nostalgia – Oh Fair New Mexico

My Flameless Pants

Posted on August 10, 2023September 4, 2023
by Karen Fayeth
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Telling the truth in a world that rewards fiery pants

A row of denim jeans hanging to dry under a window and against a yellow wall. — Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

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A friend recently shared an adorable little meme on Instagram. It was really meant to be targeted to the GenX crowd and to elicit a little laugh.

To be honest, the meme made me a little bit anxious. I got the joke, but maybe I didn’t really get it because that meme wasn’t true in my experience.

Here it is:

Meme found all over the place on the web, just Google it

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My husband is my gauge of what is normal as opposed to whatever weirdness is rattling around in my head. He looked at the meme and he got the joke. A laugh in the form of a puff of air escaped his nose.

“But, that wasn’t me! Was that a thing? Did people really do that?” I was apoplectic at this point.

He told me that he personally did not cheat on his reading log. He didn’t have to because he was then and is now a voracious reader. But he knew plenty of classmates who were not completely honest when they turned in their reading logs.

“People won prizes for how many books they read!” I countered. “How could someone cheat about how many books they read?”

He shrugged in that familiar way he does, which was his way of saying, “I don’t condone it, but it happens.”

Lying is learned

One sunny summer afternoon, after my family had gone swimming at our local public swimming pool, we were back home being lazy on a hot day. My mom had left the front door open to catch what little bit of breeze could be found.

My brother and sister were in the back of the house in their rooms. My mom was taking a shower. On the couch in the front room, I was reading a book. (See! Actually reading.)

An adult came to the door, peered into the house, and rang the doorbell. He saw me sitting there. My parents were very strict and taught all of us kids early on to respect our elders, so I could hardly ignore him.

He asked if my mother was home, and I replied truthfully that she was in the shower. He recommended that it was best to go get her because he needed to speak with her right away. Dutifully, I went to the bathroom where my mom was showering and informed her that someone was at the door and needed to talk to her right away.

She got out, threw on some clothes, and rushed to the door. He was a door-to-door salesman. What was so important was his need to separate my mom from her money. She sent him away with a scolding and slammed the door behind him.

Then she sat me down and began to talk about telling the truth and the times when it is okay to lie. My sister wandered out to see what was all the commotion and she joined in.

They tried to explain that fine line between how important it is to tell the truth but also it’s okay to lie. They really tried to help me understand.

For years my mom loved to tell that story to friends and family. The one about how her youngest kid just couldn’t lie.

Isn’t that a good thing?

Lying to get hired for a really good job

In college I took several classes under my Finance major about investments. The business school was fortunate enough to have one professor who had spent time on the New York Stock Exchange and another who had traded futures in Chicago. They told amazing stories of the investment world and I loved it. It seemed like the place to be.

Nearing graduation, I began applying at investment firms. As a standard part of the recruitment process, applicants would be asked to sit at a computer terminal and answer a long exam with questions like, “If you were not meeting your monthly goal, would you sell to your family? Your friends? Would you sell to your grandma to make your numbers?”

The truthful responses to the questions were no, no and no. I would not shake down my family to make monthly sales goals. It seemed so wrong. Clearly this was an ethics question, right?

The hiring manager laughed when the results of my exam were placed on the desk in front of him. He looked me in the eye and told me it was the lowest score he had ever seen.

Then he said that this just wasn’t going to be the right job for me.

Honesty had cost me a lucrative career. Perhaps that was for the best. I ended up going back to graduate school, instead.

A little more maturity was in order before trying the job market again.

Negotiation and the art of lying

After graduation and working for a year as an unhappy financial analyst, the phone rang with an offer of a job to become a procurement professional.

With zero background in procurement, they offered to train me in the ways of how to be a buyer. It was a desirable employer and an excellent job offer, so I made the move.

Being a quick learner helped me come up to speed fast. Growing into the role I was soon confronted with learning the art of negotiation. The subtle ways of asking for what the company needed and occasionally bending the truth to get there.

Later, my career expanded to what is now one of the largest computer companies in the world. A company that is also well known for their ability to negotiate.

Supporting a robust team of Information Technology professionals, I learned how to negotiate the extensive language of software licensing agreements from some of the most well known and successful negotiators in the world.

Oddly enough, while at the negotiating table I was able to fib, bluff, and occasionally lie my ass off to get what was necessary to close the deal. For some reason, under the context of work, it was fine.

There was no mercy and no remorse for the clueless salespeople on the other side of the table. Soon, I was recognized and well rewarded for my negotiation skills.

