No, It's Not Just Me...

There are people out there who find my sense of humor to be, well...quirky. I admit, there are times when I manage to egotistically delight myself with my own wit and the humor of my surroundings and observations. Occasionally I dispair that no one "gets" me, but then I'm consoled with (again, egotistical) belief that if others don't get me, it's because their sense of humor isn't as "developed" as mine.

Fortunately, I'm lucky in that there are a smattering of people who, on any number of levels, can find humor in the same things I do. Examples: A former colleague has as his e-mail footer, "There are only 10 types of people in the world: One who gets digital and one who does not." A friend of mine from a once-attended parish knows saying "Father Hormone" cracks me up, and my sister and husband know why I find, "You're treading on thin ice" to be so chuckle-worthy. Another former (Jewish) colleague shares my laughter about when I gave her a Jesus action figure for Christmas. My brother and I snicker whenever we see the Disneyland Parade of Stars with the mushrooms dancing; we also bond over the not-as-frequently visited sections of Craigslist and find the "a-frayed knot!" joke pretty funny. Finally, my best friend knows why "rum raisin" and "you two must be twins!" induces such hilarity.

Then, there's my dear ol' pa and a recent e-mail he sent me. To help prepare you, Dad is also the one who introduces me as "my daughter, named after her dad, George." The brief story behind this is that dear ol' ma found an antique teak (say that 10 times fast, "antique teak antique teak", and you may sound like a woodpecker) elephant children's rocking toy that she wanted to send my way. Before going through the effort to do so, I asked that they take a picture of it. Dad, ever gracious and willing to oblige, did so. The picture is below with his e-mail. I find this pretty darn funny. At first, I wasn't going to share this but I'm pretty sure at least 6 other people (all of whom related to me) will find it equally giggle-worthy.

---BEGIN E-MAIL FROM DAD---
The Lincoln Division of the Ford Motor Company triumphs again with this newest innovation in custom, unique styling. Under design for a number of years, Lincoln today unveiled, accompanied by the oo's and ah's of a select previewing public, what will become the symbol of American automotive ingenuity. Toyota...BEWARE!

Resistance Is Not Futile

Although October 1 isn't an official holiday (that I know), for me it marks the unofficial start of what I call 'the baking season.' It's when even the most pedestrian of cooks grabs their boxes of Betty Crocker or buy-in-the-dairy-section cookie dough and the more daring light a candle to their favorite celebrity patron baking saint on Food Network and begin combing obscure baking blogs for recipes they can "whip up" and share.

The season continues at least through the end of the year, although has been known to persist through February with its flourless chocolate dome cakes and caramel ganache. The flow of carbohydrates and calories is never-ending, merely shape-shifting -- whether that shape-shifting be from Halloween caramel-covered apples to Thanksgiving Dutch apple pies or the less-desirable shape-sifting from a size 6 to a size 10.

As a mildly capable cook and baker myself, I understand the desire to bake, as well as the need to share the wealth (one four-person home can only consume so much sugary goodness). But I also realize that stretchy pants should only be worn a certain number of times in a week. Once that threshold is exceeded, it's time to stop eating.

But how to stop eating when you are beseiged on every front with temptations? Perhaps this is what it feels like to be Tiger Woods at a Barbie-lookalike convention. (Ooh, was that too soon?) No doubt about it, whether going to the local shipping depot, the family holiday party, or the workplace, the calories flow abundantly. It requires one to be on their most vigilant guard.

When I try to resist treats, I find it helpful to understand the (sometimes underhanded or subconscious) motivation of the person who brought them in. This helps me identify the appropriate avoidance technique.

Baker's Motivation: “I really enjoy baking but my family can’t possibly eat everything I make so I’m sharing some of the bounty with you. Please enjoy.”

Avoidance Technique: Righteous indignation. (Think: "I AM NOT A GARBAGE DISPOSAL!")

Baker's Motivation: “My weight loss efforts have been unsuccessful so by making you gain weight through the treats I bring in, I feel less bad and more successful/validated.”

Avoidance Technique: Competitive zeal! (Think: “You’re not going to use me! And I’m going to feel so good being thinner than you!”)

Baker's Motivation: “I received these treats from a good-intentioned parent/sibling/distant relative and I can’t deal with the guilt of throwing them away myself. Please enjoy them so I don’t feel guilty.”

Avoidance Technique: Compassion. (Think: “Here, let me help you put them in the garbage.”)

Baker's Motivation: “I rely on your public pronouncement that you enjoy these homemade treats for my own self-worth. If you don’t try them, I’ll feel like I’m not a good enough cook and possibly be deeply insulted. Please enjoy.”

Avoidance Technique: Craftiness. (Think: “These look to. Die. For. Delicious! But I’m allergic to gluten/dairy/air and am on a strict medically-enforced abstinence diet from my doctor.”)

