Should Auld Tradition Be Forgot?

Our family are foodies. My sons learnt to cook at an early age and along the line I instilled into them the usefulness of knowing how to make a basic white sauce; which I consider not only a basic culinary, but a basic life skill. (Incidentally, this was one of the few useful things I learnt in school cooking classes). My sons all worked in restaurants to help support themselves though university. The youngest once commented I was the only mother he knew who recited the nutritional content of the meal we were about to eat. I have a number of recipe books and one of my habits is to have at the ready a clutch of recipes ripped from magazines and newspapers.

This time of year these recipes are pulled out for inspiration for the Christmas day menu. Glossy lifestyle magazines show exquisitely styled poolside Christmas dinners under impossibly blue, no doubt Australian, skies. And on the Australian theme, the elegant unfazed hostess in glamorous sandals and coral tipped toes, will not have a splash of fat or sauce on her billowing white pure linen caftan. As for the food, there will be Asian inspiration in the prawns and seafood and a Mediterranean take on the luscious leg of lamb and the salads. Not a bit of English stodge in sight. Our northern European traditions have been eschewed for the New World, or have they?

This year my family are gathering in Canberra to celebrate Christmas. Naturally, there has been some discussion on food. I  envisage the family gathered around a large paella pan which I am hoping to embed into family tradition. But what is offered so far? We must have the ham says oldest son, a gourmet cook. We always do the ham, that's our tradition and it was useful when the boys were growing up to take the left overs on the annual camping holiday undertaken a few days days after Christmas. Okay it has been “Jamie Oliver'ed” with Jamaican spices and flavours, which are a great way of using up that caramelised batch of marmalade I may a few years back. These jars sit forlornly on my pantry shelves awaiting for their number to be called, like an annual lottery or more appropriately, like the US president granting annual respite for a turkey. Across the Tasman the culinary success of Christmas appears to be measured by how many kilos of prawns there are on the *barbie. Dessert? For me it's got to include Pavlova and while I never say no to Christmas pudding and custard, I'd love a piece of whiskey-laced fruit cake which sadly none of the younger generation like. It seems I am tethered by tradition after all and the recipes, unsorted, put aside for another year.

Merry Christmas to all my readers where ever you are.
I would love you to share your traditions in the comments.

Isabel 

*Barbecue

Life Lesson in a Coffee Cup

This morning, in common with many others this time of year, I was feeling rather glum around the various fiscal deadlines that must be met by Christmas.  I have a lot of anxiety around money and practice jam jar economics by robbing Peter to pay Paul, then slyly picking Paul’s pocket to pay Mary. There is a refrain in a Bruce Springstein ballad something along the lines of, “More bills than an honest man can pay”, which hovers in my mind like my own personal Nemesis.

Anyway, taking up my own advice on coping with unemployment, I decided to go to a local café for a barista coffee, which is something of a luxury these days.  Not only did I order my usual flat white, but treated myself to a luscious Tarte Limon as well. There was a brief internal debate about the cost, as I must do with every purchase but frugality crumbled in the face of feeling so utterly dejected over my financial situation.  Life is constantly about choices and this choice was made on the basis that it wouldn’t hurt to have my homemade Basil and Broad Bean Pesto over pasta for a second time this week.

I hadn’t been seated long when a group of ordinary looking women, up to a decade older than myself, sat down at the adjoining tables.  I had seen them in the café before, at the same time of day and guessed they were a walking group by their dress. Yes, they were and called themselves the Silver Sneakers.

I engaged by a couple of them in conversation. I learnt about U3A, (http://www.u3a.net.nz/) and all the courses it offered, and spoke with another member who is about to have a novel published through Amazon and how effective their online self publishing arm is. I told her that I didn’t regard myself as retired for I worked for myself although I had recently taken up volunteer work.  Apparently by doing this I am “transitioning” into retirement, she said.  I had never thought of it that way, though I was conscious when I committed to the training that it would give some structure to my life when I did eventually retire.

I was in awe of their vitality and experience. As one of them accompanied me to the library afterwards, I thought how being engaged in a stimulating life hadn’t stopped for any of these women upon retirement from the paid workforce. I am certain a few of them had had stellar careers. They had no doubt, like myself, found fulfillment in various roles determined by their lives as daughters, wives, mothers and grandmothers but now was the time to fulfill their own expectations.

