Several years ago I was approached by some friends to help them with a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society.
I had no idea what the Relay For Life was, I had very little information to access to find out what it was, but I took on the task.
It turns out it is a major event, a 24 hour event, that requires nothing less than hundreds of hours of planning and leg work. And, no, this was not a paying job. But that was okay, I already had a couple of those.
I worked tirelessly to put together this event. I tried as hard as I could to recruit volunteers to help out--I went to every health fair, every community event and was on my feet for days at a time getting the information out there so people would get involved. It became my obsession, because both Steve and I had lost loved ones to cancer and I wanted to find a way to help raise money for a cure.
Besides wrangling volunteers, I looked for sponsors, event participants, the equipment needed to put on the event, and I had to find a way each day to motivate the few committee members I had. Those members, volunteers, of course, were dedicated, hard working, competent, and resourceful. I believe there were five of us who put in at least 20 hours each week trying to get everything done. It was exhausting. But we pulled it off.
We had our event in April of 2007 and we raised nearly $80,000. We stayed up all night, entertained the masses, performed little fundraisers, and put out little fires along the way. Some of them were real fires!
We cleaned up the site the next day. I believe we got done around noon. There were very few people who stuck around to do the cleaning, and it was a huge site, we filled the dumpster and actually stacked stuff outside the dumpster.
As usual, there was a follow up meeting where event participants gave their feedback on things. We wrote everything down and vowed to fix what we could.
The next year, we had a couple more committee members, but the work load was still tremendous. We improved the event, we worked our butts off, and we raised $60,000.
Not bad considering we were at the beginnings of a recession.
We moved on to plan the next year's fundraiser. New committee chair (because there's some unwritten rule about a person being chair only for two years)
and unfortunately a new staff partner from American Cancer Society.
These two new people came with their own ideas and we were all willing to serve and get the job done.
But then we started noticing that we weren't being treated very well. And neither were the volunteers we'd worked so hard to recruit. People were being screwed around, ignored, talked about behind their backs, and all the hard work we'd done over the years was minimized and disregarded. I've got thick skin, but what was being done to me was pretty upsetting.
We held on, because we believed in the fundraiser and we knew things would work out. We offered our help and our services whenever we could. We were pushed aside.
We did the jobs we signed up for, we found out that they were saying we weren't doing our jobs.
Then the week of the event arrived. All of a sudden, we were needed. And so were all our resources. We had to fix everything that had been screwed up. We even had to repair relationships with sponsors. We had to pull equipment out of our asses.
And we got nasty treatment still, from the two newcomers in charge.
We stayed after the event and cleaned up, while the two "in charge" stood there with their arms folded watching us and talking.
Not one nice thing to say, certainly not a thank you. Just dirty looks. They actually hindered the clean up.
Here we are, it's time to kick off the fundraising season once again and we all showed up to get signed in. Not a "hello" or anything. Nasty glances. And of course in their speeches they patted themselves on the back for making WAY less money than our core group did in '07 and '08, and they even made an effort to minimize those precious dollars we'd worked so hard to raise.
It's heart breaking, because those of us who would work ourselves to exhaustion to get things done are being left to feel like the red headed step children. And it hurts because it's a fundraiser we believe in.
What do we do? Continue to help out and be criticized behind our backs for all the volunteering? Or do we take a break and wait for these new tirants to get tired and move on to something else they want to ruin?
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Revenge of the 35 Year-Old Body
Going full steam ahead for several weeks has caught up with my bones. And my muscles. And my brain. I started to feel it yesterday, about noon.
I don't have the flu, I don't have a cold, I just feel like I over did it.
Each weekday is "go go go go go" where I just keep pushing and keep going, skipping lunch if I have to, in order to get a certain number of things accomplished.
There is no time out, I have to do this stuff because if I don't there are consquences. There's bills to pay, homework to do, WORK (ug, like, a job you know), errands, housework, laundry, dinner, meetings, phone calls, typing (oh man I'm typing right now!), reading, projects, maintenance, thinking, solving,......and on and on and on.
