I've become a lunch lady

No I have not taken a job in a school cafeteria, although that's starting to sound good.  No, everyday I get up and cruise the websites for a minimum of two hours on the hunt for a job.  Lately what I've been doing after that is going to lunch.  It's a tough job but I'm willing to take one for the team.

The lunches usually start around 11:30 and go to at least 2:00.  We aren't really eating the whole time I assure you, mostly it's talking.  And talking.  And just to change it up a little: talking.  I have been having lunch with friends that I have worked with.  Some friends from the distant past and some from the last job.  I have found that keeping in touch has become very important to me.  I've always liked and gotten along well with my co-workers, but recently they have become a life line of sorts.

When you have recently become one of the disenfranchised, it's good to feel like you are not the only one having a challenge in finding a new job.  Checking in with someone about resumes, on line applications and new ways to keep you busy is usually what the conversation is about.  Lots of listening, and nodding and then taking your turn for your pal to do the same for you is the routine.  You get tired of complaining about the situation to your loved ones, and trust me they get tired of hearing it (although I hear some families do a good job of hiding it).  Having someone to commiserate with is good for everyone: the persons in the situation and their loved ones all  get the benefit.  Loved ones are saved from hearing the same thing over and over, and the disenfranchised has someone to bounce ideas and feelings off of.

There are words of encouragement provided by someone who understands the situation that cannot be construed as obligatory or "required".  Comparing experiences becomes a seminar on how to do things more successfully.  Exchanging "Hints from Heloise" for a particular website can be huge.  All these things are given freely because we truly care about each other and want to help.  Then there is the laughing.

It feels good to laugh at yourself about getting stuck in some electronic loop with someone who has done the same thing.  Laughing with someone about not having any clothes for an interview because you have been wearing scrubs forever feels good.  Sharing that even if you did have the clothes they probably wouldn't fit due to stress eating.  Sharing that you are now coloring your own hair and that next time you are sure you will get the color right.

Eventually, I am sure we will all have jobs, even if they are not our dream jobs.  We will have gotten them from due diligence, dotting the I's and crossing the T's.  It is my hope however that we will continue to meet for lunch even then.  The lesson is your friends are always there, but we just don't always make the time to see them.   Life is short so remember to have lunch in the good times as well as the bad. 

Self Portrait

So in trying to navigate the websites looking for jobs, I now discover some of them want a picture of you.  Why I don't know, since these are the same people who won't give me an interview.  A new picture to throw darts at perhaps?  In any event, I didn't have a recent picture of me that didn't involve holding some sort of alcoholic libation so I figured I'd have to start from scratch.  Apparently drinking is not considered a skill to most employers.

As I have expressed, my face has been captured by gravity and the like.  I have avoided having my picture taken for the last 10 years...unless of course someone has given me a cocktail.  Being unemployed and not confident of becoming a Cover Girl, I decided to take it myself.  Save some money, get the picture, no big deal right?  Not so fast says my rickety old body!  First of all, I have a $99.00 digital camera because I'm worth it.  Secondly, I use it once in a blue moon.  Not too many bells and whistles so I think I have a fighting chance of success.  Somehow uncomplicated does not translate into easy.  I change out the batteries and start clicking away. The first round of pictures consisted of shots of me as I backed away from the camera with various looks of disgust on my face since I couldn't remember how to set the self timer.  I also think if you were good at reading lips you might have seen some new combinations of swear words.  All of those pictures deleted, I give it another try.

This time I figure out the self timer.  The self timer however doesn't fix the lighting, hair or makeup.  Several shots later I've decided just to put a bag over my head and say, "not to worry, I'm sure I'll heal soon".  Since I was relatively sure that wasn't something an employer would appreciate, I continued taking pictures.  After several pictures in color in a blouse where my crepe like neck was exposed in full light, I was ready to sign up for the Life Style Lift.  Then I remembered I was unemployed and couldn't afford one, so I tried again.  This time I use less light, more blouse and a different room for good luck.  I then decided color wasn't my friend and I switched to black and white.  Who knew how deep bags under your eyes could look with improper lighting and using the black and white feature?

Getting pretty pissy at this stage, I get down to business.  I put on a black turtle neck (the first person to say that's redundant gets punched), ramp up the makeup and change rooms again.  This time I have lighting behind me with soft ambient light in front of me and I don't use the flash.  I also found the sepia option.  For those of you who do not remember sepia, it's shades of brown.  I figure this is a good option since age spots are brown right?  Miracle of miracles, I finally get a shot that doesn't make me want to gargle with Drano.  I crop and manipulate the picture with every available option on my camera.  I cannot afford Photo Shop so the camera is my only aid.  Hallelujah!  It only took four hours to get one picture I could post for the people who are not going to interview me for a job.  The good news is it's the picture on this blog too.  Life is good.

The rain from Spain is here

I love the rain.  I love the smell of it and how it turns everything green. I love that I can turn off my sprinkler system.  I love that I get to wear more layers which can hide a multitude of sins. I love that the rain washes my car and it is free!  I love how well I sleep when it rains. I love the rain as an excuse to have a fire in the fireplace which helps channel my propensity for pyromania into heat and not jail. This is how I feel the on first day of rain.

How would I feel if it rained for more than a day or two? Try this scenario:

Day 2:  Oh yes.  I forgot I have wavy hair but the rain has reminded me.  I'm sure there is a hair product in the bottom of my vanity that will take care of it.  If I can just get down low enough to take a look. Found the anti-frizz and my flat iron!  I can bundle up and have another fire tonight!

