Hi ho, MMMLogerinos!

In an effort to more effectively manage my TV watching time, as in limit it greatly and detox myself from the news and crime shows, I subscribed to Netflix, a virtual DVD store that sends me three DVDs from my Queue, which I see is down to only six movies and needs updating. This service has worked out great as my closest Netflix facility is in Tacoma and the turnaround time is usually only a day or so. Instead of watching news or some inane rerun of sitcoms during the dinner hour, we pop in a DVD.

Last night we viewed Match Point, a 2005 drama from BBC Films. The son of MMMM had recommended this movie to us and after viewing it, I understood why. One of the movies that he thought most amazing was The Player in which a Hollywood producer gets away with murder.

In Match Point, a poor but calculating Irish tennis pro targets an upper class lifestyle and hopes to marry into money. Woody Allen directed this film and I'd not have guessed that as it was indeed a "suspenseful drama with a Hitchcockian flair" as the mailer blurb proclaimed. The tennis pro clearly never had what it took to win top seed, though he played a very good game until the match point. His life mirrors his game as he goes after the lifestyle he wants, studying the classics and chess, playing chess and working at a tennis club where he meets London's elite. And he gets the girl, who's entirely smitten with him as is her wealthy upper class though oddly egalitarian family. But you know he hasn't got what it takes to win this game. He'll screw it up somehow, his shot will fall short or he'll rush the net when he should have played it from the baseline.

Not once did I pull for this guy. The DH and I lamented his overarching stupidity and his willingness to lose. But he didn't, and that was the surprise. He acted with incredible audacity to defend his position and ultimately win the game.

See this movie and hang in there during the boring (to some) initial British bits. The ending will have you shaking your head with amazement and hoping to hell that sort of thing doesn't really happen. But you know it does . . .

MMMMMMMMMelinda

Hi ho, MMMLogerinos!

The DH and I decided that if we did our own yard and housework, we could stay in better shape and save a good bit of money, too. Like most of our ideas, it sounded like a good one at the time. As has become our usual, we work through the weekdays, play on Saturday and then hit it hard in the yard on Sunday. Oh. My. Then we awaken on Monday stove-up to the point of extreme bodily anguish, which lessens during the week and by Saturday we're feeling really great for Sunday gardening or painting or countless other home upkeep chores.

Yesterday I was in the front yard, cleaning the flowerbeds and sweeping the walks and porch. I looked up and the DH was pushing the mower like mad behind the fence in the side yard and he was toning. I mean the guy was doing OHMMMMMMMMMMMM OHMMMMMMMMMMMMMM. He gets into the physical work and then to control his ever drifting toward work mind, he initiates a pattern interrupt or redirects/focuses his mind on something calming because he's a clever fellow and knows what he needs to do. After all, he has a hypnotherapist for a wife who's always going on about controlling one's own thought or someone else will. Like so many today, he's in a high stress job and must find an outlet for that stress. Physical movement always helps bleed off stress, but you've got to control your mind while you're walking those ten miles on the treadmill or pumping iron or you'll get little lasting stress relief.

When you're keeping your body busy with physical activity, you're generating a different sort of mental energy as well. You can use this time, I've found, to continue to worry about or obsess about your work or your problems. Or I've learned that I can gently redirect my thought to something that makes me feel good and creative and excited. I get a lot of mental writing or project creating done when I'm doing housework. That's fun!

So, we may be stove-up on Mondays, but we're probably nicely de-stressed as well as thrilled that we can actually do the hard physical work and are pleased with the pretty great results.

Mmmmmmmmmmmelinda

Hi ho, MMMLogerinos!

I'd enjoyed my Sony Viao PCV-RX551 for a year plus maybe a day out of warranty before I started getting the warning: Catastrophic Hard Drive Failure Imminent. I was desperate and called Dell, getting a cheapo in here so not be caught in the imminent catastrophe. At the same time, I hired the computer guy to come transfer my personal files to the Dell and fix the Viao up with a new hard drive. I've been using the Dell since and the Viao is just sitting there. And there. And in that room, too. I put it on a rolling cart, thinking I'd use it wherever I needed it. It's even been in garage as we've got cable and phone down there. But we haven't used the Viao. So here it sits, begging to be booted up and taken for a screaming ride into digital studio land. I'd make you a real deal on the Viao with Sony monitor and even throw in a nice HP 1120C Deskjet wide body printer, and maybe that cool rolling cart with keyboard tray, too. But you'd have to come get it. Of course, I can put this up on Craig'sList Seattle, so better get a wiggle on if you've got affordable Viao dreams.

