Saturday, September 30, 2006
I've got skunk hair! And I love it!
Being female, I naturally got bored with my hair. It's not exactly blonde and not exactly white. It's pretty much the same color all through, except for the palm-sized dark patch smack at the top of my forehead, which I bleach to match the rest.
I've been thinking about coloring it - a temporary 8-10 shampoo deal - but I can't use temporary color on the bleached part, because it might turn a strange color and might not wash out. I can use a permanent color, but that's - uh - permanent. I just wanted to experiment a bit.
I've heard that no one in (on?) Long Island has gray or white hair. You see it around here a bit - little old ladies with black, brown, or red hair. Not only does it look sadly fake, but dark hair with white roots looks terrible, make that TERRIBLE, much worse than light hair with dark roots. So I'm afraid of that, too. My hair grows too fast for chancing pathetic white roots.
Idea! Light bulb goeth on.
I gathered up a 3"x5" patch on the top and crown of my head and pinned it out of the way, and then used an ash-brown temporary color on the rest. It came out very light brown or medium ash blonde. It looks really great with the white-blonde top hair (kinda like a skunk's topknot) spilling over and blending into it. I've even got streaks, without that ugly broad striped look so popular with young women lately.
I love it! I love it so much that after all the temporary color has washed out, I'll do it with a permanent dye.
The darker underneath makes the top part look lighter, and I don't have to worry about roots - there are none showing. Bored no more.
This opens a whole new world - I can play with lots of colors if get bored again, just so I stick with relatively light colors.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
900 Oooo - I'm So Naughty!
Borrowed from True, who borrowed it from Dirty Blonde.
You have to answer yes or no to each thing to see what your sins are worth.
Smoked pot-- $10
Got drunk, passed out and don't remember the night before-- $20
Went skinny dipping-- $5
Had sex in a pool-- $20
Kissed someone of the same sex-- $10
Had sex with someone of the same sex $20
Cheated on your g/f or b/f -- $10
Cheated on your g/f or b/f with their relative or close friend--$20
Done oral-- $5
Got oral-- $5
Done / Got oral in a car while it was moving --$25
Prank called the cops-- $5
Stole something-- $10
Stole something worth over more than a hundred dollars--$20
Had sex with someone 10 years older-- $20
Had sex with someone under 21 and you are over 27--$25
Cried yourself to sleep-- $5
Cried during sex--$20
Been in love-- $25
Been in love with two people or more at the same time --$50
Said you love someone but didn't mean it-- $25
Went streaking-- $5
Went streaking in broad daylight --$15
Been arrested-- $5
Spent time in jail --$15
Peed in the pool-- $0.50
Played spin the bottle-- $5
Done something you regret-- $20
Had a crush on your best friend--$5
Had sex with your best friend --$20
Had a crush on someone at work --$5
Had sex with someone you work with at work --$25
Lied to your mate --$5
Lied to your mate about the sex being good --$25
My total = $310.00. True's total was something like $70, poor child. Dirty Blonde got $325.50. I guess I'm a naughty blonde. (No, I never peed in a pool. Ocean, lake, river, yes. Woods, yes. Even a front yard once, but a pool? Never.)
P.S. - Being in love is a $25 "sin"? Whoa! I counted only one $25 for that (I assume that no matter how many times you've done something, you count it only once), but I've apparently "sinned" many many times that way. I've loved many men. Some truer than others, but truer only because I knew them better.
You have to answer yes or no to each thing to see what your sins are worth.
Smoked pot-- $10
Got drunk, passed out and don't remember the night before-- $20
Went skinny dipping-- $5
Had sex in a pool-- $20
Kissed someone of the same sex-- $10
Had sex with someone of the same sex $20
Cheated on your g/f or b/f -- $10
Cheated on your g/f or b/f with their relative or close friend--$20
Done oral-- $5
Got oral-- $5
Done / Got oral in a car while it was moving --$25
Prank called the cops-- $5
Stole something-- $10
Stole something worth over more than a hundred dollars--$20
Had sex with someone 10 years older-- $20
Had sex with someone under 21 and you are over 27--$25
Cried yourself to sleep-- $5
Cried during sex--$20
Been in love-- $25
Been in love with two people or more at the same time --$50
Said you love someone but didn't mean it-- $25
Went streaking-- $5
Went streaking in broad daylight --$15
Been arrested-- $5
Spent time in jail --$15
Peed in the pool-- $0.50
Played spin the bottle-- $5
Done something you regret-- $20
Had a crush on your best friend--$5
Had sex with your best friend --$20
Had a crush on someone at work --$5
Had sex with someone you work with at work --$25
Lied to your mate --$5
Lied to your mate about the sex being good --$25
My total = $310.00. True's total was something like $70, poor child. Dirty Blonde got $325.50. I guess I'm a naughty blonde. (No, I never peed in a pool. Ocean, lake, river, yes. Woods, yes. Even a front yard once, but a pool? Never.)
P.S. - Being in love is a $25 "sin"? Whoa! I counted only one $25 for that (I assume that no matter how many times you've done something, you count it only once), but I've apparently "sinned" many many times that way. I've loved many men. Some truer than others, but truer only because I knew them better.
Friday, September 29, 2006
899 Tiring Day
Friday, September 29, 2006
[Later edit: Changed reference to Ex#1 to Ex#2. Oops. It's not like I really mix them up....]
After stopping in to visit the mini-van, I headed for Poughkeepsie (pronounced p'KIP-see, for you outlanders. (Valatie, up the road, is pronounced val-LAY-sha. We gots us some weird names 'round here)), to deliver some more Pilot Logs. Naturally, I had to make three trips up and down each road to find the businesses. No numbers. And in one case, no sign.
Then I headed for New Paltz, where I had to deliver to an insurance business in a big old Victorian house. There was a number, and a big sign --- but there were two doors on the front porch, a sidewalk around the side to another door, and a fourth door at the back where there was a parking lot (I had parked on the street). No sign that said "office", or "use this door". I rang all four doorbells in turn, got no response, and ended up leaving the Logs on the porch in front of the most likely-looking door. Of ninety-some delivered, that's the first batch I didn't actually hand to a person. But there was no way I was going to make another trip to New Paltz.
Then to Tivoli. I rarely get to Tivoli, and when I do, it's just to pass by on Route 32. So today I had the map, and was looking for the back/side street to deliver my Logs to a bus company.
A story: In 1969, when I was dating Ex#2, one of his best friends, Frank, lived back in on a side street in Tivoli. I had been to Frank's house once with Ex#2, but hadn't paid any attention to where it was. Frank's house was a big 2 1/2 story farmhouse. They had a bit of land, with a barn and several sheds. They kept some ponies, and Frank's collection of old Subarus.
Frank's wife decided she wanted a large window in the dining room, instead of the existing blank wall. Frank promised her he'd do it. A few years passed, and Frank hadn't got around to it. Nagging didn't work. One day, the wife decided she'd about had it. She took a chain saw and cut a huge hole in the wall. No supports, no braces, no nothing. Just a big hole through the plaster, studs, and siding. When Frank got home from work that evening, he was greeted by a huge hole in the wall. Breeze blowing in. Within a week, the wife had her window.
My visit was the day after she had cut the hole. (Frank had to show it off.) We moved to St. Louis shortly after, and I'd never seen the new window.
So, I'm driving down this street, looking for the bus company, and remembering the story of Frank's wife and the chain saw, and wondering where the house might be. I'm thinking there had to be enough space for the out buildings, and the houses are too close together on this street ... and wham! There were the barn and sheds! The very ones. I'd have expected them to have been torn down by now. As I passed, I glanced in the side mirror, and sure enough, there was a huge window in the house, right where the hole had been. Amazing. I found a needle in a haystack!
Anyway, I was so excited about that, that I passed right by a big fenced-in yard full of big yellow school buses without even noticing. And then got lost. Took me a long time to find that bus company.
Then to the Kingston Wal-Mart to buy another house telephone. (They've all decided to die at once.) Then back to the village to an auction preview, then home. I got home about 7:30ish, and for some reason I was very tired. About 65 miles today, and 5.0 hours for the museum.
The state legislature (I think it's them, anyway) is looking at allowing a deduction on taxes for volunteer hours, similar to the deduction for volunteer miles. That would be nice, and I'm sure it would encourage volunteerism. The federal government should look into it.
[Later edit: Changed reference to Ex#1 to Ex#2. Oops. It's not like I really mix them up....]
After stopping in to visit the mini-van, I headed for Poughkeepsie (pronounced p'KIP-see, for you outlanders. (Valatie, up the road, is pronounced val-LAY-sha. We gots us some weird names 'round here)), to deliver some more Pilot Logs. Naturally, I had to make three trips up and down each road to find the businesses. No numbers. And in one case, no sign.
Then I headed for New Paltz, where I had to deliver to an insurance business in a big old Victorian house. There was a number, and a big sign --- but there were two doors on the front porch, a sidewalk around the side to another door, and a fourth door at the back where there was a parking lot (I had parked on the street). No sign that said "office", or "use this door". I rang all four doorbells in turn, got no response, and ended up leaving the Logs on the porch in front of the most likely-looking door. Of ninety-some delivered, that's the first batch I didn't actually hand to a person. But there was no way I was going to make another trip to New Paltz.
Then to Tivoli. I rarely get to Tivoli, and when I do, it's just to pass by on Route 32. So today I had the map, and was looking for the back/side street to deliver my Logs to a bus company.
