Today, they took the back wall down and the closet door in the master bedroom now opens onto the addition. We've decided it's kind of the Razorback version of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.. Or, it could be a wormhole to Deep Space 9. I just hope nothing crittery tries to use it as an entrance.
I've not mentioned it here, but my granddog, Zeus, is -- for some unknown reason -- terrified of houseflies. Terrified! He has been known to refuse to come in from the backyard when one got in the house. You can imagine his state today, with the back of the house being al fresco and all.
Zeus is sedated. And I intend to hit the liquor store post haste. Amid the din of buzz saws and nail guns, I hear Happy Hour calling.
Pray that there's a roof (and a door that locks and windows) by nightfall, please! I'll post pics when I get back to New Orleans.
(I saw that my mayor made a fool of himself in Washington yesterday when he jumped on the "Pass the [nonexistent] jobs bill! bandwagon. Sigh.)
Showing posts with label Making things work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Making things work. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Several Days After COLLEGE GAMEDAY, and Construction Briefing
So, I'm living "Adventures in Construction Management." With the amount of red tape spooling out from the city, the neighborhood, and utilities, plus the vagaries of the weather, it's a literal miracle that anything ever gets built around here.
Trust me on this one.
On Friday, I texted Pepper and asked if we have gas at Moogie's Mansion and he replied, "Yes, there's gas here, and most of it is even in the pipes!"
I think it's getting close to time when I need to go home and get some healthy food into that man.
And, in case someone missed it, both the Hogs and the Saints won this weekend! The Saints probably won more handily (and prettier) than the Hogs, but a W is a W. Plus, I'm hoping that their less-than-stellar performance against Troy State will put a little fear of God (or, at least, fear of Nick Saban) into them.
Trust me on this one.
On Friday, I texted Pepper and asked if we have gas at Moogie's Mansion and he replied, "Yes, there's gas here, and most of it is even in the pipes!"
I think it's getting close to time when I need to go home and get some healthy food into that man.
And, in case someone missed it, both the Hogs and the Saints won this weekend! The Saints probably won more handily (and prettier) than the Hogs, but a W is a W. Plus, I'm hoping that their less-than-stellar performance against Troy State will put a little fear of God (or, at least, fear of Nick Saban) into them.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Curious Minds Want to Know
So. Which is better? A link to an old post or re-posting the actual stuff?
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Musings: Legal Education in a Different Vein
I was watching "Horrible Bosses" on the Jaywalking segment of The Tonight Show last night and it brought a rather unpleasant memory out of hiding. Not as bad as some of those, but unpleasant nonetheless.
There weren't a whole heckuva lot of lady lawyers in Arkansas when I graduated from law school. I was only the second to be hired in my firm (even though most of the new-hire associates and clerks in the next few following years were ladies. Or women, at least.) In those days, the late 70s/early 80s, there was still a "Men's Grill" at the Little Rock Club where a whole lotta gender-segregated business went down during the lunch and cocktail hours -- the Men's Grill was open only to folks with external plumbing.
I had done a lot of grunt work on one case -- research, writing pleadings and motions, tracking things down. I remember, two senior partners (one of which was my cherished mentor -- a friend of my father; the other was Daddy's fraternity brother) and I had been in the large conference room for hours with opposing counsel, working on settlement negotiations, when it got to be about lunchtime.
At a break, just as we were getting really close to a settlement, Fraternity Brother stood up, stretched, and announced, "Let's take this over to the Club." Everyone stood up but me, gathered what they needed, and headed for the door; Mentor was the last in line. I'm certain that my face flashed twelve different shades of red.
As they filed out of the room, I stood, and as I straightened my files and picked up my coffee cup, Mentor turned to see me preparing to head to my office upstairs. He said, "Oh. Moogie. We can go to the regular dining room instead of the Grill." I thought it over for a minute and told him, "No, that won't be necessary; just let me continue to bill over lunch while I get these notes cleaned up."
I'll never forget the expression on his face. He finally got it.
I didn't then, nor do now, object to gender-specific, or race-specific, clubs in general; but I did, and do, object to using them to conduct business to the detriment of a player via exclusion.
