Ahhh...dancing

Brick and I went dancing last night. Had a good time, even though we didn't stay out all that late, and saw some dear friends while we were there.

The bar was stocked with couples who REALLY knew how to dance. They had coordinated moves. Clearly they dance together, as couples, all the time. They'd sit down between songs and congratulate each other on their style.

I refused to cede the floor to those couples, though. Brick and I were there to have a good time, and we did. Broke a shoe, even, so midway through one song I danced back to my table, took off my shoes, danced back to Brick, finished the song in my nylons.

As I sat at the table, gulping water and catching my breath, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turned around, and some guy wanted a high five.

Yeah, I think Brick and I do OK up against the flashy dancers. Man, I want to do that again soon.

There's a new sheriff in town, and she says

"These days, hon, I have less time than you."

"We need to be in the car by 7:30. Not 7:34. If we get in the car at 7:34, I am late for work."

"Throwing a towel down on the spot where the cat peed doesn't clean it up. All it does is say, 'Mom, clean that up!'"

I have no idea if any of this is getting through to anyone, but at least I am saying it, as kindly and firmly as I can. To paraphrase Johnny Tremain, a woman can stand up.

Never thought I'd say this, but

Yes We Can!

I'm...Flattered?

Yesterday I had a job interview. Since part of raising children is talking to them about what the adult world is like, I went over it with Sons #1, 2 and 3, in the car. I explained that I do not yet have an offer, but that I have been told I am in the "top 2"--at this point it is down to me, and a young guy just out of school.

All 3 Sons responded, "CAGE MATCH! To the DEATH! YOU CAN TAKE HIM!"

I am so damn proud.

And now, to convince you all I am crazy

Growing up, I did not wear sunscreen.

Suntan lotion, sure. SPF 4, I think, most of the time, when I was laying out or going to a theme park with absolutely zero shade for the day. Tanning oil, just as likely, because that stuff made you look all bronzey and sleek like you lived on the Riviera.

And yes, I am half Italian, but only half. I had a tendency to tan, but never get really dark, and I would burn on occasion, but generally just across the bridge of my nose, once or twice a summer. It was just no big deal.

Then sunscreen became CRUCIAL, according to everyone with any voice at all.

If we weren't using sunscreen we were CRAZY, right? We were going to get all wrinkly, and get skin cancer. Right? And God forbid you not slather your kids in the stuff every hour on the hour.

OK, so I did it. I became a sunscreen fanatic, just like everyone else.

Maybe 7 years ago, I noticed: I was burning EASY. At first I blamed it on a course of antibiotics I took. But then I wasn't on antibiotics anymore, and still burning to a crisp whenever I was in the sun for more than 20 minutes. I switched to SPF 30. No difference.

I blamed it on the famed hole in the ozone layer. I increased my SPF to 45. I continued to burn.

I blamed it on being Over Thirty-Five. I lost the ability to tan in any attractive fashion--any exposure to the sun for more than half an hour meant I would burn, no matter what, and probably get funky, irregular tan patches that looked more like dirt than the Bain de Soleil lady of my youthful memories.

Slather, slather, slather.

Then about 6 months ago my doctor discovered I have a severe Vitamin D deficiency.

Remember Vitamin D? The "sunshine vitamin"? Yeah, that one. My doctor said she is surprised to note that many of her patients are rather deficient.

She put me on prescription levels of Vitamin D. And I started ignoring the sunscreen, for the most part, and going out into the sun. On purpose. For an hour or two, in the middle of the day, with no sunscreen and no hat and no sleeeeeeeeves, even.

And I got a little sunburn, at first.

And then I started to tan. Kinda evenly, even. And I'm not really burning anymore, except, you know, at the edge of my clothes if I wear something closer-cut than usual.

I'm still on the prescription D, because even after all that AND a full course of the stuff I still test out as severely deficient. But I think I have pretty much given up sunscreen. And you know what? I feel better than I have in years.

Going out in the sun feels great. It makes me feel better physically and emotionally. I think I've been starving myself of Vitamin D and it has done me no good, only harm, all these years.

So, hey, maybe you should check your vitamin D levels.

Due dilligence: let me confess that there is no history of skin cancer in my family or hubby's, so I am not worried about any of that for me or the boys (who are thrilled that I no longer nag them to wear more sunscreen than they choose on their own). If I earn myself a few more wrinkles in my later years, I figure it is a worthwhile trade-off.

See, now this is why we didn't want to be with you people

Sons #3 and 4 are entering the school system this year.

