Still waiting….

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What I remember most about a business meeting I recently attended, is that when I arrived a few minutes before the scheduled ten o’clock starting time, I wasn’t the first to show up. Already present and accounted for were a man and a woman, both roughly my age. And over the next twenty minutes or so, as additional people wandered in and took their seats (scheduled time 10:00 am, start time nearly 10:30), it seemed the younger they were, the later they arrived.
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Even a Boomer Can Need A Job

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OMG!

Is that the way Gen Xers or Ys express outrage? Confusion? Fear?

I’ve got those same feelings, but I go back to an earlier time.

I mean, Dad served in the Army during the war. The good, brave, noble war. The last one that we actually won. And he experienced the Depression (last century’s Depression, not this one), so he was able to teach us the value of a dollar and the importance of hard work.

And that’s pretty much what I’ve been up to for the past, um, four decades. Work. Save. Raise a family. Try to have a life. Work and save.

“How’d that work out for you?” I might be asked if I was talking to Dr. Phil.
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Well, What Did You Expect?

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The sales clerks will stand there behind the counter and continue their chat (“I got so drunk last night.” “Did you see that cute guy in the shoe department?” “What’s gotten into Eleanor?”) while I stare at them, holding the item I’d like to purchase.

Am I invisible? Is their conversation so important that it can’t be interrupted for one minute to ring me up? If they were hatching a workable plan for world peace I would be willing to wait. But that isn’t the topic that has them so engrossed, they can’t be bothered to do their job.

I start to get annoyed. Consider finding the manager to complain. Maybe they’ll get in trouble.

No, they probably won’t. And that realization get’s me started on the road to stressville. Time for an expectation check.

I expect that since sales people are hired here to wait on customers, these two will stop their social chatter long enough to attend to me.

It’s a false assumption based on the recollection of my days as part-time grocery bagger when I was in high school. One time, the kid working the checkout stand next to mine was observed, by the night manager, examining a cereal carton–perhaps curious about the prize inside–rather than just quickly shoving it into the customer’s grocery bag. My colleague didn’t finish reading the package. In fact he wasn’t allowed to finish his shift.

Maybe it’s not the sales clerks who should be scolded. This would be “my bad” for expecting today’s workplace standards to resemble the behavior required fifty years ago.

And the expectation that the guy in the green Ford in front of me is going to get over in the left lane before turning left, or will drive faster than seven miles an hour, or will slow down when the traffic ahead is stopped?

Oh, that’s not a guy. I finally get the chance to pass, and notice it’s a woman behind the wheel–a woman steering with one hand, holding a mascara brush in the other. And she’s leaning forward, staring into her rear view mirror.

I resist the temptation to blast my horn at her. I know what her response would be–can almost hear her say: “what’s your problem?”

Get this: the driver’s endangering herself and those in all the cars around her by stupidly putting on her makeup while driving, paying more attention to proper eye lining than basic safety…and that’s my problem?!

In fact it is. Don’t I realize that at any give moment, there’s bound to be a percentage of people on the highways and roadways of America who are DUI (driving unconscious imbeciles)?

And in case it appears I’m critical just of women, I should report that one guy who consistently fails to meet my expectations is…actually, it’s me.

I can get really stressed when I fall behind my goal of producing one blog every day. A blog a day. That’s all I expect.

Is it a reasonable expectation? If I were an athlete, would I expect to run a daily four-minute mile? And be cross with myself for having taken six seconds longer than that to complete the mile last Tuesday?

Shouldn’t I have finished editing all the images from our trip when I sat at the computer yesterday? I only got to about half of them. What’s wrong with me?

True, the Internet was down for awhile and I wasn’t able to download all the tools I needed. Yes, it’s the first time I’ve worked with the software, and it’s a bit complicated for someone who’s not really skilled at these tasks.

No matter. I have that sour taste in my mouth, a reliable signal that let’s me know I’m feeling stressed.

I expected to have that project finished by now. And it’s not. No, there’s no deadline. Our spinning planet won’t screech to a halt and start rotating in the other direction if the images aren’t all edited till tomorrow. Or even next week.

