As I was setting up my Blogger Profile I found myself struggling to 'define' myself in words. Obviously my family, immediate and extended, came to mind. And my closest friends, several of whom are just like family. But as I went to fill in interests, hum . . . that was a little tougher. Reading and sleeping are certainly my most coveted activities. But was that it? Didn't I have a REAL hobby - something I truly enjoyed? My first thought was "Hobby? Who has time for a hobby?"
My husband has many hobbies. He's a sports nut and an Internet gamer. He'll play or watch any sport - real or fantasy (sometimes simultaneuosly on TV and the computer) and our entertainment center is full of Internet gaming accessories. Thankfully, most of these gadgets are now wireless! And I think he is most at peace when he sings.
But I was stumped. In the days that followed, I took an inventory of when I truly felt happiness, when I felt joy. I feel this ephemeras effect when:
I snuggle with my daughters in a warm cozy bed or rock them in our glider rocker when they first wake up. Yes, more of their bodies are hanging off my lap than on it but I don't care!
I take the first sip of a Dunkin' Donuts Mocha Latte (skim milk, 2 Splenda please) or savor a dark chocolate Ghiardelli square - the one with the minty creamy center.
My husband wakes me up in the morning by letting the subtle scent of his cologne waft to my nose or he puts his hands on my shoulders, draining the tension from my body.
The interesting outcome of this little study is that what most often brings me joy during the day is work. My hobby is work, a strange and relatively unsettling finding, but a finding nonetheless. Besides my family and the sweet taste of chocolate, working makes me happy.
I love to solve problems, utilize employees for their core skills, try new and thoughtful strategies, and optimize processes. When I meet a goal at work, I feel peace.
I'm sure a few of you find me truly pathetic at this point, but I think that is the most interesting thing about finding your passion. Once you know what makes you happy, it doesn't matter what others think of it. I have come to terms with the knowledge that my hobby has a desk, a PC, a Palm Pilot, and a Blackberry.
Just like any other hobby, I often daydream about it when I'm not doing it. I think about how I can solve a tough problem or get a troubled employee back on track.
Instead of reading Cosmo at home, I read the latest research from the American Journal of Public Health - and, yes, I force copies of good articles on others. I type up documents and prepare presentation material during the commercials of "Grey's Anatomy" and feel no guilt or remorse in doing such.
There is nothing like seeing your solution come to fruition, sitting back watching the success you have generated. The sweet taste of organizational harmony beats the pants off Hazelnut coffee any day.
Creating a workplace that provides a educational and emotional foundation for others is as important to me as sleeping late on a Saturday morning. Perhaps the best part is that I think you can have personal and professional joy at the same time. Feeling effective and productive at work makes me a happier mom, wife, daughter and friend.
Isn't that what a good hobby is for?
And, yes, I do other things, too. I visit the spa for some decadent indulgence as often as the budget allows. A hot stone massage is on the agenda next! I go out to dinner with my girlfriends and chat away for hours. I enjoy a fruity martini (or two) and then must immediately find my husband to share the effects with him!
Maybe a few years from now this will all change and my priorities will swing to other interests like rowing or scrapbooking. But for now, those things will have to wait until my laptop battery dies.
~L
Thanks to Bettyjo Bouchey for first admiting this to yourself and sharing with others. You are not alone!
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Saturday, May 12, 2007
I'm a Full Blooded Italian.
(Disclaimer: I 'wrote' this somewhere around the holidays of 1994-5. I use the word wrote in quotes on purpose because I cannot take credit for most of it. I had read an article that triggered such emotions in me that I knew I needed to preserve it. So I took the article and customized it for my particular family. I shared it with my family at Christmas and knew I nailed it when I had them in tears. I want to post it here to share with others and "immortalize" it but wish I could appropriately credit the original author. Whoever you are - Grazie!)
I was almost an adult before I realized that I was an American. Of course, I had been born in America and had lived here all of my life, but somehow it never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the United States meant I was an American. Americans were people who ate macaroni and cheese out of a box and Spaghetti O's out of a can. Me? I was Italian. (Granted I did discover these delicacies when I went away to college!)
For me . . . as well as for most who grew up as second generation Italian American children . . . there was a definite distinction between 'US' and 'THEM'. We were Italians. Everyone else - German, Polish, Irish . . . they were the 'Americans'. There were no hard feelings, don't get me wrong, just . . . well, we were sure ours was the better way. For instance, we had Roma's, the little Italian market where we could get real Italian groceries and where the brothers knew us all by name. They'd give us a slice of cold cuts, a hunk of cheese or let us grab a handful of "cheech" while we were waiting in line. Americans had to be satisfied with going to the A&P and swiping a piece of candy from the Brach's bin when they thought no one was looking. Truly, I pitied their loss. And once we did start shopping at 'THEIR' stores, we could not understand why the sales people looked at us like we were from Mars every time we asked where the scolapasta or mappines were shelved. It was perfectly clear to us what we were asking for (a pasta drainer and a dish towel!).
