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Another True Story: Meeting My Rockstar Crush

jillianivey |

Last week, I reposted a story I shared on Threads that detailed why I hate raccoons. I put it here because it’s a story I’ve retold often enough that I thought I might want a permanent copy I could share when the occasion required.

This is another story, shared to Threads, that I’ve told and retold enough times that it makes sense to have a version I can just send to people when the subject arises.

Jakob Dylan and the Wallflowers don’t come up in conversation nearly as often as raccoons do, but hey, Bringing Down the Horse turns 30 this week so there’s a good chance I’ll need to pull this one out soon.

Spring, 2008. I’m co-editing a Philly-area “cityblog” in my spare time. I also have a full-time job doing PR, which means I’ve gotten even pickier about the kind of pitches I’ll accept. I have all kinds of email filters set up, and sometimes things get erroneously marked as spam. 🧵

So when my co-editor pings me to ask if I’ve seen the invite we got for a blogger weekend in Atlantic City, no, I have not.

Turns out some guy named @petershankman is doing PR for the Harrah’s (now Caesar’s) locations in AC and has organized an all-expenses paid blogger weekend that very weekend, and wants to invite someone from our site to join. My co-editor is busy but my boyfriend (now husband, and at the time also a writer for the blog) can make ourselves available. 

We are in our early/mid-20s so obviously this is a very tempting opportunity.

What seals the deal, at least for me, is that our weekend agenda includes tickets to see The Wallflowers play at the Atlantic City House of Blues (RIP), inside the Showboat casino (also RIP, kinda).

Thriends, I LOVED The Wallflowers. Bringing Down the Horse came out when I was in middle school. I bought that album with my own money (received as a bat mitzvah gift, probably) and listened to it on repeat for months.

Not only that, but my BFF and I spent hours obsessing over Jakob Dylan. Specifically his eyes. Those baby blues stared out of VH1 (we weren’t “allowed” to watch MTV yet) and straight into our souls.

So I tell Peter that I will be there, and I’ll be bringing my boyfriend. Peter says no problem, and that he’s arranging for a car to pick us up first thing Saturday. We tell him we can drive. Peter insists. Transportation is part of the blogger weekend experience.

Now, at the time, the boyfriend lived in a high-rise apartment building with a circular driveway. There was a small, round planter in the center, ostensibly for aesthetics but also probably to make sure people respected the circle.

We ask the front desk to let us know when the car arrives. The concierge, a lovely man whose name I have sadly forgotten but who used to let us break all kinds of building rules, calls my boyfriend. He sounds amused. “Your limo is here.”

Limo?

We were expecting a town car. It’s just the two of us.

We get downstairs and there is a stretch limo in the circular driveway. And it is clearly longer than the circle is wide. 

The driver takes our bags and ushers us into the car. He gets back behind the wheel. The concierge comes out and asks the driver something through his open window. The driver shakes his head and dismisses the concierge, who backs away but doesn’t go back inside. He just takes a few steps back and stands there with his arms crossed. He wants to see this.

The limo driver first tries to back out of the circle but it isn’t working. Okay, he’ll try to complete the loop instead. He winds up navigating the thing like he’s Austin Powers in a tunnel, but we eventually make it around and out.

Eventually.

We hit some traffic on the AC Expressway so we’re the last bloggers to arrive at the Showbat, where we’ll also be staying. We are escorted not to our rooms, but to a luxury suite, where a welcome reception is in progress.

I believe, looking back, that the suites were new and being shown off in the hopes the bloggers would write about them, but none of us was special enough to have been put up on one of said suites.

Anyway, this is where I finally meet @petershankman.

In what I would later discover is true Peter fashion, he eagerly introduces us to the other bloggers:

* Two people from a then-big-deal NYC-based blog who may or may not have been a couple but were definitely at least coupling on the regular. Both went on to do big things, and then years later he got #metoo’d. We’ll call him “A” and her “B.” 

* “C,” another guy from another prominent NYC-blog who seemed kind of confused as to why he, of all of the staff at his blog, was the one in attendance. He, A, and B all seem to know each other well.

