"Den Mother"

     The semester is winding down, and thankfully, I only have one class remaining.   The group project is progressing slowly.  At times I feel like the den mother of a cub scout troop.  We haven't been communicating outside of class as much as I believe necessary to complete the project.  I stressed to the guys the need for increased communication, and subsequently asked them if they "text"...   I felt ridiculous as soon as the words had escaped my mouth, and quickly switched gears. " I know that was a ridiculous question. You fellows are probably wondering if I text..."  I have to admit, they were gracious...

     Seniors Get the Inside Story on Marriage.  Huh?  This was a headline in the Clark Monthly, which momentarily confused me (a senior moment?).  In actuality, it confused me until I read the first few sentences of the article, which was referring to a class for H.S. Seniors at the local school.  I was wondering why a certain age group would have needed that class...Many of us could have taught it!  I know I could have.  I found marriage to be very educational.

     Buddy managed to knock his rawhide bone under the love seat.  He crouched down, his head and front paws under the love seat, his butt sticking up in the air, and in an exercise in futility, attempted to reach it. When I realized he couldn't, I joined him on the floor, my arms flailing about, also in an exercise in futility (sort of-all of the dust bunnies are gone).  In exasperation, I got up to fetch the broom, and there was the bone in full view to the right of the love seat.  Well, duh!

    

   

"Late Bloomer"

     I mentioned to a coworker recently that I had to leave work early because I had to attend school. "Are you going for your Master's?", she queried. (Nobody expects a fifty-something to be a college freshman.) "Wrong! Guess again."   "Bachelor's?"  "Nope!"  (Three strikes you're out!)  I couldn't stand it anymore so I blurted it out. "I'm working towards my Associate's Degree." (She was momentarily dumbfounded.)  I sheepishly added  "I am (and always have been) a late bloomer."

     Speaking of school, my professor is constantly remarking about how "old" he is.  What's frightening is that, to me, he appears young.  I recently discovered that he is ten years younger than I.  If he considers himself old, what must he think I am?  I am disinclined to inquire...

     I haven't been applying myself as stringently this semester as I have over the last two years.  I recently mentioned to a friend that I didn't feel like going to class, and that I hadn't done my homework. "Ah", she opined, "you finally have something in common with your (young) classmates!" 

     We have a group project to complete, which is the first I have ever participated in since returning to college.  I was hoping Professor would pair me with some of the more mature students, but such was not the case.  I am in a group with three 20-something guys.  (I don't mean 20-someting as in 28 or 29. I'm talking 20 or 21.)  In fact, I can't take my eyes off of the one fellow (not for the reason you're thinking...) because he looks just like my youngest son!  I can't begin to imagine what these young fellows (I just can't call them men) were thinking when they realized they would be working with their "grandmother". 

     While discussing the project, we have been deciding who will handle each task.  I volunteered to do the writing (naturally) while others are handling art work, graphs, and presentation.  My son's lookalike is a terrific artist, and was explaining how he had put a picture together in "pixels".  "Do you know what a pixel is?", he inquired of me.  With all eyes on me, I responded that no, I don't know what a pixel is, but that I do know how to spell and write in sentences...  I think we are a great match...

"Perplexed"

       I have always been more inclined to shop for "the house" than for myself.  For example-for years I have stored my make up in a Hefty one-zip bag  (the epitome of  haute couture, don't you agree?).  I recently went "garage sale hopping" with a friend, and I could barely carry all of the great bargains I had found to decorate my apartment: curtains, table cloths, pictures, cookie jars (did I mention that I don't bake anymore?)  On our last stop, I found an adorable make up bag, which was brand new.  I stood there pondering purchasing it for what seemed an eternity, when my friend, in total exasperation, told me to just buy it, as it was only 50 cents!  So the make up bag came home with me, and I now use the one zip bags to store what they are intended for-food.
   Later that week, I went to the local mall on a shopping spree.  I needed to purchase some "unmentionables", but the price of some of these "unmentionables" (okay, I'll say it-bras)  was ridiculous.  I was appalled to see bras like I have previously purchased for $14.99 now selling for $38.00 apiece.  (Unless someone else bought them, they are still sitting on the rack.)  I subsequently went in search of some bargains, and bought three for the price of one.  Once I finished in the lingerie department, I went to the bed and bath department.  I bought two bath mat sets,  four hand towels, and I spent a whopping $154.00!  (I know what's important!  Not!  I'm "prioritizationally" perplexed.)  While checking out, the cashier asked me did I have two bathrooms. I indicated that I have one bathroom, but that I am depressed. (Lots of people shop when they are depressed.)  I was even more depressed when my credit card statement arrived.  Okay, so I'm broke, and my back hurts from wearing cheap bras, but my bathroom looks great!

"Old Fashioned Email"

     Okay, so it's been over a month since I have written a blog post.  In case you're wondering why, and I know some of you are, it is because I am developing an intolerance for technology that is so intense, I do not possess the vocabulary to adequately describe it. My home computer is rarely even on anymore, which causes some difficulty when I want to write a post or do homework.

     Technology is moving so fast that I am struggling to keep up.  For example, the format on my Email accounts  has changed. All I want is the old fashioned Email (isn't that an oxymoron?), one where I click compose and a box opens up.  I type my letter and hit send.  Done. I click on the response, a box opens up.  I read it. Options are included.  Reply.  Send.  Delete. Done. But no, my inbox lists all correspondence on one line.  Sometimes I don't even know how to access a particular Email.  I know it's there, but I'll be damned if I can get to it. It appears  the Emails all run in a row, and I literally don't know how to reply.  I guess they are supposed to resemble  a conversation.  Well, Emails are not conversations, per se.  They are letters.  When I have a conversation with someone, their words travel directly to my auditory sensors, and vice verse.  The words don't traverse the globe before reaching me.  I am not at a loss for how to respond.  I simply speak. In sentences. My partner answers me. In sentences. Simple.  Straightforward.  Understood, and with far less aggravation or frustration (unless of course, I'm talking to the ex).  And consider this-if I whisper to my partner, the conversation is confidential.  I won't see subsequent ads in my Email about the topic of discussion.

     Another issue I have is all these annoying symbols and highlights that occur when my cursor passes over an Email in my in box.  I hate pop ups.  They are distracting, and they make it difficult to see what I am looking for.  These pop ups are everywhere!  What the fudge!  If I want to see something or buy something, I will look for it!  Getting in my face will only irritate me, and I will avoid whatever it is you are trying to sell me, at all costs.

     When I look at the movie schedules, do you know that I can't view the calendar to adjust the date because the bulk of it is obscured by an ad?  Are you kidding me?

     Lastly, and this is the best-I couldn't find the link to my blog today.  It took quite awhile for me to figure out where it is.  Now that I am in, I don't want to sign out.  I may never find my way back...