Cranky Middle Aged People in a Millennial World

A friend recently shared a link to an article about no one wanting our parents' things when they downsize or die.  Yep, I knew that already! At this point in my life, I don't even want my own stuff.

What troubled me about the article was not that the next generation doesn't value the material items older generations have accumulated -- I get it, it's not their stuff -- but that the poster's sentiment was so bitter.  She was lamenting how things change with a very old school "get off my lawn" attitude.  She's one of many of my fellow Gen X’ers who hear a favorite old restaurant or bar they haven’t been to in years is closing and immediately adopt the stance that everything good ends, change is bad and “kids today” don’t appreciate the past.  The really scary part is that she's actually a year or two younger than I am. 

Change is hard.  But, when we stop embracing change, learning and moving forward, we stagnate.  Every generation FOREVER has criticized the next about lifestyle, fashion, work ethic, etc., but I think there's a lot to be shared and learned from both my position of experience and a millennial’s relative business innocence and fresh perspective.  Sure, they may approach business in a way I’m not used to but it doesn't mean they aren’t smart or could be one idea away from an innovation that will shake things up for years.

Ironically, at the same time I find myself shrinking from my less open-minded peers – the ones who poo poo the “kids today” -- I’ve also found that quite a few of those innovators and entrepreneurs who have real decision-making power (at an age when I was still figuring it out), are just as closed-minded as my peers about the value the previous generation can bring to the table in business.

Instead of looking at people over 50…or 40 even…as stale and old school, shouldn't the goal be to have the smartest people in the room backing up the leaders at all times?  Experience, when pertinent and current, should be grabbed and used to its full potential to help everyone succeed.  Sometimes the smartest one in the room is twice as old as the guy on the other side of the open plan, shared workspace table who is calling the shots.  And sometimes, it’s a fresh recruit, just getting a foot in the door.  Good ideas and smart people are not limited by age. 

I’m pretty flexible when it comes to the means to achieve an end. I’m not stuck in the past nor married to anachronistic ideas of how things should work.  I’m annoyed by people who can’t change. I’m 53 and I’m one of the smartest guys in the room some days because I’m lucky enough to work where my experience and expertise are appreciated.  I wish everyone had the opportunity to shine, regardless of age. 

Did you really just try to insult me into sleeping with you?

After work late last summer, I met a girlfriend at a hotel bar where we drank wine, ate goat cheese and talked about all the important things -- the state of her career, the state of my career, the state of her love life, the state of my liver, the deliciousness of the wine and cheese, the state of her love life, how much we love cheese in general and wine in particular, etc...  After a while, we got tired of paying the midtown prices and talking about cheese. We decided to head back to Brooklyn for a more relaxed atmosphere and cheaper drinks.  Little did we know that we would encounter a phenomenon neither of us had witnessed before. It was to be a night of discovery.

We headed to a local bar that collects quite a diverse crowd and feels comfortable. Sometimes it's a gay bar. Sometimes it's a dance bar. Sometimes it seems like a swinging key party from the 70s! It's almost always fun. This night, there was a birthday party, a mix of strange regulars and normal regulars, a few lesbians and for once, a couple of young single guys I didn't recognize.  As my friend and I sat at a table in the garden, one of the young men approached and started talking to us. He was tallish, probably 6'1", dark haired, sparkling eyes, in good shape and fairly articulate.  And by young, I mean at least 15 years my junior, possibly still cutting his wisdom teeth.  I asked if he was flirting with my friend or me and he pulled a truly horrified expression and said, "You're a lesbian." DING!

Oh how we laughed at that one! I am not a lesbian. Quite the opposite -- I love men. Always have. Always will.  So I asked Tom (name NOT changed, fuck him) why he was so sure I was gay and he alluded to my short haircut not being very feminine. DING! My friend and I had another good chuckle over the hair comment and then I informed him that I was indeed straight. He chatted a bit longer then sort of wandered off, possibly because I kept teasing him about his mistake. 

