The Weary Publicist

Saying Goodbye to Size Zero (and Hello to Size Healthy!)

2010-09-12T14:27:00.002-04:00

Want to know the real reason I've been living in gym clothes for the past four months?

Because nothing--and I mean NOTHING--in my closet fits me.

It started in June, when I noticed that my running shorts kept riding up, causing my thighs to--gasp!!--rub together and chafe. Then, my yoga pants started hugging my butt a little too closely, and forget about zipping up a pair of jeans. Last week, the final straw: not one, but TWO dresses literally burst at the seams within 24 hours of each other. I had a complete meltdown and then faced reality: it was time to update my wardrobe.

So, I headed into the dressing room at Banana Republic, armed with new sizes and styles, full of confidence and feeling strong and totally secure in my new, healthier body.

I left feeling deflated, huge and completely pissed off at the fashion industry.

No wonder they use human clothes hangers as models, because these clothes do not fit anyone with a hint of muscle or curve.

And I started missing size zero, even though...

Size zero couldn't run up hills without walking; size healthy can.

Size zero got a stress fracture training for a marathon; size healthy finished one, even on a bad day.

Size zero's half marathon PR was 2:35; size healthy's is 1:57.

Size zero had no energy and slept through most days; size healthy has plenty of energy and runs a successful business with two employees.

Two days ago, I tried again. I literally grabbed every pair of jeans in Nordstrom's, in three different sizes. I ignored the labels. I just tried them on. Some, honestly, didn't make it past my knees. Others worked beautifully.

So, I'm purging the closet--banishing size zero forever from my presence, and hopefully, eventually from my mind.

Why Do We Dress to Impress?

2010-09-02T09:02:00.001-04:00

Yesterday morning, I was up by 7am. I ate breakfast, I showered, I fixed my hair, applied make-up, slipped into a dress and heels and headed into the office. I was at my desk my 9am.

For most women, this is a typical workday.

For me, it's not.

I grew up dressing to impress. Pants in church were verboten. High school was all about having the *right* jeans and shoes. Guess and Polo reigned supreme.

College was even worse. I went to the ultimate country club, conversative, prepster university. Mid-90s slacker/grunge skipped right over Greenville, South Carolina. Sorority jerseys, hair bows, pearls and dresses were the standard uniform. I worn jeans *maybe* once a week. I never once wore pajamas or sweat pants. I even wore make-up when I worked out and put on a dress or skirt for Sunday morning brunch in the dining hall, even if I'd slept in and not gone to church.

This dress to impress compulsion persisted throughout grad school and my early working years.

We're told to dress to impress. For the job that we aspire to. For the person we want to be. For the people we could possibly meet. For the off chance Stacy and Clinton are hiding out in the Publix with a video camera the day I decide to go--gasp--unshowered and in my 15 year old running shorts to get some groceries.

But here's the deal. I love heels and dresses and make-up as much as the next girl. But these rituals are expensive. And time consuming. And quite frankly, often unnecessary.

I HAVE the job I aspire to. I am COMFORTABLE with who I am. I don't care anymore if Stacy and Clinton catch me off guard wearing workout clothes to run errands, because hey--at least I'll get a $5,000 shopping spree out of it.

And most days, I dress--or dress down--for the sole benefit for my cat and dog.

As women and as a society, we've created all sorts of rules about what's proper and acceptable. Conversation on recent blogs about the topic have turned into heated debates about whether jeans are acceptable conference attire and the "proper" height of heels and skirts.

But exactly WHO are we trying to impress?

Are we impressing or just conforming, and to what end?

My friend Allison wrote a brilliant post early this week about this very subject.

There's being professional and neat, and then there's being so obsessed with what everyone else thinks that you're afraid to leave your house without being just *so* for fear of mocking or scorn by anonymous people who could care less about your messy hair, big zit or ratty flip flops.

I totally understand dressing for office culture, for your audience, for the occasion. I would never wear flip flops to present at a conference, nor would I ever wear anything revealing to anything but a cocktail party.

But I find nothing wrong with meeting a client in my workout clothes before I head to the gym or walking down to my neighborhood restaurant without make-up on. I'm done trying to be or look perfect all the time. I can be just as if not MORE productive sitting at home in my underwear as I would be sitting at a desk in an uncomfortable suit.

And that outfit I wore yesterday to the office? By 2pm, the seam of my dress was insanely itchy. My feet were throbbing. Most of the make-up had sweated off. I longed to be at home in my PJs, where I could stop worrying so much about how I looked and--gasp--get some work done.

How I Made My Peace with Pizza (and Other Food)

2010-08-24T23:47:00.001-04:00

I've always had a really complicated relationship with food. Over the years, food has been a source of both comfort and pain, not unlike the relationship teenagers have with their parents, needing them and rejecting them simultaneously.

Even as recently as a year ago, I would have said that food was a necessary evil. That I would prefer to be permanently hooked up to an IV that dispersed the necessary nutrients than ever make a decision about food again.

What a difference a year makes. Food has become a source of joy, of community, of nourishment. I look forward to every meal. I love trying new things and experiencing new flavors.

Perhaps a little too much, according to the scale (which, yes, I know, I need to throw away) and pretty much all of the clothes in my closet.

I KNOW I'm happier and healthier. I feel strong and sexy. And I shouldn't let numbers--whether it's the scale or the label in a piece of clothing--dictate how I feel about myself.

And yet, it's been getting to me. The old feelings of inadequacy, those desperate urges to control and ration and manipulate every morsel and every calorie every second of every day have been flooding back.

Until today.

Thanks to Elizabeth Gilbert and my girls' night at the movies for Eat, Pray, Love (more on that here), I had a huge craving for Italian pizza. So, I popped over to my neighborhood place, Antico, which specializes in genuine, wood-fired, melt-in-your mouth, drool-worthy pizzas.

The owner greeted me with a huge hug and loudly proclaimed in his thick Italian accent:

Now here's a woman I love! She loves to eat! I mean, really, really eat. Look at this pizza--the sausage, the cheese, the bread--she eats it all! Bellisima! I love a woman who eats!

And you know what? I love ME when I eat. When I really eat. When I savor every morsel, inhale the smells, detect every nuance in flavor. Because I'm happy. And healthy.

So pass the pizza.

Why I Hated Eat, Pray, Love

2010-08-17T08:57:00.001-04:00

Tonight, I went to see Eat, Pray, Love with four of my good girlfriends. Cliche, I know. It's only *the* chick flick of the summer.

As I'm not the greatest fan of books made into movies (name a movie that was better than the book--yeah, I thought so) AND I loathe traditional chick flicks, I was a bit hesitant about wasting $15 and three hours of my life on this movie. That, and this was the last night my husband would be home this week. But, I rarely get out with friends and just have fun, and I was in the mood for some escapism, so I decided to go.

So much for escapism.

About ten minutes into the movie, I realized why I'd been so resistant to it. It wasn't the overpriced tickets, the time away from work or my husband or the quality of the movie. No, it was fear. Of being reminded of myself. Of opening old wounds.

If you've read the book or seen the movie, you know about the scene on the bathroom floor. When in the middle of the night, Liz pleads for a sign from God, for a way out? I was there, paralyzed with fear and the chilling realization that the life I'd built for myself, the one I asked for and dreamed of, suddenly didn't fit any more. And just like Liz, I found myself on the cold bathroom floor at 2am, totally alone, then calmly crawled back into bed and asked for a divorce the way some people ask you to pass the salt.

That scene was so real and so raw, and it left me so shaken and vulnerable and guilt-ridden, that I nearly ran sobbing from the movie theatre. Instead, I sobbed silently in my seat, wondering if the pain of someone physically stabbing me could hurt as much.

I remember reading the book before I hit that phase of my life. I found it engaging and poignent, with much too tidy of an ending. I recognized myself in the bits about meditation (I'm notorious for my fidgeting and inability to sit still), and well, who wouldn't want to spend four months in Italy gorging on the food, language and culture.

And then I had my breakdown. My lonely, scary, life-changing bathroom moment, and I tried to read the book again. At first, I bawled. And then I got mad. What I wouldn't have given for even a week's vacation, let alone an entire YEAR to find myself, learning Italian, eating great food, meditating, studying life's secrets with medicine men and gurus and making out with a hot Brazilian man, all while getting PAID to write a best-selling memoir ?

It was all too self-indulgent. For most of us, life goes on. We can't escape the pain or shift it to a new locale. We face it every morning, living in the same neighborhoods and same cities, awkwardly running into mutal friends, recounting the story to everyone we've ever know, fighting back hysterical sobs at the slightest reminder, all while trying to "live" a normal life. The bills don't stop coming, the clients don't become less demanding, people don't stop asking nosy questions--life goes on and on, and while the pain becomes more distant, anything and everything can bring it bubbling to the surface.

Every time I think I've healed, that I've moved on, that I've grown onward and upward, an experience like this reminds me how freshly wounded and sad I still am.

No Boundaries

2010-08-10T16:47:00.002-04:00

When I first started blogging about four years ago, my ex scolded me for being "too public." I had shared several personal things that I felt compelled to write, among them, depression (a familiar topic in this space), the suicide of a close family friend and my rape. I'm not ashamed of any of those things and would gladly talk to stranger and friend alike about them, mostly because I don't think we talk about the difficult things enough. And your response to yesterday's post is proof of that. Many of you shared your same struggles publicly, others shared them privately, but the fact of the matter is that far too many of us suffer in silence. We put on masks. We show only our happy faces. We strive for perfection. We don't give ourselves room and time to breathe and feel and just BE. Our true selves--stripped and bare and vulnerable.

After my ex asked me to remove that first blog (which I now know was just his way of controlling and isolating me, but that's another post), I started blogging under pseudonyms. And even when I added my name to this blog, I was uncertain. Not from a personal perspective, but from a professional one. I'm strong-willed and opinionated. I write about a lot of personal things. Would that make potential or existing clients uncomfortable? Less willing to hire me?

I was reluctant to even link to this blog to my professional website because I didn't think it was, well, "professional." And I had all of these preconceived notions about what a "professional" blog should be. Neat and pretty and upbeat, stocked with great photos and full of great tips about business and entrepreneurship and PR and social media. Not some free Blogger template filled with my late night angst and deepest fears.

And then I connected with inspiring, honest and REAL people like Allison Nazarian and Elizabeth Potts Weinstein, people that run successful businesses without losing their identities. Who write about anything and everything because that's who they are. The person and brand are one and the same.

And I threw out all of those ideas of what a blog "should" be. This is my name and my blog, and I can write whatever I want to. Because I AM the brand. There is no distinction between Laura Scholz, the person, and Laura Scholz, the writer/speaker/business owner. It's all part of the same whole, the same essence, the same being. I am who I am. No apologies. And no boundaries.

Thanks to you all for teaching me that very important lesson.

Working In and Through Depression

2010-08-09T11:39:00.000-04:00

After a long run this morning and an afternoon of napping and not nearly enough fuel, my husband and I decided to go out to eat. I was starving, my blood sugar had crashed, and I was desperate for food. But I could NOT decide what to eat. Nothing sounded good. I couldn't make a decision. I was overwhelmed. I wanted someone to do it for me.

And after agonizing over dinner choices for half an hour, I realized that I've been depressed. Not the uber-serious, can't get out of bed or function depression, but the low-grade kind, like that nagging cold that just won't go away. Simple things--like deciding when or what to eat, returning an email or call to a client or getting dressed--turn into major chores.

My type of depression--dysthymia--is actually defined as a "low-grade" depression. Persistent, nagging, irritating, always hovering, yet rarely pushing me over the edge. In fact, I'm so used to living with it, that's it's "normal" for me, and sometimes I don't even notice these little episodes until I start putting the pieces together. A few mornings of sleeping in. A few canceled meetings or social engagements. Not eating well or at all. Feeling overwhelmed by mundane tasks, like showering or washing the dishes.

I do most of the right things. I take medication. I've been to therapy. I do yoga. I run. I'm pretty open with close friends and family. I know the signs.

But none of this changes the fact that this is a significant part of my life, and it affects me the way any chronic illness does. I have asthma. Again, I do all the right things. But every now and then, I have a bad day, and there's next to nothing I can do about it, other than accept it, treat it as best I can and hope for a better day tomorrow.

The complicating thing about depression is that it's not just physical. It's extremely mental. So, yes, I recognize the signs, I know it will pass, and yet, it's hard not to get frustrated and self-critical and downright despondent when you wake up one day and struggle to do the routine things of life--let alone, run a business. Without making excuses, but also acknowledging the reality that on some days, I'm working with a bit of a handicap.

I'm still working my way through this reality, especially as my schedule gets busier, my client roster gets fuller and people make more demands of my time and energy. I usually give myself one day a month where I can "wallow" without self-hatred or guilt, when I just acknowledge the demons, let myself cocoon and hope for the best in the morning. But if it goes on two or three days or even a week, what do I do? I tell close friends and family when I'm not feeling well and need time and space, but what about clients? It's hard to predict when the monster will strike. I could have an amazingly productive week filled with good energy, creativity, positivity and 14 hour days, and all of the sudden, I'll crash. It may be a day, it may be a week. But deadlines and meetings and obligations don't stop. I can slow them down, temporarily, but it's much easier to explain to people that you have a migraine or stomach flu or bad case of allergies than to say "I'm sorry--that project will have to wait three days because I'm depressed and don't have the energy to deal with it."

It sounds like an excuse. And it is and it isn't. I work through the hard days much better than I did even a year ago. Even on the worst of them, I manage to get a few things done. But I also can't expect myself to blow through 100+ emails, plan comprehensive client strategy or attend four straight meetings on a day when I can hardly get out of bed. And I'm probably my worst critic. I feel like a failure if I don't accomplish all I think I should in a given day or week. My inner perfectionist really isn't a fan of "can't" or "rest." And yet, it's my reality. Sometimes I can't. Sometimes, I need to rest. To give myself a break, literally and metaphysically. Some days, you power through, and others, you just muddle through. And it needs to be okay.

Happy Anniversary to Me!

2010-07-27T10:12:00.000-04:00

Today marks the three year anniversary of my business. Its inception wasn't the result of a genius business plan, or months of preparation or some late-night creative inspiration. No, quite simply, three years ago today, I lost my job. A job I loved. A job that came with a near six figure salary, a corner office overlooking Peachtree Street and a boss I adored. And it all vanished.

After the obligatory crying, panicking and desperate calls to friends, I sat down at my computer in the corner of my spare bedroom and composed an email to everyone I knew, telling them I was immediately available for freelance writing and public relations work. And Scholz Communications was born.

It's not been an easy path or a direct one, but every twist and turn has led me here, and for that I am grateful. And I'm most especially grateful for all of you--my family and friends and colleagues and clients--who have continued to believe in me and counsel me through the constant fear and change and self-doubt.

So thank you, one and all.

Blogging: Inspiration or Perspiration?

2010-07-19T09:18:00.002-04:00

And yet another week has passed without me posting a blog. I have plenty of ideas. I have dozens of abandoned drafts. And yet, nothing--bribery, guilt, inspiration or sheer will--seems to propel me toward a finished post.

I tried writing for an hour a day. That lasted about three days. Then I compromised with half an hour a day, which lasted, well, less than the allotted half hour. Too tired, too busy, too uninspired, too frazzled, too much "real" work for clients, too whatever--name your excuse, and I've used it.

My real problem--because let's face it, if I have time to stalk high school boyfriends on Facebook or tweet about cheese dip for an hour every day, I have time to blog--is inspiration. Maybe it's my free spirited nature, maybe it's my own crazy brand of perfectionism, but I have to feel "inspired" to write. I have to be "in the moment." If I start a blog one day, it just doesn't "sing" to me two days later. Which of course, leads to a string of unfinished drafts and even more pressure, frustration and self-doubt.

How do I break the cycle? How do I write when I don't "feel" like? Does writing ever become less of a chore? Is it always a battle of spirit and will?

Help a girl out.

Don't Give Me Diamonds

2010-07-09T09:45:00.000-04:00

I am absolutely certain I could not do what I do, that I could not be where I am, that I would not be the person I am today without the love, trust, support, encouragement, humor, honesty and unwavering faith of my amazing husband, Tim.

