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.

A Sense of (False) Urgency

Way back before the recession, I used to have a very fast-paced job.  I typically managed to get the things done that needed to be done, in order for the people using the computer system I supported to do their jobs most effectively.

You see, for me, it has always been about the people more than the computers.  The computers are merely tools to be used by the people.  And the business users of our system recognized me for that ability, and therefore came to depend on me.

One phrase that my boss used more than once in an annual employee review was this:  “works with a sense of urgency”.  I suspect that was one of those popular corp-speak phrases that managers at this large company sprinkled across the employee reviews for those of us worker bees who were able to get the job done without a lot of fanfare or foolishness.

When the company made its decision in late 2007 to outsource the jobs of hundreds of us worker bees, the whole game changed.  And it didn’t just change for that company at that time.  No, those of us remaining at work until early ‘08 to train the foreign contract firm’s employees had barely time to catch our collective breath – and perhaps snag another job – before the worst recession of our lifetimes hit.

After failing to make myself more professionally relevant in newer technology skills, I opted to move to a land far away and do something completely different with my life.  When I failed at that, I opted to move back here and try to get back into the old grind.

What a shock to move back from a small southern town to a large metropolitan area.  I had no idea how different my brain had become during that two years and eight months away. To me, everything here seemed so fast, so angry, so impersonal.  This was not my old home town.  Where did it go?

I’ve been alive long enough to learn that when everything around me seems completely different than it had been before some event took place, the change has actually been in my own brain, not so much in everything around me.  

But to be fair, the “smart” phone became a thing while I was running an accidentally non-profit lodging establishment.  It was a thing that changed everything.

As compared with my computer career – where telephones and pagers frequently sounded in the middle of a night’s deep sleep to inform me that my services were required on the job – now it seemed that anyone with any job of serious nature was on 24/7/365 call.  In 2012, I actually met two former coworkers for lunch, and not only did they not have a lot of time to linger and chat, they actually each placed multiple electronic devices next to their place settings on the table when we all sat down.  

We now fast forward to my actually getting a job here in September of 2014. No, it’s not a job of a serious nature.  It’s a low paid clerical job that includes health insurance and seems to be a job from which I neither get fired nor quit.  And that’s why I’m still there.  Inertia is a strong force in life at my age.

One of my coworkers, also underpaid considering his prior career as an engineer, gets a variety of “urgent” text messages from our boss, who is a woman of my same age group.  

This coworker is a Millennial who is a father of a baby girl, and his personality type is like mine – introverted yet fascinated by other people’s behavior.  He doesn’t believe that moving faster gets the job done any better.  He and I are both fans of the plan, which would be the opposite managerial philosophy of “shoot water on the flame burning highest NOW” – Management By Crisis – which is espoused by the boss and several of her employees.

The boss actually told this young man more than once that he does not work with a sense of urgency.  She sees his work style as one of procrastination, rather than one of thoughtful planning and attempting to avert crises before they happen.

My theory is that the everything-everywhere availability of so much communication, especially since smartphones came into being, has caused people to feel that they are not doing their best work unless they are rushing around.  There’s a certain adrenaline hit that comes from being so busy you can’t take breaks.  It’s a sense of being needed, and everyone needs to feel needed.

This is amped up by the current coffee culture (and I refuse to name that expensive brand that tries to put all others out of business) that pervades my office and probably most others, especially in the morning.  My workplace is filled with young people racing around like they’re on some kind of steroids most days.

Is it any wonder there are so many “near misses” in traffic on my commute path, and lots of tragic or fatal not-misses featured in every traffic report in this town at start and end of day?

Is it more important to pay deep attention to what you’re doing in the moment?  Well, when you’re over a certain age, it definitely can be a life or death matter when it involves directing a piece of heavy machinery in which you are contained on a road with other such machinery.  Those of us who are painfully aware of our own impaired vision and slowed reflexes tend to be careful enough for everyone else (creating our own anxiety).

It is my opinion that a sense of urgency in my life should be reserved for things that really matter:  my family and loved ones, including myself.  Computers can create a sense of false urgency that is addictive, but at some point everyone needs to decide what his/her priorities really are, and be more true to that than to any boss or device.

