If I ruled the livingroom, there would be no white cat hair on the brown microfiber sofa.
There would be no unknown food smears there, either.
If I ruled the livingroom, my favorite blanket would never move from my favorite place to sit. Oh, and no one would ever sit in my favorite place except me, either.
If I ruled the livingroom, I would have either 1) total control of the remotes we have or 2) exact duplicates of every one.
Come to think of it, if I ruled the living room, I would have a remote that controls everything.
One. Remote. Just. One.
If I ruled the livingroom, that remote(s) would NEVER get lost. Ever. Get. Lost.
If I ruled the livingroom, we would be watching something that doesn't involve a ball. Anything. Without. A. Ball.
Because I was in a meeting last week, and people were talking about the shows they watch, and they were like, do you watch The Office? Or CSI: Wherever? Or Boston Legal? Or "Fill in this blank with your favorite show I've never seen."
And the answer would be, mostly: "No. Because that show 1) has no ball, and 2) no ESPN logo in the lower right."
But do you want to know the Notre Dame score? I know it. How about Ohio State? Ditto. How about that Ball State game? Call me. Colts? All over it. Browns too.
If I ruled the livingroom, I'd be all about Brothers and Sisters and maybe even 30 Rock and ... hmmmm ... some other show I can't remember right now.
And I'd be about ruling the DVD player and watching all those movies I've missed, including most of last years' Oscar winners and I'd watch Sex and the City again.
If I ruled the livingroom, I might sometimes even turn the TV OFF, as in NOT ON, and turn on some Boney James or maybe John Mayer or even, in a more lively vein, Coldplay, oh and the Twilight soundtrack, and then I'd be able to concentrate even more on what I usually do in the livingroom when I'm not ruling it, such as:
Read.
Write.
Surf.
Repeat.
If I ruled the livingroom, everyone else would be bored to tears, and move to another TV in the house, none of which is HD, which they would complain about, so I would be lonely in the livingroom, but entertained.
So, I continue to abdicate the control of the livingroom, and the remotes, and the sound level of the TV (usually too loud for me), and queue up the above-mentioned music on Napster, with headphones, and do the other stuff.
Cause I don't rule the livingroom.
Showing posts with label modern life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label modern life. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
About Sunday night
We're at the mall
And it's families and teenagers
And the little girls, cooped up all day,
Run through the crowds.
They want to ride the carousel
Which they do, but for some reason
The music is silent; they glide around the food court
On zebra and stallion, in strange silence.
We wander into Penneys,
Joining the mothers and daughters
Looking at drapes and linens
And the husbands, staring at where they'd rather be.
So then we're hungry and hike the long way
Down the main hall, through thinning crowds
For it's almost six; Fort Wayne closing up early
On the day of rest, at the church of mall.
To Red Robin, where it's warm and busy,
More families skipping right through meal prep
At home to full service at the restaurant;
It sounds good to us too.
We pile into a booth and assure the hungry girls
That we'll eat soon; it's menus and drinks
And want-do-you-want-from-the-kids-menu;
Cheeseburgers and corndogs and chocolate milk.
While we sip our drinks and wait we
Plan for the future: Christmas and Thanksgiving,
Ballgames and school programs; practices and
Shopping and visitors from out of town.
Like magic a meal appears, one we didn't shop for,
Cook, worry over, nor will we clean up--
Indeed, that seems like a perfect recipe for
A day of rest to us.
Soon we're done, and we tumble out of the booth,
Coats rescued, bags claimed, bills paid,
Girls bundled up, tired now, wanting carried,
We're all ready to head home.
Out into the night, a cold parking lot,
Wind whipping the big flag across Coliseum;
The little girls lift their faces to the sky:
Look, it's snowing.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
About a chance of snow
Hearing the furnace kick on in the night,
feeling the warm air on my face. A drowsy sound.
Waking up and it's dark; reluctant to leave the warm flannel sheets.
A great act of will power to arise.
Peeking out the window. Afraid to see white.
But just the darkness of the lingering night.
Opening the door, letting the cat out, a blast of chill air wakes me up too quickly.
The wood floor cool to my feet.
In the sanctuary of the kitchen, I begin the liturgy of the coffee.
Its incense fills the house, a simple gift.
Getting ready, a shower cleansing and reviving me.
Blessed water.
Donning my office armor.
Putting on my game face, a sturdy defense against the day.
Turning on the radio to a litany of bad news.
Not the least of which is, a chance of snow.
feeling the warm air on my face. A drowsy sound.
Waking up and it's dark; reluctant to leave the warm flannel sheets.
A great act of will power to arise.
Peeking out the window. Afraid to see white.
But just the darkness of the lingering night.
Opening the door, letting the cat out, a blast of chill air wakes me up too quickly.
The wood floor cool to my feet.
In the sanctuary of the kitchen, I begin the liturgy of the coffee.
Its incense fills the house, a simple gift.
Getting ready, a shower cleansing and reviving me.
Blessed water.
Donning my office armor.
Putting on my game face, a sturdy defense against the day.
Turning on the radio to a litany of bad news.
Not the least of which is, a chance of snow.
Friday, October 24, 2008
About what might, or might not, be important
Actually, I woke up thinking about a dream I'd had, which starred someone I really don't care about. And wondering why I'd dreamed about THEM--what did that MEAN? Then deciding ... that the dream just wasn't important (sorry, Dr. Freud).
Then I started thinking about today, and being glad it was Friday, and about how our work lunch bunch is going to a new Chinese buffet today, and that it would be fun. (And, hopefully, tasty.) And how a small thing like lunch with friends is important, because it means you have friends whom you want to be with.
Even if you end up talking about about politics, which is important, but sometimes depressing. Because we are a polarized society, and divisions among voters can be so ... divisive. Debating politics, rather than arguing about them, seems impossible in the current climate, but some of us try. And being judged on one's politics--that's what hurts the most. That if you are of a certain political bent, you've less patriotic, or even, sadly, less MORAL--that's hard to take. I might not be Joe the Plumber, but I am Cathy the U.S. citizen, and hopefully I'm just as American as Joe.
And I turned on the radio to the news on NPR that world stock markets were tanking--same song, third or fourth verse. And I got to thinking maybe I should change allocations around in my 403(b), even though I have no idea what I should move money TOO, or even if much is left to move....
So then I got to thinking about last night, when I was taking care of two of the little girls for a short time as their parents were at a parent-teacher conference for their big brother. Tay wanted to play her new memory game, so we got out the pieces and spread them on the floor. C-dawg wandered over and we tried to match up the Mickey Mouses and Goofys and Mickey Mouse Clubhouses (it's a Disney set).
We weren't having much success until we started cheating by turning all the pieces right-side-up. Since we all did it, I guess it's not cheating.
C-dawg had a piece with two bees on it, and couldn't find its match. "Are some pieces missing?" I asked. "Maybe," Tay said.
