The chronic malcontent plays hooky to go to school

Last night I took a night off from daughter duty to attend an in-service (teacher training) at the local community college for which I occasionally teach business courses for artists. The in-service was conveniently located at the campus at which I'd taught, so I knew how to get there and where to park. The college's Community Education program has locations all over the city. I was grateful I did not have to find my way to the west side of town in the dark.

The invitation indicated the event started with networking at 5:30 pm. The presentation was scheduled to begin at 6:00 pm. As usual, I arrived early, as did many others. People were already gathering in the lobby when I arrived at 5:20. They sat on fluffy square chairs in a small area, ignoring each other, looking at their phones. Networking in the new age.

Like any practicing introvert, I found a corner and wandered to it. An older woman with wild dark hair joined me.

“Hi, what do you teach?” she asked.

“I teach a business course for artists,” I replied, stammering a little. “How about you?”

“I teach juggling.”

Intrigued, I asked her some questions. Soon we were discussing the amazing activity of juggling—how it's mostly men who want to learn to juggle but kids like it too, how women think they won't be any good at it so they don't try, how she does no promotion, how enthusiasts hold juggling festivals and associations all over the world, how tens of thousands of members juggle socially here in the local Portland juggling community, how Reed College has had a juggling class for thirty years... I was, like, how come I've never heard of this?

“Have you considered creating a juggling class just for women?” I asked.

“I don't do any marketing, I don't know how,” she said.

“Maybe you should take my class!” I laughed, dead serious.

“Maybe you should take mine!” Bam. She got me back.

The assembled group trooped into the auditorium. I lost track of the juggler. I found a seat in the back row behind a young woman with fluffy dark hair. What is it with all these frizzy coifs, I wondered. My hair is typically five-eighths of an inch long. Tall. Whatever. I of course kept my hat on the entire evening, decorated tastefully with my adhesive name tag.

“What do you teach?” The young woman turned around to address me. I told her and asked her the same question.

“I give chocolate tasting tours,” she replied.

The director began introducing the program directors and the chocolate expert turned around in her seat to face the front. I looked her up in the course catalog we'd been given with our in-service packet. Ah, there she was, with a photo and everything, a course about chocolate. Wow, who knew.

Soon we exited and joined a line of teachers leading up the stairs. I smelled food. I got in line behind the chocolate woman, who ignored me. Eventually, her conversation partner asked me what I taught. I told him and found out he taught ceramics.

“I sell tea services at the Saturday Market,” he said. “I'm building a place for groups to rent space to have traditional tea ceremonies.”

We got in the buffet line (catered by local eatery Laughing Planet). I grabbed a white china plate and eyeballed the white rice, black beans, and unidentifiable options in the big stainless steel serving dishes. I spread a small corn tortilla on my plate and heaped it with tofu and salad stuff, a few beans, a little bit of rice, a glob of bright green guacamole. I found some small round corn chippy things but ignored the various sauces and salsa.

The in-service agenda required us to take our plates of food to breakout rooms, where we would sit with the teachers from our department and hear the news from our program director. I parted company with the ceramicist and went downstairs to locate my tribe.

Several old (older than me) white men sat eating silently at long tables in a classroom. I sat in the front row near the wall so no one could sneak up on me. A couple guys nodded as I pulled up a chair to the end of the table. I noticed one woman, an older gal with flyaway gray hair.

“This is my first in-service,” I said into awkward silence, “so pardon me if I stare.”

The man sitting nearest me smiled so I asked him what he taught.

“Electrical certification,” he replied, wiping his mouth with a black paper napkin. Everyone else kept eating in silence.

Luckily the program director, Dawn, entered with a colleague, a youngish woman with a ponytail, a neck tattoo, and big teeth. Both women carried plates of food. They sat down in the front, facing the rows of tables.

Dawn asked us to introduce ourselves and say what we taught. She pointed at me. I said my name and stuttered a bit as I tried to explain what I taught: Business course for artists. I always feel like I'm spouting a pathetic fallacy when I put business and artist in the same sentence. Or is it an oxymoron? I don't know. A pathetic oxymoron. Is that a thing? Or is it a laundry detergent? I can never remember. Anyway, we went around the room. A gray-haired man taught a class on how to start a business. Competition, I thought. A bald man taught a class on maximizing social security benefits. A guy with dark skin and an accent taught computer programming classes. The woman and the gray-haired man sitting next to her taught courses based on neuro-linguistic programming.

Two people strolled in late. One was a tiny older woman with dark hair (a twenty-six year veteran teacher), the other a younger man with creamy skin who told a story of being a student and then becoming a teacher. Both taught Spanish. The last person, in the back corner, was an ancient man who taught computer classes, one of which was Excel. I had to be impressed. I used to teach Excel, back in the day. I wonder what version Microsoft is up to now. I'm stuck in amber when it comes to computer programs. I don't even have Windows 10 yet, that's how far behind I am.

Dawn pulled out a notebook, ignoring her plate of food. First, she reminded us that we aren't allowed to promote our own businesses when we are teaching classes for the college. I thought, have I promoted my business? Then I thought, no, artists are not dissertators. No fear. I don't have anything they could buy from me, even if they wanted to. Whew.

After the breakout session, we reconvened in the auditorium for the main event, the keynote speaker. The ceramicist appeared behind me.

“Why are you wearing blue glasses?” he asked. I laughed. As I walked ahead, I was reaching in my bag to switch my up-close glasses for the distance glasses I use for driving.

“What! Now they are green!” he said. I laughed and headed to the back row. He went off in another direction.

I'm familiar with in-services from my almost ten years as an instructor at a career college. The next hour was as dreary and useless as any in-service in which the speaker fails to take time to identify the needs of the audience. The topic was student engagement. I don't know why the directors chose that topic for a Community Education in-service—students who sign up for Community Education courses want to be there. They receive no credit, no grades. They really want to learn the material. Engagement is not a problem. Like a good student, however, I gleaned what I could from the talk.

The speaker was a solidly built white woman with long hair that might have been blonde, might have been gray, hard to tell under the lights. She wore a light-colored sack-like dress printed with dots or flowers. The overall impression was white, very white. She started talking about the human brain and what keeps us from engaging. She said “right?” after almost every sentence. And she laughed. A lot. I started tracking how many times she laughed at something she said. In the first fifteen minutes, I counted sixteen times she laughed for no obvious reason. I thought, wow, she sure knows how to keep herself entertained. I stopped tracking after that and started drawing in my notebook. I looked at my neighbor two seats to my right and noticed he was drawing, too. Better than me. Clearly, an artist.

I endured to the end, including the fifteen minute award ceremony given to recognize teachers with five, ten, fifteen, and more than fifteen years of service to the college. I thought, it's unlikely I will be receiving one of those awards.

As I drove home, hunched over the wheel, peering into the dark, I thought about some things. I realized I liked meeting new people. I enjoyed hearing their stories. I liked finding out that I'm part of a larger community. I liked seeing how many creative people are sharing their knowledge and expertise. Maybe I'm not the rabid introvert I thought I was.

Today, my world narrows back to normal. Blog, laundry, lunch. I had one night off from daughter duty. In about an hour, I'll be back on the job.

It's almost spring . . . time for a little networking!

I've hunkered in my cave long enough. It's almost spring. Time to do a little networking! If you've read any of my blog posts from 2015, you know I think networking is highly overrated. Especially when the facilitators hand you a “Networking Bingo” card with stupid questions like, Find someone who wasn't born in Oregon, and Find someone who was! But tonight I was ready to get out of the house, so I waited on the corner in the freezing rain for twenty minutes for a bus to take me downtown to a networking event.

The event was billed as a speed mentoring event, a chance for entrepreneurs to meet some so-called experts to pick their brains about marketing, strategy, finance, and legal issues. What could be more fun? Thirty entrepreneurs in a new age concrete and wood conference room, milling around trying to avoid eye contact with each other. Ho hum. So been there done that. But I was ready! Let me at that Bingo card!

I was easily the oldest person in the room. I guess I should start getting used to that. The upside to being old, though, is that I don't care what people think about me anymore. I can say anything to anyone. I'll never see them again. And few of these people were likely to be in my target market, so la la la.

