Why Facebook Is Fun!

Here's a July 4th post from my niece Suzy Wente Villareal and comments that follow. Digression is so much fun sometimes . . .

Shout out to Suzy and Lesley!

Suzy Villarreal (Suzy Wente)
More progress on the rent house today. Next...BBQ. I'm pretty due our forefathers would have wanted me to celebrate with cheese filled hamburgers, sweet potato chips, fried pickles and mushrooms.

David Torres
We are so on are waaaaaaayyyyyyyy!!!

17 hours ago Suzy Villarreal
Queso made with hatch chilis and sausage. I've nearly eaten the whole damn bowl. Ya better hurry.

16 hours ago Lesley Inman
Dang! I am hungry now...thanks! Feed me!! Do I have to stand out in front of your house w/ a sign, and my mower? "Will mow for SVR's food"

12 hours ago Pat Wente
Who's Lesley Inman? Are we related? Suzy, your great-grandmother (Ruth's mother) was named Lee Dora Inman. Ruth's favorite person in the world when she was a little girl was her Grandpa Inman.

2 hours ago Lesley Inman
You may be related to my X husband's family...Inman was my married name. While we were married, we did find a lot of relatives w/ his last name...you never know! I could ask him if he recognizes the name...

about an hour ago Pat Wente
Ours were from southeast Missouri. Suzy's dad can show you the whole genealogy.

about an hour ago Lesley Inman
Cool..that may mean she has to invite me over for a, um, dinner...to see the family tree! lol! She amazes me w/ her domestic abilities, I sit in awe of her!

about an hour ago Suzy Villarreal
Sorry i missed out on all of this. Just awoke from my hamburger coma.

about an hour ago Lesley Inman
LMAO!

about an hour ago Lesley Inman
Yeah, we didn't need you! j/k..we figured it all out. You are having me for dinner to figure out how you and my X husband are related! lol! y'all kinda' resemble each other...hmm....

about an hour ago Pat Wente
The Inmans (some of them) were pretty sleazy. Actually that's not true: they MARRIED sleazy -- my great-grandmother and great-great grandmother were both married to Inmans (uncle and nephew). And that's a sicko story in itself. G-G-grandmother ran a "boarding house" which we think was probably a whorehouse.

56 minutes ago Lesley Inman
LOL! You said it, not me! Yeah, there were some unsavory character's that I met at family reunion's...There seems to be a trend w/ the Inman men...not the nicest bunch!

43 minutes ago Pat Wente
They must have mixed with our Meadows and Bewley clans. Those were the ones who moved to MO from Arkansas after the murder indictments came down.

35 minutes ago Lesley Inman
Yikes!

34 minutes ago Suzy Villarreal
Wow, brothels, murder and incest. Awesome. That makes for a cool reunion. "Jim Bob is from the murdering side, keep him from the knives. Jimmy Wayne, he's from the incest side, keep your daughter at yer side. Priscilla Jo, she's an entrepreneur."

23 minutes ago Lesley Inman LOL!
Funny Suzy woke up!

18 minutes ago Lesley Inman
btw, Audrey still refers to you as "funny Suzy!"

18 minutes ago Suzy Villarreal
Lol!!!

17 minutes ago Lesley Inman
We could at least write a bad country song at the reunion!

17 minutes ago Suzy Villarreal
Lmao!

12 minutes ago Pat Wente
Steve Murphy and I wrote one at his ranch, entitled, "I'll help you shove your gut-shot elk cow into the front-loader with my red leather gloves, because I love you. Darlin'." That's the chorus.

4 minutes ago Pat Wente
We'd been drinking. The messy-dead elk cow, front-loader, and red-leather gloves were taken from real life experience. Ask him.

2 minutes ago Pat Wente
I still can't put those gloves back on.

2 minutes ago Suzy Villarreal
Love it. Red leather gloves!!!

