After an entire week of availability and no call-in for jury service, I had to report at 7:30 am Friday. At 9:30 am, after watching a video about how much fun it is to serve on a jury and how good it will make me feel to serve in this capacity, we were given given instructions. The list of potential jurors for 2 scheduled trials had been divided: one group would stay, the other group would leave -- and return at 1:15 pm. That was MY group, not one of us who seemed happy at the prospect of serving on a jury.
At 1:15, we were again in-serviced about this terrific opportunity, then taken into the courtroom to hear the judge's speech. After this warm welcome, we were read the charges against the defendant -- all 15 of them! We were warned that the trial could take the next 3 weeks and then given the 3 very restricted reasons that we could be either excused or postponed for jury service, reasons that did not include finding the lengthy list of charges against the defendant reason enough to save the taxpayer's time and money for a lengthy court trial!
Of course, none of the 3 extreme legitimate reasons for not serving fitted me at that time and on that day, so when the judge said that unless we may qualify for non-service, we were to leave the courtroom at that time and return again Monday at 1:15 to begin the voir dir, I drove back home and fussed and fumed about how unfair life is in my little corner of it.
I feel that I already served 5 days: I had to reschedule my life, call in every day, sometimes twice, and that took more effort for others than it did for me, but still impacted my life for an entire week. To think that I may have to spend the next 3 weeks of my life continuing this important service to my community irritates the hell out of me. We were told the mantra "one day, one jury" many, many times yesterday, but it's not "one day" when it's an entire week of being on-call, and especially not so when that "one day" may well become 3 weeks.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Exhausting!
It's hard to tell which is worse this week: calling in twice a day to see whether I have to show up for jury duty or following a puppy around the house to keep him from doing his potty business in the house!
It used to be that you called in for jury service and you either reported or you didn't. This week, I have had to call in every evening after 6 pm to see whether I have to report the next day, but have been getting the message to call in the next day at 11 am to see if I have to report in the afternoon if I don't have to show up in the morning. This process continues for a full week, which makes it a whole lot more stressful than it needs to be. I have arranged for the girl next door to watch Ranger if/when I have to go as the court is a good 30 miles one way from my home. I'm going to pay her something for being on-call with me all this week.
I have company coming this Friday and don't know how to get the carpets cleaned with all 3 dogs in the house. I can put Ranger in his crate, but the big dogs are another story. When the temps are in excess of 100 degrees, I just can't put them either outside or into the garage for the duration, so they will wander where they wander, regardless of the wet carpets. I feel that I have to try to remove some of the doggie odor from the carpet before my company arrives, but I'm calling for a thorough cleaning next week from the professionals. If I have to clean the carpet every week for a while, that's what I'll do as it creeps me out to walk on bare feet across carpet I know has been pooped and peed on all week! Totally gross.
Other than that, the diet is coming along as I'm eating healthy meals, weighing my portions, and setting the timer so I actually remember to eat at specific times, rather than just eating whenever and whatever. The only change I've made is no sugar/no flour, exchanging all my favorite foods for salads and veggies. The walk every morning is starting to tighten up some seriously loose bits, and that's nice, too. I'll keep at it as long as I can remember to go to the store and buy fresh, rather than roaming through the cans and packages and frozen food aisles.
It used to be that you called in for jury service and you either reported or you didn't. This week, I have had to call in every evening after 6 pm to see whether I have to report the next day, but have been getting the message to call in the next day at 11 am to see if I have to report in the afternoon if I don't have to show up in the morning. This process continues for a full week, which makes it a whole lot more stressful than it needs to be. I have arranged for the girl next door to watch Ranger if/when I have to go as the court is a good 30 miles one way from my home. I'm going to pay her something for being on-call with me all this week.
I have company coming this Friday and don't know how to get the carpets cleaned with all 3 dogs in the house. I can put Ranger in his crate, but the big dogs are another story. When the temps are in excess of 100 degrees, I just can't put them either outside or into the garage for the duration, so they will wander where they wander, regardless of the wet carpets. I feel that I have to try to remove some of the doggie odor from the carpet before my company arrives, but I'm calling for a thorough cleaning next week from the professionals. If I have to clean the carpet every week for a while, that's what I'll do as it creeps me out to walk on bare feet across carpet I know has been pooped and peed on all week! Totally gross.
Other than that, the diet is coming along as I'm eating healthy meals, weighing my portions, and setting the timer so I actually remember to eat at specific times, rather than just eating whenever and whatever. The only change I've made is no sugar/no flour, exchanging all my favorite foods for salads and veggies. The walk every morning is starting to tighten up some seriously loose bits, and that's nice, too. I'll keep at it as long as I can remember to go to the store and buy fresh, rather than roaming through the cans and packages and frozen food aisles.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Herd Mentality
Yesterday was not a good day on many levels, including finding the garbage in the kitchen brimming with maggots. What a job that was, after realizing that the kitchen floor was moving, covered in what looked like mobile grains of rice. Of course, I knew exactly what they were, but eradicating them was a labor extensive, exhausting, and totally yucky experience involving lots of bleach and really hot water.
Ranger decided, perhaps because I was distracted, that he would just do his potty business wherever he happened to be at the moment. Not only was I irritated, but I was annoyed that my carpets were being soiled at an alarming rate. Yeah, sure, it's only a tablespoon of whatever, but it doesn't take all that many tablespoonsful to become a cup, you know? Finally, in exasperation, I tapped his teeny tiny butt, gently rubbed his nose in it, and set him outside AGAIN. Closing the doggie door to keep him there no longer works as he can get himself back inside by hooking his front paws on the bottom ledge, then scrappling his back feet up the metal to provide momentum that propels his front onto the kitchen floor. He is smart and well-motivated.
Mia and Daisy must have picked up on my frustration because they stepped up to the plate and started herding him outside every time I took him to the patio. They took him out into the yard and stayed with him until they had proof he had done what was expected. The rest of the day improved drastically, with more waste being deposited outside than inside.
This morning, when we got up at 5 am to take Ranger outside before we have to put him back into the crate while we go for our walk, the girls took him out to the dog run, where the big dogs poop and pee. They stayed out there long enough that I was pretty sure he'd done both jobs, perhaps several times. When we returned from the walk, back out to the dog run the girls went, with Ranger on their heels. Yippee!
I am fascinated that animals communicate without ever making a sound. One of the girls sniffs Ranger's private parts, then pushes his behind with her nose and walks him out the slider. She takes him to the places he's already used, so he sniffs, knows this is the place, squats and does his business. When he's finished, the girls stay outside with him for a bit longer, then bring him back inside. He's found the big pillow under the patio table and has started dragging out a toy to play with during the cooler hours of the day. Once he knows the outside and programs his mental muscle to go there to do his business, I think we'll be good to go.
If dogs can get this concept, how come young mothers don't seem able to replicate it? I've always said that raising children is a whole lot like training a dog: constant repetition, strong positive reinforcement, but a bit of negative when it's called for, too. Yelling at children works the same way it does with dogs: it scares them, they squat and pee, and then find a good hiding place until the danger passes. I hear constant screaming coming from home after home as we pass them during our morning walk, often laced with profanity. The grocery store often becomes a battleground, with mothers screaming, threatening, hitting ... and scared children crying and trying to hide. The woman next door only seems to know how to communicate with her teenage daughter at a scream, day in and well into the night. Model the behavior you want to teach, we're always told, and these parents are doing a great job of replicating themselves in their children.
Sad to say, but when the children grow older, the behaviors they learn at home often go to school with them, so a teacher who is "nice," who speaks in a moderate tone of voice and does not threaten violence, is often ignored as inconsequential. The children are so programmed to respond only if/when the war erupts that they ignore anything and anyone benign, saving their fight or flight response for someone who warrants it. "Do your homework or you fail the class" is meaningless to a child who has been physically, verbally, emotionally, and mentally abused since infancy.
And so it goes in Liza Land.
Ranger decided, perhaps because I was distracted, that he would just do his potty business wherever he happened to be at the moment. Not only was I irritated, but I was annoyed that my carpets were being soiled at an alarming rate. Yeah, sure, it's only a tablespoon of whatever, but it doesn't take all that many tablespoonsful to become a cup, you know? Finally, in exasperation, I tapped his teeny tiny butt, gently rubbed his nose in it, and set him outside AGAIN. Closing the doggie door to keep him there no longer works as he can get himself back inside by hooking his front paws on the bottom ledge, then scrappling his back feet up the metal to provide momentum that propels his front onto the kitchen floor. He is smart and well-motivated.
Mia and Daisy must have picked up on my frustration because they stepped up to the plate and started herding him outside every time I took him to the patio. They took him out into the yard and stayed with him until they had proof he had done what was expected. The rest of the day improved drastically, with more waste being deposited outside than inside.
This morning, when we got up at 5 am to take Ranger outside before we have to put him back into the crate while we go for our walk, the girls took him out to the dog run, where the big dogs poop and pee. They stayed out there long enough that I was pretty sure he'd done both jobs, perhaps several times. When we returned from the walk, back out to the dog run the girls went, with Ranger on their heels. Yippee!
I am fascinated that animals communicate without ever making a sound. One of the girls sniffs Ranger's private parts, then pushes his behind with her nose and walks him out the slider. She takes him to the places he's already used, so he sniffs, knows this is the place, squats and does his business. When he's finished, the girls stay outside with him for a bit longer, then bring him back inside. He's found the big pillow under the patio table and has started dragging out a toy to play with during the cooler hours of the day. Once he knows the outside and programs his mental muscle to go there to do his business, I think we'll be good to go.
