Social Graces

As of late, I've been incredibly confused as to what it was I had been feeling.  I was silently and viciously attacked without my knowledge, and I refused to show anger over it.  For that I was accused of being a sociopath, to which anyone out there who has ever dared to read my blogs would know that to be incredibly false. Anyone who's ever known me in person would know that wasn't true.  I'm filled with deep emotions that I must try to control lest they control me.  I just know not to get angry over petty things because it doesn't do anyone any good.

I've learned a lot since moving to California in 2002.


1.  Nice towels are worth spending a few extra dollars on.
2.  People only want to know you if you can do something for them.
3.  A drive along the coast will cure just about anything.
4.  Traveling is worth every cent we can afford to spend on it.
5.  Life is lived outside of four walls and two rooms.
5.  Everything out here is measured in time, not miles.
6.  There's not a person in the world who won't lie to your face.


Social graces within the workplace dictate that names shall not be named.  I am personally guilty of that action, and for that action alone, I apologize.  I apologize to my boss.  I apologize to his wonderful wife. I apologize to those people I named. HOWEVER - what I told was true so I will not apologize for having said it.

As several people lately will attest to, when I have a problem with someone in particular, I go directly to them - not to everyone around them, people who know them, neighbors, roommates and total strangers.  Those would be the actions of a coward - someone who feels it's necessary to hide within the shadows.  I'm not a shadow dweller.

After posting a blog recently, I was accused of being extremely egotistical by someone who claimed to not know me and refused to put anything but "Anonymous" for their name.  To clear THAT one up, I never said that everyone in the world wanted to BE me.  What I said - if you can understand plain English please feel free to go back and read it again here... - was that I've known so few people who actually loved me.  People who claimed to love me were actually obsessive people.  I draw them to me like flies.  They don't realize they are obsessed with me, and perhaps they aren't at first, but that turns out to be the case.  Not every one of them want to BE me, but what I said was "People wanted to be with me, be like me, be around me or just BE me."  I stand by that.  Now - stop posting anonymously and your comments might actually be posted.  *wink*

Those who obsess over others usually do for those reasons - am I wrong?

So I'll leave you with these final thoughts on the matter before I get back to writing about my regular program of stories, travel adventures, upcoming excitement and joyful times...

Don't obsess over others.  It leads to no good.

When you break social graces, it's ok to apologize.

Any time I have a problem with someone, I go to them. If you don't hear it from me, I don't have a problem with you.

And finally - Life is too short to spend time with people who suck the happiness out of you.  They aren't worth the time, so why give it to them?  People, it's time to move on.

Hello Japan!

Based on my stat counter plugged into my blog profile, it looks as though I'm becoming something of an odd phenominon in Japan. I am not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but since I used to work for a Japanese company, I must somehow assume it's related.

I'll never forget working at that company. Most of the people in the office were Japanese with the exception of a french woman married to a Japanese man and who spoke 5 languages fluently, and my immediate boss, who was Gaijin like me.

When I applied for the job, right off the bat I got along with the woman who would turn out to be my boss. She valued the opinion of the french woman highly though. The french woman, an adorable gal by the name of Aurelie, could read people by their shoes. Imagine that - I wonder where I got the idea from a few years later. She took one look at the lovely little black peep-toe sling backs I had on and knew right off the bat that she liked me. I got the job.

My boss turned out to be one of the neatest people I ever worked for. She was funny and brilliant, though she rarely gave herself the credit she deserved. She took me under her wing and taught me anything I could absorb. Other than a brief period of being burned out and growing lazy because of it, I worked very hard for her. That one period of growing lazy eventually was realized though, and by then it was too late. I had screwed things up royally.

I did work hard though. I learned not only my job, but parts of the Japanese language. I would ask someone for a new word every day. They would teach me and I would practice all day long. I would write it on a sticky note and tack it to the edge of my computer screen. Before long, I had my numbers 1-10 memorized and many of the polite words needed to greet others any time of the day. I didn't tell anyone, but I was getting to where I could understand it more than I could speak it. Even now I can pick up on a conversation and know exactly what is being talked about, even if it's not exactly what is being said.