He's my inspiration for living simply and openly and honestly.

Don't Give Me Diamonds*

Don't give me diamonds
Don't give me gold
Just give me something
That's true to behold
Walk with me sweetness
Into the light
Don't give me diamonds
Just give me tonight

I never had much of nothing
I never wanted for more
I just want something
That's worth fighting for
Real love comes easy
When your heart is set right
Don't give me diamonds, baby
Just give me tonight

I can see with perfect clarity
The cut and color of your love
Your golden heart, 24 carat to me
One treasure is enough

One thing's for certain
That we can count on
Time is a jewel
That we hold in our palms
We must carry it gently
Hold it up to the light
So don't give me diamonds baby
Just give me tonight

I can see with perfect clarity
The cut and color of your love
Your golden heart, 24 carat to me
And one treasure is enough

Real love comes easy
When your heart is set right
Don't give me diamonds baby
Just give me tonight

*Music and lyrics, (c) BethWoodMusic, 2008.

Reflections

2010-07-09T09:43:00.000-04:00

One of the best parts of my recent four-day search for rest and sanity was a trip up to North Carolina--okay, verrrry northern Alpharetta--to Chukkar Farm. I was introduced to this quaint oasis of horse farms, polo fields and music making in 2008, when my client Beth performed as part of their concert series.

Beth was back this weekend, so we made the trek up past the 'burbs and into the countryside. The air was clean and crisp and smelled of horses and hay and wholesomeness. Couples and families gathered at tables and on blankets, sipping on wine and beer, chasing after children and dogs and soaking up the last bit of daylight.

What I love about this series is that it's 100% about making music. It's like jumping back in time and eavesdropping on the Carter Family harmonizing over the campfire on a chilly autum evening, voices weaving above and below and around one another as logs crackle and spit and frogs and crickets chime in. Songwriters, true musicians--not ones manufactured by record labels, hidden under layers of autotuning, elaborate costumes, heavy make-up and concert-stage theatrics--stripped bare, completely exposed, singing, playing, harmonizing and making music together. On the spot. So organic and real.

And then I thought these musicans, all of them hugely talented, ambitious and driven. But they haven't sold out. They're not playing major amphitheatres or getting mainstream radio play, touring the world on private jets and trashing swanky hotel rooms. They're bunking in each others' houses, playing in every-day clothes in tiny venues across the country where people actually LISTEN to the music. They're earning each and every dollar the hard and the decent and the right away.

It resonates with me, especially as I try to figure out how to grow and scale my business and still be "me." To provide a service, to share what I see as a gift, in a very simple, raw, honest and authentic way. Maybe it's idealistic, but maybe, just maybe, it's possible.

I Took a Vacation So I Could Work

2010-07-06T16:19:00.000-04:00

Yes, I recognize the irony of posting a blog about not hiding and then essentially going into hiding. For two weeks.

I'll be honest--I wasn't well. I was overwhelmed, depressed and physically and emotionally exhausted. I had given others so much from my own well that mine was completely dry.

When you're a solopreneur, taking time off seems impossible. Indulgent. Incomprehensible.

Until you find yourself like I did last month--completely worn-out, anxious, bone-tired and completely useless to myself, my clients, my friends and my family.

So, I took a break. A REAL break. Four days of nothing but amazing food, people and experiences. I stopped trying to control and plan and manipulate every single second, step, decision, workout. I stopped trying to "power through" and let my mind and my body rest. Of course, my definition of "rest" included a 10K race! But my approach was different. It was quiet, meditative, open--more about the experience and my energy and effort rather than some must hit or I'll-wallow-in-self-pity-for-two-weeks-because-I-clearly-suck time goal.

So, here I am, rested, peaceful and determined, diving into the second half of my year determined to figure out the meaning of this unfamiliar concept called "balance."

No More Hiding

2010-06-21T14:20:00.000-04:00

Over the past few days, I've written this post several times in my head. Each time with a different title or slightly different angle. At first, it was going to be about "putting on big girl panties," and well, sucking it up and doing things that I need to do, but don't really feel like doing--like getting up early to get my workouts in, eating my vegetables, keeping track of business expenses, sticking to a budget, putting away laundry and paying bills. That morphed into a treatise on "self care"--eating well, working out, sleeping, writing, oh yeah--and remembering to breathe.

And then, well, life got a bit more complicated. Two very special people in my life went through major crises last week. And suddenly, I grew tired of my own petulance. Bitching about not being able to sleep in anymore just seemed inconsequential and downright childish in comparison to real problems. Nothing like a crisis to bring about clarity. Suddenly, the "shoulds" don't seem like "shoulds" anymore. They are blessings. An opportunity to live and live well. To become a grown-up.

I don't want to hide any more. From the pain and joy and the full range of emotions that come with living an open and honest life. We all use crutches--food, alcohol, sleep, bad relationships and a range of unhealthy things--to cope. To hide. To numb the pain and the hurt and the exhaustion and overwhelm that is life.

If that means up at 6am to get a run in, giving up my afternoon nap, or forgoing that evening cocktail, I'm all in. And I need to know what is real and raw and honest--without distractions or crutches or burying my head in the sand. Please hold me accountable.

Running on Empty

2010-06-12T18:53:00.001-04:00

So, I have something to confess. I slept almost all day yesterday. Maybe it was the red wine, maybe it was the allergies, maybe it was the hormones, but mostly, it's because I'm exhausted, and I haven't been taking proper care of myself.

Nearly two weeks ago, I hurt my calf during a routine Saturday morning run. I didn't have my phone, so I limped nearly three quarters of a mile down Peachtree Battle to a friend's store to call my husband for a ride home.

If you know anything about me, you know that I get depressed and cranky when I can't run. And when I'm depressed and cranky, I don't eat well. I indulge in too much cheese dip, chocolate and red wine. I forget to work out. I don't sleep well. I lack energy and focus.

To top it off, I've been horrible about managing my schedule. I'm overbooked, exhausted, running on empty and have no one to blame but myself.

I usually prepare for the upcoming week on Sunday afternoons--cheery, optimistic and organized.

Four days of endless proposals, meetings, calls, events and late nights later, I collapse in a heap on the sofa, lacking the energy to even return a simple email. I become paralyzed. Disillusioned. Every. Damn. Week.

Something has to give. I can't keep up this pace, or I'll never make it through marathon training this fall or build my business the way I want to. I need to take better care of myself. I need to learn to say no. To trust my gut more. To delegate. To give in to the exhaustion and go to bed at 9pm some nights. To give myself time to breathe and reflect and write and dream. To spend time with my husband. To recharge.

Because this pace is unhealthy, it's not smart, and it's making me crazy.

Moving On

2010-06-07T09:47:00.000-04:00

So, my ex-husband got married again this weekend. It's been just about two years since our divorce was finalized, and since I remarried over a year ago, it's not surprising that he's moved on too. What IS surprising is just how emotional it's made me. Not because I didn't know he was getting married again (googling took care of that several months ago), or because I want him back, or because I don't want him to be happy. But because as much as I talk about my journey and my truth, I rarely talk about this one: that after nearly a decade together, I wasn't truth for him.

Yes, I was the bad guy. I left. I asked for the divorce. I refused counseling or reconciliation because I was done, because I knew those Hail Mary-type efforts would only prolong the inevitable.

But I didn't leave just because he wasn't right for me, but because I wasn't right for him. Sure, he thought I was. But I couldn't live up to his ideals, his expectations, his illusions of who I was and who I'd come to be. And I became resentful. Bitter, angry, withdrawn, sullen. Not myself. And no good to myself or to him as a partner. I did and said many, many things I regret. I thought I'd made my peace with it a long time ago. But I really haven't. Because it's hard to acknowledge that I played a role in the marriage's demise. That it wasn't just him. That it was also ME. And that there's someone out there that can do a better job at being a spouse to him than I could.

"She will love you more than I could. She who dares to stand where I stood."

- Missy Higgins

It's Not Always About Being Liked

2010-06-02T09:23:00.000-04:00

You Like me! You Really Like Me!

I like people. Well, most of them. And I like being liked. I was never the popular girl in school (except when people needed help studying for AP exams) and have always been quite shy, which I think has only fueled my desire to be well-liked. To fit in. To conform.

And even though I've been willing to step out every now and again and say or write things that may be unpopular, to live my own life and not one predetermined for me, I still haven't let go of one thing--being liked.

Being liked feels good. It's validating. It's comforting. It's comfortable.

But life isn't always about comfortable.

I try to be kind and compassionate and friendly. But sometimes, people aren't going to like me. Or what I say. And it needs to be okay.

Life isn't always about being liked. It's about LIVING.

Memorial Day: Remembering "Mom Mom"

2010-05-31T23:25:00.002-04:00

I wrote this two years ago in the Charlotte airport on the way home from my grandmother's funeral. She died two years ago today, a few days shy of what would've been her 92 birthday. Even though she wasn't your typical sweet and cuddly grandmother, I still miss her and hope this does her life and spirit justice.

Tonight, I drank a margarita in honor of my grandmother, Elizabeth, whose ninety-one long years of life my family celebrated this morning. Mom Mom, as we called her, wasn’t a particularly big drinker, but I distinctly remember the first time I visited her in her assisted living facility in Florida and asked her what she had done the previous day. Expecting to hear about Bingo or perhaps an excursion to a local concert or museum, I was surprised when Mom Mom said “drank margaritas at our Happy Hour.”

Granted, the margaritas were probably glorified lemonade and were served in those small Dixie cups, but still—they were margaritas to her, and they gave her something to smile about, something to choose for herself in a world where those choices were becoming limited.

Mom Mom lived autonomously and proudly for the first eighty-eight years of her live, driving herself to and from “rummage” sales, church activities and the homes of far-away friends and relatives even after my grandfather passed away in 1994. Fiercely independent, “assisted” living was certainly not her favorite dwelling place, though she tried her best to make it her own with her knickknacks, familiar books and pictures of family, all the while referring it to it as “prison.” She managed to maintain that independence, sending countless staff members running from her room by screaming “get the hell out of here” if they were unfamiliar or didn’t treat her with the dignity and respect she deserved. She refused to eat dinner if the meals weren’t pleasing to her palette. She selected stacks of books to read and re-read, and at her age, deserved the right to cheat more-than-occasionally during games of Upwards—most of which she could win outright without even bending the rules. Her brain was sharp to the end, and she had an astounding vocabulary, probably gleaned from her love of literature. Even in her advanced age and deteriorating condition, she commanded respect and was stubborn, even to the end—holding on out of sheer refusal to go before she declared it time.

These qualities—spunk, independence, and tenacity—probably not considered very “lady-like” for her generation are the ones her daughter, my mother, imparted to me and my sister, and I can only hope I live up to her great example.

La Vie Boheme

2010-05-26T13:07:00.003-04:00

Some people have mission statements and goals. I have theme songs.

Spurred on by my not-so-inner musical theatre geek (thank you, Glee, for making show choir cool), I chose Defying Gravity as this year's theme song.

Why? Because I needed to let go of the fear.

Of success. Of failure. Of what people do and don't think of me. Of the unknown. Of being unabashedly, unapologetically, authentically ME.

So I closed my eyes. I leapt.

And with the help of so many of you, I found my way to the truth. About my work. About my life. And yes, it's constantly evolving. But it's also worth celebrating.

So, La Vie Boheme.*

(And sing along--you know you want to!).

To days of inspiration, playing hooky, making something out of nothing
The need to express, to communicate
To going against the grain, going insane, going mad

To loving tension, no pension, to more than one dimension
To starving for attention, hating convention, hating pretension
Not to mention of course, hating dear old mom and dad

To riding your bike midday past the three piece suits
To fruits, to no absolutes
To Absolut, to choice, to the Village Voice
To any passing fad

To being an "us" for once
Instead of a "them"
La vie boheme
La vie boheme

Confession: I hate PR

2010-05-18T22:56:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make: I HATE PR.

To be more specific, I hate being a PR practitioner.

Why? Because of the unusually difficult expectations I place on myself and the inevitable disappointment; because I hate being pushy, especially with strangers; because in its traditional form, it's dying; and most importantly, because it doesn't feel authentic to me any more.

Which doesn't mean it's not the right profession for others, or that there aren't others practicing PR in new and exciting and pitch-perfect ways. Because there are. But I don't want to be one of them.

When I initially started freelancing, I wanted to be a writer. But PR opportunities kept falling into my lap. And I kept taking them, because, let's face it, in the beginning stages of entrepreneurship, any money is good money.

And while my business philosophy has evolved into a more holistic approach to communications, I'm still known as the "PR girl." And I still feel compelled to take on business that doesn't excite me, just because I can and it pays the bills.

At least I did until two weeks ago, when my oldest paying client and I parted ways. It was an amicable parting (they are moving on to bigger and better things), and while disappointing, it was ultimately freeing.

I don’t HAVE to be a publicist. I don’t HAVE to take on work that doesn’t excite me. I don’t HAVE to do or be anything I don’t want to do or be.

Which doesn't mean my current clients won't benefit from my expertise in traditional PR and media relations, or that PR won't pay a role in future communications campaigns. But it's only one piece of a much more comprehensive strategy. I want to teach my clients how to create their own content and opportunities, to find their unique voices, to become their own best advocates. I want to be more than just their publicist.

And that is something I’m passionate, excited and honest about, something I would be proud to market and sell to others. Because it’s MY truth.

On Motherhood

2010-05-09T15:28:00.004-04:00

This morning, I read a brilliant piece by my favorite writer, Anne Lamott. Of Mother's Day, Anne writes:

Mother's Day celebrates a huge lie about the value of women: that mothers are superior beings...I hate the way the holiday makes all non-mothers, and the daughters of dead mothers, and the mothers of dead or severely damaged children, feel the deepest kind of grief and failure.

While this may not be a popular sentiment, it's a very real one. I love my mother and remind her of that as often as I can. I admire my friends who are mothers. But I also have friends who are struggling to become mothers and who have lost their mothers, for whom this day is a very painful reminder of that which they have lost and that which they may never have.

I have real issues with the whole cult of motherhood. Mothers are no more saints or sinners than the rest of us. And yes, being a mother is a wonderful experience and an amazing endeavor to be treasured and valued. But not at the expense of those of us who through circumstance or choice are not mothers. Who never will be. And yet still believe we possess the same grace, selflessness, tenacity, kindess, affection and love that we honor mothers for this day. Let's celebrate that AND our mothers and surrogate mothers. Daily.

Image Journey

2010-05-08T16:22:00.003-04:00

I've always been a fashionista, as this early photo will attest. And I'm the ultimate girly-girl. My idea of the perfect day is lunch and shopping with girlfriends. Nothing makes me happier than a new pair of shoes. I drool over fashion magazines. I fantasize about the dress Carolina Herrera would make for my Oscar appearance (should Renee Zellweger be a no show).

And while I think I've always been well-dressed and stylish, I've never really had A style. I'll be the first to admit that my wardrobe over the first ten or so years of my professional life consisted of the typical PR agency girl's staples: black pants, conservative cardigans, sensible but colorful pumps. I loved my long, crazy curly hair, but was forever putting it back in a bun because I didn't really know what to do with it. And while I possessed entirely too much make-up, I never really had a clue how to apply it, so I'd rifle through a drawer full of stuff and end up wearing just lip gloss and mascara.

Add to this the fact that nearly halfway through my 30's, but most people I meet still think I'm 25, and that after nearly three years into owning my own business, my idea of getting "dressed" for a meeting is taking a quick shower--well, it was time for a makeover.

The first step was cleaning out my closet. I was only wearing a small fraction of the clothes in there, so I dumped anything I deemed too corporate, too fussy, to prudish, too boring, too young, too expected. I donated every single suit I own, and my mom will be thrilled to know that black is no longer my favorite color.

Then it was on to my unruly mane. Enter hair magician Stephanie Erxleben Turner, a friend from childhood who also got the heck out of Florence, South Carolina and has done well for herself in the big city. Through the magic of Facebook, she contacted me and offered to cut my hair.

