2016 Preview

In case you missed it, 2015 was an eventful year for me personally. Starting in November 2014, I had an incessant parade of ER and OR visits (four unexpected surgeries with the most recent being in October), and 11 months of complications involving weekly doctor visits within different specialties. Along with this and planned end of the year travel, posting came to a grinding halt in October. Hence my silence until now. For followers that came during my unavoidable hiatus, welcome!

According to Lisa is moving to a monthly post schedule, due to also posting bi-monthly on SFBayGirl, and now being a contributing writer on Scriggler (these posts will only be announced on Twitter!), so please also follow me on Twitter at @LISAGNO. The book I planned to publish in August was delayed due to health issues and lack of personal bandwidth, hence the decrease in posting frequency on both my sites in 2016. I also have more medical procedures to face starting in January and hope to still publish by May.

While 2015 saw a mix of travel and memoir writing with a twist of humor, I will now be delving into more personal, heavier subject matter. This change will align more with my forthcoming book, and I will include warnings on posts that include adult language/content or subject matter that could be considered uncomfortable. My hope is that readers who personally relate to these posts will reach out to me and share their experiences. Due to severe time constraints and lack of personal bandwidth, I am only able to respond to any comments via Twitter (and there could be delay). Hopefully by summer I will be able to open up the Comment Feature.

I will be removing the majority of content from 2011 Archives on 1/10/16. Some of it will appear in modified format in the forthcoming book, some will disappear forever.

As always, thank you for following!

According to Lisa officially returns 1/10/2016.

Retrospective

2015 was a rollercoaster ride I’m anxious to get off.   

The ride has been excessively jerky and bumpy and mostly uphill. 

I have even been thrown off track a few times.  

In terms of good years and bad years, 2015 ranks as one of the worst personal years of my life. 

I will be crying tears of joy when the ball drops at midnight on 12/31 and hope there are bluer, sunnier skies ahead. 

I’ve been residing under a black cloud for ten months and counting.  2015 still has three months to go and there’s no end to sight to the immediate challenges I’m facing. I already know 2016 won’t start any better.  It has only just begun.   Some days are tougher than others.

2015 saw the resurrection of According to Lisa, a blog site I began in 2011 and soon abandoned due to unforeseen life circumstances.    I rose from the ashes like a Phoenix in 2015 and posted first on a bi-monthly schedule, and in more recent months at a more aggressive pace (while also blogging as sfbaygirl bi-weeklyl!). 

I also did something I vowed I would never do, and that was join social media in April.  It has been a mixed blessing, but I have made some unexpected friendships as well as accrue a modest following.

Due to personal life circumstances once again and travel plans from mid-October thru January 2016, this is the last official post of 2015!!!  I won’t be able to post while traveling, as part of vacation for me involves unplugging from electronic devices, including internet and phone, but I may send an occasional tweet or two if time permits.  I don’t want to lose momentum and followers during this 2 ½ month hiatus, especially with 27 new followers this month.  But I will be off the grid for the most part until January.

I have no idea where the year went.  It was definitely a blur.   There were many conflicting priorities and barriers thrown at me.   

Everything actually went to pot starting the week of Thanksgiving 2014.  At 2:00am I keeled over in horrendous pain.  Ending up in the emergency room and after six hours of tests, the incessant parade of surgeries, doctor visits, waiting rooms, labs, procedures, and prescriptions began, starting in December (see Pair of Socks).  Post-op issues led to more procedures in January, all of which I am still dealing with into October. 

The most life-threatening and life-changing surgery of all will sideline me again next week and the future is uncertain.  Another set of travel and holiday plans will be affected for the second year in a row if I make it off the OR table this weekend. 

The publishing of my book was delayed due to the aggressive blog posting schedule I set for myself in 2015 (bi-weekly on both sites), and for incessant health reasons.  While I won’t be giving too many hints away, the book will include a small handful of my personal posts with some revision, and I will also be delving into deeper, more personal, edgier and potentially controversial topics.

Part of the book delay has been due to my indecision as to how much detail to go into, what topics to cover and what topics to leave unaired, partially out of respect for others who would be impacted.  On the other hand, publicly discussing a few “uncomfortable topics” may be beneficial to some readers who will know they are not alone.  It’s a difficult decision to make, as once I open the door, I won’t be able to close it again. 

The most important man in my life has fully encouraged me to say what I need to say, as difficult as it may be for myself and others in my life, past or present.  The book will be dedicated to his unrelenting presence in my life and support over the past twenty years.

Keeping on this personal note, I want to take this opportunity to acknowledge and thank a very special person who had an extremely unexpected and profound impact on my life the past three months.  You know who you are. 

‘nuff said…

 Hope to see you all back here on the flip side in 2016.    Thank you for following my journey in 2015.

Lisa

Brother Can You Spare a Dime?

It’s humorous how members of the older generation are so preoccupied with events that have yet to happen, are highly improbable and completely out of one’s control. 

It’s a wonder I‘m able to exist at all and manage surrounded by so much danger!  Did I remember to wear a coat?  Do I ride public transportation by myself?  Do I walk on dark streets alone at night?  Do I look around and be sure no one is following me?  Do I travel in groups?  Do I carry mace, a whistle, a weapon to protect myself? Do I check my backseat and make sure no one is lurking there?  Do I talk to strangers?  Do I open my door after 8pm? Did I remember to breathe?  Did I remember to change my underwear (because you never know when you may end up in the emergency room!)?   

These questions were cause for great concern and many hours of lost sleep.  

I was and continue to be surrounded by perpetual worriers.  And it got worse when I transplanted across the country.

