My Job

"So, what do you do?" is one of the standard conversation starters in the getting to know you handbook. Everyone asks and expects to be asked the J-O-B-Q within the first 15 minutes of acquaintance-hood. Its just done.

In days of marketing coordinator yore, my pat reply was, "I work for a law firm." Unable to mask disgust, my fellow hobnobber would hiss, "You're a lawyer?" The next three minutes would invariably find me desperately negating this and the subsequent, "Did you want to / Do you plan to go to law school?" line of questioning.

I frequently left social engagements feeling that I hadn't put my best foot forward.

I have since gained a bit of networking finesse, and a few promotions. I now answer, "I'm a research analyst, competitive intelligence, mostly," with a blank expression on my face and the Mission Impossible theme song playing in my head.

I admit that I'm proud of my cerebral job, I enjoy its abstract nature, and I think I'm gosh-darn good at it. It fits my personality well (I like knowing stuff). It also helps that no one has a clue what a competitive intelligence / research analyst does, so I can kinda make stuff up as I go along the corporate ladder. It works for me.

Besides, how many careers have theme music?

Still, as I prepare to make the departmental leap from marketing to knowledge management, I find myself growing nostalgic and a little anxious. Yes, I do believe that competitive intelligence should be located within a department characterized by avid readers who can find and properly catalog a document in a haystack. However, the devil you know is always better than the devil you don't.

This video, produced for the Legal Marketing Association's Annual Conference, is the devil I know oh-so-well, and will miss oh-so-much. Even though my career is moving me away from legal marketing, I will always feel a special kinship to those fighting the good fight (and doing so with good fashion sense).



[Requisite inside jokes begin here.] No matter where I go or how long I'm there, I will always smile wistfully (and maybe even smirk a little) whenever I see matching plastic forks at a seminar, an Armani-clad middle-aged maaAAaan, dancing monkeys on websites, and pin-striped suits that scream, "I love myself!" And, of course, I question everything except that Stanliness is next to Godliness. That, my friends, is life's great truism. ;-)

On Sisterhood

I met my younger sister when she was 4 hours old and I was 12 years old. She grasped my finger and looked up at me with one squinty eye.

I lost my heart that day.

2008: A Call for Help

The barren wasteland that is the “comments” section of this blog suggests I have but one or two readers. Sitemeter, on the other hand, refutes this conclusion as erroneous and quantifies my readership (God love ‘em!) as being in the four-digit range.

So, I have a request of my numerous, albeit uncommunicative, readers: What are some worthwhile New Year’s resolutions? Not necessarily your own personal resolutions, per se, but a few precious goodies that I should consider adopting?

I usually avoid, “In 200X, I will….” statements for the same reason that “I feel” statements make my back hair shackle. However, as I vowed to make my 33rd a different kind of year, I do believe that the time has come to reevaluate my long-standing aversion to New Year’s revolutions… oops, I mean, resolutions. Accordingly, I beg your wise counsel, Obi Wan Kenobi.

(A caveat: I’ll do my very best to maintain the winning vows at least for the month of January, because once February hits my resolve depends more on the weather than the merits of the promise. Once we get into the second month, it’s all a crap shoot. Especially if it’s a leap year. That extra day tends to throw me for a loop.)

Christmas Gift Ideas

With only one day left in the 2007 shopping season, I am concerned for my dear readers. Are you having trouble finding that perfect gift? Asking yourself, "What do I give to the person who has everything?" Well, let me help you! What with me being a Jew and all, I have a fresh "forest and the trees" perspective on holiday shopping. You never know, a gift guide from an un-saved Jesus-killer may prove beneficial.

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes

Scratching your head over what to get that movie buff you only see twice a year? Never fear! No DVD collection is complete without the ultimate in cheese: Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. Yes, the movie is a bit ridiculous, but that's what makes it a classic.

Microsoft Online Gift Guide

Got a few eggheads on your list? (Don't we all?!?!) Well, thank heavens for the Microsoft Online Gift Guide! I mean, what geek wouldn't be thrilled to unwrap an inbox organizer, personalized email wallpaper, or a document automator? The recipient may even be so thrilled with her loot that she'll explain what a document automator is!

