I have become a believer that as we age, we ever so slowly but ever so surely, begin to crave simplicity. For example, I'm not even tempted to join the line in order to purchase an iPhone 6. Why would I want to do that to myself? I'm happy with my iPhone 5, and feel confident that I still have a lifetime of challenges in the continuing effort to learn everything there is to know about it.
That's one of the reasons I'm mystified that Hillary Clinton may actually run for president in 2016. She'll be 69 then and have a decent government pension coming in, at least two gorgeous homes to visit, and entre to some of the greatest parties ever given. I'm not even mentioning that golden-haired grandchild who should be making an entrance anytime now. Relax, woman! Simplify.
To that "simplify" end, I spent three sessions on the telephone with COX Communications yesterday in my long-delayed attempt to clean up our COX Cable Bundle. And, tell me--when did Bundle become a bad word? It sounded great in 2003, in the headiness that accompanied our purchase of a home in a COX Community. Yes, Sun City Grand and its homes were pre-wired for anything COX might dream up in the next hundred years or so. It's all right there in a gray metal box located above each utility room entry.
With high hopes, I called COX mid-morning, signing in with my phone number, the last four digits of my Social and began answering questions designed to place me in a queue of like-minded callers. In my case, that would be customers planning to discontinue or down-grade their service. It is not a high-priority queue.
Call #1 lasted 14 minutes and 22 seconds, at which point, the line went dead. I had been on hold listening to an abbreviated loop of an Andre Segovia classical guitar piece that I really don't think was Andre Segovia. It was awfully scratchy. It occurred to me that COX might deal with customers who are planning to discontinue or down-grade their service by simply clicking them off, but I decided to try again about an hour later. This time I had a fresh cup of coffee, papers to file, and my cell phone on Speaker.
Call #2 required a hold of 61 minutes and 47 seconds. I know that seems excessive, but I did get quite a bit of filing done, even though the Segovia guitar really got on my nerves, not to mention the 61 reminders of how important my call was to COX. Finally, Jessica came on the line. She was, I'm afraid, horrified that we didn't watch HBO, craved only "Essential" COX and didn't give a hoot about "On Demand", but maintained her composure and patience and we reached a friendly impasse. She kept our account and I kept the phone because dropping it would make my bill go up. I kept Advanced TV with its plethora of useless additional channels, because keeping it meant I didn't have to pay $120 per year for "The Box." I asked for time to think about it.
You know what would really simplify our lives? A la Carte Cable. That's right--a la carte cable. Thousands of channels we never watch makes me crazy; I don't even want them there. Please, call John McCain right now and tell him you want a la carte cable. I'm not a huge John McCain fan, but he got on that horse once and I was impressed. Unfortunately, I don't think that horse ever out-ran the cable companies, though. Even with John McCain in the saddle.
Thanks so much for hanging in here...I'm nearly finished.
Call #3 netted a hold time of 63 minutes, but when she came on the line Erica really worked: I will be saving money and clicking through many fewer channels than before. I still have a land line because Erica worried I might drop a 911 call if I was on my cell phone and would never be rescued. It was sweet and not too costly. We dropped from Premiere to Preferred in one case and Preferred to Essential in another, and it's OK. Life is still not as simple as I wish it were, but it's a step in the right direction.
A more simple, but happier Margie
9.24.2014
9.22.2014
WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW...
The Wall Street Journal has done it to me again...and I haven't even read their editorial page yet. There, in the Personal Journal section, right-hand side and above the fold, looms the unwelcome headline: "The Trouble With Keeping Commercial Flights Clean." I can't deny the veracity of the WSJ although, in this case, I wish I could. But, honestly speaking, most planes I've flown in the last decade have been filthy...littered with crumbs and used gum; crawling with germs, bacteria and other un-spell-able horrors.
I wouldn't have paid much attention to this article, but BC and I are flying next week. Twice, if you count both going and coming. Always a glutton for punishment, I read the entire article and it may be worse than I thought.
One might assume that someone makes the airlines clean their planes and then checks to be sure they actually do it. We are, after all, a civilized nation...so to speak. But that assumption would be wrong. The author of the article checked with the FAA who sent him to OSHA who sent him back to the FAA. This time, the FAA sent him to the FDA who does indeed inspect food and water "safety" but that's the extent of it. Outside of the galley, we are on our own.