Don't get me wrong - I am not above any of these motivations myself. It is through using them, though, that I am able to better understand it in others and navigate the battlefield of balance versus indulgence.

Voyages with the Hyper-Sensitive

My son, Castor, and I share many bonds. Our eyes are the same color and shape. He also has my nose (although it looks better on him). We both adore reading and music. Although my tastes are a bit more mature, we both enjoy a good literary romp with Dr. Seuss or a tune with Julie Andrews. As early as nine months old, Castor was plotting to steal my beloved iced tea and he’s recently taken to absconding with my chai tea lattes. We both are in a quest for fairness, although my hope is more for global compassion for one’s fellow human and animal whereas Castor’s is seeking train-sharing equity. Castor would like to marry a good bowl of Aunt Scully’s popcorn and have its babies, if he could. Hopefully, popcorn is into non-exclusive relationships because I have designs on it as well. He is my first-born - coincidentally, I’m also his first mother. Castor is one of his dad’s biggest fans, but at this point in his life, he’s still my Mini Me.

We also share allergies, although he’s worse off. Whereas I exist with the knowledge that the pollen Mafia has a seasonal hit out on me, Castor’s little body is in perpetual war with almost all nuts and sesame seed. If I drug myself heavily and live like a Morlock for four or five months, I might survive the year in minimal agony. But Castor (and us as his parents) have a year-round struggle against nuts and seeds of all kinds.

To be honest, we have it pretty easy relative to other families whose children have dietary allergies. Whereas some children would disintegrate into a non-breathing, swollen pile of goo at the merest inhalation of peanut dust, Castor needs to actually ingest it. In our home, we have a bottle of sesame oil and peanut butter on our highest kitchen shelf. I’ve been known to have a little sesame vinaigrette dressing on my cucumbers with Castor sitting next to me, and nothing terrible has occurred. In fact, we do some of this intentionally. Based on what we’ve read, it doesn’t seem like putting a child in a hypo-allergenic bubble reduces his or her sensitivity, but there is some evidence that extremely limited exposure (generally under medical supervision) can at least ensure a child will build up a modest immunity to small amounts of their respective Kryptonite. While we’re not participating in any of those clinical trials underway, we practice this a little at home – not by allowing Castor to eat any of the foods, but by allowing the occasional chocolate covered pistachio in the house or letting him eat Honey Nut Cheerios (made with almond meal, and almond being the only nut to which he is not allergic).


This is actually how we learned of his allergy. One night, I was tossing back a few chocolate-covered pistachios for dessert when I gave Castor one to see if he’d like it. Within minutes, he was vomiting and a half hour later, his stomach resembled the scaly underbelly of a Gila monster. Even after a dose of children’s Benadryl, Castor resembled a victim of the mumps. A later allergy test confirmed what we’d observed: anaphylaxis to nuts. When six months later, he had a bite of his dad’s noodle dish and grew lips that would make Angelina Jolie envious, we had him retested and added another item to the list: sesame seed and its oil.

Fast forward to today: We have four Epipens available at all times (1 for home/backup, 1 for car/travel, 1 at school, 1 at after-care). We’ve yet to use one and every year we need a fresh set of four. Health care system abuse watchdogs? Meet the Willowbottom family, wasters of four Epipens a year. But, what is the alternative? Based on everything we’ve read and learned from the experiences of others, there will someday come a time when Benadryl won’t cover it and that adrenaline shot will be what makes the difference.

There’s a lot to be said for preventative care. Ideally, neither Epipen nor Benadryl will never be used because a child’s exposure will be eliminated. That’s a happy thought, but impossible in reality unless you live in the bubble that (in my opinion) parents ought to strive to avoid. So we do the best we can: we keep those verboten products on the top shelf, we let Castor go to school with other children realizing there is risk, and we go out to eat occasionally.

It’s actually that last activity that prompted this post. During a recent road trip, we stopped at a restaurant for a quick bite on the long trip home. I ordered the easy dishes first (husband’s and mine, no alterations needed). Then, I ordered both kids’ dishes. Even though Pollux doesn’t have any identified food allergies, we realize the boys often share cutlery and food so we try to keep them both allergen-free.

Me to cashier: “Is there any nut or seed product in any component of the kids’
rice/noodle bowls?”

Cashier: “No, just noodles, rice, tofu, and vegetables.”

Me: “What about the oil used to cook it? Any seed or nut oils?”

Cashier: “No, we normally use a spicy oil with a bit of pepper in it but no nuts or seeds.”

Me: “Is the oil derived from nuts/seeds or is it like a soy or canola oil?”

Cashier: “It doesn’t come from nuts or seeds.”