The six mentors had to take us two at a time; each entrepreneur was supposed to get fifteen minutes of one-on-one time. Oh boy!

My first two sessions were with marketing experts, a couple of smart, confident women I could have talked with for a long time over coffee. They both valiantly gave me what they could before the bell rang and it was time to move on to the next table.

Actually, my first session lasted only about ten minutes, because my partner hogged the time. I mean, hogged the time. She even came back and gave the mentor a swatch of her unique (and pungent) geranium aroma-therapy oil. I tried not to be resentful.

My third session was with a “strategist,” Josh, a young man with a diffident air. No one else had signed up for that time slot, so I sat alone as I handed him a postcard for my recently published book. He asked me some polite questions, trying to get a feel for my business direction.

I was just drawing a breath to begin waxing poetic about my dream of establishing a small publishing empire when a young woman sat down in the chair next to me and heaved an enormous sigh. My session partner had arrived.

Josh's eyes left me and settled on her. We both stared. She was dressed in a rumpled vintage get up that I might have worn when I was in my twenties, back when I cared how I looked. Her skin was smooth, her lips were red, her eyes were shadowed, her hair was fluffy and pulled up into some kind of shape. She looked messy but real, coy but accessible, and within seconds, I was pretty sure I had her figured out.

“Well, let's let that percolate,” Josh said vaguely, setting my postcard aside. To the newcomer, he said, “Hi, what brings you here?”

“I had a business. Gardening. With my boyfriend. He signed me up, and then he left me. Now I have this business, mostly contract work for walls and walkways, and I don't have insurance, and I don't know what I'm doing,” she said breathlessly, eyelashes fluttering. Her lips were mesmerizing, I had to admit. Josh was certainly mesmerized. The temperature between them ratcheted up a peg. I sat back in my chair and watched.

Her name was something like Nora, and she was on the prowl for attention. Josh was bored and ready to comply. Nora described her business in a self-deprecating way, casting sidelong glances at Josh, and occasionally at me, because I was there, after all. Nobody could deny that I was there, watching. Finally, she ran down, and Josh seemed speechless. Without thinking first, I asked, “What could go wrong?”

“What?”

“What could go wrong? If you don't have insurance...?”

“Yeah, good question,” Josh said.

Nora said a few things, I said some things (devil's advocate is my best role), and Josh pretended to agree. As I listened to Nora talk about her landscaping business, I could tell her heart wasn't fully in it. I know what that feels like, and I've seen it many times in my former students, who were struggling to get associate's degrees in fields they didn't care about.

“It seems like you aren't really into this business,” I said respectfully. “What would you rather be doing?”

Nora took a deep breath. A smile lit up her face. She sat up straight in her chair and waved both arms. I thought, wow, this will be good.

“I want to build a huge garden, twenty acres, with a sauna hut in the middle, in the hills outside of [some town I didn't recognize] in Massachusetts!”

Then she slumped. “But I love my clients!” she moaned. “Their gardens are my babies. The vines and flowers . . . I can't leave my babies.”

“They won't love your gardens the way you do,” I said unsympathetically. “They'll forget to trim those vines and let them grow all over their houses . . .  You'll never get away. Your clients will drain you dry if you let them.”

Nora made a pouty face. I thought, whoops, maybe that was a bit harsh, so I smiled disingenuously to ease the sting. I used to be afraid of young women like Nora, I realized. Looking into her vapid, self-centered eyes, I realized, she doesn't want to be in business. She just wants attention. Then I realized that I was actually talking about myself, about my editing clients draining me dry, and suddenly I couldn't breathe.

I said to Nora gently, “Think about where you want to be in five years, ten years... Don't wait until you are old like me to pursue your dream.”

Josh said, “I know what it's like to detour away from doing what you love.” I thought, hey, something is going on with him, too. I turned my earnest gaze his way and asked, “What detour did you take? What would you rather be doing?”

“I play the upright bass in a jazz band,” he said sheepishly. “I like doing this business thing, but . . .”

“It's hard to make money doing music,” I said. He nodded.

“I have a family to take care of. But I'd really just like to be shredding my bass.” We all sat quietly for a moment, pondering detours and shredded basses. Then Josh shook himself and turned to me. “What about you, what's your dream?”

I reflected for a split second and said, “I'm closer now to my perfect life than I've ever been before. Writing, publishing, making art. It's what I've wanted to do since I was nine years old. And now I'm doing it.”

A few minutes later, the bell chimed, and it was time to move on to the next table.

Celebrate! You fail at life.

Finally, there is an official Meetup in Portland for failures. It's called FailPDX, and last night was its kickoff meeting. I heard about it through a random Meetup promo email. The name made me curious. Within a few days, 50 people had signed up. I checked again before it was time to leave: 96 people were planning on attending. Wow.

I left a little early and avoided the freeway, anxious that I wouldn't be able to find the place, afraid I wouldn't find close parking on the dark streets of Old Town Portland. The Meetup was inside a multistory building that stood out in the close-in downtown neighborhood for not being a renovation of a 19th-century monstrosity. The entry lobby was wide, lined in marble and mirror, and behind the security desk was a 30-foot wide, 15-foot tall backdrop of bright green living plants, somehow adhered to the wall from floor to ceiling, glowing under grow lights. It was lovely for its greenness and for the intense artificial sunlight. I was thinking that a security job in front of that backdrop might actually not be that bad. (Remind me of that later, would you?)

On the fifth floor of this building was a series of unfinished offices and open spaces. In the widest open space were easily 60 black padded chairs arranged in rows facing a big screen, which showed the Oregon State versus Ohio State football game in luscious detail. To the right, cafeteria style tables and chairs took up much of the rest of the space. Another huge screen also showed the football game. Smaller flat panel television screens hung from the ceiling, all showing the game. The place reminded me of a gym: The only thing missing were the rows of treadmills and perky people in spandex.

The space was vast. Black windows on the left looked down into the atrium of the lobby. Windows on two other sides looked out on the lights of Portland's downtown freeways and bridges. I imagine the view is spectacular during the day. At night it was just a dark blur of lights. Or maybe it was my eyes.

A couple guys greeted me in a friendly fashion and rushed away to fiddle with the microphones at the lectern. “Food is on the way!” Sure enough, food arrived shortly. I parked myself in an out of the way place and tried to figure out which screen to watch.

A young woman came up to me and greeted me as if she knew me.

“How are you!” she exclaimed.

“Good, good, and you?” I replied, frantically going through my mental Rolodex, which is as slow as a real-life Rolodex.

“Who are you with now?” she asked.

I assumed she meant who was I working for, not if I was in a relationship. “I'm not sure you know me. I'm a freelance researcher.”

She looked flustered so I continued on, “What do you do?”

“I'm in data science,” she said belligerently. “I own my own company.” I wondered if she was belligerent because she was short.

“Oh, how nice,” I said. “What does your company do?”

“We help companies bla bla bla with their bla bla bla and then bla bla bla.”

I'm pretty sure it only seemed like she was saying gibberish. “Isn't that something,” I said.

“We just opened last year,” she said defensively.

“Oh, where are you located?”

“We are working from home right now,” she said though tight lips.

“No worries,” I reassured her.

“There are only three of us,” she admitted reluctantly.

“You gotta start somewhere,” I said encouragingly as she pretended to see someone she knew and rushed away. Whoa. Did I just meet a failure? It's hard to know sometimes. I turned back to the screens in front of me, examining each in turn in a futile hope that one might be showing something other than young athletes in helmets and tight pants running up and down a green field, then attacking each other and falling over in writhing clumps.

A little further along the wall where I was leaning tensely, I realized there was an actual built-in bar where people could get free wine and craft-brew. A crowd of people were milling there, talking and watching the game. Of course, I avoided it all.

An older guy with long gray hair and a gray beard walked past from the direction of the elevators, nodding to me as he went past. A few minutes later, he was back, carrying a glass of what looked like water. No color, no bubbles. He was thin and wore Levis and glasses, like me. I stood up straighter.

“You look smart,” he said as he approached me without quite looking me in the eye.