A story: In 1969, when I was dating Ex#2, one of his best friends, Frank, lived back in on a side street in Tivoli. I had been to Frank's house once with Ex#2, but hadn't paid any attention to where it was. Frank's house was a big 2 1/2 story farmhouse. They had a bit of land, with a barn and several sheds. They kept some ponies, and Frank's collection of old Subarus.
Frank's wife decided she wanted a large window in the dining room, instead of the existing blank wall. Frank promised her he'd do it. A few years passed, and Frank hadn't got around to it. Nagging didn't work. One day, the wife decided she'd about had it. She took a chain saw and cut a huge hole in the wall. No supports, no braces, no nothing. Just a big hole through the plaster, studs, and siding. When Frank got home from work that evening, he was greeted by a huge hole in the wall. Breeze blowing in. Within a week, the wife had her window.
My visit was the day after she had cut the hole. (Frank had to show it off.) We moved to St. Louis shortly after, and I'd never seen the new window.
So, I'm driving down this street, looking for the bus company, and remembering the story of Frank's wife and the chain saw, and wondering where the house might be. I'm thinking there had to be enough space for the out buildings, and the houses are too close together on this street ... and wham! There were the barn and sheds! The very ones. I'd have expected them to have been torn down by now. As I passed, I glanced in the side mirror, and sure enough, there was a huge window in the house, right where the hole had been. Amazing. I found a needle in a haystack!
Anyway, I was so excited about that, that I passed right by a big fenced-in yard full of big yellow school buses without even noticing. And then got lost. Took me a long time to find that bus company.
Then to the Kingston Wal-Mart to buy another house telephone. (They've all decided to die at once.) Then back to the village to an auction preview, then home. I got home about 7:30ish, and for some reason I was very tired. About 65 miles today, and 5.0 hours for the museum.
The state legislature (I think it's them, anyway) is looking at allowing a deduction on taxes for volunteer hours, similar to the deduction for volunteer miles. That would be nice, and I'm sure it would encourage volunteerism. The federal government should look into it.
898 The Van Is Back!
Friday, September 29, 2006
I've got the mini-van back! After how many weeks? Five? Well, I almost have it back. I stopped by the Chrysler place today, and paid for the work, but I had to leave the van there because I was on my way to Poughkeepsie. But I did sit in it, and try starting it, and it started, and the check engine light didn't go on. I'll call them Monday, and they'll send someone here to take me in to get it.
The service manager said it was the hardest job they'd ever had - trying to figure out what was causing the stalls and the sensor failures. It turned out to be a combination of things.
Apparently, it all started with a rubber cover over the computer. It had a "slit" in it, which allowed moisture into the computer. This caused intermittent false sensor readings. When the sensors (oxygen and cam position) were replaced (several times), whoever replaced them screwed it up a little bit more each time - bent connections, out of alignment, incorrect gaps, etc. So then the sensors started reporting both bogus and real failures, while the computer was also intermittently failing. That caused some fuel mixtures, air mixtures, timing, whatever, to be off. Which caused stalling even when the sensors said everything was ok.
So fixing any one thing wouldn't have fixed the system.
They replaced the computer and the wire harness (and I HOPE they replaced that rubber cover), reseated the sensors, and a bunch of other stuff. They must have test driven it at least 350 miles, because I gave it to them with a full tank of gas, and it's on empty now.
We'll see how long it behaves.
Oh, and it didn't cost much at all because the computer and harness was still under warranty.
I've got the mini-van back! After how many weeks? Five? Well, I almost have it back. I stopped by the Chrysler place today, and paid for the work, but I had to leave the van there because I was on my way to Poughkeepsie. But I did sit in it, and try starting it, and it started, and the check engine light didn't go on. I'll call them Monday, and they'll send someone here to take me in to get it.
The service manager said it was the hardest job they'd ever had - trying to figure out what was causing the stalls and the sensor failures. It turned out to be a combination of things.
Apparently, it all started with a rubber cover over the computer. It had a "slit" in it, which allowed moisture into the computer. This caused intermittent false sensor readings. When the sensors (oxygen and cam position) were replaced (several times), whoever replaced them screwed it up a little bit more each time - bent connections, out of alignment, incorrect gaps, etc. So then the sensors started reporting both bogus and real failures, while the computer was also intermittently failing. That caused some fuel mixtures, air mixtures, timing, whatever, to be off. Which caused stalling even when the sensors said everything was ok.
So fixing any one thing wouldn't have fixed the system.
They replaced the computer and the wire harness (and I HOPE they replaced that rubber cover), reseated the sensors, and a bunch of other stuff. They must have test driven it at least 350 miles, because I gave it to them with a full tank of gas, and it's on empty now.
We'll see how long it behaves.
Oh, and it didn't cost much at all because the computer and harness was still under warranty.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
897 Memories in Boxes
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Daughter has several boxes in my basement. I'd kinda like her to take a look at the stuff, but I've decided now is not the time. I know her well enough to know that if she thought I'd like to clear it out, she'd tell me to throw away everything without even looking at it - her theory being that if she hasn't needed it in the past eight years, she won't need it ever. I think I'll wait a few more years. Need is not the same as want.
That got me thinking about a box I had left in Ex#1's parents' attic when I left him. He didn't want me to retrieve it because he didn't believe I was really leaving, and he didn't want his parents to know anything. He promised he'd send it to me after I found someplace to live. But within a week of my leaving, his father left his mother (a complete surprise). Naturally, she blamed me, everybody blamed me for showing that it could be done, and she threw my box out.
It contained all my old diaries. Letters from friends and first drafts of my letters to them (we were big letter writers in those days). High school and college essays and term papers, of which I was very proud. Art projects from college. Photographs from high school and college. Dried corsages. Mementos. All gone.
Forty years later I still think about that box. This morning I sat down and sifted through the box in my mind.
------------------------------------
When I went to college, in that time and place, the goal was to turn out "well-rounded" citizens. You didn't graduate until you could swim, hit a tennis ball and a golf ball, shoot an arrow, bowl, turn a back somersault, speak before a large audience, paint with oils, sculpt, and recognize the styles of the major classical composers. (Unfortunately, they didn't include guns, which was the one thing I was already very good at.) Those classes were not fluff classes, either. You really didn't graduate without passing them.
Also, back then, the average grade was a "C". At my college, in every class, there were no more than two "A"s (if that many) given in any class, and there were always two "F"s. It didn't matter if your average in a class was 95%. If everyone else's average was above 95%, you failed the course and had to repeat it. If three or more people tied for top scores, then they all got "B"s, since nobody was "the best". It wasn't like a curve. It was possible for everyone in the class (except the bottom two) to get "B"s, if it was an outstanding group. One more thorn - no matter what your average was going into the final exam, if you failed the final (that one was based on %), you failed the course. Period.
I needed to graduate in three years, and I had two majors and a minor, so I was carrying a very heavy load. It's funny, but the classes I remember as the hardest were the "rounding" classes. I wasn't very good in any of them. I think I got through on charm.
My golf instructor said I had a perfect textbook stance and swing - but I couldn't hit the ball for love nor money. I'd haul off with this perfect swing, and everybody would look off into the distance, then back in confusion, and there'd be the ball still sitting on the tee. I don't think I ever hit the danged thing.
Bowling was just the opposite. I got decent scores, but every time I released the ball, I'd fall down. Splat right on my doupa. Terrible form.
I was good enough at archery that the instructor insisted that I try out for the team, but it turned out I couldn't pull the heavier bows used in competition without losing control of the arrow. You know, one of those fly two feet plops.
Swimming was horrible. The instructor took one look at my kick on the first day, and decided that I was lying when I said I didn't know how to swim. Hey, I've got strong legs! He threw me into the deep end and let me drown. I threw up after every class.
In tumbling, I could do everything on the final exam except one thing. To demonstrate flexibility, you had to sit on the floor, lean forward so that your shoulders were between your knees, put your arms out under your knees and around to the front of your calves, and then interlace your fingers down to the base. I couldn't do it. I couldn't even get my fingertips to touch.
The day of the final I took a tape measure to class. The length of my arms from underarm to the base of my fingers was 19.5 inches. My legs are short and powerful. The length of the distance my arms would have to traverse, from mid-thigh, under the knee, around the calves, to the mid-point between my calves, was 23.0 inches. And that's assuming no bones in my arms and with the calves close together. The calves would have to be separated because my shoulders would be between my thighs, so it's even longer. Therefore it is physically and mathematically impossible! for me to do this, no matter how flexible I am.
Never underestimate the stupidity of an instructor. She insisted that I had to do it or I would fail the class. I couldn't fail because on my schedule I couldn't afford to repeat any class, besides which no matter how many times I retook it, I was NEVER, EVER, going to be able to do that one thing.
So I did my best. My knees were behind my shoulders, and as close to my neck as possible - the only way I could get the calves close enough - and I was finally able to interlace the tips of my fingers. The instructor was impressed. She acted like she was doing me a favor passing me even though I "didn't meet requirements".
That night, and for the next two days, I was in the hospital. I had really messed up the muscles, ligaments, and tendons in my upper back. It was so bad that nobody realized that I had also dislocated my left hip. I walked around with that undiagnosed dislocation for the next ten years. There might have been some satisfaction that maybe the instructor might have felt bad, except that I had another problem. The day after the flexibility thing was my speech final.
Everybody in the speech class had to give an x-minute talk before the class on some subject chosen by the instructor. Your time was assigned, and with so many speakers and so little time, if you missed your time slot, you failed. Period. No excuses. No recourse. During my slot, I was lying in a hospital bed zonked on pain killers. My speech was ready (and it was a really good one), I was ready, but I missed my slot. The instructor informed me I had failed the class. I fought that one all the way up the chain, and finally gave the speech at a faculty meeting, and got an "A" on it.