Alrighty then. So I complete our order, the meals, kids, and husband come to the table and we dive in. About 10 minutes into it, Castor complains of his throat being “spicy” (translation: tingly and itchy). A tummy inspection shows clean skin but his eyes are a little bloodshot. Fatigue or exposure? Tough to tell. We wait a couple minutes until it’s clear that it’s definitely exposure. An Epipen is always our last resort and only if there’s clear evidence of breathing difficulties. Swollen eyes and lips, splotchy skin, whining not related to brotherly torment, and that’s cause for Benadryl.

Within moments, it’s obvious that Castor has ingested something to which he’s allergic. Husband goes to the car to hunt for the Benadryl and I go up to cross-examine the cashier. She had previously assured me no nuts, seeds, or their byproducts were in their food so this episode could be evidence of a previously unknown food allergy.

Me to cashier: “Hi, remember when I asked you about the nuts and seeds and
nut/seed oils? Can you tell me what else is in those dishes?”

Cashier: “I can’t tell you everything that’s in them because it’s our proprietary
recipe.”

Me: “Well, I don’t plan on selling your recipe or making this dish at home. My son has had an allergic reaction to something and I need to figure out what was in that dish.”

Cashier: “I really can’t tell you because that is our company’s recipe.”

Me: “If I need to take my son to the hospital, I need to know what he ate. Who can tell me what was in that dish?”

Cashier: “Cooper,” gesturing to the line cook, “come here.”

Cooper: “What d’ya want?”

Cashier: “Just come here.”

Cooper: “Are you going to sexually harass me again?”

Cashier: “You know you like it. Just come here.”

Cooper: “Okay, I’m coming over but only because I like it.”

[Author’s comment: While it was delightful to watch their 20-something pubescent flirting, I had a son being carried to the car who more closely resembled a blow fish than a child.]

Cashier to Cooper: “Can you tell this lady what is in the kids’ noodle and rice
bowls?”

Cooper: “Uh, no. That’s our proprietary recipe and we can’t tell people what’s in it.”

Me: “Look, my son is having an allergic reaction to something that was in that dish. I’m clearly not looking to replicate it. What are the ingredients?”

Cooper: “Well, there’s soy sauce, walnut oil, sesame seed…”

Me to Cashier: “I asked you specifically if there was either nuts or seeds or their oils in their dish and you said no.”

Cashier (smiling): “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

Me: “I’m sure you are sorry but I asked you an important question and my son is allergic to both nuts and seeds.”

Cashier: “Well you didn’t tell me he had an allergy. If you had, I would’ve asked.”

With crystal clarity of thought cradled in a red sea of rage, I clean off the table, collect my other son and things, and go to the car where husband awaits with my puffy-faced son. We stuff him with a double-dose of Benadryl, flip a U-turn, and head back to the highway home to see how far we can get before he begins vomiting (answer: 89.1 miles).

The final rub? When we did the U-turn, we saw the back side of the restaurant’s marquee which proclaimed in bold black letters: “We don’t use nuts or seeds in any of our dishes!”

Music Is Made Up of Moments

Certainly, I do not have exclusive province on sardonically wistful observations and insight about music ... but I am more than a bit envious that I didn't write this article. The question the author addresses is "what kind of music do you like?" He notes that for those with eclectic music tastes, it's a very hard question to answer ... especially since it's one that seems intended to cubbyhole the respondent.

The second page of the article is what I like best. He observes that an appreciation of music is not necessarily attached to genre, artist, or composer. Sometimes those moments of passionate delight can be found in just a few moments of a single song.

"Me, on Shuffle" by Chuck Klosterman

Coming of Age

Shortly, I will experience a day dreaded by many women from the day after they turn 21: I will celebrate my 30th birthday.

Because I mastered counting by ones many, many years ago, I've been preparing for 30 for...well...29 years. It's not been a surprise that it's coming up (although I did spend a brief angst-inspired period of my teenage years believing that I'd die before I ever got to be "this" old). But, truth be told, I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about this coming of age. Anne Boleyn had already given birth to a future queen, been queen herself, and was instrumental in England adopting the reformed Christian religion by 29. Anne Frank was an proficient diarist by half this age. By their standard, I'm an under-accomplished old husk (although note that I am an alive husk with my head attached).

On the other hand, Harper Lee didn't write her most definitive work until she was 33 and I have approximately 92 years to go before rivalling the supercenetarian record held by Jeanne Calment. Grandma Moses didn't really hit her stride until she was a spry woman of her 70s. Throwing my name in with these great women, it is clear to me that I have plenty of time to carpe that diem.

But it is unavoidable that the prospect of turning 30 has affected to some extent the way I perceive my relationships with others: family, colleagues, my children, women, men.

Colleagues: As someone who has always been the youngest amongst my peers (going through school young will do that to you), it's a bit of a shock to learn that some of my colleagues are now two or three years younger than I am, and I'm expected to treat them as my equals. (In other words, the respect I expect from those who are older, I shy away from extending to those who are younger. But no where is it said that with age comes consistency!)

