Presentation pie

Pie: what unexpectedly lands on your face when you’re trying to be cool.

I was the “preacher” stand-in on Sunday, speaking at a Unitarian church about 60 miles from here while their minister was on vacation. It was the second time I’ve presented this particular sermon. The first time, about five years ago, was at my home church and it went over very well.

In the ensuing years I have gotten much more skillful not only at speaking but at crafting a tight speech/sermon. I reworked the old speech, lightened it up with some humorous quips and images, and added a rousing call to action at the end. It was definitely improved, so I felt confident all would be well.

After what happened on Sunday I can tell I need to go back to improv class, because those skills would have been handy.

Before I was to speak, the Sunday School director invited the kids to come forward for story time.  She started telling them a tale that seemed surprisingly similar to what I was about to talk about. At first I thought, “This is good - I can refer back to a couple of her ideas when I speak.”

But she went on and on, pretty much summarizing in kid’s language what I was going to talk about. As she finished she looked back at me and said, “Heheh, I hope I didn’t spoil your story….”

In Toastmasters we are warned in our introductions never to give away the speaker’s main points. For example you might say, “Today Mary will tell us the story of Goldilocks.” But you’d never say, “Today Mary is going to tell about how a little girl happened into a bear’s home while they were out and had to try every chair, bowl, and bed before she found one that was just right. Mary?”

OK, this woman’s version of the story lacked the depth, detail and brilliance of mine, and she missed some of the juicy parts, but still, she left me holding a half-eaten sandwich.

So I got up to speak and noticed that this was a crowd that likes to keep its distance. Most folks sat as far back as possible; the front five rows were empty. I thought I was in Missouri with the “show-me” congregation. Crossed arms, implacable faces.

Still, I wasn’t worried because most audiences respond fairly quickly to the warmth of my manner (not bragging; it’s true).

Ah yes. The congregation soaked up my words like a sponge. That is to say, my words landed on the congregants and disappeared without a trace.  It was like talking to acoustical tile.

I plowed on regardless and I guess it was all right. Next time I’ll bring bagels to toss into the crowd at the end of every page of text. That would get a rise out of them. But if it didn’t I’d add lox.

Afterwards I talked with a friend who had belonged to my church before she moved to this community. She noted that there were a lot of old folks in the group and said that this was their usual “response” to the sermon.

It made me really appreciate the pleasure of speaking to a responsive audience.  My home congregation really hangs in there with the minister or any guest speaker.   At Toastmasters we are totally attentive to and appreciative of the speaker, even if it’s crap. We know that soon enough we’ll be up front and want that kind of support for ourselves.

On behalf of speakers and teachers everywhere, the next time you’re in an audience, do your part by giving the person up front the gift of your full attention. Laugh, frown, cry in response. You’re there anyway; might as well be fully present.

Pat Patterson: a torrid teen tale

The June I graduated from junior high was hot and steamy, as only New England weather can be. It was also hot and steamy in my adolescent heart as I contemplated the social possibilities ahead of me once I got to high school.

In my town, junior high took you all the way through 9^th grade. It was a social wasteland for a girl. My male classmates were short, their voices cracked like yodeling gone awry, and they were clueless about dating.

To celebrate our exit from junior high one of my friends hosted a party and invited some friends of her older brother. These high school boys were as anxious to meet us as we were to meet them because their female classmates had just deserted them in favor of the young college boys who had come home for the summer.

At the party I quickly set my radar on a guy who was nearly six feet tall– blonde, blue-eyed and adorable. “That’s Pat Patterson,” my friend whispered to me, “he’s on the football team and very popular.”

I was thrilled when he asked me to dance several times during the evening. Even more thrilled when he asked me to the movies the next night.

He walked me home after the movie and kissed me goodnight at the door. Wow! I was in love.  I knew we’d be engaged in no time.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. I was leaving the next morning for an 8-week girls camp in Maine, where I was a counselor-in-training. Pat and I exchanged addresses and promised to write each other.

In my hyperactive imagination my romance with Pat grew more intense the longer I was away. I relived our dances over and over. And the movie. And that kiss! I poured my fantasies onto the pages of my diary.

He wrote me only once – a letter I kept under my pillow and kissed every night. I wrote him every week.

