Category: grumptacular

Spring has sprung!

Here’s the proof! Look!

Daffodils*, in full bloom, bright yellow in a pretty purple vase in my office! Look at that, spring, sunshine, joy, leaping, flowers, yes!

Wait, stop…don’t look out that window! Don’t do it, I beg you!

Galldarn fog going and ruining my whole Spring thang. WHY!!?!?!

I just want a little sun. I just want to frolic. Is that too much to ask of you, Bay Area temperature inversion? You and your marine layer can BITE ME!

New Mexico wouldn’t let me down this way…it’s supposed to be 80 in Las Cruces today……..

*cranky*

_________

*Daffodils courtesy of the American Cancer Society Daffodil Days.

When reality reaches up and grabs you by the throat

I have a milestone birthday coming up in May. It is an age I’m not sure I’m happy about being.

Ok, fine, I have to get old. Everyone does it (barring the alternative, of course). I’m ok with it.

Until I’m reminded clearly and plainly how old and out of it I am.

It began, this past weekend, with the shopping excursion to procure new jeans (see previous post for my thoughts on that). While out and about, I wandered into a store called Anchor Blue.

I’d seen an article in a trashy gossip magazine last week while at the dentist’s office about “the best jeans.” There was a pair of Anchor Blue jeans featured that looked like I’d be happy with them.

So. Anchor Blue. I’d seen the store but had never actually been inside before.

Well. If you go to the webpage (linked above) you’ll see several fresh, dewey-faced CHILDREN on the splash page, showing you just how cool and beautiful YOU can be if you wear their clothing.

Walking into the store, I practically coughed dust and picked cryptkeeper tendrils from my person as I looked around and the clerks looked at me.

I did, actually, pick out a few pairs of jeans to try on, none of them the fabulous pair I’d seen in the magazine, of course.

So, yes, happily, the jeans I’d picked fit me. Well. Sort of. I mean, I could get them on and button them.

But to look in the mirror, you could see clearly where the jeans ended (below my hipbones) and my (evidently) granny panties continued on.

Now, I don’t wear old lady briefs (yet)…what I wear are respectable cotton bikini chones. But in the spotlight of Logan’s Run (In case you missed that film, everyone is executed at age 30), my respectable bikini yonderwear appear to be practically up to my ribcage (just below what they must believe to be my sagging boobs).

I may as well give over to the white belt and Velcro shoes ferchrissakes!

So I gave up on those jeans, but continued to look around the store. I checked out accessories.

They had quite the assortment of Che Guevara-style caps for the ladies. I want to look like an Argentinean communist revolutionary why again?

I looked at skirts. I have this little cloth that I use to clean my glasses. That cloth is larger than these “skirts.” Even if I could get a lens cloth skirt to fit me…no, it’s too terrible, I can’t even go there.

Fine. Thus ended my shopping trip.

Sunday rolled around and The Good Man and I traveled up to Muir Beach to meet with some friends. “Take a walk,” they said. Oh, sure, yes! A walk on a sunny day would be nice. Maybe even help me work off some calories in hopes of wearing that lens cloth to dinner!

These folks are all about my same age…well, TGM and his best friend are a year younger. And the best friend’s wife is a couple years younger still. Ok, so I’m the matron of the bunch, what of it?

So we walk on the beach a bit and then decide to hike a trail. Fun!

An uphill trail.

What?

So evidently that one-year age difference between TGM’s and me is a huge gap, because all of my friends scampered up the hill while I was in the back gasping for air and feeling my thighs wobbling.

Now, the other lady in our group is in knockout shape, I forgive her. But TGM and his buddy have no excuse. They billy-goated they way up the hill with ease, leaving me with hands on knees feeling like I was going to puke.

I was further insulted when a tiny fourteen year-old dog named Chester paced me, turned and ran halfway back down the hill to greet his people, then turned around and paced me again.

His legs are three inches long!

Damn you Chester!

Now it is Monday and my legs hurt. My lungs still burn a little and I’m faced with my group of fifteen employees, not a ONE of them over the age of 30.

I remember 30. That was a good year. My thirties…yes, a fine decade. *sigh*

I have the power!!

[evil, maniacal laugh] bwa ha ha ha ha ha hee haw heee….*cough, sputter, cough*….ahem.

I’m back now.

Anyhow, I seem to have learned to use a fabulous power first taught to me in my youth.

The power of guilt.

Oh yes.

First example:

The center dial on my bathtub is broken, meaning that it will only shower, it won’t bath. This is upsetting. I am a fan of the hot bath. Especially in the winter. Particularly when it’s cold and stormy outside as it is today.

This has gone unfixed for quite some time, despite reporting it dutifully to my landlord. He said, “I need to find a new set of knobs…I’ll get to it.”

And he didn’t.

The landlord’s son lives a street over and came by our place about an electrical problem two weeks ago. So I bugged him to bug his dad about the bathtub. The son promised he’d fix it himself.

He didn’t.

A couple weeks passed.

This weekend, the son was mowing our front lawn. I said, “sorry to ask, but I need to remind you about the bathtub.”

This young man was *immediately* doused deeply in sheepish guilt, he apologized a bunch and promised to fix the bathtub, which he did on Sunday morning. And apologized some more.

