I grew up on the East Coast, in a suburb of a medium-sized city. My parents are older than many of my friends’ parents and were tweens or teens in the Depression era. My mom’s folks were immigrants, who came to America to look for a better life, although I’m not sure they found it upon leaving the sunny, warm Mediterranean and landing on the icy shores of New York. My father’s family moved around the Northeast a lot, trying to find opportunities during the Depression. They owned several businesses, including a post office and general store, a poultry farm, and an inn. While running the inn, my father, by then an adult, met my mother and the two were soon married. They settled down in the town in which I was born and worked on the assembly line of a large factory that made television sets, radios, and other electronic devices.

Then the kids came along in spades, as they often did in that era. By 1964–the end of the baby boom–there were seven of us crammed into a 1,200-square-foot, one-bathroom home. When my grandmother would stay with us, sometimes for weeks at a time, there would then be eight people sharing one bathroom.  I lived in an area with similar older homes, so this wasn’t so unusual, although by then people were beginning to add on a room or a bathroom, especially in basements where plumbing was accessible. I remember my father talking about doing this, but the plan never came to fruition. So, there we lived until 1977, when six of the seven of us packed it up and traveled cross country to the land of milk and honey.

Southern California, to a girl from the frigid North, is a bit of a culture shock, to say the least. I stood out like Gandhi in a biker bar. My classmates told me I had an accent, although to me it was they who had trouble enunciating and pronouncing words (so what if I dragged out my short a’s or over pronounced my short o’s, how in the heck does the word “appreciate” turn into “appriciate,” as so many Southern Californians like to say it?) I didn’t have the right skin tone either (I’m not sure I ever had a tan in my life pre-1977) and, worst of all, I didn’t have the cool clothes. My wardrobe consisted of a couple pairs of shorts, a few T-shirts, and one pair of plaid, bell-bottomed pants. You see, we packed up our pop-up camper before moving out West, not a moving van. We never officially committed to staying until we were here and ensconced in the services of a realty professional, who found us a house. So I had a crummy summer wardrobe (and that lovely pair of plaid pants) and I needed to dress for school.

Fortunately, there was a department store within walking distance of our new home (this one had two and a half baths!) and I was able to sift through the $3, $5 and, if I was really lucky, $7 clothing bins to find some things that would fit. We didn’t have much money–my dad had retired before we drove out (I’m reluctant to call it “moving”)–and Social Security will go only so far.

My first job was at an Orange Julius in a nice shopping mall, which I was able to access by bus. I would pour the Juliuses and serve up the hotdogs while dreaming of the days when I too could be on the other side of that counter, enjoying a leisurely meal with the children that I’d one day have. I’d take them to the movie theater; we’d go ice skating on the indoor rink right below the food court; we’d shop at all the awesome stores without a care as to what things cost.

That day finally came when, after quite a financial struggle, my husband and I were able to buy a two-story, 2,000-square-foot home with three bathrooms, I might add. My kids have attended public school as I had, but the neighborhood is something quite different than the one I grew up in or even the one my parents settled in 30-plus years ago in this same city. Most of our current neighbors are professionals or business owners. They drive nice cars. They have 401(k) plans. They have one kid per adult. Living in a nicer, white-collar neighborhood means I need to supply my kids with a white-collar lifestyle–a car to get them to school and back, money to put gas in said vehicle, the right clothes, the right accoutrements.

There’s a part of me that is happy I have been able to give my kids more than I had, but at the same time I feel as though I don’t quite fit in here. My politics are a bit more to the left (as in blue-collar, Union-member left) than most of my friends and neighbors. I don’t go on fancy vacations. I don’t belong to a gym. I only drive an SUV because it can fit all six of us in it. I don’t live a six-figure lifestyle. I still clip coupons, because I’m still the girl from the Northeast who shared a tiny bathroom with four siblings and two parents and a sometime grandparent. I’m a blue-collar girl in a white-collar town, and I’m not sure I’ll ever fit in.

One of my favorite TV shows is going off the air. Little People, Big World is a reality program that follows the lives of the six members of the Roloff family. The parents, Matt and Amy, are dwarfs who have four children–Zachary, Jeremy, Molly, and Jacob, only one of whom (Zach) is also a dwarf.