As we moved around the bar, we ran into Tom repeatedly over the course of the evening. Each time, I smiled or laughed or called out for him to let me know if there were any hot chicks I should be hitting on. He didn't really say very much. But then, as we stood on the sidewalk while my friend smoked, he came out and started chatting again. "You're very curvy. You have a big ass." DING! He wasn't talking to my friend. He got closer to me. "I know it's kind of weird and surprising and I don't know why but I think you're hot." DING! "I've never been with a woman as BIG as you." DING! "I'm a personal trainer - I could handle it. Do you even work out?" DING!  "I mean, you're like my mom's age." DING!

I found it funny that this boy was so appalled by his attraction to me. He was insulting me and obviously ashamed of his attraction but then he went for it, "You should come home with me and let me try navigating those dangerous curves." And, he was serious. "Aren't you afraid a woman as huge as I am would break your bed or crush your pelvis?" I asked. "No. It's got a steel frame and I'm strong." DING! "I'm going now. Are you coming?" I told him I still had an almost full beer on the bar but to give me his address and I'd be along shortly. He told me the address and gave me details of which door, etc.  My friend and I walked back into the bar and Tom stuck his head in for one last jab, "Could you hurry. I have a dentist appointment in the morning and I don't want to be up all night." DING!  I said I'd be right behind him and winked. Of course I had no intention of getting off my bar stool to follow this pompous little fuck home. How dare he insult me and try to get me to sleep with him at the same time! We laughed about it, ordered another beer and both went home alone. I did not stop on Union Street. I went directly home, still shaking my head over what a strange encounter it had been.

When I told someone about the encounter with Tom, how he'd dinged me at least 9 times, he said, "You've been negged!" Negged? What is that?  How did I not know of this? So I Googled it and it came right up.  Negging is a way of picking up women by undermining their confidence.  Urban Dictionary has several explanations here:  
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=negging

You are gay. You are fat. You are old. You are not worth my time. FUCK ME?!?

OMG! It all made sense. I was the target of an intentional (and failed) negging!           
The problem for Tom, and the reason he failed, was that at my advanced age, I am secure enough in who I am, how I look and the fact that I don't need some young dumb guy's attention to make myself feel like an attractive woman. 

But, I think back to my younger days, when I wasn't as confident, when I was bigger and insecure and I wonder...

I am not the next Master Chef.

I've just returned from my first ever reality TV show audition! No matter how funny and engaging people say I am -- and some do, really -- I am not in the same league as those who actually make it onto reality TV and frankly, I'm ok with that.

I realized I was in the wrong place fairly early in the experience and could have turned around and gone home but I'd cooked the food and made the trek, bleary eyed and slightly hungover, early on a chilly Saturday morning. I was going to see it through!  Here's how it went down:

7:36 - Arrive at Flatotel in midtown Manhattan carrying carefully packaged food and all implements needed to plate it in a hurry.  Yay. There's a parking lot directly next to the hotel. The line of contestants isn't very long but, it's also not inside and I'm not wearing a coat.

8:00 - A production assistant starts taking names and giving out numbers. I am #115 but I think they start at #90, so not bad at all.  I later learn that the first guy in line got there at 3am, his name is Christopher and he's both a martial artist and a drummer.

8:00 - 8:45 - Wait. Chat with my new best friend, #114, who kindly sends her sister to Starbucks to get us coffee. Try to stay warm. Chat with #116 and her boyfriend, who've come up from Delaware and are making a weekend of it. We discuss our dishes and it seems I'm in between two raw tuna dishes. Interesting. I thought this this was a cooking show, right?  Already getting annoyed with the guy in the Mickey Mouse shirt with the very pronounced Queens accent for being too... I don't know...too everything. Occasional updates from production assistants.

8:50 - Producer with thick Liverpool accent and a bull horn announces that they are going to start shooting the opening sequence with Joe Bastianich when he arrives at 9. Instructions are given and we are moved down the street and told to pick up a supplied sign if we want.  I couldn't get there fast enough to grab Graham Elliot's blown up head so I decide to forgo the sign.  Ooooh, the shiny show logo is mounted on a plexiglass stand in the middle of the sidewalk. Kind of cool.

9:00 - Joe arrives and we are instructed to spread out so we seem to fill the sidewalk -- perhaps they were anticipating more people for the crowd shots. Those with signs must hold them up high and everyone must chant "Mas-ter Chef! Mas-ter Chef!" as we march forward. Fist pumping is optional but heartily encouraged.  

