Wondrous Leaves

One of the most wonderful things about walking is that I see all the little details of an area that I miss if I whiz by in a car. Many, if not most, of these wonders involve plants. Blossoms peaking over a fence post. A small cacti garden tucked behind a fence. A glimpse of a fruit tree in a back yard.



On a recent walk, I encountered a sidewalk and front lawn filled with these enchanting leaves. I don't remember ever seeing any leaves colored like this--green in the center and red, yellow, and orange along the rim. Though I gathered them up like flowers to display in a bowl at home, I had the feeling that their beauty was fleeting, and so I shot these photos moments after I saw these natural wonders.



A good thing I did because by morning the leaves had shriveled and turned brown.

House of Blues fantasy, if just for a moment

For well over a decade, I have wanted to go to the House of Blues in West Hollywood. A week ago, I went. My friend Tom got passes from a publicist friend of his, and we went to see her client perform.

For the life of me, I can't recall the name of the band--if I ever knew it. I really dislike hearing music in clubs as it's way too loud and I can never make out the vocals. This was also true of Rose Rossi's band. (I'm pretty sure that was name of the singer.)

I dutifully listened to the music, which would have been much improved at one-third the volume.

What most impressed me, however, about the House of Blues were the walls. They were covered in the kind of fabric you'd expect to see in some high-end hippie store in Berkeley--raw silk with mirrored bangles and crazy-quilt stitching. All the walls were so adorned--even those in the elevator. I wondered about their maintenance. Did a seamstress repair the walls every so often? How were spilled drinks cleaned from the surface, and what if the liquid soaked deep into the fabric? Did the seamstress ever have to add patches in places where some knife-wielding drunk had fallen? Fascinating.

Also fascinating were the alcoves where one could escape from the high decibels. These small, private rooms were outfitted like a sultan's bed chamber with sumptuous pillows, lavendar lighting, and statues of strange gods. And, of course, the walls were tapestried.

For the occasion, I was dressed in a sleek black silk shift given to me by my Canadian friend Helene, whose relative is a buyer for high-end shops and got this as a sample. As I stood and listened to the band, a young man handed me a rose. He was one of those guys who goes from venue to venue foisting his roses on unsuspecting men who then feel obligated to buy the flowers for their dates. As I did not have a date, I wondered why he was giving me a bloom. It was hard to hear his answer above the din, but eventually the man next to me shouted, "A rose from Rose." I didn't get it because, as previously stated, I did not know the name of the band or of the lead singer, at least until much later.

I figured he had had too much to drink and had meant to say, "A rose for a rose." That is, that I was so stunning in my black shift that some unknown man had graced me with a rose. That was a beautiful thought--as long as it lasted.

A few minutes later, the same young man who had handed me the rose laid a half dozen at the singer's feet. She then proceeded to throw them to the crowd, saying, "A rose from Rose."

Palins' Neighbor in Wasilla, Alaska

My cousin Rhonda's son Max gave a piano and guitar recital yesterday afternoon at USC. Afterwards, I met his friends, one of whom was sporting a tee-shirt proclaiming Alaska Grown. What's more, this young man grew up within two miles of the Palins, and he played hockey with Sarah's son.

"She's a nice person," he said, "but that doesn't qualify someone for public office, especially not vice president of the United States."

A Revelation: I Have Small Breasts!

I have small breasts! You might think that I would have noticed this previously, but to tell you the truth, I have never given a whole lot of thought to my breasts. I know that a lot of women fuss about them, restraining them in EMF-targeting, underwire cancer traps and using them as their calling cards for expensive dinners and trips to Europe.

The thing is that most women, something over 90 percent, don't even like their breasts, even after all this attention that they--and men--give them. I have always liked my breasts, on the rare occasions that I even consider them. They're perky and alert, facing the world head on, never sagging, always as firm and upright as the day they emerged from my chest back in junior high.

I always knew my breasts were not gargantuan and that I'd have to put my breasts in a vice to get any cleavage. I guess I knew on an intellectual level that my breasts were small, but it never really hit home until recently.

I was on a one-time craigslist "date," and the man commented that I had small breasts. This was an observation, as one might observe that a 90-year-old woman is old. Not a criticism, just an observation. I held them and took a good look at them, then told him I agreed with him, and that I really have always liked my breasts.

