Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

I am not someone who normally makes Christmas wishes, but this year … well … the world is bugging me. So Santa, if you’re listening, here is my Christmas list. It’s a tall order, but if anyone can do it, you can!

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS …

5. The return of common courtesy, good manners, and etiquette
As an experiment, I googled “common courtesy”; it garnered 512,000 hits. Then I tried “Britney Spears” for comparison—63.2 million hits. Those numbers accurately depict today’s society. I can remember a time when what Emily Post said mattered; now I’m sure most people under the age of 30 don’t even know who she is. I recall my mother telling me that a woman was allowed to check her makeup in public (i.e., open her compact and tap on some powder), but applying makeup in public was a no-no. When I was a child, I got in trouble for calling the “young” grownups next door by their first names even though they told me to. My mother made me march over to their house and apologize for my bad manners. Most children today, however, don’t know how to behave properly in public let alone the definition of the word etiquette.
Yesterday, I discovered that rudeness is not limited to younger generations. I was at our local liquor store buying a lottery ticket. A man, easily 30 years my senior, appeared to be in line ahead of me. Not wanting to cut, I moved back to allow him his spot. He snarled, “I’m not in that line. I’m in this line,” as he pointed to an area where there was no line. Grumpy bastard. So much for trying to be courteous! I used to dislike it when my students called me “Ma’am” because it made me feel old; now I am just grateful that someone taught them some manners.

4. For politicians to stop being politicians
I believe our forefathers would be disgusted by our two-party, partisan political system; it is an utter disaster. At what point did politicians forget that they worked for the people who elected them? They spent taxpayers’ dollars—our money—as if we had an endless supply. Oh wait … we do … as long as China keeps lending it to us. (Guess greenbacks grow on trees over there.) I love the movie Bulworth starring Warren Beatty because he plays a politician who decides to start telling the raw truth about both political parties. He raps …
“I’m a Senator.
I gotta raise $10,000 a day every day I’m in Washington.
I ain’t getting it in South Central.
I’m gettin’ it in Beverly Hills.
So I’m votin’ from them in the Senate the way they want me too …
and-and-and I’m sending them my bills.”

Of course, Bulworth is assassinated because no one likes a politician who tells the people the way things really are. Once upon a time, I entertained the idea of running for Burbank City Council, but then I realized I am the female Bulworth. I couldn’t lie to the people who placed their trust in me to make their community a better place. Here’s my truth:
“You want better schools and you want higher scores,
Well guess what parents, you need to get involved more.
Our Burbank teachers can only do so much—
Stop spoiling your kids, pay attention, get in touch.
They don’t need cell phones or tons of clothes,
School isn’t childcare as you should know—
Help our teachers, your children, and yourselves, too
Stop blaming the schools for the mistakes that you do!”

3. An empty email inbox.
Make that four empty inboxes since I currently use and check four email accounts daily. (That’s down from six so I have made some progress.) I still have three other “active” accounts: USC, AOL, and Gmail; they are forwarded, ignored, and used for research purposes respectively. In order to reduce the amount of email that I receive, I finally unsubscribed to daily emails such as Word-a-Day, weekly emails such as Early to Rise, and monthly emails from all retailers. Some people don’t understand why I haven’t signed up for Twitter or established a LinkedIn account yet. There’s an easy explanation—I cannot handle another thing to do or to check every day.
I remember when I didn’t even own a computer. I recall having only one email account for years. When did life become so electronically busy? Sometimes, I just want to become an ostrich, stick my head in the sand, and disappear from the planet for a while. I definitely see a day when I will withdraw from society because I can’t imagine spending my twilight years with my eyes glued to the glow of my laptop in an effort to keep up with my online identity. Forget the fact that hours on the computer is the one of the major causes of my migraines (hence the reading glasses—oh joy); I need the touch, smell, sound, and sight of real people. But I digress. For now, less email will do.

