Except for a twenty minute walk, I have uncharacteristically spent an entire afternoon/evening in front of the TV. I started with the second half of last week's "The Apprentice". I haven't watched in at least two years. I forgot how contrived the whole thing is. As always, it's easy to pick out the last people anyone would want working with them. It is assured that the most awful people will never get fired until close to the end. This way viewers will come back to find out what crap they'll pull next week.
Then I watched the news. Last week I saw a spot about a guy, Stephen Wampler, with cerebral palsey who was trying to climb El Capitan. He was strapped onto a custom fitted litter and was using both hands to pull himself up five inches at a time. El Capitan is about 3000 feet tall, a little higher than two Empire State Buildings. I had been wondering if he made it. Well, today, after over 6 days and more than 20,000 pull ups, he reached the top. Good for him!
After a quick dinner/clearing of leftovers from the fridge, it was time for Jeopardy! Then, since I hate "Wheel of Fortune," I opted for Family Guy, which I don't really love. But, apparently, I liked it enough not to do anything drastic, like change the channel or hit the off button.
In the short interrim while we were waiting to start House, BP was on one couch, and I was on the other. Magic was next to me. Perry was eating Cheese Doodles and tossed me one. I caught it, bit off half, and gave the other half to Magic. Then we did it again, and several times more. Finally I missed one that bounced into the corner and Magic got it. I am disappointed to report that Magic did not share her Cheese Doodle with me.
Then we watched House. Now BP is watching "The Event". I've wandered off. I should have wandered much further much longer ago.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Just Sunday Stuff
Thank you all for your comments on yesterday's post! Your responses mean a lot to me.
Just a snapshot of our house right now. Tara is upstairs cleaning her bathroom within an inch of its life. She has been working on it for hours. I will not break the spell by going up there to investigate.
BP is watching football. We are happy because the Jets won, and won by playing really well. I am happy because I am playing BP in fantasy football and it looks like I am going to win.
I have just finished cleaning the kitchen. It was necessary to clean the stove because I made potstickers a little while ago. I turned on the gas and got side tracked looking for something else while the pan was heating up. I forgot it was on. I added two tablespoons of oil. It did not sizzle wildly, so I felt safe adding the quarter cup water. Wrong! I am not sure the words sizzle and spit convey the ensuing sound. Snap, crackle, and pop would be more appropriate. And maybe "explode". Tara ran to the upstairs railing, probably wondering if she should call 911 for an ambulance as well as a firetruck. BP got off the recliner--on a Sunday. I turned the gas off and waited the disaster out from a safe distance. When it was over I thought it would be best to wash the pan and start from scratch. This is why I needed to clean the kitchen.
I am also a strange combination of exhausted and well rested. On this beautiful last-of-summer afternoon, I took my Kindle outside on the hammock and read. Then I was standing on the shore of a whitish blue bay surrounded by glaciers. It was a gorgeous, balmy day. My kayak was in front of me and I decided to go for a short paddle. I went a little way out, put the paddle down, and took out my Kindle. As I read, I let my leg trail over the side and found the Alaskan water to be wonderfully warm. I held my Kindle over my head and gently slid into the bay for a swim, careful to keep the Kindle out of the water. The water was beautiful, but I soon realized that I couldn't get back into my kayak without getting the Kindle wet. So I decided to float on my back in the direction I came from. I kept floating and floating. I inadvertantly wound up in the mooring area and I could hear an announcer on the public address system saying, "The woman is now going down under the cruise ship. When I opened my eyes, I realized that I had wandered deep down in the bay and I could see the entire outline of the ship above me. I have always been afraid of swimming under boats, but I was just horrified that my Kindle was getting wet. I used my legs to propel myself as quickly as I could, still holding the Kindle as far up as I could stretch. Finally I felt sand and floating leaves as I reached the beach. I checked the Kindle and was incredibly relieved to find myself in the hammock in my back yard in New Jersey.
I am well rested from my nap, but exhausted from that long swim.
Just a snapshot of our house right now. Tara is upstairs cleaning her bathroom within an inch of its life. She has been working on it for hours. I will not break the spell by going up there to investigate.
BP is watching football. We are happy because the Jets won, and won by playing really well. I am happy because I am playing BP in fantasy football and it looks like I am going to win.