Family: By turning 30, I feel a slightly renewed sense of confidence in dealing with my family. No longer am I the irresponsible teenager nor the starting-out-in-life 20-something. I am fully an adult, empowered, unique, and independent (albeit never free) of the self-limiting impressions of childhood.

My Children: As a 20-something mom, it's always felt a little bit like playing house. My children mean much to me, but sometimes when I look at them, I see playthings, like they're really my little brothers or nephews and I'm just babysitting for a bit while the adults are out. With 30 approaching, I know that I am a mom and I now feel like the appropriate age to be one. (Maybe turning 30 and living in middle-class suburbia is just what Britney needs?)

Women: Fortunately, almost all the women I know are at least 2-3 years older. Phew. But there is a growing number of women I know who are, sadly, younger. Yes, there's a sharp twang of competitiveness and jealousy when I see them. But, what's interesting is that I always felt that, except before it was when looking at women who are older and more accomplished. So the difference here is simply perspective. I hope that some day I'll be mature (or resigned) enough to look at the younger, slimmer, prettier women without a twinge of envy or regret that I never looked like that. Until then, at least I know that age is helping me be humble.

Men: There was a time, not too long ago, when I'd look at another man and muse to myself, "now, that's a handsome specimen!" only to find out that he was (gasp) in his mid- to late-30s. Ewwww. Mentally calculating, I would quickly deduce that he could, at least in theory, be my dad. (Forget for a moment that my own dad is 40 years older than I and let's assume this other handsome Mr. X could've spawned me at 13-ish). Now, however, when I see interesting gents "of a certain age," I need to stop my recoil and realize that they're really not "that" old. Were I in the dating market (I'm not), they would be well within my range. (That takes me down another path of introspection as I realize that some of the men I notice now are actually older than my dad was when I was born. Again I say....ewwww.)

So this brings me to wonder, what will my 30s hold? If there has been a unifying theme to my 20s, it's just been to get to some place (I don't know where) and to get there as quickly as possible. A friend predicted that in my 30s, I'd derive even more pleasure from my children and find some way to wear Mardi Gras beads and a caftan together with style. Those are noble goals, although I think all I'd need to do is throw in a bad dye job, a hair cap, and some cloth grocery bags, and I could be mistaken for the portly senile lady pushing the shopping cart around down by the river.

Instead, for my 30s, I hope for direction and selfless resolve. I hope that I'll be able to make decisions based on what is best for me and my immediate family, regardless of where that takes us. I hope with that will come the confidence and determination to make any decisions successful ones.

And I hope that all those younger, skinnier, prettier women get fat with terrible acne. Quickly.

The Question No One Really Asked Has Now Been Answered

I've seen dozens of pregnancies and have been pregnant myself twice.

Every time, I might've marveled at a woman's size (or lack thereof), her grace (or lack thereof), or her waddle (rarely is there a lack thereof).

Never have I wondered why a pregnant woman doesn't topple like a Weeble-Wobble.

But apparently I'm just not curious enough. Some scientists did ask, and some yahoo at Forbes and the Associated Press felt that the answer was worthy of publication.

Guess what they learned? Disingenuously enough, scientists learned that women are built differently from men and these differences allow women to adjust to a different center of gravity.

Huh. Who would've thunk it?

Read more: http://www.forbes.com/feeds/ap/2007/12/12/ap4433083.html

Associations

A call this morning with my mother started me thinking about associations and the lasting impact they have on our behavior.

When I was knee-high to a grasshopper, around six or seven years old, I found the family-sized box of Nestle Quik powdered chocolate. ("Found," in this context, means that I waited until the adults were not paying attention to me, and I sneakily crept into the kitchen and pulled my pudgy, overweight body onto the kitchen countertop and get the chocolate off the topmost shelf in the highest cupboard.)

Not being a child known for moderate dietary indulgence (I would add 1/2 c. of brown sugar to a glass of whole milk for the pleasure of slurping the brown sugar off the bottom with a straw, just to add more brown sugar when it either dissolved or was eaten), I sat my pink flower-pantied bottom on the countertop with tablespoon in hand and eat spoonful after spoonful of the powdered chocolate ad nauseam (that's a pun, by the way). How I managed to eat half a box of this stuff (not to mention without any kind of lubricating agent like sips of water milk), I do not know...but I did.

An hour or two later, I was in the front seat of my parents' 1976 white Thunderbird, sitting between them. (Anyone who can picture this situation may ask, "where was her seat belt?" To that I would say, Dad ripped out the seat belts and disabled the warning/light bell on every car he had. It was 1980-something and we probably had a metal dashboard in that car; kids were just made tougher back then.) As we made a sharp right turn into the parking lot of a strip mall, by stomach roiled. The car made the little bumpity-bump over the curve, and I experienced all of that chocolate powder a second time, this time in the upward direction, as it temporarily turned brown the white leather seats and stained my favorite yellow/white polka dot dress.

