Connection

This post is dedicated to all who own iPhones, Blackberrys, Smartphones, Dumbphones….and WHO ARE INCAPABLE of putting their thumbs to rest and these gadgets aside when in the company of someone who is visible – whose presence requires the use of all five senses.  Well, perhaps not always smell, touch and taste but definitely sight and hearing.

The list includes two of my sons.  The third is like his mother – doesn’t feel the necessity to be connected with the entire world (slight exaggeration) at all times.  We happen to enjoy the company of the people we’re with – like to give them our undivided attention and receive theirs.

Enjoy the song – and take note of the chorus.

Love the One You're With – Crosby, Stills & Nash

Lyrics

If you're down and confused

And you don't remember who you're talkin' to

Concentration slips away

Cause your baby is so far away.

Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove

And the eagle flies with the dove

And if you can't be with the one you love

Love the one you're with

Love the one you're with

Don't be angry, don't be sad,

Don't sit cryin' over good things you've had,

There's a girl right next to you

And she's just waiting for something you do.

Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove

And the eagle flies with the dove

And if you can't be with the one you love

Love the one you're with

Love the one you're with

Turn your heartache right into joy

She's a girl, you're a boy,

Get it together make it nice

Ain't gonna need anymore advice.

Well, there's a rose in a fisted glove

And the eagle flies with the dove

And if you can't be with the one you love

Love the one you're with

Love the one you're with

photo credit: http://www.lip-service.com/webzine/tag/texting-addiction/

Done

On Sunday I had what I shall refer to as an “I’m done” day.  Loosely translated, (because I’m still trying to figure out my use of that expression) I was in a foul mood. 

A series of unfortunate events (thank you, Lemony Snicket) eventually had me finally and repeatedly muttering, “I’m done… I’m done…I’m done…”

Done with what?  Life?  My “mutters”  made it seem like I was about to off myself.  I am most definitely not that far gone.

The experience was reminiscent of a child’s temper tantrum – adult version.  (And, yes, I did have some whopper tantrums as a child.)

I refused to do any of the stupid chores around here, did not answer a call from an acquaintance whose misery is ongoing (although not fatal) and actually threw something on the floor – not something breakable because then I would have had to clean up the mess.  The list could go on but you get the drift.

Giving my tantrum and mutterings further thought, perhaps I was simply done with all responsibilities, sadness and frustrations having to with the people, places and things in my life.  I needed a time out – needed to temporarily abdicate my role as a mature adult.

A friend dropped by later in the day and patiently listened to my rant.  In the midst of my blah, blah, blah tirade, I paused and asked her, “But who was I talking to with all that muttering?”

“The voices in your head,” she replied with a grin.

Finally, the day and the friend brought laughter.  Because, yes, my behaviour was crazy, I’m a little crazy and life can get crazy.

Is there a point to this post?  Not particularly.

But, I’m done.   ;)

photo credit: google images

Certifiably Crazy

I need certified copies of two original documents.  I’d assumed only a lawyer or notary public could do this – which pissed me off.  However, not so.  I checked the government web site re: the particular legal matter I’m dealing with and found a list of various others who can do the deed.

While relieved to see not just lawyers and notaries qualify, this list also pissed me off. 

Do these people have a monopoly on honesty and integrity? 

Lawyers??  Accountants??  Politicians?? 

Are the rest of us not to be trusted?  Are we considered incapable of recognizing a “true copy of the original document” and signing our names?  What about my local librarian?  Bank teller?  A retired electrician?  Or for that matter, ME!  I realize I can’t certify my own copies but I believe I possess the wits, intelligence and sight to certify others’. 

I am insulted – both for myself and for every other honest, literate person capable of completing this task.  I’m still trying to figure out why these people are the “chosen” and the rest of us are not.  I wondered if all who work in these professions require a background/police check.  But for an optometrist?  A professional engineer?  Or could it be they must all be affiliated with some official organization?  But if so, why would this guarantee their honesty?  Or their intelligence?

What am I missing?  Any explanations?

Government rules and regulations – the law in general – frequently make no sense at all.  Which really isn’t a great revelation, is it?

All Thumbs

I think I’ve given myself carpel tunnel syndrome from texting - although years of working at the computer have certainly contributed.  But since I’ve only recently taken up texting with a vengeance, it’s probably the straw that broke the camel’s back – or finally squeezed the median nerve to the point of inflammation.