* An “older,” married couple (likely actually younger than I am now) who kept a travel blog that was moderately successful. He’s “D” (heh). She’s “E.”

* Probably some other people but I don’t actually remember. Just pretend, for the purposes of this story, they don’t exist. 

I don’t remember much about the reception other than A proudly telling me he knew my blog’s publishers, who were also in the NYC blogging world. He referred to one of them by the kind of nickname you only hear from prep school guys, and clearly wanted gossip. My relationship with our publishers was mostly limited to emails about our performance metrics, so I had nothing to say.

(I swear, The Wallflowers and Jakob Dylan are coming back into this story…) 

We have a few hours free, and then our evening itinerary is:

* A tour of the Foundation Room (also-also RIP—at least the AC location), followed by dinner in one of its private dining rooms

* The Wallflowers show at House of Blues

* An afterparty at the new indoor pool at the Harrah’s Casino, “hosted” by Tila Tequila (RIP, but only her reputation—if you missed it, she’s a n@zi now) 

The Foundation Room tour and dinner are lovely but the trio from NYC were running late getting there and now we’re going to be late for the concert.

They don’t care, though. They were going to skip the show anyway. They’re in Atlantic City! They want to gamble! Party!

C asks me if I know where he might “score some blow,” as I had previously mentioned my boyfriend and I went up to AC pretty frequently to play poker. 

Clearly, C and I have had very different Atlantic City experiences. I do not, in fact, know where he can buy drugs. (I have never, before or since that day, in any city I’ve ever lived in or visited, been the person who knows where to buy drugs.)

A seems to have a lead, though. He, B, and C leave before dessert. So now it’s just me and my boyfriend, plus Peter and D and E, the married travel bloggers. 

I don’t think we all go to the Wallflowers concert, but my boyfriend and I definitely do.

The concert is everything I had hoped it would be. We have great seats—first row, center on the balcony. The band plays the songs I wanted to hear. Jakob Dylan’s eyes, as he looks up toward the balcony, still make me melt. I do not tell my boyfriend that last part, but he knows. 

After the concert, we are whisked over to the other side of Atlantic City for the afterparty. It is a bacchanal. People are jumping into the pool fully dressed. There’s a lot of making out and probably more than making out in and around the pool.

The NYC trio, who have rejoined our group, are into it. The older couple look like they wish they were anywhere else. Peter’s jaw is clenched but he’s still trying to be a good host. Boyfriend would rather be playing poker. I’m exhausted. 

A, B, and C eventually wander from our VIP booth into the bacchanal. D and E make their excuses and leave. I last maybe an hour longer, and then I’m ready to head back to Showboat.

The boyfriend and I get a jitney back because the transportation Peter had arranged wasn’t due for another hour. It’s a Saturday night and the casino, when we get back, is hopping. I want no part of it. My phone is dead and both it, and I, need to recharge. 

After assuring the boyfriend that I can make it back to our room safely, he splits off and heads to the poker room. I make for the elevators.

One of the elevators is being held open. There’s a guy standing outside of it, his arms spread to reach both doors. He’s leaning so that his head is in the elevator, and there’s laughter coming from within. 

As I approach, I hear him say something that indicates he’ll meet up with the rest of the people on the elevator soon. I’m walking fast when I call out “hold the elevator, please!” His head snaps up. 

In the split second between when his head becomes visible and what happens next, I remember thinking to myself: “Huh. That guy is wearing a hat just like the one Jakob Dylan was wearing onstage.” And rather than assuming that I was seeing Jakob Dylan there, my next thought is: “I wonder if House of Blues was selling those in the merch store.”

I had startled the guy when I called out. He spins around quickly, kind of wobbly. He’d clearly been drinking. His hands fly out to catch his balance… 

And they land, heavily, on my boobs.

I look down at his hands and then my gaze tracks along his arms, up his chest, his neck and then snaps up to his eyes.

I know those eyes.

Those eyes belong to Jakob Dylan.

