Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

Best-selling author and marketing genius Seth Godin recently said on his blog, “You don’t need a new plan for next year. You need a commitment.”

When I started thinking about New Year’s resolutions, Seth’s words kept running through my head. Why plan to do something? Why make resolutions? Why say “I’m going to try to …” Instead, make a commitment. No ifs, no ands, no buts. Commit to doing whatever it is that you say you are going to do every year but somehow never accomplish.

Thanks to Seth Godin’s insightful words, I don’t have any New Year’s resolutions; however, I commit to do the following things in 2012:

1. Finish the second draft of my book. I have been dealing with this goal off and on for three years. Mostly off. I could use the excuse that writing is time-consuming (it is), but the truth is working on my book is like cutting my carotid artery open every day. It’s painful and messy—not healing and cathartic although people assume the latter is true. I feel drained, exhausted, and emotionally spent after working on my memoir. I hate it.
2. Do yoga once per week. Working out five times per week with a combination of yoga, cardio, and resistance training would be ideal (remember EMAO?), but I’m not exercising at all right now. Therefore, it’s best to keep my commitment realistic given my time constraints. Yoga Blend has two classes on Sunday that I enjoy so all I need to do is pick one, drive there, and appreciate the “me” time while I enhance my yoga practice.
3. Write my blog a minimum of twice per month. While I commit to writing twice per month, my goal is to write every week. However, like yoga, I need to have reasonable expectations of my time and energy. As a full-time Social Media Specialist, I spend eight hours a day looking at two computer screens. Despite my numerous blog ideas, sometimes I don’t even check my email when I get home let alone start my laptop.
4. Complete my 52 Postcards in 2012 project. This year I am going to write a postcard every week to someone I know or don’t know (perhaps you my devoted blog reader?). To see how you can become a recipient of one of the many postcards in my collection, click on 52 Postcards. This experiment is an exercise in writing, discipline, and a great way to share my postcard obsession with others.
5. Learn more about wine. This commitment may sound unnecessary, but it’s related to my job at TGIC Importers. I will continue to attend wine tastings at Vendome Wine & Spirits to improve my palate. I am considering taking Wine Spectator’s free, online, self-paced courses. Depending on where my job takes me, I might even enroll in the Wine and Spirit Education Trust program.
6. Stop picking at my cuticles. You know how some people resolve to lose weight every year, but never do? Well, that’s me and my relationship with my cuticles. I don’t know why I pick at them. I’m not even aware of it half the time. I don’t bite my nails—never did, but there is something about my cuticles that I cannot resist. This year I commit to not pick. It’s gross. It’s nasty. It’s unladylike. If you see me doing it, call me out.
7. Quit watching my soap opera The Young and the Restless (Y&R). I can already hear the groans and chuckles, but you have to understand. Y&R debuted in March of 1973—five months shy of my first birthday. My mother watched the soap from the beginning with me in her arms. I remember when Nikki was a young stripper who fell in love with the self-made millionaire Victor Newman. I haven’t seen every Y&R episode. I even went years without watching the show, but I know its history better than I know my own genealogy. My friend MB and I text each other about the repeated, tired story lines. After fast-forwarding through three episodes in one hour, I realized I don’t care anymore except … I want to know who killed Diane Jenkins, and I’m counting on MB to tell me.*

AWW — XoXo

P.S. What are your commitments in 2012?

*I already deleted Y&R from our DVR. One commitment down, six more to go!

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Remember Lucy from Peanuts? I always related to her more than any other female character in that comic strip. She was tough, she had a younger brother, she loved a musician, and she picked on other boys. However, my favorite part about Lucy was her entrepreneurial streak. Instead of selling lemonade, she sold advice for 25 cents.

Even though I have made some horrible decisions in my life, people often ask my advice. Either they believe I am knowledgeable about the subject (e.g., teaching, writing) or they know I have had that specific life experience (e.g., dating brilliant assholes). I don’t even consider myself a good listener most of the time, but on one occasion, I gave the best advice ever.

Four years ago, I worked on a research study at UCLA. Due to having two titles (i.e., two jobs, one salary), I had two offices: one on the same floor as my boss Jan and the other in the building’s basement tucked away from the world. In my “private” office, I blasted music, as I audited the research data. Occasionally, I even danced around because there was so much space. I was bopping my head to the music from the Chicago soundtrack, singing the lyrics, my fingers flying across the keyboard when the phone rang. I looked over—it was my boss’s extension. Sighing, I walked to the stereo, turned down the music, and picked up the phone.