I’ve always loved to look into the everyday lives of others–especially other families’–to see how they manage life’s many hurdles. I find it an interesting sociological experiment and a good way to evaluate how I do things in comparison with others, and to reflect on what I could do better. So when I first discovered this show on TLC, I was thrilled that not only does this family have four kids as I do, but their interests and personalities are similar. Despite some physical challenges, they seemed as normal as normal can be.

At first, the premise of the show revolved around the Roloffs as a dwarf couple fitting into an average-size world. It highlighted some of the struggles they go through–sometimes little things like not being able to reach the higher shelves in a supermarket to bigger issues such as dealing with name calling and needing surgery. After watching the brief first season, I was hooked. It became apparent to me that the Roloffs were a family like no other yet, at the same time, like all the rest of us. I found that my family had so many similarities to this family–from the number of children they have to their everyday routines to the the way they interact with one another. I could relate to their little triumphs (a winning soccer season, a successful family vacation, job changes, managing both a home and a career), their everyday issues (celebrating holidays, struggling to get the kids to do homework, teaching the kids to drive, running the kids around from school to games to home), and their challenges (the death of a dear friend, legal trouble, medical issues).

The Roloffs’ lives paralleled my own and my family’s so much that I felt as if this family and mine were kindred spirits even though we had never been formally introduced. But as the seasons wore on (there eventually were six), the Roloffs’ lives began to change, as all of ours do. The show that at first focused on the family’s struggles–financial as well as physical–turned into a show about a family who was well-off, one with many vehicles, many luxuries, many opportunities the rest of us will never have. The Roloff home transformed from a simple farmhouse to a McMansion and people began commenting on the message boards that this family had definitely overcome the struggles apparent in the first season to something almost unrelatable by the average viewer.

The producers too began focusing on the tension in the family, especially the marital tension between Matt and Amy (perhaps trying to  capitalize on the ratings soar that Jon and Kate Plus Eight experienced after that couple publicly aired their marital problems before splitting up). It appeared that the episodes featuring bickering–scenes that actually played out in real time or were stacked through editing–were the shows causing the most buzz on the Internet, and the producers turned LPBW into a series almost too difficult to watch.

But watch I did, having seen through the production ploy and realizing, as so many message board posters didn’t, that even the healthiest of long-term marriages will have their struggles. Being that the shows were about one full year behind the Roloffs’ actual lives,  they were not a true reflection of what was occurring real time. Following up on the Internet, I could see that the couple was still together, that the family was still intact.

But, even so, the changes in the family were unavoidable. Amy had turned from a stay-at-home mom and part-time preschool teacher to a celebrity running a charity foundation–a position that can only spring from a boost of fame and not at all the career she would have had if the cameras had not made her into a public commodity. Although Matt continued with his original businesses–being a  motivational speaker, making a kit to accommodate dwarfs in hotel rooms, and managing the family pumpkin farm–reality star was also added to the roster.

And even without these career moves that occurred only after the series brought them fame, the family itself was obviously evolving. No longer do the kids need to be chauffeured to soccer games; by season six, three of them could drive themselves. No longer do the kids need to be carefully supervised by a parent; half of them are now adults in college.  No longer can all six find the time to coordinate family vacations, let alone family dinners; they’re on the road or in the air or otherwise engaged. The kids now have lives of their own away from the farm, and so do the parents.  So, the need for LPBW in its original format is no longer there.

For the sake of the kids, it’s apparent that the time has come to drop the show and gain some privacy. But nonetheless, those of us who saw this family as a reflection of our own lives will miss them all. No longer will we be able to pull up a stool at the Roloff kitchen counter while Amy puts together the evening meal or watch Matt cook up another outlandish attraction for the farm. Now we’ll have to try to catch a glimpse of the family on the farm during pumpkin season, if we’re fortunate enough to live within driving distance, or through the many public avenues that they still access (blogs, Facebook pages, weekly coffee chats, You Tube videos). I’ll keep dropping in, wherever I can find them. After all the Roloffs had practically become extended family to me. And it’s too hard to say goodbye completely.

My husband has a job interview today. Coincidentally, the topic of the day on WordPress.com involves writing about a memorable job interview. Because I freelance, I have had very few formal interviews. Most of my work since the dawning of the Information Age has come via electronic media. I apply for, have been hired for, and perform work for companies whose employees I’ve never formally met. I have forged many, many work relationships, but have never seen a huge majority of these people in the flesh,  nor have I spoken to most of them over the phone. I have no idea what their voices are like, what style of clothing they wear, what their races or nationalities are. I don’t know if they’re young or old, tall or short, blond or brunet, heavy or skinny. I am a virtual employee working for virtual employers.