The hardcopy of that speech was in that box. I wish I had it.
What kicked this all off was thinking about the little figurine in the box. We had been handed a lump of clay and told to make something. I fashioned a little girl, with braids and a full skirt, and chubby legs. She was very detailed, very pretty, and quite well done. But the instructor turned his nose up at it, "You made a Hummel!" I got a low grade for her, but I really liked her, and I wish I had her now.
I know now what I should have said to that instructor. My little girl really was well done. She wasn't very original, but the craftmanship was superb. Forty years later I know that I should have said to him, "Yes. A Hummel. I admit I have no talent. But you can't teach talent. You teach craftsmanship. So are you going to grade this project on talent, or craftsmanship? On what I brought to the class or what I'm taking away?"
Colleges today don't try to produce "well rounded" graduates. It's just the facts, ma'am. But throughout my life, it's the "rounding" classes that have stuck with me and influenced me the most. I don't remember much of history, or literature, or languages, or mathematics, but I have an appreciation for the arts that seems to be missing among today's youth. They don't seem to be able to differentiate between something produced by talent and hard work, and something that's only quality is uniqueness.
Which reminds me - when you hear "music", and you find that when it stops your shoulders relax and you think "Thank God it stopped", that's not music. That's noise.
Daughter has several boxes in my basement. I'd kinda like her to take a look at the stuff, but I've decided now is not the time. I know her well enough to know that if she thought I'd like to clear it out, she'd tell me to throw away everything without even looking at it - her theory being that if she hasn't needed it in the past eight years, she won't need it ever. I think I'll wait a few more years. Need is not the same as want.
That got me thinking about a box I had left in Ex#1's parents' attic when I left him. He didn't want me to retrieve it because he didn't believe I was really leaving, and he didn't want his parents to know anything. He promised he'd send it to me after I found someplace to live. But within a week of my leaving, his father left his mother (a complete surprise). Naturally, she blamed me, everybody blamed me for showing that it could be done, and she threw my box out.
It contained all my old diaries. Letters from friends and first drafts of my letters to them (we were big letter writers in those days). High school and college essays and term papers, of which I was very proud. Art projects from college. Photographs from high school and college. Dried corsages. Mementos. All gone.
Forty years later I still think about that box. This morning I sat down and sifted through the box in my mind.
------------------------------------
When I went to college, in that time and place, the goal was to turn out "well-rounded" citizens. You didn't graduate until you could swim, hit a tennis ball and a golf ball, shoot an arrow, bowl, turn a back somersault, speak before a large audience, paint with oils, sculpt, and recognize the styles of the major classical composers. (Unfortunately, they didn't include guns, which was the one thing I was already very good at.) Those classes were not fluff classes, either. You really didn't graduate without passing them.
Also, back then, the average grade was a "C". At my college, in every class, there were no more than two "A"s (if that many) given in any class, and there were always two "F"s. It didn't matter if your average in a class was 95%. If everyone else's average was above 95%, you failed the course and had to repeat it. If three or more people tied for top scores, then they all got "B"s, since nobody was "the best". It wasn't like a curve. It was possible for everyone in the class (except the bottom two) to get "B"s, if it was an outstanding group. One more thorn - no matter what your average was going into the final exam, if you failed the final (that one was based on %), you failed the course. Period.
I needed to graduate in three years, and I had two majors and a minor, so I was carrying a very heavy load. It's funny, but the classes I remember as the hardest were the "rounding" classes. I wasn't very good in any of them. I think I got through on charm.
My golf instructor said I had a perfect textbook stance and swing - but I couldn't hit the ball for love nor money. I'd haul off with this perfect swing, and everybody would look off into the distance, then back in confusion, and there'd be the ball still sitting on the tee. I don't think I ever hit the danged thing.
Bowling was just the opposite. I got decent scores, but every time I released the ball, I'd fall down. Splat right on my doupa. Terrible form.
I was good enough at archery that the instructor insisted that I try out for the team, but it turned out I couldn't pull the heavier bows used in competition without losing control of the arrow. You know, one of those fly two feet plops.
Swimming was horrible. The instructor took one look at my kick on the first day, and decided that I was lying when I said I didn't know how to swim. Hey, I've got strong legs! He threw me into the deep end and let me drown. I threw up after every class.
In tumbling, I could do everything on the final exam except one thing. To demonstrate flexibility, you had to sit on the floor, lean forward so that your shoulders were between your knees, put your arms out under your knees and around to the front of your calves, and then interlace your fingers down to the base. I couldn't do it. I couldn't even get my fingertips to touch.
The day of the final I took a tape measure to class. The length of my arms from underarm to the base of my fingers was 19.5 inches. My legs are short and powerful. The length of the distance my arms would have to traverse, from mid-thigh, under the knee, around the calves, to the mid-point between my calves, was 23.0 inches. And that's assuming no bones in my arms and with the calves close together. The calves would have to be separated because my shoulders would be between my thighs, so it's even longer. Therefore it is physically and mathematically impossible! for me to do this, no matter how flexible I am.
Never underestimate the stupidity of an instructor. She insisted that I had to do it or I would fail the class. I couldn't fail because on my schedule I couldn't afford to repeat any class, besides which no matter how many times I retook it, I was NEVER, EVER, going to be able to do that one thing.
So I did my best. My knees were behind my shoulders, and as close to my neck as possible - the only way I could get the calves close enough - and I was finally able to interlace the tips of my fingers. The instructor was impressed. She acted like she was doing me a favor passing me even though I "didn't meet requirements".
That night, and for the next two days, I was in the hospital. I had really messed up the muscles, ligaments, and tendons in my upper back. It was so bad that nobody realized that I had also dislocated my left hip. I walked around with that undiagnosed dislocation for the next ten years. There might have been some satisfaction that maybe the instructor might have felt bad, except that I had another problem. The day after the flexibility thing was my speech final.
Everybody in the speech class had to give an x-minute talk before the class on some subject chosen by the instructor. Your time was assigned, and with so many speakers and so little time, if you missed your time slot, you failed. Period. No excuses. No recourse. During my slot, I was lying in a hospital bed zonked on pain killers. My speech was ready (and it was a really good one), I was ready, but I missed my slot. The instructor informed me I had failed the class. I fought that one all the way up the chain, and finally gave the speech at a faculty meeting, and got an "A" on it.
The hardcopy of that speech was in that box. I wish I had it.
What kicked this all off was thinking about the little figurine in the box. We had been handed a lump of clay and told to make something. I fashioned a little girl, with braids and a full skirt, and chubby legs. She was very detailed, very pretty, and quite well done. But the instructor turned his nose up at it, "You made a Hummel!" I got a low grade for her, but I really liked her, and I wish I had her now.
I know now what I should have said to that instructor. My little girl really was well done. She wasn't very original, but the craftmanship was superb. Forty years later I know that I should have said to him, "Yes. A Hummel. I admit I have no talent. But you can't teach talent. You teach craftsmanship. So are you going to grade this project on talent, or craftsmanship? On what I brought to the class or what I'm taking away?"
Colleges today don't try to produce "well rounded" graduates. It's just the facts, ma'am. But throughout my life, it's the "rounding" classes that have stuck with me and influenced me the most. I don't remember much of history, or literature, or languages, or mathematics, but I have an appreciation for the arts that seems to be missing among today's youth. They don't seem to be able to differentiate between something produced by talent and hard work, and something that's only quality is uniqueness.
Which reminds me - when you hear "music", and you find that when it stops your shoulders relax and you think "Thank God it stopped", that's not music. That's noise.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
896 How to Get Found
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
I delivered more Pilot Logs today. Five hours and 53 miles. All I have left to do now are the far-away ones (Saugerties, Woodstock, Bear Mountain, Poughkeepsie, New Paltz). Unfortunately, I got talked into distributing rack cards to libraries and mansion museums on this side of the river.
"No. NO. I can't. No! I don't want to. No no no! I have a life!" Practice saying that. Damn. The weather is finally good for outside work, and here I am delivering this stuff instead. The same thing happened to me in St. Louis - I volunteered at the veterans' hospital, intending to put in no more than 4-6 hours a week, and when it grew to 35 I thought "Sheesh, if I'm going to work this hard, I may as well get paid for it!", and that's how I ended up rehiring with The Company.
The city of Kingston has some strange streets. Hasbrouck Avenue used to run straight up parallel to Broadway, I guess. But it's been "cut" in two places, and the maps don't show it. Like, for example, when they put in the bypass, it cut Hasbrouck. My first attempt to find the business I was looking for, I found myself on a 1-block piece of Hasbrouck, with four houses, no exit, and no place to turn around. I had to back out. When I found the other piece of Hasbrouck on the other side of the bypass, I was driving up the street, and wham! there's a fence across the street with a parking lot behind it. The city decided to put in a highway department something-or-other, and it was going to take up most of two (small) blocks, so they just plunked down the buildings and lot right across the street. And of course, the "blocks" aren't rectangular, and the area is laced with one-way streets. I got pretty tangled up a couple of times trying to find my way back to Hasbrouck.
Another oddity is "Boulevard". That's it. That's the name of the street - Boulevard.
I was looking for (say) 123 Boulevard, a large electrical business. Naturally, most of the houses and businesses didn't have numbers. I found 89, and a half mile up the road was 178, but no numbers in between, and I didn't see any sign for the business. Finally I pulled into a restaurant parking lot at about where I figured 123 should be, and I called them. They were right next door. It looked like a private residence set back from the road, and the woman told me to go down the driveway to the back, and the office was "in the back".
