Tea Parties & Putting On Pants

When I was little, it was a big deal every year at Christmas time for one of the girls in my class to host a Christmas tea.  I believe this was a tradition in her family, I'm not exactly sure.  It was an opportunity for all the mothers and daughters to come together for an afternoon of tea, cookies, and lady-like conversation.

We all dressed up for this tea, it was Christmas time after all, and I remember being at this girl's house in this very fancy gated community in town, thinking "Oh MY GOD!  I'm going to drop my tea or something and ruin this girl's house and then all the girls in my class REALLY WILL HATE ME AND MAKE FUN OF ME!"  I was kind of a nervous wreck, but I stayed close by my mother's side because she was, and is, ever the lady.

So, we are all enjoying our tea out of our pretty tea cups and having nice lady like conversation and I'm still feeling nervous and noticing the whiteness of the carpet in this beautiful home.  I'm not sure what happened.  I can't explain if I tripped, someone bumped me or I secretly did it on purpose, but out of my little hands tumbles my tea cup.  Brown liquid now covers the once pristine white carpet.

I am devastated.  Mortified.  I think I started crying.  In fact, I know I started crying because that was my reaction to anything.  I messed up?  Start crying.  I got mad?  Tears start pouring.  I embarrassed myself beyond anything I could have EVER imagined. I'm bawling in my party dress with my mother and all these other women rushing around saying, "Oh, no big deal, lalalala, Stop Crying, Kelly. No big deal, really, no big deal STOP CRYING KELLY!"

Ugh.  Embarrassment central.  And to top it off, I was at a function with all of "those girls".  The mean ones, the ones who had more money than my family, and made sure that I was aware of it when I showed up in clothes from Target and they were wearing Dooney & Burke.  I was ruined and would never be a part of THEIR world.  They were perfect with perfect dresses and they definitely didn't drop tea cups at Christmas teas and ruin their friend's mother's carpet. 

Fast forward a few years, okay, a lot more than a few years, and I had the opportunity to attend a very glamorous party with a friend of mine for a work function her employer was having.  It was nice being an observer in this situation, that way I could mingle with whom I wanted and keep to myself otherwise.  After all, my friend was technically working this social event. 

This particular social event was held in a home similar to the one where the Christmas Tea was held.  Very nice, a great home for hosting social events of this nature.  Everyone dressed to the nines, lots of VERY important people in the community were in attendance, and I look over and see one of the most powerful women in the room drop her tea cup onto a very expensive looking Oriental carpet. 

At that point, I realized that everyone puts their pants on the same way.  And everyone is capable of dropping a tea cup on a friend's carpet, thus ruining her imported Oriental Rug from the Ming Dynasty.  It doesn't make you a bad person, it just means you are clumsy.

And who needs a Dooney & Burke purse, anyway?  Besides, that duck didn't match any of my outfits.

Queen Lulu the Llama

Happy Wednesday, Everybody!

I am not sure if you were aware, but I have a particular affinity for llamas.  I know, you are asking yourself, "Really, Kel?  Llamas?"

You see, I think they are the underrated cousin of the camel.  They spit like camels, they have eyelashes like camels, except, there is something more graceful about a llama, in my opinion.  I think it has something to do with their luxurious, flowing coat of white hair.  Also, their eyelashes are a little more glamorous than that of a camel.

This is what I think llamas would look like if they had thumbs and access to readily available, hypoallergenic llama makeup.  They would all be competing to see who could get their eyelashes taller and curlier and who would have the most outrageous lip color.

Then, the llamas would get together and elect a Queen of the Llamas.  This is purely based on her ability to work her eyelash curler, mascara, and lipstick.  Upon being crowned the queen, this llama will receive a magical crown that employs 30,000 lightning bugs per shift, just so she can have extra sparkles.  The lightning bugs are offered excellent benefits and a really generous 401K plan for their service to the Queen of the Llamas.

So, on this Wednesday in June of 2011, I declare Lulu the Queen of the Llamas!  Of course, she will only have a 4 year term, so girls, get ready.  In two years time, you will need to be ready to start your campaigning!

