In Anticipation of the Upcoming National Holiday

..Two Steps Back

After a slow and tedious winter, the time has come for my business to wake from hibernation.  We've done one event, plus the opening day of Sunday market.  Both have shown significant increases over last year's sales.  Yay, right?

Maybe not so much...

The first of this year, our water/sewer rate increased by 20%.

When our trash bill arrived last week, we were surprised by a rate increase of 33%.

Our "twelve month special" at Comcast expired, and our internet bill jumped 50%.

Gas prices are going up at the rate of at least 10 cents per gallon per week (which is no surprise...it's summer.)

I had to scrape together $1700 this month to pay off our American Express bill, as they plan to sell us out to Citibank VISA in mid-June, and I have no intention of being forced to do business with Citibank.

So, really...  As an aging member of America's once-great middle class...

There's really no getting ahead, is there?  Or, even, catching up. 

"World's Worst..."

 

 

Recently, I read an article on thrillist.com that was supposed to be an indictment of "the world's worst customers."  (I had to reload that story, or it reloaded itself, at least ten times before I was finally able to read the entire thing...what is it with "a problem occurred with the page, and it was reloaded..."  SO annoying...but that's a different rant.)

Now, I am generally right there with anybody who complains about 21st-century customers; they are rude, picky, entitled, and selfish.  Though I did notice in this collection of first-person experiences, the horrible customers were almost always nasty little old people;  but in my experience of five years running my own restaurant, the seniors were as a group the sweetest, least grouchy customers we had.  I suppose this is what comes of presenting an issue from the point of view of twenty-somethings.  Old people ARE the enemy when you're that age.  But the taint of ageism was not what bothered me about the article.

No...what struck me as...sad, came from one of the longer anecdotes in the piece, where a young woman provided a sort of TMI presentation of background about why she was not necessarily concerned about giving her best to her job at a WalMart deli, where she ultimately suffered her encounter with her "worst customer in the world."  She was young, she had a newborn, she and her boyfriend were not getting along well, she has just graduated college but because of the economic downturn had been unable to get a job in her field, so she was bitter about having to do menial labor to survive...drama, blah-blah, more drama.

It was plain, to me anyway, this girl had no business standing behind a counter in a customer service capacity.  But THAT is a strike against her employer, and against our culture in general.  Service work is looked at as the bottom of the barrel; the thing you do when you haven't the skills to get a "better" job.  I, personally, suck at it, so I know enough to understand good customer service is something not just anyone can provide.  Why can't Americans and American business concede it takes skill, knowledge, patience, and even a particular personality type to graciously deal with the demands of an increasingly ornery customer base? You really need to have the talent for it, every bit as much as you need artistic talent to paint a mural, or musical talent to play a symphony.  So, no...the person telling this story should never have been hired for a position where she could encounter--and walk out on--the worst customer in the world.

But it wasn't her obvious unsuitability for the job that sent up a red flag for me.  It was this young woman's attitude toward work in general which gave me pause.  She chose to devote the first several paragraphs of her story to the dismal circumstances of her personal life, indicating that she places "job" far down the list of personal priorities.  "I had all this horrible, negative crap going on in my life...and, oh yeah...I had this job, but surely you see why I couldn't be expected to be more than a "decent" employee."  Worse, it's plain the author of the article had no problem buying in to her attitude, and apparently assumed readers did, too.

And there's the nugget.  This is the culture of the 21st-century American workplace.    Businesses treat their employees like crap, and employees don't give a rat's ass about the business. Employees have gone beyond dissatisfaction, to disassociation. A job is merely an unpleasant chore that has nothing to do with who you are, or who your friends are, or your personal life in general.  You show up at the job as infrequently as you can get away with, you skate by putting in as little effort as possible when you do show up, and if a more attractive activity should present itself which might conflict with the time you're supposed to be at work, you have no problem at all tossing the job aside and opting for the extra-curricular.

On top of the general low priority given to anything having to do with paid work, there is the compounding issue of today's electronic society.  Young adults are surgically joined to electronic devices that rule their lives to such a degree that they're unable/unwilling to be fully present to face-to-face encounters.  Anything that might interrupt that constant flow of electronic social chatter--like a job--is instantly assigned negative status; so the attitude going into any job is poor, before a person even steps foot across an employer's threshold.

