View the video. I recently spoke at the Taste of Technology Small Business Series. For more information about this seminar and upcoming seminars, click here.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Sacred Cow MOOOOVE Over
I grew up in a middle class family in a middle class neighborhood of teachers, cops and shopkeepers. My mother was an elementary school teacher; in fact she taught in the squat brick school where my formal education began. I’ve never questioned the integrity of teachers and I always thought it was a noble career choice.
My mother used to say she taught so she could be home with girls in the afternoon and take us to ballet and art class. She liked spending summers at the Rockaway Beaches, reading on her lounge chair while she dipped her feet in the surf. She could have ascended the ranks and become a principal but she liked the children very much.
I don’t remember much talk of the unions back then.
Now that I’m a parent and a home-owner, I view teachers through a more filtered lens. In becoming intimately familiar with my suburban district’s budgeting process, I have come to see union contracts as outrageous and unreasonable. And that was before the economy imploded.
Having worked for private entities since 1983 – and for myself for the past decade – I know what it’s like to be affected by real-world economic conditions. In the good times, I’ve enjoyed the bounty. In bad times, I reign in my expectations. I don’t regret choosing a private-sector career; it is what writers must do.
Last year, scouring our proposed school budget, I came to understand that union contracts create an unlevel playing field. 3% to 4% raises year-over-year for teachers who work 185 days of the year. Regular step raises apart from these contractual raises. Do these people even know what the word “meritocracy” means? They don’t share the cost of health benefits and pensions. No wonder my mother built such a comfortable cushion.
I couldn’t believe that 80% of total spending in our school district covers salaries and benefits – and we’re talking about many six-figure salaries.
Gov. Paterson is once again talking about trying to build support for a 4% property tax cap, and I applaud him completely. Sheldon Silver, who is in bed with the unions, was able to successfully block the proposal earlier this year, but the tide has turned.
The disparity between union members and the rest of us is finally becoming a national discussion. In part, we have the bankrupt auto companies to thank for that.
But back here in good ole suburbia, the “teacher” is still the sacred cow. Folks in the neighborhood, especially those with kids in the schools, are too afraid to hit the problem with a blunt instrument. It is sacrilegious to take aim at the teachers’ salaries. These same people like to complain about their taxes at Halloween parties but ask them to go public or get involved in grassroots politics and they’ll pretend they don’t know you.
They’re too cowed to criticize teachers’ union representatives for being greedy and unreasonable. I’d bet many people like me come from families with teachers, and have benefited from the system, but hey, as the three auto companies are showing us, change is inevitable.
I believe it will take a property tax cap passing for the union exploitation to come to a head. If union reps could just find a way to be reasonable – to accept a wage freeze for a year or two -- it would be a real teachable moment.
My mother used to say she taught so she could be home with girls in the afternoon and take us to ballet and art class. She liked spending summers at the Rockaway Beaches, reading on her lounge chair while she dipped her feet in the surf. She could have ascended the ranks and become a principal but she liked the children very much.
I don’t remember much talk of the unions back then.
Now that I’m a parent and a home-owner, I view teachers through a more filtered lens. In becoming intimately familiar with my suburban district’s budgeting process, I have come to see union contracts as outrageous and unreasonable. And that was before the economy imploded.
Having worked for private entities since 1983 – and for myself for the past decade – I know what it’s like to be affected by real-world economic conditions. In the good times, I’ve enjoyed the bounty. In bad times, I reign in my expectations. I don’t regret choosing a private-sector career; it is what writers must do.
Last year, scouring our proposed school budget, I came to understand that union contracts create an unlevel playing field. 3% to 4% raises year-over-year for teachers who work 185 days of the year. Regular step raises apart from these contractual raises. Do these people even know what the word “meritocracy” means? They don’t share the cost of health benefits and pensions. No wonder my mother built such a comfortable cushion.
I couldn’t believe that 80% of total spending in our school district covers salaries and benefits – and we’re talking about many six-figure salaries.
Gov. Paterson is once again talking about trying to build support for a 4% property tax cap, and I applaud him completely. Sheldon Silver, who is in bed with the unions, was able to successfully block the proposal earlier this year, but the tide has turned.
