I am a pet orphan as I write this. I really don't know how that has happened, since I have had a cat or dog or both since I was a small child.
I have had cats that live to be ancient wise cats that seem to calmly sit, on a pillow-like throne, ruling the world with just their thoughts. I have had dogs that lived long lives, too, but they always seemed to not age well – they were never wise, as the cats became. They were just less yippy and jumpy.
At one time I had two wise old cats: Smokey who was about 14, very old acting, very wise acting, and very sedate. He would sit and rule the world with his mesmerizing mind thoughts. Squeak, the other cat, was 12, also very wise and intelligent, cleverly out-ruling Smokey with silent shrewd looks at her subjects – me being her main subject.
Along with Smokey and Squeaky was our Pit Bull, Rebel – who the cats knew as Dumb Dopey Dog. Dumb Dopey Dog thought he was a cat and a very unskilled cat. He'd try to purr and nothing would happen. He'd curl up in your lap like he was Squeak – but he still couldn't purr. He was sad about this – he'd roll his eyes up at you with a despondent, sorrowful stare and sigh a heavy sigh and lay his head back down, forever chagrined that he couldn't purr.
As smart as my wise cats were, they never discovered the art of mousing. I'd have to set traps in the cupboards and then carry out dead little bodies to the garbage can in the alley. But one spring day, Squeak discovered her latent ability to catch a mouse. We had a mouse that was daringly walking back and forth in the kitchen, from kitty dish to dog dish, helping herself to a cat morsel and then trying out the dog biscuits, ten times her size, and then washing it down with either dog or cat water. (I had to have separate water dishes on opposite sides of the kitchen and steadfastly point at the dog water dish until Dumb Dopey Dog figured it out that he was NOT going to get to lap up the cats' water while I was standing guard.)
And the mouse-cat-dog parade went on for days, all creatures just missing each other's presence by a hair. Until one day. Squeak discovered this little creature trying out her food dish. That was the moment her instincts took over and she discovered mousing. To Squeak, mousing involved toying with the mouse – not eating it. Blech.
She was like a cartoon cat with a cartoon mouse. She'd grab the mouse's little tail and hold it down. The mouse would run in place until Squeak let it go and then the chase would begin and she'd hunt down the mouse and hold its tail and patiently watch the running in place until she let the mouse go.
This was all good and dandy except for Dumb Dopey Dog. DDD went nutso. He'd jump on chairs and tables and couches and the piano and another chair and another table. Hopping to and fro in a frantic effort to get away from the ferocious, terrifying, horrifying, vicious, dog-eating, cruel, unstoppable mouse. It was David and Goliath! It was chaos! It was pandemonium! If that mouse could get away from Squeak's grasp, Dumb Dopey Dog was as good as Dead Dog!
I came home right in the middle of this fracas. Where's Smoke??? He's hiding under the table, hunched up, hair on end, watching the free-falling Dopey Dog and the stalwart, death-grip Squeak with total paralyzing awe.
I saw immediately that I needed to stop someone from freaking out – and the quandary was, do I put Squeak out and will she take the mouse with her? Or do I put Rebel out and can I chain him to the fence fast enough. I opened the door to get ready and Squeak immediately snatched up her little friend and out the door they went, with Dumb Dog right behind them and now he was leaping over bushes and fences and coming back to look – like looking at an accident – and then he'd jump the fence again and peer through the cracks. In the meantime, Squeak had discovered the freedom of the outdoors and she would take the little mouse tail by her teeth and fling the mouse as high and as far as she could and then chase the mouse and bat him another ten feet and continue throughout the yard. You have to realize that she is my sweet little tortoiseshell kitty that weighs only three pounds ringing wet and is the cuddliest purringest cat you have ever seen in your life. And she has become this brutal, teasing, raging bully!
The mouse finally died of exhaustion and at that point, Squeak went back inside and acted like NOTHING had happened. I rescued the Dumb Dog from the neighbor's back porch and brought him inside, where he made wide berths around Squeak and avoided her for days.
For several weeks after this incident, I put Squeak outside a lot. I couldn’t stand another mouse episode. It wasn't the mouse, exactly, it was the pandemonium that ensued. After that, I would open the front door and find remnants of mice. All headless. Which is another story, I guess. Why????
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3.23.2009
3.16.2009
Jury Duty – Week 2
Well, I was all geared up to be a service to my community and fulfill my obligations and responsibilities as a juror. But that was not to be. The norm of jury duty is that if you are not called to serve on a jury the first week, you won't be called at all the second week. So, I anxiously called in every night after work to see if I was needed the next day, and it was all for naught.
I was disappointed and even depressed about it. (We were warned to not take it personally, but my heart is on my sleeve, and I was just sure it had to do with my legal secretary experience, and the fact I have many police officers who are personal friends.)
During my second week of jury duty, there was a case going on across the hallway from my case. It was the Jay Olsen trial to find if Officer Olsen was guilty of first-degree assault and reckless endangerment for shooting Shonto Pete in the head and firing four other bullets in Peaceful Valley on Feb. 26, 2007.
Amazingly enough, Olsen was found not guilty. This was a unanimous decision of the jury. Now, I sat back and wondered about how this verdict came about. I find it confusing that a police officer was cleared of reckless endangerment – where it was proven that he fired shots in a residential neighborhood while being intoxicated beyond the state legal limit. That alone, I believe, is reckless endangerment.
However, what we DON'T know are two things: 1) What was the law that the judge gave to the jury? 2) Were some jury members swayed by the fact that it was close to 5:00 on a Friday when they made their decision?
1) What was the law that the judge gave to the jury? In my case, the judge said that once the jury was seated, she would give them "her" law that the jury was supposed to base their judgment on. She said it was not what they perceived as the law, but that it was HER law, and they would go by that. So in the Olsen case – what was the law that the judge gave to the jury? We don't know.
2) Were some jury members swayed by the fact that it was close to 5:00 on a Friday when they made their decision? This was a question asked by the judge in MY case. She asked us to take this seriously and consider if we would give in and go along with the group if the jury was in deliberation on a Friday afternoon. Would they cave and give in even though they felt just the opposite of the rest of the jury members?
I wondered about that because I experienced something similar a couple years ago. I was in mediation over my mother's estate and what I considered was owed to the estate by a sibling. We were in separate rooms and were negotiating what was due to the estate. It took hours and hours. We started at 9:00 in the morning and by 8:00 in the evening, I was exhausted and totally warn out. I caved at $35,000 instead of holding out for the $150,000 that I had receipts for.
So, I wonder now if the jury had a couple that caved.
Jury duty is a critical and necessary responsibility. It involves clear thinking, being very objective, discerning fact from fiction, discerning the credibility of each witness, and holding to your convictions once you have made your decision.
I was disappointed and even depressed about it. (We were warned to not take it personally, but my heart is on my sleeve, and I was just sure it had to do with my legal secretary experience, and the fact I have many police officers who are personal friends.)
During my second week of jury duty, there was a case going on across the hallway from my case. It was the Jay Olsen trial to find if Officer Olsen was guilty of first-degree assault and reckless endangerment for shooting Shonto Pete in the head and firing four other bullets in Peaceful Valley on Feb. 26, 2007.
