Friends

 

 

I think it’s safe to say I’m very self-reliant. I’ve always had to be. 

The extroverts among you can most likely say you have lots of friends. You can probably say you have a core of friends you can rely on. You can even, I suppose, say that there are people who encourage you in your endeavors.

I cannot.

I’ve met with a lot of you can’ts in my life. Once I was responsible for myself without parental interference in my decisions, there were a lot of “hold my beer” moments from me, some successful, some not.

This runs through every aspect of my life, most importantly, my professional life. I’ve had bosses who had a certain image of me – usually wrong – and tried to stick me in the corner as a gopher to do their bidding, without any interest in what my professional interests were. As the youngest in my family, I will take the liberty of saying, “Nobody puts Baby in the corner!”

And I left each of those jobs because I won’t work where I’m not respected.

When I was studying for my career, I had teachers who simply weren’t available. They were either too busy cozying up to the higher-ups who might advance their careers, or trying to be cool by ingratiating themselves with students they wanted to socialize with. And some were just not interested.

I remember going to see one instructor during her stated office hours to discuss an issue with a project for her class. It would have taken less than 5 minutes of her time, but she simply breezed on past with, “Make an appointment for another time,” and left with another instructor.

One wasn’t supposed to need an appointment during office hours. And when something in my project was wrong as a result, she wanted to know why I hadn’t bothered to ask.

Well, I tried. She blew me off. I was putting the finishing touches on the project when I went to her to ask the question. I had already waited a few days until she actually had office hours, and the project was due the next day, so “making an appointment at another time,” wasn’t feasible.

I had other instructors who, after complaining about how needy my classmates were, couldn’t understand why I hadn’t asked for help.

Well, past experience had taught me, for one, and their attitude for another. They wanted us to stand on our own two feet and be independent, then complained when we did just that.

I didn’t have friends from class to get feedback from, either. My classmates were too busy, didn’t know or couldn’t be bothered.

And I’ve always loved the, “If you didn’t understand the assignment, why didn’t you come to me to ask?”

Really? See above for the answer. I recall telling one instructor that I wasn’t aware that I didn’t understand the assignment or I would have tried coming to her.

One teacher told me my mind always seemed to be elsewhere. Yeah, it’s trying to figure out a solution because I couldn’t get hold of an instructor who would take two minutes to answer a question. I also spent two solid years of being a commuter student who was utterly exhausted all of the time.

The job I truly loved, writing, hasn’t met with much success. Oh, I have books out there. On Amazon, because I can’t seem to entice an agent, a publisher or anyone else. Good story, but not what we’re looking for just now. (Form letter, and they probably didn’t bother to read the story.)

No, they’re looking for mystery stories or romance novels. I never read mystery stories because they make no sense to me, whether in book form or on TV. Romance novels make me ill. I can’t write what I can’t fathom.

Or they’re looking for non-fiction. I’m clearly in the fiction world. Real life is too hard and angry and – Kardashian. Fiction is far more interesting. Besides, if I tried to write non-fiction, my sarcasm gene would kick in too strongly.

I’ve participated in Author’s Day at Princeton Library several times. Sounds like something that should be really cool, right? I’ve seen people there who have great success. Once or twice some of my friends even attended – and I tell everyone I know every time I’m going to be part of it.

Once or twice I even sold a couple of books there. But most of the time people look, but don’t buy at my table. They don’t stay long enough for me to attempt a conversation with them, while they cluster at the next asking the other author all sorts of questions, and buying those books.

I’ve listened to fellow writers in my friend set, who have far more success than I have, talk about email lists and all sorts of things that are mysteries to me. How do they find these people? Where do these lists come from?

Oh, ask your friends. I have 10. Maybe. Now what?

Get your colleagues to fill out questionnaires. I’m retired. 

Even when I wasn’t retired, I knew no one in my life who would bother with a questionnaire. I did try.

