Why are you reading my blog? I’ve been wondering this for a while as I’ve been contemplating material for blog posts. With a wealth of life experience and a willingness to share, I have something to offer the world. But it’s not the world I expect to read my blog, it’s you. I offer myself to the world in pursuit of you – the reader who identifies with pieces of my life, as articulated in individual blog posts. I want to give a gift of openness from a sincere heart and thoughtful mind to whoever seeks, needs and/or appreciates such a gift. They say it is better to give than to receive. It’s pretty simple.  That’s why I write here.

If anything I’ve written has provoked any level of connection, encouragement, comfort, hope, healing or growth in just one reader, it’s also brought the same to me. I write from my heart – real, raw and honest. This is the gift – a vulnerable view beneath the surface of a woman on a journey. I write what I wish I would have found and read at different times in my life.

My blog is not for everyone. It’s not a blog with mass appeal. It’s just for you – the reader who finds a blog post that speaks to you in some beneficial way. You are exactly who I had hoped to read my blog when I started writing it. Unless you’ve lived a life uncannily parallel to mine, you probably won’t find every blog post I write to be of value to you. And unless you’re a family member or friend with a particular interest in all of my life, you will probably only visit here once or twice. This is contrary to so much of what I’ve been taught about blogging, yet it’s not at all contrary to my personal goals in writing here.

I have come to seek the reader who only visits once or twice as much as the regular reader. When a woman is dealing with the heartbreak of infidelity, abandonment, divorce or domestic violence, I hope a Google search will land her on “My Season in the Darkness of Domestic Violence” or “When Your Husband Leaves You for Another Woman.” Or when someone is anguishing over guilt and remorse of betraying a friend, I hope a Google search result returns “The Gift.” I write as an outpouring of my heart. When what I write resonates with another person, the human connection is made. And that is the desire of my heart in this blog.

My point? I write for you. So tell me, why do you read?

Photo credits: fotorita, db*photography

Yesterday I tweeted a question on Twitter.

This morning, I awoke to an email in my Gmail account revealing to me that there were four responses to my question. This email was a Google Buzz update with replies to a tweet that never showed up on Twitter. I was intrigued by this. I reviewed my replies on Twitter, and sure enough, these four responses to my question weren’t there. On Twitter, there was one reply, but it was posted AFTER I had received these replies on Buzz. This unplanned scientific experiment (no hypothesis, just observation and conclusion) resulted in: 80% response on Buzz and 20% response on Twitter. I just started using Buzz less than 48 hours ago, and I admit, I have not taken the time to research it whatsoever. Just jumped in to test the waters. I heard about Buzz on Twitter and learned more about it in a phone conversation with a friend who was following the launch of this “potentially game-changing” tool. (Her words, but I concur.) Given this humble perspective, here are my first observations on Google Buzz, based upon my own experience:

1. Your status updates on Twitter are pulled by Google and posted to your Google Buzz.
2. What people comment on in Google Buzz (i.e. a reply to your tweet) shows up in your Google Buzz.
3. What people comment on in Google Buzz does NOT show up in your Twitter stream.
4. In just three days of Google Buzz’s launch, it’s proven to be a more responsive tool than Twitter in my personal experience, at least when seeking input from others.

I have no vested interest in any particular social media tool. I simply seek the tools to connect me most effectively with people. The format of Google Buzz seems to complement Twitter for my use of these tools. We’ll see as I explore more! Also posted at Web 2.H and Techburgh Blog

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Sexual Harassment Saga (Part 1), continued…

It was Christmas Eve. The office was nearly deserted. Jeff (my boss), Mike (the Safety Director) and five of the six owners had disappeared for the holidays. With an absence of male leadership (note: all leadership was male) and only a fraction of the “girls” working, it felt like a ghost town.

On this quiet afternoon, I was contently working in my office when he entered. I’d tell you his name, but I forgot it. Funny how something so significant as the name of the man who triggered an 8 year ordeal has slipped through the cracks of my memory 13 years later. What I do remember is that he was old, and I was young. I was in my 20’s; he was in his 70’s. He was a retired California Highway Patrolman, working part-time inspecting fleet vehicles and signing fix-it tickets. His job required him only to interact with the guys in the shop (a separate building from mine, across the parking lot outside my window). I worked exclusively inside, in the executive/administration building. He had no reason to come into my building, much less my office. And yet, he did.