The disparity between union members and the rest of us is finally becoming a national discussion. In part, we have the bankrupt auto companies to thank for that.
But back here in good ole suburbia, the “teacher” is still the sacred cow. Folks in the neighborhood, especially those with kids in the schools, are too afraid to hit the problem with a blunt instrument. It is sacrilegious to take aim at the teachers’ salaries. These same people like to complain about their taxes at Halloween parties but ask them to go public or get involved in grassroots politics and they’ll pretend they don’t know you.
They’re too cowed to criticize teachers’ union representatives for being greedy and unreasonable. I’d bet many people like me come from families with teachers, and have benefited from the system, but hey, as the three auto companies are showing us, change is inevitable.
I believe it will take a property tax cap passing for the union exploitation to come to a head. If union reps could just find a way to be reasonable – to accept a wage freeze for a year or two -- it would be a real teachable moment.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
My father pulled the lever
My father pulled the lever in the election booth on Tuesday for a black man. This is an historic moment for me, just as Obama’s victory is an historic moment for America - -and the world.
My father is 77 years old. He’s always played the Archie Bunker character. I have no idea why a boy raised partly in rural Connecticut but mostly in Brooklyn has had such deep-seeded prejudice over his long life. It wasn’t something he could readily articulate but it was always present. He would not go to see a Broadway show if the cast was black. He never used the “n” word but he used other labels to let his distaste or phobia or aversion be known.
It has been his experience, and mine, to live in a segregated world even if we think otherwise. Growing up in Canarsie emphasized divisions between race and class. Jews, Italians and Blacks were three distinct groups. Jews and Italians mixed. Blacks were a group unto themselves; the ones who populated the projects on the fringes of Canarsie; the ones who were pointed at when cars were stolen or houses were robbed. My mother didn’t let me ride the LL train to Manhattan because it was “black.” Black became the color of fear. Black was the color of the less advantaged students my mother taught at the elementary school. Black was the color of the cleaning lady to whom we acted falsely deferential until we found out she was taking jewelry. Black was the color of many of the men who worked for my father. They were hungrier than we were; more likely to find themselves in trouble with the law. And here’s the odd thing: when they did, my father was the first man to step up and provide rescue. Why? Was he protecting his business interests? Or was there something deeper in this man that did not really hate at all? I just don’t know.
What I do know is that I was a bleeding heart liberal by the time I was 10. When Canarsie became the flashpoint for racial tension over busing children from poor neighborhoods to our schools, I defended this. I said over and over at our dinner table that it’s not fair to rail against a population that is always at a disadvantage. That viewpoint was not appreciated by my white, Jewish, upwardly mobile parents. I also had the comfort of holding these views while I lived in a safe cocoon.
In my own effort to give voice to man, I became a reporter, and sunk my teeth into any story that fought against oppression or disadvantage. At some point I realized I was fighting for myself.
I have never thought of Barack Obama as black; I fell in love with him at first sound-bite – and that’s because he spoke to me directly. In recent years, I have been burdened by a chronic feeling of sadness; a nagging sense of powerlessess. I feel venomous toward the unions who tie our hands and raise our taxes. I am angry at politicians who’ve stolen our freedoms and ransacked our belief that if you do the right thing, you get a fair shake. I am exhausted.
But today is a fresh day and I’m smiling because my father voted for Barack Obama. And I’m weeping tears of joy.
My father is 77 years old. He’s always played the Archie Bunker character. I have no idea why a boy raised partly in rural Connecticut but mostly in Brooklyn has had such deep-seeded prejudice over his long life. It wasn’t something he could readily articulate but it was always present. He would not go to see a Broadway show if the cast was black. He never used the “n” word but he used other labels to let his distaste or phobia or aversion be known.
