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Communication Tool Lesson:  The door hanger

4/4/2020

 
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As a Communications professional, I have a lot of tools in my arsenal.  There are the big splashy ways to communicate a message, like press conferences and big prime time exclusives.  There’s new technology which allows an organization to directly deliver their message — have you heard of “The Facebooks?”  There are also less sexy, more analog ways to get your message across.

Today’s lesson: the door hanger.

The “door hanger” is communication tool akin to a flyer solicitation, like a pizza coupon.  It’s stuck to your door providing you with important information.  But instead of getting $10 off you pizza order,  it’s your HOA notifying you about landscaping work happening around your home. All you will be getting is a headache. 

Fast forward to Corona quarantine.  
Entertainment for the weekend included chalking our driveway.  As we come out, we see a tag on our garage and our front gate.

“Attention Resident - Exterior repair notice…blah blah blah Monday -Friday …. blah blah blah Backyard access is needed blah blah…. keep pets and kids indoors.”
​

I had to re-read it a couple of times because it seemed like a solicitation.  It could have been “The neighborhood is upgrading their windows, we’ll be in your neighborhood on Monday, don’t miss out on this great opportunity to save on double-pane windows.”  It seemed like a trick to get you to call and sign up for some lawn service. 

The door hanger included a hand-written number.  

I save it thinking “Maybe I should call in case it’s a real request.”  I also thought, “Look at me, being on the receiving end of the workhorse of communications tool.”

Stanley Kubrick’s The Door Hanger

Before I had a chance to call the number, a three-man crew knocked on our door.  We have a dog.  A big boxer.  He’s already on edge because we are all on Corona-Virus-edge.  I hold the dog while Tim answers the door.

Yes, the crew did need access to our yard.  They would actually need access to our backyard all week.  

Wait - it gets even better — they were going to have to pull up our astroturf.  
And here’s the kicker, they couldn’t guarantee the astroturf, that I spent thousands of dollars on, would be back to normal.
As I struggle to hold a barking dog, Tim relays the message from the crew.

[In a 1930’s mobster accent] “Whatdayamean they are going to mess the turf up.  Whatdayamean they won’t put things back to normal. I wanna see the Scope of Work, you hear me Chum!”

Tim said, “The HOA hired them.” 

I said, “Fine. But I’ma callin’ the HOA.”  (I get a 1930’s mobster accent when I get riled up.)

When Tim comes back from the back yard, “They said they would do their best with the turf.”

“Sure, because they heard me yell out 'Scope of Work,’” I said.  “Like when we built the casita and I told that contractor what to do with his 'change order.’”

Then the 1930’s mobster subsides, I go back to being Zoe and take the workers gatorades and snacks.  Because that’s the polite thing to do when you have workers at the house.
They do work - they dig up my yard.  Great.  We are in a quarantine within a quarantine.  Is this a Kubrick movie.  Now I can’t go in the back yard?  Soon will I be related to just the mudroom?

The workers end the day while the kids are chalking the front sidewalk again.  I get a run down of the rest of the work.  There will be an open pit along the wall until Friday, the work needs to be done in steps and needs to dry.  But they will be wrapped up by Friday.
By Thursday afternoon I called the number on the card, and very calmly ask for a status on the work.  Trying not to worry about the fact these people dug a hole in my backyard on Tuesday and have not come back, or have had to courtesy to update us on the schedule change.

“I was going to call on Friday,” Tim said.

“See here kid, no union guy eva worked a Friday,” I said.

Tim finally gets a call back with a half-assed apology that they got pulled to another job.

And I am in quarantine, without a backyard for a week.  And I believe next week I will be in quarantine without a backyard.  And I have no clue when this hell, the social distancing or the hole in my back yard, will end. ​

That concludes today’s communication lesson on the noble “Door Hanger.”

New yoga pants - new job

1/18/2020

 
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Five years ago, I did one of the most shocking things in my life ... I bought a pair of yoga pants.  I also left my job to “spend more time with my family.” (I constantly had to explain to curious on lookers, “no, seriously, I DO want to spend more time with my kids - there is no intrigue here.”) I also had to explain I was not “retiring” but rather, taking a sabbatical.  “Oh, that’s nice the railroad provides time for sabbaticals.”  “Well, I’m calling it a sabbatical, the railroad just calls it quitting your job.”