During the 70’s, while on a trip to Florida during a standard, New England winter, my grandfather returned home to find the pipes had frozen and the house flooded.   Taking this as some kind of sign (or a perpetual excuse that suited him just fine), my grandfather could never be convinced to leave the house again over the remaining thirty years of his life.  If my grandmother was able to drag him out, the furthest he agreed to go was within an hour’s distance and no more than a few hours at a time. 

My paternal grandparents were extremely money-conscious.  Having lived frugally during the Depression era, they learned to use everything they had without ever wasting.  Money was hard to come by during that time.  The entire animal would be used when cooking, no part wasted or spared.  Every piece of scrap paper was written on and reused, unnecessary electricity shut off.  Certain rooms in the house were actually closed off during the winter to save on the heating bill. 

After visiting them each week, we were subjected to an unusual ritual.  Upon arriving back at our house after each visit, it was my job to dial their phone, allow it to ring once, then hang up.  This signaled we arrived home safely.  At the same time, we also had the upper hand on the phone company and wouldn’t owe the dime a long distance call cost at that time.  What a scheme to cheat the phone company!  Since the call was not actually received on the other end, it theoretically didn’t exist, no bill would be generated, and no money owed to the phone company for the call.  At least that was my grandmother’s theory. 

However there was a grand flaw in her scheme.  The number of rings the caller heard on their end of the phone wasn’t the same number of rings the receiver heard on their end.   We would hear one ring on our end and my grandmother would hear two.   This would result in an immediate call back to our phone with a desperate inquiry why we rang the phone twice.  What did two rings mean?  Had something terrible happened?  Had we been in an accident?  Had the pipes frozen at the house?  Had the house burned down while we were gone for two hours? 

Now owing the phone company ten cents for the call, the entire ritual became counter-productive, took more time, caused more worry, and the dime saved resulted in a dime spent.  But you could never argue with the elders of that generation.  Back then it was considered a sign of disrespect.   

The baton of worry was passed on from my grandparents to my parents, and now to me.  It is a perpetual balancing act to keep in touch and provide informational updates, while keeping certain levels of detail unknown. 

 

It's the only way to protect them.   They can’t handle the truth.

Glass Half Full

I don’t have much time to cook.  I dine out often.  A lot of my activities seem to involve eating before, during or after. 

While the majority of the time meal consumption takes place in a moving vehicle, occasionally it actually occurs at a stationary table located in a stationary structure, and digested like a normal human being. 

I was spared the requisite teenage occupation of working in the food service industry.  I took a much different route when I entered the workforce at 15 while attending school.   I have been a disrespected employee, and I am a seasoned customer, so I am somewhat cognizant of what an unappreciated profession this is.  I am aware of inpatient and impossible to please customers and I have vowed never to be one of these people. 

Instead, I am the complete opposite.  I tolerate situations even the average person wouldn’t.  I don’t complain when I should.  I don’t send food back if it isn’t what I ordered or not cooked to my liking.  As much patience as I demonstrate, as much tolerance as I have, I am frequently tested. 

I am not sure if it is due to lack of training, incompetence, or lack of attention.  Why is it that certain questions are asked but the responses are ignored, forgotten and generally not written down to make everyone’s lives easier?  Questions are asked and answered repeatedly and still result in an unrequested outcome. 

To me, these are minor offenses and there are much bigger problems in the world to lose your cool over.  In the grand scheme of things, it just isn’t worth allowing someone to control my emotions or my night out.  I have much bigger fish to fry. 

However, there is an expectation when you order a multi-course meal that there is a normal procession of courses.  Appetizer precedes soup.  Soup precedes salad.  Salad precedes entrée.  Side dish accompanies entrée.  Coffee comes with dessert.

But this isn’t always the case.

Sometimes the soup or salad arrives with the entree.  Sometimes the appetizer arrives with the entrée.  Sometimes everything comes all at once.  It can be quite a juggling act to consume three courses at one time, on a small circular table that can’t fit more than two dishes and two glasses at one time.  You have to stack multiple dishes on top of each other, avoid knocking glasses over with your elbow, and eat mass quantities at once while everything is hot.  This occurs even when you specifically tell your server to bring the appetizer first before firing the entrée.   

Why does the server not hold off bringing the entree to the table instead of making an insincere apology and dropping it on the table before moving on?  And sometimes if you’re lucky, the entrée comes after sitting on a counter for eight minutes getting cold.   

Some service is impeccable like a perfect waltz, and others are downright exasperating.   

My friends and I were in a Mexican restaurant after a golf tournament recently, and waited 30 minutes to be acknowledged by anyone after we had to seat ourselves, clean our own table off and secure our own menus.  The bus person ended up taking our orders, and brought us our waters.  The bartender happened to be doubling as a waiter and a chef to customers who seemed to take priority over us for reasons unknown to us. 

We never actually saw our waitress until she brought us our bill.  We made a special point to give a tip to the bus person who actually took care of us and got us out in two hours, and not to the waiter who only saw fit to acknowledge us at the time of payment.  It took an hour for me to get a tossed salad and a margarita.  I doubt this place does well in the Yelp world.  I feel bad for the people who live in that rural town who are stuck with this restaurant on a recurring basis.  We won’t ever return. 

A tip is earned “to insure prompt service”.  It is not a given and it certainly isn’t guaranteed.  Owners and managers should train their staff that they must actually do their job in order to receive payment.  I am known to give overly generous tips when the service is impeccable.     

The alternate scenario is the doting server at the ready to oblige the customer’s every whim.  This person asks how the food is before you even pick up your fork, interrupting intimate conversations, speeding up deliberately slower-paced evenings, staring at you uncomfortably waiting for you to drop your fork, require more bread, or give them any reason to do something other than look at their smartphone while on the clock.   The ultimate insult is when they remove the plate from under your chin as you are still eating from it, without asking you if you are through.  What is their hurry, is there some quota they are trying to meet, are they trying to compete with McDonald’s “Billions Served”?

