Selfish

It was, perhaps, a bit selfish, but I spent Valentine's Day appreciating ... myself.

The bitter joke is that February 14 is really Singles Awareness Day.

I, however, am already quite aware that I am single. And for the first time in a long time - perhaps ever - I was appreciative of my unattached status on the Day of Love. I decided to celebrate it.

I changed the meaning of the acronym - SAD became Sarah Appreciation Day. I dressed up. I wore the pearls that Matt and Molly gave me. I went shopping. I bought myself chocolates and two Agatha Christie mysteries. I rented a movie. I fixed a fabulous (and pretty) dinner and had my first-ever steamed artichoke (I liked it, but that's a lot of work for not very much artichoke). I felt vindicated, though, in steaming and then ripping apart the artichoke, as it was the same one that attacked me at Safeway a few days ago. Vengence was dipped in melted butter and tasted pretty good.

I wished almost every person I ran into a Happy Valentine's Day. It felt like Christmas. I was brimming with good cheer and determined to share it. I was contemplating the different kinds of love that we experience in life, and I was thankful for the love I was reminded of yesterday.

My dad sent flowers (tulips!) to my office Friday. I ran into a former professor and mentor (and current friend) in Wal-Mart last night who had been snagged by a desperate-looking man in need of Rose Advice. Among the three of us, I think he walked away secure in a doghouse-free Valentine's Day, and then the professor and I caught up in a whirlwind of chatter next to the gourmet cheese case. I talked to Brooke. I talked to my mom.

I drank too much wine (the story of my Valentine's Day-affiliated life), but it was good wine, so that's (almost) OK. It'll be a lot more OK later today, after I've eaten something ...

I'm OK with selfish on a day like Valentine's Day. I've spent too many of them moping and feeling sorry for myself, wishing that this or that had turned out differently so I could spend that day with Someone Special, neglecting to look in the mirror and realize that I already was, and that in the continued absence of the Best Company (aka Mr. Right), my own company is pretty good to keep.

And, as Holly would remind me, a bigger Someone reminds us every day of His love, and that's worth celebrating, whether it comes cleverly wrapped with heart-spangled ribbon or whispered to a lonely heart on a bitter Valentine's night ...

Mr. Cellophane

The weekend was good.

Friday, I caught up with Holly, who got me thinking about Tunisia this fall. We'll see. A desert trek on camel back sounds very tempting.

Saturday, I finally met someone I've intermittently written to for the past several months, and we went to Denver to see "Chicago" at the Buell Theatre. It's been 12 years since I was at the Buell, and I looked every inch the country bumpkin as I tried to walk-n'-gawk at the same time. The result was bumping into much more suave city dwellers who scowled at me for being in distracted awe of the glass-covered theater district and for daring to block their busy path.

We got back to Laramie around 2:30 Sunday morning and zonked out (I'm happy to report that the air mattress was much kinder to Fuzzy that it has ever been to me). Slept through church, but had good coffee and conversation, then bid Fuzzy farewell and went shopping, where I was rewarded with on-sale lobster tails, which made a good dinner (hurrah!)

A note of caution, though: Half a bottle of wine combined with the conclusion of "Sense and Sensibility" is not recommended. It had quite a depressant effect, which was countered slightly by a long, brisk walk, but still ...

And now, the grind, which today involved watching one of our photographers get rearended by a screaming minivan-wielding woman in the intersection by our building. Not a typical Monday, for sure, but the typical stuff has to eventually get done, too, I suppose ...

Mundane me

So ... Sunday was good.

I was late for church (as usual) which was more embarrassing than usual, because we now have a later service ... and I still missed most of worship. Eek. My keys did an unfortunate disappearing act as I was trying to get out the door, then my Bible ran away ...

But I sat with Adrian and Paul (though I didn't actually meet Paul 'til after the service).

Paul, it turns out, works with the Navigators here in Laramie and does recruiting for overseas missions work.

The New Thing I learned on Sunday: You can teach English as an overseas missionary with the Navigators. I thought it was all campus-oriented-type work, like what I experienced here in Laramie -- leading Bible studies and doing on-campus witnessing and discipling fellow students.

