Being laid off has changed my personal shopping wish list -- dramatically.
The first necessity in this unemployed's wardrobe was a new pair of blue jeans. When I was spending most of my waking life at work, I could get by with the pair of tatty jeans that I wore for gardening and cleaning the house. Not anymore. I needed a pair that look good enough for running errands or visiting the in-laws.
Unemployment-ville requires a casual look and entirely different gear than corporate-dom.
Forget that versatile black jacket, I need a life jacket that's short enough it doesn't interfere with paddling a kayak. For years I tried unsuccessfully to replace my low black pumps. No longer. Now I'm in need of plastic garden clogs so I can head out into our soggy backyard, rainboots so I can stomp around in puddles with my son, water shoes to wear this summer in Sweet Lake and snowshoes for trekking outdoors next winter. Instead of nice wool dress pants, I need to find a pair of waterproof lined workout pants that will keep me dry and warm.
As to blue jeans, yesterday I bought a second pair, so I have some to wear when my other pair is in the wash. They were on sale, plus Jacques C. Penne' had sent me one of those $10 off coupons on any item that costs $10 or more. (More on the art of penny-pinching later.)
If you think you might be laid off, the experts advise you to save six months of salary and get your medical, dental and eye exams while you're still working. But I see nothing wrong, too, in gearing up for that lifestyle change.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Pooh and me
Perhaps I was inspired by reading A.A. Milne's Now We Are Six to my son last night. But I awoke this morning, thinking about Ernest Hemingway. And in the manner of Pooh -- "because poetry and hums aren't things which you get, but they're things which get you" -- I offer this ditty that popped out of my head.
The matador paused, quite pleased and quite proud,
His cape billowing as he surveyed the crowd.
The bull, seeing red, turned and stamped the ground,
His horns charging, as the bullfighter went down.
At the paper, we banned all poetry from the Eh? column. Can you tell why?
The matador paused, quite pleased and quite proud,
His cape billowing as he surveyed the crowd.
The bull, seeing red, turned and stamped the ground,
His horns charging, as the bullfighter went down.
At the paper, we banned all poetry from the Eh? column. Can you tell why?
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Missing them
My exercise buddy and I hit the hiking trails of my favorite park today. We had limited our last two outings to the Lakewalk to avoid mud and snowmelt. But the glorious sunshine and promise of 60-degree temperatures called for a more adventurous venue.
As we set off from my house, I warned my friend that this could be a mournful journey.
Everywhere reminded me of Reba, my pretty, long-haired German shepherd I had to put to sleep winter before last. In my 12+ years with her, we had explored just about every trail and and deer path in Chester Bowl. A couple of hours before we went to the vet, I took her on one last promised walk up to the park.
I hadn't been fully out on these trails since Reba's passing, partly because I no longer am protected by her presence in more isolated parts of the park and partly to avoid the painful reminders of my lost companion. I thought a lot about her today.
I missed the tug of her leash, helping me to climb the hills. We often would sit side-by-side on the rocks at the very top of the park, me taking in the breathtaking view of Lake Superior and she alertly listening for other creatures. Sometimes she would raise her nose into the wind, smelling deeply. I would stroke her sun-warmed fur. Inevitably, someone or something would break our reverie and remind us it was time to return home.
I thought a lot, too, about my husband's grandpa, who is memorialized on a headstone near the old tennis courts. He was a champion ski jumper in his day. As a boy he leapt from daring heights into the Chester Creek swimming hole on hot summer days. When first married, my husband and I would walk Reba over to Grandma and Grandpa Storm's house on Chester Parkway. We would eat chocolate chip cookies and listen to their stories while Reba waited on the front porch.
My friend and I startled four deer as we approached the top of the hill, just like Reba and I had done many times past. We closed our eyes and breathed deeply at one of the peace poles my husband's uncle planted. On our way out of the park, I plunged my hand into the cold water that rushed over the dark rocks. We paused to watch a black-capped chickadee flit from twig to twig and a downey woodpecker with a touch of red on his head do a quick high-wire act on an unsteady branch.
It was time I returned to this home.
As we set off from my house, I warned my friend that this could be a mournful journey.
Everywhere reminded me of Reba, my pretty, long-haired German shepherd I had to put to sleep winter before last. In my 12+ years with her, we had explored just about every trail and and deer path in Chester Bowl. A couple of hours before we went to the vet, I took her on one last promised walk up to the park.
