An Exodus

Things have gotten a little crazy.

It’s a four day week. How do four people leave?

After eight years at this agency, one is finally following her passion and leaving to write for some high-fashion website.

Another, whose background is healthcare, is leaving to work inside the premier healthcare foundation in the country.

A third is going home to New York. Boston isn’t so receptive to Yankees fans.

And the last would have been phased out anyways… as she’s in the ever-shrinking consumer practice at our mission-focused firm.


So while it’s all for good and totally unrelated reasons, a loss of 20% of your employee base is enough to scare any business owner — even after the most successful quarter in history. (I like to think this success is in part because of my role on the marketing/new business team that quarter… tee hee!) And I can only imagine what the newbies think…

Abandon ship?

May the force be with you.

Also --

My dad wields a weed trimmer like Luke Skywalker wields a lightsaber.

Typical Summer Sunday Afternoon

I'm currently sitting on the porch in the nice warm weather drinking a glass of wine with my parents.

It's also a bit hilarious, as my mother has had a few too many glasses and is trying to direct my father, who (has also had a bit of wine and) is standing on a ladder trying to hang some tacky porch lights around the perimeter of the ceiling.

Tequila, meanwhile, is trying to eat the paint chips that have peeled off the ceiling, and Cloey is trying to eat the fake flowers we bought this afternoon.

Sometimes it kills me how crazy my family is.
At least we're fun?

Boats

There are certain summer traditions we refuse to let go, even when life gets in the way.

I will never not wear sandals in warm weather… regardless of rain, broken (or missing) toenails, or other ailments that typically require closed-toed shoes. Summer is for sandals. Flip, flop.

My uncle will never not have his boat in the water. Even at eighty (and after triple bi-pass surgery). And the only we can feel decent about him scooting around the ocean in a speedboat is to help him do the physical labor of putting it in the water. (Of course, if we didn’t, he’d do it himself.)

So today we went drove down the Cape, offered support to my uncle (who still did much of the work himself), got the boat in the water, and had a barbeque filled with chicken and corn and stories from my uncle’s days in the Navy.

And the whole time I thought about France. And I thought about Tony, on his own high-seas adventures. And I wished I was traveling the world in a boat.

Jack Sparrow was right. “But what ship really is…is freedom.”

And that’s what I’m really after.

This week flew by.

It's been busy. Busy, but successful. Work work work work work.

And the successes have been good. Really good.

But there's nothing worse than being stuck at your desk, watching your colleagues leave between 2 and 3 for the long, warm weekend, knowing you'll be in the office for much, much longer.

Thank God I have wine to look forward to.

Almost Famous? Go Mom & B!

We get these requests from journalists, called ProfNet queries, announcing stories they’re working on and seeking supportive examples/interviews. Some are really interesting and on-point with our clients, others are just fun. (I once used a friend in Texas to respond to something about dating and girls, and he appeared in Glamour magazine.) When I saw this one today, I had just couldn’t resist:

NON-EXPERT: Couples Married More than 25 Years
For an upcoming feature, we're interested in interviewing couples who have been married at least 25 years. What are their secrets for staying together? What advice do they have for younger couples?

My pitch:

My parents celebrated their 27th anniversary last Thursday, May 17th.
Through thick and thin, they've pulled together to give my brother and I support and love all our lives — and they're still going strong. So strong, in fact, that every night they'll curl up on the couch together, my father lovingly rubbing my mother's head or feet, and watch Sci-Fi (my father's favorite channel, even though my mother's otherwise only watches HGTV). C'mon - That's love!

But things have not always been easy. There have been — and there continues to be — challenges. But if any couple could inspire young people that love and long-term marriages still exists, I think it'd be my parents.

awwwww

Oh my God.

Today, a friend announced that she was pregnant.

“Oh my God.”

