Quality-Driven

Personal discovery:

When you do work that you love with enthusiasm, it will not seem difficult or monotonous. The passion you have for your work will energize your body and you will spring out of bed on less sleep than you previously believed you needed. You’ll be able to do twice the amount of work without getting tired, because energy recharges your body.

Enthusiasm sells. It sells you, it sells your product. How to feel enthusiastic in a job that doesn’t make you feel enthusiastic?

Do something outside of work that lights you up inside. Andrew Carnegie attributed every promotion he ever got while he was a salaried worker to the things he did with his time off that he was not paid to do. Take a weekend job at a store with products you love, take a Master Class at night instead of binging on Netflix, volunteer for a cause that stirs your inner fire. That is where greatness lies.

If you have a job that you don’t feel enthusiastic about, find something about it you love, and do that better than anyone else. Or find a part of the job, or office, or building that seems to lack attention, and pay attention to it. The common denominator of every successful person lies in the fact that he formed the habit of doing things that others didn’t like to do.

Success is not achieved by following the rules of men before you, or by natural likes and dislikes. If you want to be extraordinary, you must resort to extraordinary measures. Regardless of what you are now, you can get where you want to be by paying the price.

What is the price?

Time. We live in a very impatient society, where get-rich quick schemes give the perception that success can be achieved from one’s couch. But we must be willing to fail.

This is not an easy thing. Our school system is one in which students get a “C” when they are wrong only 22% of the time. This teaches us not to put ourselves in situations where we might fail. This ultimately leads to conservative thinking.

But remember this: a successful person was once a failure who was almost always failing, hundreds and thousands of times.

All it takes is one success.

(Adapted from my private teaching, coaching and research. Information through personal inquiry to email only)

Climate-Driven

As you know, I get in trouble once in a while on social media. Sometimes I stir things up on purpose due to boredom, and sometimes it’s an actual topic that I am emotionally invested in. Certain statements catch more fire than others, like the following:

Tiger Woods is washed-up.

Tom Brady is starting to look like an extra-terrestrial.

Fitness models look healthier in their “Before” pictures than in their “After” pictures.

I like gluten.

Intermittent fasting is easy and effective.

Working from home sucks the big one.

That last statement caught me a lot of heat on LinkedIn last year. I was responding to (what seemed to me) a ridiculous article that extolled the mystical qualities of remote work. The author posted some contrived statistic like “98% of respondents state that they are happier and more productive working from home,” and went on to say that office work might be a thing of the past, because people love to stay home.

Yeah, right. On what freaking planet, I asked? There is no way, I posted, that professional people would prefer to sit around in their pajamas staring at a screen while doing laundry as opposed to having intellectual conversation, flirting innocently with the hot office manager, and sipping coffee in the break room.

And this coming from an introvert.

Most people still don’t understand the definition of the word “introvert.” They hear “introvert” and think unfriendly, brooding, sullen. The Unabomber. We introverts are used to this stereotype, and while I have finally reached the age where I no longer care if I am misunderstood, let me say this:

I have always always always liked going into work. I like everything about the professional work day. The traffic and the commute, the hustle-and-bustle, the quick stops for coffee, the business suits, the meetings, the heels, the office camaraderie, the gossip, the innocent flirting, the Out Of The House thing. I like being Out Of The House, and so do the working professionals I know.

So I did my own survey. I interviewed, emailed and spoke personally to twenty executives and professionals, and not ONE PERSON I spoke to preferred working in their home. Not one. Some didn’t mind it temporarily because there was no choice, and on rainy and snowy days were glad they didn’t have to drive or walk in it. But when it came to office environment, they missed it.

And I said so, on LinkedIn.

Then hell-fire rained down on me. For days. I defended myself accordingly, and never left my position, which was:

This survey is horseshit. No way people like working like this. Who could possibly like working like this????

Here were some of their defenses:

I don’t have to pay for childcare.

I’m so happy to not have to do that commute!

I save money on office clothes!

No dealing with toxic bosses and colleagues.

I can get more done at home.

I save gas and miles on my car!

I can take breaks when I want.

Ad nauseum.

Eventually it went away, but dang, were people pissed at me. Fine, I might have suggested at some point that only young children should get to be wrapped in blankies at home. The rest of us, I added, adults, have to go out into the big scary world and deal with life face-to-face.