If dogs can get this concept, how come young mothers don't seem able to replicate it? I've always said that raising children is a whole lot like training a dog: constant repetition, strong positive reinforcement, but a bit of negative when it's called for, too. Yelling at children works the same way it does with dogs: it scares them, they squat and pee, and then find a good hiding place until the danger passes. I hear constant screaming coming from home after home as we pass them during our morning walk, often laced with profanity. The grocery store often becomes a battleground, with mothers screaming, threatening, hitting ... and scared children crying and trying to hide. The woman next door only seems to know how to communicate with her teenage daughter at a scream, day in and well into the night. Model the behavior you want to teach, we're always told, and these parents are doing a great job of replicating themselves in their children.
Sad to say, but when the children grow older, the behaviors they learn at home often go to school with them, so a teacher who is "nice," who speaks in a moderate tone of voice and does not threaten violence, is often ignored as inconsequential. The children are so programmed to respond only if/when the war erupts that they ignore anything and anyone benign, saving their fight or flight response for someone who warrants it. "Do your homework or you fail the class" is meaningless to a child who has been physically, verbally, emotionally, and mentally abused since infancy.
And so it goes in Liza Land.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Mothering an Orphan
It may be too late to find Ranger a permanent family: Mia and Daisy are helping with the potty training! When I put Ranger outside, Daisy blocks the door way back in through the slider, while Mia sticks her head through the doggie door. Daisy has also walked Ranger out into the yard to do his business, rather than stopping on the patio.
Believe it or not, he found his way back into the house through the doggie door last evening. I had shut the sliding door so he would stay outside for a bit and burn off some energy before bedtime, but PLOP! he fell through the doggie door. He may be small, but he's mighty and determined, I might add.
Lots of fun, lots of laughs, lots of love ... but I really don't want 3 dogs. It's going to be difficult to hand Ranger off, but he needs to find his own family. One day at a time, dear Lord, one day at a time.
Believe it or not, he found his way back into the house through the doggie door last evening. I had shut the sliding door so he would stay outside for a bit and burn off some energy before bedtime, but PLOP! he fell through the doggie door. He may be small, but he's mighty and determined, I might add.
Lots of fun, lots of laughs, lots of love ... but I really don't want 3 dogs. It's going to be difficult to hand Ranger off, but he needs to find his own family. One day at a time, dear Lord, one day at a time.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Scripted
This evening, I was in the kitchen doing up the dishes when I heard that robotic, oddly spaced dialog from the Oksana tapes: you know, the ones where she sounds as if she's reading a script, while Mel rants uncontrollably in response. Since the first time I heard the first tape, I've thought it sounds scripted, as if she is reading her lines in an odd manner, the pacing and the lack of emotion quite telling: this is not a real argument, it is a play being performed for a very specific audience by a really bad actress who couldn't deliver a believable line to save her soul.
The voice I heard was on an old episode of Law and Order, delivered by a woman whose voice exactly matches the Oksana tapes! As a matter of fact, the words the actress was saying is what caught my attention because I thought, "I've heard that same dialog ... on the Mel tapes."
Perhaps I'm totally wrong, but it was attention-getting, and that usually doesn't happen unless it's spot-on a recalled memory, rather than a fleeting resemblance.
The voice I heard was on an old episode of Law and Order, delivered by a woman whose voice exactly matches the Oksana tapes! As a matter of fact, the words the actress was saying is what caught my attention because I thought, "I've heard that same dialog ... on the Mel tapes."
Perhaps I'm totally wrong, but it was attention-getting, and that usually doesn't happen unless it's spot-on a recalled memory, rather than a fleeting resemblance.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Polka Dots and Poop
Ah, yes, I do remember what it's like with a teeny baby puppy in the house: lots of pee and poop deposited throughout the house, but Ranger is also running outside on his own to do his business more than half the time, so that's good. I'd rather hose off the patio than spot clean the carpet any day. He also loves playing with the two girls, but they aren't totally happy with his exhuberance.
Ranger found a tennis ball under something and has been able to sink his teeth into it and carry it around the house. He took it to Daisy, but she preferred the foot-long stuffed weiner dog, and they played a bit of pull toy with it. By far, however, Ranger's favorite toy is Mia, who is trying to be a good sport, but really likes Ranger best when he's napping.
Gotta say he's so darned cute that I'm getting attached to him. He runs to me when I call his name (you'll get it if you've read the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich) and loves to snuggle against me when I sit on the couch to watch the evening news.
He did really well last night in the portable carrier I use in the back of the RAV, sleeping soundly until 3 am, when he needed to go outside. Once he did his business, he came back in, crawled into the carrier, and slept until the dogs woke the house for their morning walk.
Ranger found a tennis ball under something and has been able to sink his teeth into it and carry it around the house. He took it to Daisy, but she preferred the foot-long stuffed weiner dog, and they played a bit of pull toy with it. By far, however, Ranger's favorite toy is Mia, who is trying to be a good sport, but really likes Ranger best when he's napping.
Gotta say he's so darned cute that I'm getting attached to him. He runs to me when I call his name (you'll get it if you've read the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich) and loves to snuggle against me when I sit on the couch to watch the evening news.
He did really well last night in the portable carrier I use in the back of the RAV, sleeping soundly until 3 am, when he needed to go outside. Once he did his business, he came back in, crawled into the carrier, and slept until the dogs woke the house for their morning walk.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Today's Walk ...
... began with Daisy again making it out of the garage and two blocks over before I tracked her down by following all the barking dogs in the neighborhood. At 6 am, no one wants a stray dog coming into their yard and waking up the entire household by setting off all the canine alarms! She stopped to visit with one of her neighbors, and as they rubbed noses and sniffed butts, I was able to collar her.
Yep, I drove her back home, put her into the house, hooked Mia up to her harness, and off we went. We did the shorter walk this morning, about 1.5 miles, and as we turned the last long block on the way home, Mia went nuts and lunged toward the middle of an empty field. I held her back, but she can be insistent. At about 90 pounds, sometimes I go where she leads me.
Hiding under a bush, a good 15 feet off the road, was a surprise: a very small puppy, dehydrated, shaking, and yipping, but also baring its teeth at Mia. The puppy was so far off the road and so far from the nearest homes that I'm almost sure it was dropped off by someone who didn't want it. However, Mia and Daisy have stood their ground against a pack of coyotes across the street from the puppy's location, so there was no way I could leave it there to become a mid-morning snack.
Tucking it into my sweaty t-shirt, the puppy enjoyed the lift back to my house, where Mia sniffed it for the first time and Daisy came to see what the hell was coming into her house this time. I got the puppy some water and soaked a bit of kibble in milk, which it lapped up in no time. I fixed a little bed, too, with a soft towel and one of my sweaty sox tied in a knot for sniffing and chewing.
Ranger may become a permanent part of our house, but I'm not seeing how this will work for the rest of us. I'm going to guess he's between 6-8 weeks, and I'll keep checking in the neighborhood for Lost signs, and call the local pound, but I'm not hopeful that he is going back home, but making a new one.
Yep, I drove her back home, put her into the house, hooked Mia up to her harness, and off we went. We did the shorter walk this morning, about 1.5 miles, and as we turned the last long block on the way home, Mia went nuts and lunged toward the middle of an empty field. I held her back, but she can be insistent. At about 90 pounds, sometimes I go where she leads me.
Hiding under a bush, a good 15 feet off the road, was a surprise: a very small puppy, dehydrated, shaking, and yipping, but also baring its teeth at Mia. The puppy was so far off the road and so far from the nearest homes that I'm almost sure it was dropped off by someone who didn't want it. However, Mia and Daisy have stood their ground against a pack of coyotes across the street from the puppy's location, so there was no way I could leave it there to become a mid-morning snack.
Tucking it into my sweaty t-shirt, the puppy enjoyed the lift back to my house, where Mia sniffed it for the first time and Daisy came to see what the hell was coming into her house this time. I got the puppy some water and soaked a bit of kibble in milk, which it lapped up in no time. I fixed a little bed, too, with a soft towel and one of my sweaty sox tied in a knot for sniffing and chewing.
Ranger may become a permanent part of our house, but I'm not seeing how this will work for the rest of us. I'm going to guess he's between 6-8 weeks, and I'll keep checking in the neighborhood for Lost signs, and call the local pound, but I'm not hopeful that he is going back home, but making a new one.
A Sheety Day
One day, while rambling through a linens' store, I came across the most incredible sheets I've ever touched. Not just creamy in color, but with a soft, creamy texture that ages remarkably well. After several months of luxuriating on this set of sheets, I decided to purchase another set as I did NOT want to become my mother, who slept on one set of sheets, washed them, and put them back onto her mattress before returning to bed that night. I always told her it was okay to have two sets of sheets -- or more, if she wanted them -- but she lived through the Great Depression and felt that one sheet was more than many people had -- you know, back then: half a century ago!
The high-end sheets I purchased didn't seem exactly the same as the ones I had purchased earlier, but they had the same extraordinarily high thread count and were within budget, so I purchased them. I washed them before use, an old habit, and then made my bed. Yes, they are soft, and have aged well, but they are wider than they are long, so they don't tuck in at the bottom and stay tucked. I've tossed and turned them loose at the bottom for about a year now, and even reverted to using the "better" set of high-end luxury sheets every day, washing and returning to the bed in one day (I'm sure my mother would approve).
Today, I decided that's it: I'm going to fix this tuck-in by adding to the bottom of the sheet, which will become the tucked-in part and not seen by the sheet police.
Much better!! And I didn't do this a year ago because ...