It’s an announcement that arouses a myriad of emotions. It’s like the cork’s been unstopped, the dam penetrated, and a flood of feelings pours out — unstoppable — until you’re left with just the incredible taste in your mouth. Because it is incredible.

Obviously excitement is first and foremost. By nature, the initial response to this news is a giant smile. (Even if, in many cases, the smile quickly fades. This, however, is not such a case.) And it’s just that: news, which, by definition, is exciting.

But there’s concern, too, because you have to wonder, “is she really ok to do this now?”. In reality, is there ever a time when one is completely ready to have a child? Babies are a big deal and most often framed in an idealistic picture of a happily married couple and strong family support. That’s changing now: People have children later, and they’re not necessarily married, and single-parents are more common than ever before. She fits into this growing trend, and while — yea! — she’s on the forefront of social revolution, there’s a reason for the whole “It takes a village to raise a child” thing.

Then there’s the deeper happiness that emerges once the initial shock passes, happiness that another life has the opportunity to experience the world. Happiness that another life is growing within. Happiness at the simple but complex evolutionary wonders that perpetuate the cycle of human life.

And, inevitably, anxiety. Babies announced in week 5 don’t always make it to week 40, and even considering how a friend could bear the unimaginable pain of losing that life inside is simply unbearable. So you don’t think about it.

The optimism takes over — the optimism that this event will change a life, and change it for the better. Being able to give someone so small, so fragile, and so dependent the world… that’s unconditional love. Lucky for she who embraces it.

There’s also a sense of pride. A mother-to-be has remarkable determination. The life-style changes are not small. During pregnancy: Think of the cigarettes left unsmoked, the drinks left undrunk. And after the baby is born, consider the crying in the middle of the night, the responsibilities, the exhaustion. Having a baby isn’t easy; raising it is even harder. But I’m so proud to know that she will take this challenge head on; she can and will do it, and she will do it well.

Finally, after more of the unstoppable parade of emotions and thoughts, it’s boiled down to devotion. It’s her devotion, to this growing thing inside. But it’s your devotion, too. Here’s someone you care about, someone on the brink of a life-changing event, and you want nothing more than to be there. It’s an outpouring of support. Through thick and thin, hard times and easy, joys and pains, and whatever else… she’s a friend, and she’s going to have a baby.

Oh my God. She’s going to have a baby.

Tequila the Toddler

Don’t let anyone tell you having a dog isn’t good practice for raising a child.

Because having a 5-year-old golden retriever, I find, is remarkably like living with a toddler.

For example:

I decided last night Tequila should start sleeping in her own bed. With a child, it’s a matter of maturing. With a dog, it’s a matter of having just changed my sheets and shaken out my blanket.

In the middle of the night, she started acting funny. She was needy (more so than usual), wining and pawing at me, begging to come cuddle. Feeling exhausted, I decided it was easier to accept than keep her away, so I invited her in. She, as usual, curled up with me and breathed heavily, on her way to sleep. Holding and comforting her, I began to drift myself. But as soon as my hand stopped rubbing her belly, she rolled over. She looked at me with concern in her eyes. She hiccupped once, and puked. Everywhere. All over my bed.

And then she ran away looking shameful, feeling bad. Leaving me with a gigantic puddle of chunky, acidy vomit all over my down comforter, blanket, and sheets.

Seeking comfort, I called my mother. “What, you don’t think you guys puked as kids?”

So I gave Tequila lots of water and had her lie down. I took plastic bags and paper towels and wiped as much of the puke away as I could. I went to wash it all downstairs, but the machine was broken… so I did the best I could in the kitchen sink, rubbing stain stick all over everything, and bagged it all up in giant black garbage bags to be washed elsewhere. (Yuck.)

I made my bed, cleaned the sink, and tried again.

And then when Tequila came back begging for comfort, I — like any sad-sap of a mother — invited her up to cuddle again. It’s not her fault she didn’t feel good!

Thanks, but no.

I am angry at man named Tim for complicating my life.

