WISDOM Wednesday: Grand Father’s Little Girl

This story written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

My Grand Father was one of the most important people in my life.  He was the first man I loved and was my life teacher.  While other grandchildren called him Gramps or Granddaddy, I declared our loving attachment by providing him a designation of my choosing.  Only I would call him, “Grand Father.”

He had little formal education.  Instead, Grand Father had street smarts and tenacity. He was a Merchant Marine during the war, then a Merchant Seaman. He started from the lowest rungs of the hierarchy, bus boy, and rose to the level of Chief Stewart for international shipping companies.

When I was five years old, Grand Father taught me to read and write so we could correspond during the long months he was off to Hawaii, then Japan, then back again.  His letters were filled with encouragement and the unconditional love only a Grand Father could bestow his “Little Girl.”

Whenever I was fearful I couldn’t accomplish something, and some adult was suggesting I give up, Grand Father would gently scold me in a letter (gently, because he knew I cried easily),

“You don’t believe anything anyone else tells you.  You are just as smart as everyone else, so you can do anything you put your mind to.”

Months at sea also meant months at home!  Grand Father and I had an exclusive four-note whistle salutation.  As I’d run through Nana’s  kitchen asking where Grand Father was, I could hear his half of the greeting coming from outside.  Out I’d run to the top of the steps.  Stop.  Catch my Breath.  Then send my two notes.  We’d continue the volley of whistling until I located him.

Once found, I’d instantly help with whatever task was at hand.  When he’d be doing laundry, Grand Father would hand me an item of clothing from the washtub and I’d feed it through electric rollers which squeezed out excess water …  before we hung it on the clothesline.

My habit was to push the hanky, sock, towel, etc., through the wringer too fast — which meant my fingers would be pulled in with the clothes and pinched between the rollers.  Fortunately, the dangerous hand-eating thing would suddenly pop open with a loud onerous sound, and stop.  Grand Father would patiently pat my smashed and reddened fingers, reminding me that I had to feed the beast slowly, carefully, and with attention not to get too close to the rollers.

I’m actually surprised I didn’t end up with gnarled, broken fingers, as inevitably five or six times in every wash cycle, I’d push something through without paying attention to impending danger… until:  “Owwwww!”  Pop!  Loud onerous sound!  And, stop!  Grand Father would give me the patient warning again - and hand me another sock.

Words and actions of unconditional love and encouragement …  Grand Father would laugh if he knew how I continue to act as though I can achieve “anything I put my mind to,” despite my fingers getting pinched on occasion.

photo by Bob n Renee and Molki

WISDOM Wednesday: When Are We Old Enough to Call Someone, “Honey”?

Back by popular demand! 




This story written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

     “Hello Honey, I’m so glad to see you.”  With that greeting, a sweet matronly woman would take my hand and lead me into a fitting room at the cozy ultra-pink shop named Kay Burt’s Corset Corner.  From my first-ever masterfully-determined-perfect-brassiere-for-my size-shape-and-age visit until I left for college, I was met with these words. 

     Being fitted for a bra became a treasured ritual - a rite of passage.  And, it always started with the same sincerely spoken welcome, “Hello, Honey, I’m so glad to see you.”  Forget that the bra fitting women were as dedicated and precise as NASA engineers.  Forget my mother’s annual lecture that we would never purchase an actual corset because, “If you wear one, you won’t hold in your stomach, and it’ll turn flabby.”  The most impactful part of this ritual was being warmly called, “Honey.”

     In the back of my teen-aged mind, I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to call others, “Honey.”  Somehow, I just knew, when I grew up, I too would call people, “Honey.”

     I think I’m old enough now, or close to it, or might be getting close to it soon.  So, a few months ago, I just dove in and started calling people, “Honey” or “Hon.” It never felt awkward.  It felt warm, friendly, and welcoming, just like I remembered.

     Last week, the sky fell … A male friend told me in no uncertain terms that when I called people “Honey,” it sounded condescending … WHAT?  How could it?  I remembered it so fondly as a wonderful expression of warm sincerity.

     I doubted the wisdom of my friend and decided to conduct a little social research by asking others what they thought.  The young teller at the bank said, “Well I wasn’t really paying attention.”  The much-older-than-me gentleman in my service club thought I was just flirting with him.  And on it went.  Person after person was asked and not one heard my sweet matronly term as an expression of warmth and sincerity.  Oh, no.  Maybe my friend was right.

