Dubious though it might be, one of the perks of being a Google/Chrome person, is that on your birthday when you open up Google on That Day, there is Google spelled out (very loosely, I might add) with birthday cakes and muffins, and I thought, oh, damn...
and sure enough, under it, it said Happy Birthday...
And of course the mister got me a nice card, the kind you have to hunt for, the kind he is willing to dig to find--not mushy, not goofy, but exactly right. =)
From the time I was very small until maybe twenty years ago I was a difficult sleeper. Once I went under, I was pretty much unwakeable until morning, but it was the process, the getting there, that caused the problem.
That hamster wheel in the brain would spin and spin, and when I finally reached the perilous edge of sleep, mental fists clenched, my husband would suddenly vault out of bed or decide that Now would be a good time to come to bed, and FLING the covers back, and by the time he had settled himself I'd be wide awake and staring all over again.
Words would be spoken. Ugly words.
And then one day I decided to rearrange the bedroom one more time. There is a fireplace in the room (called the "four oclock fireplace" because in the days of open fireplaces and bitter winters someone would venture upstairs in late afternoon to see if the rooms were chilly enough to warrant a small fire until bed time--I've done the same thing, in years past) and if you could see your breath, you started a fire. By this time, however, we no longer needed a fire in the bedroom, thanks to three stoves downstairs and better insulation, so I moved the bed across the room, blocking the fireplace, and thought no more of it.
That night I climbed into bed, turned once or twice, and next thing I knew I was looking at the sun rising in the east window, which was now directly across the room from us in the new view. Whoa. What. Just. Happened. Here.
If you've ever had bouts of insomnia, you can appreciate that feeling. It happened again the next night, and the next, and twenty years later it is still happening. I never get over it. All I can figure is it's some kind of Chinese placement, called F'eng Shui, that directs you on bed placement, door and window positions, all of that, and from what I've read, it seems I may have found it myself without realizing. And in all my years of sleep problems, as I recall, I had never before slept facing east windows. East walls, yes. but never east windows themselves.
This summer's project (which started last January with the Mouse invasion) went from a new ceiling in the kitchen (which didnt have one at all) to "let's finally finish the walls in the kitchen and paint it" and that segued into new window casings, a twotone grey color scheme, and about 9/10ths of it is done.
Also discovered a talent for putty-and-paint which, while limited, is amazingly satisfying. We takes what we can get, here.
While we were painting and putting stuff up, I had this nearly uncontrollable urge to begin speaking in a bright cheery voice the way the lady on This Old House does when she and her husband are redoing a room somewhere. "Gosh, Jack" she chirps, loudly, sorta like a kindegarten teacher, "this blue paint is REALLY going to make a huge difference in this family room, you think?" "Yes, Mary", he responds, "And I really like the way this paint (Can label prominently displayed) just glides on, no brush marks, no roller skips." and they both laugh delightedly.
He never once sighs resignedly when she slips and the loaded paint brush whaps into the newly installed sliding door window glass...she never pokes fun at him when he cuts the last piece of lumber too short (probably because he doesn't cut it at all)...I tried that voice just once and my husband looked at me for about two seconds, shook his head, and turned on the sander.
I dont intend to do this again so I might as well make a good job of it now. =) And this winter, golly, I get to make curtains. =) =)
Already the days are noticeably shorter and no matter the daytime temperature, the nights cool down rapidly. By morning one of us has pulled up the extra blanket. Soon it will be too chilly for open windows.
Happens every year, and every year I'm always surprised at how it got here so fast. It's all relative, of course, and as we age our sense of time and distance shifts noticeably. I wonder where the breakeven point would be? If we lived to be 200 would time whip past us like a speeding train, or just settle down to a regular steady wind blowing in from the planets...
And after all, it's where you're standing on the platform when the train pulls into the station, isnt it.
I was warned, yep. Everyone said it was dreadful, but at some point I figgered, hey, they're gonna force me into it, I might as well get it over with now.
I read all the complaints. There was not a word of praise for it.
I finally took a deep breath and pulled the lever, and now I have a brand new shiny Messenger. Utterly, totally, worthless.
I only had three contacts over there, but about 30 new ones appeared, including people I had known years ago at Yahoo games. What. Is. This. couldnt get rid of them. No button for anything. No preferences, no choices.
"Delete your conversation history? " well, yeah, it does stretch back about five years, here. Not only did it delete the conversation history but also the person who was involved at the other end of it. yikes. So now I have a hunk of junk that I don't dare delete in case it gets better.
I feel sorry for anyone who tries to run a business or a life from this thing.
Haven't mowed the grass since the beginning of June, because of the drought. what has happened, is wildflowers. My side lawn beside the porch now has Queen Anne's Lace, daisies, frost flowers, evening primrose, little yellow star-like flowers, purple vetch, pussytoes, blue eyed grass, yarrow in pink AND white, late dandelions, some stray pinkish-purple flowers (I want to call it ageratum but Im not sure), and black eyed susans.
This may seem a minor issue, but Ive been noticing a slow influx of "new' posters/commentors on my blog and other blogs as well, who have pictures of very pretty ladies and five names. They rarely comment much beyond "wonderful" or "so true..."
just out of curiosity I took one of their photos and pasted it in Google Images to see who they really might be. Lol. Some of them are part of the Russian Bride contingency, some of them are actually someone else with a new strange name.
Anytime you see someone new in here commenting or posting on your blog, check the name of the blogger--if it has a strange name like Michelle Hillary Douglas Adams Washington or Susan Anthony Davis Obama Detroit, I'd not let them into my blog. I have no idea what they're up to, but I want honest faces (even if its a puppy dog face) and honest resumes back there. And most of them purport to be the owners of an amazing string of blogs, most of them to do with the fashion industry, or overseas imports, or design. I don't trust em.
It's as predictable as phases of the moon; one by one the eyeglasses disappear from the kitchen table, from my purse, from pockets and computer spaces (which is an oxymoron in itself). We find ourselves saying, 'have you seen my glasses' and the hunt is on. You can almost hear the snickering.
Then one morning you go downstairs and there, on the kitchen table, are two pairs of the things, looking innocent and a bit sweaty, not unlike 4 year old boys who have been out somewhere having forbidden adventures. Back upstairs, aha, there's a pair on the bathroom sink. Two days later my husband says, "I found my computer glasses".
Now it's becoming a conspiracy. The scissors are joining the fun. I have sacrosanct cloth-only scissors that never leave the sewing machine area. I have kitchen scissors that can barely cut butter. This summer all of them have disappeared, one pair at a time, at about the same rate as the eyeglasses. Aha, she says, a bit louder this time.. It is, I found out, virtually impossible to cut felt weatherstripping with a steak knife, nail clippers, or a utility knife, and lord knows I've tried.
Yesterday the first set of eyeglasses surfaced, "right where I left them" a week or more ago. At least, that's what they're implying. This morning, there was the first missing pair of scissors, idling away in the kitchen utensil holder. "You just didn't look hard enough". snrk snrk snrk
Just finished this, it should be required reading for anyone who still believes that war is a glamorous event and will make a man outta that kid of yours. Erich Maria Remarque writes powerfully, sadly, and with a great deal of understanding and first-hand knowledge of what war really is--I think we all had our eyes opened during VietNam which was the first time we actually saw soldiers in battle, not just in a canteen cleaned up for the newsreels, leering at USO entertainers--
Someone (and possibly more than one Someone) once said, if you sent the Generals and the politicians into battle and let the kids stay home, there'd never be another war.
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