BoomerBlix

Leaving Florida: One Boomer's Story

 

"You're kidding, right? I mean, why would anyone want to leave Florida?" asked the young man who was showing me the townhouse that I ended up buying. It wasn't hard to understand his confusion; we were there on a freezing Saturday, with a high of 3 degrees. Oh, and a very brisk wind blowing straight across the fields-turned-housing.

His reaction has been the same as nearly anyone else who learns that I'm one of the few lunatics who hasn't embraced the palm trees and promise of a snow-free retirement.  Not to mention the fine cardiac, cataract, and orthopedic centers waiting to provide care for the 24% of Florida's population who are over 60...by 2030, that number will rise to 34%. Imagine the race to get the Early Bird Specials!

It's not that I didn't try to love the state. I confess that I did have a mild interest in living someplace warm. When a job opportunity came, following an unexpected job upheaval, I thought it would be a way to try a lifestyle in a different climate. A friend gave me important advice . I subscribed to "Southern Living" and searched eBay for fun Florida souvenirs to decorate the downstairs bathroom in my new apartment. I ate boiled peanuts and roadside peaches. I learned to dress down and wore flip-flops to work. I kayaked and floated on the clear spring rivers. I visited lots of coastal cities, all very pretty and interesting. I learned to say "sir" and "ma'am."

But over four years later, I have to honor my true self and return to the Midwest. Besides the fact that I love to wear sweaters, here are some things I need:

• Coming in from the cold and cozy comfort foods
• The smell of warm soil in the spring
• Hot summer days that are relieved by a rain storm
• Crisp fall mornings and gorgeous leaves
• Snow. Yes, snow!
• Holidays in different seasons 
• Early daylight in the summer
• Early darkness in the winter
• Winter sunrises and summer sunsets
• Tulips and lilacs and petunias and marigolds

And what else? Family. More than anything, family. I'm tired of solo holidays and getting on planes to see the people I love the most. Tired of missing games, meets, and concerts. Tired of singing "Happy Birthday" over the phone instead of being there. Tired of having them come to me and then cramming a year into a week. 

Make no mistake, I can see the value of a winter getaway to a place with beaches and sunshine. Soak up some Vitamin D and eat seafood till I drop. Walk around in shorts while my northern neighbors are shoveling. But then...I get to go back where I can put on my sweater and make beef stew.

Let me know if you're interested in my Florida collection...

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Massacres, Gun Control, the NRA...and Me

Credit: sheknows.com

I have three sons. None of them was allowed to have a toy gun. That didn't mean they wouldn't fashion one out of a tree branch or other material, but I absolutely refused to intentionally provide them with a device that could kill. (Also, my daughter didn't get a Barbie until she graduated from college, but that's a Blix for another day...)

Why would anyone want their child to even pretend to shoot somebody? Maybe it was Vietnam. Maybe it was our own fathers with too-fresh memories of World War II. Maybe it was a past life thing. Maybe it was the television Westerns of my youth...why were the Indians always the bad guys, anyway?  My kids pouted, but I held firm. No. Guns. Period. They got older and learned to fish. All was well.

Time passed. Columbine happened. The country was horrified...for awhile. And now, over time, hundreds of children, students, movie-goers, concert-goers, mall-goers, and party-goers have been murdered. Could there have been anything more tragic than those first-graders at Newtown?

Apparently not a concern. At least not to Congress. Look at this map of the 1,042 mass shootings since Sandy Hook. Don't even think of giving me the lame and offensive platitude about how spoons being responsible for obesity is the same as guns being responsible for massacres. 

Source: Vox.com

I have continued to be outraged at the lack of congressional response to the ongoing slaughter of innocent people. Like many of you, I have called my representative, signed petitions, written letters to the editor. Here's my current congressman's stance, taken from his website: "Gun ownership is a birthright in America. As a proud member of the NRA, I will support legislation that protects our 2nd Amendment rights."

When I moved to Florida, I got a first-hand baptism to a different way of thinking. First came a co-worker whose daughter would be celebrating her fourteenth birthday soon. What does every soon-to-be high school freshman girl want? Why, her own gun license, of course! "I want her to learn to defend herself," her mother explained, to my obvious lack of understanding. She spoke to me s-l-o-w-l-y, since clearly I was the Doofus from another planet.