I have just finished cleaning the kitchen. It was necessary to clean the stove because I made potstickers a little while ago. I turned on the gas and got side tracked looking for something else while the pan was heating up. I forgot it was on. I added two tablespoons of oil. It did not sizzle wildly, so I felt safe adding the quarter cup water. Wrong! I am not sure the words sizzle and spit convey the ensuing sound. Snap, crackle, and pop would be more appropriate. And maybe "explode". Tara ran to the upstairs railing, probably wondering if she should call 911 for an ambulance as well as a firetruck. BP got off the recliner--on a Sunday. I turned the gas off and waited the disaster out from a safe distance. When it was over I thought it would be best to wash the pan and start from scratch. This is why I needed to clean the kitchen.
I am also a strange combination of exhausted and well rested. On this beautiful last-of-summer afternoon, I took my Kindle outside on the hammock and read. Then I was standing on the shore of a whitish blue bay surrounded by glaciers. It was a gorgeous, balmy day. My kayak was in front of me and I decided to go for a short paddle. I went a little way out, put the paddle down, and took out my Kindle. As I read, I let my leg trail over the side and found the Alaskan water to be wonderfully warm. I held my Kindle over my head and gently slid into the bay for a swim, careful to keep the Kindle out of the water. The water was beautiful, but I soon realized that I couldn't get back into my kayak without getting the Kindle wet. So I decided to float on my back in the direction I came from. I kept floating and floating. I inadvertantly wound up in the mooring area and I could hear an announcer on the public address system saying, "The woman is now going down under the cruise ship. When I opened my eyes, I realized that I had wandered deep down in the bay and I could see the entire outline of the ship above me. I have always been afraid of swimming under boats, but I was just horrified that my Kindle was getting wet. I used my legs to propel myself as quickly as I could, still holding the Kindle as far up as I could stretch. Finally I felt sand and floating leaves as I reached the beach. I checked the Kindle and was incredibly relieved to find myself in the hammock in my back yard in New Jersey.
I am well rested from my nap, but exhausted from that long swim.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
The Vehicle Quest Begins
It was all set. We were going to a car dealership to look for Tara's first set of wheels. Repossession Sale. Doors open at 8:00. Prices as low as $99.
With a $99 as a base price, I figured our $3000 budget would get us a bargain. There were about 25 vehicles in total. Approximately five of them were $99. We weren't interested in those so we looked across the aisle. Most of the over-99 cars were in the mid-$20,000's. We did find a nice looking Jeep for $2700. Tara hopped in and I sat next to her. The car was clean. The body was undented and reasonably shiny. Jeeps are sturdy. We dispatched BP to locate an available salesman. While we were waiting, another customer approached and pointed out how crooked the Jeep was parked. That's because he took it for a test drive and it died before leaving the parking space. It only made it a couple of feet and he backed it back in after they got it restarted. So much for bargains.
Then we went to a no-haggle used car lot that we'd seen along the way. Everything there was out of our range.
So we headed to the used car division on a regular dealership. We parked. We looked. There was not a single vehicle marked with a price. Kevin came to wait on us, hand extended. He said hello. It's nice to meet you. I said there were no prices on the cars. Then realizing my total lack of manners, I said hello. He said there were no prices on the cars so he could spend more time building a friendship with us. I'm not sure what my face said, but he immediately worked on bonding with BP. Every car on the lot was over our budget, except for a scratched up, dull red 1999 Chevy sitting off to the side bordering the sales lot and the section reserved for cars awaiting transport to the glue factory. He couldn't tell us the price offhand, but he invited us to his desk so he could look it up. As we walked he asked Tara if she knew his niece, which she did. Now he was finding common ground with the kid. I listened resentfully and was on the verge of a good old-fashioned sulk. I could not get over the lack of price labels. "How much is this car?" I muttered to BP. "How much you got?"
He left us at the desk while he found the price. Kevin asked Tara if she would drive a car like that. She said no. She wanted something "fresher". Kevin chuckled and made some comment about her being a princess. He might as well have come right out and accused her of feeling like she's too good to drive the junker. He caught my expression and switched to affirming that "of course you'd like a fresher car. What girl your age wouldn't?" As he handed us his business card he assured us that he gets new cars in every single week and she won't be getting her license for a whole month. We can stop back in as often as we'd like and check out his website. Then he helpfully pointed out the location of his name, phone number, fax number, and website on the card, and shook our hands again.
