Gotta Get Myself Connected

When my kids were in middle school, their day ended with a period called "Connections," which was the equivalent of "home room" in my day. Today, though my children are no longer at the middle school, I find myself thinking about that word choice, and I think I really like it.

The idea of connections has been on my mind of late. Though if I reflect on the posts I've written through the years, I suppose connections are a running theme for me. It's basically the purpose of my writing. While blogging may be perceived as a cry for attention, in my case, the need for attention is really the equivalent of a desire for connections. And if we zoom out for a wider view, I think we can agree that my posts generally are about the real issues, feelings and life experiences that connect us.

Whether we put it into words or not, most of us crave connections. It's what makes us human. Nearly every day I think to myself, "Today is the day I'm going to say hello to every individual I encounter." Why is that always on my mind? For one thing, I think it'd make for a fascinating blog post, but more importantly, I think I could make a small difference in someone's day. Not because there's anything special about me, but because we all want to be recognized. And honestly, there is something surprisingly lovely about someone offering a simple greeting, an acknowledgement of our existence.

One of the nicest encounters I've had recently occurred while I was walking on campus. I passed by an older gentlemen and he greeted me with "Good morning, Miss." Now, it could be because he called me "miss" instead of "ma'am," but I'm pretty sure just the "good morning" and a smile would have had roughly the same effect. Even though that encounter was weeks ago, it's stuck with me. That's how powerful a greeting can be.

So why haven't I followed through on my desire to greet everyone I see? It's hard. Way harder than it should be. People don't make eye contact anymore. If their heads aren't down, looking at their phones, they're likely to look away if you look at them directly. Friendliness, sadly, has become uncomfortable instead of commonplace. A couple years ago, Villanova, which boasts its friendliness and sense of community, tried to institute "tech-free Tuesdays" in an effort to get us to stop looking at our devices when walking across campus, and instead look at one another and say hello. It failed miserably.

I honestly worry that within a short number of years all we will see when we walk down the street is the top of people's heads. No one will look up anymore. We'll all need chiropractors to work on our aching necks. And sales of hair growing tonic will dramatically increase as men worry more about balding.

Given the challenge of exchanging basic niceties with strangers on the street, I thought I might have more success trying to connect with those whom I interact with on some level. The gym is the perfect example. If we're in a class together, we should be bonded by a shared misery experience. We should connect over a good groan when the instructor calls for burpies or mountain climbers.  If we're walking out of the building afterward and it's refreshingly chilly, you should acknowledge my witty comment about it. Unfortunately, for most people it doesn't even register that you're speaking to them.

I leave you with this quote from Dr. Brene Brown, a young American researcher who studies vulnerability, courage, authenticity, and shame:

"Vulnerability is the birthplace of connection and the path to the feeling of worthiness."

So put yourself out there and connect to another member of our human family. I can almost guarantee the good feelings will be worth it!

I'll Tell You What I Think of Her!

I made several important discoveries last weekend:

• Politics and beer do not mix. 
• Politics and your high school listserv do not mix. 
• Church ladies can have one hell of a good time playing Bananagrams and drinking wine. 
• Every visit to my parents' house sends me home with more stuff than I came with.
• If "Her" is a harbinger of things to come, we're all in seriously sad shape. 

That little white thing in his ear? That's Her.

So I saw Her. The new movie with wackadoodle Joaquin Phoenix who puts on a great performance
as Theodore Twombly, a complex, soulful man who makes his living writing touching, personal letters for other people. Set in Los Angeles in the not-so-distant future,Theodore has experienced the break-up of his marriage and isn't taking it so well. But then he installs his technology's the new operating system (Samantha, voiced by Scarlett Johansson), and suddenly things are looking brighter. For those of you who haven't seen the commercials or trailer for Her, you should know that Theodore develops a relationship with Samantha. 

