Following Justice John Paul Stevens’ retirement announcement and Obama’s subsequent nomination of Elena Kagan to fill Stevens’ seat, there’s been a lot of buzz about “who’s what” on the Supreme Court.
Per the opinion of some, New York already is over-represented. Per the opinion of others, the potential lack of a Protestant seems cause for alarm.
Neither of those possibilities bothers me. New York happens to be incredibly well-populated, and it always has been. So, statistically, it makes a certain amount of sense that it would be home to a disproportionate number of well-educated, well-qualified professionals.
As for the religious stuff, I’m not convinced that a person’s affiliation with a particular dogma adequately defines him or her. There are too many examples of elected officials whose “walk” is at odds with their “talk.” And then there are those on the other end of the spectrum – those who may attend mass a few times a week and still genuinely honor the separation of church and state.
So, since those particular “identifiers” don’t really concern me, I decided to raise my own question regarding the matters of who and what. I decided to throw another demographic query into the mix. What is the astrological breakout of the current Supreme Court, and how does nominee Elena Kagan fit in?
Go ahead and laugh at my question, but here’s the deal: I’m a Libra. My sign is the sign of the scales. And oh no, honey, I’m not talking about the scales you dread standing on after a weekend that included two consecutive all-you-can-eat buffets. I’m talking about the scales of JUSTICE! Mine is the sign of an individual who weighs, balances, and pursues fairness.
Wouldn’t it be cool if we had a few Libras on the Supreme Court?
Let’s check it out…
Okay, first: Stevens – the guy who’s retiring – was born on April 20th. That’s the first day of Taurus (an EARTH sign; the sign of the bull).
Elena Kagan, nominated to replace him, was born on April 28th. Also a Taurus. And while I am absolutely sure that Obama did not consider this fact when planning to fill Stevens’ seat, I think it’s fabulously coincidental.
(I also relate to it. In fact, if you saw an accounting of the men I’ve invited into my boudoir over the course of my adulthood, you’d see that I’ve often replaced a Taurus with a Taurus. I don’t know what it is about the bull, but I always fall for it.)
Oh, sorry, this really isn’t about me…
Okay, so the rest of the court:
John Roberts was born on January 27th, making him an Aquarius (like Libra and Gemini, an AIR sign.)
Samuel Alito’s birthday is April 1st. What? April Fool’s Day? Doesn’t that just seem so wrong in this context? Anyway, Alito’s foolish birthday makes him an Aries, which is a FIRE sign.
Two other fires are on the bench: Anthony Kennedy was born on July 23rd, the first day of Leo. And Stephen Breyer, also a Leo, was born on August 15th .
The rest are WATER signs.
Two Cancers: (Clarence Thomas – June 23rd, and Sonia Sotomayor – June 25th).
Two Pisces: (Antonin Scalia – March 11th, and Ruth Bader Ginsberg – March 15th).
That’s four WATERs, three FIREs, one AIR, and one EARTH.
And not a single goddamn Libra among them.
Frankly, I’m offended.
And here’s another thing: With a near majority of justices in WATER, I can’t help but consider a certain homonymic phrase: Row versus wade.
We’ll just have to see what happens.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Reconsidering the Names of Things
When I conduct funder research for my nonprofit clients, I use a software that amuses me with its typos. Regarding those typos, I don’t necessarily fault the folks behind the software. It is their job, after all, to enter absolutely every grant over $4,000 for which they have a foundation profile (and they have thousands of profiles). That kind of work has got to make a person a bit cross-eyed.
So: when I see that a grant went to the “Skrewball Cultural Center,” I don’t conclude that the data entry specialist was trying to make a joke. Rather, she or he is probably super tired. (I also know, because the grantee is here in L.A., that the listing should say Skirball Cultural Center.)
Likewise, when I see that the purpose of a grant was for developing “literracy cumfculum,” I don’t immediately assume that the person entering that information is illiterate (or even illiterrate.)
The other day, I conducted a new search on the software in question, and when I perused the results, I smiled for a reason having nothing to do with typos. This time, I smiled because the name of a grantee leapt out at me. The grantee is called the OMG Center for Collaborative Learning.
I’m sure I could do some googling and learn what the OMG stands for, but… we all know what it stands for, right? OMG! The Oh My God Center for Collaborative Learning got a grant!