When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends and classmates only ate Turkey on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Or rather, that they ONLY ate Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry. Now, we Italians - we also had Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry, but only after we had finished the antipasto; prosciutto, melon, and breadstick; soup; peas, eggs and sausage; lasagna; meat from the sauce; salad; and/or whatever else Nonna thought would be appropriate for that particular holiday. Mind you, this was also accompanied but some type of beef, just in case somebody walked in who didn't like any of the other things we had on the table. And all this was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, finocchio, and of course, homemade pies. No Thanksgiving was complete without the battle of the lemon meringue pies between my mom and her sister. The brothers did their best to always egg them on, threatening to choose one over the other but never ending up making a decision. Holidays were where you learned to eat a 7 course meal between 2 and 6 pm, how to handle chestnuts, and make Italian coffee. I truly believe Italians live a romance with food.
Speaking of food - Sunday was unquestioningly the big day of the week. That was the day you'd wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in the olive oil. As I laid in bed contemplating getting up and deciding against it , I'd hear the hissing sound as Daddy dropped the tomatoes into the pan. Sunday we always had sauce . . . good sauce, cooked for three hours or more. And we had macaroni ('THEY' call it pasta) . . . special macaroni, like ravioli, cavatelli, mafalda, or fireman hats, no boring zita on this day. And when we used to come home from Church we knew we'd find hot meatballs newly fried. Mommy used to have to fry extras just to cover what we kids ate before they even made it into the sauce.
There was another difference between 'US' and 'THEM'. We had gardens. Not just flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes, and more tomatoes. We ate them, cooked them, jarred them . . . Of course we also grew zucchini, peppers, basilico, oregano, and other normal stuff. And those gardens thrived so because we had something else it seemed our American friends didn't seem to have . . . Nonna and Pop! It's not that they didn't have grandparents, it's just that they didn't live in the next town over. They had to take trips to see their grandparents. We ate with ours every Sunday. They had a real live milk man and an egg man who came right to their house. And they were the bosses. I still remember Pop sitting at the head of the table with his belt folded in half, grasping the two ends and making them snap in warning when the kids got too rowdy. And the stories, how the family came to America 'on the boat', saved enough money to buy the big house that was a funeral home (that Pop renovated using his carpentry trade skills), and who lived in what section of the house. That great house has served as family headquarters for over 30 years. And they wouldn't leave that house . . . Nonna would rather sit on the porch while Pop tended to his garden.
During the holidays, the whole family would gather at the house. There'd be tables full of food. The big table for the adults, and the little table for the young ones. After eating, it was always women in the kitchen, men in the living room, and kids, kids, everywhere. I must have a million cousins, younger, older, bigger, smaller. But, what does it matter? We all took care of each other. And my grandparents would sit in the middle of it all, with mischievous smiles on their faces, eyes twinkling, surveying their domain. They started it all and they were proud. They had achieved their goal of coming to America and now their children were achieving goals available to them in this great country because they are Americans. When my grandfather died, things began to change. Slowly at first, but eventually the family gatherings got fewer. We're not there every Sunday anymore but we still try to find any excuse to get together. A lot of other things have changed too. The big house has had some repairs as a result of fire after fire, the garden, of course is now gone, and the reserves of homemade wine are virtually gone. The holidays have changed too. We used to make the rounds to the houses of the various La Z's and ZZs (terms for the Great Aunt and Uncles), now we visit the cemetery. And the food we always consumed without ill effect is now no good for us, too much cholesterol, too high in fat, too many calories.
The difference between 'US' and 'THEM' is not as easily defined anymore, and I guess that's good. My grandparents were Italian Italians. My parents were Italian Americans. I'm American Italian and my children will be American Americans. I'm an American alright, and PROUD of it. We are all Americans now - the Germans, Polish, Irish. But deep down, I am still Italian, a full blooded Italian, and I always get this feeling that Pop is around somehow watching over his grandchildren, keeping them in line. Call it culture, call it tradition, call it roots. I'm not really sure what it is. All I do know is that my children will be cheated out a wonderful piece of their heritage. They never knew my grandfather.
(Disclaimer: I 'wrote' this somewhere around the holidays of 1994-5. I use the word wrote in quotes on purpose because I cannot take credit for most of it. I had read an article that triggered such emotions in me that I knew I needed to preserve it. So I took the article and customized it for my particular family. I shared it with my family at Christmas and knew I nailed it when I had them in tears. I want to post it here to share with others and "immortalize" it but wish I could appropriately credit the original author. Whoever you are - Grazie!)
I was almost an adult before I realized that I was an American. Of course, I had been born in America and had lived here all of my life, but somehow it never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the United States meant I was an American. Americans were people who ate macaroni and cheese out of a box and Spaghetti O's out of a can. Me? I was Italian. (Granted I did discover these delicacies when I went away to college!)
For me . . . as well as for most who grew up as second generation Italian American children . . . there was a definite distinction between 'US' and 'THEM'. We were Italians. Everyone else - German, Polish, Irish . . . they were the 'Americans'. There were no hard feelings, don't get me wrong, just . . . well, we were sure ours was the better way. For instance, we had Roma's, the little Italian market where we could get real Italian groceries and where the brothers knew us all by name. They'd give us a slice of cold cuts, a hunk of cheese or let us grab a handful of "cheech" while we were waiting in line. Americans had to be satisfied with going to the A&P and swiping a piece of candy from the Brach's bin when they thought no one was looking. Truly, I pitied their loss. And once we did start shopping at 'THEIR' stores, we could not understand why the sales people looked at us like we were from Mars every time we asked where the scolapasta or mappines were shelved. It was perfectly clear to us what we were asking for (a pasta drainer and a dish towel!).
