This is a repost of a repost of a repost. The world is making me sad today. I don't need sad. I'm about to see my family for the first time in months and I need something other than sad.
A Plea For Human Kind(ness)
Please, please stand up. It's not that hard, really. Just plant your feet firmly on the floor of this bus, engage your quadriceps, and push. You will rise from that seat and you will redeem your punk ass in my eyes. I don't care that you are wearing a white coat. I don't care that you have a new Littman Master Cardiology stethoscope hanging around your neck, I have one too. I see that you are studying. Your nose is practically buried in that text but you see her. You must. Her pregnant, full belly is right in front of you, at your eye level. I don't care that she is a tech, or a nurse, or an assistant. She is pregnant. Stand up and be a man.
Please, please stop honking your horn. He is old, he has Louisiana plates on his car. He is stopped on Fannin and he is lost. He is driving through the largest medical center in the United States, in the fourth largest city in the country. He is your brother, my father, someones son. He is a grandfather, a husband. He is a man with dignity. Is he not deserving of just ten seconds of latitude, ten seconds of patience?
Please, please accept your own truth. I heard you discount your intuition today in favor of anothers desires. I am watching you sacrifice your happiness and security yet again in order to satisfy the needs of another. Determining your own rank with yourself - and defending it - is permitted and I encourage you to do so. It is the ultimate act of kindness to oneself.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Put Me In, Coach!
But...but...you're not ready to play. Sorry, you're really nowhere near ready to play. Sit down, grab a towel, warm that bench, and listen.
You think you want to date. You think because you've dated, you're good at it. You think you've done it before, so you can do it again. You think you can practice until you get it right. It's not like riding a bike. It's not like throwing free throws - or a Frisbee. It's not like hitting a sled. This isn't about muscle memory.
Stop it.
You dated before you were married. Then you married someone and that didn't really go so well. Now you're e-winking, having coffee, having dinner, having sex, having regrets. Might we call a time-out?
Why do you want to date? What? You're lonely? Shut the hell up. Deal with it. Sit on that bench by yourself for awhile. I want you to watch something. It's called Instant Replay. Come on, it's not all that bad. I know, seeing the hits, over and over again is kind of brutal, but I know you can take it. Why are you slammed so hard? Because you keep making the same moves, for God's sake. Oh, and get this, you're playing against the same team over and over again. Do you recognize them? Sometimes they change uniforms, but watch their moves, they don't change. You know these teams, they are called The Abusers, The Weaklings, The Whiners, or The Users.
Wait! I know you think you've learned a new game plan by watching the films, but you're not getting up off that bench yet. Sit down. I want you to get to know some of your teammates now. Play is suspended, so you have as much time as it takes. Get to know them. Talk, but more importantly, listen. These people are wonderful. Forget about the game (it's suspended, remember?) and just get to know them as people. You'll be better for it.
Where the hell are you going? Don't set one foot on that field! You are such a rookie. You need balance. You're in such a rush to get in there and tackle, that all your finesse has gone out the window. For you, I'm assigning yoga AND meditation. I want you to sit. I want you to sit - alone. Sit alone in a room with no television, no music, no computer, no noise. Sit alone in a room with you, with your emotions and...feel.
Next season, maybe. Maybe you'll be ready to play. You tell me. You tell me if you recognize why you're in the game. You tell me if you're enough of a solo athlete to be a team player.
Now hit the showers. The colder the better.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
You think you want to date. You think because you've dated, you're good at it. You think you've done it before, so you can do it again. You think you can practice until you get it right. It's not like riding a bike. It's not like throwing free throws - or a Frisbee. It's not like hitting a sled. This isn't about muscle memory.
Stop it.
You dated before you were married. Then you married someone and that didn't really go so well. Now you're e-winking, having coffee, having dinner, having sex, having regrets. Might we call a time-out?
Why do you want to date? What? You're lonely? Shut the hell up. Deal with it. Sit on that bench by yourself for awhile. I want you to watch something. It's called Instant Replay. Come on, it's not all that bad. I know, seeing the hits, over and over again is kind of brutal, but I know you can take it. Why are you slammed so hard? Because you keep making the same moves, for God's sake. Oh, and get this, you're playing against the same team over and over again. Do you recognize them? Sometimes they change uniforms, but watch their moves, they don't change. You know these teams, they are called The Abusers, The Weaklings, The Whiners, or The Users.