     Finally, I got an answer that made sense.  It came from a woman who was about my age, or close to it, or might be getting close to it soon.  She told me that we are only allowed to call someone “Honey” if the person is family or much younger - and never a customer service employee.  Otherwise, she said, “It sounds like you are talking down to the person.”  She also told me I didn’t look old enough to get away with it.  In the back of my mind, all I could think was, “You mean, a lifetime of exercise and organic food, plus decades of not wearing a corset so my abs would stay taut has come back to haunt me?”

     But since the sky had not actually fallen, I wonder: Will I ever be “old enough” to call someone “Honey”? Perhaps not.

     Maybe I’ll try, “Darlin’” next.

 photo by alsjhc

WISDOM Wednesday: California Springs

This story written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

     It’s still snowing somewhere in the United States.  It’s still dark in Finland.  In Northern California, however it is Spring.

     Natives of Northern California understand that we have two major seasons:  The Rainy Season and the Dry Season.

     The Rainy Season is divided into

·         Winter (super cold, windy, and torrential rain), and

·         Spring (less cold, sometimes windy, sometimes balmy, and sometimes rainy)

It begins to feel like The Dry Season sometime between April and May, depending on how long the rain sticks around.

     This year, we skipped the Winter half of the Rainy Season and went right into a California Spring…  For me, this is the most glorious time of year.  It’s the time when life is reborn, and all senses are refreshed.

     When I lived in the Sierra Foothills, pastures were filled with offspring calves, born in November, bouncing around and through the winter-worn fences before the ranchers could repair them.  “Cow on the road,” was the most common police call.  On our way to work, we knew to slow around turns because those calves were very likely on their way to – well, nowhere, really; they were just enjoying themselves.

     The cows that didn’t calf in November were gathered together in multiple acre maternity pastures, so wranglers could check on them every few hours.  I once watched for an hour-and-a-half while a cow birthed her calf, then licked it repeatedly until it was able to stand on spindly legs.  What a joy.

     Calves are born in the Spring … But frogs are reborn!  Almost overnight, a cacophony of frog-song emerges from every pond, lake, stream and riverbed.  They too travel through, or rather under, fences, and can often be found on doorsteps or in back yards.  Some species grow so big, so fast, that the Sierra Nevada town of Angels Camp has annual frog jumping contests.  Mark Twain’s short story, "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” was inspired by these events. 

     My daily spring descent from rangeland, calves and frogs into California’s Central Valley always left me in awe.  As I’d come off the hills, in front of me was a sea of blooming almond trees.  For about 1-1/2 weeks, I was treated to the sweet aroma of almond blossoms, orchards spread ahead as far as I could see in any direction.

     As the hills turn almost chartreuse green and the valleys pink and white, closer to the coast, mustard volunteers sprout up in every untended field.  These meadows of bright golden flowers are nearly blinding.  But they provide one of my most pleasurable memories of California Spring: 

Walking to the center of a field with my young son.  When we found just the right spot, we’d bask in the still cool sunlight, chewing on slightly spicy mustard stocks until we were revitalized.

     Year after year, California Spring renews my spirit.

photo by mfortini & snopek

WISDOM Wednesday: Roommates

This story written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

As a second born child, with three kids of my own, I like the energy of a house full of people (see previous story, “A Room of Her Own”).

My first roommates were my sisters.  In our room we each had a portable / movable closet, bed, desk and chair.  And, we had our own sofa.  We transformed the configuration of our huge bedroom to meet our regularly changing privacy needs. Sometimes it felt like we lived in three micro-studio apartments.  But, when we were done with homework, we’d invite our brother in and it was party time!

In college, as soon as I could move out of the dorm, I rented a house with four other unconventional like-minded students. We ranged in age from an 18 year old sophomore (me) to a second year microbiology Ph.D. student. We had private bedrooms where we spent most of our study time... And on weekends, it was party time!

Once my children left the nest, I had the opportunity to spend several years living alone. I have successfully learned to enjoy my own company, as all self-help books tell us we must do.  And, I unequivocally Do Not Like Living Alone …

My house has a living room separating the master bedroom and its bath from the guest rooms and their bath. I decided to rent a guest room to re-experience another human being coming and going, and have extra cash flow… Sounded good on paper.

