Z-ING

Just when you think advertisements can’t get any weirder, they do.

Take this ING ad (Please!): Woman walks into a home via the back door, into a family’s kitchen.  Mother, father, daughter in the home are moving in extreme slow motion.  Daughter putting books in backpack s-l-o-w-l-y.  Visiting woman asks what are you doing? Resident woman says our mortgage was taking so-o-o long to pay off, we thought we might as well live in slow motion. Visiting woman does not ask are you nuts?  She does not ask how does one do that, live in slow motion? She doesn't even ask how do you pee, which is the first thing that came to my mind. No, she suddenly has a large orange ball in her hands, a sort of exercise ball for underachievers.  She approaches kitchen woman and commands: touch the ball. Really?  Touch the ball?  A little sexual are we?  Maybe ING should change their signature color to blue. They could just go the distance and add a second ball, while they're at it.  

Another ING ad:  man walking on hands in home improvement store and complaining about something money related. (I wasn't paying attention; there's a man upside down, going around and around on his hands.)  Woman approaches with that damn orange ball. Touch the ball.  Really?  Which hand?  Do you want him to fall on his head? But this is no ordinary home-improvement-store guy.  He can reach up and touch the ball!  It's a DIY miracle!  I think if I saw some nut walking on his hands in a box store, I’d hightail it out of there. And if I were walking around on my hands in the paint department and some wacko told me to touch the ball I'd call security, if I could reach a phone. Or I’d at least ask where that ball's been; the hand sanitizer would have fallen out of my pocket back in the lumber department.

Blog housekeeping

Sorry I've been out of touch for a couple of weeks.  I was trying to fix some issues with the blog and then I had a no good, very bad week.  (Lots of fodder for future blog posts.)

So, the housekeeping.  Turns out when you signed up to follow my blog, you were really just doing sort of an e-shout out to me.  It was a web wave.  It was a "Hey, Cathy, I read your blog." It was sort of the equivalent of the facebook 'like.' What it doesn't mean, evidently, is that Blogspot sends you notices when I post a new post.  No, it does not.  I had no idea. I thought all of you were getting a brief little email from Blogspot every time I posted saying "Hey Marian, Hey Cindy, Cathy has a new post so read it."  Dang, following is a worthless (although appreciated) gesture. 

So, now I will email you a notice when I post something.  I will do what Blogspot has failed to do! My web person tells me there is also the option to sign up for an RSS, which will notify you of the postings.  Some of you younguns may know about RSS but I didn't. My understanding is that RSS links are at the top of the blog page or on the url line or somewhere up there and are easy to activate on all browsers except Safari.  If you use Safari and you want instructions, let me know and I'll email them to you.  They're long.

Also, I removed any restrictions on commenting so if you had trouble commenting directly on the blog before, you should be able to now.  I had been advised to have restrictions so all the wackos and spammers couldn't send comments but we'll see what happens, won't we?

Is it just me or is all this technical stuff just too damn technical?

An actual content-based blog post coming soon.  

Cathy

I Think I'm a Little Agoraphobic

I think I must be a little agoraphobic.  I would rather stay home than do most anything.  I like to be in my own kitchen, on my own couch, in my own office.  I like to have one of my cats nearby (sometimes they're too near) and have the view out my own windows.  I am always a bit surprised the world is there when I cross over into it. Oh, fresh air.  Has that always been here?

My friend Suzette is a real outdoorsy, former jock type person.  She often calls me and says "Isn't the weather amazing?  Isn't it great outside?" and I answer, to her chagrin, "Is it?"  I really don't know. I have been happily reading and poking around at all the indoor things like laundry and emailing and trying to write.

My husband often comes home on Friday nights and says, "Let's go to the movies," and I answer "But I got us movies from Blockbuster," or "Really, go out to the movies? Tonight?"  (Now, I know what you're thinking: she had to go out to Blockbuster, didn't she?  I do go outside.  I do plan ahead for the weekend and go grocery shopping and all that, it's just that when there's a choice, stay here or go out, I'll often take stay here.)

Maybe the problem is we have to drive everywhere, and I mean everywhere: the supermarket, the dry cleaners, a coffee shop.  If we go for a long walk, all we get are more houses.  We want to move to a house in a walkable neighborhood, where we can walk to the movies and a restaurant and a coffee shop, all in one go.  If I still just want to stay inside there, in a new house, then we'll know: I'm a little agoraphobic. Or maybe just lazy.

Hi, It's Me

Do you ever call someone and then, before they answer, forget whom you've called?  

You dial the number and as you hear the first ring at the other end, you get up from the table to absentmindedly sort the mail, putting a dangerous amount of distance between yourself and any note to self or clues as to whom you've called.  Or your cat rolls over on its back, and looks absolutely adorable, so you walk over to the couch to stroke its belly and out the window you see a bird you don't recognize and you start to wonder, "Is that bird book around here somewhere?  I think I left it on the shelf in the kitchen." Or you hear the buzz indicating the end of the dryer cycle and you wander down the hall and open the dryer door to feel if the clothes are damp or dry.  No matter how it happens, a couple of rings go by as your mind and your body move about your house.  The ringing continues softly. You enter a meditative state.  Ring, ring.