It has been his experience, and mine, to live in a segregated world even if we think otherwise. Growing up in Canarsie emphasized divisions between race and class. Jews, Italians and Blacks were three distinct groups. Jews and Italians mixed. Blacks were a group unto themselves; the ones who populated the projects on the fringes of Canarsie; the ones who were pointed at when cars were stolen or houses were robbed. My mother didn’t let me ride the LL train to Manhattan because it was “black.” Black became the color of fear. Black was the color of the less advantaged students my mother taught at the elementary school. Black was the color of the cleaning lady to whom we acted falsely deferential until we found out she was taking jewelry. Black was the color of many of the men who worked for my father. They were hungrier than we were; more likely to find themselves in trouble with the law. And here’s the odd thing: when they did, my father was the first man to step up and provide rescue. Why? Was he protecting his business interests? Or was there something deeper in this man that did not really hate at all? I just don’t know.
What I do know is that I was a bleeding heart liberal by the time I was 10. When Canarsie became the flashpoint for racial tension over busing children from poor neighborhoods to our schools, I defended this. I said over and over at our dinner table that it’s not fair to rail against a population that is always at a disadvantage. That viewpoint was not appreciated by my white, Jewish, upwardly mobile parents. I also had the comfort of holding these views while I lived in a safe cocoon.
In my own effort to give voice to man, I became a reporter, and sunk my teeth into any story that fought against oppression or disadvantage. At some point I realized I was fighting for myself.
I have never thought of Barack Obama as black; I fell in love with him at first sound-bite – and that’s because he spoke to me directly. In recent years, I have been burdened by a chronic feeling of sadness; a nagging sense of powerlessess. I feel venomous toward the unions who tie our hands and raise our taxes. I am angry at politicians who’ve stolen our freedoms and ransacked our belief that if you do the right thing, you get a fair shake. I am exhausted.
But today is a fresh day and I’m smiling because my father voted for Barack Obama. And I’m weeping tears of joy.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Media - Taste of Technology Small Business Series
I will be on a panel of speakers on November 10th at the Taste of Technology Small Business Series. www.smallbiztechnology.com/tasteoftechnology. The focus of this event is how to get publicity for one’s business through media coverage. About 100 small business owners are expected to attend.
The event takes place at 6:30 at the Samsung Experience, Time Warner Center, New York.
The first five people to sign up using this link get free tickets: http://tasteoftechnology.eventbrite.com/?discount=TRASTER
Hope to see you there.
The event takes place at 6:30 at the Samsung Experience, Time Warner Center, New York.
The first five people to sign up using this link get free tickets: http://tasteoftechnology.eventbrite.com/?discount=TRASTER
Hope to see you there.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
This I Believe - National Public Radio Essay
Mom and Dad are in their mid-seventies, live in a Manhattan condo and play bridge. My sister and I are in our forties, married with children, living in the suburbs. We are a family like many; there are deep strains among members, which have led to times of estrangement, but lately we crowd around a table at Thanksgiving.
My sister and her husband have two birth children. My husband and I adopted our daughter from Siberia five years ago. Oddly, she resembles my dead Polish grandmother.
I believe when it comes to wills and estates, parents should treat their children equally. Uneven treatment between siblings poisons their relationship. I know. And the anger is carried forth to the next and future generations.
When it comes to money, my parents have always been secretive and unwilling to talk. That’s fine; it’s their money. But enough has leaked out for me to know that when they die the bulk of their estate will skip my generation and be divided equally among their three grandchildren. This means my sister’s kids will receive 66%; my child will get 33%.
While I find comfort in knowing my daughter will inherit enough to pay college tuition 12 years from now, I believe my sister’s family benefits disproportionately, simply because she has two kids. We could not, even if we wanted, afford to undertake a second adoption.
I wish my parents understood how hurt I am. To me a 50/50 split between sisters says we love you both the same. That’s an important comfort, even for a grown woman with her own family.
Sadly, my parents don’t care what I think. I have fought with them bitterly on the subject – sometimes screaming at each other in a diner; at other times talking more civilly in therapy. We remain at odds.
My mother and I used to be as close as two front teeth. Our relationship deteriorated after I got divorced in the mid-90s. She thought I was crazy to leave a man who made a lot of money. Remarrying did little to console her. My sister, once more distant from my mother, stepped into the void.
The closer my sister and mother grew, the more hollowed I felt. Confused, I blamed my sister for my parents’ choices about their estate, and we did not speak for four years. I shut out her children. My daughter, now six, didn’t know for several years she had two young cousins.
