More Signs of Aging?

The other day while at work I went to a website, Rotten Green Tomatoes, that praised the TV series Mr. Robot. I had never heard of it. It is on USA Network. As I am gazing at the website and its critique, I mumbled something about it to a coworker, Anna. She lit-up with excitement with just a touch of surprise that I was oblivious to the show. I'm not oblivious anymore.

Anna insisted I come by after work to watch a few episodes. She has recorded all ten or twelve of them. I thought; oh heck, why not, so I accepted, promising that I would bring over a bottle of wine.

I came by Anna's apartment at about 7 or so and she wasted no time answering the door. She was very enthused. I poured myself a glass of wine and Anna programed the pilot episode to begin. She had seen it a couple of times but she was more than willing to sit through it again.

The main character was not Mr. Robot. His name was Elliot. He was a young man who worked at an internet security company. He had tremendous tech savvy but had emotional trouble and was asocial. He also had a drug problem with morphine. He silently talked to an invisible character, the talk used as kind of a narration for the audience as to what he thought and what was going on in general during the episode.

No need for a spoiler alert. I moderately enjoyed the first episode. Liked the second episode a little less. About halfway through the third episode I proclaimed that it was "later than I thought" and that I had to go home and wash my hair.

All of the main characters were early 20s, angry at society and youthfully rebellious. No one smiled, let alone laughed. All the characters were from that same mold though some were unscrupulous, of course. It is a series with technology being essentially a main character, if not the main character. Watching someone putting data into a laptop is not that exciting, even if they are doing it furiously, accompanied by rousing music. Funny, by that third episode I was actually longing for a car chase.

Anyway, I'd kind of like getting into a TV series like I did a few years ago with 30Rock and my fictional counterpart Liz Lemon. Mr. Robot isn't going to be that series. I'm either getting a little too old to appreciate a parade of youthful bad attitudes, or, the series simply wasn't that good. It's the latter of the two, right?

My Mom

Mom (with rabbit ears)

If anyone were to read this goofball blog from beginning to end, they would find out that I'm a daddy's girl. I think he is pretty great. He is what someone might call a "man's man", but he is sensitive and thoughtful and we get along really well. But my mother isn't exactly a zero. For one thing, she is a real brain. Throughout my life I have gone to her for all kind of advice. I consider myself an independent thinker and she is just as responsible for that as anyone.

My mother is into her 60s but I think she is still a real babe. And she has a lot of fun. I hope I live as long as she has, and if I am that lucky, I hope I hold together physically and emotionally as well as her. It is actually something of a life goal of mine.

My mother apparently holding
 up a light post

I don't mean to shock anyone with this bold revelation, but my mother and father still "do it", and do it fairly often. My mother jokingly told me a year or so ago despite the fact that at first I really did not want to hear it. An hour later, after the shock had passed, I thought it was pretty cool. That's another thing I hope I'm doing when I'm as old as Mom.

My mother exercises and keeps busy physically and psychologically. Best I can tell, she seems to be a very good sudoku player. I have played Scrabble against her a handful of times and I am yet to win. She goes to an aerobic class two or three times a week and is physically fit for a woman her age, and really, a woman of any age.

Yes, Mom is pretty cool. I'm not sure I mention her often enough in this zany blog. She really deserves her own blog entry, so here it is. A pretty wonderful woman.  
   

Thoughts On a Cross Country Trek

My boyfriend Terry and I have actually discussed a cross country trip of about three weeks in length. We would both take time off of work if we decide to take this trek. We would visit places like Utah, Arizona, Nevada, and eastern California.

Terry isn't wild about the idea of flying so I proposed we go cross country on the ground. Terry suggested we rent a small RV, an RV or perhaps a camper/trailer. I have found that there are some problems with this idea.

An RV, even a small one, would cost us about $3000 for three weeks. That would not include campground fees, fuel, etc. Giving it some thought, if we drove an RV, that would mean that anywhere we would want to drive, we would be driving an RV. So backcountry dirt roads would be risky. If we wanted to go to a nice restaurant, we would be pulling into the parking lot in an RV, that is, if the parking lot would accommodate an RV. And an RV is probably not a lot of fun to drive. To make a long story short; I'm not thrilled with the idea of an RV.

Towing a small camper has its own problems. First, I'm not sure either Terry or I own a vehicle that could tow even a small camper. Also, whenever we would pull off into a parking lot, the camper would be coming too, taking up parking spaces. Perhaps the biggest problem is that I would need a camper with more than just sleeping quarters, I would need a camper with an interior toilet. Best I can ascertain after doing a little research, that would mean at least a mid-sized trailer which, in turn, would mean we would not have a car that could pull it. Bottom line; I'm giving a thumbs down to a camper.

So, it would appear that our best option would be motels. I'm not wild about motels. I don't too much mind a nice one for a stay of a few days. A couple of days allows me to get comfortable with the motel room. But I am a little creeped-out about checking into a series of run-of-the-mill motels. Still, with a little research and planning, the lesser quality motels can be mostly avoided. The downside to motels is that if we are going to stay in the better establishments, it would probably mean getting reservations weeks in advance, which would potentially take away some of the spontaneity of the trip. Personally, I would rather sacrifice some spontaneity rather than do without a bathroom. I love the outdoors, but I have my limits.  

Shopping While Hungry

When I was in high school I started getting a taste for junk food cakes. I tried Ho Hos, Snowballs, and of course Twinkies. By the time I left for college, I had two favorites; vanilla flavored Zingers, and orange Hostess Cupcakes. To be fair, I would occasionally subsidized the utter lack of nutritional value in these foods with skimmed milk. I would dip the Zinger into a glass of milk, I would pour milk on the orange Hostess Cupcake, usually when it was in the package's plastic cup container, then eat it with a spoon.

It was the epitome of a "guilty pleasure". By the end of my freshman year, I had gone from a skinny girl, to having a "filled-out" figure, an anatomical enlargement at least partially due to my snack cake consumption. The habit could not go on forever and I finally said enough was enough. I stopped eating most of the cake junk food, and I started to exercise.

Wednesday I was pushing a cart through a grocery store when I came along boxes containing eight Hostess orange cupcakes. They were on sale, and I was feeling hunger pangs. I am not writing this blog entry to state that I purchased a box of cupcakes. I'm writing this blog entry to state that I purchased two boxes of cupcakes. Two boxes, or sixteen individually wrapped cupcakes.

That was Wednesday. Today is Sunday and of course all sixteen cupcakes are gone... well, strictly speaking they are gone. They seemingly still exist in the form of 2.5 pounds of bodyweight that I did not have last Tuesday. I'm not sure how one and a half pounds of food can become 2.5 pounds of bodyweight, but that's what seems to happen. I'll survive. Tomorrow I'll cut back on my caloric intake, and I'll visit my fitness center and do an extra ten minutes sweating on the elliptical.

Next time I go to the grocery store I'll make it a point not to be hungry.


