Just Listed

I love to make lists -- shopping lists, lifetime “I wanna do this” lists, books to read, blogs to write, music to buy, people to email, photos to have printed, vacations to take, pros and cons of a decision in process -- my list of lists could go on and on.

When I worked an office job, every Friday before leaving, I updated my project list and posted the spreadsheet on the wall of my cubicle, sweet cubicle. It helped to see it on paper, and it reduced the risk I would forget something. Even if the printed list was lost (not uncommon), it lived on my computer. Another weekly list resided in my Mead "At-A-Glance" planner (model 70-864 in case you'd like to buy me a gift.)

Some tasks appeared regularly, just under different client names and project numbers: write brochure/ad/website copy; proofread brochure/ad/website copy; follow-up with client re: budget estimate; draft meeting agenda; type conference notes; set production timeline. That kind of stuff.

Sometimes an individual project was so big it warranted its own dedicated spreadsheet. One of my first projects at my old marketing agency job was logistics for a client’s 100th anniversary event. The project’s scope was panic-inducing, but my nerves were quelled with typing. During the course of the project, the event task list evolved into a 200 line spreadsheet tracking specific tasks, timelines, and the organization or individual responsible for completion. Corralling the details in one document and knowing all possible variables were accounted for was a relief.

It is common for me to reach into a pocket and pull out an old list. “Dog food, potting soil, half and half.” “Wedding card, facial wipes, nail polish remover.” I pick up slips of paper in parking lots that hold someone else’s list and then wonder who belongs with “almonds, pears, Preparation H, tin foil, bleach.”

It is also common for me to draft a list, check it twice, and then forget it on the coffee table, kitchen counter or in the car, leaving me standing in a store tearing through pockets or my purse for the list written 20 minutes earlier. It’s frustrating, but having written it down is often sufficient and the items can be procured or the tasks completed without the list in hand.

As helpful as making lists can be, the best part is crossing things off. It’s a tangible mark of accomplishment. If I ever hit the middle of a workweek and hadn’t yet used my red pen to cross off a task from my blue inked list, it was time to take a breath and come up with something already accomplished, no matter how trivial. Then it could be added and immediately crossed off purely for the psychological boost and momentum it provided. “Update project statuses.” Boom! Done.

When the calendar page turns to November, it’s the season for the BIG lists -- the Christmas list for gifts and the New Year’s list for goals.

Names are inked in, gift ideas penciled in, and final gift purchases noted permanently in ink. Other items on the Christmas list might be treats to be baked and holiday issues to be resolved like host gifts, party dishes, and attire.

The New Year’s list has generally been harder to develop, and once drafted, often tucked into a journal. It usually reads like a conceptual wish list and over the years has included join gym, lose 5 pounds, create a website, edit/publish a book, buy a house, sell the house, find a job, pay off credit card, travel.

It’s fun to look at old lists. The can be a nice boost, especially when I slide back into adolescent angst and find myself hosting a pity party for one, feeling like I haven’t done anything (ever!). There is therapeutic value in reviewing an old New Year’s list and noting the major accomplishments like leave bad relationship (check!), buy a house (check!), pay off the car (check!), sell the house (check!), move back to New England (check!).

Criminalizing Compassion?

Every year, the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) releases to Congress the two-part Annual Homeless Assessment Report (AHAR). Part 1 of the 2014 AHAR report, released in October, has Point-in-Time estimates of both sheltered and unsheltered homeless populations gathered on a single night in late January.

It’s a good sign that overall, the estimated number of homeless people has declined since 2007 (the chart on page 18 says so), but don’t break out in a happy dance just yet. According to the report, the estimated number of homeless people in America in 2014 is 578,424. Let that sink in. Over half a million people in our country are homeless. It’s a decline of 2% since 2013, but it’s still far too many homeless people.

The AHAR report breaks down the homeless population by state, by subgroups, and by age ranges. Half of the homeless individuals in the U.S. are located in five states: California, New York, Florida, Texas, and Georgia. (AHAR, page 20).