Part of my transition from career-focused to SAHM, included buying yoga pants and Starbucks.  I deduced they were part of the “company culture” for SAHMs from the library’s baby class.   But I just couldn’t pull off athelesuire wear.  I didn’t like the mocochocobullshit drinks.  I realized if I was going to survive this chapter of my life, I was going to have to build a roadmap that work from me.  Which lead me to strategic volunteering, more writing and communications consulting, and doubling down on the “Mom” title. 

I started running my house the way I run my office.  The kids had a schedule which outlined the activities for the week. We also had a meeting to review the upcoming events, discuss things to work on and praise accomplishments.  I personal-developmented the heck out of the kids.  Potty-training is hard.  But once it becomes Project Potty-Training, it becomes doable.  

The last five years weren’t all content creation and child rearing. I also spent time on my own personal development.  I recently looked back at the list of things I accomplished and some themes emerged. 

Turning skill into mastery - Out of necessity, I learned how to cook.  Once I had achieved the skill, I went into overdrive turning my “good” meals into delicious.  The same went for  freelancing.  I had always prided myself on being able switch writing tones, but with the amount of Op/Ed pieces that came my way, I became a master ghostwriter of the 500 word think piece. 

Outside of comfort zone - You can say taking a career offramp was outside my comfort zone. The last five years are a laundry list of I-never-thought-I-would-be-doing-this.  There were activities, like taking and improv class.  And then there were big stretches, for example making friends as an adult.  Anyone who has built a friendship after the age of 30 knows it’s a monumental accomplishment.  Therefore, I truly believe the motley group of friends I made these last few years will last a lifetime.

New skills - Yes, I am a Mommy Ninja. And I’m a Communications Master.  But, I was able to go beyond the baseline of social media to the world of analytics.  I am now “intermediate” in Search Engine Optimization. Give me an hour with my Mac and I can give you a video guaranteed to increase your click rates. These were skills that I was able to learn because I had the space.  I also understood I would re-emerge from my sabbatical in a different landscape, so I had to teach myself how to integrate new technologies into communications plans. 

There is life after kids - I was ready to write off fun as soon as I started a family,  but unbeknownst to me you can have fun and a family. You can even have fun with the family. We got the confidence to travel with kids and were amazed to learn our kids travel well.   I also learned one babysitter plus one Uber equals one fun night out at a concert. (You don’t have to stay for the encore! Leave the show early, arrive home at a reasonable time, and get enough sleep to function the next day.) Also, with kids, playing make-believe with a box can provide hours of cheap entertainment.  

These lessons and others that I have learned in the past five years will serve me well as I begin this new chapter:

Maricopa County Department of Transportation Public Information Office Manager: 
 Where the road leads
 
 
I start the new gig next week. I am delighted I get to work with some really great people. Arizona is a small state and there is a tightknit transportation clique.

I would like to say something profound like  “I will need to pull back on my blog in order to focus on learning my new job.” The problem is, I’ve never been very good at consistently blogging anyway, so you won’t miss much.

At the beginning of the year, I got a hole in my Yoga pants.  I tend to see such things as signs.  Welp, I guess this officially concludes the end of my “sabbatical.”   I did buy a new pair of yoga pants.  I may need them for the weekend. 

Richard turns 5: Is he left handed, ambidextrous or what?

11/22/2019

 
PictureRichard opening up his birthday presents.
No seriously, can you help me figure it out.  As my youngest son was getting ready to start kindergarten, we would sit down to practice writing.  I could never guess which hand he would use.   

You can see the dollar signs in his father’s eyes when he throws a baseball with his left hand.  “Left handed pitchers make more money.”  My usual reaction to those adult profession fantasies is to remind everyone that my son could choose to be an athlete, or a poet!  Most likely, he will do A/C repair.