   

A Dinner Gratuity

I don't very often cook dinner. When I say "cook", I mean using pots, pans, and an oven other than my microwave. I don't very often cook dinner for myself, and it is even more rare that I cook dinner for someone else. I do not own an apron. Yesterday evening I cooked dinner for Terry, my boyfriend. I'm not sure what got into me. Once or twice in my adult life I have cooked a dinner in an effort to impress or at least to encourage some new guy in my life. But Terry has been around for a while now and so that was not my motive. I'll have to give it some more thought.

Anyway, the whole cooking ordeal took about forty-five minutes and most of that was just waiting for the timer to buzz. It involved cooking some Italian sausage, boiling some pasta shells, inserting a bit of the cooked sausage into each individual pasta shell along with a morsel of mozzarella cheese and a small slice of green pepper. I then placed the stuffed shells onto a cooking sheet and baked for about twenty minutes. The salad was bought at the grocery store and came out of a plastic bag straight into the bowl. Terry removed the cork out of the red wine bottle. Peach sherbet was for dessert. Not too tough to prepare a dinner like that.

After dinner we watched something I had previously recorded on my DVR; a movie with Will Smith that's title escapes me. About a half an hour into the movie Terry asked if he could brush my hair. He said that I deserved it, considering the effort I put into dinner. So, did I let him brush my hair? Are you kidding me!? There isn't much I like more than to have my hair gently brushed. If I were a kitten it would make me purr. After about five minutes of heavenly hair brushing, Terry stated that I needed my back massaged. I was instructed to lay on my stomach on the sofa, and to "just relax". He received no argument. Terry tenderly massaged all areas of my back and then followed it up with this soothing, gentle, back scratch that had my skin tingling. It was all so blissful that my slightly opened mouth drooled onto a sofa cushion.

Maybe I'll prepare dinner more often, what with the great gratuity I received. Still, I'm a little hesitant to become too domesticated. I'm not about to go out and buy an apron. At least not yet.  

Birdwatchers, Fistfighters, and a Social Observation

I am going to write something based on an odd feeling, or sentiment, that came over me yesterday. It will probably seem nutty but I'm going to put it in this silly blog anyway.

Yesterday I donned my nerdy, floppy hat and went out birdwatching. I'm a birdwatcher which I guess is nutty enough on its own. Anyway, I thought I saw a lark bunting through my binoculars off in the distance. I have never seen a lark bunting. They are a bird common in the West, places like Colorado and Wyoming. I am in Massachusetts. So I almost assuredly did not see one, but it is not absolutely impossible. Birds can get off course for a number of reasons, particularly due to foul weather, and end up spending a season in some unknown area; unknown to them.

Not too long after my unconfirmed lark bunting sighting, I came upon an older man with a pair of binoculars in his hands. He was glancing upwards here and there into the trees. I knew he was birdwatching. I stopped and asked him if he happened to see what looked like a lark bunting. He gave me an inquisitive look and told he had not. In his soft-spoken voice, he amicably questioned me as to whether I was sure I'd seen a lark bunting. I replied that I had not gotten a really good look at the bird and so I was not sure. He mentioned that he had seen a saw-whet owl the previous weekend. I enthusiastically replied that I had seen only one saw-whet owl in my life. We were having the typical birdwatchers conversation; mundane to anyone but a birdwatcher. Anyway, we said goodbye and went our separate ways.

When I got home thirty minutes or so later, I went to the internet to see if anyone in the area, or for that matter, anyone in the state had seen a lark bunting. I found nothing. I clicked on a search of videos. For some reason what appeared on the page, among other things, was what looked to be a thumbnail video still of two guys dancing. There were thousands of  "views" so I thought it might be some little comedy skit or something. The video was something like forty seconds in length. I clicked on it. It was not a comedy skit. The video featured two guys but they were not dancing, they were fighting, a fight caught on a cellphone camera. It began with a few seconds of the two simpletons shouting at each other. They then scuffled around for a few seconds before one of the idiots swung and knocked the other moron to the ground, limp and unconscious. After a few obscenities shouted by the dimwit still standing, the video mercifully ended.

The video was kind of scary for a number of different reasons. But what I found startling at that moment was that a half hour earlier I had been in a brief, friendly conversation with a quiet, older man, and the contrast to what was in the video I found startling. Two behaviors at opposite ends of the spectrum. It was almost like the cordial, bird-watching gentleman was not of the same species as the two dolts fist fighting. Of course they are of the same species which, in a way, made me feel sorry for the birdwatcher.

Men's Cologne

Well, I have sort of rediscovered my goofball blog. So with that in mind, I might as well throw in yesterday's mild oddity.

To begin, for my entire life I have loved the fragrance of almost all men's cologne. When I was little, my father had a bottle of Old Spice. I think he got it as a gift because he rarely used it. The bottle stayed almost completely full for years and I never smelled it on him. Every once in a while I would pull off the plastic stopper and take a whiff. I really liked it.

The thing is; I hate smelling cologne on men and always have. I catch the scent of a cologne and I get this feeling that the man is trying to hide some underlying, unpleasant odor. Fortunately I am rarely exposed to men's cologne. It seems I'm most likely to be subjected to it in places like grocery store lines or for a few seconds in a crowded elevator.

Yesterday my boyfriend, Terry, came by with dinner, dinner being a carry-out order of two Italian sub sandwiches. Apparently he had a little time to kill when he reached the restaurant and he strolled next door to a pharmacy where he almost absent-mindedly sprayed a bit of cologne on his fingertips and after giving it a quick sniff, dabbed the remnants onto his neck. At least that's the story I was told.

Later, after we consumed the subs, Terry and I went on a little stroll around the block. When we returned to my place, one thing led to another and we became very close physically. It was then I got my first hit of an unnatural scent. I momentarily stopped the proceedings and asked Terry if he were wearing a cologne. At first he said no but then after a short pause for thought, he recalled that he had dabbed on a tiny bit of cologne earlier in the evening while waiting for the subs.

I smiled and muttered a slow, drawn-out "Ohhh grrreat."

Terry said that if it bothered me he could dash off and hurriedly wash his neck. Much to my shock, I told him that I actually kind of liked it. I'm not saying the trace of fragrance wildly helped the occasion, but it certainly did not seem to hurt it.

Upon reflection, I believe that the tiny amount used was a factor in my appreciation of the cologne. Also, I think the fact that I was enjoying the moment made me appreciate the scent of the moment. But what makes this really weird is that to the best of Terry's recollection, the cologne was British Sterling, which following a brief internet research, is poorly rated, low-priced stuff. I guess that kind of figures.

When Katie Gets Annoyed

I have not paid much attention to my blog lately. There hasn't been much to tell it. Things have been going along pretty well, which means my life has been boring, or at least boring to describe. But yesterday was a little different. I became somewhat agitated.

I was at work yesterday afternoon and as it happened, in such a location where I could overhear a short, informal meeting between an area supervisor, and about ten of his workers. These were blue collar workers who in some capacity handle store merchandise. Near the end of the meeting the supervisor asked if there were any questions or comments. One of the workers said, "Ever since our second forklift broke, we've been down to just one. If that one breaks down, we won't have none."

Well, the supervisor, who I will call Ron, tersely replied, "I'm aware that we won't have none. If it should come to that, we'll lease a forklift." Ron repeated, and put special emphasis on the worker's use of a double negative in a deliberate attempted to belittle the employee. It worked too because I heard a couple of chuckles.

