Wiping the Whiteboard Clean

What is it about a whiteboard that binds us to commitment? List an idea on a whiteboard, and suddenly, it must be done. Thoughts are richer. Lists are more cohesive. A spark of imagination is recorded as truth.

Today, I wiped my whiteboard clean.

A clean whiteboard. All I left was my inspirational posters that remind to never quit and to continue to sparkle along with a press clipping of my son that inspires me to follow my dreams.

Normally, that 3 1/2 X 5-foot space is a brainstorming mecca. I write my ideas down before they float away. I organize, prioritize and then gaze at my mind-flow from behind my desk, thinking of all the greatness I will achieve when these ideas take fruition in the form of presentations, blog posts and well-managed projects.

Today, I wiped it clean before I even had the chance to embark on the list of 2013 goals I had begun developing long before January rolled around. I wiped them all away, first with the felt-backed eraser, then with the cleaning solution that came in the handy dry-erase marker set.

Gone are my plans…, and suddenly I feel freer and lighter than I did when I walked from my office yesterday.

I hadn’t expected the feeling of liberation I experienced when I took that first pass of the eraser across the board.  Some words vanished with ease, but others had been in place for so long, they clung to the surface. Only thin strips disappeared, my ideas so permanent only sheer determination could clear them completely.

I scrubbed and scrubbed, sometimes with one hand clutched around the foam block, sometimes with both as I added more force. I didn’t want to see these thoughts any more. I didn’t want them taunting me from across the room.

Finally, they were gone entirely. In there place was a swirling film of red, blue and green. I launched a second assault with cleaning solution and paper towel. The colors cleared, and I was left with nothing but a blank field of white.

I stepped back, and unexpectedly sighed with relief.

I had been frustrated after meetings the previous day, having just found out I would be forced to realign my expectations in the aftermath of a corporate reorganization. I glared at the whiteboard this morning, knowing the goals I had set for myself would no longer help me succeed. The future seemed too uncertain to count on these plans. I could find no joy or excitement in reviewing them every time I lifted my eyes from my computer. They had to go.

Now with the remnants of carefully planned strategies physically wiped away, I can see clearer.

I see the freshness of things to come, the newness of things yet to experience. I am excited to discover what the next steps will be, and I am filled with anticipation of making new lists, setting new goals and proving myself on new territory.

Last week, in the wake of New Year’s celebrations, my whiteboard glowed with promise.

Yesterday, it screamed disappointment.

Today, it is clean, and I am ready to start over.

How do you handle things when faced with a significant change?

***This post was written as submission for The Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge which tasked bloggers to creatively capture the theme “Starting Over.”  I spent two days planning a light-hearted post on the Young One having to start over with her self-image when I decided she needed to grow out her bangs. Then corporate shake-up and reorganization happened.  I ended up with a new boss with a new vision, and when I erased my whiteboard, I knew what I needed to post this week.

Most Quiet? Not Really.

Every time I open my high school yearbook and turn to the “Class Characters” page, I cringe to see my likeness starring back at me. Positioned by a photographer to appear standoffish–chin lowered, eyes averted, sitting back-to-back with my male counterpart. The caption underneath makes me want to tear the page from its binding. “Most Quiet” it reads, like an indictment against my character, something to be ashamed of and improved upon. Not quite like the other more sought-after “Characters” of “Most Likely to Succeed” and “Most Friendly”.

How did this girl become “Stiletto Momma”? Not by being quiet, that’s for sure.

It’s a title I’ve worked hard to shake off for over 25 years.

That’s not who I am, and if those people who label me as such really knew me, the first description of my character would not be “Quiet”.

Calm? Yes.

Reserved? Yes.

Even-tempered? Maybe. (I am a redhead, after all.)

I am an observer. I watch, and I listen, and I don’t say something unless I have a good reason. Silence does not intimidate me. I feel no need to jump in with mindless chatter because the person opposite me has nothing worthy to say himself.

If you call me quiet. You don’t know me.