Fast forward about 10-12 years to a college drinking experience when I must've thoroughly abandoned all of the best good sense I ever learned from Grandma or Spock (I mean the logical Star Trek Spock, not the nurturing child psychologist). This 6-hour period began with homemade sushi and champagne (hey, we were cultured college kids!), progressed through beer-and-amaretto Depth Charges, and concluded with shots of tequila and cinnamon-flavored Firewater. About four hours after last call, I took a 15-minute break from vegetarianism and indulged in Chicken McNuggets because I realized I needed food. Perhaps not surprisingly, my body rebelled. Thereafter any gaps in my memory about what I had drank or eaten over the previous 12 hours were answered, in a most physically uncomfortable way.

Since I was 6 or 7, I've barely touched chocolate, eschewing chocolate milk, hot chocolate, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate cheesecake, chocolate pudding, chocolate bars, or even chocolate ice cream, or chocolate fudge. I may be one of the few women who disdains gifts of chocolate at Valentine's Day. Since that teen-aged tour of the middle-shelf of the bar, I have barely touched booze, but, more significantly, I have such a strong aversion to tequila and artificial cinnamon that my stomach clenches at the faintest whiff. For multiple reasons, I have never again attempted to acquaint myself with Chicken McNuggets.

So, back to this morning's call with Ma.

I like to cook and bake, something my mother doesn't have much time to do, and my dad likes to eat what I cook and bake. He living nearly 600 miles from me isn't an impediment, as I manage to send travel-tolerant food via carrier pigeon (a.k.a. family members taking road trips between points A and B). Knowing my dad loves cheesecake, and I like making it, caused me to call home this morning to offer to send some cheesecake to him as part of his Christmas package.

Dad was asleep, sleeping off the exhausting effects of life-saving cancer treatment which does everything to destroy quality of life while trying to preserve the quantity of it. So, I asked my mother: Would a nice, high-fat, high-sugar cheesecake entice Dad into eating a little bit more (weight gain being one of his objectives right now)?

Mother: "No, not cheesecake."

Me: "Is he just not eating anything, or do animal-based products just not seem tasty to him right now?"

Mother: "Neither. We just don't want cheesecake in the house."

It was then, in a Hollywood-like rush of flashbacks and instantaneous recollection, that I remembered.

Mother hasn't made cheesecake or had homemade cheesecake in her home for almost 30 years. Whereas she'll occasionally purchase the finest cheesecake CostCo has to offer, it is generally relegated to the extra freezer out-of-sight, and more often meets its end not through someone's enjoyment of every calorie-plumped bite but rather due to freezer burn because it sits there uneaten for so long.

So why the cheesecake prohibition? Clearly, in a home where 1-pound bricks of Jack cheese, tubes of salami, and jugs of whole milk were as plentiful as Starbucks in an urban mall, cheesecake is not verboten due to health concerns.

I last saw Grandpa Ted when I was about ankle-high to a grasshopper then so I have only the foggiest memories of him (if, indeed, they're authentic memories). My mother used to make Grandpa Ted a cheesecake every Christmas. He'd turn one 8-inch cheesecake into about 16 slices (making them very thin indeed!) and freeze each one individually. He'd allow himself one slice a week over the next 3 months or so, knowing that on his birthday, he'd get another homemade cheesecake, so his Christmas gift needed to last until then.

Grandpa Ted died some 27 years ago, and Mother hasn't made a single cheesecake that I know of since then. I have no doubt that the possible parallels have struck here: She liked to bake cheesecake for her dad, who died. I like to bake and am offering to bake a cheesecake for my dad, who is suffering through cancer. She is (or at least, can be) a rational woman. Were I to go ahead and send a cheesecake there uninvited, there'd be no Joan Crawford-type dramatics with a cheesecake flying across the room to hit the wall with a slurpy splat. But every time she saw it in the refrigerator, it'd likely trigger her own Hollywood-like rush of flashbacks and make her a little less happy until it was gone.

Her commitment to cheesecake avoidance is so great, my dislike of chocolate, cheap booze, and Chicken McNuggets pales by comparison.

Such is the power of association.

It's okay, though. To be honest, Dad probably wouldn't feel well enough to eat it anyway.

Confessions of (Recovering) a Networking Addict

When I was displaced from my job late last year, the employment coaching consultants preached many things: upscale your clothing (the tech-geek uniform of jeans and collared shirts doesn't work during an interview); maintain your grooming (dye, trim, clip, and polish body areas appropriately); and network, network, network because "95% of all jobs are found through networking."

Holy cow pies, Moonshine. Network? Uhm. Maybe you've not gotten it yet, but I'm not exactly the warm fuzzy type. And you want me to talk to people? People as in bipeds? Let me tell you, there's a reason I prefer to work in technology groups for companies that are geographically distributed.

