I'm In A Mood: The Good, The Bad, And The Blues

Today finds me restless and a little bit fussy. I might have to go to Target just to feel smug about all the Back-to-School stuff on display.

But then I'd see all the Halloween candy and Christmas decorations and get snarky and irritated, so forget it.

Here are

Some Things I'm Cranky About

1. I'm sick of air conditioning.
2. I'm tired of figuring out dinner.
3. Cat Hair--holy effing crap.
4. No good tomatoes anyplace.
5. republicans.

You all get it, right? This summer has been a nightmare of heat and humidity, and while we're all Thankful for our AC, what wouldn't we give to shut it off and have open windows? For once? It's a goddam Hostage Crisis here at the Dept. My brain is like oatmeal from being entombed in here--cat hair covered oatmeal. Thanks to Number 5, my complaints are ridiculous, I know.

Yet, there is Gladness, too. Here are

Some Things I'm Happy About

1. I'm growing lovely basil in the herb garden.
2. We had a terrific trip up to Niagara-on-the-Lake last month.
3. Our wine cellar is restocked (and then some).
4. I'm reading like a maniac.
5. And doing crosswords in ink.

Last summer, my herb garden suffered from whitefly and some mystery ailment that spotted the basil leaves and left holes all over them. This year, better plants and the high heat/humidity are a boon to my pesto production. For those of you interested in the book "Before We Were Yours", I enjoyed it a great deal. It's a novel based upon true events. I disliked the alternating narrators/time frames construct, but it built suspense (there is a bit of the mystery element in here, too). I do recommend it. (As I do the wine from the Niagara-on-the-Lake and Twenty Valley/Bench regions.)

Oh, I would be remiss if I did not mention

This Thing I'm Sad About

Toni Morrison, who was born and raised in the same town I was, died this week. To say she was a brilliant writer is to damn with faint praise. I was lucky enough to meet her many, many years ago when I was a student teacher. She came to her alma mater, Lorain High School, for a special assembly, and thoughtful people there arranged for me to say hello. I remain in awe of her talent and her knowledge of writing. She was a writer's writer; her books are art. They make her immortal.

Now you...
Is summertime losing its charm for you? Share some Goods, Bads, and Blues of your own. Or, as always, just chat about these in Comments.


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Driving With Irony In My iPhone: It's Better Than Booze In My Travel Mug

Getting around in my area is a Nightmare lately.  I'll spare you the horrific details of closed roads, new traffic patterns, and So Much Orange.

So.  Much.

Anyway.

Rather than dissolve into a weeping tirade of empassioned profanity every single day, I use the inevitable delays on these roads to whip out my iPhone and take pictures.

Because, in the words of Ferris Bueller, "Life moves pretty fast.  If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

Here are a few from this week:


1.

So Basic!

Okay!  WORKERS.  We're for 'em!  Or...we need some!  Or...what now?

2.

Is He Winking?

I'm not making any cracks about this one.

3.

Don't Show This To Kirk Cameron!

If size really does matter, then it's easy to see who's winning.  If it's about jobs, jobs, jobs, then...same.

Help me out with Captions (or just chat away) in Comments.

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Is Anyone Out There?

Anyone at all?

Oh, I do hope so. I'm popping in for a Quick Hello, just to check in and give a brief Update Of Sorts, and then I am planning to get back to Business As Usual after my Jaunt next week. I've just about Had It with Being Unwell and even moreso with Talking About It. Let's wrap it up, then, and Move On.

The Medicals: My labs were a sort of mixed bag, but the whole Vitamin D Thing, which was the Most Important Of All, showed a massive recovery. I am well into the satisfactory/healthy range, so I am on the maintenance dose for life, and feeling so much better. No pains, no fatigue, and while my stamina and strength are still an issue, they are s-l-o-w-l-y increasing. My autoimmune system is still, in a word, terrible; however, unless I am plagued by recurrent infections (I am not), it's not a cause for concern. I no longer need to see my Superhero Rheumatologist who gave me my life back, but will now see the Internist she highly recommended. I burst into tears thanking this doctor and all but prostrated myself at her feet in a weeping huddle of gratitude.

The Universe Is Cruel: My dear friend Shirley wrote me a nice email, and in it she expressed sympathy overall regarding my health struggles, and mentioned specifically how difficult it is to practice serene self-care and recovery whilst the Orange Nightmare/Toddler In Chief is wreaking shitful havoc. It's absolutely true. I feel abused by the Universe, which allowed this abomination, yet felt it necessary to screw me again on Sunday, when it put a rogue piece of gravel in my path, and I fell and sprained my ankle. Because, Life is not difficult enough for me. At least I am used to resting--A LOT--and the sprain was mild. I am almost fully recovered today although stairs are a bitch. (Count me as a fervent disciple of the RICE protocol for sprain treatment).

The Jaunt: I am a little overwhelmed at the thought of, but am looking forward to, our upcoming Niagara-on-the-Lake jaunt as a true getaway from Everything. I think I need a real change of scenery. My wine-drinking capacity is sadly and sorely diminished, but I have no problem doing the Swish-n-Spit as we look to restock our depleted cellar. I only hope Rick is not too bored since we cannot do our usual long, lovely walks by the lake and into the trails. That will have to wait until autumn. In the meantime, we will find other things to do, like attend theatre and taking Short Walks.

I'm anxious for Things to be all back to Normal again. My patience--such as it is--is very frayed. I am restless and bored. This is not the life for me. At the same time, I am beyond grateful that my condition was reversible and treatable. I know so many people whose lives are forever changed by serious illness, and I know how very fortunate I am.

Thank you for staying with me. I'll be back real soon.


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I Cannot Believe I Am Writing About...Cars

In a million years you would never, ever guess where I spent time last weekend. I was in Cleveland at the IX Center at The Piston Power Show, looking at...cars. Nothing but cars, cars, and more cars. There were so many cars there that I thought for sure I would throw up.

Or die.

Did you know that it is Entirely Possible to walk around and around and around and around and around for hours and hours and keep looking at cars, cars, and more cars and still not see all the cars in a show?

Because it is. It absolutely is.

And lots and lots of people--other people--do it. I did it just this once because This:

That's my son's car (before display setup), which I tell him looks like a big saddle shoe. Sam bought a gutted, destroyed old Honda Del Sol and rebuilt and modified it into a little race car. The Piston Power Show was his first big show, and I wanted to go and support him. He won a Second Place Trophy in his division. Not bad for his very first car project.