2 minutes ago Pat Wente
In defense of the Meadows family, the neighbors started it. They killed Meadows' livestock after the War (Civil) because the Meadows family had been Union sympathizers. So, in retaliation, the Meadows boys and their Bewley cousins killed the neighbors' -- uh -- family members.

Thoughts about "strategic marketing communications"

Here's the deal. I'm not sure, finally, that I believe in "strategic marketing communications." Marketing communications is a collection of tools and tactics that serve to implement a strategy. Your marketing communications plan can and should link back to a strategy; maybe that's what the strategic marketers are talking about?

But in my experience, very few people are focusing on the strategy as a daily activity. They are getting stuff done; putting out fires; handling what hits them that day or week. I just wonder how often someone -- at ANY level in the organization -- has time to think, "Am I acting strategically today?" Uh, no. I'm usually wetting down the burlap bags to be ready to beat back tomorrow's flames.

A number of years ago someone codified the whole business outline. What's your mission? Your vision? Your values? Your strategic plan for reaching your vision? for implementing your vision?

You know what? Bullsh*t.

The mission is ALWAYS to make money. No matter how high-flown the language, that message will be somewhere in the mission statement. How are we going to make money? By getting people to buy our sh*t, whether it's a product or a service. Your vision is to be the biggest and the best, or the most successful, or however you define transcendent happiness. In corporate America, that means major dollars back to major share holders. Your values state how far you'll go, or how far you won't go, to achieve your vision. We'll try not to destroy the environment. We'll try not to abuse or kill our employees. We'll try not to poison or otherwise damage our customers. We'll try not to become community pariahs. And so on.

The strategic part happens when you're trying to figure out what your product is, how you'll handle the competition, through being first to market, or the best value, or the luxury brand. Strategic marketing is about research for product and positioning.

The rest of it, in my opinion, is not that strategic. Marketing 101 says the fourth "P" is promotion, but figuring out the strategy for that is pretty straightforward, once you've done your research.

Marketing communications is a TOOLKIT of tactics, tools, timelines. Yes, they have to link back to the strategery (to use one of my favorite non-words), but in my experience the organizations that spend too much time on "strategic marketing plans" never get around to executing.

Maybe what organizations need is LESS marketing STRATEGY, fewer strategic marketing planners, and more on-the-ground do-ers. Communicators who make stuff happen. Maybe it's time for consultants who don't leave behind lengthy plans but completed programs and projects. Real stuff that successfully tells the company's story to potential customers, encourages employees, and helps the community at large feel better about the fact that this organization is a hometown company.

I'm just sayin' . . .

Great Trip Home! Houston, We Have Landed.

We've been running up and down the highways for a few weeks now. I drove home alone from East Texas this morning, after returning Amy and her grandson Gabe to Edom, where Gabe is treated like tiny royalty until he returns to Santa Fe and has to act like a human again. In the meantime, he is allowed to watch the Disney channel all day at whatever volume level suits him, while building forts with every cushion in the house. Amy and I garaged sailed a little bit, traded stuff, and are ALMOST finished with the picnic cloth she started for me 20+ years ago. It is just adorable and absolutely worth the wait. Will post photos soon. I'm finishing the tying and binding tomorrow, while she works on getting the napkins ready to applique. It will be some fancy picnic, next one we have.

But the drive home was great. Very little traffic, good roads and I headed out just as XM radio's 70s channel was starting Casey Kasem's American Top 40 show from June 12, 1971, the week after I graduated from high school.

Talk about a walk down memory lane! Several anti-war songs. TWO versions of "Never Can Say Goodbye" -- Michael Jackson of course AND Isaac Hayes. TWO versions of "I Don't Know How to Love Him" by Yvonne Elliman (original Broadway cast) and Helen Reddy. Two Osmond songs. A version of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Aretha Franklin. Carole King and Ringo Starr were represented that week. Number 2 was "Brown Sugar," and Number 1 that week was -- are you ready? (I'm so ashamed) -- "Want Ads," by a girl group called the Honey Cones(?). One of them had been an Ike & Tina backup singer. Not a classic by any means but I have to admit I did know all the words.

