If This is Sexism…

There is a photo I posted on Facebook a couple of days ago. It is the screen shot of my new schedule of my first MBA semester. The comment I put along with it was, “Can I just say how totally kick-ass I think it is that all of my professors for my first semester of my MBA are women?” I think most people got it. Some did not, and one of the comments I got was from the girlfriend of my father-in-law, who prides herself on being more progressive. She asked why this would matter and stated that, to her, I sounded sexist.

Hmmm.

I remember when we moved after I had finished school. We had actually been homeless for a month before hand. We needed money. And somehow, after one of my first job interviews, I had a job making real money for the first time in my life. Complete with a sign-on bonus, relocation assistance, and other benefits. We went from sleeping in a fleabag motel with most of our posessions in storage to moving into a upscale, expensive rental. I did that. John didn’t have a job. But I studied my ass off as a nontraditional student in order to get straight-A’s, a list of professional contacts, and more, to set me apart from all of the other new grads in my field and land a good job. I was so proud. And when I called to get utilities turned on at our new, nice house, what happened? They didn’t want to turn them on, and told me to have my husband call back. I remember my response to this day: “Ma’am, I would be glad to have my Master call back, but when it comes time for a bill to generate and you expect to be paid, you will have to deal with me, as my husband doesn’t work. I am the head of this household.”

But it did something to me. That, along with my upbringing, have shaped me.

My mother raised seven children. Seven of the most ungrateful children in the world. She was married to my father all of her life. And she never had a job outside of the home. She did a good job, as we never wanted for a thing. I grew up with elaborate meals prepared three times a day. I never did laundry or dishes because my mother never wanted us to. Mom made our world go ’round and Dad footed the bill. But then Mom started to get sick. And by the time I was a senior in high school, she was too ill to take care of herself, let alone any of us. What did we do? We got her signed up for Meals on Wheels and a home health nurse. I was just a kid, still in school, but the next child in line from me was eight years’ my senior. And she lived right around the corner with her husband, didn’t work, and her children were in school. Interestingly enough, nobody had time for the woman who had raised them, who had surrendered her entire life to doing right by us. While I was at school, nobody could even be bothered to bring her lunch. She would be hospitalized and in the ICU, and nobody would come and see her. I would try to leave school, but by then I was a freshman in college and prohibited from having a car on campus, so I was reliant on family to get me home when the situation called for it. The night she finally died, however, they all remembered their way to the house to raid her jewelry box of the diamonds and emeralds (her favorite and her birthstone) that Dad had bought her in their 35 years of marriage. One sister even had her 4ct. solitaire into a jeweler for appraisal and sizing the very next morning. And what about Mom’s last days? She would cry because her kids didn’t come to see her. She was miserable because, once she had no more to give, they lost interest.

Never in a million years would I allow that to be my life. I don’t want it. She wouldn’t have wanted it for me, and I refuse to let her down. I am bound and determined to shirk the traditional gender roles and live my life how I see fit. You could call this selfish of me, but then I would remind you that I make my living helping people breathe when they cannot do so for themselves. And while this is most decidedly not a commentary on being a homemaker, it is a testament to the fact that, while my mother may have had limited choices, I do not. And I have made my choice. I will never buy into the idea that my ownership of a  vajayjay means there is a damned thing that I cannot do in this world.

So life has taken me down many paths. I’ve had many plans, some of which have worked and some of which have not. Sometimes I have had to backtrack to where the road forked and take the other path. This is the case with business. I came into the world of business because my life took a turn when I was surprised with a pregnancy right before applying to medical school. Sometimes, I mourn that, but Zachary is amazing and I do not regret the path one bit. I surprised myself with an aptitude for this subject: business. I believe I can reach the top of my game. But if I do, I will be in limited company.

Let’s crunch some numbers:

15.4%= The percentage of female corporate officers in Fortune 500 companies, as of 2011.

14.8%= the number of board seats held by women in the same.

2.4%= The percentage of female CEOs of Fortune 500 companies.

22= the number of female CEOs in  the Fortune 1000 companies.

