BlogHer Bits: Women's Wisdom

During today’s BlogHer sessions I attended one facilitated by two entrepreneurs: Susan Mernit and Patricia Handscheigel. They’re both savvy and a touch sassy - and I mean that in a good way. Susan has been developing a software product that will be beta-tested soon. Patricia founded stylediary.net and sold it late last year to stylehive.com. They were well-suited to lead a discussion about the lives and thoughts of women entrepreneurs.

Whether you're a full-time entrepreneur, serial entrepreneur, or simply watching from the sidelines, you can benefit from the nuggets of wisdom these women have gleaned from both triumphs and setbacks. I wrote their observations down as quickly as my pen would write. Hearing what they’ve learned in their life stories was like discovering the keys to the queendom. Except everyone gets the keys, and everyone gets to be the queen. If not of her world, at least of her own life.

Inner challenges are the hardest to overcome. You shouldn’t ask, “Who am I to do this?” but rather, “Who am I not to do this?”

A great entrepreneur is someone who can live in chaos and uncertainty. Entrepreneurs say, “I think there’s a better way.”

Follow your passion.

Sometimes what holds us back is not the glass ceiling but the sticky floor.

Don’t let anyone discredit your value.

Success is about persistence. Keep fighting your way through.

Figure out how to keep going no matter what.

Your recovery strategy is what’s important; avoiding mistakes is not.

Know that you need help. Ask for mentors.

Combine believing in what you’re doing with riding through the absolute fear.

You must have three things: 1. Passion about your interests. 2. Truth – be real, be honest about what’s going on. 3. Belief in yourself. The ones who fail stop believing in themselves. (Note: these words of wisdom came from a male participant in the group whose name, I believe, was Mikhail.)

I keep moving.

Play to your strengths. I’m not good at everything and I don’t have time to learn everything. Find someone at a price you can afford who can help free you to focus on what you have a track record of being successful at.

Stand tall within yourself. Define what success means and stay true to your entrepreneurial vision.

Entrepreneurship is like a soccer game – sometimes you’re running, sometimes you’re kicking, sometimes you’re sitting on the bench.

Failure is in the eye of the beholder. You’re in charge of how you’re going to view what’s happened.

Balance is great but balance doesn’t make you great.

You Know You Have a Bad Cold When....

....you make a phone call and the person who answers says, "Just a minute, sir, I'll be right with you," and you're NOT a sir.

....it's 85 to 90 degrees outside, the sun is shining, and you're shivering like a Chihuahua.

....your ears are so stopped up you can't even hear yourself think.

....but you can hear yourself breathe.

....you'd like to wake up and smell the coffee but you can't. Smell the coffee, that is. Not even Starbucks bold flavor of the day.

....you wonder if anyone would mind if you just wore your pajamas to work.

Disco Fever

Over the holiday weekend I was rifling through a stack of magazines when I came across an advertisement that caught my eye primarily because it was the only one not promoting yet another new medication that I should talk to my doctor about.

The ad was for car insurance. The target audience was presumably anyone who can remember the 70s from actually having been there, not from watching tv reruns on Nick at Nite. The headline read ‘Disco Fever.’ Answering yes to three or more of the disco-related questions implied that you are still stuck in the 70s. It was a lighthearted attempt to connect with baby boomers by reminding us of the artifacts of our youth such as platform shoes, 8-track tapes, and John Travolta’s dance moves.

I chuckled at the memories and then noticed another part of the ad. It was a list of hit disco songs, including “Let’s Get It On,” by Marvin Gaye; “Love to Love You Baby” by Donna Summer; and “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees. As I scanned the list I realized that I have loaded every single one of those songs onto my iPod and listen to them semi-regularly.

It was a sobering moment of truth, like understanding that the reason people have been smiling at you for the last hour is not because of your dazzling brilliance, but because you have a large piece of spinach dangling from your front teeth. The advertising people were laughing at, not with, me.

I can’t deny it: I have Disco Fever. I loved disco music during its heyday and still do. Certainly my musical horizons have broadened over the years. But science fiction writers couldn’t invent a better machine to take me back in time than songs from the era when I was carefree and cool (or thought I was). Just a few measures of that booming electronic drum kit mixed with a syncopated bass beat and in an instant I'm 18 years old, dancing in my own Dance Dance Revolution. And I know I'm not alone in feeling this way.

Yet many of my disco-loving contemporaries hesitate to admit that their feet twitch just a little when they hear “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor or “I'm Your Boogie Man” by KC and the Sunshine Band. Perhaps they fear being ridiculed if their peers find out, the way many Republicans are feeling these days.

