In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Going Obsolete.” Of all the technologies that have gone extinct in your lifetime, which one do you miss the most?
I loved the clean sheets of columnar pads for Bookkeeping class, number 2 Ticonderoga pencils with good erasers, red pencils for liabilities and losses; Typing class with the heavy black Royal manual typewriter and daily typing drills; Business English; but most of all I loved the Secret Society of Stenos.
In prehistory only girls took Steno or Shorthand class in high school. Do you know why there is a vertical line dividing each page? Gregg shorthand is written in short lines across and down each column. I adored my shorthand classes because I was learning something only a select few could understand, a secret language used by intelligent professional women, a widely admired and necessary skill for any woman who wanted a career in the business world. Think Della Street on Perry Mason.
It was a skill that I used to pass notes to my girlfriends in class about cute boys and boring teachers and later used to pass notes and jokes to other women in boring business meetings when the Chair or other speaker proved to be a pompous ass. When I graduated from high school I could take 90+ words/minute in shorthand and type over 100 words per minute. Back then, in the late 1960s, it mattered.
My first job out of high school was in a major Miami Beach bank. My position as Accounts Receivable Clerk was at the smallest, oldest, rustiest, ricketiest desk in the furthest corner of the least prestigious office space in the bank. Did I mention the flickering fluorescent lights? In those days, people sent their monthly installment loan payment to the bank and my job was to pull their loan account card and paper clip the check to the card for a more senior “girl” to actually post. I wasn’t old enough to be a teller or experienced enough to use the precious bank equipment. Of course I was still expected to dress professionally in a suit or dress, stockings, heels, etc. even if I worked as a mushroom in the back corner of a dark room. The executive secretaries to the Vice Presidents were the stars who entered the inner sanctums of the Board Room and closed door meetings wearing expensive heels and silk dresses . Very mysterious and glamourous and envious-making. Very Della Street-ish.
My Cinderella day arrived when one of the VPs ran into our office yelling for anyone who knew shorthand. His secretary was sick and the senior officers needed someone to take notes at their monthly meeting. I shyly raised my hand and was whisked into the boardroom, given a steno pad and pencil and told where to sit. The rest is history.
I stayed with the bank through the introduction of electric typewriters and the first computer (in a specially built room that took up half of the second floor of the bank). I knew every aspect of banking and when I left four years later at the age of 21, I had advanced from mushroom to Assistant Comptroller … because I learned shorthand in high school and jumped at the chance to use it when the opportunity arose.
Thank you Mr. Gregg for your brilliant shorthand system. It launched me on a business career that expanded and grew with my education and experience over a period of 50 years. I am sorry it is a lost art.
Uncategorized
The Secret Society of Stenos or How Gregg Shorthand Made Me a Star!
Why Women Return to Work When Their Husbands Retire – Reason #1
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ingredients.” What’s the one item in your kitchen you can’t possibly cook without? A spice, your grandma’s measuring cup, instant ramen — what’s your magic ingredient, and why?
My husband sits at the kitchen island with his computer while I prepare meals. Suddenly he has become the secret ingrediant to my success in the kitchen. After all these years I couldn’t possibly prepare a meal without him explaining to me:
- How to clean a chicken
- Which herbs and spices are appropriate for the dish I’m preparing
- How many herbs and spices I should use
- What temperature the oven should be set at
- How to fold the grocery bags
- How to line up the cans in the pantry (all labels facing forward)
- How to most efficiently load the dishwasher
- What foods should never be put in the garbage disposal
- Why fruit flies have appeared in our kitchen
- How to make a better cup of coffee
- How to clean the coffee maker
- Which dishes/cups can safely be used in the microwave
- Which bread/salad dressings/pickles and other condiments he prefers on his sandwiches
- Why he is the best popcorn maker in the family
- Why our grand-daughter prefers his pasta to mine
- The proper way to clean dishes (hand-wash)
- The proper way to fold a dish towel
- The best brand of dishwashing liquid
- How to clean a cast iron skillet (the way his dad did)
- How to empty the drip pan under the refrigerator
- When the garbage can needs to be emptied
- Which items can be recycled
- Etc.
It’s amazing that my family has survived the past 40 years of my meal preparation without his supervision. For those of you ladies who don’t have a man looking over your shoulder while you’re in the kitchen, feel free to borrow mine.