You can imagine how well that comment fared. I got some death threats on that one.

In the past few weeks, I have received no less than a dozen articles, blogs and emails about the fact that employees are reporting episodes of depression from working at home. Turns out they want to go back to the office.

Well well well. How the tables do turn. Boy, do I hate being right all of the time.

This was just sent to me on Linked In:

Now what?

Working from home is a tricky transition!

At first, it’s super exciting. You’re stoked because you can wear pajamas all day. Woohoo!

But most people find that it gets old pretty quick.

It’s because working from home can be really lonely. 

It’s nice not having to get dressed and go to the office. But it can also really hinder your productivity and leave you in a slump.

And studies show that working from home can lead to depression and social anxiety. Trust me, I’ve been there.

Being a digital nomad and location independent sounds like an amazing adventure. You can take that freedom and travel the world!

The thing is, humans are deeply interconnected creatures. We crave community and connection. It’s literally woven into our DNA.

Well, shit. I said that last year and got death threats, and this chick posts it on LinkedIn, and gets 15k likes.

I demand a recount.

Gear-Driven

I just sent my documents in to reactivate my PADI certification so I can do a dive trip on my next tropical vacation, whenever the hell that is. But every time my finger rests over the “Book Now” icon for a tropical destination, the mountains beckon.

No willpower.

It’s been a long time since I went diving. My favorite dive ever was a wreck in the Keys when I screwed up my dive tables, almost ran out of oxygen and played with an eel, in that order. The following year I had my twins, and there went that hobby.

Scuba diving, that is, not eel-playing.

I’m excited to get back into it, but I’m dreading the gear part. Scuba diving is a heavily gear-oriented sport, and if you screw up your gear prep, it could mean mask squeeze, the bends, the narks, even death, the unalterable kind, which is bad if the empty void is the sort of thing that bothers you. Getting SCUBA gear ready for a dive is very intimidating, but I have a foolproof way of getting it done right.

I appear helpless and incompetent until someone pities me and does it for me.

Say what you will, but this method works for any activity where people who are GOOD with gear like to display their competence. It fulfills them, and it gets my gear done right.

Everyone wins, where’s the flaw?

The trick is to not come right out and tell people you’re incompetent. You must simply let them arrive at that conclusion on their own, with no prompting from you. For example, when I am on a horseback riding expedition that requires me to saddle and bridle my own horse, I do my tasks and then ask someone who is wearing expensive riding pants and leather boots if they wouldn’t mind checking my gear.

“Will you doublecheck my saddle? I don’t want to fall off, haha,” I say deprecatingly.  

Of course my saddle is always wrong, and the horse person is always thrilled to let me know that. Then they pull and stretch and tweak until they finally step back and say, “There. You’re not going anywhere now.”

Work smarter, not harder.

Scuba diving gets a little trickier. If you are certified to dive, instructors assume you have passed the test, can do the dive tables, and understand things like tanks and dive weights and masks and flippers and neoprene. And while I have a fleeting knowledge of the above things, I still require much assistance so that I can avoid the unlikely occurrence of Death Beneath the Surface.

I know what you’re thinking, especially if you’re a diver.

“Why would you brag about trying to appear dumb?”

I resent that implication. Might it occur to you that I’m not trying to APPEAR dumb, but that I’m ACTUALLY dumb? That I actually lack the common sense not only to remember the order of condiments on a burger, but the skills necessary to attach a tank to a vest, and a bridle onto a horse?

So don’t dive, moron, if you can’t prepare your gear responsibly.

Hm. You’re probably right. But I don’t know why I should be penalized from participating in a sport I love just because the gear is confusing. So until the necessary neurons that make someone a Gear Head fire in my brain in the right order, I rely on the following method on the dive boat:

(Note: not all steps are in the right order, and I probably forgot stuff. It’s been awhile, and this is just supposed to be funny)

First: Check my suit, bite tabs and O-Ring, plus all gauges and regulator.

I’m still good at this point. I know how to check all of these things by myself, for real.

Second: Check buoyancy gear.

This is where things get tricky. I know how to check the integrity of the bladder (glaring menacingly at bladder: Have you ever cheated on a test or on your taxes? ANSWER ME!”), but checking relief valves and choosing the correct weights for the dive intimidates me. I usually choose a dive instructor or a guy who will want to show off in front of his girlfriend.