I hadn't been fully out on these trails since Reba's passing, partly because I no longer am protected by her presence in more isolated parts of the park and partly to avoid the painful reminders of my lost companion. I thought a lot about her today.
I missed the tug of her leash, helping me to climb the hills. We often would sit side-by-side on the rocks at the very top of the park, me taking in the breathtaking view of Lake Superior and she alertly listening for other creatures. Sometimes she would raise her nose into the wind, smelling deeply. I would stroke her sun-warmed fur. Inevitably, someone or something would break our reverie and remind us it was time to return home.
I thought a lot, too, about my husband's grandpa, who is memorialized on a headstone near the old tennis courts. He was a champion ski jumper in his day. As a boy he leapt from daring heights into the Chester Creek swimming hole on hot summer days. When first married, my husband and I would walk Reba over to Grandma and Grandpa Storm's house on Chester Parkway. We would eat chocolate chip cookies and listen to their stories while Reba waited on the front porch.
My friend and I startled four deer as we approached the top of the hill, just like Reba and I had done many times past. We closed our eyes and breathed deeply at one of the peace poles my husband's uncle planted. On our way out of the park, I plunged my hand into the cold water that rushed over the dark rocks. We paused to watch a black-capped chickadee flit from twig to twig and a downey woodpecker with a touch of red on his head do a quick high-wire act on an unsteady branch.
It was time I returned to this home.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Information-less
I need a newspaper. And finding one that suits me isn't easy these days.
In September, after 19 years as a home subscriber to the Duluth News Tribune, I ended the relationship. Initially, it was because of my layoff as the newspaper's managing editor. I could no longer afford it. And I couldn't bring the paper into my house without getting angry. My husband urged me to suspend my subscription, at least for awhile. In fact, he offered to cancel it for me.
Time passed. I scanned the DNT whenever my neighbors left theirs on my front porch or when I visited my mother-in-law. I don't like the new format. I don't like the scaled back content. No offense to former colleagues, but there isn't much in the way of news in there since they shrunk the paper and its news-gatherering staff.
I signed up for the Washington Post and Star Tribune online. The former is great for following what's happening in Congress and big national stories. While I do find more news about Minnesota in the Strib, I also find that block of fluff and oddball contests that dominates the top left of their Web page annoying. I've considered The New York Times, but now that I'm no longer in the business, their self-aggrandizing ads about winning Pulitzers seem pretentious.
So far, this age of 24/7 newspapers is less than satisfying.
In September, after 19 years as a home subscriber to the Duluth News Tribune, I ended the relationship. Initially, it was because of my layoff as the newspaper's managing editor. I could no longer afford it. And I couldn't bring the paper into my house without getting angry. My husband urged me to suspend my subscription, at least for awhile. In fact, he offered to cancel it for me.
Time passed. I scanned the DNT whenever my neighbors left theirs on my front porch or when I visited my mother-in-law. I don't like the new format. I don't like the scaled back content. No offense to former colleagues, but there isn't much in the way of news in there since they shrunk the paper and its news-gatherering staff.
I signed up for the Washington Post and Star Tribune online. The former is great for following what's happening in Congress and big national stories. While I do find more news about Minnesota in the Strib, I also find that block of fluff and oddball contests that dominates the top left of their Web page annoying. I've considered The New York Times, but now that I'm no longer in the business, their self-aggrandizing ads about winning Pulitzers seem pretentious.
So far, this age of 24/7 newspapers is less than satisfying.
Friday, April 17, 2009
The black spot
One of the best things about having a child is being able to read your favorite children's books again, as well as ones that you hadn't read. In two months, we've completed Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, Charlotte's Web, Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner. Last night we started reading Treasure Island.
We read three to four chapters a day: first thing in the morning, just before naptime and just before bedtime.
Sometimes it's a challenge to answer my son's questions -- on a 4-year-old's terms -- about what's happening in the book. "Why did Peter Pan's mother bar the window?" "Why is the Queen of Hearts always beheading everyone?" "Why does the farmer want to eat Wilbur?
As a girl, I never read Treasure Island. But I can tell that it's going to be a good book. As my husband came in and out of the living room last night and this morning, he kept inquiring excitedly if we had gotten to the black spot yet. This book obviously made an impression on him when he was a child. Not yet, but we have met the Black Dog, I replied.