Another report from the National Coalition for the Homeless “examines the relationship between work and homelessness, including the contribution of unemployment, underemployment, and low wages to homelessness,” as well as an assessment of “the barriers to employment faced by homeless people and strategies for overcoming those barriers.” The NCH report points out, “Media reports of a growing economy and low unemployment mask a number of important reasons why homelessness persists, and, in some areas of the country, is worsening. These include stagnant or falling incomes, and less secure jobs that offer fewer benefits.”

In 1967, a year-round, minimum wage earning worker was paid enough to raise a family of three above the poverty line. Freezes to the minimum wage, cost of living increases, and the demographic change of minimum wage workers from mostly teenagers to a current level of 72% at age 20 or older mean housing is out of reach for many workers. Now, in areas around the country, according to the NCH report, “a minimum wage worker would have to work 87 hours each week to afford a two-bedroom apartment at 30% of his or her income, which is the federal definition of affordable housing.” The report also states that many homeless shelters “house significant numbers of full-time wage earners.” So much for the old American dream of working, owning a home, and retiring at some level of comfort, or the notions that homeless people are all addicts, mentally ill, or choose to be homeless.

Articles circulating for several years claim there anywhere from five to 24 empty houses in the U.S. for each homeless person in America. Some houses in the U.S. are empty part of the year because they are second, and even third homes held for seasonal purposes. Other houses are empty, not because people suddenly decided it would be more fun to enjoy life in the great outdoors or at a shelter, but because economic conditions including disappearing jobs, crappy wages, increased costs, and even medical expenses (the number one cause of personal bankruptcy in the U.S.) have crippled and even destroyed people’s lives and livelihood. When jobs and income disappear, the ability to make mortgage or rent payments goes with them. In Detroit, entire neighborhoods sit empty as a result of economic conditions.

Not everyone has the safety net of family willing or able to take them in. If being homeless isn’t tough enough, laws are being enacted around the U.S. to penalize those who try to help.

On November 6, 2014, a wire service story headlined “3 busted. Their crime? Feeding the homeless” ran in my local paper. Over the weekend, 90-year old Arnold Abbott and two ministers in Fort Lauderdale, Florida were arrested for violating a new ordinance that took effect Friday, and now face up to 60 days in jail and a $500 fine for feeding the homeless in a public park. The same article says the ordinance “is one of five laws dealing with homelessness that Fort Lauderdale passed in May.” Abbott, who founded a culinary school which produces the food he serves to the homeless, has been ministering to the hungry for some 23 years and was arrested a second time four days later.

In Orlando, groups must get a permit to feed 25 or more in parks in a downtown district, and are limited to two permits per year for each park. It isn’t just Florida (ranked third in the nation for homelessness by AHAR), either. In Texas, (ranked fourth), Houston ordinances require groups to have written consent to feed the homeless in public or face a $2,000 fine. And in Columbia, S.C., organizations must file more than two weeks in advance and pay $150 for a permit to feed the homeless in city parks.

Is the solution to homelessness the arrest and prosecution of people attempting to help their fellow humans with a meal? Do the new laws imply that homelessness is perpetuated because groups are willing to feed the homeless populations?

In Fort Lauderdale, will fines be used to help build a facility that fulfills the new requirements for portable toilets, hand-washing stations, and food temperatures at outdoor feeding sites? Or is the underlying intent more cosmetic, to move the problem from a visible location like a park and drive it underground and out of sight, and preferably outside the city’s jurisdiction? 

I don’t know. But there have to be better solutions. Maybe it’s a case of reframing the problem.

Christmas Pajamas

Christmas in my family has always been a festival of fantastic gifts. Even though we weren’t wealthy (or anywhere close to it, by any measure), there were always lots of presents, ranging from practical gifts of clothing from family members, and toys, music, books and sporting equipment from the famous, fabricated giant -- Santa Claus.

When I was young, my family celebrated Christmas Eve together with varying combinations of great-aunts (who we called "Aunt") and my Mom's cousins and friends. The gatherings felt very glamorous, with the ladies in nice dresses, the men in ties and jackets, and we kids in new Christmas outfits from my grandmother, Mummu.