I don't like when people are made fun of for such things. I have known and liked many individuals who did not speak perfect English.

A few hours later, near the end of the workday yesterday, I happened to stroll by Ron's personal whiteboard that he uses to post instructions or ideas. On it he had written: one person with poor work habits can have a negative affect on many others. My feet took about two additional steps beyond the whiteboard when they brought me to an abrupt halt. I turned around and reread the comment, just in case I had misread it the first time. I hadn't.

I quickly glanced about the immediate area. No one was around. I stepped to the whiteboard and picked up the red marker that was just below the board. I circled the word "affect" and then from the circled word, drew a line to an open space on the whiteboard. In the open space I wrote; the proper word is not "affect", it is "effect". EFFECT!  I'm sure I was grinning when I used all capital letters and the exclamation point. I then left my initials to indicate the author of the observation.

That was late yesterday afternoon. I thought today I might hear something from Ron concerning yesterday's impromptu bit of correction, but my workday is now over and I never heard a word. I had imagined Ron confronting me about it. I was planning to reply with something like, "Gee Ron, I thought that when it came to the English language, you never made no mistakes."    

Pre Memorial Day Sentimentality

Memorial Day is coming and I think it's time for me to get sentimental. To tell you the truth, I've been looking at some old photos so I think it might be beyond my control.

Anyone who has ever read this idiotic blog to its entirety would know that my dad is a Vietnam veteran. But us Anderson folk have a longer line of military tradition. And there's a little bit on my mom's side of the family too.

My grandfather on my mother's side was a Methodist minister. He died when I was six in 1991. I barely remember him. In WWII he was a young chaplain who stayed in this country, comforting the people who lost loved ones, and sometimes comforting those soldiers who came back severely wounded. I have been told his work during WWII was very rewarding, and also very taxing.

Grandpa Anderson in WWII

My grandfather on my father's side died about ten years ago. I think he was 92. In WWII he was in the Army Air Corp. He was stationed in Australia for most of the war but was moved up to one of the airbase islands near the end.

A few years before he died he was over for Thanksgiving dinner, as he usually was in the years after my grandmother died. One time he happened to mention WWII and I jumped in and asked him if he ever shot anyone. I think I was about 14 at the time. I still remember how Grandpa answered.

Grandpa, top middle

He leaned back in his chair and said that for a time his outfit was having trouble with a mischievous kangaroo that would break into a supply tent at night and make a mess of things. Finally enough was enough and Grandpa was ordered to stand guard in the tent the next night. He said that they gave him a thompson "to make sure he did the job right". I learned that a thompson was a type of machine gun.

Grandpa with my dad in 1951

Well, sure enough, the kangaroo paid a visit. Grandpa put a flashlight on the animal, aimed the machine gun, and pulled the trigger. According to my grandfather, he was totally unprepared for the power and the noise of the thompson. He said he put a line of bullet holes across the back of the tent without ever coming close to the kangaroo. According to Grandpa, he was more terrified by the thompson than was the kangaroo. But Grandpa said that the kangaroo must have gotten the message because he never returned.

Grandpa looked at me, grinned, and said, "Katie, that was my combat during WWII". I miss you Grandpa.

      

Technology Updating

I am on Tracphone and have a cheap flip phone. I have had the same phone for over five years. It was a bare-bones piece of technology then, and it has only gotten worse since. It looks like a half-used, black bar of soap and it's just about as slippery; I've dropped it several times. Once I dropped it on a sidewalk and it went into pieces. Believe it or not I was able to put it back together, and it worked. But it's an old, cheap thing and I can't do anything with it other than talk. And it's actually wearing out. The shine wore off of the the exterior several years ago.  The other day I pulled it out to make a call and someone started to laugh at it. My contract is about to run out, as are the minutes available. I've been thinking about getting something that is not obsolete.

When it comes to this type of technology, my boyfriend Terry is a little more knowledgeable than am I... okay, maybe he is a lot more knowledgeable. Still, he doesn't necessarily know how to combine the best smartphone for the money with my needs and what I am willing to spend. Right now, at 5:36 PM on Friday, I'm thinking about venturing out this weekend and buying a Samsung Galaxy S4 for around $400 or so and visiting Walmart where they have something called Straight Talk that offers unlimited text and data for about $50 a month and no contract.

More than a lack of technological expertise, I have no knowledge of plans that are available, what I will need, who is best and who is not. I am going on the advice of others. Once I get through this learning curve, I'll be faced with coming up to speed concerning all that can be done with a smartphone.

I'm paying the toll for living in my own little world of solo nature hikes, trips to a fitness center, evenings out to dinner or to a movie, or alone at home causing trouble on the Net with a glass of wine and/or bourbon at my elbow. I'm living proof that not all goofball geeks are geekish in the field of electronic technology.    

A Quick and Ill-Advised Blog Entry

I am starting on this blog entry at 11:22 PM. I just took a shower and hopefully will soon go to bed and be fast asleep. About two hours ago I took a nip of bourbon. At 11:22 I'm not entirely sober and the alcohol is probably at least partly responsible for the travesty of this blog entry. Nevertheless, here it goes...

I have a fairly new coworker. I'll call her Joan. Joan has been a fellow employee for a few months. She is about my age and single. She has a boyfriend who is a nice-looking guy. Not too long ago Joan voluntarily told me that she is a Mormon and saving herself for marriage. At the time, I thought this rather amusing and quaint. Now, after additional thought, it actually kind of annoys me.

Joan talks of her boyfriend often. She has sexual desires that she speaks of. I'd be willing to bet her boyfriend has sexual desires too. Her boyfriend is planning to go back to school and they are waiting until he finishes to get married. That's about a year away, according to Joan.

I'm not going to say anything to Joan but I think her mentality is sad and really, something of a tragedy. To be forthright, Joan, a very pretty lady, should be giving sexual pleasure, and receiving it. Instead she is tied to Mormon mythology. That's what it is; mythology. I think it is very sad. The only good thing is that I can better appreciate that I do not have such problems and am able to enjoy life to the utmost... except when the lifestyle of a fellow employee depresses me.

Maybe tomorrow I will delete this blog entry.  By then I won't have this bourbon-induced tipsiness. Don't get me wrong; I'll still be of the same opinion, I'll just have regretted writing about it.

A One Week Test

Going back to the time I was about 15 years old, I have felt what I would consider true love for several guys. True love is different when compared to infatuation. Infatuation is more a physical attractive. Infatuation is the work of hormones. Love is the work of the mind, of the psyche.

There are some people, guys specifically, that I will be in tune with, and some that I will not. I have never met anyone of any gender who is not capable of irritating me at least slightly from time to time.

There have been a few guys in my life that after several months in a relationship, after the lust and passion began to ebb, I nevertheless started wondering how I could live without them. These are the guys who are not overbearing, they are calming, and they are willing to listen to my silliness. My brain will give a guy extra points if he occasionally gives spontaneous back rubs or waits for me without complaint as I put on make-up. There are no two guys who have been in my life who I have felt the same level of fondness.