Oh, no -- you can be the confrontational weenie that I am and teach English and still tell people about Jesus ... which is cool. Paul started talking about a guy who teaches English in Djibouti (seriously -- when was the last time Djibouti made the news?), and since he's, like, the only person there teaching people English, he knows all the higher-ups in the country, and since the U.S. is eager to form relationships there, they helped him out, too. Very cool.

So that was Paul.

I had McAllister's for lunch with Adrian -- and ate the ginormous-est potato to ever grow in Earth's dirt. I had to take a picture of it. Actually, I found out today that it was likely two potatoes made to look like one, but for five bucks, I got the mondo Veggie Spud with cheese and tons of veggies, complete with friendly service by a thickly accented guy from Georgia who highly recommended the sweet tea (which, it turns out, you can buy by the gallon ...).

And then we went ice skating, which turned out to be a non-terror. I wish I had the on-ice confidence that some of the hockey skate-wearing kids had -- I did the I'm-going-to-fall-ungracefully windmill a few times, but I managed to stay upright and moving forward, which was better than sliding on my arse into the wall ... as I saw one fella do. I kept my dignity and my tush intact and unbruised.

The rest of the day was kind of dull, but considering that my legs felt good for nothing after an afternoon of sliding around on frozen water, dull was OK. I did watch the first installment of "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" on Masterpiece Classic, which is a depressing story, but it was also a good Sunday evening. I can't believe it's already been a year since the last installment of Masterpiece Classic, when they started with "Jane Eyre" and then kept us happy with film adaptations of all six Jane Austen novels. This year looks as though it will feature a lengthy tribute to Charles Dickens, so I made a trip to Night Herron to beef up my Dickens collection. I'll let you know how that goes.

tissue, please

We decided that it was time for a family outing to the movie theater over Christmas, and as Matt and Molly had been listing to "Marley and Me" on CD on the way out here, that's what we opted for.

I should have known I was ill prepared when a woman at the counter said she'd seen it the night before and that we should take tissues.

Well, I had tissues. Two of them, one of which I gave to my mom.

Which wound up being horribly inadequate for an hour and a half of tears dripping off my face.

I cried like a little kid. I cried almost as much as I cried the day Matt and I had to put down our dog, Frisky.

Mom was sobbing next to me. Molly (tissueless) was sniffling into her scarf on the other side of Matt. The theater was full of sniffling, sobbing, sappy people. I never was so glad to be surrounded by crybabies in my life -- I didn't want to be the only softie crying my eyes out over a loyal, trouble-making, adorable yellow lab and his fourteen years with his family.

The movie ended, and we went home, where Molly immediately went downstairs to pet Tacori. I went to the back room to tell Charlie that he's a wonderful dog and to scratch his ears for a while.
It was a great movie, whatever the bitter AP film critic said. "It should be called 'New Yeller,'" someone else opined.

Not quite. Not nearly. Yeller was in his own well-deserved category of tear-jerker, and Marley was not Yeller. At least, I didn't think so ...

I had to laugh (a very little bit -- it sounded like a sob-choked hiccup) when John has to take Marley to the vet when he first starts to show signs of not being well. He very passionately explains to the vet - who has just told him that most dogs don't survive this type of illness - that this is not an ordinary dog; that the this dog once sat up all night with to his sick son, just watching over him; that he once ate an entire answering machine -- he didn't just chew on it, he ATE it. She nods and admits that he may pull through it after all.

I haven't read the book, and I'm told that the movie (as expected) left out some critical portions of the story ... so I think I'm going to have to read it now.

All of that to say this:

If you need a warm fuzzy of a movie, I think I found it for you. Just make sure you take more than two tissues. And cuddle with your dog afterward.

Mundane noodle

So ... I'm watching "A Christmas Story" on TBS (of course -- it's Christmas Eve, after all), and I just noticed that one of the threads of the tapestry of obscenities Ralphie's dad weaves over Lake Michigan while swearing at the heater in the basement is "you mundane noodle!"

Which cracked me up.

I just wanted to share that ...

Audrey's got it

My dad hates celebrities. He can't name them, but he pretty much despises them all.

It's not that he hates entertainment; he just really hates that the mundane activities of a person's life constitute any portion of a news report. He just doesn't care. He doesn't care who an actor is in a movie -- if it's a good movie, then great. If not, so what.