I don't even want to make the few phone calls that I need to do today. That would require focus and also the ability to make nice, normal words come out of my mouth. The people that I deal with on a daily basis just can't be spoken to; they're people who NEED me to see things their way. And talk their way. So then I become an embattled business person, a struggling artist, a Type A personality, a lazy social butterfly, a hippie, a yuppie, a Democrat, a Republican, an Independant, a ditch digger, a fund raiser, a salesman, a saint, a sinner, a server, or counselor.
Normally this isn't a big deal, but I have a broken brain today.
I don't have the flu, I don't have a cold, I just feel like I over did it.
Each weekday is "go go go go go" where I just keep pushing and keep going, skipping lunch if I have to, in order to get a certain number of things accomplished.
There is no time out, I have to do this stuff because if I don't there are consquences. There's bills to pay, homework to do, WORK (ug, like, a job you know), errands, housework, laundry, dinner, meetings, phone calls, typing (oh man I'm typing right now!), reading, projects, maintenance, thinking, solving,......and on and on and on.
I don't even want to make the few phone calls that I need to do today. That would require focus and also the ability to make nice, normal words come out of my mouth. The people that I deal with on a daily basis just can't be spoken to; they're people who NEED me to see things their way. And talk their way. So then I become an embattled business person, a struggling artist, a Type A personality, a lazy social butterfly, a hippie, a yuppie, a Democrat, a Republican, an Independant, a ditch digger, a fund raiser, a salesman, a saint, a sinner, a server, or counselor.
Normally this isn't a big deal, but I have a broken brain today.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Tehran, Iran
My sweetheart Steve has a million stories. Someday I'll whip out a digital recorder and make a huge file on my laptop with all of them. Then I'll convert that into a book. Next year. Not now.
One August night several years ago we were in the swimming pool, trying to make ourselves feel better about living on the surface of the sun. Steve began telling me about his time in Iran, back in 1979 and 1980. In case you're wondering; he was 21 years old and I was in Kindergarten. It is what it is.
He talked about the food, the people, the sand dunes that he and his friends would ride on their motorcycles. They worked for Bell helicopters at a military base (doing helicopter maintenance I believe) and they were making CRAZY money. When you're young and someone's willing to pay you a lot of money to do what you love, you ignore the U.S. State Dept when they say, "Get out of Iran you are not safe."
After the political climate turned more than a little sour, and the uprising began, Steve and his co-workers found themselves being sequestered on the base. This was for a while; they couldn't leave as they'd become accustomed to, and they pretty much lost all their freedoms. Iran was in the middle of a civil war. Steve said at night it was as if the psychos got off their leashes. Cars upside down and on fire in the streets (that's how Steve found his when he returned to his rented home one evening) gunfire everywhere, and explosions.
Initially, during the day, it was rather peaceful. People did their jobs, acted as if nothing was wrong. At night, everything turned into L.A. during the Rodney King riots. Things worsened.
Since this was a religious civil war, the focus centered on anything that was "westernized." Women were suddenly not allowed to dress in blue jeans or American fashions. A music store that carried American type music was promptly fire bombed. A disco was barricaded and fire bombed, with all the people in it. There's a thousand more examples of the horrifying things that were going on there.
Of course, the State Dept was repeatedly telling these U.S. contractors like Steve to get out of Iran. When finally it became evident that they truly were in danger, Steve and his co-workers set out to leave. They needed to get to the airport, which turned out to be nearly impossible. There were machine gun checkpoints that wouldn't let them thru. They were turned back several times. There was violence everywhere. Eventually they found themselves being held at gunpoint, with the gunmen screaming at them.
They were hostages.