“Looks can be deceiving,” I said inanely, thinking to myself, Why did I say that? Major fail!

“Looks are only deceiving to the easily deceived,” he said and then nodded at the television screen hanging above us. “Do you pay attention to this stuff?”

“What, the game?” I gaped, still trying to figure out if I had been insulted.

“Stupid past time,” he muttered, although I wasn't sure he meant the football game or the networking.

I stared at him in confusion. He still wasn't looking at me.

“What's your name?” he demanded.

“Carol.”

“Martin.” No handshakes. No nods, but I guess it was an exchange of sorts.

One of the organizers ran past and waved at us.

“Winds of change,” Martin mumbled.

“What change?” I asked.

“Every moment is new,” he said. A moment later he drifted away.

I moved in the opposite direction and found a spot at a table with an unimpeded view of the game. I pulled out my journal and jotted down a few notes, because I knew that later I would be updating my blog, and I would forget these special, surreal moments as they blended into a bizarre timeout from reality.

People are always interesting when you get them talking. Besides the belligerent spitfire shortstuff startup and the hippie throwback, I met a lovely young woman who recruits for the software industry and a fascinating woman who, as a local representative of the National Transportation Safety Board, investigates local aviation accidents. Wow! How cool is that?

Unfortunately, the show started before I got a chance to ask her more questions. An hour and a half later, I slunk out before the thing was over, bludgeoned by bad PowerPoints and worse speakers, and went home to find out the Ducks were toast. Welcome to FailPDX!

Un-join me

As I slide down the dark tunnel toward winter, I'm embracing my inner curmudgeon by de-connecting from social media. I started with LinkedIn groups, ruthlessly clicking the "Leave" button with a sense of relief and hope that there would soon be less in in my box. After un-joining half my LinkedIn groups—just the ones swamped by ubiquitous discussion posts from desperate small business owners who write pleading blog posts with titles like “The ten ways using LinkedIn will make you a content marketing star!”—I moved on to my modest roster of Meetups, wearily choosing "Leave this group," and then typing in the subsequent box exactly why I was un-joining: I'm tired. My feet hurt. I can't stand people. Your inane networking sessions at crappy Chinese restaurants are killing me.

I know it's not much, but it's a start. Next I'll take the hatchet to Facebook. Every time I get an email that says, Joe posted a new photo to their timeline, I cringe at the bad grammar and vow to de-friend everyone. Well, from experience I know it's as hard to leave Facebook as it is to rid your computer of AOL. The best I can do is un-follow everyone (except Carlita and members of my immediate family, of course. My sister is in Europe. Can't miss those photos of Paris and Lyon. Can't breathe, wish I was there).

Today, as my stomach roils with the remains of almost-raw onion eaten at a networking Meetup I went to last night, I find that indigestion and general dissatisfaction with life feel much the same. I fear I've learned to associate nausea with networking. (Have you noticed that Meetups seem to find hospitable homes in the backrooms of Chinese restaurants? Wonder why that is.)

My friend Bravadita is bravely downsizing in preparation for her impending move to Gladstone, a suburb of Portland about 20 minutes south on I-205. As she described her desire to have less stuff, I found myself yearning for something similar. Except for me, rather than unloading my books at Goodwill, it's more of a jettisoning of social baggage, a conscious uncoupling, as it were, from the faceless groups of rabid networkers swarming Meetups and after-work networking parties all over the city. Hey, networkers, back off. You met me, you didn't care to genuinely know me, so stop pretending. You can keep your tar-baby emails.

Argh. I confess, I'm as much to blame: Did I try to know anyone deeply? Not so much, especially not if the place was noisy and crowded. Did I wall myself off in my introvert suit of armor and exit at the first available moment? Yes, mostly, I guess I did. Is my current dissatisfaction evidence of my chronic malcontentedness, or is it just a special case of non-digesting onions? In fairness, I must say, not all networking events are the same; I'm learning to be discerning (no more Moxie mixers for me). And not all networkers are the same, either. I have met some smart, strong, interesting, and determined women in the past year, people I respect and admire. I fear the stinky truth: I'm just ashamed to admit I'm as desperate as the next hungry shark waving a business card at a crowd of fellow sharks. Rather than admit I can't compete in that pool, I'm disconnecting by choice. I'm following the artist's way: If you build it, they can come or not, as they please.

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.

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.

I'm a stumpy-legged fish paddling in a dwindling pond

Summer is speeding by while I'm learning the nuances of networking. Another delicious 90° day in Portland. I went out in the mid-morning coolness to meet yet another prospective client, a “life transformation” coach who no doubt thought she was meeting a prospective client as well. (Har har, joke's on her.) By the time the mercury hit 90°, I was safely hunkered in my cave, windows closed, shades down, blinds drawn, with a wet rag draped around my neck and a pitcher of sweating ice tea close at hand. I like it. For me, it doesn't get much better than this. No complaints allowed if you are one of those pale-skinned Portlanders who don't like hot weather. It could be a lot worse; be grateful we don't live somewhere where missiles are falling. If you are one of those unlucky folk, I'm very sorry for you, and I hope you survive.

Here in Stumptown, in this funny little networking pool I seem to be floundering in, I'm afraid of what will happen if we are all each others' clients, and no one is making any money. I fear it might be like eating your own leg for dinner—fills the empty stomach but at the expense of your git-along; maybe that's why they call it Stumptown.

I've said before networking is a long-term strategy. I asked the “life transformation” coach I met with today if she was able to transform her own life through networking. She admitted networking is a long game. She sipped her orange smoothie. I slurped my iced chai. I can read the signs now. There's a certain set to the shoulders and neck, an unmistakable glint of desperation in the eyes.

“How long can you hold out?” I asked.

“Not much longer,” she confessed.

“Me too.”

“But it's not a totally useless strategy,” she said, and went on to assure me that now we were “referral partners.” That is my new favorite jargon, referral partners. I refer people to you, you refer people to me, the miracle of money floods our parched landscape, and all boats rise. Or something to that effect. The point, obviously, is that money must flow in from an outside source, because we referral partners are feeling a mighty thirst. Well, saw off my legs and call me Shorty!

Last week, a brief flare of something occurred (I won't call it hope, because it wasn't). A headhunter found me through the American Marketing Association. She invited me to submit a resume for a market research temp job for an insurance company. I'm like, ok, whatever, I could do it for two months... get up early, pack a lunch, take the bus, get home after dark... yeah, for two months, I could do it. So I trucked on down to the Pearl to meet her in an old funky office building just off Burnside, kitty-corner from the famous Powell's City of Books. While I waited for her to arrive (I was early, as usual), I took some photos through the third-story window. Which actually was openable, by the way. Not that I had any plans to open it, in case you were wondering.

She arrived. We sat across from each other at an old wooden round table in a dinky conference room, just a little too far apart for comfort, but taking up all the space.

“You have an unusual background,” she began. I laughed. Right then, I knew my chance of getting this temp job was next to nil. I've heard those words before. They always mean the same thing: You are odd. You are different. What have you been doing with your life? You don't fit in here. We can't hire you. But I am not a quitter: I soldiered gamely on, answering her questions, addressing her concerns.

“I'll submit you to the client,” she said finally, “Because you never know.”

And that's the thing. We never know. Total flukes can happen. That's how I got the nutty job at the crappy career college, which was pretty much a bend in the road that attracted all sorts of lunatics. I fit right in there with the other misfits.

Well, turns out I did not get the temp job, no big surprise. Not enough of the right kind of experience. I understand. Not every actor who auditions gets the part.

Meanwhile, back in the networking pool, I am endeavoring to scramble onto the sand, so I can perhaps slide over to a different, larger pool, where the fish are bigger and the designer duds they wear so boldly have deep, deep pockets. Enough of these wizened, parched, desperate referral partners! Get back, you wretches. And, oh, by the way, some of the other referral partners I met last week are starting a Meetup for Small Business Owners. They've asked me to be a presenter. I've got 20 minutes. Will you come to my presentation?