I quickly found a young man stationed at the local military camp looking for off-site housing. Immediately, my friends beset me with concerns:

1.    He might be a slob!

2.    He might stiff you on the rent!

3.    He might annoy you and you’ll never be able to get him out!

4.    He might be a mass-murderer!

With a little due diligence, I determined he was not a mass-murderer. Everything else, I’d deal with after he moved in.

The first few weeks with a roommate were not instantly comfortable…

Turns out it’s against my nature to just rent out a room.  I felt bad each time he’d return in the evening and “go to his room.” So, I urged him, “Please, make this your home away from home.”

     > Before long, if one of us made a pot of coffee before dashing to work, we’d leave a note: “Free Coffee.” 

     > When he left all the garage lights on for 48 hours, I requested he mow the lawn - A penalty his wife agreed was appropriate ;-)

     > And, the skittish, suspicious-of-everyone cat purred incessantly on the rare occasion my roommate and I watched a movie together.

I never did experience any of the worries my friends enumerated and was genuinely sad when he announced his new promotion included moving away.

I thoroughly enjoyed living with my roommate. Although days or weeks would pass without seeing each other, whenever I came home, it felt like home, not just “house.”

Time to find a new roommate... mass-murderers who are annoying slobs need not apply.

photo by SFC Jose “Joe” Garcia

California Army National Guard

WISDOM Wednesday: Weary Wonder Woman Withers

This story was written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

Last week, BOBB’s publisher, my sister, wrote about our family’s long line of Wonder Women – starting with our great great grandmother who emigrated from Paris to San Francisco during the Gold Rush.

When Sister acknowledged she couldn’t juggle everything on her over-full plate, I was not unhappy.  Why?  I’ve always seen her as perfect and me as... well, not.

For background on this sibling-disorder, read my “Botox© To The Rescue” story:

I tentatively decided to take this opportunity to gloat a bit.

Here’s a partial history of this Wonder Woman’s accomplishments:

After college, I worked as my husband’s research assistant while he obtained his Ph.D. — “So what’s the big deal?  Women do this all the time.”

Here’s the Big Deal: This 5th generation San Franciscan had to move to Philadelphia, schlepping my first-born.  Besides helping my husband, I found and furnished a home a home for us, sourced, purchased and renovated houses for a fledgling rental portfolio and slipped and fell every winter, sending my first-born air bound— Plus, baby #2 arrived.

Just before Dad completed his degree, I began working full time and started grad school.  Picture this:

·         Working full time

·         Raising two smart, articulate, wild kids

·         Being a great business partner to my husband

·         Acting as general contractor for our rentals

·         Totally renovating our new home: built in 1911, 4,000 square feet, 3-stories

·         Staying up until 4:00 am to write research papers.  And...pregnant with baby #3!

Flash Forward

Returning to CA, Wonder Woman started a successful consulting and training company so she could be Super Mom…  I worked client meetings around driving kids to three different schools, ballet lessons, violin lessons, guitar lessons, soccer practice, soccer games and camp.

When I wasn’t being taxi-mother, I was flying to client sites like Panama, as the US Government was turning over the canal to the Panamanian Government.

Flash Forward to Now

After a few years of working 13-hour days in corporate America, I am currently:

·         Re-launching the consulting business in another part of the state

·         Treasurer of the local Lions Club (service club)

·         Dating 25% of the non-incarcerated single men within a 50-mile radius...not as much fun as it sounds.

·         Working out regularly to keep myself fit and vain

·         Writing clever stories for WISDOM WEDNESDAY

·         Administering thyroid medication to the cat twice daily

·         Conducting seasonal maintenance on my rental in the mountains

·         Skype-ing my “almost launched kids” at all hours

Yes, Sister, this Wonder Woman is on a roll.    

Until Yesterday:  I missed my Lion’s Club Treasurer Report deadline.  I slept straight through the morning alarm and was embarrassing late for a breakfast date.  And my right wrist started aching.

YIKES!

·         I seem to be unable to meet my commitments

·         I seem to be overly tired

·         I seem to be developing repetitive motion disorder

It seems this Wonder Woman is weary too.

I take it all back, Sister.  We need a vacation, and cortisone shot for my wrist.

photo by Arne Hendriks

WISDOM Wednesday: Paying Attention !!

A story by Malati Marlene Shinazy

This was an evening made for paying attention.