I’m also sure I could do some googling and discover whether the OMG Center has undergone a name change in the past couple of years. (The grant listed in the search was issued in 2001.) God knows, if it were my nonprofit organization, I’d come up with something a little less meaningful to cyber-communicators.
On the other hand, this discovery gave me an idea. Why not create some nonprofit organizations with names that are not only appropriate to the nonprofits’ missions but also are significant to texters and others? I have a few suggestions:
* The IMO Center for First Amendment Freedoms
* The FWIW Interjection Partnership (and its pet project, the BTW Summer Institute)
* The BFF Pen Pal Project (okay, that one is totally ironic)
* The LOL Program on the Study of Humor
* The B/C Corporation for Research in Reasoning
* The NNTO Brevity Collaborative
and, drum roll, please…
* The WTF Coalition on Environmental Issues in the Gulf Coast
So, that’s what I got, people. Your suggestions are welcome.
TTFN!
P.S. It’s highly unlikely that you know less than I do about text-speak, but if you’re stumped by the list above, here’s the legend:
IMO = In My Opinion
FWIW = For What It’s Worth
BTW = By The Way
BFF = Best Friends Forever
LOL = Laugh Out Loud
B/C = Because
NNTO = No Need To Open (used on the subject line of emails when the subject line says it all)
WTF = What The F&%k (most often followed by an exclamation point or question mark)
TTFN = Ta Ta For Now
So: when I see that a grant went to the “Skrewball Cultural Center,” I don’t conclude that the data entry specialist was trying to make a joke. Rather, she or he is probably super tired. (I also know, because the grantee is here in L.A., that the listing should say Skirball Cultural Center.)
Likewise, when I see that the purpose of a grant was for developing “literracy cumfculum,” I don’t immediately assume that the person entering that information is illiterate (or even illiterrate.)
The other day, I conducted a new search on the software in question, and when I perused the results, I smiled for a reason having nothing to do with typos. This time, I smiled because the name of a grantee leapt out at me. The grantee is called the OMG Center for Collaborative Learning.
I’m sure I could do some googling and learn what the OMG stands for, but… we all know what it stands for, right? OMG! The Oh My God Center for Collaborative Learning got a grant!
I’m also sure I could do some googling and discover whether the OMG Center has undergone a name change in the past couple of years. (The grant listed in the search was issued in 2001.) God knows, if it were my nonprofit organization, I’d come up with something a little less meaningful to cyber-communicators.
On the other hand, this discovery gave me an idea. Why not create some nonprofit organizations with names that are not only appropriate to the nonprofits’ missions but also are significant to texters and others? I have a few suggestions:
* The IMO Center for First Amendment Freedoms
* The FWIW Interjection Partnership (and its pet project, the BTW Summer Institute)
* The BFF Pen Pal Project (okay, that one is totally ironic)
* The LOL Program on the Study of Humor
* The B/C Corporation for Research in Reasoning
* The NNTO Brevity Collaborative
and, drum roll, please…
* The WTF Coalition on Environmental Issues in the Gulf Coast
So, that’s what I got, people. Your suggestions are welcome.
TTFN!
P.S. It’s highly unlikely that you know less than I do about text-speak, but if you’re stumped by the list above, here’s the legend:
IMO = In My Opinion
FWIW = For What It’s Worth
BTW = By The Way
BFF = Best Friends Forever
LOL = Laugh Out Loud
B/C = Because
NNTO = No Need To Open (used on the subject line of emails when the subject line says it all)
WTF = What The F&%k (most often followed by an exclamation point or question mark)
TTFN = Ta Ta For Now
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Smile Therapy
I’m the first to admit that I’m a person of many moods. I’m not like the “united states of Tara” or anything, I’m just… I don’t know, emotional. I feel what I feel, you know?
My ex-husband, who had a great sense of humor, used to deal with my moodiness by sharing an adage from his homestate. “It’s like we used to say about the weather in Michigan,” he’d tell me. “If you don’t like it, just wait ten minutes.”
Being old enough now to understand my rhythms, I appreciate that my ex was onto something. My mood (particularly if it is a negative one) is unlikely to last. My life just never sucks that much, and so I have no reason to drop into irretrievable doldrums. When I’m in a low mood, I pretty much only need a little pick-me-up. And because I’m in a low mood, I need for that pick-me-up to be provided by someone else.