What came next was even more astounding. "Great news! If you can get four people together, 'they' (The Police Department? The Sheriff? The FBI? Guns R Us?) will come to your house, do the training, and you can get a license to carry a concealed weapon." WHAT???? Like a Tupperware party? With snacks, wine, and prizes? Yep, two other colleagues were super excited to hear this news. (Did I mention that I was working at a major university?)

I've been slow in recognizing the power of the NRA, one of the three most powerful lobbying groups in Washington. It's got to be about more than just the Second Amendment. I don't pretend to be an expert in constitutional law. But I do know the scent of power when I smell it. And I know unnecessary loss of life when I see it. (Click here to see NRA campaign contributions and how 80% of their candidates were elected. Maybe even one of yours. You will understand why gun control is not changing anytime soon...)

 

It's my understanding that our Founding Fathers included the Second Amendment for individuals in a state militia--a collective purpose--not for zealots to haul their semi-automatic weapons into Billy-Bob's Diner. Nevertheless, the state of Georgia now permits anyone over 18 to carry a gun into a public place: restaurants, churches, bars, even the Hartfield-Jackson airport--the busiest in the world.

Where will it end? Maybe a better question: Will it ever end? When Joe the Plumber can say, one day after the University of California Santa Barbara shooting: "Your dead kids don't trump my Constitutional rights..." we are all diminished.

And maybe all in danger.

Please just take your kids fishing. Please.

 

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Trips and Vacations--Why I Need Both

I’m just back from four days at Atlantic Beach. A delightful break from the unbearably brutal heat-and-humidity of inland Florida.   The craziest thing I did?  Too much sun.  (Yes, I know we are supposed to avoid sunshine for more than a few minutes a week, enough to spark some Vitamin D production in our pasty white bodies.  I am a nurse.  But admit it: when you’re tan, you feel better, look better, act better.  I know I’m not alone here.)  Before you write me about the dangers of joyfully languishing under blue skies with puffy white clouds:  I did use sunblock, so I didn’t burn. Well, not too much, anyway.  

Mostly, I relaxed in that devil sunshine. Lots of walking and bike rides along the ocean. Pocketed a few shells. Enthusiastically worked on a tan, for the first time in over twenty years.   Made my way through one of the zillion books that I continue to buy--and worked a little on my own.  Ate a big breakfast at 8 am, enjoyed a burger or fish tacos for lunch--accompanied by beer or my new favorite cocktail, a Rickshaw. Washed all the sand off in the afternoon and went out for a glass of wine before dinner.  (Hmmm, maybe I should add “too much alcohol” to my confessions.)

The time flew by, just doing very little.  How can that be?!  It started me thinking about Trips versus Vacations.  Why each matters.  And why we need both. 

I’m known for my Trips.  In fact, I pride myself on my annual excursions to faraway places.  “Where are you going this year? Another Camino?” my friends will ask in January.  Usually, if I haven’t already decided, I’ve narrowed it down to a few destinations.  I thrive on Trips.  Complicated itineraries, must-see sights, local foods and beverages.  Cathedrals.  Museums.  Art.  Architecture.  Up early, go all day.  Life is short, the world is large.  Keep traveling.

As for Vacations:  Before last week, I honestly can’t think of the last time I took one.  Vacations are for simply getting away, recharging. Letting go and doing little more than attending to the moment at hand.  They had come to feel wasteful to me.  A week lazing by the pool represented a week not climbing a hundred bell towers or touring important historical sites.  I couldn’t afford the time. That’s what I had come to believe.

Suddenly,  I want Vacations.  It seems important to develop the fine art of "doing nothing."

This year, no Trip for me. I'm up to my eyeballs with family stuff: helping Mom move, taking care of my sister-in-law after major surgery, hosting two sets of family guests, being Nana for three weeks when baby Ella arrives, nursing my 99-year old mother-in-law. Who has time to even think about a Trip?  I need an escape, not a trek. I need a Vacation.

So. A cruise! A week at sea, island-hopping and being pampered. Unpack once and let the destinations come to me. Dinner according to my whim, not someone else's schedule. A beach here, a cooking class there. Someone to make the bed and leave behind cute towel animals. All I have to do is show up and bring a credit card.

The biggest challenge? Deciding what to wear. I didn’t know how to pack for relaxing.   Last year--on my 500-mile pilgrimage across Spain--I walked for 38 days with everything in a backpack. Two outfits and one colorful scarf. I did just fine.  This Vacation?  I'm flummoxed. There will be wardrobe changes and many pairs of shoes involved. I'm certain that I will overpack. That's okay, too.

