Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut Part 2

by Jody Worsham All rights reserved for Almond Joy and Mounds

RECAP

In re-reading my last post, I seemed to have joined the ranks of my grandmother in bewailing progress. She hated her new-fangled washing machine;I like my automatic washing machine, I just hate these new-fangled computer updates. For some reason, the new updates would not allow me to write in paragraphs. After consulting my closest friends on the World Wide Web, I received computer advice that, if followed, should allow paragraphs in my post. They offered no guarantee as to spelling or gramatical correctness. Here follows, as Paul Harvey used to say, "the rest of the story."

Rose (http://www.rosevalenta.com) suggested I add "lesser than" symbol at the end of a paragraph followed by b and the "greater than" symbol. I started taking notes with my trusty #2 pencil and spiral notebook. "HTML has hidden codes. To break the code you must have these litle sidways house tops. Add "b" at the end of a paragraph to create a new line. Add "b/l" to end the coded instructions unless you want paragraphs; then you only have to have "b". Or you can do the "P"." I wish I still had my Little Orphan Annie decoder ring.

Joanie (http://mailtojoanie19@wordpress.com) said to hit the "return" then "return" again. Wanda (www.wandaargersinger.com) said to type in visual mode not HTML but I don't have a visual. Sharon (http://theenergerywriter.com) wants me to copy, paste, hit enter after each paragraph,click preview, click publish...do the Hokey Pokey and turn yourself about...no wait; that's someting else.

Another wanted to know why I was writing in HTML instead of compose. I told her I was just typing in English and trying to cut and paste to my blog with regular paragraphs the same I have been doing for the past two years until the new and improved updates. The acorn is quickly sliding down a mile long glacier.

Someday a doctoral thesis will be written exploring the early twenty-first century literary significance of a mute pre-historic squirrel and his illusive acorn and their relationship to post-apocalyptic computerization of man. Debates will rage in ivory towers as to its symbolic meaning to mankind.

The truth is, I just want to write with paragraphs and that squirrel just wants his nut.

The End

Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut; Sometimes You Are

by Jody Worsham

Part One

All rights reserved for the Nut House

You know how in Ice Age that pre-historic squirrel is always chasing that illusive acorn?  Just about the time he almost gets his paws around the acorn, the world shifts on its axis, the ice Age starts to melt, or a huge crack appears in a glacier separating him from his nut.

That's the way I am when it comes to computers.About the time I finally learn how to do something, it gets improved on or updated. If you have read my posts for the last couple of times, you may have noted that my writing appeared to be one long paragraph.  I assure you that in its original pre-cut-and-pasted Microsoft format, there were ample paragraphs.  What looked like nicely spaced paragraphs in the draft version became one long sentence in the posted version.  With the new and improved BlogSpt, the acorn escaped my clutch.

Some eight-year-old, probably named Bill, in a garage "improves" on a perfectly good method of doing something, making it faster, easier, and more global for him.  Suddenly the Gates are opened to a flood of new procedures, apps, HTML and making something you just figured out, obsolete and often doing so without informing you.  The acorn slips down a crevice.

The latest "update" sent me scurrying for help from my more compter literate friends on Net Wits, Southern Humorists, and Humor Writers.  What happened?  To whcih there were no less than 25 responses.  Three suggested I learn to speak HTML, an obscure Third World language of alien computers.  They may as well have suggested I buy the Rosetta Stone version of Farsi and learn it in three simple lessons.  One kind soul offered to tutor me off line; I'm sure to prevent the world from knowing how inept I am.  I have, thanks to him, mastered the first half of the first lesson.  Still grasping for the acorns, though.

(To be Continued later)

The Ice Man Cometh or Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut; Sometimes You Are!

by Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for the Nut House

You know how in Ice Age that pre-historic squirrel is always chasing that illusive acorn?  Justa bout the time he almost gets his paws around the acorn, the world shifts on its axis, the Ic Age starts to melt, or a hugh crack appears in a glacier separating him from his nut.

That's the way I am when it comes to computers.

