The chronic malcontent is itching for a niche to scratch

I wish I were smarter. If I were smarter, I would no doubt be able to gather up all the loose ends of this entrepreneurial fiasco and bundle them into a cohesive strategy that will fill my bank account. If I were smarter, the path to success (which I define as money, lots and lots of money) would be as clear and bright as the Yellow Brick Road. People would stumble over themselves to help me trot like a frisky colt along my merry way. Or maybe I'd be more like a golden-haired maiden, strewing rose petals behind me. Whatever. It would all happen easily and effortlessly, followed by the miracle of happy and secure retirement.

Last night I went to the monthly meeting of a local SEO Meetup group. (I believe SEO stands for search engine optimization.) I've attended three months in a row, thinking I would meet a specific person (I'll call her Caroline), who was recommended to me by an SBDC counselor (I'll call her Saundra). Three times Caroline has indicated via RSVP that she would be attending the Meetup. Three times she's been absent. This week, I noticed that Saundra had RSVPed her intention to attend. Great, I thought! Saundra is the person who recommended I connect with Caroline. Wouldn't it be great if they were both there? Score! Well, no, not SCORE, I mean, SBDC!

Even as I walked out into the 90° heat to my car, I thought, what am I doing? Odds are neither one of these women will be there. Will I be okay with that? Am I still willing to burn gas to drive 45 minutes in heavy traffic to bumf--k Lake Oswego, sit and chat about a topic I know nothing about, and pay money to eat crappy Chinese food? Apparently so, because off I went.

There was a pretty good turnout this month, about 20 people all together, oddly mostly older men. Sure enough, neither Caroline nor Saundra were there. I was one of four women. Three of us were somewhat long in the tooth and broad in the beam. But there was a golden-haired maiden (I'll call her Tiffany. Or Heather. No, maybe Chelsea. Yeah, let's call her Chelsea.) Chelsea was a young goddess, with full lips, long sunkissed hair, and a Barbie-esque figure, that is to say, prominently jutting along all the right frontal planes.

We started with a round of introductions (in which I introduced myself as a market researcher with no knowledge of SEO, and the emcee—let's call him Daniel—said, “Oh, if you are a market researcher, you probably know a lot about SEO,” a comment I found perplexing, since I was telling the truth, I know virtually nothing about SEO. I have a hard time even remembering what SEO stands for. I keep confusing it with REO, as in REO Speedwagon, which I believe was a 1970s rock band. Maybe he was trying to be funny? People laughed. In my usual out-of-body fashion, I am always the last to get the joke. I still haven't got the joke.)

After the introductions, Chelsea and Daniel fielded questions from the group on various aspects of SEO. I had no questions, but I listened and took notes like a good student. When the show was over, I paid my bill and drove away into the setting sun.

The memorable moment, the takeaway, as they say, was when the older woman sitting next to me turned to me and said, “Who do you do market research for?”

“Marketers and small business owners,” I replied, my usual tentative answer.

“No, my dear. That is much too broad,” she said in a peremptory tone. “Small business owners is too big. You need to narrow it down.” Later I realized she was lying in wait for a teaching moment. Did I look so lost and unsure of myself? Still, I've been trying on niches in my mind, the way some people try on hairstyles and sandals, so what she said hit home.

“Uh, how about the visual art and design industries?” I offered.

“Okay!” She turned back to the woman across the table, her teaching moment complete, leaving me to ponder the significance of what just happened. I don't believe the universe delivers signs, but when the same message keeps cropping up in various places, it probably behooves one to take a closer look.

So, I've got an itch to find a niche. A methodology niche is not going to cut it, I've been told. Apparently I need an industry niche. Banking? Finance? Healthcare? Freaking SEO? Whatever industry I choose to focus should have two essential qualities, namely that the potential clients in the industry want me and can afford me. Other than that little detail, any old niche will do. Clearly, I don't know where I fit, as usual. If I were smarter, I would know this stuff.

Portland, the land of plenty

My sister perused the photos from my high school reunion and sent me an email complimenting me on not getting fat. (Isn't that sweet?) Compared to some women in the photos, it's true, I'm a stick. But it's all relative. At the height of my vegan debacle, some six years ago when my body was feasting desperately on muscle and brain cells, having burned up all available fat, I guess you could say I was pretty thin. To be more precise, I could get into the same size Levis I wore in high school 40 years ago (30x34 in case you are curious), and those scruffy Levis hung on my frame like my own droopy skin.

Then, to avoid dying, and because I could (since I live in America, the land of plenty, and back then I had a job), I started eating real food: eggs, chicken, beef, fish, and lots and lots of vegetables. Over the next two years, my muscles returned, along with all of my fat cells (which were never gone, just deflated, darn it), which ballooned to fill all the spaces in my now too-tight clothes. The Levis went into a drawer, replaced by various forms of loose, stretchy pajamas. Black, of course, because it is so slimming.