Then at the end of the day I would walk out the back door and go back into a personal life where I could not tell a lie if my life depended on it.

A very strange dichotomy that somehow still makes sense.

The problem is that you have to remember what lies have been told

When talking about this with friends, the main reason cited for why I can’t lie is that, honestly, my memory just isn’t that good. Once the lying starts you have to keep lying and then remember all of the lies that have already been told.

Ugh, no one has time for that. Easier to tell the truth and not have to keep track of it all.

And the research agrees:

Telling a lie makes way for the brain to keep lying

That said, when it comes to lying during a negotiation, it helps to take meticulous notes to keep track of what was said so I don’t trip up. Also, it’s best to stay away from saying truly whopper sized lies. The exaggerations that start with a kernel of truth are a lot easier to remember and say without remorse. Much cleaner on the ol’ conscience.

For example, there was a certain dollar threshold where the Chief Financial Officer (CFO) had to approve the deal. The CFO was usually quick to provide approval after hearing the business case. At the negotiation table, I would say, “Well look, if you can’t get the price down, this deal has to go all the way to the CFO’s officefor approval. And you can imagine what that’s like.”

No lies told, but a little creative exaggeration using tone of voice and body language. Any salesperson knew that the more people who have to review and approve a deal, the longer the deal will take. Also more approvers increases the chance for a no.

Magically the numbers would come back just under the approval threshold I had mentioned, making it easier for everyone. Funny that.

With time I also found a really interesting weapon to use in the art of negotiation. Honesty.

When used the right way, dropping the pretense and being bald faced honest can also get enormous results.

Quite a few salespeople have even expressed their thanks for my being straightforward and helping them to understand how to close the sale. Honesty might just be my best weapon.

Which is not the same for all of the members of the negotiation teams back then. More than once I sat there quietly while executive members of the leadership team told some really profound untruths during the course of a negotiation.

By keeping a straight face it could be said that I was also lying by being silent.

Getting smarter with age

Today, all these years later, I still don’t like to lie. It feels icky, but I have gotten smarter about understanding in what circumstances a well-told bluff can help.

Recently the doorbell rang and usually I would not open the door at home if a visitor wasn’t expected. But there I was in a room with the window open to let in a cool breeze. The person at the door could see me in there.

“Helloooo,” they called out.

Feeling cranky, I opened the door. The person on my front porch went through a brief sales pitch and wanted to know which internet provider we were using. Their company’s solution, they said with confidence, would be much better.

Pulling out a clipboard they detailed which internet company each of the neighbors were using, house number by house number. They confirmed that they just needed to know which service this house was currently on.

Well, after working in the procurement world for far too long, I have seen most of the tricks that the sales profession has to offer. This person at my door had no idea whose doorbell they rang.

You see, this salesperson had just tipped their hand. They needed to know who my internet provider was just a little too much. Perhaps they were told to come back with that information for the whole neighborhood.

Slipping immediately into negotiation mode, the mask went on. This was no longer personal, this was business.

“We’re all good here, not looking for a new service, thanks for stopping by.”

“But wait, just tell me what service you are on.” A ballpoint pen hovered over a clipboard anxiously awaiting my response. It seemed so awfully important.

But it just didn’t feel like information I needed to share.

“Thanks again, okay, bye now!” I said, and quickly closed the door.

Through the shade over the window in my front door I could see the salesperson stand there for three long beats, then their shoulders sag, and finally they turned and left.

You see? I’m so much smarter when it comes to handling door-to-door salespeople.

And I didn’t even need to lie.

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This post was originally published on Medium and more of my work can be found over there @karenfayeth.

It’s About the Light

Posted on December 19, 2019
by Karen Fayeth
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But You Already Knew That

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In music, it’s about the beat.

In writing it’s about choice and cadence of words.

In photography, it’s about the light.

“No duh,” you might say, understandably.

No really, it’s about the light.

I think everyone can agree that light hitting the sensor of a camera is how a photograph is born. The beautiful study of how light is captured is what takes an ordinary photograph and makes it something you want to keep looking at.

Lately I have been studying light with more intensity than I ever have before. I will place a subject and look at natural light, overhead florescent, then flashlight on my phone, then a small bright LED panel, a ring flash, a candle, on and on.

The light source used, the angle of the light source, and the intensity of the light all change the outcome, the feel, the meaning of the photo.

Look again at the header photo for this story. I took that photo one week ago today (on 12/12) with an iPhone 8 using the onboard camera app that comes with the phone. I have done no editing of the image, that is straight off the camera. It is the best of the five photos I took at that same time.