That particular scenario didn't play out again, either with me or with any of the other women -- probably because, of course, the "good ol' girls' network" was quickly made privy to that incident. Along with the named and managing partners, I'd bet. Accordingly, I like to think I had something to do with the education of the partners of my old firm.
I also like to think I had something to do with the rather generous maternity policy for lady lawyers at the firm. Since I was the prototype (the first pregnant associate), the senior partners asked me what I needed, so I told them: since I would do a little work at home (which I did, including testifying for one of the partners 1 1/2 weeks after Younger Daughter was born), I expected to be paid, and that I needed at least the standard (at that time) six weeks off, clearance from my OB to return to work, time for doctor appointments, continuation in benefits, and deeming the pregnancy in the same light as they would any other disability. They had no counter. See The Pregnancy Act of 1978.
They also had no ammunition to argue against continuing the paid leave when I needed an extra four weeks with Elder Daughter due to some recovery issues. Or two weeks of bed rest before Younger Daughter was born due to a serious lung infection, complete with at least one visit to the ER before I was scheduled to give a dinner party. But, that's another story.
So, I guess "horrible bosses" don't have to be horrible if they're schooled appropriately, even if one of the senior partners insisted on putting his arm around me when I was great with child and explaining to me how Cherokee women just stepped off the trail, gave birth, and kept right on moving along the Trail of Tears. He was not exactly a sensitive 70s kind of guy. (not like Buck!) Arm-arounder's wife left him and he wound up leaving the firm, living on a boat on the Arkansas River. Literally. (But considerably nicer than a van down by the river!)
I guess they don't have to be totally horrible bosses. It just takes a good teacher. With thick skin. ;-)
There weren't a whole heckuva lot of lady lawyers in Arkansas when I graduated from law school. I was only the second to be hired in my firm (even though most of the new-hire associates and clerks in the next few following years were ladies. Or women, at least.) In those days, the late 70s/early 80s, there was still a "Men's Grill" at the Little Rock Club where a whole lotta gender-segregated business went down during the lunch and cocktail hours -- the Men's Grill was open only to folks with external plumbing.
I had done a lot of grunt work on one case -- research, writing pleadings and motions, tracking things down. I remember, two senior partners (one of which was my cherished mentor -- a friend of my father; the other was Daddy's fraternity brother) and I had been in the large conference room for hours with opposing counsel, working on settlement negotiations, when it got to be about lunchtime.
At a break, just as we were getting really close to a settlement, Fraternity Brother stood up, stretched, and announced, "Let's take this over to the Club." Everyone stood up but me, gathered what they needed, and headed for the door; Mentor was the last in line. I'm certain that my face flashed twelve different shades of red.
As they filed out of the room, I stood, and as I straightened my files and picked up my coffee cup, Mentor turned to see me preparing to head to my office upstairs. He said, "Oh. Moogie. We can go to the regular dining room instead of the Grill." I thought it over for a minute and told him, "No, that won't be necessary; just let me continue to bill over lunch while I get these notes cleaned up."
I'll never forget the expression on his face. He finally got it.
I didn't then, nor do now, object to gender-specific, or race-specific, clubs in general; but I did, and do, object to using them to conduct business to the detriment of a player via exclusion.
That particular scenario didn't play out again, either with me or with any of the other women -- probably because, of course, the "good ol' girls' network" was quickly made privy to that incident. Along with the named and managing partners, I'd bet. Accordingly, I like to think I had something to do with the education of the partners of my old firm.
I also like to think I had something to do with the rather generous maternity policy for lady lawyers at the firm. Since I was the prototype (the first pregnant associate), the senior partners asked me what I needed, so I told them: since I would do a little work at home (which I did, including testifying for one of the partners 1 1/2 weeks after Younger Daughter was born), I expected to be paid, and that I needed at least the standard (at that time) six weeks off, clearance from my OB to return to work, time for doctor appointments, continuation in benefits, and deeming the pregnancy in the same light as they would any other disability. They had no counter. See The Pregnancy Act of 1978.
They also had no ammunition to argue against continuing the paid leave when I needed an extra four weeks with Elder Daughter due to some recovery issues. Or two weeks of bed rest before Younger Daughter was born due to a serious lung infection, complete with at least one visit to the ER before I was scheduled to give a dinner party. But, that's another story.