I have a voice. I know how to use it. I use it wisely and intelligently, and I have no regrets when I choose my words.

I didn’t get where I am today by not speaking up for myself, for my family, for my career. I hope the lesson I’ve taught my children is that you don’t have to be loud to make a statement. Diplomacy and thoughtfulness make a far greater impact.

I am not quiet. When I have something to say, believe me, you will hear it.

Stiletto Momma

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It’s Five Minute Friday, and today’s prompt is “Quiet”. Don’t be quiet about who you are. Join us on Lisa-Jo Baker’s site and share your voice.

I Remember

I remember…how the bright blue blouse I wore matched the brilliant blue sky that Tuesday morning and thinking to myself, “This is the perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky.”

I remember…sitting down at the computer in my office and starting my normal routine of checking email, drafting the day’s to-do list and turning on the radio to add some background noise.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I remember…I was deep in thought (even though I don’t remember the actual thought that had my attention) when I heard the normally jovial radio DJ say, “A plane has just hit the World Trade Center in New York City.” My work-day radio selection is not known for serious commentary, so my first reaction was to think this was just another spoof of real news. Something told me this was different, though, and I quickly switched the radio to AM and found a news station.

I remember…how my hands came to my mouth to cover the gasp when I realized it was true, but worse than originally reported. Not one, but two planes had sped into the two tall buildings. This is no accident, the frantic commentators reported. This is chaos. This is terror.

I remember…picking up the phone to call my husband. “What!” he said when I relayed the news. As I brought him up to speed, I heard the latest from the radio…”The Pentagon has just been hit!” We were under attack.

I remember… how I held my breath when I heard, “Another plane has just gone down in…” and how my stomach fell and my knees got weak when the reporter continued “…Western Pennsylvania.”  Home. That’s my home! I grew up in DuBois, PA, and when people ask where I’m from, instead of giving the name of my small town, I say “Western Pennsylvania”. They weren’t just attacking national landmarks. Now, they were targeting small town America…and my family.

I remember…how my hands shook when I ignored office policy and made a personal long-distance call to MY western Pennsylvania, desperate to hear that my mom and dad were okay. The first call wouldn’t go through, so I tried again and again, until finally it connected, and I heard my mom on the other end. “We’re fine,” she said. “The plane crashed near Somerset.”

I remember…how my mind shifted again with that news, and I made another call to the Hubs. “You need to call your mom. Make sure she’s okay.” Later, we learned that Flight 93 flew over her hometown of Johnstown, PA, just 30 miles from Shanksville, as its passengers bravely overtook the hijackers.

I remember…not wanting to be alone that day and how even though all meetings were cancelled and no work was done, no one actually went home. We needed to comfort each other. We needed the normalcy of the office setting.

I remember…driving to my gym at lunch, changing into shorts and a t-shirt and joining my fellow lunchtime exercisers in front of the television in the cardio equipment area. No one ran on the treadmills. No one climbed on the elliptical machines. We watched. We shook our heads, and we asked, “Why?” and “How?” This is where I finally met up with the Hubs and where we watched for the first of many times the total destruction of the Twin Towers.

I remember…wondering if my eight-year-old son knew what was happening and pondering how I would explain to him that the world had changed today.

I remember…that my son’s football practice was cancelled that night and knowing this was a significant event because football practice is only cancelled when lightning strikes.

I suppose lightning did strike that day. So many lives were changed. Wives made widows. Fathers made single parents. Children made orphans. Ordinary people made heroes.

Our nation was inspired by a patriotism not seen in decades, and while our President spoke of the American spirit, how we would not rest until justice was done and how our enemy was now “Wanted: Dead or Alive,”  little boys and girls saw their futures form. They now knew with certainty that they would one day grow up to become one of the good guys. They were motivated to put on a uniform, defend the Stars and Stripes and make sure the horror they watched unfold in their classrooms on a sunny September day would never happened again.

Today, I remember the heroes…Those who lost their lives to terrorism. Those who survived with scars both physical and emotional. Those who have given their lives in defense of our country and those who put on their uniforms every day and continue to fight for a country that will never back down and will never forget September 11, 2001.

