Sometimes the Movie is Better Than the Book

I've been riveted by the tributes to Steve Jobs, dead this week at 56. Without question, the world lost a visionary who changed our lives.
But beyond all the news coverage of the tragic passing of the Apple Inc. co-founder who led the mobile computing revolution, all the pontificating on the loss of his unsurpassed intuition and innovation, I found the greatest sadness in the reason he authorized his biography.

"I wanted my kids to know me," Jobs reportedly told the biographer, Walter Isaacson.

No matter how long I live, it's unlikely that I'll do anything infinitesimally as impactful as Jobs. But I'm equally sure of something else: My son won't need to read a book to know me. I'd like to think that he could write it.

Alex is 17, and for the last seven years since I divorced his dad, we've strengthened our bond. He's responsible for his part now, but I set the stage in the early years. And it wasn't always easy.

At 10, Alex was an academically gifted kid more interested in science fiction and video games and Dragon Ball Z than spending time with his mother. And me, well, I would have had trouble feigning interest in those activities even if I hadn't been struggling with the end of a 16-year-marriage and everything that accompanied it.

So I did the one thing I could: I showed up. I was there, to set limits on the science fiction and video games and Dragon Ball Z. Then, for the basketball games (awful), the soccer games (even worse) and the piano recitals. Next came the academic team quick recall competitions, the 5th grade production of The Emperor's New Clothes, and a one-year stint in the marching band (enough fodder there for several blog posts of their own). Today, it's all about student government leadership activities, lab projects, volunteer tutoring, and college applications. Those are his interesting pursuits. Firmly in my "snooze" category: Taylor Swift, science fiction (sadly, he didn't outgrow that one), Kentucky basketball (don't stone me, and don't bother reminding me that I'm an alum), and political history. I try to show up even for those. Alex returns the favor by supporting my flavor-of-the-month self-improvement efforts (October's special: Emotional Brain Training!), and feigning a passing interest in Buddhism, meditation, Melissa Etheridge, and djembe drumming.

Lunch today, post senior portrait session.

In the end, it's true what many people say: good parenting (or really, a relationship of any kind) doesn't happen if you don't show up. Even if it's the last place you'd like to be. Because a funny thing happens when you show up regularly with anyone. You get to know something about each other. Maybe, if you're lucky, enough to fill a book.

My guess is that Alex could fill a book with my life story so far - the good, the bad, and quite a bit of the in-between. I know that I could do the same for him. Nowadays, we gather our research during hectic we-put-it-off-too-long-and-Grandma-is-coming cleanups and our efficient weeknight lunchmaking assembly line. We make runs for frozen yogurt, pad thai chicken, or palak paneer with garlic naan.  Alex monitors our DVR with the precision of an air traffic controller so that we can spend time with our friends: Jon Stewart, Alex Trebek, House, and our current fave, Dexter. (Yes, we bond over a serial killer. Don't judge.) We spoil our beloved dog, Annie. And we make fun of each other's taste in music.

And because we're human, we gather some of that research while arguing, usually over priorities and timing - when my impatience and high standards collide with an overflowing recycling bin, not-frequent-enough walks for the aforementioned Annie, or Alex's general procrastination. And because he's a teenager, and because I have my own friends and interests, when it comes to companions, we're clearly not always each other's first choice.

Europe train station, weird American tourist pose.

What comes to mind here is that overused platitude I usually avoid: "It's all good." Like people say, it's the ordinary moments that end up meaning the most.

For the sake of Steve Jobs' kids, I hope his biography contains some of those moments. We'll know soon. Publication has been moved up to Oct. 24, and the book is currently topping Amazon's pre-order bestseller list.

I also hope, even though he's not alive to savor it, that the book contains a couple of personal accolades for Jobs from his children. Parents are supposed to love and support their kids, but it's nice to get a little something back once in a while, no matter how it's delivered.

"Some of my friends hate their parents," Alex told me recently. "I don't get that."

All Work and No Play is No Fun

More than 30 years later, I have vivid memories of my first job, as a waitress in a popular family-owned restaurant that specialized in Texas hot wieners. There was a lot to love about that job – the predictable cadence of the different shifts and sections, chatting with the regulars, the cups filled with quarters at the end of the night.

And there was Ruben. The dishwasher from the Dominican Republic was 4-foot-barely-anything, with a huge grin of misshapen teeth. He was a dedicated family man with a house full of kids, who also was dedicated to banter with the teen waitresses.