I like to mock those people on What Not to Wear who bitch and moan about getting their hair cut, but honestly, I'm the same way. But my hair had become a crutch and a burden and quite frankly, I was close to pulling a Brittany Spears because I was that tired of dealing with it.

And there's something about someone who knew you when your hair was bigger than your head, when you tight rolled your jeans and thought New Kids on the Block was cool, to inspire trust. And Stephanie did not disappoint.

Best. Haircut. Ever. I immediately felt sexier, sassier, more confident--exactly the image I want to project. And it was SHORT. Yes, not short compared to most people's standards, but short to me. Who knew? I'm a short hair girl!

Then, it was on to make-up and what my friend Alyson Hoag calls the Image Journey. What I love about this process is it's just that--a process, thoughtful and personal. Aly created a look for me--using mostly the contents of my chaotic make-up bag--to develop a style that's uniquely me. Inspired by not only pictures of some of my style icons (Cate Blanchett, Charlize Theron, Scarlett Johannson) and designers (Chanel, Valentino, Oscar de la Renta, Alberta Ferretti), but words and impressions (confident, fresh, flirty, feminine, soft, lucious, glowing, dreamy, graceful, clean).

The end result:

And what I love about this transformation? It's still me, but it's grown-up, more confident, more poised successful entrepeneur me. And yes, I still feel confident running to the store without make-up or meeting friends in my running clothes, but I now feel like the outside matches the inside. That I'm projecting an image of strength, confidence and even boldness. I now look the part.

And maybe, just maybe the next time I meet someone, they'll really believe I'm the president of my company, not the intern.

Mental Health Day

2010-05-03T08:48:00.002-04:00

From a few weeks ago...

I'm not an extrovert, but I play one in my life. This week, I had no fewer than twenty meetings and six evening commmitments--including a networking event I hosted for nearly 100 people--in the span of four days.

Needless to say, I woke up exhausted this morning. And then when I rececived an email with some not-so-good news, I did what any overworked, exhausted and completely depleted person would--I crawled back into bed, swaddled myself with sheets and bawled.

This latest round of self-pity lasted for over an hour, at which time I could no longer ignore the beckoning sunshine and the crisp spring air blowing through my matted morning hair. It was simply too beautiful of a day to stay indoors. To mourn that which cannot be changed. And then I had a realization--I should take a day for myself. To do whatever I wanted. No work, no rules, no obligations.

And then I sat there. Nothing.

A run? Well, that's kind of like work. Write? That would involve the laptop. (hence why I originally wrote this with old-fashioned pen and paper), which I had zero interest in opening. TV? Too much stimulation. Pilates class? Another obligation. Shopping? No money. Massage? See the previous statement. Walk? I didn't feel strong enough to get out of bed. Read? Too much thinking. Piano? Too fragile to hear what I sound like after years of neglect.

It's scary to realize that you've been going, moving and doing for so long that you can't even remember what it is you'd LIKE to do, given complete and utter freedom. I had absolutely no idea.

Last night, I read a great article on running and meditation, so I decided to give that a try. Much to my cat's consternation (she's a big fan of the wallow), I reluctantly unwrapped myself from the twisted sheets and sat down on the floor. I tried to breathe, to stay present, to relax and let go, to listen.

And then I decided that I wanted to go to the park. Not to run, not to walk, just to be.

I grabbed a blanket and some of my dog's toys, packed her into the car and took off--no agenda. We played with balls and sticks and dirt, basked in the sun, and then took a short jog. No watch, no goal, no plan. I didn't get annoyed when she stopped to sniff or mark her territory. I tried to soak in the colors, the air, the breath, the joy.

Then I was hungry. And I'd been craving Chick-fil-A. So, I got the usual--eight piece chicken nugget meal with lemonade. I got home and the food made me think of more food, so I decided to watch Top Chef Masters on the DVR. While eating fried, processed food. I giggled a little, then cheered on a friend of a friend, grateful for the opportunity I had to eat at his restaurant back in January. Grateful for food and for friendship. The darkness lifted a little.

I decided to watch some 24. To turn off the Blackberry. To scream a little at the scary parts. To just escape a little.

And then I put some clothes away and vacuumed the bedroom. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I put on loud music and danced. Naked. And I'm currently sipping on some wine and enjoying the view from our rooftop deck. I'm more relaxed. I'm centered. And I haven't touched work all day.

It's so easy to get stuck in the hamster wheel, to keep running and running until even the things you used to enjoy aren't fun any more. Until you don't even know who you are or what you like.

Sometimes, you just need a day off to discover yourself again.

Running Uphill

2010-04-22T12:47:00.001-04:00

Do you ever have one of those days when you lack total energy and focus, mostly because you're avoiding something you know you should do?

Today, I was avoiding many things, but chief among them was hills repeats.

For you non-runners, hill repeats are pretty much as awful as they sound. Run up a hill and back down. Repeat. Again. And again. Until your quads are quivering and you curse yourself for choosing such a torturous hobby.

I love running, I truly do. But I'm a fair weather friend. I love running when it's 60 degrees and sunny; when the roads are flat and empty; when I've had 12 hours of sleep and just the right amout of fuel; when there's no pollen and my asthma isn't acting up; when it feels fun and free and easy. Which pretty much means one day out of every 100.

In running, as in life, I bargain with myself. Maybe I'll skip today's run. Or maybe I'll just run two miles and skip the hills. Or maybe I'll quit after the first hill. Or maybe after the second.

When you're in baragaining mode, it's pretty easy to talk yourself out of most any and every commitment. But what I've learned in running--and what I'm trying to apply to my entrepreneurial life--is that there IS no perfect day. You'll never have enough time. Or enough sleep. Or enough money. Or enough energy. But you have to put one foot in front of the other. It's the only way to get to the top of the hill.

Ask and You Shall Receive

2010-04-19T08:23:00.002-04:00

I've written a lot lately about my need to get more aggressive with my business. To stop giving things away for free, to be more assertive about selling, to commit to it 100 percent. And in the past week, I've learned a very valuable lesson: just ask.

It's really that simple. Set your intentions clearly. Speak them aloud to the universe. And then go forth and DO. ASK.

You can't sit around and wait for opportunities to fall into your lap. You have to create them. You have to get out there and ask, sincerity, graciously, but without fear or apology.

You'll be amazed at the results.

When You Work for Free, We All Pay

2010-04-07T09:39:00.002-04:00

So far this year, two blog posts have really inspired me and the way I think about business.

The first was Elizabeth Potts Weinstein's manifesto, "I'm Not Sorry About Selling," which contains my favorite words in the history of entrepreneurship: Dude. This is not a freaking non-profit.

The second was Nicole Jordan's brilliant "No. You Can't Pick My Brain," a phrase that me and my entrepreneurial friends invoke on an almost daily basis.

I think both women hit one of the issues that inhibits both the growth of our businesses as well as those of our fellow entrepenereurs: we give things away. All. The. Time.

A huge chunk of time here, a string of free tips there, until we have nothing of value left to share or sell. And it's bad enough that we're undervaluing our own worth, but we're also undercutting the value of others' products and services, because all of this "free advice" floating around out there creates the expectation that you can get anything and everything for free. Which means no one gets paid.

If you know anything about me, you know that I have a huge heart. Probably too big. I'm the first one to offer advice, a connection, an introduction--for childhood friends and new acquaintances alike. I truly believe in the power of the loconomy, of relationships, of partnership and collaboration.

But there's a difference between a free food sample from your favorite restaurant at a local festival and sitting at the chef's table at that same restaurant for a six-course meal with wine pairings.

Nibbling is great. Nibbles turn into bites which turn into meals.

But you can't build a business on nibbles, and every time you give away a meal disguised as a sample, you might as well tack that "closed" sign on your door right now--and to that of every business around you.

We need each other, and we need to start valuing and supporting each others' work. And sometimes, that means opening up your wallet and shelling out some cash.

The Finish Line

2010-03-22T12:38:00.004-04:00

When you train for your first marathon, veterans always say "don't worry about the time. Your one and only goal should be to finish."

Which, of course, it should be. But if you've been running for a long time, and you're super competitive (like me), you can't help but have a target time in mind. And even worse, we all entertain visions of the Boston Marathon in our heads, even if we've never completed the full 26.2.

My initial marathon goal was fairly conversative. Five hours seemed fair, since that's what most of my friends of similar fitness did their first time out. But the more I ran, the faster and stronger I got, and the lower and lower my target goal became. 5:00 became 4:30 which morphed into 4:15, maybe even 4:10 and an outside chance of sub 4:00.

The mind is a dangerous thing. Because the truth is, as much as you train--for the miles, the fuel, the pace, the course, the conditions--nothing prepares you for the actual feeling of the marathon.

I wasn't feeling very anxious going into the race, though I didn't get a chance to do my normal routine of light yoga and deep breathing. I felt amazing at the start, which probably led me to commit the cardinal sin of marathoning--going out too fast. No, 9:30 pace isn't THAT fast, but for me, the queen of 10:00+ first miles and negative splits, it was probably a little too fast (but of course, I had in the back of my mind that 9:30 splits=4:10 marathon. Again, the mental part of this game is the hardest!). I didn't feel anything until around mile nine or ten, when I noticed my breathing was more shallow than normal. And where was my rescue inhaler? Um, back in the gear bag. Not my brightest move.

I made it to the half marathon point around 2:05, and my legs were still feeling great, but my breathing was becoming increasingly more difficult. My friend Katie caught up to me around mile 14, which calmed me down, but I still could not get my breathing under control. I tried stopping, deep breathing, yoga, walking, slow jogging, but nothing worked. I couldn't find a medic, either. So I kept going, but was becoming increasingly more anxious and started to panic. Around Emory (mile 15, I believe), I saw a Team in Training coach. She could tell I wasn't okay, and I said I needed an inhaler. We jogged a bit, hoping to find a medic, but ended up in front of the CVS on North Decatur Road. She suggested we buy an inhaler there, and luckily, I had a prescription. The pharmacist was amazing. She found a cheaper version of my prescription (Jessica, the coach, only had $20 in cash--lesson number 573, carry cash on the course!) and had us on our way in a few minutes. I thought that would be the end of my struggles.

I was wrong. About half a mile later, as I entered infamous Druid Hills, I started to get extremely nauseous. And then I puked. In the bushes of some two million dollar home on Lullwater Road. I was hoping that was it and kept running. And then I had to stop. Every time I ran, I felt nauseous. I couldn't eat any GU, and I could barely keep down water. So, from mile 16 until 22, I repeated the torturous cycle of running for a few minutes, stopping to retch what little was left in my stomach, walking for a few minutes, trying to run again, repeat. And the irony--my legs felt great! They weren't even sore!

When I finally saw my husband at mile 22, I nearly cried. He walked with me the last four miles, and I was so grateful to see many of my amazing friends--Angela, Erin, Sara, Lindsay, Mallory, among others--along the way. Right before the finish, I saw our head coach, Tommy Owens. He gave me a hug, and I ran the rest of the way in. I don't know how I managed to smile in the photo my friend Sarah took of me at the finish, because immediately upon stopping, I puked again and was escorted to the medical tent, where I spent the next hour hooked up to an IV for fluids and trying to figure out what--in the five hours, eight minutes and eighteen seconds I'd been on the course--caused everything to go so horribly wrong.

Because the truth is, I thought I was prepared for anything that could go wrong. Blisters from the rain, my right hip seizing up like it had my last few runs, running out of fuel. I'd done everything I could to prepare. I'd run on the course four weekends in a row. I knew every hill and every turn. And I didn't alter my routine. I had the same food the night before and that morning; the same hydration and fuel during the race; the same shoes, the same clothes.

But there's a reason less than one percent of the population completes a marathon. It's gruelling, not just physically, but mentally.

But I made it to the finish line. Why? Not just sheer stubbornness, but because of the color I was wearing, because of the logo on my shirt, because of a cause I represent much larger than myself. I'd never been prouder to be a part of the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's Team in Training program than I was yesterday. Because five hours of a little physical pain is NOTHING compared to what cancer patients and their families go through day in and day out, without the medals or ceremony or fanfare. You don't get a t-shirt for dealing with chemo. Or a medal for being a survivor. For them, the finish line is a moving target, uncertain and fleeting.

And until that finish line is certain and guaranteed, you can find me out on the streets. Running.

Go Big or Go Home

2010-03-19T09:48:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I was really inspired by Allison Nazarian's amazing blog post, "You're Either Following or Blazing. End of Story."

Why? Because being an entrepreneur is all about taking risks. About blazing new trails. Living on the edge. Daring to be different.

If you're committed to success--real success, not just the this-is-kind-of-a-nice-hobby-and-better-than-a-corporate-job-but-doesn't-really-pay-the-bills mentality we've all been guilty of--at some point, you either need to go big or go home.

Back in December, I made the decision that this was a make or break year for me. I was tired of mediocrity. Of doing the same projects over and over again. Of not getting the clients I wanted. Of barely making enough money to get by. Of not being 100% invested.

It's scary to be bold. To take risks. To be different. To blaze a new trail.

I threw out almost everything. Clients, revenue models, processes, services. And then I did some even crazier things. I took on ANOTHER business. I hired a staff person before I could really afford it. I thought beyond news releases and monthly retainers and the same old tired, boring tactics. I stopped hiding behind others' voices and opinions. I dared to be ME.

It's a scary, uncertain path, though I'm lucky enough to have an amazing support system. And at the end of the day, I feel much better knowing I went all in. That I tried. That I took risks. And I'll take that over a known path any day.

Old News

2010-03-16T17:58:00.000-04:00

Last night, I watched the live stream of #journchat from SXSWi. The brainchild of PR wunderkid Sarah Evans, #journchat is "an ongoing, open dialogue between journalists, bloggers and public relations professionals" that takes place on Twitter. I generally enjoy these chats--it's a great way to share with peers and build relationships in the virtual space.

Last night's session was a little bit different than the usual Monday night chat--no engagement or participation from the masses, just a pretty basic Q&A with some of CNN's social media heavy hitters. And the more I listened the more I thought...

When will we STOP reporting social media as "news?" Yes, one of the CNN panelists joked that someone joining Twitter isn't newsworthy, but I have news for you: Neither is the fact that you can build relationships via Twitter. Or pitch a story in 140 characters. Or that you should vet your sources carefully. Or be there before the pitch. That stuff is PR 101, just translated to a different medium.

Yes, we get it. You're on Twitter. We're all on Twitter. And foursquare and YouTube and Facebook and dozens of others. So what and now what?

The Truth About "Networking" Events

2010-03-15T10:30:00.004-04:00

As the majority of my virtual community has descended upon Austin for the annual pilgrimage known as South by Southwest Interactive, I can't help but have pangs of jealousy. As a total music fanatic that represents a few budding singer-songwriters, I've been interested in the music festival for years. And now as a total social media junkie, I'm head-over-heels with the idea of meeting some of my favorite virtual "friends" in person.

But wait--what IS the purpose of SXSW and similar conferences, Tweet-ups and events, large and small? Is it to indulge in self-congratulatory, insider chit-chat? To become even more insular and more exclusive? To party 24/7 with several thousand of your closest friends? Or is to network, to build new relationships and maybe, just maybe, learn something new?

I know that when I attend events like this in Atlanta, I have to be honest with myself about why I'm going. Because nine times out of ten, I'm dealing with the usual suspects. All wonderful, amazing, intelligent people, but people I know. People I already have relationships with. The insiders. And there's nothing wrong with having an adult beverage, kicking back and enjoying some great conversation. But I don't delude myself into thinking I'm networking, giving back, making new friends or building my business. It is what it is--socializing with friends.

But if we're true ambassadors of social media, of openness and transparency, of building quality relationships or inclusion, shouldn't we be indulging in fewer SXSWs and Tweet-ups and doing more hanging out in local coffee shops, more reaching out to people we don't know, more sharing what we DO know?

And yes, I'm still adding SXSW 2011 to next year's agenda. But I hope I go into it with open eyes and open arms.

Boundaries

2010-03-09T10:32:00.002-05:00

This weekend, I did something unprecedented in the 2.5 year history of my business: I took a weekend off. Well, if you consider running 20 miles a weekend off. But seriously, I didn't return a single email. I didn't read any blogs, work on any proposals or fret about unfinished business. In fact, I barely even cracked the laptop.