We had met months earlier. Our paths crossed by chance when we were in the dispatcher’s office at the same time. I knew from that first encounter that something wasn’t right. I could sense it. Not just the violating feeling of a man undressing you with his eyes – something more. The sprouting of an obsession. I tried to reject the feeling. Discount it. Dismiss it. Chalk it up to my oversensitivity. The problem is, you can’t shake what you know in your gut. You just try to “act” like you don’t know it.

Not long after that first interaction in the dispatcher’s office, he began stopping by my office to chat every so often. The visits soon increased in frequency and length. Before long, he was showing up at my office like clockwork every day he was working, no longer standing around making casual conversation but confidently and authoritatively pulling up a chair and imposing his will upon me. He wanted to see me…to look at me…to watch me. I wanted him to leave me alone. He knew it, but he didn’t care. There were several occasions during these uninvited visits when he would just stare at me. No conversation. Just silence. He seemed to like the tension and discomfort that created for me. He’d run out of things to say, but he didn’t feel awkward about remaining there, in the chair across from my desk, just gazing. His eyes spoke, and what they said was not good. I had grown more than uncomfortable with him. I was afraid of him. What I saw in his eyes scared me. My gut from that first encounter in the dispatcher’s office was dead on.

But he was old. He could have been my great-grandfather. I was taught to be respectful and polite to my elders. My sense of duty, combined with my feminine inclination to be accommodating kept me from saying to him what I so longed to say: “Leave me alone!” It was that same sense of duty and imputed respect that served me up on a platter for him on that fateful Christmas Eve.

December 24, 1996. I was at my desk, working. The air in the office was light as a handful of us girls were wrapping things up before Christmas. I was loving my job, looking forward to Christmas with my family. All was well with the world…until he appeared in my doorway. As always, his appearance triggered a tensing in the pit of my stomach. As always, I greeted him with an artificial smile and cordial discourse while my insides cringed. As always, he perched himself in the chair across from my desk, looking at me, leaning back with the poise of a predator.

He began with his usual rambling – insignificant chit chat to which I politely offered an occasional response. My reticence was only peppered with one word or one sentence acknowledgements of his monologue. My focus was on my work, with my head down and my hands busy typing, writing, going through papers. He knew the message I was sending, but he didn’t care. He willfully ignored it, as he had been doing for weeks through my escalating hints to leave me alone. After what seemed like an eternity of his fixated stare with little conversation, he finally stood up talking about how he had better get going. Just when I thought my anxiety was nearing relief, he started to approach my desk, asking me if he could have a “Christmas hug.” That’s what he called it – a “Christmas hug.” I was dumbfounded. Fight or flight. Do or die. Confrontation or accommodation. As etiquette seemed to dictate, I reacted with the latter. It was do or die, and I did.

The lady in me – the one my mother raised to be well-mannered, respectful and kind to people – she stood with the poise of a princess that would make my mom proud. As I got out of my chair to walk out of my U-shaped desk, he navigated his tall, large frame around the desk, reaching me before I had stepped two feet from my chair. He went in for the hug. I raised my arms to touch his arms in a semi-defensive position of a faux hug – a “this will technically count as a hug but I’m keeping my arms here to make sure you can’t fully hug me” sort of way. As I did, his little “Christmas hug” turned into his large, long arms reaching around my body and pulling me into him as his face came crashing into mine. With reflexes the speed of light, I turned my head to the side just in time for my cheek to receive an open mouth of saliva and tongue landing on it. He had attempted a kiss…an open mouthed kiss, while holding me firmly in his arms. That was the moment time stood still. That was the day that everything changed in my world, though I had no idea at that time how much of an impact that moment in time was going to have on my future. Like the day my mom died, this day was a historical marker on the timeline of my life.

