Seriously, y’all, it’s just water falling from the sky.  I have seen you weather worse to come to class.  Oh, no, not weathering weather.  Weathering bad break-ups, family crises, hangovers, lack of clean laundry, and bad hair days, yes.  But not weather.  Rain, wind, snow (oh, my heavens, snow!), are (as one student Tweeted today) “a deal-killer” when it comes to attending class.

This alternately cracks me up and aggravates me.  It’s kind of funny because there will come a time when they realize they are much more capable of weathering storms–literally and figuratively–than they think they are and I wish I could be around to see every one make this realization.  Aggravates me because I worry that they are going to bag off of work as grown ups because it’s raining.  How long do you think they’ll keep that job?  I’m not too fond of walking across campus in the rain, either (at least not in grown up clothes and shoes), but I’ve made a commitment to do it.  So I will.

Though I did make the concession of wearing jeans to work today–even though it’s not Friday (gasp!).

It is this kind of thinking: “I can’t go to class. It’s raining!” that causes professors to include attendance as part of the course grade.

I think I need to have a stack of extra credit in-class assignments that I pull out on rainy days to reward those students who weather the harsh reality of sprinkles to come to class.  Come on, we can all be soggy together!

And besides, aren’t days like today the whole reason we buy cute rainboots?  Here are mine.

Carpe the rain.  Stomp in a few mud puddles.  It makes the rain much more fun.

So I’ve busied myself with other things–trying to get ahead at work so I’ll have time to write, furnishing and decorating my new writing room that my husband created for me, spending quality time with my sweet two-year-old son.  None of which is writing.  Which is what I say I want to do.

Then WHAM! What hits my desk (at work) the other day?  A postcard, inviting me to register for a once-a-week workshop on “The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity” which professes to answer the questions:

• What are the basic principles of creative expression?
• How do I overcome blocks to my creativity?
• How can I be true to my authentic self while balancing life’s demands?
• How can I clarify and apply my unique strengths to my life?

I would like the answers to those questions, but am not sure I want to sit around with a bunch of artists and would-be artists and do my soul-searching with them.  I’m trying to convince myself that the this is a workshop for artists.  You know, those people who paint, sculpt, work in scrap metal, whatever.  Not would-be writers.  But it’s nagging at me.  It keeps popping up everywhere, that little pink postcard.  Upstairs, downstairs, in my writing room, in my purse, in my car.  It’s haunting me, hunting me, chasing me.  But I haven’t called the number.  Or checked the website.  Or gone to find out who “acclaimed author Julia Cameron” is, upon which this workshop is based.  Because if I don’t know, then quite possibly it isn’t for me.  So I’m going to do a little sleuthing right now…

I felt like a fish out of water at this writer's workshop

Okay, I found Julia Cameron Live and it sounds…um…a little touchy-feely.  Then I went to the website of all factoid websites, Wikipedia.  And found this information.  This Julia Cameron person was married to Martin Scorsese, for heaven’s sake.  How can she possibly have anything to say that would help me, a 40-something college professor with a desire to write something other than class notes?

But I’m certainly not helping myself too much.  I wonder if there’s a CliffsNotes version that wouldn’t require me to express myself in front of others?  I don’t really play well with others.  *sigh*  Ok, I’ll call.  But if they hold hands and sing Koombayah even once, I’m outta there.

Back off, pink postcard.

Carpe conquering your fears.

Somebody out there is bound to be saying, “Hey, dummy, you are writing.  I’m reading your blog.”  And yes, a blog is a start.  And I’ve written academic journal articles.  And book chapters.  And…  Hey, I guess I have written.  So let me revise my dream – I want to write what I want to write and I want it to be meaningful and helpful to someone else.  Hmm, that’s a much better dream.  Behold the power of writing.

I’m not going to say I aspire to be a great American novelist (but I’m not going to say I don’t, either).  But the books (and they are books) I have in mind are mostly non-fiction.  Not self-help, not humor, not DIY, not technical, but kind of hybrid multi-genre.