Your sweet hopeless dreams have finally come true

I often get spam email in my Outlook inbox. I've set up rules that filter out anything with the words pfizer, viagra, penis enlargement, breast enhancement, or send money now, I'm in jail. Today one email slipped through that made me laugh: “Your sweet hopeless dreams have finally come true.” Isn't that charming? The email read like a poem. Maybe it was a poem, who knows. A sweet hopeless poem surrounded by a bunch of nasty hungry links.

Speaking of sweet hopeless dreams, today I attended a networking-event-slash-sales-event-disguised-as-a-seminar at a venue on Alberta Street in North Portland. If you know Alberta Street, you know that I'm not cool enough to hang out there. But it was broad daylight, not the wildly hip street fair known as Last Thursday, so I felt like I might be allowed to pass unmolested. I hiked hesitantly up some wide metal stairs and entered into an open loft area with pale fake hardwood floors.

“Welcome to the studio!” a small thin dark-haired woman said enthusiastically. She wore a short beige dress made of heavy lace. She looked like a doll. It was hard to tell her age: I filed that information away for future contemplation... wear short lace dress, look ten. Got it.

I was early, as usual. A tall older woman approached me, and we talked for about ten minutes. It took maybe 30 seconds to explain what my business was about. The rest of the time she swamped me with a description of Scientific Hand Analysis. I'm not even sure those words should be capitalized. What is it, you ask? I think it's akin to phrenology, astrology, and idiotology. Not certain.

People drifted in. All women. Huh. We arranged ourselves around some tables, set up in a horseshoe, facing a large blank wall on which was projected a pale PowerPoint slide. The seminar began. The slides remained pale and colorless because there was so much light in the room. The topic of the day was something about delegating tasks and getting organized. I can't remember exactly what it was called—and it only happened this morning. What can I say. I remember certain things and not others. For example, I remember how I felt when the seminar was over and the sales pitch began. I learned a lot from that part, mainly that if I ever use that tactic to sell my services, I hope you will take me out back and shoot me.

The young woman was definitely a pro, no doubt, and it was clear that her main motivation is getting money, lots and lots of money, preferably as she is laying by the pool while her “team” of minions is running around executing the tasks she has blithely delegated to them. She confessed, she thinks she's hilarious. I confess, I was cross-eyed with irritation after the first fifteen minutes of her presentation. I did a little reminiscing about my days as an instructor: Was I ever so annoyingly self-centered?

After the presentation, we went around the table introducing ourselves and handing around our business cards. Out of eleven people, six were coaches of some sort. Two did web design, and one was a marketing consultant. There was also a mortgage broker and a juice enthusiast. I sent around a stack of eighteen cards and got back nine. (That means two people didn't want my card. What's up with that?) I connected with a spike-haired web designer, and we made a commitment to meet next week for coffee. That's what I'm talking about! Networking!

This afternoon, as I was editing yet another chapter of the dissertation that won't end, I reflected on the strange energy that occurs in a roomful of women. Many of the attendees knew each other and entered the room boisterously, greeting each other with hugs and squealed hellos. I watched and listened, playing my familiar observer role. I felt like an alien, but that's nothing new. That is my normal state, especially in a group of women. I always feel like I don't quite belong. Maybe it's my mustache, I don't know. Or that I obviously don't care how I look.

The proprietors of the venue hold these events monthly, and apparently there is a membership group you can join. For a moment I considered it—only $99 per year! That's no bargain when you are an anti-social misfit. I have an erratic history of joining groups, especially groups of women. I was trying to remember what groups I joined in high school. I know there were a couple. I also know I didn't last long. I tried to play the game, but each time I flunked out (by choice) of each group I joined. Someone would pull out a guitar and start singing Neil Diamond songs. Someone else would start discussing periods and makeup. That would be it for me. A few minutes ago, I looked through my senior yearbook to see if I could find myself in any clubs or groups. I guess I managed to avoid all the photo days, because I was nowhere to be found. Was I really there at all? Debatable. It's been forty years, you can't really expect me to remember.

Don't talk to me, I'm networking

I'm starting to get a sense of the networking scene. Tonight I got another perspective on it at a networking event about networking. I know, so meta. Everything is meta these days. Or über. This was an über meta networking event. What was ultra neat about it was the location. The event was held at a new cooperative workspace on the eastside of Portland, out by the river (that's the mighty Columbia, in case you were wondering) under the flight path to PDX, in the uber armpit we call Gresham.

Yeah, Gresham! Who knew! I know, yech. Gresham is where I drove a school bus, way back in the year when the world as we knew it ended (2001). It's funny how things stay the same, round and round. If my business doesn't pick up pretty soon, I may find myself steering the short bus around Gresham once again. I'm kidding. Mostly.

The coop space is in a half-empty industrial park out on a semi-rural road, which means oodles of free parking and no traffic. Inside is a suite of offices formerly occupied by a solar manufacturer (bellyup? I don't know, didn't ask). The anchor tenant in the new coop is a security firm. During the presentation, young men in security guard uniforms marched stolidly past the open door. I bet some of them are proud graduates of the career college that used to employ me.

Before the presentation began, the office manager, a giddy pale girl with brown hair and an annoying giggle, took the little crowd of networkers on a tour of the space. Apparently a bare handful of entrepreneurs has signed up so far: lots of cubicles occupied only by empty "hot desks." I could have access to one of those random desks for only $275 per month. For that sum, I would also get my very own mailbox (not a PO box), access to a really nice printer/copier, and use of several conference rooms and classrooms. If the location weren't so far away (and if I weren't watching every penny slip through my clenched fingers), I would consider signing up. With all those security guards roaming the halls, I would certainly feel safe, out there in bumf--k Gresham.

After the tour, we settled into some uncomfortable plastic chairs in the main classroom space. According to the thermostat it was 77° in the room, a refreshing change of climate from the 92° heat outside.

The presenter noticed no one was sitting in the front row. “Someone should sit in the front row, or else I'll remove the chairs,” he warned. He was an oddly shaped man, with his jeans belted tightly around his bulging middle, longish droopy brown hair and glasses... and what I think might have been cowboy boots.

I was in the third row. “What are the benefits of sitting in the front row?” I asked, trying to be funny but probably sounding snarky. I started to pick up my stuff.

“You'll be closer to me,” he replied. “It will be more fun.”

I didn't have the gumption to tell him neither one of those sounded like benefits to me. But I moved anyway, and so ended up the only person in the first row, about three feet from the lectern. Two people were in the second row, sitting five chairs apart. Three people were in the third row, each two chairs apart. A couple people sat in the last row, also not together. Clearly, this was an anti-networking group: We'd managed to spread out among the chairs with at least two chairs between each of us.

The presenter fixed us all with a stare I recognized from many years in many classrooms: Uh-oh, the teacher is getting ready to wax pompous. I buried my attention in my journal, feeling a little too close to the lectern and the somewhat odd man who lurked around it. Wait a minute, no fancy slide show? no handouts? no music and light show? no dancers?... sigh. I guess after the AMA events I'm a little spoiled. “How many of you are introverts?” asked the presenter.

Of course, I raised my hand, not too high, but high enough to be seen; I didn't want to seem like a grouchy student. I didn't turn around to see how many raised their hands, but I would have bet more than half, judging by how desperate most of us seemed to be to carve massive personal space out of the room.

“I bet I have personally shaken the hand of at least 5,000 people in the past ten years,” the presenter said proudly. Dude. Clearly an extravert. Any introvert would have drank the funny kool-aid long before they got to 500.

The evening wore on. Where's the frocked and bearded emcee, I wondered? Where's the funny dude in the purple velvet jacket? The über meta-ness of being at a networking event about networking wore off and turned into an über grind. I did my best to make occasional eye contact with him, so he wouldn't get discouraged, and while I doodled in my notebook, I plotted my strategy to hold my own networking event, a real networking event, one from which the introverts come away feeling invigorated and hopeful instead of weak, morose, and despairing.

Stay tuned.

I'm going to die penniless at 90

This is a great time of year to be homeless in Portland. Not that I'm homeless, yet, just saying. This is my kind of season: day after day of mid 80s to low 90s, fresh breeze, sparse clouds, unfiltered sun, and no rain... ah. Now if I could just get the relentless bass from the cafe's sound system, my neighbor's 1:00 a.m. cigarette smoke, and the invisible grass, flower, and tree spores and pollen to stay outside, everything would be perfect.

