Work Matters

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Delicious Chickpea Salad + Some Rambling

Oh Internet, I cannot remember the last time I went grocery shopping.

Well, okay, I suppose I can. But it was a reaaalllllly long time ago.

My husband I have been busy. Like the kind of busy where you might contemplate trying to fall down a flight of stairs just so you can have an excuse to rest. (Oh crap. I’m going to fall down the stairs now, aren’t I? Well, good thing I never leave the apartment! In your face, FATE!) (Please don’t kill me.)  And we have just been too plain exhausted to think of things like shopping and cooking and so all semblance of normal meals has gone right out the window.

Yesterday? I had a 100-calorie pack of Cheez-Its and a Diet Coke for lunch.

(My husband, however, had a PB&J sandwich that I made him on Monday! And froze! In the freezer! Per Jen’s genius instructions.) (It was a test sandwich. And as the time of this posting, I have not spoken to my husband to get his thoughts on whether the test was successful enough for us to do a full-scale roll out. But I will report back.)

We have been depending on things like Chipotle and take-out sandwiches and microwave meals and frozen pizza and rotisserie chicken for nourishment. Because anything requiring more than opening a microwave, oven, or our mouths requires too much time and effort.

Aside from Failing at Eating Well, I have gotten very behind in anything resembling Normal Sleep. (Stress keeps me from falling and/or staying asleep. Whoo!) So I keep digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole of So Much Work and Not Enough Energy Slash Wakefulness to Do Said Work. Which you really don’t care about, but I am telling you because it has severely limited my blog activity. In the areas of both blog reading and blog writing. And even though you likely did not notice at all, I am SORRY.

If I may try to swing this unwieldy tangent back to the ACTUAL subject of this blog post… Back when we were only on the front edge of busy and we actually had time to shop and also Make Stuff, my husband and I came across an interesting little recipe in Bon Apetit. It was a recipe for Chickpea Salad with several variations. And the recipe was so tiny and unassuming – just a little sidebar in a longer article, not even a sideBAR so much as a sideSQUARE – and it was written in such a breezy, careless, wholly unthreatening manner that I thought “Yes! We could do that!”

It really was quite charming, Internet. It was the recipe equivalent of that friend you have who can throw on an old pair of faded slacks and a wrinkly shirt and, like, a vest or something and look effortlessly and flawlessly stylish and beautiful, but in a way that makes it clear that she didn’t even have to TRY to look stylish and beautiful, that it took really no effort at all (hence the “effortlessly” descriptor, I suppose), but not in a bitchy way – no, more in a collegial “Hey! This is so easy! You could totally look like you stepped off the pages of Abercrombie & Fitch too!” sort of way.

Now, before I get to the recipe I want to warn that it is for a salad, which means it is cold. And I’m telling you this up front because I decide to eat or not eat some things based on their temperature. Usually I would NEVER eat a chickpea that wasn’t hot and also smothered in some sort of cardamom-flavored sauce and accompanied by naan and some fluffy basmati rice. But the charm of the recipe won me over. And I ate the chickpea salad, even though it was cold, and lo! it was delicious.

So delicious that on a recent trip to the grocery store – not to SHOP, because, as I already mentioned, we do not have time for SHOPPING, but to grab some super-quick pre-cooked or super-easy-to-cook food (we have to EAT even if we are busy) – I grabbed some extra lemons so we could make some more. Alas, there was no basil, so we don’t actually have ALL the ingredients. But that’s okay because, even though this salad is easy (effortless!), we still do not have any time to make it.  (Cheez-Its and Diet Coke – that’s all the “cooking” I have in me, Internet.)

You are probably wondering about the ACTUAL recipe, and are feeling, as you read all this irrelevant back story, that I should just get ON with it. So I shall.

Chickpea Salad with Lemon, Parmesan, and Fresh Herbs

(adapted from Bon Apetit)

Ingredients:

1 15-oz can of chickpeas (Bon Apetit would like you to know they are also called garbanzo beans. In case you didn’t know.)

