MediaEnthusiast

An Old Friend (AOF), 8/31: “Everything good kiddo?”

Me: “Why do you ask?”

AOF: “gee I WONDER”

Me: “lol. Because I lack a filter? .. But try?”

AOF: “lol.. just lookin out for ya babe .. as always”

Me: “It’s been a rough few months. .. But then I’ll add my filter back on, because right now it’s a fight I’m trying to avoid rather than face. … Although I’m smart enough to be prepping myself for the worst.”

AOF: “if ya need to yell, im always here.. …”

.. And then the conversation went entirely “agency/media/digital/dork” .. So I will save you from all of that.

And just say, “I am who I am. And I am not afraid of (most) things.”

I will challenge you directly. And I will apologize if I am wrong.

I am an anomaly. Or, as I prefer to say “a conundrum of contradictions.”

Just came to a realization, of sorts.

Perhaps the biggest problem in this country isn’t Laziness, Greed nor Ignorance.

Rather, I am now suspecting a new culprit: Censorship.

Yes, I realize you may think that I am “extreme” or “have no filter.” But I don’t just think twice before I speak.

I take a big breath, think my thoughts through a final time, SUCK IT UP, and say what I believe you need to hear. NOT necessarily even CLOSE to what you WANT to hear.

Yes, Clients. This applies to my conversation with you, too.

Take me or leave me.

ps. This also means my random compliments are sincere. You’re welcome. “Honesty is such a lonely word.” – Billy Joel

I see it all the time and am sick of passively watching without saying what (unfortunately) needs to be said:

Too many parents in the United States apparently just don’t care enough to teach their kids the simplest of things.

Like, brushing their teeth, according to my friend Karina. She might be a saint, but obviously doesn’t appreciate having to do a lazy parent’s job, in addition to her responsibilities as a daycare provider:

The only thing I could ask for different is that the parents would have the kids brush their teeth BEFORE they get here in the morning….. Stink stinky

Or paying close attention/guarding them around a new person/dog/cat/animal/spirit… Let alone teaching them how to behave around a creature that is different than them, as my friend and colleague “B’” has said for years.

If we cannot teach our children the simplest of tasks, who are we to point fingers at the government for cutting back on education spending? Who are we to yell at a teacher for doing their jobs, just because we think we “know” a better way? Who are we to blame our neighbors for owning a dog and keeping it in their own yard, just because it bit your child who got in its face when you stopped paying attention?

Unless you have proven that you are fully capable, all-knowing and omnipotent, quit making excuses, start looking in the mirror and listen.

Get off your lazy ass and teach your kids right from wrong.

No one else is going to do it for you.

It’s your child.

It’s YOUR responsibility.

If you don’t, you are only creating more problems.

More of YOU.

Yeah. That’s right. I called you a problem. Got somethin’ to say about it, Lazy American?

Take. Responsibility. For. Yourselves. First.

Then, come and bitch at me for speaking my mind. Which, if you remember, is my Constitutional Right.

Some paths we choose.   Others are less clear and forced upon us.

Photography via Michael Smith

Regardless of if your new adventure was what you wanted or if it was beyond your control, there is that pivotal moment where you actually have to say goodbye to what was and walk into what will be.  Creating a path to the unknown is .. well .. scary as fuck.  I know; I’ve been there.

Many of my friends are making that big step today.  As as they do, I encourage them to hold their heads high.  Be thankful for the opportunities you’ve had.  Proud of the company you are unfortunately leaving.  Grateful for the professionals you have met and grown with.

And remember that even through the most unmarked paths, the grass really IS greener on the other side.

“What do you do?”  It’s a question we all get.  A lot.

When I worked a full-time-with-routine-paychecks-and-benefits job, I thought that answer was difficult enough.

Me: “I work in advertising.”

Them: “Oh!  What commercials have you written?”

Me: “I’m not a copywriter.  I’m a media planner.  It’s my job to make sure you see the ads.”

