So, a friend of mine wants me to attend the Relief Society Book Group. The book this month is Emma, by Jane Austen. A classic, right? You'd think the regional (meaning bigger than most of the others) library in my town would have several copies, right?
You'd be wrong.
Not finding the book in the stacks, I went to the online card catalog. I typed in the word "Emma" as the book title. Simple, huh?
Ninety-eight different titles came up. Beginning with "The Wonderful Adventures of Emma," or something like that.
WHAT THE?
I scrolled through five pages of book titles, none of which was simply Emma, to the last page. Then came the videos. FINALLY, there it was: my library was in possession of ONE large-print copy. No others. And it was checked out.
This library does, however, have available copies of Hello!, People, and InStyle.
I had to order the book to be sent from another library.
Now, keep in mind that in the county where I live, the median household income is $105,000 per year, the highest in the nation. And we pay the taxes to show for it.
Yes, this is a cranky post, and I really do try not to be cranky for various reasons, not the least of which is that I believe in purging one's life of crankiness, but this really dumbfounded me. It shows I'm getting old. I should've gone to Borders and shelled out the $15 for the book. It would have been easier on my blood pressure.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wearing a Crown
My dear husband was thinking of me this past Saturday as he pursued yard sales. This is quite a hobby for him, and I have to say that quite a few articles in our home, including one of my favorite sweaters and his easy chair, have come from yard sales. Not to mention a lot of books.
I had received an email suggesting that I had done a poor job on an article I wrote, and I was pretty upset. I went off to exercise class and Wes went off to yard sales. (Side note: I have found that I do not like to attend yard sales with him. He follows the same route every Saturday, and I would like to try different neighborhoods. And he tends to whip the car around, in what feels to me a very dangerous way, when he sees a Yard Sale sign. And I get bored with them much earlier than he does.)
When I got home, there was a new book waiting for me on the kitchen table: Crowns, which is a photo-essay on African-American women in their Sunday hats. I was so touched. I needed that little gift (which cost a whole dollar). It made me feel loved.
Back when we first moved to the Washington, DC area, we drove down Georgia Avenue on a Sunday. I was fascinated and amazed by the African-American women in their hats and perfectly-coordinated outfits. I had heard of the book, and I had always wanted to read it. I love hats. I have a few, but I hesitate to wear them because I feel I'm calling too much attention to myself.
Anyway, I eagerly sat down and began reading the fascinating stories of these beautiful women and their gorgeous hats. Some of them were hilarious. I was impressed with the dignity and pride of many of them. What a great legacy and tradition.
So I went up to my room and took down my big lavender Nordstrom hat box. I dusted off the top and lifted the lid. I took out a cute black and natural straw and put it jauntily on my head. I wore it with a black T-shirt and khaki shorts. And I felt great.
I love hats. I think I will overcome my shyness and wear them more. The Crowned ladies have inspired me.
I had received an email suggesting that I had done a poor job on an article I wrote, and I was pretty upset. I went off to exercise class and Wes went off to yard sales. (Side note: I have found that I do not like to attend yard sales with him. He follows the same route every Saturday, and I would like to try different neighborhoods. And he tends to whip the car around, in what feels to me a very dangerous way, when he sees a Yard Sale sign. And I get bored with them much earlier than he does.)
When I got home, there was a new book waiting for me on the kitchen table: Crowns, which is a photo-essay on African-American women in their Sunday hats. I was so touched. I needed that little gift (which cost a whole dollar). It made me feel loved.
Back when we first moved to the Washington, DC area, we drove down Georgia Avenue on a Sunday. I was fascinated and amazed by the African-American women in their hats and perfectly-coordinated outfits. I had heard of the book, and I had always wanted to read it. I love hats. I have a few, but I hesitate to wear them because I feel I'm calling too much attention to myself.
Anyway, I eagerly sat down and began reading the fascinating stories of these beautiful women and their gorgeous hats. Some of them were hilarious. I was impressed with the dignity and pride of many of them. What a great legacy and tradition.
So I went up to my room and took down my big lavender Nordstrom hat box. I dusted off the top and lifted the lid. I took out a cute black and natural straw and put it jauntily on my head. I wore it with a black T-shirt and khaki shorts. And I felt great.
I love hats. I think I will overcome my shyness and wear them more. The Crowned ladies have inspired me.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A Comfortable Home
I once wrote an article about what makes a house a home. I think that a chiming clock (the kind you wind up, not electronic chimes), the occasional smell of fresh bread baking, and a piece of Belleek china (or some other little thing that is the best quality of its kind) are necessary in every home.