Only the Good Diet Young

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for Sugar Free Scales
My friend Lisa, www.themeatandpotatoesoflife , described herself as always being "chunky" but there is still time for her to diet. I, on the other hand, have always been skinny, but there is something about hitting middle age (assuming I am going to live to 140) when the metabolism slows down and your caloric intake speeds up, usually accelerated by the need for a daily glass of wine and a couple of Snickers, that changes things. I now crave carbs and sugar that are no longer burned in a flurry of hyper activity but settling nicely onto my frame. Dieting is too late for me.b>
Aside from the health issues (and do I really want to make it to 140) I must measure the price of slimming down compared to the happiness of a smooth chocolaty mocha frappe and extra butter on my sour dough bread. My husband still thinks I'm cute; admittedly he wears bifocals and has night blindness but I'm not currently considering submitting photos to thePast Prime Time Dating Service or Life and Bran Begin at 70 web sites. I'll give the marriage another 48 years before shopping around for husband number two and the prerequisite diet plan.b>
I have noticed that most of the Jenny Craig, Bowflex, and diet/exercise ads on television feature pictures of young female whale types as" before" and a slim and sleek porpoise type "after" photos. But then young whales and young females have a lot of elasticity in their skin. If I suddenly went on a diet and managed to lose 30 or 40 pounds, I too, could fit back into size 10 clothing, but imagine a balloon that has been blown up to capacity for several months and you slowly let all the air out. Now observe that balloon. It does not snap back into its former tiny jaw-aching-if-you-tried-to-blow-it-up shape; rather it has irregular floppy and droopy sides. Were I to lose said 30 or 40 pounds, the skin around my chins, arms, stomachs, and thighs would be hanging somewhere around my knees along with my boobs. With all that loose skin, I could be Bat Mama and become airborne if a strong breeze came up.b>
I rationalize it this way. My extra poundage takes the place of lifting weights to maintain muscle tone. I just haul my weights with me wherever I go. In these dire economic times, a layer of fat and a sweatshirt may be all I need to get me through a cold winter. If the teamsters union decides to strike or a flood destroys the wheat crop, I've got enough fat stored up to last a month or two before I resort to healthy foods. And besides, fluffy, plump laps make the best place for rocking grandchildren to sleep.b>
"Now, make that McDonald's small mocha frappe an extra-large and yes I would care for an apple pie. Only the good diet young."

Sing! Sing A Song!

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for classical ear plugs

I'm not sure what my seven- year-old has been learning in first grade music class but it seems to be centered on the classics and Americana. This past year he has bump-dee-dee-dee-dee-bump-bump-bump-bump-buuuum...which translates to "The Nut Cracker", in particular the March of the Tin Soldiers. At least it wasn't the Sugar Plum Fairy theme he was de-deeing, not that too many other first graders in his class would recognize any fairy other than the Tooth Fairy.

He has alternated that song all year with "Hail to the Chief". I asked him on what occasion that song is played and he said "When someone very important comes into the room....like Jesus." I'll give him that. We have had a few presidents who thought they were right up there with God.

I guess his class was getting ready for their end of the year music program because he has added a new song to his repertoire. "Poof, the magic dragon lived for me to see...something something something in a big old holler tree..." No amount of arguing could convince him the dragon's name was Puff and he lived by the sea.

Knowing my first grader, it will be Poof the Magic Dragon on opening night and he will still be living in that hollow tree waiting for Jesus to enter "bump-dee-dee-dee-dee-bum-bum-bum-bump buuuuuuum" down the center aisle.

Ahhh, the arts!  It is what keeps us human.

Code Green…the Full Monty

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for brain transplant

I admit it.  I am a sucker for that puppy dog face and those big blue eyes.  I am also highly susceptible to guilt: “Well, I guess if you are an adult, you don’t have to keep your word.”  So yes, after bailing out of Camp Wilderness Friday night, I told my husband we had to camp out all night across the street tonight. 

This time Dr. Hubby tossed the big tent, mosquito surround net,  two hammocks, two cots with cushions, three chairs, four sleeping bags, flashlights, lanterns, tarps, ice chests and food in the back of the pick-up and hauled it across the street early in the afternoon.  He pushed wood up for another fire, mowed the surrounding area, and then set up the camp.

Then we walked over there.   The kids began staking claim to the hammock, the cot, and the sleeping bag each wanted.   I must say, though, the hammock rodeo was rather entertaining.  For the seven-year-old, it took three tries before he managed stay on the hammock without being thrown out.  Once he got it in, he had to negotiate with the ten-teen for his blanket and pillow.

Later, when it was my turn in the hammock, both kids held onto the sides so I wouldn’t get thrown.  I guess they didn’t want a trip to the emergency room to interfere with their camping trip.  It was rather enjoyable in a painful-nylon-cords-cutting-into-your-back sort of way.  The seven-year-old pushed my hammock back and worth and scratched my head to keep me happy.  “Look, I’m multi-tasking,” he announced to anybody within ear shot.   The ten-teen, not to be outdone, pushed harder resulting in more hammock rodeo.  I managed to avoid being thrown by getting a leg on firm ground on either side of the hammock resulting in the first ever hammock wedgie.

