I am not a morning person by nature.
I do what I have to do because it is required not because I take inordinate pleasure from being out of my pajamas before noon.
However, because the call of duty came earlier than usual today, I managed to take pains to look nicer than my usual fare.
Self proclaimed as a t-shirt and jeans kind of girl, my basic wardrobe of choice is no surprise to anyone who has known me longer than two minutes. I lack both the fashion sense and the desire to prance around as a moving clothes horse for any length of time.
But since I had done a bit extra today, I left the house brimming with confidence.
Apparently, the hidden word for the day is FALSE....as in false confidence.
I ran an errand for my niece who, in a panic over forgetting an assignment she needed for school, sent an urgent SOS long before the 8 am bell rang so that she would have what she needed in time for her class.
Dutifully racing into the school with the items she lacked, and filled with the aforementioned sense of confidence, you could have knocked me over with a feather when the office staffer announced to the entire room "Yes, we get a lot of you grandmas bringing things the kids forgot to school!"
DO I SERIOUSLY LOOK THAT OLD!?!?!?! Dang it, I even DRESSED UP today! I managed a wan smile and turned to leave while swallowing my wounded pride. I dragged the remnants of my shattered self esteem to the car.
Well, I justified to myself, he was just an ignorant old coot who has no sense of propriety when dealing with women of any age. His mother probably smacks him upside the head for no reason on a regular basis just in case he has said something insensitive to a woman at some point in the day.
My drivers license needed to be renewed (hence the REAL reason for dressing nicely) and I waited in the slow line at the DMV. I say slow line because whichever line you are in, the other one is most assuredly moving faster.
The kind lady at the desk verified the information on my previous license and told me where to stand. Amiably chatting away, the blinding flash let me know I had been victim to another scam - the ugly license photo.
It is the singularly WORST photo of my entire life and that includes the one taken right after the delivery of our almost nine pound son where I look like I have been dipped in 30 weight and sprayed with water from the backyard hosepipe.
I suppose the photographers at the DMV have been given training from the Department of Homeland Security in producing photographs that rival the ones for passports. You know, the passport photo that screams to the world "WHEN I LOOK LIKE THIS, SEND ME HOME!"
I realize with hundreds of photos being taken every day, that quality isn't of paramount concern. What they are interested in is moving the line along so they can get to their next government sanctioned smoke break. But dadgummit, why can't they care that I don't wish to look like a Senior Citizen on crack?!?!
And after all of this, did I forget to mention that my birthday is coming up in a few days? One of those delicious ironies that is so funny when it happens to other people, not so much when it is mine...one year older, but apparently generations worth of wrinkles, lines and flab.
Is this the culmination of all of that self-sacrifice, starvation, elimination of every single food I actually LIKE to eat, the addition of enough exercise to make me think (again with that sadly misplaced confidence!) that I am making progress toward physical fitness?
Let's just roll me into the ground now and save time later, shall we?
I officially feel past my prime. Though I haven't been able to spot it when I checked in my mirror, the appearance of my past due date must be in a form only other people can see.
Is there a 'day old' rack for folks of my advanced years? If not, I'll just sit here quietly and try really hard to keep from getting another wrinkle or a muscle cramp.
August 17, 2007
August 16, 2007
So You Think You Can Dance?
Actually, other than a couple of basic ballroom dances, I KNOW I can't dance.
I love to watch the dancers that compete and see the level of intensity, drive and talent that inspires them to fling all that they are in the dance venue on the altar of public opinion and hope that we, the great unwashed, see something of merit in them.
Voting numbers each week are a testament not only for the skill of the dancer but the speed dial feature that is on the phone. If only the frenzy that is generated by the television could help all of the talented dancers to find a place in a dance troupe that will help them to make a career of what is now only a passion.
If real life is an indicator though, most of them will find their way in things that are not related to dance. They will become parents, doctors, teachers, dock workers, waitresses, pilots and a host of other professions.
But they need to remember that the love of dance doesn't need to go away because their lives have led them to other avenues in their lives. Instead, they need to keep a back burner on, simmering a little stewpot with the magic phrase that brought them at least a moment in the lights: So You Think You Can Dance.
And unlike most of us who just dial up a vote for our favorite each week, they can answer with a resounding, "YES! I KNOW I CAN DANCE BECAUSE I WAS THERE!"
I love to watch the dancers that compete and see the level of intensity, drive and talent that inspires them to fling all that they are in the dance venue on the altar of public opinion and hope that we, the great unwashed, see something of merit in them.