Gun-Toting Fetus Ornament

For that relative in Indiana who fights for the rights of the not-yet-born and proudly waves the American flag: How about the Unborn Baby Ornament? A call to arms for any pro-lifer, this bit of Christmas cheer will be the conversation starter of the season!

The Brick

And last but not least, the brick. You'll have to get on the 'puter soon to buy this baby, as it requires shipping bricks all the way from the UK. Seriously, though, bricks are amazingly useful (Rome wouldn't have been built without them, right?), and these simulations look and feel almost like the real thing.

Comfort Food

Back in October, I suffered such a resounding bitch slap of the romantic sort that I spent two days in bed, crying like a PMSing Trixie on an Oprah bender. I couldn’t even turn weepy-eyed to that bastion of heartbreak comfort food, Ben & Jerry’s. Instead, I am mortified to admit that I called friends and forced my sobbing, blathering self-pity on them. To their credit, they listened, and even called a few times to gently, lovingly encourage me to drag my pathetic caboose off the Pillow Top, bathe (for the love of holy hygiene), and go somewhere.

Although I did, eventually and slowly, return to the world outside my bedroom, two months later I still can’t look at B&Js, let alone lay down the clams for a bite or two. The very thought makes my stomach launch into a gymnastics routine.

So what to do now that I am here, once again, massaging my ego after yet another disappointment from yet another exY?

[Note: For the record (and because my pride requires this statement), the latest was more of a rejection than a heartbreak, and therefore required no quality time with the Pillow Top. Besides, I had a tad wee inkling that The Speech was coming, so at least I wasn’t blindsided.]

Well, the gods of scorned women everywhere smiled down upon me a full 24 hours before I got that nasty call: I won a gift certificate to Nacional 27 at the company holiday party.

I visited Nacional 27 for the first time on my birthday, ironically enough, with a group that included the Bitch Slapper, pre-slap. I’d wanted to try that little hipster hangout for ages, but never got around to looking fabulous enough to make a reservation. Post-dinner, though, the review was mixed: I was, regrettably, underwhelmed by the food and some of the drinks, but very much amenable to the… ambience.

The bar was way gorgeous, but that’s not what I’m talking about. The décor, too, was uber-classy, but nope, that’s not it either. And while the fusion food and splashy bevs were presented beautifully, that ain’t what I’m getting at, no way.

It was the wait staff.

Or, more accurately in pig-speak, it was the masculine-flavored eye candy falling all over themselves to, um, service us and wish me a haaaaaappy biiiiirthdaaaaay (and oh my, yes, yes it was) that made for such a memorable evening. Such an abundant supply of handsomeness on obvious and uninhibited display (read: tight black shirts everywhere) has made Nacional 27 my new bestest favoritest restaurant for dating disaster comfort food. You have to love the classy spoon where your martini runneth over with hot.

So, while I may not have chocolate chip cookie dough to comfort my blues anymore, I have found a cure whole universes better. I’m nabbing my girlfriends (and it will, of course, be strictly girls-only, as I have every intention of behaving shamelessly), taking that plastic $50, and going to see a restaurant about some meat.

I can so relate.

Marimo

This totally got me:

On Fluency

Dr. F.K. Lehman, the University of Illinois’s linguistic and structural anthropologist extraordinaire, is a man of words. He lived a thousand lives (opera singer, gem cutter, Buddhist monk, Ph.D. in Anthropology....). His website states he speaks “the usual run” of European languages, a tribal Chinese language or two, Burmese, Northern Thai, and a few other South Asian languages.

Back in my college years, I took a few of his classes, but worked up the nerve to visit him in his office a total of once. I spent the entire 30 minutes gawking at his quirky, mad-scientist brilliance. He, on the other hand, had no patience for my bright-eyed adoration and told me so in no uncertain terms. We talked (well, I listened as he talked) about censers and blind devotion, about how passion must always lead to compulsion, the egg on my face because I was too proud to admit ignorance of a thing, and the “curious phenomenon” that is “one’s emotional connection to a specific language.”