2. A president who doesn’t suffer from ADD and a desperate need to please everyone. (Or for Barack Obama to stop trying to be a hero who believes he must simultaneously solve all of the world’s problems.)
Recent studies have shown that people who are heavy multi-taskers, like our president, cannot give items their full attention; therefore, their brains suffer as a result. Communication professor Clifford I. Nass stated, “They’re suckers for irrelevancy. Everything distracts them.” One could argue that if their mental function is impaired then their job performance suffers as well. According to recent polls from a variety of sources, President Obama’s approval rating has slipped to 47 – 49 percent. Considering he entered office less than a year ago with a 68 percent job approval (only one president out of the last eight—Eisenhower—had numbers that high), the drop is significant.

So here is my unsolicited, non-partisan advice, Mr. President. Try focusing on one thing at a time. You cannot fix everything all at once, and anyone who expects you to spent too much time listening to your campaign speeches last year. I have nothing against “Hope” and “Change” but you are one man, and your first name isn’t Super. You must learn to prioritize like the rest of us. Now if you consulted me, my top three concerns are the economy, the war, and the healthcare debacle. Americans need jobs and we need to know that our troops and our country are safe before you convince us to go into another trillion dollars in debt. I may not agree with all of your decisions (okay, most of your decisions), but one thing is certain—the results of your “multi-tasking” politics are showing. The Tea Party movement is increasing in numbers, Sarah Palin already sold a million copies of her book, and Fox News is not only finishing this year as the top-rated cable news network (no surprise since it has enjoyed this rank for the past eight years), but it is also experiencing its best ratings ever in the network’s 13-year history. F-O-C-U-S = Focus, Mr. President.

And the #1 thing I want for Christmas is …
the perfect job!
If you can make this one happen Santa, I promise to tell everyone that you are real—including my younger brother. I told him the “truth” about you when he was five years old, and it made him cry. It turned out okay; our mother made me go back and lie to him. I consider that moment one of my first as well as one of my finest acting performances. Anyway, here’s the criterion for my perfect job:

Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could all list everything we wanted in a perfect job and on Christmas morning there would be an offer in our stocking? I recently found a position that meets most of the above requirements but since it is in academia, I probably won’t hear anything for months. I do have to thank A.B. for allowing me to use him as a reference. As Santa knows, personal relationships are everything.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I apologize for not posting a blog for so long. My normal goal is one post per week. I’ve been ill with pneumonia ever since I participated in Thrill the World on October 24. Being sick for this long has kicked my ass!

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Although I am working on several emotional blogs about far more serious topics, I realize that today—the anniversary of my sister Adrienne’s death—I need some levity in my life. Adrienne often teased me about being too anal-retentive; she thought it was funny to watch me obsess over tasks. However, she decided to “get more organized” when she began losing her homework because she couldn’t find where she had put it. Adrienne spent more than an hour rearranging her papers by subject, putting her assignments into separate pocketed folders and matching each folder with its own spiral notebook of the same color. She beamed with pride when she finished and said, “There! Now I can find everything.”

I smiled and congratulated her on a job well done. Inside I was thinking … And you think we’re not alike. Ha! A few days later, Adrienne was diagnosed with liver cancer, and she never returned to school. Although we both used humor to deflect our pain, we never discussed the irony of that particular situation. Funny how some things don’t need to be said aloud.

Wait … this blog was supposed to be silly and serve as a warning to others like me who need to lighten up. So in honor of my sister, who understood me better than anyone else, here are five signs that you might be too anal:

5. You own a label maker and will look for any excuse to use it. I don’t only label binders. I’ve labeled our pet-food bins, our recycling can, my husband’s water bottle (he requested it), and various medication containers (the fine print is too small). You know you are in love with your label maker if you have used the device so often that you have run out of tape more than once in three months, and you have memorized the refill tape cartridge’s model number. Right now, the Brother P-Touch M Series is on sale at Costco so I had better stock up!

4. You have a specific method for eating corn on the cob and any deviation from your method causes you great distress. For example, I prefer the horizontal approach. I eat three to four rows at a time from left to right. Then I go back over those same rows from right to left to make sure I didn’t miss anything. The cob, of course, is dripping in real butter. If I’m at home, I use our corn-on-the-cob holders; they make the process less messy and guarantee your teeth attack every kernel. When my husband told me that he varies his method—vertical vs. horizontal—depending on the corncob, I was shocked. I don’t know him at all.

