A humble attempt to be relevant…
Tumbleweed words . . .
skip across sandy tongues
roll under blazing scrutiny
settle in the cool of a mirage.
Happy Valentine's Day!
In my past, I could not just be
Instead, I would pursue and perform
But now I’m with you
And being is all I need.
My life revolved around endurance
The silent survival of each second
But now I’m with you
And living is all I need.
My days melted together
An indistinguishable mass of memories
But now I’m with you
And experiencing is all I need.
My head, my heart, my soul
Formed a callous, tactical trio
But now I’m with you
And feeling is all I need.
My desires retreated to safety
terrified to entice, excite, energize
But now I’m with you
And loving is all I need.
- Debbie Fierst
Two days ago, as my husband and I were enjoying a quiet evening at home, a high-pitched squeaking noise erupted from somewhere. Baffled, we began walking around the room. Was it the cable box? Nope. Was it the DVD player? Nope. Was it one of our laptops? Nope.
The noise reminded me of the days when my cassette player would eat a cassette tape, causing a whirring noise. But it also reminded me of my childhood. My Grandma hated mosquitos. So, as we settled into her big bed at night, I would muffle my mouth and make faint, high-pitched squealing noises that would delay bedtime for hours as Grandma insisted that the bug be located and extinguished.
But this noise wasn’t from a piece of equipment or a prank. As it turns out, there was a bat in our ceiling. The creature was chirping and scratching, clearly unhappy with his circumstances. We can only assume he was hibernating in our home until something roused him, and then he just wanted to find an exit and hunt for food.
At about the same time yesterday evening, the bat joined us in our family room. My husband spotted him first as he flew through the kitchen doorway. I grabbed my phone and dove under the afghan. I called my mother. “Mom, I’m under a blanket on the couch. A bat is flying overhead.” We chatted as my husband retrieved his tennis racket and disposed of our guest. He’s pretty sure the bat worked his way through the walls until he located an exit, probably in the basement.
As we went to bed my husband commented, “For someone who is so tough about so many things, you sure fall apart over a little bat.” And he’s correct. So, I’ve thought about it, and I’ve come to a conclusion. I’m not afraid of the bat. I just can’t face what has to be done to deal with the bat.
In the eleventh grade I took Advanced Biology, and I loved it. I enjoyed dissecting those huge, dead frogs, creating intricate drawings of their internal organs. But when we studied amoebas, those little one-celled organisms, I had difficulty.
“Now, using your scalpel, cut the amoeba in two,” instructed our seasoned Biology teacher. I slid my petrie dish under the microscope. I adjusted the focus. There it was, my amoeba, darting back and forth in the water, enjoying life — a free-spirited microorganism.
I couldn’t do the assignment. I couldn’t use my scalpel to cut that little one-celled organism in half. I motioned to the teacher and explained my dilemma. “It can’t feel anything,” she whispered. I had heard this same mantra from my dad when I wouldn’t put a worm on my hook during a fishing expedition. “How do you know?”, I asked. She smiled. “Just do the assignment.” Nope. I took an F instead.
So, could I extinguish a bat by smashing it with a tennis racket? Perhaps. But, for now, I’ll just take the F, thanks.
Why is it that people who don’t watch television are so incredibly haughty about it?
You know the type. She’s the Jeopardy! contestant who integrates the pronouncement into her introduction. Alex says, “And, Sylvia, I understand that you’ve read every book on the planet. Is that true?” “That’s right, Alex.” She adjusts her glasses. “Of course, I don’t watch television.” She rolls her eyes. “So, instead, I’m a voracious reader and a champion eye-roller.” Does she not realize that she’s ON television?
You KNOW the type. He’s the passenger seated next to you on the airplane. You say, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like the Skipper on Gilligan’s Island?” He looks up, momentarily glaring at you over his newspaper. Then, in a tone meant to convey that you are a poor, pathetic excuse for humanity, he says, “I don’t watch television.”
