After piling on the layers of my face this morning, I stood back for my usual inspection. How do I look?
I look...grown-up. Not old, just grown-up. When did that happen? I know when I felt grown-up for the first time. October 9, 2004. No, I didn't make an entry in my diary, I am a grown-up today. That's the day my little girl got married and I suddenly had a Son-in-Law.
That's what did it, having a son-in-law! You have to be grown-up to have one of those, don't you? They don't give them out to just anybody. No one stands on a busy street corner handing out free son-in-law coupons. You have to reach a certain station in life.
Suddenly I felt more connected with my online girlfriends who were always discussing their kids, kids-in-law and grandkids. I was no longer the tag-along. Somehow, through no effort of my own I had a new title: Mother-in-Law.
Eww, wait a minute, that doesn't have the same ring of grandiosity as having a son-in-law! Mothers-in-law are, well, you know! Am I really one of them?
Does anyone know if you can exchange these titles for something with a better fit?
Friday, February 17, 2006
Losing My Mind
I often joke about losing my mind, losing my marbles. Well, technically, I did lose my marbles once, at the ticket booth at a Pow-wow, with my daughters and several dozen strangers there to witness. I have this horrible habit of putting things in my purse until I have time to find a good place for them. I was a daycare provider at the time and someone's child, might even have been mine, had thrown a marble at a window and cracked it. Confiscating the marbles, I dropped the bagful in my purse. Days later at the Pow-wow I had to dig and dig to find my wallet. Suddenly the marbles opened and began to spill everywhere.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but I think you are losing your marbles," the helpful cashier says. My daughters were just old enough to get it and haven't let me live it down.
But I digress.
Alzheimer's doesn't run in my family, nor does dementia. Losing one's train of thought does. I have inhertied my mother's tendency to embellish a tale so fully with details that the details become the better part of the story. It's very entertaining but makes it difficult to make a point. In almost every conversation, my mother reaches a point where she says, "Now, where was I going with this?"
It came to me one day. "Mom, you need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find your way back to your topic."
I haven't reached that point yet. Or won't admit to it. I know what I set out to say here. I had a woman on my mind who has just had to put her husband in a nursing home, as his Alzheimer's has gotten beyond her ability to keep him safe. He still has some awareness of reality at times and knows his mind is retreating into recesses from which he will one day never come back.
That thought terrifies me! I know my body will fail with time, should I be lucky enough to have the time. I have seen what aging does to the mind and I want so badly to steer away from that path. I may soon begin hording breadcrumbs, or writing key thoughts on little notecards that I can whip out like the Best Writer at the Oscar's. I'll buy myself a St. Bernard and fill his keg with all my scribbles of phrases I felt important enough to note, or hire a trail guide. Maybe I need to post a map above my computer, "You Are Here."
It could work. I'll probably be telling the same three tales over and over, as my mother does. All I will need is a well-marked trail to get me to the end of my path.
"Excuse me, ma'am, but I think you are losing your marbles," the helpful cashier says. My daughters were just old enough to get it and haven't let me live it down.
But I digress.
Alzheimer's doesn't run in my family, nor does dementia. Losing one's train of thought does. I have inhertied my mother's tendency to embellish a tale so fully with details that the details become the better part of the story. It's very entertaining but makes it difficult to make a point. In almost every conversation, my mother reaches a point where she says, "Now, where was I going with this?"
It came to me one day. "Mom, you need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find your way back to your topic."
I haven't reached that point yet. Or won't admit to it. I know what I set out to say here. I had a woman on my mind who has just had to put her husband in a nursing home, as his Alzheimer's has gotten beyond her ability to keep him safe. He still has some awareness of reality at times and knows his mind is retreating into recesses from which he will one day never come back.
That thought terrifies me! I know my body will fail with time, should I be lucky enough to have the time. I have seen what aging does to the mind and I want so badly to steer away from that path. I may soon begin hording breadcrumbs, or writing key thoughts on little notecards that I can whip out like the Best Writer at the Oscar's. I'll buy myself a St. Bernard and fill his keg with all my scribbles of phrases I felt important enough to note, or hire a trail guide. Maybe I need to post a map above my computer, "You Are Here."
It could work. I'll probably be telling the same three tales over and over, as my mother does. All I will need is a well-marked trail to get me to the end of my path.
Here I am, Stuck in the 80s with You
I don't know if it has to do with having been a Valley Girl or if it is just the age I was at the time, but I am SO stuck in the 80s, it's sometimes hard to function normally!
I mean, like, was there anything so totally awesome abut the 80s that it needs to stick around, or worse yet, be brought back?
Admittedly, it was the only time in my life when I could let my hair do what it wanted and be totally in fashion. And my little girls looked so cute in the Madonna clothes! I do miss lycra mini skirts, but I miss the body I was putting into them more.
The music? Well. I was and will always be a hair band kinda girl, and there were some bands with great hair! Their music, though, when I replay it, kinda makes me go, "Hmmm."
My daughter bought a CD of hair band ballads. Please! Metal ballads is an oxymoron and we now have a CD to prove it!
I would say I miss the language, but I never gave it up! I am so sure, like, when I am 90 and at a Bon Jovi Concert, I'll, like, turn to my husband and say, "Isn't this just totally gnarly? For sure!"
Life is tubular, dudes. The 80s will be back.
I mean, like, was there anything so totally awesome abut the 80s that it needs to stick around, or worse yet, be brought back?
Admittedly, it was the only time in my life when I could let my hair do what it wanted and be totally in fashion. And my little girls looked so cute in the Madonna clothes! I do miss lycra mini skirts, but I miss the body I was putting into them more.
The music? Well. I was and will always be a hair band kinda girl, and there were some bands with great hair! Their music, though, when I replay it, kinda makes me go, "Hmmm."
My daughter bought a CD of hair band ballads. Please! Metal ballads is an oxymoron and we now have a CD to prove it!
I would say I miss the language, but I never gave it up! I am so sure, like, when I am 90 and at a Bon Jovi Concert, I'll, like, turn to my husband and say, "Isn't this just totally gnarly? For sure!"
Life is tubular, dudes. The 80s will be back.
Morning
Your tender touches invade my dreams and
Hasten my return to the world of reality.
I hear your whispered utterances as you
Test to see if I am awake
I feel your kneading, feel your weight shift as I roll to face you.
I open my eyes to your dark face.
Happy Valentine's Day, Rescue Kitty
I am happy you are in my life, too!
Hasten my return to the world of reality.
I hear your whispered utterances as you
Test to see if I am awake
I feel your kneading, feel your weight shift as I roll to face you.
I open my eyes to your dark face.
Happy Valentine's Day, Rescue Kitty
I am happy you are in my life, too!
Monday, February 13, 2006
Technologically Challenged
It amazes me how long I can work with something and still not know what I am doing.
My father was a programmer for IBM in the days of punch cards. He brought home our first PC in 1979 or '80. It had two games on it, played in DOS. They were question and answer games. When I got an unexpected response, I yelled for my brothers and one of them told me what to hit to fix it.
Six years later I found myself divorced and needing to support my two girls. A woman I had worked with in the past told me to come apply at the insurance company home office where she worked. I took the typing test. The receptionist forgot about me and let me type twice as long as I was allowed, but she didn't want to lose her job so she didn't tell. That allowed me to score the minimum words per minute after errors.
In the interview, they asked if I was familiar with computers. "Oh, yes," I replied. "We have one at home." It still had the two word games on it, and I still needed help when I hit a wrong key, but I didn't tell them that. I got the job.
My job was entering policy information into the system. This required many keystrokes, all of which had to go in exactly the right spot or bad things could happen. Not bad things, like, someone's policy might be wrong. Bad things like the entire system could shut down and not process any information entered in any department that day.
Oops.
I learned quickly. When I made this mistake, it gave me that error message. In no time flat, I knew as many of the error messages and their fixes as the support team. I got promoted.
Eventually, I bought my first PC, an old Apple IIe. It didn't do a whole lot, so I couldn't do much damage. Mom got another used IBM, and I found out you could write stories a lot faster if you didn't have to keep swapping out floppy disks every page or so. I saved and saved and bought a clone. I was up to Windows 3.1 now!
My brother had become a computer tech by this time, and I think he dreaded calls from me as much as calls from work. "What does it mean when it says...?" Then I'd tell him what I had been doing when it happened. Have you ever heard someone go pale before? It's not a pretty sound.
I figured, if I can work on my car, why can't I work on the computer? They both have parts, I am good at swapping out parts! I replaced one alternator four times! In Saturday afternoon phone calls, my brother talked me through installing new CD-roms and modems, but balked at giving me the DOS commands that could really do some damage. I managed anyway.
My brother got out of the computer business (you don't think I had anything to do with that, do you?), and I now have a job where I have to teach new employees how to run the computer end of our new security system. The system that responds to life-saving pullcords and 24-hour door alarms that keep track of our residents. The programmer showed me what to do, when to do it, and left me to write up the instructions.
How do I instill such trust in these people? And why didn't anyone notice that I wrote the instructions wrong the first time around? And isn't it a miracle when someone calls me for help and they actually can follow my saying, "You see that little thingie that is flashing blue? So, you click on that, then you look for the little circle thingie that's flashing orange."
Some people just shouldn't be allowed to play with technology. And they really shouldn't be in charge of teaching others to play, too!