As prescriptions go, this seems like a fabulously affordable solution. Don’t need to wait for 2014, when universal healthcare kicks in! Oh no, just give me one other person – one other contagiously cheerful person. That’s all I need.
But that also is the caveat. I am self-employed, you see. And so I spend a good part of my day at home alone. I spend a good part of my day sitting at my computer. If I have a co-worker at all, it’s the radio, and if my co-worker can be identified as a downer, it’s only because I’m hooked on NPR. (Let’s face it, the real news is not exactly uplifting these days.)
I’ve been self-employed now for ten years, but this is not the first go-round with independent work. I also took a stab at it from 96 to 97 or so. At the time of that first stab, I had no artistic outlets and so I was at risk of being particularly morose. The isolation did a number on me. A painful number. I remember once, running some errands in the middle of a weekday. I had gone into a store and I happened upon a conversation between a father and his small son. Hearing their dialogue made me smile, and when I smiled, I also made a mental note: “That felt good.”
Yup. Smiling felt good.
I don’t want to think how long it must have been since my last smile, but the fact that I felt it and appreciated how it changed the contours of my mood speaks volumes. The fact that I felt it indicates that, like a good stretch, it was a body maneuver that needed to happen and was long overdue.
These days, there’s more art in my life, and that brings me joy. There also are more friends with whom I share art. There are more friends who know the artist in me.
Still, though, there are days when the isolation gets heavy. When working alone threatens to turn me into Michigan’s worst cold front. But I know what to do in those moments. I just smile. And, cheesy as it sounds, I feel better instantly.
My ex-husband, who had a great sense of humor, used to deal with my moodiness by sharing an adage from his homestate. “It’s like we used to say about the weather in Michigan,” he’d tell me. “If you don’t like it, just wait ten minutes.”
Being old enough now to understand my rhythms, I appreciate that my ex was onto something. My mood (particularly if it is a negative one) is unlikely to last. My life just never sucks that much, and so I have no reason to drop into irretrievable doldrums. When I’m in a low mood, I pretty much only need a little pick-me-up. And because I’m in a low mood, I need for that pick-me-up to be provided by someone else.
As prescriptions go, this seems like a fabulously affordable solution. Don’t need to wait for 2014, when universal healthcare kicks in! Oh no, just give me one other person – one other contagiously cheerful person. That’s all I need.
But that also is the caveat. I am self-employed, you see. And so I spend a good part of my day at home alone. I spend a good part of my day sitting at my computer. If I have a co-worker at all, it’s the radio, and if my co-worker can be identified as a downer, it’s only because I’m hooked on NPR. (Let’s face it, the real news is not exactly uplifting these days.)
I’ve been self-employed now for ten years, but this is not the first go-round with independent work. I also took a stab at it from 96 to 97 or so. At the time of that first stab, I had no artistic outlets and so I was at risk of being particularly morose. The isolation did a number on me. A painful number. I remember once, running some errands in the middle of a weekday. I had gone into a store and I happened upon a conversation between a father and his small son. Hearing their dialogue made me smile, and when I smiled, I also made a mental note: “That felt good.”
Yup. Smiling felt good.
I don’t want to think how long it must have been since my last smile, but the fact that I felt it and appreciated how it changed the contours of my mood speaks volumes. The fact that I felt it indicates that, like a good stretch, it was a body maneuver that needed to happen and was long overdue.
These days, there’s more art in my life, and that brings me joy. There also are more friends with whom I share art. There are more friends who know the artist in me.
Still, though, there are days when the isolation gets heavy. When working alone threatens to turn me into Michigan’s worst cold front. But I know what to do in those moments. I just smile. And, cheesy as it sounds, I feel better instantly.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
20 Years Later
This month marks my 20th year living in Los Angeles, and Los Angeles also is the place where I have lived the longest.
Although I was born in Connecticut, most of my first 17 years were in Virginia, under the care of my parents (granted, that care was rather remote during my three years in boarding school).
From Virginia, I went to New York, where I would experience my four years of college life within the confines of university housing. Thereafter, there were about seven years of apartment-sharing with roommates.
Then, I met a man with a lease, and I fell in love (not with his lease, mind you).
For a while, the man and I shared his lease in a dismally unpopular area of upper Manhattan. After we married, we moved to a better neighborhood in Brooklyn. Nearly three years into our marriage, we loaded our worldly possessions into a 15-foot rental truck, doused the cats with the prescribed dosage of Dr. Goodpet’s Homeopathic Stress Drops, and drove across the country.
