Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life..., page 9

It was a beautiful thing

Yes, Virginia. I am a soccer fan.
I learned the nuances of the game as a defensive player on my grade school team and eventually became a goalie in pickup games with French friends and Australian relatives.
As much as I loved it, my athletic prowess was limited so my"career" was short-lived. In high school, I documented the triumphs of our championship team as a student reporter with the Greenwich Time.
Today I can name Europe's top teams and easily recognize the world's best players. I am watching lots of World Cup matches.
I am not alone.
Earlier this week, thousands of Americans gathered in bars and at public viewing parties. We watched a U.S. team take on its nemesis, Ghana. We cheered when our boys took an early lead, agonized when Ghana tied the score, and celebrated when a late goal secured the victory.
For a few brief hours, nothing else mattered. Not world events. Not politics. Not religion.
We stood as one.
It was a beautiful thing.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Yes we can!

It's official. I'm annoyed.
I'm somewhat annoyed because I'd spent more than an hour writing this post when it mysteriously vanished. Not that it was a great loss -- I didn't like how it was turning out anyway.
I'm mildly annoyed that I've sent out two dozen resumes in the past couple of days and I haven't gotten a single response.
But if you want to know the truth, I'm really annoyed about everything that transpired on this week's episode of Deadliest Catch.
It turns out that Captain Sig Hansen's 18-year-old daughter, Mandy, wants to follow in her father's footsteps. The only trouble is that he's a crab fisherman on the Bering Sea.
Now, those of you who have been living under a rock for the past decade may not know this, but crab fishing on the Bering Sea in the middle of winter ranks as one of the most dangerous jobs on the face of the earth. So plenty of people have plenty to say about whether young Mandy should chase her dreams.
I say, let her try. She should have the same opportunity to follow her passion that I did to follow mine.
You see, I spent my whole entire professional life working in male-dominated jobs -- so I know what they said to my face -- and what they said behind my back. My presence in male locker rooms made people uncomfortable. My presence at crime scenes threw some people for a loop. My penchant for risk-taking to get a story raised a few eyebrows.
I didn't care. I never listened to the people who said it was "too dangerous" or that I "didn't belong" or that I should have been doing something else.
If I'd listened to them, I never would have become a successful journalist. If I'd listened to the people who told me "you can't," or "you shouldn't" or "you're no good," or "you're not important," I never would have had the courage to write my memoir.
It's not about being a strong woman or being a feminist. It's not about "leaning in" or being all things to all people. It's about being true to yourself.
So if you have a dream, chase it. If you want a great life, live it. If you have a story, tell it. If you have fears, confront them. If you have demons, vanquish them. If you have adversity, embrace it. If you have triumphs, share them.
And if all else fails... Never give up. Never look down. Never look back. No matter what.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Taps

I guess Mother Nature is off her meds so her bipolar disorder is raging unchecked. Here in the New York City suburbs, the temperature has gone from an unseasonably warm 85 to an unseasonably chilly 60-something in just a few days.
Nevertheless, a glance at the calendar confirms it's almost June. And a second look (taken just to be sure) provides some measure of reassurance that summer is -- albeit unofficially -- here.
Yes, another Memorial Day weekend is in the books. The first, widely-anticipated, beach and backyard barbecues are over. So are the parades and solemn graveside services. Annual promises to remember and honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country have been uttered and forgotten. The last, mournful notes of Taps that sounded around the country have echoed and faded into the distance. My tears have dried... for now.
It never fails. I cry when I hear that haunting call. I cry for those who heeded the call to duty without question and for those who heeded it in spite of personal misgivings. I cry for those who paid the steepest price for their service and for their families.
I cry for those who are physically and emotionally battle-scarred. I cry for those with shiny medals, but no jobs. I cry for those who seek solace in a liquor or pill bottle, and for those whose deepest wounds are misunderstood and go untreated.
I cry because I love my country -- and because I fear the disappearance of all that once made her great.
On paper, America is still a Super Power. But in reality she is a shadow of her former self. Battered by geopolitical forces and the Great Recession, her economic and military dominance is in jeopardy; her leadership is weak.
I cry because so many people refuse to acknowledge this is the case and because so few seem to care. Perhaps arrogance allows them to take our way of life for granted. Perhaps it is just complacency.
But if history has taught us anything, it is that complacency is sheer folly and that our freedom is not guaranteed.
In the past people believed freedom is worth fighting for. I can only hope that doesn't change.
And until next time, "That's life..."