For the past year or so, as my system has stabilized on the low-carb real-food food plan, some of the extra weight has started dissolving, first from my face, then from my boobs, then my waist, and—if I live long enough—maybe from my hips and thighs. It would be nice to have thin thighs like I did in high school. The good news, in relative terms considering the world is spontaneously combusting right now, is that I can finally fit into my Levis again (although I admit it's a bit of a struggle to get them buttoned up).

So, thanks, Sis, for the moral support. Keeping in mind of course, that it's not really true that outward appearances trump emotions, behavior, and character. That is to say, it matters more how you feel than how you look. In the big scheme of things, we are lucky to be alive and living in the land of plenty (plenty of everything, good, bad, and in between, but mostly pretty good in Portland). Things could be worse. We could be living in Baghdad, Aleppo, or Ferguson. Seriously. Land of plenty, indeed! Gratitude list!

Let them eat cake

It seems like every time I write about an event I attended, I start with “I survived the...” Is that odd? Do you do that? No, probably not. I guess the best I can do these days is survive. Thriving, or succeeding, or seizing the day are all way outside my current zone of expectations. That's okay. I'm clinging to the short branches, breathing the rarefied air of entrepreneurship. I expect things to be challenging. Like camping at the Oregon coast, for example, which I vow never to do again (rain).

I am happy to inform you that I survived my 40th high school reunion, held yesterday at a park situated on Hwy 224 past Estacada, which, if you are familiar with the Clackamas County area, is part of the exurbian hinterlands. It was a lovely drive, though, along winding tree-lined, single-lane roads, I admit.

I left about 9:15 a.m., and got there a little more than an hour later, delayed ten minutes by an overturned panel truck, lying on it's side in the roadway. Luckily for me, a civilian directed traffic around the truck. More relevant, luckily for them, it appeared no one was injured. As I drove by, I got a 5-second look at the underside of a large truck: not something you see every day (unless you are a truck mechanic).

The other three members of the reunion planning committee were already there when I arrived. Everything was in place except the balloons and the easel, which were in my trunk. I unloaded my stuff and took a look at the layout.

“Having the registration table here is going to create a bottleneck at the bottom of the stairs,” I said, hands on my hips.

They looked at me skeptically, but gamely helped me move the table about ten feet away into an L-shaped alcove. Good call. For most of the rest of the day, I manned the table, checking people in, taking money, making change, filling out receipts, and peeling off name tags. I was safely barricaded, with plenty to do, and blessed with limited social interaction. My perfect job. Too bad it didn't pay.

The park was small, perched on a low bluff over the Clackamas River. Tall fir trees provided abundant shade. The picnic structure was partly covered by a barnlike shed with a huge stone fireplace at one end, and partly in the open, where chairs were scattered around the edges of a wide wooden deck. Picnic tables spanned the length of both spaces. The two committee members in charge of the food arranged a staggering selection of fruit and veggie trays, chips, salads, and other dishes neatly on the tables under the shelter. Flies immediately descended on the croissant sandwiches. I snapped photos of the decorated cake, offering a silent prayer to the reunion gods that I might be allowed to avoid eating any of it.

The weather was perfect: the air was warm, just a tiny bit humid, and there was plenty of shade. The sleepy Clackamas River basked below us, accessible by a short but steep trail, at the bottom of which was an unoccupied wooden dock built for boaters and kayakers. We had none of those, and there wasn't much river traffic, so the River provided a silent but picturesque backdrop for the mini social dramas that unfolded on the deck above.

There was a fair amount of squealing among the women, as they stared at and then recognized former classmates and friends. There was no shortage of hugs. I had a ringside seat behind the registration table. I would eyeball each newcomer as they came down the concrete steps from the parking area, trying to guess his or her identity: is this a classmate or a spouse? Even after scanning yearbook photos and printing name tags, I got only about half of their names right and managed to call at least two people by the wrong name. Can I blame early dementia?

Few classmates looked like their high school yearbook photo, which I had thoughtfully provided on their name tags. Most of the women were obese, the men not so much (although for some reason there were many portly male spouses). After 40 years, it's no surprise we all look somewhat haggard. A few, though, seemed especially aged, while a few others seemed untouched by time. Many of the classmates had major health issues: diabetes, pacemakers, knee replacements... not to mention the challenges of dealing with aging or dying parents and adult children who refuse to grow up, hold down jobs, or marry the right partner. I was so glad to be single and childless. And I hereby declare that I'm going to stop complaining about my mustache: Clearly, it could be a lot worse.

