Create a soundtrack to your life

One of my favorite childhood memories is of my parents’ record collection. I would sit in front of our stereo with the records spread over the living room carpet, balancing the much-too-large headphones over my ears. I would close my eyes and listen with delight, awe and sadness to The Kinks, Peter Frampton, Janis Joplin, Cream, Chicago, and the Allman Brothers. What I heard affected me.

It’s a wonder my parents didn’t guess I would be a DJ and run a radio station one day.

Music can move me in a way nothing else can. When people ask me about my spirituality, I tell them that it’s one part music, one part night sky and one part ocean (gawd, I sound like a hippie). Nothing gets at my soul as quickly and profoundly as music does. I can still spend an evening happily with my headphones on lying on my own living room floor, just in front of my computer now instead of a hi-fi.

After spending this past Saturday night hanging out with GIWS listening to music and talking for a few hours, he pointed out a habit I’ve known about for a while. “You and your kicks,” he said. “You get on these kicks with certain albums.” It’s true. I tend to take an album, whether it just came out or I suddenly get the urge to revisit it, and I listen to it over and over and over. For like weeks, usually months at a time, until I’m absolutely sick of it and can’t stand to hear it for another 6 months or so.

The really amazing thing about my little habit, which has annoyed the crap out of almost every boyfriend I’ve had who doesn’t understand my relationship to music, is that it creates an aural memory-inducer. In layman’s terms, later in life when I hear a song from that “kick” it takes me instantly back to that few weeks or months of my life.

It’s fantastic.

When I hear Death Cab For Cutie’s “The Photo Album,” I am swept instantly back to my sophomore year of college. I was playing it non-stop in the fall of that year, and it reminds me of my best friend Amanda, trying to repress my shouted requests when they toured through Orlando that year, and making out with a cute, cute boy to track #3.

When I hear Coldplay’s “Parachutes,” I am instantly sitting on the shared upstairs porch with my dorm mate Heeral, drunkenly shouting the lyrics after sauntering back to campus as a freshman who somehow didn’t get carded at a British pub. It always reminds me of the way you could tell she was drunk because she’d start speaking with a British accent.

When I hear Neil Halstead’s “Sleeping on Roads,” I can vividly remember my first apartment in Orlando and how gorgeous the spring was that year, my junior year of college. I would put it on while doing little things, like putting clean, hot pink sheets on my bed or sitting in my favorite chair (a hideous green wool La-Z-Boy I bought for $5 at a garage sale) overlooking second-story trees in bloom while reading. It reminds me of much simpler times.

What I’ve done with my play-the-crap-out-of-it habit is create a soundtrack to my life. The Verve is what I listened to my first month of sobriety, and “Lucky Man” is the official song of my sober life. Pete Yorn is what I listened to as I fell for GIWS. And now, as I go through what I can only describe as a new painful period of growth, I am stuck on Radiohead’s “The Bends.”

I don’t fight it because I know that it will help me get through today and that one day in the future I’ll hear it and be swept back to these days, fondly remembering how I didn’t know yet what was in store for me. Maybe that’s the fun part of making the memory – realizing that this will be the past one day and that I might as well enjoy where I’m at.

Looking foolish along the way

Eating crow: humiliation by admitting wrongness or having been proven wrong after taking a strong position

Eat humble pie: to apologize and face humiliation for a serious error

I’m not sure either of these describes exactly how I feel, but they come close. I had a particularly, and unexpectedly, emotional day. Around noon, I learned that a friend’s sister overdosed last night. I didn’t know the sister, but this recovering alcoholic can tell you that there is something about hearing that this disease has claimed another person that shakes you at your core. I believe it was that shaken state that allowed everything to bubble up to the surface.

I can’t write list posts or tell you how to get through your first day of work or even how to make more room in your life for love. The only real thing I have to offer is a candid view of the way I live my life, and to be as achingly honest about it as possible. And I’ve been wrong. About several things.