The family party rotated between the homes of my grandmother  and her sisters, but my favorites were the years it was at Mummu’s apartment. When it was her turn to host, I got to help her cook, bake, and carefully set out the good china serving pieces, trimmed in platinum and used only on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and Christmas. There was the excitement of last minute hustle and bustle and Christmas music blaring from the radio.

At Mummu’s parties, the traditional Christmas Eve menu included finger sandwiches featuring egg salad, ham salad, and tuna salad, each delicately sprinkled with paprika for color. There were relish trays of sweet baby gherkins, black olives, and green olives, with tiny plastic cocktail pitchforks for serving. Just before the guests were due to arrive, keilbasa in an intoxicating sauce of brown sugar, vinegar and ketchup was set to bake in her Roper Deluxe gas stove and heater. (I loved standing beside the stove in the winter, enjoying the hot air blasting out the vents on the side.) Finnish coffee bread from a local bakery was surrounded by dozens of home baked cookies, some so fresh they were still warm from the oven. 

Our Christmas Eve parties always featured a grab bag gift swap between the adults featuring gifts both mundane (socks) and spectacular (alcohol and cigarettes). There were practical gifts of hats, scarves, socks and underwear from the adults to my brother, sister, me, and any others of our generation. Sometimes the gifts from the great-aunts were a bit off target, like the year Aunt Mary gave me a pair of navy blue stockings. The kind that require a garter belt. I was ten. I thanked her politely and saved those stockings in the original packaging for years, but never came into the hardware required to actually use them.

For decades, in addition to the new outfits we were wearing at the party, my grandmother gave us each new pajamas to open on Christmas Eve, and every few years there was also a new bathrobe. I loved waking up on Christmas morning in my new nightgown or pajamas. It felt special. It was almost as glamorous as the party the night before. One year in high school, I was crushed when my new pajamas, styled like long johns in blue flannel with a red and white snowflake pattern that made me think of ski lodges and reindeer, were too small. Mummu usually bought all the pajamas at the after-Christmas sales and held them until the following Christmas, so there was no opportunity to exchange them. I never even told her those didn’t fit. Like the navy stockings from Aunt Mary, I kept the pajamas for several years.

 Christmas pajamas, many years ago.

With time and the passing of the eldest relatives, changing of family compositions, and the members of the younger generation relocating, the parties got smaller until it was just Mom, Mummu, and the three of us kids with any significant others we may have had. My sister and I eventually picked up the reins and hosted, and when I moved away from our hometown for what became a 20 year stretch spanning four cities (including a foreign country), my sister became the host.

Mummu died in 2005, and although the party begun with her generation continues, our tradition has changed. We attend Christmas Eve church service before the party now. During our party in 2013, as I was quizzing my nieces about what they would wear to bed and for unwrapping their gifts on Christmas morning, I learned that my nieces, born in 1999, 2002, and 2004, never had the family traditional gift of new pajamas on Christmas Eve. Maybe we need to resurrect the Christmas pajamas. Of course, there is the risk my nieces may not find it fun at all. Or at least not as much fun as the keilbasa and cookie traditions. I, however, would love some new Christmas pajamas (hint, hint).

Civic Duty

Today is election day in America. If you are eligible to vote and didn’t, please don’t whine or try to engage me in any form of political debate later. As far as I’m concerned, if you don’t express your opinion at the polls on election day, you aren’t entitled to an opinion on political matters after election day.

Yes, voting can be inconvenient. If you work, you might need to squeeze it in before or after or during your workday. Yes, it might be crowded at your voting location (it was when I went), but that’s a good thing! It means your neighbors are participating in the process that people in America and other countries have fought for (and in some cases, died for). Standing in line is trivial. Chat with the people around you and meet your neighbors.

Mom and I went to vote this morning around 8:45. The parking lot at our Ward 1 voting location, the Knights of Columbus Hall, was crowded. The atmosphere was cheerful.

I had a minor hiccup at check in -- I wasn’t listed at the address for my Mom’s house, where I’ve lived at for nearly two years. Even though I registered to vote when I transferred my driver’s license and registered my car in March 2013, and even though I voted one year ago in the city election, and even though I hand-delivered a city census form for our address to the City Clerk’s office, I wasn’t on the check-in list. I was listed as “inactive.” Umm, how much more active could I have been?