Despite my obvious pride in my son's accomplishments, his little car was still not the best or cutest car that I have seen lately. No, Dearest Readers, and it was Not Even Close. Not when this is Out There:

I. Know. And I saw it In Person! At the grocery store!

I could not wait to get into the store to zip around the aisles and see if I could determine who the driver of this Fantastic Vehicle might be. Would there be an actual clown in the store, grabbing bags of balloons or candy or an illicit pack of cigarettes? Or would there be a middle-aged woman dressed in Bohemian garb, scarves flowing and bracelets clacking on her arms as she piled cans of dog food into her cart? Maybe there would be some way to tell--some way--who the driver of such a joyful and ostentatious vehicle was!

Alas, my powers of observation failed me.  Try as I might, I was unable to discern who among my fellow shoppers owned this Magical Mystery Car.  I left the store with no idea of its owner, but with so much Cheer In My Heart.  This is The Happiest Car On Earth.  And I bet these dogs are plenty content, too.

Why this car wasn't in the Piston Power Show, I don't know.  I would give it First Prize in the Bliss Division.

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They're Out There And They Voted: I Can't Go To Home Depot Anymore

I'm sorry. Massive, cavernous stores already have a strike against them by being dauntingly huge and tiresome. At least Costco, for instance, has an endless and ever-changing variety of goods--including food--to keep me interested. I once rested against a gigantic cuddly teddy bear there that was larger than me whilst Rick pored (eternally) over a selection of work gloves. Then we went to visit the food and wine, found some truly excellent olive oil and asiago cheese, and went home without any Untoward Incident.

Not so, however, at Home Depot, where there is almost nothing Interesting to me. While Rick can happily spend an hour or two there, I become restless and fidgety after about ten minutes. And that is without signs like this one:

Groan.

(I'm having flashbacks from my teaparty sign days. Remember those?)

How could things go so wrong on such a simple sign?

Now, stipulating that Idems means Items, as in "pieces, things, goods, gadgets", how can such entities be Selective as in "choosy, judicious, discriminating, or discerning"?

And do not even get me started on that asterisk.

Goodbye, Home Depot.  I've decided to become more Selective in where I spend my time.  You and I are no longer an Item*.

*But Rick will never quit you.


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In Which I Am Daisy Buchanan And Seeking Your Indulgence And Patience

I've been away on a Solo Jaunt, and Things have gotten Away From Me. Suddenly it's October, and thank goodness the oppressive Summer Heat might be really and truly Gone. The entire Summer reminded me of a brief exchange from a chapter of one of my Favourite Novels, The Great Gatsby. In it, five gorgeous and privileged friends are sitting down to a light meal, and there is already tension in the air. It is only made worse by the incredibly heavy summer heat. They are sitting in a (symbolically!) darkened room, and the conversation goes thusly among the women:

"What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon," cried Daisy, "and the
day after that, and the next thirty years?"
"Don't be morbid," Jordan said. "Life starts all over again when it gets
crisp in the fall."
"But it's so hot," insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, "And
everything's so confused. Let's all go to town!"
Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its
senselessness into forms.

And that, my friends, is why I had to zip off on a solo jaunt. I'm back now, and Gathering Myself, and I'll be back with my Y Post soon. And off to visit your places as well.

It's good to be back.

W Is For What I'm...

Working On. As I have said so many times before, I see myself as being on a Journey Of Continuous Self-Improvement. To that end I am always striving to better my character in many Arenas. Currently, I am Working On most Strenuously and to some Success: graciously accepting Compliments, never saying Never, defaulting to Kindness, being Quieter and Listening. For some of you, these things may seem quite Simple and Natural, and you may be saying, "I don't get it." Trust me, neither do I to a large extent, but that's why I have to Work At Them.

Weeping About. For some reason lately, I have become quite sentimental/hormonal and teary. This is extremely unusual for me and very unsettling. I find myself thinking of people no longer in my life and whom I miss terribly. In a few cases, I'm sure it's due to a lack of true closure; in others, the finality of death. Also bringing me to tears is the sight of the small Syrian boy from Aleppo, the victim of airstrikes. Even now, having to search for the image has brought me to tears yet again. One more--have you ever heard the song Cecilia and the Satellite by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness? I love it, and yep, it's making me tear up, too. Sigh. When (and Why) did I get to be such a crybaby?

Wishing For. While I am everso grateful for airconditioning, I am heartily sick of it this summer. We have had to have ours On more than Off, and I crave some fresh air and more moderate temperatures with low humidity. How on earth do any of my friends in the Delta states or places where 90+ with high humidity as the norm survive? NEO is also in a Moderate Drought, so while our air feels like we are walking through a bowl of soup, our yards are crisp and hard and brown. I know, California--Old News to you--but here, we're crabby and outraged. And the Death Toll in my landscaping continues: two cedars, one Japanese maple, one lilac, one viburnum...one more and this will be another thing I'm Weeping About.

Wild About. As many of you might recall, we here at the Dept. are Cord Cutters, and have eschewed cable television for lo these many years now. Very few network shows are Destination Television for us, but we are crazy about Life In Pieces, which we find funny, smart, and quirky in just the right doses. We continue to be avid viewers of Orange Is The New Black and House Of Cards on the Netflix (thank you, Jared). I continue to mourn the absence of Hugh Laurie In Anything, and wish that House was on in perpetuity, no matter how awful it got. Isn't it a shame he isn't Doing Something, and Immediately? (And hasn't Modern Family gotten...really terrible?)

Wearing. No more high heels. Lots of easy pullover dresses. Camisoles forever, especially with breezy, loose, gauzy tops. My fleece blanket every evening on the couch, thanks to airconditioning. My hair long, past my shoulders. Makeup every single day, even if I stay at home. Perfectly arched eyebrows, waxed myself, thank you very much. No perfume. As much navy blue as I can find (which is damn little).

Well, that about Wraps It Up. Please share your W's in Comments.

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The Dept. Of Nance Is Eleven

theblog.artim.ca

The Dept. of Nance is Eleven! Trust me; that is far more astonishing a fact to me than it is to you. The Very Idea that I have been yammering on here for that long is almost as Crazy as the Notion that People Still Read Me. And often have Things To Say right back.

Incredible.

And so very Nice.

Eleven itself, as a Number, does not bring to mind anything I can use as a Theme, so I shall borrow a tired old construct and use the letters of the word ELEVEN and yada yada from there.