It started innocently enough. I stopped by Old Navy on my way home from work to pick up a pair of pajama shorts since it’s become clear to me that Date #4 will not take the hint and leave behind the necessary boyfriend boxers I would prefer to sleep in. While there, I decided to be a good auntie to my cousin’s 1-year-old daughter and pick up a few cute little things. I dumped it all on the bed when I got home, changed into my new shorts (ah…) and stared at the clothes. They were so cute, so little, and I couldn’t wait to see her in them. A feeling started to come up… and I shoved it back down.

All day, I’d been shoving it back down.

The loss of my friend’s sister stirred up my still-raw emotions over the loss of my friend Maureen back in March. I shoved it back down. Date #4 not being able to spend his birthday weekend with me stirred up feelings of jealousy, resentment and fear. I shoved it back down. As I stared down at the little girl’s clothes, it stirred up emotions of something I’d lost years ago, and I shoved that down too.

But it wouldn’t stay down.

As I tried to finish going about my night (I needed to blog, get my work and running clothes ready, make some concrete business decisions…), it just wouldn’t stay down. Something wasn’t right. It’s been this way for a few months but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I thought it was maybe my sinuses, maybe not exercising, not having my work and life balanced just the right way or not doing the right kind of work. I searched, all the while shooing away this nagging feeling that I wasn’t working something important out. Shoved it down.

It came up. All at once.

I miss Maureen and her death has affected me. I can’t ignore that. I don’t want to feel that pain because it is so very strong. I am missing a friend, a person who totally got me, who gave to me and took from me, to whom I told “I love you” every time we said goodbye. I wasn’t dealing with those feelings, that grief. I ignored it.

What I really want when I imagine a good, fine life for myself is to own my own café, just as I envisioned it in December, an airy cozy shop full of funky vintage furniture, good coffee and an owner (me!) who knows everybody. I would be in a cool town, maybe not too big but too small. Somehow I got the notion into my head that it just wasn’t grand enough a business for a smarty-pants like me. So I shelved it, said it was best left for retirement.

The most startling realization to you, my readers, might be what else I see in this picture. As I run my own successful café, I very clearly see children running around my shop. I want children. Three years ago, I was an alcohol who could not bring myself to bring a child into my world. That experience has been far more impacting than I ever thought, and fear has driven me in that regard.

I realize now that when it comes to the emotional things in my life, it’s going to take much longer to heal than I thought. It wouldn’t say much about my friendship with Maureen if I weren’t still moved to tears a mere five months later. I am. It wouldn’t be treating my disease with enough respect to think that the choices I made years ago because of my drinking would just go away on their own. They haven’t.

As to my business choices, I think I simply veered off course looking for something perhaps a little more glamorous, a little more grand than my simple dream of owning my own coffee shop. But now that I’m back there, it’s like a warm blanket, familiar and just right.

In some respects, I’m back where I was in December, which isn’t necessarily bad. I feel a little sheepish, a little humbled admitting that my ego inflated as I attempted to fluff myself up to meet these grand ideas. I don’t always know what I’m doing. I thought I was just putting on a brave face. When I put a brave face on, I only fool myself. And fool myself, I did.

Life is a tricky thing. I’m skeptical of anyone who says they’ve got it all figured out. Especially in these early years, as we try to form ideas of who we want to be and how we can become those people, certainly we’ll look a little foolish along the way. I guess I’m just happy to be trying.

Work/love balance: The new work/life balance struggle

When I began to hear the phrase “work/life balance” thrown around, I figured it didn’t apply to me. It was my older coworkers with family who mostly used it. Work/life balance meant “time with the kids and spouse.” So I dismissed it. It had nothing to do with me, single childless Holly who has the energy to work three or four jobs and train for marathons.

Then I got a boyfriend.

Anyone who has read this blog for the past 8 weeks or so knows that I’ve struggled to keep everything on my plate plus boyfriend on the side, but things keep slipping off like some overly eager kid’s plate at the dessert buffet. I’ve talked to friends, mentors, even a life coach, listed my priorities, and promptly removed… nothing.

