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.
Friday, February 17, 2006
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.
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