The End of Cute

7/2/2010 –

To punish myself, or just to experiment, I spent the WHOLE day today in a shaper.  A one-piece flesh-colored teddy of an ace bandage with a bra on top.

I was testing theories:

1.  That a woman-of-a-certain-age (woaca)(yes, a pomaw), if she wants to look smashing, needs the correct foundations, even with jeans and a t-shirt. (and it’s really time to 86 the jeans and t-shirt thing anyway)

2.  A woaca should not simply go out of the house in whatever pair of pants happen to be closest to the bed because she fell asleep again  in the clothes she wore all day and eventually peeled them off in the middle of the night and is now in her skivvies but has to drive old-blue-eyes to summer band and might as well stop off at the grocery store while she’s at it in said pants and same top as last night.

3.  That natural is not a kind word for a late-40-something, in fact is a big mistake, and therefore  small attention at least must be paid to painting up that pale but spotty moon face and lining those teeny droopy eyes (but not on the bottom!) when taking the Musician to the doctor at 8 am.  Somewhere during these ablutions jewelry was tried on and vetoed, camisoles came on and came off.  Left side of hair was perfectly blow dried, but perfection was elusive on right side so I just gave up — who needs a real hairdo when you have reading glasses for a headband?

Is this what the beautiful have to do every morning?

As a never-been-beautiful, I have to say that I’m the laziest girl in the world when it comes to my looks.   I do not say this to fish for compliments.  I know what I am and I’ve come to terms with it somewhat.  I have always sort of relied on sort-of-cute, sort of.  But I’m feeling a shift.

As an addicted knitter and avid Ravlery user, I have downloaded and “favorited” dozens of adorable sweaters, empire waisted, smock-y, short-sleeved, lacy, whatever.  I start sweaters, then immediately frog them.  I make another pair of socks or shawl, take a deep breath, and start looking through my queue again.  Ruffly, off the shoulder, cropped.  (Is it my imagination, or are the majority of knitters size 2, 24 yr old bio chemical engineers with a minor in Ancient Macedonian Cave Drawing? ) But lately it’s occurred to me.  I can’t wear any of these sweaters.

I am no longer cute.

So I tortured myself all day to see if I could become the mature woman I’ve aged into.  Nothing doing.  It was misery.  It’s misery in a party dress to wear all those foundation garments.  With capris (and perish the thought, I had no business in those either) and a tank top, it’s purgatory.  As an equally big fan of the show, Mad Men, I thought it was the least I could do to take a little care of my appearance if those women can endure that much equipment just to go to work every morning (and look fabulous — who wouldn’t want to look like Joan?).  But it was not meant to be.  My spirit is willing but my flesh is weak –  seriously tetchy by the end of the day in a justifiable homocide of innocent victims way.  No wonder women gave all of this up.  Today’s standards of casual dress are pretty terrible for both men and women but there’s got to be a happy medium.

Meanwhile, there’s the end of cute.  Forever.  I am very sad.  It was usually worth a flirt or two.  For me, without cute, there’s only the invisibility cloak to wear (although as a writer, this is a great way to be an observer).   And what sweaters am I going to knit now?

I think I feel another shawl coming on.

 

Snarky vs. the Artful Blogger

Just bought my first copy of a beautiful magazine ($14.99! yeesh!) called Artful Blogging.  It was just as I feared. This magazine and its bloggers are artful.

But I am just snarky.  I can’t help it.

These (mostly) women are doing beautiful work – parenting, photography, women-healing-camps (not quite sure what that one is yet), cooking, knitting and crocheting and crafting.  And these kinds of blogs are my guilty pleasure.  I follow a dozen or more of them daily and faithfully and they always make me happy.  The ones about kids remind me of how much fun it was to be home doing stuff with my little ones — and how much creative stuff we really did and enjoyed it, but dang, no one was blogging about it at the time!   Or taking pictures — never had a working camera anyway.  They are twee and warm and make me want to get out my camera now.  The ones about crafting, etc. are also well-done and beautiful.