There are so many things I want to pursue that I can’t imagine cutting anything. It’s asking a lot that I’m not adding anything. 

So, I’ve struggled to show the boyfriend that I am committed to us, that I’m willing to put in the time, that I want to spend time together. Actually, that might not be true. I think all I’ve really done is figured out ways to carve out pieces of the week where I can relax or do some work with him. At any rate, this is a new class of balancing act for me – the work/life balance.

Huh? Work-what balance? To me, life and work are fairly seamlessly integrated. I’m not sure what I’d rather be doing on a Sunday besides sitting in my favorite café with a hot chocolate, blogging my guts out. Who wouldn’t want to be integrating a printer into a wireless network on a Tuesday evening? I can honestly say that most nights I would rather be slinging coffee than watching television on the couch.

Instead of saying “Life? What life?” I have “Work? What work?” Unfortunately, it does take up a lot of time though, and I wonder at the end of the day what kind of energy I have leftover for my relationship – for love. I would say the majority of nights I dive headlong into my bed and I’m literally lights out before the BF flips the switch.

So what does this new work/love balance thing mean? I’m not really sure. I can’t say I’ve got it figured out. Perhaps it’s a sign of my youth, but mostly fear swirls around it. If you’re in love, should you place a higher value on that rather than your work? Should one or the other be the entrée and the other the side dish? Is it a matter of finding a person who makes you want to stop spending so much time on your work, makes you think it’s the higher value automatically? Is my relationship to my work and career so perverse that I should just give up on love altogether?

In all honesty, I am sometimes struck with the fear that my work is my only one true love in life. I have no doubt that God made me and business out of the same clay, sprinkling entrepreneurship in my blood like stars in the sky. It’s always there for me, ready to make my day, impatient when I’m away and greeting me with new ideas and excitement. Where does love fit into my already-existent love affair with work?

I glance at the title of my website, WorkLoveLife. People have asked me if that’s how I prioritize the three, if it means anything special. Honestly, it was the only combination of those three words available for a domain name. But, maybe that is it’s significance in my life – at the end of the day, I make work, love and life fit together the only way available to me.

Photo by RaidersLight.

Career buffet: Good at a lot, but great at nothing

I’ve been cursed my whole life with being both right- and left-brained. Not a lot of people can go from designing a new website to working with raw demographic data tables for an unrelated project. I loved logic and trig while being a total art kid in high school. In college, I double-majored in philosophy and art, though I have to admit I could see no use for aesthetic theory – I couldn’t handle philosophy of art.

Thus far, it’s been really useful in my career. When I worked at a non-profit start-up straight out of college, I needed to wear a lot of hats. I recruited, I mentored, I edited news articles, I did research, I designed web pages, I coded, and I took bids on jobs. I had to be able to turn my attention from page design one moment to researching interviewees the next. As a marketing research analyst in a small department, part of the job description was that the candidate should be able to turn on a dime, and I do, from logo design to demographics mapping.

However, I’ve recently realized that my wonderful little gift is also my curse. There are a lot of things I’m good at. I’m not being an egoist; I’m really pretty good at all sorts of stuff. I like trying new things, and enthusiasm will take you far. I’ve been a DJ at a radio station and a nightclub, artist, barista, magazine editor, proofreader, new media director, special events coordinator, bartender, research analyst, blogger, IT consultant. At some point, I was even a pre-med major. I’ve rock-climbed, knitted, done ethnic cooking, trained for marathons, played softball, volleyball and soccer, been a vegetarian, and done some motivational speaking.

The problem? I’m all over the place.

When recently thinking about my career, I realized that I had no specialty. I’ve always had to twist my résumé credentials to fit the requirements (philosophy degree = critical thinking skills + analytical skills + thesis research = market researcher!). Don’t get me a wrong – I’m a great hire. However, I’d really like to be great at something.

I’d like to be great at something.

Not just good. Not okay. Not just ‘oh, yeah, I did that, too.’

