Blessings on a cold and wet Monday in the year of hunkering down

• Car arrives home with a trunk full of most of the groceries we ordered, feeling like a tiny holiday, possibly a remembered childhood Christmas, or the arrival of the Wells Fargo Wagon in “The Music Man.” 
• Basement shuffleboard court continues to entertain and inspire competitive spirit between two humans.
• The smell of a searing roast in onions and golden mushroom soup, among other things, delights the eventual diners.
• That moment the cook is finally able to stop the “dinner bell,” also known as the hallway smoke alarm, from beeping its shrill, monotone, three-note sequence by using multiple fans: 2 ceiling, 2 exhaust. 
• The pressure to make money from home, competing with those half her age and twice as able to work quickly, is gone forever for this woman.

The Bagpipes of Suburban Boredom

This morning, Stu decided he should mow the front yard. I indicated that I would tag team him and get the back done after he finished in front. 

After I finished my part, I realized that I would love another “spa bath,” especially since I still had the bubble machine and mat set up aside and inside my tub. There honestly is nothing like a good hot tub for tired old muscles.

We had a nice lunch together, after which I tidied up dishes and he went to bed for his nap.

I followed shortly thereafter to my own bedroom, hoping for blessed sleep myself. In anticipation of same, I played a few games on my phone and read a bit on my tablet.

The nap gods were not kind to me today. I tried the sound machine; I tried two pillows.

Every single yard in hearing distance is being groomed today, and I can’t blame them.

We started this cacophony, and it may not finish until all twenty or so grassy yards within hearing distance are complete.

The Delicate Art of Roommating

When I look back at my own college boarding experience, there were many valuable experiences in terms of being a considerate adult sharing space with others.
Lately I have been thinking about my story of three roommates, which is actually a whole lot like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, although names have been omitted in order to protect innocent and guilty alike.

1. Delinquent In Training

If you want to talk about things my young and naive self never saw coming, this would have been the first one. My initial choice of college was an in-town college which was probably just over 10 miles from my parents’ home. My mother, who was thrilled at my first choice being her alma mater, decided I needed the experience of living away on campus – and she was right.

The nun who was in charge of housing contacted me with her little issue. There was a wealthy and talented young lady who needed a “special” type of roommate for her freshman year. Like me, she loved playing guitar and singing. What the heck, right?

Oh, I think the first few weeks were fine. Sally was pleasant enough, and we occasionally sang duets. And because there was no internet back then, I had no way of knowing what she was telling her other friends about me.

The honeymoon was clearly over when I discovered that she was not only dispensing wacky weed for a profit to our dorm-mates, but was giving away some of my record albums as promotional items. I guess she thought I wouldn’t notice. I did. I was visiting someone else on our hall when I saw one suspiciously familiar-looking copy of some personal favorite, only to return to my collection to see where it was no longer.

There was also an instance when she “gave” me a pair of really cool blue jeans only to inform me, when I asked her for her half of our monthly private phone bill, that the jeans were intended to cover that. Jeans were returned and tempers flared.

This is when I discovered that the best way to find a roommate is probably not asking the housing manager, since she had her own concerns. Hence, I opted to room with:

2. The Permanent Annie

Like Sally, and actually like most of the ladies on our dorm floor, Cindy loved to sing. She had a beautiful voice and loved Barry Manilow. She also had the lovely matching drapes and twin bedspread set that coordinated with one of my favorite colors. Her roommate, Joan, had to leave the dorms after semester 1, and Cindy and I found each other out of necessity.

OK, I will admit here that in my case, it was more me needing to room with anyone but Sally that caused the good match that was Cindy and me. I always liked her, and really liked her departing roomie Joan as well.

Stoner Sally quickly found another roommate that shared her passions for mind-altering substances and music sharing. I didn't stop speaking to Sally, but was relieved to see her leave.

As for Cindy and I… did I mention she loved Barry Manilow? As in: owned every one of his albums and could easily listen to Nothing-but-Barry 24-7? Oh, wait. She had one other favorite LP: the soundtrack of “Annie.”

At about 4 feet 6 inches, she had a fantasy about being the world’s first permanent adult Annie. It was a great idea on paper, and frankly, with her voice, she could have pulled it off with proper marketing.

Cindy was a very sweet young lady, mostly quite considerate, and we had lots of fun together. I don’t remember what Cindy’s degree was in, but when I moved back in with my parents for Year 2 at that school and got a car from same parents, she and I kept in touch and socialized more than once.

At the two-year-completed mark, I opted to change schools to a state university that was offering a degree in what I thought I really wanted to do forever (program computers) at a very reasonable price. I knew I would be boarding there due to the two-hour one-way drive time to Mom & Dad’s place.