Voting numbers each week are a testament not only for the skill of the dancer but the speed dial feature that is on the phone. If only the frenzy that is generated by the television could help all of the talented dancers to find a place in a dance troupe that will help them to make a career of what is now only a passion.
If real life is an indicator though, most of them will find their way in things that are not related to dance. They will become parents, doctors, teachers, dock workers, waitresses, pilots and a host of other professions.
But they need to remember that the love of dance doesn't need to go away because their lives have led them to other avenues in their lives. Instead, they need to keep a back burner on, simmering a little stewpot with the magic phrase that brought them at least a moment in the lights: So You Think You Can Dance.
And unlike most of us who just dial up a vote for our favorite each week, they can answer with a resounding, "YES! I KNOW I CAN DANCE BECAUSE I WAS THERE!"
Remind me not to do that again
Okay.
It goes like this.
Virtually every moment of stupidity sounded like a good idea at one time or another. That's why we go ahead and act out our chain of irrational thought to its conclusion. It's like watching a runaway locomotive slamming into the back end of a parked train at the station.
We want the train to stop. We even hear the whistle bellowing a warning unmistakeable. But we don't actually do anything about stopping it.
Sort of like deciding that killing a wasp or wood borer bee is a brilliant thought.
The idea is sound. Rid yourself of a dangerous pest (particularly if you are allergic!) and become the nemesis to the menace of the moment.
But, what is seldom considered or counted on occurring is the revenge of the critter who is just as anxious to live as you are to help it die.
In what could only be described as a pantomime of wild cavorting for the entire neighborhood to watch, the nasty little insects made life a rollercoaster ride of thrills without the price of admission.
After suffering both a sting and the added insult of spraining an ankle, the nasty critters score is 1 and mine is about negative 312.
Finally, once his laughter has subsided, my son offers to help remove the pesky little demons from the home. He does so with a karate like chop of the swatter he is employing and manages to kill the first of the advace party without further ado. He also casually manages to make my failure that much more painful as he dispatches all of the current crop of offending stinging demons and restores the patio to order.
That's well and good for now, Bub, but what do I do when, as all kids do, you grow up and LEAVE me to deal with them? I see a Hitchcockian thriller in the offing. Surrounded by millions of tiny insects and winged creatures, I must fight my way back into safey without mussing my hair.
Or not.
Maybe I will have to hire a killer surrogate to take on the task of sparing me from my misery.
Or maybe I can just learn to live with them and all just hold hands...or feelers.
Either way, I think that we all know who will win this one.
And it ain't me.
It goes like this.
Virtually every moment of stupidity sounded like a good idea at one time or another. That's why we go ahead and act out our chain of irrational thought to its conclusion. It's like watching a runaway locomotive slamming into the back end of a parked train at the station.
We want the train to stop. We even hear the whistle bellowing a warning unmistakeable. But we don't actually do anything about stopping it.
Sort of like deciding that killing a wasp or wood borer bee is a brilliant thought.
The idea is sound. Rid yourself of a dangerous pest (particularly if you are allergic!) and become the nemesis to the menace of the moment.
But, what is seldom considered or counted on occurring is the revenge of the critter who is just as anxious to live as you are to help it die.
In what could only be described as a pantomime of wild cavorting for the entire neighborhood to watch, the nasty little insects made life a rollercoaster ride of thrills without the price of admission.
After suffering both a sting and the added insult of spraining an ankle, the nasty critters score is 1 and mine is about negative 312.
Finally, once his laughter has subsided, my son offers to help remove the pesky little demons from the home. He does so with a karate like chop of the swatter he is employing and manages to kill the first of the advace party without further ado. He also casually manages to make my failure that much more painful as he dispatches all of the current crop of offending stinging demons and restores the patio to order.
That's well and good for now, Bub, but what do I do when, as all kids do, you grow up and LEAVE me to deal with them? I see a Hitchcockian thriller in the offing. Surrounded by millions of tiny insects and winged creatures, I must fight my way back into safey without mussing my hair.
Or not.
Maybe I will have to hire a killer surrogate to take on the task of sparing me from my misery.
Or maybe I can just learn to live with them and all just hold hands...or feelers.
Either way, I think that we all know who will win this one.
And it ain't me.
August 14, 2007
Crash and Burn
Sure.
One little button. It all sounds so simple.
Just push the button and access the world at my fingertips.
Until yesterday.
Oh, to be sure, there were warning signs.
But who really pays attention to the warning signs when eventually you can micromanage a solution and be up and running in no time at all.
