Know-It-All
Being the Smartypants that I am, I can’t help offering my helpful help.
I have a vast amount of knowledge.
Okay.
A vast amount of opinions.
And I am just bursting to share them.
Some of my advice is based on actual experience. And some of my advice is based on no experience at all. I have never let ignorance hold me back from telling others what to do. After all, that’s how I became such a success in management.
So I’m ready to share some of my best advice.
(and I have tons of it… so this may be the first in a series of unsolicited advice.)
– If you run into casual acquaintances and they ask how you are: If you are great, say “Great!” If you are terrible, say “Pretty Good!” No one except your best friends or family need to hear about your real or imagined tribulations.
– On the other hand, make sure you have at least one sweet friend that you can totally bitch to.
– Spend more on your skincare products than on your makeup. You don’t need $45 eyeshadow. You need great skin.
– If you make a mistake, admit it. Admit it right away. And apologize. Take responsibility and SHOW that you feel bad. And then: Move On. Admit your mistake but don’t dwell on it.
– Buy only clothes that you love. Never shop by saying “good enough.” If you buy only stuff you love – even if it’s sweatpants – then you will always be wearing something you love. Just think of how that would improve your mood.
– As a corollary, even if you find something you love, also think about whether you would miss it if you passed it up. As a specific example, you (I) could (did) spend $700 on rhinestone eyeglasses. A gorgeous cashmere coat might make you (me) a teensy bit happier.
– If you have kids, don’t feel guilty about letting the television be your babysitter once in a while. Especially during the holidays. Linger over coffee with the other adults. Send the kids into the den to watch any old dumb TV show. They won’t be ruined.
– Eat healthy food. Most of the time. But if you are out to dinner at a great restaurant – order anything you want. Eat half.
– Make your bed. Do the dishes. Dust. It’s not that hard. You deserve to live in a nice clean home.
– Pamper your pets. They exist to love you. Love them back. Talk baby-talk to them.
– Sing in the car. When you are alone, but especially when you are not alone. When we were teens, my sister and I had a car that had no radio. We used to plan our “sets.” We sang everywhere we went. Getting there was as much fun as wherever we were going.
– Laugh. Laugh till you cry. Snort. See the silly side of things. It isn’t so terrible to wet your pants once in a while.
Interviewing Skills
I graduated from high school in June of 1969.
I graduated from college in December of 1974.
No ‘four years and out’ for me. I liked college. I took my time.
I had no idea what I wanted to study, so I tried it all. I started in Nursing and ended up in English. I have a minor in History and I took a nice little side trip in Art. And I have college credits in both Bookkeeping and Beekeeping.
Back then, if someone asked my father what I was majoring in, he answered, “Transferring.”
But my father also used to say (until the day he died at 88) that he didn’t know what he wanted to be when he grew up. So he took my meandering in good humor.
At UConn, you needed 120 credits to graduate. When I got to 148, my advisor (and my mother) thought that was quite enough. I had no choice but to graduate.
So in January of 1975, I started looking for a job. I had my credentials to teach, but no one was hiring. 1975 was a peak year – peak recession, that is. Unemployment was high. Inflation was higher. I tutored my mother’s friend’s kid. Neither the kid nor I was much interested in his homework, but it gave me gas money.
I got a job eventually at the brand new industry called Cable TV. I typed in the weather and the channel guide alone in the building at night. I wasn’t much of a typist. Some viewers might even remember “The Rockford Flies” and the Pubic Access Channel.
I got laid off.
And started looking again. It was frustrating. Frustrating enough that I actually considered enlisting in the Army. That made my father laugh.
I sent resumes. I went from building to building, filling out applications when I didn’t even know what the companies did. And whenever I could wrangle an interview, I interviewed.
Oh, I told HR managers and potential bosses how much I wanted to do … um … whatever it was they did. How I was willing to start at the bottom. How I was a hard-worker and a fast-learner. How I loved Overtime. Or maybe part-time. That I loved talking to irate customers. That I was a great team player. That I liked working alone.
Whatever.
And everyone told me No.
No. No. No.
Sometimes they were condescending but mostly they were sensitive and sympathetic.
They invariably ended the conversation the same charitable excuse: “I’m sorry, but you are just overqualified.”