Please.
Breast Cancer … Attitudes, Gratitudes and Platitudes
Arriving at the hospital
Pre-op
My little action hero had breast cancer. Last week she had a double mastectomy by choice and no longer has breast cancer. All mothers must know how I felt … fear, anger, depression, helpless, sleepless. Now I feel:
- Grateful that she had the best breast surgeon and plastic surgeon in Atlanta
- Grateful that she was at Northside Womens’ Center, the best facility for women in the southeast US and possibly the entire country
- Grateful that I did not let the platitudes from well-intentioned people make me crazy
- Grateful that she is a marathoner; strong and in excellent physical condition
- Grateful that my daughter was surrounded by positive spiritual, emotional and psychological supporters
- Grateful that she has a powerful intelligence and a positive attitude
- Grateful for the phenomenal cafeteria and delicious meals at Northside Hospital, the in-house Starbucks and the comfortable bed I had in her room. This is truly a five-star facility. The Bellagio of hospitals.
- Grateful that the sentinel lymph node was clear of cancer cells
- Grateful that I didn’t vomit or faint when the nurse showed me how to maintain her surgical drains, measure and log the outflow
- Grateful for the caring staff throughout the hospital – the physicians, nurses, technicians & environmental staff
- Grateful for a loving and supportive family; fabulous friends and wonderful neighbors
- Grateful for the delicious meals her neighbors organized so I didn’t have to shop or cook
- Grateful that I am physically able to take care of my daughter, her son and her husband
- Grateful that I’m retired and can travel and stay with my daughter as long as she needs me
- Grateful that my son-in-law hasn’t gotten sick and tired of me (yet)
- Grateful for Percocet and muscle relaxers (for my daughter, not me)
- Grateful that she has a large husband so she didn’t need to buy anything that buttons down the front – his shirts work great as pj’s or dresses
- Grateful for the early detection of the tumor; that it was slow growing and treatable
- Grateful for a sweet and loving 5-year old grandson who will do anything to make his mommy happy and comfortable
- Grateful that my beautiful daughter has considered herself a cancer survivor from the moment she was diagnosed
- Grateful for neighbors who babysat my grandson when necessary
- Grateful that it appears that she made all the right decisions for her surgeries and reconstruction.
One day post-op
Home
And you know what? She never stopped smiling. Her breasts look beautiful already and there will be almost no scarring. Yes, she’s in pain but it’s temporary and we’re looking forward to her next adventure – renewing her marriage vows wearing her original wedding dress.
LADIES – PLEASE PERFORM YOUR SELF-EXAMS AND GET YOUR MAMMOGRAMS!!
Next adventure? Renewing marriage vows!
Multi-tasking Like Lucy and Ethel
When life moves a little faster than you’d like:
Love’s Stolen Desires
There’s a place upon the hearth
never bare of lovers hearts with shattered
madness .. torn desires … love’s broken hearts
lover’s sadness
gladness flogged to death with sheer
delight every step along the road of
kindness …
but it’s not
their
concern …
…..
I see them now I’ll see them again …
clutching just beneath the sight of awareness …
the fruit of their desire …
…..
i see lovers besieged,
held prisoner in bonds of despair and sorrow,
false love turned shrapnel, cruel
intent injurious to the soul
rotten to the core with usury
the flesh of stolen gladness taken then
denied …
…..
those unstable lovers,
those usually male forces they
lose bits of their lives every
single day they
reap the sacrifices made for them …
…..
a bleak reminder to all who
seek love …
look first before you
leap for love …..
grab and…
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Didn’t I Lock My Toolbox?
Writing 101 – Day Thirteen: Serially Found On day four, you wrote a post about losing something. Today’s Prompt: write about finding something.
Instead of its normal annoying humming, the pool pump was whistling at me. I turned off the pump, capped the chlorine container that weighs more than me and wiped off the jug of hydrochloric acid, propped the 12-foot pool broom against the ladder and went in search of my wrench in order to bleed the lines.
I keep the wrench in the pool closet along with the other pool paraphernalia; vacuum, chemicals, net, toys, chemicals, rags. Makes sense, right? No wrench. Oh, crap! Here we go again. A five minute job is going to take forever because someone (my husband) has “borrowed” my wrench. I checked the tool shed, went into the house and looked through my tool box (silly me), his toolbox (silly me), my quilting studio, kitchen junk drawer(s), and the pantry.