Photo credits: Will Foster, Matt Hampel

I have a story to tell. A story about a chain of events in my life that sparked an 8 year ordeal. A story that I wish I would have found on the internet when I searched for something like it 13 years ago. The story is long, but for someone who might appreciate it, someone who may be going through something similar, I think it’s worth writing. Because it is long, I’m writing it in multiple posts. If you want to know if this story might interest you, I’ll summarize it:

• I was a stellar employee
• I was sexually harassed by a man at work
• I complained about it
• I was fired
• I sued the company
• After 8 years, I accepted a settlement offer

In 1996, I was working for a very large construction company in California. My title was Insurance Coordinator, but my job involved far more than the title implies. While I managed all insurance policies and administration of those policies for this company (including health, dental, life, disability, liability and worker’s compensation), I also managed the company safety program, MBE/DBE (minority and disadvantaged business enterprises) subcontractor solicitation for bidding on state and federal contracts, ordering supplies, stocking supplies, negotiating with vendors for pricing on supplies and services under my control, closely managing worker’s comp cases (in constant contact with employee and medical facility until claim was closed), providing support and assistance to owners (the 6 men who shared ownership), coordinating with job sites to make sure all safety and insurance related matters were handled, serving as a secretary to the Director of Safety (autonomously doing his job, writing his letters, preparing his presentations – using my mind,  not his), and much, much more. The point being, I did a lot, and I did it well.

I loved my job. As a young woman in my 20’s who had dropped out of college and spent her career in administrative roles, this position offered me the independence and diversity of activity I sought. I was thorough, hard-working and always going the extra mile. When I saw opportunities for improvement, I jumped on them. I created forms, form letters, processes, procedures, databases, spreadsheets and reports in/for a variety of departments to increase efficiency. I assisted co-workers, offering ideas for them to do the same in their sphere of influence, actually creating the same tools for them and teaching them how to use them. I brought my laptop in to work as the computer supplied to me was antiquated and of no value to me in incorporating these tools to improve operations. I enlisted an engineer to help me create a complicated spreadsheet (with formulas far too complex for me to write) that turned out to be one of the most valuable contributions I made. I got along well with everyone, and everything I did there seemed to consistently impress both co-workers, upper management and the owners. This was the best job I’d ever had up until that point in my life – a perfect pairing of my skills with their needs. The job kept me engaged and interested. It afforded me the opportunity to capitalize on my mind in many ways while providing valuable support to the organization.

My work didn’t go unnoticed. On December 20, 1996, my boss (Jeff) scheduled a meeting with me to inform me that the company saw me as a great asset and wanted to tap the potential they recognized. (I was so excited!!!) He asked if I would be interested in learning the job of a higher ranking employee, serving as her backup, also asking me what other areas of the office operations interested me to see if I could get involved in multiple projects. It was an exciting time in my young career.

Then came Christmas. The week of Christmas was a slow time. Many were on vacation, and the construction jobs were winding down over the holidays.  A couple of days before Christmas, on his way out for the holidays, Mike (the Safety Director for whom I provided the most support) gave me a gift basket and Christmas card that read:

“Thank you for all of your hard work.”

This gift and card were hugely significant. You have to know Mike. He was not an expressive man. Actually, that tells you nothing. The truth is, he was pretty much an asshole. Unfriendly, aloof and insecure, Mike was a sycophant – a puppet controlled by the owners – and not so discreetly harboring self-loathing. He had a low affect, was arrogant without merit and very degrading to women. Only when engaging with the owners did he act animated. He held multiple titles (including that of Safety Director), but his real position was a secret. He did things for the owners that none of us knew, but we all understood it wasn’t something to discuss. This arrangement puffed up his ego to the point that he looked down on and belittled all employees beneath his “status,” especially the female employees. Given this profile, I’m pretty sure it pained Mike to express appreciation for the work I did for him. Everything I did in his name reminded him of how unqualified he was to hold the titles he held. I was doing his job better than him. I was doing his job better than he could. I think that’s what made him so awkward in showing gratitude – acknowledging this in any way. Never mind the fact that I sought no credit for it. I made him look good. Really good. And I took pride in doing so. On the rare occasions he seemed inclined to express gratitude, he did so by trying to be somewhat friendly (in other words, trying to not be an asshole). I understood. I knew I made him feel even more insecure than he was before I came to work there. The thing is, I truly just wanted to do good work because it made me feel good. I enjoyed (and still do enjoy) using whatever skills, talents or abilities I have to make others shine. It’s personally rewarding for me. The more he seemed to observe this, the more he seemed compelled to show gratitude – in his ways. The expression of that appreciation culminated in this Christmas gesture – the gift and card he gave me. For Mike to write to a woman (ANY woman, including his girlfriend) that he was thankful for anything they had done was a milestone.

