Data Capture

I was speaking to a member of my media team last month, and he said something prescient that I haven’t forgotten.

We had been speaking about my appearance at a small business expo, and this led to a discussion about my book, my platform, and my options moving forward. He wanted me to push through, ride aggressively the wave of my recent activity, and take some new risks.

But he sensed my hesitancy. And pounced.

I voiced my belief that perhaps it is time for me to step back and reassess. Regroup. Reevaluate. I have enjoyed both mild and major professional successes this past year, and with my father on the downslide and my taking a break from travel for the summer, I want to just stop.

Stop. Stop pushing and grinding and forcing and insisting. Not to stop succeeding. I’ll never stop succeeding. But to take breath. A break from fighting and struggling against the tide rather than letting it carry me in. Enjoy some new personal relationships, give my attention to people, rather than words. Ride the wave of my TED talk, accept a national writing award in Ohio in the fall, maybe do some private writing that no one will ever see until it’s on the screen. Let the storm build behind me.

He disagreed, obviously.

“Now is not the time to stop,” he said. He sent me a link of some woman my age who puts out Tik Tok videos where she dances and meditates and offers life coaching.

“Tik Tok,” he said, “it’s fun! That might be just the thing for you, Mary. You have the personality for it.”

Tik Tok the thing for me? My personality? Humoring him, I checked out her account, and it was just so sad and desperate. I watched this old woman trying so hard to be relevant, when she just…wasn’t.

I once sent in a writing sample for a lifestyle blog, just for fun, and the editor responded by telling me it was funny, but showed I didn’t really understand meta, SEO and data capture.

She was right. And I don’t care about meta, SEO and data capture. Or social media, or visits, or followers, or numbers. I’m done. The world continues to become more complicated, more technological, and more counterfeit. So I’m pulling back.

Even this blog will change soon. Drastically, most likely before the close of 2022. Chrysalis Collective will eventually go back on the road, and will morph. How, I don’t know. But I have some ideas.

Until then, I’ll be posting three blogs a week. Thanks for floating with me.

LinkedOUT

It took me a long time to realize that LinkedIn is just a professional version of a dating site.

I get a lot of LinkedIn hits a week, sometimes over a hundred, if you can believe that. On Saturday mornings I like to click and look at a few profiles. I like seeing who these people are, because it’s such a distinguished, eclectic and random group:

Seamus Heaney Jr.– Penguin trainer at Occipital Animal Testing Facility

Jolene Smorgas– Banquet Manager at Joanie’s Roadhouse Barbeque in Tulsa

Ethan Winer– Technician, Passmore Gas and Propane

Pepsi Jackson– Paralegal for Wong, Doody, Crandall, and Wiener.

Dr. Anita P. Ness– Chief Executive Officer for AnalTech.

Why are these people on my profile? What do I have to offer them?

Sometimes I get scary ones, like people from detective agencies, the IRS, security software and legal offices. Many of them are “looked at your profile in private mode.”

Whyyyyy?

I eventually came to realize that the random “John Smith viewed your profile” hits are just another Cat-and-Mouse game. John Smith “viewed your profile” because he wants you to click on HIS profile. It’s like an electronic exchanging of business cards.

O.k. But, er, now what? What is John Smith waiting for me to do? Is it like, “Ooooh, John Smith is VP of Johnson Marketing Executives, I think I’ll contact him!” It’s like dating sites. You “wave,” send “a heart” or “a like,” whatever the fuck, and NOW WHAT?

Third-graders who send each other Valentines’ Day cards are more sophisticated than people my age trying to get together for work, love or sex.

Moment

The TEDx curating committee put all of their speakers up at a Courtyard Marriott in Phoenix. Basic amenities, cute little pool, one small bar. And it occurred to me during my three-night stay that sometimes, middle-grade accommodations are the way to go.

The sign at the entrance of the pool noted that there was no lifeguard and that there should be no running or diving. At the bottom were directions for how to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in the case of an accident.

In other words:

Yo dumbasses, this isn’t a five-star resort. We do the best we can with what we have. We are understaffed, and the staff we have is overworked. Use your common sense, and don’t do anything stupid that will endanger your life or anyone else’s. We don’t want to stop what we’re doing inside and have to come out and rescue your sorry ass. Watch your stupid big-mouthed kids yourselves, and don’t let them dive headfirst into the shallow end, as that could result in spinal injury. I mean, if wheelchairs bother you, that is. If you decide to ignore these warnings, and someone’s esophagus closes, here are some suggestions. Good luck, and fuck you.

It was like I had been sent in a time machine back to the 70’s and 80’s, when people were assumed to know how to take care of themselves. Those were good times.

