This week I mourned the loss of my 4th generation, 60GB iPod (AKA iPod with color display or the iPod with photo). My sister-in-law gave me a white nano for our Christmas gift exchange in 2005. I immediately upgraded to a black 60GB to compliment my husband's white 60GB.
What genius minds work at Apple! How wonderful to have one's music collection at one's fingertips - literally! It took many hours to load our CD collection onto the computer. Thank goodness Apple's technology forsaw the library sharing between a few iPod's. I don't think either one of us could have handled loading everything twice. That library grew as we accumulated more CD's and added songs from college and high school, albums and cassette tapes via iTunes. Our music library now has 8,055 songs on it - including holiday, children and classical music.
Music defines my life. Music is my love. To paraphrase Ewan McGregor's song in Moulin Rouge: "(Music) lifts us up where we belong, (music) is a many splendored thing, without (music) we are nothing."
What caused my iPod's demise? During our latest vacation, it laid under a damp napkin overnight in the Pacific Coastal Mexico's high humidity. The next morning it showed condensation on the screen. When I returned home, it took about 5 hours just to recharge the low battery. I reset and restored it twice - only to find we could no longer hear the music as it is playing; either with the headphones or the sound-dock station.
In its honor, I held an Irish Wake. For more information on that, check out this web-site: http://www.bellaonline.com/articles/art42808.asp . Since my iPod doesn't drink, I thought something rich and sweet would honor it nicely: a bowl of Breyer's natural vanilla ice cream topped with melted chocolate chips. (Too bad I no longer have my music to get my exercise jumping as I'm going to need it after that!)
And now I'm eyeing a new updated iPod with movies.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Golfing in the Mist
Last night, the girls called me while I was watching my son's tee-ball game.
"Come join us," they commanded. I waited for the game to finish. My husband left me (!) during the last inning to exercise. I had no babysitter.
I took the kids, ball glove, hat and ice cooler filled with that night's extra game treats and returned home.
I had the kids change clothes, walked the dog, bar-b-qued chicken and microwaved frozen green beens for dinner.
I noticed the garage door was open. My husband had returned home, but was visiting with our yard gurus.
"Hey!" I called. "I've been waiting for you. I'm going out for a drink with the girls."
"What?!" he said, astonished. (It's a long time since I joined the girls on Wednesday night.) When he walked into the kitchen, he said he smelled "charred chicken."
I glared at him, "This is NOT funny. They kids ate. Your dinner is ready. Good-bye."
I grabbed my keys and skipped down the stairs.
I fled my responsibilities. (hee hee, he can put the kids to bed)
Calling the girls on route to the course (which was accomplished via many missed calls, etc.), I found they skipped dinner in favor of an impromptu 18-hole 4-lady scramble. They were only on hole 13.
I called ahead to the Pro Shop. Mr. R. answered after the third attempt. He loaded my clubs on a cart so I could catch them when I arrived.
First I stepped into the club bar to pick up some Coronas for the course. I then realized I'd left my locker key at home (I thought we were dining, not golfing). I was wearing my Merrills, thus, was not wearing "proper golf (shoe) attire."
One of my girlfriends (who is a Great Golfer) was preparing to dine with her husband. She graciously lent me new socks (as in tear off the plastic part holding them together) as well as a pair of spikes. "Which color would you prefer with your outfit?" she generously asked.
I then convinced her to ditch her spouse and join us on the course.
The 4-lady scramble became 6. We joined the 4-some on hole 14.
The weather was perfect! The sun was setting, thus, the temperature had cooled. The result was a heavy mist rising off the grounds, giving the empty course a fairy-tale setting. B. still wore her work clothes, so removed her heels to putt. She soaked the hem of her cream-colored pants with dew.
Halfway through hole 14, I wondered why I joined them. Once again, I am over-my-head in athletic competition. Three of the six women played 18 holes in the first part of our Club Championship that morning. #5 didn't play, but could have bested them all. #6 worked out-of-town that day. She'd returned 15 minutes prior to my dragging her away from her husband.
This scramble was a lot of teasing and betting - female-style.
A. complained her father wouldn't give her an iPhone. She also said she wanted to see a hole-in-one on #17 - a Par-3. Club tradition holds that a hole-in-one person opens the bar for everybody present - free cocktails for all! I told her, "If I make a hole-in-one, (my spouse) would give (her) an iPhone, but the bar is closed." (Please note I am the worst player present. These women score less in 18 holes than I do in 9.)
My drive landed about one foot (12 inches) in front of the pin. It was the closest drive from all six women present.
After that the sun sank fast. We left balls in the grass if they were hit out of the fairway. We surreptitiously dropped balls, then hit others if people were talking too much. (ha ha) Expletives peppered the damp air. We congratulated one another on our fluency.
It was a great time with nature, the weather and, especially, a golf course to ourselves.