E is for Eternity. As in how long the Olympics from Rio seem to be lasting. This blog has seen SIX Olympics, starting with the Turin (Italy) Winter Games. I am absolutely certain that the Rio Summer Games are Eleven times longer. Rick has already complained that he cannot come home from work and unwind by watching Dr. Phil because our local NBC affiliate insists on having 90 minutes of news instead. And results are all over the Interwebs and aforementioned news, so unless the event is live, there is no point watching anything time-delayed. We already know the outcomes.

L is for Lists. I've done lots and lots of them on dozens of topics, both here and over at my now-defunct blog that I used to co-write with Jared, Stuff On Our List. Between the two of us, we've listed favourite pies, cakes, Christmas music, and most-hated songs played on the radio. We listed ways to turn around a bad day and Stuff That Is Dead To Us. In 2010 I listed my Five Most Dangerous Food Nemeses, and in 2016, they are still the same. But The List--you know The One--has changed a bit. I think it's almost time we Revisit that in another whole post.

E is for Elections. The Dept. of Nance is normally Very Political. While I make no secret of my Party Affiliation (Strenuously Democrat), I am so disgusted and disappointed in my country this year that I generally have refrained from The Politics this go-round. I have long decried The Wisdom Of The American People as nonexistent. This presidential Election proves it via the entire republican party and the media who had a major hand in creating its nominee, as well as the party faithfuls who continue to support and countenance him, even while they denounce his statements and sentiments. That they would sacrifice their entire country and its people in the name of a party victory or affiliation is revolting. And lest anyone think I am equating the republican nominee with the Democrat in any way, let me be clear: I'm With Her. And like Senator Sanders, I'm sick and tired of hearing about her damn emails. And all of it has caused me to break my Self-Imposed Ban Against Using The Eff Word. So there's That.

V is for Victory! The Dept. of Nance has long celebrated books, authors, poetry, poets, and all manner of writing and reading. It was with the Most Profound Sadness that I wrote about the deaths of some of my favourite authors like JD Salinger, Arthur Miller, and most recently, Harper Lee. Another Great Sadness was my inability for the past two years or so to read books. I mourned this loss so keenly; books were always a huge part of my life. Well, as of June, I'm back to reading as before! I'm so happy. And the book that broke the spell? My old reliable that I reread every June, Gone with the Wind.

E is for Eating.  In the early years of this blog, I wrote often about the protracted and terrible dramas our family enacted when trying to decide What To Have For Dinner. Unfortunately, though the characters are reduced by half, these skits are ongoing. Both Rick and I are bored with food a great deal of the time, and we are ashamed to say so, knowing that there are vast populations of the world going hungry. I try to snap myself out of it and, in bursts of Culinary Energy, create marvelous entrees to great admiration, but then back into the Slough Of Suppertime Despair I go.  Perhaps I need to take a Vitamin.

N is for Necessities.  When I first began writing here at this space, my Necessities Of Life were high heels, red pens, coffee, and martinis.  And, of course, the migraine drugs.  Now my Necessities Of Life still include the migraine drugs and coffee, but that coffee is half-caff.  I've pretty much traded in my martinis for wine because these days, I'm a very cheap drunk.  And I still have all my high heels, but I only visit them in the upstairs closet, like trophies in a case.  As far as red pens, I do all my editing and commenting on documents in a computer program, so those are another relic of a previous life.  (A friend just asked me, upon hearing that school started here this week, if I missed it. All things considered, the answer is still No. )  So, what are my New Necessities Of Life?  Migraine Drugs, Coffee, Wine, ... oh, that last one.  Such a Toughie.

Let's enjoy some cake whilst we mull it over.  Happy Eleven, Everyone.  I think there's enough.

image via Bing/Pinterest

P Is For Painting

"We can't put it off any longer," Rick said about a month or so ago. "This is the year we have to paint the front porch. It should have been done years ago, and it looks terrible. No furniture out until it's painted."

What happened next was Profound and Fateful, and quite possibly some of the Stupidest Things I Have Ever Said In My Life. "Okay," I agreed. "Not a big deal. I can help. I'm home all day. I can paint the railings, no problem. That way, all you'll have to do is paint the floor, and we'll be done!"

What a Gargantuan Idiot I am.

Painting is an awful, tedious, horrible job. Painting spindles is the Epitome Of Awful, Horrible Tedium. Painting eleventy thousand spindles white is actually prohibited by the Geneva Convention. Painting eleventy thousand spindles white, upon railings which are at the level of a five-foot, four and a half inch woman's mid-thigh is one of Dante's Circles Of Hell.

Do you know that it is entirely possible to lose one's place whilst painting with White Semi-Gloss paint when it is very breezy and everything looks the same and it is BORING AND TERRIBLE AND THE PAINT DRIES IMMEDIATELY AND YOU START HATING EVERYTHING AND YOUR BACK AND NECK AND SHOULDERS AND KNEES HURT? And that you realize that you have been holding the paint brush as if it were going to start slithering around and trying to bite you?

Holy crap.

At one point, my cousin Ann sent me a text message. I told her I was Painting and Miserable, and I immediately offered her a Billion Dollars if she would do it for me. Before she answered, I had time to feel Ashamed, Humiliated, and Embarrassed because Ann does practically Everything, not only Painting, but sewing, quilting, rebuilding and refinishing furniture, wallpapering, canning, ceramic tiling, and cloning pets and prehistoric animals. Okay, not that last one, but she probably could do it if there were instructions on the internet and she felt like it.

Anyway, my point--and I do have one--is This: Ann said, "I would come paint your porch for a billion dollars."

And I paused for More Than A Moment to actually think about whether or not I could come up with the cash.

Honestly, how do any of you do it, this Painting? It's horrid and awful. I've done it Twice now, and I've already told Rick that my Painting days are Over. "You did a great job!" he said, encouragingly. "You are slow, but neat." Which is a nice way of saying that it took me ten hours to do what he did in two hours when he got home from work, and that includes swiping away a few smears with some Goof-Off.

Heavy Sigh.

Painting. What was I thinking?

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Oddments And Doodads And Road, Oh My!

In lieu of a lobotomy, let's see if an offload of brain litter might help me get rid of some of the Distraction and Scatter that I feel in my head lately. Honestly, I can't even read a book anymore, and it is with Great Sadness and Terrible Alarm that I confide that to you. Naturally, I'm going to pin all of it on that handy Scapegoat, The Menopause, even though technically, I'm probably done with it. But humour me and let's Go With It, shall we?

Oh, thank you.

