Today I took down the Christmas tree...

Farewell until next December ornaments, lights that will spend the next 11 months snarling themselves into a ball of plastic yarn, itty-bitty pieces of red and green flotsam and jetsam, wreaths and floral displays, favorite books with Christmas themes, garlands, bows, ribbon, 16 boxes of ornament hangers (that are never found until the next box is purchased), replacement light bulbs that never fit the current string of lights I own, snow village with fake, fluffy field of snowness upon which you rest, candles that are for "show" only and shall never feel the spark and heat of a match. Everything has now been properly returned to its storage place. But Christmas memories are never very far away, because I'll be finding needles from my tree from now until next December...

Christmas blues...

and we're not talking song styles here. I don't want to be where I currently am for Christmas. I want to be in NY with my family. I've have failed the "you'd better not pout" part of Santa coming to town and I will probably have a big lump of coal in my stocking, but I don't care. I don't want to just dream about being "home for Christmas". I want to be there! Okay. The whining is now over...at least for the moment, and I will look for positive things to do this Christmas instead of complaining about what I don't get to do. I'm looking... I'm looking some more... I'm really, really looking hard... I think it's time for some fudge!

Dashing through the snow...

in a one-horse open sleigh...well, that's not exactly how moderns shop here in California as the days until Christmas dwindle down. It's more like "racing through the streets in a big, honkin, elevated pickup truck". We don't have snow and we don't have any sleighs that I've seen in the last three one-half years since I took up residence in the Northern California climes. We don't dash either, we full-out gun it down the roadways, scaring small children, all pets, the elderly and the cautious. We do, however, on occasion and in an off-road vehicle "over the fields we go laughing all the way". Actually, it's maniacally laughing all the way, but that throws the rhythmn of the song off. There are no "bells on bobtails ring"ing, but there are some mighty big horns honking and our spirits aren't very bright but that's probably because we spend too much time in our big trucks and most of the citizens here don't think it's fun to laugh and sing the sleighing song tonight or any other time. Here we have gangs and they sing the slaying song--similar sound, completely different thought process and (pardon the pun) execution.

Maybe the crowd here would have a better time of it with "Here Comes Santa Claus", especially the part about pouting and crying and shouting. Then again, if I made that suggestion, maybe they'd just run over me with their big truck, hold up the
7-11, and as they were making their getaway, shout "and to all a good night". Ho, ho, ho!

When toilets run wild...

I am here at home typing away on my keyboard while a plumber is happily disassembling my toilet so it will stop leaking onto the floor--sounds like my toilet might have bladder problems. I am counting the minutes and the Cha-ching involved in each and every one. Hopefully my toilet's malady will not be the equivalent of a plumber's version of "So You Want to Be a Millionaire". It's amazing how vulnerable most of us are when it comes to fixing complicated elements or systems in our homes. I've watched countless videos on TV about "How to Fix Your Own Toilet", but I still feel it is a daunting task with lots of room for watery error, so the most adventuresome thing I do is to change the toilet paper, and, if I'm feeling extra daring, I change from white toilet paper to something patterned or colored! Woohoo!

Well, I can hear my plumber friend flushing the toilet and I am further reminded of the money that is waving goodbye to me as it swirls away and down, down, down, never to be seen again. Easy come, easy go. I'm feeling flushed (pun intended).

And just when my delusional thinking was kicking in--I was beginning to think that having the water leak out onto the floor was actually a bonus because my floor around the toilet was extra clean--the plumber finished his job and I'll have to return to using a mop and eating peanut butter sandwiches for dinner until I pay for the plumber's child's first year at college...

Why little things make a BIG impression...

It's Sunday night and I have a horrible earache. I thought maybe a spidey had jumped into my ear by mistake--like it wouldn't know the difference between my gaping mouth with the drool and my little pink ear with the small opening!--but whatever the cause, I've been whining since Thursday night when the ear achticus strucketh. I finally went to an urgent care facility yesterday afternoon where a doctor proved that masochism is alive and well in this country--as she poked her ear look into thingy around inside my very painful outer ear canal (which was closed for business). She said she hadn't seen such a swollen canal in a very long time. I just love being a "superlative". I'm soon off to bed where I'll put 10 drops into my totally closed ear and will experience about 2 1/2 hours of sheer, torturous pain as the medicine slowly (and I do mean excruciatingly slowly) drizzles its way down my ear canal which burns like a house on fire. I never thought pain medication was a great thing, but I have converted. Unfortunately, I only have Advil, so my pain takes a long time to subside. I've been thinking of hunting down the pain medication given to my Mom last year at this time and taking that, but it would probably just make me more of a lame-brained almost-senior-citizen than I already am. I'm trying not to embarrass my family, my friends or myself, so I think I'll just stick to Advil and hope that it doesn't take the full seven days of ear drops to clear up... My ear is such a little thing, but it certainly can shout out when it wants to. I vow now to never understimate the power of little things and the impressions they can make in our lives (or at least in our ear canals)!

Make up your mind and then you're done...

Did you know that in current political circles and debates and debates about circles that an individual contemplating election to the office of the President of the United States is never allowed to change his or her mind? It doesn't matter if you have matured, found new information that causes you to re-think a former opinion or position on some topic, or that your life experiences have pushed you to re-consider what you once thought earlier was carved in stone. Nope, it doesn't matter why you might shift your thoughts, the media and your arch enemies (or opponents in the race) will call you a big, fat liar and make you feel ashamed and foolish or at least put a dent in your political efforts. It doesn't matter if the opinion you formed was in third grade, or while you were on a roller coaster and feeling a bit nauseated. None of that matters. What matters is that you once said "A" and now you are saying "B". So, future politicians pay attention here! Never, never, never give an opinion on anything. It will be held against you FOREVER! Now I understand why so many politicians don't want to take a stand, offer a definitive opinion or plan for doing whatever. Now it makes sense why so many of the Washington crowd (and at all levels from local politics up) waffle like a giant Eggo whenever they are asked to commit. It must have been easier to vote back in the Old West or just after the Revolutionary War--news didn't travel fast. Mostly it didn't travel at all unless some political gossip monger decided to saddle up and ride from Boston or NY to Philadelphia or Baltimore. By the time anyone could accuse someone running for office of changing his mind (there were no "her" politicos back then), the election was well over and the winner went about doing what he wanted to do in the first place and forgot all the promises he made...well, some things never change.

Is the turkey gone yet?

The answer is no. And the reason the answer is no is that eating turkey everyday until it is completely gone puts massive, cumulative amounts of tryptophan (sp?)that make you deliriously sleepy (and unable to spell tryptophan, triptophan, triptofan...) so you are unable to eat more than a meal or two a day because you are in nonnyland so often. This means that you are now behind in your Christmas shopping, card writing, gift wrapping, mailing of gifts so they'll be on time to the recipients, egg-nogging (that could be another reason you're sleeping so often), and other festivities associated with the season. Christmas is exactly 30 days away, so you'd better get rid of Mr. Turkey immediately if you are to fulfill your obligations to the hordes of family and friends.

Aren't the holidays fun? You get to work hard, earn money, work hard to find "perfect" gifts, wrap them in the latest style and not in last year's paper, try to decide if you want to pay an arm or a leg to either UPS or the USPO to mail them to their destinations, sign, address, lick and seal each envelope of every card and spend the yearly budget of a small nation on postage stamps (at least if the stamps were bigger with each cost increase we all might feel we're getting something for our postage cash outlay), clean the house, cook a big meal for both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, clean up after cooking and feeding everyone, and check the latest issue of Martha Stewart's magazine to make sure you had the "Best Christmas Ever". If you didn't meet that expectation/goal, just eat some more turkey (probably still left from November's feast) and sleep until the feeling of holiday failure goes away. If the atheists are looking for converts to their "don't believe in anything" philosophy of whatever, they should approach all women who have entertained during the holidays. They'll all be instant unbelievers, at least until the next holiday comes around and they have renewed energy to make it the "Greatest, Best Memory-laden Holiday in World History"...

Not again until Christmas...

I am thankful that I'm done shopping, cleaning, cooking and cleaning up and that I don't have to take on that task again until Christmas Eve. I am currently planning only foods that can be purchased, opened, heated (or served cold) with perhaps a homemade dessert or appetizer for my Christmas Eve and Christmas Day celebrations. Since I'm pretty much it as the "committee" for family celebrations here in YC, I get to do it all or do nothing and then feel like the Grinch or Scrooge or both. Since when did I lose sight of having a day off and its purpose--to rest a little, change the routine, enjoy life, NOT CLEAN ANYTHING! I am obviously a slow learner in this day-off category and my learning curve is very steep. I need an emotional SUV with hyper four-wheel drive to get my thinking onto the right road--the road to relaxation and enjoyment. I hereby promise to repent and begin my slovenly lessons...just as soon as I wash the last dish and sweep the kitchen!

Turkeys must die!

In four days, many Americans will be stuffing the turkey and then stuffing themselves. We who feast will all need to be wearing sans-a-belt pants or ones with very forgiving elastic waistbands. Once more, we slaughter an innocent turkey (if there is such a thing) for our dining table, add gravy from the fat drippings, potatoes with butter, stuffing, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, Jello salads made with fruit and cream cheese, cranberry sauce, rolls and butter, green beans with weird little onion rings on top and creamy mushroom soup all around, pumpkin, mincemeat (who invented that nasty-tasting stuff?),pecan and other pies with whipped cream, egg nog to toast the holiday and then we all pass out on the couch, in a chair, on a bed, in the kitchen, etc. and let our arteries do their work. I can hear the clog, clog, clog sound as it echoes through the house of sleeping, lethargic, "I overate" humans. Even the dog is experiencing a food coma from his overindulgence of Alpo with gravy. We wait all year for this event. We eat until we can't put a sliver of anything more into our gullet and then we all smile with gratitude for all the bounty we have in our lives and which we have tried to inhale in one sitting! The groaning begins. The coma sets in. And feeling like a boa constrictor who has swallowed a goat, we sleep. When we finally wake up, we begin discussing what more we can do culinary-wise at next year's feast and then we return home, find the next size up in our stretchy pants and prepare for the Christmas repast. Ho, ho, ho! and pass the gravy!!

