Do you recall that for the first couple decades of your life adults were endlessly asking you what you wanted to be when you grew up? It was usually right after asking you how old you were, or remarking on your increased height, but before asking about your favorite teacher. Do you even remember the answers? I had many - from policeman and nurse to history teacher and astronaut. As a kid all these things seemed like choices at an ice cream shop to be made on a whim. Only as you grew older did the realities behind each became more and more readily apparent. You made choices. Took different paths. What you wanted to be when you grew up started narrowing down until you looked around one day and thought, well I'll be darned - I guess this is what I "am". The narrowing isn't necessarily a bad thing just another piece of getting older. And while there have been times where that moment of assessment left me breathless with panic - second guessing all those choices and turns, most days I think "hey, you haven't done half bad."
All of this to leads me to little 5-year old Maia. Maia sat, with two wet pig tails, one each side of her head, while we took a break from swimming in the lake. We were sitting on a long bench seat having deli meat sandwiches in a friend's boat. I asked her how she was enjoying her day - her parents had informed me it was her very first time on a boat. She answered that she was having a wonderful time had decided to become a mermaid. Given her enjoyment of the water, that made perfect sense to me. I told her that I thought she would be a very pretty mermaid. There was a lull in the conversation as we went back to our sandwiches then she asked in her little voice, in a matter of fact manner, what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I have spent time with my share of younger kids through the years, and they ask lots of questions, but in my experience they tend to be "why" questions rather than "get to know you" questions. So it caught me completely off guard. Usually the adult in the conversation would push it forward, but I found myself just grinning and saying "you know - I'm not really sure. That's a really great question." I had been caught by the purity of the question, the innocence of the intent. She didn't want to know what I wanted to do she was interested in who I wanted to be. And that really was a great question - and one I hadn't considered in quite some time.
I didn't answer quickly enough for her and she threw out a suggestion, "a princess?" she offered sagely. Who was I to argue with a girl wise beyond her years? I agreed wholeheartedly and gave her a high five for such a brilliant suggestion.
The last time anyone referred to me as "Princess Lisa" in any sort of complimentary way was when I was only 8 years old. According to my best friend of nearly 30 years they were spoken to me by a classroom mom helping our class with Halloween parade preparations in 3rd grade. In those days my best friend was less of a fan and overhearing these words used to describe me still forces her eyes to roll during a retelling of the story today.
Back in the boat, a few decades past my 3rd grade Halloween costume, I was clearly a candidate in Maia's eyes for princessship and she got down to defining my role - asking me which princess I would be? Now even when I was young - besides my awe over their tiaras - I was never much into princesses. I tended to believe that fairies and ballerinas had way cooler outfits, so when it came to putting myself into a princess category I was at a loss. Maia jumped in with another suggestion, "Rapunzel?" Always agreeable, I relented. Indeed Rapunzel seemed a good fit - as I'd been meaning to grow out my hair.
It was clear, even to this 5 year old, that I needed some career counseling - being the next Rapunzel wasn't going to be any walk in the park. The first issue was my hair - it wasn't nearly long enough. I was informed that the only way to grow it was to sing. The radio was on so I sang my heart out only to be met with the rolling eyes of Maia's older sister, who at 9 years old knew that I was no Rapunzel and wasn't going to get anywhere with that voice. She cut me off and informed me that I couldn't just sing to any old song, that accelerated hair growth in fact required a special song. Noticeably exasperated with my ignorance she added that my hair would also need to be magic ... it was all in the movie. "Haven't you SEEN the movie? It's been out for like a MILLION years." I admitted I had not seen the movie and felt like I was being admonished for having a poor attitude. How could I expect to be a princess like Rapunzel if I hadn't even bothered to see the movie? She had a point.
I had failed the first item on the list and I turned back to Maia for some additional pointers. I also would need to get myself a pink and purple dress. Check. I'm sure I could find one somewhere, I mean this wasn't Never Never Land, they have the internet here - Amazon.com would certainly have some adult sized princess dresses available for sale perhaps even with free shipping. Third, I would need a mother. I clapped and said that I had one of those, she just wasn't on the boat with us. Maia looked rather doubtful and reminded me on a few occasions that I needed to have a mother in order for this to work. I'm sure Mom is up for it - just have to get her a list of her duties. Fourth, I needed a prince. I asked if she knew of only princes because I'd been looking for a really long time and I sure couldn't find one. She giggled hysterically and said there are no princes here only DADDIES! Well there you have it.