I saw this movie with my friend Cathie who frequently muttered, "This is so bizarre." Or maybe she said "weird," or "disturbing," or "strange." Any of those adjectives fit. But I would also call it "fascinating." It's rather unusual to see a movie these days that starts you actively thinking about some major aspects of human existence. Walking out of the theater, I had a series of essay/dissertation/thesis/analysis/review topics just ripe for the picking:

• Communication and culture
• Human relationships in the 21st century
• Technology and what it means to be human
• Artificial intelligence: A bridge to artificial relationships?
• A way with words, but unable to communicate
• Desire and physical touch in an age of technologically-based relationships
• When artificial intelligence evolves
• The mysteries of the human heart

If you're looking for an essay topic for your course in psychology, sociology, technology, culture, communications, sexuality or anthropology, let me know.

Even before seeing Her, I've recently found myself giving a good deal of thought to the technological inventions of the past few decades. More specifically, I've been thinking about the cost of these so-called "advances." It's actually very easy to point to the setbacks of nearly everything we've created:

• Cell phones = distracted drivers = increased traffic accidents (National Safety Council estimates that 24% of all motor vehicle crashes involve cell phone use)
• Video games = sedentary behavior = increase in childhood obesity (US Dept of Health & Human Services reports that the number of adolescents who are overweight has tripled since 1980)
• Social media/texting/email = less face-to-face interaction = a failure to authentically connect and form relationships, difficulty in recognizing true emotion (great article in Forbes magazine)
• Constant access to wireless networks = dramatic increase in energy consumption = negative affect on our environment
• The Internet = never having to ponder, imagine, create = scattered, superficial, distracted thought 

Don't get me wrong; there are a hell of a lot of positives to all of our inventions, and I have to admit that I'm almost as addicted to technology as the rest of the world (though I don't feel the need to sleep with my iPhone or check it every 10 minutes while I'm awake). I seriously wonder, however, what my teenage son and I would fight about if it wasn't for computers, the Xbox, the iPhone and the Internet. I guess there's always the issue of towels on the floor, clean clothes to put away, a dishwasher to empty, and trash to discard of.

What are your thoughts on the topic? If you had to give up one of the technologies listed above, could you do it? Which one would be easiest to live without?

And finally, let me know if you've seen Her. I'd love to know what you thought.

Not So Cruel to Be Kind

One of the gifts I requested and received for Christmas was a magnifying/make-up mirror. As I grow older and face the distinct possibility probability that it's time to start applying spackle and paint on a regular basis, I thought it important that I had an accurate view of my true self. When I saw the price tag on this fancy mirror, however, I decided it wasn't worth that kind of money to see myself in what is never a flattering light. Therefore, over the weekend, I returned the high-end mirror and picked up a cheap plastic one. It requires me to squint to avoid a distorted view, but shows my flaws just the same. Let me tell you, examining your face magnified 10x is no way to spend a weekend. I nearly rushed out to the Vietnamese nail salon and apologized for assuming they were scamming me when they recommended a whole-face wax.

While self deprecation is always good for a laugh, as a rule, I'm not terribly hard on myself, though I know my blog would lead you to believe otherwise. I'd say I'm more "self-aware" than "self-critical." I'm pretty good at acknowledging my flaws and weaknesses and accepting myself for who I am. That's one of the few benefits of age. What I still haven't figured out, however, is to how to deal with the criticism of others.

The old Kim would have criticized
his misspelling of Critisize.

Criticism can take a variety of forms, from the obvious "you are so stupid," to the thinly veiled, "I wish you would think before you speak." Criticism can be blunt: "I love you, but you're really not a very nice person;" or couched in concern, "I'm worried about your children growing up without discipline." Criticism can even be communicated with nothing more than a tone of voice or the curtness of a reply. Regardless of how it's delivered, it hurts, and over time those hurts begin to scar both our sense of self and our relationships.