But every time I think about sitting down to write (and now I have a place to do so now – more about that in a moment), I get that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach  similar to the feeling I get when my husband says, “Hey, let’s ride that roller coaster!” Or, “Come stand on this 25-story ledge with me.” (Ok, he’s never actually said the latter, but he might as well because that’s what I hear when I hear “roller coaster,” “zipline,” “rooftop,” or anything else higher than about 8 feet.)

My husband, knowing and supporting my dream as only a wonderful partner can, made me a space to write in.  When I got home from a conference the other day, he surprised me with this:

After a weekend of shopping, it looks like this now:

It has a long way to go, but it’s a start.  I’m just afraid.  Terrified, really.  I’m not sure of what–failure?  Success?  Ridicule?  I guess that’s why I’m putting this out there.  To take some of the power out of it.  Because my inclination is to keep this dream a secret.  And that could keep me in inaction.  And I need to take action.  I need to, as Patti Digh says, “Sit the hell down and write.”  And she’s right.

Are you ready to carpe your dream?  I will if you will.

2009 PCMA Professional Achievement Dinner

Anyway, PCMA is an association I’ve belonged to for years.  And one of about four that I currently belong to.  So I was rather upset at this Meetings & Conventions article “How Associations are Targeting Young Professionals.”  It seems that young people don’t really “do” professional associations.  They don’t get the value.

With the exponential growth of social media, I can kind of understand that they may perceive some redundancy.  Both allow formation of communities, both are resources for professional and personal growth, and so on.  But I do so love my professional associations.  As I told my husband, I love going to the PCMA convention because I see all my peeps there (and yes, I say “peeps” and he cringes…every time).

Maybe it’s because I teach meeting and convention management and without associations, there will be fewer conventions.  And without conventions, what I teach is obsolete.  Maybe it’s because my first “real” job was as a meeting planner for an association.  So this article concerns me from a self-preservation standpoint, but also from a nostalgia standpoint.  But it’s mainly because I truly see the value of professional associations for young people starting out in their careers as well as us “seasoned veterans.”  Professional associations have done so much for me (including giving me a group of peeps.  Go ahead, cringe.  You know you want to.).

What are your thoughts on professional associations and the younger generation? Can they change enough to remain what they are, only new and improved?  Or are they headed the way of the dinosaur?

Carpe professional associations.

With all due respect to the companies who provide the technology for conference calls, please diversify and find another line of business.  I don’t want you personally to suffer, but I want conference calls to die a quick and painless death.  Being on a conference call is like drowning slowly in a vat of molasses.

What I don’t like about conference calls:

• The fits and starts of people talking and accidentally interrupting each other that is far less comical than the Warner Brothers chipmunks (“After you.”  ”Oh, no, after you.”  ”Please, I insist.” And so on).
• Moderators who lack the ability to moderate a gaggle of disembodied voices well–including me.
• Lack of a clear agenda or failure to follow it.
• Hearing a voice and not being sure I’ve correctly identified who it is.
• Awkward silences.
• The guy who hits “hold” instead of “mute” on their phone so everyone else has to listen to the elevator music version of Barry Manilow’s “Lola” until he gets back from the bathroom.
• The incessant clicking of keyboards as people multitask.  And by multitask, I mean check their Facebook page and respond to witty posts by their 383 friends….one by one.

Ok, I needed to make that rant.  I’ve got to keep it short, though.  3 minutes until I have a scheduled conference call.  Give me strength.

Carpe the cause, brothers and sisters.

I was sure my “where” was St. Simons Island, GA, my hometown.  So sure, in fact, that my husband and I bought a condo there.  But it’s never worked out to live there.  It is, however, a great place to visit.  And I still love it.  And it still may be a place to retire.

St. Simons Island, where I thought my "where" was

The concept of the “where” of happiness has stuck with me.  Even though I think some people either don’t care where they are or are content wherever they are, I think some of us have a “where” of happiness.  This is not to suppose that we can only be happy in one place, but perhaps that there is a type of place which brings us contentedness.