When people retire there is somehow this idea that the person’s previous life was more valid than their life now; a curiosity to be preserved under a glass dome on a dusty shelf. Something to be seen as a remembrance of a life once lived, but with usefulness to society now over.  Retirement, particularly as portrayed in advertisements for Viagra or retirement villages, is shown as existing in a perpetual sunny, soft-focus haze.  It is shown as a time when one slows down, (though obviously not if one takes Viagra), joins the usual clubs, takes a cruise, prunes the roses or walks along a deserted beach hand and hand with a partner.  Nothing wrong with any of that but I have often wondered if it would be enough for me.  However what I saw this morning told me retirement offers way more. It is up to you.

The outcome of following my intuition and allowing it precedence over my inner Scrooge put me in a frame of mind equal to almost anything.  What I learnt over a cup of coffee was invaluable.  Choose to shatter the glass dome of public perception about older people, leap off the shelf and always wear silver sneakers.

Ageism and Sexism in News Reporting

I am increasingly perturbed by how middle aged people are reported in the media. We're frequently pigeon-holed into a byte-sized description that is more stereotype than reality. For example take the " Elderly sixty-year-old grandmother of three charged with terrorist attack." Why do we never see a corresponding description of a sixty-year-old grandfather of three?

As women we are still defined by our fertility, although I have never seen a woman described as "childless" unless it was integral to the news report. Occasionally it still seems to be necessary to mention if a woman is blonde in a news story. Important yes, if the report is on a missing person. The "Marilyn Factor" with all its salacious connotations, is alive and well. This is also discriminatory against us L'Oreal'd brunettes.

Why the use of the moniker "elderly" is objectionable to me is that most baby boomers in western society are still working, running businesses, technology savvy and contributing taxes. We are a core part of the volunteer work force. When you've reached six decades, it is likely you may still have a parent living who is truly "elderly" in their eighties or nineties. Considering our governments want to push the retirement age upwards from sixty five to eventually to seventy years, being described as elderly is no longer appropriate. Having encountered covert ageism in my job seeking endeavours, it is time to bring about a change in the attitudes embedded in our society about older people. For starters, the media could rethink their terminology.

Certainly as recently as forty years ago being in your sixties was elderly. I certainly feel younger than my own mother who by the time she was my age had suffered a number of strokes. With each generation life expectancy increases in tandem with advances in medicine, knowledge of nutrition, the role of exercise and an overall higher standard of living. In Victorian times it was rare for children to know their grandparents.

So to the journos out there, who are probably unlikely to read this anyway, the goal post has shifted kids. Middle age was once thirty five, only ten years older on average, than you are now. I hope you remember this in thirty years time when my generation is truly "elderly".

Strategies to Cope with Unemployment

 

It's a few weeks, possibly months down the track and you've got over the novelty of lying in bed, strolling down the road for a cup of coffee on the way to the library; or maybe not. This would be a fine lifestyle if only you had the funds to sustain it, but maybe you still have a mortgage, the kids haven't finished university or you hoped to have saved way more in your retirement fund. With all the things you hated about your job, whether it was the politics, the bullying or the boss, you're feeling nostalgic about how your salary magically appeared in your bank on a regular basis. 

• If offered a career mentor as part of your redundancy package, accept the offer. During my first redundancy I resented this like hell yet found the experience really helped identify what kind of role I was best suited for and the kind of workplace environment I flourish in.
  
• Work and rework your curriculum vitae. Remember your CV should not be a tombstone for dead jobs, so remove any experience more than ten years old unless you are, for example, an architect with an award winning built project. Get professional help if you can afford it, failing that some up-to-date books on building your CV.
  
• Maintain a job search spread sheet with all jobs applied for, contact details of who received your application, and your impressions overall if you get to an interview. This process of keeping a record is a good aid to memory if you go for a position at the same agency or company later on.
  
• If you missed out on a position you were particularly sold on, politely phone the employment agency or company and ask if there was any specific reason you didn't get the job. Explain that this is to assist you with your future job search. Express appreciation for their help.
  
  
• Up-skill. Find out what is offered through local institutions such as Citizens' Advice Bureaus, high schools or universities. I have found some free self led courses surprisingly helpful. It will never hurt to add a few more skills to your CV. Remember any positive action taken, however small, will help stave off the onslaught of hopelessness and depression you could be experiencing.
  