I doubt there's a single one of us who can claim to have never criticized another, even someone we love. But, I'm becoming more aware of its effects. Though I don't usually bother with New Year resolutions, this year I decided that I need to be kinder to others, especially those I care about. I have to decide if I'm truly offering what I like to call "constructive criticism," or if I'm finding fault "just because." I also have to consider how I'm delivering the message, based on the person on the receiving end. One of my children, for example, reacts with strong emotion to what they perceive to be criticism or "being yelled at." Being yelled at, by the way, almost never involves actual yelling or raising my voice, but that's the way it's perceived. Their reaction is usually anger, followed by profound hurt. It can be a challenge to not react in the moment so that both parties aren't frustrated and saddened by the exchange.

Our relationships might be overwhelming positive and full of love, but memories of being judged or scolded leave a definite mark. For example, I remember being criticized for things as unimportant as the cleanliness of my car or the clothes I chose to wear for Ian's baptism. And criticism (whether delivered or perceived) of the big things, like our parenting skills, cut particularly deep. To be criticized or seemingly disrespected by the people we love most leaves an ugly mark on what may otherwise be a wonderful relationship.

I think I take criticism so hard because I want nothing more than to please those who are important to me: my children, husband, parents, friends, boss, etc. I take great joy in those rare occasions when I clearly impress my spouse by adding something valuable to a conversation or managing a challenging situation all by myself (I'm such a big girl!). I still tell my parents about any success I have at work or something I manage to fix at home without my dad's help. This need for approval might be a Shimer girl thing. Even my sister -- who is considerably thicker-skinned than I am -- calls home after every performance evaluation (of course her evaluations result in bonuses worth more than half my salary). Just picking a good movie provides me with a sense of fulfillment.

Two of my favorite critics.

I might be am most likely more sensitive than the average person, but the hurt I feel when on the receiving end of criticism has opened my eyes to the negative, lasting effect I can have when I am the one dishing it out. Hence, my vow to be kinder and gentler in the year to come so that no one ever tells me I'm "not a very nice person."

My Down Time is Bringing Me Down

When I woke from my two-hour nap on Saturday, I engaged in a bit of self-psychoanalysis. The sheer fact that I reflect on the state of my mental and emotional health as often as I do, is probably a sign that I'm worse off than I think. Or I'm just completely self-absorbed. But that's beside the point. The important thing is that these self-examinations provide me with blog material.

Speaking of blog material, you may be thinking that the reason I don't write as often anymore is because I have less to say. Nah. It's this new job. It's cutting in to my writing time. When I get to the office I actually need to hunker down and get right to work. No easing into my day with a period of self-discovery. You might argue that I could write when I get home from work, but anyone who has a full-time job and kids at home who expect a meal and a ride to soccer practice, and a church or synagogue that needs you at weekly meetings, clothes that demand to be washed, and a body sorely in need of a workout recognizes that writing probably isn't high on my list of things to do in the evenings. No, when I have down time, I want it to mean something. That's why I play Words with Friends or 7 Little Words, or I watch the TV shows on my DVR, or try to get caught up on Scandal before the new season starts. If my head's in the right place I might actually read, but writing? Well that requires entirely too much thought.

For the most part I'm okay with the way I choose to spend my down time. Or I was until Rob pointed out that someday I'm going to die. He pointed this out after I woke from my nap. He suggested perhaps I sleep too much and noted that there will be plenty of time to sleep when I'm dead. Well, damn. When you look at life through that lens, spending my time playing word games or watching television seems pretty ridiculous. When I'm gone, what will I have contributed to this world? Will someone go back and read my WWF scores? Will my TV viewing habits warm the cockles of someone's heart? I think not.

My blog on the other hand, well this sucker is leaving its mark. It will live forever. I know this because I've tried to delete posts that I later regret, and it's true what they say about things in cyberspace never truly disappearing. This means my uber-honest, somewhat snarky, frequently funkapotomusized, periodically painful and gladly grace-filled random thoughts will live on in perpetuity. Woo hoo!