My father was a programmer for IBM in the days of punch cards. He brought home our first PC in 1979 or '80. It had two games on it, played in DOS. They were question and answer games. When I got an unexpected response, I yelled for my brothers and one of them told me what to hit to fix it.
Six years later I found myself divorced and needing to support my two girls. A woman I had worked with in the past told me to come apply at the insurance company home office where she worked. I took the typing test. The receptionist forgot about me and let me type twice as long as I was allowed, but she didn't want to lose her job so she didn't tell. That allowed me to score the minimum words per minute after errors.
In the interview, they asked if I was familiar with computers. "Oh, yes," I replied. "We have one at home." It still had the two word games on it, and I still needed help when I hit a wrong key, but I didn't tell them that. I got the job.
My job was entering policy information into the system. This required many keystrokes, all of which had to go in exactly the right spot or bad things could happen. Not bad things, like, someone's policy might be wrong. Bad things like the entire system could shut down and not process any information entered in any department that day.
Oops.
I learned quickly. When I made this mistake, it gave me that error message. In no time flat, I knew as many of the error messages and their fixes as the support team. I got promoted.
Eventually, I bought my first PC, an old Apple IIe. It didn't do a whole lot, so I couldn't do much damage. Mom got another used IBM, and I found out you could write stories a lot faster if you didn't have to keep swapping out floppy disks every page or so. I saved and saved and bought a clone. I was up to Windows 3.1 now!
My brother had become a computer tech by this time, and I think he dreaded calls from me as much as calls from work. "What does it mean when it says...?" Then I'd tell him what I had been doing when it happened. Have you ever heard someone go pale before? It's not a pretty sound.
I figured, if I can work on my car, why can't I work on the computer? They both have parts, I am good at swapping out parts! I replaced one alternator four times! In Saturday afternoon phone calls, my brother talked me through installing new CD-roms and modems, but balked at giving me the DOS commands that could really do some damage. I managed anyway.
My brother got out of the computer business (you don't think I had anything to do with that, do you?), and I now have a job where I have to teach new employees how to run the computer end of our new security system. The system that responds to life-saving pullcords and 24-hour door alarms that keep track of our residents. The programmer showed me what to do, when to do it, and left me to write up the instructions.
How do I instill such trust in these people? And why didn't anyone notice that I wrote the instructions wrong the first time around? And isn't it a miracle when someone calls me for help and they actually can follow my saying, "You see that little thingie that is flashing blue? So, you click on that, then you look for the little circle thingie that's flashing orange."
Some people just shouldn't be allowed to play with technology. And they really shouldn't be in charge of teaching others to play, too!
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Living Dangerously
I apparently like to live on the wild side. You wouldn't know this by looking at me as I do a pretty good job of keeping the wild child hidden from public view. My car gives off the impression of being tame until you take its age into consideration along with the outrageous number on the odometer.
My job is as mild-mannered as they come. Greet visitors. "Welcome! How may I help you?" Answer phones. "Thank you so much for calling. Do let us hear from you again." Perform typing and date entry tasks for anyone who asks. "Busy, why no! I can answer phones with my left foot as I type, no problem!"
I'm generally asleep by 10 p.m. regardless the day of the week. Up by 6. A rested body is a happy body.
Dullsville.
So where does this wild side appear? Once a month, like clockwork, on a Saturday afternoon I pull out the foils, bottles, wands and potions that keep my graying locks looking youthful and sun-kissed. No, I have not added pink tips or purple lowlights. It still looks tame. Well, tame is not a word I use for this mane, but the color is not outrageous.
I live dangerously by doing something on a Saturday afternoon that requires water running through the pipes of this house. After 5 months I have learned that everybody in this complex either does their laundry on Saturday afternoon, or has a child who stands in place and flushes the toilet repeatedly for whatever hours I need to rinse my hair.
We have one well, one generator, one pump, for 48 or so houses. It amazes me that the facilities can work just fine all month long, but let me put some chemicals strong enough to cause permanent damage on my hair and the system breaks down.
The first time the pump broke down there wasn't enough water flowing to create the pressure needed to get up to the shower head. There was enough of a trickle at the kitchen sink to get the color out of my hair. I was so relieved, as a search of the house hadn't turned up any partially-drunk water bottles sitting at any of the three spots where I normally park my carcass. When did I get so neat?
Yesterday as I stood in the shower, the power went out. Since it was afternoon, I wasn't concerned. Until the water pressure began to drop rapidly. Wait, wait! I still have conditioner in my hair! I managed to get enough of the goop out before the last drops fell. I survived another Saturday in Adventureland.
It has occurred to me several times that, if I am not careful, the water in the toilet tank is going to be the only thing available to rinse my hair. I wonder if it is going to come to that before I get smart enough to put a vat of water on the stove before I pull out the bottles and potions. When am I going to get smart enough to try doing my hair on another day?
My job is as mild-mannered as they come. Greet visitors. "Welcome! How may I help you?" Answer phones. "Thank you so much for calling. Do let us hear from you again." Perform typing and date entry tasks for anyone who asks. "Busy, why no! I can answer phones with my left foot as I type, no problem!"
I'm generally asleep by 10 p.m. regardless the day of the week. Up by 6. A rested body is a happy body.
Dullsville.
So where does this wild side appear? Once a month, like clockwork, on a Saturday afternoon I pull out the foils, bottles, wands and potions that keep my graying locks looking youthful and sun-kissed. No, I have not added pink tips or purple lowlights. It still looks tame. Well, tame is not a word I use for this mane, but the color is not outrageous.
I live dangerously by doing something on a Saturday afternoon that requires water running through the pipes of this house. After 5 months I have learned that everybody in this complex either does their laundry on Saturday afternoon, or has a child who stands in place and flushes the toilet repeatedly for whatever hours I need to rinse my hair.
We have one well, one generator, one pump, for 48 or so houses. It amazes me that the facilities can work just fine all month long, but let me put some chemicals strong enough to cause permanent damage on my hair and the system breaks down.
The first time the pump broke down there wasn't enough water flowing to create the pressure needed to get up to the shower head. There was enough of a trickle at the kitchen sink to get the color out of my hair. I was so relieved, as a search of the house hadn't turned up any partially-drunk water bottles sitting at any of the three spots where I normally park my carcass. When did I get so neat?
Yesterday as I stood in the shower, the power went out. Since it was afternoon, I wasn't concerned. Until the water pressure began to drop rapidly. Wait, wait! I still have conditioner in my hair! I managed to get enough of the goop out before the last drops fell. I survived another Saturday in Adventureland.
It has occurred to me several times that, if I am not careful, the water in the toilet tank is going to be the only thing available to rinse my hair. I wonder if it is going to come to that before I get smart enough to put a vat of water on the stove before I pull out the bottles and potions. When am I going to get smart enough to try doing my hair on another day?
Wired
I hate to admit it, but I am a wired human being. I am unable to function without electricity.
The power went off again this morning. At least this time my hair was dry! I had my morning planned out at that point: dishes, vacuum, work on the short love story and the novel, and maybe catch that gorgeous hunk of mine online for a brief chat.
Then the lights went out.
Now, I am an adventurous sort and I can think of all sorts of things to do when the power is off, but most of them involve that gorgeous hunk and he's 1,000 or so miles away right now.
I looked around the house. I hauled the trash off. I cleaned the litter box. Bad choice, there's no water! Where's the hand sanitizer?
I looked around the house again. Can't play solitaire, that would involve actually finishing one of the three quilts covering the tables in varying stages of doneness.
It's too cold to walk the dog. I suppose I could move the old boom box that I dug out during yesterday's power outage (only to discovered it had no batteries) so I could use the step platform that it is sitting on. I could sing to keep a rhythm going.
Or not.
Yesterday, I cleaned out my underwear drawer and pulled all the "fat clothes" out of the closet to get rid of, so I can't do that today.
I could call Mom again. Or call the kids, who won't answer because it is too early, so I can leave one of those inane rambling messages that make me sound undeniably too much like my mother.
I could stand in the sunny spot in the kitchen and watch the snow melt in the yard.
Or, I could make a list of the things I need to do before the next time the power goes out! Let's see:
1. Buy batteries for the boombox. Better yet, figure out how to use the MP3 player the kids gave me. And buy a battery for it.
2. Print out a picture of gorgeous hunk.
3. Find the deck of cards.
4. Find the top of the coffee table.
5. Find a place to live where the power doesn't go out three times a week.
The power went off again this morning. At least this time my hair was dry! I had my morning planned out at that point: dishes, vacuum, work on the short love story and the novel, and maybe catch that gorgeous hunk of mine online for a brief chat.
Then the lights went out.
Now, I am an adventurous sort and I can think of all sorts of things to do when the power is off, but most of them involve that gorgeous hunk and he's 1,000 or so miles away right now.
I looked around the house. I hauled the trash off. I cleaned the litter box. Bad choice, there's no water! Where's the hand sanitizer?
I looked around the house again. Can't play solitaire, that would involve actually finishing one of the three quilts covering the tables in varying stages of doneness.
It's too cold to walk the dog. I suppose I could move the old boom box that I dug out during yesterday's power outage (only to discovered it had no batteries) so I could use the step platform that it is sitting on. I could sing to keep a rhythm going.
Or not.
