Newsflash: Mom lets kids “own the tree”

Enthusiastic Kids: 1

Controlling Perfectionist Mom:  0

Actually, that zero is probably just one in a million (as in Mom: 1,000,000) but hey, life is a journey, right?

This Christmas, I let the kids pick out the tree (bare spot included) and decorate it without any Mom-carp about clumping ornaments, cattywampus beads, dead spots in the lights or glass figurines hung precariously where they could fall.  I let my children, aged 8 & 10, choose the candy-cane lights, wind tightly the beads, construct a hand-made star and hang the ornaments wherever they darned-well pleased.   I watched from the kitchen and bit my tongue when the “urge to command” came over me.

Yes, it was a Christmas miracle.

Bah-Humburg, Martha Stewart & Pinterest

Long before Facebook was popular on the grandparent scene, I fell prey to the pressure of a providing the photo-worthy Facebook Pintastic Christmas; the elusive “Looks Just Like A Department Store Tree” vision I’d always strived to produce.  But alas, the limitless pins of “If-You-Really-Loved-Us-Mom-You’d-Make-Our-Pizza-In-The-Shape-Of-A-Snowman” and “Hey-Slacker-Mom-You-Forgot-To-Handpress-Our-Christmas-Wrap-With-Old-Photos-Of-Us-From-Our-First-Christmas-With-Santa” are overwhelming to anyone who wishes to go to bed before 2 am.

This year, I finally gave up the ghost of Christmas Perfection.  I’m focusing on the simpler things.

I banned myself from Pinterest.

Courtesy of Pinterest

Is my tree color-coordinated to my living room?  Did I grow a dozen amaryllis in a vintage cookie tin and tie it with a raffia bow?  Did we mail calligraphed, peppermint-scented letters to Santa?  Did I tape Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindoor, buy those tickets to the Disney Concert Hall Holiday show or hang real boughs of holly off the banister??  Hell NO!

I’m not sure how the pressure to provide a Fairytaled-Christmas experience started – but I am thankful that I’ve finally crossed the rubicon into the world of a reasonable-and-sane holiday.

I “designed” our christmas card in 10 minutes, I outsourced cookies to Aunt Meemee, Grandma and the local bakery, I bought EVERY present online (oh, Totefish), I brought out the advent calendars two days ago and YES, I “accidently hid” that crazy elf that I’m supposed to hide every night in the garbage on Trash Day.   Oops.  My bad.

In my version of “A Christmas Carol,” the ghost of Christmas Past shows a young girl running around in the snow, ice forming on her toes, snot dripping from her nose.  She’s laughing.  She grabs the cracked & faded sled and follows her brother up the hill for one more ride.

Courtesy of Pinterest

Through a steamy window, the ghost of Christmas Present watches a tired mom, wiping the sweat from her brow, mumbling curse words under her breath as she takes her 3rd attempt to get that homemade “William Sonoma Exclusive” Victorian gingerbread house to stick together with organic frosting that’s just too runny while her children watch silently from the safe distance of the living room sofa.

The Ghost of Christmas Future?  An old woman falls into a grave made from frosted, swirled cupcakes dusted with varying trendy shades of charcoal grey sprinkles.

Pin that!

It’s hard to redefine what is “perfect” in today’s life.  Looking at this year’s tree leaves me hopeful that I’m on the path to finding it.

Have yourself a wonderful & relaxing Christmas (and a more self-realized “perfect” New Year)!

Death at My Doorstep

Today, my neighbor died.

I was there in her living room with her daughter, who has become a friend over the years, listening as the paramedics worked to revive her unresponsive pulse.  I heard the call out for the fourth defibrillation.  The danger-averting shout of “CLEAR” each time.  It was just like on tv.  Only, much more sad.

The only deaths I’ve experienced first-hand were that of loved ones at the end of hard-fought battles with cancer.  I remember my father’s last belabored breath in the hospital room and the disturbing, distinctive curdle of my grandmother’s “death rattle” days before she died in her own room.  Nearly sixteen years later, I can easily recall both sounds, clear as day.