Kasem pointed out that the top albums that week were Carole King's Tapestry, the soundtrack of Jesus Christ Superstar, and Rolling Stones. That caused me to remember the big dust-up at my (Mormon) church when JCSuperstar came out a few months earlier -- it was considered "sacriligious" and we were NOT to listen to it. I was of course enchanted by it, and I thought it was not irreligious but presented a different version of the time leading up to the crucifixion that perhaps a lot of people could relate to and understand. (These were the 70s, remember. We "related" a lot.)

And I remembered driving from San Antonio to Tyler with my dad probably in early 1971, having a long conversation about it. I had borrowed my friend Pat Kadison's 8 track of the music and Dad listened to the whole thing. We talked about which parts bothered him and which ones he thought were "ok." As an aside, one advantage of being child #5 is the face time I had with my dad and the fact that he and mom had pretty much seen and argued about everything, so they were calmer with me, I think.

Dad did like the orchestration and said at some point, "Well, whoever these guys are, they can write great show tunes and structure an opera!" The guys of course were Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice and this was their biggest success thus far. They went on to do, oh, everything.

Anyhow it was a great drive home today -- I do love my highly air conditioned Honda -- except for the deal at the McDonald's in Palestine (see Facebook post). Now I'm home, catching up on e-mail and thinking about stuff.

Gratitude Morning

Let's start Sunday off with a little -- a VERRRY little -- religion: offering gratitude for the people in our lives. Let me list a few of mine, in no particular order.

My sister Amy
Chuck
Claire of course
Gabe Murphy, my great-nephew who flew in yesterday from New Mexico
Amy Mata
Anna Garrett
Shana Ross
Ann Taylor and Chainsaw Yogi
My brother Tommy and his family
My sister Carole and her gang
Joyce P
MJ
My Illinois cousins, especially the Flamm-Mitchells
Margaret and Alice
Kim Kimmey and that Mike guy
Peg Newman
Pat Golemon
All other harpies
Stacy of course and Steve
Dr. Buescher

And it's comforting to know that I know if I left you out, YOU WILL LET ME KNOW.

Note: Every time I proof this, I add a few more names. That means I'm rich.

Gratitude Morning

Ten Things I'm Grateful for This Morning (not including Chuck and Claire and Casey, all of whom I'm grateful for every day)

1. Sunshine and not too much heat so far
2. That the cleaning lady will be here soon
3. My grande nonfat chai
4. That my dog wasn't killed when he took off running across the busy parking lot right next to W. Gray, dragging the chair he was tethered to at Starbuck's because the River Oaks patrolman roared up in his car and jumped out, scaring said dog into the traffic
5. That several people leaped up to help, even though that further panicked Casey
6. That Chuck left me half a banana
7. My tiny purple computer
8. That Kim is going to have a garage sale in a couple of weeks and I can clear out some junk
9. That my friend Amy's sister-in-law the attorney called with encouraging and kind words this morning, even though I'd previously sent her an e-mail in which I made a smarmy remark about attorneys in general and she was gracious when I apologized
10. That I still weigh about 12 lbs less than I did when I was working and my summer shorts, though not all THAT attractive, fit.

Let's talk about what co-dependent means

I'm ruminating on something a medical professional told me the other day about co-dependency. A very bad word, you know. It means you do too much for other people at the expense of your own well-being. Ok. I get it. I should not take on the world's problems, especially right now when my own situation is so precarious.

But let me ask you something? What if that's how you're wired? What if what's important to you . . . what gives your LIFE meaning . . . is taking care of other people? If helping, nurturing, linking, loving, giving to, and befriending people come naturally to you? If those activities are what make your life complete?

Are you a hopeless co-dependent? And if you quit doing that, what DO you do? The opposite is selfish ass-hat. I can only make myself so many f*cking tablecloths.

At the expense of spending eternity in hell (and let me qualify here that I don't believe there's a hell after this; this is hell, specifically, the main parking garage at MD Anderson), I'd like to point out that the life actions of Jesus Christ and other figures whose tenets inform the religions of the world could be perceived as co-dependent.

