Category: Mom

Notes from the brain pan

First of all, to all the good folks, including both mom and mom-in-law, who are concerned about the posts related to my troubles at work, thank you for being concerned. This week has turned out a bit better.

Also, I got paid today, and that always helps improve the outlook.

I imagine I’ll survive this. Or I won’t. Either way, the sun will come up again tomorrow and I’ll have to face another day. And I’ll have to face myself in the mirror. The way I do that is by knowing I did my best, worked my hardest and did so with humility.

Onward.

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Next…thanks to the gentleman driving the Explorer in the lane next to me on Wednesday morning. I was running late for work (overslept the alarm, snarf!) and I was, yes, speeding. But so were you. Thanks to your slower response time, I was able to take my foot off the gas first, you shot past me, and that nice CHP officer paid you a visit instead of me.

Whew. I have two months left on the eighteen months since my last ticket (you can only mask one traffic violation every 18 months), so you really saved me there!

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Don’t know if you are experiencing the same thing where you’re at, but to me, it’s like everyone in society is moving along in a fog. Making bonehead moves on the road. Bumping into me at the grocery. Looking at me blankly when I ask a question.

So, a nod to The Good Man for best summing up society’s recent weirdness:

(paraphrased)

“We had the buildup from the campaign, then the excitement of the election, anticipation of the new president and then finally the climax of the inauguration. It’s like the whole country just needs a cigarette.”

And a salty snack.

Indeed.

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Speaking of salty snacks…am I going to be the only person in the US not watching the Superbowl this weekend?

Because, really, Pittsburgh vs Arizona?

Sure, I know that AZ is the Cinderella story. Whatever. I could care less.

And Pittsburgh. Do we really need to see them win again?

I might whip up a batch of salty snacks, however, and watch Season 2 of The Muppet Show. I found it at the library and it’s providing much singing along and childish giggles from TGM and me.

Best thing to watch after a rough day at work, I’ll tell you THAT.

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Or maybe I should just have a cheese sandwich.

Been watching cheese sandwich-gate in the ABQjournal with interest. Oh Fair New Mexico, you still do scandal in a fun way.

Love it. And from what I’m reading, the press coverage has brought in quite a bit of the delinquent money! Nice.

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Lastly, the weather is messin’ with my head. Sunny and 70’s. Rainy and cold. Then just clear and cold. And today, back to the 70’s.

Mother Nature, you are FREAKING me out, maaahn.

But I’m not complaining about the sun. I’ll take it.

That is all.

Happy Weekend!

Want.

Yanno, I’m really ticked at the economy. Sure, I have a good job and a paycheck, but I’m finding that saving a few more of my shekels is a grand idea.

“Cash is King!” or so shouts all of the financial hacks who think they know better. Those same ones who told us all to invest in real estate.

Bah!

The problem with this financial austerity is that there are still lovely things in the retail world that entice me. Sing to me. Make me want to break out my paid off credit card and charge, baby, charge!

The latest little gem that’s got my eye is this:

(click photo for specs)

This is Polaroid’s latest entre into the world of photography.

It’s called a PoGo and is a digital camera. But it also has built in an inkless photo printer so you can instantly print photos of your choosing, when you want.

Now…this baby is only 5.0 megapixels, so it’s not wowing the photographic world.

But I love me a Polaroid camera. And by love, I mean LOVE. I had one as a kid. I own several now.

I was a *fool* for Polaroid’s I-zone that made these teeny sticky photos. I carried that thing everywhere.

I have tiny photos ALL over my journals from around the early 2000’s.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my high end camera and the gloriousness of the photos I can take. The depth of detail is amazing.

That said, I want the PoGo bad, because it’s FUN and *boop*, there’s a photo print.

Want!

Here’s the ouchie part.

It’s not available until March and I think will have a price point of $200.

I feel like two hundy is a little high for a Polaroid, but maybe if I’m very good and save my pennies, by this summer I can be shooting and printing and generally giggling over my new Polaroid cam.

My folks taught me that if you want a big ticket item, you gotta work a little for it.

So ok. Back to work. I get paid this week. After rent, end of month bills and credit card payments, there won’t be much left. But maybe I can put away a few.

Damn, I’m so fiscally conservative it makes my teeth hurt.

When really, I just want to be like Animal from The Muppet Show.

“CAM-ER-A!!! CAM-ER-A!!!! ME WANT!!!”

Whoa, I didn’t know…

The upcoming film “Hotel for Dogs” was a book penned by none other than New Mexico’s own Lois Duncan. As a kid, I loved many of Ms. Duncan’s books.

I understand that the hype from the film has given new life to her writing career that went a bit off track after the brutal unsolved killing of her 20 year old daughter.

Back in the day, my mom used to take us kids swimming on a hot summer day to the Coronado Club on Kirtland Air Force base. Occasionally we’d see Ms. Duncan there (I believe her husband worked for Sandia Labs).

That was back in the days when mommies stayed at home and would take the kiddies to the pool and we would meet daddies after work for dinner. It may do my mom’s heart good to know that I have incredibly fond memories of those days.

And that fondness includes Lois Duncan. I’m happy to see her back in the show.