"Is the Black Dog good or bad?" my son asked. So far, I haven't been asked to explain why Captain Bill's fingers shake when he hasn't had his rum.
We read three to four chapters a day: first thing in the morning, just before naptime and just before bedtime.
Sometimes it's a challenge to answer my son's questions -- on a 4-year-old's terms -- about what's happening in the book. "Why did Peter Pan's mother bar the window?" "Why is the Queen of Hearts always beheading everyone?" "Why does the farmer want to eat Wilbur?
As a girl, I never read Treasure Island. But I can tell that it's going to be a good book. As my husband came in and out of the living room last night and this morning, he kept inquiring excitedly if we had gotten to the black spot yet. This book obviously made an impression on him when he was a child. Not yet, but we have met the Black Dog, I replied.
"Is the Black Dog good or bad?" my son asked. So far, I haven't been asked to explain why Captain Bill's fingers shake when he hasn't had his rum.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The little wagon that could
My husband started walking to work this week, part of his plan to gear up for summer cycling and other outdoor activities.
My son and I were invited to rendezvous with him Monday afternoon on his walk home. Knowing the uphill trek might be too much for my son, I carried his bright red Radio Flyer town and country edition wagon up from the basement. He happily climbed aboard and we set off.
The initial hill, a block-long climb up from our house, was easy. So was the straight shot to and across the bridge. But midway up the second of three hills we had to climb, I could feel the pull on my upper back and chest. Our pace slowed. Too-high curb cuts, lingering snow piles and muddy spots became a challenge.
We met Daddy midway up the third hill. "I'll drive," he volunteered cheerfully, turning the wagon around and heading downhill.
My son and I were invited to rendezvous with him Monday afternoon on his walk home. Knowing the uphill trek might be too much for my son, I carried his bright red Radio Flyer town and country edition wagon up from the basement. He happily climbed aboard and we set off.
The initial hill, a block-long climb up from our house, was easy. So was the straight shot to and across the bridge. But midway up the second of three hills we had to climb, I could feel the pull on my upper back and chest. Our pace slowed. Too-high curb cuts, lingering snow piles and muddy spots became a challenge.
We met Daddy midway up the third hill. "I'll drive," he volunteered cheerfully, turning the wagon around and heading downhill.
Monday, April 13, 2009
"Best years ever"
USA Today founder Al Neuharth's "Plain Talk" column April 10 references the owner of my former company as Neuharth opines about a feeling of hope and optimism about the economy that he has found in mid-America.
With some necessary staff reductions at The Forum, the company, which includes 11 daily newspapers in North Dakota and Minnesota, is having "one of our best years ever," Bill Marcil is quoted as saying.
His comment disturbed my inner peace so much that I exploded in anger over the simple matter of misplaced objects in one of my kitchen cabinets.
I am one of those staff reductions, though not from Marcil's Forum. And I personally know many of the other staff reductions from his recently acquired Duluth and Grand Forks newspapers. (My incomplete tally puts the number of employees he has laid off since March of 2008 at 85. And that doesn't include employees who received buyouts, were fired or simply left -- but were never replaced.)
I can't begin to imagine what happens during one of his company's worst years ever.
With some necessary staff reductions at The Forum, the company, which includes 11 daily newspapers in North Dakota and Minnesota, is having "one of our best years ever," Bill Marcil is quoted as saying.
His comment disturbed my inner peace so much that I exploded in anger over the simple matter of misplaced objects in one of my kitchen cabinets.
I am one of those staff reductions, though not from Marcil's Forum. And I personally know many of the other staff reductions from his recently acquired Duluth and Grand Forks newspapers. (My incomplete tally puts the number of employees he has laid off since March of 2008 at 85. And that doesn't include employees who received buyouts, were fired or simply left -- but were never replaced.)
I can't begin to imagine what happens during one of his company's worst years ever.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Chickens (part 3)
My kosher chicken did arrive -- around 1:30 Wednesday afternoon. It was too late for my matzah ball soup, of course, as my chicken stock was cooling already in the refrigerator.
To be fair to the kosher meat man, whose efforts we truly appreciate, he forgot my chicken on Monday, then got home from work and running errands with his wife way too late on Tuesday to drop it by our house.