This milestone is amplified by the fact that in his 10+ years with the company, Mike had never given a Christmas card or gift to any of “the girls” before. (That’s what we were called by all the men there – “the girls” – all the female employees in the office. The lower class citizens. The buffet from which the owners of the company selected for their extra-marital consumption.) My good friend, Patty, (the lady who had held my job for the 8 years prior to my arrival, whose promotion opened up this position for me) was dumbfounded when I told her Mike had given me a present and card. She had to see it to believe it. When I showed her, she expressed not only disbelief, but envy. She had been serving as his secretary for 8 years, and he never once gave her as much as a thank you, much less a gift or card. The truth is, I was shocked too. He never gave me any indication he would do something so thoughtful, so openly expressive of  appreciation for what I did. But he did! And that gesture of acknowledging me meant a lot to me.

Days after the thrill of this surprise, I found myself alone in my office with just a skeleton crew of office staff in the building. Mike had left for the holidays.; Jeff had left for the holidays; only a couple of owners were around, in and out. On that Christmas Eve, it was just me, an owner, a couple of engineers, and the majority of “the girls” working. December 24, 1996 was the day my world turned upside down.

…to be continued…

Photo credits: byGin, theretirementsolution.com,

In Washington DC on August 28, 1963, Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his historical speech that inspired a nation. His words and his heart live on and continue to inspire 47 years later. The first time I heard this speech, I cried. I wasn’t even alive when he rallied our nation. I didn’t know what was happening in the years preceding my birth. I just heard the anguish and the hope in his voice, and it moved me to tears. In fact, it still does. Every time I hear or see this speech, I well up. I love his heart, his passion, his vision. I miss it…better yet, I long for it.

As I have been thinking about this man and the speech that resonates deep in my soul, I got to thinking about the world I live in now. The things on my mind. The things I am learning, observing and incessantly thinking about. The way our world is changing. The drastic and rapid changes occurring in society, culture, business and human interaction – a revolution of sorts. We’re living in a time in which old ways of thinking, doing business and interacting with each other are being replaced with new ways. The digital age, the rise of social media and everything Web 2.0 – these tools are being seized by a hungry society, anxious to connect, be heard, be seen, be valued, be understood. The people are overturning the structures and practices that have characterized how we live, think and function for the better part of a century. We now seek, even demand, human interaction, human kindness and human connection – in business and in life. We need it. We crave it. And we’ve been deprived of it for too long. So with the technology that gives anyone with Internet access a voice that can be heard worldwide, things are significantly and dramatically changing.

From this perspective, I have been thinking about my dream. An interweaving of the vision Martin Luther King, Jr. had almost 5 decades ago, blended with a focus on the future from 2010 forward. My dream begins with Dr. King’s words:

“I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It’s a dream deeply rooted in the American Dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.”…I have a dream that my [seven] children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today…“

…that not only my children, but all future generations will live in a nation where they will not be judged by:

• the color of their skin
• the shape of their bodies
• the culture of their families
• the religious and spiritual views they choose
• the places they live
• the clothes they wear
• the people they know (or don’t know)
• the schools they attend
• the SAT or ACT scores they earn
• the job titles they hold
• the amount of income they have
• the number of followers they have on Twitter
• the number of friends they have on Facebook
• the number of contacts they have on Linkedin

…but rather, my dream is that not only my children, but all future generations will live in a nation where they will be judged by the content of their character, hearts, minds and souls…as expressed in…

• the words they speak
• the words they type
• the actions they take
• the gifts they give
• the help they offer
• the courtesy they show
• the compassion they feel
• the diversity they embrace
• the ideas they spread
• the solutions they provide
• the creativity they inspire
• the hope they exude
• the encouragement they deliver
• the innovation they stimulate
• the inspiration they provoke
• the love they live

This, my friends, is my dream -  inspired by a man who embodied this vision several years before I was born.

