BACKSEAT DRIVERS

I've been driving since I turned 18, and I'm waaaaaaaay past that age now (several decades). In all that time, I have not had a single ticket (okay, I've been warned a couple of times) and only one accident - and that was a spinout on an icy highway, with no-one injured except my car. I've driven across the U.S. to Los Angeles on Route 66 and back again. I've driven in driving snow squalls with zero visibility, wailing thunderstorms while passing trucks threw acres of water onto my windshield, sailed through the balmy climes of Texas and the wind-driven cliffs of Colorado. So I can drive, is what I'm saying.

What my husband fails to believe, however, is that I can drive the three minutes it takes to get from the Metro North railroad station to our home a few blocks away. He angles his head a la Linda Blair to ensure that no car is coming up our left side when making a right turn, even though I've done the check and am already on my way. His head is constantly swivelling to check mirrors and side views. He winces if I hit the edge of a high manhole and gasps if I make a swift turn to another lane. Most people would wonder why I deign to get in the car with him at all. Here's my answer: I feel sorry for him. If you're always worrying, always checking, you never know what it's like to relax and enjoy the ride. Then again, that might be his overall challenge in life.

Children as Experts

I've spent a lot of time and error - as have my friends and family - finding my way to what I consider "the best" foods, clothes, movies, cars, services for my money. We've all suffered through the car that needed thousands of dollars of work in its first year, the travel company that failed to stand behind its special offers, the cleaners who "cleaned" our suits to the transparency of fine china.

So it greatly annoys me to watch some pre-teen on television without an iota of real living yammer on about the wonders of a certain grape juice or the technical aspects of cable service. I admit that some of these little ones are humorous and can actually carry off the dialogue with a certain amount of sincerity (because nothing's worse than a kid who knows they're cute and banks on that). I will even admit that I look forward to the odd commercial with children, especially the one with the three toddlers and the crazy dad who watches in despair as his fancy watch gets flushed down the toilet - but hey, that's a likely situation, unlike my five year old granddaughter espousing the culinary merits of a cheese sandwich.

No, what I hate is when the marketing reps for these products fail to come up with a premise that I, as an educated, literate and informed adult can "buy". It might be charming to use a child but it's lazy. When you resort to children for anything but a child's product, you're resorting to the literary equivalent of chick-lit. You're risking alienating a great portion of your audience just to drag in the few who don't mind doing the same thing again and again because it's easier than seeking out true quality. This isn't rocket science. This is marketing. I wish we could see more of it.

THE NOTHINGNESS OF A JOB SEARCH

I'm writing this from the depths of despair today. It's been 8 months since I left a job that paid well but took far too much out of me, and it is with absolute dismay that I sit here and realize how many months I've been looking for something else.

I'm qualified. There have been times when I've been overqualified or just-a-bit underqualified. However, 95 percent of the time, I've had EXACTLY what they require for the position and NOTHING. Not a word, not a call, not an interview, nothing. I can only assume that it's "hire americans first" because my letters are articulate, my resume is solid, and I've had both reviewed by those who should know. Nothing.

The problem is that it's getting more and more difficult to sit here every day and research the job sites. I am intimately involved with everything from monster to media bistro, career builder to the Boston Globe, and every individual work site in between. Nothing.

So how does one continue to do this? Where do we find the drive to keep going? I have the luxury of living with someone who supports me, financially and emotionally. But I have a strong and complete awareness of how this situation can drive you to drink, drugs, malaise and apathy. Nothing is the hardest thing I've ever done.

WRITERS

I was watching Dustin Hoffman on the Actor's Studio (with that awful man, Lipton, but the concept is good) and he was relating the story of Olivier's last dinner with him. When he asked Olivier why he "did what he did", Olivier leaned over the table and said "Notice me. Notice me. Notice me."

And the funny thing was that it took me back to my first play and a line in it that was so true, it startles me even now. I wrote "Osmosis" in the first person and the line I remember was "Notice me, but don't let me see you do it." And that is the difference between actors and writers. Actors live for the attention. Writers live for the attention once removed. But we both need it. The attention.

High end solutions at chain store prices

I just had my hair done. The price was unbelievably ridiculously high. My hair looks fabulous, sure, but my bank account looks as if a tornado blew through it. It buys into my quandary that the working middle class is getting shafted. Why? Because while we actually have a bit of disposable income, it's not as large as we would like and it's not as disposable either. We aspired to and worked hard for the "nicer things in life", getting educated and putting in the long hours at work, making the usual mistakes with job and clothing choices, setting aside money for mortgages, retirement funds and so on, all in the hopes that there would come a day when we could relax a bit and enjoy it. So what happened?