Yesterday, I cleaned out my underwear drawer and pulled all the "fat clothes" out of the closet to get rid of, so I can't do that today.
I could call Mom again. Or call the kids, who won't answer because it is too early, so I can leave one of those inane rambling messages that make me sound undeniably too much like my mother.
I could stand in the sunny spot in the kitchen and watch the snow melt in the yard.
Or, I could make a list of the things I need to do before the next time the power goes out! Let's see:
1. Buy batteries for the boombox. Better yet, figure out how to use the MP3 player the kids gave me. And buy a battery for it.
2. Print out a picture of gorgeous hunk.
3. Find the deck of cards.
4. Find the top of the coffee table.
5. Find a place to live where the power doesn't go out three times a week.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Lucy and Ethel
I'll call them Lucy and Ethel for reasons that become obvious to anyone who sees them together. They are two aging widows alone. Lucy is in her 90s, and suffers from increasing confusion and balance problems. Ethel is younger, age uncertain, and does her best after having a stroke some years ago during an operation for a brain tumor. She doesn't suffer from confusion as much as from blonde-ism, from the way I see it!
Between them they have half a mind, on a good day.
When one of them is ailing, the other comes in lieu of family as moral support. They lovingly nag the other into getting medical help, if needed, or will sit until all hours of the night so the ailing one is not alone in time of need.
One day Lucy fell as she was going into one of our public bathrooms. Her walker remained in the doorway as she landed on her back. Her head left a dent in the wall behind her. She repeatedly asked her rescuers what had happened, but refused to go to a hospital. Ethel appeared and nagged and nagged to no avail, Lucy was not going to the hospital.
A few weeks later, Ethel was having palpitations. She sent another resident up to her apartment with management to find her pills. None could be found; apparently she hasn't had a prescription for several years. Lucy was adamant: Ethel needed to go to the hospital to be checked out.
In her staggering speech, Ethel replied, "That's what I kept trying to tell you when you fell, and you wouldn't go!" They argued for hours, but Ethel stayed home.
Yesterday, after several days of increasing confusion, Lucy went to the hospital for tests. Ethel spent the day circling her walker past my desk. "Any word?" I'd tell her, no, and her lips would tighten. "I tell her the same thing I told my husband. 'It's a good thing I love you, because I hate you!'"
If you ask Ethel if she lost her husband, she'll tell you no, he's at the cemetery right where she left him, her eyes twinkling the whole time she speaks. In her mind, I am sure she'll never lose her friend, Lucy, either. But her heart still worries; you can see it when her lips tighten as she looks out the front door before circling back around the atrium.
Between them they have half a mind, on a good day.
When one of them is ailing, the other comes in lieu of family as moral support. They lovingly nag the other into getting medical help, if needed, or will sit until all hours of the night so the ailing one is not alone in time of need.
One day Lucy fell as she was going into one of our public bathrooms. Her walker remained in the doorway as she landed on her back. Her head left a dent in the wall behind her. She repeatedly asked her rescuers what had happened, but refused to go to a hospital. Ethel appeared and nagged and nagged to no avail, Lucy was not going to the hospital.
A few weeks later, Ethel was having palpitations. She sent another resident up to her apartment with management to find her pills. None could be found; apparently she hasn't had a prescription for several years. Lucy was adamant: Ethel needed to go to the hospital to be checked out.
In her staggering speech, Ethel replied, "That's what I kept trying to tell you when you fell, and you wouldn't go!" They argued for hours, but Ethel stayed home.
Yesterday, after several days of increasing confusion, Lucy went to the hospital for tests. Ethel spent the day circling her walker past my desk. "Any word?" I'd tell her, no, and her lips would tighten. "I tell her the same thing I told my husband. 'It's a good thing I love you, because I hate you!'"
If you ask Ethel if she lost her husband, she'll tell you no, he's at the cemetery right where she left him, her eyes twinkling the whole time she speaks. In her mind, I am sure she'll never lose her friend, Lucy, either. But her heart still worries; you can see it when her lips tighten as she looks out the front door before circling back around the atrium.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Barbie's Dream Date
I guess the time is ripe for midlife crises. Barbie, who happens to be my age, has found her sales dropping due to her squeaky-clean image. I can so relate -- we good girls don't stand a chance out there!
The good news is Ken has had a makeover. It seems a few years back, Barbie ran off with an Aussie surfer named Blaine (and she's still a good girl?). According to Mattel: "Ken, heartbroken, traveled the world in search of himself, making stops in Europe and the Middle East, dabbling in Buddhism and Catholicism, teaching himself to cook and slowly weaning himself off a beach bum life."
Ken found himself thanks to some plastic surgery, a new hairdo and some metrosexual clothes. Not bad, dude! Even the motorcycle jacket might help.
But it still falls short. What Barbie needs to break her image and find new popularity is a bad boy! Give ber Biker Bill. Isn't that what we all want? At least, someone who's metro on the inside but rugged outside. Not someone who will fight for time in front of the mirror.
Give him some facial hair, a five o'clock shadow. Better yet, a "we finally collapsed and fell asleep somewhere around 3 a.m." shadow.
A zen-on-the-inside guy is great, but isn't time Barbie was allowed to get some action? Give Barbie the new Dream Date: let Ken read her the poetry he's written about her then rip her stockings off with his teeth. She's waited so long, doesn't she deserve a good time before Ken starts leaving his teeth in a glass in the bathroom before bed?
After all this time, she deserves the perfect man.
The good news is Ken has had a makeover. It seems a few years back, Barbie ran off with an Aussie surfer named Blaine (and she's still a good girl?). According to Mattel: "Ken, heartbroken, traveled the world in search of himself, making stops in Europe and the Middle East, dabbling in Buddhism and Catholicism, teaching himself to cook and slowly weaning himself off a beach bum life."
Ken found himself thanks to some plastic surgery, a new hairdo and some metrosexual clothes. Not bad, dude! Even the motorcycle jacket might help.
But it still falls short. What Barbie needs to break her image and find new popularity is a bad boy! Give ber Biker Bill. Isn't that what we all want? At least, someone who's metro on the inside but rugged outside. Not someone who will fight for time in front of the mirror.
Give him some facial hair, a five o'clock shadow. Better yet, a "we finally collapsed and fell asleep somewhere around 3 a.m." shadow.
A zen-on-the-inside guy is great, but isn't time Barbie was allowed to get some action? Give Barbie the new Dream Date: let Ken read her the poetry he's written about her then rip her stockings off with his teeth. She's waited so long, doesn't she deserve a good time before Ken starts leaving his teeth in a glass in the bathroom before bed?
After all this time, she deserves the perfect man.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Reach Out and Touch Someone
A recent study compared cell phone usage between 2000 and 2006. Not just how many of us are talking, but where it is okay to talk. It's odd that we are more accepting of talking in bathrooms now, and in a car, but less so in other places.
Having our loved ones wired-in like this during so many hours of their lives, we get to share more, the nest feels a little less empty to me. Daughter #2 is still more likely to open up in an instant message, but #1 could probably have a headset surgically implanted and use it enough to justify the cost.
This makes for some fun moments, at least on my part! When she calls after work, she is usually on her way home, stopping to shop or pick up fast food. I usually have music on and am exercising. Daughter #1 is the one who inherited more of my "gotta sing along with it no matter what" gene and we have the same warped sense of good music.
There she is at the grocery store in California trying to figure out on which aisle they keep the Rotelle tomato and chile blend, and here I am in Missouri singing along with Rocky Horror Picture Show. "Ta-Ta-Ta-Ta-Touch me, I want to get dirty..."
"Don't sing that! I can't sing that here, I am in the store!"
"...Thrill me, chill me fulfill me, Creature of the Night!"
She starts to sing, "La, la, la, la, I can't hear you! I'm singing my own words, making up my own song. I'm walking down this aisle..."
We've taken enough road trips together with the stereo blasting to know what songs make us break out in harmony. That makes her way too easy a target. There's "Summer Nights" from Grease, guaranteed to make any closet karaoke singer at least hum along with. And, Rocky Horror's "Time Warp" might even get Daughter #1 dancing. Or, trying hard not to.
Is this child abuse? Can they revoke my Mom License for torturing my child this way? Or does this fall under the "Wait Til You Have Children of Your Own" clause? I'm not waiting, not taking the chance that they outsmart me by not having kids. I'll have my revenge now!
" Ta-Ta-Ta-Ta-Touch me..."
Having our loved ones wired-in like this during so many hours of their lives, we get to share more, the nest feels a little less empty to me. Daughter #2 is still more likely to open up in an instant message, but #1 could probably have a headset surgically implanted and use it enough to justify the cost.
This makes for some fun moments, at least on my part! When she calls after work, she is usually on her way home, stopping to shop or pick up fast food. I usually have music on and am exercising. Daughter #1 is the one who inherited more of my "gotta sing along with it no matter what" gene and we have the same warped sense of good music.
There she is at the grocery store in California trying to figure out on which aisle they keep the Rotelle tomato and chile blend, and here I am in Missouri singing along with Rocky Horror Picture Show. "Ta-Ta-Ta-Ta-Touch me, I want to get dirty..."
"Don't sing that! I can't sing that here, I am in the store!"
"...Thrill me, chill me fulfill me, Creature of the Night!"