Wait! I know you think you've learned a new game plan by watching the films, but you're not getting up off that bench yet. Sit down. I want you to get to know some of your teammates now. Play is suspended, so you have as much time as it takes. Get to know them. Talk, but more importantly, listen. These people are wonderful. Forget about the game (it's suspended, remember?) and just get to know them as people. You'll be better for it.
Where the hell are you going? Don't set one foot on that field! You are such a rookie. You need balance. You're in such a rush to get in there and tackle, that all your finesse has gone out the window. For you, I'm assigning yoga AND meditation. I want you to sit. I want you to sit - alone. Sit alone in a room with no television, no music, no computer, no noise. Sit alone in a room with you, with your emotions and...feel.
Next season, maybe. Maybe you'll be ready to play. You tell me. You tell me if you recognize why you're in the game. You tell me if you're enough of a solo athlete to be a team player.
Now hit the showers. The colder the better.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
How to Handle a Houdini
"He pulled a Houdini."
It's a phrase that's batted about dating circles with disdain and disgust. Everyone seems to hate The Houdini. He's the man who shows fairly intense interest, perhaps takes a woman out on several dates and then, poof! He's gone leaving her behind in a cloud of bewilderment and confusion. There is no white dove, no rabbit, no Siberian tiger on a platform to wow his audience. He leaves behind an empty stage and a theater so silent you can almost hear the digits change on her cell phone LCD time display as she checks it once again from the third row back. The soft green glow lights her face as she hits "messages"...just in case. Nothing.
Harry Houdini (3/24/1874 - 10/31/1926) was a master illusionist. He was an escape artist. He didn't really disappear, although some wondered if he might have had the power to do so, given the sheer audacity and difficulty of his illusions and stunts. His profession required incredible physical and mental training, practice and precise timing. The Dating Houdini doesn't really deserve the title, because disappearing from a dating situation isn't nearly as grand when compared to what Houdini accomplished. Houdini had to work at what he did. He had to struggle, sweat, and at times risk his life. Most dating escape artists simply stop showing up. That's pretty easy in comparison.
The offender (the escape artist) can also be female. Nothing is to say that a Houdini has to be a male. There are two basic ways to handle being Houdini'd. I promise the first option is the most attractive to future suitors who might be paying attention to your behavior, but feel free to attempt option two. My guess is that if you're reading this and you have any inkling that option two has merit, my words won't hold much weight, but I have to try.
Option One: Move on after taking a quick personal inventory. How's your grooming, mood, manners, general presentation? I want this inventory to be ultra-brief. This is most likely, almost certainly, I can almost promise you, not about you! There, there, isn't that better? Forget about it. Take a walk, ride your bike, go to the movie, call a friend. Oh, and leave the booze and ice cream out of this. They have no part in it.
Option Two (Remember, not the recommended option): Call him or her. Texting is good, too. Email? Why not? Perhaps write a poem, odes are nice. Do you know any of his friends? Where does she work? You getting my drift? You can investigate, make sure, make really, really, really sure that nothing happened to him. He COULD be in a ditch somewhere, bleeding a steady, marching stream of blood cells out of a gash in his groin. Oh my God! If only he could. just. reach. his. cell. phone!!!
Now that you've considered your options, I'd like to cover one more point, the followup. There may be a time when you encounter your Houdini out in public. I suggest you smile, nod and keep on walking. That's what you would do with any stranger, is it not? Your date coach wants you to resist the urge to take up with the escape artist again.