So I drove to the next driveway. No business sign, but the number 123 was on the FRONT of the mailbox. Hey folks - when someone is driving past and looking for the number, they can't see it when it's on the front of the mailbox! A driver can't be driving safely on a winding busy road with their heads turned to the side. Put the flippin' number on the SIDE! so it can be seen before we actually get to it!
I went to the back, and found another (huge and beautiful) private residence, with a high wooden wall with no gate blocking the parking lot from the house in front. Is this 123 also? Is it the business? Still no identifying sign. There was a small upper parking lot and a small lower lot. There was a fancy front door at the upper lot, and a simpler door and a garage under the house at the lower lot. No signs anywhere.
I went to the front door and rang the bell. I didn't know what else to do. When a woman (the woman I had talked to on the phone) came to the door, she said that I didn't need to ring the bell, I should have just walked in. I said I wasn't sure if this was the office, and she laughed and said "Oh, everybody says that. They all think it's a private residence."
Duh? So, uh, why don't you maybe put up a sign? Even just "Office" on the door would help. As a representative of the museum I had to hold my tongue, but really, folks, aren't some things obvious?
Well, sometimes things aren't very obvious. This building was huge, fancy, a fantastic view, a glass room, wings with huge windows, beautiful landscaping. If the setting is any sign, this is a hugely successful business, even if no one can find it. Maybe they don't want "drop in" customers. Maybe all their business is from building contractors who need to know only the phone number. That's still no reason to make it so hard on delivery folks - of which there must be a few, since she said "everybody says that".
Or maybe they're a front, or a money-laundry. There used to be a fancy horse farm down the road that was a Mafia front, until the owner was convicted of something-or-other, and it was sold. But if they're a front, it's unlikely they'd advertise in the Pilot Log. A tax dodge would, though. We've got a lot of them around here, too. But tax dodges don't usually look so successful. Nah. Don't know what their story is.
I delivered more Pilot Logs today. Five hours and 53 miles. All I have left to do now are the far-away ones (Saugerties, Woodstock, Bear Mountain, Poughkeepsie, New Paltz). Unfortunately, I got talked into distributing rack cards to libraries and mansion museums on this side of the river.
"No. NO. I can't. No! I don't want to. No no no! I have a life!" Practice saying that. Damn. The weather is finally good for outside work, and here I am delivering this stuff instead. The same thing happened to me in St. Louis - I volunteered at the veterans' hospital, intending to put in no more than 4-6 hours a week, and when it grew to 35 I thought "Sheesh, if I'm going to work this hard, I may as well get paid for it!", and that's how I ended up rehiring with The Company.
The city of Kingston has some strange streets. Hasbrouck Avenue used to run straight up parallel to Broadway, I guess. But it's been "cut" in two places, and the maps don't show it. Like, for example, when they put in the bypass, it cut Hasbrouck. My first attempt to find the business I was looking for, I found myself on a 1-block piece of Hasbrouck, with four houses, no exit, and no place to turn around. I had to back out. When I found the other piece of Hasbrouck on the other side of the bypass, I was driving up the street, and wham! there's a fence across the street with a parking lot behind it. The city decided to put in a highway department something-or-other, and it was going to take up most of two (small) blocks, so they just plunked down the buildings and lot right across the street. And of course, the "blocks" aren't rectangular, and the area is laced with one-way streets. I got pretty tangled up a couple of times trying to find my way back to Hasbrouck.
Another oddity is "Boulevard". That's it. That's the name of the street - Boulevard.
I was looking for (say) 123 Boulevard, a large electrical business. Naturally, most of the houses and businesses didn't have numbers. I found 89, and a half mile up the road was 178, but no numbers in between, and I didn't see any sign for the business. Finally I pulled into a restaurant parking lot at about where I figured 123 should be, and I called them. They were right next door. It looked like a private residence set back from the road, and the woman told me to go down the driveway to the back, and the office was "in the back".
So I drove to the next driveway. No business sign, but the number 123 was on the FRONT of the mailbox. Hey folks - when someone is driving past and looking for the number, they can't see it when it's on the front of the mailbox! A driver can't be driving safely on a winding busy road with their heads turned to the side. Put the flippin' number on the SIDE! so it can be seen before we actually get to it!
I went to the back, and found another (huge and beautiful) private residence, with a high wooden wall with no gate blocking the parking lot from the house in front. Is this 123 also? Is it the business? Still no identifying sign. There was a small upper parking lot and a small lower lot. There was a fancy front door at the upper lot, and a simpler door and a garage under the house at the lower lot. No signs anywhere.
I went to the front door and rang the bell. I didn't know what else to do. When a woman (the woman I had talked to on the phone) came to the door, she said that I didn't need to ring the bell, I should have just walked in. I said I wasn't sure if this was the office, and she laughed and said "Oh, everybody says that. They all think it's a private residence."
Duh? So, uh, why don't you maybe put up a sign? Even just "Office" on the door would help. As a representative of the museum I had to hold my tongue, but really, folks, aren't some things obvious?
Well, sometimes things aren't very obvious. This building was huge, fancy, a fantastic view, a glass room, wings with huge windows, beautiful landscaping. If the setting is any sign, this is a hugely successful business, even if no one can find it. Maybe they don't want "drop in" customers. Maybe all their business is from building contractors who need to know only the phone number. That's still no reason to make it so hard on delivery folks - of which there must be a few, since she said "everybody says that".
Or maybe they're a front, or a money-laundry. There used to be a fancy horse farm down the road that was a Mafia front, until the owner was convicted of something-or-other, and it was sold. But if they're a front, it's unlikely they'd advertise in the Pilot Log. A tax dodge would, though. We've got a lot of them around here, too. But tax dodges don't usually look so successful. Nah. Don't know what their story is.
895 Rakkasah Schedule
The performance schedule is up for Rakkasah East, October 13 through 15, in Somerset, NJ. That's 132 performances over the three days. Willow is dancing at Rakkasah for the first time on Saturday night, at 8:26 pm. (Video clips of Willow: Floor work, and finger cymbals.)
I'm a little disappointed because the ATS troupes I want to see don't seem to be on the schedule.
I think this year I'll go down on Saturday morning, and stay over Saturday night at the hotel across the street. Join me. You'll love it!
I'm a little disappointed because the ATS troupes I want to see don't seem to be on the schedule.
I think this year I'll go down on Saturday morning, and stay over Saturday night at the hotel across the street. Join me. You'll love it!
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
894 Hairless Hunks
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I mention my groundskeeper, the Hairless Hunk, every so often. He was working out there again today.
I just walked out to the kitchen, and caught the last pair of contestants on Dancing with the Stars. Joey Lawrence and his pro partner.
If you happened to see it, take that Joey, make him a little shorter and tighter, with blue eyes that smile nicely, and that's the Hairless Hunk. If you didn't happen to see it, the photos I can find don't do him justice. (Unfortunately, I can't find an online photo with an open shirt.)
Well, even if I can't find the perfect man for inside the house, I sure can pick them for outside....
I mention my groundskeeper, the Hairless Hunk, every so often. He was working out there again today.
I just walked out to the kitchen, and caught the last pair of contestants on Dancing with the Stars. Joey Lawrence and his pro partner.
If you happened to see it, take that Joey, make him a little shorter and tighter, with blue eyes that smile nicely, and that's the Hairless Hunk. If you didn't happen to see it, the photos I can find don't do him justice. (Unfortunately, I can't find an online photo with an open shirt.)
Well, even if I can't find the perfect man for inside the house, I sure can pick them for outside....
893 Virtual Romance
A store that sells husbands has just opened in New York City, where a woman may go to choose a husband. Among the instructions at the entrance is a description of how the store operates. You may visit the store ONLY ONCE !
There are six floors and the attributes of the men increase as the shopper ascends the flights. There is, however, a catch. You may choose any man from a particular floor, or you may choose to go up a floor, but you cannot go back down except to exit the building! So, a woman goes to the Husband Store to find a husband....
On the first floor the sign on the door says:
Floor 1 - These men have jobs.
The second floor sign says:
Floor 2 - These men have jobs and love kids.
The third floor sign says:
Floor 3 - These men have jobs, love kids, and are extremely good looking.
"Wow," she thinks, but feels compelled to keep going. She goes to the fourth floor and the sign says:
Floor 4 - These men have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead good looking and help with the housework.
"Oh, mercy me!" she exclaims, "I can hardly stand it!" Still, she goes to the fifth floor and the sign says:
Floor 5 - These men have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead gorgeous, help with the housework, and have a strong romantic streak.
She is so tempted to stay, but she goes to the sixth floor and the sign says:
Floor 6 - You are visitor 4,363,012 to this floor. There are no men on this floor. This floor exists solely as proof that women are impossible to please.
Thank you for shopping at the Husband Store. Watch your step as you exit the building, and have a nice day!
-------------------------------
That's beginning to look like my online man search. Maybe my requirements are too tight. I reject everyone who isn't obviously fairly smart or who doesn't live close enough for casual get-togethers. I want a shorter man, because I like being able to see his face when we walk together. I want a man who doesn't have a very large belly or wide hips, because - well, never mind, but I assure you it's important. I want a man who's retired or close to it, because I want a companion who can get away whenever we want to. I want him physically active. I want a man with values close to mine.