Does This Job Application Make Me Look Negative?

The interviewer asked me to describe, in 1,000 characters or fewer, what makes me deserve this job.  I utilized 988 characters, according to their online count, as follows:

I'm passionate about non-profit organizations in this economy.  Passion drives great work. 

I don't need supervision.  I worked from home online for nearly three years to keep the bills paid without a full-time position, requiring keen focus.  I get the work done, and I'm a quality fanatic.

When you ask me to show up somewhere, I’m there.  I’m reliable, punctual, and disciplined.

I'm able to easily adapt to a variety of grammar constraints and writing styles to suit my customer.  I've done a lot more of this than my resume or LinkedIn profile will indicate.

I'm very comfortable with a variety of computer hardware and software.  I also have the ability to work around system bugs in newer software.

I've done some actual Search Engine Optimization work for the website that my husband and I developed for our small business (Lake Verona Lodge Bed and Breakfast) which helped increase traffic to our site.

Please contact me to find out more.  Your position sounds exciting!

Dear Daddy, What Now?

Dear Daddy,

I know it’s been nearly 23 years since you left this planet, but I have never stopped missing you, and I continue to need your advice.  Maybe I need your advice now more than I ever did while you were still around.  I was only 34 when you left, and I had thought I was getting things figured out.

What do I do now?  How long do I wait for my new life to happen?  In what direction should I be looking?

I’m aware that you too lost your livelihood of choice before you were ready or able to stop working to support yourself and Mom.  I’m sure that a television repair shop seemed like a great business model back in 1956 or whenever you and Stan started Lucas & Siegel TV Repair.  After all, you two had done your apprenticeships at Hollander & Co., and did pretty well know your collective way around the electronics of the day.

In your case, I’m sure it was really scary to marry off both your daughters in the same year as your business was no longer profitable and you and your (then) three partners were considering your options in what must have seemed like a bleak economy in 1987.

I remember you going through every variety of odd job trying to find something with health coverage for yourself and your unemployed bipolar wife.  I know it was a terrible struggle.  I wish I had paid more attention.

I do know that you landed on your feet, so to speak, when you went to work for the state senator for four years – long enough to get state health coverage for you and Mom – and enjoyed working as his personal assistant.  That job seemed tailor made for you, and yet, I know it was not without its difficulties.  Being 60 and having to start a new career is not for sissies.  Hell, from what I’ve seen in others, being 60 is not for sissies.

You were such a good man to give up that job to someone else who needed it more.  I remember the senator’s next assistant being thankful and keeping in touch with you right up until your last breath at age 67.

All my life I’ve tried to do “the right thing” in every situation with which I’m presented.  I try to follow your example and the footsteps in which you and Mom carefully raised me.  But I’m at one of those crossroads now where I simply don’t know where to turn or what else to try.

I did what you told me – “get a good education, get a good job with health insurance, be able to support yourself for life so you don’t have to depend on others” – for as long as I could.  I know that life’s not fair, but for some reason I thought I could keep on doing like I had been until retirement age.  I kept my dealings with other people honest, and didn’t stab backs.  I had a great reputation as a better-than-average employee everywhere I worked until 2008.

I guess I wasn’t watching the signs closely enough about what was going to happen to the economy and my own nearly-obsolete skill set.  I guess I just wasn’t paying attention and I missed a lot of red flags.

I remember more than one of your lectures to me as a child ending with you screaming “you’re missing the point, Mary Rose!” Well, I feel like I’m missing it now.

Maybe I did successfully help raise two sons.  I mean, after all, they have both landed in what seems to be the promised land of health, wealth, and happiness.  I can’t bemoan the fact that they’re “too far away” because it’s the job of parents to launch their babies from the nest.

While it’s true that I never exactly promised my beloved husband, Stu, that I would support him in the style to which we had become accustomed, I actually cringe at the way we have to live now and what little he is able to enjoy in what should be his golden years.

I so wish you and Stu could have gotten to know each other as fellow human beings.  You’re so much alike.  He actually has now outlived you, as of about February of this year.  I am all too aware that every moment matters with someone you love, and I know that life is temporary.