And you are from what planet?

We are approximately one year and a lot of yank-your-hair-out ads from the presidential election. Only people living in a cave, under a rock, duct-taped to a steam pipe in some seedy basement, or under the "you're grounded for life" edict from a parent in 1949 don't know what lies ahead in the next 360 days. We will all be subjected to tedious, name-calling, bizarre, embarrassing political advertisements. We will see grown men and women saying and doing very stupid things and the best part is, these politcos are paying a lot of money to do this. Hey, if you want to say and do stupid things--you can do it for free. I've been doing it for free for many years. It has cost me a few friends, family members with long memories, acceptance as certain places of business, etc., but, I still did it all for free and it was not done so that millions of Americans could watch me in disbelief wondering if I had bent over and my brains fell out or whether there was anyone worth voting for in a November election.

There will be bunches of ads to get us through the holidays--there'll be no Merry Anything or Happy Whatever this election year, and by the time we all get our heavy-laden credit card bills in late January or early February, there will be bunches of primaries to confuse the election process even more. Ho, ho, ho! Personally, I think I'll vote for the fat guy in the red suit who gives funny names to reindeer. He's starting to make appearances in October now, so why not have him out and about all year long. At least he's cheerful, he works well with people, especially little people, he's giving, he doesn't ask much--just a couple of cookies and a glass of milk, he's used to running a business a.k.a. North Pole R Us, he can delegate--"On Dasher, On Dancer...", people are happy when he's around, no one in Congress will dare veto his bills or give him a hard time unless he or she wants a stocking full of coal and his or her name on a list of "naughty" people. So, there you go, the perfect candidate and he won't need to spend a lot of time explaining his program, because every kid understands it--be good, get a gift; be bad, nada. He won't have to expend hours trying to figure out what he believes, or what his constituents believe and he won't have to spend hours in the gym or try to hold his stomach in when he's out in public or to be fashionable at all hours. He's happy to be roly-poly and to wear the same outfit all the time. So let's hear it for Santa for President and let's get cracking on getting his name on the ballot. "Now dash away all..."

There I was minding my own business...

when a mosquito decided it needed a feast and I was the main dish. I was actually not minding my own business because I was reading my daughter's blog--brinni27.blogspot.com--and enjoying everyone's comments for her postings. I felt a little "itch" spot on my neck and then it grew into a "scratch-me-or-else" spot and my right hand couldn't help itself; it responded with maniacal scratching. Then I felt another little "itch" spot on my ankle and soon after one on my foot. I guess I had become the moveable feast for the winged beastie. Now I have three big, itchy welts on my body and somewhere in my house there's a bloated mosquito passed out after his repast. I'd go searching, but I know he is hiding away somewhere until his body absorbs all my AB positive blood and he's ready for a little dessert. Perhaps I'll just spritz a little whipped cream on my other ankle and wait patiently...and mind my own business.

Carol Burnett and other funny thoughts

I watched a special on PBS last night about Carol Burnett. She was a very funny lady and she looked at the world in a way that most other human beings do not. She was not afraid to make fun of herself or anyone else, but she never did it in a mean way. She just found all the little funny bones in a person's behavior or mannerisms and built around that little comedic skeleton.

Who can ever forget her as Scarlett O'Hara with curtain rod shoulders? Or Norma Desmond, who was the poster girl for silicone implants gone wrong? Or Eunice, whose curls seemed to be twisted a little too tight? The other members of her cast were superb and their chemistry as an ensemble was perfect. The formula had no blanks, no not-quite-there elements. It was such a treat to see Mrs. Ha-Wiggins busily filing her nails again while ineptly operating the intercom or primping. Watching all the cast members trying to stifle laughs because they were enjoying the skit as much as the audience was such a treat. I think everyone who enjoys a good laugh watched Carol Burnett's show thinking about how wonderful it would be to have been on that stage with Carol or Vicky Lawrence or Harvey Korman or Tim Conway. Those people had the best job in America, probably in the world. And many of us who were and are their fans were "so glad we had this time together" once again.

She made me laugh. She still does.

What's a girl to do?

It's 10:37PM on a Sunday night and I should be going to bed so I can pretend that I'll get a good night's sleep--an elusive event in my life. I sometimes imagine that, if I stay up until I'm deliriously sleepy, I might fall asleep and stay in that mode for the duration of the night. The only thing delirious about that thought is the thought itself. I can't remember when I've slept through the night. I'm like a newborn that needs sustenance or my diaper changed in the middle of the night, except I don't have a Mommy or Daddy to come take care of those needs.

I've thought about taking major medication to keep me asleep, but then I'd have the dream about swimming in a pool or other body of water and I'd wake up wishing I'd been wearing a Depends... I'm not very good when I wake up in the wee (no pun intended) hours of the morning to make a trip to the bathroom. I stagger a lot and occasionally crash into the doorway, career off the vanity and grab the window sill hoping to stay upright (and dry). I used to be a solid, sleep-through-the-night kind of girl, but old age and a bladder that thinks it's Silly Putty have changed all of that. I wake up in the morning looking as if I'd just gone 10 rounds with Cassius Clay (Muhammed Ali to anyone under the age of 55) and with the knowledge that those under eye creams with all their glorious promises about making my eye wrinkles invisible are some Madison Avenue guy's version of a knock-knock joke--"Knock, knock." "Who's there?" The response is silence as in "no one is there" because the eye creams work no magic and the only thing that is invisible is the money I spent securing that empty promise. At least I can elicit pity from passers-by. If I just had a cup with a sign on it, I might make back some of that money I spent on Eye Creams R Us.

Well, now it's 10:50 and I'm beginning to feel dozy, so I'm off to bed with hopes of sweet dreams...ones that don't include swimming pools, lakes, rivers or any other large collectives of water or vacant promises about what will happen to my eyes while I sleep. I already know what will happen. The wrinkles will cozy down just a tad bit more in the skin underneath my eyes and tomorrow I'll be ready for Round 2 with the Killa from Manila.

trying to find logic where there is none

I'm listening to my sister talk to her husband about the problems we are encountering with out mother. She celebrated her 85th birthday tonight and for her that was a milestone. For us, the situation with her (and her refusal to yield when she can no longer function at certain levels) is a millstone around both of our necks. We can rationalize about how she can't help what is happening to her mentally or emotionally. We can use logic to explain the situation to ourselves. We can set goals of tolerance, forebearance, charity, etc., but when it comes to the reality of the situation, it comes down to one, main theme--when an individual's logic goes (and their need to be in total control stays), everyone connected to that individual pays a big price. It doesn't matter what excuses we verbalize about why she does or doesn't do something. It doesn't matter how we view the situation and from what angle. The result is still the same. We are dealing with someone who will not listen, will not allow others to help her when she is making mistakes that others (that would be my sister and me) will have to rectify, clean up, resolve, counter. We are trying to find logic and help her to find logic in her decision making (or lack thereof), to leave the world of denial and recognize the reality of her life in the here and now, and we just can't help her to rediscover it to bring some sense of order to her confused view and approach to life. It is like trying to explain to someone why red should not be his or her choice of color while working in a ring full of bulls, when he or she insists that red is a great color, a favorite color, and that everything will be fine. We scurry out of the ring hoping we won't be gored... It is a scene from a novel or an old movie, not something we want to experience in our lives, but experience it we are. Ole!

Becoming the child...

When a parent begins to lose perspective, memory--both long- and short-term, and logic, the frustration level involved in this excruciating experience exceeds that parent's grasp. The child then becomes the parent as the parent regresses, permanently, into a second childhood that will last until the final bell rings. There is no choice, no "what do you think", "do you want to tackle this" offered beforehand to the child who is called to step in as surrogate parent. This switching of roles doesn't happen quickly, unexpectedly. It is gradual and the signs are there, they are always there. We may just miss them, ignore them, deny them, but they are there and they march forward in time--one or two at a time and then in multiples. They become more pronounced over time and the choice for the child-soon-to-be-parent is to run screaming from the room or to accept the role as gracefully as possible. The options are limited. The requirements are limiting.

The hardest part of taking on this parental role is that all the techniques that worked for your own children--time outs, removal of privileges, sending a child to his or her room, isolation from the family until manners/courtesy or other civilities were re-instated by the child, reminders about what is and isn't appropriate--do not work. Memory is slippery in your "child" and what is requested, asked, demanded in one moment may not make it into the next. Almost everything is new and repetition is the order of the day. Patience is a virtue that must be cultivated and as the new "parent" you must let go of all the old memories of how you or other family members were treated by this parent, all the pronouncements must be forgiven, all the demands that were once required for living are no longer. The parent will slowly take off the clothing of the mature adult and will replace it with the emotional and mental pinafores or knickers, Mary Jane shoes or sandals befitting a young child.

Nothing you read or observe or hear about from friends, family, on TV, in the movies, orfrom the sagest professionals can prepare you for being placed in this position. It is difficult to imagine and more difficult to accept as reality. A person who was once vital and intelligent and with whom you have held countless conversations (and arguments) will disappear before your very eyes. And it isn't magic, because magic has a mystical, spell-binding, entertainment quality, and having a parent trade roles with you has none of that. You think you will "get used to it" over time, but you never truly do. It is always puzzling. It is always disconcerting. It is always a skewed view of the world as you knew it. And when a parent cum child has a lucid period, the inevitable regression becomes more difficult to accept when it returns...and it always returns. Dementia and Alzheimer's are heavy sounding medical terms and what they describe is a heavy burden for both the parent slipping away and for the child who watches, unable to stop the process and feeling guilty for sometimes wishing it would speed up when the heaviness of carrying this burden becomes its own burden--one that seems to put its full weight on your heart and soul.