On the other hand, many classmates, when asked what they do, replied that they were retired. They put in their 35 years at their electrician jobs and their telecommunications jobs and their healthcare jobs, and then they gracefully bowed out of the workforce. Ouch. Luckily for me, nobody cared about my life: They were far more interested in talking about their children. And their vacations, cruises, and volunteer activities. I didn't have to try to explain my unsettling financial predicament to anyone and in the explaining inadvertently reveal my fear and anxiety. Sometimes I am relieved that other people are so self-obsessed.

Still, I had a great time. I enjoyed seeing people I hadn't seen in 40 years. Seven of them were people I went to elementary school with. We have history. And as I talked with each person, a strange thing happened: The years seemed to fall away from their faces. I saw past the bald heads, puffy skin, and wrinkles to the 18-year-olds they used to be, the people I knew and the people I didn't know, as I endured the long hellish years of high school. I wasn't afraid of any of them. I felt a deep affection for all of them. We had survived a shared experience. Not all of us lived to tell this tale: We lost some along the way. But those of us who are left have figured out how to live. I'd like to think I'm one of those survivors, although it's always one day at a time for me.

The afternoon wafted to a close, and people drifted away with promises to keep in touch. Yeah, let's do this in five years! You bet. I helped clear away, pack up, and wash down, and eventually just the planning committee was left, plus one stalwart helper, whom we will no doubt recruit for the next iteration, should we live that long. I drove home thanking the reunion gods that I escaped without tasting a single crumb of the cake. It wasn't really such a miracle: It wasn't chocolate.

Back in the (teaching) saddle again: Yeehaw!

Last night I gave my first official presentation to a small crowd of Meetup junkies. We met in a back room at a Chinese restaurant, where in an earlier time I could picture stoic Chinese gangsters engaging in some serious cigar puffing, poker playing, and tea drinking, while tiny waitresses in traditional dresses scurried around refilling tea pots and serving egg noodle soup. The Chinese men were absent, but the tiny waitresses were a silent presence throughout the three-hour event. (Although they were dressed in plain white shirts and black pants.) At one point while I was speaking I noticed one waitress leaning against a wall near the entryway, arms folded, a skeptical look on her face.

The group was small, just seven people, plus the other presenter, the two organizers, and me. The space was cozy, maybe a little too cozy. We were packed in pretty tight around two tables, not much elbow room. A few of the attendees were close enough to touch. I didn't mind. After years of teaching, I don't mind standing close to my audience. When I'm that close, I can look my students in the eyes, alert for signs of discontent, boredom, or disagreement. There was a bit of an echo in the alcove, which added to the ambiance. As the evening progressed, the light from the overhead skylight glowed golden.

Some informal networking took place before the two 20-minute presentations began. I busied myself setting up my tiny Flip video camera (ancient technology) and my digital audio recorder (semi-ancient technology). I arranged my handouts, brochures, and a stack of business cards neatly on a table. This is a new Meetup group, so things were a little disorganized. Still, they remembered to bring name tags. Name tags are always a nice touch, especially when you forget to take it off after the event, and you wonder why people at the grocery store are suddenly calling you by name. I scribbled my name on a name tag and noticed that my hands were not shaking.

I wasn't nervous. (Well, maybe a little, since I discovered later I had failed to press the REC button on my audio recorder.) Maybe I should have been more nervous, I don't know. When I'm nervous, I try harder, I'm more animated, I tell more stupid jokes. Last night, I was feeling pretty mellow by the time the presentations actually started. I was up first. The organizer introduced me, stumbling over her words a bit as she tried to read my email on her little phone.

I stumbled over my own words, more than once, but I didn't care. I've fumbled and floundered in front of way larger audiences than this one. If you can survive forgetting your speech in front of 100 Toastmasters, you can survive anything. I wasn't afraid of looking foolish in front of seven Meetuppers! As the light grew dimmer, I had to lift my glasses a couple times to read my notes, but mostly I think I managed to stay on track, and was pleased to finish exactly on time. Always leave them wanting more. Or maybe it's more like, quit while you are ahead? I don't know.

Sometimes it is hard to tell what your audience is thinking. Have you noticed that? You babble on, you forge ahead, and you get increasingly uncomfortable as they stare at you intently. Are they understanding me, you wonder? Are they judging me? Do I sound like a ignoramus? Is there hair coming out of my nose?

An older gentleman dressed in a gray cotton shirt that matched his hair seemed to be riveted, but I couldn't tell from his facial expression and posture if he was receptive to my message or resistant. He sat about three feet from me; I could have reached out and smacked him with my notes if I wanted to provoke a response. Of course, I didn't. But I kept coming back to him, drilling him eye-to-eye, trying to figure him out.