I made a sad face and in my full-of-fake-tears voice said to C-dawg, "Oh, these bees are all alone! We can't find the match."
She looked at me with 4-1/2 year-old disdain: "It's only a CARD," she told me.
I just laughed. I should have known better than to try to pump up sympathy for some cardboard bees.
That girl's got her head on right. She's not wasting any tears, or even fake sympathy, over something that isn't important.
But I still wonder where that other bee card went.....
Then I started thinking about today, and being glad it was Friday, and about how our work lunch bunch is going to a new Chinese buffet today, and that it would be fun. (And, hopefully, tasty.) And how a small thing like lunch with friends is important, because it means you have friends whom you want to be with.
Even if you end up talking about about politics, which is important, but sometimes depressing. Because we are a polarized society, and divisions among voters can be so ... divisive. Debating politics, rather than arguing about them, seems impossible in the current climate, but some of us try. And being judged on one's politics--that's what hurts the most. That if you are of a certain political bent, you've less patriotic, or even, sadly, less MORAL--that's hard to take. I might not be Joe the Plumber, but I am Cathy the U.S. citizen, and hopefully I'm just as American as Joe.
And I turned on the radio to the news on NPR that world stock markets were tanking--same song, third or fourth verse. And I got to thinking maybe I should change allocations around in my 403(b), even though I have no idea what I should move money TOO, or even if much is left to move....
So then I got to thinking about last night, when I was taking care of two of the little girls for a short time as their parents were at a parent-teacher conference for their big brother. Tay wanted to play her new memory game, so we got out the pieces and spread them on the floor. C-dawg wandered over and we tried to match up the Mickey Mouses and Goofys and Mickey Mouse Clubhouses (it's a Disney set).
We weren't having much success until we started cheating by turning all the pieces right-side-up. Since we all did it, I guess it's not cheating.
C-dawg had a piece with two bees on it, and couldn't find its match. "Are some pieces missing?" I asked. "Maybe," Tay said.
I made a sad face and in my full-of-fake-tears voice said to C-dawg, "Oh, these bees are all alone! We can't find the match."
She looked at me with 4-1/2 year-old disdain: "It's only a CARD," she told me.
I just laughed. I should have known better than to try to pump up sympathy for some cardboard bees.
That girl's got her head on right. She's not wasting any tears, or even fake sympathy, over something that isn't important.
But I still wonder where that other bee card went.....
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
About skanks, and the lessons we should learn
Or skags.
So today we're going to lunch and George Clooney came up, don't ask me how. Because we want to marry him but some of us are more available to him than others. If only he were more available to us.
And Sarah said of his girl-thing, I have to admit I'm upset with him because his girlfriend is so skanky.
And I said, I forgive him but I don't know why he has to date a skank. Also, I didn't know she was skanky--I really didn't know much about her.
And I was thinking that skank might be my new favorite word.
So later in the car, we begin to speak of our high school experiences--again, I don't know how.
And, still thinking of skanks, I mentioned that back when I was in high school, we did not use the word "skank" -- we used "skag." Or said somebody was "skaggy."
Sarah said they used "skank."
Now, I'm talking '70s northern Ohio vernacular. Sarah is talking '80s South Bend vernacular.
So we turned to Beth, and asked her what her friends in mid '70s Minnesota called "skanks" or "skags." And she had to think a minute. And think.
And all she could come up with was "mean."
Mean doesn't mean the same as skank or skag, we told her. A skank might or might not be mean.
I don't know, Beth said. I don't think I know what the word might be. I was really nice in high school. Nicer than I am now. I got voted Best Walk, and Friendliest.
That revelation stopped us in our conversation.
Because Beth, today, is the nicest, friendliest person I know, and I really have a hard time imagining her any nicer or friendlier.
But I can imagine her being kind to the skankiest, skaggiest girls in school--the girls no one would talk to, or that got made fun of, or that would sit by themselves in the lunch room. That's the kind of person she is, even as a grownup--whomoever needs the hug, whomever seems lonely, whomever needs a lift up, Beth is the one to count on to be there.
I'd vote her friendliest, today. (Although I'm not so sure about "best walk" -- that might go to George.)
I have no idea if George Clooney's girlfriend is a skank, or not. I think she may have allowed some very ill-adviced photos to be taken, but there you are. If Beth had been in the room with her, she would have counseled against the photos, and given the young woman a hug, too, and told her what a nice person she was--the word "skank" would never have been mentioned.
I'm not vowing never to use the label "skank." It might have its uses. But I'm going to think twice about how I use it, and in reference to who. Because I hope I've learned something since 1974.
How about you? Skank, skag, or no label at all? Who are you voting "best walk"?
So today we're going to lunch and George Clooney came up, don't ask me how. Because we want to marry him but some of us are more available to him than others. If only he were more available to us.
And Sarah said of his girl-thing, I have to admit I'm upset with him because his girlfriend is so skanky.
And I said, I forgive him but I don't know why he has to date a skank. Also, I didn't know she was skanky--I really didn't know much about her.
And I was thinking that skank might be my new favorite word.
So later in the car, we begin to speak of our high school experiences--again, I don't know how.
And, still thinking of skanks, I mentioned that back when I was in high school, we did not use the word "skank" -- we used "skag." Or said somebody was "skaggy."
Sarah said they used "skank."
Now, I'm talking '70s northern Ohio vernacular. Sarah is talking '80s South Bend vernacular.
So we turned to Beth, and asked her what her friends in mid '70s Minnesota called "skanks" or "skags." And she had to think a minute. And think.
And all she could come up with was "mean."
Mean doesn't mean the same as skank or skag, we told her. A skank might or might not be mean.
I don't know, Beth said. I don't think I know what the word might be. I was really nice in high school. Nicer than I am now. I got voted Best Walk, and Friendliest.
That revelation stopped us in our conversation.
Because Beth, today, is the nicest, friendliest person I know, and I really have a hard time imagining her any nicer or friendlier.
But I can imagine her being kind to the skankiest, skaggiest girls in school--the girls no one would talk to, or that got made fun of, or that would sit by themselves in the lunch room. That's the kind of person she is, even as a grownup--whomoever needs the hug, whomever seems lonely, whomever needs a lift up, Beth is the one to count on to be there.
I'd vote her friendliest, today. (Although I'm not so sure about "best walk" -- that might go to George.)
I have no idea if George Clooney's girlfriend is a skank, or not. I think she may have allowed some very ill-adviced photos to be taken, but there you are. If Beth had been in the room with her, she would have counseled against the photos, and given the young woman a hug, too, and told her what a nice person she was--the word "skank" would never have been mentioned.
I'm not vowing never to use the label "skank." It might have its uses. But I'm going to think twice about how I use it, and in reference to who. Because I hope I've learned something since 1974.
