Weighty Matters

You can add scales to the list of things I'm not very partial to. Bathroom ones, I mean, not the fish kind, although I guess they don't thrill me either -- especially when they wind up in my food. (Didja catch that episode of Top Chef where Ming Tsai wound up with a mouthful? Yuck!)

Anyway, for years, my "Ultimate Scale" by Tanita (nothing like a little humility for a simple, utilitarian household object, is there?) and I have more or less peacefully coexisted, in spite of the fact that I was more often than not on the receiving end of some less-than-complimentary communication.

We visited almost daily, and developed somewhat of a love-hate relationship. What can I tell you? It was complicated.

It became apparent over time that I had invested far more than it had, but still, I persisted, trying to court it and do everything I could to win it over. Well, almost. The fiber in the seeds on an everything bagel must mitigate the carb count somehow, I figured.

Gradually, it started to fail me. The buttons became a bit balky, preventing me from reminding it that I am a 5'1" tall woman, so it could accurately inform me of my body fat content (which, as a 5'1" tall woman would be higher than pretty much any other combination I could punch in). After a time, I had to get by without knowing how much of my too many pounds were comprised of too much fat, and settle on the one, raw, unadulterated number that simply signified my weight.

And then yesterday, I couldn't even get that much out of it. I pushed the little toe-kick and prepared my silent supplications. I waited for the display to zero out.

I waited some more.

Finally, after the 888 look like it was in no mood to go anywhere, I tried pushing the buttons on top.

"Error"

Hah! My weight is now officially an error message.

"Error"

How rude!

As if the relationship between us hasn't been rocky enough, now this.

Of course, there is some deeper meaning to be found here, but for now, I will have to move on and get a new scale. My weight will still be more of an error than anything else, but at least I'll know just how wrong it is...

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

While I do admit a certain fondness for raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and -- most definitely -- for brown paper packages tied up with strings, these are not necessarily among my favorite things.

I expect, however, that over time, you will learn what they are, as I continue to find out, myself. For now, I know I love a good bacon cheeseburger. That first cup of coffee in the morning (and sometimes, the fifth, come afternoon) can really make me smile. Lilac bushes, good books, great conversation and blazing fireplaces make me very happy. And I think a splash of vanilla vodka or smooth, dark Jamaican rum makes just about anything that much better.

Yup, these are already among my most favorite things.

Some things, not so much. And I suspect we will discuss those, as well. For what good is a blog without a rant every now and again?

But not now.

Now, a thing about which I have discovered I have very mixed feelings: the SAT exam. Or, rather, my son Justin's SAT scores.

He did well, mind you. Very well, as a matter of fact. And that's certainly a good thing. I am proud of him. I am happy for him. And I am relieved to have cleared yet another hurdle on the loooong road to college.

But I hated having so much invested in the numbers. I hated the wait until we could log on this morning to find out Justin's scores. And I hate the inevitable comparisons a system like this engenders. What does it say about us that so much of our uniquely talented, multi-faceted, distinctly individual kids is often just reduced to numbers that will dictate a great deal about their futures?

Hmmm...it's beginning to look as if naive idealism could be counted as among my favorite things.

Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings, indeed.