A few weeks ago, I realized, "hmmm, it is almost midsummer, I should register the boys." So I called the high school and left a message for the registrar.

"Hi, I have an incoming freshman who has been home-schooled since second grade so I need to make an appointment to register him. Give me a call."

No response.

A week or so later, I called again.

"Hi, I called last week about an incoming freshman who needs to register for school. Here is my home number and my cell number; I will come in with him at your convenience."

No response.

A week later, I called again, this time the main office.

"Hi, I have left two messages for the registrar, and the registrar's office has not returned my calls. Is there someone else I should call to make an appointment to come in and register my son, and make sure I have all his paperwork in order?"

No response.

I called the middle school and they said, "Oh, you don't need an appointment, just drop by." So I did. Got #4 all set up in maybe 15 minutes. Since they are in the same school district, I figured the paperwork the high school would need would be pretty much the same as the middle school. I had gone through this process with Son #1 and Son #2 in years past, as well. So I gathered everything, put it in an envelope, and this morning I said,

"Son #3, they are NOT returning my calls, so I guess we don't need an appointment, or if we do we're not going to get one, since school starts in less than 3 weeks. Let's just go."

So we did.

We went to the counseling department and the registrar was standing in the middle of the office, hand on hip, yakking about personal stuff with her coworkers. She looked up at me and said, "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I've been calling for the past three weeks to request an appointment and no one has returned my calls."

"Sorry," she said. "I get, like, 20 to 30 calls a day."

(and three of those have been from me, this month, and could have just been ONE call, if you'd handled it the first time around, so I wonder how much of that phone ringing you bring on yourself by not answering the phone)

She said I could have an appointment. So I followed her back to her office, where she asked when I'd like to come in.

"As soon as possible. School starts in a little over 2 weeks."

She handed me a list of all the paperwork I need. Which I had, in my hand. I told her so. She offered to keep my envelope in her office, until our appointment tomorrow. Yeah, like I am going to give her my son's Social Security card and birth certificate to keep. Sure.

She reviewed the list of paperwork, again, and I again stated, "Yes, I have all of that ready for you whenever you are ready to process it."

A third time she pointed to the list, and enumerated the various things which I would need to bring...and...which...I...had...assured...her...were...in...my...lap...already.

Then she asked for transcripts-or-equivalent, and I explained to her twice why I have them in an unfamiliar format, but that I have the information required by the state, and that I would give it to her at our appointment.

So, tomorrow Son #3 and I go back for our appointment, which will probably take all of 15 minutes.

I swear, though, that woman should be ashamed of herself for accepting a paycheck.

Yeah, "Mark", I'm talking to you

I've been in Dell Tech Support Hell for the past couple of weeks, trying to fix Son #4's computer. My joy is made even more full with the knowledge that when I finally get this one fixed, I am going to have to move on to Son #3's computer. Basically, I am spending every free moment, and a lot which are NOT free, on the phone with people with hard-to-understand accents and a script which requires I shoot myself or throw the computer off a cliff before they'll honor the return-to-depot warranty we've purchased.

First, I had to convince them it was a hardware issue. That took about 6 hours, over 2 days.

Then, I had to convince them that the part they sent was not compatible with the machine. That took a while.

Now, I am working on convincing them that the second replacement part they sent is STILL not going to fit into the machine. Because it is not built for the machine we own. Because the tech support guys keep sending stuff that is not designed for our system.

I do not need it explained to me. I do not need to run one single minute of diagnostics, or talk to anyone else other than a supervisor--someone who can put an end to this and just get things fixed.

And I keep requesting said supervisor, which gets me put on hold.

Which is a good thing, because I use the time on hold to cook dinner.

Everyone in Tech Support sounds Indian, or something. I swear, they do not make enough curry to reimburse me for my time.

So yesterday, in a desperate bid to SHOW "Mark" that the part he sent is physically different from the part I am trying to replace, I offered to take a photo of the 2 hard drives, side-by-side, and email it to him.

He said I could.

I took the photo.

I saved it in a folder which I then named in a fit of "I am trying to be civil but these people have sent me over the edge and it's not like they'll ever know anyway".

And then he said I could not email it to him. Instead, I had to let him control my computer remotely, and find the photo and look at it that way.

So, yeah, that is when I had to tell "Mark" to look for the photo in the file labeled "Dell Bastards".

Ya see, Colin, not every one of us can just "keep in touch"

Remember when Colin Powell endorsed Obama, and then got all huffy about it? And couldn't understand why some people thought that endorsing a far-left Democrat might give people the impression that he was, on some level, not really the Republican he might once have been, or perhaps even that he was supporting Obama for racial reasons?