Out of a thousand companies, only 22 have female CEOs.

(Source: Susan Gunelius @ www.womenonbusiness.com.)

With all of this in mind, I can say that it is “kick-ass” that all of my professors are female for my first semester of my MBA program. At a program that is competitive, nationally-ranked, and highly revered, at least in local business circles, these women are full professors, at the top of their game. I could say that there is a sparkling, crystal-clear ceiling made of glass that I would love to shatter, but these women have done it for me. For my mother, who died feeling like her life had no purpose. It is women like these who will ensure that my sons will grow up in a world where they do not believe that their gender makes them superior or inferior, but equal to their female counterparts. It is women like these who will change those God-awful statistics I just cited. And then there is the richness of the idea that, while women are so outnumbered in top business positions, they can make careeers of educating the men that edge them out for the top spots at these companies.

I thought the definition of sexism was believing in the superiority of one gender over the other, not the equality of the two. Am I wrong? Is it sexist to want more for your life? To have the personality that translates to the desire to challenge yourself and not stagnate? To expect that your gender will not hold you back and be happy when you find evidence that it will not? Is it sexist to believe that, because I have worked my ass off to improve the lives of my loved ones, I can do even more?

If this is sexism, sign me up.

Conditionally

So, if you read my last post, you now that my experience with the GMAT was painful. And that the powers that be decided I had to take the damned thing. Yeah, whatevs. What you do not know, unless you delved into the comments, is that I found a big pair of lady balls and called the MBA Advisor at my first-choice school. And told her the story. About how I meet every single requirement but the damned score breakdown. So her words? Basically she told me it had to be a fluke, that either I got some really difficult questions in the beginning and that psyched me out, or my math section was abnormally hard—Basically, that there had to be a reason that the math score didn’t match up with my academic record or the remainder of my GMAT score. She’s right. We started talking about the courses I have taken and my performance in them. Corporate Finance. Financial Accounting. Stats. Calc I and II. A. A, A, A, A. I even got an A in that damned corporate finance class and am thanking my lucky stars that I do not have to take it again at a 600 level lest I kill myself. Seriously. So wtf gives with the GMAT math? Because the GMAT is an asshole of epic proportions. But…She told me to NOT SCHEDULE THAT TEST UNTIL I HEAR BACK FROM  HER. She said she was taking it to the dean.

So anyway, she had me fax my unofficial score report to her. I got no response, so I gave her a day or so and called to see if she got it, which is when she asked for my resume. By now they have received my app, my resume, my unofficial GMAT score, and my official transcripts. All that was left were my letters of recommendation, cover letter, and hard copy of my resume. I mentioned as much in my email and that I was sending those in this week. I was waiing for a phone call from her when a funny thing happened.

I decided to empty my email inbox of spam. There were so many emails where I had been out of the loop recently that I was about to just declare email bankruptcy when I spotted it. She had replied.

“Andrea, with your existing GMAT score, your excellent GPA, and the resume you sent, you are fine for conditional admission. Do NOT retake the GMAT.”

Oh. Ok. Yeah, no more of that GMAT shit. And then I stopped to think about what she said. By then I had closed the email. So I reopened it. And got hung up on the word “conditional”. Until I remembered that my BSBA will not be completed until September and they cannot grant me full admission into the MBA program until that is finished. So what did she really tell me?

She told me I’m getting in. To one of the top B-schools in the whole friggin’ country. Not only that, but to the most competitive program at one of the top B-schools in the country, since it means they will basically be waiving all of the first year MBA courses for me and I will finish the degree in a year. Basically, because of this, you have to have your shit together to even avoid them not throwing your app in the garbage immediately upon receipt.

She told me that I fucking did it.

And then I started crying. And I picked Evan up and swung him around. And Zachy and I danced around the room. And I anxiously waited for John to come home from class so I could tell him. But I didn’t get to tell him because, as soon as he pulled into the driveway, Evan was running toward the car, shouting, “Daddy, Mommy did it!!! She did it!”

I did it.