So what is a washed-up old former mainframe programmer, who’s so afraid of trusting most other people that she can count her actual friends on one hand, supposed to do now?

I’m crying as I type this letter to someone who is no longer living.  I just don’t know what to try next.  No one wants to hire a 57-year-old woman who “used to be” something but hasn’t done anything for them recently.  No agency wants to pay for me to go back to school.

I’m so frustrated by the fact that I know my mind is sharp as any chef’s knife, but my body is falling apart.  And I’m slowly dying inside every day at my current underpaid job, where I sit at a desk and keep track of data, creating reports that no one ever looks at until something goes wrong.

And here it is, another holiday.  Stu and I have no family in town and no friends for any get-togethers.  I sit here and listen to the occasional firecracker being shot off, the occasional kids yelling, the birds singing, through the open window.

Yes, I’m grateful for the weather.  It changes every few hours in this town, so I guess I should just learn to love diversity, be more flexible, all that stuff.

Daddy, please help.  I need a job that deserves me.  I need a reason to WANT to get out of bed in the morning.  I need some social activity.  I need to feel like I belong on this planet.

Please note that, just like when you were alive, I’m still a needy little kid that never asks what YOU want, just what I want.  I’m sure I was one big “gimme” monster growing up with endless questions.  

Sadly, the monster is still in here.  But now, I’m not only asking you for something specific with an easy answer from you, even if it was "no". I’m asking you to show me what I want and how to get it.

Aren’t you glad you’re not here anymore?  Selfishly, I will never stop missing you.

Your Loving Child,

Mary Rose

Please Don't Call That Device "Smart"

Something occurred to me this morning while I was sitting at my desktop computer playing Kenny G through my headphones and playing FreeCell on my screen.  My entire life is old school, as those who know me as a person already know.

I was apparently taking just a little too long to make my strategy choice in the FreeCell game, and it started blinking a hint at me.  I almost yelled at the computer to slow down and let me think for myself.  And yet this is the kind of outburst that makes others label me "crazy."  

I'm not crazy.  I'm not stupid, either!

I'm also not old yet, and I'm not irrelevant yet.  My recent acquisition of an honest-to-God full-time job with great benefits has proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt to almost everyone, except that little voice in my own brain.  Self-doubt has cost me more than one job over the past six years.

There are times, however, when it's all too easy to feel old and irrelevant when you're a sensitive human being who doesn't move at the speed of a computer, or even at the speed of a young person.  One of those times, for me, is when someone or some THING is trying to force me to hurry up and do something.  

Tomorrow is "Black Friday," which is arguably my least favorite day of the year.  It's a day to hurry up and buy everything you can possibly grab, even if it means trampling human beings in the process.  I personally remember many a day after Thanksgiving, even back in the 1980's, as a day when I got in my car to try to do some innocent errand only to get stuck in hideous gridlock.  So for me, it's a day to stay put and stay calm.  

In this short-attention-span time, it's hard to do anything online without something blinking, dancing, flashing, or twitching to take your mind away from what you're trying to do.  

I was brought up not to trust anyone or anything screaming "hey, look at me!" (even a large print ad in a yellow book). When I was tempted, the ensuing discussion went something like this:

Me: "But Dad, it's such a good buy!"

Dad:  "It sure is.  It's goodbye, money!"

The best wisdom I know comes from human beings who, while no longer physically living, will never be irrelevant in my mind.

I'm always telling every younger person I know not to trust technology.  Why not, they always ask.  Because computer programs are developed by very smart human beings who are trying to make money.  Whether they're simply seeking "enough" or trying to be celebrity-level rich is not important.  The bottom line is, someone is usually trying to separate you from your money.

I know this about technology because I used to develop mainframe computer programs for my living.  In 2008, the large insurance company for which I worked at the time decided that my job could be done better (or at least cheaper) by someone in a developing country overseas.  After a brief and expensive attempt to regain career relevance, I gave up and opted out of Information Technology entirely.

Even if our family budget might allow a "Smart Phone," I don't particularly want one.  

This is where everyone demands to know why not.  Like everything with me, it's not a short or simple story.