However, being in my late forties and having gone through college and post-college job hunting when the only object whose exterior was large and white with big black spots was a Holstein and not a Gateway PC, I do have some experience interviewing. One interview that stands out was not for a particularly flashy job, but rather one I acquired by my own true grit.

I was only about a year out of college and working a couple jobs that didn’t quite match my area of study or ability. While in a bank one day, I picked up a local community newspaper and was shocked to read what was there: No, not the content (although that was bad, too), but poor grammar, unitelligible syntax, misplaced modifiers, misspelled words (yes, this was pre-spell check, too), and a myriad of other errors. I became brave at that moment, took the paper home, and with a red pen made corrections all over that issue. I then sent a letter to the publisher and owner, telling her what I had found and offering my services as a proofreader and copy editor to help improve the readability, accuracy, and reputation (for God’s sake, didn’t she care?), of her paper.

She agreed to meet with me–in a bedroom of her home that served as the newspaper’s office (the New York Times it was not)–and I presented her with my red-inked copy of that week’s issue. It was then and there that she knew as well as I did that I was the missing link to tie that paper together.

I am proud to say that I was able to create a job for myself where need be. It’s an accomplishment I’m still proud of to this day. I know that once my husband’s interviewer realizes what he can do, he too will offer his hand and open up a spot at the office. It’s possible, virtually anywhere.

It’s a new year, but I am not striving to shed a pound (although that wouldn’t be half bad either), I am instead trying to shed an attitude. I’m trying to become a better, more positive person. I know that it is not all that unusual a resolution, but it’s one that is less superficial than simply wishing to look more slim in jeans, but just as important as gaining a healthy body. Good attitude equals good health, in my opinion, and I believe that if I gradually, on a daily basis, look at things in a more positive light–see the glass as half full instead of half empty–maybe this attitude will spill over (no pun intended) into all areas of my being and become my usual mindset.

Today’s WordPress topic regards stress and I have to say, my positive attitude is giving me less stress. I was able to take a good, long hike with two close friends this morning. We started at 8:30 a.m. and ended around 11:30. We climbed a mountain and we turned around. The air was crisp, the sun was out, and I was in great spirits. Even though nothing has immensely changed from a week ago, or two, or three, my mood was greatly lifted by that brisk hike and upbeat conversation.

It is said that we can’t always change our circumstances, we can only change the attitude we have in looking at them. I intend to change my attitude, increase my prayer time, and do a little something for myself every week, if not every day. A good attitude goes a long way. I’m hoping at least until January 2012.

I used to think so-called “pet people” were a bit on the nutsy side. You know the ones: They bequeath their fortunes to their pets, feed them better than their own children, take them everywhere, and give them things people in third world countries (and many in our very own) could only dream of having.  I thought these kinds of people, and even the ones a little less extravagant, were-off-their-rockers-looney-tunes-get-them-admitted-to-the-psych-ward crazy. Then I lost my beloved, only dog, and those people I’d once describe as crazed lunatics are beginning to make a whole lot of sense to me. They love their pets and care for them as they see fit. And I get that.

My dog, Sammy, was a mutt. There’s no doubt about it. His dad was from Mexico–a stray born of strays who, I swear to you, was part coyote. He was owned by my mother-in-law and one day, when no one was watching, into the yard strolled a little reddish, part-Pomeranian female. The one-night stand turned into a litter of triplets, one of whom–the only boy–became our Sammy. A strawberry-blond dog that was as sweet as his red-haired mom, but had the boundless energy of his daddy.

He was a cutie. And as sweet as ever. We kept him in the yard most of the day and he would jump in delight when anyone approached the screen door to come out to play. He loved to be brushed, hated taking medicine, and loved American cheese, hotdogs, and anything that may have, uh-hem, accidentally fallen off the side of the barbecue grill. He was a boy’s best friend, a good walking companion, and an excellent guard dog (just ask our next-door neighbor’s pool guy who used to get an earful every Thursday). He enjoyed life and lived a good long one.

As with some breeds of small dogs, Sammy had a collapsing trachea condition that caused him to have outrageous coughs at times. Usually they went on for weeks, then went away. Except for this last one, which stuck. Four different types of medicine didn’t help. Rest didn’t help. He started having more and more trouble breathing and he lost his appetite to the tune of losing more than a third of his already low body weight in just three weeks.