“Excuse me, can you help me with my weight belt? It’s been such a long time since I’ve done it.”

It’s not a lie. Since I’ve never done it myself, that is a long time, right?

Third: Attach BCD to tank.

“Whoa, this is heavy!” With this exclamation, someone always shows up, without fail.

Fourth: Attach important hoses to important valves so as to ensure that I can breathe when submerged.

Fiddle around. Take a really long time, until someone notices that I’m struggling out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey, you need some help?”

Laughing confidently: “Yeah, sure, thanks, sorry, I’m really slow.”

Yeah, slow-witted.

Fifth: Check air and all that it implies.

Emulate what everyone else is doing, and look satisfied with my results. Then furrow my brow, lean in and look at tank gauges very closely. Turn to closest woman and say,

“Does this look right to you?”

Of course it isn’t right, but saying this makes me look like I know that it’s wrong. Either the woman knows how to fix it, or she will turn to her mate and say,

“Honey, can you help her? She’s not sure it’s right.”

Sixth: Press the purge buttons.

I know how to do this one. I wish it lasted longer, because it makes me look super efficient.

Seventh: Attach BCD to tank.

This task actually requires help, so it’s time to find a dive buddy. If everyone is paired up already (story of my life), usually a dive instructor will do just fine. Since I already used the “This is heavy” line, it’s a risk to use it again. Maybe just a grunt will do the trick. I really try to struggle here, so big strong men will rush to help.

Hey, I’m no feminist.

Eight: Put on suit.

This is exhausting, and I was once taught a great trick to get a scuba suit on. Put small plastic bags in your dive bag, then when it’s time to put on the suit, put the bags over your hands and feet, and your hands and feet will slip right in. Then you can grab the bags out when you’re suited up.

Nine: Put on all gear in preparation for dive.

No coyness here. I’m probably sweating my ass off in the tropical heat, and can’t wait to feel that cool water hit my skin.

Ten: Time to go in the water.

I like flipping off the side of the boat and going in backwards if possible, it’s more fun. I spit on the inside of my mask so it won’t fog up. Little trick. Saliva is a surfactant. Once I’m in the water, I know what to do.

And that’s it. Not completely helpless, but close. Hey, don’t be contemptuous about my method. I can either play helpless or be dead, what would you prefer?

Don’t answer that.

Product-Driven

(This week’s blog posts will be devoted to the theme of work, including topics such as work choices, work ethic, work environment, and work pride)

My first job at the age of sixteen was at Wendy’s. I like to say that I quit, but theoretically, I got fired. They were trying to get rid of me. You know that guy who never really broke up with you, but treated you like crap until you broke up with him? It was like that.

I was borderline incompetent from the get-go. I started at the front counter, but during busy shifts I would get nervous at the register and not be able to remember how to punch in the order of the condiments. Something about mayonnaise and pickles…

I eventually got bumped to the drive-through. When that went bad, I got bumped again. Pretty soon I was just making burgers for the orders, but again, the condiment order thing. On the day that I left and never went back, I was washing lettuce.

I was Hot-and-Juicy for five days.

When I didn’t show up the next day, the nice but beleaguered manager called me to ask for his uniform back, like I had some deep burning desire to wear an ugly red hat and a polyester apron. I have never worn polyester since, and never again worked in any job that required me to dress thematically.

And while I love to watch cooking movies, eat in nice restaurants and concoct fun delicious recipes in my kitchen, I don’t like being on the other end of the restaurant table. To me the food industry is just, yuk. The preparation of food, cleaning up food, smelling food, smelling like food, touching food, serving food.

I’m truly grateful for people who have the stomach for it, because it enables me to go to classy restaurants to eat free-range chicken while sipping a cold glass of California chardonnay. Aside from that, not my thang.

So after my father sternly lectured me about the addictive qualities of quitting and then forced me to apologize to the Wendy’s manager for wasting his time, I embraced my inner intellectual, the real me, and got a job as an amateur reporter for the local paper. I loved it, but it didn’t pay much (the written word rarely does), so I picked up some shifts at the local farm market right off the Atlantic City Expressway.