Then there is the glass half full phenomena. 

Some servers come by and constantly refill your water glass whether you want it or not (currently not a problem in California, as water is no longer served as a default due to our severe drought.  Water must be requested).  As you are drowning in water, you do anything to stop the constant disruptions.  You hide your glass under a napkin, turn the glass upside down, or put the glass on the empty table next to you, anything to stop the madness.  But it is to no avail, the glass somehow still gets filled in spite of your efforts.  The glass is turned over or replaced with another.   

And the cycle repeats.

And repeats.

Anti-Disestablishmentarianism

Every once in a great while, somebody says something so completely unexpected and earth-shattering that it completely floors you.  It literally stops you in your tracks, forces you to take a much-needed breath, be present in the moment and refocus attention.  It also causes you to miss a few beats and require recovery time to get back in step. 

It’s a rare occasion that I encounter a person who can affect me this way.  I have taken multi-tasking to a ridiculous level over the last few years, and find it hard not to do several things at a time.  It isn’t something I recommend doing.  For me, it became necessity, because the efforts required of me exceeded the physical amount of hours in a waking day.  In order to meet all obligations simultaneously, I am the person spinning all the dishes on all the poles while juggling.   Being on multiple conference calls or in multiple places in multiple towns simultaneously has become the bane of my existence of late.  While none of it is actually any priority of mine. 

When my brother and I were kids, our Dad used to encourage us to play a word game.  The object of the game was to form the longest word possible, in order to earn the most money.  An average word was worth a nickel.  A good word was worth a dime.  An excellent word was worth a quarter. My father was the judge and jury.  He and he alone determined what constituted an average, good or excellent word.  There was no guidebook for the players to refer to.  We had to play at our own risk and hope that we would win the big prize by dumb luck or chance.

I had always excelled in English grammar classes and in spelling bees, so I liked playing this game. The challenge was to be able to come up with a word off the cuff, at any moment the game was initiated.  It wasn’t like I could go consult a dictionary first.  We had to have a word at the ready on a moment’s notice.  Luckily we didn’t have to be able to define the word or use it in a sentence.  We just had to knock the socks off my Dad.   Of course I always shot for the quarter words, and I usually succeeded.  Even as a child, I was a gambler and motivated by money (nothing has changed in the present day). 

Fast forward to the 2000’s.  Now the grandchildren play this game with my Dad.  Webster’s Dictionary has seen quite some change over the past 40 years since my brother and I were players, and I assume there is a significant generation gap between words the grandchildren come up with, versus words someone of my Dad’s generation (ie, non-digital age) would recognize.  It reminds me of a board game we used to play called Encore.  The object of that game was to be able to sing as many song lyrics as possible that contained the word of that round.  There was a total generation gap between the songs my generation came up with, versus the adults from the 1940s.  There were frequent arguments between young and old trying to defend songs as valid (we also challenged the elders), such as the time I had to defend a lyric I sang from Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun”.   My Dad’s generation wasn’t familiar with alternative music and I can only imagine how this game would go today with the omnipresence of rap and hip-hop.  Which pretty much meant anything that we could say in a sing-songy way we could get away with.  There was no way they could actually dispute it or prove it wasn’t valid.   

While playing the word game with my Dad, my nephew (who was 11 at the time), came up with the word “anti-disestablishmentarianism”.  My jaw dropped to the floor.  I wasn’t familiar with the word myself, and the word was just so ridiculously impressive coming out of the mouth of an 11 year old, and he said it with all confidence and seriousness.  My sister-in-law confirmed that it was indeed a real word.  I think my Dad even gave him a dollar.  It definitely merited one in my book.

In writing this post three years later after this event, I finally actually looked the word up.  Its claim to fame happens to be that it is the longest word in the English language.  I always thought that distinction was reserved for ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’, which is longer.  But I guess that is a fictional word and doesn’t really count.  The origin of the word ‘Anti-Disestablishmentarianism’ goes back to 19^th century Britain when there was opposition to removal (disestablishment) of the Anglican church’s status as the state church of England.  In modern day, it refers to the opposition to anyone who opposes the establishment whether a government in whole or part.

I am grateful that my nephew is in a great school system, and more so that I am still capable of learning something from someone younger than me.  It was a necessary reminder that I am not omniscient and that we are all capable of learning from someone else, even an 11 year old.

Magical Mystery-Loo Tour (aka “To-Da-Loo”)

A portion of this post appeared in a travel piece I wrote in 2011.  However, this post places a heavier emphasis on the culture shock we encountered with the Italian public gabinetto.  At the end of this post, I included a link to the original post entitled La Dolce Vita.

After a nine-hour flight out of JFK on Alitalia, it wasn’t long before we experienced our first bit of culture shock courtesy of Milano, Italy.  It was nothing either of us ever expected to encounter.  There was no mention of this in our guidebooks or in our painstaking research before we embarked on a month-long trip that took us from Switzerland to Calabria, and hit all the major Italian cities in between (Venezia, Verona, Milano, Firenze, Bologna, Napoli, Sorrento, Capri, Roma, Pisa, and Calabria). 

 

After admiring Leonardo Da Vinci’s famous fresco The Last Supper on a wall in the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie (before its restoration), we had our first encounter with the Italian public gabinetto (toilet). 

 

Upon walking through the door to the bathroom, we realized that the only thing separating man from woman was a sole stall door.  Not only was it a uni-sex bathroom, but both sexes utilized it simultaneously!  Certainly not for the weak of heart.