I met my new fellow at a favorite restaurant overlooking the Pacific Ocean. We timed it so we could watch the sun set. I wasn’t just paying attention; my eyes were riveted to the horizon … Abundant clouds held onto the orange-to peach-to pale pink sky for quite some time after the sun disappeared.

Dinner followed. If you love love crab cakes like I do, you pay attention to whether or not they have a lot of fillers – or do they taste perhaps, like crab, as crab cakes should. These did, so I savored every bite.

No need to write about the entrée. It was flawlessly delicious, as expected.

Dessert – My favorite part of any meal, was a rich chocolate mouse, drizzled with dark chocolate syrup. My palate was at full attention. And, since my date was attentive to every smiling bite, I ate extra carefully.

                                                                                     

My date – This man was so gorgeous.  Sitting across the table, he was a visual dessert.  It was a challenge to pay attention to my dessert and not drool – over the man, not the chocolate mouse.

He and I chatted and gazed at each other for another 2-1/2 hours. Finally, though, time to depart… workday tomorrow.  No quick hugs tonight; these were romance novel kisses – Now I was paying attention to how perfectly he kissed and how perfectly I felt in his arms...

After scheduling our next date, I got into my new car.

New cars require paying attention too.  I needed to adjust the seat a little forward, a little higher, a little more tilt, a little more recline. Finally, it was ready -- A farewell wave to my dessert-man and I was off.

The road homeward is two-lane country highway. It undulates an ascent from sea level through the vineyards and pastures, eventually emerging at town’s edge.  With no moon and or traffic that night, it was totally dark. I leisurely enjoyed the drive, replaying the perfect evening in my mind –

day-dreaming in the night.

A single second later, however, Lights and Sirens make a swift U-turn behind me… Screaming onto me like I was driving an armed-robbery getaway car.  I pulled over anywhere, rolled down the window, put on my game face.

“Mam, do you know how fast you were going?”

I made up a reasonable sounding speed… paying attention not to sound guilty.

“No mam; I clocked you at 85 miles per hour, 30 miles over the speed limit.”

I so wanted to argue with the officer, but I knew in the pit of my stomach he was probably right.  I drove away with a $350 citation, traffic school and a probable insurance rate hike… 


If I hadn’t been paying attention earlier in my drive, I sure was now.

photo by Lel4nd

WISDOM Wednesday: Whitney Houston - Inspired Contemplation

A  tribute written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

When I first heard Whitney Houston had died, I fleetingly thought, “Sad, another amazing talent has fallen to drugs.”  I had no evidence to support that thought.  I actually had no information at all.

Over the next 24 hours, however, my sadness deepened as I was deluged with non-stop broadcasts describing how her death impacted the music community, her family and fans … her vocal range and tonal purity and her struggle with drugs.

I decided to examine why I had such strong feelings over the death of a celebrity I didn’t even know.

Yes, “The Body Guard” is a favorite film.  Yes, years ago I downloaded most of her music.

Somehow, though, I my feelings related to Whitney Houston, The Person.  On the surface, our lives shared no semblance.  She was a singularly talented artist, a recovering addict, and a celebrity.

One layer deeper however, on the level of Person, she resembled many of us.  Her life was one of great capacity and noble challenges.  She was resilient.  She possessed unstoppable passion for her work and family.

We have lost a great talent – a younger member of our boomer generation.  So, how does that relate to me?  What have I gained from my exercise in contemplation?

Like Whitney Houston and many of us boomers, at all stages of the age spectrum, I see my life continuing to expand and deepen …Life is simultaneously more profound and joyous … serious and silly.

• The passion I have about my new business is more exhilarating than businesses I’ve launched in the past.

• My love is more than my heart opening.  It is multi-dimensional and felt at my core of my being.

• My community service is not simply a cluster of activities I “do.”  It is an integral part of me, who I “am.”

• My role as a mom, one I took seriously when my kids were young and actively needed me, has changed too.  I truly feel privileged when my young-adults ask for counsel or share a confidence.

Whitney Houston’s life gave me moments of song and tidbits of celebrity gossip.  In my contemplation of how I felt about her passing, I realized how wonderful it is to be fully engaged in life … 

Laughing, Crying, Loving and Sharing Wisdom with each other

Plus, I have this assignment to write stories for WISDOM WEDNESDAY – a forum for voicing all sorts of perception and insight.  It provides me an opportunity to continue to grow and learn from people everywhere – from folks of any age, culture, or rank in life.  Now how cool is that?  I get to be both sage and student.