I loved this summer job. This was the aspect of food I loved. Fresh plump cool produce, fine cheeses, artisan crackers, smoked meats, charcuterie, fresh-baked bread, Brie, homemade pies, warm homemade donuts, freshly-squeezed juices. I sold beautiful hanging flower baskets and potted herb plants, and for the first time as a Jersey girl realized how much out-of-state visitors covet Jersey produce. People would leave the market with their purchases, so happy and content to bring their beautiful offerings to the shore that their eyes would be filled with tears.

“Thank you,” they would say, “for being here and having such beautiful products.”

I took great pride in being one of three members of that work crew.

Throughout my early teenage years and into my early twenties, I had a few more disastrous dabbles in the restaurant industry that never really panned out, a brief sweaty jaunt into the world of blueberry farm packing, and several jobs in high-end retail. And this is going to sound pretentious, but there’s no other way to put it:

We all come to grips with our strengths and fallibilities, and by my early twenties, it was glaringly apparent that my strengths did not lend themselves to the service or manual labor industries. And once I began teaching and writing, that sealed it. I was an intellectual, and that was the way it was going to stay.

I look back on those years of crappy waitressing jobs, smelly restaurants, dusty blueberry crates with hidden spiders, and mind-numbingly boring shifts spent folding sweaters, and one thing remains true about me:

If I don’t believe in the product, I can’t sell it. Passion is what fuels my work, and passion is what has kept me in the field of education for 35 years. I step into the classroom now with the same exuberance I had when I was twenty.

It’s all about the product.

Remembrance

My son asked me last weekend if I remembered what I was doing on 9/11.

Sure I do, I said. I was teaching Romeo and Juliet.

Specifically, I was having a discussion with my ninth-grade students about the importance of the character Benvolio. He was the good guy, the peacemaker, the one who was always trying to make things right between the families. I was wearing my favorite brown suit and my favorite brown leather shooties.

God, I loved that outfit.

I also seem to remember that I was sitting on a desk while I taught. I cringe thinking about it now. If one of my student teachers did that during an observation, I’d let her have it. How inappropriate. What was I thinking?

Then an announcement came over the loudspeaker:

“Mrs. Oves, you need to pick your twins up from daycare. It is closing for the day.”

Then all the shit started to hit the fan. After I picked the boys up, I put them down for a mid-morning nap. Since it was such a beautiful day, I sat outside the house in a beach chair, just in shock. When the Hub got home we turned on the news, and didn’t really turn it off for weeks and weeks.

No one did.

To be honest, my readers, it’s been a tiring week. I’m bushed. Notice that my Press Kit is ready, so check it out, and coaching packages will be added soon as well.

Enjoy your weekend and let’s never forget.

“That Guy” in Two Parts

(Author’s Note: No comparisons are being made in this post between the horrific events of 9/11 and what occurred in my yard last weekend. That would be silly. The comparison here is simply this: no matter what the situation, there’s always “that guy.” Don’t be that guy.

Part I: 9/11

I was recently watching a documentary about the maritime rescues made in New York City on 9/11. What a fascinating story. We hear so much about ground crew rescues on that day, but we forget that party boats, fishing vessels and ferries evacuated hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers from the South Cove waterfront the day the Twin Towers fell. Great viewing stuff directed by Spike Lee on HBO.

Anyhoo, one of the captains of a rescue boat told a story, but first shared this anecdote: when he loaded all of the people he could onto his boat, they were understandably nervous. No one knew what was going on, or what else could happen. Imagine the terror and confusion. They asked the captain where they were going:

“New Jersey,” he said.

(Collective moan) “Oh no, God no, anywhere but Jersey!”

(Laughter among the passengers).

Here’s his story:

He pulled up to South Cove waterfront on 9/11, one of hundreds of boats that arrived on the scene to help with evacuations. As he pulled up, he realized there was no way to tie his boat up, and a man standing on the bank suggested he tie up to the trees, and run the lines across the wall. As he began to do so, this woman came up to him and identified herself as working for the Parks Department. Now picture it: in back of her was Armageddon- we’ve all see the pictures, some of us were there. Billowing smoke, people screaming, ambulances and fire trucks whizzing past blaring their sirens, passengers crying and covered in soot and dust. Most were shoeless, since they had taken their shoes off to run when the first tower fell. Out of nowhere this woman walked up to this captain as he began to tie his lines to the trees, and said simply:

“You can’t do that.”

