I know better — but I still expect my computer to respond (and render) instantaneously. I know better, but I still rail and whine at my computer., expecting it to come to its senses and do what I want. I know better, but I still blame software and glitches and non-intuitive design for my failings, ignorance and inexperience. So I guess you know what I’m doing tonight and into the morn…
Latest
similarities…and differences
I was wearing a hoodie, fiddling with my waistband and looking at (leering into) homes the other night. I was running in an extremely affluent neighborhood that I had no business being in, fiddling with my waistband because I had put my tights on inside-out (uncomfortable for all sorts of reasons), hoodie up because the wind was brutal, peering into the homes I passed for decorating ideas (how do the uber-rich live? do they really use all those rooms?) So why wasn’t I shot down by a gun-wielding self-appointed neighborhood watch volunteer? Luckily for me, I’m old, female and most importantly, white. Less has changed than we would like to believe.
In the words of Susan Justice, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you sick, and if you get sick, you’ve learned a lesson. With every lesson, you get wiser.” Here’s to hoping that everyone is thoroughly sickened by the events surrounding Trayvon Martin’s horrible death and that we take this opportunity to wise up.
I’m Fancy!
My first fox hunt — Belle Meade Hunt Club in Thomson, Georgia — very fancy. I learned lots of fancy new things, like you don’t call them dogs, they’re hounds. Unless they’re male hounds and then they are dogs. So instead of saying hound dog, e.g. hound male, I guess we should be saying dog hound, e.g. male hound. Anyway, the females are just bitches, but you knew that. You don’t hunt in a particular area or piece of land, it’s a territory. The territory that is across the street and which is five steps away from you is different from the territory you’re currently in. Don’t say, “this is a beautiful place to ride,” say, “this is lovely territory.” Are we on some sort of Williams and Clark expedition? Flasks and sandwich pouches are mandatory and while I’ve never seen so many flasks in all my life, I did not see a single sam’ich. I think those pouches hold more flasks. Yes, you must share your flask, communicable diseases be damned. Guess we’re all counting on the alcohol to kill those nasty germs. Refreshment truck arrived mid-hunt, carrying beer and bourbon. Nothing for the horses, hounds or tee-totalers. One of the hounds was loaded into the truck, hurt paw or too slow or some sort of thing. As we galloped away, we were invited to toss our beer cans into the bed of the truck. One of the Yankees in our party did not have the greatest aim — nailed the hound on the noggin — he yowled as Coors Light dripped down his snout. Belle Meade is fancy, but we, clearly, are not.
my minimalist dream
…is to live in a glass shoe-box of a house (you know the one I’m talking about), no more than 1200 square feet, deep in the woods. Glass walls, poured concrete floor (I’d 
prefer mica or mother-of-pearl, but neither of those seem particularly practical) and furnished entirely with serge de troyer lucite furniture,so we appear to hover in
the trees. I’ll be wearing one of three things: an orange jumpsuit (for day); sleek black compression garments (for workouts); La Perla (for everything else). One can dream. In the meantime, I’ll be stalking this lucite adirondack chair.
Final Cut Pro (not rated G)
I’ve been editing with Final Cut Pro X for the last 84 hours — straight. In my sleep-deprived haze,here’s what I have to say, as a long-in-the-tooth video producer but neophyte editor – in fact, my editing experience is limited to supervising Avid edits and actual Avid editing, say, about 15 years ago. FCP in general is something that I have minimal familiarity with. That said, FCPX — learning curve: extremely short. With little-to-no talent, ability, knowledge or vision, you can do some fun, interesting things. Perfect for me. However, to paraphrase Dr Seuss, “what I do not like, sir, no, not one bit, is the magnetic timeline…” Here, Dr S would make a nonsensical rhyme, but you can guess the only thing my tiny brain came up with — “no, no, no, not one bit! Just like suckling at a dried up witch’s….” and now my blog is no longer rated G. And that might be why it’s called Final Cut X.
today’s rant
Kid 1 was studying for an exam on the Declaration of Independence and all things pre-revolutionary last night and asked me to test her. Looked at her study guide and this question popped right out: the Declaration of Independence grants all people what inalienable rights? AAARRGH!!!!!! All people? No,not all people, just men, and then only men of a certain color. What kind of crap are they teaching? Then I asked, when did women get the vote? She didn’t know. Okay, the test is on pre-revolutionary activities, not the suffrage movement, but come on — when are we supposed to address the inequalities our country was born with? And wouldn’t this be the perfect time to open that conversation, so kids could really think, critically, about the power of words? One of the other questions regarded Jefferson’s condemnation of slavery, to which I said, “and why might that be ironic?” Kid didn’t know why…but promised to bring the issue up in class (heh,heh). 