"Trash," he mutters, shaking his head as he wanders past the eternally babbling television. "Who cares about that smut?!" Sometimes there's a shaken fist to emphasize it. "All they did was smile for a camera and get strategically naked!" At the store, it's an over-exaggerated snort at the check-out aisle -- "PSH! Garbage ..." Heads turn to look at the guy talking to himself next to the displays of "People," "Star," and "OK!"

He can't tell one celebrity from another (except for George Clooney; Dad isn't a Clooney fan).

And that's okay. Life carries on, whether Dad knows who's dating Paris Hilton, whether Britney's in or out of rehab or who's getting married/divorced/having a baby or not.

And so I was taken aback several years ago when, in a conversation about "Breakfast at Tiffany's," my dad got this glassed-over look to his eyes and a faint, far-away smile on his face as he wistfully said, "Audrey Hepburn was so stunning in that movie. She was, like, the standard for femininity after that."

And he was serious.

I think I may have been talking to the teenager in my dad during those five minutes, but it got me to thinking about true celebrity: The staying power that someone's enigmatic presence can have.

Forget drug problems, relationship problems, money problems. That's not celebrity. Not true celebrity, at least.

True celebrity, I think, comes long after the individual can reap an endorsement contract (or jail senetence) from their actions.

True celebrity is recognized more than forty years later, when a guy in his fifties smiles wistfully and remembers what it was like to see a truly beautiful woman on a black-and-white screen mesmerize a world with her charm, beauty and talent.

Audrey's still got it, fifty years later.

I'm not sure that many of today's "celebrities" will be remembered for much of their actual work in fifty years.

But in fifty years, it will have been a century since "Breakfast at Tiffany's," and if my dad were to live 'til then, I think he'd still get that far-away look in his eyes when he talked about it ...

Confessions of a Cavedweller

In the midst of all the hype over the latest Daniel-Craig-is-so-hot-when-he's-blowing-stuff-up-in-a-Bond-flick ... er, flick ...

I have to admit:

I have never seen a "James Bond" movie. Ever. Not one.

Is this something for which I should apologize to the world?

Tonight's advice

I highly recommend against falling asleep during any of the "Lord of the Rings" movies, and most especially during the second half of "The Two Towers." Not only because they're fabulous movies, but the Battle at Helm's Deep will leave you with some funky and terrifying nightmares. All that grunting and snarling and such .... very disturbing nightmares.

Am I odd?

When I was little, our family had one of those old-fashioned popcorn poppers -- you know, the tower-looking thing where you pour the kernels into a top tray while the popper warms up, and when the base was warm enough, you'd dump the load of kernels in, and a few minutes later, like a magical snow machine or something ... fluffy white bits of popcorn would come whooshing out of the "spout" and into the bowl that had better be there to catch it all.

All the while, there was a metal tray on top, filled with butter, which would be melting (the butter, not the tray) from the hot air coming up with the popcorn. You'd pour the melted butter on to the bowl of popcorn ... giddiness with butter on top.

I miss that popper. It was magical to a 7- or 8-year-old kid.

My microwave thingy just doesn't cut it. There's no magic, no trays, no butter melting as the popcorn pops.

In other nostalgia, I really miss the old Disney "Sleepy Hollow" cartoon. I think I'm going to have to order that one this year.

It can always get better

My day yesterday began (well, toward the beginning, at least) with me dropping my hair pick, watching it bounce off the bathroom counter ... and right into the toilet. Nothin' but water. Ick. So now I'm down to one hair pick.

It continued on to work, where I forgot about doing a page until very, very late. And then something was wrong with the way our plates were printing, which meant we had to dig D out of bed to walk us through re-sending some stuff.

"We gotta quit meeting like this, Sarah," she said.

"I know," I said. "I think I talk to you more on the phone than I do in person, and I see you every day."

In the pause of waiting for a page to (slowly) process, we chatted about life, namely her newly 15-year-old daughter. "Am I offering congratulations or sympathy?" I asked.

"We're still debating," she said. She sounded very tired. The 15th birthday came complete with a driver's permit and a new reason to stay up very late at night worrying.

I finally left the office around midnight ...

In unrelated news: September is the month when we celebrate Johnny Appleseed.