I guess that explains why Mom and Butch received candidate mailings and I didn’t. But in the grand scheme of things, it is still trivial. Minor. I had to go to another table and fill out a form and show my license, then return to the check-in line with the yellow and pink copies of a form. It took five extra minutes. Barely an eye blink to express my position on the next few years.

Meanwhile, Mom had finished voting, visited the check-out table and was standing in the line to place her ballot forms in a big machine. Unfortunately, the machine kept rejecting the forms of a voter ahead of her, which held up the line. One lady was nervously checking her watch, and announced she needed to get to work.

I got my forms and visited the booth to color in my little ovals. Luckily, there was an empty booth. These are not private little stations, they accommodate two people, each facing a corner of the space. But they look mighty cozy for two people, and I was hoping nobody came to the tiny counter in the other side of ‘my’ booth, triggering claustrophobia.

I felt prepared to vote, having read the Massachusetts Information for Voters booklet that arrived at our house several weeks ago. Unfortunately, my preparations still left me unprepared. The booklet contained four questions on the ballot, but it turned out there were actually six. There were offices listed on the ballot I hadn’t heard of, so I was still flying blind in a couple areas.
As I was filling in the ovals on my ballot by hand with the provided black Flair pen, the voter on the other side of the flimsy booth wall was shaking the booth like a damned earthquake, making it challenging to stay in the lines, and making me worry the machine wouldn’t read my ballot if the circles were all crazy. Yes, voting can be exciting, but calm the heck down and stop shaking the entire booth!

When I finished dealing with the shaking booth and coloring ovals and puzzling over positions I didn’t know were up for grabs with candidates I never heard of, I stood in the line to feed my forms into the machine, until someone pointed out I needed to go to the checkout table first. I hadn’t been on the check-in list, but fortunately I WAS on the check-out list. Umm,  OK.

But it’s done. Now I wait for the coverage tonight to see the results. And you know what? Compared to the countries where people have no say in their government, my tiny issues mean nothing. I didn’t have to fight for the right to vote, others before me already paved the way for me. The least I can do is show up and be part of the process. The same goes for you.

Beer Fashioned

One night last fall, a gal pal and I visited a new local restaurant/watering hole where the menu is interesting and the beer list ripe with microbrews and craft beers. The place was packed with the novelty of newness and a long wait for tables, so we sat at the bar. Note: saying “we sat at the bar” may be too casual. After scoping out the bar, I strategically chose seats next to an attractive guy with a goatee who I spotted when we first entered the place. While sitting opposite him would have allowed for full admiration of his handsomeness, being next to him meant we might actually talk.

Many wines give me stuffy sinuses and a rash, so I ordered a dark beer from the 70-something beers on the menu. As my friend and I talked, I stole glances over her shoulder at Mr. Handsome, who was drinking a beer alone and not wearing a wedding ring. It seemed we were seated beside an available, age-appropriate man, and I was trying to figure out how to start a conversation, because partway into my pint of dark beer deliciousness, I feared he would not speak first. Feeling ready to consider dating again after a three year boycott, I thought the universe might have put us in the same restaurant for a reason. Of course, sometimes I over-think things.

Thanks to my inescapable dorkiness, varying levels of social anxiety, and the ever present voice of my grandmother telling me at least ten million billion times that “NICE ladies don’t chase boys,” with “chase” including looking at, telephoning, and/or initiating a conversation with an unknown male, breezy conversation openers do not come easily.

Yes, as a woman in America in the 21st century I am free to (and probably should) shed definitions and social restrictions rooted in the Middle Ages and advocated by my grandmother in the last century, but I like some of them. I like it when the man makes the first move and opens conversations -- and opens doors -- and takes the initiative to plan dates. Call me old fashioned. Based on this, you may just call me old.

One time I started a conversation with a man in the lodge of the ski resort where we both worked and we dated for several months afterward. It offended me when he told a friend we met when I “hit on him.” Evidently, his definition of “hit on” was what I considered innocent co-worker conversation, specifically, “Aren’t you _____ from_____? You were a year ahead of me in high school.” If that’s hitting on a guy, it’s easier than I thought.

