Wednesday's Wish List

I'd be a happy camper if this was today's to-do list...

Listen to music
Take random pictures around the city
Eat chocolate truffles
Eat Pinkberry's
Sit on a park bench
Start reading Audacity of Hope
Drink a couple beers

Suffice it to say, I'm not a happy camper.

 

WTF! Make it stop.

Migraine. That's it. Two syllables for this ginormous pain. How to explain how bad it is? Try this.

Machete.

I can use one now.

Happy 60th Birthday, Mom

Today is the day to spread love. We should say I Love You to the world, to our friends, family, acquaintances, passers-by; we should show love in its many, splendid forms.

It’s ironic that today was chosen as the day of love. I literally stopped loving on this day nine years ago. My heart lost its capacity to give or receive love. I’ve actually forgotten what it is. Nine years ago today my mother slipped into a coma, on her 51st birthday. She never regained consciousness and passed away two days later. A large part of me did, too.

My mother was my constant, my base. I lost my bearing when she died. She alone fostered my independence and curiosity; my love of reading, learning, and travel. She taught me to question authority, to challenge the status quo, to accept only what’s good and honest. Yet, she didn’t live long enough to see me living out her dreams for me.

I’m sad about that. I’m sad about a lot of things.

It makes me sad that I can’t share good news, great times, old memories, new plans with my mother. There’s a touch of bittersweet to all the high points and a healthy dose of bereftness in the low.

My saddest and most guilt-inducing memory is that my last words to my mother, nine years ago today, were words of hurt, not love. That memory is on freeze-frame in my heart, leaving no chance for repair and reuse of the still-grieving organ. Though my heart’s capacity for love diminished, I didn’t stop caring; I care deeply. But that’s as close as I could get. Until today.

Today I’m committing to change. Today, I am embracing Love. In honor of my mother, who was the first person to love me and the last person I truly loved.

Happy birthday, Mom. Be at peace.

Today Show's Toyota Summer Concert Series 2009

I'll admit, I don't get excited about too many things. But, each year I look forward to the Summer Concert Series on the Today Show. I've never actually gone down the Rockefeller Plaza with the throngs of tourists and teenagers. I stay home and watch on TV and usually get to work late. (Shhh, don't tell my boss.) But, this year I think I will brave the crowds to see some great performances live.

Here's the 2009 lineup. If You're in town on the dates in bold, shoot me a line – we can go together.

May 1: No Doubt
May 8: New Kids On The Block & Special Guest
May 15: Jennifer Hudson
May 22: Fall Out Boy
May 29: Taylor Swift
June 5: The Dave Matthews Band
June 12: Black Eyed Peas
June 19: Jonas Brothers
June 26: The Fray
July 3: Rob Thomas
July 10: Rascal Flatts
July 17: The All American Rejects
July 24: Katy Perry
July 31: Kings of Leon
Aug 7: Jason Mraz
Aug 14: Flo Rida
Aug 21: Natasha Bedingfield
Aug 28: TBA

Are you unconventional?

The New York Times published an article last month about a New York City socialite (and author) who’d passed away. The article was short but piqued my curiosity. I Googled her name and spent the next hour reading about the life and loves of Leila Hadley Luce. By all accounts she was a highly unconventional woman, full of joie de vivre, independence, and self importance. Leila’s was a life of adventure, travel, self gratification, turmoil, heart ache, and love... however twisted.

What has been written about Leila reveals a complex character, one caught between breaking free from societal expectations (there’s a story about a round-the-world trip she took in 1951 with her toddler son on a schooner with an all-male crew (one of whom she married soon after) and holding steadfastly to status and wealth, at the expense of her self-esteem, dignity, and the welfare of her children (the tales about the mistreatment of her daughters are too distressing to mention).

At first glance, I should have been appalled at Leila’s story. What selfishness, debauchery, greed! But somewhere in the details, a story of fear and strength, love and loneliness emerged. And though shucking tradition with her unusual and unconventional lifestyle may have led to the suffering she experienced later in life, she very well may have considered it a worthy price to pay.

Without condoning the collateral damage that can result from unconventionality, I find myself drawn to stories that stem from it - real or fiction. I count among my favorite novels Daughter of Fortune, Portrait in Sepia (both by Isabel Allende); Beloved, Love (both by Toni Morrison); Their Eyes Were Watching God (Zora Neale Thurston); The House of Mirth (Edith Wharton) – all with female main characters who say to hell with tradition.