I'll cut to the chase and simply say that I'm easily distracted (and often frightened) by anything sudden: noises, flashing lights, vibrations.  The day that a device in my car suddenly makes a noise I'm not expecting while I'm white-knuckle driving through North Saint Louis County traffic could be the day my life becomes just one more sad local fatality.

I value my life and I value my intelligence.  I love my family, friends, and coworkers.

I prefer to use my own brains whenever possible.  I believe over-dependence on devices can make us lazy, complacent, and unwilling (or just unlikely if in a hurry) to think for ourselves.  I'm concerned about future generations following blindly to the tune of technology du jour like lemmings to their bankruptcy or even death.

If this sounds like a lecture, so be it.  I may not be young, but I'm very relevant.

Have a great Thanksgiving today, and be calm and safe.  I care.

Why Increasing Minimum Wage Isn't The Answer

It often seems to me that the political battles waging nowadays between the two major parties in this country are rarely as simple as right versus wrong.  There are so many subtle and delicate psychological nuances at work behind the scenes.

I’m fortunate to be in a sort of unique situation these days and able to see and understand the traditional stances of the loud, angry voices of both parties.  I come from a very traditional and conservative upbringing where rules were to be followed unquestioningly by children in order to succeed.  And yet, tolerance for those less fortunate was not only condoned but lived and demonstrated through action and donation.

Way back before this recession, when I was making-- well, let’s just say substantially more than minimum wage, and leave it at that-- I rarely gave the minimum wage more than a passing thought.  Pre-recession I was truly blessed in the sense of wages and benefits.  I was very busy and didn’t have a lot of spare energy to do anything other than struggling to and from work and doing the other things in my life that needed doing.

The past 6 years have taught me a completely different mindset.  I’m now in that world where minimum wage plus a certain guaranteed number of hours per work can mean the difference between the bills getting paid and not.

During the first 7 months of 2013, I had an opportunity to earn that golden number that they always throw around during those minimum wage debates-- $15 an hour – working 35 hours a week.  There were no benefits, but coming from $0 income guaranteed, it certainly seemed like a Godsend until I could no longer stand the boss’s insults and erratic behavior.  And then I quit and thanked God for my freedom.

It was during the time I was working this job that people started saying that the US minimum wage should be $15 an hour.  And I was like, what?  I’m handling delicate human situations with confidentiality and mastering numerous cloud applications to bill insurance companies on the world’s oldest Dell computer, and I’m going to be making minimum wage?  Yeah, right.

This same opinion has come forth from other people I know, mostly women my age or older who have gotten knocked by the struggling economy into jobs that previously would have been way beneath them, and they’re struggling to keep those jobs and grateful for them.

I would most certainly not complain about a $15 per hour job now, assuming I was guaranteed at least 30 hours a week and didn’t have to miss a lot of work without pay due to some horrible debilitating health issue.  Doing the math would indicate a yearly income of about $22,500 before taxes under such a job, and yes, I could live on that.  

There are plenty of people out there now who have worked their way up to that $15 per hour over years of either life experience or job training who would justifiedly balk at suddenly making “minimum wage.”  And what would happen to them and their jobs?  Well, they could try to ask for a raise, but in this economy, frankly, it’s too easy for the boss to say “I know lots of people who would be happy for this money” and fire the asking employee after finding one of those people.

Let’s consider another angle on the same situation.  A teenager is nearing graduation from high school, and she has a really good part-time job making more than minimum wage already.  Her employer has offered her a promotion, but it would mean she can’t attend college full-time—something her parents strongly want her to do.  But college is expensive and scary.  Life has no guarantees.  So should she take the money now, or borrow the money to struggle through college for the hope of more money in four years?  Why not keep doing what she’s doing?

(I must note that this particular scenario was an actual situation from my own life back in the dark ages, by the way.  My parents, who thought I was just short of Einstein in mental ability, would not hear of my staying on as a secretary at the real estate firm over getting a four-year degree, and frankly, my boss was rooting for me to go to college and succeed, too.)

Imagine how much more tempting the promotion in place would be for a child from a truly poor family, perhaps less gifted in the IQ department, who was already helping support that family with her income. Then you’ll begin to understand why many people in this country never exceed minimum wage by very much.  