But back to the guy at the bar. He and I were doing the thing where you notice another person and then avert your eyes when they look at you. Or maybe it’s just me who does it, and he and most of the world’s population beyond high school age are more socially adept at meeting people. Scientific confirmation of this notion would not surprise me.

When Goatee Guy asked for a menu, it felt like a natural opportunity for conversation. I offered what felt like a bold, unsolicited review of our meals. A discussion about my beer followed, with Goatee Guy commenting he “didn’t know that women drink beer,” and acting like this was a revelation akin to the discovery of gold or uranium or chocolate. Seriously?

This guy must not get out much. He was impressed that my beer was as dark as night. I feared if I told him my name graces a plaque in a restaurant in Clarksville, TN for completing not just one, but TWO beer tours comprised of 110 beers each, he might think I was going overboard trying to impress him or worse, that I was lying.

It has me thinking that maybe my dark beer fondness could help me meet a man with a similar interest? In my imagination, I date someone who likes brewery tours and beer festivals and occasionally debating the finer points of Beer A versus Beer B. It’s what I was hoping the time I attended a brewery tour alone, but the only guy who was there without a date told me he didn’t drink, and didn’t seem at all interested in me.

As for Goatee Guy ... we went out a few times -- apple picking, a spontaneous lunch, a couple dinners. I may have accidentally offended him on what turned out to be our last meet-up. While he was using the restroom I paid the check, and he acted really weird when I told him. Maybe it’s the contradiction of my being old fashioned in some things, but not all.

Touchy Feelie

When I shop, I touch. It used to make my Mom crazy. We’d be browsing a clothing department, and I’d be running my hand along the garments hung on the racks. Mom would ask, “Do you have to touch everything?” as if it was personally offensive to her. As if I was feeling up her own clothes or something.

My response, delivered with an exasperated eyeball roll was along the lines of, “Um, yeah.” It was (and still is) my position that if it doesn’t feel nice, why would I want it? It made no sense to me that the woman who taught me to sew when I was a kid wasn’t equally interested in exploring the drape and touch of manufactured clothing.

I like the texture and feel of things. The heat of summer beach sand and prickle of sun-dried seaweed. The softness of flour. The silkiness of warm water. The scaliness of rows of sequins. The mild abrasiveness of fine grain sand paper.

And there are things I don’t like the feel of, like vinyl tablecloths sticking to my elbows which shouldn’t even be on the table. I itch recalling the burlap pants made for the Johnny Appleseed costume representing my heritage for a beauty pageant in my 20s. Why did I think Johnny Appleseed wore burlap pants, anyway? Maybe it was inspired by the ridiculous Disney fabrication of him also wearing a saucepan on his head. It was definitely rooted in our family (apple?) tree, shared via his mother, Elizabeth Simonds Chapman.

Somewhere along the timeline of my days, I became a fabric snob. Cashmere sweaters. Merino wool sweaters and 100% virgin wool pants. Fine silk blouses and dresses and skirts that skim the body and flutter with movement. It may have been cultivated in college when I worked in a retail store selling top quality brands, which I could buy at cost. My textile snobbery was soon accessorized with a bold disdain for cheap prickly wool and sweat-inducing acrylics.

Exposure to top brands taught me the quality differences between lined, virgin wool pants and skirts and their cheap-blend, unlined sisters that made my legs itch and required wearing pantyhose, which in turn made the pants cling with static in all the wrong places. (Is there a ‘right’ place for static cling?) School girl acrylic sweaters looked nice the first time worn, but the subsequent sweating and little fabric balls weren’t part of my style statement.

For a while, polyester became a vile curse word with its petroleum based, heat-trapping, sweat-inducing properties. Sure, it doesn’t shrink, but at what cost? In high school, I once set the iron too hot and burned the vest of the navy blue, three piece polyester suit I got for Easter. The edges of the perfect iron-shaped hole melted to a hard crust. Unlike a tear that could be stitched, or knee scuff in my best jeans that might be covered with ball point pen, there was no repairing this mistake.  And it delivered nightmares of polyester garments grafted to my skin after passing too close to a candle or a bonfire.

