Lying is Good

Yeah, you read that right.  Lying is good.  Just ask Casey Anthony.  Actually, don’t.  I’m sure the media will and she’ll make millions…  Ugh.  I don’t even want to talk about it.

I came here today to tell you a story, a story about lying, and how it can actually be a good thing.  

Lying is actually what got me into writing in the first place.  I owe a lot to lying.  Not my own, of course, but those of a “friend.”

Here’s my story.  You decide if it’s true or not.

Once upon a time I worked for a small company.  I was the HR person which meant I got to interview everyone who passed through our doors.  Well, one day, this pretty young woman comes in to interview for an Executive Assistant job, supporting our CEO, our Chairman of the Board, all our top execs.  I asked about her college background because there was none on her resume.  She said she attended one of the Seven Sisters, but had mistakenly left it off her resume.  Word processing issues, you know.  (Boy, do I know.)

She interviewed with our execs and they LOVED her.  They hired her on the spot, despite the fact that I could not reach any of her references.  When asked about it, she said one was on his yacht in the Mediterranean.  Another was in treatment for a terminal disease.  (You see where this is going, don’t you?)

They hired her anyway.  She became a very important part of our small company, with access to all our records, all our financials, everything.  She was pretty, she was charming, she even got our Chief Operating Officer to say, “If I ever have a daughter, I’m going to name her after you!”    Wow.  I chalked it up to a comment the girl made to me once, “Well, the COO and I are tight.  We get high every weekend at her apartment.”  TMI, right?  

She was willing to share other things with us, too.  About her upcoming wedding at Trinity Church in Boston – and if anyone knows Trinity, they know it’s booked years in advance because it is STUNNING.  She was planning her reception at the Ritz Carlton.  Her family was wealthy and from the seashore, dahling.  

Then, one day, she abruptly gave her notice.  She said she was going to pursue her Masters degree at Tufts.  I was impressed, as we all were.  That got me thinking.  Here she was, a young woman with all her options laid out before her.  She was quitting her boring day job to go back to school and pursue her passion.  What bravery!  

 I thought about my own life.  Here I was, stuck in a job I didn’t love.  I loved the people – even her – but I didn’t love what I did.  So I said, “Hey, I’m going to do that too!”  and I applied to the Writing Program at University of Massachusetts Dartmouth.

Then the other shoe dropped.

The woman who had inspired me to pursue my dreams got fired before her notice was even up.  Turns out, she was embezzling.  A LOT.  She was disclosing proprietary information.  She was doing bad things.  The Board demanded a full investigation.  Here’s what it turned up:

• She had been fired from all previous jobs for similar activities.
• Her parents had a lawyer on retainer, just to handle her infractions.
• She never graduated from college, nor from the preparatory school she said she attended.
• She never worked for the multinational peacekeeping body, as listed on her resume.
• She was never engaged.  There was no Trinity Church.  There was no Ritz Carlton.
• Her parents were remarkably average.
• And, of course, there was no grad school.

Luckily for me, the stars aligned just right and a layoff loomed.  Our Chairman of the Board sat me down and said that if my passion was writing he would certainly help pave the way for that.  He paid for my first course in my Masters program, then “eliminated” my position, with a nice severance package.  

Two years later, I walked across the stage to collect my Masters degree.

All of this came from a lie, a lie that inspired me.  I still shake my head at the thought.  Amazing.

How's THAT for a story?

Happy Father's Day!

Hey, Dad!  Look what I got you for Father's Day!

Well, okay...maybe I didn't get this for you.  I had some help.  From these guys.

But they were happy to pitch in to get you something you really, really, really wanted.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.  I know you would have loved this.

Do You Remember?

As you may or may not know, the Boston Bruins are playing the Vancouver Canucks in the playoffs.   Of course the B’s will win  – I can’t imagine otherwise. 

