Thursday, September 27, 2012

Fantasy Buttons

I upgraded my iphone the other day. Yes, I'm so fancy, I know (it was FREE). I'm incompetent. Today, a student of mine showed me how to turn my ringer on (oh ya, I'm recently out of retirement, I just can't stay out of the classroom, mainly for technology guidance, clearly).

So my most noticeable upgrade--my Sudoku (which is what justifies this ridiculous Smartphone cost, and takes up more of my time than I care to admit) has a new feature: Validation. Yes indeedy. At any point during a game of "put-the-#s-in-the-right-damn-spot" I can request to have my game "validated." Which means the God of the Game will descend upon It and tell me if I'm putting each number in the correct spot, or not. This is an insecure person's worst addiction. And a control-freak's best friend. And I am both, so I find myself fantasizing often about the potential joy of adding this button to other facets of my life:

My two best friends (Aby and Caby, I call them for short) and I hang out each night. Sometimes we walk together. Sometimes we go somewhere, though I would never drive. We make each other happy, and help ease each day's pain and frustration. Sometimes we even go to wineries and talk to random strangers.
Validate, please?

My sons are attending the Catholic school, yet I keep meeting fascinating, seemingly wonderful people that attend the public school. Even people who adopt Asian children. Asians in Grade One. Shit.
Validate, please?

I accepted this teaching position. A fantastic opportunity to teach Grade 12 in a private setting. All boys, all being recruited by D1 Universities (in football) in the states. They are awesome young men. But the pay is low.
Validate, please?

The last few meetings at my new Church, I've been thrown in with the older ladies. And not by choice, though I don't object. I usually meander to a lonesome chair and this particular population must feel the most sorry for me. Or perhaps the younger crowd truly thinks I belong with the elderly, with my grey hair and all. Sorry for the lack of updates on it. Here:

This is white hair, folks, not blond. Look at those freakin' forehead wrinkles! Awesome!

Anyway, I like it. And it has earned me a place at the old-lady table. Should I stay with this crowd? I mean, I have missed this population in my life; they're so wise and so confrontational. And all of my grandparents are dead. And I haven't hung out with many people over 40-ish in several years. True story:
Elerly woman, JoAnne, while eating dinner: Yum. So good. I'm going to get more. Are you?
Me: Well, maybe. I'm not quite done yet. But yes, it is good.
She: I'll wait for you. Eat up.
-one minute later-
She: Bottoms up. Let's go.
It was like I was 21 again in a bar. I am quite partial to JoAnne. You know she learned that lingo somewhere. I feel like we could connect.
Validate, please?

Oh, and I just moved to a new country. Validate, please? 
I believe the litmus test for validating my new citizenship is when I stop gasping over a possible exciting connection when I see someone with a CANADA shirt on. I have to stop myself from approaching with the words: "Oh! You're from Canada?!?! Me too! Well, I was born there, and then I married a Canadian... and, well, I go there every summer..." And OMFG I live here now.

What did you think Fantasy Buttons would be about?!?!

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