My home means a lot to me. I am home alone for the second day in a row, nursing a head cold and trying not to get a sinus infection. I love being here all by myself. The light came through the skylights in my living room this morning, bathing it in a golden glow. Then came some thundershowers. It was nice to sit here with chocolate and a book, cozy on my comfy couch, with not a lot to do, listening to the clocks mark the hours with their gentle ticking.
A home is a refuge from not just the elements, but the cares of the world. Making it a pleasant and inviting place is not a priority for many people any more, but it still is for me. I know my children like coming back here.
So we continue to do things to make it more enjoyable, attractive, and safe. We have a few landscaping projects to do, and need a new driveway, and we need to get some furniture reupholstered. It will probably never be done, but that's okay. It's home.
My home means a lot to me. I am home alone for the second day in a row, nursing a head cold and trying not to get a sinus infection. I love being here all by myself. The light came through the skylights in my living room this morning, bathing it in a golden glow. Then came some thundershowers. It was nice to sit here with chocolate and a book, cozy on my comfy couch, with not a lot to do, listening to the clocks mark the hours with their gentle ticking.
A home is a refuge from not just the elements, but the cares of the world. Making it a pleasant and inviting place is not a priority for many people any more, but it still is for me. I know my children like coming back here.
So we continue to do things to make it more enjoyable, attractive, and safe. We have a few landscaping projects to do, and need a new driveway, and we need to get some furniture reupholstered. It will probably never be done, but that's okay. It's home.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Time Marches On
I talked to my dear friend Lisa yesterday for almost two hours. She just turned 50. We have known each other since our husbands were undergraduates and she was a law school student in the early eighties. We each had boys a couple of months apart in 1983, then went on to have girls (she had four, I had two). When we moved east in 1984, Lisa and her family moved to New England. Last year, however, she moved back to Los Angeles. (She and her husband, and Wes and I, are all from Southern California.) We have kept in touch for 25 years. It's been very interesting.
When we were young, I'd say things like, "In 20 years, we..." and now it's coming true. We shared stories about frustrating in-laws, kids doing stuff of which we don't approve, turning 50, siblings, aging bodies, books we've read, etcetera. Funny, how inside your head you stay about 25, but the years march on and your body ages. Lisa gets the unvarnished me, and she still likes me. I'm grateful for that!
When we were young, I'd say things like, "In 20 years, we..." and now it's coming true. We shared stories about frustrating in-laws, kids doing stuff of which we don't approve, turning 50, siblings, aging bodies, books we've read, etcetera. Funny, how inside your head you stay about 25, but the years march on and your body ages. Lisa gets the unvarnished me, and she still likes me. I'm grateful for that!
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Endings and Beginnings
For some reason, today my emotions have been very close to the surface. I'm not exactly sure why, except that hormones do another wild dance as women approach menopause, and that may be the cause. It could also be because I am reading a book which brings up a lot of emotions, and I am also writing about raising my children, which is another emotional experience.
We attended the temple with Ethan Tuesday night, and I was once again struck by the profound joy of knowing that no matter what, my children are sealed to me. I am so grateful for that privilege. I love my children even more now than when they were born.
My friend Beverly died last week and her funeral was on Friday. That was not too sad, as Bev suffered for a long time with brain cancer, and her only daughter was grown with three beautiful daughters herself. But the past year has brought a lot of rather stressful experiences for me, which now seem to be coming home to roost.
My youngest child graduated from high school and began college 2500 miles away. Five friends of mine have died, four from cancer. My older daughter got married. My mother's health has deteriorated badly. Add to this crises with our economy and job uncertainty, and I guess it's inevitable that I get emotional.
A particular elder serving in our ward is going home this week, and for some reason this has upset me deeply! Though there have been many elders and sisters move through our ward over the past 22 years, and some I have known better and loved a great deal, but this particular young man has touched my heart in a profound way. I truly feel the Spirit when I talk to him. As I left church this afternoon, I wished him well, and thanked him for his service--and I choked up. Embarrassed, I rushed past him, then turned and said, "Go home, and be a good man." In front of a lot of people, too!
I hope--and in my heart I know--that out there in Utah there must have been someone who felt like that about my son. The young men and women who make such a great sacrifice of time and personal indulgence to serve missions are a tremendous blessing to those whose lives they touch. We need them. The world needs them. Thank you, Elder M. We will miss you.
We attended the temple with Ethan Tuesday night, and I was once again struck by the profound joy of knowing that no matter what, my children are sealed to me. I am so grateful for that privilege. I love my children even more now than when they were born.