• Undertake volunteer work. While it may be difficult to commit when you believe that your next job is just around the corner, the experience is beneficial in a number of ways. It directs your focus beyond your navel offering social contact with purpose. Volunteer work creates a sense of being employed whether paid or not.
  
• If you must deal with Work and Income New Zealand, do it online where possible. I find my self-esteem goes down a hundred points the moment I enter the portals of a WINZ office. In my experience WINZ is not about empowering individuals but rendering them victims serving a system in which boxes must be ticked.

• Finally, find someone you can talk to who knows how to listen. The best person is someone who has shared a similar experience and come out the other side. While most people want to leap in and offer a reason you may not have got the latest job you've applied for, remember again this is for them to try and make some sense of your situation, rather than you. With this in mind, I suggest you nod and smile politely. 

You have already gone through massive rejection with redundancy but believe me there is more to come. Like endeavours to find that one true love, rejection is all part of the process. You'll feel flat, disappointed and wonder if anyone is going to want to employ you / love you ever again. Take a break from job seeking for a while, then gird your loins and get on with it!

 How do you cope with being unemployed?

Looking after YOU is your number one consideration.  Health and well being is the basis from which to launch your job search more effectively and cope with all the fluctuations of mood and attitude you are likely to experience.

• Put the mortgage on hold if you have one and take a modest holiday – seriously. If you are under the auspices of Work and Income New Zealand (WINZ) you will have to notify them and get permission if you are leaving the country.  While this grates, considering you have probably been in the work force some decades and paid taxes, you are likely to return with renewed energy.
• Take time to have a health Warrant of Fitness. Diet, blood pressure, prostate check and so on.
• Assign a day or two a week as job hunting free days. Endless repetition of any task wears you down and you're likely to suffer Occupational Overuse Syndrome and cabin fever sitting at your computer for too long. You have the advantage of flexibility where your time is concerned so plan a day out to a beach, regional park or a movie and don't forget cheap Tuesdays at cinemas. If partner is still working or your friends away on that trip-of-a-lifetime cruise on a luxury liner, quietly gnash your teeth and go by yourself.
• Don't do as I do but do as I say. Never compare your life with the lives of others. There will always be others better off than you, and many more worse.
• Eat well.  If you can't cook, learn how to. If you are an indifferent cook, learn to cook better. This is a basic life skill. This can be challenging on a lower income when there is more carbohydrate than protein on your plate, but again you have the time. This is particularly important if you live alone, a reminder that you are worth special care and attention.
• Exercise. No excuses again that you don't have the time and this gets you out of the house while increasing your motivation and keeps you healthy mentally and physically.
• Keep up social contacts. Get to know the elderly neighbours; the woman who is always at the bus stop when you are or the man in the newsagents. These days when many of us complain about a lack of community, getting to know your neighbours redresses this to some degree and  loneliness you will experience post employment.
• Garden or undertake house maintenance as much as your income allows. This achieves two things: A sense of accomplishment in your 'downtime' and looking after your precious investment.
• Treat yourself to a good cup of coffee. This is something from the days when you filled up your coffee card on a regular basis and boasted about 'your' barista in the office lobby.  Remember this guy with the tattoos, piercings and the eastern European accent who made your coffee just so?  You'll be surprised just how much more enjoyable this is now at a local cafe - just as long as the coffee is good.
• Be your own unconditional best friend: Don't beat yourself up feeling you would have a job by now if only you tried harder put in more effort, taken the reduced hours that were offered or not talked too much during the interview, etc.
• Express gratitude to whatever you believe in and to others that you have the skills, education, health, energy and supportive friends and family to deal with the current situation. If you do this often enough you might even believe it. 
  Finally give yourself permission to do what you really enjoy doing. Must it have an end goal?  Maybe not. In my case  writing and polishing my craft is an activity I had hitherto not seen as work but rather a frivolous indulgence.  This is  most likely is to do with my-work-before-play 50s upbringing.  (My parents are long dead so I can blame them).  You might be surprised where this indulgence might lead you.
  
  

Does size matter?  