It was only when I recommended some books to a friend that I noticed that common theme. Afterwards, I decided to check out some books with strong, perhaps unconventional, male characters. First up, Long Way Gone; then Kite Runner; followed by Song of Solomon and Tar Baby; and last, East of Eden. (Although, I found Cathy Trask to be a more compelling character than Adam. Some things don’t change, I suppose.) The books are now on my favorites list, as is The Alienist. After all, good reading is good reading.

My attraction to strong, unconventional characters goes beyond the pages of a novel, or even a movie screen. Some of my closest friends are unconventional and uncompromising in their quest for the best life. Here are two of whom I am most proud.

Tanya T. (@gyrlxoxo) holds a doctorate degree in Food Science. After graduation, she took a job as Food Science Researcher for an international company, but walked away from it because there was no personal satisfaction, or challenge. During graduate school, when I met her, Tanya had an idea for website dedicated to healthy food reviews, among others (there’s a story there, too). She started it as a blog, even maintaining it during her Ph.D. program and after. Now, five years later, she’s turning a tidy profit, enough to support herself and a small cadre of freelance contributors. Of course, some think she’s nuts for walking away from “corporate America” to be a blogger. But I applaud her guts for taking the unconventional route.

Amy Gregory never went to college. But as she says quite often, “Who caaaares!” She certainly didn’t let it stop her from achieving her dream. Amy is an accomplished writer and published author. Highly successful people around the world pay her to tell their stories (i.e., ghostwrite for them). She’s bright, and shockingly honest; there’s a depth to her that I find difficult to match. And she’s the best friend a girl could have. You’ll have to read her book, Messy Faith, to find out about her unconventional life journey.

There’s also the sister duo Jess and Heather E., Brittany C., Charissa P., Marti J., Mavis B. and Violet L. (I would go into more detail about the greatness of each of these women, but they haven’t given me permission.) But I will say that each of them have a deep-rooted passion for service, either in education, international aid, impoverished communities and/or travel.

Why am I drawn to unconventionality? Perhaps because I also walk an unconventional path. Given my humble beginnings, my unadventurous family and a stifling dose of mediocrity and low expectations from teachers and professors, I somehow managed to carve out an inexplicably fulfilling life.

I ignored the high school guidance counselor who told me I was too poor to get in the college of my choice, and the college professor who told me I wasn’t smart enough to work for the company where I now work, and the cousin who thought I was an idiot for going to graduate school, and the naysayers who think I dream too big.

By not compromising my dreams and being open to an unconventional life, I’ve had some pretty cool experiences and met the most amazing people. From Greenville, South Carolina, to New York City, from Guatemala to Uganda, my path is literally the one less traveled by the folks who tried to shape me, and it has made all the difference.

The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Dear Doctor...

I feel it only right that I tell you how much you scared the bleepity-bleep-bleep out of me. My life expectancy was cut by no fewer than three days, and a few gray hairs appeared ahead of schedule. I just want to suggest that you never again end an examination with "Is there history of breast cancer in your family?" followed by "Come see me in my office when you've dressed." And what happens when I get to your office? You ask if I need any prescriptions refilled and mention NOTHING about breast cancer, or any other kind of cancer.

You've been my physician for several years now, and I've come to appreciate your your care and concern, your personable manner, your attention to detail. But I gotta tell you, Doc, this wasn't your smartest move. How could you not know that I would stand there in that attractive hospital gown, speechless, frozen in place (and freezing, literally), freaked out and trying to remember how to breathe?

In those short minutes it took me to get dressed, here's what went through my mind.

First: OH shit, what now?

Second: What should I tell Catherine (my boss)?

Third: Maybe it's early.

Fourth: What the hell?

Fifth: Who should I tell?

Sixth: OH shit.

Seventh: What do I do?

Eighth: Probably have to go see some specialists?

Ninth: Can call Lydia (a friend who just finished chemotherapy).

Tenth: Okay, suck it up.


Yeah, it wasn't fun.

Before this, I had never given much thought to the C-word. There's very little history of it in my family. One aunt succumbed to lung cancer more than 20 years ago, and an uncle to prostate cancer just weeks ago. No breast-related issues at all on my maternal or paternal side. But now, I'm still reeling from that moment. I'm half expecting you to call with a follow up question. It's freaking me out.

On the bright side, I will likely be back to my normal head-in-the-clouds self by next week. But for the time being, you've screwed with my usual copacetic existence.