I made decent money and was proud. For the first time in my life, I could afford my own place (albeit with a roommate) and I fully supported myself. I didn't have to rely or depend on anyone but myself. It was a feeling of liberation. I owed that all to the wonderful Japanese company I so dearly loved working for.

Eventually I moved up from being the phone receptionist and took over the National Sales when my boss Michele went out on maternity leave. I would travel from coast to coast, doing dealer visits, product training and trade shows. I very much enjoyed it, but while I was working for the company I met Pete. He and I started to get more serious, and eventually I couldn't see spending that much time traveling anymore, no matter how much I loved it.

When the job offer came in for me to make nearly double what I was making for the Japanese company, I couldn't afford not to take it. Unfortunately, the job didn't work out and I was let go within the first 30 days of employment. Certainly my old company wouldn't take me back and I didn't blame them a bit. There I was, having moved in with Pete 2 days before, and suddenly going from making TONS of money to not having a job at all.

I learned a valuable lesson about loyalty from that brief bit of history. The Japanese people and company are highly loyal and honerable. I wasn't loyal to them in return, and I missed out on something really great. Though I do get paid better NOW than I got paid in 2006 working for them, I miss the culture of the place. I miss the language lessons, the traveling, the kindness, respect and loyalty they all showed to me. I miss Mr. Katayama coming over from Japan for his visits and always wanting to sit next to me at the dinner meetings. I miss Mr. Nishikawa and his kind words. I miss Mrs. Kawano and her angelic face, her sugary voice. I miss Aurelie and her lovely french accent. Most of all I miss Michele. She really was a great boss.

I aspire to be like Michele with the way I run my crew now. She shared a few lessons with me that I'll not easily forget. I adored her and her quirky personality. She had a lovely smile that would light up the room as soon as she shared it. She only had a couple of employees and I have 12 now, but the fact remains that she taught me how to run things.

Probably my favorite story though of working for the Japanese company happened when Michele was out on leave. Nobody was in the office when I returned from lunch and I was left pondering the vacant offices around the hexigon building. I made my way over to my office and sat down. Still wondering where everyone was, I stood up again and poked my head out of the door. Just then Mrs. Kawano came scampering in like a little mouse from the warehouse out back.

"Amanda-san! Amanda-san, ah, we need your help!"

First of all, calling ANY female by name with the added 'san' at the end is a term of extreme respect. I was called Amanda-san by almost everyone in the office, with the exception of the company president and the American born Japanese guy, Mr. Ikeda, who had the office next to mine.

Mr. Ikeda, Mrs. Nakamura and Mr. Masaki were all waiting for me in the warehouse. Mrs. Kawano lead the way to a closed door in the back. When she opened the heavy wooden door on the groaning hinges, it opened into a pitch black room with a vague, distant light shining somewhere in the depths.

As I stepped inside the room, my eyes adjusted to three different lights, shining at white pieces of paper all the way against the back wall of the room. I walked over, slowly.

"Mrs. Kawano," I asked, "What is this?"

"We, ah, need your help. We have brown eye," she said, pointing at her own eyes with an extended finger. Her freshly manicured hand smelled like kiwi melon. "You," she said, pointing at me, "have blue eye." Still confused over everything except what color our eyes were, I arched one eyebrow and scrunched the other to look closer at her. What was I missing? She continued, pointing to the lights on the back wall. "Ah, what color is light?"

"Huh?"

"What color is, ah, light?"

"Which one?" There were three lights shining on white pieces of paper against the back wall. Which one of the three was she talking about? As far as I could tell, all three were slightly different shades of color.

"Any," she said.