There is no middle ground, that's what happened. Now, in order to have the level of service and quality that we'd like in clothing stores, preschool education, hair salons, we find ourselves paying for the higher end choices that are out there. The problem is that our income doesn't match those who can access these services/items easily. We don't want to go back to chainstore salons or the lady on the corner looking after our children, but we can barely afford the services/items that we now believe we deserve. Why has no-one jumped on this yet? Why are there no choices in the middle? And if they're out there, why are they so hard to find? Can someone not develop high-end solutions at something more akin to chain store prices? I'd buy them. So would my friends. Also my family. And their friends. And their families. Get it?

Still Got It

My husband had decided to walk home from the train the other night. At the last minute, I thought I'd meet him halfway, so still wearing my workout pants and my hoodie, I headed out. Maybe it was because the night was so crisp and I was walking with a real spring in my step, or maybe I was pulling down too much on my hoodie (hands in pockets) so that my breastal region was a bit more significantly on show than usual, but the most wonderful thing happened.

Now, let me preface this by saying I'm not twenty. Not forty. Hell, I passed 50 already. I could stand to lose a few pounds. My hair was a bit past its regular cut. It was late. No makeup. No fuss, no bother.

A young man, perhaps in his early thirties, was approaching me on his bicycle. (Well, a Maserati would have been nicer but then he wouldn't have had the full picture, would he?) As he came closer, he let out a "uh-huh", not one of those confused ones but a "hmmm, what have we here?" kind of uh-huh. Then, as he went past, he said "Whassup?" I couldn't help it, I started to laugh. And I kept the smile from that laughter all the way up to my husband, who pulled me into a hug and got a bit of uh-huh of his own.

Major TV Event?

Riding on the Metro North today, I noticed a poster for "The Starter Wife" (yes, we saw it, so yes, your marketing team put it in a good spot). I took issue with this poster on many levels, although Deb Messing looked fabulous on it.

First, the term "The Starter Wife" is at once scary and ridiculous. Are we to assume that there are women out there who are willing to enter into a marriage for the purpose of marital practice for men? Or, and perhaps more startling, are there men out there who seek out wives with their second already on the horizon? "Yes, you'll do for now but when I'm older and wiser and have achieved a certain level of income and prestige, I'll need something more sophisticated and perhaps better dressed." Not that this hasn't happened since the dawn of time. I'm sure those wives who struggled working two jobs putting their husbands through grad school, law school or medical residencies are nodding emphatically.

So perhaps it's that the implication of this title isn't - well, implied any more. It's there. Solid. Stated. "Starter Wife." Not First Wife, not Only Wife. Starter Wife.

And while that alone could have outraged me enough for my entire ride into the city, I still had to deal with the heading just below the title: Major TV Event. Right. A movie about a women moving on with her life after finding herself in the position of "starter wife" has now become a Major TV Event. Now, I completely support the growth of women at all stages of their lives. God knows, I've been in the position of having to reinvent myself after a divorce. But a Major TV Event? Not only has this story been told before (and I would wager that the First Wives Club might deserve a "major" before this movie does), but I also think we should reserve our Major TV Events for major TV events - wars, floods, tornadoes - any kind of natural disaster, murders, new presidents, Amber alerts. You get the picture.

Overstatement runs rampant in this society. Let's remember that entertaining or not, a movie is a movie is a movie, not a TV event, major or otherwise.

Oh, What a Beautiful Morning ...!

I'm going to sound like a Pollyanna here:
I was walking to the physical therapist this morning and had to take a minute to look around and realize that I was in the midst of one of the most beautiful days in months. The sky was that blue that looks fake in calendars but when it's in front of you, is simply astonishing. The trees were covered with pink and white apple blossoms. The breeze was gentle and cool, and for the first time in a long while actually smelled like spring. People in cars at crosswalks stopped to let me by. It was like a walking Walt Disney movie!

I have a friend who uses the word "blessed" the same way we use "socks" or "hello", and on her, it sounds right. For me, "blessed" is a word I seldom use as I tend to sound just a bit precious and forced. And yet, I felt blessed this morning. We might get a few more of these days than we realize and when we do, we rarely remember to delight in them. So for today, I'm spending most of my time outside. Remembering this day. Feeling blessed.