Reality hit when B. had the foresight to remember the kitchen closed at 9:00 pm. She called ahead. The staff graciously offered to wait for us to arrive to place our dinner order.
But for a few hours, we forgot who we were. We were no longer mothers, or employers, or employees, or students.
We were simply females with clubs and nature, stretching back time to our forebears.
For those few hours: we were the game.
"Come join us," they commanded. I waited for the game to finish. My husband left me (!) during the last inning to exercise. I had no babysitter.
I took the kids, ball glove, hat and ice cooler filled with that night's extra game treats and returned home.
I had the kids change clothes, walked the dog, bar-b-qued chicken and microwaved frozen green beens for dinner.
I noticed the garage door was open. My husband had returned home, but was visiting with our yard gurus.
"Hey!" I called. "I've been waiting for you. I'm going out for a drink with the girls."
"What?!" he said, astonished. (It's a long time since I joined the girls on Wednesday night.) When he walked into the kitchen, he said he smelled "charred chicken."
I glared at him, "This is NOT funny. They kids ate. Your dinner is ready. Good-bye."
I grabbed my keys and skipped down the stairs.
I fled my responsibilities. (hee hee, he can put the kids to bed)
Calling the girls on route to the course (which was accomplished via many missed calls, etc.), I found they skipped dinner in favor of an impromptu 18-hole 4-lady scramble. They were only on hole 13.
I called ahead to the Pro Shop. Mr. R. answered after the third attempt. He loaded my clubs on a cart so I could catch them when I arrived.
First I stepped into the club bar to pick up some Coronas for the course. I then realized I'd left my locker key at home (I thought we were dining, not golfing). I was wearing my Merrills, thus, was not wearing "proper golf (shoe) attire."
One of my girlfriends (who is a Great Golfer) was preparing to dine with her husband. She graciously lent me new socks (as in tear off the plastic part holding them together) as well as a pair of spikes. "Which color would you prefer with your outfit?" she generously asked.
I then convinced her to ditch her spouse and join us on the course.
The 4-lady scramble became 6. We joined the 4-some on hole 14.
The weather was perfect! The sun was setting, thus, the temperature had cooled. The result was a heavy mist rising off the grounds, giving the empty course a fairy-tale setting. B. still wore her work clothes, so removed her heels to putt. She soaked the hem of her cream-colored pants with dew.
Halfway through hole 14, I wondered why I joined them. Once again, I am over-my-head in athletic competition. Three of the six women played 18 holes in the first part of our Club Championship that morning. #5 didn't play, but could have bested them all. #6 worked out-of-town that day. She'd returned 15 minutes prior to my dragging her away from her husband.
This scramble was a lot of teasing and betting - female-style.
A. complained her father wouldn't give her an iPhone. She also said she wanted to see a hole-in-one on #17 - a Par-3. Club tradition holds that a hole-in-one person opens the bar for everybody present - free cocktails for all! I told her, "If I make a hole-in-one, (my spouse) would give (her) an iPhone, but the bar is closed." (Please note I am the worst player present. These women score less in 18 holes than I do in 9.)
My drive landed about one foot (12 inches) in front of the pin. It was the closest drive from all six women present.
After that the sun sank fast. We left balls in the grass if they were hit out of the fairway. We surreptitiously dropped balls, then hit others if people were talking too much. (ha ha) Expletives peppered the damp air. We congratulated one another on our fluency.
It was a great time with nature, the weather and, especially, a golf course to ourselves.
Reality hit when B. had the foresight to remember the kitchen closed at 9:00 pm. She called ahead. The staff graciously offered to wait for us to arrive to place our dinner order.
But for a few hours, we forgot who we were. We were no longer mothers, or employers, or employees, or students.
We were simply females with clubs and nature, stretching back time to our forebears.
For those few hours: we were the game.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Wild Horses...keep draggin me away
We just returned home last night from the Sutherland (NE) Rodeo - celebrating its 71st year - as part of a mini-family reunion. Though I grew up in Omaha, Nebraska, I didn't set foot on a farm, err, ranch until I was 22-years-old. I thoroughly enjoyed myself as usual. The kids had fun. My youngest said, "Look Mom! Cowboys!" One of my forgettable comments upon seeing a bull refuse to corrall after bucking off his rider: "Oh, look! That bull doesn't want to kennel."
The rodeo ends with the Wild Horse race. Teams of three men (women are too smart to waste time with this one) capture a wild horse out of the shoot, throw a halter on it, put on a saddle, ride it around two barrels, take off the saddle and halter and finally race to the finish line. It sounds easy, but it's not. Of course, the horses are scared - heck, they're wild. Also one of the tricks to getting the horse to stand still while the saddle gear is thrown on him, is to have one team member hold the halter and bite the horses's ear.
17 years ago, many of the guys we knew who did it were drunk. I'm not so certain any more as competition was good and quite fierce this year. Three teams competed the first night, which was disappointing. Usually all shoots are full. We had a tie the second night.
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