About Me

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Five years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Online Matchmaking, Typing Tests, and Why Mothers Turn Grey

Yes, I have an account. No, I have no luck with it. Quite possibly because of the teeth-and-claws in my profile? [I will spare you, but I have carefully crafted it to scare off all but the most intrepid souls.]

A couple of weeks ago, a “recently widowed” gentleman who seemed not-obviously-loony viewed my profile but did not contact me. I read his profile, noted his relative non-looniness, and responded that if he cared to write after he had been widowed for a full year, I would like to hear from him. I just did my obligatory log-in [to keep my membership active], and he was still the only one who had viewed me since the last time I cleared the counter. I clicked on his profile, and he’s headed toward marriage with somebody. Already! He does not state in his profile how recently-widowed he is, and having dated a widower year before last I know from experience that they are way different than divorced men. [I am not necessarily impressed with the difference, LOL.]

So I guess I’m taking back my assessment of his non-looniness. While recognizing that grief and loneliness can make the best of us do stupid things. On the one hand, I applaud the willingness of widowed men to remarry; I don’t see a lot of that happening with the divorced brethren I know. On the other hand, how much of this rush to remarriage is inspiration, and how much sheer loneliness or the need to scratch an itch?

Yes, I believe in love. Yes, I believe in commitment. Yes, I believe that at the right time and in the right place, I will remarry. And yes, I am so thankful that I have outwaited that irrepressible urge to merge, so that my head has a chance of winning when it thumb-wrestles with my heart.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled knitting. Behold, a Stripedy Stocking.

And a Child’s French Sock. Hey, Middlest, this is seven out of the requisite eleven pattern repeats before I start turning the heel!

Two items in my life over which I have at least the illusion of control. Oh, that and my typing. Julie had this on her semi-private blog.

79 words

Speed test

And I have to say that the way the words feed, slows me down. They give you about a line and a half of words, and there is this hesitation like the fourth and eighth beats of salsa where you Do Not Move, when I am ready before the new words are. [Salsa is counted 1 2 3 stop 5 6 7 stop. It looks like uninterrupted movement to those who haven’t tried it, but that pause gives subtle emphasis to the lateral motion of one’s hips. I love Latin dance nearly as much as I love East Coast Swing, because it appears to have been invented solely for the purpose of making women look and feel good.]

And why is it that mothers turn grey? This, for one. And a slightly different version, here. I called LittleBit on her cell phone on my way to work and left her a message, along the lines of, “This is what happened in Bedford this week. Thank you for being smarter than that.” Not to say that she or her sisters or I haven’t done something equally stupid and lived to tell about it. I was an incredibly naive 14-year-old. I am so glad that Al Gore had not yet invented the Internet when I was young and hormonal.

Speaking of political figures, Mr. Obama has paid two visits that I know of to BigD in the past week. Last week with a motorcade, causing one of my co-workers to remark that the last time we had a motorcade, it didn’t go well. The day after his first visit, That Woman also came to town. A motorcycle policeman died while escorting her [accelerated, lost control, hit a concrete wall, and died]. Which I guess bears out my friend’s observation, but not in the national-mourning sense of 1963. I think that Mr. Obama’s visit yesterday was without incident, except for an unrelated fatality involving an 18-wheeler that apparently went over the railing and landed on a car. [My guess? some hotshot in a Lexus or a BMW cut him off; I was nearly creamed three times one morning this week by BMW drivers. The Dallas Morning News says otherwise.]

Quick, Lynn, think of something positive. 79 wpm on Speedtest. No, not positive enough.

This isn’t it.

OK, how about this, the two fortunes from my cookies last night? “Your genuine talents will lead you to success” [could be a good thing, depending upon how one defines success] and “You will soon be the center of attention” [Mormon mother of five arrested for speaking her mind].

What about this parade of flamingos?


Julie said...

The pause in the typing test when it changed lines bothered me, too (and I didn't even type as fast as you did). I felt like it kept me from having a good rhythm.
Love the flamingos at the bottom.

Bonnie said...

Ah yes, I recognize that incredibly tacky parade of flamingos. I see it every few days as I'm driving somewhere or other in my part of town. Every time I think of when I was a child and you told my that Aunt S. LOVED pink flamingos and I was too young to understand sarcasm, so I cut pictures out of magazines and sent them to her in a letter. She laughed about the whole thing, but I was slightly embarrased that I hadn't realized the entire thing was a joke. Good times, good times. :)

Anonymous said...

Be very leery of online matchmaking! Ed's dad was taken for a desasterous whirlwind of a ride.

I'm with you on the typing speed test. First I kept wanting to hit return during the slight pause. I retrained my fingers/mind but I still have a hard time with the changing of the words visible. I want a full page of words in front of me!

We had neighbors in Portland who LOVED pink flamingo.- gag me - in a sick twist of humor we actually poked two in our lawn for one summer.

Ruth said...

Oh, my, that typing test is a time waster! lol

I wish my mother had your patience. She married and divorced three times - she married the same sort of man each time and the last two (the ones I was around to see) were very rushed...

Rorek said...

Are those real flamingos? Or did the 'artist' just take the time to position them to look realistic? *boggles*

Eeep! I did some stupid things when I was younger, but.. I didn't invite older men into your, or Dad's home.

That brown sock is looking warm, comfortable, and is GLOWING with love. I love you Mom. *big humongous hugs*


Jenni said...

The whole time we lived in FL and saw these and more flamingos I too, thought of Aunt S.

Anonymous said...

That test is addictive!