Putting him down was one of the most difficult, gut-wrenching things I have ever had to do. I’d much rather go through unmedicated labor again–a couple times–than have to go through the heart-wrenching torment of seeing my Sammy take his last breath.

My third child was just two when we took Sam in and the two of them grew up together, going from puppies to grown men. My youngest had always had Sammy in his life. And my girls had the experience of watching him grow up and grow into an adult, just as they had.

Now, every time I look out my back windows I glance at the places he’d love to be–the planter box on the opposite side of the pool, the yard, the cushioned settee, where he’d spend a lot of his time as he aged. I could go on and on about what that dog meant to me. He looked to me, especially, for guidance, protection, food, a walk. And I feel as though I let him down. This might sound bizarre, but losing a beloved pet is similar to losing a child in that they are both helpless beings that look to you to satisfy their every need. That may sound like a bold statement to some, but I’d say it again. Call me crazy. I’ll take it as a compliment.

My husband has just 51 days until he is out the door at the firm where he works, a job loss due to no better reason than there not being enough work at his firm for his boss to afford to keep both attorneys he has on the payroll. In other words, it’s the economy, stupid. Nearly two weeks have passed since the initial bad news and, although my husband has applied to four or five jobs and sent out e-mails to just about everyone he knows, asking them to be on the alert, nothing substantial has yet to turn up. Not even a bloody call-back.

Am I nervous? Does it snow in Alaska? You betcha. And I’m becoming more nervous as each day creeps into the next. To have just 51 days to find a job is bad enough during most times of the year. Add the holidays to that mix and the level of dread is multiplied many times over. Not only is extra money a necessity in November and December, but the impetus for HR people and firm heads to put the glass of eggnog down, remove the lampshade from the head, and come into the office to review resumes and interview people is, I’d guess, not a top priority. 

So, the wait continues.

In the meantime, I’m doing everything I can to earn us some extra cash. I’m taking on extra work this weekend and accepting everything else that comes my way. And I’m still scouring the job boards–for both me and my husband.

I’m scrimping and saving every penny possible, as well. The birthday of one of my daughters is this coming week, throwing a monkeywrench into the scrimping and saving plan. To my relief she has asked for a bare minimum of gifts, and I’ve purchased the three small items gladly, but nothing more. Our tradition of taking the birthday kid out to dinner also may be altered, if not completely pushed aside. I will see if there is a coupon or a gift certificate I can use at the chosen restaurant. Fortunately, her tastes sway more toward chicken masala and curry than steak and lobster. But just the thought of not being able to afford to take the family out on a special occasion is disconcerting.

I am praying for a positive resolution to all this, which I know will eventually come. It’s just a matter of time. Unfortunately, time is finite, but our savings are not.

Virginia Woolf was right: All a woman needs to write fiction is a little money and a room of one’s own. Or in my case, write nonfiction (or edit it) and a room of one’s own. Whether temporary or not.

You see, my eldest child moved out of the house this past weekend. She is educated and now fully employed and had the opportunity to share a nice, small home with a friend. She had been yearning for her independence for some time, but stuck it through in this house filled with chaos until she was able to afford a place of her own.

Now, her old room is empty, except for an old dresser, a small TV and a small student’s desk on which I write this. The desk is situated below a window that faces our backyard and the neighbors’ yards, with a hill behind them. A not bad view at all.

So it is here that I sit and write and where I will work until the room is painted and filled with the items that define a teenage boy–PlayStation and music and clothes strewn on the floor–as my elder son will be claiming this space as his own shortly. He is happy, his little brother is happy (they, for the first times in their lives, will finally get their own rooms) and I am happy for them. But I will be losing this nice little nook in which to have a quiet space to work–with only the whirr of my laptop fan and the tweets and squeaks of the birds outside my window for sound.

I can get used to this. But what brought me here will take greater acclimation, for the reason the room is so empty and so quiet and, for this blip of a moment in time, mine, is because my eldest child is gone. It won’t be long before daughter number two, then son number one, and finally (good God, no) my younger boy are packed up and moved–across town, across the state, across the country. Where their lives lead them is for now a mystery.

All I know is that one got away, but she’s close enough to visit regularly. I must learn to relish her independence and savor the moments I still have with the other three. And enjoy the view from my little window, which too soon will pass.