Well, after all this time, it's finally happened.
You've met some of my family.
So you're either reading this while sitting at an airport waiting to be called for a stand-by flight back home, hoping I'll understand for your sudden, unannounced departure ............ or you're asleep by my side knowing later this week you'll meet the rest of the family and beginning to feel like you know why I am the way I am.
You silly, silly glutton for punishment, you.
**********************
Sweetheart,
We have already had so much go between us. We will, no question, have even more.
I will not make promises that are beyond my reach.
I am unable to offer assurances that are not mine to give.
I cannot hand over to you things I do not have possession of.
Simply put, all that I am - and all that I will ever be - is yours.
Happy Birthday.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Write or Wrong
When I was a child, my father would drive with the radio turned to someone talking ... 9 in 10 times it was a sport-talk station. And, as a child, I never understood why someone would have the radio turned to ANYTHING but music.
I am no longer a child.
(By the way, ^ that up there ^ has no tie-in with the rest of this stuff ... it's just something I've noticed.)
My current commute (with morning coffee stop) is about 45 minutes. My radio is either off or it is tuned to the local public radio station. Since I don't subscribe to a local newspaper and generally don't watch news broadcasts, I enjoy a brief catch-up on the world as I go to or from work. I'm introduced to books I may want to read, ideas I may want to explore ... in short, I feel a little more informed than I would have if I'd been listening to the local music stations.
Increasingly, I find myself agreeing with individuals and reporters who, I imagine and judging only by their voices, are older than I am. And, even more increasingly, I find myself rolling my eyes at opinions expressed by individuals and reporters who, I imagine and judging only by their voices, are younger than I am.
Today was such a day.
In the report I listened to, an individual who had started a blog "a long time ago in their Junior year of high school" and who was now preparing to go to college in the fall. (That was my first eye-roll ... "a long time ago" equals two years. Gotcha.)
This person originally started their blog as a way to communicate with their friends and loved the conversational-side of the method of writing that blogging provided her. ("Conversation" and "blogging" is a tough connection for me to make. "Conversation" for me means an exchange of ideas, which doesn't really involve a laptop or, at least, not a blog ... but maybe that's just me.)
Anyway now, as she was moving out of state, she found herself at a loss to develop that same sense of communicating with others. She didn't want to move to any mass-means of electronic interactivity, but she got the sense that no one was "listening" to her anymore. Her solution was to move her blog to a different host and that, she claims, has made all the difference. Within a few days, people had signed up to "follow" her writings, which made her VERY happy, and the sponsor company even held occasional meets in local areas where other hosted bloggers could get to know one another.
And I realized as I smirked and guffawed and eye-rolled through the report that - using ONLY the above as the method to measure against - the current generation seems to believe one has to be listened to to be heard ... that one can count their friends as they do any other tangible item ... and, most depressingly, that they require a keyboard to converse.
This place, for me, isn't about being heard or followed or counting friends. It's my diary. Which, I suppose, is fast becoming a term that will need to be "Googled" to understand.
How sad.
I am no longer a child.
(By the way, ^ that up there ^ has no tie-in with the rest of this stuff ... it's just something I've noticed.)
My current commute (with morning coffee stop) is about 45 minutes. My radio is either off or it is tuned to the local public radio station. Since I don't subscribe to a local newspaper and generally don't watch news broadcasts, I enjoy a brief catch-up on the world as I go to or from work. I'm introduced to books I may want to read, ideas I may want to explore ... in short, I feel a little more informed than I would have if I'd been listening to the local music stations.
Increasingly, I find myself agreeing with individuals and reporters who, I imagine and judging only by their voices, are older than I am. And, even more increasingly, I find myself rolling my eyes at opinions expressed by individuals and reporters who, I imagine and judging only by their voices, are younger than I am.
Today was such a day.
In the report I listened to, an individual who had started a blog "a long time ago in their Junior year of high school" and who was now preparing to go to college in the fall. (That was my first eye-roll ... "a long time ago" equals two years. Gotcha.)
This person originally started their blog as a way to communicate with their friends and loved the conversational-side of the method of writing that blogging provided her. ("Conversation" and "blogging" is a tough connection for me to make. "Conversation" for me means an exchange of ideas, which doesn't really involve a laptop or, at least, not a blog ... but maybe that's just me.)