He was flabbergasted.

“Can’t do what? Tie my boat to the trees so as to evacuate these people?”

“That’s correct,” she said primly “You can’t do that. I’ll report it.”

He laughed in her face and said what any of us would have said:

“So call the cops. And kindly move out of my way.”

I kind of hoped she was pushed in the water or something. Because no matter what the situation, there is always that one person.

Part II: My front yard

My son and his friends were in the front yard last weekend throwing a football around before they left for golf. One of the boys had brought his sweet Golden Retriever for a quick visit, and the boys played fetch with him on the lawn. He was one of those dogs who was all about “the ball”- he never took his eyes off it. Super cute and fluffy dog.

I was working on the patio and distractedly enjoying the boys’ lawn activities, but I eventually detected some kind of kerfuffle. I looked up to see the boys laughing and gesturing at an unpleasant-looking man walking away and disgruntledly making a phone call. Turns out he was angry because he had to walk in the street with his wife and daughter because he didn’t want to get near the dog.

“Dog belongs on a leash,” he mumbled at the boys, “I’m calling the cops.”

My son and his friends are kind, intelligent, mature young men, and they did not goad him. They apologized for the inconvenience, and as he walked away, informed him that they were leaving with the dog in a few minutes anyway. One of the boys who has just graduated from law school tried to get the man to come back so they could talk about it reasonably. The man wanted no part of reason and began to stalk around the block to get my address.

The boys did leave for golf a few minutes later with the dog, and whether police showed up to check my yard out remains to be seen. I did see a patrol car across the street, and thought how amusing the scene had to be from his eyes. An empty yard with a middle-aged woman sitting on a patio drinking a glass of wine and reading a college textbook. Just the adrenaline-pumping stuff he joined the police force for, I’m sure. I imagined the call to the man:

“Sir, there is no dog on that lawn. There are no young men on that lawn. There is nothing on that lawn. Just an old lady. Sorry.”

I can tell you that that unfortunate-looking man was pissed that he got no satisfaction. It was a gorgeous night so I stayed outside until dark, and I watched as he walked past my house no less than six times, looking at my property, texting and staring towards my house. As the week has progressed, I have noticed him walk past, multiple times a day, frustrated and just waiting and hoping to spot that loose Golden Retriever so he could call the police again.

He always looks very cross, and I wonder what his family thinks about the fact that they have spent good money to spend some family time in Ocean City with their young daughter, and he has squandered it acting as a one-man vigilante force.

So no matter how your week is going, you can feel grateful for one thing:

You ain’t that guy.

Paper Walls

This is one of my favorite anecdotes from a leadership conference I attended:

There was this Mutual Omaha show called “Wild Kingdom.” In one episode they were trying to catch and relocate zebras. They set up a corral and tried different ways to herd the zebras into the corral, from land and air, but nothing worked. The zebras were always too smart and too stubborn and would veer away at the last minute. They couldn’t catch them, even though it was for the zebras’ own good.

Then Marlin and Jim got an idea to make the opening of the corral much larger, like a funnel. They ran a line of rope, about chest high, from one edge of the opening out about 300 feet or so. They did the same with the other side, so now the rope formed a large funnel opening. Then they draped paper over the ropes, making a paper wall.

Then they got back into their helicopter and started herding the zebras toward the corral. At the moment of truth, the herd of zebra was heading toward the corral and turning into the wall of paper. Now, the zebras could have run through the rope with ease, but they hesitated, turned slightly, and went into the corral. The guys jumped out and closed the corral. Got ‘em!

Why didn’t the zebras run through the rope? After all, the wall was only paper.

Because they didn’t know it was paper. They probably didn’t know what it was. They didn’t trample it because they didn’t know they could run through it.

Take this week to ask yourself: what are your paper walls? Confronting a colleague or a spouse? Speaking up in class? Asking for a raise? Whatever they are, just remember:

You can run through them with ease. They’re not real.

(Attribution: Bill Hoogterp)

Dream Cart

I just received a request for more fashion blogs. Hey, I’d love to blog about fashion every day, I just don’t want to turn off my small male readership. But today you get your wish.