No matter. My soup received rave reviews from the other seder guests -- "matzah balls so light they float on air". And my family and I enjoyed an excellent lunch of grilled chicken on Thursday.
I'll be sure to let you know when I pull that kosher pullet out of my freezer.
To be fair to the kosher meat man, whose efforts we truly appreciate, he forgot my chicken on Monday, then got home from work and running errands with his wife way too late on Tuesday to drop it by our house.
No matter. My soup received rave reviews from the other seder guests -- "matzah balls so light they float on air". And my family and I enjoyed an excellent lunch of grilled chicken on Thursday.
I'll be sure to let you know when I pull that kosher pullet out of my freezer.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
More about those chickens (part 2)
So.... I happened to be in the office of the education director while he was placing the order with the kosher meat man for the synagogue's second night seder and his first night seder. "And a cut-up chicken for Mrs. Buck," he added, knowing that I had matzah ball soup detail for the first night seder my family was attending.
The synagogue's order arrived late last week -- sans cut-up chicken. The education director, concerned about us keeping kosher on Passover, set aside a frozen whole pullet. It was waiting for me Saturday morning. I took it home and put it in my refrigerator to thaw.
Then the kosher meat man called. He would deliver my cut-up kosher chicken to my house on Monday, sometime after 7:30 or 8. I put my nice, plump, still-frozen kosher pullet back into the freezer. Monday came and went. He must have gotten behind, I thought. He's sure to drop off my chicken after work on Tuesday. That night, my husband called the kosher meat man. No answer. He probably already left town for second night seder with his relatives, my husband theorized.
How goes that saying, "a bird in the hand?"
The synagogue's order arrived late last week -- sans cut-up chicken. The education director, concerned about us keeping kosher on Passover, set aside a frozen whole pullet. It was waiting for me Saturday morning. I took it home and put it in my refrigerator to thaw.
Then the kosher meat man called. He would deliver my cut-up kosher chicken to my house on Monday, sometime after 7:30 or 8. I put my nice, plump, still-frozen kosher pullet back into the freezer. Monday came and went. He must have gotten behind, I thought. He's sure to drop off my chicken after work on Tuesday. That night, my husband called the kosher meat man. No answer. He probably already left town for second night seder with his relatives, my husband theorized.
How goes that saying, "a bird in the hand?"
Up with the chickens (part 1)
It's 5:20 a.m., and I'm off to the grocery store to buy an Amish chicken.
I wasn't going to get kosher chicken for the matzah ball soup I'm fixing for Passover. That would have required a drive to the Twin Cities. And my Passover seder hosts had assured me an Amish chicken would do just fine.
But then two men offered to assist me in getting a kosher bird. It's a complicated tale that I will return to once my chicken is stewing on the stove.
I wasn't going to get kosher chicken for the matzah ball soup I'm fixing for Passover. That would have required a drive to the Twin Cities. And my Passover seder hosts had assured me an Amish chicken would do just fine.
But then two men offered to assist me in getting a kosher bird. It's a complicated tale that I will return to once my chicken is stewing on the stove.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Waiting out the storm
I noticed her around 7: 30 a.m., when I checked on Tuesday's snowstorm from my living room window. The female rock dove (Columba livia) was hunkered down on the southern side of our porch post ledge, struggling to stay out of the snow and wind. I pulled the window blind all the way up so my son and I could check on her while we finished re-reading Peter Pan.
"There's another one," my son cried out excitedly. A male rock dove had landed on our porch roof, awaiting an invitation from the female. They huddled together on the ledge, her head often buried under his wing, as the snow swirled around them. They stayed for about 5 1/2 hours. During that time, my son and I marveled at the different markings on their feathers and the delicateness of their tiny beaks.
They left during a lull in the storm. The female stopped back a couple of times today. But the feeling of connectedness is gone. They're just a couple of pigeons we pitied during a storm.
"There's another one," my son cried out excitedly. A male rock dove had landed on our porch roof, awaiting an invitation from the female. They huddled together on the ledge, her head often buried under his wing, as the snow swirled around them. They stayed for about 5 1/2 hours. During that time, my son and I marveled at the different markings on their feathers and the delicateness of their tiny beaks.
They left during a lull in the storm. The female stopped back a couple of times today. But the feeling of connectedness is gone. They're just a couple of pigeons we pitied during a storm.
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