2 Tbsp fresh chopped basil

2 Tbsp chopped fresh Italian parsley (Or not. Parsley will not set foot in our home. NO.)

2 Tbsp fresh lemon juice (From lemons. Even if, as your husband points out, you have a huge Costco-sized bottle of “real lemon” lemon juice in your fridge.)

4 tsp EVOO (Have you ever noticed how Rachael Ray almost always says “Ee vee oh oh” and then specifies “extra virgin olive oil,” just in case you don’t know what EVOO means? Seems to me that doing so kind of negates the usefulness of the acronym, doesn’t it?)

I small garlic clove, pressed

1/4 cup red onion, finely chopped (This is the “adapted” part, as it was not part of the original recipe.)

1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Coarse kosher salt (Or low sodium salt. From a jar.)

(It doesn't look like much, Internet. But do not let my poor salad photography skillz or chickpeas' lack of photogenicity deter you from trying this!)

 

Directions:

1. Open your chickpeas. We used two cans (and then doubled the rest of the ingredients). Pour them into a strainer and rinse them.

2. Combine your chopped basil (and parsley, if you must), fresh lemon juice, EVOO, red onion, and garlic in a medium bowl.

3. Add grated Parmesan cheese.

4. Toss gently to blend.

5. Add salt, to taste.

Do you see how easy that is, Internet? And it was DELICIOUS. I mean, how can you go wrong with garlic and lemon and EVOO and basil and Parmesan? YOU CAN’T. It’s just not possible.

I could totally see myself making this for company, or taking it to a pot luck, or eating it on the porch this summer while sipping a glass of wine.

Here, verbatim from Bon Apetit, are some variations you can try:

“For a spicy version, add some sriracha sauce. Try swapping out the lemon juice for lime juice and use feta cheese instead of Parmesan and mix in some chopped fresh cilantro and chopped red onion or shallot. For a curried chickpea salad, leave out the Parmesan and add curry powder to taste, dried currants, sliced green onions, and shredded carrots.”

Tastes delicious immediately and even better once it’s been sitting in the refrigerator overnight.

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You Asked for It: My Personal Pre-30th-Birthday Existential Crisis

*** Before You Read: Be warned. This post makes me sound like a spoiled, whiny, self-pitying brat. Plus, it’s not particularly well-written. (OH THE IRONY.) So if you are uninterested in joining my poorly-rendered and VERY long-winded pity party, please come back tomorrow for your regularly scheduled frivolity. ***


While I’m not sure if it’s my impending 30th birthday (it happens FRIDAY, ya’ll), or just a general sense of winter-induced blues, I’ve been feeling very anxious about My Life Path lately.

A full-on existential crisis been brewing for a few months now. Probably ever since my husband – with his usual effortless grace – turned 30.

I think it really came to a head recently, when I interviewed an applicant to my alma mater.

As expected, this applicant blew me away. But as I doubt I’m supposed to discuss these interviews, I’ll hurry ahead to something about our conversation that’s been kicking around my skull for weeks.

This applicant had a life motto. (Based on an Albert Einstein quote about miracles, if you want to look it up.) Bright-eyed, brilliant, and more mature than most 18-year-olds, the applicant asked me if I had a motto.

And I was stumped. (I honestly think I’m just as nervous as – if not more nervous than – the applicants in these interviews.) Something tickled at the edges of my brain, but I couldn’t get to it through the fog of nerves and trying to be the kind of ideal ambassador my university would want me to be.

The thing is, as this high school senior stared at me expectantly, I felt small. And inadequate. And fraudulent.

As though, perhaps, my whole life was some sort of farce.

Now, as much as I’d like to blame a high schooler for my problems, this barrage of upset was not the applicant’s fault.

Obviously, I have Deep-Seated Issues that simply bubbled to the surface in the face of this person. This person who is, for all intents and purposes, Me of the Past.

(Actually, she’s Me of the Past Now with Super Extras! including More Experience! and Better Grades! and Fluency in a Foreign  Language!)