Parents give us life. Most of them do their best to teach us how to live good lives and be productive citizens of our communities and families. When they reach the no-turning-back phase of their lives, it is our turn to give them as much life as we possibly can and to teach them (and our own children) how to live as good a life as possible within the limitations of their new "community"--the ever-diminishing world of the elderly. We must keep the good memories as close as possible to offset the sad ones and the new, fleeting ones should be held as delicate treasures--knowing that they are rare and will soon disappear altogether. We must live for the brief moments, because we know that it is in these moments that we will find the true meaning of a life.

Friday ain't what it used to be...

For the first time in several years, I'm not ready to shout, "Woohoo, it's Friday!" as we approach the end of Thursday. I am now working on my own and so I set my own schedule and pace and feel "in control"--well except for my panty hose rolling south when I stand, sit or walk. It's a good feeling to be self-directed, although I occasionally get a little dizzy and lose my direction altogether. But I'm the only one around, and I don't call attention to my foibles. They do that all by themselves. So, circling back to Friday, tomorrow just won't be what it's always been--a day to celebrate and declare the start of the weekend because I'm so ready to be off work. And working for myself, I work just as many hours, even longer some days, because I don't have to. And that's the point. I want to do my work just for the sake of doing it and feeling satisfied with the effort, not because someone tells me I must. Who knows how long this situation will last, but while it does, I'm relishing every moment, even Fridays.

My fans demand it...

I've let 4 days go by without stepping on to my soapbox and proclaiming (to almost no one) what I'm thinking about or how I see the world. Okay, who just said, "Who cares?"

My fans, well, actually just my youngest son, are prodding me to blog more frequently than I have in the recent past. It's so hard to be in demand...

Topic for today is "Why the Saturday Night Bath Tradition Died". For many years, during the 1800s and into the early 1900s, people only bathed about once a week. Perfume companies did a booming business and people all smelled, so no one knew the difference. Then the population of the country started to increase and people spent more time in each other's company and some clever person invented (or re-invented, because the Romans, and other ancient civilizations had it and used to take frequent baths) indoor plumbing. Obviously a smattering of individuals started bathing more frequently and they smelled good. Those who didn't bathe as often stood out in a crowd--literally. Peer pressure, a continuation of the population growth and the invention of Irish Spring made it mandatory that everyone bathe regularly. Shampoos and conditioners came along, making hair "bathing" a regular hygiene activity as well, and, then the loofa, the nylon scrubby poof, shower gels and the like made taking a bath or shower a big deal and a big industry for the likes of Colgate-Palmolive and Procter and Gamble. Politicians and economists spoke in favor of boosting the GNP by buying products from these and other companies, and that's why the Saturday night bath tradition died or was embellished and expanded to include every night of the week. The end.

That happened when?

Oh my goodness. It's been five days since my last blog. Do you know the eternal consequences of such a lapse in blogginity? Me either. The end.

Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?

Now who would want to use a food that is grey and has a last name that is, well, a little gross sounding? Most adults have surpassed the potty association with food and those who don't probably don't live at the level requiring French mustard. The name makes for an interesting television commercial and is somewhat snobbily amusing, but after the guy rolls his Rolls' window down and asks the question, it's time to watch a Twinkie or Chef Boyardee ad. Those are items to which most of us can relate and which we will probably eat lots of in our time. Notice that those snooty Grey Poupon ads aren't around anymore although the condiment by that name is still on the shelves of the local grocery stores.

This leads me to characters or situations in advertising that are humorous or clever. They are humorous or clever because they are shown to us in short snippets and, with our attention spans growing ever smaller by the day, we need the short and sweet or short and funny. We like the quick "hit" and run of a zippy little ad with its funny ideas and people. We sometimes even remember the name of the product, which makes Madison Avenue types feel very happy as they waddle off to the bank with pockets full of money from the companies that hired them to create a desire among the American public to buy, buy, buy their products.

This leads me to the bizarre concept that, because we might find a character or situation clever, amusing, or even ha-ha funny in an ad, that we would want to have that same situation or character in a half-hour comedy. To wit, the cavemen of GEICO. They now have a full-blown series on TV based on their popularity in the ads written to convince all of us to buy GEICO because it's owned and operated by people who make fun of cavemen, but show them as intelligent and sensitive beings. A little of this "genre" goes a very long way. I tuned into the show for a few minutes last night and thought I was watching a rather long version of a GEICO commercial, but no one talked about insurance, and there weren't any logos on the screen that linked the cavemen with GEICO (perhaps this is where the theory of a missing link comes in--sorry, I couldn't resist). Maybe somewhere, someone was laughing uproariously at this new comedic TV fare, but I'm thinking probably not. What was clever and had a unique twist in an ad became, pardon the expression, a Neanderthal in a full length exposure. I wasn't planning on buying GEICO insurance based on the series of caveman ads and I am not planning on watching the "spinoff" unless GEICO offers a year of free insurance for the first 20,000 people who tune in, and I am one of them.

There's nothing like a good cry...

Sometimes we spend a lot of energy and effort trying to keep a stiff upper lip (actually that is a rather strange description when you think about it. Does that mean our upper lip is rigid and our bottom lip is quivering, flacid and drooping down, perhaps drooling?) when all we want to do is let our emotions spill over and get rid of those pent-up feelings?

The whole idea that we should never let go, allow our real sensitivies to be revealed to others in our circle of family and friends is one of the big lies we buy. I don't know who first dictated that someone who allows his or her feelings to come to the surface is weak or somehow defective, but I'll bet he or she is either emotionally locked in an iron box or is a secret cryer. Now I'm not saying that we should all go around blubbering all the time about the petty inconveniences or silly comments made by the socially insensitive people in our lives or whining about whatever doesn't go our way--I'd be voting for the stiff upper lip for these situations or at least duct tape over the mouth. I'm talking about allowing ourselves some latitude, some liberty when it comes to reverting to our core emotions and crying covers a lot of emotional territory. We cry when we're sad. We cry when we suffer loss or great disappointment. We cry when we feel vulnerable and afraid. We cry when we're happy or are touched by something sentimental, sweet, or sacred. We cry when someone we love is experiencing any of these feelings. Tears are cathartic. They are a release. They can clear our vision when we are done shedding them. And sometimes they are the only way we can convey how deeply we feel about something or someone. Sometimes they are the way we say, "This is important. I feel strongly about this. You need to know just how important and how deeply I feel. My tears are emotional punctuation marks, exclamation points that tell you more than what my words can say." Whether we cry alone or cry in someone else's company, we all need to believe that it is an acceptable activity if not taken to the extreme. Alone, we cry on God's shoulder. For all other occasions we are blessed if we can find the shoulder of a compassionate friend, family member or warm and fuzzy pet.

The next time we're inclined to use the phrase, "For crying out loud!" as a demeaning comment about someone's behavior, we might want to reconsider doing so. Babies cry to pretty much express everything they feel--"I'm wet." "I'm hungry." "I'm tired." "My blankie is missing." "My binkie fell out of my mouth." We are taught "Use your words" at an early age, but sometimes words aren't enough and when verbiage fails, tears, for crying out loud, will prevail.

the fountain of yute

In approximately one month and one day, my high school reunion will take place and a group of 60 somethings will get together to reminisce (it now takes several of us to come up with one singular memory or a name from the past), dance, sing karaoke, sing our alma mater, stare at name tags when we don't recognize one another, and hopefully feel 16 again.

The time machine is a reality and it works every five years when we get together with our classmates and think back to the "good old days" (and not when dinosaurs walked the earth as my children are so fond of saying) when life was simpler, less expensive, less demanding, and more circumscribed--something I am beginning to think wasn't all that bad. Our hair may be thinning (or gone), our figures may not be so svelte or may be proving that gravity exists, our teeth may or may not be our own, our memories may be fading in and out like a bad connection on a cell phone, our eyes may squint even with reading glasses intact, but we're glad to be in each other's company thinking "back in the day" but catching up with the present.

Much of what was important during our teen-age years is no longer so and we have become more forgiving, more tolerant, less judgmental. Most of us are no longer running for prom queen, trying to capture fame with a touchdown, or feel academically superior. Mostly we've mellowed and realize that good friends are important in achieving the good life. I for one will be glad to be in the company of so many friends. We went through a lot together--growing pains, being pains, experiencing pains--as we went slip-sliding through our teens and high school. We were there for each other then and we'll be here for each other on October 27th. Some things never change and isn't that great!

Random thoughts I had today...

First...well no not that. Second...not that either. Third...repeat of one and two. Guess my random thoughts were minimal. Now for my purposeful thoughts: first...why do men who do comb overs think anyone believes they have hair on top of their heads? Second, why do women who turn their eyelashes into mascara tarantulas think that look is attractive--only if you're into arachnidian things? Third, why do whining voices make your hair stand up on end and prompt thoughts about holding an AK-16, full loaded?

Everyone who reads this must write a 1,000 word essay answering each of the three purposeful-thought questions. No cheating and no plagiarizing someone else's work or you'll be forced to read my blog each and every day!

Tuesday night at 6:18...

and I'm still at work. Some people are very jealous of my exciting lifestyle. I don't know who those people are, but I think they need to rethink their view of the world. First I go to work. Then I stay at work a really, really, really long time. Then I go home and do some more work on my new little business. Wow! Is this fun stuff or what!! Then I relax a little, eat some dinner, and fall over in a heap on the couch. I miss the middles and sometimes the endings of just about every program or movie I start to watch if it's after 8:30PM. Yep. I'm turning into a very old person, who has no life worth mentioning. Say. Did I mention I was still at work and it's now 6:20? See ya. Bye!

Sunday night and nothin' to do

Yep. That's it.

The Weak End

Okay. It's Friday and it's officially the weekend. In my case, I'm so tired by the time Friday rolls around (who made up that phrase? and do days roll anywhere?) that I consider it the weak end because I'm feeling weak from the week. I'm not sure where all those 24/7s go, but mine seem to be running sprints and I'm too old and don't have any running shoes (nor should I be wearing that Nike spandex kind of running clothing), so the days are sprinting, but I'm doing more of a semi-speedy sloth imitation.

