mswrite-now

Bah-Humbug It’s My Bah-Birthday OR Happy Un-Birthday to Me

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Thu, 16 Nov 2017 15:44:00 +0000

I’m not having any more birthdays, but it’s not for the reason you may think; that whole age thing where you have to deal with the fact that you need to purchase two boxes of candles to get the correct number.

It’s because the gifts given to me leave much to be desired. Let me just walk you through a birthday celebration of mine from days gone by and I’ll let you decide whether it’s worth getting up for, brushing my teeth for and plucking my eyebrows for. (I’ve invoked the three prepositions at the end of three consecutive phrases rule. Kind of like a negative multiplied by a negative equals a positive.)

I am a firm believer in asking for what you want, because it avoids that nasty little miscommunication thing that happens between spouses, so I provide helpful shopping hints to which my soulmate replies sensitively, “Will that get me off the hook this year?” You can see that he possesses a romantic viewpoint of my birthday. Try to curb your jealousy.

Birthdays are never really a great stepping off point for communication anyway. Witness the question some silly folks out there still ask, “How old are you?” This is not a question to ask any female nine years of age or older. These days I find myself querying back with “How old do I look?” which leads nowhere great either. The classic “lose-lose” situation.

Somewhere in my twenties there was a transition from celebration to obligation, as far as commemorating my birthday. I can’t seem to find a copy of that particular memo in my files that informed me of the change.

I remember as a kid I would wake up on my special day of birth to the delectable smell of my favorite birthday breakfast cooking; things like pancakes, waffles and sausage were on the menu. This was all done before six in the morning by a mother who worked full-time no less, so it was an incredibly special reason that had my mom getting up a full hour before she needed to. In fact, on these occasions I figure she must have gotten up some time around 3:00 a.m. to allow for the ingestion of cigarettes and caffeine in order to psych up for the event. Remember: We’re talking about the 1960’s here.

My plate would usually be piled high with everything I loved to eat and the day was filled with special gifts and greetings coming at me all ding-dong day. My mother made me feel special while my father made me feel insane by asking me every year, “How old are you?” as though he were a favorite uncle who traveled a great deal and just dropped in for the event on an annual basis. (Now that he’s gone I can’t tell you how much I miss answering that question.)

As I opened the gifts from my parents the family joke became, “What did I get you?” from my dad because he didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on, but that was actually true to form with most everything that went on in our household.

This year’s birthday morning found me having coffee with my husband – for which he ground the beans – and I’m waiting for some sort of cue from someone as to when the whole gift-giving, special breakfast-making process will begin. (Hope springs eternal.) A half-hour passes and while I’m enjoying my delightfully robust French blend I decide to ask my celebratory partner when the festivities will be launched to which he replies, “When the kids wake up.”

God forbid that the day should begin when I’m up, not to mention the fact that by the time my merriment begins, based on that criteria, I may be perilously close to the day after my birthday. Coupled with this is the fact that it’s a school/work day and I’m a wee bit concerned about the window of opportunity for frolicking over that new car I’m getting, but I’m hopeful. After all, how long does it take to open up an envelope with keys in it and run down to the garage to check-out the fine European automobile I’ll be driving into work today? Or wait. I wouldn’t be driving into work because my husband probably made arrangements for a day off. He and I will take a road trip, while the kids enjoy their school day. (Man, what was in that cup of coffee?)

I couldn’t stand not knowing what was going to happen. A birthday doesn’t feel like a birthday when it’s feted after the day comes to a close. Finally, the waiting was over, the kids were awake and I was jacked up on caffeine, ready to squeal like a pig on market day – from sheer agony, as it turns out – just like a pig on market day.

Here is an actual list of presents I got: a book, flannel pajamas and a shower curtain. Has the romance mellowed a bit in this relationship? You be the judge. I realize somewhere along the line I had mentioned my desire for a new shower curtain, but I believe I’ve also mentioned that I think baby goats are cute too. One doesn’t wrap one of those up on my birthday and call it a gift, does one?

The shower curtain was the birthday gift equivalent of a blender as a wedding gift. I suspect I would have gotten a blender as a gift, but I had actually gone out and purchased one for myself the month before because I had been desperately concerned it would be my birthday present. Ironic, isn’t it?

That evening my husband did redeem himself by presenting me with a jamoca almond fudge pie sporting a candle in double digit numbers I could live with. Coincidentally, that digit represents the exact number of years he’ll have to hear about getting me a shower curtain for my birthday.

If It Please the Court

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Tue, 14 Nov 2017 15:06:00 +0000

Jury Duty. Doesn’t just seeing those two words in front of you provide a good case of the heebie-jeebies? Along with tax audit, test results, and license renewal. When I received my jury duty notice I felt like an accused defendant, instead of a prospective juror, but I was eager to report for duty…because I had to.

The entire process began with my attempt at securing a parking space that didn’t sport spray painted words like, “County Employee Only” or “Not for You.” At one point I procured what I thought was an extraordinary parking space -- under a tree, lots of room on either side, walking distance to the courthouse.

As I utilized my handy automatic door lock I happened to glance over and notice some writing on the cement block to which I had nicely lined up my front bumper. I’m slightly nearsighted so some minor details escape my attention now and again. As I sashayed on over to take a closer look I noticed “Jury Commissioner” emblazoned on the marker. I moved my car. Immediately. Because I had to.

As I approached the courtroom I was faced with a line longer than the one for tickets to the “Kiss” Farewell Tour (XXIV). Usually, I don’t even wait in line for things I want, let alone jury duty, but I waited…because I had to. As the earth spun on its axis one more entire revolution I stood there.

As luck would have it, I was sandwiched between a woman who had stopped by just to let everyone know she wasn’t able to perform her civic duty because she was sick with an extremely contagious case of something and a gentleman who was just darned excited to be there, even though his digestive problems usually kept him from such outings. Then the clock struck anticlimactic as I checked in with a woman who even pronounced my name correctly.

As I settled in for the wait with my trusty Kindle I applauded myself for my foresight in packing such a wonderful time passer; however, while reading is a good idea in theory, the clerk’s nasty habit of calling out names every ten seconds put a damper on my enjoyment.

Then it was time for a twenty-minute break when I scored a rich, frothy latté, the only problem being it took me nineteen minutes to get it. The bailiff took one look at my cup of latté goodness, shook his head “no,” and I gulped down the entire contents in seconds, killing twenty thousand screaming taste buds in the process. Because I had to.

Next, was the incredibly tedious task of watching the jury selection process. The mostly washed masses sat attentively as the judge attempted to determine who was best suited for the job. Now the dance really began, commencing with the most painful question and answer sequence I had witnessed since the one that occurred when my father quizzed my first date about his intentions.

This segment might have gone quicker, if not for the judge’s contentious question he asked of a woman with a philosophy degree: “Do you feel you can be a fair and impartial juror?” Hello, and break out the bedrolls. Not so simple when broken down and parsed out by a thinker.

This was one complex little situation, at least when viewed from her perspective apparently, and we were forced to live that perspective for a good twenty minutes. I was starting to sweat, my jeans felt tight, and the plot of my book was uninspired.

Finally, the judge put the woman out of our misery, telling her that it probably would be best if she took a pass on this particular proceeding. She was dismissed. I heard a collective sigh of relief waft through the courtroom and the air began to circulate again.

The next hour was even more excruciating as one juror after another was excused. I fantasized about hitting one of the attorneys in the back of the head with the wadded up gum wrappers I was accumulating.

The real estate lady who everybody in town knew and respected was asked to step down.

The overzealous older man with whom I had shared line time got to stay.

The woman who had proudly proclaimed her marriage to the sheriff barely got the chance to put her purse down when she was excused.

As the process dragged on, I began to think that 12 jurors really were too many. I remembered that high school staple of a play, Twelve Angry Men, and I felt I would really fit into the mix being one moderately irritated, impatient, woman. Oh, no, had I jinxed myself with that thought? Couldn’t we be just as efficient with another even number, like, eight?

Finally, the last seat sat vacant. We all sat stock still, breathing became labored, if not non-existent. One of us would have to fill that seat and it felt as though it was the electric chair, rather than an opportunity for public service.

I heard a name called. Not a female name. Not me. It was a male name. They didn’t object to him, the way he dressed, what he had for breakfast, or his career choice. I stepped out into the sunshine a free woman. Unlike high school basketball, I was happy not to be chosen. As I made my way out of the courthouse, I expressed my exhilaration by doing the touchdown dance in front of the bailiff. Because I had to.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN?!

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Sat, 11 Nov 2017 23:43:00 +0000

I don’t know if people were saying “Do you know what I mean?” much before Lee Michaels made the song by the same name famous back in the 70’s. What I do know is there’s a veritable epidemic raging in the occurrence of that phrase.

The song, “Do you know what I mean?” talks about a guy who’s trying to get over his girlfriend who’s now stepping out with his best friend, Bobby. The wronged gentleman is trying to comprehend the situation, even as he asks for understanding, rather plaintively inquiring, “Do you know what I mean?” I’m guessing he’s looking to establish a connection with us over a shared experience. I just thought it was a catchy hook.

There’s no doubt that “establishing connection” business is the intent of the phrase’s usage today. It acts almost as an “I’m okay, you’re okay” check-in. It got me to thinking about the whole “chicken or the egg” that is pop culture. (Hang with me. I’ll get there.)

What gives a good – or bad – saying cultural hang time? Is a phrase repeated so much that it just weaves itself into our language lexicon, or is there an important pop culture that meets in, say, Iceland, and decides what’s a go?

The expression, “Do you know what I mean?” is the equivalent of signal drop-out because it holds space, but no meaning. It’s similar to: “So?” “Huh.” “How about that?” or any number of transitional phrases that are none too specific. The conversational gambit that is, “Do you know what I mean?” punctuates folks’ discussions, seeming to be just a rhetorical question, though it can be packed with intent.

When “Do you know what I mean?” comes my way I bob and weave like a seasoned verbiage fighter, trying to dodge the phrase’s ability to put me on the spot. The question makes me feel as though I need to bob my head up and down in understanding, complicit in knowing what “it” means. The truth is I often have no idea what I ever mean, let alone what the person who is asking me, “Do you know what I mean?” means.

I have a friend who places “Do you know what I mean?” as an interrogative at the end of every sentence. It’s as much a part of her cute persona as her blonde hair and perky personality. Fortunately her “Do you know what I mean?” is purely rhetorical, lacking intent, or a need for confirmation, so she doesn’t wait for me to nod acquiescence that I’m getting it. I appreciate that about her, and so much more.

Along about a few months ago I found myself getting on my own nerves because I was using, “Do you know what I mean?” so much. Let’s face it. When you’re having a conversation with someone and you hear yourself say, up to and including, three times, “Do you know what I mean?” they don’t. It’s time to hand off the conversational baton to someone else.

I noted in a few situations I was aggressively pursuing empathy, and any time you attempt to marry aggressiveness with empathy you know you’ve tra-la-la-ed off the correct path that will ultimately lead to satisfying communication. I self-corrected, deciding to memorize the lyrics to “Do you know what I mean?” for some reason.

