I was born in the late eighties in Los Angeles, and I’ve
come to realize that most of the cute stories from my early childhood were
actually the result of my mother looking for free air-conditioning
(tip: art museums offer both culture and climate control). Like all kids, I
like to think of myself as a rebel. In my case, this means a life spent
following my bliss on nights and weekends while I work a day job. With
benefits. I’ll never date an alcoholic or move cross country to marry a long
And I’ll never own a beagle.
Still, I’ve taken a few of my mother’s rules to heart:
Always buy art.
Always accept collect calls. No matter who or where they’re
Never turn away a friend who
needs a place to stay. (In my case, they’ll be staying on the five foot long
couch in my shoebox size studio apartment).
Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration. My grandmother’s
about five feet tall—in the heels that she owns but never wears—and despite her
daily bike ride and occasional turn on the elliptical you’ll never see her
posed on the front of an exercise magazine: ‘Granny’s 10 Tips for Awesome Abs.’
I’d still back her in a fight.
The woman is tough.
At a time when most women were stuck in the kitchen, my
grandmother was working her way to the top of her field. All while raising two
kids. These days she’s retired, nominally. Which means she takes the jobs she
wants—jobs that provide plane tickets to interesting places with great shopping—and
is only publishing every few years.
Just don’t ask about her cooking.
Having worked her way to the top of the field she can afford
to make her own rules (“I would never take a job where I had to set an alarm
clock.”). However, this means she can be out of touch with the realities facing
my generation (what kind of job doesn’t require an alarm clock? Seriously, I
will sign up right now!).
Sorry folks. This is not your
father’s job market. Or your grandmother’s. Old Economy Steve is hilarious
because it’s true (awesome meme, check it out).