I'm home for the evening and having just a wonderful time watering my lawn. The timer I set goes off every half hour to remind me to change the location of my two front yard sprinklers. Matter-of-fact, this timmer goes "off" a little too long, and if it weren't for my laziness or my focus on something else, Mr. Timer would look like Salvador Dali's melting clock flung against the wall!

Alas, it's time to sprinkler another section of my lawn, so I'll have to depart the bloggernecessity to make sure each and every deserving little blade gets a good, long drink of water. When this fun activity is over, I think I'll alphabetize my spice cabinet and re-arrange all my silverware and plates by color from lightest to darkest, but then again, maybe I'll just kick back, throw caution to the wind and do my best imitation of an Idaho sofa sitter, a.k.a. a couch potato. Sounds like a plan to me. And I love planning.

It's September, should it be cooler...

Hmmmm. It's September. Children are back at school. We're starting the fall season (although the stores are already jumping into Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas all at once--a little jarring and bizarre with orange and black, brown, yellow and orange, and red, green all side by side) and yet Mr. Sun hasn't received the memo stating that the temps should be cooler and there should be a brisk breeze and the leaves should be preparing to turn lovely autumn colors. Instead, it's still in the high 90s and low 100s, the breeze is hot and makes you thirsty, and the leaves are turning brown, shriveling up, falling to the ground and crunching underfoot. I guess the Ice Age has cometh and is goeth-ing.

One of my kids is starting school, again, but at a much higher level (not requiring a pencil case with a protractor or compass) known as graduate school (requiring much more money per semester than an entire city of children could spend on their pencil cases, etc.). The youngest one is out of school for a few months and will be doing an internship in advertising--maybe he can influence the powers-that-be to stop rushing the holiday seasons, and the oldest one is back at work until the next national holiday, after enjoying a couple of weeks at the beach in Hilton Head, SC. I, on the other hand, will not be going to school, nor enjoying a fun internship, nor did I take a vacation this year, so I guess I'll be wearing the dunce's cap and sweating in the heat until I can figure out how to better live my so-called life...

It's September...shouldn't I be in school?

September is and always has been the official start of the year for me and so I'm a little confused tonight thinking about going back to school because I graduated and have no school to which I can return. I am, however, going to be at a 45th year reunion with many of my high school classmates next month and I'm pretty excited about it. I'm thinking brown and gold, Honkers (my school mascot--STOP LAUGHING!), Friday night football games, bad food in the cafeteria, dances after the football and basketball games. (Can anyone tell me why we never celebrated baseball the way we celebrated football and basketball? We didn't have the big "games" or the after-game dance or homecoming parades with tissue paper floats and queens and princesses waving as if their arms and hands were bobble dolls. Baseball was always the poor relation in the high school sporting family and yet it is called our national pastime. Haven't figured that one out...)

Back to my back-to-school dilemma--I should be at Staples buying notebooks, pencil cases, protractors, pens, binders and binder paper, but I'm not. Even my kids are pretty much past the point where I have to accompany them to the store to buy school supplies. With Bryn starting graduate school and Barrett finishing undergrad, I really don't want to go to a bookstore and buy their supplies. Textbooks cost a gazillion dollars each and, when it's time to re-sell them, the professor has opted to put out a new edition and the current textbook now has a value of less-than-zero on both the open and black markets. And, of course, in college, the proper student has to have the sweatshirt (costing $100), the sweatpants (costing $60 and worn not for sweating-in kinds of activities, but for casual, non-sweaty events). And then there are all the other college fun-must-have items--decals, car stickers, bobble-head mascots (not the float waving queen/princess kind), jewelry, hats, gloves, scarves, toppers for the car radio antenna, soap dishes, glasses and mugs, etc. By the time the back-to-college shopping spree is over, someone (usually the parent) is missing a few thousands dollars and has lost his or her sense of humor in the bargain.

When I went to school (yes, in the days when dinosaurs walked the earth), all we bought was a pencil case--that actually came with pencils, erasers and a small ruler,
a protractor and a compass (there must have been a lot of lost protractors and compasses in school because we bought these every year and they aren't the sort of implement that wears out or runs out of lead or ink), and some ruled paper. My elementary school furnished the pens for all student because they were ergonomically designed (back when the word ergonomic didn't exist) so we would hold the pen correctly and not get the writers bump on the first knuckle of the finger that had the death grip on our ergonomically correct pen. I have a bump or callous on that death grip finger despite my elementary school's best efforts. I guess my finger wasn't ergonomically compatible with the pen. I know it wasn't comptabile with the compass because I constantly poked myself with that frustrating little instrument. It was these blood-letting experiencs that helped me understand that I wouldn't get lockjaw or some other dreaded disease if I hadn't just received a tetanus shot--something I dreaded more than the stabby thing in my pencil case.

So, when millions of children are returning to the classroom this week, I won't be one of them. All I have to say is, "Nah, nah, na, nah, nah..." Ha!

...and the heat goes on...la dee da dee da

No thanks to Sonny or Cher, but it isn't the beat that's going on. It's the heat. It's been blast furnace hot here in YC, California and all of us "survivors" want it to stop...NOW! I'm too overheated to write anymore. I have to go sit in my refrigerator for a few minutes to cool down so my brain will start to work again. (Actually, I'm just using that for an excuse. Cooling down probably won't make any difference, but, for now, I'm rationalizing my lack of brain activity based on the weather...) I will resume blogging when the temperatures drop below 100.

Who wears short shorts?

There was a teeny-bopper song with this title back in the 60s. It was cute and fun, but not a motivation for just anyone to don short shorts (or even longer shorts) and yet today, here in YC, with the temps at 100 in a string of high 90s and 100s weather, the answer to this song's title is "just about everyone" and, well, this just shouldn't be...nope. Not everyone's derriere and/or legs lend themselves to revealing the gams. Matter of fact, because of modesty, concern for the welfare of others--especially the elderly or impressionable children--most people shouldn't be singing a response of "I do!" ever, EVER, EVER, EVER. Cute little kids can get away with shorts, although most clothing manufacturers seem to think small children have thighs the size of our governor, (Arnold "Caleeforneeya" Schwarznegger) and so they create the kidlet shorts with gargantuan legs making even the cutest ringleted toddler look like he or she is about to experience "lift off" with all the air ballooning around inside the pant legs (or is that shorts legs). And the pant or shorts legs are also very long. A child wearing said shorts appears to have only a thigh and an ankle and nothing in between. It's kind of a "Wizard of Oz" munchkin look without the 5 o'clock shadows on the "boys".

Hopefully our weather will cool down in the next week or two, and those of us who are faint of heart at the site of the chubby, the cellulite-challenged and the saddle-bag hipped shorts wearers will once again be able to be out and about and not have to reach for the smelling salts when an escapee from the fashion police crosses our path wearing too little over too much.

I think all my eggs are cracked...

Our supermarket recently had a facelift with a new parking lot surface, new glow-in-the-dark parking space lines and those yellow bands of buttons added at the crosswalks. I asked the young man who bagged my groceries and helped me out to the car--this help-to-the-car is something my supermarket does for everyone, men, women, children, old and young, feeble and robust--what those bands were for? He didn't know for sure. The bigger stores in town, Target, Wal-Mart and Sam's Club have them from one end of the store front to the other.

Walking into a store with these bands is not an issue. If you're wearing lightly-soled shoes, you might think you're getting an acupuncture treatment for your feet, or, if you are wearing spindly high heels, you may be quickly reviewing your accident insurance coverage for falling and breaking your neck, but other than that, these brightly colored bands of rubber paint and buttons are insignificant until you exit the store... Let's say you purchased eggs, or heavy cream, or some delicate glassware or other fragile items, you will be eating omelets, whipped cream and finding yourself spending a few evenings with your bottle of glue trying to put your glasses back together--this will teach you why Humpty Dumpty was not put back together again, and, if all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't do the task, then what hope do you have? Of course, the horses didn't have opposable thumbs or hoof dexterity and the king's men were probably wearing armor which would make putting anything delicate back together an impossible task. But that's another story or fairy tale. Back to the yellow strips of doom that are popping up everywhere these days.

I spent most of the trip home from the supermarket trying to figure out what purpose those strips played in life. Were they mandated by some government agency? Most probably yes, because who would choose to spend money putting those in front of their store to irritate all the shopper who exit? Unlike the buttons that are installed on highways and major roads at the edges and centers of the road for the purpose of waking a drowsy driver who is veering off the road or alerting a careless driver who is wandering out of his or her lane whilst changing CDs, drinking a beverage, sorting through mail, putting on make-up, or talking on a cell phone, most of the patrons exiting the stores aren't falling asleep at the helm of their carts and, other than having forgotten where they parked their cars (again!), they aren't in imminent danger of careering into a ditch or into oncoming traffic. And those buttony strips aren't there to prevent people from slipping down steep inclines because the strips are on flat ground, except at the handicapped crossing lane, where they have a gentle slope. And, if someone in a wheelchair needs to descend from or ascend to the entrance of the store, then, as Betty Davis said in one of her famous movie roles, "Buckle up. It's going to be a bumpy ride." I think that massage therapists everywhere should be protesting because the work-out you get traveling over those 3-4 foot strips not only gets the blood circulating, but it works every muscle in your arms, neck and back. But then I wondered if these strips were to prevent terrorists or robbers from driving up to the front of stores without shaking something in their pea-brains loose, causing them to re-think their lives of crime. Finally, I understood why those bands were governemnt-required installations. Someone in the government purchased trillions of metal buttons and a lot of yellow rubberized paint some years back and there has been a secret committee meeting for all these years, trying to find a way to use these wastrel materials. So, the next time you go shopping with the hopes that everything you purchase will remain unbroken or unbruised as you travel back to your car, buy only what you can carry, don't wear tipsy high-heeled shoes, or bring along enough friends, kids or other family members to help you carry out and carry on with all your purchases intact. Personally, I think all those yellow buttons look like evil little smiley faces and they are having the last laugh as we jostle and jolt across their surfaces...