What I discovered when I looked up the lyrics is I’ve been massacring the words for years, wrongly bravely belting out several, what turns out to be wrong, lines in front of captive audiences in my home version of Carpool Karaoke.

Ah, well, it’s not the first time I’ve embarrassed myself, and we can lay money on the sure bet that is it won’t be the last. “Do you know what I mean?”

The Ultimate Coffee Klatch

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Thu, 09 Nov 2017 15:48:00 +0000

As someone who is always looking at the healthful potential of any given product, recently I read an article that really made my tail wag. The headline boldly and pungently announced, "Wake Up and Smell Health Benefits of Fresh Coffee." May I say, as an avid consumer of strongly brewed, robust coffee products, I was truly excited to learn I’d been contributing positively to my own health.

It seems that this group’s findings confirmed that not only is the aroma of freshly brewed coffee pleasant, but when exuding those “yummy, your fix is on its way” fumes, it’s also exuding those precious antioxidants that we are all running around, attempting to corral for our greater good. I can finally put together that antioxidant breakfast of champions: blueberries, dark chocolate and coffee.

Apparently you not only need to smell the stuff to get the full benefit, but drink it too. May I tell you the excitement that this caffeine addict feels over this particular finding? As I read on I learned that antioxidants work by helping to block some of the undesirable effects of oxygen on living tissue. Good thing. I’m so out of the loop I was still under the impression that oxygen was always good for living tissue.

Fortunately, I knew intrinsically that I needed to counteract the bad effects of oxygen with the good effects of caffeine ingestion. I'm now thinking that maybe I should spread coffee all over my face because I've certainly got some undesirable things going on with that living tissue as it ages.

And while this study certainly garnered a great deal of attention from me, it got me thinking about how these folks get the money to fund these studies. I mean, talk about your dream job. Granted, the gentleman who put together the study and surveyed its participants had some pretty impressive credentials, he being a Professor of Environmental Toxicology at UC Davis. While that title represents a fair amount of schooling, how the heck did it translate into Java Maven? Can you imagine how this pre-research scenario played out?

Picture two science guys, Lab Partner and Professor Guy, sitting around in white lab coats, trying to come up with next year's research project and the attendant funding.

Professor Guy might say, "No, no. Saving the earth's resources has been done to death. We need something new, something exciting." (Slurping sounds heard, as he lifts his University of California Davis monogrammed mug full of steaming coffee to his lips, contemplating a profitable project.)

Lab Partner: "Well, how about the consequences of the diminishing ozone layer on infants in their open air strollers and the skin's inability to manufacture ample melatonin to combat the possibility of skin cancer by the time the child reaches adulthood?" (Insert sound of liquid being poured as he completes his walk across the room to pour himself another cup of hot joe after which he begins his long journey back across the room, pot in hand.)

Professor Guy: "Good gawd, man, no! We need something special," he exclaims, accepting the proffered second cup of French Roast from his research buddy.

"Wait a minute, I've got it!" he shouts as he stares at his coffee cup, only just now noticing that it's not an appendage, but a receptacle that can be successfully balanced on any flat surface.

Lab Partner: "What did you get? The chipped cup again? Sorry. I thought I'd thrown that danged thing away."

Professor Guy: "No, you idiot! We'll study caffeine as it relates to antioxidants which will combat the negative effects of oxygen on living tissue."

They both laugh uproariously for a full five minutes at the absurdity of it all and then Professor Guy and the Lab Partner exchange meaningful looks. They simultaneously drain the last few drops of the pungent, slightly sweetened offering from the bottom of their respective cups. The room is still. Professor Guy picks up a pen.

"Dear Starbucks..."

Venus is Her Name, Baby

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Wed, 08 Nov 2017 15:20:00 +0000

It’s no coincidence that she's named after the goddess of love and beauty. All I know is she's the best thing to hit the women’s beauty market since the razor; the original razor. A goddess among many; a rarity in and of herself. She changes lives with a stroke -- or two -- of shearing genius, leaving behind smooth perfection in her wake. A gift from the heavens. The chosen one amongst all razors. Her name? Venus. (Cue celestial music.)

When I first met Venus she was only available in a cool, serene blue. Naysayers thought she was a fad, but I knew better. I had an underarm feeling, if you will.

Never mind that the razor blades for Venus cost more than a small grocery store run for my family of four, she was worth it, providing me with a non-bumpy close shave the likes of which I’d never seen, not having appeared in a single porn movie. The importance of this device and the technology that created it cannot be overstated. Just mentioning her name to another woman brings up an opportunity for bonding like no other.

I introduced Venus to both of my daughters at an early age. Why should they suffer needlessly, like their mother did, through years of torturous shaving leaving rivers of bright red blood coursing down still partially hirsute legs? And how about razor burn?

(For those of you who may not have experienced underarm razor burn it’s somewhat like a paper cut times a thousand with a splash of hydrogen peroxide thrown into the mix.)

It’s a searing, stinging, ever-present pain insistently reminding you all the livelong day, that your skin is a living, breathing organ. Every time you sweat, bend, or initiate a conversation those bumps radiate “owie” messages like you can’t believe. And just about the time the excruciating discomfort relents, it’s time to shave again.

Razor burn makes me think of that line from the eponymously named song, Venus, by the band, Shocking Blue: “Was burning like a silver flame.” What an apt descriptor of those nasty little bumps and Venus, as a “Goddess on the mountain top” saves the day by preventing that kind of thing. Needless to say, shaving is serious business.

If only I were able to embrace the freeing natural state that is the whole Sasquatch look. The main reason why I don’t isn’t really cosmetic, but related to my health. My abundance of body growth impedes my whole sweating process. I like the sweat to appear and then move on, gliding downward, effortlessly, sort of like my bank balance effortlessly glides in a downward motion. For another, excess hair can lead to whole different sizes of clothing and jewelry if there’s too much of it. I like sleek. I like how it feels when I slide under my sheets at night and they smoothly settle on my silky skin rather than stubbing on leg stubble.

Venus and I have been in a monogamous relationship for several years now. I try not to judge, but some of you are living a double life, seeing a variety of razors, hurting yourself and your shave-enslaved parts in the process. But there are choices; like the available colors and accessorized models Venus offers. Don’t be taken in by the knock-offs. It just leads to unsightly toilet-paper festooned legs. And discomfort. And regret.

All things are possible with Venus at my side. I can begin shaving with my right calf, go up to the right thigh, and finish in reverse order on the back of my leg, all with a brightly hued helpmate; the adult, female version of racing a Tonka toy across my gams.

Throughout this relationship I’ve extolled the many virtues of Venus, not daring to dream it could get any better. And then it did. Venue rolled out in Barbie pink. I felt playful, just holding a fuchsia toy in my hand again. I didn’t even need Ken to complete this picture. I’m not even doing this for Ken. It’s all about me-me-me.

Or I could while away my free moments, performing any number of mathematical configurations that suited me because with the first stroke of the razor my body wasn’t sending out painful messages like, “For the love of God, is it time to shave again?” or, “Why don’t we move to Paris and sip cappuccinos while we watch our hair grow?” or even, “Losing consciousness from blood loss…must hurry,” and, finally, “Oh, dear gawd. That was just the left armpit. I’ve got ANOTHER one!”

I actually look forward to my alone time with my Venus razor. It’s “she and me” time. Venus and Diane. Together with a can of bargain shaving cream, adding to the adventure of it all. And the sensory experience aspect. The sound the shaver makes as I’m restored to the smoothness that is my birth right is much like the shooshing sound of a downhill skier. Rhythmic. Athletic. Clarifying. Built for speed. It’s beautiful really.

I can’t imagine what could ever make the experience better. Unless they came up with a waterless version, or something.

Hey, wait a minute. What’s that you have in your hand? Is that a drugstore flyer? Is that an ad for a new waterless model? What are the chances. It’s not even my birthday.

TOO MUCH SAVING TIME

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Mon, 06 Nov 2017 01:06:00 +0000

(FYI: It’s Daylight Saving Time, sans the “s” at the end.)

Because I live up in them thar northern California hills I wasn’t so sure this blessed event had occurred as of yet due to the fact that it was still snowing here two weeks ago.

One week ago it was raining so hard that the windshield wipers for my car, which I fondly call the Hydroplane, valiantly stuttered out their end-of-season-buy-replacement-blades swan song.

Ergo, I only JUST noticed that there was more light in my dayparts.

(Does that sound naughty, or is it just me?)

No matter. I’m now reveling in the bounty that is this Congressionally-sanctioned time switching which provides me with the added bonus of several “able to do it all” hours of light in my day.

The concept of Daylight Saving Time (DST) goes so far back it was first mentioned by that perpetually productive guy, Benjamin Franklin.

Implementation didn’t occur until World War I and during World War II DST was actually dubbed “War Time,” subsequently re-packaged as the “Daylight Saving Time Energy Act” right around the time The Watergate Hotel became known for its great acoustics.

As a practice, DST was not known to be consistently applied. At one point it was discovered that “…on the 35-mile stretch of…Route 2 between Moundsville, W.V., and Steubenville, Ohio, every bus driver and his passengers had to endure seven time changes.” It took both The Uniform Time Act of 1966 and The Energy Policy Act of 2005 to create a sensible plan of uniformity.

And you know what? It still seems to confuse us all. Be that as it may, I adore Daylight Saving Time. I view it somewhat as a lovable, though absent too frequently favorite uncle.

While I delight in the fact that I never seem to have a “to do” list for long during Daylight Saving Time there is one thing about it I don’t love; resetting every clock and watch (last count 52) I own. Fifty-two. Fifty-two? Is that insane or what?

It’s not that I’m someone who is completely enamored of all things time zone. I don’t even have those fancy-schmancy clocks that provide a helpful chronometer profiling countries and states to which I’ve never traveled.

Nor do I have a cuckoo clock, grandfather clock, or a clock that shows the phases of the moon.

(In the interest of full disclosure I must tell you that, once upon a time, I did own a wristwatch which showed the phases of the moon. I loved that thing too, not so much because I could tell folks what lunar phase we were in, but rather because I think moon images are soothing.)

So, my husband is a doer and extremely helpful.

(Hang on for two minutes. I’ll connect all of this up, so set your timer.)

The other day I drove like it was Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride when I was running a wee bit late for my exercise class. I was practically standing on my accelerator, cursing the luck that would have me commuting on a day when a convoy was evidently delivering ALL of the food for northern California at the same time that I needed to be somewhere pronto. (Harrumph!)

As I screeched up to my class I turned to throw my keys to the valet, only there wasn’t one. Dang it!

See, this is what happens when you ingest a steady diet of smutty romance novels as a teenager, believing plots that highlight poor girls marrying rich boys. You start believing you will marry wealth leaving a trail of valets, chefs, and trainers in your wake.

Consequently, I had to get back into my car and park the blasted thing.

As it was, I figured I was at least 15 minutes late to my class. At this rate I would be practically starting with the cool down.

I rushed in, out of breath, clutching my half-garbed body, my heart and my checkbook.

The owner of the studio smiled at me kindly as she always does as I shakily scribbled my name onto the sign-in sheet. Phew! I made it.