Have a great day!

xoxo

It's Girl Friday! (Or What it Means to be an Administrative Assistant)

I came across this interesting tribute to the American secretary this morning on Huffington Post that basically gave the history as to how the Administrative Assistant became known as an Assistant and not a Secretary, not a Girl Friday, and not an Office Wife.

Sure, there are plenty of discussions these days on how people migrate toward each other in their work environments and form bonds similar to spousal relationships (minus the smooches, one would hope).  Anyway, the way the Office Spouse/Wife/Husband has developed makes sense to me.  Everyone wants to have a friend in the office, that way, if you are about to throw your stapler at your boss's head, you can go tell your "Office Spouse" first, they can calm you down and assure you that, "Yes, throwing a stapler at his head would indeed get you fired and would contribute to the financial downfall of your marriage.  Don't do it.  Kevin would be mad."

Okay, it's not like that situation ever happened in my vast experiences as an office assistant, I never wanted to throw anything at anyone's head! (*wink*  If you believe that, we have not met in person.)

But the point is, there is still a stigma in being an assistant to someone.  I think that my previous post about wanting to be hired based on my qualifications stems from the stigma and my frustrations that come with being someone's secretary.  Yes, the Lord blessed women with beauty.  But He also blessed them with brains and talent.

I grew up in Texas and it is no surprise that there is still a very large good ol' boys club that exists there.  That belief system, the men do the real hard-thinking jobs and the ladies do the typing and taking out of trash, has a strong hold in the culture here in New Orleans as well.  What is interesting is that I am now, in my opinion, overqualified to continue on this assistant's path.  I have a master's degree, tons of experience, and a savvy way with which I handle those "good ol' boys".  I'm tough.  I learned how to behave like a lady and still hold my ground when it comes to inappropriateness in the work place and I can thank my mother for that excellent role model.

Except, here's the thing.  My mom WAS the boss.  She was the one who had the secretary and worked all the time.  I'm sure there was a time in her life that she typed for people, but she worked her derriere off to get to where she ended up in her professional career (she has since retired and is doing freelance work).  My mom, the boss, was my role model.  Not her assistant. Not those working for her. And she would prefer I say with her, not for her.
  
It's frustrating that some professional men continue to perpetuate this belief system.  It's unfortunate that women and men today have to deal with a less than black and white situation in his or her work environment. I think that comes with the type of work I do as well, and I must always keep that in mind.  Working in the arts, even if it is an office environment, is different than working in a paper company or law firm.  Arts = emotions = crazy people with emotions.  So, I'm going to cut my experiences a lot of slack in that department.

However, from this point on in my assisting of professionals, I am going to make it a point to remind myself every time that boss asks me to pick up the giant pile of trash he just dumped in the middle of his floor that I am strong like my mother.  And, I'm younger than my boss. 

Which means, I still have time to get to the top.  Here's to everyone who has had to get coffee for someone who thinks they are too good to get it themselves, here's to everyone who has had to learn to be a computer networking expert in a matter of 2 seconds because something crashed the system, and here's to everyone who knows in their heart of hearts that the place would literally fall apart if you stopped showing up.

But, I suppose they really can't get their coffee themselves, sometimes  I wonder if their wives let them get away with that at home. . .

Beached

Going to the beach today.  Kevin has been promising me a trip for some time now, so we are going to make a day of it.  We've packed our sandwiches and are looking for the gun, so we'll be waiting.  At the beach.

P.S. Name what song I am referring to when I mentioned the sandwiches and gun and you might just get a prize!  Guess away!!!!!

Happy Monday, y'all!

Unicorns & Sunshine VS Devils & Darkness

My mommy raised me to always be a lady.  Above all else, be a lady.  I would leave the house to go out for the night and the last words spoken were always, "Be a lady!"  Not "Be careful", not "Watch out for shady people", not "Are you wearing clean underwear?", ok, that was NEVER said, I think it was just always understood, as it should be.  But, I digress.

Be a lady.  Something that I aspire to be someday.  A true lady.  With grace and the honest ability to hold my tongue, not speak my mind.  Smile meekly, do what people say, and play the game. Be a lady.