The high-end sheets I purchased didn't seem exactly the same as the ones I had purchased earlier, but they had the same extraordinarily high thread count and were within budget, so I purchased them. I washed them before use, an old habit, and then made my bed. Yes, they are soft, and have aged well, but they are wider than they are long, so they don't tuck in at the bottom and stay tucked. I've tossed and turned them loose at the bottom for about a year now, and even reverted to using the "better" set of high-end luxury sheets every day, washing and returning to the bed in one day (I'm sure my mother would approve).
Today, I decided that's it: I'm going to fix this tuck-in by adding to the bottom of the sheet, which will become the tucked-in part and not seen by the sheet police.
Much better!! And I didn't do this a year ago because ...
Friday, July 16, 2010
Damned (Smart) Dog
This morning, I hooked the dogs into their harnesses, clipped on the leashes, and opened the garage door so we could begin our walk. Daisy pulled and tugged at her harness and, suddenly, she was off and running! Man, is that one fast dog -- and she had no intention whatsoever of either stopping or coming back when she's called.
It took an hour of going up and down the streets, peering into both front and back yards, walking east 5 blocks toward the busy street before I finally was able to trap her. Of course, I had Mia on the leash, which made the process even more challenging, but I couldn't take the time to return Mia home without losing sight of Daisy's general direction. She did go up to a man getting into his vehicle and I shouted at him to catch her, but he evidently didn't speak English, so petted her and she ran again.
The only reason I was able to corner Daisy, after she escaped several times into other families' backyards, was that one fence had no wide openings. She got herself backed into a small space and began digging as fast as she could, but she didn't quite get the hole big enough before I grabbed her choke collar and stopped the great escape. My biggest worry, other than marauding packs of feral dogs, was that she'd run heedlessly into the path of oncoming traffic and be killed right in front of me. If she's outside, she simply will not come when she's called, but she responds instantly to her name when we're inside the house. Go figure.
Once I had her hooked up and back home, I chastised her roundly, sent her scurrying into the house, and then set off on my walk alone. Mia was exhausted after a solid hour of trying to coax Daisy back home and/or onto her leash, so I left her to explain things to Daisy while I walked off my mad. Believe me, Daisy is not going walking for a couple of mornings and I hope she gets the message!!
It took an hour of going up and down the streets, peering into both front and back yards, walking east 5 blocks toward the busy street before I finally was able to trap her. Of course, I had Mia on the leash, which made the process even more challenging, but I couldn't take the time to return Mia home without losing sight of Daisy's general direction. She did go up to a man getting into his vehicle and I shouted at him to catch her, but he evidently didn't speak English, so petted her and she ran again.
The only reason I was able to corner Daisy, after she escaped several times into other families' backyards, was that one fence had no wide openings. She got herself backed into a small space and began digging as fast as she could, but she didn't quite get the hole big enough before I grabbed her choke collar and stopped the great escape. My biggest worry, other than marauding packs of feral dogs, was that she'd run heedlessly into the path of oncoming traffic and be killed right in front of me. If she's outside, she simply will not come when she's called, but she responds instantly to her name when we're inside the house. Go figure.
Once I had her hooked up and back home, I chastised her roundly, sent her scurrying into the house, and then set off on my walk alone. Mia was exhausted after a solid hour of trying to coax Daisy back home and/or onto her leash, so I left her to explain things to Daisy while I walked off my mad. Believe me, Daisy is not going walking for a couple of mornings and I hope she gets the message!!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
It's Only Hair!
When the bad hair is on top of your head, it does not help to remind yourself that "it's only hair!" I know it's only hair, but I hate it. I cannot find one redeeming quality about this haircut that I like and cannot wait for it to grow back.
It's a bob, which I don't like on me; it's far too short, which I absolutely hate and made really, really clear to the hair stylist; it's cut crooked, which looks lopsided every time I have to fix it; it hangs over my ears, which I specifically said do not do; and no matter what I do differently, it always turns out to be ... a helmet!!
Seriously, I've thought about a wig, but it's 115 friggin' degrees out here, no weather for a wig. It'll grow; it'll grow; it'll grow.
It's a bob, which I don't like on me; it's far too short, which I absolutely hate and made really, really clear to the hair stylist; it's cut crooked, which looks lopsided every time I have to fix it; it hangs over my ears, which I specifically said do not do; and no matter what I do differently, it always turns out to be ... a helmet!!
Seriously, I've thought about a wig, but it's 115 friggin' degrees out here, no weather for a wig. It'll grow; it'll grow; it'll grow.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Beginning Week 2
The best update is that the sugar is finally out of my system. When I am off my game, I substitute sugar for all the other food groups, which exacerbates my lethargy, my sleeplessness, and my weight issues. I feel like a slug and I look like a slug, so I act like a slug. However, once I can get past the driving force of the sugar rush, my body responds rapidly and starts rebooting to what it should be: alert, alive, happy, and willing to get out of bed every morning to walk the dogs.
Without all the sugar pulsing within, my knee is much better, too. About 3 weeks after the surgery, my right foot became tangled in the sheets. When I rolled over in the night, I tore something, waking up with a scream as I felt the inside of my right knee explode in searing pain. I've iced it, elevated it, massaged it, and exercised it, and it's slowly coming back to totally stable. However, removing the sugar from my body has also lessened over-all joint pain, and that has helped the knee almost more than anything else.
Today, I hopped out of bed when the girls came in and woke me up at 5:45 am, and pulled on a pair of shorts that two weeks ago would not pull on. That felt totally good and assures me that I'm back on the right path and will be able to get dressed for work in another 4 weeks.
Without all the sugar pulsing within, my knee is much better, too. About 3 weeks after the surgery, my right foot became tangled in the sheets. When I rolled over in the night, I tore something, waking up with a scream as I felt the inside of my right knee explode in searing pain. I've iced it, elevated it, massaged it, and exercised it, and it's slowly coming back to totally stable. However, removing the sugar from my body has also lessened over-all joint pain, and that has helped the knee almost more than anything else.
Today, I hopped out of bed when the girls came in and woke me up at 5:45 am, and pulled on a pair of shorts that two weeks ago would not pull on. That felt totally good and assures me that I'm back on the right path and will be able to get dressed for work in another 4 weeks.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Missing the Obvious?
Everyone is wondering what has happened to Mel Gibson? The answer is obvious: he's a chronic alcoholic, which often causes permanent brain damage in those with that disease. Mel no longer has any boundary sensors: he just spews. There is no thought; there is no cohesiveness; there is no control. Unfortunately, he's also a danger to the people who cross paths with him, which means he needs professional help, perhaps in a permanent resident facility where the staff is trained to deal with these kinds of individuals who suffer from permanent alcoholic brain damage.
Go forth and get help, Mel: your career, as well as your personal relationships with other human beings, is done.
Go forth and get help, Mel: your career, as well as your personal relationships with other human beings, is done.
Polo People
When the whistle blows, the team members churn water as they race into formation before the ball is tossed into the pool. Six girls plow their way across the pool, one with the ball safely between her outstretched arms that continue to propel her toward the goalie. They pass the ball, they shoot the ball, they have the ball ripped out of their hands and their suits and caps ripped off their bodies. These are fierce warrior women, some of whom are as young as age 10. Water polo is not for whimps.
I'd been to a few games in the past, but never spent 3 days doing a tournament. We head-quartered at a hotel in Rancho Cucamongo, which is about 75 miles from me, so I commuted and let the older girls use the room I had reserved for the event. I picked up polo players, dropped them off, sat in the noonday sun, and fought off the mosquitoes. Nutrition was a big part of each day as the competitors have to eat well and often, and I'm back to military precision with my eating. Free b'fast with the rooms meant that about 150 swimmers, both male and female, emptied the buffet faster than the cooks could keep up with them. Of course, every athlete comes with an entourage, parents, siblings, g'parents, best friends, so it's a lot of polo people and even more free b'fast.
There were other g'ma's in my age bracket, so I enjoyed sitting with them and doing the "my g'child ..." thing. My sister-in-law stayed close by, too, providing me with both commentary and an explanation of what was going on in the pool. By the end of day 3, I was getting the hang of it and actually following the play in the pool fairly well. The 16-girls battled to a first-place finish, while the 14-girls took a third. Both of their final games were exciting and tough, but also played really well. I congratulated their coaches on the solid coaching job, holding the girls responsible for team play, while encouraging each of them to excel. Some coaches from other teams spent the entire game berating the players in megaphone voices that carried throughout the stadium area. What the girls learn from that approach, I have no idea, but if it were my dotter being excorciated by an adult male for not playing up to his standards, I'd look for another team or another coach.
You can call it coaching, but for me, that verbal harranguing borders on abuse. For the parents, the game is about the girls; for the girls, the game is about the team; for the coach, it's about me, me, me: my team, my players, my win/loss, my rep with the guys at the sports bars.
And, there was Defense Dude, the father of a player who was so loud, so over-the-top, that he interferred with anyone else's ability to enjoy the game. He kept ramping up and ramping up until my head exploded: Dude!!! Chill!!! I yelled at him. He's welcome to verbally support his dotter's team, but not to over-power the enjoyment of the entire crowd of spectators with his constant stream of ranting and raving.
Yeah, he came over to get in my face, but I can hold my own pretty much with anyone, including him. When he kept telling me he was just encouraging his team, I directed him to dial it down a notch. He kept prattling on, but I ignored him, until I finally turned to face him eyeball-to-eyeball and asked him, very quietly, if he has ever asked his 16-year-old daughter how she feels about his outrageous conduct at the games she plays. I said, "I'll bet she's embarrassed and humiliated and doesn't know how to tell you to shut the hell up."
