kellementology

life according to me

  • Glucosamine, Progesterone & Bubble Baths

    Somehow, I never made it to Target yesterday. By the time I decided to leave the house, it was after 12. I shook my head at the traitorous clock chiding myself over my lack efficiency. I used to be so organized. Well, maybe I just thought that of myself, languishing in years of self-indulgent praise. After all, I was worth it, wasn’t I? What a load of crap.

    With some degree of resignation, I ventured down the hill to the drug store to peruse the section that might have glucosamine and chondroitin for my less than limber joints. Well, they’re still quite limber, they just hurt like a sonuvvahbitch. It wasn’t tough to find, there was so much of it. And just to keep me occupied, there were combinations of the two — how convenient. From what I’d read, both were necessary for my annoyingly persistent aches, so why not save having to choke down more than one horse-sized pill a couple of times a day.

    It’s just unbelievable how much this stuff costs. Talk about having us by the short hairs. Let’s see — ache until your eyeballs fall out, or shell out the 25 bucks for a month’s supply. How much can it cost to make the damn things, anyway? And what about the side effects? I deplore taking pills or caplets, or anything that is supposed to “fix me” for any reason. I’m highly suspicious of the conflicting reports the media spreads about the benefits or lack thereof that “dietary supplements” can have. In the case of glucosamine, it seems that to alleviate the achiness in my joints, I will only have to tolerate increased intestinal gas. Great.

    If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I’m so excited to be able to now understand why the loving endearment Old Fart exists and that I may soon be a card carrying member.

    I tentatively settled on a brand I easily recognized. But after picking up one container, holding on to it while I read a few more labels, then placing it back in its slot to retrieve another, and proceed to repeat the whole indecisive process, I had to wonder whether the druggist who was encased in his shop a few feet away thought I was a loon or not. I finally chose “Triple Flex.” All the ingredients and quantities checked out, and I allowed myself to be coerced by the image of a slick sports like body wrapped in a computer generated grid that appeared on the box. So, that wasn’t too bad.

    I, too, could possibly have a body with a grid wrapped around it. Perhaps be the next 6 Million Dollar Old Fart.

    On the other side of the aisle were products I’d seen before and dismissed back in February when I was of a mind to tough this surgically induced menopause bullshit out. Now that it’s seriously kicking me in the ass throughout every day, like I said yesterday, “I’ve been pinned,” so I better figure it out. But there’s just something bizarre about the whole hormone thing and I wander over to the section that has other “personal” products like condoms, personal lubricant, hot flash cold packs and what I was looking for — Progesterone & Phytoestrogen. It comes in a container that sort of looks like deoderant. I saw this product months ago and have kept it in mind, wondering if it would be better than the heinous HRT cellophane patches I wore on my abdomen for a month before rebelling and abandoning their use. Somehow this “measured dosage pump” of “purified water, aloe vera gel, sunflower seed oil, natural glycerine, shea butter, stearic acid, natural progesterone,” and a litany of other things that don’t exactly sound “natural” seems less threatening. Why not just try it? If I have hair growing on my palms after a month, I’ll rethink my strategy, right?

    Nearly 50 bucks poorer, I then made my way to the kitchen store in the same mall to purchase the juniper berries I knew they’d have for the beef daube I was making for dinner. Yes, juniper berries. And yes, they look just like the berries we’d pick off the junipers in front of our house and fire at one another. Who knew? So, I didn’t get to wander the aisles at Target, but this was better. I love the kitchen store. After staring at depressing supplements for a half hour, fondling brioche pans, salivating over imported balsamic vinegar, and lusting after a new rectangular fluted tart pan, I was more than fine. For a while.

    After catching up with the RT and his daily report on how the new school year is going and what kind of homework he has, I puttered around in the kitchen preparing dinner, expecting to be in better spirits. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. So I poured myself a glass of wine, grabbed my book and headed up to the bathtub for a soak. The phone rang on the way with the MoH calling to let me know how late he’d be. “How was your day?” he asked, not expecting my response. After all, how could one have a less than stellar day when nearly zero is required with respect to responsibility. “I’m not feeling all that hot, so I’m headed up to take a bath,” I explained. The few seconds of silence on the phone was expected as taking a bath is yet another thing that I just don’t do. And before dark? Unheard of. In five years, I’ve probably used my bathtub fewer than 10 times. But a cool bath just seemed to be the ticket to breaking the malaise that had been dragging me down all day. I told the MoH that it was no big deal. That I’d be fine by the time he got home.

    What About a Bath?I opened the window to let the wind in, poured in a ridiculous amount of something milky, bubbly and promising rejuvenation, made sure the water was luke warm, then settled in. Waiting until the water was a few inches from the top, I turned off the faucet. Waiting for the water to work its cool, soothing wonders. Feeling the gentle pushing of air against the blinds over the window. Listening to the rustle of the palms. Watching the golden glow of early evening sun against the chimney above the skylight. Melting.

