The Weekend Resident

My partner and I have a second home in Albuquerque. We only get to the condo loft about four or five times a year, usually for a long weekend. But for that one weekend at a time, we become residents of what seems like a parallel life.

It starts when I take off from my home airport with just a carry-on. I leave the baggage of a full time job, a part time job, and the care of aging parents behind.

As the plane takes off, one life gets tucked into bed and the other throws back the covers and stumbles towards its first cup of coffee.

Landing between the Sandias on the east and mesas on the west, ABQ becomes that comfortable pair of worn blue jeans you pull on each Saturday. The vigas on the airport ceiling are familiar old friends that greet you as you arrive.

But the defining moment comes when I turn the lock and open the door to the loft. There it is, just waiting, like a dog for his master at the end of a long day. The same as we left it, its 600 square feet reveals itself.

There's even a scent that overcomes you as you enter. It's an earthy, elemental smell. Maybe it's just the sandalwood candle in the room but I prefer to interpret it as an ancient ancestor, Wings Soaring, that presents us with this welcoming gift.

That's when the weekend takes up residence--the green chile cheeseburgers, bike rides along the Rio Grande trail, train rides up to Santa Fe, catching up on movies, Native American culture, and neochurch with Beethoven.

I'm no longer a brander, an adjunct, a son. I step into the life I imagine myself to have, some day. I allow myself to choose purposefully. Oddly, I disengage to engage. With so many having so little these days, this bit of narcissism becomes a guilty pleasure.

As the weekend comes to a close, we lock the door, close off one life and begin the journey back to the other. Wings Soaring sends us the spirit of safe travel. Red-faced mesas give way to undulating pastures. And we're air-lifted back to the first home.

As disconnected as the two lives are, I recognize that one exists because of the other. The need for one is enabled by the work of the other. And it's the disengagement that feeds the work. The issue is smoothing out the turbulence between the two. How do you become dual residents?

That's the challenge of the weekend resident in the weeklong life.

Trust, Then Verify

When I went to college, most schools had a two-semester foreign language requirement. Of course that was back when a joint was something I inhaled, now it's something I pop Tylenol for because it aches after I mow the lawn. Today, a foreign language is saying "I'm sorry" after being asked to stop talking while in the movie theatre.

Back then, I elected to take French--absolument. Mostly because I took it in high school and I knew I could ace it. I had a GPA to maintain. And I knew it would come in handy when I was living in the 5th arrondissement and honing my art. I did actually go there on our honeymoon but it wasn't my art we were honing.

Little did I know in college that the foreign language I should have been taking is Corporatese--the mother tongue of corporations everywhere.

Like any language it has it's own set of idiomatic expressions. For example, the French phrase n'est-ce pas literally translates to something like "not is this" in English. Doesn't make sense, so the closest you can get to it is "isn't that right." Thus, "These pants don't make me look fat, n'est-ce pas?"

Those of us fluent in Corporatese like to refer to these as idiotmatic phrases. Coined by those who like to "level-set," "create synergistic paradigms," and "take it to the next level," these little diddies are the fertilizer from which corporate executives bloom.

One of the first I learned was "send me a bear-down." At first I was shocked but then I was relieved when I remembered I had whole wheat toast that morning. Luckily a co-worker stopped me on the way to the bathroom and told me that it was a carbonized memo that you had to press down hard on so it would go through. You know, that's why it says "bear-down" at the top.

One of the more recent ones I learned was "trust then verify."

Now to foreigners who don't speak the language, this might seem like a bit of a contradiction. After all if one truly trusts someone, why would it be necessary to verify anything? For example, when my partner and I have corn races, we don't call each other into the bathroom to verify that the little yellow kernels did indeed make it through the digestive tract unscathed. We just trust that the little miracle has taken place and the winner has been determined.

But what the illegal aliens of the corporate world don't understand is that trust is a relative thing. It's bestowed only when they says it's so.

Sure, associates are empowered to do the job they're hired to perform. After all, it's a significant expenditure to hire/train someone so they can contribute to our core competency (I'm positively giddy with corporate-speak).

But whether you're a native of the country, Corporate, or a naturalized resident, trust isn't a right of citizenship. It needs to be "earned."

Do a good job first, and then again. And if you could just prove yourself to me one more time. I know you always come through for me before but it's all for the boys in the field (and corner office egos). Then (and only then) do you earn the right to be trusted, then verified.

Same chorus, different verse. Corporatese is such a lyrical language, n'est-ce pas?

Outing Myself

Looking back now, I could see the signs. But not then.

When others little boys were running to softball practice, I was writing lyrics with my friend, Sally, to a song we were going to use in a neighborhood show. Proceeds from the production ($20.42) were to given to those poor children less fortunate than us at Children's Hospital.

Then there was the time I wore my sister's name. I'd helped her with a homework assignment to write a short story. (She used to get my brother to do her penmanship homework too.) I ghosted the story and she wrote it down. By the way, it was later selected for publication in the local Red Cross chapter's newsletter. But my secret was still safe.

In high school, I assumed the reins of the school's creative writing publication. Actually, I had no competition for the role but it would make me eligible to "letter" and I could wear one of those cool jackets (unfortunately, they only came in one color). It was five mimeographed sheets stapled together in the corner. Nothing like the smell of fresh, wet mimeo fluid in the morning. Of course, when I finished it became "Prism--the Creative Arts Magazine" that went beyond the mere word and now included art and sheet music (I have no idea what the song sounded like but hey, it was for our art). I think we sold 14 copies. I finally threw out the other 100 we duplicated. It will make the circulated ones worth more on eBay--some day.

In college, my undergraduate honors thesis was entitled, "Making Snowflakes from Words--Encouraging Creative Thought in the Elementary School Classroom." You'd think that would have been an obvious sign but hey, it was the 70s and our credo was Marlo Thomas' Free to Be You and Me.

When I got to the corporate world, a boss of mine discovered my secret. I was working on an insurance piece on some death benefit. No one could sell doom and gloom better than me, after all that's high drama stuff. He came up to me and just said it, "You know, you're a good writer." I told him I liked numbers, not words. He knew better.

It wasn't until I was nearing my 50s when I started seeing the signs too. I was in a nine-year marriage as a Product Manager in the Actuarial department (those are the guys that figure out how much to charge you for an insurance policy). It just wasn't working out. It was so wrong, on so many fronts.

I started noticing those people from Advertising. I'd worked with them often on projects so I knew them. I'd find myself staring at them just a little too long during a meeting. They'd catch me looking at them. I'd quickly turn away.

I started trolling the nonprofit scene. They needed someone to do their marketing. That including writing copy for brochures, the website, press releases. It was after hours, who was going to know. It felt good. It was so different from what I was doing. Perhaps out of desperation, perhaps because I was so unhappy, I listened to the voice inside. It told me this is where I belong. I could write.

So I did it. I joined the club. I was loud, proud and out. I confided my secret to friends, one-by-one, but was surprised to find I was the last to know. Apparently they had conversations with the voice inside my head.

Now as a writer in the corporate world (yeah, I get paid for this stuff), I am constantly challenged by the prospect of a blank Word document. My father used a hammer and nails, I use what's in my head to create something from where there was nothing. I know some copy about vanishing insurance premiums won't change the world. Most probably don't even read it.

But I know it's there. I read the signs.