My only education of Johnny Appleseed involved a musical cartoon produced by Disney in the late '40s. I dug up my very old dictionary (a big, red, mouse-nibbled, hardbound copy of the American Heritage Dictionary that's too outdated to be allowed as a reference in any place but my home -- it was tucked under my bed, which indicated that the last time I read it was in bed ... some might find this a bit sad). The "Johnny Appleseed" listing instructed me to look up "Champman, John," which I did, only to find two brief lines; basically, when he lived and that he's become a legendary figure in American history. I realize that a dictionary's not an encyclopedia, but I was still expecting a bit more.

Giving up, I hit YouTube and found that old Disney cartoon and got re-acquainted with Johnny Appleseed. When all else fails, YouTube is there to educate.

The night ended with a two-hour chat on the phone with Mom, which is a good way to end any day. Of course, I got the extended story of Mr. Nice-n-Handsome. And a lot more stuff, including the Church Ladies' Guide to Baking Bread and Discussing Fertility (only in my mom's women's group at church could this happen ...).

Wyoming Weekend

Actually, it was a Gillette weekend. A good weekend.

Mom and I spent Saturday garage-saling. I haven't been to a garage sale in years, and I was proud to have honed my scavenging skills among the racks of Nu2U, Goodwill, the ARC and Savers, because these skills helped me make a haul on Saturday. I came back to Laramie with considerably more than I left with.

That includes three boxes of books that I was ordered to clear out of the storage shed. In the whole scheme of the storage shed, three boxes (four, if you count the box of stuff I didn't want back) don't take up that much room, but ... I was really glad to get my original-edition Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden books back. I'd been wondering about those.

I'm scared for the next trip home, though. I think I'll have to tackle the bags (and bags and bags) of stuffed animals, and I'm not quite sure that I'm up to it.

Sunday was church and a potluck and lots people who I don't know but who apparently know plenty about me. It kind of makes me uncomfortable to have a conversation about my hopes and dreams with a person whose name I can't remember. When they get into boyfriends, I really get worried. How come they know so much about me, and I can't even remember their name?

I spent pretty much all of Monday with the Springers.

I passed along the joy of twirling to a 2-year-old. I got to get in hours and hours of baby talk and baby grins and baby squeals.

I tried to share the joy of Fat Tire with Brooke, but she said she doesn't like it as much as the lime-flavored Bud Light. I think she's crazy.

And I learned that some guy at Brooke's church was just dumped by his girlfriend and that this one fact ought to be persuasion enough for me to move back to Gillette. But she couldn't remember his name. Guess I'm staying in Laramie for now.

I also learned that 2-year-old girls, given a box of raisins at 9 p.m., will be mesmerized by "13 Going on 30."

I just need to get her to learn the phrases "I'm reading Jane Austen," "I need more shoes, Mom" and "Michael Phelps is awesome." And then my portion of Amelie's education will be complete.

But twirling was a good start.

Spent time with the folks, who still think that, despite a perfectly good and usable college degree, I should drive a truck in circles at a coal mine. The money's definitely better, but .... it would be in Gillette. We all know how I feel about that.

I attempted navigating the length of Highway 59. In the rain. On a weekend. I offered a fervent prayer of thanks that I arrived back home alive, physically unscathed, with my sanity intact. I also managed, after almost 30 years of calling Gillette "home," to take a wrong turn on my way home, because the orange cones were set up in a totally confusing way. Can't wait 'til it snows on that one.

Spent time with the dog, who is still terrified of traffic and practically wrapped himself around my legs for the hour-long duration of our walk in the rain. If not for the paranoid clinging, I think it might have been a considerably shorter (drier, warmer) walk. But who knows. Charlie (the dog) met his first bunny and his first herd of antelope, and he couldn't understand why neither wanted to be best buds with him. He looked a little hurt when they all just ran away from him. And then he went back to wrapping himself around my legs.

So yeah -- good weekend. I was sad to have to come back today. I'm ready for another vacation.

Shooting Stars and Suicidal Humming Birds Musing

Meteors and other Minor Miracles

The last time I saw a meteor shower, I was in college. It was the Leonid meteor shower, and it came at a time when I remember feeling that God was distant. So, at 3-ish in the morning, I hopped in my car and drove the 10 miles up the interstate to Happy Jack Road, meandered a few miles down that road, and pulled over.