3. You review a check list in your head before you leave your house. Mine revolves around the five senses:

• Do I look good? (How’s the hair, makeup, clothes?)
• Do I smell good? (Am I wearing deodorant, perfume, lotion?)
• Do I taste good? (Did I floss and brush my teeth?)
• Do I sound good? (Do I have a water bottle and cough drops? My throat often becomes hoarse.)
• Do I feel good? (Am I happy about where I’m going and if not, can I fake it?)

Disclaimer: While I may run through this check list every time I go out, it doesn’t mean that I look “camera-ready” at all times. Far from it. But I am always acutely aware of what I did and did not do before going out in public.

2. You color-code all activities in your organizer. Whether you use software (e.g., Microsoft Outlook) or an old-fashioned day planner (e.g., DayMinder), you divide your tasks into color categories (e.g., appointments—green, social activities—yellow). I started doing this toward the end of high school, and my friends have always made fun of me. Even though Adrienne thought it was hilarious that I highlighted my activities for the week in different colors, she told me I was “weird.” If she had only known just how anal I was … I hid the highlighters so she wouldn’t use them. (To be fair, she once “borrowed” my theatrical glow tape and used all of it to decorate her room.) For the longest time I only liked Zebra Zazzle highlighters, but I’m learning to be more flexible. The colors in my Outlook calendar don’t exactly match the highlighters I use in my day planner, and I’m okay with it. Yes, I essentially have two organizers—and no, I do not want a BlackBerry.

And the #1 sign that you might be too anal …
your organization system is so complex that no one else can understand it. For example, when my appendix burst nine years ago, my boyfriend (at the time) was frantically flipping through my address book trying to find my father’s phone number. Apparently, he had already looked under “W” while I was in surgery. Nope, not there. Still groggy from the anesthesia, I heard Adrienne tell him, “Sissy organizes everyone by first name. Don’t you know that?”
My boyfriend sighed. He turned the pages. My eyes were closed, but I could imagine his expression when he looked under “Z” for Zelmer. The page was blank. He shook my arm. “Dammit, Andrea. I can’t find your father’s number anywhere.”

I remember smiling because the answer was so obvious to me. “Look under D—for Daddy.” My boyfriend groaned, Adrienne laughed, and I drifted off to sleep.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I hope I made you smile, kiddo.
For what it’s worth, you were worth all the while. – Green Day

Posted under Adrienne & General | 1 Comment »

Note: This blog entry is a continuation of a previous blog titled: Flying the Unfriendly Skies: Part One—The Ignorant Mother so I suggest you read it first to fully understand my disagreement with Miss Sourpuss and Continental Airlines.

The passengers remained quiet after I had confronted the mother regarding her son’s behavior. I don’t know what I expected. I guess I was hoping at least one person (besides my husband) would applaud my courage, but instead, I had become the older, malicious bully who had verbally attacked the younger, innocent mother. I’m glad I waited until the end of the flight to say something because I swear our captain took the scenic route around the Houston/Bush International airport. Finally, our plane found its gate, and I made sure the boy and his mother exited the cabin ahead of us. I thought it was best to put as much distance between her and me as possible. As my husband and I walked off the plane, I told him to go ahead and wait for me. I wanted to speak to our friendly stewardess Miss Sourpuss.

Before I go any further, I should tell you that even though I’m not afraid of confronting people, I don’t make a habit of it. I’ll admit I am the woman who sends back her dirty martini when it isn’t quite dirty enough. I will also return food at a restaurant if my meal isn’t correct (I rarely order straight off the menu) or if the cuisine doesn’t taste good. When a hairdresser once hacked my hair to pieces a few weeks before I had to be a bridesmaid in two weddings, I got my money back. However, until this incident, I had never said anything to a parent on an airplane besides, “Could you please tell your child to stop kicking the back of my seat?” I had also never complained about a flight attendant’s bad service, but there’s a first time for everything.