How about you? Skank, skag, or no label at all? Who are you voting "best walk"?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
About I love a rainy night
Jazz on the radio down low but it's raining and I'm driving down I69 trying not to go as fast as the maniacs around me.
The windshield frames an modern Monet in motion before me, rain and night and the long streams of red tail lights and everything blurry, and the windshield wipers and the rain and the passing cars are so loud I can hardly hear the jazz.
Some thunder, too.
I start out thinking about what I have to do at work tomorrow, and end up thinking about the nature of God.
Which isn't such a stretch considering that tomorrow will be my fourteenth anniversary working for a religious company.
And if I thought that such close contact with devout (if occasionally irreverent) people would convert me, I was wrong. If my respect has grown and my knowledge expanded, I still fail miserably as a potential Catholic. Lord, I believe: forgive my unbelief.
I'm a bad Methodist too; I'd be a worse Baptist, a sad Mormon, a recalcitrant Lutheran. A weak Jew, a rebellious Muslim, an unfocused Hindu--that's me.
My religious views are as tenuous as my political ones. I thought a little about those, too, driving home in my warm and dry car, in the dark. God and Hilary Clinton (who's coming to Ft. Wayne tomorrow) and Barak Obama and John McCain and me, drivin' down the interstate on a late March night.
Thinking about God hurt my head, and thinking about politics affected my serenity, and thinking about how long I've worked in the same place made me feel a little old.
But the jazz and the rain and the warmth and the drive, those were all good: for a second there it all came together, and if it didn't make sense, theologically or politically speaking, it didn't matter -- everybody in the car agreed. Just for a moment.
How about you? How do you like the rain?
The windshield frames an modern Monet in motion before me, rain and night and the long streams of red tail lights and everything blurry, and the windshield wipers and the rain and the passing cars are so loud I can hardly hear the jazz.
Some thunder, too.
I start out thinking about what I have to do at work tomorrow, and end up thinking about the nature of God.
Which isn't such a stretch considering that tomorrow will be my fourteenth anniversary working for a religious company.
And if I thought that such close contact with devout (if occasionally irreverent) people would convert me, I was wrong. If my respect has grown and my knowledge expanded, I still fail miserably as a potential Catholic. Lord, I believe: forgive my unbelief.
I'm a bad Methodist too; I'd be a worse Baptist, a sad Mormon, a recalcitrant Lutheran. A weak Jew, a rebellious Muslim, an unfocused Hindu--that's me.
My religious views are as tenuous as my political ones. I thought a little about those, too, driving home in my warm and dry car, in the dark. God and Hilary Clinton (who's coming to Ft. Wayne tomorrow) and Barak Obama and John McCain and me, drivin' down the interstate on a late March night.
Thinking about God hurt my head, and thinking about politics affected my serenity, and thinking about how long I've worked in the same place made me feel a little old.
But the jazz and the rain and the warmth and the drive, those were all good: for a second there it all came together, and if it didn't make sense, theologically or politically speaking, it didn't matter -- everybody in the car agreed. Just for a moment.
How about you? How do you like the rain?
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
About charitable giving
I woke up thinking about the Goodwill, because they were scheduled to some to my house today and pick up several pieces of furniture that had been cluttering up our house since we got new stuff.
And I certainly appreciate my good fortune that I was able to replace my livingroom furniture (which was almost 8 years old) and bedroom furniture (given to us by friends in 1984. I'm not kidding.).
But subsequently, I'd had dressers in the loft and a headboard in the exercise room and a sofa in the garage for a month too long, and I really wanted it gone.
The Goodwill only comes to our area on Wednesdays. We were gone December 26, so that was a no-go; I had it scheduled for last week, and stayed home until 9:30 waiting for them, but couldn't wait any longer--so I rescheduled for today.
See the problem? For those of us who are out of the house every weekday? First, there's one day a week they can come to your neighborhood; second, they give you a time frame (8:30-noon; noon to 4) and you are stuck waiting until they come.
If only Tony hadn't sold his truck! I miss his truck! This would have been a non-problem if he still had that truck! People with trucks are LUCKY! (They can also get their Christmas trees to the recycling on time, instead of having a dead tree in your back yard until April. Like us.)
So, I made the commitment to work at home this morning, whether the Goodwill came at 8:30 or at noon.
The good news: They came about 9.
The bad news: After telling one of the crew (of two) that I had items in the garage and upstairs, he informed me that "we can't go upstairs to get stuff. Didn't they tell you?"
Well no, "they" did not. I had spoken to two different ladies on at least six occasions, between scheduling, rescheduling, and reminder calls. Never had either one said anything about "no upstairs."
I was one determined donor. No way was I going to let this Goodwill truck get away without all my stuff.
So I began to haul that headboard downstairs myself. That sucker was heavy. I thought I could slide it down the stairs, but the thing seemed to have a mind of its own. I ended up being the brakes as it slipped downstairs.
Thank goodness--one member of the crew took pity on me, and decided "breaking the rules" was better than watching a 52-year-old woman surfing her stairs on a bookcase headboard.
He not only helped me with it, he also helped haul the two dressers down. Without riding them.
He was great.
They left with all the stuff, and left me with a tax receipt ("It's between you, God and the IRS how much you put down," my helper said) and a sore back. But thank goodness, didn't leave me with my stuff.
God, it's hard to give stuff away!
Well, how 'bout you? Are you givin' or gettin'?
And I certainly appreciate my good fortune that I was able to replace my livingroom furniture (which was almost 8 years old) and bedroom furniture (given to us by friends in 1984. I'm not kidding.).
But subsequently, I'd had dressers in the loft and a headboard in the exercise room and a sofa in the garage for a month too long, and I really wanted it gone.
The Goodwill only comes to our area on Wednesdays. We were gone December 26, so that was a no-go; I had it scheduled for last week, and stayed home until 9:30 waiting for them, but couldn't wait any longer--so I rescheduled for today.
See the problem? For those of us who are out of the house every weekday? First, there's one day a week they can come to your neighborhood; second, they give you a time frame (8:30-noon; noon to 4) and you are stuck waiting until they come.
If only Tony hadn't sold his truck! I miss his truck! This would have been a non-problem if he still had that truck! People with trucks are LUCKY! (They can also get their Christmas trees to the recycling on time, instead of having a dead tree in your back yard until April. Like us.)
So, I made the commitment to work at home this morning, whether the Goodwill came at 8:30 or at noon.
The good news: They came about 9.
The bad news: After telling one of the crew (of two) that I had items in the garage and upstairs, he informed me that "we can't go upstairs to get stuff. Didn't they tell you?"
Well no, "they" did not. I had spoken to two different ladies on at least six occasions, between scheduling, rescheduling, and reminder calls. Never had either one said anything about "no upstairs."
I was one determined donor. No way was I going to let this Goodwill truck get away without all my stuff.
