I've Got a Crush on You

I come late to the party. . .a lot. While everyone was raving about HD-TV and the joys of owning a DVR, I was still holding on to a 25 inch TV I bought when Reagan was President. When everyone was walking out of the Apple store with a new i-Pad, I was struggling with a desktop that accessed the Internet in the same time it took for Dominos to deliver a pizza. And don't even try to text me - I still have a flip phone in my purse. It's not that I'm afraid of technology or don't like to have the newest, trendiest gadget before anyone on my block (I actually was the first person I knew to have a VCR - how else was I going to see what happened on All My Children?), it's just that, most of the time, I walk into the pool rather than diving in.

The latest example of my joining the parade as it rounds the last corner is a little game called Candy Crush Saga. This devious, diabolical time-waster has been around for quite awhile. I've had plenty of invites on Facebook to join in on the fun but was never interested. I saw my son waste a few years of his life playing video games and had no intention of getting hooked on anything that would only encourage me to procrastinate more than I already do (see many of my previous blogs for more on that subject).

But then, my Kindle and I went to Mexico. I loaded up a couple of books and verified my web version of People magazine was up to date. That should have been enough but, no, I had to press on.  Having tired of my earlier obsession with Angry Birds (another late-to-the-party discovery), I decided to check out free game downloads. After trying and failing to load Free Cell on the darn thing, I noticed that Candy Crush was available.

And you can probably guess the rest.

I'm now on Level 85. I've seen more of those insipid cartoon characters talking about the Marshmallow Swamp or Licorice Lagoon (or whatever the hell those little cartoon interludes are rambling on about) than I want to admit. I still haven't spent a dime playing it (and when I do, it's time for my credit cards to be taken away from me) but I have spent way too much of my precious time on earth trying to figure out how to get rid of all the jelly or bring all the ingredients down. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, consider yourself lucky.) But I'm not addicted, no matter what my husband says. I can stop anytime I want to. In fact, I haven't played it once today. Not once.

And I don't think the fact that I have to wait 24 hours to get another quest has anything to do with it.

Let the Games Begin

If you know me at all, you know that I don't have to have an excuse for putting off what I should be doing at any given moment. Cleaning, organizing year-end financial info, going through the boxes in the basement that haven't been opened since 1992; you name it, I'll find a way to avoid doing it. As you might imagine, this admission does not do much for my self-esteem but maybe I wouldn't feel as bad about owning up to this character flaw if I actually had a good reason for putting all those tasks on the back burner.

For the next two weeks, I do. I actually have a half-way decent excuse to leave those dishes in the sink; I actually do have a semi-acceptable reason to ignore the dust bunnies gathering on the baseboards; I actually can justify the fried chicken I hastily purchase on my way home from work rather than putting a home-cooked meal on the table. For the next two weeks, I have something more important to do.

I have to put on some comfy clothes, whip up some hot chocolate, and watch The Olympics.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved this once-every-four-years-now-every-two-year event. When I was younger, I slid around the kitchen floor pretending I was Janet Lynn. Later, I sat on the edge of my chair as a bunch of college students beat the Russian hockey team and cheered as Dan Jansen skated around the rink with his daughter after finally winning a gold medal. Now, I spend most of my viewing time saying things like, "How do they bend their knees like that?" or "That hurts just looking at it". After all this time, I've reluctantly made peace with the fact that I'll never be an Olympian but would it be too much to ask to be able to do a squat without pain?)

I'm as nationalistic as the next guy but, for me, The Olympics isn't just about flag-waving patriotism. It's about effort; it's about determination. I'm in awe of anyone, no matter what language they speak, who works as long and hard to achieve a goal as Olympic athletes do. (And let's not forget those sacrificing parents who got them to the gym/mountain/ice rink at 6:00am - I'm not sure I could have done that either).  While it's fun to see U.S. athletes win a bunch of medals, it's hard not to get emotional when you see anyone (unless they're from one of those smug, arrogant countries that deserved to lose) fulfill a life-long dream.

So, okay, it's not the pure-spirited haven for amateur athletics that it was originally designed to be (don't the NHL and NBA players already have a venue to promote their talents?). Yes, it's dished out in manipulative ways by greedy TV networks and often tainted by corrupt judging. But you know what else it is? It's inspirational. And that's why I'll be watching.

Those dust bunnies can wait until February 24th.

Stuck in the Deck Chair

The last time I wrote a blog like this, I was punished with two inches of sewer water in my basement but here goes. I should be:

- cleaning the kitchen
- organizing my financial papers
- doing a funkier by the minute load of laundry
- cooking dinner
- thinking of something to cook for dinner
- scrubbing the shower(s)
- giving my husband a back rub (this isn't normally on the list; he pulled a muscle lifting
boxes I should have been helping him with)
- planting the impatients I bought over a week ago
- returning a phone call from my mother
- taking overdue movies back to the library
- stop writing my initials in the dust on the piano and clean the darn thing and
- edit one of the two novels I mistakenly believe will edit themselves

What I am doing:

- reading my People magazine with my lazy ass planted firmly in a comfy deck chair

Oh, well. If I'm determined to give myself a hard time for wanting to enjoy a beautiful day, this is the way to do it.

I may not have done much today but this lousy blog proves I did do something.

It's in the Genes

When you're pregnant you wonder which parts of you and your husband are going to be mysteriously transmitted to your unborn child. Upon meeting your baby, you see the physical attributes he inherited right away. Oh, look, he's got his dad's ears. Sorry. And, hey, his nose curls up just like mine. Isn't that cute? Then, there are the traits that take a little longer to show themselves. I was thinking about that a few nights ago when my son pulled an all-nighter completing a college project. If he had been away at school, I probably would not have known anything about it. Since he's not, I saw the downside of the genetic pool wreak havoc with my unfortunate son. He definitely inherited the procrastination gene from his mom.

I've tried hard over the years to break myself of this loathsome habit. I've read books and listened to motivational speakers. I've bought desk calendars and leather planners. I even married the most logical, self-motivated, diligent person on the planet. All to no avail. I know what I should be doing with my time (writing, cleaning my house, organizing my paperwork) just as much as my son knows what he should be doing with his (homework, studying, cleaning his bathroom). Too often, I find myself "encouraging" him to stay on task and not waste time. But I feel like a hypocrite chastising him for playing a video game while I'm catching the latest episode of Modern Family. He swears that he's getting a handle on managing his time. He says he knows he's capable of doing a better job. I want to believe him. After all, he has one thing going for him that I don't. His dad's genes are floating around in there somewhere.