~*~THERE'S A DISTURBANCE IN THE FORCE. Rick and I were on the way to our Dinner Date (!), and my omnipresent GPS suddenly displayed, ever so helpfully, this:

O-Kay,  I am grateful, however, that this selfsame GPS never had a bout of The Menopause like this as it navigated me past Washington, D.C. (ugh, the Capital Beltway!) or through The Traveler's Oasis (how I hate the Breezewood exchange on the PA Turnpike!). Or any other routes I have driven, so I will forgive it this minor Episode.  (For the record, Road had a name, and we were, in fact actually ON it, not askew between the river and ... whatever.)  Yikes.

~*~HOW SOON WE FORGET. So, I chopped all of my hair off in a fit of boredom and faux bravado. Oh, yes I did--all of it. I have one of those spiky pixy dos and I am now thoroughly disenchanted with it, but oh well. It's not that I dislike it, exactly, but it's a case of "Okay, I did that, so...can it be over now?" Why I didn't read all of my old posts from the last time I cut off my hair, I really don't know. What I should have done is asked my mother, who came right out and told me just a few months ago, when I cut my hair like this

that she didn't like it. I think her exact words were, "Nance! You cut your hair! Why? I guess I just liked it better the other way." For the record, this time, with the pixy, she keeps staring at it and saying, "It's very attractive." I think word got back to her about the last time.
(P.S. Mariska is still on My List.)

~*~WHAT'S IN A NAME? Oh, everything when it comes to my Fantasy Basketball Team. Previously, it has been named the West Egg Gatsbys and then, after a tragically mediocre draft, I renamed it the Puppycats. This year, I'm in mourning after losing Paul George of the Indiana Pacers to a horrific injury (Seriously, don't even watch it when you Google it unless you have a very strong stomach.) during the summer league. I'm trying to decide whether to go back to the original name, keep Puppycats, or get a new name. Last year, I named one of Sam's fantasy football teams The Fluffy Bunnies. He went on to be the most fearsome, most dominant team in the league and won the championship. Imagine the men sitting at home, setting their lineups and saying, "Damn, the Fluffy Bunnies are kicking ass, and I have to play them this week" or "You got the Fluffy Bunnies this week, Craig? Good Luck!" or "I hate those effing Fluffy Bunnies!"

~*~HEY, GREAT JOB! My Maryland buddy Leanne, fabric hoarder and quilter extraordinaire, recently received this confirmation of her shipment of fabric from the Missouri Star Quilt Company. I don't sew at all, but I might drop them a line just to express my admiration for their Wonderfulness. Or to ask for a job. Here, read:

Thanks for your order at the Missouri Star Quilt Company!

We just want to let you know that your quilting supplies have been meticulously gathered, placed on a red velvet pillow, and delicately escorted by 25 of our finest employees to our shipping department. Our master shipper has dutifully performed his craft, lovingly packing your order in the finest materials known to man.

Our team gathered to give your package the proper send-off it deserved. Tears of joy were shed, speeches were given, and there was even a farewell cake. Following the festivities, the whole group, led by our local high school marching band playing the song Leaving on a Jet Plane, ushered your order through downtown Hamilton, Missouri. No, we don't own a Jet Plane, but your package was placed in the care of a roguishly handsome man who is riding in a majestic horse-drawn carriage which is on its way to your home as you read this.

Although the products you've ordered will be sorely missed here at MSQC, we are overjoyed that they have found a good home. Take care of them, treasure them, and when you make something beautiful with them, make sure you share it with us on facebook, twitter, or just send us an email; we love to see what you make!

*Note: the above is a slight dramatization of what actually happened with your order, but seriously, we did ship it, and here is the tracking info:

Holy crap. I want so much to meet that person, that one employee who is making his/her job so much more awesome than it has to be. That person right there is A Difference Maker.

~*~FOLLOW THAT CAR. I'm not a bumper sticker person; I wouldn't put one on my car unless it was an election year and I wanted to make a very specific statement politically. I do enjoy, however, other people's statements on the back of their cars, and I'm entertained by so many of them. Today I was actually moved by one that I saw. I had been listening to NPR's guest, who was giving a very dismal assessment of things in the Middle East, and suddenly, this car pulled ahead of me in the next lane.

I wanted very, very much to believe it, but at the very least, it reminded me that while there are chaos and ugliness in the world, and violence and brutality, so, too are there paintings and literature, sculpture and architecture, poetry and music.  I took a deep breath and changed the station to something lighter and poppier, feeling a twinge of gratitude for the woman in the black Honda Accord.  (Coincidentally, 90.3 is NEO's NPR affiliate station.)  She was, for me, A Difference Maker.

Brainwash

Mariska
thanks to Leanne for the shipment email

Faster, Higher, Stronger--And No, I'm Not Discussing A Martini

My father was pretty darn good at finding that one special interest of each child and using it as a gateway for the relationship. I was sort of The Creative One, so Dad always drew me pages and pages of odd shapes, and I would make something out of each one.  Susan was into music, so Dad would listen to her favourite cuts on albums, and they'd talk about the songs.  Patti, who was older and more serious, read huge books and followed The Politics, so they'd talk about that (and later Women's Lib, which confounded my father).  My brother Bobby was into all kinds of sports, so that was their thing.  They played catch, he coached Bobby in pitching, and now, both of them are in the local Sports Hall of Fame.

Let's just say that no one should ever expect to find me in any sports hall of fame anyplace for any reason ever.  I am not, nor have I ever been, Sporty. I can remember in high school phys ed, standing in the outfield during softball, my teacher Ms. Sayre, screaming, "Nance, your ball! Coming right at you!" and me, standing there inspecting my nails, saying, "Uh huh. Okay," and stepping out of the way.  (The only reason I was even in the outfield was because A) I didn't think anyone would hit it out there, and B) there was a little bit of shade from the shed nearby.

Playing sports is worky.  And sweaty.  I prefer working my fantasy basketball team and spectator sporting. Which leads us neatly into today's question:

Did you watch the Winter Olympics?  Which events did you enjoy seeing the most?

I watched very little of the Sochi games, and even then it was because of the dreaded Nothing Else Is On Syndrome.  What the heck has happened to Olympic coverage?  Is it just me?  Because I used to watch a ton of Olympic events, and not only when I was a kid, either.  I remember watching the Lillehammer games devotedly.  Now, Somebody In Charge decides what I am permitted to watch, and usually it is endless hours of stuff I Don't Care About or stuff That Is Kinda or Mostly Boring.  Add to that the fact that, no matter where you go on the Interwebs or even broadcast television, they announce the results without any warning, and it's hard to care what happens when you finally do see it.  If you do.