9:15 - 3-2-1 and GO! We march forward chanting, swarming past Joe as he leans on the plexiglass thing with the logo and speaks directly to the camera. The boom moves and captures the joy on the faces of those marching and chanting.

9:19 -  3-2-1 and do it again, this time with more feeling, louder and swarm around Joe more.

9:25 - Everyone spread out again -- fill the sidewalk. People are hand-picked to stand around Joe while he says, "New York" over and over. PAs fret that New Yorkers wear too much black and they want colorful people.  "You're in black" says one to me as she passes me over for the prime Joe adjacency.  I am wearing a light brown t-shirt, a light grey sweater, a light blue scarf and jeans. Hmmmm. Perhaps black means something else in TV land or maybe I'm just not the look they want.

9:40 - Finished shooting the opening sequence, we're back in line and they want us in order. I re-join my long lost friends, #114 and #116 and tell them how dorky I feel having just participated in something so corny. Everyone is starting to get excited and listens when the producer tells us how it's going to work. 30 people will be ushered into the tasting room. We will have 3 minutes to plate our food. A food judge will probably taste it. Joe will walk around and say hello and ask about our dishes. A PA from casting will interview us. Once our score cards are face down, we are not to pick them up or touch them. If we do, it's automatic disqualification.

10:00 - We're in -- at least the first 30 of us! I am finally warm. #114 has had to urinate for the last 40 minutes but decided to hold it, no matter how painful it is.  I get my stuff out, ready to plate and they say, GO!

10:00 - 10:02 - Dump my pasta into a bowl, pour the hot water from the Thermos on it (YES, it's still practically boiling), strain the pasta, put it in the bowl, spoon the ragu on top neatly (YES, it's still steaming), place the dollop of ricotta dead center, sprinkle pre-chopped mint, add fresh ground pepper and then the whole mint leaf garnish. Wipe the edge of the bowl. Done...and there's still 1 minute left. Damn, I'm good.

And then we wait and I totally lose track of time. Mickey Mouse shirt is asked about his food first. It appears to be a grilled chicken sandwich on a store bought potato roll with what he calls "special sauce" he made with pre-packaged pickling spices.  I hate him.  #116 rolls her eyes. She understands. #114, keeps shifting her weight ...doing the "I have to pee" dance but won't ask a producer if it's ok to dash out.  PAs come and take our pictures and pictures of our food. I am almost freaked out by #114's dish. It makes no sense... raw tuna rolled in pepper and sliced with curried apricots on top and grilled asparagus fanned out. It actually looks disgusting and doesn't smell good. #116 has made sushi. It's pretty.

Joe comes in with the camera crew and says hello to each contestant and asks about their dishes. When he gets to me, he says hello and uses my name (nice touch) asks what I've made and says he loves lamb ragu and asks if it's something I've made before. Yes, yes it is, Joe. It's that good. And that's it. He moves on to #114, picks up a fork and pokes her apricot and asks what it is with a somewhat dismayed look on his face. It seems like I got less time, and they didn't video me. Hmmmm. 

Finally the food judge comes. She asks about my dish and how I transported it, kept it hot. She takes a forkful of the ragu and then goes back in for another bite, this time with the pasta. She says it's really delicious. Makes a note on my scorecard and goes. Then comes back and recommends to one of the PAs that if she wants pasta, she should eat mine because it's really that good. Hmmm, I guess I didn't do too shabby. Then the casting PA comes and does a perfunctory interview, cuts me off mid-sentence with "thank you" and walks away. I'm getting the sense I'm not fitting in here.

The food judges leave the room to deliberate and then the producer announces the contestants that should stay for the next round. Goodbye Mickey Mouse and your stupid sandwich. Goodbye #114 - it was nice to meet you but man, that food looked horrible. I am in the group of 12 to move on! We are shepherded to another room and then 6 of us are called in to yet another room to talk with the casting director and her assistant. We stand behind the blue line and are asked questions.