Thank you Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. for your gifts to humanity, and thank you to all of you – the “us” – creating, compelling and shaping the changes that lead us into the future.

I have a dream, and I see it on the horizon.

Photo credit:  Nelson Piedra

Logic tells me I keep too much stuff. Emotion tells me I can’t part with it. Tucked away in my closet is the evidence of this dichotomy: Boxes. Boxes and boxes full of who knows what. It seems, emotion has trumped logic for far too long in my closet.

Last week my rational self went on a mission to clean out the boxes overtaking my closet. Determined to discard the bulk of my findings, I dug into my first box. Logic’s first challenge: sentimental mementos. The box was full of letters, cards and other memorabilia from the last 30 years of my life. Letters my mom sent me when I spent summers at Kennolyn Camp. Annual birthday cards from my grandparents and Aunt Eleanor (a woman who, to this day, I don’t know how she is my relative). Correspondence from friends, family and lovers – a cornucopia of memories all packed away neatly in one banker’s box.

Amidst the correspondence, I found a folder. Inside was the most significant treasure of all. It was the chronicling of my first lesson in finance from my father in 1991. Letters with detailed instructions and lessons on money management, handwritten spreadsheets, cash flow reports, notes on spreadsheets, proposed budgets, revised budgets, guidance, encouragement, wisdom…love.

BACKGROUND

I was raised in a loving, two-parent home. My father was the breadwinner – an ambitious and successful one. He took good care of us. He also managed money well. My mother – not so much. Growing up, I didn’t know this. In fact, I knew nothing about finances. I just knew that all my needs were met and then some, and we lived a privileged life. I was spoiled.

When I was 18, my life changed dramatically. I went off to college, my mother died, I dropped out of college, I met a guy, I got pregnant, and I got married – all in that order, all in the same year. This sequence of events catapulted me from an immature, self-absorbed teenager to a stumbling, “in over my head” adult. Immersion into adulthood was a challenge. I was inexperienced, unskilled and untrained to take on the life of a financially responsible adult. So I learned the hard way.

Two children and a divorce later, I had squandered away all the money I had, maxed out my credit cards and consumed every dime of every paycheck I had earned. I was a single mother, raising my kids on my own, working and going to school, on and off welfare and food stamps and living in subsidized housing. Five years after I left home and entered independent life, I was in desperate need of financial education, counseling and guidance. In my time of need, my father was there for me. He stepped in and mentored me. He taught me budgeting, cash flow management, the principles of debt, saving, giving and assessing net worth – things I had never heard of or never cared about up until that point. He invested his time – a great deal of his time – coaching me, meeting with me, talking to me on the phone and writing to me. In fact, much of his effort was in writing: Letters, handwritten spreadsheets, cash flow reports, notes on spreadsheets, budgets. All of this assistance and support, encouragement and counseling is documented right here, in this folder, in this box, amidst many boxes, crowding my closet.

So why is this folder tucked away with all of the correspondence I’ve saved for thirty years? Because it is very special to me. It is evidence of a father who loves his daughter. A father whose time is worth more money per hour than I make in a month. A father who spent his life building a business that provided for his family. A father who sacrificed time, sleep and luxuries, working tirelessly to make his vision a reality. He built a successful company. He became a success story. And…he loved his family. Circumstances of fate prevented more of this father-daughter bonding in our lives. But when I really needed it…when only he could give it…he swooped in and rescued me while I was drowning in irresponsibility and financial calamity. I couldn’t swim, and he taught me.

It turns out, emotion is very powerful. It might seem logical to get rid of the junk in my closet keeping me from moving about freely in there. But I don’t really care about the rational in this case. I’d gladly stumble over boxes the rest of my life to keep this junk. I’m glad I kept this junk. I cherish this junk. This junk contains the tangible reminder of what my dad did to help me become the adult I needed to become. Sometimes that junk is there collecting dust for a reason…to remind a daughter how much her father loves her.

Emotion trumps logic again. I didn’t even open a second box. I concede to emotion for now for I just found a buried treasure that I’ll keep forever and pass down to my children. It is a slice of my father’s legacy. A legacy of love.

Photo credits: mag3737, cloud_nine, Decker Communications