She starts to sing, "La, la, la, la, I can't hear you! I'm singing my own words, making up my own song. I'm walking down this aisle..."
We've taken enough road trips together with the stereo blasting to know what songs make us break out in harmony. That makes her way too easy a target. There's "Summer Nights" from Grease, guaranteed to make any closet karaoke singer at least hum along with. And, Rocky Horror's "Time Warp" might even get Daughter #1 dancing. Or, trying hard not to.
Is this child abuse? Can they revoke my Mom License for torturing my child this way? Or does this fall under the "Wait Til You Have Children of Your Own" clause? I'm not waiting, not taking the chance that they outsmart me by not having kids. I'll have my revenge now!
" Ta-Ta-Ta-Ta-Touch me..."
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Self-Tanner and the Single Girl
I decided to get a jump on spring the other morning and pulled out the self-tanning lotion. I realized very quickly the problem with living alone: I can't rub the lotion on my back! In this modern age of Suntan = Bad and Self-Tan = Good, are we creating a new way of recognizing the spinsters? We're the ones with the white stripe down the middle of our backs!
I thought I would outsmart this dilemma by using the spray-on tanner, momentarily forgetting that it turns me orange and that I should have thrown it out two years ago when I first realized this. I boldly sprayed where no tanning lotion had gone, then grabbed the back washer out of the shower to spread it around. Ingenious!
Not so. Last night I glanced in the mirror when I applied more lotion. I could see exactly where the tanner had sprayed. I need to hire myself out as an auto paint detailer - I have racing stripes! My back reminds me of the Mustang I saw pulling out onto the highway yesterday, with those twin white stripes running down the body. The car was a deep red, though, not orange. It's a great look - on a car!
It saddens me to think there was some redeeming value to the last guy I lived with. He would rub the lotion on my back. And here, all this time, I have been claiming he was good for nothing. Whodathunkit?
I thought I would outsmart this dilemma by using the spray-on tanner, momentarily forgetting that it turns me orange and that I should have thrown it out two years ago when I first realized this. I boldly sprayed where no tanning lotion had gone, then grabbed the back washer out of the shower to spread it around. Ingenious!
Not so. Last night I glanced in the mirror when I applied more lotion. I could see exactly where the tanner had sprayed. I need to hire myself out as an auto paint detailer - I have racing stripes! My back reminds me of the Mustang I saw pulling out onto the highway yesterday, with those twin white stripes running down the body. The car was a deep red, though, not orange. It's a great look - on a car!
It saddens me to think there was some redeeming value to the last guy I lived with. He would rub the lotion on my back. And here, all this time, I have been claiming he was good for nothing. Whodathunkit?
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Midlife Crisis
I am in the market for a car and something amazing has happened. All I notice are the cute little red cars on all the lots! I hate red. But I am drooling over fire engine, candy apple, torch and redfire! Man, there is a new Mustang GT Convertible with a 4.6 liter V8 that is to die for!
What happened to me? I generally shop for gas mileage and an interior the color of dog hair. I thought only men suddenly hit a stage where they had to have a sporty little red car.
I think it hit me when we took the boss out for her birthday lunch last fall. I rode with Martha in her Sebring convertible. On the ride back we had the top down and Alanis Morrisette blasting. Two middle-aged has-beens shouting, "You-you-you ought to know!" while the wind tossed our hair and our words tumbled down the road behind us.
It was so freeing! So different than banging my head to Nine-Inch Nails in a paint-chipped station wagon with "I (Heart) My Australian Shepherd" on the bumper.
So, in a midlife shift, is it the real you coming out, or a fantasy being you've been inventing all these years? All that time I thought I was a beat up, lifted 4WD pickup truck with a herding dog in the back, was I fooling myself? Could I really be a GT Premium 2 door convertible with bucket seats and leather interior? How could I not know this about myself?
If this is a sign of things to come, I can't wait to learn more about who I really am! I might beat my daughter in getting that Cotton Candy pink '68 Nova.
What happened to me? I generally shop for gas mileage and an interior the color of dog hair. I thought only men suddenly hit a stage where they had to have a sporty little red car.
I think it hit me when we took the boss out for her birthday lunch last fall. I rode with Martha in her Sebring convertible. On the ride back we had the top down and Alanis Morrisette blasting. Two middle-aged has-beens shouting, "You-you-you ought to know!" while the wind tossed our hair and our words tumbled down the road behind us.
It was so freeing! So different than banging my head to Nine-Inch Nails in a paint-chipped station wagon with "I (Heart) My Australian Shepherd" on the bumper.
So, in a midlife shift, is it the real you coming out, or a fantasy being you've been inventing all these years? All that time I thought I was a beat up, lifted 4WD pickup truck with a herding dog in the back, was I fooling myself? Could I really be a GT Premium 2 door convertible with bucket seats and leather interior? How could I not know this about myself?
If this is a sign of things to come, I can't wait to learn more about who I really am! I might beat my daughter in getting that Cotton Candy pink '68 Nova.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Out of the Loop and Onto the Track
For the first time in I don't know how many years, I turned on the Super Bowl. It's peer pressure, not interest. My world continues to revolve quite smoothly while I remain clueless about football. I understand the sport, even played some in high school (I was the only one of we four kids to come home with a black eye from playing football, I'll have you know). It's just that somewhere along the way I had to make choices on what to pay attention to and football lost out. That was somewhere around the time that the Rams moved to Anaheim.
I realized last year that I was missing a large cultural chink of life by missing the Super Bowl. I read some email from my quilting friends and they all were chattering about what Janet Jackson had done and what the repercussions would be. What did I miss?? Not a whole lot, in my book, but I still felt out of the loop.
I feel I know all that is important about professional football. I know the Cowboys are still in Dallas. I know Joe Gibbs owns Tony Stewart's Nextel Cup team. Terry Bradshaw co-owns a Busch racing team. Roger Staubach and Troy Aikman co-own a new Nextel Cup team. There are even a few other former NFLers trying to get a NASCAR team together.
So apparently I already know what the NFLers are just finding out: the real action is at the tracks!
I realized last year that I was missing a large cultural chink of life by missing the Super Bowl. I read some email from my quilting friends and they all were chattering about what Janet Jackson had done and what the repercussions would be. What did I miss?? Not a whole lot, in my book, but I still felt out of the loop.
I feel I know all that is important about professional football. I know the Cowboys are still in Dallas. I know Joe Gibbs owns Tony Stewart's Nextel Cup team. Terry Bradshaw co-owns a Busch racing team. Roger Staubach and Troy Aikman co-own a new Nextel Cup team. There are even a few other former NFLers trying to get a NASCAR team together.
So apparently I already know what the NFLers are just finding out: the real action is at the tracks!
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Undeniable Geekdom
I have been sorting through old pictures for the kids. Since I am not close enough for them to dig through albums whenever they need an identity fix, we agreed I'd scan just about everything and divide it all up.
Looking at old photos is great at rekindling fond memories, but it has opened my eyes to something I've been denying for more than 40 years. I am a geek!
I have tried hard to keep that under wraps and thought I was doing a great job, but I know now that I was only fooling myself.
One of daughter #1's favorite pictures is of me and the band. It's one of her "you were so cool, once!" photos. I have her fooled, too, apparently. Look closely at that picture. No, not at my outfit - it was a "Come as Your CB Handle" party and I was Lady Marmalade, the hooker known for gittin' her yayas. And, no, the fact that I chose a hooker for my CB handle doesn't make me a geek, nor does the fact I had a CB. This was a year or two before that convoy song ruined the radio waves and we could no longer find each other in the noise of 13 year olds trying to talk to truckers. And I figured having a hooker for a handle would make me cool.
Still haven't figured it out? Look at my hands, the right hand especially. See it? Yup, I am snapping to the beat. Who but a geek would snap along with Led Zepplin and Robin Trower? Yep, there I am watching Steve and Jeff jam to "Black Dog", snapping along til I can sing again! And it's permanently recorded, thanks to my photography buddy, Jeff.
All these years I thought I was a closet geek, but I find my closet had glass doors, and a camera lens pointed at it.
Looking at old photos is great at rekindling fond memories, but it has opened my eyes to something I've been denying for more than 40 years. I am a geek!
I have tried hard to keep that under wraps and thought I was doing a great job, but I know now that I was only fooling myself.
One of daughter #1's favorite pictures is of me and the band. It's one of her "you were so cool, once!" photos. I have her fooled, too, apparently. Look closely at that picture. No, not at my outfit - it was a "Come as Your CB Handle" party and I was Lady Marmalade, the hooker known for gittin' her yayas. And, no, the fact that I chose a hooker for my CB handle doesn't make me a geek, nor does the fact I had a CB. This was a year or two before that convoy song ruined the radio waves and we could no longer find each other in the noise of 13 year olds trying to talk to truckers. And I figured having a hooker for a handle would make me cool.
Still haven't figured it out? Look at my hands, the right hand especially. See it? Yup, I am snapping to the beat. Who but a geek would snap along with Led Zepplin and Robin Trower? Yep, there I am watching Steve and Jeff jam to "Black Dog", snapping along til I can sing again! And it's permanently recorded, thanks to my photography buddy, Jeff.
All these years I thought I was a closet geek, but I find my closet had glass doors, and a camera lens pointed at it.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
How Bad Have You Got It?