Not long ago I asked someone I didn’t know well to read a piece. It was far from finished. In fact, I was just getting my feet wet on the story, and didn’t have a good direction for it yet. After some initial questions, I didn’t hear back. Since I didn’t know the person well, I simply concluded after several months that I wasn’t likely to.

I was surprised to get feedback long after I’d despaired of it. It was actually quite harsh. It was kind of a relief from the, “That’s really good!” that I often get with no other comment. That’s not what I’m looking for. I want to know what works and what doesn’t. What’s interesting and what’s boring?

This person told me what was boring, what didn’t work and what they didn’t like. It actually sounded angry. Kind of like handing in an assignment late that the teacher didn’t like, harsh. I let the comments sit for a bit – a couple of weeks, actually. Then I read them again, along with the story.

The person was quite right. I was telling, not showing, etc. But it was only more of a concept of the story I wanted to write than the actual story. And the critique actually spurred me on to rewrite the whole thing (I’m glad I wasn’t farther than chapter 5, and the chapters were all short). I have, so far, written far more than is going to be in the book because I need to know the background, history, geography, civics and characters of the world I’m creating. But at least now I know what I’m not putting into the story because it doesn’t work as part of the story.

Not long ago, my husband finished writing the novel he’s been working on since before I ever met him – we’ve been married for 31 years. About the same time, I finished my most recent novel, one of which I’m particularly proud. It took far longer than any of my others to write.

I read his novel. I think it’s well thought out, and a fantastic story, even if that seems like a biased statement. Ever since then, he’s been doing re-reads and revisions of his book, getting his friends to read it and give critiques. He has some friends who are really brutally frank about giving critiques, and have great suggestions.

Oh, has he read my novel? He has not. He never reads any of my novels, ever. And it isn’t because I haven’t asked. The only writing of mine he’s ever read/edited/critiqued are my blogs, and he gave me excellent advice on those.

But I seldom ask anymore. I got tired of begging. Have you read the blog yet? No, I was too tired. No, I didn’t get to it yet. Three weeks later: did you read the blog yet? Oh, I forgot all about it. Then, perhaps spurred on by guilt, it gets read and critiqued.

Meanwhile, I’ve also been re-reading, editing and so forth with my novel.

I tried taking a page from his book, and asked if any of my friends would be interested in reading and critiquing  any of my novels. Three people raised their hands, so they were sent manuscripts.

One of the three came through for me with some helpful critiques. That’s a first for me.

The others? I assume life got hectic, but I had no response. I got back to them. They apologized and said they would read it. They didn’t. When several months later I got back to them again, they had not read it, and now had reasons why they could not do this for me.

I suppose I’m unreasonable expecting people to do something if they said they would. But that’s probably just my internal ethic, not theirs. Am I the only person on the planet who, when I give my word to do something actually does it?

So, I am self-reliant out of necessity.

I told my husband I wished I had friends like his. He claims he had to hound his friend to get their responses. Yet when they’re together, they’ll spend hours discussing plot and structure.

What has happened for me in the past is this: The first time, the response would be (if there even is one), “Oh, I didn’t get a chance to finish reading it because of X,Y, & Z. My life is busy. But I’ll get to it.” The second time, perhaps weeks or months later, the response would be, “You know, I just don’t have the time to do this. Sorry.” I’m simply bothering them by even asking if they’ve done what they promised to do. How dare I?

This makes me want to scream. Why did you volunteer if you couldn’t do it?

I mean, really I should know. Even my blogs don’t get a response. Maybe five blogs out of the over one hundred I’ve written since 2017 have had a comment, and some of those have been sarcastic comments that are an attempt to be funny.

I was told to start a writing Facebook page. I did. No one responds to anything on it. I’ve invited people to follow, and apparently they missed or deleted the invitation, and because they didn’t respond to it, I can’t re-invite them. I don’t know how. There doesn’t seem to be a way.

I was told to go onto Twitter, or whatever it’s called now. I did that. What do you do there? No one was home. Where are the people on Twitter?

