Pseudo-Stream of Consciousness and My Squemish Cells

The other day, I went in for the big removal of the ugly wartlike bump on my neck. Yay! Well, not really "yay!" because I don't like having people poking around my trachea (or is that my esophagus?) Either way, I have serious gag reflex issues, even if it's just someone touching my throat. (My theory: I was strangled or hung or both in a past life. Then, because I like cats, I decided that I was a cat who was strangled or hung or both in a past life. Yes, I am one odd duck ... or cat.) Anyway, "yay!" as in get this thing off me so it doesn't spread and become something horribly worse (i.e., one of my worst nightmares, which, surprisingly, is not about being strangled or hung or both).

This bump o' mine was smack dab in the middle of my neck, right where an Adam's apple would be if I had an Adam's apple. (Girls don't have those, right? Weird memory flash: When I was in junior high, I was kind of obsessed with Adam's apples and thought they were so sexy, and I wondered why I didn't have one, because if they were sexy on guys, wouldn't they be just as sexy on girls? I was such an odd child. The guy who triggered the whole Adam's apple fetish was the big brother in ET, who I thought was sooooo cute back in the day. Apparently I had a thing for scrawny guys with crooked teeth.)

Anyway, cutting this sucker out required all sorts of poking and prodding and drawing and digging and scraping and sewing, all on that ultra-sensitive area of my throat. Blech, ick, ew. I'm so glad I didn't throw up all over everyone. I kept trying not to think about what was happening right under my nose, but then one or the other of them (the doc or the assistant dude) would ask me a question. As soon as I talked, the muscles right under where they were working would move, and then I'd be aware that while I was talking and he was talking, my neck was open and he was in there scraping all around. Gross ... and kind of ouch!

And what were we talking about? Well, after confirming that I was OK and that I was fine with listening to Rush (not really, but it was better than bad Christmas music), the conversation moved on to U2, then Celine Deon and REO Speedwagon (what a weird playlist they had), and then somehow morphed into a discussion of the war in Afghanistan and Obama's Nobel Peace Prize and circled right back to U2, with the doc concluding that Bono should have got the Peace Prize instead. Whether I agree or not (and I pretty much do, and not cuz I love U2), who really cares? I mean, who has these sorts of conversations during a doctor's appointment?

Apparently I do! I still remember the pap smear appointment where the doc lady and her assistant gal were discussing lobster and steamed clams (really?!?), all while poking around in my nether regions. Then there was the time I was doing the whole IVF thing, and the doc and Mr. J were discussing Mr. J's clothing line and the fact that the doc knew a venture capitalist who might like to invest in it all. The investing never panned out AND the doc totally poked the very back of my uterus (ouch!) because she obviously wasn't paying attention to me. And this could possibly be one of the many reasons we don't have kids today (though that is a whole different discussion).

I am happy to report that according to Mr. J, the stitches all look nice and neat and clean, and according to the Doc, he got it all out (just waiting for the latest biopsy). So I'm healthy and happy, though not thrilled at all that every Christmas photo this year will feature me looking like F. Murray Abraham after the (fictional) throat slashing in Amadeus.

OK, so maybe not this old and wrinkled;

p.s. this was a great scene in the movie, if it's the one I'm thinking of

Squeamish Cell Carcinoma

So, I had a mole removed last week. Actually, they weren't sure if it was a mole or a wart or an infected whitehead or what. So they scraped it off and sent it off for a biopsy, and that was that. Or so I thought!

Isn't it nice to be woken up first thing on a Monday morning with a call from your dermatologist telling you that the mole was indeed a mole and it was squamous cell carcinoma. I took it all pretty well. I am usually the one telling others that the two most common types of skin cancer really aren't that bad, as long as you catch them in time. It's the scary moles or scrapes that show up on your toe or your buttcrack or your armpit that (in my vast medicinal knowledge) are the scary ones. The horrible, terrible, very bad, no good malignant melanoma. So yesterday I was fine.

But this morning I woke up with every worst-case scenario running through my head while I overanalyzed every lump, bump, and scrape on my body. So thank God the appointment is in two hours, so I can ask all my questions, and they can reassure me and tell me that everything is going to be OK.

Until them, wonderful Mr. J is taking me out for breakfast and then to Home Depot (ain't he sweet) to keep my mind off things. And right now he is on the phone planning a possible trip down the Grand Canyon next summer! And if we get that trip (which would be awesome), I will be packing my entire dry bag full of sunscreen.

High on Life

Well, OK, so I'm really high on B.I.N. shellac-based primer. But I'll take what I can get. Actually, we are going to be escaping the overly stench-a-cious place that is our home by checking out a friend of a friend who is performing with his fellow jazz-band members at the local steakhouse/bar. It sounds great, but at this point, anything that gets me out of this overly heated house that smells like about a million Dry-Erase markers sounds good.

The label on the paint can was extremely helpful, by the way. Something to the effect of "Use in a well-ventilated space with as many windows open as possible. The fumes should be no worse than if you were painting outside." Well, when it's 14 degrees outside and dropping fast, I can tell you that the windows and doors did not stay open long. However, we did open them for short bursts. Just to try to clear our vision! Oy!