Day 3: Using an umbrella is harder than it looks.  How in the world to you get it down and in the car without getting yourself wet in the process?  Every time I think I have the maneuver just about mastered,  there is some sort of a catastrophe. Today my purse emptied itself on the wet, wet ground and I had to handle an umbrella, the purse, and crawling around on my hands and knees.  I definitely heard someone laugh as they were passing by.  Note to self: repair rip in seat of pants.  At least I can have a fire in the fireplace tonight.

Day 4:  All of my shoes are damp.  When you live in an area where rain is the exception and not the rule, you do not own water resistant shoes.  Three pairs of wet sport shoes, two pairs of wet espadrilles, and one pair of wet clogs which are apparently made of wool.  We're not even going to talk about how slippery flip-flops are in the rain.  I may have a fire tonight; I may not.  It seems there is a little water in my garage where the wood is stored.

Day 5: I am so done.  Everything smells damp.  Everything feels damp.  Everything IS damp  My hair is frizzy, all of my turtle necks have been worn and I am out of clean socks.  I'd do the wash but a river is now running through my garage where my washer and drier are located.  At least they used to be located there.  Maybe I should look.  No fire tonight because the wood that remains is wet. Grrr.

Day 6:  All of the patio furniture has floated into the neighbor's yard.  My tree is starting to list to port; or starboard.  I never remember which is which, but I know a listing tree is not good.  Oh yikes!  The neighbor's patio furniture has joined mine and is now floating down the street.  I'm calling the Coast Guard.....

No, I don't like that scenario.  Perhaps I should be tone my ode to rain down a little and restate how I feel about rain: I like a little rain to keep the grass green please.  No need to overdo it Mother Nature!

Walking on the edge of technology

So, as I have been documenting, lots of changes have happened since the big layoff.  Too much free time, too few deposits in the bank, and lots of time on the internet searching for jobs.  I am going along with the flow pretty much, but I have noticed it's the little things that make a difference.

I'm really starting to like text messaging or "texting" for short.  Now my son would tell you I've always liked it, but quite honestly, that's about the only way a get to "talk" with him.  It's much easier for him answer a quick text than to answer the phone and have to say HELLO MOM with his co-workers and friends within earshot.  I get that and I try not to over use the text privilege with him.  Now days however, it's keeping me in touch with my former associates.

I suspect I am not the only one who is at a loss of what to do, think, plan, on a day to day basis.  That doesn't surprise me.  What surprises me is how much I miss the people I worked with.  Most of us worked twelve hour shifts, three days a week and you might go weeks without seeing one of your cohorts.  But you always knew you would see them again.  Each one of my associates had a special something that I looked forward to when I worked with them.  Some of them are just so young and excited about life, it was energizing just to be around them.  Some are about my age so we had a common history of music, life experiences and disappointments to bond us.  Some of my associates are just so different from me I was always learning something new about their life, where they came from and even a few words of a different language.  The inside jokes, the eye rolls and talking under your breath are all sorely missed.  Now what does that have to do with texting?

Texting has become a way to touch base with someone and feel like you are not alone.  It is acceptable for pauses in the "conversation" and bad spelling and the occasional oops are forgiven.  It's a very casual way to let someone know you are thinking about them without overwhelming them with nine zillion questions.  God knows the more you text the more likely you are going to show up on Damn You Auto Correct so you try to keep it brief.  You can quickly see if someone is busy and set up a last minute meeting.  You can say "thinking about you", without getting all smarmy.

I still think texting can be inappropriate: texting someone sitting next to you is just lazy or rude to the other people in the room.  Texting when your child is trying to get you to look at their latest art project is ill timed and you may miss a wonderful moment that you can't get back. Texting while you are walking means you have a pretty good chance of becoming a hood ornament.  Texting while driving is just stupid.  But texting to keep in touch is growing on me.  Life is good but I don't want to see one of my texts on Damn You Auto Correct.  Really!

My junk mail is trying to tell me something

You know you are reaching a certain age when all your junk mail is geared towards your demise.  In the last month I have had 6 offers for life insurance.  AARP won't leave me alone and apparently won't stop until I have signed up.  Then there are the funeral packages.  Holy Cow!  Who knew there could possibly be THAT many funeral plans?

Now, I'm not trying to be fussy here, but how do they know how old I am?  Is there a data base that sales people have access to?  I have visions someone, somewhere is sitting at a computer and pushing a button for each name that pops up on the screen:  Joe Blow 1948 send the Senior Stuff (funeral, AARP, life insurance from Colonial Penn).  Sally Smith 1960, send the Younger Senior Stuff (AARP, long term health care insurance information, hormone replacement information).  Bob Burns 1970, send Middle Age Stuff (life insurance, disability insurance, hair replacement and gym membership information).  Tiffany Temperance 1980, send Adult Stuff (loan consolidation, online dating, gym membership, and on line college information for MBA).  Can't you just see this?

It would be foolish in this day and age of cyberspace to think there isn't a cornucopia of complied information about you floating around just waiting to be accessed by a sales person.  I personally think they are going about this all wrong.  I think they should mix it up a little.  Send some young adult information to a senior woman and make her day!  Hell, she'd probably buy whatever you want just because you confused her with a younger woman.  Send the senior man the information for the gym membership.  You could help him get inspired to get in better shape.

As a society, we categorize people based on age.  It's just how we are.  Once you are over 35, you are on that slope to funeral plans.  Heaven forbid someone 50 would want to go to college or learn a new language.  At 70, why wouldn't you want to do online dating (think how much driving after dark could be eliminated)?  A smart 20 year old might want information about IRA's.   I say forget about the stereo types, break the mold and damn the torpedo's!  Send everybody, everything and let them decide what age appropriate means for them.