I don’t want to talk about the first L.A. apartments my ex and I shared. We ran a bit of a gamut until we figured it was the marriage, not us, that needed to be “moved.” Suffice it to say, where I live now is the place I moved to when I ended that marriage. Where I live now is the place I’ve lived longer than any other place in my life.
So, here I am, in a place that I have got to call home.
What makes it so?
Something that struck me early after moving to L.A. is that this city is so many things. Unlike New York, which is in your face the minute you walk out into it, L.A. is – potentially – whatever you want it to be.
Are you a surfer-dude? Live in Venice. You’ll find your ilk.
Like shopping? An apartment near the Americana in Glendale will probably work well for you.
Need quiet? Tuck yourself away in some corner of the Valley or find a place in a remote area of Brentwood.
I’ll admit that for the first four years of my living here (i.e., before I ended my marriage and landed in Los Feliz), I was giving serious thoughts to moving back east. It just didn’t feel right to me. But now, I’m in the ‘hood I need to be in. It’s urban. It’s diverse. It’s not altogether safe. It’s alive.
I love my Los Angeles.
It’s funny. In New York, with the hustle and bustle of so many people cramped together on so small an island, you don’t have to define yourself beyond simply being a New Yorker. And if you can just get through your day, make it home, and remember to pick up the dry cleaning, you are an activist.
Los Angeles, an equally populated city, is utterly different from that.
I recall a line from Kramer vs. Kramer in which the Meryl Streep character, during the courtroom scene, referred to moving to California “to find myself.” Within the context of that movie (and perhaps because I first heard it from a Manhattan movie theatre seat), the concept of finding oneself in California sounded very touchy-feely. Like the character had probably gone to some commune in the Big Sur area. Perhaps engaged in some activities meant to release energies otherwise trapped in an inhospitable chakra.
But there is some truth to the concept of “finding oneself” in California. And it doesn’t all relate to East Coast prejudices about this wacky state that’s likely to fall off the continent following the next big tremor…
When I arrived in Los Angeles, I knew only one thing about myself: I was a New Yorker.
And, guess what? Los Angeles didn’t give a shit!
And so… I had “to find myself.”
The good news is that I did.
And I’m guessing that if I weren’t okay with the self I found, I wouldn’t still be here.
Although I was born in Connecticut, most of my first 17 years were in Virginia, under the care of my parents (granted, that care was rather remote during my three years in boarding school).
From Virginia, I went to New York, where I would experience my four years of college life within the confines of university housing. Thereafter, there were about seven years of apartment-sharing with roommates.
Then, I met a man with a lease, and I fell in love (not with his lease, mind you).
For a while, the man and I shared his lease in a dismally unpopular area of upper Manhattan. After we married, we moved to a better neighborhood in Brooklyn. Nearly three years into our marriage, we loaded our worldly possessions into a 15-foot rental truck, doused the cats with the prescribed dosage of Dr. Goodpet’s Homeopathic Stress Drops, and drove across the country.
I don’t want to talk about the first L.A. apartments my ex and I shared. We ran a bit of a gamut until we figured it was the marriage, not us, that needed to be “moved.” Suffice it to say, where I live now is the place I moved to when I ended that marriage. Where I live now is the place I’ve lived longer than any other place in my life.
So, here I am, in a place that I have got to call home.
What makes it so?
Something that struck me early after moving to L.A. is that this city is so many things. Unlike New York, which is in your face the minute you walk out into it, L.A. is – potentially – whatever you want it to be.
Are you a surfer-dude? Live in Venice. You’ll find your ilk.
Like shopping? An apartment near the Americana in Glendale will probably work well for you.
Need quiet? Tuck yourself away in some corner of the Valley or find a place in a remote area of Brentwood.
I’ll admit that for the first four years of my living here (i.e., before I ended my marriage and landed in Los Feliz), I was giving serious thoughts to moving back east. It just didn’t feel right to me. But now, I’m in the ‘hood I need to be in. It’s urban. It’s diverse. It’s not altogether safe. It’s alive.
I love my Los Angeles.
It’s funny. In New York, with the hustle and bustle of so many people cramped together on so small an island, you don’t have to define yourself beyond simply being a New Yorker. And if you can just get through your day, make it home, and remember to pick up the dry cleaning, you are an activist.
