The universe has sent me the most amazing team of women to support my vocation.
I hired a 24 year old marketing genius who is navigating me , the old baby boomer, through the
perils of FaceBook, Twitter, and even this blogging thing.
I have a baby boomer website designer and hand-holder, who, with infinite patience, has sent
me thousands of emails, okay maybe only hundreds, with the log-in info for my back door to my
site as well as the damned passwords I keep changing and losing.
What I do know is that when I was 24 years of age looking for work the ads in the NYTimes
were segregated by gender, though the word gender probably didn’t exist then; nor did Google
so I would have had to haul out my 800 pound Webster’s Dictionary to find the definition for
that word, certainly the word existed but the concept was not a twinkle in God’s eye or anyone
else’s.
My first copy of MS magazine, tucked in New York magazine, no, not THE New Yorker, but New
York magazine, a first of its kind regional magazine filled with stories and lists of restaurants to
dine in – in Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs; MS had a picture of a woman with many
hands, kind of like a Hindu Goddess; each hand held something only females did at that time; a
broom, (remember before noisy, ozone busting, smelly leaf blowers there were brooms, look it
up on Google or in your Webster’s if u are old enough to still own one and strong enough to lift
it off the bookshelf); one hand held a screaming baby, a typewriter adorned the other hand,
a plate of food in the other, a check book in the other, dishes piled high in another hand- you
get the picture? The title was probably, The Modern Woman-doing it all?
Fast forward to 2013, my webmistress and my marketing tekkie par excellence are female;
The ads on Craigs list are not gender divided; there is an article in the local paper about the
female engineers and construction crewmembers working on the new Eastern Span of the Bay
Bridge from Oakland to San Francisco.
My grandmother was born in the late 1800s, ….Oh, but that’s another blogtime story.