So.Vacations are back for me.  I’m thinking one a year, until I win the Lottery and can afford more.  And Trips?  For sure, they will continue.  As long as I can tolerate long flights, I will go.  Last week was a lovely gift: the reminder that slowing down by the pool can be as important as racing around a city.  

Maybe Mexico at New Year’s?  For sure, Machu Picchu next year. It's all about balance.

BONUS: Rickshaw Cocktail 

• 2 ounces gin
• 1 ounce basil simple syrup
• 1 ounce fresh lime juice (about 1 lime)
• Cucumber slices (garnish)
• Basil leaves (garnish)
• Basil Simple Syrup
• 1 cup water
• 1 cup sugar
• 1/2 cup fresh basil

 

Make a Rickshaw today! Credit: Macheesmo

 

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Three Reasons to Feed the Homeless

 

With Veterans Day just behind us, and Thanksgiving two weeks away, let's pause today and consider the plight of the homeless people in the United States.

Arnold Abbott, 90 year old WWII veteran, chef, and anti-hunger activist

                      Credit: Sun Sentinel

By now, the world has heard of Arnold Abbott's brave attempt to feed the homeless in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. The feisty 90 year old, along with two renegade pastors, was arrested and issued two citations for defying the new law that prohibits giving food to the less fortunate folks of the city. They were charged with breaking an ordinance restricting public feeding of the homeless. Each faces up to 60 days in jail and a $500 fine.

The law, passed on October 22, restricts "feeding sites" to one per city block. The "sites" must also be 500 feet from each other...and of course, from residential property. The thought is to limit food intake for those inconsiderate freeloaders who blot the landscape of Ft. Lauderdale.

Yes, the very same Ft. Lauderdale that has welcomed drunk college students for decades.  Apparently, young people puking in public is a thing of beauty.

Not feeding hungry people is all the rage. According to the National Coalition for the Homeless, 21 cities have passed similar ordinances.  Mr. Abbott, himself a World War II veteran, took on Ft. Lauderdale in 1999, when he filed a lawsuit to be able to feed the homeless. For 15 years he has done so. Lovely four-course meals that feed the soul as well as the body. He was back last week, serving the homeless as police videotaped the crime.

I'm not sure of the logic behind the efforts to stop feeding poor people...and no one is poorer than the homeless. Do the city council members say to each other, "If we cut off their food supply, they will just leave."?? Or, "Those homeless folks have it pretty damned good. Free food! Let's show them how the real world operates..."?? Possibly, "If we let them starve, maybe they will get jobs."??

That's not how it works, political geniuses. According to The National Coalition for the Homeless, here are a few facts:

• "Far too many veterans are homeless in America—between 130,000 and 200,000 on any given night—representing between one fourth and one-fifth of all homeless people. Three times that many veterans are struggling with excessive rent burdens and thus at increased risk of homelessness."

• "Further, there is concern about the future. Women veterans and those with disabilities including post traumatic stress disorder and traumatic brain injury are more likely to become homeless, and a higher percentage of veterans returning from the current conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq have these characteristics. 45% have a mental illness."

• "Battered women who live in poverty are often forced to choose between abusive relationships and homelessness.  In addition, 50% of the cities surveyed by the U.S. Conference of Mayors identified domestic violence as a primary cause of homelessness (U.S. Conference of Mayors, 2005).Approximately 63% of homeless women have experienced domestic violence in their adult lives (Network to End Domestic Violence)."

• "Low-wage workers have been particularly have been left behind as the disparity between rich and poor has mushroomed. To compound the problem, the real value of the minimum wage in 2004 was 26% less than in 1979 (The Economic Policy Institute, 2005). Factors contributing to wage declines include a steep drop in the number and bargaining power of unionized workers; erosion in the value of the minimum wage; a decline in manufacturing jobs and the corresponding expansion of lower-paying service-sector employment; globalization; and increased nonstandard work, such as temporary and part-time employment (Mishel, Bernstein, and Schmitt, 1999)."

Don't even start me on the plight of homeless children and teens.  It is beyond heartbreaking.