Through a man I was dating at the time, my third and final roommate entered my life. She knew I was planning to attend her school starting junior year, and she found me compatible, so she called and asked. I felt like I had won the roommate lottery after my then-boyfriend had tortured me with her photo in his wallet for over two years.

3. Just Right

This young lady not only had beautiful hair and looked great in a bikini (which hadn’t been on my short list anyway), but she was very smart, very considerate, and understood the fine art of roommating. She soon adjusted to my many bizarre quirks like an old pro.

Full disclosure here: part of her real name is Ellen, and she and I remain besties to this very day. Any friendship that can span a couple, three, more decades is solid.

What's In A Name? Here's My Story

At my birth, my parents chose for me the name "Mary Rose" in honor of my maternal grandmother, Mary Rose Cain Hurford. Even she, who was born in the late 1890's, found the double name to be a challenge for those intent on shortening things for their own convenience. 

Although my namesake grandmother died during the summer between my 8th grade and high school freshman year, I remember two things about her double-name issues. The first one was a very old "joke" that one of her friends would constantly tell her: "Mary Rose sat on a tack. Mary rose." (Not funny to me back in the 1970's; therefore, not funny to 2018 readers. I get it.)

I also remember her indicating that more than one of her friends was allowed to call her MARE-rose. She was a formidable woman in stature, bust size, and voice volume, so I must surmise that no one got away with calling her just "Mary".

As a Catholic school student myself from Grade 1 through High School, I did the following.

a) In the earliest primary grades, I likely let the nuns call me "Mary" just like they did with the three other combo-Marys in our class. Wear my green plaid uniform, use my over-sized #2 lead pencil, and try to be quiet. (Vocally, I favored grand-mama, so that last one almost never succeeded.)

b) In later grades, I rarely but occasionally insisted that my closest friends call me (as my parents and sister did) "Emmy." That way they didn't call me the dreaded "Mary" by mistake. However, if they were also in my school classes, I wouldn't want them to call me "Emmy" there, which seemed such a childish nickname to me at the time.

c) During my girl-to-woman years, I firmly insisted on everyone calling me "Mary Rose," correcting them if necessary and cringing when they erred. I actually preferred being called "Mary Ruth," "Mary Alice," "Mary Beth," or almost anything over the hideous generic "Mary."

When I went away to the University of Missouri at Rolla to study computer science, the problem was much more easily solved. Everything was an acronym to us mainframe nerds in the early 1980's, so I just went by "MR".

Throughout my career years as mainframe analyst, I was able to keep enough respect in every workplace to be called by the double name in its entirety... until that darned recession.

Running a B&B in Florida had a certain cachet about it as long as the guests never saw our financial books. Also, when you serve as all-purpose phone and internet reservations clerk, in-person check-in specialist, bookkeeper, and most finicky housekeeper, your super-polite guests would likely articulate a 15-syllable name if you requested same.

It wasn't until I took a Central Florida hourly call center job in early '11 that I opted to morph into just-Rose. My reasoning at that time involved a calculation about how much more quickly I could clearly articulate the required script if I had a one-syllable name to use in the line "My name is BLANK," like my many much-younger coworkers. And, of course, I was still deemed too slow at that job, right on the cusp of my 3-month tenure and earning health insurance. 

Once we moved back to St. Louis for me to "get a good job," I learned that using "Rose" as a preferred name is so much simpler than this whole blog entry and/or correcting everyone who tries to shorten my given name. I've also consistently altered my online presence to "MaryRose" with no space (which never really succeeded in preventing acquaintances online from "Mary," sadly).

A friend from my grade school recently re-entered my life after our not having seen each other since one of our high school summers. She asked me at lunch a few weeks ago what I preferred to be called, since my email auto-signature just shows "Rose" and my married name. 

Only a very considerate friend would think to ask about that. I only wish I could be equally considerate and remember whether or not she called me "Emmy" back then.

Defeating Defeatism (or how game theory helps me understand myself)

Some years ago, my older stepson made the decision to pursue an advanced degree and eventually a livelihood in what used to be called Computer Science.  I’m certain my livelihood at the time as a mainframe programmer helped shape that decision of his.  Somehow, beyond my parental naggings and lectures, he was able to see the gleam in my eye of working on complex problems that needed to be broken down into thousands of individual lines of code.

After a few false starts, he was successful not only in obtaining an undergraduate degree from William and Mary, but eventually a Master’s and then a PhD from the University of Michigan.  And to his credit, he pretty much did the whole thing on his own dime after his parents and stepparents helped him obtain some initial financing.

