Just as the doors were about to close, another man got in. He wasn’t the usual businessman; in fact, he looked like someone who just walked in off the street. He turned around and faced the elevator doors. I was standing in a corner in the rear of the elevator.

Then I noticed the man start taking slow backward steps. I remember thinking that if he took one more step back he would be standing on top of me. Well, he made the mistake of taking that one more step. Without even thinking, I hauled off and punched him in the back! Scared the shit out of him; he couldn’t get out of the elevator soon enough.

As soon as he was out and the doors closed again, the little old man turned to me and said, “I think you scared him more than he scared you.”

By the time I got to my office, I was shaking. I told my co-workers what happened and they told me I was lucky he didn’t hit me back. At the time, I hadn’t even thought of that.

Nowadays if you pulled something like that, the other person would probably turn around and stomp you to death.

There have been other times when I’ve reacted without thinking it through first. When I was a kid, there was this neighborhood bully named Leroy who was a few years older than I. One of his favorite means of self-entertainment was trying to run me down with his bicycle.

Now you have to understand, I was very shy and totally unable to open my mouth and stand up for myself. But one day I had had enough. Here came good ole’ Leroy on his bicycle heading straight for me. This time I stood my ground and when he got up to me, I raised my little hand and slapped him square in the face.

I’m sure this surprised him as much as it did me. But from that day forward, he never bothered me again. So the moral of this story is – stand up to bullies and don’t take any crap.

One of the things I hated about that agency was the formality. The gals were all expected to address the men agents as Mr. So and So while we were called by our first names. This did not sit too well with me, so I was on a first name basis with most of the guys including my married male boss who was forever making passes at me. (Nowadays I could have slapped him with a sexual harassment suit.)

When I had previously worked for the GAB, a fun office, we were all on a first name basis. I was one of the few employees who called the manager Mr. H. because I used to baby sit for him and his wife and in that day and age it was customary to refer to your parents’ friends as Mr. and Mrs. So and So. (Not like today, where no respect is shown for one‘s elders.)

Anyway, my bosses’ agency floundered and he and I ended up working for W____& W______ which, much to my horror, made M. my boss. She was forever taking me aside and chastening me when I slipped up and called one of the guys by his first name. Of course I didn’t let this stop me; I’m stubborn that way and the guys certainly didn‘t mind..

One day M. called me over to her desk and informed me that I would have a supervisor. That, too, didn’t sit too well with me. My supervisor, D., was a new employee, a very attractive dark-haired woman who was probably in her early 30’s. We got along very well and I looked up to her. I must say one of the things I learned from her and remember to this day is that before you ask questions, read the information first to see if you can find the answer. If not, then ask. I guess she got tired of my asking her questions every five minutes. I admit I was too lazy to read through the insurance policies and such. But D. was right; I usually found my answers by reading.

She left the agency before I did to go into business with a friend and one day I drove to Jersey to visit her and to see her new business. We later went back to her apartment where I met her daughters and we had dinner. Afterwards she led me back to the highway and we stopped at a restaurant near there for a goodbye drink. And that was the last time I’d seen her until that day in Fort Myers more than 30 years later.

Okay, with the typing I can more or less hold my own – about 55 to 60 wpm. But Excel is another story. I know enough to work with spread sheets and I’ve taken classes but since I hadn’t worked with it in a long time I managed to forget most of what I had learned. (Which, needless to say, came out loud and clear on my test results.)

So anyway, I showed up at the place where I had to take the test and walked over to the counter to sign in. A woman asked if she could help me and I told her I was here for the typing test. As I looked at her face I thought she looked familiar. I was trying to figure out where I had seen her before, then noticed her name tag. No way, it couldn’t be. But then again, maybe. The last name was different – not that I remembered her last name – and she could have gotten married since I had last seen her.

She took me to the computer and gave me the instructions for the test. Meanwhile I was thinking I’ve got to find out if she’s who I think she is. I mean I’m talking about someone I worked with in New York City more than 35 years ago. She would have been in her early 30’s and I in my – oh never mind how old I was at the time. She was about to leave me to my typing when I finally summoned up every last shred of courage and asked her where she was from.

“New Jersey.” She answered.

“Did you ever work in New York City?” Me.

“Yes.” She.

“Was it an insurance agency?” Me.

“Yes, W____ &W______.” She.

It was she! I then told her we used to work together and spouted out whatever I could remember about her at the time. We chatted for a while, then I had to take my test and when I left we hugged goodbye.