Now, Powell is not talking about Obama's "ease and calm" in decision making. He's concerned, these days, that Obama is easing-and-calming us into gigantic government programs we cannot run or afford.

Lemme 'splain it to you, Mr. Powell: Those of us who were against Obama before the election saw this coming. This is why we did not vote for him.

And maybe Obama can schmooze you, Mr. Powell, because you "keep in touch," but he is not talking to me, or millions of the rest of us. Not listening to us, and not charming the pants off us whenever we pick up the phone.

Maybe Powell was just too close to Obama to see the big picture.

The Napkin Mafia is After Me

Today I went to the library. The parking lot is large (it's a pretty new library) and it was about 2/3 empty.

I turned into the spot I'd chosen; to my left, was a minivan. Its front and rear passenger doors were open, and a woman was standing in the doorway getting children out of the car.

To my right was the last space in the row, occupied by a very small car--like a Mini Cooper. Tiny clown car. It was parked waaaaay to the right side of its space, right near the curb.

So, to make room for the family on my left, and taking advantage of the space left by the tiny car on my right, I parked about 8 inches away from the extended open door to my left. Perfect fit all around, and as I said the parking lot was mostly empty in any case.

I went in to the library...browsed...decided, as I often do, that I probably have something at home to read, instead...picked up the book that was waiting for Hubby...went out to my car.

Where I found a napkin, tucked under my windshield wiper. Written on the napkin, in big capital letters:

"YOU ASSHOLE;
PARK YOUR SHIT
BETWEEN THE
LINES---
NOT ON THEM
LAST WARNING"

I looked around: No one seemed to be watching my car. And, just as it had been when I arrived, the parking lot was mostly empty.

I'm not at all sure what the "warning" means. Should I bring the napkin to the library security guard and ask him to protect me and my car from violent threats?

Just, you know, FYI: Sometimes, when you come across a car parked in a strange position, it is because that was a safer, more courteous position than the traditional. Not everyone is intentionally parking to irritate.

Also FYI: My name is not Asshole. It is Christine.

Nice ta meetcha.

And the SOTD: Mom bought these, can't wear them, handed them off. Not my usual style, but comfy.

I so needed this headline, a few weeks ago

"Mother fought off cougar..."

Because that is pretty much what I did.

Only I didn't save my toddler. I just deflected some unwanted attention from Son #1.

Honestly, the woman who was all giggly-stupid over him, at the orthodontist's office, is too old for Hubby, ok? She has the oldness. She has no reason to get all up in a 17-year-old's business, especially if said 17-year-old is in her workplace, and got there in his mom's car.

Am I painting a picture, here?

Son #1 was fairly oblivious. He just thought the woman agreed with everything he said, and sat really close to him, and laughed all the time, because he is a genius.

Yeah, Son #1 is a guy, alright. Were things reversed, I am sure a daughter would have, in the car, said, "Ewwww, Mom, that old man was totally hitting on me! Gross!"

Last week, I saw The Cougar again. I resisted the urge to tell her how very unprofessional and pathetic her behavior had been.

Honestly, though, Son #1 is stalked by cougars pretty much all the time. Women of a Certain Age need to get a grip.

Anticipation, Frustration, Obama-Nation

Anticipation: Two weddings, in eight days. e haven't been to a wedding in years (and that one was doomed at the altar, no doubt), and now we've got two. I am looking forward to bringing my camera to both, and also to contributing actual food to the wedding reception for one.

I have received my Food Assignment and I am on it like Paula Deen on a stick of butter. Oooh, yeah.

Frustration: I am NOT getting what I want, on pretty much all fronts, these days. The car is still in the shop, even though they were sure it would be ready yesterday. I keep sending out queries for work and get back, well, the sound of crickets. So far, this week, the dog has peed on my purse, three leather coats, and a carpet. AND YET I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO KILL HIM, or even want to. Hubby's band is defunct, and I have no idea what comes next on that one, so no dancing to slap bass for me anytime soon. I keep telling the Sons to handle their business and my reward is a general sinking feeling that I am becoming an ineffectual nag.

The Beach suggests I get an air horn and striped shirt, for handling all those episodes of Brotherly Love. I think she is a genius. Just gimme that whistle on a string.

About half of our CD collection has been bogarted by a Son, I guess. I keep opening cases and finding nothing. HOW DARE HE MISPLACE GEORGE THOROGOOD? That's just wrong. I may have to toss his room.