Well, almost perfect. I spent the past two days editing a chapter in some guy's music history dissertation, which isn't so bad, compared to some other topics, I guess. (Imagine how I'd be raving if it were... I dunno, The Lived Experience of Autistic Computer Geeks With Co-Axial Redundant Router Tendencies. Actually, that sounds sort of interesting. I just made that up. I have no idea what it means.)

English is the dissertation author's first language, thank the editing gods. So it could be worse. The truth is, I just don't like editing papers. That saddens me for two reasons: First, editing is the work that is coming my way; I can't afford to say no. And second, I'm apparently good at it. I got some praise from the dissertation guy. My reward was the opportunity to edit his next chapter. Lucky me.

Just because you are good at doing something is not a sufficient reason to do it, in my opinion, especially if you hate doing it. Learned that one the hard way when I made my living sewing clothes for ten years. I'd rather live in a chicken coop than do that again. Ditto for driving a school bus. Or working in a nursing home.

Speaking of nursing homes. No, speaking of chicken coops. No, speaking of not liking to do something but doing it anyway, yesterday I drove downtown to go to a local marketing luncheon. I parked 10 blocks away (free!) and hiked along the dusty streets. I wore loose black linen pants, a loose white linen shirt, blister-inducing sandals, and a straw hat on my head to ward off the mid-day sun. I carried a water bottle in case I got heat stroke.

The event was held in a brewery. The smell of yeast and hops was delicious. True to form, I was the first one to arrive (I have a chronic fear of being late). I selected my personalized name tag from the stack by the door. I wandered over to peruse the artwork on the huge brick wall: $1550 for a 30" x 40" unframed canvas caked with paint in a style I could best describe as preschool abstract. Is the artist actually selling this stuff? Jeez. Maybe I should have kept on painting. Oh well. I sat down at a table near the front and watched as the presenters arrived and began milling around the laptop on the lectern, fussing with cords.

A young blonde woman wearing what looked like a shirt-waist throwback to the 1950s but what was probably the height of current fashion hesitantly approached me. “I think we need this table,” she said.

“Would you like me to move?” I asked. It was a table set for seven people. Surely, I thought, there would be room for me.

“Please,” she said.

“No problem.” I gathered up my stuff and relinquished my seat, taking my water glass with me. Take that, you table usurper. I looked around the big empty room. So far, there was one other guest, sitting alone at a table near the back. I had on my reading glasses, so I couldn't tell if the person was male or female, but it didn't matter to me. Rather than sit alone, I wove through the tables and sat down in the chair to the person's right. He/she/it turned out to be (according to his own labeling, offered quite early in our conversation) a gay Jewish writer, recently of Albuquerque, whom for purposes of this discussion, I will call Eli. He handed me a business card without hesitation. I reciprocated, feeling very professional.

The table soon filled up with other guests. Eli handed his cards around to everyone, and even leaped up once or twice to hand his cards to people passing by, making me feel slightly less special, but reminding me that this was a networking event, after all. I wasn't here to make friends. Or eat the food, although I arrived hungry, well, starving, really, and had set a strong intention to eat whatever I could get my hands on.

A woman about my own age wearing tan capri pants, strappy white sandals, and a white blazer sat down in the chair to my right. How does she keep it all clean, I wondered.

“What do you do?” she asked me.

“I'm a marketing researcher,” I replied, ready to hand her a card.

“Oh, so am I,” she said and abruptly turned to the man on her right. She never spoke to me again.

I paid $30 to eat barbecued pulled pork, baked beans, salad, and tofu. During the meal we were educated-slash-entertained by a local marketing guru, who waxed philosophical about innovation while strutting in front of strikingly designed yet obtuse messages arranged on 20-foot tall PowerPoint slides. As far as I could tell, the purpose of the slides was to serve as artsy backdrops for the man in the gray three-piece suit, while he blathered about innovation. I did my best to listen. At first I was mildly fascinated at how he seemed to have prepared the speech so well that he needed no notes. Was it memorized? Was he reading off cue cards? Was he speaking extemporaneously? And what the hell is he talking about?

I usually take notes when I'm at an educational event, and if I can't figure out what to write, I draw pictures: diagrams, arrows, big puffy words, caricatures... the images you see in this blog, for example. Doodling helps me listen. I try to keep my notebook hidden in my lap, but sometimes people see what I've drawn and feel compelled to say something: I couldn't help but notice your drawings. You're very good. You should put those on t-shirts. Yeah, thanks. Maybe you're right. Nothing else I'm doing seems to be working.

Near the door, on the way out, I connected with the president of the local marketing chapter and expressed my interest in volunteering. I've filled in the website registration form. I've emailed the volunteer coordinator. Now I've personally informed the president of the chapter. I don't know what else I can do, so I'll just let the universe take it from here. If I'm meant to volunteer, it will happen. I'm a little desperate: These marketers are members of my target market. Before they hire me, they need to know me and trust me. My best bet is meeting them in person through service.

A few minutes ago, I invited the president of the chapter and the writer to connect with me on LinkedIn. Within five minutes, both did. I guess people are using smartphones to manage their social network, unlike me, still slogging along on the pay-as-you-go, no-data-for-you-loser plan.

Someday my ship is going to come in. I know it. It may be a rubber dinghy, and it may end up crashing on the rocky shore of my financial ruin, but by god, when that damn boat goes down, I'm going to be on it.

We are all at the epicenter

In the past few weeks I've heard or seen a reference to what you should do if you have six hours to chop down a tree (spend four hours sharpening and two hours chopping, according to Abe Lincoln). Apart from a brain hiccup where I mixed up Abe Lincoln with George Washington (“I cannot tell a lie”—although I now understand that quote is attributed incorrectly? What the hell, people!), does anyone besides me feel just the slightest bit queasy at the idea of chopping down a tree?

I mean, we're losing trees at an alarming rate all over the planet (80,000 acres of rain forest daily is a lot of trees to be losing), and we all know that losing trees is a bad thing, so why would you even talk metaphorically about chopping down a tree? I predict that in five years using the idea of sharpening an axe to chop a tree to metaphorically refer to honing your performance through preparation will be so politically incorrect that people will shun you with hisses if you dare mention even the thought of tree demise. Tree destruction=not cool. Maybe axes will be outlawed. Maybe you'll have to have a background check to purchase an axe. Maybe there will be a National Axe Association, to help us retain the right to bear axes. Axes don't kill trees, people kill trees.

Speaking of which, just a few miles from here, here being the east suburbs of Portland, Oregon, a kid shot another kid in yet another high school shooting. Nobody wants to think about it (ho hum, another one down, tsk, tsk). It's interesting, however, to watch the amount of news coverage. It occurs to me that the media attention flows outward in concentric circles from the epicenter of the carnage. The closer you are to the incident, the more media coverage spews out over the airwaves. Since I'm within the ten mile radius, I was treated to extensive news coverage. (I watch the 11 o'clock news on the local ABC or NBC affiliates; I won't watch CBS news since they let Meteorologist Bruce Sussman go).

The reporters and interviewees said essentially what they always say when preventable tragedies happen, yada yada, hearts go out, prayers stay in, etcetera, nothing new there. Here on local TV, there were long, soulfully lingering shots of grieving high school students holding flickering candles (it's windy in Troutdale, out there at the doorway to the Columbia River Gorge), whereas on national TV you might see just a couple seconds' worth of flickering candles. I got to see how people ingeniously created little lanterns by shoving a candle through the bottom of a Dixie cup. Clever! And there seemed to be more in-depth explanation in the days that followed, compared to what I've seen for shootings in other places. This go-round included some curious introspection by the reporters (Should we divulge the identity of the shooter or not? Are we glorifying the act, or are we simply reporting the news? Ah, hell, everyone else is showing his picture, so rather than be left behind, we'd better show it, too.) I've had my fill, as no doubt you all have. Enough already. In 20 years, we won't remember. Unlike O.J.'s trial, which is getting a lot of airplay this week, too. If there was any rain forest left, I'd run away to it.