So I began to haul that headboard downstairs myself. That sucker was heavy. I thought I could slide it down the stairs, but the thing seemed to have a mind of its own. I ended up being the brakes as it slipped downstairs.
Thank goodness--one member of the crew took pity on me, and decided "breaking the rules" was better than watching a 52-year-old woman surfing her stairs on a bookcase headboard.
He not only helped me with it, he also helped haul the two dressers down. Without riding them.
He was great.
They left with all the stuff, and left me with a tax receipt ("It's between you, God and the IRS how much you put down," my helper said) and a sore back. But thank goodness, didn't leave me with my stuff.
God, it's hard to give stuff away!
Well, how 'bout you? Are you givin' or gettin'?
Friday, October 26, 2007
About fittin' my feet in your shoes
Since Taylor learned to talk a month or so ago, she's been easier to get along with. She was one frustrated human being there for awhile. As I would watch her try to communicate before her verbal skills caught up with her cognitive ability, I'd think of stroke patients, who, I think, have the same problems. As frustrated as a two-year-old gets, it was easy to see how hard it must be to learn to talk all over again for a grownup.
Sometimes, still, when she is tired especially, her emotions win out. Like last night, when she was wailing inconsolably, and no one could figure out just what she wanted, or was mad about. And she worked herself up so much that she lost that new ability she has to communicate.
Snack? we asked.
Wahhh! she said.
Drink? we offered, holding out her sippy cup.
Wahhh! she said.
I tried to sit down with her and calm her down.
Upppp! she cried.
What!? we asked.
Wahhh! she said.
Well, as normal household chaos ensued, stuff was happening, and people/kids coming in and out, and she started to get distracted, and then she decided, yes, she did want her drink, and little by little she came around, and in about 10 minutes, was ready to resume life as a functioning human being.
In another situation, I think I would have just set her down in a quiet chair, and let her calm herself down. Because ultimately, it's what she needed to do.
I thought about when her mom was around one or so, and teething with one-year molars. I happened to be teething at the same time...with wisdom teeth. It itched...and bothered me...and helped me understand a little of why the baby was cranky, or drooling (I managed not to drool), or chewing on stuff all the time. Because I felt like that too (as I said, except the drool).
My gramma was 101 when she passed away in 1993. Her mind was still sharp and her blue eyes bright. But it was so, so easy to look at her and see the little girl she once was--she had the vulnerablity that the very young, and very old, and very sick share.
We're hard on each other, aren't we? We want the baby not to cry, the parent not to get old, the hurt to go away. And it's hard to cram our feet into that other set of shoes, to walk even a half-mile, much less a mile, and sample what they might be going through.
Well, about you? Can you put that other set of shoes on, and walk a bit?
Sometimes, still, when she is tired especially, her emotions win out. Like last night, when she was wailing inconsolably, and no one could figure out just what she wanted, or was mad about. And she worked herself up so much that she lost that new ability she has to communicate.
Snack? we asked.
Wahhh! she said.
Drink? we offered, holding out her sippy cup.
Wahhh! she said.
I tried to sit down with her and calm her down.
Upppp! she cried.
What!? we asked.
Wahhh! she said.
Well, as normal household chaos ensued, stuff was happening, and people/kids coming in and out, and she started to get distracted, and then she decided, yes, she did want her drink, and little by little she came around, and in about 10 minutes, was ready to resume life as a functioning human being.
In another situation, I think I would have just set her down in a quiet chair, and let her calm herself down. Because ultimately, it's what she needed to do.
I thought about when her mom was around one or so, and teething with one-year molars. I happened to be teething at the same time...with wisdom teeth. It itched...and bothered me...and helped me understand a little of why the baby was cranky, or drooling (I managed not to drool), or chewing on stuff all the time. Because I felt like that too (as I said, except the drool).
My gramma was 101 when she passed away in 1993. Her mind was still sharp and her blue eyes bright. But it was so, so easy to look at her and see the little girl she once was--she had the vulnerablity that the very young, and very old, and very sick share.
We're hard on each other, aren't we? We want the baby not to cry, the parent not to get old, the hurt to go away. And it's hard to cram our feet into that other set of shoes, to walk even a half-mile, much less a mile, and sample what they might be going through.
Well, about you? Can you put that other set of shoes on, and walk a bit?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
About the nature of weddings
My friend had good news last week. Her son is engaged! And since she is the mother of the groom, she assumed all she had to do was write checks for the next year.
Au contraire, I told her. It's not just writing checks.
Yes it is, she said. I'm staying out of it.
You think, I said. You're forgetting what a wedding really is.
It's talking.
And talking.
And talking.
I'm staying out of it, she repeated.
You'll see, I said.
So, of course, the first thing that happened yesterday was, her son called. And called. And left messages. And desperately needed her help to write a letter last night -- it just couldn't wait! -- to the prospective church.
The conversations have begun.
Weddings are one long decision-making process. And of course some families are bigger talkers than others (and better decision-makers), but still -- it's a rare bunch that doesn't end up thrashing around SOMETHING ad nauseam, whether it's do we get married in his church or my church? or should the bridesmaids wear black or chartreuse? or should we have chicken or beef at the reception? to do we really have to invite Aunt Ethel? Because she's really annoying.
To say nothing of the really dicey stuff, like who's paying for the reception, and do we pay for the booze or have a cash bar?
Oh, weddings are plenty stressful and tends to bring out the best (Yes, of course Aunt Ethel should come. We love her.) to the worse (see any episode of Bridezilla) of folks.
And if you're planning a wedding this year, I have just one bit of advice for you: if in doubt, go classic. If you need convinced, email me, and I will show you my '70s wedding pictures. Those baby blue tuxes still glow in the 30+ year old pictures. I look damn good, though. Wish I'd have put my hair up, though....
Well, how 'bout you? What wedding conversation do you remember?
Au contraire, I told her. It's not just writing checks.
Yes it is, she said. I'm staying out of it.
You think, I said. You're forgetting what a wedding really is.
It's talking.
And talking.
And talking.
I'm staying out of it, she repeated.
You'll see, I said.
So, of course, the first thing that happened yesterday was, her son called. And called. And left messages. And desperately needed her help to write a letter last night -- it just couldn't wait! -- to the prospective church.
The conversations have begun.
Weddings are one long decision-making process. And of course some families are bigger talkers than others (and better decision-makers), but still -- it's a rare bunch that doesn't end up thrashing around SOMETHING ad nauseam, whether it's do we get married in his church or my church? or should the bridesmaids wear black or chartreuse? or should we have chicken or beef at the reception? to do we really have to invite Aunt Ethel? Because she's really annoying.
To say nothing of the really dicey stuff, like who's paying for the reception, and do we pay for the booze or have a cash bar?
