And then....there's that.

“That Rosie has been worshipped more than any other cat. Even Pharaoh cats in Egypt.” +Xandy Sussan

2011-05-14T11:07:00.000-07:00

I met my first love at a party venue. There were many other women there just like her, but she was the only girl who wasn’t fussing and complaining. She also wore a sash that read: ‘As advertised on the radio.’ Well isn’t that special, I thought to myself (To this day, I still wonder what the radio ad was all about). While the other women were dancing in their cages, my girl was just chillaxing, and ignoring the other dames who were making a fool of themselves. This woman’s individuality, wisdom and confidence stole my heart and we’ve been together ever since.

That was my first experience with Rosie Daisy Petunia (who we’ll from now on refer to as Rosie). She was a pound kitty and the above tale pretty much describes the conditions when we met. Except instead of a nightclub, I met my first love at the Van Nuys Animal Hospital in August of 1993.

It’s now 18 years later and I had to make the very hard decision to let my baby girl move on to her next destination in the clouds yesterday. I’ve had time to prepare, but it still sucked in a way I can't really describe. Rosie was the most stable thing in my life for 18 years. Even though she was pretty much a cranky bitch the whole time, anyone who spent time with Rosie could see her magic, her compassion and funny sense of humor.

I’d like to personally call out a few friends who have had a special connection to my Rosie because I know she’d want that. Let’s see, first Jen and Alicia for the Post-Its and warm laundry to nap in. Then there’s Katy, Annie, Susie and Steve who all took care of her at some point after Graduation from Loyola. Thank you to Lori for welcoming Rosie into her home without a second thought when I was in transition. Thank you to Taj, Xandy, Carol, David, and Lyn for always taking care of Rosie while I was on business trips.

Rosie had developed many nicknames over the years: Rosie Daisy Petunia, Pancake Head, Mesopotamia, Mertunia, Baked Potato, Merzilla, Rosie Posie, Stinkyface, Big Bootylicious, Squishyface, Heehoobunzicals, Big Girl, Ladyface, Rosalinda, Toonies, Tooniebuns but mostly, I called her just Petunia. Like Cher and Madonna. Just Petunia. She was the diva of all divas.

Part of my soul went with Petunia to Heaven yesterday when we laid her to rest. I’m hoping that God’s house has plenty of Post-it notes, cat treats and a warm blanket for my baby girl. I’m on my way Petunia, it’ll just take me a few years. I know you’ll wait for me.

Swept Off My Feet

2011-01-14T10:22:00.000-08:00

The first time I made the voyage to Las Vegas for the Consumer Electronics Show, it was 2001 and I saw Bill Gates speak from the front row and Craig Barrett’s keynote was followed the a performance by The Blue Man Group. I drove to the event from Los Angeles where I was Account Executive at Ogilvy PR and I stayed with a local high school friend to save money on expensive hotels. I was an innocent bystander in 2001. No clients, no major announcements, not a damned thing but a love for technology and an even bigger drive to be at the center of it all. I came home with great stories and really couldn’t wait to do it all over again.

See what lovely memories I have of CES in the early days? No mention of exhaustion. Not a lick of stress, no bitter stories about bad cab drivers or ghetto-fabulous hotels. All sunshine and puppies.

The second time I went to CES, I was launching U3 with SanDisk and M-Systems. We had press conferences in the North Hall, the booth was in the South Hall and I stayed at the Flamingo off the strip. When I got back home to the Bay Area, I had 6 blisters and didn’t walk for a few days. My feet were killing me in a way that I never imagined before.

And the third time I attended CES, I was launching Destinator in the U.S. with Bill Hankes. We gave limo rides to journalists to and from the Las Vegas airport. This was a brilliant PR campaign, and if they demos of the software actually worked, I might not have needed to walk for miles and miles across the show floor. I was smart that year. I brought 4 different pairs of shoes for the 4 days I was there. I still came home with 7 blisters.

Flash forward to ten years later and seriously, all l I can think about is my feet. How will they ever bounce back from the annual beating that is the technology industry’s annual lovefest? I’m unclear.

My old friend and former co-worker from Ogilvy PR (the same delightful girl who dipped her salad!) is now on the PR team for Seagate and as she said via text this morning, ‘my feet ready to fall off’ and she’s been at it since Tuesday. As I was strolling down the strip with Tod Hunter and my family of blisters was staging a riot, I started thinking.

Maybe the CEA needs to start marketing proper footwear for 2012. Maybe I should invent some sort of shoe insert that will protect the 140,000 folks that grace the South and North Halls of the Las Vegas Convention Center. Because really, no matter how many different pairs of shoes you pack, no matter how Gellin’ you happen to be, your feet will fail you in this particular situation.

If you’ve been to just one tradeshow, you know that Murphy’s Law always makes at least one appearance. Your booth’s Internet connection will be sporadic. The power will flicker on and off. Your press materials won’t show up; or if they do, they’ll still have ‘Track Changes’ all over the place (I learned this one the hard way in 2003). It’s just absolute insanity no matter how prepared you are.

So you add miles of walking like a crazed technology lunatic and your feet start to become angry. “Um, yeah no. We’re not walking anymore, doll. Ain’t happening, so sit your sorry ass down.” This was the speech I got as I was working in the Dijit booth. I ignored the ranting and raving of my feet and kept on going.

I might recover by CES 2012. Doubtful. But you know I can’t wait.

Some Devil

2010-09-20T07:09:00.000-07:00

I’m on a flight back to San Francisco from Chicago where I saw Dave Matthews close his U.S. Summer Tour at Wrigley Field last night. This was my 41st show, and they played #41 which is my favorite song out of their entire catalog. I have been known to do some crazy things to feed my healthy (yeah, right) addiction to one of the best bands of my generation. I attended my first Dave Matthews concert alone in 1995 at what used to be called Irvine Meadows. I flew to New York alone last year to see them open their tour at Madison Square Garden. I am going to Charlottesville in November because I want to see where it all began. I have seriously forked over more duckets than I care to admit just to see this funky band of extraordinarily gifted misfits. The answer is simple: that Dave Matthews is some gifted Devil.

Annie first introduced me to Dave Matthews in 1994 with the album Under the Table and Dreaming. We listened to the CD on repeat and I was hooked. Katy and I used to sing ‘Ants Marching’ in the car. Kate and I knew all of the words to ‘Too Much.’ ‘Crash’ was my song with Heather. I went to D.C. to see Dave with Siobhan and we sang and danced to ‘Everyday’. It was sweet to watch Kristen get all teary while still cutting a rug at her first concert. ‘The Idea of You’ is perfect for my 20 year old romance with Jen, the love of my life. I turned Erica, a hardcore Dave-hater, into a disciple after she heard ‘The Last Stop.’ Janet turned to me after her first concert in 2008 after just two songs and said ‘Okay, now I get it.’

I was there when LeRoi Moore passed away unexpectedly in Los Angeles in 2008. Dave opened the show and played a very heartbroken version of ‘Bartender’ that had the entire Staples Center in tears. That night we mourned Roi by playing all of his favorite songs. By the second night, Dave played all of Roi’s least favorite songs and that humor helped us all heal and accept that our friend Roi was gone forever. And then a turning point came. Roi’s passing caused a rift in the band and they took a year off. Thank God for Stefan Lessard who persuaded the band to stay together and then finish recording Big Whiskey and the Groo Grux King.

This album was a game changer. The millions of DMB fans who had been following them religiously and fanatically for 15-20 years doubled. Even Rolling Stone breathed a sigh of relief. Like this was the album everyone knew they could produce. Um, that’s just fine and all. But where have you people been for the past 20 years? These bad-ass bitches have been making killer music all along, but you just chalked them up to just another college band. Until now. Blasphemy!

Some idiot last night asked me if I had heard ‘Alligator Pie’ because he said “it’s the worst song ever.” I told him he needed a Q-Tip and then asked what else he liked. “Oh I like ‘Shake Me Like a Monkey’ and ‘Funny The Way It Is.’” This guy had never heard anything else from their catalog of music, but like most new “fans,” he thinks he knows everything because he’s now in on the Dave Matthews Band secret. I’m inspired by this new found interest in my boys and I’m so very thrilled that the rest of the world is finally getting it. Just don’t be talking smack when you’ve only heard 3 songs, or else Some Devil will get stuck inside of you. And you’ll never set it free. Trust me, that’s a very, very good thing.

Great Expectations

2010-08-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

Back in October of 2008, when we were all debating about Sarah and John and Barack and Joe, I was not quiet about my skepticism about Obama. I thought he was a sham. A form of vaporware. A total joke of a politician, and I’m a liberal lesbian democrat. I wanted to believe in him. I wanted so badly to feel like he was a beacon of hope and that ‘Yes, we can.’ I wanted to adore a minority who worked hard and with his bare hands to be the grand leader he is today. But listening to him engage as a skilled orator makes me cringe even today.

As Maureen Dowd called him our Mr. Perfectly Unclear President, I seldom find any glimmer of shiny, happy and clear facts from his public speeches. His rhetoric is impeccable, but as a PR professional who can spot a pile of BS from a mile away, he’s totally full of excrement.

In Maureen’s recent article, she quotes: “Obama is the victim of the elevated expectations he so skillfully created in 2008.” Bingo! Nicely done, Miss Dowd. But let’s take it a step further.

Obama set his expectation bar so high in the clouds because Americans were dying of thirst for a prolific and gifted leader just like him. But because Dubya left our country in such a mess, that there is really no realistic way that we can bridge the gap between the past administration and Obama’s unattainable standards.

Obama is not a bad man. He’s not the best President we have ever had and he hasn’t made good on so many of his campaign promises. He’ll do for now, but deep down we all know that he’s just not good enough for the long haul.

Brands Are People Too

2010-06-28T21:36:00.000-07:00

If you’ve ever been shopping with me, you know I’m a loyal brand follower. I like labels. The generic of just about anything drives me batty. Even as a kid, I refused to eat Blue Label products from Ralph’s. You know, the plain white bag with the blue stripe across reading: Chips. Very inventive. Doritos brand Nacho Cheese tortilla chips, please.