Sadly, reality sets in and the gentle whirr and hum of a familiar constant is no more. The jaws of life cannot pry the victim out and the thrum of the heartbeat stills.
The computer went out in a blaze of glory taking with it all of my work and research as violently as possible.
The solution seems obvious to the novice. Call the geeks in taped glasses to come and resurrect the dying and dead bits and bytes restoring them to a new life in cyberspace yet to come.
However...it was not to be.
Fortunately, my husband, who is himself somewhat of a geek (don't panic - this isn't fresh information to him!), has taken the Herculean task of removing the good from the bad and installing it on my birthday present...uh...new computer.
It isn't like we should mourn the tragic passage of a computer whose time came too soon. The other machine was over 4 years old and had begun to live a life of it's own, irrespective of the desires of the operators.
I often suspected it of espionage among the other household appliances and electronics.
But now, with it's power plug life support pulled and the glowing red eye dimmed into a temporary death, the new computer has already taken the place one held dear to the old machinery. Warm and useful, it is enabling me to be back online and back to my writing which, other than this blog, no one may ever actually read.
I don't feel any particular sense of sorrow and sadness about this, because like the current coach of the Crimson Tide says, "It is what it is."
The only unsettling part about this is a niggling sense of betrayal in the back of my mind. Almost as if I have betrayed the trust of a friend. After all, the other computer did perform its functions in admirable fashion, until the digital Alzheimer's set in.
Perhaps in the press for the now, my patience did wear thin upon it's aging circuits from time to time, but I never abused it. Instead, I would mutter under my breath and reboot praying for cyber sanity to be restored to the day.
Being able to access my email and check what is going on in the world today is almost a birthright now. Our society has become so dependent upon the technology of our day that we can't just call and say the computer is down and chat on the phone.
Oh no! We must take it upon ourselves to search out a friend, an acquaintance or a complete and total stranger in an Internet cafe and plead for a moment of their time to share the personal suffering over the loss of our Internet privileges at home.
Small wonder why kids today have no clue what a Victrola was or how to use a 10-key adding machine. They have been saturated from birth in the nanoprocessors and gigabytes of daily techno-speak as surely as they were swaddled in a fluffy baby blanket. They lack the on the ground information of how we got to this point, gleefully enmeshed in the 'now' with no interest in how we got here. It may be geek to us but it is most assuredly Greek to them.
Of course, they can't SPELL either. Thanks to the world of text messages and rapid fire responses, they have no time to "C U l8r" because another important text message just arrived with its youthful gibberish in a language that few adults truly comprehend. Or want to.
One wonders what our language will be like in the post modern world. In years to come, will babies be born with computer interfaces like the Borg on Star Trek? Will we all pause for the face blind, eyes dulled daily uplink and download of all that we need to know as determined by a collective or perhaps just one person?
Who's vision of progress do we kneel before - Mac or Windows? or is there yet another shadowy contender yet to be born who will do for us what neither OS has done before? It truly is a voyage to a place no one has ever been.
This is all too much on a semi empty stomach. I am becoming queasy just thinking about it.
Regardless of how life plays out, a majority of the industrialized world is hooked up, tuned in and running along full tilt toward a future that is as uncertain as crossing the prairie in a covered wagon. Minus the wagon, the void in our day is crossed with passwords and icons and clicks of a mouse that direct our path toward the event horizon in technological wonder.
I wonder if I can keep up. I feel like a straggler in the wagon train heading west - 'Have we lost her AGAIN!?! She is just too dense to bring along...let's hope for wolves!"
The new computer keeps asking me (as if I am stupid) if I really meant to do that... I am not sure how to respond sometimes since the only little tabs I have to choose from are 'YES', 'NO' and 'CANCEL'.
While I am sure my intent is good, nonetheless, having a digital overseer is a lot of pressure for a person who uses electronics fearfully because the truth is, they know they are in charge. I want to be savvy. I took a couple of classes promising to make me 'all that' in the computer world. Sadly, they only served as grade point ballast to keep me humble about the glorious A's I was racking up in science classes.
Oh well. The computer beeped. It appears ready to read and regurgitate the next disc of needed information. My job is just to keep the discs coming. I am not deluded. But the computer also knows that if I detect even a whisper of sass, I can cut it off from the current in a trice.
It is a cold war, but a war I can stand. I have vowed not to introduce the computer to any other appliances or electronics, other than those on the desktop. Two playmates is enough for any computer to crash.
One little button. It all sounds so simple.
Just push the button and access the world at my fingertips.
Until yesterday.
Oh, to be sure, there were warning signs.