Whereas, the World Health Organization warns that planes are an ideal means for spreading disease worldwide, they don't get mixed up in it. We're adults...we've been warned...they've done their job.
As I continued to read, I learned there isn't enough time between domestic flights to do much of anything in the cleanliness arena except pick up the worst of the trash. It's a bit sketchy, but I think I understood that when the plane sits overnight, its tray tables and seat-back pockets do get cleaned out and wiped down. Obviously, the lesson here is to be on the first plane in the air on any given day. We'll be departing at 7:00 a.m. I hope that's early enough.
So--what's the bottom line? Never leave home without a goodly supply of anti-bacterial hand wash. Do not eat the peanuts or crackers until you've used it. Do NOT, under any circumstances, put your hand into the seat-back pocket. I'm appalled by what has been found in there. And, anytime it's available, try booking with Singapore Airlines which notes that it washes its wine-chillers between flights. I love detail.
Margie
Wall Street Journal, September 18, 2014
Scott McCartney
I wouldn't have paid much attention to this article, but BC and I are flying next week. Twice, if you count both going and coming. Always a glutton for punishment, I read the entire article and it may be worse than I thought.
One might assume that someone makes the airlines clean their planes and then checks to be sure they actually do it. We are, after all, a civilized nation...so to speak. But that assumption would be wrong. The author of the article checked with the FAA who sent him to OSHA who sent him back to the FAA. This time, the FAA sent him to the FDA who does indeed inspect food and water "safety" but that's the extent of it. Outside of the galley, we are on our own.
Whereas, the World Health Organization warns that planes are an ideal means for spreading disease worldwide, they don't get mixed up in it. We're adults...we've been warned...they've done their job.
As I continued to read, I learned there isn't enough time between domestic flights to do much of anything in the cleanliness arena except pick up the worst of the trash. It's a bit sketchy, but I think I understood that when the plane sits overnight, its tray tables and seat-back pockets do get cleaned out and wiped down. Obviously, the lesson here is to be on the first plane in the air on any given day. We'll be departing at 7:00 a.m. I hope that's early enough.
So--what's the bottom line? Never leave home without a goodly supply of anti-bacterial hand wash. Do not eat the peanuts or crackers until you've used it. Do NOT, under any circumstances, put your hand into the seat-back pocket. I'm appalled by what has been found in there. And, anytime it's available, try booking with Singapore Airlines which notes that it washes its wine-chillers between flights. I love detail.
Margie
Wall Street Journal, September 18, 2014
Scott McCartney
9.15.2014
"FALL OF GIANTS"
Since 2010, I've wanted to read Fall of Giants, Book I of Ken Follett's trilogy about the twentieth century. I was always put off because it was a long book that would be followed by two more long books and I would probably never get it read since I do well to read the one book a month required by my Book Club, so I never made the effort. Gasp! But a couple of weeks ago, I said "to hell with it" and ordered Fall of Giants and Winter of the World (Book II) because Amazon was running a special. And I've really had a glorious time ever since.
I've always enjoyed history--really, really liked it. I didn't major in history because it seemed to require a great deal more critical thinking skills than I'd ever possessed, but I'm still a fan. My favorite history is a well done story set against an historical backdrop with just a little upper class sex thrown in every now and then. Luckily, Fall of Giants fits that bill.
This afternoon I reached Chapter 7 and Page 186, so I'm definitely on a roll. Chapter 1 took place in southern Wales in the fictional coal mining village of Aberowen. While the miners lead their lives of quiet desperation, English nobility hangs out in the great manor house (Ty Gwyn--200 rooms) built directly (literally and figuratively) on top of the mines. Life is either very good or unbelievably awful. There is no middle ground.
Chapter 3 moves the action to Russia where daily living holds even less hope than in Wales. In St. Petersburg, we're sharing the lives of factory workers and learning that Czar Nicholas II, the one we sometimes feel sorry for because he and his family were gunned down by revolutionaries, was really a rat.