I know a label is just a label, but to me a brand label always means a guarantee of quality, effectiveness and well, trust. I trust that Tide will give me the cleanest clothes. I trust that Biolage will give me the best hair. I trust that a Volkswagen will last almost forever. I trust that Belvedere is better than Smirnoff. And I trust that anyone in the public eye won’t drink, do drugs, won’t have scandalous affairs or act like a total idiot on camera.

Oh wait, that last part isn’t entirely true. Brands are people, too.

In the midst of recent brand crises, namely BP, Toyota and Tiger Woods, I’ve changed my tune a bit. A golfing genius has a sex addiction? The hippie dippy Prius isn’t perfect? A corrupt company is in bed with the U.S. government? No way.

Even technology brands are raising my eyebrow these days. Why is Oracle partnering with Hollywood to make a connection between Iron Man 2 and enterprise software? Um, there isn’t one. Let it go already.

Are brands allowed to make mistakes? No. We expect them to be perfect. That’s why they’re brands for fuck’s sake. You don’t get to be Toyota because you make crappy cars. You get to be Toyota because you strive for perfection. Safety is always first. What’s best for the driver, the passenger, the end user, the customer, the member, the consumer is always at the forefront of every decision Toyota makes.

I know, I’m kidding. Brands don’t give a crap about us anymore.

Facebook is using our data without our permission. Tiger Woods slept his way across the globe and back, and still plays golf. Americans are still buying the Toyota Prius. Oil is quickly spilling by the gallon as I type this blog post 30,000 feet above the Gulf. Backlash? Ha, think again.

The American public seems to be strangely fussy about who and what we will forgive and forget about. Pee Wee Herman will never live down his movie theater mishap. Neither will George Michael. Yet, we somehow forgive Bill Clinton for letting Monica Lewinsky get the best of him. Strange.

We’ve all made mistakes. Not like whoops, I forgot my keys mistake. But, whoops, I didn’t mean to roll around naked with my best friend’s wife mistake. Brands make mistakes too. It’s all become a gamble of who gets caught. I wonder who will be next.

“I’ve just been quietly weaving my baskets under a bridge all this time.” +Kevin Spacey after winning an Oscar for The Usual Suspects.

2010-02-23T10:15:00.000-08:00

I spend about 14 hours each day during the week working like a crazy banshee and 5 or so hours on the weekend. I’ve had loved ones threaten to hold my Blackberry hostage. Sunday and Tuesday are starting to feel the same. I’ve conducted a PR miracle while in a moving car, not driving of course. Sometimes 2:11 am is the only time I can talk to my International clients. If I’m not thinking about my little family of technology companies even when I’m sleeping well then, I’m not doing this right.

Hello, my name is Teena and I am an entrepreneur. I have no life.

Okay, maybe a little. But not much.

Just like Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption, I’ve been using this little pick for the past six months or so. Focused, tenacious and modest. A little bit every single day. Thank God I’m not lazy. But starting, running and growing a business takes dedication, a strong work ethic and who am I kidding: an obsessive personality. If I didn’t love my job and I didn’t make it my personal mission to find the right formula of PR for my clients, then I would have nothing to think about all day long. And we all know that boredom is for the small minded.

Some days, I feel like I’m running an International PR Hostel for the most interesting travelers. Other days, I just want the phone to stop ringing so I can hear myself think. Most days I’m getting results for happy clients and can’t imagine doing anything else.

Now that I’ve reached my one year goal in a mere seven months, I’m already thinking about hiring and expanding. See? I’m a true entrepreneur. Can’t just settle for success. Must. Obsess. Over. Next. Move.

When we first met, I used to think Peter Shankman was crazy. The man never slept, loved his job more than women and had more energy than anyone on earth. Including me. It’s over a decade later and I now truly understand why Peter is so successful. He does PR his own way, the right way, differently. And he never stops. People think he’s nuts and he embraces the notoriety like a warm blanket on a chilly night.

I am honored to join the ranks of the quiet basket weaving, highly motivated and successful entrepreneurs of my generation. And it’s okay if you think I’m crazy. You’re probably right.

Taking Up Space

2010-01-04T09:04:00.000-08:00

My first and only reporter job was a technology dork’s dream come true. In the 90s, Computer Technology Review was a tabloid version of eWeek and Light Reading. I thought writing about firewalls and Java was just about the coolest job ever. And then I started listening to Mark Ferelli go on and on and on and on some more about storage. I was hooked.

Disk, tape, optical. Then there was RAID which I just found fascinating of course. But I always wondered. Aren’t we eventually going to, um, run out of space? I mean, great that we can store just about any type of data on multiple types of storage. Woopeedoo. What happens when we run out of room?

About two years ago I started following this crazy and outlandish concept called Cloud Computing. I remember telling just about anyone who would listen and I usually got the glazed over stare after I started explaining how Cloud works. I realize this isn’t exactly compelling dinner party conversation material. Interestingly enough, that seems to have changed.

Not that every dinner party I attend is centered on Cloud, but thank the sweet baby Jesus that I’m not the only nerd making noises about this confusing yet inevitable storage method. But now the conversation has changed. It’s no longer “what the hell is Cloud Computing”, but more like “are you sure we can trust this so-called Cloud”? The public Cloud versus the private Cloud versus the hybrid Cloud. How can we really tell if our information is safe, secure and untouchable by the most ambitious hacker?

There are already several standards organizations formed to establish Cloud Computing best practices, as well as determine security measures that expand or contract depending on the type of Cloud storage used. Similar to WiMAX and U3, Cloud might seem like a tease. It’s real and it’s already changing the way companies do business.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, though. Cloud Computing has and will continue to impact the way companies manage their data. There is a limit, however. Even Ed Sperling’s recent article titled ‘Not Everything Will Move to the Cloud’ makes it crystal clear that some data and applications will never make it to the big Cloud in the sky. Large financial institutions and big manufacturing plants can’t leverage the Cloud because of security compliance or massive data too big to be contained.

And here all this time I’ve assumed that Cloud adoption was all about space. And trust. Clearly it’s all still up in the air.

There are no small parts, only small businesses.

2009-09-21T08:53:00.000-07:00

My father always tried so hard to console me every time I didn’t get the lead in the school play. I never bought the ‘no small parts’ business. I wanted to get the lead character with the most lines and best possibility for totally hamming it up onstage. I know, obnoxious. But let’s not focus on that. As I got older and honed my acting skills, I got better parts, but never the lead.

Now I’m the starring role in the very interesting little play called ‘Teena Touch PR’. I’ve been told a million times over the part of the past 10 years that I should start my own business. Yeah, right. I can barely navigate my way through thick company politics. How on earth would I start, run and grow a business? I’m just getting the hang of houseplants.

Like my career in public relations, I got here totally by accident. Let’s not assume it was all random fate; I was born for PR. I get so passionate and excited and fulfilled when I bring my clients great success that solves their business needs. I just never imagined that I would be successful doing PR for my clients in my own special way. But here I am.

In the past few months since Teena Touch PR was born, I have learned the following nuggets of small business intelligence:

1. Write a business plan. Even if you don’t need capital to start or run your business, it’s imperative to have the structure of a business plan to mentally guide you through the first few years.

2. Run the numbers. My sister is a money wizard and did me the huge favor of breaking down the details of what I will need to grow my business over time.

3. Learn how to negotiate. If you under bid on a piece of business because you don’t want to scare away a potential client with a large price tag, you will always find yourself working for nearly nothing. Be realistic and never sell yourself short.

4. Don’t ask your other self-employed friends for advice. Everyone has their own opinion, but you will often find that there is a very good reason that you have clients and they do not.

5. Use the Internet for resources. Pretty much any moron can start a small business. But doing it right takes skill, intelligence, research and a little help from websites like LegalZoom, GoDaddy, VistaPrint and GoToMeeting.

6. Don’t hire a partner. It sounds like a great idea. Two heads are better than one and all that business. When you’re just starting out, go at it alone. Trust me.

7. Schmooze, even if you don’t like people. Networking events, Facebook, Twitter, Associations, Linked In and the like will no doubt connect you to other people in your industry. I’m not a big fan of any networking honestly, but it’s a necessary evil. And if you don’t Tweet and post on Facebook and go to Happy Hours then you are limiting your own exposure and recognition.

8. Eat before Noon. Your brain will stop working by 2 or 3 pm. When you start babbling to yourself, it’s time to eat.

9. Shower before 2 pm. If you don’t, you will still be sitting in your stinky PJs from last night at 11:30 pm. Been there, done that.

10. Leave the house once a day. Even if you take the dog to the park, that’s fine. There’s something to be said about changing the scenery.

11. File all of the necessary paperwork. Get a business license, Federal Tax ID Number and all that official paperwork mailed away to the appropriate state and government officials. Sounds complicated; it’s not.

12. Don’t fall for the Small Business Loan scams. If you start looking for capital, you will run into several shady characters who will promise the sun, moon and stars. Run.

13. Be patient. Just when I wanted to throw my laptop out the window and go back to my cushy job in corporate communications, I started gaining traction. Now I’m making more than I ever did at said cushy corporate job.

This isn’t easiest path to take, but being an entrepreneur gives you more freedom than you ever imagined before. While it can sometimes be a bit challenging to tackle a problem alone when you’re so used to a team, you will start to trust yourself and feel confident in your recommended strategies.

I should have done this years ago but something tells me that I wasn’t quite ready until now. And timing is everything, even for those of us who always get the small parts.

“Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act”. +Truman Capote

2009-09-07T09:26:00.000-07:00

It appears that growing up has some disadvantages. I don’t really mind being called ma’am, and I am getting used to my body changing in ways I never really imagined. I do, however, take issue with large crowds and general admission seating at concerts.

We got up at 5 am to get a spot in the front row to see Dave Matthews Band at Outside Lands this year. Last year I waited for a total of 18 hours for three different Dave Matthews Band shows also with general admission seating. I’m clearly a rabid fan who has no problem waiting in the cold, heat, rain or sleet. I learned something new this year: I’m too old to battle the sardine can that is the front row of an open admission concert.

There are only three instances where you will find me running: if I’m playing basketball, softball or if someone with a large knife or gun is chasing me down the street. That’s it. I’m in no hurry otherwise. But that Saturday morning, I was booking it all the way through the Polo Field at Golden Gate Park to the front of the stage. So you see, I went to great lengths to secure my prime position at the very front of the crowd.

