Just Things

Per usual, I don't have a theme today. Just this pretty photo of our hibiscus plant and some random thoughts bopping around in my head.


Like, why does a young kid who apparently just finished his basketball practice at the Y feel the need to use the handicap button that automatically opens the doors for him? Are his arms so worn out from tossing that big heavy ball? Does the time that he has to wait as the button slowly works its magic to open the doors give him a rest from all his aerobic activity? Does he just like using up the Earth's resources? I mean, it's not like those doors are heavy ... not even remotely.

And ... our "just do it" campaign is going strong and steady around here, though yesterday was a bit of a laze about. After Saturday's weeding and planting and taking 440 pounds of garden crap to the dump and then loading the trailer with even more pounds of the previous house owners' junk from the basement (which we had been successfully procrastinating cleaning out for the past 2 years), the idea of waking up early on a beautiful Sunday morning to replace the seal on the downstairs toilet just didn't inspire us. So instead we enjoyed a brief respite, sipping bloody mary's by the Owyhee Plaza pool with friends, before heading off to Micheal's to continue our home improvement projects. Most of the framing of pictures is now done. Maybe this week I will finally hang some on the wall. Two years of rooms with bare walls is getting a little old.

And ... how on earth can it be 10 years later? I remember like it was yesterday, and yet so much has happened since then. To us personally (mostly all good). To our friends (ditto). To this country (not really all good at all). And to this world (ditto). I remember how kind everyone was to each other that day and for a few days after. We pulled together. We were considerate. People actually looked each other in the eye and smiled and said "Thank you" or "Please" or "How are you?". As tragic as it all was, our reaction as a country gave me hope. And it makes me so sad to see how pulled apart this country has become ... by politics, rhetoric, fear, anger, fanatics on both sides ... by the fact that there are two sides ... us and them. It frightens me.

But, I can't dwell on all that. Because it is overwhelming, and it makes my heart hurt.

So instead I try to focus on what we have ... good friends, loving family, a gorgeous pooch (even if he did help destroy our couch), a roof over our heads, food in our slowly dying fridge (reminder to self: call the fridge repair guy), an income, silly kids at the Y, and fresh coffee in my mug.

Cheers to that.

Hot in ... Boise?

OK, so my lovely wonderful Mr. J left on February 4.

Today is April 8. (Wow ... more than 2 months?!?)

As I told him the other day, I've become quite adept at being a single married woman. Doing my work. Going out for dinner or drinks with friends. Dogsitting where the need arised (arose?). Although I can admittedly say, once again: Thank you to the heavens for Skype, texting, and email. This excursion of his to the far-northern reaches of Africa would have been a whole different story without the more-than-occasional catch-ups via modern-day technology. But still ... I'm getting sort of into my routine. Work, work, work. Visit with friends. Meet for a coffee here, a lunch there, a hike over there, and a drink over yonder ... not to mention the walks that The Dog will occasionally deign to accompany me on ... plus the never-ending supply of instant streaming Netflix (hello, BBC period dramas!).

But tonight, another recently engaged friend was a "bachelorette" for the night because her fiance (who texted about 10 times during the evening) was out of town for the weekend, and she realized she wanted to be single again--like it was some novel thing. I guess that after being engaged for 3 months, 2 nights alone was living it up. But seriously, I do jest. I love her and her fiance and they are too damn cute together, and I think it's the most fantastic thing that they feel this way about each other. But, also, it was fun to have someone else join in my almost-"married singledom" for a night.

And what did we do (ahem ... it may be apparent, at least in part, from my rambling)?

Well, we invited two legitimately single friends to her house and cooked up some amazing pizza (which she apologized for just "throwing together with whatever she had in her fridge" ... oh, you know ... leeks and feta and artichoke hearts and sausage ........ thank God it wasn't at my house, as it would have been wilted carrots and celery, some peanut butter, and tuna), and commenced to watch the first 6 or 7 episodes of Hot in Cleveland (thanks to instant Netflix).