Now I’m really getting closer to the psychology of low wages, and what I originally set out to explain in this blog entry.  When a person can make a living wage by flipping burgers under the golden arches, why aspire to anything better?

And as far as those nice jobs with full benefits go, corporations are getting bigger and greedier, and if you mandate a higher minimum wage on them, they’ll simply cut jobs to equalize their expense.  The last large company for which I worked tried to squeeze more and more work out of fewer and fewer employees until we were screaming “uncle!” And this was before they ultimately decided to end my personal career as a mainframe programmer with overseas outsourcing.

Small businesses are already struggling to compete with the big conglomerate chains.  The proportionate burden of taxes and payroll and legal requirements on a small business owner, especially an honest one, often drives these owners to throw up their hands in despair and shutter their businesses forever.  And yes, I’ve been there and done that, too.

One small business owner with whom I interviewed for a clerical position recently was very frank with me about his inability to provide decent pay or benefits, or even many hours, for a temporary position that was to fill in while his regular clerk attended college so she could keep her job.  We parted agreeing amicably that his job was not for me.  Ironically, it turned out that he and I had graduated from high school the same year.

In this increasingly competitive world, where there simply aren’t enough resources for everyone to have everything they want (at least for most of us), only a select few of those in the lower income brackets will ever really rise into the ranks of the wealthy.  And on their part, that will require a lot of very hard work, a great deal of self-confidence and perseverance in spite of many obstacles, and more than a little bit of luck.

The answer is therefore not to increase, by law, the pay for the poorest among us.  Those poorest either believe they deserve to be there and settle for the status quo, or they aspire for something better and are working very hard towards it while keeping the bills paid.  It’s that second group that will eventually succeed, and it won’t be thanks to any mandated handouts.  Let them have the pride of knowing they made it on their own terms.

3 Is A Magic Number

I just came back from a walk around the block.  Well, actually, three of them.  If my neighbors didn't think I was crazy before this, they certainly do now.

It's only 0.6 miles around the block here, which is one-half my long route of 1.2, which is 0.1 miles less than my former FL long route of 1.3 CircumVerona (as I used to call it).  But 3 of them puts me at 1.8, which is half a mile longer than around the old Avon Park Lake.  Yes, I'm bragging - or just babbling out of guilt for not doing more walking during the week.

I'm always thrilled when Stu opts to join me and both dogs for a walk.  Sadly, he can't do a whole lot more than the short route these days, since his knees are giving him a lot of pain.  But what he can do, he enjoys doing with his little family.

So, lap #1 around the block was Stu trying to control Tango and me walking Jack easily.  Controlling Tango is no simple task since he is 53 pounds (and still growing) of exuberant puppy with amazingly keen senses.  But he is making great progress, since his retriever part is very eager to please and obey.  The hound part sometimes takes over and provides the challenge for his aging parents (us).

Lap #2 around the block was Tango and me alone.  This is a challenge and a discipline for both of us, but worth undertaking since Tango is "my" dog and I want him to obey me as well as he obeys Stu.  With my natural frenetic energy and difficulty editing my verbal stream of consciousness, Tango probably prefers Stu's energy to mine, but tough.  We're both learning.

Lap #3 around the block was out of fairness to Jack, and was blissfully calm with Jack and me alone.  We encountered a neighbor we've met before with two small dogs on leashes:  one gregarious beagle mix and another, shyer small breed mix.  We visited briefly, the five of us.  Tango would have trampled both little dogs in his exuberance, but Jack was his usual gentle, calm self.  That was nice.

Today marks an anniversary for me.  Three months ago today I started this job.  Technically, I'm out of probation (although I won't be asking for any raises just yet).  This is the longest I have held a paying job since 2008, so I'm happy to celebrate.

My celebration was 1.8 miles of around the block with a few of my favorite beings.  I did one lap for each month of work, then proudly proclaimed to Stu "I think that's enough" on my return.  He agreed.

"Jumping The Shark"

There comes a time when many great things become victims of their own success.  This is partly because the PEOPLE behind the great things start believing that they really are just too good for the rest of us.