Whitney Houston (1963 – 2012)

Singer, Actress, Mom and Person

  photo by Nathan B

WISDOM Wednesday: Botox® to the Rescue!

  This story was written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

My mother had a few warnings that resonate continually in my mind like humming birds dive-bombing past my head on their way to the feeder:

#1.  If you laugh all day, you’ll cry all night!

#2. Put on sunscreen or you’ll end up looking like an old leather purse!

#3.  Keep frowning like that and your forehead will stick in that position!

Many of these warnings were meant to scare us children into one behavior or another, so we generally ignored her.  Little did I know, however, that genetics lends some credence to caution #3.

Recently, Shinazy, BOBB’s publisher and my sister, wrote a story proudly promoting the secondary use of various tapes for reducing frown lines.

“Ha!” I thought, suddenly envious, “Easy for you to say.”

“While we both inherited extraordinary breathtaking beauty and brilliant minds (place smile here); you inherited most of the best genes in our family“:

·         “You are the marathon-running-every-continent-on-earth sister.”

·         “I am the sister who, like our grandmother, trips over small twigs and pebbles.”

·         “You are the sister who has hardly-worth-mentioning salt-and-pepper hair.”

·         “I am the sister with super-wide silver streaks at my temples -- resembling a skunk ready to ruin everyone’s day.”

·         “And, while you can joke about those itty-bitty lines between your brows that you affectionately refer to as wrinkles,”

·         “My brow creases would need surgical retractors to hold them apart.”

I’m not sure my mother’s warning that my tendency to chronically worry and frown as a child, adolescent, young adult, and older boomer would force the corrugator supercilii and procerus muscles to fix into permanent contractions.

To me it hardly matters.  When my staff kept asking me if I were angry or upset upon arriving at the office first thing in the morning – after I’d had a great night’s sleep, peace-inducing meditation and a satisfying cup of coffee, I started my hunt for Botox® Cosmetic.

Now, periodically, I invest in a Botox® treatment -- the savior of genetically compromised sisters.  I advise the younger members of our family to entrust their foreheads only to professionals like a Registered Nurse at a Board Certified Dermatologist or Cosmetic Surgeon’s office --- I have found that these specialists unfailingly inject the Botox® in such a precise manner, it removes involuntary scowl lines, yet still enables me to animate my face -- unlike many celebrities we know who sport a fixed-expression countenance after their Botox® treatment.

And, I give thanks to all those scientists who discovered at least 20 medically critical uses for Botox® before they found its benefit for people like me, a boomer who wants to look happy and cheerful whenever I am happy and cheerful.

My sister may have a few genetic advantages.  I have Botox® Cosmetic.

_  _  _  _  _

Please Note: This story is the personal opinion of the writer. She was not compensated by any product or service provider. 

WISDOM Wednesday: Recycling In The Days of Old

   This story was written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

When my oldest kids were in preschool and primary grades, many weekends were spent at the  playground, going up and down slides -- for hours. Then never missed a weekend.

They also never wanted to miss a periodic family ritual.  We lived in a part of the US that had just begun recycling.  Our recycling center consisted of four giant igloo-type structures placed dead center in a huge empty parking lot.  Two igloos said, “Glass.”  Two igloos said, “Newspapers.”

Going to the recycling center was an enormous undertaking.  We collected newspapers and glass bottles for weeks.  When we finally had sufficient quantity, we loaded all this stuff, two young kids and an infant into the station wagon.  We drove forever because our so-called recycling center was in the light industrial part of the closest Big City (not very close).

What was totally, 100% entertaining, however—and well worth all the effort it took to get there — was to watch my kids conduct the Recycling Ritual.  Those huge igloos were so tall, steps and a platform were built around them so that stalwart recyclers like our family could reach the 7” recycling hole at the top.

So, up my kids went, a glass bottle in each hand.  Then, poised oh so carefully over the 7” hole, they would take turns throwing a bottle, with all their might, into the igloo.  With the loudest, violent detonating blast of glass crashing onto glass, the bottles landed…  The kids would burst into peals of sustained laughter that were almost as loud as the recycling blasts!  It was contagious; even the baby would break into screaming laughter.

·         Bottle In!

·         Crash!

·         Explosion!

·         Three Children Scream With Delight! 

·         Second Bottle In!

·         Crash!

·         Explosion!

·         Three Children Scream Even Louder With Delight! 