Shortly before camp ended I wrote him one last letter telling him EXACTLY when I’d be getting home: Wednesday, August 26 on the 4 o’clock train.

The first thing I asked my parents when they met me at the station was, “Did Pat call?”

“No…”

Wednesday night passed. No call.

Thursday night. No call (back then girls did NOT call boys).

Friday night came, the first night of the weekend when EVERY self-respecting teen goes out. Still no call. I was miserable. To make matters worse, we were having a torrid sticky heat wave and our house had no air conditioning.

By Saturday night I was so distraught that I couldn’t even eat my dinner. When my dad asked if something was wrong, I burst into tears: “EVERYTHING!” and stormed from the table. I ran into my bedroom, slammed the door HARD, and threw myself on the bed sobbing.

About 7 o’clock I heard the phone ring downstairs. I ran to my bedroom door and it was STUCK, swollen from the humidity. Nobody appeared to be answering the phone. I screamed hysterically, “SOMEONE PLEASE ANSWER THE PHONE!!!”

My mother finally got it and yelled up the stairs,“It’s for you.”

“Who is it?” I demanded.

“I think he said it was Pat,” she said.

But I still could NOT get my door unstuck. I wailed pathetically…“Pleease… will someone help me get out??”

My dad finally worked it open and I raced to the phone, trying to compose myself.  “Uh, hi,” I said, as if I were totally bored with pesky boys calling so much.

“Hey, glad you’re back,” the voice on the other end said. “Want to catch the 8 o’clock show?”

I paused… just long enough to make it seem like I had other options. “Well… ok.”

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” he said.

I looked in the mirror. My hair was matted with tears. My eyes were red and puffy. I had a lot of face repair to do in that half hour.

At 7:30 on the dot the doorbell rang and I bounded downstairs to get it.

I opened the door and there was my short, geeky, pimply classmate from next door, Matt Harmon.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“Go where?”

“The movies…

“I can’t. I already have a date with Pat Patterson.” I said.

“But I just talked to you a few minutes ago and you said you’d be ready.”

By this time my mother was standing right behind me and I knew I was stuck. The only thing that could have made it worse was to be seen with Matt by someone I knew.

Turned out that callow Pat Patterson had been dating another girl most of the summer.

At my 25^th high school reunion I learned that as an adult Pat hadn’t amounted to much. Matt Harmon, however, had become a very successful attorney. He had also become tall, charming and acne-free. If I’d stuck with him I’d now be living in a Manhattan penthouse during the week and spending the weekends at an elegant cottage in the Hamptons. Who knew?

Poodle problems

My dog looks young and perky. She is still lean and bouncy. However she is 14, deaf, and foolish.

Once upon a time I could let her out in the back yard when we woke up in the morning and she would do her business and come back inside.  My yard covers a third of an acre, which seemed to satisfy her need for exploration. She stayed within its bounds, even though it’s only partially fenced.

Lately she’s taken to wandering. Bored after years of the same damn dogfood every day, perhaps she seeks some hapless workman’s lunch? Bored after years of the same damn yard, perhaps she seeks new vistas? Bored after years of the same damn owner, perhaps she seeks fresh love?

Today she went too far.  Dangerously too far - like all the way to the main drag a couple of blocks away, where she was trotting up the middle of the road.  A neighbor chased her home and rang my doorbell at 7 a.m. with Molly in tow.

Whatever her reasons, I have to put a stop to it.  Legally speaking, we have a leash law and she’s not on one during these early morning meanders. But mainly she needs to be protected from cars, and cars need to be protected from her. She doesn’t hear warning honks so she just muddles merrily along.

I’m beginning to see the writing on the wall. Either I stagger out with her at dawn (in the dark…and in the winter in the rain) or I get a long lead and tie her up in the back yard while I come to consciousness.  (I could just stand there with her but it often takes her up to ten minutes to find the perfect poop place - you could say she’s a picky pooper and as I’ve said, patience is not my strong suit.)

One of the challenges of owning a dog…

Piles of possessions: George Carlin on “Stuff”

Inspire yourself to clear clutter with a comedy act from the late great George Carlin. Watch his routine on “Stuff” and see yourself reflected.