Point is, it was my expectation that the editing portion of my project would be done by today, so that I could start assembling them into an electronic album.

I’m trying to teach myself to realize that harboring expectations is not a particularly useful habit. Having an expectation about something doesn’t change what happens in the world. It only causes me to be unsatisfied, disgruntled, sometimes angry. Always stressed.

I’m starting to learn it. In fact, by the end of the week, I expect to have that lesson mastered.

What’s next for smart cars?

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Been reading and hearing about smart cars, including the one actually named the Smart Car–that looks like a grasshopper on wheels and runs all day on a teaspoon of gas. “Smart cars” also refers to a breed of autos that warn you when you’re too close to the Honda in front. And they actually know how to park themselves.

I like it when a smart car actually displays a picture of what’s behind you. There’s a video camera that shows the thing you’re about to Continue reading →

Use Mature Professionals? No thanks.

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There was a time for me, maybe you’ve had this experience too, when I got a little anxious as someone the age of my kids introduced himself, or herself, as my new doctor.

Or lawyer.

Or Dentist.

I’d look at the impostor’s bright and clean facial features, that fresh skin and eager expression. If this kid was the valet in a parking garage, would I feel comfortable handing him or her my car keys? Never mind the old Toyota. What about entrusting the youngster with my health? My legal problem? Continue reading →

About that picture of a Studebaker over my desk

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When a young friend saw a photo of a 1957 Studebaker Golden Hawk on the wall near my desk, she asked if that was the car Abraham Lincoln used to drive.

She was kidding, of course. She knows that driver’s licenses weren’t being issued in the mid-19th Century. But as far as she’s concerned, the car I so admire belongs in the same dustbin of history as the Civil War and, for that matter, most anything that occurred before, say Lady Gaga and Justin Whatisname.

She’s wrong to think I’m so traumatized by modern times that I need to hide in “fuddyduddydom” by clinging to reminders of my youth.

Hey I’m on the Internet every day using my broadband connection. I own, and sometimes wear, a shirt made of organic recycled material (old Beef Jerky wrappers I think). I’ve been known to text message on my BlackBerry (though it’s the ancient version that won’t play videos, snap photos  in 3-D, or double as a remote control for the BlueRay player.)

Indeed I know how to live, even operate–more or less–like a functioning human being, in the present. I get along all right.

Still, there’s something about that classic car, its styling, and memories it brings up, that I find comforting. Particularly when I’m stymied in attempts to complete my work. The phone? It yields plenty of robo-calls but no responses to my recorded messages asking for information. The email application is no better, as it serves up only arguments from colleagues (“the dog ate my homework”) when I ask for progress reports on over-due projects. Some technical tools give me a particularly hard time: (“Error Message #329-847. The operation requested cannot be performed at this time. Visit our website, www.thejokeisonyou.com, to learn about special offers for application upgrades which might solve your problem.”)

At times like that, I could kick the cat–if Boscoe hadn’t left home (and maybe that was why)–or I can stare at the photo of the Studie and remember how the scooped chrome moldings on the dash, curving around the speedometer and the gauges, somehow had me believing that the car could go a million miles an hour, and attract someone beautiful who would love me–or at least make out a little. I sat in a Golden Hawk once, and for a moment or two, found myself believing it could transport me to a better place.

No, I don’t want to pretend it’s 1957, I just want a moment of pure joy to creep into my experience of 2011.

What I don’t miss about the ‘old days’

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When we begin to wax nostalgic, thinking about all of the things we miss from the old days–either a generation passed, or just a few years ago–I like to remind my self of what I do not miss.

