Yesterday, I came home in the afternoon,scanned through some of my email and I found a reminder that MobileMe was going to be ending service. I have never cared for the MobileMe account that used to my Mac account. Having an address @mac.com seemed more reserved and respectful than the address @me.com.
I was notified I would have to use icloud.

Okay, fine, whatever, better than @me. I clicked on icloud to switch over and guess what? I had to upgrade to Lion. And in a moment of weakness and fear of becoming a really old lady in the really slow lane, I thought, “Why not?”

Well . . . first I had to buy the Lion upgrade, but the little old lady image had predetermined I would part with 30 bucks, and I did. it started to download. IT WOULD TAKE ALL NIGHT. I was running around telling everyone to stop sucking any bandwidth at all. IT STILL TOOK ALL NIGHT.

But, here I am this morning, experimenting with the lion that came close to mauling me – and maybe in some little corner of my laptop it has. At first I thought all the notes on my desktop had been lost and was figuratively on the floor pounding my head, moaning, “I am dead. I am dead. I am dead.” Yes, a little melodramatic, but so terribly me. Or should I say, @me.

BUT WAIT . . . I think maybe the address stays @me.

@aaaaaaauuuuuuuggggggggghhhhhhhhh.

This is Camp Nature Boy making an appearance in the up and down winter of 2012. It is LZP’s backyard in GPS terms, but is for some, more of a clearing in time when clan members meet.
Usually, the fire pit would blazing as well as the grill and there would be lawn chars and coolers around.
But mild or not, you can’t get around the fact that this is February, so apparently the custodian is close to the source of extra warmth.
And the one Sam Adams tells all the absent now, but will be returning, “Hey.”

Last weekend, a bunch of my Poo friends went to the Ohio Redoubt and left me to my own devices. They partied: I moped. But Rose and Sophie and Bing felt for me and have returned to buck me up.
Here’s Sophie with her concerned look.

And, of course, comforting Rose.

Here’s soft and cuddly Bing.

And, finally, here is the temp the agency sent over to help me – only she has decided to stay and become our “whip you into shape” Poo.

She likes things “just so” and don’t let the hearts on her smile fool you. I asked her name and she said it was on a need to know basis and we could call her Boss for now.
Who knows, I may wind up comforting Rose and Sophie and Bing.

Cameron has been reluctant to be near a camera in the past because he was overweight – which sort of means he fit in his genes. HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHHA cough,cough. Okay, moving on.

He has been exercising and dieting and today he let me get a picture:

I’m working on getting a smile.

In the big scheme of things, it is not that dramatic a thing – this going up into the attic on repaired steps, but in my little world, it is a landmark. It is a project continuing. Today I enlisted two helpers and bucket-brigaded boxes up to  place for non-Christmas storage.  What the occupants of the boxes do while they are up there is okay with me, as long as they clean up after themselves. Let the bells jingle! Let the nuts crack! Let neckties that play a Christmas tune when squeezed play away. (Maybe, the batteries will wear out.) It’s a live and let live world in the attic.

What was uplifting was the downward spiral of collapsed old boxes as I tossed them down to the lobby on their way to the trash. Ah, the lobby, you wonder. This is it in a nutshell: The house was enlarged and what was the fourth bedroom became a room that linked the original hall to a new bedroom and a large room over the garage. It’s a crossroads. It needs a skylight because it’s too much like an imagined windowless waiting room in some KGB days, although it doesn’t have a lone lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. It has a lone light fixture.

Back to the jettisoned collapsed boxes: It is a tiny nod to order.

I am ignoring the fact this is a post of unordered paragraphs that ramble off on their own. Too much, too fast might prove to be dangerous to my health.

I just had a bunch of little adventures – tiny adventures. Not even adventures,  just random bits of activity. I went and paid property taxes. On the way, I saw gas was at $3.22, but didn’t stop because I had a lot in my tank and decided hacking my cough in the chill wasn’t a good trade off for a couple of gallons. Maybe on the way back, I thought. I also figured by the time I got back home, the price would have gone up. My luck, dontcha know?

Indeed, when I passed the station again, the price was still $3.22 so I went around the block and pulled in. I put my card in the slot and the price popped up to be $3.19. I turned and watched the big sign change numbers. Woo-Hoo. Three cents.

My luck was three cents – not a lottery win – just three cents. Then I coughed and decided maybe my original win was not getting pneumonia and the ‘three cents times the number of gallons’ was the change left over in my winnings once I had redeemed my “Get Out of Pneumonia” card.

However, not to be too impressed with the good luck thing,  I must keep in my mind that a young bank officer informed me the lockbox from which I had retrieved my mother’s will following her death wasn’t accessible to me because they had no proof my father was dead and that my key (smirk, smirk) wasn’t a lock box key. To placate me, he tried it and by gosh and hold onto your pants, it worked. But he couldn’t use his matching one because . . . my father wasn’t listed as dead.

Actually, I guess there was a little adventure in my day.  It is probably what will be start of “The Lock Box Saga”, volume to be determine of the Nancy Drew series.

Sympathy. Oh, I crave it. Two nights ago it felt as if my ears were going to explode from pain and pressure . . . and my throat was raw. Red, ugly raw. I was chilled. I probably had these symptoms worse than anyone else in the whole world. For two mornings now I have ratcheted myself into a sitting position taken cold remedies. Slowly, slowly, the symptoms abate – although a cough rips my throat out and causes my chest muscles to scream. I probably look like this:

A few years ago I started noticing pictures of new, bald (except sometimes with downy wisps of hair) girl babies wearing a headband.  The bands sported bows and fake flowers on a spot on the headband, usually off to the side of the forehead.
Like this:

This picture comes from The Simple Little Things, a site that focuses on baby accessories.

I went looking for a picture to illustrate what I was writing about and, instead of choosing one at random, was drawn to the name: The Simple Little Things – probably because of the soothing song, Little Things Mean a Lot.

Anyway, my point, which has been totally obscured by this preamble, is that to me a headband on a bald baby looks odd. Maybe it is because I am of an older generation, or it might have something to do with just plain personal preference.

It doesn’t have anything to do with the actual attractiveness of a baby; I’m just not used to it. On the other hand, I think similar version are fetching on girls that are a little bit older . . . and have hair.

Maybe I am just not into bald.

In all fairness, I have to say that I might look better with a big ole flower or bow stuck right on the front of my face, as in covering it. I could be a walking azalea – heaven knows the rest of me looks like a bush