Pushing the point I told her that if she did happen to come across a prince she should send him my way - at which point she threw in another caveat ... the Prince was named Eugene. Eugene? I'm supposed to find a Prince named Eugene? Now I don't know about A Land Far Away but there aren't many princes named Eugene wandering the streets these days - at least not in my neighborhood. Clearly I have my work cut out for me, but I guess it's good to have goals.
July 14, 2012
May 09, 2010
AIR RAGE. Argentina.

First, I would just like to say the tone of this post was brought to you by United Airlines. United: Preferred flyer of Oompa Loompas, Amputees, and the Lollypop Guild. If you don’t get there and look like hell, next time you ride in cargo for free.
So, Argentina. That's pretty freakin' far. And when you work for a company that refuses to acknowledge the existence of business class, it's a really really long way. By the time I arrive to the airport I'm in no mood for human interaction of any kind. Well, Argentina has recently decided to raise money through a gotcha tax as you arrive in EZE (the main international airport in Buenos Aires). They say that this amount is in no way a visa but in fact just payback for three crappy governments (Canada, Australia and the U.S.) who have the gall to charge Argentina’s citizens a visa fee. As you enter the terminal now you are immediately herded by nationality into hastily erected payment quarters so that you can be subjected to the $131 fee. There is no warning of this fee before you arrive, no notification on your airline ticket. Not even a mention in flight before you land. Luckily, others from our office had gone before and sussed out the situation post-Jan 15, 2010. So, if you are planning on heading to Argentina, you may want to re-consider and go somewhere else without a reciprocity tax (a.k.a. ”Screw You” tax).
And then there was my immigration officer... Given my unlucky status as an American and requirement to pay the Screw You tax I was near the end of the long line of our flight to come through. From what I could tell everyone ahead of me was also from my flight. So after waiting in my second line of the three line day I come to the immigration officer who decided, with one look, that he hates me. “Flight number.” Jesus, I don’t know, as I try to pull out the correct piece of paper out of my backpack with the 4500 different pockets and zippers. Usually at this point they try to help you out, “where did you come from?” knowing that there are probably only 1 or 2 possible choices for you to choose from. As the airport clearly only had one international flight per provider he could have suggested “United? American?” and used his knowledge from there. No he hummed while I cursed and dug out old boarding passes from the wrong flights. After I successfully located the flight number on a balled up boarding pass crouching in the seam of my backpack I moved onto customs. As I followed the signs to the outside I’m fairly certain I passed through customs without getting searched as the strange looking step-child of a family of Mexicans that I latched onto. I certainly got a raised eyebrow but no one said a word and no one ever even took my customs form.
I did finally make it through the rigmarole and managed to hand over a large portion of the cash I had on me through the various airport schemes. There was of course the ridiculous exchange rate booth, with “no commission” and the “official taxi stand” operators who grab your bags and beg for tips. Finally, I was in a cab and on my way to the domestic airport for the next leg of my flight.
Argentina is a mishmash of cultures and I've had the pleasure of visiting a handful of times. They took the foods of Italy, the superiority complex of France, the anal retentiveness of Germany, and threw it all together to create their own anal retentive, taxation and rule crazy, but never on time, striking mess with the party vibe of Brazil and a cowboy history flowing just beneath the surface. I've got to admit it is a blend that has benefits and makes for a great country. The food in Argentina is amazing, combined with the culture and cafes of any good European city, buildings that are well thought out and neighborhoods that are well kept. The people may believe they are better than you, but they are are kind and open to strangers.
These internal conflicts of Argentine culture were evident to me in the orderly traffic on the motorway as I crossed the city that wasn’t at all phased by a motorcycle speeding in the breakdown lane going the wrong direction. Argentina is like that straight-A kid you remember from High School who followed all the rules, but was moonlighting as a stripper for extra cash. You’d never know it to look at her except for the nipple ring that occasionally showed through her top.
I was fairly certain I had asked for the right place but the price was high and my invoice said “Aeroparque” not “Aeropeurto” ….and we were driving, and driving, and driving. The travel agent had said 25 minutes. The flight attendant said 20 … so at 45 minutes I began to get concerned I had miscommunicated something along the way. We drove through the “Parque Norte” (North Park) and I got even more concerned, as we had entered onto a picturesque boulevard that was lined with trees, following the coastline paved with residential speed bumps. Lord help me where have I asked to go?? I was just about to ask for some clarification on the whole “Aeroparque” (literally air park) and “Aeropeurto” (airport) issue. When finally, against all odds, and reaffirming my belief that my Spanish wasn’t so bad that I would end up in a different town I spotted the telltale blue sign with an airplane picture on it. Turns out Aeroparque was a good description, as the airport is lovely, built with the neighborhood in mind with one whole wall of windows overlooking the boulevard and the water beyond. Woo Hoo! I had arrived.