In Chapter 5 and 6, we get to tag along with the diplomatic corps in London as the tensions which eventually lead to World War I continue to build. We're privy to conversations between and among German, Russian and English diplomats. They were as sneaky then as we imagine they are now, and nothing happens but what they haven't planned exactly how it should affect their own goals and objectives. One sentence I read just a few minutes ago especially struck me: The time is July 1914. Archduke Franz Ferdinand has been assassinated at Sarajevo, and the diplomats are guessing which alliances may result from that act. The gist of the conversation is that Russia will never let Austria control the Balkan region because they (Russia) must protect their Black Sea access. Most of Russia's exports (wheat and oil) were shipped through those ports. Does anyone remember that in July 2014, Vladamir Putin said exactly the same thing as he tried to justify taking over Crimea and threatening the Ukraine? And they say "history repeats itself." I guess so!
Well, that catches you up and, I do hope you give Fall of Giants a try. I'd write more, but I've got to get back to the book, so take care and enjoy whatever you might be reading. Remember, it's all good unless it's really lousy and life is too short for that.
Margie
I've always enjoyed history--really, really liked it. I didn't major in history because it seemed to require a great deal more critical thinking skills than I'd ever possessed, but I'm still a fan. My favorite history is a well done story set against an historical backdrop with just a little upper class sex thrown in every now and then. Luckily, Fall of Giants fits that bill.
This afternoon I reached Chapter 7 and Page 186, so I'm definitely on a roll. Chapter 1 took place in southern Wales in the fictional coal mining village of Aberowen. While the miners lead their lives of quiet desperation, English nobility hangs out in the great manor house (Ty Gwyn--200 rooms) built directly (literally and figuratively) on top of the mines. Life is either very good or unbelievably awful. There is no middle ground.
Chapter 3 moves the action to Russia where daily living holds even less hope than in Wales. In St. Petersburg, we're sharing the lives of factory workers and learning that Czar Nicholas II, the one we sometimes feel sorry for because he and his family were gunned down by revolutionaries, was really a rat.
In Chapter 5 and 6, we get to tag along with the diplomatic corps in London as the tensions which eventually lead to World War I continue to build. We're privy to conversations between and among German, Russian and English diplomats. They were as sneaky then as we imagine they are now, and nothing happens but what they haven't planned exactly how it should affect their own goals and objectives. One sentence I read just a few minutes ago especially struck me: The time is July 1914. Archduke Franz Ferdinand has been assassinated at Sarajevo, and the diplomats are guessing which alliances may result from that act. The gist of the conversation is that Russia will never let Austria control the Balkan region because they (Russia) must protect their Black Sea access. Most of Russia's exports (wheat and oil) were shipped through those ports. Does anyone remember that in July 2014, Vladamir Putin said exactly the same thing as he tried to justify taking over Crimea and threatening the Ukraine? And they say "history repeats itself." I guess so!
Well, that catches you up and, I do hope you give Fall of Giants a try. I'd write more, but I've got to get back to the book, so take care and enjoy whatever you might be reading. Remember, it's all good unless it's really lousy and life is too short for that.
Margie
9.12.2014
ELEVATED
In 1960, when Del Webb created Sun City, Arizona, and realized it was good...very, very good for his bottom line, he purchased additional land and set about planning, designing and building its sister city, Sun City West, Arizona. Once again, he saw that it was very good. Del Webb was on a roll.
In the mid-1990s, he crossed Grand Avenue, and transformed desert and dust-blown cotton fields into a luxurious golf course community, calling it Sun City Grand. Del Webb had created his piece de resistance. It would get no better than this.
All those who moved into Sun City Grand knew that was true. They looked at each other with no little sense of awe and gasped, "We're the lucky ones." And they were. Simply being born when they were born qualified them to purchase a home and live in this grandest of all age-restricted communities. Everything was new. Everything glistened in the blazing Arizona sun. The community's color scheme met Pantene's approval. A carefully designed, always sparkling river flowed through the center of the Village, curving artfully here and there to create sheltered seating areas under the ficus trees. Commerce (with the exception of two banks and one pharmacy) was banned.
Last year, Sun City West stunned the West Valley by announcing that it would tear down its "Sundome", a huge performing arts center that Del Webb had built for that community many years ago. Times change, tastes change, and the performing artists of the ''50s,' 60s and '70s who had filled the Sundome to capacity were dropping over faster than replacements could be found. So...out with the Sundome, and in with the newest and most modern Fry's grocery store in the entire United States. In Sun City West. Sun City Grand sniffed, but they wouldn't have wanted it anyway.