But the floors are going to look so much better than the manky, munky, ucky cat-pee-stained carpet that was there. Even if we didn't sand it all down properly and you can see a faint outline of Mr. J's sneaker in one spot. I'll take that any day.

I have a whole list of fascinating, interesting topics for this blog o' mine. But this is all I have time for today. And it's also about all the few remaining brain cells in my skull can handle. Here's some pictures worth a thousand words (or maybe about 100) to fill in the blanks.

Before


During


Camera battery is dead, so no photos of the paint fumed floors.

P.S. I realize that the during photo is a thousand times worse than the before photo, but photos just do not capture the remaining 900 words, which would all describe the horrible stench of cat piss that those two layers of carpet and one stubborn layer of linoleum contained.
P.P.S I just reread this, and wow is this all over the place. I am blaming all the empty spaces in my narrative on chemical-induced brain-dead-ness.

Intimidation

So I spend my procrastinating hours blog-hopping. My, oh my, are there some fabulous bloggers out there. Witty, funny, smart, insightful, a joy to read (is that even a word?).* And I think that is why I have been so quiet here. That and the fact that now that I have an audience (of 1), I feel the need to write something a little more meaningful than my usual whiney-ness. Well, all that AND the fact that I have spent the last couple weeks essentially chained to my desk or cooking or walking the dogs. Nothing earth-shattering. I don't even have great stories about appliance mass suicide and the good things that come from that. :-)

Maybe (most likely) it's that perfectionist in me who wants everything to be amazing, world-wise, hilarious, thought-provoking, maybe even poignant. All at the same time. Every time. All the time. I don't know why I expect this when I'm not that way in real life. Every now and then I'm one of those things for a few minutes. Sometimes even for a whole afternoon! (though I don't think I'm ever poignant)

So, how do I let go and write? Pretend like no one is reading and just say what I want to say? Get some get-started prompts from some how-to-write book or website? Or just take a few minutes out of the day to actually think about things, look around, observe, witness, reflect, and see what I see?

Anyway, subject change (to prevent this from becoming too whiney): Can I just say how incredibly excited I am to be going "home" for the holidays? I cannot wait to see my three little nieces, my cousins, my folks, my sister, my Nana. Well, OK, everyone!! I am not in the Christmas spirit AT ALL yet. Every time I hear a Christmas song on the radio, I scream in aggravation (really) and then have this near-violent knee-jerk reaction to change the station. Mr. J finds it all very hilarious, as he doesn't really pay attention and probably doesn't realize half the songs are carols, as they are being sung by Sheryl Crow or some such thing. Perhaps if they hadn't started playing these songs before Thanksgiving, I'd be a little more forgiving. Perhaps. But I do love Christmas time, and I am very excited for it all. I am hoping for snow and walks in the snow and maybe getting to the lake, only to find it frozen over with that perfect-for-ice-skating glasslike ice (not that that has happened for years). But even if it's 70 degrees and sunshiney, I can't wait. I love Boise, but I miss my family. Why can't they all just pack up and move out here?

OK, enough procrastinating. Fa la la la la.

*Disclaimer: Each of these blogs is all the words mentioned; I did not categorize them according to an overriding characteristic. Just seemed like a fun way to give a shout out to a few of the fabulous women out there who are entertaining me these days.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Turkey from Thanksgiving Past (2007)

So much to be thankful for. Here's just a few: The Dog, our families, our good health, the good health of our families, our home, living in Boise and not in Dallas, our friends near and far, steady work, good food, fuzzy slippers, a sunny day, snow on the way, our memories, eyes to read with, ears to hear with, mouth to laugh with, heart to love with, nose to smell all the wonderful smells (not counting Mr. J's sweaty running clothes on the laundry room floor), fresh-squeezed grapefruit-orange juice, Mom's Christmas cookies delivered on my birthday, our beautiful nieces and nephews who I miss so much, our friend on the road to recovery from his horrific motorbike accident, The Dog's squeaky toy, my red curtains, raw cookie dough (even though I know it's sooo bad), Netflix and Hulu for those nights when we just want to veg, learning to knit, my cold sore finally going away, the places I've been, the places I've yet to go, my teachers and mentors, and most of all Mr. J. He is truly the best, even when he's at his most aggravating!

Prepping

I actually don't have that much prepping to do at all. My sole contributions to tomorrow's big feast are a big vat of garlic mashed potatoes and some onion confit (a.k.a. caramelized onions) in place of cranberry sauce. I'm also throwing in a batch of chocolate chip peanut butter cookies, just cuz. We did the shopping last night. Tonight we cook. And tomorrow we just reheat everything once we arrive at H's parents' house. Easy Peasy!