But nobody is more proud of NOT watching television than some mothers. As a mother of 13-month-old twins, I appreciate the fantastic television programming available for children today, and I certainly don’t believe their brains will rot as they solve problems along with Blues Clues. Occasionally, I find myself in a fun, relaxed conversation about children with a group of other mothers, and I make the mistake of mentioning that my boys dance along with Yo Gabba Gabba! BOOM! Everything goes dead. You can hear crickets in the night. The other mothers look at each other, eyebrows raised. Finally, someone changes the topic, “So, I bought some of those new organically grown hemp diapers…”
I have tried to put myself in their shoes. For instance, when I watch the Grammy’s, I don’t recognize half of the artists anymore. But if somebody says to me, “Man, those Pussycat Dolls sure are awesome, aren’t they?” I don’t roll my eyes and say, “I don’t listen to pop music.” I just smile and say, “Think so?” Or, if someone says, “I think the Giants might go all the way!”, I don’t respond with a curt, “I don’t follow football.” I just say, “Big fan, huh?”
So, sorry non-television watchers. I can’t relate to your contemptuous attitude or your uppity comments, but I’m delighted that your decision to disconnect gains you so much personal pride.
I’ll be thinkin’ about you tonight as I watch the evening news. (She rolls her eyes).
All of us encounter stress in our lives, and the causes vary — sick children, deadlines, difficult people. But financial stress is the most vicious and insidious type of stress, impacting everything else in your life and serving only to exacerbate every other problem.
My cousin complained of shooting pains in her back for nearly a year. But, because her husband lost his job, the family had no health insurance. So, she tolerated the pains and ignored the symptoms in order to avoid a costly doctor visit. When she finally went to a doctor, he found lesions on her liver. Thankfully, testing revealed them to be benign; however, had they been cancerous, a year without treatment could have been deadly.
Some Americans encounter financial stress their entire lives, living paycheck to paycheck or working multiple jobs in order to survive. A car problem, a dead refrigerator, or a medical emergency can be catastrophic. But many Americans have never experienced day-to-day battles over money, so the current economic problems are introducing them to financial stress for the first time; and the pain is intense, driving seemingly successful people to take unfortunate steps.
I watched a television special about severe obesity in which a young woman was forced to follow a rigid diet to save her life. Less than 24 hours into the diet, she started to writhe in bed, screaming and crying. The problem? Unpleasant contractions in her stomach. The cause? Hunger pangs! This woman had never felt hunger pangs in her entire life because she ate constantly. Do most of us scream in panic over hunger pangs? No, but it’s only because we’ve experienced them. We know what they are, and we know they will pass.
So, if you are experiencing financial stress, perhaps for the very first time, how do you cope?
When the time comes, work hard for 30 minutes and then stop. Thirty minutes is better than nothing. Days will come when you are on a roll, so you will spend longer than 30 minutes dealing with the difficulties in your life. Most of us just need a boost getting started! Your daily work will begin to pay dividends, and you will slowly tackle the mountain. More than anything else, you will sleep better at night knowing that you did something proactive to help your situation.
Financial stress is bitter, and it drapes itself like a shroud over everything you do. But, if you acknowledge it and face it, it will eventually go away — just like hunger pangs!
The U.S. job market is tough. Poor economic conditions, downsizing, hurricanes and the exportation of jobs overseas are making it nearly impossible for talented, motivated workers to find quality jobs. A recent college graduate who has been unsuccessful in her job search posted a plea for assistance on one of the many discussion forums on the web. “What can I do to differentiate myself from the other applicants?” she asked. As I reflect on the candidates whom I have interviewed over the years, two stand out above all others.
In the late 90’s, the technology training industry was still booming, and I needed another full-time instructor. I placed an ad in several local papers, and I received dozens of resumes. One of the most intriguing candidates, a woman who worked for a competitor, lived nearly two hours away but expressed a willingness to relocate. After an impressive phone interview, I arranged to meet her at a restaurant for a face-to-face interview.
The dinner interview was scheduled for 5:30pm, so I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early. At 5:45pm, the candidate arrived. Late. Strike one. She apologized for being late and explained that she had to pick up her baby from the babysitter. “No problem,” I said. “Good”, she replied. “I’m just going to run out to the car and bring her in.” She flew out the door, returning a few moments later carrying her young baby in a carrier.
The hostess seated us, and the candidate set the baby carrier on the table next to us. As the baby slept, we chatted cordially and surveyed the menus. Initially, I was impressed with her demeanor and communication skills, and when the waitress asked for our orders, I deferred to the candidate. She proceeded to order an appetizer, a meal — and a half-yard of beer! I chuckled as she said it, thinking she would turn and say, “Just kidding. Give me a lemonade.” Nope. Strike two.