But…

Oh dear.  I’m having a bit of trouble finding the humor in them.  Where’s the irony?  Where’s the http://shitmykidsruined.com/ pictures that look like my life?  Where are the always-always-always dishes in the sink and the petri dish dirty bathrooms?   The squatters-in-a-crack-house bedrooms?  Why don’t I feel like talking about my blessings, my creativity, my art?  Look, I”m a blessing-counter.  Oh, big time.  I appreciate my life like nobody’s business.  I have a wonderful husband family friends neighbors.  I have nice things.  We’ve survived a year of 150% unemployment (that’s 100% for the DH and 50% for me) and you can still crack me up anytime.  And I think what these sites have on them is amazing.  Some of it painstaking.  Or worse, not painstaking, just how easily they do things, which means there’s no hope.

Is there  hope for a snarky, would-be artful blogger?   I suspect these bloggers are wonderfully human in real life.  Maybe even snarky.

Baby Boy — now 11 & 3/4 so I really need another moniker for him — and I are embarking on a mission to “redo” the  house (cosmetically, anyway) by the day they go back to school next August.  Maybe this can lead to some artful blogging.  It will definitely lead to some snark.

 

When the going gets tough, the tough…knit

(dated 2/11/10)

And Knit and Knit and Knit.

Since January 1 I have knit:  3 pairs of mittens, 4 washclothes, 2 pair of intricate lace top-down socks, one lacy scarf/shawl, and crocheted 18 inches of a retro striped afghan and one large market type bag to stash yarn in.  I have a cardigan, 2 more shawls (because who doesn’t need shawls?), another pair of socks, and an IPod Touch Cover queued up just waiting for the finishing touches to go on to a couple of the above projects.

Can you say denial?  This is the equivalent of Nero fiddling while Rome burns.  The house is a mess.  Really a mess.  There are mice to catch.  There are umpteen practical projects to be done.  There is a wedding to plan.  There is a writing career to start.  3 committees at 2 schools.  There are graduate school applications to fill out.  There are children that need supervising.  Oh, did I mention that I should be looking for a job?

 

Not “temp”ted-to-hire

For all of you that have lost your jobs recently, or not so recently, you are not alone.   Take heart and keep trying — you will find something.  It’s ugly out there, but keep on looking for the bright spots (novenas help).  You may be tempted by temping,and it can be a good stop-gap (see future blogs).  But beware…

Once again, I find myself not chosen to “stay” at a company, although I was assured it was a temp-to-hire position.  Don’t want to get into the details, because they are tedious and slightly but endurably embarrassing  but it’s been quite an epiphany.   Now it’s time for a re-examination of what the hell I’m doing with my life;  although I have had a semi-successful run at temping for the past 1-1/2 years, I am starting to get itchy for a company to want me badly enough to hire me.  Me, off of my own resume, based on my skills and experience, not pre-screened by the temp agency, not for a “try out” , but on my own steam.  I’m very lucky to have the luxury to wait it out (I don’t actually, but…) and I’d love to hear any temping stories positive or negative.

For all you once-and-former temps out there, here are my observations:

1.  I have to remind myself I left the “job-before-temping” voluntarily (regrettably,  there were  problems, financial and otherwise, or I wouldn’t have left).  That job taught me some valuable skills in an unfortunately very specific industry; translating these to the broader outside work world is not so easy and I was too lazy and unschooled in current corporate-speak to figure out how.  Which leads me to:

2.  I went to the temp agency as the easy way out. Temp agencies, as anyone who’s done it knows,  are almost all willing to talk to you initially –I think because of recruiting quotas on their part — so you are spared the humiliation of 100′s of resumes and applications sent out and ignored or rejected.  I was game for maybe one or two days of dozens of  internet applications/resume uploads before I threw up my hands and said “how dare they ignore me” and called the temp agency.  Endurance is not my strong point — my DH has literally sent out 100′s of resumes and filled out 100′s of applications and endured a dozen or so interviews over the course of the last year of unemployment without so much as a pout. That is  grace under fire.