First guy is a character -- It's Christopher, the drumming martial artist who is also a 9/11 responder, and has multiple meaningful tattoos we get to see when he whips off his shirt. Second guy is a character too -- he has an orange stuffed with something brown infused with tea. He's working on chicken infused tea and does a rap to help us remember how to say "mouth" in Mandarin. Christopher joins in by beat boxing during the rap! Shave side of the head girl is next with her sad story of her premature infant (who is now 5 and fine) and how they said she'd never have another kid. She overcame the odds and had another and is a very happy stay at home mom at the age of 26 who needs multiple corrective surgeries for adhesions. She makes ice cream. Next is ToniAnne - yes, both names. She lost 155 pounds and is engaged. She is also well over 40 and gets considerably less time than the first 3. Lastly, a girl tells of her parents divorce and how her father isn't her father which was pretty obvious because both her parents are African-American and she's "this" as she gestures to herself, indicating that she is mixed.  Luckily she met her biological father 3 weeks before he died (confirming that he is white) and because of her hard scrabble childhood she has a dream to open a place called Chocolate Plan (I thought she said Chocolate Land and was kind of excited at first) where poetry is performed and people who are poor eat on Sundays for free. Unfortunately, Chocolate Plan will be in Virginia where she lives so I will never get to see it.

And then there's me... I am boring.  I cannot beat box. I was not raised by a single mother. I do not speak Chinese or have adhesions. I crack a joke about lack of self esteem that goes over like a lead balloon. So I stand there, uncomfortable in the company of people I initially thought were buffoons, wondering why I am even here and completely unable to put up the bullshit that I know will win them over.

I am dismissed, along with ToniAnne. Maybe if I had rapped or told of my inability to have a second child, the ensuing failed fertility treatments, my father's untimely death and how it has informed everything I have done since and especially my cooking, I would have made it through.  But that isn't the truth - I have not been crippled and I have not been driven by the negatives in my life. And, I know that I am lucky not to have the stories that others did as part of my personal narrative. I don't want to be chosen for being over-the-top or sad or just plain obnoxious.   

I wanted them to like my food, and they did. 

Lists!

I have been out of work for 10 whole business days and have been keeping a log of everything that I have done. And by that I mean everything productive that I have done not necessarily all my exploits (that's for an anonymous blog later).  After reviewing the numbered, checked and crossed out lists in my little spiral notebook, I've come to a few conclusions I'd like to share (in the form of a list, of course):

1) I'm very good at ignoring the elephant in the room.  Yes, I sold shoes on eBay but hey, I haven't made that appointment with the financial planner about the 401k roll over and life insurance yet. And, no, I haven't confirmed who is coming to Thanksgiving and where everyone is staying even though I'm hosting. Ooops. That wasn't on the list. Crap.


2) I cannot legitimately answer the question, "Is the gym crowded at mid-day?" because I haven't been (except to take the kid to swimming and sign her up for classes) even though it has been  on the list since day 1. I have been walking instead and I've lost a few
pounds -- probably from skipping midtown restaurant lunches and less booze.

3) The first few days with a list in hand are the most productive. All the crossing off feels good at first but as time passes, one can lose focus. There's a definite pattern that can be traced Monday - Friday and then the list is abandoned on weekends entirely. Rewriting a list to exclude the completed tasks makes it seem less impressive. Best to keep adding to the original.

4) I can tell the lazy days by the stretching I did on the "completed" list. Did I really need to write down that I walked the dog twice? Oh, and groceries -- it's a daily occurrence. "Called to make an appointment" isn't the same as actually making an appointment and getting to it but hey, I called, didn't I? Moved the car shouldn't even be on there, right?

5) I might have a touch of OCD.


Rather than focusing on what I haven't done though, I think it's time to look at the more important crossed out items. What I have accomplished so far and how it is setting me up for the next few weeks:

-Three versions of my resume updated and ready to go.
-Several cover letters that can be customized easily.
-150 new LinkedIn connections. 
-3 professional groups joined.
-Two head hunters on board.
-Temp agency contacted.
-I'm in Google's career database.
-Career transition service contacted/forms filled out.
-Seven jobs applied for online.

Hmmm, that seems like a lot for only day 2 of my legitimate job search week. I think I will go to the gym -- something else to cross off the list.

FIREBOMB THE WHOLE THING AND BE DONE WITH IT

My husband will freely attest to the fact that it drives me crazy to look around my house and see that THERE ISN'T A SINGLE FLAT SURFACE WITHOUT SOMETHING 
ON IT!