I really did.

Conditionally.

While I Was Away

I’ve been busy. I’m sorry. I’m a horrible blogger. And the truth? I’m still busy. I honestly have no business creating a long list of catch-up posts when there is so much I should be doing. So I am going to try to catch you up in this one post, if you are still out there.

School: I’ve got a couple more classes under my belt. More A’s. I’ll be finished with my business degree in September. I’ve been working on the MBA applications. More on that in a sec.

Evan: Evan is still…Evan. They’ve changed his meds several times. Some of it has been good and some bad. The bad changes are the ones that had him literally awake for days, dark circles under his eyes, palor. It broke my heart. Until one day when his teacher called and said he fell asleep in school and we had to bring him home and let him sleep for almost 2 days straight, only waking him to get some fluids in him so he didn’t dehydrate. I hate it all and would love more than anything to just be able to take him off of all of them and get them out of his system, but I kow he can’t function without them. Now things are finally looking up. He came home last week, excited and proudly presenting this flyer from school. Turns out they are having baseball sign-ups and Evan wants to play. We signed him up. He’s never played a sport before because he has never shown interest. But we jumped on this, even taking him to get fitted for a glove and bat, getting him training gear. He’ll start practicing here at home this week, since he is too old to play tee-ball, and this is actually pitch baseball.

Zach: Zach was officially assessed at the 12-month level, developmentally speaking. He has started therapy after officially being labeled as developmentally delayed. I had some very overwhelming days where it struck me that I have one child with Asperger’s and another who is DD. I had to get past that to carry on. In the meantime, in absence of any verbal communication, the therapist has started teaching Zachy to sign what he wants. Simple things like “more”, “drink”, “all done”, “eat”, and “help”. He can finally express what he wants to us instead of having a meltdown because we cannot understand his grunts and shouts. And with this development has emerged some attempts to be verbal. He can get the intonation of the syllables of words, but nothing anyone can understand yet. But he is trying, which is more than he was doing a month ago. He continues to be social and adorable and loving. And he is so smart. He can clearly understand anything you say to him. He hs favorite places and knows the routes to those places and will cry if you turn the opposite direction in the car. We just have to catch him up a little bit.

Grad School: I got letters of recommendation from my direct supervisor and department director at work. I wrote a stellar cover letter and drew up a new resume. I had my transcripts sent yesterday. Yet about a month ago, I was having a weak moment, so I scheduled a time to go into my first choice school and speak to them about my potential for admission. I was armed with nothing more than an unofficial printout of my undergrad work. She basically told me there was a very little likelihood that I will be turned away with my academic record. But I have to take that damned GMAT. You may recall that I took two weeks off at the end of January to prepare for and take the test. And then I psyched myself out and wouldn’t do it. That was the low point where I called them and made the appointment. And then I bit the bullet and scheduled the damned thing. And tried and tried to prep for without the advantage of time off from work or school. As a matter of fact, I have finished two more classes and started 2 more in that time frame. I still feel underprepared. My stomach has been in knots for days. As in butterflies and queasiness. The exam is tomorrow. If all goes well, I will be started at one of the top-ranked MBA programs in October. Oh, and that’s another thing: because I went back and did an undergrad business degree and will be fresh from that with immaculate grades, I am elegible for their accelerated program. In other words, they will give me credit for my undergrad and I will only have 8 classes left to my MBA. So by Summer of 2013, I will be an MBA. Yeah. No pressure. I have to get in. Have to. No other options. I even submitted all of the financial stuff for grad school, and at a very expensive private university, I will even have all of that falling into place.

So there you have it. While I haven’t been present in the bloggy world, I’ve been doing plenty. I look forward to catching up on everyone’s blogs and hopw you’ll forgive me for my absence.

Moving Forward

I’m not sure what it was. Was it the crushed aspirations of becoming a doctor? Was it the fact that it was so unbelievable? Whatever it was, I felt the overwhelming urge to snap a photo with my phone. A photo that says, “I really was here.”

The Williams College of Business at Xavier University. Number 14 business school in the nation, all around.