With this background, here are three reasons to feed the homeless:

1. Each one is somebody's child.  They grew up like the rest of us. They were giggly babies and cute gap-toothed first graders. Moody teens. They probably had a parent who loved them as much as we love our kids. No one chooses to be homeless. Something happened and now they are broken. What if your child lived in a park or under a bridge? Wouldn't you be grateful for any kindess that another person showed to him or her?
2. It's the right thing to do. Last time I checked, every single religion says we should take care of the poor. Beyond that, it is simply what humans do for each other. We especially should offer our thanks to veterans who came back from duty so shattered that they can't function. Don't post your flag-waving "Thanks for your service" message on Facebook if you can't reach out and help that person in real life.
3. It could be you. Or me.  John Bradford said, "There but for the grace of God go I." Life doesn't always go as planned. The best efforts fail. The housing market collapses. The economy takes a nosedive. Medical bills eat up a lifetime of savings. Everyone is vulnerable at some point. Can't we show compassion to our neighbors who happen to be suffering?

Contribute to a food bank.  Serve at a soup kitchen twice next year. Join a Food4Kids campaign. Volunteer for Meals on Wheels. Find some way to end hunger in our bountiful country.

Heck, be truly daring like Arnold Abbott--feed the homeless.

 

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The Agony of the Swimsuit Search

Credit: angryharry.com

 

Last weekend I went out to find a couple of swimsuits.  No, not for an exotic vacation to Tahiti, but for doing a few laps and some water aerobics at my apartment's pool. Living in Florida has a few perks: swimsuits are always on sale. The Spring line must've needed to be cleared out for the Summer line: Ads promised 75% off.  I don't particularly care what the suits look like; since the sun and the pool chemicals devour fabric, style isn’t the focus. (I found this out when one day when my suit felt unusually “breezy.” I glanced in the mirror to discover my Lycra Speedo had dissolved to the point of being sheer.) No, this time it was about affordability.

So I thought. 

What is it about trying to find a swimsuit?  I’m convinced that after age twelve, it’s impossible to pop into the store and choose according to what we like, not what makes us feel less hideous.  Those fashion designers can do whatever they want, bangle-wise, strap-wise, print-wise, diagonal-wise, or anything-wise.  It’s not going to make one damn bit of difference.

Females carry and store fat differently from males.  Simply put, we have cellulite. It flourishes on our thighs, but also seems to be deliriously happy on our arms and fannies.  The crinkle-effect never vanishes; later in life, it’s embellished by a glorious map of blue veins.  All this is amplified in the three-way mirrors of the store’s dressing room.  And if we were clinging to even a shred of self-confidence, or faint hope that we could be attractive in a piece of lycra, fluorescent lighting finishes the job faster than you can say "Sports Illustrated." 

I realize I’m writing this in direct opposition to how I normally declare that women are more than their bodies, and that we should each be embracing our unique structure and stature.  We come in all shapes and sizes, a reason to celebrate our femininity!  We deserve to be admired for our brilliant minds, clever talents, and natural skills!  We have worked hard to be seen as more than sex symbols!  The older we get, the better we get! 

Why do all those bold statements collapse into a puddle of tears when it comes to a garment worn a few times a year, usually for something happy, like a vacation?  And here's The Big Question:  Can I be a feminist and still want to find a swimsuit that makes me feel pretty?

A delightful article titled, "Itsy-Bitsy Teeny-Weeny"  by Patricia Marx, in The New Yorker tackles the topic.  Marx sums it up perfectly:  “Bathing suits—let’s not kid ourselves—are underwear, but worse.  For, unlike underwear, they do not work behind the scenes.  Bathing suits are the whole show.” 

Back to my bargain shopping. I’m sure you want to remind me that I began this Blix by saying I didn’t care what I found at the sale.  I was simply looking to cover myself in a fiscally-responsible manner. True enough, fashion was not my objective...at least not on this shopping trip.  If I spend less on these poor soon-to-be-ravaged-by-chlorine swimsuits, then maybe, after six more months of workouts, I will arrive into 2015 ready to once again seek the perfect suit that will feel splendid should I suddenly decide to go to Tahiti. 

Hope springs eternal.

 

Credit: Australia Tourism

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Greetings from Gainesville, Part 2

A career blip landed me in North Central Florida a couple of years ago. Except for vague notions of Miami, Disneyworld,  and alligators--oh, and I knew that manatees hung out there in the winter--I had no real knowledge of the state.  If pressed, I would have confessed to the stereotype that it was mainly a place where old people went when they didn't want to shovel snow anymore. 

All tropical, all the time, right?  Not really--I would be shocked in about five months when a frost warning was announced. Turns out, there are frost lines, subtropical lines, and hanging moss lines that transverse this skinny state.  I'm in the hanging moss zone. It's everywhere, and huge clumps of the hairy stuff fall off trees all the time.  You just step over it. All. The. Time.

