I Voted Early

My original intention was to join the throngs on November 4, wait in line in celebratory anticipation of the long season finally coming to a close, cast my ballot, and hope.  What changed?  Change itself.  The admonitions, pleas, encouragement, and voices imploring me to exercise my civic duty to help my candidate and vote early.  Perhaps I could savor election day in a different way this year.  So, this morning I drove in search of the local board of elections office — a place I had never been before.  En route, I listened to a national NPR story about the NC Senate race, where age was noted as a factor in Elizabeth Dole’s effectiveness, the commentator asking the guest if people knew that she was as old (age 72) as John McCain, and a listener e-mailing that her 92 year old mother was sharp enough to be president or senator.  The commentator chimed, “I’m 72 and I’m not ready to be put out to pasture.”  I spoke silently  to myself, this isn’t about age.  It’s about competency.  My 92 year old mother could be president, too.  She beats me in Scrabble every time.

The parking lot of the election board offices was packed.  A van from the local Christian retirement community pulled in ahead of me, taking up two of the handicapped spaces.  Eight elderly folks cued up in line just before I could get there first.  They rested on canes and the arms of compatriots.  Yes, there was a line, and it took much longer to get through it than I normally would have spent during any other national election on election day at my regular polling place.

In the state where I live, we have the option of voting a straight party ticket, but we must also separately vote for president and any non-partisan offices.  I considered and then tossed out the idea of taking the easy way out.  I wanted to savor filling in this ballot, taking the black pen and filling in all the little oval circles.  One of the little ladies said, don’t you have a machine that punches holes.  The election worker said, no, we don’t have any hanging chads here.  I smiled and kept marking my ovals.  It was delicious.  And when I left, I felt satisfied and filled with a pride I had never felt before.  I voted early.

Did You Fire the Cleaning Lady? or How To Save A Few $$

We are working professionals who feel poor.  Mostly because our retirement fund has tanked, the financial picture is gloomy, and it looks like we’re going to have to work another 10 years just to catch up to what we lost a month ago.  I’ve been taking my lunch to work, saving $5-$7 per day.  He’s been shopping the food sales at the grocery store. We’re bundling car trips. Trimmed eating out.  Last week we managed to have a meal at the local diner for $20 (plus tip).  He’s at the stove now preparing to cook burgers, and the electronic ignition for the gas burner is flickering but not igniting.  This is what it always does after the cleaning lady comes.  The rings don’t always get replaced to the exact position.  He looks up.  “Did you fire the cleaning lady?” he asks.  No, I nod, saying, “There wasn’t anybody else here who was going to clean the toilets and wash the floor.”  “Oh,” he says.  “I thought we agreed to fire her.”  “Well,” I say, “we’re feeling poor, but in reality we’re still making the same income, we’re at no risk for our jobs, and we’re helping out a Latino family who could use the work.”  “Yeah,” he says, “I can see that.  Well, okay.”

True, I’ve been penny-inching.  Three weeks ago I opened my first savings account in more than 20 years.  I’ve managed to squirrel away a few dollars, paying attention to depositing checks that come in from the sale of my art that I normally would have put into my checking account and spent.  It’s an interesting feeling being so aware of debt, credit, savings, and what constitutes poverty.  Bob Herbert wrote in the NY Times this morning that people are losing their homes and more will be destitute and homeless than ever before.  Our president to be will have one of the greatest leadership challenges in 75 years. The banks who have been given the bailout (oh, excuse me, rescue) on the backs of U.S. taxpayers are not releasing any of these funds to provide credit to homeowners who need to refinance mortgages.  I am sleepless worrying about who the next leader of my country will be.  I cry at the prospect of McCain beating Obama and worry about election fraud.  I feel helpless and at the same time both hopeless and hopeful.  I have not felt so much energy in an election since I was a youth and John Kennedy moved into the Oval Office.  Yet, I also feel despair at what we have wrought as a nation.  There is no trickle down for me.