A person's age is more than a number.  Some people are born are born old: they don't like change and never want to venture out of their comfort zone.  Some people are forever young:  they can't wait to wake up everyday and learn something new.  Most people are somewhere in the middle:  we have times when there aren't enough hours in the day to get all our adventures completed.  We also have days when it seems like an adventure to eat something new.  We are individuals and we want to be viewed that way.

Please stop sending me prepaid funeral plan information and send me Pilates information instead.  Who knows?  It may delay the need for the funeral package. I'm getting down from my soap box now, because I know, life is good.

A Sunday with my BFF's

I was honored by my BFF's this past Sunday.  They took me to the farmer's market.  As far as I can tell, this is a tradition that goes back years and it's usually only the two of them.  Because they are wonderful, caring folks, they asked me to come along.  You see, they are worried I'm not getting out much since the layoff situation raised its ugly head.

They are right of course.  I don't get out much.  I spend hours on the computer looking for the next great job.  What I find however is not the next great job, but the next job I am not qualified to apply for.  It's almost like if I'm afraid if I leave the computer for a bit, the perfect job will pop up and disappear before I get back to sit down.  This is not going to happen of course, but you never know right?  So back to my BFF's....

I get myself over to their home ten minutes late because my back is talking to me.  "Back talking" again and it's giving me the raspberry.  I apparently carry my stress in my back.  Kind of like that ugly purse you carry because you don't want to clean the thing out.  In any event, they do not complain that I am late:  they are visiting with the lovely woman who cleans their house.  They do not speak to her like she is performing a service for them.  They speak to her like she is a friend.  They ask about different family members and have clearly been keeping up with what is happening in her life.  No mention of tasks to be done as she has already started cleaning while they are visiting. We leave the house in her capable hands and we are off to the farmer's market.

I get my lame self in the car and there is an offer to fasten my seat belt for me since the lateral movement pinches a bit.  Thanks guys, you are the best, but I'm OK for the time being.  We finally get to the farmer's market, find parking and we are off to find treasures.  What a surprise!  They seem to know every vendor there.  And again, they ask after others and know enough about them to be specific with their questions.  One of my BFF's buys things because, "Although I can buy this somewhere else, I like these people and I want to support their business."  It is important to him that this person continues to do business because this is how he is.  He cares about everyone.

My other BFF is a collector.  He knows his stuff and can't wait to get the next treasure with a great story behind it.  Although this BFF is quite the raconteur, he also likes to hear the stories about the things he pick out for one of his many collections.  He hears what the exotic item is made from, where is was made, sometimes how it was made and how old it is by the time the purchase is completed.  He does not forget the details and now has a new story to impart.  It's a win-win situation.

The day is not finished.  Not far away is a thrift store to scour for used treasures.  It's a very eclectic place filled with a combination of used clothes, furniture, household items, books and then oddly some new furniture as well.  They of course find a couple of things to buy and I have had fun making fun of them looking at everything.  I still have a hitch in my giddy-up but some how the distraction works as well as medicine.

Now we are off the Hispanic market to find things I have never seen before: fried pork rinds that are clearly the size of, well, half a pig.  I eat these things, but having it actually look like what it is gives me pause.  The BFF's are everywhere looking at everything and one finds some things to buy of course.  You can't have enough of Herdez Salsa Verde can you?

We finish up the adventure by going to a hamburger place I've never heard of, but they of course know all about it, where the chain started and the like.  Good food, good company.  By the time we get back to their house, my back has let me know it's time to go home and lay down a bit.  Hugs all around and I'm off.

I got to nap about two hours and something wonderful happened when I got up.  I felt great: the old back was a little sore, but that is it.  Although I had taken a substantial dose of ibuprofen, I don't think that's what has done the trick.  No, I think Reader's Digest wasn't quite correct: laughter is good medicine, but friendship is better.  Life is good.

Forget the money, follow the shoes

If I lived in the world's largest house and you couldn't find me, all you'd have to do is follow the shoes.  As I scanned my house today, and it is really quite modest in size, I counted 11 and 1/2  pairs of shoes scattered hither and yon.  Now hither and yon must be elves of some sort distributing my shoes all over the house since I have no memory of how they got there.  They are piled in various rooms: some by the back door, some by my bed, some by my favorite chair in the living room and some in my office under my computer desk.

The scattered shoes are casual since that's all I'm wearing these days.  There are sport shoes, flip flops, Mary Jane's, flat cushy comfy shoes and one pair of boots.  They are all colors and they have all been slipped off in a hurry since even the laces remain tied. There are no clothes next to the shoes, although an occasional sock is observed.  Some of them are neatly paired to each other, but most look like they were kicked off on the run.

Now the shoes scattered about the house only represent about a fifth of the shoes I own.  My pretty shoes with various heel height, colors and bling are grouped up in my closet on assorted shelves, in boxes and in the case of boots, stacked on the closet floor propped so they can stand up.  I don't want to give you the impression I run out and buy shoes frequently because I don't.  I probably only buy shoes a couple times a year and those are usually for work.  I just hate to throw shoes away.  I have some shoes from so long ago I'd be embarrassed to say how long ago.  I can tell you some have gone out of style and come back in without ever having to leave the closet.

I suppose it doesn't make much sense to some of you, but shoes can tell the story of your life.  There are the work shoes which get replaced frequently because you wear them long and hard and they just don't last.  Then there are the shoes you only wear when you get dressed up and go out.  Fancy shoes have a pecking order of wear:  the really high heels only get worn when you want your legs to look long.  The middle height heels can be worn for lots of occasions but mostly going out to lunch or to a work event.  The shoes with the most bling are worn to impress other women.  You have to be a woman to understand that.  Most of the men I have known really don't care what the shoes look like as long as they don't delay your departure for dinner. Then there are the flip flops.  Flip flops are the state shoes of California, or at least they should be.  They come fancy, plain, high, low but they are always comfortable.  They are hated by Stacy on What Not to Wear, but the dear woman doesn't live in California so she is forgiven.