NASCAR.com has published their predictions for the 2006 season. Ryan Smithson has predicted the same thing I've been telling everyone. Casey Mears will have a breakout season this year! Mark Aumann thinks it'll happen at Texas. I don't care where it happens, as long as it does. My dog is getting tired of hearing me scream, "NOOOOOOOOOO!" when fate steps in (or the NASCAR officals who call a late race caution for a piece of lint on the track) and Casey loses his chance for a win.
Now, he's not the only driver I root for. I've been cheering on Tony Stewart since his open wheel days, and even have a few race programs from when he raced midgets. I came to NASCAR the day that the first of the Bakersfield Boys got a ride in a cup race. Kevin Harvick's first cup race was also Dale Earnhardt Sr.'s last. I almost didn't come back to the next race, but the pull to see if the kid who'd ruled the local tracks since he was old enough to drive was just too strong.
I've gotten to see Kevin win a few times, and finally had the chance to watch Tony take home the Cup, now all I need is for Casey to take the checkers. They'll probably hear me cheering all the way in Texas!
14 days til the Daytona 500.
Now, he's not the only driver I root for. I've been cheering on Tony Stewart since his open wheel days, and even have a few race programs from when he raced midgets. I came to NASCAR the day that the first of the Bakersfield Boys got a ride in a cup race. Kevin Harvick's first cup race was also Dale Earnhardt Sr.'s last. I almost didn't come back to the next race, but the pull to see if the kid who'd ruled the local tracks since he was old enough to drive was just too strong.
I've gotten to see Kevin win a few times, and finally had the chance to watch Tony take home the Cup, now all I need is for Casey to take the checkers. They'll probably hear me cheering all the way in Texas!
14 days til the Daytona 500.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Lost Memories
Have you ever wondered what happens to brain cells as we get older? Where do they go? When you lose your train of thought more and more often, what happened to the circuits that used to be there? How can we lose our minds that way?
What happens to brain cells when they are lost? When someone loses their keys, eventually someone else finds them. I know that when my girlfriends announce they have lost weight, I have often been the finder, if not the keeper.
Is someone collecting those lost brain cells? Do they come complete with thoughts or memories? What could you do with someone else's memories?
I wonder if you could trade your own worn or sorry memories in on something better. "I'll take those over there, the ones of the weekend at the river skinny-dipping with Tall, Dark and Quick on his Feet." "Do you have anything in French? I always wanted to learn to speak the language."
I used to think my kids were stealing my brain, but it's become obvious that ain't happening. They clearly have mimeographed copies of my cells, but no more working ones than I have. Poor kids.
What happens to brain cells when they are lost? When someone loses their keys, eventually someone else finds them. I know that when my girlfriends announce they have lost weight, I have often been the finder, if not the keeper.
Is someone collecting those lost brain cells? Do they come complete with thoughts or memories? What could you do with someone else's memories?
I wonder if you could trade your own worn or sorry memories in on something better. "I'll take those over there, the ones of the weekend at the river skinny-dipping with Tall, Dark and Quick on his Feet." "Do you have anything in French? I always wanted to learn to speak the language."
I used to think my kids were stealing my brain, but it's become obvious that ain't happening. They clearly have mimeographed copies of my cells, but no more working ones than I have. Poor kids.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Word of the Day: Resplendipity
Resplendipity: To be in love with John Cusack.
Now, aren't we all a little resplendipitous? Be honest, ladies. Are there any movies of his that you hated? Certainly some of his romance movies rate among the best, dating clear back to "Say Anything.". But then, how bad can any movie be with a song that says, "In your eyes I am complete."
Heavy sigh.
I really and truly became resplendipitous (yes, I am over-using that word, but really, am I ever going to be able to use it again once I finish this blog?) after seeing Serendipity with John and Kate Beckinsale. The premise was perfect - A couple reunites years after the night they first met, fell in love, and separated, convinced that one day they'd end up together.
Isn't that what romance movies and love songs are all about? Love will find a way. If two people are supposed to be together, they'll find each other, no matter what obstacles their lives have put between them. All it takes is a little serendipity.
Now, aren't we all a little resplendipitous? Be honest, ladies. Are there any movies of his that you hated? Certainly some of his romance movies rate among the best, dating clear back to "Say Anything.". But then, how bad can any movie be with a song that says, "In your eyes I am complete."
Heavy sigh.
I really and truly became resplendipitous (yes, I am over-using that word, but really, am I ever going to be able to use it again once I finish this blog?) after seeing Serendipity with John and Kate Beckinsale. The premise was perfect - A couple reunites years after the night they first met, fell in love, and separated, convinced that one day they'd end up together.
Isn't that what romance movies and love songs are all about? Love will find a way. If two people are supposed to be together, they'll find each other, no matter what obstacles their lives have put between them. All it takes is a little serendipity.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Rejection Number 3,496,283
I have been a member of most of the popular online dating services over the course of the last five years. It's an interesting way to meet people. There is one practice that I think all the services need to reevaluate. They tell you how many people you have been matched with, or how many people have viewed your profile.
It's then way too easy to click on the link that shows the number of people who were actually interested enough to contact you. Math is easy when at least one of the numbers is a single digit, so I know at a glance how many guys had no desire to talk to me.
My biggest problem is that I want to know why. I am more intrigued some days by the people who keep moving down the line than by those who write. Maybe because I am comfortable with who I am, I want to know what they are looking for. Ever the "nice" girl, I even have told some people where to look for what they want.
Some days, though, if I'm not careful, it's almost like a rejection. "All you guys checked me out and not one of you thought to say hi?"
The really scary part is that I am looking for one right person in a sea of "they'd do in a pinch." How many men are there in this world, now? So how many of them have to keep moving on before I find the right one?
I'd better get busy. This could take a while!
It's then way too easy to click on the link that shows the number of people who were actually interested enough to contact you. Math is easy when at least one of the numbers is a single digit, so I know at a glance how many guys had no desire to talk to me.
My biggest problem is that I want to know why. I am more intrigued some days by the people who keep moving down the line than by those who write. Maybe because I am comfortable with who I am, I want to know what they are looking for. Ever the "nice" girl, I even have told some people where to look for what they want.
Some days, though, if I'm not careful, it's almost like a rejection. "All you guys checked me out and not one of you thought to say hi?"
The really scary part is that I am looking for one right person in a sea of "they'd do in a pinch." How many men are there in this world, now? So how many of them have to keep moving on before I find the right one?
I'd better get busy. This could take a while!
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Goals
A person's goals can tell you a lot about them. Upon self-reflection, that has me worried! I am not a big dreamer. I have no desire to conquer Annapurna, sail around the Horn, or discover the cure for cancer. Well, I'd love it if someone found the cure for cancer, but I am probably not the best candidate for that.
Having reached the goal of raising two amazing daughters to adulthood, I occasionally find myself wandering with a blank stare wondering what to do with the rest of my life. I decided to take notes as ideas come to me. It's important for everyone to have something to work toward, a few big things to attempt before blinking and realizing your chances have all passed.
Goal #1: Learn to shake my ass like the backup dancer in Ricky Martin's Livin' La Vida Loca video.
Now, this is a skill I can use at some point! If I climbed a mountain, I'd have some pictures and frostbite scars to show off at parties. Big deal. But, if I learned to shake my ass like that dancer, just think of the impression I could make dancing at my daughter's wedding! She'd probably be right beside me, shakin' her thang!
I haven't told my daughter about my goal yet. I thought it'd be better to just spring it on her when the time comes. I already know her reply, it's an old standard. "You explain so much about me."
Having reached the goal of raising two amazing daughters to adulthood, I occasionally find myself wandering with a blank stare wondering what to do with the rest of my life. I decided to take notes as ideas come to me. It's important for everyone to have something to work toward, a few big things to attempt before blinking and realizing your chances have all passed.
Goal #1: Learn to shake my ass like the backup dancer in Ricky Martin's Livin' La Vida Loca video.
Now, this is a skill I can use at some point! If I climbed a mountain, I'd have some pictures and frostbite scars to show off at parties. Big deal. But, if I learned to shake my ass like that dancer, just think of the impression I could make dancing at my daughter's wedding! She'd probably be right beside me, shakin' her thang!
I haven't told my daughter about my goal yet. I thought it'd be better to just spring it on her when the time comes. I already know her reply, it's an old standard. "You explain so much about me."
Monday, January 30, 2006
Mouse, Part Deux
I realized as I typed that title just how apropos it is, when I am sitting here worrying about finding mouse part trois, quatre and cinq!
Rescue Kitty (her name is Sophia, but she doesn't respond to it yet) has suddenly remembered that cats catch mice.
I was walking past the fridge into the laundry room when I heard weird noises behind the fridge. Big weird noises. Suddenly, Rescue Kitty came scooting out backwards as fast as a cat can scoot in an area just narrower than she is! Then she ducked her head back behind the fridge.
Uh-oh! She found something! She crawled completely under the fridge for a moment, then scooted out backward - with a baby mouse hanging from her mouth! I was close enough that if I shrieked, she would have dropped the mouse on my feet. Whatever else happened, I did NOT want that mouse on my feet!
I scooted backward out of the kitchen at about the same speed she had moved from behind the fridge, trying so hard to keep my "Woody, there's a bug" noises to myself. I didn't want Woody, the dog, to come flying in and startle the cat into dropping the mouse.