I found the whole property completely charming. The CPR pool sign. The Heineken beer caps wedged between the bricks next to my pool chair. The fuzzy television picture in the breakfast booth where I ate in the morning, which played the Masters’ all day and night. The understocked snack booth that at least had an extensive ice-cold canned beer selection. The barista who made me a free celebratory mimosa the morning after my talk, even though the bar wasn’t officially open yet. And the desk clerk who let me nap all afternoon on Saturday, and didn’t charge me for late checkout.

The morning after my TED talk, I experienced a moment of pure bliss, one of complete peace and happiness. These happen to me often when I am alone, and never when I am with people. Let me tell you about it.

It had been a big night for me, and a late night. The other speakers had all either already flown home, or had left very early that morning, so it was just me. And although I slept in a little later than usual, my excitement woke me early. I threw on my bathing suit and cover-up and made my way to the lobby for some hot coffee. I sat in a breakfast booth and perused the menu while catching up on the Masters’ on my personal breakfast booth television. I sipped my mimosa while waiting for my breakfast burrito, looking forward to seeing my friend Laurie later that day and attending the Journey/Toto concert at the Gila River Arena.

With a full tummy, I grabbed another coffee and made my way to the empty pool. I poured my achy limbs into a pool lounger, the 90-degree sun baking its way into my muscles. I quickly fell asleep. When I woke up, I decided to take a dip in the completely empty pool, and just floated around, finally just resting on the side, facing the sun.

This was my blissful moment. The sun hitting my face, the glorious silence, the cool water, the lovely morning, the night before, the night I had to look forward to. The realization that all of my hard work had paid off to bring me to this specific, beautiful, sun-drenched moment just took my breath away. It was such a delicious moment that when I am feeling overwhelmed, all I have to do is summon memories of this moment, and I feel that bliss all over again.

Just a great moment.

Rogue-ish

So an email was waiting for me upon my return home from Phoenix:

Congratulations Mary! Your workshop has been accepted for our Small Business Expo!

Huh? What workshop? What small business expo?

Your workshop entitled “Going Rogue: Harnessing Success Through Solitude” will be presented in Workshop Room #2. Our best to you as you prepare to meet us in _____.

Damn, I thought, I don’t remember writing it, but that is one kickass title for a workshop.

So o.k., I don’t remember submitting a workshop presentation, but see, this is the shit I do. I see an opportunity and think to myself, “Wow, that sounds terrifying and out of my league. I think I’ll apply for it.”

Of course I’m going to do it. God sends you into these rooms you have no right to be in, and all of a sudden, you’re in them, looking around and saying, “Now what?” So I’ll send information about the expo as it gets closer, but a question on the acceptance letter made me pause:

What product will you be selling?

I’m my product. So maybe if I don’t show up, that’s actually promoting solitude, right?

Just kidding.

My “product” is still in development. But success through solitude is my personal story, and something I truly believe other people should embrace more. Everything, and I mean everything, that has been good career-wise in my life is a result of having been able to think alone, act alone, travel alone, work alone, and be alone. It is only when I am around other people that my life force gets muddled.

Many people are afraid of solitude, of the silence of their thoughts and dreams, because they can’t get that silence without first having to withstand the roar of their imperfections. The roar of humanity, or lack of. The roar of fear and human foibles and uncertainty and grief.

In Tampa I watched a woman sitting at a table and waiting for her husband to bring her a drink from the bar. The bar was crowded, and he began to talk casually with other patrons as he waited to order. At first she was fine. Smiling into the spring sunshine on this beautiful patio bar, watching runners and boats go by. Then she began to get visibly uncomfortable. The smile disappeared, and she began to look backwards towards the bar, as if to see what was taking her Hub so long. Then the phone came out, which it always inevitably does, like a security blanket. She checked that a few times, then went through her purse, then looked towards the bar again. After only five minutes (FIVE MINUTES!) she had had enough, and marched to the bar to see what was taking her spouse so long. She returned, visibly annoyed, and repeated all the above a few more times. By the time her well-meaning spouse returned she was completely pissed, and he handed her a mimosa, wondering what he had done wrong other than leave to get her a drink.

She was forced to face that alone thing, you know. It’s some scary shit, facing that part of yourself. What do I do? Think? Act? But the thing with solitude is when you get past the breakers, you reach calm seas, and the smooth sailing is one sweet ride.

Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy your families this Easter holiday, and your vacation week, if you’re taking one. Just don’t forget to give yourself time to yourself. Five minutes, an hour, an afternoon, a whole day.

Because no matter where you go, there you are.

Big Rooms

Let’s get this out of the way:

I pulled it off. And then some.

My TED talk was a great night for me. As I waited in the wings getting ready to stand on the red dot, I went through all the last-minute things Chris Anderson would say to me if he were there:

Have fun, Mary.

Deep breaths into your stomach.

You know your talk. You KNOW IT.

Connect.

It’s all about the message.