 

On display within each separate stall was a lone hole in the center of the floor, as if it was a masterpiece to be admired first from afar and then right up close, as one would admire the fresco right outside the door.

 

The hole had an unexpected, interesting porcelain edging around it, perhaps to provide a more aesthetic appeal.  There was no need for a gender-specific toilet or urinal, men stood and aimed with pinpoint precision into the target, while women squatted right over the hole and hoped to shoot straight into the hole beneath.  How economical the Italians are! This was certainly the epitome of a uni-sex toilet if I had ever seen one.

 

As bad as I needed to relieve myself at that moment, I was physically unable to squat that low to the floor without falling over, nor conjure up any inspiration to tinkle with the sound of a strange male voice on the other side of the stall (speaking in German or Japanese no less!).

Little did we know that this would be the first of our many adventures with the Italian “loo”!

 

In our hotel in Venezia (Venice) along the Grand Canal, the hot and cold water knobs weren’t even located inside the shower stall.  In order to adjust the temperature of the water, you had to physically exit the shower, walk over to the knobs on the opposite side of the room, adjust each knob, run back and step back into the shower to test the temperature, and repeat all steps until the perfect temperature was reached.  Never mind freezing your ass off between each trip to and fro the knobs.  I am not sure how non-Italian speaking guests managed, but it certainly helped to be aware that the “C” knob did not denote cold, but rather caldo (hot).  The knob labeled “F” stood for freddo (cold). 

 

Every time I used that shower, I had to rewire my brain from English to Italian first and remember this difference, so I didn’t scald myself.   Sometimes this was hard to do on very little sleep.  We couldn’t figure out for the life of us why the shower knobs weren’t inside the shower, other than perhaps the showers were added as an after-thought at some point in history, and perhaps it was more economical to add the plumbing on that particular side of the room.

 

In our hotel in Firenze (Florence), which decided if and when to turn on the master control for the air conditioning system to the entire hotel (during the hottest month of the year in Italy mind you), our bathtub did not have a curtain.  With one hand occupied with the hand-held showerhead at an angle to clean everything while not spewing water all over the bathroom, it was a bit of a juggling act and a bit of a comedy scene.

In the town of Agropoli, at the house of my boyfriend’s cugino (cousin), there was no separation of the shower from the rest of the bathroom.  The showerhead literally extended out of the ceiling in the middle of the room.  The tile floor slanted towards the center of the room, so that the water would run inward and down the drain in the middle of the floor, allowing the floor to dry itself.  You would literally stand in the middle of the room while the water sprayed everywhere.  Another oddity to me.  What was also interesting in this particular house, was the house wasn’t actually his cousin’s house.  During the month of August, the country literally goes on vacation.  People swap houses and live somewhere else for a month.  I have no idea whose house we were actually in.

In the town of Calabria, we stayed at the house of my boyfriend’s Nonna, which also happened to be the childhood home of his mother and her many siblings.  In this bathroom, the tub stood in the middle of the room, again with no curtain and a hand-held showerhead.  However, this one had an interesting addition that its predecessors didn’t; a window on the bathroom door!  Again, no curtain! The Italian way didn’t cease to amaze me. Luckily, this was the last stop on our magical mystery-loo tour, especially because his Nonna wouldn’t let us sleep in the same bed at least under her roof; I mean we weren’t married and we were Catholic, god forbid.  I drank a lot of Limoncello that visit. 

As old, charming and breathtaking the landscape, architecture and the cities of Italy were, when we landed in New York, I, like Dorothy Gale, felt there was no place like home.  

Non posso aspettare per la mia visita di ricambio al Italia.   :)

 

To read the original version of the travel post entitled La Dolce Vita (from which parts of this post were excerpted), click here.    

 

Don't DM me, I'll DM you

There’s an old Hollywood saying, “Don’t call me, I’ll call you”.  Uttered from the mouth of the casting director, this was a polite way of letting the actor know they weren’t right for the part.

Fast forward to 2015, I find myself on social media; something I avoided since its onset.  I didn’t even carry a cell phone until a few years ago.  Friends and family members have begged me to join Face Book, LinkedIn, and Instagram to no avail. 

Personal bandwidth is always thin, and I just had no interest in connecting with people virtually; becoming involved in virtual games of “friending” and “unfriending” (aka “high school behavior”), or hearing the grueling minutiae of someone’s daily routine. 

I thought going on Twitter would be different, because I could follow and not “be followed”, obtain what is my only source of news, baseball scores, golf news, and be somewhat aware of what was going on in the world around me.  And follow a public figure or two. 

I don’t have time to watch television in general.  If I skip work or golf leagues, I can watch OnDemand, in one sitting time convenient to me, and in binge mode.  It isn’t an overstatement to say that sometimes I operate in my own orbit because I have no additional capacity to pay attention.  I am tapped out and can absorb no more.  At times I am acutely focused to the exclusion of all else.  It is both a skill and a danger.  It’s one of the many downsides to working in IT.  Work comes before life, and life interests outside of work is neither encouraged nor allowed.  And this is true across all fields that have an IT function.  Whether in marketing, insurance, finance or healthcare industries, the situation has always been the same no matter who paid me.  I can change my employer but I can’t change the circumstances.   And taking pay cuts doesn’t help.  They expect you to work just as hard, and for less compensation!  That has been the case since the 2008 economic downturn.

Over 21 professional years, I altered my career focus from application developer (11 years) to a business systems analyst (8 years) to a technical writer (2 years).  Moving into an analyst role and then a writer afforded me substantially more personal time to pursue my passion for golf (3-5 days a week) because I start my work shift before the sun comes up and am on the golf course by 3:00, having already put in an 8-9 hour day when some are just going to lunch.  I telecommute the majority of the week, wear pj’s and slippers, and conduct business 99% through web conferencing and telephone from my home, since clients in other time zones and other continents have no idea where I am anyway.  I could be in Timbuktu for all they care.  Occasionally I make an appearance in the office.  It’s actually a pretty good set-up.