Not long ago, I called my sister to rekindle our friendship. Lucky for me, and everyone else, it wasn’t too late. But I worry. I worry that feelings of anger and hurt will resurface the day my parents’ will is read.
My sister and her husband have two birth children. My husband and I adopted our daughter from Siberia five years ago. Oddly, she resembles my dead Polish grandmother.
I believe when it comes to wills and estates, parents should treat their children equally. Uneven treatment between siblings poisons their relationship. I know. And the anger is carried forth to the next and future generations.
When it comes to money, my parents have always been secretive and unwilling to talk. That’s fine; it’s their money. But enough has leaked out for me to know that when they die the bulk of their estate will skip my generation and be divided equally among their three grandchildren. This means my sister’s kids will receive 66%; my child will get 33%.
While I find comfort in knowing my daughter will inherit enough to pay college tuition 12 years from now, I believe my sister’s family benefits disproportionately, simply because she has two kids. We could not, even if we wanted, afford to undertake a second adoption.
I wish my parents understood how hurt I am. To me a 50/50 split between sisters says we love you both the same. That’s an important comfort, even for a grown woman with her own family.
Sadly, my parents don’t care what I think. I have fought with them bitterly on the subject – sometimes screaming at each other in a diner; at other times talking more civilly in therapy. We remain at odds.
My mother and I used to be as close as two front teeth. Our relationship deteriorated after I got divorced in the mid-90s. She thought I was crazy to leave a man who made a lot of money. Remarrying did little to console her. My sister, once more distant from my mother, stepped into the void.
The closer my sister and mother grew, the more hollowed I felt. Confused, I blamed my sister for my parents’ choices about their estate, and we did not speak for four years. I shut out her children. My daughter, now six, didn’t know for several years she had two young cousins.
Not long ago, I called my sister to rekindle our friendship. Lucky for me, and everyone else, it wasn’t too late. But I worry. I worry that feelings of anger and hurt will resurface the day my parents’ will is read.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Smoke and Mirrors
My husband and I just purchased a wood-burning fireplace insert. Like everybody else we are fretting over astronomical oil and gas prices, and we’re looking for proactive ways to avoid being exploited by petro-chemical titans. We shopped for the insert this summer, and although it costs a pretty penny, we decided it would pay for itself over the course of a few winters.
When the salesman came to measure our hearth, he said, “You better snap this up fast, it’s my last one.” I didn’t appreciate the used-car-salesman shtick but we agreed to move swiftly. They subsequently came back to measure for $150, and then, a required chimney cleaning for $225. Cha ching!
A week before our appointment, we called to go over the details of the job. “There’s a mistake on the quote,” we said. “The cost for the chimney liner should be sales tax-exempt because it is a capital improvement.” No, Ms. Traster,” said the chipper salesman. “We’ve always charged tax on that. That’s the way we’ve done it forever.”
Maybe so but it’s wrong. New York State Taxing Authority (publication 862) says the “addition or compete replacement of flue or liner (metal or foam) is a capital improvement. We faxed the proof. The salesman didn’t like hearing this, and he said he’d get back to us.
Two days before our scheduled installation, we called again because we never got a return call. Begrudgingly he admitted that we were right. “You’ve caused us extra work,” he told us. “And all you’re saving is $47.” Hmm $47. That’s a tank of gas. I’ll take it, thanks!
Two sad things emerge from this experience. Being treated like a pesky kindergarten student is never a good way to deal with a customer. We were simply asserting our rights to be free from an inappropriate tax – rights many consumers do not know they have. Frankly, they should have shown a little gratitude.
The bigger issue is that New York legislators should take a second look at the tax code. The chimney liner is tax exempt but the Norwegian fuel-efficient insert is not. Fire inserts should be tax-exempt in order to encourage people to wean themselves off of fuel. The state’s rationale is that home-owners can take their fire-inserts when they move, but after watching the two guys install my fire insert for four hours I know that is totally ludicrous. Not only would that insert be nearly impossible to remove – part of the job involved cutting the damper door, which rendered the fireplace useless.
A little bit of logic and honesty – and a new look at the legislation -- might be another good green solution. Anyone listening?