But it's this holiday and the next that always make me a little homesick, especially as my folks came out for a couple very memorable, very tasty Turkey Days down in Denver. Planning the menu, organizing the house so we could fit all 20 people, doing the shopping, preparing the food, all over glasses of wine (well except maybe for the shopping) and lots of laughter. Good times, indeed. But this is our first Thanksgiving here, and we are just establishing our connections. Our roots are very shallow. If I think back to our first Thanksgiving in Denver, I can remember our roots were just as shallow. I just didn't realize it. It was just us and two friends, who flew out from California, loaded down with a huge shopping bag of goodies from Trader Joe's (oh, how I miss them!--the friends and Trader Joe's). I don't even know if we made a turkey or what we ate. But I still remember the laughter and the good times. And I know that no matter what, we will always have that, no matter where we are. And I am eternally thankful for that.

Email from My Momma

I received an email from my mom today that I think is a prime candidate for Postcards from Yo Momma, but I'm going to keep it here on my little site rather than sending it out there for the "world" to read. It just cracks me up, so I want to record it for posterity, so I can come back for a smile and a laugh whenever I like:

Hi – Just talked with a man at church today who was talking about his birthday on Friday. Turns out he also turned 40. He has a wife, 5 kids, house and job. I was a little surprised when I found out his age but then when I looked at him, I thought yeah, I guess so. He is overweight so he looked a lot older than you but looking at his face, it was younger than I thought! Anyway, when he found out you were a day older than him, he wanted your email so he could get advice on “what’s next” from an older person. He really does have a good sense of humor but maybe you aren’t ready for that kind of humor quite yet! :) I’m glad you had a good birthday. I want the recipe for all the lamb dishes but especially for the drink! Nana needs a new drink! Well, I’ve got to take a shower and get ready to go to a friend’s house for dinner. What are doing for Thanksgiving? Do you have to make anything and are you going to share the recipe? I’m still undecided about the stuffing recipe. I don’t stuff the bird with it but I need a recipe. Any ideas? Oh yeah, Denise’s refrigerator died Friday and Jon went out and bought a Toshiba one today. They knew a year ago it was going, so they were shopping for types and brands. Made the day easier. Anyway, it seems he got a good deal and it should all be installed by Wednesday. Dad’s hard cast is on and he is going gang busters. Went to work right after the cast was put on, went food shopping with me that night, went to church and stood around and talked with people as they raked leaves and now is going out to dinner tonight. He offered to make the baked beans I am bringing but I said, it was ok – I’ll do it. As you can see, we too are a little busy. Have fun. Love, MOM

Yesterday

Little thoughts came to me yesterday (actually, it's today, but I'm not going to post it until tomorrow, so that makes today yesterday). Anyway, here are some of those thoughts:

--OW! On Monday, I went to my first "real" workout class in ages (real meaning there were actual weights and lunges and squats and even push-ups?!?! involved). And each day since then I've been moving more and more like a pregnant cowboy (though maybe that should be cowgirl) (man, do I love parentheses or what?). I can't seem to get up off our low-slung couch or up out of my itty-bitty Honda without bracing myself and sort of pushing my hips up with my butt, so that I don't actually have to engage my aching quads, which feel as if someone has beat them to a pulp with a bag of oranges. So there's the pregnant part. And then when I try to walk, I sort of swing my legs out to the side, instead of bending at the knees, to once again avoid using my poor, poor quads. Thus the cowboy. Add this to my swollen cold sore lip, and I am one hot about-to-be-40-year-old. Watch out world!

--It is now today, which yesterday would have been tomorrow. I had other little thoughts, but never got around to writing about them. So I'll just say that Today is here, and I am 40, and I feel no older than I did yesterday. However, it seems that I suddenly know everything, or so I profess to Mr. J, as I expounded on all things philosophical and psychological and political over breakfast. After listening to NPR and solving the world's problem with one pithy statement, I proclaimed, "I know everything!" After analyzing our sister-in-law and discerning the reasons for her lack of child-rearing skills, I knew I was right about it all, because "I know everything." Mr. J's reply after each of my oh-so-modest proclamations was, "And you didn't even stay in a Holiday Inn Express." GIGGLE! And now I'm off to enjoy my day, which I know will be splendiforous, because I obviously know everything.

When You're Smiling

The only reasons for today's title are (1) I could not come up with anything clever or witty, and (2) I'm listening to Pandora, and right now it's Louis Armstrong singing/playing what seems like a very melancholy version of that song. And this sort of suits me right now. I'm in a good mood all in all, and I want to smile. But yesterday, for the first time in a very long time, I was afflicted with the mother of all cold sores. Came out of nowhere and has now given me a big ol' fat lip, with all of the grossness of a cold sore and none of the sexiness of big puffy lips. Joy. So, not only does it make me grumpy, but it also hurts to smile. Boo. And tomorrow is the big 4-0 for me. I have anticipated this milestone for years. When I hit 33 or so, I finally understood Meg Ryan's lament in When Harry Met Sally: "I'm gonna be forty.... Someday!!" (I honestly did not understand that line when I first saw the movie in my 20s). And that someday is here. And of all the horrors I imagined (none of which have come true, by the way; no horrors--just sore knees, an achy lower back, and slowly deteriorating eyesight), I did not imagine entering my fourth decade with a whopping cold sore (the affliction of my teen years; the infliction that kept me from joining high school band, because you can't play the flute when you get a cold sore every other month). Anyway, what's next? A zit on my nose? Horrible teenage mood swings? What the heck, let's go for broke. Give me some braces, a thick pair of glasses, and ratty hair. It'll be like no time has passed. Apparently 40 is the new 16!