Now here's a question for my readers. Is it normal for used cars on a lot not to have clearly displayed prices?
Please reply to me and seriously answer that question. If you don't, I will be forced to drive out and sample other lots to find out for myself. The used car salesmen of the world probably won't like that.
With a $99 as a base price, I figured our $3000 budget would get us a bargain. There were about 25 vehicles in total. Approximately five of them were $99. We weren't interested in those so we looked across the aisle. Most of the over-99 cars were in the mid-$20,000's. We did find a nice looking Jeep for $2700. Tara hopped in and I sat next to her. The car was clean. The body was undented and reasonably shiny. Jeeps are sturdy. We dispatched BP to locate an available salesman. While we were waiting, another customer approached and pointed out how crooked the Jeep was parked. That's because he took it for a test drive and it died before leaving the parking space. It only made it a couple of feet and he backed it back in after they got it restarted. So much for bargains.
Then we went to a no-haggle used car lot that we'd seen along the way. Everything there was out of our range.
So we headed to the used car division on a regular dealership. We parked. We looked. There was not a single vehicle marked with a price. Kevin came to wait on us, hand extended. He said hello. It's nice to meet you. I said there were no prices on the cars. Then realizing my total lack of manners, I said hello. He said there were no prices on the cars so he could spend more time building a friendship with us. I'm not sure what my face said, but he immediately worked on bonding with BP. Every car on the lot was over our budget, except for a scratched up, dull red 1999 Chevy sitting off to the side bordering the sales lot and the section reserved for cars awaiting transport to the glue factory. He couldn't tell us the price offhand, but he invited us to his desk so he could look it up. As we walked he asked Tara if she knew his niece, which she did. Now he was finding common ground with the kid. I listened resentfully and was on the verge of a good old-fashioned sulk. I could not get over the lack of price labels. "How much is this car?" I muttered to BP. "How much you got?"
He left us at the desk while he found the price. Kevin asked Tara if she would drive a car like that. She said no. She wanted something "fresher". Kevin chuckled and made some comment about her being a princess. He might as well have come right out and accused her of feeling like she's too good to drive the junker. He caught my expression and switched to affirming that "of course you'd like a fresher car. What girl your age wouldn't?" As he handed us his business card he assured us that he gets new cars in every single week and she won't be getting her license for a whole month. We can stop back in as often as we'd like and check out his website. Then he helpfully pointed out the location of his name, phone number, fax number, and website on the card, and shook our hands again.
Now here's a question for my readers. Is it normal for used cars on a lot not to have clearly displayed prices?
Please reply to me and seriously answer that question. If you don't, I will be forced to drive out and sample other lots to find out for myself. The used car salesmen of the world probably won't like that.
Friday, September 17, 2010
A Short Description of Teaching
It's 5:13. I got home from work about ten minutes ago. BP commented that I've been working late all week. My spontaneous reply was, "Yeah. I've really been enjoying it." After I said it, I realized that while my response was totally honest, it was a strange, strange thing to say. Once the kids leave, I take my time straightening up the classroom. I plan the next day. Then in my travels to make copies or drop something off at the office, I invariably find someone, more likely several someones, who I end up talking with. Then I wander back to my room, find some other little job to do, and then, eventually I go home.
So why do I like being at work after hours, when I am not getting paid an extra cent to just hang out? Why are there always other teachers to hang out with? I think it's the quiet. The kids have gone home. The phone has stopped ringing. The announcements have stopped. The bells are not proclaiming time to move on to something else. It's quiet and calm. There's room to think and get things done without interruption or time constraints. Teachers can hold entire conversations while seated. Usually we shout at each other in sound bytes as we pass in the hall amidst 1400 adolescents changing classes.
Teaching is a fast paced, stressful job. It is like being on stage doing improvisation in front of a captive and sometimes hostile audience. There are no ushers to escort hecklers to the street. The audience may not be permitted an intermission, nor are they allowed to leave discretely, so all restroom breaks must be announced during your performance. A class is a 45 minute show. Then the audience leaves and a new group immediately takes its place. You start again. And again. And again. And again. And again. You can be on an incredible roll and have them eating out of your hand. You're at the top of your game and the next sentence out of your mouth is the punchline. At that exact moment the phone rings and you must inform five people that the guidance counselor wants to see them. But before they can leave you must pause to write a hall pass.