Or, at least, by leaving it he desimplified my love life... As in I’m not in a comfortable, happy, monogamous relationship and am instead dating.

And I hate dating.

Not that I’m at all unhappy now that Tim’s not in my life; in fact, I think I’m having a lot more fun. It was just easier. Meeting decent people is hard. I much prefer to date the guys I get to know through comfortable social networks, mutual environments/interests, or by rekindling old friendships. But since the dating on this front has been pretty quiet, I thought — hey, take a risk, and accept the date from the guy at the bar.

He was cute (actually, he was really attractive). He was a gentleman (never pushy, polite when asking me out). He was international (Russian, actually). He was successful and hard working, an investment banker with a condo in Boston’s financial district (I only know about his housing because he mentioned it to his friend — honest!). And so when he asked me for lunch or dinner on Sunday, I figured “What the hell.”

We had plans for 5:00pm on Newbury Street.

All afternoon I dreaded for dinner to come. It’s so much work, I wasn’t really into this guy, and I’m really not interested in long-term dating or relationships or anything at this point in my life. I like being free and single. But I did the whole straightening of the hair, staining my lips red, finding an outfit that was both sophisticated and sexy… and planning in my head all those questions you can ask when small talk goes quiet.

He called around 4, asking to post-pone until 7:30 because he was in the office with some work to do. I knew it was a bad sign, but sure, I’ll meet at 7:30 instead. He’s an investment banker; delays go with the territory. (After all, Tim was an investment banker too.) I even offered him an out: “You know, we can reschedule for another night.”

“No, no,” he said, “7:30 should be fine. If something comes up, I’ll call.”

He did call... At 8:05pm. He didn’t even bother leaving a message when I opted not to answer.

But before this, I arrived promptly at the restaurant on time (a first for me), ordered a glass of wine and watched the end of the game (Go Sox!!!). I have a rule: You have until I’m through with my drink to arrive, and then I leave.

So at 7:55pm, with no phone call and no wine in my glass, I left. A piece of me thought about calling, texting, something to clear up the confusion: “We did say 7:30pm, right?”

But, as we got off the phone when he called to postpone in the afternoon, I very clearly said: “Ok, see you at 7:30 at Sonsie.”

This is why I don’t date guys I meet in bars.

(sudden tense sucking gasp of air)

(Followed by weeks of holding my breath.)

Today I officially submitted documents that have the potential to drastically change my life. And I’m uncharacteristically nervous.


More to come later...

Quirks

For some scholarship or program or something-or-other I applied to at some point in the not too distant past, I had to submit a resume of "quirks". It was thoroughly amusing. And to make it even more fun, I tied each "quirk" to a lyric. (Just another quirk, I guess!) I’m well aware there are oddities about me, and today — as I settled deeper into my summer routine — I discovered yet another.

The ladies at Dunkin Donuts already know me; they see me approach and ready the complicated drink. Normally I drink black coffee, but in the summer I stick to a “medium iced with just a little ice and extra extra sugar.”

Because I love the feeling crunching sugar in the morning.

Tiny granules of coffee-soaked sweetness find their way into the crevices of my teeth, and as I chomp down, they explode with delicious refreshness (in an oddly relaxing way). Some say it feels like eating sand. “Fine,” I say, “then it reminds me of the beach.” Some prefer their sugar melted (which D&D will do!). “Not me,” I say, “Give it us raw!” (Lord of the Rings, anybody?) Some say sugar’s unhealthy and Splenda’s better. “But it doesn’t crunch the same way,” I instist. It’s hopeless. In some things, I’m really set in my ways.

I'd like to think it makes me cuter... ; )

The other quirks? I’ll mention a few…

“So much to do, so much to see; so what's wrong with taking the back streets? You'll never know if you don't go”
— SmashMouth, All Star
I never walk back the same way I came... You see more of the world when you find a new route. That’s important.