Of course I can’t blame people for being cautious about admitting to a penchant for a musical genre that spawned some curious products, such as Qiana knit shirts and exotic mixed drinks made with beer. Let me explain.

Here in the Midwest during the late 70s many of us enjoyed a hotspot called Pogo's. Pogo's was the hip, happening place for young college students who weren't old enough to go to real nightclubs. A personable, poodle-haired deejay named Greg Gann spun tunes from a booth that looked out over a dance floor made of colored lights timed to light up with the beat of the music.

Even more memorable, however, were the special drinks and the commemorative Pogo's glass they were served in. Beer, orange juice, and grenadine topped with a cherry was the most popular combo. These imaginative concoctions were due to Kansas liquor laws at that time. Nightclubs for the 18 – 20 year-old set could serve lower alcohol content beer (called “three-two” beer) but not wine or spirits. You couldn't drink an actual Tequila Sunrise but you could sip on the beer imitation and pretend it was the real thing.

In the end, whether you have Disco Fever or not, if you survived the era, that alone is a victory. But if you want to know where I sort the true disco lovers from those who can merely recall songs of the late 70s, it’s with a single by Dan Hartman called “Instant Replay.” If you get happy feet when you hear that song, you’ve got the Fever. I've talked to my doctor about it and the only known cure is to dance until it goes away.

When It's NOT The Thought That Counts

Many times in my life, more than I would like to admit, I have found myself at an important place of decision making. This place is an intersection, where cluelessness meets good intentions. At this intersection should be a sign that reads "It's NOT The Thought That Counts."

I venture to guess you have found yourself there as well. The way we all arrive at this place is by wanting to do something good for someone else, but not having the slightest idea what that good thing might be or how to do it. That’s when good intentions go awry, like the person who tried to perform a random act of kindness by baking a cake and leaving it on her neighbor’s porch as a surprise. The family dog discovered the cake instead and ate it, becoming terribly ill. Not only that, but the dog required an emergency trip to the vet, stomach pumping, intravenous fluids, and an overnight stay. The total bill for this random act of baking kindness was about $500.00.

So it was with a random act of baking kindness I performed many years ago when I was a young bride. We had just bought our first house that summer and not long after the move learned that a neighbor two doors from us had died. She was an older woman who lived with her daughter, and although we had never met either of them, I decided it would be a neighborly gesture to bake a loaf of pumpkin bread to be shared with visitors stopping by to express their condolences.

When I think of pumpkin bread what comes to mind is Thanksgiving and Christmas and large groups of people eating as though they are preparing for three months in hibernation. Pumpkin and fall are as linked together as watermelon and summer. Pumpkin bread is not a food you typically associate with barbecues, picnics, and high temperatures in the 90s.

Nevertheless, armed with my new Betty Crocker cookbook, a can of pumpkin in the pantry, and all the requisite spices, I eagerly set about the task ahead of me. This poor grieving neighbor whose name I did not know would at least know a measure of comfort that only Betty herself could bring.

As I emptied the can of pumpkin into the mixture of eggs, sugar, butter, flour, and assorted spices, something troubled me. A slight metallic scent permeated the air. Had the pumpkin gone bad? Nonsense, I told myself. Canned goods last for at least a year. This particular can of pumpkin had been purchased no more than eight months ago. It was fine.

The odor continued to bother me as I mixed the batter. I decided that if it still didn’t smell right I would throw it out and not even bake the bread. The last thing I wanted was to present a toxic gift to a grieving neighbor.

And so, without turning off the mixer, I leaned down to catch a whiff. In a moment I felt the sensation of a beater pressed against my face and a motor vibrating next to my head. Apparently the mixer had grabbed a lock of my hair and wasn’t letting go.

The sensation of a motor-powered beater yanking my scalp was not unlike what I imagine a facelift might feel like. My skin was being pulled so tightly I could barely move my lips to call for help.

Help arrived, and together we untwisted the lock of hair that had become tangled in the beater. A triangle of smooth white flesh appeared over my ear where the hair used to be. There was no blood and no injuries - just wounded pride over making such a silly, preventable mistake. Of course I tossed the batter. Later I baked a batch of cookies. Without using the mixer.

I learned many lessons from this incident. But the one that has stuck with me the longest is this: when you find yourself at the intersection of good intentions and cluelessness, it really isn't the thought that counts. A good intention that goes awry can create as much havoc as a practical joke. If you want to express sympathy do what we do here in the suburbs and send a thoughtful note, perhaps with a gift card enclosed. It's practical and unlike a random act of baking kindness, there's little possibility of injuring either yourself or someone else.

