Okay....apparently I am no longer an asset, but a liability.

I have never been one to believe I was anything other than average. (My parents made sure of that!) But there's one thing I always knew, whether anyone wanted me to know or not--I could write.
In kindergarten, Helen Countryman told me I was a good writer. (She might have meant my printing, but who knows? Let's pretend she believed I was Pulitzer-caliber.) In fourth grade, Mrs. Russell told me I was a good writer. This was after I'd written a story based on a magazine photo. Mine was about a birthday party. In high school, Norma Gunkler encouraged my writing, and Betty Coman (despite the fact that she initially believed I was an idiot) finally came around and admitted I was the best writer in my class. (Sorry, Stuart.) Years later, she said she was sorry for both giving me a lousy grade the first semester of my Junior year with her, making me forever ineligible for National Honor Society, and for not giving me the English prize at graduation. I figure she paid for those grievous errors by having to drag around an oxygen tank like a dachschund with no legs, but I digress.

(Those of you who know me can skip the next part, because you've heard it all.)
So when I turned forty-nine, I decided I was done caring what other people thought...I would do and say exactly as I pleased and blame it on old age. So I "cut off my hair and grew a pair." And ignoring everyone who ever said I would never write...I wrote. First I wrote "Kirb Appeal"--both the videos and the blog--and I now have 41 subscribers--six of whom read regularly! Now, it's "New Thirteen" which is basically my journey through (old) age. Then, I joined a writers group, and I learned something about myself: compared to other folks? My writing is GOOD. (Don't believe me? Take a look at the serial romance the group is writing. Some of it is--well--pitiful.) Then, I went to programs that were led by writers and asked questions. Do you know what I heard?
That I am too old.
Too old to write.
Too old to have anyone interested in publishing anything I have to say.
Publishers are looking for hot young women who can write, not old farts who can write. They want either Sex in the City or Mommy Bloggers. Better yet...Sex WITH a Mommy Blogger.
Believe me, back in the day when I was a mommy, I would have been a Mommy Blogger. But there wasn't any such thing back then, and so I wasn't.

So I am planning something new: Post-Mommy Blogging. For Moms who used to be mommys but are now way cooler. Won't you join me?
You don't have to have sex in the city or anywhere else. Old age has it's privileges.

House of Fifty

In my subscription feed today--which pops up in my Blogger dashboard--I saw a cool title called "House of Fifty." Here's a link, if you're interested:


http://isabellaandmaxrooms.blogspot.com/2011/01/announcing-exciting-new-venture-house.html

And I thought to myself: What a great idea! A place for fifty year olds to get together!

So I clicked, and found that while Isabella & Max has a great thing going in the home decor field, it's not a spot for the old broads to hang and knock back a few. Which is kinda what I was looking for.
I don't know if other 50 year old women feel the way I do, but I feel as though once I got to be "of a certain age," I became less audible and less visible. Not to say "unheard" or "invisible," but just less. (I didn't LOOK less--in fact, there was more of me, to a degree.) Rather, less noticeable, less important, less of myself. So many of us have spent the last twenty-plus years being someone's wife, or mom, or both, that we have no idea who we were before all of that. What better way to reconnect with ourselves than by having the support of others who are in the same situation?

Sure, there are websites promoting middle-aged women, and mid-life bloggers abound. But the primary focus is on "Mommy Bloggers" and not the moms who are "post-mommy." My question is: If there are so many of us, and we're all kind of in the same boat, why aren't we connecting?
This blog is on a quest--I hope you want to come along.