Bio-Hazard

On Monday, Averil Dean wrote about the difficulty of writing a bio.  Who is Averil Dean, you ask? That's exactly what she was trying to capture in a paragraph. Not an easy task for any of us, but perhaps even more so for a writer because without any formal training (as many of us do not have any), how does one tie a seemingly unrelated background to a legitimate standing in the world of publishing?

It's not like other kinds of bios in that one doesn't often go from being say a mail carrier to an accountant without having some distinguishable, defining education, training and (hopefully) experience. No offense to postal workers because goodness knows I love them even if I don't always have money to give them at the holidays, but I don't want the guy whose bio reads "Can drive on the other side of the Jeep" doing my taxes.

And bios are weird things. They ask a lot of anyone. Do any of us really know who we are? And if we do - how do we boil it down, condense it, compact it into a few sentences packed with meaning?

What are the elements you're happy to share? What stays hidden? Best left to the shadows.What would you really like to say, but can't? Or won't?

What's relevant?

Most of us have at least one bio floating around the internet in the form of a profile. I've lost count of how many I have. Like me, they aren't consistent. My Twitter bio is one of my favorites, but I'm not about to have that on my LinkedIn profile.  Of course, google Lisa Golden twitter and voila! Now you know that everything they said about me in high school was true.


Someone asked me exactly what was it they said about me in high school? That conversation starter lead to many more interesting conversations.

It's all contextual. Who you are, or rather the relevant parts of who you are, depends on the situation, doesn't it? For example, when I wrote the bio requested of me for the staff newsletter, I kept it simple. A few words about my past job in a psychiatric hospital, a passing nod to my education (which turned out to be quite relevant because one of the people making the decision to hire me is also an I.U. grad), and a quick mention of the awards I've won in the International Administrative Assistants Olympics. (Silver medal in sorting out Fed-Ex Fuck-ups; Gold in Excel Spreadsheet Obstacle Courses, and an all expenses paid weekend at the Sybaris and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon for coming in fifth place in the Chicagoland Office Chair Demolition Derby 1994.)

I'll leave it to you to figure out which element of my experience is most relevant to my newish job. While you do that, I'll just sit here and watch the two Duty Officers rearrange the furniture in my boss's office and stack a pile of empty cookie containers in front of another person's closed office door.

Now, as for Averil's dilemma. Well, that's something all together perplexing. Pardon my hyperbole, but she's the best damn erotica-thriller writer I've read. Her prose, hot and tense in the it leaves good welts realm of superb, borders on the poetic. The hell with a bio. Her writing will speak for itself. Of course she has a fabulous imagination, but I suspect, like any writer, you can see shades of who Averil is by reading her.

The reason Averil must write a bio is because she recently signed with an agent. After much squealing and jumping around and group hugging, I thought it wise to tell you all because there may be a secret erotica fan or two hanging around here. Please take a minute and go congratulate Averil on her good news.

While Averil was trying to distill her essence into a few well-turned phrases, I was fretting that I'd reached Level Six of becoming my mother. My most recent symptoms include nagging Nate's girlfriend Bree to consider going to school to be an R.N.

My mother did the same thing to me. Naturally I didn't listen and the tear in the fabric of our mother/daughter relationship over that disappointment has never quite healed.

I left those chilling thoughts behind and moved on to musing that I'm also turning into MathMan's mother. I actually pulled an insert about the nursing profession out of Sunday's Atlanta Journal Constitution and gave it to Bree to read. Shit. My mother-in-law (may she rest in peace) surrounded herself with stacks of yellowing Chicago Tribunes and Sun-Times that you weren't allowed to move or throw away because she planned to go through them and cut out articles she thought her children would find interesting.

I arrived home feeling out of sorts. I changed my clothes and went out to wash the car before dinner.

Sponge in hand, I stared at the fading light behind the pine trees and had my last realization of the day. Last because after that, I self-medicated with enough Oreos to pass out.

While I stood contemplating whether or not to detail the car's interior, the sun sunk lower.

Now I was my father.

Be yourself they say. Sounds good, but it's not quite that easy.

And I quote:  Who are you?

Alcohol is your yoga, baby

I didn't actually eat Quisp today.
I have five boxes left and I'm going to make them last.

Well, I thought I'd give you guys a couple of days rest after that last post. Nothing like slicing open one's chest for the world, right?

(utter lack of transition) I've been known to declare specific days as "days off." This never works and the eye rolling skills demonstrated by MathMan aren't for nothing. I deserve every roll of his root beer eyes, every knowing smirk. I have shown time and again that I am incapable of taking it easy.

So today I aimed to prove him and me wrong. I went into Sunday with a vengeance. I slept until 10a.m. It's 4:52 p.m. and I'm still in my pajamas and have done the bare minimum of ablutions aka brushing my teeth.

All this doing nothing has turned me into an eating machine. Hershey's kisses. Leftover honey chicken from the Dragon Garden. Welch's fruit snacks (made with real fruit), even real fruit - the fresh pineapple I crave with bananas, raspberries, and blackberries. Those amazing Frosted miniwheats with the mixed berry goo in the middle. Coffee. I could use some more coffee. Beer. I promised to make something for dinner, but I might renege on that because I'm just enjoying this break from the tedium far too much. Let them eat cereal! Let them eat Hostess cupcakes! Let them eat raw spaghetti! I don't care. There's thawed ground beef. They can get creative as far as I'm concerned. They will, too.

Day off. Me. Ass in chair, on bed, rolling around in the metaphorical clover with my honey.

I put the tray of my food debris outside the door like room service, but I'm afraid to open the door again to see if the children understood what that meant. They're not too smart when it comes to householdish things and they've rarely spent time in hotels with something as luxurious as room service so I doubt it. Yes, I know that's my fault for being too indulgent and doing too much for them. You don't have to tell me again.

I don't want to open the door because I know that I'll get pulled by the gravity of all that stuff I normally do that I'm not doing today as I stay in the sunny haven of the bedroom with a stack of books including The Key which you must read, the Atlanta Constitutional Journal with its seriously bizarre ad on the back page of the Jobs (ha, that's a laugh) section, the supersexy MathMan, naked photos of Johnny Galecki (yes, I looked them up when I found out they existed) a drawer full of candy and fruit snacks and the bathroom that completes the suite. Oh, and the dvds of Big Bang Theory and Midsomer Murders for when I must give my eyes a rest from all that reading.

I told you, I'm taking the day off! I don't want to get swept away by the have to stuff. Not today.

See, if I step out that door, I'll end up with a dishcloth in my hand or scooping the litter box again or being held hostage by cats who are always hungry or picking up the trail of crap left all over the house by my less than perfect children whose beds, I'm sure, remain unmade and who are wondering if their father and I have lost our minds because, like me, MathMan has stayed cozily and safely behind closed doors except for when he ventured out for some cold water from the fridge. Which reminds me, we could use a small refrigerator, a coffee maker and a microwave in here and then I would never have to leave this room.

I could get used to this just hanging out idea. It's been too long.

Thanks to all of you for the comments on that last post. I got one taker on the concept. Please visit Dale at his Place of Passion. He posted about where he writes and, I must tell you, it's beautiful, tidy, and tastefully-decorated. Thank you, Dale, for writing your great piece and showing us your writing place. If I ever visit, I won't be able to pee while you write.

I hope you're enjoying a day off, too. After listening to a TV conversation about how hard Americans work themselves (yes, even we Americans without paid jobs), I've decided to embrace the idea that down time is necessary to good health. Maybe I really can become the type of person who figures she'll look back on life and be glad for the laughs, the love and the experiences instead of how neat and tidy her house was. It's an aspiration, you know?