Stealing Ideas

I don't tweet, though I do have a Twitter account for some strange reason. But apparently there is something going around the tweety world where people are giving advice to their 16-year-old selves. Since reflecting back on my former selves, which, of course, are still part of my present self, seems to be my theme this month, I thought I'd hop on the trendy bandwagon.

So, 16-year-old self:


--See all those people in that picture. Those are your friends. So in a few short years, when you reflect on your high school years and seem to think that you were a loner with only one or two friends, you will be wrong. And in 20 long years, you will be back in touch with some of these folks through this thing called Facebook, and you'll see that they are still your friends. (However, that guy with the glasses--don't invite him on a river trip in 15 years. For some reason that you will never quite get, it will ruin your friendship, and you'll never hear from him again.)

--You will learn, after much discussion, that almost no one really enjoyed high school, and this is even more true (truer??) of junior high. You are not the only one questioning everything you do and worrying about everything you say. It's just the joys of hormones mixed with awkwardness mixed with peer pressure mixed with, in the case of junior high, the tenth circle of Hell. The only exception to this rule is the future love of your life (yes, you have one), who moves to the States from Australia at the height of Crocodile Dundee fame. He is a blond-haired, tan, athletic cutie with an accent who gets along with everyone, from nerds to ultrajocks. So, yes, he is enjoying high school ... to the max. Here he is with some "blonde hussy" ... I mean, lovely young lady. But don't worry. In 20 years, when he scans this photo in to his computer, he'll label it "Santa and ..." because he can't remember her name.
--For the next 15 years or so, you will whine and moan and wonder and stress about how life is going to turn out (which mainly will mean, "Will I ever meet someone and have a relationship like my grandparents and parents have?") The answer is yes. Stop worrying about it and go out and enjoy life. See:

(and, yes, that's the Sydney Harbor Bridge ...
you will get to Australia to see the land of the Man from Snowy River ... many times)

--Speaking of enjoying life, when you get that job in New York City for the summer after graduating high school, make the most of it. A summer in the city should not consist of grabbing dinners from a Korean grocery store, dancing around your aunt's apartment, and going to a movie. Check out the museums. Get the last-minute theater ticket deals. Get your cousin to come visit and show you the sites. Live it up a little!

--But ease up on the junk food and start doing sit-ups. Your metabolism may rock the free world right now, but in a couple years, it will all catch up!

--Oh, and be nicer to your folks. Your friends are right ... your parents are pretty dang cool. There is no reason to hate them.

Rambling

Looking back over my previous post, I realize that my blog name is no misnomer. I can certainly ramble. I could have just as easily condensed my 7 facts about myself as follows:

1. I don't know or care (anymore) how people should pronounce my name.
2. I'm addicted to Big Fish Games' 60-minute free game trials.
3. I have no clue how to apply makeup and make it look good.
4. I can bring poor, unsuspecting women into the spell of my period hormones.
5. I am definitely not a scientist.
6. I love bacon.
7. And now that these are nice and short ... I'll add #7: I tend to ramble on at ridiculous lengths about nothing very interesting at all! (see below)
   

*******

We have a friend here in Boise who, I am learning each time I talk to him, knows just about everything about everything, but not in an annoying sort of way. Actually in a very fascinating way.

The latest tidbit came up as I was telling him how we had spread this horrible weed and feed stuff on our "lawn" in an effort to kill off the goatheads that were endemic to our yard when we moved in. According to Mr. Fascinating, goatheads are of a plant called Tribulus terrestris (which, to me, sounds even more evil than "goathead"). He went on to explain that it is a main ingredient in many of the muscle-builder powder stuff that people take to make themselves stronger. (Oh, the scientific explanation in that last sentence just proves Point #5 above!) Apparently this stuff goes for big bucks and is then ground up into a fine powder so that crazy people can ingest it. Just the thought of that makes my insides hurt, because in my mind, no matter how fine you grind that stuff, it's still horribly pokey evil that even in a microscopic form must still be pokey and ouchy. I mean it goes straight through tires without even a blink of its goathead eye, and it's just about the only thing that will stop The Dog in his tracks.

