My brain hurts, and I am tired. In the aftermath of the event (what will we end up calling it, because it has no fancy name yet; the horror? the destruction? September 11? the terrorist act?) my brain has frozen. Words cannot be formed, my opinions change daily. Too much information yet not enough, and who does one believe? CNN, the alternative press, the government of the US, the governments of the middle east, individuals, groups with agendas, close personal friends, family, everyone it seems has an opinion of who and why and what can be done or not done about it.

I’m Jane Bland, and my brain hurts.

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Me and the rest of the old fogies here at the home were surely glad in this year of the lord 2017 that we had befriended those lost young millionaires back at the first of the century. Yessirreee Bob, when we heard about those little farts becoming millionaires overnight and having to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to the therapy charlatans we knew we had to rescue them from themselves. The roots of our own youth struggled up in our middle-aged consciousness and as a group we pooled our money and rode out to Silicon valley and corralled a bunch of them. Drug ‘em down to the old Haight district in San Francisco and murmured unbelivable stories in their ears. Took ‘em to Union Square and watched as they learned to give money away which did not benefit themselves. Taught them how to plant a tree. Hauled them down to the beach at night and made ‘em look at the stars. Played cassette tapes on battery powered players…old Jefferson Airplane and Hendrix tunes. Whispered in their ears of purple haze and humanity.

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In my younger, less enlightened years, I was one of those people who would shun the pocket protector, pimply type young man as one not worthy of my free-spirited, braless and pantiless existence. They all seemed so serious about their passion, whether it be chemistry or computers. They liked to go on study dates, then out for ice cream. Dull stuff for a young hippie chick looking for excitement.

As time went on, those pimply, passionate, pocket-protector type of guys became more attractive to me. Especially the ones who used a Mac. Looks became unimportant. What stirred my soul was the hardware. My fantasy conversation in the chat room was “What operating system are you using? Oh, OS 8.5 on a G3 maxed out with RAM? Oh show it to me, baby!” My knees would weaken with passion; my fingers shake, unable to converse. If only I could be with them, to stroke their keyboard, Command C! Now! Now! I began to understand the subtle pleasure of the word “faster.”

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Man, I gotta get myself off that Maternity Mall mailing list. Last year when my daughter-in-law was pregnant, I ordered some clothes for her from that site. All the sudden, now, I get emails from them on a weekly basis. Problem is, they always come in during the work day, then I forget about them until later. *ding* email! Always a nice little break during the working day; the disappointment to find out it’s advertising sends me right back to work.

I’m Jane Bland, and I’m too old to have a baby.

Unsubscribing from mailing lists is one of those chores I always put off until “later”. And usually later never comes. Once a week or so I sit down with my email program and purge everything. I sort by sender and scroll thru, and things like ads and such are knee-jerk deletes. It’s just like anything else you have to clean up. Like throwing away the rubber bands that come on the newspaper. If I kept all those, I’d need a special drawer just to keep them in. They are automatic deletes.

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Raising Men

I wasn’t the best mother in the world, I’ll admit. My maternal instinct didn’t come easy. I didn’t choose the traditional method for having children; husband, mortgage, dual-income. My situation, like many other women of my generation, was different. This is not some sob story of getting pregnant in my teens and rising above adversity. I was 25 when my first child was born. Nor is it a story of an abusive ex-husband who didn’t care for his children. Because he did care. It just took him a while to show it. This is just my story, and I can write it now because this week, the week I turned 48, my older son flew the nest and finally, finally I’m just me again.

I’m Jane Bland. My story isn’t unusual. But it is my story. And I’m telling it.

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I was getting a little pissy the other day because here it is, almost the year 2001 and I’m still not living like the Jetsons. Where’s my Rosie the Maid, my AirCar and my Automatic Dressing Machine? Sheesh…MasterCard sent me a new card a few weeks ago with an obscene limit. I could even afford the Jetson’s lifestyle now. But, when I go shopping, all I find is this stupid little robot dog that everyone from Sears to Wal-Mart wants me to purchase, except I won’t because I have no use for it. Where is Rosie the Maid?

I’m Jane Bland, and because I get up and go to work everyday, I now have an unlimited amount of credit.

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I live in Utah, or as I so fondly think of it, as Stepford. There are God cages on every corner and Sundays are pleasant and peaceful because most of the neighbors are in church for three hours, giving testimony and crying and studying scriptures. Which gives me plenty of time to dance naked in the backyard sprinklers if I’m so inclined. I should explain, it’s Southern Utah, the desert. And my backyard has a six foot privacy fence. Sometimes on Sundays in the winter it gets warm enough to sprinkler dance. If I’m so inclined. During the summer, Sunday sprinkler dancing is a given. We all honor God in our own ways.

I’m Bland, Jane Bland, and I mow the lawn when it needs it.

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