Instead of blogging this morning, I watched kittens on Animal Planet’s Too Cute. Then, in an attempt at not-really reverse psychology I decided to do my morning chores first, and then I could blog with the remaining time. Well, now there is no remaining time. It’s 9 a.m. and I’ve already forgotten the first thing I was supposed to do today (go the Boomers and Beyond board meeting in case they had any questions about the year-end financials), and — in a hugely surprising move — the city plow has just come along, so my shoveling chores just increased exponentially.
First of all, the city has been saving the Palisades (our housing subdivision) for dead last on its plow schedule, despite a member of city council living one street over. So showing up at 9 not p.m. is completely unprecedented this winter.
And, in bonus news, the college kids next door finally moved their trailer, which causes the plow to leave a very broad swath of snow that must be shoveled from Lynn’s parking spot (and yesterday college students provided further annoyance by parking in the space we have cleared for Lynn’s car — because they can’t park where the trailer was because it’s plowed in), so I will not have to shovel a broad swath but a narrow one. Are there narrow swaths? Does the word “swath” imply a broad path? I’m sure the internet would tell me, but I have no time for internet searches today.
I phoned in my Boomers appearance as soon as I realized I was in error, but the one question anyone wanted answered didn’t come with an answer they wanted. Maybe most boards are disorganized (when Lynn and I were on it, the Gunnison Farmers Market board did pretty well, but a subsequent board I joined — well, I have even less time to go into that than I have for internet searches) — Boomers certainly is. They are still trying to figure out what they want to be as an organization, with one board member pelting everywhere trying to find grants for programs that really aren’t under Boomers’ auspices, and others organizing various events without board planning and approval. I doubt there’s any sort of policy manual.
They probably didn’t want me there after all. What I have learned (from my vast swath of board experiences), is that if you want to talk pragmatically about money, most people aren’t interested, because it impedes what they want to do. I sat in one room (this was probably my epiphanic moment) in complete disbelief after being the only one to notice that a grant accounting for 20 percent of the annual budget was not in the next year’s budget.
The executive director, it turned out upon questioning, forgot to apply for the grant. Forgot. Twenty percent of the annual budget, and it got forgotten. The proposed solution? (This is a true story, by the way.) The money would “come from somewhere. It always does.”
Now, later that year the IRS issued the organization a substantial refund for a previously incorrect tax filing (nowhere near the lost 20 percent, however). Another grantor (who was so, so helpful to us in this period of turmoil when so many others opted for the “kick while down” attack), said (in jest), “Well, the executive director was right: money did come from out of nowhere.”
How did I get on this litany of complaints about boards? I wanted to talk about cute kittens and how, despite the overabundance of commercials, I often find it extremely restful to watch the antics of young kittens or puppies before I change the channel to the news, read my newspapers and charge into the rest of the day.
Although I did fall back asleep during one of the many, many commercial breaks and missed the answer to today’s quiz: Was John Lennon’s pet cat a black domestic shorthair, a Siamese, or a Maine Coon? Now I will never know, because internet searches are out of the question today. And I wonder about the need for these frequent commercial interludes, because probably 90 percent of the commercials are “house ads,” or non-money makers that simply advertise other Animal Planet programs. Like the veterinarian brothers, one of whom sings. Both of them have annoying, tittering laughs, so I feel no inclination to be Hanging With the Hendersons.
I am just blithering, filling space aimlessly, and the clock is stretching longer and no one has come along to shovel snow for me. Na Ki’o is not helping — he is fixing me with a baleful eye and loudly wanting to know when I am going to get off my duff and give him the food he hasn’t had in, oh, an hour.
So, since you likely missed your daily dose of cute kittens (although the TV leads me to believe you can find even more on a website somewhere), I am leading off with a picture of Marrakesh, who may or may not be a Maine Coon himself. He looks the part, even if he isn’t.