After all of the passengers had collected their carry-on luggage and left the plane, I approached Miss Sourpuss who was standing next to the co-pilot. I told her that I would like to have a word with her about our flight. With the same “My-life-sucks-I-wish-I-were-dead” expression on her face, she just shrugged her shoulders and said okay. Although I had intended for our conversation to be private to avoid embarrassing her, I started talking since she made no effort to move anywhere. The co-pilot shifted his weight and leaned forward.

“My husband and I were seated in row 10, in about the middle of the airplane. In front of us, a young mother sat with her little boy who wouldn’t stop singing the entire flight. Why you didn’t say anything to her about his behavior?”

Miss Sourpuss’s expression changed. Her mouth opened, her eyes blinked, and I could see her searching for the correct answer in her brain. “I … I … could never ask a parent … I’m just not able to … confront people.”

I already knew she was passive, but the fact that she admitted it surprised me. I responded, “Well, his behavior was inappropriate, and it was your job to do something about it.” The co-pilot looked at her. She furrowed her brow.

“Uh … it’s not my job. People can use their cell phones …” I raised my eyebrow. Right then the captain walked up and joined our group, and Miss Sourpuss realized her mistake. “I meant people can talk as loud as they want on the plane.”

I laughed because the conversation was getting so ridiculous. “Really? So I can yell at the top of my lungs during a flight and you’re not going to say anything to me?” The captain grimaced and looked at Miss Sourpuss who must have been sweating through her uniform.

She replied with as firm a tone as someone like her can muster, “Well, I wouldn’t do it because I didn’t hear the boy at all. And I went up and down that aisle the entire flight.”

“First of all, that’s not true. My husband and I couldn’t find you anywhere when we wanted a refill on our sodas. Secondly, you changed your story when the captain arrived.” I looked at him, then the co-pilot, and then her. “Just so we’re all clear, you went from not being capable, to not being responsible, to sheer denial.”

Miss Sourpuss pursed her lips. “I didn’t hear him!”

“And apparently, you’re deaf as well.” I looked at the captain. “Thank you so much for getting us to Houston on time, but please tell your bosses, I will remember this incident. By the way, I’m a writer, and I will let people know that it’s okay to sing at the top of their lungs on a Continental flight.”

Okay, so I didn’t say that last part, but now I know how to solve the problem should it happen again. The next time a lazy stewardess refuses to hush a chirping child, I have a plan. I’m going to belt out (and I’m tone deaf) the most obnoxious children’s song I know. My sister Adrienne taught it to me. In fact, she and my (then) boyfriend’s four-year-old son got in trouble for singing it in the car during a road trip. I was driving, and after 15 minutes of Bananas in Pajamas, I told them to pick a different song. When they didn’t, I yelled, “Shut your mouths, or I will shut them for you.” They stopped singing immediately.

After years of teaching, I can raise my already-loud voice over a room full of 100 noisy children so out-singing one kid on an airplane will be easy. My husband is appalled by my idea. He intends to begin divorce proceedings if I should proceed to break into song. I told him that he should pretend that he doesn’t know me or tell people that my “medication” doesn’t work at high altitudes. He didn’t laugh. My theory is that even a passive stewardess like Miss Sourpuss will have to tell me to shut up, and when she does, I’ll point to the child and say, “He started it!”

Who knows? Maybe I’ll incite a sing-along:

Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down the stairs
Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down in pairs
Bananas, in pajamas, are chasing teddy bears
cause on Tuesdays day … they want to catch them unawares!

AWW — XoXo

P. S. I wish I had gotten Miss Sourpuss’s real name so I could file a formal complaint.

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On the hot, humid afternoon of Friday, July 10, 2009, my husband and I boarded Continental Airlines Flight 2292 * with service from Birmingham, Alabama, to Houston/Bush International. Our flight was supposed to leave at 5:50 p.m. so we, along with 42 other people, were in our seats by 5:30 p.m. The reason I know the exact number of passengers is that our plane, the ERJ 145, was at its maximum capacity; it is the smallest commercial airline I’ve ever flown on. The overhead bins are so tiny that the popular wheeled travel bags that are designed to fit into them do not. Part of our delay included passengers giving up their “carry-on” luggage and receiving a ticket to retrieve their bags after the flight. Although I’m not claustrophobic, I started wondering if there was enough oxygen in the cabin for all of us.

