PET PEEVE INJECTION: MightyMO has a great deal on his cell phone plan, and he should, because HIS PHONE DOES NOT WORK AT OUR HOUSE! ARGH! It's the most frustrating thing EVER. Mind you, we gave up home phones quite some time ago, so our cells are "IT". He has to walk outside the house, find magnetic north, and stand on one leg while holding his mouth right to get a signal. He got a newer phone, and this got worse!
Sunday, May 29, 2011
A whole lot of flushing the toilet water today...
Friday, May 27, 2011
Blog Names
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Life is like a country song.
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♫ ♪ "Take this job and shove it..."♫ ♪
♫ ♪ "I was country, when country wasn't cool... "♫ ♪
♫ ♪ "Don't it make my brown eyes blue....." ♫ ♪
♫ ♪ "Some day, I hope you get the chance, to live like you were dyin'."♫ ♪
♫ ♪ "My home's in Alabama, no matter where I lay my head..." ♫ ♪
♫ ♪ "Jesus, take the wheel.'' ♫ ♪
I don't routinely listen to country music, but there is something to be said for a country ballad. A sweet story, set to music. Country music contains a lot of truth. And simplicity. And a message that the best parts of life are the little things.
Early in life, my "dream" was to go back to the country. I wanted another shot at having a horse, at the space, and the silence. I orignially wanted to go back to East Tennessee. I love the rolling hills, the hardwood trees and the change of seasons. I thought my grandparents farm property would always be in the family, and that someday I would be able to claim some of it as my own. Some of the property is still in the family, but, the part that was in my dream has long since been sold. At the point that it was sold, I kind of gave up on the dream. My expectations were shattered. It's only recently that I am beginning to realize that the dream didn't go away, only the property did. I am daring to let myself reclaim the dream.
This morning, I heard a country music song, and watched country music video. I wish I could tell you the title, but I can't, because it's my song, and it happened in my head. I am not sure where it came from, and I certainly don't have the skills to translate the music to something that can be shared. I can describe the scene, but there are no lyrics. But, I know there is singing. It's a power ballad. I can see it and hear it my head.
It starts in some big city office, with the middle aged professional mom sitting behind a desk, surrounded by pictures of kids. She stares a computer screen, but her expression shows that she's exasperated, and wondering if this is what it is all about. Cut away to a scene in a car. She's negotiating traffic, then pulling out of a fast food drive through, and passing out burgers to the back seat, while on the way to the evening activity, where she cheers on her child on in soccer, or football, or whatever it is. Cut away to mom and kids entering a dark house, unlocking the door, and heading off in different directions. Her husband sleeps in the recliner, while she folds clothes, and cleans a kitchen, and tucks kids into bed. The video pans around to show a nice home, with nice things, but all in kind of a dull, muted light, that is indicative of the lack of joy. It's not unhappiness, it just lacks joy. And laughter. Fade to black...
Cut away to the same middle aged woman staring out her office window, while folks in power suits chatter on behind her, while they examine graphs, and charts and point at computer screens. Out the window, she sees something bright, something that is symbolism for joy. It is a catalyst. She stands up, and walks out. Everyone looking at her like she's lost her mind.
Cut away back to the house. But the rooms are brighter, because light is pouring in, and spotlighting packing boxes, and through the windows you can tell there is a giant yard sale going on outside. Middle age woman walks, with purpose, down the drive and hammers the "for sale by owner" sign into the ground in the front yard. She turns and walks toward the yard sale activities with resolve, with purpose and without blinking.
Cut away to mom and kids in a beat up SUV, kids giggling in the back, holding a box full of baby chickens, driving down a dirt road in the country, and a turning into a long gravel driveway. The SUV is pulling a u-haul trailer. The SUV stops in front of an old, country house. It needs some work, but it is homey, and white-washed bright. And as mom and kids unload the u-haul, there is laughter. There is joy. Dad walks out of the house, holding a paint brush or some tools or something. He's not out of the picture, he's just not a significant part of the change for some reason.
The picture cuts away again -- to whatever the catalyst was. The brightness that brought about the courage, and determination to make the change. The picture fades to black, before we know what it was.
My song, and my video, tells a story about walking away from the complications, going to the simple things. It communicates that the simple things are not always easy. Sometimes they are a lot harder than the complications.
Obviously, I don't work in a big city office, or wear power suits. It's not totally me, but its symbolic of my life. I am wondering when (if!) I will ever see the brightness, will I find MY catalyst. Will I have the guts to pursue the dream? I hope so.
I want to find the tune, and write the lyrics, and experience the joy.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
What's in a name?
