The Kid in Me

It looks like I may be getting a second interview for a job I

covet

...

lust after

... am seriously considering.

Even though I am qualified for the position, I must admit I'm a bit jittery when thinking about the interview.

I began to prep mentally today, telling myself there's no reason to be worried; just show up, present my best self to the panel, and remain calm and collected.  What's the worst that could happen?

FLASHBACK to the year 2000.  

I was working as an independent consultant for a major multinational company.  I was seated in a remote conference room in Canada with two of my colleagues (I'll call them Stacy and Barb), presenting our project findings to a panel of experts via tele-con.  Each 'expert' was dialing in from a different location, scattered throughout the US.  

The outcomes of the project would determine Stacy's, Barb's and my ability to achieve a much sought-after professional qualification.  We were nervous.  Voices were hushed.

The premise was that panelists would keep their polycom unit on mute, each panelist activating his/her individual unit only when he/she was personally addressing a question to my two colleagues and me.  That polycom would then be muted, and the next panelist would activate his/her unit and proceed in the same way.

Distance introductions made, all panelists save one mute their units.  The first panelist begins the question period, we answer in turn, and the panelist mutes his unit (or so we assume).  

Cue to second panelist ... but we can hear the rustling of what sounds like a brown paper lunch bag being opened.  We ask the 2nd panelist if the interference is coming from her end, but she indicates it isn't and the noise continues.  On our end, we realize that the first panelist must have mistakenly turned off the volume instead of muted it on ours.  I don't know if he ever turned the volume back up on his end, but I do know that he never muted his unit.

So halfway through the second set of questions, as 'Barb' is leaning into the mike, the first panelist lets loose a HUGE ripper.  I swear the polycom shakes.  'Stacy' and I look at each other wide-eyed.  We stifle our laughter.  This is serious business.  'Barb', the ultimate professional, carries on.  We keep it together.  We forge on.

'Stacy' then begins explaining her fishbone diagram.  As she asks all panelists to focus on the 'tail end' of the diagram, she pauses for effect, and at that very moment a few distinct ~~~~~~~Ffffffrrrrppppppp fffrrrrpppp ffrrpp ffffrrrrrrrpppppps~~~~~! reverberate over the polycom unit.  It's too much.  

We three realize that not only are WE hearing the flatulence, but the other panelists must be hearing it too and thinking it is coming from one of us.  The 1st panelist is obviously oblivious.  We are in hysterics, fighting to silence our guffaws, tears streaming down our face, 'Stacy' struggling to breathe and keep it together.  Pinching her inner arm and silently pounding her fist on her leg in an effort to silence her laughter with pain.  We are highly unsuccessful.  The panel must think we are insane, immature, or a combination of both.  We are just like 12-year-old boys, unable to keep it together in the face of bodily functions.  

I look back on that day and still laugh.  One of my worst professional moments, but one of the most memorable.  In the end, we all received our qualification, so I guess the project was pretty darned good.  But really not an experience I'd hope to see repeated.

BACK to 2013.  

I really hope no one farts during this interview.  

I won't kid myself; I may be middle-aged, but there is still a 12-year-old child hiding in me.

Stopped in Germany to get a pic of the 'fart' sign.  Yeah, I'm that mature.  

Stopped in Germany to get a pic of the 'fart' sign.  Yeah, I'm that mature.  

It's Not Just Me Having a Bad Day in the ME

Our kitten caught us a surprise today.  And no one was more surprised, I'm sure, than the surprise our kitten caught.

If thought is possible for a dragonfly, I would imagine this one would never have fathomed that a 2 kg cute and cuddly kitty would pounce out of the blue like a lion.  I imagine that dragonfly would have dreamt of a more gracious exit than suffocating in the mouth of a 3-month-old feline.  Drowning in the pool, splatting against a windshield, getting electrocuted in a bug zapper; all of these deaths seem somewhat more dignified than wiggling your tail end furiously with your head firmly clamped in the teeny tiny jaws of a kitten.

It reminded me of some days at work in the ME, where I'm caught rather unawares by a seemingly harmless situation or individual.  Just going about my business with no inkling of the fate that is about to befall me.  A trusted colleague presents my idea as his own, an employee concerned with getting ahead trying to shift the blame for his own shortcomings, a supervisor tries to belittle my expertise.  

But I've NEVER ended up with my head as far up another individual's orifice as the dragonfly's was today, so for that I am truly grateful!  

It made me realize AGAIN that I am not the only one who has bad days in the ME.  There are always those who are worse off than me.  Self pity is a horrible thing, and it can make us oblivious to the true suffering and struggles that surround us each day.

How many times have you found yourself confronted with an individual or a situation where you thought to yourself "You know, things really aren't that bad.  At least I've got the use of my limbs, or my eyesight, or I'm not bankrupt, or I haven't lost a parent, or nobody in my family is sick, etc.  

I really treasure those wake-up calls, even seemingly little ones like today's.  I find if you start looking for them, you see them all around you, and you end up not even having to look for them.  You realize, "hey, I'm so lucky to get to see that sunrise, I'm so blessed to have a healthy child, what a smooth and uneventful flight, etc."  And you start to appreciate.  And the days start to get better.

For that dragonfly, today was a really bad day.  The worst.  

As for me, I'm doing fine, just fine.  It's been a pretty good day all in all.

Bad day to be a dragonfly ...

Bad day to be a dragonfly ...

Going Bananas in the ME!

Does anyone else always seem to end up with 1 or 2 black bananas at the end of the week?