Then one day I got an interview with a grant program that provided services for the elderly. They needed someone to type names and addresses on service orders. And file.
I could file! I was an English major! I knew the alphabet!
And I had a nice boring interview with the Administrative Director.
And he said the same boring thing.
“I don’t even know why we’re interviewing you. You’re over-qualified.”
And I lost it.
I yelled:
“I’m not over-qualified! I’m over-educated! I can’t really DO anything!”
And I got the job.
Me, Happily Overqualified At Work.
Not Quite The Renaissance Woman
Even when I was a little girl, I disliked the adage, “Jack of all trades, Master of none.”
I didn’t want to be encouraged to stick to only one thing. I wanted to be able to do everything.
And that Attention Deficit Disorder Desire For Versatility has stuck with me my whole life.
And, for the most part, it has paid off.
People say to me all the time, “You are such a Renaissance Woman.”
Okay, they don’t say that.
But I’m quite sure they think it.
After all, I write a blog, draw the illustrations, control the finances for a decent-sized company, bake my own bread, practice Yoga and Zumba, and keep abreast of all the latest fashions.
But as much as I would like to be Master Of All Trades (I just can’t use the word Mistress – it doesn’t convey the same power as Master), I admit that there are certain things that I just can’t seem to get the hang of.
1.
I can’t balance on one foot. For someone as flat-chested as a boy, I’m extremely tippy. Luckily, this only matters in Yoga, which, I have been repeatedly told (by every Yoga instructor I have ever had), is not a competition. But forget Warrior III or Eagle pose. And when I am in Tree pose, I am sure the people around me are not thinking “Namaste!” – but “Timber!”
2.
I can’t play the piano. Oh sure, I have a piano. And I have had seven years of instruction in various chunks. And I can read music. But I can’t play. I can only figure out. if I hit a bad note (like in every measure), I have to stop and figure it out. I have to stop for an unfamiliar chord. Or a plethora of sharps or flats – (and why do they DO that? What the hell is wrong with the key of C?) I stop and figure it out, and then stop and figure it out again.
Last Christmas, a guest admiring my piano asked to play something.
“Oh, I can’t,” I said, (which I meant literally).
“Just one Christmas carol. Silent Night, Something. Anything. Just one,” he pleaded.
I explained: “Dinner will be ready in an hour. We don’t have time.”
3.
I can’t flip an egg. I can bake bread, and make ratatouille (I’m not saying I can pronounce it), and produce a four-course dinner for twelve – but I cannot flip an egg. I do not blame myself for this. I think I just need the right spatula. I have 27 spatulas, but I’m sure I just need to keep shopping for one that works. Or perhaps the right pan. We recently had overnight company, and at breakfast I asked her how she liked her eggs.
“Scrambled,” she said.
“Thank God,” I said.
4.
You know that condition – Prosopagnosia, it’s called – where a person cannot recognize faces? I have no facial recognition for cars. Autoagnosia, I call it. It drives my husband crazy. A short time ago, I had lunch with an old friend.
“What kind of car did he drive?” my husband asked when I got home.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“But you were IN IT!” he said in his exasperated voice.
I thought hard. “It had a passenger side and a driver side. It had a steering wheel on the driver side. The visor mirror lit up.”
“Jesus Christ!” he said, as he is insensitive to my Condition.
“I’m almost certain it was blue,” I added helpfully.
5.
I cannot comprehend constellations. I see no pattern in the stars. They are just little lights in the sky. You can connect the dots any way you want; I don’t see dippers or bears or swans. If I look and look for a really long time,
then sometimes,
maybe,
I can distinguish
which star,
perhaps,
is
an airplane.
When Heartthrobs Need Pacemakers
In honor of the 80th birthday of my first serious crush….
Here is a reprise of my ode to the aging heartthrob:
WHEN HEARTTHROBS NEED PACEMAKERS
In September of 1964, my heart did a pitty-pat.
Oh sure, I had been swooning over The Beatles for six months already, but I loved them in that screaming little girl sort of way.
My September crush was a grown-up love for a sexy man. I was thirteen. And in love with Illya Kuryakin.
Illya was the quiet adorable spy in “The Man From U.N.C.L.E”. Oh he was so cute with his shaggy blond hair and his black turtlenecks.