Trying to find a small enough bill to tip with, led to another episode of cursing and swearing my way through my backpack only to realize I didn’t actually have a smaller bill, and thus Part 24 of handing over all unsecured cash to various members of the airport community. A tradition of traveling that truly never ceases to irk me because I’m always, without fail, too tired to fight …except for that time when I was in Cairo and the guy locked my backpack into his trunk after I’d argued with him about the price and then just left. I out waited him, 45 minutes sitting in his cab acting as if nothing was unusual until he relented on the price and took me to my hotel. Alas that is a story for another day.
Upon my arrival at the domestic airport, I managed to get out of line twice after the monitors cycled past the name of the airline that was supposed to be represented at the counter. My slowly awakening mind finally realized the monitor was alternating between two names. Duh. It’s a monitor and I was treating it as if someone had carved it into an ancient piece of stone. When I reached the counter I was met with a quickly spoken question outside of my comfort zone to which I announced “Calafate?” (the city I was trying to get to and my best guess at the first question the airlines usually ask). To which I was greeted with a withering stare and “your passport.” Type type type. “How many bags?” she said in heavily accented English. “None”, I don’t do checked luggage. Our U.S. airlines have lost their minds with their silly fees, and I refuse to take it anymore, so I had everything down to my hiking boots and work clothes shoved into a tiny carryon. “I must weigh it.” …. Du du dududu 21 kg between my carryon and my backpack and a heavy winter jacket. “No more than 5” she says. “What!?” “No more than 5 kg to carry” … Aerolinas Argentinas? Are you shitting me? 10 lbs I’m allowed to carry on? That’s basically a laptop? But did I say that? Did I turn into one of those Americans screaming about stupid foreign rules and customs? No. I started pulling things out of my carryon, knowing this was a battle for another, less sleep deprived, day.
All I’m saying is, if I were president of the world I would get all of the crazy ass airlines and government agencies into a room and I would lock them up there with one word “Decide”. Pick one set of ridiculous virtually pointless rules, that will apply to all the airplanes and airports in the world. Either we have 2 carry-ons or we have 1 (I’m talking to you England). We will have 30 lb carry ons or 10 lb carry ons (crazy Argentina Air). Water bottles or no, shoes on or off? Post security water is okay or still bad? Plastic bags or in your carryon? Cell phones during taxi or no? … And while you are at it demand that ever plane out of production from this day forward can hold the same size carryon. I want an end to gatechecking! Who’s with me?! It’s a revolution! But for now I will just have to do with my camera, a non-functional blackberry, and a laptop without wireless access … because everything else was checked.
September 13, 2008
CHARLOTTE. A Dating Life.

I'm being stalked by eHarmony.
If a man ever sent me this many emails by now I would have a restraining order, but the problem is I'm leading Dr Neil Clark Warren on. He sends me an email with ... "WE FOUND YOUR MATCH!!!!" and with that many exclamation points I can't help but open it.
Once they see that I peeked they know at some point I will be: drunk, recently rejected, and on email ... it's the eharmony "perfect storm". Then they will have me. I will happily, desperately, hand over my credit card information and dole out the a minimum $60 / month to be able to "nudge" my perfect match.
However, the more I play "hard to get" the harder Neil looks for matches for me, and the more desperate the search becomes ... it's been 2 months and Neil's gotten more and more vague about what these matches could possibly have in common with me and they seem to live farther and farther out into the North Carolina countryside (read: the hills) and I don't mean The Hills with capitals and a great opening theme song, I mean the hills where Dairy Queen and Waffle House are considered gourmet.
A recent match:
Billy Joe (48) 4'4" self-employed,
Billy Joe likes walks down his driveway to get the mail on Tuesdays, lives with his mama and spends most days washing windows for tips at the local gas station.
Billy Joe says: "I'm looking for a woman who can move in and take care of me and mama. I ain't got time for no fatties, and I'd like her to have teeth. I don't want a woman with more then 4 of her own children."
The three things friends would say about Billy Joe:
literate,
good with a gun,
once traveled to Memphis.
Things he can't live without:
his mama,
NASCAR,
running water, and
beer.
Wow, thanks Neil that's hard to resist but for now, I'm still sober and somehow I think I'm going to have to pass.
July 31, 2007
POEM. To A New Baby.

In her belly you did surely grow,
But what you would be we still didn’t know.
If you’re a she, as I’m sure you will be,
You’ll be named Lisa, as you’re named after me!