Discuss.

Here's a Note that I posted on my Facebook in January

To Paraphrase Diana Ross:

Baby, baby, where did my brain go?
Ooooh, don't you want me, don't you want me no more, baby baby, and etc.

So tonight is the perfect night for me to sit my large a** down and write Christmas and birthday thank you notes. We are watching the football game, which is not necessarily the most compelling thing on television in my opinion, even though I am rooting for those Indiana guys (horseshoes on helmets), in honor of my friends Rod and Dreamer White.

Now, if you gave me a Christmas and/or birthday gift and you do not receive a thank you note from me over the next week or so, please understand that I have probably already forgotten what you gave me -- or that you even gave me something. I tried to keep a list, but that fell apart, even before Christmas.

Nevertheless, I am grateful to you: it was just what I wanted; it was delicious; I haven't read it, nor do I already have one; I know I'll use it often; it fits, smells great, or goes great in my (insert room here); and I thank you so much for thinking of me.

A Christmas thank-you note we received from the always-prompt, southern gentleman Richard shows a cartoon version of the Virgin Mary sitting at a rude writing desk, donkey looking over her shoulder, and she's calling toward an unseen part of the stable, "Honey, who gave us the myrrh?"

I'm just clueless.

Great Business Idea for Quilt Shows -- Let's Brainstorm!

Ok. I heard this story about a late-middle aged {read: old} man who went to one of those "Modeling Studios" in Houston where -- I THINK -- you pay money to sit in a cubicle with a small window and watch a person or persons in another room doing "modeling." Again, I'm not clear on the details of the modeling activity, but I think it's like a peep-show. The upshot of the whole thing was that the man had a heart attack and DIED in the cubicle.

The police were called, learned from his ID that he was from out of town, attempted to contact the hometown and learned that the deceased and his wife were in Houston for Houston's big International Quilt Festival at our famed George R. Brown Convention Center. So the wife was contacted at the show. Guess what? SHE REFUSED TO COME AND CLAIM THE BODY! And do you blame her?

Not sure what happened after that; probably some other family member had to fly in, go to the morgue, and say, "Yes, that's my dad, the dead guy with one hand on his johnson."

Anyhoo, got me to thinking . . . what kind of booth could we set up at the Quilt Show that would appeal to those bored husbands who obviously have no interest in hand-turned applique, tiny stitches, and intricate patterns. Probably a modeling studio would be frowned upon, and if you opened a sports bar,then you'd get surly old midwestern drunks who'd just fall face-first into a $14,000 quilting machine, or barf on the Best in Show winner. Think of the liability issues. And, of course, the George R Brown would have first dibs on all liquor service, thereby cutting into our profits.

I've thought of a mini-Academy sporting goods store, perhaps fly-tying demonstrations, a magazine stand of nothing but magazines men read, along with a comfy place to sit (by the hour of course)with foot massager machines. I'd love to be the one to take someone's $20 bucks, give him three "Field and Streams" from 1997and a couple of dog-eared Orvis catalogs, make him comfortable, and then send him away an hour later. Or take another $20 from him.

Any other ideas? If you go to the quilt show, you see HUNDREDS of these morose men, zombie-walking down those long rows of fabric, thread, needles, patterns, and silver-haired ladies wearing brightly-colored but nonetheless depressing quilted clothing. Maybe we could joint-venture with some therapists to provide suicide counseling by the hour?

I'm open to other ideas. The show is in October. We need to get busy and reserve our booths. With the right mix, we could be IN THE MONEY.

Ideas?

You don't buy a "self-righteous bitch" hat. It just shows up on your head one day. You've earned it.

A young man stole the parking space I was CLEARLY waiting for this morning at Starbucks. I even lowered my window to tell him straightforwardly of his mistake. He shrugged me off with a Hugh Grant-ish accent: "Yes, wot . . . well, then . . ." (ONLY the accent; no way did this cat look like HG), and he sauntered on in. I left my car in the middle of the parking lot, with flashers on, and went inside as well.

