life according to me
In spite of completely ROTTEN refs and Peyton Commercial King Manning, the Sunshine Boys have won. Without L.T. and without their first string quarterback.
Clearly, the MoH and the RTR are not very happy…Bwahahahahahaha!
Of course the carnage on the field is allowing the New Cheating England Patriots some glee in anticipation of their supposed perfect season and Super Bowl win.
But.
The fat lady has not yet begun to sing.
Just wait.
Cheaters never win, Bill.
Oh look everyone. Another Saturday. I continue to be amazed that the days on the calendar just whip by with such complete disregard for the fact that I’m on the back side of a half century and it’d be nice if things could slow down a bit. Not permanently, of course. But long enough to allow for the extended time I require to think about things that really don’t matter in the grander scheme of the universe and the survival of the species. I don’t know which particular species, but still.
But there are some things that matter so much, I can’t imagine what I’d do without them. The loss so many have experienced this past week in San Diego in the wildfires has prompted me to wonder about choosing if I had to. But my choices aren’t necessitated by a fire. They’re the result of simply taking stock, and acknowledging what keeps me anchored. Understood is that family and friends are not something to be considered here. Period.
Solitude. I can be around many, many people. But I prefer not to. I love the busy roar of a large city, but not as much as a winding road and low grass covered hills. And music? It can bring me to tears, cause me to dance, or force me to sing along whether there are words or not. But even music can’t compete with my need for solitude. The quiet I enjoy for part of every day when the only sound I can hear is the rustle of trees outside my window, or the creak of wood somewhere in the house matters. Plain, simple quiet.
My stove. I could say cooking, but not being one of those Top Chef type people, I wouldn’t want to have to cook on a hot plate, or a sterno flame. No. I’d need my stove. The one with the nine cheery red knobs. I’ve heard people say they love their cars — the purr of the engine, the handling, the acceleration. That’s how I feel about my stove. Ah…the sound it makes when those convection fans switch on. Vroom…vroom….It isn’t in my kitchen because its design is sleek, although it is. Or because its technology is a wonder. But it is pretty amazing. It’s in my kitchen because I use it. Seriously use it and have fun the entire time. It connects me to food and family and friends. Creativity and learning. Tradition and new cuisine. It provides the peace of mind that diligently proceeding through a set of steps can provide, and at the end of them all, have my taste buds sing. Could I have all of this without my particular stove? Certainly. But it just wouldn’t be the same. It weighs a bit more than my Mac at about 1,000 lbs. so it isn’t exactly something I can ever take with me if I go. But I’d find a way to get another. Trust me.
My Mac. It has one little plug that connects it to my house. One. But it connects me to so much more than I can possibly be connected to otherwise. Ironically, I’m writing this on the MoH’s laptop, and it’s fine, but it’s not my Mac. I could make due with a different computer if I didn’t have a Mac. I can buy just about anything I want, read (which would be another thing I wouldn’t do without because it’s like breathing), travel, learn, listen, create…But it wouldn’t be the same. Iwouldn’t have my lovely screen, or sleek white lines, or easily swiveleing-thingy-ness. I wouldn’t be able to waste copious amounts of time with iPhoto, or click open my Finder services for the Oxford dictionary (the Webster widget doesn’t come close…). And photobooth, and iChat (which I’ve just learned to use). Pathetic, isn’t it? Don’t even argue with me about this. I’m a goner. And iTunes? Well.
Rod wants to know what’s on my playlist. I don’t have an iPod (solitude, remember?) but I do happen to have three whole playlists on in my iTunes library which are organized very specifically. And when I check the list of songs I’ve played most, the following come up. They’re supposed to say much about who and what I am, or what I’ve been thinking. But I’ve developed an odd habit at this point in my life. I don’t listen to the words of songs. I listen for the melody. I listen to whether it’s written in a major or minor key, whether it’s sung by an uncomplicated voice and a single instrument, or an energetic voice and a band. And it’s all connected to mood. I listen when I have to write. When I have to sit at the computer and am easily distracted. I play it loudly, singing along — whether there are words or not. So I’m not sure what these particular songs say about me. I’ll have to think about it. But I’ll have to figure out what the words are first.