With the digital deadline looming, I thought it about time I replaced my old boxy television set. For someone who still can't decide what type of smart phone to buy and is making do with an inadequate $29.95 job, this was a comparatively quick decision. So armed with a list of the differences between LCD, LED and Plasma televisions from a friend with a technical bent, off I went to get a good deal.

Now let me explain myself, in case you haven't guessed, I'm a woman and a single one at that. You've probably already sussed that I don't watch rugby unless there is a bloke about. I live in a small, perfectly formed townhouse where you step into the front door straight into the lounge. By New Zealand standards my dwelling is small though considered spacious by Japanese visitors. The only place for the television is opposite the front door on a wall that supports the stairs. So you can see where I am coming from. I didn't want my lounge room to be all about the television. It was about balance and aesthetics which never really bother men when it comes to interior design, but it does me as I suspect it does any woman who possesses an ounce of creativity.

My potential purchase caused a great deal of consternation to the male sales assistants in the stores I visited. As I only wanted a 32” television it was assumed that this must be for a bedroom or the study. No, I insisted it was for my lounge room. Are you sure Madam, you'd be far happier with something bigger, especially when you are watching rugby or motor racing. Well, I recall I did watch Bathurst once so was I being a little too hasty?

There was genuine concern for my future happiness and satisfaction here, it wasn't all about increasing sales I'm certain, and in the eyes of the sales assistants one thing was clear, inches matter and the more the better. Clearly size is everything in the testosterone driven realm of males and encompasses not only matters related to sexual prowess but infiltrates other markers of masculinity as well. I must admit I paused to gaze wistfully at a high definition set the size of a table tennis table costing thousands of dollars, wondering if I should up size and up price. It was possible that was more to do with Chris Hemsworth being displayed in high definition glory at that precise moment, so I stuck to my guns. The nice young man gave me a discount on the wall bracket, possibly out of pity.

It's all set up and working now and I am quite satisfied with my small and perfectly formed choice, with or without Chris Hemsworth. The number of inches is irrelevant; pleasure can come in any size.

 Retirement? No way

Retirement just isn't an option right now; I want and need to work for reasons other than money. Like many other New Zealanders I have experienced multiple redundancies. My income has never been high although I worked full time from the time my children were young as I was a sole parent. With my meagre savings long used up, I still have a mortgage, ongoing home maintenance and the modest aspiration to cross the Tasman once a year to visit my family. Then there is my dream of one day undertaking the famous pilgrimage, the Camino de Santiago across Northern Spain before my other knee, or either of my hips require replacement surgery! This would have to be under the public health system of course, for along with my job, the ability has gone to afford medical insurance just when I am mostly likely to need it. But redundancy has meant giving up more than just a salary. Gone are the social networks I so blithely took for granted, whether Friday night drinks at work, meeting with friends for a meal, the gym or the twice weekly dance classes.  

Retirement has been imposed upon me without my consent. Futile efforts to even get a part time job in the current market are sending me the message that I am surplus to society's requirements. More ever, this is propogated by the young women "consultants" who are generally the employment gatekeepers in the recruitment agencies. They are careful to say rejection for a position is never to do with age but when pressed they will admit that it is the employers who call the shots and this lets them off the hook.  We, the Baby Boomers, scrub up well, we're ready, willing and able and as long and as long as we remember to take our blood pressure medication and fish oil, we would be a great asset to any business. Furthermore we're not planning our OE just yet; maternity leave won't need to be factored into our employment conditions and we are not necessarily on the career path which might pose a threat to middle management. From contemporaries I've spoken with, we are working to live, no longer living to work; the cliched work-life balance. We don't shy from taking on responsibility and most novel of all, we turn up to work when required, on time!

As a fanatical reader of Jane Austen I no longer see my self as an amalgamation of the spirited Lizzie, cautious Eleanor or autocratic Emma, rather I am Miss Bates, subject alternatively to the flattering attentions and the hurtful whims of Emma Woodhouse's charity in order to survive in genteel yet desperate poverty. In my case substitute Work and Income for Jane Austen's obnoxious heroine minus the occasional flashes of charm the fair Emma was known to display. I have the etiquette, the bone china tea cups and a frayed lace cap, but just can't afford the tea.

