Lynne M. Spreen's Blog, page 35

Too Old To Have This Much Crap

Wardrobe discipline. I just read about a woman who has it. It sounded intriguing. What is it?

What it isn’t is displayed in my closet as follows: a couple dozen white or black knit blouses. A colorful collection of tank tops I never wear. Three knit shirts I do wear, over and over again. They are the same style, but each has a slightly different color scheme.

I have a lot of nice slacks that are suitable for working in an office. I don’t work in an office. And many pairs of Spandexed pants. Mostly black.

Lots of bags. I love purses and bags. I only use one or two, though. The rest are stuffed with paper and lined up on a shelf, acting like they’re still for sale.

So I don’t think I have wardrobe discipline. A woman with WD goes clothes shopping with laser-focus. Maybe she needs tops to go with the pants she already owns, or shoes for the winter. She goes to the store, buys those items, and drives home. I start out focused, but then I come home with more white tops. Or black pants. Or pretty bags, suitable for stuffing.

We’re at an age where we’re supposed to be shedding, traveling light and getting rid of stuff. Besides, wouldn’t it be great to have in your closet only those items you really wear? and like? There’s a way to figure this out. You’re supposed to hang everything in your closet backwards. Turn the hangers around, the opposite of how you normally hang them. Then when you put something back, hang it the usual way. At the end of a year, you’ll see what you haven’t worn and can get rid of it.

What a great system. It forces me to wear everything at least once a year.

Here’s another problem: what I can’t see, I forget. For example, I have a lot of costume jewelry. There’s a reason they call it that: I feel like a clown when I wear it. One day I chopped up a lot of wire hangers. Holding a pliers in one hand and a wire-snipper in the other, I made S – shaped hooks and hung all my necklaces in my closet.

Now I can see them, but I still wear just the six in the front row, over and over again.

I was looking around for guidance on how to clean out my closet and kept running across the word “edit.” Like it’s a book and you’re just cutting and pasting little phrases and sentences instead of tons of clothing.

I would use a different word, something more forceful, less delicate. Something in keeping with the massive workload. Vomiting? Time to vomit your closets, ladies!

Nah.

But if you’re still wondering, here’s a place you can sign up for a monthly reminder of the weeding and pruning you’re supposed to do on a regular basis.

Ha ha! Me neither.

Remember a couple years ago, Mom broke her leg and had to sell her house and move? While helping her pack, I found an entire dresser jammed full of sweaters. We live in southern California. I asked her “What were you thinking?” Mom said, “When my clothing wears out I don’t have the money to buy new.” She grew up in the Great Depression, so it makes sense. Maybe a closetful of crap makes us feel more secure. But I’d rather be like Bill. He only keeps what he loves. Can you imagine?

One of the cool things about getting older is you know what you like. You’ve seen the fads come and go, and you’re not as susceptible to gathering clothing that will hang in your closet for the next twenty years. They say if you live long enough to see a fad come back around, you should pass on it. Which is totally why I’m not wearing these:

How about you? Are you organized? Has anything changed about your closet now that you’re older? Come on, ladies, spill it. Let’s have a laugh. Tell us your closet stories.

Our Dreams Persist

Last Saturday morning, I hit the freeway and headed west for my very first book fair as an author. While nervously rethinking all my gear (DVD player for book trailer, books, small bills for change, pens, etc.) I suddenly realized I was living my dream, returning as a published author to the town where I’d spent most of my corporate career. No matter how much my day job beat me up, I had never stopped dreaming of becoming a writer, and now, I was one! I stopped fretting about my equipment and indulged in some memories:

I was 26, newly divorced and living in a bad part of town in a tiny (780 sq. ft.) house with my eighteen-month-old son. Working full-time (with side jobs selling Jafra and bartending), and mostly exhausted. Writing was a very distant dream. Like never.
I was 36, living in the high desert and commuting down the Cajon Pass every day for my HR job at Jurupa Unified School District. On my weekend morning walks, I carried a little tablet and a pencil in my pocket, and worked out solutions to scenes in my head. Those scenes went in a box, awaiting the day I could shape them into stories.
I was 38, sitting in my car at the Cedar Springs Dam, overlooking Lake Silverwood. The car was rocking, buffeted by an incoming squall, while I wrote in a tablet. My second marriage was on its last legs, and I was dying a little bit inside as I watched storm clouds engulf the distant shore. I felt incompetent as a grown-up, let alone the fact that I would never be a writer.
I was 48, and my son was independent. Now that I was finally able to work part-time and write, they told me I missed my shot. The publishing industry had changed. Agents and publishers now asked that you first develop a platform (i.e. thousands of ready customers). So while I learned how to put together a novel, I also built a website; I created and discarded three blogs before finding one that felt like home (this one); and learned about Facebook, Twitter, and many other social networking sites.
I am now 58. Dakota Blues is published! My novel has become a reality, and like the Little Red Hen, I did it all myself. That is, if you discount the three editors, cover designer, book trailer developer, and publishing and marketing services. Not to mention several mentors, my beloved friends, and a supportive family.

Please buy my book. Please?

So, on Saturday I arrived at the book fair, got set up, met everybody, ate a couple cookies provided by our thoughtful hosts, and waited for the doors to open. It was September 15, what would have been my dad’s 88th birthday, so I looked heavenward and asked him for luck.

When it was over, I’d invested six hours (if you count the drive) on this mission to tell people about Dakota Blues. If you measure the day in human terms, it was a ten. I enjoyed the company of my fellow authors, the library staffers and volunteers, and the people who dropped in to see what was for sale.

In pure commercial ROI, however, it wasn’t so great. I sold five copies, which was more than most of my fellow authors. I donated to the library, swapped copies with another author, and when you throw in a few more bucks for gas, I broke even.

When I got home, I sat with my husband and a glass of wine and evaluated. There are other activities that would bring in better results. Like sleeping late and not going anywhere. You know I’m babysitting all week and my weekends are precious. How I would have enjoyed the time off.

Why am I telling you this? It’s kind of embarrassing.

Because I want to show by my example that it’s rarely easy to chase after your dreams, no matter what your age. Many younger people slave away in the wee hours to build the foundation for their dream. It’s not easy for them either. In my case, I sometimes feel foolish to be so obsessed. Us older peeps are encouraged to relax, slow down, smell the flowers, and all that, but I can’t. This is my dream, and I’m going to see it through. I have two more full-length novels in my head and two collections of short stories. I’ll be attending the Southern California Writers’ Conference this weekend to find inspiration and information. I love the company of creative people, and I enjoy thinking of myself as a businessperson, with a storefront on Amazon.com and in the trunk of my car. This is my American Dream. I hope you have one, too.

Dakota Blues, a story of midlife reinvention, our immigrant roots, the sweetness of the American Heartland, the bonds of friendship, and the wisdom of our elders, is available at Amazon.com. If you’ve already read it and enjoyed the experience, please rate it on Amazon, Goodreads or your favorite book site.

Wise Women Speak

The discontent of youth passes when you realize that the music you are hearing is not about you, but about itself.

-Germaine Greer

Melitas Forster, at 94 our blogger emeritus

This week I want to celebrate the joy of being not-young. Remember last week I posted a picture of Melitas Forster, who at 94 is our blogger emeritus? Her great-grandfather moved the family into San Juan Capistrano in 1830. Here’s the article. The reporter says the Forster and Yorba families arrived in the OC when the Irvine family was still planting potatoes back in Ireland. While I proudly say I’m a California native, I can’t hold a candle to Melitas, who is practically California royalty. She wears it well, don’t you think?

Gini Dietrich

On another subject, Gini Dietrich, a businesswoman I respect (and blogged about recently), is having an argument with corporate America, saying the answer to the glass ceiling isn’t asking women to behave more like men. You can read the whole post here. She got some blowback from her readers so I jumped in to defend her. One thing I love about this gutsy gal is that when she started her PR firm, Arment and Dietrich, she invented a male partner to give the firm heft. Charles Arment doesn’t exist. Ha ha! Gini isn’t very old but I’m going to award her Devious Old Broad status.