What do you remember about 9/11?

Stiletto Momma

Splendid Saturday Solitude

Most mornings, the blaring of the alarm is met with resignation. I drag myself from dreamland, glare at the numbers showing the time and remind myself that ignoring the insistent noise from the clock is not an option. I have to wake up. I have to get out of my warm, cozy bed. I have to get ready for work, and I have to do things for other people.

Even though that alarm fills me with despair during the work-week, I still find myself re-setting it Friday night. I usually stay up a little later on that eve before the weekend, catching the end of “Bride Day” on TLC, chatting with the Hubs or Facebooking with my favorite group of West Point moms. But before I turn out the light and call it a day, I reach over, adjust the time on the clock and set the alarm for 7:00 a.m.

This time, when the alarm sounds, I jump up, quickly turn off the sound so as not to wake the sleeping hubby, and smile with anticipation.

It’s Saturday!

Once upon a time, I met the dawning of Saturday with a similar delight. Back then I was about five, and upon leaving my bed, I would excitedly race to the television and eagerly tune into Saturday morning cartoons–The Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner Show, Scooby Doo and Schoolhouse Rock were my favorites.

Today when I rise early to start my weekend, I head straight to the Keurig for my coffee-on-demand–Butter Toffee, Caramel Vanilla Creme  and Cinnamon Pastry somehow give me a bigger rush than 1970s animation. Instead of heading to the television, I take my steaming caffeine and stroll to the back deck where I heave a contented sigh and gaze across the backyard.

My view. On the really good days, the neighborhood deer come out to say, “Good morning.”

A fine layer of mist fills the air, dew coats the ground, and it is silent. I am alone–a state I find myself in only once a week. The Young One is still asleep. The Hubs, if he was disturbed by my early alarm, has returned to his Saturday slumber, and the MIL has yet to venture out for her own cup of coffee.

Experience has taught me that I have an hour before I must relinquish my wants to see to the needs of others. By 8:00 a.m., the Young One will seek me out for a bowl of cereal, the Hubs will demand my attention to plan out the weekend errands and activities, and the MIL will call for the canine to accompany her to the curb in the daily quest for the newspaper.

My chair. Perfect for relaxing with coffee and a book.

But for now, I have 60 minutes of solitude. I will relax in a padded rocker damp with the mist of morning fog, sip my Butter Toffee java laced with just the right amount of Italian Sweet Creme Coffee-Mate, and immerse myself in a book I’ve been struggling to find time to read all week. If I’m lucky, I will raise my eyes at just the right time to watch a family of deer emerge from the woods and take their breakfast at the tree line near the far end of the yard.

I won’t think about work. I won’t menu plan or write a grocery list. I won’t check email or log onto Facebook. I won’t cook or clean. If my relaxation and enjoyment are not the first things accomplished by a task, I don’t intend to do it for at least 3,600 seconds.

I set my alarm for an early rising on Saturday not because I have so many things to do in my day, but because I need to do nothing. I need a few minutes when I am not a mom or a wife or a friend. I am just me, doing things that make me happy. And because of this hour for me, I can return to being caregiver, spouse and adviser and do those jobs with increased enthusiasm and purpose. I love those roles and wouldn’t trade them for all the sunny summer mornings for the rest of time…as long as I have one hour once a week.

This is my time. My Saturday Morning. Silent. Solitary. Splendid.

How do you find your solitude?

Stiletto Momma

Learning the Lessons We Teach Our Children

My youngest child has the power to bring me to my knees with one whiny proclamation: “I can’t do it!”

You can do it!

This is usually followed by a stomp of the foot, a defensive crossing of the arms, and a pouty, ”humph” that sets my pulse pounding and my teeth gritting.

“Don’t say, ‘can’t’,” I fire back. “Try harder!”