I was inspired by the fog lingering in the trees on a rainy day in the Bay Area. I noticed this scene when I stood outside taking a break from work. The time of day was 3:52 pm, which means that the late afternoon winter sun was off to my left making its steady but inevitable descent toward the Golden Gate Bridge.

There is nothing remarkable about the subject, it’s a grove of eucalyptus trees just outside my office door. It’s in portrait mode so I could avoid both the nearby building and industrial pipes on either side of this grove.

The photo is just beautiful, wistful, sentimental. It evokes another time and place, and the reason for that is the light. Golden late day sun muted by thick clouds and fog casts an etherial glow. The play of grays and browns and greens and silver metal all create something worth looking at.

Here is the same shot taken today with broken clouds and sunshine overhead, my angle of focus is a little higher and a little more to the right, and the time is 11:29 am.

Same scene, same setting, slightly different framing, different time of day, different weather conditions, far less interesting.

The sky is blown out, the greens are a little too green, there is a loss of definition of the leaves. I would call it a nice snapshot, but little more. Again, no editing was done to this photo which was again taken with an iPhone 8 and the onboard camera app.

It was the fog, and more importantly, the quality of light through that fog, that made the first photo more interesting. More memorable.

I know, I know, this is Photography 101 level thinking, but it’s also something I will spend the rest of my lifetime studying.

LEDs will never be as pretty as old incandescents. Foggy or overcast will always be better than full sun. Natural light almost always preferable to flash.

Those are the guidelines we all know.

But what about shadows? What about selective highlighting? What about using multiple light sources? How about putting a piece of paper or cloth over a light source? What about, what about, what about? Ah, there’s where the experimentation begins.

And from experimentation comes magic. And a whole lot of “what the heck was I thinking?” shots too.

But let’s focus on the magic.

—

Final note: right after the first photo was taken, I turned around to go back to my desk, mishandled a step, stumbled wildly and dropped my phone where it took a bounce and landed under a raised wooden walkway.

I had to shimmy under the railing to drop down and get my phone, brush the mud off and hike myself back up onto the walkway.

Making art does come at a price. Worth it.

Do I Smell Toast?

Posted on July 1, 2019
by Karen Fayeth
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On Friday morning I had what could best be referred to as one of them déjà vu kinda deals. Wikipedia says that’s “the feeling that one has lived through the present situation before.” Close enough, let’s go with it.

I ended the stressful workweek with a fairly intense morning meeting. It was a good meeting, but it was intense. When it was done, mentally beat up and a little worse for the wear, I left the building to walk to my car to move on to the next part of the workday.

Whether the heat, the quality of light, the alignment of clouds in the sky, a smell, or something entirely more woo-woo, as I walked to my car I had this overwhelming desire to lay down on the warm concrete sidewalk, just like I used to do when I was a kid. Follow with me here.

Growing up, I loved to go swimming at a public pool that was less than a mile from the house. Very walkable across a lovely green park and over to the pool. Once there I took to the water like it was my second home. Splashing around, spinning into summersaults, trying to see how long I could stay under, doing handstands, all of it. I’d stay in there for hours then when it was time to take a break, I’d breach the surface like a sea lion and flop onto the sun warmed concrete. Teeth chattering, I’d lay with my body straight out with arms tucked underneath.

The hot concrete warmed up my skin while the New Mexico sun baked the other side of me toasty brown.

There was a certain smell, the hot wet concrete and chlorine mixing with the cut grass smell from the park just over the fence. So much better, even, than laying in a pile of towels fresh out of the dryer, and that is pretty damn good.

This past Friday, I didn’t just think about this memory, I actively wanted to live it again by laying down and hugging the concrete. I had to use the grown-up voice inside of me to say, “don’t you do it or so help me…”

That feeling didn’t go away for a long while, long past when I’d climbed into my car and drove off, landing back at the office and back at work. The feeling still resonated with me and throughout the day, I had such a yearning, an overwhelming need to feel that feeling again.

Later, after work, over a glass of something lovely and chilled and delicious, I pondered why exactly I had such a strong memory and overwhelming desire to lay on warm pavement.

Was it nostalgia for the simple summers of childhood? Easy days not spent inside negotiating with recalcitrant suppliers. Days where could idle by the pool.

Was it the sense of warming comfort I’d get from hugging the concrete? A deep satisfying down to the bones warmth, like a comforting hug from the sun.

Was it simply a synaptic misfire in an already overwrought brain? Do I smell toast? Hell, I really don’t know.

Even as I write this a few days later, I can still feel that yearning somewhere inside. I don’t really need to do anything to remedy this, like go seek out a swimming pool and hot concrete. I just know that this out of nowhere memory stays really strong with me. A feeling of having lived through it and a desire to feel that again.

