On Many Subjects

Digitaljon called it the Divine Cold because I got it from the Divine Miss M, who I am happy to report, is feeling much better.

But, I have been going to bed EARLY. I mean earlier than normal.

Normally, my brain starts shutting down around 9 PM and by 10 PM I can normally manage to read one or two pages in a book before falling asleep. Then, I wake up between 7 AM and 8 AM. I don't have a clock in my bedroom because I work from home and I don't HAVE to be anywhere at any particular time, so it is always a surprise when I am up and moving around and I look at the clock in the living room. Today, for example, I was up at 6:30 AM.

Don't get me wrong, I have pulled all-nighters before, chatting with friends until dawn's early light, or just staying up to watch the sunrise, but not in a long time. If I did that now, I am afraid it would take me several days to recover. I am getting older and it seems like I am going to bed earlier and earlier. I am afraid if this keeps up, eventually, I will go to sleep and wake up and then be ready to go back to bed an hour later.

There was a time when I could stay up all night to finish my school work, the bounce into a college class the next morning and the essay I finished at 3 AM was Pulitzer Prize worthy. Now, any essay I write at 3 AM would like have all the same rhetorical clarity as a Dali painting.

With this current ailment, I am ready to go to bed at 8 PM, which means I miss all the really good night-time TV. But, not to worry. I have a DVR and can record any show I happen to miss.

But, my bed is SOOOOOO comfortable. I have been up for an hour now... maybe it is time to go back and sleep some more.

I walked over to the little convenience store that is near my apartment yesterday to buy a box of salt... How does anyone run out of salt? Well, I did. And I made rice for lunch. Rice without salt tastes a little bit like nothing at all.

Anyway, there was an older gentleman ahead of me in the check out line and he was talking to a teenager who was ahead of him.

The old man said: Email. Google. World Wide Web. Keep all of it. I will get online as soon as I can get a haircut via the Internet.

The old man would be heartened to hear that someone out there is probably trying to figure out how to do that right this minute.

As a lot of you have noticed, I am in completely new surroundings with completely new people in my life... and I am not the only one with new people in their life. My adorable #1 Daughter has been seeking greener pastures, behind my back, I might add.

In a phone conversation with her:

#1: He is Rusty.
Me: Is that his name or his ability level?
#1: That is so wrong!
Me: You didn't say his NAME is Rusty. I say tell me about your new guy and you say he is Rusty.
#1: Mom!
Me: When someone says they are Rusty, that means out of practice, as in they haven't ridden a bicycle in quite a while.
#1: Riding a bicycle?
Me: Yes. (singing) I'm back in the saddle, again.
#1: MOM!
Me: What?
#1: He's not Rusty.
Me: But, you just said he is.
#1: His name is Rusty
Me: So then he is not Rusty.
#1: Yes, he is Rusty
Me: But, you just told me he isn't Rusty.
#1: His real name is Richard and everyone calls him Rusty.
Me: So everyone knows him well enough to know he is Rusty.
#1: Mom! His nic-name is Rusty and he is not rusty in his abilities.
Me: Ah ha! Now we are getting somewhere. So, he is pretty good then?
#1: I am not going to discuss my sex life with my Mom!
Me: OK, I am going to hang up now and call someone who will discuss their sex life with me.

In an IM conversation...

Friend: iTunes ambient radio makes me think I am a time traveler
Me: forward or backward?
F: The Doctor's Assistant
Me: Good one!

How did my children acheive their majority? I mean, compared to all the things you have to do to protect a baby now, how did mine ever manage to get past the tender age of six. It is totally flabergasting that my own little ones lived long enough to start school and start smarting off to teachers in the same week.

We had little red wagons with no safety straps. Geez, even the high chair didn't have safety straps. No one had car seats for the baby. No one had those little plastic things you plug into outlet to keep tiny fingers from popping the breakers and electrocuting themselves in one fell swoop.

The Divine Miss M is coming over to play with her Grammie today while her mommy is working and her daddy has errands to run and I find myself looking for things that may hurt her or things she may damage with her insatiable curosity.

First, I need to vacuum the carpets because she may find something tiny to put into her mouth, I need to put all breakables out of her reach and give Evelyn a stern warning to NOT injure the baby when the baby pulls her tail. I never had these problems with my own children. Have I become jaded in my old age? Am I more aware of the world? Or is it simply a case that the super powers I had when my children were little have faded with time? You know what super powers I am talking about: The ability to talk on the phone while making dinner and holding a baby on my hip, and chastising the two older ones to "put that down right now!" Super hearing that let me know when someone was getting into something they shouldn't. The super eyesight that allowed me to see through walls to detect when the little ones were touching something they shouldn't. And the ability to juxtapose colors, while spouting words of wisdom, like "If you don't smile, your face will freeze like that and you will be ugly forever."

I found something interesting that proves even the Internet is way behind in scientific knowledge. Articles about Saturn's moons can be found here, here and here. These article have similiar information, but it tends to be somewhat conflicting and even as recent as February 2007, the information was out of date.



How's a girl supposed to keep up?

Well, I think the answer lies with Wikipedia. They have included the newest moon that was discoved this week bringing the tally to 60 moons around Saturn.

When I was younger and fancied myself a Prima Ballerina, my dance class did a small production and I was in a dance titled The Planets. There were nine of us in this little dance and I danced Saturn. I wanted Venus, but the instructor said, "Saturn is the best planet. She has rings on her finders and nine moons in her hair." Well, that convinced me. She actually line us up according to height with Mercury being the shortest dancer and Pluto being the tallest.

So way back then, read sometime before the internet and intraplanetary travel, Saturn only had nine moons. Actually going there, albeit by a robotic space craft, has upped the tally to 60. And Saturn isn't the queen, by any means. Jupiter has 63.

