Grocking an Award is Tough Business (Part 1 of 2)

OK.

(Caveat: I'm rusty at blogging so if you will excuse the choppy writing we can get to the juicy business)

An award was given to me by a fabulous (I'll say that again...FABULOUS) woman. She can be found at Non, je ne regrette rien. Can you hear it? I am snapping in a Z-fomation.

I am now, officially, a Kick Ass Blogger. You like me, you really like me. Okay enough of the crying, my crown is falling off and my ego is a little large so please don't laugh if I trip over the roses that are thrown at my feet.

The rules (and I shall copy):

Rule #1. Select five bloggers who "kick ass".

Rule #2. Blurt out why you think they are deserving of this award--must have some kick ass in the description.

Rule #3. Link them all together in some slightly sexual way.

Rule #4. Acknowledge the originator of this award and also the lovely, generous, beautiful kick ass woman who is sending it your way.

Rule # 5. Make this one up as you go along.

HHmmmm, interesting. Since I am lazy and I have a lot to do today work-wise, I shall accept this award and ponder whom are deserving of such an honour for the next part.

Stay tuned for part 2!

Here and Back Again

It's time! Time to travel and write.

I am refocused.

I am profoundly happy.

I am traveling.

I am living.

Though France is not immediately in the horizon. I am taking small steps now to help France become my future.

How to Say Goodbye

It seems to me that I ought to say goodbye with the same care and attention to detail and honesty I used to say hello. But who am I kidding; I am not in the mood to be interesting.

Recent events have turned. I have neither the will nor the patience to talk positively about life in France or traveling. All I want to do is cuss at it.

But I won't do that either....I never know when I'll be back.

A Seattleite in Iran

As you might know, I have a love/hate relationship and a bit of a crush on Rick Steves. He is a travel writer, tour guide operator and fellow dork. Recently, he filmed a travel show in Iran. If you haven't had the chance to read about his experience, please take a moment and read his blog.

Though I am an American woman, I would jump at the opportunity to travel there.

Dear Traveler,

Walking down the jet way to my Air France plane at Tehran's Ayatollah Khomeini Airport, I saw two blonde flight attendants — hair flowing freely — at the plane's door. It was as if they were pulling people symbolically back into the Western world. The plane was like a life boat, and passengers boarded with a sigh of relief. Women whipped off their head scarves. Suddenly, we were all free
to be what (to us) is normal.

For ten days I'd been out of my comfort zone in a land where people lived
under a theocracy — a land which found different truths to be god-given and
self-evident. I tasted not a drop of alcohol (Islam is dry). I never encountered
a urinal (Islamic men sit). Women were not to show their hair or shape of their
bodies (they were beautiful never-the-less). And people took photos of me, as if
I was the cultural spectacle.

On my first day back in Europe (in Italy), I noticed hair, necklines, and
tight pants like never before. I sipped wine as if it was heaven-sent. And every
time I peed standing up I was thankful to be a Westerner.

But I gained a respect for people who are living what they call a "values
revolution" — a respect that I could only gain from actually traveling there.
And I overcame some of the fears that plague many who have yet to visit
Iran.

This experience has reminded me of a fundamental value of traveling. When
we travel — whether to a land our president has declared part of an "Axis of
Evil" or just to a place where people yodel when they're happy — we enrich our
lives and better understand our place on this planet.

This month's Travel News is dedicated to this proposition. You'll find a
slideshow of my Iran trip, a link to my trip blog, plus articles on how to
travel...anywhere...in ways that connect you not just with places, but with
people.

Those are the souvenirs that matter.

Happy travels,
Rick

Frenchie Where Are YOU?

“Pitiful is the person who is afraid of taking risks. Perhaps this person
will never be disappointed or disillusioned; perhaps she won't suffer the
way people do when they have a dream to follow. But when the person looks
back-she will hear her heart”

--Paul Coelho

I've had my share of risk-taking. My actions and words I choose are my own. Though at times they can be questionable and unfiltered, at times of self-reflection they are at their most deprecating. The 'what-ifs' and 'why didn't I's' take over my thoughts.

Along with these feelings I think my risk-taking self is at it's lowest which I believe is why the wanderer inside has waned. I can, however, feel it flare it's ugly head at the strangest times. Take for example what happened this morning...

Opening my work email is like opening up a present. *Feel the dripping sarcasm--own it* Thankfully, I had only 53 lovely emails to handle. Among them was a picture of a unicycle sport bike with zero emissions. Sweet. My mind moved through a maze and landed on an old thought--how I want to tour Vietnam on a motorbike.

Someday. I'll get this part of me back, but for now I am grounded.

Not Your Average Mail Correspondence

But I digress…

Just as a postcard can help, it can hurt too. Let’s say, just for a moment, you wanted to drive a relative or close friend round the bend with a mysterious correspondence. Here is how I picture this:

> Choose person you want to drive mad.
> Email me your target’s “friend's” address.
> During the course of 6 months or so I will send them postcards which will be filled with unmistakable personal details about the addressee. Of course, they will be stark-raving mad and lacking reasonable thought. You will provide me some personal details.
> The cards will not be signed coherently.