On July 25, 2014, my husband and I were fortunate to be among the selected few audience members at his dissertation presentation in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I could never – not at that time, and certainly not nearly three years later – pass a quiz on the contents thereof.  Some of it gave me a tiny glimpse; the rest whooshed over my head.

Since I was there primarily as a silent observer to this gathering of stepson’s faculty, advisers, and peers, I didn’t need to understand.  I just needed to observe, admire, and be proud without making a lot of audible reactions.

His dissertation related to what is called game theory.  Apparently, there’s an entire discipline of computer work around that in these modern times.  

A really good computer game design will include algorithms not only to keep the game functioning properly, but also to predict the strategy and future moves of the human player.  It’s kind of like old-fashioned chess in that respect – something at which I never excelled while my husband and both his sons did.  They’re all observably smarter than I in the areas of offensive and defensive strategies.

My natural tendency – possibly hard-wired from birth, possibly reinforced by my life’s failures – is to get defeated.  I give up or give in, because it often seems easier to submit to those human bulldozers than to fight what seems inevitable.

Fast forward to early 2017 where I have lost a full-time job with full benefits.  

The first part of my unintentional sabbatical (collecting unemployment) was consumed with care-taking for my husband, who opted to have his right knee replaced in early February.  His Medicare actually covered the lion’s share of the costs, but his subsequent physical ordeal continues to varying degrees four-plus months later.

As a way of breaking the boredom and pain cycle for our household, he introduced me to a new game online. It’s what is called a puzzle game, and in this case, you match tiles to complete various tasks. This game is highly addictive for both him and me for a variety of psychological reasons, some of which I can identify.  Either way, it’s just fun.

When my brain locks up over various stresses (for example, but not limited to: finances, health of family and pets, my future career) I sometimes zone out to the repetitious shapes, colors, and infectious theme tune of this game on Facebook.

When I’m really tired, my creative brain is often wide open, and interesting patterns occur to me while playing the game.  Sometimes I compare my own patterns and preferences to the “game” of job hunting, and then amazing truths are revealed.

Although I tend towards annoyance when my dear husband refers to job hunting as “a numbers game” where one should throw resumes at every possible job to see what sticks, I have to agree with parts of his own former employment strategy.

However, I’ve refined it for me personally, knowing what I know about computer logic, as the following:

Job Hunting is an iterative strategy which optimally uses some form of agile methodology.

For my friends who are not, and never were, Information Technology Professionals post-2000, let me clarify with some bullet points.

• The “software development” of my career is not finished when a job is obtained.
• The process of courting potential employers must be repeated again and again. (This is also known, for those of us who would rather hide in a closet with smooth jazz music, as “developing and refining social skills”.)
• At each checkpoint, it’s important to review and refine one’s strategy. (A checkpoint might be a rejection letter, an interviewer’s facial expression, or any structured feedback from anyone involved, including my own recollection.)

This is how I am working to determine what works.  It’s a lot like learning the strategy and sub-strategy for each level of a puzzle game.  And it repels my defeatist side.

Unintentional Caregiver

There are times when my life feels as twisty and hilly to me as many roads here in my home town.  A few weeks ago, I was presented with what can only be described as a hairpin turn at max G force.

Wednesday morning, January 25, my husband and I both had morning appointments.  Mine was, like every weekday, my clerical job from 8 AM to 4:30 PM.  His was an 8:15 AM appointment with an orthopedic surgeon to get a cortisone shot in his ailing right knee.

This surgeon had already informed my husband at his prior appointment that he thought Stu too young for total knee replacement, feeling that he would be better served by waiting five or ten years.

Based on experiences that Stu and I had heard from friends, and knowing his heredity, we both felt it would actually help him stay more active in his retirement years, which started officially back in 2012. 

At around 8:45 AM that fateful Wednesday, my boss came to my desk with some bad news.  I was being laid off.  She and another manager took my office keys, provided me with a nice bin to collect my personal belongings, and gave me hugs goodbye.

When I arrived home in tears around 9:15 AM, I tried to call Stu on his cell phone.  Twice.  Left him a voicemail to call me ASAP. Then texted.  Twice.  Knowing he had had cortisone shots before, I had no reason to believe this one was going to be an all-morning quest.

It was probably 10:30 AM before he burst into our kitchen from the garage triumphantly with a packet of some sort in his hand, saying "I'm going to have both knees replaced!"

I simply said "No." 

Apparently, neither my husband nor the cosmos heard me.

At some point Stu noticed I was in tears; he then listened patiently to my story before we settled down to discuss knee replacement.

Since we had already been living on a budget that required belt-tightening to the point of near pain, losing two-thirds of our family income was not going to be easy. 