I tried to reconstruct my husband’s movements outdoors. I looked along the hedge, in the toolshed, around the driveway, the garbage area, near the kayak; no wrench. Lulled by the whistling of the pool pump, I sat down for a minute on the concrete bench overlooking the water and let my gaze rest on the dock. Aha! There it is!
Rusted and forlorn, half covered with pine needles, my wrench rested on the dock steps. “OK”, I thought. “A little naval jelly will remove that rust in no time”.
The naval jelly is in my tool box … uh oh.
Mandala/Schmandala – Just Don’t Walk Into the Glass Door
When you can’t find a suncatcher to mount on your squeeky clean sliding glass doors to protect your family from walking into the newly polished glass, borrow your grandkids’ washable markers and draw a mandala – kind of.
I’m going to have to clean the glass again aren’t I?
Don’t Worry … It Was Only a Little Tumble Down the Basement Stairs
I’m the one on the right!
When I grow up I want to be Marilyn. No silly, not Marilyn Monroe … my 88 year old cousin Marilyn.
I am staggered by her tragedies and heartache; the loss of three children and her husband of 60 years who she adored from the age of 14. How many women not only survive such losses but continue life with grace and love and beauty?
I admire her stamina and attitude, her zest for life, and her personality. She is smart, clever, funny, interested and interesting. Her angels, ghosts and demons are reserved for her solitary nights; crocheting, listening to her audio books, Michael Buble, or watching the Food Channel until she can sleep.
She has crocheted hundreds of small afghans for the terminally ill children at Give Kids the World. Did I mention she is legally blind? Macular degeneration stole her sight slowly so she was able to learn to use her peripheral vision to “see”. She puts on her makeup, takes senior transportation to have her hair and nails done, goes to the liquor store and grocery shops by herself if necessary. She is greeted with smiles and loving kindness everywhere. She acquires new friends wherever she travels making lady-like, smart-ass comments and telling slightly suggestive jokes. She’s a clown and a flirt who loves to make people laugh.
So, when we got the call that she was hospitalized with a broken pelvis we were in a panic. My sister and I have attempted to take care of her long distance since her husband died. Marilyn was visiting her daughter out of state when she decided to do the laundry in the basement and fell down the stairs. She was 83.
After a short hospital stay, she was transferred to a rehab center where she enjoyed herself tremendously. She joked round the clock with the nurses, the aides, the therapists and she enjoyed the social activities. She was determined not to become an old lady with a walker. When she was released from rehab, she stayed with her daughter for a short while before deciding that she wanted to go home to her own apartment. She arranged with Delta for wheelchair service and flew home by herself. She and her friends then went to work setting up everything she needed for her home recovery.
We phoned every day and she would say, “Don’t worry. It was only a little tumble down the basement stairs.” And, then she’d laugh, “What’s a broken pelvis among friends?”
Last week was her 88th birthday. My sister and I visited to arrange a gala celebration. She went to the Hard Rock Casino for a little gambling, we took her to her favorite restaurant where she wanted to sit at the bar to drink wine and eat a rib eye steak; we shopped and cooked and had a small dinner party for her with balloons and gifts, linguine with clam sauce and a birthday cheesecake. We enjoyed a two mile walk , sans walker, with her each morning and had trouble keeping up with her pace.
Leaving, we got plenty of hugs and kisses and thank yous for making her feel so special. She joked that she can’t wait to see what we are going to do for her 90th birthday to top this one.
Zip-lining? Any other suggestions?
It’s All Fun and Games Until Someone Loses Their Weenie
We’ve all seen the movie where a man builds a fire by rubbing two sticks together to create a life-saving blaze when he’s lost in a frozen wasteland. Think Buck, the sled dog, and John Thornton in the Call of the Wild. They’d both have been frozen popsicles if that blaze had been my responsibility.
My sister, the Princess, and I arrived at the Myakka River State Park in Sarasota, Florida mid-afternoon. By the time we got the Casita backed onto the site (don’t ask), unhooked and set up we were starving. So, we had cocktails and appetizers and discussed starting a campfire to cook hotdogs. Grilling hotdogs on an campfire is the epitome of “roughing it” according to the Princess and something she’s always wanted to try. She brought kosher hot dogs, buns from the bakery, charcoal and lighter fluid, long expandable forks and a Bic lighter. I was supposed to provide the expertise.