I remember teaching this to my oldest child too, right along with ”Don’t give up” and ”Don’t bite your friends.” Over the course of the last 18 years, he has shown me on countless occasions that he has learned those lessons, and as frustrating as it is to hear the word “can’t” from a preschooler again, I’m pretty sure the almost-five-year-old will learn them too.

Now, however, I am wondering if I have followed my own advice. After a particularly insulting incident, I found myself fantasizing about the end of this current conflict. In my anger-fueled fantasy I lay out all the reasons I have been wronged and proclaim, ”I am raising my daughter to be a strong, independent woman who lives up to her potential, and I will not accept anything less for myself!” I turn from the room, slam the door and am greeted on the other side by the thunderous applause of everyone I have ever known and worked with.

But the question that haunts me now that I have come back to reality is have I really learned those lessons, and can I be the example I intend to be for my daughter? This realization calls for a refresher course on life’s earliest lessons.

1. Don’t Say Can’t – The reason “can’t” falls so easily from the Young Ones’ lips is because it so much easier than the alternative. To the not-quite-five demographic, hearing the words “you can do anything you want to do and be anything you want to be” are words of magic. The theory of just say you want it, and it will be yours is a lie. To get “it” or be “it” or do “it” requires hard work, so don’t say “can’t”; say “I will try harder.” If you can’t make the pedals on the bike move forward, push harder. Can’t form the letters of your name exactly right? Practice more. Can’t get people to attend your meetings? Give them an agenda, so they don’t think you were just playing with the schedule meeting function in the email system.

2. Don’t Be a Quitter – This is really “Don’t Say Can’t Part II”. A friend recently shared a meme on Facebook (those funny/inspiring/politically charged pictures meant to be liked and shared  by every user of every social network on the world wide web) that showed a woman’s chiseled six-pack abs and the words, “Remember the girl who quit?…Nobody else does either.” I was sucked into the viral frenzy. Not only did I “like” it, I shared it with the rest of my friends, printed it and hung it on the whiteboard in my office. Quitting is admitting you can’t, and since you are not allowed to say “can’t” (see #1), it is impossible to quit. Quitting empowers those who strive to make us lesser than we intend for ourselves to be. Why empower someone else, when we should be empowering ourselves?

3. Learn to Make Friends – In preschool, making friends is easy. If you are willing to share your toys and don’t bite the other kids, you can have a posse equal to that of the hottest celebrities. It gets harder as we get older, and in the business world, we don’t so much “make friends” as we “network”. When I’m in need of anything work-related, I immediately scroll through my mental Rolodex of business associates, peers and mentors, looking for the ones with the greatest potential to help and advise me…and give a great reference should one be needed.

4. Do What I Tell You – This is the cause for most rebellion in children, but it is a necessary lesson because as those children enter the work force, if they don’t do what they are told in a manner that is expected of them, they will most likely be fired. However, in most cases, doing what you are told is not enough. You must do more and do it at a higher level than your peers. This is how you get promoted and how you ultimately achieve the fifth and most important of all life lessons….

5. DEMAND RESPECT – You have worked hard, never quit, networked with important people and achieved great results. NEVER let anyone take that away from you. Setbacks happen. Bosses change. Expectations are re-set. When this happens, go back to the beginning. Try harder. Never give up. Call on your friends for support and your mentors for advice. Then do what needs to be done…for you. Don’t let someone tell you you are less than who you are. Tell them who you are and why their disrespect is misplaced. Don’t whisper it. Say it loud for everyone to hear. You are a strong, independent woman who lives up to her potential, and you demand no less than RESPECT.

I will demand respect from those I work with, those I live with and those I love. I cannot accept less because that is not who I am, and that is not who I want my daughter to be.

Teach your children well…,and follow your own advice.

Stiletto Momma

Observations From The Boardroom

I take it as a point of pride and a testiment to my business acumen that I am invited to participate in my company’s quarterly board meeting reviews.  Someone in the chain of command believes the work I do on a daily basis is significant enough to warrant review and discussion with business leaders across the company as well as the CEO himself.  It is a great boost to the ego, and if all goes well, it offers an injection of self-confidence that lasts at least until the next conference call or project meeting.