Why? Because I needed to establish some boundaries. When you're an entrepreneur with a home-based business, there's no separation between personal and professional. I work at the same table where we eat our meals (if I get the chance to clean it off, which isn't as often as it should be). I'm surrounded by dishes that need washing, floors that need vacuumming, a dog that needs walking, laundry that needs folding--the work never ends. And my attempts at "multi-tasking"--which has basically meant half-assed efforts at relaxing, working, housekeeping and relationships, sometimes simultaneously--are leaving me exhausted, burned out and frustrated.

I used to leave work, get in a run or a Pilates class, then come home for a nice dinner and a glass of wine, watch a favorite show on television or read several chapters of a book. Now, the lines are blurred. Most evenings, you'll find me returning emails, reading articles online, eating my dinner, all while engaging in 20 Twitter conversations and trying to watch the latest episode Gossip Girl. My work is suffering. My health is suffering. My relationships are suffering. Why? Because I have no boundaries. Because I'm not fully committed to one task. Because I mistakenly believe that I can "do it all."

No more. Thanks to the encouragement of the very wise Sarah Robinson, I'm drawing a line in the sand. Establishing boundaries. Pilates and yoga classes are as sacred as marathon training. They are appointments to be kept, not activities to squeeze in. Meals are a time for fellowship and conversation. They are to be savored, not shoveled down between emails and snippits of Jeopardy. Work time is sacred. No more emails stating "I'm free all day on Thursday," only to end up with 12 hours of meetings, calls and running around town when I should be attending to client needs. No more free brain-picking sessions. More reading. More time with people I care about. More dreaming. More play breaks with my dog. More time outdoors. More of the things that I truly value and care about in life.

How do YOU set boundaries in your work and life?

What Matters...

2010-03-05T17:41:00.007-05:00

I've been thinking a lot about priorities. So I thought I'd make a list.

Things that matter to me:

My husband. My family. My friends (the ones I can call at 3am or have run with for 2+ hours). Good music. Snuggling and playing with my pets. Kindred spirits. Authenticity. Supporting entrepreneurs. Long runs. A good night's sleep. Engaging conversation. Learning. Laughter. Connecting with thoughtful and interesting people. Hugs. Solitude. Reading and writing. Words. Being grounded, spiritually and physically. Dreaming. Exploring new cities and cultures. Handwritten thank you notes. Making music. Sunshine. Teaching and sharing. Making memories. Serendipity. Being me.

The rest is just noise.

Priorities

2010-03-03T10:32:00.000-05:00

I'm busy. Between marathon training, building two businesses and spending time with my husband, I don't have much free time.

But am I spending my time in the best way?

I can count on one hand the number of times this year I've spent one-on-one time with close friends. Other than rides to and from the airport, I haven't seen my sister--who lives less than five miles from my house--since late January. When she asked if I could have lunch this Friday, I looked at my calendar. Not only could I not have lunch this Friday, but any Friday this month. Or dinner for the next three weeks.

Yes, I'm busy. And I work 80 hour weeks. I run 40+ miles a week. But it's MY time, and mine alone to schedule. Work should come a very distanct second to close friends and family.

We live in a society of urgency, immediacy, instant gratification and open access. It's very easy to book up every available hour in a day to accommodate someone else's schedule and neglect your own priorities. Just because you can respond immediately doesn't mean you should. That's why I turn off my Blackberry at night and am no longer ruled by my inbox. But it's time to apply that same principal to my calendar.

So, from now on, Thursday nights are sacred. I'll be hanging with my sister, enjoying a little 30 Rock, wine and girl time. Happily offline and out of touch.

A Little Help From My Friends

2010-02-26T09:19:00.002-05:00

You can have mentors and coaches and cheerleaders galore, but nothing takes the place of a really good friend. Not just any friend, but a kindred spirit. A twin soul that inspires and motivates you, that dreams things you would never dream for yourself.

For me, that person is Casey McCann. Not only is she a brilliant musician and educator, but she's a visionary thinker, who is 100% committed to her passion, her vision and her truth.

I first met Casey at a funeral. It was a gloomy winter day, and we had just witnessed the burial of a mutual friend's boyfriend, who left the world much too soon after a two year battle with a brain tumor. I don't remember much about that day, other than our mutual friend singing the most haunting rendition of Eva Cassidy's "Songbird," and the serendipidous sound of a marching band outside the funeral home serenading his soul into the afterlife.

And Casey. I was blown away by her poise, her energy, her spirit. We didn't talk again for another year or so, meeting again through our mutual friend, who was hosting a CD release party. We had a brief conversation about my public relations business, which was in its infancy, and her music school, which was thriving and making its mark on the community.

I'm not quite sure the next time we saw each other, but that the raw wounds of our mutual divorces, our joint quest for spiritual and personal fulfillment and our shared passion for entrepreneurship bonded us for life.

Since that time, I've watched her confidence blossom, her spirit soar, her soul center, and the impact of her business has been incredible. She's a living example of the impact authenticity, passion and truth can have on a business. I leave every conversation with her insired, empowered, convicted, centered and resolute.

In an era when "coaches" and "experts" are a dime a dozen, it's a poweful remider that sometimes, all you really need is a little help from your friends.

Love Letter to Atlanta

2010-02-23T17:00:00.001-05:00

For the past few months, I've spent several hours a week running the streets of Atlanta in preparation for the ING Georgia Marathon. I usually stick close to home, but this weekend, I decided to do my long run on a large portion of the marathon course, which winds its way through some of the city's most storied neighborhoods.

I started my run in Midtown, and as I followed the course through town, I was surprised to find myself treading familiar ground.

From the joyous eccentricity of Inman Park to the funky chic of Candler Park to the cozy charm of Virginia Highland, these are roads I've traveled before--on foot, in memory, in spirit. From 3am greasy hangover eats at the Majestic to Saturday morning biscuits from the Flying Biscuit, to my very first run in Piedmont Park to the grueling hills of the aptly named Druid Hills that brutally hot summer I trained for my first Peachree Road Race, to countless conversations and communion over food and drink at landmarks like Murphy's, Watershed, San Francisco Coffee, Fontaine's, Park Tavern--the course is a moving postcard, celebrating all that makes Atlanta home and reminding me why I love it so much.

Why? Because it combines big city pace with small time charm. Because it's the place where you know every farmer and chef by name and vice versa. Because the local gas station attendant remembers how many miles you run each week and taunts you for running "only" ten. Because you can make new friends at the coffee shop, the grocery store, the dog park, the sidewalk. Because it snows one weekend and is a balmy 70 degrees the next. Because the green room at the morning news show feels like a family reunion. Because if that person you just met isn't family, she soon will be. Because it's home.

Crossroads and Crosswalks

2010-02-16T01:04:00.004-05:00

I've spent much of the past few weeks in and out of hospitals and doctors' offices. Which are pretty much my least favorite places on earth. The piercing beeping noises, the sour stench of sterility, the blinding artifical lights, the air thick with restlessness and anxiety. Putting me in a clinical setting pretty much guarantees that I'll have a panic attack, even if I'm not the patient.

Which also means I'm a pretty awful caregiver. I hate admitting this, because I love people, and I love caring for people. I think I'm very kind and generous and thoughtful. But physical weakness makes me uncomfortable. Illness makes me uncomfortable. Aging makes me uncomfortable. And yet the universe somehow knows this and is forcing me to confront these fears head on in 2010.

My husband is older than me, by a bit more than a decade. It's rarely an issue, unless we're discussing some random 80's pop culture reference, and we realize that he was in college while I was in elementary school. He's fit, youthful, healthy, strong--in a word, my rock.

Which began to crack late last year, with what turned out to be pretty debilitating kidney stones. I like to pretend I'm independent, strong and tough, but in all honesty, I'm pretty needy. And idealistic. I want to believe that the people I love and depend on will live forever. So, when you look mortality in the face--even if it's just a minor blip on an otherwise healthy, long life--it's sobering. And scary.

As I was in the ER with my husband pondering all of this--and the sad fact that most lives end or at least deteriorate in the very spaces I was haunting--my anxiety started suffocating me, so I jumped at a chance to escape. My husband needed a prescription filled at the pharmacy across the street, and after 22 hours with no sleep, six agonizingly long hours in the emergency room and delirium quickly creeping in, I was happy for the opportunity to DO something.

The pharmacy--a CVS--is one I regularly encounter in an entirely different context. Atlanta runners and Peachtree Road Race regulars will recognize the sign the way I have for many years--a visual cue that one of the city's notorious hills--Cardiac Hill--is almost behind you. For the past ten years that I've called Atlanta home, that CVS sign has been a focal point, a glaring, teasing mirage, taunting me as I power my way up that hill.

If you're not familiar with Atlanta, there's a crosswalk between Piedmont Hospital (where my husband and I were camped out in the emergency room) and that CVS, and it intersects one of the city's busiest roads, Peachtree Street (yes, THE Peachtree Street), not to be confused with Peachtree Battle, Peachtree Walk, Peachtree Industrial, Peachtree Circle or Atlanta's 100 other Peachtree-monikered by-ways. Directly adjacent to Piedmont--and visible from the CVS--is the Shepherd Center, which specializes in the treatment and rehabilitation of patients with spinal cord and brain injuries.

I've always been vauguely aware of the Shepherd Center. I smile and wave at the patients who line the street to cheer for the 55,000 plus Peachree Road Race runners every July 4th, and I've had a few friends who've served on the Junior Committee.

But the Shepherd Center--as do crosswalks in general--has a graver, deeper significance to me now. My friend and running teammate Sarah was in a crosswalk, on a similarly dark morning, going about her daily run, when she was struck by a car. She spent nearly two weeks in a coma and several weeks in the hospital before being transferred to the Shepherd Center for rehabilitation. Re-learning so many of the things we take for granted--like the ability to walk across the street, healthy and unassisted--on a dark and brisk winter morning.

In spite of the frigid temperatures, I stood at that intersection through three or four lights, overwhelmed by the intersection of life and death and strength and fragility and faith and hope and fate. By how many times I didn't feel strong enough not only for that hill, but for the silly, mundane things in life that I allow to consume me. And yet how much strength others have shown in the face of so much more. The courage to look death in the eye and defy it--to fight with it with every thought and breathe and movement.

We all have these crossroads if life. When we're forced to confront our biggest fears and weaknesses. And you have two choices--quit, or keep on trudging up that hill, no matter how painful or difficult it may seem. I choose the latter.

Stop Counting and Start Connecting

2010-02-09T10:31:00.003-05:00

1,000. 10,000. 100,000. 1,000,000.

Whatever your magic number is, admit it--you're counting. We're all playing the numbers game.

When we're not compulsively checking our website hits or our blog comments, we're accumulating Twitter followers, Facebook fans and blog subscribers like notches on our social media bedposts. Me? Guilty as charged.

But what if we turned all of that focus outward?

Started counting how many people we've reached out to, how many blogs we've commented on, how many people we've connected to one another, how many good things we've said about others and their work?

Would the numbers even matter?

I am NOT a Publicist

2010-02-07T17:46:00.003-05:00

I am NOT a publicist.

There, I said it aloud (yes, I know I'm writing, but I actually did say it aloud).

Yes, I'm well aware of the name of my blog. Yes, I'm aware that people know me as "the PR girl." But I'm also well aware of how confining this label has become, from both a personal and professional perspective.

The definition of a "publicist?" One who publicizes.

The definition of "publicize?" Give publicity to; bring to public notice; advertise.

My work is so much bigger than that. It's connecting, communicating, collaborating, educating, influencing, strategizing, advocating, branding, engaging, leveraging, building, teaching, sharing, evaluating, creating.

That's why you won't see the word "public relations" anywhere on the new web site I'm launching in a few weeks. That's why I will no longer describe myself as a "public relations" professional. And why the work I have been and will be taking on in the future will be bigger than simply "publicity."

Who cares if someone "knows" about your product or service if they're not engaged? If they're not ambassadors? If you can't create and communicate and share in new platforms? If you're not building something lasting of substance and value and community?

Call me an educator, a communicator, a connector, a creator. But please don't call me a publicist.

Growing Pains: When the Brand Becomes Bigger than You

2010-02-05T11:41:00.001-05:00

It's been less than two weeks since the great Facebook purge of 2010, and I'm still getting at least five random friend requests a day.

I see you're a fan of x (company #2); me, too! Let's connect.

Um, no thank you. If you're a fan, just become a fan, especially if we have no natural point of intersection or previous connection.

I've previously talked about this issue in terms of privacy (I'm under no illusion that I have any on the internet) or boundaries (being selective about whom you connect with). But it's really an issue of branding.

When you're building a business--especially as a solopreneur--social media platforms naturally become a hodgepodge of personal and professional. Even if you have a website, a LinkedIn account or a stand-alone professional blog, it's pretty much impossible--and probably not desirable--to remove all traces of your professional self from social networking sites. After all your network--even if its just friends and family--can be a powerful tool for generating leads and promoting your business.

That's why I've adopted a hybrid approach to branding. You'll see it in this blog, on my Facebook page, on my Twitter account, and in the way I interact and connect with people. Personality sells. And I can't separate Laura the person from Laura the entrepreneur. The two are too intertwined.

And while I believe wholeheartedly in this approach, I'm having growing pains. The more visible I become and the more people I connect with, the more I WANT some separation between my personal and professional lives; the more murky the lines between friendship and business become; the more wary I become of endorsing people or places or products, lest they mistakenly become associated with my professional brand.

In other words, my brand, like my business, has some growing up to do. I'm no longer managing one business, but two. I have a (very small) staff. I'm expanding my professional offerings and venturing into the big scary world of speaking engagements and writing opportunities. All of which I want and welcome.

But the brand has become bigger than me--an extension of me, yes; but only me--no. And my online presence has to reflect that. So, it may mean turning down a few Facebook friend requests I would've accepted a year ago and directing those people to my fan page. It may mean a little less Twitter chatter about wine and more about my latest exciting project. And more conversations here about the intersection of entrepreneurship, personality and brand.

Bring on adolescence.

Dude, It's Not a Freaking Non-Profit

2010-02-02T10:51:00.001-05:00

"Dude. This is not a freaking non-profit."

I so wish I could take credit for those words, but alas, I can't. They're from one of Elizabeth Potts Weinstein's latest blog posts, "I'm Not Sorry for Selling."

I've always been apologetic about selling. Even as a child, I was mortified by the idea of going door-to-door hocking wrapping paper, poinsettias or Girl Scout cookies to fund my latest extra-curricular activity. It wasn't just my innate shyness--it was a serious distaste for interrupting people and guilting them into buying something they really didn't need, no matter what the cause.

My distaste for selling continued into adulthood. I distinctly remember an exercise in a graduate school class that required me to list the three things I would least like to do in my career. Mine? Schmoozing, selling and budgeting.

So, of course, I became an entrepreneur, which as we all know has absolutely nothing to do with schmoozing, selling or budgeting.

And running a business hasn't made the selling any easier. In fact, I pretty much avoid it altogether.

I've been lucky. For the most part, business has come to me, from friends, family, former work colleagues and client referrals. The work has been steady, if predictable and easy. It's been safe. Comfortable. And stagnant.

I always complain that I'm not running a non-profit, and yet, I treat it like one. I don't charge enough for services. I give things away for free. And I'm realizing it's mostly because I find selling distasteful. I don't want to ask. I'm scared. Of rejection, failure, pride--maybe all of the above.

But at the end of the day, I'm running a business. And if I want to succeed, I have to treat it like one. I have to sell. And talk about selling.

Selling doesn't have to be this icky, sleazy, dreaded thing. We sell every day--with our words, our actions, our beliefs, our personalities and our presence. And while I've been using these things to build relationships and engage communities, I've been neglecting the last step: the ask.

And without the ask, there's no money, and without money, well--I'm a freaking non-profit.