Finally, we appeared ready for takeoff. Though we were running 15 minutes late, the pilot assured us we would land in Houston at our scheduled arrival time of 7:37 p.m. My husband watched through the window as the plane soared into the air. Sitting next to him, I had the aisle seat since there are no three-seat rows on the ERJ 145. Directly in front of me was a young mother sitting with her son, who appeared to be about four years old. I usually notice where kids are sitting on airplanes because even though I like children, I worry about their behavior. Given that the passenger section of this particular plane could fit into our house (only a slight exaggeration), I could probably have told you where everyone was sitting. Anyway, I leaned back into my seat, opened my magazine, and that is when the “noise” began.

I wish the noise had been crying because as aggravating as a sobbing child can be, I can control my urge to interfere. My opinion about children crying on airplanes is they may be sick, scared, hungry, tired, or their ears may be popping, which hurts like hell. I actually empathize with those frustrated parents who are embarrassed by their children’s tears, but who are also sad because they cannot make the pain, fear, hunger, or even exhaustion from traveling magically disappear. Whenever I see that look of utter despair in a parent’s eyes, I give my most encouraging “you-can-do-it” and “we-don’t-all-hate-you” smile. Crying may be irritating, but I can handle it. However, there are some noises no one should have to endure—especially in cramped quarters with no way out.

You see, the little boy in front of us began singing. Loudly. Not only did his mother not stop him, she encouraged him to continue. I sighed, but then I remembered I had brought my portable CD player with headphones. Problem solved! I turned up the volume all the way (something I never do because loud music makes it difficult for me to concentrate on reading), but I could still hear the boy’s high-pitched voice over the rock music blasting in my ears. I couldn’t believe it. I gave up on the music and found my ear plugs; they didn’t work either. I looked at my watch. I glanced at my husband who shook his head. I made eye contact with other passengers who appeared equally as annoyed as I was. Meanwhile, the boy’s tune—imagine a modern day version of the Smurfs theme song—echoed in my head.

The boy never stopped singing, and no one said anything to his mother—not even the stewardess whom my husband and I nicknamed Miss Sourpuss for her lovely demeanor. I bit my tongue the entire flight, but as we were approaching our gate, I felt compelled to say something to the mother if only to save fellow travelers from future torture. I tapped her on the shoulder; she turned around.

I smiled and said, “I want to tell you something that I hope you won’t take the wrong way. You have a lovely son who is clearly a very happy boy, but he has been singing loudly this entire flight.”

She nodded so I continued. “I’m a former teacher and it isn’t appropriate for him to be so loud on an airplane. He needs to learn to use his ‘indoor library’ voice.”

I could see the muscles in her face twitch. “Look, I’m only saying this to you because no one else on this plane will, but trust me, we are all irritated.” I could feel the eyes of our fellow passengers watching us.

Then the mother exploded, “Well, I paid for a ticket just like you did!” She jutted her chin forward and glared at me.

Until that point, I had remained calm but then I lashed out, “We all paid for our tickets! (You stupid bitch) It doesn’t give you the right to allow your son to sing at the top of his lungs for two hours. He doesn’t know any better, but you should. You are his mother; it’s your job to teach him manners.”

The whole situation disintegrated from there. I backed off, but I didn’t apologize. I’m glad I said something, but then I realized I should not have had to. If our stewardess, Miss Sourpuss, had done her job, I’m sure the mother would have been less defensive and more cooperative regarding her son’s actions. I’ll continue this story in my next blog titled: Flying the Unfriendly Skies: Part Two—The Lazy Stewardess.

AWW — XoXo

* Operated by Expressjet Airlines Inc doing business as Continental Express

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As a tribute to David Letterman, I’m going to reveal the reasons I hate e-cards in reverse numerical order.