The more things change...

So here's a question for you. When was the last time you went to elementary school? No, no, no. I am not asking about the school your children attend. When was the last time you set foot in the school where you spent your early childhood?
I went back last week.
After paying a surprisingly reasonable admission fee at a high-end art show here in Greenwich, I decided to check out an indoor tag sale and flea market at Julian Curtiss Elementary School. If nothing else, the free admission was enticing.
When I arrived, I parked next to the field where as a little girl I played soccer, baseball and ran the 600-yard dash with my classmates during annual physical fitness assessments. Funny but it seems so much smaller now...
I walked across the access road I once knew as "the bus loop" and remembered the pride, sense of independence and maturity I felt the first time I was allowed to take the bus home instead of going to the after-school program at Diamond Hill.
Through open doors, I spotted the gymnasium that I hadn't set foot in since I "graduated" back in 1981. Blocking out the clamor and looking past the tables topped with tag sale items, I saw the climbing ropes that frightened and enthralled me as a kid. I remember how determined I was to get to the top -- and how I came close but never quite succeeded.
Motivational quotes now line the walls in the gym where I learned how to play basketball, do forward and backwards rolls and traverse a balance beam. Looking to the left, I saw the stage where I had the starring roll as the Tin Man in the fifth-grade production of The Wizard of Oz.
Though open, the doors leading to the rest of the school were blocked with "Do Not Enter" signs. If that hadn't been the case, I would cheerfully have ventured into the hallways I ran -- or walked in straight lines with my classmates -- so long ago. And had I done so, even more childhood memories would have come to light.
Perhaps, if I'd had the time and opportunity, I would have found the classroom where I wrote my very first story. Based on a popular role-playing game, the tale pitted good against evil; but in my story evil triumphed.
And perhaps, if I'd had the chance to wander further, I would have reached the playground where I vanquished a grade school bully as my teachers watched and silently cheered me on.
Then again, it's probably better that I didn't have too much time to dwell on the past. For better or worse, it can't be changed... and truth be told, it's best left in the rear-view mirror.
Until next time, "That's life..."

He loved a good cigar...

It is quiet here in my brand-new home office. The phone stopped ringing long ago and now I really need to concentrate, so I've resisted the temptation to open i-Tunes or play an old CD. There is no cat underfoot - Eli is downstairs sleeping.
So there are no distractions, but there lots of memories in this new space.
Some surfaced when I found the tiny photograph of Dad and me in a small hand-painted silver frame. We are pictured curled up next to one another in an old, overstuffed armchair. I am probably eight or nine years old. I have straight, long hair gathered in pony tails and a big smile on my face. I look a lot like Mom, but I clearly love my father.
Dad looks sad, or perhaps a bit wistful. Perhaps he is annoyed because I've interrupted his reading -- he is holding his glasses and has a newspaper or book in his lap. Or perhaps he is simply longing for a cigar.
Boy, how he loved a good cigar...
In fact, he was a regular customer at Jim's cigar shop on Greenwich Avenue. As a little girl, I often accompanied him on his weekly visits there. I remember the distinctive aromas and smoke wafting through the air. I also remember the friendly arguments about the origins of the world's best cigars.
Judging by the old glass containers I just found in some architect's file drawers, Dad really enjoyed a good Dominican cigar. I don't know if he ever got his hands on any Cuban cigars -- but then again, I wouldn't have put it past him.
Clearly he didn't heed the warning labels on the Davidoff boxes stating that tobacco is a health hazard. But that's hardly surprising, either. My dad always did what he wanted -- consequences be damned.
However, as I've frequently said, that's another story for another time. And if you want to know more, well, you'll just have to read my next book.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Happy birthday, mate!

