The Eclectic Writer

Obsessed With Work?

OK, so the headline on the home page of CNN.com said, "Are you a workaholic?" Wow, I thought that was like so passe.  But when I clicked on the link, the real headline came up: "Are you obsessed with your job?" A bit stronger, perhaps?

According to the article, one possible sign of workaholism is working 40 hours or more a week.  Hmmmm, I thought 40 hours a week was part-time these days.  I decided to read down the list of questions to self-assess whether or not I was addicted to my job.  If I answered yes to 3 or more I was ready for Workaholics Anonymous (yes, such a program really does exist.  I started to jot down my answers:

Do you take work to bed with you?  On weekends? On vacations?  I sailed through this one.  I haven't taken work to bed since my husband got a massive paper cut on his forearm from the 35-page presentation deck I fell asleep reviewing.  And I now limit sneak peaks at my blackberry to multitasking moments in the bathroom.

Have your family members or friends given up expecting you on time?  I don't think anyone has ever expected me to be on time since birth, especially my family.

Do you believe it is ok to work long hours if you love what you're doing?  Does parenting count?

Do you do things energetically and competitively including play?  You're talking to someone who used to secretly race the offertory collectors at Sunday mass and try to guess who would reach the final pew first.

Alas, it wasn't long before I racked up a few yes'.  I admit, it's not the first time I've been accused of being a workaholic.  Although I'm not ready to join a 12-step program, I am continuously finding ways to balance my life.  But I've also accepted that wanting to do it all is just the way I am.  I've learned over the years that instead of trying to change that about me, I just make sure I'm focusing energy on  the things that are most important in my life and doing it in the way that makes sense for me.

Which leads me to another idea for a blog posting.  So excuse me.  I've got to get back to work.

Slow Down!

Feeling the need to slow down? Check out my recently published essay titled "Rediscovering Coffee, Cafes, and the Art of Conversation" in the Vermont Shortbread Company's e-zine Short Bites September 18, 2007 edition. Just scroll down to the Food for Thought section.

If you're on the east coast of the U.S. this Friday (9/28)  and checking out the Big E in Springfield, Massachusetts, visit the Vermont Shortbread Company and its founder, my college roomie and buddy Ann Zuccardy, who will be serving up samples of her delicious shortbread!  Details are also in this issue of the e-zine.

Seeing Orange

We cleaned out my daughter's toy box today.  She declared earlier this year that, at nine-years-old, she was way too old for the Winnie-the-Pooh toy box in her room and that she wanted to totally redecorate.  I'm not sure if I should hold tween marketers responsible for this rebellion or if I just fell asleep at the wheel and forgot that children grow up really fast.  In any case, I knew she was right about Pooh bear.  And I knew when her choice of colors were burnt orange for the walls with black trim (I blame the car manufacturers for that one) I could not push back. 

I still remember planning for my babies' nurseries.  For my daughter I searched for months for the perfect crib set.  I settled on a beautiful floral pattern that had to be special ordered at a baby boutique 25 miles from where I lived.  It was beautiful, so feminine, and so ironic that I picked the perfect girl print for a child who would grow up to be a bona-fide tomboy. For my son, I went Pottery Barn and picked out a stars and space theme.  The montage of stars are still stuck to his wall over his bed.  We talk about them from time to time but as is natural with siblings he has already been discussing his next motif -- guitars and rock band stuff.  Or maybe planets.  At six, he can remain undecided for a little while longer.

Redecorating my daughter's room means that we have to paint over the full wall mural her dad painted for her when her brother was born and she transitioned into her big girl room.  She was allowed any scene she wanted. She chose a giant apple tree with the greenest leaves, birds flying across a blue sky. We picked up a small white picket fence at a local craft store and glued it to the wall for a 3-D effect, complete with artificial roses peaking through.  The ceiling, as in the nursery, was painted sky blue with puffy white clouds circling overhead. The wall is unique and has been a focal point.  It was one of the first gifts of creativity we could give her, something special to call her own. Now she is calling the shots. And rightfully so.  The orchard scene will be gone.  I hope I am at work when the first coat of rust-colored paint is applied and the last leaf disappears.

We cleaned out the toy box.  Magnetic letters, bent and stained with the magnet popped out of most of them, were tossed into the large white garbage bag next to me.  I know my kids no longer play the matching game, but the quality set from Unicef with its bold colored distinctive artwork on each are too beautiful to toss.  I put them in the toy bin for our younger cousins to enjoy when they visit.  I threw out countless McDonald happy meal toys, all representing the many burgers, nuggets and fries consumed during their early years.  I found an assortment of plastic reptiles and bugs, courtesy of our local video game arcade.  Uncapped markers, naked Barbies, broken yo-yos, missing game pieces -- all were there and each conjured a memory of the last nine years.  I filled up the bag and dragged it out to the garage.  I lifted it into the empty can and went back inside.  I found a place for the toys we kept, dispersing them into a variety of toy bins, crates, and closets around the house.  My work was done.

I looked around the room.  Orange, I thought.  I can't picture it.  But then again, this is no longer my room.