But, saying all that, apparently we could have just let this stuff grow and become bajillionaire goathead farmers. I wonder if that requires have a goat-herd?

Of course, this whole conversation led to hilarious talk about falling off our bikes into a pile of goatheads and coming up raving mad, a la the Incredible Hulk, or just taking the pointy ends of the goatheads and jabbing them in our arms to get a little extra juice. But, I guess you had to be there to really capture the hilarity of it all.

Out in the world

I didn't quite make it to the Y last night. I was getting my stuff together and realized that my iPod wasn't charged, and I just don't work out well without my music (weak excuse, yes, but true). Then I rationalized that it was 4:30, which is the start of Crazy O'clock at the Y, and I just hate crowded gyms. So I did some measly leg lifts at home and then proceeded to knit while catching up on episodes of Chuck.

But today I ventured out into the great wide open ... twice, even! And here's what I learned.

1. I love a greasy spoon diner breakfast. I could eat bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, an English muffin, and never-ending cups of diner coffee every single morning, if my arteries would let me. Yes, this meal is so easy to make at home, but it's just so much more satisfying when bantering with a sassy waitress while sitting on red vinyl seats at a chipped Formica-topped table. Happiness is. (Plus, I don't have to do the cleaning up.)
2. When you leave your car windows open over night to air out the stench of strawberries that you accidentally left in the trunk the previous night and it then proceeds to rain, your seats will get wet. And even if you leave your car with the windows slightly cracked for the rest of the day (sans rain), the seats will stay wet, but you will forget. And then, when you drive to the Y, you may not feel the dampness at first. But when you get out of the car and feel that breeze on your tushie, you will know, for a fact, that the seats of your pants are soaked through. Nothing like working out on the elliptical with a soggy ass. Happiness is not.
3. I love my workout playlist on my iPod. It makes me so happy. It actually makes me enjoy standing still (well, not really still, but not really getting anywhere either) on the elliptical and even makes me push myself to workout harder. No small feat for this lazybutt. And today, you would think I had programmed it exactly to my workout, as the first song was the perfect kickoff (Us3's "Tukka Yoot's Riddim"--best rhythm ever for an elliptical) and the last song ("Sunday, Bloody Sunday") stopped exactly as my 30 minutes were up. Cool. [p.s. I ended up going to the Y at the height of Crazy O'clock today, so yesterday's excuse really wasn't valid, was it?]
4. All in all I have found the people of Boise to be exceedingly nice. Even the kids at Starbucks are devoid of the usual sneer. But today I ran into all of Boise's most inconsiderate men. At the Y, I held the door open for a family. The kid, who I presumed (assumed?) to be the son of the man behind him, smiled and said thanks. The sour-puss man, on the other hand, just breezed right by me; not even a smile. Then, after we both checked in, he literally pushed past me to get through the door and didn't even hold it open. Grrrr. I mean, I went to a liberal all girls (ahem, I mean all women's) college, and I'm all for women's rights and all that. But when I hold a door open for you, whether you are a man or a woman, I would at least like a "Thanks" and maybe a little eye contact and a smile. Major pet peeve; always has been and always will be. Then, at the grocery store, more men: one was a slight grocery cart bump as I came out of an aisle into the main aisle. I said, "oops, sorry," even though it was 50% his fault. And all I got was a sneer as he pushed past me. Then, on the way home, this car just sat in my blind spot all the way down 8th Street. Didn't he know I needed to move over? And even if he didn't (which he couldn't have, because I didn't turn on my blinker, because he was in the way and I knew I couldn't move over anyway, so why bother), doesn't he know it's just not safe to drive right alongside a person's rear bumper? I technically didn't know until he passed me whether he was male or female. But I knew. And I was right. Grrr.
5. I cannot wait for veggie-growing season so I can cut my grocery bill in half, as just about everything I bought today from the produce aisle will (hopefully) be growing this summer in our garden.

Now wasn't that exciting, and aren't you so glad I went out into the world so I could share all this with you?