By dark-thirty and after chasing frogs, hunting for snakes, and with no TV or radio available, everybody went to bed.  Dr. Hubby opted for his folding lounge chair by the fire, once he figured out how to make the chair recline without doing a back flip.  The ten-teen held out for the hammock.   The seven-year-old and I chose the cushioned cot inside the tent with the mosquito net closed. “This is just the best ever!” came from the sleepy seven-year-old.  The coyotes began their evening concert after all was quiet;  the seven-year-old pulled his cot next to mine and the teen-teen joined us in the tent, only all cots were taken so she had to sleep on the tent floor.  After her academy award performance playing the long- suffering, unappreciated older sister forced to sleep on the hard, hard ground so her baby brother could have a cushioned cot, she finally settled down.

At 3a.m. she made an encore performance only this time she was sound asleep.  I climbed over two cots, a sleeping child, and three flashlights to guide her “off stage” and gave her my cot, more guilt.   I had had my seven hours of sleep which normally comes between 11p.m. and 6 a.m. but tonight had occurred between 9:30 and 3a.m. I grabbed a blanket and joined hubby by the camp fire.

“Have you gotten any sleep?” I asked. 

“Who can sleep with all the dogs howling?”

 “I didn’t hear any dogs, just the third act of “Les Miserables”. What time is it?”

  “3:30.”

“Good, only three hours till daylight.”

We sat staring at the fire and sharing memories of past campouts and gatherings, enjoying the opportunity to have an uninterrupted conversation.

“What time is it now?”

“3:35”

“Good, only two hours and 25 minutes till daylight.”

The exact moment the sun broke over the horizon and I had managed to doze off, the seven-year-old awoke and announced “Wake up!  It’s morning.  Can we have S’mores for breakfast?”

“No, we are going to McDonald’s NOW! I need coffee,”

Ok, so ours is not the traditional camping out family experience, but then again, no one has ever accused us of being traditional.

Code Green

by Jody Worsham All rights reserved for Camp Sin-a-way-for-Summer
My seven-year-old has decided that he is through with first grade now,even though there is another week of school left. I know this because his behavior rating he gets from his teacher at the end of each day has not been green. Green is "good", Yellow is "Better get your act together, son." Orange is "No tv, video games, or snake barfings." Red is "Butt whoppin' time". This week he came home with either orange or yellow every day.
In a last desperate effor to finish the week on a high note, I resorted to the age old method of discipline parents have ascribed to for generations...bribery. If he came home with Green on his behavior card, we would go camping in the woods. This is a major sacrifice on my part. To me camping is an air conditioned RV with cable, running water, and a McDonald's and Wal-Mart within two miles.
This afternoon he proudly showed me his Green card; that sounds funny. When I asked him if it was hard to get Green today and he said "No." "Then why didn't you get green on those other days?" I asked. "I didn't have a goal. Let's go camping."
We had to stop at Wal-Mart for Hershey chocolate bars, graham crackers, and marshmellows. You can not go camping without making S'mores. I talked him into eating our hot dogs at the house before we loaded the pick-up and headed across the street to some wooded acreage we owned. My plan was to stay until midight, then come back across the street to our house. He evidently thought we were going to live there the rest of the summer judging from the number of sleeping bags, extra clothing, stuffed animals, bottled water, pup tent, flashlights, and games he had packed. His sister packed twice as much. Girls tend to do that. They were as excited as if we had announced we were going to live at Disney World for the rest of our lives.
Two hours later the fire had died down, we were sticky with marshmellow goo, and Dr. Hubby and I were enjoying watching the fire and having a conversation. The novelty of camping out had worn off and without any snakes to entertain themselves, the children resorted to their stand-by activity ...aggrevating each oher. They alternated dragging the sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals from the tent to the bed of the pick-up and back while maintaining constant bickering, complaining, and tattling. I finally got in the bed of the pick-up to see if I could get the seven-year-old to settle down and go to sleep. We enjoyed looking at the stars for about five-seconds;then he started telling me about Pluto and why it wasn't a planet any more, that we were on the dark side away from the sun and the Chinese were waking up about now, when would the sun burn out, and the fact that he didn't understand why Mars was still a planet. With my lesson in astronomy over and my back and rear-end numb from the hard pick-up bed, I went back to my lawn chair and the fire.
"Don't worry," said Dr. Hubby, "the coyotes will start howeling soon and they will be ready to go back to the house." They started howeling right on cue. From the pick-up bed I heard "I've got to survive. I'm only seven." I looked at the pup tent which was the right size for a three-year-old and noticed that the ten-teen must have been practicing her cheerleading routine inside or else she was preparing to go to war with the coyotes because the tent resembled some alien pod struggling to morph into Godzilla.
At 11:00 all was quiet. We started loading everything back into the bed of the pick-up, being careful not to disturb the sleeping survivor. The ten teen was crushed that we were leaving and wanted to know if we could come back and spend the whole night tomorow night. I promised that we would camp again, soon. I just didn't tell her how soon.
I am considering withdrawing my first grader from school early. I don't think I could surivie anymore Code Green bribes.