10. The e-card goes to your spam folder, and you never see it so you think someone forgot your birthday.
9. The e-card’s hyperlink doesn’t work, or it expires too soon so you cannot share the e-card with others.
8. The e-card arrives via cell phone, but the sender doesn’t realize that your phone cannot read multimedia messages.
7. The extraordinary flash animation of the e-card crashes your computer.
6. The e-card delivers a virus to your computer.
5. The virus that hitched a ride with your e-card crashes your computer.
4. Sending an e-card doesn’t show how hip and cool you are; it just reflects your laziness.
3. An e-card indicates that the recipient is not that important to you because shopping for the perfect greeting card, writing a personal message, putting on a stamp, and mailing the card take a little more time.
2. An electronic “signature” is impersonal; a handwritten signature is irreplaceable.

And the #1 reason e-cards suck … (for me especially)

When I am 70 years old and sifting through my memory box, I won’t be able to touch your e-card, open it up, and laugh all over again at your charming wit. I won’t be able to trace your signature and tear up because you are no longer living. I will still have memories of you, but it is the tangible object—the greeting card—that unlocks them for me.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Don’t misunderstand me. I always appreciate birthday greetings (e.g., phone calls, emails)—just no e-cards, please.

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I am not what most people would call a “handy” person. I don’t like hooking up electronics, fixing the garbage disposal, or unclogging the toilet, but I have done all of those things. However, I do enjoy solving problems, and with the Internet’s endless supply of easily accessible information, I have figured out simple solutions to many computer issues.

• When Windows downloads an update that conflicts with Word 2007 and Vista (happens ALL the time), I know how to fix it, and no—system restore is not always the ideal option!
• When I wanted to recover all of my past AOL emails for archive purposes (so I could finally cancel AOL), I found the ePreserver program that saved them for me.
• When Outlook started failing on my husband’s computer, I worked on it for days until I found the conflict between the software and our DSL provider.
• And when I cannot find the answer, I ask for help from a knowledgeable source.

While my ability to build furniture is slightly impaired, I find doing things myself helps me learn. This rant stems from teaching a new generation of people under the age of 30 who appear to have no idea how to do things themselves. For example, I have students who cannot:

• Format line spacing in MS Word
• Tell the difference between fonts or font sizes
• Create a title page for a final project
• Attach documents to emails

The most troubling thing is that it never occurs to these young people to:

• Look up MS Word issues under the Help feature
• Research the problem on the Internet
• Call tech support, which is provided free of charge
• Ask someone who actually knows the answer for help

Instead, they make excuses and expect that their ignorance will be forgiven—despite a strict rubric that clearly states the expectations of assignment. Their refusal to learn only hurts them, but I’m not sure if it is entirely their fault. During their childhood, this “Millennial” generation (born after 1981) received gold stars for attendance and effort. All they had to do was show up and try their best—actual results didn’t matter. As for doing things themselves—forget about it. We, the Baby Boomers and Generation X adults who created the Millennials, did everything for them from tying their shoes, to doing their homework and even perpetuating the myth that winning doesn’t matter.

According to Strauss and Howe’s fascinating book Generations, American generations engage in a four-part cycle, which essentially means the Millenials will produce a generation vastly different from their own. However, there was one anomaly in the cycle during the Civil War, a “secular crisis.” What if our current economic recession (an event the book predicted based on history) creates another non-DIY generation? Not only would I quit teaching, but I also believe another ignorant, lazy, whiny group of “Gold Stars” who have never been permitted to fail would be an utter disaster for our country.

After all, “Mistakes show us what we need to learn.” (Peter McWilliams)

AWW — XoXo

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I’m sure you have see the Man Rules email circulating on the Internet. Well after reading it, I felt compelled to write about it. Download the Man Rules and then read the rules (black) as well as my responses (red). Take that men!