I proceeded to interview the candidate, who answered my questions with ease as she sipped her half-yard. Unfortunately, after the meals arrived, the baby began to whimper and fuss. As quickly as she had whisked the baby into the restaurant, the candidate whisked her out of the carrier. She then opened her suit jacket and began to breastfeed the infant. Waiters dropped entire trays of food as they caught sight of this woman with no blanket and no privacy, breastfeeding her infant while drinking her half-yard of beer and interviewing for a new job. Strike three. You’re out.
Amazingly, another candidate stands out in my mind even more vividly. I was hiring a new graphic artist, and I had received a resume from a young man who worked behind the bar at a nearby restaurant. He always seemed amiable, and I heard from several people in town that he was talented. So, I scheduled an interview in my office.
When the young man appeared for the interview, he was dressed in nice clothing, but everything was sloppy. The shirt was only partially tucked, the tie was loosened, and his shoes were dirty and scuffed. None of these issues were deal breakers, but they were worthy of noting. Duly noted. I sat down at my desk and offered him a seat across from me. He proceeded to sit down, slouching down in the chair as if he were about to nap. Not impressive. Strike one.
I asked to see his portfolio, which included samples of his original artwork. He displayed some impressive projects, and he was clearly an artist with potential. Unlike my breastfeeding candidate, he was not conversational. I had to work to get his thoughts on life, work and the position at hand, so I presented him with some open-ended questions. “What do you like the most about your current job?” I asked. He offered a bland, automated response. I said, “Well, what do you like least?”
The young man’s eyes got big, and he sat upright in the chair. “I’ll tell you what I don’t like,” he said passionately. “I’m supposed to get the bar setup by 11:30, right? So, the entire time I’m trying to work, people keep calling on the phone, asking what the lunch special is for the day. It drives me crazy. Sometimes I just leave the phone off the hook so that I can get my job done.” Ummm. Strike two. But at least he was sitting upright now.
I asked him one more question. “If I were to ask your friends to compare you to an animal, what animal would they tell me most represents your personality?” He slouched back down into the chair. Obviously, this was his optimal thinking position. He scratched his head, rubbed his chin, and squinted his eyes. A few minutes passed before he sat back up, pointed at me and said, “A sloth.” I pondered this answer for a moment. “A sloth?” I questioned. “Yep. Overall, I’m pretty lazy. Given my choice, I’d prefer to sleep all day. So, yes, they would say I’m most like a sloth.” Strike three. You’re out.
I am frequently asked who had the biggest influence on my life, but I am increasingly unwilling to share my answer because people are always disappointed. They expect my answer to be my parents, a teacher or an historical figure like Helen Keller or Eleanor Roosevelt; so they are stunned to hear the truth.
I probably need to concoct a good, old-fashioned lie as a response, but shouldn’t one be totally honest about something this important (unless, of course, one’s biggest influence in life is Will Ritson)? So, I tell them that the biggest influence on my life, without a doubt, was the entire array of female television characters from the 1970’s: Wonder Woman, Bionic Woman, Charlie’s Angels, Pinky Tuscadero, Maude — even Laverne & Shirley!
If you were an adult during that era of television, then you remember these characters. And, you may or may not have fond memories of them. But, if you were a precocious 8-year-old girl during that era of television, then you actually were these characters! And therein lies their true influence on my life. While being them, I learned about me.
I spent several years as an Angel. And I wasn’t just any Angel. I was the smart Angel, Sabrina Duncan (Kate Jackson’s character). She was adventurous, so I was adventurous. She was tough and intelligent. During my years as Sabrina, I solved various neighborhood crimes. Missing dogs, stolen bicycles and bullies were all dealt with handily during my stint as an Angel, and I learned how to face problems without fear.
Michigan was never the same after my summer as Pinky Tuscadero. I bet you didn’t know that a yellow, banana-seat bicycle could win a demolition derby. With my dad’s old, red bandana as my scarf, I trained two neighborhood girls to respond to my snap and point maneuver; unfortunately, they quickly realized that Pinky was the only winner in that game. I learned important lessons about leadership and loyalty during my reign as Pinky.
During my short time as Bionic Woman, I gained the knowledge that I could do the same things the boys were doing. In fact, I learned that I could run faster than all of the boys in my grade. I may have been naturally faster than the boys I challenged to races, but I prefer to think that the bionic “Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch” noises I made as I ran gave me the extra power to win.