I met with them yesterday. I met with them at a point when I was feeling bedraggled and seriously doubting myself after a week of GMAT Prep-Hell. I had some questions, as I was trying to determine which of their programs is right for me. I took a printed copy of my unofficial transcript with me. I spoke with the admissions advisor at length. I’ll hit the highlights:

I mentioned that I still need to submit my personal statement. She told me not to botherd, that the level of my work speaks for itself.

I mentioned my nervousness, my trepidation at the GMAT, and she told me it is normal as she smiled and told me there is no way my score would be low enough to bar admission.

I spoke to her about the fact that my resume will reflect all healthcare. She said it absolutely does not matter, but raher shows I have worked and managed a career while keeping that academic record–her emphasis, not mine. And my completion of an undergrad business degree will be business experience enough.

And my favorite? As I was leaving, she explained how those with experience in the business world come into an MBA program and try to intimidate those of us coming from a different background. And she told me not to let them, that I will be great and she wants me to put them in their place.

I left there with a bigger spring in my step. Feeling charged and ready. And thrilled with the thought that, if all goes as planned, I only have 8 classes to take to get my MBA.

If It Weren’t For Nuns, My Child Would Starve

IF YOU CAN’T TOLERATE THE F-BOMB, JUST FUCKING MOVE ALONG ON THIS ONE.

As if we didn’t have enough drama in this house…

It doesn’t matter what I do. I send Evan in with lunch money to be put on his account. Or I can pack his lunch. Whatever. We still get cafeteria bills. In general, it costs about $100 per month to feed Evan school lunches. Remember when we were kids and it took like 75 cents per day? And an extra quarter got you an extra helping on pizza day? Those days are gone. They went bye-bye along with the little rubber squeezy change holders that held your lunch money daily. Now my kid has a name badge thay he swipes like a debit card, and we have to add money to it.

Sometimes, in the craziness that is my household, I forget. And sometimes I don’t. Regardless, we get the bill.

Two days ago, we got hate mail from the cafeteria lady. Evan has a bill. Again. And it needs to be paid. So I went to get money out and discovered that instead of deducting my normal monthly car insurance premium, Geico took enough to cover the entire policy. Oops. When I renewed, I forget to opt for the monthly payments. My fault. But oh, shit, we have no money! So I tried to call the cafeteria lady and got no answer. Since I had no cash, and Evan has to have lunch, I sent him in with enough to cover one day’s worth. There! Evan gets lunch until my payroll hit this morning.

Yesterday, when Evan returned from school, he had more hatemail. Another copy of his bill, and in black marker and block letters at the bottom, the cafeteria lady basically stated that I am the scumofthefuckingearth and sending Evan in with enough to cover one lunch was NOT ACCEPTABLE–her emphasis, not mine–and that we owed a bill. Again, we tried to call and got no answer.

This morning, I sent Evan to school as normal. I told him to let them know that we would go to an ATM and bring money in for his cafeteria bill and to tell whoever this information. John overslept and didn’t have time to stop at an ATM on the way, so he would have to bring the money back to the school. So what happened?

My kid calls me, crying, from the office. “Mommy, they said you have to bring me a sandwich or s-s-s-s-something for lunch, that I cannot go h-h-h-h-hungry. I told them what you told me to tell them, but they still made me call you!”

To which my response was to make Evan put an adult on the damned phone. Basically, the nun that answered told me that they are concerned for Evan, that he has to eat and how did I plan on feeding him. Blah blah blah. How their only concern was Evan.

Are you serious? MY  only concern is Evan. I will ensure that he eats. We are bringing in money, for God’s sake. We are not trying to starve our kid. His bill is thirteen fucking dollars and we are acting like it is a federal crisis and poor Evan is going to go hungry and never eat again. And for the record, I would have packed Evan a lunch today and just sent the money in with Evan tomorrow, but I was out of fucking bread for a God-forsaken PB&J and Evan refused an Uncrustable in place of his fucking PB&J-with-the-fucking-crusts-cut-off. So ta-daaaaa. You have to wait for me to get one of us to an ATM. And while we on the topic of my failure to feed my kid, John would have had time to stop at an ATM before school had Evan not nibbled on his breakfast, insisting on eating one fucking Cheerio at a time, citing that too big a bite is a fucking choking hazard. What 10-year-old speaks of choking hazards, anyway? Mine, that’s who!