He did dial it down, and made a point of pointing it out to the stands, but I ignored him. His sister, visiting from W. VA, came over and sat with me under the shade structure and apologized for his behavior. She said that the dotter is embarrassed, but shrugs it off with the "that's just my dad" excuse so many teens use to cover the fact that they are mortified by their parent's conduct. He was at another game and conducted himself appropriately, so perhaps my work here is done.
I'm signed up for another polo weekend in August, right before I resume with the fall semester. This tourney is being held deep in the heart of LA, so I've arranged for a neighbor to come in and watch the dogs Sat-Sun. I hope she doesn't bail on me (as I cannot commute to this event) because I had a great time and can't wait to join the polo people poolside.
I'd been to a few games in the past, but never spent 3 days doing a tournament. We head-quartered at a hotel in Rancho Cucamongo, which is about 75 miles from me, so I commuted and let the older girls use the room I had reserved for the event. I picked up polo players, dropped them off, sat in the noonday sun, and fought off the mosquitoes. Nutrition was a big part of each day as the competitors have to eat well and often, and I'm back to military precision with my eating. Free b'fast with the rooms meant that about 150 swimmers, both male and female, emptied the buffet faster than the cooks could keep up with them. Of course, every athlete comes with an entourage, parents, siblings, g'parents, best friends, so it's a lot of polo people and even more free b'fast.
There were other g'ma's in my age bracket, so I enjoyed sitting with them and doing the "my g'child ..." thing. My sister-in-law stayed close by, too, providing me with both commentary and an explanation of what was going on in the pool. By the end of day 3, I was getting the hang of it and actually following the play in the pool fairly well. The 16-girls battled to a first-place finish, while the 14-girls took a third. Both of their final games were exciting and tough, but also played really well. I congratulated their coaches on the solid coaching job, holding the girls responsible for team play, while encouraging each of them to excel. Some coaches from other teams spent the entire game berating the players in megaphone voices that carried throughout the stadium area. What the girls learn from that approach, I have no idea, but if it were my dotter being excorciated by an adult male for not playing up to his standards, I'd look for another team or another coach.
You can call it coaching, but for me, that verbal harranguing borders on abuse. For the parents, the game is about the girls; for the girls, the game is about the team; for the coach, it's about me, me, me: my team, my players, my win/loss, my rep with the guys at the sports bars.
And, there was Defense Dude, the father of a player who was so loud, so over-the-top, that he interferred with anyone else's ability to enjoy the game. He kept ramping up and ramping up until my head exploded: Dude!!! Chill!!! I yelled at him. He's welcome to verbally support his dotter's team, but not to over-power the enjoyment of the entire crowd of spectators with his constant stream of ranting and raving.
Yeah, he came over to get in my face, but I can hold my own pretty much with anyone, including him. When he kept telling me he was just encouraging his team, I directed him to dial it down a notch. He kept prattling on, but I ignored him, until I finally turned to face him eyeball-to-eyeball and asked him, very quietly, if he has ever asked his 16-year-old daughter how she feels about his outrageous conduct at the games she plays. I said, "I'll bet she's embarrassed and humiliated and doesn't know how to tell you to shut the hell up."
He did dial it down, and made a point of pointing it out to the stands, but I ignored him. His sister, visiting from W. VA, came over and sat with me under the shade structure and apologized for his behavior. She said that the dotter is embarrassed, but shrugs it off with the "that's just my dad" excuse so many teens use to cover the fact that they are mortified by their parent's conduct. He was at another game and conducted himself appropriately, so perhaps my work here is done.
I'm signed up for another polo weekend in August, right before I resume with the fall semester. This tourney is being held deep in the heart of LA, so I've arranged for a neighbor to come in and watch the dogs Sat-Sun. I hope she doesn't bail on me (as I cannot commute to this event) because I had a great time and can't wait to join the polo people poolside.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Oh, Boy, Oh Boy
Today began with a brisk walk, a healthy b'fast, gassing up the RAV, and then heading across the freeway for my haircut appointment with a well-known stylist who gives a killer cut. One of my friends had her hair cut by this stylist and it is a kick-ass cut. I admired it as it grew out and kept the shape, a sign of a good cut -- and asked for his card. Made the call, left the message, but it took three weeks for a response because he has other salons in other parts of CA.
We began the appointment with a consultation, discussing what I like, what I don't like, and looking at pictures. When he showed me one photo, I said, "No way! I don't want a bob and I don't like the way it comes forward on the face." When he showed me another picture, I again explained that I DON'T want the back cut either that short or straight across as it is in that picture. We went through more photos and I said, "That's the way I want the back" to one style, and agreed on another photo for the front. I also made sure that he knew I did NOT want the top short as I really hate little sticking up hair pieces on the top of my head. I clarified that THIS is the back I like and THIS is the front and don't cut the top, and we went to the shampoo bowl.
Settled in the chair, I again picked up the photos and made sure which back and which front, and he began to partition off my hair. He explained that he would cut the botton first to establish a line, combed through my hair, and cut -- it all off! I literally jumped and said, "What did you just do?" He replied that he's setting the bottom line of the hair cut, and when I again picked up the NO-NO WAY photo and reminded him that I DO NOT want this finish to the haircut, he told me that it will look best with what he is going to do with the rest of the hair.
Okay, I should have left the salon, but ... there was a straight across cut at the nape of my neck! After 10 minutes of totally pissed off Liza, I agreed that he would have to shape the rest of the hair to that point, and he really did a great job. The top and back of the haircut really look great, although it is totally far too short, what I call a boy cut. At my age, I need something much softer than that, but too late after that first cut.
When he appeared to be finished cutting and starts to air dry my hair, fluffing it here and there, I again opened my big mouth and said, "No, I hate the way the front is cut. I DON'T want all this hair hanging forward: it doesn't look good (in my opinion) and I don't like it." Well, it seems that his solution is to pull it behind my ears if I don't like it, demonstrating with some gel and his fingers. For a more formal look, I can have it blown out and styled in a variety of ways that I won't have if that part of the haircut is changed.
Which part of I DON'T LIKE IT didn't he understand? I'm willing to deal with the totally too short back as it is a killer haircut, but I HATE THE FRONT/SIDES! That's pretty clear, right? Well, what "we're" going to do is try it out for a couple of weeks and then, if I still don't like it, he'll recut that part of the haircut, but I have to accept that it's going to "totally change the haircut."
Yeah, dude, that's what I want: I want to totally change the haircut, beginning with the back nape line that we agreed on before you took the first snip and completely changed, but about the best I'm going to get at this point is a recut of the front. Is there good news? Yeah: he comes to the desert and cuts hair in a one-seat salon and does it at a "bargain" rate from what VIPs pay for his services. Lucky, lucky me.
Nope, no pictures because I REALLY DON'T LIKE MY HAIR THIS FRIGGIN' SHORT! and I especially don't like the part that I have to glue behind my ears.
We began the appointment with a consultation, discussing what I like, what I don't like, and looking at pictures. When he showed me one photo, I said, "No way! I don't want a bob and I don't like the way it comes forward on the face." When he showed me another picture, I again explained that I DON'T want the back cut either that short or straight across as it is in that picture. We went through more photos and I said, "That's the way I want the back" to one style, and agreed on another photo for the front. I also made sure that he knew I did NOT want the top short as I really hate little sticking up hair pieces on the top of my head. I clarified that THIS is the back I like and THIS is the front and don't cut the top, and we went to the shampoo bowl.
Settled in the chair, I again picked up the photos and made sure which back and which front, and he began to partition off my hair. He explained that he would cut the botton first to establish a line, combed through my hair, and cut -- it all off! I literally jumped and said, "What did you just do?" He replied that he's setting the bottom line of the hair cut, and when I again picked up the NO-NO WAY photo and reminded him that I DO NOT want this finish to the haircut, he told me that it will look best with what he is going to do with the rest of the hair.
Okay, I should have left the salon, but ... there was a straight across cut at the nape of my neck! After 10 minutes of totally pissed off Liza, I agreed that he would have to shape the rest of the hair to that point, and he really did a great job. The top and back of the haircut really look great, although it is totally far too short, what I call a boy cut. At my age, I need something much softer than that, but too late after that first cut.
When he appeared to be finished cutting and starts to air dry my hair, fluffing it here and there, I again opened my big mouth and said, "No, I hate the way the front is cut. I DON'T want all this hair hanging forward: it doesn't look good (in my opinion) and I don't like it." Well, it seems that his solution is to pull it behind my ears if I don't like it, demonstrating with some gel and his fingers. For a more formal look, I can have it blown out and styled in a variety of ways that I won't have if that part of the haircut is changed.
Which part of I DON'T LIKE IT didn't he understand? I'm willing to deal with the totally too short back as it is a killer haircut, but I HATE THE FRONT/SIDES! That's pretty clear, right? Well, what "we're" going to do is try it out for a couple of weeks and then, if I still don't like it, he'll recut that part of the haircut, but I have to accept that it's going to "totally change the haircut."
Yeah, dude, that's what I want: I want to totally change the haircut, beginning with the back nape line that we agreed on before you took the first snip and completely changed, but about the best I'm going to get at this point is a recut of the front. Is there good news? Yeah: he comes to the desert and cuts hair in a one-seat salon and does it at a "bargain" rate from what VIPs pay for his services. Lucky, lucky me.
Nope, no pictures because I REALLY DON'T LIKE MY HAIR THIS FRIGGIN' SHORT! and I especially don't like the part that I have to glue behind my ears.
What? You Were Serious??