The good news is, these scattered shoes are not a safety issue.  The shoes manage to keep close to a wall, door, bed, chair rather than in the middle of the room.  They sit patiently waiting to either be put back on or picked up in a mad hurry because company is coming.  They never say anything although one occasionally sticks out a tongue. Oh, that reminds me: 11 and 1/2 pairs?  Where is that other shoe?

I'm Becoming A New Species

I believe it was Bette Davis who said, "Getting old is not for sissies!"  Boy howdy was she correct.  I have accepted the fact that I am getting older.  Gray hair has been being dyed for twenty years now.  It now takes an act of congress to lose weight (which explains why I am not any lighter).  I have even accepted moderate hearing loss in my right ear.  I draw the line at becoming another species.

It's not bad enough that I seem to becoming another species, I'm not even sure which one it is.  When I look at my neck, I am certain I am becoming a turkey.  The waddle gets more pronounced with every year.  Since I haven't uttered one 'gobble' and I don't run at the sight of a hunter, I guess I'm not a turkey yet.

When I look at the skin on my face, I think I am becoming a Shar pei.  According to Wikipedia Shar pei is: a breed of dog known for its distinctive features of deep wrinkles and a blue-black tongue. The breed comes from China. The name translates to "sand skin" and refers to the texture of its short, rough coat.   Well if it's in Wikipedia it must be true.  My coat is becoming a bit rougher but I think a better after shower moisturizer may solve that problem.  The closest to a blue-black tongue is a deep purple tongue after a nice Cabernet so I'm good there.  I must not be on the road to Shar pei.

Now for my favorite: goat. As I get older I have noticed I get one black hair on the right side of my chin.  I look for it every day, and when I don't find it I celebrate.  Then one day it magically appears (which must be black magic right?) and that sucker is on its way to being 3/4's of an inch long!  "WHERE THE HELL WAS THAT YESTERDAY?",  I say to myself, and more importantly, "DID ANYONE SEE IT?"  No one had reported seeing it, but I do wear a rather substantial make up foundation.   It's either been camouflaged or people are being kind.  Not so bad I think, but I need to be sure. So I have recently taken to inspecting my face in different types of light and a higher magnification mirror. Ouch.  This was either a really good idea, or a really bad one.  I have made the discovery I not only get the one rogue black hair, I am getting white hairs.  The white hairs would be harder to see, but these suckers are coarse, plentiful and curly.  Do you know how long a hair must be to be curly?

This is all very depressing right?  Then I start to think: there is good news here.  I am not becoming another species I'm just getting older.  In her infinite wisdom, Mother Nature is trying to take care of the problem.  Mother Nature makes our eye sight change when we get older doesn't she?  If she couldn't change the hair, wrinkle and waddle thing, she could make sure we don't see them: we get the gift of presbyopia.  It doesn't seem like much of a gift when you can't read a menu in a nice, candle lit restaurant, or when you need a laser to see the small print on a medicine bottle.  It does seem like a wise gift when you discover what getting older looks like.  I am not a wealthy woman and there isn't much of a chance of plastic surgery at this stage.  I can hunt down the hairs and take care of them when I need to.  The good news is, all I have to do to look better is take off my glasses.  Life is good.

Driving Shouldn't Be A Contact Sport

 Sorry I've been away a couple of days...the job search is taking way too much time, but since I need a job to pay the bills, I will occasionally have to miss some blog time.  But I digress.....

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I have had various observations made about my driving skill.  Perhaps skill is not the correct word.  I'll let you be the judge of what would best describe how I handle the open roads in my city.  I used to love to drive.  Back when I was a teen I couldn't wait to drive.  It represented freedom, a sign of maturity, and of course it was cool.  Now I consider it a necessity that isn't particularly fun and at times can be downright scary. 

Take a routine trip to work, back in the days I was working.  I allowed myself thirty minutes to get to work.  It usually took me fifteen to twenty minutes depending how quickly I was pushed along the road by the other drivers: you know what I mean.  If you try to go the speed limit you are suddenly subjected to all sorts of sign language and none of it nice.  Who knew how many birds accompanied drivers to work? At some point I was apparently assigned an F-150 to personally escort me each time I hit the freeway.  I swear it is so.  It is always white and either a hair's width ahead of me or behind me.  The F-150 must be afraid I might get away, so it makes sure to stay nice and close to me. Isn't that thoughtful?  I don't know what I would do if I could actually see where I was going or what was happening behind me.  That would take all the fun out of getting where I want to go.

On the rare occasions when I've managed to avoid the F-150, that doesn't mean it is smooth sailing.  The other drivers do the most interesting things: like race to get in front of you only to slow down 10 miles per hour.  Then there is the reverse: they are chugging along and I finally give up and attempt to go around and they speed up 10 miles per hour.  I'm not sure why.  As much as I hate to admit it....I have found myself doing this myself on a couple of occasions.  I know, I should know better, but, sometimes, it just happens

Every time I get in the car I tell myself to be chill and that there is no hurry.  This lasts until the person in front of me actually drives the way I had intended to.  When I see someone going, say, the speed limit or less, and there are no other cars in front of them, I ask myself WHY?  The road is wide open and this person is putting along.  I usually just go around and try really hard not to look at them in case I'm making a face.  Even slow drivers can have a gun.