Enter stage left: snotty, bitchy, surly beast of a teenybopper who inserted herself into the front row. She wedged her big bootylicious in between our group of five like she had been waiting there since midnight. I managed to squeeze out her and her harem of Paris Hilton look-a-likes before we went off searching for Farmer Brown’s fried chicken.

For the first time ever, I was the old crotchety crabapple who got all snippy with a youngster and put her in her place for attempting to hijack our seats. I mean, really. The nerve.

After a little siesta in the sun with delectable treats, we attempted to return to our friends and Surly Teenybopper in the front row. Wading through a huge crowd like that feels kind of like playing Twister with a full beer in your hand. By the time we reached the front, Surly Teenybopper had taken up full residence in our spot and she was NOT giving it up.

I decided to choose my battle wisely and ditch my prime front row seats. The seats I got up for before dawn and waited 5 hours in line to run a mile and then wait for 7 more hours in the sun. If I was to have a remotely enjoyable concert experience, I’d have to do it from far away. So, the Fiance and I fled the sardine can and still enjoyed the stunning concert from our picnic blanket off to the side of the stage.

Ten years ago, I would have kicked Surly Teenybopper in the shins and told her where to shove her self-important, pretentious and little hussy attitude. I would have been all fine and dandy with being shoved, poked and prodded during a 2 hour concert. But it just ain’t worth it anymore.

The truth is, I am older now. I think those damned kids’ music is too loud. I can’t understand the ridiculous trendy vintage outfits and the bizarre hairdos that accompany this entitled generation. My third act seems to be a farce of sorts, though I am thoroughly enjoying the writing process.

All The News That’s Fit To Purchase

2009-08-12T07:10:00.000-07:00

My random fits of insomnia usually involve watching reruns of The West Wing, cuddling with the dog and listening to the comforting sound of snoring. Now I have one more sleep distraction: Twitter. Most of the 80-something people I follow on Twitter are news outlets. I love getting as-it-happens news from various sources at 3:12 am on the Blackberry. I like knowing what’s happening while I’m under the covers. I am not a fan of the term ‘news junkie’, but I’m afraid that I fit the description.

Rupert Murdoch recently announced that The News Corporation plans to charge readers for news content online. A few months ago I asked some friends over brunch and the Sunday New York Times if they’d pay for news content online as Google and some other players were making noises about such shenanigans. Rupert wants to make it happen and I’m sort of torn on the issue.

There’s the obvious truth that any breaking news content can be found in multiple locations on the Internet. We all read stories after Michael Jackson’s death about social media’s impact on the shitstorm of news from that fateful day. Gone are the days where we read the newspaper to get information. It’s free and it’s available online 24/7 across the globe.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if paid content is special. Exclusive. Under true NDA. I can’t find it anywhere else unless I pay $9.99 to the News Gods. As consumers, we’ll pretty much pay for anything if we want it that bad. I never thought I’d pay 30 bucks a month to get unlimited access to DVD movies via the postal service when Netflix was my client 10 years ago, but I love my movies.

As a PR ninja, I frequently break out the credit card for access to news and information on industry and trade-specific websites. In order to get business intelligence for my clients, I have to pay for analyst reports and sometimes media coverage to provide the best strategy possible. I suppose if I were anyone other than me I’d read Google News like everyone else.

Will Rupert succeed? Will we pay for news just like everything else in life? I think it’s very ambitious but the Wall Street Journal among others is already playing the game. But will consumers play along?

“And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife. And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?” +Talking Heads

2009-07-09T16:05:00.000-07:00

I’m perched at my desk in the corner office with a view of the Bay while I type this. No, I’m not some big corporate dimwit, I just work from home. And as much as I love my guest room slash home office, I prefer to sit at my dining room table while working on client stuff and learning how to build a business.

There are moments when I look around the huge living room in my Berkeley home and I have absolutely no idea how I got here.

My day starts with herding my Fiancé out the door to the nursing clinic, then it’s time to feed two cats and one dog after I hit snooze a few times. Then I get the pleasure of poop scooping and backyard rinsing. Then I grab some coffee and sit here at the big window. After a whirlwind day of client business, social networking and reading until my eyes bleed, I take great pleasure in watering the front yard. It’s the smell of fresh Rosemary and Lavender that make it especially delicious.

I have NO idea who I’ve become.

I used to buy Steamed Veggies for one. Now I get the family size. I used to despise happy Lesbian couples because I was forever entrenched in the most dramatic of romantic affairs. Now I’m planning a wedding with one of the best people I know. I used to mock people in Berkeley who only buy local and organic. Now I’m making plans to walk down to the Berkeley Farmer’s Market just to get some fresh basil and Roma tomatoes to go with the Fettuccine I’m serving with pan-seared scallops tonight.

Again, who the hell am I?

It’s not that life doesn’t have its ups and downs. Nothing is perfect, and we all have our crappy days. Sometimes it’s just nice to look around and realize that life isn’t always the same as it ever was.

Facebook (Not Time) Heals All Wounds

2009-06-21T14:37:00.000-07:00

I was interviewing my friend Annie last week about an education project I’m working on for one of my potential clients. After the business side of our conversation turned into catching up on personal stuff, we landed on the topic of Facebook and the past. We both agree that Facebook has become sort of like virtual therapy. Consider this: remember that guy who broke your heart in high school because he went with Sally Sue to the prom instead of you? Well guess what? Now he’s on Facebook except these days he’s fat, bald, divorced and unemployed. And he wants to be your friend.

It’s as if those eight little words “Billy Smith Has Added You As A Friend” will somehow make you forget about how you cried into your pillow the whole week before prom. And accepting Billy’s friend request will somehow erase the 4 hours you spent with the standby prom date who talked your ear off the whole night. I don’t know what it is, but being friends on Facebook means that the horrible shit Billy did to you 20 years ago is now null and void.

I got a friend request last week from this girl I knew in high school. She was sort of an asshole back then, but when she dated my very first girlfriend not even 30 seconds after we broke up, that was a different story. Even so, I found myself accepting the friend request, because really, I don’t care anymore. It doesn’t matter what happened in 1996 with my first lesbian relationship. Would I have preferred that she not Shanghai my first true love? Sure. But do I really care today? Not in the least bit.

Is Facebook a safe haven where you can be friends with people that you secretly hate? Do we friend people not because we like them so much but because we want 8 million friends too? Does a connection on Facebook actually mean that you’re truly friends? I was reading an interesting article in (big shocker) BusinessWeek while on a flight back from (no way) New York two weeks ago all about how corporations attempt to translate internal employee relations via social networking. Most attempts are unsuccessful, but still. The parallel universe that is Facebook has clearly become a highly skewed social barometer.

There are ex-girlfriends, former co-workers, frenemies and even acquaintances that I wouldn't answer the door for let alone friend on Facebook. As liberating and cocoon-like as Facebook might be for some users, I still value my privacy and there are some people I wouldn't be friends with even in a virtual reality.

So Much To Say

2009-05-20T00:43:00.000-07:00

I like to talk. A lot. Some might call me a Chatty Cathy. A smooth talker. Someone who can’t live without her Blackberry welded to her ear. Recently, I’m learning that I’ve got so much to say and yet not many people listen because I’m speaking at the speed of light. Pretty much my whole life has been spent repeating myself and speaking slowly for those of you who don’t read mouths.

Like most everything else, my speech has slowed considerably in the past few months. You can’t reel in the right technology clients unless they can understand what the hell you’re talking about. So I’ve been forced to ‘take it down a notch’ and it’s really not easy.

When I was 5, my father took me to a speech therapist because I had a distinguished lisp and well, we just can’t have that now, can we. After 3 months of tape recorded sessions and repetitive speech therapy, my lisp was gone. I believe that this where the fast talking stepped in. My overactive mind assumed that if I didn’t get my words out fast enough, then I would be ignored. It’s now 30 years later and I’ve learned the valuable lesson of slowing down so that my words of wisdom might actually reach my target audience.

I’m currently on an airplane to Vegas and for the first time in 5 years, I’m without an iPod. It was just one of many casualties from my move into my Berkeley castle on a cloud. Without the sound of music blaring into my head and nothing else in the world to distract me, I’m practicing my pitch in my head and for once in my life, I can even understand me. Finally.

The Aura of Holy Organic Foods Batman!

2009-04-28T14:48:00.000-07:00

Having been born and raised in Los Angeles, I hardly ever get star-struck. Then I read Maureen Dowd's recent column on 'The Aura of Arugulance.' Ms. Dowd was just recently in my backyard in Berkeley apparently. She met with two of my favorite Bay Area celebrities, George Lucas and Alice Waters.

George Lucas is a genius and all, and I think his empire up in the Presidio is pretty amazing. But it's Alice Waters and her Chez Panisse restaurant that really made an impression. Many of you know that Maureen Dowd is my literary and journalistic idol. If I could be a fly on the wall during those magical days that she pens her weekly Op-Ed column for the New York Times, I'd die a happy lesbian.

But the fact that Maureen and Alice broke bread together just DOWN THE STREET from my house is a whole other story. It's as if my literary and culinary mentors had a meeting of the minds and didn't invite me. I suppose it's all for the best as I would have spent the entire meal trying desperately NOT to make a pass at Maureen.

There is really no big moral to the story here. And I'm for once not making some big statement about what I think about the world. Just my little ditty about how I so wish I could have had a seat at that table back on April 18.

Maybe when I take my girlfriend for dinner at Chez Panisse for her birthday in a few weeks, Maureen and Alice will still be eating dinner together. I know, wishful thinking. Can't a nice, mild-mannered lesbian have a dream?

Until It’s Gone

2009-04-17T10:21:00.000-07:00

I was on a flight from San Francisco to New York when my grandmother Shirley Taylor passed away. I landed at JFK with Thievery Corporation blaring from my Bose headphones and alarming text messages from my uncle and sister on my Blackberry. I knew she was gone.

When I heard that she was in the hospital a few weeks ago, I promptly got on a flight to Orange County. My grandmother had always been much closer to my big sister and we did spend many years out of touch due to other family dramas out of our control. I loved her and she loved me, but it was always in the background.