Excuse me, pardon me, oh dear...

I have a case of the hiccoughs (or as the lazy or letter-stingy would say hiccups). I don't have the usual kind of hiccoughs that are dainty and slightly embarrassing. No, I have the kind of hiccoughs that make old people startle and horses whinny and rear up.

People think I'm having a heart attack. At least if I were, I'd have some excuse for making such a racket and scaring dogs, cats, small children and the homely of the brave. When my children were smaller (younger), they thought I was an amusement
--as long as my hiccoughs remained at home or inside the car with the windows rolled up, but my hiccoughs have a life and schedule of their own and they show up at odd and inconvenient times...and sometimes in public. When I was working in an office and answered the phones frequently, I lived in fear of having a case of these heinous hiccoughs. And on a few occasions, they came unbidden and I hiccoughed in some poor, innocent and unprepared individual's ear as I answered the phone. Some individuals found it hilarious and others wondered if they needed to hang up and call the EMT--this was in the days before 911 and cell phones.

My hiccoughs aren't the kind that regular people have--the small, quick chirpy noise from the throat. My hiccough sounds like someone is being tortured--kind of like the little slugs in the movie, "Flushed Away". I emit a high-pitched, very loud, strung out, shrieking sound. It sounds painful...and it is. It hurts, and if I start to laugh (because it does sound pathetically funny), that makes it hurt more, so I try not to laugh. I am usually unsuccessful. Whenever I have a case of the hiccoughs, I always start immediately to try all the "how to cure your hiccoughs" remedies. I hold my breath, but the shriek-cough just bursts through and trying to hold it back is also painful. I try scaring myself (if no one else ugly and weird is handy) by looking in the mirror, but that makes me laugh and then I encounter pain and no hiccough stoppage. I've tried sneaking up on myself, but that never works because my awareness level is above that of a newt, so I always see myself coming. I look at scary pictures, but that starts a whole philosophical thought process going and I then have the hiccoughs and a headache from trying to figure out why people want to look bizarre or do strange things on purpose. I've tried breathing into a paper bag, but, after having a case of the hiccoughs post-pizza, I've never repeated this remedy. I now know that you can't stop the hiccoughs by inhaling your own bad breath, but you can feel grossed out... I finally try my best remedy--drinking water from the opposite rim of a glass. The concentration level is intense and what follows the first attempt is a mild bath of water spilling onto my neck and chest which diverts my attention, causes me to sputter with what little water actually went into my mouth and to chide myself for the big mess I've just made. Voila. My hiccoughs have disappeared. I am grateful. The strangers around me are grateful (including my children who have by this time disowned me) and the dogs and cats can now allow their ears to return to a more natural state instead of sticking up in the air like little, pointy rocket ships!

But these hiccoughs are not only shrieky, they're sneaky. Just when I think it's safe to answer the phone, go out in public, become sociable once again, they return with a vengeance, just like Jack Nicholson in "The Iceman Cometh". Oh, maybe if I watch that movie's scary parts, I'll be permanently cured, or at least I'll pass out from fright and my hiccoughs might pass out too. Meanwhile, I will keep a glass of water or a picture of Gene Simmons without make-up handy so I will be ready to do battle with my slug-imitation hiccoughs whenever they decide to pay me a visit.

But you've used up all my ink...

Can anyone out there tell me why receipts and order confirmation forms printed from the Internet are more than one page long and always in a gazillion colors? Is there some kickback scheme between the receipt designers and the ink cartridge cartels? Hmmmm. I just want a receipt that is in black ink, less than one page long, no logos, no cartoons, no hyper-graphics, just "here's what you bought, how much it cost, when it will ship, the cost of shipping, the order number and an 800 number to call to track or check on an order." I don't think that's asking too much. But for whatever cosmic crashing reason, all the receipts and order confirmations I print out could serve as TV test patterns for "best display of the most colors and nuances of colors used on a single page"! And third in line in the ink splurging department is Mapquest. It likes to print a teeny, tiny map in multiple colors of streets and highways and public parks and rivers and other such not-interested-thank-you items on a full-sized piece of paper in addition to the only thing you really want which are verbal directions from your place to the place you want to go. And just try stopping your printer mid-map. The printer pretends it "hears" you, and then it continues to print, print, print until it gets to the next to the last line on the page and then, "bingo" it stops. Thank you ever so... If Alfred Hitchcock were alive, he'd be writing all kinds of murder mysteries involving computers driving people crazy enough to strangle the life out of the local Staples sales clerk to whom you pay hundreds of dollars weekly for ink cartridges just so you can have colorful receipts and order confirmations in your "pending" file. But, alas, he has already left this world and he wisely did so before the age of computers took over and forced us to work two jobs (or hold up the local grocery store) just to pay for the new software, the latest flat screen, the megalolly memory card or those pesky ink cartridges... Maybe we can start a grass-roots protest to force the Amazon.coms of the world to return to the black and white era...where Mr. Hitchcock would feel very much at home.

Are the stars out tonight...

Tonight is one of several nights when we can see a spectacular display of comets and meteors. Having read this on AOL, I duly put it on my calendar for tonight and tomorrow and then sallied forth from the comfort of my house into my backyard to watch said "light" show. The AOL site said to find the darkest place for viewing with the least light pollution or overhead street lights, etc. to maximize the effect. I live in a smallish town so light pollution is not a big deal here--not like NYC or other urban places that are sucking all the energy out of the earth in order to light up buildings all night that are empty and unproductive during the overnight hours. Nope, YC is not a burb of anything and gets pretty dark at night when all of us hicks blow our candles out and head to bed...just kidding, we do have electricity here. And, if we forget to blow out our candles, our houses burn down, but that's another story. Anyhoo, I thought I'd go into my backyard, sit in a chair and enjoy nature's fireworks tonight. I walked out my kitchen door into the garage--trying to avoid turning on any lights so I could get the maximum benefit, I crashed into my recycle garbage can and spread refuse every which way. I turned the light on so I could clean up the mess and then I grabbed a flashlight, turned off the light and opened the door from my garage into my back patio. It was very dark out there. Perfect, I thought. Now I can have a good view of the sky. I stepped onto the patio and my motion detector lights instantly came to life. So much for not having any peripheral light to spoil the sky show. I had to wait about 3 minutes for the lights to go off. I guess my brain was waiting too because I stood still, not moving a muscle, thinking that somehow the motion detector lighting would figure out I needed the dark back and would turn itself off faster. It didn't. Finally, the lights blinked off and I silently shouted "Huzzah". But, as soon as I moved again to take a chair to my side yard the lights came on again. Obviously the light bulb in my skull was no match for the one above my patio door. At last I was ready to watch and my security lights had turned off. Unfortunately, I forgot about my night blindness and the length of time it takes for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I spent many an hour in planetariums with my children, staring into blurry darkness while everyone around me oohed and ahed over the constellations, the summer and winter skies, etc., and all I saw was what appeared to be a dark gray blanket on the ceiling. Knowing that it was late and I was tired, my options were--be stubborn, stick it out and possibly find myself slumped over in a lawn chair at dawn with no recollection of any meteor or comet sightings, dew forming on my rumpled clothes and bugs playing tag amongst the three hairs on my head or go inside and plan better for tomorrow night. The stars can wait...

Whose turn is it...

Tag, you're it...

Liar, liar, pantyhose on fire

The weather forecasters here (almost all female, thus the reference to pantyhose in the title of this post) said it was going to cool down for the week and that we would have temps in the 80s. Well, they lied. Yep. It was cooler today, but we're back into the 90s for the rest of the week. Do you think that they will get a cut in pay for handing out this erroneous information? Perhaps even get fired for outright lying to people who are desperately seeking some cooler weather? Nope. They'll just stand in front of that big weather map and smile their little whitened toothy smile making more promises for relief from the heat until you want to bash your TV in. I have learned from experience that bashing in the TV doesn't change the weather, the quality of weather forecasting programming, the lies and deception foisted on us, the unsuspecting and hopeful public. It does however cost a lot of money to have the TV repaired or replaced and your knuckles fixed. And that coverage you bought with your TV that costs almost as much as the TV will not pay for the damage you have done. That falls under the "abuse and misuse" of the product category and so now both the weather forecaster and the TV coverage protection people are in cahoots, making you think you've got someone on your side, when you really don't. The only thing you have on your side is a hip, and, if you've been spending enough time sitting around, watching the TV weather forecaster and writing checks for extended TV warranties, then you've got a lot on your sides--both of them...

Well...I never!

I was just starting a brilliantly conceived blog when my internet connection decided to slice itself in two, breaking the line between me and my thousands of devoted readers (all invisible of course). It was unceremonious and now the thoughts that were whirling about in my brain, turned into dervishes and whirled themselves into a wad of dust! Hmph!

Guess I'll have to be brilliant another night. Meanwhile, I spent the time waiting for my connection to get its little act together by deleting every file I didn't need on my computer. It was fun. I do like hitting the delete button. If only I could do that to get rid of Monday through Friday...I'd be rich and certainly better rested. And I'd like to hit the delete button for a few people I know, but somehow, I think I'd just get the message on the screen, that would tell me those "files" were in use and I can't delete them. Guess I'll just have to resort to the "Esc" or the "Ctrl"/"Alt"/"Delete" instead...

It's almost 10 o'clock do you know where your children are?