When the salesman came to measure our hearth, he said, “You better snap this up fast, it’s my last one.” I didn’t appreciate the used-car-salesman shtick but we agreed to move swiftly. They subsequently came back to measure for $150, and then, a required chimney cleaning for $225. Cha ching!
A week before our appointment, we called to go over the details of the job. “There’s a mistake on the quote,” we said. “The cost for the chimney liner should be sales tax-exempt because it is a capital improvement.” No, Ms. Traster,” said the chipper salesman. “We’ve always charged tax on that. That’s the way we’ve done it forever.”
Maybe so but it’s wrong. New York State Taxing Authority (publication 862) says the “addition or compete replacement of flue or liner (metal or foam) is a capital improvement. We faxed the proof. The salesman didn’t like hearing this, and he said he’d get back to us.
Two days before our scheduled installation, we called again because we never got a return call. Begrudgingly he admitted that we were right. “You’ve caused us extra work,” he told us. “And all you’re saving is $47.” Hmm $47. That’s a tank of gas. I’ll take it, thanks!
Two sad things emerge from this experience. Being treated like a pesky kindergarten student is never a good way to deal with a customer. We were simply asserting our rights to be free from an inappropriate tax – rights many consumers do not know they have. Frankly, they should have shown a little gratitude.
The bigger issue is that New York legislators should take a second look at the tax code. The chimney liner is tax exempt but the Norwegian fuel-efficient insert is not. Fire inserts should be tax-exempt in order to encourage people to wean themselves off of fuel. The state’s rationale is that home-owners can take their fire-inserts when they move, but after watching the two guys install my fire insert for four hours I know that is totally ludicrous. Not only would that insert be nearly impossible to remove – part of the job involved cutting the damper door, which rendered the fireplace useless.
A little bit of logic and honesty – and a new look at the legislation -- might be another good green solution. Anyone listening?
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Free Lunches & Presidential Pardons
Let me reminisce for just a moment. Those heady days seem like they were a long time ago. I put my co-op apartment up for sale, without using a real estate broker, and the first woman who came to see it said she’ll take it. I don’t think she was in the apartment more than 15 minutes before she decided, and she didn’t even bargain down the price. Not one cent.
This was 2005 and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. In less than seven years, the apartment had tripled in price. It was exhilarating. It was a thrill. It was as if I’d gone out west and found a pan of gold without doing anything other than living in the space and paying my mortgage on time.
With plenty of cash in hand when the sale was complete, I purchased an old farmhouse that needed a top-to-bottom makeover. I was able to buy the house outright with the proceeds from the sale but the renovation put me back in debt. It was a hard choice because I’d hoped to be debt-free. But in those days money flowed freely and I got a fixed-rate mortgage and a HELOC. I still had more than 50% equity in my house at the end of the day.
There have been many things my husband and I have needed to do to improve the house since but the policy around here is we only undertake a project if we can pay cash. Frugality helps. I wear underwear with holes, and my husband’s white, um kind of yellowish, undershirts are frayed. I can see the floor in my child’s room. We eat at home, a lot. WE DO NOT USE CREDIT CARDS.
Now I can’t help but feeling a little sour these days over the prospect of bailing out just about everyone else when I’ve tried to live responsibility. Go on, say it. “She’s such a righteous bitch.” I’m not, really. I’m just superbly tired of living in a culture that consistently enables and rewards bad behavior.
James Frey writes a phony memoir, then he lands a second book deal. People take questionable mortgages, game the system, and do it again when they put out their hand for handouts. Washington privatizes Wall Street with tax dollars. Talk about the biggest and most egregious presidential pardon ever.
I’m tired of pundits who tell us that bailing out Wall Street bails out Main Street. My house is worth less. My stocks are worth less. Through no fault of my own I’m a lot less endowed than I was just a few years ago.
I would like to view this as a karmic thing but when I’ve been in need in the past I’ve had to work my tail off to put things right. I’ve never known a free lunch but it seems the banquet is open for anyone with an appetite for disregard.
This was 2005 and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. In less than seven years, the apartment had tripled in price. It was exhilarating. It was a thrill. It was as if I’d gone out west and found a pan of gold without doing anything other than living in the space and paying my mortgage on time.