The reality is — I am weirded out.  I am weirded out by left handed people.  I blame my Catholic school upbringing.  The Bible says the left hand… there’s something in there about something that relates to writing with the left hand …. something something sins committed with the left hand …. blah blah blah being left handed is bad… I need to brush up on Leviticus.  I can’t give you the exact quote, but I do know that writing with your left hand is bad in the eyes of God!

Then I married into a family where left-handedness runs rampant.  Richard’s grandfather was born left-handed, but was forced to write with his right hand thanks to the good nuns at HIS Catholic school.  By the time my husband was in Catholic school, the church had more progressive policies on left-handedness, so his brother was deemed OK to write with his left hand.  And apparently, limbo doesn’t exist anymore!  (Note: I belonged to a more conservative Diocese, so this information about left-hands being OK and limbo no longer existing was news to me.)  Our nephew is left handed, that’s why his handwriting is so bad he says.

And now I am faced with the potential of having my own left-handed child.  Should I start a support group?  Read witty lists about the benefits of being left handed.? Cut out funny little comics about left-handed tropes and place them on the fridge? Start shopping at the Leftorium?

I talked with an occupational therapist, who said kids aren’t official right or left dominant until they are 6.  Richard just turned 5, so there is still time for him to decide (Or for me to mold, a la old Catholic school nun)

I can see the benefits of being ambidextrous - especially when he undoubtedly breaks a hand.  But being left-handed?  … I am sure I can come to terms with it.
​

Happy Birthday Richard!

Happy Birthday TW - EAT THESE CHICKEN NUGGETS!

11/22/2019

 
PictureTW shows off his birthday Edible Arrangement.
For Timothy’s Birthday I asked him what kind of special lunch he might like.  He said “Nothing.” He wants to buy a cafeteria lunch.  “Nothing?” I said a little bewildered. Then I go into full-on bribery mode. “How about a Happy Meal or a Pizza? A whole Pizza and a churro from Pollo Loco. I'll bring chicken nuggets! You love chicken nuggets. EAT THESE CHICKEN NUGGETS!”

“No, I don’t want to sit by you, I’ll just buy lunch.” He said.

I expected some distance or ‘pushing away’ in Junior High or even 6th grade.  Last year, when my first born was in kindergarten I had lunch with him almost every Friday.  Now,  I have been cast aside.  As a first grader, he prefers to buy is own lunch, as oppose to having me pack it.  He no longer welcomes lunch with mom and dad, he wants to sit with his classmates.

I am not taking it personal, I am just trying to get a rational reason for this change.  Yes, kids need space to bloom and grow.  But why this and why now. 

I want to grab his shoulders and shake him   “Timothy, give me a logical explanation and I promise to drop this ‘not wanting to have lunch with mom’ issue forever.” 

But of course, I don’t.  At this age they are not good at providing rational excuses.   (See Exhibit A: Richard dropping a glass on the floor, after I had told him if he dropped the glass on the floor it would break.  Why would he do that? who knows! Maybe he was trying to verify my information.  Maybe he was checking to see if gravity was still working.)

Luckily, Tim was once a five-year-old boy.   He remembers no longer wanting a packed lunch half way through 1st grade.  
“What would you usually pack him?” he asked me.  
“Well, it would depend, like a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, or a hot dog or ….”

“He has that at home,” Tim said.  “He gets his milk and turns the corner and OMFG it’s like Christmas, it could be a corn dog or chicken nuggets or anything else.”
“Oh, it’s the anticipation of the unknown, I can understand that," I said.

And it clicks.  I no longer pack TW’s lunch for the same reason Tim has never wanted a pack lunch for his work.  Big Tim uses lunch time to destress.  Not packing his lunch makes it so he has to walk away from work and take a little mental break.  Little Tim might need the same thing, sitting with his friends at lunch gives him the mental decompression he probably wouldn’t get visiting his mom, who is more likely than not going to pepper him with “What have you learned so far” questions.

I take solace in knowing that I have at least another year with my Kindergartener before he starts opting out of sitting with mom for the luxury of a styrofoam tray and a sad looking corndog.  