The time I am most likely to drive a tad above the speed limit is on the way home from work.  By the time I have left work, I have put in somewhere around 13ish hours, have had one thirty minute break and I may or may not have had a bathroom break.  I'm not kidding.  I haven't consciously thought about these things until I start to get on the freeway.  Then it strikes me I am starving and my bladder is about to give way.  Needless to say, I put the pedal to the metal.  I've had more than one associate say they were getting on the freeway behind me and when it was their turn, I was just gone, not to be seen again.  But hey: a woman’s gotta do what a woman's gotta do.  And if I don't speed up I’d do it in the car.  That reminds me....gotta go!

25 Degrees is Cold in Southern California

I woke up to 25 degrees this morning. This wouldn't be a news item most places in January but I live in Southern California, next stop Baja, Mexico.  Then what in heaven's name is happening? I was on board with global warming, after it was announced that 2012 was the hottest year on record. Could 2013 be trying to set the record for coldest year?  I wish I'd gotten the memo so I could have been prepared.

When you live in So. Cal., winter is a place you visit.  You go to the mountains, enjoy the snow, aggravate the mountain folks and go home to warm up.  Simple really.  We don't typically even have coats.  We have little stylish jackets that don't necessarily do much against the cold.  Jeans are our main protection against the winter, add a hoodie and you are good to go. This outfit is actually seen all year because we don't really have big fluctuations in temperature. Well at least we don't usually have big fluctuations in temperatures.

To combat the cold, I have had to take extreme measures.  I have turned on the heat.  Not only have I turned it on I have left in on for a good portion of the day the past week.  I have taken to wearing whatever fuzzy clothing I have all day long.  I have gotten a couple of puzzled looks when going to the mail box, but it has been a matter of survival. Then there are the flannel sheets.

I have avoided putting the flannel sheets on the bed for a couple of reasons.  The first reason is I really love my 600 thread count sheets.  This is a level of luxury unknown to me until a couple of years ago.  Once you go above 300 thread count, you just can't go back.  The second reason is although flannel is warm, it is not elegant.  When it occurred to me that only I would know about the sheet change, I capitulated.  I am so glad I did.  Last night I was actually so warm, I thought about throwing one of my comforters off.  Yes, I have more than one.  I have my all weather comforter and my down comforter plus the flannel sheets.  If you are going for warm, go large or go home.  I don't run the heater at night, so I figured why not?

I'll tell you why not.  Flannel sheets plus fuzzy pajamas's creates a situation similar to Velcro.  I swear there were sparks when I rolled over caused by the friction.  Was this similar to striking a match?  I had visions of an obituary that read, "Fire officials speculate the conflagration was caused by the deadly combination of flannel sheets and fuzzy monkey pajamas. The family requests the public be reminded that this combination is a health hazard that should be avoided at all costs."  Fearful for my life, I slept in one position happy in the thought I would live to see another morning.  Life is good.

Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall

I have a home with a modest yard.  At least it seemed modest when I bought the place.  To be honest, my frame of reference was skewed.  My previous home was on a half and acre.  Anything smaller, didn't seem like such a big deal.  What the hell was I thinking?

When I was looking for a home there was a lot to consider.  I ruled out a condo because: 1) the neighbors were too close, 2) the HOA's had many many rules most of which were asinine, 3) HOA fees only go up 4) no land to grow tomatoes.  Well you can certainly see where my mind was.  It was all about tomatoes. I wanted a little land to call my own.

The topography of my previous home was a challenge.  Very little of the land was flat.  What was flat had poor soil.  Let me just say, I was dirt poor.  Literally.  There was clay and there was decomposed granite with a dusting of dirt. The first year, I got 4 carrots about 2 inches long, 3 flat watermelons and lettuce I was afraid to eat because of bugs and such.  The tomatoes didn't do much and I may have had a couple but it was underwhelming.  The next year I had a conversation with someone who was successful with growing vegetables in the neighborhood.  Once she stopped laughing, she gave me the facts:  Unless I had a back hoe and wanted to spend a huge amount in soil amendments and the soil itself, I'd do much better to grow things in containers.  Needless to say, that although I did get tomatoes, it wasn't the garden I'd imagined.  Fast forward 26 years.

The back yard was already terraced so I knew where to start.  Since I was in the same general area as the previous house, I knew I had to have a raised bed.  I bought what I needed from Home Depot and set out to get my garden started.  The raised bed took me a lot longer to set up than I had planned for.  Pounding stakes into ground that is comprised of rocks and clay wasn't easy and it actually took me a couple of weeks.  Then I had to tote bags of soil as there was very little access to the back yard.  Not being 21 anymore meant I had to have a little help to start.  Once I realized I could drag the bags of soil I did much better.  After a lot of blood, sweat and tears, the plants were in and all I had to do was wait right?  If you don't count hand watering, weeding, spraying and praying then, yes. 

I was in my glory!  I had tomatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I had them for snacks.  I gave them away.  I made gazpacho. I made mucho gazpacho.  I gave gazpacho away. I  grew Anaheim chili peppers and I gave them away.  I still have Anaheim chili peppers and may never have to plant them again.  I have parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.  Really.  Love that yard! Most of the time.

As is predictable, I love the yard when the weather is nice and I am seeing the fruits of my labor.  I hate the mundane raking of leaves, mowing the lawn and weed pulling.  Where's the fun?  I have raked leaves, filled an entire giant trash can only to come back outside an hour later to be greeted by just as many leaves as I just got rid of.  Seriously.  Rake, rake, rake.  Fall, fall, fall.  Sisyphus has nothing on me.