Until last week. The Grand Opening of Fry's. A Fry's with acres of artfully arranged fresh fruits and vegetables. Aisle upon aisle of frozen meals (retirees hate to cook). Warm, crusty, chewy artisan bread. Fresh meat labeled "Prime." Fresh shrimp larger than your hand. Brand-new-clean grocery carts. Staff who will not only tell you where to find popcorn, they beg to escort you there. Beers from around the world.
And somewhere, in the midst of this overwhelming excess, you come upon "Elevate." A rather attractive wine and cheese bar. A real wine and cheese bar. (Wine by the glass, beer on tap.) In the middle of the grocery store. I don't know who thought of this, but God bless them. I hope it catches on.
Cheers!
Margie
9.08.2014
"HUMANS OF NEW YORK"
I know I'm pretty darned late to this party, but as an older resident of an age-restricted-adult community, that can happen quicker than you might think. Here's the deal. A few months ago, a much younger friend of mine "liked" a posting on Facebook called "Humans of New York," which meant, as far as I can tell, that since she liked it and she was my friend, it showed up on my News Feed with (more or less) her recommendation. Apparently I had a few minutes that morning, so I checked out the photo and read the post...going so far as to click on "continue reading." I personally liked it, decided to Facebook "like it", and I've read nearly every post since.
If you're already hooked on HONY, there's probably no need to keep on reading as you may know more than I do; but, if you're not, please hang in here and see if the concept appeals to you.
In 2010 (this is what I mean about "late to the party"), a young man named Brandon Stanton lost his job as a bond-trader, so he picked up a camera and began to wander the streets of New York taking photos of passers-by while interviewing them. Bond traders are notoriously gutsy people, so his background provided perfect training for approaching strangers while focusing a camera and clutching a notepad. His photo-blog, "Humans of New York" became one of the most frequently read, recommended, and highly-praised blogs around.
As far as I know, most of his work is done in New York, but he does travel from time to time. For the remainder of September he will be completing a United Nations-sponsored road-trip begun last month to ten countries in fifty days. Today (09/04/14), he's posting from South Sudan--specifically, from the "Confident Children out of Conflict Center" in the town of Juba. The stories run the gamut, so don't think you're going to be depressed every day. One today made me laugh (boys will be boys sort of thing), and the other two made me happy in a soul-filling-spiritual-singing sort of way (a mother and her four-year-old-son reunited, and a little girl emotionally breaking through a past trauma.)
For me, "Humans of New York" is a perfect vehicle to prove that we ALL (ALL is not a typo) share love and hope and despair and joy and sorrow and loss and grief, not to mention humor and honesty exactly the same. Gender doesn't matter, color doesn't count, age doesn't separate, wealth doesn't protect. We are all part of the same whole. We are inter-dependent. We can't exist if we ALL don't exist. Hearing and listening, reading and understanding can't help but make this a better world. And, we need a better world. Badly.
In all honesty, even though I've learned and enjoyed and opened my heart to Brandon's stories from the Middle East and Africa, I'll be learning just as much when he returns to New York. I love the result when he runs into an older (read OLDER) couple and asks how they met, or what did they did on their first date. Those old guys and gals will blow you away. I hope I get old with that much panache!
Enjoy!
humansofnewyork.com
Margie
If you're already hooked on HONY, there's probably no need to keep on reading as you may know more than I do; but, if you're not, please hang in here and see if the concept appeals to you.
In 2010 (this is what I mean about "late to the party"), a young man named Brandon Stanton lost his job as a bond-trader, so he picked up a camera and began to wander the streets of New York taking photos of passers-by while interviewing them. Bond traders are notoriously gutsy people, so his background provided perfect training for approaching strangers while focusing a camera and clutching a notepad. His photo-blog, "Humans of New York" became one of the most frequently read, recommended, and highly-praised blogs around.
As far as I know, most of his work is done in New York, but he does travel from time to time. For the remainder of September he will be completing a United Nations-sponsored road-trip begun last month to ten countries in fifty days. Today (09/04/14), he's posting from South Sudan--specifically, from the "Confident Children out of Conflict Center" in the town of Juba. The stories run the gamut, so don't think you're going to be depressed every day. One today made me laugh (boys will be boys sort of thing), and the other two made me happy in a soul-filling-spiritual-singing sort of way (a mother and her four-year-old-son reunited, and a little girl emotionally breaking through a past trauma.)