P.S. This blog is dedicated to my dad; he knows why …

AWW — XoXo

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Just now, without thinking, I applied for a “communications writer” position at Walt Disney. About halfway through the application process—right about the time I was supposed to attach my cover letter—I realized how ridiculous I was being. I already teach two writing classes, critique more than 100 resumes per week, run my nonprofit Blue Faery (an unpaid position), and I really want (and need) to start writing the second draft of my 450-page memoir.

I don’t have time for another job without giving up something, but I am always looking for the Next Best Thing (NBT). Some people might assume my odd behavior is just an overreaction after six months of unemployment, but no, unfortunately, I have always acted this way. I used to read the Sunday classified ads every week, now I read Craig’s List every day. I used to cut out and tape the classified ads (often the size of my thumb) on sheets of paper in my legal pad, now I print out the Craig’s List ads and store them in my folder. In many ways, the Internet has made me even more of a job junkie because I have alerts on Monster, CareerBuilder, Mediabistro, and countless academic websites. However, I value this technology because I have gotten four out of my five last jobs through job alerts on the Web.

I’ll admit part of my search for the NBT is about money. I’m scared—I barely make enough to pay my bills, and soon my student loans will kick in, making my financial obligations more substantial. The only time I stopped looking for a job was when I was making more money than I needed, but unfortunately, I was terribly unhappy and left that position after only six months. Being numb for two hours every night when I returned home from work wasn’t worth not worrying about the bills.

Anyway, this NBT behavior can be traced back to my mother who was never satisfied in any job she ever had even though she made a decent living as an RN in Birmingham, Alabama. My mother always thought the hospital across town would have nicer doctors, friendlier nurses, more flexible hours, etc. As she job-hopped, we moved a lot—four times in five years. Ironically, the only time my mother had a “normal” job (i.e., not the graveyard shift) as a supervisor at a prestigious nursing home, she was bored. She hated working the same hours as everyone else. She complained that her salary was too low, she had to shop when the stores were busy, and she didn’t like driving in traffic. Never mind that she was keeping the same schedule as her children, mother quit in search of the Next Best Thing.

I pressed the “Submit” button on the Disney application, but I didn’t bother to write the cover letter because my time is too valuable. I don’t really want nor need the job. I allowed fear to cloud my judgment. As long as I have food, shelter, and clothing and I can pay the necessary bills (e.g., utilities, phone), I will be fine. As for my other debt, I’ll figure it out; I always do.

I need to stop looking for the Next Best Thing; I’ve already found it.

AWW — XoXo

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July 10, 2006

I was at my psychiatrist’s office today. I like his office for its sheer variety of magazines: current and past editions of W, American Photo, and Entertainment Weekly (EW) lie on the table. I cannot picture Dr. Kadoyan reading W and who knows about American Photo, but EW is for patientss’ trivial reading, something to pass the time. Every enlightened doctor’s office has piles of EW, People, and/or Us magazines in the waiting room because patients like them. The articles in those magazines are short, easy-to-read, and usually a good distraction from whatever problem brought you there in the first place.

However, I stopped reading entertainment magazines years ago. I let the subscriptions run out or canceled them. I was a Cosmo girl in college, but while I was pursuing acting I read TV Guide, Premiere, Movieline, and of course, Entertainment Weekly without fail. I could tell you which movie was number one on any given week and how much it grossed when it opened. I could tell you details about almost any actor’s life, who was sleeping with whom, and {insert trivial detail here}. One day I realized how much space this useless information was taking up in my brain. I looked at all of the unread books on my shelves and thought it is time to read a story, not a log line, a review or a list of who is wearing what name this week.

But upon seeing all those silly magazines, I couldn’t resist picking up a copy of EW dated 5/26/06. I skimmed and then went straight to the back of the magazine, something I would never do with a book. That’s when I saw it—a new feature or a one-time piece titled Stupid Questions: This week with Reba McEntire. Now what I’m trying to figure out is why Reba (who appears to be a down-to-earth woman) would agree to answer questions that she knows in advance are labeled stupid. Maybe the editor didn’t tell her. My favorite stupid question was: Who is a bigger redneck woman: you, Gretchen Wilson, or the always popular write-in vote Britney Spears? Not only is the question stupid, but it is also mean.