Rude Service

Today's blog isn't funny. It's funny that it has to be said, but that's it. So here goes ...
In just the space of three hours ...

I had to stand in line with a pile of food items, including ice cream, while the lone checker - at Target! (a place that's always busy) - handled more than seven people because it was 1:36 in the afternoon and all her "colleagues" had gone off somewhere and, as our lone checker said, "I was supposed to go at 1. I'm doing just two more people and that's it, they can go find themselves somewhere else to check out. I have my rights, you know."

I walked up to the lone checkout at Stop & Shop handling express items at 2 p.m. in the afternoon and had to start putting my items on a food ramp that was already covered by the young man (also a checker) who was having a tete-a-tete with his friend, the other checker, while leaning almost full body across the ramp. Both were unapologetic and acted as if I had rudely interrupted their "date."

On my way out of the shopping area, I handed my money and time slip to the parking attendant who processed it, raised the gate and turned to the next person.
....
Now, I understand that these are not the best-paying jobs in the world. I also understand that in the course of a day they have to deal with a wide variety of people, some of who could be less than polite with them.

But this I know to be true: I've worked retail. I've had low-paying jobs. I know what it's like to work from 8 in the morning till 11 at night for five days in a row. I know what it means to travel for two hours to a lousy job that eats up half your travel budget just going to and fro, not to mention daycare fees and the hassle of dropping a child off at daycare on the way there and back.

So here's what I have to say to the managers and owners of these businesses: Stop apologizing for poor service and start fixing it. Train your people. Don't settle for less than the best. If your employees can't manage to be civil and thankful for the business we bring you, then let them go. Those of us who have had to work hard for our money deserve - nay, demand - that we receive the very best treatment from your staff, and at the very least, a thank you when we leave
(p.s. I didn't get one all day, and I'm one of those customers who actually smiles and says thank you myself.). If you wonder why your business is suffering, look no further than the people you employ.

Why Single Could Be Good ... Sometimes

When you're single, you might be in a foul mood but it's your foul mood. When you're with someone, their foul mood becomes yours and somehow, it becomes incumbent upon you to find your way out of it. I used to feel responsible. Now, I just want it over.

I admit that I'm not the most linear person you'd ever want to meet when it comes to moods. I cry at the drop of a hat, I'm easily hurt, and I can't stand feeling as if there's something I could be doing when the husband-guy is in a mood. Naturally, I'm not talking about the mood caused by various marital sins like staying an hour later at work after calling to say you're on your way, or apparently missing the long soapy streak across the bathroom mirror after shaving, or remembering that I can decide for myself if I want to work in a hotdog costume for the fast food joint up the street, thank you very much. (I'd never want to do that, ever, but I retain the right to want to, you know?) And as I said, I can get into quite a snit as well.

No, I'm talking about those occasions when someone/something else has caused the foul mood. Work, the rain, transit workers, taxi drivers, work, local government, voice mail retrieval, work ... whatever gets his motor cranking and his voice ranting. This is a lovely, sane man most of the time. He doesn't swear, he doesn't hit, he's respectful to old people and wonderful with children. And then the minor inconveniences rear up like the robot warriors in War of the World and all hell breaks loose. Forget gentle conversation. Forget cuddling on the couch. Forget sex. (Well, duh). For as long as the inconvenience continues to cause ... well, inconvenience, there's a more convenient place for me to be.

I'm glad that minor inconveniences, by their very nature, last about three minutes or less. I'm also glad that both of us have one very important thing in common. We make each other laugh. Especially when we're in a mood. Makes being a couple bearable, I think.

My Husband's Poor Eyesight

It bodes well for me that my husband is almost blind without his glasses or contacts. This means that not only will I look goo-oo-ood to him well into my eighties, but also that I look damn fine now - naked in bed or prancing up to him in my latest sexy getup. In case you think I'm placing too fine an emphasis on this, let me advise you that although I look fairly fabulous for well over 40 (okay, 50), the body ain't like it used ta be, ya know what I mean?

I was putting my bra on today, as I am wont to do most days - okay, all days. These girls are well past their perky prime - and I noticed that I had reached for a bra with four hooks. Four! I'm not sure how it got into my lingerie drawer, or even how it ended up in a bag on its way home with me. But four hooks?!!!! Four???? The last time I saw a bra with four hooks, my aging grandmother with the ta-tas down to her waist was slinging them into it as she bent over in her altogether. Yes, it's lacy. And a soft, kind of creamy color, and very pretty. But four hooks? And the sad part was that the girls liked it. They sat up nice and high, fit into all parts of the cup, there was little to no spillage out the sides. This was a damn fine bra. But four hooks?