Admittedly, the Winter Games don't hold as much interest for me as the Summer Games do.  I hate snow and winter so much that watching these people willingly cavort around out there actually irritates me.  And makes me cold.  And I get sick of hearing them talk about how lousy the snow is, or how bad the ice is, or how they've had to make snow and how much, and yada yada yada.  Here's an idea:  have the Winter Games in Northeastern Ohio where WE HAVE WINTER WHEN IT IS WINTER.  D U H.

I like to watch luge, skeleton, and ski jump.  I like some curling because it is Canadian and because it is so odd and befuddling.  And because they wear such fun uniforms.  Luge and skeleton scare the hell out of me because it's just a person and a sled. Period.  At something like eighty miles an hour.  Ski jumping is fun to watch for a little bit, and then it gets repetitive, so Rick and I practice our British and Australian accents and do our own commentary, inventing harsh penalties for minuscule infractions, and predicting horrible tragedies.

It's all very morbid and awful and we laugh like rabid hyenas the entire time.  "Well, that's not getting him on the podium, Nigel.  At least four tenths come off the top for that head position.  Oh no, oh no!  If he doesn't bring that tibia back into line right now, right now, his center of gravity will be too far forward and he's looking at an absolutely crushing faceplant. Oh my, what a tragedy, and after all the work he's put in since that terrible fall from the Ferris wheel last year."

Maybe the Games were overhyped; maybe they weren't hyped enough. I don't know.  I do know I was glad when they were over.  Rick was glad because then his ritual of watching Dr. Phil with a beer when he got home from work could resume and his TV schedule was back in order.  I was glad, in part, because I don't like the word "Sochi."  It sounds like a made-up Mama word for a pacifier.

I'm sure I'm in the minority here, so fire away in comments.  Also, Feedburner and Blogger are completely estranged now.  I don't know what to do, but I keep trying.  Today, it told me I have no email subscribers, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know.  Thank you.

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So Sorry, But There Was A Snow Ban In Effect, And My Mantra Stopped Working

Listen, I don't even know what to say.  I mean, I literally do not know what I'm going to say in this post; I'm putting something up here because it's way past time and I feel obligated and ashamed.  This could be terrible, it could be wonderful, it could be horrifying--neither of us knows how it will all turn out.

I suggest alcohol, perhaps a nice glass of cabernet or maybe a good martini.  Two olives in case things get long-winded and you need a little snack.  Okay.  Let's go.

1.  The Dept. got all the way to Christmas Eve, and I thought we were home free, but then no, the dishwasher refused to drain.  Rick came home from work, took some stuff apart, cleaned some gunk out of some stuff, tried it again, but alas!  No compliance.  I Googled for remedies, watched some YouTube videos (how boring that was, let me tell you), then resorted to My Plan B.  I stood right in front of it and called it out for the Betrayor it was.  And I called into question its lineage as a goddam Frigidaire, which we never should have bought anyway, may they burn in hell.  Then, after totally humiliating it, I called the appliance store where we buy everything that fails us, and they sent out a repairman--who remembered working on our icemaker during Thanksgiving last year...or was it the year before?  It's all a blur.  Anyway, he fixed it easily, and well before my family party.

2.  Which leads me to what became my new Holiday Philosophy.  A couple nights before Christmas Eve, a house near us simply exploded.  Completely. (It was later traced to a gas leak from the furnace.)  Luckily, it was vacant, a rental that was without tenants and on the market.  Shockingly, the house next door to it had to be torn down a few hours afterward because its second floor had come crashing partway down into the first floor as a result of the concussion.  The people inside had no way to extract any of their belongings upstairs or in the part of the first floor that had been structurally compromised.  Imagine sitting in your home, cozily watching TV, your Christmas tree shining brightly at 9:45 PM, then a huge explosion blows your windows out, and by 1:00 AM, you have no house, no Christmas, and over half of your belongings are gone forever.  I was completely overwhelmed by the idea of it.  So when my dishwasher gave out, I said, "At least my house didn't explode."  And that became my mantra for anything that blipped my radar.  Because...wow.  Everything pales by comparison.

3.  But I have to admit that my New Mantra and I are getting Sorely Tested lately by this Effing Snow, which is relentless and overwhelming and quite honestly, getting Personal.  It just KEEPS SNOWING AND FOR NO REASON.  We don't really need it, thank you, as we have right now an Overabundance Of Snow.  Eight inches is plenty for anyone, and that crap is EVERYWHERE.  For two days it kept me in the house because of blizzardy conditions and JUST SO MUCH SNOW EVERYPLACE.  And, just for the record, No, it is NOT PRETTY.  It is TREACHEROUS AND, IN CASE YOU ARE UNAWARE, FROZEN.  This kind of snow makes me housebound and, therefore, Mushbrained.  The more it snows, the stupider I get.  Just yesterday, I lost track of my phone about eleventy hundred times.  And I was only on the first floor of the house.  And I was irked because the Cats are No Help.  It's only going to get worse; a bigass storm is forecast for Sunday which will bring MORE SNOW.  And BELOW ZERO TEMPERATURES.  I would cry, except that it would be Truly Shameful.  I had a blissful Christmas in my home which is intact.  Sigh.

4.  Rick and I were roundly criticized by the boys for having boring Christmas gift idea lists.  Sam especially was disgusted.  Finding himself a little more flush this year, he was finally looking forward to getting presents for the family.  In a text message discussion with Jared, he compared notes about shopping for his dad.  Jared, ever the dutiful son, told Sam that I had suggested some warm sweaters or sweatpants.  Instantly by return text Sam said, "Fuck that.  I'm getting Dad a bear shooting game and a gun for his Wii."  Of course he did, and there has been an endless parade of dead, bloody animals across my television ever since.  Thank goodness Downton Abbey starts tomorrow.

That's enough, I think.  How are all of you?  Resolute?  Virtuous?  Warm and balmy?  Most importantly, have you a good idea where your phone is right now?  Check in.

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This Post Is The By-Product Of NEO's Freezing Temperatures: Doing My Part To Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle

Right this minute, my house is so clean that I am afraid to move in it.  This is what days of frigid temperatures and snow will do:  force me into Domestic Activity.  I even did a few things that were Not Pressing, such as:

1.  Polish a silver tray.
2.  Finally take all of my high heels up to the spare closet.
3.  Update a few pictures in the picture frames.