    Maybe I’ve been wrong about baths all these years.

    I could get used to this.

    No problem.

    Maybe I should blow the dust off my Pilates book. That should be much easier on my joints instead of power intervals and walking lunges.

    But I’ll have to work out how to lay on the mat, keep my glasses on my face so I can read the directions, and do the routines.

    Hell, who said any of this ever was easy? Huh?

  • Achy Breaky Creaky Self

    Working From Home I’m alive and well after making much ado over my stint at the keyboard yesterday. But barely. I can honestly say that if I had been writing fiction, then I may have ended the day on a higher note, without the headache and stiff neck. Without barely being able to straighten myself and walk into the next room. I could have been writing a piece of fiction oozing with superfluous adjectives that make one wince in much the same way an extremely sweet piece of candy does. With a feisty character whose name is Alexandra or Fiona. Yes, perhaps something on the steamy side conjuring images of gazelle like bodies cavorting through the surf on a tropical island after an intense session of exertion — you know, at a spa. Uh, you weren’t thinking what I think you were thinking. Were you? Shame.

    But still. Entertaining.

    And after two very early mornings of strenuous walking — well, for me it’s strenuous — I could barely move after sitting here as long as I did. Tell me. Why is it that I can sit here and do what I want to do, and am not stiff and sore at all? Hmmmm…? Mind over matter, I’m sure. How pathetic. But I’m also exaggerating.

    So today, I’m not going to sit here any longer than necessary. I’ll actually get in my car for a reason other than to carpool kids to school. I’m going to Target — the land of uber cool advertising and chic but cheap stuff to purchase that I don’t really need. I wander up and down the aisles with absolutely no purpose on earth other than to look at countless items I won’t buy. Sure, I have a list of the usual “have tos” to purchase, but I wait until the end to pick up those items. After I’ve perused the book section longingly. After I’ve cruised through the plants. After I’ve looked at the cookware, the gadgets, and the stationery. The towels. Candles. Sportswear.

    I do need some sports wear. You know, for sports. Okay, so not sports. But exercise.

    Yes, I still exercise, but you should see what I exercise in. To convince you, I’d offer to let you smell it, since I wear it more than once a week, but I’m sure you’d politely decline. I need to get back into some kind of a routine. The ocean water was less than lovely when I last swam because of waves, low temperatures, tons of seaweed and tourists who just stand in the water. They do. Plus, we had begun to ramp up the intensity of our swim, so I’d end up with my tongue hanging down to my knees after I got home, already dreading the next time we’d go. Then, the humid weather seriously kicked my butt (I would so not be able to live on the Right Coast or in the South, weakling that I am…) and I’ve had some issues with my joints — especially my wrists. And no, it isn’t because I’m typing. One hurts more than the other, and the last time I checked, my right hand wasn’t hitting more keys than the other. Yes, the keyboard is level with my wrists. Yes, yes, yes. To be honest, the soreness is probably yet another change related to hormones. Do you know how annoying it is to have to say that? I hate saying it. It’s like calling “uncle” or whatever that is when someone has you pinned. I give up, okay? Except I can’t.

    I’ve been a bit resistant to finding out exactly why my body is feeling the way it does from one time to the next. I’ve never been one to dwell on aches and pains I may have except in the paragraph above… A headache rarely moves me to take an aspirin. I just grin and bear it, and always have. But I’ve also never had body parts removed, and it gives me the creeps to think about it — still. I’d rather ignore what I notice instead of acknowledging that concern hovers around in my mind with every change I notice. I’d rather not be reminded about how much in my body has been affected by the removal of those organs.

    I used to understand when I was exhausted after a long and busy day at work. Even then, I’d deal with it understanding that I could get in bed earlier, or pay attention to my diet, make sure I was exercising, or quit my job! But this is different. I’m exhausted today and I have no reason to explain it. Yes, I got up at 6:30. And I spent some time outside trimming bushes grown over during the summer. But that shouldn’t make me tired. I could take a nap right now, and I’ve never, ever been one who naps. Remember napping in Kindergarten? Sheesh. I could never go to sleep like the other kids. I’d lay there on my towel from home staring at the ceiling tiles and watching the kid next to me drool and twitch until the teacher told me to go to sleep. And then I’d shut my eyes and pretend.

    My knees feel better today than they did yesterday– but that’s because we didn’t do “intervals” during our walk yesterday morning, or the walking lunges that I know I will pay dearly for when I do them.  Ten of them.

