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.”
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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.”

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.  
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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. 

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

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.)

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"


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