That means Jakob Dylan’s hands are on my boobs.

Say what you will about rockstars feeling free to touch women where and how they want with impunity—and plenty of them do—but this was not a case of “rock star gropes fan.” He is clearly mortified.

And also clearly frozen. Because his hands do not move as he says: “Oh my god I am so sorry.”

We both look down at his hands. He snatches them away very quickly. Crosses his arms, then puts his hands in his pockets and apologizes again. “Hey, let me make it up to you,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” I say. “Just trying to get to the elevator.”

Jakob Dylan looks back into the elevator, at his friends who have apparently been holding the doors for me. “Tell her about the party, please?”

Then he gives me a quick, awkward head not and walks away. I get on the elevator. There are two people already there. A guy probably in his 50s and a woman who is younger than him but older than me. 

“Hey so there’s a party tonight. Jakob said to tell you about it,” she tells me.

I very seriously consider it for about five seconds, because I’d be insane to turn down the opportunity to party with rockstars, right?

Maybe if my phone weren’t dead and I could have reached my boyfriend to tell him where I was going, I would have ignored my fatigue and decided differently. But, sensibility prevailed. “Thanks,” I tell her, “but I’m really tired. I just want to go back to my room.” 

She looks shocked. Frankly I’m kind of shocked, too. Jakob Dylan—JAKOB FRIGGIN DYLAN—invited me to a party and I said…no?

“Please tell Jakob I appreciate the invite,” I add, knowing she probably won’t.

It’s dead quiet on the elevator as we ascend the next few floors. Then the older guy, who had been quiet up to that point, nods at me. 

“I like your jacket,” he slurs, indicating my trench coat (it had been raining). “Is it [whatever designer brand was making trendy trench coats in 2008]? I have one just like it, only mine has epaulets.” He hits the “p” in that last word hard and then sustains the “s.”

“No,” I tell him. “This is from H&M.”

“Ah.” He nods—whether sagely or judgmentally, I’m not sure.

More silence. We finally hit my floor. “Have a good night! Enjoy your party,” I say as I step off the elevator. 

I am almost asleep when my boyfriend comes upstairs. He came out $50 ahead at the poker table and decided not to try his luck any further. I tell him about Jakob Dylan, the party invitation, and Mr. “Epaulets.”

“And you didn’t go?!” my boyfriend exclaims.

No, I tell him. I was tired. My phone was dead. It didn’t seem like the smart thing to do. Even if it *was* Jakob Dylan inviting me. 

So anyway, yeah, that’s the story.

I have not had any further encounters with Jakob Dylan.

@petershankman has become a close friend and I talk to him regularly. (Follow him! He’s great.)

The blog I was writing for folded in 2011.

The boyfriend and I went on to buy a house and, as I mentioned, get married.

The wedding was in Atlantic City.

Ten days after Hurricane Sandy.

But that’s another story.

Now, go listen to “Bringing Down the Horse.” It holds up!

Story Time

True Story: Raccoons Killed My Friends

jillianivey |

I’ve been having way, way too much fun on Threads lately. It reminds me of what Twitter felt like a decade or more ago. Never mind that it’s owned by Meta. I’m choosing to ignore that for now.

For some reason I decided to spend way too much time time last Monday telling my “thriends” the story of why I hate raccoons so much and, much like those evil little mammals are wont to do, the Threads thread escaped containment.

I’ve probably told this story a hundred times before but I’ve never written it down. I figured it would be good to have it somewhere so I could just send it anyone who took issue with my feelings about raccoons, rather than having to tell the story again. But, because the Threads archives aren’t always easy to search, and because my complicated feelings about Meta could eventually lead to me closing my account someday, I wanted to put the story somewhere where it would be easy to find and hard for anyone (but me) to delete. I’m literally just copy-pasting from Threads below, and there are probably typos. Oops.

Photo by phiraphon srithakae on Pexels

Every once in a while, I will make a remark about how I hate raccoons. And then I get a dogpile of: “but why do you hate raccoons? Raccoons are adorable/funny/smart/etc!”