    My VBF is just stronger than I am. Plain and simple. She does it all and just keeps on ticking. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m whining when I say that I’m sore, or that my arm is throbbing as I walk, forcing me to raise it over my head to relieve the pressure. But yesterday was the straw. I vaguely remember my doctor saying something about glucosamine…so I finally decided to see what I could find about why I’m feeling this way, and what I can do about it.

    It’s pretty depressing to read:

    “You may feel listless, depressed, isolated, indifferent, unenergetic, weak, unable to sleep, or anxious. You may lose emotional stability and contentment, becoming moody, hair-triggered, prone to fits of tears for little obvious reason, irrational, impatient, lacking any self-esteem. You may have trouble breathing, experience irregular heartbeats, or experience anxiety attacks.”

    Oh, and here’s a good one with respect to the effect of low estrogen on memory:

    ” You may know what you want to say, but the specific word just isn’t in your brain even though you know it’s one you know very well. You may forget or lose things, or you may get lost yourself, unable to remember how to travel a route with which you are familiar.”

    Hmmm…yes, I’ve noticed this. In fact, it’s a bit scary when I’m driving somewhere and I have to think about where I’m going because I’ll just drive on auto pilot. Yes, I’ve done this before, and do remember doing it when I was in my late teens and early 20’s. But now? Feh. It happens all the time. No, I do not have ADD.

    Ah-Ha! Look at this:

    “Both physical energy and joint inflamation seem to be related to estrogen levels. When they dip, we may become physically fatigued beyond whatever sleep we’re losing to insomnia. We may also develop creaky, aching joints, stiffness after being still, and actual symptoms or exacerbation of osteoarthritis, especially in the knees.”

    Ah, but validation is a double edged sword, isn’t it?

    I am seriously going to Target. Either that or bawl my head off. I’m not one to feel sorry for myself — ever. But this is ridiculous. When I find some energy, I’ll figure it all out. In the mean time, I guess I’ll just keep looking for answers, keep exercising, and try to understand it all.

    It’s not fair. I know. Life’s not fair. Hahahaha. Whatever.

  • Almost Wordless, but Not Quite?

     See updates below…

    I have to work today. All day. Yes. A-L-L. As in all.

    There’s no blogging. Warning Well, this doesn’t really count, right?

    Because I have a lot to do. Gentle Reminder

    Seriously. A. Lot. You know…tons.
    I have several iTunes playlists at my disposal…mac Screen so that should help. *Okay, who in hell purchased Chumbawamba?*

    But I’m going to wonder about that spider outside — right in front of the door at face level — whom I’ve named Clyde.

    Okay. So maybe not? Fat Head

    Update #1: Okay, so, like…I lasted until 11:54 (3.5 hours – not too bad, huh?) when a Liz Story piece came up on my iTunes play list and I decided to Google for sheet music — which I’ve never done. And whoa. There’s not only sheet music on line, but I can get it immediately with plastic money. And print it out. And play it. Do you have any idea HOW long it’s been since I purchased music? YEARS. Then I could park my caboose on that ol’ piano bench and actually play. OMG. There are distractions EVERYWHERE. And no, the time in my post above not correct, so don’t even think you can check up on me, Slick.

    Update #2:  It’s nearly 4pm and my eyeballs have fallen out and are rolling across the desk.  Edu-speak is pouring out of my fingers and making absolutely no sense…wait.  That sounds normal, doesn’t it?  Have….to….finish…

  • Spider Webs and Windy Day Distractions

    The wind has been blowing for a couple of days now. It’s not the dry wind of the Santa Anas we’re accustomed to. Instead, it’s a soft push of coolness that takes the sting out of the intense sunlight that will persist well into October providing welcome relief from the humidity we’ve had. I know it won’t last, so allow myself to be drawn outside to stand and let it wash over me. September Light

    How could I not go out, enticed as I have been by insistent shadows dancing against the wall? And start my work instead? No.

    I’d rather listen to the rustle of the palm fronds high above, and track the descent of the carrotwood leaves as they fall heavily to the ground and clatter away.

    Spider webs catch my attention each morning now, and I check to see how many there are, and whether they’ve been moved. It’s daunting to venture out too far without carefully looking around first, because I’m bound to walk right into one.

    Web in the Sun

    It’s amazing how strong they are. Even in this wind, their anchors hold, and they glisten in the light, beautifully.

    Sunlight

    The distraction is more than effective as I’m now an hour and a half behind. I do my best daydreaming when I’m supposed to be working. Any number of less than crucial aspects of life will fall under my scrutiny and become fascinating.

    Web

    Oh what tangled webs we weave…

    So much for my schedule.

