I expect most everyone has experienced this: You make what you believe to be a striking change to your appearance-trying a drastic haircut or dramatic new hair color, switching from glasses to contacts, swapping sober browns and muted pastels for vivid oranges and eye-numbing pinks-only to discover that no one seems to notice. . . 

. . . thus making what briefly seemed like a courageous transformation into something that feels more like an embarrassing waste of time, which is what I was talking to my husband and daughter about (attempts at trying something new that misfire or never quite gel) that compelled Geoff to launch into a story:

“These two men were out camping in the desert when, just an hour or two after they’d called it a night, one man awakened and looked around, then woke up his friend and asked him to describe what he saw, at which point the friend pondered for a moment before saying, ‘Astronomically speaking, I see that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of other planets; and meteorologically, it seems we will have a beautiful day tomorrow, and . . .’

Celeste interrupted with, “I’ve heard this before-the first guy had some. . .” she started to say, but stopped herself, and even though I could tell it was hard for her to hold back on blurting the punch line (first man dismisses all the profound observations his friend is making as he looks at the sky rather than noticing the obvious-that their tent has been stolen), she managed to let him finish so he could make his point about how we all miss stuff that’s happening right under our noses (or in that particular case, above their noses) because we’re so easily distracted by a condition called, “sustained inattentional blindness”:

Coined by a man named Rezso Balint way back in 1907, sustained inattentional blindness is the “well-known phenomenon where we fail to notice what’s happening in our surroundings because we’re allowing ourselves to be absorbed in the inspection of something else,” which is a high-falutin’ way of saying we can’t see the forest for the trees (or are so intent on seeing the one thing that we fail to notice the even larger thing that’s dancing around, waving its arms, right in front of us), and for those of you who want to experience sustained inattentional blindness, you can do so by going online

http://viscog.beckman.illinois.edu/flashmovie/15.php 

so you can watch a video where you’re instructed to count the number of times the team dressed in white passes the ball while ignoring the passes of the team dressed in black (some variations of the video include a challenge by the lecturer suggesting men tended to count the passes more accurately than women) and at the end of the video, it’s revealed that …

. . . well, I won’t say what’s revealed, but it’s a perfect example of how easily people can be lured into focusing their attention away from something that’s happening right under their noses—kind of like a column that’s only one sentence.          

I have bulletin boards on three walls in my home office. Occasionally, when I run low on pushpins (I buy them in bulk) or when one of the boards gets so heavy it begins to pull loose from the wall, I’ll sift through the pierced papers to see why I saved them.

To the untrained eye, there may not appear to be an organizational system at play, but years of use have fine-tuned my methods. The board to my right is for receipts and anything tax-related. It’s my most boring board, although it’s brightened a bit by a red and white “Send Help” sign that dates back to Arch Moore’s administration. (I have no idea where it came from. It just appeared.)

The hard-to-access board behind my computer is reserved for emotional baggage.  It’s mostly good baggage-a drawing of a toothy executive-type sticking out his tongue; a collection of my parent’s annual homemade Christmas cards; a critique of my writing from Chuck Kinder. It’s also where I tend to tack envelopes filled with photos that need to be put in albums. (At the top-a photo taken thinking I was capturing a curious cat playing with my new printer, but instead captured the printer’s last moment ever as a working device.)

The busiest board is the one to my left. It’s easy to access and located right next to the bucket of thumbtacks, so it seldom takes long for it to reach the point where I’m forced to unload it.

As I sifted through this latest load, I began to notice someone had written comments on many of the snippets I’d saved, in handwriting carefully disguised to conceal the identity of the offender.

For instance, under a quote I’d saved from John F. Kennedy, “We must use time as a tool, not as a crutch” was written, “Not as a crutch? I knew a guy once who used time as a crutch. He . . . Sorry. I got nothing.”

Added at the bottom of several short bits of writing advice-just below “Never use a big word when a small one will do” -was “Never use a single word when two polysyllabic agglomerates will do.”

When I reached the section of the board where I keep my rather extensive collection of “Things To Do,” I found several articles I’m fairly certain I’d never seen before. For instance, the one about “Ways to Stay Motivated to Finish What You Started” wasn’t familiar at all, and I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered saving “How to Burn Calories in Bed.”