I look at the people I admire, and they are either the giants of their fields or they’ve got a particular niche cornered. I’d like to really have my head wrapped around something, not just have a surface understanding or street knowledge about it. I’m tired of being OK at a lot of things.

I’m ready to be great at something. And not just to be Great, but to put the work into it to really understand it, to be an authority on it. When I was a philosophy major, I dreamed of being the Heidegger scholar studied enough to get a glimpse of his unpublished, untranslated papers tucked away in a small German library. As a new media director, I dreamed of taking our little start-up site nationwide, even global.

Now, I dream other dreams... dreams of a research analyst (believe it or not), dreams of a blogger, dreams of an entrepreneur. There are so many things I could do though; how do I choose? How do you know which one you have the potential to be great at?

This is part one in a two-part series.

Office celebrations: Unity or unprofessionalism?

There is a particular department in my company that seems to be in perpetual celebration. There are banners, work tables draped in flimsy paper tablecloths, and an endless parade of cookies, cakes, and potluck lunches. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen that department undecorated.

I try to figure out each time the decorations change what the new celebration is. Is it someone’s birthday? A new season? Canadian national holiday? The vernal equinox? Daylight savings? Sally's cousin's granddaughter turned 2? Perhaps it’s jealousy that I don’t seem to be in the crowd that gets invited despite not being part of that department. More than anything, I find it humorous that it’s the department that is always trying the latest diet fad, which is a whole new level of irony given the confections that department rolls through there.

Don’t get me wrong – I love a raucous company holiday party as much as the next 20-something, and I enjoy the free food that comes along with early morning meetings, lunch meetings and the occasional birthday. When I worked at a start-up that had about 7 employees, we had a grand time one-upping each other when it came time to throw the birthday celebrations. But that was a small office, and at a start-up, you practically have to celebrate your birthday with your coworkers because you’re with them so much.

I understand that office celebrations can provide a sense of unity and community among employees. Some people work 40, 50, sometimes 60 hours a week at their jobs; it can inspire a little goodwill among workers and serve the utilitarian purpose of not losing productivity by keeping employees well fed and happy.

On the flip side, it seems unprofessional to me. There are the decorations, which recently went well beyond streamers and balloons, which stay up for at least a week following the celebration. Then there are the cooking smells from baking in the company kitchen that linger in the hallways for hours. (Side note: When I managed a basement radio station, I banned popcorn. No joke. Those odors lingered for days without ventilation.) Aside from the things that just plain annoy me, I wonder where they get the money for that stuff. Does it come out of their pockets? Is it part of their budget? Why don’t I get paid to cook on the clock? What if a customer comes in – does that undermine the professionalism of the entire company?

Companies spend a lot of time and money on providing the right environment for their employees and customers, taking into account colors, furnishings, and in some cases even smell (the cafe I part-time at doesn't allow outside food or drink because the space should be committed to the aroma of coffee). When you do work in such close proximity with others for that long, you ought to take into account what might be offensive to others. I'm not saying you can't pop popcorn, but enough with the 9 a.m. lasagna baking.

Am I being the office curmudgeon? Is there a point at which office celebrations are taken too far?

Photo: Flickr Creative Commons.

The public library: A lesson in resourcefulness

I’ve been a bookworm all my life. If you ask my mom, she’ll tell you it’s the result of her reading books to me in utero. My older sister taught me to read when I was 4 years old, and before that I would memorize the books as they were read to me and recite them, pretending to read. My mom and I read Edgar Allen Poe collections every night before bed when I was 8, and my dad got me into Ray Bradbury at the ripe old age of 9. I had a voracious reading appetite. I would read anything I could get my hands on.

I don’t remember any Barnes & Nobles or Borders when I was a kid. Even if they’d been around our town, I don’t think we would have gone there. We grew up pretty poor, and my parents had to be resourceful with what we did have. With a kid who burned through books faster than most kids change television channels, even the used bookstores were pricey.

Enter the public library.