They were taken by bus to the Hilton in Tehran, and told to go get a room. The hotel had been blown out, no windows and huge gashes in the walls from bombs and bullets. They could hear the popping of gunfire outside in the streets. They huddled in their rooms waiting for instruction. Meanwhile, an Associated Press photo appeared in U.S. newspapers. It was American hostages, being marched with their hands on their heads thru Tehran. Steve's mom hadn't heard from him in over a month, and suddenly he's there in that newspaper photo. She begins calling the Hilton in Tehran to try to see if he's okay, and after quite some time she manages to get thru. The man answering the phone shouted, "Yankee go home!" and hung up.
After some time the hostages are marched to a bus, and taken to the airport. Seated on a plane, they are asked repeatedly for their documentation. The Iranians wouldn't let them go. They sit for a long time, watching the chaos outside. They begin to get frustrated because it's apparent they're not going anywhere.
Then they hear a voice over the airplane's intercom. It's an American captain, he announces that he's taking responsibility for the flight and the doors were to be closed and sealed. When the Iranians see the plane's doors closing they begin running over with their guns drawn. They chase the jet as it picks up speed down the runway. As the captain takes off the chatter from the Iranians is broadcast over the plane's intercom. Of course they're demanding that the plane land. No way.
They take off and are very quickly flanked by Iranian fighter jets. No one could breathe as they they anticipated being shot down. Soon the Turkish border is reached and the Iranian fighter jets are replaced by American fighter jets. Yes! Maverick and Goose!!! Maybe Iceman as well....
Steve remembers looking closer at the flight crew at this point, and he realized they were military dressed to look like Delta Airlines staff. Kinda cool.
So why am I telling this looooong story? Because Saturday night Steve got to talking to a friend of mine and it turns out this friend (Dennis) was in Iran the same time.
He was working for Northrop on their military stuff and both he and Steve were just floored to be meeting someone who'd shared their experiences.
Like I said, someday I'll compile all these tales and get them in a book. This is certainly the Reader's Digest Condensed version of the story!
One August night several years ago we were in the swimming pool, trying to make ourselves feel better about living on the surface of the sun. Steve began telling me about his time in Iran, back in 1979 and 1980. In case you're wondering; he was 21 years old and I was in Kindergarten. It is what it is.
He talked about the food, the people, the sand dunes that he and his friends would ride on their motorcycles. They worked for Bell helicopters at a military base (doing helicopter maintenance I believe) and they were making CRAZY money. When you're young and someone's willing to pay you a lot of money to do what you love, you ignore the U.S. State Dept when they say, "Get out of Iran you are not safe."
After the political climate turned more than a little sour, and the uprising began, Steve and his co-workers found themselves being sequestered on the base. This was for a while; they couldn't leave as they'd become accustomed to, and they pretty much lost all their freedoms. Iran was in the middle of a civil war. Steve said at night it was as if the psychos got off their leashes. Cars upside down and on fire in the streets (that's how Steve found his when he returned to his rented home one evening) gunfire everywhere, and explosions.
Initially, during the day, it was rather peaceful. People did their jobs, acted as if nothing was wrong. At night, everything turned into L.A. during the Rodney King riots. Things worsened.
Since this was a religious civil war, the focus centered on anything that was "westernized." Women were suddenly not allowed to dress in blue jeans or American fashions. A music store that carried American type music was promptly fire bombed. A disco was barricaded and fire bombed, with all the people in it. There's a thousand more examples of the horrifying things that were going on there.
Of course, the State Dept was repeatedly telling these U.S. contractors like Steve to get out of Iran. When finally it became evident that they truly were in danger, Steve and his co-workers set out to leave. They needed to get to the airport, which turned out to be nearly impossible. There were machine gun checkpoints that wouldn't let them thru. They were turned back several times. There was violence everywhere. Eventually they found themselves being held at gunpoint, with the gunmen screaming at them.
They were hostages.