Perhaps to consider, the thought that I’m wrong,
If this should happen then I’d vote for Shawn
Into the future your whole life will be,
Oh the things that you’ll know! Oh the things you will see!
A doctor or teacher, it's hard to be sure
Perhaps to disease, you’ll find the cure
Movies and music you’ll have all your own,
You’ll laugh at our stories of Walkmans and car phones
We await your arrival with excitement and awe
But no one’s as psyched as your mama and pa
Even though you babies, you do cry and poo,
You, little baby, are a little dream come true
December 16, 2006
BOSTON. World Domination Got Ugly.

When I was twelve I joined my mother on a take your daughter to work day. I was really excited to see where she worked what she did all day, who she talked to. And when I walked into the sparkling lobby with the glimmering marble and shiny elevator doors, I think I was hooked. Next to my drab building where I spent my days in school, this was a beautiful place, full of people that looked like they were important somehow and they all rushed around as if there was somewhere that really needed them to arrive. I wanted to be that important to something. As a 12 year old the feeling that someone is waiting desperately for your arrival and thoughts, it was, for me an amazing selling point on the business world.
So off I went first to an undergraduate degree in Economics, where I learned that everything was perfectly predictable if only the world was predictable. However, in a world that is not predictable, we can still draw graphs without being tied to scales on the axis and make overarching statements, that the more something is demanded, the higher the price will rise, unless that high demand is met with more supply in which case the price will stay the same, or alternatively the high demand will cause supplier to overcompensate driving down prices temporarily, until a time that they are unsustainable, driving competitors out of the market and increasing prices again, unless of course the government won't allow it and then they will stay low ad infinitum. So in a nutshell that was my undergraduate degree. I was hoping that would be enough that people would find me important and I would rush around and they would start asking and respecting my opinion. However, with a B average in Economics and 4,500 classmates I was virtually unemployable as anything more then a part-time burger flipper or Olive Garden waitress. (image placeholder)
With the details of my dreams of greatness slowly coagulating into a solid but malleable mass, I was asked to join a group of test gerbils, to try out the new Master of Accounting program. In return for my participation I would receive 90% of my tuition and the opportunity to increase my value from that of part-time burger flipper - living in my parent's basement between the Barbie Dream house and 12 gnarled boxes of Christmas lights - Olive Garden waitress to CPA – real honest to goodness letters after my name. If that didn't make me important, I don't know what would.
Nearly 2 years after graduating with my undergraduate degree, I started working as a tax accountant at one of the largest public accounting firms in the world. My first tax return ended with my supervisor pretty much redoing all of my work while I was relegated to be staffed on the left over returns or work for people that no one else with any power would. It was a depressing scene in that first year. I had been allocated to the one kind of tax I wasn't interested in … individuals. I was assigned based on - wait for it - the B in my last name. It was the first in my class and the Individual group was the first on the list of departments, so off I went. Soon it was all I could do to get myself unchained from my department without pissing anyone off – but the only manager who was patient enough to deal with my distinct inability to really focus on details was himself a manager in the international individuals department. Finally, in this department I was worthy of rushing, I eventually accumulated some staff to help me and I was close to meeting my goal of importance. But I was worried I couldn't be important enough? (image placeholder) I mean how many famous international assignment services tax managers are running a Fortune 500 company?
In order to reach my goal I would have to breakoff schedule and make a quick pitstop at Servicetown, USA. It's a popular place to stop these days on your way to any high profile graduate program. However, this destination is growing so popular that sometimes you need to work pretty hard to get in, especially if you are hoping to get paid while you are there. My destination was the TFA neighborhood of Servicetown. I had signed up, interviewed, speeched, and dazzled my way into Greenville High School, much to my mother’s horror. I raised the average age in Servicetown by a couple of years, and was happy to share the wealth of life experiences gained from my 4 years partying legally in bars instead of frat parties. It was a two year stint, and it was mighty hard work, but at the end of it, I had what all but the most dedicated find at the end of their trip to Servicetown, a letter of acceptance. In my case it was off to Business School back in Philadelphia.
My MBA built on my knowledge of charts and graphs and broad generalizations. I redefined myself by the rules of this new game, where leadership came in four flavors, everyone lived in boxes and were desperate to get out, and team members should feel free to critique you at any point in order to foster your personal and professional growth. I came out of two years with some Cs Ps and a new appreciation for Excel shortcut keys. I could voice an opinion strongly and without any real foundation, and best of all ... all those charts and graphs I had learned about during my Economics degree I could now translate into 40 colors and make into an animated three-dimensional chart that talked(image placeholder).