I've always had this inner struggle between the serious and the magical.  The beautiful vs. the macabre  Science vs. art.  Perhaps that is why I ended up in a city like New Orleans.  A perfect example of a living breathing battle between beauty and decay.  She is a person after all, NOLA.

I have been a magical ballerina in my heart since I was 5 years old. Magical, beautiful, tutus and getting to put on make up and be on a stage, that is what ballet was for me when I was little.  Wearing lipstick and blue eyeshadow (terrible, I know but it was the 80s, y'all) and kind of looking like a clown, but I felt glamorous in my sequined costume and makeup.  Like a lady.

I started a club with my best friend Allison called the Unicorn Club when we were 7 and we kicked ass and had a "take no prisoners" attitude, all under the guise of rainbows and sunshine.  There was a little Strawberry Shortcake thrown in there, too, for good measure. In the Unicorn Club, I didn't have to be as much a lady.  No red lipstick, pink tights and tutus, only bossing the boys around the neighborhood.

Later, after continuing to dance and have the magic world of dance and music be my main focus for the majority of K-12 education, and threats of my parents not paying for another Fine Arts degree, I decided to pursue Psychology.  Take a little of that "take-no-prisoners" attitude to college, learn more about the macabre and darker side of society.  I always knew it was there, it was just now my time to really explore this side of human nature.

So, a dancing psychologist.  That's kind of what I pretended to be in college.  I studied the sickest of the sick.  I wanted to be in forensics, I wanted to talk to serial killers, I wanted to know why people who eat others thought it was so delicious.  But, how do you transform from a tutu wearing ballerina lady to Agent Scully of the F.B.I.?

At one point during my college experience, I had the opportunity to interview a psychologist who worked out at the prison close to my University.  I was so excited!  I was going to an actual prison.  They warned me I was to wear jeans, no form fitting clothing, minimal to no makeup, and no perfume.  Ummmm...I was kind of freaking out on the inside by these requests (I completely understood, in my rational 'dancing psychologist' mind) because I had never really taken a good, long hard look in the mirror and realized what it would mean to become Agent Scully.

I followed the prison's requests, conducted my interview, learned many fascinating things about this individual's position within the prison system, and couldn't have gotten out of that prison faster .I promptly went home, called up my girlfriends, put on a dress and lipstick and went out and behaved like a lady with cocktails and dancing.  (If that can be construed as lady-like.)

It isn't as black and white as that, the decision of being an artist or a psychologist.  But there is definitely more on that subject for a later discussion.

I am faced with a constant frustration of my self-perception that I am not being taken seriously because of an attractive face.  I was so paralyzed by the idea of not being able to wear lipstick to work that I don't think I tried hard enough to become Agent Scully.  In the same sense, I am resentful when someone calls me pretty.  Pretty in my mind means dumb.

So, I sit at a cross roads.  I had a discussion with my dad the other day about how I just want to have a job based on my qualifications.  I don't want anyone to hire me or not hire me based on how I look.  He informed me that I would have to wear a hijab for that to not be an issue.  I think I'll look into that if I have an interview sometime soon.

In all seriousness, I think this all stems from me not feeling the best about myself lately.  I'm struggling to find a balance again between that ass-kicker that people were a little afraid of and the lady my mother raised me to be.  I will find that balance again, and I know I will find it in my beautiful city.

After all, New Orleans seems to have had that balance down for years and she's continuing to teach me daily.

So, here's to tutu wearing ass kickers and friends named Allison who helped me learn that you don't have to be nice to everyone all the time and how to say the word "wash" properly, and Daddies who would never want their daughters to wear a hijab to hide her beauty.

Many Faces

Ode to Alice:

While you are a sausage,

You are very purry...

Stop eating the tomato plants,

They don't purr when you do that.

Your offense to the amount of food in your bowl

In comparison to the drag queen Oliver,

Is a reflection of your waistline.

And not our love.

Happy Wednesday, y'all!

Swamp Thing

"When I would recreate myself, I seek the darkest wood, 

the thickest and most impenetrable and to the citizen, 

most dismal, swamp. 

I enter a swamp as a sacred place, a sanctum sanctorum." 

- Henry David Thoreau, Walking