As I turned to launch myself into the class I espied an unfamiliar instructor. Oh, what now?

My bewildered look must have been hysterical. Let’s face it, when you spend an inordinate amount of time in life plying the humor trade there’s always a story behind your actions and I’m sure Mary figured this would be a doozy.

Mary’s question, “You know you’re early…really early? Do you have some errands you can do?” was met with my look that said it all. Whaaatttt???!!!

As I glanced at the clock I noted I was not just a skosh early, but an entire hour early. I mumbled something about going next door to the bakery which is my version of an important errand.

As the heady aroma of naughty, illicit, yummy baked goods hit my hypothalamus it dawned on me what had happened.

My husband had helpfully re-set my car clock for me, so it was now reflecting the new time. Because I had blown out of my office paying more attention to the fact that my work-out pants didn’t look so hot with my tank top, I had neglected to note timepiece synchronization.

It just goes to show you, time flies when someone else sets your clock.

###

Articles I read in my continuing quest to provide my readers with helpful, bite-sized knowledge morsels they can disseminate at their next barbecue.

Sources:

http://www.webexhibits.org/daylightsaving/e.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daylight_saving_time

MSWRITE HUMOROUS INTERLUDE: The Square Peg, Round Hole Chronicles

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Wed, 25 Oct 2017 18:58:00 +0000

When last we left our heroine, Diane Dean-Epps, she had convinced herself she had found her “forever job” at a large, healthcare conglomerate. (We’re not going to lie. We got the betting pool going immediately. This teacher, writer, stand-up comedian has always been irreverent, and somewhat delusional in a good way, but going corporate? That’s comedic gold right there. And, interestingly enough, “gold” in the monetary sense as our lucky winner who bet Diane would last three months is now TWENTY DOLLARS richer! Let’s return to our story, shall we?)

Diane wasn’t sure what excited her the most when contemplating her corporate turn, but here are the top 10 things she gushed about when her friends asked her aghast, “You’re going to commute an hour and a half --one way – five days a week, to an insurance company job, sit in a cubicle, and only do what you’re told?” Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

TOP TEN LIST OF SELF-DELUSIONAL BENEFITS

(Diane’s comment IS FIRST FOLLOWED BY THE parenthetical, pithy asides OF an anonymous omniscient narrator.)

1. The healthcare benefits are amazing! I even get a second pair of glasses for free. (Liner note: Diane only wears glasses for night driving, and Kentucky Derby horse race viewing. Limited value.)

2. They have a healthcare initiative that could pay me $5,000 for just working out, eating right, and filling out 5,000 questionnaires. (Let’s do the math on this one. That’s about a dollar a questionnaire, plus the chance of winning these monies when there are 2,500 employees at this organization is about a 1 in 2,500 chance. Negligible value.)

3. They have an outdoor fountain. (And ALL of the fountains everywhere else, including the mall, are not enough?)

4. They have a café that serves yummy food. (And ALL of the cafés everywhere else, including the mall, are not enough?)

5. I’ll get to know tons of people, and I’ll have a team that will be my instant friends. (Someone forgot to inform the team of that fact, and as far as the “tons of people” knowing. That takes tons of time, and you don’t know this – but now you do – but we’re betting “tons of time” equals three months.

6. I’ll be busy, engaged, and purpose-driven. (That will probably translate to “running around uncertainly, forced to attend meaningless meetings, and told what to think.”)

7. I’ll be helping people. (If by “people” you mean the board of directors, and managers for whom you make money, then we’ll give you that one.)

8. I know I’m in a cubicle, but it’s cozy, and whenever I want to get up, I can leave, and work in a different spot. (So, you’re enjoying the benefits of being an American with the rich history of freedom to choose where you breathe? Okay, we’ll give you that one too.)

9. My manager says she excited to work with an experienced person like me, and she’ll help me every step of the way in learning the healthcare business. (So, you’ve got a micromanaging manager who believes in you, but should someone else higher up not share her excitement about your potential, you’re vulnerable to being invited to take that experience elsewhere? Huh. Can we talk about this?)

10. I’ve got incredible support. The two managers who hired me totally apologized for my meetings with the higher up manager who yells at me repeatedly, “What’s your strategy?” almost as much as he asserts my 20+ years of marketing/communications experience doesn’t take the place of my lack of healthcare experience. What a relief I felt when my managers told me I won’t even have direct contact with him, and he doesn’t really know what we do. (Did anyone else just hear “duhn, duhn, duhn” music in the background?)

So, after gushingly telling us all was well, even though we saw that shar pei look right around her eyebrows denoting she really didn’t even believe herself, our heroine tells us she has an update. After yet another meeting in a series of 12 since the day the new higher up manager took over when BOTH managers left, she’s experienced an epiphany of mammoth proportions: The insurance company gig is a “no fit, no go, no way, never again” deal. We dance with joy as we watch our heroine truly accept who she is and, more importantly, who she is not.

Cue music: The Allman Brothers Band, (I’m Not Your) Whipping Post. [Insert “job” for “woman” and “job” for “she” and “the job” for “you,” and that’s about right.]

LINK TO VIDEO:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rx_UaQx5eZQ

There should be no more episodes of the “Square Peg, Round Hole” episodes, but rather join us for the “I’m sassy, and I know it, so clap YOUR hands!!!” launch.

Gratitude Served Up in an Acronym With a Side of Narrative

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Wed, 23 Nov 2016 18:39:00 +0000

There's no doubt about it that gratitude should have a place in our lives every ding-dong day. However, isn't it fabulous that on the eve of this holiday --Thanksgiving -- we receive a gentle reminder?

My gratitude knows no bounds, but it knows a few words of expression:

I’m grateful for those moments when I can pay it forward, only looking backward long enough to express gratitude to those who paved my way. I’m grateful for this upcoming holiday featuring my favorite foods – carbohydrates and turkey – with my favorite people – friends and family. I’m also grateful for the chance to create an acronym (I’m grateful for those too), and I cannot allow a good acronym opportunity to go by.

Healthy living as a habit

Affable people

Pie (the kind with an “e” on the end)

Pets with their unconditional love

Years measured in memories

Trips of exploration: near & far

Happiness exuding from my family

Abundance in everyday life

Nature’s bounty as far as the eye can see

Knowledge gained: current and future

Shared experiences

Good hair days

Inspirational moments

Variety being the spice of life

Innovative ideas

Nonsensical comedic moments eliciting laughter

Gifts of love

A Bit Fitter

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Fri, 05 Aug 2016 14:55:00 +0000

By: Diane Dean-Epps

I’m in a new relationship. And I’m married. And my husband doesn’t mind. In fact, he is very encouraging.

Now, before you think less than highly of me I want to let you know that, yes, my husband does frown upon me dating and, no, this isn’t some sort of relationship reboot where I declare my multi-decade union reborn anew.

My latest relationship is with my activity tracker known as the FitBit. Thus, no marital vows, nor state laws have been violated.

My latest acquisition offers me the best POSSIBLE kind of relationship as there is no shaving, talking, or “I don’t know. What do you want to do(ing)? Just sharing, but the good kind of sharing involving stats and goals. There is also a tacit agreement to move it for lost it (translation: sweat) continuously.

I have so many loves in life and the FitBit combines a surprising number of them, the proverbial “top 10” of which are:

1. I love technology.

2. I love working out.

3. I love accountability (a boon to any uber responsible person).

4. I love self-inflicted competitive strategies.

5. I love information.

6. I love free, life-changing apps. (Think “Shazam” and how many thousands of hours it saves when you are trying to remember the name of “that” song.)

7. I love earning non-valuable prizes and accolades like electronic badges and emailed “atta girls.”

8. I love setting goals.

9. I love self-improvement (as long as it’s my own idea.)

10. I love watches.

FitBit. Even its name is so who I am; a little bit fit, but not so much that I look like I’m all tendon and I need to eat a sandwich.

I want to at least appear to be sensible enough to eat some real food. Like maybe horking down a bi-weekly sandwich, augmenting that nightly sensible salad consisting of one lettuce leaf, an anemic tomato, and a few abjectly lonely slices of cucumber all drizzled with the fragrant, if not fulfilling lemon juice. Yum! Pass the “I’ve lost my zest for life” shaker, please.

The windfall that was my FitBit ownership came about because my daughter didn’t like hers. She said she was never able to figure out how to correctly set her watch.

Initially I had one seemingly insurmountable problem: I could not, for the life of me, remember the name of which Fitbit model I had, mainly because I hadn’t purchased it. This throws a bit of a monkey wrench into the whole shebang during set-up. I must have texted my daughter a half dozen times with the ‘ole, “Now, honey, which one do I have?”

After overcoming that hurdle which activity, more’s the pity, I could not log in as an activity, I had that sucker calibrated, on my wrist, and set to “stun” in about 20 minutes.

Subsequent to my new status as a member of the “FitBit-Wearing Club” I got a bit curious about the name itself, so I launched right into the anaerobic activity that is research.

I found out the fine folks who manufacture this device came up with FitBit as shorthand for the “wireless-enabled wearable technology device that measures data such as the number of steps walked, heart rate, quality of sleep, steps climbed, and other personal metrics.”

Good call.

From morning ‘til night I’ve got that wearable technology on “go time” letting me know when I’m in a fat burning zone (decidedly different than my usual daily self-flagellation activity of noting when I’m in a fat eating zone), how many steps I’ve taken, the number of miles I’ve logged in, and how that heart rate is holding up. As an honorary member of the “ME” Generation I love these updates that are, well, all about me.

All was well…well, until it wasn’t.

It is only when you are attempting decidedly un-FitBit activities that you may get into a bit of trouble. Such as self-tanning.

Do NOT apply self-tanner sporting your expensive wrist-dwelling device. I'm guessing everybody does this, particularly if you’re into fitness? It gets all into those insert-holey slits on the watch, and it mucks up the works.

I’m quite vigorous in my application of this product being a Coppertone-boomer who is only too familiar with the social ostracization that occurs when you are striped and orange. Though I’ve banished my Bain de Soleil days, the pain lingers, if not the tan.

There I was burning time better devoted to valuable step-logging time trying to find items to quickly clean the crevices of the apparatus. I was running around, scrubbing, cleaning, and recalibrating to the point where I was really starting to feel the burn.

Hold on.

Running, scrubbing, cleaning, and recalibrating. Sounds like valid tracking activities to me. Let me go log those in while I’m thinking of it. Maybe logging is also an activity with the typing?

Signed, A Bit Fitter and a Shade Wiser.

HUMOR The HR Professional’s Interview Wish List (In Funny World)

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Thu, 05 May 2016 20:43:00 +0000

Click here to read The HR Professional’s Interview Wish List (In Funny World)

Ahhh…laws…so helpful…so not helpful.

Inarguably, employers and employees alike would agree the workplace has benefited greatly from stronger safety laws and better defined tenets as to what constitutes professional respect. Nonetheless, there is a drawback. Or two. Take, political correctness, for example.

I’ve long felt the political correctness pendulum has swung too far when it prevents us from letting a co-worker know they look nice, are wearing a fabulous garment, or we’ve noticed their eczema outbreak has cleared up.

