A Seat At Her Table

I'm thinking about tables. My niece Georgia Woman--nearly two years out of college--is impatient with workplace inequity. Recently, she honed in on what she already knew: For comparable jobs, men make more money than women and men dominate leadership positions and management teams. Women wait to be judged as qualified to sit at the table, rather than nosing out a spot for themselves--asked or not and ready or not. Fed up, Georgia Woman is building her own table. With her blog entry http://connectyourmeetings.com/2013/04/03/a-seat-at-the-table/ construction is underway.

Georgia Woman works in the leisure and hospitality industry, where women fare somewhat better than average. They earn 83.5 cents on the dollar compared to men. That means if a man earns $50,000, a woman earns $41,750. If they each qualify for an end-of-year 15% bonus, the man receives $1,238 more than the woman in holiday cheer. Or consider more grimly, if both pay for a 3Xsalary death benefit and die together, the man's survivors receive nearly $25,000 more in compensation. There is an unfairness in the numbers that women work by every day.

To voice the inequity in pay is like shining a flashlight on the underside of a flipped-over a rock. What other lopsided decisions do women live by and who makes those decisions--not to mention, who benefits. Men, even with their extra pay, may not be the problem. We have to consider the silence of women.  It is past time to speak up for what we believe at work, at home and in our religion. We have to push ourselves to lead even when we aren't sure where we are going and/or know that our views aren't liked.

I wonder about the form Georgia Woman intends to give her table. Sometimes a table needs to be round for listening; other times it needs a head clearly marked for where the  leader sits. Once she builds her table, will Georgia Woman remember that each surface dent and scratch represents a risk taken? As a fledgling in her industry, Georgia Woman has grabbed a leadership position beyond her years. Many will applaud her. And I predict that many--including me--will want a seat at her table. This woman can lead.

Yes, You Can

At the Village Inn in Bentonville, Ark., the waitress laid a plate of breakfast crepes topped with strawberries and whipped cream in front of Daisy. For Birdie, she set down a dish of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon and hash-browns.  For me, it was scrambled eggs, bacon and pancakes.

At that moment--on the Sunday of Mom's Weekend at the University of Arkansas--I unwisely turned the conversation to the small hole Daisy has punched into her right nostril. It has been there for two years. And I still have a hard time accepting that my daughter paid good money to add a hole to her face.

That's when my two sweet daughters morphed into one bundle of adult independence:

"I could get my eyebrow pierced. Both eyebrows if I wanted. And I could pierce them really close to my nose, and you couldn't stop me.

"I could get the middle of my nose pierced. I could get my cheek pierced. Or my tongue pierced and wiggle the stud at you. I could get my lip pierced. "

I could even get my tongue forked," declared The Birdaisy.

"Forked?" I said.

"Yeah, forked--split in two at the tip," confirmed Birdaisy. "And tattoos--I could get as many tattoos as I want. I could get tattoos on my face and you can't stop me."

"Have you added another tattoo?" I asked Birdie.

"I don't know," she replied, with a shrug.

"Seems to me like you should know if you have another tattoo," I said. "And should either of you get your tongue forked, I want to watch."

With our independence and detachment firmly stated, we dove back into breakfast.

"Did you bring me a case of Dr. Pepper?" asked Birdie.

"No. They sell Dr. Pepper in Fayetteville and you have a car to go get it," I answered.

"And, if I put breakfast on my credit card, you'll pay me back?" asked Birdie.

"Yes, I'll pay you back," I say.

I am still mom. I will buy breakfast, but not sugary soda. And I reserve the right to say "I told you so."  If there's a future family photo featuring a forked tongue, a pierced cheek or a cat permanently etched into a forehead, I won't be the one wishing for a re-do.

When Holidays Collide...

Christmas. Priceless.
Easter. Invaluable.
Put 'em together and it's $32 "firm" at the antique mall. 

And Big Guy Said I Couldn't Do It

And So My Pen Pal Wrote

 

(In response to Christmas Pen Pal)

 

 

 

Well hello (unintentional) pen pal! It's nice to meet you! I'm so glad you have a sense of humor about my incessant Christmas card sending. Oops. I hope Mr. Big Guy didn't bust a brain cell trying to recall me.

My honest first response was, "Big Guy got married?!? And is a stepfather? When did that happen?" Glad I'm not that out of touch with him :)

I have to tell you, the Big Guy I know will get such a kick out of this whole thing. I will never live it down.

My extended family had a full-blown discussion about sending Christmas cards. Is it a lost art? It's not green. It costs some decent "green". Maybe one year I'll give it up. Will I feel compelled to keep in touch with my new Christmas pen pals? We'll see what 2013 brings!

Take care and blessed New Year to you as well.

Mosquito Man

 My neighbor the vampire also gets dubbed “Mosquito Man.” In the summer, he obsesses about standing water. Mosquito Man hates blood-sucking mosquitoes and is well-schooled in their breeding habitats.

During the hot, muggy dog-days of July, I watch from my front porch as Mosquito Man visits every yard--up and down the street—to dump standing water from neglected bird baths, forgotten flower pots and other abandoned yard debris.

 Mosquito Man waves at me as I watch. He and I talk often enough that he holds complete faith in me. He believes I never let standing water collect anywhere long enough for a single set of mosquito parents to breed even one youngster. Sadly, that’s not so. It is usually Mosquito Man’s wave that prompts me to go check the spots where standing water gathers.

 My other neighbors—and we are a block that talks—brush off Mosquito Man’s vigilance as the mission of a man with too much time. I straddle their conversation. Mosquito Man is a bit overboard—but these neighbors, nice as they are, let standing water stand and then, the blood-biters breed.

Usually, by August, county spray trucks have run at least once through the neighborhood. I don’t ask my neighbors what they think as that invites discussion of “chemicals and what’s safe.” And I love chemistry. It is putting my children through school.

My neighbors—with the exception of Mosquito Man—don’t know beans about mosquitoes. I know that the mosquitoes that bite people--and most mosquitoes don't--inadvertently may spread diseases that kill people. Their blood meals are far worse than my neighborhood vampire's evening stroll. As he knocks out the competition, we all win.

 

 

 

Color Choice

Sea Foam Green. Who would have thought it? I bought myself a car drenched in sea foam green. The color choice makes up for never going to prom. I never wore a princess-cut gown of sea foam green chiffon threaded with delicate pink ribbon. That's the sort of  awkward color choice I might have made in high school, if only I had been asked to Senior Prom.

 I think I will tie a pink satin ribbon on the antenna of my sparkling Ford Escape, officially colored "Frosted Glass." Then I will drive past the local high school and honk my horn to celebrate. Times are better. Now, girls can go Senior Prom alone, or with friends, or with a date--who might even be a girl. Or they can decide not to go at all. Whatever the choice, they have the freedom make it.