Managers and co-workers who start their shifts at 10am hate it that I’m already going to lunch when they start, but I don’t give a shit.  They have to get on my calendar within the first 2-3 hours of their shift, otherwise it waits until the next day.  It’s all about priorities.  I choose life balance.  I have no interest in working 10-6, sitting in 2 hours of traffic, cooking and then eating dinner at 8 and going to bed on a full stomach, which gives me agita` and is just not a healthy lifestyle.  I have other interests outside of work.  I have at least eight extra productive hours in my day than any of my coworkers.  I am tired as hell most of the time, and am a zombie having hallucinations by Thursday, downing at least 5 cups of coffee by 10am, but it’s worth it to me.  I jam pack a lot between 4:30am-11pm.  It's tiring at times, but it's balanced.

What I wasn’t prepared for on Twitter is what I consider a lack of boundaries.  I come from a very different time and I have yet to determine what ever happened to old-fashioned courtesy.  I’m not talking about male chivalry. I’m very capable of opening my own door, pulling out my own seat, paying my own check, and paying his check too.   I have always exceeded my partners’ earning rates, so I have never expected someone else to carry me.   To me, THAT seems old-fashioned and just gives all females an unwarranted reputation for the few who do expect such treatment.  I don’t want to owe anyone anything.  Sometimes dependency carries an unwelcome price.  I am fiercely independent in this regard.

People generalize that New Yorkers are rude and inpatient, but I disagree (to an extent).  Having lived in the bay area since 1999, I have never been so aware of a lack of manners than since living here.  There isn’t a day or an hour that someone’s behavior doesn’t shock me, and worse, the fact they don’t know what they did and why it was wrong.  Complete oblivion.  I’m not sure if it is because the bay area is a melting pot of cultures and ethnicities, and we are from different states or countries trying to co-existing together, or if the entire planet is out of alignment. 

I have learned to be more patient and more tolerant of differences for sure, to let rude behavior slide, since correcting it would make no difference, and allowing someone to control your mood is not good in the long run.  Ride BART one day and you’ll see exactly what I mean.  In any public setting, count how many times a door slams in your face when the person in front of you doesn’t hold the door open, walks on your side of the sidewalk or hall, walks through your door when you open it for yourself and they just don’t know the correct side to walk on in the first place, cuts in front of you, steps on you, etc.   Manners have completely gone the way of Beta cassette tapes.

Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful and flattered for the Twitter response I have received and for the increasing followers day after day.  (And I anticipate I will lose a few after this post).  Response has been completely unexpected and I have courteously followed back every person that follows me, even if I don’t know who they are or what their platform is.  When I follow back, I actually haven’t even seen that person's tweets yet!  As followers increase, the timeline has also blown up, requiring hours of time to sift through tweets to find who I actually am following.  I anticipate it will only get harder as the numbers increase.

What I am struggling with is if there is some Twitter etiquette manual somewhere.  Why does a courteous follow back result in an immediate uninvited Direct Message (“DM”) from a person I don’t know, have no familiarity with what they are on Twitter for, and the further insult of a link, a personal plug or a request for me to do something or buy something? or go somewhere else?   To me, this is an example of extremely poor etiquette. 

Just like communication by phone, a person should say hello and make small talk before taking additional advances or jumping right into their shpeal or trying to sell me something.  I struggle finding time to follow who I’m actually following, and I am 5 months behind on personal email.   I’m up to April at this point. Even my Mother is waiting for me to acknowledge I’m still alive.  My friends and family have given up.  I just don’t have bandwidth to reply to DM’s from every follower, view external links, especially if I am unable to really follow them yet.  Plus the fact that they overstepped a personal boundary already puts them at an immediate disadvantage.

Again, I come from a different time.  I need foreplay.  I need someone to knock on my front door first before attempting to enter through my rear door.  And with followers increasing at a rapid pace, it has become a daily and follower by follower occurrence.  It has become the rule rather than the exception.  I seem to get about 10 of these DM’s a day or more, all from new followers over the last three weeks.  Each one has immediately plugged something without even saying hello.   They have tried to sell me something or requested I go somewhere and do something, or worse asking me to follow someone else too or their other accounts.

I will reply to most of the DM’s from the past three weeks, but please have patience.  A few really pushed boundaries and I completely blocked and unfollowed them.  My primary goal for being on Twitter is to follow the 100 people I am actually following, blog 2 times a week to build my platform and to promote my book.  And I am struggling to do this.  In the past 3 weeks, due to response, I went from a bi-weekly post to 4 times in one week!  I haven’t slept very much and golfing has suffered as well as personal relationships and other weeknight activities.   

I understand we all need to help each other increase our networks and get our messages out.  At some point soon, I will be shamelessly promoting my own book, and I hope that doesn’t mean I will resort to inappropriate DMs.  And perhaps some of us will help each other reach personal goals. 

So I know I need to learn how to accept this new age social media behavior or get the hell out.  To the authors and publishers that DM’d me in the past three weeks, I promise to respond to all of you.  Hopefully by mid-September.  Anyone I have already responded to, we are good. 

I am traveling extensively mid-October thru January, so all activity will be coming to a grinding halt soon, including blogs, book and twitter.  I will lose momentum and followers during this period of time due to inactivity, but I just won’t have the bandwidth to do any of it while traveling.

My ask is that if I follow you back in response to your Twitter follow of me, please engage me publicly first.  I don’t need you to DM me a thank you!  You can thank me via public tweet or save yourself the tweet.