The DH was home sick since Thursday and finally well enough to go to work today. And, wouldn't you know, I've got a sore throat. Who wouldn't with all that hacking, sneezing and general ookieness, especially if you're suggestible as I've been known to be. Guess I better manage myself better and insert pattern interrupt here!

mmmmmmmmmmmmmelinda

Hi ho, MMMLogerinos!

Last night my pal Darcy and I sallied east in Red Therapy to Snowqualmie to commune with other earnest cooks to learn tasting and seasoning. This is a bit dicey for Darcy, har har, because she's lost her sense of taste and smell for the most part. But it seems for two years in a row to celebrate her birthday I've invited her to opportunities to regain said lost senses or endure more frustration. Last year Lisa and I took her to DeLille Cellars in Woodenville for a Bastille Day wine and food pairing, which we enjoyed greatly. Poor Darcy was in a special hell as she doesn't really enjoy wine and she sure hates seafood--both of which were in abundance, but she's always a great sport and crazy fun for any occasion.

I'd rather misunderstood what we were going to be doing in the class or perhaps I just projected my hopes, for I don't really use other seasoning except salt, pepper, garlic, onion, cayenne, basil, rosemary and those sorts of things. Seasoning is not about using herbs, it's about salt, pepper, acid (lemon, vinegar) and heat (cayenne, etc)to make the food taste ROUND and bring out the flavors to produce "a party in your mouth" one participant proclaimed.

The menu was varied and interesting. We made three different vinaigrettes, basil and mint pesto for chicken breasts, salmon on an orange and fennel salad, risotto, braised kale and a vege medley. And drank wine. My favorite was the pesto and chicken. The least favorite was the kale that Darcy and I did--it was tough, though flavorful. The chef said that was because it sat too long before we ate. We finished cooking after nine and sat down to the feast. Got home about eleven, full of yummy food and liquid happy.

Can't wait until Darcy's birthday next year for our next culinary adventure, though I'm sure she can wait . . .

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmelinda

Hi ho, MMMLogerinos!

I seldom have nightmares or even bad dreams, but I often experience "unusual" dreams. Last night's dream was just plain bad, nightmarish about an illegal alien criminal gang riding around a trucking travel plaza in a gleaming, tricked out '58 Chevy. They were randomly shooting U.S. citizens with very unique homemade guns which consisted of a 12" tube, packed with powder and firing nails. I got shot by a smiling young ganger, the nail passing through the coat I was using to cover and hide myself in my car.

Make of this dream what you will, for I have and it continues to trouble me in the light of day.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Hi ho, MMMLogerinos!

The DH and I had a great weekend dodging the rain in topless Red Therapy. We've been looking at real estate and if you've done much of that, you'll know that when you walk into someone else's house you're often greeted with surprises. Oh. My. I also love how real estate agents can be deaf and blind when it serves. But let you mention something and they're right there agreeing with you NLP style--the ole getting in rapport by repeating your words and mirroring your behavior.

The first place we visited was on almost an acre and the listing said it had privacy and views. I really love to read the listing description of houses and then go see. Those listing agents are truly creative writers. Fabulous. So, with the first place there was a view--if you stood on the very corner of the deck and on tiptoe to see through the tiny break in the trees. Also, the house was what I'd call a mobile, but the agent insisted that it was not, but assembled, transported and tied down. Sounds like a mobile without wheels, eh? Right. In any case, it was in pretty good shape and extremely interesting inside. When I hit the door, I thought I smelled peanut butter (I'm very sensitive to odors.) But further in I realized that I'd climbed in a giant bong and almost got loaded just breathing in the place. Wow. Then the agent said something to the effect of--oh, yeah, our previewer or someone said that it smelled a bit like pot in here. Wheeeeee.