I love this line:”A house is just a cover for your piles of stuff !”

Poet’s prescience: pleasure takes a vacation

Prescience: foreknowledge of events

The poet Billy Collins has a droll sense of humor and often mirrors the pulse of the people. He wrote “Consolation” several years ago when America was flush, gas was cheap, and the dollar was strong against the euro.

Now he seems prescient. We don’t know why he didn’t travel to Italy that year, but we know why we‘re not going to Italy. We’re poor, fuel and fares are costly, and the dollar is in the doldrums. So enjoy:

Consolation by Billy Collins (enjoy him reading it on YouTube)

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.

There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon’s
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.

How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?

Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car

as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off
down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.

Pet peeve: packing

Ah, vacation! Tomorrow I leave for ten days.

[Pat on back: I pulled together some P posts for distance posting plus some possible pinch-hitting from one of my progeny...]

Time away from everyday chores… distant shores, friends & family, lolling on the beach, hiking in the woods, wining dining playing scrabble, reading (formerly) dime novels, thinking useless thoughts.

But by the time I get on a plane I’m so whipped that I need an extra vacation to recover from my preparations.

Packing is a problem of procrastination. Not so much that I procrastinate on packing. Not exactly. I leave so many OTHER critical tasks to the last minute that suddenly it’s the 11th hour and my suitcase is still in the closet.

I paid bills, did laundry, vacuuming, watering, canceling of mail and papers, completed two writing assignments, found caregivers for the dog and the cat, etc etc. But then I noticed the grass had GROWN in my front yard, and if I didn’t mow it NOW, the unkemptness would signal Absentee Owner.  So I mowed the lawn.

In so doing I discovered that the mole I’d hoped would go away, had returned with a vengeance. So I had to get out my shovel and traps and do the whack-a-mole dance to lure him while I’m gone.  No kidding, this very serious guy at the garden store told me that the secret to catching moles (because a trap is insufficient) is the little mole dance.  He says his grandpa taught it to his dad, and his dad taught it to him.

This was more self-revelation than he’d intended. He wouldn’t give me the demo dance, so I’ve made up my own.

It’s now 9p. I leave in the morning. Maybe I should pack.

Pills as panacea

Panacea: a remedy for all ailments or difficulties from the Greek

In the paper today was an article about the major decline in the past ten years of patients visiting shrinks for talk therapy. Instead they are being prescribed pills for whatever bothers them.

Why this change? Because the insurance industry pays for pills - with just enough talk that the shrink can decide whether the pink or green or yellow pill would be best.

This is fine if your problem is biochemical. Some are. But if you’re struggling with your temper, your spouse, issues left over from a painful childhood, existential desire for meaning, etc etc etc (you name it, stuff bothers us) a pill will not do the trick.

Once more we’re prescribing bandaids, where a “get to the root of it approach” (public health philosophy) might well be more appropriate.

We are so stuck on the instant bottom line!!

Prematurely proud Powerpoint presenter

Last week I was so pleased with myself for my maiden voyage of simultaneously talking and powerpointing  for my feng shui class that perhaps I was overly presumptuous in calling myself a  Powerpoint Potentate: Presentation Priestess.

Well, at least I did not use clip art. I did not use overly wordy slides. I did not use wild wipes and noisy animations. I knew those were non-nos. And I had some very lovely photographs to illustrate some of my points.

But now, having poked around a bit on the web for Powerpoint pointers, and discovering two of Garr Reynolds‘ websites, I see I have miles to go.  I’m not talking about doing fancy photoshopped art, jazzy fonts, fades, etc.  It’s about simplicity, using the least possible material in the most impactful way. (His blog is called Presentation Zen - way cool. He has a book by the same name which I just ordered. I know when I need to eat humble pie.)

In one set of three slides he shows about gender inequality in Japan. First example is typical headline and bullet points. Next example says, “72% of the part-time workforce in Japan are women,”  over a dark background with a woman off to the side.   Final example (same background of woman) in HUGE text : just says 72%.   Pow!  The slide emphasizes the message graphically, but YOU are the messenger.

I’m excited about improving my skill with inspiration like this.