Aaaah. Guilt is good.

Next example:

After my dental work yesterday, I woke up with a swollen face and a nifty bruise on my cheek. I’m thrilled to have to explain this to my coworkers.

My dentist, being the kind sort that he is, emailed me today to check to see how I was doing after the work. I emailed him back a photo of my bruised face and suggested he won’t be getting any new referrals from my coworkers.

He called me right away and apologized profusely and told me this sometimes happens (nicked a blood vessel when he did the injections) and that he felt terrible this had happened.

A man who inflicts severe pain for a living feels *terrible*.

Heh.

This feels gooood. I’m learning what my mom has known for years…guilt is quite the propellant.

In case you are still in training wheels and need to learn how to properly give the guilt, here’s a wikihow to get you over the hump.

Only downside? This power can be used on me, too.

Damn my Catholic upbringing!

Do not mess with a Blues Queen

Especially a cranky Blues Queen.

I think most Americans either tuned in or saw coverage of Inauguration Day, right? There was that tender moment in the evening where the President and First Lady took to the floor to dance the first dance. (if you were under a rock January 20th, click here for video).

The song the first couple swayed to was “At Last”, performed by, much to my dismay, Beyonce.

Now, I like Beyonce enough for who she is. The lady who brought the phrase “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly” into the world. Oh yeah, and popularized the word “bootylicious”. Sure, she’s a bard for our times. Or something. She wearies me, but I have a few of her tunes on my iPod. I can’t hate on a lady who writes so much of her own music.

On that special day, however, I personally winced when the camera panned to B and she began warbling the Etta James classic.

I haven’t voiced this much because everyone I seem to talk with was like “OH! That Beyonce was SO wonderful!”

No she wasn’t. It was a special moment, but it was made special not by the singer (no way) but mainly by the sentiments of a kick ass song written by Mack Gordon and Harry Warren.

Given the exhaustion of our country with the previous administration, the notion of “at last” really resonated. It was the perfect song performed by the wrong singer.

I wondered why, on that day, it wasn’t Miss Etta up there. She’s still got the pipes and she’s still out there performing.

In fact, on January 28th, she was performing in Seattle at the Paramount Theater.

Where she said: “But I tell you that woman he had singing for him, singing my song — she’s going to get her a– whipped.”

Oooh, it’s ON now! And I believe the 71 year old lady could do it too, with one bejeweled hand tied behind her tiny back.

She went on to say: “She has no business up there, singing up there on a big ol’ president day, gonna be singing my song that I’ve been singing forever.”

Not sure what set Miss Etta off since Beyonce has been slinging her crappy rendition of “At Last” all over the place, including at least once in the presence of Miss Etta.

I think what galled *me* the most about Beyonce getting up there, was that it was a publicity stunt! Seems Beyonce is working on a movie called “Cadillac Records” in which she portrays Etta James. What a great marketing chance on the national stage.

Opportunism. Great. Makes me like Beyonce even less.

: rolling of eyes :

Personally, though, I think Miss Etta is just ticked that Aretha Franklin got a shot on inauguration day and she didn’t. Just my two cents.

Speaking of Aretha, remember when Beyonce got into hot water with her too?

Doh!

__________________

By the by, Miss Etta who has notoriously struggled with her weight is looking HOT right now thanks to gastric bypass surgery a couple years ago!

Go Etta!! Look at her tiny self!

Source and Source.

A public service announcement.

From eHow.com, the appropriate way to handle a four way stop. Emphasis added is mine.

  1. Slow your vehicle when approaching a 4-way stop. As you stop at the stop sign or red light, notice if there are any cars at any of the other stops, or if there are any approaching at the same time.

  2. Stop your vehicle completely. This means that your tires are completely stopped and not rolling at all. If there are cross walk lines or painted indicators on the road, stop at the appropriate lines. If it is a stop sign and there are no lines on the road, stop when the front of your car is even with the stop sign. If there is something blocking your view of the other stops signs, you may move forward only after stopping completely at your own stop sign.

  3. Look at the other stops to see if there are any other vehicles stopped or moving. The vehicles leave the stop signs in the same order in which they arrived. The first vehicle to arrive at a complete stop is the first vehicle allowed to leave the stop sign.

  4. Know that if there is more than one vehicle arriving at the same time at the 4-way stop, the vehicle furthest to the right is allowed to leave first. Always allow at least a few seconds to make sure no one else takes off even if it is your turn to leave first. Many people do not follow this rule, even though it is the legal way to leave a 4-way stop.

Note that nowhere in that discussion does it say that if you drive a big Mercedes SUV, that means you get ahead of anyone, anytime.

It also doesn’t say that if you come screaming up to the four-way stop at an excessive speed, barely touch the brakes, and then hit the gas, you get to go first.

I don’t care how busy you are. Or rich. Or good-looking. Or that your car is nicer than mine. Mine is paid off. And I don’t mind rolling that hoopty patched up with bailing wire and duct tape. Bite me.

This message brought to you by my frustrating morning commute.

(no, I didn’t get in an accident, but it was close. Thank goodness for that brake job I got last week.)