  • Salt Lamps and Earthquakes in Paradise

    My oldest son gave me a halite rock salt crystal lamp ionizer last year. I was pleasantly surprised because I had seen the lamps glowing eerily in shops I’d strolled through before, wondering what they were, and thought them beautiful. I knew absolutely nothing about them however, and was fascinated to find sources that report that the lamps can improve the number of negative ions in the air of a room when lit. And that they can also assist in the improvement of respiratory allergies and other conditions such as asthma. That they can increase alertness. Create an atmosphere of calming, balancing, refreshing…clean. Clearly, this young man took one look at his mom, and detecting an impending implosion, got a salt lamp to me as quickly as possible.

    A year later, I’m wondering if my son owns one. He can’t breathe, is allergic to just about everything, and has asthma. He has a job he detests and is trying to go to school. I’m thinking he needs one of these lamps.

    I recently moved the lamp from our family room to my bedside table. I noticed that because I hadn’t kept it lit, it began to sweat as I had read it would — especially in humid conditions. It sweat so much, I had to place a saucer beneath it to keep it from ruining the shelf it was sitting on. Now, it serves as a night light of sorts. The amber colored light it casts is much more pleasant to fall asleep by, and since the weather is still warm enough to require all our windows be open at night, it prevents anyone from looking into our room after dark. They may wonder what the unearthly glow is, however.
    Rock Salt Lamp I know there are sources which will contradict the stated benefits of salt lamps. I also know there are sources that will question just how the salt is mined, and whether the conditions for the workers are safe. I have to admit I wondered about those things as well. I believe many of us are just wired in that fashion. But I also know that the lamp is gorgeous, and does bring a sense of calm just by lighting it — much the same way that lighting a candle brings.

    Skeptics always have and will continue to poo-poo anything that isn’t explainable by cold hard facts. They rely on logic and science for everything. I do when it’s convenient, or I feel the need to win an argument, but once in a while, it’s lovely to wonder and to give in to other possibilities. To feel grateful for a thoughtful gift from someone you love without having to think about logic.

    I’m now wondering about the difference in life span between hard-nosed skeptics, and dreamers. I think that being on a cranky quest to squash everyone else’s beliefs has got to be something that creates quite a few positive ions. And in much the same way those tiny personal fans were created for individuals who wanted to blow away another’s cigarette smoke, I think tiny, portable salt lamps just may be necessary to ward off the evils of chronic naysayers.

    Besides, I’ve discovered yet another benefit of using a rock salt lamp.

    Yesterday, in one of my myriad toss and turn sessions during the night, I heard a distinctive sound. It was a persistent, steady light dinging — one seeming to be very close. I instantly recognized it, and after a second of recognizing, opening my eyes, stopping my breathing to rise on an elbow, knew that it wasn’t The Big scratching a flea. The salt lamp doesn’t fit quite snugly into its saucer, so it was rocking steadily to the movement of the earth. I looked at the MoH, who hadn’t removed the arm he likes to position over his face. Earthquake, I told him, and laid back down to go back to sleep.

    Later in the day we did see on a news commercial that there had been a mild earthquake just off the coast where we live — with a magnitude of only 3.7… “You were right,” the MoH confirmed, granting me credit for my knowledge. The MoH is a skeptic at heart, although would disagree with that, finding it to be a criticism or flaw in his character instead of one of the many idiosyncrasies we all have as less than perfect humans. I had intended to check the US Geological Survey website earlier in the day, but forgot.

    Earthquake Sunday 9-9

    Cal Tech’s So Cal Shake Movie

    After the news commercial, my father-in-law said mentioned he’d read the “big one” was coming. I remembered years ago reading Last Days of the Late, Great State of California by Curt Gentry in which much of the Left Coast breaks off and either separates from the continent, or sinks into the Pacific. My father-in-law continued by saying that the date for the occurrence had been moved up by ten years or so and we had a bit of discussion on the number and intensity of earthquakes in the Pacific Rim over the past couple of months. But the discussion wasn’t enough to distract any of the others visiting my sister-in-law’s home for a nephew’s birthday from the football game they were watching.

    Later last night, I asked my middle son if he had felt the earthquake. There was an earthquake? he answered, and then told me The Big One was coming. I wondered whether he’d been talking to my father-in-law and whether I was the only one who didn’t think this was new information. I did try to find recent information about The Big One, but nothing more recent than last year came up. Somehow, I’m more concerned about getting out of this chair and getting some exercise, or reorganizing my kitchen cupboards. Or something. Put together emergency earthquake kits?

    A family disaster plan? Well, we’ve talked about it.

    But not today. I can breathe more easily dreaming that while my salt rock is improving the air in my bedroom, it will also let me know that The Big One has arrived before my house falls into the one within spitting distance of either next door. And increase the likelihood that I will be more calm. And alert.
    More calm while alert.

    I did not get in line for calm when I was being made.

    It’s on my list for next time.