So, as my hair grays and my bottom sags, and I yearn for retirement when I can play at doing the things I love best, I despair and lament my own financial recklessness as a baby-boomer with her head in the sand, and the frivolity of my expenditures.  Who is to blame?  Certainly not the cleaning lady.  Perhaps I will have a yard sale or sell another pair of shoes on e-Bay instead.

My NYT Addiction

True confessions!  I’m addicted to reading the New York Times.  Fascinated with the Sarah Palin Effect.  The indignity of designer clothing persona au courant vs. the frumpy pre-candidate as governatrix image is visual eye candy.  I just love that photo of Sarah sauntering across the tarmac in go-go boots and tight red skirt.  Vogue-ing.  I also confess that I’m a little jealous as I turn out of bed in the morning with more than an ache in my lower back.  The age of arthritis onset is upon me.  Perhaps it is from staying up too late reading every kernel of news and op-ed published by the New York Times in this frenzy election year.

Some years back I bumped into Tipper Gore as she was exiting and I was entering a dressing room at Needless Mark-ups (Nieman Marcus) in Tysons Corner.  I was a svelte Washington, DC gal then.  I would sometimes cruise the Last Call rack in hopes of discovering something special on the 75 percent mark-down rack before it got shipped out to Marshalls or TJ Maxx.  This dream rarely converted.  I remember Tipper as warm, cozy and somewhat out of character at N-M, just like me.

Now, I’m living a more practical and rural life.  As my hair turns to it’s natural color and my hips spread and my eyes lose sharp focus and my retirement fund is laid waste at the altar of consumer spending, I can’t wait for this election to be over so I can get some rest.  If I skip back and forth between the Times and the Huffington Post and Politico.com then perhaps the cybergods of election day will hear my mantra and Barack will win.  There is energy out there on the Internet.  On-line giving is an endorsement of that.

As a 60-something, I am astounded by my own behavior.  I probably spend more time online than my 30-something son.  I am connected to Facebook, Linked-In, and am writing several blogs.  I’ve published Google ads and am continually updating my web site.  My life is online.  I live an online life.  I wonder why I don’t see my friends who live down the road, but can carry on constant virtual conversations.  I have teased my husband that he brings his BlackBerry to bed, but I’m much more imbedded in e-culture than he is.  At this very moment, there are seven tabs open on my computer.

Yesterday, while reading an op-ed piece in the NYTimes, I came across the name of a friend who had written a comment (among the 165 I head read that morning).  The friend is now living in Germany and I hadn’t been in touch for at least five years.  Perhaps this was the best serendipity for being a NYT Addict — we are now Linked-In and have a plan to meet up in Mexico next year.  It’s time for the eye drops.

This just in from folks in the know:

The public radio fund drive folks seem to have it right.  Perhaps we could offer this script suggestion to the McCain phone volunteers?

“Hi, I’m ___________, your neighbor, calling to ask your support for the McCain campaign.  Today, at the $50 level, you can contribute to Sarah Palin’s Marc Jacobs satchel in blue-violet ostrich with kiss-lock closure and padded chain shoulder strap.At the $100 level, you may contribute to her belted Oscar de la Renta handknit cashmere cardigan with horn buttons in either ice or sapphire. And at the $150 level, with a matching contribution from Neiman Marcus, you may contribute to Ms. Palin’s cropped swing jacket and draped bias shift dress by Vera Wang.
What can we count on you for?”