I queued up behind our Brit and muttered something about how we in America have respect for our elders, especially in the American south and when the elders are ladies. He tried to worm his way out of it by pointing out that we'd only have had to change places and he'd have been in the middle of the parking lot and that we were actually saving fuel with the current arrangement. At that he gave a weak smile. (Note: Do all Brits have odd teeth?) I glared at him as though he was something I'd stepped in while dog-walking.

But when the barista asked him if he'd like his usual and he replied in the affirmative, I linked my arm in his and said brightly, in MY BEST Emma Thompson, "And he's buying Auntie's grande nonfat chai as well this morning, aren't you, Dear?" The barista rang both up drinks and handed him his card back.

He was simply speechless. Nothing. Not a "wot" nor an "I say" anywhere.

"Thank you SO much," I said. "Have a marvy day! Do say hello to your mummy for me!"

I swear. It's the hat.

Mama Voted for Obama!

Mama Voted for Obama!

Casey's BFF

While Chuck and I spent the night in the hospital a couple of weeks ago, Casey spent two nights with Anna and Lucy and his BFF Milo. When Milo came over for dinner with A&L on Saturday, they greeted each other happily; then Milo took ALL of Casey's toys out of his basket. We're still finding them here and there. He's a sweet puppy. Here are photos of Casey and Milo at the sleepover. I think Milo is trying to look tall in the second photo.

Gosh I'm a Good Cook!

Especially when the ingredients are right. This past Saturday, we invited Anna and Lucy for a Valentine's dinner. They brought a gorgeous chocolate mousse cake, and I made -- are you ready for this -- seared venison medallions and pork medallions in a wild mushroom and portobello port sauce, nicely roasted rustling potatoes, and beautiful haricots verts. Lots of terrific red wine and French press coffee rounded out the evening. Ahhhh.

Let me know if you want the recipe. Special thank you to Russell Hall for the perfectly prepared and marinated venison medallions. He's every bit as good a butcher as he is a hunter; I'd rank him right up there with my dad for his excellent, careful skills.

I'm De-Loitte-ed to Be Here!

Started the new gig on Monday. Two days in a very snazzy orientation program where I learned how to get around, where things are on a top-notch intranet, who does what, how to get technology and communications. Today had my first meeting with my two key bosses, the Deloitte regional managing partner, and the head of marketing for our region.

I'm loving the fab building downtown, shown here. Deloitte just moved into floors 36 through 45 before Christmas, so everything is brand new. I'm on 45, totally styling. Anyway, very glad for a new year with a new job. And it's a 2.3 mile commute. More than that, for the first three days, my driver has dropped me off and picked me up; I'll figure out parking next week.

Icing on the cake is the number of people I know from old Andersen days. I don't think I've ever been hugged this much in a new job. Or probably any. But this is fun.

Bulletins as they occur.

The Next Rule

Ok. Y'all. I've been married 23 years. I know. Many of you lose bets every time the calendar passes 12 October ("A day of great discovery," said McCabe, when he proposed. To which I replied, "Columbus thought he was in India." But never mind.)

So he's been sick for a few days. He isn't sick often. He works out, which keeps viruses and such burned out of your system. (Did you know that?) And he isn't around a lot of people every day, so he doesn't touch doorknobs, elevator buttons, and other surfaces that harbor bacteria (ewww). But he's had a virus, obviously.

Nevertheless, he is now well. Or at least on his way. And he has been in an absolutely filthy mood all day. Why? I DO NOT KNOW. Am I the one who had a SUCKY New Year's Eve? Am I the one who missed going to my favorite place--my brother's house in Helotes? Am I the one whose fifty-f*****g-fifth birthday passed UNNOTICED? Am I the one who starts ANOTHER new goddam job on Monday and is stressed beyond speech?

Yes to all of the above.

So why is HE the one who is all pissy?

I don't know either. But here's the rule.