And to Timothy’s new found independence, I say “here’s your two bucks, enjoy your lackluster school cafeteria lunch, I’ll see you when you get out of school and we can avoid the kiss goodbye until further notice.”

Happy Birthday Son!


Thoughts on 43….

9/1/2019

 
PictureBirthday greetings from my brother.
A friend calls me up to wish me a happy birthday.

“So what year is this?” she asked.
“Forty-three.”  I really confused her.  She thought I was going to turn 39.  Technically, I am.  But I have always lived in a world where lying about your age wasn’t an occasional little lie, it was to be expected.

My mother would fib about her age so much, that as a young child someone asked me how old she was and I responded with “40.”  She was mortified.  But how was I suppose to know her real age, every year her birthday cake had a question mark candle on top.  To my young eyes she looked about 40.  (Note: she was not even close to forty, hence her dismay.)
I started my career at a very young age, and quickly learned not to bring up my age.  

At my first “mandatory fun time” happy hour, I got asked why I wasn’t drinking.  I could have said I’m on antibiotics … I have to run a marathon tomorrow … I’m working the steps … It’s against my religion …  I’m pregnant. Anything would have been better than my truthful response: “I’m not of age.”  The rest of the “happy hour” was tipsy adults coming up with ways to pick on me for my age. 

So like my mother, I also started lying about my age.  Except, I was adding years to the count.  
As a kid you want to be older then there is a pivot.  You find yourself older, but want to seem younger.

Not me!  I think I was born an old soul.  I’ve always had to stand on my tippy toes to age up.  Now, I am relishing my chronological age catching up to my mental age.   Welcome to 40ish!  I am wrapping myself in a warm blanket of middle age.  I enjoy discussing doctor’s visits and new ailments that pop up and are here to stay.   In fact, any time I catch up with a friend at least 10 minutes has to be devoted  to such details. 

Recently, I started adding more years to my age as a test.  I would get carded by a young man who, in an alternate universe, could be my son.   “Look at me at 47 and still getting carded.”  It was a test to see if they could do the math or even look at the DOB.  But I think when you are 19, everyone else is just ancient.  37, 43, 56, it all falls under the category of “ma’am.”  

I have even managed to push my age to senior citizen status.  In a recent outing with my mommy friends, I asked the young man selling movie tickets if they had senior discounts.  I got $3 off my ticket!  My friends tried hard to not burst into crazy laughter, so as to not foil my ruse.  
​

Life does get better after middle age!  There are discounts at the end!

I am taking a tip from the 30 Rock character Jenna Maroney who pretends to be 56 “in hopes of escaping the curse of the middle-aged actress.”  She looks good for 56.   

I get compliments anytime I say I’m 45.  “You look good.” So why not lie about my age.  And if you say you’re 55, you get $3 off at Harkins Theaters. 





Whatever works for you

8/8/2019

 
PictureDisclaimer: Stock photo from ShutterStock, the actual Zoe may vary.
With the kids in school, I now have time to redirect my attention to more projects.  There are long to-do lists that have been neglected over the past three years.  There are more freelance assignments to do.  And more importantly, I have articles, essays and blogs I have forsaken to write.

I am a master craftsman of the written word.  I can write 500 words standing on my head.  I have never had an issue producing any amount of copy in any tight deadline.  Journalism school trained me well.

But when it comes to writing not tied to a deadline or that I am not getting paid for, it is incredibly hard to stay on task.  Especially, since working from home.  How can I possibly work on this essay, when there are dishes to be washed and meatloafs to be cooked!

I recently meet with a writing coach  (Yes, there are coaches for everything.)   Amy Silverman doesn’t particularly like the term, I know in order to work on my own projects I need external motivation.  I would never use a gym membership, but I do show up to my yoga class.   I picked her brain on how she blocks out time to do her writing passion projects vs the projects paying the bills.

Her overarching advice:  do what works for you.  
Instagram and Pinterest lure you to a cliff when people with much more ambitious projects (and far too much time) pitch “Get organized with my super complicated template!” You adopt their diet, training schedule, organization style… and in a day or two, you fail.  The sense of defeat is weighted when you just spent $80 on a Marie Kondo box because you are trying to fold like her … as it turns out you have a personality more suited for hangers.

