Penny and the Packers...

There are a lot of things that mothers and daughters bond over. Shopping. Movies. Gardening. Cooking. Men. While I can't say that Penny and I have never bonded over any of the aforementioned things, I know with complete certainty that nothing brings us closer together then men.

Specifically, men in uniform. More specifically, men in the unmistakable green and gold of a Green Bay Packer jersey.

Sundays, Mondays and during the playoffs... Saturdays include cross state, country, at times continent phone calls and text messages for collective celebrations and disappointments. We yell through the phone, we curse through text messages. When my mother was given Packers tickets for the last game of the 2010 season, she took me. When the Packers beat the Vikings and I was in Denmark, I called her at 5am in the morning because I knew she would be watching. It is a relationship that some would call unconventional, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

It started when I was a very young. I can't remember a time when the Packers weren't on in some room of the house. I remember going over to my grandparents house to watch as a kid, and seeing my mother and her mother bonding the same way. Screaming 'you toad' at Don Majkowski and his crazy mullet, or in grandmother's case the referees. Crying when Reggie White died. I remember my grandmother and mother not having very nice things to say about the likes of Mark Chmura and Antonio Freeman after their escapades came to press. Recognizing that the rest of the league pays homage to a man who coached us for 10 years and brought us two Super Bowl trophies. And then to watch Brett Favre , braces and all bring us back there in 1996. I was 13. There is the Lambeau leap. The Gilbert Burger. The experience of being at the stadium itself. My dad giving up his corporate tickets so that mom and I could go sit in his box seats. Watching the UW-Madison marching band celebrate center field after the Pack beat the Cowboys, which at the the time was a big rivalry. Sterling Sharpe's career ending injury. Mike Holmgren leaving and taking what seemed like our entire coaching staff with him, and subsequently trying to stifle a grin when his street sign was rumored to have disappeared. Sam Con. Brooks. Bennett. Matt Flynn out performing Tom Brady. Non-profit, community owned. The training camp bicycle tradition. And of course watching a hero of any Green Bay fan become a sad, pathetic media train wreck.

Yeah, we have cheered through the good, the bad and the very very ugly because the words fair weather were never used in our house. In fact I think my mother inadvertently used Sunday games as a teaching opportunity. She is a teacher after all. She taught me you can still sound positive when you are yelling nasty things at Cris Collinsworth. That it is okay to be irrationally passionate. That it's possible to lose with grace. That you can't control everything. That you are never to old to celebrate like it is Christmas morning. That there is no such thing as semi-loyal. That it is important to honor your personal history. And that love is a labor that you should take on with your whole heart.

The relationship my mother and I have with the Packers, has made our relationship stronger in a way that many including my sister and father don't really understand. But in spite of that, they are still there right next to us in the living room anytime my mom and I are together for a game. Why? Because there is nothing like watching us watch the Packers.

Oh, and Mom if you read this. I am coming home on Saturday night so we can watch our boys. Go PACK!!!

The Dark Side of Transparency...

Honesty is the best policy. Yeah we have all heard it before, but my malleable adolescent brain must have absorbed that golden rule at a much higher capacity than others. Or perhaps it was my inclination towards bending the truth as a child, a punishable offense in my house, that branded it into my brain. At this point in my life honesty is almost a compulsion.

I tell the truth in every way possible. You know how omitting the truth, is just a different way of lying? Yeah that is what I mean. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I can't keep my opinion to myself. I give more information than necessary. If there is something on my mind you'll know it. Poker champion I will never be. Honestly, I even speak in an authoritative manner that makes my personal perspective sound like fact. I answer questions after these obligatory caveats

'Do you really want my honest opinion?' or 'This is going to sound horrible but...'

with complete and unsparing truth. Like I said it's a compulsion.

Of course my sharp tongue can lash with the best of them. I have hurt those close to me and while they say they love and accept me for my honesty, it still hurts to know I have hurt them. After all, you can only say you are sorry so many times before you've rendered the word completely and utterly useless. And forget first impressions. There is no recovering from being a bitch in front of or to a new acquaintance or complete stranger. You can't.