We must have erased from our memories our previous attempt to start a fire. The Princess and I were having cocktails (notice a common theme?) by the fire pit at my cottage. We gathered leaves, twigs and some pieces of wood and made a teepee of them in the pit. It smoldered and smoked. We didn’t have any charcoal lighter so we threw rum on the smoldering mess. Embers started floating through the air and the leaves around the fire pit caught fire.
A successful fire built by my husband, The Man.
I ran to get the hose from the side of the house but it was about 20 feet too short. I was running in such a panic that I landed on my hands and knees when the hose suddenly played out. I ignored my scraped and bleeding knees and palms, jumped up and ran to help my sister stomp out the burning leaves around the pit. I yelled at her to stop stomping because she was wearing my purple Crocs and I didn’t know if they would melt onto her feet. I visualized purple plastic webbing fusing her toes together. Actually, there was no danger of setting the woods on fire. The whole sodden mess was due to damp leaves and wood.
Back to the present and oblivious to our miserable history, we put charcoal in the campfire pit, sloshed it with lighter fluid and lit it. Then we waited for the coals to turn white hot while we had another cocktail. The Princess speared the hotdogs onto our new forks and after a few minutes of holding the forks over the hot coals she began complaining that her back hurt from bending over the campfire. I told her to just put the hotdogs on the grill and turn them occassionally. You guessed it. One fell into the coals and one flipped into the dirt. I told her to rinse them off. 
When she returned to the fire, she said, “I don’t think that was such a good idea.” Huh? Turns out she rinsed them in the dishwater bucket that had Dawn soap in it.
I gathered up the surviving weenies. “You make us another vodka tonic and I’ll plug in the microwave.”
It’s All Fun and Games Until Someone Loses Their Weenie
We’ve all seen the movie where a man builds a fire by rubbing two sticks together to create a life-saving blaze when he’s lost in a frozen wasteland. Think Buck, the sled dog, and John Thornton in the Call of the Wild. They’d both have been frozen popsicles if that blaze had been my responsibility.
My sister, the Princess, and I arrived at the Myakka River State Park in Sarasota, Florida mid-afternoon. By the time we got the Casita backed onto the site (don’t ask), unhooked and set up we were starving. So, we had cocktails and appetizers and discussed starting a campfire to cook hotdogs. Grilling hotdogs on an campfire is the epitome of “roughing it” according to the Princess and something she’s always wanted to try. She brought kosher hot dogs, buns from the bakery, charcoal and lighter fluid, long expandable forks and a Bic lighter. I was supposed to provide the expertise.
We must have erased from our memories our previous attempt to start a fire. The Princess and I were having cocktails (notice a common theme?) by the fire pit at my cottage. We gathered leaves, twigs and some pieces of wood and made a teepee of them in the pit. It smoldered and smoked. We didn’t have any charcoal lighter so we threw rum on the smoldering mess. Embers started floating through the air and the leaves around the fire pit caught fire.
A successful fire built by my husband, The Man.
I ran to get the hose from the side of the house but it was about 20 feet too short. I was running in such a panic that I landed on my hands and knees when the hose suddenly played out. I ignored my scraped and bleeding knees and palms, jumped up and ran to help my sister stomp out the burning leaves around the pit. I yelled at her to stop stomping because she was wearing my purple Crocs and I didn’t know if they would melt onto her feet. I visualized purple plastic webbing fusing her toes together. Actually, there was no danger of setting the woods on fire. The whole sodden mess was due to damp leaves and wood.
Back to the present and oblivious to our miserable history, we put charcoal in the campfire pit, sloshed it with lighter fluid and lit it. Then we waited for the coals to turn white hot while we had another cocktail. The Princess speared the hotdogs onto our new forks and after a few minutes of holding the forks over the hot coals she began complaining that her back hurt from bending over the campfire. I told her to just put the hotdogs on the grill and turn them occassionally. You guessed it. One fell into the coals and one flipped into the dirt. I told her to rinse them off.
When she returned to the fire, she said, “I don’t think that was such a good idea.” Huh? Turns out she rinsed them in the dishwater bucket that had Dawn soap in it.
I gathered up the surviving weenies. “You make us another vodka tonic and I’ll plug in the microwave.”
Adventures
Wander Woman 