  • B.L.O.B. News

    Now that I’ve been ripped a new a**hole by two very lovely folks from New Hampshire, let’s move on to discuss the great things happening in “other news…”

    Right now, my mother is thinking, “News? If I wanted to know what was going on in the world, I’d watch the news.” Sorry, Mom. I’m not in the mood to write about why one of my cats peed on the floor next to the catbox instead of in the catbox last night, but I am still scratching my head because it’s never happened before. Well, at least with respect to the catbox. I am quite used to boys missing the toilet, but I don’t feel like writing about that, either. Or why the Yack Star is on an “attach her fat self to the side of the leather chair before hoisting herself up to the arm” kick right now.

    She’s. Going. To. DIE. Yack Star

    I’m also not feeling like grousing about neighbors, issues with the new school year, housekeeping — or the lack thereof — or food. Mmmm…food.

    But I am interested in — because it’s my B.L.O.B.* and I can write about it if I want to:

    From the Detroit Free Press: “State gas prices 37-cents higher than national average, no reason why”

    Uh…welcome to our neighborhood. Seriously. I feel for you. For about three seconds. It’s about freaking time someone else had crappy gasoline prices. Any time now, “THEY” will tell us that they’re switching to winter gasoline, whatever the hell that is and we’ll be right back there with yah.Oil Prices

    Western Farm Press: “California hiding behind tiny smelt, not facing reality”

    “Makes you wonder what DWR leaders were thinking when they shut down Delta transfer pumps and told everyone: no big deal. People would just quit drinking water and farmers would stop farming while fish biologists count needles (tiny minnows) in a haystack (the vast California Delta)?”

    OMG — this guy is hilarious. Whatsisname? Harry Cline. Fuh-neeeeee.

    “The easy save-the-smelt target is the pumps. You can turn them off and on.”

    I just love this guy and his completely irreverent attitude toward our illustrious politicians. Smelt Hook, anyone?

    BBC News: “Markets fall after dip in US jobs”

    “The surprise 4,000 reduction in the US workforce in August sent the main Dow Jones index down 211 points…”

    Hmmm…how many college students quit their jobs before going back to school each fall? Or which giant, struggling US company released employees instead of being able to renegotiate labor contracts? Wait, it was that huge mortgage company…

    “Analysts fear the job cuts show that the recent market turmoil has spread to the wider US economy.”

    The sky is falling, the sky is falling…I’ve always wondered what “analysts” actually do. You know…work wise..?

    “Michael Metz, chief investment strategist at Oppenheimer & Co in New York, reacted to the latest employment figures with gloom.”

    “It’s dreadful…it seems to me almost inevitable we’re heading for recession,” Mr Metz said.”

    Doom. Gloom. Chicken Little Sorry. I couldn’t resist. No, I didn’t make it. Image credit to: Internet Weekly [dot] org

    Market Watch: “Assessing Maria Bartiromo and Erin Burnett”

    “Today, the media biz’s juciest smackdown is taking place inside the hallowed halls of CNBC. Maria Bartiromo is fending off Erin Burnett, who is about nine years her junior.”

    I like BOTH of them and what the hell does AGE have to do with it? If this was about two men, there would be NO mention of age. They’re both great — well, except Maria does get a bit worked up on the floor and yells…’Money Honey?’ Now that’s just wrong.

    The Motley Fool: “Curse You, Steve Jobs!” iPhone Brainwash Ad courtesy of iPhone Matters

    “I work hard for my money, and shelling out the $600 for the phone wasn’t easy. But it felt cool having a phone that everyone wanted but not everyone could have. However, with the phone now retailing for $400, the device will be financially accessible to a wider audience. Apple has to know this decision would frustrate its customers who paid nearly 33% more for the phone just over two months ago. So why would it do this?”

    Uh…I get that there are people who get a rush over having the latest and greatest…but to actually write it. Like this? What? You’re expecting positive attention for this? She’s joking, right?

    “Apple figured that it could significantly mark up the price initially, as the phone attracted gadget enthusiasts willing to pay premium prices for the phone. But now it feels that it has maximized profits from that market and is now tapping into the lower market in order to keep expanding sales.

    Lower market? Would that be the common folk? Who is this person? I hope I’m supposed to be laughing right now, because otherwise…It reminds me of the sanctimonious attitude of those who, after paying premium prices for real estate, are disgruntled to find that “RENTERS” have moved in next door. The horror of it all.

    “I absolutely love my iPhone, and I may be a bit overzealous about the price drop since it directly affects me…”

    Okay, so I’m laughing?

    MSNBC: “Apple responds to backlash, offers apology”

    “Apple Inc. CEO Steve Jobs apologized and offered $100 credits Thursday to cusomers who shelled out $599 for the most advanced model of the iPhone this summer, only to have the company unexpectedly slash the price $200 in a push to boost holiday sales.”