I remember that Third Day's "Show Me Your Glory" was playing on K-LOVE as multiple streaks of fire flashed across the sky ... and I know that the song didn't last the full hour or so that I was up there watching it, but it's the only song that I remember from that night ... and I truly felt that God was, indeed, showing me His glory. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.

So I was pretty excited yesterday when I came into the office to check my e-mail and the news, only to find out that a meteor shower was going on that very night. It said 2 a.m. was going to be the peak of activity. Since I'd slept a good portion of the afternoon (you really don't feel like doing much else when your stomach's not feeling too steady), I figured it was the perfect night to head up to watch God's glory streaking across the sky again (this was the Perseid meteor shower, for the recrod. I have no idea what that means).

All evening, I had a Gilmore-a-thon. In the evening, it was "Sense and Sensibility," laundry and dishes. Praying with a friend through a hard time. And then ... it was after 1. Time to head up the mountain ...

It was a perfect night. After clouds had skittered across the sky all afternoon, the skies were crystal-clear, and up on the mountain, the Milky Way was breath-takingly clear to see. In the distance, Laramie's lights glittered, and an occasional vehicle passed. It was cool, but not cold, and my crazy fear of hungry, crawling creatures (read: bears, mountain lions, coyotes and the like) and of snakes seaking the warmth of the pavement kept me inside my car, but I rolled the window down and rested my head on my arms as I carefully watched the night sky for the natural fireworks display. There was a breeze, but not a wind. And though there were clouds, they stayed on the periphery of the sky, politely keeping to the horizon so I could have a front-row seat to this rare show.

It wasn't as rapid-fire or spectacular as the Leonid shower, but any time I get to see a shooting star of any kind is, I think, a treat ... and I got at least a couple dozen treats last night. Some were so miniscule that they were difficult to see; some were seen merely in my peripheral vision, gone before I could shift my gaze to see them in time. Some left brilliant white streaks in the sky that lasted for several seconds after the meteor itself had burned out. Some were simply balls of fire that blasted across the sky, leaving no trail. Third Day was not on the radio, but, for the most part, I left the radio off this time, opting for a nature soundtrack instead. The breeze whispered through the rough prairie grasses, around rocks. I never heard foot/paw steps around my car, but I think I did finally hear my first coyote call. It was either a coyote or some unknown, inner part of my car groaning in agony. It was difficult to tell. I prefer to think it was a coyote. Having lived in Wyoming for the greater part of 30 years, I ought to be able to say that I've heard them at least once, don't you think?

After a half hour, my neck was stiff and in rebellion, and I was getting a little creeped out by the coyote calls. It was after 2, and though I'd seen more meteors than I would have on a regular night, I couldn't really tell that there had been a "peak;" rather, the frequency had dropped off a bit ... and then I realized: I live in Wyoming. And the "2 a.m." forecast likely had referred to Eastern Time, which would have meant that over Curt Gowdy State Park, the show would have peaked at midnight .... and I had missed it. Sad.

But I saw the meteors; I saw the glory. It was a good night, in all. Jane Austen. Encouragement and prayer with a friend. Fire across the sky. My faith has felt dry and lacking and almost non-existent the better part of this past year; probably longer -- and that's my own fault, mostly -- but last night was reassuring. That breeze across the prairie was like the gentle whisper that I had prayed for my friend. The Voice that Elijah didn't hear in the earthquake, didn't hear in the mighty rushing wind, didn't hear in the fire ... it was in the gentle whisper that followed all those noisy, rumbly things. That was the voice that ruffled the grass and sagebrush last night, that accompanied a coyote's lonely call, that brushed my face with coolness and reassurance as I watched for lights to traverse the sky.

The Hummingbird

As I walked to my car on my dinner break Friday night, a little hummingbird came buzzing right by me and then in front of me, and then it must have seen its reflection in the glass doors ahead of me, and it must have wanted to meet the "other hummingbird" that it saw.

Because it flew right in the glass. And then again. And then again.

And just as I thought that the poor hummingbird was suicidal and was going to kill itself this way, it finally must have decided that the other hummingbird was rude and unsociable (not to mention unreachable), because it finally flew away ... but man -- what a beating to take for the sake of meeting a potential new friend.

Off to See the Wizard Musing

So ... wow, the wind came last night. I looked for Dorothy and Toto to go flying by my window, but then I remembered -- I'm not in Kansas ... (alright -- bad joke).

