The Saturday Post: Whistling edition

I whistle. A lot. So much so that I'm concerned about getting "whistler's lines" around my mouth similar to the wrinkles smokers get from pursing while puffing.

I used to sing a lot. Then, for a variety of reasons, I lost my voice a lot. So necessity being the mother of invention -- the necessity being a way of musically expressing myself while toiling away on this task or that -- I started whistling. And continue to whistle ... in the car, while doing chores, while trying to annoy the cuss out of my cat Isabel, who thinks she's obligated to sing along every time I strike up a tune but makes it very clear she resents the obligation.

Yep, I'm a whistler. But I got nothing on world whistling champion Geert Chatrou:

Wow!

One of these days I just might shoot a video of my duet session with Isabel. YouTubers eat up that kind of thing.

In the meantime, I'm considering writing Mr. Chatrou for his secret on reducing whistler's lines; he's clearly escaped the plight of the pursed-lipped. So far.

Have a happy Saturday. I hope you'll whistle while you work!

Today's question:

What's your favorite tune to whistle?

WYSIWYG

I was not popular in high school. I didn't run with the athletes or hit the books with the academic overachievers. I wasn't firmly ensconced in the tight-knit groups of loners or stoners, and I wasn't in band, cheerleading, or glee club. I wasn't popular with any one group, had fairly superficial contact with most groups.

Nope, I wasn't popular. I wasn't well-known. So when it came time to hand out the senior superlatives at the end of our high-school years -- those labels marking what a student was or would become -- my superlative was chosen by the journalism kids from the "List of BS Superlatives For Classmates Not As Cool As Us Or That We Don't Know." While others were named "Most Likely To Succeed" or "Best Smile" or "Most Likely To Dunk It In The NBA," I was labeled as, get this, "Most Likely To Metamorphose Into A Computer." Honest to God. That is what my fellow seniors named me. In print. For all to see.

Which was weird. On so many levels. But mostly because computers weren't popular at the time. Bill Gates was likely still perfecting code, business computers were behemoths, and home computers were unheard of. So it was rather odd and unexpected for such a superlative to be chosen -- for me or for anybody. But, for whatever reason, that's the superlative with which I was saddled. Because they didn't know me.

Or did they?

Maybe even all those decades ago it was clear what a prominent place computers would eventually have in my life. Maybe back then, some forward-thinking classmates knew that one day I would see the value of actually becoming a computer.

Strangely enough, I do now see the value. Quite clearly. In fact, there are several reasons I think being a computer would be awesome. As long as I could still enjoy the physical pursuits of humans -- such as hugging those I love, laughing at Conan, and delighting in margaritas and Funyuns (not at the same time, of course) -- I'd be all over that. I'd be thrilled to metamorphose into a computer because there are oh-so many cool applications that would come in mighty handy.

First off, I'd have the ability to reset to a former time (because I'd use Windows, of course) to eliminate cussed up days bogging me down or, better yet, to turn back the effects of time on my system. I'd be fully loaded with McAfee Total Protection so I'd never be affected by viruses. Scan Disc and Defrag would be ideal for getting rid of the accumulated junk and reorganizing the misplaced folders and files of my soul and psyche.

Plus, just think of the peripherals and programs I could add to increase my speed, my power, and to make the very most of my life. I'd add more memory when my memory became full (or I lost it). I'd definitely have iTunes so I could have any song any time I pleased. And Picasa would provide me instant access to photos of friends and family; no more Grandma Brag books weighing down my purse.

It doesn't end there. As a computer, I'd have, of course, a keyboard. Which means I could hit ESC any time I needed just that -- to escape. I could DELETE things I regretted saying, hit the ALT button to do things a little different. I'd have a CTRL button for those times I felt a little out of control. The PAUSE/BREAK button would be used regularly throughout the day when I needed one or the other. And when a pause or break wasn't enough to make a difference, the SLEEP button would come to the rescue.

Most of all, though, I think I'd get the most use and enjoyment out of the one handy dandy little button situated directly between INSERT and PAGE UP. I'm talking about the HOME button.

When things got confusing or I just needed to start over -- as is the case more and more often of late -- or even when I just grew tired of traveling across the world, zooming around on the web, I could hit the HOME button. I know my loner self, my introverted-gain-my-energy-from-time-alone-self, and I know I would hit it hard and I would hit it often.

Because whether I morph into a MAC or a PC, an iPad or a computer not yet even invented, I'd still be me. I'd still maintain that one file, that one belief that no programmer, no person, no experience, no application will ever be able to delete from my system: the from-the-bottom-of-my-processor belief that, for me, there truly and absolutely is no place like home.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What computer application or ability would you most want to implement in your life?

Introducing Nona Nita

I have another grandma fresh off the grill and her name is Nona Nita.

Nita is a lovely grandmother of three, who put much thought and kindness into her responses to my Grilled Grandma questions. Here's one example:

What is one thing you wish you had learned earlier as a grandparent? I wish I had remembered earlier that the gift children like and appreciate most is the gift of undivided attention. I had learned this fact as a parent, but forgot about it over the years.