Was it worth it in the end?  Was insisting on having a house instead of a condo the right decision?  I think so.  The mundane duties of yard work help me appreciate how nice it is to go into the back yard and pick my own vegetables which taste so much better than store bought.  It's nice that the vegetable season is so long here in my yard. It's also nice vegetable season doesn't happen during leaf season.  You know, "to everything there is a season".  Life is good.

The Information Highway is Holding Me Hostage

Granted, I haven't had to look for a job for eight years, but Good Golly Miss Molly things have changed!  To my surprise everything is done on line.  EVERYTHING.  I must have my resume on four or five different websites.  It's such a dynamic resume I have had two whole hits from headhunters.  The headhunters didn't even want my head.  They wanted to know if I knew anyone who could fill their position for (job title here).  It's like being told you can't join the club, but do you know someone else you can recommend?  Really?  Needless to say those headhunters won't be bothering me again.

So, as I navigate the information highway I am learning many things.  Just because you have uploaded your resume doesn't mean they aren't going to ask you for the exact same information on their specific application.  I have been tempted to fill everything in with, "Read the damn resume!", but I suspect that might not give them the best first impression of me.  What's the point of asking for the same information twice?  Is it a test to see if you have read your own resume?

Each employer website has its own peculiarities.  Click here, click there, follow the instructions and then you magically end up where you started.  Not satisfied that I followed all of the instructions to the "T", I go through it again.  Same result.  Just to be sure, I do it a third time.  Yes.  Now is official: I'm an idiot.  It's like the old fashioned fun house and I keep taking the wrong turn.  My thought is that if they are counting how many times you try, you might get points for perseverance.  Or more likely, they are laughing their butts off and seeing just how many times I try.  Harrumph.

I have also learned that while I have had a gazillion years experience in a variety of nursing roles that everyone else became a specialist while I was a happy generalist.  There is a specialty certificate for everything now.  Things I did years ago without any specialized training now needs a CERTIFICATE to prove you know how to perform.  Then you find out that there isn't a class you can take to get the certificate, you just take the test after you have completed two million hours doing it.  Fine and dandy, but you can't get the job without the certificate.  Then it strikes me that this is how New Grads feel trying to get their first jobs.  Well now I can tell you it sucks.  Just put me in coach!

Do not think I have given up.  It just makes me more determined to prove that you can teach an old nurse new tricks.  I'm going to figure out a way to work with the information highway until I get to my destination. 

The Benefits of Good Friends

I am blessed with many things and friends are some of my greatest blessings.  It's not easy to be my friend.  I tend to be reclusive and am not likely to call someone up and say let's go out.  It's not that I don't like people, I just don't like all people equally, and I don't like anyone for everything.  That sounds harsh and confusing doesn't it?  Let me try to explain.

My friends are all specialists.  They all have their own particular area in which no one else compares.  I have friends from 40 years ago that know almost everything about me so I don't have to keep starting from the beginning of ME.  I can just start on a conversation and they know the context and off we go.  I have more recent friends who all have different roles in my life. 

I have a friend who loves to use big words, complicated words, unusual words.  This is fun since I love words.  I have used words that only she understood and it's fun to see her eyes light up with amusement.  It's even more fun to see the looks of bewilderment on the other faces in the room.  Mean?  No, just a common bond.

I have a friend who is simple.  I don't mean mentally challenged.  I mean there is absolutely no artifice.  She says what she thinks out loud without concern about how it will be perceived.  She'll say something in the middle of a movie in a normal voice which is obvious and the people around us laugh, but she just had to say it.  Kind of like a five year old, but I mean in the innocent, unpretentious way. 

I have friends who are work friends.  We are good friends at work but don't meet outside of work.  We don't have anything in common except we are damn good at what we do and enjoy working together.  The comfort of not worrying about what your cohorts are doing while you work is undeniably great. 

I have friends who are fashionistas.  They look at me with knowing eyes.  They know their eyes are not going to be pleased when they see me, but they hang out with me anyway.  I'm stuck in the 60's.  The decade, and my decade.  Why didn't they tell me electric blue eyeshadow was out but has recently come back in.  OK.  You have to be a supermodel to pull it off, but I could give it a try.  They just let me be my unfashionable self.

I have a friend who wants to feed me.  All the time, whatever the event.  If she gets pick-up-the-friend duty when a medical procedure is due, she thinks there must be chicken soup and a vigil to make sure I'm OK.   I of course just want to go to bed and sleep, but the offer is appreciated just the same, but please: no soup for me!

I have two friends who are pragmatic.  No matter what life throws their way, they move on with minimal complaint.  They have a way to put things into perspective and don't say why me, they say why not me?   They are never victims: they are human beings who accept that life is not necessarily easy.  They are my hero's.

Then there are my BFF's who are gay men.  They have taught me how to cook, drink fine wine and they show infinite patience with my neurotic self.  If I have a rough patch physically, they call to make sure I have everything I need, every day until I am well.  If I have a rough patch emotionally, they wine and dine me until I forget what I was upset about.  They are kind and respectful of my privacy and not above teasing the hell out of me when I take myself too seriously.  I am a lucky woman.

If friends are treasures, I am wealthy.  Life is good.

My Truth Jeans Have Spoken

Yes, you read it correctly:  my truth jeans have spoken and it isn't good.  I do not weigh myself often because I tend to chase numbers.  Chasing numbers tends to strike up the OCD band and that just makes me crazy.  I know.  The crazy bus pulled away from the curb some time ago.  Let's just say chasing numbers exacerbates the condition.  In lieu of weighing myself, I put my one pair of non stretchy jeans on.  They are not forgiving, but they do give me the information I need.  I now know I have too much cushion on the tush.  Yes, I'm afraid the jeans said, "Back away from the feeding trough. NOW!"