You see, I grew up in a hockey household, watching the Big Bad Bruins.  Gerry Cheever, Phil Esposito, Derek Sanderson, and, of course, Bobby Orr.   There was no escaping hockey-fever.   I remember when I was young once asking my dad, “Dad, I’ll bet you don’t know where Bobby Orr was born.”  I thought I’d stump him.  His response:  “Pffft.  There are two birthplaces you remember.  Jesus Christ was born in Bethlehem, and Bobby Orr was born in Parry Sound.”

Tonight I watched team captain Zdeno Chara take a hit that would pulverize any normal human, and it occurred to me that players used to actually play without helmets.  Can you imagine? 

No helmets, no plexiglass face shields, no cages, no teeth guards.  If they got hit in the face with the puck, they shook it off, skated to the sidelines to get stitched up, and hurried back into play.  If you don’t believe me, check out Slapshot, a great film with Paul Newman, where (if memory serves) a player gets stitched up IN the penalty box without Novacaine!  Ah, the good old days.

But it also got me thinking about all the other things we used to do in the good old days.  Some things I remember:

Waiting for food to heat up on the stove or in the oven – there were no microwaves.

Playing outside and never wanting to go home, not even when the streetlights came on – now I can’t wait to get home and to bed.  The clock hits 9:00 and I ask myself, Is it a little sad if I go to bed now?

Watching TV until the test pattern came on – programming actually ended sometime around midnight.  The National Anthem would play and then the screen would turn to snow.

Roll up car windows, manual steering, and non-power brakes – talk about a workout!

Busy signals and never knowing who was on the phone until I picked up – no caller ID meant it was always a surprise (sometimes good, sometimes bad).

I also remember the banners being lifted into the rafters of the Boston Garden.  Some memories are sweeter than others. 

Those are just a few of the things I remember.  What do you remember?  What do you miss?

The Breakup

Wow, this is awkward, a lot more awkward than I thought it would be.  I see you looking at me expectantly.  You’re waiting for me to say something.  I’m waiting for me to say something.  But what is there to say?  

It’s over.

It’s been a fabulous run.  I mean it, really.  It was great…a real rollercoaster ride!  I remember the first time we laid eyes on each other, sizing each other up.  You looked nervous.  I’ll bet I did, too.  

And then we started to talk…at the same time!  How funny was that?  You had a million questions for me, I tried to give you answers, but let’s face it:  Most of my answers didn’t make you happy, not really.  Well, sure…sometimes you were happy, like the times I told you how wonderful you are, and how smart and funny, and how I loved seeing you every day.  The good times.

But there were bad times too.

All the times you didn’t listen.  Those happened more frequently as we spent more time together.  Then there were the times you forgot I even existed.  You ignored my emails.  And then I’d ignore yours –they didn’t always go into my spam folder.  (I guess since we’re being honest now, I can tell you that some of them made it into that folder with a little help from me.  Sorry about that.)

I’m sorry about a lot of things, actually.  I’m sorry you felt disappointed during the bad times, and I’m sorry the great times didn’t last longer, but this kind of thing is hard work!  You don’t just stay great – that’s reserved for relationships like Kate and William, for crying out loud, and things like Godiva chocolate.

And now it’s over.  You’re looking a little tired, a little sad, but there’s a glimmer in your eye, too.  Is it excitement?  Deep down inside, you’re happy we're done.  You’ve already got your eyes set on greener pastures, the fabulous future stretching out in front of you.  You hope the next one will be better, nicer, kinder to you.  I hope the same.

It’s okay if you’re happy.  I’m happy it’s over too.  And a little bit sad.  Despite our ups and downs, I’ll miss you.  I’ll miss the way you made me laugh, the way you made me cry, the times I gritted my teeth to keep from throttling you.  You could be so infuriating.  And so great.

But it’s time to move on.  

You can smile as you leave, and I’ll smile too.  That doesn’t mean I won’t miss you.  

We’ve been through this before, you and I.  It’s just the end of the semester.  

There’ll be another one along sooner than we think.

Top o' the Mornin' To Ye!

So, obviously I’m Irish, what with a name like Shelagh and all…although I’ve been called everything in the book aside from Sheila.  She-lag.  She-laughs.  She-lagla.  Shelga.  I’ve got a list somewhere.