Know yourself well enough to know what works for you.  And then double down your efforts.

I have decided on my “writing days” to don a cocktail dress.  Why write in a cocktail dress, you might ask?  It’s impractical.  It is impractical to make a stew in a cocktail dress.  You can’t scrub floors in a cocktail dress.  Because although fashionable, one might get very odd looks at Walmart in a cocktail dress.​

I know what distracts me, so the dress keeps me tethered to the computer.  It works for me.  And who says you have to have an occasion to dress up!  Writing is so critical to me, that it does merit cocktail attire.

The dog ate my shoe. Happy Anniversary!

7/13/2019

 
PictureOh! The Carnage!
The morning starts with the dog eating my shoe. Except, I didn’t catch it. Richard caught it. “MOM! The dog is EATING YOUR SHOE!”  How did this happen? The dog hasn’t eaten my shoes in months.  It was a daily exasperation, but we worked hard to break the bad habit. 

Then I realize it’s the Kenneth Coles with the wrap around laces.  Why did this happen?

When the dog eats my shoe, I tell myself;  I really didn’t need those shoes.  They were out of fashion, the heal was too tall, they were worn out anyway.  But these were really, really nice shoes.

When Tim comes home, I tell him about the debacle, and ask him to talk me off the ledge.
“It’s a tall heal, tell me I shouldn’t be wearing them,” I said.

“You shouldn’t be wearing them,” he said.

“Do you even know what shoes I am talking about?”

“Yes," he said.  "They are the shoes you wore with the Mad Men dress when we went to the Buttes for your birthday.”

"You still remember what shoes I wore!" I looked at him incredulously. And laughed hysterically.  This event happened a whole life ago, pre-kid.  Who even remembers events from B.C. (before child)

It’s good to know that after so many years and kids, he can still remember those kinds of details.

It kept me smiling for the rest of the weekend. I might as well have been a school girl, whose crush casually makes a “nice shoes” comment and it sets her flying to the moon. 

The boys were intrigued by my laughter and Tim told them the story about the fancy restaurant. They want to get dressed up and go there too. "Maybe for Mom's birthday." 

Fancy shoes and fancy restaurants make for good stories.  But that's not real life.  Real life isn’t just about the highlight reals and date nights. Real life is the dog eating the fancy shoes.  It’s about the commutes. And sick kids. And loading dishwashers.  And calming your wife down over an eaten shoe. 
​

Happy Anniversary Tim.   (Fucking dog ate my shoes.) 


Extremism in the defense of rescue dogs is no vice.

7/9/2019

 
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My husband’s colleague recently bought a dog.  You read that right.  He “bought” a dog.  He didn’t adopt or rescue.  He went to a breeder, wrote a big check and walked out with a clean-slate dog.

If you know anything about me, you know my dog is a rescue.  He’s an asshole, too.  But mostly, we highlight the fact he was adopted.  Most of the dogs in my past have either been rescues or “gifted.”  (And by gifted I mean, some random dog does it with my aunt’s dog and now I get to have a dog too.)  

I like getting dog compliments.  “He’s such a good dog.”  But I beam with pride when someone notices the difference between Oso then and now “He’s gotten so much better.”  Yes, my fixer-upper of a dog took a lot of work.  It was worth it.  And there is something to be said about the process of the work, not just the finished results.  (My friends go to the gym as a stress release - I yell commands to my dog.)  And if you think dogs are intrinsically loyal,  there’s nothing more loyal than a rescued dog.  (Not like those snowflake dogs born into privilege.)

It’s through my own experiences and beliefs that I continuously advocate for adoption.  If someone comments, “What I nice Boxer, I wish we could get one.”  Our quick answer is - call Boxer Luv Rescue.  If someone is thinking about getting a dog, I try to steer them towards adoption by discussing the benefits of getting a previously-owned dog.  ​

Tim has been working his colleague for months.  Recently, he told me.  “X is getting his dog from a breeder.”   I understand why  families would rather have a puppy from the start.  You don’t have to overcome the emotional baggage.  You can shape them in your family’s image. We had lost this debate.  