Another Monday

Well, I am obviously not out to win any kind of NaBloPoMo prizes, that is for sure! But I will sacrifice all the "glory" for another great weekend like this past one. Good times with friends, good food with friends, making new friends, slowly solidifying newish friendships. All in all a friend-filled weekend. And after a year in Dallas, where I had maybe 1.5 friends, it feels great.

I'm not the kind of person who must be surrounded by people in order to feel needed or loved or complete. I can entertain myself for days with nary a teary night of "woe is my, I'm all alone," as I proved so well in Dallas when Mr. J would go out of town. But laughter and sharing and good times with others is just good for the soul. And I'm eternally thankful for my loving Mr. J and the fact that he loves low-key entertaining as much as, if not more. than, I do. And although life is a little crazy these days, I do not regret for one minute making our sudden move to Boise. It suits us to a T.

But now the house is empty and the work is piling up. So time to get cracking. I imagine that with all this work surrounding me, I'll be doubly good about my daily posts this week, as that is just the way things go around here!

Procrastination Puzzler

How is it that when I have fifty million things on my plate, as I did last week, I can find time every day to post to my little blog? But when I only have fifty things to do, I can't seem to keep this up? Must be one of those weird time-warp, space-time continuum doohickeys. Or perhaps we should wait until tomorrow, when my fifty things of the week are due a day early because one of my very bestest buds is coming to visit, and I need to make scones and salsa and guac and clean house. I'm sure tomorrow, when all that is going on, I'll have all the time in the world for posting. (And no, I don't NEED to make fresh scones and salsa and various other tasty treats, but I WANT to, quite possibly at the expense of my ever-growing pile of work.)

Gack!

One week in and I have already missed a day of NaBloPoMo. I guess it doesn't matter too, too much, as I missed Day 1 anyway ( because I didn't know about NaBloPoMo until Day 2). So no big prize for me. But still. I can't keep up this daily posting thing for more than one week? Typical.

I am not really devastated or disappointed at all. I had a fabulous weekend, even if part of it consisted of work on a Sunday. But that work began after I enjoyed my most glorious sleep-in, make-a-yummy-breakfast, sip-my-coffee-while-doing-the-crossword-puzzle morning (which extended past noon). Heaven! And so, so, so, so needed.

While I worked, the wonderful Mr. J mowed up all the leaves and spread them throughout the flower beds and into the future fruit "orchard" on the side of the house. Then he spent the rest of the afternoon building shelves for his shed (yes, it's our shed, but I really have no interest in it, especially as it was such a pain in the arse to construct ... I still haven't forgiven it for that).

Then a leisurely night on the couch catching up on shows on Hulu and knitting (well, I knitted, and Mr. J just watched the "tube," AKA my computer screen).

Now here it is Monday again, but it's not nearly as daunting as last week. Today I even have plans to squeeze in a quickie mountain bike ride and maybe another trip to the Y (twice in three days? Miraculous). And if all goes well on the work front this afternoon, I'll get to end my day concocting dinner. On the menu for tonight: miso soup with chicken and vegetables. Hope it's as tasty as the recipe makes it out to be. Then again, if I keep writing here and not working, we'll be ordering out for pizza. Better get busy.

Life Is Grand

The project from hell is over. Hooray! (Now that I have calmed down about it all, with the help of dinner with friends enjoying homemade pizza and copious amounts of wine and laughter, I can say it wasn't the authors who bugged me. It's not their fault English is not their native tongue. But it is the fault of the publisher to send it to me as a "normal" edit and to pay "normal" edit prices for something that really should have been translated by someone who understands the science of artificial intelligence before being copyedited. But nuff said. It's done.) Anyway, that project is over. I have a simple quilting project to finish by end-of-day Monday. And then life is back to normal.

And to prove it, this morning I slept in (well, until 8:00, but for me these days, that's a luxury). I tidied up a bit, played around on the computer, then hopped on my loaner cruiser bike (big blue bike with a wire basket and everything) and cruised around the North End on this blue-sky-with-white-puffy-clouds (I call them The Simpsons clouds) perfect autumn day. Crisp, cool air. People out raking and getting ready for winter. The smell of fireplace smoke in the air. Leaves falling from the trees and crunching under my tires as I cruised my way to the Y, where I actually worked out (what a concept). Then on the way out, I ran into a woman from down the street who I've been meaning to get in touch with for ages (OK, weeks). We've only lived here three months and already I'm meeting people I know on the street. I love this town!!

And on Thursday my bestest bud/former mentor is coming into town for a fabulous weekend of reminiscing, laughter, window shopping, drink tasting, and good food. Can't wait!