But along with the curiously unfamiliar articles were more hand-scrawled comments. In the margin of a torn-out magazine article about transplanting trees was, “If a tree falls in the woods, do the other trees make fun of it?”

And added to an article I’d saved on “Gutting Your Bathroom” was, “Oh, God! Please-no!”

I’d saved an article about what I’d considered to be an innovative shelving system in which the books are stacked on mounted L-brackets rather than shelved horizontally. The accompanying photos showed a wall of colorful books-a stack of red ones next to a stack of yellow books next to a stack of black ones.

“Sacrilege! Books are for reading, not decorating!”

And beneath that, in completely different handwriting, someone had added, “But on the other hand, you’ve got different fingers.”          

My husband teaches writing. Novel writing, life writing, sudden fiction. It’s kind of the Fuller family business, a trade he learned from his father, an English professor.  

I’ve taken Geoff’s classes myself many times–partly because I love getting something for free (and he wouldn’t dare charge me), but also because I like to be around those unafraid of chasing their dreams.

Geoff is frequently asked when he’s going to teach his next class, and those who ask are usually quick to give their phone number or email address so he can contact them with the dates. After he sends out announcements that class registration is open, he’ll get his usual flurry of registrations, and then in the days leading up to the first class, a few will always decide to back out.

“I got scared,” one admitted to me recently. “What if everyone else is so much better than me? What if my ideas are stupid?”

“But what if they’re not?” I asked. 

It didn’t matter. She decided it was safer not to try at all than to risk trying and possibly fail.

I’m not sure I understand why some view failure as such a terrible thing. Not trying at all–that’s bad. But isn’t there something noble and admirable about trying and failing? Especially when the one who failed gets up and tries it again (and again).

Like most parents, I want my child to succeed. But unlike many parents, I don’t want her success to come easily. If she gets to the top without a good, healthy struggle, it won’t to be anywhere near as satisfying or as valuable to her as it would if she works for every milestone she reaches.

Failure teaches, and toughens. It reveals where the weak spots are, the places that need shoring up and improved (or removed). By not attempting, you aren’t avoiding failure, you’re avoiding success.

It’s been interesting to watch how individuals and businesses across this country are reacting to the recession. We’re in this period of readjustment, of trying to learn from and survive our failures. Some are simply giving up, closing their doors. It’s too hard, too much work. They aren’t up for the fight. But others are rallying, learning new skills, patching the holes in their finances and learning from their mistakes. When we get to the other side of all this, they’re going to be so much stronger because of what they gained by how they reacted.

Last week, a list of America’s billionaires was released, along with an analysis of their personality traits. The survey was trying to determine what the billionaires had in common. One of the things nearly all had experienced was failure. They had all tried something that failed, and many of those failures had been spectacular ones, costing them a great deal of money.

But every one of them also kept trying, allowing their failures to teach them things they never could’ve learned from success.

You don’t move forward by crouching down and waiting for the bad times to pass, and you don’t move closer to realizing your dream without taking that first step. Instead of riding the rut of the usual day-to-day drags on your time and energy, veer off the path every once in a while.

Any dream worth having is worth failing for.

After weeks of being barraged with stories about corporate cutbacks and cost-saving measures, I thought it might be interesting to play boss for a bit. To those who have been grumbling over how bad things are at work now, consider how much worse it COULD be…

MEMO TO STAFF:

In these difficult times, it has become necessary for businesses across our great country to make drastic cuts in staffing and benefits. Since our company had already cut to the bone, it was difficult to find additional areas where expenses could be reduced and new revenue generated. Fortunately, we have creative-minded individuals at our helm, and they have compiled the following initiatives.

Before we address these changes, however, management would like to apologize for any discomfort caused to our staff during the recent installation of coin-operated mechanisms on company restroom stalls. We greatly appreciate your patience (and your quarters!).

With regard to these mechanisms, some complaints have been received about the quarter-per-usage charge being exorbitant. Considering that soap and paper towels continue to be made available at no extra cost, we feel the price is within reason. Please note that routine mopping of company bathroom floors has been discontinued until employees cease the practice of crawling under stall doors to avoid paying the toll. (And remember–letting someone in after you’re finished is the same as cheating the company out of a quarter. Don’t be a thief!)