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." That is so true Ms. Angelou. How do I know? Well because I have been on the receiving end too. At some point the tables always turn.

In this case I am referring to my feelings. I have a heart that is among the easier to bruise. I've let down and left my guard around my ankles many times for exploiters both hidden and obvious to take advantage of. The only thing that follows is disbelief, self doubt and deflation. It's hard to bounce back when you are only half full.

Any sense of empathy or imagination can see this makes for quite the precarious situation. It is as if I am always walking on a tightrope, balancing between violently active verbs and a hopelessly romantic heart. Both of which are inherent to who I am and have become. I watch my words fly like arrows, wishing I could swallow them the minute after I let them fly. I watch my heart fall harder, faster wishing it wasn't made of glass and I wasn't standing on concrete. And because at this point it has become habit, it is definitely a hard one to break.

A very good friend of mine recently told me that I have this crazy curious, doe-eyed naivete whose companion is solid, unfaltering conviction. No one has ever gotten it so dead on. I am so transparent in some situations, you can practically see through me. I am as opaque in others that you wouldn't even bother trying to argue with me. Quite the dichotomy. Definitely an internal struggle. After all, how do you change something that at 27 has become so much a part of you?

While I would never want to change completely, I know I could be honest with more grace. A lot more. I know I could be transparent and self-preserving at the same time. At least when I need to be.

I recognize these traits are assets in specific situations. I realize that for some they are honorable, they are envy inducing, they are even the correct way to respond. I don't necessarily disagree, but I have learned that honesty isn't always the best, especially when brutal. Truth will out the nasty as well as the good and it is easy to be overlooked when you're completely transparent.

The Stall Standoff...

Yeah girls aren’t supposed to talk about this kind of thing, but working in an office building of over a thousand people, it comes up. So if you have a problem with public restrooms, stop reading right now.

I have anxiety in public restrooms, well really only when someone else is in there reminding me it is a public restroom. I always feel this weird tension if I walk in and a stall is already occupied, like I am intruding. I am guessing that is because I always feel like I am being intruded upon when I am in there and someone else walks in. And for some reason this anxiety usually leads to what I like to refer to as “The Stall Standoff”. The reason I named it is because I know others have experienced it too. Whether it’s because there is some alternate version of stage fright, embarrassment or because you feel like whatever happens in that room should be private (yeah I know I am ruining some people’s belief that girls don’t do that) there is this weird power struggle. Seriously, it becomes a waiting game where whoever waits the longest wins. Wins what? Nothing really. Maybe a few seconds of privacy, but not really because you are in a public restroom. The problem is, if you wait too long someone else will eventually join you to brush her teeth, reenact her morning beauty regimen or conduct a completely unnecessary conversation and then the stalemate starts all over again.

I know there are people who literally refuse to use public restrooms. “The Stall Standoff” is one reason I can sort of slightly understand their neurosis.

Jingle Jangle

I think advertising needs to bring back the jingle. Seriously, no matter what state I have lived in, there are mom and pop businesses that always use jingles. And no matter what it includes, their name or phone number, people ALWAYS remember them. Luna, Empire, Adriana Furs and The General are just a few you hear in the great state of Illinois. Whether you are in the market for a new bed or a car insurance doesn't even matter. When people hear the beginning of the Empire jingle, they can always fill in the phone number blank. ALWAYS.

So why is it, as a copywriter, I never decide that a jingle is the way to go. I don't think I have ever been in a meeting, since my advertising career started that a creative team has ever presented a jingle. Why is that? I mean everyone can sing the Oscar Mayer bologna song or the Band Aid jingle. Even people who have never seen the ads can sing them. Currently people can cherry pick parts of the long-winded FreeCreditReport.com jingle or recognize the tune of McDonald's 'I'm loving it.'