http://www.newsobserver.com/nation_world/story/1265379.html

Marketplace: An Unconsciously Conscious Experience

My mother would be appalled. Today at age 92, she still shops at the top of the food chain on her dwindling retirement income. It’s only Whole Foods and Good Earth for her. So be it. Look at all the money she’s saving on gas by not driving a car (my sister took it away from her at age 88 when she did a slow roll into the rear bumper of the car in front of her at a red light). Me, it’s the double whammy — high gas prices and over $4 for a 1/2 gallon of milk (okay, so it’s organic). Poverty row for the middle class is how I see it. I’m earning not much under $100K per year and I feel poor. My car is 13 years old, still kickin’ A, 192K miles on the ODO, getting 27.8 mpg and I intend to drive it until it disintegrates. But, recently, I’m usually eyeing my gas gauge and odometer, making decisions about driving 55 mph instead of flooring it to 65 or 70, to save a few vapors. I am not making random trips to out of the way places, and I’m trying to combine trips to be more conscious. But, today at the food store I had a really unconsciously conscious experience. After paying $12 to get my hair cut at Great Clips, I walked into the market and grabbed one of those mini-carts, the kind you see that have a small shallow upper shelf and another one below it. They kind of look like go-carts for supermarkets. I unconsciously thought, I later surmised, that if I had the smaller cart I wouldn’t be so inclined to fill it up. I also decided not to stroll the aisles window shopping for what I might need (oops, want), and made a bee-line to the the 6-8 things on my mental list. I didn’t buy the honeydew melon; it wasn’t on sale, but I picked up two cantaloupes for the price of one. Then, as is my custom of late, I beat a path to the section where the butcher puts the soon-to-be-outdated meat, reduced 50% from the original sticker price. I can’t ever remember my mother doing that! She never “skimped” in the kitchen. If food was on sale, she thought, there was something wrong with it. So, there I am, picking through the packages, picking up chicken breasts, a roast, turkey scallopini, and putting them into that little cart. Next, I made a pass by the rack at the back of the store where they shelve the discontinued, dented, outdated and poor sellers. When I do this, I feel a combined sense of shame, horror and pride. People do not flock to the bargain bins in the supermarket, they stroll up nonchalantly, secretively, make their choices quickly and move on. There is a reckoning of sorts I believe that comes with knowing that many of us are living on the edge of barely making it, even though by appearances it might seem otherwise. I am far from being a bag lady, but I can certainly understand the feeling that comes with making ends meet. A few weeks ago, before $4 a gallon gas and $4 a 1/2 gallon milk, I was not in this frame of mind. And my pride is not so important as to be able to save a few dollars at the check-out line. Final bill: $51.85. Better than last week. I’m also wondering if this desire to be thrifty in these difficult economic times is also a function of my 60-something age. I’ve never been that careful, carefree is more like it. The stock market rallies and drops unpredictably. NPR Marketplace reports that the big box discount stores are making 20% profits because people want one-stop bargain shopping to save on gas and food. I know that unlimited supply, low fuel prices, abundance and prosperity are dreamland. As I’ve watched my retirement fund tank, then sputter, then topple, then climb some and the net result is loss, I am feeling a sense of loss. And, perhaps this new habit of food shopping for bargains is one way I can exert control over my life that has been impacted by the economic follies of this nation’s inept leadership and my own failure to recognize that some day I would be old.

My latest worry at 60-something.

It’s not that I haven’t thought of this before, but it’s been seven years since I have actively looked for a job, and in that intervening time it occurred to me that lack of youthful vigor (translate that to mean hair colored straw blonde, age spots on my hands, a few extra pounds around the middle and flat dress shoes) would surely be a deterrent should I ever want to make a career move.  Career, you say?  Gee, she should be thinking about retirement.  So, now, as I edge toward the time when I should be cashing in on Social Security, I’m competing for a position across town.  The first phase phone interview is next week.  My voice sounds like 32.  I can easily cross this hurdle.  Why on earth would I want to change jobs when I like what I’m doing, I’m pretty comfortable, have adequate vacation time, and do meaningful work?  I ask myself, Is there a correlation between the 7 year blahs of being married and the 7 year blahs of working in the same place?   I am looking for excitement and adventure and a new challenge?  YES.  So how many years do I have left in me.  Everything I read says that the workforce is aging, that talent is scarce, that people with seasoned experience (that’s what they call it now … Not Old) can garner those coveted jobs.  So, that’s what I’m shooting for … a longer commute, a bigger title, a salary commensurate with my experience, and one more great job before I really decide to call it quits.  So, I’m a little scared because I wonder if my roots (hair, not family) will show when I show up for the face-to-face.  They said they are looking for someone to stay for the long-term.  For me, that would mean five to seven years, and that will take me to closer to 70.  I think, my goodness, do I have it in me to create another entrepreneurial venture, muster another sustainable surge of energy, and woo the interview committee?  Am I still an attractive hire?  Or am I too old, and that’s the scary thing, because I don’t feel old, haven’t lost my creativity, but it’s hard to tell what others will perceive.  I think of the face off between John McCain Aging Statesman and Barack Obama Man of Vigor and know that there are doubts about McCain’s health, energy, and goodness knows what else associated with his age.  Youth is much more attractive, no?   Of course, Ronald Reagan snowed us all (not me, I knew he was senile) with his well-hidden Alzheimer’s.  Will my memory remain in tact?  So, as I write this, I think Go For It because that is what will keep me young.  After all, I think I could pass for 54 and I took the college graduation dates off my resume   Then, again, men do this all the time.  Why not me?  Funny thing is, I wouldn’t really want to BE any younger unless I knew everything I know now.