Amazingly enough, Olsen was found not guilty. This was a unanimous decision of the jury. Now, I sat back and wondered about how this verdict came about. I find it confusing that a police officer was cleared of reckless endangerment – where it was proven that he fired shots in a residential neighborhood while being intoxicated beyond the state legal limit. That alone, I believe, is reckless endangerment.
However, what we DON'T know are two things: 1) What was the law that the judge gave to the jury? 2) Were some jury members swayed by the fact that it was close to 5:00 on a Friday when they made their decision?
1) What was the law that the judge gave to the jury? In my case, the judge said that once the jury was seated, she would give them "her" law that the jury was supposed to base their judgment on. She said it was not what they perceived as the law, but that it was HER law, and they would go by that. So in the Olsen case – what was the law that the judge gave to the jury? We don't know.
2) Were some jury members swayed by the fact that it was close to 5:00 on a Friday when they made their decision? This was a question asked by the judge in MY case. She asked us to take this seriously and consider if we would give in and go along with the group if the jury was in deliberation on a Friday afternoon. Would they cave and give in even though they felt just the opposite of the rest of the jury members?
I wondered about that because I experienced something similar a couple years ago. I was in mediation over my mother's estate and what I considered was owed to the estate by a sibling. We were in separate rooms and were negotiating what was due to the estate. It took hours and hours. We started at 9:00 in the morning and by 8:00 in the evening, I was exhausted and totally warn out. I caved at $35,000 instead of holding out for the $150,000 that I had receipts for.
So, I wonder now if the jury had a couple that caved.
Jury duty is a critical and necessary responsibility. It involves clear thinking, being very objective, discerning fact from fiction, discerning the credibility of each witness, and holding to your convictions once you have made your decision.
3.13.2009
The Cabin Fever Kit
Waiting for Spring
O, yeah, I'm definitely waiting for spring. Spring cannot come soon enough for me. I think I am permanently and terminally cold. I'm cold down to my marrow. I don't have enough layers of clothing. I think the cold somehow found its way inside to my core.
I think I have Cabin Fever. The time change was a glimmer of hope that spring was in the air. And then abruptly, overnight, temps went right straight down to zero! ZERO. I had to pull out my down comforter that I had stored away only two weeks earlier. I had to drag out my down coat that I moved to the back of the closet because I thought my fleece jacket would be sufficient, where it is only good to about 40 degrees.
Anyway, Cabin Fever. It brought up a memory from way back when I was first married and my husband and I were stationed in Val d'Or, Quebec, way far north in the "bush" country, where upon leaving your house, you looked both ways for either rampaging moose or runaway snowmobiles. My mother sent us a package that contained two kits, one for me to make a beaded purse and one for my husband to make a string art ship. It had to go through customs and when it got there, well, it started an international crisis in a minor way. Mom had labeled the return address as "Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit" (Rice is my maiden name).
This is the short version. It went round and round for about fifteen minutes with Mr. Customs Guy growing increasingly short with me and me growing increasingly frustrated with him and my mother.
We finally got our cabin fever package and enjoyed several days of assembling our different projects.
And even today there is a listing on the register in Quebec for Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit Company.
.
O, yeah, I'm definitely waiting for spring. Spring cannot come soon enough for me. I think I am permanently and terminally cold. I'm cold down to my marrow. I don't have enough layers of clothing. I think the cold somehow found its way inside to my core.
I think I have Cabin Fever. The time change was a glimmer of hope that spring was in the air. And then abruptly, overnight, temps went right straight down to zero! ZERO. I had to pull out my down comforter that I had stored away only two weeks earlier. I had to drag out my down coat that I moved to the back of the closet because I thought my fleece jacket would be sufficient, where it is only good to about 40 degrees.
Anyway, Cabin Fever. It brought up a memory from way back when I was first married and my husband and I were stationed in Val d'Or, Quebec, way far north in the "bush" country, where upon leaving your house, you looked both ways for either rampaging moose or runaway snowmobiles. My mother sent us a package that contained two kits, one for me to make a beaded purse and one for my husband to make a string art ship. It had to go through customs and when it got there, well, it started an international crisis in a minor way. Mom had labeled the return address as "Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit" (Rice is my maiden name).
Mr. Customs Guy (who speaks with a very heavy French accent): Yes, we have a package here from Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit, but I can't find it listed on our company list.
Me: uh, it's from my Mom.
Mr. Customs Guy: Is this a company in Spokane, Washington?
Me: uh, it's from my Mom.
Mr. Customs Guy: Has Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit been registered with the Canadian Customs Corporation Department?
Me: It's from my mother.
Mr. Customs Guy: (sighs) Ok, I will register Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit as a foreign corporation.
This is the short version. It went round and round for about fifteen minutes with Mr. Customs Guy growing increasingly short with me and me growing increasingly frustrated with him and my mother.
We finally got our cabin fever package and enjoyed several days of assembling our different projects.
And even today there is a listing on the register in Quebec for Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit Company.
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3.10.2009
Quandary
So I voted today using my mail in ballot. It said don't sign the ballot because if you do, it won't be counted because you have identified yourself. Then you stick it in a yellow security envelope with the admonition to not identify yourself on the security envelope. I placed my yellow security envelope inside the white Official Ballot envelope. Licked it shut and then noticed a little flap that can be pulled open with this printed on it: "Do not remove this piece. It is here to protect your privacy." That is on the left. On the right is my preprinted full name and address.
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3.09.2009
The Mechanic and His Cars
My Significant Other is a mechanic. He is an excellent mechanic and can fix any problem in any car and especially loves the older, pre-computer cars. He's detailed, intricate, dedicated, and painstakingly thorough. If you have a problem with your car, take it to MechanicMan and it is a done deal.
Now, if the car belongs to MechanicMan there is a whole other set of rules that are followed. Mechanics do not fix their cars the same way they fix yours. They do whatever is the least possible method of patching the car. MechanicMan's cars were always very old (he calls them classic), rusty (character), and noisy (proof they are Mopar). Once my sons compared his car to John Candy's "Uncle Buck" car and it caused me to look out the window and see the twin sitting in my driveway, right down to the smoking, popping, and growling engine that just would not shut off.
It turns out that this same rule applies to family members of MechanicMan including his girlfriend, who happened to be me. I had a 13-year-old Datsun B210 that I faithfully took in to be serviced every six months. MechanicMan would take none of that and he started "servicing" my car. I'm not saying anything negative about MechanicMan – he is my partner of 22 years so there are many endearing qualities – however, his idea of tuning up my car was to take the one iffy sparkplug out, sand it a bit, and put it back. Good as new!
This went on for several years and eventually the poor car was just getting old and things were kind of falling apart, but MechanicMan would keep it going by sanding here, oiling there, and every now and then replacing the starter. In fact he replaced the starter about once a year until he finally went and bought a top-of-the-line expensive starter that lasted for several years.
In the last year of owning the Datsun, though, things started to happen. There was something wrong in the ignition system and MM could never trace exactly where the source was. I would coast to a stop at a light and the car would die. I would slow down to exit the freeway and the car would die (usually followed very closely by a semi right on my ass). The kids and I would chant as we approached lights with "stay green stay green stay green stay green" until we safely made it through. Those times we stalled, the boys would get out while I put the car in second gear, and they would push me until the car started and they'd run and jump in and away we'd go.