Last week Terry, my boyfriend, and I went on a little adventure into the Adirondacks. Time-wise, it was our first trip together of any length. I knew it was going to be a test, whether I thought of it that way or not. Terry has many characteristics that I cherish, but there are a few things about him that rub me the wrong way. One is that he tends to get a little macho on occasion. That is not my style.

On our trip, we stopped at a large, outdoor store. Terry wanted to make a purchase. Did he buy a gun? Did he buy some knife? The answer to both of those questions is no. He bought a pair of binoculars so he could help his girlfriend/bird watcher spot birds up in the trees.
  
Our trip is now over and if someone were to give me a multiple choice question asking to describe my feelings for Terry in a single word, I would select love over fondness or like. Truth is; I have recently wondered how I could live without him. I guess I can put up with a little bit of bravado, after all, he is putting up with a goofy bird watcher. I think we both passed the test.

Boston's "All Kinds"

Over the last ten years I have become civic-minded and have acquired a social consciousness. Once upon a time not too long ago but seemingly in another world, my worries were about grades, perhaps a boyfriend, and in some vague way, my future as an adult. For me as a person, a lot has changed since then.

One of the personal changes is this advent of social awareness. I have noticed it more recently with the local trials of Aaron Hernandez and Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, especially Dzhokhar Tsarnaev. Once upon a time I would have known about these kind of important events but not followed them with interest. At least for me, to some degree my mental involvement in these sorts of things is not particularly healthy psychologically. Still, I can't help myself; I am taking an interest in the real world. Having said all of that, as sad and even as scary some things can seem, there are times when a person just has to laugh.

Yesterday my boyfriend, Terry, and I were eating at a Five Guys restaurant. There's nothing like a pitifully unhealthy cheeseburger and some death-defying fries to bring the world's troubles more into perspective. As I am chomping away at some high calorie food and contemplating how much time on an elliptical I'll have to spend to burn it off, Terry calmly informs me that he has discovered a new talent. With my mouth stuffed with salted, deep-fried french fries, I give him an inquisitive look.

"Hi Katie, how's the food?" he inquires in this almost creepy, high pitched voice.

"Did you see that?" he then asks in his normal voice.

I swallow the glob of french fries then said, "See what?"

"I talked without moving my lips," Terry replies with a note of actual pride. "I am a ventriloquist."

For about five seconds I just stared at his grinning face. "What?" I mumbled.

"I can do ventriloquism," he responded. "I can talk without moving my lips. I can even do it in a couple of different voices."

There are all kinds of people in the world, and in Massachusetts. On one end of the spectrum there are murderers, terrorists, etc., then at the other end of the spectrum there are those who become exciting because they can talk without moving their lips. If the evils of the world seem to be closing in on you, one little-known antidote is to have dinner with an amateur ventriloquist. He won't rid the world of evil people, but he'll certainly make them seem farther way.

Our Trip To Long Pasture

When I finished writing my last blog entry, the idiotic one about visiting vernal pools, I got to thinking about my mother. When I was about 9 years old I became interested, or more like fascinated in nature. I started reading all kinds of books and literature about the great outdoors. One of the things I read about was vernal pools and their micro ecosystem. But reading about vernal pools wasn't good enough. I wanted an expert to visit one with me so I could ask a million questions.

One Saturday there was going to be a guided program about vernal pools at the Long Pasture Wildlife Sanctuary. A few days before the program, I asked my father if he would take me. Apparently there was something he had to do (probably watch sports on TV), so he told me to ask my mother. My mom told me to ask my dad and when I told her I'd asked him first, she kind of rolled her eyes and nodded.

That Saturday I went off down a trail with a bunch of other nerds of all ages as we followed a naturalist to a vernal pool where we spent a couple of hours examining and analyzing that tiny, unique environment. I'm not sure what my mother did for those two hours but when I returned from the little expedition, she was there waiting. Sometimes I forget what my parents went through to raise a goofy girl.

Yesterday I talked to my mom and I was informed that today my father was to go to a medical clinic for a colonoscopy. He was going to be anesthetized and perhaps too groggy to speak with the doctor afterwards concerning the results, and he would definitely be unable to drive home. The post-procedure conference with the doctor, and the chauffeuring, would be a chore that would logically fall on my mom, but though my mother did not say anything, I know only too well that she is a little squeamish around such things. Anyway, that trip to Long Pasture came to mind. I told Mom that I'd take a day off work and drive Dad. She gave me a bit of an argument but I could tell by the tone of her voice that it was an argument that she wanted to lose. I proclaimed that I would not take no for an answer, much to my mother's relief, and at about 7:30 this morning I stopped by my parents' house to pick up my dad.

My mother met me at the door and she could not thank me enough. All I could think of was that this one good deed was not near enough to make up for everything she has done for me, her goofy little girl.

           

Vernal Pooling

Well, I took the day off to do something I like to do but sure must seem stupid; I went out to a couple of wooded areas to look at some vernal pools. Yep, I know; goofball. I would never ask anyone to go with me on some expedition that must seem idiotic.

Vernal pools are small, shallow ponds that hold water part of the year but generally go dry in mid to late summer. The particular characteristic has to be established. It can't be a one-time wet area; the result of an unusually rainy spring. They are important to the ecosystem and are full of biodiversity.

I drove out to a place known to have a couple vernal pools. I put on my dumb-looking boots, rubber gloves and walked out to see what I could find. This time of the year there are interesting things to uncover at a vernal pool. There are various kinds of amphibian eggs such as assortment of species of salamander, toad, frog and turtle. There are also interesting and rare invertebrates that are found nowhere else but within vernal pools. Unfortunately, vernal pools are also a prime property for mosquitoes, which begin developing in the early spring.

I became excited because I think I spotted the small, jelly-like egg mass soon to be jefferson salamander larvae. It's been a while since I've seen jefferson salamander eggs, so I'm not 100% sure what I was looking at. The jefferson salamander usually lays fewer eggs than the spotted salamander or something like a wood frog. Still, not 100% sure.

Anyway, I'm home now, messing around on the internet, and savoring a small glass of bourbon, bourbon purchased by someone else, for someone else, but drinkable by me.



     

It Was Obvious To Me

I'm not exactly an old lady, but some of my coworkers are actually younger than me. Some younger by about a decade, which is kind of scary when I stop and think about it.

Two of them work together in the same general area. I would be surprised if either has yet reached 20. One, Neal, is male, the other, Kayla, is female. Both are nice people but neither is exactly a social butterfly. Kayla is a little better socially than Neal but still, she is not exactly at ease with other people, especially guys. One thing that I find rather amusing as I have looked on from afar is this attraction they have for each other. To me it is pretty obvious, but apparently not to everyone.

Tuesday something got into me and I asked Neal if I could ask him a slightly personal question. He nodded, albeit a bit reluctantly. I then asked if he had gone out with Kayla yet. I figured he hadn't but I wasn't sure. It was a legitimate question, well, sort of. Anyway, Neal immediately became self-conscious then quickly shook his head. He bashfully told me that he liked Kayla but he thought sure that he'd get turned down. He said that he had kind of assumed that Kayla just wanted to be friends.