My fantasy basketball team is falling apart due to injury.  I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that this week, no amount of research and tinkering will get me the win.  My big men are all hurt; my lineups are decimated.  I've decided to take the week off from the NBA.  Instead, I've found all kinds of interesting things on the Interwebs as I try to forget the fact that the West Egg Gatsbys are losers.

1.  I found out that Ferrero Rocher, those lovely chocolate hazelnut candy orbs, exist because the company that manufactures Nutella wanted to do something with the byproducts remaining from making their signature product.

2.  Do you have a cat?  Do you live in New Zealand?  If you answered yes to both of these questions, you might have a problem because NZ is considering a ban on cats.  An economist, Gareth Morgan, is concerned that cats there may wipe out native species of birds and rodents.  He characterizes cats as "neighborhood serial killers."  Sigh.  In my town of 53000 residents, there are supposedly 14000 feral cats.  How anyone arrived at that number (quoted once in an out-of-state publication), I have no idea.  I see the same two or three stray cats every week.  They drive Piper and Marlowe crazy.  The only killing I've seen is when Marlowe killed a mouse from our basement.  I was thrilled.

3.   John Boehner said recently,"Given what we heard yesterday about the president's vision for his second term, it's pretty clear to me that he knows he can't do any of that as long as the House is controlled by Republicans. So we're expecting over the next 22 months to be the focus of this administration as they attempt to annihilate the Republican Party. And let me just tell you, I do believe that is their goal -- to just shove us into the dustbin of history." Wow. He sounds bitter and upset.  But it reminds me of...what was it now?  "Our top political priority over the next two years should be to deny President Obama a second term."--Mitch McConnell.  I'll let My Dear Readers come up with the line for this one.

4.  Does/Should anyone care whether Beyonce lip-synced the National Anthem?  I didn't think so.  There are other things far more worthy of our distress.  Besides, if Aretha says to back off, that's good enough for me.

5.  I found this quote about Aging.  The fact that it came from a goofy article about what happens when hot girls get old, where they mistakenly attributed it to Hunter S. Thompson, dulls it in my esteem (if only it came from Dorothy Parker instead!), but I still like it:

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming 'WOO HOO what a ride!'"

Those who know me know that I cannot even pretend to be the "skidding in sideways" type, but I like the idea of the whole thing anyway. 

6.  Finally, Jared sent me this ridiculously silly viddy clip.  He loves to send me Interwebs Inanity, and this one made me laugh and laugh and laugh.  I hope it gets to you that way, too.

What silly/interesting/fun things do you have to talk about?  And did you laugh at the viddy?

In Which I Revisit Parallel Parking As Well As Visit With My Mother, Bash Social Networking, And Provide More Insight Into republicans, Royalty, And Fashion

My Spring Break is pretty much over, and while I am always glad to be At Home rather than At Work, the weather was rainy and awful most of the time, rendering me a Cat-hair covered mushbrain.  But, okay.  At least I have a few Cranial Clots to share, however chaotic they may be.

Dodging raindrops one day, I had to go to a Government Office.  As if that was not bad enough, I had to parallel park.  Which I failed when first taking my driver's test.  (About eleventy hundred years ago.) Verdict:  I still suck at it.  But this time, I find that I don't care.

My son Jared is still trying to get me to start a Twitter account.  (Oh, quelle horreur!)  "Mom!" he commanded earlier this week.  "Your Twitter feed would be amazing.  Seriously.  All my friends already said they would follow you."  Oh. Boy. Jared is in his twenties.  And...so are his friends.  This is pretty illustrative as to why I don't have a Twitter account and do not get me started on Facebook.  Also, I have now typed the word Twitter way more times than I have ever wanted to in my entire life; ditto Facebook.

I was not in the least bit surprised when browsing The Huffington Post's website and, coming across this headline Depression at Work:  10 Careers with High Rates of Depression, to find Number 6.  I didn't see Real Estate Developer/Mogul/Sideshow Barker/Closet Racist in there, nor did I see State Representative/Homophobe/History Revisionist/Clueless Idiot.  Among other things. They're just as happy as...well...they can be.  Ignorance is bliss, as Thomas Gray said.

Okay, now here's a thing.  Imagine, just for the hell of it, that Alfred E. Newman and The Angel of Death could have a child.

Did you?  Because if you did, here's who it would be:               





That's Scotty McCreery from "American Idol"

Finally, even if you could try, there was no way to escape The! Royal! Wedding! What a bigass load of hoopla that all was. I just have two things to say. First, if I were the Queen of England, hell be damn sure I would announce way ahead of time what colour I was wearing and Officially Prevent everyone else from wearing it. I mean, I Am The Queen. OF ENGLAND. If I want to wear a buttercup yellow ensemble, no one else--sitting in close proximity of me, nonetheless!--is wearing that colour. Forget that.  Second, why does the Queen always carry that handbag around? What does she need a purse for at the wedding? Or ever, for that matter?  My mother was at my house yesterday morning, and we were watching a recap of The Royal Wedding, and we had this brief chat:

Me:  What is up with the Queen always carrying a purse?

Patsy:  I don't know, but she always does.

Me:  What does she need it for? Especially at a wedding. Just stick a hanky in her glove. Or have her husband carry one for her.

Patsy:  I know.

Me:  Holy crap, Mom. She's the queen! Whenever Rick and I go anywhere, the first thing I ask him is "do I have to take my purse?" What the heck does she have in there, the launch codes?"

Patsy:  Well, she's what, over 80, so maybe she carries her Poise pads in there. (laughs)

Oh, one last thing about the Royal Wedding.

Never.

"A" Is For Avocado, "B" Is For BFF, "C" Is For Cellphone, And "F" Is For Effing Favicon And "DE" Bane Of My Existence Lately

Sigh. You all deserve so very much better, but I'm mired in Malaise and stuck for a post. If you let me knock out some of the Mind Mould, I promise that I'll deliver up better very soon. If not, then skip over to V's place where there is doubtless something far more cerebral and wonderful and come back later.

Having a...well...let's just say more sedentary summer has made me OCD, I think. I get a little Project Worm in my head and I work it and work it and work it until it makes me insane. Case In Point: this goddam favicon bullshit. I currently have eleventy bits of code in my template that are supposed to put a little martini in the address bar rather than that hideous orange "B" emblem when you bring up the dept. But none of them works. I have read eleventy billion websites, all trumpeting that they are The One with the Easy Foolproof Way. Then I find techy websites that tell me that Internet Explorer 7 (aka "The Great Satan") has a glitch that effs around with favicons and that I have to include a workaround. Yet...there are tons of favicons on tons of sites that I, who employ IE7, see just fine. I have tried Everything. Nothing works. I keep saying, "That's it. Forget it. Just walk away from the keyboard and delete all the sites you have added to your favorites that discuss it. STOP TORTURING YOURSELF OVER SOMETHING SO MEANINGLESS." But I keep screwing around with it. Why? I wish someone would just whisk into my life, do it easily, and put me out of my misery. Failing that, just shoot me.