They were taken by bus to the Hilton in Tehran, and told to go get a room. The hotel had been blown out, no windows and huge gashes in the walls from bombs and bullets. They could hear the popping of gunfire outside in the streets. They huddled in their rooms waiting for instruction. Meanwhile, an Associated Press photo appeared in U.S. newspapers. It was American hostages, being marched with their hands on their heads thru Tehran. Steve's mom hadn't heard from him in over a month, and suddenly he's there in that newspaper photo. She begins calling the Hilton in Tehran to try to see if he's okay, and after quite some time she manages to get thru. The man answering the phone shouted, "Yankee go home!" and hung up.
After some time the hostages are marched to a bus, and taken to the airport. Seated on a plane, they are asked repeatedly for their documentation. The Iranians wouldn't let them go. They sit for a long time, watching the chaos outside. They begin to get frustrated because it's apparent they're not going anywhere.
Then they hear a voice over the airplane's intercom. It's an American captain, he announces that he's taking responsibility for the flight and the doors were to be closed and sealed. When the Iranians see the plane's doors closing they begin running over with their guns drawn. They chase the jet as it picks up speed down the runway. As the captain takes off the chatter from the Iranians is broadcast over the plane's intercom. Of course they're demanding that the plane land. No way.
They take off and are very quickly flanked by Iranian fighter jets. No one could breathe as they they anticipated being shot down. Soon the Turkish border is reached and the Iranian fighter jets are replaced by American fighter jets. Yes! Maverick and Goose!!! Maybe Iceman as well....
Steve remembers looking closer at the flight crew at this point, and he realized they were military dressed to look like Delta Airlines staff. Kinda cool.
So why am I telling this looooong story? Because Saturday night Steve got to talking to a friend of mine and it turns out this friend (Dennis) was in Iran the same time.
He was working for Northrop on their military stuff and both he and Steve were just floored to be meeting someone who'd shared their experiences.
Like I said, someday I'll compile all these tales and get them in a book. This is certainly the Reader's Digest Condensed version of the story!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Beer Fest
You know when you go to a bar you encounter lots of people who are there with their own agenda. Usually it's the guys, and usually their agenda is to pick up on chicks. Chicks, dude, chicks.
Yesterday I attended the Beer Fest at the park, and it was kinda neat because everyone had the same agenda; drink beer.
Here's how it works: you pay an admission fee, they issue you a little mug. I guess it's 5 or 8 ounces, something like that.
You visit the different booths set up by breweries and restaurants. They pour your drink.
You would think the little mug would be an annoyance, but the majority of the beers were so strong we had to just sip. Some were good, some not so good. One of the beer vendors had a brew so bad we spit it out and poured our little mugs out on the ground. It tasted like Mr. Clean. Ew.
So, without a camera I had to photograph with my phone.
Now, where else would you meet someone who has the Gettysburg Address and Abe Lincoln tattooed on their arm?
Yesterday I attended the Beer Fest at the park, and it was kinda neat because everyone had the same agenda; drink beer.
Here's how it works: you pay an admission fee, they issue you a little mug. I guess it's 5 or 8 ounces, something like that.
You visit the different booths set up by breweries and restaurants. They pour your drink.
You would think the little mug would be an annoyance, but the majority of the beers were so strong we had to just sip. Some were good, some not so good. One of the beer vendors had a brew so bad we spit it out and poured our little mugs out on the ground. It tasted like Mr. Clean. Ew.
So, without a camera I had to photograph with my phone.
Now, where else would you meet someone who has the Gettysburg Address and Abe Lincoln tattooed on their arm?
Twilight
I haven't read the book, I haven't seen the movie, but I get the jist of what Twilight is. I'll catch up with the rest of society one of these days, maybe next summer or so.
But since I'm the only person I know who watches Saturday Night Live, I figured I better share this with you, the potential Twilight fan:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NfIubuTjT1g
But since I'm the only person I know who watches Saturday Night Live, I figured I better share this with you, the potential Twilight fan:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NfIubuTjT1g
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