Reclamation

I was just performing my morning ritual of procrastination (oops, I mean browsing other people's blogs), when I came across this at Hidden Camera Show. I don't know if stealing from another site counts as a daily post, but this captured exactly how I am feeling right now and what I want for the coming weeks, months, year (note: the photo is all mine):

In fact, it [NaBloPoMo] is just one act in a series of things I kind of want to do with my life. That is, acts of reclaiming. With my atrocious study- and work habits, days just kind of drift, without me feeling like I'm in charge. So, I would like to (drumroll, please) reclaim my Sundays. Oh, glorious Sundays! A day of having a lie-in and a big breakfast, the Sunday paper, maybe going for a walk or into town, reading a good book just for fun, maybe watching a film, and so on and so forth. I honestly think that I need a day in my week which is simply 'me-time', no work no nothing. If I plan my week and my work carefully enough, I am sure having my Sundays off would be feasible. Imagine that, being able to sit around and not feel guilty about not doing any work!

Dear, Departed Chester
illustrating the epitome of a proper lie-in

Of course, the trick is that whole word plan. I need to work on enhancing that P-word in my life and eradicating the other P-word (procrastination, of course).

I Will Stop Venting About This Project

Really, I will. As soon as I finish it up and send it off to the publishers. But until then, here's an example of the latest text to fall under "things that annoy me about this project":

Hence the number of frequencies to be selected must be judiciary decided. The same holds two for the other analysis technique i.e. Short Time Fourier analysis and wavelet analysis.

This needs a whole lot of fixin' on a whole lot of levels, and I know it's my job as editor to do that fixin' to the best of my non-science-brain ability. But I am beginning to think they "wrote" this book by dictating it into the very speech-recognition software that they are describing how to build (the subject of this particular chapter). Couldn't they have at least given the chapters a quick proofread before sending everything off to be published?

And on another note, I now have an image of the authors looking like Lili von Shtupp in Blazing Saddles, singing "Morning, noon, and night, it's dwink and dancing / Some quick womancing / And then a shower."

A Quickie ... Really

I can't seem to help myself. I have every intention of writing a short, sweet blog post, but when I'm done writing, I realize that it takes several to many scrolls of the mouse wheel to get to the bottom of it all. Can I really have that much of interest to say? Actually, no. I'm just a rambler. I can't help it.

But today is really just a quickie to get in my daily dose of writing. I am burning the candle at about five different ends. There's the project from Hell (in this case, Hell is India)--a horrible, horrible book on soft computing and artificial intelligence (don't ask) written by three people who may speak English on a daily basis but who are not native English speakers. And it shows. If I have to change one more instance of "In this section, we would be discussing the issues of some or the other artificial neural network (ANN) technologies . . ." I "would probably be very much going to" throw my cute little laptop right out the window. But it's a paying gig, and I am the one who did not say no when they offered it to me! So, oh well. As my friend says, it's job security in these crazy times. Too bad said job security is making me crazy! Then the big geography textbook project is coming to an end, which means lots of little loose ends to be tied up by right this very minute. Add to that a short indexing project (due today) and then a quilting edit (due Friday, but I'm pushing for Monday), and I think perhaps I may have overextended myself just a tiny bit. Not to mention that I have a random group of women coming over tonight for a Lia Sophia Jewelry party that I have been shanghaied into hosting. (OK, so they got me with the $78 dollar necklace that I get for $15 just for hosting; but I still consider it a sneaky move on their part.) This, in turn, means I need to clean house (Mr. J has volunteered his services), scrounge up some munchies and vino (hallelujah), and actually make myself somewhat presentable (no more sweats and PJs for me tonight.)

But all of that doesn't stop me from going out to enjoy yummy diner breakfasts with Mr. J two days in a row. How I love me some bacon and greasy spoon coffee! Especially after pulling several near-all-nighters in a row. Besides, these days, it's the only time I have to actually converse with Mr. J; otherwise our conversations would consist of me thanking him as he changes out my caffeine IV drip. Oh, and speaking of bacon (mmmm), if I lived anywhere near Colorado, I would have dibs on this cute little piggy owned by my new buddy over at Little Farm. Growing. Yum! (sorry piggy)

November 3

I realize that is not a very original title for a post. But I chose it for a couple reasons, and not one of those reasons is entirely due to laziness.

First of all, it is that time of year again. Yes, it's autumn, the leaves are falling, the air is crisp and cool, there is no excuse not to savor a mug of hot cocoa every single day, and I love it. But it's also that particular day of the year when I go absolutely berserk trying to find out who is running and for what position, what the different bonds and ballot measures are, and various other voting information. You would think this information would be at my fingertips, what with the wonders of the Internet and all. Yet for the past several years, I have tried to do my civic duty as a semi-intelligent voter, and for the past several years, I have failed. And it's not just this state. For each of the past three first Tuesdays in November, I have been registered to vote in a different city, county, state. And in each state, I have had absolutely dismal luck finding the relevant information needed to cast a confident vote. So I bitch and moan and do my best. And then I leave various ovals blank, because I can't just fill in any old random vote. And this just goes against my grain, because I suffer from a serious case of SAT-itis, which means I have this need to fill in an oval for every "question," even if I'm just making my best guess, using the process of elimination, or going with my gut instinct. That kind of stuff may have helped to get me into a good college, but it just doesn't fly in the voter booth. [image courtesy of www.jardmail.com.uk]

