Eeyore

Hey.

Y'know, I just watched a commercial for sticky denture goo. It's the one where people with dentures mug for the camera about their distaste for certain qualities of the brands they won't be patronizing anymore. There's a shot of three women singing along to "Bye Bye Love". Except they've changed the words, and now it's "Bye bye, paste".

Then there's another shot of a guy making an "ick" face as he sings along to "goodbye stickiness". Or some such.

And, y'know, I get that they're trying to appeal to denture wearers. And that denture wearers tend not to be the youngest people. But...Certain standard advertising tactics, like making idealized versions of your potential customers appear jubilant because of their decision to use your product? Making them giggle and pose half-self-consciously in spontaneous-looking photo-shoot-type hug-fests in summer settings in bright clothes...That...doesn't really work with old people. First off, the idealized versions of people in general aren't old. In Fake TV Land, they're all young and thin and have perfectly symmetrical smiles, because that way consumers get to pretend for a moment to be those people. And I don't want for the shortest of moments to be any of the people in these ads. And older people don't dress that way, in that primary-color-jumper-and-vest combos, and if they do, it can look kind of weird. Like a ninety-year-old guy in a sideways baseball cap and a Chicago Bulls jersey. It's just not dignified. Not that I really want to buy any denture paste from anybody at all, but if I ever do, I'm going to be less likely to buy it from someone who almost mocks my age by depicting my idealized self as a somewhat addled simpleton wearing age-inappropriate clothing.

Y'know what else? Kelly Ripa needs to go eat a cream puff or six, and then not throw up. Or jazzercize. She's so damn skinny she looks like a leather Bionicle.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm kind of moping lately. Janneke and T are in France, and Q is spending all day at robotics camp. Leaving me with a lot of time on my hands.

Which I manage to use, I guess. I've been swimming for exercise again, which causes nothing at all on my body to hurt. And I can't say that about any other kind of exercise, I don't think.

Not even yoga, turns out. My right wrist is killing me. Been doing an hour of yoga Mondays and Wednesdays with Ronadh, and I love it. I come out of there feeling absolutely great - all the soreness from running goes away, and I feel two inches taller. (Not cumulatively, though. Otherwise I'd be 6'2" by now.) But all the leaning on my palms has caused my old achy right wrist to rear its head again. That stinks. I love yoga. Maybe I have to go get the wrist injected again.

And I've been editing videos. Got a lot of footage from the last several months, and so far I've done Q's soccer video, a video about Christmas last year, and now one about our Team Trivia squad, "Milk of Amnesia". (Which looks a lot better now than when you saw it, Brad, Betsy, Ronadh, and Mark.) And I manage to keep Q fed and clothed and off to camp on time, and to dress and clean myself. I keep Skittles brushed, the floors vacuumed (mostly), and the grass cut.

But largely, these are spasms of activity that interrupt my moping. The house is just so damn big and empty without Janneke and T. I don't get it - Janneke claims to have a grand old time when I take the kids away. Getting tons of stuff done, going out with friends, bla bla bla. I watch Keith Olbermann and wonder why the heck I don't feel like playing guitar, which I swore I was going to do so much of this summer and now have time to do. It's weird.

In the evenings it seems stilted and uncomfortable to just sit across from each other in silence and chew, so Q and I have been watching Fox Soccer Channel while we eat. And there's an on-demand kids' channel on the local cable package, and Q will ask to watch an episode of "Destroy Build Destroy". And I'll usually cave. Sometimes we'll go outside and play basketball, and last night was "Wipeout" night. And tonight, we discovered a telenovela on Univision. It's called "Un gancho de amor" ("A hook (as in boxing) of love"), and he was laughing out loud at some of it. Mostly at the slightly overweight, greasy former boyfriend character who farts and wears loud shirts and blurts out "Bueno, sabes, mi amor, es que...No me importa" in a half-sympathetic, half-impatient whine when someone starts confiding in him. It was really fun - they talk full-on fast, and he had no problem following anything. It was actually a revelation, and I'm going to have to see if this is a once-a-week thing. (Though they tend to be every day, in my experience.) And then, after his TV stints (which, Janneke, he does not always have (oh, who am I kidding - she never reads this)), he tends to go to bed happily after some very pleasant story-reading. So we're good. But...I'm just not a good solo act. Can't find my marks, can't keep time on my own, I go flat all the time...I droop and sag like a pasta sawhorse.

Oh, well. Keith Olbermann is on - I'll just grab the remote...punch in "49"...sit back...

Guest host.

Jeepers...It just gets worse and worse.