Dancing with the underdogs.

The Los Angeles Times posted that Obama made a “secret” trip to Chapel Hill to meet with John Edwards who may be holding the Ace card that will choose the Democratic nominee. I read that “H” had been more actively courting Edwards, speaking to him regularly, paying him the attention that would woo him over to her side. I’m calling her “H” since we have been trained to call the current One “W” to distinguish him from his father. Same last names for presidents can be confusing, don’t you think? Obama has been absent from the H woo-machine now that he is the overdog and H is the underdog, and evidently he has been advised by his aides to pay some attention to the man who holds the cards. Now, I like Edwards. Probably would have voted for him and it may make a difference to me if he comes out with an endorsement. It may help add some clarity to this muddy situation of having two perfectly suitable candidates. I am finding myself, however, leaning with the current underdog, H, who may be more substance than image, who is comfortable with issues and ideas rather than spellbinding oratory, and who has the backing of one of my favorite Hollywood guys, Rob Reiner, plus the United Farm Workers Union. It will be interesting to see if Obama can make any inroads in Texas Latino support, and that contest may be very telling to see if he can coalesce another group of underdogs whose bark has finally been heard. I wonder when the press will start calling her “H” and him “O” — the other “O”.

On the side of the undecided.

I want to support Hillary.  I want to support Barack.  I am conflicted and therefore, paralyzed.  I want to feel committed to one candidate and I DON’T.  I am trying to make a choice based on the issues and I CAN’T.  I want a woman.  I want an African-American.  I want change, and to me both represent change, opportunity, hopefulness.  I’m trying to figure out why it’s so difficult for me to decide.  This is a place I’ve never been before in national politics.  If I support Hillary, then am I betraying the young people and African Americans of this country who are passionately behind Obama, who have been inspired, who are resonating to the vision, the dream of a better world where equality and justice for all has tangible meaning?  If I support Barack, am I turning my back on my gender, women’s struggle for economic and social parity, the civil rights of womanhood?  I’m trying to sort out the nuances in their platforms that would make it easier for me to decide on what’s important to me:  health care, the war in Iraq, immigration reform, the ECONOMY!  I keep reading and listening and still can’t decide.  I prefer Hillary’s position on health care and the economy.  I prefer Barak’s position on the war and immigration.  If I were 30 years younger, there would be no question about what I would do … the pragmatic, savvy politician would not get my vote.   I would favor the risk-taker, the inspirational pathfinder, the brash upstart, the defiant underdog.  My world now is rarely black and white, and I see all these qualities in both of them.  I wonder how long I will stay here on the side of the undecided because I know I am not taking a stand.

The truth be told.

A writer said to me, once something happens it becomes a fiction, for the mind is incapable of remembering the exact details and nuances of a particular event or set of circumstances. Even as something unfolds, I extrapolated, the mind is interpreting it based upon genetic coding and the way each of us experiences our environment. Is life, then, a fictional recounting of past history based upon some perception of reality? I think so, if the truth be told.