I've often attacked the pervasive attitude of so many of our younger generation, the ones who do whatever they want, full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes, and then, when their decisions and conduct create chaos, expect that a "Sorry" will suffice. Sorry doesn't work for me, especially with the total lack of sincerity with which it is offered. Do NOT do the deed in the first place: as my father used to say, think before you act. Believe that there are consequences and prepare to pay them if/when you plow ahead with your egregious behavior.
Lindsey Lohan and all the other H'wood young people who believe that not only are the owed a night on the town, but that it comes with free booze, drugs, and sex partners, need to grow up and realize they are living in a fantasy world of their own creation and it's crashing down on their heads. Drugs, booze, and promiscuous sex become addictive when they are not just part of H'wood's lifestyle, but the reason for it.
The disgusting behevior of a drunk is not fun: it's disgusting. The out of control conduct of a drug addict is not cool; it's dangerous and deadly. The cycle of sex partners is not hot; it's a desperate plea for someone, anyone, to accept me and love me for whom I am inside. However, if the person engaged in these behaviors has no idea who s/he is inside, the only place the individual seems to go looking for him/herself is outside. These individuals seem to be okay with counting on the clubs, the drug dealers, the multiple sex partners to define who they are and encourage the media to publicize that image and lifestyle. For some reason, these H'wood partiers have decided that media coverage determines who's on top of the heap, rather than realizing that living one's own life, privately, but doing a good job professionally, actually leads to a much longer career in any field.
Thirty is the new twenty is the watchword for many of this generation, who actually believe that when they are in their thirties, they are still young, irresponsible kids who can "cute" their way out of anything. They do not realize that the majority of their peers have jobs, spouses and children, are integral members of extended families who support each other in the bad times and celebrate the good times with them. People in their thirties are not kids: they are grown-ups who are expected to act within the law, work hard, pay their taxes, and support their communities. Clubbing is not a lifestyle; it's a recreational activity reserved for once-in-a-while special occasions because few of them have the financial resources to throw at a bartender, a drug dealer, or a sexual partner.
Ms. Lohan actually told the judge that if she had known it mattered, she would have adjusted her schedule to complete her alcohol rehab. Silly me: I thought she figured that out when they put the ankle monitor on her ... twice! She may flaunt her lifestyle to her peer group, but no one gets to flaut the laws no matter how professional the tearful performance is delivered in the courtroom.
Lock her up for the full 90 days and let the court determine where the rehab program will be housed. Lindsey, and all those who share her lifestyle and disregard for the laws of the land, need to be sent the message that yes, it does matter. Really.
Lindsey Lohan and all the other H'wood young people who believe that not only are the owed a night on the town, but that it comes with free booze, drugs, and sex partners, need to grow up and realize they are living in a fantasy world of their own creation and it's crashing down on their heads. Drugs, booze, and promiscuous sex become addictive when they are not just part of H'wood's lifestyle, but the reason for it.
The disgusting behevior of a drunk is not fun: it's disgusting. The out of control conduct of a drug addict is not cool; it's dangerous and deadly. The cycle of sex partners is not hot; it's a desperate plea for someone, anyone, to accept me and love me for whom I am inside. However, if the person engaged in these behaviors has no idea who s/he is inside, the only place the individual seems to go looking for him/herself is outside. These individuals seem to be okay with counting on the clubs, the drug dealers, the multiple sex partners to define who they are and encourage the media to publicize that image and lifestyle. For some reason, these H'wood partiers have decided that media coverage determines who's on top of the heap, rather than realizing that living one's own life, privately, but doing a good job professionally, actually leads to a much longer career in any field.
Thirty is the new twenty is the watchword for many of this generation, who actually believe that when they are in their thirties, they are still young, irresponsible kids who can "cute" their way out of anything. They do not realize that the majority of their peers have jobs, spouses and children, are integral members of extended families who support each other in the bad times and celebrate the good times with them. People in their thirties are not kids: they are grown-ups who are expected to act within the law, work hard, pay their taxes, and support their communities. Clubbing is not a lifestyle; it's a recreational activity reserved for once-in-a-while special occasions because few of them have the financial resources to throw at a bartender, a drug dealer, or a sexual partner.
Ms. Lohan actually told the judge that if she had known it mattered, she would have adjusted her schedule to complete her alcohol rehab. Silly me: I thought she figured that out when they put the ankle monitor on her ... twice! She may flaunt her lifestyle to her peer group, but no one gets to flaut the laws no matter how professional the tearful performance is delivered in the courtroom.
Lock her up for the full 90 days and let the court determine where the rehab program will be housed. Lindsey, and all those who share her lifestyle and disregard for the laws of the land, need to be sent the message that yes, it does matter. Really.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Good Morning: Day Two
UPDATE: the iPOD has an on/off switch! No, I didn't know that, but A&B are here working on the air conditioning situation, and they both have iPhones -- and about a thousand apps. I've learned so much today and now feel confident that I can both keep the device and use it!!
Yesterday worked better than the day before, so I have high hopes for today. I did the shopping required to eat more healthy foods than junk and cleaned out the cupboards (again) that I cleaned out about 6 months ago. The muscle memory in my mind gravitates toward the sweet, sweeter, and sweetest food groups, so I have to convince myself to go back to where I was a year ago: fresh foods, limited portions, eat every 4-5 hours so I don't binge. My blood sugar goes down along with my weight, so I don't just look better, but I really feel better inside, too.
I began today with exercise, first taking Mia for a walk through the neighborhood and then coming back and hooking Daisy up to her leash. We went as far as I needed to go in two legs, one each with a different dog, so that probably will work. Yep, I also did the leg lifts and the tummy tuckers, both of which my sagging parts desperately need.
Today, A&B are coming over to install a new air conditioning outlet in the living room. With the new couch comfortable in only one location in the room, I no longer can adjust the seating to take advantage of the one overhead air duct. Because the living room is actually quite a large rectangle, having the only vent at the end of the room by the huge windows limits the effectiveness of said vent when the primary seating area is at the other end of the rectangle. The guys do good work, they charge me fairly, and they always help me clean up the mess. I also made appointments for both a haircut and a car servicing for tomorrow, which will take me out and about for a few hours. And, I have plans for Fri-Sat-Sun!
About the iPOD: it's a process, not an event. I figured out how to zoom in, but don't know how to zoom out. My dotter said I can turn the screen to use the tiny keyboard, but I turned the screen and the keyboard stayed where it is. I finally found the audiobooks I bought the iPOD to use, but ... the books are double what I pay in hardcover!! Each download is between $19.95 and $34.95, which is far too much to pay to listen to someone read me a story while I walk. Dotter said that I can buy audiobooks from other outlets, so I'll check that out today. I may go with 99 cent music downloads for walking and continue to buy print books and pass them on.
Yesterday worked better than the day before, so I have high hopes for today. I did the shopping required to eat more healthy foods than junk and cleaned out the cupboards (again) that I cleaned out about 6 months ago. The muscle memory in my mind gravitates toward the sweet, sweeter, and sweetest food groups, so I have to convince myself to go back to where I was a year ago: fresh foods, limited portions, eat every 4-5 hours so I don't binge. My blood sugar goes down along with my weight, so I don't just look better, but I really feel better inside, too.
I began today with exercise, first taking Mia for a walk through the neighborhood and then coming back and hooking Daisy up to her leash. We went as far as I needed to go in two legs, one each with a different dog, so that probably will work. Yep, I also did the leg lifts and the tummy tuckers, both of which my sagging parts desperately need.
Today, A&B are coming over to install a new air conditioning outlet in the living room. With the new couch comfortable in only one location in the room, I no longer can adjust the seating to take advantage of the one overhead air duct. Because the living room is actually quite a large rectangle, having the only vent at the end of the room by the huge windows limits the effectiveness of said vent when the primary seating area is at the other end of the rectangle. The guys do good work, they charge me fairly, and they always help me clean up the mess. I also made appointments for both a haircut and a car servicing for tomorrow, which will take me out and about for a few hours. And, I have plans for Fri-Sat-Sun!
About the iPOD: it's a process, not an event. I figured out how to zoom in, but don't know how to zoom out. My dotter said I can turn the screen to use the tiny keyboard, but I turned the screen and the keyboard stayed where it is. I finally found the audiobooks I bought the iPOD to use, but ... the books are double what I pay in hardcover!! Each download is between $19.95 and $34.95, which is far too much to pay to listen to someone read me a story while I walk. Dotter said that I can buy audiobooks from other outlets, so I'll check that out today. I may go with 99 cent music downloads for walking and continue to buy print books and pass them on.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
iPOD People: Some Directions, Please
I did buy the iPOD Touch, with 8 gig of memory and a separate set of earbuds from another manufacturer. I wrestled my way through the packaging to disclose the flat, silver magic communicator, but that's where Apple lost me: there are NO directions! The "start here" message took me to pictures of products and glowing rhetoric about my journey into Appleland, but I need directions, beginning with "How to Turn the Damned Thing On." There is nothing to indicate how I charge the battery and nothing that looks like a charger in the really small, flat clear plastic box in which the iPOD was packed. I wonder if the charger is an extra piece of equipment that has to be purchased from the Apple store?
I did the double tap on the icons, finding the map first, but ... no clue how to close that one so I can try another, and NO directions! I hit what I think is the Off button, then pushed it again to turn it back on, and tried another icon. Going from one icon to another never did happen, including that swoosh motion my g'son did so well last summer as he zoomed here and there on his iPod. Do NOT tell me that I have to be techno savvy to use this thing or I'm gonna be pissed. ANYONE, even a senior citizen, should be able to figure this thing out, right?
