It's finally happened. I've dreaded this moment since I was a kid and couldn't remember how many short guys roomed with Snow White. Numberosis has set in.
Yesterday I called my cell to check messages and dialed my zip code. I came up short listing the seven deadly sins. I have no idea how many brides there were for those dancing brothers.
You see for numberosis sufferers there really is a "numb" in numbers. We are the numerally challenged. We don't know our cardinals from our ordinals. Oh, we do fine when asked our name and rank, but it's off to the firing squad for not revealing our serial number.
Please don't ask how I love thee. My palms sweat when I have to count the ways. Panic sets in when I'm told to count my blessings, sheep or calories.
These are simple counting tasks that generate physical reactions, so imagine how my condition has magnified during this current economic situation. Humongous, unfathomable sums of money being discussed. Statistics and percentages describing quantities of the unemployed, the foreclosed, the bankrupt. Interest rates, unwritten score cards tallying which banks got how much.
My solution? I'm on a media fast. It's either that or medication. And I'm not alone. Numberosis strikes thou...mill...well, I don't know how many people it strikes. You know me and numbers.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Who Do I Trust?
When I say "financial reporter" what image pops into your head? Probably someone resembling Alan Greenspan. An old guy, dark suit, glasses, who appears to have lost his hair while crunching all those numbers. Someone who looks like your grandad, someone you can trust for financial advice.
Ah, but that image is sooo yesterday. Have you watched CNBC or CNN or Bloomberg or any of the networks? No such images there. Most of the so-called experts are 30-something, Donna Karan-wearing women who apparently can analyze the market and predict trends as well as any guy in a Brooks Brothers suit. Personally, I don't know that I want the Homecoming Queen advising me on money matters.
Entertainment --- read "the beautiful people" -- trumps news any day on television. Are we dazzled by the reporter's new hairstyle or their bailout summary? Love that aubergine jacket, Ms. Bartaromo. What's that you said about GM begging for money?
My choices for financial news? There's the rabid guy with the rolled-up shirt sleeves or the fashionable women who ooze confidence. Perhaps I'll just renew my Economist subscription.
Ah, but that image is sooo yesterday. Have you watched CNBC or CNN or Bloomberg or any of the networks? No such images there. Most of the so-called experts are 30-something, Donna Karan-wearing women who apparently can analyze the market and predict trends as well as any guy in a Brooks Brothers suit. Personally, I don't know that I want the Homecoming Queen advising me on money matters.
Entertainment --- read "the beautiful people" -- trumps news any day on television. Are we dazzled by the reporter's new hairstyle or their bailout summary? Love that aubergine jacket, Ms. Bartaromo. What's that you said about GM begging for money?
My choices for financial news? There's the rabid guy with the rolled-up shirt sleeves or the fashionable women who ooze confidence. Perhaps I'll just renew my Economist subscription.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Let's Hear it for Layaway!
Move over credit card companies. Consumers, turn off the QVC and Home Shopping Network. Log-off of that e-tail site. Do you really need that cornucopia sweater? It's identical to the one you bought last year -- well, sans the cranberry sauce stain -- and wore only on Thanksgiving. Or that belly buster bit of exercise equipment? May I remind you of the space in your basement where similar items go to die.
Put the plastic down. Better yet, take a scissors to it. You can do it. Our obsession with "gotta have it now" has come back to bite us in our debt-laden butts. We love the "buy now" bit, but cringe at the "pay later" portion of the agreement.
Proposal: Bring back the Layaway Plan.
Remember Layaway? Department stores and shops would hold an item for you while you paid installments directly to the store. You put a percentage down and made payment agreements. I remember putting a green leather jacket on layaway after I got my first part-time job. When I'd go to Gimbels to make a payment, I'd ask the saleswoman if I could look at that green leather jacket. Sounds a bit like an episode of "The Waltons", but I think it was financial sanity.
Retro or economically un-American? We do love our plastic and the weaning could be quite an ugly withdrawal process. Perhaps we could form support groups. Call each other whenever we feel the urge to put yet another shiny object on our card. Cost of membership in the group? Ten bucks a year. Cash only.
Put the plastic down. Better yet, take a scissors to it. You can do it. Our obsession with "gotta have it now" has come back to bite us in our debt-laden butts. We love the "buy now" bit, but cringe at the "pay later" portion of the agreement.
Proposal: Bring back the Layaway Plan.
Remember Layaway? Department stores and shops would hold an item for you while you paid installments directly to the store. You put a percentage down and made payment agreements. I remember putting a green leather jacket on layaway after I got my first part-time job. When I'd go to Gimbels to make a payment, I'd ask the saleswoman if I could look at that green leather jacket. Sounds a bit like an episode of "The Waltons", but I think it was financial sanity.
Retro or economically un-American? We do love our plastic and the weaning could be quite an ugly withdrawal process. Perhaps we could form support groups. Call each other whenever we feel the urge to put yet another shiny object on our card. Cost of membership in the group? Ten bucks a year. Cash only.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Where Has All The Cursive Gone?