In public, tell me why you are following me, say something to me based on why you followed me, and if/when the time becomes appropriate, we can move into private conversation through DM.

To those of you who have already successfully engaged me and speak to me primarily or only in DM, this entire post is not aimed at you.  We have already done the dance.  I have even met some of you personally (in reality!) and call you my friend now.  And that is a very cool and unexpected outcome from joining Twitter.   I am truly grateful for these connections.

My hope is to be able to engage with each and every follower at some point in public and possibly later in DM, but it will take me substantial time.  I hope you stick around after this post.  I am doing the best I can, which is a frenetic pace!!

As I tweet every week and sometimes daily,   THANK YOU for following me!!!!!  I really mean that.  Response has been humbling and definitely appreciated.

Persnickety

Being a golfer for sixteen years now, I have met and played with many other golfers over the years, whether in my various leagues, tournaments or casual play, and can say with confidence that the personality of a golfer is unlike any other athlete I’ve ever encountered.  Golf is unique in that it is both an individual sport as well as a sport that one needs to learn how to respect, get along with and play with other individuals on the golf course.  It’s a fine line and balancing act how to play your best game, and depending on the format if a tournament, how to play in unison and sometimes for the benefit of your partner or team over your own personal performance.

Golfers are a persnickety bunch.  Typically, I play from one to four days a week, and meet all sorts of golfers.  I play in several leagues that are a mix of men and women, good and average.   More often than not, I know who my partners are and we play as twosomes or foursomes.   But you don’t always control who you are paired with.  Part of the challenge of golf is how to play your best while trying to co-exist with the player you are paired with, who may actually affect your performance.  Finer golf courses, such as Silverado in Napa or Presidio in San Francisco, enforce pace of play and force groups to play in foursomes, even if they have to pair you with complete strangers. 

Part of the problem with this practice is that golfers have very unique compositions, and placing us in forced foursomes does not a quicker round ensure.   Typically, men play from the tips, because they are stronger, can drive farther and because of this, they shoot first and have to wait longer for the group in front to move out of range before they can do so.  Females typically play from the front tees because they don’t drive as far, but because they have to be out of the way for the men behind to hit first, have to wait for the men which is a bit counterintuitive.  So right off the bat this slows pace. 

Luckily I drive 250 yards off the tee, was 2007 and 2008 Long Drive Champion in my league, so I can play from the back tees when I play with men and this enables quicker play.  But this is not the average female I am told, and so other females in the foursome may still need to drive from forward tees, slowing pace. 

Then there are personality differences.  It can be a less than fun round when you are forced to play with a bickering, rude couple or two strangers who have different temperaments, skill levels, experience on the golf course or understanding/practice of golf course etiquette.  When I play after a stressful day at the office, the last thing I want is to be paired with an asshole who is in a bad mood or wants to rain on my parade.  Golf is a great stress reliever for me and I am a bit picky who I play with.  I have a great group of male and female companions that I play with, and when I have a choice when playing in my leagues, I won’t play if it means being paired with someone who will affect my outing or mood.  I just got loose from my work noose and am in no mood to play a three to five hour round with a miserable person, especially if it will affect my handicap.  There are a small handful of players in one of my leagues that no one ever wants to be paired with.  I don’t know how people who are unpleasant, stressed out, anal, negative, moody, or intense ever chose golf for a pastime.   Racquetball or boxing would be a much better choice for them.  Golf requires a player to be relaxed, and free of tension both mentally and physically.  The game is as much mental as it is physical, and in some cases completely mental.  Having the most expensive or cutting edge equipment does not ensure you a low handicap.  Much of the game is played between the ears. 

Here are a few categories of players you want to avoid on the golf course.  I know and have played with people who really fit these categories. 

 

The Rule Nazi

This is a person who has nothing but time and spends his/her sorry life studying and memorizing the USGA Rules of Golf.   Yes, sports need to have rules, and the game of golf certainly is governed by a bible of very specific (and player-unfriendly and sometimes absurd) rules.  I play in tournament leagues and I understand the importance of following the rules when you are playing in a tournament, and for proper handicapping.  I am not suggesting to disregard USGA Rules.  However, some of the lesser known (absurd) rules can be a bit much and when we are playing a casual round, no one wants to be lectured by someone on these lesser known rules.  We are all adults, we are there for a casual round of golf that does not count.  But these anal types do exist and ruin the experience for the rest of us.  They create an unnecessary and uncomfortably tense atmosphere.
 
The Temperamental Fool
This personality really has chosen the wrong hobby.  Anyone who is tense, highly agitated or moody fits this category.  I have seen players who get very angry at themselves or their equipment and create a very tense and uncomfortable atmosphere for their fellow companions.  When clubs go flying and nearly miss someone’s head or eye, that player should be banned from the sport.  There are players with violent personalities or alcoholic dependencies (and the occasional pot smokers), and these are also people you want to avoid.  Alcohol or drugs do not help anyone’s game and having words or punching other players in the face on the course when you are sufficiently tanked or high is just so against everything the game of golf stands for.  Save it for the 19^th hole.

The Chatter

Golf is a sport that requires a ridiculous amount of concentration.  The slightest noise, gust of wind, or movement of anyone or anything when trying to hit a ball can affect a golfer mentally and physically.  Watch how flustered Tiger Woods gets when he hears a camera shutter or a spectator whispering.  The Chatter is another person you want to avoid.  This person doesn’t understand the glory of quiet when a player is doing their pre-shot routine or actually taking their shot.  This person doesn’t shut up.  Ever.  Talks and talks and talks.   This includes the people who stand within your eye sight in the tee box area and chatter and giggle, or chit chat when you are putting.  These are both golf etiquette 101 no-nos. 