The thing is, I am nearly 30. I am eight years out of college. (EIGHT. GACK.)

And when I look at my life, I see failure.

 

* * *

 

When you’re a bright-eyed teenager, 30 seems so old.

Everything will happen by age 30, you think.  (And yes, I know that when you are a kid, you pick some arbitrary age out of the air that has no basis in reality.)

But 30 seems like a milestone. One that I’ll meet in a few days without having Achieved Something Big.

 

* * *

 

Objectively, I know I haven’t “failed.” I found my life partner. I do work that challenges me. I help support our household, financially and emotionally and kitchen-ally. I have a bachelor’s degree from a prestigious university under my belt. I’ve earned a Master’s Degree from one of the top programs in my field. I like to think that I am a generally kind, helpful person.

These aren’t the ONLY markers of success, certainly. (In fact, I think “success” and “failure” mean different things to almost everyone.) But I think it would be hard for people to look at me and categorically say, “You are a failure.”

But the thing is, I have had one goal my entire life.

And I’m not anywhere near reaching that goal.

 

* * *

 

Have you ever felt as though you were simply treading water?

I’m not saying it’s necessarily a bad thing.

Maybe you even LIKE treading water.

After all, it’s good exercise. It keeps you from drowning. It allows you to look around the pool for hot lifeguards and sharks. It gives you a chance to watch the Michael Phelpses around you and get a sense of their skills and style.

But despite all of those benefits… You’re still treading water.

Which means you’re going nowhere.

 

* * *

 

I feel the need to clarify something: I don’t do my work half-assed.

On average, I work six days a week. When I’m absorbed in a project for a client, it consumes me. I think about it all the time, even in my off hours. I’m fully invested in the project’s success. I give 100%.

But I’ve been feeling lately – as this milestone birthday approaches – that I’m not doing what I’m meant to do.

My Something Big – the one thing I’ve wanted to accomplish for as long as I remember – is to write books.

Books of poetry. Books of fiction.

Books that wrap people up. Books that transport you. Books that open up a common subject in a fresh yet utterly familiar way.

Books that – above all else – make you feel something.

Yes, I write for a living. But I’m not writing for myself.

 

* * *

 

Listen, I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I feel truly thankful to a) have steady work and b) do work I truly LOVE.

I have amazing clients. They are brilliant, driven, inventive. Each of them has a vision of how to improve others’ lives. They are all generous with their knowledge. They challenge me and inspire me.

I am very, very fortunate.

 

* * *

 

Once I got away from the terrifying college applicant, I was able to think clearly. And I realized that I do have a motto.

I don’t think I’ve ever consciously thought of it that way – in terms of a motto – but there it is.

It’s a quote attributed to Socrates, sometimes translated as: “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

This phrase comes from Plato’s Apology, from a section also stating that the best thing a person can do is to converse about virtue on a daily basis.

But I think, like many famous quotes, the meaning of the excerpt itself has expanded beyond its original context.

I do a lot of navel gazing. A lot a lot. This website is proof of it.

I do it in other ways, too. My work, for instance, requires me to gaze at others’ navels… To imagine what they are thinking… What moves them… What worries them… What drives them to improve themselves… What incites them to buy.

But – while the stuff I write here is often (okay, mainly) frivolous and silly, and the stuff I write for work is persuasive and motivational – I also write about what I consider Deeper Matters.

Love. Loss. Happiness. Fear. Life. Death.

I think about these things a lot. In isolation. As related to one another. As two sides of a single coin.

It’s important, I think, to take a deeper look at these things that drive us… that affect our decisions and our lifestyles and our life’s work… that hiss and sputter deep down in each of our cells… that make up the core of what we call humanity.

To examine these things, hold them up to the light. To gain a deeper, fuller understanding of ourselves and each other. To use what we find to better ourselves and improve the lives of others.