IF you can pay for it, you should be able to play with it!
Then, I selected the APP button as I want to download some audio books, but that took me to the Apple Store, from which I can purchase Apple products ... but not the desired apps for my iPOD. I typed in a website to help me learn navigation, but it took me to iTunes -- and I don't know if I want tunes on my iPOD, especially if I cannot figure out how to navigate from one app to another! Imagine compounding that problem with, let's say, 100 tunes I could select and keep in a play list: horrifying thought, that. There are a couple of icons on the screen I want to delete, but I don't think that's an option: Apple determined what I want on my screen and put it there for me. Just that much more to avoid!
I figured out how to check my email, but how on Earth does anyone type an email address into the window?? I used my pinky finger and still could not hit the right key two times in a row. Glad I was able to determine that the large X meant delete what I just did so I can redo it. The Z is so close to the Shift key that I kept getting a shift when I wanted a letter. Silly me, I thought, "ah ha, I'll use the stylus from my PalmPilot!" That would be "no," as it seems the screen only reacts to human touch, not mechanical devices.
I'm meeting with my teenage nieces this weekend, so I'm just going to come right out and ask for some lessons, especially how to find the BOOK app at the app store. Once I can figure this out, it'll be fine, but if that day doesn't arrive in a timely manner, my son will receive a package in the mail. Yeah, he'll be rooting for that option!
I did the double tap on the icons, finding the map first, but ... no clue how to close that one so I can try another, and NO directions! I hit what I think is the Off button, then pushed it again to turn it back on, and tried another icon. Going from one icon to another never did happen, including that swoosh motion my g'son did so well last summer as he zoomed here and there on his iPod. Do NOT tell me that I have to be techno savvy to use this thing or I'm gonna be pissed. ANYONE, even a senior citizen, should be able to figure this thing out, right?
IF you can pay for it, you should be able to play with it!
Then, I selected the APP button as I want to download some audio books, but that took me to the Apple Store, from which I can purchase Apple products ... but not the desired apps for my iPOD. I typed in a website to help me learn navigation, but it took me to iTunes -- and I don't know if I want tunes on my iPOD, especially if I cannot figure out how to navigate from one app to another! Imagine compounding that problem with, let's say, 100 tunes I could select and keep in a play list: horrifying thought, that. There are a couple of icons on the screen I want to delete, but I don't think that's an option: Apple determined what I want on my screen and put it there for me. Just that much more to avoid!
I figured out how to check my email, but how on Earth does anyone type an email address into the window?? I used my pinky finger and still could not hit the right key two times in a row. Glad I was able to determine that the large X meant delete what I just did so I can redo it. The Z is so close to the Shift key that I kept getting a shift when I wanted a letter. Silly me, I thought, "ah ha, I'll use the stylus from my PalmPilot!" That would be "no," as it seems the screen only reacts to human touch, not mechanical devices.
I'm meeting with my teenage nieces this weekend, so I'm just going to come right out and ask for some lessons, especially how to find the BOOK app at the app store. Once I can figure this out, it'll be fine, but if that day doesn't arrive in a timely manner, my son will receive a package in the mail. Yeah, he'll be rooting for that option!
Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: OMG!
It was bound to happen; unfortunately, it took too many weeks for me to come face to face with myself in the mirror. I have weight issues, not because I eat too much (we all do), but because I eat all the wrong things for all the wrong reasons. When I'm stressed, I eat; when I'm depressed, I eat; when I'm happy, I eat; when I'm sad, I eat; when I'm with friends, I eat; when I'm lonely, I eat. My palate prefers sugar and grease, so that's what I shovel into my body in spite of the diabetes and the surge of weight gain associated with the kinds of food choices I make. Add to it 5 months waiting for surgery on the torn meniscus and the recovery afterward, followed by the closing of classes and decrease in physical activity, and the coming of summer and sunlight I have to avoid, and I'm huge.
Really. I'm huge. I look as if someone blew massive amounts of air into my body and inflated it to bursting. Not a good look on anyone, but most especially on me because I used to be tall and thin. At 5'8", I seldom weighed more than 125 pounds until after birthing 2 children, but even then I wore a size 10. Even post-partum, I kept my weight under control by running, but after the 3rd knee surgery on the left knee, running became problematic. Then, I hit 50 -- or maybe 50 hit me: I was older than younger, the same age as when my father died, and I started thinking that this could be the beginning of my end. I began yo-yoing in my personal life, my professional life, my public life, and my weight went along for the ride.
Sure, I'm still here, but the last decade has been challenging on far too many levels. A job I relocated to accept went suddenly south; a new position was perfect until it wasn't; I made new friends who weren't friendly; I was squeezed into making a home purchase that I never would have made in different circumstances; my first-tier family disintegrated after my mother died; my children's lives moved on well without me; I retired so I could have more time to go/do my long-deferred dreams, just in time for the economy to tank; and through it all, I've gorged and purged my body. I'm flabby where I should be firm, fat where I should be thin, and pieces of my geography are dropping at an alarming rate. I gave away all my clothes as it simply became easier to pull on pants and a t-shirt than try on outfit after outfit after outfit and have nothing fit.
When I'm not depressed, I eat well, exercise, get out and about, and enjoy life. When I am depressed, I eat whatever, sulk on the sofa, retreat to the safety of my barred doors, and have no energy to go anywhere/do anything/be with anyone. My weight has gone up and it has gone down; back up and back down; an endless cycle of stress on my body, my mind, and my emotions. Since the semester ended, I've shut myself off because there were things I wanted to do, places I wanted to go, people I wanted to spend time with, and none of it was going to happen for so many reasons that I just gave up. I've been sitting, the single worst thing I can do on any level of my life.
Yesterday, I changed my jammies and found that the ones I love best, the ones I wore last May, wouldn't stretch to accommodate my girth. Wow. You can't stuff two pounds of ground beef into a one-pound sausage casing because even it you can force it, the end result is gross. The mind's eye can fool the quick glance into the mirror, the pull-on pants covered with an extra large t-shirt, but the mirror is a harsh reflection of what's really there -- and it hurt to see myself staring back in disbelief at what I look like in the mirror.
I stayed awake most of the night, finally giving in to the sleeping tablet I sometimes have to take. Daisy snuggled close, licking my arm and giving me comfort as I tossed and turned, berating myself over and over for letting myself go again, and finally accepted that the time has come to do it again, to get back in control before there is no going back. I bounced out of bed at 6 am and did the first walk of the day: I used to walk every single day, but gave it up when the torn meniscus made using my right leg far too painful far too much of the time. It's fixed now, so it's back on the road. I stayed up last night surfing the web for the eating plan I know works for me and my diabetes, got it all ready, printed it this morning, and have begun the path forward. There are 5 weeks before I go back to work, and my expectation is that I will be able to wear my work clothes by then because using my eating plan, walking every day, and keeping myself off the couch usually gives me about 3 pounds a week weight loss -- and that's 15 pounds, which makes a difference in anyone's body, but, more importantly, attitude.
My sister-in-law has lost about 125 pounds during the past 18 months, one meal at a time, one day at a time. She gained control of what she puts into her mouth and onto her body, but she also learned that she's not a fat person, but a happy person who buried herself in layers of fat to protect herself from a life over which she had absolutely no control. By controlling her food intake, she controls herself, which is all she ever wanted. What other people do/say/think/believe is out of her hands, so she just works on herself and lets the rest of the world work on whatever floats their own boats.
I'm taking a lesson from my sister-in-law and taking back control of my life, as well as what I put into my mouth. I'm going to start making decisions that are important to me and then make happen what I need to happen. I'm going to stop using food as an escape from a reality that isn't working for me. I love people, I love going places/doing things, I want to be part of my life, not watching it from the couch. I'm going to take it one meal at a time, one day at a time, and as I plan my weekly menu, I'm also going to plan my weekly activities.
Finally, I love to read, and I've been reading far more than anyone could ever guess, but that, too, keeps me on the couch. As much as I HATE earbuds, I'm going to buy myself an I-Pod and download books on tape so I can read as I walk each day, as I do the yardwork, as I meander here and there. I am getting off the couch and back into my life -- because that's what I want and that's what I need.
Day One.
Really. I'm huge. I look as if someone blew massive amounts of air into my body and inflated it to bursting. Not a good look on anyone, but most especially on me because I used to be tall and thin. At 5'8", I seldom weighed more than 125 pounds until after birthing 2 children, but even then I wore a size 10. Even post-partum, I kept my weight under control by running, but after the 3rd knee surgery on the left knee, running became problematic. Then, I hit 50 -- or maybe 50 hit me: I was older than younger, the same age as when my father died, and I started thinking that this could be the beginning of my end. I began yo-yoing in my personal life, my professional life, my public life, and my weight went along for the ride.
Sure, I'm still here, but the last decade has been challenging on far too many levels. A job I relocated to accept went suddenly south; a new position was perfect until it wasn't; I made new friends who weren't friendly; I was squeezed into making a home purchase that I never would have made in different circumstances; my first-tier family disintegrated after my mother died; my children's lives moved on well without me; I retired so I could have more time to go/do my long-deferred dreams, just in time for the economy to tank; and through it all, I've gorged and purged my body. I'm flabby where I should be firm, fat where I should be thin, and pieces of my geography are dropping at an alarming rate. I gave away all my clothes as it simply became easier to pull on pants and a t-shirt than try on outfit after outfit after outfit and have nothing fit.