Full disclosure: I am a socialist separatist feminist from way back, but just couldn’t make that lifestyle work for me — yeah, I like stuff — and I will always feel guilty for that. Can I call kid’s 20-something Social Studies (SS) teacher on this? Where does feminism begin and end? When isn’t the personal political? More to the point, I demand to see that teacher’s lesson plan! Hubby drank a glass of champagne and went to take a shower (after my rant). Kid stomped away from me screaming “shut up!” and “I don’t care!” and slammed the door in my face (during my rant). What would Red Emma do?
I only called 911 once…today
I'm not supposed to take drugs
The holidays bring out the best in me, if you consider irrational expectations, erratic overbuying of useless and unwanted gifts and crying jags, the best of me. Which they very well may be. When child number three was suddenly having difficulty breathing, unable to speak, but looking at me with horror, pointing at his throat and mouthing the words, “help me,” I did what any panicked, overdramatic mother would do — I called 911. His breathing was restored to a normal rate and I had him calmed down in enough time to cancel the 911 call. I won’t give you the actual stopwatch time this required, because that would be embarrassing. Let’s just say I hadn’t yet counted to sixty. We did go to the pediatrician and luckily, for my dignity anyway, Kid 3 had another episode on the exam table — lucky because the ped couldn’t dismiss me as an insane overprotective helicopter mother, which I am, just not this particular time. My six-year old, 30 pound son perched on the edge of the table, stared straight ahead and said, “I’m not gonna make it, am I?” Huh? What the hell is this kid watching when I’m not at home? Back-to-back episodes of House? I assured him that he would “make it” but he didn’t buy it. I told the doc the kid was worried about making it and the doc told him too that he would, indeed, make it. ”No! I’m not gonna make it — how do you know?” the little cherub snarled. Doc did a strep test, which consists of jamming a q-tip as far down a kid’s throat as possible. Kid screamed and when doc left the room to run the test, kid said, “He’ll never get it out — it’s in there forever,” What’s in there forever? I asked cherub — “The rattle! The rattle you told him I have in my chest!” Ohhh. Remind me to use more abstract descriptions in the future. We marched out of the office to get cherub’s prescription filled. ”I’m not supposed to take drugs,” he informed me. Okay. But I can.
Next day, less than 24 hours later, Kid 2 dared himself to drink hot sauce and since he’s a guy that never turns down a dare, even when he is the source of the dare, he put the bottle to his lips and started chugging. 
It was so hot that when he pulled the bottle away from his face, he started jumping up and down. Let me emphasize, when he pulled the still open bottle from his lips, he started boinging around the room, spraying hot sauce everywhere, but especially directly into his little eyeballs. Much screaming and careening, blinded, ensued. I resisted calling 911, instead calling my ER nurse mother while shouting at my daughter to google “tabasco in eyes” and throwing glasses of water in the direction of my son as he caromed. Kid 3 helpfully shouted, “New house rule, new house rule! No jumping with open hot sauce!” Happy holidays to the 911 operators and ER nurses everywhere.
O timebomb…
I have officially (kind of – still owe a hard copy of my final paper) finished school and am wondering what I will do with my nights off. Could spend more time cleaning, which would benefit all — BUT ME — so it looks like that’s the way to go. Could start my next paper, which would be good for nothing, except to satisfy my perverse craving to do arcane research that no one cares about. Next paper is on why I think that Louis XVI was autistic. More on that later. For the moment, I have gotten myself whipped up into my usual pre-holiday frenzy which consists of revisiting every slight ever inflicted upon me during my painful childhood. That takes a really long time, but since I’ve done it so many times before, it doesn’t take a lot of effort. Then I re-hash the story of how when my German relatives sang “O Tannenbaum,” I thought we were singing “O Timebomb,” which, when you’re a German-American, makes a lot more sense than you might think.
I'm a 40-something (closer to 50) wife, mother of three and freelance video producer. I'm a little obsessed with Courtney Love, petrified wood, lucite and all things equine.
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