My fall from grace started subtly in November when the layoffs started in the company that eventually laid me off too.  Even knowing that I was stress eating didn't stop me from eating.  I would have long conversations with myself about why I was eating so much, but apparently it was actually a monologue.  I never answered questions.  Maybe because I couldn't hear the questions over the perpetual chewing. Picture Ms. Pac Man.  Yes, now you have the visual picture in your brain of a woman who "mowed" her way out of her jeans.

I am not a sweet eater per se : it rarely occurs to me to buy cookies, cakes and such.  I do however eat light snacks.  I have take to stocking up on prepackaged snacks which typically run around 100 calories.  What a surprise to find out if you eat three of them at a time it really negates the idea of a light snack.  I mean it is the American way right?  If one is good, than three must be better.  The good news is at least they weren't sold in packages with more that five to six servings.  I mean really, that could have been disastrous. Would adding a label that stated, "Eat at your own risk...too many at a time has been associated with unimpeded hip growth.  Proceed with caution", have helped?

When I'm not dipping into the light snacks, I'm doing food inventory about every thirty minutes.  You can't be too careful.  Who knows when something from the pantry or refrigerator might escape or suddenly reach it's expiration date?  Someone has to keep an eye on these things to prevent theft and waste.  Over and over I check the larder.  And the more I check the larder, the lardier I get.  Oh now I get it.  It's called a larder for a reason. I should have seen that coming.


So now that the Truth Jeans have spoken I guess I'll have to do something about it. The holiday party season is over which helps. I have LOTS of spare time to exercise and that should help.  I supposed I could stock healthier food options in the house.  I will do all of these things.  Right after I take a nap and finish up all the holiday food...wouldn't want to waste anything you know.  What's that you say Truth Jeans?  I can't hear you, I'm still chewing.

A Few Words About Infomercials

I must now swear you to secrecy.  Raise your right hand and repeat after me: I, (your name here),  solemnly swear, to take to my grave, the contents of this post.  OK. Now we are ready to proceed.

I love infomercials.  I love everything about them.  The terrible products, the ridiculous and unrealistic claims, the bad quality of the filming, atrocious sound quality and most of all, the unmitigated gall of the sales pitch.  I watch with fascination as the product is demonstrated and the LIVE (as opposed to dead) audience oohs and aahs with amazement.  Who doesn't need more stuff in their life?

I attribute the progression to infomercials to Ron Popeil, although I think De-regulation of the industry a la Ronald Regan had something to do with it too. Let's be clear, I have not researched this, this is just the way I remember it.  What started with 60 second spots of advertisement became, 30 minutes of BUY BUY BUY now, operators are standing by now!  Think back:  The Ron Popeil Pocket Fisherman, Chop-O-Matic and the like.  Remember?  I don't remember how old I was, but I remember thinking, "What a bizarre idea!"  But, I was fascinated and stopped to watch the commercials most of the time.  Who can forget, "But wait, there's more!"   Who ever knew they needed a bamboo steamer?

Infomercials are the best and the worst of American advertising.  Face it:  if we didn't watch and ultimately buy the products, infomercials would never have become part of our daily lives.  We want to believe the next new miracle product can be ours at a reasonable price.  Even knowing, 'Caveat emptor", we continue to look for the too good to be true solution to a problem we didn't know we had until we watched them demonstrate their wares. Isn't this the ultimate in optimism?  Or is it?  What about, "A sucker is born every minute."  Oh.  I don't like the thought of that, but I know there is a portion of the population who believes everything, they read, see or hear, and they are the target of the unscrupulous salesperson.  Can we protect these people from themselves or is the disclaimer at the end of the infomercial enough?

I'm going to have to think about this.  With my Genie Bra in place, and Resurgence skin care system on my face, I'll go into the kitchen use my Chop-O-Matic, cook up an omelet in my Orgreenic pan so I can work out with the Brazilian Butt Lift team.  No one's going to make a sucker out of me.

Capturing life with less colorful words

Considering I have been charting medical information for over 30 years, it is no wonder I find writing very challenging.  Most of the things I have captured on paper have little use in writing outside of the medical venue. Honestly, how often does "Patient expelled large amount of soft brown stool" get used when writing the Great American Novel?  Not very often I'd wager.  It's difficult enough trying not to speak in medical terms that describe bodily functions to my non medical friends.  Apparently asking a friend if they ever got rid of that pesky constipation issue is not polite conversation at the luncheon table.

Nursing language is direct and to the point since charting should be factual and quite honestly, nurses don't have the time to make information attractive.  Information is stated and you move on.  "The patient ate two eggs, one piece of toast and drank four ounces of orange juice.  Patient had an immediate emesis of undigested food."   Now that I'm trying to express my thoughts, hopes, dreams and schemes, I have to be cognizant of presenting what I have to say in a more socially acceptable form.  Keeping bodily fluid information to a minimum and under no circumstances mentioning tissue that is undergoing desquamation is essential.  It apparently creeps people out.

Rather than stating, observing, evaluating and concluding, I will try to share feelings, situations and events to which others can relate. I will leave medical terminology behind. I will not dangle participles and will only split an infinitive when I forget to go back and fix the the first pass of what I was trying to say.

Working as a nurse has allowed me to be very involved but remain distant at the same time.  Nothing safer than professional distance.  The way words are used can have the same effect.  Capturing "just the facts" does not document the complete event.  I can not tell you how many times I have recorded the death of a patient in clinical terms: "Patient without heart beat and respiration's.  Pupils are fixed and dilated."  What wasn't charted that this person was married for 56 years to his childhood sweetheart and the entire family was there to celebrate his life.  No mention was made that his grandson shaved him because it was important to the patient to look his best, no matter how bad a day he was having.  No one outside of the room knew that everyone joined hands, said a prayer and kissed him goodbye as he was taking his last breaths. There was also no note that said the nurse had tears running down her face because she was so moved and honored to have witnessed this precious moment.