But as much as I enjoy being invited to these elite board meetings, I hate the fact that I am the only woman in the room.

My torture device of choice.

Until not that long ago, I worked for a Fortune 100 company that saw the need for diversity in the work place to be a priority almost on par with the need to aggressively drive up our stock price. I rarely attended a meeting where I didn’t see someone else in the room who looked like me. In many cases, that person who looked like me was the most senior leader in her business. These were the women I aspired to be. Like them, I wanted to be one of the women invited to the board meeting.

When I interviewed with my new company, I commented to the executive recruiter I was working with that I was concerned because everyone I interviewed with was white and male. He  assured me that generating a more diverse workforce was one of the company’s initiatives. Needless to say, a few more people have been hired into leadership positions since me–all of them male. So, as I sat in the boardroom last week and looked around to see one man after the next take a seat at the table, I began to make some observations on what it is like to be the only girl in the club.

1. The Suit - At the proclamation that the board meeting attire was “business” (as opposed to “business casual”), a collective groan was heard down the hall. “I hate wearing a wearing a jacket all day,” one collegue complained. To me, the attire declaration went almost unnoticed.  On most days in the office, you’ll find my clothing choice to include a jacket or a “completor piece”, as my friends on TLC’s What Not To Wear describe how a jacket or sweater is used to to elevate an outfit to a different level.  That elevation is exactly the inequality I have felt for years.  In order for a woman to be taken as professionally as her male counterpart, she must routinely dress herself at a higher level. I learned this lesson while at that diverse Fortune 100 company, as most of those women I admired were always seen wearing a suit or jacket even when not presenting to senior leadership. The men, on the other hand, wear their golf shirts and button-downs as their daily uniform.

2. Torture Devices - As I walked down the hall to the boardroom, I met up with a sales vice president.  He took in my business attire (a truly sharp, brand new, tan pant suit over a silk tank in a tasteful reptile print with coordinating accessories), and said, “You didn’t wear a tie? That’s not fair!”  My response?  “No. No tie for me, but I am wearing four-inch pointy toe pumps. Would you like to trade?”  For the dinner following the meeting, my boss respectfully told everyone, myself included, “No tie for dinner.”  It was very nice of him to consider his team’s comfort at dinner.  We really can’t expect the guys to have to deal with a little adversity while they eat.  I, however, kept my four-inch pointy toe shoes on my aching feet throughout the entire meal!

3. Bio-Breaks - Board meetings at my company are all-day events with two miserly breaks distributed throughout the day.  The only thing that saves me from some serious bladder issues is the fact that our CEO is a chain smoker whose need for a cigarette happens just about as often as my need for a trip to the little girl’s room.  The guys it seems, can sit there four hours straight without a care in the world.  On the plus side, the smoking area and the restrooms are in the same general direction, so I was able to get some extra face-time with the CEO on the way out the door, while the men stayed behind loosening their ties.

4. Language - Prior to my first board meeting appearance last year, I was prepped by my peers to expect our CEO to launch several “F-Bombs” during the course of the meeting.  I don’t think their warning was a concern for my gentle nature so much as a statement of things to come.  When the first meeting ended without a single utterance of anything that would be considered colorful, I commented about the lack of four-letter words.  One collegue quickly joined the conversation to declare that the only reason our illustrious CEO was so tame was because I was in the room, and he probably didn’t want to offend a woman.  There may be some truth to that, as I have participated in four board meetings now and have yet to be a victim of his notorious F-Bomb attacks.

Regardless of the lack of estrogen in the boardroom, I don’t regret my decision to leave the Fortune 100 company for the smaller, less diverse employer.  While I am one of only a handful of women who work in my office, I don’t feel discriminated against, just a little lonely to not have another female to make these observations with while sitting in that boardroom.

Hopefully, one day soon, I will be able to add someone to my team, and I intend to make sure that person looks like me.  In the meantime, I’d love to hear your observations from the boardroom.

Be comfortable in your pointy toe pumps!

Stiletto Momma