Category: Mom

Saving the best one for last

Why do we do this? Why do *I* do this?

A Singapore counterpart from work gave me a set of reeeeally nice hand lotions on her last visit to the US. I went through and sniffed them all, picked my favorites, then put them in order, thus allowing myself to use the least faves *first* before using the ones I like.

Why? Why would I do that? Why not use the ones I like best first? Life is short!

Today, my admin was kind enough to bring me a sample plate of desserts from a conference room downstairs. I ate the yucky ones first and the nicest one last. Why didn’t I just eat the good ones and leave the yucky ones? Nope. Ate ’em all.

I’m not proud of it, either.

Suppose this is a hazard of being born to Depression Era parents? The propensity to “save” things for later was strong with them both.

Or is it a hazard of my severe obsessive, overly anal personality?

Or could it be just a facet of human nature? Especially as a woman. “Oh no,” : hand to head : “I’ll take the burned toast….”

Whatever.

I just pulled out the jar of *good* lotion and slathered it on. I smell pretty!

Life is too short to dance with short men. Life is too short to drink cheap beer wine. Life is too important to be taken seriously. And life is too dull to not use the “good soap” in the guest bath.

Who am I?

You know, the more popular online stores, the Amazons and the iTunes of the world are getting more sinister sneaky creative.

They have started these “recommended for you” features or “just for you” picks.

The choices are based on what you have looked at or bought in the past. iTunes also looks at your current library to make recommendations.

Which is both cool and diabolical because it makes me buy more. I mean, they find stuff I may not have thought of! I’ve dropped serious coin after an hour on the “just for you” feature on iTunes.

So when I’m bored, I’ll go over and take a gander to see what’s recommended. Maybe I’ll make a new find!

However…I’m starting to get nervous about just what, exactly, my “recommended for you” lists say about me.

Here is an actual screen capture of my actual “Just for You” list on iTunes:

This does not say “hip cat”. This does not say “cutting edge”. This does not say “wow, you are the person people want to be like”.

This says…you are lame as hell and listen to the kind of music they play in the elevators around the world.

I can’t even debate the choices. I *adore* Roger Miller, I already own that Lynn Anderson, and I’ve been known to favor a tune or ten by Mickey Gilley. I used to own that Goo Goo Dolls (but wearied of them) and that Michael McDonald song is one of my all time favorites. Oh and that song “Wildfire”…well, it brings a tear to the eye every time.

Fine. I’m a dork. Whatever.

This is like going to the dentist with teeth you are pretty sure are spotless and then they make you chew that red tablet and show you just how god awful dirty your teeth really are.

Sometimes it’s better not to look too closely in the mirror.

I won’t *even* share my Amazon recommendations list. My mother reads this blog, fer goodness sakes! I swear I only accidentally clicked on that questionable item ONCE! I swear!

Unpopular

Been thinking about NewMexiKen’s observations on Twitter and Facebook, and the old fogeyism that may be alive and well.

The Good Man and I talk this topic over quite a bit and have vowed, together, that we are firmly anti-Facebook. Nope. Not going to do it. You can’t make me.

So there.

Although, making this decision, we also find ourselves in the minority of our friends and coworkers. My mother has a Facebook page for crimeny’s sake!

No, TGM and I stand together. Then I discussed it with my sister. She, too, is in the “no way, unh-uh” club.

We were starting to think it was just the three of us, but then TGM found some supporting evidence online…

From The Weekly Standard:

“… no matter how long I live, no matter how much pressure is exerted, no matter how socially isolated I become, I will never, ever join Facebook…”

and

“…collecting Facebook friends is the equivalent of being a catlady, collecting numerous Himalayans, which you have neither the time nor the inclination to feed.”

Ouch. Ok, maybe I’m not quite as adamant as Matt Labash, who goes so far as to use the term “facetards”. But still….

I…just….can’t.

And then there is Twitter. Ok, I’m signed up, but I do not Tweet.

I’m hoping now that the Republicans have made Twitter and Facebook cool, they will both die the painful deaths they deserve…until the next cool internet meme comes along.

I remain,

Your Luddite blogger using email and *gasp*, my phone to stay in contact with my actual flesh and blood friends.

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!

Keep it to yourself, sister

The weather outside yesterday was what they call “low cloud cover”. Low ceiling, gray clouds, occasional sprinkling rain.

This makes most people think, “brr, cold” and toss on all matter of arctic gear.

This is not true for me. Low cloud cover means the heat is held in and the drizzly rain means humidity.

See, I was brought up in New Mexico and my body has been attuned to be a convection cooled device. Or, more accurately, an evaporative cooled device. I sweat. The dry desert air slurps that up, thus cooling my rig and allowing me to continue on.

I’m attuned to this and it suits me just fine.

When it’s warmish and humid, I cannot effectively evaporative cool my hard working human mo-chine.

You can ask anyone who knows me, my internal temp tends to run a little hot anyway. The frosty pawed feline doesn’t favor me as a sleeping device because she thinks I’m nice, ok?

So what all this means is, even on a cloudy drizzly day like today, I don’t want anything to do with a jacket.

This tends to make the biddies and would-be work moms crazy.

“Aren’t you cold!?!” they shriek.

“Where is your jacket?!?!” they demand in harpy voices.

Look, I have a mother. She’s a fine, upstanding lady. She taught me to be self-sufficient. If you are cold, put on a jacket. If you aren’t cold, don’t. If you are cold and don’t put on a jacket, it’s your own damn fault.

Mom and I have been in agreement on this for years.

Yesterday, I was wearing a sweater dress with a long sleeved sweater over, tights and knee-high black boots. That is practically Nanook of the North for me, and yet, one of my menopausal coworkers eyed me up and down and screeched “Aren’t you cold!?!” because I was sans jacket.

It was close to sixty frapping degrees outside, but it was drizzly, so that must mean everyone should wear an overcoat.

An overcoat? Hell. No. I was hot in what I was wearing!

But if I had said to her, “Hey, you look a little hot, why don’t you take some clothes off” I would have been reported to HR.

It’s a bizarre up world out there, and I’m but a passenger on this carnival ride.

Image via FreeFoto.com