It seriously was really windy, though, and I had to keep the radio on in case they decided to give us tornado warning, since I'd never hear the excuses they have for sirens around here, even if I was fully awake.

I was kind of excited, really. I had just finished watching "Open Range" the night before and was wistful for the simplistic romance of that time, and then along comes this wind. I got out the candles, pre-boiled some water for tea, sat in my rocking chiar and waited ... only to be thoroughly disappointed. The power never went out. I never had to light the candles (I lit them anyway ...). I did drink a lot of good tea, though, and I got to enjoy my rocking chair, which is always nice ... but I wanted the power to go out. Call me odd.

Guilty Pleasure?

I have an odd confession. I love the movie "Open Range." I'm not a Western movie fan by any stretch, so I don't know why this one has captured my fancy -- the circumstances surrounding the first time I ever saw it are kind of funny and definitely require a story of their own -- but I think that maybe it's that black-and white definition between the good guys and the bad guys and the occasional necessity to duke it out/shoot it out on Main Street. Maybe that's a simplistic way to look at the movie, or at life, but I think that sometimes, as complicated as things can seem, you just need something simple like that every now and then.

What's in your toothpaste?

So, I was watching this commercial for toothpaste (I think it was Colgate), with Brooke Shields advocating for them, and they start talking about their great new ingredient, silica. Do you know what silica is? It's sand. They're putting sand in your toothpaste and expecting you to a) pay extra for it and b) scrub your teeth with it.

On a remotely related note, China's state news agency is reporting that the head of China's food and drug safety administration was executed this week. This on the heels of recalls of toothpaste made in China because of an unsafe ingredient they've been using. Michael Brown thought he had it rough for being "forced" out of his job at FEMA? The doorknob should be glad he didn't botch a Katrina-sized problem in China.

I watched a program this weekend that reported that China executes an average of 8,000 people per year; most of them, I can only guess, for minor infractions against a near-totalitarian Communist government. The focus of this same television program was China's attempt at a people's court system, which was fascinating ... watching the attempt at a "fair" judicial system within the confines of a Communist framework. It is a far cry from Western law, but it's a start; maybe one more fissure in a system that will hopefully crumble in our lifetime.

And that's the end of today's political dialogue.

Ellen the Hair Lady

I know that Chris has ranted about Fantastic Sam's, but with a few exceptions, I've rarely had a bad experience there. In Chris' defense, most of my bad FS experiences were in Gillette, so there you go.

My girl at FS here in Laramie was Tiffany, a sweet but slightly odd girl. Hers was the only really decorated station in the whole shop. Some girls would have photos of their kids, maybe their husbands/boyfriends, a card from a friend, etc. Not Tiffany.

Tiffany had flimsy, filmy, gauzy stuff draped over the mirror, china dolls all over the place (it was kind of creepy, really), framed art around her station ... I don't know what to compare it to, but it was the only hairdresser's station of its kind that I've ever seen.

So when I went in on Saturday for my waaaaaaay-overdue trim/cut, I was sad to see that all the gauze, all the china dolls, all the framed art -- and Tiffany herself -- were gone. So I got Ellen instead.

Ellen smells like the cigarettes that she smokes. Ellen doesn't smile. Ellen doesn't chat. Ellen isn't gentle. And Ellen doesn't dawdle. She does call everyone "hon," in that raspy, I've-been-smoking-since-I-knew-how-to-breathe kind of voice, and she did do a good job -- that has to be said. But it was the fastest, least conversational haircut I've ever had.

And, on a vain note, it was the least complimentary haircut I've ever had. I like getting my hair done, because it's usually at a point where I'm sick of it, but the girl who's doing it usually goes on and on about how thick and curly and long and well-taken care of it is ... and it really boosts my self-esteem about my hair.

Not Ellen. She agreed with every depricating thing I had to say about my hair ... and then she left it at that. Nothing about the curl. Nothing about the thickness. No comments about how well I must condition it (and, dangit, I do condition it a lot ...). I was sad when I left Ellen. Sad and soggy-headed. But, like I said, it looks a lot better. And feels a lot better. I still tipped her, but I wanted to add a note on my receipt: "You could talk a bit, you know." But I didn't. I think I felt intimidated. So I just left to go get my oil changed instead (that's another self-depricating story; I hate getting my oil changed).

