I used to razz Mr. Boy about wearing shorts in the winter. Still do on occasion. But he’s got nothing on the two cute middle-school girls I saw climbing Hart hill the other morning in 38 degree weather. They had on very short shorts. I couldn’t enjoy the view I felt so sorry for them.
…at Mr. B’s high school this morning. This one stopped from climbing over a third-floor railing into an atrium. The last one succeeded a few weeks ago. A senior. Getting tense out there as college application deadlines approach.
Headspace is Mr. Boy’s new 10-minute companion: Guided meditation from a smooth-talking English Tibetan monk whose $250 million company is looking to grow way beyond its already millions-of-users base.
The idea for Mr. B. is to find relief from stress, more patience and general peace of mind. I haven’t noticed an increase in patience but these are early days. And he’s using the “take 10” free version of the downloadable mindfulness app through earbuds on his iPhone.
If I do see an increase in patience, I’ll spring for the subscriber fee of $6.24 a month for a two-year deal. It’ll be well worth it for me, as well as for him.
For one thing, I knew I could get the juicy details off the Web without bothering to waste ninety minutes of my life, much of it listening to Harpy Hillary lie her way through an obfuscating forest of mildewed cliches.
Another reason is that I didn’t expect the so-called moderator—an NBC drone who would only pretend to be objective—to treat Trump fairly and from what I’ve read so far he didn’t. He sucked up to the Harpy at every opportunity and he even out-Candied Candy Crowley contradicting Trump a few times. He became the third debater. He ought to be ashamed. But he already works for NBC.
But primarily I know who I’m voting for and it’s not Queen Cankles—whom it is being said looked drugged up with a vapid Miss America smile and probably was wearing a wire—and her scummy husband The Groper. Nothing she says or, for that matter, whatever Trump says is going to change my mind.
As James Taranto of the Wall Street Journal put it, all Trump had to do was prove himself to be sane. And the polls are already doing it for him. The Hildabeast had to prove herself trustworthy and she couldn’t possibly do that in ninety minutes. Especially not when decades as a lying, crooked pol and the wife of a lying, crooked pol have proven otherwise to all but her most diehard supporters.
Althouse, who did watch, said: “Overall, I’ll just say that was very unpleasant and I’m glad it’s over. I switched it off without stopping to listen to any of the spin.”
And Mr. B. who watched some of it in between doing his homework: “You were right, it was boring.”
Mr. Boy is back to his school work, as a junior this year, with the added effort of Anderson High School’s speech and debate team. Had to buy him his first suit for this team’s competitions, which began last Saturday in the Lake Travis Classic at Lake Travis high school.
He and his partner won first in their division, Public Forum, arguing both sides of whether students should be allowed due process when school administrators decide to enter and inspect their lockers without their permission. The rest of the Anderson team also swept the field on their various topics and right into first place overall.
They’ll be at it again this weekend in Pflugerville. Mr. B. is sitting this one out because his partner is unavailable. As I understand it the team will be going at it just about every weekend for the rest of the semester but the participants will have to change their topics, and start over, every other month or so.
Somewhere Mrs. Charm is enjoying this, I’m sure, with the added advantage of being there.
Mr. Boy and I took this rose and baby’s breath to the cemetery this morning and put in on his mother’s grave. We stayed a while talking about all the fun things Mrs. Charm used to do for us on Valentine’s: special breakfasts, lots of candy and cards. I’d buy the flowers.
It was warm but overcast and windy. At least it was quiet since we got there before the church crowd was released and its mourners convened. We plan to go back and do the same on her birthday. Maybe take a small cake and share it between us. I plan to order the stone later this week.
There is no “closure” with the grief over a lost loved one. You just learn to live with it. Creating new rituals is one way of coping. Mr. B. seemed a little less pensive afterwards. We both have a long way to go.