I've found something new to add to my ever growing "you know you're getting older when..." list. There it was. Sitting in my mailbox. A hand addressed envelope. Actual cursive writing. Those lovely swoops and loops, swirls and serifs nearly made me swoon. I considered saving the envelope and tossing the card. OK, so I'm a cursive traditionalist.
Never mind that some of us suffered at the hands of ruler-wielding nuns who had no qualms about wrapping our young knuckles for even minor violations of the Palmer Method. Our classroom had examples of the entire alphabet, upper and lower case, pinned above the blackboards. There was even a place on our report cards to grade handwriting. That's how seriously we took penmanship.
As a left-handed second grader learning to write with a fountain pen, I was particularly challenged. Oh, I could form the letters correctly, bring the descenders below the line just far enough and the ascenders above it with equal skill. "A" for form. "D" for neatness. I held the invention of the ball point on a par with the wheel. No more smeared papers.
With the unstoppable popularity of the computer, cursive has become an endangered species --practically a dinosaur. All hail the keyboard!
Frankly, I can type way faster than I can write so the keyboard serves me well in a multitude of situations. I am hardly anti-keyboard. But when the message is more personal, like a journal entry, a birthday card or a thank you note, I reach for the Mont Blanc medium point blue ink.
Most of my Palmer Method lessons have been forgotten and my handwriting has morphed into a potpourri of cursive and printed letters. The mix varies depending on the space available and how much time I have to fill it. Yet, even with all my penmanship variations, I have never dotted an "i" with a heart -- a habit I find particularly annoying for anyone older than 14.
There's a hilarious scene in "Take the Money and Run" where the inept Woody Allen hands the "put the money in a bag, I have a gun" note to the bank teller. The teller asks what a gub is, even calls over the manager to decipher the message. Thus the drawback of cursive. As elegant and romantic as it might look, it still has to be legible.
Never mind that some of us suffered at the hands of ruler-wielding nuns who had no qualms about wrapping our young knuckles for even minor violations of the Palmer Method. Our classroom had examples of the entire alphabet, upper and lower case, pinned above the blackboards. There was even a place on our report cards to grade handwriting. That's how seriously we took penmanship.
As a left-handed second grader learning to write with a fountain pen, I was particularly challenged. Oh, I could form the letters correctly, bring the descenders below the line just far enough and the ascenders above it with equal skill. "A" for form. "D" for neatness. I held the invention of the ball point on a par with the wheel. No more smeared papers.
With the unstoppable popularity of the computer, cursive has become an endangered species --practically a dinosaur. All hail the keyboard!
Frankly, I can type way faster than I can write so the keyboard serves me well in a multitude of situations. I am hardly anti-keyboard. But when the message is more personal, like a journal entry, a birthday card or a thank you note, I reach for the Mont Blanc medium point blue ink.
Most of my Palmer Method lessons have been forgotten and my handwriting has morphed into a potpourri of cursive and printed letters. The mix varies depending on the space available and how much time I have to fill it. Yet, even with all my penmanship variations, I have never dotted an "i" with a heart -- a habit I find particularly annoying for anyone older than 14.
There's a hilarious scene in "Take the Money and Run" where the inept Woody Allen hands the "put the money in a bag, I have a gun" note to the bank teller. The teller asks what a gub is, even calls over the manager to decipher the message. Thus the drawback of cursive. As elegant and romantic as it might look, it still has to be legible.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Workplace Geezer Factor
What part does the geezer factor play in the workplace hiring process? Are companies truly looking for someone with our vast experience or are they afraid we'll either take --- or keel ---over?
Since, at 61, I am back on the job market I decided to make myself the subject of this self-imposed sociological experiment.
Thanks to an impressive resume --- and selective distribution --- I had three interviews in a week. One of the tricks of resume writing is to leave off certain dates that, well , date you. My resume shows that I graduated from the University of Wisconsin but it doesn't say it was before the first moon landing. And, since the latest in resume writing says to only include ten years of experience, I just might be one of those career women eager to climb the corporate ladder and give up a life outside the office to succeed -- you know, like we did in our 30's.
Of course, no company can say outright they prefer younger workers, but there are signs. The suppressed look of surprise on the youthful face of the HR director when he first meets you is a dead giveaway. He feels like he's interviewing his nana. I want to tell him to sit up straight and stop gnawing on his pen .
It's been more than a decade since I've been on a job interview and, surprisingly, the questions haven't changed. Do I prefer to work alone or with a team. Please tell us about a time you had to think on your feet. What would you do if (include relevant scenario here).
I answered the questions enthusiastically and wisely, but from the arched eyebrow, minor eye roll and copious note taking by the interviewer, I assume my words were interpreted as the rantings of an old lady rather than the wisdom of age.
Final question -- "Where do you see yourself in 5 years?" I babbled something appropriate like if I'm happy in a job I tend to stay, blah, blah, blah. But my mental image pictures told a different story --- retirement, baby, retirement.
If the HR child thought my wide grin was brought on by dreams of having him for a boss, I didn't disabuse him.
Since, at 61, I am back on the job market I decided to make myself the subject of this self-imposed sociological experiment.