Oh, weddings are plenty stressful and tends to bring out the best (Yes, of course Aunt Ethel should come. We love her.) to the worse (see any episode of Bridezilla) of folks.
And if you're planning a wedding this year, I have just one bit of advice for you: if in doubt, go classic. If you need convinced, email me, and I will show you my '70s wedding pictures. Those baby blue tuxes still glow in the 30+ year old pictures. I look damn good, though. Wish I'd have put my hair up, though....
Well, how 'bout you? What wedding conversation do you remember?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
About when you wash a cell phone
Actual conversations:
Later, at home:
"I found your phone."
"Ye...."
"That's the good news."
"I know." (Suddenly, he knows.)
"It's in the dryer. It's wet."
"I knew I left it somewhere."
This was one wet phone. (Also, clean! And, it smelled like Downy.)
I really thought -- actually, I still think -- it's ruined. The screen ... not good.
"I thought I looked in all my pants."
Obviously, he thought wrong. Or, he has more pants than I was aware of.
I had a bunch of laundry Saturday, and really, I must be forgiven for not finding it when I put that dark load in the washer. Must I do everything!
But really, I could not ignore the clunking it made in the dryer. I thought the dryer had broken. THAT would have cost me a lot more than the cell phone.
(Because, he has two cell phones, and this was his home one that drowned. So he has his work one as a backup. And, we're eligible for new cells in December.)
(Two cell phones. And I remember what a big deal it was to get his first pager. Good times in the way-back machine.)
So, he took the battery out and put it on top his car in the sun all day. For a couple of days. He BAKED it.
(Never shaken, just stirred.) (Never drowned, just baked.)
Just for kicks, I Googled "drying out a cell phone." And guess what! His is not the only phone ever to get a bath.
I found more information about how to dry out a cell phone than I ever imagined! These things must be droppin' like raindrops!
For example, on wikihow>
Tonight, he started to recharge it, brave soul. The report so far:
"The keys lit up when I plugged it in!" (One expensive nightlight.)
Well, I wouldn't be sittin' around waitin' for any calls from him, but stay tuned.
How 'bout you? Saved anything from drowning lately?
In the car around lunchtime:
"I still can't find my phone."
"It's been almost a week!"
"I know, I looked everywhere. I just remember putting it ... somewhere."
Later, at home:
"I found your phone."
"Ye...."
"That's the good news."
"I know." (Suddenly, he knows.)
"It's in the dryer. It's wet."
"I knew I left it somewhere."
This was one wet phone. (Also, clean! And, it smelled like Downy.)
I really thought -- actually, I still think -- it's ruined. The screen ... not good.
"I thought I looked in all my pants."
Obviously, he thought wrong. Or, he has more pants than I was aware of.
I had a bunch of laundry Saturday, and really, I must be forgiven for not finding it when I put that dark load in the washer. Must I do everything!
But really, I could not ignore the clunking it made in the dryer. I thought the dryer had broken. THAT would have cost me a lot more than the cell phone.
(Because, he has two cell phones, and this was his home one that drowned. So he has his work one as a backup. And, we're eligible for new cells in December.)
(Two cell phones. And I remember what a big deal it was to get his first pager. Good times in the way-back machine.)
So, he took the battery out and put it on top his car in the sun all day. For a couple of days. He BAKED it.
(Never shaken, just stirred.) (Never drowned, just baked.)
Just for kicks, I Googled "drying out a cell phone." And guess what! His is not the only phone ever to get a bath.
I found more information about how to dry out a cell phone than I ever imagined! These things must be droppin' like raindrops!
For example, on wikihow>
Tonight, he started to recharge it, brave soul. The report so far:
"The keys lit up when I plugged it in!" (One expensive nightlight.)
Well, I wouldn't be sittin' around waitin' for any calls from him, but stay tuned.
How 'bout you? Saved anything from drowning lately?
Thursday, October 18, 2007
About, is it tighteys or tidys?
I was reading a favorite blog yesterday, and in the post she mentioned some unmentionables of the boy kind. You know, Fruit of the Looms, Hanes, old-fashioned briefs. What's the other, more contemporary phrase going through your head right now (and are you seeing Tom Cruise dancing?)?
Well, I had to do a double-take and Google the little phrase, because what I read was different from what was in my head.
Tidy ... or tightey ... whiteys.
(Pick your spelling there, it's totally all over the place.
Well, in the blog, the author referred to the white briefs as tightey whiteys.
But I always thought people were saying, TIDY whiteys.
Well I'm a gotta-know kind of girl. So I hurriedly Googled the phrase and found the most exhaustive, interesting, and probably useless paper on that very subject, written by somebody at Stanford (of course).
Oh do take a minute and go read it here>
And in case you WON'T take a minute to go read it, here's the kind of thing you'd would have learned:
"There are (at least) two ways these arrays could come about. If the expressions have been around for a while, then an original tidy could have been being reanalyzed as tighty by people who thought tightness was more significant than cleanliness, so that tighty eventually overtook tidy. These things happen, and if you don't believe they do, you have another thing coming."
Imagine the phrase tightey/tidy whitey having an array!
And someone caring enough to write a whole paper about it.
Of course, I did a little first-hand research, of two whole people. I asked a 20-something and a 50-something. The 20 replied right way that it was "tightey." The 50 had to think a minute, then also picked the "tightey."
I stand corrected.
Do you remember the "pop vs. soda" conversation of some years ago? Turned out that was a regional thing. IT'S a whole study, too--go look here>
I wondered if the tightey/tidy thing was geographical, but now I think it's just some people have better ears than others!
Well, how 'bout you? Boxers or tightey/tidy whiteys?
Well, I had to do a double-take and Google the little phrase, because what I read was different from what was in my head.
Tidy ... or tightey ... whiteys.
(Pick your spelling there, it's totally all over the place.
Well, in the blog, the author referred to the white briefs as tightey whiteys.
But I always thought people were saying, TIDY whiteys.
Well I'm a gotta-know kind of girl. So I hurriedly Googled the phrase and found the most exhaustive, interesting, and probably useless paper on that very subject, written by somebody at Stanford (of course).
Oh do take a minute and go read it here>
And in case you WON'T take a minute to go read it, here's the kind of thing you'd would have learned:
"There are (at least) two ways these arrays could come about. If the expressions have been around for a while, then an original tidy could have been being reanalyzed as tighty by people who thought tightness was more significant than cleanliness, so that tighty eventually overtook tidy. These things happen, and if you don't believe they do, you have another thing coming."
Imagine the phrase tightey/tidy whitey having an array!
And someone caring enough to write a whole paper about it.
Of course, I did a little first-hand research, of two whole people. I asked a 20-something and a 50-something. The 20 replied right way that it was "tightey." The 50 had to think a minute, then also picked the "tightey."
I stand corrected.