There are family stories behind my name. Some, I believe to have been embellished, and some I believe are fact. My name, lovely as it was (and is) was the source of much childish torture, teenage angst and adult frustration. Sometimes, families get so wrapped up in the sentiments of names, they forget they have life long impact. I have seriously considered changing my name, as a matter of convenience
I was christened "Letitia Susan".
Problem 1 - Non-phonetic Pronunciation:
Do not attempt to pronounce my first name phonetically. It will come out wrong, and might get you punched. For some reason, people want to make the "tit" in the middle a syllable of its own. The correct pronunciation is "lə-TISH-ə ", hence the nick name "Tish". Calling me "lə-TIT-ee-uh" is not likely to get an answer.
Problem 2 : - Non-phonetic Spelling:
I have probably wasted a full year of my life dealing with how to spell my name. Here is a transcript of a routine conversation for me at a doctors office, getting my drivers license renewed, registering for a class, etc, calling the bank, etc:
Clerk: "What is your full name?"Problem 3 - Even good kids are cruel:
Me: "lə-TISH-ə Sus..."
Clerk interrupts: "Wait, will you spell that for me?"
Me: "Sure, L, E, T, I, T, I"
Clerk, interrupts me: "I got the the 'T, I', what comes after the I?"
Me: "T, I"
Interrupts again. "No, after that.."
Me: "Another T, and another I"
Clerk looks at me, totally dazed and confused, because the "sh" sound is not computing.
I glare. And then hiss "Let me spell the whole thing for you, write down every letter, please, even if they repeat. Are you ready?" Clerk braces themselves and then I proceed, "L, E, T, I, T, I, A".
The clerk reads it back, disbelieving. Then takes a deep breath, and bracing for the worst asks "What's your middle name?" I say, "Susan". There is a visible sigh as of relief. I have had a couple of people ask me if it is spelled wrong, too.
I was called Tish from the day I was born. I guess no one ever dreamed about how similar this sounded to the word "tissue", and the implications of what "tissue paper" is used for. Lets just say, elementary school was not fun, especially since I was always having to make new friends. (I went to 7 different schools first through eighth grades.) To top it off, I was very, very thin, tall and lanky, and well, tissue paper wasn't a far stretch. I tried to pretend it didn't bother me, but it did.
Problem 4 - Family names carry expectations:
I am named after some very special people. Letitia is after my paternal grandmother, and Susan is after my maternal grandmother and a beloved great-aunt. But here, the story is not about my name, but my younger brothers. Here is the condensed version of the story of his name, and the baggage I got, because of his name.
My paternal grandparents were hard working, and successful, and over the years became a part of semi-elite small town social circles. Appearances, proper etiquette and social standing were very important to them. My father, the youngest of 3 children, and only boy, was a name sake. He was John Walter Robinson, Jr. From the day he was born, it was expected that he would grow up and run the family business. Except that as a teen and young man, and an adult, my dad screwed up. Repeatedly. My grandfather could not stand to have his name or reputation tarnished. So, in order to protect the family name, my grandfather bailed my dad out of each and every horrible situation he got himself into. As a result of this, and other factors, my dad never, even as an adult, learned how to stand on his own two feet. My mother, early in the marriage, saw the writing on the wall. She did not want this to happen to my brother. She and my dad decided, in spite of family pressure, not to make my brother JWR the THIRD, but to name him Brian Christopher.
I grew up with this NAME being treated as though it came with a scepter and crown. Introductions were made like "This handsome young man is my grandson, John Walter Robinson the third. Oh, and this is my granddaughter, Tish."
My grandmother was very proud that I was named after her, though she did not make an announcement at every turn of the corner. She was the only person that called me "Letitia" my entire life. She wanted me to be a proper young lady. My earliest memories of my grandmother are remembrances of her calling me into the house in the afternoons. I'd be playing in the field with my brother and cousin, and she'd call me in from her kitchen door. (She left the boys out to play.) I was expected to come in from playing to clean up and put on a dress, because my grandfather would be home from work soon. I would then sit on the "divan", ankles crossed, while my grandfather watched the news, read the paper, and waited for dinner. My grandmothers outings consisted of shopping trips, trips to her garden club meetings, and home demonstration club meetings. She would not "go to town" without changing into a dress and stockings. She wanted me to be just like her.
I know that at times I disappointed her, let her down, and did not live up to the standards that she set for herself. But, at the end of her life, I know she was very proud of me, and thrilled that I had allowed myself to enjoy some of the same things she had in her younger years, like being a parent, crafts and sewing. It's her being proud of me that keeps me from legally changing my name to just "Tish". I think she'd be disappointed from the grave.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Mysteries of Life
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Bloggless
- touch pads on laptops. (hate mine - not a good topic, will probably turn into another anger post)
- clowns.
- coffee.