1. I'm female, which already gives me an edge, mainly in the unpopular Affirmative Action way.
2. For a female in technology, I'm relatively hot. [Bear in mind "relatively".]
3. I'm in technology and have a personality and a sense of humor. [Mark one more for the Willowbottom-meister.]
4. My social skills are at least equal if not better than those with whom I work. [Be afraid, be very afraid.]
5. I never work with real, live, real-time people in my same location. [So yes, there are days when I can work in my pajamas at home and no one knows.]

Basically, where I work and in what I do, I need to exert very little effort to be the most personable, attractive, and charming cream of the crop. And now, you dare to suggest that I network, as in real time with other human beings who may not shop the clothing line of ThinkGeek.com? Oh, dear.

So, the consultant recommended we start our networking journey by getting an account at LinkedIn.

Whew! That was a relief. I thought you were going to suggest I apply makeup and go to cocktail mixers.

Well, the consultant suggested that, too, but I think she realized that for some of us, it's baby steps.

So, I got a LinkedIn account and got totally sucked into it. This was surprising for someone who snottily has eschewed Yahoo! 360* and Facebook and MySpace for so long as Web sites for attention-hungry twits. But yet, here I was ravenous to do as much as possible -- post my resume, solicit recommendations for my past work, etc. Social and professional networking applications have wet dreams about over-achievers like me who determine our own self-worth by how many contacts we have. At first, I was demure, waiting for people to invite me to be one of their "contacts." But I realized that networking is not a place for wallflowers (insofar as anyone who networks behind the shield of a plasma monitor isn't a wallflower). You must be noticed to succeed!

Suddenly, rather than awaiting invitations, I was inviting people to be my contacts from college 11 years ago I'd not spoken to since. Old co-workers who'd been at the same company for 25 years, siblings, professional students, the nanny, even distant relatives who have a Luddite-style aversion to e-mail and would never even see my invitation ... no relationship was too sacred. All I knew is there were people out there who had "500+" contacts and I wasn't yet one of them.

And then it struck me. Most people require a little more of their interpersonal relationships than being contacted whenever they are needed for some reason or other (like a job search). Most don't care for being treated like spices on a kitchen rack: easily pulled out, just as easily shelved. I could add all these people as my contacts, but was I prepared to maintain some semblance of contact with these folks for an indefinite period of time ... even (gasp) forever?

Well, I think we know the answer to that. And so, my visits to LinkedIn immediately became as frequent as when I put eyeshadow on. That is to say, very rare.

So, for the last several months, I've been a recovering networking addict, visiting my profile now and again to keep it updated but really not exerting any effort on this. Hopefully nothing will happen to my situation to belie this self-semi-confident statement, but I've done very well staying employed so far based on the quality of my work alone and my (arguable) charm during interviews. I'd rather try that route than the one I find more painful ... namely, the networking-with-real-live-people part.

My networking inclinations were near dormant until recently when my sorority launched its own networking site. Suddenly, like a hungry koala in search of eucalyptus, my networking urges surged to life again and I felt the flash of adrenaline-fed heat that augurs a competitive race. Here I have a chance to demonstrate my connectedness to my sisters and prove that I am a person worth knowing.

I create my account and immediately begin to add friends. I pause. Wait, think I. Wouldn't a true demonstration of my popularity be if I play hard to get and let them all add me as a friend? Briefly I entertain fantasies last experienced in high school, when I dreamt that as I walked through halls (without a pass, of course) students gaped at my self-confident saunter and the girls cooed appreciatively at my edgy black-and-white tie-dye shirt over my tights and L.A. Gear sneakers. (Yes, I wish I were making that part up.)

In this dream, though, servers crashed and networks clogged due to the number of women sending me "Add as a friend" invitations. Women would ask each other in hushed tones or in furtive e-mail messages, "Has she accepted you yet?" "No, not me either." Meanwhile, my profile would be the among the ones with the highest hits, so much so that when my sorority recruits new members every semester, they would list me as a famous member based on my sorority network hit count, along with the noted actresses, Olympians, and philanthropists. "Oh, yes," the 19-year-olds gasp in breathily excited but hushed tones, "SHE is one of our most respected members. She only accepts a very few as her friends, you know." Of course, they would never refer to me by name, as though I'm Lord Voldemort and far too awe-inspiring.

As I awake from my reverie, I'm pragmatic enough to be sardonically amused at my own shallow aspirations that, no matter how humorously presented, may have some small sliver of sincere desire. Yet, I recognize that I really am too people-shy and opinionated (and really too lazy) to ever be the Networking Pontiff, whether of my sorority or the professional world. And I don't think I really want to change, either.