Today, death came quickly, without any prior notice, to an acquaintance who lives across the street.  A heart attack in the middle of the day, in the middle of a kitchen.  The lead medic’s words to his team:”Let’s call it.  We’re done.  You did a good job, men” will ring in my head for years to come.

Certainly, I am reminded of the fragility of life, the quickness of its passing and the commitment we all must have to live each day to the fullest.  But I’m also humbled by death’s lack of poetry.  It requires rubber gloves and clean-up rags.  It involves a lot of names and phone numbers.  And afterwards, the neighbors go home, kiss their children a few extra times and order pizza for dinner.

And yes.  Death still waits in all of our bushes.

But when death comes a callin’ to my house, don’t anyone cry (too hard) for me.  Sure, I stress about my start-up, I worry all the time about my kids, I stay up too late working at night, I drink too much coffee in the morning, and I never find time to go to that hot yoga class down the street.

But here’s the thing.  As I sit here tonight, pondering the meaning of life, I really am doing everything I want to do.

Sure, I’m strange for not wanting to sit on a beach and stare out at the surf but I like the stress, the worry and the To Do lists (as well as the giggles, cartwheels and inappropriate jokes I regularly — and secretly —  share with my family).  Isn’t that the purpose of life?  To live the life you want to live?  Who really wants to spend an hour of their day sweating in a god-foresaken stinky room with their hands wrapped around their ankles mumbling “namaste” into their armpits??!

When death comes a knockin’, he’ll find me drinking that second glass of wine.

Carol, your passing does not go unnoticed.  Cheers to your full 74 years.

Rest In Peace.  July 19, 2013

Power Binge: 13 Hours in 3 Days

Courtesy of Netflix

Everything you hear is true.  “House of Cards” is that good.

[Before I go on, here’s my disclaimer:  I don’t own Netflix stock.  I don’t even know who runs the company. I’d share my account login but I’m afraid they’d find out and block me forever.]

What is “House of Cards”?  Oh, get thy to Netflix without haste.  Just trust me on this.  It’s as good as Downton Abbey.  Just totally different.  But kinda the same.  In the addictive, obsessive kind of way.

I know what you’re thinking.  Where do you find the time, Deb?  Aren’t you trying to launch TOTEFISH in May, enrich your two children during Spring Break, lose those extra 7 pounds and read that book on Creative Intelligence?

Yes…

But since I’m off wine (2 pounds right there) and my kids implored me to let them “hang with nothing to do like regular kids for a week” and it’s not possible to read more than 3 paragraphs of any book in bed after a 16-hour work day … I was ripe for a small leap into total obsessiveness.

Enter 13 hours of Kevin Spacey’s power-hungry deliciousness.  Yes, it can be done in three days.   Who needs to sleep from 9 pm – 2 am?  Apart from the brilliance of the sublime acting, the tight writing, the gorgeous sets and the intoxicatingly complex morality of the characters… I think it’s the back-to-back availability of the episodes that sucked me in like a sale sign at the Gucci outlet.  It’s the totality of the experience.  It’s like an all-nighter with new friends in Rome.  You know you should get to bed but you just can’t bring yourself to flag down a cab.  And in the morning, you just can’t stop thinking about it.

Now, I don’t recommend dedicating a full day of sunlight to watching all 13-episodes but… if you happen to catch that nasty flu going around, what’s a little chicken soup propped up against your iPad, right?

I’m just saying.  I hadn’t intended to do it.  It was so feckless.  13 hours of tv in 3 days?!   Who does that?!

I recommend you should, too.

Wear glasses, Punch me in the arm: Ah, parenting

Carrot and Stick? I say “Punch and Punch.”

My son is 7 years old.  He forgets that toilet paper shouldn’t be totally unrolled for fun.  He forgets that tennis balls shouldn’t be hit against the side of the house right next to the kitchen windows.  He forgets that feet aren’t allowed on the top of the dinner table (at dinner time).  It’s no big surprise he has a hard time remembering his reading glasses even when he’s got a book in his hand.