Haven’t we all had one of those weeks, nay years, when the only thing keeping us from throwing down a daily liquid lunch is a colleague’s kind remark about our appearance?

Be that as it may, there is an even steeper climb than the ascent that is maintaining a bias-free work environment. Hiring. Specifically? Interviewing. Even more specifically? What you can and cannot say in an interview.

Navigating the rocky path up Mount “To Vet” means remaining cognizant of what you can and cannot reference when you’re trying to determine a) Does this candidate have the necessary skills?; and 2) Does this candidate seem sane?

From these thoughts are spawned amusing, perhaps even cathartic, lists. If laughter is the best medicine, then lists that make you laugh are… oh, never mind. Let’s just get to this tongue-in-cheek wish list organized around (some) actual human resource interview categories.

Inappropriate Questions and Comments Human Resource Professionals Might Utter Were There to be No Laws, Proprieties, or Witnesses

Interview Questions That Might Have Been Asked in 1976:

(Note: Substitute “Hippie” for “Goth” and “unwashed hair” for “triple nose ring.”)

Appearance Profiling: I’m sorry about my startle reflex just then. You have such an unusual style of make-up application. What would you call that? Goth? Is that a term they still use nowadays? By the way, the triple nose ring is quite the statement.
Experience: I notice you’ve had several jobs that, interestingly enough, ended in the same month. Would you please elaborate upon how such a freakish and questionable coincidence might have occurred?
Criminal History: When I called your references, which included your third grade teacher, the responses were all strikingly similar, to wit, “Has it already been five years?” “No comment,” and “It just goes to show you, you can never give up on a person.” Might you explain this?
Personal Life: Do you participate in any 12 Step programs and, if so, what step are you on, and why?
Marital Status: I see here you’ve indicated “Ms.” on your job application; however, I see a ring on your left hand. Why not just cut to the chase and choose “Mrs.?” Does this mean yours is not a happy union?
Political Party Affiliation: You’re wearing red, white, and blue today with a festive flag pin on your lapel. Are you appearing in a parade today, or running for political office?
Religious Preferences: Would you have an objection to working on Yom Kippur? And a follow-up question, if I may. Do you think it’s best to say “Merry Christmas,” “Happy Holidays,” or none of the above, and why?
Photographs: Do you mind if I take a picture of you? I’ve got so many applicants I don’t have a prayer of keeping any of them straight. We’re hiring from within the organization anyway, but my boss wants me to go through the motions. Ready? “Say, unemployed!”
Physical Data: Our organization prides itself on first impressions. Would you be willing to adopt a sensible diet, join a gym, and meet weekly with our on-site image consultant?
Ancestry/Birthplace/National Origin: *I notice you’re from Stockton, California. Wow. I’m sorry.

*You guessed it. I am from Stockton, California and many people have made this comment to me over the years, which sometimes leaves me with my funny bone out of joint and, subsequently, a bone to pick.

Having participated in more than her fair share of interviews on both sides of the hiring table, Diane Dean-Epps is NOT an HR professional, nor does she aspire to be one. (I know. You are relieved and who can blame you?) What she does lay claim to is her status as a humorist with a specialty in finding the funny in situations that at first blush are not so much humorous as disastrous. Interviewing qualifies. Hands down.

The Best Possible Outcome

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Mon, 02 May 2016 17:41:00 +0000

It was a tough week at the old salt mines. I’ve been working with an organization undergoing a substantial amount of change and while we are getting clearer on the need for processes, not so much on the outcome subsequent to this finding.

Suffice it to say, this state of “being, or not being” does not provide one with a strong sense of accomplishment at week’s end. However, the week did end, bringing me to my blessed weekend.

Contemplating either booking a quick transformational sleepover at the local ashram, or an intensive two-day neverending session at my gym I opted for an approach that seems to work for me: To do what was right in front of me. Therefore, I stayed the course and kept my previously scheduled Saturday morning hair appointment.

As is “per the uz” my miracle hair worker and I yakked the hours away discussing the burning issues of the day and solving the most difficult problems of our time. This included topics such as why adult dogs insist upon relieving themselves indoors when they know better, irritating people who always want to guess your weight-age-next sentence, and the unwanted appearance of ruffles in female fashion for women over the age of ten.

I began to relax, even feeling sleepy, as I experienced the “r” word (no, not retirement), as in relaxation. During the final phase of my hair naturalization process, I decided I would treat myself to a trip to the Flower Barn for some garden acquisitions to see how long I could prolong this newfound relaxation thing.

Oh, sure, I still had the niggling feeling challenges lie ahead for me, specifically, when Monday dawns more early than bright, but hey, mirror: Look at those stunning highlights!

Off I went to purchase posies, noting as I traveled from here to there that spring had definitely sprung with all of the gorgeous greenery showcasing its glory post-drought. Just as I was wheeling into a parking space I saw a flash of blonde hair via my peripheral vision.

In hyper mode my vision became multi-directional as I noticed simultaneously that a woman to my right was reversing her van out of the parking space, toward me, and the toddler was continuing to run, toward me. I grasped in a nanosecond the impending tragedy that would be the van, or me, or both of us hitting the little guy. I slammed on my brakes.

And you know what? A miracle occurred, but not on 34th Street. I stopped in time, the van driver stopped in time, the toddler stopped in time, and time stopped, just like everyone says it does.

All we were left with were a crying tyke and a crying Diane. It was in that moment I was reminded of one of those universal truths we receive so often, if we would only pay attention.

You never know what’s next; you just have to know it will be the best possible outcome. (True, it may be a matter of applying your brakes.)

Today I experienced the best possible outcome and that makes Monday’s outcome not matter so much at all.

Commuting and Rerouting

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Wed, 02 Mar 2016 22:56:00 +0000

Dear Caltrans,

I like you.

I like your ever-expanding color palette of safety-inspired fashions.

I like your hip, shortened name denoting mobility and Cali-style fun.

I like the fact that you are out there every day making sure the roadways are safe, free from debris, streamlined for traveling efficiency, showcasing the application of highway-supportive dollars.
What don’t I like? Surprises.

Oh, don’t get me wrong I like the good kinds of surprises that include cake, gifts, cake, and discovering long-lost friends and pieces of my newly excavated wardrobe.

The kind of surprise I’m not fond of, my darling Caltrans, is a highway rerouting on a busy, post-holiday-weekend Tuesday. This type of surprise never offers cake, or gifts. Typically the only discovery I’m making is how adept I am at keeping my Honda Civic from qualifying as an unofficial entry in the Caltrans-sponsored Bumper Car Rally.

There I was drafting off of the feeling that only a three-day, fun-filled weekend fueled by a pay day and poor choices can provide. I was cruising along with my commuting comrades at an altitude of approximately 67 mph when I noticed all was not well along the Sacramento Westbound 80 corridor, beyond the usual dull roar of traffic.

Initially I figured there was just an unearthly mass of worker bees attempting a return to work in order to make more money, having spent all of it during the aforementioned weekend festivities.
I was wrong.

Right around Truxel Road is where it all went to heck in a medium-sized car. The road I had traveled previously diverged and then disappeared. In its wake were a myriad of low, cement walls, squished orange cones, and redrawn lines that looked as though the Caltrans workers had had an even more entertaining weekend than I had.

In short, none of it made any sense and we had no warning. Zip. Zilch. Nada. There was a collective metaphorical scratching of commuting heads as we all slowed down, pivoting our heads this way and that, trying to figure out: a) Who was punking us?; b) Where had Highway 80 West/San Francisco gone?; and c) Had I-5 South/Los Angeles gone with it?

Adding to the fun of the whole fiasco was the fact that an autobahn-inspired merging lane was coming at us as we struggled to decipher the Transportation Code that would gain us entry to our next Highway Portal.

I felt as though I was inside a video game and it was exactly how you would think it would be: life-threatening, hot, and uncomfortable.

While I appreciate the forwarding-thinking, save-water-for-drinking messages Caltrans has crafted and strategically placed on their signs, I can’t help but feel a small message regarding a LARGE rerouting might have merited more board time.

Here’s a sample: Dear Commuters: Good morning. We have a surprise for you, so stay tuned! Love, Caltrans.

OR

Dear Commuters: I hope you had a fabulous weekend. I know we did. You will see what we mean. Fondly, Caltrans.

OR even more helpful.

Dear Commuters: Warning. We have rerouted your journey, so for god’s sake slow down, take stock of your surroundings, hover your foot over that brake, and get ready for the ride of your life. Cautiously, Caltrans.

Change is good, Caltrans, and by that I mean: Please change your signs. Love, Commuting and Rerouting.

I'm Online Though Not Necessarily On Board

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Wed, 06 Jan 2016 17:47:00 +0000

Interviewing. It’s not the same process it was ten years ago.

I would venture to say it’s not even the same process it was a year ago. From my recollections, I think we’re somewhere around the sixth iteration in overall methods, which reflection merits a trip in the “Remember When” Machine.

Sit back, kids, and let me provide you with an ever-so-brief overview of … the interview.

Remember When…

You stopped by a business where you, or your parents, knew the owner, and you filled out a job application so brief it looked more like a W-2? Version 1.0.

This application was just a formality because your folks had already begged the owner to give you a job/income as you were closing in on your eighteenth birthday which was tantamount to a ticking clock, or time bomb. Then you were interviewed and hired on the spot.

Alas, babyboomers, if-not-the-greatest-generation-then-certainly-the-largest, moved out of their hometowns.

Those crazy kids couldn’t wait to:

a) go out and find their bliss b) apply for those newfangled credit cards; and c) get away from their parents.

Because Then…Remember When…

Version 2.0. You looked for a job in the newspaper and made a multitude of appointments with business owners to talk about why they should hire you? This created situations where you showed up ready to speak with total strangers about prospective jobs you didn’t have the foggiest idea how to do, much less get. Fortunately, bravado was very much a valued commodity back in the day, so you were hired on the spot.

(I’m sure you’ve seen these newspapers of which I speak, displayed in the streetside Smithsonian Institute that is a newspaper stand. It’s the American version of the British red telephone box.)

Computers made their way out of military facilities and onto the open market by virtue of a couple of wild-haired, brainy entrepreneurs who may not have gotten the girls, but they did get the last laugh.

Because then…Remember When…

Version 3.0. You created a document known as a résumé touting your sundry skills and life-changing accomplishments, so business owners would call you to make an appointment?

These were mailed via the good ‘ole U.S. mail which ensured employment of at least half of the 307,490 mail carriers out there, if not your own.

This résumé (curriculum vitae in fancy talk) was a one-page fabrication turning activities like mowing the lawn into colorfully scripted terms such as “self-employed landscape artist.” It was considered cutting edge, employment-seeking technology back in the eighties resulting in several scheduled interviews. After saying they would get back to you, at least one employer nearly always did.

Then the crazy computer fad caught on with a vengeance and now every employer expected that slick homage to creative writing.

As it turns out, a multitude of people who might not have been stellar employees were stellar writers ensuring a mega volume of material, so the multi-tiered interview process skidded onto the scene.

Because Then…Remember When…

Version 4.0. You sent out your résumé, got a call from the prospective employer who scheduled your first interview, you were interviewed, and then if they liked you, really liked you, the callback resulted in the second interview?