I usually say it’s a long story, but I do have my reasons. But I saw some more pro-raccoon propaganda over the weekend and couldn’t let it stand. I figured it was time to speak my truth.

So, here, thriends, is the story.

I should begin by noting that my paternal grandmother was…interesting. (I could tell you more more but I use my real name on this account.) Suffice it to say that in grad school, I wrote an essay about some of her shenanigans and one of my classmates told me he didn’t believe it was a work of nonfiction, because no one person could be *that* extra.

ANYWAY, my grandmother loved animals. She had lots of animals. She thought everyone else should have lots of animals, too. Enter: the goldfish.

One day in, I think, February (it was cold), my youngest sister comes home from an outing with our grandmother, giggling uncontrollably and looking more than a little guilty. Finally, she tells us to go look outside in the fountain.

My parents’ house has a courtyard with a water feature between two built-in planters. It’s comprised of a Bacchus fountain face (turned off for the season) and a small basin that’s probably 2′ x 2′ x 5′ and contains a few aquatic plants. 

So… after my sister tells us to, we all go outside and fuck if there aren’t are three or four goldfish swimming in the fountain.

My grandmother had taken my sister to PetSmart and my sister asked for a goldfish and because my grandmother was like, “Sure, everyone needs more pets,” she said yes without checking with my parents. And then they apparently decided together that it would be HILARIOUS if they bought more than one goldfish and released them all into the fountain.

After depositing the fish, my grandmother told my sister not to say anything and left. But of course, because my sister is maybe eight years old and has zero chill, she tells the story immediately.

Okay, so now we have fish. (I swear, the raccoon part is coming…)

My parents are, I’d say, moderately annoyed by the situation, but they’ve had to take care of other random animals in the past and they’re willing to roll with this for at least a little while.

Except remember how it’s February? It’s cold and it’s getting dark and these are the dial-up internet days so nobody is able to do a quick check on the spot as to what water temperatures goldfish can survive in. Rather than risk it, my dad spends the next hour fishing the goldfish out of the fountain so we can bring them inside. At one point he asks my sister if he got them all. She says she can’t remember how many there were. Dad keeps looking for fish until it gets dark. 

The fish live in a tank on our kitchen counter for the rest of the season. At some point that winter we become aware of the fact that there’s some small eyelash-looking detritus floating in the water with them. At first we think it’s maybe fish poop.

Nope.

Fish babies.

They’re small and transparent and those things that look like eyelashes are the goldfish babies’ spines.

So now we have *two* generations of goldfish living in a tank on our kitchen counter.

A few of the babies, miraculously, survive water changes and “what the hell do we feed them” and goldfish parents who maybe-accidentally-but-maybe-on-purpose play Cronos and eat their own offspring.

And when it gets warm enough, my dad does whatever he has to do to make sure the water in the fountain is goldfish-friendly and we release the fish.

They thrive. We grow to love our little fountain friends. 

t some point, my grandmother takes my sister to PetSmart again and this tine they come back with a tiny, beautiful little koi. She’s mostly white, with black and red marks and a tail that’s as long as her body. My sister has already named her “Sushi.”

She is too young to know what Chekov’s gun is, but she has now introduced the concept to the fountain and its occupants. Because remember—this is actually a thread about raccoons. 

Sushi and the goldfish, which I am realizing now would make a great Siouxsie and the Banshees cover band name, coexist happily.

Maybe a little too happily.

There are more eyelashes floating in the water. The ones who make it are clearly goldfish-koi hybrids.

We’re up to maybe six or seven fish at this point. It’s getting a little crowded in there but everyone seems happy. 

hat winter, we don’t bring the fish inside. Instead, every night, we bring out a few gallon-sized jugs filled with hot water and float them in the reservoir to keep the water from freezing.

All of the fish survive the season.

Fast-forward to one early one morning, spring 2001. The fish are all, miraculously, alive. I can’t remember how many fish are living in the fountain at this point. (I also don’t remember the year we got the first batch of fish so I’m not sure if this was year two or year three with them.)