Retirement lingers forlornly like fog in a shadowy no man's land of burnt tree stumps and poverty. Inability to gain employment has issued a loud wake up call that I am totally unprepared for it both financially and mentally. While I've managed to put aside a modest cache in Kiwisaver, the growth of my savings is dependent on my ability to continue working. Rather than spend all my time job hunting which otherwise could be seen as setting myself up for further rejection, I am currently undertaking intensive training on a volunteer programme to do something that will enrich my life in other ways. The situation remains though that in order to retire with any sort of dignity and quality life, I need to either marry well, the optimum outcome for any Jane Austen heroine, or find a job to generate income.

The Nature of Happiness II

The catalyst that changed the bliss I had been experiencing despite my situation, was the meeting up with an old lover; he the inconstant constant in my life for almost thirty years.

I am no longer in love with him, but I thought why not? I hadn't seen him for five years when I had fled his town in a state of shock. However we had been in touch sporadically by text and email, beginning not entirely by chance some months ago. I told myself that I would be open, not to presume or leap onto my perch overlooking the moral high ground as I had done in the past. After all, I knew what he is like.

One outcome of our meeting was certain; the historic dynamic between us would restored, albeit temporarily and as a consequence of our enjoyment of each others' company, we would sleep together. This was not an issue with me. I was certain of this because being the age when women are invisible I was consciously seeking affirmation of my femininity and sexuality with someone whose body was as familiar to me as my own.

Over three days we enjoyed companionable days and nights together. We both complimented each other on how well we looked considering our ages - he 65, me just a few years younger. I recall him laughing spontaneously, over a drink at something I said. He held my hand as we tore from bar to bar in downtown finding the right crafted beer on tap to meet his exacting tastes.

Then there was the day he had to go home.  With hindsight I think there was a subtle switch in mood for us both. He was in having to catch a flight home mode which always underpins the hours prior to leaving no matter how much time you have. I was tired because I'd lain awake in that wide bed unsettled by the fact that there was no doubt someone else in his life eating away at me. I knew he lived alone so relax, I told myself. I acknowledged he lacked emotional depth and I have known that for a long time. Yet I have always loved his company over and above that of anyone else. My expectations of him all those years ago were projections I imposed on him born out of loneliness and need. He hadn't changed, but feeling this kind of weary bleakness, had I? Did I still unconsciously expect something more from him?

Warily, I'd put my hand up when he first proposed meeting. Eyes wide open yet meeting with him again I realised with an uncanny sense of deja vu that in some ways my situation was not dissimilar from the one I was in when I knew him all those years ago. It was the difference in our material situations that unsettled me the most, now as it did then. A sense of being powerless accompanied the feeling, now as it did then. I was no longer the sole parent of young children, but here I was unemployed with nothing set by but still presenting the same confident, well dressed face to the world.

So this is what has brought me to my present state where worry and reality have set in for the winter. A familiar gnawing has settled uncomfortably in my belly as I wonder how I am going to survive financially, going forward and alone.

Isabel

  The Last Picture Show

When I was growing up we never called going to see a film, “Going to the movies” which would have been a very American expression then although it is what I say nowadays. “Going to the cinema” seemed to have a particular British ring to it. Films and “going to the pictures or the flics” was our terminology growing up in 1950s New Zealand.

Most Saturday afternoons my brother and I would be given a shilling, (ten cents) or perhaps one (shilling) and three, (about fifteen cents), to “go the pictures”. We would walk over to the Southern Cross theatre in the local township, to watch whatever was showing on a Saturday afternoon at 2 o'clock. Although my mother, unlike other women in her generation, did have a car, we were rarely driven or collected afterwards. My parents must have welcomed the respite from two boisterous children who, if they weren't collaborating to build a hut in the backyard or start their own handwritten newspaper, were always fighting.

We used to queue up dutifully at the ticket box to buy our tickets and lollies (candy). There were always the rough boys in the front of the queue, who weren't necessarily bad at all, just unruly.   We were well behaved children who lived in fear of someone telling our parents if we were seen to misbehave while out. I don't think we were ever told this, it was just implicit in how we were brought up then. When I met my future husband in my mid teens, I found out that he was one of the “rough” boys in the front of the queue!

In those days, we stood for the anthem which was not New Zealand's national anthem but “God Save the Queen” which preceded every film showing. Then there was the Movietone news reel and I remember the opening title had a fighter plane flying overhead. I recall now somewhere in the opening titles there was a shot of Kookaburras with the sound of their unique laugh so possibly these news reels originated in Australia. However I can still hear the rousing music of the introduction in my head and the dramatic urgency in the clipped, distinctly British tones of the commentator.