Hmm ... Musing

I guess I'm back to the randomness that makes up this blog.

I watched "Catch and Release" earlier this week, and it was a pretty good movie, I have to say. It's set in Boulder, of all places, which made me happy ... even movie directors realize that there is a large chunk of America between the two coasts ...

And then I watched "Mission Impossible: 2." Why? WHY???? I want my $2 and my life back. It had no plot. It had a lot of slow-mo scenes to emphasize Tom Cruise's and Thandie Newton's hair, lots of sultry looks between the two, zero lead-in as to why we should care about either character .... and, it seemed, no plot. It was a 180-degree turn from what made the first movie so great. There was nothing intelligent about it, no twists in the plot because, as I said before, there was no plot. I truly, truly pity the people who paid $6 or $7 or $8 to see it in a theater. And then had to sit there for the whole thing. There should have been riots. Tom Cruise and his hair should have been run out of the country and not allowed back in until he had personally apologized to every person who was tricked into watching his movie.

*****

The worst thing about being single and far from home is being sick when you're single and far from home. You start to remember all the times your mom would come in a put her hand on your forhead, rub your back, take your temperature, give you cold ginger ale and crackers, put cool, clean sheets on your bed, wrap you up in a blanket and just hold you ... you rememember all of that as you're staggering to the bathroom, hoping you don't faint along the way, and wondering if you have the strenth to open the can of soup or to lift the ginormous bottle of ginger ale to the glass ... You remember all of that while you're struggling to change the sheets on your own bed before you pass out, when you're taking a bath to make the pain go away and hoping you don't drown in the bathtub, when you feel too weak to even take the thermometer out of your mouth, much less look at it ... And you start to think, "I could move back into my parents' house ..."

But I can't. They rented out my bedroom. And the Creepy Man lives in the basement.

****

You know what I hate about Web sites these days?? Those stupid mortgage rate ads. You know which ones I'm talking about -- they've got psychotic dancing people, silhouettes, or -- in today's ad on the Weather Channel page -- a dancing alien. They're obnoxious. They're ugly. And I will never click on one, even when the day comes when I need a mortgage. They try to personalize it by saying that rates have fallen AGAIN in (pick a state). I think this is more obnoxious. You should be able to block the ads that you don't want to see when you're cruising the Web ... just a thought. There's at least one rant for today.

****

This is quite possibly the most disjointed post I've created to date. It has no point; never did. And it's now been spread out over two days. I feel like I'm just kind of bouncing all over the place. Reading back through this thing, I kind of am. *sigh*

I hate the Top-Whatever radio station here in Laramie. There are no DJs. Nada. No one talks to you, except the same pervert-sounding guy who tells you that this is "The new Planet 96.9." I'd have second thoughts about allowing my children to talk to someone who perpetually sounded like that. And "new" in this case is definitely not better.

What's worse -- there's no one to tell you who or what you're listening to. I'm serious. There are computer-generated stations that at least have some chick with a phony British accent who tells you at the end of each song what it is you've just listened to ... just in case you cared. But this is not the case on this radio station. The non-XMed among us in Laramie will be talking about "that song" on the radio, but you never know if your "that song" is the same as the "that song" that someone else is talking about ... because the new station owners left their brain on the bargaining table. Nerds.

I feel cheated.

***

I had something else profound to add to this mishmash of thoughts ...

Ah -- I found a journal entry today, from just over five years ago, where I had written down that I weighed 222 pounds. Ouch. I've recently seen photos from that time. It was not pretty. I was not pretty. Up through about two years ago, I looked and felt that way ... What a load (literally) off my back.

Suddenly, however heavy I thought I was this morning just didn't seem so bad, and carrots didn't seem like a terrible alternative to getting a pastry at Starbucks. In fact, I skipped Starbucks altoghether (Jesse would be proud, since he was pounding his fist on the bar last night in a loud anti-Starbucks rant ...). Because, no matter how bad I think I look or weigh now, it's nowhere near as bad as it was then. And no matter how much I might be craving the entire half-gallon of ice cream, the yummy pastry or the mouth-watering double-bacon cheeseburger with extra cheese and extra bacon ... none of it is worth risking a re-approach of those days/weights/looks.

Viva Weight Watchers.