    So this is a bit like the mortgage default problem — people in California, Arizona, Nevada, and Florida who bought homes with zero percent down loans and never intended to live in them (read Flip That House) are now whining, getting ready to dump the load on everyone else, and hell, if they wait long enough, have Uncle Sam bail their sorry asses out. Yah, I think that sounds about right. They’ll turn around and purchase something else that’s risky. The people who receive the iPhone rebates will go to the Apple store and buy more Apple products.

    iTnews: “Storm worm botnet more powerful than top supercomputers”

    “Sergeant said researchers at MessageLabs see about 2 million different computers in the botnet sending out spam on any given day, and he adds that he estimates the botnet generally is operating at about 10 percent of capacity.”

    Great. At least I can rest easy knowing that I’ll have the opportunity to purchase cheap Viagra, vibrators, knock-off Gucci purses, and no point loans.

    Garlic Spam

    Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, stay tuned for our regularly scheduled programming.

    *B.L.O.B

    Beleaguered Labour of Bullsh*t

  • Edsels, Nexters, and Whining Reporters

    I know this constitutes the second politically based commentary I’ve made in a single day, but in the spirit of ranting about “the other side,” I thought, what the hell.

    So finally Fred Thompson has officially declared his candidacy for the Presidency. And although that isn’t a surprise, it is a bit humorous that he chose to sit out the debate the other Republican wannabees were elbowing their way to in New Hampshire at about the same time, in what New York Times writer Susan Saluny described as “[providing] himself a pleasant, risk-free forum, safe from potential negativity and tough questioning from reporters, a debate moderator or the public.” Oh, yes, that would be terrifying, wouldn’t it.

    Uh…are we whining here that someone isn’t playing by the rules? I think it’s pretty funny. Thompson did it because he could. Period. And why not? I’d want to separate myself from that pack as well. I’ve tried to watch them in previous forums, and I just can’t handle it. They’re all so…insignificant. Unimpressive? Typical. Well, except Romney who looks like he should be doing toothpaste commercials. Or selling Grecian Formula for Men.

    The Thompson announcement that ran in our local paper from the Associated Press and The Washington Post included reactions from “some New Hampshire Republicans” who “expressed disappointment, even sounding a bit hurt, that the former U.S. senator from Tennessee didn’t show up.” Being empathetic to the obvious plight those republicans are struggling with (knotted panties), I’m will attempt to put myself in their collective shoes. Somehow it comes out similar to the feeling I imagine one may have if, after being given pre-season football tickets, he arrives at the game to discover that a newly signed and much touted free agent won’t be playing. It doesn’t mean you can’t pick up a newspaper, log on to the Internet, or watch television to find out what will be happening as time goes on.

    The fact that the article continues, stating that “curiosity is giving way to skepticism and maybe even cynicism about [Thompson] in part because of how he’s handling his grand entrance” is what bothers me. Cullen, the New Hampshire GOP Chairman has a bit o’ the sour grapes as well, and reminds me of someone who’s reacting to being snubbed by a desirable invited to an afternoon tea. Get over it.

    I understand that New Hampshire has this bizarre arrogance about their primary and being “first” for eighteen gazillion years, but how many people live there and vote? More importantly, how many of them are people who watch Jay Leno, are inclined to look up a web site to gather information, and then join forums to discuss what they’re learning?

    In case you’ve been wondering whether this means I’m happy that Fred’s hat has been thrown in the ring, think again. I’m more interested at this point in watching the goings on while I sit back and gather my thoughts.

    And I’m fascinated by George F. Will’s piece on Ford’s ’57 Titanic that ran today and the connections I made between what he had to say about an ugly old car and Americans:

    Americans are more discerning and less herdable than their cultured despisers suppose, so what matters most is simple. Good products.

    Are there any out there? It’s going to be tough to weed through the sludge encased in this spin or that, but I’m gearing up for the challenge. Funny thing, though. There is a whole group of individuals who will just make their decision without getting too worked up about any of it.

    PBS’ Judy Woodruff dubbed them “The Nexters” in their broadcast “Generation Next 2.0.” The program documents Nexters’, or “young people between the ages of 16 and 25” “views on life, the future of the country, social activities, technology, and other topics, comparing and contrasting them with previous generations.”

    The conclusion drawn was intriguing: that they are somewhat more conservative than their parents.

    It’s interesting to see how the younger set’s inclinations with respect to the election are being tracked…Very.

    I think I’ll stay tuned. Edsel, anyone?

  • Dear Friend…

    Do you ever look at your junk mail? No, not in your email — your snail mail. You know, the kind that comes from all those trees. Yes, that junk mail.