Pricking the prosperity pipe dream

Prosperity: the condition of being financially successful, flourishing

Pipe dream: illusion (orginally related to smoking opium)

“Oh, you’re just a bunch of whiners,” said a McCain advisor last month.  Everything’s great - just a little problem in the housing and mortgage end of things. Yeah, maybe gas is more expensive than it was, but drill a few more wells and we’ll be fine. Quitcher bitchin’.

Tell that to the people I know.  To a person, we’re feeling the pinch and we’re cutting back on all fronts.

According to Robert Reich, former Secretary of Labor in Clinton’s administration:

…This isn’t a normal downturn. The problem lies deeper. Most Americans can no longer maintain their standard of living. The only lasting remedy is to improve their standard of living by widening the circle of prosperity.

The heart of the matter isn’t the collapse in housing prices or even the frenetic rise in oil and food prices. These are contributing to the mess, but they are not creating it directly. The basic reality is this: For most Americans, earnings have not kept up with the cost of living. This is not a new phenomenon, but it has finally caught up with the pocketbooks of average people. If you look at the earnings of nongovernment workers, especially the hourly workers who comprise 80 percent of the work force, you’ll find they are barely higher than they were in the mid-1970s, adjusted for inflation. The income of a man in his 30s is now 12 percent below that of a man his age three decades ago. Per-person productivity has grown considerably since then, but most Americans have not reaped the benefits of those productivity gains. They’ve gone largely to the top.

Inequality on this scale is bad for many reasons, but it is also bad for the economy. The wealthy devote a smaller percentage of their earnings to buying things than the rest of us because, after all, they’re rich. They already have most of what they want. Instead of buying, the very wealthy are more likely to invest their earnings wherever around the world they can get the highest return.

This underlying earnings problem has been masked for years as middle- and lower-income Americans found means to live beyond their paychecks. But they have now run out of such coping mechanisms.

Coping mechanisms we have used and outgrown include:

• Women joining the workforce to augment family income
• Working more hours
• Borrowing. Big time. Credit cards, home refinancing.

Proper progressive that he is, Reich suggests:

…the long-term answer is for us to invest in the productivity of our working people — enabling families to afford health insurance and have access to good schools and higher education — while also rebuilding our infrastructure and investing in the clean energy technologies of the future. We must also adopt progressive taxes at the federal, state and local levels. In other words, we must rebuild the American economy from the bottom up. It cannot be rebuilt from the top down.

I’m with him on this. It’s a standard public health approach, with long term benefits to be reaped only after the pain of spending preventive money up front.  It’s the right thing to do, just as the right thing to do in Iraq and Afganistan is to build schools, roads, hospitals - ask Greg Mortenson hero of the bestseller Three Cups of Tea.

Will we do it?? Not till the Republicans are in a much greater minority.

Meanwhile, I know that as I buy less, the folks who built the stuff I’m not buying have less to build, and the folks who own the factory where these folks are building less stuff are buying fewer raw materials, which means the folks who mine or ship or create those raw materials have to cut back too…. and pretty soon everyone is hurting.

Prolonging the pain at the pump: keeping a gas guzzler

I have a 1998 Toyota Sienna Minivan.

It’s not a hip car, but it’s a great car. 120,000 miles and nothing has ever broken on it.  It’s comfy, quiet, and useful. It’s the best car I’ve ever owned.  My poodle Molly and I traveled 10,000 miles across the US, up and down the eastern seaboard and back in it in 2001, right after 9/11 (”Travels with Charley” redux).

Poodle and Packed Minivan

It also gets a sucky average of 19 mpg.  The price of gas is bad enough, but the fact that my carbon output is twice as high as it could be bothers me even more.

So like many others, I checked into down-sizing my ride. hahaha.

What I suspected is true.  The NY Times has an article today about whether this is a cost-effective plan. In the article is a link to a website where you can calculate how soon you’ll break even if you trade in your gas-guzzler for a more fuel-efficient model. I did the math:

My car’s trade-in value is $4,100.  A used 2005 Honda Civic hybrid is $19,200. Not counting sales tax, license fees, etc - and if gas stays at $4/25 a gallon - I will break even in a mere ten years!

The Sienna stays. I have to figure out how to rely on it less.