One of two things would happen: they either looked confused; or they realized that I just told them I’m somehow responsible for interrupting their TV shows (and looked angry).

As awkward as I always found that conversation, at least my answer was always the same.  Since going independent, I’ve noticed that my answer changes depending on who asks me.

To fellow moms, in the middle of a week day: “I stay at home with my kids.”

If they catch me on a call while taking my daughter to gymnastics, going to the grocery store, or my other mom-tasks I also add: “… and I do consulting.” or  “I work from home.  And I have kids.”

I have always prided myself in not bending to appease others’ perceptions of me, so have been a bit perplexed by how shady my answer has become.  While all variations of the truth, I certainly wouldn’t call it “straightforward.”

Maybe I should just start answering, “I’m a juggler,” and be done with it.

It starts with a cough. A runny nose. A warm forehead.

My pulse rises. I wipe water from my eyes.

Will that be it? Are we headed back to the hospital? Will an ambulance be involved?

I make a call. We pack a bag.

How long has she been like this? Are you giving her any medicine? How has her eating been?

The barrage of questions I know are coming play through my head as we head toward the doctor’s office. I break a sweat, wondering if the low weight displayed on the scale will bring the words “failure to thrive” up again.

That’s the way it’s been. For almost three years. Living at the mercy of my daughter’s rushed trips to the doctor’s office.

A couple months ago, it was a minor ear infection that brought us back to him. “You’re going to have to get over this,” my doctor lowered his glasses; a sign that he was serious. “Kids get sick. They’re going to get sick. She is going to get sick.”

Somehow, that advice finally sunk in.

She coughed again the other day.

She ran a low fever.

I made the call.

We left the house.

It wasn’t until we were on our way home that I even realized: I hadn’t packed a bag.

The sick season has started, but it’s not going to bring us down.

The worst is over.

It’s been a while. Again. I would apologize, but I know you don’t need it. You’ve been busy, too. .. Thanks for taking your time to listen.

I’ve tried to update this space several times since my last post, but have found it (exceptionally) hard. It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say. Perhaps it’s that I’ve had too much on my mind.

I went home last month. For most people, perhaps that’s not such a big deal; it happens every couple months, or at least within a year (or few). .. It’d been almost 13 years since I was back to the place where I grew up.

You’ve heard the expression, “You can never go home again.” I was caught somewhere between that, and an overwhelming love for the few people from my past that remained. At the end of only a few short days, I found myself walking away, my chest overwhelmed with things that I couldn’t change or wouldn’t be.

Thirteen years. So much had changed: my childhood home was neglected; weeds were deeply rooted in cracked concrete where I met some of my oldest and best friends; hangouts and places that held so many memories were demolished or abandoned (and likely awaiting a similar fate).

What remained weren’t the streets themselves, but something beneath the surface that still threads a group of us together. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until I read a post that hit straight to the heart of the connection that remained so strong.

“Social Media,” we call it these days. It’s the newest trend, so hot it’s making positions like Chief Listening Officers start to pop up. (Weren’t we supposed to be doing that, anyway?)

Back when I was in junior high, I called it a BBS (Bulletin Board System). T.R.E.X. (The Relationship EXchange), to be specific. As my title suggests, my first username was Twitty Bird.

To me, it wasn’t “Media”. It had no resemblance to where I sang along with the latest releases, mocked headlines, anticipated series finales, or sat on the edge of my seat for commercial breaks to end.

It was where I went to connect, share and be honest. With people that understood me. Because all we could do was “listen” as we typed and shared our stories well into the night.

Despite how we refer to it today, has that changed? Will calling it “Media” make it any more a palatable platform for advertising to be consumed by a product/brand’s potential purchaser?

We can want things to be whatever we choose to name them: “Home” .. “Media” .. But that doesn’t necessarily make it so.

