Who Am I?

Good question, if I may say so myself.

It's been a week full of learning, and we still have the other half of it to go.
I decided to learn as much as I can about SEO (Search Engine Optimization), copy writing and social media, so I took some webinars, ordered some books and I'm immersing myself in this mess-of-knowledge, trying to find my Element, like sir Ken Robinson said.
With all these Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn registration forms, with job interviews and discussing me with myself behind my back, I found out some definitions are just empty shells: some 'old skins' and some are just 'for others' but don't really define ME.

So here it is, the real (yet peculiar) definitions I came up with. They fit me best, for now.

• I'm a bee. I like socializing, I'm the buffet type, I start here, than go there, or maybe that way is better... hey I'm interested in that too... a buzzing bee. With all these words stuck in one phrase you might have mistaken me for a disguised ADD, but I'm not. As bees are, I'm very organized, my hive is spotless (most days) and my file cabinet (or e-files) would have been the envy of the neighborhood, had they known or had access to it. In my family I'm The Queen Bee, of course.
• I'm a Personality Dula. I know, sounds a bit pretentious, but I am. I help people become who they are in their core. They do the searching and hard work, of course, I just stand aside and suggest, enable, facilitate, mostly soul working. I get to know people and somehow it dawns on me who they really are... most times.
• I'm a Professional Meidale. Meidale is a Yiddish word meaning 'people's person', especially older people. I was the classic 7 going on 70 and still can converse with anyone about anything as I like many different things, see Bee above.

Who are you? No, not the outside you, who are you really?

Pie is Just Another Mathematical Term

I hate Math. I've been hating it ever since first grade. OK, lets adjust it a bit. I hate Math when it doesn't come in the shape of personal donation to me. Because when it is money in my pocket, I kinda' like it.

So today I went to the biggest mall in the area (New York address - surprise surprise), got the kids and hubby happy... so happy they let me wonder off ALONE (would you believe it?) and thus, free as a wait-less bird, relaxed and liberated, I went off shopping.
What can I tell you, I searched high, I searched low, I went in between the shelves and inside the fitting rooms (many a times) and nothing worked. The only fitting thing in MY room was my own old clothes. Which brought me to the sad conclusion that we either need a revolution (where the hell did I put my soap box when we left California???) or I need to get fit. Fit for fittings - what a revolutionary idea!

I left the mall with one small bag. In it were three items:

1. A gift for my friend Jan (great woman)
2. Fancy matches (I wish they could burn fat) for the fireplace
3. A scent diffuser for the restroom (to keep others from smelling all those fiber units I'll be eating from now on).

As soon as we came home this Pecan Pie jumped me with her friend the spoon. I tell you - they had no mercy! Than again, Pie is just another number right? just like size, carbohydrates units and the amount of holes you need to tighten in your belt.

Did I tell you how I don't like Math?

The Food Market and Politics

It's sunny now in CA. It's rainy here. Sorry, I had to compare. My kids compare, too and that's when the Food Market begins. They discuss what he got and why, why did she get less, what will I get later and, of course, what will he get if he ate his vegetables. But she LIKES vegetables. So that's not fair. "Fair is a complexion, desired by many, true, yet a skin condition" I want to say to skip the bickering routine once and for all but no, nothing will take my kids' mind off their usual routine. Hey, who am I kidding? It's my routine too. I secretly LOVE the Food Market routine, because at a certain point in time, just after the great disappointment of whomever is not getting dessert or what they WILL get for dessert, a little bit before the usual upset of the end, they start THE FOOD MARKET. "I'll give you this if you'll share your dessert with me" says the little one, she's the brain-in-training. But the older knows better, he knows she'll work her charm and get away with much more than was bargained for and so he calculates his steps carefully. In the end they reach an agreement that would have put experienced politicians to shame, so detailed and full of nuances it is, I feel proud of my strategically conniving kids. So I sit at the dining room table and think of what we should fight about next.

New Place, New Hairdresser

I loved getting my hair done. It was my time. I'd sit there and read all the magazines I didn't make time for before, have my coffee in their nicely designed ceramic mugs, listen to Daren's funny stories and (this is the best part) would come out "looking like a princess" according to my my daughter... and me, too.
So when it came time to go get my hair and my soul their tune-up, I tried to be mindful of the choices.

I stalled. I asked people for referrals. I looked around in efforts to find curly heads, thinking that's the best referral. Eventually my roots showed so brightly I had to do it.
I went to the Little Towne salon, located smack dub in the center of Little Towne down town. My husband told me it looked clean, big, with healthy traffic.

The receptionist was nice, made an appointment for later (good, they're busy) and assigned me to their colorist (a specialist! how lovely).
I came at the appointed time, set at the waiting area and hooked up with a magazine, all happy and ready for a treat. The hairdresser (HD) came while on her way to bill the previous customer and consulted with me about my expectations and needs. Half way through she left me standing, attending to her previous customer. I could have left than. "Be patient" I said to myself.
She came back eventually, gave me a smock and we headed towards her station. The station and its surrounding were still full of hair cuttings from the previous client. "They'll soon clean it" I said to myself. "Think of it as a good sign, it means she's busy!" I thought.

I told HD how Daren (my California hairdresser, funny, professional, great with curls) did my highlights so she took her tufts-of-hair chart and aimed to match color.
The conversation was pleasant, no highlights (even though we talked about it), no foil, no heat, a different person had to stop her lunch to wash my hair - washing machine style, tried to erase all the shady spots from my forehead - old painter style, no scalp massage, yes arm pit and food odors.

When trying to blow dry my hair without a diffuser I decided to stop the experiment and go home to attempt it myself, especially when costs climbed to the almost-double-what-I-used-to-pay for the pleasure at Daren's.

My hair doesn't look awful but it doesn't look good either. It starts off with some spotted souvenirs on my forehead, the roots are my natural color and the rest of it is a careful weave of highlights, in memory of Daren Days.

From OC to NJ

We recently moved. Left sunny California, glitzy OC, to join the lonely lines of people waiting for the bus to New York city. You see them rain or shine, standing at various odd places, waiting for the bus. The metal Messiah comes in various colors, often with the air condition off (let them suffer, those Jersey tax payers) and we all sing together:

Take me out to New York man,
Take me out with the crowd;
Buy me some bagels and real good cake,
I don't care if I never get back.

Don't you love those Nuts4Nuts carts?

The New Jerseians dress different when they go to the big city. High hills, Schick clothes, stylish shoes, the good bag, suits. Here in Small Towne it's flip flops and mom's clothes. No exciting fashion statements at the Towne plaza. No hills for Kmart.

New Jersians are not terribly fond or proud of themselves. Everyone was fast to pay their condolences when we said we came here to STAY. "So you are not going back?" they would say, confused, as if a vacation here would be a blast....

The New Yorkers were especially blunt: "I'm so terribly sorry for you" said the clerk at the hotel where we stayed until our new home in the prairie was ready. New Yorkers sarcasm, I thought. But no. It's true. She was sorry for us, and I found it hard to digest after seeing what shoe boxes people are willing to live in for the privilege of being called a 'New Yorker'.

It's a quiet, subdued sleepers town. We are the cozy side of miss neurotica city.

So cheers for the sleepers,

Jersey girl?