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.

the red, white and blue...and gray

Tonight I spent the evening with my Mother at her assisted living facility. I had planned to come home early from work, take a little nap, mow my back lawn (which now looks like a cow pasture without any bovine inhabitants), relax and watch a movie. However, my Mom called me this morning and wanted me to come to her facility's 4th of July celebration from 6-9. I really didn't want to spend my evening doing that, but I knew how much it meant to her to have me there. If you can remember how cool it was to have your Mom or Dad pick you up from school first when you were a little kid (not when you were a teen-ager hoping your parent or parents would be sucked into the black vortex rather than be seen by your friends), then you will be able to relate to how special an aging parent feels when much of what they had in life has slipped away. Family members die. Spouses die. Friends die. They can't live at home anymore. Having some normalcy and someone with whom they can celebrate holidays, birthdays, and other important events keeps them feeling "right" with the world. Aging is a lonely process. It's a process of abandonment--the body abandons its youth, flexibility, health, energy and the mind also takes a leave of absence without permission. And having a daughter or son or grandchild present at a facility activity where families are invited is an ego booster to someone who is looking over the edge of life into eternity--for many, a frightening perspective--and who doesn't want to have to make excuses for why no one came, "My children are busy with their own lives," or "My daughter couldn't come tonight because she was tired or had another obligation". Parents like to feel that they are important in their children's lives and they like to show them off and show others that their children love them enough to spend time with them. It is like having a parent pick you up first from school (my Mom loves me more than yours because she got here first).

It isn't exhilirating "fun" to eat non-descript food, listen to some mediocre entertainment, watch fireworks purchased from the local Boy Scout stand, and spend three hours in the company of the blue-haired crowd, but that's not the point of an evening like tonight. Tonight is all about paying back what was given to you. Tonight is about making someone feel important and loved. Tonight is about gathering a few more memories before the time for doing so is spent. And so I put aside what I thought tonight was for and spent time with my Mother and she felt loved and happy that I did. Sometimes it isn't how we feel that is most important. It is how others feel in whose company we find ourselves. There will be time enough for me to do what I want, but tonight was not that time. From my perspective, it is self-delusional to think that I can only be happy or feel satisfied if I meet all my needs, or what I perceive as my needs. Happiness is often found in the least expected places...and I found it tonight at The Coutyard, at a fireworks display and BBQ sitting next to my Mother.

working 9 to 5 and then some...

I spent time on Friday working that I had planned to "take off" and then spent two hours on Saturday at the job site with the homeowners because the cabinet install on this house has turned into a Tim Burton version of homebuilding (without the cute/and/or bizarre little mechanical figures). I'm getting too old to find this intense work schedule amusing. So now my plan is to take off not only the 4th o' July, but at least a half day before. We'll see if that holds. Meanwhile, on Monday, I will be contacting the manager of the cabinet company's Northern California office to dangle a check in front of him, asking him to come to the site to present a speedy solution for the remedial work that needs to be done--there should be a deduction for the pain and suffering the homeowners and I have encountered during this installation! Fearing a mistake or additional grief by others, my ability to sleep has taken a trip somewhere and doesn't plan to come back any time soon, so I sport the Samsonite bags under my eyes and my brain is heavy-laden. This too shall pass, but I hope it passes before I pass (out)... All in a day's (or day's/night's/weekend's) work.