All the World's a Stage

2010-01-30T17:16:00.003-05:00

Admit it. You've read Crush It in the past few months (guilty as charged). And if you're in Atlanta, you've probably heard Hollis Gillespie speak, or maybe even attended one of her blog writing workshops or webinars (and don't get me wrong--I ADORE Hollis. She's an amazing storyteller). Lately, though, it seems like everyone has jumped on the blog bandwagon. And not for the reasons those of us who jumped on it a few years ago did--to express ourselves, to share our lives and commentary with friends and family, to practice the art of writing. No, these newcomers seem primarily motivated by the almighty dollar.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. When I originally started this blog (my fifth in about as many years), it was anonymous. I thought it would be a place for me to vent about work and the unglamorous side of public relations. And sometimes, it still is. But I also write about running and food and body image and business growing pains. If this increases my visibility or adds some credibility to my business, all the better. But it's not my primary goal. Hence, why this account is separate from my company's web site (which, like this blog, also needs a makeover)!

I write primarily because I love it. Because I'm a girl who loves words, who needs a space to ponder and explore and dream. It's not strictly business, because that's not who I am. And because, quite frankly, there are dozens of people out there who do that and do it better than I ever could.

Which brings me back to the blog bandwagon. I have nothing against blogging for self-expression. I think we all could use a bit more creativity and whimsy in our lives. And if you're blogging to grow your business, and doing the right things--adding to the discussion, fostering conversation, creating community--good for you.

But if you're doing it because you think it will make you a millionaire or land you a book deal--your time may be best spent elsewhere.

My Name is Laura, and...

2010-01-27T17:25:00.006-05:00

They say admitting a problem is the first step toward recovery.

Hi, my name is Laura, and I'm an entrepreneur.

Hopelessly creative.
Stubbornly ambitious.
Occasionally manic.
Always dreaming.

I've been through a bit of a blue spell lately, the kind I think we all go through when doggedly pursuing our dreams. The crazy long hours. The endless self-promotion. The financial uncertainty. The fits of self-doubt.

But at the end of the day, I persevere because I can't imagine doing anything else. Because it feeds my mind and my soul. Because I am resolute in my dreams. Because I can't imagine returning to cubicle hell.

But most of all, because I can't imagine doing anything else.

I AM an entrepreneur. Are you? And what are you going to do about it?

Why Less is More

2010-01-22T22:36:00.005-05:00

While I've never had the illusion of privacy on social networks, I realized recently that my Facebook page is out of control. While I do use the term "friend" liberally, I'm not quite sure how my Facebook friend count swelled to more than 1,100 earlier this week.

Okay, maybe I do. Like my friend Gini wrote in her piece about Social Media Boundaries, I'm nice. I want people to like me. I can't say no. And most of all, I like people, from my childhood best friend to the person I met last week at the coffee shop. And I really believe in the potential of these connections, large and small. For not only friendship, but partnership, collaboration, mentoring, knowledge. In fact, many people I only had chance encounters in with life pre-Facebook have become some of my closet friends and most loyal clients.

But I'm reconsidering my Facebook "open door" policy, especially now that I've become more visible in the community. It's not that I have anything to hide--I like to think people connect with me and hire me because of my personality, so I don't mind talking about how I hate mornings, enjoy my evening wine and get the occasion blues. But I DO mind friend requests from people I've never met or interacted with, endless invitations to join Mafia Wars or 50 different fan pages and countless status updates about your child's potty training activities. But most of all, I just want Facebook to be what it used to be for me--a place to engage, to connect, to build lasting relationships with quality people.

So, I defriended about 100 people today. And it was quite liberating. And if you made the cut--congrats!

The Bucket List

2010-01-20T23:57:00.004-05:00

I was wondering what in hell I was going to blog about today (especially since I've set some random precendent of two posts in a row-gotta keep the momentum going), and I stumbled upon EPW's bucket list. If you don't know EPW--Elizabeth Potts Weinstein--you should. And not just because she's the queen of fabulous Twitter hashtags. Don't believe me? Follow her.

Since I've been a bit bogged down with business budgeting and planning, I thought now would be the perfect time to dream. The bucket list isn't about accomplishments--it's about experiences. The unforgettable moments and memories that make a life truly well lived.

On my list?

Meeting Dolly Parton.
Belting out a show tune on a Broadway stage. Or maybe just a stage. I've always been the chorus girl--just once, I'd like to be the star.
Qualifying for and running the Boston Marathon.
Learning to play the guitar or the cello. Or both.
Traveling to Europe to witness the summer sports trifecta--Wimbeldon, the British Open and the Tour de France.
Writing a book. Preferably one that people buy and read, and that makes the New York Times bestseller list and lands me an interview with Matt Lauer (swoon).
Speaking fluent Italian. Or enough to get around Italy for a while.
Living in a foreign country for at least six months.
Getting a tattoo.
Owning an apartment in Manhattan and a house on the coast near Charleston, SC. Or at least regular trips to each destination.
Taking a ballet class and performing in a tutu and ballet slippers. Even if I'm 60.
Learning to shag and dancing really well at someone's wedding.
Talking writing with Anne Lamott.
Having my vote for President count in the state of Georgia (wishful thinking).
Buying a pair of Louboutins.
Getting paid some sort of money or winning a makeover/photoshoot/free clothes for looking like Sarah Jessica Parker.
Teaching a college class.
Becoming a certified Pilates instructor.
Attending the NCAA Final Four.
Eating at a five star restaurant and tasting everything in front of me.
Raising $100,000 for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.
Getting rid of STUFF--and living a full life in a one bedroom apartment, with just my husband, a couple of pets and our collective bucket lists to fill the rooms.

What's on your list?

Martha, Martha, Martha

2010-01-19T15:00:00.007-05:00

When I left you, dear readers, I was wandering around Manhattan with a buttonless coat, a half-torn contact in my eye, a blister and a dying cell phone.

But enough about my drama--you want to hear about Martha!

Martha, Martha, Martha. I just love how one day, she's in the slammer, and the next, she's donning a sunny yellow cardigan and prim khakis and beaming through our television screens like the perfect housewife next door.

I know Martha is the arbiter of all things good. I know she's idolized by many.

But I just don't get it.

Maybe it's because I don't have the patience for anything involving glue guns and glitter. Or maybe it's because I can't even keep a houseplant alive and consider boxed macaroni and cheese a complete meal.

Whatever the reason, the truth is that I've always found her pretentious. Condescending. Annoyingly perfect--with the exception of that prison term, of course.

So, I'm not quite sure how this decidedly UN-Martha blogger got invited to attend her show. But I wasn't about to pass up a chance to expense a trip to New York City and observe the creature in her natural habitat.

Which was warm and cloyingly cute. Kind of like the bright colors they forced us all to wear (I settled on a cobalt blue dress and turquoise tights--that's as bright as I get, folks) and the squealing mommy bloggers who packed the audience.

There were the requisite cooking segments. Pad Thai with @chezpim and orange almond cakes with Jeff Blumenkrantz, who stole a page from Julie & Julia and wrote a blog about cooking Martha's recipes, which of course led to a cookbook and will invariably make it to a theatre near you (after all, Blumenkrantz is Broadway actor--can the Martha musical be far behind?).

The other guests included Martha's extremely frosty daughter, Alexis, who looked beyond pissed that her mother had interrupted her morning of bossing around servants and shutting down city streets to deliver her furniture to come to the studio to chat about blogging; the very likeable Jennifer Koppelman-Hutt, who played the recorder and joked about surfing porn online and seemingly had nothing in common with her blogger-in-crime, Her Highness Alexis; and semi-stalker Andrew Ritchie, who has a blog all about Martha, which naturally led to an invitation to be on the show and participate in some tedious yarn craft. So, if I start a blog about Dolly, will she invite me to sing on stage with her? A girl can dream. (by the way, Happy Birthday, Dolly! I love you!)

In spite of my growling tummy (even with the abudance of food, no one offered to share with the hungry masses) and my complete inability to sit still for longer than fifteen minutes at a time, I really enjoyed the experience. Martha was very engaging, and you have to admire anyone who can not only rock six inch Yves Saint Laurent heels, but survive a public scandal and land right back on the top, with grace and ease.

So, thanks for the memories, Martha. And click here for my one second of fame (opening shot, on the right, less than a second in)! :)

Work, Interrupted

2010-01-17T23:30:00.002-05:00

Late one night last week, as I was managing 25 open windows, three Twitter accounts, the neverending stream of email and somehow deluding myself into thinking I was "working," my friend Chris Brogan's latest tweet popped up. It read something like "we live in an interruption-based society." Somewhat ironic, given that the tweet itself is the very type of interruption of which he was speaking (but only because I have my TweetDeck set to “interrupt” me with messages like that—essentially, my own damn fault!). But I’ve been pondering his comment for the past several days.

While those of us in the communications business have a professional obligation to stay connected to the virtual world, I think we are guilty of being more "busy" than truly engaged. When does our compulsion to multi-task, to be constantly connected, for immediacy and instant gratification just become a fruitless exercise in unfocused activity and excess noise?

I'm currently jotting down this blog on a scrap of magazine paper using a borrowed pen, on a plane en route to Atlanta. AFTER I finally finished the website copy and company boilerplate I've struggled to write for months. It seems all I needed was a two hour plane ride with—you guessed it—no interruptions.

So, I’m vowing this week to take control of my schedule. I’m committed to spending one hour per day without interruptions. No television, no iPod, no cell phone, no Twitter, no Facebook, no email and no IM. Just me and the task at hand. Care to join me?

Misadventures in Manhattan

2010-01-14T07:23:00.007-05:00

It's not a trip with me unless there's some drama. I'm an expert traveler--I navigate security with the best of them, I can shove thirty pound bags into the overhead with ease and stuff more liquids than you would think humanly possible into that quart sized Ziploc.

No, the drama is usually of my own making. And mostly induced by my complete inability to plan.

After my Christmas travel fiasco (which involved me taking two bags because I was too tired and rushed to edit my wardrobe and accidentally putting my liquids in the non-checked bag--oh, and did I mention that I never check bags, but again, I was too frenetic to deal with packing), I was determined to plan better for my New York City expedition.

It started off well. I packed in plenty of time. I even got in a run. I arrived just in time to board and managed to get tons of work done on the plane.

And then I landed at La Guardia.

And my phone battery was fading quickly. And I couldn't locate my charger.

Frantic, I plopped down in an abandoned concourse and starting tossing belongings onto the floor. Jeans, scarves, and yes, even my skivvies were on full display as I searched in vain for the charger. Meanwhile, my phone was making loud, gasping noises, and I had no idea what hotel room I was staying in or where I would be meeting my friends for dinner.

Brookstone to the rescue. I finally broke down and bought an overpriced charger, knowing full well I'd find mine in the bag as soon as I got to the hotel (wrong: charger was actually on my kitchen table, along with my Cliff bars, so if I faint during Martha, you'll know why)! I sat down, drank some water and let my phone charge enough to get me into the ride into the city.

But the fun wasn't over. As I boarded the bus for the city, a button popped off my winter coat (the second to fall off that day), which basically means I couldn't close it and protect myself from the freezing cold. And there were random threads hanging out everywhere. Uber classy.

All was well until I got off the subway at Times Square and realized I'd developed a huge blister on my left ankle. And my stuffed overnight bag was starting to feel really heavy. I limped the two blocks to the hotel, where the lovely desk clerk gives me a bandaid. Another crisis averted.

Until later that night, when in the middle of dinner in Soho with good friends, my contact tore in my eye, and when I went to the bathroom to try and pull it out, I realized that I only have one earring in, because I've apparently also managed to drop that along the way (and my sister gave me those as a bridesmaid's gift, so they're quite sentimental). The contact was still lodged in my eye, so I returned to the table, mascara smeared, eyes red and blurry, rocking the 80's earring look and just had to laugh. It was just so me. To the outside world, I look like I have it together, but in reality, I'm walking around Manhattan with a buttonless coat, crazed, bloodshot eyes and a big zit in the middle of my chin, hoping I blend in with the masses.

Me? Martha?

2010-01-12T12:41:00.004-05:00

In case the squeals of delight have somehow escaped your ears, you know that me and three other local bloggers--Shameeka Ayers, aka "The Broke Socialite," Tami Hardeman of Running with Tweezers (named 2009's best blog by the AJC) and Ashley Leckey of IceMilk Aprons--are headed to New York City tomorrow for Thursday's taping of the Martha Stewart blogger show.

The four of us sat down last night in Shameeka's "studio" to chat about the show for an episode of Gasp. Swoon. Faint. And it occured to me that I was woefully out of place.

I am so NOT Martha. I rarely cook. I have no home decor to speak of. In fact, I'm kind of a slob. I don't do crafts. I can't even sew on a button. Like any good Southern girl, I do have monogrammed stationary, a full set of china and decent linens, but I can't remember the last time I used any of the above.

But hey, I like pretty things as much as the next girl, and I'm not about to pass up a trip to New York City to see an American icon. So, as long as I can find something suitable to wear, look for me on Thursday!

It's a good thing.

Size Does Matter

2010-01-05T10:48:00.006-05:00

I did something yesterday that I hadn't done since last spring. I stepped on a scale.

For some people, this is a daily occurance. In my case, it was an obssession. So, I tossed the scale and just lived. I let go of "rules." I ate better; I trained harder. And the result?

I gained ten pounds. TEN pounds.

As I stood there bundled in my winter gear but feeling completely naked and exposed, I stared at the number.

Is this a mistake? Even if I removed three layers and took off my shoes, that wouldn't account for ten pounds.

And then I turned around and looked in the mirror. And I thought of all I have accomplished with those ten extra pounds. Strong marathon training. A 14 minute half marathon PR. A three minute 5K PR and a 4th place finish in my division, just three weeks post-swine flu. The energy to get through almost every day without a nap. The ability to cope better with my depression. An interest in quality food.

So what if my thighs and hips are a bit bigger and my old jeans are a little tight? I feel amazing. My husband thinks I'm hot. And best of all, I'm healthy.

And for the first time in my adult life, I didn't think "I need to lose ten pounds." I thought "wow, think of all I could've accomplished with those ten pounds years ago."

2010 Theme Song

2010-01-03T20:49:00.007-05:00

(no head--you can't prove it's me!)

Some people have words, some people have goals--I have theme songs.

I'm a total music geek. I spent my high school years decked out in green sequins, dancing jazz squares, sporting the cheesy perma-grin and singing show tunes. Loudly. Everywhere.

I think I listened to the Les Miserables soundtrack at least twice a day. Long before Susan Boyle popularized the tune, "I Dreamed a Dream" was my theme song. Like my petty troubles were anything compared to those of a French prostitute during the Revolution, but yeah, I was always a bit of a drama queen.

So, it should not surprise anyone that this year's theme song is a show tune. It's a song that's always moved me, but has taken on new meaning in the past couple of weeks as I think about the future of my business and my brand, particularly the line "close your eyes and leap."

"Defying Gravity"

Something has changed within me, something is not the same

I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else's game

Too late for second-guessing, too late to go back to sleep

It's time to trust my instincts, close my eyes and leap

It's time to try defying gravity

I think I'll try defying gravity

And you can't pull me down

I'm through accepting limits, 'cause someone says they're so
Some things I cannot change, but 'till I try, I'll never know

Too long I've been afraid of losing love I guess I've lost
Well, if that's love it comes at much too high a cost

I'd sooner buy defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye, I'm defying gravity
And you can't pull me down

So if you care to find me, look to the western sky

As someone told me lately, "everyone deserves the chance to fly"

And if I'm flying solo, at least I'm flying free

To those who'd ground me, take a message back from me

Tell them how I am defying gravity

I'm flying high defying gravity

And soon I'll match them in renown

And nobody in all of Oz , no Wizard that there is or was

Is ever gonna bring me down
(C) Stephen Schwartz, 2003

So, my friends, be bold. Take risks. Trust your gut. And fly.

See you in the sky.

Best of 2009

2009-12-31T18:40:00.007-05:00

I think many of us will agree that 2009 was a difficult year. And it felt difficult while living it. But looking back, I have so much to be grateful for and wanted to share some of the highlights with you.