So, I guess "horrible bosses" don't have to be horrible if they're schooled appropriately, even if one of the senior partners insisted on putting his arm around me when I was great with child and explaining to me how Cherokee women just stepped off the trail, gave birth, and kept right on moving along the Trail of Tears. He was not exactly a sensitive 70s kind of guy. (not like Buck!) Arm-arounder's wife left him and he wound up leaving the firm, living on a boat on the Arkansas River. Literally. (But considerably nicer than a van down by the river!)
I guess they don't have to be totally horrible bosses. It just takes a good teacher. With thick skin. ;-)
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
April Showers Went a Little Overboard This Year
There's been a little excitement around here the last few days. We get a little over-anxious in New Orleans when the "F" word is being bandied about. No, not that "F" word, the "Flood" word.
The Bonne-Carre spillway is slowly being opened to divert Mississippi River water into Lake Pontchartrain (which causes its own problems with fish and other marine critters, both salt and freshwater varieties, but I digress), but we've already hit flood stage here. So, by Tuesday, the Morganza spillway northwest of Baton Rouge will be opened, thus dooming lots of land in the Atchafalaya Basin to flood, but the most densely populated areas of southeast Louisiana should be spared. If the Morganza stays closed, this is what the Corps projects:
Moogie's Mansion, at 10 blocks from the Mississippi River, would be in the yellow 15 to 20 foot flood depth level. Not a pleasant thought because the Mansion's dirt is 8 feet above sea level, and the actual structure sits another 3 feet above that. Even math-challenged Moogie can cypher that (8 + 3) < (15 to 20).
But, even though we got a pretty good preview of what's coming as we drove home by a different route last weekend that tracked the Mississippi and spat us out in Vicksburg near the Yazoo's confluence, I don't have that "impending doom" feeling like I did before Katrina, and the ghosts aren't acting up, so I believe we should be just fine here. My heart breaks for those who aren't so fortunate.
From an historical and intellectual perspective, this website contains more than you would ever want to know about controlling the Mississippi and flood protection. It is kinda interesting, though.
Let's say a few prayers for those in the waters' path.
The Bonne-Carre spillway is slowly being opened to divert Mississippi River water into Lake Pontchartrain (which causes its own problems with fish and other marine critters, both salt and freshwater varieties, but I digress), but we've already hit flood stage here. So, by Tuesday, the Morganza spillway northwest of Baton Rouge will be opened, thus dooming lots of land in the Atchafalaya Basin to flood, but the most densely populated areas of southeast Louisiana should be spared. If the Morganza stays closed, this is what the Corps projects:
But, even though we got a pretty good preview of what's coming as we drove home by a different route last weekend that tracked the Mississippi and spat us out in Vicksburg near the Yazoo's confluence, I don't have that "impending doom" feeling like I did before Katrina, and the ghosts aren't acting up, so I believe we should be just fine here. My heart breaks for those who aren't so fortunate.
From an historical and intellectual perspective, this website contains more than you would ever want to know about controlling the Mississippi and flood protection. It is kinda interesting, though.
Let's say a few prayers for those in the waters' path.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Moogie's Interesting Day
After last night's rather forceful hail storm, today has been one of "interesting times," as in the old Chinese proverb and curse.
Let's recap, shall we?
I stepped in dog poop on the way to a doctor's appointment. With both shoes.
Younger Daughter picked up the "Plan B" bridesmaids' dresses today (chosen after it came to pass that "Plan A" didn't come in navy blue after all) and says they're hideous and noisy. Plus, the shoes agreed upon after quite a lengthy debate and much discussion have been discontinued.
Pepper is sick with a chest cold on the day before I leave town for bridal frivolity.
The grocery was out of rotisserie chicken, with which I was going to pamper myself after an "interesting" day. I deserve pampering, so we're going with by-golly fried chicken! (Suffer with the image of fried chicken, Michelle Obama. Suffer.)
And, it seems that, at five feet in height, and not-obese-poundage in weight, and at 56 genteel years of age, Moogie can still change a flat tire. In drizzling rain. With freshly washed and styled hair. In under an hour.