"Well," I started slowly. Mr. Masaki looked at me, holding one of the lights up and waiting. Mr. Ikeda and Mrs. Nakamura almost appeared to be holding their breath. "That one Mr. Masaki is holding looks slightly more blue, and Mr. Ikeda's looks like a normal white color. But Mrs. Nakamura's light looks a little yellow."

"AAAHHH!!" Mrs. Kawano exclaimed. "Thank you Amanda-san! So we, ah, all have same eyes!"

"Mrs. Kawano, what are you talking about?" She had clearly established already that my eyes were blue and hers were brown. How could that be related to her statement saying we had the same eyes?

"All of us have, ah, brown eye. We didn't know, ah, if you would see Mr. Masaki's light as, ah, more blue than the other," she paused, "because you have, ah, blue eye."

I pondered over this odd hypothesis they had collectively come up with for the rest of the afternoon and failed by the end of the day to make sense of the whole thing.

I still chuckle to myself over that day. She, as well as the other occupants of the office, were convinced that we all saw colors differently depending on the color of our eyes. It was a strange, funny moment, but one that lives on in my memory with fondness and a good hearted giggle.

A Quick Thanks

This is just a quick thanks to the people reading my blogs in places such as:

558 United States

61 Canada

50 United Kingdom

30 Japan

16 Australia

9 Germany

9 Saudi Arabia

8 Singapore

2 Switzerland

1 Czech Republic

The countries listed above are listed in the order of the most amount of viewers to the least. The numbers indicate how many viewers I've had from each country so far this month.


Just thought I'd share.


THANK YOU!!

Soaring Hopes

I have a fear of commitment.
That sounds like quite an odd statement for someone who has been married, but keep in mind I've been married twice and divorced twice.

(Photo taken in 2002
on Catalina Island)

I've finally committed to something; several things in fact.
I committed myself to taking care of my cat. That should be obvious by my other posts.
I'm committed to taking care of myself. Odd statement, yes - but it's not something I've always been committed to.
I'm committed to my job and my boss. Where would I be without them? I certainly wouldn't be able to take care of myself!


But I'm also committed to you, my readers. I'm writing EVERY DAY because I know you're there, you're listening and you're reading. I'm committed to sharing with you for as long as I have stories to share.





I stumbled across some blogger by the name of Pioneer Woman earlier this morning. While it seems the rest of the world had already discovered this amazing person, aparently I'm a little late to the game.


It all started when I discovered a comment on my latest blog signed "PW". Try as I might, I couldn't come up with anyone I knew who had the innitials of PW. My friend Vicki asked if there was a possibility that it was this infamous blogger, one of the most successful bloggers of our time. Since I didn't know the person at all, I decided that there was no way it could have been them. Whomever left the comment with the innitials PW was someone I had known well enough to tell a shortened version of my Kidnap story to - and there aren't many of those. Still, I had stumbled onto an amazing blog and spent hours reading various things.


Pioneer Woman blogs about daily life, her kids, and living out in the country. They heard cattle, have many horses, and the King of the Ranch is a bassett hound named Charlie. Pioneer Woman blogs about recipes, home schooling, trips and vacations, photography and Home and Garden. She has give-aways, sponsors and contests. But she also has a wonderful love story that completely swept me away for hours on end. I'm still not done reading it. She has the "Happy Ending" we all search for and deserve.


This remarkable woman has boosted my hopes about as much as seeing how many of you are DAILY readers of my blogs these days. My hopes are soaring high, knowing that each time I tell a story, there's someone, somewhere out there who wants to be an audience. Maybe I don't have as many people reading my stories as the Pioneer Woman does, but with hope and continued commitment, we can get there.


Thanks, to everyone, for your comments and support.

Why I Write

oday I was astounded that I had more than 50 views on my blog before lunchtime. I set forth a goal, telling everyone that if I had over 100 views on my blog in a single day, I would post two more today as a treat. Well, we accomplished that by 10:54pm, with 107 views. By midnight, I estimate somewhere around 130 views, clearly a hundred more than an average day. For all the hard work and effort that went into this, I've decided to write two blogs AFTER this one. Perhaps by the end of this one you will understand why.