Having said all that, I did go out and vote today, with Mr. J, who voted for the second time in his life, having only recently become a full-fledged U.S. citizen. It was quite entertaining to be back in a semi-small town (Boise may be the capital of Idaho, but it is far from being a big city--which is why we love it!). The polling station was like a ghost town, other than the workers sitting around, catching up on the latest gossip. It wasn't until halfway through the three-minute process that we realized we were being serenaded by a choir of elementary school children, who were hidden somewhere behind the big curtain on the gymnasium's stage. I think that was a first in my voting career. In addition, no one quadruple-checked my driver's license or anything. I just confirmed my address, signed a book, got my paper ballot, went into a cardboard booth, filled in the one oval I felt confident about (yes, it was the guy who wined and cheesed us at his wine and cheese event), and then slipped my sadly incomplete ballot into what looked like a large shoebox. Then it was off to Jim's Coffee Shop for a celebratory breakfast.

But I seriously digress. A much happier reason for the title of this post, and for the celebratory breakfast, is that today marks what would have been my grandparents' 79th wedding anniversary. Although Grandpa died four short years ago (yes, that means they celebrated 75 years together! Amazing!!), he is never far from our hearts or our thoughts. But Nana is still alive and kicking and is actually going in today to determine whether at 90 years old she is a good candidate for a cochlear implant (or as she calls it, a nuclear implant, which just makes me giggle). For the past 15 years or more, she has sort of laughed off the idea of trying to improve her hearing, saying that she'd probably be dead in a year anyway and why spend the money. But seeing as she was just at my cousin's bon voyage party, dancing up a storm, I think she's finally realizing that she's here to stay for a while! In fact, at her 90th birthday party last March, she was still happy and alert and pleasant at 2 a.m., recapping the events of the day and exclaiming how nice everyone was to come to her party (she had always thought that people came to her parties because they all loved Grandpa ... hmmm, and I get my insecurities from where?!). I, on the other hand, was quite disgruntled and zombielike and exhausted, ready to pass out right there on the couch.

So in honor of my Nana and Grandpa, I send out positive, life-loving thoughts to all of you. May we all have even an iota of the love and laughter my grandparents have shared with this world. And may we all do our best to pass on that joy to those who are special to us . . . or even to those we just meet on the street.

NaBloPoMo

So I just realized that it's that time of year when bloggers go crazy and post a post every single day as some kind of challenge, fun, writing frenzy, something . . . . I have not participated in the past, and I'm not sure I'm participating now. We'll see how I do. Of course, I already missed Day 1. But that's because after the incredible festivities of Halloween night (such fun), it took Mr. J and I a full day on the couch, catching up on Netflix and Hulu, while munching on whatever easy food we could prepare and never once getting out of my robe or slippers to make myself more presentable (whew) to recover. I'm so glad he loves me for who I am and didn't try to "help" me recover from my crispy-around-the-edges feeling by pushing me out into the beautiful day that it was in order to haul my tooshie up a hill on a mountain bike or some such ungodly thing. Granted that probably would have been much healthier than our alternative. But sometimes you need a completely lazy day. Especially as this week I have, oh, I don't know, five horribly icky work projects! (Yippee.) Another reason I'm not sure how well I'll do on this post a post every day for a month thing. Oh, and I also love him because he sat through three hours of Lost in Austen with me, and actually found it entertaining! What a guy!

Finally, can I just say that daylight savings is being very good to me today. I just realized it is only 9:30 and I've already been working for more than an hour (usually, I'm just finishing breakfast and catching up on emails at this time of the morning).

Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda

I just wrote a long, bitchy, moany, venting blog post about my work and the woes of my work and how much I wish this project were over (one more week ... one more week). But it was boring and depressing, and I realized that this blog is turning into too much of a sounding board for when I'm frustrated, which, actually, is what most of my journals ended up being too. And that is all fine and good for a journal that no one will ever read, but it's not incredibly exciting or interesting for the international world of blogging (even if I do have only one follower ... HI!). Besides, after writing the long, venty post, I felt much better. So I deleted it. Whew for all of us.

So, instead I'm going to recap part of the phone conversation I had today with my beautiful niece, because it just makes me smile. She called because she had just received the two box sets of books I sent via Amazon (on sale, thank you very much). [I love the idea for the National Geographic map binder, by the way! Will definitely file that away for next time!] (The gift shipped yesterday and got there today at no extra cost, thanks to my free trial of Amazon Prime ... whatever that is and which I must go cancel right now before I get charged for it.) Anyway, she could have just said "Geronimo Stilton" over and over again in her cute, growing-up-too-fast voice, and I would have been perfectly happy. What a great name for a character! But we did have an actual conversation, and my favorite part was the discussion about The Dog, whom she met only once, four years ago. So, she was, what, ... 3? Wow, what a memory. Anyway, it won't translate nearly as well, but here it is for posterity's sake.

