Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
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.
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, July 14, 2007
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...
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...
Friday, July 13, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
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...
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...
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
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."
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."
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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.
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.
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