Answer: Yes, but I'm too tired to care. I've decided I'm going to be one of those reckless, I-don't-care-kind of parents, who let their kids run into the traffic, wander around the stores where the perverts loiter (I guess I'll have to start going to R-rated stores or something to make this happen), eat food that's been sitting in the sun too long or that has a rainbow-effect glistening on its surface...you know the kind I'm talking about. I'll get tatooes, wear sleazy outfits, not wash all three of my hairs for a few days, drink out of a can and crumple it with one hand, drive around town without my seat belt and slouched down behind the wheel with my left arm hanging out the window. Of course, it doesn't look "cool" to do that in a Mitsubishi sedan, so I'll have to spray paint weird stuff on my car and re-upholster it in red velvet and have some dice hanging from my rear view mirror. Hey, I can be a neglectful, slobby parent like we see in the movies and on TV...and in the Wal-Mart here. Matter of fact, if I can black out a tooth or two, I might win some kind of local contest at my upcoming 45th year high school reunion--like the Classmate Who Has Changed the Most! I'm a shoo-in for that title. Well, it's time for me to get going with my extreme makeover, so wish me luck and if you want to know what I'll really look like after this transformation, visit my daughter Bryn's blog--brinni27.blogspot.com and look at the picture of the doggie just below the picture of the blonde who is tongue disadvantaged!

sweat equity

I've just been handed a pink slip of sorts--my company is going to phase out of its little business in the next couple of months unless something miraculous happens, so I'm starting my own project management/interior design consulting business. That means I get to work all day at one job and then come home and work all evening to create jobs to take the place of the one that is ebbing away. I'm beginning to be no fun from all of this work, work, work and it does make Jack (or Jan) a dull person. But not having income would make Jack or Jan a very cranky, hungry, and homeless person, so, "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go..."

Just hit print and...nothing happens

My printer decided to get sick when I needed it to work the most. At first it hid its illness (that sick bird in the flock syndrome) and printed a few pages, but then it sounded as if it were going to produce sausage--whining and grinding and groaning
--and decided not to produce anything at all, except its little, irritating, flashing light. My computer screen displayed the "Printer Isn't Working" notice (as if I didn't already know that, thanks) and despite all my efforts, including bopping the printer on its cover, it still wouldn't print. Then the cartridges went askew and would not move into position. They got stuck in neutral and hid behind the opening so I couldn't see them. I chastized them and reached in, grabbed the cartridge closest to me and pulled it. The computer screen then displayed the message, "The Cartridges are Not Moving". Oh really...I didn't realize that except for the fact that they weren't moving. The lights were flashing, the cartridges were stuck like epoxy glue and other whizmos hidden deep inside the printer were doing their best to grind rocks (or at least that's how it sounded), so I concluded that the printer was broken. (I didn't go to college for four years for nothing!)

The next day after work, I went to a few stores hunting for a printer/scanner/copier that wouldn't cost me half a week's wages and found one at Wal-Mart that also had a fax function for $70 and bought it. My work hours have been too crazy this week to install the printer, and I have learned through many negative experiences and near breakdowns not to install computer components late at night when I'm tired. It's a formula for serious schizoid behavior on my part when things don't go smoothly. I waited until this morning when my mind is about as clear as it's going to be (can a person have a cataract on her brain?) I removed everything from the box, and became concerned when I saw the length of the directions and lots of wires and plugs and parts...oh my! But I set about installing the printer. I finally got all the right wires going onto the right ports on the computer and plugged into the right places and gingerly put the CD into my computer CD/DVD "player". All was going well until the very end. The screen told me my computer had successfully installed the printer. I even printed an alignment page. I was feeling confident. I was feeling cocky. I had done it without a hitch, well, except for dropping the printer on my dining room table and putting a nice little dent in it--the table not the printer. Then I chose a Word document and hit print...and nothing happened. I checked to see if my new Lexmark was the printer of choice on my computer and it was. I checked to make sure everything was plugged in and on. It was. I tried again. Nothing. Finally, I saw the screen throw up the proverbial wet blanket in a message that said my printer and computer weren't able to communicate with each other and the Internet. I knew I was past my expertise, so I called Barrett (my youngest son) and asked him for help. I would have called Bryn (my daughter), but she'd taken a vow of silence after surgery and I can't read sign language over the phone. We had a firewall/security issue. He "walked" me through it. I learned something more about the technical side of a computer and installation issues. We fixed it together and voila, my computer and printer were best of buddies and the Internet joined the clan and printed out my page. I have been redeemed. I no longer have to get up a half hour early to get to my office to print out personal items. I have been converted. I'm a believer. Life is good.

Busy as a bee...

I believe I've flunked out of Blog University. I have failed to write on my blog for three days (too busy and too tired) and I think I read somewhere that that was grounds for dismissal, but then I've never worried about little things like the rules and guidelines meant to torment a creative and warped mind like mine.

Tonight's topic is "Arguing with the Elderly and Slippery-Minded". Here's the essay--"Don't do it." The end.

Monday came anyway and stayed all day...

I tried to pretend today was another day, but it didn't work out well. The calendar says it's Monday, all the work I had to do was scheduled for Monday and tonight is Family Home Screaming, so that makes it Monday, no doubt. Tomorrow I'm going to pretend even harder that it's Tuesday to see if I'll have better luck. (And yes, I know it actually will be Tuesday, but please don't burst my tiny little bubble of hope.) If I can pull this off, I'll become a gazillionaire and I'll retire to Florida where every day on the beach is about the same, and after frying my brain in the sun for a few days, it won't matter what day it is because my ability to discern days, hours, weeks, months, years will have faded, unlike the splotchy, liver-spotted tan I will be sporting.

Can we skip Monday and go straight to Friday?

I am declaring a work holiday. I do not want to go to work this week. At all. So I figure, if I declare that I won't do it, I might be able to convince myself that I won't have to go to work and I can just stay at home, sleep a lot, read, watch favorite movies, stare at the ceiling to see if I can discern molecules moving about, talk to my papier mache pig and otherwise do nothing that strains the brain.

But, the truth be known, I have to work in order to pay for my exotic lifestyle (not seen on the program, "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous")--you know, roof over my head, some food on the table, gas for the car, utilities, etc. So I guess I'll stop the whining and get ready for Monday morning. I don't do drugs or drink to escape my plight, so I guess I'll turn to Twinkies and Grape soda. I told you I had an exotic lifestyle (and you didn't believe me...HA!). At least this week will be busy, stress-filled and not boring and I hope that Friday will come sooner rather than later. One of the kids in the church nursery threw up on me this morning, so maybe I will catch whatever he had and I will get a day or two off. Just for your information, regurgitated grape gummy bears are very sticky and don't come off clothing without some real effort. If you plan to hold a three-year-old on your lap, ask the child what he or she has eaten in the recent past...and before you hand him or her off to another adult, consider how badly you want some time off.

laughter...he or she who laughs last

Think about all the reactions that make you feel happy. One is seeing someone smile a big smile. And the other is hearing someone laugh, especially if they laugh loudly and really enjoy the moment of unbridled giggle-ocity. Laughter is a great, cathartic release of emotion and it leaves us feeling so upbeat and relaxed and positive. So why don't we find more ways to laugh, more opportunities to motivate someone else to laugh? And why don't we laugh more at ourselves and the silly things we do or the mistakes we make or the dumb stuff we say rather than getting all uptight and snitty about what happens. It would be hard to be at war, perpetrating a crime, victimizing someone in our family or acquaintance, being mean or vindictive or otherwise negative if we were in a good mood because we'd laughed or we were in the middle of a good chortle or two. Who needs the UN or troops if we could just find some good (not dirty or vulgar) comedians to lighten the mood and put things in perspective.

I will do my part by walking onto my front porch in the early morning before I do anything to my hair. I resemble a very bad troll doll who has been experimenting with electricity when I first get up. My entire neighborhood will be laughing and having a better day as a result of my willingness to show the world who I really am...well, of course, except for the neighbors with weak hearts...they might literally have the last laugh.

Why do otherwise intelligent people do dumb stuff?

I've had a recent experience with adult "tantrums"--not the noisy, throw things, yelling kind, but the immature attitude kind. The "if you don't play my way, I'm taking my toys and going home" kind. The "I quit" kind. The "everybody is wrong but me" kind. It isn't flattering for the person exhibiting this kind of attitude and behavior. It's a vindictive, mean-spirited type of behavior and who would want to be pegged vindictive or mean-spirited on purpose? No one falling into the "normal" range of personalities.

I love the saying, "Wherever you go there you are." People who exhibit the petty and immature attitude and resulting behavior think their problems can always be traced to someone else's behavior, words or acts, but this is just not true. The measure of who any of is, is based upon how we react or act when things don't go our way, when a situation turns negative or is disappointing. Do we "quit" and blame others? Do we refuse to function? Or do we rise above it all and make a bad situation better rather than making a bad situation worse? I'll take the former every time. Life isn't fair. Bad things happen to good people. People aren't perfect. You know all these sayings are true. Most of us learn this at a fairly early age. Those who haven't learned it or refuse to accept it and pose as adults, are just remedial students of life, emotionally mental midgets and they create their own environment of misery. They find it easier to offload everything negative that happens to them onto someone or something else--a sure sign of immaturity because human beings move away from the ego-centricity of childhood into adulthood by accepting what happens and making the best of it if it's a negative. And, for those who do mature, it is painful to spend time with an emotional "toddler". The "toddler" in his or her self-centered view of the world can't understand why people barely tolerate him or her and why they choose to spend their time with others. Who wants to be a babysitter and change emotional messy diapers forever?

short and sweet...

chocolate...yum!

Long day at Black Rock...

I worked 11 hours today and then came home and worked another 1/2 hour on a contract revision. Some people just know how to have fun...unfortunately, I'm not one of them, but I'm promising myself a half day on Friday. And, now that I don't mow my own lawn, I don't have to come home and do any heavy, sweaty mowing. Instead, I'm going to take a nap, then have dinner, then take another nap and then watch a movie. If I'm not worn out from all that frolicksomeness, I might watch another movie. Otherwise, I'll just go to bed. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Little kids in the nursery

Today being Sunday, I worked in the church nursery with 10 kids under the age of 3--and no I wasn't one of them (unless mental age counts).