This was so successful that a small, but powerful group of prospective employers decided if candidates were willing to be interviewed twice, perhaps being interviewed by twice as many people would also go over. Thus, the interview by committee was born. In this version you were hired at the end of your second interview.

Change Was a Comin’…

Version 5.0. You were contacted by a Human Resources Specialist of some flavor who scheduled your phone/in-person interview. Usually there were two people calling/interviewing you, and then for your second interview the interviewing team would have doubled in size again.

Version 5.0 features this group interview scenario requiring a preponderance of qualification from the interviewee. While the résumé provided the golden ticket for entry the parallel to Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory doesn’t end there. You were expected to “tour the factory” and watch out for the hot chocolate river...metaphorically speaking.

At the outset it was a bit of a sticky wicket because you were being interviewed by multiple people rendering eye contact challenging. In fact, keeping up with the multiple questioners made you look as though you had a stigmatism, or something to hide. Additionally, your body language became challenging as your attempts to turn toward the interrogating party turned into an aerobic interlude.

You were rewarded for tenacity because after your battery of interviews you were invited to join the team.

And this brings us to modern-day interviewing. Every prospective employer knows we will comply with just about any request to score that all-important interview. (Three hundred and fifty words about why you feel you’re perfect for the job, anyone?)

Because Now…

Version 6.0. Duhn-Duhn-Duhn: You have the advent of online job listings, applications, assessments, and communications.

We are firmly in the eye of the perfect storm that represents the online component-ness of everything. Consequently, I’m not sure at what point in the process you’ll get hired, but do interview up.

It is de rigueur to fill-out online applications mirroring the concise master’s thesis that is your aesthetically pleasing résumé.

However, you are also likely to be asked to complete a cognitive assessment, a personality assessment, a response to possible workplace scenarios, and/or an essay responding to a prompt that is a variation of that English class standard “What did you do over your summer vacation?“ which is “Why do you want to work for our company?”

They are all online and you must be quick-thinking, quick-typing, unique, collaborative, and genuine, often at the same time, all within approximately 15 minutes.

May your sessions not time out before you're finished.

Vaya con résumé.

Diane Dean-Epps lives and works in northern California, teaching English to Generation Y-ME?! in real time and writing books in her spare time, to wit: Maternal Meanderings (Humor), Last Call (Humorous Mystery), KILL-TV (Humorous Mystery), Quiet Boundaries (Poetry), and I’ll Always Be There For You…Unless I’m Somewhere Else?! (Humor). Her numerous essays have appeared in a variety of publications, including MORE magazine, NPR’s This I Believe, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Sacramento Business Journal, and Sacramento magazine. Her blog may be found at: http://www.mswrite-now.blogspot.com/

‘Tis the Season for Merriment If Not the Season for (New) Employ-i-ment (LONG VERSION)

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Sun, 20 Dec 2015 01:07:00 +0000

It may be the season for frivolity, festivity, and spending dollars on gifts commensurate with your love, affection, and guilt, but you know what it’s not? High time at the ‘ole Employment Corral.

I am here to tell you that the economy is bustling, but it’s slow going down that happy road to employment nirvana right about now. While there’s not a whole lot of “decision” in the decision-making process because of holiday goings-on, it’s what you have to do, your gift if you will, that may lead to season’s meetings.

When I decided to retire from teaching a few years back, returning to the world of media that I love, all I thought I had to be concerned about was making the transition from wearing glasses during interviews to look older to not wearing glasses during interviews so I didn’t look older.

While I am currently seeking a new opportunity and embracing the humbling experience that has me hearing things like “my, that is a mature résumé” and “you have done a lot haven’t you?” it does make me reflect during this season of reflectment. (Is not a word. Is so. Is not. Is so. Now.)

These days when you’re looking for a job, prepare for the Working Before You're Working reality show. This show idea may not go anywhere, but it has motivated me to utilize the very popular holiday song staple 12 Days of Christmas for my very own 12 Days of Holiday Season Job Seeking. In point of fact this list applies to job seeking all year, but I love a good theme, don’t you?

On the first day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:
A 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the second day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the third day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:
3 writing sample requests asking why I consider myself a Marketing Rockstar
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the fourth day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:
4 real-life work scenarios as writing prompts
3 writing sample requests asking why I consider myself a Marketing Rockstar
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the fifth day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:
5 online application pages that timed out before I could finish
4 real-life work scenarios for responding
3 writing sample requests asking why I consider myself a Marketing Rockstar
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the sixth day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:
6 voluntary questions covering gender, ethnicity, and military status
5 online application pages that timed out before I could finish
4 real-life work scenarios for responding
3 writing sample requests asking why I consider myself a Marketing Rockstar
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the seventh day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:
7 assurances I would be contacted should my skill set be a match
6 voluntary questions covering gender, ethnicity, and military status
5 online application pages that timed out before I could finish
4 real-life work scenarios for responding
3 writing sample requests asking why I consider myself a Marketing Rockstar
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the eighth day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:

8 form emails thanking me for my interest
7 assurances I would be contacted should my skill set be a match
6 voluntary questions covering gender, ethnicity, and military status
5 online application pages that timed out before I could finish
4 real-life work scenarios for responding
3 writing sample requests asking why I consider myself a Marketing Rockstar
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the ninth day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:
9 email opt-in messages touting their company’s customer benefits
8 form emails thanking me for my interest
7 assurances I would be contacted should my skill set be a match
6 voluntary questions covering gender, ethnicity, and military status
5 online application pages that timed out before I could finish
4 real-life work scenarios for responding
3 writing sample requests asking why I consider myself a Marketing Rockstar
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the tenth day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:
10 fill-in frame sentence writing requests asking me why I want to work for them
9 email opt-in messages touting their company’s benefits
8 form emails thanking me for my interest
7 assurances I would be contacted should my skill set be a match
6 voluntary questions covering gender, ethnicity, and military status
5 online application pages that timed out before I could finish
4 real-life work scenarios for responding
3 writing sample requests asking why I consider myself a Marketing Rockstar
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the eleventh day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:

11 helpful-hints-should-you-get-an-interview-and-please see-our-website emails
10 fill-in frame sentence writing requests asking me why I want to work for them
9 email opt-in messages touting their company’s benefits
8 form emails thanking me for my interest
7 assurances I would be contacted should my skill set be a match
6 voluntary questions covering gender, ethnicity, and military status
5 online application pages that timed out before I could finish
4 real-life work scenarios for responding
3 writing sample requests asking why I consider myself a Marketing Rockstar
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

On the twelfth day of Holiday Season Job Seeking my one true prospective employer sent to me:
12 days of nothing but the sound of crickets
11 helpful-hints-should-you-get-an-interview-and-please see-our-website emails
10 fill-in frame sentence writing requests asking me why I want to work for them
9 email opt-in messages touting their company’s benefits
8 form emails thanking me for my interest
7 assurances I would be contacted should my skill set be a match
6 voluntary questions covering gender, ethnicity, and military status
5 online application pages that timed out before I could finish
4 real-life work scenarios for responding
3 writing sample requests asking why I consider myself a Marketing Rockstar
2 online personality tests
and a 6-page timed cognitive assessment just for me.

When Diane isn’t crafting pithy writings she calls “sit down, stand up,” she is tenaciously pursuing a new marketing and communications specialist position with a stellar organization which she will find by the end of the holiday season. (Okay, February 2016 at the latest.)
P.S. If you feel your organization is a fabulous employment candidate for me and you are located in northern California, please contact me with a 350-word essay letting me know why you feel you are a company Rockstar.

Two Weeks: A Reflection

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Tue, 01 Dec 2015 23:59:00 +0000

Some people are connectors, some people are splitters, and some people are adapters.

No, this isn’t the beginning of a well-placed holiday ad on my personal blog, or a creative riff off of “If you were any type of animal which animal would you be?” prefacing an article about icebreakers.

Rather it’s my reflection upon the roles we play in life and how we impact other’s lives positively: how we light them up, if you will.

She’s a connector.

Over the years I’ve caught glimpses of her on Facebook, megawatt smile beaming out, image after delightful image showcasing a good life.

We went to high school together in the 70’s and resided near one another alphabetically during this decade known for its effective, albeit unimaginative, way of seating children.

If you sat next to *Brian Beaumont in first grade, you were likely to hold that place all the way through your senior year, which is why I have uniquely intimate details about his hair cowlicks, penchant for biting his nails, and any number of peccadilloes better left under the **Cone of Silence.

*Ashley had none of these characteristics or habits, but she was distinguished by her brilliant, genuine smile. And she was nice. Not just regular nice, but she was uber nice. To everyone. In fact, she was nice to everyone before it became karmically sound to be nice to everyone.

We shared a few words here and there, but we didn’t hang out. She may have been the classic hair-parted-in-the-middle cheerleading stand-out beauty dating the football player we all admired, but even then she was more.

It’s her inspirational back story that goes beyond her basic goodness.

I think it was our junior year when Ashley got pregnant. Our country’s morality may have been shifting in a more enlightened direction, but not soon enough to save her from judgment and criticism.

At the time our cultural norms were more morality cult, less norm and the colloquial term “getting into trouble” was used to describe her situation. It could not have been easy.

We lived in a large town that operated like a small town with plenty of tongues and fingers wagging. Ashley wanted to finish high school with her classmates and walk with the rest of us on graduation day, but I remember there was huge pushback from the administration.

Through it all Ashley was brave, loving, and kind.

She attended her senior year at our large, newly integrated school the only teenaged mom on campus, having gone through what must have been both a difficult and beautiful experience, head held high, beautiful smile in place, more mature than many of us would be for at least a decade.

On graduation day Ashley did walk with us, holding her rightful place in our alphabetical line-up.

And now she’s in a different kind of trouble. She has entered the final stage of her fight against the cancer that has not taken away that smile, or that ability to connect people, but it has a finite plan for her future.

She has two weeks.

Two weeks to savor her life, to smile at everyone in her realm, to spend time with everyone she loves. Two weeks is a lifetime for her.

Even now, as I write this piece, the Facebook postings from classmates she hasn’t seen in a triple-decade are amassing; connecting us to one another. As it turns out we were all inspired by Ashley.

Which got me thinking. We can also be connectors.

Maybe we should all look at our lives as a series of two-week lifetime intervals that we live savoring our lives, smiling at everyone in our realm, and spending time with everyone we love.

It would be just like Ashley to leave that legacy.

*Pseudonym

**Reference to a recurring gag (and apparatus) featured on the 1960’s show Get Smart.

Bed Spray By: Diane Dean-Epps, humorist

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Tue, 11 Aug 2015 00:47:00 +0000

CLICK HERE TO READ ON SITE

***UPDATE***

I am delighted to report that the founder of the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop, Teri Rizvi, has picked up my humor piece, "Bed Spray" and it now resides on the University of Dayton's website at: http://humorwriters.org/ AND http://humorwriters.org/2016/06/10/bed-spray/

Thank you to my talented photographer friend, Sandy Brooke, for providing me with an excellent photo for my submission.