But who really pays attention to the warning signs when eventually you can micromanage a solution and be up and running in no time at all.
Sadly, reality sets in and the gentle whirr and hum of a familiar constant is no more. The jaws of life cannot pry the victim out and the thrum of the heartbeat stills.
The computer went out in a blaze of glory taking with it all of my work and research as violently as possible.
The solution seems obvious to the novice. Call the geeks in taped glasses to come and resurrect the dying and dead bits and bytes restoring them to a new life in cyberspace yet to come.
However...it was not to be.
Fortunately, my husband, who is himself somewhat of a geek (don't panic - this isn't fresh information to him!), has taken the Herculean task of removing the good from the bad and installing it on my birthday present...uh...new computer.
It isn't like we should mourn the tragic passage of a computer whose time came too soon. The other machine was over 4 years old and had begun to live a life of it's own, irrespective of the desires of the operators.
I often suspected it of espionage among the other household appliances and electronics.
But now, with it's power plug life support pulled and the glowing red eye dimmed into a temporary death, the new computer has already taken the place one held dear to the old machinery. Warm and useful, it is enabling me to be back online and back to my writing which, other than this blog, no one may ever actually read.
I don't feel any particular sense of sorrow and sadness about this, because like the current coach of the Crimson Tide says, "It is what it is."
The only unsettling part about this is a niggling sense of betrayal in the back of my mind. Almost as if I have betrayed the trust of a friend. After all, the other computer did perform its functions in admirable fashion, until the digital Alzheimer's set in.
Perhaps in the press for the now, my patience did wear thin upon it's aging circuits from time to time, but I never abused it. Instead, I would mutter under my breath and reboot praying for cyber sanity to be restored to the day.
Being able to access my email and check what is going on in the world today is almost a birthright now. Our society has become so dependent upon the technology of our day that we can't just call and say the computer is down and chat on the phone.
Oh no! We must take it upon ourselves to search out a friend, an acquaintance or a complete and total stranger in an Internet cafe and plead for a moment of their time to share the personal suffering over the loss of our Internet privileges at home.
Small wonder why kids today have no clue what a Victrola was or how to use a 10-key adding machine. They have been saturated from birth in the nanoprocessors and gigabytes of daily techno-speak as surely as they were swaddled in a fluffy baby blanket. They lack the on the ground information of how we got to this point, gleefully enmeshed in the 'now' with no interest in how we got here. It may be geek to us but it is most assuredly Greek to them.
Of course, they can't SPELL either. Thanks to the world of text messages and rapid fire responses, they have no time to "C U l8r" because another important text message just arrived with its youthful gibberish in a language that few adults truly comprehend. Or want to.
One wonders what our language will be like in the post modern world. In years to come, will babies be born with computer interfaces like the Borg on Star Trek? Will we all pause for the face blind, eyes dulled daily uplink and download of all that we need to know as determined by a collective or perhaps just one person?
Who's vision of progress do we kneel before - Mac or Windows? or is there yet another shadowy contender yet to be born who will do for us what neither OS has done before? It truly is a voyage to a place no one has ever been.
This is all too much on a semi empty stomach. I am becoming queasy just thinking about it.
Regardless of how life plays out, a majority of the industrialized world is hooked up, tuned in and running along full tilt toward a future that is as uncertain as crossing the prairie in a covered wagon. Minus the wagon, the void in our day is crossed with passwords and icons and clicks of a mouse that direct our path toward the event horizon in technological wonder.
I wonder if I can keep up. I feel like a straggler in the wagon train heading west - 'Have we lost her AGAIN!?! She is just too dense to bring along...let's hope for wolves!"
The new computer keeps asking me (as if I am stupid) if I really meant to do that... I am not sure how to respond sometimes since the only little tabs I have to choose from are 'YES', 'NO' and 'CANCEL'.
While I am sure my intent is good, nonetheless, having a digital overseer is a lot of pressure for a person who uses electronics fearfully because the truth is, they know they are in charge. I want to be savvy. I took a couple of classes promising to make me 'all that' in the computer world. Sadly, they only served as grade point ballast to keep me humble about the glorious A's I was racking up in science classes.
Oh well. The computer beeped. It appears ready to read and regurgitate the next disc of needed information. My job is just to keep the discs coming. I am not deluded. But the computer also knows that if I detect even a whisper of sass, I can cut it off from the current in a trice.
It is a cold war, but a war I can stand. I have vowed not to introduce the computer to any other appliances or electronics, other than those on the desktop. Two playmates is enough for any computer to crash.
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