 

My posts are beginning to look like the sour rants of a crabby old lady.  I try not to be too judgmental of today’s young people and their habits.  And it’s not that I don’t understand the allure of electronic society—between the old AOL Journal Land and Facebook, I’ve experienced my share of that sort of addiction.  But sometimes I can’t help but feel that young adults are missing out on important social interactions—rights of passage, even—which we experienced back in The Olden Days; experiences that helped us grow, shaped our lives and our communities.  Millennials, and whatever we are calling the generation nipping at their heels, may possess technological knowledge completely unheard of when we were young, but they lack life experience and face-to-face interaction skills.  And in a society where one is required to be employed if one desires any kind of decent lifestyle, these social deficits are not doing them any favors.

 

First of all, if you have to work (and you WILL have to work) it doesn’t do anybody any good for you to go into it with the attitude of, “I’m only doing this because I have to.”  Will every job you have be some expression of your personal talents or heart’s desire?  No, it will not.  But if you can’t do what you love, it’s a good idea to find some way to love what you do—find fulfillment in some aspect of the job.  Why be miserable? 

 

Then there is the question of life priorities.  “Job” will not be at the top of anyone’s priority list; not anyone who isn’t a total workaholic, anyway.  But it can’t be at the bottom, either.  How can anyone expect to be successful—or content—when one has to spend thirty or forty or fifty hours a week doing something they really don’t care about?  Never mind how it will affect your employer.  How will it affect the people you work with—people with whom you spend the lion's share of your waking hours and with whom it would brighten your own life to get along?  How will it affect YOU?

 

The thing that was saddest, and most frustrating, about this girl’s tale of woe was the apparent ease with which she wallowed in the drama of her personal life, and dragged it everywhere she went.  Back in the Olden Days, a job was a good place to go to get away from the heavy problems of your life.  Job and home were two different entities; you didn’t bring the problems of your job home, and you didn’t take your miserable home life to work with you.  Work was a great place to step away from challenges at home.  It was a place to immerse yourself in something besides yourself.  It was a place to be social with a group of people outside of whatever mess your personal life might be in.  It was an escape. 

 

How many times in my own life, if I hadn't had a job, might I just not have bothered to get out of bed, or put one foot in front of the other for weeks, months...maybe ever again.  Young people today don't have that escape.  They can't (won't?) step away from sadness, frustration, failures--drama--at home and into an alter ego where the things they do matter.  They help.  They make a difference.  

 

I don't know whether the sea change in employers' attitudes toward employees has created this dismal mindset for today's workers.  I suspect it has a lot to do with it.  But I also feel like, somehow, we as parents, grandparents...the preceding generation...failed to instill in our progeny the work ethic that kept us more or less sane and grounded in the workaday world.  Instead, we passed down our resentment of having to work for a living, at something we mightn't necessarily love.  Maybe we believed we could somehow save them from that fate; but things didn't work out that way.   So we did our children no favors by not passing along our coping mechanisms--the things our parents taught us about "work ethic" and "teamwork" and the proper place for those things in our lives.  We created a generation of self-centered malcontents who would rather do anything other than work for a living, and are not afraid to make that very clear from the outset.  Not a great sampling from which to build the army of customer assistance workers needed in today's American "service economy."

 

So I take any stories about "the world's worst customers" with a grain of salt, these days.  How valid, after all, can these stories be, coming from the "the world's worst employees?" 

     

Summer Plans

My  “job” –that little business to which I have clung for fourteen years, now—enhances the tone of opposition my life has always had, by choice or by chance.  It’s a summer job.  While everyone else is indulging in vacations, barbecues, gardening, yard projects, all that fine-weather folderol, I am designing promotional materials, purchasing supplies, scheduling production shifts, and arranging travel and lodging for the next six months’ business opportunities.  There’s no doubt that summer employment puts one noticeably out of step with the rest of the world. 

And since I have never been one to follow the crowd—have, in fact, intentionally NOT done so most of my life—I don’t find the peculiarities of my choice of vocation to be overly burdensome.  But there are some summertime activities in which I like to indulge, or have thought I NEEDED to indulge, that get crowded out during this all-too-short and frenzied season of fun and sun.

I have always loved to adorn my outside areas with pots of bright summer flowers.  At one time, I was quite the accomplished container gardener.  And in more recent years, I’ve taken on the  challenge of attempting to cultivate a salad/veggie garden.  The last couple of years, since we purchased the building in Junction City that houses our production facility, the additional strain of running up and down the I-5 corridor several times a month and spending two or three nights a week away from home, has turned what were once enjoyable leisure activities into just that many more tasks staring at me from the dreaded “To Do” list.  