Oh, you have to follow people. Where are they? And even if I followed them, then what? That’s their interests. Even if I respond to them, I would either get nothing more than a thumbs-up or get blasted because they didn’t agree with what I said. I did make a post there once. Apparently to the void. No one responded.

And if I bring up my writing, maybe someone will say, “Oh, you write? That’s cool.” And then silence. I don’t have to go on twitter to know that.  I’ve lived it on Facebook, in AOL chatrooms, on Myspace. Why would yet another forum be any different?

I recently tried Reddit. It took forever to find anything. It looks more like a space for the tall-thin- gorgeous- raccoon-eyed blondes of my youth who now have followers and are called “influencers.”

I’m not looking for people to influence me. I’m not a sycophant who distributes cutesy hearts on people’s fan pages. Nor am I looking for people to do that to me.

My husband provided me with links in Reddit that specifically are supposed to be for writers. I read some posts, even replied to a few, and made my own post.

Silence. Well, not silence, exactly. I did get a thumbs-up. One.

All I want is to be able to engage in serious conversation about writing, exchange information and not be called names by someone trying to inject politics into absolutely everything. I would like someone who knows answers to the questions I have to provide me with information the way I provide information to people who ask questions that I know answers to.

I thought about going back to college to get a master’s in writing, just so I could get some critique of my work. My husband doesn’t think I need a master’s degree. According to him, I already know the necessary things to be a writer.

But I’ve been told the most horrible thing: Somehow, I’m supposed to find strangers somewhere, and talk to them. Be able to think of questions to ask them that would further my chances of getting my books out there. Actually talk to them, send emails and follow-up emails if they don’t answer (how many times are you supposed to do that before you finally realize that they will never reply?)

Are you kidding me? Talk to strangers? Actually be able to say something, follow them, don’t take no for an answer until you get a door slammed in your face (which believe me, happens faster than you’d find a second question)?

Put me on the stage at Carnegie Hall and let me sing for thousands by myself – or, hey, I’d gladly sing a duet with Josh Groban. Or Johnny Mathis. Or Paul McCartney. Piece of cake. I’d love it. I’d have the time of my life!

Let me act in a play, as long as I don’t have to do some dance routine. Equal love there. I don’t need to win an award, just have the chance to do it.

Don’t get me wrong; I love writing as much as I love singing or acting. It’s like breathing for me. I couldn’t not do it. It’s all the other stuff that goes with promoting my work, the begging with zero results because I don’t know how to do it, the finding things when I don’t know where to look that’s so maddening. There's no card catalogue! I need someone who knows how to do those things. Yet, those are the same people with the form letters: sorry, we’re focused on a different type of writing just now.

But talk to strangers? Are you kidding? I don’t know how to do that.

Yeah, yeah, the people who know me will swear I talk non-stop. They’re not strangers, and we have common talking points. And yes, I’ll ask a stranger – usually a policeman – in New York for directions.

But talk to a stranger? Do you have any idea how hard that is? Have you ever tried it, especially when you’re asking them for a favor? I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ve been through this before.

In college, I went through 11 roommates in 13 terms. I know people are thinking (although they don’t say it), “What’s wrong with you?” Well, beyond asking their name, their major and where they’re from, it’s desperately hard to think of something to say to them. Sometimes, “What kind of music do you listen to?” works, and you are lucky enough to find common ground. Often, we don’t like the same music, and maybe after several weeks I’ve thought of some other things, but by then, usually, they’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t like them, or we’re not compatible or whatever their excuse is, and they move out. Sequence rewind.

Yes, alone, I could probably formulate questions, and maybe even anticipate replies. But then, try whipping out a piece of paper when you want to talk to someone. They’re gone before the paper is unfolded. And if they stay, they never stay on-script. How can you ask the follow-up when they go off-script?

Maybe I should just try to figure out a way to get a singing gig at Carnegie Hall and hope Josh Groban hears it and is interested in joining in.