And, finally, whenever life got me down, I would simply spin in circles, round and round and round, transforming myself into Wonder Woman. I could handle anything as Wonder Woman, including serious matters like the death of my cat, the loss of my best pearly marble in an unfair shootout, and the move to a new school after the second grade. Wonder Woman didn’t let minor setbacks deter her in any way. Of course, I also had to master a lasso during my Wonder Woman days, a skill that came in handy when earning a Girl Scout badge years later.
The bottom line: I watched a wealth of strong women on television during my first ten years of life, and I tried my best to emulate the strengths of every one of them. I was a kid who loved role-playing, and these characters gave me more material than I could ever incorporate into my young life. Real or not, because of them I entered adulthood believing that I could do anything.
The Golden Rule, often referred to as the ethic of reciprocity, is a central teaching in nearly all major religions: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
This valuable principle first came to life for me on a felt board in a church basement. The Sunday school teacher pressed the cutout of Jesus into interactions with a Samaritan woman, a man with leprosy and then with Zacchaeus. She then challenged us to follow the Golden Rule for one week. As we closed the lesson with a rousing rendition of “Zacchaeus was a Wee Little Man”, my head was swimming. I intended to return the following Sunday with an arsenal of impressive Golden Rule success stories.
Of course, times have changed, but in the 1970’s, there were limited opportunities for six-year-olds to interact with Samaritan women or people with leprosy. And, by Thursday of that week, I hadn’t found any short, distressed men in trees either. I began to panic. What would I tell my Sunday school teacher?
Lying in bed that evening, I prayed that Jesus would give me a way to use the Golden Rule. Suddenly, it hit me! If I am supposed to treat other people the way that I would like to be treated, then THEY should be treating ME the way THEY would like to be treated.
In those days, my parents ended the evenings by watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, and I always wanted to stay up late enough to watch it with them. In later years, my bedtime wasn’t so rigid; however, at age six, I was supposed to be in bed and sleeping as Johnny swung his phantom golf club toward the band. But this particular Thursday night, I slid out of bed, sauntered down the hall in my long, yellow nightgown, and sat down on the couch in the living room.
“What are you doing out of bed?” my mom asked. I calmly explained that I wanted to watch Johnny Carson, too. My dad told me to go back to bed. I asked them if THEY wanted to watch Johnny Carson, and the response was, “It doesn’t matter what we want to do. You need to be in bed.” I persisted. “But if you want to watch The Tonight Show, then I should be allowed to watch it, too.” They looked at me with furrowed brows. “If you do not go back to bed right now,” my dad threatened, “then you’re going to get spanked.” Off I went. Clearly, my parents had no concept of the Golden Rule.
Over the years, my understanding of the Golden Rule matured, and I realized that opportunities to exercise this powerful principle are plentiful. While I now realize that it can be employed in nearly every human interaction, I still consider it one of the most complex and bewildering rules of life. Often, it raises more questions than it does answers.
How many times have I exercised the Golden Rule only to be met with contempt by the recipient? Apparently, they did not want done unto them what I would want done unto me! And how should I treat someone in those rare situations when I have no idea what I would want if the tables were turned? Furthermore, if the Golden Rule is so fantastic, why is it that the most valuable lessons in my life stem from moments when someone refuses to do unto me what they would have wanted me to do unto them? And what about tough love?
Just as life isn’t as simple as the depictions on a felt board, the Golden Rule isn’t as simple to implement as it is to quote. In reality, if you read the religious texts surrounding this maxim, no result is ever promised. It doesn’t say, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, and all will be well with the world” or “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, and your life will be easy.” Apparently, we’re supposed to learn from the process, not the result.
At age 19 I was married, living in Atlanta, and poor. My life consisted of one thing: work. I worked from 8am to 5pm as a legal secretary for a title company, and I worked at Macy’s from 6pm until 9pm three nights each week. I attended Georgia State University the other two nights. I also cleaned the house of a family with twin boys on Saturday mornings, and I delivered the Atlanta Journal and Constitution every morning from 3am to 6am. Needless to say, I was tired most of the time.