Maybe I should just revert to my passive aggressive bitchiness and really prove my point. I wonder if that five-star place around the corner caters school lunches!?!? Better yet, how would the nuns react to the waiter showing up with a silver platter and tucking the linen napkin neatly onto Evan’s lap for him?

The Saint and the Homework Woes

Evan brings home schoolwork on all nights except for Friday, and as you know, we fight him everytime. It sends him into a downward spiral that leads to a meltdown. There is always an excuse: he’s hungry/ tired/ has a headache. There is always an excuse, and when we don’t allow him to get away with this, he throws the mother of all fits. Sometimes, the screaming can go on for hours. On the really bad nights, we have no choice but to send a note to his teacher, letting her know that he refused, that we fought with him for hours before finally giving up. What makes it so frustrating is that Evan can do all of it with ease. So a few nights ago, he made the excuse that he was hungry, even though I provided him with an after-school snack already. The protests went on long enough that I had to come up with something for dinner. Neither of us wanted to cook, so we opted to go to a local restaurant around the corner from our house. Well, actually we let Evan choose, and that was the result. Afterward, there was a movie John wanted to see, so we went to the video store. When all was said and done, we were home by 6:30. Plenty of time for Evan to do the homework, when in fact, I had allowed him to choose the restaurant as a bribe to get the homework finished when we got home. Despite the effort, he still refused. Somewhere around 9PM, we gave up and sent him to bed.

The next day, he brought home a note from his teacher:

“Evan said he could not do his homework last night because you made him go out to eat, and then to a video store. He said that by the time he got home, it was time for his bath and bedtime. Please sign this and return it.”

Seriously? So my response:

“Actually, I let Evan choose dinner as a bribe to try to get him to do his homework, after having argued with him about it for quite some time,  and he still refused. We were home by 6:30PM, with plenty of time for him to complete his assignments. In truth, we fought with him for hours on this, before we finally made him get ready for bed. He was not permitted to watch television or anything else afterwards because he refused to do his homework, thus bath and bed promptly followed our giving up. Evan lied to you.”

Yesterday, I was doing something completely random when the phone rang. John answered, and after a few, “Yes” and “MmmmHmmmm” respnses, he handed the phone to Evan. Evan said a few words and promptly got his backpack and sat down at the table. He got out his books and began working on his math, all while talking on the phone. I heard him say, “Okay, Bye”, and hang up. The whole time, the kid is doing his math homework. 15 minutes later, the phone rang again. I heard him tell the caller that he was finished with math, and had moved on to his reading assignment. Again he hangs up. 15 minutes after that, another call, and now he is on to his art project. And so it went, every 15 minutes until he was finished with his homework–all of it.

It was his teacher! During the time that normal families eat dinner, this woman took it upon herself to call periodically and check Evan’s progress. And I was amazed for several reasons.

First of all, why can he not do that for us??? There was no fighting, no excuses, no whining. He did exactly as she told him to do. I couldn’t help but think of a snake charmer. He just did it.

And what is wrong with us? Why can’t we get the same results?

And finally, Whoa! It is amazing enough that this woman allows Evan to stay after school where he can work on school work without the drama that comes with him doing it at home. I mean, I realize she is a teacher and thus signed up for this. But as soon as that bell rings at the end of the day, she is on her own time. She no longer has any obligations to Evan at that point. She takes it upon herself to allow him to stay at times, citing that she stays late anyway to do things like grade, work on lessons, etc., and Evan is no bother wihout other children present. But then she did this for us. The end result is that he completed the homework and we had a relatively peaceful night here. After he was finished, we went and had spaghetti at a local Italian joint, then went and ran a few errands. Upon returning home, it was time for bath and bed. Evan even used shampoo on his hair without prodding from us. He went to bed without a fuss. It was the most amazing thing…..EVER!