In case you don’t recognize him after forty-nine years, this is David McCallum.
If you watch any TV at all, you can see him about seven times a day on all the airings of “NCIS”.
Yup, it’s Dr ‘Ducky’ Mallard.
My first love is an old man. I personally think he still looks pretty good – but my beloved Illya is now 80 years old.
EIGHTY !!!!!
That is simply the shittiest fact I have learned all year.
“NCIS” is actually Grand Central Station for my heatthrobs in their senior years.
First, of course, there’s Mark Harmon. My age exactly (well, six months younger), he’s still extraordinarily sexy – if you overlook the stupid haircut. I think he might actually be trying to prove that stupid hair is not necessarily a barrier to sex. (Or a stupid name.) What I especially like about Harmon’s character on this mediocre show is that he’s had many lady friends over the years – but no young chicks. He dates women his own age. Jamie Lee Curtis is his latest flame. Quite refreshing.
Then there’s Robert Wagner, who has an occasional appearance as Tony DiNozzo Sr. Wagner is 83 now, and I thought he was pretty suave in “It Takes A Thief” in 1968. He still plays the suave ladykiller. And he pulls it off, I might add (smugly).
But it’s still a shock to realize my movie star crushes are all old men now.
Take Malcolm McDowell. When he played H.G. Wells in “Time After Time” in 1979, I was so charmed, I was ready to name my first-born Herbert. (But not Malcolm. Malcolm sat next to me in third grade and he had little-sweaty-boy stink.) Back to handsome Malcolm: Now he’s 70 and plays evil geniuses on TV. His hair -what there is of it – is completely white.
My favorite Hollywood sweetheart from the seventies is now in his seventies – 78 to be exact. Donald Sutherland’s sensitive mouth and almost-lisp made me swoon all through “Klute”.
Twelve years ago on a business trip to Santa Monica, I shared an elevator with him. He still made me swoon.
My co-workers said, “Huh?”
And that voice! That’s him doing the voice-over in the sensuous ‘Simply Orange’ commercials.
This week I overheard some young girls talking about Keifer Sutherland. They said he was very hot for an old man.
Old Man?
I’m still hot for HIS old man!
Orange Juice Crush.
Perfectly Dirty
As I’ve written before, every day helpful emails jump into my inbox, offering assistance in the most important facets of my life. If I had to categorize them, they’d look something like this:
HELPFUL EMAILS BY TYPE
The sex emails – though plentiful – I usually ignore. I would much rather read about makeup than male enhancement.
And the emailers are not very concerned about my personal fulfillment. I suppose they figure that if I am not interested in male enhancement, I must already be personally fulfilled.
But how I love the Fashion, Hair and Makeup Emails.
And I get them by the dozen.
Secrets To A Perfect Fit, Animal Print Sweaters, A Handbag For Every Occasion, Go Bolder Eyeshadow…. And that is just today.
But I was especially excited by the following promise:
“10 Genius Do’s Perfect For Your Dirty Hair”
Yes!
I would SO much like my dirty hair to look perfect.
The truth is, my hair DOES behave better when it’s not so clean. A little bit tacky with yesterday’s goop seems to work wonders. As a matter of fact, if I have a special event, I make sure to not wash my hair.
And there’s nothing like a few days worth of hairspray to make my updo really stick.
But what about Day Four? Or maybe even Day FIVE?
And how about the day after Zumba class? Wouldn’t it be great to have perfect hair the day after I sweat like a pig? And I could possibly have TEN genius hairdos for post-zumba sweat-head!
When I was young, I shampooed my hair every day.
Squeaky-Clean – that was my motto.
Squeaky-Useless was more like it.
My hair is very fine. And when it was shorter, I could blow-dry it in about 3.25 minutes. But now that it is significantly longer – well, it is a good thing I practice Yoga, so I can hang upside down for fifteen minutes without throwing up.
(And speaking of blow-drying, what the heck causes the accumulation of lint in my hairdryer’s tiny intake holes? Where does all that lint come from? Is the air in my house full of fuzzy particles? Should I be wearing a surgical mask when I watch TV? And am I the only one who finds it strangely satisfying to pick out all those little lint plugs with my tweezers?)
(And while I am on the subject, my hubby had some belly-button lint the other day. But I didn’t think it would be strangely satisfying to get the tweezers.)