Happy Medium

I have never been taught, so I am not exactly sure where I learned my golf temperament.  I am a popular companion choice in all of my leagues and casual play partners.  I strike a perfect balance of engaging in pleasant conversation at the appropriate time, and respectful silence at others.  I also blend the perfect amount of cheeriness, laughter, positive attitude, and gentle encouragement.   I am relaxed and laid back, creating a very comfortable atmosphere, but yet focused on my own game at the same time.  I have been told I provide a “zen-like atmosphere” for my companions who aren’t as confident.  It’s a flattering compliment and can be difficult when having to divide myself among different pairs who want to play with me.  It may be because I, too, was once a new golfer, and remember how I was treated when I played with more experienced players, and having been in and in charge of a beginner league at one time, I guess I have become the player who mentors and makes a comfortable atmosphere for all, even if it means having to take the role of softening or managing some of the above personality types to alter the atmosphere for players I know can’t function under those circumstances.

Pruning Wisterias

During a visit home to the east coast many years ago, I was out in the backyard with my father, admiring the lawn and the flowers that are once again under his careful direction and care, since his retirement and decision to cut back all unnecessary and frivolous expenses, including the weekly landscaper. 

One of my mother’s prized possessions of the vegetation kind is the wisteria tree they started from a graft of a wisteria vine that grows near their summer cottage at the Cape.  If you are unfamiliar with the wisteria, it is beautiful, fragrant and vine-y, it grows and climbs and can get pretty unruly if one doesn’t tame it, train it and force it to grow around a porch post, lattice, fence or pergola.  It also seems to have a short window of blossom time in the early spring.   Typically the wisteria flowers are lavender in color, but I have also seen a white one in Northern California. 

In my parents’ yard, the wisteria grew more like a bush, with branches shooting out in every direction, not unlike what one’s hair might look like after sticking one’s finger into a live electrical socket.  No attempt was made by my parents to train the wisteria around a post of any kind.  To my mother’s chagrin, the wisteria never looked as beautiful or full as the one it spawned from. 

One day, the day I mentioned above when I was visiting, while the wisteria was minding its own business, not bothering a soul, my father had some divine inspiration.  He went into the garage and came out with some rather large pruning clippers.  They looked like a gigantic, mutant, dangerous set of scissors.  He handed them to me (they were ridiculously heavy and cumbersome), and asked me to trim back the branches so that the wisteria wouldn’t look so out of control.  I have no idea why my father would choose me to be in charge of such an important task.  I didn’t have a green thumb.  I wasn’t an arborist by any stretch of the imagination.  I knew nothing about landscaping or gardening.  I had never rented or owned a home where I had to do my own yard maintenance.  I always had more pressing weekend priorities, such as playing softball or tennis, or distractions of the male persuasion.  I always had a property manager that took care of my yards and I liked it that way.  But it wasn’t for me to question.  When my father gets something on his mind, he can’t relax until he tackles it, and so I took the clippers and I randomly began to clip.  My father periodically checked in on my progress.  He was satisfied with my work.  My mother peeked through the window from inside the house, but made no comment. 

Some months later, I received a phone call from my parents that since I had cut back the wisteria, it had sprung back to flowering life with a renewed vigor.  I had begun to wonder if I had somehow missed my calling; if I didn’t have some untapped arborist potential, if I had missed my true calling, if I had an inner Lorax. 

The following year, my father became inspired again.  Unbeknownst to my mother, he cut the wisteria down to its roots!  It was barely a stump.  When he showed it to me, I was a bit perplexed.  I had no idea why he felt the need to essentially cut it to the ground and I knew my mother would not be happy. 

Digression time.  My parents have an interesting relationship.  Married 51 years, they have somehow managed not to kill each other, despite their opposite personalities and temperaments.  My father is a bit impulsive, impatient, and explosive at times.  My mother is cautious, patient and introspective.  They are an inspiration to anyone who knows them, of two people who have managed to live together and love each other for so many years, accepting each other’s differences, for better or for worse. 

When my mother looked out the window, and saw what was left of the wisteria, she was literally speechless (other than the marathon of curse words that I got to hear).  You could see smoke coming out of her ears.  Note to the male species:  when a woman is utterly speechless and doesn’t say a word in your presence, she is PISSED.  Silence does speak louder than words.  When I am quiet with someone of the male species, which is a rare phenomenon, that someone is definitely in the shithouse where I'm concerned.  Oddly, in rare occasions, I display my father’s red hot fire and off the Fahrenheit scale reaction.   I call it Italian temperament and I inherited it from both Italian sides of my family.  I am truly a physical example of the laws of genetic inheritance.

It was at least two days before my mother spoke to my father with anything other than an utterance after the wisteria incident.  I am not entirely convinced my father even noticed that she was mad at him and what he had done.   It is funny sometimes to be a spectator of the relationship between a man and a woman.  Our brains are wired so differently, our chemical makeup, personalities and behavior are so completely opposite, it is really quite a miracle that men and women are able to co-exist at all.  Even something as innocent as pruning a wisteria can be a lethal endeavor.    

Essence of a Writer

Originating in Greek mythology, the Muses were nine daughters of Zeus who ruled over the arts and sciences, credited with providing inspiration to an artist or creator.  In more modern interpretation, a muse is considered a source of inspiration for a creative work.   There are many examples of art, sculpture, music or writing that is beautiful to the ear or inspirational to the soul of its appreciator.   When I hear a piece of classical music, an operatic score, read a verse of romantic poetry, or view a piece of art or sculpture, I often wonder where the composer, artist or poet got such inspiration from. 