This was all brought to the front of my mind by a great article written by Joline Gutierrez Krueger for the ABQjournal:

“Real-Life Tragedy Almost Derails ‘Hotel for Dogs’ Author’s Career”

The yawning generation gap

I remember as a kid, and especially a teenager, being really, really into music. I still am, but it was something most vital to me back then. An escape, a place to speak emotions and thoughts I didn’t have the words or maturity to say. It spoke to my soul.

And I remember my grandmother or mother or some adult making a comment about the music that mattered to me, and thinking, “they just don’t get it.”

I recall swearing to myself, SWEARING that I wouldn’t let there be that generation gap as I got older.

And I’ve fought it. Hard. I listen to current music. I do my best to stay up to date, so I’m at least conversant.

Yesterday, I was listening to my iPod on the way home from work, and the shuffle landed on a Rihanna song.

I like Rihanna. I like her a lot, actually. I think she’s not only stunningly beautiful, but she’s talented.

The song that came on is entitled “Unfaithful.”

In the song, the story goes that the woman is with a guy, and that it’s more than love, he is “The reason that the sky is blue.”

But gosh darn it all, she just can’t seem to stay true to him.

She cries out, “And I know that he knows I’m unfaithful/And it kills him inside/To know that I am happy with some other guy/I can see him dying.”

She then wraps up the chorus with, “I don’t wanna be…/A murderer.”

Ok, ok, this is all very emotional. Her cheating is “killing” him. He’s “dying inside” and she is the “murderer” for doing this to him.

And this is when the yawning chasm that is the generational gap became oh so apparent and the years of my experience in this thing called life kicked in.

I found myself, listening closely to the words, and then *yelling* at my stereo:

“THEN LEAVE HIM! IF THERE IS NO WAY YOU WON’T CHEAT AND IT PAINS YOU TO SEE HIM ‘DYING INSIDE’ THEN BE A GROWN UP AND WALK AWAY!!!”

Ahem.

Yeah.

Sure, I know that, “He’s a nice guy but I just can’t be true to him and so I did the mature thing and broke up with him so I could go sow my wild oats, knocking boots with everything that walks so that one day I can be a sad, bitter old hag wondering whatever happened to my life and why I never found a nice guy,” doesn’t really make for fun, emo deep pop songs.

And I’m fairly certain that the young twentysomethings that work for me would roll their eyes and think, “she just doesn’t get it.”

I think I just grew a new gray hair.

“Hey you kids, get off my lawn!!!”

Near and Dear to my Heart

Sit back, I’m about to go on a bit of a rant, inspired by a story I read today in the SFGate.

About six or eight years ago, I was living in a small apartment in the South Bay, in a small eight unit building. The building dated back to at least the 1930’s, if not earlier, and featured this breathing dragon of a wall heater as its only source to take the chill of cold rainy evenings.

I had gone home to New Mexico for Christmas, and my mom, ever the practical one, had given me a carbon monoxide alarm as a gift.

Fine. Whatever. I took it back to California with me where it sat, unused, in the box for quite a while. A year or more, if truth be told.

One day, I was cleaning up the place when I found that thing and figured, “oh well”. I put in the batteries and hung it from my ceiling. Fine. Look at me. Miss Practical.

A couple months later, the damn thing started going off.

I was frustrated. Surely this was defective. Busted. Whatever.

I unscrewed it from the ceiling and moved it farther back.

And the damn thing kept going off.

Weird.

Fine. So after dealing with the piercing noise for, again, if I’m telling the truth here, several months, I finally called PG&E. I knew it would take them *forever* to fit me in, but whatever.

I told them that my carbon monoxide alarm kept going off and could I get an appointment for someone to come out check.

Anticipating at least 30 days before I got an appointment, I was surprised when, instead, the call dispatcher said, “someone will be there immediately” and further, “open all the doors and windows until someone arrives.”

Uh. Ok. Much ado about nothing, right? But at least I’d get quick attention.

Good for their word, a guy showed up within about ten minutes.

He took a reading in the center of the room and said, “I’m going to cap off your gas, you have fatal levels of carbon monoxide in here.”

Well blow me over.

Turns out there was a center tube of metal inside the heater that had slid down when the house settled or from age, and it left a crack about an inch wide that was venting the heater right into my apartment.

The next day, I absentmindedly told this story to a friend at work, and she started crying. One of her dearest friends had died from carbon monoxide poisoning. Her life could have been saved with the simple installation of a carbon monoxide alarm, but it was, instead, lost.

When The Good Man moved into our place, I told him this story and said I will never live in a place that does not have a working carbon monoxide alarm.

I refuse.

I was reminded about all of this today when I saw the headline in the local paper say:

Two Bay Area families survive carbon monoxide poisoning

“The mother said the family started feeling sick around midnight…When their symptoms failed to improve in the morning, they headed for the emergency room.”

That woman’s good thinking saved her family, her kids, her own life.

It scares the crap out of me. Apartments are required to have a smoke alarm, but not a carbon monoxide alarm. They even make dual alarms these days, both fire and carbon monoxide. Easy peasy!

So please, anyone who is reading this, don’t hesitate, don’t call it “some remote possibility”. Don’t put it off.

Get thee to a Wal-Mart or a Target or a Home Depot and BUY a carbon monoxide alarm and install it where you will spend most of your time.

Buy two, one for the living room and one for your bedroom. Just do it, okay?

Thanks. Your life matters to me.