Anyway now, as she was moving out of state, she found herself at a loss to develop that same sense of communicating with others. She didn't want to move to any mass-means of electronic interactivity, but she got the sense that no one was "listening" to her anymore. Her solution was to move her blog to a different host and that, she claims, has made all the difference. Within a few days, people had signed up to "follow" her writings, which made her VERY happy, and the sponsor company even held occasional meets in local areas where other hosted bloggers could get to know one another.
And I realized as I smirked and guffawed and eye-rolled through the report that - using ONLY the above as the method to measure against - the current generation seems to believe one has to be listened to to be heard ... that one can count their friends as they do any other tangible item ... and, most depressingly, that they require a keyboard to converse.
This place, for me, isn't about being heard or followed or counting friends. It's my diary. Which, I suppose, is fast becoming a term that will need to be "Googled" to understand.
How sad.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
"Might As Well Be Walking On The Sun"
It's been ... a bit warm ... at home lately. The kind of heat where you find yourself sweating just from sitting still. The kind of heat that takes away your appetite and your desire to DO anything. I've found myself saying "nahhhh ... I don't really want to brush my hair right now. I'll wait until it cools down a bit."
"Oh come on", you say as you read this. "You just are not used to the heat is all. You're soft from all that West Coast living. You clearly can't just roll with the temperatures like the rest of the country."
Yeah? Fuck. You.
It was 92 when I stepped out of the shower last night at 9:30pm.
92 ... at 9:30 at NIGHT. Which means it had cooled down to 92.
The felines are fine. They were of primary concern (of course) and honestly they got the best end of this situation. One has been living downstairs in the coolness of the basement and the other has a whole air-conditioned home to herself. The Awesome Boyfriend and I tried to make it work on Tuesday night as we settled into our bedroom but sleep wasn't gonna happen. So we split things up and slept solo, on top of beds, with fans directly on us. I managed to get about 4 hours of sleep and I could only hope that the Awesome Boyfriend did the same or better.
Last night we were smarter ... we took a note from our happy feline friends and slept in their territories. While I was a bit slow in stretching and bending this morning (from sleeping so low to the ground), I woke only because I heard the Awesome Boyfriend coming through the door. And kudos to my feline buddy too - who let me get some much needed sleep (in between licking my elbows and playing with her white mousie a few times during the night).
We'll replay the scene tonight (even 'tho the weather dorks say the heatwave has broken) and sweet relief will arrive tomorrow. How do I know this?
Because when the repairman arrives to fix our central air, I'm taking the keys to his truck and he's won't be going anywhere until the unit is fixed or completely replaced. Period.
And THAT'S how "West Coasters" roll. Word to your mother. Peace out.
"Oh come on", you say as you read this. "You just are not used to the heat is all. You're soft from all that West Coast living. You clearly can't just roll with the temperatures like the rest of the country."
Yeah? Fuck. You.
It was 92 when I stepped out of the shower last night at 9:30pm.
92 ... at 9:30 at NIGHT. Which means it had cooled down to 92.
The felines are fine. They were of primary concern (of course) and honestly they got the best end of this situation. One has been living downstairs in the coolness of the basement and the other has a whole air-conditioned home to herself. The Awesome Boyfriend and I tried to make it work on Tuesday night as we settled into our bedroom but sleep wasn't gonna happen. So we split things up and slept solo, on top of beds, with fans directly on us. I managed to get about 4 hours of sleep and I could only hope that the Awesome Boyfriend did the same or better.
Last night we were smarter ... we took a note from our happy feline friends and slept in their territories. While I was a bit slow in stretching and bending this morning (from sleeping so low to the ground), I woke only because I heard the Awesome Boyfriend coming through the door. And kudos to my feline buddy too - who let me get some much needed sleep (in between licking my elbows and playing with her white mousie a few times during the night).
We'll replay the scene tonight (even 'tho the weather dorks say the heatwave has broken) and sweet relief will arrive tomorrow. How do I know this?
Because when the repairman arrives to fix our central air, I'm taking the keys to his truck and he's won't be going anywhere until the unit is fixed or completely replaced. Period.
And THAT'S how "West Coasters" roll. Word to your mother. Peace out.
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