[Said in a VERY sarcastic voice] So of course, the only reasonable thing to do is to unfriend this guy from Facebook.  Ask Tim to never speak to him at work.  Find ways to belittle him in person for his family’s decision. And look for opportunities to troll him online.   After all,  he must be a horrible human being for not agreeing with our stance.

This dog argument is really about everything else in life.   You can advocate for your beliefs but ultimately, one must respect people’s choices.  (Even though in this respect, I am right and he’s wrong and everyone should adopt a dog.)

'The time has come' or End-of-Life

6/19/2019

 
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Right as I was getting ready for bed it happened - BRRRRRRR!!!! My first thought was “something is wrong with the Air Conditioner.” I hoped maybe Tim had moved some large piece of furniture outside. But, as always, I was right it. It was the AC unit.  I knew this was coming, so I had emotionally prepared for the anguish of not having air conditioning during the hot summer days and also the extraordinary expense that comes with AC repair. 
You know you are a grown-up when you understand things like “end-of-life cycle.” End-of-life is this phenomenon where everything comes to an end and there’s specific timelines for how long things last.  Your food has an expiration date. Your water heater has an EOL.  
For example your phone has a two to three-year before it stops working, becomes obsolete, or you crash it into a million little pieces. Currently the lifecycle of humans in the US is about 85 years according to recent mortality figures. But when referring to people and not object you call it a lifespan. It's much more dignified. 
Regardless most things are built to last for a finite amount of time.  (Unless you’re a nuclear waste, but eventually it hits its half-life too.)
The house we currently live in was built in 2006.  Meaning, in 2006 everything was shiny and new.  Since Richard was born we have replaced:  the refrigerator,  the dishwasher (twice), the microwave (twice - ask my mom how she exploded our last one), the water heater (preventatively) and different components of our pool. As I look around and see what’s left to replace -  it’s the big one.  It’s the AC unit.   According to the Internet sources the AC unit in Arizona should last anywhere from 10 to 14 years. And our unit is straight at 13 years.

The time has come," the Linskeys said,
"To talk of other things
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax
Of cabagges and kings
And while the house is boiling hot
And whatever Oso thinks
Kaloo Kalay no work today
We're hot cabbages ... waiting for the AC repair guy to arrive"


​



Self Identification starts ... at Kindergarten?

5/28/2019

 
In an era where political pundits talk about “race politics” or “gender politics” it’s important to ask about the genesis of these identities .  When do these identifications start? To me, the answer seems obvious —school registration forms.

A friend calls me up: 1.) Ecstatic because her child has gotten early acceptance into kindergarten. 2.) She is thoroughly confused by the registration form. She is stumped on the question of her kid’s ethnicity and race.

A little background information about my friend.  She comes from a country that was formerly part of the USSR block. I will refrain from naming it to protect her identity and to avoid Borat jokes. Her husband is US born with parents from Latin America. 

So how do these parents label their child’s identity? Having to place the child in a neat little box, when their background is so rich and complex.  The conversation devolves into a game of attrition, figuring out which boxes the child does not fit into and then picking the best option from what’s left.  

But having to go through this exercise can be confusing, especially to somebody who is not from a country that so adamantly tracks race. Why this obsession with classification? It’s a discussion I am always interested in having because even in the Hispanic community, there is no homogenous consensus.  I also enjoy using information acquired during my African American studies class to discuss such notions as the “one drop rule.”  One drop of African American ancestry makes you Black in this country. If you follow the logic, then if my children marry white girls and my grandkids marry white girls, their kids should still be labeled Hispanic because of this one drop rule. (Assuming we still have the current race-ethnicity boxes in the future.)

It’s bewildering that in an age where a new generation seeks to redefine their sexual identities and political identities and quite possibly their racial identities, they are still being forced to start by checking one of a very limited list of choices.
​

Which leads me to state Richard’s box for race is White his ethnicity is Hispanic.  And this is my way of announcing Richard is an official kindergartner.  He passed his early entrance exam entrance exam. He will be joining his brother at our neighborhood public school come July.
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