Sometimes the audience harbors animosity towards you. Sometimes they just hate each other. The Hatfields and the McCoys are routinely assigned to the same room. People who in real life will gravitate to different neighborhoods (like Appalachia and the upper east side), who will choose different professions (like cops and robbers), who will embrace different philosophies (like the Dalai Lama and the Taliban), are required by law to share closet space, crayons, and lab report grades. When they get on each other's nerves or erupt into a nuclear war, the U.N. will not be sending a team of diplomats to set up negotiations. Mostly because there is nothing to negotiate. They still have to share closet space, crayons, and lab report grades. So who keeps the peace? The teacher. But this must be done while continuing to entertain the rest of the troops.
So when all the turmoil is done, when the last audience has left the theater, the teacher is left with quiet. This is why we just hang out.
So why do I like being at work after hours, when I am not getting paid an extra cent to just hang out? Why are there always other teachers to hang out with? I think it's the quiet. The kids have gone home. The phone has stopped ringing. The announcements have stopped. The bells are not proclaiming time to move on to something else. It's quiet and calm. There's room to think and get things done without interruption or time constraints. Teachers can hold entire conversations while seated. Usually we shout at each other in sound bytes as we pass in the hall amidst 1400 adolescents changing classes.
Teaching is a fast paced, stressful job. It is like being on stage doing improvisation in front of a captive and sometimes hostile audience. There are no ushers to escort hecklers to the street. The audience may not be permitted an intermission, nor are they allowed to leave discretely, so all restroom breaks must be announced during your performance. A class is a 45 minute show. Then the audience leaves and a new group immediately takes its place. You start again. And again. And again. And again. And again. You can be on an incredible roll and have them eating out of your hand. You're at the top of your game and the next sentence out of your mouth is the punchline. At that exact moment the phone rings and you must inform five people that the guidance counselor wants to see them. But before they can leave you must pause to write a hall pass.
Sometimes the audience harbors animosity towards you. Sometimes they just hate each other. The Hatfields and the McCoys are routinely assigned to the same room. People who in real life will gravitate to different neighborhoods (like Appalachia and the upper east side), who will choose different professions (like cops and robbers), who will embrace different philosophies (like the Dalai Lama and the Taliban), are required by law to share closet space, crayons, and lab report grades. When they get on each other's nerves or erupt into a nuclear war, the U.N. will not be sending a team of diplomats to set up negotiations. Mostly because there is nothing to negotiate. They still have to share closet space, crayons, and lab report grades. So who keeps the peace? The teacher. But this must be done while continuing to entertain the rest of the troops.
So when all the turmoil is done, when the last audience has left the theater, the teacher is left with quiet. This is why we just hang out.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Lethargy, Nail Salons, and Photograpy
I'm forcing myself to come back from three days of lethargy. I was planning to let tonight slide and start fresh in the morning, but I got a brief pep talk from Rich, and I'm back at the keyboard. Thank you, Rich.
So, what caused this lethargy? Monday night at the Writer's Exchange I got mixed reviews on my plans for a blog. It's not the content itself that stirred the doubtful reception, but the electronic medium. Of the eight opinions available to me, exactly none of them offered concrete advise on how to proceed in getting a blog to catch on with a regular audience. I was mostly offered shrugs, I-don't-knows, and "is it even possible to make a living like that?" Usually this group is lively, upbeat, insightful, and encouraging. I like these people. But Monday night I was hanging on a limb by myself. Although I should not have, I let the discouragement give me permission not to write on Tuesday.
Then came Wednesday. I already missed one day, so I might as well miss another. No one would notice anyway. So I fell into The Witch's Prison, a computer game, and spent the entire evening not seeing a really obvious search object, and devoted over an hour to solving a puzzle that I didn't understand the rules for solving. Now I understand the rules, but I haven't found the solution.
I was hoping that I would be back in my weird little asylum world tonight, but Tara was on the computer. Searching for used cars!!! Saturday morning we're going to a dealership to look for a car. For Tara. Is that even possible? Then she went to get her nails done at 6:30. Perry took over the search. Jeopardy! was preempted for extended coverage of fallen trees and delayed trains in New York City. I watched an episode of Seinfeld (the frozen yogurt) and then aimlessly flipped channels until the computer was free. I pounced.
