PART ONE

There are quite a few things that I simply don’t care about. I don’t care that my hair is shorter than most of men in American (and that is not even factoring in the rampant baldness ‘deflowering" those manly-hairy apes... I mean, men), it doesn’t matter to me a whole lot what I am wearing (although I did go to a party last night in a very classy black sweater and pants only to discover once I sat down that the pants were covered with cat hair), and although I know I look better with at least some mascara on, I have two tubes of mascara that have lasted me (literally) years (and I know the hype about supposedly replacing your mascara every six months because of possible bacteria growth - that’s a rumor put forth by the people who made makeup).

But my entire soul weeps when I read about Kenyans being burned to death in, of all the places in the world, a church. I have to slap my hand over my mouth when I see a parent berating a small child in public for being... well, a small child. A new make of car weaves in and out of 60 mph traffic, never resorting to turn signals, and screeches around the corner of an intersection as a pedestrian jumps back onto the sidewalk to avoid getting hit.

I care about my kids enormously; and my animals. But emotionally-challenged people who derive a great deal of not satisfaction but comfort from being mad/upset/sad and do not want to be rescued from those feelings - in the name of survival, I have trained myself over the years to not care about. They get angry regardless of what I do or do not, I am not responsible for their anger, I didn’t cause it, and I do not have to be a part of it.

It’s nice to be in control of my emotions.

PART ONE

There are quite a few things that I simply don’t care about. I don’t care that my hair is shorter than most of men in American (and that is not even factoring in the rampant baldness ‘deflowering" those manly-hairy apes... I mean, men), it doesn’t matter to me a whole lot what I am wearing (although I did go to a party last night in a very classy black sweater and pants only to discover once I sat down that the pants were covered with cat hair), and although I know I look better with at least some mascara on, I have two tubes of mascara that have lasted me (literally) years (and I know the hype about supposedly replacing your mascara every six months because of possible bacteria growth - that’s a rumor put forth by the people who made makeup).

But my entire soul weeps when I read about Kenyans being burned to death in, of all the places in the world, a church. I have to slap my hand over my mouth when I see a parent berating a small child in public for being... well, a small child. A new make of car weaves in and out of 60 mph traffic, never resorting to turn signals, and screeches around the corner of an intersection as a pedestrian jumps back onto the sidewalk to avoid getting hit.

I care about my kids enormously; and my animals. But emotionally-challenged people who derive a great deal of not satisfaction but comfort from being mad/upset/sad and do not want to be rescued from those feelings - in the name of survival, I have trained myself over the years to not care about. They get angry regardless of what I do or do not, I am not responsible for their anger, I didn’t cause it, and I do not have to be a part of it.

It’s nice to be in control of my emotions.

PART TWO

I am a huge fan of the television show "The Office" - enough that I know more trivia from the DVDs of each and every season (and bring that fact UP often enough) that I drive fellow "The Office" fans nuts. So forgive me for the following.

Once again, I can appreciate the character Pam’s comment; "Now I remember why I dress that way I do at work."

I wore a cute top today into town. It’s a little bit snugger that I normally wear (which really isn’t saying a lot since I wear adult male XL sweatshirts a whole lot of the time), and it was a little bit lower in front, so I was wearing a camisole (is that the correct term for them nowadays? You know, little snug undershirt with a supposed exercise-bar-type support underneath... which with my bra size is sort of a joke).

But it wasn’t anything that a 52 year-old woman would like silly wearing... at least in my point of view. I think I’m pretty modest, and I’m not exceptionally proud of my 40-extra-lb-packing body, and although I glanced at the mirror a second time before I left, I thought it just looked okay.

HOWEVER... is it just coincidence that today 1) a guy I knew pretty well when I worked at Target, who steadfastly since I left has never gone out of his way to say ‘hi’ or anything, sought ME out today to ask how I was doing, 2) two men just sort of started a conversation with me, and 3) a guy speaking Spanish into his cell phone just happened to need to be in three aisles that I needed to be... and I don’t really think he was looking for toothbrushes.

I see why some women enjoy this, but it made me more than a little uncomfortable. It reminds me too much of what happened when I had jaw-surgery. I had an over-bite that could have been corrected with braces when I was growing up... but wasn’t (I think I was lucky that I got to the dentist at all when I was young!) . So when the orthodontists in the military offered to do the surgery to correct it (read that IT WAS GONNA BE FREE), I jumped at it.

I didn’t think the operation did a whole lot for to change my looks - other than keeping my teeth from being worn down unevenly - but brother, did the opposite sex suddenly begin reacting to my presence! In Mormon lingo, I had always been one of those "sweet-spirit, burning-testimony" types that usually ended up going on a mission instead of getting married - guys were friends and buddies a long time before anything romantic would spark.

But suddenly (and man, was it startling) men just seemed to be the ones that began the conversation - stood much closer to me - seemed a lot more interested in what I was saying.

And I HATED it - nothing had changed except my physical appearance by a few centimeters, and amazingly I was more engaging?

Oh, well, it at least proved (proves) the truth of one of my bumper-statements on my truck: "A woman’s looks are important because men see better than they think"

LOSING AN ENTIRE DAY

Today was planned; not within minutes, but loosely, for hours, I knew where I was going to be, and what I was going to be doing. It was a comfortable feeling, and printed out nicely on my personalized Day-Timer pages. I felt competent, organized, and ready for action.

Then the day began.