SIDE NOTE: There's something to be said for the old fashioned written journal. The one you could burn before your parents, sister, boyfriend, best friend, husband or children read it. Those were the good old days. I think I have about 13 of those embarrassing tell-alls hiding in the back of my closet. Does anyone have a match? Perhaps I should do my own Freakin' Angel version of Throwback Thursday. I'll share an old journal entry and we can laugh together over how I've grown and matured stayed pathetically the same since I was 13. I won't make it more painful by adding an old photo to go with it. Some things really should remain private.

Back to the issue of my poor use of time. As is the American way, I refuse to take responsibility for my choices in this regard. Al Gore, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and that Zuckerberg kid are to blame. If they hadn't gone and created the computer, the internet, social media, e-books, on-demand video, etc., I would probably be a published author by now. And my son, whose technology addiction makes me look like a Luddite, well who knows what he would be doing with his life. He probably would have discovered some kind of new insect (he wanted to be an entomologist until he discovered the computer), written a comedy sketch for Saturday Night Live or made his mark in community theater. Yes indeed, we are being controlled by forces greater than ourselves. In fact, I think computer technology is the new Darwinism.

Think about it. Thousands of years ago "man" lived with the constant threat of being eaten alive by dinosaurs (I know this because I watched Land of the Lost). Natural selection meant that only the strong survived. Survival of the fittest, if you will. Today, we no longer are being chased by dinosaurs. Instead, we are chased by technology that wants to pin us down - mind, body and soul - and trap us in a  never-ending web (pun intended) of useless information. Those who are not strong enough to rage against the machine are destined for chunky thighs and a big butt, distorted thumbs and wrists, and a future spent in their parents' basement. Our "natural" selection has been replaced by man-made selection. Only those who break free from this technological tyranny have a chance to survive and live as the actual human beings we were created to be. I feel a doctoral dissertation coming on.

In conclusion, between the demands of my new job (how long can I consider it "new?"), my need for sleep and the distraction of technology, I'm lucky if I can write one blog post a week. I promise that once the kids leave home and I'm off these committees at church, and I've given up on trying to keep in shape, I'll resume my more prolific output. In the meantime, I'm sure you can find something to amuse you on the web or my DVR.

I Finally Know Where I'm Going (for now, anyway)

For the past several couple months I have whined, complained, and pouted thoughtfully reflected on my life. More specifically, I've asked "What's next?" and "Am I living up to my potential?" I was becoming increasingly discontent with the path I was on, even though on paper there was absolutely nothing wrong with that path.

So I found a new job.

And the backstory is pretty good.

Over the summer I went on a resume-sending spree, primarily focusing on marketing and communication jobs in higher education. I've always wanted to work in a college or university setting. I think it would keep me in complete denial about how old I'm getting young. So, despite knowing full well that almost no one finds a job by haphazardly applying online for desirable career opportunities, that's what I did. It made me feel better. I could tell myself I was doing something.

At the same time I was making this half-hearted effort, I was struggling with my freakin' depression. It got to the point that I decided it was time for a little talk therapy. I looked up a doctor I had seen a decade ago.  Would you believe she went and died on me? Talk about inconsiderate. The next doctor I called kept me on the phone for 20 minutes trying to find a way to fit me into his schedule. Just when we had agreed on a date and time, he casually mentioned that he doesn't take insurance and he charges $140 an hour. My family doctor was of little assistance in recommending anyone and so I stopped looking. Figured I'd be fine without professional help. (Insert laugh here)

Then one day, when I had used up all my self-preservation and mental well-being reserves, I had an epiphany. An "A ha" moment. I decided to stop the frantic and useless job search (not a single nibble on the dozens of jobs I applied for), and concentrate on addressing the the crap clouding my brain. Figured if I could get my head on straight I would have a clearer sense of what I needed to do, where I might want to go, and how to get there. I also did the "at wit's end" shout-out to God, remembering that in Jeremiah 29:11 it says:

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

I was looking for plans. Prospering is good. Hope and a future are excellent. And all that without harm? Bonus! With that, I handed my heavy heart over to the Big Guy.