My son has a hard time distinguishing an “e” from an “o” in certain fonts but he’s a 7-year old boy.  He doesn’t seem to notice it.  But we all know it’s impossible to understand a story (let alone learn a fact or two) if you think the “pantry” is a “party” and a “horse” is a “home”.  But I don’t want to be a nag.  My son already wears hearing aids.  He’s wonderful about them.  Nagging about glasses… well, it just seems so unrelenting.

Don’t get me wrong.  I loved nagging when I was a full-time, stay-at-home Mom.  Nagging was a way to pass the day (and to pass on my frustration and stress).   But as a working Mom, there’s the “ratio factor.”  I’m not around my children as much and thus, I need to pay attention to the quality of our interactions.   The good news is that I have my own company so I make my own hours.  I take off from 5 – 7 pm so that I can be home with my children (and return to work 8 – 11 pm).  Although I spend most of that “quality” time running multiplication drills, pushing the attributes of cauliflower and arguing that the eraser was invented for a reason,  I don’t want to harangue my son about his glasses.

I needed a carrot and stick.  Reward and punishment.   But what kind?

Punching.

Yes, my son loves kicking, punching, poking, whacking and tearing at things.  I’m guessing it’s a boy thing.  But I’m a modern Mom.  I’m here to manipulate my kids without them knowing it, into doing what I want them to do, all the while they’re thinking they’re doing it because they’re motivated.

Here’s the deal I struck:

• If my son remembers to put on his glasses without any reminding, he gets to punch me (or my husband) in the arm
• If I have to remind him, I get to punch him in the arm.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking.  How hard can he punch?

Oh, don’t worry.  I’m not training the next generation of abusers.  I’m as staunch a feminist as you’ll find on the westside of LA.  My son created the rule that he couldn’t punch me hard because I’m “… a girl and Dad says we have to treat girls like flowers.”  Like all good feminists, I like a box of chocolates from time-to-time.

Guess what ladies?  It’s working!  The thrill my son gets from doing the forbidden has gotten him to wear his glasses nearly 90% of the time, without any parental prompting or jaw-jamming.  And we’re only 3-days in to our deal.

Now, if only I could figure out how to get Congress to sit down and balance the damn budget.

Where’d all the romance go?

Courtesy of Miramax

I have a confession to make.  I’m an epic-romance junkie.

Sure, I’m a happily-married, mother of two, ambitious feminist… but I’m a hopeless, over-the-top devotee of sweeping, all-consuming love stories.  The bigger the drama, the happier I am.   Movies about star-crossed lovers and their tearful embraces make me want to dance.  Complicated stares?  I practice them in the mirror.   Kisses that leave your lungs aching and your throat dry?  I watch the scene seven times without blinking.  A soaring musical score?   Caresses that reach below the skin?   Silences filled with weighted pauses?  I can’t get enough!

Yes.  It’s past midnight again and I’m awake.  The house is asleep and the decaf coffee I ordered at dinner clearly wasn’t decaf.  I’m too tired to map out yet another User Experience flowchart so that means there’s only one thing left to do:  it’s movie trailer watching time.   And damn it if there’s not ONE epic love story in the mix.

Remember all those great sweeping love stories Hollywood used to make?  The English Patient.  Moulin Rouge.  Out of Africa.  I miss them.  I want them.  But I can’t find them anywhere.  Where has the big love story gone??  Enough with all these small independent character flicks about broken marriages or friendships between strangers.  I want passion, damn it!  I want kisses and embraces and longing and suffering and all those great things that keep me glued to my chair, wishing for the movie to never end.

There’s not even a Twilight movie trailer (and there’s always a Twilight movie trailer!)   It’s gonna be a tough night for a junkie without her juice.