For me, "Humans of New York" is a perfect vehicle to prove that we ALL (ALL is not a typo) share love and hope and despair and joy and sorrow and loss and grief, not to mention humor and honesty exactly the same. Gender doesn't matter, color doesn't count, age doesn't separate, wealth doesn't protect. We are all part of the same whole. We are inter-dependent. We can't exist if we ALL don't exist. Hearing and listening, reading and understanding can't help but make this a better world. And, we need a better world. Badly.
In all honesty, even though I've learned and enjoyed and opened my heart to Brandon's stories from the Middle East and Africa, I'll be learning just as much when he returns to New York. I love the result when he runs into an older (read OLDER) couple and asks how they met, or what did they did on their first date. Those old guys and gals will blow you away. I hope I get old with that much panache!
Enjoy!
humansofnewyork.com
Margie
9.03.2014
BEIGE UPON BEIGE
I've had quite a lot of time on my hands this summer. More time on my hands than I've had for years. For decades, really. I was excited when I realized I would be enjoying a few weeks with time on my hands. I could read all the magazines I've subscribed to, and all the books I've purchased because, you know, it's so darned easy to purchase a book from Amazon. Push a button and, within minutes, Amazon Prime is pulling up to your door, or the latest best-seller pops right into your Kindle. It's like a miracle.
And now, a few weeks later, even though I hate to admit this, time on my hands has weighed heavily. But let me tell you what might really be happening here. We came to Sun City Grand in the fall of 2001, and moved into this house exactly two years later. We did what all new SCG owners do. We carefully chose our flooring--a lovely beige tile. We debated paint colors...limited though they were to various shades of...beige. We analyzed cabinets and argued over countertops. We spent a day in the "Design Studio" choosing this and that and every other thing you might imagine. If you had a really big house, you spent two days in there. I'm not even sure they let those people out for the night. I can't imagine how big-house-people survived. We were exhausted just deciding how to decorate one of the smaller homes.
We were, though, really happy with our choices. We have an extremely neutral but very comfortable house. I think people feel like they can relax when they walk in. At the time we thought it really looked like a classy resort. That, I think, was because we went just a little heavy on the tropical theme, as evidenced by the variety and number of palm trees in our great room.
Having all this time on my hands made me realize that in the last eleven years we have not made one single decorative change to this house. Not even a pillow--although I've turned down hundreds of corners on pages from Pottery Barn's monthly catalogs. That situation (no decorative changes) is way, way out of character for me and I didn't even realize it was happening. I'm afraid I reached, and unconsciously passed, another AGE & STAGE milestone. It's the saboteur milestone whispering that even though your house is a little dated, it looks just fine. It's the geriatric milestone discouraging those of a certain age from taking on redecorating projects because of the mess or the hassle, the dust and the discomfort. It's the masculine milestone tells your husband that your house is not dull and dingy. It's "comfy and homey." It is not a good milestone to reach. In my case it's a frightening milestone because (may I please repeat) it is so against my nature. AGE & STAGE can be scary sometimes. You wake up one morning, look at yourself and realize not only are you turning into your mother, you've been your mother for a number of years.
My mother stopped redecorating shortly after I graduated high school and, now that I think about it, she went pretty neutral just like I have. She decided on off-white, I chose beige. I had one of the most colorful houses in all of Dodge City before our move to Arizona. Oftentimes, when someone walked in our front door, you could hear their gasp as the bright colors and busy prints shocked them speechless. My mother, in her younger days, leaned heavily toward green walls and carpet, had a bright red kitchen and two very cool mid-century chairs (when mid-century was really mid-century) in the damnedest shade of orange you've ever seen. We later learned she had really bad cataracts and wasn't completely responsible for those choices. I, by contrast, had no such excuses.
But now, it looks to me like we have yet another challenge on our hands in this AGE & STAGE experiment. Do I settle, or do I begin looking at paint samples? Should we consider hardwood, yet more tile or textured carpet? Will BC get on board? Will BC leave me? Will someone haul off our oversized entertainment center?
It's an exhausting conundrum...
Margie
And now, a few weeks later, even though I hate to admit this, time on my hands has weighed heavily. But let me tell you what might really be happening here. We came to Sun City Grand in the fall of 2001, and moved into this house exactly two years later. We did what all new SCG owners do. We carefully chose our flooring--a lovely beige tile. We debated paint colors...limited though they were to various shades of...beige. We analyzed cabinets and argued over countertops. We spent a day in the "Design Studio" choosing this and that and every other thing you might imagine. If you had a really big house, you spent two days in there. I'm not even sure they let those people out for the night. I can't imagine how big-house-people survived. We were exhausted just deciding how to decorate one of the smaller homes.