And so it went, for clearly thirty minutes, while their dad and I struggled to stuff weeks’ worth of thick newspapers into itty-bitty igloo holes.

I have to admit, this was indeed an odd pastime for a young family that tried to eschew violence (with obvious varied degrees of success).

Recycling = Violent Explosions + Fun and Laughter

Today, even in the smallest hamlets, recycling has become quite civilized.  It is now pedestrian – and - thought-free.  Children interface with recycling by spending their weekends going up and down slides in playgrounds made of recycled flip-flops.  We fill up city-issued recycling containers, roll them to the curb and voila, away go the “office paper, newspapers, cardboard, phone books, magazines, aluminum & tin cans, glass & plastic containers (except polystyrene).”

Yes, gone are the days of schlepping station wagons full of a pack-rat’s bounty of newspapers and bottles to remote places to hear young children take primal pleasure in aggressive, and LOUD, planet-saving….  What’s totally perfect, however, is: 

This recycling story is now on Bitchin’ Ol’ Boomer Babe and gets to be recycled - forever.

photo by Malati Marlene Shinazy

       

WISDOM Wednesday: “The Great Squirrel Wars”

  This story was written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

This is a true story… I have to tell it. Of course I changed the names -- I treasure my friendships, all of them. -- ms

“So, you think tree squirrels are beautiful?” exclaimed Jim to Walt and me over coffee. "Well, a bunch of them live in the pine trees in my back yard.”

(As he became more animated, I started to pay attention… this is going to be an interesting story.)

He continues, sputtering, almost in one breath:

“I hate these squirrels! They come scuttling down the utility wires and jump into my trees.  Now these aren’t little trees, they’re 60 feet tall! They’re the most beautiful pine trees in the neighborhood. So yesterday, I went to the sporting goods store and spent $200 on a pellet gun.”

(‘Please, please, NO’, I say to myself… I know where this story is going and I’m not sure I really want to hear the rest of it.)

“Those squirrels. You know what they do, don’t you? They go up into my trees, sit up there, pull off the green pinecones and shred them with their teeth to get to the seeds.”

(Are these the seeds we city folks call pine nuts?  I had to ask him to tell me more.)

“So, they sit up there, these squirrels, shredding the pinecones to get to the seeds, which are inside something that looks like an apple core. Stuff showers off the pinecones onto my driveway, sidewalk and front porch. I’m sweeping two to three times a day.”

“I hate it. I had to buy an extra-heavy duty broom too.”

“Plus, every year, I hire a pruning guy to thin out the trees. I tell him, ‘Don’t come down until you’ve taken off EVERY pinecone!’ This costs me $1500 bucks. … If I skip a year, those squirrels come back, the shredding comes back and the sweeping comes back.”

“Today, I sat out there on a lawn chair in the front yard, waiting for them to be visible up there in those trees.”

(A new image pops into my head. Guerrilla warfare: Man vs. Squirrel.)

“I’m waiting out there with my pellet gun, waiting for them to be visible, which they never are….  They just sit up there yacking at me. I can never see them. They’re up there laughing!”

My other friend, Walt, is now tallying the cost of this battle:

• Pruning, $1500
• Heavy-duty broom, $50 plus tax
• Pellet gun, $200
• If the police hear:
• Time in jail
• Bail to get out of jail
• Court fees
• Attorney fee
• Huge fine

“It’s getting a bit expensive”, he laughs…

(Jim’s account of The Great Squirrel Wars is at once hilariously funny and a tad crazy, I think… I use to rake leaves daily for months every autumn. How can this squirrel stuff be any worse? What’s the big deal? … Although the situation is clearly exasperating for him, he’s enjoying the telling and I’m enjoying his sincere narration.)

(Verbally stumbling with laughter, I naively ask some variation of a line from Mars Attacks!  “So why can’t you all just get along?”)

His response, “Because they don’t sweep and clean up after themselves!”

(I sit there, more than a bit perplexed. I truly have nothing to say… I suddenly realize -- I really don’t understand war at all.)

-  -  -  -  -

BTW: 
All of our animal friends remain safe and happy. ~ shinazy (BOBB's founder)

photo by Gilles Gonthier

Sisters

by Shinazy

I have a younger sister and of course, that made me ‘Big Sister'.  Yes, I bossed her, taught her, protected her, and learned all her secrets and dreams. 