My husband and I talked about this ad nauseum.  I asked him where he thought his “where” was.  His “where” seemed to be a “when.”  That is, the 1950′s.  Or Mayberry, NC which is the fictional setting of The Andy Griffith Show.  I had to tease him a lot for that.  And tell him I wasn’t getting a beehive hairdo. [And yes, we've been to Mt. Airy, NC, where Andy Griffith was born and is thought to be the inspiration for Mayberry.]

I think we were more in sync, though, than not.  What I was missing–living in Las Vegas, Atlanta, D.C.–was a feeling of community.  A place where neighbors knew each other, people said hi when passing on the street, and you can enjoy community activities like live music, theatre, or festivals without worrying about parking or being able to afford ticket prices.

For a while…ok, our whole 12-year marriage…we’ve moved every 2-3 years in search of the “where” that would help us find contentedness.  To no avail.  We even picked up a dog and a baby along the way, in case the discontent was due to the absence of a “what” and not a “where.”

I don’t want to be premature in saying this (nor speak for my husband) since we’ve only been here a year and a half, but I think we may have found our “where.”  I love the town I’m living in.  It has Southern culture but diversity.  It has intellectualism, but down-to-earth people.  It has parades, festivals, and live theatre.  It has enough restaurants to keep us happy.  And it is a place that we can (and have) made friends.  At least I have.  My husband is teleworking and it’s hard to make friends when you don’t leave the house. But I think I’ve solved that issue.  I’m importing friends we already have.  Seriously.  I have two friends moving here next year.  If I can import two a year, we’ll have amassed quite a community by the time my son is in school.  Ha.

I’m glad I’m here.  I hope this is my “where.”  I think this may be a great “where” to raise my son.  A great “where” to work in a job I love, maybe until I retire.  Whatever the reason, I’m content.  And that’s a delicious change of pace for me.

Carpe where.

I lost two people I loved in 2011, my husband’s parents. More significant than my loss is my husband’s (they were his mom and dad after all). And most significant of all, my son lost two grandparents. And not just two run-of-the-mill grandparents, but two of the most amazing grandparents I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing interact with a grandchild. 

On the up side, I had a wonderful year watching my son grow from immediate past blob stage to pre full human stage. And that was a kick!

I also enjoyed a 12th year of marriage with my sweet husband and 1/2 of a second year of work at a great job. I love academia because–much like the new year–there’s a clean slate every 16 weeks or so. Like the new year, there are new semester resolutions. Some of mine for Spring 2012?

1. Structure syllabi so I spread my grading out.
2. Stop grading attendance while still making it “worth it” for students to come to class. Merit system v demerit system.
3. Focus on improving and diversifying teaching tools.
4. Integrate more social media into classes.
5. Be more creative In the classroom.

There are others, but like New Year’s resolutions, it’s easy to kick myself when I don’t do them, so this is enough for now.

2012 promises to be an interesting year. A year in which I will Carpe even more.

Carpe New Year.

Yeah, right.  In what black-and-white-television universe?  Christmas tends to be more a time for stress and anxiety, dredging up old family resentments and hurts, practicing plastering the fake smile on your face and having the proper inflection for “Oh, I LOVE it!” when opening gifts.

Now if I sound Grinchy, I don’t mean to.  I’m really just being nostalgic.  My family Christmases were just like that growing up.  Warm spiked cider on the stove, a couple of cases of canned beer in the fridge, and my uncle in the kitchen keeping book on the bets as to who would get drunk and make a jerk of themselves first.  If they made a scene AND stormed out, he payed double.   Or there was the year my mom, cousin, and I tried to pretend Christmas wasn’t happening by renting horror flicks and watching them while gorging ourselves on sweets and popcorn (what we might think of as the “single women” Christmas).