Last night I went to the local AMA-PDX MAX awards at OMSI. Those are a lot of acronyms for what turned out to be a relatively fun event, even for me, the chronically malcontented introvert. I wore my jeans, which aren't quite as skinny as I'd like, but actually can be buttoned, and over that I wore a long shirt so I didn't have to worry about the muffin top. They made me a name tag for my $45. Plus tickets for two free drinks! I asked for an iced tea; the server had to rummage through the kitchen to come up with a bottle of ice tea, guess they weren't prepared for any teetotalers. Along the walls, multiple tables laden with appetizers (salmon, asparagus, cheese in bizarre formations, and pizza!) I had two little pieces of pizza (cheese and wheat... heaven!) and found a spot at a long tall table.

Almost immediately a young blonde kid wearing, I kid you not, a purple velvet blazer brought a plate of salmon and asparagus to the table opposite me. British accent, a little dorky, my kind of guy. Come to find out he volunteered his marketing and design skills to create all the promotional items that were associated with the event. I told him my strategy of insinuating myself into an organization through volunteer work; he's already doing it! We exchanged cards. I feel heartened to know I'm on the right track. All I need is a purple velvet jacket.

OMSI stands for Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, in case you were wondering. AMA is the American Marketing Association, and I have no idea what MAX stands for. It was an awards ceremony, emceed by a fascinating creature named Poison Waters, who wore a slight beard, a tiara, and a gold lame evening gown. Most of the attendees were much younger than I, but there were a few grizzled oldsters (men, not women) rocking buzzcuts, plaid shirts, and long shorts.

I topped the evening off with strawberry shortcake, the effects of which I'm still feeling today, but all I can say is... you only live once, so yum. Won't be doing that again anytime soon, but mmm mmm.

Tonight I helped my mother update her Facebook profile with a picture and a cover photo. (Look out Internet!). She repaid me with home grown lettuce. Next week my sister the world traveler comes to town. Soon it will be summer. Nothing is different, but the air smells like hope.

Introversion is not a disease

Today, as one of my marketing activities, I sent an email to a marketing guru here in Portland. I will let him remain nameless. You might know him, though. He's the mastermind behind the networking events that take place every month at Trader Vics, which I have blogged about a few times in recent months.

I approached the guru through LinkedIn, intending to give him a polite nudge through a professional network (or so they say...seems like the quality of posts from my LinkedIn contacts has deteriorated of late, as people upload insipid quotes and lame mind puzzles in an effort to stay at the top of the queue. (It works, more's the pity.) Anyway, I thought my email to the marketing guru was understated and respectful.

Guru, I said, I have enjoyed your networking meetings over the past few months. Have you considered holding an event specifically for introverts? Yours respectfully, etc. etc.

A few hours later, a reply! He accepted my invitation to connect (me and my paltry 83 connections will hardly make a ripple in his 500+ massive network). And he suggested, in reply to my question, that I check out Toastmasters.

What the—!? Toastmasters?

Now, I have nothing against Toastmasters. It is a fine organization full of friendly, supportive, encouraging people. I was a member of Toastmasters when I was in college (the second of my many times around), and other than the heart-stopping moment when I forgot my speech in front of 200 people, I have fond memories and learned a lot. But Toastmasters as a cure for introversion? Really, Mr. Guru? Really?

Hah! As if introverts need a support group to help them get over a fear of speaking in public! Introverts aren't afraid of speaking in public. Introverts disdain the need for a public. A pox on your public! Hah! As if introverts are tongue-tied, stammering, red-faced idiots who faint if they are asked to try out their elevator pitch on a stranger! Hah! I'll take the stairs!

Introverts are not shy! We are simply inclined toward an internal focus. We would rather sit back and watch you extraverts make fools and lightning rods of yourselves than bully our way to centerstage to compete with you. Being alone is supremely satisfying. A good vampire romance, some Ecuadorean chocolate, and a hot bath are just icing on the cake of solitude: It's the solitude that heals and refreshes. You get my drift, Mr. Guru? I don't need you. I don't ever need you.

As an introvert, I derive satisfaction and fulfillment from developing deep connection with one person at a time. Two at the most, but preferably one. When I start a conversation with a stranger at a networking event, I want time and space to ask meaningful questions and dig deeply for genuine connection. So, what if an event was structured in such a way as to allow time and space for introverts like me to really connect with a few others, one at a time? Hmmmm. There's my idea, and if you like it, dear Reader, feel free to run with it.

I thought the event could be modeled after the speed-dating idea, but in speed dating, the configuration is a little different. Usually (and I assume this, since I've never been to a speed-dating event, or any other type of dating event, for that matter) the women don't need to interview each other; they only need to talk to the men. (Unless this is LGBTQIA speed dating. In that case, we'll need to rent an arena.) But in the boring world of hetero, arranging the prospective pairs in two long rows makes sense. The men get up when the bell rings and move down one seat, sort of like the guests did at the Mad Hatter's tea party. But at a work-related networking event, everyone needs to talk to everyone else. That suddenly complicates things in a big way.

Do you remember factorial math? I probably took it in high school and in college (all three times around), and I still I have to look it up to remember how it works. All I remember is the exclamation point! 20!/(20-2) 2! Whew! What an energetic equation! Luckily Excel can calculate it for me. If we invite 20 people to attend the networking event, and we pair them up in teams of two so they can talk while gazing intently into each other's eyes, we are looking at 190 possible combinations of partners. If everyone talks for, say, three minutes, a room full of 20 people will be there exchanging elevator pitches for 19 hours. Assuming my math is correct, or even close, I doubt if anyone would sign up for a networking event that long, no matter what the prize. And as you and I both know, there is no prize in networking.

Lest you fret, be assured introversion is not catching. (I sometimes wish it were.) When the bell rings to change partners, all the extraverts can fight for top dog out in the arena. I think I'll stay home.

Who does networking better: people or ants?

As I recover from the minor trauma of having my breasts squashed between two plastic plates by an overly enthusiastic technician, I reflect on two topics: ants and people.

First, people. Last night was the monthly meeting of the Organizational Development Network Oregon chapter. It was a lovely evening, by Portland standards: mid 60s, clear blue sky (in March! I know!), a slight breeze scented by growing things instead of perfume... It doesn't get much better than that this time of year. The meeting room in the multistory NW Portland Con-Way building wasn't quite ready when I arrived at 5:30 p.m. The earlier arrivals had commandeered the chairs in the security lobby waiting area. Other folks stood by the security desk, talking. I didn't know anyone by name, so I got my visitor pass and went back out into the sun.

A woman whose name escaped me (I know I am connected with her on LinkedIn...Don't get me started on the uselessness of that social network) was standing nearby, checking her smartphone. I greeted her. She responded politely. I said something about the weather. Her reply was terse. From that I surmised she was probably conversing with an invisible someone else via text and had no extra bandwidth to devote to a conversation with me. I was fine with that. I walked over to a bush covered with white blossoms and sniffed a flower. Heaven. The off- and on-ramps from the Fremont Bridge soared in the near distance, buzzing with rush hour traffic.

Time out while I brush an ant off my monitor.

Pretty soon another person arrived, a tall young woman in luscious cream pants and high-heeled shoes. She went in, got her visitor pass, and came back out. I greeted her. She responded politely and pulled out her electronic tablet thingy. She began poking at it intently, clearly not interested in talking with me. I leaned on the cement wall and watched as another person came outside, holding her smartphone in front of her. Now there were four of us standing in the sun outside the building, not talking. I couldn't help smiling, thinking how ridiculous, how strange, that four women who all belong to the same networking group are ignoring each other while standing no more than ten feet apart.

It occurred to me later, after we'd all gone inside, that if I were a paranoid schizophrenic, I would have assumed they were all texting one another about me. Who is that weird woman who always wears a hat? And those pathetic fingerless gloves... does she know they are just cut-off socks?

Time out while I flick an ant off my desk.

I don't care what people think about me anymore. I used to care deeply. Age has cured me of that particular malady, lifted it right out of me. Age has also transformed the mammogram from a dreaded, painful reminder of my femaleness to a slightly annoying, completely painless inconvenience in my day. I guess age has its uses. Deflated funbags being one I sometimes forget to be grateful for.