Bel Kaufman earlier in life

Here’s another inspiring woman: Bel Kaufman. Probably best known for writing Up the Down Staircase, Bel is very old and still going strong. Here’s the last part of her essay in this month’s Vogue.

I’ve lived a long time, a very long time, 101 years, and I’m still here. I’m done with the doubts and struggles and insecurities of youth. I’m finished with loss and guilt and regret. I’m very old, and nothing is expected of me. Now, provided good health continues, I can do what I want. I can write my memoirs. I can edit my works for future eBooks. I can even do nothing – what a luxury that is!

Pssst! Lynne here. Doesn’t that sound great? Bel continues:

I have new priorities and a new appreciation of time. I enjoy my family more than ever, and also a sunny day and a comfortable bed. I keep up my interest in books and theater and people, and when I’m tired, I rest. My former students write to me and visit me. I had many problems and disasters in my life; fortunately, at my age, I don’t remember what they were. I’m glad I am 101.

Bel Kaufman

From the other end of the scale, in the Land of the Young: during the half-hour commute home from my babysitting gig, I listen to Cosmo radio on Sirius, specifically the Dr. Jenn Love and Sex show. The majority of the callers are young, and they’re in complete despair about some pretty simple stuff. Okay, not always. I admit I cried along with one caller; the poor thing had gone through more tragedy than I have and I’m almost three times her age. But a lot of the callers are kind of lightweight, if you know what I mean – still wandering around confused, not sure who they are or where to plant their swords. So it’s sort of entertaining, not to make fun of youth or anything.

If you need one more reason to feel good about being no-longer-young, there’s this:

Youth is the season of tragedy and despair. Youth is the time when one’s whole life is entangled in a web of identity, in a perpetual maze of seeking and of finding, of passion and of disillusion, of vague longings and of nameless griefs, of pity that is a blade in the heart, and of ‘all the little emptiness of love.’ Then the soul drifts on the shallow stream of personality, within narrow borders. Not until life has passed through that retarded channel out upon the wide open sea of impersonality, can one really begin to live, not simply with the intenser part of oneself, but with one’s entire being…

-Ellen Glasgow

You Have the Power, Part 2

Getting comfy at Dakota Blues book signing: left, Jo Anne Gill

After the book signing on August 25, a half-dozen of us sat around, drinking wine and BS-ing, the best kind of sisterly gathering. The topic was looks. Specifically, what we do at our age to look good, and what constitutes “good.” The gathering happened in Indio, in the looks- and wealth-obsessed Coachella Valley, home of Palm Desert, Indian Wells, Rancho Mirage, and La Quinta; those monied resort towns.

Astrid Bender, Author

We agreed we should try to feel good about how we look. But we’re trained to try to look younger. It seems every other billboard in the Valley is for body work.

Tammy Coia and Pia Rose

We all want to update our thinking, so we can feel satisfied with our looks even if we’re older, and not automatically equate looking good with looking young. My wise friend Dorys said the reason we do this is we’re in competition. I asked for what? One woman laughingly said for men but that wasn’t really true anymore  - we’re beyond that now. If the men are smart enough to see how cool we are, far out. If not, hell with it.

Joanne Hardy, left, and Dorys Forray, our hostess, right

In some cases we are competing with younger people in the business world, whether as employees or purveyors of a service or product. In that case, you want to look younger because employers equate that with a better employee. It’s a mindless prejudice , but it’s out there, and like my shrink used to say, if you’re in the game, play to win.

Melitas Forster, at 94 our blogger emeritus

But my friends and I kicked this around: if we’re not trying to get a job or something (i.e. manhunt) that benefits from looking younger, why do we hold that up as our goal? Why don’t we just try to look good for our age?

Dorys said it’s because we have a metro mindset. In the Coachella Valley, we’re competing with Los Angeles and New York. We all agreed we need to change our thinking. That’s where the strength of age comes in – we ‘re strong enough to say, “I don’t need to look young. I’m not competing.”