 Those with access to company vehicles are hereby notified that we will no longer reimburse employees for the cost of washing company cars. While clean fleet vehicles remain as important as ever, we suggest staff members keep their company vehicles in spotless condition by making use of gas station squeegees.

Also, in lieu of continuing our company’s contract with Orkin, each department has been assigned their own cat. Management asks that staff members refrain from feeding these cats as it will decrease their efficiency with vermin removal.

It should be noted that an instructional memorandum has been posted in the cafeteria that offers a number of helpful suggestions for how staff members can reframe the recent killings of a dozen of our coworkers by a disgruntled former employee.

“It’s a tragedy these people are no longer with us,” said our president, “but hard as it is to accept, the end result is a leaner, stronger company.” He also stated that the twelve vacant positions will not be filled at this time.

On the revenue-generating front, Cuss Jars have been placed in each department with fines set according to the level of foulness assigned to each word. Bad Habit Jars will also be placed around the building once agreement can be reached on whether or not ass-kissing qualifies as a bad habit. (Typist’s note: If it qualifies, our company should be profitable again in no time.)

Please take a few minutes to familiarize yourself with our company’s new pay system, which was inspired by our state’s mining history. Effective immediately, 25 percent of each employee’s weekly pay will be issued in company scrip, redeemable at our company store located on the first floor. Next to the new coin-operated elevator.

I thought I’d upload a few pictures of some of the things I do to keep myself sane. (Apparently, I’m not doing enough.)

I’ve always loved old things. My parents don’t much like antiques, but I’m drawn to them and I’m not even sure why. Lately, I’ve been having fun putting together some boards I found in our garage with some pictures from old National Geographic magazines someone tossed in the recycle bin.  I made the frames from leftover furring strips, the tree from spackling. Garbage art? Still garbage?

It’s funny how therapeutic working on these pictures has been. I get lost when I’m futzing around with them. It’s a wonderful, mindless, thoughtless lull. I get like that when I refinish furniture, sometimes when I work in the yard.

A few months ago, while visiting our friends Sandy and Bob Underwood (who own The Printing Press in North Charleston), Geoff and I got a tour of their home. It was large and open, but still warm and inviting. I admired it openly, maybe a bit effusively.

“Actually, I love it, too,” Sandy said. She acted embarrassed by her confession, like it was somehow wrong to feel such affection for a house. I teased her, saying that at least she had obvious reasons for being fond of her home and that if I said the same about ours, visitors would suggest I visit either a psychiatrist or an eye doctor.

“But I can tell you love your house,” Sandy said. “Just the way you talk about it and how proud you seem of how you’re fixing it up . . . You’re every bit as smitten as me.”

Sandy mentioned something she’d once read in a book, where the writer said that even though she knew many homes were far more elegant than hers, every time she turned down the lane and saw her house, her heart skipped a beat.

That description stuck with me. I feel that way, too.

There are many occasions when, while pulling in or out of our driveway, I’ll pause to look at our house. Sometimes, I’m just doing a quick assessment of the most needed To-Dos-the section of missing gutter guard, the paint-chipped storm door, the missing fieldstone in the walk-but more often, I’m simply appreciating how cozy it looks, how nice it is to know that it’s ours.

Our house suits me, and in a strange sort of way, the house kind of IS me-it shows its age and needs attention, the gutters sag and the lawn is thinning and there’s far more junk in the basement than I’d like, but it’s comfortable, softened, and quirky. At times it may seem like it’s falling apart, but it’s the kind of place where no one will ask if they should take off their shoes. It is what it is, and I am what I am.

That doesn’t mean I’m not frequently frustrated by my needy abode. I don’t like how little time and money and energy I have to work on the house. I don’t like that my life is so overly scheduled that to finish what I’ve started usually requires most of my yearly allotment of vacation days. And I really don’t like having to pretend the tub isn’t pink.

And yet, I feel incredibly lucky.

Families all over the country are losing their homes, but we still have ours. It may be far from perfect and far from finished, but with all of my heart, I love where I live.