Beautiful Niece: Thanks for the books, Aunt T. How's The Dog? [This is usually the first question she asks after saying hello, so I felt honored to actually get a full sentence from her first.]
Me: He's fine. He's taking a nap. How are you?
B.N.: Are you going to bring him with you at Christmas?
Me: I wish I could, but he would have to ride underneath with all the luggage, and he wouldn't like that.
B.N.: Maybe he could ride under your seat, like that dog you saw on the plane. [Holy crap, what a memory this child has. Last Christmas, I told her about the full-size standard poodle that got to ride on the plane right behind us, because he was being trained as some kind of helper dog. I then told her the even weirder story that the same dog was on our flight back home, a week and a half later. Weird! She, of course, thought it was perfectly normal. I mean, we flew in together, so of course we'd be on the same flight home.]
Me: [After taking a few seconds to figure out what she was talking about--apparently I do not have the memory of a 7-year-old--I attempted to explain the intricacies of training seeing-eye dogs without completely losing her interest.] Well, we'd have to train him to be a helping dog, and then he'd be allowed to fly with us. But if we did that, we'd have to give him away when we were done training him so that he could be with someone who needs help.
B.N.: [Without a moment's hesitation] Well, that stinks!

I couldn't have said it better, or more selfishly, myself. That would stink, though I guess not for the person who needed help. And where did she learn that phrase, anyway? Too. Dang. Cute!

And now that I have taken this pleasant break from the horrors of editing a high-level tech book written by two professors and one student who do not speak English as their first language, I can go back with a calmer brain. And that calmer brain is not just the result of the vodka and OJ I guzzled while writing this. Really!

Perspective-o-meter

That's what I need. A big dial (or maybe even better a large plastic hammer that bonks me on the head) to keep me in check when I get too maudlin and dramatic and teary eyed over my own woes. Yes, we are struggling with money. Yes, Mr. J is having a ridiculously hard time figuring out what he wants to be and do and then finding someone who will pay him to do just that. Yes, we are living beyond our means. Yes, I really do need to work out so I can fit into my clothes, since I can't afford to buy new ones (though I did go out and buy that blue coat ... turns out it was only $20!! bargain!).

But ... where's that fancy perspective-o-meter to remind me that all in all we are healthy, are happily in love (most of the time), have a house over our heads, have parents who are supportive in every possible way, aren't being gang-raped by a vapid group of sick teenagers, aren't living in Pakistan or Iraq or Afghanistan or any other bomb-prone, wartorn country, love where we live, have wonderfully supportive friends, aren't living in a tent city under an interstate, have a heater that works (thanks to handy Mr. J), and the list goes on.

If I can just remember all this, then maybe I won't fly off the handle and yell at the person I love most in this world when what he really needs is support and encouragement. Maybe I won't become thoroughly forlorn over the fact that we can afford a new blade for the saw to build shelves, but I can't afford to lavish my beautiful 7-year-old niece with gifts on her birthday. These things make me sad, but they are not the end of the world. Life will go on for us.

And by the way, do you think it is pronounced perspectiveOMeter? or perspective-oh-MEter?

Just Write, for Writing's Sake

But I have nothing in particular to say tonight.

And yet whenever I start with those words, I am usually able to fill pages with nothingness. Wanna see how that works? ...

I successfully procrastinated the day away. Started by dropping off Mr. J at the airport (boo hoo; though I do like me some me-time). From the airport I headed to Borders (because I did not learn until tonight about the local, nonchain bookstore. Next time, for sure!). After sipping my coffee and browsing the shelves and making my first full-price book purchase in months, I headed to various thrift stores and Goodwills, looking for a cool, retro raincoat. No such luck, though I did find a baby blue, full-length, inside-out-sheepskinny jacket (there's a word for an inside-out sheepskin jacket, but that word is eluding me ... maybe it's Ugg Jacket, but I really don't think so). Anyway, I am fully tempted to go back to buy said jacket tomorrow. It's only $29. It's not something I would have ever bought in my Denver or Dallas life, but here in Boise's North End, I think it will suit me just fine. And for the price, you can't beat it. If nothing else, it will be great for Halloween.

I then came home long enough to pet The Dog, change into my oh-so-stylish workout gear, and sprint to the gym for spinning. Ugh! I do not enjoy spinning, but I hate it less than running, and it seems to sweat out the same amount of crap. So I'm hoping it'll do something about getting me into my Halloween costume by ... uh ... Halloween. Of course, I completely sabotaged myself afterward by eating a square meal of chips and salsa. (Hey, tomatoes are vegetables, and tortilla chips have ... corn. So there!). After waiting all afternoon for the answers to questions I needed to be able to do my work, my neighbor called up and invited me to some kind of wine thing for the guy who's running for the local council. Good-bye work; hello free nibbles and wine. And, as it turns out, I kind of agree with the guy's politics, so I'll probably vote for him. And not just 'cuz he liquored me up with a couple glasses of red. Honest.

And now I'm back home, after a yummy lotus blossom salad at the Thai restaurant I've been lusting after for the past two months. And instead of catching up on chick flicks, or chick books, or chick knitting, or chick sleeping, I am updating this blog, which I now know has at least one (and maybe two) reader(s) out there. Hi there! Which of course puts some pressure on me to not just blather on about nothing. ... But obviously not that much pressure!