Eventually, MM gave me a screwdriver and opened the hood and showed me where the starter was and said to touch that with the screwdriver and sparks would fly and the starter would kick the engine over. So, I had my trusty little screwdriver with me all the time. And then one day when I was opening the hood, the hood release inside the car broke off in my hand. MM gave me a pair of pliers to pull the hood release to open the hood so I could run around and spark the starter. Eventually even my emergency break quit working. So, now the car would die, I'd use the pliers to open the hood, jump out and use my screwdriver and wincingly tap the starter, which would spark, and start the car, and I'd jump back in. I looked like a one-woman keystone cop show.
One evening I was leaving work with everyone else and just about to reach the main road while on an incline when my car dies. DIES. I'm sitting there quietly going insane because my emergency breaks don't work, I'm on an incline, I can't get out of the car, I'm absolutely wigging, when the driver behind me (who had heard my tales of woe for endless days) tapped on my window. "Hand me the screwdriver." He started my car, handed me back my trusty screwdriver, and off I went.
I went straight to Dishman Dodge where I knew the manager and told him I could afford $150 a month for a used car – that works. He said for that amount I could afford a brand new car. So I bought a brand new car and added an additional ten-year warranty to it and told MM he could keep his screwdriver and his pliers and he could not touch my car. Ever.
.
Now, if the car belongs to MechanicMan there is a whole other set of rules that are followed. Mechanics do not fix their cars the same way they fix yours. They do whatever is the least possible method of patching the car. MechanicMan's cars were always very old (he calls them classic), rusty (character), and noisy (proof they are Mopar). Once my sons compared his car to John Candy's "Uncle Buck" car and it caused me to look out the window and see the twin sitting in my driveway, right down to the smoking, popping, and growling engine that just would not shut off.
It turns out that this same rule applies to family members of MechanicMan including his girlfriend, who happened to be me. I had a 13-year-old Datsun B210 that I faithfully took in to be serviced every six months. MechanicMan would take none of that and he started "servicing" my car. I'm not saying anything negative about MechanicMan – he is my partner of 22 years so there are many endearing qualities – however, his idea of tuning up my car was to take the one iffy sparkplug out, sand it a bit, and put it back. Good as new!
This went on for several years and eventually the poor car was just getting old and things were kind of falling apart, but MechanicMan would keep it going by sanding here, oiling there, and every now and then replacing the starter. In fact he replaced the starter about once a year until he finally went and bought a top-of-the-line expensive starter that lasted for several years.
In the last year of owning the Datsun, though, things started to happen. There was something wrong in the ignition system and MM could never trace exactly where the source was. I would coast to a stop at a light and the car would die. I would slow down to exit the freeway and the car would die (usually followed very closely by a semi right on my ass). The kids and I would chant as we approached lights with "stay green stay green stay green stay green" until we safely made it through. Those times we stalled, the boys would get out while I put the car in second gear, and they would push me until the car started and they'd run and jump in and away we'd go.
Eventually, MM gave me a screwdriver and opened the hood and showed me where the starter was and said to touch that with the screwdriver and sparks would fly and the starter would kick the engine over. So, I had my trusty little screwdriver with me all the time. And then one day when I was opening the hood, the hood release inside the car broke off in my hand. MM gave me a pair of pliers to pull the hood release to open the hood so I could run around and spark the starter. Eventually even my emergency break quit working. So, now the car would die, I'd use the pliers to open the hood, jump out and use my screwdriver and wincingly tap the starter, which would spark, and start the car, and I'd jump back in. I looked like a one-woman keystone cop show.
One evening I was leaving work with everyone else and just about to reach the main road while on an incline when my car dies. DIES. I'm sitting there quietly going insane because my emergency breaks don't work, I'm on an incline, I can't get out of the car, I'm absolutely wigging, when the driver behind me (who had heard my tales of woe for endless days) tapped on my window. "Hand me the screwdriver." He started my car, handed me back my trusty screwdriver, and off I went.
I went straight to Dishman Dodge where I knew the manager and told him I could afford $150 a month for a used car – that works. He said for that amount I could afford a brand new car. So I bought a brand new car and added an additional ten-year warranty to it and told MM he could keep his screwdriver and his pliers and he could not touch my car. Ever.
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3.08.2009
Spring Has Sprung a Leak!
Woohoo! It’s Daylight Savings Time. And about time, too. I think they should do away with Standard Time. Why change the time so it’s dark earlier? It just makes me grumpy. And tired. When it’s dark, I keep glancing at my bed like it’s calling my name. When it’s dark, I lose my metabolism.
When it’s light out, I’m energetic and running around finding things to do. Go outside and putter in the garden. Sit in a lounge chair outside and read. Go for walks and look at all the life around me. Daylight Savings means Spring is coming! It is just around the corner!
When it’s dark, nothing appeals to me except snuggling on the couch, reading a book, taking naps, and generally wishing for just one sign of spring.
Now the time has changed and it’s instantaneous and miraculous. I’m ignoring the snow piles still remaining after our record breaking winter. However, I have two container planters where the chives in one look smashed beyond repair. Will life come back in my chives? All the perennials are flattened by the weight of the snow and the weeks and weeks under that snow. I only recently, in the last week, saw sign of my container planters. Birds and squirrels are scampering across the yard, zigzagging snow berms. Quail have come out of their hiding places and are scurrying through the field across the road.
I am claiming Spring is here! Never mind that it snowed last night. Never mind the bitter wind that whipped me yesterday. Never mind that it is Snowing. Right. Now! I mean, look out the window - there is literally a blizzard going on - I can't see The Davenport next door. No, I'm not going to look. It is NOT snowing on my Spring watch. I am damned tired of winter and I'm not taking it any more. I do not care if it snows ten feet. Spring is here! Dag nabbit.
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When it’s light out, I’m energetic and running around finding things to do. Go outside and putter in the garden. Sit in a lounge chair outside and read. Go for walks and look at all the life around me. Daylight Savings means Spring is coming! It is just around the corner!
When it’s dark, nothing appeals to me except snuggling on the couch, reading a book, taking naps, and generally wishing for just one sign of spring.
Now the time has changed and it’s instantaneous and miraculous. I’m ignoring the snow piles still remaining after our record breaking winter. However, I have two container planters where the chives in one look smashed beyond repair. Will life come back in my chives? All the perennials are flattened by the weight of the snow and the weeks and weeks under that snow. I only recently, in the last week, saw sign of my container planters. Birds and squirrels are scampering across the yard, zigzagging snow berms. Quail have come out of their hiding places and are scurrying through the field across the road.
I am claiming Spring is here! Never mind that it snowed last night. Never mind the bitter wind that whipped me yesterday. Never mind that it is Snowing. Right. Now! I mean, look out the window - there is literally a blizzard going on - I can't see The Davenport next door. No, I'm not going to look. It is NOT snowing on my Spring watch. I am damned tired of winter and I'm not taking it any more. I do not care if it snows ten feet. Spring is here! Dag nabbit.