He casually insulted me, saying, “You will never learn Hindi in university.” I just stared, too hurt and angry to speak. It stung. I studied Hindi, man. I studied it with a determination composed of desperation and fear and lust and the creeping insecurity that I just wasn’t worthy of speaking the ancient, glorious language of the most beautiful people on earth, and he just waved all that effort and frustration away with a string of seven words and a roll of the eyes. How could he?! He didn’t see me with my flashcards at the student union, or conjugating verbs as I walked across the icy quad, or lying in bed at 3AM, crying, because I still – after hours spent practicing with a tutor – couldn’t decipher the simplest sentences.

It took three intense years in Japan and much silent musing to comprehend what Dr. Lehman so easily threw out there: Universities – or the best instructors in them – can’t teach a language.

A language is, in anthropologist-speak, the vehicle through which culture is transmitted. To learn a language is to fall in love with a foreign-to-the-learner culture and its people. It is the slow process of connecting to a new and confusing world, of entwining yourself in realities that require a different vocabulary, sentence structure, and sound system to effectively describe and experience.

Studying Japanese was a series of discomfiting, at times painful, realizations: It was not acceptable to ask directions, I had to make myself small and quiet on the train, I needed to bow low low low and apologize for being disruptive when I met the boss-man. I couldn’t joke around with men at work. If I did, then I was certainly sleeping with them. I was always the embodiment of the “other” and my salary and social standing reflected this institutionalized racism. Gaper’s blocks formed as I waited at the bus station, and there was the ever-present threat of the “black bus” and its bat-wielding, gaijin-hating passengers. I was Woman, my universe defined by this chromosomal flip of the coin.

Yet, as time went on, there was a string of triumphs that made my new life extraordinary. I was thrilled when I distinguished my electricity bill from my water bill. I slowly internalized my transliterated name, Sha-on (and suffered no small amount of identity loss when I moved back to the US and reverted to the American version), and earned Sensei as a title. I was given the privilege of listening to the elderly tell me about their childhood, I discovered how to say “yes” and “no” without losing face or being offensive, and, after a few years, I somehow became normal enough to have real friends.

That was when I truly spoke Japanese: There came a point when I could share a belly-laugh with my companions because I had assimilated enough to find local humor amusing and to have Japanese – who had never left Japan – find my company enjoyable.

More than anything else, fluency was the result of the awkward process of humbling myself so that I could make friends in an unfamiliar environment. It had much to do with opening my heart and very little to do with rote memorization or perfect translations.

Dr. Lehman was right, in the overarching umbrella sense of the word: I could never have learned all that at a university.

Planeguage

Delta recently created a series of animations aimed at raising awareness of airplane etiquette. Halleluiah and amen, brother!!!

Every nightmare flight I've ever had has been caused, not by the airlines or its employees, but by the classless barbarians who shelled out good money to make me miserable.

There are several short clips on YouTube, and I wholeheartedly endorse them. For those modern day Energizer bunnies who don't have time to sit and get edumacated, I have summarized the finer points that I deem imperative:

1. Gas-X is your friend. Use it. If the air pressure in your bowels is extending beyond your comfort zone - such as the level exhibited by Mount St. Helens in the 80s - then go to the loo. Just because the roaring jet engine masks the farter's identity, does not make it socially excusable for some pizza-eating flatulant cretin to violate my airspace. I'm trying to breathe, you know? Me, strapped down + stranger fart = nauseous and panicked.

2. Kindly impart the necessary rules of etiquette to your offspring. In other words, control your kid. I don't care if she is 3 years-old, she may not kick my seat, throw things (toys, food, bottles, etc) at me, or vomit on my shoes. If she does any of these, you, acting as her guardian, must apologize.