It didn’t occur to me until that morning I got the call about her hospitalization. I immediately sat up in bed, the tears already forming in my throat. I had no idea how much she meant to me until that very moment. I am so thankful that later I had a chance to hold her hand for a few hours while she stared intently into my eyes. It was as if we both knew how much love there was between us, but that it might be too late.

Shirley was one of the most special women to have ever played a role in my life. She was a conservative woman who believed in traditional lifestyles. Yet she still voted no on Proposition 8 because her granddaughter and great granddaughter are both lesbians. That shows true character.

She always collected my business card after I started a new job. She was so proud of me climbing the corporate ladder. She was a quiet woman who loved to read, watch television and attend theater. I’ll always cherish the year she took me to see Neil Simon’s The Dinner Party for my birthday. We shared that fierce love for the performing arts and I might never see another play again without thinking of her.

My grandmother had a fairly modest estate and I’m not interested in any of it, save for one thing. She always formally typed her letters on the oldest typewriter known to man. I’m hoping to inherit that machine so I can keep her sweet, gentle and independent spirit at my fingertips.

As I listened to Dave Matthews Band’s #41 at Madison Square Garden last night, I let the tears fall down my face as I realized how much the lyrics “I wanted to stay/I wanted to play/I wanted to love you” rang so true for me at this particular time. The powerful emotion of regret can hold on and never let go.

It’s very seldom that I find myself in the position of ‘not knowing what I’ve got until it’s gone.’ I’m pretty big on relishing the present and those people in my life who matter the most. It is the passing of my beloved grandmother that will forever change me. I know she’s somewhere up in Heaven with her husband, eating her famous Orange Salad, and her smiling down on me makes it all okay.

I will miss you, Gramma. See you on the other side. I’ll bring the theater tickets.

Pay for Play?

2009-04-15T12:42:00.000-07:00

My very first client was Web 99. It was 1998, and I was an account coordinator at Bender/Helper Impact in Los Angeles. I was the lowest man on that totem pole and even I was amazed at the monthly retainer for Web 99. I made only $35k that year, so watching a client pay $25k per month seemed outrageous to me.

It is ten years and a hundred clients later, and I still can’t fathom why public relations should cost so much money. When I managed the Oracle Applications business, my monthly budget was a little under $100k. And I got yelled at if I didn’t meet the budget. Seriously? Seriously.

Just what does $100k per month get you? For Oracle, it was a lot of press releases, briefing sheets and editorial calendar submissions. Sheesh, that’s it? I managed accounts at Blanc + Otus where that amount of work was the acceptable minimum for a $15k account. So this creates a somewhat intriguing business problem: is the pricing model in public relations broken? Do you pay too much for what you don’t get?

I’m not one for shameless self-promotion, but this very problem was the impetus for the birth of ICPR. ICPR is my Bay Area PR firm focused on high tech, green tech, clean tech , and internet companies. At ICPR, we believe that when it comes to public relations, you should get what you pay for. And you should only pay for what you get. Novel idea, ay? You’d be surprised.

When I meet new start-ups or established players in the technology industry, executives seem shocked that ICPR’s price tag is so reasonable. Like they’re accustomed to being ripped off and overbilled. I always explain that at ICPR, we only charge you for what services and campaigns you need versus what we THINK you need. If your needs change month to month, totally fine. We can customize your program each month very easily.

At the end of the day, the mystery and magic of public relations shouldn’t be in the price tag for real results. The power of good PR is a business tool that every company should be able to afford. The world deserves to get the visibility and exposure that it deserves without breaking the bank. How’s that for disruptive pricing?

Burn After Reading

2009-02-22T09:25:00.000-08:00

I get up at 5:25 am on the second Tuesday of every February to watch the Academy Awards nominations live on television. What started out as an assignment for the Loyola Marymount newspaper has now turned into a lifelong tradition. I'm a movie buff, an Oscar fanatic and overall cinema fiend.

This year is different. Not for lack of quality films. Not because Mickey and Sean and Kate and Leo weren't just amazing in their roles in 2008. But because we've all been too busy to give a rat's ass about movies this year. The economy tanked, we elected the first black president, vetoed gay marriage and lost a bazillion jobs. I'm sorry if I've been neglecting the popcorn and Red Vines, Hollywood. Things have been tough all over.

A recent article in The Economist titled "And The Loser Is..." highlights the viewer statistics of the Super Bowl and American Idol versus the Oscars. It's sad to me that 32 million people watched the Oscars last year and yet the Super Bowl saw 96 million people. And even more people watch every episode of American Idol. What is the world coming to?

I think The Economist has a strong point: "Within Hollywood, of course, the Academy Awards still matter a great deal. Prestige and acclaim are hard currency in the film business, in many ways more valuable than money. The danger is that Hollywood’s taste in its own products is becoming as removed from public opinion as its political views are outside the American mainstream. What viewers will see on Sunday night is an industry talking to itself."

Hollywood doesn't care about what you want to watch as much as you don't have the time to get to a movie theater. But tonight still matters to the big studios and somewhere deep down inside, it matters to me too.

Separation of Church and State

2009-02-10T23:25:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure that when the game of telephone was invented, this idea wasn't part of the plan. The New York Times had a recent article in the Sunday Edition entitled "Cellphones As Credit Cards? Americans Must Wait" that examines the crazy idea of using one's cellphone as a credit card. Like you just wave your phone over the little speedpay thingy at the gas station, even if you are on the horn with Mom.

This can and will create so many problems I don't even know where to begin.

The marriage of mobile applications with personal finance is all fine and good if you're just reviewing your online banking and whatnot. But all I can think of as I imagine paying for groceries with my Blackberry is the shifty folks who will then have access to my banking and credit card information. I don't open my personal finance kimono that frequently, and now I'm pretty sure I won't be enabling hackers to slurp up my financial information via Blackberry.

Because there are so many players who must agree on how to split the revenue of this sort of endeavor, it will take awhile to become more than a stupid idea. The bigger concern here should truly be focused on security. Your average Joe Consumer won't buy into this technology unless that piece of the puzzle is tried and true.

I'm a big proponent of keeping my music and phone from mingling together; maybe someday I'll get an iPhone and not feel weird about it. For now, I think I'll keep my cellphone and personal finances from having a torrid love affair. Keep it simple.

The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco. +Mark Twain

2009-01-07T20:51:00.000-08:00

I’m sure you are well aware of the crazy cold Bay Area weather. Sure, it’s not New York or the Tundra, but it’s pretty damned cold here almost all year round. After four years of chilly days and nights, I’ve learned about the magic of layering and the beauty of warm hats and scarves.

Cut to my recent visit to Los Angeles. I love the warm holidays down south because it reminds me just how cold it can get at home. A chilly 45 degree evening in LA is the norm for a typical day in the Bay Area. In LA, it’s the end of the world. People freak the fuck out about how cold it is. I mean: big scarves, Ski jackets, Down coats, poofy hats, the whole shebang. I really had to try not to laugh in people’s faces. It is NOT that cold.

The overwhelmingly obvious fashion trend is the Ugg boots paired with short shorts or mini skirts. Seriously, if it’s cold enough to put on Ugg boots, then it’s cold enough to wear pants. Get a clue people.

I can’t imagine compromising one’s warmth just to keep up with a fashion trend. That foot of uncovered flesh between the boot-top and the end of the skirt doesn’t stand a chance against wind, snow, rain, sleet or even a “Jesus Christ it’s fucking cold” LA evening. Plus which, the Ugg boot isn’t exactly a pair of Prada loafers. Why make the sacrifice?

I must be honest, I own a pair of Ugg slipper shoes. I wear them to get the paper in the morning, to get coffee at the local Peet's or maybe to take out the trash. I don’t own a skirt and I don’t think I’ve worn a pair of shorts in 4 years, but if I did, you better be sure that I’d take full advantage of my flip flops because they’ve been collecting dust in the back of my closet.

Good lord, when did I turn into an elitist Bay Area Ugg boot hater? I'm currently bundled under a huge down comforter, a very thick quilt, armed with thermal PJs and surrounded by cats and my ladyfriend's pooch. There is no way a miniskirt and Ugg boots would make a lick of a difference on this cold January evening.

When I grow up, I’ll be stable. When I grow up, I’ll turn the tables. +Shirley Manson

2008-12-16T21:47:00.000-08:00

It didn’t seem like that big of a deal until just a few days ago. I’m turning 35 on Thursday, and at first I thought I might be forced to give back my Play-Doh and Bathtub paint. It’s not 40, it’s not 30, but I think that come Thursday morning, I’ll lose my permanent spot at the kid’s table on Thanksgiving.

“How did you get all grown up so fast?” was what my Grandmother asked me over the weekend. I realized right after she said it that I had no idea. But here comes 35 and I find the best version of myself in the mirror these days. It’s a weird feeling getting old.

I suppose as with most folks, with time comes wisdom. Here are a few little treasures of insight that I’ve obtained over the years:

1. I am not invincible, no matter how much I might seem like Superman.
2. If it seems too good to be true, it most definitely is.
3. Everybody lies.
4. Alcohol and drugs are inherently boring.
5. Push the envelope.
6. If I eat less and exercise more, my body gets noticeably thinner.
7. Crazy women make me crazy.
8. The media tells the truth more often than I’d like to admit.
9. I am a cat person, but I will stop and talk to any dog on the street.
10. Take pictures, leave footprints.
11. There is nothing better than a good meal.
12. Travel. Often.
13. The state of one’s home is often a very good example of the state of their mind.
14. You learn who your true friends are when you royally fuck shit up.
15. Life isn’t fair.
16. People do change, but their souls never move an inch.
17. Do what you love.
18. Karma is a bitch if you've ever done wrong by me.
19. Play fair, even if it means sucking it up.
20. Always mean it when you say you’re sorry.
21. Age is just a number.
22. I can smell bullshit from a mile away.
23. Money is the root of all evil.
24. Love doesn’t conquer all.
25. Blood is thicker than well, pretty much anything else.

I wonder what my list will be like in 5 years. I imagine the same, give or take a few. I’ll keep you posted.

Seasons greetings and all that poppycock.

Marriage Schmarriage

2008-12-03T19:18:00.000-08:00

One of my best friends is an African American Republican male. He’s very smart, savvy and full of great ideas. Over lunch last week we learned that we shared something else in common: we’re both skeptics of Prop 8. Like most people, he was surprised at my view of the battle for gay marriage.