Fall is my time for recalibration. Recalibration of finances, nutrition, travel, fitness, mindset, career, hell even my refrigerator. This week I’ll be throwing out old hot sauces and salad dressings, tossing sad wilted produce, and removing and scrubbing the trays in hot soapy water.

Ya gotta love a clean refrigerator, and I go to town on it. But what I do to my refrigerator is nothing compared to how I recalibrate my closet.

I mentioned last week the importance of updating your closet. Fall is the time to get rid of old worn clothes, and to toss items that don’t fit or are out-of-style. If you are one of those strange extroverts who feels everything has to be a social situation, do what Carrie Bradshaw did in “Sex and the City.” Invite friends over, hand them alcohol and colored Post-its, and let them decide what to toss, keep or store.

I am now going to share with you a little game I play called “Dream Cart.” If you take fall fashion even semi-seriously, it can be an invaluable tool that can help you figure out what you have in your closet, what you love, what you need, and what you want.

(“Dream Cart” is a chapter in my book, and can be adapted to anything you desire, like “Dream Man,” or “Dream Trip,” or “Dream Body,” or “Dream Job.” Let’s focus on “Dream Cart” today, and remember: it’s as much a mental exercise as it is a physical one).

Step 1: Choose a label, a store, or a brand you love. Last week I used MM LaFleur.

Note: MM LaFleur is ridiculously expensive. THAT’S THE POINT. This is your dream closet, remember, so choose your dream brand. None of this Marshalls stuff, please.

Step 2: Go through the website and order everything you want. I mean, everything. Free your mind of cost and sensibleness, and embrace gluttony. PLACE EVERY SINGLE ITEM YOU WANT IN YOUR CART. No hemming or hawing, just buy buy buy!!

Step 3: Look at how much your dream closet costs. Mine last week was $14,350. Gulp. No worries, remember this is a game and an exercise.

Step 4: Leave your items in your cart for three to five days.

Step 5: Laugh when you see the emails from the brand come in: “Did you forget something?” and “Get these while they last!” and finally, “Here is a 30% off code for you!” The code will come, be patient.

Step 6: Now, bring your laptop to your bedroom. Shut the door. Make it special. I lit a vanilla candle, played Will Ackerman through my Bluetooth speaker and wore my favorite white eyelet sundress. I made sure my hair was done and that I was wearing my favorite perfume. If you want, bring in snacks, maybe some champagne or wine. Really pamper yourself.

Step 7: Now comes the hard work. Scroll through each item in your Dream Cart, and compare it to what you already have in your closet. Ask yourself the following questions:

What would I wear with this?

How would I style it?

Do I have something similar or close?

Can I replicate the outfit with what I already have?

Step 8: Now remove. Remove from your cart any item that is impractical, or any item that you wouldn’t know how or where to wear it. Remove anything that is similar to what you have, and that includes cut and color. If you have a black turtleneck sweater in your cart that you know would look great with your gray tights, but you already have a black sweater you wear with those tights, remove that sweater from your cart. If you can replicate the outfit you have in your mind with what you have in your closet, remove the item. You must be strong. If you’re like me, and rationalize that a certain dress will literally change your life, stay pragmatic and objective, and remove, remove, remove. For me, out went the black sheath dress, the leather belted blazer, the cigarette trousers, the off-the-shoulder blouse, the rain hoodie, the alpaca cardigan, etc., etc., etc.

Mindset is important in step 8. You are not telling yourself “I can’t afford this.” You are telling yourself “I don’t need this, I already have this, and if I wanted this I could get it, but I DON’T want it.” There is no fashion deprivation here, no feelings of not being able to buy what you want. You are simply being smart and strong. And don’t EVER involve your man in this game. NOT EVER. Men get hernias simply by the SUGGESTION of a no-holds barred shopping spree, and they won’t hear you when you say “It’s only a game.” Do step 8 when they’re out of the house, because they’re no fun when it comes to shopping. Oh, and p.s.: the phenomenon of husbands telling their working wives what clothes they can and can’t buy is strange to me now that I am single. I’ll write a blog about it one day.

Step 9: It’s time to be merciless. Are you ready? Look at your cart now. Once I removed all of the pieces from my cart using the above rules, that $14,350 price tag came down to $2500.00. Still too rich for my blood, how is yours looking? Time to cut, mercilessly. How many times will I actually wear this? How many different ways can I wear this? Go back to your closet again, and find anything that goes with it. There’s nothing? Remove it.