I despise so very much the interminable wait for automotive assistance in the Crescent City that, after checking twice that the tire was in fact too flat to make it to Firestone (because I was in denial after the first time), I decided to walk the two blocks home to change clothes, and to change the sucker myself.
First I re-scheduled the doctor's appointment. Those people charge you anyway if you decide just not to show up!
Then, I pulled out the owner's manual to brush up on where all the tire-changing equipment is located (and to figure out how to use that fancy twist-instead-of-pump-to-operate jack -- this alone should give you an idea of how long it's been since Moogie changed a flat) (and where, exactly, to place the fancy jack) (and how to lower the spare from its snug perch beneath the MoogieMobile). Those fine folks at Toyota wrote a driver's manual that is actually helpful!
I miscalculated how very heavy a full-size spare for an SUV crossover is, but somehow, and with much perspiring and colorful language and laughing aloud all by myself at the absurdity of the whole situation, I managed to wrestle the flat tire off, and the spare onto, that wretched rear passenger-side wheel.
Of course, all along I was hoping against hope that some kind gentleman would happen upon me and come to my rescue. My Mama didn't raise no foolish children, after all. And, about 35 minutes into the process, just as I had gotten that "interesting" jack to lift the car to an adequate height, and was preparing to pull the contemptible flat off, from the corner of my eye I spied a white pick-up truck slowing, and coming to a stop across the street! I heard the door shut, and sensed the motion of someone heading in my direction!
Not wanting to appear too eager, I didn't immediately turn on the damsel-in-distress charm for my Good Samaritan. And, it's a good thing I didn't bother wasting any of that charm because the man who headed in my direction was not a Good Samaritan -- he was the Samaritan's evil twin. Or Satan incarnate.
First, he asked me in passing, "How ya doin'?" As I replied, "I've been better," he continued to stroll right into the nicely manicured yard beside which the hobbled MoogieMobile was parked. Then he sashayed past me again to open the gate. All in all, that scrawny landscape guy passed me, as I strained and sweated, FIVE times. Then he crossed the street, got in his truck, and took off, without so much as a fare thee well.
After more colorful language, and considerably more perspiring (I was well beyond "glowing" by this time), I succeeded in getting the spare situated, and stood on the lug wrench to tighten each nut. And, just as I was preparing to crank the despicable flat up into position to take it to be repaired, good neighbor Wayne pulled up. He asked if I needed any help, and when I said no thanks -- I was just putting stuff away now -- he remarked that he had apparently gotten there at just the right time.
Ha. Ha.
When I told him about the landscape guy, he asked if the guy was blonde. I told him, no, he was more grayish and really slim. He said, "Yeah that'd be Joel. Doesn't surprise me that he'd take off without helping." So, apparently Joel's reputation precedes him, and follows him.
I rinsed my hands with water from a thermos and toweled off with stowed-away Wendy's napkins, (I apparently failed to see the filth on my calves, acquired while trying to coax the spare onto the frickin' wheel. At least I didn't notice it until I was sitting and soaking in the pedicure chair -- which, by the way, I absolutely deserved today! The nice pedicure lady made an "interesting" face when I apologized for having filth on my calves because I had just changed a flat tire. She should count her blessings that at least I took a quick spit bath of the important parts and changed clothes before going there.) and headed for Firestone. The nice clerk checked and aired up all my tires, apologizing because my tire can't be ready until tomorrow. When I'm leaving town. In my car. And then they were out of soap in the ladies room.
*Sigh*
So, I'm going to indulge in a cocktail this evening before our fried chicken dinner. And it's good to know that I can still change a tire when the necessity presents itself. I suppose.
I'm gonna be sooooo sore tomorrow.
Let's recap, shall we?
I stepped in dog poop on the way to a doctor's appointment. With both shoes.
Younger Daughter picked up the "Plan B" bridesmaids' dresses today (chosen after it came to pass that "Plan A" didn't come in navy blue after all) and says they're hideous and noisy. Plus, the shoes agreed upon after quite a lengthy debate and much discussion have been discontinued.
Pepper is sick with a chest cold on the day before I leave town for bridal frivolity.