Maybe it was tacky of me, but I wanted a way to thank her for going the extra mile. It would be so easy to call it quits at the end of the day, to forget about Evan and work and go home to her family. And I couldn’t blame her for doing so. But to take an interest and go above and beyond to help him? Especially at this time when he is having such difficulty? The woman must be a saint. So Evan and I went out together to find somehing small to give as a proper “Thank you”. Evan actually picked it out, saying she collects these as I do. And it was the only semi-teacher theme we found, but it’s name is “Thank you for making a difference.” Was this horrible? Tacky? Will it make her feel awkward? I hope not. I included a card, as well. I am just so appreciative of her efforts with Evan when it would be so easy to chalk all of this up to his illness and dismiss it. And she is exactly what he needs right now: people who see his strengths and hone in on them, when it would be easier to focus on weaknesses. He needs people who believe in him enough to invest this sort of time.

A Million and One Different Directions

Yep, that’s my life. I’ve been pulled in a million and one directions this past week.

First of all, there’s work. Work has been crazy. Exhausting. Busy. Every night that I’ve worked, we’ve been cut down to 4 therapists at night instead of 5, which means we all run our asses off. And so I come home cranky and tired and ready to just sleep and chill, in that order. But I don’t get to do either.

Because then there is school. I’m still in my Operations Management and Corporate Finance courses. I’m not sure what’s up, but never before have 2 classes thrown me for a loop like these two. Each course has the standard 3 papers per week, plus 2 hours of either live or recorded lecture, plus about 150 to 300 pages of reading, But the corporate finance papers are hard. Don’t get me wrong: I have 2 papers left in each class and I still have A’s in both courses, but those A’s have taken work. I usually work Thursday through Sunday which leaves me Monday through Wednesday to complete all of my school work. But there’s a catch.

Because John started classes. Which means on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I may be off of work and have all of the time in the world, but on those days, Zachary roams the house with abandon. We started by me trying to do both: school work and  be Mom Extraordinaire. It didn’t work. What really happened? I would type a sentence and get up and intervene in impending disaster. And feel horribly guilty that my time with Zach should be with Zach, not doing school work. And watch him destroy something with the mindset that, so long as it isn’t harmful to him, its okay. He tore an entire pack of flourescent pink index cards to bits and was working on the orange ones when I finally gave this up. So the new pla n is to not bank on getting anything done while John is class, which means my school work is now arranged around 2 schedules. And then came the NICU…

There was one day last week where I got 3 calls, and each one was regarding something else I have to do to get ready for the opening of our new Level III NICU at work. A ventilator inservice here. A mandatory class there. Licensing requirements. Drug screen, immunizations. It’s a liitle bit crazy. Because I have no time, this cuts into time I have alotted for other stuff. And then there’s Evan.

To get Evan treated and to make a full diagnosis, we have to do a million things. Tests, evaluations. Therapy appointments. Waiting on psychiatry referrals so the specialists can manage meds instead of our family doctor. Children’s is a one-stop shop, but there are a gajillion people there that all do something different. The Division of Developmental Disorders and Behavioral Psychology handles all Asperger’s evals, diagnoses, and treatment plans. And then the therapist handles his bi-weekly therapy. Now we are waiting for a referral to go through for psychiatry so we can get some medication management. This in and of itself is turning into a full-time job. A job, I might add, that is not well-managed by someone as disorganized as John. Which leaves me. I’ll do it. I won’t complain because I am grateful that Children’s is a stone’s throw away. If anyone is ever going to have something go wrong with their child, this would be where they want to be. In fact, there are people who fly in from other countries to have their child’s life-saving surgery done here. Yeah, I am that lucky, and I know it. But there is more to this, and it is another post altogether.