When I'm not depressed, I eat well, exercise, get out and about, and enjoy life. When I am depressed, I eat whatever, sulk on the sofa, retreat to the safety of my barred doors, and have no energy to go anywhere/do anything/be with anyone. My weight has gone up and it has gone down; back up and back down; an endless cycle of stress on my body, my mind, and my emotions. Since the semester ended, I've shut myself off because there were things I wanted to do, places I wanted to go, people I wanted to spend time with, and none of it was going to happen for so many reasons that I just gave up. I've been sitting, the single worst thing I can do on any level of my life.
Yesterday, I changed my jammies and found that the ones I love best, the ones I wore last May, wouldn't stretch to accommodate my girth. Wow. You can't stuff two pounds of ground beef into a one-pound sausage casing because even it you can force it, the end result is gross. The mind's eye can fool the quick glance into the mirror, the pull-on pants covered with an extra large t-shirt, but the mirror is a harsh reflection of what's really there -- and it hurt to see myself staring back in disbelief at what I look like in the mirror.
I stayed awake most of the night, finally giving in to the sleeping tablet I sometimes have to take. Daisy snuggled close, licking my arm and giving me comfort as I tossed and turned, berating myself over and over for letting myself go again, and finally accepted that the time has come to do it again, to get back in control before there is no going back. I bounced out of bed at 6 am and did the first walk of the day: I used to walk every single day, but gave it up when the torn meniscus made using my right leg far too painful far too much of the time. It's fixed now, so it's back on the road. I stayed up last night surfing the web for the eating plan I know works for me and my diabetes, got it all ready, printed it this morning, and have begun the path forward. There are 5 weeks before I go back to work, and my expectation is that I will be able to wear my work clothes by then because using my eating plan, walking every day, and keeping myself off the couch usually gives me about 3 pounds a week weight loss -- and that's 15 pounds, which makes a difference in anyone's body, but, more importantly, attitude.
My sister-in-law has lost about 125 pounds during the past 18 months, one meal at a time, one day at a time. She gained control of what she puts into her mouth and onto her body, but she also learned that she's not a fat person, but a happy person who buried herself in layers of fat to protect herself from a life over which she had absolutely no control. By controlling her food intake, she controls herself, which is all she ever wanted. What other people do/say/think/believe is out of her hands, so she just works on herself and lets the rest of the world work on whatever floats their own boats.
I'm taking a lesson from my sister-in-law and taking back control of my life, as well as what I put into my mouth. I'm going to start making decisions that are important to me and then make happen what I need to happen. I'm going to stop using food as an escape from a reality that isn't working for me. I love people, I love going places/doing things, I want to be part of my life, not watching it from the couch. I'm going to take it one meal at a time, one day at a time, and as I plan my weekly menu, I'm also going to plan my weekly activities.
Finally, I love to read, and I've been reading far more than anyone could ever guess, but that, too, keeps me on the couch. As much as I HATE earbuds, I'm going to buy myself an I-Pod and download books on tape so I can read as I walk each day, as I do the yardwork, as I meander here and there. I am getting off the couch and back into my life -- because that's what I want and that's what I need.
Day One.
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Bombs Bursting in Air
I remember the excitement of past July 4th celebrations, when we crowded into the beach-front stadium to watch the fireworks bloom and sparkle over the Pacific Ocean shoreline. Uncle, a fire-fighter who often had to work the event, provided the tickets that allowed our little tribe to attend the event. The marching bands, the patriotic speeches, the enthusiasm of the crowd always made July 4 memorable.
July 4, 1985 I sat on the lawn in front of the orchestra shell at the Mall in Washington, DC, barely able to contain my emotions as the huge orchestra filled the seats on the stage, prepped the music on the stands, and tuned their stringed, wind, and percussion instruments. Military personnel in formal dress uniforms were everywhere, shining like Christmas lights and drawing the eye to the reason for the patriotic display. The performers were excellent; the tributes stirring; and the fireworks display awesome, especially when the 1812 Overture boomed across the sparkling skies, punctuated by live cannon fire and pierced by jetliners landing at the nearby airport.
This is America, the land of the free and the home of the brave, at its best.
Few Valley communities hosted fireworks shows and celebrations this year, the events cut from budgets straining to provide the basic necessities for residents reeling from the economic slowdown. I assumed that the neighborhood celebrations would be more widespread and bigger than in past years, so I prepared to grit my teeth and get through it safely.
Last night, I hunkered down and prayed that none of the bottle rockets whizzing overhead would score a direct hit. I kept the dogs locked up as literally hundreds of fireworks not just lit up the sky around me, but shook the earth from the concussive force of the explosions and rained debris into my yard and onto my roof. When the "safe and sane" fireworks were gone, the hand-held pistols added the coda to the night: bang, bang, bang; bang, bang, bang; bang, bang, bang. As I cringed inside my home, I prayed that the guns were being shot into the air and not aimed at my outside walls or fellow party-goers.
The crash house two doors down, the one with perhaps as many as two dozen occupants, had a fireworks budget to rival any small town. The missiles went aloft in all directions and showered my yard with the dying embers, as well as the house next door, the house behind me, the house across the street, and the empty lot. I kept a watchful eye on the hoses I stretched out, ready for use, in both the front and backyards, just in case. The neighbors next door to me, on the other side, added their stash of fireworks to the night sky, and then the house a couple down from me, across the street, lit up the night. Behind me, the live band played festive Mexican music as part of the host's extensive fireworks display.
Believe it or not, in an area devastated by wildfires that raged out of control for weeks, fireworks are legal. Anyone can buy "safe and sane" fireworks available to the families who want their own patriotic salute in their backyards, which is neither a safe, nor a sane, activity. Some communities, like mine, have a stipulation that the fireworks cannot be sent heavenward, but since the majority of the fireworks are bought in Mexico for use in nearby SoCal communities, the regulation means nothing to the revelers who want to have the biggest, the best, and the loudest celebration in town.
Could I call the police? Sure, but law enforcement has its hands full with the drunks, the gang fights, the traffic accidents, the everyday business of the cops in any community. It's best to just wait it out, hoses ready, and hope that the party-goers run out of incendiary devices before they start a home on fire or anyone gets hurt.
Happy Birthday, America! I'm so glad we celebrate your birthday once a year, and not more often!!
July 4, 1985 I sat on the lawn in front of the orchestra shell at the Mall in Washington, DC, barely able to contain my emotions as the huge orchestra filled the seats on the stage, prepped the music on the stands, and tuned their stringed, wind, and percussion instruments. Military personnel in formal dress uniforms were everywhere, shining like Christmas lights and drawing the eye to the reason for the patriotic display. The performers were excellent; the tributes stirring; and the fireworks display awesome, especially when the 1812 Overture boomed across the sparkling skies, punctuated by live cannon fire and pierced by jetliners landing at the nearby airport.
This is America, the land of the free and the home of the brave, at its best.
Few Valley communities hosted fireworks shows and celebrations this year, the events cut from budgets straining to provide the basic necessities for residents reeling from the economic slowdown. I assumed that the neighborhood celebrations would be more widespread and bigger than in past years, so I prepared to grit my teeth and get through it safely.
Last night, I hunkered down and prayed that none of the bottle rockets whizzing overhead would score a direct hit. I kept the dogs locked up as literally hundreds of fireworks not just lit up the sky around me, but shook the earth from the concussive force of the explosions and rained debris into my yard and onto my roof. When the "safe and sane" fireworks were gone, the hand-held pistols added the coda to the night: bang, bang, bang; bang, bang, bang; bang, bang, bang. As I cringed inside my home, I prayed that the guns were being shot into the air and not aimed at my outside walls or fellow party-goers.
The crash house two doors down, the one with perhaps as many as two dozen occupants, had a fireworks budget to rival any small town. The missiles went aloft in all directions and showered my yard with the dying embers, as well as the house next door, the house behind me, the house across the street, and the empty lot. I kept a watchful eye on the hoses I stretched out, ready for use, in both the front and backyards, just in case. The neighbors next door to me, on the other side, added their stash of fireworks to the night sky, and then the house a couple down from me, across the street, lit up the night. Behind me, the live band played festive Mexican music as part of the host's extensive fireworks display.
Believe it or not, in an area devastated by wildfires that raged out of control for weeks, fireworks are legal. Anyone can buy "safe and sane" fireworks available to the families who want their own patriotic salute in their backyards, which is neither a safe, nor a sane, activity. Some communities, like mine, have a stipulation that the fireworks cannot be sent heavenward, but since the majority of the fireworks are bought in Mexico for use in nearby SoCal communities, the regulation means nothing to the revelers who want to have the biggest, the best, and the loudest celebration in town.
Could I call the police? Sure, but law enforcement has its hands full with the drunks, the gang fights, the traffic accidents, the everyday business of the cops in any community. It's best to just wait it out, hoses ready, and hope that the party-goers run out of incendiary devices before they start a home on fire or anyone gets hurt.
Happy Birthday, America! I'm so glad we celebrate your birthday once a year, and not more often!!
Saturday, July 3, 2010
They'll Get Ya Comin' or Goin'
What a nightmare, all the half-truths and scare tactics being employed this 4th of July weekend! If you believe the media, you don't dare venture into Arizona because you'll be stopped, grilled, and thrown in the slammer. If you believe the other half of the media, you don't dare leave Arizona because you'll never be allowed back in. No matter that the new law does not take effect until July 29: throw the scare at travelers over America's birthday celebration as that better fuels the divisiveness.