This is what I love about my favorite books. The Count of Monte Cristo. The History of Love. Incendiary. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. The Namesake. Love in the Time of Cholera. The Time Traveler’s Wife. The Handmaid’s Tale.

They examine life. They put a chunk of The Human Condition under the microscope. And in doing so, they illuminate something in a new way. When I read them, I find myself overcome with agreement: “Yes, that is how I feel. Yes, I recognize that in myself. Yes, I could never put that into words before.”

Sure, I could go through life without these things. I could work each day, come home, watch TV, eat, sleep, and someday die. I could refuse to delve into the shadowy corners of my mind. I could bob along on the surface, basking in the sun, ignoring what’s swimming in the depths.

It’s possible that I could get a great deal of enjoyment out of living this way. I would probably experience a lot less worry, a lot less angst.

But that’s an unexamined life. And to me, it’s not worth it.

 

* * *

 

Let us delve briefly into the existential part of this crisis.

Right now, my work is personally and financially fulfilling.

But it’s not satisfying my soul.

I’m not saving lives. I’m not moving us closer to world peace. I’m not feeding the hungry or housing the homeless. Or doing – in my work – any of the other countless things that seem to Give Life Purpose.

And guess what?

Writing novels does none of those things either.

Yes, yes, examining life blah blah blah.

Maybe you’d say Nabokov or Melville or Foer made your life better. Maybe even helped give your life meaning.

But come on. When it comes to Making the World a Better Place, I don’t think novelists are at the top of the list.

And let’s face it: I’m no Nabokov or Melville or Foer.

Sometimes I feel like my purpose in life has no real value.

 

* * *

 

For Christmas, a friend gave me a book.

It turns out that this book was written by a classmate of mine. I didn’t know him very well, but I knew of him.

Instead of feeling grateful to my friend for sending me the book, or being impressed that this book had been written by a person I know, I became consumed with jealousy.

Isn’t that the ugliest of all emotions?

And yet, there I was, hating on this guy for Making It when I haven’t. I couldn’t even read the stupid book because I kept having sour thoughts about the quality of the writing. Justified? Maybe. But maybe just the product of my envy.

There’s a little voice in my head that thinks I lost some sort of competition. “What have you been doing all these years when you could have been writing a book?” it demands. “What are you waiting for?”

But there’s another little voice – one that’s fearful and strident – that says, “But I can’t just drop everything and write! I’ve got responsibilities!”

 

* * *

 

“Writers write.”

Instead of whining about this on my blog, shouldn’t I be writing my book in my spare time?

Something is better than nothing, right?

The fact is, I DO write in my spare time. I contribute a paragraph here, a line there to the two “novels” I have started.

I devote even more time to thinking about them… Dwelling inside the minds of the characters… Turning over plot points and motivations in my brain.

But it’s not enough to be called Real Writing.

I write every day for work. As much as I enjoy it, it drains me.

Sure, I can dash off a silly little blog post. (Although some of them, admittedly – and I feel sort of pathetic telling you this – take weeks of tweaking until I deem them “publishable.”) (I KNOW.)

But the kind of writing I want to do requires immense amounts of emotional and creative and intellectual energy.

At the end of the day, I just don’t have that kind of energy to spare.

And if I do… well, I feel like I should devote it to the kind of writing that pays the bills.

 

* * *

 

One of the other big causes of my existential crisis is money.

It’s difficult to contemplate the huge financial burden Writing a Book would put on my husband and me.

Now, my parents have been super generous about this. They have offered to help. More than help, really. Which means more to me than you can possibly imagine. I mean, not just the relief about money… But the incredible gratitude I feel that they BELIEVE in me.

Plus, there’s my husband. Who said to me the other day, “My goal is to make enough money so that you can stop working and write.” Which made me all teary. What have I done to deserve such kindness?

Seriously, I wouldn’t blame you if you are rolling your eyes right out of your head. How can I be fretting about ANYTHING when I have such an amazing family who supports me so fully?

But with their generosity comes guilt.

How could I possibly take my parents or my husband up on their offers?