My friend Beverly died last week and her funeral was on Friday. That was not too sad, as Bev suffered for a long time with brain cancer, and her only daughter was grown with three beautiful daughters herself. But the past year has brought a lot of rather stressful experiences for me, which now seem to be coming home to roost.
My youngest child graduated from high school and began college 2500 miles away. Five friends of mine have died, four from cancer. My older daughter got married. My mother's health has deteriorated badly. Add to this crises with our economy and job uncertainty, and I guess it's inevitable that I get emotional.
A particular elder serving in our ward is going home this week, and for some reason this has upset me deeply! Though there have been many elders and sisters move through our ward over the past 22 years, and some I have known better and loved a great deal, but this particular young man has touched my heart in a profound way. I truly feel the Spirit when I talk to him. As I left church this afternoon, I wished him well, and thanked him for his service--and I choked up. Embarrassed, I rushed past him, then turned and said, "Go home, and be a good man." In front of a lot of people, too!
I hope--and in my heart I know--that out there in Utah there must have been someone who felt like that about my son. The young men and women who make such a great sacrifice of time and personal indulgence to serve missions are a tremendous blessing to those whose lives they touch. We need them. The world needs them. Thank you, Elder M. We will miss you.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
The Peter Principle
I'm not stupid, but I'm no intellectual heavyweight, either. At least compared to some of my friends and acquaintances. I am fortunate to have had a good education, good parents who encouraged intellectual development above and beyond what they themselves attained, and a wonderful husband whose intelligence and intellectual curiosity have helped me to learn a great deal I might not have, if it weren't for him. (See Brigham's Blog, right.)
I am also the Martha type who fusses and putters around the house, cleaning and cooking. Of course, somebody has to do those things, and because of tradition, inclination, skill, and time, it falls to me rather than my husband. (And yes, I appreciate going to the bank and withdrawing money that his effort, and not mine, put in there.) It's long been my argument that men have been able to be the more prominent thinkers and doers in this world because they have women at home taking care of the necessities of life. I don't much admire Thoreau because while he was at Walden, he lived only 1 1/2 miles from home, his mother did his laundry, and she kept him supplied with food. It was hardly the lonely hardscrabble self-sufficient life Thoreau painted it. I don't think he was trying to mislead his readers; I think he really thought he had it rough and considered the support his family gave him as his due.
But now we come to something I have written about before: my woeful lack of meaningful work experience. I am trying to get to the point where I can earn enough money writing that I can quit my part-time store job. I have been rejected by a couple of places, and the last item I wrote and submitted was returned as all wrong. I panicked: is it the Peter principle finally at work in my life? (The Peter principle is that everyone rises to the level of his incompetence. In other words, at some point you're going to be in over your head.) I asked for some direction from the editor, and he gave it to me. I rewrote the piece, and re-submitted it, but I fear that it is too intellectually lightweight for his website.
So, I am very sad, but what can I do? Rather than bone up on all things political, work my way from the newsroom to the anchor desk, and network at trade association meetings, for the last twenty-five years I've made a home for four other people.
Some women seem to be able to handle all the other stuff as well, but whether by temperament or sheer inability, I was not up to that. I feel like neither fish nor fowl. I am not completely content working a little and making a home, but neither am I able to swim with the bigger fish. Either the Peter principle has kicked in, or I've got a lot of catching up to do. I guess we'll see!
I am also the Martha type who fusses and putters around the house, cleaning and cooking. Of course, somebody has to do those things, and because of tradition, inclination, skill, and time, it falls to me rather than my husband. (And yes, I appreciate going to the bank and withdrawing money that his effort, and not mine, put in there.) It's long been my argument that men have been able to be the more prominent thinkers and doers in this world because they have women at home taking care of the necessities of life. I don't much admire Thoreau because while he was at Walden, he lived only 1 1/2 miles from home, his mother did his laundry, and she kept him supplied with food. It was hardly the lonely hardscrabble self-sufficient life Thoreau painted it. I don't think he was trying to mislead his readers; I think he really thought he had it rough and considered the support his family gave him as his due.
But now we come to something I have written about before: my woeful lack of meaningful work experience. I am trying to get to the point where I can earn enough money writing that I can quit my part-time store job. I have been rejected by a couple of places, and the last item I wrote and submitted was returned as all wrong. I panicked: is it the Peter principle finally at work in my life? (The Peter principle is that everyone rises to the level of his incompetence. In other words, at some point you're going to be in over your head.) I asked for some direction from the editor, and he gave it to me. I rewrote the piece, and re-submitted it, but I fear that it is too intellectually lightweight for his website.