My next husband is a hologram. That's it. Don't even think about an alternative. I'm done.

New Rule

My next book will compile all of my important rules. You know, like "No one can get inside anyone else's marriage." And, "We don't drink at lunch." Important stuff like that.

So here's my new one: "To determine how long it takes to get over a hangover, take your age and divide by 20. Round up. Multiply by 12 and add 5 for each 20 years of age or fraction thereof."

Example: If you are 20, it takes 17 hours to get over a hangover. (20 divided by 20 = 1 x 12 = 12+5). Got it? If you are 60, it's 60 divided by 20, which is three. 3 x 12 = 36 and 36 + 15 = 51, which means you are too old to get bombed, as it takes two days to get over it.

This is Arithmetic, and as the t-shirt says, "I'm an English major. You do the math."

Has Everyone Been to Amy's Blog?

Here it is. Don't miss it. She is posting every story she ever wrote. They are all worth reading and some of them will put you in the floor.

http://amymurphy-amy.blogspot.com/

New Year's Eve Sucks.

At least this one does. Chuck is sick, running a 99.4 elevated temp, spent the night in the loo. Poor guy. Poor me, also. We were going to San Antonio to party at my brother's house. And "party" is indeed a verb at Tom Wente's. Oh geez those people have fun. Anyway I am sorely disappointed to be staying here, probably watching Ryan Seacrest and Fergie wheel Dick Clark out right at midnight eastern.

Sigh.

Happy New Year to everyone anyhow. I think it's going to be a heckuva year.

Good News But I Cried Anyway.

This past Tuesday was my two-year mammogram. I made an "A." That means that I'm now officially a "two-year survivor." We've discussed before how much I dislike that survivor term; I prefer "unwilling participant."

Anyhow, Tuesday came and went. Happily. We had Carol and Rob for dinner and I played with my new stove like it was a Barbie doll. Also played "set the table" for a couple of hours, thoroughly pleasing myself. C & R brought gifts and good wine, as usual, and we had a lovely evening catching up with them.

Wednesday I went back to MD Anderson because I didn't have time on Tuesday to get my Zometa infusion -- this is the study drug I'm on that builds up bone density torn down by the Arimidex (the super anti-cancer oral drug that I'm on for the next three years). Zometa has also been shown to further lower the recurrence rates in HER2 cancer patients, so that's another plus. I'm on a 36-month study, infusion every three months.

I bopped up to the infusion clinic, whistling Christmas Carols, blackberry in one hand and a grande non-fat chai in the other. Got to the waiting area, sat down, surveyed all of those very sad people in various stages of illness, looked into the eyes of their anxious caregivers, heard the hushed tones of fear and worry, and burst into tears.

I was just so heartsick for all of them. I wished I could tell them that they'd be ok. I wanted to show them my hair, how pretty it is, and to tell them how hard I'd sobbed when it came out in my hands in the shower. I wanted to tell them how I'd gone hiking three weeks after finishing chemo and how hilarious it was that I was immune to the swarms of mountain mosquitos, and how hilarious it wasn't that I almost didn't make it down the mountain. But I did make it down the mountain, and I wanted them to know that. I thought maybe it would help. Or maybe not.

I finally called my brother to tell him my good news from the previous day, and got myself straightened up during the call. I also told him that there is a big New Year's Eve party at his house again this year, even though he hasn't yet extended an invitation to any of us. Stacy and I have already decided we're going, so he and Cheryl need to get ready.

Merry Christmas everyone. If you read this blog, you are part of the reason I celebrate this year.

Dick Cavett says it just right.

Follow this link to read his marvelous essay, "The Wild Wordsmith of Wasilla."

http://cavett.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/11/14/the-wild-wordsmith-of-wasilla/?em

On the recent election . . .

A conversation with my friend Jim-the-Republican. He says, "I guess you're happy with the results of the election."

"Are you kidding?" I ask. "My hangover lasted for two days!"

"What a coincidence," replies Jim. "So did mine."