Los Angeles, an equally populated city, is utterly different from that.
I recall a line from Kramer vs. Kramer in which the Meryl Streep character, during the courtroom scene, referred to moving to California “to find myself.” Within the context of that movie (and perhaps because I first heard it from a Manhattan movie theatre seat), the concept of finding oneself in California sounded very touchy-feely. Like the character had probably gone to some commune in the Big Sur area. Perhaps engaged in some activities meant to release energies otherwise trapped in an inhospitable chakra.
But there is some truth to the concept of “finding oneself” in California. And it doesn’t all relate to East Coast prejudices about this wacky state that’s likely to fall off the continent following the next big tremor…
When I arrived in Los Angeles, I knew only one thing about myself: I was a New Yorker.
And, guess what? Los Angeles didn’t give a shit!
And so… I had “to find myself.”
The good news is that I did.
And I’m guessing that if I weren’t okay with the self I found, I wouldn’t still be here.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
I’m Two-Faced About Facebook
Social networking is a phenomenon that is clearly not going to go away. And Facebook – with how many registered faces now? more than 65 million? – is the biggest party in cybertown. It will get bigger, too. No doubt about it. There are no capacity issues when the party is taking place in a virtual dance hall.
I resisted signing up for a long time. The concept didn’t hold much value for me. Besides, I have enough trouble keeping up with the friendships I could be enjoying in person or over the phone. Do I need this added sense of social responsibility?
But when the prep school I attended created a Facebook community, I began to flirt with the idea of joining. Part of the draw was the fact that the prep school no longer exists, so the virtual alumnae association had no competition off-line. The dealmaker, though, occurred when I realized that – in lieu of a picture of my actual face – I could associate my profile with the cover of my novel. Anything to help market The Somebody Who.
So I joined Facebook probably a year and a half ago. And for a while, I visited somewhat regularly. I don’t regret my early activities in that most popular cyberland. Last April, I reunited with a friend I hadn’t seen in thirty years and hadn’t been in touch with for probably fifteen years. And in October, while I was in Virginia, I had lunch with one of my best buddies from elementary school and junior high. I had last seen her at my wedding, in 1987.
I’m grateful that I have found both these friends. But I also know that I probably could have found them without Facebook.
I should also mention, as long as I’m just a paragraph away from the subject of my marriage, that yes, my ex (since 1994) has a Facebook page. And yes, I’ve perused it.
This is the part of Facebook that makes me feel particularly uncomfortable. I am able to look at photographs that have nothing to do with my current life. I am able to see which friends belong to whom. I am participating in a collective surrendering of privacy, and so I am part of the problem.
But, when you think about it, the surrendering of privacy in this realm is fairly tame. There’s just not a lot of highly personal stuff revealed in most of the postings. Take, for example, some of these comments I’ve seen in the News Feed:
“It’s Friday!”
“I’m so bored.”
and (drum roll, please)
“Fixing dinner...”
About five or six months ago, I stopped visiting Facebook on a regular basis. I still occasionally (very occasionally) get a direct message from someone, and when I do, it appears in my email. I’m cool with that. And I’m even inclined to respond.
But the postings that show up on a daily basis? I don’t know that this is our greatest moment as a species.
…Chances are I already know it’s Friday.
…If you’re bored and you choose to announce it, I will likely remember what my mother used to say to me: “Katie, bored people are often boring.”
…As for your dinner? Gee, I sure hope you take pictures when it’s done!
I realize that, in sharing these comments, I might lose a few “friends.” But in the world of Facebook, I’m actually not even sure what it means anymore to have a “friend.”
I resisted signing up for a long time. The concept didn’t hold much value for me. Besides, I have enough trouble keeping up with the friendships I could be enjoying in person or over the phone. Do I need this added sense of social responsibility?
But when the prep school I attended created a Facebook community, I began to flirt with the idea of joining. Part of the draw was the fact that the prep school no longer exists, so the virtual alumnae association had no competition off-line. The dealmaker, though, occurred when I realized that – in lieu of a picture of my actual face – I could associate my profile with the cover of my novel. Anything to help market The Somebody Who.