As I neared the dishwasher, Ruben would drop the sprayer. He’d lift the front of his apron with one hand, and with the other, hold up his fist, flex his arm and brag: “It’s like theees, Lee-sah. Like theees.” Then, that toothy grin.

Ruben impression for my ex boss,
Jody, at a team outing. Seriously.

Yes, he was talking about what you think he was talking about. And yes, it probably sounds a bit creepy. But I found it hilarious. Both then as a naive 16-year-old, and now, as a 47-year-old human resources professional well versed in sexual harassment.

My work colleagues have come a long way since Ruben, but they still make me laugh. And when that stops, I know that it’s time to brush up the resume and move on. Because you spend too much time and emotional energy at work not to have some fun.

My closest colleagues and I have the combination of personal knowledge and trust that is the foundation for a lot of laughs. Barely a day goes by without some good-natured ribbing, some of it fit for print, and some of it, well, not. I’ve been appreciating that even more lately, as I transition to a new team.

Ozzy, back row, third from right

Happy Hour body spelling

I’m grateful that I'll be with the same organization. I've had a lot of fun over the last seven years. I dressed up as Ozzy Osbourne (complete with both arms covered with fake tattoos) for a skit at a summer picnic. I told a new employee that every Friday was “Bring Your Dog to Work Day” and that our vice president liked to be called “Bubbles.” And predictably, some of the fun has been at my expense.

No recollection here. None whatsoever.

It’s been as simple as returning from the restroom to see that a massively overgrown zucchini someone brought in to share from their garden had replaced my computer mouse. I knew Jason had been there.

Jason also was the coworker who, soon after he got word that I passed the four-hour (and very difficult) senior HR certification exam, decided to leave me a voice mail message while I was celebrating with my study team. Ever the master of the disguised voice, he said he was calling from the certification institute to notify me of “a colossal error” and that he regretted to inform me that I hadn’t passed after all. I was listening on my cell phone and had to pull the car over to avoid having an accident. That was late June six years ago, and I still can recall the sick feeling in my stomach until I got to the very end of the long message and he said, “Ha. It’s Jason!”

My favorite prank involved not Jason, but my current team, with an assist from our vice president’s administrative assistant. It was in our old building, where we’d constantly pass huge pallets of materials with signs saying, “Hold for John Doe.” I remarked more than once: “I’ll know I’ve made it when someday there is a sign with my name on it.”

One day, upon my return from vacation, I turned the corner and there was a pallet of toilet paper with the sign, “Hold for Liz Caras.” I laughed for days, and still have the framed photo of that day on my desk.

One of the other teams within my organization recently interviewed a job candidate, and she asked the group, “Do people have fun around here?” Great question. They said yes. They offered her the job and she accepted.

I’m looking forward to having some fun with my new colleague when she starts in October. But I’ll have to get creative. Overgrown zucchinis will surely be out of season.

                                                              *******

Requisite Weight Loss Update

Where have I been since my last update in May and my do over? As Inigo Montoya says in one of my favorite movies, “There is too much. Let me sum up.”

So, briefly, in a stream of consciousness reminiscent of Terry McMillan’s How Stella Got Her Groove Back (Because if anyone were ever trying to get her groove back it would be me), here goes: Was on a bit of a roll with the diet and exercise regimen, worked out with the trainer but got into trouble on my own when I forgot that I was grossly out of shape and started jogging. Ouch! Lateral shin splints on both legs and a calf muscle tear on one. Then, frustration and a back slide made worse by my son being away for five weeks at summer program (missed him terribly). Soon snapped out of it. Rejoined HMR diet program with the aid of a scholarship (thanks Mom! And Happy Birthday!), renewed meditation commitment with a weekend retreat, back with therapist I love, back with trainer but taking it slowly and letting calves heal. Even sucked it up and endured a water fitness class with a couple of women old enough to be my grandmother. On a roll, but ever mindful that it’s a journey and I’m in it for the long haul. No such thing as perfection and all or nothing makes no sense. Down 16 pounds in one month. Shooting for at least more 12 this month and every month after until I’m happy where I am. I’ll check back at the 6-month mark, just after my 48th (yikes) birthday. Thanks to all for you continued support.

                                                             *******

I’m recovering from some oral surgery and had to lay low for a couple of days. I share with you, dear readers, one of my couch projects. You, too, can create your own magazine cover here: http://www.oprah.com/omagyourself.

And yes, I was prescribed some pain pills.