What inspired Shakespeare to write his unforgettable sonnets?  Byron or Keats to write such mellifluous odes?  Mozart to compose his exquisite final masterpiece Requiem Mass in D Minor? Puccini to compose his final operatic masterpiece Turandot (Puccini more than any other operatic composer could merge a multitude of soprano, mezzo-soprano, alto, tenor and baritone voices singing different melodies into one harmonious sound) which sends shivers down my spine, produces goosebumps on my arms and tears of joy down my face every time I see or hear it? Michelangelo to sculpt life-like forms Pieta` and David out of marble?

Words and language are a powerful vehicle.  With words, a writer, poet or lyricist can express ideas, provoke emotions, inspire, or open up the minds of an audience to a brand new understanding or experience.  The reader or listener is in turn transformed and a connection is forever forged between creator and audience. 

A writer has a great responsibility.  We are essentially a tour guide being entrusted by our tourists, the readers, to take them on a journey.  Readers place themselves in our hands and trust we will take them somewhere they want to go, and get them there safely.  A reader does not appreciate being taken down a dead end path, through a hallway to a false door, encountering red herrings, unsolved clues, unresolved plots, loose ends, or last minute, unnecessary characters.  In turn, writers don’t want to lose their readers’ interest or trust, for fear of being abandoned before the journey’s end. 

Writers are extremely vulnerable.  We often take journeys to places of unknown or fear, exploring right along with our readers how we think, see, and feel about something, whether it be positive or negative subject matter for us.   Writers reveal the facets of ourselves in layers, opening up our deepest and darkest inner core, not knowing what the audience reaction is while they are reading.  Unlike a comedian or live actor, there is no immediate feedback for a writer.  We have no idea if we should continue down the path we are on, or if we should veer sharply in a different direction.  Is the reader shocked, surprised, amused, disappointed, transformed, or worse lost? How much of ourselves do we divulge and how much do we keep private?

Writers are no different from any other human being.  We suffer from demons.  We have crosses to bear.  Fears we need to face.  Traumas we need to overcome.  We suffer from addiction, depression, abuse, insecurities, lack of support from our families or significant others, having been told at some point in our lives that we aren’t good enough or capable of succeeding. 

No matter what inspires us to write, writing is a bit of a calling.  It isn’t a choice, it’s a necessity.  As writers, we take our experiences, transform them into something meaningful, and in turn transform ourselves.  For me, writing is an extremely cathartic exercise, a constructive and healthy way of dealing with what is happening in and around me. I can go to a place in my head, work something out, and then move on.  It’s a hell of a lot less expensive and time consuming than lying on a couch, shelling out $200 an hour to someone who merely nods their head and says “Uh-huh, why do you think you feel this way, what was your childhood like?” 

Writing is also a much more effective way of dealing with things then allowing them to fester inside our heads; creating doubt, guilt, mental or physical blocks.  Writers work out their psychological baggage on paper, and readers become our analysts, our priests, our pastors and our support groups.  The reader becomes our captive audience.  There is a symbiotic relationship between writer and reader.  The writer has something to divulge and the audience has a need to be told a story.  In this way, we feed off each other.   And in the best case, the reader is transformed along with us.   It’s a mutually beneficial relationship.

I used to be an organized writer.  I would structure an outline, write multiple drafts, know exactly where my starting and ending points were and what I was trying to accomplish with a piece.  Due to lack of time, outlining went to the wayside long ago.  I have no compass or map in my backpack.  I use no GPS.  I simply put pen to paper (or if I am really pressed for time, straight to word processor), and more often than not, the words just pour out without a plan, logical guideline or filter.  In some cases it’s like a dam breaking, with water pouring in every direction.  As a writer, I am more of a tour guide who goes off-roading, taking my readers on a route that even I haven’t driven on before, and experience the journey right alongside the reader.  Right or wrong, for better or worse, it’s the best I can do for the moment.  Sometimes it’s more raw and honest when I don’t spend a lot of time self-editing. 

Poesia

Queste sono due poesie d’amore dal mio migliore amico a mi. 

I can provide the English translations if anyone is interested.

Poesia #1

La fraganza del tuo profumo
e` come il tocco della tua pelle,
I miei sensi vivi,
il mio cuore battito di nuovo.

Ti do il mio amore
e aspetto niente di ritorno,
Dare per il gusto di farlo,
una lezione ho imparato.

Mentre i miei avanzamenti negavano,
e il mio cuore spezzato lentamente,
la mia anima non ha scelta,
queste parole devono parlato
 

come amore e` magnifico,
e` ingiusto anche
come ritorno al posto
della oscurita e disperazione.

Gia` amore nella sua grandezza
e` un Phoenix rinnovato,
Con una parole, o un bacio,
o la presenza di ti.

 

Poesia #2

In secoli fa,
quando romanza era la regala,
Uomi robusti professo amore alle fanciulle
preziose come gioelli.

Oggi amore e` complesso,
e le regole capriccioso spesso,
Come un incubo di alchimiste,
un cuore del oro fu trasformato a nichel.

Emozione sono cauti,
le sue espressione si astenevano
Barattiamo la nostra sensibilita`
per una calma manteneva.

 

Cosi ho cercato negare che
i miei emozioni  erano cresciuti,
Una piantina de semanzaio ha risorto
dove pensammo niente seminava.

Mentre non posso offrire ricchezze,
o una vita di estasi,
offro compassione calmante 
e un bacio affettuoso e tenero

Si la tua riposte e “no”
saro` il tuo amico,
ma si la tua riposte e “si”
conoscera` amore senza fine.

 
Con l’uno o l’atro scelta,
sono fortunato come sono alcuni preziosi,
Per la mia anima ero tornato
per la presenza di ti.