Mostly Unrelated Thoughts, strung together for no reason at all.
There’s no one around to talk to, so I’m going to put these probably-unrelated thoughts down here because, after all, this blog was intended to be a record of me, for me. (You all are just an added bonus.)
A good-sized puddle of water appeared this morning under the plastic floor protector under my desk chair. No sign of any dropped cup, broken pipe, just-tinkled dog, or overturned flower pot. Huh? Obviously, must be some kind of weird hardwood-floor-sweating situation which will result in the need to rip of the floor and put down a new one. Added bonus? It smells weird.
What kind of disservice am I doing our children by downloading, and then singing and dancing to in the kitchen, the explicit versions of songs like “If You See Kay” by The Script? I expect the MotY (Mother of the Year) people are rethinking my past awards. But I do love that Script song — and part of me believes that this display of “hipness” (distinct from “hippy-ness,” thanks) offsets the hours of Captain & Tenille and Tony Orlando & Dawn that they’ve been subjected to. (Offsets, doesn’t undo. There is a difference, and their therapists can thank me later.)
When I trip over a doodle and blow out my knee in what will surely be spectacular fashion, can I sue them? It’s a matter of time. Simply pushing back my chair, now….results in 170 pounds of dog leaping up out of solid naps and bumping into me and each other. Oh, and swearing. It results in swearing. (Not by them. Can you imagine? I wouldn’t be here, I’d be touring with them if they could swear. We could go places where the Jersey Shore cast would be and mix it up with them.)
I’m anxious for the November elections to be over, if for no other reason than I can stop hiding from incoming calls. Lately, “Washington” with an area code of 206 has been calling a lot. When I do answer (not often), I give the caller a 2-count to answer. If there’s no response to my friendly, cheery hello, I hang up. (Kindly be sure that you’re not drinking water or otherwise incapacitated when I answer, or I shall hang up on you too. No mercy.)
Although I’m moderately distracted by Michael’s sartorial choices (suspenders? pleated pants? sneakers to work?) — never mind Elliot’s (who can even go there?) — I’m ecstatic to report that thirtysomething holds up after 24 years. SantaHusb was kind enough to gift me the entire series for Christmas, and although I’m only about 5 shows into the first season (fall of 1987, 10 pm EST on Tuesday nights. Remember?) it would seem that nothing much has changed between then and now. Oh sure, it’s crazy to see how no one has a cell phone, a laptop computer or even a cordless house phone (all those curly cords!), but the stories of the miscellanea of being a grown-up, in all the iterations, haven’t aged. I’m surprised that my 18-year-old self loved it so much, but I’m pleased to report that my 18-year-old self was correct: it’s a great show.
I’m waiting for Bob Dylan to write a song about how many times a mother must answer the same question.( Is he still writing? It will be a big hit for him, I’m certain.) If he’s again going to determine that the answer is blowing in the wind, this will explain why no one ever hears me when I answer a question — but will not help my search for serenity, now.
I continue to read voraciously, when I am not worrying over the issue of whether reading “trash” will cause my eyes to fall out of my head. I can’t even begin to share with you the titles of some of the stuff I’ve been reading. If you ask, I’m going to tell you I’m reading The Art of Racing in the Rain (a fantastic book. Fan.tas.tic) or Dragon Tattoo, depending on which I think you may have read and liked more. I’ve read those, so it’s not like I’m back in high school, trying to recall if Pamela was supposed to be finished for Thursday and I’ve not cracked the cover. But still. If bad television can rot your brain, as I believe we were told lo, those many years ago, I’m certain that I not-so-proudly possess rice pudding between my ears. (My only defense? I’m learning LOTS of vocabulary. Termagant? Sartorial? Bring on the SAT-V. Never mind that that ship sailed a couple of decades ago. I could totally improve my score now.)
I’m certain that your congratulatory notes are in the mail, so I will thank you in advance for your kind words at my recent achievement of reaching Presidential Platinum status on Continental/United Air Lines. It’s been a long haul, but I got there. Oh, okay. Husband got there, by acquiring his 1,000,000-th mile on Continental. (Very Clooney-in-Up-in-the-Air-esque, honey. You’ll always be my George Clooney.) I was prescient enough to hitch my wagon to his star — I could tell even Back Then that he was going places — and so now I am super-titanium-diamond-crusted elite. (Of course I am. Have we met?) I’m not going places as often as he goes, but still pretty often. Hooray! Where are the warm chocolate chip cookies?
Related to the above (might be the first time this post. Wow), I had to have photos taken for my application for a Brazilian visa (there’s so much more to write about this: namely, how my whole family is Brazilian but for me, so when the time comes to flee the country they’ll take their green passports and get the heck out of Dodge, while I will either be stuck here with an expired visa or lost in the back of the “foreigner” line at Aeroporto Internacional Guarulhos). Anyhoo, the visa photos. 2″ x 2″ on a white background. Standard passport stuff, any CVS will do. So, mindful of the fact that I was just back from the gym, but in a hurry to get the photos done so the visa paperwork could go, I carefully restyled the mop (read: new pony tail) and applied some makeup (read: tried to cover up the red face and fatigue from the training session). I even penciled in the eyebrows, which means that I meant business. I believed I looked pretty good, all things considered. (This is the part where I would say, “Bless her heart,” because clearly that girl is clueless.) Long story really short: the CVS photos were HIDEOUS. I gasped when I saw them, and sat staring at them in the front seat of my car while I tried to figure out a) what went so horribly wrong (HORRIBLY WRONG), and b) where I could go to get another set taken. Because obviously it was a problem with the CVS, not me. Duh. Long story, trying to be shorter: the second set were WORSE. WORSE! How is this possible? I thought I had learned from my mistakes at the CVS? (You know, stop with the small smile, just look peaceful and intelligent. No cocked eyebrows, no teeth, no enormous eye bags or crows’ feet.) Yesterday’s lesson boys and girls: the location of the visa photo shoot doesn’t appear to make a difference with regard to outcome.
I’m hopeful that the Brazilians will see clear to let me into their country. Otherwise, I will be stuck in the CO lounge, calling for more warm cookies whilst reading Trash That Cannot Be Named and humming obscene Script songs.