I got into my car with the weirdest feeling having run into someone from my NYC past. I remembered her as she looked 35+ years ago when she and I were much younger and how much the two of us had changed since then and I was overwhelmed with an indescribable nostalgia. All the way home I ached for my lost NYC days and the way things were. I missed my old friends, the commuting, the subway and, yes, even my jobs – not to mention my lost youth.

I cooked mine in the crock pot and added a ham bone and small pieces of cut up ham, a parsnip (which gives it a real nice flavor), carrots, an onion, some leftover cooked potatoes, one and a half Knorr’s vegetable broth cubes, parsley, and some black pepper. Be sure to cut up everything into really small pieces. Then you let it sit in the crock pot for the next 7 – 9 hours. (For the first hour I put it on high, then turned it down to low.) About a half hour or so before serving, I removed the hambone and cut off any remaining meat. This soup, along with a buttered dinner roll, is a complete comfort meal.

I used to love making soups from scratch, even though I’m not much of a cook. Unfortunately Bill, my husband, is not a soup eater so I ended up giving some to my Mom.

I remember back to when I worked in New York City for a life insurance agency on Madison Avenue. One of my favorite ways to spend lunch time on a dreary, rainy day was to run a few blocks over to the Chock Full ‘O’ Nuts coffee shop on Fifth Avenue between 35^th and 36^th Streets and grab a hamburger and Manhattan clam chowder to go. I would then find an empty office in which to savor my greasy hamburger and delicious clam chowder in peace. The most comfortable office was the vice president’s office, so when he was out I would curl up in one of the comfortable old leather chairs along with the New York Daily News, sip at my soup and watch the rain drops streaking down the windows. (In those days I got an hour for lunch even though I only worked from 8:30 to 4:30. This constituted and 8 hour work day unlike those of today.)

I decided to Google Chock Full ‘O’ Nuts before writing about it. I figured they were all gone by now. Boy was I wrong! Apparently there are about 16 shops located in the New York area and one in Jersey. But it seems they went the way of Starbucks and coffee shops of that type with their lattes and other specialty drinks. I’m sorry to say I couldn’t find any mention of their Manhattan clam chowder and hamburgers, my favorite comfort lunches of days past.

During my many years of working in offices, everyone (or almost everyone) always looked forward to the annual office party – the big mouthwatering spread and all the booze you could consume in four hours.

When I worked for the GAB in New York City many moons ago, our party was usually held in a reserved hotel room. Christmas lights twinkled on the tree and food and bottles sat upon a white cloth-covered table set up along a wall. Us young gals – of which there weren’t too many – would get all glammed up, drink and flirt like hell. Since spouses weren’t invited to these affairs, we all had a blast; no one looking over anyone’s shoulders with reproving glares.  Since this was before the days of sexual harrassment awareness, there was also a lot of ass-grabbing going on.

I can recall one party for which I bought a black, sleeveless, lace-covered mini dress – very chic at the time. I accessorized it with long silver-balled earrings and strappy, silver high-heeled shoes. I’ll never understand what possessed me to wear a strapless bra under this dress because there was literally not much to hold it up with. I think I spent more time in the bathroom pulling the bra up from around my waist than I did at the party. Eventually, I gave up, pulled it off and stuck it in my purse. I really don’t think anybody noticed the difference.

I remember other parties when working at other companies. Some were held at restaurants, others in the office building. Alcohol always abounded with plenty of food to sop it up. Some of these affairs were dress-up occasions while others were sit-at-your-desk-and-eat deals.

At one company I worked for in Farmingdale on Long Island, the party was held on the second floor. We’d break work a few hours early and head upstairs where we’d eat, drink and most of us were wasted by the time the party ended. Luckily no one got killed or killed anyone on their way home.

Another great party was held at the Huntington Yacht Club. I remember our employers passing out some really nice gifts like fancy perfumes and things.

In later years, the parties became less memorable as employers became more alcohol and lawsuit aware. In some ways this was good and in other ways, not so good. Parties would consist of salads, sandwiches, cookies and soda and everyone who wanted to join the party had to chip in a couple of bucks. We’d gather in little groups around people’s desks and balance food on our laps, eating and waiting until it was politically correct to bolt out the door and meet our work buddies at the local drinking establishment.

Yeah, those were the days. Now that I’m older and my car is my office, I miss the camaraderie of my office years. I miss all my old working friends and the fun times we had. I still keep in touch with some of the people I’ve worked with through the years, and have sometimes managed to get together with them. I wouldn’t give up those years for anything!