I was raised both Catholic and Lutheran (long story). I was baptized twice. I went to Catholic elementary school and high school, as well as a Jesuit university. I’ve read the bible cover to cover. If there’s one thing I know, it’s the Church. And let’s be real here: the Church will never, ever, ever, ever allow gay marriage. It’s one of seven very important sacraments. You can file that one under not happening.

Why can’t we just call it something besides marriage? Civil union, partnership, dynamic duo of homosexuality, whatever. At the heart of this “marriage” concept is the equal rights that every human being desires. But we didn’t get that point across. We didn’t educate all of America about what we really want. It’s not all about the dress and the honeymoon. It’s about having the same rights as the straight couple with children and a mortgage next door. Sure, we should be able to get “married,” but first things first.

We can’t blame the Mormons or African Americans or TV commercials. We just didn’t get it right this time.

I think Rolling Stone’s recent article on the Prop 8 topic is spot on: "This was political malpractice," says a Democratic consultant who operates at the highest level of California politics. "They fucked this up, and it was painful to watch. They shouldn't be allowed to pawn this off on the Mormons or anyone else. They snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, and now hundreds of thousands of gay couples are going to pay the price."

Damn straight.

Don’t get me wrong, I voted No on Prop 8. I would never do something intentional against my people. I just hope we get it right in 2012.

"True mavericks don't brand themselves. +Maureen Dowd"

2008-10-12T18:44:00.000-07:00

My dream girl from the New York Times scoffs at Sarah Palin in the above referenced quote and I just couldn't agree with her more. True mavericks don't have to pimp themselves out like a whore in Oakland. Those genuine stealth heroes change the world when no one’s looking. Leave it to a Republican to say something so vacuous and obtuse.

I’m a good little gay Democrat. I voted for Hillary. I pay attention to the battle for Proposition 8. I’m hopeful that our legal right to marry in California will succeed long past November. I really have nothing against Republicans. Save for Abraham--John, Ronald, George, Nixon all opposed my fundamental values and beliefs. But hey, to each his own. What I really can’t understand is the gay Republican.

I met a gay Republican for the first time at a debate party a few weeks back. I watched McCain and Obama babble on in a roomful of professional, Democratic lesbians surrounded by sushi and wine. And then there was the lone gay Republican, a district attorney in San Francisco no less. A lesbian who’s political views will never, ever allow her to marry or possess equal rights for homosexuals. So it was interesting to me that she challenged every woman in the room by poking holes in Obama’s take on all the issues, his plans for change and healing our nation. It was quite the heated debate that continued long after the televised debate had ended.

I’ve never been a fan of Barack Obama. If you read back to my blog post on March 23, you’ll remember my strong stance that he’s pretty much all rhetoric and little substance. After watching two presidential debates, I still don’t know what he plans to do once in office. I don’t know how he’ll get us out from this gigantic financial crisis or out of war in Iraq. But he’s my candidate. And I have no one else to vote for.

So here’s the paradox I face as a voter in 2008: I can’t not vote. And I absolutely hate the ‘pick the lesser of two evils’ scapegoat during difficult elections. I want to make the right choice. If I pick McCain, I’m basically giving up the chance to have equal rights as a lesbian woman in America. If I pick Obama, who I think is the wrong candidate then I’m going against what I truly believe in.

I'm going to have to sell out, even though it's not the right thing to do. It can't be that hard though, true mavericks do it all the time.

It’s A Mad Mad Mad Mad Man’s World

2008-08-19T15:40:00.000-07:00

Seriously? Still? Oh yes. Still.

A woman just ran for president for the very first time in history. My sister and I make more money individually than most of the men she dates. And yet, it’s so frighteningly obvious that most people still consider this to be a man’s world.

I don’t get it.

I was at a workshop last week being led by a very uneducated and ignorant man. Let’s put the reasons why I was at said workshop aside for just a moment and focus just on the comment made by said man that “it’s still a man’s world, fellas, now isn’t it.” He had that smug, sexist pig smirk on his face and I just lost it. I can keep it together in any situation with any person in any location. But not this time.

I walked right out of the workshop after very smoothly and politely telling this idiot where to stick his man’s world. I’m not the ‘Network’ type where I declare that ‘I’ve had enough and I’m not going to take it anymore!’ I usually keep my opinions to myself. And I’m not a crazy lesbian feminist either. I was just overly shocked and appalled that in 2008, after all the progress we’ve made as women that this is still a man’s world.

In the world of business, I think it’s getting easier for the female gender. I’ve heard the best ideas come out of women’s mouths. I’ve seen women lead a company into its most successful days. I’m one of millions of female MBA candidates in the world. Maybe someday that’ll mean something.

In the meantime, fellas, stay out of my way. I think your man’s world mentality is crap and I’m not afraid to tell you that directly.

Accountability Is King

2008-08-14T16:18:00.000-07:00

I have a thing for people who can admit when they are wrong or have made a mistake. It's almost arousing to watch someone be accountable for who they are and what they do. Unfortunately, this hardly ever, ever happens.

I had a friend in high school who many years later had an affair with my girlfriend at the time. Quite possibly the worst betrayal of my entire life, yet this friend insists that it never happened. I'm not even sure accountability is apart of her vocabulary, but that's a different story for a different day. That incident opened my eyes to just how little most people are accountable.

My company has seen many changes over the past year and one glaring issue we face is accountability. So to amend that issue, we've deployed the RASCI system. R for Responsible. A for Approval. S for Support. C for Consult and I for Inform. I've mapped out three RASCI's since I've been here. This is a tool that forces people to be accountable. You can't bury your head in the sand and continue to pass the buck. I wish I could apply the RASCI system to my personal life.

I dated a girl earlier this year who didn't even understand the concept of accountability, let alone implementation. This girl invites all the girls she is dating to the same BBQ and then wonders why we're all uncomfortable and awkward. The worst part? She refused to take any responsibility when I called her on it. I should have known she wasn't accountable: any woman who pours her beer over ice should not be trusted. Period.

Accountability is king, really. Be who you are, no matter what. Take responsibility for your actions. And always apologize when you've made a mistake. Or I'll shove that RASCI down your throat and it won't be tasty.

A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands. +Lord Byron

2008-06-30T20:34:00.000-07:00

What is the deal with women and their salads? At every business meeting, during most family gatherings and even hanging out with girlfriends. Salads. Everyone with their damned salads.

I was raised by a father who thought a cheeseburger was an acceptable breakfast. I think this must be the reason I don't quite understand why a salad for most women is the automatic entree at any given dining moment. Actually eating a real meal won't kill you, I promise.

I had this co-worker at Ogilvy Public Relations who ate a salad every day. No exceptions. And she never poured the dressing on, she just dipped each bite. I just wanted to slip her some cheese and bacon every once in awhile. I had another friend who was a reporter for Adweek; she went to many business lunches. And always insisted on salad because "then her hands wouldn't get dirty." I don't buy it.

I must admit that I've been shoveling in the salad business for the past six months. But only because I've been exercising and trying to reduce the size of my ass. Every so often I'll eat a bunch of crap and then just walk longer the next time around Berkeley Marina.

For once, I don't have the answer. Maybe Lord Byron had the right idea; who'd say no to lobster salad and champagne?

The Man Who Isn’t There

2008-06-16T06:27:00.000-07:00

I am almost done reading “A Wolf at The Table,” by Augusten Burroughs. It’s a memoir about the horribly abusive and emotionally damaging role that Burroughs’ father played in his life. It’s ironic that I picked up this little gem right around Father’s Day.

Most of you don’t know the history of my relationship with my father. The gory details don’t really need to be shared in this open forum however its Father’s Day, and I must admit that I miss Frank Touch on this day more than any other.

I miss our morning coffee time together. I miss playing Post-it fetch together with Rosie. I miss the way my father would relentlessly champion my writing and acting. I miss his Lagerfeld cologne in the morning. I miss sushi on Sundays and singing random songs in the aisles of the grocery store. I miss getting pizza late at night and laughing together at the strange people on the streets.

I miss his natural charm, so thick that it could melt even the hardest of hearts. I miss his passion for music and his brilliant business mind. I miss his Italian cooking, even though I’ve managed to duplicate his culinary skills even to this day.

I miss the flowers and Halston perfume every Valentine’s Day. I miss that he made such a big deal out of my birthday that it seemed as if Christmas came twice a year. I miss his sensitive side; the side that couldn’t bear to put his own dog to sleep. I miss his big hugs and the huge grin on his face every time I came home.

I miss the way he told stories and made you laugh so hard with tears at the punchline. And I miss the gentle way he raised me as a child into teenager. It couldn’t have been easy to be my Dad. I was a rebellious, trouble-making hell raiser who was spoiled, loud, obnoxious, rambunctious and I was always breaking the rules (imagine that). But he always believed in me anyways.

To many people, my father wasn’t perfect. He made a lot of mistakes that cost him his life, his family and any real future. Wherever you are Daddy, I hope you’ve got the Sinatra blaring and the Santa Barbara Winery Cabernet in hand. And I hope you miss me as much as I miss you.

"Get over it, it's going to happen." +Stewart Alsop, a journalist turned venture capitalist, on the transition of the print media to the Internet.

2008-05-14T15:41:00.000-07:00

When I used to throw late night parties, I would relish the moment I’d hear the “thud” of the Sunday New York Times landing on my front porch. I’d run outside and grab the big blue package and bring it in the house like I was a cat who just landed the biggest mouse in town. Nothing could ever come between me and my newspaper.

I’m afraid the day might come along soon where newspapers become extinct. I’ve claimed for years that the only survivors of the newspaper industry will be the Journal, the Times and USA Today. Every other paper seems to be dying a slow painful death. It’s very depressing and I almost get teary-eyed when I think about being permanently separated from my beloved pages.

What will Rosie and Simon sit on? What will I reference when I’m trying to sound smart at dinner parties? What will I do with the first two hours of my Sundays from now on? What will I complain about if my hands aren’t black and white anymore? How will I feed my Maureen Dowd obsession?