3. Further to number 2, above, note the judicious use of the word "kindly." Please do not abuse - verbally or physically - your child during the flight. Or ever, for that matter. Should you act violently towards your child, and the plane happen to crash, you will immediately find yourself in that special place in hell populated only with parents like you. I recommend you seek to avoid that eternity.

4. Wear your shoes at all times. Airplane air is recycled. This means that it gets sucked up and blown back into the cabin. Over and over again. No one wants that fetid aroma wafting through their hair via the overhead vents, so do us all a favor and wear comfortable shoes for the duration of the flight.

5. Choose your reading material carefully. If your reading material is, shall we say, of a highly personal and exciting nature, you cannot take offense when others read over your shoulder. It is just too much fun to resist.

6. If it appears I don't want to talk to you, then chances are I don't want to talk to you. Sorry, but I've had the pleasure of making some fairly notable acquaintances in transit: Missionaries on their way to Uganda, a techie-freak with an aluminum suitcase handcuffed to his wrist and a group of Sudanese refugees en route to Canada. You and your grandchildren are just not that interesting, especially when I've been traveling for 32 hours and I still have 9 to go before I can shower. Put the pictures back in your purse and let me sleep.

And, to show that I'm not all pet peeves and irritation when I fly, I'll give you a tip that took me countless hours of excruciating boredom to figure out. People wonder how I could travel from Aomori, Japan to Chicago, Illinois without losing my mind. It was, after all, 41 hours door to door.

The answer is simple: Drugs.

If you have a flight that is longer than 8 hours, consider doping yourself into oblivion. While it may be at the extreme end of coping strategies, a martini with a Rozerem twist will make the 9th hour of your 16-hour flight nothing more than a narced-out, dreamless haze.

2007 Yuletide Loot

Am I a difficult one to shop for? Wondering what to get me? Worried that this non-believer will feel left out on the 25th?

Baaaaahhhh!!!

Despite being destined for the fiery pits of hell, I still get into the holiday spirit. Me, I am all about blatant and unabashed consumerism, and, as my good friends are well aware, I delight in free stuff.

Especially if it’s the free stuff on my Yuletide Loot list.

Thanks to Santa's little helpers over at Amazon and Widgetbox, my dearies don't have to fuss and fret over what I may or may not like. Yes, that's right, pop over to Amazon (or scroll down my blog - why did that sound sexual? - and hit the F5 key a few times - again, why… oh never mind), and you'll have a good idea of what to put my nametag on. After all, nothing says "I love you" like a nice pair of tube socks. Or 10 ounces of caviar.



And if none of those gifts seem to scream, "I love you thiiiiiiiiiis much," then, ok, twist my arm, fine, sure, if you absolutely must, I'll allow it: Go ahead and buy me that car I've had my eye on. It is a bit much, and I confess such a grandiose gesture will embarrass me (just a little), but I promise to jump up and down, scream loud enough to wake the neighbors, and hug and kiss you. Just like the commercials say I should.

WTF Part II: I'm Speechless

The British would say that I like the sound of my own voice. It's true. I like to talk. A lot. My mother was fond of saying that I learned to walk when I was 10 months old and I learned to read at 2 years old, but that she couldn't remember a time when I was quiet.

That's not always true, though.

There are instances in which words fail me. More specifically, there are times when something will propel me into such a deep and profound state of WTF that this Chatty Cathy loses her quick wit and can only stare open-mouthed in response.

It's not because I'm being judgmental; I swear I'm neither silently disapproving nor secretly appreciating whatever it is that paralyzed my vocal chords. Rather, my lack of communicative ability is the result of synaptic overload. I just can't wrap the brain around it.

Some of these WTF catalysts stay with me for a good long while. Like this one:

Dating Archetypes

Some of my recently-single friends are fascinated with internet dating. They imagine it to be this sea of handsome and available Prince Charmings, all bearing a dozen roses and driving a horse-drawn chariot.

HA!