FAMILY

I got married! On February 27, 2009, I married the love of my life, Tim Long. Just a small, simple ceremony with my sister, brother-in-law and parents in attendance. It was the perfect way to start our life together. I couldn't ask for a better friend, partner, cheerleader and coach.

My sister got married, too! Her celebration was larger and more elaborate, but no less joyful. So happy to welcome Brian to our family and see my sister so happy.

My parents celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary! So, so grateful for their love and support. And their genes--don't they look amazing?

My dad completed his first half marathon! Our family trip to Kiawah Island was supposed to be my marathon debut. Alas, it was not meant to be--a nasty case of swine flu knocked me out. But it was a true joy to cheer on my father as he crossed the finish line--two days later, he was ready for more!

FRIENDS

My best friend Emily had another sweet baby boy, Samuel "Cutler," every bit as adorable as his big brother, Jonah. Such a blessing to be able to spend time with the Hardings this year.

While the Country Music Marathon was my least favorite event of the year, I got to spend the entire weekend with one of my best friends, Angela Hansberger. It was our third season training together, and collectively, we've raised over $30,000 for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Angela had never even run a mile until her dear friend Kate was diagnosed over two years ago--what a joy to run all of those miles with her, and better still, to celebrate Kate being cancer free this summer.

The 4th of July! It's my favorite holiday. This year, I ran the Peachtree Road Race for the eight consecutive year with my TNT friends, my husband, my dad and honorary brother David Cordell, whose wife Sarah (my best friend from college) and son Nathan have started joining us for the holiday. I love nothing more than a great run in the sweltering heat with 60,000 of my closet friends, followed by grilling out, fruity drinks and low-key times with family.

The Stupid Chickens! Most Wednesday nights, you can find me, Tim and our neighbors and close friends, Paul and Sarah McKibben, plus others who joined us along the way, at Bone Garden Cantina. No matter how packed our training and work schedules are, Wednesday night has become sacred time reserved for fellowship over cheese dip and margaritas. Better yet, we managed to win four straight quarterly tournaments--earning us bar cash for even more cheese dip and margaritas!

My dear friends Jaclyn and Roger got married! I met them through my very first Team in Training event, when their relationship was brand new, so it's been a joy to watch them fall deeper and deeper in love as the months and years have passed. Mazel tov!

Twitter! I heart Twitter. Yes, not all connections on Twitter turn into friendships (see this recent blog post for more), but many of them did, particularly with my long-lost twin Gini Dietrich (whom I got to meet in Chicago in October), and the fabulously witty and wonderful Marisa Sharpe. So blessed to meet so many amazing new people.

FOOD

2009 was the year this formerly picky eater became a foodie.

Highlights?

Meeting Jen and Ryan Hidinger of Staple House. Fabulous people making fabulous food (and football fanatics). You won't meet more real people in all of Atlanta, and Tim and I are happy to call them friends. Can't wait for their restaurant to open!

Woodfire Grill. I had four outstanding meals at Woodfire this year: Tim's birthday, a girls' night out with Angela, my birthday dinner with family and a serendipitous meal with my friend Chris. All very sweet memories, made even sweeter by the company as well as the outstanding food and service.

Antico pizza. I need a 12 step program for this pizza. My best experience there was a private tasting in the kitchen, where we ate slice after slice of cheesy goodness. While the place has lost some of its initial charm, the pizza is still heavenly enough to merit a weekly visit.

The Holeman and Finch burger. It's legendary. For those who don't know, they only make 24 burgers a day and only serve them at 10pm. And on Christmas Eve, Tim and I FINALLY got to taste Atlanta's juiciest novelty. We've decided to make it an annual tradition.

Julie and Julia. The ultimate foodie movie. Several of us (including Patti and Kathianne, pictured below), got together to celebrate a friend's birthday, then went to see the movie that had all donning aprons and craving beef bourguignon.

FORTUNE

While 2009 seemed challenging in the moment, as I look back, it was a year of huge growth. For me as a person, as a runner and as an entrepreneur. I can't say thank you enough to all of the people who made that possible and look forward to more amazing experiences, relationships and connections in 2010.

Pass the champagne!

Shitty First Drafts

2009-12-28T17:35:00.004-05:00

As a writer, I’m both lazy and a perfectionist. I don’t want or think I have to devote a lot of time to writing, yet I’m frustrated when the outcome isn’t perfect. Not the best recipe for a

successful blog.

I’ve realized that both the laziness and the perfectionism are born of fear. Of failure. Of disappointment. Of disappearing. Of being misunderstood.

"Writing is not, for us, an art, but breathing." -Anais Nin

I’ve been a writer since my early years, when I scribbled stories in notebooks, poems in the margins of textbooks and entered every essay contest imaginable. I had no fear. I hadn’t learned it yet. Instead, I wrote because I loved it. Because I wanted to. Because I needed to.

As you get older, you learn fear. You learn excuses.

I’ll write more when…

I have more time.

I have a better (or any) blog design.

I get more followers.

I have better ideas.

I’m in the mood.

Which basically means, you’ll never write.

A few weeks ago, I realized that I needed to embrace the fear. So I did what I always do when I need inspiration. I turned to Anne Lamott. She describes the process perfectly. The excuses, the rituals, the bargaining, the terror. And then she introduced me to something powerful: the “shitty first draft.”

I’ve tried everything to circumvent the shitty first draft. Not writing one. Writing and not revising. Writing a draft and abandoning it in frustration. Writing at 2am and blindly praying for the best.

But there’s no avoiding the shitty first draft. It’s part of the process.

And Jon Morrow’s blog a few days ago drove that point home.

Writing is work. Hard work. And necessary work.

So, I’m embracing it all—shitty first drafts, the fear, the anxiety, the perfectionism. How about you?

Are You My Friend?

2009-12-26T16:13:00.007-05:00

One of my favorite childhood books is Are You My Mother? In this endearing tale, a lost little bird wanders around in search of his mother. He happens upon planes, cows, trains and other random objects, asking plaintively, “are you my mother?” It’s a really sweet story about finding your tribe, about belonging, and I think it is similar to situations some of us encounter online. We all want to make friends. We all want to connect. Belong. But to what extent are we building friendships and lasting relationships? And how much of it is white noise?

I have a tendency to call everyone a “friend,” with no distinction between those I just bonded with about Glee on Twitter and those who knew me the first time leggings were popular. My husband recently questioned my overuse of this word, saying [insert your social media guru and/or popular blogger of choice here] is NOT your friend. Which, of course, prompted me to craft a smart-ass DM to one of the aforementioned gurus/bloggers, who replied that he did, in fact, consider us friends.

“But there’s a difference between ‘friends’ and ‘friendly,’” my husband insisted.

And he has a point. Yes, I’m accessible and witty and occasionally overshare, but the several hundred people I know solely through the magic of the web aren’t all the same category of “friend.” Only a handful of us have shared deep secrets and belly laughs over a bottle of wine or held each other in moments of grief. To those special few, I am eternally grateful.

But what does it mean to be authentic--to be real and engaging and sincere--in a space in which public and private are so blurred? To want people to know those things that make your heart soar (for the record: running, Anne Lamott, Manhattan, naps, wine, amazing food, Don Draper, show tunes and shoes), but without them thinking I’m wasting time (naps, running, the contents of my DVR), money (wine, travel, the shoes) or influence (talking about all of the above instead of super-important industry facts and trends). What’s the difference between things I endorse and products and people I represent? How do I use these tools effectively to promote myself and my business? And do so with personality and grace? And yes, maybe even find a few friends along the way.

Taking the Plunge

2009-12-23T01:13:00.007-05:00

I've always had an identity crisis when it comes to blogging. This is my fourth blog to date, and while it's the first one to bear my real name, I've realized that I'm still a bit intimidated by the blogosphere.

In person, I think I come across as poised, confident--a leader. But when it comes to writing, at least publicly and especially when it comes to thought leadership, I am shockingly meek. I thought because I've established this blog as a personal, confessional space, it wasn't the place to explore more weighty topics--particularly professional ones. But I'm realizing now it's simply fear. Because I don't have all the answers, and the questions change daily.

I've been guilty of the same timidity when it comes to business. Second-guessing myself. Undervaluing my work. Giving things away. Fearing risk and failure.

No more. If I'm serious about my dreams--writing, speaking, connecting with amazing people and promoting the heck out of my clients--I need to jump in the deep end, feet first, eyes wide open.

Or, as some of my wise friends have written in the past few days: Strike while the iron is hot. Burn the ships. Fight like hell.

2010 is my year. Stay tuned.

December 17, 2009

2009-12-21T01:52:00.005-05:00

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about serendipity and perseverance. How if you just make the effort and take baby steps (again, "bird by bird"), good things will come your way. Little did I know that that particular bout of perseverance was coinciding with the swine flu--so perhaps, a little rest would've been in order.

And then, approximately two weeks later, I had a very similar day (sans swine flu), on a much larger scale. So big, in fact, that I sent this email to a good friend:

Do you ever have one of those days when it seems like everything--every idea, dream, connection, thought--comes together? Today is that day for me--put it on the calendar. December 17, 2009.

And little did I know what was to follow. So many amazing connections and opportunities and experiences that made every little misstep, every dead-end job, every ounce of blood, sweat and tears I've poured into this business worthwhile.

2010 is going to be a huge year. Bring it.

Bird by Bird

2009-12-16T11:37:00.001-05:00

It's December 16, and nothing this month has gone according to plan.

I was looking forward to December. My birthday, my first marathon, my first real vacation of the year.

Instead, I got the flu (on my birthday), missed my first marathon after months of training (again) and spent most of my vacation sick with hives (and watching other people run the marathon).

Needless to say, I've been a little blue. Maybe a lot blue. And no amount of peppermint bark or wrapping paper or Christmas music was easing the pain.

At 2 this morning, two weeks deep into my personal pity party, I turned to an old friend. As I picked up my worn copy of Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird and read the words that inspired its title--"bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird," suddenly, the path became clearer.

It's not about the grand plans--the marathon, the business empire, the book I've yet to write--it's about the steps in between. Getting out of bed. Running a few miles. Writing a few paragraphs. Responding to a few emails. Connecting with a few friends. Sharing a few great ideas.

The rest will come...

Serendipity

2009-12-03T01:58:00.002-05:00

Today was a quintessential weary publicist day. I woke up slightly hungover from family visits, marathon training, birthday celebrating, good food and yes, perhaps too much tequila. It was once again monsooning in Atlanta (seriously--when did this city turn into Seattle?), running on maaaaybe four hours of sleep and nursing some pretty nasty hives. All I really wanted to do was go put on my flannel pajamas, curl up under the warm blanket and make it all go away.

But I fought the urge. I promised myself I could take a nap once I finished up a 3pm call with a potential new client.

And then amazing things started happening. Seredindipidous things. The details of which aren't important.

The important thing is that I got out of bed. I tried. I strove. I persevered.

And the universe listened.

Dreams

2009-12-02T01:55:00.002-05:00

January used to be the dedicated month for resolutions. But it seems now that December is en vogue. I've read quite a few blogs this week encouraging people to use the holiday season for self-reflection, planning and strategizing.

Maybe it's because my birthday falls at the beginning of December (I'm currently celebrating nearly 24 hours of being 34!), but this is also a natural time of year for me to ruminate and dream.

Note my use of the word "dream." Substitute "vision," if you must.

Because I'm not a fan of resolutions. Big lofty plans just seem destined to fail. Maybe it's the free spirit in me, but I don't like to put boxes or limits or black ink on dreams. Conceive them, believe in them and nourish them, but don't get bogged down by lists and tasks and metrics.

Dream big and dream often.

Tradition

2009-11-30T10:47:00.001-05:00

I hate Thanksgiving. I have nothing against thankfulness (something I try to practice daily), but as someone who has always struggled with food and body image, an entire day devoted to gluttony is definitely not on my list of favorite holidays.

For 32 years, I conformed. I suffered the turkey, the congealed salads, the endless hours of preparation and cleanup, the excess, the obligations.

But not this year. I threw out all the traditions and did Thanksgiving MY way.

Half marathon and pizza. And I was happy. And oh so grateful.

Love Letter

2009-11-19T01:24:00.015-05:00

Two years ago tonight, I fell in love with my husband.

I didn't intend to fall in love, and I certainly didn't know I was falling in love at the time.

How did he win me over? What was so sexy, seductive and special about this man?

He listened.

And who doesn't want to be heard?

It Hurts to be Fabulous

2009-11-17T15:37:00.007-05:00

I've recently taken steps to upgrade my wardrobe. Because shockingly, pajamas are not appropriate attire for public places (though if you wore them to brunch at Rosebud this weekend, you got a free mimosa)!

While I generally consider myself a fashionista, lately, fashion has taken a back seat to business. So, now, when I look in my closet, things are all.wrong. Forget my cute shrugs--it's all about maxi sweaters now. Out with the trouser jeans, in with the skinnies, which of course means boots, boots and more boots. And don't get me started on leggings (ick!), plaid shirts (double ick!) or the combination of the two (triple ick!).

Earlier this fall, I did finally give in to the skinny jeans and oversized sweater look, but I'd been resistant to the piece that pulls said look together--the big belt.

Until tonight. I was invited to a restaurant opening, and thought I would look oh-so-chic in my wrap cardie sweater, skinny jeans, riding boots and belt. Oh yes, the epitome of chic.

And discomfort.

Did I mention that said restaurant specialized in MEXICAN food? Fatty, salty, yummy goodness completely inhibited by the aforementioned skinny jeans (made even skinnier by an overextended stay in the dryer) and corset-like belt. I seriously contemplated whether or not two weeks shy of 34 was an appropriate age for unzipping one's pants in public.

No wonder I do most of my eating at home in my yoga pants.

Sound of Silence

2009-11-16T10:11:00.002-05:00

I'm not good with silence. Or stillness. I'm the girl who nervously figdets during meetings, giggles inappropriately during Christmas services and babbles right through that awkward first kiss. I can't stop moving, thinking, planning, dreaming. In the ten minutes since I started writing this blog, I've checked my Twitter feed twice, looked at a friend's photo album on Facebook, read a restaurant review, turned on the iPod and coveted a pair of leopard print heels online. I don't think I need to elaborate on why I rarely drink coffee!

The one exception to my inability to sit still is my weekly restorative yoga class. For those magical 90 minutes, I'm able to calm my body and my mind--to relax into the present and just BE.

In a way, writing is like that. It's an art that requires stillness, mindfullness and discipline. Qualities I think we could all spend a bit more time cultivating.

Confessions of an Over-Committer

2009-11-11T20:05:00.006-05:00

I have a commitment problem. I'm a habitual over-committer.

I come by it rightly--my mother is a serial volunteer. She doesn't just join committees--she chairs them. And while she hasn't had a full-time job since I was born, the woman logs more weekly hours than a Fortune 500 CEO.

As an entrepreneur in the business of public relations, the commitments can be overwhelming. I feel obligated to say yes to every opportunity--every lunch with a new friend, every charity event, every PR committee--not only because they could lead to new connections and new business, but also because I love meeting interesting new people (free food and drinks don't hurt, either)! While an endless stream of networking events, parties and restaurant openings, workshops and conferences may sound glamorous to some people, when they're sandwiched in between client meetings, conference calls, marathon training, being a wife and--oh yes--doing actual work for my clients--they can be exhausting. And for those of you in the business of self-promotion, you know that while a non-stop agenda can be extremely energizing, even the most extroverted people have difficulty being "on" for extended periods of time. By the fifth meeting of the day, I'm dying to ditch the heels, scrub off my makeup and slip into a pair of flannel pajamas, curl up with the remote and catch up on Mad Men (and no, I haven't finished watching Season Three, so please, no spoilers)!

So this week, I'm on a detox program. Other than meals with dear friends and essential clients meetings, I'm staying home. Spending quality time with my husband. Resting up for my 20 mile run this weekend. Keeping my long overdue date with Don Draper. Dreaming and conserving energy for the next phase of this weary publicist's crazy life.

<---P.S. Dear Santa: I'd like these for Christmas. xoxo, TWP

Gratitude

2009-11-03T09:49:00.003-05:00

I joke a lot on this blog that my life isn't glamorous. And yes, some days, when I'm still unshowered in my PJs at 8pm, noshing on cold pizza and having pitched the same story for so many hours I feel like a used car salesman, it can seem very mundane.

