Going Down the Path

Today hubby had the three amigos at a friend's house, swimming in their pool. I took advantage of the day by myself (whoopee!) to run errands, eat lunch in peace...and then decided to take a nice long walk through the state park nearby. All told, it was about two and a half miles there and the same back. Not bad since most of the path is shaded.

Lots of bicycle riders passed, and some called out greetings. I only saw a handful of other walkers. About halfway through my trek, I noticed an odd looking guy walking towards me. He was dressed in a short sleeved shirt, but the material was heavy. And heavy jeans too, strange for a humid summer day. I smiled as he passed. After I smiled, he smiled back and said, "Jesus loves you."

Not being religious in the least, this caught me by surprise. And I certainly had no idea what reply to make, so I said nothing. I suppose people are constantly walking paths of life, both literal and figurative. I knew I was headed back home, but maybe others are still searching for a destination. That's the best of my profound inclinations for today.

How's That Again?

Last night, one of the kids was complaining about something hubby was doing, which he found disquieting. He attempted to use the word "unnerving" but he actually said "un Irving." When I asked him to repeat it, he said it the same way. I then explained what the word actually was, and why it means what it means. First he looked at me as though I was trying to sell him a bridge, and then he completely tuned out midway through my explanation. Sigh. Kids.

Something else I hear, from adults, is "half fast" when they mean to say "half-assed." Fine that they're not using a quasi profanity, but it's just not correct. One refers to a tempo between slow and speedy, and the other refers to a lukewarm attempt to do something. How about some people's lukewarm attempts to learn their vocabulary? Or were they only proceeding at medium pace and missed half of it?

I'm sure I mangle our spoken language as much as many others who give it the Lawn Guyland twang, but I may be too much of a purist to be living in America in 2010. But I perservere.

Sold by Weight

Last night, I cooked and served dinner (chicken pieces, wild rice, cauliflower with parmesan, salad) and then headed over to BJ's. At very least, I had promised to drop off some brownies this morning at the elementary school on the way to work as a favor to the PTA; traditionally the younger kids' families feed the fifth graders on Moving Up day. But of course I had a list of other things to get.

Besides some cereal, beans, oatmeal snack bars, and watermelon, I had a handful of perishables to get too. So I figured I'd start with the deli counter. Not a good call. There were four other carts ahead of me, and the one arthritic-looking employee who was serving up the cold cuts was doing it at glacial speed. So I left the cart and went around getting the meats and fish I needed. In so doing, I noticed that there were packages of pre-sliced roasted turkey, bologna, ham, and provolone in one of the cases. Sold! I left the miserable group of people in the deli department and headed for checkout.

The self-checkout lines usually work for me, and the lines were pretty short. When I was almost at the head of the line I grabbed a Diet Pepsi out of the small fridge next to the conveyor belt and drank about half of it. (Not all of it, because too much caffeine after dinner means we don't sleep much.) So I scanned all my items, one after the other, watching them head off merrily down the conveyor belt in turn.

The last item was the soda. It kept coming back, with the machine saying that the item couldn't be processed. Luckily I didn't have to turn the light on or look for anybody, because a young cheerful employee happened to be passing by. He flashed his magic BJ's access card at the scanner, and then the soda went bobbing down the belt. I looked at him quizzically. "The machine goes by weight, and the weight wasn't right. Happens all the time...shopping makes people thirsty." He answered my sheepish grin with a genuine broad smile.

Maybe there's some material there for a future Diet Pepsi commercial?

What Exactly Are They Feeding People?

This is a photo of a pole outside a restaurant down the block from the convention center in New Orleans. My second visit to this locality was punctuated by some excellent food. They really know how to apply seasonings. Plus, I love shrimp and crab and grits and gravy and had to watch my waistline carefully "or else."

The convention center is also down the block from Harrah's, the world famous casino. It struck me that I saw several posters like this in the immediate area (this photo was taken inside a parking garage, on the "down" ramp as you approach street level). Are casinos really interested in seeing gambling addicts get help, or are they just playing a game of CYA so they look like the good guys? I thought this photo was tres ironic...not deliciously ironic though, since it made me a bit queasy.

I Actually Broke a Sweat, Y'All

Fabulous five days in New Orleans on a business trip have finally come to a close. Newspaper and TV weather people were saying that the mercury was in the low nineties, and the heat index was over 100 (taking the humidity into account). Even I, whose name ought to be "get me a sweater" according to my friend and coworker M, broke a sweat. Not a drip down the face kind of sweat, but an overall clammy feeling with clothes that became damp and stinky. I'd brought extra shirts, socks, and undergarments in case that happened, but I wound up doing laundry in the hotel because I didn't want to put dirty funky clothes in my suitcase (plastic laundry bags notwithstanding). The smell of perspiration, plus the Bourbon Street odors, plus the stale smoke that had crept into my clothing and hair...too much for me.

Now my fellow travelers can correct me if I slip and chant my old mantra "not me, I never sweat" in the future.

Light's On, Nobody's Home

Earlier this morning, I was home doing some light housework and watching an old VHS tape of the best of the Dean Martin celebrity roasts...all to kill time before heading over to the elementary school before my third grader's recorder and chorus concert. At about 20 to 9 the phone rings. I recognize the number as one within the middle school phone system. Sigh. Teacher? Nurse?

Neither. Disciplinary dean. (Big sigh.) He started the sentence with "your son" and I had to stop him to ask which one, since I have two in the middle school. Son #2, a.k.a. Mr. We Often Don't Think About the Consequences When We Are Doing Something That Seems Like Fun.

Let's back up in time for a minute. Some weeks ago, he wheedled his dad into buying a mini laser pointer off the counter at the local 7-11 (five bucks, I think) with the caveat that he doesn't do anything stupid with it. Of course he's been hollered at several times to stop pointing it at the TV screen, a piece of paper that someone's trying to read, etc. So now, when you guess that he got into trouble for doing something with it at school this morning, you'll be correct.

Unbeknownst to me, he brought the wretched thing to school (strike 1) and he took it out during class (strike 2) and allowed a buddy of his to hold it (three strikes, yer out). The buddy pointed it at another kid, who had to go to the nurse because his eye had a burning sensation. The nurse said the kid was fine, thank goodness, but we also have the issue of disrupting class and having to take the time to go down and sit in the dean's office for a while. Sigh.

The dean said that there would be no disciplinary consequences, to which I responded, "That's what you think. Wait 'til his father gets home." I told him that the least of my son's problems would be that he wouldn't see the laser pointer again, and he informed me that he'd confiscated it. I told him to keep it -- one problem solved. Making up the class work will be the other problem.

Hubby was amused when I called him on his cell to advise about the situation. He's all set to go to work on Mr. Bad Judgment when he gets home from school. Then I get to find out what happened when I get home from work. Heh heh.

Environmental Salad

Upon remarking that I've already begun packing for a business trip to New Orleans this weekend, one of my very clever Facebook friends told me to bring vinegar to go with all of that oil. Funny, and sad too.