The floor of the huge theatre was wooden and sloping towards the stage and this offered a wonderful opportunity to roll *Jaffas which were a noisy distraction. Of course if we made too much noise an usher would shine his or her torch on you and tell you to be quiet.   We did what we were told, we didn't question or give a rude sign in return. As the festoons of the velvet theatre curtains rose I used to speculate how many dresses the voluminous fabric would make for a distant aunt, who was a rather large lady. Why I did this, I will never know.

What I enjoyed mostly were the serials. Always shot in black and white we watched “Deadwood Dick”, “The Lone Ranger” and my absolute favourite “Zorro”, which established early on my connection to my inner Latina. I so wanted to be one of those exotic Mexican women of fire and smouldering beauty, with luxurious Rita Hayworth hair and an off-shoulder peasant blouse who had been “done wrong” but drawn against her will to the handsome hero brandishing a pair of six-guns.

I don't actually recall the main features but these generally were war films set in the Pacific, pirate adventures or westerns where the Indians were always the baddies. I was fond of actors like Richard Wydmark, Gary Cooper and John Wayne. Sometimes my brother and I ventured further to the Victory Cinema where a McDonalds stands now. You could get in there for ninepence which left you with six pence for goodies. The ninepenny seats though were up front close to the screen and again the rougher kids used to sit there. The Victory was such a big theatre that it even had a balcony.  At half time, (yes there were intervals), we would cross the road, to the an ice cream factory and buy an ice cream there. If you were prepared to sit in the cheaper seats and be associated with what I perceived as the riff raff, this gave you threepence more so you could have both lollies and an ice cream!

My brother and I took our time walking home. Sometimes we'd stop in a nearby park to play on the swings and slidesr. By the time we got home it was time to wash our hands for what we called tea in those days that was served right on five o'clock.

*A small round orange-coated chocolate sweet.

The Nature of Happiness

Today I feel blissfully happy. This sun is shining, there is no wind and having just scrambled up the side of my local volcanic cone and back down again after viewing the stunning view from the top, I still have oodles of energy to spare. I've sanded down my front steps and primed them ready for painting and tugged a few weeds from my garden.

The reality is I am unemployed and don't have as much financial security that I might have expected at this stage of my life. I do need to earn a living but having had periods of unemployment post redundancies where the job search hung over my life like the sword of Damocles, I don't want to repeat this pattern. I am blissfully going with the flow as life presents itself, unsure what my next step will be.

So right now there is no plan beyond getting as much out of each day as I can. I am happy, today, here, now. I know happiness isn't a static state and it can evaporate in an instant. I know that because I have known great unhappiness, depression and anxiety. 

What do you think? Am I naive, burying my head in the sand and live to rue the day I was so careless about my future, or am I on track to an exciting and unknown destination life has in store for me?

Isabel

Who Wants to Live Forever?

How often do we hear the saying “Life isn't a dress rehearsal, it's the here and now”? 
As I sail into my third age I have been confronted with the realisation that life is finite.  How many more years are ahead of me, fifteen like my late mother, twenty five at the most?  While this sounds pessimistic I tell myself that I being realistic. Of course in tandem with the sensible part of me acknowledging this I am also in total denial. While writing this, I was ambushed by lyrics of the Freddie Mercury song popping into my mind "Who wants to live forever when love must die? Who waits forever anyway?"

Good point.  The clock is ticking, and without realising it our whole lives up until this point have been the dress rehearsal for when we grew up. Well in case you didn't notice we are the grown ups so we'd better settle for making the most of the here and now.

Let's face it; there are insidious and niggling physical reminders that we may not be as young as feel on the inside.  But the truth is most of us baby boomers feel much the same as when we were 20, 35 or even 45, only happier, with less angst and if we are lucky, with little or no mortgage.  We still have hope, though that is rather nebulous as to what we are hoping for but it probably includes expectations of good health for our remaining years with the same for our life partner.  Our hopes are likely to include being in a comfortable situation financially.   And finally, if single, we are most definitely not ready to give up on finding love, as the number of baby boomers on online dating sites attest.