As kids, we’re taught to be independent. We learn how to look both ways before we cross the street, not only so that we know to be safe, but so that we can do it alone.

Sometime along the way, most people begin to struggle to ask for help when they really do need it. I know I’m not alone when I say that it’s hard for me. So difficult that I never asked for help when I needed it the most: not even from my mother; not even when she pleaded with me to let her.

Today, I’m in my 30’s.  I’m just learning how to ask for help.

I’m also a parent, facing my own desires to push my kids towards becoming their own people. At times, I forget to focus my teachings on encouraging them to ask for help when they need it, too.

It’s okay to ask for help. It’s natural to need it. We can’t, and shouldn’t, always stand alone.

As Ray LeMontagne says in his (most beautiful IMHO) song, Let It Be Me:

“There comes a time

A time in everyone’s life

Where nothing seems to go your way

Where nothing seems to turn out right

There may come a time

You just can’t seem to find your place

For every door you open

Seems like you get two slammed in your face

That’s when you need someone

Someone that you, you can call

When all your faith is gone

It feels like you can’t go on

Let it be me

…

If it’s a friend that you need

…

Let it be me”

Please note: The lyrics are not as quoted online, but as I hear them.  Perhaps I am incorrect.  Perhaps I am not.  Listen and judge for yourself.

There are two things that I find acceptable to mutter under my breath out of frustration in my household.

One is to my husband. The other is to my kids.

See if you can match which mutter applies to which family member:

A) “Son of a bitch”

B) “Mother fucker”

Hint: I think it’s okay, because I’m really just insulting myself.

The DMV is a nasty place, full of excruciatingly long lines; people waiting impatiently to hand over money they don’t want to pay; and topped off with rude clerks.  It’s hardly the place that I thought I would find a little hope, and maybe even a little good luck.

Particularly not since it took me no less than FOUR trips there to get two cars registered.  ..I won’t spoil this post with the details behind that headache.  Rather, I mention it because I’d noticed the guy perched outside the door, begging for petition signatures, for two days in a row.  Finally leaving with plates in hand, able to cross something off my to-do list and still on a kidless-high from leaving the munchkins with the sitter, I didn’t wait for my time to be requested before I approached him.

After accusing me of hitting on him, I found my flirtatious new friend telling me not only about the politician he was trying to get on the ballot, but of his own personal struggles.  (Please remember.. I’ve been practicing getting strangers to open their hearts to me within five minutes for a while, now.)

“I’m not much of a reader,” he slipped in, trying to quickly move past his words.

I stopped signing my name long enough that he made eye contact.  “That’s an interesting statement.”

“I can read sentences.. but not all together.  They stop making sense after the first or second one.  I’m just.. not much of a reader.  I’m more a ‘common sense’ kind of guy.”

After gently pushing a bit further, he told me a little about being epileptic.  Unable to drive.  Without a”real” job.

My breath was sucked from my chest as he went on to share his dream to bring joy to our local Children’s Mercy Hospital, where both he and my own daughter have spent some dark times.

Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, he picked through it carefully as we spoke.  A look of finality on his face, “Here,” he said, pressing a carefully laminated heart into my palm.  I looked down.

My lucky heart

“Where did you find this?” I demanded, skeptical of the four-leaf clover I held.

“I just.. look down,” he replied, looking down, digging a half dozen more samples out to show me.  After sharing his collection, he demanded, “And what do they stand for?”

“Luck,” I stammered back.

“Exactly.  Those little things have given me luck.  Luck in health.  Luck in life.  And now.. It will bring you and your kids the same.”

The directness of his words and the heart pressed not really in laminate, but as he admitted, in packing tape, struck me in the center of my chest.  I’m not sure quite how I managed to walk away from that conversation, just as I’m still uncertain how to end this post.

Equally, I have no idea what tomorrow will bring.  Will the four leaves bring me luck?  Or will it wind up being just another superstition?

We shall see.