I suspect that they will cry out in anguish leaving your mark confused. Try as they might, they will search their mind for figure out who it is. Plus you have the perfect explanation: you aren’t in Seattle. You are in your comfy pants, sipping soda, doing that thing that you do when you aren’t driving your friends silly with tomfoolery.

They will wonder whilst they are gardening. At work. While sleeping. It will be brilliant.

The postcards won’t be just any postcards of dogs or nice Seattle skylines, oh no. I have some from the 1988 Brisbane World’s fair and some nudes from the Fiji Islands. Also, there might be some commercial-types in there too—like a robot with Life Savers.

“This sounds weird, but is there any chance you had a fling with a Fijian woman 18 years ago ranting about coral cutting your knee and cockroaches?”

They will be at a complete loss. It will be brilliant.

This is a freakin’ gold mine.

Plea for Postcards

Fellow Pacific Northwesterner, La France Profonde, has made a plea for postcards to a sick little boy. This small gesture can make someone’s day and help—just for a moment—cheer a person up.

This got me thinking how the little things can make someone's day. Things like, “Why thank you Colleen for making chocolate chip cookies. They are so good.” Or, “You look pretty today. Did you lose weight?” I usually end up saying, “Thank you (so and so), what can I do for you today? Do you want me to make something else? ” By the way, flattery will get you everywhere.

So please contact La France Profonde if you are interested in helping a dear and close friend of hers.

Redeeming Myself While Being "White and Nerdy"

OK, so I've been a little "off". Do I still have your attention? Good. Good.

Here is a peace offering. Isn't that Donny Osmond dancing in the background?

Because This is How I Roll

I work with a bunch of clowns comedians--myself excluded of course. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. This is funny. Seriously. In an Office Space sort of way. OK, it's just me? Am I the only one laughing here? Fine. FINE!

Office Manager announcing: The Motorcycle Riders friendly name will be changed to reflect the actual content of the alias. The new name will be: I
Like to Ride (but I Love Talkin’ as if I’m a Lawyer). You can continue to type in “riders” and it will resolve to the new name.

Colleen: GENIUS!

Peon: Is not!

Pleeb: Must be a slow day for Program Managers in "Engineering”.

Colleen: As if PM’s ever do anything anyways.

Pleeb: LOL. I fear an attack but I warn you that us “do nothing” PM’s are watching you very closely.

Colleen: Of course you guys are watching closely…it’s not like you’re busy doing work.

Peon: Ouch! I personally have the greatest admiration for PMs, they are fine people. Because of their unrealistic timelines based on marketing driven want to haves, I end up with lots of OT, which gives me the bucks to buy new toys. Kudos to PMs and marketing!

Colleen: Well, PMs *could* do the Engineer’s job. We just choose not to.

Pleeb: Ahhh, the measure of a good PM is that they do all that and more but let you all think you did the work!

Colleen: Yes. Thank you. The 10hr day a PM works is merely the protrusion into your universe of a hyper intelligent pan-dimensional work day.

No, really. I have charts.

Buckish Slang, University Wit and Pickpocket Eloquence

How do you know if you are Frenchified? I always thought that I was a wannabe Frenchy and Francophile extraordinaire. I would take away the best parts of the French woman's guide to being fabulous to become a Frenchy version of myself or, rather, Frenchified.

But I'm having second thoughts...

According to The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, originally by Francis Grose, for someone to be Frenchified means that they are "Infected with the venereal disease. The mort is Frenchified: the wench is infected."

The online Urban Dictionary has 2 Frenchified entries. One states that it is "often in reference to prostitution or numerous sexual partners." The second, and less voted entry, says that it means "to become more French though mannerisms, dress, political views, and the like."

I dug deeper. Of course, I went to the root of the matter and a reliable un-vulgar source - The Dictionary. The root verb Frenchify means "to make (something or someone) resemble the French, as in manners, customs, or dress: to Frenchify the spelling of one's name."

By getting to the root of the word, I can find why it...IS. The etymological root of Frenchify is French which begat Frank around 1250(1). Reading further I became fascinated to see how Frank evolved from a simplistic one syllable unromantic sounding word to the dual definition of Frenchified. (If we were to go back further we would see that Frank came from the Old English Franca and Old French Franc, both from Late Latin Francus, of Germanic origin. But we won't get into historical etymology now—fascinating though it is.)

This is the best way to have a deeper understanding. By looking inside something, I discovered that Frank means several things of which "liberal or generous" and "without inhibition or subterfuge" stood out in my mind.

Yes, I am Frenchified in the non-vulgar sense although I have been avoiding thinking about France lately. It was inevitable. The years of reading, studying and traveling to France Frenchified me enough to have it in my blood. So I may not be thinking about France all the time, it is in my soul—the food, the mannerisms and the language.

It isn’t a bad gig really especially since it is rooted in the odd combination of the words generosity and subterfuge.


(1)
American Psychological Association (APA):
Frank. (n.d.). Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). from Dictionary.com website: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/Frank