At the meeting, I sat at a table up front, where I connected quite satisfactorily with the younger-than-me woman on my left. She reported her status as “in transition.” At first I thought she meant she was dying. Then I realized she meant she's unemployed. (Although dying and unemployment could be perceived as similar conditions, with a little shift in my perspective. I fear I may find out for myself in a few months.)

Time out while I scrape an ant off the back of my neck.

The topic of the evening was brain-based coaching, also known as results-based coaching. Odd that two very different monikers name the same coaching process. I know squat about coaching, but I really enjoyed the workshop. Sadly, the trainer ran out of time and felt compelled to rush to the closing. As we were applauding, she tossed off a comment about how she learned that chasing the money instead of serving her clients got her neither money nor clients. And eureka, there was my nugget for the night.

Last night after I got home, I inadvertently located the hidden treasure of the ant hordes high up in a cupboard in my bathroom. They apparently weren't expecting me home so early. When I turned on the light, I found an ant caravan leading to a half-empty bottle of mouthwash I didn't know I had. The ants knew I had it, though. The random scouts had come back with the loot. The gold rush was on. It was a simple matter to nuke the mouthwash and dust the trail with diatomaceous earth. That should take care of the bathroom. (And by the way, don't you worry just a tiny bit about what ants would be attracted to in a bottle of mouthwash? The same thing that dentists are attracted to, I wonder?)

I had similar luck in the kitchen, where the ant generals got cocky and revealed the doorway to their underground cavern. I would have had to have been blind to miss the pack trail going into a tiny cave by my vitamin cupboard. I swooped in with the dust bomber (a paintbrush dipped in diatomaceous earth) and plugged up their door.

I thought that might be a turning point in the war, that I might finally be getting the upper hand. But earlier today, I was folding tee-shirts after laundry, and found ants roaming the stack of tee-shirts in my dresser! Wha—? There is no food in my dresser. The only food in my bedroom is carefully wrapped and stashed in my bugout bag (in preparation for the earthquake, coming soon). I checked the bag: no ants. So what the heck are they doing picnicking in my tee-shirts? I'm confounded. I admit it. I don't understand ants. Or people.

I just found a caravan of ants trundling along the bathroom door jamb. I ran to get the diatomaceous earth bucket and paintbrush. Suddenly I felt something crawling on the back of my hand. Some things. Ants! Crawling from the dust, making a break for freedom, via my hand! The resilience (and nerve) of these tiny creatures is astounding. If I had half their persistence, well, I leave it to your imagination.

Excuse me while I pull my ant helmet further down over my ears. Clearly, this siege is not ending any time soon.

Invisible old chronically malcontented white woman seeks way to get noticed

Two things have become clear to me tonight after attending yet another networking event. First, if I want a successful networking experience, I must produce the event myself. And second, I am invisible. Yep. You heard it right. Invisible.

After a pointless bout of self-flagellation related to my perceived failure to attend an early morning networking event last week, I decided to only network after noon. Today's event began with a workshop at 4:30 p.m., a very civilized hour especially if one is headed downtown against traffic. Driving was not a problem, but parking was. I cruised the streets in northwest Portland for about 15 minutes, loathe to pay a dime to a city meter. Finally I found a 2-hour meter-free spot, only six blocks away from my destination. I parked and hustled along the flooded sidewalks in the pouring rain. I knew I was almost late. Too much time spent trolling for parking! Darn. I spotted the restaurant and threw myself through the door ahead of a stylish young couple who clearly had not been there before, and thus had no idea that seating was limited. Breathing heavily and covered in rain spots, I found a chair at the last open table, in the very back of the Kontiki Room and sank onto the seat. (Yes, the Kontiki Room: It was the monthly meeting of PDXMindshare at Trader Vics.)

The other occupant of the table was a petite young woman with long blonde hair and flawless skin. I introduced myself, still breathing heavily, and found out she was a manager at Pottery Barn. We talked about how marketing research could help Pottery Barn find out if customers are satisfied. After I explained to her what marketing research was. I know. Well, you gotta start somewhere.

The couple I had barged in front of only minutes before sat down to my right. I welcomed them. (I detected no hint of resentment.) The young lady had a wide infectious smile. She said she was looking for work. The young man was thin, somewhat swarthy, and very stylishly dressed (pointy shoes). I felt like a wrecking ball, with my scarf, hat, mittens, giant messenger bag. I didn't care. I got out my notebook, ready to take notes, as the place filled up with people. This time I was on the inside of the fishbowl, not one of the hapless losers milling around outside in the lobby. Yes!

The workshop began. The topic was Building Confidence for your Job Search, led by an older gentleman (older than me, I think, although one never knows for sure). He was nattily dressed in an earth-toned striped shirt, khaki jacket, and beige silk tie. His brown pants were belted unashamedly across the middle of his girth. He looked like a well-dressed old man, except for his crowning glory: a ponytail of frizzy gray hair. How can you not love an old guy with a ponytail? Somehow ponytails make men look young, no matter how high-waisted they belt their pants, am I right?

I won't bore you with all the details of his talk. The audience seemed rapt, but there was nothing new there for me. (I'm not really sure why I went, honestly, except that it's possible if I keep showing up—I mean that metaphorically, too—something will happen. For sure, nothing will happen if I stay alone at home.) I drew pictures in my journal while the speaker showed a few uninspired PowerPoint slides and gave a shout-out for Toastmasters, which inspired me to consider becoming willing to think about looking up a local chapter. (Don't want to rush into anything, especially not when it comes to public speaking.)

While the presentation was in progress, a young waitress in black made the rounds, taking drink orders. She approached our table and spread out little drink napkins for everyone except me. The blonde ordered something. They talked a bit. Then the waitress skipped past me as if I weren't there, and took an order for two beers from the young couple to my right. I was there. I'm sure I was there. But the waitress didn't even look at me. Was I invisible?

I would have said something if the circumstances had made conversation easier. I didn't want to order anything, that's not the issue. I'm on a budget, after all. But to be blatantly passed over, as if I were invisible... such an odd feeling, to not exist.

It's happened before, usually at Best Buy kind of places. Salespeople tend to ignore me. I think it's partly how I dress. I don't look like I have money. And I usually look slightly odd, I guess you could say off, in some way. But I'm pretty sure it also has to do with age. It's my belief that young people don't pay attention to old people (unless the old people happen to be their grandparents, and only then to get birthday presents.)

Here's how I see it. At a table of four, three of the guests were stylish and young. The fourth guest (me) was clearly no longer young. Stylish, maybe, in a weird geeky hyperthyroidish way, except for the polyester knit slacks (which she couldn't see!). Three in plain view, one invisible.

I'm sure there are things I can do to be more visible. I can change my appearance in some way. Grow my own version of a ponytail, maybe. Add a green streak, perhaps. How about a lip ring, something really flashy. And then throw on whatever clothes happen to be fashionable at Forever 21 (I have no idea what that might be, I've never been in that store. I think my wheels lock up when I get near the entrance, like an old KMart shopping cart.) But you get my drift. I could change my appearance in some way. Or I could start singing random songs or reciting Beat poetry when I find myself in crowds.

I could also change my setting. Instead of hanging out with young people, I could make sure I only hang out with old people. I mean, older than me. I mean, really old, like 80. I could join the Elks. Or I could just give up and join AARP. Then I'd be the youngest one in the group and they could all cackle and talk about how much the world has changed. Why, I remember when... Or hell, as long as we are brainstorming, let's get creative. Forget the age thing. Let's think big. Let's think color! How about if I seek out events for African Americans or Hispanics? I wouldn't be invisible then, would I! Let's hear it for the sore thumbs, the square pegs, the misfits. Ha! Take that, you young uninteresting conformist whippersnapper waitress, you.

Contemplating an uncertain future... but aren't we all?

Last Friday I failed to get up at 7:00 a.m. to drive downtown in the rain for a networking event. My failure precipitated a plunge into a moral crisis. Oh woe is me, I failed to show up. Well, that's not entirely true, is it? I showed up for eight hours of sleep, something I can be reliably counted on to do, ever since I joined the ranks of the self-employed.