And being as how it’s St. Patrick’s Day, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least acknowledge my roots, of which I am very appreciative.  The Irish have such great blessings:  “May the road rise up to meet you…” and all that.  “May God keep you in the palm of his hand until we meet again…”   You get the idea.  Poets, they are, every blessed one of them.

Without a doubt, the one phrase I hear most is “You have the luck of the Irish!”   Luck of the Irish?  I’m thinking maybe the Irish weren’t really all that lucky…well, aside from being born Irish, that is.  That’s pretty lucky.   

But, let’s look at the history:  potato famine, political unrest, snakes needing to be driven out of Ireland, the oppressive Catholic church, etc.  Those are just a few.  I’m starting to think that we really aren’t that lucky after all.  Or, maybe we just say stuff that we think we know, when really we don’t know much.

Kind of like my students.  For example, during a vocabulary drill in class, here are some things I heard:

“Who knows what Esperanto is?” I ask.

Student’s hand shoots up.  “I know!  It’s coffee!”

My reply, “No, that’s espresso.”

Or:

“What does infidelity mean?”

Student, oh-so-excitedly:  “It’s when you can’t get pregnant!”

Me:  “Um, no.  That’s infertility.  Good try though!”

And my favorite:

“What’s desiccation?”

Student throws hand in the air, bouncing out of his chair:  “I know that one!  It’s like when you have sex in a church!”

“No, that’s desecration.”

God love ‘em, they do try; and I can say that at least my students are funny, take everything in good humor, and make me laugh every single day.  Much like the Irish. 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone!

David Cassidy vs. Idi Amin - Steel Cage Match...or My Irrational Fears

Ever wonder where irrational fears come from?  You know the kind I’m talking about, like my sister’s fear of the word “tribunal.”    

I started thinking about that the other day when my friend mentioned David Cassidy was on Celebrity Apprentice.  Just the mention of his name brought flashes of terror.  I saw myself in a dark room – specifically the living room of my old childhood home –burgundy carpeting, the light from the TV casting an eerie glow, and “HEY!  I think I LOVE you!” playing in the background.  I don’t know exactly what happened that night while watching The Partridge Family, but I know something did, and I know this because my older sister was babysitting me.  Like any teenager, she was resentful of her chore and so I’m sure she took it out on me, all while The Partridge Family played innocuously in the background.  Scarred me for life.  (Thanks, sis!)

But that got me thinking about my other irrational childhood fear:  Idi Amin, the African general who staged a coup in Uganda in the 1970’s.  

Really?  Idi Amin, you ask.  Yes, Idi Amin Dada, to be perfectly correct (Thank you Wikipedia!).

Now, you have to understand I was much younger than my older siblings, so some of the stuff they watched was really not appropriate for a delicate child such as myself (yes, I typed that with a straight face).  Well, one night my other older sister was watching the news and a piece came on about Idi Amin’s takeover of Uganda and the terrible things he did to his own people. 

Scared the bejeezus out of me.  I made the mistake of asking my sister about him and her answer was:  “He’s an insane maniac who kills a lot of people.”  Insane, I gulped. Maniac?  I guess I should have better articulated, “But WHERE is he?” because at the age of eight, I had no idea where Africa was.   

I mean, how did I know that the chances of Idi Amin hopping a Jeep and DRIVING from Uganda to our tiny house in Massachusetts were pretty slim?  No one shared that tidbit with me.  I spent YEARS terrified of him.  I would cringe whenever I saw him on the news and wonder just how far away he was and when he would get to our house.   Stupid fear?   Most definitely…but a vivid one to this day.

I guess most irrational fears come from misinformation…well, all except the David Cassidy one because I’m SURE my sister must have tied me up and poked me with pins or something while the Partridges boarded their multicolored bus to head to their next gig.  

But that Idi Amin thing…that was real.  Now I look at it and laugh (kinda).  I can tuck that one away and say, “Heh.  You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.  That was just a stupid scary thing from when you were a kid.”   

Rationalizing is a wonderful thing…when you can do it.

Just don’t talk to me about killer bees.