The first gal was a commuter on my morning train who always rode with at least one or two men. She was just so, so perfect. From her stylishly short but not too, too short hair to the tips of her expensive pumps she was the epitome of a bandbox girl. Her flawlessly made up face was partially hidden by the huge sunglasses she wore every day, shrouding her in mystery. When the weather turned colder and we all wore coats, she always topped hers off with an attractive scarf worn around her neck. This young woman was just so impeccably dressed it was sickening. I was in my very early impressionable 20’s and hoped one day to aspire to such awesomeness. Believe me when I say that never happened, though not for the lack of trying.

She also had a less attractive sister who rode the same morning train who one day shattered my illusions. I overheard her say to a friend (I had never spoken to either of the sisters) that even though her sister looked like she had stepped out of a bandbox, her bedroom was akin to a sty full of pigs mucking about in clothes and makeup strewn all over the place.

The other gal that so impressed me worked in my office at the GAB. She was a stewardess (yes, in those days they were called stewardesses) and worked part time on the days she wasn’t flying about in the air. Disgustingly perfect and extremely attractive, she wore her black shoulder length hair in a sculptured flip – a popular hairstyle of those long gone days – with not one hair daring to stray out of place. Her porcelain skin was enhanced by perfectly applied makeup; her dresses the height of style, without being faddish. She was a nice but fairly quiet person and was friendly with one other gal in the office who was also close to being a bandbox girl. (That gal left GAB to become a showroom model.)

During my years working in the city I strived like hell to attain what I considered “bandbox” looks but had too much going against me. For one thing, I still had braces on my teeth. My hair, though a shiny brunette, was definately not my crowning glory, it being so fine it never held a set. By the time I got to the office it was perfect alright; perfectly flat. After a while I just let it grow out and wore it long and straight. My nail polish, whenever I went to the trouble of applying it, was always chipping; my lipstick stayed on my coffee cup and not my lips. I had an extensive wardrobe since I spent entire but meager paychecks and most of my lunch hours in some of NYC’s finer department stores. I was cute and slim, but much too short (5’ 1”) to ever be considered striking.

And so it goes. I never managed to step out of the bandbox, but now at my age, who the hell cares? According to my husband, I’ve still got it.

I’m not sure exactly how I found my way to the office since I wasn’t very familiar with the city, having been there only a few times with friends. My guess is that I met Mr. H. on the train and we rode in together.

My first position with GAB was receptionist which entailed phones, filing and more phones. The office was one moderate sized room with the insurance adjusters – all men – on one side and us gals on the other. At 18, or I could have been 19, I was very shy and wore braces on my teeth. My self-esteem wasn’t exactly up there with the rest of the world. I was pretty quiet and afraid of my own shadow, let alone all these people I had to deal with, but that changed pretty quickly. Working with all these men turned out to be great fun and my self-esteem began to soar. Too much so. I found out I was actually cute – braces and all – and all the guys liked kidding around with me.

I also found out that if you timed your lunch so that you got to the elevator when one of the guys was waiting for one, the chances of being treated to a meal were pretty good. Back in those days the guys always paid.

I even made friends with the women in the office. I guess they were more charitable than I, because every time a new young thing was hired, I started off by hating and snubbing her. Eventually though, we’d become friendly.

Much later on, I found out that there had been a bet going around the office when I first started working there as to how long I would last. Because I was so shy when I started, no one thought I’d be able to take all the joking.

The office was in the Fisk Building at 250 W. 57^th Street and a Chinese Restaurant – The Yangtze River – was located on the ground floor. This eventually became an after-work meeting place. A group of us would hang out at the bar for awhile and many a time my mother would be pissed off at me because I got home late, feeling no pain.

But my time at the GAB was the most fun I had at any job. Unfortunately I left there and took another job, this time in downtown Manhattan. But that’s another story for another day.

The last time I made a trip to NYC, maybe 10 years ago, the whole area had changed. The Yangtze River was gone and a store – I’m not sure if it was The Gap – had taken over.

But at least I still have my memories to fall back on. And every once in a while I’ll visit them again in this blog.