At Macy’s I worked in one of the slowest, least trafficked areas of the store: women’s accessories. In my short evening shifts I made a few sales of scarves or gloves, but most of the time I merely stood behind the counter, watching the video on “50 Ways to Tie a Scarf” as it looped over and over and over again. I was bored. And did I mention that I was tired most of the time?
Macy’s had a policy that retail clerks were not supposed to begin balancing their registers until the store closed at 9pm. This was a good business policy for a retail store. If a customer wanted to purchase an item at 8:59pm, I was not only supposed to be thrilled to ring them up, but I was supposed to be smiling and chatting with them as I completed the transaction.
I ignored this policy. In my world, with my hectic schedule, every minute was critical. If I could have my drawer balanced when the clock turned 9pm, it meant that I could simply grab my bag of money, deliver it to the customer service counter, and exit the building. I could be in bed by 9:15pm. If any customer dared to disrupt this pattern, purchasing an item during the last 15 minutes of my shift, I usually smirked as I assisted them, openly displaying my disgust. How dare they inconvenience me?
One Friday evening the accessories counter had been particularly slow. Only a few customers had crossed into my department. I was bored, tired and anxious to go home. At 8:45, I began to count the change in my drawer. Of course, this activity had to be handled as a covert operation, quietly and cautiously, to avoid attracting the attention of a manager. Since my register hadn’t seen much action that evening, it was balanced within minutes. With one hand on my money bag and both eyes on the clock, I waited.
And then it happened. An older woman appeared in my department. “No! You can’t buy anything!” I shouted inside my head. She wandered aimlessly around a big table of scarves, running her hand over each of them as her eyes slowly scanned everything in the department — belts, purses, and wraps. Then she walked over to the counter. I wasn’t sure what to do. Would it be better to ignore her so that she would go away or push her into a sale so that I could still rebalance the drawer before 9pm?
“May I help you?” I asked in a hurried voice. “We close in five minutes.” She didn’t respond. Her empty gaze fell on an item in the case below me, and she leaned down. I could feel the minutes slipping away, and I was irritated. “Ma’am, is there something that I can do for you, or are you just waiting for someone?” When I got no response again, I pulled out my cattiest 19-year-old tone of voice and said, “Hellooooo!! Anybody hoooome?”
She stood up, slowly raising her eyes to meet mine. Big, heavy tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her forehead was wrinkled with pain. “My husband died yesterday,” she said softly. “His funeral is tomorrow.” She paused, choking back more tears. “He was in the military, so they . . . they want me to wear . . . long, black gloves.” She wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself. “Can you help me?”
I released my hand from my insignificant bag of money and opened the case below. Together, we examined her options for long, black gloves, and I rang up her purchase. I wasn’t smiling. I wasn’t chatting. But I was helping a hurting woman who happened to be a customer in need of gloves at 8:59pm on a Friday evening.
After she walked away, I turned back toward my register, crying as I counted the money for a second time. I never closed my drawer before 9pm again. More importantly, I learned that everything in life isn’t always about me.
In the summer of 1984 I returned to Michigan from my first year of boarding school in Asheville, North Carolina. I was sixteen years old with no local friends and a driver’s license in hand, so I decided to get a job. I placed an ad in the local newspaper that read, “Ambitious student desires full-time summer job. Can babysit and type.” A veritable mountain of talent!
Soon I was offered a babysitting job in a nearby town — forty hours per week for $2.00/hour to watch two young children. During the first week I established an easy, monotonous routine of diapers, naps, lunch, soap operas, walks around the block, and more naps. I was thrilled to be earning money, but I was incredibly miserable.
The following Monday, my mother called. “A woman just called about your ad,” she said. “She owns a trucking company, and she wants you to call her about a summer job.” My heart was pounding as I wrote down the number. Should I return the call? I wavered between my commitment to this family and my desire for an opportunity that wouldn’t involve a rocking chair and Young and the Restless.
I returned the call. “Your ad leads me to believe that you’re a resourceful young woman. Is that correct?” I had no idea what she meant. “Yes,” I said. “Good. Then why don’t you come in for an interview tomorrow?” My mind was racing. I didn’t want to risk losing my babysitting job. “Well, I can’t come until after 5:00. Is that OK?” She agreed, and we made an appointment for the next day.