“Tryin' to fit the world inside a picture frame”
— John Mayer, 3x5
I love pictures... I’m always armed with a camera, and I think it’s sacrilegious to throw out photographs. Those are memories, frozen in time, and if you throw them away, will you ever get them back?

“I love my dog as much as I love you. But you may fade, and my dog will always come through.”
— Cat Stevens, I Love My Dog
I really adore my dog... My 4-year-old golden retriever fills an important place in my heart, so much so that I am offended when people say they don’t like her. After all, her only goal in life to is love (and eat and shed). She’s my (almost) constant companion.

“I know it's only rock 'n roll but I like it”
— Rolling Stones, It’s Only Rock ‘n Roll
I read the world into lyrics… Classic rock songs found the very basis of some of my deepest philosophical beliefs. For example, Billy Joel (with “Should I try to be a straight A student? If you are then you think too much.”) ensured my college days were not devoted solely to academia...

Every Summer Day

It’s 80-something degrees and I’m settling into my summer routine quite nicely.

Wake up at 5:00/5:30, walk the dog, get myself ready for the day, time the AC to kick on in the heat of the afternoon (can’t have Tikki being uncomfortable in her fur coat!), and set out to work feeling refreshed and full of life. Stop for an iced coffee en route, plow through the day, and leave as early as possible for a drink and nachos outside.

C’est la vie ~ summer in the city. : )

A Weekend of Beautification

I took my mother for her first pedicure; she so kindly brought me to the spa for the whole hair/nail/make-up kit & caboodle for all of my high school proms, but she’d never sat through the process herself. Mother’s Day seemed like a good excuse to change that.

And, since I was already on the whole “beautifying” loved ones thing, I decided to bring Tequila to her “spa” (Petsmart). She hates it. She struggles with all her might to avoid being left with the groomers, and I’m fairly confident she spends the entire four hours of treatment barking. Poor groomers.

It’s always worth it though, for she emerges smelling wonderful, with a new hair cut and trimmed nails and freshly brushed teeth (that still don’t smell all that fresh).

This time, I asked them to give Tequila a “real” hair cut.

Now she looks like a boy dog.

I’m concerned for her self-esteem...

Stubbornness

We had a competition over lobster dinner. (What else is new in the Michel family?) The prize: bragging rights as the most stubborn resident of 6 Providence.

“You know,” my mother objected, “it’s really not something to be proud of.”

But don’t be fooled; she joined the debate whole-heartedly.


It is true: stubbornness runs in the family. We’re all ridiculously — unhealthily — stubborn, each in our own way. My mother is vocally stubborn, loud and clear about her decisions, what she wants to do, and what’s going to happen. My father, on the other hand, is quietly stubborn — but so stubborn it can make your skin crawl. He’s stubborn about fewer things, but when it comes to those things he will not budge and inch. And he’s never, ever wrong.

Alex, meanwhile, is a mixture of both worlds. Sometimes he’s loudly stubborn, sometimes he makes up his mind and there’s no convincing him he’s wrong — or there’s a better way to do something. His is a matter of principle… of black and white principles, but principles none-the-less.

Me? Well, I firmly announced I was least stubborn. And then the rest of the family laughed in my face. Apparently stubbornness is rooted in my genes too… and when I set my mind to something — ridiculous as it may be — it’s gonna happen.

But as I looked around the table at my family, all of us laughing together and on our fourth bottle of wine, engaging enthusiastically in diverse conversations while absentmindedly poking the empty lobster shells and ears of corn that lay on our plates, I smiled proudly.

If this is what it brings, maybe stubbornness isn’t such a bad thing after all.

While I always prefer the sun...

I love the smell of summer rain.

Last night, there was a lot of rosé.

So today (with a slight headache) I marched my white, fluffy French dog into work wearing a florescent sundress and bright green shawl, with sunglasses and leather sandals to boot.

It felt like St. Tropez.