Just know that these were not goldfish that you win at a carnival, keep for three days until they inevitably die, and then flush down the toilet. We’d had these fish for YEARS. They were our FRIENDS.

On that fateful morning, my sisters and I are getting ready for school. My dad walks out the front door to the courtyard, then comes back in quickly. I hear him call for my mom. “Keep the girls inside!” he yells. Then he goes back out to the courtyard.

Mom is, of course, worried that there’s a danger to her daughters out there. Crazed gunman? Zombies? Aliens? Oh hell no. So my mom, all 4’11” of her, follows my dad outside, ready to defend her family.

She has walked into a bloodbath. 

To hear my parents tell it, there are fish parts everywhere. Blood and guts and spines that have been picked clean of all flesh. My dad finds Sushi’s whole damn tail. The rest of her, apparently, became what her name had fated her to be.

It’s pretty obvious what happened.

Sometime overnight, one or more raccoons let themselves into my parents’ courtyard, looked in the fountain reservoir, thought how nice it was of our family to leave them dinner, and had themselves a fish feast.

My dad starts cleaning up. My mom has to tell us what had happened. Needless to say, we don’t take it well.

Mom makes us leave the house through the garage so we can’t see the carnage.

By the time we get home, dad has cleaned up. It’s so sad walking past the fountain and not being greeted by our little fishy friends, who always greeted us after school, ready for their supper.

But wait! What’s this? Just behind one of the potted lilies in the reservoir, a flash of orange and white. 

ONE OF THE FISH HAD SURVIVED.

Apparently he managed to get to a hiding place the raccoons couldn’t or didn’t try to reach.

We try to coax him out with food. No dice.

Thriends, when I tell you this fish was traumatized, please believe I am understating it. He watched the massacre of his entire family.

Survivor fish spends most of the rest of his life in his hiding place, only darting out quickly at feeding time.

Turns out Ted Lasso is wrong. Goldfish, in fact, have a pretty long memory.

I don’t remember how much longer survivor fish lives after this, but when I leave for college a year and a half later, he’s still there. I think at some point maybe more fish are acquired for the fountain to give survivor fish some friends, but I can’t remember.

So anyway, yeah. When I say I hate raccoons, I mean I HATE RACCOONS. We are 25 years into a blood feud.

Raccoons murdered my little fish friends. I think my grudge is more than justified. 

From Medium

The End of Empathy?

jillianivey |
Elephants are considered to be one of the most empathic species in the world. Maybe we should learn a little from them. Image by Dan Sudermann from Pixabay

I have been feeling some kind of way lately, and I decided to write about it.

I’ve been writing this essay, in fits and starts, since Renée Good was murdered by an ICE agent in Minneapolis. I was still writing it when Alex Pretti was murdered by two different ICE agents in Minneapolis while several others acted as accomplices.

Yes. Murdered. I’m not going to equivocate on that.

Good was a mother. A poet. She may or may not have been a legal observer. She was definitely a US citizen.

She was shot three times. At least once in the face. At point-blank range.

We’ve also learned that Good did not die immediately from her wounds. That she still had a pulse when ICE agents prevented a physician from checking on her.

Pretti was an ICU nurse at a VA hospital—an employee of the federal government. He was a licensed gun owner. He was trying to help a woman who had been thrown to the ground by an ICE agent.

He was pepper sprayed, then shot at least ten times. Six of those shots were fired after he already laid motionless on the ground.

Normally, something of this length would take me a few hours to write. But I spent weeks on this essay, largely because bad shit that I felt compelled to include just kept happening. But ultimately, I decided the piece was getting too long and it was time to edit and publish.

You can read the whole piece here. I hope the next thing I write will be lighter.

Announcements

So, I’m a Mom Now.

jillianivey |

I had a baby last month. That baby will not be appearing anywhere on this website. But if you ever find yourself wondering why I don’t seem to be publishing anything, or if you found yourself here while trying to figure out when you’ll get the next episode of Oops! All Bards, please know that this whole parenting thing is actually as tough as everyone says. Tougher, even. I’ll be back to writing and podcasting when I’m back to writing and podcasting.