And for that, can I get a refund on my $25 copay?

See you next year.

Greetings, from President Obama

I love my job, and there are numerous reasons that make me happy to work for the company that employs me. Here's one of them.

This installation that was in the lobby of Ogilvy & Mather NY during the week of President Obama's inauguration. I enjoyed seeing this every time I entered and exited the building. (Yes, I am sure some people weren't as enthused as I was. But this post isn't about them, now is it?)

Way to get excited about going to work :)

Mr. Sherman Goes to Washington

This is Stephen Sherman. He's a WWII veteran who was profiled in a Washington Post article by Dan Morse this week.

I love and admire military servicemen, anyone who chooses to serve our great country. Whenever I see a man or woman in uniform, I try to pay my respects, to thank them for serving and sacrificing.

On Sunday, January 18, 2009, after leaving the opening ceremony at the Lincoln Memorial, I saw Mr. Sherman, 88, sitting in front of the Institute of Medicine. His veterans cap was the first thing I noticed, all decked out with medals and decals. I made a beeline to say hello.

We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, both overjoyed to be taking part in such a momentous occasion. We shared phone numbers and email addresses, then promised to keep in touch. We have already spoken once by phone.

Mr. Sherman's story is not unusual. He, like many from his generation, never thought he'd live to see the day when a minority would become president. It was his personal mission to get to D.C. to witness it for himself. As reported in the article, Mr. Sherman requested cash in lieu of gifts for his last birthday so that he could pay for his trip to Barack Obama's inauguration. Having raised the funds, he flew from Los Angeles by himself. Once in the capital, he navigated the Metro system and found his way to the National Mall by himself. A true sign of determination and fortitude, in my opinion. (D.C.'s streets and Metro system have confounded me for years!)

This is more than just a story about meeting a veteran who went to the inauguration. It's an example of the excitement, familiarity and comraderie that was prevalent the entire weekend. We were a community of 2 million +. There was hardly a stranger among us. We laughed, we woo-hooed, we cried, we danced, we hi-fived, we ate, we drank, we lent a hand, we gave directions, we served, we listened, we sang, we celebrated – together.

Mr. Sherman described it best: "That's the way I always wanted to see America."

And that is why I braved single-digit temperatures, walked miles, and stood for hours. To experience the greatness of humanity, brother- and sisterhood, America. This was not the time to watch it from the sidelines.

And, again, thank you for your service, Mr. Sherman.

Ce n'est pas la même chose

It is apparent to me that making new friends is easier online, especially on Twitter, where connecting with like-minded individuals is as simple as clicking a button. Conversations are very short and usually concise. They have to be, since you have to get your point across in 140 characters or less.

But given that the Twitterverse is still populated with humans, a natural curiosity about one another develops. The usual protocol is to follow people’s posts on Twitter. Sometimes you can tell after just a few posts if you’re going to “like” a person. With less verbose twitterers, it can take a little longer. An even better way is to check out someone’s blog to get a better sense of what they’re about.

A lot of really smart and funny people have blogs. I enjoy reading them for the learning and the laughs. I never felt the need to join the blogger masses, but recently felt that I have some important stuff to say, too. (Probably because of the learning.) All I needed was an interesting way to get started.

The other day Charlie Fern, a fellow twitterer and really cool person, posted a meme on her blog. It’s quite humorous. (When done properly, a meme is a fun way to share interesting, and perhaps odd, tidbits about oneself.) She then tagged me to do the same on my blog, thereby providing me a pretty cool way to launch. So without further ado…

1. The story of how I got my name is a crafty tale. I was meant to be named after Nikki Giovanni, a radical Black American writer, activist and poet in the 60s and 70s. My mother loved her poems and wanted to name me Nikki. My father, on the other hand, thought the name was not good enough (read: ghetto). My crafty mother thought long and hard and suggested “Nichole.” Perfect. More than three decades later, my entire family calls me Nikki (except for my father). To him and the rest of the world, I am Nichole.

I am proud of being named after Ms. Giovanni, and of the somewhat backhanded way it happened. She’s now a professor of writing and literature at Virginia Tech. I had the pleasure of meeting her when she gave a reading at Clemson University during my graduate school days. I was asked to escort her from the reading to the location where she was to sign books. The crowd was impossible to navigate, so I found a less congested and quieter way to get there, which incidentally allowed us to chat for a few minutes. I struggled between being professional and telling her the story of how I got my name. Of course I told her, and she laughed and thought it was great. We bonded.