I can't remember if I actually giggled or not. Maybe I just got close to a giggle and kept it in. I informed Neal that he definitely would not get turned down. Neal looked at me as if I were nuts. He then, almost defiantly, questioned how I could be so sure.

I have asked, and received relationship advice in my life but I'm not thrilled with the idea of giving it. Nevertheless, I smiled and asked Neal if he had ever noticed how close Kayla stands to him when she is talking to him. He looked confused and shook his head. I told him that she stands about a half step closer than what would be normal. It is not a "just friends" distance, I said. I then informed Neal that when she speaks to him her voice is just a little softer than when she speaks to other people. I told Neal that the quiet voice comes from a bit of emotion leaking into her speech. Finally, I asked Neal if he ever noticed how she will go out of her way to make needless conversation with him. For a few seconds Neal gave me this blank stare before finally stating once again that he was pretty sure that Kayla just wanted to be friends. I told Neal that I am not an expert, and I can't read minds, but that I was 99% sure he was wrong.

Well I'll be honest; if I had been wrong I probably would not have written this blog entry. And if I had been wrong, Neal would not be sharing a pizza with Kayla in about an hour.

No Ordinary Patriots

I was at Terry's, my boyfriend, apartment yesterday evening. Since I carry nothing more than a cheap cellphone, I asked Terry if I could jump on his PC while he ran out to get our pizza. I had heard there was a snowy owl spotted in eastern Massachusetts and I wanted to get online to find out if it was true (it was). While I was on his computer, I saw a desktop folder that was labeled "Patriots". I clicked on the folder to find out what was inside. We live in New England so maybe he had some past New England Patriots listed. Well, what was inside this "Patriots" folder was probably something like 500 nude female photos and assorted short porn videos, porn videos if their names were any indication. One thing for sure; neither the photos nor the videos were of any Patriots I was familiar with. Of course I knew that I had uncovered Terry's porn stash.

My first reaction was surprise. I was not shocked, but I was surprised. It is possible that the source of my surprised came mostly by the fact that I had happened upon porn, and not that I had found specifically Terry's porn.  It is possible, after all, I was expecting to see football players such as Tedy Bruschi and Kevin Faulk in Patriot uniforms.

I do not live under a rock, at least I haven't lived under a rock in a long time. I know that as a rule, guys like porn. I've read where men more than women are "sight" oriented when it comes to sexual arousal. Philosophically speaking, this is not the fault of guys. It is the doing of mother nature. Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is; I did not get angry. I was probably disappointed for a minute or two but that did not last long because after a moment of thought, I concluded that I had no reason to be disappointed. As I said, Terry is basically following his human instincts. And it isn't like I am completely immune to porn myself. The sight of a good-looking guy can raise my pulse a few beats, even if it's just a photo.

Anyway, I did not and will not mention to Terry that I found his digital porn inventory. Terry may find many girls sexually attractive, but there is only one that he attends to personally. And I won't ask for anything more. Terry will never learn that I know of the porn. Besides, I've kept some secrets from him too. One of them is the existence of this blog.  

Ugly Sleep

I am at times an ugly sleeper. Last night was one of those nights.

I don't snore all the time but when I do, it can be pretty hard on the ears. My snoring requires for me to be on my back with my head slightly turned back, as though I'm looking at something on the bed's headboard. My mouth falls open and some really great snoring comes out. It can get so loud, it will wake me up. Sometimes my eyes will pop open and I'll hear the last few seconds of a snort. That's what happened last night at 3:10 AM, assuming my bedside clock is correct.

I will also talk in my sleep. This doesn't happen very often, but now and then I'll have something to say right out loud while I am snoozing. According to those who have had the misfortune of hearing me, I speak mostly gibberish. Now and then a word can be understood, but generally not much more. It is as though I am speaking my own language. I have tied these outbursts to times of heightened problems with anxiety and depression.

I once had a boyfriend who was a pretty good snorer. I would give him an elbow and that would usually silence him. I can have trouble with clinical anxiety that will occasionally trigger a panic attack in the middle of the night. Believe it or not, the sound of a man snoring can actually be a bit comforting during those times. So there are rare occasions when the low gurgling of male snoring isn't all bad.

I consider myself a pretty deep sleeper, as a rule. I don't awake easily. Unfortunately, when I am awakened in the middle of the night, I often have a tough time going back to sleep. This morning at 3:10 I was rousted by my own boisterous snoring and for the next hour or so I pretty much just laid there, now and then turning to glance at my clock. I know I finally fell back to sleep because I was rudely awakened by the alarm at 5:48, thus ending a night of some pretty ugly sleeping. I'll get another try tonight.

Ditziness Strikes

About twenty-four hours ago I wrote a blog entry about my interest in nature. One day later that interest kind of got the best of me and exposed some grade-A ditziness. I shall explain.

After work today a coworker, James, and I were walking across the parking to our respective cars. As we were approaching his car, I saw several deep scratches in the car's rear door. There were about three scratches each being about a foot long. I think the car is a Mercedes and it's about ten years old. James has always kept very good care of it. I think it is his pride and joy.

Anyway, when I saw the scratches I was shocked. I asked him how could he get such scratches. In a frustrated, annoyed voice, he told me a Bobcat had done it there in the parking lot. I was overwhelmed. I hurried over to his car to take a closer look at the scratches. As I examined the damage, I asked him how he knew the scratches were from a bobcat. He told me that there was a witness, someone had seen it. For a few more seconds I examined the scratches, I then made some comment about how the scratches were very deep and the bobcat must have been trying to get into the car. I then turned towards James and asked him if he ever keeps food in his car.

Well, James gave me this confused look but then nodded and stated that yes, he sometimes has some little snack in the car. I then theorized that the bobcat must have been desperate to get the food, this based on the notion that the scratches were very deep. I then said that bobcats are fairly uncommon but I had never heard of one trying to claw its way into a car.

For a few seconds James glared at me as if I were nuts. Finally he said, "Katie, the Bobcat was plowing snow in the parking lot and the driver just maneuvered too close to my car with its bucket. I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

It took a few seconds for me to put it all together, but when it did I simultaneously shook my head in mild self-irritation while at the same time giggling. "I was picturing a different kind of bobcat," I snickered. "Let's just leave it at that."  

Birding 101

As anyone who has ever read this moronic blog would know, I am a birdwatcher. I am an outdoorsy, nature-loving person in general, and a birdwatcher in particular. Truth is; I have some fairly unusual, and pretty worthless knowledge stored in my head. I can identify North American trees by their leaves and by their bark. I can identify most native foliage by the leaves. I can identify, or at least make a pretty good guess identifying various regional amphibians. I know my area snakes. I can identify almost all the native butterflies, and most of the native moths. I can look at animal scat (or "turds in the wild"), and get some idea of some of the creatures that are in the area by identifying the animal who left the scat, and the contents of the scat. I'm yet to benefit from any of this knowledge, but it's up there in my noggin, rolling around.

A few hours ago my binoculars and I were wandering through a cemetery on the lookout for bird activity when I heard the unmistakable song of a cardinal. I looked up to the top of a tree and there he was, a bright red male.