We were, though, really happy with our choices. We have an extremely neutral but very comfortable house. I think people feel like they can relax when they walk in. At the time we thought it really looked like a classy resort. That, I think, was because we went just a little heavy on the tropical theme, as evidenced by the variety and number of palm trees in our great room.
Having all this time on my hands made me realize that in the last eleven years we have not made one single decorative change to this house. Not even a pillow--although I've turned down hundreds of corners on pages from Pottery Barn's monthly catalogs. That situation (no decorative changes) is way, way out of character for me and I didn't even realize it was happening. I'm afraid I reached, and unconsciously passed, another AGE & STAGE milestone. It's the saboteur milestone whispering that even though your house is a little dated, it looks just fine. It's the geriatric milestone discouraging those of a certain age from taking on redecorating projects because of the mess or the hassle, the dust and the discomfort. It's the masculine milestone tells your husband that your house is not dull and dingy. It's "comfy and homey." It is not a good milestone to reach. In my case it's a frightening milestone because (may I please repeat) it is so against my nature. AGE & STAGE can be scary sometimes. You wake up one morning, look at yourself and realize not only are you turning into your mother, you've been your mother for a number of years.
My mother stopped redecorating shortly after I graduated high school and, now that I think about it, she went pretty neutral just like I have. She decided on off-white, I chose beige. I had one of the most colorful houses in all of Dodge City before our move to Arizona. Oftentimes, when someone walked in our front door, you could hear their gasp as the bright colors and busy prints shocked them speechless. My mother, in her younger days, leaned heavily toward green walls and carpet, had a bright red kitchen and two very cool mid-century chairs (when mid-century was really mid-century) in the damnedest shade of orange you've ever seen. We later learned she had really bad cataracts and wasn't completely responsible for those choices. I, by contrast, had no such excuses.
But now, it looks to me like we have yet another challenge on our hands in this AGE & STAGE experiment. Do I settle, or do I begin looking at paint samples? Should we consider hardwood, yet more tile or textured carpet? Will BC get on board? Will BC leave me? Will someone haul off our oversized entertainment center?
It's an exhausting conundrum...
Margie
9.01.2014
WHAT I LEARNED FROM MY FIRST JOB
In honor of Labor Day, I've decided to join the crowd who were urged to write on the topic of: "What I Learned From My First Job." Actually, as I look around, I'm afraid I'm not seeing a crowd at all...and, I really can't remember if I read about this project in the newspaper or saw something on Facebook, or maybe it was TV? I do know it was important enough for me to make a note in my calendar (write on "What I Learned..."), so let's just get on with it.
First of all, because I'm getting older every day, it took me more than a few minutes to remember just what my first job had been. I think it was during my senior year in high school when I worked temporarily--a pretty short-lived temporarily--for a local law firm which had expressed a need to Sister Vincentia, the principal of St. Mary of the Plains High School, for a temporary worker to do some typing and filing at their office, as well as doing something connected with micro-filming at the local courthouse. Since I often helped Sister Vincentia in her office, she recommended me for the position. I was promised a small stipend as well as the chance to actually type like a real secretary--my life's ambition at that time. The job would last through Christmas break and, if all went well, there might be an opportunity for part-time work after school started again. Obviously, everything would go well.
Advice #1: Hold down the cockiness.
Way too early on my first day at work, I discovered that typing is typing no matter what you're typing, but that attention to detail regarding format, correct spelling, and impeccable grammar were imperative for legal documents. Missing (or misspelled) words could make or break an otherwise flawless court case.
Advice #2: Pay close attention to instructions, take notes and ask pertinent questions. Perfection is key. Progress doesn't count.
In addition to typing, I was charged with filing piles of documents (legalese for papers) that had been collecting for years. The File Room, crammed with aging, scratched and dented filing cabinets lacked windows, as well as any form of ventilation. Those of you who believe that mindless typing is boring, have never spent endless hours filing endless piles of "documents". When I had imagined myself as a cute, well-dressed, and efficient secretary, I had not anticipated this hell hole buried under its stacks of paper...nor me having to spend so many hours in it.