And Friday night was indeed about my message. My ten-minute talk flowed through me just as easily as casual conversation with a friend. I felt as comfortable as if I were reciting it from my living room. The arena was packed with 2,000 people, but it felt as intimate as a small dinner party.

The parts of my talk that I felt were funny got laughs. The parts that were sobering received respectful silence. I was brazen where I wanted to be, humble where I needed to be, and modest throughout. My voice never faltered, and I was not nervous. If I fucked up, I fucked up. I was already o.k. with that going in.

Although they didn’t show it, I know my team was nervous for me. A day earlier at dress rehearsal, my mouth suddenly went dry during my recitation. I was sick as a dog. Sleep-deprived. Jet lagged. Wearing really uncomfortable shoes. Then suddenly my mouth felt like it was filled with cotton balls, so without thinking, I muttered “Sorry, I have a head cold” into the mic. I’m sure the team was terrified I would repeat that flub on The Night, especially since I opted out of the second optional dress rehearsal.

So they were just as happy as I was as I came off the stage. As soon as I got behind the curtain, the positive reviews started flowing. I won’t bore you with them here, but reviews across the board were laudatory. I was brought to the green room, where I drank ice water, ate cashews, and texted five people: my two TED talk consultants, who had gotten me there in the first place, and my sons, who although they sometimes don’t know what part of the country I’m in, are my biggest fans.

I was asked many times:

What made you give a TED talk?

My first answer is the pragmatic one: it’s an invaluable marketing tool for a writer, speaker and author. Having a published TED talk on a CV opens doors that would normally remain shut. There is simply no chance that this TED talk will not lead me in the direction I want to go.

My second answer is the corny one: I really do have a story to tell. Many stories to tell. We all do. And my story is one that people need to hear. And hear it they will.

It is said God puts you in rooms that you don’t belong in, to see how you will rise to the occasion. So if God put me on that red dot in that large arena, I sit here on Sunday morning in the desert knowing he did it for a reason.

And I’ve never been more sure that I belonged in a room, or that I have lived up to someone’s expectations of me.

Thanks for reading.

Best Laid Plans

Maybe you know I’m in Phoenix for an event, maybe you don’t. Maybe you know I’m giving a TED talk, maybe you don’t. Maybe you know it’s a big deal, maybe you don’t. Regardless, by the time you’re reading this, I’ll be on stage, getting ready, or maybe done.

So how does one prepare for a TED talk? Oh, it’s easy.

Once it’s written, revised and rewritten, which takes months, then memorize it word-for-word. Recite it, over and over and over. Recite it in your car, in your kitchen, in the shower. Recite it while hopping around on one leg, recite it when you’re navigating in traffic, when you’re working out, when you’re tired, when you’re not feeling well, when you’re in a bad mood and it’s the last thing you feel like doing.

Got it memorized? Good. Now forget it. Start over. Change it. Adapt it. Make it shorter. Make it conversational. See if there’s anywhere in the talk where you can add audience participation. Add pauses, and silence, body language, gestures and smiles, and maybe a joke or witticism here or there, without worrying too much if they’ll get a laugh.

Some TED consultants suggest giving the speech to friends and family ahead of time, to get used to eye contact and facial expressions. I did not do that, but to each his own. Being a teacher for 34 years has its perks and being used to standing in front of people and reading body language and facial expressions is one of them.

So preparation is key, but don’t overdo it. You don’t want to sound mechanical. If you want to deliver a speech standing behind a lectern and reading from a teleprompter, there are plenty of venues that will encourage you to do that. That’s not TED.

Other preparation includes exercise, stamina, physical presence, confidence and oh, health. I was extra careful to take care of myself the weeks leading up to my talk. Vitamins, fruits and vegetables, sunshine, exercise, plenty of sleep, and juicing.

And guess what? I got sick anyway. On the three days leading up to my talk, instead of being able to go the gym, recite a few more times, try on outfits, or confer with my consultants, I was laid flat on my couch.

I admit, it was a very bad few days for me. This rarely happens, so take note: I was very, very low, and thank God no one was home but me. I had done everything in my power to be as healthy for the most important day in my career, and it hadn’t worked. Quite the opposite.

I googled “What to do when you get sick before an important presentation,” and surprisingly, the advice did not so much center around palliative care, but mental health. Suggestions were:

The show must go on. Suck it up.

Don’t underestimate adrenalin as the event gets closer. It will get you through.

Have a positive attitude. Sitting around feeling sorry for yourself will only make it worse.

Brilliant successful people all over the world tell stories about times they were sick as dogs but managed to pull through and get it done.

So I slept, popped vitamin C and Zyrtec, drank tea and juices, ate soup and prayed that when it came time to leave, I’d at least be able to get up off the couch.

I am writing this from my flight to Phoenix, so I’m on my way. When I land, I will be picked up by a man holding a sign with my name (I’ve always wanted to get off a plane and have someone waiting for me with a sign), go to rehearsal, and then I will be resting until our group dinner.