Kathryn Jordan, Author

One of us, Kathryn, lives on an acre of land, in a house built in 1948. She has horses and chickens, and the property borders one of these wealthy, cosmopolitan cities. Although she’s very stylish, she doesn’t try to look like she’s twenty. She said, “I don’t live in that place. I may physically live right next to it, but mentally, I don’t live there.” Kathryn lives wherever she wants, because that place is in her head. She creates that place, that world. She defines that world to her own satisfaction.

I thought that was an enlightened point of view. We can move away from that place in our head. We can live anywhere we want: the land of hyper-competition or the land of mental peace.

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Thanks to Tammy Coia, the Memoir Coach, for sponsoring this gathering. Your community of women writers is a loyal and supportive group, and I am honored to be part of it. I’m also excited to be speaking at the Women Inspiring Women Conference on January 26, 2013.

***

Here’s a bonus for you from Debra Ollivier, who blogs for HuffPost 50: Five Big Misconceptions About Growing Older.

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Also, I’m rededicating myself to a passion of mine: I’m going to find good midlife (age forty and up) fiction and publicize it. I want to create a gathering place for books and readers who want to read about the experience of the second half of our lives. If you read or write one, let me know. I’ll add it to my Midlife Fiction – Book Recommendations page. I hope you’ll help me build this into a fun, lively, and awesome resource for all of us.

You Have the Power. You Just Don’t Know It.

I had a rough childhood, with a dad who was overwhelmed with work and financial stress, and a mother overwhelmed with him and four small children. How can I say this gently? Dad was violent. I grew up angry, and even into my late forties I had nightmares about punching him in the face. I’d wake up crying at the futility of it, and so pissed off I wanted to break something.

Around the time I turned fifty, I wrote him a letter saying his brutality and scorched-earth behavior was wrong, that he hurt us terribly and the least he could do now is apologize.

A great silence emanated from his part of town. Three weeks later, my sister told me he was pouting. He assumed I had severed ties, so he would sever ties longer. Yeah, of course he would interpret it that way. He always had to win every argument. So I called him on some business pretext and we talked politely, as if nothing had happened. Then we said goodbye and hung up.

The phone rang.

Him: “I want you to know I got your letter.”

Me, heart pounding: “Okay.”

Him: “And I want you to know I’m not offended.”

Me: (biting back astonishment, which corroded to mirth, which died in bitterness on my tongue). “Great.”

Him: “I’m sorry you had to carry that around all these years.”

Me: “Thank you.”

The End

The nightmares vanished. Our relationship improved overnight. I felt sorry for him, instead of hating him. For the next seven or eight years, until he died suddenly of a stroke in 2008, I was able to love him like a regular dad, to appreciate all the good stuff he did for us. All it took was that one sentence.

Now here’s the quirky thing: a few years later, I wondered, what if I misinterpreted his apology? This man NEVER apologized. What if I heard what I wanted to hear? What if he didn’t mean it the way I took it? What if he really meant he was sorry I was so stupid as to let a little thing like a broken eardrum or bloody nose bother me? Because that would have more been in character.

I’ll never know, so I chose to believe the first interpretation. And that’s what I’m thinking about today, a few days before what would have been my dad’s birthday: sometimes the prison in which we live is self-constructed.

The implications are staggering.

I just finished reading a memoir about a woman who had a rough childhood. Adopted as a toddler by inadequate parents, she was poorly nurtured and emotionally abandoned – and having survived that, she became an adult who was forever doomed to seeing every development in her life through that filter of rejection, of being unloved. Then, in her early sixties, she had an epiphany: she realized her parents had done the best they could, even though they should never have been given a child to raise. This caused her to rethink everything. She wasn’t trapped anymore. My friend was much happier from that point forward, but what a terrible waste.

In her case and in mine, our parents relinquished some information late in life, thereby freeing us. You can accurately say this wasn’t within our control. But what if either one of us had made up some excuse of our own and freed ourselves sooner? I could have told myself Dad was sorry and moved on. She could have done the same. Instead we waited, seething (in my case)  and pathetic (in hers).

To this day I don’t know if I read Dad correctly, but I’m free. I should have done it thirty years earlier. Freedom was within my power to achieve, but I didn’t realize it.

In next Friday’s post, I’ll give you another example of self-entrapment, in this case how older people limit themselves.