For the most part, the kids in my nursery get along very well and we rarely have fisticuffs or violent upheavals or overthrows of government. However, once in a while one of the kids decides that a large, hard-materialed toy makes a good missile and launches it at another child. Oh the tears and crying-out-louds we have then. The good thing is that kids get over their little "issues" pretty quickly and they don't hold grudges. Do you know how much a grudge weighs? At first, it's fairly light, but as you carry it around, its weight compounds by the hour, by the day, by the week and month until it becomes burdensome. This is when you should toss it away and relieve yourself of its oppressive weight. Little kids know better than to start carrying the grudge. They want to be free of anything that would take their energy. How else can they run around, jump with joy, laugh unfettered, fall all giggly on the floor, roll around and otherwise expend that energy? We need to take a lesson from little kids--don't even think about saddling yourself with a grudge. You will not be riding it into the sunset... It will ride you into the ground.

Saturday Night Fever

Okay, we're not talking John Travolta here. I have a fever, or a hot flash, it's getting harder to tell them apart. And it's Saturday Night. I will not be donning a white polyester suit--too hot: see post on pantyhose because polyester anything fits into that category--nor a dark shirt with collars that are so pointy that you can cut a piece of cake with them, use them to drill a hole in a steel plate or pick your teeth after eating corn on the cob (or defend yourself should someone jump you in an alley--why you would be in an alley in the first place is a 'nother whole question and if you're wearing the white suit and it's as tight as the one JT wore in the movie, you are probably in a whole heap of trouble). I will not be striking poses meant for a dance floor nor looking for someone to impress with my dancing. My papier mache pig is probably the only individual who would be impressed by my dancing, unless you count the very young children in my church nursery who are mezmerized (or stunned) when I lead them in a conga-style line as we dance to "Give Said the Little Stream" or "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree".

So I think I'll just take two aspirin and not call the doctor in the morning. He's probably going to be out playing golf and won't be answering his phone anyway. This too shall pass...

Where the sun don't shine...

People use this expression as in "I'm gonna put that where the sun don't shine." And everyone goes "wink, wink" and allegedly all the people involved know exactly what this saying means and that they've all just shared a little "naughty" moment.

But think about it. The sun don't shine in my closet, under my bed, in my toothbrush cup, in the medicine chest, under my couch cushions, in the trunk of my car, in my kitchen cupboards, in the shoes I have tucked in the back of my closet, inside my purse, under the hubcap of my car, in my make-up bag, in George Bush's mind, in the Grinch's heart (pre-Cindy-Lou-Who conversion), well, you get the point. It don't shine in a whole lot of places. Now if we're talking body parts, and all you "naughty" moment people know what I mean, then it don't shine in my ear canal, up my nose, in my throat, between my toes, or where I wear my clothes to hide my chubby body in an effort not to put someone in cardiac arrest or therapy for many years to come. So, the next time someone makes that comment about putting an object where the sun don't shine, I'll be thinking about what might end up under my couch cushions and I hereby cancel my membership in the NMPP (Naughty Moment People's Party). Thank you and good night--also a "sun don't shine" kind of thing.

There will be no pantyhose in heaven

This is a slow news day...and blog topic day, so I'm turning to something that is neither newsy nor has been blogged to death. The topic is pantyhose.

There are all kinds of pantyhose--the kind the fits, the kind that doesn't, the kind that runs immediately upon donning and the kind that doesn't run easily but has a matted, mesh look and is downright ugly, whilst being practical and long-wearing. Let's turn to the pantyhose that doesn't fit. You know the kind. The pair that doesn't quite get all the way up to your waist when you're dressing. The kind you pull on until your fingers turn purple, but to no avail. And then you sit down or bend over and your pantyhose prove which direction is south as they roll down faster than a window shade in a house of ill repute. So now you're shackled with a pair of rolled-up pantyhose around your ankles and you shuffle over to the nearest chair or piece of furniture or countertop that will allow you to hold on as you extricate yourself from the nylon hobble. This once happened to me in London. I was en route to church on a Sunday morning (and thought I'd be rewarded for my good choice, but I was wrong) with my pantyhose threatening to short-change me with every step I took. Fortunately, I was wearing a raincoat, so I could discreetly place my hand inside my coat with a firm grip on the waistband, holding my hosiery where it belonged. However, only one small portion (the part my hand could grip) was cooperating. The rest of my pantyhose was rebelling and attempting to secede from its proper place. It didn't matter what my pace was--fast or slow--I was losing the battle. It was broad daylight and I didn't want to add to the idea of the ugly American, so I stepped into one of London's infamous red phone booths, finished the roll-down, stepped out of my pantyhose, put my shoes back on, exited the booth, found the nearest trash can and bid farewell to the faithless hosiery.

Next are the pantyhose that run the moment you put them on. Now, you can either change into a new pair or you can do what I do--lie. When someone notices the run in your hose, you can act surprised (not having eyebrows will help with this deception), look down at the run, express regret, roll your eyes a couple of times and say, "I can't believe I have a run in my stockings!" Liar, liar pantyhose on fire...

Lastly, let's look at the meshy, loose-woven panty hose that look like dusty bunnies gathering for a convention on your legs.

You will note that I didn't discuss pantyhose that fit, because I don't believe that there are any pantyhose in the free world that fit both the waist (comfortably) or the length of the leg or the circumference of the tush. Which is why I have sworn off pantyhose for life. I never have to wrestle with pantyhose that are too short and leave the wearer in a state of high anxiety whenever she is required to bend over, sit down or breath heavily. I never have to worry about a "run" in my leg. I haven't had a "run" in my leg in a very long time. Actually, not since the last time I applied fake tanning lotion in an erratic fashion. And I don't have to wear pantyhose that resemble matted dust bunnies and make your legs look they are sporting a photograph of the craters of the moon.

In the next life, I believe we will all be comfortable and happy and that whatever clothing we wear will contribute to those feelings and that means there will be no pantyhose in heaven, at least, not in my little corner...

If my life is a highway...are we there yet?

As I career down the highway of life, with no special destination in mind (well, when the mind is slippery it's hard to keep anything in it), I wonder how I'll know if I'm there yet since I don't know where it is I'm headed. And, no I'm not headed to that "hot place" in a hand basket!

I sometimes think I have my emergency blinkers going full tilt because my life is just too busy and too crazy and I need help (or at least a few days to decompress). Other times I think I have forgotten to shift gears and I'm just dragging myself through the hour, the day, the week. A few times I have had two flat tires and my battery is low and I need some air and a re-charge. Then there are the days when the motor is purring, the shifting is smooth, and there are no pot holes in the road. When that happens, I can't believe my luck and I begin to wonder when that 18-wheeler is going to come around the bend and flatten me like a tin can in a recycling plant. So I've decided that I need to have a definite goal, a place that will make the trip worthwhile. So where do you find directions to a great place? Mapquest. With Mapquest on my side what can go wrong? Well, actually Mapquest is probably the number one reason people going someplace where they have never been before get totally lost. I once sought the help of Mapquest to find a friend's house here in YC. Now Yuba City isn't the big city. It's not a small dot on the map anymore, but by NYC standards, it's pretty insignificant, at least geographically and populationally (no that's not a word) speaking. I put in my "leave from" and my "go to" addresses, received my print out of verbal directions and a map of the entire west coast (using up half my color cartridge) and I thought I was good to go. I ended up in an orchard. Now my friend likes fresh fruit as much as the rest of us, but I knew he did not live in the midst of a sea of peach trees. I reconnoitered and tried the directions three times, but ended up back in the orchard each time. I never made it to the party that night but I enjoyed a lot of juicy peaches and I vowed never to trust Mapquest again. Maybe that's been my problem. I've been relying on the Mapquests of the world and I always end up someplace I never wanted to go--yummy peaches aside.

Perhaps it's time to return to the old fashioned way of getting from point A to point B--ask at the local gas station (except, of course, if you live in Boston). No one at any gas station in the greater Boston area lives there and so they only know the way from their house to their gas station, so, unless you want to go to their house, you won't be able to move your car in any meaningful direction. The few gas station attendants who do try to help you forget important details like names of streets, which way to turn, important landmarks, exits on highways ("It's one of those 9s)... My youngest son and I once spent two hours driving around Belmont, MA and never got more than 10 blocks away from our original starting point. Belmont's a nice little town, but not worth hours of driving in circles. We became very familiar with the houses and shops in our little 10 block adopted town-for-the-afternoon. We were contemplating employment with the local Chamber of Commerce when we broke free and found someone who could actually give us accurate directions to our destination. I think he was from out-of-state. Now that I think about it, maybe I'll just go home. I know how to get there. Like Dorothy said to Toto, "There's no place like home."

Why God invented eyebrows...

Somedays I just have to have high-level intellectual discussions with myself on the old Bloggerspot and today is one of those "somedays".

God invented eyebrows because, if we didn't have any, we'd all walk around looking "surprised". So how could we express surprise, if our faces already looked that way? People who gave us gifts would think we were ingrates and maybe some of us are when Aunt Aidie gives us a hand-knit sweater that can also be used as a whole body tourniquet. We couldn't show our true feelings when the deadbeat friend (family member, co-worker...you fill it in) finally pays us back the $20 we loaned him or her 5 years ago. And when H-E-double toothpicks freezes over, where would we be? And how would anyone know that we were really, really mad about something? We wouldn't be able to include our eyebrows in the mad face and that would mean it would be only a half-hearted (or eyebrowed) mad face. Grumpy people wouldn't be able to properly express their "grumpness" and that would make them even grumpier leading to either World War III or very short family get-togethers. So, you can see how important those little hairy accents above our beady, little eyes are. And, don't forget nature's purpose--keeping lint, small falling objects, dust and other such flotsam and jetsam from landing on our orbs.

I, for one, am thankful for eyebrows because, when I'm very tired after a bad night's sleep, I am able to locate my eyes and pry them open. Without eyebrows, I might be poking my finger up my nose (not a socially acceptable gesture) or into my mouth, which might gag me. Eyebrows are like the proverbial silver lining of your face--and if you're my age, they aren't just proverbial silver, they literally are.