Friday is the talk. Then I’m sleeping in until like, NOON, on Saturday. The thought of sleeping in and ordering room service has never given me such preemptive pleasure.

More next week on the disappointment of doing everything right and still ending up with the short end of the stick.

High Spirits

Oldie but a goodie to greet you on a Monday:

Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. He is rich who owns the day, and no one owns the day who allows it to be invaded with fret and anxiety. Finish every day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities, no doubt crept in. Forget them as soon as you can, tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely, with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense. This new day is too dear, with its hopes and invitations, to waste a moment on the yesterdays.”

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ouf

Blogging about The Slap is probably a dumb idea, but I can’t help myself. I’m so conflicted.

I’m not in love with Hollywood, but more of the frame of mind right now that they are a bunch of privileged assholes. I did not watch the Oscars. I wouldn’t be caught dead. But the two men involved in The Slap are near and dear to my heart.

I love Will. I love Chris. I feel like two of my sons just got in a fight, and I’m worried that they’re mad at each other. Let me address The Slap with a series of questions, so I can work out my own internal conflict about it:

Did Chris know about Jada’s hair loss condition? He has publicly commented that he didn’t. But if he did, was the joke really crossing the line? Is calling her GI Jada really that bad?

Why is JPS so special that she is off-limits? And why go to the Oscars if you can’t take the heat? All stars get roasted at the Oscars, it’s part of it.

Why did Will laugh at first, then get angry? Because he looked at Jada’s expression? How could he have reacted better?

Does Will really think he set a good example for his children?

Did Will slap all of Jada’s lovers, too?

Is Will o.k.? He looked like a physical and emotional wreck. Laughing, then fighting, then weeping, then partying later. I think Will needs some serious help.

Was there underlying tension between Chris and Will before The Slap? Are they friends? Enemies? Neither?

Did Chris tell Will ahead of time he was going to make the joke, and Will told him not to, but Chris did anyway?

How is Chris feeling? More importantly, what was Adam Sandler’s reaction to The Slap? I’d love to hear what he thinks about it, as Chris Rock is his best friend.

Will Chris change his mind about pressing charges?

Will Will be barred from attending the Oscars in the future?

If it had been a different star than Will Smith, would they have been arrested?

Is Will’s award besmirched? Does he feel regret?

Will he be stripped of his Oscar?

Did Will and Chris already settle this amiably between them, as reported by a mutual friend?

Is Chris classy enough to realize he has just received a lifetime’s worth of free material?

What does Chris’s family think?

Are more people on Will’s or Chris’s side? Hollywood is supposedly pro-Chris.

How could The Slap have played out better?

I have an answer for the last one. After the GI Jada joke, Jada should have stood up with all of her gorgeousness, flashed that million-dollar smile, raised those beautiful toned arms in the air, and gotten a standing ovation. She could have shown her children, her colleagues, her husband and the world that not only has she gotten through a terrible condition, but she did it with style, class and humor. Will would have looked at her with love and admiration, and been able to enjoy the moment of watching the world celebrate the mother of his children.

 So she’s bald, big deal. She could have been the class act of the night.

Just how I see it.

Dead Men Tell No Tales

In last week’s blog, I mentioned a Pirate Ball I will be attending this coming weekend in Tampa, and a former teaching colleague, from the first school I ever taught in, texted me:

(Ya gotta admire someone who puts up with me for three decades…)

“A Pirate Ball? You’re attending a Pirate Ball? You’re telling me you’re dressing thematically? For a ball? I don’t believe it.”

Well, blow me down. She got me thinking, and I arrived at my answer.

“No,” I texted her. “I’m not.”

This old friend knows I don’t dress thematically. I don’t wear ugly Christmas sweaters, or green on St. Patrick’s Day, or red, white and blue on Fourth of July. And it’s not because I take myself too seriously, it’s just that when you dress thematically, your personality has to match the theme, not just your clothes.

I don’t feel like saying “Avast ye hearties” all night. Or wearing a Jack Sparrow wig. Or laughing every time someone asks me if I’m enjoying my grog. Just the thought of acting like a pirate girl all night exhausts me.

But I have this sneaking suspicion that I should. That I should go all out with an outfit and just throw myself into the silliness with everyone else, instead of sitting stuffily in a corner with a martini, like a boring elitist.

The thought terrifies me as an introvert. The act of throwing myself into a situation so fraught with potential joviality and vulnerability as a Pirate Ball. But I feel like I have to abandon my inhibitions before I’m too old to have any left. I’m an old salt, but maybe it’s time to bring a spring upon ‘er.

Blimey. Time to weigh anchor and hoist the mizzen.

News

April 8, 2022

One of the biggest honors of my life, and coming up in four weeks. Maybe I’ll see you in Phoenix, and have a great weekend.