So I've let it go a few days since I actually logged into any networking site and I take some small pleasure in being choosy about who may connect to me. For those connection-hungry networkers who aspire to have the "500+" symbol by their LinkedIn profile, they'll need to create some story a little bit more unique than they also used to work at the same mega-sized corporation I did. And please ... make up a good story, like about some night in some pub where I wore a chartreuse feather boa made of emu feathers and danced to the Macarena while listing off the names of the British monarchs from 1066-1603 and you and I conversed about the witty appropriateness of the word abecedarian. Then I might connect with you.

Why I'm Greek

Every once in a while, those who haven't known me since college ask me, bewildered, "where does all your time go?" Apparently they think that when I'm not working or blogging, I must be buffing my nails, gently wiping my husband's sweaty brow with a soft cloth, or smoothing my children's hair into perfect style.

Well, truth be told, I'm Greek. That's Greek as in "Alpha Kappa Mu Mu" (the name my non-Greek brother has given my sorority because he thought it sounded funny), not Greek as in "My Big Fat Wedding."

In the eight or nine months I've had this blog, I haven't talked about my Greek-ness not because it's unimportant to me, but simply because the involvement of an adult woman in a college sorority tends to raise some questioning brows. To save myself the effort of justifying it, I just avoid mention of it entirely except to those who "understand." (Those who do understand would be "fellow Greeks," in case the quasi-vocal inflection and air quotes didn't convey into the blogosphere.)

Had Kermit the Frog been a member of Alpha Kappa Mu Mu, he might've sung "It's Not Easy Being Greek" instead of that other catchy tune. In some ways, it's true. After all, if you don't sport a blonde bouffant, and are not hot, a stay-at-home mom, a member of the modern wealthy landed gentry, and from Texas or Georgia, do you really belong in a sorority? And if you dare mention to some that you were Greek once-upon-a-time, will people even bother investing the time into getting to know you to learn that you're not the stereotype?

I'd like to think yes. After all, at the core of every Greek organization's mission statement is some descriptor that basically means "libertie, equalitie, fraternitie," and something about scholarship and excellence. In no organization's write-up have I seen "rock hard hotness", "PHAT," "bling," "good lay," or "toilet papering."

Maybe it's because those organizations didn't try to recruit me.

The interesting thing about being Greek is the response I get when people "find out." The response is either, "YOU were in a sorority?" or "you were in a SORORITY?" The inflection on that sentence alone tells me right there what that person thinks about Greeks in general.

"YOU were in a sorority?" = You're not blonde or hot, and you're in no way what I picture a sorority member to look or be like. How on earth did you get in?

"You were in a SORORITY?" = You're not blonde or hot, and you're in no way what I picture a sorority member to look or be like. Why on earth did you pledge?

Either way, it's uncomplimentary.

The answer is the same to either question, though. Why did I pledge and how did I get in? Well, my sorority saw in me (hopefully) the same thing that I (hopefully) see in it: The desire, ability, and opportunity to nurture leadership in young women, myself included. Sure, lots of organizations can do that but not many of them are dedicated to that and have the opportunity and organization to recruit at such a significant scale at our nation's institutions of learning. Couple that with the additional benefits of a life-long personal and professional network and bond of sisterhood to others who are all committed to the same and you have a pretty compelling argument for "going Greek."

Sure, being Greek comes with the additional trappings of any organization: jewelry (like religious organizations), robes (like the House of Parliament), sometimes a dedicated facility/house (like honors colleges), parties (similar to corporate mixers), and other paid-for extras. It also may come with some problems, and they are the problems that are native to existence as a young person. Let me tell you, college Greeks didn't invent drinking, snappy dressing, and crazy parties. It's just our leadership abilities that make us so darn good at organizing them.

(Disclaimer: That was a joke.)

But my point really is that being Greek offers the opportunity to give younger people a leadership experience under the advice and counsel of older collegians and, even better, under the auspices of a national organization and chapter advisors. Sometimes it's done well, and sometimes not. But that's how it works anywhere. Hopefully organizations are led by people who make them succeed, but it doesn't always work out that way. Fraternities and sororities are no more and no less failure-proof than any other human-led organization.

There aren't many organizations intended for college-aged youth that accommodate the blend of the quasi-professional and the academic, understanding and even encouraging students to put their school first and volunteer work second. Greek groups also help students understand, even on a relatively micro scale, what it means to be a small part of a bigger whole and of a history that may extend hundreds of years back that they can directly shape for the future. Let me tell you that every Greek member, no matter how "insignificant" his or her participation, can make or break a chapter, a college, an entire sorority/fraternity, or even lead to the elevation or destruction of the entire Greek system. Greek organizations can help shape student leaders by demanding responsibility and hopefully accountability while providing opportunities to every person to showcase their best aptitudes while doing good for their organization and philanthropic causes, even if it is under the guise of a seemingly vacuous t-shirt sale or volleyball game.

I'm not so naive that I think it actually works like that at all times, and I realize this is a little pie in the sky. But this is how it can work -- how it should work.