The solution to ease the pain is simple – stop texting.  But will I?

How and why did texting become so popular?  Since we’re all carrying cell phones, I have to wonder - why do we no longer call and talk to the people we want to communicate with rather than sending them itty-bitty typed messages? 

Has actually hearing someone’s voice and carrying on a conversation become too intimate a means of communication?  Horrors!  A conversation might last five minutes – way too long a time commitment these days.

It’s been suggested I switch to a more advanced cell phone – one requiring the use of two thumbs to text so that my right thumb, wrist and arm are not incapacitated.

But wouldn’t I possibly end up with carpal tunnel syndrome X 2?

Double ouch.

(and, yes, this post was created with some degree of pain…)


P.S. Wedding update

The wedding day ceremonies went off without a hitch!  (sorry… that phrase just popped into my head…had to use it…)

The bride and the groom were so happy!

I only cried four times. 

No pictures to post because a) I don’t have any yet and b) I think I should get permission from the bride and groom and they just happen to be away….



photo credit: http://www.cellphones.ca/news/post002778/

Serves Me Right (or Wrong)

This is what you get when you’re a lousy ho-hum gardener but finally succumb to the pressure of your front lawn shining like a yellow beacon (dandelions) amidst the lush green lawns of ALL your neighbours’ and so you grab an inappropriate tool from the garage and attack those suckers with a vengeance – plunge, scoop, fling – and the adrenalin kicks in ‘cause you’re so pissed off when you realize that for every bloody hell perky yellow flower there are five other dandelion patches surrounding it (this will take forever!!) and so you pick up the pace - heave-ho, heave-ho - until you suddenly notice there is blood dripping down your wrist…and so you pause…and you stop…

…to observe this dripping blood with wonder and awe – amazed that not only were you oblivious to the creation of a blister, you didn’t even know it had broken AND that the blood has also seeped into the wooden handle of that wacko tool…

Calmly – oh so calmly - you rise with aching knees and sore back, collect the dandelion kill, dump it by the garage, go into the house, wash the blood and gore from the palm of your hand (cringing at the flap of skin) and shed some tears because the adrenalin rush has ceased and, yes, it hurts like hell and because you are still frustrated and mad – both at the dandelions and at yourself for having tackled the job in such a WRONG idiotic way and so have no one to blame but yourself and, yes, that hurts, too…

And the job is not complete.


p.s. the above photo is not one of my blister – mine is an open wound - yuck



photo credit: www.thealmightyguru.com

P.S. Re: Previous Post

I am home now.

WITH MY DIRTY LAUNDRY.

The laundromat that came highly recommended has been closed for over a year.

I discovered this after wandering around amongst the suits and well-heeled on Yonge Street searching for it while looking like a homeless person with my green garbage bags.

Finally stumbled into a store – arms killing me – and made inquiries. Was told of another laundromat a few blocks away. Driving over there I ended up behind a garbage truck on a street too narrow for passing. Stinky. Pee-yew.

There wasn’t a soul to be seen in this next laundromat and it looked like a great place for a murder. Decrepit. Dingy. The change machine wasn’t working & I’d used up all my change in the parking meter at the previous non-existent laundromat. No bank or corner store to get any change. Waited ten minutes for a human being to appear and then gave up.

Arrived home to a phone call informing me the parts for my washing machine have finally been ordered & a tentative repair day will be next week.

As for the dirty laundry sitting in the hallway? I shall think about it tomorrow.

I still have clean underwear.

Life is good.

Private Message/Public Forum

I do not need rescuing. Thank. You. Very. Much.

If need be, I am quite capable of rescuing myself.

Nor do I need condescension, unsolicited advice, vapid flirtatious gestures, to be taken care of or to be the object of some idiotic knight-in-shining armour fantasy.

Oh, and FYI? Your time schedule does not take precedence over mine.

And do not feel obliged to be there for me because by the time you are there, in all likelihood I will be somewhere else.

So, f**k right off.

My apologies for my language. If I could just vent in person, it would be healthier and far more effective. Alas, this will have to do. I seem incapable of ridding myself of the nice factor.

Push me too far, though and someday it may disappear…

Watch out.