Styrofoam helps us learn patience

Never break any styrofoam items into little pieces. Now you don't have to be a genius studying physics at MIT to figure this out, but, if you do break styrofoam into little pieces, it a) goes everywhere, b) defies all efforts to retrieve them, c) clings to just about everything but your fingers--see b), d) scatters as if there were a secret wind blowing them into little nooks and crannies, and e) plays hard-to-get when you try to stick your fingers (which once seemed slender and nimble, but have suddenly become awkward and the size of Vlasic pickles) into the little recesses where styrofoam bits like to hide. I like games as much as the next person, but I don't like being outwitted by a piece of chemical globulence, so I've taken a vow of non-breaking-of-styrofoam for life.

But it isn't just the nervous picking-apart activity that gives us this little challenge in our lives. Ever unpacked a computer, a new phone, a crock pot, a set of dishes, some glassware, etc.? They're packed in styrofoam and, as careful as you might be in unpacking whatever it is you purchased, individual beads of styrofoam run hither and yon despite your best efforts. There are simple solutions to eliminating the frustrating experience of chasing after bits of flotsam styrofoam. Don't ever purchase anything again that is in a box. Only buy soft things that are on hangers, or folded over cardboard or that you can view 100% to insure there is no styrofoam lurking in hidden places. Your life will be limited, but you can always borrow from friends, unless they have taken the no styrofoam vow also, then you can turn to stealing or only buying what is sitting on the shelf at the store (without any packaging). If the clerk refuses to sell you the store sample, you can kick, hit, grab the item and run. If you're not a speedy runner, I will come visit you in jail. Another solution is to give the item you need to someone as a gift, and then as your friend or family member is unpacking it, they will have the styrofoam issues all over their carpet and couch, etc. You will then declare that there is a flaw in the item and you absolutely cannot let them keep it and you will return it for a new one. You can then take that unpackaged item home and buy your friend or family member a new, still-in-the-package replacement. See how easy it is. Very large items or items that are very expensive may not fit into this "gift" giving scheme, so you may have to learn to live with smaller versions of everything you need. Fortunately, cars and houses do not come packed in styrofoam, so you'll have a place to live and you'll be able to drive to work and shopping (limited to stores that don't sell anything requiring styrofoam packaging, of course). And this is how styrofoam helps us learn patience...and a simpler lifestyle.

If it's Sunday, can Monday be far behind?

It's Sunday night and I'm steeling myself for the week ahead. The weather forecaster promises us lots more heat. Gee, thanks. I was hoping for that forecast and maybe the news will produce a bulletin alerting everyone that we will have no water or electricity for the upcoming week and so we'll all be sweaty and smelly and VERY CRANKY! Matter of fact, why wait for all of this to happen, why not just start out the week cranky and, pardon the pun, "crank" it up a notch or two for every hot day we experience. After 7 days of pure, unadulterated crankiness, I will be eligible to apply for a job as a customer service rep. I'll start practicing answers that have nothing to do with questions being asked. I'll practice disconnecting people--CLICK! I'll practice transferring people to departments that don't answer their phones or that don't exist. I'll pretend I care...

Okay, Monday, bring it on. I'm ready. Well, okay, I'm not really ready and most of this is just "bark" and no "bite", but I envision the customer service rep prep for individuals who work for majorly big corporations as nothing short of a rehearsal for "The Night of the Living Dead". As soon as I become completely incompetent in my current job and develop an attitude of insolent perkiness with a sidebar of superiority complex, I'll be ready to start my new career. Anyone out there who has children preparing for college, tell them to major in psychology. There are going to be increasing numbers of individuals who have dealt too long and too often with customer service seeking therapy in the future... We'll no longer have to blame our parents for everything. We can now blame the faceless individuals who tell us "You're important to us" just before we are disconnected.

For some reason, Mr. Blog Master won't let me put a title on my new post. Most of the time I don't mind if machines try to take over the world, but occasionally I like to pretend that people are in charge.

One of my favorite examples of "the machine made me do it" involves computers--that ubiquitous electronic device that the world has so fondly embraced and with which we all have a love/hate relationship. How often do we hear the excuse, usually from Customer Service (where there is no service and they don't care if we're the customer because there are a jillion more of us if one of us becomes disgruntled and quits) that the computers are a) slow today, b) on the Fritz (who the heck is this Fritz that always gets blamed for things going haywire or short-circuiting?), c) being revamped or d) re-installed or e) replaced (could we ask for some of the No-Customer-Service reps to be replaced?) or f) de-bugged (does anyone in the Anti-Defamation League care about the slanderous use of innocent little "bugs" whenever there is a problem--probably created by some back-of-the-classroom geeker thinking that every end user has a ginormous brain like his?). Well, I think it's time we all united behind our computers and defended them against the -10 IQ/Personality Disadvantaged Customer Reps who take their names in vain because that's what their little "What to Say To A Person Pretending to Be a Customer" book tells them to say. And you can forget about any thought that the pre-recorded statement that your phone call might be recorded for "quality" purposes is true--ha! or that, after you've been on hold long enough to read War and Peace three times, you are "important to us". "Us" is out to lunch, taking a long break or painting her toenails. I think Mac and Hew and Dell need to step up to the plate and declare their innocence and remind us all that computers didn't invent themselves. They don't program themselves and they certainly don't feed themselves corrupt data. Nope. We have hummin' beans who do this and then lie like a carpet about whose responsibility their technicals snafus are.

I guess Mr. Blog Master just got tired of all the blame-gaming and decided tonight that he would take back a little bit of the power. So my post shall go nameless, unless I can trick a title into appearing when I edit this piece. If not, then the title will be a big silent nothing...the kind of sound you hear when you ask the Customer Service rep for help.

why I want to be a good "girl"

Today was 108 degrees here in YC. My sweat was sweating. I believe that's comparable to Hell and I definitely do not want to live there, so that is why I want to be a good "girl". On top of miserable weather, anyone who goes to that devilish place will have to associate with people who are just plain obnoxious--the kind of people that most of us go out of our way to avoid, like the plague or some other hideous fate. Just think about all the people you've met during your trip down the highway of life. There are those who never signal, change lanes by cutting you off, ride your bumper because you are oh-so-slow-and-you're-holding-them-up, pull in front of you and then turn off the road two milliseconds later. Then there are the honkers, who think that instrument was placed in front of them to see just how long and how loud they can sound off. In addition to the people who "drive" you crazy are the people who think the rules were made for others and they are never in that "other" group. These are the individuals who get into the Express Lane
--10 items or less--at the grocery store and pretend that they are either math disadvantaged or don't give a rat's toenail about you or anyone else who actually counted before entering the lane reserved for quick checkout. I'm sure we could go on ad nauseum reciting our favorite, "unfavorite" characters from life, but suffice it to say, that unless we want to spend eternity with them and personify Richard Simmons' "Sweatin' with the Oldies". When summer's heat passes, we may backslide a little, but, for now, we all want to be good.

my lawn is toasted...spread on a little apricot jam

Part of what we struggle with here in the Sacramento Valley, a.k.a. Hades, Caleeforneeya, is the, you guessed it, HEAT! We've had a hot summer so far--hotter than I remember (but then my memory has been seared by the heat and aging, so we can't trust it for nothin'). We've already hit over 100 a few days in a row and we're in for several more days of 100 plus temps. Today it was 95 at 10AM and the expectation is that it will reach 108 degrees. I believe that's against the law. If nothing else, it's against the law I want to establish in my Camelot-style kingdom, thank you. But, until I have the creative powers, money and just plain clout to set up Camelot here in YC, I'll have to puddle through, oops, I meant muddle through the extreme temperatures.

This past week I have not been able to water my lawn in the evenings (my usual task and timing for this chore). I have been working late, taking care of some of my Mom's needs, and my attempts at watering my lawn after dark have not been successful. I end up with large puddles in some areas and dry-as-a-bone spots in others and I have night blindness so I can't see and I end up stumbling around like a woman bereft of her senses--no comments from my children, please. Suffice it to say that with the high heat and the lack of water, my lawn is toasted. I also have an apricot tree on one side of my house. My neighbors and I have picked hundreds of apricots (the tree has thousands on it, especially in the upper branches), but I can't get to the top of the tree, so I'm allowing Newton's law of gravity to assist me in unburdening my tree of the rest of its fruit. In the hot weather, this has a down side (no pun intended). The fruit is already warm while it is on the tree, however, when it drops and sits in the sun all day, it becomes jam. So now my toasted lawn has a layer of apricot jam on top of it. It glistens in the sun and looks lovely. Removing it from the grass is another story altogether. First I rake all the apricots and squished fruit, formerly known as apricots, into a few piles. Raking finishes the "jam making". Next I bend over (that sends the neighbors flying for cover) and, with gardening gloves in place, I attempt to pick up the gelatinous, gloppy apricot jamishness. I smear a lot of it onto the grass--I'm hoping this will help kill crab grass and dandelions, but I'm not optimistic--and then I put it in a plastic garbage bag inside my plastic yard debris bin. I drag this around from spot to spot under the tree until I've managed to pick up what is still in non-liquid form, including slippery little apricot pits. Next I try to pick up the bin to take it to the garbage can--now I would think that this "garbage" should be considered yard waste because it's organic material. But I would be wrong. It is considered garbage by the waste company serving our area, so I have to bag it and put it with my regular kitchen garbage. Congealed apricots are heavy. I don't know why they are so heavy because a regular apricot is not, but there is some law of physics at work here and the compilation of overly-ripe, smashed up apricots weighs about 10 times more than you (and your back) think it should. I can't quite get the bin up to my waist to carry it like a normal person, so I am relegated to hunching over, running spindly-legged to the garbage can. I finally get the bag into the can and pronounce my endeavor successful, knowing that I will have to repeat this effort at least 2-3 times a week until the remaining millions of apricots fall off my tree. At least the neighbors have free entertainment and my toasted lawn has jam aplenty.