Just when I thought spring would never arrive, a bird tells me it's not far off. That's what the song of a cardinal is stating, almost literally. He is out there looking for a mate for spring nesting. Welcome to Birding 101. This is actually a little late in the year for the first songs of the cardinal, but that's not surprising, given the winter.

If you ever see a bird feeder offering sunflower seeds -a cardinal favorite- you might see a male cardinal feeding a female. It's one of their courtship things and it is kind of nice to see; almost romantic, in an avian sort of way. But first the male has to make his presence known by song. When he does, he is also making it known that spring is not far off... thank god! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4GJ-7P9Zp4

Bald Guys With Misplaced Anguish

There is a guy I work with who almost accidentally admitted to using Rogaine. Rogaine is an anti-balding medication. The guy is nice enough looking. It seems kind of too bad that he should be worried about baldness. For some reason a lot of men are self-conscious about their baldness. Actually, when guys become actual men and leave boyhood behind, somewhere in their late 20s, too much hair can actually look more odd than does some modest hair loss.

Personally, I don't care if a guy I am interested in is bald or not. I wish I could say that I don't care at all what some perspective guy looks like but unfortunately I'm not that open-minded. I care, it's just baldness is not on the list of negatives.

I have thought about such matters on occasion when it comes to men's physical appearance: what are my guidelines? There is a theoretical line that is in my head and if a guy does not meet that line, then I probably could never get serious about him in a romantic sort of way. The line is not really very high, after all, I'm not exactly Miss Massachusetts, and I'm a goofball. I think the guy would have to be over five feet tall. He would probably have to be under three hundred pounds. He would have to be free of body odor (okay, that's not technically relevant to "appearance"). He would probably have to have all of his front teeth, be the teeth natural or manufactured. Baldness is not on the list, it is not an issue. I would rather the guy be bald than wear a toupee.

My boyfriend, Terry, has thinning hair. He will jokingly say that he no longer has to spend a lot of time using a comb. A bottle of shampoo can last years. He has told me he has to wear a hat on sunny days or endure sunburn on top of his head. He mentioned a hat as a solution, not Rogaine. That's okay with me. In fact, that's how I prefer it.

Dumb Thing I [Don't] Do

This winter I have come to observe personal habits and idiosyncrasies that are kind of nutty. Most of the quirks and tendencies I have had for a while, but it has been only the last month or so that I have really noticed them. I think the habits come from a combination of spending a lot of time by myself throughout my life, simple nerdiness, and maybe a dash of my anxiety and depression disorders too.

I do not make my bed in the morning, or at any other time during the day. When I go to bed at night, the bed is usually exactly how I left it when I climbed out of bed 16 or 17 hours earlier. I make my bed only when I think I might be having an overnight guest. If the guest becomes a regular visitor, then I will eventually inform him that it has never been my habit to make my bed, which in turn usually frees me of that chore.

Unless someone is watching, when I go to my refrigerator to get a drink of milk or juice, I will drink right from the bottle or carton. I will not bother with a glass. When my dishwasher is full and I turn it on, the number of plates and bowls outnumber the glasses by a significant percentage. There are surprisingly few coffee cups too, due to the fact that I will simply rinse out and reuse the same cup or two over and over again. Most of the cups to be washed are cups used by guests.

When alone I talk to myself a lot. Sometimes it is a steady monologue. Most of the time I am talking out loud, in full voice. I am not mumbling or whispering. This is a relatively new phenomenon. I have always mumbled things to myself, but the act of speaking right out loud began only a few years ago. For a while it had me concerned, but I have finally made my peace with it perhaps because I have control of it. I do not talk to myself when someone is around.

When putting on shoes, socks or other foot clothing, I always start with my left foot. Even when I pick up the right shoe first, I will put it down and reached for the left shoe. I do not know where, why, or how this habit began, but it is a regular thing that I have come to notice. It could be a harmless bit of my rather mild obsessive/compulsive disorder. It isn't something that concerns me, but it does seem kind of odd.

A Shower

Once again I'm going to get personal; perhaps too personal. But whose blog is this anyway? Heck, maybe I'll write it and not publish it. We'll see how I feel when I'm done.

I think that the most exhilarating period in the average modern human life is the period when an individual has recently discovered a highly agreeable person with whom to start a romantic relationship, and the subsequent adult intimacy.

Speaking just of the intimacy; the two people are new to each other and desires are at their peak. This period of physical yearning, from its beginning to its "nature" conclusion, can last anywhere from a few months, to perhaps about a year. Early on there could be nervousness or inhibition that could retard or short-circuit the feelings. When those problems are remedied, the mutual desires -lust- can become almost unbearable. It is a feeling of being alive that is almost incomparable in its intensity. Most people have had the good fortune of the experience. I have had the good fortune perhaps a half dozen times. I am in the throes of just such an adventure now. In fact, we are several months along.

One of the activities I have always seemed to enjoy during the highly passionate months of a new relationship is showering together. I might have said as much once or twice before in this idiotic blog. I don't enjoy a mutual shower because I want to save time or water. It has to do with the nuzzling, the caressing, the stroking, and so forth. That now said; Terry, my boyfriend, and I have not yet showered together. We have been together for a few months now and I had never asked, or schemed, my way into the shower with him. The fact that I have not has me slightly alarmed.

Sometimes I wonder if adulthood and maturing is sneaking into my life, or worse; into me. I want to remain youthful as long as possible. It is that pursuit that is at least partially responsible for my watching my weight, and visiting my fitness center at least four times a week. But it goes beyond that. It has to do with more than my being able to run, and dance, and make love in a shower, it has to do with wanting to do those things.

I guess I should be glad that it did finally occur to me that Terry and I have some very stimulating business to attend to. Tomorrow night I'm going to insist that we rendezvous in my shower, and what we do in there will have nothing to do with getting clean.

  

I Need a Winter Break

I actually like winters in the Boston area. I like nestling on the sofa in front of the TV with heavy socks on my feet and a cup of hot chocolate, or more likely, a glass of wine in my hand. I like going out in the snow too. I get bundled up like an undersized bear and go out plodding on an evening walk through the falling snowflakes. A walk in the winter is generally more invigorating than a walk in the summer. I try not to let winter weather slow me down. I still want to go places and do things.

However, I must admit that I am now officially tired of the winter of 2014-2015. I'm tired of trying to drive down treacherous roads and highways that are choked with snow and glistening with ice. I have grown weary of putting on layers upon layers of clothing just to go out and dig my car out of a mountain of snow. Enough is enough, I'm ready for a change. I sometimes wonder if I'll forget what it is like to dash outside to the mailbox on a warm, sunny day wearing shorts and a sleeveless top. I know I'm ready for a change when I reflect upon such ordinary things with fondness.

I'm not asking for much. At this point I'd settle for three or four days of high temperatures in the 40s. I don't necessarily need spring to appear tomorrow, just give me a little break from this arctic winter. Just for a day or so I would like to see a plot of grassy earth rather than have the entire landscape snow-covered. Just for a day or so. That should hold me until sometime in March.  

