under certain circumstances. If, say, every task were simple, it took no more than 10 minutes, and I wanted to do it, I'd be home free. Like if Items 1-6 were "Read back issues of People Magazine while getting a pedicure," 7-13 were "Watch an episode of The Gilmore Girls," and the last four were "Meet a friend for coffee," then I could do everything on my to-do list.

But, of course, that's not what's there. No, my list has tasks like: 1. Do taxes (Too late for an extension? Call IRS and find out.); 4. Clean mold off basement walls; 7. Weight lifting--at least an hour; 9. Write draft of article, "The Magic of Mulch," (due Friday!!!!); 13. Replace office filing system with one that works; and 17. Return seriously, possibly criminally, overdue DVDs and try to get manager to reduce fine.

Nothing on that list is simple. Every task would need many different steps, and Item 4 requires a hazmat suit. Nothing will take only 10 minutes. In fact, some of them could take days or weeks. And my level of enthusiasm for any of them? So low as to not be detectable.

The reality is that not one thing on that list is going to get done today. So why bother writing it at all? Wait, that could be Item 18: Figure out why I compose impossible to-do lists.

Fashion Don'ts

The latest issue of The New Yorker has a Dolce & Gabbana ad that got my attention. Two young women, dressed in skimpy outfits with lots of eyelet lace, plus thigh-high black stockings and stilettos, lie on bales of hay, caressing one another. I laughed until the dog came in to see what was going on.

I'm happy that D&G's ad agency (apparently 20-something guys who never leave their cubicles, but who have rich fantasy lives) waited until I was all grown up to come up with this idea. When I was 20-something myself, this ad would have made me despair. Forget that I wasn't interested in women, this ad would have represented a level of sophistication that I, a young woman from Iowa, would never achieve. I mean, here were two stunning women, with flawless skin and perfect figures, dressed in clothing that must cost a mint, abandoning themselves to sexual ecstasy. It would never occur to me to dress in a can-can outfit like that, and even if it did, on the earnings of a modern dancer ($0.00), I would have to buy the Penney's version. Besides which, I didn't have the thin, thin figure required to carry it off. Plus, as anyone from Iowa can tell you, hay makes you itch on contact, so there was no way I could even sit on a hay bale with so little clothing on, much less abandon myself to sexual ecstasy on it.

Now in my 50's, I see a different picture. Here's how I interpret this ad today:

Two pre-teen models (judging from their baby skin and coltish legs, I'd say 11 and 12) tried to stand up in four-inch heels and fell over. Fortunately, the bales of hay broke their fall. Now they can't get up, and the reason is clear. Even piled on top of one another as they are, they can't weigh more than one normal person, so they're too weak to move. Not surprising, as their last meal was a week ago Wednesday, and it consisted of three cigarettes and a glass of water. And the sexual ecstasy part? That's actually just one model saying to the other, "Give me a push and maybe I can get off of you," and the other answering,"I think my back just broke out in hives."

So thank you, D&G, for helping me realize that some things--perspective being one of them--really do get better with age.

Empty Nest: The Prequel

Presidents' weekend is the first real opportunity of the new year for college tours. So on Saturday morning I folded my 6'3" son into the car and got on the turnpike, along with every other family with a high school junior in the state of New Jersey. We were headed to two colleges, the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, and Georgetown in Washington.

And after 15 hours of driving, much of it to a raw rap soundtrack (if you have to ask, you are lucky indeed!), here's what I learned: There's no reason for parents to go on these tours.

First of all, what parents want in a college and what our kids want have nothing in common. I loved Georgetown, with its hulking Gothic buildings and statues of Jesus on the cross. Throw in a nun with a ruler and I'd be right back in my childhood. But my son found the atmosphere creepy and noted that, although two cemeteries were prominently located on the campus, he couldn't find a student health building. At least none of the graves are fresh, I tried to joke, but no sale.

Another reason for parents to stay away is that we ask idiotic questions. We want to know if the cafeteria can accommodate Johnnie's food likes and dislikes, and is there an appeal process if Susie gets thrown out for cheating. We wonder out loud if there's laundry service. On tiny campuses in the middle of nowhere, we grill the student guide about security. What are we worried about? That cows from the nearby farm will break loose and stampede the football stadium during the homecoming game?

But the most important reason that parents shouldn't go on college tours is that, as we peer into classrooms and student unions, what we're seeing is the future. A college tour may be the first time that we're forced to see that our kids are ready to move on, and without us. The kids size up the students who walk by, trying to picture themselves as one of them. They stand apart from their parents, pretending that they're there on their own. The parents instinctively react by clinging to their children, hugging them more than they've probably hugged them in years. It's mortifying for teens and sad for parents.

So here's what I propose: Colleges should insist that parents drop off their kids for the tours, then head over to the Parent Spa. Here anxious parents can get a massage and ease our shoulders down below our ears for first time since the school year began. We can attend a meditation session, where the mantra is "It will all be fine." At the coffee bar, we can sip cappuccinos and lattes while listening to speakers on topics like "You Used to Have a Life, and Now You Can Again," and "Should You Just Send the Younger Kids to Boarding School and Be Done with It?"

Colleges can charge exta for this service. I mean, if we're already contemplating paying $45,000 a year for our child to attend their institution, I don't think we'd hesitate to shell out a little more to feel better about things. It would certainly put us in a better frame of mind for the long drive home, especially if we get to control the radio dial.

Driving Daze

My son just turned 16, and you know what that means. Yup, he got his driving permit, took and passed his written driving test (dammit) in spite of next to no studying, completed the 6 hours of driving instruction with a driving school that the state of New Jersey requires, and was ready to hit the road!

I, on the other hand, was reluctant to even get in the car with him at the wheel, but I did. He got in, adjusted his mirrors, put the car in drive, and off we went down the street. Very, very slowly. Which gave me plenty of time to notice that we were passing within, I'd say, 1/36th of an inch of the parked cars on our right. I said, "You're too close to these cars," and when he didn't instantly swing left, I repeated, "Too close, too close, too close!" in a voice that rose in pitch to a shreik.

"Mom, you don't have to yell," he said.

That was only the beginning. In the week that he's been driving, I've noticed some unfortunate tendencies on his part:
- He accelerates through turns.
- He zooms up to stop signs and slams on the brakes.
- Then he doesn't pull out far enough to see if it's safe to proceed before proceeding.
- He drives with only one hand on the wheel.

And I've had pointed out some equally unfortunate tendencies on my part:
- I scream the same thing over and over (Stop! Stop!! STOP!!!)
- I clutch the armrest on my door like it's going to save me.
- I strictly enforce the speed limit, even when the drivers behind us are honking.
- I may have mentioned more than once that we don't have enough alcohol in the house for me to go driving with him every day.

I realize that things are bound to get better with time. With experience, he'll become a better driver. And I'll calm down. In fact, once the tremor in my hands subsides and I can get my fingernails out of the armrest, I'm sure everything will be just fine