Early on in my career in the UK I worked with an icon in the IT industry. EVERYONE knew my boss. He was tall with salt and pepper hair and always wore a pinstriped suit with a red hankerchief in the pocket. It was fun to take him on press lunches; we'd go to Langans and he'd point out semi-famous people that I of course, fresh off the Silicon Valley boat, could not identify. He was full of industry stories, and I'd hear of staying at Larry's house and what a jerk Tom was.
One of the things I learnt from my boss is there is two sides to every story.
On one of our trips into London in a cab that smelt of stale cigarettes, I told him about an issue I was having with one of my peers. For months I had been at logger heads with this idiot. He sent me rude emails. He didn't like any of my ideas, and had actually red-lined a brochure I had spent months producing. Most of us would take a few minutes in the coffee area to chat and catch up – but this colleague would rarely make an appearance. When he did, he'd make his coffee and leave, only muttering a quick hello.
When my grandmother was eight, she went on a trip to visit her grandparents in Switzerland. It must have been quite an adventure for the little girl who lived in the tiny California city of Santa Maria; a train ride across the United States to New York and then a week long sea voyage to France. The journey ended with an overnight train to Locarno, in the Ticino region of Switzerland.
Like so many other Europeans in the late 1800s, my great grandfather Frederico left his homeland to make a new life in America. Most immigrants couldn’t afford to go back to see family, but Frederico had made the journey once before; returning to marry his childhood love, Pia, “the most beautiful girl in the village.” Fourteen years later he returned again, this time with Pia and their four children. He wanted to show off his new family.
As I was drifting off to sleep last night, still warm from the bath and smelling of Body Shop dewberry, I turned to my night stand and looked at my collection of books. I always have a high stack of half read novels, magazines and bits from the papers. I wanted something light. Not too heavy. Hmmm, this will do nicely. I picked up "What Every Woman Ought to Know". The author, Constance Mortimer, sent it to me a while back to check out.
After checking out the table of contents, I opened it up to about the middle of the book and landed in a minefield. I couldn't believe what I was reading. Well, actually, I could.
You read it, and let me know what you think.
I'm warning you now, put on your fighting gloves.
. . . . .
"Women Not Equal to Men — Scientist Says That Civilisation Makes the Gap Wider" by Dr. Charles Heydemann, PhD. Daily Mirror, 4 October 1909.
Women is not man's equal, never has been and never will. She is the complement of man, but the lesser one, as expressed in the term "minus". No one denies her great qualities, but if she is entitled to the sympathy of humanity, as such, she is not and never will be capable of understanding the duties of a citizen. (WTF?)
I've observed popular bloggers for a while now. You know the ones I mean, the ones you constantly go back and read, over and over. They all have certain traits — a special quality that makes them that little bit different. It's hard to put your finger on exactly what it is. You just LIKE THEM. ADMIRE THEM. Would consider leaving your husband for them.
Why? Who knows. But this stuff will help:
1. Write really good posts. I'll let you define what "good" means.
2. Be polite. Manners count online too.
3. Be an active part of a community. Comment. Be involved. Know when to stay OUT of a conversation.
4. Think before you press publish. Sometimes words can be taken the wrong way.
5. Don't think before you press publish. Sometimes your best posts come straight from the heart.
I did my time yesterday. Lunch duty. I was in the hall with about 150 kids and trays and trays of fish and chips.
After pouring 100 glasses of water (half-full, so the little ones don't spill) I looked out upon the sea of children. The floor was slightly damp from the rain and the greasy smell of chips permeated the air. Groups of friends were talking. The buzz loud, but comforting. I saw my youngest (nearly 5!) with rosy cheeks, laughing with her "boy" friend. She was surrounded by a table of other 4 and 5 year-olds. She looked happy.
I have to admit to being a little flustered recently. All this talk around mumosphere about the British mum blogging community getting too competitive and too commercial. How the heck did this happen?
Money, or the misconception that money can be made from blogging, seems to be one of the drivers. Can I just clarify one thing: THERE IS NO REAL MONEY IN BLOGGING. Did you hear me? Unless you are Dooce, your blogging intake will not get near any tax threshold. I’ve been in the top 10 the past year and I’ve made barely enough to fuel my Cafe Nero coffee habit. I make 100x more as a marketing consultant (and it takes less time). There are occasional freebies, but really how useful is a coffee mug, a wall clock, or another naff plastic toy? Some are nice, but do you really want all that extra stuff in your house?