Last week, the Sunday adverts started already with their Back to S-word sales. ALREADY! Now, it's not that I'm having such a wonderful summer. But it's still summer. It's bad enough that our school is starting back two weeks earlier than every other school in the district due to construction scheduling. Why rub it in, Target and Walgreens and, well...you all know who you are!

Right now, I am wearing fleece pants and my Wigwam socks. The calendar says summer but the weather says, "Screw you, Nance. Your nose is still as cold as a big old Labrador's." These cool nights and days are not so good for my tomatoes, either. As in, what tomatoes?

Another summer obsession--besides endlessly and fruitlessly tweaking my blogs--making and eating guacamole. Why was I never informed of the existence of this wonderful food during my earlier years? The only "avocado" I was aware of was the hideous shade of green during the 1970s that my mother, a fan of the Early American decor craze, insisted upon using to a fault in our living room. My only bitch about avocados (besides their cost) is that they zip through the perfect ripeness stage far too quickly. The Window Of Opportunity with avocados is painfully brief. Please refrain from telling me the caloric damage I am incurring with guacamole. My butt already did.

Rick renewed our cellphone plan which upgraded our phones. This caused me a considerable amount of stress. As you may recall, I am not a fan of cellphones, even my own, and rarely use it. I therefore had a difficult time realizing when it was my own that was ringing. To simplify my life, I set my ringtone to a Christmas carol (Joy to the World) year-round. Upsettingly, my new cellphone does not come with this ringtone, and no one has been able to find a way to install it. One ameliorating factor: Sam was able to put a picture of a cute bunny as the background on this new phone. But I doubt if I will ever know it when it rings. Perhaps it already has.

If you called me and I did not pick up, I'm sorry. I'm not sure I even know how to get your message on this phone, either. Please just email me. Believe me, it's much easier. And you'd be my New Best Friend Forever if you could get my favicon to work, too.

Thanks!

That Groundhog Can Kiss My...

"Now is the winter of our discontent..." Shakespeare sure knew his way around the human psyche. I'm feeling oppressed by winter, imprisoned by the cold, grey days and victimized by the icy winds that render me a hostage of layer upon layer of polar fleece and numbing sameness. I get up in the dark, drive my 3-4 minutes to work in a cold car along streetlight-illumined roads, and at the end of the day, drive home in a cold car, barely making it in the door before I kick off my high heels and enrobe myself in my fleece and slippers. Some days I give in entirely and just zip into a grownup-sized blanket sleeper that I got for Christmas one year as a sort of joke gift.

How sad am I? Forty-eight years old, and in my jammies by 3:30 in the afternoon, and toddler jammies at that.

It's pathetic.

Winter for me is an endurance test. It's a struggle that I barely win each year. I'm one of those annoying women that is cold all the time, truly. My hands are like those of a corpse, and even wearing mittens doesn't help. I have a blanket on the back of my chair and a small, portable ceramic heater that travels with me at school. If I could be sure of an outlet nearby, I'd take it with me to restaurants, which are always far too cold for me. During the winter, we rarely eat out because Rick cannot stand to sit across from me and see me eating with my coat on.

(And no, it wasn't always like this, and I won't bore you with a lot of details about previous illness and medication side effects and all that long drawn-out crap. Suffice it to say that if just bundling up in a ton of sweaters and long underwear and Cuddle-Duds was all it took, well, hell, I'd have already done all that.)

I'm cold everywhere and all the time. And, you know, after a while, it starts to have a major impact on every little thing in my life. As in--I don't have a life in the winter.

Because to have one, you have to go outside. And it's cold out there.

I do a lot of waiting. Waiting and reading and sighing and wondering about things. Things like why do I have to live in Ohio where we get winter 6 frikking months a year? Things like

why does my skin feel warm, yet I am so cold that I can even tell my guts are cold? Things like were those really--I hope you are all sitting down for this--stirrup pants that I saw at Express last weekend? Because if Express is bringing back stirrup pants then we are in for The Apocalypse. And things like where is the olive green sweater I have been waiting for?

And Shakespeare is right. I'm not content at all. February has 29 days this year, and that means an extra day of winter. How very discontent-ing.

Oh, Canada! And Some Other Stuff While I'm At It

I'm going to start with my biggest idea first and then it will likely go downhill from there. (How many other blogs are kind enough to provide such an endearing caveat, now answer me that, will you?)

This past weekend, Rick and I sneaked back up to Canada--Our Neighbour To The North--for a little trip. (This sparked a rather spirited and Seinfeldian discussion as to the proper terminology for said occurrence. What, really, should we have called it? We determined that "vacation" was a gross misnomer: vacations connote a longer stay than just our Friday-Saturday-home on Sunday-trip. A proper "vacation" must be at least one week, we decided. "Holiday" sounds too affected and British, and really implies something festive and event-oriented; we were not doing much of anything of the sort and are absolutely not British and while I am often affected, strove not to be while in Canada. This time. "Getaway" is certainly useful and very multipurpose, but tends to conjure up visions of spontaneous air travel and the leaving behind of distasteful and chaotic situations that one can no longer tolerate but must return to nonetheless. While this can often describe my career at The Rock, it is really not entirely truthful. We finally settled on "jaunt", which I am particularly happy about since it calls up images of car travel and energetic-ness and small go-look-ats within the short trip itself which is exactly what we did. But, as usual, I digress. Wow. A lot.)

Anyway. While we were sitting in a longish line at the Peace Bridge, waiting to cross into Canada, a Big Idea came to me. I was incredibly bored sitting there, as was everyone else, I am certain. What a missed opportunity, I thought. Here we all are, sitting in lines waiting to cross into an entirely different country, and all we are doing is waiting. (By the way, there were 15 lanes going into Canada. Only 8 were open. Why? I have noticed this phenomenon in banks, grocery stores, and other establishments. Why even build all those checkouts/lanes if they are never going to be utilized? If you are going to only have, say 11 lanes open, then just build 11. But I digress.)