Zach? Well, Zach is the most laid-back, non-demanding person in this family right now. Yeah, how sad is that? That a toddler is the lowest maintenance? Pfft. But I keep trucking away. I somehow get it all done. I have no idea how. I used to be one of this smug people who would tell you that it is all in time management. But time management is only as good as the amount of time you have. I manage 150 hours worth of crap in 100 hours of time—not an exact figure, just an example. And it sucks. I know where my priorities are at: work–because I have to provide for the family and Evan needs my health coverage now more than ever, Evan’s treatment–well, just because, and my family. If I have to drop classes, I can. If I have to tell my boss I cannot do the NICU, I can. If John has to drop his classes, he won’t handle it well, but he can. I’m just trying not to have to do any of those things.

One day, I swear, I will be able to relax. I just hope it sin’t when I’m dead.

This is My ‘Fridge.

You know how people put braggy Mommy stuff on the fridge? A homework assignment done well, an aced test? Well I don’t get to do that because my stuff is all online. Well, that, and I am an adult. But dammit, nobody ever sees my work. So this past weekend, I was checking the grade book to see how I did on my latest paper, only to get this little note. And because I have nothing left to report, I am going to share it with you all. Lucky you!

 

Excellent job Andrea.  You demonstrated your knowledge of the correct formula to use, arrived at correct answer, and gave correct recommendation. You did an outstanding job on the formulation problem.  . .Appearance wise, your paper is a superior looking product acceptable in the business world. Your paper content follows the assignment with appropriate headings and subheadings. .Your APA format was excellent.  You demonstrated a mastery of all APA style and format functions.  Excellent writing quality. This is very acceptable in the job market for management level position. You demonstrated a Senior college level grammar; no grammar errors. Your paper  clearly described the service related value chain. You addressed all of the major steps, with logical explanations to what should/should not be outsourced. You did an excellent job describing the major elements of this service related value chain. Your evaluation of the elements for possible outsourcing and supporting justification was excellent as well. .Excellent job of clearly describing the product related value chain, from beginning to end; no steps missing, with logical explanations to what should/should not be outsourced. You did an excellent job describing the major elements of this product related value chain. Your evaluation of the elements for possible outsourcing and supporting justification was excellent as well.  Service company answer depth and quality (25%)-  25 pts. Product company answer depth and quality (25%)- 25pts.  Make vs. Buy Problem (20%)- 20pts. Format: easy to follow (10%)- 10pts.Follows APA Style and Formatting (10%)- 10 pts.      

Not-So-Wordless Wednesday: A Self-Portrait at 3 AM

Sexy Bitch. Yeah.

One of the problems of working night shift is that, after years of being awake and taking care of the critically ill while the rest of the normal world sleeps, you get used to the muffed-up schedule. And can’t sleep.

One of the benefits of online classes is that one can attend in their friggin’ pajamas and no one will know.

Unless one takes a photo with their webcam. At 3 AM. In their pj’s. With a big-ass cup of coffee that in proportion resembles a cereal bowl with a handle. (Hey, thanks, Pampered Chef, for making the biggest coffee mugs in the free world. No, wait. I think the book called them “soup mugs” because only idiots like me would consume such high quantities of caffeine.)Take note that those blurry lines trailing from my ears are actually hot pink earbuds. It’s just dark, so they only look like vertical creases of fat rolls. Really, I was listening to an archived recording of the most boring lecture on the planet. Of special consideration? The ultra-nerdy reading glasses because I am getting old as dirt.

Wait, is it……Could it be that…..Yep, it is. I’ve done it. I’ve lost my damned mind.

I’m giving this Portrait of Sexiness/ Insanity/ Mild Retardation a title.

We’re going to call it “Crazy Bitch Dances with Corporate Fucking Finance in the Middle of the Night”. You’re Welcome!