When I woke up that first day of being jobless the plan was to make a list and stick to it. I've made progress but not as much as I would like. One of the major tickets on my agenda is to de-clutter. Now, there's a lot of clutter around here. The bigger the apartment, the more crap one accumulates.  We've got about 2,000 square feet over two floors plus a basement so I was already behind the 8-ball on the whole clutter issue. Not to mention, I have a 9-year old who brings home anything she finds on the street, uses all her money to buy more toys and never wants to get rid of anything (blog on bad parenting to follow). And on top of that, I've just added 4 large moving boxes, 21 framed objets, a box of posters, an archival print and a plant stand that had previously resided in my office.

The plan with the clutter is to get rid of it all, including memorabilia, gold/platinum records, collectible gifts, awards programs, books and all the other stuff I brought home. That's right -- I am cold! I will suffer no emotional attachment to things! They are just things.  I must be clinical in my actions and follow a strict rule of thumb:  If I haven't used it in two years, if my daughter outgrew it or doesn't play with it, if it came from my office and I don't have a place for it at home, if it's broken, if I find something in a shelf or drawer that I didn't even know was there -- it's going!

There are several options for getting rid of stuff with perceived value in my neck of the woods. 1) eBay; 2) stoop sale (Brooklyn equivalent of a yard or garage sale); 3) give it to friends;  4) consignment store; 5) charity and if none of that works then leave it on the street on trash night and it will either be taken within a couple of hours or end up being thrown in the back of the truck by New York's Strongest.

The problem with de-cluttering is that the socially conscious and fiscally responsible methods (i.e. getting a little ROI) of disposing of your stuff are very time-consuming and frankly, annoying.

Trying to be charitable, I carried the two very heavy bags of clothing to the car, sat in 1/2 hour of traffic, parked the car, carried the bags another block to Goodwill and found they weren't open yet. I had to wait 20 minutes past their scheduled opening time for someone to accept my donation and give me a blank receipt for tax purposes. If they'd had a donation bin, I would have forgone the receipt anyway.

I sold two pair of shoes on eBay -- luckily to the same big-footed woman -- and as I was shipping them in a free Priority Mail box, for a flat rate and patting myself on the back for beating the line at the post office, the clerk mentioned that I needed to fill out a customs form so I had to leave the line, fill out the form, decide how I should list the items (gift? merchandise?), put a value on them, decide to insure or not and then return to the evil stares of the people at the front of the line who obviously thought I was queue jumping. Who knew shipping to an APO required a customs form? All that for $40? REALLY.

I used to joke that when my mother died, I'd firebomb her trailer rather than having to sort and get rid of all her stuff. Kind of like "What's Eating Gilbert Grape?" except my mom is really skinny and wants to be buried not burned -- also, my brother is no Johnny Depp.   Now I find I need to sort my own stuff, and my kid's stuff and my husband's stuff and dispose of it properly.

After wheeling my red old lady cart down to the Red Hook post office today to mail a 20.8 pound set of Time-Life books to a guy in Beaufort, SC for the measly amount of $20, I'm re-thinking the whole concept of "responsible disposition" of my stuff. Trash night is tonight but... I'm going out for drinks with a friend and don't want to get all sweaty dragging junk to the curb before we hit the bar.

Looks like there's going to be a good stoop sale on Henry Street next weekend. Just sayin'

Foxy Lady!

When I was a teenager, one of my best friends had a black cap-sleeved t-shirt with a glitter transfer that said Foxy Lady in a very sort of 70s style script.  I have a photo of her on Harford Road wearing that shirt, possibly sporting a perm, with a really sassy look on her face. Some day I'll dig it out and scan it so her kids can enjoy it as much as I do. Even though we were 15-year old Catholic school girls, we knew that our non-uniform clothes made a statement. If she wore a Foxy Lady t-shirt then she was definitely a foxy lady (even though we didn't get the musical reference at the time). Her clothes just yelled it for the world and the 15-year old boys who didn't know a good thing when they saw it.  As a tall fat awkward teenager, I was never one who wore the attention getting clothes. My black glitter transfer shirt said, "Nature's way of saying hi" and featured a pot leaf (we didn't get that reference at the time either).