On the bright side, the poison ivy seems to be clearing up, Son #1 has been asking my advice on a very sweet project of his own devising, school is almost out and my nail polish is pristine, for once. (Honestly, a successful manicure does lift my mood. I am more girly than I thought, I guess.)

And the Obama-nation?
Well, I just am speechless. We are out of money? Shutting down businesses run by owners who did not contribute to Obama's election? Choosing a Supreme Court justice because she is a Latina? (Hey, maybe she's okay, but her job is to follow the Constitution. Don't need a uterus or a Compelling Personal Story for that.) I haven't been blogging on all this stuff because, well, I don't want to turn into a ranting nutbag, and Dhimmi Carter has that effect on me on a pretty consistent basis.

So, you know, I'll shut up now.

"Inoffensive" is in the ear of the beholder

Today Son #4 and I took a long walk together, mainly just to spend some time out in the sun. I did have a destination in mind: had to pick up a prescription. We walked, talked, observed the sky & clouds & fine weather and interesting new construction and lovely, lush green grass. We reminisced about the extremely adorable kittens he and Son #3 once found on that very route. It was a great walk, a great time with Son #4.

Except.

The jewelry store pipes music into the parking lot.

Anne Murray.

Now, should I have any Canadian readers Of A Certain Age, I am sorry. Truly sorry. But it has been 4 hours and I still can hear "Can I Have This Dance (for the rest of my life)"

It makes me want to scream, OK? Or maybe hurl a brick through the window of the jeweler's. Probably not what they were aiming for.

Of course, I wasn't buying jewelry, either, so maybe their clientele just cannot get enough of that sort of thing.

On reflection, I think even if I had enjoyed the particular song blasting the street when I walked by, I think we would all be better off listening to the birds, outside. Sometimes, anyway.

Mixed feelings, oh, yeah, I got 'em

Part of me can understand and even support the "buy Black" movement this couple hopes to launch.

But if I said, "Let's only buy white", would I get that kind of happy coverage? Would I DESERVE that kind of coverage? Of course not. And I say that as someone who once knew just about every white person in the city where I lived (because I was living in Asia at the time)...it never crossed my mind that I should support white businesses just because they were white.

Ya know why? Because that is racist.

Steak: a definition, a recipe, and a travesty

We had some spare filets mignon in the fridge, and this morning Hubby decided to have it with his eggs. He offered some to the decidedly carnivorous Son #3, who (being also a wordy chap) offered his definition of steak: "A slab of meat with garlic on it".

Ah, maternal victory. He has absorbed my steak recipe. Which you want, now, right?

Hubby said, "You are definitely your mother's son. I don't put garlic on steak, I put Worcestershire sauce on it."

I grew up putting garlic on pretty much everything. Parsley, too. Hubby pretty much weaned me off of the parsley (although I enjoy it when I find it) but garlic is not going anywhere.

And who makes the steaks around here? Yeah, me. So what you want on your steak is garlic, and salt, and pepper. And that is it. Happiness ensues.

The travesty?

This morning he cooked a filet mignon in the George Foreman Grill. He says it was good, but...it just seems wrong to put a good cut of meat on that thing.

I'm just sayin'.

A Post-Gym Palate Cleanser

Y'all know I love the gym: spin class, man, it is great.

Unfortunately, while I love the motion of spin, the atmosphere leaves me cold.

We're tucked into a small, crowded room in the back of the gym. Lights out. And the music! Good lord. Hip-hop, Miley Cyrus and, today, both "Life Would Suck Without You" and "The Pina Colada Song".

I get out of there and need, in addition to a big bottle of water and something with MEAT in it, a serious musical palate cleanser. Thank God for YouTube.

And Tommy Castro.

Random Thoughts

Flax seed oil and Texas Pete make the world's most awesome salad dressing. As in, I am sad when my salad bowl is empty, every day at lunch. Unlike Caesar salad, which makes me sad when I see it on my plate. Totally different experience.

Painting your nails makes you realize your head itches and you need to brush your teeth.

It also makes you think that maybe all that flax seed oil is making your nails grow.

Today, a dear friend and fellow gigwidow called me so I could hear her guy practicing in the basement. It was a private concert, just for me! I love that.

I also love YouTube, because I can get all obsessy about Simon & Garfunkel or Amy Winehouse or whomever else, even if I can't find my CD. Which is a sadly frequent event.

Watching some woman in her 50s get all giggly and stupid over my 17-year-old son was as creepy as it was amusing. For me and the Son.