When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends and classmates only ate Turkey on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Or rather, that they ONLY ate Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry. Now, we Italians - we also had Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry, but only after we had finished the antipasto; prosciutto, melon, and breadstick; soup; peas, eggs and sausage; lasagna; meat from the sauce; salad; and/or whatever else Nonna thought would be appropriate for that particular holiday. Mind you, this was also accompanied but some type of beef, just in case somebody walked in who didn't like any of the other things we had on the table. And all this was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, finocchio, and of course, homemade pies. No Thanksgiving was complete without the battle of the lemon meringue pies between my mom and her sister. The brothers did their best to always egg them on, threatening to choose one over the other but never ending up making a decision. Holidays were where you learned to eat a 7 course meal between 2 and 6 pm, how to handle chestnuts, and make Italian coffee. I truly believe Italians live a romance with food.
Speaking of food - Sunday was unquestioningly the big day of the week. That was the day you'd wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in the olive oil. As I laid in bed contemplating getting up and deciding against it , I'd hear the hissing sound as Daddy dropped the tomatoes into the pan. Sunday we always had sauce . . . good sauce, cooked for three hours or more. And we had macaroni ('THEY' call it pasta) . . . special macaroni, like ravioli, cavatelli, mafalda, or fireman hats, no boring zita on this day. And when we used to come home from Church we knew we'd find hot meatballs newly fried. Mommy used to have to fry extras just to cover what we kids ate before they even made it into the sauce.
There was another difference between 'US' and 'THEM'. We had gardens. Not just flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes, and more tomatoes. We ate them, cooked them, jarred them . . . Of course we also grew zucchini, peppers, basilico, oregano, and other normal stuff. And those gardens thrived so because we had something else it seemed our American friends didn't seem to have . . . Nonna and Pop! It's not that they didn't have grandparents, it's just that they didn't live in the next town over. They had to take trips to see their grandparents. We ate with ours every Sunday. They had a real live milk man and an egg man who came right to their house. And they were the bosses. I still remember Pop sitting at the head of the table with his belt folded in half, grasping the two ends and making them snap in warning when the kids got too rowdy. And the stories, how the family came to America 'on the boat', saved enough money to buy the big house that was a funeral home (that Pop renovated using his carpentry trade skills), and who lived in what section of the house. That great house has served as family headquarters for over 30 years. And they wouldn't leave that house . . . Nonna would rather sit on the porch while Pop tended to his garden.
During the holidays, the whole family would gather at the house. There'd be tables full of food. The big table for the adults, and the little table for the young ones. After eating, it was always women in the kitchen, men in the living room, and kids, kids, everywhere. I must have a million cousins, younger, older, bigger, smaller. But, what does it matter? We all took care of each other. And my grandparents would sit in the middle of it all, with mischievous smiles on their faces, eyes twinkling, surveying their domain. They started it all and they were proud. They had achieved their goal of coming to America and now their children were achieving goals available to them in this great country because they are Americans. When my grandfather died, things began to change. Slowly at first, but eventually the family gatherings got fewer. We're not there every Sunday anymore but we still try to find any excuse to get together. A lot of other things have changed too. The big house has had some repairs as a result of fire after fire, the garden, of course is now gone, and the reserves of homemade wine are virtually gone. The holidays have changed too. We used to make the rounds to the houses of the various La Z's and ZZs (terms for the Great Aunt and Uncles), now we visit the cemetery. And the food we always consumed without ill effect is now no good for us, too much cholesterol, too high in fat, too many calories.
The difference between 'US' and 'THEM' is not as easily defined anymore, and I guess that's good. My grandparents were Italian Italians. My parents were Italian Americans. I'm American Italian and my children will be American Americans. I'm an American alright, and PROUD of it. We are all Americans now - the Germans, Polish, Irish. But deep down, I am still Italian, a full blooded Italian, and I always get this feeling that Pop is around somehow watching over his grandchildren, keeping them in line. Call it culture, call it tradition, call it roots. I'm not really sure what it is. All I do know is that my children will be cheated out a wonderful piece of their heritage. They never knew my grandfather.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
My Inspiration
Well, I've finally done it. Entered the world of Blogging. I set up my Blog account a bit ago in order to respond to a cockamamie idea my older brother shared through his Blog. He and my younger brother have a perfected talent of getting me all fired up - more on that later I'm sure! But alas, once my account was set up, I could just leave my brother comments on his posts! Didn't need to blog myself. Then my sister-in-law sent us a link to her blog that was documenting the building of their new house and I thought . . . "I should do that". Finally, one of my closest girlfriends gave me her link and I was inspired!! So, here I am at 1 am, woefully past the time I should have gone to sleep, finger tapping my first entry. So much to say, so little time. Til next time. ~L
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