Then I got married to a man who was raised by the Cleavers.  Or perhaps by Jimmie Stewart and Donna Reed.  And Christmases with his family were…different.

We’ve been married 12 years now.  For the first Christmas with his family (our first as a married couple), I steeled myself for the insanity as I did every year with my family.  And did I get more than I expected!  They actually sang Christmas carols together.  And our stockings were stuffed with silly presents his mother bought (or made) with love and care all through the year.  We ate heartily, went to see Christmas lights, went to midnight church service, and thoroughly enjoyed our time with each other.  What?  What kind of Christmas is that?

My in-laws both passed away this year.  I will miss them at Christmas most of all.  And I’ll miss the “stocking fit for a bride” that his mother got for me that first year.  And the bizarre boxes she found to wrap presents in.  And his dad doing something silly, which he could always be counted on to do.

But to tell you the truth, I’ll also kind of miss the anticipation of family drama and craziness.  It’s how I grew up, after all.

I miss my mom, mom- and dad-in-law, and the other family who have passed away recently…and those who can’t be bothered to visit (oops, old resentments slipping out.  Must be Christmas.).  But I’m grateful to be spending Christmas with my husband, our son, and my dad.  And I expect it will be somewhere between “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes” and “It’s a Wonderful Life.”  And that’s ok with me.

Merry Christmas.

Carpe Holidays!

What is it with parents?  Is it just the “misery loves company” thing?  Or do they truly want us to be prepared?  Because if it’s the latter, I’ve got to tell you–nothing anyone has said to us has prepared us for this.  Yes, the Terrible Twos have arrived.

Our previously angelic Mole Baby has turned into a headstrong, opinionated, independent, ornery little cuss (his father says more often than before that’s he’s “so much like me” – I am beginning to think he doesn’t mean that as a compliment).  Yeah, yeah, yeah – you can tell me how he’s exercising his independence and that’s a good thing but I’m already so weary of time outs and counting “1…2…ok, then” that I’m thinking of running away from home.  Or pinching his little head off like a shrimp. (Figure of speech, DFACS, figure of speech).

He looks angelic, doesn't he? Don't fall for it.

Don’t get me wrong.  He’s still funny and adorable and loving.  Most of the time.  And other times, I’m sure that pod people have taken over his body and mind.  And now that he’s two and we’re admitting it’s tough?  People are practically giggling as they say “OH – you think two is bad?  Wait until three!”  Really?!  Cut. It. Out.  Let us be surprised.

Carpe…oh, I don’t even know what to seize now.  Anyone seen my sanity?

Also, all of my flights to/from Philadelphia were delayed due to weather.  To catch the last leg of my journey back home, I actually had to run in Memphis airport from gate B2 to gate A1.  If that doesn’t seem far to you, check out this map - I had to run from the middle of the blue concourse to the very end of the green concourse.  Further factor in that I am a 40-something woman who is somewhat out of shape and that I was running in clogs, schlepping a suitcase, briefcase, and a small bag of holiday presents.  When two airline employees ask you in a concerned way, “Ma’am, are you OK?” you know you’re not looking too good.

And don’t even get me started on leaving my 2-year-old, who is now starting to “get” what it means when Mommy goes on a trip.

On the up side, I got some awesome holiday shopping done in the Philadelphia airport, had a chance sighting of Martin Sheen there, and Delta Air Lines actually held the plane that I ran for in Memphis so I did make it home!  (Yay, Delta Air Lines!).

So the question I’m toying with in my mind (and here) is WHY?  Why do I do this?  The simple answer is either money or ego or both.  The more complicated answer is that I love to teach, facilitate, educate and these are great opportunities to do that with a different audience than I have in my undergrad classes.  Which leads to…do I do more of it?  Do I stop doing it?  Do I only do it on different subjects–subjects that I’m still passionate about?

I wrote this because it helps me to get the questions out in writing and in public.  I know this is something I have to figure out for myself.  But if you have answers, feedback or suggestions, I’d love to hear them.