People of a Certain Age

 

 

A couple of years ago, I was startled and a bit taken aback when I visited the UK, specifically London. Taking the underground from Paddington to Whitehall, I was surprised when I stepped onto the train and someone stood up from their seat, tapped me on the shoulder, and gestured for me to sit in the seat they’d just vacated.

Kind and polite though it was, given how crowded the train was, I didn’t fail to notice that the sign at that particular seat said to surrender the seat to the elderly or handicapped. And there was a woman struggling with a couple of kids and a suitcase nearby to whom no one offered a seat.

I am not handicapped. Neither do I consider myself “elderly.” To me, elderly is 80 or older. Elderly is someone with a cane, perhaps a bit of a hunched back, white hair, who possibly has movement issues – basically, someone who looks like what I consider a grandmother.

I have none of those things, although I admit the hair color is the product of a bottle, not naturally occurring anymore. But I’m not ready to embrace white hair, and I don’t like the look of iron grey hair on anyone. So, I’m not going to do it. I figured 80 was soon enough to consider no longer dyeing my hair.

While I admit I am “of a certain age,” – I’ve only just turned 70 –haven’t they said 60 is the new 40? --  I don’t really think about what I look like unless I’m facing a mirror. Yes, I have wrinkles, and when I smile, they’re kind of deep. I blame a good bit of weight loss several years ago for that. Until then, I really didn’t have much in the way of wrinkles.

But I still haven’t reached my weight-loss goal.

So, what’s the plan when I do? Well, it won’t be Botox, collagen injections or butt fat implants. They’re all temporary, and frankly make people look like clowns. I never aspired to Barnum and Bailey.

I’ve toyed with the idea of maybe getting a facelift. Maybe. The old-fashioned kind. Once. When it’s run its course, that’s it. I don’t want the Joan Rivers look where one wonders if the two sides of her face actually meet at the back of her head.

But those things are expensive. And considering two hair transplant surgeries eventually failed, I’m not sure it would be worth the expense.

Somehow, I don’t think I look old. I probably do, and I’m still living off the picture in my mind of me at 25.

Still, some of the things that are asked, I consider a bit bold – in the British sense of the word.

I recently had to find a new doctor because mine suddenly died. Apparently the whole way of practicing medicine has changed since the last time I changed doctors.

It used to be you could change doctors as easily as changing clothes. Pick up a phone, dial the number and make an appointment as a new patient.

Not so now.

It took an entire day of making phone calls. I wanted an individual doctor. There are none. They all belong to groups. What that means is a revolving door of doctors, and possibly never seeing the same one twice.

Worse, if you’re a new patient, you can wait anywhere from three to six months for an appointment. To my mind, if you have to wait that long, the doctor has too large of a caseload. And this is a group of doctors! I think it's a practice somewhat like hazing, where the person has to wait it out to prove their worthiness as a patient. (Or die trying.)

I was nearly out of a prescription that I require for continued good health. For that reason, I was able to whittle down the wait time to about three weeks, leading me to the assumption that they actually have open appointments, but they don't want to give them to anyone new. Their snide comment when you say you need something sooner is to tell you that you can go to an urgent care facility.

Right. I discovered that you not only have to fill out a lengthy questionnaire for them, most of which is about mental health – I suppose they realize that filling out lengthy forms when you need urgent care is likely to drive you to mental health problems – but you only get your first visit for “free,” by which I mean you aren’t charged a service fee that is not covered by your insurance, Medicare or anything else but a credit card. And this fee has nothing to do with the actual visit, and is rather expensive out-of-pocket.

And again, you may never see the same doctor again, so there’s no continuity of care.

In any case, I was able to see my new doctor for what she called an annual physical. This wasn’t anywhere near as complete as what I had from my now-deceased previous doctor.

She asked me if I experienced dizziness. Not sure why she asked. Nothing I told her about my medical history indicated that I might. She asked me if I had fallen. I don’t know why for the same reason as the dizziness question.