So, other than this being written on a blog rather than in one of my thousands of journals, I have just proved that my married "single" life is really no different from my single single life of years past. Well, except that I know that in one week, wonderful Mr. J will be back, so I don't have to sit here and "angst" all night about how I don't think I will ever meet Mr. (most-of-the-time) Wonderful. Because I did. So there, old single self!

Tactical Error

I was all set to write a ranting, raving blog about how Mr. J and I have been complaining about our weight and lack of exercise and overeating, and how we both joined the Y this past weekend ready to turn over a new leaf, and how I headed out tonight (instead of filling a glass with wine and chowing down on ice cream, I might add) with the intent that Mr. J would run The Dog to the Y, leave The Dog in the car, and join me in the Y, and how that isn't what happened at all. Let it be noted for the record that I, virtuous one that I am, did go to the Y, after setting up the back of the truck with The Dog's bed, so he'd be nice and comfy. And I did work out, while keeping an ever-watchful eye on the door for any sign of Mr. J. After 30+ minutes, I started to realize that he wasn't coming. The ever-positive part of me was hoping that he'd decided to take The Dog for a good long run and meet me back at home. The ever-pessimistic side of me knew he was home, playing FreeCell or watching Hulu.com. The ever-worried side of me was fretting that he'd keeled over of a heart attack somewhere on the dark roads of the North End, with The Dog running rampant through the streets hunting grasshoppers or squirrels or some such thing.

Anyway, I was going to write about all that, with all the venom I could muster, because, of course, it was Door #2 that turned out to be the case (Mr. J, sitting in his running gear, staring at the computer and surfing the Web, while The Dog just stared at me with pitiful little eyes, asking, "Why didn't he take me running? I saw him put on shoes and socks and everything. Why? Why?"). But then all my rancor left me when I read about the Somali pirates (no laughing matter, I know) who mistakenly attacked a fully armed French naval ship from two little skiffs armed with what I'm sure were 1980-era Kalashnikovs. The mental image just made me giggle. That and the big glass of red I poured immediately upon entering our abode. Nothing like a little rehydration after a good workout! Well, I know Somali pirates are a big threat and that people are being held hostage, killed, tortured, and worse. But the idea of a little skiff of modern-day pirates attacking a large naval warship just sounds more like a really bad Chevy Chase movie.

In any case, glad I didn't have to vent about all that!

As I Was Saying

So, I'm starting a new blog as a completely independent person (independent of my "family and friends" blog, that is). Maybe people will find this. Maybe they won't. I don't know. Maybe I don't care. I'm not sure.

I used to be one of those who kept a journal, but I haven't written in my journal in at least a year, and even then it was a once-a-year kind of thing. I don't know what it is about being married, but I just don't write as often as I used to (physically write in a hardbound book, that is). It's not that being married has stifled my "writing career." I am not a writer. I am a rambler. I write letters. I write emails. I write occasionally on a blog. But I rarely, if ever, have a beginning, middle, end to my "stories."

In my single days I wrote in one of my jillion different journals--either when I was trying to find out who I was or some such thing OR when I was ridiculously drunk. Drunk writing seemed a much better option than drunk dialing. Most of the "who am I?" entries were stupid little ditties of me trying to be much deeper than I was. And most of the "drunk" writing episodes turned into "what am I doing with my life," which just disintegrated into big pen rips through about 10 sheets of paper. Oh, the melodrama of a 20-something!

Journal writing has been something that has ... there it goes again. I start to think about actual journal writing and my brain freezes. I was looking for a word, and it just disappeared. Perhaps the word was "intimidated me" (which, of course, is 2 words). Anyway, look at my diary from 5th grade to middle school, and the most exciting entry probably consisted of, "Today I watched a new movie. I love Author, Author. Al Pacino is amazing." Yes, I was the only person in the 1980s who (1) didn't realize that Al Pacino had been around "forever" and was probably truly amazing in, oh, I don't know, maybe Godfather 1-100 or maybe even Scarface. No, I thought Author, Author was the pinnacle of his success. and (2) even saw Author, Author (and no, I don't mean Arthur, though that was probably on my Top 10 list at the time). Then, I proceeded to college where I took a (one) writing class in which the professor would review our journals every month. Good God, I can't even imagine what she thought of mine. Such pathetic driveling. I should look some of it up. Maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought. But then again, it probably was, what with being "in love" at the ripe old age of 18 and all that. Lordie!

And then there was the journal writing of my 20s (see above). It's even more ... what's the word ... ironic? ... that most of these entries were written in journals that were gifted to me by people who thought that I would someday be a great writer. The problem with being an English major is that you actually read some really great writers, and boy howdy, is that intimidating to the perfectionist inside. No, I will never be a great writer. But who knows. Maybe I'll be a little entertaining?

Anywho, now here I am. Approaching 40 and using the "new" (semi-new to me) journaling available to my fingers. And yes, this could potentially count as middle-age drunk journaling. But that's not because I'm trying to figure out who I am, and it's not because I think my life sucks. I just need an outlet for my midnight ramblings. So here it is.

Hello, Blogger World. Let's see where this takes us, shall we?