My history of touching fabric developed an acuity for visual recognition which is useful. I can power shop a thrift store, ferreting out merino wool, cashmere, silk, and linen items in a flash. And in my current part-time gig in retail I am actually paid to touch things! Ok, really I am paid to fold and hang things and return them to the sales floor, but I can’t exactly do that without touching them, can I? If you see some weird lady fondling the cashmere sweaters or stroking the sequin tops, it’s probably me. Come say hello. I’ll gladly take you on a tactile tour of the nicest feeling goods.

Candy Trade

I’ve sat through business school courses and business meetings, but I think the best view of calm, civil negotiation was the trick-or-treat candy swap at my sister’s house on Halloween night.

On this night, my nieces donned their costumes (a pirate skeleton and a creepy, haunted version of an American Girl doll) and I applied their makeup to complete the looks. Then they played in the driveway and handed out candy to the first Halloween visitors as they patiently awaited the arrival of their cousins and a couple friends.

Meanwhile, I marveled at their patience. When I was ten or twelve, I would probably have gone certifiably insane counting the precious minutes lost in the door-to-door begging and tabulating the candy I might be missing. What if some houses ran out before we got there because our friends were late?

When everyone finally arrived, the five kids walked the neighborhood gathering candy, escorted by three dads and two moms. Back at my sister’s, a group of adults and the two teen-aged cousins gathered in the dining room snacking from the table laden with food. Out in the driveway, candy was quietly handed out. At the end of trick-or-treat, the kids returned, shed parts of the costumes now deemed unnecessary, convened in the living room, and dumped the candy onto the floor.

The kids sorted their candy. Pirate niece had a neat circle of treats that looked like a clock face, and doll niece had a pattern of tidy piles. The boys were less artistic in their heaps, but still organized. I was resisting the urge to count everything. It was hard. I like candy statistics. I used to sort M&Ms by color and note the results, tracking the averages for vending machine and half-pound bags. But I’m weird like that.

One boy (a cousin) left some candy in his double-bagged plastic grocery sack, which I pointed out to him. He nonchalantly said, “Oh, it’s okay, I don’t care.” Whatever. I didn’t really care, either. I was just an observer resisting the urge to create tallies and graphs and charts of the loot, trapped in a corner of the room by five kids and a rug full of candy. I was too far from the other adults to participate in their conversation, so I ate tiny cocktail wieners in barbecue sauce and watched the trading floor.

The candy piles were impressive -- each kid had at least one full-sized candy bar (mostly Hershey bars) and two or three small bags of popcorn or chips. Chocolate treats ruled, with fun-sized KitKats dominating. (Maybe they were on sale.) Plentiful little packs of red Twizzlers, but not black. The kids noted the absence of Good & Plenty and the rarity of M&Ms and Skittles. There was not a single example of my own most hated Halloween candy -- the nasty Necco wafers. Talk about lucky kids.
 

Civilized action on the trading floor.

Trading proceeded for close to thirty minutes. “Who likes Snickers?”  “Who wants Skittles?”  “Anyone like Almond Joy?” Pirate-niece methodically traded candy for almost all the chips and popcorn. Doll-niece held fast to the only full-sized KitKat in the room, even though her cousin kept sweetening the deal until he had offered up nearly half his candy in trade, and despite my whispering to her that it was a good deal based on sheer volume. It was a weird attempted trade, as he had his own pile of fun-sized KitKat bars, but he wanted the big one. Desperately. Finally sick of the badgering, doll-niece announced she was done, calmly returned her candy (including the coveted full-sized KitKat) to her orange bag, stood up, and got herself a hot dog. Soon, her sister and the boys followed suit.

As the kids bagged up their candy, the cousin who wanted that full-sized KitKat bar looked in his sack and dramatically announced, “Oh, hey, I forgot about this candy here!” and tried to reactivate trading. None of the kids fell for what seemed like the shady, contrived introduction of the candy he had earlier told me he didn’t care about. When the trading floor has closed, it’s over. It was time for hot dogs.