I hope all fantasy baseball people are reading this. I know I am the seventh place team. I understand that I was fair to middling all season. But did you see my score on Tuesday? 210 points. That's two hundred ten. And THAT is a Donna first down! (Only Rutgers football fans will get my last sentence.) Gloat completed.
At 7:45 I called Tara and asked her if she was close to needing to be picked up. She said no. I thought this was odd, but I was keeping myself amused. At 8:20, two hours into this nail salon thing, I told myself that she had to be ready soon. I drove to the salon and there she was, hands still resting on the table. The only explanation the manicurist gave me was that they had to put on a whole new set because the place she got her nails done at last time use a different kind of whatever it is they use. According to my watch, she had time to grow a new set. So I thumbed through a promotional book put there by wedding photographers. Then I read a teaching book on my Kindle. Then the season premier of The Apprentice started and I wished it were socially acceptable to tell everyone in the salon to stop talking and blow drying. Not only were they keeping me from hearing the introduction, they were talking about changing the channel. We finally left at 9:15, two hours and forty-five minutes from her appointment time.
Let me go back a minute to that wedding photography book. It was a compilation of the highlights of the work of several photographers. Most of it was standard. A few pictures were exceptionally nice. Three were exceptionally bizarre. The least objectionable was a shot of some older lady's feet. She was wearing a gold dress with matching shoes, and bright purple nail polish.
Then there was a shot of a very short old woman who was having such a good time her grin took on a cartoonishness. She was standing next to a young woman whose head was not in the photograph. But, oh boy, her boobs were just about falling out of her dress. So what I was looking at was a pair of boobs next to a bugged out octogenarian.
Last, and weirdest of all, was a picture of a bride and groom. They were standing face to face. His face was buried in his hands, sobbing. In a graveyard.
The foot picture was not great, but would pass as "what not to wear". The old lady and the boobs could be a candid shot that most people would opt not to include in the album. Both the old lady and the owner of the boobs would be vying for the picture in order to make sure it got run through the shredder.
And some sentimental couple, under awful circumstances, might decide to make a private stop at a gravesite. I'm guessing his parents were recently deceased and in his way he was making them part of the wedding, a bittersweet idea. But why on earth would they invite the photographer along?
I can even suppose that a photographer could, maybe, run into offbeat clients who want these pictures. But why in the world would that photographer choose these prints to represent him in a book meant to drum up business? I do not know the answer to this question, but I do know that we will not be hiring him for Laura's wedding.
Good night. Go live it up.
So, what caused this lethargy? Monday night at the Writer's Exchange I got mixed reviews on my plans for a blog. It's not the content itself that stirred the doubtful reception, but the electronic medium. Of the eight opinions available to me, exactly none of them offered concrete advise on how to proceed in getting a blog to catch on with a regular audience. I was mostly offered shrugs, I-don't-knows, and "is it even possible to make a living like that?" Usually this group is lively, upbeat, insightful, and encouraging. I like these people. But Monday night I was hanging on a limb by myself. Although I should not have, I let the discouragement give me permission not to write on Tuesday.
Then came Wednesday. I already missed one day, so I might as well miss another. No one would notice anyway. So I fell into The Witch's Prison, a computer game, and spent the entire evening not seeing a really obvious search object, and devoted over an hour to solving a puzzle that I didn't understand the rules for solving. Now I understand the rules, but I haven't found the solution.
I was hoping that I would be back in my weird little asylum world tonight, but Tara was on the computer. Searching for used cars!!! Saturday morning we're going to a dealership to look for a car. For Tara. Is that even possible? Then she went to get her nails done at 6:30. Perry took over the search. Jeopardy! was preempted for extended coverage of fallen trees and delayed trains in New York City. I watched an episode of Seinfeld (the frozen yogurt) and then aimlessly flipped channels until the computer was free. I pounced.
I hope all fantasy baseball people are reading this. I know I am the seventh place team. I understand that I was fair to middling all season. But did you see my score on Tuesday? 210 points. That's two hundred ten. And THAT is a Donna first down! (Only Rutgers football fans will get my last sentence.) Gloat completed.