Kitty took the mouse to her room. I tiptoed down and peeked around the door to see what she would do with it. She had it between her paws. I wasn't getting close enough to see what she was doing - I had no desire to see parts, innards, guts, etc! Worse, she might get distracted and the mouse might run my way!
I had to get to work, so I don't know what became of the mouse. I recalled as I drove that I hadn't made my bed. Man, I hope whatever she does to the mouse, it's not done in my bed!
I think I liked it better when she ignored the mice. At least then I wasn't worrying about Mouse, Part Trois ending up under my covers!
Rescue Kitty (her name is Sophia, but she doesn't respond to it yet) has suddenly remembered that cats catch mice.
I was walking past the fridge into the laundry room when I heard weird noises behind the fridge. Big weird noises. Suddenly, Rescue Kitty came scooting out backwards as fast as a cat can scoot in an area just narrower than she is! Then she ducked her head back behind the fridge.
Uh-oh! She found something! She crawled completely under the fridge for a moment, then scooted out backward - with a baby mouse hanging from her mouth! I was close enough that if I shrieked, she would have dropped the mouse on my feet. Whatever else happened, I did NOT want that mouse on my feet!
I scooted backward out of the kitchen at about the same speed she had moved from behind the fridge, trying so hard to keep my "Woody, there's a bug" noises to myself. I didn't want Woody, the dog, to come flying in and startle the cat into dropping the mouse.
Kitty took the mouse to her room. I tiptoed down and peeked around the door to see what she would do with it. She had it between her paws. I wasn't getting close enough to see what she was doing - I had no desire to see parts, innards, guts, etc! Worse, she might get distracted and the mouse might run my way!
I had to get to work, so I don't know what became of the mouse. I recalled as I drove that I hadn't made my bed. Man, I hope whatever she does to the mouse, it's not done in my bed!
I think I liked it better when she ignored the mice. At least then I wasn't worrying about Mouse, Part Trois ending up under my covers!
Sunday, January 29, 2006
It's B.P. Day!
It's here, Bad Picture Day! I rolled out of bed, dressed and ran to the store only to park in front of a sign in the store window that said, "Don't Even Think About Parking Your Big Rear Here." Bad Omen.
At least I discovered my wallet was missing before I got in the store.
On my second trip to the store, I parked in front of an ad for chew. Grabbed a newspaper, and a 44 oz. diet Coke and flew home. I had to reconfirm that picture was as bad as I remember.
It was worse! Oh, Man! Ladies, throw away all your fat clothes now, disarm your snooze alarm, and vow never to leave the house looking like I did that day!
The ad is a half page. Doesn't my boss look perky and cute? And don't I look - geez, don't I look efficient? I look like the girl in school you hoped was going to grow up to be good at something because that was the only life she'd ever have!
"I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER leave the house looking like that!"
Heck, I think I'll start dressing nicer even to sleep, just in case. Full make-up, the works! Obviously, one can never tell when a camera might appear to ruin your life.
Thank goodness the presentation photo turned out okay, and I'm right next to my buddy, Martha! As Leasing Director, she picked up the award for The Montclair. There was a great picture of the resident who won for Best Volunteer, too. I think we should have put her in the ad, not me! Then we could have blown up her photo to a 4-foot banner. Much better advertising, I think, to say we have the best residents around. Not the best puffy lime green receptionist.
At least I discovered my wallet was missing before I got in the store.
On my second trip to the store, I parked in front of an ad for chew. Grabbed a newspaper, and a 44 oz. diet Coke and flew home. I had to reconfirm that picture was as bad as I remember.
It was worse! Oh, Man! Ladies, throw away all your fat clothes now, disarm your snooze alarm, and vow never to leave the house looking like I did that day!
The ad is a half page. Doesn't my boss look perky and cute? And don't I look - geez, don't I look efficient? I look like the girl in school you hoped was going to grow up to be good at something because that was the only life she'd ever have!
"I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER leave the house looking like that!"
Heck, I think I'll start dressing nicer even to sleep, just in case. Full make-up, the works! Obviously, one can never tell when a camera might appear to ruin your life.
Thank goodness the presentation photo turned out okay, and I'm right next to my buddy, Martha! As Leasing Director, she picked up the award for The Montclair. There was a great picture of the resident who won for Best Volunteer, too. I think we should have put her in the ad, not me! Then we could have blown up her photo to a 4-foot banner. Much better advertising, I think, to say we have the best residents around. Not the best puffy lime green receptionist.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Instant Karma
I am not sure if I have pissed off the gods of reception or what, but life has just gotten worse. They took that picture of the Best Old Puffy Green Receptionist and Her Boss and blew it up into a 4-foot banner and posterboard!
Imagine the worst picture ever taken of you - oops, I forgot about 7th grade! Okay, take the second-worst picture ever taken of you and blow it up so big that even your dermatologist wouldn't recognize those pores! And it's not like they airbrush it or anything. I can't go into work on Monday; I can't spend a week or more staring at myself made broader than a barn.
I wonder what kind of offering one can make to appease the gods of reception. I would be more than happy to sacrifice a phone line or two, burn a few pages of messages while I chant, "I will answer all calls by the second ring. I will answer all calls..."
On the other hand, begging might just piss them off more. I could wake up to find myself plastered on a billboard. No wait, that sounds like I am drunk on a billboard and I've promised my kids never to be found that way again. I might find my picture plastered on a billboard.
I'd better pass on the sacrifice. It'd be awful to find out just how vengeful the reception gods can be.
Imagine the worst picture ever taken of you - oops, I forgot about 7th grade! Okay, take the second-worst picture ever taken of you and blow it up so big that even your dermatologist wouldn't recognize those pores! And it's not like they airbrush it or anything. I can't go into work on Monday; I can't spend a week or more staring at myself made broader than a barn.
I wonder what kind of offering one can make to appease the gods of reception. I would be more than happy to sacrifice a phone line or two, burn a few pages of messages while I chant, "I will answer all calls by the second ring. I will answer all calls..."
On the other hand, begging might just piss them off more. I could wake up to find myself plastered on a billboard. No wait, that sounds like I am drunk on a billboard and I've promised my kids never to be found that way again. I might find my picture plastered on a billboard.
I'd better pass on the sacrifice. It'd be awful to find out just how vengeful the reception gods can be.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Morning Eye Opener
I moved 1600 miles from L.A. to get away from traffic, and I recently began to miss the 405 at dawn! I didn't think that was possible!
I have a thirteen-mile drive to work, the first block and last mile of which are on surface roads. The rest are on Missouri highways and the one small stretch they call a freeway. The speed limit is 60 but commuters don't go under 70, except when there is a red light.
Some mornings we are bunched together like we're on the track at Bristol, although we're only doing 70. It never fails, though, that two idiots will come weaving through like they think they have a faster car or truck! Where are they gonna go? We'll all end up bunched back together at the next signal, anyway!
Then we hit the freeway stretch and everyone slows to 60, except those two guys. The guy in front of me thinks his brake pedal is a percussion instrument. I'm never sure which taps are because of the traffic in front of him and which are for rhythm.
If I leave 5 minutes too late, traffic on my exit will be backed up. I swear there are only about 150,000 people here in Springfield; what are they all doing on my offramp? There are three colleges up the road from my work - do all morning classes start at 8:05? Because that's what time I end up arriving if I get stuck behind these guys!
I miss real traffic jams. You knew that traffic would slow as you approached Burbank Blvd., and not get moving again until somewhere after my exit. You'd see the same people in the lanes around you as you met up in traffic every day. There's Bagel Girl, and Cordless Shaver Guy. Oh, and the Girl That Puts On her Mascara as we stop at the 101.
You also knew that if traffic slowed anywhere other than the usual spots, there'd be no trace of an accident when you got there. And if Skylord in the traffic copter warned you about a jam, it'd be gone by the time you got there.
The good old days...when it took sixty minutes to drive a thirty-mile commute.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Word of the Day: Oooga Chacka
Oooga Chacka: Swahili for “I love my job.”
I did my semi annual changing of the CDs in my car’s CD changer this morning. I grabbed several discs that were collections from my daughter. At one point, while sitting at a stoplight, a new song began. “Oooga chacka, oooga chacka...”
Do you know how hard it is to not sing along with that? I hate stoplights for just that reason, it’s too easy to get caught singing along with stupid stuff. I get the giggles trying to sit still and not make a fool of myself like I do whenever I hear “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
I also realized that the phrase was going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. When bosses are standing over my desk wondering why I haven’t finished a task and they are completely oblivious to the 5 pages of phone messages I have taken already this morning, I can just start singing in my head, “Ooga chacka, oooga chacka, oooga oooga...” and keep a smile on my face! It’s much more fun that repeating, “I love my job...”
Care to join me? Oooga chacka, oooga chacka...
I did my semi annual changing of the CDs in my car’s CD changer this morning. I grabbed several discs that were collections from my daughter. At one point, while sitting at a stoplight, a new song began. “Oooga chacka, oooga chacka...”
Do you know how hard it is to not sing along with that? I hate stoplights for just that reason, it’s too easy to get caught singing along with stupid stuff. I get the giggles trying to sit still and not make a fool of myself like I do whenever I hear “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
I also realized that the phrase was going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. When bosses are standing over my desk wondering why I haven’t finished a task and they are completely oblivious to the 5 pages of phone messages I have taken already this morning, I can just start singing in my head, “Ooga chacka, oooga chacka, oooga oooga...” and keep a smile on my face! It’s much more fun that repeating, “I love my job...”