Announcements

Oops! All Bards Launches Today

jillianivey |

Five years ago, give or take, I was just wrapping up a run of a play I was in when some of the cast asked if I’d like to join their Dungeons and Dragons campaign, which was being DM’d by the director of said play.

I had previously had no real interest in playing D&D, but I did have an interest in continuing to hang out with this group of people, so I said yes. And wouldn’t you know it? It turned out I actually liked D&D.

That campaign continued throughout lockdown, and then I joined two more, both DM’d by my husband, Ross. And if that wasn’t enough D&D for me, I also started listening to actual-play tabletop roleplaying game (TTRPG) podcasts, where you literally listen to other people play D&D.

At some point, I decided I wanted to make one of those podcasts myself, and I had a great idea for it: on the day of their university graduation (because canonically, in D&D, all bards belong to a college), a group of bards find themselves the only heroes available to save their realm. If you’re familiar with D&D, you know that bards are a love-’em-or-hate-’em class whose utility to an adventuring party is hotly debated, and—theater kid that I am—I loved the idea of an entire party composed of bards, with all of their quirks and limitations.

Somehow, I managed to convince the awesome Nate Runkel of the Yo! That’s My Jawn podcast to produce, mix, and edit the podcast; several incredible members of the Mission: Rejected cast (and also my equally incredible husband) to perform on it; the extraordinarily talented Eddie Delaney to design the logo and characters for it; and The Porch Room to executive produce and distribute it.

And, after some trials and tribulations, the first episode of Oops! All Bards is out today.

Give it a listen, and like/subscribe/etc. if you feel so moved!

Announcements

Mission: Rejected S4E9: Eight Heads in a Birkin Bag

jillianivey |
This was so much fun to write and record!

I’ve been lucky enough to be a performer on the Mission: Rejected podcast since its very first episode. Since then, I’ve played dozens of characters, appeared in a pandemic-era livestream, and made some very good friends.

Last year, I came across an article about a divorcing Russian couple who had previously founded Europe’s only cryonics storage center—and who were now snatching cryogenically preserved brains and bodies from one another—and shared it on Facebook. One of the Mission: Rejected co-creators, the brilliant and funny Pete Barry, commented that the premise sounded like a Mission: Rejected episode, and I told him I was calling dibs on co-writing the episode with him.

Had I written an episode of Mission: Rejected before? No.

Had I even written anything like it before? Also no. At least, not in recent memory.

But Pete was confident we could do this, the rest of the team at The Porch Room agreed, and now, here we are. I’m pleased to share Mission: Rejected Season 4, Episode 9: “Eight Heads in a Birkin Bag.” I’m pretty proud of how it came out.

Announcements

Introducing: The Jilletante Creative Story Audit

jillianivey |

a neon sign reading "what is your story" hangs in a darkened window

I don’t always cross the streams of my client work and my writing life, but I’m launching a service today that nicely marries the two so it only made sense to talk it up here.

Many people are so focused on selling—their products, their services, themselves—that they don’t stop to think about whether they’re actually saying anything their customers want to hear…or whether they’re even saying anything original at all.

It’s 2022 and a lot of how we do business is different. After two-plus years of seeking human connection in every way we possibly can, a compelling story is going to grab us way more than a hard sell. So: if you sell a product or service, do you have that story?

It can be hard look at your own content and decide, and that’s where my new Jilletante Creative Story Audit service comes in. During this 45-minute live session (scheduled at your convenience), we’ll go through your website or other marketing materials and assess whether you’re actually telling the story you think you’re telling, in a way your audience wants to see it.

In addition to this live one-on-one session, the Jilletante Creative Story Audit also includes:

  • A recording of your audit session (available to download as an audio or video file for 365 days!)
  • The top three actions you can take to tell a better story ASAP
  • A $50 discount on a follow-up session to review your changes since our initial session (good for 30 days after your first audit)

If you or someone you know might be interested in a story audit, feel free to reach out, or use the button below to book a session today!