So, back to us all waiting. I turn to Rick and say, "You know, this is a huge waste of time and resources. Why doesn't Canada take this amazing opportunity to entertain incoming tourists? Or educate us? There could be a huge slide show featuring famous Canadians! There could be wandering singers, or a figure dressed up like a moose and a Mountie. They could have a curling demonstration. There are tons and tons of Canada-intensive things that could be going on right at this moment, but instead, we are sitting here worrying about what they might ask us at the border and how long they will take. Remember at Sea World how they used to have a barbershop quartet that entertained the people in line who were waiting for the show? It made waiting less tedious. Canada should do that. But no mime. Never a mime." (There's never a reason for mimes. Never.)

And this could be going on for the U.S. side as well. I'm not just picking on Canadians. I would never do that. I am a fan of Canada. And Canadians. It's well-documented. But anyway, what do you think? I think the idea has merit, I really do.

Next up: my blog. I have put up a poll for all of you to vote on my latest attempt to alleviate my boredom by changing the color scheme on my blog. Thanks to the 7 of you who have exercised your democratic voices. (Seven, really? Can you not humor me just a little bit? Can you not...oh, good heavens. How pathetic am I, really?) Please feel welcome to offer any color scheme ideas in comments. Offer any topic ideas in comments. (Offer me menu planning in comments, but only if you're going to come here and shop for the groceries, too.) Seriously, I wish I weren't so persnickety about color and appearance; I'd just whomp up the basic template and be done with it. Why am I such a frickin' project? (Rick asks me this every day. He mutters it, though, and is astounded that I hear it.)

Related topic: The Tie Report. I do this mainly for me (and for Brian, but you know...it's almost as if he doesn't even read it!) and will continue to, but I wonder if any of you Fairly Newcomers even are aware that it exists. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, please scroll down my sidebar to read my nightly report on the tie being worn by Brian Williams of the NBC Nightly News. If you're thinking, "What? Why on earth would I want to read something as dull as that?", then clearly you need to read it.

Oh, and can I just be a homer for a moment? HOW ABOUT THOSE INDIANS?!

Rick and I stayed at a small country inn while in Canada; our room was charming and lovely, but it had no television. We went down to "the lounge" (that's Canadian for "living room") and watched the baseball game with other guests from Connecticut, Detroit, and Canada, all of whom were Indians fans. We chatted and cheered and had smart, lovely conversation. I was in heaven. As a matter of fact, I was in heaven pretty much the entire weekend: excellent wine, good food, delightful innkeeper, intelligent and pleasant company in the inn's breakfast room, and no rain. And I've finally gotten smart: I'm not telling anyone where we stay. Too many people know and it's nigh unto impossible to get a room in the summertime. Don't ask me! I mean it, now!

Last item: While shopping in Canada, I passed several times a store selling not only the hideous Crocs, but the little doodads that stick on them. Every time I passed the place, I said energetically, to no one in particular, "Stop selling Crocs!" It was my personal protest. I feel good about that.

And all this other stuff, too.

Yawn.

Let me warn you now--the only reason I'm posting is because it's been about five days and it's time. I usually post about every five days, and I don't want to lose readers by not following through on the informal contract I've established here at the Dept.

But I've really got nothing to say. I'm at that stage right now where I'm that ten-year-old brat who's standing at the front door on June 15th, bathed in glorious sunshine while her mother is inside doing laundry, feeding the baby with one hand and unloading the dishwasher with the other, and I'm pushing my forehead through the screen whining, "but I'm bored!"

It's terrible. I have a really low Boredom Threshhold. I start handing back student papers in class, and I stop and make my aide do it because I get massively bored. I hate the whole tedium of it: look at the name, walk to the kid, hand the paper to the kid (sometimes waiting for the kid to realize that I'm standing right there in front of her with her paper in front of her), turn around, repeat ad nauseum. And the grading! Right now, I'm grading the Act II test of the Arthur Miller play The Crucible. There are two essay questions. Imagine reading the same responses 95 times. That's what I'm doing. I want to stab my own eyeballs out. I mean, I realize that it's necessary. And some of the responses are well-written enough that they are not a punishment to read. But it's not like I'm reading for pleasure here. I'm reading the same stuff over and over again. I have to. They have to include certain things in their responses. It's what I'm measuring. It's that time of year, you know?

And I'm continually bored with dinner. What does everyone feel like eating? What do I feel like making? Or, where do we feel like going? Blech. Who cares anymore? Do you know what I had last night for dinner, left alone to my own devices? Here it is, in order: a half-pint of Haagen Dazs Chocolate Peanut-butter ice cream, a handful of Lay's potato chips, a half sandwich of cold meatloaf. Oh, and later, for a snack, a half of a bagel with a slice of Swiss cheese. Does this sound like the meal of an A.D.D. Refrigerator/Pantry Grazer or what? It's pathetic and sad. And it's all because I am intensely bored.

I'm already bored with The! New! Fall! Television! Lineup! . I wanted to watch "Journeyman" because it sounded like it would be very similar to a book I loved, The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. Instead, it got bogged down with a dumb secondary plotline and a completely unnecessary character and bored me senseless. That happened to me with "Heroes" last year. I started watching it, but soon realized that they were going to keep introducing character after character after character in a mindless and ceaseless parade for no apparent reason. I got hugely bored. (I surmise that they did, indeed, save the cheerleader, but I find that I don't care if they saved the world.) I wanted to really like "Chuck", but it got "dumb" and I got bored with all the double-agent crap in the second (third?) episode, and the characters got so cartoonish that I was actually yawning I was so bored. Scratch that one. I was charmed at first by "Pushing Daisies," but the nonstop narration started getting so invasively monotonous and boring that I kept noticing something annoying: for a guy whose second touch could kill the girl he's so crazy for, he sure gets damned close to her. Damned close. I just found that bothersome. I started obsessing over the fact that they didn't seem worried over that at all, and they stood really, really close to each other. A lot. To me, that's a problem.

But I digress.

My original point is, I am bored right now with stuff. Like the overall color scheme of my blog. But, I am not one to embrace change, nor risk alienating my readers. Plus, the blue is symbolic of my politics. Yet, I feel like I need a bit of a Fashion Makeover at the Dept. What do you think? Should I go for a new palette? What do you suggest?

Sigh. So many things to consider, yet I really don't feel like it. I'm suffering from Generalized Malaise. But, who isn't? Perhaps a change of scenery will do me good, both in cyberspace and the real world. I'm off for a bit of a getaway this weekend. When I come back, I'll try out your Blog Style Suggestions. In the meantime, I've given you plenty to Brainstorm about.