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3.06.2009
Jury Duty: Week 1
Thomas Jefferson, in a letter to Thomas Paine, 1789: "I consider trial by jury as the only anchor ever yet imagined by man, by which a government can be held to the principles of its constitution."
Thus begins my first jury duty experience. I'm in the middle of a two-week stretch. I tell you, I find it the most fascinating thing I have done in a while. We first gathered together in one large room, called the "Jury Lounge" not to be confused with the "Jury Room" which is the room off from the court room that the jurors meet in. There were approximately 200 of us in the Jury Lounge the first morning. It was buzzing with quiet chatter as we waited to begin. We were shown an orientation film that clued us in on what would be happening and it started with the quote above from Thomas Jefferson.
A judicial assistant (JA) came in and said she was going to call 30 people. As she calls them up, they are assigned a juror number and line up according to the numbers. And off they go. Than a JA came in and called out 10 names and they were assigned numbers and off they went. 30 more were called and the room was still fairly full. Finally a JA came in and said she was going to call 90 people. That was astounding to me. 90 people is a lot of people to narrow down to a 12-person jury. I was #52. I have since learned that the lower the number, the higher the chance you have of being picked for that jury.
It was an amazing process that took nearly three whole days. Finally a jury was picked from the first 24 or so people and the rest of us were released to go back to the Jury Lounge and get new assignments. We were also given today off.
I really wanted to be on this jury. I think that I am very good at impartial thinking and that I could be fair and objective. But one question gave me pause: If you have heard of this case, have you formed an opinion? Well, I had heard of the case – I won't talk of it now until it is over. And I said no, no opinion. Later in bed, I thought about it some more and thought, gee, who wouldn't have formed some kind of opinion? And unfortunately, our opinions are based on the media output. Another question was asked: How can you tell the credibility of a person's statement? And there is no good answer. I knew this had to do with testimony. How can you tell if a witness is credible in what he is saying? All you have are his or her words. And I am thinking that it is very subjective. Would it be his tone of voice? His posture? His body language?
We were constantly cautioned to not read the paper, not watch the news, and not go on the internet. This was so we would be pristine in our thoughts and so we would not have a pre-conceived mindset of what this case involved. The judge asked each of us to define our interpretation of what we heard as "news" on the case. And it brought to mind a question: How often has the news media inadvertently interfered with justice and a fair and impartial jury? We are no longer getting the facts. We are getting conjecture and assumption.
The juror has a monumental responsibility of first wiping his mind clean of anything he has learned through the media prior to the case. I wonder how much that is like being told NOT to think of a pink elephant in chartreuse tennis shoes.
Anyway – a fascinating experience. I am enjoying every minute of it.
Could you be impartial and objective and just gather the facts and evidence presented to you in court and to clear from your mind any tidbits of gossip or tales heard outside the court?
.
Thus begins my first jury duty experience. I'm in the middle of a two-week stretch. I tell you, I find it the most fascinating thing I have done in a while. We first gathered together in one large room, called the "Jury Lounge" not to be confused with the "Jury Room" which is the room off from the court room that the jurors meet in. There were approximately 200 of us in the Jury Lounge the first morning. It was buzzing with quiet chatter as we waited to begin. We were shown an orientation film that clued us in on what would be happening and it started with the quote above from Thomas Jefferson.
A judicial assistant (JA) came in and said she was going to call 30 people. As she calls them up, they are assigned a juror number and line up according to the numbers. And off they go. Than a JA came in and called out 10 names and they were assigned numbers and off they went. 30 more were called and the room was still fairly full. Finally a JA came in and said she was going to call 90 people. That was astounding to me. 90 people is a lot of people to narrow down to a 12-person jury. I was #52. I have since learned that the lower the number, the higher the chance you have of being picked for that jury.
It was an amazing process that took nearly three whole days. Finally a jury was picked from the first 24 or so people and the rest of us were released to go back to the Jury Lounge and get new assignments. We were also given today off.
I really wanted to be on this jury. I think that I am very good at impartial thinking and that I could be fair and objective. But one question gave me pause: If you have heard of this case, have you formed an opinion? Well, I had heard of the case – I won't talk of it now until it is over. And I said no, no opinion. Later in bed, I thought about it some more and thought, gee, who wouldn't have formed some kind of opinion? And unfortunately, our opinions are based on the media output. Another question was asked: How can you tell the credibility of a person's statement? And there is no good answer. I knew this had to do with testimony. How can you tell if a witness is credible in what he is saying? All you have are his or her words. And I am thinking that it is very subjective. Would it be his tone of voice? His posture? His body language?
We were constantly cautioned to not read the paper, not watch the news, and not go on the internet. This was so we would be pristine in our thoughts and so we would not have a pre-conceived mindset of what this case involved. The judge asked each of us to define our interpretation of what we heard as "news" on the case. And it brought to mind a question: How often has the news media inadvertently interfered with justice and a fair and impartial jury? We are no longer getting the facts. We are getting conjecture and assumption.
The juror has a monumental responsibility of first wiping his mind clean of anything he has learned through the media prior to the case. I wonder how much that is like being told NOT to think of a pink elephant in chartreuse tennis shoes.
Anyway – a fascinating experience. I am enjoying every minute of it.
Could you be impartial and objective and just gather the facts and evidence presented to you in court and to clear from your mind any tidbits of gossip or tales heard outside the court?
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3.01.2009
When is Ignorance Not Bliss?
Recently things have happened to remind me that I am still naïve and gullible. How gullible?? Oh, you just wouldn't believe it. People who know me, know to never be sarcastic with me because I take them literally. I think everyone is honest and straightforward and no matter how often they fabricate something and I believe them wholeheartedly, I keep on thinking good thoughts about them – that they are still honest and straightforward. I had a boyfriend once, after I had divorced my husband, who took this "ailment" I have as far as he thought he could.
I had been going out with "Jim" for only a month or so when I made a picnic dinner which included potato salad; my famous potato salad that everyone I know asks me to bring to pot lucks. After dinner, he called me the next day to say he thought he had food poisoning.
"What kind of potatoes did you use?" he asked.
"Well, regular Idaho potatoes," I said.
"Were they male or female potatoes?" he queried.
Uh, I don't know a male potato from a female potato. I mean, do female potatoes have dents and male potatoes have bumps?
"I'm so sorry," I apologized, "Maybe male potatoes. . . ??"
And then we went back and forth that my boys didn't get sick and neither did I, and him saying that it only affects adult males.
"That's it! " he exclaimed, "I'm allergic to male potatoes."
***************
Then there was the time that I was cleaning his house and he called me to remind me to feed the fish.
"What fish?"
"The ones in my water bed."
"You have fish in your water bed???"
"Yeah. They eat the algae and keep the water clean so I don't have to change it."
***************
.
I had been going out with "Jim" for only a month or so when I made a picnic dinner which included potato salad; my famous potato salad that everyone I know asks me to bring to pot lucks. After dinner, he called me the next day to say he thought he had food poisoning.
"What kind of potatoes did you use?" he asked.
"Well, regular Idaho potatoes," I said.
"Were they male or female potatoes?" he queried.
Uh, I don't know a male potato from a female potato. I mean, do female potatoes have dents and male potatoes have bumps?