This past weekend proved to be a sort of epiphany for me.  It was our last “free” weekend until mid-October.  Next week, we start our weekly jaunts to Astoria as vendors in the Sunday Market.  (We like the market; it has been good to us.  And the income it has generated is vital.)  The weather was fine, and it was a perfect opportunity to toil in the yard and get all our outdoor ducks in a row before we run out of free weekends. 

So…

We packed a couple of little overnight bags, jumped in the van and hustled over to the coast, where we had a thoroughly enjoyable 36-hour mini-vacation.

Yesterday morning, as we were about to head across the Young’s Bay Bridge on Highway 101 heading toward Warrenton from Astoria, I was treated to a sight I have never seen in the fourteen years we have enjoyed the scenic delights of that area:  a line of six white pelicans floated low in the sky, over the road ahead…we passed right under them.  Here in Oregon, white pelicans are generally birds of inland waters.  I have never seen them at the coast.  In fact, I’ve rarely encountered them at all.  Until this spring; I’ve crossed paths with them unexpectedly several times in the past six weeks.  So, of course, I see this (finally!) as a message from the Almighty, which I just fully figured out after I started writing this post.

Pelican tells us to lighten our load, to unburden ourselves.  Not only to let go of anger and resentments, but to let go of things, activities, than “no longer serve.”  Between pelican’s visits and our happy “stolen” hours of recreation this past weekend, I’ve come to realize that, at least now, this “Farmer Lisa” cap that I have felt compelled to don in the summer no longer serves.  When something that started out as an enjoyable avocation becomes a task—one for which you have to carve out time that you really do not have—then it’s time to lay it aside.  Perhaps only for a few seasons, until the time to embrace it again becomes available.

So here’s my new plan for this summer:   I’ll cover the veggie beds with mulch and let them go fallow.  I’ll tend the container plants I already own (of which there are plenty) but keep the “fuss factor” down to a minimum.  We have so much “deferred maintenance” that has to be dealt with on the property this summer, I’m sure I’ll have enough to keep me busy without the additional burden of vegetable and flower gardens I really have no time to enjoy. 

That’s the direction I’m setting for myself.  I’ll head along that path and see how it goes.              

 

  

        

Kicking and Screaming, Part 2

So...this is my new phone:

Yes.  It's an iPhone.

And, no...it doesn't have the QWERTY keypad I was so adamant about having.

But I guess at some point, one simply has to let go of the old technology.  When the powers-that-be are intent upon making something obsolete, you eventually have no choice but to go with the flow.

I tried...oh, I tried!  I wanted a keypad so badly that I dove headfirst into the Blackberry pool.  Only to find that Blackberry has its own proprietary data technology that does not dovetail well with standard cell phone carriers.  Bah!  Who knew?!  After two weeks of relying on bad information from my cell phone carrier and weak promises of  "I'm pretty sure we can get it to work!" I had to send the thing back.  And at least THAT ended well, as the eBay seller managed to cough up a full refund--which, since there was nothing actually wrong with the phone, was purely out of the goodness of their hearts. 

Just as I was wondering which old and possibly soon-obsolete phone I could try next (I had my eye on a five-year-old Nokia model, which had iffy reviews at best...) my cell phone carrier came up with an astounding price on this iPhone 5s.  After my "loyalty discount"--the $35 off that Consumer Cellular is offering to old farts needing to shit-can their ancient cell phones--I will pay just $165 for this iPhone.  Yes, I know it isn't the latest model, and I couldn't care less.  It does everything I need a phone to do, has a better camera than I have EVER had on a phone, and I think I'll be able to get used to texting on the touchscreen.  Best of all, I didn't have to shell out $400 for it...which I utterly r.e.f.u.s.e. to pay for a phone.   

And there is no real learning curve here, because I've had an iPad for three years, and this thing is just like a teeny-tiny iPad, only it makes phone calls. 

So...yeah.  I've been dragged into the 20-teens. 

But I will miss my solid little rock of a Nokia cell phone...  

Restoring America

I would add: 8. Recalibrate our moral compass (when it comes to attitudes towards torture, gun ownership, the poor, business practices, professional sports...well, just about everything.)

People!!!!!!

My choice can be RIGHT 

without yours being WRONG!!!!!!!!