La Légende de Saint Torpes

(from a myriad of sources…)

It’s 68AD.

Nero heads the Roman Empire, saturating it with cultural capital. Theatres and athletic games thrive. And Christians are persecuted, tortured, blamed for the great fire four years ago. Peter and Paul will soon be dead.

But before Paul loses his head, he is a prisoner of the chief of Emperor Nero’s personal guard, the regal Knight Torpes. And, as Paul tended to do, he seduced Torpes into converting to Christianity.

Torpes was hooked. During the festival of Diana in Pisa, Italy, Torpes wildly and loudly proclaimed his new faith, announcing to the world his devotion to the one God. You can imagine how his boss reacted. Nero immediately ordered him to be tortured and beheaded, cast away and made an example of. His body was placed on a boat with his dog and a rooster and launched down the River Arno.

But that was not the last of Knight Torpes.

Currents carried the boat down the river, through the Mediterranean Sea, to what is now known as the Gulf of Saint-Tropez. As this boat drifted by, God appeared in the dreams of a kind woman called Celerina, calling upon her to rescue the martyr's body. She followed his wishes, shocked at what she discovered. Neither the rooster nor the dog had touched the body, although — by any means — they should have. He had been protected by God.

The village near the landing place of the boat was named Saint-Tropez after Torpes. The rooster (coq) flew away with a branch of flax (au lin) and landed in a nearby village, later named Cogolin. And the dog walked to another adjacent village — now known as Gassin — where people called out to it, "G'chien! G'chien!"

Torpes/Tropez became the patron saint of the local seamen, and its veneration spread to Italy (especially in Genoa and Pisa) and Portugal. According to legend, the martyr’s discarded head was retrieved by fellow Christians and ensconced in the Pisan Church of St. Tropez, where it remains. Meanwhile, his remains were buried at what is believed to be the current site of the Chapel of St. Tropez.

Random

I'm always struck when I see the wedding ring on Stephen Colbert's finger.

I think it'd be a lot of fun to be married to Stephen Colbert.

An old thought on Ségo

"Sarko" has won. What will this mean for la France?

In thinking of it, I'm reminded of a the early drafts of a paper I wrote early last fall about feminism, politics, and Ségolène. But it's really about Mouny...

I met my great-grandmother only a few times. Her son, my grandfather, decided to make a life for himself in America after she fled with him and his siblings to the United States during World War II. But she returned home. We used to visit her in her ivy-covered cottage in Provence, stay for dinner and an overnight, then return to la vie de St. Tropez for a truly Americanized vacation. We were there for fun, and fun alone. But as briefly as I knew my great-grandmother before her death, “Mouny” (as we called her) had a profound influence on my life.

Sitting in her high-backed antique chair in Les Gros, she let golden rays of sun pour through the window and over her olive skin, illuminating the colorful fabrics of the south of France. Her beauty, her presence, her charisma inspired me to study French. I’ve heard, since her death, glorious rumors from her life — of tiny princes, scandalous romances, marching elephants and the Eiffel Tour. These stories are based on facts; she was once close friends with Antoine de Saint Exupéry (author of Le Petit Prince), entangled in the web of lovers weaved by Jean-Paul Sartre, and an influential leader of the era’s largest newspaper, France Soir, during a time when women were not meant to have influence. In the stories of her feminine seduction, girlish intrigue and womanly strength, I first found my interest in women’s empowerment.

Today, over ten years after my great-grandmother’s death, some would say France is on the verge of completing the “second wave of feminism” by electing a woman to the most powerful leadership role in the country — President. Ségolène Royal is a test of progress, proving whether or not another world power is prepared to follow a female leader.

According to her Wikipedia article, at an informal summer session, 57% of the French Socialist Party preferred her to be their presidential candidate, and — as she says — “only widespread male chauvinism in the party has prevented this.” Will male chauvinism prevail? Will she crumble on her own means? Or will she rise above and earn her party’s nomination for President? If so, will she be elected? The implications of these questions have a profound impact on French society, but also on the future of aspiring woman leaders in democracies around the world.