Advice #3: Be careful what you wish for. Case out the job before you commit. Demand details.
Finally, the microfilm/microfiche thing at the courthouse. This was the magnificent part of my position. I--certainly the youngest secretary ever to enter those courthouse doors--loved the short walk from the office to that classical white marble (limestone?) building, gaining admittance and walking directly to the inner sanctum that held the microfilm/microfiche...whatever it was...machines. It seems to me that I was given a listing of file-numbers that would match with each separate film/fiche thing that I was to copy for the office. Roll to the correct document, press a button, and a copy would be made and delivered to the office the next morning. Obviously, it was a detailed type of job. One that needed to be carefully and accurately done...not so much because my time was valuable (the pittance I received was...well, a pittance), but apparently the copy fees were frighteningly steep.
Except for missing the gossip I would hear every day at the office, working at the courthouse was my favorite professional activity until...disaster struck. Yes, I completely forgot to write down my ending file-number one afternoon and panicked the next morning as microfilm began to flash in front of my face and I had no idea where I had been or where I needed to start. I was young. I was scared. I started copying anyway. I was stupid. I was let go.
Advice #4: When in trouble, ask for help. Ask quickly before things get worse. Someone knows the answer. In this case, yesterday's copies were at the office. Yesterday's copies would have indicated today's starting number. My career would have ended much differently. Amen.
Enjoy your long weekend!
Margie
First of all, because I'm getting older every day, it took me more than a few minutes to remember just what my first job had been. I think it was during my senior year in high school when I worked temporarily--a pretty short-lived temporarily--for a local law firm which had expressed a need to Sister Vincentia, the principal of St. Mary of the Plains High School, for a temporary worker to do some typing and filing at their office, as well as doing something connected with micro-filming at the local courthouse. Since I often helped Sister Vincentia in her office, she recommended me for the position. I was promised a small stipend as well as the chance to actually type like a real secretary--my life's ambition at that time. The job would last through Christmas break and, if all went well, there might be an opportunity for part-time work after school started again. Obviously, everything would go well.
Advice #1: Hold down the cockiness.
Way too early on my first day at work, I discovered that typing is typing no matter what you're typing, but that attention to detail regarding format, correct spelling, and impeccable grammar were imperative for legal documents. Missing (or misspelled) words could make or break an otherwise flawless court case.
Advice #2: Pay close attention to instructions, take notes and ask pertinent questions. Perfection is key. Progress doesn't count.
In addition to typing, I was charged with filing piles of documents (legalese for papers) that had been collecting for years. The File Room, crammed with aging, scratched and dented filing cabinets lacked windows, as well as any form of ventilation. Those of you who believe that mindless typing is boring, have never spent endless hours filing endless piles of "documents". When I had imagined myself as a cute, well-dressed, and efficient secretary, I had not anticipated this hell hole buried under its stacks of paper...nor me having to spend so many hours in it.
Advice #3: Be careful what you wish for. Case out the job before you commit. Demand details.
Finally, the microfilm/microfiche thing at the courthouse. This was the magnificent part of my position. I--certainly the youngest secretary ever to enter those courthouse doors--loved the short walk from the office to that classical white marble (limestone?) building, gaining admittance and walking directly to the inner sanctum that held the microfilm/microfiche...whatever it was...machines. It seems to me that I was given a listing of file-numbers that would match with each separate film/fiche thing that I was to copy for the office. Roll to the correct document, press a button, and a copy would be made and delivered to the office the next morning. Obviously, it was a detailed type of job. One that needed to be carefully and accurately done...not so much because my time was valuable (the pittance I received was...well, a pittance), but apparently the copy fees were frighteningly steep.
Except for missing the gossip I would hear every day at the office, working at the courthouse was my favorite professional activity until...disaster struck. Yes, I completely forgot to write down my ending file-number one afternoon and panicked the next morning as microfilm began to flash in front of my face and I had no idea where I had been or where I needed to start. I was young. I was scared. I started copying anyway. I was stupid. I was let go.
Advice #4: When in trouble, ask for help. Ask quickly before things get worse. Someone knows the answer. In this case, yesterday's copies were at the office. Yesterday's copies would have indicated today's starting number. My career would have ended much differently. Amen.
Enjoy your long weekend!
Margie
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