I was told in a private tweet earlier today by a first time reader of my blog that I was a very interesting woman. When I asked what it was that made me so interesting, the response was "it's interesting reading someone's story and like that, you're putting it all out there." It started my thinking process. I wondered for a flash of an instant why it is I write and "put it all out there" for everyone to see.

I have some friends who believe I should do video blogs. I've thought about it, but I hesitate only because I know that writing permits me the time to think carefully about my words, how they form and how they paint a picture. It affords me the opportunity to be far more descriptive than I would be on camera. Yes, I have a presence on camera - and maybe one of these days I'll do a video reading, but just to tell a story on a video, I find I say the typical space fillers far too often. I can't get through three sentences without using "um" or "ahh" a couple of times.

But why would I need to choose between writing and video blogging? What is so important that I want to tell the world?

When people tell us that we should live like we mean it, spend what we have, because we can't take it with us - they're right. We don't take our homes or money or cars with us when we die. Ladies don't take their shoes or handbags. Men don't take their fishing boats or entertainment systems. We don't even take our names with us. They're handed on to other children. I'm certainly not the only Amanda I've ever known.

In the end, our stories are the only things we take with us. If they aren't shared with others, what good has it done us to survive the trials and tribulations we must endure throughout our lifetimes? Is there a possibility that others can learn from the lessons we've had to figure out the hard way?

I guess in a way it's a selfish reason I have for writing. I don't want the stories I have to die with me when my time on Earth is done. Then again, it's completely unselfish. I've known several people I can name off hand who say my stories and determination have inspired them to strive for a better life. One time someone contacted me on Myspace to tell me that something I had written had changed their mind on the fatal mistake of committing suicide. Another long time friend confessed to me that they had been trapped in a horrible relationship with someone they no longer loved but didn't have the strength to get out of it for fear of not ever finding something better. That person has since moved on and seems happier than ever with their decisions. It's always a struggle starting over, but it's all worth it for the chance to be happy in life. He found that guidance through me somehow - through my stories.

These are our lives we are taking for granted. They were meant to be lived and enjoyed. They were meant to be filled with experiences and memories that will last forever. How waisted is the life spent in misery!!

I have learned through times of being abused, abandoned, kidnapped, loved, adored and honored, never to take a single moment for granted. I have stories to share with anyone who will listen - and you proved to me yesterday that not only are you listening, but you're sharing! There could be few gifts in this world greater than the gift of being appreciated for my words of adventure, wisdom, stupidity and silliness. It's a great accomplishment to me when someone tells me that my stories have inspired them, or that they look forward to my next installment.

So, I guess that's why I write.

I write because people appreciate it.

I write because it helps me to cope with issues.

I write because it helps others to cope with drama.

I write because YOU enjoy it.

I write because you tell me it inspires you.

I write because of you.

Thank you - each of you - for caring enough to come back day after day.

This blog, and indeed all of my blogs, are for you.

.

Get It, Whomp!

It's been four days since I've written a single word and I'm feeling a bit guilty. I don't even know what I will be writing about today, just that I know I need to sit down at the computer with the intention of writing something for those of you who continue to check my blogs daily. I'm sorry to have disappointed you lately, I've been a bit busy elsewhere.

I'll make this one worth your while.

I'll never forget the day my Uncle came to visit and wanted to cook for us. He was a truck driver and hardly ever got time in from the road. He and my mother were extremely close in their youth and very much loved one another even in adulthood. Still, certain things had changed. They no longer believed it was fun to throw chewed gum at one another hoping it would stick in the others hair. Well, Mom didn't anyway. Mom hadn't ridden a horse in many years and my Uncle hadn't had to run from one since then. Uncle Mike couldn't walk on his hands anymore, but he could still ride for a mile and a half on nothing but the back tire of a bicycle. Mom had finally learned how to cook durring her marriage to my father, but still didn't have the patience to teach us too much.