I know it’s cheaper and faster to read the news online. I know that online outlets run the news faster than their print counterparts. I know that the general public is making the shift from print to online. But in the similar reign of Napster predicting the extinction of CDs, I think the predictions are wrong. The print newspaper will live on, damnit! There’s something to be said about holding it in your hot little hands that the Internet just can’t duplicate.

And if I’m wrong, and I have to plan a funeral for my New York Times Print Edition, I might just have to move on. But I’ll never get over it.

It’s Not You, It’s Me

2008-04-29T15:42:00.000-07:00

I have never been proficient in ending relationships of any kind, whether it’s personal or professional. I’ve also fired only one employee in my entire career, because I just hate telling someone: Hey, you suck. It’s not in my nature to tell someone to piss off and I usually do whatever it takes to avoid confrontation.

My best friend Shant always reminds me that ‘I’ll attract more flies with honey than vinegar.’ I always thought he was just pontificating on the wonders of interpersonal relations. Oh no, he was right.

Let’s use the recent example of severing a professional tie. Last year, I tried to end a working relationship because it just wasn’t working. Unfortunately, I wasn’t experienced enough at the task and I was completely honest with the other party as to why the relationship was ending. I was promptly read the riot act and I vowed to never again find myself in that situation.

Flash forward 9 months and there I am, in the same position of having to end a professional relationship. This time, I made it about me. I also offered the colleague some alternative business options because I was taking away their budget. And I tossed a little financial reward in there for good measure. That was the best professional lunch of my career. My terminating the relationship was embraced so enthusiastically that my CEO got wind of the news and congratulated me. See? Honey is much better than vinegar.

I had a major life event in February that turned my world upside down. This event correlates to my little ditty here because I have an old friend that was indirectly involved in said major life event. It's now months later; our friendship has dissolved and I haven't made any effort to clarify why I wanted out of the relationship. I am just fine letting the friend move on assuming that I'm the devil and karma will someday kick me in the teeth.

I used to really give a shit about the truth in the ending of a relationship. I used to hit the other party over the head with my perspective until both of us knew why I was walking away. Nowadays, I really don’t care why you think I’ve disappeared. Because after all, it’s not you. It’s me.

Thinner

2008-04-22T16:12:00.000-07:00

It’s always been a mystery to me that I was born prematurely yet I’ve been overweight most of my life. I’ve tried fad diets. I’ve tried supplements. I’ve tried complaining about being a couch potato with a big ass in hopes that somehow the fat would burn off all by itself.

This January, I made a major life change: I incorporated exercise (gasp!) into my lifestyle. I played a ton of sports as a kid and have always had more energy than the average bear. But I’m also one of the laziest people I’ve ever known personally. So for me to exercise several times per week seemed like a major commitment.

I started out slowly: just 30 minutes of power walking twice a week. I then bumped things up and added arm and ankle weights. And 45 minutes 3 times a week. It’s amazing to me how much exercise affects pretty much all aspects of personal well being. Since I started exercising more consistently and frequently, I’ve noticed that my glass half empty perspective shifted. I’ve noticed that I’m more patient, I sleep better at night and my legs are jiggling less and less every week.

I had a moment a few weeks ago as I was returning some fat clothes at Banana Republic. I noticed a sale on some really fabulous pants, but the only size available was a 32. (Most of us wide-hipped, same sex inclined girls choose men’s pants, hence the 32 versus the women’s 12.) I thought there was absolutely no way that I could fit into the size 32. No way. Not possible. I fit into them and just let the tears roll down my face as I was zipping them up. I hadn’t fit into a size 32 since the 6th grade. I purchased those pants and am wearing them as I type this.

In 3.5 months, I’ve lost a total of 15 pounds and 11 inches all over my body. I’m only halfway to where I’d like to be, though this is the first time in my life that I’m dropping weight gradually and at a healthy rate.

It feels great. I highly recommend it. Now put down the ice cream, stop reading my blog, get off your big ass and go get some exercise!

Oh, For Fuck’s Sake.

2008-03-23T18:46:00.000-07:00

Just pick one. No, not a mocha or a latte. I’m talking Obama or Hillary. Yep, I’m getting publicly political for the very first time. I’m all for healthy competition and duke-ing it out when the fight calls for heavy brass. But this Democratic nightmare we’re facing with the Obama and Hillary death match is really starting to make us look bad.

My roommate in college was a fierce Republican. (Yes, Katy, I’m talking about you.) She went to the Republican convention with her boyfriend. We had late night discussions ranging from the Catholic Church to economics during the Reagan Era. Katy was much more knowledgeable than I in the realm of politics. It’s now twelve years later, and all I really care about today is the economy, healthcare and whether or not I can see my girlfriend in the hospital god forbid.

We’ve had a Republican Monkey in the White House for the past 8 years. I’d rather us not make the same mistake of allowing a chimp to lead this troubled country in which we live. Unfortunately at this rate, we may not have a choice. The Democratic Party is so clearly divided that I often wonder if we’re even on the same page anymore.

Are we trying to get a better leader into the White House or trying only to tarnish our Democratic Party in the process? Can we not make a decision between two candidates? Do we need the Republicans to flip a quarter to help us decide? Good god, this is our time to take the liberty back. And we’ve got Obama and Hillary fighting over the crayons. Sheesh.

Say what you will about the fact that I voted for Hillary in the primaries. And that’s not just because we both look good in a suit. And not because we both love Bill. And not because we’re both accomplished business women who know how to work a room. She’s got the experience; she’s not all rhetoric and no substance. I can detect bullshit a mile away, and unfortunately Obama reads very high on my bullshit scale. The man can speak, sure. But can he solve the country’s problems? Can he make healthcare affordable for all Americans? Can he end the war in a way that makes everybody happy?

I don’t think so. Hillary might not be a perfect magician, but she’ll rock it. Trust me.

I’m hoping the next 9 months see more Democratic Party harmony. More unity, less shitstorms. And when November comes, for pete’s sake: don't waffle. Just make a decision.

Behind Door Number Three

2008-01-27T16:21:00.000-08:00

The Tom Hanks character in 'Sleepless in Seattle' said that dating was like trying other people on to see how they fit. I imagine he was comparing his dates to bathing suits, because that's how unpleasant dating can be. Let's face it: dating is annoying. There, I said it. And I'm surely not the first, nor the last woman on earth to express her distaste for dating.

My least favorite part about a first date is the moment right before you walk into the previously agreed upon establishment. I always think to myself: okay, let's see who's behind door number three. I already know what she looks like, what she sounds like on the phone and that I'm interested in knowing more. But will she laugh at my jokes? Will she say something really smart that will make me think? Will we be attracted to each other? Will she order her food like Sally Albright from 'When Harry Met Sally?' These are the things I think about.

It's hard enough to find a stranger that you actually want to spend 2+ hours with, let alone uncover a real connection. I think I've been on 5 dates where I had to frequently reach into my reporter's box of questions just to stay awake. There was this one girl who had absolutely no first date filter at all. You know, it's a first date. You're quietly judging every little thing about the person on the other side of the table. This girl let all kinds of personal thoughts fly out of her mouth at random. Nothing offensive, just really. I never needed to know that, thanks.

Sigh.

And then there's the final moment of the date. A kiss, a hug, a handshake, or even the horizontal mambo in some cases. Nice to meet you, let's do this again, this was fun and the like. Or maybe a combination thereof. In any case, it's awkward. It's difficult to wrap up a very long relationship interview and know what to do next.

Then you have to focus on the date follow-up. I had a date recently with this really great girl. I was on the fence about her after the date, but thought I should investigate. When I asked her about a coffee date for a few days later, she was busy "helping her friend out with her barn." It's not entirely out of her character to do such a charitable deed. And no offense to barns or farm animals in general, but seriously. That's just laughable.

The good news is, when you get to try on so many different bathing suits, you become firm on what you want out of your swim attire. The same goes for dating. I vote for making dating fun. If we have to survive bathing suit shopping, then we can make partner shopping a bit more entertaining. Right? Right.

"So Damn Lucky...." --Dave Matthews

2007-12-06T10:00:00.001-08:00

It's been a few months since my last blog post; please accept my most sincere apology dear reader, for I have been caught up with life and unable to articulate my profound thoughts and observations until now.

The time has come once again to reflect upon the year. I think 2007 changed everything. I made two very bad career moves. I ended an 18-year friendship which was long overdue. I left my favorite girl and my favorite belt in Long Beach. I conquered some big demons without getting even one scratch.

Considering all of the above-listed misery, 2007 also brought some good stuff too. I finally got to see Chicago. I visited my beloved Manhattan twice. I saw Dave Matthews perform from 25 feet away; I tried not to freak out when he smiled directly at me. I met Kevin Spacey, my longtime idol. I successfully put Reunion.com on the map. I rekindled two friendships with two old pals who mean the world to me. I got to see Hawaii with my big sister for her 40th birthday.

So my point here is, even with misery brings little rays of goodness. I have a groovy house and two furry, four-legged children who warm my soul on a daily basis. I have several amazing friends who keep me humble. I have a great family circle that I appreciate more and more with every passing day. I've become quite the cynical romantic but still hopeful that I will find me a nice girl someday in the future when I least expect it. Someday. See? Still cynical.

It's so easy to dwell on the negative. I've spent so many years complaining and seeing the world from a 'glass half empty' perspective. This year forced me to see the world from a completely different place. Everything's different, snap. Just like that. Whew, so damned lucky.

“Opinions are like assholes. Everybody has one.” -Shant Thomas

2007-09-27T21:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve always wanted to go to graduate school since I left Loyola Marymount University in 1996. I spent a semester in the Master’s in English program at Loyola; that was quite a waste of sixteen thousand dollars. I then went on to apply three times at Berkeley’s Graduate School of Journalism. No dice. Then after my career in public relations blossomed, I applied to the Master’s in Strategic Public Relations at USC. Yeah, not so much. I made one other attempt to get into the Broadcast Journalism Master’s program at San Francisco State two years ago. Futile, again.

I’m sure you can see a pattern here.

Then one night a few months ago, while in Los Angeles dining with a fellow Reunion.com employee, it dawned on me. I’m ready for an MBA. I’m in PR, I don’t need a graduate degree in journalism, English, PR or broadcast journalism. My on-the-job experience teaches me more than I’d ever learn in any of those courses. But I’m a smart, tough and strategic business woman. I’m a media relations guru, I know how to be a leader and I tend to have killer instincts. I can sell my own grandmother at a garage sale and make everyone feel good about it.