Maybe the solution to all advertising is bringing back the jingle. People don't just remember good ones, or even likable ones. They remember them no matter how obscure, awful or amazing they are. Sure in my 'ad' opinion I've been ingrained to believe that jingles are a cop out, but I am wondering more and more if I only think that because I was always told that they are. I mean I was also told to never show something and say something at the same time, but now we are forced to do it everywhere we can. I was also told that repetition was a 1950's Madison Avenue device and when used today it is embarrassingly outdated. Jingles are for those people who don't have anything more clever or creative to say. I have to say, I do believe that most of that is true.

However I also know this to be true... the majority of consumers can fill in the following blanks.

"Plop, Plop, ____, ____"

or

"Like a good neighbor, ________________."

Get ready world, I'm bringing back the jingle one client at a time. Hey, a girl can dream



p.s. I wonder what Mustafa would sing if Old Spice decided to add a jingle to their campaign. I'm sure it would be hilarious, and it would probably make those ads test better with recall. I'm telling you. Jingles are where it's at, just not here.

Lauren, you're too LOUD....

could be heard every other day coming from my sister's mouth when I was a kid. That is probably a conservative estimate in fact. I was a loud kid. I'll admit it. Between wanting to be a singer, which of course would have lead to fame and fortune the likes that even 1980's Whitney Houston hadn't seen, and "scweaming my bwains out" on my neighbors truck I was bound to annoy a few people. Rachy was definitely no exception.

Well to my dismay, and others celebration I am sure, I was recently informed that I need throat surgery to clear a polyp from my right vocal chord. I was diagnosed with singer's nodes in grad school, but the otolaryngologist and I agreed they would go away when I quit my job at the bar I worked at at the time. It was a late night joint that often entertained live music and I had to strain or scream for hours at a time to take and deliver hops and hamburgers. It seemed like a classic case of cause and effect. Once the cause of the nodes was gone, the effect would be a back to normal voice.

False.

At some point between then and now, a blood vessel burst in my right vocal chord and the node is now a polyp that can't be treated with voice therapy alone. It needs to be surgically removed or it will just get worse. Worse to the point where my voice will be permanently damaged. It is an out patient procedure. There's general anesthetic. It's no big deal. That is what I was told. Hakuna Matata, right?


In light of the situation, this post is for my big sister. This is for all the times you had to tell me to be quiet or put your hand over my mouth. This is for all the drowned out Grass Roots choruses and Defying Gravity exhibitions. You were right. I was too loud. I am going ahead and telling me so, for you.

YOU WERE RIGHT. The informational packet confirms it.

Assocation with "Extroverts"
Children with vocal fold polyps usually are extroverts and may have a loud voice, which can often be particularly percussive.

So there. Even medical experts agree with you. I wasn't just loud, I was too loud, just like you said. The thing is, I am loud. It is part of who I am. Even my personality is loud. But on November 22nd 2010, that part of me will be silenced forever. Okay dramatic. Not forever, just for seven days after the surgery. I won't be able to talk at all. After that I will have to ease back into talking, while training myself to communicate in a manner that will not cause the problem to return.

So Rach if you want relish in your rightness, come to Mom and Dad's for Thanksgiving dinner. For once in your life you can do all the talking you want. You can tell a story without my interjection. You can ask a question you have never actually wanted the answer to. I will not be able to interrupt, talk over you or sing Uptown Girl. This Christmas you will have to carry Sisters all by yourself. It's your turn to sing, just make sure it isn't too LOUD.

Hiwela High....

I never thought I would go back to camp. I really didn't. For one thing I grew up. Then the camp I attended as a child closed it's doors, and with it closed that chapter in my life. Albeit a chapter revisited and remembered fondly but definitively in my past, or so I thought.

Just a few weeks ago I was given the opportunity to reopen that chapter and amend it, this time as a counselor. The force and fervor with which camp songs returned was astounding. The thrill of a schedule that included arts and crafts was palpable. I was going back to camp. A mixture of nostalgia and nerves filled up every inch of my body as I packed towels and tennis shoes. I worried the campers wouldn't like me. I wondered if I'd forgotten how to play. I dreaded the thought of a shower being an afterthought. I laughed at my own vulnerability.