Uncle Mike decided he was going to teach my brother and I how to make Spaghetti. He boiled the water and threw the noodles into the pot after breaking them in half and continued a conversation with my mother about one horse they had as a kid. Uncle Mike wasn't crazy about horses as my Mother was, and in fact, still isn't wild about any animals to this day. I personally believe that's because of his days as part of the road crew who cleaned up road kill in the 70's and 80's - I can only imagine that would numb someone to the emotional experience of loosing a pet, or even loving one to begin with.

The horse they were discussing was Whomp. It's an odd name for a horse, I'll admit, but Whomp, by all accounts, was a brilliant horse. All anyone would have to do is lean over in the saddle, get as close to Whomp's ears as possible and whisper to him "Get it, Whomp!" and the horse would take off like it had been smacked with a dozen switches at once. He tore off through valley and vale, over fences and logs, through brambles and briars, never slowing and never faltering until the reigns were pulled back. Mom had, on many occasions, told us of Uncle Mike begging to go for a ride just down the lane to a friends house. Mom hated having to taxi him around like that because she had wanted to go in another direction. As penance, she would sit my Uncle, her younger brother, on the back of the horse just behind the saddle. She would ride properly for a while, not much more than a walk. Finally, he would say something smart to her about crawling along at the speed of an earth worm, and she would stand up in her stirrups. He always knew then to hang on for dear life. She leaned over towards the horses ears and whispered, and Whomp would take off with a cloud of dust behind him like a thick fog that had gathered dirt. More than once my Uncle was left sitting on the ground behind, hurting from the bottom and bruised a bit in the ego. He would stand up and continue on his way on foot. My mother would begin to feel bad and would circle back around. She would entice him to get back on the horse and he would always turn her down. Once or twice she managed to talk him into it and would give him a proper ride the rest of the way there.

When Whomp was new to the family, he was as gentle as a lamb. The family instantly fell in love with him. My Grandfather was an amazing animal trainer, and had he been known outside of the small town where they lived in rural Arkansas, there likely would have been a book or two written about this small, frail man who embodied so much more than his stature would have you believe. He was what many people today would consider to be a Horse Whisperer. But this Horse Whisperer had threee small children to look out for and wouldn't keep a violent horse or dog on his property. This was widely known.

One day my Grandfather came walking through the field to the house. My mother watched from a distance and when she realized he was limping, she ran to fetch her mother and brothers. All four stood in the window of the living room with the lace curtains swept off to the side, peering out of the window. The smudge marks on the glass from their four matching noses would have made anyone else laugh. My Grandfather limped to the house. My mom's oldest brother ran out to lend him a hand up the creeky wooden steps and my Grandmother held open the door. They walked him to the dining room table and sat him in an old, stained, cracked and abused wooden chair that groaned under his 98 lb body. He began to roll up his pant leg to reveal a horse shoe print on his thigh larger than his own face. Whichever horse it was had to have been huge. Grandma got some ice for the swelling, and the kids gathered around in the other chairs.

"Daddy" asked my mother, all of about 8 years old at the time, "which one done it?" All three kids and my Grandmother sat on pins and needles waiting. They knew whichever horse it was, Grandpa would go shoot it as soon as he could walk without needing a cane.

"It was Whomp" he said. All three kids and even his lovely wife started to cry big, fat tears of sorrow.

"You aren't gonna kill him, are ya Daddy?" My mother asked the question they all wanted an answer to.

"Aw, Hell Naw," he stated in aggrivation. "I kicked em' first!"

At the end of telling this story, my crazy Uncle reached into the boiling pot of Spaghetti noodles and picked one out. He then threw it against the wall and watched it stick.

It stayed there for several minutes before he finally pulled it down and said "I think the S'ketti is done. You know it's done with the noodles stick." Then, he held the noodle up to his mouth and slurped it in. "Yep, it's done."