The saying "Jumping The Shark" comes to mind because it's one that Stu and I often use to describe something that's just crossed over from being "bent" to being "broken".  I believe the original saying had to do with the sitcom "Happy Days" when there was some sort of silly stunt that Fonzie did related to a boat and water skis and a shark.

"Happy Days" was supposed to be about the 1950's, but I'm sure that anyone who actually grew up during that era, assuming they had time to be watching TV then as opposed to raising children, would spot a few things very wrong.  I had a similar situation myself watching "The Wonder Years" which was supposed to be set in the 1970's and actually aired when I SHOULD have been busy raising children.

What is it with things that are trying to be something they are not and never have been?  How about the ostentatious sign pictured above?  Is this appropriate for an abandoned shopping mall that was once "The Great Northwest; the biggest and the best?" I am quoting, from memory, a radio jingle from sometime in my youth, but God only knows what year.  I could actually sing it for you, but not in a blog.

Anyone who spent any time there during the 1990's was probably alarmed by the presence of obvious gangs with their trademark red or blue colored clothing and do-rags (I don't even know how to spell that, I'll admit, that's how naive I sometimes am).

Now, it's this big abandoned once-great shopping mall trying to be something else.  The only thing that appears to have changed there since August is this huge sign.  Someone is trying to get rich off of it, and they figured why not start with the sign.  Good luck with that, my friends.  You have zero control over the surrounding demographic, of which, ironically, I am currently a part.  This behemoth is just minutes from my beautiful new home.

I don't understand this, and I'm not going to try.  I just need to remember who and what I am in the here and now.  At this exact moment, I am getting a decent paycheck but no benefits from a good friend who is a small business owner in dire need of getting her assistant position defined properly and documented.

But until I can gain control and help her in the long term, I need to be quiet and not unintentionally get in her way.  I need to show up and answer her telephone and greet her customers from 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Monday through Friday and try not to get sucked into the madness myself.

You see, she is a strong lady who has always run her own small business.  At the moment, she is struggling to keep her mind and family intact, thanks in part to some large companies who are literally in the business of screwing her over.

I get it, and that's what makes me valuable to her as a friend more than an hourly employee 35 hours a week.  We'll see how long this friendship and work relationship lasts.  For right now, we're both OK with it being temporary.

But the one thing I will try very hard NOT do is "Jump The Shark" and desire to have her life or business.  I need to be OK with the here and now.  Because, let's face it - this very life is temporary.  And I am already beyond blessed in so very many ways that my boss/friend is not.

And that's how I became Rose the Temp from 9-4 M-F.  I'll greet you pleasantly, I'll talk to you on the phone, I'll take your payments.  I won't engage with you because I simply can't.  I'm playing my role and nothing more, and therefore doing it well.

*Formerly Middle Class (FMC)

I just listened to bits and pieces of what sounded like a very interesting radio show on KTRS 550 AM on my way to the library and back.  The topic of the show was the cost of health care and health insurance and who is paying the bill.

This argument will continue to rage with a lot of angry energy spent on the parts of many people of many socioeconomic classes.  The closing words of the show seemed to indicate that "the middle class" was having to pay for those others known as "the poor".

What interests me lies below the surface, partly because of my unusual perspective on this situation.

First of all, I don't necessarily agree with how the United States of America defines "the poor".  But I'm not anxious to change that right away, because at this moment my very life may depend on my staying as part of that labeled group, at least temporarily.

Secondly, how many of "the poor" as currently defined got that way as a direct or indirect result of corporate greed which is running rampant in this country?  (And no, I'm not discounting stupid investments or failure to see obvious red flags, which are the major part of my recent financial history.)

The poor are totally invisible to those who are busy working day jobs, and I don't blame them.  It works well for me, as I can run to the library in my dirty car and dressed like a homeless person (long story) and not have to speak to a soul.

But I would love someone to do a statistical study on the current poor in this country, as opposed to the poor in this country 10 or 20 years ago.  I really want to know:  how many of "the poor" are like me?

Yeah, I realize it's not all about me.  But I still want to know.  I bet others do, too.