Today, Son #2's U.S. Government teacher showed the kids a political cartoon unlike any other she has displayed this year: It illustrated a conservative viewpoint. According to Son #2, two students gasped when they saw it.

I don't care if April showers bring May flowers, I am tired of rain.

The house is mostly clean, the Sons are fed, I submitted two articles today; I feel good.

If you put ground flax seed on your chocolate ice cream, it instantly becomes a healthy food. Especially with some banana slices.

I like the sound of the dishwasher, the washer and dryer, the snorty, sleeping dog. Sounds like home.

Hubby and I loved Slumdog Millionaire, no matter what Salman Rushdie says.

I've been productive enough, today. Some days, it is OK to decide you've done enough and want to take the evening off. I'm going to go read Hard Times.

I feel juuuuust a little sorry for that one teacher

First, you're dating someone with the maturity of a thirteen year old. He won't take you anywhere fun. Then he dumps you for the hot cheerleader. And then YOU go to jail.

Oh, right...because he IS 13.

Geez.

Are there no available adult men in Utah, that this kid looks that good to the female population?

Alternative thoughts:

--We have found the one characteristic that will keep two women who work in the same building from talking about who they are dating. Yup--"He's so cute, he's underage!" just isn't going to happen in the ladies' lounge. So at least they were THAT smart.

--Did all the little 12 and 13 year old girls at the school have crushes on this kid?

--Are we going to institute some kind of mental health screening before we hire teachers, to make sure they're not in the career because they see middle school as a dating pool?

--Perhaps every classroom should be equipped with one of those calendars they have in bars and liquor stores: "You must have been born before this date in 1990 to date the teacher".

--Maybe the school district should have mandatory "singles nights" for all the unattached staff. A chance for them to say, "See all these people? They are adults. You can go out with THEM. Or people who look and act like THEM. Because they are grown-ups."

--If your potential boyfriend is afraid to go into the teacher's lounge, or worried his mom might find out that his girl is older than she is, maybe you should just focus your energies on something other than your social life. Like visiting a shrink.

Gah. Get a grip, people! Stop crapping in the sandbox!

Yeah, that sounds good, too

Weird fact about Christine, #38: I tend to sit here and read about the nutritional profile of my food, as I eat it.

So, yeah, I'm reading about the stuff I just dumped in my tea, and I started adding more stuff. Right now I'm leaning over a hot steaming mug with a tea bag, a couple of cardamom pods, some cloves, a slice of ginger and a cinnamon stick. You instant tea people can have your way, but me, I have something to chew on, later.

Which may be disgusting, I suppose. But, hey, I'm not making YOU fish out a cardamom pod and chew it, so keep yer hands off my mug.

Completely OT? I hate Sears. I hate them all. I hate their crappy selection of stuff, their bizarre system of starting the checkout line a full 15 feet away from the cash register, and the fact that I spent hours there, last night, giving them money in exchange for Christmas gifts.

Perfection Makes Perfect

About 20 years ago, Hubby and I got a fortune cookie that rocked our world. It was not a fortune at all. It said, "Perfection makes perfect."

What the heck? We laughed about that cookie for ages.

At the time, we did not see it for what it was: a harbinger of a new day when fortune cookies wouldd not predict your future, but just piled words on you, or revisited the wisdom of your crankiest elderly relatives.

Tonight, we ordered Chinese food. Here is the sad collection of modern fortune cookie contents we endured tonight; wisdom, opinion, and wishes abound: only one could qualify as a fortune:

Share your joys and sorrows with your family.
Society prepares the crime; the criminal commits it.
Wish you a long life.
You are sociable and entertaining.
If you want to have a friend, you have to be one.
Serious trouble will bypass you.

Honestly, fortune cookie manufacturers of the world: you can do better.

On an unrelated, holiday-oriented note, Christmas preparations continue:
Two of the Sons have purchased their Secret Santa presents for their assigned brothers.
The second Christmas tree is up and decorated.
The presents we already have bought, are wrapped. Which leaves me with an updated shopping list I need to tackle, this week.
My mother came down with her annual gingerbread house extravaganza and Christmas ornament shopping trip. We are all on a sugar high.
For the third year in a row, the ornament I chose broke, before we could get it out of the bag. Traditions, man.

saRAH! saRAH! saRAH!

I have been moaning about the Presidential candidates for ages. Well, actually, I had STOPPED moaning. I had pretty much resigned myself to holding my nose and voting, when the time came.

Until.

Sweet Jesus, I have a girl-crush on Sarah Palin. SHE is the one I've been waiting for. I am so excited about the election, now.

This one, and the one in 2016.