Now, we will all probably admit tomorrow, when our red-wine, whipped-cream-vodka-flavored drinks wear off (not mixed all together, thank you very much), that this is a funny, mildly raunchy sit-com that is kind of like the 40+-plus woman's answer to Three and a Half Men's horrid tits and ass jokes of late ... well, at least of late until Charlie got kicked off the show. But really, Betty White kicks ass! And besides, you get three over-40-year-olds and one mid-break-up-30+-year-old a bit tipsy, a bit full on pizza and popcorn, and My God, was it the perfect girls' night out? Of course, I was thinking the whole time, "This is hilarious now, because we can relate to the 30-year-old jokes and the 40-year-old jokes," but I can so see myself laughing hysterically at the 80-year-old jokes in 40 years' time (really, Betty White rocks!)

I contemplated deleting this post or at least saving it until the caramel-flavored-vodka and soda drinks wore off. But, whatever. This is me, and this is my life ... come what may (and, besides, May is looking like a trip with Mr. J to Italy, Greece, and Turkey, so who am I to complain? I just need to get about 90 hours of editing work done between now and the time I head out the door in 15 days). So, huh.

Yeah ... didn't you miss me??

Just Stuff

So, as I mentioned, Mr. J is off being Mr. Adventure Traveler, working in Morocco on a hush-hush TV something or other. I know more than that (though not much), but I am not allowed to say. Anyway, he is there, and I am here. And all I can say is, Thank God for Skype.

Warning, this post is most likely going to be all over the place (though when aren't my posts all over the place?).

My dad served three tours of duty in Vietnam. They were newlyweds, and for two of those tours, my mom was pregnant. Dad wasn't able to make it home for my birth, and he didn't really know about the actual birth date for several days. I don't think I "met" him until I was 8 months old. He made it back the day before my sister was born (and good for him, as I believe at that point my 23-year-old mom was ready to throw in the towel on the whole Air Force wife deal). Anyway, I bring it up, because I don't know how they survived. I know they had no choice, but I am a wreck if I go four days without hearing from Mr. J. OK, not a total wreck. But I am definitely gloomy. They had to rely on mail and reel-to-reel audio recordings and phone calls in which you had to end each part of your conversation with "over" so the person connecting them would know when to switch cords or whatever it was they had to do. Add to that all the stress of worrying about each other in their respective situations (him fighting wars, her dealing with pregnancy). I really am a wimp compared to them!

My friend was asking me today how I'm doing, and I have been fine. I mean, yeah, it's lonely and quiet in the house, and every now and then I get incredibly sad. But for the most part, I know Mr. J is doing what he likes to do. He's making something of an income (though not nearly what he deserves). And it's not like he is in a life-threatening situation where I have to stress about his every move every day, as I'm sure countless girlfriends/boyfriends/wives/husbands are dealing with all over this country ... or all over the world, for that matter. She also wondered if I was mad at him, saying that most women would be livid that their husbands were going off for what I guess a lot of people consider a second childhood. But I'm not mad. Well, I'm mad when I have to deal with something that is in his domain, such as filling in muddy pits dug by The Dog or trying to jerry-rig a fence to keep The Dog from his favorite area of digging. But that's more frustration at not being able to do what he does so well and without a second thought.

It almost made me question how much I care for him. I mean, maybe I should be sadder or madder or more emotional.

Or maybe I'm just numb?

Or maybe I'm just so used to being in a family where Dad would go off for a week, two weeks, months for different exercises or assignments.

I don't know. I guess the important thing is that all in all I'm OK with everything (either that or I am incredibly good at repressing my emotions). And there is no doubt about how much I care for him and love him and miss him, even if maybe I should be more upset by it all.

Then again, maybe I'm being all magnanimous because I just made plane reservations to join him at the end of April?

Hmmmm, could be.

Google Analytics-Inspired Ramble

It is a momentous day here at Midnight Rambler. Are you ready for it? I got my second follower!! Welcome, Jen of Haute Whimsy. (And there was much fanfare! I am picturing lots of confetti and party horns and fun hats. And virtual confetti is fantastic because there is no mess afterward!) [There were other photos indicating fanfare, but this one made me smile the most. So there you have it.]

