only the jodi

A search for simplicity, sobriety, compassion, & the right man. Or at least not another wrong man.
March 2nd, 2010

not so great expectations

I recently found myself trying to talk an Executive team into allowing their employees the use of Facebook and Twitter. There’s a ton of already written about using social media for brandingbuilding community, fund raising, etc. I’m not inventing the wheel here. But they are afraid people will waste time on Facebook and Twitter.

Of course they will, especially if you expect them to. Especially if you tell them NOT to waste time on Facebook or Twitter or Bebo.

In my experience, everything flows downstream. People act the way you treat them, the way you expect them to.

There’s also a ton of documentation already written about that as well – particularly in educational settings. If you expect the child to fail, to be disruptive, etc. there’s a good chance s/he will. And vice versa. If you expect them to shine, that’s probably going to happen as well.

The thing is, nine times out of ten, you get what you expect.

Growing up, I worked in restaurants. The Jolly Swagman was an Australian restaurant on Long Island.  It was a family run business and they treated all of us like part of the family. Staff meals were delicious, the same fine food that was served to the customers.  Nothing was off limits, we could eat or drink anything we wanted. I worked as a prep cook, spending a lot of time shelling cooked lobsters and crab into two giant sinks. One for the delicious cooled cooked meats and one for shells. The first night, as I worked, I ate my fill of chilled lobster, well within eye-sight of the manager.

That was the first and only time I abused their generosity.

Years later, I found myself working at an Italian restuarant and piano bar on 52nd Street and 2nd Avenue. I was in desperate need of a job, food, help. It was a bad time in my life, a time I should have been grateful for any hand up. Also a small family business, but here, staff meals were restricted to pasta dishes and on the very first day, I was told I’d be fired if I was caught eating a single shrimp.

We were all reminded of that with regularity.

And so, I stole pounds of shrimp and bottle after bottle of wine. Not that I couldn’t afford the wine. I could, I made pretty good money there. And of course, I was a much bigger drunk by the time I got to 52nd Street than I was on Long Island,  but I got so much pleasure out of stealing something from someone who expected me to, who was waiting to catch me before they even met me and was ready to punish me the minute they did. If they already thought I was stealing and were just waiting to catch me, well, if the shoe fits, I might as well wear it, no?

Social media is a well designed time-suck but the point is, the time-wasting part is an administrative issue. People act the way you expect them to. I’m convinced that’s why I’ve never been in a Radio Shack, anywhere, where the staff is helpful or happy. Or why I’ve never been in an Old Navy where they weren’t.

Everything flows downstream.

August 7th, 2009

another little piece o’ my heart

I got a chance to read some of the dirtygirl story in public last night at the inaugural of the new reading series, Sex Worker Literati. It was packed. People were sitting on the floor. A dozen or so had showed up for me personally (I sent out two hundred invitations. I’m going to pretend that that’s a pretty good percentage). Some friends I’d expected didn’t make it. On the other hand, old high school acquaintances who’ve become new friends through the actual “social” part of social networking engines like Facebook, did, with progeny in tow. 

It was all a little intimidating.

I can talk in front of strangers about nothing for hours. I can talk in front of a bunch of alcoholics about myself forever. But my writing, I want to say “my art” but that feels so very pretentious, exposing that to strangers or to friends, that’s a horse of a different color entirely. Every time, every single time I let you read my work is like handing over my newborn baby and hoping you don’t decide to put a pillow over her face. Reading my work to you is a little harder than that, more like taking a circular saw to my own chest, wrenching open my rib cage and letting you poke around in my heart for a while. Really poke.

I labor over every single word, each piece of punctuation hopefully creates a rhythm you can dance to. I write about the personal, in ways that take me to the vulnerable. Every time, every single time you read what I write, it means I’ve unlocked my heart just a little, left a door ajar, a trail of breadcrumbs down through the maze of locked doors and secret passageways.

I stood in a crowded bar last night and told you part of my story, a part that doesn’t make me look particuarly good, or sound like a nice person at all. I let you see a piece of my heart from a time it wasn’t safe to have a heart at all.

I never felt more beautiful.

There is something to be said for following your bliss.

 

TELL ME:  How you do that? How do you share your art with the world?  What does it feel like when people show up, or they don’t?  When they love your work, or they say nothing at all?  When I watch you, you make it all look so easy... Post your thoughts below, talk to me.

June 30th, 2009

moods

The thing about moods is they’re so mercurial, at least mine are.  The other day I was moved to tears of happiness talking about the farm. By the end of that day I was storming around the office looking for someone to push into oncoming traffic.

Okay, granted, I’m no longer on any mood stablizing medications and that may have been an ill advised decision. Sometimes the mood swings are just that, my mood swings. I’m a moody bitch. I get it.

Writing is a mood changer. I’ve been writing the other blog, thedirtygirldiaries.com, about the wild and crazy days of Times Square and NY in the 70′s & 80′s. Those were also the wild and crazy days that almost killed the Jodi.   Read the rest of this entry »