It seems no matter how many bananas I buy a week, be it 2 or 12, I always end up with a couple that are too bruised for my picky eaters to eat.  Well, I just hate to waste, but never really knew what to do with these over-ripe monkey treats.  Wilted vegetables are easy ... just throw them all into a pot with some chicken stock and within an hour you've got soup to last you the weekend.  But mushy banana soup holds no appeal, and I'm not one of those "on-the-spot" "whip-it-up" bakers.  So I would usually end up guiltily binning the bananas or throwing them into our compost.

But last month I was reading an article that suggested freezing over-ripe bananas for future use in recipes.  I thought this was the motivation I needed to actually push myself to bake.  What a great idea.  Waste not, want not, and bake up some goodness in the process.  So I've been storing bananas for about a month now ... But still no cake or bread to show for it ... I just haven't gotten around to it.

And quite frankly, the bananas are now starting to stress me out every time I open the freezer door.  It's like they're taunting me; they are the rotting proof of my ability to delay  those activities that do not captivate my interest (in this case, baking).  On some days, I actually hear them chanting "we bananas, you bananas, we all be bananas".

I am overwhelmed by the rotting banana trove.  I want it to go away, but every week it keeps on growing.  As I write, I am envisioning the 15 kg banana bread I will bake next weekend to avoid wasting this decaying fruit.   Guess I should stock up on flour if I don't want to end up bananas with 30,000 lbs of bananas.  

Any tricks for blackened bananas?  Or to stop going bananas?  Suggestions welcome!

Anyone else feeling bananas today?
Anyone else feeling bananas today?

Help in the ME

"Hi.  My name is GypsyInTheMe, and I have a maid."  

A lovely, friendly, smiling, loving, caring live-in maid who wakes up happy and hums old Air Supply tunes as she waltzes around the kitchen with her broom in the early morning hours.  She's been with us for four years, she's family to us, our daughter loves her to bits, and she helps us keep our life organized as we rush out the door to work and try to keep ahead of day-to-day demands.

....

I've been trying for weeks now to finish this post ... but the fact is I block every time.  I've got "blog block" I guess.  I'm sure I didn't come up with that term; but I'm fairly new to blogging, so I find it rather catchy!  "I've been hit with blog block."  There's a certain ring to it.

I'm trying to overcome the block, but the subject of help in the ME (Middle East) is just so huge.  I don't know how to broach the subject and give it the respect it deserves, while maintaining the levity of the post as I first conceived it.  

Every time I want to talk about the challenges and hilarity of our lives as it relates to sharing a house and home with an 'employee', I am overcome with overwhelming guilt.

This likely relates to my opening statement, and the fact that this Canadian girl, for whom the very concept of hired help was so foreign/taboo, has become addicted to the help.  

"Hi, my name is GypsyInTheMe, and I am an addict."

So much so that, ironically, the one thing I congratulate myself most on when I am on vacation and renting a flat or a house is the rediscovery of cleaning products, appliances and techniques.  For a bit, I rediscover the help in me, I am re-immersed in the monotony and satisfaction of putting in a load of laundry, of loudly flapping freshly-laundered sheets onto the bed, of sweeping up the bread crumbs off the kitchen floor.

Many days in the ME, I can also carry on like this, denying my addiction.  I wash a few dishes, cook dinner, organize the catch-all drawer in the kitchen.  I tell myself that I have it all under control.  Then the kitchen door opens, and in waltzes our maid, all smiles and sunshine, saying "Please Madam, let me be the one to clean, you are so tired."  

And the black cloud descends upon me, and for a moment I stand defense in front of "MY" pile of dirty dishes, thinking "These are mine.  I dirtied them, and I hate cleaning them, but I'll do so at my own slow pace, because they are 'MINE', thank you very much!"  

But even as the thoughts race through my head, I am already retreating, surrendering the dishcloth, seething at my weakness, my dependance.  I am torn between my vision of running an effective household all on my own and my desire to hand it all over to someone else to deal with.

My maid momentarily takes away the pain.  The pain of facing a sink of dirty dishes, the pain of losing an entire afternoon ironing, the pain of cleaning a soiled toilet.  More and more, I find myself turning to her, relying on her, depending on her.  'Me', self-proclaimed organizational queen, asking her if she's seen my husband's reading glasses, does she remember where we stored the camping tent, where she put the turkey baster when she last cleaned the cutlery drawers.  And then, like every addict after a fix, I feel a degree of shame, of remorse, of guilt. 

I wish I could erase the dichotomy, the push and pull, the feeling of failure at not having managed my job, the household, the chores, the homework, the cooking, the extracurricular activities single-handedly.  I wish I could perceive the beauty in seeing yesterday's dirty clothes magically re-appear cleaned and pressed in my shrank today. I wish that sight didn't awaken in me feelings of powerlessness. 

I wish I didn't always feel like I'm failing me when I reach for the easy cleaning fix.  But there's no way around it.

Bless our maid.  She is amazing.  If I could only rid myself of the shame of relying on her, I wouldn't have to refer to myself as a Maidaholic.  And I could fully enjoy the gift.

"My name is GypsyInTheMe, and I am addicted to Help in the ME."

After six years, I still have a hard time getting used to having someone clean up after me.

After six years, I still have a hard time getting used to having someone clean up after me.

My house would be a lot more organized if I'd sort out my head and let our maid actually do her job...

My house would be a lot more organized if I'd sort out my head and let our maid actually do her job...

Victory in the ME

Brilliant thoughts of the day:

  1. "Okay" is the new "wonderful". 
  2. Don't let yourself be discouraged by defeat, if nothing else it shows you've finally succeeded at failure. 

Victory in the ME .... a rarity indeed ... 

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