"I'm so sorry," I apologized, "Maybe male potatoes. . . ??"
And then we went back and forth that my boys didn't get sick and neither did I, and him saying that it only affects adult males.
"That's it! " he exclaimed, "I'm allergic to male potatoes."
***************
Then there was the time that I was cleaning his house and he called me to remind me to feed the fish.
"What fish?"
"The ones in my water bed."
"You have fish in your water bed???"
"Yeah. They eat the algae and keep the water clean so I don't have to change it."
***************
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2.12.2009
Snip
I'm trying not to panic.
This is the day I have kind of dreaded. I have tried not to think about it, and yet it happens that because I'm trying so hard not to think of it, my brain goes into overdrive thinking about it.
I went to my doctor for an update on my prescription. Just a normal routine "hey, was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop in." And get poked and prodded and drained of all my blood. She handed me a sheaf of papers of various things I should do – the boob squash test, the bone density test, the thyroid ultrasound test.
Yeah, the thyroid ultrasound test. The thyroid is a teeny tiny rice-sized grain of something, I don't know what, at the base of your throat. You have to throw your head way back so the ultrasound gizmo can even find the little thyroid. So, mine seems to have nodules. And one of them is "suspicious." This is a diagnostic term that makes my skin crawl. I've had "suspicious squamus cells" before. Suspicious raises the eyebrows of lab techs and they love to scrutinize those suspicious cells and find things. Like cancer.
Oh, I don't have cancer. At least I don't think so. I'm trying to not think about it – you know. Don't think the C-word and what do you get? Everything spells out cancer. The old lady crossing the street looks like Cancer. The kitty on the front porch looks like Cancer. You close your eyelids and they spell out Can-Cer.
So the doc called me today to say the tests came back (and I had lots and lots of tests), especially considering I only just dropped by for a friendly update-my-prescription visit. I am now scheduled for a biopsy. That's a scary word too – almost as bad as the C-word. Biopsy – the B-Word, the "just a little snip" word. In this case, the Ultrasound-Guided-Needle-Biopsy word. In my throat.
I'm trying not to panic.
.
This is the day I have kind of dreaded. I have tried not to think about it, and yet it happens that because I'm trying so hard not to think of it, my brain goes into overdrive thinking about it.
I went to my doctor for an update on my prescription. Just a normal routine "hey, was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop in." And get poked and prodded and drained of all my blood. She handed me a sheaf of papers of various things I should do – the boob squash test, the bone density test, the thyroid ultrasound test.
Yeah, the thyroid ultrasound test. The thyroid is a teeny tiny rice-sized grain of something, I don't know what, at the base of your throat. You have to throw your head way back so the ultrasound gizmo can even find the little thyroid. So, mine seems to have nodules. And one of them is "suspicious." This is a diagnostic term that makes my skin crawl. I've had "suspicious squamus cells" before. Suspicious raises the eyebrows of lab techs and they love to scrutinize those suspicious cells and find things. Like cancer.
Oh, I don't have cancer. At least I don't think so. I'm trying to not think about it – you know. Don't think the C-word and what do you get? Everything spells out cancer. The old lady crossing the street looks like Cancer. The kitty on the front porch looks like Cancer. You close your eyelids and they spell out Can-Cer.
So the doc called me today to say the tests came back (and I had lots and lots of tests), especially considering I only just dropped by for a friendly update-my-prescription visit. I am now scheduled for a biopsy. That's a scary word too – almost as bad as the C-word. Biopsy – the B-Word, the "just a little snip" word. In this case, the Ultrasound-Guided-Needle-Biopsy word. In my throat.
I'm trying not to panic.
.
2.05.2009
Be My Valentine
People are asking for love stories and it struck me that I don't have one. How pitiful does THAT sound? I don't have a romantic prince-charming-on-a-white-horse-taking-me-away-from-all-of-this story.
It's sad to think I have gone this far in my life and through the years, I gave up on the Prince Charming dream. I started this path when I was very, very young. My Dad was my Prince Charming and I adored him. Then one day when I was 19, another Prince Charming rode by and swept me off my feet. We married and we had two children, both boys. Seven years later, when our boys were 2 and 3 years old, he became disenchanted and found what he desired in another man.
This was an event that started a heavy soul searching on my part. I look back now and think about how young I was and how innocently I saw things - it was just a given that a princess married her Prince Charming and they lived happily ever after for ever and ever amen.
Then I started dating "real men" and found most of them wanted freedom and several partners - and they avoided having partners with single mothers. (The "package" thing)
For several years I didn’t date. I focused on my boys, my job, our lives. But then HE came along.
When my Significant Other arrived, in a beat-up roaring white ’72 Charger (a steel horse with so much horse power under the hood that it could probably drive itself), he appeared as an overweight, shy, intelligent, awkward auto mechanic. He said he saw me and KNEW that I was his “little red-haired girl.” Just like Charlie Brown. He was smitten. He entered our lives when the boys were 10 and 11, and the same weekend that they had received letters from their Dad, coming out of his closet. To say we were a shell-shocked, ragtag, confused little family was an understatement. And this was absolutely no problem to my future Significant Other. He took them out to his car while he changed the oil, replaced spark plugs, took things apart, got greasy, put things back together, fired up the many-horse power Charger, and generally was an all-male, manly-man, Tim Allen-type guy, even grunting with joy when the motor hummed back to life. The boys were pretty much in awe.
Now, THAT is as romantic as he got. No card. No flowers. No romance. But I fell for him anyway. He was stable. He was committed to just one person – who happened to be me. And he blended in with my boys as naturally as if he were their Dad. His idea of a Valentine Card was to replace the faltering alternator in my car. (Lasts longer than flowers.)
That was 23 years ago. He’s still my Significant Other. He is finally introducing me as HIS significant other, too. Before, for years, I was his girlfriend. I told him that “girlfriend” sounds trivial and IN-significant. I’m not a one-night stand and I’m not temporary. I am not just a fling. I told him that he is my Significant Other because he is important to me; he is a significant part of my life and my happiness. He is my “most important” half of me.
So, that’s my love story. I guess I DO have one after all.
.
It's sad to think I have gone this far in my life and through the years, I gave up on the Prince Charming dream. I started this path when I was very, very young. My Dad was my Prince Charming and I adored him. Then one day when I was 19, another Prince Charming rode by and swept me off my feet. We married and we had two children, both boys. Seven years later, when our boys were 2 and 3 years old, he became disenchanted and found what he desired in another man.
This was an event that started a heavy soul searching on my part. I look back now and think about how young I was and how innocently I saw things - it was just a given that a princess married her Prince Charming and they lived happily ever after for ever and ever amen.
Then I started dating "real men" and found most of them wanted freedom and several partners - and they avoided having partners with single mothers. (The "package" thing)
For several years I didn’t date. I focused on my boys, my job, our lives. But then HE came along.