One of my bucket list items for our European jaunt was to purchase French perfume. I know this may seem like a trite aspiration much like, oh, I don’t know, seeing the Eiffel Tour in Paris, but trite is often where I dwell comfortably.

Therefore, I was dead set on visiting a parfumerie. If I wasn’t able to have a perfume exactly crafted for me I was darned well going to pick myself out something pretty smelling that was perfect just for me and the other 30,000 female tourists who would also choose that scent in one day.

My husband was a good sport, even accompanying me into the store as I screeched, “If not now, when?!” as I dragged him into that adorably appointed, sweet-smelling shop for all I was worth. Coincidentally this is exactly how he ended up in Paris in the first place. (The general screeching and dragging.)

For a woman who looks as though she’s taking a “How to Get Over Your Olfactory Fears” course every time I enter a Bath & Body Works store stateside it was truly amazing how much unfettered fun I had.

Ah, but in the City of Love I was truly in my fragrance element, I tell you, feeling my aroma mojo, and spraying for all I was worth. It looked as though we were shopping at Napalm Village I had such a ginormous cloud of spray hanging in the air of that tiny parfumerie.

Every fragrance I sampled was more lusciously scented than the one before it. I was Puck in Midsummer Night’s Dream, gallivanting about gleefully, only in my production there was an atomizer prop which is a new twist.

The shop owner humored me by ignoring me. My husband humored me by smiling and thinking of something else – anything else; a technique he has honed over the decades for maximal marital happiness.

I was willing to pay any amount for one of these eau de colognes, interestingly enough more than I was worth, but of course that’s a philosophical question for another day, e.g., one’s worth. What is worth? What is worthwhile? Why do I hear the clock on the wall ticking louder as I think these thoughts?

(You can see why it was I barely scraped by with a “C” in my college Philosophy class as I had so many of my own essential questions I couldn’t even entertain the notion of addressing those my Prof proffered. Plus, I had a penchant for parsing out the question itself. Ergo: I’m now an English teacher.)

Each time I picked up a tiny French-sized perfume – everything is smaller there, the women, the clothing sizes, the streets, the food portions – I said, “oui” and “wee” to each and every one of those darling little vials, but then the time came to choose one. “For the love of god any one.” (This was what my husband finally said and I believe it is what the shop keeper was thinking, but in Frenchier language.)

As I made my way over to the clerk I proudly and almost correctly pronounced the name of the perfume I wished to buy. What I thought was a look of pride from her that my accent was so good, upon closer examination was actually a look of amusement. She smiled not unkindly and said one of the two million and thirty-seven French words I do not know. It sounded like “leet.”

I looked at her and she looked at me. I smiled. She smiled back. Neither of us knew what to do next. Perhaps I could move us to the next level: Point of sale. I tried a combination throat clear and giggle, not quite pulling off whatever I thought that would do.

I repeated what I thought I heard. “Leet,” I chanted as I made the international index finger squirting motion known the world over for spraying perfume. She nodded vigorously. “Yes. Bed spray.” Oh, now there were two words I knew, though I had never used them together.

“Bed spray,” I stated. She again nodded. I walked back over to where the air had just begun to clear just as surely as my own thoughts were clearing.

It dawned on me that what the mademoiselle had been trying to tell me was I had been dousing myself with French air freshener. Bed spray. Eau de pulvérisation en lit.

I was soaked in French Glade.

Eau.

_______________________________________________________

This is the second in a series of humor columns chronicling Diane’s “Non-Ugly American” European Tour. Diane Dean-Epps lives and works in northern California, teaching English to Generation Y-ME?! in real time and writing books in her spare time, to wit: Maternal Meanderings (Humor), Last Call (Humorous Mystery), KILL-TV (Humorous Mystery), Quiet Boundaries (Poetry), and I’ll Always Be There For You…Unless I’m Somewhere Else?! (Humor). Her numerous essays have appeared in a variety of publications, including MORE magazine, NPR’s This I Believe, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Sacramento Business Journal, and Sacramento magazine.

The Directions (Poetry for the Not-Faint-Hearted)..

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Sun, 09 Aug 2015 18:40:00 +0000

The Directions

Butter, sugar, salt

All rubbed into my wounds

At your leisure

A recipe for pain

Cannot possibly be complete

Without artifice of something created

Like revisionist history of my youth

It looks good enough to eat

Replete with the right ingredients

Only something is missing…

The directions

Pass the Polite

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Wed, 22 Jul 2015 15:46:00 +0000

I LOVE all things British and, yes, as is the case with everything you love there is a word for that: Anglophile. (Please disregard your kneejerk reaction to any word that ends in –phile.)

As someone who occasionally entertains the public with roles that require a British dialect I simply cannot help myself when launching into a British accent at the slightest provocation. Simply asking me if I would like some chips will bloody well do it. (Not British style chips, but chip-chips. You know what I mean.)

I was shocked to learn that other parents do not require their children to show up at the dinner table with clean hands AND a British accent. (We also work on the odd Scottish, Irish, Australian, and German accents. I’m equal opportunity in that way.)

Thus, I’m nothing if not trite – occasionally contrite – because it is true that it has been a life-long dream of mine to visit the UK. And you know what? We finally did it, my man and me...I...we...by Jove. Just recently, as a matter of fact, as my one thousand uploaded pictures on Facebook will attest to.

Everything Brit works for me and nothing worked for me as amusingly as seeing those Virgin Airlines flight attendants all dolled up as though they just stepped off of an “Austin Powers” set with their bumped up hair. (It also worked for my Manchester seatmate who unapologetically told me that he enjoys flying Virgin Airlines for the scenery inside the plane as well as the scenery he will enjoy when he lands.) Who can blame him? They’re lovely! I fondly call them the “fetching virgins.”

I am STILL bumping up my hair and I get looks as though people can’t figure out whether I’m just THAT far behind the hair design curve or just THAT ahead of it. Who knows? It’s luscious!

And you know what? Dependent upon where they hail from – Cornwall, Bristol, Yorkshire – I may not even be able to understand them and I don’t even care! It’s just another slice of delicious.

Almost as delicious as that Mark’s and Spencer Victoria Sponge cake I horked down so fast it appeared I had escaped from Weight Watcher’s camp. I actually growled at my husband yelling, “Sod off!” when he came near me, appearing as though he wished to share my treat.

Lest you think too horribly of me I did share my macaroons, which he ended up not liking, so that made me look good with the end result being my end game. All for me.

Where was I? Right. Virgin.

So, even though I may not understand all of the dialects of my beloved English citizens who prefer to spell words oh-so-slightly-differently than Americans I love hearing them, watching them, and interacting with them. Until our return trip, that is, when we were in the midst of recovering from the sticky wicket that was a cancelled flight out of Rome and into the UK with no visible means of return within the 24-hour period needed to make our return flight home.

Soooo…after our own version of “trains, planes, automobiles” -- add cabs and fast walking into the mix – we made it on time from Rome to Bristol to London, albeit totally knackered, whereupon we were met at the airport entrance by a fetching Virgin Airlines employee.

Her greeting was an inquiry. What were our plans were for the day?

I thought maybe it was one of those bloody surveys from which you can’t ever seem to escape. She did have a clipboard. It was all I could do not to show her that Americans have their own brand of sarcastic wit that is a real hoot. Only, I was afraid it would be more sarcasm than hoot.

I will provide you with an actual transcript of the interaction:

ME: What am I doing today? (Husband and wife exchange disbelieving looks). Oh, I don’t know. I thought we’d fly somewhere. Home. You know, I’m at the airport, so… I’m flying out of here…on Virgin…

FETCHING VIRGIN: Ah, very good. And you’re flying out today?

ME: Yes, we think so. (Husband and wife exchange disbelieving looks). Are we not?

FETCHNG VIRGIN: (No response as she soldiers on.) Are your plans certain, then?

ME: Are they certain? (Husband and wife exchange disbelieving looks). Well, they were until about 24 hours ago, but we seem to be on the right track now. I believe we just went over how important flying out today is to us. Is there a reason you’re asking?

(My gawd, is this woman clairvoyant? Or maybe there was some sort of counseling request from Easy Jet made on our behalf to Virgin Airlines in an effort to return us to our “We love Brits” frame of mind again?)

FETCHING VIRGIN: We’re quite booked today and if you’re flexible we thought we’d see if you would change your plans.

ME: (Husband and wife exchange disbelieving looks.) If there is anything we’ve proven in the last 24 hours it’s how inflexible we are with regard to not flying home today. No, thanks, we’re fine.

***END OF TRANSCRIPT***

We could have cut out about four husband and wife disbelieving look exchanges and five minutes with less chin wag about our plans and more directness.

A suggestion for directness in future would be to greet us with: Are you willing to bump it? Only when it has to do with hair.

Calendar Tongs

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Sun, 14 Dec 2014 23:30:00 +0000

Calendar Tongs

By: Diane Dean-Epps

The heralded angels are harking and it’s that time of year. Am I referring to the holidays? Nope, it’s NEW calendar season.

I won’t bore you with the specifics, but I possess more degrees and certifications than I can count on my fingers and toes, but I am undone every year by one simple task: Swapping out my old desk calendar pages of date goodness for the new ones.

What is my undoing year after year? Calendar tongs.

The need for the featuring of New Year months begins in the fall; however, I usually put the above-mentioned task off until right around January 2^nd. That is when my fear of missing appointments eventually exceeds my fear of tackling this annual challenge.

Every December I zing around my office all motivated and energetic about applying a little feng shui to my lair. I tap dance right on up to the edge of the volcano doing everything I can think of (complete with unwrapping the cellophane on my brand new desk calendar) short of the actual task itself. I even clean out my “things to do in 2014” folder by dumping it all into the trash as I trill, “Moving on!”

But it’s there. I can feel those beady calendar eyes on me; its hungry presence felt by me so very keenly.

(“Hello, Over-Personification Clinic? Sure…I’ll hold.” Cue music: Duran Duran’s Hungry Like the Wolf.)

It always comes down to “the” day when it’s just me and that small stack of pre-hole punched 365 days, indexed by handy monthly tabs, and two small black spring-loaded calendar tongs.

Though I’ve watched a lot of Charlie Brown movies I always remain hopeful that things will be different this time around. It will be my ~~football~~ year. This time I will get these pieces of parchment loaded up on that small ipad-looking black base of doom without asking anyone for assistance.

I approached my task confidently, appearing to any outsider as if I’ve done this a thousand times. In point of fact, I have, just not successfully. I racked up that papery stack of daily possibilities as though I was a seasoned dealer at a Las Vegas casino, making sure the two “hold the pages steady” holes were lined up just right. And they were. Perfect.

Next, I stood up to get some really good leverage. (It’s for these moments that I work-out.) Finally, I grasped one of the two calendar tongs in my right dominant hand assertively and plunged it into the first hole with all of the confidence I possess – or at least two-thirds of it. In my one-two plan of attack I plunged the second tong into the second hole and mumbled, “Let the games begin.”

Squeezing the tongs tightly as though they were exercise hand grippers I tried to line up my stack representing the future into that custom calendar tong hole that would get me that much closer to marking this task off of my new 2015 “to do” list.