Step 10: Look at what remains. If you have followed steps 1-9, you should be at a reasonable balance. I was left with two items totaling $525 from my Dream Cart: a double-breasted camel blazer and a plush taupe cashmere oversized turtleneck. I can use both pieces in a zillion different ways, not only for the classroom, but for errands and dressy events. They can both be dressed up and down, and will last forever.

So if you’re comfortable with the price tag and you feel like it passes the Hub Hernia test, buy. If the number still makes you uneasy, go back to step 7 and complete again.

*This is a compressed version of Dream Cart, but in a pinch, it is a quick way to streamline the shopping process.

Solo Hiking Tips

Hey, watch me get half of the readers of this blog angry in two secs:

F summer.

You heard me. We’re done with it. We’re done with beaches, and boats, and heat, and humidity, and crowds. If you like that stuff year round, move to Florida where you belong, with the rest of the reptiles. And don’t bother with the pumpkin spice latte jokes. Just because it’s going to be fall in three weeks doesn’t mean people who love fall run right to Starbucks for that frothy drink. I don’t even like pumpkin spice lattes.

And I don’t run to Starbucks. I run to the mountains.

Yep, it’s almost fall hiking season, ya’ll!

Now, I like to hike alone. Shocker, right? But I will concede that hiking with a group or a close friend has its benefits, safety being the most obvious. If you sprain your ankle, or fall into a hole, or take a wrong turn, there’s someone there to call you an idiot and a burden. Having someone close by with extra water, better snacks, and vaseline for raw body parts can come in handy as well.

But I (mostly) choose to hike alone. I like going at my own pace. If I want to start before dawn on an empty stomach, no one is going to complain that it’s too early or that they have to eat breakfast first. If I want to go at sunset and bring a bottle of wine, no one is going to tell me that it’s too late because their favorite Netflix show is on. On some hikes I like to take my time, take long lunches, and enjoy the scenery. On other hikes, my goal is time and efficiency. Get in, get out. Sometimes I clamber up hills for the calorie burn, and sometimes I do a few steps at a time and just enjoy feeling the strength of my legs and arms and the pumping of my cardiovascular system.

But make no mistake, as a woman hiking alone, there are things to be aware of, precautions to take. So to add to the thousands of articles online about precautions women should take when hiking alone, I will add mine:

  1. The first thing any solo woman (or man) should do is to leave someone their itinerary. If Aron Ralston had left someone his itinerary, he would have two arms right now, instead of one (then again, he wouldn’t have written that amazing book and made that great movie). Before I step one foot onto a trail, I text my boys my location.
  2. Make sure your phone is charged and that you have an extra back-up charging port. Obviously if you’re going on a 15-minute hike around a populated lake, such measures are not necessary. But if you’re disappearing into thick foliage for the better part of the day, make sure you have your phone charged with a backup. AND STAY OFF YOUR PHONE. Stop taking so many goddamn pictures and posting shit to social media. Enjoy your surroundings. And avoid selfies, especially near cliffs and look-out points- that’s how morons plunge to their deaths. Be smart.
  3. Be attentive to who is near you and around you, or if anyone followed you in. My biggest fear hiking solo is that I will be spotted by that one itinerant deviant who has always wanted a ditzy blonde as a household pet. There is NOTHING I take more seriously when I hike or travel alone than making sure I am not snatched by a psycho. Now, 99% of the people you meet on the trail are kind and good. But never forget about that 1%. If I get even the slightest inkling of strangeness coming from a man when I’m by myself, I turn around or attach myself to a group. Better safe than sorry.
  4. Make contact with someone who seems trustworthy before you start. Last week there was a young group hiking the AT who were hanging around near their tents. Before I went onto the trail, I approached them to ask a random question, which eventually led to them asking my name and offering me a cup of hot campfire coffee. Delish. Now I can hike knowing that these people know that Mary from New Jersey hit the trail at 7:30 a.m. on Wednesday August 25th. I do it every time I hike.
  5. Depending on the length of hike: extra socks, plenty of water, a small snack. I see people getting ready for an easy three-mile loop decked out like they’re heading out on the PCT. You know the type: the big floppy hat, poles, three daypacks, enough food for a small army. Hey, it’s better to be over prepared than under prepared, but all of that crap weighs you down. Bring what you need, but not more than that. If you’re going for a small hike but you’re also bringing three sandwiches, five apples, trail mix, juice, candy bars and a sleeve of cookies, please know this: you’re not burning as many calories as you think. But it’s your pack. If you don’t mind the weight, go for it.
  6. Be aware of offshoots. If the trail splits, be aware of which way you choose. If a trail is super circuitous, I’ll take a picture of the direction I go, or tie a small ribbon around a bush, just to be safe. You might think you will remember on the way down, but that could be hours away, and you’ll be tired. Last week the trail went off in four directions, and I took a picture of a sign in front of my trail: “Punks dead your next.” Yikes. I tried not to let the message spoil my day, and I was glad I took the picture because on the way down, I got a little disoriented.
  7. Choose your turnaround time depending on what time you want to get down. Sounds obvious, but if you need to be down by three, and you start at 9:00 a.m., you should climb for three hours and turn around. Duh. Coming down is quicker, yes, but it’s also technically more difficult and when many hikers fall and injure themselves due to tired legs.
  8. Watch out for wet rocks and leaves. I’ve wiped out on enough of them to dispense this advice. Be careful, or you’ll be stuck on the trail alone with a broken leg.
  9. Heed the weather. Need I mention this? Many mountains have unsettled and spontaneous weather, so be aware of that. Check your weather report before setting out. I got stuck on the side of Mt. Katahdin in a squall, and it was no freaking fun.
  10. Get out during sunlight. Don’t push it. You want to enjoy yourself, not have to worry about finding your way in the dark.