Please read Grilled Grandma: Nita and leave her a comment. Then show her extra special thoughtfulness by giving her blog a hit or two, as well (the link is at the bottom of her grilling).

Thank you for stopping by today! Happy Wednesday to one and all!

Today's (unrelated) question:

What is the oddest thing in your purse or wallet right now?

"Black Swan," the grandma version

A letter to my daughter:

Dear Megan,

My “Black Swan” title refers to the film of the same name depicting dark competition amongst ballerinas

I'm sure you're wondering why I didn't comment on the blog post you wrote about your gratitude for Preston's grandma -- Bubby's great-grandma -- who came through for you when you needed a babysitter for sick Bubby last week. I know the absence of a comment from me was rather conspicuous as I have commented on every one of your posts since you started your 365 Days of Gratitude series. Except that one.

Here's the thing: Everything I considered saying would have come across as snarky and insincere. Maybe not to others, but certainly to me. Because I know that inside I have a growing resentment -- maybe more accurately, a growing disappointment -- that when you and Preston chose to move to the desert to be equally removed from both your parents in the mountains and his in the midwest as you started your life together, it ended up meaning -- unintentionally, I know -- that his grandma, who lives less than an hour from the destination you chose, automatically by virtue of proximity, got the role in your life and Bubby's (and soon Birdy's, too) that I wanted.

I agree that Preston's grandma is a wonderful person for Bubby, and I'm glad you have help when you need it. But, like I said, that's the role I wanted, and it saddens me to see the glowing reviews she gets for doing what I want to do. Her role should be great-grandma; the role of grandma should be played by me. But because I'm far away, I lost out. In so many ways.

Further salt in the wound, once Preston's parents move there this year as they've planned, followed by his sister and her fiance and, eventually I'm sure, his brother, I'll lose out even more -- your family will lose out more -- as his entire family will have the role in your lives that your family wants. Or at least wants an equal share of. But because your lives and home are there and our lives and home -- which we won't leave -- are here, we get the secondary role.

Yes, it was all unintentional. And yes, there's nothing you can do about his family moving there. But still, I'm resentful. I'm disappointed. And pats on the back for successfully maintaining a long-distance relationship with my daughter and my grandchildren are of little consolation. I don't like the long-distance role; I want a role with more stage time. I know it simply can't be -- regardless of the reasons why -- but that doesn't make it any easier.

I'm a young grandma and it's fairly early in the grandparenting phase, so I know I will eventually have the role I want: the role of doting grandmother who gets weekly interaction, who covers babysitting shifts on a regular basis and in emergencies, who hosts Easter and Christmas gatherings for family who won't travel on those holidays, who attends Grandparents Day at school, who attends children's recitals at church. I will get that; I know that. Unfortunately, it just won't be with your children, my first grandchildren. And it won't be for quite some time, as your sisters certainly -- luckily, actually -- won't be having kids any time soon.

So in the meantime, while I wait to garner that role of a lifetime, I will do my best to not come across as snarky, to not appear resentful, to not wear my disappointment on my sleeve regarding the role I desperately wanted, the role I sadly missed out on.

Which is exactly why I didn't comment on your post.

Love,

Mom

Today's question:

What role have you missed out on, in personal or professional situations or otherwise?

10 things I forget I love ... until I remember

I love jams and jellies. Chokecherry, strawberry, pomegranate, cherry. Yum! I eat jam or jelly nearly every day. On peanut butter sandwiches. On crackers. On toast. On English muffins. On bagels. (Not all in the same day, of course.)

Recently though, as I toasted an English muffin, I noticed the honey in the cupboard and decided to travel that oft-ignored culinary road. So I put it on my toasted muffin instead of jelly or jam, took a big bite, and instantly thought, "Yum! Why don't I have honey more often?"

I always forget how much I love honey -- until I experience it again. I do the very same thing with lots of things, especially the following.

10 things I forget I love ... until I remember

1. Feeding the ducks at the park.

2. Cucumber pickles. Ya know, the delicacy that's just sliced cucumbers, vinegar, salt, and pepper.

3. Riding a bike.

4. Wearing a dress. So much more comfy than pants.

5. Singing "Amazing Grace." Like this.

6. Stretching out on the living room floor in front of a blazing fire.

7. Wrapping a wet toddler in a towel and holding him like a swaddled baby.

8. Campfires at night. With marshmallows on sticks and stars up above.

9. Brach's Milk Maid Caramels. Unwrapped slowly. Savored even more slowly.

10. Getting on the scale and the number being much lower than expected.

Okay, No. 10 hasn't happened in a long, long time. Probably because of all those Milk Maids I've been savoring of late. But I have no doubt whatsoever that I will remember how much I love it, if/when I'm fortunate enough to experience it again.

Today's question:

What would be on your list of things you forget you love ... until you remember?