Do you remember the "pop vs. soda" conversation of some years ago? Turned out that was a regional thing. IT'S a whole study, too--go look here>
I wondered if the tightey/tidy thing was geographical, but now I think it's just some people have better ears than others!
Well, how 'bout you? Boxers or tightey/tidy whiteys?
About takin' my walk
I love to walk. Not run, not jog, not power walk, not hike. Walk. I don't go fast, but I can walk for a real long time.
I'll walk anywhere. To the store, to get an ice cream cone, to get a paper, to get a latte. I walk in our addition--if the negative of living in an addition is too many houses that look too much alike, the positive is the ability to walk for miles on wide, safe sidewalks. Which I do. And when you look at the houses as much as I do, you realize they are not all that much alike.
I'll walk in nature areas, city blocks, around the grounds at work, and even inside the building when the weather is bad. I'll walk on the Y track and, even though I hate it, when I have to, I'll walk on the treadmill. Only with the TV on and up real loud, though.
When I'm walking outside, I don't usually wear my mp3 player. I listen to stuff all day long--the radio, my music, my computer, the TV--and when I'm walking, I like real sounds. Cars cruising by, kids playing, lawnmowers, birds, crickets--sirens in the distance, airplanes.
As I walk, I solve the problems of my life and sometimes even the problems of the world. I'm pretty invincible out on a walk. Too bad when I get home I forget all the answers!
I get my love of walking from my dad. He's 84 and walks everywhere, from Walmart (about a mile from their house) to Monroeville (about three miles, but that's down the greenway). When I'm visiting, we always have a new place to walk or a favorite place to revisit. And I always have something to get a Walmart (but not too heavy).
Last night--too warm for October, and that was wonderful. It had been sunny all day, but by 6 the clouds had come and it had already rained a little. I took my umbrella just in case. The rain had chased everyone inside--the sidewalks were empty and no lawnmowers roared or kids hollered and I passed only one dog-walker.
And I enjoyed the relative quiet, and the solitude, and perhaps a last long moment of summer suspended on an October afternoon.
How about you? What walk are you on?
I'll walk anywhere. To the store, to get an ice cream cone, to get a paper, to get a latte. I walk in our addition--if the negative of living in an addition is too many houses that look too much alike, the positive is the ability to walk for miles on wide, safe sidewalks. Which I do. And when you look at the houses as much as I do, you realize they are not all that much alike.
I'll walk in nature areas, city blocks, around the grounds at work, and even inside the building when the weather is bad. I'll walk on the Y track and, even though I hate it, when I have to, I'll walk on the treadmill. Only with the TV on and up real loud, though.
When I'm walking outside, I don't usually wear my mp3 player. I listen to stuff all day long--the radio, my music, my computer, the TV--and when I'm walking, I like real sounds. Cars cruising by, kids playing, lawnmowers, birds, crickets--sirens in the distance, airplanes.
As I walk, I solve the problems of my life and sometimes even the problems of the world. I'm pretty invincible out on a walk. Too bad when I get home I forget all the answers!
I get my love of walking from my dad. He's 84 and walks everywhere, from Walmart (about a mile from their house) to Monroeville (about three miles, but that's down the greenway). When I'm visiting, we always have a new place to walk or a favorite place to revisit. And I always have something to get a Walmart (but not too heavy).
Last night--too warm for October, and that was wonderful. It had been sunny all day, but by 6 the clouds had come and it had already rained a little. I took my umbrella just in case. The rain had chased everyone inside--the sidewalks were empty and no lawnmowers roared or kids hollered and I passed only one dog-walker.
And I enjoyed the relative quiet, and the solitude, and perhaps a last long moment of summer suspended on an October afternoon.
How about you? What walk are you on?
Friday, September 28, 2007
About readin'
It's one of those weird weeks where we feel like we hear about one person after another being struck with a Dread Disease.
A second cousin's sarcoma has spread. A doctor at Ang's work had surgery for a brain tumor today. A senior friend must have a mastectomy next week. You know that kind of stretch.
So, naturally, one thinks a little about one's own possible outcomes.
My dad, in his 80s, got a little obsessed last year about having an "advanced directive" in place. You know, you direct your loved ones to pull the plug asap if you should fall into some type of coma. I have my directives from him in spades.
But, I had to agree with him. Who wants to linger in a coma? BORING!
But my directive to my loved ones will probably be a little different from his.
My loved ones will have to answer three questions:
Can she move her eyes?
Can she follow TV?
Can she listen to an iPod?
Notice that eating nor moving is a part of this list. I mean, when you've spent the better part of a year losing 50 pounds, eating, much loved and necessary as it is, also becomes something of a burden--"Am I eating the right thing? Am I eating too much of this? How many calories have I had today?" I mean, it's been a couple years since I did it, and I'm still tired of worrying so much about what I eat.
Ditto moving. I'm a lazy ass anyway. And exercising, which I've learned is oh so necessary to my anti-obesity crusade, is alien to my being. But I force myself to do it anyway. The temptation of not doing it is ... enticing.
But reading--now that is vital to my very being. I don't ever think about not reading. Ever since I was 9. Reading is breathing, eating, thinking, being, living. I love to read the most of all.
So ... if I couldn't move ... could I listen to digital books? Can I watch movies on TV? See where my questions are takin' my love ones? Can I, somehow, read?
And why everybody's questions for their loved ones would be different? Because, for example, if you hated to read but loved to smoke, my questions would be useless to you! Because reading about somebody smoking--or watching them smoke on TV--is just is not going to cut it for a smoker. You'd be wantin' the plug jerked.
So, that leads into, what about your questions? What's important to you?
A second cousin's sarcoma has spread. A doctor at Ang's work had surgery for a brain tumor today. A senior friend must have a mastectomy next week. You know that kind of stretch.
So, naturally, one thinks a little about one's own possible outcomes.
My dad, in his 80s, got a little obsessed last year about having an "advanced directive" in place. You know, you direct your loved ones to pull the plug asap if you should fall into some type of coma. I have my directives from him in spades.
But, I had to agree with him. Who wants to linger in a coma? BORING!
But my directive to my loved ones will probably be a little different from his.
My loved ones will have to answer three questions:
Can she move her eyes?
Can she follow TV?
Can she listen to an iPod?
Notice that eating nor moving is a part of this list. I mean, when you've spent the better part of a year losing 50 pounds, eating, much loved and necessary as it is, also becomes something of a burden--"Am I eating the right thing? Am I eating too much of this? How many calories have I had today?" I mean, it's been a couple years since I did it, and I'm still tired of worrying so much about what I eat.
Ditto moving. I'm a lazy ass anyway. And exercising, which I've learned is oh so necessary to my anti-obesity crusade, is alien to my being. But I force myself to do it anyway. The temptation of not doing it is ... enticing.