Photo credit: http://www.targotennisberg.com/tarkvara

Modern Day Bad Manners

1. Texting while purportedly carrying on a conversation with someone who is RIGHT THERE with you – live and in person.

Not guilty. Can’t text to save my sorry soul. I’d say I was all thumbs but apparently it’s done with all thumbs.


2. Interrupting a phone conversation to link to a Call Waiting alert.

Guilty – but only if it’s a very important call. (And all calls from my kids are deemed important.)


3. Not responding to an email within a reasonable time frame (which is?) – or never. Exception – a response beyond that time frame with an explanation.

Not guilty - my OCD kicks in and I reply asap. I could name three such guilty people but I won’t. Are you reading this, D? And why do I still promptly respond when these people initiate communication via email? Because pay-back is rude, too?


4. Not averting your eyes when someone is typing in their password(s).

Not guilty - and it irritates the hell out of me when someone is looking over my shoulder. Bugger off. Yes, I do care about my privacy and, no, I do not visit porn sites.


5. Talking very, very loudly on your cell phone in a public place.

Not guilty. To those who do, please, please, keep it quiet. I do not want to hear yet another (boring) one-sided conversation. Truly, no one is interested in what you have to say. Okay, maybe sometimes if it’s really crazy-wild…


6. Talking on the phone while typing at the computer.

Not guilty. I don’t consider the talking/typing to be an indicator of someone’s skill at multi-tasking – it’s just plain rude. Either give me your undivided attention or let’s end the call.


7. Feeling the necessity to stay connected via cell or computer all day, every day – no matter where you are. (This is not actually rude – it’s more an erroneous misconception as to being indispensable to the world.)

Try turning off both machines and loving the one you’re with or enjoying the pleasure of your own company. You may be pleasantly surprised.

Not guilty - of staying continuously connected.
Guilty - of giving my attention to the person(s) I am with or enjoying my own company because by golly, I’m fascinating, funny – a joy to be with. Sometimes. Well, often enough…

Don't Mention It...

The other day I was at one of my favourite haunts. (No, not the local bar.) Hadn’t been for awhile and was feeling very chipper and happy to be there, thank you very much.

An acquaintance greeted me with, “How are you?” No accompanying smile.

Me: (smiling anyway) “Great, thanks. How are you?”

Her: “I’m fine but are you really okay?”

Me: (wondering if I had toothpaste on my chin or the mark of the devil on my forehead) “Yeah, I’m really okay. Why?”

Her: “You have dark smudges under your eyes.”

WHAT?? I NEVER HAVE THOSE.

Where’s a mirror, where’s a mirror? Must see for myself. Found one. Yup, a hint of bluish/black under those baby blues. Gosh-darn.

Reassured the acquaintance who was right behind me (such a busy-body) this was nothing that a few good night sleeps wouldn’t cure and turned away. A little self-conscious. A little reluctant to raise my head to greet others. And then I thought, the hell with it. I’m happy to be here. Dark smudges aren’t going to spoil my fun. I feel good.

Moral of the story – unless you are a close friend or family or unless someone is sporting chicken-pox or measles or some other hideous temporary rash, don’t feel obliged to point out they look like hell. It might make them feel like hell – perhaps just for a moment but still…no one needs or wants to hear that kind of news.

And, oh, yeah - never say never.

Happy to report the smudges are gone! ;)

Enough!

Dear R.C.*

Re: your recent letter questioning Line ### of my t*x ret*rn - your timing is impeccable. As in, good move picking on someone already overwhelmed and drowning in paperwork and phone calls.

Try as I might, I can’t figure out what the hell you’re talking about. I had to call an accountant and I don’t quite understand what he’s talking about either. Apparently, you’ll be hearing from him and then you’ll get in touch with me again and then I’m to call him again…and oh, bloody hell…more telephone tag…

Excuse my language. Back to the issue at hand.

While I may lack accounting smarts, I am cognizant of the fact you are struggling with a huge def*cit and that your request is simply a potential means to reduce it – via me.

I sincerely hope you are also going after the wealthy of this nation – those who know all about t*x shelters and where to hide their $$. I think you’ll have far more success reducing the def*cit via these folks. It might only take a few of those letters to do so.