But being the A+ student that I am, I want to be even better at what I do.

So I started looking around at MBA programs in the Bay Area. I attended an info session at San Francisco State. I asked my entrepreneur friend Karen if she thought an MBA would benefit me. She nixed the idea and said I don’t need an MBA to go farther in my career. Over dinner last night in Manhattan, I asked Jeff and Peter if it would be a waste of my time. They completely disagreed and said I’m a perfect candidate. I’m smart, curious and would really thrive on pondering the intellectual side of business.

I decided to consult my trusty New York Times. Their opinion is always important to me. I’m currently sitting on a flight back to Oakland (and yes, the damned screaming baby is right next to me!), I’ve got “The Girl From Ipanema” playing on the iPod and just finished an article entitled “Bye, Bye B-School.” Back in the 90s, B-School was all the rage. Applicants and graduates were a dime a dozen. The Times asserts that nowadays, time spent earning the MBA degree could be better spent earning more money. I mean, sure, who doesn’t like more money? But unlike most people, I’m not into the MBA program for the money. I’m not a banker or a financial analyst, thank god.

With all of these opinions in mind, I’ve decided to start a program in 2008 at San Francisco State: the MBA with a focus on consumer behavior. Not that all of these varying opinions mean nothing, but I’m a woman who can think for herself and make her own choices. And when I’ve made up my mind about something, no asshole or opinion can get in my way.

A man's reputation is what other people think of him; his character is what he really is. –Jack Miner

2007-09-10T20:57:00.000-07:00

The New York Times ran the interesting article “When Bad News Follows You,” about the concept of reputation and how quickly it can be fabricated on the Internet. The piece talks of just how easily a company or person’s reputation is changed by misinformation floating around online. What’s so unfortunate is that one’s reputation is so very essential to how far they go in life and it’s a shame that the Internet can change that in a snap.

My reporter friend Janet called me the last time I was in Los Angeles. She had just met with the MySpace executives for an upcoming story. It seems that Mr. Chris DeWolfe, the CEO of MySpace (and the dotcom King of the World, in my opinion) knew my name and work in public relations. It was a career milestone that my professional reputation is so excellent that DeWolfe spoke of me as if we’d shared a private moment in the past. I wonder if the Internet had anything to do with the shaping of my reputation in DeWolfe’s eyes.

So here I am at Kitty O’Shea’s pub in Chicago waiting for Bill Clinton to speak to a large group of entrepreneurs at the Inc. 500 conference. I’m responding to email from my PR firm and checking voicemail. There’s a guy at the end of the bar watching me file notes away in my organizer. “You must be in charge, looking all powerful and stuff,” he says to me. I glance sideways and say “Yeah, I guess so.” He responds with “I like a woman in a suit who’s in charge.” I said, “Really? I do too.” I marveled at the fact that this random man assumed I have the reputation of Hilary Clinton in her younger years. At least I know for sure that the Internet had nothing to do with that assessment.

While listening to a cover band in a hotel in Las Vegas, I had the pleasure of meeting a friend of a friend named Angela; beautiful woman with brown hair and eyes (and a boyfriend, boo). But I digress. I gladly shared one of my natural Nat Sherman cigarettes with the lovely Angela who took one drag and said, “Wow, this is a fancy cigarette. You’re a woman with expensive tastes, I can tell.” I just smiled at her and thought to myself: you have no idea. Nice to have that reputation with a woman I just met 30 minutes prior to the statement. I must be doing something right.

My boss at Reunion.com has just resigned to become the Chief Digital Officer at Blockbuster.com. His new position charges him with changing the reputation of Blockbuster.com in light of the behemoth Netflix competition. I know he’ll do a good job, but part of me is shaking my head inside. How do you change Blockbuster’s online reputation? According to the New York Times, it should be easy as pie.

But I know better.

Spell Check

2007-08-14T20:35:00.000-07:00

The three-in-the-morning production sessions in the newsroom at my college newspaper often remind me of the importance of spell check. Every 15 minutes or so, James would shout "SAVE!" and we'd all hit control S and go back to swilling wine and making sure our columns lined up the right way.

I've always been a big fan of spell check. I often receive emails from potential girlfriends with all kinds of mispelled words and I hate to be so judgemental, hoity-toity and callous. But I never respond. I know that sounds really holier than thou of me, but it's just one quality I look for in a girlfriend. Pay attention, be smart, have some balls, use the damned spell check!

Last year, I read "Eats, Shoots and Leaves" which left me considering just how important it is to use proper grammar and spelling when interacting with others. I had a PR account executive candidate once spell public relations like "pubic relations" throughout his entire resume. Now while his experience and background perfectly matched what I was looking for, the pubic issue got in the way. As it always does.

I like a lot of personal space--like, a mile from the nearest person is fine for me. Peter Steele

2007-07-15T16:48:00.000-07:00

When I took presentation training last year, the instructor was all about bringing us out of our comfort zones. It was like going to acting class though we learned to perform in the boardroom, not on stage. Engaging in silly improv and random skits forced us each to stretch ourselves and go to a somewhat uncomfortable place. Kind of like when someone invades your personal space. A bit unnerving.

In a four day trip to New York, my personal space was invaded many times. Don't get me wrong, I'm not germophobic or agoraphobic or afraid of people. I'm just keenly aware of the little invisible box around my being. And even more aware of when someone else is in it.

Because I spend so much time in the air, I've realized that one's personal space is constantly invaded on airplanes. On this last flight to NY, I was bothered by the usual screaming child (why is that child ALWAYS sitting right behind me?!), but this flight was different. The man in front of me in the aisle had his bulldog on board. The bulldog had what seemed like free reign of the whole cabin. He was adorable and we got along famously, but who really needs a dog drooling on their khaki's when they're writing an analyst presentation? Five hours later and I really needed a shower and Glenlivet on the rocks. Alone, thank you very much.

Then there was the obvious elevator problem. When I returned from dinner one night, there were seriously 16 people (including Quinn, Wadooah and myself) smooshed into one tiny elevator. Moments like that pretty much delete any personal space one might have held onto. Personal space? Try getting some air to breathe.

We all convened in NY for Digital Life, a press preview event at the Roosevelt Hotel. Over 400 reporters troll around the hotel ballroom and I'm really not exaggerating when I tell you that I met with at least 3 odiferous media during a 2 hour period. I live in Berkeley, where there are many hygenically challenged people. However, these reporters were so far into my personal space that I just wanted to give them a cologne sample to save myself. In Berkeley, you can run and hide. In NY, you have no choice but to burn your nose hairs from the stench.

One would think with a career in public relations, dealing with people all day everyday, that I'd be more adjusted to random strangers invading my personal space. Yeah yeah, that's fine and all. Just don't enter my little personal sphere without an invitation.

The And

2007-07-01T13:59:00.000-07:00

The ending of my beloved Sopranos series has left me and most of America dumbfounded. Was Tony killed? Where did Meadow learn how to parallel park? Who eats onion rings whole? And without ketchup? It was an hour I had waited 8 whole years for, and the finale left me wondering about "The End." What does that mean exactly?

I've always been wistful when things end. Like when summer camp would end in September, I always felt sort of sad for a few days. I felt that exact same way for a day or two after the Sopranos ended. And still, even when things are final, they never seem to be. Loose ends tie a noose in the back of my mind most of the time.

So when the screen went blank at 6:56 pm on June 10, I'm one of several people that figured my Comcast went out for some reason. But oh no, this was done on purpose. And I sat there for 5 minutes as the credits rolled wondering what to do with myself. No answers to my questions, no resolution to some serious conflicts. No closure. So the Soprano family just goes on just like that? Can't be possible.

Maybe it's the lesbian in me that acknowledges that most things are never really over. Even when the fat lady sings, there's always a dangling participle. It feels very similar to the ending to most lesbian relationships. My friend Janet always claimed that we never truly let go of our ex-girlfriends. It's sort of like this open and revolving lesbian door. Can I apply that to my Sopranos?

Of course I can.

David Chase must have lived in the lesbian mind when he wrote the finale to the Sopranos series. He left us wondering. He left us asking questions. He left us processing until there was nothing left to process. He left us unsure of how to move on, not knowing what really happened to Tony, Carmela, AJ and Meadow.

It strangely feels like every ending to every relationship I've ever had. It's like "The End." And....? And what?

And life goes on. Oddly, I'm okay with that.

Still Crazy After All These Years

2007-06-17T22:23:00.000-07:00

They always say that people don't change over time. Hogwash, I say. I have just spent my weekend attending various social activities around my 15th High School reunion. It was a full blown fiesta as we decided to invite classes 1990 through 1994. Mindblowing experience. But I digress.

Many people have changed in the 15 years since I've graduated High School. Some stayed frozen in time, others appeared to have aged very quickly and the rest are somewhere in between. Funny thing is, most of the "somewhere in between folks" fall into the "I used to be thin, but now I'm not" category. I have the exact opposite problem. When Erica previewed for me the slideshow that we saw later that night, I couldn't believe my striking resemblence to the Stay Puft Marshmellow man. Now, I always knew I was a Large Marge in High School, but wow. It was nice to not be the "fat girl" for once.

I predicted over matzo ball soup on Friday afternoon that every clique from High School would stick in the same group and drink matching cocktails. I was totally spot on, but a lot of really great reconnections occured that evening.

As I've been working with Reunion.com while helping to plan this whole High School reunion shenanigan, I keep coming back to the whole concept of reconnecting with people who you really truly care about. As we say at Reunion, "Life Changes. Stay in Touch." There are a few really great friendships that we've all lost along the way and I'm thankful for the chance to reconnect finally.

The tricky part is the staying in touch. I know will make the effort to continue my relationships with the few that matter to me. And even though we're all different people with real lives and different kinds of happiness, we're all still that "crazy so and so" from Providence High School. And honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Too fucking busy, and vice versa." Dorothy Parker

2007-06-10T12:46:00.000-07:00

I have an old friend who is eternally busy. I mean like Heidi Klum jetting off to Milan on a daily basis kind of busy. I happen to know that he's never, ever that busy. He's more of the "can't be bothered because I'm so important that every minute of my life is precious and therefore I'm busy" type. His version of busy keeps him feeling superior and significant.