Later we endured about an hour of serious networking, which ended up to be the best part for me. I found out the man in gray is a former newspaper publisher, a soon-to-be author, and a funny, friendly, very receptive and appreciative guy. Just goes to show, I guess. That you can't tell from the outside, bla bla bla, and also, that I'm not a very good judge of people. Who knew he would turn out to be so charming?

Overall, I had a good time. I judged my performance all the way home, but mostly I was relieved that it was over with so little drama or pain. Today I downloaded the video, intending to split the two segments apart so I could send the other presenter her portion of the video. In the course of figuring out how to do that, I watched my portion. Despite poor video quality, I have to say, I didn't do too badly. I'd give myself a B+.

Now I can move on to the next exciting event on the immediate horizon: my high school reunion. Once that is over, I think I'll take a day off. Summer is tiring.

Monstrous feverish crowds of networking women

Nothing inspires me to blog more than noise in the neighborhood. I was trying to update one of my websites, which is always a challenge because I am not that skilled with WordPress, and suddenly the Cafe cranked up the volume. The bass is vibrating through the Love Shack, itching through my nerve endings. Is it live music? Is there a person I can blame? Argh.

Oh, hey. It's nine o'clock. The music just stopped. There is a god after all, and its name is Silence.

Today the weather was perfect for jogging in the park. I trotted around my little beaten track and reveled in the warm air on my skin. When I spread my bat-winged arms in sheer joy, I imagined I was getting just the tiniest bit of lift. I felt lighter. I always do in summer. Everything is easier in summer. Even being broke, unemployed, and terrified is easier in summer. It's the most wonderful time of the year.

A couple nights ago, I went out on a warm summer's evening to mix and mingle with a crowd of women at a... I guess you would call it a club? over in North Portland off of MLK near Legacy Emmanuel Hospital. It seems every old storefront in town is being renovated, even in the (former) ghetto. This club was up a steep flight of carpeted stairs from a bar/restaurant, where a bunch of trendy 30-somethings were sitting at little round sidewalk tables, looking oh so hip. I skittered by in my old blue Levis and long floppy olive green rayon men's overshirt, hoping it would conceal my muffin top and wondering what the hell I was doing so far from the Love Shack, going to a club to hang out with a bunch of women. Jeez.

I don't like women. Not groups of women, anyway, and a club full of drinking older gals laser-focused on networking the crap out of each other is just plain frightening. The air reeked of perfume and estrogen. Some wore hats and cocktail dresses. Who were they dressing up for? There were only two men that I could see: the sound board guy and the club guy who moved around tables and checked the lighting as he nervously looked over his shoulder at the women. As if the herd could bolt at any moment. The noise level made it impossible to hold a conversation. I tried, honestly. I roamed and mingled, sipping a salty soda water with lime, wandering from table to table (there were no chairs), barging in on conversations with no shame, trying out my creaky elevator pitch and listening to others breeze through theirs, thinking this is so stupid.

I don't care anymore. You know why? Because I finally figured out that all these frantic, frothing, networking women are just like me: broke, desperate, and on the edge looking down. Successful women don't network; they are too busy working. Or if they aren't working, they are out with their pals, swilling craft-brewed pale ale and ouzo martinis at the trendiest watering hole in the Pearl District. Someplace I wouldn't dare go, even if I knew where it was. Secret handshake and all that.

The music has resumed. I knew it was too good to be true. There is no god called Silence. Pestilence, maybe, but not Silence. Sigh.

I eventually sat down on a red velvet-cushioned bench along the wall of the club and watched the hordes of females buzzing around each other like colorful bees swarming the hive. Pretending they were taking effective action. Maybe they were, and I'm the one who didn't get it. After a while, a young woman came over and sat next to me. Yay, another introvert. We started talking. It was quieter there on the periphery, and I found out she was an arborist and landscape designer—a refreshing departure from the wellness coaches, personal change catalysts, jewelry sellers, and multilevel marketing distributors that I'd met during my attempts to hobnob. We exchanged cards and best wishes before we escaped down the stairs and out into the warm evening.

In spite of the strange interlude which seems to have commandeered my life, I find things to be grateful for. Besides showing up for networking, somehow I have continued to exercise intermittently, eat organic and local, mostly, and get enough sleep. I've managed to scrape together coins to do laundry. I've somehow kept the bird feeder filled and the litter box clean. I've reached a cease-fire with the ants in the kitchen; they know what happens when they cross the line into my territory, and in return for taking no prisoners around the sink, I'm happy to give the occasional passenger a ride from the kitchen to the bathroom, with the couch the final destination. If they bite my neck, the gloves come off. Those are the rules.

So mostly, I'm trundling through these strange days feeling a bemused mix of hope and despair. If it weren't so ghastly watching my savings evaporate, these would be the best days of my life. I try not to think about it too much. I just keep updating my website, making my plans, and hobnobbing with monstrous crowds of women.