But in reality, I live a charmed life. At a time when so many of my friends are struggling, I'm even more keenly aware of my blessings: a loving, supportive husband; a great network of friends and fellow dreamers; clients who believe in me and have amazing gifts to share; as well as health, happiness and a home.

It's far too easy to become complacent, to envy the paths of others. Today, I'm going to try and be grateful and positive in the present.

A Walk in the Clouds

2009-10-28T00:06:00.002-04:00

Sometimes, if you spend too much time in the weeds--in the mundane business of paying bills, returning emails and relentlessly pursuing an ever-expanding "to do" list--you forget to look at the sky. To remember your passion, your direction, your dreams.

So today, I made a conscious decision to spend some time in the clouds. To plan, to dream, to luxuriate in possibilities.

I highly recommend it.

Eating Frogs

2009-10-14T00:58:00.002-04:00

Every morning, I try to eat a frog. The earlier, the better.

I'm a procrastinator by nature. I will do anything to avoid a task I find less than stimulating, whether it's crafting a difficult email, taking the car to get the oil changed or putting away my laundry.

I'm the same way with running. I'm usually good about getting my runs in, but I purposely avoid certain routes that I know are challenging. Namely, Bohler Road.

In the past two years, I've come a long way with my running and have learned to tackle some pretty substantial hills. Cardiac Hill? Easy. Johnson Ferry Road? A breeze.

But Bohler Road has been my nemesis. A half mile of pure, inclined hell. The last time I ran that route was back in June, and I bonked so hard I walked the two miles home and seriously contemplated calling a friend to pick me up. Granted, I was hungover and it was 88 degrees outside, which probably contributed to my struggle. But mentally, I couldn't bring myself to conquer it again, for fear of failure. Until today.

You see, three weeks ago, a friend of mine was hit by a car while out for her morning run. The same breezy routine repeated by thousands of runners across the country, but with a nightmarish ending. Two weeks in a coma. Still unable to speak or eat or walk. Months, possibly years of rehabilitation ahead of her.

It makes me scared, sad and hopeless. What can you say or do to possibly heal that type of wound? To try to make sense of such a random, senseless occurence?

For me, the only thing I know how to do, the only thing I can do, is run. And run with a vengeance. Safely and alertly, but with strength and purpose.

And run I did. Up that damn hill. It wasn't fast, and it wasn't pretty, but I did it. And was grateful for the opportunity to do so.

My Journey from Food Phobe to Foodie

2009-10-11T00:22:00.006-04:00

So, if you follow me on Facebook, you know that I've been talking a lot about food. More specifically, local food--local farmers, local chefs and local restaurants--all of which seemed to have transformed me into an overnight foodie. I love trying new restaurants and eating new things. Food has finally become a source of joy in my life. As my friend Kathianne would say, an act of nourishment.

Food has never been easy for me. Not only was I a picky eater, but for much of my life, food has been about control, about mood, about denial. Even as I started training for half-marathons, I still approached food with fear and austerity. A necessary evil, but certainly not an enjoyable experience.

But over the summer, things changed. With my husband's help, I discovered fresh produce and meats at the Morningside Farmers' Market. Atlanta rallied around its three Top Chef contestants, most notably the fabulously talented and humble Kevin Gillespie of Woodfire Grill. Our neighborhood continued to be a hot spot for the city's best restaurants, and I started becoming more and more adventurous with my food choices. I saw Julie & Julia with some close girlfriends (including Kathianne and Patti), and began to see food as a source of joy, community and celebration. I somehow got linked in to some of Atlanta's underground supper clubs, most notably rougeApron and Prelude to Staple House, making new friends and trying new foods along the way.

Collectively, these experiences were transformative. I no longer dread or fear food. I'm forgoing day-long, half-hearted snacking for honest-to-goodness meals with friends and loved ones. I'm bonding with chefs and food lovers all over town. And I've never felt better. I haven't been on a scale in five months. I no longer stress over the size of my thighs. My runs are getting stronger and faster. I look forward to eating. I relax during meals and savor every bit of food and conversation.

I am so humbled by and grateful to my supportive husband and wonderful friends for teaching me to appreciate the joy of food--yet another community that I am grateful to call home.

Insomnia

2009-10-07T05:27:00.003-04:00

It's 4:29 a.m., and I've essentially pulled an all-nighter. I think it's been a decade--at least since graduate school--since I've done this, and well, I'm not as young as I used to be. It's enough to make this weary publicist even wearier.

I didn't intend to stay up all night (or morning--I'm confused). It all started yesterday morning, when my husband's alarm went off at 4:45 a.m. I managed to go back to bed until 6:30 a.m., when his taxi driver called and apparently couldn't get in our gate. And called and called and called, all while poor Mr. WP was walking around the community trying to find the wayward taxi. Meanwhile, the dog was already stressed out, needed to go out, was blocked from the stairs by the cat, and gave up and puked all over the floor. By 7 a.m., I figured sleep was futile.

So, I wandered down to my computer and started working. And with the exception of a quick four mile run, I worked straight through to 7pm, when I left for an amazing night of music--U2--with 75,000 of my closet friends.

I left super keyed up, so what did I do? Worked some more. Until 4 a.m. And here I am, at 5:17 a.m. and unable to fall asleep.

Did I mention that this weary publicist is supposed to run eight miles today?

Logging off and hoping sweet dreams find their way to me!

Growing Pains

2009-10-05T09:00:00.001-04:00

I'm an accidental entrepreneur. I never had intentions of building an empire--I really just wanted to make enough money to justify not needing a "real" job.

Fast forward two years, and well, here I am. Working and networking non-stop, with a full roster of fabulous clients. I feel incredibly blessed. And slightly overwhelmed.

Enter the cash-strapped professional woman's solution to work overload--the intern.

I've managed interns before. I've managed staff before. But it's an entirely different thing when your name and your brand are on the line. I spent 45 minutes crafting the email with the first assignment for my intern--practically hypeventilating at giving up control.

And it wasn't so much about the intern or that particular assignment (which she completed flawlessly), but about all that that "needing help" implies. That my business has grown large enough that I can't do it on my own. Which means I may one day need a staff. And have to manage that staff (gasp!). And trade in the kitchen table for an actual desk (in an office?!?!) and ditch the pajamas for professional clothes (double gasp!).

I'm trying to take it day by day, but that "what ifs" are intriguing...

Full Disclosure

2009-09-28T00:06:00.004-04:00

When I started blogging about two years ago, I chose a pseudonym--partly because it seemed literary and cool, partly to protect my privacy, but mostly because I was a tentative writer--scared to expose the real me to the big, bad virtual world.

So, no surprise that two years have passed, and two pseudonyms and three abandoned blogs later, I'm still using the same crutch.

I initially started this blog as a way to vent my frustrations about the crazed, unglamorous life of a publicist. I wanted a place to talk freely about my annoyances, grievances and failures--anonymously, of course, so as not to incriminate myself or my clients.

I initially shared my blog with a select few--an "easy" audience of very close family and friends. The response was overwhelmingly positive, and so I shared it with a few more people. And they shared it with others. And people kept saying "I thought your name was Laura. What's with this Carrie business?"

And then I realized it was yet another mask, an artificial layer to buffer me from potential criticism or commentary. Which is pretty much the opposite of what blogging--what writing, really--is all about.

As E.B. White wrote, "writing is both the mask and unveiling."

So I, Laura Scholz, am unveiling myself to you and committing myself fully to the words I'm putting out here in cyberland.

c'est moi

The New Media Revolution

2009-09-25T13:49:00.007-04:00

I'm attending the New Media Conference today in Atlanta, and the irony is that I've neglected one my favorite social media platforms--this blog. And now I've been challenged by none other than the fabulous Chris Brogan to write a blog--today. Before he speaks. In half an hour. No pressure.

But here's the reality. When I joined MySpace back in 2006, I was simply following the pack. My sister had it, my friends had it, and well, I was between projects, and it was a great way to kill some time. Plus, you had to love the voyeurism--nothing like confirming your decision 20 years ago to break up with that high school boyfriend was a good one.

My ex, then a security analyst for a very conservative bank, hated MySpace. He thought I shouldn't be sharing ideas and pictures and personal information with strangers. He wanted me to delete my account.

I'm so glad I didn't listen to him.

It's now 2009, and while MySpace may be so three years ago, the principles that made it such a breakthrough medium are as popular as ever. The ability to form and build relationships with new people, to engage in deeper conversations about products and ideas, to have access to customers and influencers and all-around cool people you wouldn't otherwise have a chance to meet--this is what social media is all about. Sure, you can use it to stalk the mean girl from high school or watch the latest funny video on YouTube, but when you're willing to tranform yourself from passive bystander to engaged participant, it's revolutionary. And today's conversation with Chris Brogan is proof of its power.

Mind Your Manners

2009-09-14T11:14:00.006-04:00

No less than a week after I posted my ode to my home state, it made national headlines. Again. Thanks, Representative Joe Wilson of South Carolina (though at least he doesn't represent my former Congressional district!).

What is it with celebrities and their manners (or lack thereof) this week? Jon Gosselin publicly declaring his love for the latest 20 something trollop before his divorce is finalized, Serena Williams threatening a line judge with obscenities and a tennis ball, Kanye West injecting himself into someone else's acceptance speech--when will it end?

Unfortunately, this behavior isn't limited to politicians and celebrities. Right now, our country's discourse--political and otherwise--is totally lacking in grace, dignity, civility and respect.

I'm all for Voltaire ("I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."), but it doesn't extend to bad manners. So, let's lose the senseless epithets, ditch the profanity and brush up on Emily Post. Please? And thank you.

Carolina in My Mind

2009-09-04T00:35:00.006-04:00

Even though I live only one state away, I still get homesick for South Carolina. Yes, Civil War, Mark Sanford and endless fodder for late night jokes notwithstanding, I love my home state.

I recently started reading Pat Conroy's South of Broad, and I'm savoring every flawed character, every nuanced turn of phrase, every classically picturesque setting. No one evokes the spirit, the essence, the guts and soul of South Carolina and its people like Pat Conroy. Throw in a peach (say what you will, but South Carolina is the true "peach state"), James Taylor (even if he did sing about the wrong Carolina), the movie Shag (Skyview Drive-Inn!) and some beach music (Carolina girls ARE the best in the world), and I'm goin' to Carolina in my mind.

City Mouse, Country Mouse

2009-09-03T01:03:00.012-04:00

I love Aesop's popular fable, City Mouse-Country Mouse. It's been told a thousand times in a thousand different ways, but the fact remains that we all have very different ideas of what's home. As a former "country mouse" (or at least a "small Southern town mouse"), I now live in a wanna-be "city." If I didn't hate cold weather and were independently wealthy, I'd move to New York City in, well, a New York minute. I love the grit, the energy, the community of urban living. I love masses of people of all generations, affiliations and persuasions living on top of one another, eating and living and moving together and tripping over one another in the streets.

One of my favorite memories of city life is from a trip to Madrid, when I was strolling down a street near a park early in the evening, and I watched elderly couples in elegant suits walking hand in hand, doting parents ushering uniformed children home from school, young boys engaged in a boisterous game of soccer, tourists looking befuddled at city maps, all mingling and enjoying the same summer air, then coming together later for fellowship over food and wine and post-dinner gelato. To me, there's something so powerful and rich and alive about being one of many, of living and breathing and mingling in such proximity to neighbors and strangers alike.

While it's unlikely that I will leave Atlanta and even less likely Atlanta will ever grow up and evolve into a real city, I still long for the day when I won't need a car, when I can wake up in my aparment upstairs and wander downstairs to my storefront office to work, breaking occasionally to purchase fresh produce from the local market, snatch up that cute dress from my neighborhood boutique or share a good meal with a friend at our favorite local restaurant, while stopping to chat with shop owners and neighbors along the way. I'll end my day with a long run in the park with my husband and our dog, then watch the sun set over the orange-kissed skyline of this beautiful city I call home.

Summer Lovin'

2009-09-02T00:49:00.004-04:00

It's the first day of September, and this little cold front we're having here in Atlanta is sending people into a fall frenzy. Everyone has football, sweaters and soup on the brain. And while I'll admit that running in 70 degree temps is a nice change of pace, can we just pause for a minute and celebrate all things summer?

Beaches, swimming pools, sundresses, cookouts, dining al fresco, corn on the cob, berries from the vine, flip flops, pedicures, longer days, sunshine, sand in your toes, fireflies, summer storms, rainbows, lemonade, ice cream, convertibles, fireworks, outdoor concerts, baseball, white pants---see, don't you want it to last just a little bit longer?

This Woman's Work

2009-08-31T23:47:00.005-04:00

As I was scrubbing our stairs yesterday as part of my marathon cleaning session, I started to sing "The Work Song" from the Disney movie Cinderella. You know the one:

Cinderelly, Cinderelly
Night and day it's Cinderelly
Make the fire, fix the breakfast
Wash the dishes, do the mopping...

Quite catchy, isn't it?

I was having a brief moment feeling sorry for myself for a) not keeping things tidy enough to avoid spending four hours on an otherwise glorious Sunday afternoon cleaning and b) having so many rooms to clean (wouldn't wish 2.5 baths on three different floors to my worst enemy), when my mind wandered to some of the books I've read recently. Vivaldi's Virgins, about an 18th century violin virtuoso and Church ward who searches for her birth parents; A Thousand Splendid Suns, about strength and friendship amidst tragedy in Afghanistan and The Girl Who Played with Fire, about a lonely Swedish hacker who has been used and abused by all the men in her life, including the ones meant to help her.

No coincidence that I gravitate toward books with strong female characters (I'm definitely not one for moony teenage drivel like Twilight), and what struck me reading these books in succession is how similar these characters really are, in spite of generation and location. How women continue to be defined by their gender, by their relationships with men, by their sexuality and by their predetermined roles in life. And it made me extremely grateful to be scrubbing my own stairs, in my own home, knowing that I am neither confined nor defined by it.

Closing Time

2009-08-24T20:27:00.004-04:00

As I sat at the bar on Saturday at what was previously one of my favorite restaurants, watching an aged frat boy juggle a margarita in one hand and a baby in another while a gaggle of shrill, slurring women cackled at his every word, it hit me--I'm old. The music at my favorite coffee shop is too loud, the acoustics at my favorite trivia locale make me want to invest in a hearing aid and in general, drunk people are not amusing unless you are one of them.

My husband and I tipped our favorite server well, while she rolled her eyes in acknowledgement, and we retreated for the quiet environs of home and hoped for a quiet nightcap on our rooftop deck. Which was interrupted by a neighbor's noisy bash, complete with more squealing drunk girls and booming music.

So we walked down the stairs, shut the windows, brushed our teeth and crawled in to bed. At 9:30 p.m. This my friends, is the real life of a weary publicist:

Morning Grace

2009-08-16T21:00:00.004-04:00

I HATE mornings. Even as a baby, I slept until 9 a.m. Throughout my school years (and this includes high school), my mom literally rolled me out of bed onto the floor to get me moving. In college, I rarely took a class before 10 a.m. Even now, getting out of bed by 9 a.m. is a challenge.

So, of course, I had to pick a hobby (running) that requires me to get up at an ungodly hour every Saturday morning. I usually set my alarm to go off about an hour and half before I need to leave, in the hopes that I may actually wake up and get out of bed on time.

Yesterday morning, the alarm was set for 6:30 a.m. I was meeting my friends at 7:45 a.m. The alarm went off as scheduled--and I promptly turned it off, pulled the covers over my eyes and went back to sleep. Until 8:05 a.m.

Like most mornings, it was tempting to sleep in. To shade my weary eyes from the sun, to leave my tired limbs--already aching from 12 miles run in the previous four days--where they were. I really, really didn't want to get out of bed, let alone run 12 miles. And then I looked down at the pink bracelet on my wrist, and I bounded out of bed, threw on my running clothes and was out of the house in under ten minutes.