- dogs that snore
- caulk
- cake
- tv shows I like
- sleep
- birthday parties
- toenails
- ice makers
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
It's been one of those days, so I am playing dress up.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Expect the unexpected
Friday, May 13, 2011
Chain Letters, Friday the 13th, Black Cats and more…
Last night B got this chain letter via text message. It started out with this horrible story about a (presumably) tweenage girl coming home to find her mother murdered, and then dumped in an upstairs bedroom closet. After the tweenage girl found her brutally murdered mother, she ran screaming down the stairs, at which point, some mystical event resulted in a tragic ending to her life. The text message included a picture of some generic stairs in some generic house. (I admit, I had to do a double take, because I initially thought the picture was taken inside my own house.) The story ended with the instruction that if the recipient didn’t forward this to two million people, the same thing would happen to them. Hogwash.
So, here it is, Friday the 13th. I don’t think of myself as superstitious, but I cannot help but recognize that today is supposedly unlucky by virtue of the numerical date and the day of the week. I also grimace whenever I think a black cat has crossed my path, quickly contemplate all that can go wrong in the next seven years if I break a mirror, and I would not walk under a ladder without good reason. (Like, if someone double dog dared me to.) All of these things are silly, and I know it. I will not, however, forward a chain letter. It doesn’t matter what tragedy awaits me, or how rich I’ll be, or even if Bill Gates himself is somehow tracking the email and planning on sharing his Microsoft millions with me if I forward it on. I’ll just keep my silliness to myself, thank you very much. I won’t impose it on you.
I posted something about this horrible chain letter on my Facebook status, and had a couple of very interesting comments. One of my friends identified chain letters as a form of bullying. Wow. Never thought about it that way, but that is what it is. Anytime you influence someone to do something out of fear of retaliation (even in the form of bad luck), that is exactly what it is.
I have heard before that most chain emails are started by people who sell email lists to spammers. Look at the next chain email you receive. I’ll bet it will include forward, after forward, after forward. Most of the time you can click on those forwards, and instantly have access to the email addresses of a whole bunch of people you don’t know. In fact, depending on your email program, those addresses are probably stored on your computer or in your address book in some form or fashion. Now, suppose for a moment that a friend of the friend that sent you the chain mail gets a virus on their computer. This virus scans their computer for email addresses, and of course, your address is right beside theirs in the “to” line of the email. The virus then sends out a spam message that includes a link to some website that sells drugs, or porn, or watches, or whatever else is out there that you really don’t want. Every time you forward one of these things, your email address, as well as the addresses of all your friends is embedded in that message. You don’t know where it will end up.
So, I’d simply ask, if you get a cute picture, or a funny joke or something else that you would like to share with me and 47 thousand of your closest friends, please do me the courtesy of sending it using the BLIND CARBON COPY or BCC function in your email. (All the email programs have it – check your ‘help’ screens if you don’t see it.) By doing so, you keep the email addresses of your friends private. It is the courteous thing to do.
And the next time a chain letter comes around, remember that I really don’t want it. I will break the chain. And, by the way, if you don’t share this blog message with 3,983,428,120 of your closest friends, I will break out my voodoo doll.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
My Vacuum Cleaner
My vacuum cleaner is supposed to live in a closet, upstairs, far removed from daily view. But, since I am always “about” to use it, it stays in the living room, or the foyer, or somewhere else convenient, tucked into a corner. One peek at the amount of goo on the carpets and you can tell that I have been about to vacuum for about a month.
I have decided that perhaps I should paint the vacuum cleaner to match the décor, and that it should double as something useful. (After all, it’s not doing much vacuuming.) Perhaps it could serve as a coat rack, or an umbrella stand, or maybe it could hold the fireplace tools. That would be appropriate, because the fireplace tools are there just to give the impression that we work on having a fire. We have gas logs that Mighty MO refuses to turn on, because gas is so expensive. So the unused vacuum could double as a stand for the unused fireplace tools next to the unused fireplace. This might just work.
Along with the unused vacuum, I have unused dust rags, scrub brushes, brooms and feather duster thingys. If I hold onto all this long enough, maybe it will be worth something. In about 100 years, this collection will be called “archives”.
In some miraculous time, long, long ago, I had a maid. A wonderful maid. She would come spend a whole day at my house. I’d walk in from work to smells that would knock my socks off. The whole house smelled like lemons, and fresh laundry. It looked sparkly clean, and it really was. Even the crevices were clean. Wonder maid washed clothes and started dinner. Those were the days. Best of all, there was the wonderful satisfaction of knowing someone could stop by, and I would not be embarrassed to let them in. But, no one ever stopped by when the house was clean. If someone stopped by, it was on the day just maid came. It was the perfect snooty excuse for a messy house.
I am full of excuses as to why my house resembles a demolition site. Someday, PC (post children) I will really clean it. For now, I must go. I am about to vacuum.