(Watch for the companion blog–“What I Miss About Times Gone By”)

• Carbon paper; and typewriters for that matter

• Smoke-filled rooms, restaurants and theaters

• Pay phones

• Parking on the side of the road and changing a tire (even though it happened only every couple of years or so)

• Arranging toilet paper on the seat before sitting in a public washroom

• That bloated feeling directly following a delicious dinner of beef brisket and fully-dressed potato

• Painful dental work, not made any easier with the application of laughing gas

• Coffee so weak I could see the bottom of the cup, even when full

• Weather forecasts, wrong more often wrong than right (now they get it about 50% of the time)

• Using a drinking fountain

• Absence of women in positions of authority and power in business and government

• Racking my brain to remember a fact, such as the name of the actress who was in the movie we saw last week, without a quick way to access the information (but see this item’s appearance in the report about what I do miss)

• Lack of the clean-up ethic, and the absence of public pressure to encourage responsibility, on the part of people walking their dogs

• A white president

Mania and mood swings over the technology

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The long face and frequent sighs revealed my disappointment, yesterday, over the sudden failure of my phone/PDA to communicate with the Internet, and so I became nearly ecstatic when I discovered, a few hours ago, that there is software available to fix it.  And it’s free—downloadable from the manufacturer’s website.

Oh.

The device needs to access the Internet to get the software needed to correct the problem that prevents it from connecting with the Internet.

That’s when I had one of those “aha!” moments—a solution occurred to me—and I felt better.

I should point out, incidentally, how thrilled I was when I got this marvelous device, because it meant I could do everything, at last, with a single, hand-held digital helper. Manage—make that master the calendar? It would take just a few flicks of my finger to go to any date—past, present or future. Similar finger flicks would locate any person in my address book with all their information. One more movement and I could call that person. Not only that—I also could take photos, check on stock prices and baseball scores, send off emails, listen to music and even jot down notes with my thumbs on the sleek, space-age looking keyboard.

My conscious mind filled with images of the fun I’d have playing with my new, palm-sized computer. It wasn’t the first mobile phone of my life, or even the first digital assistant.  Not by any means.  But I felt elated, down to my toes, and proud in my expanded chest, that this would be my first combination device that could do everything. And there was this thought, nibbling at the periphery of my consciousness:  I can finally get my life to go smoothly.

So I was pleased with my great idea to solve this Catch 22 problem about getting on the Internet with the device. I would merely download the needed software from the website to my computer, then when I synchronize data between the device and the computer, it would be easy to just plop that magic software right into the device.  How sweet it is!

Well, I thought it was some kind of mistake when I got the error message, while trying to conduct this simple operation. It said: “System incompatibility. Notify system administrator. Error 1202XMJYK.”

So I tried again.  Same result.   Suddenly, I felt a brick drop into the bottom of my gut.

“You don’t understand.  I don’t have a (translation: “no stinking”) system administrator!”  That’s what I explained to the telephone tech support guy I finally connected with after wrestling with the company’s phone tree for about a half hour.

“I’m just one person. Me, a computer, a printer, one device and a few programs and games.  Why would I need an administrator?”

His response came in short bursts of rapidly mumbled unintelligible phrases. I think he was speaking English but the only thing he managed to communicate clearly–and this is based on his tone of voice–was his disdain for me: My ineptitude with technology and my inability to interpret his geekster’s twenty-something dialect.

After awhile, though, I got him to give up, in understandable language, the Internet address where I’d find the software I needed to resolve the incompatibility issue and also the instructions to make it solve my problem.

So I cheered up quite a bit and the palpitations subsided when I got to the site and saw that it had the xxpy.2 software, or whatever it’s called, along with a document that would walk me through its installation and use.

Soon I’d be device content again, hearing my tunes as I waited at the bus stop, maybe going to restaurant websites to see menus and operating hours whenever I was on the road and hungry. It’s true that I rarely actually did those things and might not gain any meaningful efficiencies even if I were to do them more often. But it would make me feel so powerful, so in control of my world, to know that these—and other equally wonderful—capabilities could be summoned, once again, at my command.

I was understandably perturbed after trying repeatedly and unsuccessfully to print the instructions from the web site. I re-launched the printing application, and then turned everything—printer and computer–off and on again. (See, I know my way around computers.)

It was then I noticed the flashing “install authorized ink” light.