I'm sad to say, I took it off. Maybe no-one will ever see it, including my ocularly challenged husband. But still. It's hard to pretend you're sexy when your girls need the technical equivalent of four hefty men to keep them in shape. As far as I'm concerned, a little droop is a good trade-off. And hell, the husband thinks I look like Cindy Crawford naked. I'm not telling him different.

Why Men Should Never Retire

We recently moved from NYC to a fairly large city in the suburbs, you know the kind where the parking lots are stacked six deep when the Metro North chugs into the station. Taxis are shuffling to get their mass quantity of rides for the day and all the wives are running their cars non-stop because it's better to have a new version of "War, What is it good for?" on your radio than empty silence as you realize the train will be ten minutes late... again.

Anyway, I digress. I pick up my husband at least four nights out of five. Even though I try the odd different route home, the chances are that we'll take the same three streets home (it's a 3 minute ride). I'm a pretty smart cookie but at ten or 11 at night, the brain is looking for fast and easy. I can pick out scenic routes when my brain is running on more than the third cup of tea since dinner (trying to stave off chocolate cravings. It doesn't work since tea, according to Atkins, is a catalyst for cravings. He must be right. I need a cookie, a candy, something! when that cup enters my hand.)

So ... okay, the same route. Every day. It's not that big a city. People-wise, sure. Busy-wise, not so much. And at 11, no-one 'cept me and the taxis. Which leads me to this morning. We're heading home from the beach, and my husband is driving. We pass the station where I pick him up most nights. (Same route, every day). We turn the corner, still the same route. As we come up to the main corner for changing streets, he asks me to remind him where to turn. I refuse. He continues in the middle lane. I'm trying as hard as I can to remain silent. The light turns red. Mucho thanka God, because it's then that he realizes he has to get in the right lane. And I'm not telling him because it's ridiculous, isn't it? This is the way we go EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.

Which is why I think men should never retire. I mean, if they're like my husband, during the 12 to 14 hours they're at work, they're responsible for thousands of dollars, a hundred earth-shattering decisions (this from him), and his neck is on the block for everything. Just for the record, my husband's been there for years and his neck is very safe, as far as I'm concerned. Yet, when he steps off that train each night, he turns into this dependent being who can't find his way home without directions. Who won't get himself a snack in the fridge on his own (he waits for me to want one, and then he's gung-ho for whatever I'm having). Don't get me wrong. This is one of the kindest, sweetest, smartest, funniest men I know. But if he retires, so help me ...!

My First Entry 4/27/07

I've finally decided that there needs to be another voice out here in blogland - the voice of women over 40 who are beyond the challenges of raising children (although we still care about those we have created), well set in our careers or very tired of the one we have, married or single but with concerns that aren't mentioned in the latest magazines, with clothes that aren't sold in the majority of stores, and with men who still haven't figured it out at the ripe old age of way-past-20. For those women, this is for us.

If you are anything like me, you want:
To find a book that has the humor of chick-lit but isn't about the dating habits of my roommates, the way your boss hates you (in your first job), your terrible boss who can't understand morning-after hangovers, or the way your mother still wants you to find the perfect man. We're older women with interesting lives. Why aren't there more books for us?

To discover why designers are fixated on poufy sleeves, low-riding crotches and skirts up your keister (my dad used to say that, and I still love it!). We want wider sleeves, lower armholes, straight legs, longer tops that still manage to be cool, underwear that covers all the bits and - hell, why aren't these people watching Stacey and Clinton? I mean, get a clue, people! We have expendable incomes and the time to spend it. Give us what we want and we're there. Promise.

A reinvention of customer service. No, we simply want customer service. Maybe when you're twenty, it's cool for the sales guy to tell you to come back in an hour when he's finished lunch. Hey, he's cute and really, you didn't have much else to do,right? No, no, no, no, no! We want you to put off your damn lunch for five minutes and find us that damn battery that will make our phone start berating us again for being out of the office for more than ten minutes. Really.

This list could be endless, and it will be. Every day, I hope to write about the little things that hit my hot spots, and the wonderful moments that remind me that I love living. Hope you'll join me!