So, I am very sad, but what can I do? Rather than bone up on all things political, work my way from the newsroom to the anchor desk, and network at trade association meetings, for the last twenty-five years I've made a home for four other people.
Some women seem to be able to handle all the other stuff as well, but whether by temperament or sheer inability, I was not up to that. I feel like neither fish nor fowl. I am not completely content working a little and making a home, but neither am I able to swim with the bigger fish. Either the Peter principle has kicked in, or I've got a lot of catching up to do. I guess we'll see!
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
My Career
I have been a stay-at-home mom for 25 years. Oh, I have always done something, such as babysitting, teaching adult education, writing and editing, and working part-time in a store, while raising my kids. I need to be productive in some way, and I have a lot of curiosity about the world that I could never satisfy by simply being at home. I never had to leave my children with a sitter, though. Having gone through that experience myself, I had no desire to inflict it upon my kids. So I took them with me, worked when Daddy was home with them, or worked while they were at school.
So, here I am, over 50, with no career path and no retirement of my own. Don't get me wrong--I know with absolute certainty that I did the right thing. But it's hard to endure the lack of response to my job enquiries. I'm sure a lot of it is because nobody can believe that a woman who graduated from college 30 years ago has anything to offer. Even if there are no gaps, essentially, in her resume.
Let's see: making Halloween costumes and high-school play costumes, while memorable for my kids, isn't doing anything for me. Ditto making all those cinnamon rolls, breads, pies, cookies and other goodies for my family. Not to mention having dinner on the table every night. With vegetables.
Writing and editing nice little essays about home life? Nope, doesn't hold any water, evidently. I'm a good writer and editor, but my work, though published, has mostly been on some pretty lightweight subjects. At a friend's house one evening, I told her husband, a lobbyist, that I was available for freelance work. Oh, he didn't need me. He has a guy on retainer who used to be a chief editor for Advertising Age. I felt like the world's biggest loser when he told me that.
My book on how to dress and conduct oneself? Huh. The one agent I did speak with wanted to know if I had a TV show. The fact that I taught adult education and have over 25 years' experience helping others to get a more professional image means little to literary agents. They want a name people recognize. Sigh.
And all that volunteer work I've done? On committees for our homeowner's association, president of the Drama Boosters at the high school for two years? Fat lot of good that does me. I don't even bother mentioning it.
Granted, I live in the Washington, DC area where power is everything and everyone is truly top-notch. I'm a little guppy swimming with piranha.
Still, in my heart I am deeply content. My older daughter told me recently she and her siblings-in-law were discussing their childhoods. There was nobody, she said, who'd had a happy childhood. But that wasn't true for her. "Couldn't have been better," she said. My son has said the same thing.
Maybe I can't retire on that, but it's worth more than a million to me.
So, here I am, over 50, with no career path and no retirement of my own. Don't get me wrong--I know with absolute certainty that I did the right thing. But it's hard to endure the lack of response to my job enquiries. I'm sure a lot of it is because nobody can believe that a woman who graduated from college 30 years ago has anything to offer. Even if there are no gaps, essentially, in her resume.
Let's see: making Halloween costumes and high-school play costumes, while memorable for my kids, isn't doing anything for me. Ditto making all those cinnamon rolls, breads, pies, cookies and other goodies for my family. Not to mention having dinner on the table every night. With vegetables.
Writing and editing nice little essays about home life? Nope, doesn't hold any water, evidently. I'm a good writer and editor, but my work, though published, has mostly been on some pretty lightweight subjects. At a friend's house one evening, I told her husband, a lobbyist, that I was available for freelance work. Oh, he didn't need me. He has a guy on retainer who used to be a chief editor for Advertising Age. I felt like the world's biggest loser when he told me that.
My book on how to dress and conduct oneself? Huh. The one agent I did speak with wanted to know if I had a TV show. The fact that I taught adult education and have over 25 years' experience helping others to get a more professional image means little to literary agents. They want a name people recognize. Sigh.
And all that volunteer work I've done? On committees for our homeowner's association, president of the Drama Boosters at the high school for two years? Fat lot of good that does me. I don't even bother mentioning it.
Granted, I live in the Washington, DC area where power is everything and everyone is truly top-notch. I'm a little guppy swimming with piranha.
Still, in my heart I am deeply content. My older daughter told me recently she and her siblings-in-law were discussing their childhoods. There was nobody, she said, who'd had a happy childhood. But that wasn't true for her. "Couldn't have been better," she said. My son has said the same thing.
Maybe I can't retire on that, but it's worth more than a million to me.
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