The grocery was out of rotisserie chicken, with which I was going to pamper myself after an "interesting" day. I deserve pampering, so we're going with by-golly fried chicken! (Suffer with the image of fried chicken, Michelle Obama. Suffer.)
And, it seems that, at five feet in height, and not-obese-poundage in weight, and at 56 genteel years of age, Moogie can still change a flat tire. In drizzling rain. With freshly washed and styled hair. In under an hour.
I despise so very much the interminable wait for automotive assistance in the Crescent City that, after checking twice that the tire was in fact too flat to make it to Firestone (because I was in denial after the first time), I decided to walk the two blocks home to change clothes, and to change the sucker myself.
First I re-scheduled the doctor's appointment. Those people charge you anyway if you decide just not to show up!
Then, I pulled out the owner's manual to brush up on where all the tire-changing equipment is located (and to figure out how to use that fancy twist-instead-of-pump-to-operate jack -- this alone should give you an idea of how long it's been since Moogie changed a flat) (and where, exactly, to place the fancy jack) (and how to lower the spare from its snug perch beneath the MoogieMobile). Those fine folks at Toyota wrote a driver's manual that is actually helpful!
I miscalculated how very heavy a full-size spare for an SUV crossover is, but somehow, and with much perspiring and colorful language and laughing aloud all by myself at the absurdity of the whole situation, I managed to wrestle the flat tire off, and the spare onto, that wretched rear passenger-side wheel.
Of course, all along I was hoping against hope that some kind gentleman would happen upon me and come to my rescue. My Mama didn't raise no foolish children, after all. And, about 35 minutes into the process, just as I had gotten that "interesting" jack to lift the car to an adequate height, and was preparing to pull the contemptible flat off, from the corner of my eye I spied a white pick-up truck slowing, and coming to a stop across the street! I heard the door shut, and sensed the motion of someone heading in my direction!
Not wanting to appear too eager, I didn't immediately turn on the damsel-in-distress charm for my Good Samaritan. And, it's a good thing I didn't bother wasting any of that charm because the man who headed in my direction was not a Good Samaritan -- he was the Samaritan's evil twin. Or Satan incarnate.
First, he asked me in passing, "How ya doin'?" As I replied, "I've been better," he continued to stroll right into the nicely manicured yard beside which the hobbled MoogieMobile was parked. Then he sashayed past me again to open the gate. All in all, that scrawny landscape guy passed me, as I strained and sweated, FIVE times. Then he crossed the street, got in his truck, and took off, without so much as a fare thee well.
After more colorful language, and considerably more perspiring (I was well beyond "glowing" by this time), I succeeded in getting the spare situated, and stood on the lug wrench to tighten each nut. And, just as I was preparing to crank the despicable flat up into position to take it to be repaired, good neighbor Wayne pulled up. He asked if I needed any help, and when I said no thanks -- I was just putting stuff away now -- he remarked that he had apparently gotten there at just the right time.
Ha. Ha.
When I told him about the landscape guy, he asked if the guy was blonde. I told him, no, he was more grayish and really slim. He said, "Yeah that'd be Joel. Doesn't surprise me that he'd take off without helping." So, apparently Joel's reputation precedes him, and follows him.
I rinsed my hands with water from a thermos and toweled off with stowed-away Wendy's napkins, (I apparently failed to see the filth on my calves, acquired while trying to coax the spare onto the frickin' wheel. At least I didn't notice it until I was sitting and soaking in the pedicure chair -- which, by the way, I absolutely deserved today! The nice pedicure lady made an "interesting" face when I apologized for having filth on my calves because I had just changed a flat tire. She should count her blessings that at least I took a quick spit bath of the important parts and changed clothes before going there.) and headed for Firestone. The nice clerk checked and aired up all my tires, apologizing because my tire can't be ready until tomorrow. When I'm leaving town. In my car. And then they were out of soap in the ladies room.
*Sigh*
So, I'm going to indulge in a cocktail this evening before our fried chicken dinner. And it's good to know that I can still change a tire when the necessity presents itself. I suppose.