Fourth Grade

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Evan started his first day of fourth grade today. 4th. Really. I can precisely remember starting fourth grade, and I can say that my parents weren’t nearly as young and cool as Evan’s. Or maybe they were. They didn’t embarrass me by helping me carry in the bags of crap the teachers made us all buy like we did to Evan this morning. Then again, the teachers didn’t make us buy all of the crap back them. Evan’s school supply list was like we were stocking them up for a nuclear disaster. Headphones and a jump drive. A paint shirt and gym uniform. 5 single subject notebooks of different colors, an accordian file with 8 pockets–not 7 or 9–8. Crayons, colored pencils, and markers. Erasers. 5 composition books and 5 differently colored folders with both pockets and prongs. 3 binders. Scissors and 3 different kinds of glue…The list goes on and on, and that is all of the appropriate stuff. But we also had to provide 3 containers of sanitizing wipes, 6 rolls of paper towels, ziploc bags in 3 different sizes, tissues, a bottle of all-purpose cleaner (?!?)…The end result is that little Ev walked into the building with a backpack that appeared to be loaded down with bricks from the actual notebooks and stuff, while his father and I followed behind with literally grocery bags full of stuff. Dude, I remember getting a new Trapper Keeper every year complete with a new folder for each subject, a few notebooks, pencils, pens, and maybe a couple of boxes of tissues. That’s it.

But anyway…

Evan started 4th grade. I can so remember fourth grade. I seemed so much older than Evan at that age. I remember that was the year we chose to send me to the intermediate school for the district instead of the local elementary school. It was the year I felt so grown because we actually had schedules and switched classes throughout the day as the subjects changed. I had a locker for the first time. That year in gym class was the the first time we were told to shower afterwards, and I remember the dread of having to get undressed in front of my classmates. It’s the year they divided the boys and girls and taught us what would be happening to our bodies, and sent us girls home with a little box complete with samples of feminine hygeine products. That was also the year that I looked like a hunchback in all of my photos: I didn’t want to need to wear a bra, but I did. And for some reason, I thought that wearing really baggy clothes and rolling my shoulders unnaturally forward would hide the fact that I was about a B-cup. Mom would try to buy them for me as we would shop and I would snatch them out of the cart when she wasn’t looking. At some point, I realized it was okay, and I started to wear them. I remember the little white one with the pink rose sewn in the center of the cups. Shortly after I resigned to the fact that I had boobs, Mother Nature visited me for the first time. I didn’t need to have “the talk” because the school had already told me about what to expect. Mom kept me out of school that day as I had cramps for the first time, and we spent the day shopping and going out to lunch. This was also the year I was bumped into the gifted and talented program after the fall round of standardized testing, the year that Mom laughed her head off at the mid-year conferences when they told her that I scored at the post-high-school level on those tests. I still remember her remarks: “Well, hell, then let’s just ship her off to college. Isn’t that what you’re telling me?” That was the year I became “The Smart One” amongst her seven children. Not the Good One like my oldest sister, or the Crazy One like one of my brothers. “That’s Andi”, she would say. “She’s The Baby, the Smart One.” That label followed me until she died. (Incidentally, there is a country song by Blake Shelton called “The Baby”–I would link to it or something but I cannot listen to it without the world crushing in on me. I swear the first time I heard it, I had to research the songwriter because it was as if one of my brothers wrote it about our family, our mom. They even reference Cincinnati in it.)

Fourth Grade.

My feelings of excitement for Evan and his presence on the cusp of so many exciting events mingle with my own sadness. I look at the photos of him and still see the baby he is. The one who fit into the crook of my arm so well, was too stubborn to nurse, kept me awake with his colic for months and months. I still see first steps and smiles, first teeth and first words. Just yesterday, I cried as I watched him timidly walk into the school gym in clothes from Baby Gap, dwarfed by the vastness of the room, as he made his way to his first day of kindergarten. Back when he still thought my warbling, out-of-tune singing voice was the best ever and wouldn’t go to sleep without me singing him at least a couple of songs of his choosing. I haven’t sung a lullabye to him in years, yet it was just yesterday. Now, when I sing along to the radio in the car, he rolls those chocolate brown eyes at my horrendous singing voice as he masks the offending sound with earbuds from his own iPod, complete with his own music to which I cannot stand to listen.

Fourth Grade. Wow. I feel so…old. But just yesterday, we were so young. And Evan was still so new.