Words are powerful, they are funny, they are sad, they are personal, they make a point and they miss the point.  Ah, but the manipulation of words is a puzzle that turns out differently each time pen is put to paper, or fingers to keyboard. 

The joys of being a mother to an adult

I am a very proud mom.  Not an unusual circumstance I know.  I've known a woman who said very proudly, "Mark hasn't been in jail for six months!"  Hard to top that one. Or how about, "Tiffany's infected piercing is just about healed."  Yes, I can see how happy that would make a mother. Yikes. Let's see if I can tell you how I feel about being a mother.

Let me be honest, I am the mother to an only child.  Without going into more detail than anyone wants to know let's just say Mother Nature decided one child was all I could handle and I just ran with it.  To say I have taken being a mother seriously would be a huge understatement.  Up until I had my son, I thought of myself as being a self sustaining, independent human being who could handle anything life threw my way.  That all changed when my son was born: I knew from that moment on I would be vulnerable and that scared me beyond what I can express. From then on, I knew I would try to protect, nurture, and be ever vigilant to make sure my son would thrive.  I would do anything, anytime and without question to provide for my son.  Leap buildings in a single bound?  No problem.

My son was a good student in spite of my involvement. In elementary school, I volunteered in the classroom for one full day a week, every week.  By middle school, I volunteered as a chaperone for field trips, to be on the bus to and from sixth grade camp and the like.  By high school, I was forbidden to show up too often, but still made appearances at each performance and significant event.  He sometimes did the eye roll and there were some things uttered under his breath that indicated his displeasure at my level of involvement.  I smiled and told him to suck it up and just accept his good fortune to have not one but two parents who adored him.  He did not look convinced.

While all my peers with adventurous children were eschewing their independence and struggles to become adults, we got about 17 seconds of teenage angst and the transition to adulthood was complete.  Not because his father and I were stellar parents, but because he was true to himself and got the job done with little fuss.

His father and I divorced while he was in college and when we were apologizing to him about the split, he stopped the conversation immediately and said, "This isn't about me and you do not need to apologize."  Our son had become a wise man when we weren't looking. He graduated from college with the major of his choice even knowing the chances of earning a living with it were remote, but again, he was true to himself.  He figured out a way to follow his passion even though it required having more than one job at a time.  When he moved on to living with friends, his goal was to avoid being one of the 'boomerang" kids, and he has.

Although he will occasionally ask for information (he would never call it advice), he has taken to giving me advice these days.  He has become my financial adviser at times, he has talked me off the ledge when politics were driving me crazy, and has talked me out of purchases I wanted to make, "Mother, you don't need that."  He knows me well enough that when I'm obsessing about something, he smiles knowingly and understands that if he waits long enough I'll get over it.  He is smart mouthed but smart. There is no way to explain how you feel when your previous words of wisdom come out of his mouth aimed at you.  He was paying attention after all. 

He is not perfect and has at times done some bone headed things. He is stubborn beyond all logic, however, he doesn't repeat mistakes and is the first person to laugh at himself when he takes himself too seriously.  He's also the first to laugh at me when I get crazy about some real or imagined bump in the road. He is loyal to his friends and family but feels free to point out our foibles.

He is my pride and joy but don't tell him; it will be our secret. 

Mold is not necessarily a bad thing

OK.  Now I know I won't wake up every morning with something I just have to share with the world.  Some of my inertia is associated with realization that getting a job will take more than a nanosecond and part of it is I am a last minute type of a gal.  I always waited until the last minute to get most of my school projects done and it looks like procrastination is still my friend.  Onward and upward!
                
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I think I may have found a new life form in my shower today.  It was hiding under a shampoo bottle I had put in the corner on the floor of the shower.  I hate throwing the remnants of hair products, make up, and beauty supplies away.  I'm not sure why: perhaps the ridiculous price?  The claims of results to be had that never appear?  I any event, I'm here to tell you, if you don't move that shampoo bottle, something really nasty will grow under it.

It's now my theory that everything that grows in the shower originally showed up as a part of the primordial ooze from which all life evolved.  I feel a little bad that I may have wiped out a new world with Soft Scrub with Bleach, but a woman has to do, what a woman has to do. Since I found the new life form in the shower, I took a look around the rest of the bathroom (which for the record is the size of a small closet).  No more slime mold, but I did find an embarrassing amount of hair in the corners.  Yuck.  Out came the rugs, followed by a good sweeping and then mopping.  Feeling very virtuous, I moved on to the kitchen, where I am happy to report there was no mold and not a hair to be found. I was on a roll now so I wiped down the kitchen counters and mopped the floor. The more I cleaned, the clearer my thought process, which is deeper symbolism than a high school literature teacher could pick apart in a week.

Perhaps the state of my shower reflects the state of my mind.  Let me explain:  when I am humming along in my life, everything falls into place and tasks get done on a fairly regular basis.  When I hit a bump in the road of life, I tend to spend more time thinking and less time in action.  The problem gets worked and reworked ad infinitum until I either come up with a solution or I finally decide it doesn't matter. This isn't so much a problem now, because I live alone.  When I didn't live alone, well let's just say, there is a reason I live alone. The upshot of all of this cleaning is I have come up with a new strategy for finding a job, managing my money for retirement and for solving the national debt crisis.  If I find something else to clean, world peace won't be far behind.  Life is good.