The reality is that, while I am sure there is a Prince Charming out there... somewhere, I have kissed enough online frogs to feel it is my duty to bring my dear friends back to reality. Prince Charming is, after all, only one archetype. There are dozens, maybe hundreds, out there, only some of which can be spoken about publicly and all of which can be found on Match.com:

The Grammatically-Challenged Rap Star

In his first email, the GCRS will ask you to "hit me up." I'm not quite sure what that means, exactly, but I am fairly certain that "u" is a letter and "too" has a definition entirely different from "2." GCRS wants you to know that he is hip, he is cool, and his jeans are seven sizes too large. He will tell you, eyes a-glowing, that he was a DJ in college, and that he has a few gigs around town on Tuesdays. Only later will you learn that he is in his early forties, divorced, has three kids, and his goldfish and houseplants keep dying.

The Whiner

The Whiner is readily identifiable, as his eyes are usually cast downwards and he heaves melodramatic sighs at 15 minute intervals. He views himself as the recipient of bad luck, as though the Universe itself has chosen him to be its football. Of course, the unfortunate circumstances in which he finds himself are not a result of his own poor planning or decision-making (or lack thereof). Rather, life has been cruel to him, despite his best efforts.

The Loser

Much like the Whiner, the Loser does not quite understand the intricacies of cause and effect. Yet, he differs from the Whiner in that he just doesn't seem to care, and passes his shortcomings off as being laid-back. This gentleman usually resides in his parents' basement or with a high school friend (though they are now in their mid-thirties), has foldable furniture, and has never had a job without a timecard. He lives, as one might expect, an unexamined life.

The Mauler

The Mauler has eight arms and an astonishingly flexible neck, and uses these to, well, grope uninterested women. In his mind, all of dating can be summed up in three words: Barter and trade. If he should provide his date with a cup of coffee at Starbucks, then, in the Mauler's mind, she most certainly owes him sex. If a woman should chat with him on the phone for longer then five minutes, then she too, owes him sex. I sometimes wonder: Does the Mauler only manhandle women who find him detestable? Regardless, this creature is the reason first meetings are always in public, and always in daylight.

The Smooth Talking Dude

Ahhhh… The Smooth Talking Dude, also known as the Player. Now here is the man we all swoon over. It starts out great: He has perfect hair, his clothes have never known wrinkles, and his smile could very well be contributing to global warming. He even smells good, and his personality has been the subject of ballads for millennia. Naturally, this guy has it all - cool job, great personality, and he will always take you out on the perfect date. But here's the scoop for you, if you haven't already figured it out: If he looks, acts, and smells like an STD, he probably has one.

The Married Man

The Married Man is, by far, the worst of the worst, the slime beneath the bottom of the dating barrel. Some will come right out and tell you, either in their online profile or in the first few communiqués, that they are "in an unfulfilling relationship." Others, though, will wait to drop the M-bomb on the third date. What makes them so awful, especially after you've had a few dates with them, is that they are usually nice and kind and…. dear heavens, normal. They seem like great guys, like guys you could really see yourself falling for. And then when you learn the nasty, ugly, home-wrecking truth, you also have to question your own choices and attractions: Will I end up with a guy who cheats on me?

This question, alas, will go unanswered (at least for now). Despite the inherent unpleasantness in dating in general, and online dating in particular, I, for one, am still optimistic. I just have to believe that they can't all be that bad. So, to my friends who are considering it, I say, "Go for it! Run the dating marathon!!!" You'll meet a lot of... interesting... individuals in a short period of time, and hey, you might even get a free dinner cruise out of it.

Me, I am taking a much needed haitus.....

My Little Jaunts

I love to travel. I ADORE traveling. I've been looking for a good way to motivate myself to travel more often (as if that is really necessary), and found the very cool widget below.

If my life expectancy is 76.7, then at 33 I've lived 43% of my life (yes, middle age here I am!). According to this little widget, and assuming balkanization is a thing of the 90s, I've traveled to 12% of all 194 countries in the world. (Although, there is some debate over the exact number of countries.)

I had better hurry it along if I want to go everywhere there is to go! In order to see every country before I die, I will have to visit just about 4 countries a year for the next 43.7 years.