Buy Now

From Medium

The Very Real, Totally Hidden, Costs of Being an Adult With ADHD

jillianivey |

A person wearing a blue shirt holds several hundred dollar bills in a fan shape, covering her face. The bills have been lit on fire.

As an adult, getting diagnosed with ADHD is both time consuming and costly. Trying to get your meds filled, while not costly, will take hours of your life during which you’d rather be doing literally anything else. But what nobody talks about is how much things start to cost you because you have ADHD, outside of the actual medical costs of having ADHD.

So now I’m talking about it:

If you are a person with ADHD who struggles sometimes to remember to do something that is ostensibly simple, or who gets so distracted during the process of doing it that the task is never completed, companies … are counting on people like you to miss your to chance to save your money or get your money back. That way, they can keep more of it for themselves.

The costs people with ADHD do not talk about—whether because they don’t realize these are associated costs or because they do but they’re embarrassed by them—are the ones that can’t be tied directly to treating or managing their condition. They don’t talk about how they bought the same book three times because they couldn’t remember whether they owned it or not. About how they keep throwing expired yogurt away because it had been languishing for months in the back of the fridge, where they’d forgotten they’d placed it because they were on the phone with their parents when they unloaded their groceries and weren’t paying attention to what went where. About how they have now bought at least five travel pillows from various airports because they couldn’t be bothered to make a packing list and they left their other pillows at home. (Are these also examples taken from my own life? I think you already know the answer.)

Read my latest essay on Medium here.

From Medium

This New Year, Instead of Resolutions, Set Intentions

jillianivey |

A black-and-tan dog lies on its belly on a blue yoga mat. Beside the dog, a person uses one hand to administer belly rubs while using the other to gently scold the dog for interrupting their practice.

Let’s hear it for the kind of intense, hypercompetitive type-A personalities who beat themselves up every February because they’ve “failed” their New Year’s resolutions. I know their pain so well.

A few years ago, I started setting intentions instead of making resolutions. It’s a practice that’s been very much informed by my practice as a yoga student and teacher, and it’s honestly been life-changing. More on Medium.

When I tell my students to reframe their resolutions as intentions, what I’m really telling them to give themselves permission to fail. So what if they said they were going to come to yoga four times a week and they only averaged two? So what if they started taking streaming classes rather than going to the studio because it was challenging for them to make it there on time? So what if half the time they were streaming those classes they were also distracted by their kids or their dogs or the jackhammering down the block? So what if they logged off before savasana because they had to focus on something else?

These are not the sort of things you’re supposed to beat yourself up about. But people do.

From Medium

It’s Time To Rethink “Professionalism”

jillianivey |

A black and white photo of a tuxedo cat sitting at a desktop computer. The cat appears to be on Zoom with six other cats.

I’ve been working from home since well before the pandemic and I’ve done just fine, thank you very much. Still, there are those who are concerned workers can’t get their jobs done if they’re not wearing business casual attire and sitting at their computers from exactly 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.

I call BS. We’ve been videoconferencing for more than a year now, literally seeing inside of our colleagues’ homes. It’s time that companies start to see the workers who keep their lights on as people, not just employees.

Below excerpt is from my latest piece on Medium and it is blowing up. Guess it resonates! Read the whole thing here.

Decades of workplace culture have indoctrinated us with a very specific idea of what “professionalism” is. The 9–5 schedule, the dress code, the endless meetings (and meetings about meetings), and the belief that even though laptop computers and at-home high-speed internet exist, you could really only do your job at the office, no matter how long or miserable or sometimes downright dangerous your commute.…

If there is one thing the pandemic has taught us, though, it’s that literally none of those rules of workplace professionalism matter. Professionalism in 2021 isn’t about what time you show up for work or whether your interpretation of “business casual” is consistent with your company’s policy. None of that matters. None of it ever actually mattered; we just collectively convinced ourselves over the years that it did.