3.  I’ve learned to have only contempt for companies that use the “temp-to-hire” ploy to find good workers.  The temp agency pre-screens them, tests them (typing! Computer skills!  Background checks!  Drugs!), vouches for them, sends them with loads of experience, and pays them.  In turn, the companies are spared the trouble and (vast?) expense of hiring a real employee.  But when the going gets tough, or they’re not sure about you, even after months (and by some reports I’ve heard, even years) of hard work and hoop-jumping  and ass-kissing, they can fire their “temp-to-hire” at the drop of a hat.  The last one I endured never spoke one word of criticism, no positive or negative feedback, even when asked directly, but called my rep 5 minutes after I was out the door on a Friday — yes, she even wished me a “good weekend” — and told him my services were no longer needed.  I’m convinced that temp-to-hire situations make bad managers worse — it’s a passive-aggressive situation if you are a manager too weak and cowardly to deal constructively with underlings, especially ones as questionably human as temps.

4.  If your future boss and co-workers idly question why anyone would work temps, run for your life.

5.  If you think your future boss and co-workers are not forthcoming with such minor details as a job description, run for your life.

6.  If said boss leaves you to the supervision of the person who thinks you might be replacing her; if the boss interviews someone for your job right in front of you; if the company “accidentally” posts your job on their website, your days are numbered.

7.   When you are feeling suicidal and have the sneaky suspicion that you are useless and incompetent, talk to your friends and loved ones.  They believe in you!!!  I thought my latest situation was weird and doomed and no one to whom I told the outcome was surprised and didn’t say the same thing:  “Aw, screw them!”  Nice to hear them say it.   Actually, every one of them also said the following thing:  “Don’t do this again.” Without my prompting them.  Meaning, why the hell are you doing temps, anyway?  My DB (that’s darling brother, btw) said something to the effect of:  how are you supposed to do a job well when you are obviously over-qualified for it?  Say what?  My thought has always been, if I’m overqualified, I should be able to do it with my eyes closed.  But, since he’s the family genius, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 

New Title Here!

“We came up with some names for the band.” “Yeah ? Hit me.” “The Bumblebees ?” “No, it’s sissy.”  ” The Koala Bears?” “What are you talking about ? It’s sissy.”…”Pig Rectum?”*

Thanks for checking me out — I appreciate your input!

I have planned to blog so many times since, but more important life things kept getting in the way.  Just when I was going to post a detailed treatise on the feng shui of “taking back my closet” and painting it candy-colors from the ’80′s (that was an accident, but I still LOVE it), ordering matching cool fabric (from purlsoho.com, oh dear, my latest obsession) to make curtains for it — many closets in the house have windows go figure, and then posting elegant pictures to document it all, the earthquake in Haiti hit.  So horrifying and heartbreaking.  I have nothing intelligent to say about Haiti, but really, who cares about my closet?

More recently, I discovered Jungle Jewels on Facebook and have now found even more ways to flush away the important hours of my life (and not blog), helping neither global concerns nor local concerns (Mom, WHAT_IS_FOR_DINNER?).  I am desperately trying to move out of the Number 4 spot among my friended players.  Who knows how many better players there are out in the universe?  What is their secret???

There are some bright spots here though.  My neighbor/fellow writer and I have recently joined a local Writers Group.  So far so good, the people are great, we’re pretty much all in the same boat, and it’s got me constantly thinking of, and yes, practicing, writing again.  Non-threatening, not pretentious, some good writing, I think everyone so far just wants to do the same as I do.  Stop talking about writing and start doing it.  This morning is our second foray.

Still, my blog needs a new title and I just can’t seem to come up with it.  I’m not feeling particularly clever, I’m fresh out of irony, my name isn’t interesting enough to use as a play on words.  My son’s band recently changed its name (from Serious Business, which we all loved, to Write What You Know, which we hated at first but is now totally growing on me) and we spent endless hours around the dinner table coming up with possible new ones.  Evidently, it’s a lot easier to do for other people — and judging from the band’s name change, what an arbitrary process.

So, watch this space.  As Elizabeth Zimmerman, esteemed goddess of knitting, said, and this is a technique I use all the time, when you’re about to do something difficult and fiddle-y and frustrating, take yourself into a quiet corner with good light and FOCUS and work it out.