Care to join me? Oooga chacka, oooga chacka...
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Letting Go
Word went round today that Hospice has been called in for one of my favorite ladies. Now, she's 97 and fought her way back after an infection so she could come home to die. At a certain age, it should be easy to say, "She's lived a good life," and let them go. So why is it so hard?
I have all the beliefs I need to know why it's good for her to move on, and I know her husband is right there holding the door. I will miss that smile, and the twinkle in her eye that only 97 years of love can bring. And I'll miss the love she offers with a gentle look. Thank goodness love doesn't fade away.
I have all the beliefs I need to know why it's good for her to move on, and I know her husband is right there holding the door. I will miss that smile, and the twinkle in her eye that only 97 years of love can bring. And I'll miss the love she offers with a gentle look. Thank goodness love doesn't fade away.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Growing Old Gracefully
Being surrounded by the senior set five days a week, I have ample time to observe the personalities around me. There are varying degrees of aging and widely varying degrees of reaction to it. I often wonder what I will be like when my body begins to fade more rapidly.
Alzheimer's and dementia haven't made an appearance in my family, as far as I know, so I don't have to worry about losing my mind. Losing my glasses, my keys and my teeth are another story. It's been a good fifteen years or more since the time we discovered my glasses in the refrigerator, so I would say I am past that point already. Everyone loses their keys - that's why they made beeping key chains.
Misplacing my dentures has me worried. All my teeth are firmly attached right now, so this isn't an immediate threat, but after one incident at work I have my fears. A woman came up to me and said she needed the driver to go back to her hairdresser. I thought she might have misplaced her wallet, as that happens often. No, she had misplaced her teeth.
It has been a good month now since that day, and for the life of me, I can't come up with a scenario that involves taking out my teeth to have my hair done!
I am forgetful. I have a horrible habit of setting things down without paying attention. I have three pairs of sewing scissors and can only lay my hands on one at this moment. Every time I glance down at my purse in the car and realize my cell phone is back at the house, I wonder, how long before I am leaving my teeth behind?
It makes one think, and adds some pretty strange items to the list of qualities I want in my Dream Guy.
#263 - must be willing to go back to wherever I left my teeth and claim them for me.
Alzheimer's and dementia haven't made an appearance in my family, as far as I know, so I don't have to worry about losing my mind. Losing my glasses, my keys and my teeth are another story. It's been a good fifteen years or more since the time we discovered my glasses in the refrigerator, so I would say I am past that point already. Everyone loses their keys - that's why they made beeping key chains.
Misplacing my dentures has me worried. All my teeth are firmly attached right now, so this isn't an immediate threat, but after one incident at work I have my fears. A woman came up to me and said she needed the driver to go back to her hairdresser. I thought she might have misplaced her wallet, as that happens often. No, she had misplaced her teeth.
It has been a good month now since that day, and for the life of me, I can't come up with a scenario that involves taking out my teeth to have my hair done!
I am forgetful. I have a horrible habit of setting things down without paying attention. I have three pairs of sewing scissors and can only lay my hands on one at this moment. Every time I glance down at my purse in the car and realize my cell phone is back at the house, I wonder, how long before I am leaving my teeth behind?
It makes one think, and adds some pretty strange items to the list of qualities I want in my Dream Guy.
#263 - must be willing to go back to wherever I left my teeth and claim them for me.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
We Have a Mouse!
Somehow, this is more important to me than to the dog, puppy, bird or cat. Yes, cat! She is apparently clueless about her role in life. The puppy heard me howl and thought she'd done something wrong. The dog knows that noise, after nine years with me, but he usually equates it with Mom finding a spider. He did at least come to the door to find out what I'd found this time. Of course, by then, the mouse had scurried across the back of the counter, across the stove and through the opening in the metal dish-thingie that sits beneath the burners.
The bird only notices mice when they try and sneak through the bars of his cage to steal his food. He stalks closer, raps his beak against the perch a few times, then opens his beak threateningly. Apparently, mice don't speak bird, they continue to steal his food.
Until today, I thought I had plugged all the mouse doors into this house. I expected to find some when I moved in here; I have a field to the west and woods to the south. The little packets of poison in the kitchen cupboard were another clue. Yet, I hadn't run into any mice before now.
I know the fastest way to fix things is with traps, but they don't work for me. My first home in Missouri was a beautiful rock house in the country surrounded by acres and acres of grass and cattle. And mice. So, I bought those little wooden traps and baited them with peanut butter.
They worked beautifully! But then I had to deal with disposing of them. There was no way I was going to get close enough to a dead mouse to open the trap and dump it, so the whole trap had to go. Picking up the trap also meant getting close to the mouse. I finally figured out how to manipulate a broom to sweep a trap out of the oddest spots, such as the shelf in the closet. My broom often had traces of peanut butter when I wanted to sweep the floor.
Throwing away those little wooden traps seemed wasteful, so I tried those sticky traps. Big mistake!
I sat in front of the TV one morning and heard a strange noise coming from the kitchen. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-taptaptap!
I tiptoed in and turned on a light, trusty big dog right behind me.
Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap!
On top of the stove, a poor mouse had one back leg stuck to the trap and was trying to shake it off! He couldn't run away, and my attempts to get closer only brought on a wilder tap dance. I opened the back door, grabbed my broom and moved in.
Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap!
I had to get past the stove to get the right angle to swat the mouse and trap across the room and out the door. I prayed he wouldn't get dislodged from the trap and soar off into the bedroom. Swing one tossed him on the floor. Swing two caught the broom bristles on the trap. Swing three sent trap and mouse flying out the back door.
I finally got the courage some time later to look outside and see what became of the mouse. I am still not sure. When I looked, the old dog was walking around the yard trying to shake the sticky trap off her front paw.
Tap-tap-tap-! Tap-tap-tap!
The bird only notices mice when they try and sneak through the bars of his cage to steal his food. He stalks closer, raps his beak against the perch a few times, then opens his beak threateningly. Apparently, mice don't speak bird, they continue to steal his food.
Until today, I thought I had plugged all the mouse doors into this house. I expected to find some when I moved in here; I have a field to the west and woods to the south. The little packets of poison in the kitchen cupboard were another clue. Yet, I hadn't run into any mice before now.
I know the fastest way to fix things is with traps, but they don't work for me. My first home in Missouri was a beautiful rock house in the country surrounded by acres and acres of grass and cattle. And mice. So, I bought those little wooden traps and baited them with peanut butter.
They worked beautifully! But then I had to deal with disposing of them. There was no way I was going to get close enough to a dead mouse to open the trap and dump it, so the whole trap had to go. Picking up the trap also meant getting close to the mouse. I finally figured out how to manipulate a broom to sweep a trap out of the oddest spots, such as the shelf in the closet. My broom often had traces of peanut butter when I wanted to sweep the floor.
Throwing away those little wooden traps seemed wasteful, so I tried those sticky traps. Big mistake!
I sat in front of the TV one morning and heard a strange noise coming from the kitchen. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-taptaptap!
I tiptoed in and turned on a light, trusty big dog right behind me.
Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap!
On top of the stove, a poor mouse had one back leg stuck to the trap and was trying to shake it off! He couldn't run away, and my attempts to get closer only brought on a wilder tap dance. I opened the back door, grabbed my broom and moved in.
Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap!
I had to get past the stove to get the right angle to swat the mouse and trap across the room and out the door. I prayed he wouldn't get dislodged from the trap and soar off into the bedroom. Swing one tossed him on the floor. Swing two caught the broom bristles on the trap. Swing three sent trap and mouse flying out the back door.
I finally got the courage some time later to look outside and see what became of the mouse. I am still not sure. When I looked, the old dog was walking around the yard trying to shake the sticky trap off her front paw.
Tap-tap-tap-! Tap-tap-tap!
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Word of the Day: Dismembered
Dismembered: to no longer be a member of a group or organization.
My daughter said her stepsister was writing a letter to an organization saying she wanted to be dismembered. This seems a rather drastic measure for not wanting to participate!
Now, there are some organizations that cost an arm or a leg to join, but I guess if you know that going in, that's a choice you make. I don't know that I'd want to lose one to get out.
Of course, there are situations you wouldn't mind losing an arm or leg to, to get out. Think of "coyote ugly", where you wake up next to someone you don't remember meeting, and he or she looks bad enough that you'd rather chew your own arm off than wake them, getting up.
I've only heard about these one-nighters, you understand! I generally have to live with someone a month or two before I wake up wondering who the heck they are and what was I thinking?
So, would the antonym be remembered? And in the case of coyote ugly, do you really want to be remembered?
My daughter said her stepsister was writing a letter to an organization saying she wanted to be dismembered. This seems a rather drastic measure for not wanting to participate!
Now, there are some organizations that cost an arm or a leg to join, but I guess if you know that going in, that's a choice you make. I don't know that I'd want to lose one to get out.
Of course, there are situations you wouldn't mind losing an arm or leg to, to get out. Think of "coyote ugly", where you wake up next to someone you don't remember meeting, and he or she looks bad enough that you'd rather chew your own arm off than wake them, getting up.