Since then, from time to time, I have surveyed the women about me, looking at their breasts. This is much the same way that I have long surveyed people in a restaurant or standing in line at the post office or people clustered in some other public space. I count up the people and then count the ones that are overweight. Sure enough, it turns out about 70 percent of them are, just like government statistics tell us. So recently, I have been doing the same with women's breasts. And do you know, I AM smaller than the average gal. Actually, with a B cup size, I'm probably in the lower 10 percentile.

This is a real revelation to me: I have small breasts! I don't mind it. It's just that it's interesting. The only thing that I sometimes wonder is: If I had a C cup, would that change my life? Would I be with a wonderful guy right this moment if my breasts were gargantuan or even if they were average-sized? Could the cause of my solitary life really be that superficial?

Better to Have 10 Years' Experience Than 25

During the past month, I have been aggressively seeking work. Since Aug. 13, to be precise, I have applied for 63 positions. Not one of them has resulted in an interview or a call-back.

When I look at my resume and at my clips, I think, "What a catch!" More than 25 years of editing and writing experience for newspapers, magazines, newsletters, PR firms, ad agencies, and Web sites. Plenty of published clips. Managerial experience. Teaching experience. Public-speaking experience. Willing to travel and relocate. So what's the problem?

A few days ago, I asked a rep at a firm that places writers, proofreaders, Web masters, graphic designers, and other such "creative talent" in temp and temp-to-hire positions: Is it better to say I have 10 years of experience rather than 25? Does the latter signal "old," whereas the former is more attractive?

The rep responded with candor, for which I thanked her. Her answer: Yes, it's better to admit to 10 years, but don't go as high as 25. She said that "10" means fresh ideas and a forward-thinking nature.

Would that this were true! When I think of the students that I have at Cal State, for example, I hardly think of "fresh ideas" and "forward-thinking nature." They are always waiting for answers to be spoon-fed to them. Of course, there are amazing exceptions, but they are rare exceptions.

But if that's the prejudice against age and experience, so be it. From now on, my cover letters will read "As a writer-editor with more than 10 years of experience..."

Funny that people have often advised those who are starting out to fudge their resumes a bit, to show a bit more experience than they actually have. Well, for us in our 40s and 50s, the opposite now holds: Instead of stacking our resumes, we need to trim them a bit. Like with so much else in this society, we need to dumb it down.

Grateful About a $30,000 Loss

Since late December I have had control over my mother's finances. For quite some time, I have been a bit concerned by the fact that all her investments are in mortgage-backed securities, aka Countrywide, Freddie Mac, and Fannie Mae. A month ago, I decided to enlist a broker to sell her mortgage bundles and put the proceeds into something safer.

I should have acted back in January, but at least the sales took place before the Fed took over Freddie and Fannie last week. I sold just in the nick of time. Yes, the bailout may of saved the world from an economic apocalypse, but those who were holding mortgage bundles, like my mother had been, are no longer being paid a dividend. A dividend that my mother was withdrawing each month to cover her mounting medical and care expenses. And the financial throes of the housing market have not yet subsided, and some feel that we have not yet even seen the worst of it yet, so I am glad she's out of that game.

Getting out cost her $30,000, or approximately 18 percent of her investment--what she has to live off for the rest of her days. Yes, she has Social Security and two pensions, but these don't even pay half her fixed expenses. She lost 30 grand, but she stood to lose much more. Isn't it a crazy world that I live in when I'm happy that I ONLY lost $30,000--a full year's salary in some years.

This is a dramatic case in point of the folly of getting rid of Social Security and, as many Republicans are pushing for, let the individual consumer make decisions about his or her retirement funding! Yes, I'm sure there would be winners in that scenario, but I suspect most of them would be brokers and CEOs. And the losers? Plenty of people like you and me.

Standing Up

People forever talk about standing up for yourself, about asking for what you deserve. The thing is that I always stand up for myself, but there sure must be something more to it than what I'm doing because every time that I have stood up, I have been shot down.

I know many people who tell their bosses they're leaving if they don't get more money and then they are given more money. Or they tell a boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse that this is what they need and, if they don't get it, they're leaving and so they get it. I even know of people who say they have to quit their positions because they're moving and their bosses say they can take their job with them. They are standing up for what they want and they get it.