Now, somehow I forgot about the library. I love books, clearly. I love the covers, I love the words, I even love the way used books smell (they’ve got personality; they’ve traveled). My dad used to get mad when I left my books on the ground or got them wet in the bathtub – “You should respect your books, Holly,” he would say.

Once I’ve read a book, I want to hang onto it. It’s part of the family. I lugged my books with me all the way to college, then from Orlando to south Texas, and packed and unpacked them at – count ‘em – yep, six apartments in the past four years. Everything from Jane Austen to existentialist philosophy, Henry VIII biographies to Gabriel Garcia Marquez fill my shelves, my nightstand, the floors. I even love listening to books in the car.

It’s not like times haven’t been tough before. Sure, I could say it’s the rising price of gas or the fear of a soft job economy that led me to think of the public library today. Honestly, I can’t remember how I thought of it. But I called my friend Mel and asked if she was willing to go on a little adventure this afternoon. Off we went to La Retama Central Library.

Thus, I became a card-carrying member of the Corpus Christi public library system today. I checked out two audiobooks and two paperbacks. The Barnes & Noble price would’ve been $67.88 before taxes. My public library price: $0.00. 

Needless to say, I was thrilled walking through the aisles of my new lending library this afternoon. I greeted familiar titles like they were old friends, and felt downright triumphant when I found books I’d wanted to read for ages, but didn’t fit into my budget.

Nothing’s been so easy as getting my library card. I simply filled out a half-page form and showed my ID. It took less than five minutes and I was on my way, clutching my new treasures. I don’t even have to return them to the same library – I can take them to whichever one I want when I’m done. If I need longer at the end of two weeks, I can go online to renew them.

Tough economic times, whether they are caused by a recession or an entry-level salary, can either keep us from continuing our lives, or we can get resourceful, much like my parents did. I have a theory that the most creativity comes when we have limitations or obstacles to overcome. What are your creative solutions to maintaining your simple pleasures? Have you been to your public library lately?

The immeasurable hidden cost of high gas prices

I hadn’t written a blog post in a few days, almost a week actually. I was fresh out of ideas and inspiration. Granted, I had blogged for a good four or five days in a row, but still. Sitting at my desk at work, my eyes had glazed over in computer screen hypnosis. I skipped lunch and needed to get out, empty gas tank be damned.

As I drove, they started coming to me – ideas for blog posts. By the time I got to the café, I’d thought of and developed four solid articles in my head. I realized as I grabbed my coffee and settled at a table that I’d been completely lost the entire drive over. It came together – I hadn’t been driving as much as I normally do because gas prices were (are) ridiculously high. I stayed at Date #4’s place all week, which is 5 minutes from work as opposed to the 25 minutes it takes from my place. Sure, I saved a bundle on gas, but at what cost?

In my life, I don’t get a lot of alone time. Nothing compared to people with kids, but in comparison to being single, alone time is scarce these days. As I was telling Date #4 just yesterday, there are some things I’ll only do when I’m bored. Mainly, cleaning and tidying up in general, but I would lump “getting blog ideas” in there as well.

The high cost of gas has me thinking about a scene in “Singles” (one of my all-time favorite movies… I still heart you, Cameron Crowe, even though you made “Elizabethtown”). The main character is telling his love interest about a light rail transit project he’s proposing to his city. As he’s explaining all of the benefits, she says, “Yeah, but I love my car.” 

Perhaps we love our cars because it’s the one place where we don’t have to deal with people. Or maybe it's because it can become our one-man karaoke machine. Or perhaps it’s just the place were we get our best ideas.

Either way, our dependence on oil might make the long car trip a thing of the past. Instead of thoughtfully losing ourselves in the highway, we’re watching our odometers and our gas gauges, calculating times between stop lights on our daily routes so that we don’t have to brake or come to a full stop (hey, it saves gas).

I’m not saying we shouldn’t save on gas, I’m just saying that unless we get some sort of alternative fuel, our old ways will die. And with them goes an untold number of little streams of creativity and peace.

Photo from Flickr Creative Commons user freeparking.