I'm going to let you in on a little bit of personal history here. I rarely give out my own dating dirt, because I think it can be tacky, but this little resurrection of my own personal Houdini happened on Halloween, the anniversary of the Great One's death, so I think it's fitting. I hadn't heard from Mr. Man since he disappeared seven months earlier. Suddenly he's standing next to me at a party. He's talking to me and he seems quite interested. This was all quite surreal. I nodded, smiled and told him it was nice to see him. I couldn't very well have NOT talked at that point. I didn't hook up with him. I truly believe all that was attracting him was my handcuffs. Remember, it was Halloween, and he is an escape artist, after all.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
It's a phrase that's batted about dating circles with disdain and disgust. Everyone seems to hate The Houdini. He's the man who shows fairly intense interest, perhaps takes a woman out on several dates and then, poof! He's gone leaving her behind in a cloud of bewilderment and confusion. There is no white dove, no rabbit, no Siberian tiger on a platform to wow his audience. He leaves behind an empty stage and a theater so silent you can almost hear the digits change on her cell phone LCD time display as she checks it once again from the third row back. The soft green glow lights her face as she hits "messages"...just in case. Nothing.
Harry Houdini (3/24/1874 - 10/31/1926) was a master illusionist. He was an escape artist. He didn't really disappear, although some wondered if he might have had the power to do so, given the sheer audacity and difficulty of his illusions and stunts. His profession required incredible physical and mental training, practice and precise timing. The Dating Houdini doesn't really deserve the title, because disappearing from a dating situation isn't nearly as grand when compared to what Houdini accomplished. Houdini had to work at what he did. He had to struggle, sweat, and at times risk his life. Most dating escape artists simply stop showing up. That's pretty easy in comparison.
The offender (the escape artist) can also be female. Nothing is to say that a Houdini has to be a male. There are two basic ways to handle being Houdini'd. I promise the first option is the most attractive to future suitors who might be paying attention to your behavior, but feel free to attempt option two. My guess is that if you're reading this and you have any inkling that option two has merit, my words won't hold much weight, but I have to try.
Option One: Move on after taking a quick personal inventory. How's your grooming, mood, manners, general presentation? I want this inventory to be ultra-brief. This is most likely, almost certainly, I can almost promise you, not about you! There, there, isn't that better? Forget about it. Take a walk, ride your bike, go to the movie, call a friend. Oh, and leave the booze and ice cream out of this. They have no part in it.
Option Two (Remember, not the recommended option): Call him or her. Texting is good, too. Email? Why not? Perhaps write a poem, odes are nice. Do you know any of his friends? Where does she work? You getting my drift? You can investigate, make sure, make really, really, really sure that nothing happened to him. He COULD be in a ditch somewhere, bleeding a steady, marching stream of blood cells out of a gash in his groin. Oh my God! If only he could. just. reach. his. cell. phone!!!
Now that you've considered your options, I'd like to cover one more point, the followup. There may be a time when you encounter your Houdini out in public. I suggest you smile, nod and keep on walking. That's what you would do with any stranger, is it not? Your date coach wants you to resist the urge to take up with the escape artist again.
I'm going to let you in on a little bit of personal history here. I rarely give out my own dating dirt, because I think it can be tacky, but this little resurrection of my own personal Houdini happened on Halloween, the anniversary of the Great One's death, so I think it's fitting. I hadn't heard from Mr. Man since he disappeared seven months earlier. Suddenly he's standing next to me at a party. He's talking to me and he seems quite interested. This was all quite surreal. I nodded, smiled and told him it was nice to see him. I couldn't very well have NOT talked at that point. I didn't hook up with him. I truly believe all that was attracting him was my handcuffs. Remember, it was Halloween, and he is an escape artist, after all.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Sharing Our Talents
I am more than my smile, my legs, and my career. I am a writer. Now, when on a date, I can talk about why I want to write and how I’ve learned to do so. It’s more entertaining to both of us than batting around flirty comments about high heeled boots. Finally!
My point?
What would your friends say about you if they were asked to write about one of your best talents? Take that thought and run with it. Hold on! I bet you’d look cute in an apron and heels, but that’s not the direction I want you to go. Give me something with a little more substance.
Your assignment (should you choose to accept it) is to pitch one of your shining talents to me. Go ahead; tell me what’s so wonderful about you. In the process, maybe you’ll start to believe it and then you’ll be able to talk to someone about something tangible.