So, just in case there are a few addicts out there who need to feel some passionate caresses and witness some love that overcomes a whole bunch of crazy obstacles between two ridiculously gorgeous people … here’s a tiny fix from a greener time not so long ago:

The English Patient

Moulin Rouge

The Notebook

Out of Africa

Titanic

Dirty Dancing

Even Casino Royale had it…

Oh, it’s enough to drive a woman to download Pretty Woman to her iTunes account…

What’s wrong with outsourcing a little “wife duty”?

In case you can’t live the life, you can always buy the book on Amazon.

For the month of July, I hired a “wife.”  And I love her.

No, not in that way.

For an hourly rate, “my wife” deals with the termite-invested sideboard, negotiates with the internet-provider company for a new router, picks up the prescriptions at the drugstore, swings by Whole Foods for the 1% milk, verifies the warranty (and arranges the return) on a busted Bose speaker, shops for a beautifully-themed birthday gift for my niece, measures (and compares prices) for new patio furniture covers and picks up the kids from camp.  And that was just yesterday.

I love my wife like my husband loved me when I wasn’t working on my start-up company:

She frees up my time so I can focus on my work.

She empties my personal inbox & deals with all those post-it notes on the refrigerator.

She keeps the house running in tip-top shape.

She reminds me to take the kids to their dental check-up at 4 pm.

She brings me a cafe latte in the afternoon because she “knows how much I need it.”

But my husband tells me I have to stop calling her “my wife.”  He says it’s derogatory to women.

I was raised by a 1950s-fashioned mother but I quickly picked the other side in the feminist revolution.  I wanted to make my own money.  I wanted my own apartment.  I wanted to wear men’s jeans.  I got married and left my career when we started a family but not because it was what my mother did.  I became a stay-at-home mother because child development experts told me, in their books, that it was the best way to kick-start a child’s life.  For eight years, I did the 1950s thing — total division of labor between home and office.  My husband went to the office and I stayed at the home.   I did all those “wifey” things because that was how we kept the whole thing afloat.  Shit had to get done and someone had to do it.  My husband ran his company – and I ran the house.

But I’m now trying to run my own company.  So who’s running the house?

My “wife” is!  And I don’t mean ANY disrespect by the term.  Or do I?  I am so confused.  What do I call her?!

I guess I could use the term “Assistant” but in my experience, an Assistant works out of an office and is “in training” for a bigger job.  And while a “Personal Assistant” does work out of someone’s personal home (or at least, their shiny SUV), I imagine their tasks are more “personalized” (“make my appointment with Fabio at 10!”) and their task-masters usually have some dramatic flare (tiaras and yachts do come to mind).

I could call “my wife” a “Secretary” but yes, much like the maligned “Stewardess”, that word is laden with cultural references that include knee-length skirts, Girl Fridays, and martinis at lunch.

So how about “Home Manager”?  When I mentioned to a close girlfriend that I was thinking about hiring a “manager to run the house,” she quickly replied, “Oh, you need a wife.”

Household Engineer?

Life Details Administrator?

Uber-Me?

I’m paying a generous hourly rate and I am in constant appreciation (and awe) that these tasks (which for the last four months have been neglected and/or forgotten) are now completed on-time, with efficiency and grace.  As a woman, I don’t find it embarrassing that a “wife” has traditionally done these tasks.  I did them myself.  And I used to do them well.

Until I can come up with another term, I’ll have to refer to my new woman as the “Industrious, Smart, Professional Woman Dealing With All the Loose-Ends of our Family Household” although you and I both know… it’s no different than calling her my wife.

Starting a Business: Takes A Village

Or at least, a gaggle of understanding friends & a weird affinity for stress.

First off, thank you to everyone who submitted their astute (and candid) votes for the Totefish marketing line.  For the curious, it was #1.  Unanimously.  Without (much) reservation.  Simple and straightforward wins.  Thank you!

Over the last few weeks, many have asked me how my start-up is doing.  Being that I’m usually too busy to respond to anyone’s email (and don’t bother calling… you know I don’t answer the phone or check my messages.  Who does that, anyway?)  That’s the beauty of this blog.  It’s like a large distribution email bridging the gaps between work, family & friends.  Plus, I occasionally get to rant about things.