(If my words seem less polished than usual, or if you notice any typos, I apologize, but the baby’s waking up and he doesn’t permit multitasking! Stay-at-home moms, I feel ya.)

Backstabbing Women, Part 2

I’ve spent my life denying it, but now that I’m older, I have to raise the white flag. Women are backstabbers. Before you respond in horror, let me explain.

A few weeks ago we talked about women undermining and sniping at each other, and I said that, while I hate to think it’s anything more than sour grapes, I found out there actually is some basis in fact for this behavior. I said I would do some research and get back to you. Okay, I’m no sociologist, and my research consisted of finishing the very good book, In the Company of Women – Indirect Agression Among Women: Why We Hurt Each Other and How To Stop.

The good news is that women are able to accomplish SO much together, and when they support each other, are unstoppable!

The bad news is, women are different from men, which means, they’re different from what you think you know, because usually the researchers study men, especially in the workplace. Lots of us women try to act like men as we climb the corporate ladder, and that makes life even more difficult. We struggle and sometimes fail without knowing why. We’re discouraged and confused, but if you find the work of Drs. Pat Heim and Susan Murphy believable, there’s a logical reason for the difference, and while the authors have documented their assertions exhaustively, I think you can boil it down to this:

Men relate to each other hierarchically, whereas women relate to each other as peers.

Men form a team, fight for their positions in the hierarchy, and then settle in, happy to know where they fit. The leader may not be liked or even respected, but everybody accepts that he’s in the driver’s seat. If a guy decides to make a run for the top, there’s bloodletting, but once he gets there, everybody settles down again. Think of male herd animals fighting for the right to mate and I think you’ll get the idea.

But women! Women aspire to a horizontal structure. Think of, again, a herd of females. They guard each other. They eat together. In most species, their babies are born at the same time and defended collectively. I know we’re not horses or antelope, but consider this: with very few exceptions, we like to think we’re all equal. If a woman does something to rise above other women, or appears to think more highly of herself than is considered seemly, look out! The authors assert that, in the corporate setting, higher-level women have to make sure the lower-level women receive some kind of emotional or status-related compensation in order to maintain balance in the power relationship. Otherwise, they’ll see her as too big for her britches and make sure she fails.

I would go into more detail, but there isn’t enough space in this post. Below, I’ll list the points I found amazing or profound, and you can let me know if you’d like me to elaborate on any of them in future posts.  I would love to, but I don’t know if you’re interested. In any case, you can read the book. It’s fascinating, and it’s written by women, in a way that is very respectful OF women.

Women are somewhat more comfortable with a powerful woman who plays down her importance than one who does not.
For a positive relationship to be possible between two women, the self-esteem and power of both must be approximately even. (There are exceptions, as in a mentoring relationship.) This is called the “Power Dead-Even Rule,” and although it has profound impacts on all female relationships, is invisible to most women.
The female stress response (“tend and befriend”) results in the release of oxytocin, a calming chemical. In times of stress, women seek out other women with whom to commiserate, which is great for their mental health, but tends to get the team all riled up against the woman who caused the problem in the first place. Hence cliques and sabotage develop.
The authors propound what they call “chip theory,” in that individual women hold a certain number of chips (positive attributes or actions). Beauty is a chip. Wealth is a chip. A high-level career is a chip. Poise is a chip. A great husband is a chip, as are teenagers who don’t steal cars or get drunk in public. Chips are constantly exchanged with others to maintain even stature between women, and we do this naturally. If you get a compliment, chances are you’ll put yourself down in response, so as to keep the complimenter feeling good, too. That’s chip management, and it’s the strategy we use, consciously or not, to adhere to the Power Dead-Even Rule.
The authors, who have trained over 20,000 people in Fortune 500 companies, say they often hear frustration from upwardly-mobile women who “don’t have time for such foolishness.” The authors respond: you can pay now or you can pay later, and later is when you might lose control over the situation. Women have been fired for failure to succeed, and often, nobody can figure out why! But the “why” is that they were pulled under and drowned because they didn’t understand what their sisters needed.
Most women care deeply about other women. We are all in this together. Without women in our lives, we feel lonely and incomplete, but nearly every one of us bears the scars of being attacked by other women, sometimes en masse, and we were disillusioned and discouraged over it.