From perturbed I progressed to stressed when the printer stubbornly refused the fresh ink cartridge I fed it.  And I was almost angry when I recalled that I’d paid $18 more for this cartridge, the same brand as the printer, rather than buying the perfectly fine generic ink cartridge.

“What’s your problem?” I demanded of the printer. But it just kept blinking at me.

I experienced a tightening in my chest and wondered why the printer always runs out of ink when I really need to print something, and why it rejects a perfectly acceptable ink cartridge when I really, really need its cooperation.

Let’s see: I need to print out instructions so I’ll know how to install the software that will enable the computer to download the fix I need to transfer to my digital device so it will start working properly again.

Too bad that I pulled at my hair in frustration before I realized the “empty” ink cartridge had leaked all over my sweaty hands. No, the red and blue streaks in my hair are not a fashion statement.

I resisted the urge to get angry when it occurred to me that any hours or minutes earned by using my time-saving devices usually were lost in the processes of learning, managing, repairing, and then just “fighting” with them to do what they were supposed to in the first place.  And they are expensive too.

And instead of fully feeling the pain of the moment, I started to think back on all the hand-held assistants I’ve owned, starting with the first Casio organizers and then moving on to Sharp Wizards with their great keyboards and special organizing and searching options.

Each product had its limitations but once I’d run up against those failings, when I started to feel the disappointment creeping in, I’d learn about something new on the market with a host of additional tricks, along with more storage and fancier looking packages. I’d imagine myself with the added powers offered by the new technology.

Miraculously, sadness soon would vanish, replaced first, by a feeling of anticipatory excitement as I fought to free each new device from its packaging, and second, by the confident satisfaction as I mastered each new challenge by learning to navigate the operating systems, and taught myself the Grafiti language for entering data into the Palm Pilot and became adept with the track wheel on the BlackBerry.

I would describe my present mood–the one in which I’m trying to get my printer to accept its new ink cartridge–as somewhat disheartened. The feeling of powerlessness, maybe helplessness, comes over me when I start to ruminate on my equipment’s lack of cooperation—make that defiance. Soon I feel the fear that I could descend down that slippery slope to depression as I start thinking with the real problem-solving part of my brain.  It says that “Yes, I might be able to recover the ability to check on stock prices and baseball scores while standing in line at the post office, but I don’t actually own any stocks or follow baseball.” It’s true, my device enables me to take a photo whenever I want to. But when have I ever been in a situation when that actually might have benefited me in any important way?

In fact, the realization creeps over me, like dark clouds turning a blue sky to gray, that with all the devices I’ve had, all the money I’ve spent on them, the time I’ve invested learning to use them and trying to fix their glitches, my life is proceeding pretty much the same as always–not any better.  The database of friends and acquaintances is handy to have so accessible, but somehow my relationships haven’t improved.  The nifty calendar tools allow me to do all kinds of things related to appointments, meetings and events.  Yet I still show up late to most things and I don’t think I use my time any more productively now than I did years ago when calendar management was conducted with paper and pencil.

But as I stare sadly at the printer wondering what’s to become of my device, my very life, I remember reading about a new device on the market that does all kinds of amazing things in response to  tiny finger movements merely waved in front of its face.

Now, that’s cool!

As I head for the store where they sell that latest and surely the greatest device, I notice the bounce is back in my step, the joy has returned to my heart.

At least for now.

Let’s assume money can buy happiness

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And let’s not address such questions as: “Considering that I’m on a limited budget, can I get a discount if I choose occasional contentment rather than continuous joy?”

Instead, let’s conduct a little shopping expedition. Where exactly does one go to make the purchase?

The obvious starting place is the country’s largest retail outfit. Wander about in Wal-Mart’s well-lit jungle of plastic junk, and imagine that if some of this stuff was in your home or your vehicle, how you would feel more—I don’t know—more contented; perhaps more insulated from the effects of a troubled world. We spent $56.3 billion here during the company’s most recently reported fiscal year. Certainly there’s a measure of happiness to be obtained at that price!