The following day I had my first encounter with Pearl Barkman, owner of a trucking firm that hauled gravel in Grand Blanc, Michigan. I have no idea how old she was exactly, but I do know that she had grey hair and was old enough to collect social security checks. I once questioned why she always obscured her Cadillac behind the trucks on the lot, and a woman in the office told me that, technically, Mrs. Barkman wasn’t supposed to be working while collecting her social security, so she needed to hide the car.
Anyway, Mrs. Barkman hired me to work as her Office Assistant for $2.50/hour, which I later realized was illegal since it was below minimum wage; however, it was far more than babysitting wages, so I was thrilled. Mr. Barkman, who seemed a good bit younger than Mrs. Barkman, handled the truckers, the hauling operations and the bidding, while Mrs. Barkman handled — well, everything else.
Mrs. Barkman intimidated me. She had a sweet smile, but she had the personality of a bull fighter. Once, while completing a multi-part form using the typewriter, I made a mistake. I rolled up the form, used my liquid white-out to correct the error, and rolled the form back into position. Mrs. Barkman appeared out of nowhere, slammed her hands on the table and snarled, “When completing a multi-part form in a typewriter, do not EVER — I repeat, EVER — use white-out.” She rolled the form out of the typewriter, flipped over the top copy and said, “See! Your top copy looks correct, but the error still exists on the other copies, which equates to legal problems!” She dramatically tore the form into tiny pieces. “Now do it correctly.”
Mrs. Barkman scared me. She had the appearance of a frail, old Grandmother, but she had the presence of a heavyweight boxer. Once, a big, burly trucker came upstairs from the garage to argue about his paycheck. He didn’t understand semi-monthly pay and believed his check was short by a few days. I listened as Mrs. Barkman explained it to him, but he wasn’t satisfied. He started to yell and shake his fist. I watched as Mrs. Barkman went nose-to-nose with this man, backing him slowly against the wall as she explained it to him again with so much intensity that, even if the man still didn’t understand, he was forced to yield. When he retreated to the garage, she turned around, pointed at me and said, “Sometimes explanations aren’t enough.”
Mrs. Barkman frustrated me. She wanted things to be perfect, yet she asked me to do things I had never done before. Once, she asked me to calculate the daily load tickets. Systematically, I removed a load ticket from the tall stack, entered the numbers into the large desk calculator, and hit the plus sign. I thought I was making great progress when — WHAMO! Mrs. Barkman swooped down like a vulture, grabbed the stack and said, “You will not do this until you can use a ten-key by touch. Here is a list of numbers. When you can add them correctly without looking at that calculator, come and get me.” I spent the next three days calculating numbers, cursing her name under my breath. “Mrs. Barkman,” I finally said. “I think I’ve got it.” I glared into her eyes, never diverting them as I calculated the entire list and then turned the calculator to show her the correct total. She handed me the stack of load tickets and said, “Now maybe you can do what you’re supposed to do.”
Mrs. Barkman pressured me. The first time the dispatcher was out sick, she sat me down in front of the radio. “There you go,” she said. And then she walked away. This was the one task in the office that I never wanted to tackle. The truckers were mean and impatient. “874 to base,” I heard. I was paralyzed with fear. “Dammit all, 874 to base! Cathy?” My hand was shaking as I pushed the button. “Ummmm. Cathy’s out today,” I whimpered. “Speak the fuck up!” he shouted. “Listen, I’m blocked on 69 with a 10-ton and no route.” What the heck? My head was spinning. I ran into the other room. “Mrs. Barkman, I need your help.” “No, you don’t,” she said, without looking up from her paper. “Truck 874 has run into a detour on I-69 on his way to Lansing. He has a 10-ton load, which means he wants to avoid weigh stations, and he needs you to get him there. The map is on the wall. Now go do it.” I did it. And, by the end of my third summer with Mrs. Barkman, I cussed instructions into that radio without hesitation.
Mrs. Barkman mentored me. I didn’t recognize it at the time. I didn’t think I needed it at the time. I didn’t appreciate it at the time. But now, as a small business owner, I realize that, in her own unique way, she was teaching me the myriad of critical skills that I would need to be successful in both life and business. Am I a resourceful young woman? Yes…thanks to you, Mrs. Barkman.
I am a wife, a mother of twin boys, an entrepreneur, a writer, an editor, a trainer, a coach, a geek, and a Christ follower. But don't let any of that information impact your opinion of me. Enjoy!