Thanks to an impressive resume --- and selective distribution --- I had three interviews in a week. One of the tricks of resume writing is to leave off certain dates that, well , date you. My resume shows that I graduated from the University of Wisconsin but it doesn't say it was before the first moon landing. And, since the latest in resume writing says to only include ten years of experience, I just might be one of those career women eager to climb the corporate ladder and give up a life outside the office to succeed -- you know, like we did in our 30's.
Of course, no company can say outright they prefer younger workers, but there are signs. The suppressed look of surprise on the youthful face of the HR director when he first meets you is a dead giveaway. He feels like he's interviewing his nana. I want to tell him to sit up straight and stop gnawing on his pen .
It's been more than a decade since I've been on a job interview and, surprisingly, the questions haven't changed. Do I prefer to work alone or with a team. Please tell us about a time you had to think on your feet. What would you do if (include relevant scenario here).
I answered the questions enthusiastically and wisely, but from the arched eyebrow, minor eye roll and copious note taking by the interviewer, I assume my words were interpreted as the rantings of an old lady rather than the wisdom of age.
Final question -- "Where do you see yourself in 5 years?" I babbled something appropriate like if I'm happy in a job I tend to stay, blah, blah, blah. But my mental image pictures told a different story --- retirement, baby, retirement.
If the HR child thought my wide grin was brought on by dreams of having him for a boss, I didn't disabuse him.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
And the Toni Goes To.....
While strolling through Chinatown, I passed one of the many small hair salons. Ladies with thick black hair were getting their $6 cuts, having their nails done for $10 and someone was getting the advertised $20 permanent wave. There's just no mistaking that distinctive smell.
Even though it wasn't as chemical an odor as I remembered, it was enough. One whiff and I was 10 years old, sitting on a stool in the bathroom staring with dread at the Toni box. It was Saturday, nearly Easter and the thought of a Spring makeover possessed my mother -- possessed her to the point of inflicting a home permanent on her youngest daughter.
In retrospect, I consider this an episode of child abuse. There was weeping - mine -- and gnashing of teeth -- Mother's, who was annoyed by my constant fidgeting. I hated the smell, the endless waiting for the chemistry experiment to take hold, the rollers that reminded me of pink (for girls, of course) chicken bones. But most of all I hated the results.
They were nothing at all like the twins on the commericals. You were supposed to guess which one had the Toni. They both had wavy, soft curly hair so it was a difficult choice. But unlike either TV twin, I looked like a chia pet.
I kept tugging at my hair hoping to de-curl it even though Mother kept assuring me that the frizz would be gone by school on Monday. This is the same woman who lied to me about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, so by age 10 her credibility was weak.
It took months for the frizz to settle down. Months of wearing scarves and answering to the name Brillo head on the playground. They don't call it "permanent" for nothing.
Even though it wasn't as chemical an odor as I remembered, it was enough. One whiff and I was 10 years old, sitting on a stool in the bathroom staring with dread at the Toni box. It was Saturday, nearly Easter and the thought of a Spring makeover possessed my mother -- possessed her to the point of inflicting a home permanent on her youngest daughter.
In retrospect, I consider this an episode of child abuse. There was weeping - mine -- and gnashing of teeth -- Mother's, who was annoyed by my constant fidgeting. I hated the smell, the endless waiting for the chemistry experiment to take hold, the rollers that reminded me of pink (for girls, of course) chicken bones. But most of all I hated the results.
They were nothing at all like the twins on the commericals. You were supposed to guess which one had the Toni. They both had wavy, soft curly hair so it was a difficult choice. But unlike either TV twin, I looked like a chia pet.
I kept tugging at my hair hoping to de-curl it even though Mother kept assuring me that the frizz would be gone by school on Monday. This is the same woman who lied to me about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, so by age 10 her credibility was weak.
It took months for the frizz to settle down. Months of wearing scarves and answering to the name Brillo head on the playground. They don't call it "permanent" for nothing.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Like It's Amazing, Literally!
I'm not sure what happened that pushed me over the edge, but I have recently assumed the role of official language curmudgeon. I've always liked reading, writing and playing with words. And while I'm very attuned to usage and proper grammar, I'm not one of those annoying people who corrects someone while they're talking. In the privacy of my head however, I circle their mistakes in red just like the nuns did on my high school essays.
Take the word "amazing" for example. Webster defines it as "filled with great surprise or sudden wonder; astonishing".
It's an uber descriptive, powerful adjective that works particularly well with life's memorable moments -- like childbirth, winning the lottery, viewing the Grand Canyon, hearing a prodigy play Chopin and other events of similar magnitude.
Yet, a guest on the Today Show was telling Matt Lauer about an amazing olive tapenade, an amazing garlic mayonnaise and -- yes --- an amazing spicy guacamole. In that brief 4 minutes of fame segment, he used the word "amazing" 9 times. And just to further irritate me, he repeatedly drew out the second syllable so my ear spelled it "amaaaazing".
Give the man a thesaurus! Food is delicious, scrumptious, delectable, yummy, heavenly....and so on. But unless you're dining with the Dali Lama at the top of the Eiffel Tower it's rarely amazing.
Like I want to literally jump off the Golden Gate Bridge when I hear language misused. Wouldn't that be amazing?
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