When my Significant Other arrived, in a beat-up roaring white ’72 Charger (a steel horse with so much horse power under the hood that it could probably drive itself), he appeared as an overweight, shy, intelligent, awkward auto mechanic. He said he saw me and KNEW that I was his “little red-haired girl.” Just like Charlie Brown. He was smitten. He entered our lives when the boys were 10 and 11, and the same weekend that they had received letters from their Dad, coming out of his closet. To say we were a shell-shocked, ragtag, confused little family was an understatement. And this was absolutely no problem to my future Significant Other. He took them out to his car while he changed the oil, replaced spark plugs, took things apart, got greasy, put things back together, fired up the many-horse power Charger, and generally was an all-male, manly-man, Tim Allen-type guy, even grunting with joy when the motor hummed back to life. The boys were pretty much in awe.
Now, THAT is as romantic as he got. No card. No flowers. No romance. But I fell for him anyway. He was stable. He was committed to just one person – who happened to be me. And he blended in with my boys as naturally as if he were their Dad. His idea of a Valentine Card was to replace the faltering alternator in my car. (Lasts longer than flowers.)
That was 23 years ago. He’s still my Significant Other. He is finally introducing me as HIS significant other, too. Before, for years, I was his girlfriend. I told him that “girlfriend” sounds trivial and IN-significant. I’m not a one-night stand and I’m not temporary. I am not just a fling. I told him that he is my Significant Other because he is important to me; he is a significant part of my life and my happiness. He is my “most important” half of me.
So, that’s my love story. I guess I DO have one after all.
.
2.04.2009
Friend or Foe?
So, I'm driving along the freeway to work, blithley happy in a new day, content in my life, when a commercial comes on for the Baby Fair this weekend, "sponsored by marriage-friendly communities."
Marriage-friendly communities???? What the heck does THAT mean. Are there unfriendly single communities? Are their communities that are NOT friendly with marriage? What about communities like mine that aren't married but aren't single either?
Wait.
Does that mean I have enemies to my unmarriage with my significant other? Like, I can't shop at their stores, can't walk on their sidewalks, I have to get off the bus right at the line where . . . . unmarriage ends and marriage begins. How can I tell? And what does this mean for the unmarried mother – is she prohibited from going to the Baby Fair because the marriage-friendly communities have shunned her, right out of the stone age – gee, maybe they'll throw stones?
Now I've arrived at work all grumpy and cantankerous. And paranoid! All those marriage-friendly communities hissing through their teeth as I walk by.
.
Marriage-friendly communities???? What the heck does THAT mean. Are there unfriendly single communities? Are their communities that are NOT friendly with marriage? What about communities like mine that aren't married but aren't single either?
Wait.
Does that mean I have enemies to my unmarriage with my significant other? Like, I can't shop at their stores, can't walk on their sidewalks, I have to get off the bus right at the line where . . . . unmarriage ends and marriage begins. How can I tell? And what does this mean for the unmarried mother – is she prohibited from going to the Baby Fair because the marriage-friendly communities have shunned her, right out of the stone age – gee, maybe they'll throw stones?
Now I've arrived at work all grumpy and cantankerous. And paranoid! All those marriage-friendly communities hissing through their teeth as I walk by.
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2.01.2009
Wrong Write?
Where has penmanship gone? I didn’t feel its loss until I recently received a letter in beautiful calligraphy. It brought back memories of 2nd Grade, learning cursive, bending over my paper, tongue perched over my lip, diligently and intently creating those smooth round letters that flowed together making me feel so very grown up. (smile) And how through the years of school, college, pre-computer era term papers and writing, writing, writing. Writing fast and furious to make the deadline of a final; writing Christmas cards, writing to friends, writing in my journal. And slowly over the years watching my finely honed script degenerating into scratches and marks and almost indecipherable ticks. And today most of my writing is done on a computer at lightning speed, sometimes faster than I can think, putting down words and thoughts before I think they come into my head.
There is a grace and elegance in calligraphy. It culls up a style and poise that seeps through the eyes like comforting elixir. The writer is more thoughtful in his words; they are carefully chosen and a phrase is eloquent and almost musical to the reader.
It’s a shame, really, that we have become so enmeshed in our computers and the wide world of the internet that nearly all our written word is through a keyboard and not through such a skilled artist’s venue as one holding an ink pen.
.
There is a grace and elegance in calligraphy. It culls up a style and poise that seeps through the eyes like comforting elixir. The writer is more thoughtful in his words; they are carefully chosen and a phrase is eloquent and almost musical to the reader.
It’s a shame, really, that we have become so enmeshed in our computers and the wide world of the internet that nearly all our written word is through a keyboard and not through such a skilled artist’s venue as one holding an ink pen.
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1.29.2009
Can you get to the point in 55 words exactly????
I found a site that has a little noncompetitive contest (ha!!) that is a 55-word story.
Check here
I thought Huckleberries (see side bar) has such fine (prolific) writers that this would be enjoyable. In fact, the site I found celebrates "55 Flash Fridays". We could do something like 55-word Hump Day Stories. Or something. Here's a couple!
And another if that is too fluffy for you:
.
Check here
I thought Huckleberries (see side bar) has such fine (prolific) writers that this would be enjoyable. In fact, the site I found celebrates "55 Flash Fridays". We could do something like 55-word Hump Day Stories. Or something. Here's a couple!
My Excuse (by a 10-year-old girl)
I had my map of the 50 states in 50 different colors with all the correct capitals in florescent ink when this huge, opera singing elephant leapt out of the bushes and blew my map into a puddle and it dissolved right there and that’s why I don’t have my homework done. That’s the truth!
And another if that is too fluffy for you:
The Angel frantically ran past the Pearly Gates, across the gold cobbled stones, and up the golden staircase, screaming “Heaven is ending! Heaven is ending!" Other Angels tried to comfort her but she was beside herself with fear. God finally touched her. “Fear not,” He calmly said. “Heaven is still here. It has not . . . “ phffffft!
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1.28.2009
We are in a Black Hole
Unemployment.
Layoffs upon Layoffs.
I've never seen anything like it. First, yesterday's paper's headline shouted "One day, 40,000 job cuts" for household names like Caterpillar, Home Depot and Sprint Nextel. Then the news bulletin alert on my email stated that Mayor Vernor was planning nine layoffs in the building department, because of lack of new homes being built.
Today, Boeing announced 10,000 layoffs for this year and Starbucks added to that number, 6,000. We are in dire straits, folks. There is not one family that has escaped this cutting jobs theme. My son was laid off two weeks ago, in a small branch office where they laid off 30% of their employees. This morning's news relayed the tragic effects that layoffs can have – a father/husband killed his wife, their five children, and himself because both he and his wife were laid off this week.
It's increasingly worrisome. Add this to the fact that all of us who are working have watched our savings and 401(k)'s take a big hit and our dreams of retiring are looking grim. And what must it be like for those who have retired and are living on a fixed income with a dwindling retirement backup plan?
What is the solution? How can we keep our heads above the panic line?
I am grateful I do have a job, and a job that I enjoy – but what happens when people can't find a job, when Avista keeps raising its rates, when the economy tanks, and bail outs seem to be only for the big multi-millionaire companies and not for the small families, the homeless, the poor, even the middle class. What happens to . . . . me?
.
Layoffs upon Layoffs.
I've never seen anything like it. First, yesterday's paper's headline shouted "One day, 40,000 job cuts" for household names like Caterpillar, Home Depot and Sprint Nextel. Then the news bulletin alert on my email stated that Mayor Vernor was planning nine layoffs in the building department, because of lack of new homes being built.