I walked into the office on my own, without cane, walker or any other mobility device. In fact the last time I used a cane was many years ago for about three weeks when I had surgery on my knee.

Okay, she probably had to cover all of the bases because I’m a new patient.

A couple of weeks later I went to a specialist with whom I have an annual appointment. I was asked the same questions, which I thought was really weird, since this wasn’t the first, second or even third time this doctor had seen me. And then she told me I should probably have a cane with me.

WHAT??

I can’t imagine what I would need a cane for, other than to bash doctors about the head for suggesting that I need a cane. My balance is fine. There’s nothing wrong with the way I walk. I have no mobility issues. Therefore, there’s no reason for me to have a cane. (Perhaps they're thinking of introducing Vaudeville medicine?)

While I do have some arthritis here and there that bothers me occasionally, I’m an occupational therapist. I know what to do and how to minimize pain. My house is safe. I work out at the gym three times a week, and the only reason I no longer take kick-boxing classes is that they got too expensive and then the facility I used to go to closed after the Covid-19 shutdown. I’m perhaps more sedentary than I’d like, but I now have a dog who doesn’t hesitate to tell me when he wants a walk – and is very insistent on it.

I recognize that David Bowie and several other rockers died a year younger than I am now, but I don’t have cancer or any of the other issues that took their lives. I’ve lived longer than my father did, but not longer than my mother yet.

We live in a world where we’re living longer and better than our parents and grandparents. There’s more of an emphasis on healthy foods and healthy lifestyles despite the obesity epidemic and people’s preference to take a pill to solve their problems than actually doing something positive.

Personally, I’d rather focus on health and the positives.

And you can keep your cane, and unless I have a suitcase, give up the seat to the lady with small children.

When Commercials Were Fun

 

Over the years American TV commercial producers have found catchy ways to sell products.

One of my earliest memories of a commercial was the one for Nestles chocolate powder to flavor milk. While we used Bosco in our house on the rare occasions we were allowed chocolate milk – it was considered a treat rather than the norm in our house, and the jar lasted at least a year – Nestles was the winner as far as commercials. They had a marionette  dog singing, “N-E-S-T-L-E-S, Nestles is the very best…. Chocolate.” I believe the dog’s jaw clicked closed at the end. Quick and to the point. And he looked like that wooden pull-along dog many toddlers had.

Then there was a series of commercials with Madge the Beautician, who soaked her clients’ nails in dishwashing liquid to soften their cuticles, demonstrating that Palmolive liquid was gentle on hands, making dishwashing somehow more pleasurable.

The Wicked Witch of the West actress Margaret Hamilton (as herself) pedaled Maxwell House “Good to the last drop” coffee.

There were singing twins who sold Double mint gum, Speedy Alka Seltzer, who looked like a prototype of the Pillsbury Dough Boy in a bellhop uniform promising to make your stomach upsets a thing of the past, and Choo Choo Charlie sold Good-N-Plenty candy, which, if you shook the box slowly, sounded something like a train.

In those early days of television, feminine hygiene products and prescription drugs weren’t advertised. But cigarettes were.

“Come to where the flavor is… Come to Marlboro Country.” Presumably, this is where cowboys lived, since it was always advertised by a man with a horse, boots and a cowboy hat. In those days there were more Westerns on TV than there currently are spinoffs of Law and Order.

“I’d walk a mile for a Camel,” and probably be coughing all the way considering Camels didn’t originally have filters.

“LSMFT – Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.”

All of the elegant people were shown with cigarettes in hand, be they Pall Mall, Salem, Chesterfield or Winston’s. “Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should.”

And then in the  mid-60s, despite Rod Serling doing the prologue and epilogue to every Twilight Zone episode with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, cigarette commercials were banned on TV.

With the rise of the hippie movement and Broadway productions like Hair, some fun commercials began.