Like I mentioned in a previous post, being the baby of the family for twenty five years has left me quite the novice when it comes to adolescent behavior. The disciplinarian, the teacher, the example, the friend. All things I haven't been to people more than a few years my junior for the majority of my life. This was now the task at hand. A task that to me was blinking like a hazard light off in the distance. Needless to say as the luggage filled up with jersey and repellents, my stomach filled with knots. This experience was going to be a first, and I could not have comprehended how a week later I could even imagine making that week at camp my last.

Upon arrival I was jolted back to flagpole, campfires, silly games and sloppy meals. The smell of burnt wood lingered among the living. The hugs of returning volunteers mixed with the timid handshakes of newcomers. The white washed cabins looked foreign against the backdrop of the forest. I remembered how great it felt to feel like part of a frontier. Since the campers hadn't arrived yet, my anxiety cut me loose. I just stood for a second to drink in an environment I hadn't visited in decades. It was beautiful. It only lasted for a moment because the kids would arrive in less than twenty four hours and there was a lot to do. Training commenced, lunch was eaten, people were introduced, camp was acquainted, songs were sung and beds were tossed in anticipation. Before I knew it there were nine girls standing in front of me. Some wide eyed. Some veteran. Some gorgeous. Some guarded. Some introverted. Some out loud. They were there, standing in front of me. It was amazing how immediate the feeling of ownership hit me. I felt like they were mine and that scared me even more. I was responsible for these girls until they left over 100 hours later. May seem like a short time to some. That was an eternity.

Now I have to caveat this story by saying, I wasn't alone. I had other counselors with me. I wasn't solely responsible. But unlike the rest of them, save one, I was the only virgin. They had done this before. So, I had a support system from the day I got to camp and they were with me the entire way. They were saviors, sidekicks and supports. The experience wouldn't have been the same without them. However, this post isn't about them. It is about me and the girls.

They ranged from the ages of 9 to 12. Most of them from the inner city. Their backgrounds were starkly different from my own. Everything from where they lived, to how they lived was a contrast. Their schools, their shoes and their attitudes all a bit unfamiliar. Some more callow than others. Many of them older than the years displayed on their faces. The differences from girl to girl were almost as obvious as the difference between them and me. This was a bit of a comfort, but still for me, uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable like being asked a question on your first day in your first graduate course, more like your skirt being caught in your underwear uncomfortable. Unknowingly exposed. Feeling powerful because of my authoritative position, but feeling unqualified at the same time. I felt like a walking contradiction and it was hour three.

Thank goodness time heals all things, because as the hours passed by the contradiction faded away and the connection became apparent. When it comes to growing female, there are baseline issues that no matter your background akin you to one another. The struggle for friendships. Feeling left out or forced in. Becoming a woman. Fighting for attention using whatever talents you have at your disposal. Establishing your role in a group. Struggling to keep it. Detaching all together. Diving in headfirst. Watching this group of young women acclimate to their new, temporary social circle was a trip. I would dare any woman my age to say they didn't recognize the interactions I witnessed from their own pubescent memory. These girls were astonishing to behold. Truly, the were enlivening with their ghettoric (that is what we called it). They were self-conscious -effacing and -indulgent. It was a pleasure to be around them, as well as a throbbing pain. It was fulfilling and frustrating. I was amazed to see how the personalities were already cemented. I mean, these girls were and are who they are going to be for the rest of their lives. I could tell you which girls were motivated by intelligence or attention. Those who would chase the boys and those that the boys would chase. The antagonists and the protagonists. The self-reliant. The needy. The ones I would have befriended. The ones I would have frenemied. I knew who was going to end up gyrating at the dance way beyond her single digits. I could tell who was going to spend the majority of her time in the company of adults instead of cabin mates. Well, that one will always be contemplative. Her? She will always thrive on positive reinforcement. This one will forever and always be non-compliant.