At 7:45 I called Tara and asked her if she was close to needing to be picked up. She said no. I thought this was odd, but I was keeping myself amused. At 8:20, two hours into this nail salon thing, I told myself that she had to be ready soon. I drove to the salon and there she was, hands still resting on the table. The only explanation the manicurist gave me was that they had to put on a whole new set because the place she got her nails done at last time use a different kind of whatever it is they use. According to my watch, she had time to grow a new set. So I thumbed through a promotional book put there by wedding photographers. Then I read a teaching book on my Kindle. Then the season premier of The Apprentice started and I wished it were socially acceptable to tell everyone in the salon to stop talking and blow drying. Not only were they keeping me from hearing the introduction, they were talking about changing the channel. We finally left at 9:15, two hours and forty-five minutes from her appointment time.
Let me go back a minute to that wedding photography book. It was a compilation of the highlights of the work of several photographers. Most of it was standard. A few pictures were exceptionally nice. Three were exceptionally bizarre. The least objectionable was a shot of some older lady's feet. She was wearing a gold dress with matching shoes, and bright purple nail polish.
Then there was a shot of a very short old woman who was having such a good time her grin took on a cartoonishness. She was standing next to a young woman whose head was not in the photograph. But, oh boy, her boobs were just about falling out of her dress. So what I was looking at was a pair of boobs next to a bugged out octogenarian.
Last, and weirdest of all, was a picture of a bride and groom. They were standing face to face. His face was buried in his hands, sobbing. In a graveyard.
The foot picture was not great, but would pass as "what not to wear". The old lady and the boobs could be a candid shot that most people would opt not to include in the album. Both the old lady and the owner of the boobs would be vying for the picture in order to make sure it got run through the shredder.
And some sentimental couple, under awful circumstances, might decide to make a private stop at a gravesite. I'm guessing his parents were recently deceased and in his way he was making them part of the wedding, a bittersweet idea. But why on earth would they invite the photographer along?
I can even suppose that a photographer could, maybe, run into offbeat clients who want these pictures. But why in the world would that photographer choose these prints to represent him in a book meant to drum up business? I do not know the answer to this question, but I do know that we will not be hiring him for Laura's wedding.
Good night. Go live it up.
Monday, September 13, 2010
How To Lose an Hour and a Half
Today I was going to leave school right after dismissal. All I had to do was straighten up my desk and look over tomorrow's lessons. About halfway through tomorrow the other science teacher walked in with a cardboard box and a great idea for an earthquake demonstration. We discussed it for a minute or two, and off he went to test it. As soon as he left I came up with another idea to make it even better. Off I went to tell him. We had a great idea. If only we could demonstrate the effect of earthquakes on buildings. So then I was retrieving Legos from my closet. Ten minutes later we had a great lesson all set up. All I had to do was straighten up my desk and look over tomorrow's lessons.
The very last paper I had to clear involved coordinating a library visit with two other teachers. This coordination involved three conversations. The third conversation led to questions over the school breakfast procedures, the difficulties of switching classes so often, and how we are going to get the students missing from the computer into the computer. Only then did I actually look over tomorrow's lessons.
Then there was one stop on the way out to say hello to a friend. Just five more minutes won't kill anyone.
This is how I lost an hour and a half of an afternoon.
The very last paper I had to clear involved coordinating a library visit with two other teachers. This coordination involved three conversations. The third conversation led to questions over the school breakfast procedures, the difficulties of switching classes so often, and how we are going to get the students missing from the computer into the computer. Only then did I actually look over tomorrow's lessons.
Then there was one stop on the way out to say hello to a friend. Just five more minutes won't kill anyone.
This is how I lost an hour and a half of an afternoon.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sundays tend to be boring, I thought. Yup. I was ready to just loll about on the couch and scoff down a steady procession of snacks for the rest of the day. That's a long rest of the day when it's only noon. I had been thinking about kayaking, but cool, rainy weather doesn't quite make Cedar Creek a great idea. So I made myself write a short list of ways to spend a boring Sunday. First, I could go down to the basement and find the proper colors of green and terra cotta so I can fix the touch up painting from yesterday. Second, I could clean out my closet. Third, I could bake banana bread. Fourth, I could type the English essay Tara was campaigning for me to type. Fifth, I could go back to my original predisposition, the one in which I loll about on the couch and scoff down a steady procession of snacks for the rest of the day.