It seems selfish… and irresponsible, somehow, to allow them to bear the weight of my flight of fancy.

I mean, what if it turns out I am a terrible writer? What if I can never publish a book? What if it’s just a big waste of time and money?

What if I disappoint these people who love me so much?

 

* * *

 

The thing is, I have no idea if I can write a book.

And, if I can, who knows if I can make it be what I want it to be?

What makes me think I have anything to offer people?

What makes me think I can differentiate myself from all those other millions of authors out there?

What makes me think anyone – editors, publishers, let alone the reading public – will want to read what I have to say?

Oh the doubt! Internet, it is eating me alive!

And yet, I am so sure this is what I’m supposed to do…

(Of course, if you’ve ever seen American Idol, you know that all the applicants are so sure that singing is what they are meant to do. Even the ones who sound like lovesick seagulls.)

What if my writing sounds like a lovesick seagull?

 

* * *

 

Of course, the flip side of the coin is:

What if I disappoint these people who love me so much?

Because if I don’t write a book… If I don’t at least give it the old college try… Isn’t that the real failure?

If I let my fear and doubt and sense of familial and financial responsibility prevent me from even trying to accomplish that goal, well, what kind of person does that make me?

A fraud.

And then I’m right back where I started: Staring into the clear, expectant eyes of an eighteen-year-old, telling her that my alma mater is the place where dreams begin… And yet I haven’t moved more than a few thousand words toward my heart’s desire.

 

* * *

 

When I told my mother, a few weeks ago, about this existential crisis, she was full of kind words and wisdom.

When I look at my mom, I see a woman who has accomplished anything and everything she wanted. She had a successful, high-powered career for decades. When it stopped fulfilling her, she retired.

She raised two kids who – not to toot my horn or anything – are on the whole Good People.

She dedicates a large portion of her time and money and expertise to helping people in need.

She’s traveled the world.

She’s also extremely artistic, and prolific in her painting and writing.

I admire her so much. So when she talked me through my crisis, I listened. And her take on the situation helped.

My sense of crisis hasn’t fully subsided.

Sure, I no longer feel constantly on the precipice of tears…

But I still feel… incomplete. Stuck in some liminal space between Fanciful Child and Responsible Adult. Left to tread water for the foreseeable future.

Still, I’m beginning to learn how to live with that. To remember that 30 is an arbitrary finish line set up by a naïve teenager. (A teenager who was certain – CERTAIN – that she’d never in a million years get married or even entertain the IDEA of having kids.)

My mom reminded me that even if I’m treading water, I’m learning. I’m growing. I’m gathering fodder for my writing. And all that is useful and worth something.

Plus, I’m getting something out of this. Maybe I’m not working toward my goal. But I’m challenging my brain. I’m working with people I respect. I’m learning how to be a better, more persuasive write. I’m contributing to my family. I’m supporting my husband as he works toward his Something Big.

Not too shabby, for a nearly-30-year-old.

Maybe this isn’t the only thing the universe has planned for me. Maybe I’m not doing exactly what I’m meant to do.

But – god willing – there’s still time.

 

* * *

 

I recently read a quote attributed to theologian Howard Thurman: “Don’t ask yourself what the world needs, ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who are alive.”

In moments… bits and pieces scraped up in times of quiet… small bursts of inspiration… I feel that Aliveness, bubbling inside me… It may be hibernating, but it’s there, breathing quietly, just below the surface.

Three decades is a long time to wait to join the ranks of the living.

I hope it doesn’t take me another 30 years to get there.

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Did You Get That? Poor Subject Line Choices RUIN Friendships

You want to know something that annoys me?

Okay, that seems a bad way to begin.

How about this…

You want to know something that will make your life easier and more organized?

Make your email subject lines specific.

Say I have a question for you about, hmm, buying a kangaroo.

I would email you with the subject line “Buying a Kangaroo.”

And you would email me back under that same subject line. And any time we discussed the intricacies of kangaroo buying, we would do so under the “Buying a Kangaroo” subject line.