It was a slightly shocking revelation that we are who we are that young, and that got me to wondering. If I could interview counselors that had me as a camper, they would probably agree. Twenty years later they'd say, yep, that is the Lauren Buckley I remember. I actually found myself attaching bits of me to bits of them. They were me, but in smaller vessels. Their age was just a number that I had passed fifteen years earlier. It wasn't an obstacle I had to get over in order to relate to them or them to me. In fact, it was the reason I could.


By the third day I woke up and realized I was not just a part of this experience, I was entrenched in it. I found myself vying for some of the girl's attention. I thought about which activity I wanted to sign up for depending on what girls were going where. When breaking up a fight I found myself wondering what side I would've been on. I knew which table I wanted to sit at breakfast,lunch and dinner. I knew what boys I would have flirted with. I even started adopting some of their bad attitudes about things they didn't want to do.

Pathetic. Hilarious. Wrong. Go ahead, you can judge me. I know I am right now.

But the thing is, the good, the bad and the ugly come out at camp. It did when I was younger and it definitely did with my girls. I am glad it all surfaced. I couldn't be happier about it, all of it. I decided to go back to camp as a counselor, but I actually went back as me. Just me and it was almost out of my control. My inner child. My disciplinarian. My last picked for the team. My caregiver. My educator. My student. My gossiper. My nurturer. My discoverer. My loner. Every nuance of my character was brought forth, challenged, found adequate or found wanting by my girls. First they introduced themselves and then they reintroduced myself to me.

Life happens and you do live and learn beyond your foundation as a human being. I know I have in the time after my days as a camper. But at the end of the day it was the unconditional love and acceptance of nine young women that taught me more than I ever could have imagined. When the buses pulled away from camp on the final day echoes of laughter were lost in a haze of exhaustion. I felt incomplete and renewed. I loaded my luggage, a little lighter. I loaded myself, a little heavier. I was a walking contradiction, again. As our bus pulled away I knew my chapter would continue to amend itself the following year. Same cast of girls, but a very different counselor.

Nerd Alert...

So I got on the bus this morning and I sat down next to what I think most people would constitute as a male nerd. I know the distinction has gotten a bit muddled with the emergence of the hipster culture, but this guy wasn't trying to be a nerd. He just was a nerd.

He had a Napoleon Dynamite type shirt on tucked in to his pants of course. He was futzing at first with his iphone, which I caveat is not nerdy, but then started awkwardly bobbing his head to music I couldn't quite make out. Actually bobbing isn't the correct word. It was more a seizure like motion with his head and a weird Hitch like containment with the rest of his body. Then he took of his head phones, took his out his glasses case and put on his 'four eyes'. Again, nothing against glasses, I wear them in fact, but it added to his overall Urkelness. He proceeded to pull out his ipad, again not nerdy, and began playing some sort of Grand Theft Auto like game but with way more parochial graphics. Grand Theft Auto is probably not nerdy, but on this guy, this game more than even his weird gesticulations made me really uncomfortable. His appearance alone made me assume he was not exactly bursting at the seams with social skills. That mixed with the fact that he was playing an unbelievably violent video game made me really uncomfortable. Even after I got off the bus I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I am not sure if news stories of men like George Sodini, or names like Dylan Clybold are the reason I had such a negative reaction to this guy and his video game but it got me to thinking. Maybe something other than his appearance gave me an uneasy feeling. Or perhaps the nerd factor lead me to think about the loner factor, and that made me uneasy. I don't know what it was. I mean he left me alone, he didn't leer. He was just doing his thing. However, in that short amount of time he got me to thinking. Historically, there aren't a lot of infamous females that have blown up buildings, convinced people to drink kool-aid, shot up their high schools and college campuses or randomly open fired in a female dominated gym. I am sure there are a few, but movie Monster was such a big deal because it was a case of an out of the ordinary serial killer. The out of the ordinary part is the fact that the killer was female. I don't know if it society, socialization or Malcolm Galdwell's exploration of contagious and infectious behavior that kept my mind running in circles. I obviously haven't done any reading on the subject, this is just how my mind was working that day.

There really is no point to this post, other than the fact that for a morning I was completely preoccupied with a stranger on the bus and a trend that has spanned news coverage for decades.