So I joined Facebook probably a year and a half ago. And for a while, I visited somewhat regularly. I don’t regret my early activities in that most popular cyberland. Last April, I reunited with a friend I hadn’t seen in thirty years and hadn’t been in touch with for probably fifteen years. And in October, while I was in Virginia, I had lunch with one of my best buddies from elementary school and junior high. I had last seen her at my wedding, in 1987.
I’m grateful that I have found both these friends. But I also know that I probably could have found them without Facebook.
I should also mention, as long as I’m just a paragraph away from the subject of my marriage, that yes, my ex (since 1994) has a Facebook page. And yes, I’ve perused it.
This is the part of Facebook that makes me feel particularly uncomfortable. I am able to look at photographs that have nothing to do with my current life. I am able to see which friends belong to whom. I am participating in a collective surrendering of privacy, and so I am part of the problem.
But, when you think about it, the surrendering of privacy in this realm is fairly tame. There’s just not a lot of highly personal stuff revealed in most of the postings. Take, for example, some of these comments I’ve seen in the News Feed:
“It’s Friday!”
“I’m so bored.”
and (drum roll, please)
“Fixing dinner...”
About five or six months ago, I stopped visiting Facebook on a regular basis. I still occasionally (very occasionally) get a direct message from someone, and when I do, it appears in my email. I’m cool with that. And I’m even inclined to respond.
But the postings that show up on a daily basis? I don’t know that this is our greatest moment as a species.
…Chances are I already know it’s Friday.
…If you’re bored and you choose to announce it, I will likely remember what my mother used to say to me: “Katie, bored people are often boring.”
…As for your dinner? Gee, I sure hope you take pictures when it’s done!
I realize that, in sharing these comments, I might lose a few “friends.” But in the world of Facebook, I’m actually not even sure what it means anymore to have a “friend.”
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Observations from the Niche-Free Zone
Back in the mid-‘90s, when the Internet was in its infancy, I got a call from someone representing the Barnard Alumnae Association. He was calling regarding a directory they were putting together. He was seeking information for my entry in said tome.
Yes, I said it: tome.
You see, this was to be an actual book with actual pages. Something alums would order so that they could access information regarding women, like themselves, who had experienced higher education at the venerable college that attracts tough, independent New York types and is affiliated with Columbia University.
After answering the man’s questions as to “what I do,” he said something that filled me with pride: “You don’t really fall into any category.”
My response? “And if I ever do, please shoot me.”
It will seem unrelated for me to suddenly bring up American Idol, but I’m kind of entitled, what with my no-category status. Besides, there actually is a reason to bring it up. I first should confess that, yes, I’m one of the hooked masses. I love American Idol for all kinds of reasons, and I’d detail them here, but a character in my second novel (not yet published) already has done so, and I really want you to hear it from her mouth. Regardless, something I’ve noticed this season is the judges’ desperately wanting to home in on a contestant’s niche. Is she country? Is he blues? Should she go the pop route?
Recently, Siobhan Magnus (the refreshingly quirky glass blower from Cape Cod who can somehow scream without being “pitchy”) defended herself against the judges’ comments as to “who she is.” I can’t quote her verbatim (and I’m too lazy in the moment to Google it), but essentially, she conveyed that she wasn’t interested in being pigeon-holed.
Good for Siobhan!
I get it that there are reasons to claim a niche. If you focus on one thing, you will likely devote all your energy to it, and you will therefore improve within it and have a better chance for success. Undoubtedly, had I claimed a niche by now, I wouldn’t be constantly wondering if I’ll make ends meet on a month-to-month basis.
But, if I were stuck in one place, I’d also not discover new places.
I love my nonprofit work, which I “happened into” back in 1987. I had grown tired of waitressing by then, and so I began temping. When an assignment landed me at the Ford Foundation, I gained a new perspective on “office world.” Who knew there were kind, altruistic people doing the nine-to-five grind? (I didn’t.) Now, after many nonprofit staff positions and loads of amazing, Kodak-moment experiences, I do fundraising and program development work on a consulting basis. My clients are awesome, and what they do for folks in Los Angeles is life-changing.
I love my fine art work, which began when I “happened into” a bead store. For almost 10 years now, I’ve been seduced by what I call the unbearable lightness of beading. I’ve made jewelry, mobiles, and wall hangings. And without beads, I’ve made original greeting cards using recycled materials. Most recently, I’ve opened a shop on etsy.com. This means I’m in the process of moving my independent website inventory to a more well-traveled location. Sure, I’m competing with about 50,000 other jewelry designers, but I love my work, and so I believe in it.