Anyway.
Back to the email promising me TEN genius hairdos perfect for dirty hair.
Yippee.
Until I opened the email.
ALL TEN are . . .
BRAIDS!
And not just any braids.
MESSY BRAIDS!
I’m certain my dirty hair can duplicate these braids with complete accuracy.
But I was concerned this Spring that couldn’t wear a cute backwards sweater at my age without looking like the onset of dementia.
Now braids at sixty-two?
I will definitely look like I ate out of too many aluminum pans.
Do-Over
Every September, as I watch the kids go back to school, I get the same yearning.
I wish it were me packing up Dad’s station wagon to go off to college.
I’d take my favorite pillow, and those narrow twin-bed sheets and an Indian batik bedspread.
I’d bring my popcorn popper to warm a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. And my old stereo turntable and my scratchy Crosby, Stills, and Nash albums.
And my big Underwood typewriter that I bought used for $12.00 – the kind where you have to pound the keys and then sometimes the spindles with the letters get stuck together in mid-air. With onion-skin erasable typewriter paper and a gum eraser.
I’d need notebooks too – the narrow-ruled kind. no larger than 5X8, so my notebooks are about the same size as my textbooks, making a neater stack to carry. Colored pens too – so I can color-code my notes.
I’ll take my bucket to carry my soap and shampoo and comb and toothbrush and toothpaste back and forth to the communal bathroom.
With my bell-bottom jeans, moccasins, and the sweater I knitted myself that has one little mistake in the shoulder –
I’d be ready.
Ready for my do-over.
I’ll sit in my Literature class and discuss The Moviegoer by Walker Percy. When the professor asks why Binx prefers the movies to real life, I’ll say exactly what I said in 1972:
“Movies are better than real life because unexpected things happen. Nothing unexpected ever happens in real life.”
And that scruffy boy will get up from the back of the room and walk over to me. He’ll lean over the desk and kiss me without touching anything but my innocent unpainted lips. And that boy will return to his seat without looking back. And I will shrug off the moment with a quip:
“As I was saying…”
And everyone will laugh.
And the class will be over and we’ll all leave.
And this time – this time – I will run down the hallway. And I will grab that young sweet man by his flannel shirt-tail. And he will turn around.
And I will kiss him back.
The Things My Things Need
I received an email from my favorite retailer the other day:
“Your Jeans Need This”
I naturally opened it right away. I was very anxious to know what my jeans needed. My jeans had not expressed any desires or dissatisfactions in quite some time. I was a conscience-stricken that my jeans might be reluctant to share their needs.
Had I failed my jeans? What could they need? A Be-Dazzler, maybe?
This would be bad. I don’t want to disappoint my skinny jeans – they’ve been very kind to me this year. I couldn’t blame them if they wanted a bit of bling.
So I was relieved when I opened the email. A Blazer! My jeans needed a blazer! I could do that!
Perhaps not these colors.
But this email also opened up a new area of worry. I’ve been looking at all my things in a new light.
What other of my things might need things?
My towels, for instance. My towels might be weeping just a little because they don’t have gold initials embroidered on them. Good thing they are towels, though, and can wipe away any tears.
Then there’s my answering machine. Now that I have considered it, I think my answering machine has been asking me for years for a good stop-watch. Something so it can tell my callers: “Your message is over twelve seconds. That means no one in this house will listen to it. Would you like to call back and try again?”
My hairbrush probably longs for a mother-of-pearl handle. After all, I have makeup brush with a crystal handle. I don’t use it, of course. I mean, it has a crystal handle, for God’s sake. But it looks nice on my dresser, and I’m sure my hairbrush would like to lie around on my bureau, being pretty and lazy. Maybe it thinks a mother-of-pearl handle would be alluring enough to score a date with the lovely makeup brush – in a ‘dish-ran-away-with-the-spoon’ fairy-tale sort of way .
And then there are my bananas. Bananas are sensitive souls. Look how easily they bruise. I know they just feel terrible lying amongst fruit that they are nothing like. Bananas need to feel special. They need a special place that elevates them from the riff-raff of apples.
And finally there’s my purse.
What does my purse need?
It’s so obvious.
My purse needs a purse.