I've only heard about these one-nighters, you understand! I generally have to live with someone a month or two before I wake up wondering who the heck they are and what was I thinking?
So, would the antonym be remembered? And in the case of coyote ugly, do you really want to be remembered?
Friday, January 20, 2006
Walk a Mile in Her Shoes
Yippee! They took my picture receiving my plaque last night! The Lime Green Blob photo is for an ad only.
Among those getting plaques and photos was one of our residents, who was voted the Best Volunteer. She had understood that she and other volunteers were being recognized, but then learned she had received the most votes. What fun to see her glow in her award! She is one of my heroes, pushing 90 and still volunteers every week at a charity thrift store. She also comes back from her Mall Walk every morning about the time I am stumbling in to work.
Many of the women there are walkers. There is a group of them with pedometers who log their mileage weekly. They have just finished walking across the U.S. and are now taking on Europe. I have been shamed into doing my own laps in or around the building, trying to keep up. I can't have women twice my age out-walking me!
I can see it now: As we leave the starting point at Edinburgh, I'll be dog paddling across the English Channel while these gals are hot dogging it through Eastern Slobovia! Maybe I can march in place at my reception desk as I type. Do you think anyone would notice?
Okay, do you think anyone would think me odd?
Well, what's new!
Among those getting plaques and photos was one of our residents, who was voted the Best Volunteer. She had understood that she and other volunteers were being recognized, but then learned she had received the most votes. What fun to see her glow in her award! She is one of my heroes, pushing 90 and still volunteers every week at a charity thrift store. She also comes back from her Mall Walk every morning about the time I am stumbling in to work.
Many of the women there are walkers. There is a group of them with pedometers who log their mileage weekly. They have just finished walking across the U.S. and are now taking on Europe. I have been shamed into doing my own laps in or around the building, trying to keep up. I can't have women twice my age out-walking me!
I can see it now: As we leave the starting point at Edinburgh, I'll be dog paddling across the English Channel while these gals are hot dogging it through Eastern Slobovia! Maybe I can march in place at my reception desk as I type. Do you think anyone would notice?
Okay, do you think anyone would think me odd?
Well, what's new!
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Word of the Day: Professionable
Professionable: The appearance of having the ability to perform the duties required by one's profession.
Today's the big to-do where I receive my plaque, and according to the invitation, have my photo snapped. Hey, I can still dream, can't I, that they'll take a photo tonight to replace the big green blob one? For the sake of the dream, we'll pretend we don't know that my boss won't be there to have her picture retaken, because they want her in the picture, too, so we can really pump up the promo that we really are the best place to live for the over 55 crowd.
Whoa, "over 55". We don't have anyone there that young; our youngest is in her 70s. I am closing in on over 55 much more rapidly than I'd like to! In a few years, okay, 9 or so, I could be living there! Except for one thing - the studio apartments rent for more than my take home pay. But, still, why did I have to go and realize how close I am to being able to qualify for senior living facilities?
Shoot. I guess they'd better change my plaque to read, "Best Old Puffy Lime Green Receptionist in the Ozarks."
Today's the big to-do where I receive my plaque, and according to the invitation, have my photo snapped. Hey, I can still dream, can't I, that they'll take a photo tonight to replace the big green blob one? For the sake of the dream, we'll pretend we don't know that my boss won't be there to have her picture retaken, because they want her in the picture, too, so we can really pump up the promo that we really are the best place to live for the over 55 crowd.
Whoa, "over 55". We don't have anyone there that young; our youngest is in her 70s. I am closing in on over 55 much more rapidly than I'd like to! In a few years, okay, 9 or so, I could be living there! Except for one thing - the studio apartments rent for more than my take home pay. But, still, why did I have to go and realize how close I am to being able to qualify for senior living facilities?
Shoot. I guess they'd better change my plaque to read, "Best Old Puffy Lime Green Receptionist in the Ozarks."
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
"It's a good picture!"
I saw the picture for the ad. You know, the one for the Best Puffy Lime Green Receptionist in the Ozarks. Everyone at work comments, "It's a good picture!" This worries me. Is that what I really look like? No way!
Yes, way, apparently. Except for the fact that no one ever recognizes me with my hair pulled back, which means I don't really look like the picture. Especially in my head.
Of course, it's probably a long time since I actually looked like I do in my head. I still have big 80s hair there (man, I miss my 80s hair! It looks like that naturally!) and the body of a 20-something. Admittedly, I also sound like a Valley Girl in my head, but, like, you know, sometimes that's totally tubular!
It must be why I don't like pictures taken of me - they look nothing like I think I look.
Not long before she passed away, my grandmother told my sister that she still felt like a teenager in her head. Is it genetic, or is it universal? One of my friends at work just turned 101 years old and she is one of the youngest people I've met. She is the snappiest dresser and always has a pocketbook to match the outfit, and a bow in her hair or a hat. She goes out more often than I do (okay, that's not saying a whole lot), just go, go, go.
I wonder how old she looks in her head?
Yes, way, apparently. Except for the fact that no one ever recognizes me with my hair pulled back, which means I don't really look like the picture. Especially in my head.
Of course, it's probably a long time since I actually looked like I do in my head. I still have big 80s hair there (man, I miss my 80s hair! It looks like that naturally!) and the body of a 20-something. Admittedly, I also sound like a Valley Girl in my head, but, like, you know, sometimes that's totally tubular!
It must be why I don't like pictures taken of me - they look nothing like I think I look.
Not long before she passed away, my grandmother told my sister that she still felt like a teenager in her head. Is it genetic, or is it universal? One of my friends at work just turned 101 years old and she is one of the youngest people I've met. She is the snappiest dresser and always has a pocketbook to match the outfit, and a bow in her hair or a hat. She goes out more often than I do (okay, that's not saying a whole lot), just go, go, go.
I wonder how old she looks in her head?
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Word of the Day: Delationship
Many of you have been in a delationship and you didn't even know it. It's where one or both parties feel the need to slow things down a bit. Often, this can come at a point where one feels the need to slam on the brakes, but other times it is just a gradual cooling of the passions that drew the two of you together.
Monday, January 16, 2006
It Sucks to be Me
Friday was one of those days, and I swear it had nothing to do with being the 13th. It's because my guardian angel has the sense of humor of the Monty Python group and has been reading too much Bridget Jones.
I probably should have called in sick, but feeling "puffy" doesn't seem to fall under the company guidelines of when to stay home. Instead, I hit the snooze button and rolled over. The next time the alarm chimed I decided I could get 20 more minutes of sleep if I didn't wash my hair. A pony tail would suffice, along with my fat pants and a shapeless lime green silk blouse that is so bright, no one can focus on me long enough to notice I felt larger than life.
All the Preparation H in the world could not have shrunk those bags under my eyes brought on by that extra half-hour of sleep. Those puppies needed a training bra! Most of the people I come in contact with during the day are over 80 and have to get nose to nose to see who they are talking to, so they probably wouldn't notice my bags.
My evil guardian angel struck around 9 a.m. The ad man from our local paper came in, camera in tow. We love our local newspaper for giving us the opportunity to participate in their annual "Best Of..." contest. For the third time, we've just been voted the "Best Retirement Community in the Ozarks!" My boss got runner-up for Best Boss, and I won the Best Receptionist category.
Can I help it that, when picturing the Best Receptionist in the Ozarks, my cynical Southern Cal attitude problem conjures up the Hee Haw girls in their Daisy Dukes, pigtails and gingham blouses?
When I had gotten my invitation to the newspaper's awards function, I immediately thought professional dress. What an opportunity! This would be the perfect place to Meet Men. Successful Men. My fellow "Best Of" winners. Then I read more and saw the mention of a photograph for the "Best Of" section in an upcoming Sunday edition. Ugh, pictures! I tried some calming visualization techniques to skirt the rising panic attack.
Pictures are a good thing. You've been needing a current picture to send to people. And hey, maybe The Guy will see your picture in the paper and come find you. Heck, maybe hoards of guys will show up, purporting to need Distinctive Living in a Family Atmosphere for their parents, but really wanting to find out if the Best Receptionist could truly exist...
Whoa, is that where my mind went when I neglected to send those two sick tray orders to the kitchen? Some ailing seniors had to survive on water and crackers from their cupboards because I forgot to order their Chicken Maryland and Brussels Sprouts. Can they take my award away for that?
No need. Fate stepped in when the Ad Man waved his camera my way. "Come on into the boss's office and we'll get a picture of the two of you for the paper."
There was my boss, pertly wearing her Thin Clothes thanks to the 20 pounds she has recently lost, trying to tame her sexy, wind-tossed curls into something closer to her usual professional bun. Life just ain't fair, I thought, moving next to her and trying to decide which of my ears stuck out less with my pony tail. Do I even have a good side? Maybe the loud green shirt would reflect the flash of the camera, distorting the focus, necessitating a reshoot.
The Ad Man did say he'd give us the opportunity to request a new photo on Wednesday. I asked my boss what the chances are of my losing 20 pounds in 5 days. Come to think of it, just wearing a blouse that fits would knock 10 off that picture! And losing the eye luggage, another 5. The boss looks great, though, so I can't count on a retake. I will be immortalized as a puffy green receptionist. But hey, I'm the best puffy green receptionist in the Ozarks!
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