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.