Lost on the Lunatic Fringe

I got in a conversation with one of my co-workers about how there was something claustrophobic about our jobs. We joked about how we’d dreamed of working in a call center as children, and that our lives were now complete. The truth seems to be that the winter is lasting forever. It’s March already, and it’s as cold and miserable as it was in January. The confinement indoors seems to be driving a lot of people a little nuts. I think it will take until May for the snow to melt. Between now and then I expect it will be a muddy mess that will be even worse than the snow was. Once again there will be water-skiing in the ditches, and lakes in the middle of fields. We’ll be lucky if the farmers get to plant by June. The fields will be too wet. Probably this will be another year when they’ll all claim their crops as total losses on the insurance.

I want to be able to wear skirts again and light jackets. I want to be able to plan my garden and paint my house and erect a fence and a shed. I don’t like the stale air of the house anymore. I want sunshine and fresh air that doesn’t freeze your lungs when you breathe it. I want an end to ice and mountains of snow turning the roads into icy tunnels. I want to get a bike and ride it around the neighborhood and maybe actually get in the habit of using it to go shopping or just to get around. I want to see green grass again.

Maybe the next six weeks will give me what I want.

I went to visit my grandmother in hospice care tonight. I never know how to act around death. I don’t know how much she heard of what was going on around her. They’ve got her so full of morphine that I’d be surprised if she remembers her own name. Mehdi and I agreed that if we ever got to the point where we couldn’t care for ourselves or have this loss of dignity that is age, we’d take an overdose. I never want to live that way, if living is something you can call it.
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Well, actually…I’d like it. Unfortunately and for reasons best known only to the gods of bloggery, when someone attempts to leave a comment they get a “not found” error. I’m going to have to talk to the hubby about this when he gets home. He’ll be plenty mad anyway when he sees that I’ve changed the theme he worked so hard on last night. I’ll see if he can fix the comment function. I should know, but I don’t. My ignorance of some very basic concepts is showing. I hate it, but there’s nothing for it but to allow the in-house expert (I’ll repeat, I sleep with him. All mine, that sexy sexy geek man. Mmmmmm.) to do his thing and clean up whatever is wrong on this fancy new blog.

A friend pointed me in the direction of John Cleese’s blog. I went there to look, and he’s using the same wordpress as I am. He’s better at it. Much better. How can this be? He’s old, at least in the sense that he hasn’t been using computers for the percentage of his life that I have. He never had one in school and I did. How is it that he can link video to his and operate it in ways that I can’t? It’s not fair, and there ought to be a law preventing the elderly from upstaging youngsters like that.
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