Purse Organizer. I really want one. My purse really wants one.
I’m Not Quitting My Day Job
I celebrated Labor Day by skipping any Labor whatsoever.
But being a good nose-to-the-grindstone New Englander, I feel I should also celebrate Labor Day by celebrating actual Labor.
I like my job.
Let me count the ways.
1. First of all, they pay me. Well, duh. I work; I get paid. Only fair. But think about it – I do lots of things that are just as annoying as work that I don’t get paid for. Like paying bills, cleaning the house, getting gas (I really dislike the gas station). Sure, work is irritating. But I make money.
2. There isn’t any dress code. I like to dress up, but what I most like to dress up in is jeans. At work, I have the best jeans in a sea of jeans. Two weeks ago we had clean-up day, and I wore shorts. Such cute cuffed khakis – I could have been on safari, instead of cleaning out my file cabinet. Yea for no pantyhose.
3. They buy me stuff. I get pens and pencils. And best of all – a calendar. I love calendars. I get one every single year!
4. I look smart. My company is pretty small, and there’s not a lot of financial expertise. Except for me. This makes my very mundane talent look very wondrous indeed.
5. Lunch. I worked for many many years for a company that gave me a big expense account. In this job, I get zip. Nada. But about twice a year, our insurance agent takes me out to lunch. It is ever so sweet now that I don’t take it for granted. Sometimes I even get a doggie bag, and I have a reprise lunch the next day. I love our insurance agent.
6. I save money. Because I can use their supplies. And I don’t mean the pens and pencils. I am acutely, almost pathologically, honest about not taking them home. I mean toilet paper. If I go to the bathroom just before I leave the office, I can save maybe five squares of my own TP. I can even use more if I want. No one is watching. (I think.)
7. Birthday cake. At home, it’s just my husband and me. At work, it’s almost always someone’s birthday. There’s lots of cake.
Sheep Rapport
In honor of Labor Day (because I don’t want to perform any actual Labor) – and in celebration of the start of Country Fair season in New England, here is an encore presentation of my Labor Day post from two years ago – when I first started blogging.
**
This weekend I went to the local country fair. I think the official slogan is:
Eat Crap and Look At Cows.
I didn’t think the fair would start with a moral dilemma, but there I was at the gate faced with a ticket choice of $8 for adults or $5 for seniors. Since I am over the age threshold for seniors, I can legitimately save three bucks. So the unethical thing would be for me to say I was younger, and pay MORE to get in. But I wanted to.
My husband waited patiently. He likes to save money, but he knew better than to ask aloud for “Two Seniors” without getting the lay of my land, so to speak. He just shrugged.
“One senior and one child?” he finally asked.
“Okay,” I said. “Ask for two seniors. But whisper.”
Well, that was depressing, so we headed right for the Eat Crap section of the fair. I displayed great self-control: fire-roasted corn-on-the-cob, french fries, and a root beer float. For fair fare, that’s practically health food.
We spent some time at the truck pull. My husband likes to see trucks haul shit. He cheered like mad for the Ford trucks. He booed when the Chevys come out.
On to the Look At Cows portion.
We met a young girl waiting to show her calf. We discovered that she LEASED her calf. Part of her high-school agriculture coursework. So there’s some farmer out there who gets paid for letting kids take care of his herd. I am thinking that cow leasing could be a nice second career for me.
The chickens were loud, the rabbits were timid, the pigs were indifferent. But the sheep were my favorite. Sheep like me. Just look at this little guy smiling at me. He’s positively flirting.
My husband says sheep’s mouths just naturally curve so they look like they are smiling. But I know better.
I have a special rapport with sheep. I think they recognize a kindred spirit.
About a quarter of a mile down the road from our house, there is a sheep farm. The fields there are beautiful, and the neighborhood is quite upscale, so the sheep are very satisfied.
I stop daily on my way home from work and say hello. They are always friendly.
One day last year, when I drove past the farm, the sheep had escaped and were all milling around, just chillin’ in the road. Unlike the teenager at the fair, I have not had any coursework in animal husbandry, but I figured the least I could do is knock on the farmhouse door, and let them know that their lambs were loose.
But when I got out of the car, they all came to meet me. So I walked to the field and they came! I was a shepherd!