In contrast, I have stood up so many times just in the past couple months, asking for what I deserve, what I've earned, and being told "no" again and again. And not only "no" but "go away." At the magazine. At one university and then at another. After I had signed a contract to work for a German medical company and then the company backed out. On and on, again and again.

So what are these other people doing that I'm not? I just don't get it.

Is the message that I am to leave Southern California at all costs? Am I to sleep in my truck and camp in a Wal-Mart parking lot until I get some work, somewhere? In the last two weeks, I have applied for 35 positions, with not a nibble. Again, I'm asking for what I want. Is anyone listening?

Why I Sympathize with Day Laborers

Years ago an adjunct professor quipped to me, "We're the proletariats of academia." This has certainly been my experience as an adjunct professor at, let's say, University A (UA).

I have been with UA for more than 21 years, sometimes teaching one class, sometimes a few, sometimes as many as five, sometimes none. (How many people do you know who are able to handle that kind of fluctuation in income?) Often I have been asked on the Friday before classes start if I could teach a class, or I have begun teaching a class and then it is canceled and I receive nothing in compensation.

Over the years I have gone from a semester contract to a one-year contract and now a three-year contract. Each level is supposed to give me more leverage, more respect, more consideration, but when push comes to shove, these contracts don't mean a thing. For the last four or five semesters, I have had to remind the department chair that, according to the contract, I am guaranteed six classes per year and he has to give me first right of refusal before offering the classes to anyone else. That has been violated so many times, I lose count. So often, in clear violation of the contract, the chair has brought in people with no teaching experience to teach classes I have been teaching for years.

When I have gone to the union, the reps are sympathetic, but say that, in the end, it is up to the department chair's discretion. "So then what good does a three-year contract do," I ask, "if it's all up to the chair's discretion?" To this they say something like, "Well, it should put you in a better position, but there's no guarantee."

This is akin to presidential signing statements. Bush signs a bill into law that Congress has passed, then issues a signing statement that negates the parts of the bill that he does not want to adhere to. So what good is Congress and what good is it to pass legislation that is so flagrantly disregarded? The same thing with part-time faculty contracts: Why do we have them if they are meaningless during those times when their substance is most needed?

And so, because of the struggles with UA, including numerous meetings with union reps, the dean, and chairs re my contract, several years ago, I began courting let's call it University B. Though UB said "no" to me many times, I finally got a "yes" because a faculty member died. I was brought in to teach a night class this fall. At the time I first met with the chair at UB, he said he could see no problem about getting me the same salary as I am getting at UA. I proceeded with that gentleman's agreement all through the summer, reading the text, preparing the syllabus, and getting ready for the class. A week before the start of the semester, I was told, "Sorry, but we're paying you $800 less than you make at UA." I felt badly, but the chair said there was nothing he could do. I reluctantly agreed, since I had already put in 25 hours and if I did not accept the assignment, I would have been out that time with not a dime to show for it.

Last Tuesday I picked up my contract. (It's pretty standard that contracts are given to adjuncts after they have already begun teaching.) Instead of being $800 less, it was now $1,334 less. Basically, I'd be making a little over 2/3 of what I make for a 3.3-unit class at UA. Then I spoke with someone from the pension fund and was informed that working at this reduced rate would reduce my pension by $50/month, so basically, it would cost me money to teach this class.

I returned to the department chair at UB with this info, and though he was angry, he said he would talk to the dean about getting me the same money as I am getting at UA and he would get back to me. That was Wednesday morning.

I didn't hear anything on Wednesday. I didn't hear anything yesterday. Today I sent him an email and then gave him a call. When I reached him, he said he had hired someone else. Would I please return the book and the keys? So I guess if I had not contacted him, he would never had had the decency to contact me. I would have showed up to teach on Tuesday and would have met the new instructor! Unbelievable the lack of respect.

Yes, adjunct professors are the proletariats of academia. Or to put it in a more contemporary vernacular, we're the day laborers. It's like, "Hey, if you don't want to teach the class, who cares, we can go down to Home Depot and pick someone up there."

Every time I drive past Home Depot and see those guys hanging out, waiting for a job, any job, I think of the lot of adjunct professors, the day laborers of academia.