I have to keep reminding myself what Jay's profile might have looked like if he'd ever written one. Under my current criteria, I'd have found him much too tall, too broad, too much belly, too inarticulate (and he couldn't spell worth a damn), too shy, too religious, too conservative, not healthy enough, and before we got involved he lived too far away. Also, until he met my dogs and cats, he thought he was allergic to beasties. He probably would have listed square dancing and skiing as major activities. All he'd have had going for him is good looks, intelligence, and nerdish sweetness, but those attributes would have taken a lot of time to discover.
I'd probably have rejected him offhand. "Nice guy, but too big, too far, a little slow, and rather dull."
(By the way, in actual fact, I fell in love with him the first time I saw him, a 3/4 view from behind, before I ever saw his face.)
So, if there's someone out there for me, will I find him? Or will I brush him off without even meeting him? Should I meet every man who "e-glances" my way, regardless of criteria, just in case? Isn't that dangerous?
There are six floors and the attributes of the men increase as the shopper ascends the flights. There is, however, a catch. You may choose any man from a particular floor, or you may choose to go up a floor, but you cannot go back down except to exit the building! So, a woman goes to the Husband Store to find a husband....
On the first floor the sign on the door says:
Floor 1 - These men have jobs.
The second floor sign says:
Floor 2 - These men have jobs and love kids.
The third floor sign says:
Floor 3 - These men have jobs, love kids, and are extremely good looking.
"Wow," she thinks, but feels compelled to keep going. She goes to the fourth floor and the sign says:
Floor 4 - These men have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead good looking and help with the housework.
"Oh, mercy me!" she exclaims, "I can hardly stand it!" Still, she goes to the fifth floor and the sign says:
Floor 5 - These men have jobs, love kids, are drop-dead gorgeous, help with the housework, and have a strong romantic streak.
She is so tempted to stay, but she goes to the sixth floor and the sign says:
Floor 6 - You are visitor 4,363,012 to this floor. There are no men on this floor. This floor exists solely as proof that women are impossible to please.
Thank you for shopping at the Husband Store. Watch your step as you exit the building, and have a nice day!
-------------------------------
That's beginning to look like my online man search. Maybe my requirements are too tight. I reject everyone who isn't obviously fairly smart or who doesn't live close enough for casual get-togethers. I want a shorter man, because I like being able to see his face when we walk together. I want a man who doesn't have a very large belly or wide hips, because - well, never mind, but I assure you it's important. I want a man who's retired or close to it, because I want a companion who can get away whenever we want to. I want him physically active. I want a man with values close to mine.
I have to keep reminding myself what Jay's profile might have looked like if he'd ever written one. Under my current criteria, I'd have found him much too tall, too broad, too much belly, too inarticulate (and he couldn't spell worth a damn), too shy, too religious, too conservative, not healthy enough, and before we got involved he lived too far away. Also, until he met my dogs and cats, he thought he was allergic to beasties. He probably would have listed square dancing and skiing as major activities. All he'd have had going for him is good looks, intelligence, and nerdish sweetness, but those attributes would have taken a lot of time to discover.
I'd probably have rejected him offhand. "Nice guy, but too big, too far, a little slow, and rather dull."
(By the way, in actual fact, I fell in love with him the first time I saw him, a 3/4 view from behind, before I ever saw his face.)
So, if there's someone out there for me, will I find him? Or will I brush him off without even meeting him? Should I meet every man who "e-glances" my way, regardless of criteria, just in case? Isn't that dangerous?
Monday, September 25, 2006
892 Booker
Well, I finally came to a conclusion regarding Booker (the latest online date). He's handsome, remarkable eyes, gentle, intelligent, in touch with his feelings and able to express them, and all that. I didn't feel a physical thrill, but I can get past that, I guess, depending, and the 100 miles is a problem. But what tipped the scale was that I tried to imagine him with me in the places I like to go and the things I like to do, and I couldn't see him there. It just didn't fit.
Thud.
So I wrote the "wanna just be friends?" note. I almost hope he says yes.
Thud.
So I wrote the "wanna just be friends?" note. I almost hope he says yes.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
890 Of Horses and Men
Sunday, September 24, 2006
I love watching equestrian events. Steeplechase, jumping, gymkhana, harness racing, calf roping, whatever. I accidentally stumbled into the middle of the World Equestrian Games this afternoon. The jumping events. I love watching the horses, but half the time I really have no idea what I'm seeing. I just like watching the horses, because it's so obvious they know what they're doing and love it.
Today, I was surprised when the announcer said something about the riders and horses being unfamiliar with each other. And another time he commented that one sector of the audience wasn't sure how to react, since they would be for the horse, but against the rider. And he said that the horses compete in a set rotation, but the riders switch around.
Hmmm. Seems to me that other jumping events I've watched, the horse and rider are a long-term pair. I guess today not so. However, I did notice that the riders always got the medals, not the horses, which always seemed like a cheat to me.
I noticed that the horses didn't look like what I was used to in jumping events. Most of the horses were very slender and streamlined, more like racers than the hunters I'm used to seeing. The announcer even remarked that "the riders aren't used to these lighter-weight hotter-framed horses". There was one big heavy gray, who kicked his hind legs out behind him instead of tucking them up under like the lighter horses, and I thought "Yeah, that's more like it."
Three riders were tied at the end, so they had a run-off, and for the run-off they were allowed to ride "their own horses". The winner was the guy who owned the gray, on the gray. Yeah! The gray seemed to know he'd done a good job, too, because as they circled after the last bar, he kicked out behind him several times, midrun. He looked happy and excited.
----------------------------------------
I have done nothing today. I haven't even gotten washed or dressed. I got hungry a bit ago and cooked some pasta/chicken/asparagus stuff (chosen from the freezer because I wanted pasta and some vegetable), but now that it's done, I don't want it. It's sitting here getting cold. I guess I'm depressed because Booker has been waiting to hear from me for a week, his emails are getting plaintive, but I just don't know what to do. He's so nice, and so intelligent, and has such a pretty face, and I'd love to keep him as a friend, but I really don't see us in "that kind" of intimate relationship, and I don't want to waste his time. Or, to be frank, mine. Not to mention the 100 miles. I'm really going to have to think of something to say tonight. I can't keep putting it off.
There's another guy who "winked" at me a while ago (20 miles away!). His profile photos were "private", and the text emphasized the importance of religion in his life. So I emailed him back thanking him for the flattering wink, but saying that the religious issue would probably not bode well for us as a match, that he should keep looking. I also pointed out that many women wouldn't even consider a profile without photos, "why are yours private?" So he gave me permission (a link) to see his, and I wrote back that he's actually quite nice looking, he should make them public, and he did, and sent an email thanking me for my kindness.
So, a few weeks pass, and then on 9/16 I get another email from him. His text: "Would you be against a meaningful overnight relationship?.......Just thought I 'd throw that out there.....you never know until you ask...."
I laughed. Every time I read it I laugh again. The poor guy. I haven't replied to him yet, either, but maybe I should rethink that religion problem.
There's something a lot of men don't understand about women. Women understand something about men, but I think most women don't understand the strength of it. (Now, what I say next doesn't apply to all. And it applies more to the younger than the older of us. But it applies a lot more than we want to admit. These are my observations, and I do have a lot of experience in the subject.)
Sex is important to women (in general) when they are in love. If they don't have a man around to focus on, to torque up the hormones, most women don't really miss sex all that very much. The longer without, the less it bothers them.
Sex is always important to men, even when there are no women around. The longer without, the more it bothers them. It's like it backs up into the brain or something.
A man will usually not leave even an unsatisfactory relationship (even if there's no sex left in the relationship, there may still be the possibility) until he has another strong possibility or actuality lined up. Women will leave a bad relationship just because it's bad. She doesn't need another man to leave "for". When I was young, every single man I broke up with asked "WHO IS HE?" and wouldn't believe me when I said there was no one else. They wouldn't believe there was no one else because they would not have left unless there was someone else.
So, now I'm meeting men. Only maybe about two a month or less, but hey, pickings are slim out here in the sticks, especially in my age range, where single women outnumber the men by a factor of two. (I read something recently that is beginning to seem true: "The good ones are taken, and what's left are damaged." Or something like that.) Anyway, the guys I'm meeting are divorced or widowed, and they want sex. Soon. Like right now, if possible. They are very anxious about it.
I want it too, and suitability for such is one of my criteria, but "soon" is not. I don't intend to get into that until after a mutual admiration develops, and there are strong signs of a future. There's no way I will fall into bed with just anyone, and THEN see if it works out. Besides which I am monogamous, so I have to be sure before I restrict myself. (I've already had two very likely candidates tell me that they already have too many "female friends" and didn't need another - so there was no third date.)
This causes a disconnect. Most of these guys want to get right to it, and, unfortunately, much of my "competition" is so anxious to hook a man that they will use sex as the hook. After all, if they get along at all, as long as he's getting some, he's likely to stay with her (especially at our age - he's not going to chance going back to nothing).
Sigh.
I hate these games, and I don't know how to play them. Or maybe I do know how, but I refuse.
I love watching equestrian events. Steeplechase, jumping, gymkhana, harness racing, calf roping, whatever. I accidentally stumbled into the middle of the World Equestrian Games this afternoon. The jumping events. I love watching the horses, but half the time I really have no idea what I'm seeing. I just like watching the horses, because it's so obvious they know what they're doing and love it.
Today, I was surprised when the announcer said something about the riders and horses being unfamiliar with each other. And another time he commented that one sector of the audience wasn't sure how to react, since they would be for the horse, but against the rider. And he said that the horses compete in a set rotation, but the riders switch around.
Hmmm. Seems to me that other jumping events I've watched, the horse and rider are a long-term pair. I guess today not so. However, I did notice that the riders always got the medals, not the horses, which always seemed like a cheat to me.