The Super Bowl

I am something of a football fan. I have lost some of my love as a spectator due to the injuries caused by the game, and the subsequent long-term damage; specifically long-term cognitive damage. Still, I can put that criticism aside and enjoy a game.

My father has been a Patriot fan since they were the Boston Patriots. He got me started on the game in general, and the Pats in particular. The first Patriot quarterback I remember watching was Steve Grogan. He retired in 1990 when I was five. I have never been to a Pats game but these days I would probably just as soon watch them on HD television from the comfort of my home, or someone else's home.

Last night I watched the game from the comfort of someone else's home. My boyfriend Terry, and I, were invited to his friend's house for the game, and the accompanying party. I spent the evening fighting (in spirit) for the Pats while sipping Knob Creek bourbon and eating pizza rolls and the occasional mini burrito.

The game was all but over when with seconds left in the game, the Seahawk quarterback threw an ill-advised interception from the one yard line, ending any chance of what looked like a sure touchdown, and win, for the Seahawks.

Despite the fact that the decision to pass handed the Patriots the victory, many of the pro-Patriot viewers surrounding me were astounded at the stupidity of the Seahawk play call. Still, the call could have been worse. In fact, some slightly intoxicated female Patriots fan was heard saying, "Passing the ball in that situation might have been idiotic, but at least they didn't punt."

She really was just joking, but still; perhaps a little too much bourbon for that lady.

Okay, back to work.

A Close Shave

I'm about to head home from work but before I do, I am going to write into this goofball blog about my Sunday experience, as boring as it may seem to others.

My boyfriend, Terry has had a beard since we first met several months ago. Its color matches his slightly reddish hair except the beard has a little bit of gray at the chin. I don't know anything about beard styles so I just sort of think of it as a "controlled beard"; it has always looked like it is about a week's worth of growth. I like it but I'm not absolutely wild about it either. I would never ask him to shave it but if he wanted to shave it I would not beg him not to.

A few days ago he mentioned something about shaving off his beard. I discreetly told him my feelings; that I liked his beard but if he wanted to shave it, that was okay too. Terry nodded and said he was going to give it some thought. Well, Sunday afternoon he called me to inform me that he had decided to shave his beard that evening. He wanted to warn me, but I think he called mainly because he was a little traumatized by his decision. Apparently he has had the beard for ten years, which I did not know. I guess he considered it as something of an old friend. Believe it or not, I kind of get his thinking. I once decided to go to a different hairstyle that required my hair to be cut by about six inches. Watching my hair getting snipped off was actually an emotional experience.

Anyway, out of the blue I asked Terry if I could shave him. It was a spontaneous request. Terry chuckled. I giggled too but then insisted that I was serious. There was a few second of quiet and then Terry said that if I wanted to, it was okay with him.

I drove over to Terry's place Sunday evening. He was ready for me. He sat on a kitchen chair and gave me instructions, the first being to put a moist, warm towel on his beard to soften it up. I actually re-wet it with warm water and reapplied it a couple of times. I have to admit, I found it kind of exciting, in an odd sort of way. I think Terry was enjoying it too.

I applied the shaving soap, which Terry had purchased only an hour or so beforehand, and sort of rubbed it around his beard. When everything seemed ready, he handed me a safety razor. He told me that the blade was unused, but both the blade and the razor itself were a decade old. For some strange reason I thought I was going to be using a straight razor. I guess those are for real barbers and not for a nervous woman who has never shaved a man in her life.

I am actually familiar with the process of shaving. I do have legs, armpits and a few other areas that need attention from time to time.

I have to admit that I thought shaving Terry was entertaining, maybe even slightly erotic. And he seemed genuinely appreciative. I did nick him just slightly on the right side of his chin. I did not even know until I saw a speck of blood a minute or so later. Terry wanted a close shave, but not that close.

Meditating Away Anxiety and Depression

This is a first; two blog entries on the same day. This, the second of the two, came as something of an afterthought. Still, I want to write it while it is on my mind, and put it in my silly blog.

I suffer from clinical anxiety and depression, particularly clinical anxiety. This first hit me about ten years ago. These afflictions are not fun. Fact is; they are hellish. I cannot take medication for these conditions. Every medication I have tried has made me mildly ill physically. I will go on some medication and invariably it feels like I am coming down with the flu about 12 hours later. I have had to rely on cognitive therapy. As recommended by my therapist, I started to meditate regularly.

I meditate at least fifteen or twenty minutes a day. I try to meditate as early in the day as possible. If I can't meditate in the morning, I will hopefully find time to meditate during the afternoon. Sometimes my meditation session does not come until evening. A few people at work have caught me meditating by myself. I will stop, smile, and inform them what I am doing.

I find it rather humorous that I would be a person who mediates. I've always thought that it had a note of intellectual quackery to it. I am not into acupuncture. I am hardly a vegetarian. But meditation works for me. To that end, early this past week I posted a couple of flyers at work advertising that I would give a short, free, workplace seminar on meditation to anyone interested. The seminar was yesterday. A grand total of one person attended.

I will now pass on the gist of that "seminar" to any would-be reader...

Meditation takes practice. It's like exercising the body in that if you are new to it, it does not come easily. It might almost hurt at first. Meditation requires some conditioning; mental conditioning. It does not require sitting in a cross-legged position. It does not require any chanting. Just find a place where you won't be distracted, sit in any kind of comfortable position, close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing. Simply breath in and out and notice the inhales, and the exhales.

Your mind will wander. You might think of chores you need to do after work. Or your mind might wander as you contemplate an upcoming dentist appointment. Being distracted during meditation is normal. When you realize you are not focusing on your breathing, just gently redirect your attention to your breaths. Think of how your breaths feel as they enter and exit your body.

If you are lucky, the first mediation session may result in a brief instant or two of relaxation and an odd sense of tranquility. Over the next few sessions you may find that those gentle moments are coming a bit more often. Eventually those blissful periods will be strong enough and of long enough duration to have a continual positive effect on your mental state. You will become a more calm, serene person. Unfortunately, meditation will not make you smarter, I'm sorry to say.

I am not anxiety free, but I feel much better due to my meditation regiment. My mental disorders are now within my control. My life is good.            

The Goofball Updating Her Blog

I might as well give an update on my relationship with Terry, not that anyone cares. But up to now it has been somewhat different when compared to my past relationships, so I might as well chronicle it to this point.

Terry and I have been seeing each other for nearly three months. That's not exactly a lifetime but it is long enough that to a certain extent the proverbial dust has kind of settle. For about two months we have been "exclusive" to each other, meaning we do not see anyone else romantically. One evening we both agreed that we had the potential for something special between us and so we made this vow to each other in a very casual, almost humorous manner, but yet in a completely honest manner. We see each other about three times a week on average. Sometimes it is four times a week, sometimes it is two. It probably averages to three. I don't see this figure changing anytime soon. It seems that both Terry and I like three times a week. This is less often than I have seen my other, past romantic interests, at a comparative point in those relationships.