If you follow proper precautions, you can enjoy your solo hiking season without care or worry.

That Was a Twelve…That Was a Twelve…

There are two ways to describe the playoff holes of last Sunday’s FedEx Cup golf tournament.

One way is to say that it was like watching a slow-motion bludgeoning. Like Jim Nantz says in the movie, “Tin Cup,”:

“I don’t know what I’m feeling, this is the most painful thing I’ve ever seen.”

By the fourth playoff hole of the FedEx, I had to turn it off. I just didn’t have the internal mettle for it, and being a Bryson fan, I grew tired of Cantlay’s unflappable demeanor and Cyborg-like personality. No matter what Bryson did, Cantlay rallied. I still lack the emotional distance from that spectacle to even write clearly about it, and I feel shame that I deserted Bryson in his time of need.

Another way to describe it is to say it was like watching two gladiators beat the hell out of each other in the ring, knowing only one would crawl out. I’m not begrudging Cantlay his win, he deserved it. He just wasn’t my choice. And say what you want about Bryson, but his brilliant play and “imposing, thundering force” helped define him, at least in my mind, within an elite golfer’s category he had as of yet to belong.

He’s there now.

Throughout this past week, I have thought over and over about those playoff holes, and how impressive (albeit painful) it was to watch. As my readers, you know I love to write about success, adversity, hard work, positive thinking, and overall life force. And by now if you don’t know that life is complicated, and that it will beat the ever-living shit out of you until you are crawling on the ground begging for just “one freaking break, just one, for once, CAN I CATCH A GODDAMN BREAK FOR ONCE?” then you ain’t living right. If this has never happened to you, you are either too young to have experienced it yet, or you have not put yourself out there, over and over and over, time and time again, like Bryson did, pulling out that driver and blasting for the green.

Bryson knew he had to go balls out if he wanted even a prayer of defeating Cantlay the Cyborg.

Please enjoy this video and share it with your children, or your athletes, or your students, or your spouse. It’s been a long tough year, remind people you love that champions keep on fighting until they get it right. And enjoy your long weekend, because summer is over. Time for recalibration.

Until then? Go for your twelve. Take out that driver, blast it down the fairway. Don’t lay up like Cantlay. Because even though he walked away with that cup, the legend that is now Bryson DeChambeau will resonate in viewers’s minds forever. I have already forgotten Cantlay’s performance. To me, it was dull. Safe. Let him have his win.

Bryson went for it, for all of us. We should be grateful. And remember: choose your weaponry carefully. It will define you.

(Video is in parts, watch through to the end)