Today, Boeing announced 10,000 layoffs for this year and Starbucks added to that number, 6,000. We are in dire straits, folks. There is not one family that has escaped this cutting jobs theme. My son was laid off two weeks ago, in a small branch office where they laid off 30% of their employees. This morning's news relayed the tragic effects that layoffs can have – a father/husband killed his wife, their five children, and himself because both he and his wife were laid off this week.
It's increasingly worrisome. Add this to the fact that all of us who are working have watched our savings and 401(k)'s take a big hit and our dreams of retiring are looking grim. And what must it be like for those who have retired and are living on a fixed income with a dwindling retirement backup plan?
What is the solution? How can we keep our heads above the panic line?
I am grateful I do have a job, and a job that I enjoy – but what happens when people can't find a job, when Avista keeps raising its rates, when the economy tanks, and bail outs seem to be only for the big multi-millionaire companies and not for the small families, the homeless, the poor, even the middle class. What happens to . . . . me?
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1.27.2009
Analog Digital Confusion!
It's such a quandary, isn't it? To go digital or stay analog. It's almost like they are saying – get with the new century or sit on your behind and "go dark."
I haven't given this digital conversion a single thought because I have cable. But the ads on tv are glutted with promos for getting a converter box before D Day (Digital Day) or you won't be able to watch tv.
First, this is a government mandated conversion. For your television connection. I think all kinds of conspiracy theories can propagate themselves right in this one little conversion proposal. It's government mandated! It's very "Big Brother is Watching You." I wonder if this means that Big Brother is **really** watching me as I watch Desperate Women. Can Big Brother hear conversations in my house? Is that just too paranoid? Is it really? If the government can mandate how your television is connected, then can it eventually mandate what you watch and when you watch it?
We have been hearing promos for box coupons for months now and the deadline crept closer and closer to reality, even pre-empting a rerun of Boston Legal to go on for an hour about how easy it is to connect your tv to the converter box, when suddenly, now we have an extra four months, until June. What ARE the elderly, the poor, the ones with just a simple television that isn't on cable, going to do???
I did a tiny bit of research on this and in a Q&A:
.
I haven't given this digital conversion a single thought because I have cable. But the ads on tv are glutted with promos for getting a converter box before D Day (Digital Day) or you won't be able to watch tv.
First, this is a government mandated conversion. For your television connection. I think all kinds of conspiracy theories can propagate themselves right in this one little conversion proposal. It's government mandated! It's very "Big Brother is Watching You." I wonder if this means that Big Brother is **really** watching me as I watch Desperate Women. Can Big Brother hear conversations in my house? Is that just too paranoid? Is it really? If the government can mandate how your television is connected, then can it eventually mandate what you watch and when you watch it?
We have been hearing promos for box coupons for months now and the deadline crept closer and closer to reality, even pre-empting a rerun of Boston Legal to go on for an hour about how easy it is to connect your tv to the converter box, when suddenly, now we have an extra four months, until June. What ARE the elderly, the poor, the ones with just a simple television that isn't on cable, going to do???
I did a tiny bit of research on this and in a Q&A:
"An important benefit of the switch to all-digital broadcasting is that it will free up parts of the valuable broadcast spectrum for public safety communications (such as police, fire departments, and rescue squads). Also, some of the spectrum will be auctioned to companies that will be able to provide consumers with more advanced wireless services (such as wireless broadband). "
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1.25.2009
Summons
There it was. Those words. You Have Been Summoned. It looked sinister and ominous.
Holy cow! I have been called to jury duty! First time ever! O boy! O boy! (a little dancing, a little high-fiving, a little "framing of my summons" going on.)
I know it is based on my being an adult, licensed driver, home owner, or somehow have an identification card showing I’m, . . . . what? Smart? Objective? Mature? Can I be your peer?
Here I am, almost 60 years old and I’ve been sniveling about NOT being “chosen” for jury duty. Like it was some kind of contest. So typical of my life – first in 4th grade being the last.one.standing to be picked for one of two teams. Now, I am entering close-to-retirement years and I finally got picked for jury duty. They say you have been “randomly” picked – but I know better. They couldn’t find anyone else taller, smarter, prettier, or more athletic and they had to settle for. . . . . . . . .me.
I’m kidding of course. It is a serious duty and my right as a member of the community and I wasn’t being snubbed. Much.
I’ve heard the stories, though, of how utterly boring it is. Very, very few get the high profile cases. The rest are domestic quarrels with your neighbor, shop lifting, bla bla snooze.
So, what should I wear? Can I bring my I-pod? My laptop? Food?
.
Holy cow! I have been called to jury duty! First time ever! O boy! O boy! (a little dancing, a little high-fiving, a little "framing of my summons" going on.)
I know it is based on my being an adult, licensed driver, home owner, or somehow have an identification card showing I’m, . . . . what? Smart? Objective? Mature? Can I be your peer?
Here I am, almost 60 years old and I’ve been sniveling about NOT being “chosen” for jury duty. Like it was some kind of contest. So typical of my life – first in 4th grade being the last.one.standing to be picked for one of two teams. Now, I am entering close-to-retirement years and I finally got picked for jury duty. They say you have been “randomly” picked – but I know better. They couldn’t find anyone else taller, smarter, prettier, or more athletic and they had to settle for. . . . . . . . .me.
I’m kidding of course. It is a serious duty and my right as a member of the community and I wasn’t being snubbed. Much.
I’ve heard the stories, though, of how utterly boring it is. Very, very few get the high profile cases. The rest are domestic quarrels with your neighbor, shop lifting, bla bla snooze.
So, what should I wear? Can I bring my I-pod? My laptop? Food?
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1.21.2009
A Mom by Any Other Name
Recently a friend sent an email questionnaire – you know, the fun ones asking you to name your favorite chick flick, the last movie you cried to, your favorite snack. This one asked, "name five names you are known by." So, I faithfully started writing:
Ma
Mom
Mommy
Mom!!!
Sweetie
Jeanie
Donna Jean (my mother)
Mrs. xxx (teachers)
Mrs. xxx (future daughters-in-law)
Mom (present daughter-in-law)
And I realized most of my names are related to some job I hold – parent, spouse, secretary, daughter. Most of my names are my children's names for me, depending on the degree of urgency, each one said incrementally louder than the one before it. They are in their mid-30s now and I do not see them growing out of this name-calling stage any time soon.
I don't think I have lost my identity – you hear women whine all the time that they don't know who they are. I am first and foremost – Mom. It's my favorite job. It's my longest running job – I have never been fired nor laid off and I doubt I will ever have to worry about job security until the day I die – and then it is my children who will have lost their parent / teacher / friend / nurse / fireman / instructor / life coach / driver / all-around rescuer from all things girl, pet, sport, life in general issues. (I haven't quite figured out how to put that down on my resume.)
So, my oldest son was laid off after ten years and the first person he called was:
"Mom!!!!"
I'm meeting him for lunch and I'm wearing all my hats.
.
Ma
Mom
Mommy
Mom!!!