2. J’aime toutes les choses francaises. So much so that I should not have to work on Bastille Day. But for all this love of all things French, I've never been to France, or Quebec or even the French Quarter in New Orleans. Nor am I fluent, though I’ve studied the language on and off since 1985. I dream of living in France, for at least six months. I think it can happen. I keep up with current events there, going so far as to read French blogs, follow French news via @le_figaro on Twitter. I even watch Le Journal, and sometimes listen to RFI (Radio France Internationale) online. People have asked me what I will do while there. I get funny looks when I say "visit cemeteries" – like Montmartre, Montparnasse and Pere Lachaise. Some literary, art and music legends are buried there.

3. In the summer of ’07, I went on a safari in Paraa, Uganda. We spent hours photographing animals from wild boar to hippos to giraffe. As the day turned to dusk, I was half-sitting on top of the van taking pictures when we passed a lone elephant about 30 ft. from the road. The driver slowed to a stop to let us get a good shot. The guides advised us to turn off our flashes, but a handful of people didn't heed the warning. There was the steady click-click-click-click-click and quick bursts of light from all the cameras – it looked kind of paparazzi-ish. This of course annoyed the elephant. It started flapping its trunk and gave a gigantic roar that I’m sure could be heard for miles. And then it turned and headed toward us. The driver floored the van, with me still partly on top. I fell, fortunately inside and not sideways off the van altogether. Unfortunately, my fabulous sunglasses were broken during the melee. They are memorialized in my profile picture.

4. I am a member of the gluten-free, wheat-free, lactose-intolerant society. My diet consists of more quinoa than I care to discuss. Thanks to my nutritionist and life coach Gianna, and a wicked case of acid reflux, I have had to give up a lot of food favorites: Swiss Rolls, Snicker bars, all Sara Lee goodies, flour pasta, tomato-based sauces and white wine. But one thing I will not give up is fried okra - seasoned, cornmeal breaded, deep fried okra. A definite nod to my southern roots. Bring on the Prevacid.

5. A week before my college graduation in December 1995, I met the 49ers. THE SAN FRANCISCO 49ERS. They were playing the Charlotte Panthers, who played their entire inaugural season at Clemson’s stadium. Long, long ago I was interested in sports marketing and worked all the sporting events for a couple of years. This was my last day as an employee. After the game, I got to talk to George Seifert, Jerry Rice, Steve Young, Bryant Young, Ken Norton (I unsuccessfully tried to barter for his black cowboy hat). Steve Young gave me the biggest bear hug! They were all so nice to me, and congratulated me on my graduation. As they loaded the bus to leave, I realized that I’d forgotten to take pictures. But I did get the team t-shirt!

6. I may be the last American standing who has never been to Disneyland – either in Florida or California. I’m not sure why. I have nothing against Mickey and all his friends. But I do have a strong aversion to long lines and people singing and dancing in the streets.

7. I love to go hiking. The more challenging the better. One summer when I was still living in South Carolina, some friends and I wanted to try out a new trail. One of the girls didn’t have sneakers so I let her wear mine, and I wore flip flops. Dumb, I know. But we were going to stick to the path, so it shouldn't have been a problem. About 15 minutes in, I heard water and wanted to find the stream. I figured it couldn’t be too far away. I convinced the group to leave the trail in search of the creek. Down, down, down we went. For nearly half an hour. In flip flops. But we found it. And it was beautiful and cool. And worth it. Until it was time for the climb back up. In flip flops. After it was all over, I think my stock rose among my friends. I rocked that day.

So know you know more about me than you probably wanted to. But hey, it was fun, right? The rules of the meme game specify that I must ask seven others to participate. I have chosen them because I look forward to reading their tweets and blogs and think that they’re probably really cool people, too. They are:

1. Hrag Vartanian (@hragvartanian)

2. Julie Roads (@writingroads)

3. Julia Roy (@juliaroy)

4. Leeah Otis (@leeahotis)

5. PR Sarah Evans (@PRSarahevans)

6. Kristin Maverick (@kmaverick)

7. Rachel Sklar (@rachelsklar)

So, to the 7, here are the rules:

* Link your original tagger(s), and list these rules on your blog.

* Share seven facts about yourself in the post - some random, some weird.

* Tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names and the links to their blogs.

* Let them know they’ve been tagged by leaving a comment on their blogs and/or Twitter.