I'm gonna be sooooo sore tomorrow.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Moogie Gets Reflective -- and More Smarter
Now that life seems to be returning to normal around Moogie's Mansion (whatever that may be!), I'd like to share a few ruminations that have been rattling around in my head.
First off, our precious granddaughter, Princess Lizzy, turned 3 on January 14th! Oddly enough, this odd blog also turned 2 on that very same day. So Happy Birth-iversary to us, Lizzy Lou!!!
I looked back at last year's Blogiversary post, and found it pretty tame and standard. It was, however, absolutely true in its simplicity.
Nonetheless, I've learned a lot about life, and the blogosphere, since last year.
Life is mainly about relationships. It's odd how the human psyche craves relationships. We may have the best friends and families on the face of the Earth that fulfill us to no end, yet we still yearn for more contact. We "adopt" pets, we cultivate plants, we name our automobiles. Even the Cast Away dude made a friend of Wilson, the basketball, and grieved its loss at sea.
Today, we spend hours in cyberspace, both in Social Media and the blogosphere, trading yarns, opinions, and barbs with people we've never laid eyes upon in person, yet feel as comfortable around as the chums we made in elementary school. That's the spot where I find myself today.
That's also where I didn't find myself in late December - early January when my routine was discombobulated by the holidays, merriment, serious footballage, and the onset of Carnival. And I have since learned that the discombobulance made a difference to, and had an effect on, me on several levels.
First off, I missed you guys! I missed having the opportunity to visit your spots a couple of times a day to catch up on what you were doing and to leave a snarky (or supportive) comment. I missed having the time to post the fruits of my brilliant discourse and analysis, prodding some of you to leave snarky (or supportive) comments here. I may not ever say it, but I truly do appreciate your comments. As many of you have already admitted, I now openly acknowledge that it really does mean a lot for people to take the time to think about what I've come up with and type a reaction or two. That's a connection that is very, very real, regardless of tactility.
And there. That word, tactility. I wouldn't have come up with that word last week. I wouldn't have come up with that word because of the Second Lesson I've learned about this blogging thing.
Bloggers are among the best informed folks around; they're the best researchers, the cleverest wits, unafraid to express their true opinions and duel with those whose opinions differ. Becoming that type of folk requires a great deal of intellectual work. And that was another thing I missed during the holiday hiatus -- the intellectual work. I physically worked my derriere into near exhaustion with important, yet mundane things, like hostessing and housework and feast-making, but I finally recognize that I need more than that to keep my brain on its toes. Use it or lose it is a very real concept. Probably more so as we age. It hit me square in the noggin last week when I had to ask Pepper while we were watching a movie what the name of that town is -- you know, the capital of Norway. Not the capital of Sweden; the capital of Norway.
Today, after just a few days of regular research and blogging, I'd never have to Google Oslo.
That's pretty much of a major relief in the Alzheimer's fear sphere.
So. To keep me properly befriended and on my mental toes, I vow not to let my research and blogging slip as much in the future. Watching non-stop movies in the company of family, and sharing drinks with corporeal friends are important, but the ol' brain needs its daily recommended dose of gritty stimulation, too.
(It probably didn't hurt the mental mush, either, that Congress was in recess and I could shove them into a drawer in my head and ignore them for a few weeks. Congress is definitely a stimulus, both to lucidity and to the blood pressure.)
Again, so. Here's to another year rattling around the blogosphere, and to my friends and families, both physical and virtual!!! Good health, good times, and bon mots!!!!!
First off, our precious granddaughter, Princess Lizzy, turned 3 on January 14th! Oddly enough, this odd blog also turned 2 on that very same day. So Happy Birth-iversary to us, Lizzy Lou!!!
Nonetheless, I've learned a lot about life, and the blogosphere, since last year.
Life is mainly about relationships. It's odd how the human psyche craves relationships. We may have the best friends and families on the face of the Earth that fulfill us to no end, yet we still yearn for more contact. We "adopt" pets, we cultivate plants, we name our automobiles. Even the Cast Away dude made a friend of Wilson, the basketball, and grieved its loss at sea.
Today, we spend hours in cyberspace, both in Social Media and the blogosphere, trading yarns, opinions, and barbs with people we've never laid eyes upon in person, yet feel as comfortable around as the chums we made in elementary school. That's the spot where I find myself today.