*School of Rock

 

“What you once were isn’t what you want to be anymore…” *

( “A Shot in the Arm” by Jeff Tweedy)

The title of this blog may change at some time.  In fact, at the rate that I have been reading sweet and positive and  homespun blogs these days, (wee babes– that’s how they say it –  in slings, urban homesteading, lots of beautifully photographed food and flowers and sunsets)  it seems downright hostile, and truth be told, it is.  It came to me (and stuck to me) during a period of bleak and unremitting pissed-off-ness.  I was unemployed, though employment had been no picnic; I was ugly, perimenopausal, irritated with my husband, inundated with a large crowd of children who were always in need of my cheerfulness, looking at 46 (at the time) with about 35 (now 50) extra pounds, a wreck of a house, no career, reduced to wondering how to beef up my typing speed, not having done one thing (I told myself) that I ever wanted to do with my life and wondering how I could have made so many mistakes, one on top of another, that had gotten me to this lowly state.  It was such a good word, so pronounceable, that even my kids picked up on it.  Po-maw.  You could include my lovely mother and aunts in its acronym family — Poow (Pissed Off Old Women); you could drop the pissed off when you were feeling perkier and just be a Maw.  My son suggested that I gather my Pomaw cousins and friends and form a middle aged punk ska riot grrrl band — the Pomaws.  My daughter, who has been working in retail, regales us nightly with “Whacky Pomaw Stories” — women who come in to her store and stamp their shaky, New Balance sneakers-shod,  pissed-off feet demanding that they be listened to, avenged, and returned their $8.95  because “THAT JUST ISN’T ACCEPTABLE!” (whatever that happens to be, usually some thwarted scheme to get free handsoap)(I say give them the money and get them the hell away from my precious daughter — you never know when one will snap  — surely they themselves deserve all the misery they are foisting on unsuspecting retail clerks)  Pomaws do abound.  We may be good looking or unkempt, fat or skinny, obnoxiously loud or hiding in a corner, well dressed (the worst) or badly dressed (almost as bad), rich or broke.  But we seem to be very pissed off.  As mad as we wanna be.

I decided to write about this descent.  I wrote an essay about the demise of an important and cherished friendship that helped fuel — or was fuelled by — my pomaw-dom (wouldn’t think of going public with that one but it was kind of cathartic). I wrote about becoming so  invisible as a woman that a middle aged man (MAM?) invited me to girl-watch with him (that one might bear working on). I wrote about shoddy dismissive  working situations for back-to-work homemakers that turns them into…pomaws.  I kvetched and crowed out my clever acronym to anyone who would listen.  Everyone agreed that they too were pomaws.  Well, kind of.

Funny (and quite predictable) thing happened.  I hit a wall on the whole Pomaw thing.  I read back through all that vitriol and realized it just sounded whiny and pathetic and hostile and self-pitying.  I saw my household of sweet  husband and 4 amazing gorgeous talented and mostly sweet kids (aren’t yours?) for what they are (the light of my life and the reason I get up in the morning)  I got a sort of decent job (lost it, but that was ok).  I cleaned up the house a bit so I wasn’t so filled with self-loathing over it.  I started to savor what I had — the people around me, the days, the nights, even — gasp — the great outdoors.  I started to knit like a mad woman.  I found old and new friends on Facebook.  What ever it was, it helped.

So now I’m no longer Pissed Off.  Well, not as a title anyway.  There is plenty of real stuff to get pissed off about — war and suffering, politics, religion,  the Real Housewives series’.  But  I’m definitely a middle aged woman.  So this will be a rumination on life as a closer-to-fifty-than-forty-something, and what that means to me.  I read, I knit, I cook, I hang out with my husband and kids, I talk endlessly with my mom and my two dear cousins (I occasionally do things with people I’m not related to, but very seldom!  Gotta get out more). I listen to music.   I work occasionally, fitfully.  I’m interested in doing more writing, doing it seriously as I’d always meant to; crafting, gardening,  raising children that are tenderhearted and intelligent, living more simply.  These are things I roll my eyes at publicly because they are now big business – in the bookstores and in the blogosphere –  but I think they were always dear to me and I have always done them or tried to.   It’s just that this new thoughtful generation of poet grrrls (and boys) have identified and articulated it so well (or at least they make it public and bearable and attractive)  Or maybe we’ve all discovered it.

So, the title here may change.  Perhaps I will call this How to de-Pomaw.  We shall see.