 

Truth

I love it when I find a meme that says something I have been trying to express for a long time, and I just don't feel like anybody GETS.  I honestly think that people coming into the job market these days have no idea how raw a deal they're getting.  Hash-tag lucky to have a job...?

Fading

In recent years, aided by social media, the term "introvert" has become a label...some kind of cross between a psychiatric diagnosis and a badge of honor.  The general public is admonished to "get" us introverts, to treat us with understanding and care.  And we ourselves are encouraged to be "out and proud" about our introspective, anti-social behavior.  As if it's an indication of our superiority to the rest of the population. 

I am neither ashamed nor proud of being an introvert.  It is what it is.  It is what I am.  Often, it's just...a pain in the ass.  Because, at least in my case, being an introvert has not negated my need to be social...to belong to some kind of community.  While I'm not one of those people who is not okay alone, I do pine for some connection---and I have never in my life been successful at building or maintaining social connections.

Lately, I've been almost overwhelmed by the solitude I thought was essential to my well-being.  There is a wise saying that goes something like, "Everything in moderation."  Solitude may be something I crave and need...but too much of anything puts one's life out of balance.  I SO need a friend right now--the kind of friend that seems to be the only one that works for me.  The kind of friend I did have, once upon a time.   

When I was a girl, I had that one friend.  We met in first grade, but were only schoolyard acquaintances for several years.  In junior high, we somehow bonded and became inseparable.  We traversed the minefield of high school, early career and young love side by side.  I was her maid of honor...she was mine.   But, being  basically a bond between two introverts, it was a complicated and unusual friendship.  We hung out together.  We played sports, we played cards, we played board games.  We got involved in projects--we painted living rooms and remodeled kitchens.  We each called the other's parents, "Mom and Dad."  We were together so much, people thought we were sisters.  But we didn't...talk.  We didn't share our hopes, our dreams, our plans.  In fact, it's almost as if we were too embarrassed by deep emotion to share that with each other.  What was deep inside each of us, remained there.  And yet, the relationship worked, for many years.

I wonder if our bond was endemic to the era, when the soppy modern concept of "BFF" really didn't exist...before over-sharing became the quantifier of a worthy friendship.    When I've looked back upon our relationship, I've called it a friendship of shared experiences rather than emotions.  And lately when I looked back on those days, I have thought perhaps our friendship was a bad thing.  As if what we had was somehow inferior or incomplete.

We were friends, almost sisters, for more than twenty years.  After the husband and I moved to Oregon, my friend and I gradually lost touch.  Which kind of makes sense...we just didn't seem capable of turning that dynamic of shared experiences into a long-distance relationship.  Writing letters back and forth (which we did for several years after our move) brought into play the sharing of thoughts and emotions that I don't think we were ever comfortable with.  Eventually, she disappeared from my life--intentionally, I have no doubt. 

She ended the relationship for good, when she changed locations and very pointedly did not let me know where she had gone.  I'm pretty sure she knows where I am--we've been here 15 years and it would be easy enough for her to contact me, if she wanted to.  I, on the other hand, have tried searching for her online, only to come up empty...I can only conclude that's how she wants it.  It makes me sad, but it is what it is. 

I have a picture of the two of us together, on the day of our graduation from high school.  It's almost 43 years old...a glossy color instamatic photo that I dug out of a box and pinned to the bulletin board in my office.  But the light and air of life outside the box have not been kind to it.   

It's funny...do you remember the movie "Back to the Future," where Marty has a photo of his family that keeps changing as he changes history?  That's what my little glossy picture has done...  Over the years, it has washed out, until only our outlines are visible...our faces, our features, have faded away.  It's become a metaphor for...our friendship.  Our youth?  Our lives?  MY life? 

 

"Don't it always seem to go

that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?"

                

Ramblings in the Wake of a Taxing Winter

Four short months ago (they are all short these days...) I was happily looking forward to winter, with its slower pace, with its blessings more visible through bare trees.  Now that we have left winter behind and spring has arrived--at least, on the calendar--I am looking back not at all wistfully upon the season past.  What I thought would be a time of relaxing pace and beneficial reflection  turned out to be weeks of boredom,  frustration and mild physical affliction accompanied by one of the worst bouts of anxiety I have experienced in more than a decade.

I've lived with anxiety all my life, though it's only in recent years that the malady has been given a name.   Some of my earliest memories are of me quaking in fear at the slightest change in my physical condition.  I grew up petrified of illness, injury and death.  And as far as I know, I was born that way.  There was no trauma in my early life, that I can recall, that brought this on.  I've always wondered if I had met such a catastrophic demise in my last life that the psychic impression carried over to this one.  That's the best explanation I've come up with, so far.