About 30 years later, so just a couple of years ago, I lost a lot of weight. On the way down the scale, I started trying to dress more fashionably, wear make-up regularly and hopefully have a look that represented how I felt inside -- f'ing great and getting better! No more mom jeans with baggy shirts, sweaters and New Balance sneakers! Time to get fashionable.  There were a few mistakes -- leggings (!?!?) a colleague said were "worse than sporting camel toe," a body hugging orange dress (not THAT bad) and a few others -- but mostly, I was developing a style that was modern and youthful without being too trendy or young (and yes, I cribbed that from a friend who is a professional stylist) and it worked for the music industry and advertising and my status in the office and outside. I invested in good pieces (on sale), designer names (on sale), a fashionable coat (on sale), boots (full retail) and Spanx and wore them well.

When I would walk to work from the subway wearing one of my put together just right outfits, I sometimes felt like strutting. God! It felt good to be dressed well and know that I looked good.  Walking down 56th Street every morning with music blasting through my ear buds, sunglasses on I often felt about 7' tall. And, I'm not above mentioning that on some days I turned heads. Not bad for an old plus-sized broad, I thought!

Even after the hammer came down and I knew the date of my last strut to work, I continued to dress the part. I think it helped me through the last few emotional weeks at work. I held my head high and wore my dresses cut low. And, when that gentleman ran up the street to catch me, fell into step and said I was beautiful and he had to talk to me and asked if he could take me to dinner, it definitely kept me going a few more days. I even said to him, "I guess you liked the swing of my skirt." A few nights later I was out with friends after one of my last days of work. When a 30'ish personal trainer tried to pick me up (a funny story best reserved for another post) I mentally thanked Michael Kors for that fantastic snake-print pencil skirt and Steve Madden for the perfect boots that gave me the confidence to look big-dumb-drunk-but-very-handsome guy squarely in his baby blues and turn him down*.

Now I've been out of work for a full week. I haven't put on a dress or a skirt. I've worn jeans and Allstars and unironic t-shirts and only put on make-up a couple of days. It's nice to take a break from always being "on" but I don't want this to be the start of a slide into sloppy Mommy oblivion. That might lead to depression and....God forbid... Land's End!  I just need a little time to figure it out. Get comfortable with this interim life and then when the time is right, I'll break out the Calvin Klein geometric print shift dress, knee high black boots, slap on thick eyeliner and frosty pink lipstick and hopefully feel like my old friend, the Foxy Lady, again.

* This is not actually how I turned him down but the effect was the same.

Day 3 - Reality Sets In

Monday didn't count -- it was a holiday for my old company and the kid was off of school.
So, that makes today, Thursday, day three of my first unemployed stint since 1988.  It's not getting easier yet. A few observations:

1) Deciding to drop off the charity items at the exact time they open is not the best idea. Apparently, there's a bit of leeway as far as opening times at not-for-profit retail. So I stood there for almost 15 minutes, waiting for someone to show up and hand me a blank receipt. Seriously -- they could just do a tear away and mount it outside the door.
2) Shopping or returning items at Macy's at seriously off peak hours is the way to go. Why did I not just save up all my shopping for 10am on a Thursday morning? Well, I was working before but I commend the usually slacker disinterested Macy's staff at Fulton Mall for actually being helpful and ..dare I say it...quick!
3) If you're not back at exactly the end time of opposite sides, you will not get a parking spot directly in front of your house. I moved the car at 9:28 and returned at 11:07, only 7 minutes after the time limit. I did get a spot a couple of doors up, on the same side of the street. I blame the slow women at Macy's !  (ha!) It was Good Will's fault.
4) Getting your "personal effects" delivered from your former company can drive you out of the house (emotionally) with the dog for a quick walk, ending in lunchtime drinking, flagging a friend on the street to join you and rushing home after to do the other things you were meant to do today. Ooops, and there's still the shopping.
5) It's a bad sign when you start posting pictures on Facebook of the dog and beer at 2pm on a Thursday.
6) Cinnamon has no place in beer. There, I said it. F' the pumpkin ale. I want beer, not apple pie.

Whoa...I need a job.