So, really, why do I continue to volunteer for a sorority that stopped being relevant for me when I graduated college, more than 10 years ago? It's because I truly believe that we are responsible for helping others achieve their life's passion and enabling them with the tools to make their little corner of the world a little better. How else can we enable them with those tools unless we put them into real life situations where showing up, paying bills, and fulfilling your word matter and, if not honored, come with real consequences from which your parents may not be able to bail you out? Because Greek relationships are the among the ones that really can last a lifetime, there's great accountability ... if it's done right. Almost anyone can engineer themselves into a supposed "buy-a-friend" network, but there aren't a lot of people who actually make that investment meaningful and lasting. I feel that I'm still involved to help us meet that challenge.

The Age of the Tomato

Once or twice in the past, I have been accused of being an over-achiever. I find this to be a poor descriptor because I don't think I've achieved very much. Instead, I prefer to think of myself as someone who puts to use every moment of time that I can. Very little time is spent on TV or idle relaxation. Indeed, in addition to work, parenting, and homemaking, my leisure activities are often combined so more can be gotten out of less. Examples: Movies are enjoyed on the iPod while I lift arm weights on the stair machine at the gym. Books are read while nursing. E-mail is read and sent while I'm on conference calls.

But, the more I try to fit into less, the less truly gratifying it is. This is especially true when it comes to work. While I enjoy, for the present, being a corporate slog and working 50-hour weeks, I don't actually "see" the positive impact of my work. One must go through a long set of connections before my work in managing the development and installation of code for a corporation connects to assuaging the hurts of suffering children throughout the world.

It's at these times that I feel greatest personal satisfaction from good old fashioned manual labor. Painting a bedroom is more satisfying to me than saving $100,000 in production costs. Washing the car and cleaning the garage engenders a greater sense of completion than bringing the count of my unread e-mail down. And, lately, seeing things grow in the garden (however pitifully!) is more pleasurable than producing reports.

In this post you see a picture of a tomato plant (heavy with growing tomatoes). I made this. Well, truth be told, I'm not solely responsible for its creation since I bought the starter plant from a farmers' market and planted it. No matter how much satisfaction I derive from making things, I'm not so foolish to think that I'm attentive enough to living things to do a good job of nurturing them from seeds -- thankfully, children are capable of expressing their ire so I remember to feed and water them. Plants are not so capable.

But the point is that I did make this, with the help of my older son who helped me dig and relocate worms and lady bugs, and my husband who helped me water it, too.

This single tomato (and the ones that will follow) are, to me, a greater testimony of my worth and contributions as a human being than all the certificates of recognition received by my past employers.

This leads me to believe that corporate America can learn something from someone like me. Instead of gift cards to Best Buy and shiny gold coins and signed certificates of appreciation with accompanying recognition points (all of which can be redeemed for more stuff), perhaps we should usher in the Age of the Tomato. Produce is then awarded based on your contributions and capabilities. A sample recognition plan may look like this:

You're the Zest! Recognize with a the gift of a low-cost, easily-used condiment, like a lemon or lime, which comes with paring knife and zester. This is a spontaneous gift that could be awarded following management presentations, a corporate event, or after someone has helped you produce a report. Estimated cost, $7 or less.

Lettuce Thank You! This is for the person whose contributions are a bit more meaningful, probably designed for an experienced entry-level person or a more junior mid-range contributor. The gift would be a small bag of salad fixings, including lettuce, tomato, cucumber, radishes, and a salad dressing, along with tongs and a nice wooden bowl. For the extra special mention, this can be upgraded to include a bottle of vegetable oil (to keep the wooden bowl polished) and a substitution of the standard iceberg lettuce for some nicer dark or gourmet greens (think watercress, spinach, frisee, etc.). Estimated cost, $8-$13.

You're In-herb-spensible. For the seasoned (ha ha!) chef or exceptionally qualified nurturer, reward them with this premium gift of herb seeds with the supplies needed to create a hydroponic herb garden. This is especially appropriate for project or people managers who have made significant contributions. The hydroponic garden can be upgraded, as desired, to a Sur la Table-quality herb seed and garden kit for the senior-level management executive. Estimated cost, $20-$170.

Criteria for award includes not only the person's contributions, but also his/her corporate rank (which may determine overall gift value), and his/her abilities to produce (ha ha!).

This recognition program provides growth opportunity (ha ha! I'm killing me with the puns!), as well as truly useful gifts that allow a person to enjoy the stress-relieving benefits of gentle labor. Additionally, this is an entirely green, environmentally-sensitive program (perhaps it should give partial attribution to Al Gore or Ralph Nader) that provides healthy food into employee diets, potentially reducing health care costs.

I would market this concept, but that would contribute to more e-mail, meetings, and other less-satisfying labor. So, I release this idea into the world for all corporations to benefit. For myself, I ask only for my just desserts and hope to receive a cut of the take.