We did all the things sisters do: dressed each other’s dolls, we wore each other’s sweaters, hid under each other’s bed covers reading fan magazines.  We lived together for only 14 years (the math: me 3 when sister arrived on the scene, me gone after I graduated from high school).  When I think about it, 14 years is a very short time to know someone as deeply as I know my sister.  Or so, I thought.

What I’m realizing now, is that there’s much about my sister, Malati, that I am just now discovering and there is much we have in common that was previously unknown to me.

You and I have read her stories over the past three weeks on Wisdom Wednesday.  During this time, you and I have come to know her, and she has revealed aspects of her personality that I read and exclaimed, “Hey, that’s me, too.”

Last Wednesday, in “What’s So Great About Mentoring?” she said, “So, as we now know is typical for me, I just plunged in" . . .  That line describes me, too!  As I read her words, I thought of my earliest memory of when I-plunged-in.  It was more literal then figurative - It was when I learned to swim, or rather how I learned to stop drowning.

I was 9.  At a motel in Redding.  It was midweek and the pool area was empty, just me and all that fatal, forbidding water.  For the previous five years, my aunt had tried to teach me to swim and for five summers, I drowned.  But, on that day, it was time for me to plunge in and so I did.  Standing at the deep end, alone, toes creeping closer and closer to the edge until only my heels remained connected to the safe solid earth.  Well, I am here telling you this story, so there was no drowning that day.  And because of the success of that plunge I repeated that behavior – We, the sisters, repeat that behavior.

Starting this blog is my latest plunge: one day I'm talking to my daughter, who encouraged my wild thought of fulfilling a dream to write. A short week later, I'm announcing to my sister that Bitchin’ Ol’ Boomer Babe was born.

For me this blog has become more than a way to express thoughts and tell stories.  It is a place for me to learn more about my sister . . . about being sisters.

  photo by Shinazy

WISDOM Wednesday: “What’s So Great About Mentoring?”

 This story was written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

I read once that successful people have at least one mentor in their career.  Sounded like a great formula: Get a mentor; become successful. So, when I was a young boomer, I went hunting for a mentor.

George F. Simons is an expert in the field of diversity and cross-cultural communication. His list of accomplishments is long and impressive. By the time I met him, he had written books, developed award winning training games, taught at universities and had a thriving international consulting and training practice.

As is typical for me, I just called him up and asked if he would be my mentor. I was thoroughly shocked when he agreed so readily. He had but one requirement: I make a commitment to myself and to the field of diversity to learn everything he had to offer. What I didn’t realize at the time was, he was offering to share with me literally everything he knew.

Each day for an entire summer, I drove two hours round trip over a notoriously twisty mountain highway to spend time with him. I absorbed all the information, knowledge and nuances of insight I could… The experience was simultaneously thrilling and formidable.

 And, I swear… I grew from a newbie into a junior expert in just a few months. This one change in my life had to be the reason: George was mentoring me.

When I decided I was ready to strike out on my own, I put into practice everything George taught me… Voila, I became successful too. -- Actually, I was more than a bit amazed. Could it be the mentoring? I thought so at the time. Now, I know so…

A few years ago, with a new job, I inherited a millennial generation employee who was, I was told, “like a sponge,” continually soaking up information to grow professionally.

Ah – ha, I thought… You know where this story is going, right?  What did this woman need to boost her to the next level of success?  Yup, mentoring.

So, as we now know is typical for me, I just plunged in and asked Nikie if I could be her mentor. She quickly agreed, as George had done so many years prior.

For the next two years, I shared all the knowledge I had about the field of learning and workforce development, including cross-cultural aspects, metrics, project management… I mean, everything. I shared what I knew about the industry in which we worked, economic cycles, key success factors to competitive advantage and corporate cultures. Everything.

Mentoring became one of the favorite aspects of my job. I watched Nikie develop from a young professional into a seasoned pro who could take each project offered and run with it to successful completion.

Mentoring grew me. And now, mentoring was growing another individual. When Nikie told me she was looking for a new job, I was thrilled. She was ready to strike out on her own… as I had decades ago.

Over the years, George, my mentor, became a valued life-long friend. Yesterday, he left for his home in France to write another book.

Tomorrow, my mentee leaves for her next career step… We promise to communicate regularly.

How wonderful it will be when one day I hear Nikie is mentoring someone too.

What’s So Great About Mentoring? For me… Everything!