Then, at any time in the future, I would easily be able to search for and find the emails on that subject. You know, to forward to my other kangaroo-fanatic friends. Or whatever.

By the way… It totally doesn’t bug me if your email subject line says “hi” or “It’s Friday!!!!1!!1!11” or “OMG guess what?!?” or whatever. I send those emails all the time. But they are generally a) to my mom and b) not really about anything specific other than a little note to say, hi, the weather is snowy, I am making spaghetti for dinner or whatever.

But when there is Something Specific at Stake, I think the specific subject line is pretty much a necessity.

Yet so many people refuse to use them! They often completely IGNORE the subject line field, when it can be SO VERY USEFUL!

I also firmly believe that email conversations are excellent (in gmail, one conversation under the umbrella of a single subject line takes up one line in your inbox; I’m not sure what happens in other email services, but I think you’d have 20 lines in the inbox, all with the same subject line)… BUT if anyone involved in the conversation switches the subject, it is critical to begin a new email with a new subject line.

I mean, say we have been going back and forth about kangaroo buying, and then all of a sudden you want to know if we are still on for dinner next Tuesday and where exactly should we go?

Well, I think that requires a new subject line – something like, “Dinner Next Tuesday.”

Here’s why…

  1. If I see YET ANOTHER email from you about kangaroo buying, I may not open it right away because I am sick of talking about the stupid kangaroo… thus missing your important question about dinner and inadvertently snubbing you and completely ruining the friendship.
  2. If I forget, between now and Tuesday, whether we agreed to go to the new Thai restaurant or Olive Garden, it will be difficult for me to find the answer without bothering you again. Because why would I possibly open an email about buying kangaroos to find out about our dinner plans?

Along these lines, please, for the love of god, don’t just randomly pick out an old email and click reply because it’s easier than remembering my email address. That is what “Contacts” lists are for. Or, if you MUST do that because the old email has the exact right list of people in the CC field or whatever… please take the extra five seconds to delete the old email and replace the old subject line with something new.

Because there is nothing weirder than getting an old email that says RE: That One Scrubs Episode that doesn’t reference Scrubs at all and is, instead, about the best place to rent skis or something.

Oh! That reminds me of another way to make emails easier and better!

Try to stick to one subject per email.

Maybe this is more of a work-type issue (although I’ve certainly run into it with personal emails), but it happens All the Time.

A few years ago, a gal I supervised would send me emails with a bunch of different things in them at once. Like… She’d ask me a complicated question about how I wanted her to complete a project… And then in the same email, she’d ask who was the best person to contact about an HR issue… And which three people I wanted her to include on a weekly report she sent out… And then she’d ask me how my weekend was… And then a question about how to perform a certain function in Word.

So what I would do was break them apart. I’d respond to her project question – in an email with the subject line “Response to Your ABC Question about XYZ Project” – in one email.

Then I’d respond to her Word question in a separate email – with the subject line  “How to Do Footnotes in Word.”

Then I’d break her other three – smaller – questions into numbered bullets and answer them all in corresponding numbered bullets.

Then I would encourage her to ask questions like that in the future – giving big, complicated questions their own email, and asking multiple small questions in numbered bulleted lists.

She didn’t like me very much, if I remember correctly.

But! In any event! That is what I do when I write emails. A boss showed me how to do it a billion years ago. And it enhances clarity immensely.

And along the same lines…

Please don’t respond to just one or two of the 5 questions I asked you. I promise that I broke them out in a very clear, numbered list and I need answers to ALL of them, it’s not a “pick and choose” type of thing.

Maybe you don’t have an answer to one… Or you don’t have an answer YET… But please, for the love of lobster, just SAY THAT. It’s better than answering two of the questions and leaving me to fret over whether I should take your lack of response as “no” or “I don’t know” or whether I should email you back and risk getting an annoyed “I’m working on it” response.

Wow. I cannot believe that I just wrote 950 words about how to write emails. Clearly I need to get out more.