I thought to myself none of the above. Reba doesn’t strike me as a redneck. I don’t know who Gretchen Wilson is (sorry Gretchen), and Britney is what we Southern gals call white trash. Or trailer park trash. Except Britney is rich. “Rich, white trash” seems to fit. Reba answered, “I’m gonna vote for Britney Spears. Bless her heart.” Now I have difficulty feeling sorry for a young woman who has more money than she’ll ever need, has horrible taste in men, and has endangered her child on at least one occasion. I want to scream at her, “Pull yourself together, divorce your husband, take some parenting classes, and figure out what makes you happy!”

I can forgive Reba for answering EW’s stupid questions, but I cannot forgive Britney Spears aka “Miss Rich White Trash” for being stupid.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Since I initially wrote this piece, Britney has had another child, obtained a divorce, gone crazy and become sane again. I, however, still only read “entertainment” magazines at doctors’ offices or while I’m standing in line at the grocery store. I do subscribe to The Week, Writer’s Digest, and Inc.

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I’m sure you’ve heard the proverbs “The early bird gets the worm” or “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” (Supposedly, Ben Franklin said the latter one.) My entire life I’ve been told I should go to sleep early, but I’ve wanted to stay up late for as long as I can remember.

When I was nine years old, I would “go to bed” around 8:30/9:00. My mother worked graveyard shift at the hospital, and my father (before the divorce) never bothered to check on me so I stayed up and read. Two hours later, I would walk into the living room and give my father a complete review of the book. He usually grumbled about me staying up too late, but I don’t think he cared too much since I spent the entire time reading. Plus, those late hours were our only time together. No mother, no brother (this was many years before my sister Adrienne). After listening to me discuss my book and then quizzing me on random world history facts that I couldn’t possibly know, my father and I would watch TV shows like Soap and Barney Miller. I may have gone to school with dark circles under my eyes, but nothing can replace what would become some of my happiest childhood memories.

Now I’m adult who has spent years struggling to wake up early with the rest of the world. I remember staying up all night once in college just to see the sun rise (definitely not my idea), and all I could think was This is it? A couple of streaks of yellow in the sky? Give me a smog-infused LA sunset any day over this morning crap. I promptly went to sleep afterward and have done my best to avoid sunrises ever since. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve woken up before dawn to go skiing, to catch a plane, and even to drive to work, but I HATE IT. No amount of coffee will ever make me love or even appreciate what the morning has to offer. The only time I’ve woken up at 6am without an alarm clock was on my honeymoon in Australia (my husband, a morning person, was thrilled), but the jet lag quickly wore off in three days.

However, I found myself in the most unusual situation last month. After many months of unemployment, I managed to get two jobs that allow me to work from home. I make my own schedule. Suddenly, it occurred to me. What if I just allowed my body to do what it wants? What if I just see what happens? I don’t sleep well anyway—especially when I force myself to go to bed early. Guess what happened? I’m sleeping approximately seven hours a night from 2am – 9am, and I LOVE IT. Sometimes I have restless nights that cause me to wake up every 2.5 hours, but that’s typical for me. But usually, I’m sleeping almost seven hours without the use of sleep aids, and that’s a miracle for an insomniac like me. I believe it’s because I’m going with my body’s natural rhythm instead of against it.

So while I admire those of you who are able to get up early in the morning, I also challenge you. How is my seven hours of sleep different from yours? (If you go to bed at 10pm and wake up at 5am for instance.) I accomplish many things late at night (grading, blogging, critiquing resumes (i.e. job stuff), etc.). I’m also able to spend time with our weird cat Marinol who is extremely nocturnal; he wakes up around midnight and plays all night long. I love not feeling guilty about the time I go to bed. I love curling up with a good book the way I used to when I was a kid. I love not forcing sleep. The best part about my new regimen is that I don’t take naps anymore. I used to take them all the time because I was so tired, but now that I sleep when my body wants to I don’t seem to need them.

So … if the early bird catches the worm … then the night owl eats it while sipping a glass of red wine and reading a good book.

AWW — XoXo

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