Bottom line, there are biological, psychological, social and cultural reasons why women relate to each other the way we do, and you can ignore it, or you can decide to add the knowledge to your skill set and save yourself a lot of grief. There’s more to this book than what I’ve written, including some great self-tests and suggested strategies. I absolutely recommend it.

In other news…

Since Dakota Blues was published, I’ve been honored to have been interviewed by some fantastic bloggers! I don’t want to play favorites, because I’m grateful to each one for their interest and for letting me share their space. You might want to check them out in any event because they are kindred spirits, women journeying on paths similar to yours. Here they are:

Kathy Pooler’s blog, Memoir Writer’s Journey

Daisy Hickman’s blog, Sunny Room Studio

Joyce Richman’s blog, ActThreeDotNet

Deb Haupt moderating the General Fiction Forum on B&N.com

Carol Mann’s blog on Writing, Creativity and Other Phenomena

 

Stay-At-Home Grandma

Me with my granddaughter.

I’ve started babysitting again. My book and my grandson are infants, and I’m nurturing them both in the same crazy year. So while I plan for a book signing at my home on Saturday, I have to lean on my sweet, hard-working hubby to handle the logistics. And while I have my hands full babysitting my grandson and, once a week, his sister too, at least I get to go home. My son and daughter-in-law are in the heat of it. I tell them they’re young. These are the years they’re like a nuclear reactor; they’re vibrant and powerful and everything feeds off them!

Bill with our grandson

I know I’m a big help, but I couldn’t do it without Bill. He’s my support team. Not only does he fix our dinners every night, run errands for Mom, and do all the home stuff, but he was prepared to come over every day for a couple of hours, as he did in spring of 2011 with our granddaughter. This time around, I suggested he take Tuesday and Thursday off. I don’t want to burn him out, but also, I feel less guilty because on those days he ends up with a pretty big honey-do list!

I told him to hang in there – next year will be the year I start to age gracefully! My kids know this is the toughest year, at least until the babies turn into teenagers. My kids both work fulltime as teachers, and with two children under two years old, they’re grateful for the help.

I’m typing this right now as my grandson watches my fingers. We’re sitting on the carpet together. He has a bunch of mobiles dangling overhead, his feet can kick me, and I reach over every few seconds to pat his belly and coo at him.

Our daughter-in-law with the newborn

I also feel a bit guilty falling in love with him, because my first love was his sister. However, she’s moved on. She loves being at her daycare with other kids to play with. When she first started going there she wasn’t yet walking and was frustrated that the other kids could run away from her, but now she plays on the swings and the sandbox and runs everywhere rather than walking.

Wow. He’s waking up from his nap – thirty minutes, just like the first one. What happened to the two-hour one he was supposed to take this morning? Or even the hour? Stay-at-home-moms, I feel ya!

My mother with her great-grandson

But it’s a dream for me. I never got to be a SAHM. I went back to work when my son was one month old! Horrific, but thank God my Mom was able to babysit those first six months. I had no choice. I was the primary breadwinner. So staying home now is like revisiting those days, one generation removed. I don’t have to dress up or be ready for a boss – my little boss doesn’t care what I look like. My favorite time is in the middle of the day, sitting in the rocker in his room while he naps, listening to him breathe. The neighborhood is quiet, and I’m all alone in this daytime world of mothers and babies, snoozing within the walls of our houses.

Our son with our granddaughter

Sometimes it floors me, that my son is a grown man and I’m a grandma. Beautiful and weird at the same time.

Today I’ve got a Skype conference in the afternoon. I’ll probably have the baby on my shoulder. That’s where he’s quietest. Such a snugglebug. It’s not with a client, it’s with people who I’m helping develop a curriculum for a writers’ organization I belong to. I told them next year I’d be there physically to teach or whatever they need, but this year, it’ll have to be Skype or Saturdays.

My dad used to say family is everything. While I don’t believe family is defined by blood, I surely do agree with him. We need each other. Life is hard. We’re in it together.