And if we are unable to resolve this issue to my satisfaction, what will you do? Sue me? Compound interest me to death/poverty on the amount you think (hope) I still might owe?

Bring it on. I was just saying the other day I wish I could vent some of my accumulated stress and frustration at a perfect stranger. You could be it.

Sincerely,
BooksEtc.

P.S. Who am I kidding? We both know I’ll co-operate. I’m just hoping it turns out to be wishful thinking on your part and not a mistake on mine.


(*R.C. = a government agency responsible for raking in $$$ - lots of it. Real name not used because I don’t want them on my *ss for the rest of my life.)

Building Castles...

Okay, so I don’t take great pictures but can you see the backhoe and the pile of rubble in the one? (Click to enlarge if you can’t get a good view of the rubble.) And then there’s that sad looking hollowed out attic in the other. I wasn’t able to get a picture of the jackhammer in action – didn’t want to get that close.

This demolition work is being done two houses away. My entire house shakes and shudders while it’s going on. The wretched LOUD noise and thumping ka-booms start at approximately 7:00 a.m. I can hear & feel them now.

This is what I’ve been listening to for the past week and a half while writing/working at my computer. I amaze myself with my powers of concentration or I’m simply writing dribble and will come to that realization when I read over the hard copy.

Aside from the fact this is a pain in the ass (and ears) to live with, it’s also kind of sad. Well, it’s sad to a sappy-sentimental someone such as I. Yet another tear-down in the neighbourhood. Another charming home bites the dust (literally) to make way for a mini-mansion. Dear lord, some of these newly built homes actually have little turrets! For what? To watch for the approach of enemy forces?

Some have itty-bitty porches off the second floor master bedroom. Aesthetically pleasing? Not to me. And I have never seen a single soul on one of these porches. Can’t imagine why the owners wouldn’t want to watch the local traffic or take in a road hockey game while sipping on some wine. How romantic would that be?

Yes, the character and appearance of my neighbourhood are changing. Of course, so are mine. But at least I’m not sporting turrets. Yet.

Wired

Was at the dentist yesterday. I never, ever like going there.

It was noted that I have a wobbly bottom tooth. (Their descriptive word, not mine.) I was not aware of its wobbliness since I don’t pick and push at it with a metal object. And, of course, now I am constantly touching it with my tongue to check for the wobble. This is not a good thing to be doing.


“You need a blah…blah…blah…wire.”

“You mean braces??!!” (All I heard was the word wire and wire = braces in my book)

“Oh, no, not really – just a wire.”

Not really my ass. (Or should I say my tooth?)

“And until you get the work done, don’t bite anything using that bottom tooth.”

Try eating without biting.


I’m now frantically trying to book an appointment with the orthodontist (this word also spells b-r-a-c-e-s to me) to whom I’ve been referred before I go away on holidays. What kind of vacation is it if you can’t bite? I can’t drink wine and coolers the entire time!

Obviously, I’m not too old for braces but I do NOT want a visit from the Tooth Fairy.

A Big A** Whine

Do I whine very much on my blog? I don’t think I’ve spouted off a real zinger yet but I’m about to - prompted by changing a friggin’ pot light. Or trying to.

And please keep in mind, I am not bemoaning the lack of a man. (Although a resident handyman would be nice.) I am griping about my house (old) and my half-assed repair skills.

I am so very tired of things falling apart in this house – things both large and small. I’m tired of trying to fix them myself with initial enthusiasm for the task but (usually) with only a minimal degree of success. Or none at all. And I’m tired of asking others for help. “Others” includes my sons who do their very best.

I’m tired of adding to the list of repair jobs I’m eventually going to have to hire someone to do.

I’m tired of forking over money (big bucks) for the major repairs that have had to be done these past few years.

So why don’t I just shut up and move? I can’t. I cannot move until legal matters are settled.

And then, when I contemplate that particular moment in time, I do an about-face and think – maybe I won’t move right away, maybe I’ll give myself some breathing space, a time–out before tackling yet another major change in my life. And a move would be a tremendous change. I’ve lived in this house for 22 years.

But if I stay, I’ll still be dealing with a falling apart house. A Catch-22.

When you’re changing a pot light (located in a very high ceiling) and the new light does not work after all your effort and you feel a momentary urge to cry (or smash the damned pot light or faulty receptacle), you know things are not going swimmingly. You know you have reached a low point in your coping abilities.