To compensate, I spent much of the past weekend out on the back deck soaking up a little California summer sun, but not so much that my fair skin burned. I sat out there watching the world go by and pondered my own life enough that I’m now tired of thinking about it.

I do still wonder, though, where the hell that memory came from. And why.

Then again, maybe thinking about it too much takes away the magic off the memory. A good reminder to myself to just, you know, let it be.

And oldie but a goodie from my Flickr archives, the swimming pool at Filoli Gardens

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For Just a Moment, Time Pauses Long Enough for the Moonlight to Catch Up

Posted on May 21, 2019May 21, 2019
by Karen Fayeth
2 Comments

Dateline: May 18, 2019, Las Cruces, New Mexico

It is a full moon Spring night and I am on the back patio of a home I know so well. Not my home, but the home where I live sometimes in my dreams. A storehouse for that part of me that exists back in my homestate while I live a bit farther out West.

The decision to leave New Mexico was made a long time ago, and with time I can see many of the reasons were wrong and many were also quite right. That audit can only occur looking backwards.

Tonight, time pauses because I am back home. I am where I belong with people who care about me. I am in a place so familiar I don’t even have to think hard about it, I just need to be.

It’s not always so easy just being me. It has been a bit of struggle lately. A tug of war inside my mind, but tonight is a welcome cease fire. I get to let my guard down a little, a lot, quite a bit.

“I was drunk…the day my mom…got out of prison,” we sing in full, robust, well-fed, and drunk voices. “And I went..to pick her up…in the rain.” We’re all in time but off key, which makes the sound that much more perfect. Our voices blending into a harmonic patchwork quilt.

This is a celebration of birthdays for four people. One of the four is me, and the other three are people who matter a whole lot to me. We eat, tell stories, drink a little more and remember the past. The past and the present merge until it is just us and now and then. Tomorrow is something to think about later. It will come back, but we don’t think about that now. The Wayback Machine is running at full capacity.

More dried bark and wood chips go into the firepit, making flames leap up. We keep the unseasonably cold desert wind at bay with flame and firewater.

An iPhone, an Apple music account, and a Bluetooth speaker keep the old songs rolling. Current technology pushes the old, old songs back to our ears. Patsy Cline, Jim Horton, George Strait, Foster and Lloyd, the Mavericks, Johnny Rodriguez. That’s only an appetizer plate of the ten course musical meal we serve. The music is like seeing old friends, and we sing. And we drink. And we dance.

I’m dancing around the brickwork patio with my best friend’s husband and I find myself looking down. I’ve known him for thirty years, so there are few secrets left between us. I say “It’s been so long since I danced, I have to look at my feet to make sure I still remember how.”

“Karen, you don’t have to look at your feet, it’s like riding a bike.”

I raise my head and look him in the eye. He’s right, of course.

“Besides you always were light on your feet.” I smile. It’s an awful nice compliment.

As the final notes of “Heard it in a Love Song” wrap up, he spins me around. In the centrifugal force I feel just like I did back when we danced to the same songs at Corbett Center or at Cowboys bar. We laugh a little, and then we hug. It’s good and right and fun. We’re both a little older, but it feels just like the good old days, dancing together and singing along with the music while we do.

I find my seat, my drink, the next song on the playlist. We all go “yeah! This one!” or “Haven’t heard this song in so long!” or “What else do you have on the playlist?”

It’s easy. The simpatico of friends who are family. We have a new friend in our midst, and she sings the songs as loud as any of us. She’s instantly our family, folded in like she was always here.

“We have to howl at the moon,” she says and we all howl like a mangy half-drunk (full drunk?) wolfpack. She makes each of us howl in turn, giving constructive critique, the director of our backyard opera. When we all meet her exacting criteria, we’re asked to howl together once more, and we do. And it feels good.

The songs keep rolling and the stories told a thousand times before seem fresh again. We laugh and laugh. Everything is funny. No mean words or contentious topics are exchanged. No need for that. We are in our groove, where we know who we are and what we are and we have nowhere to be other than right here with each other. We’ve laid our burdens down by the fire. They will be there for us in the morning.

I look up at the full moon between the branches of a mulberry tree. I look over at my best friend and her husband dancing together, looking like they did so long ago. Back when they first met and love was new and we knew then like we know now that they were simply meant to be.

It’s good. It’s right. It’s a balm on my wounds, mostly self-inflicted, invisible but quite real.

A moment where time has stopped. We’re together. We’re happy. And we dance.