Or is there? Most outlets of Sam Walton’s mighty institution are located in red states (and red districts of blue states), the very places where folks seem to suffer in an aggravated sense of disquiet, as if things aren’t quite settled. Why else would they grasp for solutions that seem reassuringly self-affirming, solutions that are irrational and overly simplistic, to address the angst in their lives and the complex, long-reaching problems in the life of our species, in much the same way that they grab for those giant packs of salty cheese treats? Why else would they stock up on action videos to occupy their hours, rather than just sitting still long enough for reality to sink in?

If it’s not the stuff you get retail, even at the lowest prices, that lures happiness to our hearths, how about homing in on the sounds of laughter and the hits from the 70s that spill out of those dimly lit joints on the corner, even in the middle of the block, found in most every city and town in America? Having conducted a bit of happiness research on my own, during visits to laboratories with names like The Chattering Monkey, A Slice of Heaven and Cheers, I can attest to the excitement of a new friendship, or a fresh revelation, discovered over a glass of amber liquid. My studies confirm that for the mere cost of a cocktail or two (and let me treat that woman at the end of the bar who becomes more attractive as the evening progresses, and my bar bill grows), I can bring a little lift to my heart, some peace to my mind.

Problem is, the sensation experienced here is not the same as the happiness I want to find at the end of my search. Not when the feeling of warmth is replaced by a sense of paranoia during the too slow and cautious drive home, then eventuates in a headache along with the return of a low-dose case of the “dreads.”

Wait a minute. Maybe I’m approaching this all wrong.  To be scientific, I ought to begin by defining happiness.

Okay. Well, it would be associated with peace of mind, of course. And perhaps it would be marked by a rather blissful state, accompanied by a sense of joy, and an absence of anxiety about the condition of the world and about my own circumstances (not having enough of what I want as quickly as I want it).

And it should pass the “Mr. Whisper Test.”

I must explain.

Back in high school, classmates and I were subjected to a series of lectures on what we would now refer to as “values” from a teacher whose job was to instruct us in math.  Maybe it was history. Point is, what he talked about had no relation to the subject at hand. And he did so in a voice so quiet, we had to lean forward over our desks—their surfaces deeply scarred with the 20th Century version of text messages and blogs, inscribed  by pocket knife—to hear what he was saying.  Perhaps he spoke softly (hence the name, “Mr. Whisper,” though he was actually a Wilson or Williams), on purpose.

We threw spit wads when he wasn’t looking and sometimes when he was. And we had a great laugh at his expense.  But I’ve never forgotten his analogy about eating, to illustrate the difference between gratification and satisfaction.

Gratification is what you get when consuming a candy bar–momentary pleasure, and that’s all. Satisfaction, on the other hand, can be likened to finishing a nutritious meal and experiencing its benefits long after getting up from the table.

Before this digression I was trying to come up with a definition of happiness, knowing it’s in there somewhere, and making the effort to get it out, perhaps in the same way that my cat coughs and gags and works to expel a hairball. And I decided to apply the “Mr. Whisper test,” twisting the model around a little so that satisfaction is equated with happiness, and gratification remains in the realm of momentary pleasure.

Given all these descriptions of happiness then, the question is whether it can be purchased. And if so, how?

These conditions of thought might be achieved by directing the mind into a silence, found through the process of meditation, whereby one concentrates on the act of breathing and eventually comes to gain a broad life perspective, characterized by an appreciation of  nature, and a disregard for the travails and anxieties that pass through on a daily basis.

Now we’re making progress.

And there’s the practice of yoga, or some other body discipline, which helps bones and muscles gain liberty by letting go of gripes and grudges, sadness and anger, old and new.  Can they be bought? Sure. Sign up for a meditation program or yoga classes.

We’ve nowhere else to turn on this journey through logic, than to conclude that happiness, being a state of mind, can only be bought for money if one actually purchases a mind state.

Can you do that?

Well, drugs can alter a state of mind, and you can buy drugs, either from a pharmaceutical company or from a guy I know named Louie.

(To be continued, ’cause that’s enough for now. I’m getting a headache from all this thinking).