Certainly, the heat and humidity were relentless when I arrived. Tropical enough, but without the exotic birds. People kept apologizing to me about the weather, as if they were somehow the cause of my discomfort.  "I am SO sorry! Just wait another month, it will get better. Really. Again, I'm sorry!"  It rained every single day, usually about the time I was leaving work. A straight-down-torrential-cloud-burst that would last less than an hour. When it ended, the sun would be back out, and steam would rise from the pavement. These were not the refreshing summer rains of the Midwest. No, these showers only added more moisture to air. How is that even possible, I wondered.

Greetings from Gainesville, Part 1

"And of course, you'll want to start your collection of Gator Gear..."

I am not making this up.  These were among the very first words spoken to me.  After accepting the job at University of Florida, I'd flown back down for a quick look at apartments; as long as I was in the neighborhood, I invited my three future co-workers to meet me for lunch.  It seemed like a friendly way to get to know the people I would be supervising before I reported for official duty.  Besides, I could use any advice they cared to share. Gator Gear seemed to rank supreme.

Let me be clear from the outset:  I am not anti-Florida.  While never having had a burning desire to live here, I understand there are many people who count the moments until they can relocate to a warmer climate and enjoy the benefits of no State Income Tax. Perhaps I would learn to love it, as well. It's just that I see myself as more of a four-seasons kind of girl. I like wearing sweaters!

"So, where the hell did you go?"

"So, where the hell did you go?"

Yep, I figured that would be the first question you asked me.  I don't blame you.

It's going to take a few posts to get everyone up to speed--not that my life has been all that exciting and exotic--but there are a few interesting events that will take some time to tell.  I'm channeling JK Rowling here, making readers pant for the next installment of Harry Potter...except I've already lost over two years and will never, ever let that happen again. Promise.

When I posted my last Blix, I had just been kicked in the gut, punched in the jaw, stabbed in the heart, and poisoned.  Maybe not literally, but my company-sanctioned-fantasy of relocating to Chicagoland and happily settling in, was violently interrupted a short six months later by an unanticipated layoff. Out of the blue. No need to relive the drama; it's all there in the BoomerBlix Archives.

What followed was a lesson in Age Discrimination, enhanced by a modern and sophisticated Human Resources torture method--ATS, Applicant Tracking Software--which is designed to screen candidates out. More about that in the future, but I can vouche for the effectiveness of this evil software. Over four hundred applications, yielding exactly four phone interviews...designed to screen candidates out. From those, two actual, face-to-face interviews that dead-ended. Yeah, they figure out how old you are pretty quickly, even following the advice of the Job Placement Advisors. More about that to come, too.

After six painful months, I was defeated.  And panicked.  Then, thanks to Karma and networking, my wonderful friend and colleague, Mike, phoned me about an opportunity.  It involved yet another relocation, which I had been fiercely resisting. (Hello? I lived in Chicagoland: millions of people, a zillion companies. Heck, Boeing just moved its headquarters here..there HAD to be a job for me, right?  You'd think.)

Finances were beyond tight. I'd already paid to move to a smaller apartment, and I had absolutely no more job leads.  Sure, I whined to Mike, tell me about it. 

It's at University of Florida, he started. (Hmmm...aren't those university jobs supposed to be cushy?)  And they really, really need someone with transplant experience. (Check!) Things are in a bit of disarray. (They usually are.) The pay's not great. (Sigh...)

But, I followed through.  Did the ever-complicated online application, spoke with the charming--and desperate--Assistant Director.  They invited me down.  I went.  It was hotter than blazes. I wore my standard interview suit, stockings, and heels. Everyone else was in flip-flops and some version of Southern Summer Casual: shorts, tank tops, cotton skirts.  I was definitely over-dressed. And sweating bullets. My hair went beserk.

The interviews went well...so well, that I had an offer before I left at the end of the day. The good news: they didn't care how old I was. The other news:  clearly, there wasn't a glut of other qualified candidates.

I accepted.

In the month that followed, I packed, arranged shipping, flew down again to find an apartment, and said good-bye to my dream of living near my family, in the area where I had come-of-age, and now wanted to reconnect with; it's called "building community." However, I had to earn a living, and this was the best/only option.  It took four days to drive to Gainesville. Each stop more humid than the last.

I started my new job on August 1, 2011.  It's taken me all this time to find a sense of balance, as well as my sense of humor.  I finally feel the itch to write again.  Yes, it took that long, steadfast readers.

 

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