I noticed that the horses didn't look like what I was used to in jumping events. Most of the horses were very slender and streamlined, more like racers than the hunters I'm used to seeing. The announcer even remarked that "the riders aren't used to these lighter-weight hotter-framed horses". There was one big heavy gray, who kicked his hind legs out behind him instead of tucking them up under like the lighter horses, and I thought "Yeah, that's more like it."
Three riders were tied at the end, so they had a run-off, and for the run-off they were allowed to ride "their own horses". The winner was the guy who owned the gray, on the gray. Yeah! The gray seemed to know he'd done a good job, too, because as they circled after the last bar, he kicked out behind him several times, midrun. He looked happy and excited.
----------------------------------------
I have done nothing today. I haven't even gotten washed or dressed. I got hungry a bit ago and cooked some pasta/chicken/asparagus stuff (chosen from the freezer because I wanted pasta and some vegetable), but now that it's done, I don't want it. It's sitting here getting cold. I guess I'm depressed because Booker has been waiting to hear from me for a week, his emails are getting plaintive, but I just don't know what to do. He's so nice, and so intelligent, and has such a pretty face, and I'd love to keep him as a friend, but I really don't see us in "that kind" of intimate relationship, and I don't want to waste his time. Or, to be frank, mine. Not to mention the 100 miles. I'm really going to have to think of something to say tonight. I can't keep putting it off.
There's another guy who "winked" at me a while ago (20 miles away!). His profile photos were "private", and the text emphasized the importance of religion in his life. So I emailed him back thanking him for the flattering wink, but saying that the religious issue would probably not bode well for us as a match, that he should keep looking. I also pointed out that many women wouldn't even consider a profile without photos, "why are yours private?" So he gave me permission (a link) to see his, and I wrote back that he's actually quite nice looking, he should make them public, and he did, and sent an email thanking me for my kindness.
So, a few weeks pass, and then on 9/16 I get another email from him. His text: "Would you be against a meaningful overnight relationship?.......Just thought I 'd throw that out there.....you never know until you ask...."
I laughed. Every time I read it I laugh again. The poor guy. I haven't replied to him yet, either, but maybe I should rethink that religion problem.
There's something a lot of men don't understand about women. Women understand something about men, but I think most women don't understand the strength of it. (Now, what I say next doesn't apply to all. And it applies more to the younger than the older of us. But it applies a lot more than we want to admit. These are my observations, and I do have a lot of experience in the subject.)
Sex is important to women (in general) when they are in love. If they don't have a man around to focus on, to torque up the hormones, most women don't really miss sex all that very much. The longer without, the less it bothers them.
Sex is always important to men, even when there are no women around. The longer without, the more it bothers them. It's like it backs up into the brain or something.
A man will usually not leave even an unsatisfactory relationship (even if there's no sex left in the relationship, there may still be the possibility) until he has another strong possibility or actuality lined up. Women will leave a bad relationship just because it's bad. She doesn't need another man to leave "for". When I was young, every single man I broke up with asked "WHO IS HE?" and wouldn't believe me when I said there was no one else. They wouldn't believe there was no one else because they would not have left unless there was someone else.
So, now I'm meeting men. Only maybe about two a month or less, but hey, pickings are slim out here in the sticks, especially in my age range, where single women outnumber the men by a factor of two. (I read something recently that is beginning to seem true: "The good ones are taken, and what's left are damaged." Or something like that.) Anyway, the guys I'm meeting are divorced or widowed, and they want sex. Soon. Like right now, if possible. They are very anxious about it.
I want it too, and suitability for such is one of my criteria, but "soon" is not. I don't intend to get into that until after a mutual admiration develops, and there are strong signs of a future. There's no way I will fall into bed with just anyone, and THEN see if it works out. Besides which I am monogamous, so I have to be sure before I restrict myself. (I've already had two very likely candidates tell me that they already have too many "female friends" and didn't need another - so there was no third date.)
This causes a disconnect. Most of these guys want to get right to it, and, unfortunately, much of my "competition" is so anxious to hook a man that they will use sex as the hook. After all, if they get along at all, as long as he's getting some, he's likely to stay with her (especially at our age - he's not going to chance going back to nothing).
Sigh.
I hate these games, and I don't know how to play them. Or maybe I do know how, but I refuse.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
889 Friday Deliveries & Shopping
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Yesterday I delivered the museum's "Pilot Log"s to the Stockade area of Kingston, and Sawkill Road, Lucas and Hurley Avenues, and down Broadway. For the Stockade area I parked behind the Gov. Clinton building (where I had delivered copies to Assemblyman Saland's office), loaded up a tote bag with about 40 pounds of Logs, and walked all over the Stockade. The weather was perfect - low 70s, sunny, enough breeze to lift my hair, but not enough to chill.
The Stockade area is full of seventeenth and eighteenth century houses, many stone, and mostly full of lawyers' and doctors' offices, so it was nice walking around and looking, and, by delivering Logs, I finally got to see the interiors of many of them. I walked miles! Felt like it, anyway. Six hours of delivering, 48 miles on the car.
Last night my right heel hurt when I put weight on it. Probably pulled a muscle or tendon or something with all that walking on old uneven slate sidewalks. Carrying weight. It's a bit better this morning, but I think I'll stay off the treadmill for a while.
Some sections of Kingston can be rough, like the side streets around upper Broadway. Knifings and muggings. I was delivering to a security firm on upper Broadway, and there was a little Hispanic grocery next door. I was thirsty, so I stopped in. Nobody behind the counter. Front door propped open, back door to alley propped open. I picked out a bottle of guava juice, and one of iced tea, and a nectarine, and waited. Nobody. I called out. No answer. I stepped out the back door and called. No answer. I'd have just left money on the counter, but nothing was marked with the price, so I didn't know how much. Finally, with trepidation, I looked at the floor behind the counter. No bloody body. Whew!
More calling out the back door produced a child, who ran up the outside back stairs yelling for Mom, and finally a woman came down and took my money. And then left again. I guess they aren't too worried about shoplifters.... Strange.
Last evening I checked out my winter clothes. I've already replaced most of my slacks, but the long sleeved tops are now all too big. Last winter I'd gone from large to medium, but wore the large anyway. Now I'm into small, and large is just too large. My old bras (38DD) are also mostly too big. So I went shopping last night and bought about eight long and 3/4 sleeve knit tops and sweaters - and before anyone gets excited, I didn't pay over $10 for any, and before you get disgusted, they really are very nice. And four new bras.
I really do think that with the fattening of America, they've adjusted sizes up. Like, will someone please explain to me how a 36D bra fits into a "small" top? And keep in mind that I don't like my clothing tight. I don't like horizontal stretch folds across the bust or lower back. I prefer things a bit loose, skimming. When I lose the rest of the weight, will I have to shop in the teen department?
I've decided that I look best now in pastels (OMG! I'm turning into a little old lady!), and all the tops I bought are very pretty pastels. The stores cooperated this season.
I had planned to go to the Catskill Game Farm today, but it's cloudy and threatening rain, and a visit to Catskill GF would be depressing itself, so I'm not going. I might regret it. I haven't been there in at least ten years.
The Catskill Game Farm is a large operation up the road that functioned as a zoo, essentially. I think originally they were breeding exotic animals for zoos and so on (hence the "game farm"), then they started letting visitors in, then they started getting more zoo-like, then starting with a little train around the grounds they added carnival-like rides and water stuff. But the best part, the part everyone remembers, the part that's been there as long as I can remember, is the feeding pen.
The feeding pen is a large area full of deer, goats, llamas, whatever, and you can buy a box of crackers (cheap) and go in to feed and pet the beasties. Of course they crowd around, and children love it. Daughter and I were there one time when she was small, and we had trouble with animals stealing the crackers right out of the box. So I put the box on top of my head, where the deer and goats couldn't reach it, and handed crackers to Daughter one at a time. Pretty soon I noticed people were laughing at me. I reached up for a cracker, and found a llama nose. He'd been following behind me, stealing crackers. Llamas think four feet eleven inches is exactly the right height for a dinner table.
Anyway, the game farm has fallen on hard times. A while ago somebody went in at night and shot almost a whole herd of exotic deer. They've had continuing problems of that type. Then there was a report, true or not, that they were selling excess animals to those places in Texas that offer people the opportunity to "hunt" tame penned large game. That lost them a generation of customers. Now the state has passed regulations on water parks that CGF doesn't feel they are subject to, but the state does, and they can't afford to upgrade. So, they're closing. This is their next-to-last weekend. End of an era.
Some animals will find homes in other zoos (the rhinos and big cats, among others, probably will easily find homes), but the fate of the deer and goat herds, and the gopher tribes, is not so clear. There's to be an auction, and many people were upset at the idea of an auction, so CGF says they'll "vet" the bidders to ensure the animals don't end up as dog food, but ....
So, that's why it would be depressing, more so with icky weather, and why I might regret not having gone.
Yesterday I delivered the museum's "Pilot Log"s to the Stockade area of Kingston, and Sawkill Road, Lucas and Hurley Avenues, and down Broadway. For the Stockade area I parked behind the Gov. Clinton building (where I had delivered copies to Assemblyman Saland's office), loaded up a tote bag with about 40 pounds of Logs, and walked all over the Stockade. The weather was perfect - low 70s, sunny, enough breeze to lift my hair, but not enough to chill.
The Stockade area is full of seventeenth and eighteenth century houses, many stone, and mostly full of lawyers' and doctors' offices, so it was nice walking around and looking, and, by delivering Logs, I finally got to see the interiors of many of them. I walked miles! Felt like it, anyway. Six hours of delivering, 48 miles on the car.