“Hi Jan.”

“Hi Andrea. Do you have a minute?” (I love when bosses ask this question as if their employees can say no.)

“Of course.”

“I wanted to ask your advice about something.” Jan paused. Her hesitation piqued my curiosity.

I replied, “Sure. Go ahead.” I could almost hear her foot tapping under her desk.

“Well, I thought … maybe since …” Each pause annoyed me. I wished she would just spit it out already.

“There’s a mother. Lydia. She has four children. She’s in group 2 on Saturdays.” I didn’t work on Saturdays so I had never met Lydia.

I responded, “Uh huh” as I picked at my cuticles and eyed the stack of paperwork that still needed to be processed.

“She left me a message. She hasn’t been feeling well lately. Horrible headaches, fatigue. Umm … She has an inoperable brain tumor. She has cancer. She is dying.”

My body froze even as my hand gripped the phone so tight that my veins popped out. Why was my boss telling me this? She knew what had happened. I didn’t want to hear the “c” word … oohhh … it’s because of my experience. Damn her.

Jan continued. “I thought … because of your sister … you would know what to say. If it’s okay that is … I wanted to know what you think I should say to Lydia.”

Me? My boss was asking me for my advice? About talking to a cancer patient? I should have been flattered, but instead I felt like actor on a stage with a spotlight shining on me as I searched my memory for my lines. I closed my eyes and thought of the stupid things well-intentioned people said to me when Adrienne was sick.

• “Have faith.” Faith in what and in whom?
• “Things will get better.” Really? Can you personally stop the tumors from multiplying? Because the chemo can’t.
• And my all-time favorite, “God only gives you what you can handle.” So my sister got cancer because she is a strong, vibrant person. Yeah, go sell that shit somewhere else.

“Andrea?” Jan almost whispered my name.

Knocked out of my reverie, I answered, “Tell me about Lydia.” Jan described Lydia’s devotion to her four children—her desire to provide them with a better life, to give them a good education, to allow them opportunities that she never had. I could tell by the tone in Jan’s voice that she admired Lydia. I wanted so desperately to say the perfect thing because I didn’t want Lydia to feel any anger, resentment, or disappointment toward Jan. If I were Lydia …

Taking a deep breath, I plunged forward hoping my bluntness wouldn’t get me fired.

“When you call her, the only thing you should say—that you can say—about her disease is ‘I’m sorry.’ Don’t say anything else. Start with ‘I’m sorry’ and move on. Focus on what you told me. Talk about her qualities as a mother. She respects your opinion. It will mean a lot to her knowing that you think so highly of her. And … tell her that her children will remember her—especially the older ones.”

Jan thanked me, said goodbye, and hung up the phone. I sat there listening to the dial tone wondering what just happened. Wondering how many people had already said the wrong things to Lydia. Wondering if she had her affairs in order. Wondering who would take care of her children. I finally put the phone down. I did not play music. I did not dance. I stared at the paperwork. Eventually, I started typing. The phone rang. I knew it was Jan.

“I just spoke to Lydia. Thank you, Andrea. Your advice—it was perfect. We had a lovely conversation. She thinks her older children will remember her, too.”

“Good. I’m glad … I mean, you’re welcome.” I controlled my sniffling but I couldn’t stop the one tear from falling down my cheek. Jan and I exchanged goodbyes and I hung up the phone for the second time in twenty minutes. Then I cried. I cried for Lydia because she would never see her children grow up. I cried for her children because they would lose their mother. I cried for Adrienne because I think she would have been proud of me.

With my eyes still swimming in water, I started laughing. I had just given the best advice I would probably ever give in my life, and it was to my boss. Not to my husband or a friend, but my boss. How absurd! Remembering the Chicago soundtrack, I walked over to the stereo. I pressed the PLAY button on the CD player.

Pop!
Six!
Squish!
Uh Uh
Cicero
Lipschitiz!

I smiled as the beginning sounds of the Cell Block Tango filled the room. I turned up the volume.

He had it coming
He had it coming
He only had himself to blame …

I sang. I danced. And I cried again.

AWW — XoXo

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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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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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