Some years back I was a reluctant grand juror in the Alexandria, Virginia, federal district court. The case was an infamous scandal and received lots of press coverage. Each month (grand jurors serve for 12 months), 24 of us were sequestered in the bowels of the courthouse, serving our three days of duty, listening dutifully to the testimony of witnesses and targets who were subpoenaed to appear. I was struck by how FBI agents found witnesses to testify under oath about something that had happened five years earlier. After the day-long parades of witnesses who held inconsistent recollections of the past, I realized how impossible it was to distinguish facts from impressions, perceptions and beliefs. The truth was only in the mind of the beholder. I often thought, after witnessing the witnesses, that truth became an unintentional fabrication, told based upon the pressure of the moment, what others wanted to hear, what shred of notoriety the witness might gain, or promise of an interview paid for by a tabloid magazine. Of course, this is only my recollection now of something that happened many years ago. I was the only juror to vote against an indictment. The case eventually went to public trial where it was defeated for not having sufficient evidence. The courts found that the evidence was based primarily on hearsay.

The same could be said for memoir writing. My personal history is just that, the intimate perceptions of my past, my experience, my interpretations. This is not truth. Another in my family could interpret the same situation differently — and has. If I am telling the story and the other is telling the story, but it is different, then who is to be believed?

Always add a turnip, it sweetens the pot.

I came to this farm late in life, but perhaps it was always deep in my roots. My grandfather was Russian, an early-in-the-last-century immigrant, comforted in his loss of homeland by beets, turnips, onions and potatoes. A hit of schnapps now and then to warm the insides. Now, I dig in the loamy, organic earth in search of similar sustenance. It was not always so. The Los Angeles freeways were my pathway to freedom. In the fast lane, fast cars, preferably convertibles, sights set on a Malibu sunset, Friday nights cruising Hollywood Boulevard, a Bob’s Big Boy drive-in rendezvous. “Who did you go out with last night?” “A red Impala convertible.” But now, in this small southern town, years blur this memory and I settle into an unexpected pleasure of watching blue herons glide across the pond as hooded mergansers dive for breakfast.

Root vegetables are strong, grow deep, survive harsh winters, last. They add flavor to soup and stews, extend the meat so as to provide for many. Parsnips, rutabagas, carrots are the roots of my existence, my birthright and legacy. Always add a turnip, said my mother, it sweetens the pot.

My second husband brought me here five years ago, and I agreed to come. To me, it is a place of constant bewilderment. How can 12 households live together on this land in harmony, in cooperation, in community, in consensus decision making and get anything done? For this large farm was incorporated 15 years ago as a “co-housing intentional community,” where each household unit owns a share in the corporation. (No, we don’t live together or share partners.) It was created out of the ideals and values that somehow, through understanding, listening, peaceful resolution of conflict, and interpersonal communications skills, this group of people could actually do life better than the rest of the world. Needless to say, this is a work in progress! The grand experiment is continually evolving, and we’re not in utopia yet.

I don’t know what this blog is going to be about. It will likely be akin to living at the farm. Take it one day at a time. Love it. Hate it. Some days it will be wonderful, and others it will be absolutely frustrating. Breakthroughs and impasses. Quiet retreat and energetic engagement. The reality is we struggle to reconcile our differences, just like you.

This weekend, a group is getting together to make miso from fermented beans that can sit for 10 years. I thought I might opt for the version that would be ready to eat in a month. Somehow, the idea of beans fermenting in my house for 10 years does not appeal to me. In this State of the Union, the primary elections won’t happen until May, and it’s still winter. We need something to keep ourselves warm and busy of a February weekend day, and making something out of beans seems appropriate. (People eat a lot of beans here.) There will be chatter about whether Hillary has enough money to carry her through the season, if Obama superstar can overcome the powers that be, what we’re planting in the organic garden this spring, and I’ll bring up why my son’s girlfriend didn’t register to vote in California. I’ll probably like her when I meet her. Cynicism is a strong family trait.

My roots are rebellion, my father was a socialist, I own a fur coat to stay warm (vestige from a former life). I buy at thrift shops, online, and occasionally at Nordstrom. Go figure. Please don’t throw paint on me.