I love my creative writing. In fact, I love nothing more than making sentences. I am even happy with that one. And this one. And the next one.
So what “do I do?” the Alumnae Association wants to know.
I look for joy. And when I find it, I look for more.
Funny that these musings reference Barnard. I remember, when I first arrived there (me, a 17-year-old from rural Virginia), I was so struck by my classmates and what I heard during informal freshman orientation conversations. The most common answers to peer-posed questions were two-syllable hyphenates: pre-med; pre-law; pre-med; pre-law; pre-med; pre-law… I was shocked, but I never felt pressured. Even then, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing from the mouths of babes. These 17- and 18-year olds had their whole lives figured out.
I hope it’s gone well for them. I hope they like their niches.
As for me, I’ll keep confusing the judges. And although I may scream at times, I’ll try never to sound pitchy (or… something that rhymes with that).
Please visit my etsy shop at www.KatieGatesDesigns.etsy.com . And tell your friends.
If you haven’t done so already, pick up a copy of my novel at Amazon. Just do a search for The Somebody Who. You’ll see it.
Know any nonprofits who need help with their fundraising? Send them my way.
I’m here.
I’m the one without a niche.
Yes, I said it: tome.
You see, this was to be an actual book with actual pages. Something alums would order so that they could access information regarding women, like themselves, who had experienced higher education at the venerable college that attracts tough, independent New York types and is affiliated with Columbia University.
After answering the man’s questions as to “what I do,” he said something that filled me with pride: “You don’t really fall into any category.”
My response? “And if I ever do, please shoot me.”
It will seem unrelated for me to suddenly bring up American Idol, but I’m kind of entitled, what with my no-category status. Besides, there actually is a reason to bring it up. I first should confess that, yes, I’m one of the hooked masses. I love American Idol for all kinds of reasons, and I’d detail them here, but a character in my second novel (not yet published) already has done so, and I really want you to hear it from her mouth. Regardless, something I’ve noticed this season is the judges’ desperately wanting to home in on a contestant’s niche. Is she country? Is he blues? Should she go the pop route?
Recently, Siobhan Magnus (the refreshingly quirky glass blower from Cape Cod who can somehow scream without being “pitchy”) defended herself against the judges’ comments as to “who she is.” I can’t quote her verbatim (and I’m too lazy in the moment to Google it), but essentially, she conveyed that she wasn’t interested in being pigeon-holed.
Good for Siobhan!
I get it that there are reasons to claim a niche. If you focus on one thing, you will likely devote all your energy to it, and you will therefore improve within it and have a better chance for success. Undoubtedly, had I claimed a niche by now, I wouldn’t be constantly wondering if I’ll make ends meet on a month-to-month basis.
But, if I were stuck in one place, I’d also not discover new places.
I love my nonprofit work, which I “happened into” back in 1987. I had grown tired of waitressing by then, and so I began temping. When an assignment landed me at the Ford Foundation, I gained a new perspective on “office world.” Who knew there were kind, altruistic people doing the nine-to-five grind? (I didn’t.) Now, after many nonprofit staff positions and loads of amazing, Kodak-moment experiences, I do fundraising and program development work on a consulting basis. My clients are awesome, and what they do for folks in Los Angeles is life-changing.
I love my fine art work, which began when I “happened into” a bead store. For almost 10 years now, I’ve been seduced by what I call the unbearable lightness of beading. I’ve made jewelry, mobiles, and wall hangings. And without beads, I’ve made original greeting cards using recycled materials. Most recently, I’ve opened a shop on etsy.com. This means I’m in the process of moving my independent website inventory to a more well-traveled location. Sure, I’m competing with about 50,000 other jewelry designers, but I love my work, and so I believe in it.
I love my creative writing. In fact, I love nothing more than making sentences. I am even happy with that one. And this one. And the next one.
So what “do I do?” the Alumnae Association wants to know.
I look for joy. And when I find it, I look for more.
Funny that these musings reference Barnard. I remember, when I first arrived there (me, a 17-year-old from rural Virginia), I was so struck by my classmates and what I heard during informal freshman orientation conversations. The most common answers to peer-posed questions were two-syllable hyphenates: pre-med; pre-law; pre-med; pre-law; pre-med; pre-law… I was shocked, but I never felt pressured. Even then, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing from the mouths of babes. These 17- and 18-year olds had their whole lives figured out.