Santa riding an electric shaver down a ski slope while, “Floating heads, floating heads” to the tune of Jingle Bells played in the background was shown every year at Christmas time for probably as many years as the current scratch-off lottery ticket commercials by Gus (the second most famous groundhog in PA). But that commercial did make one wonder what the writers were smoking when they came up with that idea.

The loneliest man was apparently the Maytag repairman, because the product was so good, it made his job obsolete.

There were a few funny commercials that people could recite verbatim that didn’t last because no one could remember what product they were selling.

An unusual one was the late ‘60s/early ‘70s Coke commercial that featured the song, “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing.” Initially only a snippet of the song played, but eventually, they showed a version with a mass of people singing the entire song – in three-part harmony.

The strangest commercial, to my mind, was the one advertising hand lotion – I don’t even recall which one – that claimed it made your skin feel as soft as a baby’s behind. Imagine using that on your face? I guess we know where Beavis and Butthead came from.

While today we have blue cartoon bears advertising Charmin bath tissue, telling you to “enjoy the go,” years ago Mr. Whipple a store manager admonished customers, “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin.” One wonders who does?

There was also Kool-Aid, a powder mixed with sugar and water for kids to drink, advertised by a pitcher with a face. Later, Funny Face, which was essentially the same thing, had to amend its flavor names because some were politically challenging. Chinese Cherry was changed to Choo Choo Cherry, and Injun Orange became Jolly Olly Orange to fit in better with Goofy Grape.

A woman who gave the impression of being naked as she stood in the midst of bushes announced, “Hi. I’m Eve.” Her job was to sell Ocean Spray Cranapple juice drink. That was probably as risqué as American commercials got.

In the ‘80s we had a long-haired, shirtless man who looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of a romance novel touting, “I can’t believe it’s not butter!” in a non-descript European accent to a nearly swooning housewife. While I haven’t seen any ads for that product lately, It’s still sold in stores. The commercial fit in well with shows like Knott’s Landing, Dallas, and 90210.

In high school, I wrote a parody poem about TV commercials. I’ll include it here so you can decide whether or not my college poetry professor was correct in telling me to give up poetry, and see if you remember which commercials are spotlighted.

 

And Now, a Word From Our Sponsor

 

Her skin was as soft as a baby’s behind,

And she smells like a fresh-cut lemon.

She’s conquered split-ends with her thick, rich shampoo

And feels baby-like softness that was born in her hair.

 

Her man’s beard stands soft to a barber-close shave

That’s 50% closer, they say.

His hair has the dry look, he smells like a lime,

But his skin isn’t soft as a baby’s behind.

 

But her father is having conniptions, they say,

‘Cause she uses a whitener instead of the Gleem.

Her guy’s aftershave’s irresistible;

Her tingling, clean mouth is ever so kissable

And their antiperspirant keeps the whole track team dry.

 

While he’s bathing to make himself feel cleaner than soap,

She’s fogging his specs in the sink, like a dope.

Her coffee’s the greatest – even better than freeze dried,

And her cake is so moist,

All the neighbors come back for more.

 

She always drinks Tab so he’ll notice her dresses,

And keeps a live tiger to put in her tank.

She opens the dog food with her bare hands;

Has revolving credit now at the bank.

 

Yes, she’s the American Woman,

And he’s the American Man

They use Heinz 57 all over their steak,

And their chicken’s

Finger-lickin’

Good.

 

Commercials have changed significantly, and perhaps reflecting the times, aren’t as entertaining, even when they’re trying to be.

Like many of my cousins in the UK, I’m appalled by TV ads for prescription drugs, so I have a nostalgic place in my heart for the old-time commercials.

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Grammar refresher: To/two/too

to: direction , intention.  e.g.: 1)We are going to the mall. 2)I want to tell you something. 

two: the number. e.g.: There are two prizes left.

too: 1) also; 2) more than desirable. e.g. 1) Larry will be there, too. 2)Too many marbles have been lost for us to play the game.