We're all moving at the speed of light these days. My sister is a full-time accountant and single Mom who barely has the time to breathe let alone take some time for herself to relax. But she does, and she's never so busy that she doesn't have time for the people she cares about. When I worked at Blanc + Otus, I was so damned busy that I made my weekly phone call to my Grandmother while walking to work on Monday mornings. I never had any free time and I STILL never categorized myself as super important and busy.

Because trust me, no one is that busy.

I've noticed that some people play the busy card because they choose to hide from social interaction, rather than just letting life happen. Some people really can't handle life's demands, so they just scream "I'm too busy" and use that as an excuse for everything. Other people try to keep themselves busy with empty activities just so they don't have to sit still for 10 minutes. But really, how busy is too busy?

At the end of the day, we make time for the things that are important. Our jobs, our kids, our pets, our loved ones. Sure, life is crazy busy. Shit happens, things go wrong; life often throws us busy curveballs that we weren't expecting. So what? Get over yourself.

Okay, I'm stepping down off the busy soapbox now. Oh, and please accept my apologies for the lack of blog posts as of late. I've been busy.

Traffic Schmaffic

2007-04-25T18:42:00.000-07:00

My new job with Reunion.com brings me to Los Angeles quite frequently. I do love to travel and I always enjoy driving a big SUV when I'm in Southern California. But during this recent trip to LA where I spent a total of 11.5 hours in the car over 3 days, I noticed that the traffic in this part of the world is just...um...freaking ridiculous.

I'm from LA, I was born with a traffic tolerance chip firmly planted in my system. But in the 2.5 years since I've lived in San Francisco, the traffic seems to have multiplied. My observations are as follows:

1. The fast lane is NOT the fast lane. When traffic comes to a screeching halt (for no apparent reason of course), the fast lane is the slowest lane on the road. I often found myself changing lanes to the far right just to keep moving.

2. People don't understand the concept of "keep a car length between you and the dude in front of you." It doesn't exist. If you leave just an arm's length between you and the car in front of you, someone will cut you off. I've never screamed so many obscenities in a 72 hour period. I forgot what road rage feels like.

3. A car accident will delay your arrival by at least an hour. On Tuesday, it took me 2.5 hours to get from the OC to LA. All because of ONE car accident. In the Bay Area, a car accident is addressed within minutes and traffic keeps on flowing.

I love my City of Angels and especially my loved ones in it, but seriously. I will refrain from getting on the 405 freeway for at least a week. And if you happen to see a blond-haired girl in an SUV cussing out the driver in front of her, just smile and nod.

Flaky as a Pie Crust

2007-04-11T13:07:00.000-07:00

I've become quite a big fan of The Pork Store lately. In fact, the last three times I had breakfast out, I made a beeline for San Francisco's most popular greasy spoon. Last week, Jostedt and I shared a stack of pancakes (why do I always seem to be eating pancakes?) and we deliberated the true meaning of being a flake.

In my 30 years in Los Angeles, I flaked and was flaked on more times than I care to recall. I always thought it was a symbol of a true Los Angeleno; a geographical social defect, if you will. Not the case. In San Francisco, people flake just as frequently, but here's the difference. They usually don't call you to tell you they can't make it. They just don't show up. Don't ask me, I just live here.

So what is "being flaky" exactly? Has it become the standard norm that all social plans are rubber until one of the parties involved confirms? And if that's the case, aren't we all allowed the right to change or cancel plans? I'm just saying.

Now that I'm well-adjusted to the social graces of San Franciscans, I'm learning that some of my own social habits from LA are still with me. I'm just more conscious of it now than ever. Jostedt and I decided after an hour that there's a distinct difference between being flaky and lacking in integrity. Deep thoughts for a breakfast at The Pork Store.

So say what you mean, show up when you say will and do the right thing. Then you don't ever have to worry about being flaky. Just my 44 cents.

Present in the Moment

2007-03-25T16:45:00.000-07:00

I'm not usually the sappy type, but someone once told me that life is really just a series of moments. Good moments, bad moments, silly moments, historical moments and the like. This past week I experienced two types of moments: when I used my virtual remote control and I paused time just so I could experience the present magical moment.

Last Wednesday, I had dinner with Ross, Rachel and Jon at Zuni Cafe. It was sort of an impromptu gathering, but Rachel and Jon hadn't met until our rendezvous. Both friends are great personalities and fun to have around in social settings. Our dinner turned into a 2 hour long moment. The chemistry between the four of us at the table was palpable; we were laughing and carrying on as if we had known each other for years. We were the loudest table in the establishment and the conversation was fun, thought-provoking and altogether memorable. Moments like these are few and far between.

On Saturday evening, I experienced yet another moment. I attended a Dave Matthews Band concert in Las Vegas with Erica, my oldest friend in the world. Keep in mind, I've seen about 2 dozen Dave Matthews shows in my day and let me just tell you. What I experienced on Saturday evening was a moment in time. Not sure if it was the chemistry in the room or my crush on the bass player but I told Erica that she was experiencing history in the making as Dave surprised the crowd with old favorite "Seek Up" and an amazing cover of "Sweet Caroline." It was a unique moment in time, and I'm glad I was a part of it.

So my point in sharing my random nights out for dinner and concert experiences is simple: pay attention. Life brings us moments to be shared and appreciated. Sometimes I move so fast through life that I miss the moments that can last a lifetime. But for once, I paid attention.

Exclusives Are Overrated

2007-03-20T15:29:00.000-07:00

Like most Sunday mornings, it's a vat of good coffee, the cats and the New York Times until Noon. But this week, Byron Calame’s Op-Ed piece, "Reporting the News Even When a Competitor Gets There First," really got me thinking. And that's always dangerous.

Calame writes about news organizations vying to publish breaking news first. He also talks about reporters having too much pride: they don't enjoy being beaten to the punch. With all of the online versions of print publications and the blogosphere opening the door for citizen journalism, I started thinking: is the "exclusive" scoop really exclusive anymore? Who truly gets the story first?

Every time I call my reporter friend Janet with some big news of the technology persuasion, one of the first questions she asks is "have you told anyone else about this?" And of course, I haven't...I want to see if she thinks my scoop is worthy of an exclusive. I can usually tell when it's not and therefore don't worry about another news outlet stealing my story.

The very first time I offered an exclusive to a reporter, I felt like I was promising to name my first born after the writer. This newshound wanted my blood on paper and insurance that I wasn't offering the exclusive to anyone else. It was painful, and I learned a good lesson. Don't promise anything to any reporter for any reason.

Because they always want to be the front runner with a story and will pretty much tell you anything to get the keys to the kingdom first. We should all be so lucky to have reporter friends who won't steal your exclusive just because you're a nice PR person.

Lesson learned? Honor your NDAs, exclusives and embargos oh great reporters of the world. If you don't, someone somewhere will get that story first.

Waiting for Godot

2007-03-04T16:02:00.000-08:00

I read Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot in high school. It's one of my theatrical favorites, alongside Neil Simon's Barefoot in the Park. That's great, Teena, you're thinking I know. But there's a point here, promise.

My entire life has challenged the power of time. For example, I was brought into this world 3 weeks too early because my mother decided that she didn't want to be pregnant on Christmas. So because I landed here before I was ready, I now operate in the world very quickly. I talk fast, write fast, think fast and oftentimes have knee-jerk reactions to things that require contemplation. I've realized recently, that I have absolutely no clue how to be patient. For anything really.

That's all about to change.

Since I moved to San Francisco from Los Angeles 2 years ago, I've become very patient with tourists who take up both lanes on Market street because they just don't know any better. I can wait an extra 15 minutes for a latte at Cole's coffee because it's that good. Even when my cell is ringing, the Blackberry is beeping at me, Korina's in my office with a question and I'm on deadline with a reporter, I can still keep my cool. In my line of work in technology PR, I meet people on a daily basis who force me to be patient. And I can be patient, really I can.

Problem with being patient is, I frequently feel like I'm waiting for Godot. Waiting for something that might never arrive, might not ever work out, might not ever make me happy. I was a spoiled child, this is an equation I don't easily compute. Growing up, I got what I wanted when I wanted it. The thought never occurred to me that maybe that basketball hoop for the garage was something that was worth waiting for. I want it, so I should have it. Right now, damnit. Ah, wouldn't it be nice if the world still worked that way for me?

But, alas, it doesn't.

So here I am at 33 years old, wanting things that I have to wait for. The spoiled brat buried deep within me rationalizes that if I have to wait for it, it must not be worth it. Oh, but it is. And I will wait. Pull up a chair, have a martini. It's going to be awhile.

I connect, therefore I am.

2007-02-19T11:27:00.000-08:00

I was having breakfast with John and Jeannie last week, and the subject of the connected life came up over blueberry pancakes. I've got a MySpace page, a profile on LinkedIn and several messenger programs running on my laptop all day long. I have friends from all over the country emailing, calling, texting and visiting me in San Francisco. I am the proud mother of a very needy Blackberry and therefore I feel connected, I sound connected and I look connected.

But am I making any REAL connections? That's to be determined.

What makes a real connection? Is it the sushi delivery guy who knows that I like tuna sashimi, shrimp tempura and a spider roll every single time I order? Probably not. Is it my best friend in Kansas who can finish my sentences and read my thoughts from 1500 miles away? Probably. But what about the many intriguing people I meet as a result of my career in technology public relations? Are those real connections? Why yes, yes they are.

According to the dictionary, connecting can be identified as: "to join or fasten together." The simple fact that many of my colleagues are forced to sit in the same office space with me for 10+ hours per day does not automatically produce a profound connection. It is the presence of common interests, passions and a kindred spirit that connects me to them. Having a conversation that spans above and beyond the minutia that breeds that real connection.

I think a real connection is that which lasts over time. I have friends from summer camp and from every job I've ever had who remain in my life because our connection holds up over many years. I don't need a LinkedIn Invitation to feel that connection, it exists on it's own.

And if MySpace and the Blackberry were never born, I'd ride my rickshaw around the world to stay connected anyway.