But reading--now that is vital to my very being. I don't ever think about not reading. Ever since I was 9. Reading is breathing, eating, thinking, being, living. I love to read the most of all.
So ... if I couldn't move ... could I listen to digital books? Can I watch movies on TV? See where my questions are takin' my love ones? Can I, somehow, read?
And why everybody's questions for their loved ones would be different? Because, for example, if you hated to read but loved to smoke, my questions would be useless to you! Because reading about somebody smoking--or watching them smoke on TV--is just is not going to cut it for a smoker. You'd be wantin' the plug jerked.
So, that leads into, what about your questions? What's important to you?
Friday, September 21, 2007
About the names of things
Because last night I turned around in an addition called "Watersong," and I thought that was really pretty, but had a feeling this addition was as poorly named as most additions in our area.
I'm guessing it was built in a former farm field. And if there's any water there now, it's from a retention pond. If there was water there before, it was a swampy mosquito-infested wetland. The "song" part might be a little more realistic--probably a bird or two visited.
Now, the addition behind us is called Deerfield, and it's an older one--built 30 years or so ago. I bet it was fairly realistically named back in the day, because when we first moved to the area 20 years ago, deer did roam in a field nearby, herds of them.
That field (and the deer) have long since been replace by several additions with "Westchester" in their names--note, we are nowhere near Great Britain--and a school called Deer Ridge Elementary, now is the only "deer" in the area.
Down the highway is my personal favorite, an addition called "Falls of Beaver Creek." I'm sure you can guess this one: No falls. No beaver. No creek. This is northern Indiana, astute readers -- any falls there existed before the last glacier melted. That is, not counting the fake falls built by the developer, which have not been working this summer, anyway. Beaver--vacated the last century, habitat long gone. Creek--now a drainage ditch. I vote for renaming it, the Dry Fake Falls of No Beaver Ditch.
Oh, I must tell you, I do have a little pet name for this one, you know how easy it is to get one's beginning consonants mixed up! "Balls of Fever Creek."
Here's another couple of favorites: "Pine Valley." Valley!? Now, maybe in the way-back machine there was a pine or two here--and residents have since planted more--but, geography buds, the "valley" has never been more than a sand trap near the club house.
Oh, how about this: Red Cedar Canyon! I can hardly type THAT one! NO CEDARS, RED OR OTHERWISE. NO CANYON. (See note about "valley," above.)
Just one more: Eagle Creek. NO EAGLES. NO CREEK.
We are going to lobby for full disclosure in addition naming. We are volunteering to help developers name their new additions in a realistic manner! Yes! Here's some free samples developers can choose from:
Lookalike Beige Boxes In a Former Corn Field.
Corners of Drained Farm Field.
Stripped-Away Woods Behind Former Farmhouse.
Really Flat Featureless Land of Covington Road.
Boring House Rows of Farm Field Place.
Homesteads of No Eagles, No Canyon, No Bluff, No Falls.
Well, how 'bout you? What's your addition named?
I'm guessing it was built in a former farm field. And if there's any water there now, it's from a retention pond. If there was water there before, it was a swampy mosquito-infested wetland. The "song" part might be a little more realistic--probably a bird or two visited.
Now, the addition behind us is called Deerfield, and it's an older one--built 30 years or so ago. I bet it was fairly realistically named back in the day, because when we first moved to the area 20 years ago, deer did roam in a field nearby, herds of them.
That field (and the deer) have long since been replace by several additions with "Westchester" in their names--note, we are nowhere near Great Britain--and a school called Deer Ridge Elementary, now is the only "deer" in the area.
Down the highway is my personal favorite, an addition called "Falls of Beaver Creek." I'm sure you can guess this one: No falls. No beaver. No creek. This is northern Indiana, astute readers -- any falls there existed before the last glacier melted. That is, not counting the fake falls built by the developer, which have not been working this summer, anyway. Beaver--vacated the last century, habitat long gone. Creek--now a drainage ditch. I vote for renaming it, the Dry Fake Falls of No Beaver Ditch.
Oh, I must tell you, I do have a little pet name for this one, you know how easy it is to get one's beginning consonants mixed up! "Balls of Fever Creek."
Here's another couple of favorites: "Pine Valley." Valley!? Now, maybe in the way-back machine there was a pine or two here--and residents have since planted more--but, geography buds, the "valley" has never been more than a sand trap near the club house.
Oh, how about this: Red Cedar Canyon! I can hardly type THAT one! NO CEDARS, RED OR OTHERWISE. NO CANYON. (See note about "valley," above.)
Just one more: Eagle Creek. NO EAGLES. NO CREEK.
We are going to lobby for full disclosure in addition naming. We are volunteering to help developers name their new additions in a realistic manner! Yes! Here's some free samples developers can choose from:
Lookalike Beige Boxes In a Former Corn Field.
Corners of Drained Farm Field.
Stripped-Away Woods Behind Former Farmhouse.
Really Flat Featureless Land of Covington Road.
Boring House Rows of Farm Field Place.
Homesteads of No Eagles, No Canyon, No Bluff, No Falls.
Well, how 'bout you? What's your addition named?
Saturday, September 8, 2007
About girl's bathrooms
Now about this Senator Craig thing.
I just have really learned more than I needed to know about the behavior of guys in their restrooms. (Gay guys, anyway.)
So I was talking about this with a friend who flies out of the Minneapolis airport regularly, and we asked her, have you seen this restroom? And she says, NO, there's TOO LONG A LINE! Of people rubbernecking the gay-guy-pick-up-restroom!
She also added that this restroom is infamous on the Internet! Directions to it, descriptions of it, pictures of it, even, so you know which men's restroom to go to (although how pictures would help I have no idea, seeing as all airport restrooms look the same).
Our conversation segued to the nastiness in general of guys' bathrooms, because guys are messy people, regardless of sexual orientation, and their bathrooms contain items called "urinals," and any item that shares a root with "urine" cannot be good.
If Senator Craig were a woman, nothing like this could have ever happened.
Not because women are so much cleaner than guys--I've been in some pretty nasty women's bathrooms--but because women's bathrooms are full of people who either 1) really need to go to the bathroom themselves, or 2) are helping other people who really need to go, these others being the women's small children. Or, people who 3) have had to wait so long to get a stall, all they can think about it not peeing their pants.
As Jayme noted, if a hand appears under the stall in a women's bathroom, it means, "I need toilet paper quick!"
And if there are any wide stances going on, it's because though there are two sets of feet in there, one belongs to a small child in there with her, and all she can think about is getting out of there quickly.
I'm not sure what the conversation is in the men's john--well, except in the Senator Craig case--but I know what we talk about in the women's:
"Are you next?"
"Is that one open?"
"No, honey, not that one, the next one."
"Sorry, she/he really has to go." (Because half of all small children in the restroom are of the male type.)
"Are you done?"
"No, sweetie, wait a second, it's my turn."