I made my first approach, second approach, and at least six failed subsequent approaches reminding me, once again, why I avoid anything that remotely resembles this apparatus physically or symbolically. Two of these reminders are clasping bracelets that cannot be self-snapped and “relationship dresses” rendering me unable to get myself into a buttons-up-the-back dress solo.

As the sweat began to gather under my jacketed shoulders I began to experience some intense “Go to the blackboard and complete this math problem” junior high flashbacks.

There I was all over again in Mrs. Pacheco’s 8th grade geometry class, wearing my new micro mini dress and Famolare wedges (not to be confused with a wedgie) as she yodeled out my name, beckoning me to step up front and fill in the blanks. Not coincidentally this request always rendered my mind a blank. You got it. Tabula rasa. My recollection is that I made it to the board without flashing any underwear or intelligence, but I never completed the requested task. Kind of like now with my O.K. corral face-off with the calendar tongs.

Time and time again I squeezed those steely instruments of torment only to have them go flying out of my hand and into the following items repeatedly: my in-box, my coffee mug (where ironically my coffee break became cleaning up the coffee), and my plant...may it rest in peace.

In the end I had to do what any well-educated professional on a tight schedule with no time to waste, lose, or spend does: I asked someone younger, faster, and more patient to help me out, which narrows it down to ANYONE else in the office.

Next year I’m putting this task at the top of my “to don’t” list.

To order a classy, unique, and slightly “Oh, my!” calendar featuring the Calendar Girls actresses for the play by the same name opening in the spring, please go to: http://questtheaterworks.com/

(Calendar tongs optional.)

Stubborn Stock

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Sun, 09 Nov 2014 03:07:00 +0000

I’m from stubborn stock. No one in our family has ever met a challenging situation from which we’ll back down. Well, not easily anyway. We consider difficult situations as a call to action, whereby we don our respective big boy and big girl britches and get “in it to win it.” Most of the time this is a good thing. Every so often it all goes to hell in a quickly unwoven handbasket which really stocks up the story cupboard. Here’s one that landed on the shelf sometime in the late seventies.

At the tender age of 17 I drove across the country with my parents in a Winnebago headed for Texas in the middle of July. I know. You thought you had a challenging childhood. Oh, did I mention I was a teenager? Yep. I thought so. It is important to underscore the fact that I was an underage teenager fully supported by my parents, thus, when they yelled, “Giddyup!” I was forced to reply with “Hi-ho Silver.”

(Okay, you’re right. I replied in no such way. Rather I dejectedly hung my head, counted the days until my eighteenth birthday, and wondered for about the millionth time why I was the only person in my high school not to do mind-altering drugs. It seemed like a good time to rethink my philosophy.)

Let’s go ahead and assemble the multitude of elements in this travel package of doom.

There I was riding tall, enveloped in a smoke cloud that made the interior of the motorhome look like something out of a “Cheech and Chong” movie. Both of my parents chain-smoked until their doctor personally confiscated all nicotine-laden products querying them with, “Really? You don’t know why you have a cough? How is that emphysema coming along?” (Here is an aside: This same doctor had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth the entire time I knew him until his doctor confiscated his cigarettes querying him with, “Really? You don’t know why you have a cough? How is that emphysema coming along?”)

We were headed toward Freeport, Texas which is no one’s idea of a vacation destination, but rather a place to get away from when you live there and are lucky enough to get a vacation. It was hot, the air conditioner was a blowing, my parents were a blowing, and being a travel sickness sufferer since birth, I was trying to keep from a blowing chunks.

Now granted, the Winnebago was a better travel option that the myriad of travel trailers we had taken for a spin over the years because I wasn’t wedged in between my parents in the cab of a truck, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. I was already 60 kinds of miserable before we finished backing out of our driveway with my mother stationed outside the motorhome helpfully screaming “Clear! Clear! Clear!” to let my dad know there wasn’t any traffic coming. It sounded like she was administering medical aid with defibrillator paddles.

It gets better. This was my second time I had taken this trip with my parents. We had family friends who lived in Freeport and, much as I wished it not to be so, they continued to live there year after year. Thus, trip number two was scheduled after I swore on everyone else’s dead body that I would never return to Freeport, Texas, OR travel with my parents.

So I was on my way to Freeport and, Interestingly enough, we made it out to visit our friends without incident. It was the “on the way back” that got us good.

When my dad bought this rig he insisted that it be outfitted with a double fuel tank set-up, so that when he was low on petrol and traveling in some godforsaken area we would not be stuck. We thought he was quite wise to think in terms of the “what if’s,” particularly given his propensity to travel to anyplace where you could only get there with no less than five death-defying hairpin turns which had us looking at the back of our own travel trailer as we (please god) made those turns.

Let us return to the return trip.

There we were traveling at a high rate of speed on I-5 near Bakersfield. My father noted that the first gasoline tank was almost empty. My mother lit up a new cigarette with the butt of the one still in her mouth as she inquired as to whether it would perhaps be wise to seek out a gas station at this point. Maybe we could return to the small town whence we just passed.

We were assured by my stubborn father that all was well and he would make it to Bakersfield for a refueling. After my mother finished her second cigarette in record speed as she simultaneously unwrapped a piece of gum and grabbed her next one she asked him about the second tank we had for emergencies. He informed us this was not an emergency. And then it happened.

We saw that warning light go on notifying us that we were only going to make it to Bakersfield in time if we were already there. My father had miscalculated and I guess he panicked, which is something my war veteran, cop-turned-attorney never did. He yanked the wheel hard in an attempt to traverse the grassy knoll of a median divide in order to return to that last town. And then it happened.

He got stuck. Big-time. Up to the axles in lawn and mud. We made our own mud flaps. Everything was smoking...my mom, the Winnebago, my dad’s ears (figuratively like one of those cartoon characters). He got out to see how bad it was and, being the brave man he was, he disappeared under the Winnebago to get a close look-see.

In less than five minutes what he saw were two sets of shiny black shoes as worn by the the two nice Highway Patrolmen who stopped to find out what kind of idiot tries to flip a Winnebago around on a landscaped center divide. They asked him to come out from under that Winnebago, sir..slowly.

It all worked out once my father had a chance to explain the situation and tell them he was also a law enforcement guy. However, our Bakersfield sojourn allowed us to tease him with this question for years to come:

“Dad, exactly what DO you consider an emergency?” He would laugh and laugh...eventually.

LinkedIn Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Tue, 28 Oct 2014 15:27:00 +0000

Oh, LinkedIn why hast thou forsaken me?

Forsooth, it has been a fortnight since my two-year work anniversary dawned brightly and I have heard naught (not) from you. Thusly, I have heard naught from anyone in my LinkedIn Kingdom.

Filled with more melancholy than Hamlet I have watched as each of my 1,037 1,038 well-connected LinkedIn friends have been commended for keeping their jobs, refining their jobs, and changing their jobs and, generally, doing all of the things I do on an annual – verily – bi-weekly basis.

Yea, the congratulatory floodgates have opened for these LinkedIn citizens while I sit stranded on the other side of my acknowledgment-deficient moat of despair pondering life’s injustices. Woe is me because there are no good tidings for me.

This calendar year’s employment anniversary was singularly exquisite in that I – the Queen of Change – have pledged my work troth to my employer for yea these two years. Two years! That’s longer than two of Henry VIII’s wives got to keep their heads – combined!

For me this is the sort of commitment for which there should be a feast that merrily and verily would include the slaughtering of a pig or, at the very least, the slaughtering of some fine arugula for a fine, celebratory salad fit for at least a princess.

But, no, I continued to read daily “Hear Ye’s!” about other vassals’ accomplishments which Sir LinkedIn made it possible for us all to know. The downside of this knowing occurs when you are knowing, but no one knows about you because then you are in the know, but not known, you know? ‘Tis painful.

Aye, I had a passing thought, like so many of my thoughts, that it would just take a month of Sundays before I received my employment anniversary banns. Nay that was not to be.

Anon I even went so far as to double-check my own anniversary date of September 24 2012 in my profile. Mayhaps I had left something out. But no, all was well in that particular battlement.

Perhaps my liege LinkedIn is miffed at me because I didn’t accept “Elizabethan Scholar Dude Just Chilling” as a connection and this was a rite de passage rather than a right foul spammage? No, that cannot be it.

There must be a reason. “Out, damn reason!” I sputtered as I hand sanitized my palms in readiness for using my sword of destruction (which is, in point of fact, my super cool wireless keyboard).

Just as I was getting ready to tap out a robust round of “a pox on your houses” and threaten to bid a final “Fare thee well to you, sir!” soft came the answer as surely as Banquo’s ghost appeared to Macbeth.

Methinks LinkedIn is just too busy. After all, LinkedIn rules a vast kingdom of over 200 million subjects in 200 lands. Wherefore, it didn’t take a leech applied by an overzealous barber to make me feel better as I realized this isn’t the foulest of deeds. I am not forsaken. I am simply forgotten.

Oh. Huh.

God Save LinkedIn!

Author, Diane Dean-Epps has worked in television and radio, performed in commercials and plays, as well as performing her own stand-up comedy routines that she has written. She has written several books, including Maternal Meanderings, KILL-TV, Last Call, and I’ll Always Be There For You…Unless I’m Somewhere Else?! As a popular humor columnist and essayist her writing has appeared regularly for the last millennium in numerous periodicals, most notably NPR’s This I Believe, MORE magazine (on-line), Bigger Law Firm magazine, The Sacramento Business Journal, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Union newspaper and Sacramento magazine.

DEMI FAMOUS

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Fri, 17 Oct 2014 20:21:00 +0000

Demi Famous

I was a stand-in for Demi Moore. It’s true. Back in the 80’s I was picked out of a group of grazing actors in a cattle call for movie extras. I guess I looked enough like Demi even though our body types never have been an exact match, particularly with her penchant for working out 18 hours a day.

I vaguely remember the pleasurable shock I felt when one of the production assistants pulled me out of the “sure to be famous” line-up, placing me into what would guarantee my eight minutes of fame. In point of fact, those eight minutes ticked by in my own mind as it dawned upon me this would be a real glass is half-full/half-empty moment.

Why? As a stand-in there would be absolutely no proof I had ever set foot on that movie set. Claiming this acting credit would be quite the sticky wicket. Talk about your good news, bad news. I wouldn’t utter a recorded word, my face would not be part of any “Cut! Print it!” celluloid, and there would be no record of my having appeared in the movie, other than a pay stub.

My dubious distinction as a stand-in must be what it’s like when you serve in the secret service. There are no living witnesses, you can’t talk about it, and no one believes you when you do share this fun fact. Demi absolutely would not remember my shadowy presence and brush with near greatness in my debut as a human placeholder.

The movie I worked on was called Wisdom, ironically enough, because it tanked at the box office, instead opening in video big-box stores. It starred Demi and Emilio and was produced by these popular brat packers back when they were an item.

The glamorous life of a stand-in meant I sat in cars that were almost blown up, scheduled to be blown up, and eventually blown up. Lest that sounds derivative I also appeared in street scenes where the actress was almost blown up, never scheduled to be blown up, and wasn’t eventually blown up. In this way the star didn’t have to waste her time sitting. She had better things to do. Like sitting in her trailer waiting to be called to the set.