It was time to apply the process of elimination. I thought about taking care of the paint situation, but that would require a trip to Home Depot in the rain and would be less appealing that the state of boredom I was dealing with in the first place. Typing the essay was probably on par with painting. Lying on the couch and baking banana bread would both keep me in physical proximity to the child with the untyped essay and would hamper my attempts to avoid the situation. Therefore, I concluded, today would be an excellent day to clean out my closet.
I threw out a kitchen-sized garbage bag of shirts I haven't worn hundreds of moons due to the fact that they were really old and worn out. I rediscovered a whole bunch of shirts that count as new again because I forgot I had them. I decided against going through the winter shirts stowed away in storage tubs. Doing that would be akin to admitting that summer is really over, and I'd rather milk that one until sometime in October when I'm absolutely forced to wear a warm jacket. I did, however crazy this sounds, lay out all my clothes for the week. By the time I finished the job, the English essay was typed and the student typist wanted to go to Barnes and Noble.
Barnes and Noble! Yes. Yes. Yes. A bookstore is one place I never turn down. Tara had a gift card to spend and she headed off to the DVD section. I went in seach of the book I returned to the library and wanted to buy so I could own a copy. Oddly enough, they only have it at the Menlo Park store. The clerk offered to call the store and have it reserved for me. Then he turned the computer screen toward me and I realized that it's a $26 book if it's already sitting on the shelf, but I could get it for $18 if I buy it online. This makes no sense to me. I will do it, but I'm not seeing the logic.
Not having a book to purchase, I found a magazine and made myself happy and comfortable in the reading area. Too soon it was time to go. Tara bought two seasons of I Love Lucy. I'm not much of a TV watcher, but I'm looking forward to seeing that.
Once home I checked in with fantasy football. My quarterback is the one off the field with a concussion. We ate our standard Football Sunday dinner: hors d'euvres. This week was Past Prime Pigs in Blankets, other pastry-wrapped goodies that can't truly be identified, chicken nuggets, and mozzarella sticks. Next week I think we'll do wings and maybe Chinese dumplings.
So now Sunday is close to over, and it wasn't boring after all. A short walk, a hot shower, a cup of tea and a little reading will finish it off nicely. If my running back would score some points it would complete the picture.
It was time to apply the process of elimination. I thought about taking care of the paint situation, but that would require a trip to Home Depot in the rain and would be less appealing that the state of boredom I was dealing with in the first place. Typing the essay was probably on par with painting. Lying on the couch and baking banana bread would both keep me in physical proximity to the child with the untyped essay and would hamper my attempts to avoid the situation. Therefore, I concluded, today would be an excellent day to clean out my closet.
I threw out a kitchen-sized garbage bag of shirts I haven't worn hundreds of moons due to the fact that they were really old and worn out. I rediscovered a whole bunch of shirts that count as new again because I forgot I had them. I decided against going through the winter shirts stowed away in storage tubs. Doing that would be akin to admitting that summer is really over, and I'd rather milk that one until sometime in October when I'm absolutely forced to wear a warm jacket. I did, however crazy this sounds, lay out all my clothes for the week. By the time I finished the job, the English essay was typed and the student typist wanted to go to Barnes and Noble.
Barnes and Noble! Yes. Yes. Yes. A bookstore is one place I never turn down. Tara had a gift card to spend and she headed off to the DVD section. I went in seach of the book I returned to the library and wanted to buy so I could own a copy. Oddly enough, they only have it at the Menlo Park store. The clerk offered to call the store and have it reserved for me. Then he turned the computer screen toward me and I realized that it's a $26 book if it's already sitting on the shelf, but I could get it for $18 if I buy it online. This makes no sense to me. I will do it, but I'm not seeing the logic.
Not having a book to purchase, I found a magazine and made myself happy and comfortable in the reading area. Too soon it was time to go. Tara bought two seasons of I Love Lucy. I'm not much of a TV watcher, but I'm looking forward to seeing that.
Once home I checked in with fantasy football. My quarterback is the one off the field with a concussion. We ate our standard Football Sunday dinner: hors d'euvres. This week was Past Prime Pigs in Blankets, other pastry-wrapped goodies that can't truly be identified, chicken nuggets, and mozzarella sticks. Next week I think we'll do wings and maybe Chinese dumplings.
So now Sunday is close to over, and it wasn't boring after all. A short walk, a hot shower, a cup of tea and a little reading will finish it off nicely. If my running back would score some points it would complete the picture.
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