Not long ago I was asked to do a friend a favor. She wanted me to write about her baking abilities. She’d grown weary of updating her online dating profile with new photographs and deep quotes from even deeper authors. She knew that where she did some of her best work was in the kitchen. She also knew that cooking for a partner would make her very happy, indeed. In the process, I learned a little more about myself. Here's what I wrote about my friend:
“An Introduction to ‘L’, Baker of Pies”
The woman is an accomplished cook. She is accomplished at many things. It seems that she puts her mind to something and she achieves that goal. She is bright, pretty, and I count her among my small circle of friends. She has a saucy sense of humor that is a pleasure to witness in action. This isn't about the overall package that is Laurel, though. This is about her pie-baking abilities.
I'd ask you to close your eyes and use your imagination, but you wouldn't be able to read my words. Why should you close your eyes? If your eyes were closed you'd be able to dedicate your senses - your imagination - to the textures, the tastes, the aromas of one of her creations. If your eyes were closed, I think you might get a better experience out of this little essay.
She starts with her great-grandmother's crust recipe. She tried to share it with me once, but I admit that my pie-making abilities are limited by my patience and my tendency to eyeball measurements. She is a stickler for ingredients and exact quantities. She is a self-described Kitchen Whore (yes, we need capitals) and she even has measuring spoons for dashes and pinches. I know her recipe is similar to that of my own great-grandmother, I would simply rather let her do the baking.
She chooses the right filling for the right occasion. I've had her pear tart in the fall and her pumpkin pie at Christmas. She makes a beautiful peach pie in summertime. You want a lattice top? Leaves or fluted edges? She can handle it with ease.
Now that I've given you the basics, let's get down to the real reason her pies are so good. She has the timing down to a science. She knows - she senses - when they should come out of the oven. Because of this innate knowledge, her guests can count on...
...a perfect slice with filling that yields with just the right amount of tenderness to the fork as the tines make their way to the golden crust that is at the same time, tender and flaky. This is a marriage of science and art in a Pyrex plate. Layers of crust melt in your mouth, with just a hint of saltiness, their crispness playing off of the sweetness of the filling. (This would be a great place to close your eyes.)
She comes complete with her own marble rolling pin, mixing bowls and I've seen her fill out an apron in the most fetching manner. She also insists on whipping her own cream for the pumpkin and if this doesn't convince you, imagine one more thing. Imagine sitting at the kitchen table and seeing her smiling face as she opens the freezer door and asks, "Would you like vanilla ice cream with that peach pie?"
Yummy! Aren’t you hungry now? Get busy, would you? Start working on your self-descriptors. I’m anxious to hear from you. I have a feeling you’ll find that once you start thinking about how terrific you are you’ll have the start of something to talk about over dinner. Just make sure to order coffee and take time to enjoy the dessert.
We’ll talk a little about listening later.
Contact me at:
askthedatecoach@live.com
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
My point?
What would your friends say about you if they were asked to write about one of your best talents? Take that thought and run with it. Hold on! I bet you’d look cute in an apron and heels, but that’s not the direction I want you to go. Give me something with a little more substance.
Your assignment (should you choose to accept it) is to pitch one of your shining talents to me. Go ahead; tell me what’s so wonderful about you. In the process, maybe you’ll start to believe it and then you’ll be able to talk to someone about something tangible.
Not long ago I was asked to do a friend a favor. She wanted me to write about her baking abilities. She’d grown weary of updating her online dating profile with new photographs and deep quotes from even deeper authors. She knew that where she did some of her best work was in the kitchen. She also knew that cooking for a partner would make her very happy, indeed. In the process, I learned a little more about myself. Here's what I wrote about my friend:
“An Introduction to ‘L’, Baker of Pies”
The woman is an accomplished cook. She is accomplished at many things. It seems that she puts her mind to something and she achieves that goal. She is bright, pretty, and I count her among my small circle of friends. She has a saucy sense of humor that is a pleasure to witness in action. This isn't about the overall package that is Laurel, though. This is about her pie-baking abilities.
I'd ask you to close your eyes and use your imagination, but you wouldn't be able to read my words. Why should you close your eyes? If your eyes were closed you'd be able to dedicate your senses - your imagination - to the textures, the tastes, the aromas of one of her creations. If your eyes were closed, I think you might get a better experience out of this little essay.