But only those closest to me have any inkling of this...THING...that's such a huge part of my life inside my head.  Because I learned early on to bury it deep, deep inside.  It only takes a couple of instances of family members, friends, and even health professionals looking down their noses at you and telling you to calm down and quit being such an idiot, to make you realize this kind of anxiety is not a thing you share with others.  Or inflict upon others. 

So you go through life only betraying your "insanity" at its worst moments...like when you wake up in the middle of the night, so convinced you're having a heart attack that you forget to slip quietly out of bed before the panic overtakes you, and you wake your partner.  And then the shame and embarrassment combine with the panic...  You'd pretty much do anything not to go through that very often.  So you swallow it.  You stuff it.  You adopt the appearance of the duck sailing smoothly across the surface of the pond; beneath the surface, your feet are paddling like crazy.

People who know me DO know, however, that I'm not very good at sitting still.  At doing nothing.  At just being...zen.  Sitting quietly is no good for me.  And, as time goes on, it becomes a greater and greater enemy.  Only by keeping my body moving, my hands occupied, my brain focused, can I keep that crippling anxiety at bay.  Too many hours of nothing in particular to do, and it grabs my feet and pulls me under.  "Busy-ness" has been my defense mechanism, all these years.  Unfortunately, the past few months have not offered enough of that commodity to keep me sane...or at least, to give me the appearance thereof.

In years past, when I reached this point of being nearly overwhelmed by my affliction, I've been able to pour myself into some kind of project, or...get a job.  And it's been very unsettling that the "job" option is no longer open to me.  Let's face it:  I'm a sixty-year old woman who spent forty years in a "career" that is absolutely for the young.  By running my own restaurant, I probably got five more years out of it than I should have.  That was, in fact, the ONLY way I was going to translate my experience into a livelihood that would provide income in my dotage; and, as we all know, that...didn't work out. 

So, here I am...a senior citizen who could use an income but, more importantly NEEDS something to DO; and the line of work into which I sank my formative years has no place for me.  Oh, I suppose if I looked hard enough, I could probably find some place that would pay me minimum wage to flip burgers or bake cookies...  But I just find that too...insulting.  All my years of experience, all the things I've learned, mean N.O.T.H.I.N.G.  No one in the industry will hire anyone who has any concept of her actual worth.  Plus, let's face it...I don't know if I would be capable of putting in the (minimum) fifty-hour weeks required of food service management; and, capable or not, I just don't WANT to do that anymore.

Why did I let myself be indentured into the world of food service, basically following in my mother's footsteps as a lifelong "second income," capitulating to my husband's ability to command the higher wage?  There are times when I have sat and wondered...what would my life be like now, if I had actually gone to college and got that journalism degree I had coveted so many years ago? 

There were all sorts of reasons, in the end, why my personality wasn't suited to the world of journalism, not the least of which was that I was too much of an introvert to get out there and get the stories, to actually talk to people, do the research.  And with my high-pitched nasal voice and stunningly average looks, broadcast journalism was never on my radar.  Still, I regret never shaping my god-given talent into a...LIFE.  I wonder, though, would it have provided me with the busy-ness--the physical hard work--so essential to keeping my demons at bay?    

I came upon an article a couple of weeks ago that gave me a tiny shred of satisfaction.  It was titled "What Happens To Journalists When No One Wants To Print Their Words Anymore?" and it went into detail about how print journalists of my generation have been devastated by the shrinking of the market for their talent.  Full-time jobs in print journalism have declined by 40% since 2007, with most of the jobs eliminated belonging to writers over 50.  When a paper closes and the staff is turned loose, those older folks fare poorly in what is left of the job market in their field.  They leave the field, become entrepreneurs, attempt late-life career changes, or reluctantly retire.  It all sounds way too familiar to me.

It's somewhat of a back-assed comfort to me that, if I had followed my dream decades ago, I might just be in the same boat I'm in now.  Would I be any more or less frustrated and at loose ends than I am now?  Would I be looking at a rosier retirement picture?  Would the demon of my anxiety be any less inclined to overwhelm me than it is now? 

I don't know.  But I DO know that perhaps I didn't make the worst mistake of my life when I chose the path I chose forty years ago...and that's something.