I hope it’s gone well for them. I hope they like their niches.
As for me, I’ll keep confusing the judges. And although I may scream at times, I’ll try never to sound pitchy (or… something that rhymes with that).
Please visit my etsy shop at www.KatieGatesDesigns.etsy.com . And tell your friends.
If you haven’t done so already, pick up a copy of my novel at Amazon. Just do a search for The Somebody Who. You’ll see it.
Know any nonprofits who need help with their fundraising? Send them my way.
I’m here.
I’m the one without a niche.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Confessions of a Non-Stalker
Back in the 60's (or maybe it was the 70's), a couple who are among my mom’s and my late dad’s contemporaries traveled from Virginia for their annual experience in New York. One night, they went to a Broadway show. The wife noticed a man sitting in front of them (or perhaps in their row), and this is what she said to him: “I know you’re someone famous, but I don’t know who you are.”
“My kids don’t think I’m famous,” he replied, kindly.
The man, not famous to his children, was Sidney Poitier.
I share this little anecdote because I just had to do some Googling. I wanted to make sure I got the actor’s name right.
Not Sidney Poitier's name. I know who he is, but rather, I wanted to check on the name of the actor I'm about to talk about.
It's Edward Burns.
Edward Burns has been around since the mid-90’s. In 1995, he made the scene with his indie film, The Brothers McMullen. He wrote it, directed it, and starred in it. A guy from Long Island, he had a tri-state tale to tell, and he told it well. He’s been busy ever since.
And one night, about ten years ago, he went to the movies.
So did I.
I had driven over to the Laemmle 5 on Sunset. Don’t remember what I saw. When I left the theatre, I entered the elevator to return to the underground parking structure that was designed by sadists. (Sidebar: is it any wonder there is now a Trader Joe’s within that complex? But I digress…)
Edward Burns joined me on the elevator, pressed the button for his parking level, and together, we rode down to the lower levels, each of us looking somewhere else.
About twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the Mayfair at Franklin and Bronson, as I had decided to pick up a few groceries on the way home. It must have been winter (if L.A. can be said to have one), as I recall I was wearing my royal blue, sort of all-weather jacket – a noticeable color among the more common, muted shades of winterizing Angelenos.
When I had filled my basket and approached check-out, I saw that my elevator mate was waiting in the most available, fastest-moving line. Yup. Edward Burns. Seven or eight zip codes ago, we were sharing an elevator. Now, we were both at Mayfair.
Self-conscious in my royal blue outerwear, I chose another check-out line.
The non-stalker line.
“My kids don’t think I’m famous,” he replied, kindly.
The man, not famous to his children, was Sidney Poitier.
I share this little anecdote because I just had to do some Googling. I wanted to make sure I got the actor’s name right.
Not Sidney Poitier's name. I know who he is, but rather, I wanted to check on the name of the actor I'm about to talk about.
It's Edward Burns.
Edward Burns has been around since the mid-90’s. In 1995, he made the scene with his indie film, The Brothers McMullen. He wrote it, directed it, and starred in it. A guy from Long Island, he had a tri-state tale to tell, and he told it well. He’s been busy ever since.
And one night, about ten years ago, he went to the movies.
So did I.
I had driven over to the Laemmle 5 on Sunset. Don’t remember what I saw. When I left the theatre, I entered the elevator to return to the underground parking structure that was designed by sadists. (Sidebar: is it any wonder there is now a Trader Joe’s within that complex? But I digress…)
Edward Burns joined me on the elevator, pressed the button for his parking level, and together, we rode down to the lower levels, each of us looking somewhere else.
About twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the Mayfair at Franklin and Bronson, as I had decided to pick up a few groceries on the way home. It must have been winter (if L.A. can be said to have one), as I recall I was wearing my royal blue, sort of all-weather jacket – a noticeable color among the more common, muted shades of winterizing Angelenos.
When I had filled my basket and approached check-out, I saw that my elevator mate was waiting in the most available, fastest-moving line. Yup. Edward Burns. Seven or eight zip codes ago, we were sharing an elevator. Now, we were both at Mayfair.
Self-conscious in my royal blue outerwear, I chose another check-out line.
The non-stalker line.
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