She starts with her great-grandmother's crust recipe. She tried to share it with me once, but I admit that my pie-making abilities are limited by my patience and my tendency to eyeball measurements. She is a stickler for ingredients and exact quantities. She is a self-described Kitchen Whore (yes, we need capitals) and she even has measuring spoons for dashes and pinches. I know her recipe is similar to that of my own great-grandmother, I would simply rather let her do the baking.
She chooses the right filling for the right occasion. I've had her pear tart in the fall and her pumpkin pie at Christmas. She makes a beautiful peach pie in summertime. You want a lattice top? Leaves or fluted edges? She can handle it with ease.
Now that I've given you the basics, let's get down to the real reason her pies are so good. She has the timing down to a science. She knows - she senses - when they should come out of the oven. Because of this innate knowledge, her guests can count on...
...a perfect slice with filling that yields with just the right amount of tenderness to the fork as the tines make their way to the golden crust that is at the same time, tender and flaky. This is a marriage of science and art in a Pyrex plate. Layers of crust melt in your mouth, with just a hint of saltiness, their crispness playing off of the sweetness of the filling. (This would be a great place to close your eyes.)
She comes complete with her own marble rolling pin, mixing bowls and I've seen her fill out an apron in the most fetching manner. She also insists on whipping her own cream for the pumpkin and if this doesn't convince you, imagine one more thing. Imagine sitting at the kitchen table and seeing her smiling face as she opens the freezer door and asks, "Would you like vanilla ice cream with that peach pie?"
Yummy! Aren’t you hungry now? Get busy, would you? Start working on your self-descriptors. I’m anxious to hear from you. I have a feeling you’ll find that once you start thinking about how terrific you are you’ll have the start of something to talk about over dinner. Just make sure to order coffee and take time to enjoy the dessert.
We’ll talk a little about listening later.
Contact me at:
askthedatecoach@live.com
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Saturday, May 22, 2010
How Is Your Tenacity?
How is your tenacity? Do you hang on, or will you be shaken? I suggest you be shaken.
This morning I spent the better part of fifteen minutes pulling tiny burrs out of a picnic blanket. A group of us attended an outdoors performance of Puccini’s “Tosca” last night and when we arrived at the large grassy hill and claimed our spot I quickly realized that I’d carried with me several hundred hitchhikers from the Art Car Parade a couple weeks ago. After a quick glance at the little offenders, it became evident that they were dug in and wouldn’t budge with a shake of the blanket. The sweet grade-schooler in our party said they were only “bumpy” and didn’t really cause a bother. She was correct.
We enjoyed a beautiful late spring night in the park and I tossed the blanket in the laundry room when I arrived home, not thinking much about it until this morning when I realized I’d have to remove as many of the burrs by hand as possible before I washed it or it would end up a matted mess when it came out of the machine.
Removing them wasn’t unpleasant. They weren’t the big, pointy kind that pricks your fingers. It was just something that had to be done unless I wanted to throw the blanket out. I didn’t. Too many memories or fun times are wrapped up in that blanket. I keep it in my car for events just like last night. Houston is full of opportunities to share a meal outside with friends, or gaze at the stars while an orchestra plays, or just sit and talk. We live in a wonderful city for such things.
While I was picking those little burrs off the blanket I thought back to my own days in grade school when I learned how organisms and plants develop survival methods. Whatever seed was inside those heavily armored and pointy burrs had worked very hard to survive. Maybe I’d helped it along the way, carrying it from Allen Parkway and dropping one of its progeny along my route. Maybe it’s a noxious weed. Probably. One thing is for certain. It holds on.
Which brings me to Tosca, and me, and maybe you.
The character Floria Tosca (for those of you who aren’t familiar) carried herself as a strong woman. She was a prominent singer, even famous in her community. She fought off the advances of the Chief of Police and through the entire opera argued with her true love over her own jealousy which was oddly misplaced because the object of her affection was not cheating on Tosca. He was working on a religious painting, and if Tosca was anything, she was a church-going gal. She was one tenacious (read: “clingy”) woman. She held onto an idea and clutched it for all it was worth. She just kept going…and going. I won’t ruin the story for you, but I will tell you that if you want a classic opera experience, go see this one by Puccini.