Not that long ago, I read the fantastic memoir, Growing Up Country: Memories of an Iowa Farm Girl by Carol Bodensteiner.
Now I did not grow up on a farm and I've never set foot in Iowa (in fact, I'm an unapologetic child of the New York City suburbs). But boy, did Bodensteiner's accounts of her childhood bring back memories!
I first visited my Australian grandparents' "property" when I was just four years old. To the best of my knowledge, the trip took forever. Or at least it felt that way. But the cross country flight from New York to L.A. and the ensuing trans-Pacific flight from L.A. to Sydney, hour-long flight from Sydney to Tamworth and hour-long drive from Tamworth to Barraba, N.S.W., was definitely worth it.
At the end of that long, long journey, Mom and I finally arrived at "Wyndella," the 5,000 acre spread where my grandfather ran beef cattle and sheep. He also grew wheat and alfalfa there.
To a little girl so far from home, everything on the place -- from the cows in the paddocks to the catfish in the creek -- seemed unbelievably big and scary. But my grandparents welcomed their "Cranky Yankee" with open arms, and instantly became more than family. They became my heroes.
As I learned on subsequent trips, life on the land wasn't an easy one. Men like my grandpa and uncles faced an uphill battle in the drought-scorched "bush." Water and money were often scarce in the lean years... but somehow Grandpa managed to make a living and -- perhaps even more impressively -- Grandma raised five children.
Whether times were tough or good, my grandparents -- or the "Gs" as some family members affectionately called them -- always made sure I had a good time when I visited. So "Wyndella" quickly became my second home.
It was the place where I helped brand cattle and mend fences. It was the place where I stood in the back of the Suzuki with hair and adrenaline flying as Grandpa and my uncles hunted kangaroo at night. It was the place where I watched Grandpa behead a "chook" (chicken) and the place where I learned the importance of working dogs.
It was the place where I spent Christmas Day poolside when I was 12. It was the place where I played with my cousins and endured merciless teasing from my uncles. It was the place where Grandpa was the only one brave enough to try and teach me how to ride a dirt bike. It was a place where you went to bed and got up early without complaint.
It was a place I loved.
Sadly, all of that changed when time and age caught up with Grandpa. He and Grandma made the difficult decision to move off the land and buy a house in town. Extenuating circumstances made it impossible to keep the property in the family, so strangers bought "Wyndella."
While I've been back to Barraba several times, I haven't set foot on the land since I was 21. Aunts and uncles say I wouldn't want to. They say it's not the same. I hate them for denying me a chance to see for myself... but that's another story for another time.
One thing hasn't changed in all these years. Grandpa is still my hero. He turned 99 earlier this week, and (knock on wood) is still in great health. He attributes his longevity to clean living -- he gave up smoking when he was young and "keeps off the grog." Perhaps that really is his secret. Or perhaps all that hard work helped, too.
In any case, all I know is that he's the best. Happy birthday, mate! This "Cranky Yankee" still loves you!
And until next time, "That's life..."

You can't win them all...

Sorry I've gotten off to such a late start this week. I've been busy licking my wounds.
You see, my ego has been battered and my pride is a bit bruised. Simply stated, I am a sore loser.
After giving it some serious thought, I entered several book contests this year. And much to my delight, judges selected "Truth" as the winner in the Gay Literature category in the first contest I entered. It was selected as runner-up in the Biography/Autobiography category in the second contest I entered.
So yesterday, I could hardly wait to see if I'd placed in an even bigger contest. Organizers had informed the authors that they planned to announce the results on the "down low" before making the official announcement next week. Undaunted by previous emails detailing the number of entries and fierce competition, I was convinced I would win something. Maybe not a gold medal or even a silver. But I was convinced I had a realistic shot at a bronze medal. No, make that a good shot. A very good shot.
After all, I read the judging criteria and I just knew "Truth" met them all. There was no doubt in my mind that my book is timely and well-written. What else could those judges possibly expect?
Confident, I started checking my email at 9 a.m. There were lots of messages, but not the one I was expecting. So I checked again an hour later. Still no luck. By noon, I was checking my email at least two or three times per hour with the same results. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
By the end of the day I was fed up with the whole process. But just when I was about to give up altogether, the email finally arrived. I felt my pulse thumping in my neck as I opened it and clicked on the link to the result page. Eagerly, I scanned the list, trying to remember just which category I entered. It didn't matter, though. I didn't see my name - and as much as I wished it would magically appear, nothing changed when I re-read the page.
Maybe I entered the wrong category. Maybe the judges just didn't like the book. Maybe the competition was just too good.
I did my best, and this time it just wasn't good enough. But in the end, that's OK. Even I can't win them all.
Until next time, "That's life..."