Royal — a smart, outspoken, charismatic and brave politician — is poised to fight for the office. England and Germany have already followed a woman into power. What structures, networks, and cultural differences exist in Western Europe and France that promote women leadership, and why is it that women in Europe seem to have enough political respect to earn the highest position of power? If Ségolène Royal is not nominated or elected, what does her run mean for women in French politics? What does it mean for women seeking power in the United States and elsewhere?

If she is elected, how will a woman’s leadership change the very soul of a nation? Will a woman bring more peace? Or will she, with her proclamation for “military dimension” and need to compensate for being a woman, rule with an iron fist? If she isn’t elected, what will the aftermath of her fall bring, and how will France react to a presidential run from a woman?

Ultimately, I hope this experience will further advance the agendas of independent, intellectual and inspiring women — like my “Mouny” — in France and across the globe.

A Social Entrepreneur's Story

My bosses offer wondrous opportunities to the junior staff. It’s awesome.

Tonight, for example, I found myself sitting at the Social Innovation Forum, a gathering led by Andrew Wolk of Root Cause and full of Boston’s greatest social innovators, funders, and civic-minded citizens. It was fascinating.

I was particularly intrigued by a 2004 college graduate and social entrepreneur named Lindsay Hyde. She’s the founder and executive director of Strong Women, Strong Girls. I was particularly impressed by her maturity and sophistication, and her strong speaking skills. Her words captured the audience, galvanizing them into action.

She told a particularly moving story that articulated why she does what she does. I’d like to share it (as best as I can):


Apparently Lindsay was the keynote speaker at some corporate “Bring Your Daughter to Work Day”. In the room where she gave her address, the 8 to 11 year-old girls were on the left half of the room, and the 12 to 15 were on the right.

She began: “How many of you think you can change the world? Raise your hands.”

On the left, hands flew wildly. Little girls flailed with enthusiasm, struggling not to fall off their chairs, too high for their colorful, white-laced & sneaker-clad feet. It’s like they wanted nothing more in that moment to let Lindsay know they could change the world.

Meanwhile, the 12- to 15-year-olds crossed their arms, blew wisps of hair out of their face, and rolled their eyes. They slouched low in their folding chairs and emanated disgust. It’s like they wanted to tell Lindsay she couldn’t be more naive.

Lindsay stood symbolically between the two groups. What happens that strips the dreams away when young girls become young women? For many, she believes, it’s a lack of role models… especially strong, positive women. So she created this organization to unite and empower females – both girls and women – to stimulate social change.


I encourage you to check it out… http://www.swsg.org/support.htm

Beauty in Cape Cod

There’s something unusually beautiful about the smell of low tide on the Cape. It is foul... but it’s salt and sea and memories of mudfights in clam flats.

And there’s something beautiful about an almost-80-year-old uncle driving his 50-something-year-old niece – convertible top down, drifts of French on the wind – 25 minutes out of the way to see the Atlantic from the American side of things. It’s deep and meaningful and pictureseque, celebrating a closeness that supercedes the distance of the ocean. It’s reminiscent of a place he once lived. Of family.

Here I go again...

I need a challenge.
It’s not necessarily a good thing.

So often great opportunities are presented to me and, instead of gratefully taking them and celebrating my luck, I pause. I carefully examine the silver platter and decide, “Sure, I’ll take it… if I can’t get one that’s gold.” And then I perform alchemy.

I find something nice, selfishly see a way to make it better, and turn everyone’s life up-side-down in my quest to get what I really want.

Sorry!

I do feel guilty about it! But it’s been my – dare I say it? – opportunistic nature for so long, I can’t imagine settling for the easy route.

So, I ask, why get an MA in two years, when with a few adjustments I can get an MA and an MPA in three?