Tosca, the singer, would annoy the hell out of me if she was my friend. I’d probably tell her to snap out of it. That kind of tenacity doesn’t get you very far. It doesn’t allow for optimal growth. If you’re lucky enough to fall into some random soil, great! Grow for all you’re worth but I think you may be in for being stuck, for being carried along on someone else’s blanket.
Today:
Letting go. Softening. Lying ON the blanket instead of being stuck to it – or worse yet, under it. That, my friend, is suffocation.
©Michelle Scofield, May 22, 2010 All Rights Reserved
Monday, May 17, 2010
A New/Old Project
Here I go!
I'm knee deep in thoughts, ideas, enthusiasm, you-name-it! The DateCoach is off and running again. I'm revising previous articles and collecting subjects for interview. Hopefully I'll have six or seven pieces to submit on spec and someone will think my idea is as great as I think it is.
In the meantime:
MyDateCoach@live.com
I'm taking questions, suggestions, comments, concerns.
Thanks to my fellow writers for all the encouragement.
M
I'm knee deep in thoughts, ideas, enthusiasm, you-name-it! The DateCoach is off and running again. I'm revising previous articles and collecting subjects for interview. Hopefully I'll have six or seven pieces to submit on spec and someone will think my idea is as great as I think it is.
In the meantime:
MyDateCoach@live.com
I'm taking questions, suggestions, comments, concerns.
Thanks to my fellow writers for all the encouragement.
M
Sunday, May 2, 2010
No Masks
It's been a busy weekend. Friday night started at the Houston Grand Opera. It was a work by Handel, Xerxes. I went with friends and we gathered here, at my apartment, for a late-late recap of the evening, filled with laughter and some serious talk, as well. I woke up three hours later to walk in a cancer fundraiser with office-mates and came home to fall into bed for a few hours. It was then off to a gallery tour.
I purchased a painting yesterday. It's by Houston artist, Patrick Palmer. The title is "Tribal Mask and Spirits, II". I've admired Mr. Palmer's works for some time, visiting his studio space, not thinking I could/would make the leap from visitor to collector. I'd never taken the initiative to speak with him before, although I'd walked through his space at least a half dozen times. Yesterday I felt a strong pull toward one of his paintings and decided I wanted to have it for my own. He told me what it means to him, and I'm so happy to have it.
Winding down at dinner last night, I was able to tell two of my best friends just how tired and confused I remain about relationships between men and women that go beyond friendship. It's fitting because the painting is really all about that, per Mr. Palmer. He included what he calls his "Latin" in it. It's a made-up language, barely visible, that represents the words we say to each other that aren't heard. He told me the painting is about balance between men and women, but he felt women had a better grasp on that (balance), in general. I'm not so sure.
Anyway...it's nice not to wear a mask, not to have false language, to be myself - and I love the painting. During times when I'm fatigued by enjoyable activities with people I love, I sleep better and I feel a sense that I'm wrapped in a blanket of caring. This is a protection - not a defense. There is such a difference between the two.
I purchased a painting yesterday. It's by Houston artist, Patrick Palmer. The title is "Tribal Mask and Spirits, II". I've admired Mr. Palmer's works for some time, visiting his studio space, not thinking I could/would make the leap from visitor to collector. I'd never taken the initiative to speak with him before, although I'd walked through his space at least a half dozen times. Yesterday I felt a strong pull toward one of his paintings and decided I wanted to have it for my own. He told me what it means to him, and I'm so happy to have it.
Winding down at dinner last night, I was able to tell two of my best friends just how tired and confused I remain about relationships between men and women that go beyond friendship. It's fitting because the painting is really all about that, per Mr. Palmer. He included what he calls his "Latin" in it. It's a made-up language, barely visible, that represents the words we say to each other that aren't heard. He told me the painting is about balance between men and women, but he felt women had a better grasp on that (balance), in general. I'm not so sure.
Anyway...it's nice not to wear a mask, not to have false language, to be myself - and I love the painting. During times when I'm fatigued by enjoyable activities with people I love, I sleep better and I feel a sense that I'm wrapped in a blanket of caring. This is a protection - not a defense. There is such a difference between the two.
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