She Is    The Fray    (40)
Snow    Red Hot Chili Peppers (37)
Betty    Kate Walsh (26)
Savin’ Me    Nickelback (25)
If it Makes You Happy Sheryl Crow (25)
In Need Sheryl Crow (24)
What About Now Daughtry (23)
When the Lights go Down Faith Hill (23)
Photograph Nickelback (23)
Over You Daughtry (22)
Squeeze Me Diana Krall (22)
You’re Still Here Faith Hill (22)
Slow Like Honey Fiona Apple (22)
Tonight Kate Walsh (22)
Nearness of You Norah Jones (22)
This post was sponsored by Robert of Miscellaneous Ramblings who inquired about “Three Things I Wouldn’t Let Go,” and Rod of Inside Rod’s Head who insisted that “Our Players Don’t Lie.” The links provide the directions which are blissfully uncomplicated. Yes! There is a meme god in the sky.
What do you think chick, vanessa, paisley, meleah, mel, jenny, phil, rj, scott, and micki (whom I know has a “meme-free” zone, but am asking the question anyway)? It’s an interesting exercise combining the two…I’ll have to do some analysis on it after I figure out the words of the songs I’ve listed.
Have a splendiferous weekend.
I could mull over the paradox that is “America’s Finest City,” or what I lovingly refer to as Paradise:
palm trees and NIMBY pettiness;
temperate climes and a questionable, tenacious city attorney;
luxury housing and chronic homelessness; or
cutting edge schools and an on-going disparity in achievement between African American and Latino students, and Caucasian and Asian students.
But I’d rather not. Well, not today, anyway.
It was the MS’s (Middle Son) birthday yesterday, and at his request, we moseyed on over to Joe’s Crab Shack to sit upstairs, squint and sweat in the setting sunlight, eat, drink, and listen to The MS’s good friend talk about techniques for meeting women. It seems he’s purchased quite a number of products on eBay on the subject and is very close to being a poster child of sorts, soon to hit the road and profess his new found wisdom. The MoH was enthralled, but only long enough to ask about the young man’s success rate. Mmmm….numbers.
The RT remained mortified throughout the meal, especially since the MS’s friend directed a good bit of his commentary toward the RT, and encouraged him to “take notes,” because if he’d known at 15 what he knows today…well. The RT? A kid who couldn’t bring himself to walk down the “pink aisle” in Toys R Us when he was little? Uh, no. No note taking on the “how to snare women” lecture. But graciously, the MS’s friend shifted his tutelage to that of something more closely related to the RT’s interests: war games.
Before long, the two were discussing a way to profit from purchasing models, painting them, and then selling them. Of course, with some financial padding from D-A-D to really get things going. Great. Headlines on Yahoo read: “Teen makes fortune in garage. You, too, can have a home-based business…”
But the MS was quiet — a rarity. He’s already familiar with his friend’s good-natured schtick, but still. It was his birthday and he’s been making his presence known verbally since he was born, earning him the nickname, “Cryin’ Ryan.” No, he’s never been a whiner. Quite the opposite. He is much more quiet in his utterances now, but he always has something to say, always. Information, information, information. So I found myself wondering whether he regretted inviting his friend, whom we all have known since the two were in junior high, and have enjoyed. Who knows.
Maybe he was mulling over being yet another year older. Uh, what about me, here? Or rethinking Joe’s. They have been known to circle the table to howl a birthday ditty while urging the guest of honor to gallop around the restaurant, straddling a child’s pony on a stick. Really. Or, he could have been lamenting the lack of a Birthday Check at that point in the evening, which did surface later.
Perhaps it was the homemade card. 
(No, it’s not snowing — that’s art.)
The birthday “cake?” (I had the peaches, okay? And those are blueberries, not raisins, so unscrew your nose. Besides, it’s not your “cake.”)
And the greeting for his arrival on our front door? (What’d you expect? Balloons? That’s so junior high.)
Aren’t you glad you’re not one of my offspring? It takes work to keep them humble, but they keep coming back for more.
We finished our dinner and beverage-ez right at the 7PM tourismo hour, walked across the street to the beach and headed toward Crystal Pier to enjoy the sunset. Various and assorted “night folk” were already gathering, others settling in for the night with blankets, bags full of worldly possessions, and a ragged novel in hand to squint at in the waning light. Welcome to my bedroom…Only one less than cogent fellow verbally accosted us, yelling something none of us could quite understand. But we weren’t special, because he seemed not to discriminate in his quest to let people know he was there. Yelling. And trying to get into the restroom, which was locked. So add that to my list above:
Blazing sunsets and incoherent drifters.
Yes, you might be able to see just why Paradise is a veritable paradox — a place where you never actually have to stick your head in the sand to be a card-carrying member of the “not my problem” club.
You can just allow yourself to be hypnotized by the pretty colors.
Oh, and very handsome men. Whattahunkster. Nice guy, too. But he h-a-t-e-s having his photo taken, so this was a serious gift to me.
I’m surrounded by them.
But you won’t ever find me whining in the men’s room.