    Well. In my junk snail mail, I received a letter from Bill Clinton today. It says, “Dear Friend,” and I wondered, why did I open this? I never open things like this. But I was being efficient and sorting through all the crap that fills our tiny mail cubicle, such as “Learn Why You Must Invest in Energy Now!” Okay. Let’s not and say we did. Moving right along.

    I read it. The whole thing. The Bill Clinton thing, not the oil investment thing. I’m not sure why, but perhaps it was just to see what Bill had to say. He did always have much to say, right? I was wondering the entire time I was reading who actually wrote it, and how much a gig like that could pay. Does anyone know I’m for sale? Hello?

    Bill talks about Hilary, of course. I mean, what’s not to talk about? Her hair, her suits, her social smile. He talks about how Hilary didn’t want to ever run for office (and chickens have lips), but that she went on to do this, and that, and accomplish such and such after this and that failed. You know. Hilary. Is there one, or two l’s in her name? Two? Okay, sorry. Hillary.

    “Bill” writes about how she never gave up and how she visited 82 countries representing the U.S. That’s outstanding. And how when she became a Senator, she “immediately went to work on solutions to America’s problems. You know, I get how this whole resume thing works. It’s not like we weren’t watching. And I am wondering…if…maybe…But.

    What it all boils down to is that I’m only a zip code to Hilary, and that is a very, very bad thing. Everything I am, I’ve been, I believe and know has been reduced to a specific sequence of numbers printed on an elegantly shaped envelope that smacks of something I’d receive from a friend. You just gotta love those folks who majored in marketing. Or something.

    Through “Bill,” Hillary hopes I’ll “take a moment right now to add [my] energy, passion — and, yes, [my] financial support — to Hillary’s remarkable campaign.”

    Uh. Nope.

    I gave at the office. Besides, I’d have to get a ball gown or something, wouldn’t I? Do they take people in jammies? And who strike a mean key instead of wielding a pen? Probably not.

    But it would be interesting to work “side-by-side” with “Bill” in the months ahead to help Hilary — oops, Hillary — change America’s direction…

    I’m scratching my head right now, wanting to gear up for the election which is…what? More than a year away? But what’s up with the whole begging for money deal? Have I arrived and nobody told me?

    Great.

    So that means I’m in Kansas?

    Fine. Then where are my red sparkly shoes?

  • Grinning and Swearing over Syllabi

    It’s a little difficult to write when my iTunes playlist is soothing the crabby writing self I was planning on strutting today to commune with my First Day of Not Going to School hangover. No, not that kind of a hang over. Sheesh! It’s more of a recovery from the smackdown all those papers that came home from school by way of the RT dealt me.

    Such conflicting reactions I had while reading them all, gauging my emotions all the while, and then getting royally pissed off that I was annoyed. Or maybe it was the other way around. You follow? I can imagine not.

    I suppose on some level, I found myself remembering my own class syllabi and the reactions parents must have had reading them. Yes, I was a pain in the ass demanding teacher, but I NEVER wrote things such as:

    Students are expected to: attend class daily, learn daily, take clear, organized notes daily, bring pencils and erasers, ask a question if the material presented is not understood, and do each day’s Class Fun and Home Fun each day, i.e. don’t wait and then try to cram a month’s worth of work into a weekend! No eating, candy, mints, chewing of gum, or drinking is allowed in the classroom. Students are expected not to: sit idle, sleep, sweaar, perform personal grooming, do the work of another class, leave the classroom before the bell rings, or wear clothing which is against the dress code. Students may not be out of their seats without my permission. I may confiscate anything on a studnent’s desk which is unrelated or inappropriate. This includes, and is not limited to : cell phones, iPods, CD players, Blackberries, Treos, other classes’ books or work, food, drink, makeup, makeup work, homework, artwork, and personal lettes or ntes. These inappropriate items may or may not be returned to the student.

    *GASP* Oh, and yes. We have another paper size freak on our hands. It has to be EXACTLY 8-1/2″ x 11″ which means that the 10 packages I purchased for 69 cents a package which measure only 8″ x 10-1/2″ will not be acceptable for this class. Mind you, the actual writing space of the paper I purchased is EXACTLY the same size as the writing space of the larger paper. The area in the margins has been reduced. One just may consider that it is for the purpose of CONSERVATION, mightn’t one?

    And what it hell is “Class Fun” and “Home Fun?” Does she actually think that 10th graders will find this humorous?

    And the paper that I had to sign so that he would be able to use a graphing calculator purchased with private donations — but only while in class, and not until I signed and returned the paper I was reading — but couldn’t take home to use for his homework — most of which required the use of a graphing calculator…

    The subsequent trip to Staples for the graphing calculator set me back about $250. No, not just for the calculator. Art supplies, planner, additional notebooks. I had already been to Staples for the basics. Ugh. What if I had six kids? Condoms, anyone?