That's also where I didn't find myself in late December - early January when my routine was discombobulated by the holidays, merriment, serious footballage, and the onset of Carnival. And I have since learned that the discombobulance made a difference to, and had an effect on, me on several levels.
First off, I missed you guys! I missed having the opportunity to visit your spots a couple of times a day to catch up on what you were doing and to leave a snarky (or supportive) comment. I missed having the time to post the fruits of my brilliant discourse and analysis, prodding some of you to leave snarky (or supportive) comments here. I may not ever say it, but I truly do appreciate your comments. As many of you have already admitted, I now openly acknowledge that it really does mean a lot for people to take the time to think about what I've come up with and type a reaction or two. That's a connection that is very, very real, regardless of tactility.
And there. That word, tactility. I wouldn't have come up with that word last week. I wouldn't have come up with that word because of the Second Lesson I've learned about this blogging thing.
Bloggers are among the best informed folks around; they're the best researchers, the cleverest wits, unafraid to express their true opinions and duel with those whose opinions differ. Becoming that type of folk requires a great deal of intellectual work. And that was another thing I missed during the holiday hiatus -- the intellectual work. I physically worked my derriere into near exhaustion with important, yet mundane things, like hostessing and housework and feast-making, but I finally recognize that I need more than that to keep my brain on its toes. Use it or lose it is a very real concept. Probably more so as we age. It hit me square in the noggin last week when I had to ask Pepper while we were watching a movie what the name of that town is -- you know, the capital of Norway. Not the capital of Sweden; the capital of Norway.
Today, after just a few days of regular research and blogging, I'd never have to Google Oslo.
That's pretty much of a major relief in the Alzheimer's fear sphere.
So. To keep me properly befriended and on my mental toes, I vow not to let my research and blogging slip as much in the future. Watching non-stop movies in the company of family, and sharing drinks with corporeal friends are important, but the ol' brain needs its daily recommended dose of gritty stimulation, too.
(It probably didn't hurt the mental mush, either, that Congress was in recess and I could shove them into a drawer in my head and ignore them for a few weeks. Congress is definitely a stimulus, both to lucidity and to the blood pressure.)
Again, so. Here's to another year rattling around the blogosphere, and to my friends and families, both physical and virtual!!! Good health, good times, and bon mots!!!!!
Love, MoogieP.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
More Buses (and Football Players)
Been a little busy on a project today, but here's a little update on buses and Moogie's neighborhood.
While sitting on the front porch with the dogs, I managed to catch a bus making the turn onto the sidestreet by our bedroom. Imagine the vrooming and roaring up-close and personal. This afternoon, the driver actually made the turn without having to back up!
The next scenario concerns me a little (say hi to Rosie!). Sophie Wright now has a football team! I'm a huge fan of high school football!
But, as I mentioned in an earlier post, the schoolyard at Sophie Wright is asphalt, and usually has buses parked in it. It's adequate for the guys to stretch and do a little conditioning, but asphalt doesn't exactly lend itself to scrimmaging. So, the team double-times it a few blocks down the street to Lawrence Square, a little green space park large enough to run a few plays.
Then they walk back to school. And they disregard the sidewalks and often don't look for cars on the cross street that have the right-of-way. I've mentioned it to the coaching staff -- I just hope that nothing tragic happens.
Go Warriors!
While sitting on the front porch with the dogs, I managed to catch a bus making the turn onto the sidestreet by our bedroom. Imagine the vrooming and roaring up-close and personal. This afternoon, the driver actually made the turn without having to back up!
But, as I mentioned in an earlier post, the schoolyard at Sophie Wright is asphalt, and usually has buses parked in it. It's adequate for the guys to stretch and do a little conditioning, but asphalt doesn't exactly lend itself to scrimmaging. So, the team double-times it a few blocks down the street to Lawrence Square, a little green space park large enough to run a few plays.
Then they walk back to school. And they disregard the sidewalks and often don't look for cars on the cross street that have the right-of-way. I've mentioned it to the coaching staff -- I just hope that nothing tragic happens.
Go Warriors!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