The message I keep hearing is that somehow everyone in this world needs to stop all the yelling and listen to each other and be willing to work together on a solution that is going to involve compromise for us all.  THERE IS NO QUICK FIX.

Middle class is shrinking rapidly in this country, as it has done in many other once-great countries.  Is anyone paying attention to that fact?  Or are we all (myself included most likely) so caught up in our own drama and troubles that we just totally fail to see it?

If anyone wants to offer to shut me up by giving me a full-time job, I'm still listening.

Sincerely,
MaryRose Cassell, FMC*

(I like that better than The Dropouts.  What do you all think?)

I'm Listening

There are many lessons in every single day.

My current illness is a lesson in patience.

My most recent botched job interview is a lesson in humility, and perhaps in career choice.

The honor of being trusted by a professional to perform temporary work for her is a lesson in my personal value.

I know there are many lessons out there for me that I'm not learning correctly yet, because I still need a steady income to support myself and my husband.

But I'm still listening.  Bring me the message.  I'll try to be patient.

I Procrastinate Because...

• I'm afraid of it
• I hate it
• I'm angry about what's behind it

How about you?  Admitting it is a step towards fixing it.

Public Radio is Classic (I Love It!)

I know it's been around for years and years -- but honestly, it has been years since I have even had access to it for free via an old-fashioned AM/FM radio.

National Public Radio is the greatest thing since sliced bread!

Oh dear, I did just show my chrono-age, didn't I?  LOL

I just discovered today that St. Louis Public Radio 90.7 has apparently picked up the Saturday noon feed of the Metropolitan Opera broadcasts, formerly aired by the late Classic 99 (99.1 FM), which I occasionally still mourn.

I'm not a fan of opera, although maybe I should try to acquire the taste-- for SongPop purposes, if nothing else.  But my late and great-in-her-own-way mother, Alice Elizabeth Hurford Lucas, was an opera fan.

I can remember Saturdays she would have KFUO-FM radio blaring in the kitchen while she did some chore, with that awful screeching in some foreign language.  I was a child and didn't know any better, but that was my perception then.

I'm not sure if I avoided the kitchen to avoid being forced to help with some awful chore like silver polishing, or because the music was just way too loud... or maybe I just didn't think Mom was in her "happy place" -- if she had one.  Who knows?

In December of 2012, with Mom having died in June of 1998, I could only guess that she acquired her love of opera while she was working in "sh-caw-go" for a period of time, living away from her childhood home and loving it.

For me, I'm just glad that I now have one less reason to dislike the new Christian station at 99.1, which one of my favorite Realtors has said that she finds quite enjoyable.

The World Continues...

The humans on this planet got it wrong, didn't they?  Mayans, Aztecs, Oreo-lovers, political pundits... whoever.  All of US.  Glad to still be here.

On a more local note in St. Louis, MO:  the weather guys also got it wrong - again.  No lovely blanket of white to share on Facebook for me.

But let's be fair:  this is not a town for the faint of heart to pursue careers in meteorology.

It's my hope that I shall never complain about a sky this blue and beautiful behind a starkly bare tree, as viewed from my office window.

(Next door neighbor's roof is way less interesting than the people living  there.)

I'm not sure, however, that I will be able to brave the current "23 degrees, feels like 9 degrees" that my internet screen tells me it is outside.

Poor Jack might miss walkies again today.  I still love my treadmill and my National Public Radio shows.

It's All Good.  Very Good.

Thin Line Between Love And Hate

Growing old is a challenge at any age.
Cloudy, overcast and chilly is a challenge for many people's attitudes.
Adjusting to one's first real winter since 2008 is a challenge for ME.

"Holidays are joyful, there's always something new."
"Oh, that we could always see such spirit through the year."
"Dysfunction rears its yuletide head."

Getting a job is a challenge at any age.
Getting a job in St. Louis depends largely on who you know.
Getting a job is going to happen soon for ME.

I love it here.  There are jobs.

I hate it here.  It's cold.

This is my personal least favorite time of year, but I always have secret hopes that this year will be better.

St. Louis is in my blood for several generations, and it shows.
I'm highly changeable, and that's OK.

I'm learning to love myself.  I've always been a late bloomer.  Others are learning to love me, too.