With plenty of cash in hand when the sale was complete, I purchased an old farmhouse that needed a top-to-bottom makeover. I was able to buy the house outright with the proceeds from the sale but the renovation put me back in debt. It was a hard choice because I’d hoped to be debt-free. But in those days money flowed freely and I got a fixed-rate mortgage and a HELOC. I still had more than 50% equity in my house at the end of the day.
There have been many things my husband and I have needed to do to improve the house since but the policy around here is we only undertake a project if we can pay cash. Frugality helps. I wear underwear with holes, and my husband’s white, um kind of yellowish, undershirts are frayed. I can see the floor in my child’s room. We eat at home, a lot. WE DO NOT USE CREDIT CARDS.
Now I can’t help but feeling a little sour these days over the prospect of bailing out just about everyone else when I’ve tried to live responsibility. Go on, say it. “She’s such a righteous bitch.” I’m not, really. I’m just superbly tired of living in a culture that consistently enables and rewards bad behavior.
James Frey writes a phony memoir, then he lands a second book deal. People take questionable mortgages, game the system, and do it again when they put out their hand for handouts. Washington privatizes Wall Street with tax dollars. Talk about the biggest and most egregious presidential pardon ever.
I’m tired of pundits who tell us that bailing out Wall Street bails out Main Street. My house is worth less. My stocks are worth less. Through no fault of my own I’m a lot less endowed than I was just a few years ago.
I would like to view this as a karmic thing but when I’ve been in need in the past I’ve had to work my tail off to put things right. I’ve never known a free lunch but it seems the banquet is open for anyone with an appetite for disregard.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Journey Within
It seems my true nature is one of an outsider, which is why belonging has always been a curious notion to me. I don’t at first appear to be fringe because I’m social and pleasing to the eye but people figure it out soon enough. I won’t put my hand over my heart to pledge allegiance to the flag. I don’t like fireworks and I don’t eat pizza.
I am not afraid to say – or write – what I think.
My first husband knew I was a loose cannon and he was always edgy around me. My second and last husband enjoys living on the edge with me.
Where I belong – or what I belong to – I still don’t know. My sense of place in this world is elusive. This unknown used to cause me angst; now, as I dig down deeper to write about my life, it gives me purpose.
I could call myself a writer or a wife or a mother or a suburbanite but not one or even all the adjectives combined tell me what I need to know.
Leaving Manhattan three years ago gave me license to noodle with this question. Nobody ever thought I’d leave the city – or city life. A move to an old farmhouse on nearly an acre of land in a river town 45 minutes from Manhattan brought the question into focus. That led to a column I write in the New York Post called Burb Appeal, in which I share my musings and experiences of transplanted city-girl living in the burbs.
I have a writing teacher who says I haven’t really revealed myself in these columns. I was at first surprised by her assessment. I thought I’d aired lots of details about my personal life but my teacher is right. The columns are just the revving sound the car makes when you put the key in the ignition. It’s when I started writing my memoir that I put my foot on the accelerator. So far it’s been a bumpy ride.
I am not afraid to say – or write – what I think.
My first husband knew I was a loose cannon and he was always edgy around me. My second and last husband enjoys living on the edge with me.
Where I belong – or what I belong to – I still don’t know. My sense of place in this world is elusive. This unknown used to cause me angst; now, as I dig down deeper to write about my life, it gives me purpose.
I could call myself a writer or a wife or a mother or a suburbanite but not one or even all the adjectives combined tell me what I need to know.
Leaving Manhattan three years ago gave me license to noodle with this question. Nobody ever thought I’d leave the city – or city life. A move to an old farmhouse on nearly an acre of land in a river town 45 minutes from Manhattan brought the question into focus. That led to a column I write in the New York Post called Burb Appeal, in which I share my musings and experiences of transplanted city-girl living in the burbs.
I have a writing teacher who says I haven’t really revealed myself in these columns. I was at first surprised by her assessment. I thought I’d aired lots of details about my personal life but my teacher is right. The columns are just the revving sound the car makes when you put the key in the ignition. It’s when I started writing my memoir that I put my foot on the accelerator. So far it’s been a bumpy ride.
View my new web site at: www.tinatraster.com
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