First of all, I must let you know what I truly am. At my heart of hearts, my innermost soul, my spiritual identity - I am a sleeper. That is, a person who sleeps - and does that one action exceedingly well. In fact, probably better than almost anything else I do. I don’t necessarily dream well, I know I occasionally snore (just a little), and I have a reputation of talking in my sleep - even praying aloud in my sleep. But boy, can I sleep.

So almost any opportunity that presents itself, I will crawl under the covers and drift right off. And after getting up at the crack of dawn (literally), feeding the horses and feeling the cold sneak under my sweatshirt, into my shoes - hot oatmeal and a cup of hot chocolate (with three LARGE marshmallows) warms me up . . . and also makes me sleepy.

Guess what happened then? Right; I went back to bed.

So I had really just drifting off, in a nice, warm bed with a cat curled up against the back of my leg . . . someone drives up, and my two highly-sensitive burglar-alarms (the dogs) went off.

At least I had not changed into my pajamas.

It was my own favorite Jehovah Witnesses, who have been coming every week or so to chat, share stories, and listen to me talk about my testimony. A very cute older couple who just keep coming back. And we talked for almost two hours - and by then, it was too late to go back to sleep.

So I did my running around in town, hitting Target so my in-town daughter could blow her Christmas cash, and waiting for her low-income eligibility appointment to be done. Got home in record time, convinced I could get in a quick nap before my hubby came home, and we would have to leave for a social-evening at a friend’s.

And once again, just drifting off . . . dogs get into a tussle. Wake me up. Completely. And that was it for the night.

So . . . it’s 11:00 p.m. at night, and why am I awake writing about my stolen sleep instead of sleeping?!?!?

THE SMELL OF VICKS, BEN-GAY, DUSTY BOXES AND OLD DRIED FLOWERS

I am back working on my life history, which sounds so dramatic, but in reality is me just chatting in Tahoma font size 12 about extremely unselective memories over 52 years of life. Names may not be complete, dates may be off by a.... decade or two, but it’s fun to reminisce about events in my life ("events" being translated as not the year I was born, where I have lived and gone to school, but important stuff like discovering the perfect chocolate-chip cookie recipe (well, inventing it, really), the first day my first child got on a bus by herself going to kindergarten, and the death of a cat).

It helps that I know my oldest child will read these recollections, and probably no one else for quite a while. They’ll be stored in a box, which with a military life will travel a few far-flung places. Her kids will ask her sometime about what’s in the box - maybe use it for a history class ("These are things my grandma did in the 1970's - without a personal computer"). Throughout more moves, it should be condensed a couple of times ("Great-Grandma Hope must have been tired when she wrote that one"), and finally whittled down to one shining entry that reflects her folksy wisdom and the economic, political and environmental whirlwinds affecting her life (HA!).

Besides, I need to get this done before my brain injury and rapidly-approaching senior dementia latch on, and I begin forgetting everything or elaborately ‘enlarge’ these stories in the manner of my mother until the stories all involve name-personalities, saving the world, and putting myself center stage in everything.

So... to work I GO!

IS IT JUST COINCIDENCE THAT THREE WEIGHT LOSS COMMERCIALS HAVE BEEN ON IN THE LAST 45 SECONDS?

My daughter came up with the wonderful idea of supporting each other's 'healthy choices' via the Internet. She wants to learn to 'eat better' before her upcoming move (and if 12 lbs. happen to disappear in the process, so be it), and I want to lose weight (and if I happen to learn to eat better in the process, so be it).

Honestly, most of it for me is that I simply FEEL so much better when I weight less. I know that translates into moving both BEFORE losing any weight, and moving more after I lose some "excess" because I FEEL better. At my age, that moving more will probably only be walking (my knees decided a few years ago that running was no longer an option), but I have a dog and a horse that both LOVE getting out, so I have some support here also.

I think that having to report to someone will help me - and hopefully my daughter won't cost as much as a personal trainer ;-)

BI-SPECIES RELATIONSHIP

My first horse was raised in Los Angeles. When I purchased him in 1971, he was well acquainted with asphalt, eighteen-wheelers, and freeway on-ramps (we really don't need to go down that road any further, no pun intended), so when I took him with me to college, it was a new experience for both of us. I had never gone for a run in clean air (I grew up thinking your lungs were supposed to hurt when you exercised; much like your legs got sore, etc.), seen tractors on public streets, gone to an ACTUAL drive-in movie (my room-mate and I were poor enough that we used to go sit outside and just watch without having any sound), and watched fruit GROWING on trees (I though they just appeared magically in the produce aisle at Ralph's).

And Sherman (my horse, whose real name was Jedidiah Isosceles Extravaganza , Jr., shortened to Sherman for everyday) had never seen a cow. So the first time I took him riding, we came upon a pasture with a, guess what, COW in it. Sherman stopped short, stared hard, and was prepared to walk on and accept this vision as an extremely odd looking horse, when the cow MOOED. Sherman freaked, and took off at his fastest pace in the opposite direction.

(He also had a unique attitude towards the first river he saw. Horses are usually very suspicious of bodies of water -the common theory at least at that time was that they could not see beneath the surface. Sherman, however, got to the edge of the river, sniffed at the water, and promptly THREW himself into the river, with me and saddle being dragged behind, and would swim at any opportunity offered)

So today our greyhound saw her first cow - and I guess the cow saw her first greyhound. My husband described it as mutual astonishment, and then some sort of inter-species dance, comprised of wild capers, leaps and bounds and ended with both of them running off in opposite directions.

I think any future dating is out of the question.