So all this excitement reminded me that I use Google Analytics to track the vast amounts of traffic on my blog. Last I looked, I think I had had, oh, maybe 50 visitors, with most of those being myself before logging in as myself. I hopped on over there this morning to see what was happening and who was stopping by. And, boy, did I feel bad that the top 10 or so keywords searched to reach my site were variations on a theme of "squeamish cell carcinoma." I want to send out a huge apology to anyone enduring the wait to find out how bad their squamous cell carcinoma is, who go out looking for medically certified answers, only to stumble on my rambling, squeamish thoughts. [I also feel compelled to point out that I do know I am spelling it wrong and that was totally intentional, because just the thought of some foreign cancerous thing growing on my body (and the subsequent surgery to have said growth removed ... while I was still conscious and talking to the doctor) still makes me utterly and completely squeamish. Ick!]

And that thought right there never fails to get a smirk from Mr. J, who likes to remind me that I often come up with thoughts like, "I could be a crime scene investigator." (after watching CSI, of course) or "Maybe someday I'll get an aesthetician's license and earn a little extra income." (after meeting someone who did just that and loves it) Mr. J then likes to remind me that (1) I can't even think about blood and guts without flinching, and (2) I won't even pop a zit on his back without a great deal of "ewww" and "gross" and "that's disgusting" (not exactly the words you want to hear as your aesthetician works on your face, I suppose).

This isn't a new phenomenon. Back in the day, after watching Nick Nolte and Deborah Winger in Cannery Row (I think I might need to go back to watch that movie. I remember absolutely loving it back when I was a preteen.), I decided I wanted to be a marine biologist (albeit, a marine biologist living in 1930s in pre-high-falutin' Monterey). Then, in my 20s, I went to the Monterrey Bay Aquarium and discovered that I couldn't even bring myself to pick up a starfish in the kiddie pool area (the 10-year-old boy next to me thought I was a big wuss; and he was right). Then, after seeing Raiders of the Lost Ark (are you detecting a theme, here ... other than my absolute love for parentheses and asides?), I decided I wanted to be an archaeologist, despite my absolute fear of the dark and my detestation of creepy, crawly bugs. In college, I actually took an archaeology class and discovered that not only is it incredibly tedious with memorization of a ridiculous amount of information, but also, rarely ever do you go out in the field unless you are really, really lucky (or, in my case, unlucky).

Wow, what a tangent that turned into! A few sips of coffee after a week with no coffee, and look at me go! So, welcome, Jen. Thanks for stopping by. And I really hope I win those gloves :-)

Mystified

Well, I had this whole conspiracy theory about Blogger's Next Blog button and was writing all about how I think Blogger is witnessing to me and trying to get me to go to church. But then when I clicked on Next Blog today, it completely debunked my very own theory. So that's now fun.

So, what shall I write about instead?

I think I need to get out of this house and experience the world a bit (or, if not the world, then at least the outdoors). My big outings this week included a night of wonderful food and fun and Wii playing on Saturday, a shopping spree at the yarn store (plus some fantastically inexpensive but cool house decorations from Savers ... I LOVE thrift stores), and a hike yesterday with Mr. J and The Dog (no owl sightings). My life is so full! Other than that, I have either been at this computer or in bed knitting (I don't really have a good spot to knit). My eyes are burning from staring at the computer screen, and if I start knitting now, I'll never leave the house (it's kind of an addiction).

So, I guess what I'm writing about is the fact that I am going to get up right now and leave this house. My exciting plans might include a trip to the Co-op to buy some kale for dinner or maybe even an excursion to the gym to work off my oh-so-healthy lunch of tortilla chips with salsa and homemade hummus (what? protein, veggies, is corn a grain? sounds like a super-duper nutritious meal to me).

Wow. Fascinating post, wasn't it? Tomorrow I promise something relatively interesting ... or at least not deathly boring.

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?