TOTEFISH:  The Check-In

1.)  WHAT’S A BETA:  It’s the first test of my adult business life.  Not only do I test the concept of Totefish (to see if people really find value in having their stores & coupons in one place), but I test my implementation of it.  Do people like how the website is designed?  Do they find it easy to use?  Will they use it more than once?  July 16th.  And then, no more “I’m just working on a start-up from my house in the canyon.”  It’ll be live.  It will be real.  And I won’t have any excuses other than failure.

2.)  THE #1 STRUGGLE:  Having to do everything yourself.  As you can see from my marketing survey, not only is there no fat in a start-up, but there’s no real basic infrastructure either.   No financial executives.  No strategic planning analysts.  No social media consultants.  No marketing department.  No secretary.  No free intern.  The Founder does it all.  Setting up payroll.  Mapping out a Social Media Strategy.  Creating a Features List.  Assigning store categories.  Coping receipts for Taxes.  Setting up an Excel Spreadsheet.  Writing reviews on shoes.  Booking a hotel for a Conference.  Making a Powerpoint presentation.  That’s CEO/Founder time.

My latest CEO endeavor

My typical day starts at 7 am after the kids leave for school.  I run a few blog post experiments on the Totefish Blog site (totefish.wordpress.com), try to decipher what people are looking for on the web, analyze the efficacy of different long-tail tag keywords, and track progress (or regression) of all our web movements.  I then phone-meet with our web designer to give notes on yesterday’s “versions”, map out the day’s To Do list, generate whatever content she needs to design around and spend a little bit of time researching SEO and website optimization strategies while deconstructing the sites of both established & up-and-coming companies.  Then, I turn my focus to our Affiliate relationships.  I apply to new merchant programs, analyze our current merchant affiliate promotions, incorporate key merchants into blog feeds, review 4000+ store websites to verify if a store is really a store and map out our long-term retail strategy.  Then, I break for my third cup of coffee, change out of my pjs and head back to the computer for the next round of duties.

3.)  THE #2 STRUGGLE:  Not enough time to get it all done.  Actually, this is also my #1 struggle.  There’s so much more I want (and need) to do for Totefish each day than I can fit in 12 hours (I could spend weeks just trying to become a digital media/marketing expert, let alone mastering SEO, website design, blogging, server setups, html, java…)  With a start-up, the workload is infinite.  I work 7 days a week, eat lunch at my desk (usually a cheese stick rolled up in a piece of white bread) and take a 3 hour “break” in the afternoon.  As I tell everyone I work with, I am available (via email) from 4 – 7 pm but I’m not productive.  It’s CEO/Mother time.  Homework.  Dinner.  Orthodontist appointments.  But just because I’m not in front of my computer doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about business.  I return to my computer at 7:30 pm (after the kids go to sleep).  My lights usually fade by 10:30 pm.  If only I could figure out how to make the hours between 12 – 4 pm loop and repeat itself.  Can you imagine how much I’d get done then??

Two of my top priorities

4.)  BALANCE: I don’t struggle to balance work and family and life and things.  Nope.  No struggle here.  ‘Cause there is no balance.  I’m trying to launch a start-up.  It’s grueling.  It’s stressful.  I work all the time.  I also have two children under the age of nine.  They’re curious.  They’re loveable.  And when I talk with them, I (try) to make sure my phone is in my pocket (& not in my hand).  Sure, there’s  never enough time for the company.  And never enough time for my kids.  As for my husband?  Daily Exercise?  A book club?  Dinner with friends?  Volunteering?  PTA breakfasts?  Brownies made from scratch?   Are you kidding me?!   You do the math.

I have only two priorities:  My Kids & Totefish.  Because without me, neither would rise to their fullest potential.

The rest, as harsh as it sounds, will carry-on fine without me.