Less than 24-hours later I was on the phone scheduling an appointment with a therapist when another call came in. I didn't recognize the number so I let it go to voice mail while I finalized my visit to the brain whisperer. When I checked my voice mail, this is what I heard:

Kim, this is Barbara from Human Resources at Villanova University. I am calling to arrange an interview with you for the Director of Communications job with the College of Engineering. 

God really likes to show off sometimes.

Three weeks after my call from Barbara, at 9:00 a.m. on a Friday I sat down for a three hour series of interviews with seven different people from Villanova.  At 4:45 p.m. they called to offer me the job. It's all terribly exciting and slightly terrifying.

In my next post I'll describe the stages of grief one experiences when leaving a place of employment that has been like home and family for elven years. It just wouldn't be a Freakin' Angel post if I didn't have something to be upset about, right?

What We Have Here is a Failure to Communicate

I have both undergraduate and graduate degrees in Communications. I say this not to brag (only Phys Ed has a poorer reputation as an academic major), but to make the point that I'm well-versed in communicating. This often translates into my saying whatever thought comes to mind, but that's a post for another time. Today I want to talk about my son's communication skills.

Overall, I am pleased to say that Ian is generally a great communicator. He's personable, engaging, humorous, quick-witted, and well-spoken. He's even comfortable sharing his feeling (gasp!). Recently, however, there have been significant breakdowns in communication. I would rank them in the categories of MAJOR, SIGNIFICANT, and NOTEWORTHY. Let's start with the MAJOR and get it out of the way.

Last week, our schools started PSSA testing (Pennsylvania System of School Assessment). For those whose children are not yet in school or have long since graduated, the PSSAs are standardized tests that kids take almost every year to satisfy the government. But that's a post for another time. Anyway, part of Ian's math testing was going to require the use of a graphing calculator. Along with pencils, classroom chairs, notebooks, paper, tissues, folders, highlighters, basketballs for the gym, music stands for the choral room, and lunch for the principal, we had to purchase this calculator for the start of 6th grade. I have no idea how they work or what they calculate, but the damn thing was ridiculously expensive.

Ian's graphing calculator was "stolen" when he left it in a classroom.

Last year.

And when did I find out about this missing $2,000 $75.00 calculator? The day before he needed it for PSSAs.

This is a major failure to communicate on Ian's part. He admitted he was scared to tell me when the "theft" actually occurred. He quickly learned telling me the day before he needed a new one (when it was too late to at least find an Ebay bargain) was actually much scarier.

Let's move on to SIGNIFICANT.

I am learning that some kids Ian's age care about their appearance. They want their hair to look combed good. They prefer to have fresh breath. And they like their clothes to match and fit. Ian shows no signs of is slowly inching in this direction. I know this because last night he informed me that some of his clothes don't fit. In particular, his underwear. They were cutting off the circulation to his legs. His legs were turning purple. We may have to amputate.

I don't know how long Ian was wearing too tight undies, but just a few weeks ago I discovered the shirt he was wearing was so tight around his arms I couldn't pull the fabric away from his skin. I swear he had to grease himself to get into it. He may have been wearing that shirt (and God knows how many others) since he was 8.

Clothes that prohibit your breathing and movement are of significant concern and should be shared with your mother sooner rather than later.

Then there's NOTEWORTHY. These are issues where timely communication is helpful and preferred, though not life-threatening. Noteworthy issues include:

• Running out of soap and shampoo. How long will a child shower without a cleaning agent before mom notices?
• Having no clean socks, pants, shirts, and of course undies, 10 minutes before catching the bus.
• Taking and relaying a message when the governor phones for your mom because he wants to appoint her to his communication staff

That last one didn't really happen, but it could have. I'd never know.

I imagine Ian will make some modest improvements in these Major, Significant, and Noteworthy areas of communication, but I don't expect miracles. After all, there is the expression, "Like father, like son." I could say more, but Rob doesn't like to be the subject of my blog. But that's a post for another time...

"What we have here..."