Sweetie
Jeanie
Donna Jean (my mother)
Mrs. xxx (teachers)
Mrs. xxx (future daughters-in-law)
Mom (present daughter-in-law)
And I realized most of my names are related to some job I hold – parent, spouse, secretary, daughter. Most of my names are my children's names for me, depending on the degree of urgency, each one said incrementally louder than the one before it. They are in their mid-30s now and I do not see them growing out of this name-calling stage any time soon.
I don't think I have lost my identity – you hear women whine all the time that they don't know who they are. I am first and foremost – Mom. It's my favorite job. It's my longest running job – I have never been fired nor laid off and I doubt I will ever have to worry about job security until the day I die – and then it is my children who will have lost their parent / teacher / friend / nurse / fireman / instructor / life coach / driver / all-around rescuer from all things girl, pet, sport, life in general issues. (I haven't quite figured out how to put that down on my resume.)
So, my oldest son was laid off after ten years and the first person he called was:
"Mom!!!!"
I'm meeting him for lunch and I'm wearing all my hats.
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1.13.2009
Take a Wild Ride
Buckle that belt
Kiss 2008 a sound Good Bye
And let's take this new year for a great ride
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1.10.2009
Play that avatar!
Recently, my favorite online newspaper, The Spokesman-Review, upgraded their website and now all the blogs allow the users to create “avatars” to represent themselves.
Wikipedia paints an avatar as “. . . a computer user's representation of himself/herself or alter ego” “It is an “object” representing the embodiment of the user. The term "avatar" can also refer to the personality connected with the screen name, or handle, of an Internet user.”
An avatar also is a reincarnation of a Hindu deity! And further is defined as “an embodiment, a bodily manifestation of the Divine."
However, in the blogosphere of Huckleberries, an avatar doesn’t necessarily show a deity as much as it shows the mischievous, whimsical, and playful personality of the individual behind the avatar.
You can be anything you want to be, the stars are the limits. You can be thin, svelte, young, animal, personality, even a symbol. Anything goes.
If I take the concept behind an avatar, then I am assuming that each user is displaying his persona in that little icon. On Huckleberries – unlike any other forum displaying avatars – the individual avatars change sporadically throughout the day, expressing that individual’s mood at that moment: naughty, nice, cantankerous, ornery, quizzical, mysterious. Mine at the moment is pixyish fairy with a subtle mischievousness – in other words, a brat. :) (Tinkerbell) (I did find a naked Tink and gave it about five seconds before I visualized my avatar (and me) being banned forever and ever.)
Actually, when I go through the blogosphere at Huckleberries, I can never quite be sure that doodleface is really Jane Doe, it might be Jack Splat. And with the constant changing of the avatars for one single individual, at any given moment, which seems to be going on with nearly everyone on the blog, I think the whole Huckleberries community is filled up with escapee schizophrenics. And I’m one of them!!!
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Wikipedia paints an avatar as “. . . a computer user's representation of himself/herself or alter ego” “It is an “object” representing the embodiment of the user. The term "avatar" can also refer to the personality connected with the screen name, or handle, of an Internet user.”
An avatar also is a reincarnation of a Hindu deity! And further is defined as “an embodiment, a bodily manifestation of the Divine."
However, in the blogosphere of Huckleberries, an avatar doesn’t necessarily show a deity as much as it shows the mischievous, whimsical, and playful personality of the individual behind the avatar.
You can be anything you want to be, the stars are the limits. You can be thin, svelte, young, animal, personality, even a symbol. Anything goes.
If I take the concept behind an avatar, then I am assuming that each user is displaying his persona in that little icon. On Huckleberries – unlike any other forum displaying avatars – the individual avatars change sporadically throughout the day, expressing that individual’s mood at that moment: naughty, nice, cantankerous, ornery, quizzical, mysterious. Mine at the moment is pixyish fairy with a subtle mischievousness – in other words, a brat. :) (Tinkerbell) (I did find a naked Tink and gave it about five seconds before I visualized my avatar (and me) being banned forever and ever.)Actually, when I go through the blogosphere at Huckleberries, I can never quite be sure that doodleface is really Jane Doe, it might be Jack Splat. And with the constant changing of the avatars for one single individual, at any given moment, which seems to be going on with nearly everyone on the blog, I think the whole Huckleberries community is filled up with escapee schizophrenics. And I’m one of them!!!
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1.06.2009
Puffed Childhood
Cindy Hval's article ("Jot it down") instantly brought back one of many, many happy memories of my children when they were little. We spent endless nights before bedtime all curled up in one rocker while I read to them. I still have that rocker.
When I look back, I see rows and rows of days where we were either in that chair or all three cuddled up on the couch, one on either side of me. They were precious moments where we "bonded" – where we formed a tight circle of love and affection – just the three of us. I miss those days of cuddling. They haven't faded completely out of view for just this last Christmas we were all together with our extended families and I lost count of the times that one son or the other son embraced me as we were all celebrating the holiday.
I remember the day I discovered my babies had sprouted fuzzy angel hair on their legs! O my! Who would have thought that those fat squeezable legs would grow into puberty, into long legged teen boys.
Or the day my youngest drew a tattoo in blue indelible ink on his leg. That was a perfectly good leg, I told him! No marks, no scars, no taints, no blemishes. Perfect! He now sports several real tattoos, on his legs, arms, neck. {sigh}
And the day that we were watching "Puff the Magic Dragon" when they were six and seven years old. As the little boy in the cartoon grew into a man and forgot his magical dragon friend, Puff, my youngest turned to me in astonishment, huge tears spilling over his cheeks, wondering how something could be so sad – and I was thinking at the same time, how does a six year old learn compassion and empathy to the extreme of tears? I hugged him and encouraged him to stay young! Stay innocent! Stay my baby!
He's now 35 years old. But he hasn't forgotten me!
There's always a hug and there's always a "hey, Mom!" of some discovery he wants to share.
.
When I look back, I see rows and rows of days where we were either in that chair or all three cuddled up on the couch, one on either side of me. They were precious moments where we "bonded" – where we formed a tight circle of love and affection – just the three of us. I miss those days of cuddling. They haven't faded completely out of view for just this last Christmas we were all together with our extended families and I lost count of the times that one son or the other son embraced me as we were all celebrating the holiday.
I remember the day I discovered my babies had sprouted fuzzy angel hair on their legs! O my! Who would have thought that those fat squeezable legs would grow into puberty, into long legged teen boys.
Or the day my youngest drew a tattoo in blue indelible ink on his leg. That was a perfectly good leg, I told him! No marks, no scars, no taints, no blemishes. Perfect! He now sports several real tattoos, on his legs, arms, neck. {sigh}
And the day that we were watching "Puff the Magic Dragon" when they were six and seven years old. As the little boy in the cartoon grew into a man and forgot his magical dragon friend, Puff, my youngest turned to me in astonishment, huge tears spilling over his cheeks, wondering how something could be so sad – and I was thinking at the same time, how does a six year old learn compassion and empathy to the extreme of tears? I hugged him and encouraged him to stay young! Stay innocent! Stay my baby!
He's now 35 years old. But he hasn't forgotten me!
There's always a hug and there's always a "hey, Mom!" of some discovery he wants to share.
.
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