___________________________________________

PRINCESS BUSINESS WOMAN: A FairyTale with Photos

PRINCESS BUSINESS-WOMAN

Once Upon a Time, there was a young girl who graduated from college with only a filofax, leather briefcase, pair of navy pumps and a smart navy suit with shiny gold buttons as her most prized possessions.   This young girl wanted nothing more than to be a “Business Woman.”   Just like Melanie Griffith in “Working Girl” and that blond lawyer-woman on “L.A. Law.”

–

But when she moved to Los Angeles, the only job this young woman got was that of a secretary, fetching poppy-seed muffins for and fielding profanity-laced emails from her psychotic boss at NBC.  In the castle of primetime, she toiled late nights running calls from the car and slaved early mornings prepping “Must Review Today” folders for the crazy, evil boss-lady until she ran out screaming one morning and never came back.

–

For a few weeks, she drank a lot of $2 Chilean wine.  She chased her sexy sailing instructor down to Santiago.  She came home alone.  She read a lot of Ayn Rand.  She worked a few more jobs.  Got a few more promotions.  She even got an Associate Producer credit on a real television show. One year later, she left the Industry to raise her children.   But she never got her own business cards.   She never really got to be the “Business Woman” she’d always envisioned herself to be.  

–

Until yesterday.

–

For the simple price of a Southwest plane ticket, that little girl grew into a Princess.  She packed her navy suit, picked up her freshly-minted business cards from Uprinting.com and made her way to San Francisco for her first business trip.  To a conference, no less.  This is the fairy-tale story of her glamorous rise to the top.   This is proof that dreams do come true.  Kind of. 

Chauffeur drives Princess to airport. Chauffeur looks strangely like Princess.  (See “The Prince & The Pauper”)

–

Since flight was cancelled and Princess was re-routed, she arrives late to hotel.  Her King-room has been given away.  Princess gets upgraded to VIP floor. Princess learns that her Queen-room is a handicap room with double peep-holes.  (See “Snow White and Seven Dwarfs”)

–

Princess takes a shower in her handicap bathroom but realizes too late that the water doesn’t stay in the wheelchair accessible shower pan (”cause it’s a handicap pan).  She mops up 3 inches of water flooding the bathroom. With no dry towels left, she air-dries her body with the blow-dryer.  (See “Cinderella”)

–

Princess orders Gourmet Dinner on silver-tray from a servant who charges $15 for his delivery services. She eats her steamed ‘green vegetables’ and mashed potatoes while watching a rerun of “The Office” in her lower-than-normal-to-floor Queen bed.  She falls asleep shortly after the potatoes re-congeal in her stomach but the room is too hot, then it is too cold, the comforter falls to the floor and doors slam noisily in the hall all night.   REM sleep is elusive.  (See “The Princess and the Pea”)

–

Princess wakes early and hits snooze 3x’s until she’s (almost) late for Registration & Opening Keynote. She makes coffee in her room (using 4 creamers to make it palatable).  She dons her navy pantsuit and runs to the Ballroom.  (See “Cinderella” again)

–

Priceless Jewels and Treasures are bestowed upon the Princess, justifying the $1000+ Registration fee, for sure.

–

Horns blare. Criers hark. Music Soars. The Metropolitan Ballroom I doors open. Wait.  Oops. The Princess is registered for Track II.  That’s in the other Ballroom, isn’t it?  Excuse me. Pardon me.  Oh.  Where is everyone?  Oh, I’m early.  There are 7 sessions today?  That’s a lot of sessions.  We’re in this room all day?  But there’s no windows. (See “Rapunzel”)

–

Princess is exhausted… I mean, EXHILARATED by the 7 hours of speaking sessions.  Eager for the sight of real light, she heads out into the streets of San Francisco and stumbles upon a fine culinary experience.  She takes it “To Go” back to her hotel room and tears the dinner to shreds.  (See “Little Red Riding Hood”)

–

With her hunger satiated, the Princess realizes she’s too tired to shower.  Her feet ache.  Although she has a ton of email to catch up on, she just wants to watch 30 Rock on tv.   She tells herself she’ll do her work in the morning.  (See “Pinocchio”)

–

The Princess treats herself to a $45 can of not-quite-cold beer out of the mini-fridge. It’s a special occasion, after all.  She just lost her Business-Trip virginity.  She’s a real Business Woman now, damn it.  She’s a Business Princess! The Princess finishes her beer, then falls asleep until her I-phone alarm kisses her awake in time for Day II of the Affiliate Marketing Conference S.F. 2012.  (See “Sleeping Beauty”)

–

And Princess Business Woman worked happily ever after.