Do not mistake this post as an invitation to a pity party. I HATE pity. A whine is a momentary get-it-off-your chest kind of thing. When you put it out there – whooshh!!! – you feel a little better. You rebound from a good whine. Pity (particularly self-pity) destroys the soul.

My soul is still kickin’. Maybe a wishful thinking kind of kicking in terms of kicking/smashing a pot light, a gate, a broken door handle, windows that won’t stay open, etc., but nevertheless, still kicking.

Note to self: Get a grip. Knock off the bloody whining and call (yet another) repairman. Or take a course in home repairs. Even if I fail miserably, at least I’ll have met a reputable repairman/woman. I can hire the teacher!


photo credit: www.flickr.com/photos/rbarenblat/1241392269/in/set-72157601679569377/

argh

bloody hell…one of those honkin’ big flying ants that seemingly drop from the sky/ceiling just dropped down behind my computer and as I’m headed over to the kitchen for a hunk of paper towel to kill the sucker I see that the ants are marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah across a kitchen counter and since I’m complaining about pesky creatures i’ll mention the saucy blue jay out on the deck who does not even move when I go out there – it’s a stand-off/stare-down and yeah, he/she scares me….and I killed my first mosquito of the season in the family room yesterday….

the warm weather has arrived, summer is on its way – the battle has commenced

beth vs. nature

inside the house? they’re fair game – splat, squish, crunch…

outside? apparently I’m fair game to that blue jay – i duck


oh my god – this is madness – the makings of a horror movie - i just killed a wasp by the kitchen sink!



photo credit: www.pbase.com/larena/image/43052477

Hello Canada

What the hell???

“50 Most Beautiful Canadians” and I’m not included in the list??!!

Who the heck’s in charge of this magazine? What pissant screwed up the assignment?

Had this glaring omission not occurred and they’d asked me the question, “When do you feel most beautiful?” I’d actually have been hard-pressed to come up with an answer. Unlike Shania, it’s not when I get out of the tub – unless the mirrors are somewhat fogged up. Nor would I say after a few drinks because I don’t drink often enough and I do feel beautiful more frequently than that. When I’m all dressed up? Not really – don’t do that often enough either.

Maybe on those occasions when I’m smiling, laughing, happy, content and totally unselfconscious of myself? Does that make sense? How can I feel beautiful when not conscious of myself? Ah, never mind...

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, a state of mind, etc., etc. Or, in Stendhal’s words, “Beauty is the promise of happiness.” I think his words take into account just about everything in the world we perceive as beautiful.


And, hey, to be honest, I didn’t even buy the magazine – just looked at the cover.

I MAY VERY WELL BE ON THAT LIST!

(they just never got around to asking me the question…)

"Look Away...!!"

Recently renewed my driver’s licence. Yet another fabulous photo op.

The new licence has yet to arrive and I know the picture will be as gruesome (laughable) as the previous ones but I swear – I SWEAR – I do not look that bad.

Which leads me to this question: Why, when I present my driver’s licence for I.D. purposes, does the person comparing that image with my real live face not say, “This couldn’t possibly be your licence! The person in this photo is hideous – looks nothing like you!”

They never, ever say that.

Even if they just paused to glance back and forth a few times in slight bewilderment (ugly mug, my face, ugly mug, my face…) I’d feel a bit better. They never do.

I just don’t get it. There is a difference.

Is it any wonder there’s money to be made in the fake I.D. business? No one in authority actually studies these pictures – they give cursory glances only. Any resemblance to the person in possession of the I.D. and the image on that I.D. is purely coincidental.

(And, no, I am not posting a picture of my new licence when it arrives.)

Hells Bells

Ottawa Jumps Into the Car Warranty Business

“Government will spend up to $185-million to back warranties of new GM, Chrysler cars to prevent crisis from causing sales collapse.”

Hey. Something doesn’t feel right about this.

I’ve been paying for one hell of a lot of home repairs these past few years. The one thing that isn’t giving me any grief is my car - a Subaru. (Knock on wood.)

But now I’ll be paying for repairs on other people’s cars.

With the bail-outs and now this, I’m beginning to feel I own some of GM and Chrysler via my tax dollars – and I don’t want to.