Pigmentally Challenged

When I was a scrawny adolescent in a hurry to become the Person I Was Meant To Be, I wanted in the worst way to look like the shapely bikini-clad models in the tanning lotion commercials.

They promised a transformation from washed-out wallflower to bronzed beauty in just a few short hours. After many afternoons of dutifully dragging my beach towel, transistor radio, and a large glass of Diet-Rite outdoors I understood something that the good folks at Coppertone had neglected to mention: some people, no matter how long they lie in the sun, will never get the deep, dark tan portrayed by those fun-loving, beach-cavorting youth.

No, some of us are pigmentally challenged. We can’t, and we shouldn’t, lie out in the sun. Because we now know that a tan is your skin’s reaction to the sun’s damaging rays, and that when you get to be a middle-aged adult like me the cumulative effect of all that sun will be to look like a leather boot.

Today I wouldn’t dream of lying in the sun to get a tan. In addition to the health hazards, there’s far too much perspiration involved. But I do like to wear shorts when it’s hot. That’s where tan-in-a-bottle comes in. Those same good folks at Coppertone have made it easy for the pigmentally challenged to achieve a surfer’s sun-kissed look merely by applying sunless tanning lotion.

The trick is not to over or under apply. This advice has proven to be much more difficult to follow. Which is why my bathroom cabinet has become a warehouse for multiple bottles of various brands of sunless tanning lotion and spray.

Bottle #1: Was purchased prior to the Habitat for Humanity Build I participated in last month on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I thought if I could just get a little color on my legs and arms I wouldn’t look so much like Boo Radley. Following the directions I showered, shaved, and exfoliated. Three hours later, I applied the lotion to what was left of my skin. The bottle guaranteed that this product was streak-free.

The next morning I woke up and was horrified to see that, far from the outdoorsy “Survivor” contestant image I was hoping to project, my legs resembled that of a café awning, with stripes in varying shades of skin tone. Not only that, but the tanning lotion made every light freckle much darker, so that I appeared to have a skin disease to go along with my stripes.

Bottle #2: Undaunted, I was ready to try again a few weeks later after the first fake tan of summer had faded. This time I purchased a bottle of self-tanning mist that promised a 360 degree continuous spray and ultra-even application. I just knew I was going to wake up with legs like a tennis player’s.

Instead, I resembled a brindled cow. I could see large circular patches of color with gaps of pale skin in between. The color was beautiful, it just wasn’t consistent.

Bottle #2, Attempt #2: Over the weekend I decided to give the self-tanning mist another try. Reasoning that I had learned much from my mistakes I optimistically applied the mist in one steady spray up and down my legs without stopping.

I had never seen anything go so horribly wrong. Apparently gravity forced the steady spray I had applied so carefully to collect in a runny pool on the back of my heels, causing a discoloration that looked like I’d had an accident with a can of Krylon. And despite my attempts to cover every square inch from the knees on down, I had still missed some spots.

Perhaps I should join other pigmentally challenged people who embrace their paleness. After all, it’s the way God made us. Still, I’m not ready to give up. I understand Coppertone has a new product out. It’s called “Endless Summer Gradual Tan.” Better yet, one reviewer says it’s dummy-proof.

Summer Fun

If my last post seemed critical of moms who want their children to do more than sit in front of the tv all summer long, I did not properly convey my sentiments. I am all for kids being able to think creatively and explore new worlds without having to worry about report cards. You and I know that some parents do go a bit overboard, though, failing to balance activities with down time. The end result is that the whole family can get to be pretty cranky, which leads to some pretty joyless memories.

The fact is, I, too, enjoyed many varying summer activities during my childhood, including classes in Journalism, Public Speaking, Typing, and German at Adams Elementary. To get to school, we carpooled with a neighborhood family. The mother drove a beat-up station wagon and the kids looked as though they had just gotten out of bed, tousled hair and sheet imprints still on their faces. When they pulled up in our driveway, and this is the truth, they were still eating breakfast.

I don’t mean noshing on a few Cheerios from a Tupperware container the way little kids do at church; when I say cereal I mean the full meal deal. By the time they got to our house what was left in the bowl was curdling milk and a few pieces of soggy Lucky Charms that had ceased to be magically delicious. My sister and I rode silently, our teeth clenched and our bodies plastered against the doors to limit the surface area that could potentially be exposed to airborne sour milk if Mrs. S drove too quickly over the railroad tracks. It seemed like so much work to take the bowls out to the car, eat, and then figure out how to dispose of the remaining cereal and milk when all this family needed to do was just wake up ten minutes earlier and eat breakfast at home.