–

When I say my meeting is about to start, it means I’m late for tennis

Off to the… office

Yes, I’ve been lying.  That conference call wasn’t about to start, my meeting didn’t run long and I wasn’t on a deadline to get that spreadsheet over to the engineers by noon.  I was zipping up my tennis skirt, lacing up my shoes and running off to hit balls with the ladies for my weekly Monday Morning Tennis Clinic.  I admit it…  I’m a mid-day Exerciser.  And I feel guilty as sin about it.

Since mid-day tennis is a totally new thing for my lifestyle, I’m working out the kinks.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m hooked —  but if you saw how I obsessively I wipe the clay dust tracks off the kitchen floor each week, you’d begin to suspect that I was a hiding a body or two in the neighbor’s yard.  I can’t shake the feeling that I’m betraying someone, somewhere.  It feels so… illegal.

You see, although I live in on the west coast, I’m a east-coaster by training.  I like to read books under an afghan, I keep pantyhose in an open-drawer in my closet just in case there’s an opportunity to done a pair of jet black control-tops, and on nights when my husband is out-of-town, I surf Burberry.com and fantasize about the woman I could be inside one of those trench coats (red pumps optional).  Ever since I can remember, I’ve known that responsible adults take sweaty runs before breakfast or join 7 pm aerobics classes after work.  But the hours between 9 – 5 are for the office, baby.

Or are they?

Sure, old rich white men, Sales Reps and famous actors skip out of the office for a golf game in the middle of the day and sure, they wear it as a badge of accomplishment but that’s because they own the Club (or the Hedge Fund or the Super PAC or the family crest lapel pin), they have a huge expensive account (we all know how many deals get closed over drinks ‘on the green) or they just got paid $250k to sport that new pair of Persols in the sun.  What I’m trying to say is that women like me don’t do that kind of thing.

Multi-tasking: Working the phone & a nicotine-habit (20th Century Fox)

Sure, I enjoy a long “business lunch” as much as the next guy in the corner office but skirting away from my desk to play a quick round of Queen-of-the-Court?  I saw “Working Girl” (okay, fine, full disclosure, I’ve seen it 13.75 times if you count last month’s TBS’s 11 pm showing) and there is no way Tess McGill would sacrifice her hard-earned promotion by choosing a 30-minute volley-drill over conferencing with China about a new radio station acquisition.  Getting ahead means staying focused!  Working long hours!  Being the last one to leave the office!  Throw in the demands of parenting (and the guilt of hiring babysitters to oversee homework-hour while you crunch numbers) and there’s NO good reason a working mom should leave her desk in the middle of the day to run around a large rectangle wearing a cute skirt.

Or is there?

Tess, Tess, Tess.  We’ve learned so much since those awesome late ’80s (and I’m not only talking about shoulder-pad fashion).  I’m talking science and the brain and creativity and work productivity.  Turns out, I’m NOT getting ahead if I don’t work out during the day.  “Body & Brain Fitness” is real:

• Exercise Helps Your Write Funnier Sentences
• Exercise Makes You Think Good Thoughts, Even When You’re Sad & Depressed
• Exercise Solves Your Problems Quicker & Better
• Exercise Lets You Out-Achieve Your High-school Nemesis
• Exercise Keeps You Smarter than A Fifth Grader

You don’t need more bullet points, do you?!  This isn’t rocket science.  Exercise is like breathing.  Turns out, you’re an idiot if you don’t do it.  I know, I know.  That sounds harsh coming from a woman who still negotiates with herself when fitting in a 30-minute power walk, 3-days a week, during her lunch break.  I mean, I usually eat lunch at my desk, in front of my computer under the guise of “Advanced Productivity.”  Even I have to re-read these articles regularly to remind myself I’m not just procrastinating and putting off that Investor Deck.  (You knew those bullet points were links, right?).