I budget and manage my own finances and I’m responsible for fixing my own mistakes/repairs. And if I don’t? I’ll have my very own financial crisis and my house will collapse.

Too simplistic a view? So be it.

I still don’t like the way this is playing out.

Do Not Mess With Me

Background:

Three year old television displaying 3 vertical lines on screen.

One service repair visit and 40 million phone calls later, the manufacturer of said TV decides it is not worth repairing. Exchange for a new TV approved and arranged. Thank God for extended warranties.

Saturday morning:

Enter HUGE well-known store where TV originally purchased (and which has been notified of the exchange) and go to Customer (Don’t) Care Desk.

State business in a pleasant and friendly manner.

C.C. Dude: “The guy who deals with this kind of thing isn’t in until later this afternoon.”

Me: “Well, I’m here now. It’s a simple exchange – just bigger than usual.”

C.C. Dude repeats: “…the guy’s not in until…”

Me: “But I’m here now. I don’t see why it can’t be done.”

He starts up again with the same friggin’ line.

I interrupt. “I see 2 customer care people who aren’t busy, 2 salesmen over by the TVs, I have all the necessary papers with me and the store was notified of the exchange.”

Stare down.

He caved. I won. Deal done.

New TV to be delivered Wednesday.

Moral of the story: Go in with a chip on your shoulder and every damn scrap of paper you possess regarding the exchange/deal because you know they will mess with your head – especially if you’re a woman.

My shoulder is getting bruised from all my self-congratulatory pats.

Annual Angst

I had two sort of essential tasks to accomplish on Saturday.

How can a task be sort of essential? Well, if it’s buying a bathing suit, no matter how essential or urgent the need for this item might be, the completion of this particular task is never a sure thing.

My need is definitely urgent. My bathing suit is on the verge of disintegrating from being subjected to chlorine in my hydrotherapy class. Seams are threatening to give way, the elasticity is just about shot and the now barely attached lining is floating out beyond its boundaries (had to tuck a wayward piece back below the bra line last Thursday). Both the suit and I are a disaster waiting to happen – we are at risk of (literally) becoming the butt of a bad joke in class.

And did I manage to purchase a new bathing suit? NO! I hated every one I tried on and they hated me.

Why don’t stores use dim lights in those dressing rooms and have mirrors that provide a soft focus (blurred) reflection? I’m willing to be fooled. Just once I’d like to look at myself in that mirror and say, “Wow, this bathing suit fits perfectly! My God, it makes me look good!” (So what if it doesn’t when I get home? At least I’d have one.) I’m further stymied by my lack of patience. I’ll try on four bathing suits – max – before giving up in fury and frustration.

And how come I look better in a bra and underwear than I do in some of these bathing suits? I’ll tell you why – I figured it out. The material & elastic in some suits contorts, squeezes and rearranges your flesh into places it was never meant to be. Hello!! My boobs belong here, not up there…and that is not where my thighs meet my derrière. It is not appropriate to reveal one’s a** in pool class.

Or, you have the option of trying on a bathing suit made of the flimsiest material ever. I don’t do flimsy.

The worst of it is I still need a damned bathing suit. The few others I possess are not going to be immersed in chlorine. I like them. They fit. They are sacred.

As for my other Saturday task? Success! Writing and printing supplies at Staples. Love that store – can always find what I need – and more. It all fits.

The Rules Are Changing

See Beth bitch. Bitch, Beth, bitch.

If you make an effort to be nice to an obnoxious person, at times you’re rewarded. You catch a glimpse into their soul and it’s a good one.

Or, it can blow up in your face. They remain as obnoxious as ever.

You know the rules of baseball? Three strikes you’re out. Four balls and you get a walk to first. After two strikes (two of which may be foul balls) you can foul off any # of pitches and they won’t count as strikes. (Are you still with me?)

Well, when it comes to dealing with obnoxious people, I’m going to modify those rules. After one ball, one strike and one foul I refuse to pitch anymore. Consider yourself as either having struck out or you can walk to any base you like – all by yourself. Take your pick.

Oh, and if for some misguided reason you think it’s okay to diss my friends, that’s an automatic strike-out.

Life’s too short for some games.

I’m not getting mean and nasty as I get older, I’m getting smarter!