After seeing his own latest knee x-rays justifying surgery, Stu had thoroughly discussed the finances of knee replacement with the surgeon and his assistant, ignoring the cellphone buzzing in his pocket. He was confident that not only would Medicare cover the majority of both surgeries, but that his Medi-gap insurance would pick up others, or at least negotiate down our out-of-pocket costs.

Complicating the timing of his decision was the fact that said orthopedic surgeon, who had gained Stu's full trust over their several year relationship, would be forced to stop operating sometime this summer, due to insurance costs and his own age beyond 70.  Therefore he and Stu had already set the first surgery date for February 9 -- just over two weeks away.

I must admit that, for someone like myself who is able and accustomed to working a day job, the idea of having a purpose in my own life during the interminable waiting for replies that rarely come from job applications was clearly appealing. So I jumped in wholeheartedly to help prepare for his knee replacement.  

We both acknowledged that I would take over meal preparation and shopping -- something I had managed to avoid for 18 years of marriage. With that in mind, he did a lot of advance shopping and even some pre-cooking and freezing of entrees.

I was not thrilled but still committed when his surgery time got moved up to 7:30 AM, necessitating a predawn check-in that totally contradicts my own personal biorhythms.  

On Thursday, February 9, the hospital orthopedic surgery waiting room was my home base for nearly four hours of stressful waiting, which for me included reading, solitaire or Sudoku games on a tablet, and tuning out politics from the TV and its onsite audience however possible.

I was surprised when the surgeon himself came into the crowded waiting room to tell me that all had gone well and Stu was in recovery.  

After Stu survived the two nights in the hospital following surgery, the real fun began for me.  The twice-daily rushing to the hospital was now to be replaced with a genuine caregiver gig -- pay = $0. But our two dogs and I were very relieved and happy to have him come home.

At first, Stu was hobbling around with a walker we purchased inexpensively online. I was driving him to all doctor appointments, including having blood drawn twice weekly to check the anti-coagulation medication's effect, and the physical therapy appointments 3 times per week.

Doing the chauffeuring meant helping with the walker and finding either a handicapped parking spot (Stu had procured a temporary permit for the windshield of each of our cars), or doing the patient-with-walker drop and run in front of buildings, neither injuring the patient nor wrecking the car.

Add to these duties the fact that receiving Missouri Unemployment compensation requires that I continue applying for three positions each week, documenting each of those thoroughly on their website without duplication across weeks. I must also swear online (fingers crossed) that I'm always available for work, and never busy with anything else that might cause me to refuse work.

Stu is now approaching the two-week mark post surgery, and he is doing great.  In his typical over-achiever fashion, he is beating all the benchmarks at physical therapy.  He's mostly using a cane now, and occasionally the walker, but he doesn't really need either. He can descend the twelve steps to his basement office using the railing.

He is also managing to lose weight at a remarkable clip due to changes in his diet necessitated by the pain medication and its effect on his stomach.

As for me... I'm mostly just tired.  However, I too am losing weight, although at a much slower rate than he, and that's a welcome change.

There are few (if any) boring moments in my daily life.  There are more than enough household chores and errands to keep my mind and body running.  Managing his schedule demands alertness, organization, and technical know-how.

At the moment, I'm learning and implementing the balance between his needs and my own in a fast-paced home environment.  I'm interfacing with caring friends, neighbors, and relatives as they provide support. I'm running interference with two large dogs who aren't sure why they can't walk all over Daddy anymore.  

I'm actually doing it all - and doing it well.

While I wish these were resume skills I was building, I must appreciate my own soft skills and flexibility these days. Furthermore, my honey NEVER takes any of this frantic effort of mine for granted.

Overall, I must say: Very worthwhile experience.  Will gladly sign on for a second tour for his left knee this summer, assuming similar employment status and personal stamina.

Did I Care Too Much?

I've had lots of different job experiences in my life, and every time one ends, I undertake a certain amount of introspection.

This job from which I was just laid off is a great example of that.

More than once, I indicated to a coworker that I'm not one of those "don't give a #$(*& about my work" types.  No matter what my level of pay or seniority, I've never been able to just show up and do the minimum.

When I'm in a culture that runs counter to my own natural preferences - such as the recent former job - I can always feel that rub of misfit against my admittedly sensitive skin.

But it's really hard to just put everything behind you and "move on" - at least for me, no matter how many people tell me I need to do so.

There were nine other human beings there with whom I had near-daily interaction.  I wasn't allowed any goodbyes with any except the boss and her second-in-command who notified me of the layoff.  That's probably some Missouri law of employment, but still.

I had put two years, four months, and twenty-three days of my being into that place. I cared about the company and the people.

The question that's the title of this post is going to haunt me for a while.