After a day of self-flagellation, during which I had to take an extra nap just to escape the voices in my head, I realized that depriving myself of sleep to attend a networking event is not a demonstration of character. Neither is choosing to get a full eight hours of sleep a moral failing. Am I ready yet to get over myself? I think so. By Saturday I was on the mend, emotionally speaking, and by Sunday I was over it. Finally I accept my reality: I'm not made for mornings. It's that simple. I have no problem showing up for the most grueling of networking events, as long as they are held in the evening. I won't budge out of the house before noon if I can help it.

Now my perfect schedule is bed at 1:00 a.m., up at 9:00 a.m. Such a civilized routine. Unfortunately, my best working hours seem to be when people want to call and chat. They are done with their day while I'm just hitting my stride. Sometimes I have to be firm.

My mother is the queen of night owls. She used to stay up till 2:00 a.m., sitting quietly in the family room, smoking cigarettes and reading library books under the dim glow of a floor lamp. It always felt kind of creepy to me, but then I was doing much the same thing (minus the cigarettes), huddled under my bed covers, reading Nancy Drew in the silent night. No wonder I don't remember my childhood: I was walking dead sleep-deprived. Books were more real to me than reality.

Speaking of the maternal parental unit, last night she called for no apparent reason. We'd talked the day before, so her call was unexpected. (We don't talk every day.) I let her babble on, patiently waiting to find out why she was calling. I knew she would get to it eventually. She never just calls to idly chat. There's always a reason. It's either because she wants to tell me how I should live my life, or she wants me to help her with something so she can live hers. So what would it be this time? It wasn't my old laptop, that was working fine (except it doesn't have mahjong). It wasn't the condo board; that bunch is hopelessly misguided and even my mother's wise counsel can't save them (according to Mom). This time it was something unexpected.

“I've been thinking about what will come next,” she said matter-of-factly.

Bemused, I waited for her to explain.

“Mary and Paul Norberg live at Willamette View, you know,” she said.

“Right,”

“I can't afford Willamette View.”

“Okay...”

“Marge Iverson lives at Cherrywood,” she said. “They have a workout room and a pool.”

Okay, now I was starting to get it. She was thinking about where she will go when the condo is too much for her to handle. My stomach started clenching, but I kept my voice calm.

“That sounds nice,” I said.

“And they have a garden.”

“Great.”

“I want to think about this before it's too late and I run out of time,” she said.

“Okay, Mom. That makes sense. Let's see if we can take a tour, how about that?”

“That might be a good idea.”

After she hung up I looked at the Cherrywood Village website. The photos looked lovely, like a posh hotel. The prices were as expected: way too expensive for my siblings and me to handle. I calculated how long we could keep her there if we sold her condo for a reasonable price. Not quite five years. Huh. She's only 84. What if she lives longer than five years? Hell, her aunt lived to be 100.

When I contemplate the future, I have feelings I can't identify. Too much uncertainty makes me want to go back to bed.

Marketing people talk really fast

Yesterday I got up before the sun and drove out I-84 to a marketing conference at Edgefield, a former county poorhouse, now a retro-chic hotel operated by a Northwest outfit called McMenamins. I was too tired to appreciate fully the hand-painted murals on the interior walls and doors of the venerable old building as I asked a worker, “Where is the ballroom?” I was directed to the second floor window-lined auditorium, which was configured with narrow tables, all facing forward, classroom style. Ah... familiar.

A long table was laid out along the side of the room, loaded with bagels and various breakfast spreads. I ignored it and stumbled to a chair near the back that wasn't right next to another person and parked my bag. I sank onto a barely padded seat, taking note of the massive mural on the wall of the ballroom... horses, was it? Locomotives?

“They've got us packed in like sardines,” I observed to the guy two chairs to my left. He was an older guy with a smattering of sandy hair laid on his bald head like a doily. He grimaced.

At that moment a 30-something long-haired fellow strode over to the table. “Anyone sitting here? Hi, I'm Sundown.” We shook hands. Sundown introduced himself to the guy on the end. They shook hands. The guy on the end leaned over toward me, holding out his hand. I automatically reached out my hand.

“Paul,” he said, and we shook, hard. I tried not to let my eyes pop out of my head. Ow. I got up to get some coffee. The others headed for the bagel table.

We snuggled back in. Another guy inserted himself in the chair to my right. He stayed for about 30 seconds, and then he was moving on. “I need more room,” he laughed, shaking hands all around. He took the chair with him. Awesome. I spread out, shifting my chair inch by inch to fill up his empty space. Whew. I stopped feeling like a sardine and started listening to the opening remarks.

Marketing people talk really fast. In my bleary-eyed state, keeping up was a challenge. I lagged abut 8.5 seconds behind each speaker, the entire day. Part of my problem was that I was torn between taking notes or watching the PowerPoint slides. Doing both requires bi-focals, which I currently choose not to use. So, reading glasses or distance glasses? I opted for distance so I could read the slides, but then the scribbles in my notebook were a hazy blur. Getting old is hell.

My shining moment came when the moderator asked the audience for some ideas of businesses for which we might have a hard time identifying an emotional component. Someone said “children's lunch subsidies.” I called out, “marketing research.” Members of the audience volunteered three more ideas, which were so bland I can't remember them now. Then we five volunteers were asked to leave our chairs and stand in different areas of the ballroom.

Resigned, I got up from my chair and walked toward the back of the room to take up a position by the untended bar. The other volunteers went to their respective corners.

“Go help these people figure out the emotional component of their dry, unemotional businesses,” shouted the moderator gaily. The audience erupted slowly out of their seats. I waited, half hoping no one would would be interested. One guy came hesitantly over to me.

“Marketing research?” he asked.

“Hi, I'm Carol. What do you do?”

“I'm John. I'm in real estate.”

“How nice.” I waited. When it looked like nothing further was forthcoming, I prodded him by saying, “What emotion do you think might be lurking in marketing research?”

Before he had a chance to say more than a few words, an older white-haired woman came trotting up.

“Fear!” she said confidently. Wow. Was I so obvious? I looked at her, frozen.

“Fear of the consequences of making the wrong decision,” she clarified. She stuffed a piece of bagel in her mouth.

Ah, she didn't mean me and my fear. She meant the fear the prospective client might be feeling, which would prompt them to hire me. To assuage or avoid their fear. Okay, I get it.

Another woman joined us, youngish, dark-haired. “I'm from So-and-So ColorPlace!” she said and proceeded to tell us about how her company has to change its name because a rapper has recently used the name in a nasty song. Wow. Now, that's something to be afraid of, that your company name will be inadvertently destroyed by a rapper. I couldn't compete, so I let her ramble on. Soon it was time to return to our seats, and I fell back into obscurity.

That was pretty much the high heart rate point of the day, except maybe for the moment when the last speaker stopped talking and the beer began flowing. I politely declined the beer ticket the assistant waved at me, still appalled that I had managed to imbibe three of the five deadly food groups at lunch: wheat, dairy, and sugar. (If you add caffeine in there, another whoops.) Beer would have put paid to my self-esteem crisis. At that point I was sure what would serve me best was bath and bed, so I gathered up my gear and headed for home.

Later, the phone rang during my oblivion, but I merely noted that it was not my mother and buried my head back in the pillow. Exit, stage right. I'm not sure why the day was so grueling. There were only 65 people there, not a massive crowd. Everyone was well behaved. Hardly anyone talked to me, so I didn't have to fend off energy vampires. My table mates were pleasant. Other than the fact that I was sleep deprived and I ate a crappy lunch, I have no excuse for feeling obliterated by the day.

Today, the day after, I've had some time to think about it. I think I've figured it out. It's marketing, that is what it is. I've got the marketing disease. It's the Don't sell, persuade! syndrome, in which we desperately seek the magical combination of words and images that will inspire/motivate/persuade a potential client to respond to our call to action: Pick up the phone! Click on this link! Give me your email! Please, please, pretty please! What can I give you, what would it take, to make you like me, to make you want me, to make you hire me? Tell me, tell me, tell me...