Now, you’re asking “But When, Deb?”  My life is so busy already.  I haven’t got time to lunch at the table, let alone run along the street for 30 minutes.  I’m trying to build a company.  I’m trying to feed my family healthy food.  I’m trying to keep a (relative) tamp-down on the clutter of our house.  Where the hell am I going to slot in a 30 minute game of tennis?

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY!

Ignore that typo-ridden email from your boss.  Don’t write another boring sentence in that power-point presentation.  Stop checking the webstats on your blog.  Get some exercise.  And then, come back and do your work in half-the-time, at twice-the-quality, with a smile on your face and a pun in your step.  Everyone will be happier for it.

I could go on for hours about the benefits of day-time exercise but my meeting is about to start…

Outdated resume? Start a Company

Every journey has to begin somewhere.  And a start-up company isn’t any different.

I’ll try to keep this part short:  Born, raised and schooled on the East Coast. Moved to California after college.  Worked in the entertainment industry for 6 years.  Fell in love.  Got married.  Agreed it was best that one of us stayed home to raise the babies.  Got pregnant.  Quit job.  Raised two kids.  For 8 years straight.  Then, my youngest graduated from preschool and suddenly, I realized my children would be gone from 8 am – 4 pm.  That was a long time to be home alone.  It was time to get back to my career.  So I pulled out my resume.  And gasped.

I’d spent 10 years out of the paid-workforce and while full-time childrearing was the hardest job I’d ever had (and the only one in which I didn’t get to take long lunches at nice restaurants), there was a gaping hole in my resume.  My last position was in 1999.  I had not worked in over a decade.  No one would hire me at my last level.  And for sure, no one would give me the promotion that the last 10 years fine-tuning my household management skills warranted.  And consulting?  With a case study of only two, it was hard call myself a Childhood Development Expert.  My options were limited.

I could go back to the Entertainment Industry but that would require business breakfast, lunch and dinners, networking, showing up at an office regularly.  Although my children were in school full-time, I wanted to greet them at the bus stop, help them with their math homework and inspect their tooth-brushing job before they went to sleep.  You see, I’m a control freak.  And I’d read too many childrearing books to know that children thrived in an environment with involved parents.  A traditional desk job wouldn’t work for me.  I had only one option left.  I figured I’d write.

Novelists make their own hours.  A completed manuscript was their resume.  I’d written a book while I was pregnant with my first child (yes, I’m the ambitious sort).  It was terribly written and in desperate need of editing.  I could rewrite my soon-to-be-best-selling novel, get it sold, get it made into a movie and voila, I’d have a hyphenated career.  Writer/Producer.  We’d shoot the movie over the summer.  Great experience for the kids.  That was my plan.  As unrealistic as it sounded.

Then, one evening at the end June, I was talking with my girlfriend and she mentioned a problem she was having while shopping on the web.  The conversation went something like this:

“Don’t you just hate it when that happens?” my friend said.

“Oh I hate that,” I said.  I’ve told you about my idea, right?”

“No, what idea?” she said.

“The one where I fix that problem?…” I babbled away for a good 10 minutes, explaining my solution to our web shopping problem.  My friend didn’t interupt me.  She is very patient that way.  Finally, I stopped to take a breath.

“That’s a brilliant idea,” my friend said.

“Really?” I said.  “You think so?”

“I know so,” she said.

The next day, I replayed the conversation to my husband, adding “I think it might make a good company, you know?”  He smiled and said, “Why not?  Every company has to start somewhere.”

So, cut to a few weeks later.  I couldn’t stop thinking about my idea.  I thought about it more than I thought about my characters in my book.  Finally, I gave myself the rest of the summer to decide: start a company or rewrite my novel.  And well, three months later – and this is how the decision worked out.