For several years my summer activities included swimming. Based on the number of lessons I took I should be able to do much more than dog paddle from one end of the pool to the other, but sadly, swimming just didn’t take. Even as a kid I was so nearsighted that taking out my contacts in order to swim meant that I could barely distinguish people, let alone those long ropes that demarcate the swim lanes. Once I actually swam under the rope and ended up in a different lane without knowing it. The coach was so baffled as to be utterly speechless when I climbed out of the pool to head for the showers. That’s when I switched to band.

Band meant playing the flute with a bunch of other kids playing instruments and trying to create a sound approximating music. Whoever takes on band director as a career should certainly be nominated for sainthood. If they’re really up for a challenge, they work in teaching kids to march in formation while playing their instruments. I imagine what keeps many band directors going is the hope that some day, one of their students may end up playing in the USC Trojan Marching Band.

That never happened to me. But some of those summer activities did have staying power. Typing class has paid off many, many times over. Journalism and public speaking introduced me to the idea that a person actually could earn a living writing and talking, which is pretty much what I do, with a little bit of thinking thrown in.

In other words, summer activities really can lead to new skills and happy memories. But do your kids a favor: give them time to just have fun. And for heaven’s sake, wake up ten minutes early and eat breakfast at home. You don’t want your car to smell like sour milk.

More Bounce to the Ounce

Summer is almost here, by the calendar, but for many of us the first day of summer is signaled by a dramatic change in routine or weather. For kids here in the suburbs, the first day of summer is often the Friday before Memorial Day, the first of what they hope will be many lazy days of sleeping in, doing only what they want, and text messaging friends when they could just pick up the phone and talk to them.

In contrast, for overachieving alpha moms, the official start of summer begins with a rigorous schedule of activities like swim lessons, gymnastics, horseback riding, art appreciation classes, and space camp all tightly rolled into one day with a few stops along the way for sustenance. In a household with multiple kids, constantly ferrying them from one enriching experience to the next can be more work than work itself, which is why I have always held a steady job.

However, for those of us who are wine lovers, the first day of summer is the day we begin keeping the refrigerator stocked with our favorite Chardonnays, Pinot Grigios, and Rosés. So enthusiastic are we about the wines of summer that space-wise, we have to decide between allowing room in the fridge for the mayonnaise jar or another bottle of our favorite summer beverage. Bye-bye, Hellman’s! See you in the fall!

Such was the case in my household when chilly overcast days gave way to rainy overcast days. The weather still wasn’t suitable for a good barbecue, but the need for a raincoat instead of an overcoat meant we’d transitioned to another season.

It was on one of those days when I opened a bottle of my favorite Chardonnay in anticipation of some quiet time on the deck with my thoughts and the latest life-changing issue of O, the Oprah Magazine. I am no wine expert but I know what I like and St. Francis Chardonnay is a great way to ease into summer. It’s consistent from season to season and while it’s fashionable among some oenophiles to scorn buttery oaky Chardonnays like they’re the WalMart of wines, I like them.

Not every day, not for every occasion. But for me, starting off the summer wine season with a dependable Chardonnay like St. Francis is like starting a baseball game with the National Anthem. Provided Roseanne Barr isn’t singing.

There I was, taking a quick sniff before my first sip. I detected the scent of wildflowers, meadows, perfume…..unusual for a dependable Chardonnay that hints of pear and vanilla. I sipped. Interesting and not expected at all. Perhaps one of the perfume ads in O had somehow overpowered the wine?

Impossible. I hadn’t even cracked open the magazine. And yet the wine did have a perfume-y taste, like the time I took a cup of coffee into the bathroom while getting ready for work one morning. I had given myself a last-minute spritz of my favorite body scent before heading out and, had I not been driving along a busy highway where such an action could have endangered many lives, I might have swerved off the road. The taste was that vile.

This time the flavor wasn’t dreadful, because, obviously, I wasn’t drinking a shot of perfume, but still, it was a mystery.

A mystery soon solved with a little serendipitous detective work. I poured out the wine, washed the glass, mindlessly dried it with a towel while wondering what domestic discord Dr. Phil would solve in 90 words or less, and discovered the culprit. The towel had been part of a laundry load dried along with a sheet of Bounce fabric softener.

And that, my friends, is how my first wine of the summer ended up with more Bounce to the ounce. Now if you should decide to play a cruel joke on someone who claims to be a wine aficionado, just don’t tell them you learned about it here on Suburban Blurbs.