Which brings me to this rather unPC joke sent by my friend Trishy. . .

One day a guy died and found himself in hell. As he was wallowing in despair, he had his first meeting with a demon.

The demon asked, "Why so glum?"

The guy responded, "What do you think? I'm in hell!"

"Hell's not so bad," the demon said. "We actually have a lot of fun
down here. You a drinking man?"

"Sure," the man said, "I love to drink."

"Well you're gonna love Mondays then. On Mondays all we do is drink. Whiskey, tequila, Guinness, wine coolers, diet Tab and Fresca. We drink until we throw up, and then we drink some more!"

The guy is astounded. "Damn, that sounds great."

"You a smoker?" the demon asked.

"You better believe it!"

"You're gonna love Tuesdays. We get the finest cigars from all over
the world and smoke our lungs out. If you get cancer, no biggie. You're
already dead, remember??"

"Wow, the guy said, "That's awesome!"

The demon continued. "I bet you like to gamble."

"Why yes, as a matter of fact I do."

"Wednesdays you can gamble all you want. Craps, blackjack, roulette,
poker, slots, whatever. If you go bankrupt, well, you're dead anyhow. You
into drugs?"

The guy said, "Are you kidding? I love drugs! You don't mean . . ."

"That's right! Thursday is drug day. Help yourself to a great big bowl
of crack, or smack. Smoke a doobie the size of a submarine. You can do all
the drugs you want, you're dead, who cares!"

"Wow," the guy said, starting to feel better about his situation, "I
never realized Hell was such a cool place!"

The demon said, "You gay?"

"No."

"Ooooh, you're gonna hate Fridays!"

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Hi ho, MMMLogerinos!

Surprise! I'm baaccck. Yes, even the Kansas Heckler's constant e-harping couldn't get me to post as I've been working on my current book like a good girl, don't ya know. Today, I've got a moment to share this with you and the willingness to do so . . .

My pal Darcy calls her annual mammogram the big squeeze. And those of you who've made that man-invented torture rack a part of your annual health screenings know too well what she means by that. I was chatting with my mom this morning and discovered that she'd had her mammogram last Monday and I did mine on Tuesday. We reminisced about squeezes past and how we each seem to twist doctors and technicians up as they just don't expect that crazy attitude or words to come out of our prim little mouths.

Let me start . . . you take off the bra and don the short, pastel cape, opening in front, of course. Then have a lie down on the couch thingy while the technician does the breast exam. Despite her petite size and feminine bearing, most can drill holes through steel with their fingers and probably moonlight busting concrete and bricks to powder at recycling centers with those devilish digits.

"Do you do self exams at home," she asked.

"No." Oh why must I choose this time and this place to be truthful?

"Why not?"

"I just don't," I respond. Besides, my gyn does it once a year when I see her--gently, I might add, because she can't stand my grimacing and ouching. This technician finally picks up on the fact that I might be a bit sensitive . . .

"Oh, you know you can opt out of the exam," she says, "if it's too painful or uncomfortable."

Now she tells me. "Someone's got to do it," I say and then I cutely add this: "Because they don't get much action these days."

The hands stop digging and the woman begins to chuckle, which spills right into a belly laugh. I laugh, too, because I'm so darned cute and she's stopped torturing me.

I shared this with Mom and she hooted, too. Then she told me what she answered to that question of why she didn't do self exams. "I'm just not that interested these days." Mom also recalled her first mammogram twenty years ago. Her doctor (she made me promise not to use his name) asked if she'd like to have one as he'd just gotten a machine. She said okay and followed him into the exam room. In the middle of the floor stood a huge, dented refrigerator-looking thing with peeling paint and a big black power cord snaking to the wall. I asked Mom if she had to insert her breast and they slammed the refrigerator door on it to get the picture. She laughed and said no, but almost.

Supposedly we and the medical profession have come a long way, baby. Oh yeah? Remind me of that next year when I opt to take myself in for the big squeeze.

Ciao, ciao, MMMMMMMMmmelinda