It is an odd experience to share a tenuous connection with another human being when you are asked to act like them and then when things are going fabulously well you’re told to “get out of the car and shot” or “step off that curb and get out of the shot.” It’s not the strongest of connections.

Demi never even really looked at me -- more toward me. However, I did share a meaningful moment with Emilio when he glanced my way, although it’s possible it was because I was standing in front of the catering truck and he was checking out the specials.

Along with power ballads of the 80’s this power couple of the 80’s disappeared, the latter having broken up shortly after the movie opened/closed.

Through the years Demi’s acting career has steadily grown to the point where she needed to move to somewhere in Idaho to raise her kids and to get away from the paparazzi. In my own acting career I just cut out the middle (the becoming a well-known actress part) and moved to a place in the country where I was only hounded by my own children asking me why I couldn’t drive them to the mall which was now an hour away. The similarities remain. Somewhere.

Then I forgot about her which in visa-versa is where she’s been all along when it comes to me. Until recently. When I saw a story I found offensive on Yahoo News because it fairly oozed ageism. I know, can I be a bit more specific?

It was the tidbit that made Demi Moore out as a psychopath and sociopath who was dangerous and -- gasp! -- holding her ex, Ashton Kutcher’s, baby. How could these super cool, well-matched-in-age new parents allow this creepy, over-the-hill divorcee to do that? All day this story played like the high-mileage Honda of the entertainment world.

I mean, the media sunk their sharp little Terrier teeth into this non-story and shook it like a squeaky toy. (You get the picture.) I utilize the Internet for my job all day performing searches and marketing magic, so I could not seem to get that dog-doo story off of my shoes all day.

Had Ashton Kutcher’s previous wife been Scarlett Johansson the blurb would have played for about half an hour as a meet-cute-again. But take the “tragedy” that is a break-up with a woman who was -- gasp! -- much older than her husband and it’s Yahoo! time.

Ageism rears its hydra head not only in Hollywood, but in the media, in the job marketplace, and at the danged health food store every time some whippersnapper asks me if I’d like to take advantage of the senior discount.

Let’s call this story and others like it for what they are: A stand-in for a real story... a demi-story devoid of any wisdom.

Bombshell.

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Sun, 05 Oct 2014 23:54:00 +0000

Bombshell.

That’s the name of the mascara. It’s sheer marketing brilliance targeting women who identify closely with the song “Brick House” and feel the attributes of the product will be bestowed upon them with a wave of the (mascara) wand. We cannot not buy it, truth be told.

So, I did. Buy it. Because ladies and gentlemen I like my eyelashes big and bold and I strive for 40’s pin-up girl wide open eyes. In ten words or less I aspire to be a bombshell, so this noun was speaking directly to me.

With my dim make-up lighting, nearsighted peepers, new plumping mascara, and magical array of beauty potions all laid out on my vanity that first morning it almost seemed possible to live the life of a bombshell...until it wasn’t.

Day number one found me positively breathless with the final results that were lashes so lush that whenever I blinked I stirred up a breeze lifting my hair playfully as though it was a photo shoot.

And I looked so awake. It wasn’t until I was in the midst of conducting a meeting at work that my uh-oh possibilities began to unfold, the first one being when one eyelash hooked onto an entire eyelash grouping. It stuck there forcing me into a full-on wink.

As I continued to lay out the agenda I valiantly blinked with intention to get that individualistic but aggressive eyelash to back off of its attack upon the rest of the well-coated troops. To no avail.

Now I was winking, blinking, sweating, and saying gawd knows what. I’m the marketing director for a law firm and this was a budget meeting so you can get a sense of how big this problem really was getting: “Certainly, I can quantify that $3,500 expenditure.” (Wink!) “As you can see here by this flowchart we realized a 65% increase in new client queries within a six-month period. (Blink!) “Absolutely, I would welcome any further questions about our 2014 budget.” (Looonnnggggg wink!)

I managed to end the meeting quickly gathering up papers I could barely see because my eyelashes were in such disarray I felt as though I was trying to see through a thousand Tarantula legs. And how was I going to explain this to the marketing committee? I had a mascara malfunction? Now there’s a way to really distinguish yourself as a powerful woman in Professional World.

Back in my office I managed to tweezer organize my eyelashes back into some semblance of order and I finished the day out without utilizing any sick leave.

Quick on the uptake for some things, not so much on others after my first day’s travails I went into day number two with mascara wand firmly gripped in my teal-nailed hand ready to think things could be different.

I wasn’t ready to give up my bombshell pursuit and I soooo had this. It was my day off; no meetings. What could possibly go wrong?

I toddled off to my work-out and little did I know that I would be kicking it up a notch that day with a personal eyeball work-out add-on. When my heartrate kicked up I began sweating and my lashes clumped together so hard I actually had one eyelash on each eye. And they were heavy! It’s a group fitness class incorporating boxing with bobs, weaves, and punches which was handy when I weaved my way over to the sidelines, punched my finger into my eye, and bobbed down in pain trying to rectify my situation with my little white towel.

You know what that got me? Dozens of white fuzzy balls on my very black, wet, long, two (singular) eyelashes. Dismay does not speak to this situation strongly enough. I did the best I could to clear my line of visibility so I could finish my class and act as though nothing was wrong at all costs. (Unlike in my meeting the day before winking actually helped me out on this one.)

I’m back to my old Great Lash mascara which leaves me looking less like a bombshell and more like a raccoon, but at least I’ve regained my eyesight and ability to blink like a normal human being.

There’s a new product I’d like to try, but I’m somewhat embarrassed to make the purchase because I’ll need a brown paper bag in order to transport it to the checkstand. It’s called Falsies. What could possibly go wrong?

Small Hands, Warm Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Thu, 25 Sep 2014 15:37:00 +0000

I have small hands. Now, granted, if I were a male of the species this admission might mean so much more than it does. In fact as I type this I shudder to think of how many more dating atrocities might have befallen me if men were looking at me as a potential play partner based upon the size of my mitts.
   Would I have gotten less action than I got in my early 20’s? It’s hard to imagine and, really, this becomes another installment in one of those new math books that highlight negative numbers. I know it may be difficult to believe, but I was desperately shy in the dating department and have been known to literally run away from a conversation from a potential suitor. (Perhaps the use of the word “suitor” is also a tip-off as to my Victorian proclivities.)
   Let us rejoin my observation about my small hands. People never believe me...that I have small hands because, you see, I am not a small woman. While I may not be classified as “big and beautiful” for so many reasons I am 5’7” and I weigh anywhere from the 140’s to the 150’s. (Like my age, I now provide a realistic range because my stats change dependent upon who’s asking and why.)
   These small hands create moments of hilarity when not only are people amazed when they put their mano up to my mano and mine is oh-so-small, but I have trouble grasping regular-sized containers having to “two hand” it like I was always cautioning my kids to do when they were toddlers.
   You might wonder how it even comes up that people notice I have small hands? Are you envisioning me standing at a fast food counter somewhere unable to pick-up my just-ordered beverage and someone comes along and says “Can I help you with that large drink little lady?” You may not have been seeing that, but now I’ve given you the visual. You’re welcome.
   Nope, that’s not how it happens. Sometimes it’s because I am doing some sort of task like shuffling cards (Okay, I was desperate because I’m not editing these things.
   In point of fact I shuffle cards about once every 10 years.) Someone says, “Oh my gawd, your hands are so small. I compare my hand to their hand in the time honored tradition of holding them up patty cake style and we chuckle about how “cute” they are and I ALWAYS have to say, “I have small feet too.” (Which is another column because, yes, I have small feet and people really do notice those all on their own for some reason, further confirming my suspicion that no one is looking at my prior to middle age distinguishable above the shoe line body characteristics.)
   But usually I bellow it out all on my own as though I’ve got some sort of body part Tourette’s Syndrome as I shout, “I have small hands!” I’m not sure why I do this. Maybe it’s a distinction I’m proud of and in this world of everyone being famous for 15 minutes or more and proving it on youtube I’m struggling to find my place in this world.
   The funny thing is that my hands look JUST like my father’s, so I take after him with regard to both my hands AND my chest. This may explain why people notice me more for the former than the latter.

TuTu NoNo

noreply@blogger.com (Diane Dean-Epps) — Sun, 17 Aug 2014 03:56:00 +0000

TuTu No No

I’m not a giver-upper. At no time in my life has that become more apparent than since I attained true societal maturity in my “over 40 and working out to look good in clothes” period of my life.

This summer I decided to try something I said I would never do: Buy a one-piece bathing suit. This came about because we are setting forth on a one-eth by land vacation that will end two-eth by sea. (In this instance the sea is a lake.)

In less than a week we will be boating, frolicking, and hanging around the aforementioned lake with people who do not wear glasses. Therefore, I can only assume they have perfect vision that sees all, including cellulite unlike my near-sighted family members who do not think I’ve changed a bit. (And now that I think about it, that comment might be somewhat offensive taken a different way.)

I’m not looking for anything near bikini-ready status in life, but sheesh can I at least cavort around in a water-friendly garment that does not make me look as though I am trying to find the rest of my rhinoceros tribe? (Appropriately enough a group of them are called a “crash.” I could write a whole column on just that fact.)

My thinking was marginally reasonable and running along the lines thinking if I didn't cheap out I might have a prayer of finding a one-piece that won’t scream, “Look away! My body isn’t perfect and I’m not even trying! I’m hot-in-a--purely-temperature way!”

Thus, I set a course for Macy’s which often serves as my destination for almost any garment, one-piece bathing suits now being included.

Oh, the humanity. I do not know what designers think baby boomer women are looking for in a one-piece bathing suit, but I can assure you it is not a regression to our toddler years. Case in point? Tutu skirts on bathing suits.

Is anybody fooled by what these tributes to bygone ballerina dream-fueled years are hiding, e.g., meaty thighs and birthing bellies? Tutus usually conjure up images of lithe creatures defying gravity as they leap through the air landing gracefully in a vertical and numerical position.

The second option? Skater skirts! Take it from me Project Runway-in-training-designers. Skater skirts are not a successful diversionary tactic. They don’t even come close to creating an optical illusion either. I mean, really. While I do enjoy watching ice skating, I've never hankered to don the costume. I didn’t ice skate in my youth and I don’t want to look as though I’ve taken up the sport later in life in an effort to utilize my health insurance to its fullest capacity.

And the other dastardly designs? They include the beach burka which boasts yards of jersey body clinging material swooping this way and that.

As I flipped through these rack-dwelling monstrosities I discovered the sailor suits set to fashion stun? What cruel fashion matron thought it would be a good idea to create that number in adult woman sizes that make it look as though I'm doing a fashion shoot for the Atlantic City Boardwalk circa 1910. And the prices. Almost a hundred dollars...on sale!

I have decided I will do exactly what I did as a self-conscious teenager back when I HAD that gorgeous body that I was too shy to flaunt; I will wear my jean shorts and a tee-shirt.

Isn’t life just one big driving donut whirling us all the way around into a dizzying 360? One way or another we end up right back where we started.