I got them all in the pasture, and they were smiling–laughing even. But as I closed the gate, it stuck.
And one sheep gave me a very knowing look, and bolted. And all the other sheep followed this strong-willed old gal and they ran off down the road. I had to knock on the farmer’s door after all. The old man said, “Oh, yeah, they do that once in a while.”
But I recognize that old sheep. (Well, not literally, – they really do all look alike). But I recognize that old girl in myself. Happy and content. But always ready to break out and run down the road. And yelling to all the other girls, “Follow Me!”
I Worry.
I am not a worrier.
In fact, my husband says I have no concept of the countless dangers that are lurking out there, just waiting for me. If only I knew, I could be prepared. He prepares me every time I leave the house.
And yet, despite all the warnings, I insist upon leaving the house.
And I am so careless, I actually walk and drive places without thinking about all the potential perils.
Until last night.
I had a very worrisome drive.
I was meeting friends for dinner in a city about 45 minutes away. I had never been to this restaurant before, wasn’t quite sure where it was, but I’ve been to that city several times. I actually worked there thirty years ago. I googled the address. Piece of cake.
(I also have GPS, but I don’t particularly like being ordered around by my car.)
I had no concerns, until I read Dor’s post at DoranRule, Someone left a box of tissues in the back seat of her car. Strange tissues. Weird tissues.
Who would do that? Where had those tissues come from?
I became a little nervous thinking about that little box of kleenex. Someone may put a box of kleenex in my car. This was just the kind of danger that my husband always warns me about.
And that started a chain of worries.
Traffic was heavy on the way to the restaurant. Bumper-to-bumper through Waterbury. Of course, it is always bumper-to-bumper through Waterbury. I never give it a thought. But last night I worried. I worried that if the traffic stayed this heavy, how would I change lanes when I got to my exit? If no one let me change lanes, I might have to drive to Massachusetts.
The traffic lightened up, and I changed lanes one mile before my exit. Phew! That was close!
On the next stretch of highway, I had a motorcyclist in front of me. If he hit a pothole, he could lose control. I could run him over. I passed him as soon as I could. But passing him worried me too. He could hit a pothole and lose control, and I could still run him over. He could slide under my car. He managed to keep the bike upright. Then he was behind me. What if I had to stop fast? Would he run into me? Would he end up in my back seat? I had no tissues for him.
I got to Middletown. And there was the restaurant. With no place to park. Oh wait, there was a parking space right nearby. I did a semi-U-turn and pulled into the spot. It was right in front of the police station. Parking for Police Vehicles Only. And I am sure they frown upon semi-U-turns, which I had no choice but to make another on the way out. I worried that I might not be able to use my credit card for bail.
Around the corner, there was a parking garage. Free after six. This is my lucky day. Why in the world was I worried? Oh yeah, because parking garages are inherently dangerous. But it was right next to the back of the police station. Certainly not the best location for a pervert. I parked and quickly walked to the restaurant.
I had a wonderful time. There are no better friends than old friends. I mentioned that I parked in the garage. They thought I was very brave, given that stalkers can hide under your car and slash your achilles tendon so you cannot run away. I am sure my husband called one of them to ask them to repeat that story.
Walking back to the car, there were cops everywhere. And the parking garage was well-lit. There was no one under my car. Unless… he was hanging on to the undercarriage. I unlocked the door a few feet away, so I could jump in. Of course, you are not supposed to unlock your car a few feet away; someone else could jump in too. But I managed to get in the car and re-lock the doors before the creep under the car could knife me in the heel. Another close call.
And there was no traffic on the way back. I flew home. I changed lanes in Waterbury at will. Well, perhaps not exactly at will. There was one car ahead of me going very slow, but I wanted that lane for the exit – 5 miles up. I stayed behind the slow guy, because what if I could not change lanes again? I might have to drive past the exit. I could end up in New York.
Heading north from Waterbury, there was even less traffic. Between Thomaston and Litchfield, there were no other cars at all. I had the road to myself. How marvelous! But what if – what if the road was closed, and I didn’t see the sign? What if I was about to drive off a cliff? That happens mostly in Road Runner cartoons. But it could happen.
I finally reached home. My husband was waiting up for me. Very worried.
“I’m fine,” I insisted. “I don’t know why you worry so much!”
notquiteold 