Even though I’m often preoccupied with thoughts of WTF, I do sometimes think other things. Brilliant, profound things, of tremendous value to mankind. Or not. Here are a few recent ponderings . . .
- I ate an embarrassing number of Oreos. If you people (Jif, LG) would buy normal size Oreos, I would not do that. But if you insist on buying “mini” Oreos, I can’t be responsible for how many I eat. Haven’t you ever heard the expression, “take two [hundred], they’re small”?
- You know how the little muscles in your thumb sometimes twitch, and if you pay close attention, you can actually see your thumb moving, involuntarily? And it’s actually kind of cool? Yea, well, when that happens in your triceps, your quadriceps, your transverse obliques, your soleus and your latissimus dorsi and uh, oh yea, your eye . . . cool, not so much.
- Cleaning out some papers from the desk drawer. This was written about two years ago, when LG was playing school with Biscuit:
Dear Mrs. Fairchild,
Biscuit got an F in chours [chorus]. He will not pay attention or sing. I am concerned there is a problem at home.
- I think my favorite tagline on a blog is Twixie’s “your mind may be somewhere else but your ass ain’t.” Spoken like a good teacher.
- LG, in her never-ending effort to be more grownup than I want her to, has taken to calling me “Mother.” I was “Mama” for several years, and that was my preference. Thanks to the influence of peers, in about second grade, I began to get “Mommy,” with “Mama” reserved for when she is scared, sick or sleepy. But “Mother?” Maybe I’ve spent too much time in blogworld, but that sounds about half like a dirty word to me. Or like half a dirty word.
- I just wrote a short, but angry, venting email to someone, about another someone, and before I could send it, it disappeared! The screen was still there, the address and the subject were there, but the words just evaporated from the screen. I’m thinking that was a sign I should shut up. At least for now. So I will. You ever have things like that happen, you seem to get a sign that you ought not to do what you really want to do? I get that a lot, in various forms. I guess that means it’s rather often that I want to do what I really ought not to do
- I like Queen Latifah. But sometimes I worry that I won’t handle it well if I ever meet her. What should I call her? Queen? Your Highness? Ms. Latifah (that can’t be, if she wanted to be “Ms.,” she would have named herself that)? Dana? That seems a little presumptuous . . . oh well, I probably have a little time to figure this one out . . .
- LG asked me the other day what WTF stands for. We’ve never really said. I mean, of course assumptions have been made. I told her, “Where’s the frog?” because WTF makes me very hoarse, like I have a frog in my throat. But that was kinda lame. What else might it stand for?
- “Defensive” is the only “name” you can call someone that, even if it’s not true up to that time, the very act of their telling you that you’re wrong . . . sorta makes you right. Kinda.
- I think blogging makes me spill. Not like Lynn. I mean really spill things. Like red wine (yes, I, too, love Jesus but drink…) on my Follett software company (you know who you are mousepad; chicken noodle soup on my new keyboard. It could be WTF . . . but I don’t think so. I think it’s blogging.
- I haven’t documented this in any professional journal (yet), but years ago, in collaboration with a client, I came up with a very reliable test for depression in women. The SLT. The “shaved leg test” for depression. I asked this client how her mood was, on a scale of 1 to 10 (standard depression question), and instead of answering, she put her leg up on the chair, pulled up her pant leg and said, “See!? I shaved my legs!” And I knew exactly what she meant. She was doing better. For women who do shave (wax, whatever) their legs, the level of leg hair can be a very accurate barometer of mood. I need to do more research before I publish.
So, what have you been thinking?