"Move. Move over. Right there. Now don't move."
"Let me help you pull them up."
"Come here. Come here. Come here."
"No. Wash your hands. Right here. Now."
"Here's your towel, now dry."
"We're almost done."
And that's the adult end of conversations. Kid's restroom conversation often can't be recorded, like the time Caroline was in the stall with me, and she told me I had "a butt just like Daddy's."
No, I don't.
By the time women get into and out of the restroom we are so stressed, the thought of anything besides a glass of wine is just too much.
So, now, how about you? What kind of potty talk are you thinkin' about?
I just have really learned more than I needed to know about the behavior of guys in their restrooms. (Gay guys, anyway.)
So I was talking about this with a friend who flies out of the Minneapolis airport regularly, and we asked her, have you seen this restroom? And she says, NO, there's TOO LONG A LINE! Of people rubbernecking the gay-guy-pick-up-restroom!
She also added that this restroom is infamous on the Internet! Directions to it, descriptions of it, pictures of it, even, so you know which men's restroom to go to (although how pictures would help I have no idea, seeing as all airport restrooms look the same).
Our conversation segued to the nastiness in general of guys' bathrooms, because guys are messy people, regardless of sexual orientation, and their bathrooms contain items called "urinals," and any item that shares a root with "urine" cannot be good.
If Senator Craig were a woman, nothing like this could have ever happened.
Not because women are so much cleaner than guys--I've been in some pretty nasty women's bathrooms--but because women's bathrooms are full of people who either 1) really need to go to the bathroom themselves, or 2) are helping other people who really need to go, these others being the women's small children. Or, people who 3) have had to wait so long to get a stall, all they can think about it not peeing their pants.
As Jayme noted, if a hand appears under the stall in a women's bathroom, it means, "I need toilet paper quick!"
And if there are any wide stances going on, it's because though there are two sets of feet in there, one belongs to a small child in there with her, and all she can think about is getting out of there quickly.
I'm not sure what the conversation is in the men's john--well, except in the Senator Craig case--but I know what we talk about in the women's:
"Are you next?"
"Is that one open?"
"No, honey, not that one, the next one."
"Sorry, she/he really has to go." (Because half of all small children in the restroom are of the male type.)
"Are you done?"
"No, sweetie, wait a second, it's my turn."
"Move. Move over. Right there. Now don't move."
"Let me help you pull them up."
"Come here. Come here. Come here."
"No. Wash your hands. Right here. Now."
"Here's your towel, now dry."
"We're almost done."
And that's the adult end of conversations. Kid's restroom conversation often can't be recorded, like the time Caroline was in the stall with me, and she told me I had "a butt just like Daddy's."
No, I don't.
By the time women get into and out of the restroom we are so stressed, the thought of anything besides a glass of wine is just too much.
So, now, how about you? What kind of potty talk are you thinkin' about?
Friday, August 31, 2007
About going to the quiet room
Remember in Blazing Saddles, when Madeleine Kahn sings, "I'm so tired...."?
My new theme song. Busy work, busy home, busy holiday weekend, "no rest for the wicked," as my mom would say.
Now, what I'm wondering is, just how tired does one have to be before one is officially, "exhausted," and, if one indeed has passed from "tiredness" into "exhaustion," who makes the call that one needs to be checked into the hospital for that condition? Is there an exhaustometer they test you on in the ER?
And, once one is admitted for "exhaustion," how in the world is one supposed to cure that in a hospital, of all places? Because hospitals are busy, noisy places, and on the few occasions I have been a patient in one, or even a visitor in one, they are NOT restful places. Is there really such a place in a hospital as The Quiet Room, maybe?
I've known a lot of tired, exhausted people (myself, new parents, people caring for very ill loved ones, people working 15-hour days, or weird shifts, medical residents, etc.) and not one of them has qualified for hospital admittance. Ever. Ever.
How could it work, then?
I mean, would I say to myself: I am exhausted. I'm too tired to think or move. I think I'll go to the hospital so I can resume my chaotic life asap.
Or, would one's spouse or other family member say: Huh, you are exhausted. You're not taking care of us like you should. Let us take you to the hospital so you can get back to cooking dinner.
Or, would my co-workers look at me and say: Wow, you look like crap, and you haven't completed any of the stuff we told you to do. Let's call 911 and get you in the hospital so you can get your work done.
And, how do so many celebrities end up "hospitalized for exhaustion"? Just for fun, I Googled that phrase, and immediately found half a dozen people who'd been stricken with the malady just this summer! Mariah Carey!? Jennifer Garner!? Ruben Studdard!? Lindsay-I-have-worse-problems-than-exhaustion-Lohan!? Isaac-Hayes-the-voice-of-Chef-on-South-Park!? All admitted! All exhausted!
I'm hopin' for a quiet hour and a glass of wine on the patio at my parents' over the weekend.
How about you? How are you thinkin' you'll get your quiet moment this weekend?
My new theme song. Busy work, busy home, busy holiday weekend, "no rest for the wicked," as my mom would say.
Now, what I'm wondering is, just how tired does one have to be before one is officially, "exhausted," and, if one indeed has passed from "tiredness" into "exhaustion," who makes the call that one needs to be checked into the hospital for that condition? Is there an exhaustometer they test you on in the ER?
And, once one is admitted for "exhaustion," how in the world is one supposed to cure that in a hospital, of all places? Because hospitals are busy, noisy places, and on the few occasions I have been a patient in one, or even a visitor in one, they are NOT restful places. Is there really such a place in a hospital as The Quiet Room, maybe?
I've known a lot of tired, exhausted people (myself, new parents, people caring for very ill loved ones, people working 15-hour days, or weird shifts, medical residents, etc.) and not one of them has qualified for hospital admittance. Ever. Ever.
How could it work, then?
I mean, would I say to myself: I am exhausted. I'm too tired to think or move. I think I'll go to the hospital so I can resume my chaotic life asap.
Or, would one's spouse or other family member say: Huh, you are exhausted. You're not taking care of us like you should. Let us take you to the hospital so you can get back to cooking dinner.
Or, would my co-workers look at me and say: Wow, you look like crap, and you haven't completed any of the stuff we told you to do. Let's call 911 and get you in the hospital so you can get your work done.
And, how do so many celebrities end up "hospitalized for exhaustion"? Just for fun, I Googled that phrase, and immediately found half a dozen people who'd been stricken with the malady just this summer! Mariah Carey!? Jennifer Garner!? Ruben Studdard!? Lindsay-I-have-worse-problems-than-exhaustion-Lohan!? Isaac-Hayes-the-voice-of-Chef-on-South-Park!? All admitted! All exhausted!
I'm hopin' for a quiet hour and a glass of wine on the patio at my parents' over the weekend.
How about you? How are you thinkin' you'll get your quiet moment this weekend?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