Last night my right heel hurt when I put weight on it. Probably pulled a muscle or tendon or something with all that walking on old uneven slate sidewalks. Carrying weight. It's a bit better this morning, but I think I'll stay off the treadmill for a while.
Some sections of Kingston can be rough, like the side streets around upper Broadway. Knifings and muggings. I was delivering to a security firm on upper Broadway, and there was a little Hispanic grocery next door. I was thirsty, so I stopped in. Nobody behind the counter. Front door propped open, back door to alley propped open. I picked out a bottle of guava juice, and one of iced tea, and a nectarine, and waited. Nobody. I called out. No answer. I stepped out the back door and called. No answer. I'd have just left money on the counter, but nothing was marked with the price, so I didn't know how much. Finally, with trepidation, I looked at the floor behind the counter. No bloody body. Whew!
More calling out the back door produced a child, who ran up the outside back stairs yelling for Mom, and finally a woman came down and took my money. And then left again. I guess they aren't too worried about shoplifters.... Strange.
Last evening I checked out my winter clothes. I've already replaced most of my slacks, but the long sleeved tops are now all too big. Last winter I'd gone from large to medium, but wore the large anyway. Now I'm into small, and large is just too large. My old bras (38DD) are also mostly too big. So I went shopping last night and bought about eight long and 3/4 sleeve knit tops and sweaters - and before anyone gets excited, I didn't pay over $10 for any, and before you get disgusted, they really are very nice. And four new bras.
I really do think that with the fattening of America, they've adjusted sizes up. Like, will someone please explain to me how a 36D bra fits into a "small" top? And keep in mind that I don't like my clothing tight. I don't like horizontal stretch folds across the bust or lower back. I prefer things a bit loose, skimming. When I lose the rest of the weight, will I have to shop in the teen department?
I've decided that I look best now in pastels (OMG! I'm turning into a little old lady!), and all the tops I bought are very pretty pastels. The stores cooperated this season.
I had planned to go to the Catskill Game Farm today, but it's cloudy and threatening rain, and a visit to Catskill GF would be depressing itself, so I'm not going. I might regret it. I haven't been there in at least ten years.
The Catskill Game Farm is a large operation up the road that functioned as a zoo, essentially. I think originally they were breeding exotic animals for zoos and so on (hence the "game farm"), then they started letting visitors in, then they started getting more zoo-like, then starting with a little train around the grounds they added carnival-like rides and water stuff. But the best part, the part everyone remembers, the part that's been there as long as I can remember, is the feeding pen.
The feeding pen is a large area full of deer, goats, llamas, whatever, and you can buy a box of crackers (cheap) and go in to feed and pet the beasties. Of course they crowd around, and children love it. Daughter and I were there one time when she was small, and we had trouble with animals stealing the crackers right out of the box. So I put the box on top of my head, where the deer and goats couldn't reach it, and handed crackers to Daughter one at a time. Pretty soon I noticed people were laughing at me. I reached up for a cracker, and found a llama nose. He'd been following behind me, stealing crackers. Llamas think four feet eleven inches is exactly the right height for a dinner table.
Anyway, the game farm has fallen on hard times. A while ago somebody went in at night and shot almost a whole herd of exotic deer. They've had continuing problems of that type. Then there was a report, true or not, that they were selling excess animals to those places in Texas that offer people the opportunity to "hunt" tame penned large game. That lost them a generation of customers. Now the state has passed regulations on water parks that CGF doesn't feel they are subject to, but the state does, and they can't afford to upgrade. So, they're closing. This is their next-to-last weekend. End of an era.
Some animals will find homes in other zoos (the rhinos and big cats, among others, probably will easily find homes), but the fate of the deer and goat herds, and the gopher tribes, is not so clear. There's to be an auction, and many people were upset at the idea of an auction, so CGF says they'll "vet" the bidders to ensure the animals don't end up as dog food, but ....
So, that's why it would be depressing, more so with icky weather, and why I might regret not having gone.
Friday, September 22, 2006
888 Ticket Seller
Selling tickets at the Unger/Mason/Bala concert a few weeks ago, at the Maritime Museum. You can see just the tip of the Sloop Clearwater behind on the right. The performers used the deck of the Clearwater as the stage. The Rondout Creek is behind. It's wider than it looks in this photo - it got foreshortened or something.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
887 Woods, Deliveries, Dinner
Thursday, September 21, 2006
The Hairless Hunk came by this morning. He's going to finally get started smoothing and grading the woods. I was worried that he'd let it go too late. I'm not sure brush spray will work once the brush has gone dormant.
I delivered a bunch of "Pilot Log"s for the museum today. I did the Albany Avenue/Ulster Avenue/Lake Katrine sets. 45 miles, 4 hours. It wouldn't/shouldn't have taken so long and so many miles except that I had to keep going up and down the roads because almost nobody has put up a building number!!! It was my understanding that for extended 911 service, all buildings had to have a number displayed, of a certain size and placement, visible from the street. Nada. I was looking for (like) #938, and I saw #354, and then didn't see another number until #1345! I made at least four trips the length of Albany/Ulster Avenue.
At one point I saw a fire house ahead, and I thought "Well, they'll have a nice big number - they should be a good example - then I'll know whether I've passed what I'm looking for." No number. On the firehouse. No number. This is ridiculous.
Luckily I had the cell phone. I had to call three places to find out where they were.
I was also getting very upset about the street signs. If a sign existed on a cross street, which was not guaranteed, about half the time it was twisted 45 degrees, so that it couldn't be read as you came up on it. I had a very detailed map (but no block numbers - around here there aren't "blocks", streets are laid out every which way), and I figured I could just count how many streets to pass before I had to turn, but ... egads! ... you can't tell the difference between a side street and a parking lot entrance on the lower part of Ulster Avenue. (That whole section is so very ugly, depressing.)
Speaking of "no blocks", that's increasingly a problem in the village. Traffic has been increasing exponentially, left turns out of side streets, or at the major intersection in the middle of the village, are getting near impossible during most of the day. Usually, one gets around that problem by turning right and then left around a block. Kinda hard when there are no blocks. People are increasingly turning right, then left and swing through a business parking lot to go the other direction. It's only a matter of time before business owners start getting upset.
This evening I went to the Third Thursday buffet dinner in Poughkeepsie. I ate too much, and now I'm bleck. Roman was there, and again it was uncomfortable. I sat across the table from him, and stared over his left shoulder all evening. I didn't want to look at his face. We do much better on the phone than in person.
More deliveries tomorrow.
The Hairless Hunk came by this morning. He's going to finally get started smoothing and grading the woods. I was worried that he'd let it go too late. I'm not sure brush spray will work once the brush has gone dormant.
I delivered a bunch of "Pilot Log"s for the museum today. I did the Albany Avenue/Ulster Avenue/Lake Katrine sets. 45 miles, 4 hours. It wouldn't/shouldn't have taken so long and so many miles except that I had to keep going up and down the roads because almost nobody has put up a building number!!! It was my understanding that for extended 911 service, all buildings had to have a number displayed, of a certain size and placement, visible from the street. Nada. I was looking for (like) #938, and I saw #354, and then didn't see another number until #1345! I made at least four trips the length of Albany/Ulster Avenue.
At one point I saw a fire house ahead, and I thought "Well, they'll have a nice big number - they should be a good example - then I'll know whether I've passed what I'm looking for." No number. On the firehouse. No number. This is ridiculous.
Luckily I had the cell phone. I had to call three places to find out where they were.
I was also getting very upset about the street signs. If a sign existed on a cross street, which was not guaranteed, about half the time it was twisted 45 degrees, so that it couldn't be read as you came up on it. I had a very detailed map (but no block numbers - around here there aren't "blocks", streets are laid out every which way), and I figured I could just count how many streets to pass before I had to turn, but ... egads! ... you can't tell the difference between a side street and a parking lot entrance on the lower part of Ulster Avenue. (That whole section is so very ugly, depressing.)
Speaking of "no blocks", that's increasingly a problem in the village. Traffic has been increasing exponentially, left turns out of side streets, or at the major intersection in the middle of the village, are getting near impossible during most of the day. Usually, one gets around that problem by turning right and then left around a block. Kinda hard when there are no blocks. People are increasingly turning right, then left and swing through a business parking lot to go the other direction. It's only a matter of time before business owners start getting upset.
This evening I went to the Third Thursday buffet dinner in Poughkeepsie. I ate too much, and now I'm bleck. Roman was there, and again it was uncomfortable. I sat across the table from him, and stared over his left shoulder all evening. I didn't want to look at his face. We do much better on the phone than in person.
More deliveries tomorrow.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
886 Where Does the Time Go?
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
I can't believe it's late September already. I'm not ready for this!
I got out and delivered some pamphlets today, and stopped by the museum to return the sponsors list. The volunteer coordinator and her teen daughter were there trying to get the annual dinner invitations out - all by themselves. 500 envelopes to address, return address, stuff, stamp, and seal. So, end of deliveries for today....
I have set aside 24 bundles to deliver tomorrow, in the northern sectons of Kingston. At this rate, it'll take me a week to get it all done.
Somewhere in there I've got to wash my hair.
I can't believe it's late September already. I'm not ready for this!
I got out and delivered some pamphlets today, and stopped by the museum to return the sponsors list. The volunteer coordinator and her teen daughter were there trying to get the annual dinner invitations out - all by themselves. 500 envelopes to address, return address, stuff, stamp, and seal. So, end of deliveries for today....