Commuting to Manhattan back then was one big party.  After work we piled into the bar car, fighting our way through the cigarette smoke-fogged car.   Of course, at that time I was a major pollution contributor taking in about two packs a day.  Smoking was considered sexy and there was always someone around to light my cigarette.   However, I did learn the fine art of lighting a cigarette with a match while using only one hand.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen – one hand.  This I showcased from my spot in the bar car to the throngs of people waiting out on the platform at Jamaica Station, receiving admiring glances from the men staring in the window.

Our group consisted of a bunch of guys and maybe one or two other girls.  It was a fun time of drinks (which we girls never had to pay for, being this was before the days of womens’ lib), Pinochle, Liar’s Poker, Hearts and a bit of grab ass.  Most of the guys were married but that didn’t stop them from participating.   They were the instigators and worse than any single men I knew.  How would you like to have been married to one of them?  Maybe you were; now you know what went on.  And here you had sympathized with them when they complained about the long, hot, crowded commute home.

When I arrived home from work my Mom would be pissed off at me because of my unsteady condition and the alcohol fumes emanating from my person.

 In the morning the bar car became the coffee car and things were normally a bit quieter.  I guess being hungover didn’t help any.  Coffee, juice and doughnuts were served by the same guy who bartended the evening train.  I usually rode with the same group depending on which train I caught.  Sometimes I’d just drink coffee and read the paper with a friend; other times I’d play cards.  If one of us had a birthday we’d celebrate with champagne or Cold Duck which made for an interesting morning at work. 

The commute to and from work was usually the best time of my day.  My big crush rode the same train I did so I would try my damndest not to miss it.  This meant racing to the subway station in high heels, catching the subway from wherever I happened to be working at the time, then changing over to the Seventh Avenue IRT to make my train at Hunter’s Point Avenue.  No wonder I stayed so thin!

I look back at those days with longing and wish I could do it all over again, but at my age I’d probably miss the train more times than make it.  And please, don’t make me wear high heels.

Later that day, we caught a subway to the tennis stadium in Forest Hills, Queens. We were the proud possessors of tickets to the 1963 Forest Hills Music Festival concert featuring Joan Baez. I just loved Joan; she was one of the greatest folk singers of that time. We were there along with about 14,700 (according to the NY Times) other cheering people. That evening Joan introduced Bob Dylan and they sang both separately and in duets. I remember thinking how Dylan couldn’t sing and I do remember some people booing him. Little did we know he would become a major player in the music industry.

While at the concert, others were smoking cigarettes (at least I think they were cigarettes) around us and Robin and I discussed the pros and cons of taking up smoking. It just seemed so sophisticated and, yes, ‘beat’. (I don’t know if she ever started, but the following year I took up that nasty habit and it took me 23 years before I finally kicked it.)

Later that night her father, an airline pilot, picked us up at the stadium on his way home from work and took us home. To this day, I still treasure these memories. 

Just don’t ask me to move into a cold water flat anytime soon.

Sometimes I feel I’ve lived my life on a fast track to nowhere.  I haven’t got much to show for it – no great accomplishments, progeny, whatever.

I got married for the first time in my 50’s and my only child is a gray and white housecat.  No, I’m not a dotty old cat lady though my husband, Bill, would beg to differ.  He claims that I lavish more attention on Smoochie Cat than I do on him.  Actually, he’s probably right.

I’ve held down more jobs than the average person plus 10 of his or her buddies put together – from factory worker to tax investigator – so I never really stayed long enough anyway to gain a toehold on that mountain to success.  I’ve taken plenty of courses which I never put to any use.

But then, back in the 1950’s and 1960’s when I went to school, not much was made of careers for women.  Home Economics was a popular option which I did not excel at.  I wasn’t domestic then and I sure as hell ain’t now.   If you come to visit, check your white gloves at the door, please. 

Even though I was and, hopefully still am smart, I was lazy and just drifted my way through school.  So the best I could hope for was secretary or hairdresser.  And there should be plenty of women thanking God that my guidance counselor steered me away from that.  When it comes to styling my own hair, I’d be better off just shaving my head bald and wearing wigs for the rest of my life.

Marriage and kids were the last things on my mind, and let me tell you, I’m glad I didn’t travel that road like some of my other classmates did before even graduating high school.  For the record, there were men throughout the years who proposed marriage who I turned down.  And I’m glad I did because I never would have had the opportunity to experience different things in life or travel to places I never could have otherwise.  

Of course, I did engage in a lot of stupidity and did things that were just plain not nice and, yeah, if I could take some of that back I would.

So, maybe I’ll make something out of myself yet.  I’m just hoping that the track doesn’t run out on me anytime soon.