The Arizona law is the same law that's on the federal books: if/when an individual is stopped for a legal reason, such as a traffic violation, law enforcement has the legal right to ask for documentation. Most of us don't think twice: we get out the driver's license, vehicle registration, and proof of insurance before the officer can stroll to the window and request the paperwork. If you have the papers, you'll either get a warning, a fix it ticket, or an appearance ticket. No driver's license means you may get a ticket for driving without a license -- but if you also don't have insurance or registration papers, you're going to be arrested regardless of your immigration status. And if you're driving under the influence, all the proper paperwork in the world is not going to keep you out of jail.
If I'm in Mexico, Canada, or foreign countries without contiguous borders to the US, I have to carry my passport. No passport: I either leave voluntarily or I am arrested and deported. I don't have rights; I have responsibilities. Because I am a law-abiding citizen in my own country, I also obey the laws of foreign countries when I am a guest outside my own borders. What is expected in other countries is expected in the United States, but when a state decides to tighten enforcement of the federal laws regarding immigration, the world responds as if it is a personal offense. America doesn't question the right of foreign countries to regulate visitors to their countries, so why would anyone question the right of America to regulate visitors to our country?
President Obama says he does not want to give blanket amnesty to anyone residing in the country illegally, but also cannot deport the estimated 12 million people so doing. He says the immigration process needs to be reformed, but has no idea how to make that happen. He says we have a problem, but let's not make the problem bigger or worse by doing something about it, such as the citizens of Arizona have done. He says there are more boots on the ground than there were 20 years ago, a totally "no duh" statement if ever there was one. There are more workers at the DMV, but it takes longer to get an appointment to conduct business than it did 20 years ago because there are more licensed drivers and vehicles to register. Ditto the borders!
Even though there are more border agents on the southern border, there are more illegal entries, especially because the media publicizes that nothing is ever going to happen to anyone who is here illegally! Rather than securing our borders, health and wellness stations have been established in the desolate reaches of the desert to help save the lives of individuals who cross the border illegally and ill-prepared to survive the journey. Even the President said in his recent address that there are "hundreds of thousands of illegal immigrants" entering the United States each year because our borders are not secure. The President claims that he's more than doubled the number of boots on the ground, but if the starting number was in the hundreds and the ending number is about a thousand, it doesn't take much to understand that hundreds of thousands of illegal immigrants cannot be contained by a thousand border guards.
The majority of travelers to and from Arizona have nothing to fear if they are in the country legally, have a registered vehicle, proof of insurance, and a driver's license, and do not break any laws or become involved in an accident. For a person who cannot provide the proof required by the laws of the land, it is best to stay home and celebrate America's birthday in the backyard.
The Arizona law is the same law that's on the federal books: if/when an individual is stopped for a legal reason, such as a traffic violation, law enforcement has the legal right to ask for documentation. Most of us don't think twice: we get out the driver's license, vehicle registration, and proof of insurance before the officer can stroll to the window and request the paperwork. If you have the papers, you'll either get a warning, a fix it ticket, or an appearance ticket. No driver's license means you may get a ticket for driving without a license -- but if you also don't have insurance or registration papers, you're going to be arrested regardless of your immigration status. And if you're driving under the influence, all the proper paperwork in the world is not going to keep you out of jail.
If I'm in Mexico, Canada, or foreign countries without contiguous borders to the US, I have to carry my passport. No passport: I either leave voluntarily or I am arrested and deported. I don't have rights; I have responsibilities. Because I am a law-abiding citizen in my own country, I also obey the laws of foreign countries when I am a guest outside my own borders. What is expected in other countries is expected in the United States, but when a state decides to tighten enforcement of the federal laws regarding immigration, the world responds as if it is a personal offense. America doesn't question the right of foreign countries to regulate visitors to their countries, so why would anyone question the right of America to regulate visitors to our country?
President Obama says he does not want to give blanket amnesty to anyone residing in the country illegally, but also cannot deport the estimated 12 million people so doing. He says the immigration process needs to be reformed, but has no idea how to make that happen. He says we have a problem, but let's not make the problem bigger or worse by doing something about it, such as the citizens of Arizona have done. He says there are more boots on the ground than there were 20 years ago, a totally "no duh" statement if ever there was one. There are more workers at the DMV, but it takes longer to get an appointment to conduct business than it did 20 years ago because there are more licensed drivers and vehicles to register. Ditto the borders!
Even though there are more border agents on the southern border, there are more illegal entries, especially because the media publicizes that nothing is ever going to happen to anyone who is here illegally! Rather than securing our borders, health and wellness stations have been established in the desolate reaches of the desert to help save the lives of individuals who cross the border illegally and ill-prepared to survive the journey. Even the President said in his recent address that there are "hundreds of thousands of illegal immigrants" entering the United States each year because our borders are not secure. The President claims that he's more than doubled the number of boots on the ground, but if the starting number was in the hundreds and the ending number is about a thousand, it doesn't take much to understand that hundreds of thousands of illegal immigrants cannot be contained by a thousand border guards.
The majority of travelers to and from Arizona have nothing to fear if they are in the country legally, have a registered vehicle, proof of insurance, and a driver's license, and do not break any laws or become involved in an accident. For a person who cannot provide the proof required by the laws of the land, it is best to stay home and celebrate America's birthday in the backyard.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Cash and Carry: No Credit
The Governor of Cally phone ya has ordered (again) that all qualified state employees will be paid the state's minimum wage until the legislature passes a budget. Again, the state treasurer says he will not comply because people cannot live on minimum wage, but if there is no budget, there is no money, so earning something is better than getting nothing. Once the budget impasse is resolved, the employees will get back pay, but in the meanwhile, good luck with paying the monthly bills!
Another reporter interviewed a woman whose taxes have gone down significantly because her home no longer is worth the assessment on it, so she applied to have her taxes adjusted accordingly. She encourages everyone to apply on line: it's so easy and just takes a couple of minutes. She's so happy that she's going to be paying about half of what her taxes were 2 years ago that she wants everyone to follow her lead ... but does anyone understand what that really means?
Cities, towns, suburbs, inner cities, rural areas, retirement communities: everyone is seeing the aftermath of the real estate implosion. Yes, no one has a property worth what it was a couple of years ago, but all government agencies have increased salaries, services, and benefits based on the tax base from the prosperous years. Now that real estate is being devalued and the tax liability is being halved, there is LIMITED TAX REVENUE to pay the bills.
IF the average annual wage of a state employee is $36,000, that employee earns approximately $3000 a month -- which, at my current tax rate, will take my property taxes and 2 other like property owners' taxes to provide. If our taxes go down, we'll have to use the revenue from more property owners to pay the salary of one state employee. Even in a small city, such as the one where I live, there are about 250 state employees, plus the offices, the vehicles, the supplies and material to maintain the city -- and the phones and the utilities and all the other thousands of ways that government agencies spend money. The cost of my local government cannot be supported solely by the property taxes collected in the community, especially now that so many properties have gone into foreclosure and/or have been devalued, which lowers the tax liability and, by extension, the tax revenue.
Yes, there are other taxes that provide revenue to the state aside from property taxes, but people are not spending money as they were a year ago, which means that sales' tax revenue has declined, gas tax has declined, vehicle registration revenue has declined, and the list goes on and on and on.
It amazes me that so many people believe that the government has the money not just to keep the doors open, but to expand the free programs, hire the currently unemployed people, and provide premier services without costing anyone a dime. We are so disconnected from the reality of living on what we earn, rather than borrowing what we think we're going to earn next year, that I cannot see a way to change the perception of it's all free short of a total collapse of our current system and a rebuilding based on cash in hand. Our government centers are going to look like our neighborhoods, with plywood covering the windows, landscaping withering, and vagrants living in the vacant buildings of a vast concrete wasteland.
Another reporter interviewed a woman whose taxes have gone down significantly because her home no longer is worth the assessment on it, so she applied to have her taxes adjusted accordingly. She encourages everyone to apply on line: it's so easy and just takes a couple of minutes. She's so happy that she's going to be paying about half of what her taxes were 2 years ago that she wants everyone to follow her lead ... but does anyone understand what that really means?
Cities, towns, suburbs, inner cities, rural areas, retirement communities: everyone is seeing the aftermath of the real estate implosion. Yes, no one has a property worth what it was a couple of years ago, but all government agencies have increased salaries, services, and benefits based on the tax base from the prosperous years. Now that real estate is being devalued and the tax liability is being halved, there is LIMITED TAX REVENUE to pay the bills.
IF the average annual wage of a state employee is $36,000, that employee earns approximately $3000 a month -- which, at my current tax rate, will take my property taxes and 2 other like property owners' taxes to provide. If our taxes go down, we'll have to use the revenue from more property owners to pay the salary of one state employee. Even in a small city, such as the one where I live, there are about 250 state employees, plus the offices, the vehicles, the supplies and material to maintain the city -- and the phones and the utilities and all the other thousands of ways that government agencies spend money. The cost of my local government cannot be supported solely by the property taxes collected in the community, especially now that so many properties have gone into foreclosure and/or have been devalued, which lowers the tax liability and, by extension, the tax revenue.
Yes, there are other taxes that provide revenue to the state aside from property taxes, but people are not spending money as they were a year ago, which means that sales' tax revenue has declined, gas tax has declined, vehicle registration revenue has declined, and the list goes on and on and on.
It amazes me that so many people believe that the government has the money not just to keep the doors open, but to expand the free programs, hire the currently unemployed people, and provide premier services without costing anyone a dime. We are so disconnected from the reality of living on what we earn, rather than borrowing what we think we're going to earn next year, that I cannot see a way to change the perception of it's all free short of a total collapse of our current system and a rebuilding based on cash in hand. Our government centers are going to look like our neighborhoods, with plywood covering the windows, landscaping withering, and vagrants living in the vacant buildings of a vast concrete wasteland.
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