I have set aside 24 bundles to deliver tomorrow, in the northern sectons of Kingston. At this rate, it'll take me a week to get it all done.
Somewhere in there I've got to wash my hair.
885 Stories
Behind every window there's a story.
I look at windows as I drive past houses, and I wonder what stories are there. What fascinating plots. What secrets are hidden. What no one talks about.
We read novels, and we don't realize that there may be an even more shocking story in the house next door.
Or our own, if we paused to think about it.
I look at windows as I drive past houses, and I wonder what stories are there. What fascinating plots. What secrets are hidden. What no one talks about.
We read novels, and we don't realize that there may be an even more shocking story in the house next door.
Or our own, if we paused to think about it.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
884 Tuesday, Mapping
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Sign seen on the side of the road today, warning of road construction ahead: "... USE ALTERNET ROUTE".
I spent several hours this afternoon at the museum, mapping out routes to deliver the pamphlets. I had a problem last week with board members delivering pamphlets to sponsors without telling anyone - so I'd call someone to ask how many they wanted, and they'd say they already got them. I apologized for bothering them, and felt foolish. Somebody isn't communicating.
Today I discovered something worse. The gift shop ladies and I had counted and rubber banded bundles of pamphlets for sponsors, and the bundles were labeled with the name, address, and count. The bundles were in boxes under the bookshelves in the gift shop. I went to load them into the car today, and just by chance I picked up one lone pamphlet and looked at the tag with it. The tag said "count 30". Uh, where's the other 29? There were a few other loose pamphlets, and there was an orphan tag not attached to a bundle. It looks like someone helped themselves without even thinking about what all those rubber bands and labels meant. How stupid does someone have to be to do something like that? Or narcissistic?
So, anyway, I start delivering tomorrow.
The volunteer coordinator asked me to represent the museum at some big show in Yonkers, in mid-October. She said nobody else will do it, and that's what usually hooks me. But I really don't want to "represent" - I'm too shy for that - and I don't want to go to someplace in the city. I'll go to the airports alone, but anywhere else I want somebody else along. Somebody who knows where we're going. Luckily, I have something scheduled that weekend, so I have been saved from overcommitting myself.
When I went to Newark airport on Friday to meet Sister, I went down the parkway, and then straight across a highway into the airport. No fuss. There's another route that involves several different roads, one particular part where you merge into a multi-lane highway from the right, and then within mere feet you have to take an exit on the left. It's all very hairy. Every time I have ever gone to that airport when a male was driving or navigating, that's the way we went. On the way back to the airport on Sunday, I was telling Sister about it, and I said that's the boy route. We're taking the girl route.
I've found that to be generally true, that males will go through all kinds of gyrations to save the smallest bit of time or mileage, whereas women will usually take the straightest simplest route. (Generally, folks. Generally.)
Before arriving at the reception on Saturday, I had been told it was "behind a biker bar", that a tent would be pitched on the grass, and the grass bordered a pond. My expectations were not high, but I guess that was her purpose. She tends to downplay everything. I sometimes wonder if she really sees things the way she describes them.
Actually, it was beautiful. The "tent" was a semi-permanent white pavilion with multi-colored flowers twined around the ceiling braces (a bower!), and set on maroon smooth stone ground cover. The "tiny" dance floor was small, but it was stable and smooth, and at one point we had close to twenty people on it. The "grass" was beautifully landscaped, with paths through flower beds, flowers, flowers, and more flowers, gazebos, little arched bridges, those flower-covered arches over the paths (I forget what they're called), big old oak trees, and a dock on the "pond", which was actually a lake with white herons wading in the shallows and fishermen passing in boats.
I guess there's nothing else I am allowed to say about the day. Except that Sister, Niece, and I were very tired because there was a LOT of noise in the hotel parking lot Friday night, and we didn't get a lot of good sleep. I'd got maybe four hours sleep Thursday night, and Sister and Niece had traveled Friday. So by Saturday evening we were dead tired. Niece fell asleep in the back seat of my car heading back to the hotel that night. Sister and I heard a cell phone ringing somewhere in the car, and weirdly, we couldn't figure out where the sound was coming from. It rang over and over, and we couldn't find it. We figured it was probably under Niece, but we couldn't wake her up, she was dead to the world. I was cracking up - three blondes in a small car with a ringing cell phone, and we can't find it!
Sign seen on the side of the road today, warning of road construction ahead: "... USE ALTERNET ROUTE".
I spent several hours this afternoon at the museum, mapping out routes to deliver the pamphlets. I had a problem last week with board members delivering pamphlets to sponsors without telling anyone - so I'd call someone to ask how many they wanted, and they'd say they already got them. I apologized for bothering them, and felt foolish. Somebody isn't communicating.
Today I discovered something worse. The gift shop ladies and I had counted and rubber banded bundles of pamphlets for sponsors, and the bundles were labeled with the name, address, and count. The bundles were in boxes under the bookshelves in the gift shop. I went to load them into the car today, and just by chance I picked up one lone pamphlet and looked at the tag with it. The tag said "count 30". Uh, where's the other 29? There were a few other loose pamphlets, and there was an orphan tag not attached to a bundle. It looks like someone helped themselves without even thinking about what all those rubber bands and labels meant. How stupid does someone have to be to do something like that? Or narcissistic?
So, anyway, I start delivering tomorrow.
The volunteer coordinator asked me to represent the museum at some big show in Yonkers, in mid-October. She said nobody else will do it, and that's what usually hooks me. But I really don't want to "represent" - I'm too shy for that - and I don't want to go to someplace in the city. I'll go to the airports alone, but anywhere else I want somebody else along. Somebody who knows where we're going. Luckily, I have something scheduled that weekend, so I have been saved from overcommitting myself.
When I went to Newark airport on Friday to meet Sister, I went down the parkway, and then straight across a highway into the airport. No fuss. There's another route that involves several different roads, one particular part where you merge into a multi-lane highway from the right, and then within mere feet you have to take an exit on the left. It's all very hairy. Every time I have ever gone to that airport when a male was driving or navigating, that's the way we went. On the way back to the airport on Sunday, I was telling Sister about it, and I said that's the boy route. We're taking the girl route.
I've found that to be generally true, that males will go through all kinds of gyrations to save the smallest bit of time or mileage, whereas women will usually take the straightest simplest route. (Generally, folks. Generally.)
Before arriving at the reception on Saturday, I had been told it was "behind a biker bar", that a tent would be pitched on the grass, and the grass bordered a pond. My expectations were not high, but I guess that was her purpose. She tends to downplay everything. I sometimes wonder if she really sees things the way she describes them.
Actually, it was beautiful. The "tent" was a semi-permanent white pavilion with multi-colored flowers twined around the ceiling braces (a bower!), and set on maroon smooth stone ground cover. The "tiny" dance floor was small, but it was stable and smooth, and at one point we had close to twenty people on it. The "grass" was beautifully landscaped, with paths through flower beds, flowers, flowers, and more flowers, gazebos, little arched bridges, those flower-covered arches over the paths (I forget what they're called), big old oak trees, and a dock on the "pond", which was actually a lake with white herons wading in the shallows and fishermen passing in boats.
I guess there's nothing else I am allowed to say about the day. Except that Sister, Niece, and I were very tired because there was a LOT of noise in the hotel parking lot Friday night, and we didn't get a lot of good sleep. I'd got maybe four hours sleep Thursday night, and Sister and Niece had traveled Friday. So by Saturday evening we were dead tired. Niece fell asleep in the back seat of my car heading back to the hotel that night. Sister and I heard a cell phone ringing somewhere in the car, and weirdly, we couldn't figure out where the sound was coming from. It rang over and over, and we couldn't find it. We figured it was probably under Niece, but we couldn't wake her up, she was dead to the world. I was cracking up - three blondes in a small car with a ringing cell phone, and we can't find it!
Monday, September 18, 2006
883 I May Possibly Be Back....
Monday, September 18, 2006
This past weekend I went to a mysterious something-or-other in a mysterious place.
I picked up some unidentified people at an undisclosed airport.
There were other unidentified people at the something-or-other.
I didn't see nuthin'.
I didn't hear nuthin'.
I don' know nuthin'.
Maybe I wasn't there.
Maybe I shouldn't have been there.
The end.
Yeah, I'm annoyed. Read the comments on the previous post. I'll try again when the steam blows off.
This past weekend I went to a mysterious something-or-other in a mysterious place.
I picked up some unidentified people at an undisclosed airport.
There were other unidentified people at the something-or-other.
I didn't see nuthin'.
I didn't hear nuthin'.
I don' know nuthin'.
Maybe I wasn't there.
Maybe I shouldn't have been there.
The end.
Yeah, I'm annoyed. Read the comments on the previous post. I'll try again when the steam blows off.
882 I'm Back
Monday, September 18, 2006
I'm back, but I don't have time to say anything. I need to go to the museum this afternoon. And whether I go there or not, I definitely want to get outside. It's supposed to be in the low 80s today. There won't be too many more days like this, so I don't want to miss it.
Topics when time:
With Sister & Niece, kitten and avoidance
Daughter & Hercules' reception
- Overheard
- Setting
- Dance
- Chickie Chickie Boom Boom
I'm back, but I don't have time to say anything. I need to go to the museum this afternoon. And whether I go there or not, I definitely want to get outside. It's supposed to be in the low 80s today. There won't be too many more days like this, so I don't want to miss it.
Topics when time:
With Sister & Niece, kitten and avoidance
Daughter & Hercules' reception
- Overheard
- Setting
- Dance
- Chickie Chickie Boom Boom
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