But the biggest learning I took away from business school is the importance of having friends. However, you should no longer have only "popular" friends; you should have friends evenly distributed across all the strata of social acceptance levels from homeless man to presidents alike. During your MBA you find out the more connections you make the better. However, if you are the type of person to really develop deep friendships with a few key people, you may find yourself in trouble. As your social connections may have many, detrimental, "redundant links" and there is nothing more worrisome then the dreaded redundant link ... if I know 1 person who knows all the same people as another well then why the HELL would I spend any of my time (and time is money) talking to person number 2 since he/she is no more valuable then person 1 in my social network. Rationalize your social networks, RATIONALIZE! It's all about efficiencies across all aspects of your life, if you are not efficient then you are destined again to never be important and never be truly respected within the corporate world.
The most depressing learning of my advanced degree was that even in a top rated school there simply weren't enough good jobs to go around and you were forced to battle it out like a scene out of Mad Max, or like in Waterworld when people wanted freshwater and they couldn't drink out of the ocean, yeah, like that almost, except without the water so much, or the post-apocalyptic outfits, because well mostly people just shopped at Banana Republic. But I fear I'm getting away from my story, of how I was struggling my way up the corporate ladder towards a job with real meaning and responsibility. A way to shape the corporate world as I knew it. (image placeholder)
In May of my second year I received confirmation that I had climbed one more step in a long ladder to corporate greatness, or the ultimate destruction of my very soul (depending on who it was that you are talking to). Where had I landed and who had I stabbed in the back to get there? Well, I managed to find a small place in a little strategy consulting firm (read: you have a question? we'll make up an answer) and was absolutely thrilled that my long term plan of 2 years consulting followed by a move into the corporate world, quickly followed by world domination. As for those I'd stabbed in the back, well rest assured they were a fully redundant connection and of absolutely no value to my future.
It was a great start; it seems that in order to really be effective at telling someone else the answer you need to develop your own code language to make sure your client never knows that you are just discussing your dinner plans. The tags and ghosts, and standards ... I never knew I had any bandwidth, only time ... and write down what a random person thought in quotes and suddenly it became "color". Manhattan, wasn't just a place, it was a chart that no one could explain, Harvey's balls were all over the place, and if your bars weren't stacked you weren't trying hard enough to pack as much into a single loop as possible. When the haze of random words, that were used in place of very common, easily understood words, finally began to clear and I found myself looking for Bandwidth to accommodate a weekend shopping trip I thought ... this is a little strange, but I feel like I'm getting somewhere. Certainly everyone important must speak a language no one else understands.
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When I began I slept easily knowing full well, that when they had hired me they had not just hired a former CPA/teacher/endless student they had hired a person looking for success. Unfortunately, they had also hired someone who was very much used to having a life of their own as well ... hmmm. Depending on your perspective work life here was definitely in balance as long as your life was your work, then you were 100% in line 100% of the time, and I worked with many who were thrilled about it. They could talk about their ability to bring their work home, and call forwarding, as well as the power of the internet to allow them to have a life at work and to work continuously at home. In my master plan, it was never written that world domination would be quite so much work.
The lowest point occurred at the saddest part of the day ... dawn. While in many cultures dawn is equated to rejuvenation, and a re-awakening of the world. Dawn in the business world merely means that you have lost any chance to spend more then a few minutes in bed before returning to work, with even less brainpower. So my personal lowest point occurred just as I was realizing I had hit the 100 hour mark ... there were no taxis to be found at this hour and all I wanted was to be home in bed. About a block up I spotted a blond woman, about 26, getting into a cab, the cab pulled away and I turned around again, hoping to spot another from a new corner. And just as I thought the cab was about to take off it pulled over and the girl climbed back out ... the cabbie inside yells - you go to Lynn Street? I was thankful that a co-worker had called me a cab and got inside. When I noted my thanks, the cabbie stopped me and said, "no, no" I drove you last night - I drive you home again. It seemed my bright pink jacket and a propensity to tip my drivers well, had earned me a reputation with the few drives that were stuck with the night shift work. What do you do when the night shift cabbies know you?
What do you do when you are so sleep deprived that no alarm clock in the world can rouse you to meet a 6am flight? When you are expected to check documents for errors at the point that exhaustion has your eyes slamming shut involuntarily? When you leave work and sleep for 23 hours? When you cry at work more than once a week? How does world domination look when you are just aren't "owning" your position? When you are being told that you just aren't good enough? When person after person says it again and again? World domination starts to look pretty grim. World domination starts to look like a pretty lame plan. Screw world domination. I quit. I'm going home and taking an f-ing nap.
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