Terry and I spend the night together at least two of those three night per week when we see each other. Usually the nights when we meet are Friday, Saturday, and then one evening, possibly two, during the week. Usually the non weekend day when we spent time together is either Monday or Wednesday. Sometimes it is both. When I see Terry on Monday, and then I do not see him again until Friday, I get excited and anxious for Friday to finally come. There is a clear heightening of emotion. I like it. I like the elevated anticipation of being with Terry. And I like having days of "me time". We generally do not spend our entire Saturdays or Sundays together. Terry has his interests and I have mine.

Most of those evenings when Terry and I are together we stay at my apartment, but perhaps once every few weeks I will stay at his condo. His place is nicer than mine but it is a bit more troublesome for me to stay at his place rather than the other way around. It's a "woman thing".

Over the last three or four weeks Terry and I have not been "intimate" every single night we have been together. There has been two or three scattered evenings when our bedroom activity has been nothing but sleep. I bring this up because I actually mentioned this to Terry yesterday evening while we were watching TV (the Celtics losing, specifically) and he said that he was aware of it but that it was not something that concerned him if it was not something that concerned me. I told him that it did not concern me one bit and that I saw it as a sign that our relationship had more than one source of appeal. Terry had much the same viewpoint and he expressed it very sweetly. Ironically, he was so sweet and the sentiments were so reassuring that a short time later I requested that we forgo the end of the Celtic game to pursue other "activities". Every now and then something comes over me and this goofball becomes the aggressor.

High Noon at 8 PM

Last night I visited my parents. I figured I'd update them on my ever-advancing relationship with Terry, but I really had no actual reason for the visit. My mother has taken up playing bridge and when I arrived, she was just leaving to go play somewhere. In fact, I had to go right back out the door to move my car out from behind her car in the driveway.

My dad was on the sofa sitting in front of the TV. He asked me if I wanted a beer and I told him I could go for a glass of red wine. That was not the first time my father has asked me if I wanted a beer, but I still can't get used to it. I'm his little girl, after all. Anyway he told me that they did not have any wine, but I knew that they did. I brought over a bottle a month or so ago, just for my consumption.

I poured a glass and then sat in a chair next to my father on the sofa. That afternoon he had bought a DVD of the old movie High Noon. He had intended to watch it by himself since he knew my mother would be gone. But my dad knows that I am not my mother. I don't need a chick flick or a movie with super heroes. I will watch mysteries, historical dramas, and old westerns. If the movie is good, I will usually stay interested and ultimately get something out of it.

Before the movie even started my father casually informed me that he had seen High Noon when he was a little kid. He said that he had seen it on TV sometime around 1960 when he was 9 or 10. His mother, my grandmother, had told him that it was a good movie and he ought to sit there and watch it. "It'll be good for you," my dad recollected his mother saying.

I found it intriguing and in its own way comforting that my dad could not only remember that brief talk all these years later, but he was sort of telling me the same basic thing about the movie. It played into my sense of nostalgia, perhaps heightened by a red wine. You know a movie is going to be good when it speaks to you personally even before it appears on the screen.

  

Terry Takes Root

I'm always thinking, and analyzing, the guy in my life, or at least the perspective guy in my life; what I want of him, and why I have those wants.

The number one thing is for the man to be friendly and personable. I love a guy who is self-effacing. I like intelligence too or perhaps more accurately, a guy who thinks and is at least somewhat philosophical. There's nothing like a man whose thoughts go beyond the surface of some given subject. Of course the biggest thing is that we can just talk to each other and we will not only listen to the other person, but know what that person is talking about.

Okay, I must admit that I do not mind if the guy is good-looking and well-built. I can't deny that when it comes to men, I am more attracted to muscular arms when compared to lanky arms. I admit that somewhat self-consciously because it seems sort of shallow, but it is the simple truth. On the other hand, I don't too much worry about a guy's income or his employment.

Two days ago I received a voice message at work while away at lunch. It was from an old friend, Ruth Ann. I have known Ruth Ann for about ten years. We met while birding one spring afternoon. We get together once every month or so either for dinner, or if the weather is good, birding. Ruth Ann is an older woman of about 60. She is divorced and works part time. Last year her mother died and it was very hard on her.

Anyway, in her message, Ruth Ann apologize for calling me at work, but she just felt like talking to someone. She then said that her dog, Sprinkle, had died last week. Sprinkle was like her special little friend. Even her Christmas cards said, "Merry Christmas from Ruth Ann and Sprinkle." In her message when she mentioned Sprinkle, her voice would crack and she was barely able to keep it together. But at the end of her message she said that she had decided to get another dog, and the day before picked up a medium-size, mixed breed dog named Archie. Ruth Ann then asked me to call her back when I had time.

It was an emotional message that had me almost in tears. For a few seconds I did not do anything but sit there. Finally I called Terry. The fact I called Terry was telling in itself. I asked him if he had time to talk for a minute, and he said he did. I told him about Ruth Ann's message.

Terry told me that I should call Ruth Ann and ask to speak to Archie. I told Terry that apparently he did not realize that Archie was a dog. He kind of chuckled and said that he knew who Archie was. "Just call your friend, say 'hello', then ask to speak to Archie," Terry insisted. He said that it would help give the new dog his own little place in Ruth Ann's life, and that's what both the dog, and Ruth Ann need.

A few minutes later I called Ruth Ann. I said hello and then immediately asked to speak to Archie. I cannot tell you how well that simple idea worked. It seemed Archie was getting telephone calls and becoming part of the family. Before I said good bye I had this distinct feeling that next holiday season Archie's name will be on Christmas cards.

When I called Terry, he could have told me he was busy. I would have accepted that. Or, he could have just listened to me and sympathized. I would have been overjoyed with that. But he listened and then made a rather odd, but ultimately wonderful suggestion.

Terry is the guy.  

        

A Recollection In Honor of National Bird Day

I am about to leave work for the day but before I do I thought I would throw in a particularly boring blog entry.

I have recently been informed that it is National Bird Day. I am a birder, but I did not know anything about National Bird Day. There isn't much in the way of birds out there in the Boston area this time of year. On unfrozen lakes and ponds inland there are some mallards, Canada Geese, and even a few northern shovelers. The trees have some cardinals and black-capped chickadees, but really, nothing out of the ordinary. But that does not mean birding can't have some moments of excitement.

One evening after dark, about this time of year seven years ago, my then-boyfriend, Mike, and I drove into a little ravine to call in some screech owls. This is done by using a recording of a screech owl call to attract any area screech owls. I had done this before with only moderate success. I think I heard the return call of a screech owl in the distance. I did not expect anything surprising this time around either.

Well, if I remember correctly, we had played the recorded call on my Mike's smartphone for about ten seconds when all of the sudden a screech owl dove out of the darkness, right by our heads. It was so surprising that Mike dropped his phone into the grass and until he was able to grab it and shut it off, the screech owl just kept attacking.

Screech owls are highly territorial, but until that moment I had no idea that they would fight to the death. Also, I have always heard that owl wings, particularly their feathers, are constructed in a way that makes them almost silent in flight. Well, I can assure you that when a screech owl buzzes six inches from your head, you can hear their wings.

Maybe tonight I can talk Terry into going out into some little woodlot on a screech owl search. He thinks birding is some boring activity for nerds and old ladies. Maybe I can show him that an agitated screech owl can give the hobby a few moments of excitement.