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.