On the job training

It's official. I'm a statistic.
A newspaper career that spanned more than two decades ended on a sour note 11 months ago. The reasons for my dismissal are best not publicly disclosed -- so let's just chalk it up to an unresolved personality conflict.
I wish I could say I quickly landed an even more satisfying and lucrative full-time job, however that is not the case. But then again, just because I've technically been out of work doesn't mean I haven't been working hard. If anything, I've acquired some valuable skills.
I've learned the ins and outs of social media,and how to walk the fine line between book marketing and self-exploitation. In the process, I learned plenty about advertising, branding, publicity and public relations. I also polished my interview skills in print and broadcast media appearances.
Then there are all of the other skills I've honed and positions I've held since last June:
1) Landscape architecture (mowing the lawn).
2) Snow and ice removal (self-explanatory).
3)Micro-and-macro-engineering (putting furniture together).
4) Micro-deconstruction and demolition (taking furniture apart).
5) Macro-deconstruction demolition (taking large furniture apart).
6)Expert in coordinating and supervising home renovations.
7)Expert in decluttering bedrooms, attics, and basements.
8)Waste removal (I'll leave that to your very vivid imaginations).
The list goes on... and on. And today, as I helped carry seven large floor boards and other debris down two flights of stairs, it dawned on me that I could probably make millions by recording the activity and starting a new fitness craze...
But all joking aside, I would like to go back to work... for real. So if you know of any openings, feel free to drop me a note.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Notes on a 'scandal'

While engrossed in the ongoing process of streamlining, downsizing and simplifying my life, I unearthed another interesting treasure this week.
It emerged from a pile of miscellaneous papers stacked on a bookshelf in the basement. In this case, "it" was actually two pieces of paper and a business size envelope bearing a Stamford, Connecticut postmark. Dated May 13, 1998, the envelope was addressed to the newspaper where I worked at the time. There was no return address.
The accompanying papers turned out to be even more interesting. One was a photocopy of a "Page Six" story from the New York Post dated Thursday, May 7, 1998. It detailed an alleged incident at a charity event hosted by an old friend of mine.
Apparently a fracas occurred when someone at the party told a New York investment banker that smoking a cigar in a barn is not a bright idea. According to the Page Six account, things got even more heated when the banker refused to extinguish his cigar...
But the other piece of paper shed an entirely different light on the same incident. Written in a way that suggested the author witnessed the event, the second account indicated the banker was alleged aggressor -- hurling insults at the event organizer who asked him to extinguish the cigar -- and trading punches with her husband.
To the horror of the anonymous author, the banker allegedly screamed the unthinkable as he was escorted out of the event in front of more than 100 people.
"The unbelievable part of the story is that he was being hauled out, he shouts in front of everyone 'Do you know who I am? I am a Goldman Sachs Partner. Do you hear me? I am a Goldman Sachs Partner. And I am best friends with Paul Tudor Jones. You can't do this to me.'"
Collectively, the papers provide an interesting social commentary on a different time. They provide insight into what was considered "newsworthy" and what was deemed "important" before 9/11 and the Great Recession.
The papers also provide some insight into a certain mindset, speaking volumes about self-importance and entitlement. I mean, I can't think of anyone who would throw their weight around and brag about being an investment banker today. Can you?
Until next time, "That's life..."

My hero

Here's a thought. If you've ever read a book, written a book or even thought about writing one, chances are you've got a literary hero.
For readers it's probably a character. But for authors, the odds are even better that it's a fellow wordsmith. For some, perhaps, it's a master of the craft. Or maybe it's an obscure writer whose name -- known only to a select few -- evokes the image of a starving artist driven solely by their passion.
For me it is Snoopy. Yes, that Snoopy -- the loveable beagle of Peanuts fame created by Charles Schulz.
For the record, I loved him long before it ever dawned on me to use a pen or pencil for anything other than doodling or homework -- and long before I could type, for that matter. I mean, what child wouldn't fall in love with a dog who could play baseball, fly an airplane, hold his own with a BFF as hip as Woodstock, and write the great American novel -- or at least try to write it?
To this day, the fact that he didn't quite manage to become a best-selling author hasn't diminished my respect for the pup. If anything, Snoopy's dogged determination in the face of so much rejection heightened it. But in all honesty, he didn't officially become my literary hero until a few years ago, when I received a book called "Snoopy's Guide to the Writing Life."
Edited by Barnaby Conrad and Monte Schulz, the hard-cover book features commentary, essays, anecdotes and Peanuts comic strips. Collectively, they show just how Snoopy dealt with criticism, rejection and writers block. In the book, some fairly decent authors including Ray Bradbury, William F. Buckley Jr., Clive Cussler and Sidney Sheldon, offer advice to help Snoopy hone his craft.
But to me, the best part of the whole book is the front cover. On it are frames from an old Peanuts comic strip in which the brilliant beagle struggles to create one of the best sentences ever written. Painstakingly, word by word, we see it evolve... "It was a dark and stormy night."
Pure genius.
And until next time, "That's Life..."