To blog or not to blog?

This woman from the Age of Aquarius has been reborn.

She’s now a Tweeter, a Facebooker, a YouTuber, and a blogger.

So, when the job description reads “social media skills across all platforms,” she confidently pulls the listing into her digital “to do” box with a bright yellow star next it.

Oh, the transition into the glaring light has not been without tantrum, but she has managed to quiet her cries and join the ranks of the twice daily posters.

Still, she wonders…

Dear employer,

  • Does this make her more attractive?
  • Do her decades of experience combined with her new social media skill set make her rise to the top of the heap? 
  • Will you pay her a living wage? One equal to her extensive experience and sizable mortgage?
  • Or, will you prefer to hire a whiz of the digital age who grew up with an iPhone in her hand?
  • Pray tell, is there room for—and value to be found in—both of us?
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To blog? Or not to blog? That is the question…

This woman from the Age of Aquarius has been reborn.

She’s now a Tweeter, a Facebooker, a YouTuber, and a blogger.

So, when the job description reads “social media skills across all platforms,” she confidently pulls the listing into her digital “to do” box with a bright yellow star next it.

Oh, the transition into the glaring light has not been without tantrum, but she has managed to quiet her cries and join the ranks of the twice daily posters.

Still, she wonders…

Dear employer,

  • Does this make her more attractive?
  • Do her decades of experience combined with her new social media skill set make her rise to the top of the heap? 
  • Will you pay her a living wage? One equal to her extensive experience and sizable mortgage?
  • Or, will you prefer to hire a whiz of the digital age who grew up with an iPhone in her hand?
  • Pray tell, is there room for—and value to be found in—both of us?
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Annoyed as hell, but keeping pace

My grandfather was an Italian immigrant who worked as a baker in a small Montana town. My grandmother was a coal miner’s daughter who proudly graduated the 7th grade. 

In the late 1980s, my father threw up his hands, cried “uncle” and tossed my grandparent’s telephone answering machine into the trash (and none to gently at that!). It would be the last in a long series of “confounded electric gadgets” that my grandparents could see no use for…and/or had managed to incessantly break.

They had seen the arrival of indoor plumbing and had been one of the first in town to own a refrigerator (not an ice box), a television set, and a washing machine. 

But, the telephone answering machine was simply, flat-out too much…Their line in the sand…. Just not gonna do it…. Too old for new tricks… No more! 

My cousins and I have always giggled at this story…but more and more, I know how they feel.

Today, my telephone answering machine is called “Social Media.” How I would love to ignore it…turn it off… say:  ya’ll can just come visit if you want to talk!”

And Geez… just think about what’s to come in the next 30 years?

All we know for sure is it won’t look anything like today– not at the rate were going and bound to go faster.

Frankly, I kinda look forward to the time when I can justifiably state “no more confounded gadgets!” To the time when our kids will tell their kids: “I remember when all we had was MySpace.”

Til then though..best jump in and learn to drive.

They say learning new stuff keeps your brain young. Tired and annoyed–but young.

LOL

 

 

 

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The luck of the draw

Today I woke at 6am to drive my neighbor to the new casino (the biggest in California). I didn’t want him riding his bike in the rain.

My neighbor is not a gambler; he cleans bathrooms for $12 per hour at the newest employer in town. He’s ecstatic for the job and hasn’t once complained about the 7 mile, one hour bike ride in the cold and dark of early morning to arrive in time for his shift.

Mid-forties, handsome, with epilepsy; my neighbor is not a complainer. He won’t take disability (though I think he should). He once had his own successful heating and air conditioning business. But now he cannot drive.

So, he rides his bike to work and he makes money how he can and he pays his bills and he seems to be one of the happiest people I’ve met in years! 

“You gotta play the had you’re dealt,” he says.

Dang, if inspiration doesn’t show up in the strangest of ways.

 

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When Therapy and Mt Bikes Collide

My friend Greg says he’s a mess inside; restless, angry, sad; a whirling dervish of thoughts and emotions that ping off each other like a pinball machine in his head. He’s actually “seeing someone” at $140 per 55 minute session, so I know it’s bad (Greg is also notoriously and proudly cheap).

Today, as we took a hike through the hills above Santa Rosa, I thought: “Who knew men had menopause too?” Minus the hot flashes, the symptoms sound familiar (and the age is right). 

Greg has Annie by the leash, which the two of them love because he allows her to chase  squirrels until she just about gets ’em.

Suddenly, he’s talking about getting a mountain bike (a very expensive one) to help ease the pain. 

And I think…”ah, here we go, that’s more like it—standard male mid-life crisis behavior.”

Shheew!  The gender lines were getting a little too blurred there for a minute.

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