We’re closing in on our second year in this house, and my list of projects grows daily. There isn’t a room in our house-not even a closet-that is completed to the point where I’m satisfied. Even though I’ve set the bar for completion incredibly low, you would think I’d feel more frustrated than fired up, but everywhere I look, I see such potential that I stayed charged to the max. As does my Lowes’ card.

So in spite of our home’s small size and temperamental old furnace and its newly greened lawn made up entirely of sprouting acorns, I recognize what a gift it is to love where I live.

It’s a gift that helps me be patient and tolerant and appreciative.

Home wasn’t built in a day.

In my never-ending quest for column material, I often take on new endeavors (and new animals) because of their gold mine potential. 

For instance, a few years back, when I agreed to finish out the term of an ousted Brownie leader, it wasn’t because it was the right thing to do or because I have so many fond memories from my own Scouting days. I agreed because I knew there was gold in them there Brownies. And they didn’t disappoint.

My most recent venture seemed even more promising. Not only did it appear to be interesting, but it also came with the potential to earn extra cash.

I’m fond of cash. I especially enjoy how it enables me to indulge in silly little extravagances, like electricity and a month’s supply of Ramen noodles. (I know what you’re probably thinking-electricity IS a bit frivolous this time of year, what with it staying light out so much later and the fact that I DO have the three dogs to sleep under on those nights it gets cold, but I’m not as young as I used to be.)

Anyway, when I saw an ad for a weekend job as a gold buyer, I was intrigued. I wasted no time contacting the company, and my husband did, too. We were both hired to work the company’s first show, which was in Teays Valley last weekend.

After being trained, we (and two other rookies) worked alongside experienced buyers until we were comfortable and confident enough to work on our own. With the testing equipment the company provided, determining gold content was fairly simple, and if you don’t take into account that one little $8,973 mistake I made, I had a blast. The show was a gold mine for stories.

“You probably wouldn’t guess it to look at that ring,” said the gentlemen across the table from me as I brought his ring to my loop. “But what you have there in your hand cost me a fortune.”

 The ring was simple. There were no precious stones or markings proclaiming it to be platinum. The only identifying mark was one etched by the manufacturer that said “14K.”  Even brand new, at gold’s highest, it wouldn’t have cost more than a hundred or two. I looked up. His amused expression convinced me to ask.

“A fortune, huh?” I said. “So how much did it cost?”

“Twelve years, a house and a car and half my retirement,” he said. “Not to mention alimony for another six or eight months.”

“At least you got to keep your sense of humor,” I said.

“Shhh!” he said, finger to his lips, glancing mock-nervously around. “She’s never had one of those. She might come after mine!”

Many of those who came seemed hesitant, some even bordered on fearful. One college-age woman admitted that she’d forced her roommate to come with her because she was afraid the show was a scam with thugs running the operation. I assured her I’m more of a Thud than a Thug, and so pleased was she with the money she made from her ex-boyfriend’s jewelry that she returned the next day with more. Broken relationships don’t often leave a reason to celebrate, but there was a good bit of celebrating going on when folks learned what we’d pay for their ex’s gold.

By Sunday afternoon, the crowd had begun to thin, so the manager thought it would be a good time to teach me how to run checks. The program he had was fairly simple to use, and it wasn’t long before my cashier skills were tested by a flurry of customers. As the manager read the information to me from the receipts, I typed it in, printed the checks, then handed them to the customers.

Y’know, it’s hard to fathom the importance of something as small as a decimal point. They’re such wee little things. But believe me-recognizing the absence of one sure can cause quite a stir, especially considering the one that was missing was supposed to be sitting halfway between the 89 and the 73 on a customer’s check.

Fortunately, only a few minutes passed before I found the mistake, so we were able to stop payment on the $8,973 check and issue another, but my confidence was shaken. I returned to my testing station, determined too tune out all the opportunistic remaining customers who’d begun pleading with me to be their cashier.

At the insistence of our good-humored manager, I eventually returned to the pay station, where I made it through the rest of the day without any mistakes.

Except for that one little blip, Geoff and I enjoyed ourselves so much that we’ve signed on to do several more weekend shows in this area, and I’m hoping to hold one as a fundraiser for the Gazette’s Send-A-Child-To-Camp Fund.