I'd worn this bracelet for two years and one day--starting the day of the Team in Training kickoff meeting for the Rock 'n' Roll Arizona Marathon, and the day I met Kate. This bracelet--worn by not just by me, but my my teammates and dozens of Kate's family and friends--is inscribed with the words "Kisses for Kate," and is our way of showing solidarity and support for Kate and her family.

And yesterday was the day we were celebrating the fact that Kate--at the tender age of seven--had survived two years, two months and three days worth of chemotherapy to kill the leukemia that ravaged her little body. And survive, she did. With grace and strength and charm beyond her years.

It was not a day to sleep in, but to celebrate Kate, her journey and her triumph. And for me, that meant running 12 miles--gratefully, joyfully, humbly--in her honor.

Who Needs a Corner Office?

2009-08-11T21:44:00.006-04:00

Last week, Del Jones wrote a great piece for USA Today about female executives and their mentors. 33 of 34 women interviewed said that a male mentor had made the biggest impact on their career. Not surprising, really, given the numbers (even today, it's rare to find a woman in the executive suite, so how can a woman champion you if she's not in a position to do so?), so kudos to those brave men who bucked the system and gave women a seat at the table.

I'm lucky in that I've had a number of male mentors in my career--a manager who took a chance on a fresh-faced graduate student, an SVP who gave me the opportunity to write for the very accounts I managed, the journalist turned firm partner who told me my writing was on par with the best in the business. Meanwhile, the majority of my female bosses seem to have taken a page straight from The Devil Wears Prada-autocratic, demeaning, bitter and threatened.

I know it's been a tough road for our foremothers in the business world, so I'm willing to cut them some slack. But I can't help wondering if they have been striving for the wrong thing all along--now that we've made it to the corner office, is it what we really want?

The corner office--along with the power suit, the expense account, the personal assistant and lavish pay--are symbols of a soon-to-be bygone era where individualism, greed and deception reign supreme. A hollow existence, if you ask me.

So, if not the corner office, then where to? How about the home office, the virtual office, the shared office, the neighborhood office? Places where you can connect and collaborate with likeminded individuals, pursue work that simultaneously challenges your intellect and feeds your spirit and have a direct and positive impact on your community. I'll take that over a gold name plate any day.

A Place Where I Belong

2009-08-09T15:00:00.006-04:00

My friend Laura Benjamin is an amazing songwriter (shameless plug alert: check out her music at www.lbcollective.com), and one of her many gems is a song called "Yankee Girl." In it, she sings about her journey from suburban New York City to Atlanta, and it contains two of my favorite song lyrics ever, "It's been a long, long time, but I think I've found my voice" and "I've finally found a place where I belong."

I was pondering both sets of lyrics on a ten mile run yesterday. I think most of us search for that place where we belong. In high school, I was the shy, smart music geek who secretly wanted to be the pretty, popular cheerleader. In college, I was still--quite shockingly--the shy, smart music geek, and spent entirely too much time trying to fit in with the "right" sorority and the "right" people that I missed out on some great friendships and experiences. And while I found moments of belonging in graduate school, Ohio isn't exactly where I wanted to put down permanent roots.

As I was running along the Chattahoochee yesterday, it hit me: I was at home. Not necessarily in that location (though it's one of my favorite places to run in all of Atlanta), but in the act. Running is my home, my community, my passion and my joy. Whether I'm nodding to a new mom pushing her baby in a stroller, waving at but secretly hating that 60 year-old guy with the beer belly whizzing by me or screaming "Go Team" at other purple-clad people at races around the country, I feel like I'm surrounded by family. Crazy people like me, who find abundant joy and happiness in the ritual of simply putting one foot in front of the other.

My Legacy

2009-08-04T22:18:00.009-04:00

As I was writing the story of my parents' lives to submit to the local paper (they'll celebrate 40 years of marriage on Sunday--congrats, Mom and Daddy!), I thought about what my own life might look like 40 years from now. I've always heard that it's a good exercise to write your own obituary--sort of the ultimately in visioning, if you will--but I have always avoided the task. Maybe because it's slightly morbid, maybe because I'm scared of failure, maybe because I have no idea where this journey called life will take me. Or perhaps all three.

After struggling with the details surrounding my death (we all want to die in our sleep--so far, my Grandpa Andy was the only one lucky enough to draw that card) and whether or not my husband would still be around (Dear Lord, can we both just die in our sleep? Together?), I got down to the facts. Well-respected publicist, author, avid runner (Boston Marathon finisher--a girl can dream!), volunteer, animal lover, mother of two fabulously named and fabulously talented children. And then I realized that I was getting bogged down in accomplishments. Will it really matter fifty years from now what books I did or did not publish or which races I did or did not run?

So, I decided on this: Laua was beloved by friends and family for her laughter, wit, compassion and generous spirit.

Getting Crafty

2009-07-27T23:28:00.003-04:00

When my friend Kathianne suggested we meet for a "nourishing craft project," I'll admit that I was skeptical. I don't do crafts. I can't cut straight lines, my stick figures are unrecognizable and I'm too impatient to properly frost cupcakes or wrap presents. I'd like to say I'm lazy and impatient, but in all honesty, I'm a perfectionist--better not to try at all than try and fail.

But I love Kathianne, so I figured it would be fun girl time, if nothing else. That, and you have to admire a woman who keeps an entire craft store in her one-bedroom loft apartment!

She asked me and our fellow Launching Lady Angela to make signs for our mirrors and scales. The idea was to write affirming messages to remind us of our inner worth and beauty. At first, I had trouble deciding on my message. And then I realized that today is the first official day of marathon training, so I decided on "You can do 26.2!" I decorated my sign in TNT green and purple, with an extra dash of glitter, just because it makes Kathianne giggle.

We also did on-air interviews with Angela's new Flip phone (so adorable--totally coveting it now, in spite of yesterday's post!). I just love how Angela was able to extract so much meaning from this simple project--the importance of nourishing your spirit and creativity, the connection between creativity and entrepreneurship, the joy of connecting with girlfriends. Plus, we even had snack time (though fresh berries and goat cheese, rather than graham crackers or goldfish)!

I definitely left Kathianne's feeling calm, refreshed and inspired. Who knows--maybe there is a craft goddess lurking inside of me! ;)

On Becoming a Grown-up

2009-07-26T17:25:00.011-04:00

As I spent my entire evening sitting at the kitchen table, paying bills, budgeting and finishing up work for a client, it hit me: I'm a grown-up. I gave up bar-hopping a long time ago, but in recent months, I've given up the seemingly inconsequential things--eating out, fashion magazines, bottled water, cute shirts on sale, drinks, dinners out with friends--in the hopes of better, more meaningful things to come. At first, it felt like nickle & diming. Does that $5 In Style magazine really make a difference? What about that $20 pasta dinner when I was too tired to cook? Certainly I deserve indulgences every now and then. Such an insignificant amount of money can't possibly be that meaningful?

Yes, it can, and even more than monetarily. Because these things are fleeting, momentary gratifications that indulge my child self--the ever-petulant teenager who wants what she wants and wants it now.

But the things I want now are much simpler--cheaper in cost, more difficult to find. Sufficient sleep, engaging conversation, like-minded friends, nourishment of body and soul, stolen moments, whole foods, time for reflection, openness to grace--these are life's real treasures.

"For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." -Matthew 6:21

Shoot Me Now

2009-07-22T00:45:00.008-04:00

I've always feared doctors. When I was younger, if I got wind of a doctor's appointment.,I would go to our backyard and climb the highest tree and stage a sit-in until I got too hungry or tired to protest any more. It once took four nurses and a doctor to hold me down for a single shot (and yes, I'm still very proud of this feat!). I even went 16 years without a tetanus shot before anyone noticed. That's how much I hate needles.

Luckily, I had no idea what was in store for me at the orthopedist's office last Friday, or I would've never walked through the door. I was told prior to my visit that I would have an EMG test, but I was too busy to google it--a good thing, because as we all know, even reading about the slightest sniffle on WebMD will have you convinced you are dying a slow, uncertain death.

When I arrived in the exam room, I was given some information about the procedure:

An electromyogram (EMG) is a test that is used to record the electrical activity of muscles...blah, blah, blah...a needle is inserted through the skin into the muscle...

NEEDLE???? Into my muscle?!? Without moral support or Valium?

And that's not even the worst part--ELECTRODES! Up and down my right shoulder, arm and hand, followed by a series of electric shocks that broke me faster than Jack Bauer can extract information from a terrorist. I felt wave after wave of nausea, broke into a cold sweat and seriously contemplated crying out for my Mommy. I would've confessed to anything--that jelly bracelet I stole from the grocery store when I was eight, the unpaid parking tickets at Furman, the two Blockbuster movies I never returned...

Only the music of Celine Dion could've made it more painful.

Time’s a Wastin’

2009-07-17T00:19:00.006-04:00

Remember when you were little and went to the doctor, and after all the screaming and wiggling and needles you got a lollipop? And somehow that made it all better?

Well, after spending most of the week stuck in doctors' offices where appointment times are as arbitrary as Comcast's installation windows and the only reading material is People magazine pre Jon & Kate split, I want my lollipop, dammit. Free wi-fi, a cosmo, the most recent issue of US Weekly--something to pass the time other than staring at Facebook on my CrackBerry and praying one of my 800+ friends has posted an interesting status update.

Or maybe I'll bring a Tootsie Pop, and count the number of licks it takes to get to the center--I guarantee I'll find out before I see the inside of an exam room.

Much Ado About Nothing

2009-07-14T05:44:00.003-04:00

So, it's 5am. And I'm awake. And not because I was out at some fabulous party or up working on the next great American novel--if only the cause were that glamorous. Instead, I'm awake because I happen to own one of the most seductive pieces of technology ever---the BlackBerry.

It started innocently--after a few hours of tossing and turning, I wanted to know the time. Did I check my husband's alarm clock or the clock on the thermostat? Oh, no. I had to reach for the BlackBerry.

First, just a peek at the time. Then, a glance at the inbox, followed by a glance at my messages. Messages! Nothing but line after line of bold text, calling out to be read. Which I did, which lead [sic--there's a reason I'm generally not up at this hour] to a major panic--complete with hives, bloody nose and a rush downstairs for the laptop--about an overnight email deployment for a client, as one of the recipients said his email was blank. Which had a very rational explanation--his email didn't support html--which of course, I would've realized sans panic if I'd simply waited until a reasonable hour to check my email.

Less is More

2009-07-13T22:23:00.003-04:00

My husband and I spent the weekend budgeting, which is about as fun as a trip to the dentist or gynecologist. Although I've known deep down that grand vacations and shopping sprees are luxuries of the past, it's quite different to see those numbers in black and white. Or red, as the case may be.

In the midst of my "woe is me" moment, I read my friend Jim Osterman's most recent Facebook post, "Leukemia is Recession Proof." And he's right. Leukemia is recession proof. Poverty is recession proof. Hunger is recession proof. Suffering is recession proof.

And as I thought about my "sacrifices"--fewer dinners out, vacations closer to home, shopping at Old Navy instead of Saks--I realized how incredibly spoiled and blessed I am. How insignificant these "sacrifices" are in comparison to those battling illness, poverty, hunger, abuse, oppression. How instead of complaining about how little I have, to remember my blessings and to share those with others. Time, heart, spirit, support, love, prayer, kindness. In gratitude for all I have been given and all I still have to offer.

Domesticity

2009-07-06T22:36:00.005-04:00

As I ironed some of my husband's shirts tonight, I could not help but be grateful for the modern era. While I may be able to rock a full skirt and an apron, I'm completely lacking in domestic skills. I can't sew on a button, I kill all living green things, I can't properly pare an apple or chop an onion, I'm morally opposed to making beds, vacuuming makes me sneeze and my culinary specialty is spaghetti. I think the only reason I do laundry is because it results in clean clothes! And I like entertaining because it involves two of my favorite pastimes, talking and drinking wine.

And so, I raise a glass to our feminist foremothers, who paved the way for me to work at home, clutter, dust and all!

You Can Take the Publicist on Vacation, But You Can't Take the Publicist Out of the Girl

2009-06-29T19:28:00.005-04:00

So, I've been attempting to take a bit of a vacation this week. So far, it's not going well. And hey, as long as people are willing to pay me, I'll happily keep on working--just don't be surprised if you catch me by the pool with a fruity drink in hand! ;)

One thing I have been able to do this week is watch some of my favorite sporting events. I'm a huge track geek (seriously--I haven't been star struck by the likes of B.B. King and Norah Jones, but I don't know if I could string together a coherent sentence if I met Kara Goucher!), so I was thrilled that the 2009 U.S. Track & Field Championships were on television yesterday. The running was super impressive (how is it humanly possible to run 100 meters in less than ten seconds?), but the interviews were even more so. I don't know if the USATF has hired an image consultant or media coach or what, but every interview I saw was superb. The athletes stuck diligently to their talking points, smiled openly and were humble and even downright charming. A complete 180 from the 2008 Olympics, when many of these same interviewees mumbled, eye-rolled and hissy fitted their way through the games.

So today, I tuned in to Wimbledon, hoping the interviews would live up to the poise and ease of Roger Federer following his French Open win and the graciousness (and wit) of his opponent, Robin Soderling. Not so much.

I know he was exhausted from a grueling five setter, but Andy Murray, did you really have to chew gum on camera? And what's with the mumbling, sullenness and general avoidance of the camera (hint: it's that big metallic thing with the blinking light pointed straight at your face)?

These days, success in any industry requires some media savvy. Murray, spit out the gum and give me a ring--I'd gladly trade media tips for courtside seats at Wimbledon--and don't forget the fruity drinks! ;)

Weary Wednesdays: And Another One Bites the Dust

2009-06-24T17:54:00.008-04:00

South Carolina. Home of smiling faces, beautiful places and countless scandals. From the first shots fired on Ft. Sumter, my home state has been a hotbed for notoriety (do the names Shannon Faulkner and Susan Smith ring a bell?), most recently with Governor Mark Sanford's mysterious disappearance and hike on the Appalachian Trail, which apparently now extends all the way to Argentina.

While his year-long affair with an Argentinian woman seems to be the big story, the more fascinating part of this tale for me is his week-long disappearance. Politicians have been having affairs since the beginning of time, but I can't remember the last time one went completely AWOL. Can you imagine Jed Bartlett taking off without Leo McGarry knowing his whereabouts?

What a failure in crisis communications. And if his staff did have a crisis plan, they certainly didn't use it. While the average Jane might be able to take a week's vacation for a secret international tryst disguised as a solo hike in the wilderness, you just can't get away with that when you're an elected official. And the cover story they concocted was simply ludicrous, especially considering that it was Father's Day weekend, his wife pretty much said she didn't know or care about his whereabouts AND Sanford's car was found parked at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.

I've dealt with my share of communications crises, and I'm grateful that none of them were this newsworthy (though we were still getting angry emails about ASO Principal Guest Conductor Donald Runnicles several months after he mouthed off about moving to Canada!). I do feel bad for his staff, because tactically, it's kind of impossible to manage media relations if your client keeps you in the dark. But if your own wife tells the press she has no clue where you are, you know the jig is going to be up--and soon. While his affair may have caught up with him eventually, Sanford could have dealt with it on his own terms if he'd had the common sense to 1. concoct a decent cover story and 2. keep his communications staff in the loop.

And this is exactly why--in spite of my daydreams about becoming the next C. J. Cregg'--I will happily stick to lifestyle and arts/entertainment PR. And pray that my clients don't suddenly develop a penchant for trashing hotels, and if they do, that they're not quite famous enough for Perez Hilton to care!

Swatting Flies

2009-06-19T15:47:00.004-04:00

I'm a big believer in the old adage that you can "catch more flies with honey. " I'm a Southern girl. I have several well-worn editions of Emily Post's Etiquette. I still say "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am." I like to believe that people are honest and kind and good. And I've handled many a sticky work situation--including The Devil Wears Prada-type bosses, sneaky photographers, drunk concert patrons, nosy journalists and loud-mouthed clients--with grace and ease.

But if the honey isn't working, don't be afraid to get out the fly swatter. Stand up for yourself, for your business and for your ideals, and people will listen! And respect you all the more for it.