    Mothers with young children out there…just wait. Those of you with no children, remember being in high school? It’s just a bit different now. Hell, his crap doesn’t even fit in his backpack. And do you think he got a locker? Nope. He said last year he didn’t use the one he had (he doesn’t like to worry about being late to a class…) so at this rate, I’ll have to steal a shopping cart from the local grocery store.

    Wait. They installed those locking wheel guards that clamp when you try and wheel them over the magnetic line so the road agents wouldn’t take them. Not funny? Whatever.

    It’s just that when I watch the RT hoist the academic megaload over one of his shoulders, I swear I can see him bend and sway a little in the middle like a twig does when a fat bird sits on it, and I wait to see if he’ll snap in two. I don’t dare say anything or I’ll get The Flat Look. The one that suggests I’m verging on being tiresome at best. Downright a pain in the ass at worst. You know. A mother. Okay, so whatever if your mother was June Cleaver. My mother never had to check up on any of us because we just did what we were supposed to do. Why in hell does it just seem like such a bigger pain now days? It makes no sense. I thought we were supposed to be moving away from industrialization for crap sakes. Consider the continued nonsense from the math teacher:

    You are tardy if you are not in your seat when the bell rings. The Paradise High School Tardy Policy is enforced in Ms. Persnickety’s classes, and significantly affects your citizenship grade. I track minutes tardy; these minutes accumulate and count towards “periods absent.”

    Read: if you aren’t at your station ready to squirt the eyes on the candy chick when the bell sounds, I’ll dock your pay, you worthless cretin.

    You know, when the kids read this, they most likely don’t pay any attention. Their eyes glaze over and they stare out the window. They wonder what’s for lunch even though they’re only in their period one class and have three more to go. They think about everything but what matters to that teacher. Well, not all of them. But still. I’m on a roll, here, okay?

    The art teacher sounds great, expecting excellence and organization — WOOT! and I can’t wait to join in on the lessons. Why not? She has all the sketchbook assignments for the year laid out already. How cool is that. I’m gonna get right on it. Maybe that way the RT might consider drawing something other than war machines. And weapons.

    The history teacher (who is a coach) didn’t even give him a syllabus. I guess there are no expectations for that class. But the RT says he’s a nice guy, so all righty then. We’re set.

    It’s all about nice.

    Could we have a happy medium, please?

  • Celebrating with the kellenator

    I know it’s not Wednesday, but still. I couldn’t resist. Well, actually I must have, because there aren’t supposed to be words here, right? Feh. I so don’t know how to not say anything. It’s a genetic problem. But I had to in some way celebrate that I:

    • was not at school on the First Day of School for the first time in over 20 years — give or take one or two;
    • was not sick with worry about whether we’d have enough students to keep all our teachers (i.e., tell one who has prepared very hard to get ready for a school year that he/she would have to leave);
    • did not have to be concerned that we had a vacancy for a position necessary to run the business part of the school — or have to train a new one who has absolutely no idea how to do his/her job;
    • did not have to act like it mattered that NCLB may seem great on paper but will never really work, and that YES! we’re all revved up about those test scores;
    • didn’t have to work the kinks out of a new lunch schedule, or bell schedule, or bus schedule, or duty schedule, or master schedule, or budget, or any of that.
    • I didn’t have to wonder for the 8,000th time why boys think pants that hang off their rear ends are comfortable to walk around in, and adolescent girls think everyone wants to stare at their cleavage and bellies;

    I have many very good friends who do think and wonder and worry about these things — today more than most other days — and they are very good at making sure it’s all taken care of with no discernible sign of angst.

    Instead, I:

    • joked gleefully with my new captive carpool kids, who didn’t laugh, even though I thought I was captivating;
    • drove down the hill past a good friend of mine who was on cross walk duty at her school — I did beep and wave, and I’ll bet she wishes she could have given me a special wave as I cruised past;
    • cheered with glee (well, not really) that the temperature here (77 today! and shhhhh….maybe the humidity?) dropped at least 10-15 degrees, and I can now thaw out my brains by turning off the AC;
    • successfully avoided doing anything I should do on this very special day;
    • obsessively thought about doing something I should be doing while I was doing what I wanted to do;
    • spent a lot of time going through blogs to get them on my netvibes feeder and was dismayed to find that many won’t go…;
    • waited anxiously for the RT to come home and tell me all about his first day back at Paradise High;
    • waited until the last minute to do this truly thoughtful and well-written post;
    • couldn’t resist and instead of writing about how The Govvenator is going to save those of us in SoCal from dying of thirst after that stupid ruling that is designed to protect a fish that most use as bait when they go fishing, I’d don his visage just for hoots;

    Kellenator

    • thought about the last two Halloweens the RT wore this mask and wondered if he had blown his nose….