Despite all the hype over the planet of love, namely Venus, I think I still count Saturn as my favorite planet... after all, she has seven rings on her fingers and 60 moons in her hair.

And I didn't mention moving once... until now. That is tomorrow. EEEEEKKKKK! I am so not ready!

I went out last evening to celebrate America's birthday by watching the fireworks display here in Saint Petersburg. I love the noise and excitement.

The mistake I made was standing too close to the action and I had to look nearly directly overhead for an unobstructed view and after 20 minutes of this, my neck started to hurt. But, it was still worth it to watch the explosions that, in my imagination, must be what a supernova looks like.

There was a couple with a little boy standing near me. While we waited for the festivities to begin, the little boy, who looked like he was three or four began counting, not the least bit embarrassed. He started with One and kept on going. He would get to a number that ended in 9 and extend the counting cadence...thirty-eight, thirty-niiiiinnnnnneeeeee, forty, forty-one...

I waited and listened for him to go as far as he could. "Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-niiiiinnnnneee.... ninety-niiiiinnnnnnneeeee... uh, zero zero."

I didn't laugh aloud, I will have you know, until the father looked at the mom and said, "Oh, that's just great! He has roll over issues."

Then, I laughed aloud.

As I went through my day, I composed little snippets that I could add to my blog. All day, all over the internet, working, thinking, writing, testing, research, I thought about what I would blog.

It is now 10 pm and I cannot think of anything I thought about earlier. Maybe tomorrow, I will write about something exciting, like what I had for lunch.

Yesterday, I made a trek to the Grocery Store. This is one of my favorite things to do. It is simple... I hop on the trolley which is only 3 blocks from my apartment, pay my 25 cents and off we go. I have become friends with the trolley drivers, so they make a special stop for me that is only 1 block from Publix, the local grovcery store. I don't push my good fortune, so I walk to the nearest trolley stop from the store, which is two blocks away at the Hilton, when I a ready to return home with my groceries.

I feel so European when I do this because I go to the grocery store (my grandmother called it a market) two or three times a week so I won't have to carry as much stuff. Not quite every day, I will agree, but still a commendable effort.

The only problem I have is this: It is freaking hot in Florida in the summer. The first trolley runs at 10am and by that time, it was already 85 degrees Fahrenheit, which is like 30 degrees Celsius. There was a sea breeze off the bay, but even the water in Tampa Bay is warm enough to take a bath in right now and that will only get worse as the year progresses. The breeze was warm and not refreshing, not to mention the humidity.

Most of the time, I sit in my apartment all day with the Air Conditioner on and my cat and I shoving each other out of the way to get the best (read, coolest) spot in the room. She has claws. She wins more than I do. So, venturing outside in 85/30 degree weather is brutal.

Going outside for me is very similar to a movie hero suiting-up for a major battle with a major bad guy... remember Sigorney Weaver in Aliens, when she is getting ready to rescue Newt from the Alien's captivity? Or Arnold when he is getting ready to take on an entire compound chock-a-block full of bad guys in a small South American country to rescue his daughter (Commando) or Sylvester Stallone right before he goes into the concentration camp to free all the prisoners. Well, you get my drift.

So, I put on weather-appropriate clothing: capris and a tank. I put on my walking shoes and matching socks (ankle high so as not to be tacky.) I go to the bathroom to slather on liberal amounts of 45 sun block. I get my bringing-the-groceries-home tote bag, making certain the wallet and debit cards are in there. I get my grocery list off the refrigerator door. I put on whichever of my several hats that match the hot-weather clothes because I am going out to make a fashion statement while hiking to the store. I grab my key to the front door, tell Evelyn that I am going hunting and will be back soon with FOOD, close and lock the door, then, I am off, the with the theme song to Rocky is playing in my head the entire time.

Then strolling down the drive, I know I am looking good. Sexy. Hot. Then, I see my reflection in a store window and wonder who that chubby chick in the gawdawful capris and tank top that shows off my chubby arms. OK. I don't worry about it too much because the trolley driver is a member of the Miss America Club.

What exactly is that? Well, several times in my life beginning when I was a youthful 21 years old, I have been called Miss America by men. Either these guys know each other and passed the word along, or it is something else. (My friend Digitaljon says he knows what it is, but he won't tell me exactly what it is, so I don't know.) First, was the Pullman Porter on the Amtrak, then, the Butcher down the street from my house in Orange Park, the Naval aviator, the guy who worked at NASA, the lawyer who refused to fund my new business idea, the tourist on the street, and now the Trolley Driver. Thirty years of men referring to me as Miss America. Okay. They all can't be wrong, so I will just go with it, whatever it is.

Well, I got my groceries, walked to the trolley stop and I am sure the temperature rose by at least five degrees while I was inside the store. I am sweating and wishing I was back home with Evelyn, wrestling for my place near the air conditioner. The trolley rounds the corner and the other people who are waiting for it cheers because they are melting, too. I sit in a seat near the front of the bus because it was just vacated by someone getting off the trolley.

Trolley Driver on the speaker to all the other riders: Ladies and Gentlemen, we have Miss America on the bus with us, today!
Me (waving and embarassed): Hello.
Lady Rider: Really? You were a Miss America?
Me: No. I wasn't.
Gentleman: You could have been a Miss America.
Lady: Yes. You could have.
Me: Thank you.
Driver: I think she is Miss America.
Me: Come on. You are embarassing me. Stop it.
Driver: No, ma'am. I told my wife you are Miss America.
Me: I'm too hot and sweaty to be Miss America.
Driver: What did you get at the store? Something to keep you cool?
Me: Like what? Ice Cream?
Driver: You didn't buy ice cream, did you?
Me: No. It would be totally melted by the time I get back to my apartment.
Gentleman: At least she's not a stupid Miss America.